{"meta": {"short_book_title": "Mystery and Confidence Vol. 2 by Elizabeth Pinchard", "publication_date": 1814, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34968"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                MYSTERY\n                                  AND\n                              CONFIDENCE:\n\n\n                               _A TALE._\n\n                               BY A LADY.\n\n                           IN THREE VOLUMES.\n\n\n                                VOL. II.\n\n\n\n                                LONDON:\n                       PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,\n            PUBLIC LIBRARY, CONDUIT-STREET, HANOVER-SQUARE,\n                 AND SOLD BY GEORGE GOLDIE, EDINBURGH,\n                       AND JOHN CUMMING, DUBLIN.\n\n                                 1814.\n\n\n\n                B. CLARKE, Printer, Well-Street, London.\n\n\n\n\n                                MYSTERY\n                                  AND\n                              CONFIDENCE.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. I.\n\n  ----To mourn because a sparrow dies,\n  To rave in artificial ecstasies,\n  Laments how oft her wounded heart has bled,\n  And boasts of many a tear she never shed.\n\n                                MISS MORE'S POEM ON SENSIBILITY.\n\n\nThe next day being Sunday, Lady St. Aubyn, attired in the most elegant\nundress, and attended by the Earl, made her appearance at the church:\nthe expensive lace veil which shaded her fair face, and hung loosely\nbelow her waist, prevented the gazing of those around her from being\ntoo oppressive. The neighbouring families certainly had heard that Lord\nSt. Aubyn had married a young person of a rank in life much inferior to\nhis own, for secretly as every thing had been conducted, as no one could\ntell the name or family of his bride, such, at least, were the\nconjectures of those who knew him; yet, in spite of the prejudices which\nhad been excited against her, the elegance of her form, and the modest\ncomposure of her demeanour, in a great measure overcame it, and all who\nwere entitled, by their situation in life, to visit at the Castle,\ndetermined to do so; some prompted by mere curiosity, and some by less\nunworthy motives. The three or four following days, therefore, brought\nEllen many visitors, and her own intuitive sense of propriety, added to\nthe few general directions St. Aubyn had given her, and with the\nadvantageous support his respectful attention gave her, prevented her\nappearing at all awkward; and these visits, which she had so greatly\ndreaded, passed over with less pain than she had expected.\n\nAmongst their first visitors were Sir William and Miss Cecil; the former\nof whom was a mere common-place character, whom, if you did not happen\nto see for sometime, you would be apt to forget you had ever seen at\nall; but the fine countenance of Laura, her expressive features, and the\nbright black eyes which animated them, charmed Ellen, who had never seen\nany woman before so pleasing: yet Laura was not strictly beautiful, and\nat this time the lustre of her fine eyes was dimmed by the melancholy\nwhich pervaded her mind, for she said her little invalid was so much\nindisposed, and so weak, she would not have left her to go any where\nelse; but she wished so very much to be introduced to Lady St. Aubyn she\ncould not resist the temptation.\n\nThe very elegant manner in which she spoke, the clearness of her\narticulation, and sweetness of her voice, were strikingly agreeable; and\nSt. Aubyn afterwards said that a few years before she had a gaiety of\nmanner, enlivened by wit of a superior nature, with so much playfulness\nof expression, that by many people she was considered as merely a lively\ngirl, and a little satirical; but time and misfortune had softened what\nat times might have been too severe in her opinions, had improved and\nmellowed her fine judgment, and given a pensive sweetness to her\nmanners, which was occasionally relieved by flashes of her former gaiety\nand ready repartee. St. Aubyn shewed her a particular and most\nrespectful attention, and told Ellen she would be charmed with Miss\nCecil's drawings, which were the very finest he ever saw, except from\nthe hands of a professed artist. He then, with a smile, addressed a few\nwords to Laura in an undertone, to which she replied: \"Oh, pray, my\nLord, do not expose my juvenile follies: I might have done such things\nwhen we were mere children together, but I hope you think me wiser now!\"\n\n\"The world,\" said he, \"has perhaps made us both graver since the days\nyou speak of; and that, in the eyes of many, will doubtless give us\ncredit for an increase of wisdom; but believe me, my fair friend, I have\nlost so little of the romance of youth (if such you choose to term it),\nthat I must hope you do not neglect the pleasing talent to which I\nalluded, and of which you must allow Lady St. Aubyn to judge: I assure\nyou she has a great taste for poetry, and perhaps one day or other may\nfollow your example, and court the Muses in her turn.\"\n\n\"Ah, my Lord!\" said Laura, smiling and colouring: \"I see you are\ndetermined not to keep my secret.\" \"Tell me, Ellen,\" said St. Aubyn,\n\"can you see any reason why Miss Cecil should wish to make a secret of\nher having succeeded very happily in some elegant little poetical\ncompositions?\" \"No, indeed,\" replied Ellen: \"it surely is a gift to be\nrather proud than ashamed of.\" \"Ah, my dear Lady St. Aubyn, if you could\nconceive the illiberal prejudice of some minds, you would not wonder at\nmy dislike to having these trifling attempts spoken of. A lady I knew,\nwho was eminently gifted in that way, and indeed an excellent\nprose-writer also, was, from circumstances, obliged to be less\nscrupulous than I have been; and if you could have heard the things I\nhave witnessed, when she entered or left a room, you would be amazed:\nwhile she, gentle, unassuming, and even timid, judging candidly of every\none, unwilling to see faults, and detesting personal satire, had not the\nmost remote idea of the severe and uncandid remarks she excited.\"\n\nEllen was really astonished at this account, as much as she was pleased\nwith the spirit and grace with which it was delivered; and St. Aubyn\nsaid to her with an expressive smile, \"You see, Ellen, our friend Ross\nhad more reason than we were willing to allow him for _certain\nprohibitions_. However,\" added he, \"I will not relinquish the hope that\nMiss Cecil will soon see how little she has to fear from any\nobservations of such a nature from _you_.\" \"I see it already,\" said Miss\nCecil with quickness: \"one glance at Lady St. Aubyn would convince the\nmost incredulous that nothing but sweetness and candour can lodge in\nsuch a temple.\"\n\nShe then looked at her watch, and saying she had much exceeded her time,\nand Juliet would expect her, departed with her father, who had been\ndeeply engaged in giving Doctor Montague a long account of a\ncounty-meeting, which had been held for some public purpose a few days\nbefore. They had scarcely driven from the door, when Miss Alton was\nannounced; and as she entered, St. Aubyn whispered to Ellen--\"Now you\nwill see a character quite new to you.\" Then rising hastily, he crossed\nthe room to meet the lady, exclaiming, \"Heavens! my dear Miss Alton, how\nenchanted I am to see you look so well! You really improve every day, at\nleast every year: for I believe it is at least that time since I saw you\nlast.\" \"Oh, my Lord,\" answered the lady in an affected tone, but in a\nvoice the natural sharpness of which all her efforts failed to soften;\n\"you flatter--don't try to make me vain. Lord bless me, you men have no\nmercy on us poor young women: but will you not introduce me to your\nLady?\"\n\nEllen, who at the distance from whence she had first seen this visitor\nimagined that she really was young and handsome, was astonished as she\napproached, to find in the white frock, sash, ringlets, and little\nstraw hat of a girl, a woman apparently between fifty and sixty; and who\nvainly attempted to conceal, by a quantity of _rouge_ and a slight veil\nthrown over her face, the ravages which time had made in her\ncountenance. Her spare figure gave her some resemblance to youthful\nslightness; but when near, the sharp bones, and angular projections of\nher face and person, sufficiently proved, that slender appearance was\nthe result of lean old age, instead of girlish delicacy. In spite of the\nadvanced season, she was clad so lightly, that she still shivered from\nthe impression of the keen breeze which had assailed her as she crossed\nthe Park, and gladly accepted a seat by the comfortable fire, though\naffecting to conceal her sufferings under an air of gaiety and ease.\n\nSt. Aubyn (who had known her many years, and had been from a boy\naccustomed to divert himself with her foibles, though he really felt a\ndegree of regard for her, as, in spite of her oddities, she was not\nwithout a mixture of good qualities), after having introduced her to his\nbride, seated himself by her, and began to talk to her in a strain of\nsuch marked flattery, as really alarmed Ellen, who thought Miss Alton\nwould certainly be offended; but her enormous vanity prevented her from\nperceiving that he was merely laughing at her, and she grew every moment\nmore ridiculous. At last, turning to Ellen, she said in a pathetic tone,\n\"Oh, my dear Madam, you cannot conceive how I have felt for you these\ntwo days! I declare I have not been able to sleep for thinking of you,\nand really have shed tears to imagine what a tax you have been paying:\nhow you must have been fatigued by receiving such a succession of\nvisitors! but every one must have some trouble. There is my dear friend,\nMrs. Dawkins, the best of women--sweet woman, indeed--there she is\nlamenting at home such a vexation!\" \"What is the matter?\" said St.\nAubyn, laughing, for he knew what sort of misfortunes Mrs. Dawkins and\nher friend Miss Alton generally lamented with so much pathos: \"has she\nlost her little French dog, or has the careless coachman scratched the\npannels of her new carriage?\" \"Oh, you sad man! how can you make a jest\nof the dear soul's uncommon sensibility? To be sure she has the\ntenderest feelings. She often says to me, 'my dear Alton, what should I\ndo without you: you are the only person who can really feel for the\nmisfortunes of a friend.' Sweet woman!\"\n\n\"Well, but,\" said St. Aubyn, \"you were going to tell us what has\nhappened to this _amiable friend_ of your's.\"\n\n\"Nay, I will tell Lady St. Aubyn, she looks all softness and\nsensibility: but you are so wicked, you make a jest of every thing. Do\nyou know, my dearest Lady St. Aubyn, just as poor Mrs. Dawkins was\ncoming to make you a visit, this morning, nay, she was actually dressed,\nand had one foot on the step of the carriage, _I_ was in it, for she was\nso kind as to say she would bring me; so I thought, as I was to come\nwith her, I need not put on a pelisse, or shawl, for you know they spoil\none's dress. But I can't say but that it was rather cold walking, as I\nwas at last obliged to do, for _just_ as she put her foot upon the\nstep----\" \"What happened?\" interrupted St. Aubyn, laughing still more at\nthe emphatic manner in which poor Alton told her distressing\nstory.--\"Did she fall down and break her leg, or did the horses run away\nand carry off her kid slipper?\"----\"Now only hear him; did you ever see\nsuch a teasing creature: well, I am glad _I_ have not the task of\nkeeping you in order; I don't know what even the sweet Countess will do\nwith you.\"\n\nThis piece of self-congratulation threw St. Aubyn into a violent fit of\nlaughing, in which even the grave Doctor Montague joined, and Ellen\ncould hardly resist, though the fear of quite affronting her guest put a\ncheck upon her risibility.\n\n\"Well,\" said St. Aubyn, at last recovering himself a little, \"but what\nreally did happen to poor Mrs. Dawkins?\"\n\n\"Nay, I protest I won't tell you, you wicked creature; I will tell Lady\nSt. Aubyn some other time, for you do not deserve to hear any thing\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, do, my dear Alton, tell, for really I am in great pain for\npoor Mrs. Dawkins, who has been standing so long with one foot upon the\nstep: don't leave her in so dangerous a situation any longer.\"----\"Well,\nthen, if I must tell--at that moment up came a servant on horseback, to\nsay her sister, Mrs. Courtenay, was on the road to her own house, in her\nway from Buxton, and would, with a whole train of children and servants,\ndine at her house to-day; and as they were coming directly, she was\nactually obliged to defer her visit to your Ladyship till to-morrow; and\nshe was so sorry, and I am sure so was I, for I was obliged to walk here\nafter all.\"\n\n\"Well, but,\" said Lord St. Aubyn, \"notwithstanding this terrible shock\nto her feelings, she might have sent the carriage with _you_.\"----\"Aye,\nso she might, to be sure; but poor dear soul, she was put in such a\nbustle she never thought of it; some people don't think----dear me, if I\nhad a carriage of my own, I should be happy to make it useful to my\nfriends, and not let them go broiling on foot two or three miles in warm\nweather or splashing through the mud in the middle of winter.\"----\"I\nbelieve you,\" said St. Aubyn; for with all her foibles, he knew Miss\nAlton was really good-natured, and willing to do a kind action.\n\n\"Well, my dear Miss Alton, if you will favour us with your company, and\ndine with us, Lady St. Aubyn will, I am sure, be happy to send you home\nin her carriage; and I promise you, if the Prince himself was to make us\na visit, that should not prevent your having it.\"\n\nEllen joined in this invitation, to which the happy Miss Alton readily\nassented; and Ellen found her, after a little while, a more tolerable\ncompanion than she expected.\n\nMiss Alton's particular passion was for being with people who lived in\nstyle; if they had a title so much the better; and as she would do any\nthing to make herself useful, and knew how to pay those little\nattentions which every body likes, she generally made herself agreeable,\nor so necessary, that she had admittance at almost all the houses of\nconsequence in the neighbourhood. The entre of St. Aubyn Castle was the\nheight of her ambition. St. Aubyn's mother, who lived much in the\ncountry, had been in the habit of receiving Miss Alton, when she was a\ngirl, on familiar terms: the old Lady was fond of needle-work, and\nAlton assisted in filling up the groundwork of carpets, rugs, &c. with\nthe most patient good humour; or was at any time ready to make up a\nwhist or quadrille table; so that in those days she was very often a\nweek or two together at the Castle, where St. Aubyn, at his vacations,\nhad been accustomed to meet her, and to divert himself with her foibles,\nthough he had always retained a degree of regard for her, a felicity\nwhich the death of the old Countess deprived her of, and she had never\nsince ceased to regret; for though her other connections were\nrespectable, they were not so high in fortune or consequence as the St.\nAubyns, and great was her joy to find herself once more an invited guest\nat the Castle.\n\nAmongst her other friends, as her narrow income by no means permitted\nher to return their civilities in kind, she yet was always well\nreceived, for there was nothing she would not do to oblige: one Lady\nwould send her in her carriage, if not well enough to go herself, to\ninquire the character of a servant; another would express a wish, in her\nhearing, for some game, or fruit, for a dinner party, and Miss Alton\nwould set out the next morning \"to try her luck,\" as she termed it, by\ncalling at some of the higher sort of houses, where she was acquainted,\nand _wishing_ she knew where to get a hare, or a pine-apple (according\nto which was wanted), \"to oblige a friend to whom she owed a great many\nfavours,\" the good natured hearer generally, if possible, was willing to\noblige \"poor Alton;\" or if she did not succeed there, she would tramp a\nmile or two farther, and at worst could fairly boast what pains she had\ntaken, even if they were not successful.\n\nIn London, if a notable friend wanted a cheap trimming, or to match a\nsilk or lace, yet did not like to go about to little shops herself,\nAlton would take a hackney coach, or walk if the weather permitted, and\nnever rest till she had obtained the thing in question.\n\nBy these and similar means she had made a great many high acquaintance,\nand _eked_ out a small income by visits, sometimes a little too long, to\neach in turn.----She had thus acquired some amusing anecdotes, and was\nfar from an unpleasing companion, especially when no male beings came in\nher way; but when with men, vanity and affectation took such full\npossession of her, that she became completely ridiculous. This Lady St.\nAubyn had an opportunity of seeing: when two or three gentlemen happened\nto call before dinner, her whole manner changed, and she became really\nabsurd: her voice was softened----her head leant on one shoulder----a\ntolerably white hand and arm displayed in every possible attitude, and\nshe behaved, in every respect, like a very silly affected girl; but when\nthey were gone, she was again tolerably conversable, and St. Aubyn,\nceasing to play upon her foibles, and turning the conversation to such\ntopics as were most likely to shew her to advantage, the afternoon and\nevening passed pleasantly enough. Nor was St. Aubyn sorry to familiarise\nEllen, by degrees, to company, or to do the honour of his table, before\nthey should be obliged to receive the neighbouring families at dinner,\nmany of whom he knew (especially two or three ladies who had unmarried\ndaughters) would be eagerly looking out for any little omission in her,\nwhile Miss Alton was so delighted with the good things before her\n(certainly being _un peu gourmande_) with the beautiful new service of\nchina, rich plate, &c. &c. that she never thought of her entertainers,\nexcept to express her pleasure in their kindness and attention: and they\nsent her home in the evening perfectly happy, and eager to tell dear\nMrs. Dawkins what a delightful day she had spent, how happy the Earl\nwas to see her, what a _sweet woman_ the Countess was, what fine china!\nwhat a dessert! what an elegant new carriage! &c. &c.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. II.\n\n  Yet once again farewell, thou minstrel harp,\n    Yet once again forgive my feeble sway,\n  And little reck I of the censure sharp,\n    May idly cavil at an idle lay.\n  Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,\n    Through secret woes the world has never known,\n  When on the weary night dawn'd wearier day,\n    And bitterer was the grief devour'd alone.\n\n                                                       W. SCOTT.\n\n\nThe next month was past in receiving and returning visits; and the most\npleasing among them was a sociable day passed at Rose-Hill, the seat of\nSir William Cecil. Miss Cecil promised, if Juliet, who now for some time\nhad been tolerably well, should continue so, that Ellen should see her;\nthough she very seldom admitted any company: \"But I have said so much of\nyou,\" said Laura, \"that she is quite anxious to see you; and I am\nparticularly anxious to familiarize her to you, both as it will I am\nsure give her pleasure, and facilitate our being often together.\"\nAccordingly, after dinner, when they left the gentlemen, Miss Cecil led\nLady St. Aubyn to Juliet's apartment.\n\nNever had Ellen seen so interesting a being: this fair creature, now\nabout fifteen, was a perfect model of beauty and symmetry; though so\nslightly formed, she appeared, \"like a fairy vision, or some bright\ncreature of the element:\" her cheeks were faintly tinged with a hectic\nblush; her eyes were of the most dazzling brightness; her lips like\ncoral; and her teeth of pearly whiteness; her fair hair was covered with\na fine lace cap, and her fragile form enveloped in a large shawl.\n\n\"My love,\" said Laura, \"here is Lady St. Aubyn, who is so good as to\ncome and see you.\"\n\nJuliet extended her white hand, and said in a voice of peculiar\nharmony, fixing at the same time her sparkling and penetrating eyes on\nEllen's face, as if she wished to read her heart in her countenance,\n\"Laura says she loves you already, and I am sure _I_ shall.\" The simple\nnaivete of her voice and manner went to the heart of Ellen, who could\nnot help embracing her tenderly, while she felt the tears start to her\neyes at seeing one so young and lovely in a state of health so\nprecarious.\n\nAfter a little more conversation, Ellen put her hand accidentally on a\nsmall book which lay half concealed by one of the pillows of Juliet's\ncouch, and said with that native politeness which ever prevented her\nfrom doing any thing rude or intrusive, \"May I look at the subject of\nyour studies?\" \"Yes,\" said Juliet, with an angelic smile, \"If you\nplease.\" Ellen opened the book. It was in a character totally unknown to\nher. \"Do you read Greek?\" asked the fair Juliet, with a simplicity and\nabsence of design which proved her question was serious; and this\ninterrogation, which would from most people to a young woman be\nabsolutely ridiculous, from Juliet appeared merely a natural wish to\nknow whether her new friend was as able as herself to read the book she\nheld in her hand; for strange as it may appear, it was a copy of the New\nTestament in Greek; and Juliet read it as easily as if it had been\nEnglish.\n\n\"My dear Juliet,\" said Laura, \"few females make that language their\nstudy; I conclude, therefore, Lady St. Aubyn does not know it any more\nthan myself.\" \"Oh, I wish you both did,\" said Juliet: \"if you could but\nknow the delight I feel from reading the Scripture in its original\nlanguage!--If I live till next summer I hope the Hebrew Bible will be as\nfamiliar to me as that book is now.\"\n\nIt is impossible for language to do justice to the perfect innocence and\nartlessness with which she spoke: she seemed to think her own wonderful\nattainments no more extraordinary than other girls do of being able to\nread a newspaper, or work a handkerchief: not a trace of affectation or\npedantry was visible in her manner: she had a childishness of voice and\ntone that singularly contrasted with the subjects on which she spoke;\nfor Laura, willing to let Ellen see what a wonderful creature she was,\nled her to speak of astronomy; and a celestial globe happening to be on\na table before her, led her by degrees to display her extraordinary\nknowledge in that science--of the dimensions and motions of the heavenly\nbodies, their distances from the sun and from each other, &c. all of\nwhich she explained in the clearest and most perspicuous manner, making\nsuch happy allusions to the poets who have touched on the subject, and\nillustrating it by such apt comparisons, as shewed her imagination was\nas brilliant, as the calculations she readily made proved her memory\nwas accurate.\n\nLady St. Aubyn, who had at every leisure hour since her marriage been\nengaged in studying this and other interesting subjects of useful\nknowledge, could in some degree appreciate the value and extent of this\nsweet girl's extraordinary acquirements, and was lost in admiration of\nher abilities, and the industry with which, notwithstanding her ill\nhealth, she had cultivated them.\n\nThis happened to be a day in which Juliet was unusually well, for in\ngeneral she declined all conversation, and spent most of her time in\nstudying the Scriptures, in devotional exercises, and promoting every\nplan which her health would permit her to join in for the relief of the\npoor; for her early piety and extensive charity were as remarkable as\nher other attainments were wonderful: but this day she was so well, that\nat Laura's solicitation, in which Ellen earnestly joined, she placed\nherself at a chamber organ that stood in her apartment, which she\ntouched with great taste and science; and was at last prevailed on to\naccompany it with a voice of the most angelic sweetness.\n\nShe sung only sacred music, and now delighted Ellen with \"Angels ever\nbright and fair;\" and, \"I know that my Redeemer liveth:\" and while her\npure lips poured forth these exquisite specimens of musical inspiration,\nthe soft and pious expression of her heavenly countenance, for ever\nfixed and hallowed them in the remembrance of her hearers.\n\nTo Ellen she seemed hardly a being of this world, and her young and\nenthusiastic heart was melted with the tenderest love for one so very\nfar superior to any thing she could have imagined.\n\nFrom this day the St. Aubyns and Cecils spent a great part of their time\ntogether, and the highly polished manners of Miss Cecil, her excellent\njudgment, and fine taste, were extremely advantageous to Lady St.\nAubyn. Without losing her natural grace and sweet simplicity, she\ngradually acquired more of that style which marks both the woman of\nfashion and the possessor of intellectual knowledge; even her beauty\nimproved with the encreased intelligence of her mind, and the serenity\nof her heart; for now for the first time she felt entirely happy;\nscarcely a cloud overshadowed her.\n\nSt. Aubyn was every day more tender and attentive, and every day\nexpressed himself more pleased and delighted with his choice. Those\nstarts of agitation and gloom which on their first acquaintance had\nappeared in him so frequently, were now very seldom seen. He received\nfrequent letters from Spain, which he told Ellen were from his friend\nthe Marquis of Northington, who was there in a diplomatic situation, and\nwas engaged in seeking a person, by means of his extensive connections\non the Continent, who alone could unravel some mysterious circumstances\nof the most material consequence to _him_. \"But when found,\" said St.\nAubyn, one day when he had by degrees been led to speak on this\nsubject--\"when found, if ever that should happen, I know not that he\nwill be prevailed on to disclose what I have every reason to believe he\nalone can tell. He is a villain!\"----(and St. Aubyn's frame shook with\nthe agitation of smothered rage) \"and may from motives of fear or\nrevenge add to the other injuries he has done me, by withholding that\ninformation which alone can secure _my fame_, perhaps _my life_.\"\n\nHe had never before spoken so much or so calmly on this interesting\nsubject; and seeing that Ellen listened with great anxiety, and that at\nhis last words she trembled and turned pale, he added:\n\n\"Fear not, my love: for your dear sake I will take every necessary\nprecaution; and should I find the enemy, who has long, though most\nunjustly, threatened to revenge on me an act, horrible indeed, but of\nwhich I was not the author----should I find him still determined on\nvindictive measures, I will for a time pass over to the Continent, till\nsome accommodation can be effected. At all events, my Ellen, remember\nyou have promised to _believe me innocent_. In the course of the next\nsummer, this enemy (who, alas! and that is not the least hardship in my\nwayward fate, ought by every tie to look upon me as a friend and father)\nwill be in England, and I shall perhaps be able to clear his mind from\nthose evil impressions with which an unfortunate chain of circumstances\nhave stampt it----impressions received in early youth, and which he has\never since cherished, and brooded over with the most determined\nresentment.\"\n\nAt this juncture, when St. Aubyn seemed for the first time inclined to\nopen his whole heart to his wife, and to disclose to her a story in\nwhich she was so deeply interested, they were interrupted by a servant,\nwho announced Mrs. Dawkins, and her tender friend Miss Alton, who came\narmed with a whole catalogue of sympathetic feelings and notes of\nadmiration of all kinds to entertain Lady St. Aubyn.\n\nMany were the disasters which had happened since they saw her last:\nhorses had been lame, servants impertinent, showers of rain had fallen\nat the most unlucky moments, even a dinner had been spoilt which had\ncost a whole week's preparation, by the cook's inattention in\nover-roasting the venison; in short, all the minor evils of life had set\nthemselves in array against the peace of poor Mrs. Dawkins: and even the\nsympathizing Miss Alton could hardly keep pace with lamentations\nsufficient for such a doleful list of distresses. She fought her way,\nhowever, as well as she could, and where words failed her, shrugs,\nsighs, and the whole artillery of gesticulation, were employed in their\nstead.\n\nWhat then became of poor Ellen, who could at best only sit \"with sad\ncivility and an aching head,\" amid this alternate din of complaint and\ncompassion? But Mrs. Dawkins was pre-determined to like and be pleased\nwith every thing the lovely Countess did or omitted to do, and construed\nthe silence and acquiescence with which she heard every thing into the\nkindest attention and most obliging concern for the troubles of her\nfriends.\n\nThe entrance of a sandwich tray fortunately gave some pause to this\nmelancholy duet; and the excellent hot-house fruits, rich cake, &c.\nseemed to arrive in good time to refresh both ladies after so much\nexertion. At last they took their leave, but the moment for confidence\nwas past; indeed, St. Aubyn, in no humour for trifling, had made his\nescape at one door, as they entered at the other: of course, the\nconversation was not then resumed.\n\nNot to interrupt the course of the narrative, we omitted in the proper\nplace to notice that Lord and Lady St. Aubyn had, immediately on their\narrival at the Castle, written letters of explanation to Powis and\nJoanna, and he permitted Mr. Ross to publish what he alone knew the real\nrank and title of the person Ellen had married.\n\nWe will not pretend to describe the astonishment excited by this\nintelligence amongst the inhabitants of Llanwyllan: the honest and\nunaspiring Powis declared he would much rather Ellen had married a man\nnearer her own rank in life, for he was afraid, poor dear child, she\nwould be bewildered amongst such fine people, and in such a great house:\nfor his part, even if he were able to travel so far, he should not like\nto go to such a grand place as she described the Castle to be; besides,\nhe was afraid they would be ashamed to see such a rough, ignorant fellow\nas he was among their fine company: and if Ellen was above calling him\nfather, he should wish himself in the grave.\n\nThe tears started in his eyes at the painful idea, and the good Ross\ncould hardly dissipate his apprehensions of being forsaken by his only\nchild, by reminding him of her excellent qualities and tender affection\nfor him, and of the kindness with which Lord St. Aubyn had treated him\nthrough the whole of his acquaintance.\n\nMrs. Ross was in ten times a greater bustle than ever; she could not\nrest till she had told the surprizing news to every one she met, and at\nintervals she scolded Mr. Ross heartily for not letting her into the\nsecret, as if she were not as worthy to be trusted as any body else for\nsecrecy and prudence; \"she that had been a mother to Ellen, was no\ngossip, and minded nothing but her own business!\" but when he reminded\nher that even Ellen, deeply as she was interested, was not permitted to\nknow it, she could not but acknowledge she had no great right to expect\nto be better informed.\n\nAs to Joanna, with the natural vanity of youth, she was elated beyond\nmeasure at the idea of her dear Ellen's being a _real lady_, and the\nhope of visiting her one day or other in her fine castle, and seeing all\nher beautiful things, while Mrs. Ross made no doubt Ellen had a dress\nfor every day in the week, and her caps trimmed with fine lace; then she\nlaughed at the recollection of having once \"scolded Ellen for putting on\nher best white gown when she expected Mr. Mordaunt, as we called him,\nand now I should not wonder if she wears as good in a morning!\"--\"Dear\nmother,\" said Joanna, who, from the slight view she had of what she\nfancied the world, when she went with St. Aubyn and Ellen to Carnarvon,\nimagined herself better instructed in fashionable matters--\"dear mother,\nI daresay she does not wear such gowns at all; I should not wonder if\nher maid had as good: I am sure I saw a lady's maid on a travelling\ncarriage at Carnarvon much better dressed than either of us.\" \"Well,\nbless me, what will the world come to,\" said Mrs. Ross, \"when such folks\nas those wear white gowns and flappits!\" Alas, poor Mrs. Ross! could she\nhave seen some ladies' maids!--\n\nAll these things Joanna told Ellen in a letter the longest she had ever\nwritten, and greatly was St. Aubyn diverted with the simplicity of their\nideas. The good Ross wrote to St. Aubyn, and expressed his high\nsatisfaction at the very just and honourable manner in which he had\nperformed all his engagements respecting Ellen, and requested to hear\nfrom time to time whatever might arise concerning those important\ncircumstances which the Earl had done him the honour to confide to him.\n\n\"What can we do for these very good people, my dear Ellen?\" said St.\nAubyn: \"they have no wants nor wishes beyond their present possessions.\nIf I send them any articles of luxury, or the means of encreasing their\npresent expenses, I know not that I should render them happier. I could\neasily procure a valuable living for Mr. Ross, and told him so; but he\nassured me nothing should induce him to leave his present flock, and\nthat he had not a wish to rise to a higher sphere, or for any thing in\nthe world, but a few more books; and for those I have sent an order to\nmy bookseller, requesting they may be immediately forwarded to\nCarnarvon. I shall also enclose to Ross a larger payment for my good old\nlandlady and cook, dame Grey, than I thought it prudent to make while we\nremained at Llanwyllan. Is there any thing else my Ellen can think\nof?\"--\"There are,\" answered Ellen, in a low voice, \"some very poor\npeople at Llanwyllan, that Joanna and I used to be as kind to as we\ncould. I should like, if you approve of it, to send Joanna a little\nmoney for their use.\" \"By all means, send whatever you think proper, and\nas often as you please; never consult me, but do all that your kind and\ngenerous heart prompts you to do on all occasions--think also if there\nis any thing Mrs. Ross and Joanna would be pleased to have. You must be\na better judge of their wishes than I can be.\"--He then took out his\npocketbook, and gave her notes to a large amount, telling her, with a\nsmile, that her expences were so small, he should forget he had a wife\nif she were not a little more profuse. \"Well, but Ellen,\" said St.\nAubyn, \"surely this is not all you have to ask for the friends of your\nyouth! don't make me fancy either that you are forgetful, or _think more\nthan you choose to express for some of them_.\" \"My dear Lord, what do\nyou mean?\" said Ellen, a little startled by the manner in which he\nspoke, \"Nay, don't be alarmed,\" replied St. Aubyn, with a smile, \"_I_\nwas thinking of one certainly not so much in _my_ favour as he ought to\nbe in _your's_, for he deprived me once of your society for a whole day,\nfor which, and some certain pangs and anxieties, I cannot quite forgive\nhim.\" \"I cannot guess who you mean.\" \"Is that really true?\" \"Most\nperfectly so.\" \"Certainly,\" said St. Aubyn, \"I can only mean Charles\nRoss.\" \"Oh poor Charles!\" exclaimed Ellen: \"I really had quite forgotten\nhim.\"\n\n\"Now that was excessively ungrateful,\" said St. Aubyn, laughing, \"for I\ndare engage he has not forgotten you: well, are you still enough his\nfriend to wish to do him service?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Ellen: \"I shall always feel a regard for him, though\njust at that moment I was not thinking of him: but what service can I\ndo him, my Lord?\"\n\n\"If _you_ give him your interest with me, I may, perhaps, try, and most\nlikely shall succeed, in getting him promotion. Should you wish this to\nbe done?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, indeed,\" replied Ellen, animated and sparkling with the\npleasing idea of serving her early friend, and of the joy his promotion\nwould give his parents and sister, \"nothing could give me more\npleasure.\"\n\n\"Not too much of that bright colour and sparkling eye, though, Ellen,\"\nsaid St. Aubyn, half in jest, half gravely: \"I shall be jealous.\"\n\n\"You have so much reason!\"\n\n\"Well, be cautious, I am in that point a Turk, and bear no rival _near_\nthe throne.\"\n\nEllen, half vexed, would have said something, but embracing her\ntenderly, he stopt her by saying, \"Not a word, my love, I am perfectly\nsatisfied,\" and left her a little disconcerted, and half fearing that\nshe had disturbed or displeased him.\n\nIn the familiar intercourse which now took place between Miss Cecil and\nLady St. Aubyn, the former shook off her reserve, and imparted to Ellen,\nnot indeed all the particulars of her early disappointment, but that she\nhad endured the most painful trials that the perfidy and inconsistent\nconduct of one sincerely loved could inflict; yet dignified on this, as\non every other subject, she never expatiated upon it, or said any thing\ndisrespectful of the author of her sufferings: though she never fully\nexplained the cause of her separation from her unworthy lover, it was\nunderstood, that a full conviction of his bad conduct, and that his\naddress to her had chiefly been induced by mercenary motives, had\ninduced her to discard him, and to resist all his subsequent entreaties\nto be forgiven.\n\nOne day, when Lord St. Aubyn and Sir William Cecil were engaged at a\ngreat public dinner in the neighbourhood, Ellen had the pleasure of\ndining tete-a-tete with her agreeable friend: they had spent two hours\nin Juliet's apartment, who every time they met gained more and more on\nEllen's affections, and was become excessively attached to her, when the\nsweet girl, feeling fatigued, said she would lie down for an hour, and\nthen she should be well enough to enjoy their company at tea, which she\nrequested they would take in her apartment; they went therefore to pass\nthis hour in Miss Cecil's dressing-room, who, opening a writing-desk to\nshew Ellen a drawing she had just finished, undesignedly displayed to\nthe quick eye of Lady St. Aubyn a little book, marked \"Manuscript\nPoetry.\"\n\n\"Your own,\" said Ellen, laying her hand on it playfully, \"or extracts?\"\n\"Why,\" returned Laura, \"as Lord St. Aubyn thought proper to betray a\nsecret which he learnt when we were children together, I will not deny\nthat little volume contains some insignificant attempts of my own.\"\n\n\"Oh let me see some of them, pray do,\" said Ellen: \"assure yourself I\nwill make no ill use of your confidence. I really am quite delighted\nwith this opportunity, for I have long wished to see some specimens of\nyour talents in this way.\" Thus urged, Laura allowed her to read two or\nthree of the little poems contained in the volume, and at her earnest\nrequest, permitted her afterwards to have copies of the two following\n\n\n  ELEGIAC STANZAS.\n\n  Athwart the troubled bosom of the night,\n    Low heavy clouds in awful grandeur sweep;\n  And, in the solemn darkness of their flight,\n    Serve but to wrap the world in calmer sleep;\n  Save those sad eyes, which only wake to weep;\n  And give the dreary hour to meditation deep.\n\n  Those eyes perceive, as slow the clouds divide,\n    One star, whose tremulous but brilliant ray\n  Might serve the uncertain wand'rer's steps to guide,\n    And cheer his bosom till the dawn of day;\n  Who trembling else, and lost in black dismay,\n  Wearied and wild, might rove and perish on the way.\n\n  Even such a star, so fair and so benign,\n    When o'er the soul dark clouds of sorrow lour,\n  Is Hope; whose tranquil rays serenely shine,\n    Brightening the horrors of each dreary hour;\n  Smiling when youth prepares the fancied flower,\n  And when in age it feels misfortune's blighting power.\n\n  Oh, thou bright star! still grateful shalt thou find\n    The heart so often cheer'd by thy mild ray:\n  I will not call thee faithless and unkind,\n    Nor with ingratitude thy smiles repay,\n  Because thou hast not, like the glorious day,\n  Power to dispel the dark, and drive the clouds away.\n\n  Gild but those clouds till brighter suns arise;\n    Checkering with thy fair light life's troubled stream;\n  And oft unwearied shall these wakeful eyes,\n    Watching the progress of thy doubtful beam,\n  Shine even in tears; and, closing, still shall seem\n  Sooth'd by thy gentle ray in every peaceful dream.\n\n\n  EPISTLE TO LADY DELAMORE,\n\n  ON RETURNING TO ROSE-HILL.\n\n    From those rain scenes, where fancied pleasure reigns;\n  From crowds that weary, and from mirth which pains;\n  From flattering praises, from the smiles of art,\n  Sweet to the eye but faithless to the heart;\n  From guilt which makes fair innocence its prey,\n  Sighs but to blast, and courts but to betray;\n  From these I fly, impatient to caress\n  All lovely Nature in her fairest dress.\n  Oh, sweet retirement! Oh! secure retreat\n  From all the cares and follies of the great!\n  Here lavish Nature every charm bestows,\n  In softness smiles, in vivid beauty glows!\n  Here May presents each blossom of the spring,\n  And balmy sweetness falls from Zephyr's wing.\n    Yet while I stray, in tranquil quiet blest,\n  Fond mem'ry presses at my anxious breast;\n  And as I rove 'mid scenes so justly dear,\n  Remembrance wakes the tributary fear!\n  The mental eye perceives a sister's form,\n  And even these peaceful shades no longer charm.\n  \"Yes!\" I exclaim, \"'twas here she lov'd to stray,\n  Smiling in beauty, innocently gay!\n  Oft by yon streamlet, in the echoing vale,\n  Her voice would swell upon the evening gale,\n  Charm from the care-fraught bosom half its woes,\n  And hush the wounded spirit to repose!\"\n    While these delightful hours I thus retrace,\n  And dwell on every recollected grace,\n  Thy sister's soul, my Agatha, forgets\n  That _thou_ art blest in that which _she_ regrets;\n  Forgets that pleasure crowns thy happy hours,\n  And fond affection strews thy path with flowers;\n  Anxious thy way with rose-buds to adorn,\n  And from those buds remove each lurking thorn.\n  Ah! selfish heart, lament thy loss no more,\n  Nor thus thy recollected bliss deplore;\n  Content thyself to know thy sister blest,\n  And calm the plaintive anguish of thy breast!\n  Be still serenity thy future state;\n  Far from the pomps and perils of the great;\n  Unnotic'd, quiet, shall thy peace ensure,\n  Peace, when the world forgets thee, most secure.\n  --Yet, yet, my Agatha, affection swells\n  The trembling heart where thy lov'd image dwells;\n  Still bids me look to thee for all that cheers\n  In lengthen'd life, and blesses ling'ring years:\n  My spirit, form'd a _social_ bliss to prove,\n  Dares but to hope it from thy future love.\n  Deceived by him on whom it most relied,\n  Pierced in its fondness, wounded in its pride--\n  Yet, yet, while throbbing through each shatter'd nerve,\n  Disclaims to thee the veil of low reserve;\n  Owns all its weakness, will each thought confide,\n  And what it dares to feel, disdains to hide;\n  Owns, though no more the storms of passion rise,\n  That from the thought of selfish bliss it flies,\n  Still feels whate'er had once the power to charm,\n  Faithful affection, sensitive alarm;\n  But from the pangs which once it felt relieved,\n  No more will trust where once it was deceived;\n  To thee alone will look for future joy,\n  And for thy bliss each anxious wish employ:\n  Absorbed in thee, and in thy opening views,\n  Its pains, its pleasures, nay its being lose:\n  One we will be, and one our future cares,\n  Our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes, and our prayers.\n\n                                                          LAURA.\n\nWith both these little pieces Ellen was perhaps more pleased than their\nintrinsic merit warranted; but we naturally look with a partial eye on\nthe performances of those we love. After looking over several other\npoetical attempts, and some beautiful drawings, they returned to\nJuliet's apartment, where they spent a delightful evening; for Juliet\nseemed materially mending, and Laura's spirits rose in proportion.\n\nThus, and in similar pleasures, passed the time till the beginning of\nMarch, varied indeed by the occasional visits of the neighbouring\nfamilies. One day, after a long solicitation, the St. Aubyns, Cecils,\nand some more of the most fashionable people near them, dined with Mrs.\nDawkins, where they also met her tender friend and shadow, Miss Alton,\nwho this day, for the first time in her life, was destined to offend\nthat _sweet woman_, Mrs. Dawkins; for charmed to find herself seated on\na sofa between \"her _dearest_ Lady St. Aubyn,\" and that _most\ndelightful_ man, General Morton, a veteran officer in the neighbourhood,\nat whom it was supposed Miss Alton had long _set her cap_, as the phrase\nis, she attended not to the hints, shrugs, and winks of her friend, who,\nnot keeping a regular housekeeper, and being extremely anxious for the\nplacing her first course properly, wished Miss Alton just to slip out\nand see it put on table: but vain were her wishes; and the cook, finding\nno aid-de-camp arrive, after waiting till some of the dishes were\nover-dressed, and others half cold, was obliged to act as\ncommander-in-chief, and direct the disposition of the table herself; in\nwhich, not having clearly understood her mistress's directions (for in\nfact her anxiety to have all correct made them vary every half hour),\nshe succeeded so ill, that when, after all her fretting and fuming, poor\nMrs. Dawkins was told dinner was on table, that unfortunate Lady had\nnearly fainted at perceiving, when she entered the dining-room, that\nhalf the articles intended for the second course were crowded into the\nfirst, and roasted, ragoued, boiled, fried, sweet and sour, were jumbled\ntogether, in the finest confusion imaginable!\n\n\"This is all _your_ fault,\" said Mrs. Dawkins, in a low voice, but with\nthe countenance of a fury, to poor Alton: \"you could not _stir_ to see\nit put down;\" and pushing rudely by her, she left her staring with\nsurprize, and wondering what had made the dear soul so very angry: but\nwhen she saw the blunders which were so obvious in the arrangement of\nthe table, and recollected her own negligence (for in fact she had\npromised to see it set down), she was in her turn quite shocked.\n\nInsupportable was the delay and confusion in putting down this second\ncourse; even curtailed as it was, Mrs. Dawkins's servants were not\nperfectly _au fait_ at such things, and at last Lord St. Aubyn gave a\nhint to his own man, who waited behind his chair to assist, which he did\nso effectually, that every thing was soon placed as by magic, and the\nrest of the dinner and dessert passed over tolerably well. After dinner,\nthe ladies retired to the drawing-room, and listened, with their usual\npatience, to fresh lamentations from Mrs. Dawkins, and renewed\nsympathies on the part of Miss Alton, who sought, by even increasing her\nusual portion of _tender sensibility_, to regain her wonted place in\nMrs. Dawkins's good graces; but that lady continued so haughty and\nimpracticable, that poor Alton came at last with _real_ tears, to\ncomplain to the good-natured Ellen and Laura of her hard fate, and the\nimpossibility, do all she could, of pleasing some people; and they\nreally were so sorry for her vexation, that when Lady St. Aubyn's\ncarriage was announced, she rescued her from the visible unkindness of\nMrs. Dawkins, by desiring to have the pleasure of setting her down, and\nmade her quite happy again, by asking her to meet a small party at the\nCastle the next day, which, as it was understood to be rather a select\nthing, and confined to those most intimate there, assured Miss Alton a\nrenewed importance with Mrs. Dawkins and all her friends, as she should\nhave much to tell, which they could by no other possibility know any\nthing about.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. III.\n\n    Sweet Juliet, that with angels dost remain,\n  Accept this latest favour at my hands,\n  That living honour'd thee, and being dead,\n  With funeral praises do adorn thy tomb.\n\n                                               ROMEO AND JULIET.\n\n\nThe day was now fixed at the distance of a week for the removal of the\nSt. Aubyns to London. Ellen lamented much the impossibility of having\nLaura Cecil with her, who would have been such a support to her in a\nsituation so new; but nothing could be urged on that point, as it was\nimpossible she could leave Juliet, who appeared sometimes better\nsometimes worse, but always patient, gentle, and pious to a degree that\nwas really angelic.\n\nEllen felt sincerely grieved to leave her, and proposed that she should\nbe removed to London for better advice, but found this expedient had\nbeen before resorted to, and Doctor B----'s advice frequently renewed by\nletters since, and that it was thought the air of London did not agree\nwith her. The weather now, for the time of year, the second week in\nMarch, was remarkably mild; and the medical man in attendance on Juliet,\nwho had now been for some days tolerably free from the low fever which\ngenerally hung about her, permitted her to go out once or twice in a\ngarden chair, for the benefit of the air: the returning verdure of\nspring seemed, for a time, to revive her: but whether the exertion was\ntoo much, or some unobserved change in the atmosphere affected her\ndelicate frame, could not be known; but she was suddenly seized with one\nof those attacks of fever which had so frequently brought her to the\nbrink of the grave; and on the day before that fixed for Ellen's leaving\nNorthamptonshire, a note from Laura announced that the life of this\nadmirable young creature was despaired of.\n\n\"She is perfectly sensible,\" added the afflicted sister; \"the dear angel\nretains all her usual pious composure; she wishes to see you. Could you,\ndear Lady St. Aubyn, without being too much affected, come to her?\"\n\nEllen, bursting into tears, put the note into St. Aubyn's hand, saying,\n\"Oh, my dear Lord; let me go--pray let me go directly!\"\n\n\"Be less alarmed, be more composed, my dearest love,\" replied he, after\nglancing over the contents, \"or I cannot consent to your going. I wish\nit had not been asked.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed, dear St. Aubyn, I am quite composed, quite easy; but I\nshall suffer much more in not seeing the dear, dear creature once again,\nthan even by witnessing this sudden and most unexpected change.\"\n\n\"Well, my love, we will go together; but do not be too much alarmed; she\nmay yet recover: Laura's fears may outrun the occasion: Juliet has often\nbeen very ill before; but we will go: they will both, I know, be pleased\nat your coming.\"\n\nHe then ordered the carriage, which was soon ready; and half an hour\nbrought them to Rose-hill. Ellen was immediately shewn to Juliet's room:\nby the bed-side sat Laura: her cheeks, lips, and whole countenance, were\nthe colour of monumental marble; not a tear fell from her eyes; not a\nsigh heaved her bosom; but the woe, the deep expressive woe which marked\nevery feature, no language could describe: she rose, and advanced a few\nsteps to meet Ellen, grasping her hand with one which the touch of death\ncould alone have rendered colder; her lips moved, but no articulate word\nbroke the mournful silence.\n\nEllen turned pale, shuddered, and looked ready to faint; Miss Cecil\nmade a sign to an attendant, who, bathed in tears, stood near her: she\nplaced a chair for Lady St. Aubyn, and brought her a few drops in some\nwater; she wept, and was relieved.\n\n\"Oh, why did I send for you!\" said Laura, in a low tone, and speaking\nwith difficulty; \"I fear it is too much.\"\n\n\"Don't be frightened, my Lady,\" said the nurse: \"Miss Juliet is a little\neasier; she is dozing.\"\n\nIn a few minutes Juliet moved and spoke, but so faintly, her voice could\nhardly be distinguished. In an instant Laura was on her knees beside\nher, and catching the imperfect sounds, replied in a voice which\nbetrayed not the anguish of her soul, \"Yes, my love, she is here--will\nyou see her?\"\n\nThen turning to Ellen, she motioned her to approach. Ellen rose, and\nwent to the bed-side; she looked on Juliet, and saw that sweet angelic\ncountenance, slightly flushed, and looking as composed as ever; and\nignorant of the appearances of disease, fancied her better, and was, in\nsome measure, comforted. Juliet faintly articulated a few words,\nexpressive of the pleasure she felt in seeing Ellen, and would have said\nmore, but the nurse, for the sake of all, interposed, and requested that\nMiss Juliet might not be allowed to speak much. With difficulty she held\nout her feeble emaciated arms to Ellen, who tenderly embraced her, and\nhalf dissolved in tears, retired to the window, whither she drew Miss\nCecil. Still the wretched Laura shed no tear; and the deep grief,\nimpressed on her fine countenance, was much more painful to the beholder\nthan the loudest expressions of sorrow could have been.\n\n  \"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speak\n  Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, my dearest Laura,\" said Ellen, \"endeavour to take\ncomfort; surely she is better--she will recover!\"\n\nLaura only shook her head; and the nurse approaching, said, \"Indeed,\nMadam, Miss Cecil will kill herself; she has not had her clothes off\nthese two nights, nor has the slightest refreshment passed her lips this\nday.\"\n\n\"Oh! talk not to me of rest or food,\" cried Laura, \"I can partake of\nneither.\"\n\nEllen most tenderly urged her to take something; but pressing her hands\nupon her heart, she replied, \"Oh no, oh no--I could not; indeed I could\nnot. Go,\" she added, \"my dear friend--go, this is no place for you;\nnothing but the request of ----; nothing but _her_ request should have\ninduced me to send for you.\"\n\n\"But now I _am_ here,\" said Ellen, \"surely you will allow me to stay; I\nmay be of use to you; of comfort to dear dear Juliet.\"\n\nIn vain she urged. Laura sacrificed all selfish considerations, and\ninsisted on her returning home, promising to send to her should Juliet\nwish to see her again; and St. Aubyn, anxious for her, now sent to\nrequest his wife would come: she therefore embraced her friend, and\nlooking once more on the departing saint, who now again lay heavily\ndozing, she lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, and, with another\nshower of tears, left the room.\n\nSt. Aubyn was rejoiced to find her disposed to accompany him home,\nthough she complained bitterly that Laura would not let her stay.\n\n\"Laura,\" said he, \"judges as she always does, wisely, and acts kindly:\nyou could be of no real service, and your being here would be highly\nimproper; you must not think of it.\"\n\nTwo days of the greatest anxiety now passed, and at the end of that time\nthe fair and lovely Juliet breathed no more: her last moments were\nattended by consolation so powerful, and hopes so celestial, as might\nwell have taught the worldly \"how a Christian could die!\"\n\nFor many days Laura was confined to her bed, and it was feared she would\nfollow her sister to the grave; but by degrees she shook off the excess\nof her sorrow, and for her father's sake endeavoured to recover from the\ndreadful shock she had received.\n\nSir William Cecil, who had long been convinced that Juliet would not\nlive many months, was more easily consoled. The St. Aubyns of course had\ndelayed their journey to London on this event; and finding that Sir\nWilliam Cecil was disposed to make an excursion to Bath, which his gouty\nhabit indeed rendered almost necessary, they endeavoured to prevail on\nLaura to come to them at St. Aubyn Castle for a short time, and then go\nwith them to London. From this proposal, especially the latter part, she\nfor some time shrunk, and wished to be allowed to remain at Rose-hill\nalone: but that her friends would not permit: and Sir William having\narranged to go to Bath at the same time with a neighbouring family, and\nto be in the same house with them, Laura was at length prevailed on to\nremove to the Castle, and from thence, after a short stay, to accompany\nher friends to London, where they promised her an apartment exclusively\nher own, and that she should see no other till she herself wished it.\n\n\"Yet why,\" said she, \"my dearest Lady St. Aubyn, why should I burden you\nwith one so powerless to add to your comforts, or partake your\npleasures?\"\n\n\"Is not that an unkind question?\" said Ellen; \"or do you really believe\nme insensible to the gratification of soothing your mind, and supporting\nyour spirits? Whenever you will permit me, I will be your visitor in\nyour apartment; whenever my company would be irksome, I will leave you\nto yourself, provided I do not find you the worse for the indulgence.\"\n\nAll was therefore thus arranged, and Miss Cecil, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn\nin one carriage, and Miss Cecil's maid, and Ellen's talkative but\nfaithful Jane, in another, with out riders, &c. in great style left\nNorthamptonshire, and arrived the next evening at the Earl's magnificent\nhouse in Cavendish-square.--Lady St. Aubyn's first care was to select\nsuch an apartment for the mournful Laura as would make her easy, and\nfree from restraint; and having conducted her to it, she told her she\nwas entirely mistress there, and never should be interrupted unless she\nchose it.\n\nEllen, who had made several little attempts in verse since she had seen\nthose of Miss Cecil, now soothed her sorrow for the loss of the sweet\nJuliet by a few stanzas, which, when she thought her able to bear them,\nshe gave to Laura, who was gratified by this little tribute to her\nloved, lamented sister's memory.\n\n\n  ELEGIAC STANZAS.\n\n  How mourns the heart, when early fades away\n    The opening promise of a riper bloom;\n  When youth and beauty, innocently gay,\n    Sink in the silent ruin of the tomb!\n\n  Oh, thou pure spirit! which in life's fair dawn,\n    Arose superior to that childish frame,\n  (Fair tho' it was) from which thou art withdrawn,\n    To that bright Heaven from whence thy beauty came.\n\n  Sweet Juliet! happily releas'd from care,\n    Which future years perhaps had bade the prove;\n  A heart so tender, and a form so fair,\n    Ill with the perils of the world had strove!\n\n  Thy heart expanding at affection's voice,\n    How had it borne in native kindness warm,\n  To check the rapid fire of youthful choice,\n    And dread deceit beneath the loveliest form!\n\n  To thee were graces so benignly given,\n    A soul so tender, and a wit so rare;\n  A love of harmony, as if kind Heaven\n    Had bade thee for an early bliss prepare.\n\n  Long shall the heart which lov'd thy dawning grace,\n    The pensive mem'ry of each charm retain;\n  Thy winning manners studiously retrace,\n    And dwell anew on each harmonious strain.\n\n  Nor shall that heart to present scenes confine\n    Its views and wishes; but with worthier care,\n  Seek to preserve an innocence like thine,\n    And humbly hope thy happiness to share.\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. IV.\n\n  To such how fair appears each grain of sand,\n  Or humblest weed as wrought by nature's hand!\n  A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view.--\n  ----See with what art each curious shell is made:\n  Here carved in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid!\n  What vivid th' enamel'd stones adorn,\n  Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!\n\n                                                      S. JENYNS.\n\n\nThe arrival of the St. Aubyns in London opened a wide field for\nconjecture and conversation in the fashionable world. It was known, for\nSt. Aubyn's haughty relations had not failed to publish it, that he had\nmarried a young woman far inferior to him in rank, and absolutely\nwithout fortune. It was also known that she was uncommonly beautiful;\nand great anxiety, mixed with no small share of ridicule, was excited by\nher expected _debut_; but the modest Ellen was in no haste to afford the\nstarers and sneerers so rich a treat: she merely went to a few morning\nexhibitions, attended only by her Lord, for the first fortnight of her\nstay in town; and indeed St. Aubyn hoped, notwithstanding her present\ndistance and displeasure, to induce his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt, to\nchaperon Ellen to some of the public places, being fully sensible what\nan advantage it would be to her to be so supported: he therefore\nacquiesced in her wishes, till he could bring about this desirable\narrangement, and allowed his wife to spend most of her evenings at home.\n\nSeveral ladies had however called on Lady St. Aubyn, some of whom had\nleft their cards, and others she had seen. Most of these visits she had\nreturned; but one of those, who had shewn the greatest desire to see\nmore of Lady St. Aubyn--indeed, a distant relation of the Earl's, she\nhad not been yet to see.\n\nOne morning Lord St. Aubyn said he would go with her to see the museum\nof an old friend of his, who lived at Knightsbridge, who was a great\ncollector of every thing rare and curious, particularly shells,\npictures, and gems. \"He is quite a character,\" added he: \"but I will not\nanticipate your surprize: we can go there early. I told him we would go\nto-day, or to-morrow; and after we have been there, you can call on Lady\nMeredith, who gave herself a trouble so extraordinary, as actually to\nalight from her carriage and make you a personal visit.\"\n\n\"You will go with me?\"\n\n\"Pardon me, my love, that is not necessary, and you really must learn to\n_go alone_, and not depend so much on me.\"\n\n\"I hope her Ladyship may not be at home.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my love, I hope she may; for dissimilar as they are in every\nrespect, my aunt, Lady Juliana, spends a great deal of her time there.\nShe is so fond of finding fault, and differing in opinion from others,\nthat I really believe she goes to Lady Meredith's chiefly for the\npleasure of lecturing her, who is so indifferent to the opinion of any\none, that she does not think it worth while to be at the trouble of\nresenting the sharp things Lady Juliana says to her.\"\n\n\"What a strange motive for being intimate with any one.\"\n\n\"Strange enough: but when you see more of the world, you will discern\nthat affection is not the only bond of union between those who call\nthemselves friends.\"\n\n\"I think I have seen that already in Mrs. Dawkins and Miss Alton.\"\n\n\"True: convenience, the wish of finding a patient _hearer_, accident,\nthe want of a more pleasing companion, are amongst the numerous\ninducements which form what we are pleased to call friendship. Nay, I\nonce heard a good lady say she was sure a family she mentioned had\nproved themselves _real friends_ to her, for they had sent her a _large\nplumcake_[A].\"\n\n    [A] A fact.\n\nEllen laughed at this curious definition of friendship.\n\n\"Well,\" said St. Aubyn: \"but to return to Lady Meredith. I hope she may,\nby reporting well of you to Lady Juliana, induce her to become more\nfriendly towards us: you know how anxious I am to have you in her good\ngraces--not, believe me, on account of her immense fortune, but because,\nwith all her pride and stiffness, she has a warm heart and excellent\nqualities, and would be to you a most valuable friend; so pray do your\nbest to please Lady Meredith.\"\n\n\"Very well: but will you tell me the most likely way to succeed?\"\n\n\"I am afraid it will be difficult: she will think you too handsome,\nunless indeed she intends soon to have a large party.\"\n\n\"How is it possible _that_ should have any thing to do with the matter?\"\n\n\"Why, Lady Meredith's great ambition is to outshine all her competitors\nin the number and fashion of those collected at her routes; and as\nsometimes, in spite of her charms, and the lustre of her abundant\njewels, there are some obstinate animals who will be uncivil enough to\nrecollect they '_have seen them before_,' consequently become rather\nweary of them, and desert her for some newer belle. Lady Meredith may\nthink you (so new to the world, and so beautiful) a desirable\nreinforcement, and may therefore honour you with an invitation: pray\naccept it, if she does, and take great pains at your toilette to-day:\nfor my friend, Mr. Dorrington, is a great admirer of beauty, and will\nshew you his fine collection a great deal more readily if he admire\nyour's, particularly if he should fancy you like a bust he has of the\n_bona Dea_ (at least he gives it that name, though it is so mutilated,\nhe confesses he does not exactly know for what or whom it was designed),\nwhich he almost idolizes.\"\n\nEllen hastened to obey, but she wished herself at Castle St. Aubyn, for\nshe had not liked the little she had seen of Lady Meredith, and she\nshrunk from the idea of this formidable morning visit. Conquering her\nfears, however, as well as she could, and looking uncommonly beautiful,\nshe rejoined her Lord. Her milliner had just sent home a most elegant\nand expensive morning dress, bonnet, and cloak, all of the finest\nmaterials, and in that delicate modest style, which she always chose,\nand was to her peculiarly becoming. St. Aubyn thought he had never seen\nher look so well, and gave great credit to Madame de ---- for consulting\nso admirably the natural style of her beauty, as to embellish, without\noverloading it. The barouche was at the door: she had therefore only\ntime to say \"farewell\" to Laura, and stepping hastily in, half an hour\nbrought them to Mr. Dorrington's.\n\nAs the carriage stopt at the house, the figure of a fine old man with\ngrey hair caught the eye of Lady St. Aubyn: he was at the instant\nascending the steps to knock at the door, and was so meanly dressed,\nthat she supposed him a mendicant, or at least extremely poor, and her\nready hand sought her purse, intending to give relief to the infirm\nlooking old man. What then was her surprize, when, just as she stretched\nout her hand for that purpose, the old man, looking into the carriage,\nand seeing Lord St. Aubyn, advanced, and taking off his hat with the\nmost courtly air imaginable, displayed a fine commanding forehead,\nexpressive eyes, and a contour of countenance so admirable, as, once\nseen, could never be forgotten.\n\n\"Ah! my dear St. Aubyn,\" he exclaimed, \"how rejoiced I am to see you! I\nam really happy that I returned in time to receive you: as you did not\nsay positively you would come to-day, it was all a chance; but come, do\nme the favour to alight: I have just succeeded in making the finest\npurchase--a shell, a unique: you shall see it.\"\n\nBy this time St. Aubyn had alighted, and giving his hand to Ellen,\nintroduced her to this extraordinary man. Nothing could be more polished\nthan his address, nothing more elegant than the grace with which he\nreceived her, or more spirited than the little compliment he made St.\nAubyn on his happiness, and the beauty of his lady.\n\nWhoever looked at Mr. Dorrington, when his shabby old hat was removed,\nmust instantly see the man of sense and superior information: whoever\nheard him speak, heard instantly that it was the voice and enunciation\nnot only of a gentleman, but of one who had lived in the very highest\ncircles; and yet his appearance, at first, would have led any one to\nsuppose him, as Ellen did, in absolute poverty. He led the way into his\nfavourite apartment, indeed the only one he ever inhabited, except his\nbed-chamber; and into neither would he ever suffer any one to enter\nunless he was with them. No broom, nor brush of any kind, ever disturbed\nthe sacred dust of this hallowed retirement: in the grate, the\naccumulated ashes of _many months_ remained; the windows were dimmed\nwith the untouched dirt of years: and nothing but the table on which his\nslender meals were spread (for his temperance in eating and drinking\nwere as remarkable as his singular neglect of personal attire), and two\nor three chairs for the reception of occasional visitors, were ever\nwiped. In one of these he seated the astonished Ellen, who gazed around\nher at treasures, the value of which exceeded her utmost guess. A\nhandsome cabinet with glass doors contained a variety of curious gems,\nvases, and specimens of minerals: some invaluable pictures stood leaning\nagainst the walls: heaps of books in rich bindings, which Ellen\nafterwards found were either remarkable for their scarceness, or full of\nfine prints, lay scattered around.\n\n\"Now, my Lord,\" said Mr. Dorrington, \"I will shew you and Lady St. Aubyn\nmy new purchase: I said it was unique, but it is not exactly so: I have\nanother of the same sort; but these are the only two in the world: I\nthink this is a little, a very little finer than that I had before; I\nbought it at ****'s sale, and gave a monstrous price for it; but I was\ndetermined to have it: it was the only thing in his collection I\ncoveted.\"\n\nHe then displayed his new purchase, and descanted for some time on its\nvarious beauties; and seeing Ellen really admired it, pleased also with\nher beauty and sweetness, he proceeded to shew her his collection, and\neven those rare articles which never appeared but to particular\nfavourites, saying she was \"_worthy to admire them_.\" Some beautiful\nminiatures particularly pleased her, and he was delighted that she\nseemed to understand their value. He also produced some fine illuminated\nmissals, and explained every thing with so much grace and perspicuity as\nquite delighted her.\n\nTwo hours fled swiftly in examining these wonders, and even then they\nhad not seen half, but promised to visit him another day. He told Lady\nSt. Aubyn he should be at her command at any time; and then most\npolitely attending her to her carriage, he with a courteous bow took his\nleave.\n\nOn their way home, St. Aubyn told Ellen that the extraordinary man they\nhad just left had for many years led a life of dissipation, by which he\nreduced a large fortune almost to nothing; but that having once, in\nconsequence of his extravagance, been obliged to sell a collection\nstill finer than that he now had, he had determined to gratify his\npassion for _virtu_, without the risk of again ruining himself, and\ntherefore denied himself every thing but the bare necessaries of life;\nand was, consequently, enabled to purchase rare articles at any price,\nand to outbid other collectors, who had different demands on part of\ntheir incomes. He kept no man, and but one female servant; and St. Aubyn\nsaid, that when he had called on him a few days before, he found him in\na storm of rage with this poor servant-girl, for having dared, while he\nwas engaged with some company in his sitting-room, to brush out his\nbed-chamber, in the door of which he had, _par miracle_, left the\nkey.--\"And I am sure, Sir,\" said the girl, crying, \"I never touched\nnothing but that great wooden man\" (meaning a layman which always stands\nin Mr. Dorrington's room), \"that's enough to frighten a body; and he I\nonly just moved, for master never won't have nothing like other people;\nand I thought if he brought the gentlefolks in his bed-room, as he\nsometimes will, it was a shame to see such a place, and such a dirty\ntable cover; so I was only just going to make it a little tidy, and I\nnever broke nothing at all.\"\n\n\"I comforted the poor girl,\" said St. Aubyn, \"by giving her a trifle,\nand advised her by no means to provoke her master, by presuming to touch\na brush in his rooms again without order: and she promised me she would\nin future be contented with cleaning her own kitchen and passages--'And\nnever touch nothing belonging to master's rooms, nor any of them\noutlandish things, that be all full of dust, and enough to breed moths\nand all manner of flies all over the house.'----And I think,\" said he,\nlaughing, \"she appears to have kept her promise very exactly.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. V.\n\n  ---- So perfumed, that\n  The winds were love-sick with it.\n  ---- She did lie\n  In her pavilion, cloth of gold.\n\n                                           ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.\n\n\nLady St. Aubyn set down the Earl in Cavendish Square, and proceeded\nalone to the house of Lady Meredith in Portland Place. A carriage which\nappeared to be in waiting drove from the door to make way for her's, by\nwhich Ellen guessed Lady Meredith had company. To the inquiry whether\nher Ladyship were at home, she was answered in the affirmative, and\nrequested to walk up stairs. Ellen was now tolerably well accustomed to\nmagnificent houses; but there was something in the style of this\ndifferent from any thing she had yet seen: the hall was not only warmed\nby superb stoves, but bronze figures, nearly as large as life, stood in\ndifferent attitudes in every corner, and all bearing censers or urns, in\nwhich costly aromatics perpetually burnt, diffusing around a rich but\nalmost overpowering perfume. As she ascended the staircase she found\nevery possible recess filled with baskets, vases, &c. full of the most\nrare and expensive exotics, which bloomed even amidst the cold winds of\nMarch, with nearly as much luxuriance as they would have done in their\nnative climes; for every part of this mansion was kept in a regular\ndegree of heat by flues passing through the walls and beneath the floors\ncommunicating with fires, which were not visible: when, on the other\nhand, the weather became warm, the cambric sun-blinds at every window\nwere kept perpetually moistened with odoriferous waters, by two black\nservants, whose whole employment it was to attend to this branch of\nluxury; indeed, to luxury alone the whole mansion appeared to be\ndedicated. The floors were not merely covered, but carpetted with\nmaterials, whose softness and elasticity seemed produced by a mixture of\nsilk and down: the sofas, ottomans, &c. were not merely stuffed, but\nevery one had piles of cushions appertaining to it, filled with\neider-down, and covered with the richest silks or velvets. To the\npresiding goddess of this superb temple Lady St. Aubyn was presently\nintroduced. In her boudoir Lady Meredith sat, or rather lay, not on a\nchair or sofa, but on piles of cushions, covered with the finest painted\nvelvet. Her majestic, though somewhat large figure, appeared to great\nadvantage in the studied half-dress in which she now appeared; yet there\nwas something in her attitude, in the disposal of her drapery, from\nwhich the modest eye of Ellen was involuntarily averted. Her dress was\nof the finest and whitest muslin that India ever produced, and clung\naround her so closely as fully to display the perfect symmetry of her\nform: the sleeves were full, and so short, they scarcely descended below\nthe shoulder, which not the slightest veil shaded from the beholder's\ngaze, while the delicate arms thus exposed were decorated with rows of\nwhat she called undress pearls: they were of an extraordinary size and\nbeauty, and were formed into armlets and bracelets of fanciful but\nelegant fashion: two or three strings, and a large Maltese cross of the\nsame, were the only covering of her fair bosom, and a few were twisted\nloosely amongst her dark but glossy and luxuriant hair. At her feet sat\na lovely little girl about four years old, with a low hassock before\nher, on which she was displaying the contents of one of mamma's caskets\nof jewels, as well amused as the great Potemkin himself could have been\nby arranging his diamonds in different figures on black velvet; a\nfavourite entertainment of that extraordinary man.\n\nOn one side of Lady Meredith sat a gay young officer in the uniform of\nthe guards, and on the other a stiff formal looking old lady in a dress\nsomewhat old fashioned, but more remarkable for being excessively neat\nand prim: she had a sour contemptuous look, and her stays and whole\nfigure had the stiff appearance of a portrait of the last century. She\nlevelled her eye-glass at Ellen, as she followed the servant who\nannounced her into the room, and with an emphatic _humph!_ (not unlike\npoor Mrs. Ross's) let it fall again as if perfectly satisfied with one\nlook, and not feeling any wish to repeat it; yet repeat it she did,\nagain and again, and, as if the review displeased or agitated her, her\ncountenance became still more and more sour. In the meantime Lady\nMeredith half rose from her cushions, and holding out her hand,\nlanguidly said:--\n\n\"My dear Lady St. Aubyn, how good you are to come and see me! I am\ndelighted I happened to be at home. Andrew,\" (to the servant, who,\nhaving placed a chair, was retiring) \"don't give Lady St. Aubyn that\nshocking chair: bring a heap of those cushions and arrange them like\nmine: do rest on them, my dear creature; you must be fatigued to death.\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said Ellen, smiling with modest grace; \"I am not accustomed\nto such a luxurious seat, and prefer a chair.\"\n\n\"Do you really? Is it possible!\" exclaimed the languishing Lady, sinking\nback again as if the exertion of speaking had been too much for her.\n\"Well, I should absolutely die in twelve hours if I might not be\nindulged in this delicious mode of reposing.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said the stiff old lady, in no very conciliating tone; \"how\ncan you be so ridiculous: pray how do you manage when you sit six or\neight hours at pharo, or go to the Opera--you have none of those silly\nthings there?\"\n\n\"Oh, as to pharo, dear delightful pharo, that keeps me alive, prevents\nmy feeling fatigued even when my unfortunate feet cannot command so much\nas a poor little footstool; and as to the Opera, I wonder your Ladyship\nasks, for you know very well, my box, and the cushions belonging to it,\nare stuffed with eider-down, like these,\" and she sunk still more\nindolently on her yielding supporters. \"Apropos of the Opera,\" added\nshe; \"have you obtained a box there, Lady St. Aubyn?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Ellen: \"Lord St. Aubyn had one offered to him, but as it\nis so late in the season, and our stay in town will not be long, I\nbegged him to decline it.\"\n\nLady Meredith here exchanged a smile of contempt with the officer, which\nseemed to say \"how rustic that is!\" then half yawning she said:--\n\n\"Oh, but indeed that was very wrong: what can a woman of fashion do\nwithout a box at the Opera? I am sure, from all I have heard of the\nformer Lady St. Aubyn, for I had not the honour of knowing her, she\nwould not have lived a month in London without one.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said the old lady, \"but for all that _I_ think _this\nyoung person_ quite in the right, and as to the late Lady St. Aubyn, I\nam sure _she_ was no pattern for any body, and I wonder, Lady Meredith,\nyou will name her in my hearing.\"\n\n\"I beg your Ladyship's pardon,\" replied Lady Meredith; \"I forgot.\"\n\n\"Well, no matter; don't say any more.\"\n\nTo paint Ellen's surprize would be difficult: the odd epithet this\nstrange lady had applied to her, \"_this young person_,\" the allusions to\nthe late countess, of whom she never heard without an indescribable sort\nof emotion, and the suspicion she now entertained that her ungracious\nneighbour was Lady Juliana Mordaunt, all conspired to overpower her;\nand the heat of the apartment, the strong smell of perfumes from immense\nChina jars, with which the room was ornamented, completed it; in short,\nthough wholly unaccustomed to such sensations, she had nearly fainted.\nThe young officer, who had long been watching her interesting and lovely\ncountenance, saw her change colour, and said hastily:--\n\n\"The lady is ill.\"\n\n\"What's the matter, child?\" said the old lady; and rising hastily, she\nuntied her bonnet and the strings of her mantle, which, falling aside,\ndiscovered enough of her figure to render her situation obvious.\n\n\"So!\" exclaimed the old lady; but whether the interjection expressed\nsurprize, pleasure, or what other sensation, was not easy to discover.\n\"Do, Colonel Lenox, exert yourself so much as to open the door and ring\nfor a glass of water: the air of this room is enough to kill any body.\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said Ellen, the colour returning to her cheeks and lips,\n\"I am sorry to give so much trouble; I am much better.\"\n\n\"That's well,\" said the old lady. By this time the water was brought;\nEllen drank some, and quite recovered, begged leave to ring for her\ncarriage.\n\n\"Don't go yet, child,\" said the old lady; \"perhaps you may be ill\nagain.\"\n\n\"No: pray don't go yet,\" said Lady Meredith, who all this time had been\nholding a smelling bottle to her own nose, affecting to be too much\novercome to do any thing for the relief of her visitor. \"You have\nfrightened me enormously; stay a little to make me amends; besides, you\nstill tremble and look pale: are you subject to these faintings?\"\n\n\"Not in the least,\" said Ellen. \"I believe the heat of the room overcame\nme.\"\n\n\"No wonder,\" said the old lady; \"it is a perfect stove, and enough to\nunstring the nerves of Hercules, especially when aided by the powerful\nscent of those abominable jars.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear sweet jars,\" cried Lady Meredith; \"now positively you shall\nnot abuse them; any thing else you may find what fault you please with,\nbut my sweet jars I cannot give up:--have you ever read Anna Seward's\npoetical recipe to make one?\"\n\n\"Not I,\" replied her friend in an angry tone, \"nor ever desire it; all\nthe poetry in the world should never induce me to fill my rooms with\nsuch nonsense.\"\n\nDuring this conversation, the little girl, who had tired herself with\nlooking at the jewels and trinkets, rose from her cushion, and said:--\n\n\"Pretty mamma, dress pretty Miranda in these,\" holding up some fine\nemeralds.\n\n\"No indeed, child: go to Colonel Lenox, and ask him to adorn you; I\ncannot take so much trouble.\"\n\n\"No, Miranda won't; Miranda go to pretty, sweet, beautiful lady;\" and\nshe went to Ellen, who, admiring the lovely little creature, kissed her,\nand indulged her by putting the shining ornaments round her little fair\nneck and arms, and twisting some in the ringlets of her glossy hair.\n\n\"Now I beautiful,\" said the child, looking at herself. \"Is not Miranda\npretty now, mamma?\"\n\n\"Yes, my love, beautiful as an angel: come and kiss me, my darling.\"\n\nThe child, climbing up the load of cushions, laid her sweet little face\nclose to her mother's and kissed her.\n\n\"Is not she a beauty and a love?\" said the injudicious mother to the\nColonel, clasping the little creature to her bosom, with an air more\ntheatrical than tender. He whispered something, in return to which she\nreplied with affected indignation, \"Oh, you flattering wretch, _that_\nshe is, and a thousand times handsomer; but she will never know what[B]\nher mother was, for before she is old enough to distinguish, I shall\neither be dead or hideous, and then she will hate me.\" She heaved a deep\nsigh, and looked distressed at the idea, which the child perceiving,\nfondly twined her little arms round her mother's neck, and answered:--\n\n\"No, dear mamma, Miranda always love you, you so beautiful.\"\n\n    [B] It is said that the once lovely Lady C----, when on her\n        death-bed, lamented to a friend sitting by her, that her\n        little boy, then in the room, _would never know what a\n        beautiful creature his mother was_. \"She feels the\n        ruling passion strong in death!\"\n\n\"See,\" said the old lady, \"the effect of your lessons; you teach her to\nlove nothing but beauty, and if you were to lose your good looks, she\nwould of course cease to care any thing about you.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is exactly what I dread.\"\n\n\"Then why do you not endeavour to prevent it, by giving her more\nreasonable notions? If she is led to suppose beauty and fine dress the\nonly claims to affection, if she is never taught that virtue and an\naffectionate heart can alone ensure unfading esteem, she will grow up a\nmere frivolous automaton, and probably throw herself away on the first\ncoxcomb with a handsome face and red coat she meets with.\"\n\nThe Colonel coloured, laughed, and bowed.\n\n\"Nay,\" said the old lady, \"if you choose to apply the character to\nyourself, with all my heart, settle it as you please; but, I suppose,\nall red coats are not mere coxcombs.\"\n\nLady Meredith and the Colonel laughed, but did not appear entirely\npleased even with this half apology.\n\n\"Well, but,\" said Lady Meredith, \"what, Ma'am, would you have me do with\nMiranda? Can I prevent the child from observing that beauty is\nuniversally admired?\"\n\n\"That,\" said Colonel Lenox, with a bow, \"would indeed be impossible\nwhile with _you_.\"\n\nThe old lady shrugged up her shoulders, with a sour contemptuous frown,\nand said:--\"Then put her into a better school.\"\n\n\"A school!\" replied Lady Meredith, half screaming; \"what, would you have\nme send the dear creature from me? No, my only darling, thou shalt never\nleave me.\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" exclaimed the old lady, with even encreasing sourness; \"well,\nif fashion absolutely demands this _extraordinary_ degree of tenderness,\nfor very good mothers _have_ sent their children to school before now,\nat least, do get the child a rational and sensible governess, and let\nher employ herself in something better than admiring your jewels, or\neven your beauty, all the morning.--Ah! I wish,\" said she, turning\nabruptly to Ellen, \"I wish she had such an instructress as _your Miss\nCecil_.\"\n\nEllen's surprise at this sudden address from one with whom not even the\nceremony of introduction had passed, yet who seemed to know her and all\nher concerns so well, almost deprived her of the power to reply; she\nrallied her spirits, however, and said, that any mother might think half\nher fortune well bestowed, could it purchase such a preceptress: \"But,\"\nadded she, \"such excellent qualities as Miss Cecil possesses, are rarely\nto be met with in any rank of life: my experience of character has,\nindeed, been very limited, but Lord St. Aubyn says, for elegance of\nmanners, sweetness of temper, and strength of mind, her equal will\nhardly ever be found.\"\n\nThe blended modesty and spirit with which she spoke appeared to please\nthe old lady, who, with an approving nod, again took up her eye-glass,\nand viewed Lady St. Aubyn from head to foot, though she saw that the\nsteadfast gaze embarrassed and covered her with blushes.\n\nLady Meredith said something to the old lady in so low a tone, that the\nword \"introduce\" was alone audible, to which she replied with some\ntartness: \"No, I can introduce myself.\"\n\nEllen now once more rose to depart, and Lady Meredith detained her\nanother minute, to mention a large party she intended having in about\nthree weeks, for which she said she should send Lady St. Aubyn a ticket;\nand requested her to tell St. Aubyn he might come also, \"For I hear,\"\nshe said, \"you always are seen together.\"\n\n\"So much the better,\" muttered the old lady, who seemed, however, to be\nspeaking aside, so no one took any notice of her. She rose when Ellen\nleft the room, and returned her graceful courtesy with a not ungracious\nbend, and bade her good morning with an air more conciliating than she\nhad shewn on her entrance.\n\nOn relating the particulars of this visit to her Lord, Lady St. Aubyn\nfound there was no doubt the old lady she had seen was Lady Juliana\nMordaunt: he made her repeat the conversation that had passed, and when\nshe told him that the old lady had made use of the disrespectful term,\n\"_this young person_,\" in speaking of her, he coloured excessively, and\nexecrating his aunt's pride and impertinence, told his wife she ought to\nhave quitted the room immediately. He smiled when Ellen mentioned Lady\nJuliana's attention and kindness on her fainting, and said, \"That is so\nlike her: her warm heart thaws the ice of her manners when she sees any\none ill or distrest.\"\n\nWhen Ellen repeated the mention which had been made in the course of\nconversation of the late Lady St. Aubyn, he changed colour, and said,\n\"Well, Ellen, were you not surprized? You did not, I believe, know--you\nnever heard I had been married before.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, my Lord, I was previously acquainted with that\ncircumstance.\"\n\n\"You knew it!--from whom? Where did you hear it?\"\n\n\"From Miss Cecil, from Miss Alton, accidentally.\"\n\n\"And were they not astonished you had not heard it before?\"\n\n\"I had heard it before from Mrs. Bayfield, the day after we went to\nCastle St. Aubyn.\"\n\n\"From Mrs. Bayfield--she told you of it?--She told you--What, Ellen, did\nshe tell you more?\"\n\n\"Nothing, my Lord, but that your lady was young and beautiful, and died\nabroad.\"\n\n\"And why did you never mention the subject before? Why this reserve, my\nlove?\"\n\n\"Because I thought as you never told me of it yourself, you would rather\nthe subject were not mentioned.\"\n\n\"Dear creature!\" said St. Aubyn, sighing. \"I have always had reason to\nadmire the excellence of your judgment and the delicacy of your\nsentiments. Believe me, Ellen, I withhold from you only those things\nwhich I think will give you pain to know. Our acquaintance commenced\nunder such singular circumstances, that I had hardly opportunity to tell\nyou this before we were married, and in fact, that name, that\nrecollection is so hateful to me, is connected with so many painful\nideas, that I cannot bear to recall, to dwell upon it! Why that tear, my\nlove--are you dissatisfied with me?\"\n\n\"No, dearest St. Aubyn: whatever you do, appears to me wisest and best\nto be done--but I was pitying--I was thinking----\"\n\n\"Whom were you pitying?--Of what was my Ellen thinking?\"\n\n\"Pitying a woman, who, having once possessed your love, lost it so\nentirely, as to render her very name unpleasant to you. Thinking--ah,\nheaven!--thinking--should such ever be _my_ lot!\"\n\nShe paused, struggling with a sudden gush of tears, and sobs which\nalmost choaked her.\n\n\"Impossible, impossible!\" exclaimed St. Aubyn, clasping her to his\nbosom: \"you will never deserve it, never bring disgrace and dishonour on\nmy name, and blast with misery the most acute, the best years of my\nlife!--Agitate not yourself, my best love, with these frightful ideas.\nAh, had the hapless Rosolia been like thee!--but oh! how different were\nher thoughts and actions!----No more of this, compose yourself, my love,\nand tell me what more passed with this strange proud woman.\"\n\nAfter a few moments, Ellen recovered enough to repeat the remainder of\nthe conversation, with the result of which he appeared very well\npleased, and prophesied from the latter part of it they should soon be\non good terms with Lady Juliana Mordaunt, an event for which he appeared\nso anxious, that Ellen could not fail to wish it also; and, indeed, that\nlady's good sense and just sentiments had made a very favourable\nimpression on her mind, though her manners were so sour and repulsive.\n\nThis day Miss Cecil dined with her amiable friends, as they had no other\ncompany; indeed, except by a few gentlemen, their dinner hour had\ngenerally passed uninterrupted, Ellen not being yet sufficiently\nacquainted with any ladies to mix with them in dinner parties. The\nreport of St. Aubyn's male friends had, however, been so favourable\ntowards her, as to incline Lady Meredith to wish a more intimate\nacquaintance, and to attract so much youth, beauty, and grace to her\nevening parties, while Lady Juliana was pleased to hear that she\npossessed qualities in her eyes far superior, namely, modesty, talents,\nand a demeanor towards her husband equally delicate and affectionate.\n\nAfter dinner, St. Aubyn having some engagement, left the fair friends\nalone, and they enjoyed a long and confidential conversation.\n\nFrom Laura, Lady St. Aubyn learnt that Lady Juliana was well known to\nher, and that in spite of her austere and forbidden manners, and the\npleasure she undoubtedly took in contradicting almost every thing she\nheard, she was yet a woman of good sense, and would most certainly,\ncould her esteem be once engaged, prove to Ellen a steady and valuable\nfriend: \"Especially,\" added Laura, \"should any thing happen to Lord St.\nAubyn, for she is his only near relation to whom he could confide the\nfuture interests, either of his wife or child; and young and beautiful\nas you are, my dear Ellen, no doubt St. Aubyn thinks such an additional\nsupport would be highly desirable for you.\" Seeing she was deeply\naffected, for Ellen now believed she could discern the cause of St.\nAubyn's anxiety for her being on good terms with his aunt, and connected\nit with the painful circumstances he had told her were hanging over him,\nLaura now added, with a pensive smile, \"Nay, my dear friend, do not be\ndistressed. I have of late thought so much of mortality, I was not\nsensible how much you would be pained by the suggestion; but certainly,\nSt. Aubyn will not leave you a moment the sooner for my hinting the\npossibility of such an event.\"\n\nEllen endeavoured to shake off the painful ideas which forced themselves\nupon her, and asked Miss Cecil if she had known much of the former\nCountess. \"Not very much,\" said Laura: \"she was very handsome, but the\ncharacter of her beauty was so different from yours, that I have often\nwondered how St. Aubyn came to _choose_ two so different; though,\nindeed, I believe I should hardly say choose, for Lady Rosolia de\nMontfort was not so much his choice as that of his relations--at least,\nI believe he would never have thought of her as a wife if they had not.\"\n\n\"Who was she? Do tell me a little about her: I am quite a stranger to\nall particulars.\"\n\n\"I know little more than I have told you, except that she was the only\ndaughter of the late Earl de Montfort, a distant relation of Lord St.\nAubyn's. Lord de Montfort, during the life of his elder brother, went to\nSpain in a diplomatic situation, and there married the daughter of the\nDuke de Castel Nuovo: this marriage with an English protestant, was, for\na long time, opposed by the lady's relations: but, at length, moved by\nfear and compassion for her, whose attachment threw her into a lingering\ndisease, which threatened her existence, they consented on one\ncondition, namely, that the sons of the marriage should be educated\nRoman Catholics, and on the death of their father, be placed with their\nmaternal grandfather, while they permitted the daughters to be brought\nup in the Protestant religion, hoping, perhaps, that the influence of a\nmother over females might ultimately bring them also over to her faith:\nbut the Countess died young: one son and one daughter were her only\nchildren, the boy some years younger than his sister: they both remained\nwith their father (who soon after his marriage became Earl de Montfort),\nsometimes in Spain, sometimes in England, till the marriage of Lady\nRosolia with Lord St. Aubyn, though she was frequently his mother's\nguest, both in London and at St. Aubyn Castle, where the young Edmund\nalso often spent some time: he was a very fine and amiable boy, and\nexcessively attached to his sister.\n\nWhen Lord de Montfort died, the son was claimed by his maternal\ngrandfather, and Lord and Lady St. Aubyn went to Spain with him, where\nshe died: report spoke unfavourably of her conduct during her abode on\nthe Continent; indeed, in England, the gaiety of her manners, especially\nafter the death of Lord St. Aubyn's mother, approached more nearly to\nthe habits of foreign ladies than those of England. It was said, that\nwhile abroad, Lord St. Aubyn was involved in many unpleasant\ncircumstances by her behaviour: certain it is, that on his return, he\nappeared overwhelmed with melancholy, which was the more extraordinary,\nas it was well known they had not lived on very affectionate terms even\nbefore they had quitted this country.\"\n\n\"And what became of her brother: where is the young Lord de Montfort?\"\nasked Ellen. \"He has remained ever since in Spain,\" replied Laura; \"but\nas he will very soon be of age, he must then, I suppose, return to\nEngland to take possession of his estates, of which Lord St. Aubyn is\nthe guardian.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" thought Ellen, \"is it to his return St. Aubyn looks with so much\napprehension and dismay? What! O! what is the strange mystery in which\nthis story seems to be involved?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VI.\n\n  \"Within 'twas brilliant all, and light,\n  A thronging scene of figures bright:\n  It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,\n  As when the setting sun has given\n  Ten thousand hues to summer's even;\n  And from their tissue fancy frames,\n  AErial knights and fairy dames.\"\n\n                                               LADY OF THE LAKE.\n\n\nThe next morning, Ellen, who felt a little fatigued from the various\ncircumstances of the day before, some of which had considerably agitated\nher spirits, declined going out; and after breakfast retired to her own\ndressing-room; Laura, at the same time, going to her's, having letters\nto write to her father and some other friends.\n\nLady St. Aubyn was soon surrounded by her favourite books, some maps, a\ndrawing she was finishing, and all those resources with which she now\nknew so well how to fill up her time. In one corner stood an elegant\nharp, on which Ellen had been taking lessons, and had made a\nconsiderable proficiency; in another sat her faithful Jane busy at her\nneedle, at which she was very expert; and Ellen detesting to see any one\nidle, kept her generally employed either in fine work, or making linen\nfor the poor, to seek out, and relieve whom, was one branch of Jane's\nbusiness. A simple, though graceful taste, regulated the ornaments and\nfurniture of this favourite retirement; no velvet cushions, no\noverwhelming perfumes, were met with here; all was elegant, but all was\nmodest, and generally useful: a small bookcase, a porte-feuille, a\nnetting box, shewed that its inhabitant loved to be employed.\n\nBy a cheerful fire this fair inhabitant was now seated: the modesty of\nher demeanor, the delicacy of her dress, were such as suited one, who,\nthough young, and even girlish, was a wife, and likely to be a mother;\nthe tout-ensemble, in short, was a perfect contrast to the figure,\ndress, and apartment of the luxurious Lady Meredith. A complete silence\nprevailed (for Jane had learned when her lady chose, which as now was\nsometimes the case, to have her in her apartment, to be quiet), and had\nlasted at least half an hour, when a step was heard in the anti-room;\nand a footman knocking at the door, Jane opened it, and the servant\nrequested her to tell her lady that----A voice behind interrupted him,\nby saying, \"You need not trouble yourself, Sir; I know my way, and shall\nannounce myself.\" Ellen rose, and looked surprised, for visitors were\nnever shewn to this room: still more was she amazed when she saw the\nsharp countenance and stiff figure of the old lady she now supposed to\nbe Lady Juliana Mordaunt, who, pushing by the man, gave him one of her\nexpress nods, and said, \"You may go, Sir.\"--She then advanced, and\nseeing Jane, who rose and stared at this extraordinary visitant, she\nsaid, with another nod to Ellen, \"So, you make your maid work at her\nneedle: I am glad of it; but send her away now, for I want to talk to\nyou.\" Ellen seeing that Jane hesitated to leave her with this stranger,\nwhom the poor girl began to believe was deranged, told her to go to her\nown room, and she, gathering up her work, very readily obeyed; though\nshe went to the housekeeper and told her she thought they had better\nboth go and stay in the anti-room, for she really believed a mad-woman\nwas gone into her Lady's dressing-room. \"Nonsense!\" said the\nhousekeeper: \"I saw the lady go up: it is my Lord's aunt, Lady Juliana.\"\nThis intelligence quieted Jane, who really was under some fears for\nEllen, to whom she was become tenderly attached.\n\nIn the meantime, Lady Juliana seeing that Ellen continued standing,\nsaid--\"Sit down, child, and don't be frightened.\" Ellen gladly obeyed,\nfor she could not help feeling a little agitated by Lady Juliana's\nstrange mode of visiting.\n\nThe old lady looked round the room, and after a moment's pause,\nsaid--\"Why, you are an unfashionable young woman, I see; work, books,\nmaps, and the furniture remaining nearly as it was seven years ago!\nWhat, has nobody told you, child, the whole house ought to be new\nfurnished?\"\n\n\"Indeed, Ma'am, if they had, I should have paid no attention to them,\"\nsaid Ellen. \"I must, indeed, be a strange ungrateful creature, if the\nmagnificent furniture of this house was not more than equal to my\nwishes.\"\n\n\"So much the better, I am glad of it,\" returned Lady Juliana.--\"Do you\nknow me?\" she added, turning in her usual abrupt manner to Ellen.\n\n\"I believe--I think I can guess.\"\n\n\"Oh, I suppose you told St. Aubyn you had met with a cross,\ndisagreeable old woman at Lady Meredith's, and he told you it must have\nbeen his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Madam,\" said Ellen, blushing a little at a statement so near\nthe truth.\n\n\"Nay, don't tell lies, child,\" bluntly replied the old lady. \"I hate\nflattery; besides, your countenance won't let you. I know what I am,\nwhich is more than every body can say. And do you generally spend your\nmornings in this manner?\"\n\n\"Generally, unless my Lord wishes me to go any where with him.\"\n\n\"And what do you do in the evening?\"\n\n\"Lord St. Aubyn, Miss Cecil, and myself, sit together: we net or work,\nwhile he reads to us, unless Miss Cecil is sufficiently in spirits to\ngive us some music.\"\n\n\"And have you no idea, child, how ridiculous the fashionable people\nthink all this?\"\n\n\"I am sorry for it.\"\n\n\"But will you persist in the same plan?\" Ellen smiled.\n\n\"And do you mean to go on in this way all the time you are in town?\"\n\n\"Not exactly perhaps. I am to see a little more of the public places;\nbut my Lord wished me to wait till----\"\n\n\"Till what? You may as well tell me, for I see you have an old-fashioned\nway of speaking your thoughts.\"\n\n\"It is true, your Ladyship sees in me one so little accustomed to the\nhabits of the great world, that I have not yet learned to dissemble:\nwill you permit me to say, and not be displeased, that Lord St. Aubyn\nanxiously wished to procure a chaperon, whose sanction should be\nunexceptionable--in short, Lady Juliana Mordaunt.\"\n\n\"I believe you are a little flatterer after all,\" said Lady Juliana,\nrelaxing into a smile. \"With all your talk of sincerity, I hardly\nbelieve St. Aubyn thought of me at all; and how, if he did, he could\nfancy I should ever get the better of the shock he gave my pride, call\nit prejudice if you will, by marrying _you_--for I love plain-dealing,\nchild. I don't know but it is all over now--I like you; and if you will\ncontinue as modest and unaffected as you are now, keep your neck and\narms covered, and bring your Lord an heir, that these de Montforts may\nnot succeed to his title, I will love you, and do all I can to assist\nand support you.\"\n\nSeeing that Ellen blushed at the last hint, she added,--\"Nay, you need\nnot blush, though I like to see you can: for I promise you, it was\nobserving the probability of such an event that did more to reconcile me\nto you than all your beauty and merit could have done; so take care of\nyourself, and don't disappoint me; and now, my dear, kiss me, and call\nme _aunt_ whenever you please.\"\n\nEllen modestly and gracefully bent to receive the old Lady's embrace,\nand at that instant St. Aubyn opened the dressing-room door, and found\nthe two people he loved best in the world in each other's arms, with\ntears of tenderness on the cheeks of both.\n\n\"What do I see!\" he exclaimed.--\"Is it possible!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lady Juliana, \"it is very possible you see a foolish old\nwoman, who loves you too well not to love one so dear to you, and so\nworthy of being loved.\"\n\nSt. Aubyn respectfully and affectionately kissed the hand she gave him,\nand clasping Ellen in his arms, exclaimed, \"My dearest Ellen, how happy\nhas all this made me!\"\n\n\"Come, don't hurry her spirits with your raptures,\" said Lady Juliana.\n\"She is a good girl, and we shall be very happy together, I dare say.\nBut I find, Sir, you have been waiting for me, of all people, to\nchaperon your Lady about to all the fine places: I have had enough of\nthem, and at my time of life I do not know any business I have at\noperas, balls, and plays: however, to oblige you and _my niece_, I will\ngo wherever you wish me. I do not think she is one who will tire me to\ndeath: I shall dine with you to-day, and if you choose to let one of\nyour people go to Drury-lane, and inquire if there are places, we may\nhear the oratorio to-night.\"\n\nCharmed with this speech, for St. Aubyn knew his aunt well enough to be\nsure if she had not been thoroughly pleased with Ellen, she would\nneither have called her niece, nor have staid to dine with them, he most\nreadily accepted the kind offer.\n\nThey dined rather earlier than usual, that they might be in time for the\nopening of the oratorio, which Ellen was anxious to hear. Laura Cecil,\nin compliment to Lady Juliana, dined with them, and was quite delighted\nto see the affection, and even respect, with which she treated Lady St.\nAubyn: for Lady Juliana was not a person to do things by halves; and\nhaving once conquered her own prejudices, was determined to give her\nniece all the consequence in her power with every other person, and\nwould have been extremely angry with any one, who had dared to treat her\nwith half the contempt she herself had done the day before. Once a\nfriend, she was a friend for life, unless the object of her affections\nproved really undeserving, and then she hated with as much warmth as she\nhad loved.\n\nMiss Cecil could not be persuaded to go with them to the theatre; and\nindeed Ellen was afterwards glad of it, for many of the songs were those\nwhich the sainted Juliet used to sing with so much sweetness and\nexpression: and exquisitely as they were now performed, yet Ellen still\nfelt something wanting. The soul that used to animate the eyes of\nJuliet, while she sung, was not there. The lips that had breathed those\nsacred strains, were so pure, so hallowed, that all the wonders of voice\nand science, now lavished for her entertainment, could not compensate to\nEllen's mind for the pang she felt in recollecting that those eyes,\nthose lips, were closed for ever.\n\n    \"Mute was the music of her tuneful breath,\n  And quenched the radiance of her sparkling eyes.\"\n\nAfter this evening, Ellen's engagements became more frequent; but she\nwas never seen in public, except with Lady Juliana, and seldom without\nher Lord. In vain did fashion dictate, or ridicule assail: the sly\nglance, the pointed sarcasm, alike were vain: she knew herself safe, her\nreputation secure, with protectors so respectable; yet there was nothing\nobtrusive or formal in St. Aubyn's attention to his lovely wife: he was\nneither inseparable from her side, or incapable of attention to any\nother lady, or expecting Ellen never to speak to any other gentleman.\nBut it was obvious, without being intrusive, that each was the first\nobject of the other, and that their mutual honour and happiness were the\nmost interesting care of both.\n\nHence no bold and disgusting flattery assailed the ears of Ellen; no\nforward flirting woman dared dispute with her the heart of St. Aubyn; so\npure, so spotless was her character, that, raised as she had suddenly\nbeen to a rank which might easily excite the envy of those who thought\nthey had a better claim to it, not even the bold license of the age we\nlive in had dared to breathe one syllable against her.\n\nThus passed the time till the latter end of April, which was the period\nfixed for Lady Meredith's famous fete, about which all the great world\nwas going mad. The persons who were invited were expected to wear\nmasquerade dresses, and the house appeared in masquerade, as well as\nthe company. The whole had been new furnished in a fanciful style, and\nat an enormous expence, for this one evening; and her Ladyship's own\ndress was literally covered with jewels: she wore the habits and\nornaments of an eastern beauty, and her attire was exactly copied from\nthat Lady M. W. Montague describes for the fair Fatima, only, if\npossible, still more rich and splendid; and, if possible, still more\ncalculated to display as well as to adorn the figure. No words can do\njustice to the magnificence and splendour of the whole entertainment:\nthe Bow-street officers at the door, and Mr. G---- and his men serving\nices and other refreshments in a room fitted up to represent a casino at\nNaples, with a panorama view of its beautiful bay, &c. gave it all the\ncharacteristics of a modern fete; and the number of gay dresses, shining\ndecorations, lights, and music, made the whole appear to Ellen more like\na palace in a fairy tale than any thing \"which the earth owns.\" She\nwore a black domino, but with a very fine set of diamonds, which Lady\nJuliana had given her the night before: amongst them was a sort of\ncoronet, or chaplet, set to represent sprigs of jessamine and small vine\nleaves, in commemoration of that which St. Aubyn had woven of those\nsimple materials the day he discovered to her his real rank; for Lady\nJuliana had heard the whole story, and was much pleased with that little\nincident.\n\nTheir party consisted of Lord and Lady St. Aubyn, Lady Juliana, and Sir\nEdward Leicester, a particular friend of St. Aubyn's, a very amiable\nyoung man, who appeared much charmed with Laura Cecil, and paid her\ngreat attention, whenever he had an opportunity of being with her. They\nspent a very agreeable evening: it concluded with a splendid supper, at\nwhich all the company appeared unmasked, and the super-eminence of Lady\nSt. Aubyn's beauty was allowed by all.\n\nA few nights after this, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn, Lady Juliana, Lady\nMeredith, and her favourite beau, Colonel Lenox, went to the Opera: the\nentertainment for the evening happened to be the beautiful opera of\nArtaserse. Ellen, lost in delight at the superb stage decorations, the\nexquisite beauty of the music, and the interest of the story, which, by\nthe help of the action, and having read it in English, she understood\nvery well, was scarcely sensible of any thing around her, till the scene\nin which Arbace is accused of the murder of the king. Turning then to\nspeak to St. Aubyn, who sat behind her, she saw him pale, agitated, and\ntrembling: \"What is the matter?\" asked she, in a voice of alarm; but\npressing his hand on her arm, he said, in a low voice, \"Be silent--do\nnot notice me.\"\n\nAt that moment the voice of the singer, who performed Arbace, in the\nmost pathetic tone, breathed out, \"Sono Innocente,\" to which Artaserse\nreplies:\n\n  Ma l'apparenza O Arbace\n  T'accusa ti condanna!\n\nA stifled sigh, almost amounting to a groan, from St. Aubyn, met the ear\nof Ellen. Recovering himself a little, he whispered--\"Remember, Ellen,\n_and I too am innocent_!\"\n\nIn spite of the precaution with which he spoke, Lady Meredith turned,\nand asked him if he were unwell.\n\n\"I have a violent head-ache,\" he replied, forcing himself to appear more\ncomposed.\n\n\"You look pale, indeed, my Lord,\" returned Lady Meredith: \"and Lady St.\nAubyn seems quite overcome with this pathetic scene.\"\n\nShe spoke of the opera, but a crimson flush spread over St. Aubyn's\nface, and complaining of the intolerable heat, he rose, and went out of\nthe box.\n\n\"Bless me!\" said Lady Juliana: \"what is the matter?\"\n\n\"Only Lord St. Aubyn complains of the head-ache,\" said Lady Meredith.\n\n\"Oh, I know what it is,\" answered Lady Juliana: \"my nephew hates to be\ndisturbed when he is attending to music; and I suppose you, Lady\nMeredith, have been talking to him, as you always do at the Opera.\"\n\nLady Meredith only laughed; and St. Aubyn returning soon after, nothing\nmore passed. When the opera was over, and St. Aubyn and Ellen were alone\nin the carriage, he still appeared so restless and agitated, that Ellen\ncould not resist addressing to him a few words, indicative of curiosity,\nif not of alarm. For a time he evaded her tender inquiries; but, at\nlength, grasping her hands with an action expressive of the utmost\nemotion, he again repeated his former words: \"Remember, Ellen, oh,\nremember that I too am innocent!\"\n\n\"I know it, I am sure of it,\" she returned: \"but why thus confide by\nhalves? Why torture yourself and me by these mysterious hints?\"\n\n\"Ah, why indeed!\" said he: \"I ought to have more command of myself: but\nthat scene--that fatal instrument of a horrid deed!--Appearances how\nfalse, yet how convincing!\"\n\n\"To me,\" she replied, \"appearances are not and never shall be any thing,\nwhen opposed to your single assertion, to my confidence in your\nintegrity.\"\n\n\"A thousand thousand thanks,\" he replied, \"for the sweet assurance!\nSoon, too soon, perhaps, you will be tried!\"\n\n\"Demanding so much reliance, so much implicit _confidence_ from his\nwife, under such _mysterious_ conduct, was St. Aubyn willing, if called\nupon, to grant an equal share to her?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VII.\n\n  Think'st thou I'll make a life of jealousy,\n  To follow still the changes of the moon\n  With fresh surmises?--No; to be once in doubt\n  Is to be resolv'd----\n    I'll see before I doubt; what I doubt prove.\n\n                                                        OTHELLO.\n\n\nAfter the scene at the Opera, which effectually destroyed her pleasure\nthere, Lady St. Aubyn felt for some days not at all disposed to enter\ninto the gay parties which were offered for her amusement: a gloom hung\nover her, and she had a weight on her spirits, which in some degree\naffected her health. Some one says, \"A belief in _presentiment_ is the\nfavourite superstition of feeling minds;\" and Ellen was certainly not\nentirely free from it. Lady Juliana and Miss Cecil perceived the effect\nwithout knowing the cause; and supposing it to be merely a temporary\nindisposition, persuaded her to remain quietly at home for a day or two;\nbut finding the nervous sort of depression under which she laboured was\nencreased by indulgence, they imagined a moderate share of amusement\nmight remove it; and prevailed on her to take places at Covent-Garden,\nto see Mrs. Jordan in a favourite comedy.\n\nLaura did not yet shew herself in public; Ellen therefore went to the\nplay with only St. Aubyn and Lady Juliana. They were joined there by two\nor three gentlemen, and amongst them Sir Edward Leicester, who, between\nthe acts, made so many inquiries for Miss Cecil, and spoke so highly of\nLady St. Aubyn's \"charming friend,\" as convinced her he took a deep\ninterest in all that concerned Laura. This gave real pleasure to Ellen,\nwho thought so well of Sir Edward, as to wish he might succeed in\nrendering the prepossession mutual. They were all extremely well pleased\nwith the play. Who, indeed, that ever saw Mrs. Jordan act was\notherwise? And Lady Juliana was rejoiced to see Ellen quite as cheerful\nas usual. They did not choose to stay the farce, and finding at the end\nof the play the carriage was in waiting, left the box. Lady Juliana\nbeing rather timid, and not very alert in getting into a carriage, St.\nAubyn gave her his arm, and requested Sir Edward would take care of Lady\nSt. Aubyn.\n\nAs they were crossing the lobby, a gentleman accidentally trod on\nEllen's train, and entangled it in his spur, by which she was detained\nhalf a minute before it could be disengaged. He begged her pardon, and\npassed on. St. Aubyn and his aunt not perceiving the circumstance, had\nadvanced some steps before the Countess and Sir Edward. At that moment\ntwo or three young men pushed rather rudely by them; and Sir Edward\nextending his hand, said, \"Take care, gentlemen, you incommode the\nlady.\"\n\nOne of them turned round, and looking in Ellen's face, exclaimed:\n\n\"By heaven 'tis she! 'tis Ellen Powis!\"\n\nLady St. Aubyn starting at the name, cast her eyes upon him, and\ninstantly recognized Charles Ross: but before she could speak to him, as\nshe was preparing to do in a friendly manner, he stamped violently, and\nwith a countenance where the utmost rage was expressed, and a dreadful\noath, exclaimed:\n\n\"Is this the villain that has undone thee?--But where, then, is that\naccursed Mordaunt? Ah, Ellen! abandoned, miserable girl, art thou, then,\nso lost already?\"\n\nPale, gasping for breath at this shocking language, Ellen clung more\nclosely to the arm of Sir Edward, and faintly articulated, \"For God's\nsake let me pass!\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Sir?\" said Sir Edward, fiercely: \"Are you\nintoxicated, or mad? How dare you insult this lady!\"\n\n\"And how dare you, Sir,\" answered Charles, approaching in a menacing\nattitude, \"after seducing her from her friends, and from those who loved\nher, to look me in the face?\"\n\n\"Madman!\" replied Sir Edward, pushing him aside with one hand, while\nwith the other he supported the now almost fainting Ellen. \"Gentlemen, I\nrequest you will secure him till I place this lady in her carriage, and\nthen I am ready to give him any explanation he may wish for.\"\n\nSome of the gentlemen, who by this time surrounded them, knowing\nCharles, said to him: \"Come away, Ross; you are very wrong: at any rate,\nthis quarrel shall go no farther.\"\n\nAt this moment St. Aubyn, having placed his aunt in the carriage,\nwondering at Ellen's delay, returned to seek her; and astonished at\nwhat he beheld, exclaimed:\n\n\"For heaven's sake, what is the matter? My love, what makes you look so\npale? Has any one dared to insult you?\"\n\n\"Oh! you are there, Sir, are you,\" said Charles: \"I know you: I saw you\nonce, and then foretold what has happened: you are the man who must give\nme satisfaction.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! he is mad, quite mad,\" cried Sir Edward; \"pay no attention to\nhim; he knows not what he talks of.\"\n\nThe by-standers began to be of the same opinion; and, indeed, his\nrageful countenance, and the violence of his gesticulations, with the\napparent inconsistency of his words, rendered the idea extremely\nprobable; they therefore forcibly held him, and said: \"Pass on,\ngentlemen, and take care of the lady: we will prevent him from following\nyou;\" while Ross's friends, supposing either that the wine they knew he\nhad drank had affected him, or that some sudden frenzy had seized him,\nwere amongst the foremost to secure him, especially as a gentleman who\nnow came up said the gentleman and lady were the Earl and Countess of\nSt. Aubyn: but Charles was too outrageous to hear that or any thing\nelse, and called after them aloud, stamping with fury, and swearing\nterribly:\n\n\"Mean, detestable cowards, come back. I am not mad. Give up that\nwretched girl: let me take her to her father--to mine, who loved her.\nMordaunt, vile, hateful Mordaunt! to you I call--Come back, I say!\"\n\nSt. Aubyn turned, and but that Ellen hung half-fainting on him, he would\nhave obeyed the summons; for he knew that name was addressed to him, and\neasily guessed who the supposed madman was, and how the mistake which\ncaused his insults might have arisen; but Sir Edward said, \"You shall\nnot go back, St. Aubyn, he is mad; or if not, it belongs to me to\nchastise him.\"\n\n\"Is it not Charles Ross?\" said St. Aubyn to Ellen.\n\n\"Yes,\" she faintly replied; \"but do not go back; he is certainly out of\nhis senses.\"\n\nBy this time they had reached the carriage, and putting her into it, he\nshut the door; and saying, \"Wait a moment, be not alarmed, I must speak\nto him,\" he ran back again, Sir Edward following.\n\nRoss having, as soon as they were out of sight, disengaged himself from\nthe by-standers, was hastening with frantic violence to overtake them:\nwhen he saw the two gentlemen, he advanced and said:\n\n\"You have thought proper, then, to come back; but what have you done\nwith that unfortunate girl?\"\n\n\"For the sake of your father, Mr. Ross,\" said St. Aubyn, \"for now I\nknow you, I will be patient and tell you.\"\n\n\"What can you tell me more than I already know?\" cried Ross,\ninterrupting him with angry vehemence. \"Can you deny that you have\nseduced her whom I loved better than my own soul? Did you not bring her\nwith you to London? I know it all, Sir: the woman where you lodged found\nyou out. She saw how you had deceived my gentle, innocent Ellen.\"\n\n\"What words are these!\" exclaimed St. Aubyn, haughtily. \"Whence arises\nso vile an error?\"\n\n\"Villain!\" exclaimed Charles, with wild impetuosity, \"deny not your\ncrimes, but give me the satisfaction of a gentleman.\"\n\n\"You do not act like one,\" said St. Aubyn: \"but here is my card; I am\nalways to be found, and will give you whatever satisfaction you may\nrequire.\"\n\nHe threw a card with his address to Charles, who hastily gave St. Aubyn\none of his.\n\n\"It shall not be,\" said Sir Edward. \"I was the first insulted: this\naffair is mine.\"\n\n\"Settle it as you please,\" said Charles: \"come one or both, I am ready.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said St. Aubyn; \"to-morrow we shall be at your service.\nCome, Sir Edward; Ellen will be terrified to death.\" They hastened on;\nand Ross rudely pushing aside those around him, left the theatre.\n\nSt. Aubyn and Sir Edward now went as quickly as possible, where they\nfound the Countess, half-fainting, in the arms of Lady Juliana.\n\n\"For God's sake,\" said the latter, as they opened the door, \"what is the\nmatter? What have you been doing? Could you find no time or place to\nquarrel in but in the presence of this poor girl?\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, Madam,\" said St. Aubyn, after having ordered the\nservants to drive on, \"do not talk in that manner. Am I so regardless\nof this dear creature's comfort, or so prone to quarrel, that I should\nseek it at such a time as this?\"\n\nHe then made Ellen lean on him, and soothed her with the most\naffectionate and tender expressions.\n\n\"Oh,\" said she, reviving; \"is he gone? Dear St. Aubyn, tell me, are you\nsafe, has he hurt you?\"\n\n\"No--no, my love; be composed, all is over; he is gone away satisfied.\"\n\n\"Satisfied!\" replied she; \"what could he mean? Do you think he is mad,\nor is it the effect of wine, or some mistake?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" said St. Aubyn, hastily; \"but be at rest--he is gone--we\nshall hear no more of him.\"\n\n\"Oh, are you sure--are you quite sure? Dear Lady Juliana, tell me: may I\ndepend upon it? You said something about a duel.\"\n\n\"I talked like a fool, then, if I did,\" replied Lady Juliana; \"but I do\nnot remember any thing of it.\"\n\n\"A duel--ridiculous!\" said St. Aubyn, pretending to laugh. \"I assure\nyou, Ellen, all is over; pray be composed; there is nothing to fear.\"\n\nLady Juliana knew better, but terrified for Ellen, she affected to\nbelieve what St. Aubyn said, and between them, they contrived completely\nto deceive the Countess, who, ignorant of the usages of the world, and\nnot knowing all that had passed, was easily misled. She composed her\nmind, therefore, in the hope that all was well, though she still\ntrembled, and was so much fluttered, that Lady Juliana, after going home\nwith her, waited till she had seen her in bed; and desiring she might be\nkept perfectly quiet, she returned to the drawing-room, and endeavoured\nto learn from St. Aubyn and Leicester what had happened, and what was\nlikely to be the result: but she vainly chid or interrogated either:\nboth persisted in the story that Ross had apologized, and all was over.\n\nRather better satisfied, though not fully convinced, Lady Juliana soon\nafter left them, determined however to keep a little watch upon the\nactions of her nephew, with whose temper she was too well acquainted to\nsuppose such a business would be passed over without farther notice.\n\nSt. Aubyn gave Ellen such assurances that nothing more would arise from\nthis affair, that, tired out with the agitation she had undergone, she\nsoon fell into a profound sleep, and awakened in the morning perfectly\nrefreshed and composed. At St. Aubyn's request, however, she remained\nlater than usual in bed. Laura Cecil sat by her side, and gave her her\nbreakfast, after which she appeared so entirely well, that no objection\nwas made to her rising.\n\nIn the meantime St. Aubyn had received, at his breakfast-table, the\nfollowing note:--\n\n     My Lord,\n\n     I find by the card you gave me last night, that the name of\n     _Mordaunt_ was only assumed to conceal the blackest designs and\n     most detestable perfidy.\n\n     If you do not mean to plead your privilege, I demand a meeting\n     with you on Wimbolton Common to-morrow morning at seven\n     o'clock, when I hope to wash out my wrongs, and those of the\n     injured Ellen, in the blood of a villain.\n\n     I shall bring pistols and a friend.\n\n                                                   CHARLES ROSS.\n\n     _Eight o'Clock, Wednesday morning._\n\nTo this St. Aubyn returned the following answer:--\n\n     Sir,\n\n     I shall be at the place appointed at the time you mention. Sir\n     Edward Leicester will be with me.\n\n                                                      ST. AUBYN.\n\nAfter dispatching this laconic reply, the Earl went to Ellen's\ndressing-room. Laura had just left her; Jane only was with her: at the\nmoment he entered, Ellen was reading a note, which, when she saw him,\nshe hastily folded together, and put within the bosom of her morning\ndress: she seemed a little agitated, and the tears stood in her eyes,\nbut hastening to meet him, she said:--\n\n\"My dear St. Aubyn, they told me you were gone out.\"\n\n\"No, my love,\" said St. Aubyn, a little surprized at the hasty manner in\nwhich she spoke; \"but I am going out soon.\"\n\n\"Shall you take the barouche or the chariot?\"\n\n\"Neither; I shall walk to Sir Edward Leicester's: but why; are _you_\ngoing out?\"\n\n\"Yes--by and bye; I think a little air will do me good.\"\n\n\"Had you not better keep quiet? You know my aunt particularly requested\nyou would do so; she will be here soon: do not go till you have seen\nher, nor then unless she advises it.\"\n\n\"But I assure you, my Lord, I am perfectly well, and I am sure a little\nair will be of service.\"\n\n\"Well, do as you please,\" said St. Aubyn, a little surprized at her\nadhering so determinately to her idea of going out; for, in general,\nhalf a word from him guided her; \"but you will not go alone?\"\n\n\"Oh--no, Laura will go with me.\"\n\n\"Very well, my love; don't fatigue yourself. Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I don't know exactly: I want to do some shopping.\"\n\nSt. Aubyn then wished her good-morning, and repeating his request that\nshe would take care of herself, left her.\n\nThe real fact was this--Jane, who was Ellen's almoner, and brought to\nher knowledge many cases of distress, of which she would otherwise have\nbeen ignorant, had the night before, while her lady was at the play,\nreceived a petition from an officer's widow, who stated herself to be\nliving in a small lodging in ---- Street; that she had several children,\nof whom the youngest was an infant not a month old, born under\ncircumstances of the most acute distress, a few months after its father\nhad fallen in the field of battle; the eldest, a girl of sixteen, in a\ndeep decline: these circumstances, she said, prevented her from waiting\nherself on Lady St. Aubyn, of whose goodness she had heard much from an\nold blind lady, her neighbour, whom, in fact, Ellen had supported for\nsome time past, and whom she had visited two or three times with Jane\nonly.\n\nEllen, warm-hearted and benevolent, was extremely anxious to see this\nunfortunate family: Jane had given her the letter just before St. Aubyn\ncame into her room, and fearing if she declared her purpose he would\noppose it, lest her health should be injured by the emotion she must\nnecessarily feel from the sight of this unhappy mother and her children,\nshe concealed the letter, and did not exactly tell him why she wished so\nmuch to go out, though aware that she must appear unusually\npertinacious; but she had set her heart with all the fervor of youth on\nher object: above all, she desired to see the poor little infant, for\nEllen, always fond of children, had, since she knew herself likely to\nbecome a mother, felt a peculiar interest in young children, and\nardently wished to see and provide for one who had so many claims to\nthe compassion of a tender heart; and having really some purchases to\nmake, she gave without consideration _that_ as her only motive for going\nout. Never before had she departed for an instant from the singular\nsincerity of her character, and the perfect confidence which she reposed\nin her husband; dearly did she soon repent of having done so now.\n\nOn asking Laura to go with her, she unexpectedly declined it, having a\nbad head-ache, and tried to persuade Ellen not to go herself, but to\nsend Jane, and go some other time: but Ellen was so unusually fixed on\nher point, and her imagination was so impressed with the idea of the\n_poor little infant_, that, for a wonder, she was not to be prevailed\non; and fearing, lest Lady Juliana should come and prevent her, she\nordered the carriage directly, and set out.\n\nShe drove first to ---- Street, where she found the distrest family in\nall the poverty and affliction which had been described to her--the\nunfortunate mother, still weak, and scarcely able to support herself,\nobliged to act as nurse, not only to the infant, but to her eldest\ndaughter, who, pale and languishing, seemed ready every moment to\nbreathe her last, while two or three other children were playing in the\nroom, distracting by their unconscious noise the poor invalids.\n\nThe tender and compassionate Ellen felt her heart opprest at this\nmelancholy sight, and hastened as much as possible to relieve it: she\nheld herself the baby in her arms, while she sent Jane to seek a nurse\nfor the poor girl, and to the woman of the house where they lodged, to\nwhom she spoke herself; and requested she would take charge of the other\nchildren, till the mother was more able to do so. She gave the widow an\nample supply of money to procure every thing necessary for her herself\nand family, and after promising to send a physician to attend the poor\ngirl, and kissing the baby, she departed, followed by thanks and\nblessings, \"not loud but deep,\" and went to see the poor old blind lady,\nwho, always delighted to hear her sweet voice and kind expressions,\ndetained her as long as she could.\n\nReturning home, rejoicing in the good she had done, feeling herself\nanimated by the purest pleasure, and quite well in health, Ellen\nsuddenly recollected that she was close by the street where Mrs. Birtley\nlived, with whom she had lodged the first time she was in London; and\nshe thought she would just stop at the door, and ask for the book she\nhad left there, for which Jane had, as she said, always forgotten to\ncall: it was that very volume of Gray which Mordaunt had given her, and\nas his first gift she was really anxious to recover it. Meaning merely\nto stop at the door, and send Jane in for it, she pulled the check, and\nordered the coachman to drive down that street, and stop at No. 6, and\ntold Jane for what purpose she was going.\n\n\"Oh, my Lady,\" said the talkative girl, \"I shall be rejoiced that Mrs.\nBirtley should see you in all your grandeur: she will be surprized after\nall she had the impertinence to say.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said Ellen, \"I never thought of that: she will wonder to see\nme under such a different appearance, and perhaps say something in the\nhearing of the servants. I will not go.\"\n\n\"Oh, my Lady,\" answered Jane, \"she need not know who you are: only ask\nfor the book, and come away directly: she will not know a bit the more\nwhat your Ladyship's real name is; and I suppose she is not enough\namongst the grand people to know the livery or carriage.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Ellen: \"well, you shall go in and ask for the book, but do\nnot explain any thing to her.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, indeed, my Lady,\" said Jane; \"so far from it, I shall enjoy\nseeing her puzzle----\"\n\nWhile they spoke, the carriage stopped at the door of Mrs. Birtley.\nEllen, who half repented having come, sat back in the carriage, and told\nJane to go in and ask for the book, and not to say she was there, for\nshe would not alight: but notwithstanding Ellen's caution, Mrs. Birtley,\nhaving been drawn to the window by seeing such an elegant equipage stop\nat her door, caught a glimpse of her as the footman opened the door of\nthe chariot for Jane to alight, came to the side of the carriage, and\nwith civility asked her if she would not walk in. Ellen, feeling more\nand more the absurdity of which she had been guilty in coming to the\ndoor of a woman who she knew entertained of her a doubtful opinion, and\nto whom she could not explain herself, coldly declined the offer; but\nthe coachman said he feared the horses would not turn very well, as the\nstreet was rather narrow, and that it would be better if her Ladyship\npleased to alight for a moment, lest she should be alarmed.\n\nMrs. Birtley stared at the \"_Ladyship_\" as much as she had done at the\n_coronetted carriage_ and fine horses; for she was not quite so ignorant\nof _grand people_, as Jane, in the plenitude of her own newly-acquired\nknowledge, had supposed her.\n\nEllen, vexed at her own folly in coming thither, was now obliged to get\nout of the carriage; and several people passing by, staring first at the\ncarriage, and then at Ellen, she thought it would be better to go for an\ninstant into the house. Mrs. Birtley shewed her into the parlour, and\nrequesting she would be seated, added, \"My lodger is gone out, and will\nnot, I suppose, be back till dinner-time: he is generally out all the\nmorning. I believe he knows something of you, Ma'am.\"\n\n\"Of me!\" repeated Ellen, surprized.\n\n\"Yes, Ma'am: for when he came here about a week ago, he saw, by\naccident, that book Mrs. Jane has in her hand; and some writing there\nwas in it seemed to put him into a great passion. He made me tell him\nhow I came by the book, and asked me a thousand questions about you:\nwhat was the name of the gentleman you came with, if you were young and\nhandsome, and I don't know what; and I believe what I told him put him\ninto a great rage, for he stampt and swore like a madman.\"\n\nEllen, vexed and astonished, sorry she had come there, and feeling a\ncertain dread of she hardly knew what stealing over her, now turned\nextremely pale; and Jane exclaimed, \"Oh, my Lady will faint: get some\nwater!\"\n\n\"Your _Lady_! Why she is Mrs. Mordaunt, is not she, _or calls herself\nso_?\" asked Mrs. Birtley with some contempt.\n\n\"Don't stand there asking questions,\" said the impatient Jane: \"but\nfetch some water. Lord, I wish we were at home: if my Lady should be\nill, how Lady Juliana will scold, and my Lord.\"\n\n\"Grant me patience,\" said Mrs. Birtley, as she left the room to fetch\nsome drops and water: \"the girl makes me mad with her Lords and Ladies.\nPoor fool, I suppose they have imposed upon her too finely.\"\n\nNot one minute had she been gone, when Ellen finding herself better, and\nnot meaning to wait Mrs. Birtley's return, and farther questions, had\nrisen, and by Jane's help almost reached the door to go to the carriage,\nwhich through the window she saw drawing up, when that door opened, and\nCharles Ross entered the room: amazed beyond the power of words to\ndescribe, he saw her standing--saw Ellen in his apartment! And\nforgetting every thing but that he had once dearly loved her, he rushed\ntowards, and would have caught her in his arms, but she evaded his\ngrasp; and catching hold of Jane (who, frightened, gave a sudden\nscream), said, \"He here! Oh, how I am terrified!\"\n\n\"Terrified, Ellen!\" he wildly repeated: \"_once_ you were not terrified\nby my appearance.\"\n\n\"No, Sir,\" she replied, with as much spirit as she could assume: \"for\nonce I should have expected friendship and protection, not insult.\"\n\n\"Ah, wretched girl!\" he exclaimed: \"once you deserved and wished for my\nfriendship and protection; but now, that fine gaudy carriage, this\nelegant dress, the jewels, in which I saw you last night, all tell a\ndreadful tale--all speak of your shame, of your ruin.\"\n\n\"Of my shame! of my ruin! what, oh, what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Aye, what indeed!\" said the enraged Jane: \"let my Lady pass,\nimpertinent fellow, and don't stand there talking in that insolent\nmanner. Do, my Lady, let me call the footmen. I wish my Lord was here:\nhe would soon teach you better manners.\"\n\n\"Cease, Jane,\" said Ellen, shaking like a leaf: \"cease this shocking\naltercation. Of your insulting language, Mr. Ross, I know not the\nmeaning: it is well for you Lord St. Aubyn does not hear you thus\naddress his wife.\"\n\n\"His wife! his wife! Is it possible? Have I wronged both him and you?\nStay, Ellen, a moment, for heaven's sake--for St. Aubyn's--for my\nfather's: you know not the mischief one word of explanation may\nprevent.\"\n\nShe stopped, she turned: he seized her hands to detain her. Oh,\nunfortunate Ellen!\n\nAt that moment St. Aubyn himself entered the room. He rushed impetuously\nforward, exclaiming, \"Dissembling woman! Was it for this you left your\nhome--to meet this villain--to come to his very lodging in search of\nhim?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! oh, no!\" sobbed Ellen, as she sunk at his feet in a swoon so\ndeep, so death-like, that it seemed as if her life had left her.\n\n\"Oh, you have killed my Lady!\" cried Jane: \"my dear Lady! Oh, my Lord,\nwe came here for a book, and not----\"\n\n\"Peace, peace!\" sternly interrupted St. Aubyn: \"I will not hear a word.\nIs she dead?\"\n\n\"Oh, Lord, I hope not! How can your Lordship talk so shockingly? Oh,\nMrs. Birtley, for God's sake help my Lady--call assistance!\"\n\nBetween them they raised her: for Charles, confounded, shocked, and half\ndistracted, dared not, and St. Aubyn, gloomy, cold, and stern, would not\nassist her. At length returning life mantled on her cheek, and her first\nincoherent words were, \"St. Aubyn, dear St. Aubyn, save me!\"\n\nSt. Aubyn, somewhat calmer, and fearing he might have been too rash,\nstruggled with the jealous pangs which rent his heart, and approaching\nher, said, \"How is it, Ellen--are you better?\"\n\n\"Yes, better, my love; but sick, oh, sick at heart!\"\n\n\"Compose yourself; all is well.\"\n\nA little revived, she looked up, but was too languid to discern the\nexpression of his countenance, which contradicted the kindness of his\nwords; for St. Aubyn felt there was much, very much to be explained,\nbefore she could be to him again the Ellen she had been--if, indeed, the\nperfect confidence he once felt in her could ever be restored; yet\nfearing quite to destroy her, he constrained himself. Mrs. Birtley, now\nconvinced how unjust had been her suspicions, and Jane, eagerly\nendeavoured to explain how Lady St. Aubyn came to be there; but\nmotioning with an air of proud dignity to them to be silent, he said,\n\"Enough, I am satisfied!\" But his gloomy looks contradicted his words,\nand turning to Ross, he said, in a low voice, \"You and I, Sir, shall\nmeet again.\" Then, with Jane's assistance, he raised Ellen, and lifting\nher into the carriage, and putting Jane in, followed himself.\n\n\"Home!\" fiercely exclaimed St. Aubyn, and home they went; but oh, to a\nhome how different from that of the day before!\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. VIII.\n\n  \"Good friend, go to him; for by this light of Heaven\n  I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:--\n  If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,\n  Either in discourse or thought, or actual deed;\n  Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,\n  Delighted them in any other form--\n  Comfort, forswear me!--unkindness may do much;\n  And his unkindness may defeat my life,\n  But never taint my love.\"\n\n                                                        OTHELLO.\n\n\nSilent and gloomy was the ride homewards. St. Aubyn, bridling with\ndifficulty the jealous rage which consumed him, sat leaning against one\nside of the carriage, veiling his eyes with his hand, that they might\nnot for an instant fall on Ellen, who, hardly supporting herself with\nJane's help, shed no tears, though grief and vexation heaved her bosom\nwith sighs, which almost burst it; for now her recollection was\nrestored, the dreadful words in which St. Aubyn first addressed her rung\nin her ears, and swelled her heart with anguish.\n\nAt length they reached Cavendish-Square, and were met in the hall by\nLady Juliana, whose pride, at first, wounded by Ellen's being from home\nwhen she arrived, had, at length, given way to feelings of alarm at her\nlong absence; but when she saw her lifted from the carriage, pale,\ntrembling, and half-dead, terrified and astonished, she vainly demanded\nan explanation alternately from St. Aubyn and the frightened Jane; her\nnephew passing her hastily, and in silence, went into his study, and\ninstantly shut and fastened the door. There he meant to consider with\nhimself what part it became him to take, and how to elucidate this\nextraordinary event.\n\nEllen, throwing herself into Lady Juliana's arms, exclaimed, \"Oh! my\ndearest madam, let me die at once, for my Lord is angry with me!\"\n\n\"Die!\" cried Lady Juliana, struggling with a thousand terrors;\n\"Nonsense! for what? Do you suppose no man was ever angry with his wife\nbefore? You are so unused to it, it seems strange to you, but you may\nassure yourself few wives would think it so extraordinary.\"\n\nBy this time they had reached Ellen's dressing-room, where, having\nplaced her on a sofa, and given her some restoratives, Lady Juliana\nsaid, \"But what is all this about--what offence have you committed?\"\n\n\"Oh! madam, I know not; but it is too true, St. Aubyn has said such\nwords to me, such words as I never thought to hear from him!\"\n\n\"What is the meaning of all this?\" said Lady Juliana, turning to Jane.\n\"Speak, girl, if you have not quite lost your senses, or do not wish\nthat I should lose mine, and tell me where your lady has been, and what\nhas happened.\"\n\nJane, now, as well as the confusion she was in would let her, repeated\nthe adventures of the morning to Lady Juliana, the visit to the\nofficer's widow, and the old blind lady; and lastly, why they went to\nMrs. Birtley's: \"And it was I,\" she said, \"that persuaded her Ladyship\nto go to that disagreeable Mrs. Birtley's--out of pride, I own it--it\nwas out of pride, that she might see what a grand place I had got, and\nthat _my_ lady was not the sort of person that cross old woman fancied\nshe was; and her Ladyship would not even have alighted or gone into her\ntrumpery parlour, if the horses had not been so frightful, and the\ncoachman said, says he, \"my Lady had better alight, for the horses--\"\n\n\"Grant me patience!\" said Lady Juliana: \"this girl's tongue is enough to\ndistract me! Well, and when you were in her trumpery parlour, as you\ncall it, what happened then? Was Lord St. Aubyn angry that you went\nthere?\"\n\n\"Oh! no, my Lady, not for that; but the instant after we went in, and\nwhile Mrs. Birtley was chattering about the book, and about her lodger\n(and to be sure there never was such another chattering woman in the\nworld, and looking at my lady from head to foot, so saucy-like, I was\nquite in a passion with her), I saw my lady turn pale, and thinking she\nwas going to faint, I made Mrs. Birtley go for some water, for I knew\nwell enough how your Ladyship would scold if _my_ Lady was to be ill,\nand so I told Mrs. Birtley.\"\n\n\"Will this tale ever have an end?\" cried the impatient Lady Juliana.\n\n\"Well, my Lady, and so just as Mrs. Birtley was gone for the water, and\nwe were got up to go away, in came a young man: I believe, for my part,\nhe was quite mad, not indeed that I am any particular judge of mad\npeople, for I remember the first day your Ladyship came here I\nthought--but I believe I had better not tell _that_;--however, this\nyoung man _was_ mad for certain, for the moment he saw my Lady, he ran\nto her, and seemed as if he was going to catch her in his arms. I\nscreamed, and when her Ladyship said she was terrified, he quite raved,\nand called her names, and said something about her shame, and her being\nruined, and her jewels, last night, and I don't know what.\"\n\n\"And who, for Heaven's sake, was this man?\" asked the astonished Lady\nJuliana.\n\n\"Oh, it was Ross! Charles Ross!\" sobbed Ellen; \"and St. Aubyn came in\nwhile he was speaking to me, and said I came there to meet him, to his\nvery lodgings; and then I fainted quite away.\"\n\n\"So, so, so!\" repeated Lady Juliana; \"a pretty piece of work! I see what\nthis mistake will end in! But stay; surely it is not too late: I will go\nto St. Aubyn.\"\n\n\"Yes, go to him, Madam, for Heaven's sake go to him, and explain it to\nhim. Assure him I could not have an idea that Charles Ross lodged at\nMrs. Birtley's. Oh! how cruel to be obliged to make this explanation:\ncan St. Aubyn really think so ill of me? Yet, surely, surely he will be\nundeceived--this is only a momentary start of passion!\"\n\nLady Juliana shook her head, for she knew St. Aubyn's temper; and how\nhardly he would endure to hear even her on such a subject; yet, if he\nwould but condescend to hear what the servants, who attended the\nCountess in this unfortunate excursion, what this Mrs. Birtley would\nsay, their stories would doubtless confirm that of Ellen; for of the\ntruth of that story Lady Juliana had not the smallest doubt; but she\nknew how St. Aubyn's pride would revolt, and his delicacy be hurt, by\nthe necessity of interrogating such people on the conduct of his wife.\n\nShe felt herself indeed angry with Ellen for the childish impatience\nwhich had taken her out in the morning, after the fright of the night\nbefore had rendered repose so desirable, and for going to Mrs.\nBirtley's at all; but she could easily forgive a folly apparently of so\nlittle importance, since it was quite impossible for Ellen to have\nforeseen the chain of circumstances which followed, and involved her in\nso much distress.\n\nHow St. Aubyn happened to go to the same place, no one could guess; it\nappeared, indeed, extremely unlikely that he should have done so; but,\nas singular coincidences no less singular do sometimes occur, though\ntheir rarity makes us call them improbable, unless they arise within our\nown immediate knowledge.\n\nThe real truth was this: St. Aubyn, recollecting that Charles Ross had\nsaid the night before, \"_the woman where you lodged found you out_,\" had\ndetermined to ascertain, from this woman herself, what she had told\nRoss, and how she had dared to speak of him and Ellen in such terms; and\nto explain who her Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt really were, that no farther\nslander, even in Mrs. Birtley's narrow circle, might attach to the\npurity of Lady St. Aubyn's character, had walked thither from Sir Edward\nLeicester's, with whom he had sat some time, arranging the particulars\nof their intended meeting with Charles Ross the next morning; there, to\nhis utter astonishment, he found Lady St. Aubyn's carriage in waiting;\nand inquiring of the servants where she was, was answered, in that\nhouse, meaning Mrs. Birtley's.\n\n\"And Miss Cecil?\"\n\n\"No, my Lord; Miss Cecil did not come out with my Lady, only Mrs. Jane.\"\n\nSt. Aubyn recollected Ellen's apparent agitation in the morning; the\nletter he had found her reading, and which she so hastily concealed; her\nhaving said Laura would go with her; yet she had come with only her\nmaid, a young ignorant girl, come to the very house where he believed\nRoss was residing; that Ross, of whom, though almost unknown to\nhimself, some secret jealousy had always lurked in his heart.\n\nAll these circumstances rose at once to his memory; and, without waiting\nto knock or ring, the door standing open, he rushed hastily into the\nparlour, where the first object that struck his sight was his wife, his\nbeloved, his adored Ellen, while her hand was held by the man on earth\nhe most detested, the man who but the night before had insulted her and\noutraged him! What could he think? Was it wonderful that the fury which\nswelled his heart broke into words of reproach and anger? Was it not\nrather wonderful he could so far command himself, so far reflect, as to\nreturn with her apparently calm, and that he did not at once cast from\nhim a woman who must have appeared so ungrateful and insincere?\n\nLady Juliana having with the aid of Miss Cecil and Jane put Ellen to\nbed, would have retired to seek her nephew, leaving Laura shocked,\nastonished, and grieved, remaining with her friend; but seeing the flush\nof fever on her cheek, and an unusual brilliancy in her eyes, they sent\nwithout delay to the family physician, who, after asking a few\nquestions, and learning the Countess had been alarmed, and was then\nunder the influence of terror for her lord, who, Laura whispered to him,\nthey feared was meditating a duel with a gentleman who had insulted Lady\nSt. Aubyn, the doctor shook his head, and said if her mind were not\nquieted immediately, he would not be answerable for the consequences:\nshe had, he said, every symptom of an alarming fever, and that if she\nwere not soothed, and kept quiet, the worst event might be expected both\nto herself and the unborn babe.\n\nAlarmed beyond measure, Lady Juliana now ran to seek St. Aubyn. With\nsome difficulty she prevailed on him to grant her admittance, and with\nstill greater, to hear what she had to say. She repeated the whole story\nJane had told her: he shook his head, was silent, but not convinced. She\nsaw his incredulity, and with some hesitation proposed to interrogate\nthe men servants who went out with their lady as to the real cause of\nher alighting at Mrs. Birtley's. He started indignantly from the idea;\nbut Lady Juliana assuring him she could ask in such a way as should give\nthem no suspicion why they were questioned, he at last consented, and\nringing the bell, she ordered the coachman to be sent to her.\n\n\"John,\" said she, \"your lady has been frightened at something or other\nthis morning during her absence from home. Were the horses restive?\"\n\n\"No, my Lady: the horses went as quiet as lambs to ---- Street, where we\nstopped while my Lady went into a house, I believe to see a poor family,\nas her Ladyship does sometimes; and then we went to the poor old blind\nlady's, that Mrs. Jane says her Lady maintains; and after that we went\nto another house, where my Lady said she would not alight, and told Mrs.\nJane to make haste and get the book, for she would not stop an instant;\nbut I was afraid to turn the carriage with her Ladyship in it, the\nstreet being very narrow just there, and a dray standing at the house\nopposite, for fear the horses should prance a little, which my Lady is\nalways afraid of; and so I begged her just to alight a minute while I\nturned, which she seemed not to like to do, but the old lady of the\nhouse coming out and persuading her, she said she would get out for a\nminute, and the people staring at her as she stood on the pavement, she\nwent into the house, and I believe something or somebody frightened her,\nfor as I drew up to the door, which was not directly, for the horses\nwere a little unruly, I saw a young man go into the parlour where my\nLady was waiting, and a minute after, I heard Mrs. Jane scream; and I\nwas going in, and so was James, but just as I was getting off my box,\nand Richard was standing at the head of the horses, my Lord came up, and\nafterwards I found my Lady had fainted away.\"\n\n\"Then your Lady had only been there a short time?\"\n\n\"Not above ten minutes I am sure, Madam, and as Mrs. Jane screamed when\nthe gentleman went into the parlour, I think he must have frightened\nher.\"\n\n\"Very well, John: I was afraid it was the horses, and if so, Lady St.\nAubyn should never have gone with them again.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, my Lady, the horses are quiet enough, poor things, only that\nnarrow street made me think my Lady had better alight.\"\n\nThe man then retired, and Lady Juliana said:--\"Well, St. Aubyn, are you\nnow satisfied?\"\n\n\"Not quite; all this might have been contrivance and art.\"\n\n\"How is it possible you can think so! Did you ever see the slightest\ntrace of either in Ellen?\"\n\n\"Yes, to-day. Why did she tell me Laura was going with her? Why conceal\nwhere she was going?\"\n\n\"Laura lamented just now not having gone out with Ellen, as she\nrequested on account of a bad head-ache: as to Ellen's not telling you\nwhere she was going, that arose from a fear lest you should prevent,\nwhat, with the natural impatience of youth, she had set her heart upon.\nBut if you still doubt, let us inquire of this woman, this\nMrs.----what's her name?--the mistress of the house where you lodged:\nshe can tell what Lady St. Aubyn's errand was there, and why she\nalighted.\"\n\n\"Good God! Madam,\" said St. Aubyn, peevishly, \"would you have me go\nabout collecting evidences whether I ought to believe my wife\nblameless, or the most deceitful of women?\"\n\n\"Yes I would,\" replied Lady Juliana, warmly, \"if you can suspect her; if\nsuch modesty, such guileless sincerity, and purity of words and manners\nas I never before saw in woman, have no power to convince you: if you\ncan set against them all this one unlucky accident, for I am sure it is\nno more, you ought to do every thing, seek every body who can give you\ninformation. Good God! to what purpose is it, as to this world, that a\nwoman should lead the purest and most unspotted life, if one equivocal\nappearance can drive all confidence, all reliance, from the heart which\nought to know her best!\"\n\nTouched by this generous warmth, St. Aubyn began to feel convinced he\nhad gone too far: he knew how penetrating Lady Juliana was, how much she\nhad been prejudiced against Ellen, and how cautiously she would have\nobserved, ere she had given to her an affection and confidence so\ntender: he called to mind many \"a proof of recollected love,\" of native\nmodesty, of the strictest principles in his wife, and began deeply to\nrepent his jealous rashness; but suddenly recollecting the note he had\nseen in her hands, and the haste with which she had concealed it, he\nhastily said:--\"But the letter! What letter was that I found her\nreading?\"\n\n\"What letter?\" asked Lady Juliana.\n\n\"One I found her reading this morning, just before she went out; she\nseemed agitated, and had tears in her eyes, and as I entered, she put it\ninto the fold of her morning dress.\"\n\n\"And there,\" said Lady Juliana, eagerly, \"I found it, when we undressed\nher just now: I have not opened it; here it is.\" She drew it from her\npocket. St. Aubyn recollected it to be the same, and opened it with\ntrembling hands. It was, as has been stated, from the officer's widow\nto Jane, entreating her good offices with her lady, and describing her\nown distress, agreeing exactly with what Ellen and her maid had told\nLady Juliana, and she had repeated to St. Aubyn. Such a corroboration of\nher story he could resist no longer; but shocked, alarmed, and ashamed,\nhe hastily said:\n\n\"I have injured her! Oh! can she ever forgive me!\"\n\n\"It's well,\" said Lady Juliana with some asperity, for his jealous\nobstinacy had vexed her--\"it's well if you have not killed her and your\nchild too. God defend me from such rash, headstrong people, that can\nmake no distinction between a _Rosolia_ and an _Ellen_: poor girl, she\nhas paid dear I am afraid for her dream of happiness, and being \"perched\nup in a glittering greatness, wearing a golden sorrow!\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Madam, no more reproaches,\" said St. Aubyn, angrily:\n\"she has not suffered alone; but let me go to her; let me implore her\nto forgive me. Ah! can I ever forgive myself!\"\n\n\"Indeed, nephew, I shall do no such thing, unless you will promise me\nthere shall be no fighting with that mad Ross, who I wish had been a\nthousand miles off before he had come here to drive us all as mad as\nhimself.\"\n\n\"We will talk of that, hereafter: perhaps he will apologize; at any\nrate, let us go now to Ellen, and try if I can sooth her spirits, and\ncalm her wounded mind.\"\n\nBut Ellen by the time he reached her was in no condition to hear him:\ndelirium had seized her, and the scene at the Opera dwelling on her\nmind, on which it had made a powerful impression, connected, though\nwildly, with the late untoward events, she exclaimed just as he entered\nthe room, \"Remember, St. Aubyn, remember Arbace--_and I too am\ninnocent_?\" then in low tones she imitated the recitative which had\ntaken such hold on her imagination; and sung in a sweet and plaintive\nvoice \"Sono Innocente!\" St. Aubyn, combining these words with all the\ninteresting ideas connected with them, with the generous assurances\nEllen had so often given him, that no appearances should ever shake her\nfaith in _his_ integrity and honour, assurances which he had so ill\nrepaid, was overwhelmed with grief and remorse: he put aside the\ncurtain, and kneeling by the bed-side, said in the tenderest accents:\n\n\"Ellen, my love, my injured Ellen, will you not hear, will you not\nforgive me?\"\n\n\"So you are come at last,\" said she, turning her head quickly towards\nhim: \"go to your son, my good friend, and tell him he has cruelly\ninsulted me; that I am St. Aubyn's _wife_, not the wretch he calls me:\nwhy, you know, Mr. Ross, you married us, and my father and Joanna were\npresent: then what does Charles mean by talking of my _shame_ and\n_ruin_?\"\n\n\"Oh, Heavens! she raves,\" exclaimed St. Aubyn; \"my cruelty has\ndestroyed her!\"\n\n\"Take away the bloody sword,\" screamed Ellen. \"I tell you Arbace did\n_not_ murder him; no, nor yet St. Aubyn: nothing shall ever make me\nbelieve St. Aubyn guilty:--I promised him;--he says he is innocent;\nenough, my love, enough, Ellen will _never doubt you_!\" and again she\nbreathed in plaintive cadences the pathetic \"Sono Innocente.\"\n\n\"She will die! she will die!\" wildly exclaimed St. Aubyn, starting up:\n\"run for more help! fetch all the physicians in London. Oh! have I lived\nto this!\"\n\n\"You will kill her indeed,\" said Laura, \"if you are not quiet: leave her\nto us. Doctor B---- will again be here in a few minutes: he says if she\ncan but be quiet, can but be made to understand, all is well; she will\nrecover; but indeed, my Lord, you must leave her now.\"\n\n\"No, Laura, I will not go; I will sit here without speaking; but should\nshe recover her senses, if only for a minute, it will I know comfort\nher to see me here.\"\n\nThis Laura could readily believe, and therefore made no further\nobjection; but Doctor B---- arriving soon after, comforted them all with\nthe assurance, that though the Countess's fever at present ran high, he\nhad great hopes that perfect quietude, and the medicines he had ordered,\nwould, in all probability, do much for her, especially, aided as they\nwere by youth and an excellent constitution, and that he saw no\nimmediate danger. He strictly enjoined, however, that her chamber might\nbe kept as still as possible, and that at most only two persons should\nremain there: he entreated St. Aubyn and Lady Juliana to retire, and\nhaving prevailed on them to do so, he told Miss Cecil he wished her to\nbe as much as possible one of Lady St. Aubyn's attendants.\n\n\"As to Lady Juliana,\" said he, \"she is so very anxious and restless;\nshe will only disturb our fair patient: you, my dear Miss Cecil, I\nperceive have that happy self-possession, joined with gentleness and\nactivity, which alone can make a good nurse; your voice too is\nparticularly calculated to sooth and persuade a sick person:--you may\nsmile, but believe me, few know how many qualifications are requisite to\nform a good superintendent of a sick bed, and amongst them I have always\nfound a soft but distinct articulation one of the most considerable.\nThink only how a nervous patient is what is emphatically called\n_worried_ by a droning, discontented voice, or alarmed by too loud a\ntone, or sudden question. I assure you I have often seen weak persons\nthrown into a fever by these apparently trifling causes; let me,\ntherefore, beg Miss Cecil will take upon herself the task of replying to\nany questions the Countess may ask, but in as few words as possible: the\nmoment reason returns, sooth her mind by every assurance that the\ndanger she so much feared is over. I shall see Lord St. Aubyn before I\nquit the house, and place before him the evil to be dreaded, should he\npursue this unfortunate business any farther.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. IX.\n\n  Doubt shall for ever quit my strengthen'd heart,\n  And anxious jealousy's corroding smart:\n  Nor other inmate shall inhabit there,\n  But soft belief, young joy, and pleasing care.\n\n                                         PRIOR'S HENRY AND EMMA.\n\n\nThe medicines ordered by her skilful physician had so salutary an\neffect, that towards midnight Ellen fell into a quiet sleep, from which\nevery thing favourable might be expected. Lady Juliana was therefore\nprevailed on to retire to bed, Miss Cecil, Jane, and the housekeeper,\nsitting up with Lady St. Aubyn, the two latter in the anti-chamber. But\nLady Juliana was far from being satisfied, notwithstanding the\nassurances of St. Aubyn that all was at an end between him and Ross: she\nknew him too well to believe he would pass over insults so marked; and\nher watchfulness had convinced her no apology from Ross, in writing or\notherwise, had been received. Sir Edward Leicester, too, had called once\nor twice in the course of the day; and though she had tormented him and\nher nephew, by resolutely remaining in the room in defiance of the hints\nSt. Aubyn gave of wishing to be alone with his friend, yet she overheard\na few words, that more and more convinced her a duel was intended. She\nleft orders, therefore, to be called by day-break; and unable to prevail\non St. Aubyn to go to bed, wearied and exhausted by emotions, which, at\nher time of life, she could ill support, she at length left him to\nhimself.\n\nDetermined as he was to meet Ross in the morning, and avoiding\nreflections, which, though he felt how decisive they were against the\npractice of duelling, he yet thought came too late. St. Aubyn's frame\nwas shaken by various sensations. Recollection of the past, and terror\nfor the future, hung heavily upon him; yet not for himself he feared:\nbut should any thing amiss happen to him, what would become of Ellen--of\nEllen, whom he should leave upon a bed of sickness, which, then he felt\nconvinced, would be to her the bed of death!\n\n\"And was it for this,\" he exclaimed, as he paced his study, \"for this I\ndrew her from her native shades, where, happy and contented, but for me\nshe might have blossomed still. Oh! little, my Ellen, hast thou had\ncause to rejoice in that elevation which doubtless many have envied\nthee. Too often have I been to thee the mysterious cause of sorrow and\nanxiety. Perhaps I shall have been also the cause of thine untimely\nend.\"\n\nThe idea so dreadfully shook him, he dared no longer think, lest it\nshould quite unman him; but determined to look upon her once more, he\ntook the taper, which burnt beside him, and, with light steps, passed to\nher apartment. In the anti-room he found the housekeeper and Jane both\nsleeping in their chairs: all was profoundly still, and he began to fear\nEllen was left without a wakeful guard; but at the sound of his\nfootsteps, almost noiseless as they were, and the approaching light, for\nthe bed-room door was open for air, Laura Cecil stole to meet him: she\nmotioned to him to be silent, and advancing a few steps into the\nanti-room, said, in the lowest whisper, \"For heaven's sake, Lord St.\nAubyn, why this--why are you not retired to rest?\"\n\n\"Ah, Laura! dear, kind Laura,\" he exclaimed, grasping her hand, \"how\ncould I rest, while that injured, perhaps that murdered angel lies\nsuffering thus, and through my fault, through my accursed, headlong\njealousy!\"\n\n\"Deeply, indeed,\" said Laura, \"do I lament that appearances should have\nthus misled you, my Lord, and am indeed astonished at it: had you but\nwaited one hour, ere you so harshly condemned, from me you might have\nlearned her perfect innocence: she pressed me to go with her this\nmorning, which my having a bad head-ache prevented: she told me where\nshe was going, shewed me the letter she had received, detailed her kind\nplans for relieving the poor widow, and mentioned not having explained\nher intentions to you, lest you should prevent her going; and she wished\nso much, she said, to see the _poor little infant_; certainly she did\nnot mention any intention of going to that fatal house where you found\nher, and which, I am assured, she never thought of till passing the top\nof the street she recollected the book she so much valued, and which I\none day heard her tell Jane to call for; but all this is now unavailing:\nlet me beg you to retire: should the murmur of our voices disturb her, I\nshall indeed greatly lament it.\"\n\n\"Oh, let me look upon her--once more let me see her! Will she die? Is it\npossible she may recover?\"\n\n\"It is very possible, almost certain, from her sleeping so quietly, if\nyou do not disturb her: but think, if she should awake and see you, at\nthis strange hour, with those distracted looks!\"\n\n\"Yet I must see her _now_--yes, Laura, I must venture all; for how do I\nknow if I shall ever see her more!\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, what do you mean? Surely, surely you do not think\nof--you are not meditating----\"\n\n\"No matter what,\" said he hastily; \"I must see her _now_.\"\n\nLaura shrunk back astonished and dismayed; but feeling that he would not\nbe contradicted, she again, with light steps, approached the bed; where,\nin a profound sleep, the effect of opiates, lay Ellen, \"fair lily, and\nwhiter than her sheets;\" and but that in the stillness of night her\nquick short breathings were distinctly heard, it could hardly have been\nknown she lived.\n\nLaura then beckoned St. Aubyn to approach, which he did with trembling\nsteps, and shaded by the curtain, gazed wistfully upon her. Overcome by\nthe touching spectacle of youth, beauty, and innocence, in a few hours\nalmost destroyed by his rash jealousy, the tears now ran down his manly\ncheeks; and hardly could he restrain the groans which heaved his bosom,\nwhile Laura's eyes streamed at the affecting sight before her. At that\nmoment Ellen moved a little, and they both retreated, that if she opened\nher eyes she might not see them; but she still slept; and only murmuring\n\"dear St. Aubyn,\" and a few inarticulate words, she was again silent.\n\nAgain St. Aubyn asked Laura if it were possible she could recover, and\nshe assured him that Ellen already looked better than she had done an\nhour before; and at last, after he had knelt and imprinted a soft kiss\non one of her hands, which lay on the counterpane, and lifted up his\nheart to heaven, in silent prayer for her recovery, he was prevailed on\nto quit the room.\n\nThe rest of the night St. Aubyn spent in settling some papers, and\nadding a few lines to his will, all of which he locked into a drawer,\nand sealing up the key, directed it to Lady Juliana.\n\nAt day-break his valet, according to order, came to him. To this\nconfidential servant St. Aubyn explained the cause of his going from\nhome so early, and left the pacquet for Lady Juliana in his care, to be\ndelivered to her, should he not return in safety. He then sent to\ninquire of Jane for her lady, and had the happiness of hearing a\nfavourable account of her. St. Aubyn then set off, attended only by one\nservant, to the house of Sir Edward Leicester, whose carriage was at the\ndoor, and they instantly proceeded to Wimbledon, where, on the spot\nmarked in Charles Ross's letter, they alighted; and telling the coachman\nto draw off, and wait at a place they pointed out to him, the two\nfriends walked up and down some time, expecting Ross.\n\nIn about ten minutes they saw him approaching, but alone: St. Aubyn just\ntouched his hat, and said, \"Mr. Ross, where is your friend?\"\n\n\"My Lord,\" said Ross, in a firm tone, \"I am here, not to fight, not to\ndouble the injuries you have already received from me, but to make every\nconcession you can desire. I have brought no friend with me; I trust my\nhonour and my life implicitly in your hands. Are you prepared to hear my\nexplanation?--if not, I am ready to stand your fire.\"\n\n\"I know not, Sir,\" said St. Aubyn, haughtily, \"what has caused this\nsudden alteration in your sentiments: this meeting was at your own\nrequest; and the insults you bestowed on Lady St. Aubyn yesterday make\nme as desirous of it now as you were when you appointed it.\"\n\n\"Yet, my Lord,\" said Sir Edward, \"hear Mr. Ross: if this affair can be\naccommodated without bloodshed, I think myself called upon to insist it\nshall be so.\"\n\nSt. Aubyn bowed with a lofty air to Ross, and said:--\n\n\"Well, Sir, your explanation if you please.\"\n\nRoss now entered into a long detail of the circumstances which had\nmisled him, stated his fears of St. Aubyn under the name of Mordaunt,\nwhen he first saw him at Llanwyllan; that no letters from thence had\nreached him on the station where he had remained for the last half year,\ntill, about a month before his ship had come home, and he had been\nordered to London to receive a promotion as unexpected as it was\nwelcome; that he happened to lodge at Mrs. Birtley's, and by chance,\nfinding the volume of Gray Lady St. Aubyn had left there, he recognized\nthe initials \"C. F. M. to E. P.\" in the first page, which the words\n\"Dear Llanwyllan,\" written in another, confirmed. The answer Mrs.\nBirtley made to his impatient questions had convinced him who the Mr.\nand Mrs. Mordaunt she spoke of were: this woman had given him also such\naccounts as led him to believe they were not married, and hence his mad\ninsulting conduct at the theatre had arisen. He next repeated so\naccurately every word that had passed between him and Ellen, and\ndescribed their mutual astonishment at meeting so unexpectedly in such a\nnatural manner, that had St. Aubyn doubted before, he could have done so\nno longer.\n\n\"Yet,\" said Ross, \"convinced as I now was how wrong I had been, I could\nnot prevail on myself to apologize to one whom I confess I hated, for he\nhad robbed me of the only woman I ever loved; yet she had never, even in\nthe happy hours of our youth, given me the slightest hope of ever\nobtaining more than the affection of a sister from her, and even that\nseemed at times more the effect of habit than choice; for rough and\nunpolished, my manners repulsed, and choleric and hasty my temper,\nalarmed the gentle Ellen; yet I still flattered myself, time, and the\nretired situation in which she lived preventing her extraordinary beauty\nfrom being known, might have done much for me; but from the moment Mr.\nMordaunt was known to her, I easily perceived that hope was at an end;\nand now I had only to desire that I might fall by the hand of the man\nwho had raised her to that greatness. I could have done no more than\nwish for her; I therefore determined to keep my engagement for this\nmorning. But yesterday it came to my knowledge that the promotion\nintended for me had been granted to the solicitations of Lord St. Aubyn.\nStruck, ashamed at the base ingratitude of my conduct, I resolved at\nlength to make every explanation, every concession. I have done so, and\nnow, my Lord, it rests with you to accept this apology: if you refuse\nit, I am ready to stand your fire, for never will I lift my hand in a\ncause so unjust, and against a man, who, without my knowledge, had so\ngenerously befriended me.\"\n\n\"I told you before, Mr. Ross,\" said St. Aubyn, \"that for your excellent\nfather's sake I would overlook that in you which in another man I would\ninstantly have resented. I am not of a vindictive spirit, and the\npractice of duelling, though I have in some measure been forced to\ncountenance it, is against my principles. You are at liberty, Sir, to\nretire; I am satisfied.\"\n\n\"I dare not, my Lord,\" said Ross, \"attempt to offer any thanks for the\nkindness you intended me in my professional career; still less can I\nconsent to profit by it: I have not deserved it at your hands, and\ndeclining the promotion offered to me, I shall return to my ship, and\nleave England as soon as possible, and I hope for ever.\"\n\nSt. Aubyn's generous spirit was moved by this renunciation.\n\n\"That promotion, Mr. Ross,\" he replied, \"was sought for you at the\nrequest of Lady St. Aubyn, who had not forgotten the friend of her\nchildhood, and in hopes of gratifying your most worthy father, from\nwhom, as well as from your mother and sister, both my wife and myself\nhave experienced much kindness and friendship: I must therefore request\nyou will not renounce it.\n\n\"At this moment Lady St. Aubyn is extremely ill, in consequence of the\nalarming scene to which your mistake and my rashness gave rise: should\nthis illness prove fatal,\" (and his lips quivered with emotion as he\nspoke), \"never more must you and I meet again! Should she recover, as I\nhope and trust she will, I am so perfectly satisfied with the\nexplanations I have received, that I shall not be sorry to see your\nearly acquaintance renewed: for the present we part as friends.\"\n\nThen bowing, he took Sir Edward's arm, and hastened to his carriage,\nleaving Ross overwhelmed with shame and remorse for the treatment he\nhad given to a man so generous.\n\nOn reaching Cavendish Square he found Lady Juliana in the utmost alarm;\nfor missing him when she arose, and hearing at how early an hour he had\nleft the house, she had immediately suspected his errand abroad: she had\nsent to Sir Edward Leicester's, and learned from the servants that their\nmaster and Lord St. Aubyn had gone out together. Still more and more\nalarmed, Lady Juliana paced from room to room in dreadful agitation, not\nknowing whither to send or what to do. Soon after eight o'clock, Laura\nsent a note by Jane to Lady Juliana, saying Lady St. Aubyn was awake,\nthat the delirium had totally subsided, but had left her so extremely\nweak and low she could hardly speak to be heard, but was anxious to see\nher and Lord St. Aubyn, whose affectionate inquiries she had heard of\nwith much delight, and was prepared to see him with composure, and\nwithout recurring to the past. To trust herself near Ellen, agitated as\nshe was, Lady Juliana knew was impossible; she therefore ordered Jane to\nsay, that having sat up almost the whole night, neither the Earl nor\nherself was up, but in an hour or two they would be with her; then\nassuring the girl that the unfortunate misunderstanding of the day\nbefore was perfectly explained, she charged her not to drop a hint of it\namongst the servants, which Jane readily promised, and faithfully\nperformed.\n\nSoon after this, Doctor B. called, and to him Lady Juliana communicated\nher fears on St. Aubyn's account: he entreated she would not go near the\nCountess till her spirits were quieter, and by no means to let any ill\ntidings reach her, should such arrive: then visiting the sick room, he\nrejoiced to find his young and lovely patient out of danger, though\nextremely weak. The excellence of her constitution, assisted by his\nskill, had triumphed over the disease, and if no new alarm occurred, he\ndoubted not her perfect recovery: leaving strict and repeated orders\nthat no one should be admitted at all likely to hurry her spirits, he\nleft her, and as he passed down the staircase, was rejoiced to see St.\nAubyn enter safe and well. The Earl hastened to him with the most eager\ninquiries for his patient, and listened to his favourable accounts with\nthankful joy.\n\n\"As to Lady Juliana, my good Lord,\" said the physician, \"she is scarcely\nin her senses; you have frightened her almost to death: come, let me\nhave the pleasure of leading you to her, and telling her at the same\ntime how much better our fair patient is, after which I would advise you\nboth to take some repose, for your countenance tells me you have not had\nmuch rest last night, and I promise you, you must not go to Lady St.\nAubyn with those pale and haggard looks.\"\n\nThe joy of Lady Juliana at seeing St. Aubyn return safe and unhurt was\nextreme, and was still increased when he owned to her candidly where he\nhad been, and the satisfactory explanation he had received from Ross,\nwhich so completely put an end to this untoward affair for ever.\n\nIn the afternoon, St. Aubyn, promising to be as composed as possible,\nwas permitted to see Ellen for a few minutes. Both forbore to speak of\nwhat had passed, for both felt they could not endure to recur to it; but\nthe warmth and unaffected tenderness of his manner assured her that all\nsuspicion had been effaced from his mind; while the affectionate\nsoftness of her's proved to St. Aubyn that his unkindness was forgiven.\n\nIn a very few days Ellen was pronounced convalescent, though her\nremaining weakness, and Lady Juliana's precautions, confined her to her\ndressing-room: there, by slow degrees, she learned from her\naffectionate Laura all the circumstances which had led to Charles Ross's\nmistake, and that of St. Aubyn, nor could she help acknowledging that\nappearances had been in both instances against her: relieved however by\nhaving all her anxieties removed, and by a full though affecting\nexplanation with St. Aubyn, who gave her the tenderest assurances that\nevery jealous disposition was for ever removed from his mind, she now\nrapidly recovered: but as the weather was now becoming very warm, and\nshe had had no great reason to delight in London, she earnestly\nrequested to be allowed to return to Castle St. Aubyn; and the advice of\nher medical attendants coinciding with her wishes, the request was\neasily granted.\n\nBefore she left London, however, she, with her Lord, paid another visit\nto the officer's widow and her interesting family, and so arranged for\nthem as to ensure them a neat residence a little way out of town, and\nthe certain means of comfortable subsistence for the present; for it was\nher intention, with St. Aubyn's permission, to form a school, and other\nuseful institutions, in the neighbourhood of the Castle, in which she\nhoped to render the widow a service, as well as gratify herself, by\nplacing her at the head of the village seminary. She also visited Mr.\nDorrington again, and spent a delightful hour amongst his treasures;\nthen leaving her P. P. C. for Lady Meredith, and some other slight\nacquaintances, she joyfully left London on her way to Northamptonshire,\naccompanied by the Earl (more tenderly attached than ever), Lady\nJuliana, and Miss Cecil, Sir Edward Leicester promising to pay them a\nvisit very soon.\n\nDelighted indeed was Ellen once more to breathe the pure air of the\ncountry; and as they passed the little inn where they had stopped on\ntheir former journey from town, and caught a distant glimpse of the\nfarm-house where he had told her his real name and rank, she tenderly\npressed St. Aubyn's hand, and with a soft tear on her cheek, reminded\nhim of the circumstance.\n\n\"Ah, my Ellen,\" he said, \"much have we both suffered since that\ninteresting moment, but never more, through fault of mine, shall you\nshed another tear, save such as now glitter in your eyes--tears of\ntenderness and affection.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAP. X.\n\n  She feels it--'tis her son! with rapture wild,\n  Bath'd in warm tears, from soft sensations prest.\n  She clasps him to her cheek, her lip, her breast,\n  And looks with eye unsated on her child.\n  He knows her, sure!--Sure, answering rapture his,\n  Leave her at least the visionary bliss!\n  Lo! his clear eye to her's responsive speaks,\n  And lo! his little mouth, that wistful seeks\n  Warm from her lip to suck the sweet o'erflowing kiss.\n  She hears the silent call--how quickly hears\n  A mother's heart.\n\n                                               SOTHEBY'S OBERON.\n\n\nArrived at the Castle, Ellen once more began to breathe; her colour and\nappetite returned, and she speedily recovered her strength, and thought\nshe had never been so happy: her Lord's renewed, and even encreased\naffection, Lady Juliana's sincere attachment, and the pleasing society\nof Laura Cecil, who remained her guest (Sir William being in Scotland\nwith Lord and Lady Delamore), left her scarcely any thing to wish.\n\nThis little party received a very agreeable addition about a week after,\nby the arrival of Sir Edward Leicester, whose continued attentions to\nMiss Cecil seemed not ill received by her.\n\nSoon after their return to Castle St. Aubyn, letters from Mr. Ross and\nJoanna arrived, filled with thanks and rejoicings for the promotion of\nCharles. They said not a word, nor seemed to know any thing of the late\ntransactions; and Lord and Lady St. Aubyn were glad he had not revealed\nthem. It appeared, that through St. Aubyn's interest, he had been made\nLieutenant, and honoured with the command of a small frigate, and was\ngone to cruize in the Mediterranean. At this latter circumstance Ellen\nwas not sorry; for she could not wish, after what had passed, to see\nCharles Ross again at present. Every thing, therefore, seemed now smooth\nbefore her; and though sometimes her thoughts would wander to the\nformer mysterious expressions of St. Aubyn, and recollecting that the\ntime he appointed for their elucidation was arrived, yet as she heard no\nmore of it, and he seemed to have lost those fits of gloom, which even\nfrom the commencement of their acquaintance had been obvious in him, she\nhoped all was passed over, and determined by no ill-timed curiosity to\nrevive painful ideas in his mind. But she yet fully knew not St. Aubyn,\nexcept when thrown off his guard by any sudden emotion: his command over\nhis spirits and features was wonderful; and no one who saw him composed,\ncheerful, and even gay, could have suspected what at times passed in his\nmind, nor to what unpleasant scenes he now looked forward. Not even Lady\nJuliana knew what reason he had to think of the future with\napprehension, though with much of what had formerly befallen him she\ncertainly was acquainted.\n\nThe families round the Castle paid every polite attention to Lady St.\nAubyn on her return: many, who had been absent when she was there\nbefore, now visited her; and though for the present she declined\nentering into large parties, every one seemed rejoiced to see her once\nmore amongst them. Not the least delighted was Miss Alton, who with\nunfading charms, and exhaustless professions of regard, came eagerly to\ngreet the charming Countess's return, to rejoice in her perfect\nrecovery, and to assure her how much she had suffered at hearing she was\nill in London.\n\n\"And oh! my dear Lady St. Aubyn,\" said she, \"think how shocked I was to\nhear some rude wretch had annoyed you at the theatre, and that your\nexcellent lord had like to have fought a duel about it. Oh! how thankful\nI am that these frightful scenes did not more materially injure your\nvaluable health, and that you are returned to us, if possible, more\nbeautiful than ever.\"\n\n\"And who, my dear Miss Alton,\" said Laura, who alone retained composure\nenough to answer her (for this familiar recurrence to scenes so painful\nhad greatly disturbed Lady St. Aubyn and Lady Juliana), \"who told you\nall this wonderful story?\"\n\n\"Oh, it was a cousin of mine, who happened to be coming out of the\nplayhouse just as it happened, and wrote me word of it; and that the\ngentlemen had exchanged cards: so you see I had pretty good authority.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Lady Juliana, with her usual asperity, \"and no doubt made\npretty good use of it. Pray, Ma'am, did you think it necessary to send a\nman and horse round the neighbourhood with this amusing piece of\nintelligence; or were you contented with your own personal exertions?\"\n\n\"Dear Lady Juliana, I am sure I thought no harm; I only just mentioned\nit----\"\n\n\"To every one who would hear you, no doubt. If, at least, you had spared\nus the recital, it would have been quite as delicate, and more\nconsistent with your _tender feelings_ for Lady St. Aubyn.\"\n\nPoor Miss Alton, quite shocked to find she had given such offence to the\nold lady, of whom she stood in great awe, vainly attempted to rally her\nspirits, and soon after took her leave, earnestly wishing Lady Juliana\nhad staid in London; for she foresaw the entre of the Castle would not\nbe so easily granted to her now as it had been when only the\nkind-hearted Countess presided; and trembling, lest, if she were not\nmore cautious in future, she should not be admitted to see the little\nstranger when it arrived, and take cake and caudle in Lady St. Aubyn's\napartment.\n\n\"See,\" said Lady Juliana, drawing herself up, \"see, my dear, the\nconsequence of admitting such low, uneducated people to any degree of\nintimacy! This gossipping woman would not have ventured to hint at what\nhad passed, had you kept her at a proper distance: but the easy\nimpudence of such people in these degenerate times astonishes me. In the\ndays of the Countess of St. Aubyn, my mother, _she_ would scarcely have\nspoken to such a sort of person as this Miss--what do you call her?\" For\nwhen Lady Juliana felt proud or indignant, she had a great knack of\nforgetting any name which had not a title tacked to it; though no one\nremembered more accurately those which had.\n\n\"Ah!\" thought Ellen, \"how with pride so overbearing could I ever have\nhoped to be myself exempted from this general censure of such sort of\npersons! How fortunate I may think myself, to have overcome a prejudice\nof such long standing.\"\n\nIn the society of a few agreeable neighbours, and the ever-pleasing\nconversation of Laura, the time passed serenely till the end of August:\nyet there were moments when gloom seemed again to steal over the\nfeatures of St. Aubyn. His foreign letters arrived more frequently, but\nappeared to give him no satisfaction. With Ellen he studiously avoided\nall conversation on the subject of his anxiety: for he dreaded, in her\npresent state, the least alarm, and delayed by every means in his power\nthe apparently fast approaching crisis of his fate, till her safety\nshould have been secured.\n\nAt length, after some hours of uneasy watching, and the most painful\nanxiety, Lady Juliana announced to him the birth of a _son_, who,\nnotwithstanding all the alarms his mother had undergone in London,\nseemed likely as well as herself to do well. Lady Juliana was in\nraptures at this event, to which she had so long looked forward with\nimpatience. Nothing that money could procure was wanting to decorate\neither the infant or the chamber where he lay, which, as well as that of\nthe Countess, had been entirely new furnished in the most superb and\ncommodious manner at her expence, Lady Juliana having insisted on paying\nfor every thing prepared, even to the elegant cradle lined with quilted\nwhite satin; and not even Lady Meredith had softer cushions than those\non which the infant heir reposed.\n\nSt. Aubyn, charmed with the lovely little creature, and to see its\nmother safe, appeared as if he had no wish ungratified, and left no\ntender attention unpaid which might ensure his Ellen's health and\ncomfort. As she approached towards convalescence, Laura Cecil was her\nconstant and most delightful companion, and well knew how to cheer and\nadorn the hours which were necessarily given to the quietude of her own\napartments. The infant was rather delicate though healthy; but safe in\nits mother's fostering cares it strengthened every day, without those\ncares----\n\n  Ah! what avails the cradle's damask roof,\n  The eider bolster, or embroidered woof,\n  Oft hears the gilded couch unpitied plains,\n  And many a tear, the tassel'd cushion stains!\n  No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest,\n  So soft no pillow as his mother's breast!\n    Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours\n    Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers,\n  The cherub, Innocence, with smile divine,\n  Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on beauty's shrine.\n\n                                                         DARWIN.\n\nIncessantly anxious about the babe, Lady St. Aubyn could not soon permit\nit to be removed from her apartments, it lay therefore with its nurse in\na smaller room within that where Lady St. Aubyn slept.\n\nIt was about six weeks after this event, so interesting to all parties,\nhad taken place, and Ellen had for some time been returned to the\nsociety of her own family, that one day, just as they had finished\ndinner, St. Aubyn was told two gentlemen in a chaise and four had just\narrived, and requested to speak to him immediately. He changed colour,\nbut conquering his purturbation, desired they might be shewn into his\nstudy, and he would go to them. \"Who are they?\" said Lady Juliana. \"I\ndid not know, nephew, you expected any company.\" \"Perhaps,\" said St.\nAubyn, evading her questions, \"they may not remain here an hour, perhaps\ntill to-morrow morning.\" He hastily left the room, and Ellen was\nconvinced these strangers were the persons at whom St. Aubyn had often\nhinted as connected with the mystery which hung around him: she\ntrembled, and felt dismayed, but endeavoured to be as composed as\npossible. In a few minutes after St. Aubyn had left the room, Mr.\nMordaunt was sent for; and as he had been some time an invalid, St.\nAubyn desired a carriage might be dispatched to bring him to the Castle.\nEllen passing soon after up stairs to the nursery, crossed him in the\nhall, followed by his assistant with a quantity of papers and\nparchments: they bowed, and went into the study. \"Oh, I know now,\" said\nLady Juliana, who was with her, \"who St. Aubyn has with him: it is I\nsuppose Lord De Montfort, and his guardian and tutor, Mr. O'Brien, a\nCatholic priest, who has the entire management of the young man, and\nwill I suppose now have the entire direction of his estates, which have\ntill now been under the care of my nephew, who was appointed by his\nfather's will the young Earls guardian, as far as related to his English\nproperty, till he should be twenty-four, though his Catholic relations\nhave had the care of his person. Rejoiced shall I be when St. Aubyn has\nfinally concluded all his concerns with that family. Heaven knows they\nhave given him trouble enough already! and this young man I know hates\nhim. I don't suppose he will stay an hour after the accounts are\nsettled, indeed he would not have come at all, only Mordaunt having all\nthe affairs in his hands, and being too unwell to go from home, it was I\nconclude necessary: this I know, if these people stay here to-night, I\nshall remain in my own room.\"\n\nEllen carefully and anxiously attended to all she said, yet this\ndiscourse gave her no clue by which to unravel the mysterious speeches\nof St. Aubyn. After spending an hour in the nursery, both ladies\nreturned to the drawing-room, and sent a servant to know if coffee\nshould be carried into the study, or if Lord St. Aubyn and his guests\nwould join the ladies. Orders were given for tea and coffee in the\nstudy; and Lady Juliana could not restrain her curiosity enough to\nrefrain asking who was with Lord St. Aubyn: from the servant she\nlearned that the party consisted of his Lordship, Mr. Mordaunt, his\nclerk, and two strange gentlemen, one elderly, the other young, and\napparently in ill health. This confirmed her surmises, and soon after\ntea, not wishing to see Lord De Montfort, should he make his appearance,\nshe retired to her own room, leaving Ellen and Laura together, with a\nstrict injunction to the former not to be kept up too late.\n\nEllen's anxiety made her somewhat silent; and Laura, never very\ntalkative, easily fell into her present humour, so that for some time\nvery little conversation passed between them. Laura was netting, and\nEllen attempting a drawing; but her hand was unsteady, and her attention\ndivided, therefore finding she should not succeed, she threw down her\npencil, and listened in silence to a loud equinoxial wind, which howled\naround, and shook with \"murmur not unlike the dash of ocean on his\nsounding shores\" the ancient trees which grew near the mansion. A\nchilling sensation insensibly stole upon her, and at length, to break\nthe melancholy silence of the apartment, rather than that she wished to\nspeak, she said, \"'Tis a rough night, and cold.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Laura; and they both drew nearer the fire.\n\n\"Do you know Lord De Montfort?\" asked Ellen.\n\n\"I have seen him when a boy,\" replied Laura, \"and think I should know\nhim again, though six or seven years make a great alteration at his\nage.\"\n\n\"Was he handsome?\"\n\n\"Yes, but not so much so as his sister.\"\n\n\"Is he like her?\"\n\n\"A little, but of a darker complexion: her's was a clear lively brown;\ndark hazle eyes, full of spirit, and indeed at times of scorn, a Grecian\nnose, full lips, the upper one curled a little, which gave a haughty air\nto her countenance; Edmund was thinner, paler, and his eyes had a\nsofter look.\"\n\n\"Edmund is his name?\"\n\n\"He has a long list of names, according to the Spanish custom; but his\nsister always called him Edmund, which was his father's.\"\n\n\"I wonder whether we shall see him?\"\n\n\"Of course,--I suppose so,\" said Laura, with some surprize: \"it is too\nlate for him to quit the Castle to-night, and he will without doubt pay\nhis compliments to you before he departs.\"\n\n\"I think,\" replied Ellen, \"from what Lady Juliana said just now, that\nSt. Aubyn and Lord De Montfort are not on very good terms, that made me\ndoubt whether he would stay the night.\"\n\n\"It may be so,\" said Laura, \"yet unless they are decidedly at enmity,\nthe young man cannot avoid seeing you.\"\n\nSoon after the supper tray was brought into the room, and on its being\nannounced to the gentlemen, St. Aubyn came to the library, accompanied\nby Mr. Mordaunt and Mr. O'Brien, the latter of whom he introduced to the\nladies. St. Aubyn looked pale, and his manners had lost some of its\nusual composure. O'Brien was a grave, respectable old man, of Irish\nextraction, but bred in a convent abroad, and speaking English but\nimperfectly.\n\n\"I will return to the study,\" said St. Aubyn, \"and see once more if I\ncan persuade Lord De Montfort to take some refreshment. You remember De\nMontfort, Miss Cecil?--He is my other guest, but he pleads fatigue, and\ndisinclination to see any one, and will not be prevailed on to take even\na glass of wine. I will once more endeavour to induce him to join you.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my Lord,\" said Ellen, \"I hope he will: if he be fatigued, he\nmust the more need refreshment.\"\n\n\"My love,\" said St. Aubyn, \"will you have the goodness to order beds to\nbe prepared for Lord De Montfort and Mr. O'Brien. They remain here this\nnight.\"\n\nHe then left the room, and Ellen ringing the bell, desired Mrs. Bayfield\nmight be sent to her dressing-room, whither a few minutes after she went\nherself to give orders respecting the beds. As she passed the study\ndoor, which was not quite close, she distinctly heard St. Aubyn say:--\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, De Montfort, be persuaded; do not wrong me so\ncruelly! Why condemn me on mere appearances?\"\n\nEllen passed hastily on, and heard St. Aubyn close the door with some\nviolence, warned perhaps by the light she carried that some one might\noverhear him.\n\nIn her dressing-room she met Mrs. Bayfield, and was instantly struck\nwith her pale countenance and agitated appearance.\n\n\"My good Bayfield,\" said Ellen, \"I sent for you to request you would see\nchambers prepared for the strange gentlemen; but you look ill, pray go\nto bed: Jane shall go with the housemaids and see that all is right.\"\n\n\"I am not ill, my Lady,\" said Mrs. Bayfield; \"but a glimpse I caught of\nLord De Montfort just now, and the tone of his voice, reminded me of so\nmany painful events--\"\n\nShe paused, sighed, and the tears ran down her cheeks as she added:\n\n\"I wish he had not come here; I wish he was gone back to Spain; I cannot\nbear to see him.\"\n\n\"His likeness to your late lady affects you perhaps, my good friend?\"\nsaid Ellen.\n\n\"Oh, no, Madam; it is not that; he is like her to be sure; but it is not\n_that_. I feel so uneasy when I see him.--He does not love my Lord; and\nyet he used to love him. But forgive me, Madam; I forget myself: will\nyour Ladyship please to give your orders now?\"\n\n\"I will leave all to your care, my good Bayfield. I suppose the\ngentlemen will like to be near each other: the two chambers at the end\nof the gallery where I sleep (those next to that your Lord sleeps in at\npresent, I mean) will suit them best, I think: see that they have good\nfires, for it is cold to-night: the wind is really alarming.\"\n\n\"Your Ladyship had better take another shawl round your shoulders: the\nstaircase is cold.\"\n\nEllen thanked her careful old friend, and returned to the company.\n\n\n                            END OF VOL. II.\n\n                B. CLARKE, Printer, Well Street, London.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mystery and Confidence, Vol. 2, by\nElizabeth Pinchard\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "Bias in the Booth - Dylan Gwinn"}, "text": "\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2015 by Dylan Gwinn\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, website, or broadcast.\n\nRegnery\u00ae is a registered trademark of Salem Communications Holding Corporation\n\nCataloging-in-Publication data on file with the Library of Congress\n\nFirst ebook edition \u00a92015\n\neISBN:978-1-62157-388-3\n\nPublished in the United States by\n\nRegnery Publishing\n\nA Salem Communications Company\n\n300 New Jersey Ave NW\n\nWashington, DC 20001\n\nwww.Regnery.com\n\nDistributed to the trade by\n\nPerseus Distribution\n\n250 West 57th Street\n\nNew York, NY 10107\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nBooks are available in quantity for promotional or premium use. For information on discounts and terms, please visit our website: www.Regnery.com.\n_For my parents, Bruce and Vinia Gwinn_\nCONTENTS\n\n**Introduction**\n\n**CHAPTER  Landing on Trayvon**\n\n**CHAPTER  The Separation of Church and Sport**\n\n**CHAPTER  Knaves on the Warpath**\n\n**CHAPTER  Making a Hero of Michael Sam**\n\n**CHAPTER  Trashing Tebow**\n\n**CHAPTER  Concussed and Confused**\n\n**CHAPTER  Blacklisting Limbaugh**\n\n**CHAPTER  Bull in Durham**\n\n**CHAPTER  The New Racism**\n\n**Afterword**\n\n**Acknowledgments**\n\n**Notes**\n\n**Index**\nINTRODUCTION\n\nSometimes it's easier to say what a book is not, as opposed to saying what it actually is. So, let's start there. What you're holding in your hand right now is not a book about sports. Nor is it a traditional book about the sports media where I catalogue and detail a career spent covering and writing about the biggest stars in sports and blah, blah, blah, blah.\n\nNo, what you're holding in your hand is something altogether different. This is a book about how virtually the entire sports media have been overrun with liberal activists trying to implement and advance their liberal agenda.\n\nI've been watching sports for most of my life. Being that I've made a career in sports talk radio, I've probably watched a lot more sports than is healthy or advisable. Like many of you, I remember a time when people flocked to sports because they were fun and entertaining, even awe-inspiring at their best, and an escape from the BS and politically correct hysteria of the \"real world.\"\n\nPolitical news and commentary were something you didn't often find in sports, because they were contentious and harsh, a serious business where the burdens of the real world were hung around your neck. Sports were an oasis, a safe zone, that one place where you could shut out all the frustrations and nonsense and seriousness of life and morph into an overgrown, screaming, jumping, foam-finger-waving thirteen-year-old.\n\nNow that former \"safe zone\" has become a political crazy zone, as broadcasters, writers, and TV personalities who are supposed to be talking about Peyton Manning and Tom Brady, Bryce Harper and Justin Verlander, Dwight Howard and Kevin Love, wax silly on everything from religion and politics to homosexuality, rape, race-baiting, and every other form of progressive nuttiness you can imagine. We're fast approaching a point where there's going to be no real difference between Bob Costas and Rachel Maddow. Except one of them is a man. I think.\n\nNot that the sports media's leftward slouch wasn't always there. I always knew the sports media were liberal. But their liberalism was tempered by the fact that their primary job was sports, and that's where they needed to focus their attention. I could deal with the occasional politically correct quip from Bob Costas as long as it was only occasional and the sports-to-politics balance was heavily tilted toward sports.\n\nBut nowadays that scale is about as balanced as a tilt-a-whirl. Politics\u2014and the sports media's desire to advance a political agenda\u2014now determine what stories get covered. Meet, for instance, seventh-round draft pick Michael Sam, an otherwise unremarkable player cut from the final roster of the team that drafted him, not signed onto their practice squad, and yet a headliner in the sports media for months, all because the liberal media have adopted certain sexual practices as worthy of a crusade.\n\nIn the spirit of saying what this book is not, I wish to make clear that I have no desire for the sports media to be conservative either. I'm not writing this book because I want to shift their ideology and worldview from liberal to conservative. I'm writing this book because I want the sports media to talk about sports, not politics. In short, I want the sports media to do their job.\n\nBut the inescapable fact of the matter is that the sports media, along with the mainstream media, have become just another font of liberal activism. A decade and a half ago, former Emmy Award\u2013winning CBS journalist (and a correspondent for HBO's _Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel_ ) Bernard Goldberg wrote a classic number one _New York Times_ bestseller about American journalism called _Bias_. Goldberg at the time was a liberal himself, but he was appalled at the casual yet pervasive bias of his mainstream media colleagues who weren't interested in simply reporting the facts, or even telling the truth, but were focused on advancing a left-wing agenda, often without even thinking about it, so deeply ingrained was their bias. He thought that was unprofessional\u2014and he was right.\n\nIn sports, the stakes might be smaller, but in some ways the offense is even worse. Fans have a right to enjoy a game, or a discussion of sports topics, without feeling like they're being put through a social indoctrination regimen, especially a social indoctrination program that's run by people whose sole accomplishment in life is that they can remember who hit cleanup for the Big Red Machine in the seventies. (Side note: it was Johnny Bench.) And that's part of the problem too. Many sports reporters and commentators recognize that they deal in trivialities, and yet they want to make a bigger impact on society, they want to feel more important, they want to inflate their egos by lecturing you, and as a consequence they often do their real jobs not very well. This book is for all of us who find ourselves wanting to shout, \"Shut up and give me the box score!\"\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nLANDING ON TRAYVON\n\nRadio is an industry dominated by white people. In all honesty, it looks an awful lot like a Mumford & Sons concert in there: shaggy beards and ill-fitting jeans mixed with a healthy dose of malnutrition and metrosexuality. You know the types. Yet one day in early 2012, I sat show-prepping in the newsroom, sitting with a black producer and a black intern. Eventually our discussion turned to a story that had dwarfed all other news: Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman.\n\nThe headlines were that the local prosecutors would not charge George Zimmerman with Trayvon Martin's murder. This greatly upset the producer and the intern. But then our conversation turned to the sports community.\n\nPRODUCER: I just wish somebody would stand up and do something. Like maybe a Florida team; if they would just make a statement it would bring the kind of attention this deserves.\n\nINTERN: Oh absolutely. But nobody probably will.\n\nME: Why do you want that? How is it the job of a sports team, or a sports league, to get involved in a murder trial?\n\nPRODUCER: Because this isn't just a murder trial. This is a racial murder trial.\n\nME: So in other words, it's not about Trayvon Martin, it's about George Zimmerman?\n\nPRODUCER: No, it's not all because of that . . .\n\nME: But how many black kids are killed in South Florida every year by other black kids? Probably hundreds. Yet you're not asking a Florida team to make a stand over any of them. You're asking a Florida team to make a stand here because of who the murderer is. Not because of the kid who got murdered.\n\nNow, I'm sure you're asking yourselves: _But, Dylan! What the heck are you doing?!? Why bring up Trayvon Martin? I thought this was a book about sports media._ Relax, this is a book about sports media. And no, Trayvon Martin's story should never have been a sports media story. But it was, because sports media, and athletes, made it into a story that had to do with sports.\n\nTrayvon Martin didn't land on us; we decided to land on Trayvon Martin. And when the liberal sports media land on a topic of which they have virtually no knowledge, and very little understanding, it makes a really bad sound . . . kind of like Nickelback, but racist. Now, I bring up the discussion I had at the radio station for several reasons. First of all, I had a good relationship with this producer; we could be honest with each other, and though our conversation about Trayvon became contentious at times, it didn't end badly. Second, I want to give him credit for basically predicting the Miami Heat \"hoodie photo\" that they would release only a couple of months later.\n\nBut most of all I want to illustrate the fact that _plenty_ of people in the \"social justice\"\u2013driven, liberal sports media _wanted_ to land on the Trayvon Martin story in any way they could and found any excuse they could to do it. Similar discussions occurred at radio and television sports desks all over the country despite the fact that this story had absolutely nothing to do with sports.\n\nHow do I know this? Because in April 2012, thirteen members of the Miami Heat donned hoodies, just as Trayvon had been wearing when he was shot, for a group photo to show solidarity and put forth the idea that any of them could have been the victim. Then immediately after the \"hoodie photo\" went viral, the sports media went apoplectic. Michael Wallace, writing in the _Miami Heat Index_ at ESPN.com, applauded the Heat for \"standing tall\" for Trayvon and explained why the Heat felt they had to do this:\n\nBut this case hits especially close to home for the Heat on several levels. Martin was from Miami Gardens, a community that borders on neighborhoods where Heat players James Jones and Udonis Haslem were raised. . . . In many ways, this was a civic duty for Wade, James and their teammates. . . . Like Wade, LeBron also is the father of two young sons. And also like Wade, LeBron grew up in an impoverished area where young black men were more likely to become fatal statistics than phenoms in the field of sports.\n\nA civic duty, huh? Funny how this civic duty only kicks in when someone of a lighter complexion pulls the trigger. In August 2013, in that very same Miami Gardens neighborhood, twelve-year-old Tequila Forshee was killed by stray bullets as she sat in her family's living room having her hair braided. An innocent little girl, with her whole life ahead of her, snuffed out like she was nothing by stray bullets fired by some shred of human excrement I sincerely hope is somebody's prison wife right now. But you've never heard of Tequila Forshee before. Why?\n\nWhy didn't this sense of \"civic duty\" kick in for her? After all, she was from Udonis Haslem and James Jones's old neighborhood; yet no players \"stood tall\" for Tequila. No members of the Heat braided their hair for her. Maybe it's because her killer wasn't white. In which case, apparently, there's no point \"standing tall.\" Make sense? If it does, you're an idiot.\n\nMichael Wallace is no doubt right when he says that young black men from impoverished areas are far \"more likely to become fatal statistics than phenoms in the field of sports.\" But what he left out is that they're far more likely to become fatal statistics _at the hands of other black men_ than they are by idiot, vigilante neighborhood-watch types. The fact is, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics of the U.S. Department of Justice, about 93 percent of black murder victims are murdered by other blacks; and blacks, who are about 13 percent of the population, commit more than half of all American homicides.\n\nSo is there a crime problem in black America? Yes\u2014and if the Miami Heat or any other players wanted to do something about it, donning hoodies in solidarity with Trayvon was about the least effective thing they could have done.\n\nBut for sports media, grandstanding is just fine. Sports columnist David Hyde, in the _Sun Sentinel_ , lamented how \"over the past few decades,\" before the Heat made their brave stand for Trayvon, \"the model of the sports hero shrank.\" He continued:\n\nIt didn't start with Tiger Woods' refusal to say something\u2014anything\u2014about the lack of black members at certain country clubs or of women at Augusta National. It didn't start with Michael Jordan's avoiding political conversations because, as the namesake of the Air Jordan sneaker famously said, \"Republicans buy shoes too.\" It's a cultural slide we've all participated in\u2014athletes, media and fans\u2014of expecting players only to play great and never to think great like Arthur Ashe, prod great like Muhammad Ali, talk great like Billie Jean King or Martina Navratilova, or challenge in a great way like Jim Brown or Oscar Robertson.\n\nMaybe we only care about players playing great because that's the only reason why we watch them. Tom Brady is a phenomenal quarterback. That's what he does, and that's what he knows. If I wanted to learn how to read a zone-dog blitz, I'd go to Brady. If I wanted insight on political unrest in Ukraine, or crop production in Malaysia, I'd go to somebody else. It's not that I don't expect my athletes to \"think great\"; I would just prefer they keep those \"great\" thoughts to themselves, because I don't watch them for that. Nor is it the shrinking of the \"sports hero\"; if anything, athletes are more famous and wealthy today than they've ever been. What it is (big-word alert) is the compartmentalization of the world. I don't need a political Muhammad Ali in my life; if I want to watch an anti-American Muslim scream about the injustices perpetrated by America, I can watch MSNBC. I don't need Billie Jean King to tell me what it's like to be gay; I have HBO and _Modern Family_ for that. Back when Muhammad Ali and Billie Jean King were around, there were three television stations and five major national newspapers. Now we have cable channels that cover everything from underwater basket-weaving to lesbian biker gangs, and we have podcasts, blogs, satellite radio, terrestrial radio, apps, tweets, and websites with wannabe experts galore. What I want, _and what I think most people want_ , is for their athletes to entertain them with the grace, skill, and power of their sport, and to provide an escape from all the real-world stuff that we have to deal with on a daily basis. Almost every sports fan wants sports to be a politics-free zone, and our job as media isn't to insert realism into people's escapism. And sports media should serve the sports fans, not push the commentators' political agendas, and not push athletes to make political statements (and they're always pushing in one direction, in case you didn't notice).\n\nThat said, Hyde's contention that today's athletes lack political activism is a joke. Michael Jordan, whom Hyde disses for avoiding \"political conversations,\" was one of Barack Obama's most significant private campaign donors. In fact, Jordan, along with then\u2013NBA commissioner David Stern, hosted a massive campaign fund-raising dinner for Obama in New York City right before the 2012 election called the \"Obama Classic.\" The event attracted multiple NBA players, including Kyrie Irving, John Wall, Harrison Barnes, Austin Rivers, and many others. Jordan himself, whose financial support of Obama goes back as far as his Senate run in 2004, has raised and donated millions to Obama. What annoys leftist sports writers like David Hyde is the lack of 1960s\u2013 and 1970s\u2013era photo-ops: no raised fists, no burning bras, no public protests. The hoodie photo brought back, for the leftist sport media, the good old days.\n\nBut for athletes the \"movement\" has grown more sophisticated as it has grown more corporate. For many years \"the Benjamins\" have flown out of athletes' wallets and into the coffers of leftist politicians in copious amounts. The $5,000-a-plate dinner _is_ the new burning bra. But that, of course, doesn't make for good copy or commentary of the sort that Benjamin Hochman of the _Denver Post_ could turn out praising LeBron James and the Heat for the hoodie photo:\n\nEver since [LeBron] made \"take my talents\" a punch line, ever since he floundered in NBA Finals news conferences as if he were Captain Queeg, ever since he forgot about his fans and where he came from, basketball's best player has become a PR nightmare. Your mouth opens when he plays, and your mouth opens when he opens his mouth. But LeBron James did something positive this past week with his public platform.\n\nThe killing has sparked a debate about racial profiling. So James posted a photo on his Twitter account (he has more than 4 million followers). The photo featured the Miami Heat players all wearing sweat shirt hoods over their heads. Using hash tags to provide commentary, James wrote: #WeAreTrayvonMartin #Hoodies #Stereotyped #WeWantJustice.\n\nIn fact, you would have had to look very hard to find any criticism of what the Heat had done. The so-called great fear of the NBA, that its majority fan demographic of suburban whites would be put off by the political stance of its players, mostly urban and black, seemed not to materialize at all. Virtually the entire sports world, fans included, either stood in full-throated support or stayed ambivalent about what the Heat had done in taking the \"hoodie photo.\" Yet the media, in their zest to reward the Heat for the kind of activism they wanted to see more of, continued to heap on the praise. Jason Whitlock, then of Fox Sports, spoke of \"courage\" in what the team had done:\n\nCourage can be every bit as contagious as cowardice. Wade and James spread the courage virus throughout the NBA on Friday. At the formation of Miami's \"Big Three,\" James and his defenders claimed the establishment was threatened by young black athletes seizing their power and using it.\n\nFor the first time, I now believe James understands his power. And it wasn't in forcing NBA executives to come to his hometown, Akron, Ohio, to grovel at his feet, or announcing his relocation to South Beach on national TV or thumbing his nose at Dan Gilbert as he left Cleveland.\n\nLeBron's power is in using his platform, when appropriate, to make the establishment stretch beyond its comfort zone when it comes to dealing with the powerless. LeBron's heart has always been in the right place. Teaming with Wade, a near equal in terms of talent and a big brother in terms of maturity, has moved LeBron's head where his heart is.\n\nHow much \"courage\" is truly involved in tweeting out a pic that garners universal praise? On the contrary, something much more courageous came later from Charles Barkley when he announced his agreement with the eventual acquittal of George Zimmerman. _That_ took incredible balls.\n\nPay close attention to the language Whitlock uses to describe the \"power\" that LeBron James has, and needs to use, \" _when appropriate, to make the establishment stretch beyond its comfort zone when itcomes to dealing with the powerless_ [emphasis added].\" So this is the role of the best player in the NBA? To make the establishment \"stretch\" for the \"powerless\"? Whitlock is, allegedly, a sports writer, but he could just as easily be writing a sports version of Saul Alinsky's _Rules for Radicals_. What Whitlock really means is that he wants LeBron and other high-profile black athletes to become activists for leftist political causes.\n\nTo the sports media, Nike ads, McDonald's commercials, appearances at Boys and Girls Clubs, even campaign contributions, are a waste of the power of someone like LeBron James. Don't believe me? Here's former NBA player Etan Thomas writing in the _Washington Post_ about the \"Obama Classic,\" and more specifically about the \"wasted power\" of Michael Jordan:\n\nIn a recent article on ESPN, LZ Granderson reminds us of Jordan's infamous \"Republicans buy sneakers, too\" comment that has become the prime example of the overall tragedy of _wasted power_ [emphasis added]. Jordan reportedly made the comment when declining to endorse black Democrat Harvey Gantt in a North Carolina 1990 Senate race against Jessie Helms (R).\n\nJordan had the ability to influence an entire generation of young people especially within the black community. But instead he chose to remain publicly neutral in all matters racial and political. He never capitalized on his potential to mobilize the black community on social issues. Simply put, he never wanted to continue the work of the great Muhammad Ali and Jim Brown, both politically outspoken athletes. As his support for President Obama shows, he might have changed his tune.\n\nEtan Thomas and his fellow leftists in sports media think it's not enough for great athletes to inspire kids to work hard and try to excel in sports and in life. No, they should use their wealth and their fame to \"mobilize the black community on social issues.\" Translation: get them to vote Democrat or get them to the picket lines, and make sure they do and say the right things when they're there.\n\nWhen LeBron James left Cleveland for Miami, his former employer Dan Gilbert wrote a childish hit piece attacking him. At the time many black people, including Jesse Jackson and Marc Lamont Hill, a CNN commentator, accused Gilbert of having a \"slave master\" mentality toward his players, acting as if he \"owned\" them.\n\nGilbert and LeBron have since made up, but the idea that multimillion-dollar black athletes are slaves is a theory as absurd as it is prevalent. Etan Thomas wrote in the _Washington Post_ :\n\nThe [early, apolitical] stance that Jordan's behavior illustrated was referenced in William Rhoden's book, \"40 Million Dollar Slaves: The Rise, Fall and Redemption of Black Athletes,\" in which the author said: \"Isolated and alienated from their native networks and increasingly cloistered into new networks as they become corporatized entities, they are excised from their communities as they fulfill their professional responsibilities and disconnected from the networks of people, in many cases predominately African-American, who once comprised their 'community.' This leads to a general ignorance of the issues impacting a vast majority of African-Americans across the country.\"\n\nTranslation: As black athletes become more successful, they become less \"black.\" And just as troubling for activists, as black athletes become more successful, the harder they are to control and to manipulate.\n\nTo the activists, black athletes should all think alike. They should all think like _them_. No old plantation slave master could control the thoughts of his slaves, but the new, liberal, \"progressive\" activists in the sports media think we all, but blacks especially, have to think alike. If you think for yourself, you're selling out.\n\nThe activists' message to young black athletes is that if they work hard and succeed, they'll be held in corporate bondage to some billionaire owner who will alienate them from their \"community.\" What an awesome message! What a way to encourage the kids! Being black is somehow antipathetic to success . . . unless you become politically active in left-wing causes. Then, your \"blackness\" will be enshrined forever.\n\nWhat really bothers the likes of William Rhoden and Etan Thomas is not that these athletes are \"slaves,\" but that they're not slaves _to them_. They're upset that they can't just pick up the phone and tell Tiger Woods to start spouting whatever leftist drivel they need spouted, to be the \"voice\" of Jason Whitlock's \"powerless.\" That's why the leftist sports media made their collective O-face after the Miami Heat's hoodie photo. It had nothing to do with Trayvon Martin. None of it did. To them, it was a symbol that the era of the \"forty-million-dollar slave\" might be coming to an end; a sign that ultra-successful, PR-savvy black athletes might, just might, be willing to step into political controversy, giving leftists an awesomely powerful weapon to wield against the \"establishment.\" And it appears that transformation is now well under way, with LeBron James doing commercials promoting Obamacare. Such statements are \"safe\" too in the sense that while Obamacare or the Trayvon Martin case are politically controversial, any liberal statements from athletes will be applauded by the liberal (including sports) media.\n\nOne of the ironies and tragedies of the Trayvon Martin case is that justice and common sense were shot down with him. The \"injustice\" of Zimmerman's acquittal was not the result of racism from the establishment, but the result of the establishment's bending over backward to try and assuage the anger represented by the likes of the Heat. George Zimmerman should never have been charged with murder. He called 911, for God's sake. How many murderers, other than in a Monty Python movie, _The Benny Hill Show_ , or some kind of bad British comedy skit, actually call the cops?\n\nBut if you don't want to hear this from me (a non-lawyer), then hear it from Alan Dershowitz, a Harvard Law professor with impeccable liberal credentials. Here is some of what he had to say in an interview on CNN's _State of the Union_ about what went wrong in the Zimmerman trial:\n\nThere was political pressure on the governor, and he appointed somebody [special prosecutor Angela Corey] who had the worst reputation in Florida for overcharging. And she did exactly what she was supposed to do; she overcharged. She charged second-degree murder in a case where there was reasonable doubt written all over it.\n\nIn another appearance, on Mike Huckabee's show _Huckabee_ on Fox News, Dershowitz detailed how Corey's behavior even \"bordered on criminal conduct.\"\n\n\"She submitted an affidavit that was, if not perjurious, completely misleading. She violated all kinds of rules of the profession,\" Dershowitz told Huckabee.\n\n\"Halfway through the trial she realized she wasn't going to get a second degree murder verdict, so she asked for a compromised verdict, for manslaughter. And then, she went even further and said that she was going to charge him with child abuse and felony murder. That was such a stretch that it goes beyond anything professionally responsible. She was among the most irresponsible prosecutors I've seen in 50 years of litigating cases, and believe me, I've seen good prosecutors, bad prosecutors, but rarely have I seen one as bad as this prosecutor.\"\n\nThe \"racism\" of the Trayvon Martin case had nothing to do with animosity toward blacks; the \"racism\" was of a legal system going to absurd lengths to prove that it wasn't racist, bringing a case that should never have been brought.\n\nAt the forefront of the mob demanding \"justice\" for Trayvon Martin were the sports media and more than a few players. The frenzy they and others helped stir up distracted millions of people from the actual facts of the case, encouraged the prosecutor to overreach, and then led to an explosion of outrage on social media after the verdict came down. Roddy White of the Atlanta Falcons tweeted: \"All them jurors should go home tonight and kill themselves for letting a grown man get away with killing a kid.\"\n\nJames Harrison, then of the Bengals, weighed in: \"Think I'll go pick a fight and get my ass kicked then pull my gun and kill somebody and see if I can get away . . .\"\n\nAnd Stevie Johnson, then of the Bills, gave us some top-drawer insight as well: \"Living in a world where you fight dogs; you could lose everything (Mike Vick) . . . If you kill a black man you're not guilty! #INjusticeSystem.\"\n\nOf course, we also live in a world where, if you fight dogs, you can get a $100 million contract after serving your time, but point taken, Stevie. Now, none of this was, or should have been, surprising. Twitter has given a voice to unfiltered and instantaneous commentary from anyone and everyone, and sometimes that works out. Sometimes you get awesomeness. Sometimes you get Roddy White. But what was surprising (though maybe it shouldn't have been) was that even before the verdict, ESPN lifted its long-standing ban on employees expressing political opinions on social media and instead allowed expressions of solidarity with Trayvon Martin.\n\nAt first this wasn't the case. On March 23, 2013, the same day that President Obama said, \"If I had a son, he'd look like Trayvon,\" ESPN spokesman Josh Krulewitz affirmed that the network would be enforcing its social-media policy against getting involved in politics: \"We completely understand the strong feelings involved. Our decision is in keeping with our long-standing policy for ESPN content. There are other avenues for our people to represent issues outside of sports beyond ESPN Twitter feeds.\"\n\nBut that didn't last long. Only two days later, Krulewitz executed an abrupt about-face: \"It's a tragic situation that has led to much thoughtful discussion throughout the company. As a result, in this circumstance, we have decided to allow this particular expression of human sympathy.\"\n\nTranslation: Almost everybody at ESPN's headquarters in Bristol, Connecticut, voted for President Obama, and he's talking about it. Therefore, it's cool. This change in policy led to several ESPN employees donning hoodies on their avatars as signs of support. As Benjamin Chance of Breitbart.com reported, not all were pleased by ESPN's reversal:\n\nThe Poynter Institute, the network's former Ombudsman, made clear its disappointment in ESPN's flip-flop: \"ESPN's policy that prohibits its commentators, anchors, reporters and analysts from making personal political statements is a good one because it preserves the individual's ability to do powerful work that others cannot do. Although we applaud the willingness to wrestle with the social media policy\u2014it should be a living, breathing document\u2014we were disheartened to see ESPN make an exception to the strongly rooted journalism value of independence.\"\n\nSo was I, because it confirmed that ESPN has _no_ \"strongly rooted journalism value of independence.\" It flipped its social-media policy two days after Barack Obama spoke. There's nothing independent about that. And as for journalistic integrity, ESPN has dozens of current and former lawyers on its payroll who could have explained the hopelessness of bringing George Zimmerman to trial on a second-degree murder charge. Those voices were either silent or ignored. The worldwide leader of sports media approached a legal story as a political issue from the start, because that is how they see the world.\n\nSo after the Miami Heat's hoodie photo broke the proverbial ice and made it cool for athletes to embrace political issues and social causes, athletes started diving into whatever fashionable current event would get them generous play in the liberal media for \"taking a stand.\" The next flashpoint of silly would be in the NFL.\n\nIn late November 2014, shortly after a grand jury in Ferguson, Missouri, decided not to indict white police officer Darren Wilson for fatally shooting a black man named Michael Brown, five members of the St. Louis Rams receiving corps\u2014Tavon Austin, Stedman Bailey, Kenny Britt, Chris Givens, and Jared Cook\u2014showed their solidarity with Brown and those protesting the grand jury's decision by walking out for opening game introductions in the \"hands up, don't shoot\" sign of surrender so famously associated with the case.\n\nThe gesture was greeted with a mix of cheers and boos inside the stadium, and outside the confines of the ESPN headquarters in Bristol, Connecticut (where the reaction was euphoric), the national reaction was mixed as well. Immediately, questions started circulating about what kind of discipline the NFL and/or the Rams might hand down to the players.\n\nInstead, the NFL decided to issue its own gesture of surrender. In an email response to Yahoo! Sports, NFL vice president of communications Brian McCarthy said, \"We respect and understand the concerns of all individuals who have expressed views on this tragic situation.\"\n\nRams head coach Jeff Fisher doubled down on the proverbial washing of hands by saying that the players \"made the choice to exercise their free speech\" and would not be disciplined.\n\nSo, in other words, the same league that punishes players for choreographing end-zone celebrations decided to play the free-speech card on a day when five of its players used an NFL broadcast to slam law enforcement and choreograph what amounted to a show of solidarity with the rioters who had taken advantage of the alleged \"injustice\" of the Ferguson case to loot and burn private property. In fact, that very day, the Rams hosted dozens of Ferguson business owners, or, excuse me, former business owners who had seen their property destroyed by the very people with whom the Rams players had aligned themselves. To the Rams players it was all about race. Charles Barkley, however, had it exactly right when he said that the rioters \"aren't real black people\"\u2014at least not ones we should admire\u2014but \"scumbags.\" He also laid into the liberal media for misreporting the story in Ferguson because of their racial obsessions and discussed how he had actually read the grand jury testimony that to his mind rightly exonerated the police officer.\n\nThe sports media and the NFL, however, were not nearly as thoughtful as Barkley. Indeed, the NFL seemed less worried about the victims of the rioters than about incurring the wrath of angry white hipsters and black radicals and the journalists who love them. For them the issue, allegedly, was free speech.\n\nBut the NFL has a funny way of dealing with free speech. In fact, it has a downright nasty habit of only respecting and recognizing speech as free when it's politically convenient for it to do so, and not respecting the speech it does not wish to hear. Such was the case with the Miami Dolphins player Don Jones.\n\nSoon after Michael Sam was drafted and images of him kissing his boyfriend were beamed into living rooms all over the country, Jones took to Twitter and decided to weigh in. He did so by tweeting the following: \"OMG\" and \"Horrible.\"\n\nA man of few words, clearly. Still, that one word (oh, and the acronym) were enough for Don Jones not only to get fined and suspended, but to have to undergo sensitivity training. But why? What about Don Jones's right to free speech? The Rams players got in front of more than fifty thousand people in the stadium and God knows how many on televisions nationwide to throw gasoline on the still-smoldering flames of racial dysfunction in America, and we were told that all they had done was exercise their right to free speech.\n\nDon Jones tweeted one negative word to 7,500 Twitter followers and was not only fined but sent to get mentally reprogrammed by liberal activists. Why? Because the rioting activists in Ferguson are a protected species to the liberal sports establishment. While those opposed to homosexuality, or at least the visual of two men kissing, are endangered and marked for figurative extinction.\n\nSame thing with Chris Culliver of the San Francisco 49ers. In an interview right before Super Bowl XLVII, Chris Culliver said that gay players wouldn't be welcome on the team.\n\nAs quoted in Yahoo! Sports:\n\n\"I don't do the gay guys man,\" said Culliver, whose Niners play the Baltimore Ravens on Sunday. \"I don't do that. No, we don't got no gay people on the team, they gotta get up out of here if they do.\n\n\"Can't be with that sweet stuff. Nah... can't be... in the locker room man. Nah.\"\n\nWhen quizzed by Lange whether any homosexual athletes would need to keep their sexuality a secret in football, Culliver responded: \"Yeah, come out 10 years later after that.\"\n\nNow, what you don't get from the article is the context of the interview and the way the shock-jock interviewer completely led Culliver into making these comments. In fact, what was really outrageous was what the shock jock, Artie Lange, said, not what Culliver said:\n\nLANGE: Give me an under/over on white chicks this week?\n\nCULLIVER: White chicks?\n\nLANGE: How many are you going to (expletive)?\n\nCULLIVER: None.\n\nLANGE: None?\n\nCULLIVER: I can't (expletive) no white chicks before the Super Bowl.\n\nLANGE: What about gay guys?\n\nCULLIVER: I don't do the gay guys, man. I don't do that.\n\nSomehow, in the great liberal hierarchy of values, saying that you're not into gay guys is worse than treating women as disposable sex toys (actually, it appears that liberals are in favor of that). I'm not saying Culliver doesn't really believe what he said, but when you ask a player how many white women he's going to sleep with that week and then immediately follow that up by asking him if he's been propositioned by any gay guys or would like to have sex with some, well, it gives you an idea of what kind of interview this was. It wasn't like Culliver offered his opinions unsolicited and just started saying inflammatory things.\n\nOn the contrary, the whole interview was inflammatory. Lange clearly led Culliver onto the topic and asked the questions in such a way as to get a reaction, which Culliver gave to him, and in a stunning turn that only liberals can do, Lange afterward cast himself as a high and mighty moral judge tut-tutting about how attitudes like Culliver's were unfortunately widespread in the NFL.\n\nTo try to stem the ensuing media storm, the 49ers quickly issued a statement: \"The San Francisco 49ers reject the comments that were made, and have addressed the matter with Chris. There is no place for discrimination within our organization at any level. We have and always will proudly support the LGBT community.\"\n\nCulliver issued his own apology. \"The derogatory comments I made yesterday were a reflection of thoughts in my head, but they are not how I feel. It has taken me seeing them in print to realize that they are hurtful and ugly. Those discriminating feelings are truly not in my heart. Further, I apologize to those who I have hurt and offended, and I pledge to learn and grow from this experience.\"\n\nLearning and growing from the experience really meant learning that he wasn't allowed to give an honest answer to a ridiculous question. Where was his right to free speech? Nowhere. Who in the liberal sports media stood up for his right to free speech? Nobody. Because, again, the only speech that is free in the NFL, and that is approved by the liberal sports media, is that which conforms to the marching orders of the activists who have made that once-proud league afraid of its own shadow.\n\nNot that the NFL is alone in that regard, obviously. When LeBron James and Derrick Rose donned \"I Can't Breathe\" T-shirts in pregame warm-ups in December 2014 to show solidarity with the Eric Garner protestors in New York (Garner had died after a police officer put him in an apparent chokehold in an attempt to arrest him; the officer wasn't indicted), they presented the NBA with the opportunity to prevent its games from turning into the equivalent of a Berkeley campus rally. But again, the league would disappoint. This time it would be NBA commissioner Adam Silver's turn to whiff. In an official statement, Silver said: \"I respect Derrick Rose and all of our players for voicing their personal views on important issues, but my preference would be for players to abide by our on-court attire rules.\"\n\nWhat a magical tube of weak sauce that is. Silver would have been better off seal-clapping his applause to the players and getting his own \"I Can't Breathe\" tee as opposed to issuing a statement that made him look completely feckless. Commissioners don't talk about their \"preferences\" when dealing with players who flagrantly flaunt the league's strict rules about pregame attire. They mete out punishment. Or at least they used to.\n\nThis is the same league that fined Jermaine O'Neal $5,000 for wearing his wristband about one inch too high. Yet it does nothing when it comes to players breaking rules to make statements on subjects about eleventy billion times more sensitive than where Mr. O'Neal sports his perspiration protection gear.\n\nI wonder if Adam Silver would have waxed poetic about respecting the players for \"voicing their personal views\" if a bunch of NBA players had shown up to pregames wearing \"I Support Traditional Marriage\" shirts? Or something really provocative, like a shirt that said, \"I Support the Police\"? Based on what happened to Chris Culliver and Don Jones, I don't think that would have ended well.\n\nNor did things end well between George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin.\n\nFor what it's worth, I do blame George Zimmerman for Trayvon Martin's death. Had he stayed in his car and just waited for the cops instead of turning into Paul Blart on 'roids, then Trayvon Martin would likely still be alive today. I don't know anyone who really disputes that. Perhaps if the grossly incompetent prosecutor had initially charged Zimmerman with manslaughter instead of second-degree murder, felony murder, child endangerment, the stock market collapse, the breakup of the Osmonds, and the Hindenburg disaster, then maybe Zimmerman would have been convicted\u2014a verdict I would have supported.\n\nBut none of that happened, because Florida's legal and political \"establishment\" was concerned with shielding itself from charges of racism by placating what it took to be popular opinion. The Trayvon Martin case should never have been a sports story, but once it became one, instead of helping to inform an ill-informed public, the sports media saw a racially charged situation\u2014and lit a match.\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nTHE SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND SPORT\n\nThe state of Arizona has given us many awesome things: the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, Barry Goldwater, Wyatt Earp cleaning up Tombstone, and the great tradition of getting completely tanked and floating down a river. Beer, rubber dinghies, and rivers punctuated by large underwater boulders\u2014what could possibly go wrong? But in the winter of 2014, the Grand Canyon State gave the sports world a collective hernia when its legislature had the audacity to pass SB 1062.\n\nKnown as the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, the bill was written primarily in response to an incident in 2006 in which Christian photographers in neighboring New Mexico declined to photograph a gay commitment ceremony (gay weddings were not yet legal), citing conflict with their religious beliefs. The gay couple quickly found another photographer but sued the Christian photographers for allegedly violating their civil rights. The Human Rights Commission of New Mexico and the state courts ruled against the photographers, who appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, which in April 2014 declined to hear the case.\n\nArizona lawmakers wanted a law that defined and limited when government could intrude on the First Amendment's guarantees of the \"free exercise\" of religion and freedom of speech to compel people to act against their religious beliefs.\n\nThe sports media, faithfully executing their role as distorters of truth, immediately branded the legislation as an \"anti-gay bill\" and demanded that the NFL pressure Arizona to rescind the law or move the 2015 Super Bowl from Arizona to somewhere else.\n\nOne late February morning, in the midst of the controversy, I was talking on the phone with a friend of mine who is the program director for a sports station in the Midwest. He knew I opposed gay marriage, and I knew he was for it. But I didn't think that was really the point here.\n\nMy friend said, \"Come on, dude. I know what a big deal this is for you. But even you have to see how this is wrong. Answer me this: If Jesus owned a store, would he have said, 'We don't serve your kind' if gay people walked in the door?\"\n\nI tried to point out the obvious: \"If Jesus owned a store, sure he would have sold groceries, because eating and shopping aren't sins. But he wouldn't have taken part in a gay wedding ceremony, because that would have been participating in a sinful relationship. The real question,\" I added, \"is where does a gay person's right to marry end and my right to free exercise of my religion begin.\"\n\nAfter about five seconds, he said, \"Not following.\"\n\nDoing the work that the American public school system clearly isn't doing itself, I explained: \"If a state decides to pass a law\u2014or more likely a court demands\u2014that gay people can get married, fine; but if I have a constitutionally guaranteed right to the free exercise of my religion, I shouldn't be compelled to participate in something I think is sinful, like gay marriage. So if a gay couple gets turned down by a Christian photographer, they should find another freaking photographer!\"\n\nThat's what life is supposed to be like in a free society\u2014free to choose, freedom of association\u2014but my friend, in this case, was just one example of the many in the sports media who took the Arizona law and twisted it into something it was absolutely not. Within hours of the story going national, _USA Today_ ran headlines: \"Arizona _Anti-Gay Bill_ Is Shameful,\" \"Arizona _Anti-Gay Bill_ : Second Look,\" and, last but not least, \"4 Things to Know about Arizona's ' _Anti-Gay_ ' _Bill_ [emphasis added in all headlines].\"\n\nThe sports media toed the same line. Pro Football Talk, which has become increasingly preachy, and less and less about pro football, ran headlines proclaiming, \"MLB Issues Strong Statement regarding Proposed Arizona _Anti-Gay_ Law\" and \"Arizona Governor Vetoes _Anti-Gay Law_ , Clearing Path for Super Bowl XLIX [emphasis added in both headlines].\" _Sporting News_ joined in: \"Super Bowl Could Nix Arizona If It Doesn't Back Off _Anti-Gay_ Law [emphasis added].\"\n\nThe frenzy showcased activist journalism at its worst; they called it an \"anti-gay bill\" even though _nowhere_ did the written legislation make reference to homosexuals, directly or indirectly. And in fact, if the Arizona legislature had wanted to allow businesses to refuse services to gays, it didn't have to do anything. As the _Christian Post_ observed, \"It is not currently illegal for a business to deny service to someone because they are gay. Some cities in Arizona have ordinances against it but there is no state law against it. If business owners in Arizona wanted to deny service to gays, they could do so in most of the state under current law.\" Moreover, though the bill was definitely designed with Christians in mind, it wasn't exclusive to them. Muslims could have claimed RFRA protections from being forced to serve alcohol, and Hindus could have claimed protections from being forced to handle beef. Nor was the bill a return to \"Jim Crow\" segregation laws, as so many liberals claimed (conflating, as they almost always do, homosexuality with race). Paul Mirengoff, a lawyer writing at the popular blog _Power Line_ , called such claims not only \"false\" but \"hysterical.\"\n\nWhich gets us down to the nitty-gritty. The purpose of this law was _not_ to take rights away from gay people. Not a single gay person would have lost a single right as a result of the Arizona law. What the law ventured to do was to protect religious freedom\u2014a freedom central to the founding of this country. If our public schools spent more time teaching American history and less time teaching how to put condoms on cucumbers, maybe more Americans, even in sports media, might have understood this.\n\nSo if the law wasn't anti-gay, which it clearly wasn't, and if it wasn't designed to usher in a new era of Jim Crow for gays, which it also clearly wasn't, then why all the controversy? Why did the NFL threaten to take away the Super Bowl if the law wasn't vetoed? Why did Major League Baseball condemn the law? Why did the sports media\u2014all talk shows, websites, blogs, and TV shows included\u2014spend the better part of a week attacking this bill like a hammerhead shark armed with mace and a stiletto? They attacked it, not because it was anti-gay, but because it was _pro_ -Christian.\n\nSports media, as you might have noticed, have morphed into one of the largest and loudest forums for gay activism. No doubt about it. What's talked about much less, though, is how leftist producers and reporters have made sports media vociferously anti-Christian. The hysterical reaction of the sports world to a law limiting _government coercion_ of religious people to perform what they consider immoral acts tells us all we need to know about where Christians stand with the liberal sports media. As Paul Mirengoff wrote on _Power Line_ :\n\n_First_ , it seems fundamentally wrong to deny someone service at, say, a restaurant or a gas station because of his or her sexual orientation (although doing so is not currently banned by Arizona state law). Likewise, it seems fundamentally wrong for a photographer to refuse to take, say, a passport photo of a person because of his or her sexual orientation. But _second_ , it also seems fundamentally wrong to require a photographer who believes, based on sincere religious conviction, that gay marriage is immoral to participate in a gay marriage celebration by photographing it [emphasis in original].\n\nPrecisely right, and this was a distinction that the photographers themselves made. They were perfectly happy to take portraits of gay people. What they objected to was participating in a ceremony they thought was immoral.\n\nFor most of us, America is about liberty, but no one in the mainstream media sports world seemed to acknowledge or care that there was anything wrong with forcing Christians to violate their religious beliefs. Gay rights trump Christian rights every time. Pro Football Talk took to Twitter to condemn the Arizona law: \"We collectively wagged a finger at Russia for their anti-gay laws. Will we shrug at what Arizona may do? Hopefully the NFL won't.\"\n\nNow, does Arizona remind you of Vladimir Putin's Russia? No? Me neither. But honestly I, too, have felt the need to wag a finger at former KGB colonel Vladimir Putin (I'll let you guess which one) for a number of reasons. But his stance on gay issues has never been one of them. Not that I'm okay with anybody being persecuted for anything, but if Pro Football Talk were to take a break from trying to be a gay _Pravda_ , it might notice that there's more to Putin's Russia than anti-gay prejudice, like, you know, torture, court fixing, suppression of a free press, state-sanctioned murder, and even the invasion of Ukraine. But for sports media no international issues can compete with gay issues.\n\nESPN host Colin Cowherd basically didn't talk sports for an entire day so he could deal with the Arizona law. He even took to Twitter to challenge Christians directly: \"For Christians saying 'a photographer has right to deny lesbian couple'. Do you deny couples who have had premarital sex too? Hmmm.\"\n\nHmmm, indeed. How many couples who have had premarital sex, in Cowherd's hypothetical example, would ask the photographers to join them in fornication or to photograph it? I think most people would agree that the photographers would have a right to say no. The gay couple in New Mexico was _explicitly demanding_ that the photographers participate in an act that the photographers believed to be immoral. The real issue is not whether we're all sinners (the Christian answer to that is yes) but when it is legally acceptable to compel someone to violate his or her conscience. It's pretty amazing, isn't it, how gay-bandwagon sportscasters don't give a flip about freedom of conscience?\n\nAnd if you really wanted to be serious about it, which you can't be in a tweet, a Christian can believe that fornication is a sin, but that a sin can be forgiven before a couple enters into a holy marriage, and that marriage is by nature and by God's design definable as a monogamous, heterosexual union. A homosexual marriage, by contrast, is, in a Christian view, a violation of natural law, contrary to God's design, and wrong\u2014in other words, a sin. Is that so hard to understand? It's a view that, not so very long ago, was held nearly universally in this country and is now almost universally condemned by the progressive commissars who run sports media.\n\nAnd think about it for a second: If you were gay, why would you seek out a Christian photographer to shoot your wedding? I mean, you've seen the kids who go to film and photography school; most of them look like malnourished, hipster baristas. There was certainly no shortage of photographers in New Mexico happy to photograph a gay commitment ceremony. Yet the gay couple in question deliberately chose a small photography business run by a Christian couple and then sued them when the photographers wouldn't violate their religious beliefs. Is that the American way?\n\nI wouldn't want to force a Muslim photographer to come to my wedding and watch me pound J\u00e4ger shots and dance poorly to bad classic rock while manhandling my wife (I film that stuff myself anyway). And who would, exactly, want to hire someone morally opposed to their union to capture their special day? A person trying to make a political point, maybe? Or someone trying to rub someone else's nose in it? To many of us, that might seem ill-mannered, mean, or vindictive, but the sports media were more than willing to jump in and take their shots at the Christian photographers and the lawmakers who tried to defend freedom of religion.\n\n_Pardon the Interruption_ 's Tony Kornheiser, for one, wasted no time in flushing public discourse down the proverbial crapper. He did more than demand the NFL move the Super Bowl if SB 1062 became law. In a flight of ridiculous hyperbole, he alleged that if it did become law, gay football player Michael Sam \"could not buy a ticket possibly to the Super Bowl. Arizona has become in recent years the most recalcitrant, backward-looking state in the country when it comes to social change.\" Kornheiser couldn't resist the reductio ad Hitlerum. Regarding gays in Arizona, he asked: \"How are they supposed to be identified? Should they wear a yellow star? Because my people went through that at one point.\"\n\nThe utter clownery of his statement probably deserves its own chapter, but in the interest of time (and my sanity) I'll confine it to a few lines. First of all, under what circumstances would Michael Sam not be allowed to buy a ticket to the Super Bowl? This is the difference between a journalist and an ideologue. If Kornheiser had approached the subject as a journalist, he would have acknowledged that the bill did not prevent Michael Sam, or any gay person, from going to the Super Bowl or any other public venue. But he wasn't approaching it as a journalist; he was approaching it as a gay-rights activist, which is why he invoked not only the image of Jim Crow\u2013like exclusion but also the Nazis.\n\nThe motivation behind the bill was to defend the First Amendment, hardly a calling card of National Socialism. Breitbart.com sports editor Daniel Flynn noted the law's clear intent was to allow \"citizens to invoke their free exercise of religion as a legal protection against prosecution.\" It said nothing about homosexuals at all, let alone marking them for identification. And if Kornheiser really wanted to play the Nazi game, he might have acknowledged, if he had any knowledge at all, that Catholic priests, readily identifiable by their collars, had their own wing at the Buchenwald death camps, having been sent there by the Nazis for opposing a pagan regime. No one was talking about coercing gays with this Arizona law; the lawmakers were trying to _prevent_ the coercion of Christians. So who is playing Nazi here\u2014the lawmakers who want to defend religious freedom or the sports media bozos who want to expunge Christians' (and Jews' and Muslims' and others') First Amendment rights?\n\nAnd that brings us to another point\u2014and a bigger one. There's something far darker and more sinister going on here than simple media overreaction. Likening Christians to Nazis, which Kornheiser did without using the word _Christian_ , has become a sort of media trope. Right after the NFL draft in April 2010, Boston-based sports radio host Fred Toettcher searched for words to describe the scene of white Christian athlete Tim Tebow's draft party at his parent's home, and boy did Toettcher paint a picture: \"It looked like some kind of Nazi rally. . . . So lily-white is what I'm trying to say. Yeah, Stepford Wives.\"\n\nHmm, interesting use of words there. Question, though: Do you think that Tim Tebow's draft party was the first \"lily-white\" draft party that Fred Toettcher had ever seen? After all, Toettcher has been a media guy for years, and he's probably been watching the draft his whole life. He's undoubtedly seen dozens of other white athletes surrounded by their \"Stepford Wives\" and their families.\n\nYet Toettcher never used the term \"Nazi rally\" to describe any of their draft parties. Why? Because when Toettcher was watching the scene of Tebow's family at his draft party, he wasn't looking at them as people, _he was looking at what they stand for._ And in Toettcher's mind, what they stand for, coupled with their \"lily-white\" surroundings, equals hate. Because that's how he and many other prominent members of the sports media see Christians: Christianity equals intolerance, which equals hate, which equals racism, which equals bigotry. This despite the fact that the Tebows have probably done more for nonwhite people in one weekend of charitable works than Fred Toettcher, Tony Kornheiser, and any other lefty sportscaster you want to throw in there have done in the last ten years.\n\nOf course, many sportscasters are subtler than that, but with a similar agenda: they don't like Christianity, or at the very least they want Christians to be silent. For instance, in October 2013, a group of Seattle Seahawks, four players and two coaches, released a video entitled _The Making of a Champion: Seattle Seahawks._ Led by long snapper Clint Gresham and including quarterback Russell Wilson, they talked about their love of the game; how being a champion means not just winning at football, but at life; and why they play the game for a higher purpose, to honor and glorify God. Inspiring, right? Harmless, right? A perfect antidote to so much NFL news overlapping with the crime pages, right? Wrong. At least according to Pro Football Talk's Mike Florio, who, after watching the video, wrote: \"The not-so-subtle message from _The Making of a Champion: Seattle Seahawks_ is that Christian believers always thrive, and that the Seahawks are a team of Christian believers. While we respect everyone's right to believe whatever they choose to believe (and I'm a lifelong Roman Catholic), there's a line that easily can be crossed when employment and religion become intertwined.\"\n\nThis is such a magical pile of crap. No one ever remotely suggested, either in the fifteen-minute film or outside of it, that Christian belief is _a condition_ of being a Seattle Seahawk. The video was not produced by the Seahawks organization; it was put together by a handful of coaches and players who happen to work and play for the Seahawks and who specifically emphasize that they found faith while looking _beyond_ their football glory. It is never stated or even implied that the Seahawks are \"a team of Christian believers.\" Florio seems to take the position that it's fine to be a Christian in sports as long as you never talk about it. I wonder how many other groups he would apply that to. It seems like we talked about nothing else in the sports world for weeks but about how great it was that football player Michael Sam is gay\u2014and I'm sure a fifteen-minute film about him would be hailed for its \"courage\" and replayed endlessly on ESPN. But a short, innocuous film about how Christian faith has inspired these players and coaches to become better people? Nah, that's too much. Florio gets it wrong too when he says that the \"not-so-subtle message\" of the film \"is that Christian believers always thrive.\" Really? One of the coaches interviewed cites the courage shown by a Christian player after a _career-ending_ knee injury as one of the things that attracted him to the faith. One of the main points of the movie is not that faith will reward you with worldly success but that faith can help you overcome adversity, that it can fill the void you might feel _even after you have worldly success_. Florio, as is so common with sports reporters writing about religion, prefers to deal in negative stereotypes and clich\u00e9s rather than reality. You also might think that as a lawyer he would have a better grasp of the First Amendment and the right of Christian players and coaches to talk about their Christian beliefs without scaremongering about religious tests that don't exist.\n\nSometimes sportscasters take a different tack, simply ignoring expressions of Christianity and replacing them with their own obsessions. In August 2012, Gabby Douglas wrapped up an incredible performance at the London Olympic Games, becoming the first black female to win the gold in the women's gymnastics all-around competition. In an NBC interview, Douglas said, \"It is everything I thought it would be; being the Olympic champion, it definitely is an amazing feeling. And I give all the glory to God. It's kind of a win-win situation. The glory goes up to Him and the blessings fall down on me.\"\n\nHer Twitter account has stated that she loves \"my family, dogs & most importantly God :),\" and as the _Christian Post_ reported, she tweeted after her Olympic triumph: \"Let all that I am praise the LORD; may I never forget the good things he does for me.\"\n\nBut NBC Sports places God in a different place of priority, and that place is nowhere. Completely ignoring what Douglas had said about what her victory meant to her, and the message she wanted people to take from it (which we in the sports media used to call . . . you know . . . the story), Bob Costas determined to make sure this Jesus guy got no play, and let us know what the media thought the real story was: \"There are some young African American girls out there who tonight are saying to themselves, hey, I'd like to try that too.\"\n\nWow, just wow. One of the worst aspects of today's race-obsessed, gay-obsessed media is that we can't even enjoy a moment like Gabby Douglas's thrilling victory in London without having the obligatory PC bull thrown in there by somebody like Costas. Who gave a rip that night that Gabby Douglas was black? Answer? Outside of the NBC Sports studios? Close to zero. For all the talk about how race shouldn't matter, the liberal media sure are quick to bring it up, aren't they?\n\nPoint being, _any_ little girl could have and should have been inspired by Gabby Douglas that night, white or black. While many were angry (justifiably) on Twitter with Costas for needlessly bringing race into the discussion, people missed the bigger story: It wasn't just that Costas had needlessly \"gone there\" as far as race. It was that he went there so he could squelch the message of an athlete who was obviously motivated by a higher power. Bob Costas treated Gabby Douglas the same way the sports media treated Tony Dungy after Super Bowl XLI. Though the Colts head coach repeatedly and strenuously claimed that his victory was all about God, the sports media did everything in their power to make sure that the story had nothing to do with God and everything to do with race, with Dungy being the first black head coach to win a Super Bowl. Costas could have said that girls across America could use Gabby Douglas's kind of faith to overcome obstacles, or he could have just gone to a commercial, but by injecting the sports media's petty, tired political agenda into a story that had absolutely nothing to do with it, Costas robbed Gabby Douglas of her moment and what it meant to _her_ (and her fellow Christians)\u2014something he would not have dared do if she had been gay or Muslim.\n\nTo say that the liberal sports media have a blind spot when it comes to religion is to grotesquely understate the problem. In December 2013, ESPN informed the Cardinal Glennon Children's Foundation that they would refuse to air the foundation's commercial during the Christmas season. The commercial encouraged viewers to send get-well wishes to kids with cancer and messages of support to their moms and dads.\n\nSo why did ESPN refuse to run the ad? Because, according to Dan Buck, the executive director of the Cardinal Glennon Children's Foundation, ESPN thought the words \"Jesus\" and \"God\" in the foundation's Christmas message were \"problematic.\"\n\n\"Jesus\" and \"God\" are \"problematic\" for ESPN? In a _Christmas_ commercial? In a Christmas commercial asking for messages of hope to seriously sick kids? Eventually, the worldwide leader in sports came around and aired the commercial, but only after Bill O'Reilly slammed the network on his Fox News television show, _The O'Reilly Factor_.\n\nWhat's even richer about all this is that ESPN cited their advocacy standards, which prevent them from airing political or religious commercials, as a defense for not airing the Cardinal Glennon commercial. This is the same network, you'll recall, that allowed its employees to tweet their support of Trayvon; the same network with a show hosted by outspoken leftist Keith Olbermann; the same network that made a seventh-round NFL draft pick its lead story on a Sunday morning over the results of an NBA playoff game solely because the draftee was gay, and made sure we got to see him at length snogging his boyfriend; the same network whose talking heads bashed the state of Arizona because its legislature tried to protect freedom of religion.\n\nNot just ESPN but sports media in general have no problem jumping into the fray on political issues, even when they have absolutely nothing to do with sports. In the fall of 2013, Craig James was fired from his job at Fox Sports as a college football analyst only one week into his time there. So you're thinking to yourself: _Wow. Craig James was at ESPN for years and only lasted one week at Fox Sports. What could he have said in only one week to get himself fired?_ The answer to that would be _nothing_. Because Craig James wasn't fired over anything he said at Fox Sports; he was fired over religious views he expressed while running to replace Kay Bailey Hutchison as the next U.S. senator from Texas. As reported by the American Family Association: \"As a candidate during a Texas U.S. Senate campaign in 2010, Craig James said his Christian faith clearly outlined his position on gay marriage and pledged he would not support same-sex unions. He also stated he was 'adamantly opposed to abortion.'\"\n\nNow, again, this wasn't something that happened during a college football broadcast, where, between breaking down the zone read and the trips-right formation, all of a sudden James decided to make a comment on gay marriage or abortion. This happened on the campaign trail, while he was running for a Senate seat. So, essentially, Fox Sports fired Craig James for the thoughts in his head, thoughts that happen to be shared by tens of millions of Christian, pro-life, pro\u2013traditional marriage Americans\u2014but by hardly anyone in sports media. Craig James filmed one episode of a regional college football show for Fox, a show that came off completely without incident, and was then fired.\n\nWhat happened next was high comedy. The _Dallas Morning News_ reported that the decision to fire James came from Fox Sports management's becoming aware that James had expressed opposition to gay marriage, quoting a source as saying, \"We just asked ourselves how Craig's statements would play in our human resources department. He couldn't say those things here.\" A senior vice president from Fox even told media outlets that James had been terminated because of his views on same-sex marriage. James told Breitbart.com: \"I was shocked that my personal religious beliefs were not only the reason for Fox Sports firing me but I was completely floored when I read stories quoting Fox Sports representatives essentially saying that people of faith are banned from working at Fox Sports. That is not right and surely someone made a terrible mistake.\"\n\nThe \"mistake\" might have had legal complications because firing James for his religious beliefs sounds like a civil rights violation, doesn't it? According to court documents that were obtained by Breitbart.com: \"Fox Sports President Eric Shanks admitted in a deposition that a senior VP at Fox Sports told media outlets that sportscaster Craig James was fired from the network because of his support for traditional marriage. Shanks says that statement to the press was untrue.\"\n\nWhich is kind of funny, because if James wasn't fired over his stance on same-sex marriage, then why was he fired? Was he fired over one recording of a regional college football show where, according to all concerned, everything went fine? At the time of this writing, the matter is still being fought out in the courts. But anyone can see what's going on here. Whoever hired Craig James at Fox Sports forgot that the sports media aren't really the sports media anymore. They are simply another branch of the anti-Christian gay-rights movement, and by the time somebody realized this mistake, it was too late. The best part of this, though, is Fox Sports' alleged justification for firing James, worth repeating: \"We just asked ourselves how Craig's statements would play in our human resources department. He couldn't say those things here.\"\n\nReally? James told Breitbart.com: \"I have worked in broadcasting for twenty-four years and have always treated my colleagues with respect and dignity regardless of their background or personal beliefs. I believe it is essential in our business to maintain professional relationships with people from a diverse background and have tolerance for those of different beliefs. I have never discussed my faith while broadcasting and it has never been an issue until now.\"\n\nI seriously doubt that Craig James, who survived for years at ESPN, a network at least as if not more liberal than Fox Sports, would have been walking around HR, or the watercooler, spouting his beliefs on gay marriage. One does not survive long in the sports media by doing such things; James's views on these issues didn't become public until _after_ he left ESPN and _before_ he got to Fox Sports. There's a reason for that.\n\nBut here's the kicker: while Fox apparently had problems with James's privately held religious beliefs on gay marriage, they apparently had no worries at all about the anti-Christian and racist commentary of one of their leading columnists, Jason Whitlock. After Jeremy Lin lit up the Lakers for thirty-eight points, Whitlock tweeted: \"Some lucky lady in NYC is gonna feel a couple inches of pain tonight.\" That line is as crass as it is racist. But Asian American penis jokes, especially if they're made at the expense of an openly _Christian_ Asian American, must go down just fine at Fox Sports' HR Department. Fox Sports' most recognizable columnist can go on Twitter, _while employed by Fox and while representing them_ , and show the mental maturity of a filthy-minded, racist thirteen-year-old baiting the Asian Christian kid for his beliefs about chastity; meanwhile, Craig James, _while not on the clock_ , can't speak about his religious convictions in a political campaign? Really, Fox Sports, those are your standards?\n\nBut Fox Sports isn't alone in its hypocrisy. Keith Olbermann left ESPN to talk politics at MSNBC, and while doing so racked up one of the longest and most distinguished lists of quotable absurdity you're ever going to hear. In January 2010, Olbermann likened the American healthcare system to terrorism and accused the Bush administration of signing off on the deaths of thousands of Americans:\n\nWhat would you do, sir, if terrorists were killing 45,000 people every year in this country? Well, the current health care system, the insurance companies, and those who support them are doing just that. . . . Because they die individually of disease and not disaster, [radio host] Neal Boortz and those who ape him in office and out, approve their deaths, all 45,000 of them\u2014a year\u2014in America. Remind me again, who are the terrorists?\n\nIn 2010, he blamed Rush Limbaugh for the Oklahoma City bombing:\n\n\"What was the more likely cause of the Oklahoma City bombing: talk radio or Bill Clinton and Janet Reno's hands-on management of Waco, the Branch Davidian compound? . . .\" Obviously, the answer is talk radio. Specifically Rush Limbaugh's hate radio. . . . Frankly, Rush, you have that blood on your hands now and you have had it for 15 years.\n\nAnd in 2006, Olbermann opined that the U.S. government, under President George W. Bush, was a bigger threat to Americans than terrorists:\n\nWe now face what our ancestors faced at other times of exaggerated crisis and melodramatic fear-mongering: A government more dangerous to our liberty than is the enemy it claims to protect us from. . . . We have not before codified the poisoning of habeas corpus, that wellspring of protection from which all essential liberties flow. You, sir, have now befouled that spring. You, sir, have now given us chaos and called it order. You, sir, have now imposed subjugation and called it freedom. . . . These things you have done, Mr. Bush\u2014they would be the beginning of the end of America.\n\nAnd yet, despite this plethora of crazed commentary, Keith Olbermann was _re_ -hired by ESPN in August 2013. If Olbermann were the only one at the \"Worldwide Leader\" playing the fool, we might have cause for hope, but unfortunately his number is legion at ESPN.\n\nIn the summer of 2012, Nebraska football assistant coach Ron Brown spoke out against a gay and transgender anti-discrimination law then under consideration in Omaha. Brown, using his constitutional right (and, dare I say, God-given right), spoke out against the law based on his Christian beliefs. According to ESPN.com, \"Brown challenged ordinance sponsor Ben Gray and other [city council] members to remember the Bible does not condone homosexuality. He told council members they would be held to 'great accountability for the decision you are making.'\"\n\nThe University of Nebraska recognized Brown's right to speak out on the issue, but that did not fly for ESPN's Gene Wojciechowski, who, apparently forgetting what country he's in, called for coach Ron Brown's firing \"if he continues to confuse faith with a person's fundamental right not to be discriminated against.\"\n\nPaul Wilson, writing for Fox News, showed that not all the media are insane and asked the pertinent question: \"What exactly is the 'fundamental right not to be discriminated against,' anyway?\" At least for the sports media, \"Politically-correct rights concocted by sports journalists apparently trump arcane rights such as freedom of speech or religion.\" Funny, too, how this \"fundamental right\" of nondiscrimination never seems to apply when idiot sports writers want to attack Christians for exercising their right to free speech.\n\nIn fact, ESPN actively discriminates against Christians, even when they are engaged in nonpartisan civic activities. ESPN had no problem airing Rock the Vote ads to encourage young people to vote, even plugging on its X Games site the participation of skateboard \"legend\" Tony Hawk. But it nixed an ad featuring NASCAR driver Blake Koch for a nonpartisan voting group called Rise Up and Register because the Rise Up and Register website linked to Koch's website, which linked to . . . wait for it . . . Christian ministries, and specifically to the \"Be My Vote\" campaign geared toward pro-lifers. Therefore, ESPN decided they could not air the ad. You get all that? A nonpartisan voter registration ad that linked, not directly, but to a second- and even third-party Christian ministry and pro-life group was enough to get the ad nixed because it compromised the network's political and religious advocacy standards. But Rock the Vote, whose celebrity endorsers lean heavily left while the organization itself is professedly nonpartisan, was not problematic at all. I think we all know why.\n\nAs if there weren't already enough to loathe and despise about the self-righteous, anti-Christian bigots who masquerade as our sports media today, their smugness over their assumed sense of wit and intelligence on matters they know nothing about is the icing on the cake. In December 2012, Tigers outfielder Torii Hunter was asked how he would feel about having a gay player on his team, and was quoted as saying: \"For me, as a Christian . . . I will be uncomfortable because in all my teachings and all my learning, biblically, it's not right. It will be difficult and uncomfortable.\"\n\nHunter came out later and said those quotations were taken out of context and misrepresented what he actually said. Unfortunately, that's beside the point. After hearing those quotations from Hunter, CBS Sports' Dayn Perry decided to surf the Google in an attempt to sound far smarter than he actually is: \"Hunter is of course entitled to his personal beliefs\" (which is always what liberals say, just before they take a giant dump on your personal beliefs), \"although one wonders whether he is similarly affronted by, say, shellfish and neatly maintained beards, which are also forbidden by the holiness code of Leviticus.\"\n\nThis did not escape the attention of the Media Research Center's Matt Philbin, who executed a clean takedown of Perry: \"Great argument. Here's the problem: The New Testament lifts dietary restrictions, just as it no longer requires the sacrifices demanded in Leviticus. But the New Testament explicitly reaffirms Leviticus' injunction on homosexuality (I Corinthians 6:9\u201310 and Romans 1:26).\"\n\nStay in your lane, Perry.\n\nBut Dayn Perry isn't the only one who has tried to have some fun with ol' Leviticus. Boxer Manny Pacquiao, who is a Catholic and a politician in his home country of the Philippines, came out against gay marriage, as you might expect from a Catholic in an overwhelmingly Catholic country. The media, however, decided that what really happened here was that Pacquiao had come out in favor of gay executions. In an article, Granville Ampong of the Examiner.com chronicled and contrasted Pacquiao's views on same-sex marriage with those of President Obama's. Pacquiao had drawn strong distinctions between himself and President Obama: \"God's words first . . . obey God's law first before considering the laws of man. . . .\"\n\nSigh. President Pacquiao has such a nice ring to it. Vladimir Putin would definitely think twice before crossing that guy. But anyhow, Pacquiao's quotation wasn't what provoked the wrath of the liberal sports media. About two paragraphs down from Pacquiao's actual words, the writer, Ampong, threw in this passage from Leviticus: \"If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.\"\n\nNow, the article clearly doesn't quote Pacquiao as having actually said this; it merely includes the quotation to give some frame of reference (though outdated) for biblical teachings on homosexuality. But that little factoid did nothing to stop the anti-Christian media from unleashing the Kraken of Crazy. Almost immediately, the left-wing group _ThinkProgress_ tweeted out a message demanding that Nike cut off Pacquiao from their client list: \"Dear @Nike: Are you going to continue to sponsor boxer Manny Pacquiao, who is engaging in hate speech against gays?\"\n\nThe liberal Courage Campaign jumped into the fray as well: \"Homophobia+Violence= @Nike? Join us in telling Nike to drop #homophobic boxer #MannyPacquiao <http://bit.ly/IWUinB> #DropManny.\"\n\nBut again, Pacquiao never said the quotation. After the dustup, Pacquiao explained: \"I didn't say that, that's a lie. . . . I didn't know that quote from Leviticus because I haven't read the Book of Leviticus yet.\" And before anyone jumps on Pacquiao (as if they'd dare) for not knowing what he's talking about, it's important to remember that Christianity isn't about memorizing the Bible. It's a statement of historical facts and moral teaching. Pacquiao knows the Catholic Church teaches the sinfulness of homosexual behavior. He's right about that, even if he couldn't quote you Leviticus or the passages from Corinthians or Romans\u2014and as you probably know, the Catholic Church doesn't endorse a death penalty for homosexuals; the Church's current pope has even washed the feet of AIDS victims, exemplifying Christ's teachings on charity and service. I wonder how many sports journalists could say the same.\n\nThe author of the article that sparked the brouhaha, Granville Ampong, weighed in to clarify what he had written:\n\nNowhere in my supposition and integration of my interview with Pacquiao did I mention that Pacquiao recited this Leviticus 20:13 nor did I imply that Pacquiao had quoted such. I have simply reminded in my column how God made it clear in the Old Testament time that such practice of same-sex marriage is detestable and strictly forbidden, in as much as God wants to encourage [in] his people practices that lead to health and happiness and fullness of life.\n\nNow follow me on a journey to an imaginary place where the media aren't on an anti-Christian crusade to make the world safe for gay marriage. In that wonderful, but completely pretend, paradise, having the author of the article explicitly confirm that Pacquiao never quoted Leviticus would put an end to the story and might even lead to a few media apologies. Instead, in reality, all it did was enrage the media further. Days after Pacquiao denied quoting Leviticus and Ampong confirmed his denial, _ThinkProgress_ took to Twitter and showed that they neither think nor have they progressed: \"UPDATE: Did Pacquiao cite the Leviticus 'put to death' verse or not? A new statement suggests he did: <http://bit.ly/Kt5gGB>.\"\n\nThe Courage Campaign tweeted: \"Stand with millions of LGBT and fair minded-people the world over. Drop Manny Pacquiao now. Hatred surely does not = Nike.\"\n\nESPN's _Grantland_ website went even further, offering use of their site to Laurel Fantauzzo, a well-known lesbian activist, so she could display her contempt for Pacquiao and the Catholic Church\u2014and mind you, this was a day _after_ Pacquiao denied having quoted Leviticus. Here are just a few pearls from Fantauzzo's screed:\n\nI know, though, that you [Pacquiao] also don't want me to be married. I know you think this is a perfectly reasonable, justified stand to take against me. You're like a lot of Filipinos: Catholic. Powerfully, post-colonially Catholic. . . .\n\nI've stood in front of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo Church that you pray to after each fight. . . . I've felt the power and the grace of it. I get it. . . . When you grow up Filipina\u2014or Italiapina, as I did\u2014your parents give you Catholicism as a kind of heavy gift. A centuries-old guide for every life transition a human can go through. Birth, death, the burden of any wrongdoing, and, yes, marriage. But as I grew older and realized the dreaded word applied to me\u2014lesbian\u2014I realized the Church was what I'd have to feint and duck; the Church's cruel, untrue dictates about me were what I'd have to dance with and defeat. . . .\n\nWhen I faced Proposition 22, Proposition 8, DOMA, Amendment 1, and too many dictates from the Church, and relatives, and leaders like you, who called me disordered, dangerous, diseased, doomed, how did I survive? . . .\n\nAs you can probably tell, this isn't just some random, concerned lesbian woman whom _Grantland_ selected for this article; this is a renowned leftist, anti-Catholic activist. As Matthew Balan wrote at NewsBusters.org:\n\nThe website's [ _Grantland_ ] editor noted in their short bio of Fantauzzo that she was a \"2011 Fulbright Scholar to the Philippines. She's currently an Arts Fellow at the University of Iowa Master of Fine Arts in Nonfiction program.\" Shamelessly, the unnamed editor added, \"Ladies, she's also currently single.\" But, Grantland completely left out the radical activism in her background.\n\nAstraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice gave a $10,000 grant to the writer in 2009\u20132010, and disclosed that she \"has contributed to AfterEllen and Go Magazine, among other publications. She also founded the popular We Are Not the Enemy photo blog in response to California's Proposition 8.\" In September 2011, she wrote an article for the online magazine The FilAm (\"a magazine for Filipino Americans in New York\"), where she promoted the so-called RH (\"reproductive health\") bill in the Philippines, which would legalize abortifacients and contraceptives, and is staunchly opposed by the Catholic bishops in the country.\n\nIn other words, the truth of the story didn't matter. The fact that Manny Pacquiao never said what he was accused of saying didn't matter. His opposition to President Obama, and references to God and God's laws, were enough for the media to trample all over journalistic principle. The only truth that ESPN's _Grantland_ and others aired was Laurel Fantauzzo's \"truth,\" because they feel exactly the same way she does. They believe in blanket gay marriage, they see the Catholic Church as bigoted and oppressive, and they agree with her so much that they don't care if they have to lie, cover up, or fabricate quotations in order to go against the Church.\n\nThe anti-Christian bias of the American sports establishment is reflected in international sports bodies as well. In 2009, FIFA, the organizing body that administrates international professional soccer, disciplined a couple of Brazilian superstar players for overt displays of Christianity during a match.\n\nAccording to the _Daily Mail_ :\n\nStars including \u00a356 million Real Madrid forward Kaka and captain Lucio revealed T-shirts with devout slogans such as \"I Belong to Jesus\" and \"I Love God\" during the Confederations Cup final last month.\n\nNow FIFA has risked accusations of being \"anti-religious\" by reminding Brazil of its guidelines banning players from making displays of a personal, religious or political nature on the football pitch.\n\nFIFA seemed to express no concern at all, though, when labeled anti-religious. In fact, international soccer regulators felt so unconcerned that they immediately took FIFA's ball and ran with it. The head of soccer in Denmark went even further than FIFA, calling for an immediate ban on any and all religious statements. He said, \"Just as we reject political manifestations, we should also say no to religious ones. There are too many risks involved in clubs, for example, with people of different religious faiths.\"\n\nAccording to the _Daily Mail_ , the specific rule in question that the pesky Brazilian Christians violated, called Law 4, reads: \"Players must not reveal undergarments showing slogans or advertising. The basic compulsory equipment must not have any political, religious or personal statements.\"\n\nFIFA, however, turned a 180 when the religious concerns of Muslims came into question. In 2011, the Iranian women's national team withdrew from a game against Jordan because they weren't allowed to wear their traditional Muslim headscarves. Now mind you, this was not a religious \"undergarment\" of the kind that got the Christian Brazilian players punished. This was a loud, proud, in-your-face outer garment, worn on the head, which would be seen by all.\n\nSo what did FIFA do? Did they tell the Iranian women's national team that since FIFA had already banned undergarments with Christian statements, it would be completely and totally hypocritical for them to turn around and allow Muslims to wear outer garments that serve as religious symbols? I'll save you the suspense: they did not.\n\nInstead, FIFA, which had previously regarded headgear as unsafe, reversed course. The BBC described what happened next:\n\nFollowing a request from the Asian Football Confederation, the IFAB (International Football Association Board) allowed for their safety to be tested during the trial.\n\nAt the annual general meeting at FIFA's headquarters, IFAB members also voted to introduce a new law that will punish players who display messages on T-shirts underneath their club's kit.\n\nThe rule change, which will come into effect from 1 June, amends Law 4 of the game, which relates to players' equipment.\n\nSo not only did the governing body _not_ vote to reaffirm the ban on religious headgear, but they voted to make _another law_ to prevent players from wearing religiously themed undergarments\u2014just in case Christian players tried to bring back their Jesus shirts.\n\nThe obvious message: religious symbolism really isn't all that bad, just so long as it's not Christian religious symbolism. If it's Muslim symbolism, they'll \"safety\" test it and then change the rules in your favor. FIFA clearly isn't worried about being called anti-religious or anti-Christian. They just don't want to be called anti-Muslim.\n\nSimilarly, the sports media aren't at all worried about mocking the sexual ethics of Christians, because they regard these ethics as ridiculous and repressive.\n\nStill, you might have thought that someone like Lolo Jones, a Christian and quite possibly the only person in the entire London Olympic Village not utilizing her share of the more than 150,000 prophylactics provided to the athletes, would at least get some begrudging media praise for her willpower alone.\n\nAnd you would be wrong. During the run up to her 2012 appearance in the London Games, Jones gained a lot of attention for her stated desire to abstain from sex until marriage. The _New York Times_ , which abstains from nothing except objective, fact-based reporting, published a piece lashing out at Jones, saying she \"received far greater publicity than any other American track and field athlete competing in the London Games. This was based not on achievement but on her exotic beauty and on a sad and cynical marketing campaign.\"\n\nUh-huh. Yet the _New York Times_ had no problem adding to the publicity of Michael Sam, who gained enormous media attention not because of his achievements on the football field but because of his homosexuality. Michael Sam wasn't even the best player on his own defense at Missouri, but the _Times_ confidently asserted in February 2014 that, \"Mr. Sam, 24, is projected to be chosen in the early rounds of the N.F.L. draft in May, ordinarily a path to a prosperous pro career.\"\n\nThe statement was laughable to anyone who actually watches college football. Sam was, at best, a mid-round pick, and more likely not draft worthy at all, but he was a symbol of a cause the _Times_ is at pains to hype\u2014and that cause is not chastity, or heterosexuality.\n\nRookie Michael Sam was released before the start of the 2014 NFL season by the St. Louis Rams, the team that drafted him. But that wasn't the end of the story. ESPN's Stephen A. Smith spilled the beans on the league's behind-the-scenes efforts to make sure Sam landed on an NFL roster:\n\nAccording to sources I have in the NFL, the league did call a few teams. They did want teams to take Michael Sam _because obviously we see what kind of movement they're gearing for_ [emphasis added], and what their support of Michael Sam, who we all know, came out, acknowledged that he was gay before the draft and ultimately this is something that Roger Goodell and the NFL support and they want their teams to support. But other teams weren't too receptive to taking him on once the St. Louis Rams cut him.\n\nSo in steps Jerry Jones [owner of the Dallas Cowboys], coming to the aid of the NFL and making a splash with his willingness to bring this guy on board to the practice squad.\n\nThe \"movement\" the league was gearing for was a liberal, sports media freak-out of epic proportions had Sam not made an NFL roster. Which is what prompted the NFL's cowardly eleventh-hour scramble to ensure (with who knows what kind of promises and assurances attached) that somebody signed Sam to a team. As _Sports Illustrated_ 's Peter King said, \"Now Sam and the NFL avoided a nightmare situation when he signed with the practice squad of the Dallas Cowboys.\" Though the Cowboys spared the NFL a public-relations nightmare, they eventually, and quietly, released Michael Sam as well.\n\nSo let's take stock of where the sports media's values really lie. Lolo Jones refuses to have sex before marriage, because she's a Christian. But because she refuses to allow herself to become the carnal conquest of the Swedish curling team, her credibility as a star (despite her multiple indoor track championships and ability to qualify for the Olympics in two different sports) is disparaged; her personal story is nothing but a \"sad and cynical marketing campaign.\"\n\nYet Michael Sam's personal story became so incredibly vital to the liberal sports media that not only did they vastly overinflate his pre-draft status, but they succeeded in threatening the NFL with a PR disaster unless he made, even temporarily and on a practice squad, some team's regular season roster.\n\nYeah, there's nothing sad or cynical about that.\n\nThe depth of contempt and outright hatred the sports media hold for Christianity probably deserves its own book, not just its own chapter. The American sports media are a loud and proud focal point in the gay-activist movement, and they've branded Christianity as the premier roadblock between where they are and where they're trying to go. Most of us see Christianity as a saving, nurturing grace in our lives, whereas the sports media see it as an obstacle, something to be overcome and ultimately left behind in the dust. You can agree with where they stand or disagree with it, but the fact is that it's not the sports media's job to disparage Christianity. They can leave that to others. How about just reporting on sports\u2014they have a tough enough time doing that.\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nKNAVES ON THE WARPATH\n\nThere's a unique feeling-out process that happens when you get to a new radio station. Of course, there's one at any new job, but in radio, where the business is driven by opinions and passionate takes instead of sales or closing the big account, the process tends to be more about one's worldview. So, not surprisingly, I did not have to wait very long for the first ideological probe to be administered when I started at my second sports station. It happened innocently enough, hanging out in the studio's break room with a bunch of producers and fellow hosts. Joking, laughing, and messing around on the internet, all of a sudden the topic turned to the Redskins' name change. Since I was the new guy, and since I was from Washington, D.C., I knew that in only a matter of seconds the inevitable question would be thrown my way:\n\nPRODUCER: So, man, what do you think about the Redskins' name? Do you think they should change it?\n\nME: What do you mean? Why should they change it?\n\nPRODUCER: You know, because it's so offensive to Native Americans!\n\nME: No. I think when the state of Oklahoma changes its name, that's when the Redskins should change their name.\n\nThis response earned me some quizzical looks. So I elaborated.\n\nME: Oklahoma literally translates to \"Red People\" in the Choctaw language. How is that any better than, or any different from, Redskin? Indiana translates into \"land of the Indians,\" and Indianapolis translates into \"City in the land of the Indians.\" Are you going to force every city and state that alludes to \"red people\" or \"Indians\" to change its name after you're done forcing the Redskins to change theirs? Where does it end?\n\nIt didn't take long to realize I had given the wrong answer; the lively conversation faded to dead silence, and everyone became suddenly laser-focused on their computer screens, no longer interested in discussing the Redskins and their \"offensive\" name, or anything else for that matter. And so it goes. You see, contrary to the idea that a sports newsroom or other media outlet should be a bastion of free-thinking and communication that would welcome dissenting points of view, in reality they are a bastion of liberal group-think. \"Questions\" like the one my producers asked me are intended not just to find out what you think but also to expose those beyond the pale of liberal conventional wisdom.\n\nThat conventional wisdom includes the belief that changing the name of the Washington Redskins is now one of the leading civil rights issues of our time. In early 2012, during a _Sunday Night Football_ halftime, Bob Costas referred to the team name as \"a slur,\" which is laughable on several levels, including the fact that Costas and his fellow journalists have used the word countless times over decades of broadcasting and only recently discovered its alleged offensiveness. And answer me this: How many teams name themselves after a slur?\n\nYou might think that the liberal offensive to demand a name change, reaching all the way from the sports media to President Barack Obama, must be linked to some major public uproar. And you would be wrong.\n\nIn fact, according to an AP-Gfk poll conducted in April 2013, 79 percent of Americans _did not_ think the Redskins should change their name; only 11 percent thought they should. _But, Dylan_ , you might say, _who cares what \"ordinary\" Americans think about the Redskins' name? The important thing is what \"Native Americans\" think about it. If you ask them, I'll bet you get a different answer!_\n\nAnd you'd be right. Indians gave a _much_ different answer: According to a poll of 768 Native Americans taken by the University of Pennsylvania's National Annenberg Election Survey, when asked what they thought of the team name \"Redskins,\" _90 percent_ of Native American respondents said that they found the term \"Redskin\" _not offensive_. Only 9 percent thought it was offensive. It is not American Indians who are leading the charge to change team names; it is American liberals, _even against the wishes of American Indians_. In 2012, the state of North Dakota capitulated to pressure from the NCAA and dropped the \"Fighting Sioux\" as the nickname for the University of North Dakota's sports teams, _even though the Sioux ofNorth Dakota's Spirit Lake Indian Reservation had voted in favor of keeping the nickname in 2010_. As even ESPN.com felt obliged to acknowledge, reproducing an Associated Press report:\n\nMany American Indians lobbied for the name and logo to be kept, arguing that they reflected a positive image for their tribes. Eunice Davidson, an enrolled member of the Spirit Lake tribe and member of the committee to save the nickname, was too devastated to talk about the result, her husband Dave Davidson said.\n\n\"I will be honest with you. I'm heartbroken and I'm ashamed of this state,\" Dave Davidson said. \"On the other hand, there are a lot of wonderful people we have met in the course of this.\"\n\nLater, Eunice Davidson remarked that if she could speak to Dan Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins, she would tell him, \"I stand with him. I don't want our history to be forgotten.\"\n\nFunny, but you don't often hear voices like Eunice Davidson's on sports media, not because they don't exist\u2014they're actually the majority\u2014but because they don't fit the liberal sports media's narrative. If the sports networks went beyond the professional grievance-mongers, they might get somebody like Tommy Yazzie, superintendent of the Red Mesa School District for the Navajo Nation, who thinks tribes have more-important things to worry about than the name of the Washington Redskins:\n\nWe just don't think that it [the Redskins' name] is an issue. There are more important things like busing our kids to school, the water settlement, the land quality, the air that surrounds us. Those are issues we can take sides on. Society, they think it's more derogatory because of the recent discussions. In its pure form, a lot of Native American men, you go into the sweat lodge with what you've got\u2014your skin. I don't see it as derogatory.\n\nCoincidentally, the nickname for the sports teams in the Red Mesa School District? The Redskins.\n\nWhy don't the sports networks give airtime to mainstream American Indian opinion on this issue? Maybe because they fear they would come across somebody like Robert Green, the longtime and recently retired chief of the Fredericksburg, Virginia, Patawomeck tribe, who said, among other things:\n\nFrankly, the members of my tribe\u2014the vast majority\u2014don't find it offensive. I've been a Redskins fan for years. And to be honest with you, I would be offended if they did change it [the name, Redskins. . . . This is] an attempt by somebody . . . to completely remove the Indian identity from anything and pretty soon . . . you have a wipeout in society of any reference to Indian people. . . . You can't rewrite history\u2014yes there were some awful, bad things done to our people over time, but naming the Washington football team the Redskins, we don't consider to be one of those bad things.\n\nThink about this for a minute: How many Indians do you see in government? How many do you see in politics? In entertainment? In sports? Not even enough to have a pow-wow. Team nicknames like \"Indians,\" \"Fighting Sioux,\" and \"Redskins\" are forceful, popular reminders of Indian culture in America\u2014and of Americans' respect for it. When Florida State football fans cheer on the Seminoles or Atlanta Braves fans do their tomahawk chop, the image in their minds is of courageous, fierce warriors\u2014of something admirable, not an ethnic slur.\n\nBut not surprisingly, liberal sportscasters ignore the reality in front of them in preference to their holier-than-thou groupthink. Sports radio personality Dan Patrick had Bob Costas on his show the day after Costas derided the term Redskin as a \"slur\" and an \"insult.\" Patrick said this:\n\nI think Daniel Snyder eventually changes the name. I don't know when, I just feel like there's an end game here. . . . I feel like he became his own worst enemy here by making it about him instead of being understanding about what it means, and who it affects. I don't want somebody to tell me how I'm supposed to think, and Daniel Snyder did that with Native Americans, and I think that's where people started to go wait a minute here. Nobody wants to be told what to think or what to do.\n\nDan Snyder, of course, never told anyone what they had to think or do, nor did he make himself the story. He only made his own thinking perfectly clear when asked about the controversy, after the media tirade about \"Redskins\" being a racial slur. He told _USA Today_ : \"We will never change the name of the team. As a lifelong Redskins fan, and I think that the Redskins fans understand the great tradition and what it's all about and what it means. . . .\" He added, \"We'll never change the name. It's that simple. NEVER\u2014you can use caps.\"\n\nDan Patrick is absolutely right on one thing: nobody wants to be told what to think or what to do, but that is _precisely_ what he, Costas, and the rest of the liberal sports media have done and continue to do\u2014you either agree with them or you're a racist. They're the ones who are pushing this non-issue as a story; they're the ones who insist on acting as thought police.\n\nWhy? Because you've got a bunch of sports guys who want to attach their names to something meaningful. After spending their entire careers covering seven-foot-six guys from China and twenty-one-year-olds who run sub-4.3 forties, inevitably they want to feel like their careers mean something, that they're socially relevant in some way, and the Redskins have become just that for the leftist sports media. Bob Costas and Peter King were not around when Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball. So the Redskins, to some extent, become their \"Jackie Robinson\" moment, and they will have that moment whether you want it or not.\n\nNow, to be clear, I'm not trying to make an argument for keeping the Redskins' name. Yes, I grew up a fan of the team, and there's definitely some sentimentality there that makes me not want to see it changed. But if the Redskins changed their name to the Washington Silly Nannies, and started winning, and won a Super Bowl, I would be the Silliest Nanny of them all. My point is not that the Redskins' name is good or bad, but that this over-the-top, emotional push to drive the name Redskins from our sports lexicon did not materialize because \"the people\" are upset over it. The \"people\" don't really give a rip about what the Redskins call themselves, and if pressed, as they have been by the sports media, they would overwhelmingly prefer that the name stay the same and the sports media drop the subject.\n\nBut of course, the sports media aren't content to merely report and analyze sports news. They are not interested in informing and entertaining you; they want to reform and indoctrinate you. And that's a problem.\n\nWhat's even more hilarious about the lefty sports crowd on the issue of Indian-themed sports nicknames is their inability to see the irony in their own irony. In 2002 a group of Indian college students at the University of Northern Colorado decided to name their intramural basketball team the Fightin' Whities in response to a local high school's team called the Fightin' Reds.\n\nApparently the students decided to print T-shirts as a way of sticking it to the paleface and making him taste the bitterness of his own racial medicine. The self-loathing palefaces in the sports media grabbed onto the Fightin' Whities story and, as usual, got it just about all wrong.\n\nKeith Olbermann joined Paula Zahn and Anderson Cooper on CNN to praise the students' racial jiu-jitsu as \"genius.\" Olbermann continued: \"I think the point is being made here, how offensive this can be. . . . How the names that . . . we have grown up with\u2014Indians, Braves, Redskins, Chiefs\u2014how offensive they can be.\"\n\nExcept that when Paula Zahn asked Olbermann to give examples of white people in Colorado offended by the Fightin' Whities, Olbermann couldn't come up with a single person. Instead, he waxed silly about the \"attention\" the issue had received nationally, and how it had put \"people\" (read: evil, treaty-breaking white people) in the position of the \"offended party,\" which is the \"best way to effect social change.\"\n\nBut the real story was that no one was taking offense. White Coloradans did not consider themselves an offended party\u2014they thought the name was funny or clever or anything but offensive. As syndicated columnist Clarence Page wrote, readers of the _Greeley Tribune_ (the hometown paper of Eaton High School, where the Fightin' Reds nickname originated) wrote in to say they saw the nickname as \"an honor to white Americans.\" One reader wrote in to say: \"Help me out here, why am I supposed to be offended?\"\n\nIn fact, so epically did this little racial stunt fail to offend that Fightin' Whities T-shirts actually became a hot-selling item to the unoffended\u2014so much so that the Native American Student Services office opened up the Fighting Whites Scholarship Fund with proceeds from the sales.\n\nIronic, isn't it? The would-be revolutionaries intent on showing whitey how cruel and demeaning it felt to be a mascot failed to offend anyone, and instead ended up selling T-shirts for the palefaces' wampum.\n\nAnd Northern Colorado intramural players weren't the only ones to go down this path. Shelf Life Clothing came up with a T-shirt that mocked the Chief Wahoo logo of the Cleveland Indians. Instead of Chief Wahoo with the word \"Indians\" emblazoned above him, Shelf Life's creation had a blond-haired white guy in his place, a dollar sign where Wahoo's feather would normally sit, and \"Caucasians\" emblazoned above him.\n\nThe shirts have existed in relative obscurity for years, only recently coming into the spotlight when Ian Campeau, a DJ for a group called A Tribe Called Red, which includes three Ojibwa Indians, found himself called racist and hypocrite for wearing the shirt in publicity photos. You see, Campeau had previously filed a complaint with the Ontario Human Rights Commission to get a Canadian high school to change its team name from \"Redskins\" to \"Eagles.\"\n\nCampeau's publicity stunt paid off huge for Shelf Life. As the _Toronto Star_ reported:\n\nA hot fashion item this summer on Ontario First Nations' reserves is a T-shirt with the lettering \"Caucasians\" and the grinning logo of Chief Wahoo, the much-derided mascot of the Cleveland Indians major league baseball team. . . . T-shirt maker Brian Kirby of Shelf Life Clothing in Cleveland said the \"Caucasians\" shirt has been his most popular seller since he began making them in 2007, but interest \"skyrocketed\" after the Deejay NDN (Ian Campeau) controversy, especially after the story hit Reddit and Facebook.\n\nNBC Sports' HardballTalk.com's Craig Calcaterra greeted news of the T-shirt's success with sarcastic glee: \"I've been told by so many people that, in reality, no one cares about Chief Wahoo, most Indians feel 'honored' by their images and iconography being appropriated by sports teams and that the politics of race and sports mascots is purely a function of liberal white guilt and pinkos like me wishing to push our agenda. Hmm. Guess not.\"\n\nUh, Craig, guess again. If the intent of the shirt was to offend white Americans or white Cleveland Indians fans, it failed utterly. Again, people weren't offended: they thought the T-shirts were funny, which is why demand exploded. Most Americans still have a life, a sense of humor, and better things to do than obsess over team nicknames. Most Americans, in this case, would not include sports reporters. In fact, if the Caucasians and Fightin' Whities T-shirts proved anything, it is that many Americans will buy a shirt that they see as _making fun of people offended by team nicknames, or as making fun of the sports media's racial obsessions_.\n\nThe hypocrisy and stupidity of media coverage of the Redskins is not limited to T-shirt sales and _Sunday Night Football_ monologues. In October 2014, a Fox broadcast of the Redskins versus Cardinals game in Phoenix showed Redskins owner Daniel Snyder sitting alongside Navajo Nation president Ben Shelly. It gets better. Shelly and his wife each wore Redskins hats.\n\nThe excrement storm that followed on social media was completely predictable. Here are some of the more memorable Twitter contributions to the highbrow discourse:\n\nJess @JessOfRVA: Dan Snyder is parading around the President of the Navajo nation in Redskins Gear. Good Lord.\n\nMaya @pho_re: @5150ellis #dansnyder is parading these people like property with little hats #disgusting.\n\nAnd last but certainly not least . . .\n\nAlex Hale @DaSportsGenius7: Wait the President of the Navajo Nation is in Dan Snyder's suite? Now if only Cartman was there to say, \"Washington Redskins go F yourself.\"\n\n(Side note: Do you see how these liberals refer to the Navajo president as being \"paraded\" around by Snyder, as if he's a non-thinking person without any free will whatsoever? If you ever want to see what liberals truly think of minorities, wait until a minority goes against them on a political or cultural issue. You'll see libs go from hippy-dippy lover of all the earth's creatures to racists of a sort that would make Bull Connor cringe. But they get away with it because, you know, they're uber-tolerant . . . or something.)\n\nThe backlash to Shelly's solidarity with Snyder, though, wasn't confined to mouth-breathers in their pajamas. The mouth-breathers in the sports media got in on the act real quick. Right after the television image of Snyder and Shelly appeared, ESPN's Bomani Jones tweeted this gem: \"dude in the box with snyder was also once accused of stealing from the nation. he was cleared, but check the details.\"\n\nFirst of all, funny how quickly the president of the Navajo Nation gets demoted to \"dude\" when sitting next to the owner of the Redskins, isn't it? That \"dude\" has a lot more credibility on the issue of the Redskins' name change than Bomani Jones or any other member of the leftist sports media by virtue of his being not only an Indian, but also an actual leader of Indians. But here he ran afoul of the stated sports media agenda, thus rendering himself merely a dude.\n\nThe link in Jones's tweet described a sordid affair in which the Navajo president settled out of court after accusations that he stole more than $8,850 from the tribal government. Ben Shelly, the Navajo president, adamantly maintained his innocence of theft. He returned all of the money, except for $600, which Shelly had used to bury his mother. The judge in the case dismissed the charges.\n\n_Deadspin_ also fired off a tweet about Shelly soon after he appeared next to Snyder, linking to an article charitably titled \"Disgraced, Soon-to-Be-Former Navajo Nation President Attends Skins Game.\" As Daniel Flynn described it at Breitbart.com, \"The sports site, suddenly expert on tribal politics, maintains that the Navajo Nation president 'entered office under a dark cloud' and 'was accused of going behind the back of tribal leaders.' The only good Indian is a _Deadspin_ Indian.\"\n\nAnd that's not all they said. _Deadspin_ went on to provide in-depth detail of Shelly's recent election loss and past conflicts with the tribal councils, which is fine. I'm not here to defend Ben Shelly. But I do think his willingness to openly support the Redskins as an Indian man of some stature\u2014whether on his way in or out of power\u2014is important and should be taken seriously. I do know that neither _Deadspin_ nor any other branch of the left-wing media machine went to such lengths to do \"opposition research\" on any of the Indians who _support_ the Redskins' name change.\n\nWhen Ray Halbritter, leader of the Oneida tribe, emerged as the most vocal Indian leader of the Change the Mascot movement, _Deadspin_ had only very vague references to his background. _Deadspin_ writer Dave McKenna, for instance, described Halbritter as an \"Oneida Indian frontman.\" Sean Newell, also writing for _Deadspin_ , referred to Halbritter as an \"Oneida Indian Nation Representative.\"\n\nIf _Deadspin_ had done the same sort of oppo research on Halbritter as they had done on Ben Shelly, they would have found some significant stories. For example, according to a report by the Christian Peacemaker Teams, Ray Halbritter cemented himself as head of the Oneida tribe by building a casino.\n\nIn 1993, Mr. Halbritter negotiated a gaming compact for the Oneidas with New York governor Mario Cuomo. . . . This casino became the cornerstone of an expansive Oneida business enterprise that now includes a chain of gas stations, a textile factory, and a luxury hotel. The business is incorporated as the Oneida Indian Nation of New York, Inc. with Ray Halbritter as its CEO.\n\nAs Daniel Greenfield of FrontPageMag.com pithily summed it up: \"So yes, Ray Halbritter is a representative of the Oneida Indian Nation. But it's the Oneida Indian Nation Inc. It's a company with gas stations, a hotel, and a casino.\"\n\nIt gets better:\n\nIn 1993, the Grand Council of Chiefs removed Mr. Halbritter as the Oneida wolf clan representative and notified the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) that he no longer represented the Oneida people. The decision was accepted by the BIA, only to be reversed 24 hours later, reportedly under pressure from Sherwood Boehlert, the U.S. congressional representative for the area and a casino supporter.\n\nToday the U.S. government but not the Grand Council of Chiefs gives official recognition to the Oneida Indian Nation with Ray Halbritter as its representative.\n\nSo Ray Halbritter is not even considered a legitimate representative by his own people! Who is it that considers him legitimate? The white man! The palefaces in Washington!\n\nAnd it gets better still:\n\nOn February 13, 1996, the Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) and local counsel filed suit on behalf of the Oneida Nation of New York against the U.S. Department of the Interior, charging that the government violated the Oneidas' national sovereignty.\n\nThe suit alleged that the Department refused to recognize a legitimate decision by the Nation and the Grand Council of the Haudenosaunee, Six Nations Confederacy, to remove Arthur Raymond Halbritter from his claimed position as sole leader of the Nation and representative to the U.S. government.\n\nHere you have the Indian people actually suing the federal government to have this clown removed, and why? Because, as the Oneidas protested:\n\nAgainst the wishes of the Confederacy, and without knowledge of the Oneida people, a Casino deal was struck between ex-Governor Cuomo and so-called Oneida Nation \"CEO\" Arthur Raymond Halbritter in 1993. The compact was never ratified by the Oneidas. Using money borrowed by Halbritter from the Key Bank of Central NY (the CEO mortgaged Oneida land without our knowledge) \"The Turning Stone Casino\" was built in Oneida, NY. The Casino was built on wetlands in violation of both US and Haudenosaunee laws. Because Halbritter violated Haudenosaunee rules he was removed from his position as an Oneida spokesperson in May, 1993. . . .\n\nThe Oneida people were completely unaware that any transactions for land, a casino, or lawsuits against 20,000 land owners would ensue. To date, the Oneida people who have opposed these decisions continue to be threatened with on-going human, civil and religious rights violations and are in present danger of losing their homes on the Oneida Indian Territory. Under the guise of a \"beautification program\", the leadership has authorized a mock tribal court system to prosecute all those who stand up for their rights as Haudenosaunee. A 54 man, completely non-Native \"Oneida Nation Police\" force acting on the direct orders of Halbritter has harassed, intimidated and physically assaulted Oneida people on their own territory.\n\nIn short, Ray Halbritter built himself a casino empire against the wishes of his own people and then hired a goon squad to make sure they stayed in line. But why do we have to find all this information out from FrontPageMag.com and OneidasforDemocracy.org? Where was _Deadspin_ on this? The answer to that, of course, is that the liberal media do opposition research against people whose beliefs they don't like, but they will give a pretty much free ride to those who toe the liberal party line.\n\nBen Shelly _might_ have wrongfully taken less than $9,000 from his tribe, and more than 90 percent of that money he returned. Yet _Deadspin_ saw fit to call him a \"disgraced,\" \"soon-to-be-former President\" and a \"lame duck\" who had entered office under a \"dark cloud.\"\n\nForget a lame duck, Ray Halbritter is a dead duck with the Oneida. He was voted out twenty years ago, yet, thanks to the U.S. government, he still spends Oneida money and uses that money to hire goons who have assaulted tribal people. Because he chooses to let the Left use him as a true \"mascot\" in their quest to remove all Indian mascots, _Deadspin_ sees fit to refer to him only as a \"frontman\" and a \"representative.\"\n\nThe Redskins' trip to Arizona in 2014 wasn't just about what we saw on TV, with Navajo president Ben Shelly sitting next to Daniel Snyder. It was also about what we didn't see. The great website RedskinsFacts.com\u2014which dedicates itself to getting out the truth about the Redskins' name\u2014continuously tweeted pictures of dozens of Indians wearing Redskins jerseys, proudly waving signs in support of the name, and posing for pictures with famous former Redskins like Mark Moseley and Gary Clark.\n\nI give Fox full credit for showing Ben Shelly with Daniel Snyder. But if it were not for RedskinsFacts.com, few of us would know just how deep and widespread is the Redskins' support among American Indians. That's not something the liberal sports media want you to know.\n\nThink of it this way: If these Indians had wanted the Redskins to change their name, would they have received more attention and airtime? You bet they would have.\n\nWhen it comes to the liberal sports media, sports reporter Daniel Flynn of Breitbart.com nailed it: \"The only good Indian is a _Deadspin_ Indian.\"\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nMAKING A HERO OF MICHAEL SAM\n\nI normally don't watch local news. The mullet-to-secondary-education ratio is far too imbalanced for me; for some reason, local television news is completely obsessed with covering the decay of Western society. Occasionally I see a quality story and solid journalistic work, but normally within three minutes of watching, I feel like I'm witnessing the news equivalent of the primordial ooze river from _Ghostbusters II_. So with great fear, trepidation, and yet some semblance of hope, I turned on my local Fox affiliate here in Houston to get an update on the Rockets. I, like a true NBA fan when his team goes out of time zone, had fallen asleep during their game against Phoenix the night before, and I wanted to see the highlights.\n\nAfter wading through a seemingly endless myriad of \"Woman Shoots Baby-Daddy for Farting Too Loud\" and \"Dog Finds Car Keys in Baby's Diaper\" stories (not literally, but you know what I'm talking about), the NBA coverage began. However, instead of coverage of the team that . . . you know . . . plays for the city in which the television station's audience lives, I found myself treated to a highlight montage of Jason Collins, who had recently announced that he had sex with men\u2014in other words, was gay\u2014which was treated as an act of national importance and tremendous heroism. Here he was, playing in the first game since his coming out. The montage was set to the tune of John Lennon's \"Imagine.\"\n\n\"'Imagine' what?\" a viewer might have asked. Certainly not what Jason Collins got up to in his alleged private life, now made public. Moreover, why would a local television station that airs in Houston, Texas, a place where Jason Collins never played in his career, instead of airing coverage of the team they \"cover\" (and a team that won that night in Phoenix, by the way), choose to go with a heavily produced tribute piece about a thirty-five-year-old journeyman basketball player, playing in Los Angeles for a team from Brooklyn?\n\nWell, we all know the answer. Because when it comes to sports media, if it's gay, it leads.\n\nNow, this chapter is going to deal primarily with the Michael Sam story as opposed to Jason Collins for a few reasons. First, Michael Sam is more recent, and he also plays in the biggest sports league in America, the NFL. And on a personal level, I have to say, even though I have about as much interest in hearing about the sex life of another man as I have in chewing glass, I respect Michael Sam and the way he came out much more than I respect the way Jason Collins did.\n\nMichael Sam came out at the _beginning_ of his career, before the draft even. Jason Collins came out after the last game of what absolutely should have been his last season. It's one thing to shout, \"I'm gay!\" as you're leaving a party. It's quite another to shout it out as you're entering one. Trust me on this.\n\nAfter Jason Collins announced he was homosexual, at the end of the 2013 NBA season, he was not signed to another NBA contract. Some people (ESPN) believe this was done for anti-gay reasons, and that it looked awful for the league to have a player publicly come out, only to have nobody sign him.\n\nOther people (non-gay-rights advocates, using their brains) know that no team came within ten yards of Jason Collins at the end of the 2013 season, because he wasn't the same player anymore. In the 2012\u20132013 season, Collins had played in only 38 games, logged only 384 minutes, and been held to 41 points and 60 rebounds over that time. If you put up those stats at twenty-four while bouncing between an NBA team and the Development League, _maybe_ a team sticks with you and tries to bring you around. But when you do that at thirty-four, the party's over. So Jason Collins remained unemployed\u2014that is, until University of Missouri defensive end Michael Sam announced to the world in February 2014 that he was gay too, thus sparking the strangest race in the history of history: \"The Great Gay Race\" of 2014.\n\nNot to be outdone by the NFL, the NBA moved quickly. Exactly two weeks after Michael Sam made his announcement, Jason Collins signed a ten-day contract with the Brooklyn Nets and played the very next night. If you needed any proof that Jason Collins was signed only because he was gay, take a look at his stat line: in his first game back, against the Lakers, Collins played eleven minutes and logged two rebounds (rebounding had previously been his strength). He missed his only field-goal attempt and committed _five fouls_. That is the stat line of someone who has no business being on an NBA basketball court. More important, any prospect from the NBA's Development League could have done as well, or better, and so could a lot of other free-agent veterans. Jason Collins was signed purely because he was gay and it helped the NBA and the Nets make a political statement to the adoring liberal sports media. Having a gay player proves that you're a tolerant, nuanced, open-minded, and loving human being. Not having one means that you're hateful, \"behind the times,\" and cruel to small woodland creatures. Professional sports leagues are keenly aware that gay activism has become the new liberal cause c\u00e9l\u00e8bre, and they want to be at its forefront.\n\nIt was absurd to ask, as the liberal sports media did repeatedly, whether the NBA or the NFL was ready for a gay athlete, because everyone knew there had been gay athletes before (though they had kept it private) and everyone knew there would be no quicker way to fawning media coverage than to have an openly gay player. That's why the NBA snatched Jason Collins off Oprah's couch in February 2014 and threw an NBA uniform on him\u2014because he was gay and it made the NBA and the Nets look good, at least in the eyes of the sports media.\n\nThe NBA may have won the battle of \"The Great Gay Race,\" but the NFL will win the war, because the NFL is the NFL. Michael Sam is the big one: an NFL player playing the country's most popular game. The sports media greeted the Michael Sam announcement with jubilation unparalleled. _Sports Illustrated_ 's Stewart Mandel wrote about how Sam had broken \"a longstanding barrier.\" NFL Network analyst Mark Kriegel tweeted: \"Mizzou's Michael Sam just showed people what it's like to be a real man.\" _Grantland_ staff writer Holly Anderson tweeted: \"The support from Michael Sam's teammates puts gladness in my heart. Bless them all.\" Rob Moseley of GoDucks.com tweeted: \"The Michael Sam news is massive, groundbreaking\u2014and long overdue\u2014stuff. Awesome for him, and for those who will follow in his footsteps.\" Will Brinson, senior writer for CBS Sports, said, \"So much for Johnny Manziel having the biggest crowd at the combine. Incredibly brave decision by Michael Sam.\"\n\nNow, sportswriters are supposed to know something about the meaning of words, and all of the words above are a prime, grade-A bullfeathers. Contrary to Stewart Mandel, Sam had not broken a longstanding barrier, because there was no covert or overt rule against gay athletes in the NFL. If for Mark Kriegel the definition of a real man is someone who talks about his sex life, well, that seems a pretty impoverished view, and I wonder if he would take the same view if an athlete said he intended to remain a virgin until he got married. New York Giants cornerback Prince Amukamara did that and was roundly ridiculed for it. I wonder how often Holly Anderson \"blesses\" football players\u2014isn't it funny or ironic how sportswriters use words of religion or morality to approve behavior that used to be considered neither religious nor moral? Rob Moseley thought the Sam news was \"massive, groundbreaking,\" while most sports fans probably thought the news was something more akin to \"thanks for sharing.\" And as for what Will Brinson calls the \"incredibly brave decision\" by Michael Sam, how incredibly brave is it to make an announcement that any PR person could tell you would suddenly make you a hero in the eyes of the sports media, and even merit\u2014as did the Jason Collins announcement\u2014a congratulatory phone call or statement of support from the president of the United States? Just as an aside, can you imagine previous presidents considering a man's announcement that he has sex with other men worthy of presidential commendation\u2014George Washington congratulating the first openly gay Indian lacrosse player, or Abraham Lincoln congratulating the first openly gay jockey, or FDR congratulating the first openly gay race car driver?\n\nIt's instructive to compare the sports media's treatment of Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow when he was drafted in the first round with their treatment of seventh-round draft pick Michael Sam. You can guess who got the easier ride. Pete Prisco of CBS Sports referred to Tebow's pro day at Florida as \"St. Timmy's Day.\" He trashed Tebow's NFL potential and even wondered whether Tebow was charging for pictures (he wasn't). Prisco made a cottage industry of anti-Tebow columns, concluding that Tebow \"stinks,\" might have \"learning problems,\" and was \"not a great teammate.\" Others were even less forgiving, and blunter. Jeff Pearlman of _Sports Illustrated_ left little doubt where he stood on \"Saint Timmy\" when he wrote a blog post titled \"I Want Tim Tebow to Fail.\" Imagine the reaction if a sports writer had written an article titled \"I Want Michael Sam to Fail.\" That writer would have been fired\u2014and then probably loaded into a cannon and fired into the polar vortex. There would have been universal outrage.\n\nBut there was no such outrage at Jeff Pearlman, who in that blog post said everything that the liberal sports media thought needed to be said:\n\nI want him to fail in the NFL nonetheless, because a famous Tim Tebow is a dangerous Tim Tebow. Tim Tebow scares me and judging from his father's website, his upcoming Super Bowl ad and mounting knowledge of his way of life he should scare you, too. Tim Tebow doesn't play football merely for the joy of the game. He plays football because he wants to spread the word of Jesus Christ.\n\nYeah, all that \"turn the other cheek,\" \"love thy neighbor,\" and saving unwanted children in Philippines stuff? Horrifying.\n\nAnd while Pearlman wanted Tebow to fail because Tebow is a devout evangelical Christian, Pearlman (who is Jewish) _gushed_ over Brooklyn-based Orthodox Jewish fighter Dmitriy Salita who also goes by the nickname \"The Star of David.\" In another blog post, Pearlman describes Salita as being \"genuinely pious.\" But, despite the fact that Salita is essentially the Jewish Tim Tebow, Pearlman never said he wants Salita to fail. On the contrary, Pearlman even went on to call Salita his favorite \"Jewish jock\" of all time. So it's okay for a Jewish fighter to be openly devout, but it's not okay for a Christian athlete? And of course when Michael Sam announced that he was going to be the first openly gay NFL player, Pearlman gushed again:\n\nMichael Sam is my new favorite football player.\n\nI don't have a close second. . . .\n\n. . . Some teammates will avoid him in the showers. There'll be whispers and chuckles. Religious teammates will damn him a sinner. Maybe to his face, maybe not. But the words, they will speak.\n\nAnd yet . . . I get the feeling this man can take it. He's clearly intelligent and insightful. He braved coming out to his college teammates, and was encouraged by the aftermath. He seems to know he's a trailblazer; seems comfortable carrying that torch.\n\nI've never seen him play, but I expect my son to be wearing his jersey next season.\n\nWith pride.\n\nOkay, so Michael Sam is Pearlman's \"new favorite football player,\" and he doesn't have \"a close second,\" even though he's \"never seen him play.\" In other words, Sam is Pearlman's favorite player _solely because_ Sam is openly gay, and Pearlman is rooting for Sam to succeed just as he rooted for Tebow to fail, because Tebow \"wants to spread the word of Christ\" while Sam is \"a trailblazer\" carrying the \"torch\" of gay activism, and the sports media love the latter and loathe the former.\n\nBut as giddy and jubilant as the sports media were after Michael Sam's announcement that he was gay, there was still a problem. No one else seemed to care. All the supposedly racist, homophobic religious zealots were remarkably quiet. Dave Zirin, sports editor for the very liberal magazine the _Nation_ , was even moved to write an article that posed the question: \"Why the Curious Right-Wing Silence on Michael Sam?\"\n\nI don't know, maybe it's because the rest of the country isn't as obsessed with homosexuality as sports columnists are, and maybe most people have better things to do than talk about the sex lives of others. The sports media were perplexed that the \"right wing\" appeared far less \"homophobic\" than advertised. So how did the sports media handle this? Extensions of friendships? Apologies? Back rubs? Long walks on the beach? No, they decided to pick a fight.\n\nDale Hansen, a sports anchor for WFAA television in Dallas, couldn't resist, as almost all liberal sportscasters can't resist, the idea that gay is the new black:\n\nIt wasn't that long ago when we were being told that black players couldn't play in \"our\" games because it would be \"uncomfortable.\" And even when they finally could, it took several more years before a black man played quarterback.\n\nBecause we weren't \"comfortable\" with that, either.\n\nSo many of the same people who used to make that argument (and the many who still do) are the same people who say government should stay out of our lives.\n\nBut then want government in our bedrooms.\n\nI've never understood how they feel \"comfortable\" laying claim to both sides of that argument.\n\nHansen's thinking is so confused here I have almost no idea what he's really trying to say. But, I'll give it a try. It seems like Hansen is blaming small-government types, in other words, Republicans, and Christian Republicans in particular\u2014you know, the ones who support small government _and_ traditional morality\u2014for the color bar that used to keep professional sports segregated. And I guess he's saying that these same people opposed black quarterbacks and now oppose Michael Sam. Make sense? Maybe if you're Bob Costas or Keith Olbermann; otherwise, Hansen's whole rant is beyond silly, as is his final slap at Republicans' \"wanting government in our bedrooms.\" Really? Like when? I thought it was liberals who were responsible for putting, on the taxpayers' dime, the \"bedroom\" stuff in our public schools, including all sorts of LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender) propaganda; Obamacare, which has made us pay for everyone else's contraception (more bedroom stuff); the liberal welfare state that has made us pay for everyone else's abortions, STDs, and illegitimate children (yet more bedroom stuff); and the Obama administration's inclusion of gay liberation as part of our foreign policy, flying the LGBT rainbow flag from some of our embassies, or in other words having the government take the sheets out of certain bedrooms and fly them on a flagpole representing our nation.\n\nBut back to sports. Let's begin with some facts. Branch Rickey, the Dodgers executive who decided to snatch Jackie Robinson out of relative obscurity and shatter baseball's color barrier by bringing him up to the big leagues with the Brooklyn Dodgers, was, wait for it, a Republican. In fact, so was Jackie Robinson until the late 1960s, when he supported Hubert Humphrey for president. And guess what? Both men were devout Christians.\n\nAs for the first black quarterback to win a Super Bowl, that was Doug Williams, and his head coach was a Christian conservative Republican named Joe Gibbs. The same Joe Gibbs who spoke at the 2008 Republican National Convention, and the same Joe Gibbs who benched a white quarterback named Jay Schroeder in order to give Williams the starting job that he had rightfully earned. Not to mention that Jack Kent Cooke, who was the Redskins owner at the time and the boss of both Williams and Gibbs, was also a staunch Republican.\n\nHansen wants to imply that Republicans\u2014those small-government, moralistic types\u2014are racists. But the inconvenient truth for Hansen is that it was Republicans who broke the color barrier in baseball, it was Republicans who gave us the first black quarterback to win a Super Bowl, and it was Republicans who were saying next to nothing about Michael Sam at the time that Hansen decided to go on his rant.\n\nHansen loosed his tirade after some anonymous NFL executives and personnel types told _Sports Illustrated_ that Sam's announcement could hurt his draft stock. So naturally Hansen took the assessment of NFL executives and scouts as a means to attack conservatives for being, guess what, racist and for wanting to get into your bedroom. Makes sense, doesn't it? Well, it does if you're in sports media. Or any mainstream media for that matter. After Sam was drafted and was filmed kissing his boyfriend, an anchor named Courtney Kerr on a Dallas morning TV show called _The Broadcast_ said that critical comments about Sam's messy display of affection were \"racist toward homosexuals.\" Her coanchor Lisa Pineiro, a fellow liberal, actually attacked conservatives for _not_ wanting to hear or see more stories about Michael Sam. People were, she said, and she implied that she was one of them, \"very sick of people who are being sick of hearing about [Michael Sam stories].\" There we have a point-blank confession that conservatives might not want to talk obsessively about gays, but the liberal media sure do.\n\nSince they couldn't get much of a rise with the Michael Sam coming-out story, they tried, and partly succeeded, by airing or posting, around the clock, video or pictures of Michael Sam kissing his boyfriend. Has an NFL draft pick's public display of affection ever been more widely aired? For the sports and mainstream media, it was as iconic as that end-of-World-War-II picture of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square. Even better, the liberal sports media knew it was offending the instincts and sentiments of a lot of people who are willing to tolerate homosexuality but don't want it broadcast into their living room or to their children who, you know, watch sports media for sports, not the national gay lip-locking championship. It's not conservatives who want government in the bedroom\u2014handing out \"free\" contraception \u00e0 la Obamacare\u2014but rather the liberal sports media, broadcasting gay kissing into every electronic device you might have in your bedroom.\n\nAnd if you're a professional football player who happens to tweet \"horrible\" and \"OMG\" at the spectacle, as Miami Dolphins safety Don Jones did, don't expect any sympathy from the sports media after the team fines you, suspends you, and sends you to \"educational training,\" because these journalists are perfectly fine with what the Communists used to call \"reeducation camps.\"\n\nThe liberal sports media think gay rights are a civil rights crusade and those who think otherwise need to have their thinking changed, which is why it is \"racist\" not to want round-the-clock coverage of Michael Sam kissing his boyfriend, why the liberal sports media think they are so bravely progressive when they broadcast it, and why the liberal sports media will fall right behind NFL management in stifling any dissent on this issue.\n\nFor the sports media, the enemy is always the same: conservatives and Christians. The \"ground\" the liberal sports media want to break is the ground of traditional Christian morality. Shortly after Jason Collins came out, the _Washington Post_ 's Mike Wise waxed stupid about those he felt were opposed to Collins. He, cowardly, did not name, though he paraphrased, ESPN NBA analyst Chris Broussard, who was pretty much the only member of the sports media to be openly critical of Collins, citing homosexuality as an \"open rebellion against God.\" Wise quickly went to full froth as he attacked the \"heterosexual religious zealots\" who \"used [Collins's] historic announcement to call homosexuality a sin and an open rebellion toward God and otherwise trumpeted their bigotry under the guise of 'religious beliefs.'\"\n\nIn other words, if Christians consider homosexuality a sin, then they are bigots. Not much liberal tolerance for Christians, is there? Wise continued: \"Let's at least be consistent: If the outrage at Collins is all about religion, where was the contempt for Shawn Kemp's and Antonio Cromartie's serial fathering? Really, why is an openly gay athlete evoking such fervor while a womanizing athlete is just one of the fellas?\"\n\nThere are a couple of points to be made here. First, there wasn't a lot of outrage\u2014in fact, there was hardly any\u2014at Jason Collins's announcement. There was no anti-Collins \"fervor.\" The fervor was all on the side of the liberal sports media, who trumpeted a story that very few people cared about and lashed out against \"bigots\" who were almost entirely silent, perhaps even nearly nonexistent. If you looked at any sports media blog, you'd quickly find that most any \"outrage\" was directed not at Collins but at the sports media's endless clamor about Collins, which is why sports media liberals were \"very sick of people who are being sick of hearing about it,\" as Lisa Pineiro said about Michael Sam.\n\nAnd as for the lack of \"contempt for Shawn Kemp's and Antonio Cromartie's serial fathering,\" is it really the role of Christians to show contempt for anyone? Christians are called to charity, and it's telling that Wise doesn't know that\u2014contempt seems to be more his line when he talks about Christians.\n\nSpeaking as a sports commentator, I can tell you that the real reason sports writers steer away from talking about athletes and their \"baby mamas\" is because they don't want to be called _racist_. Mike Wise knows this. Whenever someone criticizes a Kemp or a Cromartie for his \"serial fathering,\" he gets shouted down and vilified. Case in point was when, in 2013, one of NFL running back Adrian Peterson's _many_ illegitimate children was tragically beaten to death by a monster whom the child's mother was living with. Phil Mushnick, a sports writer for the _New York Post_ , then took Peterson to task. Mushnick was angry with Peterson for not providing a better home for his son and for living a lifestyle that made his kids vulnerable because he wasn't there to be a father for them, saying:\n\nMaybe Peterson's son is just one more stands-to-reason murder victim, just another child born to just another \"baby mama,\" one more kid who never had a shot, anyway. Maybe, by now, even if we can't accept it, we can expect it. . . . The suspect in the beating murder of Peterson's 2-year-old is the boyfriend of Peterson's \"baby mama\"\u2014now the casual, flippant, detestable and common buzz-phrase for absentee, wham-bam fatherhood.\n\nAnd for those comments, Mushnick was ripped by the sports media. _Deadspin_ described Mushnick as a \"professional shithead\" and \"race-baiting troll.\" The site Awful Announcing called Mushnick's piece \"the most offensive sports column in the history of Earth.\" It is Wise's fellow travelers in the liberal sports media, who are quick to yell racism and quick to reject Christian morality, who make it nearly impossible to criticize athletes for impregnating their serial baby mamas.\n\nWise saved the kicker for the end: \"Collins being gay is about him, not anyone else. By sharing his sexual identity publicly, he's stating who _he_ is, not what anyone else should be.\"\n\nYeah, and that's why you're writing about it in one of the country's largest newspapers, and that's why the Collins and the Sam stories dominated ESPN for days, because all this is a private moment for Jason Collins and Michael Sam. Please. I could have said the exact same thing about Tim Tebow. Tebow's Christianity was about him, and not necessarily anyone else. He opened the door to others who might want to follow, but he in no way compelled them to or damned them if they didn't. So what's the difference? The sports media like what Sam stands for and loathe what Tebow stands for.\n\nThis moment ceased having anything to do with Jason Collins the second he said, \"I'm gay.\" Collins was just the means to an end for the liberal sports media. As Matt Philbin of the Media Research Center said, Collins is their \"gay Jackie Robinson.\" Collins and Sam might say they just want to play ball and don't want to be activists, and that's fine. But it doesn't matter. The sports media will turn them into activists. That same sports media, however, could also be their undoing. In a moment of breathtaking honesty, Gregg Doyel of CBS Sports tweeted out an article that he wrote, with the catch line in the tweet reading: \"Michael Sam and the liberal media: Match made in heaven, or . . . not?\"\n\nHats off to Gregg Doyel for acknowledging that the liberal media are . . . the liberal media. He goes further:\n\nThe media wants Michael Sam to succeed. I could ignore that and write something else about him, something that would sound very much like I want him to succeed\u2014and I do, unabashedly and unapologetically\u2014but ignoring the obvious is no way to go through life. So let's not ignore that Michael Sam has fans in newsrooms and press boxes around the country.\n\nSee, Michael Sam is a story, one we've been waiting on for years. We in the national media have long anticipated a publicly gay male professional athlete in one of our biggest sports leagues\u2014the NFL, MLB, the NBA\u2014and we almost had one last year when Jason Collins came out. The media fawned over Collins' announcement, and I could pretend that didn't happen but it's like I've already said: Ignoring the facts is no way to go through life. Hell, I was fawning myself. Unabashedly and unapologetically.\n\nSo the mostly liberal media has a story that we find not just fascinating, but inspiring. And we're going to write about Michael Sam as much as we can, as I'm doing right here, because it's so fun and new and progressive.\n\nNFL teams will be watching, reading. And at some point you have to wonder if the overexposure that killed the career of Tim Tebow will do the same to Michael Sam.\n\nNow, first off, the obvious difference between Sam and Tebow is that the media actually _wanted_ Tim Tebow to fail. They viewed him, his family, and what he stood for as a clear and present danger to what they believe, and they wanted him gone. If Michael Sam's NFL career face-plants after a year or two because of the \"media circus,\" it will be sad, and no doubt some of those liberals in those press boxes and newsrooms will lament the tragic downfall they helped to make happen. But, in the end, Michael Sam's career demise would just be collateral damage. The sports media don't care about Michael Sam. They care about what Michael Sam represents. As Doyel says, this is the story \"we've been waiting on for years.\"\n\nAnd that's sad. What's also sad is that so many reporters were waiting on this for so long. Why? What's such a big deal about a kid being gay and playing football? What would it prove? What kind of warped mind-set do you have to be in to lose sleep at night wondering when and whence the first gay football player is coming? More important, why weren't they waiting for someone like Tebow? With all the domestic violence, rapes, murders, broken homes, bankruptcy, and other crap that the sports world produces nowadays, if you were going to lose sleep over waiting for a great story and a breath of fresh air, wouldn't you have been hoping for a Tim Tebow? Instead, your answer to all of that was to anxiously anticipate the first gay player? What does that say about the people who are bringing you your sports news?\n\nUnfortunately, what it offers is more evidence that gay activism has become the new religion of the sports media. Sports have always taken relatively obscure players like Michael Sam and Jason Collins and helped turn them into heroes. But, in the past, that kind of hero-or icon-making was reserved for people who had either done incredible things on the field of play or done incredibly brave and heroic things away from the field of play. Michael Sam and Jason Collins can lay claim to no such exploits on the playing field. Their icon stature is due solely to their homosexuality and the \"bravery\" they showed in coming out.\n\nBut what's brave or heroic about saying you're gay in America in 2014? Not much. The fact is, coming out has become, as Matt Philbin of the Media Research Center describes it, more about joining \"society's most trendy and celebrated grievance group.\" All it means is that _Sports Center_ is going to be showing your highlights all day, Oprah's booking agent will be calling soon, and you're probably going to pick up about thirty thousand Twitter followers. I'm not saying coming out doesn't require a certain degree of self-confidence. But bravery? What's brave in America in 2014 is going to Radio Row at the Super Bowl and telling someone you voted for Romney.\n\nI don't have anything against Michael Sam personally. I've got enough trouble keeping up with my own sex life, let alone his or anyone else's. But I have to say I really do wish they would keep it to themselves. Few of us feel the need to talk about our sex lives. Most of us think there is a lot more to us than what we do behind closed doors. But the only reason we're asked to know or care about Jason Collins or Michael Sam is because they're gay, and that's a problem.\n\nI should know about you because of _what_ you've done, not because of _whom_ you've done. Are we really getting to a point in society where people are known and identified by whom they go horizontal with?\n\nIt seems like we are, and whether you're gay or straight, that's not a good thing.\n\nEspecially, and bizarrely, when having a Christian point of view on these issues can cost you your job.\n\nThat's how liberals play the \"tolerance\" game. It's a matter of definition: they're tolerant, and you're not; and because you're not, you might get sued or lose your job or be otherwise publicly vilified.\n\nDavid Tyree found this out firsthand. In 2014, the New York Giants decided to hire their former wide receiver and Super Bowl XLII hero as director of player development.\n\nTyree had previously spoken publicly about his views on gay marriage. According to Breitbart.com:\n\nIn 2011 Tyree got involved in the campaign in New York on the question of same-sex marriage and said same-sex marriage would lead to \"anarchy.\" He maintained, \"The nuclear family is the backbone of society,\" \"marriage existed prior to our country,\" and \"redefining marriage changes everything including the way we educate our children.\"\n\n\"This is not personal,\" the sure-handed receiver explained. \"I could still be in a locker room with a gay man and still love him as a teammate. I can be tolerant, but the problem is people aren't tolerant of the views people like me have. If you don't agree with that lifestyle, you're a bigot. I'm not a bigot. I have different viewpoints.\"\n\nAs if on cue, to ensure that Tyree's statement on intolerance completely fulfilled the prophecy, the benignly named but liberally inspired Human Rights Campaign attacked Tyree. The HRC called his beliefs \"misinformed and dangerous.\" What seemed to annoy the HRC at first was Tyree's statement that he would trade his Super Bowl win for a society that maintains the institution of traditional marriage: \"As a player, David Tyree made clear that his misguided personal views trump his responsibility to his teammates and his employer.\"\n\nGood. I'm glad David Tyree's personal views and strongly held convictions trump his responsibility to his employer. They should. How strongly or dearly held is a personal view or conviction if it can be overruled by the guy signing your paycheck?\n\nDavid Tyree had a good NFL career. The only reason he is a household name to millions of sports fans is because of his amazing circus catch that helped make the Giants' win in Super Bowl XLII possible. That Super Bowl and that moment will likely become the only thing that people remember from his playing career; and yet, he would trade away that signature moment of his career for traditional marriage. Good for him.\n\nYou would think that in a sane world, the HRC and others of their ilk could have at least felt a begrudging respect for the depth of his commitment, his sense of principle, even if they disagreed with him. Instead, the only depths the HRC managed to go to were name-calling and fearmongering.\n\nTyree really got under their skin with his strong belief in gay conversion. As Tyree said in a 2011 Twitter exchange on the civil rights and gay rights movements: \"I'll never be a former black. I have met former homosexuals.\"\n\nIt was this that led to the hissiest of all hissy-fit responses from the HRC:\n\n\"When did Tyree decide to be straight?\" Human Rights Campaign president Chad Griffin asked in a statement criticizing the Giants for hiring the former receiver. \"The idea that someone can change their sexual orientation or gender identity is ludicrous and the New York Giants are risking their credibility by hiring someone who publicly advocates junk science. His opposition to basic legal equality aside, David Tyree's proselytizing of such dangerous practices goes against the positive work the Giants organization has done in recent years.\"\n\nGay conversion equals kryptonite to PC police and activists like the HRC. It's the one thing they can't allow over and above all else. It's not \"science\" that these activists are pushing; it's an agenda defended by intimidation, intolerance, and even, in some states, the force of law. The readily observable fact that gays walk away from, and heteros walk into, homosexuality every year brings _their_ junk-science, \"it's not a choice\" house of cards crashing down. The fact that David Tyree publicly expressed that fact with his simple yet forceful take about meeting former homosexuals yet never having met former blacks became good enough to get him marked for figurative death.\n\nBut reports of Tyree's career death were greatly exaggerated. The Giants went ahead and made the hire. David Tyree also tried to appease the homosexual lobby that wanted to kill his career by meeting with Wade Davis, the executive director of the You Can Play foundation, which aims to eliminate \"homophobia.\"\n\nThe _New York Daily News_ reported that You Can Play cofounder Patrick Burke released a tweet suggesting that Tyree was \"evolving\" in his views. Not only that, Burke even went so far as to criticize the HRC for attacking Tyree. Wade Davis echoed that in a piece he wrote for the Monday Morning Quarterback in which he described Tyree as being \"on a journey when it comes to understanding the LGBT community. He is evolving.\" But Davis also cautioned that the former Giant wide receiver's \"journey\" is not complete. He vowed to \"help him along his journey\" and hopes that the outcome will be a \"positive one.\"\n\nWell, here's hoping it's not a \"positive one\"\u2014not because I think a man isn't entitled to change his opinion, but because a man shouldn't be compelled to change his opinion because of politically correct tyranny that denies alternative points of view. David Tyree was a brave and forceful voice for traditional marriage in the NFL, and it's not like there were many such voices willing to speak publicly. I have seen no evidence of Tyree recanting his beliefs. But let's not kid ourselves: activists like Burke and Davis aren't going to rush to Tyree's defense against fellow travelers like the HRC and wax eloquent about his philosophical evolution unless Tyree has said or done something to convince them that they should. It might appear that Tyree had to pay a ransom for his opinions, because once it was reported that he was on a \"journey\" and \"evolving,\" the activists' criticism of him died down. Is that how it's going to be from now on? Will every traditional-marriage advocate, or every conservative, have to sit down with the politically correct tyrants and kiss the proverbial ring in order to get the crazies to shut up and leave him alone? It certainly seems that's the direction we're headed. I don't know if the Giants told Tyree to meet with Wade Davis or if he did it on his own initiative, but it sets the terrible precedent of giving activists who represent about 3 percent of the population near veto power over an NFL franchise's hiring a former player who happens to have exercised his First Amendment right to speak in favor of traditional marriage. Even when these activists lose, they win.\n\nAlas, the practice of gay extortion is not confined to the HRC. Perhaps the most famous example of this comes from an NFL player. Chris Kluwe, a former punter for the Minnesota Vikings, supports gay marriage and has a history of loudly making his views known. He also happened to be an older and increasingly expensive player as the 2013 season approached. Just prior to the start of the season, the Vikings cut Kluwe, and no other NFL team signed him that year.\n\nIn 2014, with his career apparently over, Kluwe decided to give life to his bitterness toward the Vikings by writing a provocative tell-all for _Deadspin_. Kluwe could have chosen one of two roads when he penned his tale. One was the high road. The other was the one that he took. Here is the gist of his piece, \"I Was an NFL Player Until I Was Fired by Two Cowards and a Bigot,\" as related by the _New York Daily News_ :\n\n\"It's my belief, based on everything that happened over the course of 2012, that I was fired by [special teams coach] Mike Priefer, a bigot who didn't agree with the cause I was working for, and two cowards, Leslie Frazier and [general manager] Rick Spielman, both of whom knew I was a good punter and would remain a good punter for the foreseeable future, as my numbers over my eight-year career had shown, but who lacked the fortitude to disagree with Mike Priefer on a touchy subject matter,\" Kluwe wrote in the 3,700-word piece, adding that he doesn't know for sure if his activism led to his dismissal from the team, \"However I'm pretty confident it was.\"\n\nPriefer vehemently denied Kluwe's allegations in a statement given to Minnesota's KFAN sports radio. And in a separate statement released Thursday afternoon, the Vikings said they are taking Kluwe's claims seriously and \"will thoroughly review this matter.\"\n\nKluwe didn't leave the matter there, threatening to sue the Vikings for wrongful termination, claiming that his stance on gay marriage, not his performance, led to his being cut. This is interesting, since Kluwe, by his own admission, could not prove that his personal politics caused his release.\n\nIn fact, at the end of the _Deadspin_ piece, Kluwe himself even went so far as to outline a couple of really, really good reasons for firing him, citing his \"age\" and his expensive \"veteran minimum salary.\" He might have added that the Vikings ranked twentieth in the NFL in punting average during Kluwe's last season with the team. That's certainly not good, and not something worth paying a ton of money for. But, of course, he left that part out.\n\nThe Vikings opened their own investigation into Kluwe's case, asking former chief justice of the Minnesota Supreme Court Eric Magnuson and former U.S. Department of Justice trial attorney Chris Madel \"to complete an independent review of Kluwe's allegations\" and \"to thoroughly and comprehensively investigate three particular allegations by Kluwe and Kluwe's counsel,\" namely:\n\n1. Special Teams Coordinator Mike Priefer made offensive and insensitive remarks in Kluwe's presence.\n\n2. Representatives of the Vikings discouraged Kluwe from publicly supporting marriage equality and had knowledge of the Priefer comments prior to the _Deadspin_ article publication on January 2, 2014.\n\n3. Kluwe's activism for marriage equality was the reason for his release from the Vikings on May 6, 2013.\n\nThe investigative team concluded that, basically, Chris Kluwe was full of garbage. They found evidence that Priefer had made _one_ homophobic remark, but only after the coach became exasperated that Kluwe and his long snapper Cullen Loeffler weren't focusing on football. There was, on the other hand, _no_ evidence that Vikings management knew about this remark. Moreover, according to the report, \"The record supports the conclusion that players and management were concerned about the distraction that Kluwe's activism was creating, as opposed to the nature and content of his activism. The record does not support the contention that members of management and the coaching staff were focused on discouraging Kluwe based on the nature of his activism.\"\n\nAccording to the investigation:\n\nKluwe himself stated that he never reported any of Priefer's alleged statements to management, Human Resources, or anyone else other than in discussions with [long snapper Cullen] Loeffler and [kicker Blair] Walsh [who issued a statement supporting Priefer's integrity and professionalism]. . . . During his interview, investigators asked Kluwe why he did not bring Priefer's comments to the attention of others within the Vikings organization sooner. Kluwe explained that at the time, he did not know he was going to be released from the Vikings so he thought Priefer's remarks were \"a momentary unpleasant thing\" that would pass as they moved on to the next year.\n\nTranslation: Chris Kluwe was so horrified by Priefer's alleged homophobic quip that he waited for the team to release him and then came up with this garbage story to look like a martyr.\n\nOther findings from the commission make Kluwe look like an ass, almost literally. After news broke of the Jerry Sandusky child-abuse scandal at Penn State, Kluwe, according to a memorandum released by the Vikings and quoted in Pro Football Talk:\n\n. . . made fun of the Vikings' then Head Strength and Conditioning Coach Tom Kanavy, an alumnus of and former coach at Penn State University. . . . In his interview, Kanavy explained that Kluwe cut the seat out of his pants and then put them on to imitate a victim of the Penn State child-abuse scandal. According to Kanavy, Kluwe said that he was a \"Penn State victim\" and to \"stay away\" from him while his buttocks were exposed.\n\nKluwe told investigators that he did not recall that behavior, but that \"it's very possible\" that he did it.\n\n\"It didn't stick in my mind, but, you know, I\u2014it is definitely\u2014if people said they saw it, then yeah, I probably did it,\" Kluwe said.\n\nSo, they want us to believe that the same guy who makes light of the rape of several young boys at the hands of a monster was mortally offended by a single homophobic remark made in frustration by a coach who though Kluwe wasn't focused on his job? Not buying it. Kluwe trashed what little credibility he had left when he took to Twitter after the release of the Vikings' investigative report and memorandum: \"Oooh, shall we talk about the time two very well-known Vikings players were caught in a compromising situation with an underage girl?\" In a follow-up tweet, Kluwe said: \"Bet you didn't hear about that one in the news. We can do this all day, Vikings. Special teams hears *everything*.\"\n\nHmm, so to get this straight: Chris Kluwe, moral champion and defender of the LGBT realm, not only made fun of the rape of young boys, but apparently turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the rape of a young girl?\n\nYet, despite the fact that Kluwe's charges were proved baloney and that he had exposed himself as a scumbag of the highest order, what did the Vikings do? They caved. To start, the Vikings suspended special teams coach Mike Priefer for three games. Then the team agreed to provide an undisclosed sum of money to five different LGBT charities, and to host a national conference on LGBT issues in the field of professional athletics, _and_ to mandate sensitivity training four times a year for all Vikings employees. To top it all off, the Vikings donated an additional $100,000 to LGBT charities, over and above the undisclosed amount already given to the other five charities.\n\nAl Sharpton has nothing on this corporate shakedown. Facts no longer matter. Only image and fear matter. The Vikings, and really all sports organizations, now simply manage image, tempered solely by the fear of appearing insensitive, as defined by pressure groups and the liberal media.\n\nThe liberal sports media that tried to make heroes of Michael Sam, Jason Collins, and Chris Kluwe only showed how ridiculously partisan, lacking in any rational perspective, and off-topic they can be. Sports fans deserve better.\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nTRASHING TEBOW\n\nWatercooler talk at the office is awesome, because everyone gets together to talk about things that have nothing to do with work. But in radio it's different. Your watercooler talk is our meat and potatoes. And so it was that, as cut-down day loomed in the NFL and Tim Tebow prepared to learn his fate, I was standing in front of the studio's break-room microwave waiting for the beep and instead I heard a loud scream: \"Yes!\"\n\nTurning around, I saw a coworker with a beaming grin on his face: \"Tebow is out! Somebody _finally_ got rid of that Jesus freak!\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah?\" I said. \"I feel bad for him. I don't think the religious stuff really hurt anybody. He should be on a roster somewhere.\" He had, after all, led the Broncos to the playoffs in 2011\u201312 after a series of thrilling come-from-behind wins.\n\n\"Well, you know, man, he can be who he is; I'm not saying all that. I just don't like it when people wear that stuff on their sleeve.\"\n\n\"Well, where should he have worn it? Why should he keep it to himself if it's something he believes in?\"\n\nMy work buddy, stunned to find someone not part of the liberal groupthink, backed out of the room, saying, \"I feel you, dawg. I feel you . . .\"\n\nIf I were more na\u00efve, I'd be shocked that the sports media so hated such a well-meaning, harmless, good-works-doing kid as Tim Tebow.\n\nBut while sports journalists can tolerate an index finger raised to heaven after a touchdown or even a prayer circle after a game, they don't like players to talk about it and walk the Christian walk in public. Tebow is not just a Christian who \"tebows\" after touchdowns. He lives his faith in ways that, to lefty sports journalists, make him a threat to the totally secular sports world they are determined to create. (Sports journalists, in case you haven't noticed, are terrific at moral reversals.) So the fact that Tebow spends his summers helping at a family-run orphanage, building a children's hospital, and preaching the gospel is something sports commentators actually hold against him, particularly that last part.\n\nIn college, Tebow spent more time in prison than most college athletes\u2014and that's saying something. But he wasn't making license plates, he was conducting a prison ministry. Tebow's parents are Baptist missionaries, and Tebow has taken up that role too. It is very hard for liberal, amoral sports reporters not to want to rebuke someone like that, especially when the player and the missionary are inseparable.\n\nThe whole Tebow package\u2014tebowing after a touchdown, the \"pro-life\" Tebow Super Bowl commercial (where his mother talks about how Tebow \"almost didn't make it into this world\" and how she still worries about him\u2014before he tackles her . . . about the most inoffensive pro-life message imaginable), and the mass popularity of Tebow as a Christian sports hero\u2014scared the sports media. It wasn't merely that Tebow had religion, it was that he used his celebrity to evangelize. The liberal sports media viewed him as a monster, even though he was a monster they had helped create because he made good copy and was good for ratings.\n\nWith more than eighty colleges recruiting him out of high school, Tebow was the subject of a documentary in ESPN's _Faces of Sports_ series. It showcased his incredible on-the-field exploits but also covered the family's strong Christian faith. The documentary showed Tebow's father, Bob, reading scripture and talking about how he had prayed for a son named Timothy whom he could raise to be a preacher. The piece went into, albeit briefly, how doctors told Pam, Tebow's mother, that she would die if she did not abort the future Tim, and how she defied their advice, literally risking her life for the benefit of her unborn child. It was an extremely well-done, powerful, and uplifting piece of journalism.\n\nThe sports media profiles continued through his college years, depicting Tebow's religion in a light that, if not flattering, was at least not overtly critical. As his fame grew at Florida and he established himself as one of the best college football players of his class, Tebow became more comfortable in front of the cameras, talking God and football to millions. By the time he arrived in the NFL, he was seen by many as what was once called a \"muscular Christian,\" an evangelist who could take on a Mike linebacker in the open field.\n\nHowever, once Tebow got into the pros, the lefty NFL media were quick to put \"Saint Timmy\" on notice that the mostly positive media coverage he had received in high school and college was over. In fact, Tim Tebow couldn't even get out of the NFL combine before the proverbial lions were released. As Gregg Rosenthal wrote on Pro Football Talk, \"Quarterback Tim Tebow's habit of openly expressing his religious beliefs could potentially rub folks the wrong way, especially in a locker room of grown men who choose to keep their beliefs to themselves, who don't share his beliefs at all, and/or who only want to hear 'God bless' after they have sneezed.\"\n\nGregg's strange line that \"Tebow's habit of openly expressing his religious beliefs could potentially rub folks the wrong way, _especially in a locker room full of grown men_ [emphasis added]\" implied a deep disdain for Christianity, treating it as a fairy tale that Saint Timmy might still believe but that grown men don't. But put the typical liberal media contempt for Christianity aside for a minute and think about the double standard here. The same media that would later cheer the prospect of an openly gay player in an NFL locker room and didn't care if it rubbed anyone \"the wrong way\"\u2014that in fact called such people \"bigots\"\u2014thought it disruptive to have an openly Christian player like Tebow in a locker room. That's not just a double standard: that's crazy.\n\nBut that was just the opening salvo of Rosenthal's piece. The larger context came via a report from the NFL combine that before taking the Wonderlic test (the NFL IQ test administered to all players) Tim Tebow summoned the athletes together for a group prayer. \"Per a league source,\" Rosenthal reported, one of the players said in response:\n\n\"Shut the f\u2013k up.\" Other players in the room then laughed.\n\nWe're not passing judgment on this one; we're just passing along what we've heard. And it illustrates the type of challenges that could be faced by the team that drafts Tebow.\n\nAfter Rosenthal's story came out, Tebow contacted Pro Football Talk, denied that anything like this happened, and even named the players in the room and invited Rosenthal to call them.\n\nRosenthal's dire warning of how Tebow's religion could be a problem was based on a single highly suspect account of an occurrence at the combine, one very convenient for Rosenthal's piece. There was, however, no record of Tebow's religion being a problem with the Florida Gators, where he had been a team captain, or with his high school teammates. Like so much of leftist sports journalism, Rosenthal's story was centered on opinion, his own and that of those who agreed with him, rather than facts.\n\nIt also illustrates the complete disconnect between the sports media and the athletes they cover. News flash: NFL players are overwhelmingly Christian, as is the country at large. Rosenthal's assertion that it would be problematic to add an evangelical Christian player to a locker room full of Christian players, nominal or not, is beyond absurd.\n\nOne could say that Rosenthal failed to do his due diligence as a reporter. But equally important is the _way_ this story was reported. If we lived in a sane world, the villain of the piece would be the alleged hurler of the F-bomb, not the fellow praying for his success. What if, at the NFL combine, a player yelled out at Michael Sam as he was being interviewed, \"Shut the f\u2013k up\"? Do you think the sports media would have passed this along as one of the dangers of drafting Michael Sam? Or do you think they would have named and shamed the F-bomb shouter?\n\nRosenthal claimed not to be \"passing judgment on this one\"\u2014as if there's some kind of gray area between Christianity and \"shut the f\u2013k up\"\u2014but as a reporter, shouldn't he have tried to find out who allegedly said it, you know, to confirm the story? Rosenthal claimed he would \"keep digging\" on the story after Tebow said it didn't happen. Yet despite all the \"digging,\" no one identified the alleged culprit. Seems odd, right? After all, when the sports media want to expose someone, they do it. We all remember ESPN's Darren Rovell and shady hotel-room footage of Johnny Manziel signing football helmets, telling camera operators, \"You never did a signing with me.\" We remember the near-Orwellian lip-reading tactics used on Kobe Bryant when he called NBA referee Bennie Adams a \"f\u2014ing faggot,\" which of course sparked a massive gay-outreach program by the NBA. But the sports media seemed content to the let the combine story drop.\n\nThere's another explanation as to why the sports media never produced Tim Tebow's F-bomb hurler, and that's because he never existed in the first place. Pro Football Talk's promises to \"keep digging,\" coupled with Tebow's stringent denial, smack of a story whose basis in fact was flimsy at best. That in itself could have been a story, but if you think the liberal sports media are interested in journalistic standards, you obviously haven't been paying attention.\n\nPro Football Talk's \"reporting\" was just the tip of the iceberg for the USS Tebow. When he landed on the Denver Broncos, serving as Kyle Orton's backup, he was consistently peppered with questions about what he thought his prospects were of one day landing the starting job. Sometimes the questions were less flattering, sounding more like statements of how he didn't have what it took to be a consistent starter in the NFL, to which he once replied, \"Others who say I won't make it are wrong. They don't know what I'm capable of and what's inside me. My family and my friends have been bothered by what's gone on, and I tell them to pay no attention to it. I'm relying as always on my faith.\"\n\nPretty innocuous statement there, right? I mean, pro athletes frequently speak of how they have faith in themselves and faith in God. But CBS Sports' Gregg Doyel heard Tebow's words and hastily penned a column making some of the most ludicrous claims ever made from a harmless quote. \"Unbelievable,\" Doyel cried in the headline. \"Tebow Believes Faith Equates to Starting in NFL.\" Doyel inserted all the semi-mandatory \"I'm not against religion\" disclaimers and the obligatory \"I go to church myself\" qualifier at the beginning of the piece, then without skipping a beat went about demonstrating no understanding of religious faith whatsoever as he summed up Tebow's quote thus: \"He'll make it in this league\u2014for the Bible tells him so.\"\n\n\"Tebow is rightfully confident,\" Doyel went on. \"But his confidence isn't only in himself. It's in his God. Tebow has basically said, and I'm paraphrasing here, 'I'll be a starter in this league because God loves me that much.'\" Doyel wrote, also in his own words, that Tebow's faith seems to be that he \"will be rewarded with a starting job in the NFL.\"\n\nHoly overanalysis, Batman! First of all, it really would have been swell if Doyel had actually . . . you know . . . _asked Tebow_ what he meant by saying he was \"relying on faith.\" Apparently that didn't happen. Perhaps if he had asked, Tebow would have said that \"relying on faith\" doesn't mean everything works out the way you want it to; it's a belief that _no matter what comes_ , you'll be okay, because it's all part of God's plan. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere.\n\nAll of Doyel's ignorance and spin and lack of due diligence I could forgive, but there's no forgiving what Doyel said in his last paragraph:\n\nTebow has been a great billboard for Christianity\u2014just as Muhammad Ali has been a great billboard for Islam, and Sandy Koufax a great billboard for Judaism\u2014but that doesn't mean he will be rewarded with a starting job in the NFL. Maybe deep inside his heart Tebow knows that, but from the outside it doesn't look that way. From the outside it looks like Tebow equates his love for God in heaven with tangible rewards here on earth. And that's more than wrong. It's blasphemy.\n\nReally? So now we have sports commentators defining _blasphemy_ for us, and typically they define it in a self-serving, double-standard way. Somehow it passes liberal sports reporters by that part of faith is _gratitude_ for the gifts God has given you. When a player scores a touchdown and raises his finger skyward, he's not saying, \"God thinks I'm great,\" but rather, \"Thanks, God, for giving me the talent to do this.\" But even supposing for a second that Doyel is right, that Tim Tebow \"equates his love for God in heaven with tangible rewards here on earth,\" how many athletes, and Christians at large for that matter, thank God for \"His blessings\" and think those blessings come, at least in part, from their love of God? When Florida State's Jameis Winston praised God after winning the BCS National Championship game, was he saying that his faith in God had helped deliver him the title? Maybe\u2014again, at least in part. Did Kurt Warner equate religion with success when on the podium with Terry Bradshaw after winning the 2009 NFC Championship game he said, \"There's one reason that I'm standing up on this stage today, and that's because of my Lord up above. . . . I've got to say thanks to Jesus!\"? Yet I don't recall anyone writing a column calling Winston or Warner blasphemous because they credited their success on the football field to God. But that's precisely what Gregg Doyel did to Tim Tebow because Tebow is more overtly a missionary for his faith and therefore, if you're part of the liberal sports media, a greater threat.\n\nEspecially disappointing about the Tebow saga is that when fellow Christian athletes had the chance to get Tebow's back and help defend their shared faith, they instead let him be fed to the lions. No one was more disappointing in this regard than Kurt Warner. Something funny happened to Kurt after he stopped playing and took a commentary spot for the NFL Network. When asked about Tebow and his brand of expressive faith, Warner told the _Washington Post_ that Tebow should \"put down the boldness in regards to the words, and keep living the way you're living.\" I love Kurt Warner, but that's a complete cop-out. Did Kurt Warner \"put down the boldness\" when he shouted, \"I've got to say thanks to Jesus!\" to Terry Bradshaw? In fact, you could make the argument that Kurt Warner was Tebow before Tebow, frequently making his faith a public part of his life.\n\nBut that was when Warner was a player in the league. Look at the transformation in Warner from player to broadcaster, from Mr. Thank-You-Jesus to Mr. Tone-It-Down Guy. Why? Because he knew, or was flat out told, that kind of talk would not be tolerated in the sports media. If Kurt Warner were gay, and Tim Tebow had been the first active, openly gay athlete in a major American sport, there's no way Kurt Warner would have felt compelled to tell Tebow to tone anything down. On the contrary, he would have demanded a one-hour exclusive interview, complete with footage of Tebow snogging his boyfriend, because homosexuality is embraced by the leftist American sports media. Christianity is not.\n\nI remember one day hearing an outbreak of laughter and choruses of \"Oh yeah!\" coming from the newsroom. Running at my age and girth from the copier to the newsroom takes a while, but the mood was still jubilant when I arrived. It didn't take me long to see why. Stephen Tulloch of the Detroit Lions had sacked Tebow and then mocked the famous on-the-field prayer gesture of the quarterback. One of our board-ops was beside himself with joy: \"Take that, motherfucker!\"\n\nIt was quite a scene. And this was a newsroom in Houston, Texas, where _nobody_ gave a rip about the Broncos _or the Lions_ , and yet they were thrilled, because the quarterback who committed the \"crime\" of prayer had gotten his. Nor did any condemnation or anger come from any of the media for what Tulloch had done. I'm not saying Tulloch is anti-Christian; I don't know what's in his heart. For all I know, he was only trying to mock the young celebrity player he had just sacked (I feel pretty strongly that he has that in his heart). But regardless of his intent, here was an NFL player mocking the deeply held religious faith of a fellow player on the field of play. Yet it was met with deafening silence by the overwhelming majority of the sports media\u2014well, except when they were shouting, \"Take that, motherfucker!\"\n\nBut as Todd Starnes of Fox News wrote shortly after this happened, \"Imagine for just a moment if Tebow had been a Muslim. Imagine Tulloch sacking the quarterback and then pulling out a prayer rug and offering a mocking prayer toward Mecca. Imagine that.\" Imagine indeed. Stephen Tulloch probably would have been suspended, and I don't just mean from football. I mean suspended in mid-air with a pack of press hyenas nipping at his dangling feet. _Sports Illustrated_ might even have run a cover with Stephen Tulloch's face on it asking if Tulloch was too hateful for the NFL, the same way the magazine once asked if Chuck Cecil was too violent for the NFL.\n\nPresident Obama might have weighed in. Actually, I guarantee President Obama would have weighed in. Because if a faith _other thanChristianity_ had been mocked, then the media would have seen fit to respond. But Christianity? Meh. No biggie. In fact, this point was made by none other than KISS front man Gene Simmons, who absolutely nailed the media for their hypocrisy on Tebow:\n\nHe's got a religious passion, as well he should, we're in America. He's proud to be a Christian, what's wrong with that? And yet, with sports media and pop culture media, they make fun of his religion. Really? In America? If he was wearing a burqa, they wouldn't dare say anything.\n\nBut if you're a Christian, you get to be picked on? What the hell?\n\nIt's a scary day when a guy best known for leather body suits and an impressive tongue length makes more sense than the American sports media. But that's precisely what's happened here. And yes, it's true that only Muslim _women_ wear burqas. But change that to a keffiyeh or a taj, both traditional headgear worn by Muslim men, and his point is still well made. The sports media are just as terrified of provoking Muslim outrage as the mainstream media are, and they would in no way be telling Tebow to \"tone it down\" if he prayed on a carpet instead of bended knee.\n\nThere's also\u2014and many people disagree with me about this (which must mean that I'm right), but I'm going to say it anyway\u2014a very strong racial component to the Tebow coverage. Many proud and openly Christian athletes have come through the NFL over the years, but up until recently the most high profile of these have been black. Reggie White, for one, was an _ordained minister_ (hence his nickname, the Minister of Defense). Yet Reggie White did not receive the same level of hatred as Tim Tebow, though he was outspoken about his faith, was vocal in the community, and preached at his church every single weekend.\n\nSure, people got upset in 1998 when he told the Wisconsin state legislature he thought marriage should be between a man and a woman. But that was late into his career, and he had said things before that didn't garner the same media backlash. Reggie White used to spend hours and hours every day reading and memorizing the Bible. He's also the same player who once told an opposing offensive lineman that \"Jesus was coming\" right before he fired out of his stance and planted the aforementioned tackle on his backside.\n\nCould you imagine if Tebow had shouted, \"Jesus is coming!\" before running a zone read or a quarterback sneak? Bob Costas would have had a stroke. White is also the one famous for singing a stirring rendition of \"Amazing Grace\" that every football fan over the age of thirty has no doubt seen at least eleventy times. Point being, Reggie White's faith was every bit as deeply held as Tebow's. White was also a bona fide first-ballot Hall of Famer and one of _the_ most dominant defensive players in NFL history. You would think his faith would be as scrutinized as Tebow's by an unfriendly media, but it wasn't.\n\nFormer NFL coach Tony Dungy, the first black head coach to win the Super Bowl, was appointed to serve on former president George W. Bush's Council on Service and Civic Participation, and then invited to join President Obama's Advisory Council on Faith-Based and Neighborhood Partnerships (which he declined). Clearly he was known for his faith. In fact, at Super Bowl XLI, when Dungy's Colts faced Lovie Smith's Bears, Dungy had the nerve to ruin CBS's pre\u2013and post\u2013Super Bowl meme of talking up the first Super Bowl between two black head coaches by focusing instead on what he thought was the more significant trait he and Lovie Smith shared.\n\n\"This is a great time for both of us,\" Dungy said. \"I'm so happy Lovie got to the Super Bowl because he does things the right way. He's gotten there with a lot of class . . . no intimidation, just helping his guys play the best they can. That's the way I try to do it and I think it's great we've been able to show the world that not only can African-American coaches do it, _but Christian coaches_ [emphasis added] can do it in a way that, you know, we can still win.\"\n\nAfter the game, the _New York Times_ quickly moved in to course-correct Dungy and make sure you didn't get the wrong idea that God was the real story here:\n\nIn the midst of the rain and confetti falling on Dolphin Stadium on Sunday night, two men embraced near midfield and held on tight.\n\nThey were linked by football and friendship, faith and success. _But Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith also shared a broader distinction: being the first African-Americans to coach a team to the Super Bowl_ [emphasis added].\n\nSo being black is the \"broader distinction,\" huh? That's funny, because Tony Dungy seemed to go out of his way to make it clear that he thought it was the other way around. In Dungy's own words: \"I tell you what, I'm proud to be representing African-American coaches, to be the first African-American coach to win this. It means an awful lot to our country. But again, _more than anything_ , I said it before, Lovie Smith and I, not only the first two African-Americans, _but Christian coaches showing you can win doing it the Lord's way. We're more proud of that_ [emphasis added].\"\n\nNever let the facts get in the way of a good story.\n\nBut what's interesting too is how Reggie White's and Tony Dungy's Christian faith and controversial opinions never caused a media storm the way Tebow's faith did. Yes, Dungy took some media flack for saying that he wouldn't have drafted Michael Sam, but it was mild-mannered stuff compared with what Tebow has endured. No sports radio host has ever likened Dungy's family to Nazis.\n\nOf course, nothing stirred the ire of the liberal sports media more than the perfectly harmless Focus on the Family Super Bowl ad that Tebow and his mother Pam appeared in during the 2010 Super Bowl. For all the hype that commercial received, you would have thought the Tebows planned to slaughter the fatted calf right there on national television. Instead, it turned out to be a nice, even slightly goofy, commercial about the love a mother can have for her child (even if unborn) and what can become of her child if given a chance at life (like winning the Heisman Trophy). But even this innocuous thirty-second ode to life was too much to escape the scorn of CBS's Gregg Doyel: \"If you're a sports fan, and I am, that's the holiest day of the year. It's not a day to discuss abortion. For it, against it, I don't care what you are. On Super Sunday, I don't care what I am. Feb. 7 is simply not the day to have that discussion.\"\n\nOf course, abortion was not even mentioned in the ad. In fact, if you were like most Super Bowl viewers\u2014munching chips, drinking a beer, talking with friends\u2014the only thing you probably noticed was Tebow tackling his mom. This wasn't an ad you had to shield the kids from. It wasn't an ad that was loud and brash and trying to be more important than the game. It was an innocent thirty-second football-themed spot about a mother's love for her son. How flipping controversial is that?\n\nThe CBS/AP story, which quoted Doyel, didn't bother to get any quotations from sportswriters who _were not_ offended by the Tebow ad, but maybe that's because the other sportswriters they called were cowering under their desks in the fetal position, as they usually do when abortion comes up, and were \"unavailable for comment.\" It is interesting, however, that Doyel uses the word \"holiest\" to describe a sporting event. He's being deliberately provocative in calling a football game \"holy\"\u2014and life, family, and faith something less than that (the ad's tagline was \"Celebrate family, celebrate life\"). For abortion and against abortion, he says, \"I don't care what you are . . . I don't care what I am. Feb. 7 is simply not the day to have that discussion.\" So life and death, right and wrong cease to matter when the NFL decides to have a championship game?\n\nBut, in all honesty, Tebow had been marked for destruction long before his Super Bowl ad came out. The ad merely gave the sports media another opportunity to vent against Tebow and everything he stands for, and there are few issues that provide a starker dividing line than \"life.\" The liberal sports media are opposed to anything that restricts \"freedom\" below the waist. So Tebow's \"celebrating family, celebrating life\" in a thirty-second spot was far more offensive to them than one of those titillating GoDaddy ads that provide awkward moments for family viewing. Go figure.\n\nOver the years, though, there have been a few brave voices in the sports media who have \"called out their own\" on the Tim Tebow saga. On Showtime's _Inside the NFL_ , host James Brown and former Bengals wide receiver Cris Collinsworth discussed the treatment of Tebow, and Collinsworth didn't hold back: \"It's unbelievable, though, J. B., that one of the best kids\u2014just pure kids that's ever come into the NFL\u2014is hated because of his faith, because of his mission work, because of the fact that he wears it on his sleeve, because of the fact that he lives his life that he talks about.\"\n\nFormer 49ers offensive lineman, three-time Super Bowl champ, and current CBS sports analyst Randy Cross was equally direct on the subject: \"People, especially the media, root against him because of what he stands for. . . . My personal belief is there are people in the media, people in the stands, who are predisposed to see a guy like that fail. . . . Just because he's so public about the way he feels.\"\n\nJames Brown, in his conversation with Collinsworth on _Inside the NFL_ , opined, \"There's a number of guys who come into the league with a big marquee, fat paychecks, a lot of attention, and folks don't seem to hate them with the same intensity that they hate Tim Tebow.\" Collinsworth commented: \"I couldn't agree with you more. And it's kind of a sad commentary, that, you know, if someone is out carousing every night, the Joe Namath thing, or whatever, they're American heroes, and Tim Tebow, who's working in missions in Asia somewhere, is a guy that we're going to vilify.\" And that really sums it up, doesn't it?\n\nGiven all the criminal news on the sports pages, the NFL should be starving for some wholesome inspiration, and Tim Tebow should have been held up as a role model rather than vilified for\u2014well, for his goodness, for crying out loud.\n\nA kid growing up in the 1960s had to wait until he was in his thirties before he found out that Mickey Mantle was a drunk. A kid growing up in the 1920s had to wait until he was in his fifties before he learned Babe Ruth was a violent drinker, and a womanizer to boot. Thanks to twenty-four-hour cable sports television, radio, and print, our kids find out the dirty laundry on their heroes in real time. In such a polluted landscape, a good guy like Tim Tebow was an uncontaminated wellspring of hope for a lot of people\u2014a reminder that faith, hard work, and determination, values that coaches used to instill in their players, sometimes met their reward. Remember when we used to think that sports taught character? Tebow was a throwback to that. But the sports media are more comfortable with players who \"make it rain\" at the strip bars downtown.\n\nAnd if you didn't like Tebow's stance on abortion, fine; ignore it the same way I ignore the seven children, as of this writing, that Adrian Peterson has fathered out of wedlock when I cheer his brilliance on the football field. Ignore Tebow's tebowing the same way Eagles fans ignored Michael Vick's dog-torturing and mutilation when they cheered for him. People in Denver appeared to have no problem ignoring whatever they didn't like about \"Saint Timmy\" when he became the come-from-behind sensation who led his team to the playoffs. It was the members of the sports media who had the problem.\n\nA lot of people have become quite comfortable over the years cheering for their favorite athletes, even if they sometimes have to hold their noses when they do it. The point is that whatever the source of Tebow's goodness, what is indisputable is that he was good for the sports world, and he had a whole lot more in common with the average everyday fan than the multimillion-dollar players who live like gangsters. But that wasn't good enough for the sports media. No, they chewed him up and spat him out, because their values and your values are not the same.\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCONCUSSED AND CONFUSED\n\nTwitter is truly an awesome thing. Right next to ketchup, the internet, the wheel, fire, and the Red Zone Channel, it is a solid member in good standing among the top ten greatest inventions of all time. Twitter is great for many reasons, but chiefly because it's nothing but raw, unfiltered opinion. People's honesty comes through in a way that it doesn't in more traditional formats. And it was while I was consuming this veritable cornucopia of unfiltered human thought one morning that I came across _USA Today_ college football writer Dan Wolken tweeting from the American Football Coaches Association convention in January 2014. The tweets seemed harmless enough at first: quotations from speakers discussing concussions in football and some of the misconceptions that have been formed. Then Wolken tweeted: \"This is a total pep rally for football.\"\n\nOkay, so what did Wolken expect at a coaches association meeting? A condemnation of football? Wolken's _pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance_ wasn't long in coming: \"Is football safety going to be like the climate change debate? Don't like the research? Find a new researcher.\"\n\n_Ta da!_ There you have it. Not only are all the coaches at the AFCA \"pep rallying\" for football, they've now assumed the role of global-warming/climate-change deniers! You see, in the minds of the leftist American sports media, football is \"the new smoking\" and is certain to bring about the next global apocalypse, largely because they're convinced that the link between playing football and long-term debilitating brain damage is \"settled science.\" Apparently you'd be better off taking a pull on a Marlboro Red than putting on pads and cleats, and \"science\" has already settled the issue.\n\nNow, this book is about the sports media, not about scientists, so I'm not going to get all _Myth Busters_ on you here. But there are plenty of areas in life where science is far from \"settled\"\u2014everything from diet advice, which changes daily, to the origin of the world (Big Bang or something else?), up to and including, as it turns out, global warming, where, for instance, scientists like Patrick Moore (an ecologist and early leader of Greenpeace), Patrick Michaels (a climatologist), and MIT professor of atmospheric science Richard Lindzen all have views starkly at odds with those of non-scientist and global-warming alarmist Al Gore. Didn't know that? Most sports reporters don't either.\n\nAnd yes, not all scientists agree that football is wiping out the male population of the United States. Yet in a twist of journalistic masochism on a scale heretofore unseen, the leftist American sports media have decided to swallow the football-is-the-new-smoking meme hook, line, and sinker. They've essentially joined the crusade against the pigskin, despite the fact that the American sports media need football for their survival.\n\nIn 2013, according to SportsMediaWatch.com, the top twenty-six most-watched television sporting events were NFL games. Sixteen of those twenty-six were in the regular season, not playoff or championship games. The NBA would have had to showcase LeBron wrestling a live cougar to get those kinds of ratings for a regular season game. In fact, none of the association's post-season games did well enough to crack the top twenty-six. Ditto for baseball, whose World Series ratings are slugging it out with the lowly NHL. Taking it a step further, forty-six of the top fifty most-watched television sporting events in 2013 were NFL games. ESPN is paying the NFL $15.2 billion through 2021. That's $1.9 billion a year, and that's just for _Monday Night Football_. That's just for the rights to broadcast seventeen regular season games a year.\n\nAnd then there's the money that Fox, CBS, and NBC pay the league to broadcast regular season games, playoff games, and the Super Bowl. My point here is not to further massage the already well-massaged ego of the National Football League. My point is that in the American sports world, the NFL is king and no one else is even close. In fact, you could argue that American sports media wouldn't even exist in their current position of power if it weren't for the NFL.\n\nYet, more than anything else, more than journalistic ethics (which entails getting both sides of a story), more than economic self-interest, more than serving the interests of its audience, the sports media are driven, lemming like, by political correctness, and political correctness dictates that football is bad for us. Even President Obama has weighed in, saying he wouldn't let his son, if he had one, play football. So the sports media are actually trying to kill their golden goose.\n\nThe only thing that could bring the NFL down, the thing that represents a clear and present danger to the future of the sport, is lawsuits. Specifically, concussion-related class-action lawsuits that could cost the league billions and result in Commissioner Roger Goodell's and other NFL leaders' being grilled on Capitol Hill and threatened with government oversight.\n\nAnd yet, though they eventually pulled out of the production, who do you think assisted PBS in putting together its _Frontline_ documentary _League of Denial_ , which charged that the NFL willfully and knowingly covered up the fact that players' brains were being turned to mush while Roger Goodell and his fat-cat owner buddies raked in the billions? Yes, that would be ESPN.\n\nNow, I'm not saying that football is a completely safe sport. Of course it's not. Anyone who believes that probably already suffers from some kind of brain damage. What I am saying is that to liberals in the sports media, the link between the NFL and concussions is \"settled\" by their ideology rather than science. Their real concern is social justice and making those fat-cat owners pay reparations to the downtrodden\u2014overwhelmingly minority\u2014players who serve them. Don't believe me? In January 2014, on a Sunday right before the NFL's divisional round playoff games, ESPN ran a promo for a segment featuring Malcolm Gladwell. For those of you who don't know, Malcolm Gladwell is the guy who penned _Outliers_ , which chronicled the lives and habits of successful people, and _Tipping Point_ , which sought to explain mysterious sociological changes that mark everyday life. He's also the guy who said that football is no different from dogfighting:\n\nIn what way is dog fighting any different from football on a certain level, right? I mean you take a young, vulnerable dog who was made vulnerable because of his allegiance to the owner and you ask him to engage in serious sustained physical combat with another dog under the control of another owner, right?\n\nWell, what's football? We take young boys, essentially, and we have them repeatedly, over the course of the season, smash each other in the head, with known neurological consequences.\n\nAnd why do they do that? Out of an allegiance to their owners and their coaches and a feeling they're participating in some grand American spectacle.\n\nStill think I went too far when I said football and concussions fit in the liberal worldview? Does it sound like Gladwell is making a scientific argument here, or a political one? This argument is dripping with political and racial innuendo. If the science is so self-explanatory, then why resort to crass dogfighting analogies? Answer: Because this is the racial and class-warfare lens through which Gladwell and the sports media see the world. Now, to be clear, \"young boys\" are not forced to play football the way dogs are forced to fight each other. Dogs are not given a choice to fight; they have to and are almost certainly killed if they don't. Nobody is \"forced\" to play football. If the players decide they don't want to play anymore, they are not killed for it. In fact, on occasion they leave while costing their \"owners\" huge sums, as running back Ricky Williams did to then\u2013Dolphins owner Wayne Huizenga when he decided he'd rather study massage therapy in India than continue to play football. Even college players are permitted to transfer from school to school.\n\nAlso, unlike dogs in dogfights, football players do not play until the other guy dies. As bad as the Jaguars are, nobody's going to let the Broncos kill them (though I understand that may disappoint many Jaguars fans). Nor do players play the game out of an \"allegiance\" to the owner. Many NFL players don't even know who the owner is. They play out of an allegiance to a game they love and for the grand American paycheck they receive for playing it. That paycheck is as close as many of them ever get to the owner. Even in college, the kids play for the scholarships and a chance to showcase their talents to the NFL scouts who will be evaluating them, not out of some ridiculous notion of \"allegiance\" to schools that wouldn't have given these players a second look were it not for their sub-4.5 forties.\n\nBut all that aside, don't you think it odd that on its NFL divisional playoff morning show, ESPN chose to showcase a guy who likens football to the lowest form of animal cruelty? If you were producing a show on how to prepare Thanksgiving turkey, would you invite a PETA activist to host the pre-show? Such a thing flies in the face of any kind of reason or common sense. But apparently in the corridors of power at Bristol, Connecticut (ESPN headquarters), nothing is thought to be amiss at having a football \"denier\" on the pregame show. Why? Because he thinks like they do.\n\nNor was Gladwell's dogfighting tirade the only negative thing he has said about our nation's favorite game. According to _Forbes_ magazine:\n\nGladwell mentioned the case of University of Pennsylvania lineman Owen Thomas, who committed suicide in 2010. An autopsy showed early stages of CTE (Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy) in Thomas' brain\u2014just as it was found in the brains of Dave Duerson and Junior Seau, professional players who also ended their lives in suicide. CTE is linked to depression and impulse control disorder, so it is probable\u2014though not certain\u2014that it contributed to Thomas' death, since he had no documented history of depression.\n\nNow, I'm not a scientist, but then again, neither is Malcolm Gladwell. However, a researcher at _Harvard Medical School_ named Grant Iverson is, and he studied the claim that NFL players are at increased risk of suicide and published his findings in the _British Journal of Sports Medicine_. As summarized by Daniel Flynn, author of the great book _The War on Football_ (a must read if you want the truth on concussions and football):\n\n\"Former NFL players were less likely to die by suicide than men in the general population,\" the doctor working in Harvard Medical School's Department of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation notes of a comprehensive 2012 study of NFL veterans by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH). \"There were only nine reported case[s] of suicide between 1960 and 2007. Therefore, according to the only published epidemiological data until now, NFL players are at decreased risk, not increased risk, for completed suicide relative to the general population.\"\n\nMoreover, not only are former NFL players less likely to commit suicide than people in the general population, it's not even clear to Dr. Iverson that concussions and/or CTE are even the causes of the few suicides that occur. Again, Flynn explains it:\n\nFor instance, Iverson notes that suicide caused the deaths of just three of the thirty-three NFL players examined in a recent journal article authored by researchers affiliated with Boston University's Center for the Study of Traumatic Encephalopathy. Among the non-NFL brains examined, the BU group reported ten suicides among the 53 decedents, with the majority of those suicide cases not demonstrating any signs of CTE. Of the minority of brains in which researchers did discover CTE among that group of ten non-NFL suicide cases, three exhibited just stage 1 or 2 CTE. In other words, most of the CTE cases didn't kill themselves, most of the suicide cases didn't have the disease, and most of the few who did exhibited a less advanced form of it.\n\nOr, put differently, the few former NFL players who choose to take their own lives likely do it for the same reasons that non-NFL players do it : They're miserable. They've made mistakes. They've lost their families, their money, whatever the case may be. As Flynn notes in an article on Breitbart.com, most of these high-profile NFL suicides had non-football-related mitigating factors:\n\nBears defensive back Dave Duerson experienced home foreclosure, bankruptcy, and the failure of a marriage. Broncos offensive lineman Mike Current faced thirty years in prison for allegedly molesting three children. Chargers linebacker Junior Seau drank five or six nights a week, gambled excessively, relied on various prescription drugs to sleep, and faced the imminent loss of his San Diego steakhouse.\n\nDr. Iverson even attempted to give alternative explanations for why NFL players might be committing suicide. As noted by Flynn: \"Iverson cites a study of Swedish athletes that showed a link between past steroid use and suicide among power lifters, wrestlers, and other competitors. Might these same factors induce some NFL players to experience depression and commit suicide?\"\n\nNow, in a world with an unbiased, non-leftist-agenda-driven media, this information would be cause for serious pause. Even doubt. After all, any journalist honestly concerned with truth would look at the findings of a Harvard researcher like Dr. Iverson, coupled with the mitigating factors in all of these suicides, and think, \"Hmmm. Maybe we should sit this play out and wait for the scientists to make up their minds before we jump to any conclusions.\" But not in the world we live in. No, in our world, any facts that differ from the sports media's talking points only convince the sports media that they need to talk more loudly to make sure nobody ever hears the \"deniers.\" For example, Sally Jenkins, sports columnist for the _Washington Post_ , wasted no time lashing out at the NFL with unsubstantiated data. While making her case that, during labor negotiations, NFL players will get hurt no matter the outcome, Jenkins said, \"The suicide rate among ex-NFL players is six times the national average, according to GamesOver.org, a Web site dedicated to helping former players adjust to retirement.\" Now, we can give Sally a break here, because the NIOSH findings were a few months away from being published\u2014even though she could have proved that number wrong by doing her own, you know, job of investigating the claim before she printed it.\n\nBut what's Frank Bruni's excuse? In a _New York Times_ article released months after the NIOSH findings were published, he made the same exact claim that Jenkins did, saying, \"The suicide rate for men who have played in the N.F.L. is nearly six times the national average.\" The NIOSH report also did not sway the hysterical bleating of Don Banks over at _Sports Illustrated_ 's Monday Morning Quarterback. In an article titled \"What Price Football?,\" he chastised those who complain about NFL rule changes put in place for \"safety,\" saying such critics should \"worry less about new rules 'ruining' the game and more about the lives that have been ruined by the game, thanks to the effects of dementia, depression and suicides related to brain trauma. What we know about those issues today might wind up being just the tip of that scary iceberg.\"\n\nWhat's important to note here is that this article was written in October 2013, more than a full calendar year after the release of the NIOSH report, when it was apparent to anyone actually paying attention (so not necessarily sports reporters) that the suicide rate for NFL players was well below, not well above, the national average. What we knew was that there was no definitive link between football-incurred brain damage and suicide. And CTE was, at most, one of many factors causing suicides. But what we knew at the time and what Don Banks wrote are two entirely different things, because Banks didn't write that article as a journalist, he wrote it as a propagandist, desperate to keep an anti-football media agenda alive long after the facts started to take it apart. Ditto Frank Bruni. Which begs an interesting question: If covering football is your job, but you view football as a life-destroying, soul-sucking contagion, then why would you continue doing it? Why would you continue to sit there, day in and day out, producing articles for something called the Monday Morning Quarterback if all you thought the NFL was doing was producing future invalids, vegetables, and suicide cases?\n\nI think most people would walk away from that. I think most people would find some other area to ply their trade, as opposed to covering a beat of death and disability from the NFL. But they don't. In fact, I'm unaware of any journalist who has laid down his pen, or dropped his microphone, and walked away in disgust over the \"blood sport\" spectacle he's being forced to comment on, and there are reasons for that. Yes, many of these commentators have made themselves a lot of money covering sports, which of course adds another level of hypocrisy to their whining about the league most directly responsible for their job security and affluence. But it goes deeper than that, much deeper. The real reason they're not walking away is because they have resolved to change the game from within, not because they're interested in \"saving\" NFL players. They're doing it to save you from yourself.\n\nBob Ryan of the _Boston Globe_ let that proverbial cat out of the bag in his article titled \"Football a Game of Inherent Conflict.\" Who is Bob Ryan? Bob Ryan is the elder statesman of the sports media, not just in Boston, but nationally as well. That's not to say he's old and washed up\u2014I've interviewed Bob many times, and he's as smart as anybody, if not smarter. He's also as respected as anybody, which means when he talks people listen, and normally he's not just speaking for himself. Bob Ryan is the Walter Cronkite of the sports media in a lot of ways: he is their voice and their soul. In his article, Ryan laid out the Left's \"guilt pangs\" at covering a sport that he refers to as \"almost barbaric,\" and also how the sport may be stopped and done away with altogether. Referring to players and coaches, he writes: \"Football has an enormous appeal to many people who are borderline psychopaths in a manner that no other sport\u2014and this includes the very virile sport of hockey\u2014does not.\"\n\nWhat's funny about this is that Bob Ryan works at ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, which employs dozens of former NFL players and coaches, none of whom he'd probably want to call a borderline psychopath, at least not face-to-face. His point is that because football is so violent, it draws in those of \"questionable moral character and mental make-up.\" It's not a game that is suitable for \"normal\" people. He goes on:\n\nThe simple truth is that football can never be made safe. Even if the essential \"kill\" mentality were changed, football can never be made safe. And it has never been more dangerous than it is now, thanks to a combination of there being larger, quicker, more lethal people delivering the blows and the lingering mentality brought to the game by coaches and players who cannot or will not change.\n\nSo, even with all of our scientists and all of our technology, our efforts to protect the \"psychopaths\" from damaging their precious brains will come to naught, because it's impossible for the game to be made safe. Which, of course, leaves us with the question: Whatever are we to do about this \"almost barbaric\" scourge that is ruining so many lives? Bob Ryan provides the answer:\n\nThe mothers of America could shut down football today.\n\nI'm not saying they're going to, but they could. The mothers of America could band together and say, \"Uh-uh, no way. My boy's not playing football. And that's all there is to it.\". . . .\n\nI come to you as an enabler, and I suspect there are many more out there like me. We are essentially troubled by the casual acceptance our society has of a sport that really and truly maims people. That football is America's current sport of choice reflects poorly on us as a people. But we enablers also have lived with this sport as long as we can remember and we understand it and appreciate its history. We enjoy a good game. And we know nothing we say or do will have an effect on the product. I'm going to guess that Super Bowl XLVIII will take place on Feb. 2, 2014. But Super Bowl LXXIV? Mothers of America, it's up to you.\n\nAnd there you have it. Here is the dean of the American sports media not only empowering the \"mothers of America\" by reminding them of the power they hold in not allowing their sons to play football, but essentially pleading with them to shut down football once and for all. He's saying, basically, \"Hey, I can't stop this thing. I can't derail this crazy train. But you can! So unless you want your kids to spend the rest of their lives as vegetables, you better pull them from Pop Warner and get them going on something else. Or you'll have no one to blame except yourself.\" And you know what? It's working. According to statistics provided by Pop Warner football to ESPN's _Outside the Lines_ :\n\nPop Warner lost 23,612 players, thought to be the largest two-year decline since the organization began keeping statistics decades ago. Consistent annual growth led to a record 248,899 players participating in Pop Warner in 2010; that figure fell to 225,287 by the 2012 season. Pop Warner officials said they believe several factors played a role in the decline, including the trend of youngsters focusing on one sport. But the organization's chief medical officer, Dr. Julian Bailes, cited concerns about head injuries as \"the No. 1 cause.\"\n\nClearly the \"mothers of America\" are listening and have heard Bob Ryan's clarion call, which undercuts his very point that he and the liberal sports media are powerless to derail the NFL Express. Where, after all, did the 23,612 \"mothers of America\" who pulled their boys out of Pop Warner between 2010 and 2012 get their information? Where did they hear that concussions and CTE were prime factors in brain damage, suicide, twerking, global warming, and the shooting of J. R.? They heard it from Bob Ryan and his ilk, though they conveniently never heard the mounting evidence that completely contradicted these claims, showing that NFL suicides were lower than the national average and that CTE alone did not conclusively cause any of said suicides. That bit of deafening silence was also brought to you by Bob Ryan and his fellow travelers.\n\nAnd why? Because Bob Ryan and the liberal sports media believe football \"reflects poorly on us as a people.\" Their real charge against football is less about the people who play it and more about the people who watch it. If it takes a bunch of \"borderline psychopaths\" to play football, well then it must take _a nation_ full of borderline, if not actual, psychopaths to turn it into the wealthiest sport in the country. Bob Ryan is saying it's not about him, or his fellow sports writers, it's about you. The fact that football is this country's \"sport of choice\" represents an inherent defect in you, me, and the country as a whole. The liberal sports media, like liberals in general, think America is fundamentally flawed, which is why traditional, conservative, Christian America is always in need of being reformed by progressives. Football, to them, can seem the ultimate expression of the unreformed American spirit\u2014chauvinistic, competitive, and even too Christian, as football is so big in religious states like Texas and is more given to midfield prayers than any other sport.\n\nThis, in the minds of Bob Ryan and the leftist American sports media, is why football must go. And make no mistake about it: Bob Ryan knows that he's speaking on behalf of the sports media when he says these things. Pay careful attention to his words, \"I suspect there are many more out there like me.\" Someone like Bob Ryan doesn't write that unless he knows _for a fact_ that there are many more sports reporters and commentators out there who think the way he does. And then the less subtle, \" _We_ [emphasis added] are essentially troubled by the casual acceptance our society has of a sport that really and truly maims people.\" That's the voice of the liberal sports media.\n\nHow did we get to this point? I mean, for all of our lives, most of us \"normal\" people have been taught that football was America's game because it embodied everything that was great about America: the toughness, the grit, the will to succeed and win, the determination to see something through despite hardships and setbacks, the ability to work together as a team with people who don't look like you and strive toward a common goal. Isn't that, among other things, what makes America great? Isn't that what foreign people mean when they talk about that great, quintessentially American character trait, the \"can-do spirit\" that refuses to be denied? Football is the anvil upon which that steely American resolve has been forged. It's in our blood because it's part and parcel of who we are. Yet to the sports media, who should be, you might think, the most knowledgeable and passionate supporters of the game, it's a pox. It's a scourge that represents what's wrong with America, and therein lies the problem.\n\nIt's not just that the sports media get it wrong sometimes. That wouldn't be anywhere near as big of a problem, and it could be easily forgiven. No, it's that _their values and worldview_ are completely different from those of most other people in the country. Most people see football as a sport that gives opportunities to poor kids who would otherwise not have them; the media see it as a tool for rich white owners to exploit the bodies and livelihoods of poor black kids to earn a buck. Most people understand that youth football is potentially dangerous, but they also understand, as Daniel Flynn points out in _The War on Football_ , that football is actually less dangerous than skateboarding, bicycling, or skiing. Most of the media see it as a concussion factory, where kids are berated by coaches into trying to maim each other, just as in Malcolm Gladwell's dogfighting analogy. That's the worldview of the intelligentsia in the American sports media, and they've decided, in all their infinite wisdom, acting as the elitists that they are, to use their microphones, cameras, and keyboards to correct what they believe to be a mental defect in _our_ minds. Lucky us, right? How thoughtful of them. The reality, of course, is something altogether different. The reality, as the NIOSH study proved, is that NFL players do not die faster than \"normal\" people. From _USA Today_ : \"A records-based study of retired [NFL] players conducted by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH) concludes that they have a much lower death rate than men in the general population, contrasting the notion that football players don't live as long.\"\n\nNor do they suffer disproportionately from heart disease: \"Yet the results also revealed that nearly 38% of deaths from the pool of retirees\u2014who played at least five seasons between 1959 and 1988\u2014were linked to heart disease. Even so, NIOSH concluded in the study that the risk of dying of heart disease for the retirees as an overall group is lower than that for the general population.\"\n\nAs discussed earlier, through evidence provided by NIOSH and others, there is no evidence that NFL players commit suicide at elevated levels and no evidence that CTE is a direct cause of suicide. In fact, a study that went almost completely _unreported_ by our \"truth-seekers\" in the press showed that there's no definitive link between contact sports and CTE at all. Dr. Stella Karantzoulis and Dr. Christopher Randolph of the Loyola University Medical Center\u2014in other words, people who have forgotten more about the human brain than Malcolm Gladwell will ever know\u2014concluded that there was no link between football and increased risk of CTE: \"Karantzoulis and Randolph examined symptoms of retired NFL players who had mild cognitive impairment and said that symptoms seen in the retired players were virtually the same as those observed in non-athletes. They write that these findings cast doubt on the notion that CTE is a novel condition unique to athletes who have experienced concussions.\"\n\nIn their conclusion they said: \"One cannot deny that boxing and other contact sports can potentially result in some type of injury to the brain. There currently are no carefully controlled data, however, to indicate a definitive association between sport-related concussion and increased risk for late-life cognitive and neuropsychiatric impairment of any form.\"\n\nI should have become aware of this study from Bob Ryan. I should have found out about it from Don Banks on the Monday Morning Quarterback. I should have heard about it from Malcolm Gladwell during one of his inexplicable appearances on ESPN.\n\nBut I didn't. Instead, I only found it while researching for this book. If the Loyola University study had shown that former NFL players were ten times more likely to die, commit suicide, grow a third nipple, or vote Republican, it's all I or any of us would have heard about for months. The sports media for the most part ignored the study because it contradicted their narrative. It flew in the face of their agenda to prove that football is a symptom of the disease that is American culture. Dan Wolken was right about one thing: the football-safety debate is indeed becoming like the climate-change debate, and the reports that show football _isn't_ killing people are an inconvenient truth.\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nBLACKLISTING LIMBAUGH\n\nAnyone's first time on air is nerve-racking, especially in radio. It's not like television, where you can blame the hair guy for making you look bad, or the graphics guy for having the wrong backdrop behind you. With all due respect to my brethren and sistren on the television side, I think radio is better. Simply put, it's all on you. If you fail, it's all you. If you succeed . . . it's all you as well. But no matter your venue, the first time on air is hard, especially when you know you're going to be diving into something controversial. It is one thing to say cutting, provocative, and insightful things to your steering wheel and quite another to say them into a working microphone with real people listening, people who might be genuinely angered by what you say.\n\nAnd so it was, in October 2009, in the eye of the sharknado of controversy swirling around Rush Limbaugh's effort to purchase a share of the St. Louis Rams, that I was given my first shot at sports talk radio. The cohost I auditioned with that day, for reasons that are known only to him, had no interest in talking about Rush and told me not to bring it up. But there was a two- to three-minute gap in the show where he had to leave to do an update on one of our sister stations, and I knew that was going to be my chance. I was angry, and I wanted people to know why. And as soon as my cohost left, I let fly. I let fly about how hypocritical the players, specifically the black players, were for their condemnation of Limbaugh. Several black players had recently said they would not play for Limbaugh, citing quotations attributed to Limbaugh, some out of context, others completely fabricated, that they found to be \"insensitive\" and \"disrespectful.\"\n\nThough, interestingly, none of these players had ever said they wouldn't play alongside Michael Vick, who brutally maimed, tortured, and killed hundreds of dogs. None of these players had spoken harshly of Ray Lewis, who, although never proved guilty of murder, had certainly been hip-deep in a situation that resulted in the stabbing deaths of two young black males. Nor had anybody been this vocal about a player like Leonard Little, who through his own drunken negligence had killed an innocent mother of three with his car.\n\nI then spoke of how different (read: better) a world we might live in if the black players angry at Rush Limbaugh saved their anger for the players who create the \"thug\" stereotype of black athletes in America. Maybe if the players made a point of disavowing the thugs, \"thug life\" wouldn't seem as cool as it does to too many kids.\n\nWithin seconds of that rant, all five phone lines lit up with callers, most of whom questioned my ancestry, and one guy announced that he would never listen to our station ever again. Soon after, I found out that I got the job. That only accelerated the flow of hate on message boards and chat rooms from other media people in Houston who often tried to hide their real identities and went off at length about how I should never be allowed near another microphone again, and how there was no place in sports radio for someone as \"backward\" as me. But the backlash wasn't really about me, it was about boogeymen: that something or someone that gets under your skin and terrorizes you and seems to exist only to freak you out. To me, that thing is an ocelot . . . and Russell Brand. But to the liberal sports media, it's Rush Limbaugh. He is their boogeyman: the guy who really sticks in their craw; a weird foreign substance that when introduced into their perfectly manicured liberal ecosystem causes a collapse of apocalyptic proportions. Which is why if you really want to understand the maelstrom of liberal media hissy-fitting that sprung up in the fall of 2009 when Limbaugh bid to become a part-owner of an NFL franchise, you really have to go back to the fall of 2003.\n\nThere actually was a time, however short-lived, when Limbaugh was allowed to circulate in the sports media gene pool. In 2003, Limbaugh was given a role on ESPN's pregame show, _Sunday NFL Countdown_. During the week-three edition of the show, Rush, along with panelists Chris Berman, Steve Young, Michael Irvin, and Tom Jackson, delved into the recent woes of Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb. Not only had McNabb stunk it up in the NFC championship game the year before, but he had been a dumpster fire during the first two weeks of the regular season, and the panel was discussing the possible reasons why. It was then that Limbaugh did what anybody who had ever listened to Limbaugh could have told you he was going to do. And it was glorious: \"Sorry to say this, I don't think he's been that good from the get-go,\" Limbaugh said. \"I think what we've had here is a little social concern in the NFL. The media has been very desirous that a black quarterback do well. There is a little hope invested in McNabb, and he got a lot of credit for the performance of this team that he didn't deserve. The defense carried this team.\"\n\nNow, these comments were entirely true and accurate on all counts, which presented the sports media with a tremendous problem; namely, _Limbaugh's comments were entirely true and accurate on all counts_. You see, in a normal world, with an unbiased media interested in truth, only lies and inaccuracies would pose a threat. But, in our world, with a leftist, agenda-driven, race-mongering flash mob running the show, it is truth and accuracy that pose the threat, specifically, when the charges are levied at them.\n\nA little background here. Despite being featured in dozens of one-on-one interviews, being tapped for NFL promotional pieces and commercials, landing major endorsement deals, and getting more face time on ESPN than most other athletes, Donovan McNabb was never among the five best quarterbacks in the league at any point in his career. In the 2003 season, the year that Limbaugh made these comments, McNabb was fourteenth in passing yards, seventeenth in touchdowns, and nineteenth in completion percentage out of thirty-two NFL quarterbacks. Despite his playing in perhaps the most offense-friendly, pass-happy era in league history, McNabb never had a four-thousand-yard season, something that has come to be expected from elite NFL quarterbacks.\n\nIn other words, if you look up \"Average NFL Quarterback\" in the dictionary, there would be a huge, smiling picture of Donovan McNabb staring right back at you. If Donovan McNabb had been a white quarterback with those numbers, he never would have been featured on ESPN so regularly. That is, unless he had used the N-word or had come out as gay, in which case he would have been the _only_ person on ESPN for about four months. But you line up Donovan McNabb's production behind that of any quarterback in the league, white or black, and he would not have stood out.\n\nIn fact, it's debatable that McNabb was even the best _black_ quarterback in the NFL in 2003. Daunte Culpepper, the late Steve McNair, and even Aaron Brooks all had better numbers than he did. So why did the sports media latch onto McNabb? Probably because the bulk of the American sports media are based in and around New York, and Donovan McNabb played just down the road, in Philly. After all, going to Tennessee to talk to Steve McNair or going to Louisiana to talk to Aaron Brooks would require our highly sophisticated and nuanced media elite to leave their Northeastern comfort zone and mingle with the commoners.\n\nLimbaugh nailed two incredibly key points: (A) Donovan McNabb was never that good to begin with, and the fact that his team had advanced to the playoffs only reinforced Limbaugh's point that the defense carried the team; and (B) it was the sports media who had turned McNabb into something he was not. So how did the sports media deal with the issue of being publicly and accurately called out this way? Their position was completely indefensible; anyone can look up McNabb's numbers, compare them with the Eagles' success, and see that Limbaugh was right.\n\nThe sports media, instead of conceding that they had made way too much of McNabb, turned Limbaugh's comments into an attack on a _black quarterback_. Within forty-eight hours, the virtual entirety of the sports world, plus the political race machine, had converged on Limbaugh. Democratic presidential candidates Wesley Clark and Howard Dean were both reported as saying Limbaugh should be fired. Clark, a retired army general, called the remarks \"hateful and ignorant speech.\" The NAACP condemned Limbaugh's remarks, calling them \"bigoted and ignorant,\" and called for the network to fire Limbaugh or at least provide an opposing point of view on the show. \"It is appalling that ESPN has to go to this extent to try to increase viewership,\" then\u2013NAACP president Kweisi Mfume said in a statement. The National Association of Black Journalists also called for ESPN to \"separate itself\" from Limbaugh. \"ESPN's credibility as a journalism entity is at stake,\" NABJ president Herbert Lowe said in a news release. \"It needs to send a clear signal that the subjects of race and equal opportunity are taken seriously at its news outlets.\"\n\nThe NFL disclaimed any responsibility for Limbaugh's remarks. \"ESPN knew what it was getting when they hired Rush Limbaugh,\" league vice president Joe Browne said. \"ESPN selects its on-air talent, not the NFL.\" Which brings up a good point: Why did ESPN hire Rush Limbaugh? Clearly they knew who he was. They knew his feelings on the media and the fact that he would not hold back. Sure, they wanted the ratings bump Limbaugh would give them ( _Sunday NFL Countdown_ ratings went up 10 percent with Limbaugh on the show), but they had to know they couldn't just get the milk without buying the cow. In any event, it didn't end there. In an article titled \"In No Rush to Forget,\" _New York Daily News_ sports writer Ralph Vacchiano interviewed McNabb's father about what impact Limbaugh's comments had on him. Vacchiano's lead sentence was high comedy: \"When Sam McNabb heard the words coming from Rush Limbaugh's mouth\u2014the hateful, hurtful words about his son Donovan\u2014he flashed back to another devastating night in the early 1980s.\"\n\nHateful? Hurtful? Limbaugh's comments weren't about \"his son Donovan\"\u2014they were about agenda-driven reporters like Ralph Vacchiano who hyped an average black quarterback into something that he wasn't. If anything is hateful or hurtful, it's that. But this is a perfect example of how the sports media convinced the public that Limbaugh had been criticizing black QBs instead of criticizing the sports media for overhyping black QBs.\n\nIn his next bit, Vacchiano told how McNabb's father likened Limbaugh's comments to an evening in the 1980s when his family's new home, purchased in a white neighborhood, was broken into and damaged by racist vandals. Really? Saying a black quarterback isn't very good is akin to vandals breaking into your home?\n\nIn a shocking twist, sports writer Allen Barra, writing in the liberal online magazine Slate, had the gumption to announce \"Rush Limbaugh Was Right.\" His story appeared a week after Rush resigned from ESPN. Barra wrote:\n\nLimbaugh is being excoriated for making race an issue in the NFL. This is hypocrisy. I don't know of a football writer who didn't regard the dearth of black NFL quarterbacks as one of the most important issues in the late '80s and early '90s.\n\nSo far, no black quarterback has been able to dominate a league in which the majority of the players are black. To pretend that many of us didn't want McNabb to be the best quarterback in the NFL because he's black is absurd. To say that we shouldn't root for a quarterback to win because he's black is every bit as nonsensical as to say that we shouldn't have rooted for Jackie Robinson to succeed because he was black. . . .\n\nConsequently, it is equally absurd to say that the sports media haven't overrated Donovan McNabb because he's black. I'm sorry to have to say it; he is the quarterback for a team I root for. Instead of calling him overrated, I wish I could be admiring his Super Bowl rings. But the truth is that I and a great many other sportswriters have chosen for the past few years to see McNabb as a better player than he has been because we _want_ him to be.\n\nRush Limbaugh didn't say Donovan McNabb was a bad quarterback because he is black. He said that the media have overrated McNabb because he is black, and Limbaugh is right.\n\nBut as noble as the effort was, Allen Barra was trying to plug the Hoover Dam with a toothpick. As asinine as the backlash against Limbaugh was, it had already worked. In fact, it worked well before the Vacchiano or Barra articles came out. Limbaugh stepped down from his role on _Sunday NFL Countdown_ three days after making his comments about McNabb. Sports media, the mainstream media, Democrat political leaders, and the NAACP had worked in perfect synchronicity to force Limbaugh out.\n\nI can already hear it: \"But, Dylan! Are you saying that the sports media coordinated with Democrat politicians and the NAACP to bring down Limbaugh?!\" No, what I'm saying is that no coordination was necessary, because they're all the same people and they all look at the world in the same way. They're all liberals, and together they succeeded in driving Limbaugh from their jealously guarded (and toxic) ecosystem . . . at least for the moment. Limbaugh's next attempt at \"the fulfillment of a dream,\" to be involved in the sports world, came six years after McNabb-gate, when he tried to become part-owner of the St. Louis Rams.\n\nIn early October 2009, Limbaugh announced on his radio show that he and St. Louis Blues owner Dave Checketts had put together a bid to buy the St. Louis Rams. Mortified that the cunning (and rich) Limbaugh might circumvent their ecosystem's well-protected firewalls and buy his way into the NFL, the racial flash mob kicked into high gear. ESPN's Mike Wilbon even went on CNN's _Reliable Sources_ with Howard Kurtz to rail against the conservative would-be owner. With the flash mob fully behind him, \"Magic Mike\" took center stage: \"I don't know whether Rush Limbaugh is a straight-up bigot or he simply plays one on TV and radio, but he is universally reviled by black people in this country.\"\n\nNot only was Wilbon deluded in naming himself the spokesman for all black people, but he was majorly exaggerating. It's debatable whether Limbaugh was even \"universally reviled\" among black sportscasters. Stephen A. Smith (who is black) said in an interview on CNN that black players who said they wouldn't play for Limbaugh were \"walking hypocrites.\" He even said Rush's comments about McNabb in 2003 should have no bearing on his becoming an owner. As Smith said, \"If he has the money, there's absolutely nothing wrong with it.\"\n\nThe fact that Kurtz didn't challenge Wilbon's ludicrous exaggeration\u2014given that Smith had made his comments on CNN less than a full week before Wilbon's claim that Limbaugh was \"universally reviled\"\u2014was unfortunate. However, Kurtz did counter Wilbon on one important point; he just didn't go far enough. During a previous rant on _Pardon the Interruption_ , Wilbon claimed that Rush had said incredibly hurtful and racist things on his show. Among them, that the NFL \"too often looks like a game between the Crips and the Bloods without any weapons\" and that \"slavery . . . had its merits.\"\n\nKurtz called out Wilbon for attributing the slavery quotation to Limbaugh despite having no proof of when he supposedly said it. In fact, the source for this alleged quotation was a radical sociology professor from Georgetown University named Michael Eric Dyson, whom Limbaugh himself had called out on his radio show in September 2009: \"There's even a guy that was on MSNBC, I'm not going to play the sound bite for you. I am not going to dignify this by playing it, but it was this morning on MSNBC. This guy, _Michael Eric Dyson, claims that I have written that slavery was a good thing_ [emphasis added]. Even Scarborough said, 'What are you talking about?' 'Oh, yeah, you can read it, you can read it.' I have never said slavery was a good thing!\"\n\nJust how radical is Dyson? Here's what he had to say about Mumia Abu-Jamal, who murdered a Philadelphia police officer in 1981:\n\nSo for me, then, the Mumia Abu-Jamal case is about the person who is able to articulate the interests of minority people not only in terms of color, but in terms of ideology. Because we know what the real deal here is also about. It is about the repression of left-wing, progressive, insightful cultural criticism and political and moral critique aimed at the dominant hegemonic processes of American capitalism and the American state as evidenced in its racist, imperialist and now we might add homophobic and certainly its patriarchal practices.\n\nSo Abu-Jamal articulated the \"interests of minority people\" by killing a white cop? Is this the kind of critical insight it takes to be a professor at Georgetown nowadays? Dyson also waxed silly when asked what he thought Tupac would have to say about 9/11:\n\nI think that Tupac would say, \"What business do we have being in Arab nations when the tentacles of colonialism and capitalism suck the lifeblood of native or indigenous people?\" . . . He would have had questions about who really was the thug. He would have said that America has ignored the vicious consequences of its imperialistic practices across the world. America ignores how millions of people suffer on a daily basis throughout the world, except in isolated spots that involve so-called national interests. Thirdly, that America has forfeited its duty as global policeman, by virtue of its own mistreatment of black people.\n\nGreat! So Michael Wilbon's go-to source for cutting racial and sociological commentary and non-researched pull quotes is a Marxist, racist, anti-American hack at Georgetown University. Wilbon wasn't the only one who cited Dyson's made-up Rush quotation either; _Detroit Free Press_ sportswriter Drew Sharp took the Dyson-generated lie and used it in an article in which he tried to stop Limbaugh's bid to become an NFL owner: \"Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker James Farrior agreed Sunday that nobody with Limbaugh's litany of incendiary racial comments\u2014Limbaugh once said on his nationally syndicated radio show that slavery 'had its merits'\u2014deserves the privilege of owning an NFL franchise.\"\n\nThe bogus quotation, by this point, had also made it onto Rush's _Wikipedia_ page. So Sharp either heard this directly from Dyson, from Wilbon, or from related misguided commentary, or he latched onto a news source that, as Debbie Schlussel once put it, is \"less reliable than the Onion.\" What does it say when Drew Sharp and Michael Wilbon use as their source material a quack professor who is to the left of Che Guevara and then never bother to check the quotation\u2014you know, fact-checking? Well, really it tells you just about everything. Yes, the liberal mainstream media are biased in sometimes crazy ways, but so are sports media.\n\nThe players, who were as much tools of the media as anyone, were beyond ridiculous in the Limbaugh saga as well. As Mathias Kiwanuka of the New York Giants put it:\n\nI don't want anything to do with a team that he has any part of. He can do whatever he wants, it is a free country. But if it goes through, I can tell you where I am not going to play. I am not going to draw a conclusion from a person off of one comment, but when it is time after time after time and there's a consistent pattern of disrespect and just a complete misunderstanding of an entire culture that I am a part of, I can't respect him as a man. . . . It is just an opinion show that should be only be taken for shock value. I liken it to _South Park_ when I am listening to him.\n\nIf I had a dollar for every minute that Mathias Kiwanuka listened to Rush Limbaugh, I bet I'd be no richer. Kiwanuka and other players were spun by the media and they stayed spun, convinced that Rush was a hater, when the real hater was the liberal sports media that hate Rush.\n\nJets linebacker Bart Scott said, \"It's an oxymoron that he criticized Donovan McNabb. A lot of us took it as more of a racial-type thing. I can only imagine how his players would feel. I know I wouldn't want to play for him. He's a jerk. He's an \u2014. What he said [about McNabb] was inappropriate and insensitive, totally off-base. He could offer me whatever he wanted, I wouldn't play for him. . . . I wouldn't play for Rush Limbaugh. My principles are greater and I can't be bought.\"\n\nAfter looking up the definition of oxymoron so he can actually use it correctly next time, Scott should have done a little research into what Rush actually said instead of what the media had told him he said. Beyond that, whatever Scott thinks, Stephen A. Smith absolutely nailed it when he noted that players go where the money is, and almost all allegedly anti-Rush players would probably be happy hypocrites if Rush owned a team and offered them a bigger paycheck to play on it.\n\nBut it's not misguided players who are the issue: it's the sports media and a little something called objective consistency. I'm too cynical and scarred by my experiences in journalism to expect fairness or honesty. I mean, you're getting that in this book. But this book is about _what's wrong_ with the sports media, not about what's right. So maybe one day we can strive for and reach consistency. Here would have been a great place to start. In June 2012 it was announced that Bill Maher, the radical, left-wing, religion-baiting host of _Real Time with Bill Maher_ on HBO, had bought a minority stake in the New York Mets. Except I was the one who included \"radical, left-wing, religion-baiting host,\" because nowhere in any of the very few articles that reported this transaction did the sports media accurately portray who Maher is. In the Huffington Post Sports article about the purchase, Maher is referred to as a \"stand-up comic, and a political satirist,\" which makes him sound about as threatening as a harmless circus clown.\n\nThe ESPN.com article announcing the ownership venture referred to Maher as a \"political commentator.\" The ESPN.com article announcing Limbaugh's attempt to buy the Rams referred to him as a \"conservative,\" and the \"voice of the Republican Party.\" One of these things is not like the other. Now, for those of you not in the know, Bill Maher is every bit as liberal as Rush Limbaugh is conservative, except he's about eleventy times more vulgar, crass, and offensive than Limbaugh could ever be on his worst day. When Rush Limbaugh announced his intent to become a minority owner of the St. Louis Rams, _New York Times_ sports columnist George Vecsey did everything short of calling Limbaugh an outright racist, referring to him as \"a virulent exhibitionist\" who uses racist \"code words\" to communicate with his \"constituency\" and has a \"visceral\" hatred of President Obama.\n\nBut when the _Times_ reported on Maher's acquisition of a minority share of the Mets, Maher was described as \"the most celebrated person\u2014at least the only one with a TV show\u2014known to have become a new partner in the team with the Wilpon family. . . .\" Hmmm. That's quite a change from visceral, racist-code-word guy. But they went even further than that. Attempting to insulate Maher from any criticism over the tons of crazy and insulting things he has said over the years, the _Times_ went on to describe Maher as a person whose \"libertarianism and atheistic views are elements of his comedy.\" You see? He doesn't really mean it! Because if you say horrible and offensive things on TV or on stage at a comedy joint, it doesn't really count! Somewhere Michael Richards is shedding a tear. What are some of the awful things said by Maher over the years? In October 2007, while on his previous show _Politically Incorrect_ , Maher likened retarded children to dogs: \"But I've often said that if I had\u2014I have two dogs\u2014if I had two retarded children, I'd be a hero. And yet the dogs, which are pretty much the same thing. What? They're sweet. They're loving. They're kind, but they don't mentally advance at all. . . .Dogs are like retarded children.\"\n\nAs if that weren't bad enough, one of his guests said that she had a nine-year-old nephew who was retarded and that she never thought of him as a dog. Maher, instead of taking this golden opportunity to remove his head from his ass, turned to the woman who had never looked at her nephew as being a canine before and said, \"Maybe you should.\"\n\nThe Catholic League has even compiled an annotated list, ranging from 1998 to the middle of 2014, of anti-Catholic venom from Maher, not that anyone in sports media cares about that. Race, though, is something they do care about, and even here Maher gets a free pass, as all liberals do.\n\nIn May 2010, while talking about the BP oil spill, Maher gave us insight into what he thinks a real black man is, and what a real black president should be like: \"I thought when we elected a black president, we were going to get a black president. You know, this [BP oil spill] is where I want a real black president. I want him in a meeting with the BP CEOs, you know, where he lifts up his shirt so you can see the gun in his pants. That's . . . [in black man voice] 'We've got a motherfucking problem here?'\u2014and shoot somebody in the foot.\"\n\nYeah, that's way better than saying you don't think Donovan McNabb is a very good quarterback. Rush Limbaugh merely said a black guy wasn't a very good quarterback, not because he was black, but based on his playing record. He blamed _the media_ for having a racial angle, which was patently obvious to everybody, and suddenly he is full of \"visceral\" hatred and is a \"virulent exhibitionist.\" Bill Maher stereotypes black men as gangster thugs and that's okay, because after all Maher is just a \"satirist\" who blends atheism and libertarianism in with his comedy and is the \"most celebrated person\" to have become a partner with the Wilpon family. How quaint.\n\nThere are dozens of other examples of Maher's racial insensitivity, but I think you get the picture. I have no issue with Bill Maher's buying a share of a baseball team. I find the words he chooses to say completely vile and contemptible in almost every way, but he still has a right to buy a professional sports team. And so did Rush Limbaugh. Both Limbaugh and Maher represent opposite ends of the political spectrum, but the \"objective\" sports media had an obligation to treat them the same way, and they didn't. Because the sports media are not objective, not even close.\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nBULL IN DURHAM\n\nAh, lacrosse. They very thought of it conjures up images of regal exploits on the lush green fields of our country's finest institutions, as young men, primarily affluent young men, play the game handed down to them by our Indian forebears. But if you're a member of the mainstream media, especially the mainstream sports media, it might conjure up a very different image\u2014a very drunk, very violent, and very rapey image, where those same young lads of wealth and privilege abuse their position and exploit the helpless and vulnerable minorities who serve them.\n\nHow do I know the sports media have this image? Because that's precisely the image they tried to sell us in 2006, when a stripper named Crystal Mangum accused three Duke University lacrosse team members of forcing her into a bathroom, beating her, raping her, and sodomizing her. The evidence against the players was so flimsy that it folded like a pre-fab in a cat-five hurricane, but that didn't stop the media. Within five days of the arrests of two Duke players (a third would be charged later), there were 673 news stories, including 160 from major television news outlets, talking about the alleged rape that had occurred at an off-campus house party. Right now you're thinking to yourself: _Geez, almost seven hundred news stories about a couple of lacrosse players who_ might _have raped a stripper? That seems like a lot._\n\nOh, I'm sorry. Did I happen to mention that the stripper was black and the lacrosse players were white? My bad. I guess race isn't always the first thing I look at; after all, this isn't ESPN's _Pardon the Interruption_. But it didn't take long for the racial flash mob to belly up to this bar. All over the country, the story went out: privileged white lacrosse players at a prestigious college rape underprivileged young black woman. It was the stuff of legend for the media, sports and mainstream alike. Over and over again the media told us that lacrosse players were a pampered, privileged, and, as a consequence, abusive elite. After the case against the Duke players fell apart, reporter Terry Moran took to ABC's website to remind us not to feel sorry for these wealthy and spoiled white boys who had just had their names dragged through the mud by a frenzied media:\n\nAs students of Duke University or other elite institutions, these young men will get on with their privileged lives. There is a very large cushion under them\u2014the one that softens the blows of life for most of those who go to Duke or similar places, and have connections through family, friends and school to all kinds of prospects for success. They are very differently situated in life from, say, the young women of the Rutgers University women's basketball team.\n\nWay to go, Ter. God forbid any culpability be admitted on the part of the media for doing virtually no investigative work despite having armies of reporters camped out in Durham, North Carolina, for the better part of a year. No, instead the message was, \"Hey, don't you dare feel sorry for the kids we slandered, even though we had no evidence whatsoever of their supposed guilt. They're rich, they're white, they're evil, they're elitists, they deserve it!\" (By the way, ABC's Terry Moran went to college at an exclusive and extremely expensive music conservatory in Wisconsin. So, any time you want to fire him, go ahead: there is a very large cushion under him.)\n\nLook again at what Moran said: he's acting as if these guys are still guilty. That blog posting was written _after_ we found out that his reporting, and the rest of the mainstream media's reporting on the case, was completely bogus. Yet you read what he wrote there and you get the impression that he feels like the Duke players got away with something. As if, despite being cleared and exonerated of any and all wrongdoing, the Duke players aren't any less guilty now than they were before. That's because to the media, the wealth and privilege of the Duke lacrosse players _were_ their real crime. The accusation of rape was bad (even though it turned out to be false), but the alleged rape was just the pretext for allowing the media to swoop in and expose just how spoiled, violent, abusive, and racist these children of privilege really are. And the media weren't in the least bit interested in the mounting number of facts that proved the case against the players was made up, because the case already confirmed the way the sports media see the world: rich, evil, and spoiled white people abusing defenseless, helpless, and vulnerable black people. The end.\n\nWhat's that they say? _Never let the facts get in the way of a good story?_ You better believe it. Two points need to be made here before we go any further: I will not rehash the entire saga of how the media screwed up the Duke lacrosse story, because (A) that would take entirely too long, considering it was quite possibly the worst-managed affair in the history of the American media; and (B) one neglected aspect of the story, which I want to explore here, is how the media believed they did nothing wrong in reporting the events _as they saw them_ (instead of as they were) in Durham, North Carolina, and actually promoted some of the worst offenders to positions of greater power _after_ their stories were thoroughly debunked by the facts. This is true both for the sports reporters who got it wrong and mainstream media idiots like Terry Moran, which underlines one of the most important points of this book: _there is no difference between the sports media and the mainstream media._ Both are rabidly liberal, and both see the world and the stories they cover through a prism of \"social justice\" that colors everything they report. The subject matter they cover differs, but the way they cover it doesn't.\n\nLet me to introduce you to John Feinstein, sports columnist for the _Washington Post_ , who in May 2007, while on the nationally syndicated _Jim Rome Show_ , said that he felt the Duke lacrosse players were \"guilty of everything but rape\" and \"I really don't want to hear that they're victims and martyrs, and that their lives have been ruined.\" Hmmm, guilty of everything but rape? That's funny; rape and sodomy, along with battery, were the only things the players were charged with, and in May 2007, Feinstein and everyone else in the world knew those charges were bogus. So what else could they possibly have been guilty of? Answer: The same thing that Terry Moran found them guilty of\u2014being rich while white. In fact, so unhinged was Feinstein that in March 2006 when the Duke lacrosse story first broke and details of what actually happened were sketchy at best, Feinstein told ESPN's Tony Kornheiser that the whole lacrosse team should be done away with: \"You know, I don't want to hear any ifs, ands, or buts. These kids have acted disgracefully, just by the fact that not one of them\u2014I don't want to hear about the code among buddies and among teams. A crime was committed. There were witnesses to the crime. They need to come forward and say what they saw. . . . They won't, and that's why I'm saying the hell with them\u2014strip their scholarships.\"\n\nFeinstein actually wanted forty-seven athletes, one of whom was black (and could not have met Mangum's description of the rapists, because she said all three were white), stripped of their scholarships. And why? Because none of them would confess to witnessing a crime that had never happened! This despite the fact that only days before Feinstein uttered his tripe on national television it had been reported that three Duke lacrosse team captains had come forward, told police exactly what had happened, and even _volunteered to be polygraphed_ in order to prove the stripper was a liar. But none of this mattered to Feinstein or Moran, because to them the players were guilty of living lives of privilege and partying while white. The media condemned the players _just for who they were_ \u2014or not even that, just for the media's image of them.\n\nTerry Moran and John Feinstein are different types of reporters. One of them works for a large mainstream news conglomerate covering major news stories around the world. The other works for a newspaper covering sports. And yet when their worlds converged in the Duke lacrosse case, they saw the story in exactly the same (and factually wrong) way. Like Moran, Feinstein was contemptuous of the idea that these young men's futures might be harmed by irresponsible media commentary and outright slander. He did not care, because they were children of wealth and privilege. Guilt or innocence was irrelevant; what mattered was that those rich white kids had more wealth and power than other kids do, and that was wrong. Nothing infuriates the liberal media more. Especially because most media people come from privileged backgrounds as well, and lashing out at others of their class (especially those they might imagine are conservative in a preppy sort of way) is how they assuage the massive insecurities, pangs of guilt, and self-loathing they have about their own upbringing.\n\nAdd the racial element on top of that: lacrosse players lustily ogling poor black strippers while wearing their Dockers and J. Crew shirts and drinking their beer and living the good life at the \"Harvard of the South,\" and you had liberal sports writers practically soiling themselves as they raced to their laptops to get on record trashing these kids. Damn the facts and evidence; someone had to pay for this post\u2013Jim Crow outrage, and the accused players would be lambs in the liberal-media slaughter.\n\nThe unquestioned leader of the liberal media lynch mob against the players was then\u2013 _New York Times_ sports columnist Selena Roberts. When Durham district attorney Mike Nifong, now disgraced and disbarred, was tossing as much red meat as possible to the media to gin up support for his completely fraudulent case against the players, no member of the fourth estate gobbled it up and asked for seconds more than Selena Roberts.\n\nLike the rest of the media fraternity, Roberts assumed the players were guilty. On March 31, 2006, writing in the _New York Times_ , Roberts claimed: \"Players have been forced to give up their DNA, but to the dismay of investigators, none have come forward to reveal an eyewitness account.\" This was three days _after_ the lacrosse team captains released their statement, dated March 28, 2006, where they made clear that not only were they fully cooperating with the police but that no rape or sexual assault had occurred. In other words, Roberts was condemning the players for not stepping forward and providing an eyewitness account _of something that never happened._ And that something that never happened was later _proved_ , in a court of law, not to have happened. Right now, I am making my shocked face.\n\nIn an interview with the sports website The Big Lead about her article, Roberts let her liberal freak flag fly and reminded us what her real issue was: \"Basically, I wrote that a crime didn't have to occur for us to inspect the irrefutable evidence of misogyny and race baiting that went on that night. . . . Obviously, some segments of the Duke lacrosse crowd did not enjoy the scrutiny of their world.\"\n\nQuestion: What sort of \"scrutiny\" do you get when you're \"investigated\" by a reporter who has decided that you're guilty even if you're not?\n\nAnswer: Maybe the sort of scrutiny of a \"reporter\" who has decided that you are part of \"a group of privileged players of fine pedigree entangled in a night that threatens to belie their status as human beings. . . . [Mixed metaphor alert:] Whatever the root, there is a common thread: a desire for teammates to exploit the vulnerable without heeding a conscience.\"\n\nUh-huh. So the Duke lacrosse players might be subhuman beings without conscience. Who, one might ask, is exploiting whom here? The players who were innocent of all charges or a \"reporter\" who levels crazy-ass accusations likes this, which come not from the facts of the case but straight out of Progressive Ideology 101? The _facts_ of the case did not move Roberts to make any sort of retraction or apology, because she believed that the \"culture\" of the Duke lacrosse players was inherently guilty of, um, er, not being progressive. \"People want to conflate the crime and the culture,\" said the woman who did exactly that, accusing the culture of Duke lacrosse of giving birth to a nonexistent crime. \"They want to say a crime did not happen, so therefore the culture that existed around that party did not happen.\" Actually, what \"they\" are saying is that you got your story wrong, Selena Roberts, and you refuse to admit it, because you are an ideologue rather than a reporter.\n\nWhat the Duke lacrosse case proved more than anything was that the media believe privileged, heterosexual white males are the true perpetrators of injustice, not the female minority stripper who happened to be lying (and who later, in a separate case, was convicted of murdering her boyfriend). Selena Roberts actually doubled down on her smearing of the innocent Duke lacrosse players and their university when she wrote: \"Don't mess with Duke, though. To shine a light on its integrity has been treated by the irrational mighty as a threat to white privilege. Feel free to excoriate the African-American basketball stars and football behemoths for the misdeeds of all athletes, but lay off the lacrosse pipeline to Wall Street, excuse the khaki-pants crowd of SAT wonder kids.\" Outside of Selena Roberts's progressive fantasy world, no one was defending \"white privilege\"; they were defending innocent players falsely accused of a heinous crime by a liar who had the media acting as her willing accomplices.\n\nIn late January 2007, as ethics charges piled up against the corrupt Durham district attorney Mike Nifong, feminist blogger Amanda Marcotte launched into a screed that would have made Al Sharpton blush:\n\nIn the meantime, I've been sort of casually listening to CNN blaring throughout the waiting area and good fucking god is that channel pure evil. For a while, I had to listen to how the poor dear lacrosse players at Duke are being persecuted just because they held someone down and fucked her against her will\u2014not rape, of course, because the charges have been thrown out. Can't a few white boys sexually assault a black woman anymore without people getting all wound up about it? So unfair.\n\nThe point here is not that Amanda Marcotte is a feminist, extremist whacko. The point is that if you clean up the language so that it's suitable for a newspaper, her view of the case was the same as that of Selena Roberts, who went from completely messing up this story for the _New York Times_ to a multiple-six-figure job writing for _Sports Illustrated_. Just like Moran and Feinstein earlier, Marcotte and Roberts are in different fields. Yet both are feminist activists without a shred of difference between their respective views on men and race. Both Marcotte and Roberts mocked those who felt sorry for the players whose reputations had been trashed; both cited white privilege as the reason why players were \"getting away with it.\"\n\nEven worse for those of us who have any hope for journalistic integrity is that the _New York Times_ allowed Roberts's reports to proceed in this way, sometimes with wild factual errors that were only belatedly corrected\u2014if at all. The _Times_ had no issue with some of Roberts's other errors of fact (including incorrect reporting of the medical evidence). Nor did the _Times_ have any problem with her race-baiting, her charges of misogyny, or her unfounded condemnation of the players, because as liberal media members themselves, they thought the same things about the players that Roberts did. Don't believe me? Let's look at what happened to Selena Roberts after the Duke lacrosse story.\n\nHere you have a writer who couldn't have been more wrong about what happened at Duke, and who never even came close to apologizing, much less printing a retraction. In Normalsville, that would be the end of a reporter's career. You were maliciously and outspokenly wrong about a case of national prominence while working for the most famous newspaper in the land? Fired.\n\nBut instead of her career going up in a ball of flames as it should have after her \"reporting\" on the Duke lacrosse case, Selena, like Darth Vader, came back more powerful than we could possibly imagine. After leaving the _New York Times_ , Roberts joined a group of writers at _Sports Illustrated_ who replaced Rick Reilly on the magazine's then-popular back page.\n\nAs reported in _Deadspin_ in 2009, Roberts and a colleague broke the story that Alex Rodriguez had tested positive for steroids in 2003. Terry McDonnell, _Sports Illustrated_ 's managing editor at the time, called it the \"biggest news break\" in his tenure at the magazine. Only days after the release of Roberts's book detailing A-Rod's positive steroid test, other media accolades started pouring in (per the Huffington Post):\n\nSelena Roberts is a \"top-flight reporter,\" says _SI_ 's Jeff Pearlman. (Feb. 10[, 2009])\n\nRoberts is \"universally respected,\" agrees ESPN's Jayson Stark. (Feb. 17[, 2009])\n\nShe is a \"reporter who has conducted herself with nothing but class her entire career,\" says the _NY Daily News_ ' Mark Feinsand. (Feb. 17[, 2009])\n\n\"I am friendly with Selena and consider her an excellent reporter,\" writes Joel Sherman of the _NY Post_. \"I have no doubt she was tireless and diligent in this reporting, and\u2014therefore\u2014I suspect that what is in this book is accurate.\" (April 30[, 2009])\n\nThis is beyond insane. A \"reporter who has conducted herself with nothing but class her entire career\"? Whatever Mark Feinsand was smoking when giving that comment is probably legal only in Colorado and Washington State. This woman had been an absolute joke when it came to her reporting on the only issue she ever covered that mattered: a veritable font of race-mucking, feminist angst, unfounded accusations, and innuendo. But she was A-OK with the \"good ol' boy\" network in the liberal sports media; she had been the good soldier, she had been the spokeswoman for everything they believed and wanted to say, and after that she could do no wrong.\n\nRoberts was breathtakingly insightful and truthful about one thing, though. When being interviewed on the _Jim Rome Show_ about her reporting on the Duke case, Roberts offered this defense: \"I wrote about the culture at Duke, and there's no doubt about that. I stand by that today. I separated the criminal investigation from the culture.\"\n\nIn fact, she didn't. Roberts's condemning articles could not have been written by anyone who believed the Duke players to be innocent. But there is this shred of truth to what she says about \"culture.\" If the Duke allegations had occurred at Northern Illinois University, they wouldn't have attracted half the national attention that they did. The media, sports and mainstream, loved the Duke lacrosse story because it gave them a chance to attack a culture that they loathe and despise: the culture of affluent, _Southern_ (read: conservative) white males. The mainstream and sports media did not converge on Duke to report on a rape. Guilt and innocence had already been determined by the media; they went there to attack a culture, to expose and destroy a culture they believe is racist, sexist, and inherently geared toward the wealthy and privileged\u2014a culture that is antithetical to their liberal vision. The black stripper was just a stage prop.\n\nThe media's racial double standard would be plainly evident in future cases as well. In 2013, sexual assault allegations would arise about then\u2013Heisman Trophy hopeful Jameis Winston (who is black) after a Florida State student claimed that Winston had raped her. The differences in the way the two cases were handled couldn't be more striking. The case against Winston was first filed in December 2012. It didn't reach the DA's office until December 2013, _a full year later_. By contrast, _only one month and three days after_ Crystal Mangum said she was raped, the Duke lacrosse players (who were white) were being indicted by a grand jury. More important, the media coverage was totally different. There was a healthy debate but no rush to judge what had happened in the Winston case. On my show, and others, the debate was \"if he's guilty,\" this should happen, or, \"if they prove him guilty,\" he shouldn't win the Heisman.\n\nIn the Duke case, though, there had been no \"what ifs\" or \"until there's proof.\" The debate was over how hard the Duke players should be punished, not whether they were guilty. In fact, the calls for punishment of the Duke players continued even after we knew they were innocent. This double standard prompted former Major League pitcher John Rocker to ask the most important question, in an article titled \"What If Jameis Winston Were a White Lacrosse Player\" on WND.com:\n\nLet's imagine that Jameis Winston isn't black, or the star football player for the Seminoles. Let's imagine that he is instead a white lacrosse player, who happens to play for Duke. Let's say an allegation emerges that he might have raped somebody. Do you think the student body and the school's fans would rally to his support? Do you think that the Durham Police Department would've sat on his case for nearly a year before sending it to the district attorney? Do you think police would've made veiled threats against the accuser for deciding to press charges? Would the district attorney carefully deliberate the case?\n\nThe likely answer to all of these questions would be no. And if the accuser were black, this story would be another racially charged national news case, and Winston would be portrayed as a modern-day Klansman by the national media, or the reincarnation of the Duke lacrosse players.\n\nSo why were the two cases portrayed so differently by the media and pursued so differently by the authorities? I can't say for sure, but I'm sure if Winston looked a lot more like the average Duke lacrosse player, we'd hear a different story than the one that is currently being pushed by the media.\n\nYou could bet the farm on it. In fact, so different was the coverage of the Winston case from the Duke lacrosse case that ESPN went out of its way to assuage the liberal-feminist component in the sports media, and within their own network, by hosting a special impact segment after the Florida DA had announced that he wasn't pressing charges against Winston. The subject of said impact segment? The difficulties women face in coming forward after rapes and sexual assaults, and the ways such cases are handled by investigators and other law enforcement officials. In the first minute of the segment, host David Lloyd cited a number from the National Sexual Violence Resource Center which stated that only 2 to 10 percent of rape claims turn out to be false. Mind you, this special aired shortly after Jameis Winston was cleared of any rape charges because the Florida DA couldn't find enough evidence to bring a case forward.\n\nSo why would ESPN air this discussion right after Winston had been exonerated, citing statistics that remind you that the overwhelming number of rape cases brought forward are true, and talking about how hard law enforcement makes it for women to come forward and talk about rape? It's because they wanted to cover their liberal behinds with their feminist fellow travelers.\n\nESPN radio hosts Colin Cowherd and Paul Finebaum appeared on the show. Cowherd strongly criticized the Florida state attorney for not understanding the seriousness of the case and the charge, as shown by the fact that he laughed through his press conference. Finebaum criticized the prosecutor for \"grandstanding\" and really went after Jameis Winston's attorney Tim Jansen for making \"a mockery of the whole system, particularly with women.\" Finebaum also condemned the Tallahassee Police Department for their mishandling of the case.\n\nI agree with Finebaum on all of that: the Tallahassee Police Department did appear to bungle the investigation into the allegations against Winston, _and_ the Florida district attorney did appear to be grandstanding. But similar criticisms could be made in the Duke lacrosse case where the prosecutor was grandstanding so much that he ended up getting disbarred. Yet ESPN didn't follow up the Duke lacrosse case with a special for the unjustly maligned players, lamenting how hard it was for them, and how hard it would be for them going forward. They didn't lay into the Durham Police Department for their mishandling of the case, and they certainly didn't criticize anyone in the media, which acted as a lynch mob, plain and simple, condemning the players merely because their accuser was black and because they decided Duke lacrosse players represented evil, wealthy, Southern, white males.\n\nYou can fault, if you want, the Duke lacrosse team for getting involved at all with a stripper. But it's not a criminal act, and it's not unknown for young men to do stupid things. But what is ironic is that the liberal media, so keen to promote any and all forms non-Christian sexuality\u2014premarital sex, homosexual sex, \"sex week\" at major colleges, coed dorms and bathrooms that promote the hook-up culture, you mention it, they're for it\u2014suddenly get all puritanical when it comes to something like this. That's because the sports media\u2014like the mainstream liberal media\u2014view every issue with an obsession on race, sex, and class. And if there's ever any opportunity to dump on rich white males and run to the support of poor black females, even if they're liars, they'll do it every time.\n\nThe most mind-blowing part of the liberal sports media's complete fail at covering the Duke lacrosse case was not that normal everyday analysts and writers ignored facts and made baseless claims\u2014they do that all the time\u2014but that even the so-called legal \"experts\" in the sports media made these mistakes.\n\nLester Munson currently writes and reports for ESPN.com and specializes in legal affairs. During the Duke lacrosse scandal, though, he worked for CNNSI.com, where he offered his not-so-learned advice. Munson went about wasting no opportunity to besmirch any credible evidence that might exonerate the lacrosse players, even searching for new and increasingly absurd ways for them to appear guiltier.\n\nAs chronicled on Brooklyn College historian KC Johnson's blog _Durham-in-Wonderland_ , arguably the most authoritative historical account of the lacrosse scandal (outside this one, of course), Johnson describes Munson's appearance on the scene thusly:\n\nMunson's first case-related comments came on April 18. Despite the court filing from Mike Nifong's office that DNA would exonerate the innocent, Munson immediately downplayed DNA's role. \"There are hundreds of convicted rapists in prison,\" he contended, \"even though there was no sign of their DNA in the examinations of their victims . . . Lawyers for the accused players can talk endlessly about DNA, but the absence of DNA is not conclusive by itself.\" He implied that the team had a history of \"previous predatory conduct,\" and expressed little doubt that a crime occurred: \"There is always an element of brutality in what occurs. In the Duke situation, it may be the number of athletes joining in the attack. In the Tyson case, the attack was brutal.\"\n\nSo here you have Munson going even a level beyond the already beyond-awful Mike Nifong. Munson is so unhinged that he immediately refutes the notion put forth by Nifong that the DNA evidence could clear the innocent by telling us of \"hundreds of convicted rapists\" in jail today absent any DNA evidence against them.\n\nAnd you know what? Technically, he's right. There are rapists who have been convicted without DNA evidence. Wouldn't, though, the absence of any DNA evidence in this case at least cause the objective, non-agenda-driven person to take some level of pause and question the air-tightness of the case against the players? Apparently not for Munson, who seems to have the case, and the guilt of the players, all sewn up.\n\nDoubling down on the presumed guilt of the innocent, Lester Munson next removed any reasonable doubt about lacrosse player Reade Seligmann's innocence by construing his alibi as tantamount to an admission of guilt. The interviewer with CNNSI.com asked Munson: \"A report has surfaced that one of the players charged, Reade Seligmann, has an alibi\u2014including ATM receipts, a statement from a cab driver and evidence he was at his dormitory\u2014indicating he had left the party before the alleged incident happened. Is this credible evidence?\"\n\nAfter conceding the _potential_ that Seligmann's alibi could prove his innocence, Munson went on to state that Seligmann might even be _guiltier_ : \"The police and the prosecutor will scrutinize this evidence in exquisite detail, and if they find something is askew, that something doesn't fit in the alibi evidence, they will not hesitate to charge Seligmann with yet another crime. That would be obstruction of justice.\"\n\nIn any normal world, this response would have led to Munson's disbarring, or to dis-whatever happens to people who only \"practice\" law on TV. Note how the possibility that the alibi evidence could prove Seligmann's innocence only takes up about 4 percent of Munson's response here. He uses the remainder to cast the shadow of doubt.\n\nAgain, Seligmann's alibi evidence included an ATM receipt and a taxi driver's statement. ATMs have time-stamped receipts and also have security cameras. In fact, the ATM Seligmann used happened to capture him on camera at the exact time the alleged rape occurred. Not to mention the word of the cab driver to corroborate Seligmann's story.\n\nFor Munson to sit there and treat this evidence that Seligmann was innocent as somehow irrelevant, or worse\u2014somehow putting him at risk of conviction for an additional crime\u2014betrays a strong bias against the accused to say the least. Munson wasn't shy about revealing his bias: \"You don't see many alibis in criminal cases\u2014it's a very rare thing. Ordinarily, 99 times out of 100, the police have the right guy, and you'll find that most people arrested were involved in something. Getting the wrong guy is very unusual.\"\n\nEvidence for this claim was not forthcoming; of course neither was evidence for Mike Nifong's claims. None of that seemed to bother Munson. In his appearance on _Nancy Grace_ , Munson was asked by Grace:\n\nGRACE: A lot has been said that the state doesn't have much of a case. Agree or disagree?\n\nMUNSON: I disagree. I think the state has probably a better case than most observers are describing. I have studied this at some length for the piece that we had in Sports Illustrated this week.\n\nMr. Nifong is a seasoned, experienced prosecutor. He is not stupid. He's been doing this kind of thing for 30 years. I believe he has enough to make a prima facie case. A jury will determine the guilt or the innocence of these student athletes from Duke University. And I think that Nifong is probably managing the discovery in such a way that there may be some surprises for these defense lawyers further down the road.\n\nCarefully note how Munson essentially says nothing here. How does Nifong's thirty years on the job bolster his case? Dan Rather had reported the news for more than thirty years and still ran with a completely fabricated story to try to prevent the reelection of President George W. Bush. So instead of actually answering the question about the strength of Nifong's case, Munson instead gave us Nifong's r\u00e9sum\u00e9 and a little Civics 101 about how a jury will decide the case\u2014and unknowingly betrayed that he had no idea what he was talking about. Though Nifong's case appeared weak, Munson assured Nancy Grace that Nifong was probably \"managing discovery in such a way that there may be some surprises for these defense lawyers further down the road.\"\n\nThere was only one problem with this: North Carolina is an open-discovery state, meaning that Mike Nifong was not allowed to \"manage discovery\" with the goal of springing \"surprises\" against defense attorneys later in trial. He was compelled by law to share any and all information and evidence he had, at the defense's request. I wouldn't expect Selena Roberts or Bomani Jones or John Feinstein or some other strictly sports talking head to know that information. But it does tell you something about sports reporters with \"legal expert\" in their title\u2014namely that they really aren't.\n\nMunson also proved unconvincing when Nancy Grace challenged him on the \"victim's\" credibility:\n\nGRACE: Back to Lester Munson with _Sports Illustrated_. What supports the victim account? And I know there's problems with the state's case. I'm not denying that, all right? You've got the second dancer who's given three or four different stories. But what supports the actual alleged victim's account, Lester?\n\nMUNSON: There is some veracity to the victim's account. She and the other woman, obviously, felt the sense of danger, a sense of menace in that house. They left a lot of stuff behind. They were able to describe what they left behind to the police, and the police, when they went to search the house, found everything there that the woman had described as left behind when she left in a big hurry in fear.\n\nReally? Three kids should spend the next twenty to thirty years behind bars because a couple of strippers left behind \"a lot of stuff\" at a house party? You'd think a lawyer might recognize that leaving stuff behind proves that you were at a location and that you left. It doesn't prove _why_ you left, or how you _felt_ when you were leaving, and if your case is based solely on that, you don't have a case.\n\nMunson could never quite grasp Nifong's lack of a case. After Nifong dropped the charges against the players, _Sports Illustrated_ for some reason went back to their reporter who had gotten just about everything wrong and asked him what was next for the players.\n\nMUNSON: They still face some serious charges. There is little doubt that something unsavory happened at the party on March 13. After the dismissal of the rape charges, it will be easier for the accused players to attempt to settle everything with a guilty plea on lesser charges. The likelihood of a trial on any of these charges is now greatly reduced.\n\nSomething \"unsavory\"? Something unsavory accurately describes my nightlife from the age of about nineteen to twenty-two, and I can assure you that a rather large gulf exists between unsavory and rape. Note how Munson still, even in light of the dropping of the charges, still believes the players should plead guilty. Why?\n\nBecause the guilt of these players existed in the minds of Munson and the rest of the liberal media regardless of proof to the contrary. Unlike the usual sports reporters who spout opinions in legal cases without knowing anything about the law, Lester Munson _is_ a lawyer and presumably should have known at some point that Nifong's case would fold like paper under any kind of serious scrutiny. Yet he stuck by the players' guilt\u2014of something\u2014long after the truth became obvious.\n\nSomehow, though, this case did not discredit Munson as a \"legal expert.\" In fact, like Selena Roberts, this episode of failure only resulted in newer and better things for Munson. His willingness to serve as the Baghdad Bob of Durham in no way kept him from getting a gig with ESPN, where he retains his \"expert\" status on legal matters despite his decidedly un-expert takes.\n\nMunson did not stand alone in his inability to see well-established innocence. Among the other hindsight-challenged members of the sports media was ESPN's Bomani Jones, who in February 2007 reported from the first Duke lacrosse game since their previous season had been canceled because of the rape charges.\n\nIn his discussions with students on campus, Jones spoke with several students who wanted to express their support for the wrongly accused lacrosse players. One kid, Chris Antonacci, sounded (gasp!) just happy the lacrosse team could play a game again: \"Around here, we believe the guys [former players Reade Seligmann, Collin Finnerty, and Dave Evans] are innocent,\" Antonacci said, \"and that [last] season should not have been canceled.\"\n\nJones pounced on this mere statement of the obvious like a leopard on a gazelle:\n\nPerhaps that's true, but that's no reason to celebrate the team. After all, none of the three players charged with crimes surrounding a March 9, 2006, house party are still on the team.\n\nWhile the cancellation of the season may have been premature, plenty came to light when they left the field. Too much to be ignored.\n\nWhat's this? Too much to be ignored? What kind of twisted, deep-seated evil \"came to light\" about this lacrosse team?\n\nThe ad hoc committee commissioned by Duke president Richard Brodhead and Academic Council Chair Paul Haagen found that lacrosse players were involved in thirty-six separate disciplinary incidents in the last three academic years, including destruction of property on campus, public urination and numerous alcohol-related incidents.\n\nI must confess, I laughed out loud when I read this paragraph. Seriously? You tried and failed to convict them as rapists, so for your next act you charge them for acting like college students? How pathetic. My research assistant (Answers.com) tells me that anywhere between thirty and thirty-five students play on a college lacrosse team. For nearly one hundred different individuals between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two to amass only thirty-six minor incidents of law-breaking on a college campus over three years is hardly surprising.\n\nIn fact, it's disappointing. When I was nineteen, my technical term for amassing thirty-six disciplinary violations was \"Tuesday.\" What Jones was really doing was continuing a smear campaign against college kids for behaving like college kids. The technical term in journalism for this is \"grasping at straws.\"\n\nBut Jones wasn't done yet:\n\nHave people forgotten about the claim by Kim Roberts, one of the dancers hired that evening, that the players hurled racial slurs at her? Or the report in the _Raleigh News and Observer_ that one partygoer told one of the dancers to \"thank your grandpa for my cotton shirt,\" an obvious slavery reference?\n\nEvidence in the record gives proof of a racial slur used by the lacrosse players. What Jones conveniently leaves out of his account, however, is that Kim Roberts, one of the two black dancers, \"hurled\" the first racial slur.\n\nIn an interview with _60 Minutes_ , Roberts reveals what exactly happened:\n\n\"I called him a little dick white boy,\" she recalls laughing. \"And how he couldn't get it on his own and had to pay for it. So, he was mad. And it ended with him callin' me the n-word. And it echoed, so you heard n. . . . once, and then you heard, n. . . ., n. . . ., n. . . .\"\n\nRoberts acknowledges _her taunting_ [emphasis added] provoked that remark but tells Bradley, \"But when I think about it again, I say he could've said black girl. You know what I mean? He could've said black girl. He didn't have to go that route.\"\n\nA neighbor also told police he overheard a player yelling in Roberts' direction \"Thank your grandfather for my cotton shirt.\"\n\nRoberts is right: the lacrosse player didn't have to go that route, but an honest reporter would have provided the context.\n\nThe student that Jones cites in his article makes the point that a few bad apples don't spoil the bunch, saying in reference to the alleged racist slurs, \"The whole team shouldn't suffer for the actions of a few.\"\n\nBut predictably, that line of thought does not go very far with Bomani Jones:\n\nEven if that's true\u2014and it's definitely debatable\u2014the overall body of misbehavior of this team wasn't the reflection of a few people. That track record was built by several players over a span of years\u2014too many sins over too much time to be written off as anything isolated.\n\nReally?! If the legal equivalent of Winston Churchill visited Durham, he would certainly have said, \"Never have so many suffered so much for so little.\" The completely over-the-top effort to paint an entire group of young men as guilty of _something_ \u2014racism and sexism, if not rape\u2014highlights nothing less than the obsessions of the liberal media.\n\nAs KC Johnson says in _Durham-in-Wonderland_ :\n\nGiven Jones' branding the entire lacrosse team as racists because one player uttered a racial slur as part of a racially charged argument, Joan Foster wonders why the espn.com author elected to ignore the findings of the Coleman Committee report on the question of the team's racial attitudes. (After a comprehensive inquiry, the committee discovered no evidence of racist or sexist on-campus behavior.)\n\nIn other words, the same ad hoc committee that produced the instances of petty misbehavior that Bomani Jones used to cast an aura of guilt over the Duke lacrosse team reported that the lacrosse team had _no_ history of racism or sexism. Committee chairman James Coleman wrote, \"We looked closely but found no compelling evidence to support claims that these players are racist or have a record of sexual violence.\" Wouldn't an honest reporter have made note of that?\n\nColeman also described team members' drinking habits as \"deplorable but pretty typical of what you see with other Duke students who abuse alcohol.\"\n\nIn other words, they were kids\u2014but the sort of kids the liberal media don't like, and so they were dragged through the mud without a second thought to their innocence or to journalistic integrity. That's what you get from the liberal sports media.\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nTHE NEW RACISM\n\nEveryone loves the NFL playoffs, as teams get winnowed down to play in the ultimate American spectacle, the Super Bowl. And the inherent drama of the games means the sports media are often at their best during the playoffs too\u2014except when they take a relatively inconsequential event and blow it way out of proportion.\n\nOn January 19, 2014, only moments after deflecting the NFC championship game\u2013sealing interception into the waiting hands of a friendly linebacker, Seattle Seahawks cornerback Richard Sherman decided to unleash his inner Ric Flair in a postgame interview. Fox Sports' Erin Andrews asked Sherman about the play, and what followed was pure television gold. In a full-throated roar, the likes of which would make the \"Nature Boy\" himself proud, Sherman\u2014huge, dreadlocked, tattooed, enraged, and black\u2014let loose with a tirade for the ages: \"I'm the best corner in the game! When you try me with a sorry receiver like Crabtree, that's the result you gonna get! Don't you ever talk about me. [ . . . ] Don't you open your mouth about the best, or I'm gonna shut it for you real quick!\"\n\nIt was one of the most hilarious things ever to happen on a football field. Well, in my mind it was funny. Apparently I was in the minority, because in a matter of minutes, Twitter exploded with people reacting not only to Sherman's postgame interview, but also to his taunting of 49ers receiver Michael Crabtree and quarterback Colin Kaepernick. Strong words were used\u2014most of them condemning Sherman as a loudmouth and a bad sport.\n\nBut the next day, when the media took over the debate, a different word started getting used. That word was \"thug.\" In fact, as reported by _Deadspin_ , a group called iQMedia, a company that does media platform research, said that the word \"thug\" was used 625 times in closed-captioning across all television markets on the day after the Sherman interview aired. The TV broadcast of the Boston-based _Dennis & Callahan Show_, on WEEI, apparently logged twelve \"thug\" mentions in two minutes alone. Not too shabby.\n\nWhy does this matter?\n\nIt matters for two reasons.\n\nFirst, while the word \"thug\" can be applied to anyone, from the likes of former Patriot tight end Aaron Hernandez to actor Alec Baldwin, according to taste, the media view it as a word that almost always references someone who is black.\n\nThe other reason this matters is that when the debate over Richard Sherman happened on Twitter\u2014in other words, among the people at large\u2014\"thug\" did not get a lot of play. The few racist trolls out there went straight to the N-word. But the racist stuff came from the fringe. Most people upset at Sherman were upset at his behavior, not his skin tone; they disliked his alleged lack of sportsmanship (he received a penalty for taunting on the play); and some didn't like a football player talking like a professional wrestler. But for the American sports media, this was another teaching moment in which they could tell us all just how deeply ignorant and racist they believe the average American to be.\n\nStill, they faced a problem. While the few racist reactions used the N-word with various epithets preceding it, _Sports Center_ couldn't air a debate with the caption \"Is Richard Sherman a 'No-Class N*****?\" They needed some other word to bring the racial debate to the fore, something racially charged but not an overt slur. Sometime between the end of the game on Sunday and the start of the news cycle on Monday, the metaphorical memo went out to all concerned: just as \"fiery\" can be code for Latinos and \"scrappy\" can be code for white guys, \"thug\" can be racist code-speak for black people\u2014at least to the media.\n\nThe Monday after the game was the most thuggish day in American media in years, as the American sports media trolled the country trying to spark a debate about why white people feel threatened by black men and are unhappy at seeing them succeed, which was an odd accusation if you consider that the American people had recently elected a black man president of the United States\u2014twice. It was also an odd accusation given that black athletes and coaches are among the most popular in the country.\n\nBut the sports media wanted this story because they are obsessed with race and will run with any \"racist\" story they can get. And they absolutely love racist witch-hunts.\n\nConsider, for instance, the case of Steve Lyons. Lyons, former broadcaster for Fox, was fired immediately after a game during which he made some less-than-great references to Lou Piniella's Hispanic heritage. From the original AP story:\n\nPiniella had made an analogy involving the luck of finding a wallet, then briefly used a couple of Spanish phrases during Friday's broadcast. Lyons said that Piniella was \"hablaing Espanol\"\u2014butchering the conjugation for the word \"to speak\"\u2014and added, \"I still can't find my wallet.\"\n\n\"I don't understand him, and I don't want to sit too close to him now,\" Lyons continued. Lyons claimed he was kidding.\n\nLyons could have saved his breath about \"kidding.\" There was a time, in the 1960s and 1970s when stewardesses had anatomically luminescent uniforms and newborn infants were handed a Marlboro eight seconds after birth, when Lyons's comments would have been called kidding. Those times are gone. Nowadays, even a hint of a racially insensitive remark, even if the speaker is kidding, even if the allegedly racially insensitive remark is about a minority group not usually categorized as a minority group (Piniella's parents were from Spain, not from south of the border), can be enough to wreck a career.\n\nIn a more egregious error of judgment, San Francisco talk show host Larry Krueger once referred to the San Francisco Giants lineup as a bunch of \"brain-dead Caribbean hitters.\" As a result, Krueger was canned. Now he can take a long vacation (I hear Antigua is lovely this time of year). Long-time Vikings radioman Lee Hamilton resigned after being quoted by the _San Diego Union-Tribune_ as having said: \"I think it's real hard to find an African American who can come in and do sports talk across the board and be able to talk about a lot of different things.\" Now, you can agree or disagree with this\u2014I happen to disagree\u2014but this hardly amounts to \"Segregation now! Segregation forever!\" In fact, the funniest thing about it is that Hamilton managed to conjoin the politically correct term \"African American\" and a dumbo generalization about black sports commentators. That quotation, in addition to Hamilton's calling Hideki Irabu a \"fat jap,\" was enough to end a pretty nice run as a radio broadcaster.\n\nLook outside the sports world: Michael Richards is no longer the universally loved goofball named Kramer on _Seinfeld_. He is now a universally unemployable pariah after launching into an inexplicably awful tirade at a heckler in an LA comedy club. Meanwhile, black sportscasters like Michael Irvin can make absurd charges of pre\u2013Civil War\u2013era crossbreeding, and there's no backlash whatsoever. On the _Dan Patrick Show_ , Irvin attempted to explain how the Cowboys' white quarterback Tony Romo was so athletic. You'll get a good laugh from his hypothesis if you're an idiot, or Michael Wilbon, or both: \"[Romo's] great, great, great, great Grandma pulled one of them studs up outta the barn.\"\n\nDo me a favor, just for one moment, and imagine if a white broadcaster on a radio show, discussing a very intelligent black athlete like, say, Richard Sherman, had explained away Sherman's considerable intelligence as the result of his great-great-great-great-grandma having had sex with a plantation owner. He would have been fired\u2014and not just from his job: the network would have loaded him into a cannon and fired him into a lake of fire. There would be national outrage. Yet Michael Irvin continues to be employed by a radio station and the NFL Network.\n\nThe point is that racism is punished in our society today. Well, unless the racist in question is black, in which case you get a free pass and perhaps a multiyear, six- or even seven-figure contract from a major sports network. But there is no institutional racism in this country against \"people of color.\" That is long gone. In fact, many institutions\u2014including the NFL with its \"Rooney Rule\" requiring teams to interview minority candidates for coaching and management positions\u2014go out of their way to increase their \"diversity.\" And \"racism\" is one of the worst charges that can be made against anyone in the court of public opinion. No one\u2014by which I mean maybe 1 percent of the American people\u2014is \"for\" racism. Everyone\u2014by which I mean about 99 percent of the American people\u2014is against it. That doesn't mean that racism has completely disappeared in our society or that the racist acts aren't still committed\u2014but they shock us now because they are so rare and universally regarded as wrong. Comedian Tom Shillue sums up the current state of race relations in America perfectly: \"The only people hurt by racism these days are the racists.\"\n\nReal victims of racism these days are few, so, by necessity, the liberal media, wanting to relive their glory days of the civil rights era, must invent them, and that is the function of the New Racism\u2014namely, finding racism where there isn't any.\n\nWhich speaks to the point: racism is no longer a social institution, like Jim Crow, that needs to be abolished. It's a business worth millions of dollars to shysters like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton who shake down corporations for payoffs; and it is worth a ton in ratings and notoriety for sports media racial hucksters like ESPN's Michael Wilbon who inject their vile hate-venom into every topic that they conceivably can. And even some that they conceivably can't. On _Pardon the Interruption_ , Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon discussed comments made by well-known University of Texas booster Red McCombs about the hiring process that led to UT picking Charlie Strong (who is black) to succeed Mack Brown (who is white) as UT's next head football coach. Red McCombs was highly displeased with the hire and let fly while on the air with an ESPN affiliate in San Antonio: \"I think the whole thing is a bit sideways. . . . I don't have any doubt that Charlie is a fine coach. I think he would make a great position coach, maybe a coordinator. But I don't believe [he belongs at] what should be one of the three most powerful university programs in the world right now at UT-Austin. I don't think it adds up.\"\n\nMcCombs went on:\n\nI think it is a kick in the face. Beyond the fact of what actually happened. We have boosters that have a lot of knowledge about the game. When we decided to go get Mack\u2014from the time we decided to go get Mack to about 30 hours later to have a press conference here and it was done\u2014we had a lot of input before we went after him.\n\nSo I don't know what the big rush was. I was kind of pleased that [Texas athletic director Steve] Patterson already said that he'd like to get it done in the middle of January. That seemed logical to me. I'm a team player, but I think they went about it wrong and made the selection wrong.\n\nNow, to be clear, McCombs's comment that Strong might only be good enough for a position coach at UT is beyond insane. Strong was 23 and 3 as the head coach at Louisville. The coaching position he was most suited for was head coach. But plenty of people (myself included) thought Charlie Strong might be in over his head at Texas. Strong was notorious at Louisville for hating the \"political\" side of the job: doing media, selling the program, hanging out with rich donors. The head-coaching job at Texas, at least under Mack Brown, was as much political as it was about football: schmoozing with millionaire donors and kissing the ring (and if necessary, the behind) of the guy who's buying you the new wing of the \"student-athlete\" center.\n\nNone of those people, and certainly not Red McCombs, ever stood against hiring Strong because he was black. In fact, Red McCombs is the cofounder of the San Antonio Spurs, which, if you haven't noticed, employs a higher percentage of black men than most businesses and more than have ever been employed by Michael Wilbon. But of course that's exactly the well-worn path that Michael Wilbon wanted to take us down on _Pardon the Interruption._ Wilbon called UT's new (as of November 2013) athletic director Steve Patterson more \"progressive\" (read: less racist) than most, having come from a college basketball background as opposed to a football background.\n\nWilbon's not-so-subtle message was that football, especially Southern college football, remains\u2014against all evidence to the contrary, including black coaches, like Charlie Strong at Louisville\u2014a bastion of, in leftist speak, white male privilege. But Wilbon didn't stop there; he then warned of the great obstacles and hurdles that Charlie Strong would have to overcome at Texas. Specifically, the \"good old boy network\" (read: angry, racist, white Republicans) that rule the roost there. So here you have the University of Texas, the largest school in the state and the wealthiest athletic department in the country, hiring the first black head coach in school history, and Wilbon wants us to fear the \"good old boy network\"?\n\nQuick question: How entrenched and all-powerful could this alleged network of racist good old boys be if they couldn't succeed in stopping the appointment of a \"progressive\" athletic director or the hiring of a black head football coach? In fact, let's go a step further, because the University of Texas is not the only school in the Lone Star State to hire a black head coach. Texas A&M, UT's archrival, and the second-biggest program in the state, actually beat the \"progressives\" in Austin to the punch when they hired Kevin Sumlin (who is black) in December 2011. So here you have the Great State of Texas, the western anchor of the Deep South; here in this supposed cauldron of fiery racial hate, the two largest schools in the state have hired black head coaches, and to Michael Wilbon the real story is the power of the \"good old boy network.\" _Really?_\n\nIt wasn't so long ago that Wilbon and others were lamenting . . . check that . . . screaming at the top of their lungs about how there weren't more than four black head coaches in all of the top 120 schools in college football. Here you have two black head coaches at the two biggest institutions in arguably the biggest football state in the country, and the story is that Texas is racist? This is the \"New Racism\" at work. Wilbon can't let us sit back and take stock of what should be an awesome moment in race and sports and applaud how these hires show just how far we've come, because then people might . . . you know . . . realize how far we've come.\n\nNor has Wilbon confined his hysterical bleating to _Pardon the Interruption_ or coaching moves. In 2010, when the Redskins were in the midst of year seventeen of their rebuilding program, head coach Mike Shanahan (who is white) pulled quarterback Donovan McNabb (who is black) from a football game in the final two minutes and put in white quarterback Rex Grossman. Shanahan explained his decision this way: \"I felt with the time, with no timeouts, Rex gave us the best chance to win in that scenario. Everything is sped up when you don't have timeouts. It's got to be automatic. People forget how quick things are in that two minutes. It's like learning a new language. Are you asking me if we played poorly? Yes, we did.\"\n\nJason Reid of the _Washington Post_ offered further explanation for the coach's decision: \"Redskins Coach Mike Shanahan said Monday that Donovan McNabb's lingering injuries played a role in the coach's decision to bench his starting quarterback Sunday. . . . McNabb wasn't able to fully practice and Shanahan said that from a 'cardiovascular standpoint,' McNabb couldn't handle the fast-paced two-minute offense.\"\n\nThat knowing-the-offense, being-in-shape, giving-your-team-the-best-chance-to-win mumbo-jumbo wouldn't fly for Michael Wilbon, who wrote this in the _Washington Post_ :\n\nLook, I've long ago declared my bias toward McNabb and I'm not going to spin away from it now. McNabb, though, hasn't played all that well and has said so. He wasn't particularly effective Sunday in Detroit, either. And indications are now that the Shanahans, father and son, don't much like the way McNabb prepares for games. Mike's assertion makes it sound like McNabb is some dummy, an ominous characterization he'd better be careful about, lest he run into some cultural trouble in greater Washington, D.C.\n\nPretty funny that Wilbon feels comfortable enough threatening the cultural wrath of \"greater Washington, D.C.,\" after taking one of his highly publicized large-scale bowel movements on the city, calling it a \"terrible\" sports town. He wrote that despite living in D.C. for thirty-two years, he \"barely call[s] it home.\" Apparently Wilbon isn't worried about incurring any \"cultural trouble in greater Washington, D.C.,\" himself. What Wilbon did here was take a meaningless quarterback change by a lousy team (I say that as a native Washingtonian and lifelong fan) in a lousy game, and elevate it to Rodney King\u2013like proportions. Conveniently forgotten in all this was that Shanahan, as head coach, was involved in the Redskins' decision to trade for Donovan McNabb in Shanahan's first season with the team. He, apparently, saw a serviceable starting quarterback in the aging veteran. I, on the other hand, when I looked at Donovan McNabb, thought of soup: not the stringy chicken stuff they send in aid packages to kids in Eastern Europe, but the thick, industrial-strength stuff that you have to wear elastic-waist sweatpants to eat and that McNabb advertised for Campbell's Chunky brand. Clearly, though, Wilbon saw Rosa Parks in pads and cleats.\n\nAgain, the New Racism's \"heroes\" aren't actual heroes; they're millionaires who get pulled from the two-minute drill. But look at the precedent set here: because McNabb was out of shape, past his prime, and unable to understand the offense (after his stint with the Redskins, he failed in Minnesota, \"despite,\" as race-crazed liberal sports reporters might add, having a black head coach there), Wilbon turned Shanahan's concerns over McNabb's football IQ into a referendum on black people as a whole, or at least those who live in D.C.\n\nJohn Feinstein was not to be outdone by Wilbon. After ESPN's Chris Mortensen reported that Mike Shanahan had to drastically cut down the size of his playbook in order for McNabb to learn it (and even then, with the CliffsNotes version of the playbook, McNabb still had trouble calling the right plays in the huddle), Feinstein went off:\n\nThen I saw Mortensen's \"report.\" That's when I went on Washington Post Live and accused Shanahan of racial coding because I believe if he was Mortensen's source that is absolutely what he was doing. And if it was, Shanahan is a despicable human being and, yes, I think he's using racial coding and yes I think he should be fired. If anyone wants to disagree with me about that, fine. . . .\n\nBasically Wilbon and Feinstein are claiming that this info about McNabb's not knowing the playbook and being out of shape never would have been leaked to the media if McNabb were white. As if information questioning a quarterback's IQ is somehow kept secret if the quarterback is white (somewhere Tim Tebow is calling BS on this). I have a different theory though. Maybe, just maybe, after getting accused of racism at every turn by an unhinged and race-obsessed liberal sports media, Shanahan released that information believing (na\u00efvely) it would show he made the move for football reasons. Maybe he released it thinking that everyone would see that he didn't really harbor racial animus toward the quarterback he traded a second-round pick for, and that in reality McNabb was an overweight, over-the-hill, in-over-his-head player who was past his prime. It's too cute that Mike Shanahan might have thought that the releasing of facts would dissuade the D.C. sports media from labeling him a racist. It's so cute I just want to poke him in the nose. Boop!\n\nBut whatever his motivations for releasing the information, the sports media's handling of said information was beyond ridiculous, though that's not totally unexpected from a group of race-peddlers, especially in Washington, D.C. Other aspects of the sports media's desire to preserve racism and racist lingo, no matter the cost, have proved far more troubling.\n\nTo my knowledge, there is only one word in the English language that dramatically switches meaning based on who speaks it. A car is always a car, a potato is always a potato, and a marsupial is always a marsupial. But the New Racism has furnished us with a word that forms and shape-shifts like Mystique on meth. And that word is the N-word. Ironically, the word that true heroes and civil rights leaders of yore probably wanted done away with more than any other word in the English language, regardless of who said it, has now been safely ensconced in the American lexicon for the foreseeable future\u2014 _but only when it's said by black people_. For it is a sad but true fact that one of the negative legacies of the civil rights movement in this country was that it stole the N-word away from white people (a good thing) and made it the exclusive province of black people (a not-so-good thing). The end result is that when the N-word is used by white people, it means cotton fields, whip-lashings, fire hoses, German shepherds, and Jim Crow. But when it's used by black people, it means rainbows, butterflies, unicorns, and fuzzy bunny slippers.\n\nNothing brought this galactically hypocritical garbage to light more than when an overly intoxicated Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver named Riley Cooper got caught dropping N-bombs by a camera phone at a Kenny Chesney concert: \"I will jump that fence and fight every n***** here, bro.\"\n\nYes, I am appalled too. How a man who sings about strawberry wine and going to restaurants barefoot could cause such an explosion of racial hatred is beyond me. But as for what Riley Cooper actually said, let's go through some facts. Cooper is an idiot and wrong for doing what he did. But he never acted on his threat. He never jumped the fence and fought anybody. For all intents and purposes, it was an ignorant lapse of judgment while drunk (as opposed to Bob Costas's ignorant lapses in judgment, which occur while he's stone-cold sober), and it appeared to be an isolated incident, since nobody on the Eagles roster recalled Cooper using that word before or showing any sign of racial hostility.\n\nThe Eagles fined Cooper, made him publicly apologize for his comments, and then sent him out for sensitivity training. But that wasn't good enough for the sports media's racial flash mob. In fact, it wasn't just the sports media. Michael A. Nutter, the mayor of Philadelphia, took precious time away from running Philly's public school system into the ground to get on his soapbox and push for stronger action against Cooper: \"In a year when we celebrated the great achievements of Jackie Robinson in the movie _42_ , it is truly saddening that racial epithets are still being hurled like baseballs, or by a football player, at the human dignity of African-Americans and others. This incident is a disgrace, and cannot be excused by just paying a fine, as if it were a parking ticket.\"\n\nDon't worry, Mr. Mayor: as someone who has spent years in the locker rooms of professional sports teams, I can assure you that racial epithets are \"hurled like baseballs\" by black players far more than they are by white players. Nutter even went on to lay out exactly how the Eagles could fire Riley Cooper for what he said:\n\nAs the Mayor of this City and an African-American man, I find the remarks made by Riley Cooper repugnant, insensitive and ignorant, and all of us, regardless of race or nationality, should be offended by these comments. I recognize that the private sector is very different than the public sector in terms of rules and procedures, but I would note that in our government, if an executive branch \"at-will\" employee, somewhat similar to Mr. Cooper's status with the Eagles, made such comments, I would insist on a suspension at a minimum and would seriously have to evaluate terminating such an individual from employment with the City.\n\nMichael Wilbon and Dan Patrick, though sports reporters who are supposed to know something about the sports they report, rebuked NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for not doing something he has no power to do: impose an NFL punishment on Cooper. These sorts of disciplinary decisions are left, by the NFL's collecting bargaining agreement, to the teams themselves to decide. But of course that's no reason for reporters like Wilbon and Patrick not to grandstand, especially when the issue is race.\n\nSometimes you have to wonder about the real-world experience of these sports reporters. It's not exactly a secret that the N-word gets tossed around NFL locker rooms like a dirty jock strap, albeit by black players. Yet nothing is ever said by the media\u2014not by Dan Patrick, not by Michael Wilbon, and not by big-city mayors. Yet it was in this case. Why? Not because of the N-word itself, but because of who said it. Riley Cooper's crime wasn't using the N-word; it was that he was white. Is that progress?\n\nWhat was even more convoluted than the sports media's reaction to Riley Cooper was the reaction of some of his teammates. Running back LeSean McCoy wasn't quite so ready to welcome Cooper back with open arms. According to CSNPhilly's Geoff Mosher: \"'Ain't nothing to prove. He said how he felt,' McCoy said. 'He's still a teammate. I'm still going to block for him. I'm still gonna show great effort. Just on a friendship level, and as a person, I can't really respect somebody like that. I think as a team, we need to move past it. There are some things that are going to be hard to work with, to be honest.'\"\n\nReally? That's odd, because McCoy showed no such moral hang-ups about showing \"respect\" for fellow teammate Michael Vick, who had brutally tortured and slaughtered hundreds of defenseless dogs for sport.\n\nNow, to their credit, most of the Eagles don't live in McCoyville. DeSean Jackson, Jason Avant, DeMeco Ryans, and even Michael Vick himself were all able to publicly embrace Cooper and welcome him back to the team without any apparent issues. But McCoy wasn't alone in his moral back-assward-ness. Back in 2009, when Michael Vick was trying to reenter the league, Michael Wilbon wrote the journalistic equivalent of a love letter to Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie in the _Washington Post_. Wilbon called Lurie's signing of Vick after his stint in the federal pen for dog-killing \"the most difficult decision in his professional life,\" and wrote that Lurie had always \"seemed to me to be one of the most thoughtful owners in sports.\"\n\nLurie was clearly, in Wilbon's words, \"conflicted if not outright tortured by the decision, which was playing much better nationally than in Philly.\" There were other owners who might have wanted to sign Vick but, according to Wilbon, those other owners \"didn't have the fortitude to make the call that Lurie did.\" To say that Wilbon is laying it on thick here is an understatement. What he's doing is turning Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie into a hero. Jeffrey Lurie, conflicted from within and persecuted from without by petty, small-minded simpletons who . . . you know . . . don't want to see dog-electrocuters get multimillion-dollar contracts, is an army of one against a nation of seething intolerance. Lurie rose to the occasion and made a decision that no one else had the guts to make.\n\n_Please_. Yes, there were some PETA protesters at Vick's court hearings and there may have been the odd bearded \"Fur Is Evil\" hipster sipping a macchiato outside of Eagles practice, but it took no great courage to sign Michael Vick. Though there was no hotter topic on sports talk radio at the time, there were just as many hosts and callers in favor of Michael Vick's getting a second chance (I was one of them) as there were demanding he be fed to the dogs. So the idea that Lurie was some kind of \"hero\" in all of this is absurd. But the point here is not Jeffrey Lurie, it's what gets people in the New Racism ginned up, and whom they come after and why. Here's Wilbon heaping praise on an owner for taking a chance on a dog killer while at the same time ferociously attacking NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for not coming down harder on Riley Cooper. Priorities? In what kind of whacked-out, crazy world is Michael Vick less repulsive and less in need of forgiveness and mercy than Riley Cooper? In the world of the New Racism, that's where.\n\nAnd does anyone really believe that LeSean McCoy loses respect for every _black_ player on his team who uses the N-word? On the flip side, is there anyone who thinks Michael Wilbon would have written an article praising the courage and fortitude of Jeffrey Lurie if Michael Vick had been white? Of course not. Again, in the New Racism, the crime is not the slur being used but the skin color of the person who uses it. Michael Wilbon doesn't care any more about those dogs than he cares about the N-word (which, as we will see shortly, he says proudly on an almost daily basis). He cares about the identity of who said it and whether that person fits in his New Racism good-old-boy club.\n\nNo story illustrated this more than the Jonathan Martin/Richie Incognito fiasco of 2013. This is a really weird one, folks, so bear with me. In late October 2013, Dolphins tackle Jonathan Martin suddenly left the team, saying he needed to address \"emotional issues.\" For anyone doubting the success of the political correctness/wussification-of-America movement in this country, read that line again: a 6-foot, 5-inch, 320-pound offensive tackle left an NFL football team to deal with \"emotional issues.\" I rest my case.\n\nA week later, the Dolphins suspended fellow offensive lineman Richie Incognito after it allegedly became apparent that the \"emotional issues\" stemmed from Incognito's bullying of Martin. Martin's camp made public a voice message in which Incognito had referred to Martin (who is half-white and half-black) as a \"half-n***** piece of shit.\" Incognito then went on to say that he was going to go after Martin's family, saying, \"I'm going to slap your real mother across the face.\" Then, as if this Taster's Choice moment between bros couldn't get any more heartfelt, Incognito capped it off with this great term of friendly endearment, \"I want to shit in your fucking mouth.\" (Side note: It was awful nice of Incognito to offer to do that for free. I hear there's a guy in lower Manhattan who charges $500 for that.)\n\nAt this point, however much a digression it might seem, I'd like to make my case for bringing back the military draft. Or at least bringing it back for members of the media. Because here's where having a sports media with more guys who have spent some time in the military, or a police department, or a fire department would have been helpful. As someone who has spent time in two of the three above services (U.S. Army and FDNY), I've had several of these kinds of relationships. I had a black friend in the army who told me he was going to beat the \"oppressor\" out of me and do odd things to my skull after I was dead. I then told him I was going to displace him and his whole family like an unwanted band of Brazilian rainforest dwellers. I had a Puerto Rican friend in the fire department who told me to make sure I didn't come to work sick, because then I would be poisoning him the same way my ancestors had poisoned his people by bringing diseases over from Europe. I then made a joke that I can't share with you because the racial rules are different for me than they are for him. But the point is he laughed. The bigger point is that I would have put my life on the line for him, and he would have done the same for me; same thing with my friend in the army.\n\nBack and forth it would go, and, especially in the army, all of it occurred over a lot of beers and more than a few laughs. The reality is that in jobs and professions where you get your hands dirty, there's a different code of etiquette. It's an untaught, unwritten, yet mutually understood language rooted in filth, violence, sexual perversion, and racial angst that borders on the insane to anyone on the outside looking or listening in, yet one that preserves some sense of sanity and balance in a world that has very little sanity and balance. It's that way in the military, the police department, and the fire department, and evidently it's that way in the NFL as well. It's the secret language of men. But it might as well be Swahili to our sports media, the vast majority of whom have never held a job like that. Not that I'm blaming them for it; if you went straight to college and straight from college to a career, good for you. God bless. But part of the job of being in the media is to at least attempt to understand the world and the people that you're reporting on, not to try and judge it based solely on what makes sense to you in your own worldview. But this is precisely what the leftist sports media do.\n\nIt took me all of three minutes after listening to the voice messages that Incognito had left for Martin to realize that, although it had obviously gone very wrong for some reason at some point, there was a relationship between Incognito and Martin. They were friends. It took the racial flash mob in the sports media all of three minutes to try and turn this into a referendum on bullying and racial politics. They began asking how we can change the culture of NFL locker rooms and calling for the ousting or suspending of virtually every coach and executive in Miami. The flash mob had a problem though. Jonathan Martin was a terrible \"victim.\" At first he didn't speak at all. Then when he did, his few public statements were confusing and not specific. The pre-draft reports about Martin's being \"sensitive\" started coming out as well, which was a major reason why a lot of teams passed on him.\n\nThen Richie Incognito started releasing his own text messages from his correspondence with Martin, over a thousand of them, including one where Martin said he was going to send someone over to Incognito's house to rape him with \"sandpaper condoms\" and ejaculate on his face (in the language of men, this is how we say \"Hello\"). The messages Incognito released proved even more that if there was \"abuse\" or \"bullying\" going on here, it was a two-way street. Then another funny thing happened: the \"barbarians\" fought back. The NFL players who shared the same locker room, and the same unwritten language of men that Martin and Incognito had shared, started fighting back against the sports media's attempts to intrude upon and radically alter a world they had no business trying to change.\n\nFormer Dolphin Lydon Murtha, who played with both Incognito and Martin, wrote a piece on the Monday Morning Quarterback page of SI.com that fully explained why Incognito had invested so much time in Martin and why their relationship was as complex as it was. According to Murtha, Martin was very \"standoffish\" when he first joined the team, and as a team leader, Incognito was tasked with bringing Martin \"out of his shell.\" But, according to Murtha, bringing Martin out of his shell was no easy task:\n\nThat's where Incognito ran into a problem. Personally, I know when a guy can't handle razzing. You can tell that some guys just aren't built for it. Incognito doesn't have that filter. He was the jokester on the team, and he joked with everybody from players to coaches. That voicemail he sent came from a place of humor, but where he really screwed up was using the N-word. That, I cannot condone, and it's probably the biggest reason he's not with the team right now. _Odd thing is, I've heard Incognito call Martin the same thing to his face in meetings and all Martin did was laugh_ [emphasis added]. Many more worse things were said about others in the room from all different parties. It's an Animal House. Now Incognito's being slandered as a racist and a bigot, and unfortunately that's never going to be wiped clean because of all the wrong he's done people in his past. But if you really know who Richie is, he's a really good, kind man and far from a racist.\n\nThis article should have been written by a member of the sports media. But no member of the sports media was interested in digging deeper to find out the truth of the relationship between Incognito and Martin, because as soon as the N-bomb was dropped, the liberal sports media had the story they wanted. Black players, incidentally, seemed just as offended by Jonathan Martin for not sticking up for himself as they were by anything Incognito said. On WFAN in New York, the Giants' Antrel Rolle let fly at Martin: \"Was Richie Incognito wrong? Absolutely. But I think the other guy is just as much to blame as Richie, because he allowed it to happen. At this level, you're a man. You're not a little boy. You're not a freshman in college. You're a man.\"\n\nIt's an unwritten rule that in order for the media to truly make someone a victim, that person has to be a sympathetic figure\u2014someone you not only identify with, but feel sorry for. Thanks to Richie Incognito's lawyers and players like Lydon Murtha (who were the only people who did any real reporting on this story), the sports media had a very hard time turning Jonathan Martin into a \"victim\" and instead left him looking like a weak, confused wimp who might have been partly culpable for the over-the-top razzing by Incognito. So instead the media shifted to talking about the toxic culture of the Dolphins locker room in particular and NFL locker rooms in general, which was just as well for their storyline about the need for progressive reform of an overly manly sport.\n\nIn November 2013, the N-word came up again, this time in basketball after a scuffle on the court involving the Clippers and the Thunder. Clippers forward Matt Barnes, who was ejected during the fight, shared a few thoughts on Twitter: \"I love my teammates like family, but I'm DONE standing up for these n[******]! All this shit does is cost me money,\" Barnes wrote before deleting the tweet.\n\nInstead of sparking universal outrage and condemnation from the sports media (as it would if a white player had tweeted this), the tweet made the flash mob decide that this would be an awesome time to debate who can use the N-word. On _Inside the NBA_ on TNT, Charles Barkley laid out the case:\n\nI'm a black man. I use the N-word. I'm going to continue to use the N-word with my black friends, with my white friends. They are my friends. What I do with my black friends is not up to white America to dictate to me what's appropriate and inappropriate. What we say in the locker room, the language we use sometime it's homophobic, sometime it's sexist, and a lot of times it's racist. White America don't get to dictate how me and Shaq talk to each other. And they have been trying to infiltrate themselves saying, \"Well, you guys use it. It's in rap music.\" No, no, no, no, no. That's not the same.\n\nUm, actually it is. Barkley can tell himself whatever he wants. But the word means the same thing no matter who says it. And Barnes didn't confine his use of the N-word to the locker room. He tweeted it out in public. Had he used it in the locker room only, as he and his teammates probably do ninety-seven times a day, nobody would have reported it. But there's a bigger point to be made here: Who exactly are these white people who are trying to \"infiltrate themselves\"? Riley Cooper was denounced by white people every bit as much, if not more, than he was by black people. Even Richie Incognito's friend Lydon Murtha (who is white) said he shouldn't have used that word. Who are all these white people out there who are just _dying_ to use the N-word? It just seems like there are, because the media only report it when white people use the N-word. The other eleventy billion times the word gets used, it's used by minorities, and normally to great financial benefit by said minorities.\n\nLil Wayne, who had the gall to criticize Riley Cooper on Twitter, can hardly utter three words in any of his songs without dropping an N-bomb, and he's made himself a millionaire while doing it. If the media were to report every time a black person said the N-word, we would need an N-word channel.\n\nBarkley wasn't alone in his take on who had exclusive rights on the N-word. Also on _Inside the NBA_ , Shaquille O'Neal weighed in: \"Chuck makes a good point. In the Ebonic culture we have programmed ourselves to use the word positive. We have G14 classification to say it to each other. But when we say it to each other, believe it or not, it's in the positive sense.\"\n\nI call BS on this as well. There are plenty of derogatory uses of the N-word among black people, especially when someone uses the word \"house\" before it. I watched two guys in the army get in a knockdown, drag-out fight after one guy called the other that particular name. They would definitely have disagreed with Shaq on that one. But again, Shaq's point is consistent with the New Racist mantra: When one black guy calls another black guy the N-word, it means gin blossoms and show ponies. When a white guy does it, it means a barracuda armed with a machete and herpes. The worst part about all this is that this debate took place on an NBA show that was carrying a live game. Can you imagine tuning in trying to watch a game and having to sit through this?\n\nAt least Michael Wilbon had the decency to handle his indecency on an actual opinion show. After _Pardon the Interruption_ cohost Tony Kornheiser asked Wilbon about Barnes's public use of the N-word, the leader of the racial flash mob went full monty: \"People can be upset with me if they want; I, like a whole lot of people, use the N-word all day, every day, my whole life.\"\n\nHit the brakes for a second. Follow me on a short trip back to Normalsville, a nice place where things make sense, Russell Brand does not exist, and we don't tolerate bullshit political correctness. Can you imagine if a white broadcaster for ESPN, or any other major sports network, had gotten up there and freely admitted to using the N-word \"all day, every day\" of his \"whole life\"? This is a word that is deemed so offensive by Wilbon's employer, among others, that they won't even print it anymore. It gets the same letter followed by dash, dash, dash, treatment that the F-word and countless other expletives have gotten for decades. And here's Wilbon, freely, check that, _proudly_ boasting to have used the word every day for his whole life, with no fear of retribution whatsoever\u2014practically daring ESPN to do something about it. That is breathtaking. Even Kornheiser seemed taken aback by Wilbon's brashness, asking Wilbon if NBA commissioner David Stern (who is white) needed to step in and ban players from publicly using the N-word. Wilbon bristled: \"I have a problem with\u2014and excuse me, here\u2014white people framing the discussion for the use of the N-word. They better not sit there like plantation owners and tell black people how to use the language that was forced on us!\"\n\nAnd boom goes the dynamite. This is what passes for \"sports\" coverage in the sports media during the age of the New Racism: a highly paid \"analyst\" making an analogy between a liberal, Jewish commissioner and a Southern plantation owner, and a league of millionaire black players and slaves. But look at the shift in direction from when Riley Cooper used the N-word to when Matt Barnes did. When Riley Cooper said it, Wilbon was enraged at NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for not dropping the hammer on Cooper:\n\nI think what is becoming to me a bigger story and more important story and a sadder story is Roger Goodell and his lightweight reaction to this. This is a chance for the Commissioner who likes to use the bully pulpit to just sorta smack people around the head . . . [and] threaten to suspend people. \"I'm a tough guy. I'm a law and order Commissioner.\" He's a lightweight. I am beyond disappointed in Roger Goodell. I am angry at Roger Goodell because Roger Goodell is a smart man. I covered the NFL for a while. I got to know Roger on his way up. And for Roger Goodell to hide behind procedure is so lame, it's unspeakably lame. . . .\n\nThe league has to take action. You're the CEO of the NFL. And you like to remind everybody of that. You're bad bad Leroy Brown. You like to wear it on people's noses publicly. And when the time comes, when something happens like this and your league is 70 percent black and you don't understand that people are _angry_. . . . I'm much angrier at Roger Goodell than I am at Riley Cooper. . . . [Cooper] is in the process of getting it, and he's going to have to live with the consequences. Roger Goodell is a grown man and just sort of hides behind \"well the team handles this.\" _Please_! That is just so borderline just gutless. It is unspeakable to me what he has done.\n\nBut when Matt Barnes (a black guy) says the very same word, Wilbon gets on a different high horse and proclaims: \"They better not sit there like plantation owners and tell black people how to use the language that was forced on us!\"\n\nUnreal. While in the thick of the Riley Cooper episode, I was debating with a black caller who couldn't understand why I was so passionate about making the point that it wasn't okay for either white _or black_ people to use the N-word. Why did I care so much? he asked. I don't know. Maybe as a talk show host I believe in the power of words. Maybe I believe that if somebody gets called a demeaning word \"all day, every day\" then sooner or later they start to believe it. Maybe I grew up in a city that was majority black and crime-ridden and I think that word has something to do with the cultural rot and moral decay that you find in so many inner-city neighborhoods.\n\nHere's what I know: the history of slavery is a sad and ugly one, but it's not a uniquely American history, and the history of slavery is not a uniquely black one either. Before Christianity, slavery was pretty much universal, east and west, north and south. In the ancient world, Egyptians kept Jews as slaves, the Greeks kept slaves, the Romans kept slaves, the Persians and Gauls kept slaves. Everyone did until slavery was essentially abolished in Christian Europe during the Middle Ages. The slave trade to the New World colonies came later, but even then, Africans practiced slavery, the Indians of the New World practiced slavery, and more than a million white, Christian Europeans were enslaved by Muslims.\n\nGiven all that history, think about this: How many Jews call themselves whatever Pharaoh's thugs used to call them? How many people even remember if their Greek or French ancestors were slaves? How many white, Christian Europeans call themselves kaffirs or infidels or any of the other names that their Islamic slave masters used? The answer is none. Point being, if those cultures could rise above and cast aside the hate language they were subjected to, why can't black people? Why is it so important to keep the N-word? So Lil Wayne can sell records? So Michael Wilbon doesn't have to expand his vocabulary? Sorry, I realize it's a crime under the rule of the New Racism to care more about the self-worth and future of black kids than about Russell Simmons's bank account, but I do. Guilty as charged.\n\nWhite people aren't angry with black people for using the N-word because they want to use it or because they want to be like \"plantation owners\" telling black people how \"to use language that was forced\" on them. It's the polar opposite of that. White people are angry because they na\u00efvely believed we were all fighting for the same thing, which was banishing slurs like that entirely, no matter who said it, only to rather rudely be made aware that they were wrong. Instead, it turns out that what we were fighting for was the New Racism, the permanent preservation of a race-mongering industry, dedicated to making whites feel perpetual guilt and self-loathing while blacks are made to feel like perpetual victims. As sportswriter Mike Wise, a lone voice of reason in this debate, wrote in the _Washington Post_ after Wilbon's hideous _Pardon the Interruption_ performance: \"When you think you're fighting for a less hostile, less confusing and more mutually respectful country for our children to live in and then you find out your idea of a shared purpose wasn't shared by people you like and respect, a real hopelessness sets in.\"\n\nIt's the New Racism that is the factory of that hopelessness. Whether it's in the music industry that benefits tremendously from the use of slurs or the sports entertainment industry that craves race controversies for ratings, \"racism\" has become a business that peddles denigration as its stock and trade, and the sports media are among its largest franchises. Responding to Wilbon's statement that he had a problem with \"white people framing the discussion for the use of the N-word,\" Wise wrote, \"And I have a problem with anyone of any ethnicity telling me that my values and beliefs about eradicating slurs from public and private conversation are less important than having agency over them for personal use\u2014no matter who it hurts, including millions of African Americans who want the word abolished and should have just as much say.\"\n\nAmen. I am a free man, and you are a free man or woman, made so by the blood, sweat, and tears of men black and white who fought to end slavery in the Civil War and by men and women who fought to end segregation, and whose sacrifice absolved us of the guilt that accompanied both. I won't dishonor them and what they fought and died for by living my life in perpetual guilt over crimes that had nothing to do with me. Nor should any black person live as though he or she is an eternal victim of slavery, which was abolished a hundred and fifty years ago, or of segregation, which was torn down fifty years ago.\n\nWe should all be students of history, but not prisoners of it. Time has a funny way of moving on, and so should we. We should learn the lessons of history, one of which is _not_ to refight the wars, hatreds, and blood feuds of yore. Yet that's the biggest crime of the New Racism: not just the dishonoring of the memories of those brave souls who fought for freedom in the past, but the depriving of generations of current kids from the true sense of freedom so dearly bought that is their birthright.\nAFTERWORD\n\nCan anything be done about the liberal bias and politicization of sports media?\n\nThe short answer is yes.\n\nBut we need to be realistic. We're never going to get rid of ESPN, no matter how biased or obnoxious it gets. Just as the new media never did away with the mainstream media, we're never going to get rid of the dominant liberal sports media; they're simply too well entrenched.\n\nBut what we can do, as with this book, is highlight the failures and bias of the liberal sports media, erode their position of authority, and provide millions of underserved sports fans with real, honest sports reporting.\n\nAccording to a Gallup poll from the summer of 2014, only 18 percent of the American public has \"confidence\" in the news they get from television. That's down from 46 percent in 1993. Truth-tellers like former CBS newsman Bernard Goldberg, author of the influential bestseller _Bias_ , helped expose the truth about the liberal media. Entrepreneurs, many of them on the political Right, have set up alternatives to the mainstream liberal media. These alternatives, like Fox News, try to provide better, \"fair and balanced\" reporting, including coverage of stories that the liberal media try to ignore.\n\nThat same thing can happen, on a smaller scale, with the sports media. Conservative and nonpolitical sports fans want to be able to talk about the teams they love without having their worldview besmirched and denigrated by a bunch of wannabe Chis Matthewses and Rachel Maddows. Breitbart.com has already launched a great sports website that is not only doing great reporting and analysis on sports but confronting left-wing mainstream sports media bias every day. Conservatives are natural sports fans, because they love competition, revel in American traditions and history (including sports), and appreciate individual hard work and striving for greatness. The demand from conservative sports fans for real sports coverage, liberated from leftist agendas and politically correct spin, is palpable and growing.\n\nThe sports world has become politicized, and there's probably nothing that can undo that. Now that the sanctity of our once pristine and unviolated sports sanctum has been breached, our responsibility is to do something about it. It's not something that you or I, in our innocence, signed up to do. But if we want real sports reporting and commentary that's accurate and fair, if we want to thwart an arrogant liberal media that want to remake sports, our country, and ourselves, then we need to shut off the bad guys and tune into the good guys. With the decisions that you and I make, a better sports media can start today.\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nYears ago I asked God to give me at least one guide, at least one great friend, at least one confidant, at least one rock that I could lean on, and at least one great love. What I didn't know is that He would combine them all in the same person, my wife, Lara.\n\nAs for our son Mitchell, you're the greatest thing I've ever seen. You've single-handedly restored my hope for the world by representing everything that is good about it. Your presence here is living proof that this place is still worth fighting for, and fight I will.\n\nThe list of those deserving acknowledgment is far too long, but here's a condensed version: Daniel Flynn for going out of his way to help and advise on this project and others; the awesome editing duo of Harry Crocker and Katharine Spence for making my ranting sound eloquent; Norma and Don Abrams for substitute parenting and support; and Michael Mayhew for being a great patriot and a great friend.\n\nAlso, special thanks to the program directors I've had the pleasure of working with and for, especially Bryan Erickson and Craig Larson; the great Michael Berry for giving me my first talk show; Mark Passwaters, Gerald Sanchez, and Brian McDonald for being great and loyal friends; Kenneth Fletcher for being the \"Mighty Listener\"; and to God, Whom I owe for everything.\n\nAnd for any left off this list, I'll make sure to remember you for the sequel: _Bias in the Booth 2: Even More Biased!_\nNOTES\n\nCHAPTER ONE: LANDING ON TRAYVON\n\n. Michael Wallace, \"The Heat Stand Tall for Trayvon Martin,\" _Miami Heat Index_ (blog), ESPN.com, March 23, 2012, <http://espn.go.com/blog/truehoop/miamiheat/post/_/id/13046/the-heat-stand-tall-for-trayvon-martin>.\n\n. D. Kevin McNeir, \"Crime Rate Drops but Murder Rate Now Five-Times the U.S. Average,\" _Miami Times_ , October 31, 2013, <http://miamitimesonline.com/news/2013/oct/31/crime-rate-drops-murder-rate-now-five-times-us-ave/>.\n\n. Alexia Cooper and Erica L. Smith, _Homicide Trends in the United States, 1980\u20132008_ , Bureau of Justice Statistics, U.S. Department of Justice, November 2011, pp. 3, 13. Available online at <http://www.bjs.gov/content/pub/pdf/htus8008.pdf>.\n\n. Dave Hyde, \"Heat's Photo a Powerful Statement,\" _Sun Sentinel_ , March 24, 2012, <http://articles.sun-sentinel.com/2012-03-24/sports/fl-hyde-miami-heat-hoodies-0325-20120324_1_wade-and-james-lebron-james-tweeted-voices>.\n\n. Benjamin Hochman, \"LeBron's Message to the Masses Refreshing,\" _Denver Post_ , March 25, 2012, <http://www.denverpost.com/hochman/ci_20250341/lebrons-message-masses-refreshing>.\n\n. Jason Whitlock, \"LeBron, Wade Show a Courageous Side,\" FoxSports.com, updated July 24, 2014, <http://msn.foxsports.com/nba/story/LeBron-James-Dwyane-Wade-Miami-Heat-honor-Trayvon-Martin-shot-to-death-032412>.\n\n. Etan Thomas, \"Athletes Take a Stand for President Obama,\" _The Root DC Live_ (blog), _Washington Post_ , August 28, 2012, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/therootdc/post/president-obama-feels-the-love-from-a-new-generation-of-black-athletes/2012/08/28/4a392436-f143-11e1-a612-3cfc842a6d89_blog.html>.\n\n. \"Jesse Jackson: Dan Gilbert Sees LeBron James as 'Runaway Slave,'\" Huffington Post, July 11, 2010, updated May 25, 2011, <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/11/jesse-jackson-dan-gilbert_n_642363.html>; and \"Did Dan Gilbert Treat LeBron James like a 'Slave Master'? Is Mel Gibson Racist?,\" YouTube video, excerpt from July 12, 2010, episode of _The Joy Behar Show_ , uploaded by Dr. Marc Lamont Hill, July 13, 2010, <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKbxYBPzrR0>.\n\n. Thomas, \"Athletes Take a Stand for President Obama.\"\n\n. _State of the Union with Candy Crowley_ , July 14, 2013, CNN.com, transcript, <http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/1307/14/sotu.02.html>.\n\n. Susan Jones, \"Liberal Law Prof: Zimmerman Case 'Should Never Have Been Brought in the First Place,'\" CNSNews.com, July 15, 2013, <http://cnsnews.com/news/article/liberal-law-prof-zimmerman-case-should-never-have-been-brought-first-place>.\n\n. Dave Zirin, \"'America's Justice System Is a Joke': Athletes Respond to Trayvon Martin Verdict,\" _Nation_ , July 14, 2013, <http://www.thenation.com/blog/175264/america-justice-system-joke-athletes-respond-trayvon-martin-verdict#>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Benjamin Chance, \"Flashback: ESPN Abandoned Social Media Policy for Trayvon Martin Case,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, July 16, 2013, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2013/07/16/FLASHBACK-ESPN-Abandoned-Social-Media-Policy-for-Trayvon-Martin-Case>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Lisa Suhay, \"Should NFL Punish St. Louis Rams for 'Hands Up, Don't Shoot' Protest?,\" _Christian Science Monitor_ , Yahoo! News UK and Ireland, December 1, 2014, <https://uk.news.yahoo.com/nfl-punish-st-louis-rams-hands-dont-shoot-185555974.html#i3Zg9VM>.\n\n. \"Fisher: Rams Players Exercised Free Speech, Won't Be Disciplined,\" FoxSports.com, December 11, 2014, <http://www.foxsports.com/nfl/story/st-louis-rams-ferguson-jeff-fisher-tavon-austin-brian-quick-jared-cook-stedman-bailey-120114>.\n\n. Kevin Demoff, the executive vice president of the St. Louis Rams, announced this on Twitter. See the November 30, 2014, tweet here: <https://twitter.com/kdemoff/status/539219554769960960>.\n\n. \"Sir Charles Barkley: The Last American Who Can Speak His Mind on Obama and Ferguson without Blowback,\" transcript from the December 1, 2014, episode of _The Rush Limbaugh Show_ , <http://www.rushlimbaugh.com/daily/2014/12/01/sir_charles_barkley_the_last_american_who_can_speak_his_mind_on_obama_and_ferguson_without_blowback>.\n\n. Tom Pelissero, \"Dolphins' Don Jones Fined for Tweets about Michael Sam,\" _USA Today_ , May 12, 2014, <http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/nfl/dolphins/2014/05/11/don-jones-fined-for-michael-sam-tweets/8985297/>.\n\n. Martin Rogers, \"Niners CB Says Openly Gay Players Would Not Be Welcomed on the Team,\" Yahoo! Sports, January 30, 2013, <http://sports.yahoo.com/news/nfl--report--niners-cb-says-openly-gay-players-would-not-be-welcomed-on-the-team-190346715.html>.\n\n. Cam Inman \"Culliver Says He Nor His Teammates Want Gay Teammate,\" _49ers Hot Read_ (blog), MercuryNews.com, January 30, 2013, <http://blogs.mercurynews.com/49ers/2013/01/30/report-culliver-says-gay-teammates-would-not-be-welcome/>.\n\n. \"Adam Silver Comments on 'I Can't Breathe' Pre-Game Warm-up Trend,\" TheSource.com, December 8, 2014, <http://thesource.com/2014/12/08/adam-silver-comments-on-i-cant-breathe-pre-game-warm-up-trend/>.\n\n. Mike Wells, \"O'Neal's Elbow Wrap Costs 5k,\" IndyStar.com, November 12, 2006, <http://www.indystar.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20061112/SPORTS04/611120445/1062/NLETTER01>.\n\nCHAPTER TWO: THE SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND SPORT\n\n. Owen Ullmann, \"Voices: Arizona's Anti-Gay Bill Is Shameful,\" _USA Today_ , February 24, 2014, <http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2014/02/24/voices-column-on-arizona-anti-gay-bill/5775081/>.\n\n. \"Arizona Anti-Gay Bill: Second Look,\" letters to the editor, _USA Today_ , February 27, 2014, <http://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2014/02/27/arizona-anti-gay-bill-second-look-your-say/5880025/>.\n\n. \"4 Things to Know about Arizona's 'Anti-Gay' Bill,\" _USA Today_ , video, February 26, 2014, <http://www.usatoday.com/videos/news/nation/2014/02/26/5830831/>.\n\n. Mike Florio, \"MLB Issues Strong Statement regarding Proposed Arizona Anti-Gay Law,\" ProFootballTalk.com, February 26, 2014, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2014/02/26/mlb-issues-strong-statement-regarding-arizona-anti-gay-law/>.\n\n. Florio, \"Arizona Governor Vetoes Anti-Gay Law, Clearing Path for Super Bowl XLIX,\" ProFootballTalk.com, February 26, 2014, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2014/02/26/arizona-governor-vetoes-anti-gay-law/>.\n\n. David Steele, \"Super Bowl Could Nix Arizona If It Doesn't Back Off Anti-Gay Law,\" _Sporting News_ , updated February 25, 2014, <http://www.sportingnews.com/nfl/story/2014-02-25/super-bowl-arizona-anti-gay-law-discrimination-deny-service-nfl-change-site-game-location>.\n\n. Napp Nazworth, \"Issue Analysis: Arizona Bill Does Not Give Businesses License to Discriminate against Gays,\" _Christian Post_ , February 24, 2014, <http://www.christianpost.com/news/issue-analysis-arizona-bill-does-not-give-businesses-license-to-discriminate-against-gays-115093/>.\n\n. Paul Mirengoff, \"No, This Is Not Jim Crow for Gays\u2014Understanding Arizona SB 1062,\" _Powerline_ (blog), February 25, 2014, <http://www.powerlineblog.com/archives/2014/02/no-this-is-not-jim-crow-for-gays-understanding-arizona-s-b-1062.php>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Daniel J. Flynn, \"ESPN Overboard: Kornheiser Likens AZ Bill to Nazism,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, February 27, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/02/27/Kornheiser-Likens-AZ-Bill-to-Nazism>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Noel Sheppard, \"Sports Radio Host Calls Tim Tebow's 'Lily White' NFL Draft Party a 'Nazi Rally,'\" NewsBusters.org, April 24, 2010, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/noel-sheppard/2010/04/24/sports-radio-host-calls-tim-tebows-lily-white-nfl-draft-party-nazi-ra>.\n\n. Florio, \"Russell Wilson Says He Was a 'Kind of a Bad Kid' Until He Found Religion,\" ProFootballTalk.com, October 17, 2013, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2013/10/17/russell-wilson-says-he-was-a-kind-of-a-bad-kid-until-he-found-religion/>.\n\n. Daniel Blake, \"Gabby Douglas Praises God; Christian Gymnast Thankful After Winning All-Around Gold at Olympics 2012,\" _Christian Post_ , August 2, 2012, <http://www.christianpost.com/news/gabby-douglas-praises-god-christian-gymnast-thankful-after-winning-all-around-gold-at-olympics-2012-79386/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Matthew Dicker, \"U.S. Women's Gymnastics Olympic Team 2012: Showcasing Effect Fab 5 Has on U.S.,\" BleacherReport.com, August 4, 2012, <http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1284431-us-womens-gymnastics-olympic-team-2012-showcasing-effect-fab-5-has-on-us>.\n\n. Matt Yoder, \"ESPN Dives Headfirst into the War on Christmas,\" AwfulAnnouncing.com, December 13, 2013, <http://awfulannouncing.com/2013/espn-dives-headfirst-into-the-war-on-christmas.html>.\n\n. The American Family Association sent out an \"action alert\" regarding the Craig James story, part of which is still available online at \"Fox Sports Fires Sportscaster for His Christian Faith,\" FamilyandRelations.com, September 26, 2013, <http://www.familyandrelations.com/family-and-affairs/fox-sports-fires-sportscaster-for-his-christian-faith.html>.\n\n. Barry Horn, \"Craig James' Anti-Gay Stance during Political Campaign Reason for His Quick Exit from Fox Sports SW,\" SportsDayDFW, September 6, 2013, <http://collegesportsblog.dallasnews.com/2013/09/craig-james-anti-gay-stance-during-political-campaign-reason-for-his-quick-exit-from-fssw-college-football-duties.html/>.\n\n. Ben Shapiro, \"Exclusive: Broadcaster Fired for Opposing Same-Sex Marriage Blasts Fox Sports for Religious Discrimination,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, September 23, 2013, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2013/09/23/Craig-Jones-Fox-Sports-gay-marriage>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Horn, \"Craig James' Anti-Gay Stance.\"\n\n. Shapiro, \"Exclusive: Broadcaster Fired for Opposing Same-Sex Marriage.\"\n\n. Richard Langford, \"Jason Whitlock Shows True Colors on Twitter with Lame Jeremy Lin Tweet,\" BleacherReport.com, February 14, 2014, <http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1066390-jason-whitlock-shows-true-colors-on-twitter-with-lame-jeremy-lin-tweet>.\n\n. Scott Whitlock, \"The Worst of the Worst: A Look Back at Keith Olbermann's Most Outrageous Quotes,\" NewsBusters.org, January 24, 2011, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/scott-whitlock/2011/01/24/worst-worst-look-back-keith-olbermanns-most-outrageous-quotes>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. ESPN.com News Services, \"Ron Brown: 'Views Stand the Same,'\" ESPN.com, May 8, 2012, <http://espn.go.com/college-football/story/_/id/7896560/nebraska-cornhuskers-assistant-coach-ron-brown-says-job-safe-curb-anti-gay-stance>.\n\n. Gene Wojciechowski, \"Ron Brown Confusing Faith with Rights,\" ESPN.com, April 27, 2012, <http://espn.go.com/college-football/story/_/id/7863307/nebraska-cornhuskers-assistant-ron-brown-confusing-faith-rights>.\n\n. Paul Wilson, \"Why Are Christian Athletes Still Being Crucified by Sports Media?,\" FoxNews.com, September 5, 2012, <http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2012/09/05/why-are-christian-athletes-still-being-crucified-by-sports-media/>.\n\n. Anthony Witrado, \"Torii Hunter Would Be 'Uncomfortable' with Having a Gay Teammate,\" _Sporting News_ , updated December 30, 2012, <http://www.sportingnews.com/mlb/story/2012-12-30/torii-hunter-comments-gay-teammate-detroit-tigers-mlb-locker-room>.\n\n. Dayn Perry, \"Torii Hunter: Having Gay Teammate Would Be 'Difficult,'\" CBSSports.com, December 30, 2012, <http://www.cbssports.com/mlb/eye-on-baseball/21474369/torii-hunter-having-gay-teammate-would-be->.\n\n. Matthew Philbin, \"'Glee' on the Gridiron?,\" NewsBusters.com, March 20, 2013, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/matthew-philbin/2013/03/20/glee-gridiron>.\n\n. Gayle Falkenthal, \"Manny Pacquiao Takes a Punch over Gay Marriage Remarks,\" Communities, _Washington Times_ , May 16, 2012, <http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/ringside-seat/2012/may/16/manny-pacquiao-takes-punch-over-gay-marriage-remar/>.\n\n. \"Manny Pacquiao against Same-Sex Marriage but Never Said Gay People 'Must Be Put to Death,'\" Huffington Post, May 16, 2012, <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/16/manny-pacquiao-gay-marriage-leviticus-examiner_n_1521747.html>.\n\n. Twitchy staff, \"Lefties Call for Nike to Drop Manny Pacquiaofor 'Homophobic' Remarks He _Never Made_ ; Update: Pacquiao Banned from LA Mall for Life,\" Twitchy.com, May 16, 2012, <http://twitchy.com/2012/05/16/lefties-call-for-nike-to-drop-manny-pacquiao-for-homophobic-remarks-he-never-made/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"Manny Pacquiao against Same-Sex Marriage but Never Said Gay People 'Must Be Put to Death,'\" Huffington Post.\n\n. Falkenthal, \"Manny Pacquiao Takes a Punch over Gay Marriage Remarks.\"\n\n. Twitchy staff, \"Lefties Call for Nike to Drop Manny Pacquiao.\"\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Laurel Fantauzzo, \"An Open Letter to Manny Pacquiao from a Gay Filipina American,\" _Grantland_ (blog), May 17, 2012, <http://grantland.com/features/an-open-letter-manny-pacquiao-gay-filipina-american-concerning-champion-boxer-recent-comments-gay-marriage/>.\n\n. Matthew Balan, \"ESPN to Manny Pacquiao: Stop Defending 'Cruel, Untrue' Catholic Church,\" NewsBusters.com, May 19, 2012, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/matthew-balan/2012/05/19/espn-manny-pacquiao-stop-defending-cruel-untrue-catholic-church>.\n\n. Daniel King, \"'Keep God Out of Football'\u2014Fifa Tells Brazil's Soccer Superstars,\" _Daily Mail_ , July 12, 2009, <http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1199121/Brazils-football-superstars-told-Keep-faith-football.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"Fifa Allows Wearing of Head Covers for Religious Reasons,\" BBC.com, March 1, 2014, <http://www.bbc.com/sport/0/football/26398297>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Jer\u00e9 Longman, \"For Lolo Jones, Everything Is Image,\" _New York Times_ , August 4, 2012, <http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/05/sports/olympics/olympian-lolo-jones-draws-attention-to-beauty-not-achievement.html?_r=0>.\n\n. John Branch, \"NFL Prospect Michael Sam Proudly Says What Teammates Knew: He's Gay,\" _New York Times_ , February 10, 2014, <http://www.nytimes.com/2014/02/10/sports/michael-sam-college-football-star-says-he-is-gay-ahead-of-nfl-draft.html>.\n\n. \"Michael Sam Meets with Dallas Cowboys,\" YouTube video, 2:51, excerpt from September 3, 2014, episode of ESPN's _First Take_ , uploaded by \"ESPN1stTake,\" September 3, 2014, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_Xx6aqRhmo#t=21>.\n\n. Al Weaver, \"Report: NFL Officials Asked Teams to Consider Signing Michael Sam to Practice Squad,\" Daily Caller, September 4, 2014, <http://dailycaller.com/2014/09/04/report-nfl-officials-asked-teams-to-consider-signing-michael-sam-to-practice-squad/>.\n\nCHAPTER THREE: KNAVES ON THE WARPATH\n\n. Sarah Kogod, \"Bob Costas on Redskins Name: 'It's an Insult, a Slur,'\" _Washington Post_ , October 13, 2013, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/dc-sports-bog/wp/2013/10/13/bob-costas-on-redskins-name-its-an-insult-a-slur/>.\n\n. Associated Press, \"UND OK to Drop Fighting Sioux Name,\" ESPN.com, June 14, 2012, <http://espn.go.com/college-sports/story/_/id/8045554/north-dakota-residents-vote-let-school-scrap-fighting-sioux-nickname>.\n\n. Associated Press, \"How Many Native Americans Think 'Redskins' Is a Slur?,\" Washington.CBSLocal.com, October 8, 2013, <http://washington.cbslocal.com/2013/10/08/how-many-native-americans-think-redskins-is-a-slur/>.\n\n. \"Letter from Washington Redskins Owner Dan Snyder to Fans,\" _Washington Post_ , October 9, 2013, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/letter-from-washington-redskins-owner-dan-snyder-to-fans/2013/10/09/e7670ba0-30fe-11e3-8627-c5d7de0a046b_story.html>.\n\n. \"Dan Patrick: Owner Snyder Will Change Redskins Name,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, October 14, 2013, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2013/10/14/Dan-Patrick-Snyder-Will-Change-Name>.\n\n. Erik Brady, \"Daniel Snyder Says Redskins Will Never Change Name,\" _USA Today_ , May 10, 2013, <http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/nfl/redskins/2013/05/09/washington-redskins-daniel-snyder/2148127/>.\n\n. \"The Fighting Whities\u2014American Morning with Paula Zahn, March 13, 2002,\" YouTube video, excerpt from March 13, 2002, episode of CNN's _American Morning_ , uploaded by \"Countdown Fan,\" December 22, 2011, <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_mzZRX-JVQ>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Clarence Page, \"Fightin' Whities Mascot Raises a Little Awareness, a Little Cash,\" SeattlePi, March 18, 2002, <http://www.seattlepi.com/news/article/Fightin-Whities-mascot-raises-a-little-awarness-1083127.php>.\n\n. Dylan Gwinn, \"Why Chief Wahoo's Caucasian Brother Doesn't Bother White People,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, August 18, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/08/18/Hail-to-the-Chief>.\n\n. Peter Edward, \"'Caucasians' T-Shirt Mocking Cleveland Indians Becomes Hot Seller on Reserves,\" _Toronto Star_ , July 29, 2014, <http://www.thestar.com/sports/2014/07/29/caucasians_tshirt_mocking_cleveland_indians_becomes_hot_seller_on_reserves.html>.\n\n. Craig Calcaterra, \"'Caucasians' T-Shirts Are Hot Sellers on Canadian Indian Reservations,\" _Hardball Talk_ (blog), NBCSports.com, July 29, 2014, <http://hardballtalk.nbcsports.com/2014/07/29/caucasians-t-shirts-are-hot-sellers-on-canadian-indian-reservations/>.\n\n. Felicia Fonseca, \"Judge Dismisses Charges against Navajo President,\" _News from Indian Country_ , February 2011, <http://www.indiancountrynews.com/news/9-news-from-through-out-indian-country/11042-judge-dismisses-charges-against-navajo-president>.\n\n. Barry Petchesky, \"Disgraced, Soon-to-Be-Former-Navajo Nation President Attends 'Skins Game,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), October 12, 2014, <http://deadspin.com/disgraced-soon-to-be-former-navajo-nation-president-at-1645509844>.\n\n. Daniel J. Flynn, \"Navajo Nation President Watches Redskins Game with Dan Snyder,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, October 13, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/10/13/Navajo-Nation-President-in-Redskins-Box>.\n\n. Dave McKenna, \"No Name Is Really Sacred to Dan Snyder,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), June 25, 2014, <http://deadspin.com/no-name-is-really-sacred-to-dan-snyder-1595841512>.\n\n. Sean Newell, \"President Obama: I'd 'Think about Changing' Redskins Nickname,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), October 6, 2013, <http://deadspin.com/president-obama-id-think-about-changing-redskins-ni-1441711555>.\n\n. \"Oneida: Central New York,\" Christian Peacemaker Teams, no date, <http://www.cpt.org/work/aboriginal_justice/Oneida>.\n\n. Daniel Greenfield, \"Casino Kingpin and Fake Indian Chief Targets Redskins,\" FrontPageMag.com, October 8, 2013, <http://www.frontpagemag.com/2013/dgreenfield/casino-kingpin-and-fake-indian-chief-targets-redskins/>.\n\n. \"Oneida: Central New York,\" Christian Peacemaker Teams.\n\n. _Shenandoah et al. v. Halbritter_ , synopsis and description available at <http://ccrjustice.org/ourcases/past-cases/shenandoah,-et-al.-v.-halbritter>.\n\n. \"The Oneidas For Democracy: Who We Are,\" Oneidas for Democracy, no date, <http://www.oneidasfordemocracy.org/main/the-oneidas-for-democracy-who-we-are/>.\n\nCHAPTER FOUR: MAKING A HERO OF MICHAEL SAM\n\n. Stewart Mandel, \"Michael Sam Breaks Longstanding Barrier by Announcing He Is Gay,\" _Sports Illustrated_ , updated June 11, 2014, <http://www.si.com/nfl/2014/02/10/michael-sam-missouri-tigers-nfl-draft>.\n\n. Glenn McGraw, \"Michael Sam Comes Out as Gay: Fans and Media React on Twitter,\" GameDayR.com, February 9, 2014, <http://gamedayr.com/sports/michael-sam-gay-twitter-reactions-97478/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Pete Prisco, \"Tebow Throws Out Some, but Not All Doubts,\" Real Clear Sports, March 18, 2010, <http://www.realclearsports.com/2010/03/18/tebow_throws_out_some_but_not_all_doubts_71824.html>.\n\n. Jerry Spar, \"Pete Prisco on D&C: Tim Tebow 'Stinks,' Will Be Cut by Patriots in Mid-August,\" _It Is What It Is_ (blog), June 11, 2013, <http://itiswhatitis.weei.com/sports/newengland/football/patriots/2013/06/11/pete-prisco-on-dc-tim-tebow-stinks-will-be-cut-by-patriots-in-mid-august/>.\n\n. Jeff Pearlman, \"I Want Tim Tebow to Fail,\" _Jeff Pearlman_ (blog), February 2, 2010, <http://www.jeffpearlman.com/i-want-tim-tebow-to-fail/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Pearlman, \"Dmitriy Salita,\" _Jeff Pearlman_ (blog), October 18, 2012, <http://www.jeffpearlman.com/the-quaz-qa-dmitriy-salita/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Pearlman, \"Michael Sam,\" _Jeff Pearlman_ (blog), February 10, 2014, <http://www.jeffpearlman.com/michael-sam/>.\n\n. Dave Zirin, \"Why the Curious Right-Wing Silence on Michael Sam?,\" _Nation_ , February 13, 2014, <http://www.thenation.com/blog/178377/why-curious-right-wing-silence-michael-sam>.\n\n. \"Sports Anchor Blasts Michael Sam Critics, Calls Out Conservative Hypocrisy,\" Mediaite, February 12, 2014, <http://www.mediaite.com/tv/sports-anchor-blasts-michael-sam-critics-calls-out-conservative-hypocrisy/>.\n\n. \"How Will News That Michael Sam Is Gay Affect His NFL Draft Stock?,\" _Sports Illustrated_ , February 9, 2014, <http://www.si.com/football/2014/02/09/michael-sam-draft-stock>.\n\n. \"Texas Anchor Amy Kushnir Throws Hilarious On-Air Temper Tantrum over Michael Sam Kiss,\" Queerty, May 14, 2014, <http://www.queerty.com/texas-anchor-amy-kushnir-throws-hilarious-on-air-temper-tantrum-over-michael-sam-kiss-20140514>; Sean Pendergast, \"Zapruder Analysis of Four Dallas TV Women Verbally Brawling over Michael Sam,\" HoustonPress.com, May 15, 2014, <http://blogs.houstonpress.com/news/2014/05/zapruder_analysis_of_four_dall.php>; and Cindy Boren, \"Watch Dallas TV Host Walk off Set during Debate on Michael Sam Kiss,\" _Washington Post_ , May 15, 2014, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/early-lead/wp/2014/05/15/watch-dallas-tv-host-walk-off-set-during-debate-on-michael-sam-kiss/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. John Breech, \"Dolphins Fine and Suspend DB Don Jones for Anti-Michael Sam Tweet,\" CBSSports.com, May 11, 2014, <http://www.cbssports.com/nfl/eye-on-football/24559187/dolphins-db-don-jones-fined-suspended-for-anti-michael-sam-tweet>.\n\n. Mike Wise, \"Jason Collins's Religious Critics Need to Practice What They Preach,\" _Washington Post_ , April 30, 2013, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/wizards/jason-collins-religious-critics-need-to-practice-what-they-preach/2013/04/30/3129e752-b1df-11e2-9a98-4be1688d7d84_story.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Phil Mushnick, \"Being a Great Player Doesn't Make Peterson a Great Guy,\" _New York Post_ , October 13, 2013, http://nypost.com/2013/10/13/sons-death-doesnt-make-adrian-peterson-a-great-person/?utm_source=SFnewyorkpost&utm_medium=SFnewyorkpost.\n\n. Barry Petchesky, \"Your Regular Reminder That Phil Mushnick Is a Race-Baiting Troll,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), October 14, 2013, <http://deadspin.com/your-regular-reminder-that-phil-mushnick-is-a-race-bait-1445099979>.\n\n. Reva Friedel, \"Phil Mushnick Wrote the Most Offensive Sports Column in the History of the Earth,\" AwfulAnnouncing.com, October 14, 2013, <http://awfulannouncing.com/2013/phil-mushnick-wrote-the-most-offensive-sports-column-in-the-history-of-earth.html>.\n\n. Wise, \"Jason Collins's Religious Critics.\"\n\n. Matthew Philbin, \"Into Left Field: 5 of the Most Obnoxious Political Intrusions on Sports,\" NewsBusters.org, April 3, 2014, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/matthew-philbin/2014/04/03/left-field-5-most-obnoxious-political-intrusions-sports>.\n\n. \"Gregg Doyel,\" Muckrack.com, <http://muckrack.com/gregg-doyel/statuses/436533856800636928>.\n\n. Gregg Doyel, \"Constant Media Attention Could Derail Sam's Career Just Like Tebow's,\" CBSSports.com, February 20, 2014, <http://www.cbssports.com/general/writer/gregg-doyel/24449523/constant-media-attention-could-derail-sams-career-just-like-tebows>.\n\n. Philbin, \"Into Left Field.\"\n\n. Austin Ruse, \"Gay Speech Police Targets Giants for Hiring Super Bowl Hero,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, July 23, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/07/23/Super-Bowl-Hero-Targeted>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Michael O'Keeffe, \"David Tyree, Who Said He'd Trade Super Bowl If It Meant Stopping Gay Marriage, Joins NY Giants as Director of Player Development,\" _New York Daily News_ , updated July 22, 2014, <http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/football/giants/david-tyree-returns-ny-giants-director-player-development-article-1.1876104>; and A. J. Perez, \"David Tyree, Giants New Staffer, Says He Knows 'Former Homosexuals,'\" NJ.com, updated July 24, 2014, <http://www.nj.com/giants/index.ssf/2014/07/david_tyree_giants_new_staffer_says_he_knows_former_homosexuals.html>.\n\n. Charlie Joughin, \"When Did David Tyree Decide to Be Straight?,\" _HRC Blog_ , Human Rights Campaign, July 22, 2014, <http://www.hrc.org/blog/entry/when-did-david-tyree-decide-to-be-straight>.\n\n. O'Keeffe, \"David Tyree, Who Said He'd Trade Super Bowl If It Meant Stopping Gay Marriage, Joins NY Giants as Director of Player Development.\"\n\n. Wade Davis, \"Only Love Drives Out Hate,\" Monday Morning Quarterback, Sports Illustrated, July 24, 2014, <http://mmqb.si.com/2014/07/24/new-york-giants-david-tyree-gay-comments-wade-davis/>.\n\n. Bernie Augustine, \"Chris Kluwe Says He Was Cut by Vikings over Stance on Gay Marriage, Calls Special Teams Coach a Bigot,\" _New York Daily News_ , updated January 3, 2014, <http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/football/kluwe-vikes-cut-gay-marriage-advocacy-article-1.1564805>.\n\n. Chris Kluwe, \"I Was an NFL Player Until I Was Fired by Two Cowards and a Bigot,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), January 2, 2014, <http://deadspin.com/i-was-an-nfl-player-until-i-was-fired-by-two-cowards-an-1493208214>.\n\n. Vikings PR, \"Vikings Respond to Independent Investigative Report of Chris Kluwe's Allegations,\" Vikings.com, July 18, 2014, <http://www.vikings.com/news/article-1/Vikings-Respond-To-Independent-Investigative-Report-of-Chris-Kluwes-Allegations/207d9d67-eda5-45e7-bed2-8adcd8df113a>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Mike Florio, \"Vikings Begin to Push Back against Kluwe,\" ProFootballTalk.com, July 18, 2014, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2014/07/18/vikings-begin-to-push-back-against-kluwe/>.\n\n. Bobby Bonett, \"Chris Kluwe Addresses 'Compromising Situation' Tweet on NFL Radio,\" _Sirius XM Blog_ : _Sports_ , July 22, 2014, <http://blog.siriusxm.com/2014/07/22/chris-kluwe-addresses-compromising-situation-tweet/>.\n\n. Doyel, \"Chris Kluwe Can't Be a Moral Crusader after His Cruel Twitter Rant,\" CBSSports.com, July 19, 2014, <http://www.cbssports.com/general/writer/gregg-doyel/24628550/chris-kluwe-cant-be-moral-crusader-after-his-cruel-twitter-rant>.\n\n. Robert Wilde, \"Chris Kluwe Drops Suit; Vikings Donate to LGBT Groups,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, August 20, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/08/19/Chris-Kluwe-Drops-Lawsuit-With-Vikings-over-Homophobic-Claims>.\n\nCHAPTER FIVE: TRASHING TEBOW\n\n. Gregg Rosenthal, \"Tebow's Pre-Wonderlic Prayer Request Falls Flat,\" ProFootballTalk.com, March 23, 2010, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2010/03/23/tebows-pre-wonderlic-prayer-request-falls-flat/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Rosenthal, \"Tebow Denies Wonderlic Incident,\" ProFootballTalk.com, March 24, 2010, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2010/03/24/tebow-denies-wonderlic-incident/>.\n\n. \"Sresnick,\" \"Broker: Manziel Got $7,500 for Autographs,\" ESPN1005.com, updated August 6, 2013, <http://espn1005.com/archives/37586>.\n\n. Simone Wilson, \"Video: Kobe Bryant Throws Towel, Mouths 'Faggot' to Ref at Lakers-Spurs Game,\" LAWeekly.com, April 13, 2011, <http://www.laweekly.com/informer/2011/04/13/video-kobe-bryant-throws-towel-mouths-faggot-to-ref-at-lakers-spurs-game>.\n\n. Woody Paige, \"Paige: Broncos' Tim Tebow Dealing with Tension, Frustration,\" _Denver Post_ , August 5, 2011, <http://www.denverpost.com/ci_18621060?source=infinite>.\n\n. Gregg Doyel, \"Unbelievable\u2014Tebow Believes Faith Equates to Starting in the NFL,\" CBSSports.com, August 6, 2011, <http://www.cbssports.com/columns/story/15406131/unbelievable-tebow-believes-faith-equates-to-starting-in-nfl>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"2009 Kurt Warner and Jesus,\" YouTube video, uploaded by \"wwensek,\" January 19, 2009, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdTLqmY5x3M&feature=related.\n\n. Dan Bickley, \"Kurt Warner to Tim Tebow: Let Your Actions Be Your Words,\" AZCentral.com, November 26, 2011, <http://www.azcentral.com/sports/cardinals/articles/2011/11/26/20111126nfl-kurt-warner-tim-tebow-advice.html>.\n\n. Todd Starnes, \"Why Are Anti-Christian Bigots So Eager to Prey on Tim Tebow?,\" FoxNews.com, December 12, 2011, <http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2011/12/12/why-are-anti-christian-bigots-so-eager-to-prey-on-tim-tebow/>.\n\n. Brian Ives, \"Interview: Gene Simmons Defends Tim Tebow, Wants Football to Be More like KISS,\" Radio.com, September 13, 2013, <http://radio.com/2013/09/13/gene-simmons-tim-tebow-religion-football-interview/>.\n\n. Mark Cannizzaro, \"Smith, Dungy, Edwards at Head of Classy Table,\" _New York Post_ , January 23, 2007, <http://nypost.com/2007/01/23/smith-dungy-edwards-at-head-of-classy-table/>.\n\n. John Branch, \"Two Coaches, Two Friends, but Only One Prize,\" _New York Times_ , February 5, 2007, http://www.nytimes.com/2007/02/05/sports/football/05branch.html?ref=tonydungy&_r=1&.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Associated Press, \"CBS Urged to Scrap Tebow Ad,\" ESPN.com, updated January 25, 2012, <http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/playoffs/2009/news/story?id=4857753>.\n\n. Paul Wilson, \"NFL Analysts: Tim Tebow Hated Because of His Faith,\" NewsBusters.org, October 21, 2011, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/paul-wilson/2011/10/21/nfl-analysts-tim-tebow-hated-because-his-faith>.\n\n. \"Tell Us: Is Tebow Victim of Anti-Religious Bias?,\" GameOn!, _USA Today_ , August 24, 2011, <http://content.usatoday.com/communities/gameon/post/2011/08/tell-us-is-tebow-backlash-religious-based/1#uslPageReturn>.\n\n. Wilson, \"NFL Analysts: Tim Tebow Hated Because of His Faith.\"\n\nCHAPTER SIX: CONCUSSED AND CONFUSED\n\n. See Dan Wolken's January 13, 2014, tweet here: <https://twitter.com/DanWolken/status/422726109726142465>.\n\n. See Wolken's January 13, 2014, tweet here: <https://twitter.com/DanWolken/status/422730082893836288>.\n\n. \"2013 Rating Wrap: NFL Dominates List of Most Watched Sporting Events,\" December 2013, SportsMediaWatch.com, <http://www.sportsmediawatch.com/2013/12/2013-ratings-wrap-nfl-dominates-list-of-most-watched-sporting-events/>.\n\n. Richard Sandomir, \"ESPN Extends Deal with N.F.L. for $15 Billion,\" _New York Times_ , September 8, 2011, <http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/09/sports/football/espn-extends-deal-with-nfl-for-15-billion.html>.\n\n. James Andrew Miller and Ken Belson, \"N.F.L. Pressure Said to Lead ESPN to Quit Film Project,\" _New York Times_ , August 23, 2013, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/24/sports/football/nfl-pressure-said-to-prompt-espn-to-quit-film-project.html?smid=tw-share&_r=1.\n\n. \"Gladwell: Why College Football Is like Dog Fighting,\" excerpt from Malcolm Gladwell interview on _Global Public Square_ , CNN.com, July 20, 2013, <http://globalpublicsquare.blogs.cnn.com/2013/07/20/gladwell-why-college-football-is-like-dog-fighting/>.\n\n. David DiSalvo, \"Is Malcolm Gladwell Right, Should College Football Be Banned to Save Brains?,\" _Forbes_ , July 21, 2013, <http://www.forbes.com/sites/daviddisalvo/2013/07/21/is-malcolm-gladwell-right-should-college-football-be-banned/>.\n\n. Daniel J. Flynn, \"The NFL Suicide Epidemic Myth,\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, January 13, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/01/12/The-NFL-Suicide-Epidemic-Myth>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Sally Jenkins, \"No Matter What Happens in NFL Labor Negotiations, the Players Pay the Price,\" _Washington Post_ , February 23, 2011, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2011/02/23/AR2011022305999.html>.\n\n. Frank Bruni, \"Pro Football's Violent Toll,\" _New York Times_ , December 4, 2012, <http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/04/opinion/bruni-pro-footballs-violent-toll.html?_r=0>.\n\n. Don Banks, \"What Price Football?,\" Monday Morning Quarterback, _Sports Illustrated_ , October 23, 2013, <http://mmqb.si.com/2013/10/23/price-of-concussions-don-banks/>.\n\n. Bob Ryan, \"Football a Game of Inherent Conflict,\" _Boston Globe_ , November 17, 2013, <http://www.bostonglobe.com/sports/2013/11/17/football-game-inherent-conflict/GkAXWtEoJWdjEoqH0dHIAJ/story.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Steve Fainaru and Mark Fainaru-Wada, \"Youth Football Participation Drops,\" ESPN.com, updated November 4, 2013, <http://espn.go.com/espn/otl/story/_/page/popwarner/pop-warner-youth-football-participation-drops-nfl-concussion-crisis-seen-causal-factor>.\n\n. Jarrett Bell, \"Study Shows NFL Players Live Longer,\" _USA Today_ , updated May 9, 2012, <http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/sports/football/nfl/story/2012-05-08/Study-shows-NFL-players-live-longer/54847564/1>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"Do Sports Concussions Really Cause Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy?,\" Newswire, Loyola Medicine, December 2, 2013, <http://www.loyolamedicine.org/newswire/news/do-sports-concussions-really-cause-chronic-traumatic-encephalopathy>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN: BLACKLISTING LIMBAUGH\n\n. ESPN.com News Services, \"Limbaugh's Comments Touch Off Controversy,\" ESPN.com, October 1, 2013, <http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=1627887>.\n\n. \"NFL Player Passing Statistics\u20142003,\" ESPN.com, <http://espn.go.com/nfl/statistics/player/_/stat/passing/sort/passingYards/year/2003>.\n\n. ESPN.com News Services, \"McNabb: Too Late for an Apology from Limbaugh,\" ESPN.com, updated October 1, 2003, <http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/wire?id=1627977>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. ESPN.com News Services, \"Limbaugh Resigns from NFL Show,\" ESPN.com, October 2, 2003, <http://espn.go.com/gen/news/2003/1001/1628537.html>.\n\n. ESPN.com News Services, \"McNabb: Too Late for an Apology from Limbaugh,\" ESPN.com, updated October 1, 2003, <http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/wire?id=1627977>.\n\n. ESPN.com News Services, \"Limbaugh Resigns from ESPN's NFL Pregame Show,\" ESPN.com, October 2, 2003, <http://espn.go.com/gen/news/2003/1002/1628778.html>.\n\n. Ralph Vacchiano, \"In No Rush to Forget: McNabb's Dad Still Irate over Limbaugh's Attack,\" _New York Daily News_ , January 18, 2004, <http://www.nydailynews.com/archives/sports/rush-forget-mcnabb-dad-irate-limbaugh-attack-article-1.605662>.\n\n. Allen Barra, \"Rush Limbaugh Was Right,\" Slate, October 2, 2003, <http://www.slate.com/articles/sports/sports_nut/2003/10/rush_limbaugh_was_right.html>.\n\n. Noel Sheppard, \"Wilbon: Rush Limbaugh 'Universally Reviled by African-Americans,'\" NewsBusters.org, October 18, 2009, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/noel-sheppard/2009/10/18/wilbon-rush-limbaugh-universally-reviled-african-americans>.\n\n. Sheppard, \"Sportswriter: Black NFLers Claiming They Won't Play for Rush 'Are Lying through Their Teeth,'\" NewsBusters.org, October 12, 2009, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/noel-sheppard/2009/10/12/sportswriter-black-nflers-claiming-they-wont-play-rush-are-lying-thro>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"ESPN Bigots Obsessed with Rush,\" RushLimbaugh.com, transcript from January 24, 2007, episode of _The Rush Limbaugh Show_ , <http://www.rushlimbaugh.com/daily/2007/01/24/espn_bigots_obsessed_with_rush>.\n\n. Sheppard, \"Wilbon: Rush Limbaugh 'Universally Reviled by African-Americans.'\"\n\n. \"The National Hemorrhoid Pops Up, Claims Criticism of Obama Is Racist,\" transcript from the September 16, 2009, episode of _The Rush Limbaugh Show_ , <http://img.rushlimbaugh.com/home/daily/site_091609/content/01125106.guest.html>.\n\n. Tim Graham, \"Ed Schultz Decries 'Age of Overzealous Law Enforcement,' Guest Calls Gates 'Rosa Parks' of Profiling,\" NewsBusters.org, July 24, 2009, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/tim-graham/2009/07/24/ed-schultz-decries-age-overzealous-law-enforcement-guest-calls-gates-ros>.\n\n. \"Michael Eric Dyson,\" entry on DiscovertheNetworks.org, accessed September 2014, <http://www.discoverthenetworks.org/individualProfile.asp?indid=2192>.\n\n. Debbie Schlussel, \"Not Sharp, Drew: _USA Today_ /Freep Sportswriter Used Fake _Wikipedia_ Quotes to Savage Limbaugh,\" DebbieSchlussel.com, October 13, 2009, <http://www.debbieschlussel.com/10335/not-sharp-drew-usa-todayfreep-sportswriter-used-fake-wikipedia-quotes-to-savage-limbaugh/>.\n\n. Ohm Youngmisuk, \"Black NFL Players Crush Prospect of Playing for a Rush Limbaugh\u2013Owned St. Louis Rams,\" _New York Daily News_ , October 9, 2009, <http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/football/black-nfl-players-crush-prospect-playing-rush-limbaugh-owned-st-louis-rams-article-1.383689>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Mike Fitzpatrick, \"Bill Maher Buys Minority Share in New York Mets,\" Associated Press, Huffington Post Sports, updated August 3, 2012, <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/06/03/bill-maher-new-york-mets-owner-minority-share-video_n_1566669.html>.\n\n. Adam Rubin, \"Bill Maher Owns Stake in Mets,\" ESPN.com, June 4, 2012, <http://espn.go.com/new-york/mlb/story/_/id/8004806/bill-maher-reveals-owns-minority-share-new-york-mets>.\n\n. Associated Press, \"Checketts, Limbaugh in Bid to Buy Rams,\" ESPN.com, updated October 6, 2009, <http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=4535583>.\n\n. George Vecsey, \"32 Voices Louder Than Limbaugh's,\" _New York Times_ , October 13, 2009, <http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/13/sports/football/13vecsey.html?_r=0>.\n\n. Zach Berman and Richard Sandomir, \"Bill Maher Now Owns Share of the Mets,\" _New York Times_ , June 4, 2012, <http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/04/sports/baseball/bill-maher-now-owns-share-of-the-mets.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"Bill Maher Compares Retarded Children to Dogs,\" YouTube video, excerpt from January 11, 2001, episode of _Politically Correct_ , uploaded by \"jvideos8,\" October 4, 2007, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xe57F77ZKIs>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"Maher: Obama Not Acting like a Real Black President,\" Real Clear Politics, May 29, 2010, <http://www.realclearpolitics.com/video/2010/05/29/maher_obama_not_acting_like_a_real_black_president.html>.\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT: BULL IN DURHAM\n\n. Scott Whitlock, \"ABC Looks at Media Bias in Duke Rape Case; Ignores Example from Own Network,\" NewsBusters.org, September 4, 2007, <http://newsbusters.org/blogs/scott-whitlock/2007/09/04/abc-looks-media-bias-duke-rape-case-ignores-example-own-network>.\n\n. KC Johnson, \"Feinstein: 'They're Probably Guilty of Everything but Rape,'\" _Durham-in-Wonderland_ (blog), May 7, 2007, <http://durhamwonderland.blogspot.com/2007/05/feinstein-theyre-probably-guilty-of.html>.\n\n. Johnson, \"John Feinstein, and the Unbearable Lightness of America's Sportswriters,\" _Durham-in-Wonderland_ (blog), June 5, 2007, <http://durhamwonderland.blogspot.com/2007/06/john-feinstein-and-unbearable-lightness.html>.\n\n. Selena Roberts, \"Sports of the Times; When Peer Pressure, Not a Conscience, Is Your Guide,\" _New York Times_ , March 31, 2006, <http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9D04E0DC1230F932A05750C0A9609C8B63>; and Johnson, \"Selena Roberts: Still Misleading,\" _Durham-in-Wonderland_ (blog), March 17, 2008, <http://durhamwonderland.blogspot.com/2008/03/selena-roberts-still-misleading.html>.\n\n. John Leo, \"A 'Wildly Misleading' Self-Defense,\" Minding the Campus, March 18, 2008, <http://www.mindingthecampus.com/2008/03/a_wildly_misleading_selfdefens/>.\n\n. Johnson, \"Her 'Great Job Covering Rape Culture,'\" Minding the Campus, March 10, 2014, <http://www.mindingthecampus.com/2014/03/her_great_job_covering_rape_cu/>.\n\n. Johnson, \"Selena Roberts & Journalistic Credibility,\" _Durham-in-Wonderland_ (blog), May 4, 2009, <http://durhamwonderland.blogspot.com/2009/05/selena-roberts-journalistic-credibility.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Roberts, \"Closing a Case Will Not Mean Closure at Duke,\" _New York Times_ , March 25, 2007, <http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/25/sports/othersports/25roberts.html?_r=0>.\n\n. xy109e3, \"The Edwards-Marcotte Fiasco,\" _Daily Kos_ (blog), February 2, 2007, <http://www.dailykos.com/story/2007/02/02/297671/-The-Edwards-Marcotte-Fiasco>.\n\n. Stuart Taylor Jr., \"Witness for the Prosecution? The _New York Times_ Is Still Victimizing Innocent Dukies,\" Slate, August 29, 2006, <http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/hey_wait_a_minute/2006/08/witness_for_the_prosecution.single.html>.\n\n. John Koblin, \"Who's 'This Lady'? Meet Selena Roberts, A-Rod's Worst Nightmare,\" _New York Observer_ , February 11, 2009, <http://observer.com/2009/02/whos-this-lady-meet-selena-roberts-arods-worst-nightmare/>.\n\n. Chris Kyle, \"The Decline and Fall of Selena Roberts,\" Huffington Post, updated May 25, 2011, <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/chris-kyle/the-decline-and-fall-of-s_b_196747.html>.\n\n. Jason Whitlock, \"Selena Roberts Reminds Me of Al Sharpton,\" Real Clear Sports, May 5, 2009, <http://www.realclearsports.com/2009/05/06/selena_roberts_reminds_me_of_al_sharpton_59654.html>.\n\n. John Rocker, \"What If Jameis Winston Were a White Lacrosse Player?,\" WND.com, December 2, 2013, <http://www.wnd.com/2013/12/what-if-jameis-winston-were-a-white-lacrosse-player/>.\n\n. Travis Waldron, \"ESPN Delivers Powerful Segment on Sexual Assault during Jameis Winston Coverage,\" _ThinkProgress_ , December 6, 2013, <http://thinkprogress.org/sports/2013/12/06/3029761/did-espn-cover-end-jameis-winston-case/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Johnson, \"The Sports Reporters,\" _Durham-in-Wonderland_ (blog), March 5, 2007, <http://durhamwonderland.blogspot.com/2007/03/sports-reporters.html>.\n\n. \"Duke Lax Players Staring Down Tough Trial\u2014SI.com,\" excerpt from _Sports Illustrated_ story on Newsgroups.Derkeiler.com, posted April 22, 2006, <http://newsgroups.derkeiler.com/Archive/Alt/alt.true-crime/2006-04/msg04637.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. \"Breaking News in Search for Darren Mack,\" transcript of June 22, 2006, episode of _Nancy Grace_ , CNN.com, <http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0606/22/ng.01.html>.\n\n. Associated Press, \"North Carolina Governor Signs Open Discovery Bill into Law,\" Death Penalty Information Center, August 4, 2004, <http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/node/1213>.\n\n. \"Breaking News in Search for Darren Mack,\" transcript of June 22, 2006.\n\n. \"Duke Lax Players Are Staring Down a Tough Trial.\"\n\n. Bomani Jones, \"Duke Lacrosse Celebrated for Wrong Reasons,\" ESPN.com, February 26, 2007, <http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=jones/070226>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Daniel Schorn, \"Duke Rape Suspects Speak Out,\" CBSNews.com, October 11, 2006, <http://www.cbsnews.com/news/duke-rape-suspects-speak-out/3/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Jones, \"Duke Lacross Celebrated for Wrong Reasons.\"\n\n. Johnson, \"The Sports Reporters.\"\n\n. \"Committees Report on Lacrosse Team Behavior, Student Judicial Processes,\" news release, DukeToday, May 1, 2006, <http://today.duke.edu/2006/05/twocommittees.html>.\n\nCHAPTER NINE: THE NEW RACISM\n\n. Chris Chase, \"Seahawks Star Richard Sherman's Instant-Classic Postgame Interview with Erin Andrews,\" _USA Today_ , January 19, 2014, <http://ftw.usatoday.com/2014/01/richard-sherman-erin-andrews-interview>.\n\n. Samer Kalaf, \"Dumb People Stupid, Racist Shit about Richard Sherman,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), January 19, 2014, <http://deadspin.com/dumb-people-say-stupid-racist-shit-about-richard-sherm-1504843629>.\n\n. Kyle Wagner, \"The Word 'Thug' Was Uttered 625 Times on TV on Monday. That's A Lot,\" _Deadspin_ (blog), January 21, 2014, <http://regressing.deadspin.com/the-word-thug-was-uttered-625-times-on-tv-yesterday-1506098319>.\n\n. Associated Press, \"Fox Fires Lyons for Racially Insensitive Comment,\" ESPN.com, October 15, 2006, <http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/playoffs2006/news/story?id=2625500>.\n\n. Robert Weintraub, \"Color Commentators,\" Slate, November 30, 2006, <http://www.slate.com/articles/sports/sports_nut/2006/11/color_commentators.html>.\n\n. Mike Penner, \"Voice of His Past Haunts Hamilton,\" _Los Angeles Times_ , August 16, 2001, <http://articles.latimes.com/2001/aug/16/sports/sp-34851>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Weintraub, \"Color Commentators.\"\n\n. John Hawkins, \"The Best Quotations from Greg Gutfeld's 'The Joy of Hate,'\" RightWingNews.com, May 19, 2014, <http://www.rightwingnews.com/quotes/the-best-quotations-from-greg-gutfelds-the-joy-of-hate/>.\n\n. Max Olson, \"Red McCombs Bashes Texas Hire,\" ESPN.com, January 8, 2014, <http://espn.go.com/college-football/story/_/id/10257706/booster-red-mccombs-bashes-texas-longhorns-charlie-strong-hire>.\n\n. Olson, \"Red McCombs Bashes Texas Hire.\"\n\n. Buck Harvey, \"McCombs and His Giant Mess,\" _My SA_ (blog), January 7, 2014, <http://blog.mysanantonio.com/buckharvey/2014/01/mccombs-and-his-giant-mess/>.\n\n. Brooks, \"Deion Disputes Wilbon Claim of Shanahan Racism,\" SportsbyBrooks.com, November 12, 2010, <http://www.sportsbybrooks.com/deion-debunks-wilbon-claim-of-shanahan-racism-29234>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Nick Schwartz, \"Eagles Receiver Riley Cooper Uses Racial Slur at a Kenny Chesney Concert,\" _USA Today_ , July 31, 2013, <http://ftw.usatoday.com/2013/07/eagles-receiver-riley-cooper-uses-racial-slur-at-a-kenny-chesney-concert>.\n\n. Mike Florio, \"Philly Mayor Says Fining Riley Cooper Isn't Good Enough,\" ProFootballTalk.com, August 2, 2013, <http://profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2013/08/02/philly-mayor-says-fining-riley-cooper-isnt-good-enough/>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Frank Schwab, \"LeSean McCoy Says He Lost a Friend in Riley Cooper: 'Can't Really Respect Somebody Like That,'\" Yahoo! Sports, August 1, 2013, <http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nfl-shutdown-corner/lesean-mccoy-says-lost-friend-riley-cooper-t-200733255.html>.\n\n. Michael Wilbon, \"Vick Owes His Second Chance to Those Willing to Give Him One,\" _Washington Post_ , August 15, 2009, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/08/14/AR2009081402130.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Popsspotted, \"Roger Goodell Reaction to Riley Cooper Blasted as 'Gutless' and 'Unspeakably Lame' by ESPN's Michael Wilbon,\" _POPSspot_ (blog), August 21, 2013, <http://www.popsspot.com/2013/08/roger-goodell-reaction-to-riley-cooper-blasted-as-gutless-and-unspeakably-lame-by-espns-michael-wilbon/>.\n\n. Associated Press, \"Emotional Issues to Keep Dolphins T. Jonathan Martin Out for Week 9,\" _USA Today_ , October 31, 2013, <http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/nfl/dolphins/2013/10/31/jonathan-martin-emotional-issues-out-week-9-bengals/3327929/>.\n\n. \"Richie Incognito Threatened Jonathan Martin, Used Racial Slur to Refer to Dolphins Teammate: Reports,\" Huffington Post, updated November 5, 2013, <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/11/04/richie-incognito-jonathan-martin-racial-slur-threats_n_4213340.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Breitbart Sports, \"Report: Martin Threatened to Send Someone to Sodomize Incognito with 'Sandpaper Condoms,'\" Breitbart Sports, Breitbart.com, January 30, 2014, <http://www.breitbart.com/Breitbart-Sports/2014/01/30/Report-Martin-Threatened-to-Send-Someone-to-Sodomize-Incognito-with-Sandpaper-Condoms>.\n\n. Lydon Murtha, \"Incognito and Martin: An Insider's Story,\" Monday Morning Quarterback, _Sports Illustrated_ , November 7, 2013, <http://mmqb.si.com/2013/11/07/richie-incognito-jonathan-martin-dolphins-lydon-murtha/>.\n\n. Dan Graziano, \"Antrel Rolle Blames Martin, Too,\" ESPN.com, November 7, 2013, <http://espn.go.com/new-york/nfl/story/_/id/9931466/antrel-rolle-new-york-giants-says-jonathan-martin-stood-in-miami-dolphins-harassment-case>.\n\n. Arash Markazi, \"Matt Barnes: Epithet OK in Context,\" ESPN. com, November 15, 2013, <http://espn.go.com/los-angeles/nba/story/_/id/9981526/matt-barnes-los-angeles-clippers-racial-slur-get-used-it>.\n\n. \"N-Word Controversy Is Another Example of the Liberal Takeover of American Sports,\" transcript from the November 18, 2013, episode of _The Rush Limbaugh Show_ , <http://www.rushlimbaugh.com/daily/2013/11/18/n_word_controversy_is_another_example_of_the_liberal_takeover_of_american_sports>.\n\n. Staff, \"Lil Wayne Gets Slammed for Dissing Riley Cooper for Using the N-Word,\" _Urban Belle_ , August 4, 2013, <http://urbanbellemag.com/2013/08/lil-wayne-disses-riley-cooper-blasted-for-hypocrisy.html>.\n\n. \"N-Word Controversy Is Another Example of the Liberal Takeover of American Sports.\"\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Ibid.\n\n. Popsspotted, \"Roger Goodell Reaction to Riley Cooper Blasted as 'Gutless' and 'Unspeakably Lame.'\"\n\n. Mike Wise, \"A Word You Shouldn't Use in Any Sentence,\" _Washington Post_ , November 21, 2013, <http://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/a-word-you-shouldnt-use-in-any-sentence/2013/11/21/f0e9fb38-521e-11e3-a7f0-b790929232e1_story.html>.\n\n. Ibid.\nINDEX\n\n**A**\n\nabortion, , , 110\u201311,\n\nAbu-Jamal, Mumia,\n\nAdams, Bennie,\n\nAfrican Americans. _See also_ blacks, black community\n\ndefined solely by race in media, 34\u201335,\n\nthe N-word and, 185\u201386, ,\n\nin professional sports, , , , , 176\u201377\n\nAIDS,\n\nAkron, OH,\n\nAlinsky, Saul,\n\nAmerica, Americans\n\nacceptance of homosexuality in, ,\n\ncrime statistics in,\n\nfootball's popularity in, , 119\u201320, 126\u201327, 129\u201331,\n\nhistory of, , ,\n\nideals of, 27\u201329, , ,\n\nmedia in, xi, , , 201\u20132\n\npolitics in, 39\u201340\n\npolling data on Redskins name,\n\nrace relations in, , 61\u201362, , ,\n\nsports media in, , , 51\u201352, , , , 116\u201317, 126\u201330, , ,\n\nwussification of,\n\nAmerican Family Association,\n\nAmerican Football Coaches Association, 115\u201316\n\nAmpong, Granville, 43\u201345\n\nAmukamara, Prince,\n\nAnderson, Holly, 74\u201375\n\nAndrews, Erin,\n\nanti-Americans, anti-Americanism, , 142\u201343\n\n\"anti-gay bill,\" 24\u201325. _See also_ Religious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA); SB 1062\n\nAntonacci, Chris,\n\nAP-Gfk polling,\n\nArizona\n\nRedskins' 2014 game in, 62\u201363,\n\nSB 1062, 23\u201330, 35\u201336\n\nArizona Cardinals,\n\nAshe, Arthur,\n\nAsian Americans,\n\nAssociated Press (AP), 55\u201356, , 175\u201376\n\nAtlanta Braves, ,\n\nAtlanta Falcons,\n\nAustin, Tavon, 15\u201316\n\nAvant, Jason,\n\nAwful Announcing,\n\n**B**\n\nBailes, Julian,\n\nBailey, Stedman, 15\u201316\n\nBalan, Matthew,\n\nBaltimore Ravens,\n\nBanks, Don, 123\u201324,\n\nBarkley, Charles, , 16\u201317, 194\u201395\n\nBarnes, Harrison,\n\nBarnes, Matt, 194\u201398\n\nBarra, Allen, 139\u201340\n\nBBC, the, 48\u201349\n\n\"Be My Vote\" campaign,\n\nBerman, Chris,\n\n_Bias_ (Goldberg), xi, ,\n\nBible, the, 40\u201341, , ,\n\nblacks, black community, , 15\u201316, 89\u201390. _See also_ African Americans\n\nBill Maher's caricature of,\n\nblack athletes as \"disconnected\" from black community, 10\u201311\n\nand Christianity, 107\u20139\n\ncrime statistics and, 1\u20134\n\nDuke lacrosse case and, 150\u201351, 153\u201354, , , 162\u201363, 170\u201371\n\nas exploited in sports, 10\u201311, 129\u201330\n\nJameis Winston double standard and, 159\u201361\n\nmedia's focus on coaches and athletes as, 33\u201335, , 108\u20139, ,\n\nmedia's use of \"thug\" in reference to, 174\u201375\n\nNew Racism and, 177\u2013200\n\nin professional sports, 5\u201313, 78\u201380, 137\u201340\n\nradicals and,\n\nRush Limbaugh and, 134\u2013143,\n\nBoehlert, Sherwood,\n\nBoortz, Neal,\n\n_Boston Globe_ ,\n\nBradshaw, Terry, 104\u20135\n\nBrady, Tom, x,\n\nBrand, Russell, ,\n\nBrazil, 47\u201348,\n\nBreitbart.com, 14\u201315, , 37\u201338, , , , ,\n\nBrinson, Will, 74\u201375\n\nBristol, CT, , , ,\n\nBritt, Kenny, 15\u201316\n\n_Broadcast_ , _The_ , 80\u201381\n\nBrooklyn Dodgers,\n\nBrooklyn Nets, 73\u201374\n\nBrooks, Aaron,\n\nBroussard, Chris,\n\nBrowne, Joe,\n\nBrown, James ( _Inside the NFL_ host), 111\u201312\n\nBrown, Jim (former Cleveland Browns player), ,\n\nBrown, Mack, 178\u201379\n\nBrown, Michael, 15\u201316\n\nBrown, Ron, 40\u201341\n\nBruni, Frank, 123\u201324\n\nBryant, Kobe,\n\nBuchenwald camps,\n\nBuck, Dan,\n\nBureau of Indian Affairs,\n\nBureau of Justice Statistics,\n\nBurke, Patrick, 90\u201391\n\nburqas, 107\u20138\n\nBush, George W., 39\u201340, ,\n\n**C**\n\nCalcaterra, Craig,\n\nCampbell's Chunky soups,\n\nCampeau, Ian, 61\u201362\n\nCardinal Glennon Children's Foundation,\n\nCatholic Church, Catholicism, , , 42\u201347\n\nCatholic League, the,\n\nCBS, xi, , 110\u201311, ,\n\nCBS Sports, 74\u201376, , , , 110\u201312\n\nCecil, Chuck,\n\nChange the Mascot movement,\n\nChecketts, Dave,\n\nChesney, Kenny,\n\nChicago Bears, ,\n\nChief Wahoo (logo), 61\u201362\n\nChristianity, Christians, , ,\n\nFIFA rules affecting, 47\u201348\n\nSB 1062 as protecting rights of, 23\u201331\n\nSeattle Seahawks and, 32\u201333\n\nsports media treatment of, 26\u201352, , , 82\u201384, 88\u2013110,\n\nChristian Peacemaker Teams,\n\n_Christian Post_ , the, ,\n\nchronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), 120\u201324, ,\n\nCincinnati Bengals, ,\n\nClark, Gary,\n\nClark, Wesley,\n\nCleveland Cavaliers, ,\n\nCleveland Indians, 60\u201362\n\nCleveland, OH,\n\nclimate change, ,\n\nCNN, , , , ,\n\nCNNSI.com, 163\u201364\n\nCollins, Jason, 72\u201375, 82\u201387,\n\nCollinsworth, Cris, 111\u201312\n\nconcussions, , 118\u201319, , , 130\u201331\n\nCooke, Jack Kent,\n\nCook, Jared, 15\u201316\n\nCooper, Anderson,\n\nCooper, Riley, 185\u201389, 194\u201398\n\nCorey, Angela,\n\nCostas, Bob, x, 34\u201335, , 58\u201359, , ,\n\nCourage Campaign, ,\n\nCowherd, Colin, ,\n\nCrabtree, Michael, 173\u201374\n\nCromartie, Antonio, 82\u201383\n\nCronkite, Walter,\n\nCross, Randy, 111\u201312\n\nCulliver, Chris, 18\u201321\n\nCulpepper, Daunte,\n\nCuomo, Mario, ,\n\nCurrent, Mike,\n\n**D**\n\n_Daily Mail_ , 47\u201348\n\nDallas Cowboys, 50\u201351\n\n_Dallas Morning News_ , the,\n\nDallas, TX, 50\u201351, ,\n\n_Dan Patrick Show_ , the,\n\nDavidson, Dave,\n\nDavidson, Eunice,\n\nDavis, Wade, 90\u201391\n\n_Deadspin_ , , ,\n\nChris Kluwe and, 92\u201393\n\nRedskins name and, 64\u201365, 68\u201369\n\nDean, Howard,\n\nDeejay NDN. _See_ Campeau, Ian\n\nDemocrats, Democrat Party, 9\u201310, ,\n\n_Dennis & Callahan Show_,\n\nDenver Broncos, , , , 119\u201320,\n\n_Denver Post_ , the,\n\nDershowitz, Alan,\n\n_Detroit Free Press_ ,\n\nDetroit Lions, ,\n\nDetroit Tigers,\n\ndogfighting, , 118\u201320, ,\n\nDouglas, Gabby, 33\u201335\n\nDoyel, Gregg, 85\u201386, 103\u20135, 110\u201311\n\nDuerson, Dave, 120\u201322\n\nDuke University, , , , , . _See also_ Duke University lacrosse\n\nDuke University lacrosse, 149\u201372\n\nDungy, Tony, , 108\u201310\n\nDurham, NC, , , , , ,\n\nDurham Police Department, ,\n\n_Durham-in-Wonderland_ , ,\n\nDyson, Michael Eric, 141\u201343\n\n**E**\n\nESPN, , , 36\u201340, , , , , , , , , , , , , 168\u201369, , , ,\n\nadvocacy standards of, 35\u201336,\n\ncontract with the NFL,\n\n_Grantland_ as part of, ,\n\nRush Limbaugh's time with, , 138\u201339\n\nsegments on concussions, 117\u201318, , , ,\n\nsocial media policy of, 14\u201315\n\nESPN.com, , 40\u201341, , , ,\n\n_Miami Heat Index_ (blog) on, 3\u20134\n\nEvans, Dave,\n\nExaminer.com,\n\n**F**\n\n_Faces of Sports_ ,\n\nFantauzzo, Laurel, 45\u201347\n\nFarrior, James,\n\nFeinsand, Mark, 158\u201359\n\nFeinstein, John, 152\u201355, , ,\n\nFerguson, MO, 15\u201317\n\nFIFA, 47\u201348\n\nFighting Whites Scholarship Fund,\n\nFightin' Reds, 60\u201361\n\nFightin' Whities, 60\u201362\n\nFinebaum, Paul,\n\nFinnerty, Collin,\n\nFire Department of New York City (FDNY),\n\nFirst Amendment, the, , , ,\n\nFisher, Jeff,\n\nFlorida, , , , 161\u201362\n\nFlorida State Seminoles, , , 159\u201360\n\nFlorio, Mike, 32\u201333\n\nFlynn, Daniel \"Dan,\" , , , 121\u201323, 129\u201330\n\n_Forbes_ ,\n\nForshee, Tequila,\n\n_Forty Million Dollar Slaves_ (Rhoden),\n\nFoster, Joan,\n\nFox, , , ,\n\nFox News, , , , ,\n\nFox Sports, , 36\u201339, ,\n\nFrazier, Leslie,\n\nfreedom of conscience, ,\n\nfreedom of religion, , 35\u201336\n\nfree speech, 16\u201317, ,\n\n_Frontline_ ,\n\nFrontPageMag.com, ,\n\n**G**\n\nGallup polling,\n\ngays, 5\u20136, , , , . _See also_ homosexuality\n\nChris Culliver's comments on, 18\u201319\n\nlegislation affecting, 25\u201334, 40\u201341\n\nmarriage and, 23\u201325, 27\u201329, 36\u201338, 42\u201344, , ,\n\nin professional sports, 50\u201351, 72\u201380, , 84\u201387,\n\nGeorgetown University, 141\u201343\n\nGibbs, Joe,\n\nGilbert, Dan, ,\n\nGivens, Chris, 15\u201316\n\nGladwell, Malcolm, 118\u201321, 130\u201331\n\nGod, 28\u201329, 32\u201335, 43\u201344, , , , 103\u20134,\n\nGoDaddy,\n\nGoldberg, Bernard, xi,\n\nGoodell, Roger, , , , ,\n\nGore, Al,\n\nGrace, Nancy, 165\u201367\n\nGranderson, LZ,\n\n_Grantland_ , 45\u201347,\n\nGray, Ben,\n\n_Greeley Tribune_ , 60\u201361\n\nGreenpeace,\n\nGreen, Robert,\n\nGresham, Clint,\n\nGriffin, Chad,\n\nGrossman, Rex,\n\n**H**\n\nHalbritter, Arthur Raymond \"Ray,\" 63\u201368\n\n\"hands up, don't shoot,\" 15\u201316\n\nHansen, Dale, 78\u201380\n\nHardballTalk.com,\n\nHarper, Bryce, x\n\nHarrison, James,\n\nHarvard Law School,\n\nHarvard Medical School, ,\n\nHaslem, Udonis, 3\u20134\n\nHawk, Tony,\n\nHBO, xi, 5\u20136,\n\nHeisman Trophy, , , 159\u201360\n\nHochman, Benjamin,\n\nhomosexuality, x, 17\u201318, 25\u201330, , 42\u201344, , , , 81\u201382, , 89\u201390, , . _See also_ gays\n\nhoodie photo, the, 3\u20134, 6\u20137, ,\n\nHouston, TX, 71\u201372, , 134\u201335\n\nHoward, Dwight, x\n\n_Huckabee_ ,\n\nHuffington Post, the,\n\nHuffington Post Sports,\n\nHuizenga, Wayne,\n\nHuman Rights Campaign (HRC), 88\u201391\n\nHuman Rights Commission of New\n\nMexico,\n\nHumphrey, Hubert,\n\nHunter, Torii,\n\nHutchison, Kay Bailey,\n\nHyde, David, 4\u20136\n\n**I**\n\n\"I Can't Breathe\" T-shirts,\n\nIncognito, Richie, 189\u201393,\n\nIndiana,\n\nIndianapolis,\n\nIndianapolis Colts, ,\n\n_Inside the NFL_ , 111\u201312\n\nInternational Football Association Board (IFAB),\n\niQMedia,\n\nIran,\n\nIrving, Kyrie,\n\nIrvin, Michael, ,\n\nIverson, Grant, 121\u201323\n\n**J**\n\nJackson, DeSean,\n\nJackson, Jesse, ,\n\nJackson, Tom,\n\nJacksonville Jaguars,\n\nJames, Craig, 36\u201339\n\nJames, LeBron, , 7\u201311, ,\n\nJansen, Tim,\n\nJenkins, Sally,\n\nJesus Christ,\n\nJews, , , ,\n\nJim Crow, , , , ,\n\n_Jim Rome Show_ , ,\n\nJohnson, KC, ,\n\nJones, Bomani, , , 169\u201372\n\nJones, Don, , ,\n\nJones, James, 3\u20134\n\nJones, Jerry,\n\nJones, Lolo, ,\n\nJordan (country),\n\nJordan, Michael, 5\u20136, 9\u201310\n\njournalism, journalists, xi, , , , , , , , , , , 98\u201399, 101\u20132, 116\u201317, 123\u201324, , , , 170\u201372,\n\n**K**\n\nKaepernick, Colin,\n\nKanavy, Tom,\n\nKarantzoulis, Stella, 130\u201331\n\nkeffiyeh,\n\nKemp, Shawn, 82\u201383\n\nKerr, Courtney,\n\nKGB, the,\n\nKing, Billie Jean, 5\u20136\n\nKing, Peter, ,\n\nKirby, Brian,\n\nKISS,\n\nKiwanuka, Mathias,\n\nKluwe, Chris, 91\u201396\n\nKoch, Blake,\n\nKornheiser, Tony, 29\u201331, , ,\n\nKoufax, Sandy,\n\nKriegel, Mark, 74\u201375\n\nKrueger, Larry,\n\nKrulewitz, Josh,\n\nKurtz, Howard,\n\n**L**\n\nLange, Artie, 18\u201319\n\nLaw 4 (FIFA), , 48\u201349\n\n_League of Denial_ ,\n\nLeft, the, ,\n\nlesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender\n\n(LGBT) causes, , , , , 95\u201396\n\nlesbians, lesbianism, , , 45\u201346\n\nLeviticus (book in Bible), 42\u201345\n\nLewis, Ray,\n\nliberals, liberalism, , , , , , , ,\n\nathletes,\n\nideology of, , 54\u201355, , , , , , ,\n\nin the media. _See_ mainstream media: liberal political agenda of the; sports media: liberal political agenda of the\n\nLimbaugh, Rush, , 133\u201348\n\nKeith Olbermann and, 39\u201340\n\nLincoln, Abraham,\n\nLindzen, Richard,\n\nLin, Jeremy,\n\nLittle, Leonard,\n\nLloyd, David,\n\nLoeffler, Cullen,\n\nLos Angeles Clippers, 193\u201394\n\nLos Angeles Lakers, ,\n\nLove, Kevin, x\n\nLoyola University, 130\u201331\n\nLurie, Jeffrey, 187\u201389\n\nLyons, Steve, 175\u201376\n\n**M**\n\nMaddow, Rachel, x,\n\nMadel, Chris,\n\nMagnuson, Eric,\n\nMaher, Bill, 145\u201348\n\nmainstream media,\n\nDuke lacrosse case and, 149\u201353, ,\n\nliberal political agenda of the, xi, 80\u201381, , , , ,\n\nnew media as a challenge to the, 201\u20132\n\nvilification of Manny Pacquiao, 43\u201347\n\nvilification of Tim Tebow, 106\u20137\n\nMajor League Baseball (MLB), ,\n\nSB 1062 and,\n\n_Making of a Champion_ , _The_ ,\n\nMalaysia,\n\nMandel, Stewart, 74\u201375\n\nMangum, Crystal, , ,\n\nManning, Peyton, x\n\nMantle, Mickey,\n\nManziel, Johnny, ,\n\nMarcotte, Amanda, 156\u201357\n\nmarriage\n\nChris Kluwe's opinions on, 91\u201393\n\nCraig James's opinions on, 36\u201338\n\nDavid Tyree's opinions on, 88\u201391\n\nManny Pacquiao's opinions on, 42\u201347\n\nas political issue, , , 107\u20138\n\nReggie White's opinions on, 107\u20138\n\nsame-sex couples and, 24\u201325, 27\u201329,\n\n\"traditional,\" , , 36\u201337, , , 88\u201389,\n\nMartin, Jonathan, , ,\n\nMartin, Trayvon\n\ndeath of, 1\u20132,\n\nMiami Heat's solidarity with, 3\u20134, ,\n\nsports media and, 2\u201315, ,\n\nMatthews, Chris,\n\nMcCarthy, Brian,\n\nMcCombs, Red, 178\u201380\n\nMcCoy, LeSean, ,\n\nMcDonnell, Terry,\n\nMcKenna, Dave,\n\nMcNabb, Donovan, 135\u201341, , , 181\u201384\n\nMcNabb, Sam, 138\u201339\n\nMcNair, Steve,\n\nMecca,\n\nMedia Research Center, , ,\n\nMfume, Kweisi,\n\nMiami Dolphins, , , , , , 192\u201393\n\nMiami, FL, ,\n\nMiami Gardens, 3\u20134\n\nMiami Heat, 3\u20134, , ,\n\n_Miami Heat Index_ (blog),\n\nMichaels, Patrick,\n\nMinnesota Vikings, 91\u201396,\n\nMirengoff, Paul, 26\u201327\n\n_Modern Family_ ,\n\n_Monday Night Football_ ,\n\nMoore, Patrick,\n\nMoran, Terry, 150\u201353,\n\nMortensen, Chris,\n\nMoseley, Mark, ,\n\nMoseley, Rob, 74\u201375\n\nMosher, Geoff,\n\nMSNBC, , ,\n\nMuhammad Ali, 5\u20136, ,\n\nMunson, Lester, 163\u201369\n\nMurtha, Lydon, 192\u201393,\n\n\"muscular Christian,\"\n\nMushnick, Phil, 83\u201384\n\nMuslims, , , 29\u201330, ,\n\ndouble standard with Christianity, 48\u201349, 106\u20137\n\n**N**\n\nNAACP, 137\u201338,\n\nNamath, Joe,\n\nNancy Grace,\n\nNASCAR,\n\n_Nation_ , the,\n\nNational Basketball Association\n\n(NBA), 6\u20139, 20\u201321, , 71\u201374, , , , , 194\u201396\n\nattire rules,\n\nNational Football League (NFL), 91\u201393, ,\n\nattempts to keep Michael Sam on a team by the, 50\u201351\n\nblack quarterbacks as an issue in the, 135\u201340\n\nChristian players in the, , 107\u20138,\n\nconcussions and the, , 120\u201331\n\ncrime and players in the, , 83\u201384,\n\nas dominant professional sports league, , , 117\u201318\n\nFerguson protests and the, 15\u201317\n\nfree-speech issues in the, 15\u201320,\n\n\"Great Gay Race\" and the, 73\u201377, 80\u201381, 85\u201386\n\nlocker-room culture of the, 186\u201388, ,\n\npunishment of Don Jones by the,\n\nrevenue earned by the,\n\n\"Rooney Rule\" of the,\n\nRush Limbaugh's attempts to own a team in the, , 140\u201348\n\nSB 1062 and the, 24\u201329\n\nTim Tebow's career in the, , 99\u2013104, ,\n\nNational Hockey League (NHL),\n\nNational Institute for Occupational\n\nSafety and Health (NIOSH), ,\n\nNavajo Nation, , 63\u201364\n\nNavratilova, Martina,\n\nNazis, Nazism, 30\u201331\n\nArizona and comparisons to,\n\nTim Tebow and comparisons to, ,\n\nNBA Development League, the,\n\nNBC, 33\u201334, ,\n\nNBC Sports, 33\u201334,\n\nNCAA, the,\n\nNew Mexico,\n\nNew Racism, the, 173\u2013200\n\ndefinition of,\n\ndouble standards of, 184\u201385, 188\u201389\n\nNewsBusters.org,\n\nNew Testament, the,\n\nNew York, ,\n\nNew York City, , 65\u201366,\n\n_New York Daily News_ , 90\u201392,\n\nNew York Giants, , 88\u201392, ,\n\nNew York Jets,\n\nNew York Mets, 145\u201346\n\n_New York Post_ , the, ,\n\n_New York Times_ , the, xi, 49\u201350, , , , , 157\u201358\n\nNFL Network, , ,\n\nNifong, Mike, , , 163\u201368\n\nNike, , ,\n\nNorth Carolina, , 151\u201352,\n\nNorth Dakota, 55\u201356\n\nNorthern Illinois University,\n\nNutter, Michael A., 185\u201386\n\nN-word, the,\n\nDuke lacrosse players' use of,\n\nracists and, 174\u201375\n\nRichie Incognito and, 189\u201393\n\nRiley Cooper and, 185\u201388\n\nuse by African Americans, 185\u201389, 193\u2013200\n\n**O**\n\nObama, Barack, , , 14\u201315, , , , , , , , ,\n\nObamacare, , ,\n\nObama Classic, the, ,\n\nOklahoma,\n\nOklahoma City bombing, the,\n\nOlbermann, Keith, , 39\u201340, ,\n\nOlympics (2012),\n\nO'Neal, Jermaine, 20\u201321\n\nOneida Indian Nation, 65\u201368\n\nbusiness incorporated by,\n\nOneidasforDemocracy.org,\n\nO'Reilly, Bill,\n\n_O'Reilly Factor_ , _The_ ,\n\n_Outliers_ (Gladwell),\n\n_Outside the Lines_ ,\n\n**P**\n\nPacquiao, Manny, 42\u201345,\n\nPage, Clarence,\n\n_Pardon the Interruption_ , , , , , 180\u201381, ,\n\nPatawomeck tribe,\n\nPatrick, Dan, 58\u201359, , 186\u201387\n\nPatterson, Steve, 179\u201380\n\nPBS,\n\nPearlman, Jeff, 76\u201378,\n\nPenn State University,\n\nPeople for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), ,\n\nPerry, Dayn,\n\nPeterson, Adrian, 83\u201384,\n\nPhiladelphia Eagles, , , , 185\u201388\n\nPhilbin, Matt, , ,\n\nPhilippines, the, , ,\n\nPineiro, Lisa, ,\n\nPiniella, Lou, 175\u201376\n\nPittsburgh Steelers,\n\npolitical correctness, ix\u2013x, , , , , 176\u201377, , ,\n\n_Politically Incorrect_ ,\n\npolitics, x\u2013xi, , , , , 62\u201364, , , , , , , ,\n\nathletes' involvement in, 5\u20137, , , 73\u201374\n\nESPN policies regarding, 14\u201315, 35\u201336,\n\nFIFA policies regarding, 47\u201348\n\nMichael Jordan's avoidance of, , 9\u201310\n\nPop Warner, 127\u201328\n\n_Power Line_ (blog), 26\u201327\n\nPoynter Institute,\n\nPravda,\n\nPriefer, Mike, 92\u201394,\n\nPrisco, Pete,\n\nPro Football Talk, , 27\u201328, , , 100\u20132\n\nprogressives, progressive politics, x, , , , , , , 155\u201356, ,\n\nPutin, Vladimir, 27\u201328,\n\n**R**\n\nrace. _See also_ New Racism\n\nconflations with homosexuality,\n\ndouble standards and, 38\u201339, 83\u201384, 107\u201313, 159\u201362, 175\u2013200\n\nMichael Jordan's neutrality on issues of,\n\nrace-baiting, x, ,\n\nrole in Ferguson protests, 16\u201317\n\nrole in Trayvon Martin case, , , 12\u201313\n\nsports media's focus on, , 60\u201362, 108\u201313, , 136\u201347, 150\u201372, 175\u201378, 180\u201382, 199\u2013200\n\nracism, racists. _See also_ New Racism\n\nallegations of racism in Trayvon Martin case, 12\u201313,\n\nChristianity equated with, ,\n\nMike Shanahan accused of, 181\u201384\n\nNative American sports names as issue of, 58\u201363\n\nRepublicans as,\n\nRichard Sherman and, 174\u201375\n\nRichie Incognito and, 189\u201393\n\nRiley Cooper and, 185\u201389\n\nrole of alleged racism in the Duke lacrosse case, , 154\u201359, 170\u201372\n\nRush Limbaugh as, 137\u201346\n\nRadio Row,\n\n_Raleigh News and Observer_ ,\n\nRandolph, Christopher, 130\u201331\n\nrape. _See also_ sexual assault\n\naccusations against Jameis Winston, 160\u201361\n\nDuke lacrosse case and, 149\u201360, , 168\u201369,\n\nPenn State and, 95\u201396\n\nprofessional athletes and, 95\u201396,\n\nsports media coverage of (in general), x,\n\n_Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel_ , xi\n\n_Real Time with Bill Maher_ ,\n\nRedskins. _See_ Washington Redskins\n\nRedskinsFacts.com,\n\nRed Zone Channel,\n\nReid, Jason,\n\nReilly, Rick,\n\n_Reliable Sources_ ,\n\nReligious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA), , . _See also_ \"anti-gay bill\"; SB 1062\n\nRepublican Party, the,\n\nRepublicans, , , 79\u201380, , ,\n\nRhoden, William, 10\u201311\n\nRichards, Michael, ,\n\nRickey, Branch,\n\nRise Up and Register,\n\nRivers, Austin,\n\nRoberts, Kim, 170\u201371\n\nRobertson, Oscar,\n\nRoberts, Selena, 154\u201359, 167\u201368\n\nRobinson, Jackie, , , , ,\n\nRocker, John,\n\nRock the Vote,\n\nRolle, Antrel,\n\nRomney, Mitt,\n\nRomo, Tony,\n\nRooney Rule, the,\n\nRoosevelt, Franklin Delano,\n\nRose, Derrick,\n\nRosenthal, Gregg, 100\u20132\n\nRovell, Darren,\n\n_Rules for Radicals_ (Alinsky),\n\n_Rush Limbaugh Show_ , _The_ , 140\u201343\n\nRussia, 27\u201328\n\nRuth, Babe,\n\nRyan, Bob, 125\u201329,\n\nRyans, DeMeco,\n\n**S**\n\nSalita, Dmitriy,\n\nSam, Michael, 29\u201330,\n\ncoming out, 72\u201375\n\nexcessive sports media coverage of, x\u2013xi, , 50\u201351, 77\u201387,\n\nNFL draft and, , 76\u201377, 80\u201381,\n\nshown kissing his boyfriend, , 80\u201383\n\ntime spent on NFL rosters, 50\u201351\n\nSan Antonio Spurs,\n\n_San Diego Union-Tribune_ ,\n\nSan Francisco ers, 18\u201319, ,\n\nresponse to Chris Culliver comments,\n\nSan Francisco Giants,\n\nSB 1062 (Arizona), , . _See also_ \"anti-gay bill\"\n\nSchlussel, Debbie,\n\nSchroeder, Jay,\n\nScott, Bart, 144\u201345\n\nSeattle Seahawks, ,\n\nSeau, Junior, ,\n\nSeligmann, Reade, 164\u201365,\n\nSeptember 11, 2001, attacks (9/11),\n\nsexual assault, , 159\u201361, . _See also_ rape\n\nShanahan, Michael \"Mike,\" 181\u201384\n\nShanks, Eric,\n\nSharp, Drew,\n\nSharpton, Al, , ,\n\nShelf Life Clothing, 61\u201362\n\nShelly, Ben, 63\u201365,\n\nSherman, Joel,\n\nSherman, Richard, 173\u201375,\n\nShillue, Tom,\n\nShowtime,\n\nSilver, Adam, 20\u201321\n\nSimmons, Gene,\n\nSioux, the, 55\u201356,\n\n_60 Minutes_ ,\n\nSlate,\n\nslave masters,\n\nslavery, 141\u201343, , 197\u2013200\n\nslaves, 10\u201311, , , 198\u2013200\n\nSmith, Lovie, 108\u20139\n\nSmith, Stephen A., , ,\n\nSnyder, Daniel \"Dan\"\n\nBen Shelly and, 63\u201364,\n\nrefusal to change Redskins name, ,\n\nsoccer,\n\nSouth, the, ,\n\nSpielman, Rick,\n\nSpirit Lake tribe,\n\n_Sports Center_ , ,\n\n_Sports Illustrated_ , , , , 157\u201358, 166\u201368\n\nsports media,\n\nanti-Christian biases of the, , , 37\u201338, 42\u201347, , 51\u201352, , , , 98\u2013104, 106\u201311,\n\n\"anti-gay\" bill (SB 1062) and, 24\u201331\n\nBill Maher and 145\u201348\n\nconcussions in football and, 116\u201319, , 125\u201331\n\ncoverage of Donovan McNabb, 135\u201337, 139\u201340\n\ncoverage of Ferguson protests, 16\u201317\n\ncoverage of Jason Collins, 71\u201372, 82\u201387\n\ncoverage of Michael Sam, 50\u201351, , 78\u201382, 84\u201387\n\ndefense of Rush Limbaugh, 139\u201340\n\ndefense of Tim Tebow, 111\u201312\n\nhow to fix politicization of the, 201\u20133\n\nignoring Native Americans who support Redskins name, 56\u201359, 64\u201369\n\nliberal political agenda of the, ix\u2013xi, , 9\u201311, 13\u201317, , , 34\u201338, , , 60\u201363, 74\u201387, , 106\u20137, , , , , , , 174\u201375\n\nnarrative created in Duke lacrosse case, 149\u201372\n\nNew Racism and the, 178\u2013200\n\nRush Limbaugh and, 135\u201348\n\nTrayvon Martin and the, 2\u20136, , , ,\n\nas unfamiliar with real world of sports and teammates, 190\u201393\n\nuse of \"thug\" by the, 174\u201375\n\nvilification of Tim Tebow, 76\u201378, 85\u201386, 98\u2013108,\n\nSportsMediaWatch.com,\n\nStark, Jayson,\n\nStarnes, Todd,\n\n_State of the Union_ ,\n\nStepford Wives,\n\nStern, David, ,\n\nSt. Louis Blues,\n\nSt. Louis Rams, 15\u201317, , , , 145\u201346\n\nStrong, Charlie, 178\u201380\n\n\"St. Timmy.\" _See_ Tebow, Tim\n\nSumlin, Kevin,\n\n_Sunday NFL Countdown_ , , ,\n\n_Sunday Night Football_ , , ,\n\n_Sun Sentinel_ ,\n\nSuper Bowl game, , , , , , ,\n\nfirst black quarterback to win a,\n\nSuper Bowl XLI (2007), , 108\u20139\n\nSuper Bowl XLII (2008), 88\u201389\n\nSuper Bowl XLIV (2010), , , 110\u201311\n\nSuper Bowl XLVII (2013),\n\nSuper Bowl XLIX (2015), 24\u201326, 29\u201330, 126\u201327\n\nSuper Bowl LXXIV (2040),\n\n**T**\n\ntaj,\n\nTallahassee Police Department,\n\nTebow, Bob,\n\ntebowing,\n\nTebow, Pam, ,\n\nTebow, Tim\n\nChristianity of, , 75\u201376, , , , 98\u2013113\n\ncompared with other Christian athletes, 107\u201310\n\ndraft party of,\n\nGene Simmons's defense of,\n\nGregg Doyel's writings on, 102\u20135,\n\nJeff Pearlman's writings on, 76\u201378\n\nKurt Warner's advice for,\n\nPete Prisco's columns on,\n\nPro Football Talk's Wonderlic test story and, 100\u20133\n\nsports media's effect on career of, 85\u201386, 97\u2013113,\n\nStephen Tulloch's mocking of, 105\u20136\n\nas \"St. Timmy,\"\n\nSuper Bowl commercial of, 98\u201399,\n\nterrorists, terrorism, 39\u201340\n\nTexas, , , , , 178\u201381\n\n_ThinkProgress_ (blog), ,\n\nThomas, Etan, 9\u201311,\n\nThomas, Owen, 120\u201321\n\n\"thug,\" , , 174\u201375\n\n_Tipping Point_ , _The_ (Gladwell),\n\nToettcher, Fred,\n\nTribe Called Red, A,\n\nTulloch, Stephen,\n\nTupac,\n\nTurning Stone Casino,\n\nTwitter, , , , ,\n\naccount of Gabby Douglas,\n\nArizona's SB 1062 and, 27\u201328\n\nbacklash against Manny Pacquiao on,\n\nChris Kluwe's comments on,\n\nDavid Tyree and gay conversion comment,\n\nESPN accounts and,\n\nJason Whitlock joke on,\n\nMatt Barnes N-word tweet and,\n\nMiami Heat and,\n\nresponse to Ben Shelly and, 63\u201364\n\nresponse to Richard Sherman and,\n\nTyree, David, 88\u201391\n\n**U**\n\nUkraine, ,\n\nUnited States\n\ngovernment of the, , ,\n\npresident of the, , ,\n\nUniversity of Florida Gators, 99\u2013101\n\nUniversity of Louisville, 179\u201380\n\nUniversity of Missouri, ,\n\nUniversity of Nebraska, 40\u201341\n\nUniversity of Pennsylvania National Annenberg Election Survey,\n\nUniversity of Texas (UT), 178\u201380\n\nU.S. Army, the,\n\n_USA Today_ , , , ,\n\nU.S. Department of Justice, ,\n\nU.S. government, the, , , 66\u201368, , , ,\n\nU.S. Senate, the, , ,\n\nU.S. Supreme Court,\n\n**V**\n\nVacchiano, Ralph, 138\u201340\n\nVecsey, George,\n\nVerlander, Justin, x\n\nVick, Michael, , , , 187\u201389\n\n**W**\n\nWallace, Michael, 3\u20134\n\nWall, John,\n\nWall Street,\n\nWalsh, Blair,\n\n_War on Football_ , _The_ (Flynn), ,\n\nWarner, Kurt, 104\u20135\n\nWashington, D.C., , , , ,\n\nWashington, George,\n\n_Washington Post_ , 9\u201310, , , , , 181\u201383, ,\n\nWashington Redskins, ,\n\nDonovan McNabb and the, 181\u201383\n\nNative Americans and the, 55\u201358, 62\u201365, 68\u201369\n\npossible name change of the, 53\u201359, 62\u201369\n\nWFAA Dallas,\n\nWhite, Reggie, 107\u20138,\n\nWhite, Roddy, 13\u201314\n\nWhitlock, Jason, 8\u20139, ,\n\nWikipedia,\n\nWilbon, Mike, , , 177\u201378, 180\u201383, 186\u201389, 196\u2013200\n\nWilliams, Doug,\n\nWilliams, Ricky,\n\nWilson, Darren,\n\nWilson, Paul,\n\nWilson, Russell,\n\nWinfrey, Oprah, ,\n\nWinston Churchill,\n\nWise, Mike, 82\u201384, 199\u2013200\n\nWojciechowski, Gene,\n\nWolken, Dan, 115\u201316,\n\nWonderlic test,\n\nWoods, Tiger, ,\n\nWorld Series, the,\n\n**Y**\n\nYahoo! Sports, ,\n\nYazzie, Tommy,\n\nYou Can Play foundation,\n\n**Z**\n\nZahn, Paula,\n\nZimmerman, George, 1\u20132, , , ,\n\nZirin, Dave, \n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Caesar's Footprints - Bijan Omrani"}, "text": " \nCAESAR'S\n\nFOOTPRINTS\n\nA CULTURAL EXCURSION TO ANCIENT FRANCE:  \nJOURNEYS THROUGH ROMAN GAUL\n\nBIJAN OMRANI\n\n_To Sam, Cassian and Beatrix_\n\n_The Amphitheatre at N\u00eemes. Like that of Arles, it was built around ad 70, and was converted into a fortification by the time of the Visigoths. It functioned as a town in its own right, until being restored to its more recognizably Roman form (and function), for bullfights and other public spectacles, in the mid-nineteenth century._\nContents\n\n_List of Maps_\n\n_A Note on Terminology_\n\n_Introduction_\n\nI \u2022 Gaul Before Caesar\n\nII \u2022 Caesar's Command\n\nIII \u2022 The Taming of Gaul\n\nIV \u2022 Tales of the Imagination\n\nV \u2022 When in France\n\nVI \u2022 High Life and City Chic\n\nVII \u2022 Country Life\n\nVIII \u2022 The Dignity of Labour\n\nIX \u2022 In Their Own Words\n\nX \u2022 Blood of the Martyrs\n\nEpilogue: From an Empire to a Dream\n\n_Bibliographical Notes_\n\n_Bibliography_\n\n_Picture Credits_\n\n_Acknowledgements_\n\n_Index_\nList of Maps\n\nPage numbers listed correspond to the print edition of this book. You can use your device's search function to locate particular terms in the text.\n\n1 \u2022 The tribes of Gaul at the time of Caesar \u2022\n\n2 \u2022 The course of the Rh\u00f4ne from Geneva to the Pas de L'\u00c9cluse \u2022 -\n\n3 \u2022 The Battle of Bibracte \u2022\n\n4 \u2022 The Battle of Gergovia \u2022 -\n\n5 \u2022 The Battle of Al\u00e9sia \u2022 -\n\n6 \u2022 Julius Caesar's invasions of Britannia \u2022 -\n\nMaps 2\u20135, together with the map that appears in the endpapers, were prepared by Colonel Stoffel in the 1860s during the archaeological investigations ordered by Napoleon III into the Gallic conquests of Caesar. They were first included in Napoleon III's _Histoire de Jules C\u00e9sar,_ published in 1866.\nA Note on Terminology\n\nThe use of the words 'Celtic', 'Gaul' and 'Gallic' caused considerable difficulty to classical authors, who could not agree on their exact meanings. There was a debate as to whether all Gauls were Celts, or whether they were mutually exclusive, and whether the term Gallic should be used to denote just those peoples living in the southern and western areas of modern-day France (as opposed to those who lived in the Belgic or Aquitanian regions). This difficulty exists as much for contemporary authors. For simplicity, I use the word 'Gauls' to describe those people who lived in the area designated by Julius Caesar as Gaul.\n\nAnother challenge is the use of ancient and modern place names. Here, I make no great claims to consistency. In general, I have tended to use ancient place names when talking about the places in the Roman context. However, this is not always the case. For example, I have stuck with Autun rather than persistently using the lengthy ancient name of Augustodunum. Both ancient and modern names of places are given in the index for clarity.\nCAESAR'S\n\nFOOTPRINTS\n\nIntroduction\n\nTHE IDEA FOR WRITING THIS book came to me a few years ago, while I was teaching a Latin lesson. It was a Wednesday morning deep in the winter term, period two. I was conducting a Latin language session with a bright but not especially motivated lower sixth. The unfortunate fodder for this exercise was the fifth book of Julius Caesar's _Commentaries on the Gallic War,_ describing his conquest of Gaul between 58 and 50 BC.\n\nThere was something almost ritualized about the pupils' misery during these sessions. The use of Caesar as fodder for teenage children to take their first steps in translating 'real' Latin, after leaving behind the safety of language textbooks, is an ancient tradition. Say 'Caesar' to anyone who has been subjected to an education containing a classical component, and there are two likely reactions. One the one hand, a cheerful reminiscence of how good Caesar was for them: how wonderfully hard his writing worked their brain, as if his dialogues were specifically designed \u2013 like some formidable fibre-laced breakfast cereal \u2013 to improve their cerebral motions. On the other, a cross-eyed stab of agony, like thinking back to a mental version of the Somme, where all was muddy quagmire and barbed-wire entanglements formed of indirect statements enmeshed with ablative absolutes and gerundives of obligation. My lower sixth form class was very much in the latter camp.\n\nI hated it that, for generations of schoolchildren, this was the miserable end to which Caesar's account of the Gallic Wars was put. During that lesson, as someone, floundering in a particularly long and vicious stretch of _oratio obliqua_ ,* paused and expressed his total disgust for Caesar, _The Gallic Wars_ and the whole exercise, I felt compelled to pause and make a defence, if not of using Caesar for grammar bashing, then at least of Caesar's writing. It was, I pleaded, rather more than a random tale of legions being marched and legates being dispatched. The text stood as an extraordinary account of the very foundation of modern Europe: for it was by taking the heartlands of Gaul under their control that the Romans introduced the culture of the Latin Mediterranean to the European north. Without this conquest \u2013 which was not a historical inevitability, and which was undertaken on the spur of the moment because of Caesar's own political circumstances and all-consuming ambition \u2013 the Roman empire would likely never have had the reach or staying power that it attained. The modern languages of Europe would probably have been more Celtic than Latinate in nature. The literary classics of Virgil, Cicero and Ovid, and the masterpieces of ancient Greek literature that influenced them, might not have had such a profound impact on the Western tradition. The same is the case for classical ideas of philosophy, law, rhetoric, music and architecture. Christianity likewise would perhaps never have penetrated Europe as deeply as would prove to be the case. Without Caesar's conquest of Gaul, the map of modern Europe would look entirely different. There would have been no European neurosis springing from the memory of the barbarian invasions across the Rhine in the fifth century AD; no Charlemagne; no modern state of France; no Renaissance in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries \u2013 and very little likelihood that we would have been sitting in that classroom reading a classic work of Latin literature on a cold Wednesday morning.\n\nI expressed myself largely and eloquently. My class essentially told me to sod off. Not one to give up on a fight with my students, I determined then that I would do something to save Caesar from the slough of grammar and syntactical misery to which he \u2013 perhaps as fitting punishment from the Furies for the Olympian scale of his ambition \u2013 had been condemned.\n\nModern interest in Caesar tends to concentrate on what he did in Rome rather than on what he did in Gaul. It is the political intrigue that marked his rise to prominence and his victory in the civil war, and the period that led up to his assassination, that captures the twenty-first-century imagination. His time in Gaul, and his bloody activities there, are by contrast relegated to the classroom, and the wretchedness of grammatical exercises for reluctant schoolchildren. My aim in writing this book is to redress the balance: to place centre stage what Caesar \u2013 and the Romans who followed him \u2013 achieved in Gaul, and to explore their lasting and highly visible cultural legacy.\n\nThe purpose of this book is not to give a military account of Caesar's time in Gaul; nor, indeed, is it exclusively devoted to Caesar. There are many excellent works that already fill this niche. It is intended rather to examine the circumstances that led to the Roman conquest of Gaul, and to consider the reasons why, after the initial bloodletting of the Gallic Wars, it would prove to be such a long-term success: how the Roman transformation of Gaul laid the foundations of modern Europe. It therefore looks at the history of the engagement of Rome and Gaul and the cultural and economic impact of that connection. Physical evidence of this can still be seen on the ground, and parts of the book are devoted to the surviving vestiges of Roman Gaul \u2013 amphitheatres, aqueducts, triumphal arches, temples and mausoleums. I will also trace the impact of Roman Gaul on cultural ideas, literary remains and religious traditions.\n\nThe question as to how Rome managed to knit Gaul to itself so effectively that it remained a part of the empire for half a millennium has an enduring relevance. In an age in which the aspiration for European unity looks increasingly chimerical despite the blessings of technology and the modern era, it is instructive to look back to when this ideal, under Rome, was first born, how it was brought about and what \u2013 in the example of Gaul \u2013 was its cost. It is tied up in questions not just of material change, but also culture, and in particular how Rome dealt with outsiders and migration. The Roman movement into Gaul was arguably born as a response to the first European migration crisis for which we possess an eye-witness account (however slanted it may be). To describe Caesar and the conquest of Gaul is also to describe how Rome treated the 'barbarian other'. And this demands that we look at Caesar not just as a grammatical exercise, but as the brooding presence \u2013 the 'vast ghost' in the words of Lawrence Durrell \u2013 that still hangs over a Europe which struggles to be at one.\n\n*Indirect speech. For example, _'Magister est stupidus'_ (The teacher is stupid) is direct speech. _'Putat magistrum stupidum esse'_ (He thinks that the teacher is stupid) is indirect speech.\n\n_Detail of the Vix Krater, c. sixth century BC._\nCHAPTER I\n\nGaul Before Caesar\n\n_Factum eius hostis periculum patrum nostrorum memoria_  \n'We have made trial of this foe in the time of our fathers'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ 1.40\n\nMARSEILLES\n\n\u2022\n\nGREEK MIGRANTS\n\n\u2022\n\nSAINT-R\u00c9MY-DE-PROVENCE\n\n\u2022\n\nGALLIC MIGRANTS\n\n\u2022\n\nGALLIA CISALPINA\n\n\u2022\n\nENTREMONT\n\n\u2022\n\nTEUTONIC MIGRANTS\n\n\u2022\n\nORANGE\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE CRAU\n\n\u2022\n\nMONTAGNE SAINTE-VICTOIRE\n\n\u2022\n\nPOURRI\u00c8RES\n\n\u2022\n\nAIX-EN-PROVENCE\n\nOUR STORY BEGINS IN THE OLD port of Marseilles, where the masts of a vast fleet of sailing boats are reflected, ribbon-like, in the opalescent water. These are the same waters that lap at the harbour walls of cities across the length and breadth of the Middle Sea: Ajaccio, Genoa, Algiers, Athens, Alexandria. Water, boats and masts seem to vaporize in the heat, suspended in a haze of ochre and peach dust above the grand frontages measuring the length of the quay. At the traffic lights, a figure in a brown chador washes windscreens for a handful of cents. In a shuttered doorway, sitting on a sleeping bag, an Arab man skins plastic from copper cables with a crooked knife, his young son curled up beside him on a bed of cardboard and dirty cushions.\n\nTheir origins may lie elsewhere, but Marseilles is _their_ city. Just as, east of the city, the limestone cliffs of the Massif des Calanques shelter a diverse array of herbs and flowers, so Marseilles has always provided a refuge for new arrivals from foreign shores. A curtain of low mountains \u2013 the Garlaban and Massif de l'\u00c9toile \u2013 is draped beyond the city's suburban shoulder like a protective cowl, shielding it from the suspicions of the north. Marseilles was founded not by Romans but by Greeks: it is, therefore, older than Caesar, though not older than Rome. But it was a place of wealth and taste long before Rome made its mark on the wider world. It had no great aspirations to empire or dominion like Rome, no serious martial tradition, but was happy, like Venice after it, to cling to a redoubt in a hostile hinterland \u2013 so long as it could make money as a middleman from trading upon the sea.\n\nBut, in truth, this city is a cousin to Rome. They are alike in the stories of their birth. They were early friends. They shared their fears, neuroses and hypocrisies. It was through Marseilles that the culture of the Mediterranean made its original entry into Gaul and so into northern Europe. Marseilles prepared the way for the coming of Caesar and the Romans, and presaged the mindset that drew Caesar into conquest. To understand the lure and the myth of the ground that Caesar would tread in Gaul, we must first understand Marseilles.\n\nThey came in search of a better life. Their original home, the Ionian Greek city of Phocaea, lay far to the east, clinging to the rocky scourings off the coast of Asia Minor, modern-day Turkey, north of Izmir. The land was crowded, stony and infertile. The Phocaeans thus became accustomed \u2013 according to the Gallo-Roman historian Pompeius Trogus, writing in the first century BC \u2013 to wandering and making a living from the sea. They were the first of all the Greeks, so Herodotus says, to make long journeys on the Mediterranean for the sake of trade. They conducted business past the Hellespont in the north, Egypt in the south, and Spain in the west. But the demographic pressures on their native city led many of them not just to travel, but to abandon Phocaea altogether and settle elsewhere. Some of their colonies, such as Lampascus in the Dardanelles, were close to home; others \u2013 Al\u00e9ria in Corsica or Emp\u00faries in Catalonia \u2013 were far away. The first wave of Phocaean migration, at the end of the seventh century BC and early in the sixth, was voluntary; the second, in the middle of the sixth, came about as a result of war. Cyrus, king of Persia, determined to seize the Greek hinterland in Asia Minor and captured Phocaea in 546 BC; its entire population fled.\n\nMarseilles was born of the first wave of Greek migration, and augmented by the second. Gaul would not have been completely unfamiliar to the Phocaeans, but it was certainly replete with mystery and danger. The tenth labour of Heracles* \u2013 to kill Geryon, the three-bodied giant, and steal his cattle \u2013 led him to traverse the coast of the Mediterranean through Spain and southern Gaul. The land even bore the scars of his journey: chased by the Ligurian tribes, Heracles was aided by his father Zeus, who flung rocks from the sky at his pursuers to cover his escape. According to local legend, the rocks that Zeus threw can still be seen in the dry, stony landscape around the town of Saint-Martin-de-Crau near the mouth of the Rh\u00f4ne. Closer to the Phocaeans' own experience, the Phoenicians of the Levant, the Etruscans from northern Italy and other Ionian Greeks had \u2013 over a number of centuries \u2013 carried on a fitful trade with the coast-dwellers of southern Gaul, but there was no sign that they had put down a permanent presence.\n\nThe Phocaeans were to change this. At the beginning of the sixth century BC, according to Trogus, Phocaean ships sailed into the mouth of the Rh\u00f4ne and found it to be an inviting place. Quite apart from its favourable location, at the hub of a trading route that could stretch from the furthest reaches of the Mediterranean, via the river Rh\u00f4ne, into the unexplored interior of Gaul, there were safe natural harbours and fine stretches of pleasant land protected by an encircling wall of hills.\n\nAttracted by promising reports from these early visitors to southern Gaul, a fleet of migrants assembled in Phocaea. Its captains were Protis and Simos. They crossed the sea safely and arrived at the mouth of the Rh\u00f4ne, but they still had to win the right to settle the territory. The inhabitants of the area were the Segobrigii, whose king was Nannus. The legend of the coming of the Phocaeans is recounted not only by Trogus but also by Aristotle. They arrived on the very day that Nannus had appointed for his daughter, Gyptis, to be betrothed. When they approached Nannus to ask him for land on which to settle, the Greek captains found themselves invited to the nuptial festivities.\n\nIt was the custom at these events for the bride herself to choose whom she would marry. The suitors would gather, and the bride would parade around them clutching a goblet of water, or wine, says Aristotle, before finally giving it to the man she wished to be her husband. That night, after the local chiefs had assembled with the newcomers in their midst, they were astonished when Gyptis handed the goblet to Protis. Nannus, believing that a god had guided her choice, did not stand in her way, and granted the Greek migrants the site of Marseilles, then called Massalia.\n\nTrogus's account of the legend is broadly similar to that of his Greek predecessor, but Aristotle gives the protagonists different names. In Aristotle's version, Protis was the son born of the marriage of the Greek newcomer and the daughter of the native king; the Greek captain's original name was Euxenus, meaning 'good stranger'; while the king's daughter was Petta (although she changed her name to Aristoxena \u2013 'best stranger' \u2013 on marrying Euxenus). The descendants of Protis still constituted a noble family in Massalia when Aristotle was writing in the fourth century BC. Whatever the truth of the legend of the marriage, the kernel of the story suggests that a union between the migrants and the native inhabitants took place at the moment of Massalia's foundation.\n\n_Remains of the ancient Greek and Roman port of Massalia, now silted up a few streets inland from Marseilles' old port._\n\nThe city was a great success. Standing in the ancient harbour of Massalia, now silted up a few streets inland from the old port, it is difficult to envisage the prosperity of the early days of the Greek colony. One cannot see the theatre or the temples the Phocaeans built nearby for their migrant gods, Artemis and Apollo. The harbour walls, water tanks and tower bases built of well-squared Roman blocks overtop the Greek originals of the earliest generations; it is only beneath the elegantly grooved Cassis\u2020 stone slabs on the Roman roadway leading from the quayside that traces of the sixth-century Greek road, which lies below the Grand-Rue of the modern city, can be discerned.\n\nTo see the early success of the colony, one must look beyond the city to wider Gaul and to the impact that the Greek presence had on the tribes deep in the Gallic heartland. In the sixth century BC, the interior of Gaul was under the sway of a proto-Celtic society \u2013 the Hallstatt culture, as it is conventionally termed by archaeologists. It was a society of the warrior chieftain. It possessed a special skill in metalwork, particularly iron, and the manufacture of weapons. The highest members of its aristocracy, perhaps ultimately migrants from the eastern steppes, were buried in timber chambers beneath tumuli, laid out on four-wheeled chariots decked in bronze. They displayed their power through ownership of an abundance of rare and exotic goods, which they could freely distribute to enhance their prestige and also attract new followers. It was the presence of the Greeks that gave them access to these desirable items, and even prompted them to develop this hierarchical society. Greek traders, with their links to the ateliers in the east, brought luxuries to Massalia and from there they were transported along the Rh\u00f4ne and Sa\u00f4ne to the deep heartlands of Gaul. Perhaps in return for tin, or iron, or slaves, the noble classes were able to secure fine examples of Greek workmanship as tokens of their own authority.\n\nBy examining some of the archaeological finds of this age, it is possible to imagine how Gallic tribesmen might have reacted when they first set eyes on the luxury imports of the Greeks. For a vignette, let us set the date at 520 BC, at a Gallic settlement on the flat-topped hill of Mont Lassois by the upper reaches of the Seine in northeastern Burgundy. A number of boxes have been brought up the hill into the camp of wooden huts and palisades. The boxes contain together just one item, but being a heavy import, it is flat-packed for self-assembly. Fortunately, there are instructions \u2013 scratched-on Greek letters, indicating which part should be joined to which. As the tribesmen labour to join the pieces together \u2013 handles, stand, cover \u2013 the item takes shape. It is not easy work. The item is metal, refulgent hammered bronze, weighing over 200 kilograms, with individual components of as much as 60 kilograms. When finished, it stands at least as high as the tribesmen, at 1.6 metres (5 foot 4 inches). This is no simple bookshelf or bedstead, but a colossal 1,200-litre wine cauldron, or _krater._ It is the largest such item known from the ancient world, and is intricately and skilfully worked. Gorgons, menacing, with snakes in their hair and tongues sticking out through grimacing smiles, glare from the handles, as do rampant lions, their muscles taut and claws digging into the metalwork, while their tails echo in their curve the elegant whorls and scrolls chased into the rim and the volutes of the handles. In a band below the rim that runs the whole circumference of the _krater_ , Greek soldiers, hoplites, march in an endless parade. They are naked save for great fan-crested helmets (whose plumage reaches down to their waist), greaves and round, dish-like shields strapped to their left arms. Some ride on chariots whose horses, ambling and stately, peer inquisitively at the new owners of the _krater._\n\nThe tribesmen, who then had no native tradition of sculpture, would have felt similarly curious. They would have recognized and appreciated the chariots, but the panoply of Greek art and decorations \u2013 and the complex religious and social ideas that they expressed \u2013 would have been quite incomprehensible to them at this point in time. In a classical Greek context, such a _krater_ would have been used for mixing wine and water at a symposium, or drinking party, where the atmosphere would have been that of easy aristocratic conviviality. In the Gallic context, however \u2013 to judge from investigations of other such _kraters_ dating from sixth-century BC Gaul \u2013 it seems more likely they were used for mead, not wine. Their role in Gallic feasting was not simply as a drinking vessel, but to impress on the guests the power of the owner: they expressed hierarchy, not conviviality. They might even have had a religious function. In the very earliest stratum of Greek culture, the cauldron was associated with death and rebirth, a symbol of the abundant power of nature for regeneration. Such profundities were less likely to occupy the mind of a Greek party-goer of the sixth century BC, but these ideas were also indigenous to Celtic culture, and visible in surviving Celtic mythology.\u2021 Perhaps it was for the power of its religious symbolism that the cauldron was put to its final use, to accompany a lady of high status to the grave.\n\nWhen the _krater,_ now named the Vix Krater after the village nearest to the grave, was discovered in 1953, it provided compelling evidence of the impact of the Greek newcomers on the interior of Gaul in those early times. They had not at that stage brought about a fundamental change in culture, but they had introduced a material presence that would gradually affect Gaul in myriad ways. Following the import of _kraters_ and ceramic items, Greek methods were introduced into construction, agriculture and the arts. Solid buildings were built, with mud bricks on top of stone bases. Even on Mont Lassois, huge structures of wood but in imitation of Greek halls, or _megara,_ were erected. In the areas near Massalia, the olive and vine began to be cultivated. Local productions of ceramics in imitation of the Greek imports began. Silver coins, like those of the Greeks, were struck. The Greek alphabet was tentatively used for inscriptions in the local languages. Motifs from Greek art were taken up by indigenous artists: the figures and patterns from the imported wares formed the basis for the familiar style of what became known as Celtic art.\n\nAt the end of the sixth century BC there was an apparent breakdown in trade along the Rh\u00f4ne, as Etruscan rivals began to compete for business in the interior of Gaul using overland routes from northern Italy. Sites like Mont Lassois were abandoned, and Massalia turned its attention more to the southern coast of Gaul. The colony spawned a cluster of daughter colonies during the fifth century BC \u2013 Nice, Antibes, Agde, Monaco \u2013 increasing the Greek cultural presence in the south and marking a divergence from the northern interior. 'Such a radiance was shed over both men and things', writes Pompeius Trogus, 'that it was not Greece which seemed to have immigrated into Gaul, but Gaul that seemed to have been transplanted into Greece'.\n\n_The Vix Krater, an ancient Greek import into Gaul, discovered in 1953._\n\nThe Gauls had given the Phocaeans refuge and permitted them to found Massalia, but they were nonetheless uneasy. Trogus relates that a subject complained to the king of the Segobrigii by telling him the following fable: 'A bitch once asked a shepherd, when she was pregnant, for a place to give birth to her puppies. When he agreed, she asked again to be allowed to bring them up in the same place. Later, when her puppies were grown up, and she could depend upon their support, she seized the place as her own.' In such a way, the subject continued, 'the people of Marseilles, who are now regarded as your tenants, will one day become masters of your territory'.\n\nThe king began to fear. The immigrants were now too powerful to expel by open warfare, so he decided on a plot to remove them. Some of his strongest warriors would enter Massalia openly, as friends to the newcomers, to join in a festival. Others would lie concealed in carts, covered with baskets and branches. The king himself would hide with an army in the hills outside the city, waiting for the moment when \u2013 as the Massalians slept off the day's carousing \u2013 his agents within the city would throw open the gates. But, after the plot was set, one of the king's relatives told her Massalian lover what was afoot, and he rushed to alert the city authorities. The alarm was sounded. The Massalians, putting their celebrations on hold, scoured the city, rooting out and killing the intruders, before marching out of the city and destroying the army that was ready to trap them; even the king of the Segobrigii was killed. Thus did a reprise of the Trojan horse fail to overcome the Greeks.\n\nThis was not the only battle the Massalians had to fight. There were skirmishes in the sixth century BC with the north African city-state of Carthage, then the dominant naval power in the western Mediterranean, and their north Italian allies the Etruscans. Massalia and Carthage clashed over the capture of fishing vessels and perhaps the liberty of trade within Gaul itself. But it was on the landward side that the danger to the Greek colony was perhaps the greatest. Sometime before the end of the fifth century, Massalia was besieged by a large army of Gauls under a prince named Catumandus. It appears that, in response to Massalia's ever-growing prosperity, the neighbouring tribes had come together under Catumandus's banner/leadership. The legend of how Massalia came to be saved on this occasion, again recorded by Trogus, is telling. One night during the siege, when Catumandus was asleep outside the city walls, he saw a vision of a fearsome-looking woman. She told him she was a goddess, and ordered him to make peace with Massalia. Terrified, he begged the Massalians to allow him to enter the city by himself to worship their gods. As he came into one of the unfamiliar temples he saw, in a portico, a statue of Athena. Recognizing her as the goddess who had appeared in his sleep, he told the Massalians of his dream, and said that, since they were under the protection of the gods, he would leave them in peace. Before departing, he left what must have seemed to the onlookers a barbarous offering on her shrine: a Gallic neck torque, laid in submission to the most Greek of goddesses.\n\nIt is difficult to believe that the Gauls were easy neighbours for the Greek incomers. Some scholars, it is true, do not hold to this opinion. They observe that the stories portraying the Gauls as barbarous warriors who terrified their opponents are seen only in texts after the third century BC, particularly following wide-ranging Gallic attacks on Delphi and Asia Minor (Trogus was writing in the first century AD). They also point out that the Gauls bought goods from the Greeks, and began over time to imitate Greek ways. However, the Gauls used many of those Greek ways and ideas in a fashion that the latter must have found unnervingly beyond their cultural comprehension. The Gauls scarcely ever received good press among Greek authors based in mainland Greece. Authors such as Aristotle asserted that the Gauls were warlike, obsessed with drinking, cruel to their children for the sake of toughening them for battle, and bold to the point of irrationality. It might be easy to dismiss such writings as the projection of cultural clich\u00e9s on a distant other. But setting eyes on some of the remains, one wonders if these Greek writings had more than a modicum of truth in them.\n\nIn the centre of St-R\u00e9my-de-Provence, a dozen miles south of Avignon, stands a complex of Roman baths. Its walls are mostly intact, though the ancient buildings have been integrated into a warren of tall and handsome Renaissance townhouses. The little square outside is filled with tubs of white flowers. It was near here, in the Asylum of St Paul about a mile outside the town, in the midst of wide olive groves, that Vincent van Gogh spent the last months of his life. But in the inner recesses of the baths, which now house a selection of the archaeological finds from the nearby Gallic settlement of Glanum \u2013 a town based around a healing spring that fell strongly under the Greek influence of Massalia \u2013 is an item that speaks of more than a severed ear. Next to a storeroom, laid out on packing crates, is a stone door lintel from Glanum. From a cursory glance, one might think it an unremarkable Greek or Roman relic. The surface is well-squared, although battered by time, and topped with finely carved egg and dart mouldings. More arresting, however, are the six visible head-shaped niches gouged into the polite Greek stonework. These niches were, indeed, for heads. A Greek scholar, Posidonius, who travelled in Gaul at the end of the second century BC, records his difficulty in getting used to the sight of severed human heads on public display. On occasion they were strung like beads on a bracelet to adorn the neck of a horse, or preserved in linseed oil and kept in store chests to be proudly brought out on special occasions. Sometimes they even served practical uses. Livy writes that in 215 BC, the general Lucius Postumus, who was campaigning in Gallia Cisalpina, was captured and killed by members of the Gallic Boii tribe who then proceeded to clean out his skull, cover the scalp with beaten gold, and use it as a drinking vessel. No Gaul would want to part with the heads that they had won or inherited. They were marks of success in war, and a sign of the endemic competitiveness between Gallic warriors for the greatest glory in battle. Examples of lintels and pillars for displaying heads have been found at Roquepertuse and Entremont, sometimes with the skulls of the victims themselves pierced with iron spikes to secure them to the display space. The custom of exhibiting the severed heads of enemies would have been deep rooted when the Greeks arrived, and remained the norm even in the area close to 'civilized' Massalia throughout the Greek period. For all the willingness of the Gauls to adopt Greek artistic and architectural styles, Greek consciousness of the Gallic proclivity for head-hunting must have induced a fear of their underlying bellicosity, a primal terror of the brutalities they were capable of inflicting.\n\nThe 'Terror Gallicus' was the abiding impression that the Gauls left behind after their first encounter with the Romans. And it was an encounter that very nearly led to Rome's early extinction.\n\nThe Celtic Gauls, according to some accounts, were first present in the north of Italy as early as the sixth century BC. A grave stele found at Bologna, dating to the fifth century BC and depicting an Etruscan on horseback in combat with a characteristically naked Celt, suggests that Gallic warrior bands had taken up residence south of the Alps by this time. However, the first major incursion of Gauls into Italy appears to have taken place in the fourth century BC.\n\nThe ancient historians offer various explanations for their arrival. One reason given is the desire of deprived northerners for the luxuries of the south. According to Pliny the Elder, a Gallic craftsman from Switzerland who lived in Rome for a time sent back to his homeland dried figs and grapes, as well as samples of olive oil and wine. 'We may offer some excuse, then, for them, when we know that they came in quest of these various productions, though even at the price of war,' remarks Pliny indulgently. Livy reports a legend that one citizen of an Italian town sent presents of wine to Gallic warriors to lure them south of the Alps; once they arrived, he hoped to employ them to rid himself of an otherwise untouchable local dignitary who had been sleeping with his wife.\n\nPerhaps the vintages of the south were indeed one of the leading attractions for the Gauls. However, the ancient historians acknowledge that there was more to their movements than this alone. Both Polybius and Livy (writing respectively in the second and first centuries BC) state that, as was the case with the Greek migration from Phocaea, Gallic migrations into northern Italy were triggered primarily by overpopulation in the Gallic heartlands. Livy explicitly recognizes the analogy between the southward movement of the Gauls and the northward movement of the Phocaeans. Placing the movements at the same time in the sixth century BC, he says that the wandering Gauls took the migration of the Phocaeans to Massalia as a good omen, and that each helped the other in their journey. To explain the circumstances of the Gallic migration, Livy tells the tale of one of the most powerful kings in Gaul, who had been so successful and had obtained so many followers that his kingdom had become overpopulated and difficult to manage. As he himself was growing old, he ordered his two nephews to set out in search of new kingdoms. He told them to take as many followers as they needed to overcome any opposition they might encounter on their journey. The nephews looked to heaven for signs indicating which way they should take: the less fortunate of the two found himself heading for the uplands of southern Germany; the other was assigned 'the much pleasanter road' to Italy.\n\n_Stone heads from the Gallic oppidum _of Entremont, second century_ BC._\n\nThis legend may reflect part of a wider truth. Archaeological evidence suggests that there was a rapid depopulation in Champagne and around the upper stretches of the Marne at the beginning of the fourth century BC. This was the starting point for an established route that led south, via the Rhine, to the Great St Bernard Pass and across the Alps. However, Livy's legend may also reflect an economic impetus behind the Gauls' southward migration. As has been said, Gallic chiefs relied on abundant wealth for their prestige. Aside from sporadic trade, the other source of such wealth was raiding. A successful chief who had gained a large entourage of warriors after a spell of local raiding would be compelled to raid further afield to support them. As the quantity of plunder increased and the warrior entourage swelled in number, the chief was caught in a vicious cycle of success. He had to lead his ever-increasing band of followers further and further afield to win sufficient plunder to maintain his authority and prestige. Eventually, the raids necessary to sustain him covered such a distance that they took on the character of a sudden long-distance exodus. Whether or not it was such an imperative that led the Gauls into Italy, the Gallic culture of raiding goes some way to explain the character of the first encounter between the Gallic migrants and Rome.\n\nClassical authors spoke admiringly of the movement of the Phocaeans and the foundation of Massalia. It represented, among other things, an extension of the Hellenic world, and hence civilization. Aristotle himself wrote a work in praise of the constitution of Massalia. But the movement of the Gauls south into Italy was not so well regarded. By about 400 BC, the Gallic migrants had established a number of settlements in the valley of the River Po. The Greek historian Polybius, writing about 250 years after this time, reflects an impression of the new arrivals that would have been commonly held by his Roman readership, even if he errs in the detail or repeats _id\u00e9es re\u00e7ues._ They lived, he says, in unwalled villages, and had no knowledge of the refinements of civilization. They were unacquainted with art or science. They slept on straw and leaves, ate meat, and had no occupations other than war and agriculture. Polybius's account hints at a raiding culture. Their only possessions were cattle and gold, since these were easily portable. It was of the greatest importance to have a following, and whoever had the largest following was the most powerful and the most feared.\n\nThe Romans, at this time, knew little of the Gauls. Rome was then a rising power on the Italian peninsula \u2013 significant, but not without its rivals. Just after the turn of the fourth century BC, it had captured the important Etruscan city of Veii, ten miles to the north of the city, and also subdued the tribes on the surrounding plain of Latium. Other enemies, nevertheless, remained further afield. The Samnites, to the south, were a potential threat, as was the Greek city-state of Syracuse in Sicily. To the north, the Etruscans likewise represented a danger to Rome. It was therefore hardly surprising that the Gauls, even though they had begun to enter Etruscan areas, were little noticed by the Roman authorities. Thus, reports Livy, when a lowly Roman plebeian one night heard a voice more than human near the shrine of Vesta calling 'Tell the magistrates that the Gauls are coming!' \u2013 the first, he says, that was known of the Gauls' approach in Rome \u2013 the warning was disregarded.\n\nThe Gauls' first port of call was Clusium, about ninety miles north of Rome. The sight of the new arrivals, according to Livy, threw the city into alarm. They came in their thousands, arrayed before the gates, men the like of whom Clusians had never seen before \u2013 outlandish warriors with strange weapons. Clusium sent for help to Rome. The citizens hoped to be able to deal with the Gauls peaceably, but that the Romans would support them with arms if they could not.\n\nRome decided against sending any military assistance. Instead, they sent three envoys to warn the Gauls against harming Clusium. Livy muses that things might have ended very differently if the Roman envoys 'had not behaved more like Gauls than Romans'. When all the parties came together to negotiate, the Gauls demanded land from Clusium. They needed land, said a Gallic emissary, and besides, Clusium had more land than it could manage. At this point the Romans intervened, asking what right the Gauls had to demand land, and what they were doing there at all. The Gauls replied that they carried their right on the point of their swords. At that, a fight broke out. One of the Roman diplomats stabbed a Gallic chief with a spear, and began to strip him of his armour. When the Gauls realized what had happened, they turned their anger against Rome. They did not, according to Livy's account, immediately march against the city, but instead sent their own mission to demand the surrender of Rome's envoys, who had breached time-honoured convention by killing their chief while he was engaged on a diplomatic embassy. The Romans, however, not only flatly refused to comply with the Gallic demands, but appointed the men responsible to positions of military command for the following year, thus making them immune to prosecution. The Gauls now gave way to their 'characteristic uncontrollable anger'. Ignoring every other town and city on the way, they marched directly on Rome.\n\nThe Roman military preparations to meet the Gallic invasion were lackadaisical. An emergency force was assembled to block the Gauls' advance at the River Allia, about ten miles from Rome. However, it was disorganized and poorly led, and the Gauls swept it away without effort. Rome was thrown into a panic. With its army scattered, the decision was taken that able-bodied citizens and the Senate should retreat into the fortified Capitol and make a stand. The rest of the city was to be abandoned to the barbarian onslaught.\n\nSuch was the abiding trauma of the Gallic attack on Rome that it attracted all manner of myth-making to mitigate the reality of what was in truth a catastrophic defeat. Elderly grandees, says Livy, who were too frail to merit a place in the citadel, dressed up in the finery of their past offices and sat, dignified and statue-like, on thrones in the courtyards of their great houses \u2013 a sight that filled the Gauls with reverential dread. When the rest of the city had been burnt and the Capitol was under siege, one of the Roman priests, determined that the blockade should not prevent him from celebrating an annual sacrifice that was meant to take place on a particular spot, put on his vestments and walked calmly through the enemy lines to perform the ritual, unharmed. A flock of geese, sacred to the goddess Juno, were also famously hailed as heroes of the siege. The geese, resident on the Capitol, are said to have cackled and hissed as the Gauls attempted a night-time assault. This woke the Roman guards, who were able to repulse the attack.\n\nYet none of this mythologizing could efface the fact that this was Rome's most grievous defeat: traditionally dated to 390 BC, it was the only time that Rome would be sacked by an enemy before Alaric and the Goths 700 years later, in AD 410. A story Livy tells about the conclusion of the siege illustrates how Rome's shame persisted. After several months, the Romans, starving and hopeless, offered 1,000 pounds of gold to the Gauls to lift the siege. It was a proposal that the Gauls readily accepted. The desire for wealth was likely to have been one of the principal motivations for their attack: they were not experienced in siege warfare, the conditions in the disease-ridden, burnt-out city were not easy for them either, and they were eager to return and secure their northern base in Italy which was under threat from other tribes. A delegation from both sides met to weigh out the gold. As this was happening, the Romans realized that the Gauls were using doctored weights, heavier than marked. When they angrily objected, the Gallic leader Brennus, chief of the Senones tribe, threw his sword into the scales as well and said _'vae victis'_ ('woe to the conquered'): 'words intolerable to Roman ears', laments Livy.\n\nThe scars of the attack were still present and vivid even in Caesar's time in the first century BC, nearly 400 years later. The destruction of the city, writes Plutarch, led to the loss of the early records of Rome's history. When the Gauls departed, the Romans came close to abandoning the ruins of the city and decamping en masse to another. When they decided not to do so, the work of rebuilding was rushed and ill planned. Old boundaries were ignored. Buildings went up wherever there was space, and no one took measures to ensure that the streets were straight. Old sewers that originally ran under straight streets ended up beneath private property. It was because of the Gallic attack, writes Livy, that the general layout of Rome in his time was more like a squatters' settlement than a properly planned city.\n\nBut the scars were more than physical. It took around thirty years after 390 BC for Rome to regain its authority in the immediate vicinity. This time was marked by social unrest in the city, as citizens from the lower plebeian order attempted to seize power from the patricians. All the while, the continuing threat from the newly arrived Gauls of northern Italy weighed heavily on Rome. The following centuries of Roman history are a litany of conflict with the Gallic incomers. On occasion, the latter would offer themselves as mercenaries to the opponents of Rome, including the Syracusians in the fourth century BC, King Pyrrhus in the early part of the third century, or Hannibal \u2013 another invader who attacked Rome from the north \u2013 in the later years of the second century. Sometimes they would ally with local tribes, such as the Samnites. On other occasions, the Gauls who had settled in the north would be impelled by further waves of Gallic migration to make incursions into Rome's expanding territory in the centre of the Italian peninsula, or join with the latest newcomers in making such attacks. It is a measure of the fear that the Gauls inspired in the Romans that the latter negotiated an early truce with the Carthaginian commander Hasdrubal, Hannibal's brother, in order to deal with what they saw as the more fundamental Gallic menace.\n\nThroughout this period, Roman prejudices vis-\u00e0-vis the Gauls seem to have hardened. Polybius, among others, describes the martial customs of the Gauls: they charged into battle with extraordinary shouts, sounding horns and war trumpets throughout their ranks. Some of their number fought naked in the front rank of battle. This made for a terrifying spectacle, the warriors being men of splendid physique and in the prime of life, their bodies adorned with gold necklaces and torques. It was a sight, says Polybius, that did indeed strike fear into the Romans, but when it came to the practicalities of battle, intimidating appearance was to be overcome with strict Roman discipline.\n\nIt is a contrast that is pursued ad infinitum by Roman authors. The Gauls were temperamental, volatile, boastful, given to rash displays of boldness at the start of a fight, but were incapable of channelling these qualities into an orderly plan of battle. If their initial \u2013 admittedly dangerous \u2013 impetus did not produce swift results, they lost heart and enthusiasm; they lacked the discipline necessary to fight a prolonged battle. Frequently, Gallic warriors are seen in the works of classical historians challenging Roman soldiers to resolve battles by single combat. A huge Gaul marches before the battle lines, boasting of his prowess, wielding a long slashing sword. A small and taciturn Roman, with an unglamorous short stabbing sword and a larger shield, comes to meet him. The slashing sword whistles past the Roman, or is rendered useless by its first contact with Roman blade or shield \u2013 an analogy between the sword and its Gallic wielder not lost on the Roman authors. The Roman, hiding safely behind his shield, then dispatches the Gaul with a brief and undramatic stab to the face or torso.\n\nThat the Gauls, in the words of Polybius, were swayed by 'impulse rather than calculation' was not just a point of military strategy. It was also a moral judgement. The clash with the Gauls was not only a fight for survival, but also for civilization. The Romans were the representatives of order: a bulwark protecting not only themselves, but also the rest of the Italian peninsular against the perpetual danger of a Gallic irruption with all the chaos that it would bring. The centuries of friction with the Gauls, Polybius suggests, were to some extent responsible for the ever more military character that Rome took on as it developed. They were also at the root of an abiding neurosis that was to play out to the end of the Roman empire: a fundamental terror of what lay beyond the northern frontier.\n\nFear of the Gauls impelled the Romans to move the frontier northwards, and to take under their control those areas south of the Alps that had been colonized by Gallic migrants. It was a slow, difficult, long-term undertaking, interrupted by the First and Second Punic Wars (264\u2013241 and 218\u2013201 BC). Rome established an early colony in Gallic territory on the Adriatic coast at Sena Gallica (modern-day Senigallia, close to Ancona) in 283 BC after defeating the Senones who had previously settled there. Following the First Punic War, they made further progress in the 220s BC, setting up outposts at Cremona and Piacenza, and settling colonists on the land. These colonists suffered further Gallic attacks; many were captured and sold into slavery by the Gauls in 200 BC. Nevertheless, further colonists were sent and the area was secured by the construction of a road, the Via Aemilia, connecting Piacenza (Placentia) via Rimini (Arminium) to Rome. After the Second Punic War, in which the Gauls had assisted Hannibal's invasion of Italy, Rome moved to take over the rest of the Po Valley. Their forces reached Lake Como in 196 BC, and further colonies were founded to secure the area, including Bologna (Bononia) in 189, and Parma and Modena (Mutina) in 183.\n\nWaves of migration marked the Roman seizure of control. Many of the Boii, a Gallic tribe that had settled around Bologna, returned northwards across the Alps. Yet, at the same time, a different Gallic grouping of migrants including 12,000 armed men, intent on raiding and settlement, attempted to enter the new area of Roman dominance south of the Alps. In 183 BC, they were set upon by the Roman legions, and those who were not killed were turned back north. Henceforth Rome would try to ensure that further such Gallic irruptions \u2013 all too reminiscent of the destruction of Rome 200 years previously \u2013 were prevented, if at all possible, from penetrating the Italian peninsula. The Alps were by no means a fully defensible border, but, by 180, they seemed a sensible place for the Romans to pause in their northern expansion; they proceeded to consolidate the regions captured by introducing Roman settlers and propagating a Roman way of life. This area, named Gallia Cisalpina ('Gaul-on-this-side-of-the-Alps'), was recognized as a province of Rome a century later, around 80 BC. In the first century BC, this province and its admixture of Gallic tribes and Roman colonists gave rise to three of the most Roman of writers: the historian Livy, and the poets Catullus and Virgil. Some scholars even claim to hear traces of Celtic in their voices.\n\nThe Romans themselves were originally migrants. If legend is to be believed \u2013 and it is a legend that the Romans certainly _did_ believe \u2013 they emerged as refugees from the east. In the beginning, they were Trojans. When Agamemnon and the Greeks destroyed the city of Troy, a remnant of its population fled the smoking ruins of the city and the prospect of enslavement, and, huddled in boats, sought a new life in 'Hesperia' \u2013 the Promised Land in the west. Led by a surviving prince of the Trojan royal house, Aeneas, they were driven from Asia Minor to the Adriatic, then to the north coast of Africa, and finally to the shores of the plain of Latium and the River Tiber in Italy. Their journey lasted for several years and was accompanied by deep suffering and privation. Even when they arrived in Italy, the promised Hesperia, there was no respite from their distress. The local population took exception to these newcomers from the east, and fought a bitter war against them. The new arrivals, marked by their piety and self-discipline, were ultimately successful, but as a price of their success they would ultimately have to discard their eastern language and their Asiatic dress in favour of those of Italy. According to Livy, it was the descendants of these Trojan emigrants who were to establish the city of Rome. The traditional date for this, according to the Roman antiquarian Varro, was 753 BC.\n\nIt is perhaps the fact that the Romans and Massalians had in common a shared memory of migrant origins that made for such affinity between the two peoples. Pompeius Trogus records a legend that the Phocaeans stopped at Rome on their way from Anatolia to southern Gaul and contracted an alliance with them even before the foundation of Massalia. Yet, if a birth in migration forged their affinity, it was not a feeling either side could extend to the migrant Gauls. Both Massalia and Rome saw themselves as bringers of civilization from the south. Trogus, who was of Gallic descent but wrote in Latin from a Roman perspective, described how the Gauls ultimately learnt a more civilized way of life from their Massalian neighbours: they learnt to lay aside or soften 'their former barbarity'. The Massalians taught them to cultivate their lands and enclose their settlements with walls, and to live according to laws rather than violence. Massalia's government, writes Strabo, was an aristocracy, and of all known aristocracies theirs was the best ordered. The Romans, pious and self-restrained, saw themselves as similarly blessed; they did not believe that good government and civilization \u2013 those qualities of the warm south that they themselves exemplified \u2013 would be found among the Gauls. 'Nothing is more inclement' than the region north and west of the Alps, writes the Roman historian Florus: 'The climate is harsh, and the disposition of the inhabitants resembles it.' Romans and Massalians shared a fear of the Gauls, compounded by their experiences of severed heads and near destruction.\n\nSome authors trace the idea of a Roman and Massalian alliance based on fear back to earlier times. Trogus claims that when news of the Gallic destruction of Rome reached Massalia in 390 BC, the Massalians went into a period of public mourning, and even offered the Romans their personal hoards of gold and silver to help pay for the ransom demanded by the Gauls. Whatever the case, by 150 BC Massalia was certainly appealing to Rome for assistance against their common enemy. The Romans, however, having advanced their northern frontier to the Alps by 180 BC, were reluctant to engage so soon in the complexities of Transalpine Gaul, having only so recently taken Cisalpine Gaul under their control. Yet the calls of their ally in adversity could not be ignored for ever. Thus Rome was led by Massalia into its first engagement with Gaul beyond the Alps.\n\nIn 125 BC, the Massalians were coming under increasing pressure from their Gallic neighbours, in particular the tribe of the Saluvii. They repeated their appeal to Rome for help. This time, the Romans agreed to assist them, and their legions were able to score a quick victory. However, once they had crossed the Alps, there was no going back, and they soon found themselves embroiled in further conflict. The king of the Saluvii fled to a neighbouring tribe, the Allobroges, who refused to surrender him. The fight thus widened to include the Allobroges and another tribe, the Arverni, who lived in what is now the Auvergne. The Romans not only demanded that the king be handed over, but also sought retribution on behalf of another Gallic tribe, the Aedui, with whom they had at some point made an alliance. The Aedui, like the Massalians, had complained to the Romans of aggression by the Allobroges and Arverni, and the Romans agreed to take their part.\n\nAlthough they were the invaders, the Romans had the advantage of military technology. According to Florus, they employed elephants against the Gauls; their ferocity, observed Florus, matched that of the barbarians. The Romans also brought siege weaponry, including stone-hurling ballistas, to break resistance at the Gallic _oppida,_ or fortified settlements. Yet, the fact that the Romans had to resort to such weaponry suggests that the Gauls near Massalia were not so sunk in backward barbarity as some Roman propagandists were pleased to portray them. One place where the Roman missiles were found was in the ruins of the _oppidum_ of Entremont. Close to Aix-en-Provence, on a rocky promontory overlooking a grand sweep of the Proven\u00e7al ranges receding into the lilac distance, Entremont is likely to have been the principal centre of the Saluvii. It was not a primitive settlement. Built in about 180 BC, its northern walls on the hillside are about 400 metres long, built of formidable squared-off blocks of stone, relieved every 50 metres by protruding bastions with rounded corners. Only part of the settlement has been excavated, but among the dry shivers of limestone knapped from the living rock of the hill, the lower courses of the walls of the buildings can be still be seen. It must have caused confusion for the Roman invaders when they captured it in 123 BC. Entremont was a settlement of long streets with substantial dwellings, workshops with ovens for melting metals, bakeries, stores of amphorae and stone presses for making olive oil. But at its centre there stood an imposing tower on the site of an earlier shrine: its entrance was adorned with carvings of human heads, and around it were scattered as many as twenty human skulls.\n\nThe picture of the Gauls as ferocious and hasty to arms is not fully borne out by the fragments of written accounts that we have of this period. Appian, a historian writing in the second century AD, states that the king of the Allobroges sent an ambassador during the conflict to one of the Roman commanders, Gnaeus Domitius, to sue for peace. The Roman commander was taken aback that the Gauls for the most part used dogs to guard the embassy party, but even more surprised that the greater part of the diplomacy was handled by a magnificently dressed musician. The musician began to improvise a lay on the excellence of the king of the Allobroges, and then the Allobroges themselves, and then even the Roman commander, praising his descent, his bravery and his wealth. But this early example of the bardic tradition in action availed them nothing. Not only were the musician and diplomatic song chalked up as a manifestation of the empty boasting of the Gauls, but their call for peace was turned down. Between 125 and 121 BC, battles raged along the lower Rh\u00f4ne. Thousands of Gauls were killed, others captured and enslaved, and the hostile tribes were pushed back a distance from the coast.\n\nMassalia and its own possessions were left intact, but before long Rome had taken control of a strip of territory that extended along the Mediterranean coast all the way to the Pyrenees. Since the Romans had acquired colonies in Spain over the previous century, this was a considerable boon, creating a land route that united their newly won international domains. The route from Italy to Hispania, traversing what is now Provence and Languedoc, was traced by Gaul's first Roman road, the Via Domitia. New Roman settlements sprang up across southern Gaul. Entremont was abandoned, but next to it Aix-en-Provence (Aquae Sextius) was established in 123 BC as a replacement, named after the Roman Consul Sextius Calvinus who was responsible for Entremont's destruction. Roman entrepreneurs rushed in to capitalize on the trade opportunities. Further conflict with tribes along the Rh\u00f4ne as well as the Carcassonne Gap and Garonne in the west led to the capture and re-establishment of further settlements \u2013 Vienne, Geneva and Toulouse (Tolosa) \u2013 as mercantile depots. Toulouse was connected to the Via Domitia by another new road, the Via Aquitania. Their intersection on the Mediterranean coast by the mouth of the River Aude was guarded by a new colony, Narbo Martius (Narbonne), which gave its name to the new Roman province in Gaul when it finally came to be formally constituted sometime in the early first century BC: Gallia Narbonensis.\n\n_The walls of Entremont, second century BC._\n\nThe conquest of a large strip of southern Gaul, however militarily and economically advantageous, was no guarantee of safety from the old threats that haunted the Roman imagination. Just a few years after the Romans had entered Gaul, a huge horde of migrants began to move across central Europe. They first made contact with the Romans in 112 BC, when they attempted to enter the land of a Roman confederate tribe through the region of Noricum in the south of present-day Austria. In the process, they came close to annihilating a Roman force tasked with keeping them away from their allies' territory. Only a storm that arose during the battle saved the Romans from complete destruction. The commander of the Roman force, Papirius Carbo, committed suicide out of shame at the defeat.\n\nAlthough they could have proceeded into Italy, the migrants turned instead west into Gaul. Their presence upset the order that Rome had recently established in and around the newly conquered territory. Tribes such as the Helvetii rose up, and settlements, including Toulouse, rebelled. The legions were ordered in to regain control. It was during this mission that the Romans again came face to face with the migrants at Arausio, the site of modern-day Orange, on the Rh\u00f4ne. This time, the encounter was an unmitigated disaster for the Romans. Divided forces, an ill-thought-out disposition of troops and class-based jealousy between the commanders led to calamity. Livy records that as many as 80,000 Roman soldiers perished in the rout, a figure endorsed even by some modern scholars. Scores of them drowned in the Rh\u00f4ne as, trapped between the river and their opponents, they tried to swim for safety and sank in their armour.\n\nRome was seized by panic. No one knew for sure who the migrants were. It was rumoured that some of them were called Teutones, and some of them Cimbri. Nor did anyone know where they came from. Some conjectured from the name 'Cimbri' that they were Cimmerians, from the sunless region at the edge of the earth where Odysseus had been to summon the dead from Hades. Others said that 'Cimbri' was simply a Germanic word for 'robber'. There were those who believed they were a branch of the Gauls, or Scythians, or Galloscythians, or a Germanic tribe. Another mystery was the nature of the language they spoke: whether it were a Celtic or Germanic tongue. What _was_ known was that the migrants were physically imposing specimens: tall, blueeyed, and savage in their manner. In the end, the classical geographers including Posidonius and Strabo concluded that they came from the region of Jutland, and had been forced to move because of some convulsion of the sea. It was reported that at least 300,000 people were on the move across Europe \u2013 armed men, women and children, their belongings piled in leather-covered wagons. Whoever they were, Rome was agreed on one thing: these were the new Gauls \u2013 the latest incarnation of the old threat from the north. It was feared that a repeat of the visitation of 390 BC, with the potential to sweep away Roman cities and Roman civilization, was imminent. On this matter, there was no dissent: the migrants could not be allowed into Italy. There was no room. Land, the Romans pleaded, was now in short supply. Indeed, land distribution had become a matter of contention on the Italian peninsula, with the Romans themselves divided into factions on the issue. They certainly did not want further competition from a group of barbarian incomers.\n\nThe Roman people entrusted the mission against the Teutones to the most successful commander of the age: Gaius Marius. The son of a peasant family from a provincial town in central Italy, he rose through the ranks on account of his military genius and Spartan temperament, gaining political offices in Rome as well as military preferment. He made a good marriage into an aristocratic family. Nevertheless, Marius belonged to the populist faction in Roman politics and many in the Senate were uncomfortable with his growing reputation. However, faced by the prospect of a mass incursion by a barbarian horde, they had no alternative but to turn to him in their hour of need. Marius, who had just returned in triumph from Africa leading a rebel king, Jurgurtha, in chains to the Capitol, was immediately despatched to Gaul.\n\nThe erratic movements of the migrant column gave Marius some breathing space. When he arrived in Gaul in 104 BC, shortly after the Battle of Arausio, the column veered westwards again and appeared to be heading for northern Spain. Despite this, Marius did not relax his guard. He began preparations to defend the route through southern Gaul into Italy, and readied his men for the conflict. Marius found the Roman legions demoralized, ill-disciplined and unfit. They were, unsurprisingly, terrified of encountering the migrants. Marius set about remedying this state of affairs. He would brook no idleness, leading the legionaries on runs and route-marches, and meting out harsh punishments for the slightest breaches of discipline. Aware of the problems of getting provisions inland quickly from the Rh\u00f4ne, he ordered his men to dig a canal from the port of Fos near Arles to run eastwards across the then marshy land of the Crau\u00a7 towards St R\u00e9my. As they waited for the migrants to turn back towards Italy, the morale and strength of the legions improved.\n\nBy 102 BC, it had become clear that the column of migrants had The flat area of land at the confluence of the Rh\u00f4ne and Durance rivers. wheeled round. It had also split into two discrete groups. The group calling itself the Cimbri was to return by a circuitous northern route to Noricum and from there to descend over the Alps into northeast Italy, near Vercellae in the Po Valley. The Teutones, by contrast, were to take the more direct route eastwards across southern Gaul, past Massalia and Aix, and then over the mountains. Marius, meanwhile, had made sure that his troops were generously provisioned, and had established them in a large fortified camp by the Via Domitia, perhaps near the town of Glanum and modern-day St R\u00e9my. The Teutones soon came into view: they had probably crossed the Rh\u00f4ne by the modern-day towns of Beaucaire and Tarascon. Their numbers, says Marius's biographer Plutarch, were limitless; they covered the open plain, and once they had pitched camp for the night, they challenged Marius to battle.\n\nMarius's soldiers, confined in the camp, were desperate to fight. They found the newcomers hideous to look at, their speech and cries outlandish. But Marius restrained his men and ordered them merely to observe the migrants from the ramparts of their camp. When the migrants attacked, they were repulsed. They then decided to strike camp and continue marching eastwards, bypassing the Romans. Such was their number, according to Plutarch, that it took six days for them to file past Marius's camp. As they went by, they shouted 'We're on our way to Rome \u2013 got any messages for your wives?' Once they had finally passed, Marius himself broke up his camp and followed them closely, but still kept his men from engaging. His intention was to accustom them to the sight of the newcomers, and by familiarity to remove the aura of invincibility that the migrants had won in their earlier battles with the Romans.\n\nThis pursuit continued until near Aix. Marius kept to the high ground, and to positions that were easy to defend but less favourable when it came to finding water. One evening, when his men looked down from the ridge on which they were stationed, they were infuriated to see some of the migrants, after eating their dinner, happily bathing and whooping in a stream fed by warm springs. These were men of the tribe of the Ambrones, who had played a leading role in the defeat of the Romans at Arausio. With some reluctance, Marius allowed his troops to attack, commenting that if they were prepared to pay for it with their own blood, they could get some water for themselves. A detachment of his men \u2013 indigenous to the area, but now serving Rome \u2013 charged down the hill. The Ambrones did their best to form rank and fight, but Marius's troops broke through. They pressed on to the wagons, where the women and children were huddled. The women, reports Plutarch, took up swords and axes to defend their possessions and their children, but many of them were cut down in the skirmish. The Ambrones then rejoined the main column of the Teutones. According to Plutarch, the place resounded all night long with their keening for their dead: '...not like the wailings and groanings of men, but howlings and bellowings with a strain of the wild beast in them, mingled with threats and cries of grief...'\n\nIt is likely that Marius was now stationed on the eastern slopes of Montagne Sainte-Victoire, just east of Aix, with his lines arrayed near the modern village of Puyloubier. The narrow valley of the River Arc opens out here into the wide green valley of Pourri\u00e8res. Apart from the traffic noise from the A8 _autoroute_ that now traverses the valley, this is a quiet place. Wild fennel grows luxuriantly from the dry ground; its stems, more often than not, are covered in pearl-like white snails. The air is thick with the aroma of marjoram and thyme. Aleppo pines and oaks with dusty brown leaves cover the slopes, along with vines rich with grapes, deep purple and frosted with bloom. Above, the towering ridge of Montagne Sainte-Victoire rises like an extended fin, sloping at first but then a sheer cliff of chequered rock in its highest register. Beneath the ridge is a band of pinkish-red earth.\n\nEager to go in for the kill after his successful assault on the Ambrones, Marius turned the valley into a trap. As the migrants debouched through a narrow gorge onto its open floor, he sent a detachment of 3,000 cavalry to gallop all the way round Montagne Sainte-Victoire and hide behind their rear guard. Marius himself likely drew up his main forces to block their way forward, spanning the entire valley from the modern town of Trets to Puyloubier on the slopes of Montagne Sainte-Victoire.\n\nThe Teutones advanced to the Roman lines to do battle. The Romans had the advantage of height, and as the migrants began to tire, the trap was sprung. The cavalry detachment appeared from its hiding place and charged. Confusion overtook the Teutones as Marius responded to the cavalry charge at the rear with his own charge from the heights. Pressed in both directions, the Teutones had nowhere to go. Those who attempted flight were cut down, and defence was impossible in the crush. The Romans showed no mercy. Women and children as well as armed men were killed indiscriminately. A few were spared, to be kept as slaves, but the rest were massacred. It is not known how many died in this battle, named after the nearby town of Aquae Sextiae; some writers suggest as many as 100,000. Rome was saved.\n\nMarius had no time to bask in the glory of his victory. His presence was required elsewhere, to halt the westward progress of the second column of migrants, the Cimbri, which had entered Italy via Noricum. They had overcome a Roman force at the Brenner Pass and reached a place called Vercellae, in what is now Piedmont. These migrants would suffer a similar fate at Marius's hands to that of the vanquished at Aquae Sextiae.\n\n_The dramatic ridge of Montagne Sainte-Victoire, which stands above the valley of Pourri\u00e8res._\n\nFrom the moment Marius departed Aquae Sextiae \u2013 his last gestures were a grand pyre of the Teutones's wagons and personal possessions offered as a thanksgiving, not to mention the sacrifice of a hundred prisoners thrown down Mont Sainte-Victoire at the prompting of a Syrian prophetess whom he kept in his retinue \u2013 he left an enduring reputation as a saviour of Rome. In the aftermath of the battle, the dead bodies of the migrants came to be seen as a blessing. The decaying corpses, too numerous to bury, helped fertilize the fields, and the bones were used by the locals to mark the boundaries of their vineyards. Even the modern French name of the valley, Pourri\u00e8res, is said to come from the Latin _campi putridi,_ the 'fields of putrescence'. The Roman triumph is reflected in the name Mont Sainte-Victoire, where a temple dedicated to Venus Victrix was later cloaked in a Christian guise. In an annual ritual celebrated up until the French Revolution, garland-wearing local villagers danced the _farandole_ and ran in procession, brandishing branches cut from box trees, crying 'Victoire!' Marius was a common name in the region until recent times. The Revolutionary leader Mirabeau, who represented Aix at the Estates-General in 1789, cited Marius as his inspiration. He was a friend of the people: the destroyer of the Teutones and the eventual scourge of the Roman aristocracy.\n\nMarius was married to an aristocratic woman named Julia, the sister of a senator. In 100 BC, shortly after Marius's destruction of the Teutones, the senator's wife gave birth to their third child, a boy called Gaius Julius Caesar. The boy's uncle \u2013 populist and military hero that he was \u2013 had set a fine example for his nephew to follow. And when Caesar, in time, found himself where Marius had put the migrants to the sword, he would follow that example with a vengeance.\n\n* Heracles is the Greek name for the hero Hercules\n\n\u2020 Limestone has been quarried at Cassis, a town east of Marseilles, since early antiquity.\n\n\u2021The Irish father-god Dagda possessed a cauldron with powers of rejuvenation. Similarly, the cauldron of the mythical character Da Derga could not only provide an unending supply of food, but also had the power to bring back life to the dead.\n\n\u00a7 The flat area of land at the confluence of the Rh\u00f4ne and Durance rivers.\n\n_An early bust of Julius Caesar, discovered in the Rh\u00f4ne in 2007._\nCHAPTER II\n\nCaesar's Command\n\n_Homines bellicosos populi Romani inimicos_  \n'A warlike tribe, unfriendly to the Roman people'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ 1.2\n\nTHE RISE OF CAESAR\n\n\u2022\n\nBEAUCAIRE\n\n\u2022\n\nVIA DOMITIA\n\n\u2022\n\nGENEVA\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE RH\u00d4NE\n\n\u2022\n\nCOLLONGES\n\n\u2022\n\nPAS DE L'\u00c9CLUSE\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE SA\u00d4NE\n\n\u2022\n\nMONTMORT\n\n\u2022\n\nBESAN\u00c7ON\n\n\u2022\n\nMULHOUSE\n\nGAUL WAS NOT ALWAYS PART OF Caesar's life plan. There is no sign, either from his own writings, or those of his ancient biographers, that he held the conquest of Gaul as a long-cherished ambition. In his early thirties, Caesar contemplated a statue of Alexander the Great and wept that Alexander, by the same age, had overcome the world while he himself could point to no achievement of note; but his lament, as described by Plutarch, did not extend to wishing he could overcome the old northern enemy of Rome.\n\nEven when he was entrusted with the military command of the Gallic regions for an initial five-year period from 58 BC, Caesar himself confessed that his attention was elsewhere. His command included not just Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul, but also the province of Illyricum, an area on the eastern coast of the Adriatic corresponding to parts of modern Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro and northern Albania. Illyricum was wealthy and unstable, a place that offered superb prospects for Roman generals in pursuit of military glory. Moreover, it was one of the strategic keys for the defence of northern Italy. The security of the region towards the Danube is a constant refrain in the military history of Rome, and Caesar well understood its importance and the opportunities it offered. Yet he was to reject Illyricum in favour of the distant wilderness of Gaul. His conquest of that territory was not undertaken by design, nor necessity; nor was it carried out, as was said of the expansion of the British empire, in a fit of 'absence of mind'. What led him to the conquest of Gaul \u2013 and thereby irrevocably to change the history and culture of Europe \u2013 was his own immediate political requirements: the need for spectacular military success to keep his political enemies at bay, and the need for cash to pay off his debts.\n\nThere is much that a citizen of a modern democracy would recognize in the politics of ancient Rome: the opportunity for ordinary people (women, slaves and foreigners excepted) to elect officials and vote on laws; a rigorous system of checks and balances regulated by law and custom to ensure that no part of government became over-mighty; debates in the Senate; the excitement, intrigue and gossip surrounding elections; political factions based on class, money and business interests; a political establishment whose wealthy members assume office from a sense of entitlement, either to use their terms for self-aggrandizement, or else to support their commercial backers; the struggles of brilliant outsiders to break into the cabal of power; long periods of stagnation in which vested interests refuse to deal with endemic problems; and the corruption of a well-meaning but outdated system of government by money and violence.\n\nWhen Caesar was born in 100 BC, the republican political system of Rome was gasping its last breath. Designed in the sixth century BC, when Rome was a mid-sized market town, it was incapable of dealing with the massive challenges it faced following the acquisition of a world empire. The greatest of these was the inequality of wealth in the Italian heartlands. The conquest of overseas territories from the third century BC onwards \u2013 Sicily, Carthage, Greece \u2013 led to the concentration of captured colonial wealth and opportunities for trade in a few aristocratic hands. Roman soldiers, however, began to suffer. Drawn from the rural peasantry, they were dependent on farming for their long-term livelihood. Originally, they would return to their smallholdings after short, seasonal campaigns. Now, they could be absent for years. Their farms fell into decay, and were increasingly bought up by the ever more affluent aristocracy who farmed them with cheap slave labour from the provinces. The demobilized soldiery, lacking pensions or any means of financial support, began to look to their individual commanders for their livelihood. The indigent landless began to fill Rome, with nothing to sell but their votes. At the end of the second century BC, aristocratic landowners holding the reins of power blocked moves to break up their great estates, formed from the old peasant freeholdings, and redistribute them to the Roman poor. The city became polarized. Loyalties shifted from the Republic to its successful generals, and party cliques formed behind the aristocrats ( _optimates_ ) on one hand, and the populists ( _populares_ ) on the other. At the head of a mass of poverty-stricken veterans and the unemployed urban mob, a successful commander, liberal with his gifts, could outdo in power any of the grand elected magistrates of Rome. The stage was set for a prolonged civil conflict.\n\nCaesar's uncle, Marius, lionized after his victory over the Teutones, was able to dominate politics in Rome at the beginning of the first century BC. He himself was of peasant origin, and made himself the leader of the _populares._ To the outrage of the _optimates,_ he forced through land laws to favour demobilized soldiers and the landless poor, while reforming the constitution to break the stranglehold of the old aristocracy on the levers of power. After his death in 86 BC, the aristocrats fought back. One of their number, Sulla, seized effective control of the state, reversed the reforms of Marius and enforced his dominance through terror. He circulated hit lists of his political enemies, declaring them to be outlaws. Hundreds were killed and their property seized by informers and speculators. Chief among these speculators was a financier, Crassus, who made himself one of the richest men in Rome by buying up the property of the dead at knock-down prices.\n\nCaesar himself and his immediate family were, however, spared. Although they were on the side opposed to Sulla thanks to their link by marriage to Marius, they were not prominent or well off and therefore not perceived as an immediate threat. Caesar's father, who had a government post, died in 85 BC of natural causes. Caesar himself, then aged about fifteen, had only just put on the _toga virilis,_ signifying his transition from childhood to adulthood, and had not yet entered public life. Moreover, as Caesar was of an ancient patrician family, albeit fallen on hard times, it may have been a sense of class sympathy that led Sulla not to proceed against him.\n\nThus it was in an environment of threat, bloodletting and political decline that Caesar spent his formative years. Little else is known of his childhood. The early death of his father resulted in him assuming a position of absolute responsibility over his family while still a teenager, even having nominal legal control over whether his own mother was allowed to remarry. The indications at the start of his adult life suggest that those around him did not consider he had a career of greatness before him. He married a young woman named Cornelia, daughter of Cinna, another patrician. Cinna arranged for Caesar to assume an ancient and singular priesthood of the god Jupiter, the role of _flamen dialis._ The priesthood was hedged about by a swathe of obscure and ancient regulations. These included rules against the priest having knots in the fabric of his clothing, a requirement for the secret disposal of his nail clippings, and an absolute prohibition against him ever looking on a dead body. The _flamen dialis_ was required to remain within Rome at all times, which effectively ruled out a military career or advancement in politics. The priesthood, thus, was often held by those who were bodily weak or suffered chronic illness. Some sources claim that Caesar was afflicted in this way. Even though his taking on the position would have conveniently snuffed out his political ambitions at the outset, Sulla chose to prevent him from doing so, because Cinna, the man who had nominated him, was a supporter of the popular faction. Thus, Sulla inadvertently opened the way for Caesar to pursue a political career.\n\nCaesar's attempt to gain the priesthood appears to have rattled Sulla. Although it was regarded as a dead-end in career terms, the _flamen dialis_ was still a prestigious and influential position. When Sulla embarked on a vicious persecution of the _populares,_ Caesar \u2013 having become son-in-law of one of the most prominent members of the popular party \u2013 became a prime target. Sulla issued orders for his arrest, and for a time Caesar had to go into hiding. However, when Caesar's relatives interceded on his behalf, Sulla relented and Caesar was able to make his first steps in public service. From this point on, the stories that historians tell about Caesar, as well as those he chose to tell about himself, evoke his early promise, energy and ambition. He was posted while still in his teens to the staff of the _propraetor_ of Bithynia. There, in a skirmish with the forces of Mithridates, king of Pontus, he saved the life of another Roman citizen, thereby winning the _corona civica:_ the wreath of oak leaves that stood as Rome's highest award for gallantry. According to the historian Suetonius, he may have entered into a homosexual relationship with Nicomedes, king of Bithynia. This was, perhaps, for purposes of diplomacy.\n\nAfter Sulla's death in 78 BC, Caesar, then in his early twenties and back in Rome, began to practise at the Bar. For young men aspiring to high office, this was a quick way to raise their profile among the Roman electorate and political establishment. Caesar took on the private prosecution of two high-profile provincial officials and allies of Sulla \u2013 Dolabella and Gnaeus Antonius \u2013 charging them both with embezzlement and corruption in the administration of their territories. In neither case was he successful, but he had begun to make his mark on the public scene.\n\nAround this time Caesar travelled to the island of Rhodes to develop his talent for oratory under Greek specialists. On his way there \u2013 according to Caesar himself \u2013 he was captured by Cilician pirates who held him for ransom on the island of Pharmacussa off Asia Minor. When they informed him that the sum demanded for his release was 48,000 sesterces, he was outraged. He was worth at least 1.2 million sesterces, he told them, and they shouldn't accept anything less. The pirates gave in to his insistence and increased the price on his head. Caesar passed the time by playing games with the pirates, mocking them for their general lack of education and reciting poetry to remedy the defect. He told them that if he were ever released, he would come back and have them all crucified. And when he was finally freed, so Caesar himself relates, this is exactly what he did. After his release he went straight to the coastal city of Miletus, raised a squadron of warships, captured the pirates and eventually had them crucified at Pergamum.\n\nRoman society in the first century BC was not given to reticence or restraint. Those involved in politics knew that prominent public display was a prerequisite for career advancement. But awareness of the importance of their public image did not prevent ambitious politicians from indulging in the pleasures of the flesh. Caesar's early career offers an extreme example of the pursuit of relentless self-promotion in tandem with sensual gratification. According to Suetonius, despite the fact that Caesar was not physically strong \u2013 he was tall but slight in build, and given to fits of epilepsy \u2013 he possessed almost superhuman energy and firmness of purpose. He could endure hunger as well as any Roman legionary; he could simultaneously dictate several different letters to several different scribes, and compose long poems during the course of extended journeys on horseback. His sexual appetite was prodigious. It was normal for young married men like Caesar to satisfy their sexual desires in the bordello. But Caesar's sex life was not merely about carnal gratification, it was a matter of conquest: he was interested not in prostitutes but in senators' wives. Suetonius lists at least five wives of senior politicians with whom he was connected. The list included Servilia, the half-sister of Cato the Younger, his bitterest rival in the aristocratic party, and mother of Brutus, his assassin.\n\nCaesar was also prodigal in his exploitation of his patrician ancestry. In 69 BC, Caesar's aunt Julia and his wife Cornelia died in quick succession. It was not unknown for aged Roman matrons to receive grand public funerals, but Caesar's decision to accord them both this honour was highly unusual. He may have been motivated by a sense of grief, but the funerals were also an opportunity to display the glory of his ancestry. Despite Sulla's ban on public commemoration of Marius, Caesar included his effigy in the funeral procession of Julia \u2013 to widespread popular approval. This was not all. Old legends recorded that the Julian _gens,_ or clan, of which Caesar was a part, was descended not only from Ancus Marcius, the second king of Rome seven centuries previously, but also Venus, the goddess of love herself. Caesar may or may not have believed in these old tales, but he was happy to use them to his advantage, and he had no scruples about proclaiming in the funeral orations before the crowds in the forum the especial distinction of his ancestry.\n\nYet it was his excess in display, and hence in the excess of his spending, that Caesar particularly stood out. Here, he realized, was the way to political glory. Although in the early part of his career he lived in a down-at-heel part of Rome \u2013 the Subura, a working-class district full of tottering apartment blocks and seedy brothels \u2013 he was fastidious in his own person. He was groomed and coiffed beyond the common run; some accounts say that he kept his body entirely hairless. He cultivated a distinctive sartorial style, wearing his senatorial tunic with long sleeves and an unconventional loose belt. He collected works of art, as well as precious gemstones and _intaglios_.* He began to borrow money to fund his conspicuous lifestyle, as well as his political campaigning. Before he achieved his first elected office, that of military tribune in around 71 BC, his debts, according to Plutarch, amounted to more than 31 million sesterces.\u2020\n\nAs he worked his way up through the _cursus honorum_ (the sequence of public offices held by politicians under the Roman Republic) in the 60s BC, Caesar's appetite for spending borrowed money to enhance his popularity continued to increase. He served as quaestor,\u2021 a junior official, and was posted to Spain in 69 BC. It was here he is said to have wept at the statue of Alexander the Great. Shortly afterwards, he was elected curator of the Appian Way, the great highway that led from Rome to the southeastern tip of Italy. Caesar lavished money on its repair and restoration, knowing that his name would be associated with its renovation by travellers throughout Italy. This no doubt assisted Caesar in his election to the next rung on the ladder of governmental offices, that of _curule aedile_ in 65 BC. The _curule aediles,_ of whom there were two elected annually from the patrician classes, were responsible for the upkeep of the Roman infrastructure \u2013 the maintenance of temples, roads, bridges, aqueducts and sewers. They were also responsible for organizing the traditional games in March and September for the entertainment of the Roman crowds \u2013 which presented another opportunity for self-advertisement and display. Caesar spent on these games as never before. He erected temporary colonnades in the Forum to exhibit his private art collection. To further boost his reputation, he also manipulated the ancient Roman tradition of staging gladiatorial contests. Formerly, gladiators were only meant to fight to mark the funeral of a famous man; the blood shed in their fighting was supposed to appease the spirit of the departed. Stretching the tradition to breaking point, Caesar announced that gladiatorial games would be held to mark the death of his own father, who had died twenty years previously. These games were on an unprecedented scale: 320 pairs of gladiators were drafted in, each kitted out with tailor-made sets of ornate silver armour.\n\nAccording to Plutarch, Caesar also used his time as _curule aedile_ to put up images of his uncle Marius paired with the goddess of victory on the Capitol. This overt celebration of an individual who had taken power in Rome through military might caused many to fear Caesar's intentions. A number of historians take the view that it was in this year, 65 BC, that Caesar began to emerge as a real contender for a position of power in Rome.\n\nIn the following year, 64 BC, a gamble by Caesar allowed him to add to his growing authority. The position of _pontifex maximus,_ or chief priest, fell vacant. It was not encumbered by the same taboos as the _flamen dialis,_ and was politically a valuable office to hold. Not only did it come with a magnificent official residence for life in the heart of Rome and duties such as administration of the calendar, but the holder was entitled to be one of the first to speak in senatorial debates. There was fierce competition for the post. Senators of much greater seniority than Caesar were determined to win the position, and Caesar was offered a huge bribe by a rival candidate, Quintus Lutatius Catulus, not to stand. But he was set on making the post his own: he borrowed recklessly and paid even larger bribes to the electorate in the hope of securing the necessary votes. As he left his house on the morning of the election, he is said to have told his mother, 'Today, you will see your son as high priest or else an exile.'\n\nCaesar's victory is with us still in the lasting reforms he made to the calendar, yet the immediate consequence was that the traditional governing classes began to grow suspicious of him. The extent of this growing paranoia was revealed the following year, in 63 BC, when Rome was shaken by a conspiracy. A debt-ridden senator, Catiline, had run for the consulship \u2013 the supreme office in republican Rome \u2013 on a policy of the cancellation of all debts. When his candidacy failed, he organized an armed insurrection to overthrow the state, which ended in his capture and that of his co-conspirators. Cicero, who was then consul, proposed to the Senate that they be summarily executed. Caesar, however, argued against haste. He instead called for the conspirators to be imprisoned until the uprising could be contained, after which their ultimate fate would be decided.\n\nSuch was the power of Caesar's appeal that opinion in the Senate seemed to be going his way, until his rival Cato began to accuse the spendthrift Caesar of involvement in the conspiracy. His harangue was for a moment undermined when a messenger brought in a letter for Caesar that Cato ordered him to read, saying it was a clear sign that he was in communication with the remaining conspirators. Caesar cheerfully proceeded to read out a love letter from Cato's half-sister, Servilia. When the laughter had died down, Cato whipped the Senate into such a frenzy of anger against Caesar \u2013 who was perceived by many to be manipulating the situation to his own political advantage \u2013 that he had to be bundled out of the session under a colleague's toga to avoid being murdered on the spot.\n\nDespite such alarms, Caesar continue his rise up the ladder of Roman offices. In 62 BC, he was elected one of the eight praetors, the most senior rank of official below consul. The next year, 61 BC, he was appointed propraetor of the province of Further Spain. It was in this capacity that he gained his first real experience of a prolonged military command. Over the course of the year, he successfully conducted a campaign in Lusitania, a renegade province that included modern-day Portugal. Caesar's performance entitled him to a triumph: a grand military parade through the streets of Rome where he would be hailed as a victorious commander. The triumph was one of Rome's highest honours, and would leave Caesar perfectly positioned to make a run for the consulship of 59 BC. However, he faced a difficulty. To run for office in that year, he had to forego his military command; but to claim the triumph, he had to retain it. He asked the Senate to relax the rule for him. Thanks to Cato, they refused. Caesar's growing ambition for power overcame his desire to enjoy Rome's most prized honour. He lay down his command and returned to Rome as a private citizen to run for office.\n\nCaesar was not the only magnate to have been thwarted by the Senate and the aristocratic party. The military commander Pompey had for the previous few years been leading a campaign in the east. Over the course of the 60s BC he had conquered a number of territories in the Levant and Asia Minor, covering a large swathe of what is now Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, Israel and Palestine. Pompey needed approval from the Senate for the provisional forms of government he had arranged for the territories. He also needed them to grant land for his veterans to support themselves once they had been demobilized from the campaign. Over all of this, the Senate was dragging its feet.\n\nCrassus, who had been bankrolling Caesar's political career, was likewise in difficulties. One of his principal investments at this time was in tax-farming syndicates. Since Rome did not have the administrative apparatus to collect taxes, particularly in its outlying provinces, the right to collect taxes was auctioned by the state to commercial syndicates, which would then be permitted to keep the difference between the taxes they were able to collect and the sum they paid for the right to collect them. At this time, the investments were turning bad. The tax-take was much lower than the syndicates had expected, and they needed to cut the amount that they owed the state in order to avoid serious losses. Crassus had been trying to negotiate this with the Senate, but had been rebuffed.\n\nIt was here that Caesar saw his greatest opportunity. Up until this point, Pompey and Crassus had disliked each other. To achieve their aims, Caesar proposed to them a secret alliance. They would use their support, financial and otherwise, to secure Caesar's election as one of the two consuls for 59 BC. They would also help him to secure a fitting post for the following year \u2013 a proconsular command of a rich province, where he could gather up sufficient money to pay off the now vast sums he owed Crassus. In return, he would use his proven political skills to force through the laws that both Pompey and Crassus required.\n\nOnce Caesar's candidacy had been announced, the aristocratic party did everything in its power to disrupt his plans. They passed a law that the proconsular responsibility for the consuls of 59 BC, following their year of office, would be no rich province but management of the forests and cattle-paths of Italy. In the end, their machinations were fruitless. Caesar was elected as one of the two consuls at the beginning of January, 59 BC.\n\nCaesar's consular colleague, Cato's son-in-law Bibulus, belonged to the aristocratic party. Such was the nature of the Roman governmental machine that when one consul was in opposition to another, it became impossible to get anything done by legitimate means: each consul was equal in power, and each had a veto over the actions of the other. This had made sense when the constitution had been designed, centuries earlier, with the prime intention of preventing a back-door return to the old monarchy. However, with Rome trying to administer a growing empire, it simply made for paralysis. When Caesar embarked on his legislative programme, Bibulus refused to co-operate. At first, Caesar was diplomatic with Bibulus and his fellow aristocrats in the Senate, but in short order he resorted to procedural trickery and violent intimidation. Bypassing the Senate, he appealed directly to the people, using stage-managed referenda to approve bills for land redistribution and the approval of Pompey's eastern settlement. When Bibulus attempted to veto one of these proceedings, Caesar's supporters smashed his insignia of office and emptied a bucket of dung over his head. In high dudgeon, Bibulus locked himself in his house and refused to leave for the whole year, relying on his vetoes and archaic constitutional mechanisms to render Caesar's acts formally void. Despite this nominal illegality Caesar pressed on, and by the end of the year had passed the laws he had agreed with Pompey and Crassus.\n\nWhen his year of consular office ended, there was still the matter of Caesar's next job. The Senate was now somewhat more biddable: Caesar had taken to publishing daily accounts of their proceedings to hold them to closer public scrutiny. Pliantly, they put aside the cattle-tracks of Italy and offered him an extraordinary five-year command over the provinces of Illyricum and Cisalpine Gaul. Such a command meant that Transalpine Gaul, the region beyond which the Gallic conquest would take place, would not come under Caesar's sway. Yet at that moment, the incumbent governor of Transalpine Gaul died suddenly. As an afterthought, the Senate added this province as a bonus to Caesar's portfolio. Caesar's _imperium_ now stood face to face with the unknown hinterlands of unconquered Gaul.\n\nThe early Roman colonies of Transalpine Gaul have left little visible evidence of life there in the half century before Caesar's arrival. But some traces can be found, and to see them, one needs to search not in the cities of southern Gaul, but outside them.\n\nBeaucaire stands on the Rh\u00f4ne, close to the point where the Teutones crossed to face slaughter at the hands of Marius. A canal that eventually runs into the \u00c9tang de Thau, close to S\u00e8te on the Mediterranean coast, begins its course in the centre of this small Occitanian town. From Beaucaire you can take a road west. If you leave the town centre on foot, the path of escape winds through the blank accretions of the modern age, twisting beneath a nicotine-hued railway bridge and past factory silos \u2013 ferrous pink as the dust on the earth beneath \u2013 before leaving the suburbs behind to reach the fields. Beside the path, in the hedgerows, is a tangle of brambles, their tiny fruit tart and dust-peppered; above them grow blue-black sloes and the bright red berries of autumn. There are Aleppo pines and olives; the coppery seed pods of silk trees jangle in the breeze. After a turn, the track straightens out, departing from its course only to avoid a low farm building. Its surface is neglected gravel, its sole traffic a red tractor. Vines radiate from its margins. Suddenly, the road comes to a bulbous end: a quarry has eaten up the way ahead. On one side sits a mound of rubble and plaster, fly-tipped; on the other, three angular standing stones and the stump of a fourth. They are worn, dust-blasted, lichen-blotted. Looking closely, one can see the ghosts of Roman numerals bevelled into their gunmetal surface. But even when these ancient marks were young, the road was already old.\n\nThe Via Domitia is one of the oldest visible Roman constructions in Gaul. It was built in 118 BC by Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus, one of the generals who oversaw the early campaigns in support of Massalia against the Gauls. The four Roman milestones by the road near Beaucaire \u2013 the largest group of Roman milestones surviving in France \u2013 are not witness to the age of the road; the earliest of them was erected in the reign of Augustus in 3 BC. Yet they do bear witness to its importance. The Via Domitia runs from the Pyrenees to the Alps, providing a land route from Italy and Cisalpine Gaul to the Spanish provinces. It original purpose was military. Rome now possessed a new route \u2013 other than the maritime one \u2013 for troops to reach the perpetually troubled districts of Spain which, since the time of Hannibal over a century earlier, it had fought to subdue. In the 70s BC, Pompey marched along the Via Domitia to fight his Spanish campaign, and to collect Gallic auxiliaries to assist the Roman cause. Near its western extremity, by the modern-day Pyrenean hill village of Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, Pompey established the colony of Lugdunum Conuenarum to mark his Spanish triumph.\n\nAs part of its military function, the Via Domitia was probably used for frontier defence. The road, in essence, marked the early character of Transalpine Gaul. This was frontier territory. For the first decades of Roman rule beyond the 120s BC, we are ignorant of the form of its government, but it is likely that it was not highly advanced. In the early years, there may indeed have been no governor, and the administration of the region may have been in the hands of neighbouring provinces. Roman functionaries in the area had to deal not only with the influx of Teutonic migrants culminating in the slaughter by Marius in 103 BC, but also with tribal uprisings and tribal politics. Gallic tribes had to be propitiated, and alliances made with other groupings beyond the formal sphere of Roman influence \u2013 the Aedui, for example, in the region south of modern-day Dijon, or the Allobroges near the southern Rhine. Rome had to consider the balance of power between them to ensure stability for the areas within their direct control.\n\n_Roman milestones on the Via Domitia in the countryside beyond Beaucaire._\n\nThe frontier was also a place to make money. The first person actually known to have been a governor of Transalpine Gaul was Marcus Fonteius. It seems he served in the province from 75 to 73 BC. Sometime after 70 BC, when he was back in Rome, he faced a charge of corruption in his administration. His accusers were Gauls, but his defence counsel was Cicero. Cicero's speech in his defence for the most part survives. Regardless of what we may discern of Fonteius's guilt, the speech allows us a glimpse of life in the early Roman province. 'Gaul', says Cicero, 'is packed with traders, brim-full with Roman citizens.' It was a place where one could go for business and fast profit. Romans of all trades had set up there: 'merchants, colonists, tax-farmers, agri-businessmen, cattle-ranchers'. Veterans from Pompey's Spanish campaigns had also been allotted land confiscated from the indigenous people. Together, they had taken control of the province's economy: 'None of the Gauls ever does any business without a Roman citizen being involved; not a penny changes hands without being marked in the account books of Roman citizens.' The wine-trade was booming, money was being made in the construction and maintenance of roads, including the Via Domitia. But the Gauls were complaining to the court that they were being forced deep into debt while Fonteius milked the province to line his own pockets.\n\nBut what weight could one attach to their testimony, asks Cicero? They were Gauls. Not so long ago, Rome had been at war with them. Now here they were, in their cloaks and uncivilized trousers, strutting around the Forum muttering uncouth and unintelligible oaths. Did they understand what it meant to take an oath? What it meant to give evidence in a Roman court of law? These were the same people who, three centuries ago, had burnt down Rome, laid siege to the Capitol and desecrated the shrines of the gods. What was the word of a whole tribe of them worth when weighed against that of a single citizen of Rome? No matter that they were furnishing cavalry to fight for the Romans in Spain and grain to support their troops. One would hardly believe that, a few years later, Gallic ambassadors who had come to Rome to complain about debt would uncover and blow the whistle on the conspiracy of Catiline; or that Cicero would later confess in his philosophical writings that a Gallic nobleman and Druid, Divitiacus, was a close personal friend and esteemed by him as a scholar with a particular knowledge of Greek natural science. No, the whole set of charges brought by these Gauls was nothing more than a perpetuation of their usual blood feuds by other means. Regardless of the testimony brought before the court, Cicero could still play on his audience to devastating effect. Gaul was a place to be exploited, and a place to be feared. Such was the province inherited by Caesar.\n\nWhere Lake Geneva empties into the head of the Rh\u00f4ne, in the heart of Geneva itself, the flow of the river is broken by an island. L'\u00cele, as it is referred to in French, is the natural and most ancient crossing-point of the river. In medieval times a great castle was built on the island to control the north-south road. Of this a solitary tower survives, flanked to one side by the glass panels of a watch-shop and adorned with the statue of a Renaissance Genevan patriot, Philibert Berthelier, who strove to keep the city independent of the dukes of Savoy.\n\nOn the other side of the tower, lost in the geometry of overhead tram-wires, is a plaque, cream against the old toasted stone, and of much more recent date. It carries a very different message from another plaque across the river that reads _Gen\u00e8ve, Cit\u00e9 de Refuge_ ('Geneva, City of Refuge'). It states that Caesar mentioned his journey to Geneva at the beginning of his _Commentaries on the Gallic War, _and then lays out several lines of the Latin text to prove the truth of the statement. Among other things, Caesar's commentary tells us that Geneva (Genava) was then a frontier town of the Gallic Allobroges tribe (and hence part of the Roman province of Transalpine Gaul); that a bridge crossed the river \u2013 at the site of the modern bridge \u2013 to the north bank, where the Gallic tribe of the Helvetii resided; and that in 58 BC Caesar came to the city and ordered the bridge to be broken down. This bridge was probably very close to the tower.\n\nIn the first century BC, if a person dwelling on the north bank of the river Rh\u00f4ne in Geneva wished to travel into southern Gaul, their most natural route would be to cross the river and then take a road leading southwest towards Valence, where they would re-encounter the Rh\u00f4ne much further down its course. If the bridge was out of action, however, and it was impossible to cross to the south bank, the only viable route was to follow the north bank westwards out of the city, and after about twenty miles, pass through a narrow defile of the Jura Mountains \u2013 the Pas de L'\u00c9cluse \u2013 and ultimately emerge onto flatter land northeast of the site of present-day Lyons.\n\nBeyond the city limits of Geneva, the northern route is one of great beauty. Travelling along it in spring, one cuts through low white-painted villages, down to the wide meadows that skirt the north bank of the Rh\u00f4ne. Sweet-smelling grasses grow high in the fields; the trackway is starred with flowers of purple sainfoin and yellow gentian. Cows, brown and white, graze contentedly in the rich pastures. Above stretches the Jura range, still snow-capped, a silver bastion embracing a valley of plenty.\n\nBut soon the nature of the pathway changes. Below Collonges, the pasture gives way to an ever-narrower strip of woodland clinging to the edge of the river, and the walker has to run the gauntlet of thick branches that sometimes obstruct the way. The pathway is forced down to the muddy edge of the Rh\u00f4ne. There is still a broad expanse of greenery on the south bank of the river, but it is dense and overgrown, more like the Amazon than the Rh\u00f4ne. But even this is soon to be squeezed out of existence as the valley contracts dramatically. The mountains surge upwards to an insuperable height; the river, forced through an ever-diminishing defile between the rocks, funnels and twists, its colour changing to an unlikely and startling cobalt. The path is reduced to a stony ribbon, balanced on the edge, scarcely wide enough for a cart to pass \u2013 as Caesar recalls in his account. Soon, the white turrets and crenellations of the Fort de L'\u00c9cluse appear above the track, apparently clamped to the mountainside, its purpose to control movement along the pass. But so strait and so vulnerable is the path that the fort seems unnecessary. Any advance along this route could surely be halted by a well-aimed pebble.\n\nThis path was witness to the first great migration crisis in European history to be recorded by a contemporary observer. The people on the move were the Helvetii. If the figures recorded by Caesar are to be believed, they were 360,000 in number. The tribe was moving in its entirety \u2013 men, women and children \u2013 from its homeland north of Lake Geneva, seeking a new home in the southwest of Gaul, outside Roman territory. The decision of the Helvetii to move was final: they had burnt and demolished their old homes, loaded all their possessions onto carts along with three months' supply of food, and were set for a long journey. Their plan was to take the easy route though Geneva, cutting across the territory of the Allobroges and thus the Roman province of Transalpine Gaul. Their preparations for departure took place in March 58 BC, just after Caesar had been appointed to his governorships of Illyricum and Gaul.\n\n_The Rh\u00f4ne at the Pas de L'\u00c9cluse \u2013 route of the Helvetii migration in 58 BC._\n\nCaesar, as has been said, did not have his mind on Gaul at the time. His plan was to lead an expedition to Illyricum, where armed bands of Getae (Thracian people who had settled on the lower Danube) were making incursions into Roman territory. But when he learnt that the Helvetii intended to cross Transalpine Gaul, he was suddenly transfixed. His plans for a campaign in Illyricum were forgotten. He sent an order for the bridge at Geneva to be broken, to deny passage to the Helvetii. The forces Caesar had at his disposal were minimal (just a single legion in that area of Gaul), but he made arrangements for additional legions to be mobilized and made his way to Geneva.\n\nThe Helvetii sent requests to be allowed to cross the river. Caesar, short of manpower as he waited for his reinforcements to arrive, played for time. At his command his available troops threw up a long earth embankment \u2013 5 metres high \u2013 and fortifications along the whole of the south bank of the Rh\u00f4ne from Geneva up to the Pas de L'\u00c9cluse, a distance of just under twenty miles. He stationed troops along the embankment to prevent any attempts by the Helvetii to cross.\n\nIn the middle of April, when his position was somewhat stronger, Caesar gave a definite answer to the Helvetii: they would not be permitted to cross Roman territory. Their response was to ignore his order and attempt to cross the Rh\u00f4ne by means of makeshift rafts and boats lashed together. They took to the water in small family groups, sometimes by day but more often by night. The Romans, however, fired missiles at their boats and thus prevented the Helvetii from reaching the southern shore.\n\nThe Helvetii then turned their attention to the only other option available to them: the route following the north bank of the Rh\u00f4ne, through the Pas de l'\u00c9cluse. It was a fearsome and daunting prospect: 360,000 people inching their way though a narrow defile along a path scarcely wide enough for a cart. It was also a route that could not be embarked upon straight away, for the path led into the territory of another Gallic tribe outside the Roman province, the Sequani, from whom permission had to be sought. A diplomatic deal was brokered with the assistance of members of the nobility of the Aedui, a tribe allied to Rome but also outside the Roman province. Once the Sequani had granted them permission to pass through their territory, the Helvetii, their worldly goods laid up in carts towed behind them, began to pick their way through the asphyxiating narrows of the Pas de l'\u00c9cluse.\n\nWe know little about the Helvetii \u2013 of their politics, of their intentions, or of the pressures that forced them to move from their original homeland and undertake such a long and dangerous journey. Why were they regarded as such a threat that they had to be prevented from crossing a territory on the periphery of Roman control? Aside from a couple of vague passing references in letters of Cicero, the only witness we have is Caesar. The only surviving comprehensive, first-hand account of the conflict that followed the migration of the Helvetii is given in Caesar's commentaries on the Gallic War, _De Bello Gallico._ There is nothing of substance from any other Roman officer who took part in the campaigns, nor any first-hand accounts that provide a view of these events from the perspective of the city of Rome itself. Despite the fact that they were a literate people, we have no first-hand accounts from the Helvetii themselves; and they left nothing in the way of oral tradition. Nor do the other Gallic tribes involved, the Sequani or the Aedui, supply contemporary evidence. Caesar's victory was so total as to give him \u2013 in addition to the victor's laurels \u2013 sole ownership of the story of his conquest.\n\nCaesar's account is a masterpiece of the Latin language: he writes in clear and uncomplicated prose, avoiding convoluted phrasing and obscure vocabulary. His text runs to seven books (or long chapters) written by Caesar himself, and an eighth by one of his commanders, Aulus Hirtius, covering the last stage of the conquest after 52 BC. Throughout all of this, his vocabulary extends to little more than 1,300 words. It is this economy of diction, along with its clarity and directness, that has made _De Bello Gallico_ a staple for students of Latin for hundreds of years. This straightforwardness of style perhaps suggests \u2013 though we do not know for certain \u2013 the work's intended audience. Caesar's concentration in the text, when not on himself, tends to be on ordinary soldiers and NCOs. He reports their concerns, their heroism under fire, their loyalty. The deeds of the aristocratic officers receive much less coverage, and what exists paints them less favourably. Whether or not the _Commentaries_ were originally intended as annual despatches for the attention of the Senate, or were collated at the end of the campaign by Caesar himself for circulation directly to the public, it is reasonable to assume that his target audience was a popular one, and that the _Commentaries_ were intended to reinforce his credentials as a man of the people.\n\nWhen Caesar describes the Helvetii in detail, he has in mind his Roman political audience and his political position in Rome. He says that the Helvetii were warlike, and that they exceeded all other Gauls in valour. Their original homeland was a region bounded by the Rhine, Lake Geneva and the Jura Mountains \u2013 an area of roughly 240 by 180 miles. This area, despite covering more than 40,000 square miles, was not, in the view of the Helvetii, large enough for their population: they felt hemmed in. They were a people who longed for war, and they desired to make their home in a place where they could easily make war on their neighbours.\n\n_Stoffel's map of the Rh\u00f4ne from Geneva to the Pas de L'\u00c9cluse, route of the Helvetii migration in 58 BC._\n\nAccording to Caesar a high-ranking noble, Orgetorix, wished to be king of the Helvetii. He persuaded them that they could become the leading power in Gaul if they simply marched west out of their homeland. He formed a conspiracy with other nobles, and persuaded the Helvetii to embark on a three-year plan to migrate wholesale into the heart of Gaul. The tribe bought extra cattle and sowed extra corn to prepare for the move long in advance. Their leaders, meanwhile, made agreements with chiefs from neighbouring tribes, including Casticus of the Sequani and Dumnorix of the Aedui \u2013 who also aspired to rule the whole of Gaul \u2013 to facilitate their passage. Even when Orgetorix, who was accused by the Helvetii of intending to become a tyrant, committed suicide, they carried on calmly with their preparations. When 58 BC arrived, the year appointed for their migration, they burnt their dwellings and their towns efficiently and without demur, and were ready for the rigours of their journey.\n\nPeople such as these, says Caesar, could not be allowed to approach Roman territory. Even if they only passed through it, they would bring chaos and insecurity by robbing and plundering as they went. They would cause harm not only to the Roman domains, but also to the Gallic tribes allied with Rome \u2013 even though a number of the latter's factions had pledged support for the migration. Even if they were not intending to settle in Roman territory, it would be intolerable to allow them to make their homes where they planned to do so, near Toulouse. The grain-rich district within the Roman province would be under constant threat.\n\nThe situation, as Caesar paints it, is a repeat of that faced by his father-in-law Marius, and in the very same theatre. And if the echoes of the Teutones are not picked out clearly enough at the beginning of the _Commentaries,_ the explicit references to the passing of the Teutones through Gaul fifty years previously, and the defeats suffered by Rome as a result, bring the similarities into focus. Caesar writes that when he learnt that the Helvetii wanted to pass through the Roman province, he recalled the crisis of the Teutones, and the fact that the Helvetii had allied with them to defeat the Roman army in the disaster at Arausio (Orange). Later, Caesar met with a Helvetian ambassador named Divico who, according to the _Commentaries,_ had been a commander in that same action over half a century earlier. Through the prism of Caesar's reporting, the Helvetii migrants become the Teutones and Caesar becomes the popular hero Marius. Caesar's narrative is as much a monument to Marius as the statue he erected of him on the Capitol several years earlier when he was still _curule aedile._ Whatever Caesar writes of the intentions and politics of the Helvetii migrants cannot be trusted. There is no other substantial witness, and the Helvetii were but manipulable fodder for his relentless campaign of political self-promotion: Julius Caesar was the man who had saved the Roman state from barbarian migrants, and hence a popular leader bound for absolute power.\n\nAnother part of the appeal of going to war was the prospect of generating wealth via a successful military campaign, for Caesar's debts were monstrous and pressing. But to wage a war in Gaul against migrants whose character and intentions could be exploited as much as their persons and property was even more attractive: it gave Caesar the political prize of putting himself into the template of Marius. And if Marius's triumph in Gaul is seen as the pattern that Caesar was striving to emulate with the Helvetii, then it provides an explanation not only for his initial dash to Gaul rather than Illyricum, but also for the way in which he chose to expand the campaign. He would be Marius, but, being Caesar, he would be Marius to excess.\n\nWhen Caesar broke the bridge at Geneva and denied the Helvetii passage through Roman territory, he had a single legion with him (about 5,000 men). On finding out that the Helvetii were minded to take the route through the Pas de L'\u00c9cluse, he put his deputy, Titus Labienus, in charge of the situation and rushed back to Italy to enrol two extra legions, and bring three more out of winter quarters at Aquileia. Curiously, while Caesar was away, the Helvetii were allowed to pass through the Pas de l'\u00c9cluse, even though it could have been blocked with the forces at hand; they could have been prevented from advancing further into Gaul without the need for any fighting. But no such efforts were made, a crucial omission for which Caesar gives no explanation in the _Commentaries._ Given that his account speaks of the Helvetii ravaging the lands of the Gallic tribes allied to Rome, despite having brought with them three months of supplies, his failure to prevent their journey through the pass appears even more curious. The explanation that makes sense is that Caesar actually wanted to let the migrants through so that he could meet them on more favourable ground, with several additional legions at his disposal, and defeat them in an eye-catching and triumphant battle. And so it turned out \u2013 although Caesar would fight not just one battle against the Helvetii, but two (even if the first was more of a slaughter).\n\nJust as the Greeks of Massalia and neighbouring Gauls had begged Marius, so Caesar's Gallic allies now begged him to take action. Bolstered by his extra legions, Caesar was determined to respond to their entreaties. He came upon the Helvetii as they attempted to cross the River Sa\u00f4ne \u2013 a river so sluggish, he commented, that you could not tell which way it was flowing. They were making their way over on boats and rafts joined together. One division of them, a quarter of their number, had not yet crossed. It was late at night: the third watch, sometime after midnight. The migrants were heavily laden with their possessions, getting ready to embark. Caesar's troops fell upon them unawares, and set about an orgy of indiscriminate killing. Most of this division of the Helvetii were butchered, though a few escaped into the neighbouring woods. Caesar presents this clash, the Battle of the Sa\u00f4ne, as a great victory \u2013 not just because he had taken a first and important step to check the Helvetii menace, but because it was an act of vengeance: vengeance on the part of the Roman state, for it was this particular division of the Helvetii, the Tigurini, that had visited disaster on the Romans by aiding the Teutones during their migration fifty years previously; and personal vengeance for Caesar, because the Tigurini had killed the general Lucius Calpurnius Piso, who was grandfather of his own father-in-law.\n\nThe second encounter, called the Battle of Bibracte, at least had the character of a proper battle. Caesar met the Helvetii in the gently rolling countryside south of Dijon, most likely on the open fields between the little town of Toulon-sur-Arroux and the village of Montmort. The two sides faced each other in long lines, drawn up on low ridges along a country lane. The women and children of the Helvetii fighters were stationed in a circle of wagons on higher ground to the right of the Helvetii lines, overlooking the battlefield. The Helvetii reeled under the initial impact of the Roman attack. The barrage of Roman javelins pinned together their shields, which they were unable to remove; instead they were forced to throw away their shields and fight without protection. Nevertheless, they maintained their resistance. The two sides fought from midday until after nightfall, pushing backwards and forwards across the gentle valley. The Helvetii were eventually forced to fall back on their wagons and the adjacent heights. From underneath their carts and between the wagon wheels they shot pikes and darts at the Roman legions. But eventually their wagons and baggage were captured, and with them even some of the children of Orgetorix.\n\nNevertheless, 130,000 Helvetii were able to flee the battlefield. Caesar was in no position to pursue them. His cavalry forces were inadequate, and his men had to tend their wounds in the aftermath of a difficult battle. However, he sent messages to the neighbouring tribes that if they gave the Helvetii any food or shelter, he would do to them what he had done to the Helvetii.\n\nAfter three days, the remainder of the Helvetii, now starving, approached Caesar and begged to surrender. Having handed themselves over, one 6,000-strong group, thinking that they were going to be slaughtered en masse, panicked and fled. Caesar ordered the neighbouring tribes to round them up. They were brought back and treated, in Caesar's words, as enemies, probably meaning that they were sold off as slaves. Caesar commanded that the remaining Helvetii were to be provided with food, and that they were then to return to their native lands. He told them he feared that Germanic peoples beyond the Rhine would be tempted to occupy their abandoned homelands and hence become immediate neighbours of the Gallic tribes allied to the Romans. The Helvetii did as they were ordered, and thereafter were regarded by Caesar as trusted allies.\n\nAmong their captured baggage the Romans discovered the records of a full census the Helvetii had taken before leaving their homeland. It was written in Greek characters, and listed the numbers of fighting men, non-combatant women, children and old men. All in all, says Caesar, the number of Helvetii had been 368,000; the number that returned home was 110,000. Their encounter with Caesar had thus reduced the vast numbers of migrating Helvetii by a staggering two-thirds. Such was the human price of Caesar's political ambition.\u00a7\n\nCaesar's narrative of his encounter with the Helvetii makes it so similar to that between Marius and the Teutones that it is difficult not to see it as engineered. And it is similarly difficult to believe many of Caesar's claims about the Helvetii: their intentions, the political state of the tribe, their behaviour, their relatichaptonship with other Gauls, and even their number. The mark Caesar left on Gaul was not merely the blood of thousands of slaughtered Helvetii, but also the conquest and control of the vanquished voices and identities. Caesar says that after his victory ambassadors from nearly all the tribes of Gaul came not only to congratulate him, but also to express their approval of his version of events: namely that the Romans were justified in attacking the Helvetii in revenge for the outrages the Romans had suffered at their hands in Marius's time. What he had done was right for the land of Gaul. The Helvetii had left their homes in a time of prosperity with the intention of making war; they wanted to seize the most fertile part of Gaul for themselves and turn the rest of it into a tributary. Thus did Caesar deftly impute his own intentions to the migrant Helvetii. But even in his own account, there are elements that belie the image of the Helvetii as dangerous warmongers. The Aedui asked Caesar for permission to allow the Boii, a grouping of the Helvetii, to remain and settle within Aedui territory. The Helvetii census, according to Caesar, recorded the number of the Boii as 32,000. The Aedui stated that the Boii were a people of outstanding courage, and happily gave them not only farmland to cultivate, but also full membership of the Aedui tribe. So much for Caesar's claim that the migration of the Helvetii posed a mortal threat, or the suggestion that movements of people at that time would stretch the available resources to breaking point. The settlement of the Boii would set the tone for Rome's quiet policy towards barbarian migrants from outside the empire for generations to come. When, for the sake of manpower, it was advantageous to allow them into the empire, worries about the danger they posed and fears about their barbarism were put aside; land and livelihoods could be found for them without demur.\n\n_Stoffel's reconstruction of the Battle of Bibracte (58 BC) between Caesar and the Helvetii migrants._\n\nSo plausible had the justification for action against the Helvetii proved to be that it would supply the rationale for immediate action against another people attempting to enter Gaul. The Gallic ambassadors who had come to congratulate Caesar revealed that there was yet another migrant crisis. In Gaul, two rival tribes had been competing for primacy: the Aedui, allies of Rome who occupied territory that is now part of Burgundy, and the Arverni, who lived further to the southwest, in what is now the Auvergne. The Arverni, along with another Gallic ally, the Sequani, tried to get the upper hand by inviting members of Germanic tribes across the Rhine to settle in their territory. The first wave of Germanic migrants comprised 15,000 people, and these fierce incomers quickly developed a liking for Gallic farmland, Gallic civilization and Gallic wealth. Many more of them followed. By that moment in 58 BC, 120,000 Germanic migrants had settled on Gallic territory. With their assistance, the Sequani broke the dominance of the Aedui: they took hostage a number of high-ranking Aedui nobles, and forced them to swear not to ask the Romans for help. But things were even worse for the victorious Sequani than for the conquered Aedui. The king of the Germanic incomers, Ariovistus, ruler of the Suebi tribal confederation, demanded that the Sequani yield one-third of their territory for his followers to settle. He then ordered them to surrender a further third to accommodate yet more Germanic arrivals. Ariovistus was the very essence of a barbarian: rash and quick to anger. It was impossible for the Gauls to endure his presence any longer. Without Caesar's help, they would have to seek out new homes far away from the Germanic incomers, risking everything they had to do so. Caesar hardly had to spell out the implications of all this, though he does so explicitly in his account: for the second time within a year, a Gallic swarm was in prospect, of just the sort that Marius himself had faced. Now that the Germanic peoples were getting used to crossing the Rhine freely, they would never be content with merely conquering Gaul. They would burst into the Roman province of Transalpine Gaul and then into Italy, just as the Teutones had once intended to do.\n\nIn Caesar's account of the negotiations he attempted to hold with Ariovistus, he presents himself in the mould of the populist hero. He goes to meet the Germanic king near Besan\u00e7on (Vesontio) with an escort of ordinary legionaries, unusually mounted on horseback. One of them jokes that Caesar, by giving them horses, has turned them into knights, thus promoting them up the ranks of the Roman hierarchy. When it comes to the negotiations themselves, Ariovistus warns Caesar that he will be destroyed, and that this would be welcomed by many in Rome, notably the aristocratic faction that has done so much to obstruct Caesar and his party. Thus Caesar deftly implies an unholy alliance: between his aristocratic opponents in Rome and a barbarian horde that wishes to destroy the empire.\n\nBut it was Caesar who destroyed Ariovistus. The armies met at the Battle of Vosges in 58 BC, probably near Mulhouse, about five miles from the Rhine. The Roman legions fell into a state of panic before meeting the Germanic forces, just as they had done before they met the Teutones. However, Caesar recalled them to their usual valour, again by reference to Marius. The battle was rapid and fierce. A number of the incomers were chased back to the Rhine, including Ariovistus himself: he was able to cross the river in a small boat, and then escaped to obscurity. Both of his wives were killed, as was one of his daughters; the other was captured.\n\nCaesar had managed, on the pretext of holding back dangerous waves of migration, to provoke and complete two major campaigns within the first year of his command. With the campaigns against the Helvetii and Ariovistus over, he had an excuse to leave Roman forces stationed in winter quarters far beyond the frontiers of the Roman province. The mere presence of these legionaries was a guarantee of further clashes with the Gauls. And of course any suggestion that Roman forces might be under attack by an indigenous people furnished Caesar with sufficient pretext to launch a new campaign against the offenders, to defeat them and then subject them to the Roman _imperium._ The threat of migration had served its purpose for Caesar and would leave its lasting mark. After 58 BC, he could rely on the logic of a spiralling cycle of violence to justify his continuing presence in Gaul.\n\n* Engraved gemstones, often with portrait heads.\n\n\u2020 To give a sense of the massiveness of this amount, the average annual wage of a legionary soldier during the first century ad was 900 sesterces per annum.\n\n\u2021 Quaestors were usually responsible for financial affairs and audits.\n\n\u00a7 Their name survives in the modern Latin name for Switzerland, _Confoederatio Helvetica_ , which is still to be seen on Swiss coinage.\n\n_Statue of Vercing\u00e9torix, the Gallic chief who led the resistance to Caesar's conquest in 52 BC. The statue, by Aim\u00e9 Millet, was erected at Al\u00e9sia, the site of Vercing\u00e9torix's final defeat, by Napoleon III in 1865, and bears the likeness of the French emperor._\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe Taming of Gaul\n\n_Omnes fere Gallos novis rebus studere_  \n'All the Gauls were bent on revolution'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ 111.10\n\nGALLIA BELGICA\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE SAMBRE\n\n\u2022\n\nORL\u00c9ANS\n\n\u2022\n\nP\u00c9RIGNAT-L\u00c8S-SARLI\u00c8VE\n\n\u2022\n\nORCET\n\n\u2022\n\nGERGOVIE\n\n\u2022\n\nVENAREY-LES-LAUMES\n\n\u2022\n\nMONT AUXOIS\n\n\u2022\n\nAL\u00c9SIA\n\n\u2022\n\nVERCING\u00c9TORIX AND CAESAR\n\nIN 57 BC, AFTER THE ROMAN ARMY had spent its first winter in Gallia Comata ('Long-Haired Gaul', the regions captured by Caesar), Caesar began to change the justification for continuing his military action far beyond the established frontiers of the Roman empire. He no longer implied that he was keeping his forces there as an emergency response to the migrations of the Helvetii and the Suebi under Ariovistus. Their business was now outright conquest, a mission that Caesar saw no need to justify nor for which he even troubled to seek a mandate.\n\nThe year 57 BC was dedicated to attacks on the Belgic Gauls in what is now northern France, Holland and Belgium. These Gauls, claimed Caesar, were planning a conspiracy. They were fearful that when all of the central parts of Gaul had been captured they would have to face a Roman army; some elements, who disliked the idea of the Germanic peoples under Ariovistus establishing themselves in Gaul, disliked the idea of a Roman presence even more, and for that reason they were planning to defy Caesar. On top of this, the Belgic tribes contained a number of powerful chiefs who habitually recruited warbands with which to make themselves kings. These chiefs were now disgruntled, realizing that this would no longer be possible when their territories were annexed to the Roman empire.\n\nEven though Caesar, without missing a beat, states at the beginning of the second book of his _Commentaries_ that the extension of empire was now the ultimate purpose of the Roman campaign, he still evokes the shadow of the Teutones to justify his attack on the Belgic Gauls. The Belgic tribes were the only Gallic peoples fierce enough to repel the Teutones and Cimbri. Some of them \u2013 Caesar names the Aduatuci in particular \u2013 were even descended from a group of the Teutones and Cimbri who had pulled out of the long migration southwards half a century previously to make a home in Belgic Gaul.\n\nCaesar raised an extra three legions at the beginning of the year and marched north to the Belgic territories. One of the first tribes he met, the Remi (after whom the city of Reims is named), surrendered immediately, giving Caesar hostages, food and intelligence about the other tribes. Caesar overcame two of them \u2013 the Suessiones and the Bellovaci \u2013 by force, before meeting the most formidable tribe, the Nervii, at the Battle of the Sambre. It was a difficult battle in which the Romans were hard pressed, but Caesar himself, according to his account, was able to rally the wavering legions by fighting in the front rank with the ordinary men. The Nervii were so badly defeated that when they finally surrendered, they told Caesar the number of their tribal elders had been reduced from 600 to three, and their fighting men from 60,000 to 500. A similar disaster befell the Aduatuci, who surrendered their _oppidum_ (possibly modern-day Namur) to the Romans, only to be attacked shortly afterwards. Caesar captured the town and sold all its 53,000 inhabitants, as one lot, into slavery.\n\nOther legions had been sent westwards to demand the surrender of the Gallic peoples of the Atlantic coast, an aim that was achieved with little incident. On the other side of Gaul, messengers from Germanic tribes across the Rhine promised to send hostages to Caesar and follow his orders. At the end of the year, Caesar reported these achievements to the Senate in Rome, stating that the whole of Gaul had been pacified. The Senate responded by voting fifteen days of public thanksgiving in Caesar's honour: an accolade that no one had ever been granted before, boasts Caesar.\n\nCaesar's claim that he had brought peace to Gaul was premature. Many of the tribes, particularly those on the Atlantic coast, had not been expecting the Romans to remain. In 56 BC, when Roman detachments in these areas demanded grain from the local tribes, there was serious unrest. Grain was in short supply, perhaps on account of a difficult winter, but more likely because of the disruption that the war in Gaul had caused to settled agriculture. The Romans' demand for grain at a time of scarcity, combined with a realization on the part of the local tribes that they had lost their freedom, led to revolt among the peoples of the Atlantic littoral. The rebellion was led by the Veneti: they seized two Roman officers who had been sent to them to seek grain, and refused to let them go until the Romans released the hostages they had taken from the Veneti the previous year.\n\nCaesar's attention at this point appears to have been wandering. Having completed the conquest of Gaul \u2013 in his own mind at any rate \u2013 he was now considering an expedition to his other province of Illyricum, where there were opportunities for new campaigns. However, the news of the uprising of the Veneti forced him to abandon these desires for fresh glory, and he was brought back to the more difficult business of consolidating what he had already won. Caesar portrayed the two captured Roman officers as ambassadors rather than military officials, and thereby claimed that the Veneti had offended against the time-honoured sanctity of diplomats. On these grounds, when he was finally able to overcome the tribe, his retribution was similar to that visited on the Aduatuci. As the year proceeded, the Romans were bogged down in a number of actions more akin to guerrilla warfare then set-piece battles. Caesar himself tried to overcome the tribes of the Morini and Menapii around Boulogne and Flanders, but was unable to flush them out of the swamps and forests into which they had retreated. In addition to these difficulties, Caesar faced an attempt by the aristocratic faction in Rome to remove him from his Gallic command. For a time, he was compelled to leave Gaul for a conference at Lucca with Pompey and Crassus, where he was able to use their influence to extend his command up until 50 BC, and to persuade the Senate to recognise his conquests in Gaul.\n\nDespite this agreement in Lucca, Caesar still faced criticism in Rome. The following year, 55 BC, a group of Germanic migrants, the Usipetes and the Tencteri, crossed the Rhine into the territory of the Menapii. It was a migration, according to Caesar's _Commentaries,_ on the same scale as that of the Helvetii. Now that Rome had formally taken much of Gallia Comata under its control, it was more legitimate of Caesar to treat it as a genuine threat. However, when ambassadors from the two tribes began to negotiate an agreement that they should settle on the eastern bank of the Rhine among the Ubii, a tribe allied to Rome, Caesar turned against them. They had asked for a short period of time to take the offer back to their tribes and speak directly to the Ubii. However, Caesar accused them of intending to use this time to prepare attacks against Gaul. Showing the same disregard for diplomatic convention for which he had criticized the Veneti, Caesar had the two envoys seized and bound. The Usipetes and Tencteri, who had evidently been expecting the results of diplomacy rather than battle, were then put to the sword. For this, Caesar was lambasted by Cato, his leading opponent in the Senate, who accused him of bringing the Roman reputation for good faith into disrepute and called for him to be handed over to the Germanic tribes for punishment.\n\nCaesar was not, of course, delivered to the Germanic tribes, but the fact that he soon made attempts to launch new and eye-catching campaigns of conquest suggests a desire to deflect criticism in Rome, and to distract attention from the less glamorous and more difficult work of securing the Gallic conquests. In 55 BC he crossed the Rhine, the first Roman general to do so, but his expedition ended up being little more than shadow-boxing with the Germanic tribes. Frustrated by the lack of any concrete gains, he then made an expedition to Britain. Again, he was the first Roman general to do so, but it was a reckless move, since it was late in the season and he had not prepared adequately. The near-disaster of the British invasions of 55 and 54 BC are dealt with in another chapter (see pages 121 to 143). Suffice to say in this context that Caesar managed to spin these expeditions as great successes in Rome.\n\nCaesar's crossing of the Rhine and the English Channel, which were little more than military displacement activities, did not succeed in placing Roman rule in the Gallic territories on a more secure footing. In 54 to 53 BC a sequence of chaotic uprisings broke out, particularly in northern Gaul. One chieftain, Ambiorix, was able to lure a Roman detachment of fifteen cohorts into a trap, destroying it outright, and then subjecting another legion, under the command of Cicero's brother, Quintus Cicero, to a gruelling siege. It was only with difficulty that Caesar could save the situation, and he resorted to ever-increasing brutality to suppress the disorder. Villages and fields were burnt. Large groups of tribespeople were captured and led into slavery or simply left to starve. Noble Gauls involved in conspiracies faced agonizing deaths at the hands of the Roman forces.\n\nOne such event at the end of 53 BC \u2013 the execution of a rebel chieftain named Acco, who was cudgelled to death (a method chosen by Caesar for its archaic viciousness) \u2013 led to a wider and much more organized revolt. At the beginning of 52 BC, when Caesar's attention was distracted by the murder of his ally Publius Clodius Pulcher in Rome, the Gauls fell on the Roman population of Cenabum (modern-day Orl\u00e9ans) \u2013 in territory recently captured by Caesar \u2013 and slaughtered them. As with the original province in the south, an adventurous group of traders and their families had moved into a new area of opportunity created by Roman control. None escaped the massacre, and news of it travelled fast across Gaul. When any event of importance occurred, it was the custom to spread the news by shouting it in relays from field to field. Thus the massacre at sunrise in Cenabum was reported 160 miles away in the territory of the Arverni, around their chief _oppidum_ of Gergovia, by sunset. There was a signal for a general uprising.\n\nIn this situation, there was one Gallic chief who was able to rise to the challenge of leading a united resistance against Caesar. His name was Vercing\u00e9torix. Our primary source of information about him is, as with much else, Caesar himself. Only a few coins minted with his name, found scattered around the _oppidum_ of Al\u00e9sia (about which more in due course), bear contemporary testament to his rule. Vercing\u00e9torix was a noble member of the Arverni tribe; at the time of the uprising of 52 BC he was at the Arverni _oppidum_ of Gergovia, in the heart of what is now the Auvergne. Caesar tells us that his father was named Celtillus, and that he had been put to death in the previous generation for aspiring to the kingship of the whole of Gaul (a claim that may well be a projection of the native Roman fear of kingship onto the Gallic peoples). Vercing\u00e9torix was a young man of 'supreme influence', and he had the good fortune to be in such a position at the turning of the tide of history.\n\nVercing\u00e9torix seized on the massacre at Cenabum as a call to arms. According to Caesar, he summoned his tribal dependants and urged them to join the revolt. The other chiefs in Gergovia, including one of Vercing\u00e9torix's uncles, did not consider it safe to attempt such a rebellion and expelled him from the city. Undeterred, he went into the countryside, where he raised an army of 'beggars and outcasts'. With their support, he returned to Gergovia and seized it. He was hailed as 'king'. Vercing\u00e9torix then sent messengers to other tribes to seek pledges of loyalty in the form of men, weapons and hostages. In a vote, he was chosen to be the overall commander of the revolt. He was, says Caesar, a brutal leader: serious infringements of discipline were punished by burning or torturing to death, while lesser punishments included the severing of ears or gouging out of eyes. By such measures Vercing\u00e9torix ensured allegiance and loyalty.\n\nThe uprising caught Caesar off guard: he had to raise new forces, then rush back from Cisalpine Gaul to confront the rebels. As the Romans attempted to catch up with the main body of Vercing\u00e9torix's forces, Caesar captured a string of Gallic _oppida._ Vellaunodunum and Noviodunum \u2013 their sites now unknown \u2013 were taken; Cenabum was plundered and burnt. Vercing\u00e9torix, aware of the dangers of a battlefield encounter with Caesar's forces, called for greater sacrifices to halt the Roman advance. Cities and territories were no longer to be defended. Instead, the Gauls were to burn their own villages and crops that stood in the way of the Roman advance to deny them forage and stretch their lines of supply. The Gauls accepted the command, but pleaded for Avaricum (Bourges) \u2013 'the fairest of all their cities' \u2013 to be spared. Vercing\u00e9torix, against his better judgement, relented. The subsequent fall of the city to the Romans, the loss of 40,000 people and the Roman capture of the city's food supplies, merely served to prove Vercing\u00e9torix's strategic sagacity.\n\nRoman detachments throughout the Gallic territories, particularly in Lutetia (Paris), struggled to deal with the uprising. The rebels, by spreading apparent misinformation over Caesar's intentions, managed to peel off a number of his Gallic tribal supporters, including many of the Aedui. At an assembly in their capital, Vercing\u00e9torix was hailed as the commander-in-chief of all the Gallic tribes. A cat-and-mouse game with Caesar ensued before the two armies met in Vercing\u00e9torix's native territory, at Gergovia.\n\nGergovia is to be found south of the old tyre-producing city of Clermont-Ferrand in the Auvergne. It sits high on a flat plateau in a wide, green landscape of dark, volcanic plugs. There is no easy or direct route to it. I approach Gergovia through the suburban village of P\u00e9rignat-l\u00e8s-Sarli\u00e8ve. It stretches along a straight, quiet road, untroubled by cars and lined with geometric houses in various shades of beige and cream, their facades draped with honeysuckle. Telegraph wires beat a languid rhythm, hanging from post to post.\n\nGergovia was besieged by Caesar in 52 BC, and was the site of one of his few defeats. I find myself wondering whether it was across P\u00e9rignat that the Aedui cavalry, as described by Caesar, charged to assist the Roman legions; or whether the route of their charge lay outside the village, across the vineyards that reach down to the A75, roaring at the bottom of the valley.\n\nI make my way round to a point south of the plateau before embarking on the ascent. Caesar mounted his siege by building a Great Camp at the nearby town of Orcet on the other side of the A75. Later, he captured a height about two miles to the west, above the village of La Roche Blanche, and established a smaller camp there. Between the two camps he had two parallel trenches dug \u2013 each of them 3.5 metres wide and 3,000 metres long \u2013 to provide security for his forces going between them. Crossing and recrossing the modern suburbs of La Roche Blanche, there are no sign of these works beneath the neat gardens and vegetable patches planted with rows of onion and lettuce.\n\nI turn left and cross a bridge over the A75, through a maze of traffic lights, to reach Orcet. Caesar's Great Camp here was excavated in the 1860s by Napoleon III's archaeologist, Colonel Stoffel, and he laid down stone markers to mark the corners of its ramparts. One of them is easy to find, sitting demurely on one side of a residential street. Engraved in grubby nineteenth-century lettering on a slate-grey stone against a wall are the words _Camp occup\u00e9 par Jules C\u00e9sar, L'an 52 avant J.C._ ('Julius Caesar's camp, 52 BC'). Some of the others are more difficult to locate. I run the second marker to earth along a broken track on the edge of town, lined with nettles and brambles, behind a veil of undergrowth. The next lies hidden in high grass behind a mangled green wire fence, doing its best to protect a small factory producing agricultural metalwork. On the land itself there is no sign of a rampart, but the markers at least preserve Caesar as a once-recovered and half-forgotten memory.\n\nTurning back to climb to the plateau of Gergovia, I take a road that Caesar's crack 10th Legion may have marched up in their attempt to assault the Gallic stronghold. The road skirts the edge of the hill as it heads upwards. On one side, sometimes cut into the rock, are chiselled doors and windows that lead into abandoned troglodyte chambers. In gardens by the wayside, vines are trained high upon trellises; two men sit motionless with a bottle of wine outside a shed in the afternoon shade. Firebugs, armoured with their red and black escutcheon wings, toil over fragments of dry bark in the gutter.\n\n_One of the pillars set up by Stoffel in the 1860s to mark the corners of Caesar's Great Camp at Orcet for the siege of Gergovia._\n\nOn the slope some distance below the top of the plateau, the road passes through the village of Gergovia. In in its lower reaches there are capillary-winding culs-de-sac; its centre is ancient and stone-built. Large barn dwellings stand like cattle in a stall along a narrow, winding main thoroughfare. Honey-coloured lintels are carved with dancetty coats of arms staring out into the street. A Romanesque church sits on a promontory above a small and irregular village square. Cockerels squawk. Two boys play at a fountain, lashing the water with sticks. Above, a plaque records the visit in 1862 of Napoleon III, great searcher for Caesar and the Gauls in France. The plaque records not just the emperor's visit, but also his munificence. The name of Gergovia had been lost to the village generations before his visit. By then, it rejoiced in the name of Merdogne \u2013 'Shit-hole' By his command, the older and more dignified name was to be restored in the modern French form of Gergovie.\n\n_Plaque above the fountain at Gergovie recording Napoleon III's visit and his change of the village's name from the less decorous 'Merdogne.'_\n\nThrough the village, and off a country road, a stony track slippery with cow-dung leads to the top. It was on this part of the slope below the plateau, if Caesar's commentary is correct, that his legions met an array of Gallic warriors camped behind a hastily built wall of stones. Despite an order from their commander to retreat, the Roman troops made a sustained attack. The ground was against them and their lines were severely extended. Many were killed, and the attack was repulsed. I wonder if there is a sense of the sudden slaughter in the air, or if it can be read upon the gorse-fringed stones on the track. But if I do sense a frisson, a quickening of the pulse, I conclude it comes from the connection of Caesar's text to the place, not the place itself.\n\nAfter reaching the summit, the path leads first to the footprint of vanished building. Only a low ziggurat of a few stone steps remains. The steps are characteristic of a temple base, with a few stumps \u2013 the remnants of columns \u2013 ranged on top of them. Grass pokes through the corners and cracks. The rest of the structure has disappeared. This is not the remains of a temple but of accommodation built before the Second World War by a group of archaeological students from Strasbourg University who were studying the site. Nearby stands a memorial: many of them were executed by the Nazis.\n\nThe plateau of Gergovia extends, green, wide, level as the flat of a knife. The plain of the Auvergne below, broken by the dark fists of volcanic plugs, ebbs into the powder-blue horizon. Caesar wrote of how, when the legions fought the cordon of Gallic warriors just below the plateau, the women in the town of Gergovia threw their clothes and silver from the walls, baring their breasts and begging the Romans to spare them and their children. Now there is a quiet open space where children stride with coloured kites across the meadow-flowered grass. At one end of the site stands a caf\u00e9, admittedly Gallic-themed. Behind it, a wedding is in progress. The wind blows and whips around ribbons tied to green chairs. A memorial rises to the Gallic chieftain Vercing\u00e9torix, three bluff columns like a pile of millstones topped with a vast, empty winged helmet. The inscription is in Latin, the language of the Gauls' enemy. The edge of the plateau is fringed with the sparse remnants of ramparts, black basalt cubes, built against the Romans at the time of Caesar. In the centre of the plateau, more low barrows of basaltic rubble lie like little grave cairns, hardly showing their tops above the grass. There was a Gallic shrine here before the Romans came. It was remodelled after the conquest, while the rest of the town around it withered in the first century ad and was abandoned for Augustonemetum (Clermont-Ferrand), the Roman foundation on the plain. The shrine itself was forgotten by the third century, and the plateau sank back into oblivious green.\n\nThis was a place where Caesar was defeated. But still, he had his victory, for the Gallic past was effaced, even after his departure. The place fell into nothing. Even its name was lost, degenerating to 'Shithole' until it was recovered via reference to Caesar \u2013 the only real gateway to the memory of old Gaul. We cannot know in truth what Gaul was, and the only sight of its existence is Caesar's note of its passing.\n\nGergovia is a flat wasteland. Bibracte, capital of the Aedui and another great Gallic _oppidum_ \u2013 near modern Autun in Burgundy \u2013 was abandoned and reclaimed by the forests of Morvan. Caesar destroyed the Gallic town of Avaricum (modern-day Bourges), the 'fairest in the whole of Gaul' in Caesar's own words, in 52 BC, allowing his men to kill the population of 40,000; a mere 800 escaped. He killed around 160,000 of the Usipetes and Tencteri in 55 BC, by the streams of the Waal and the Maas in the east of the Netherlands. The Belgic tribes \u2013 the Nervii, the Senones, the Menapii \u2013 received similar treatment. On the southern coast of Brittany, Caesar executed the entire nobility of the Gallic tribe of the Veneti in 56 BC, and sold the whole of its male population into slavery. The Veneti were a long-established seafaring nation who controlled much of the ancient trade across the Channel into the British Isles. They built ships specialized for the rough conditions and tides of the Atlantic coasts, flat-keeled and high-prowed; Roman vessels paled by comparison. When Caesar stormed their strongholds on the rocky Armorican coast, they took to the sea in defiance. But when Caesar's men discovered a way of disabling the Veneti ships by cutting the rigging of their sails, their resistance came to an end. Scarcely any of their fleet returned to land. A people and a tradition were brought into the light of history by Caesar only through his account of their destruction.\n\nWriting in the century after the conquest of Gaul, the Roman historian Pliny the Elder records that Caesar, during his campaigns there, had caused the deaths of around 1.2 million people. Although many Roman historians would have marked this to Caesar's credit, Pliny does not. 'I am not going to put it down as a mark of his glory, what was really an outrage committed against humanity.' Along with all those who died, or were marched into slavery (each Roman legionary who served in the Gallic campaign received a Gallic slave), the Celtic culture of pre-Roman Gaul, and the Gallic testimony of that culture, was simply erased. The Gauls were not able to give an account of their own culture, unfiltered by a Roman lens. Beyond Caesar's dismissal of the Gauls as a boastful, garrulous people who were unable to see a plan through to its conclusion, we know nothing of the actual Gallic character. The true nature of the Gallic Druids, their philosophy and their gods, remain a mystery. After their obliteration in Gaul, they became nothing more than an empty vessel into which the modern age poured notions of picturesque savagery and a romantic longing for a wise and magical past. As Lucan, a Roman epic poet of the first century ad described them, the Druid priests dwelt in ancient, sunless groves, pallid with decay, where giant stones were smeared with the blood of human sacrifice, and effigies of the gods hacked out of rotting wood struck terror into the uninitiated. And of Gallic society, its history, its stories, we know little beyond what Caesar wanted them to be; there are just a handful of other Roman and Greek accounts, some fragments of archaeology, and a distant, refracted vision of what they might have been in the medieval writings of their Celtic kindred in Ireland. Caesar made his profoundest impact on history by bringing Gaul fully into the sphere of Rome and Mediterranean culture, but in doing so he drew an impenetrable veil over centuries of indigenous Gallic culture. In its absence and loss we feel Caesar's continuing presence to this day.\n\n_Stoffel's reconstruction of the Battle of Gergovia between Caesar and Vercing\u00e9torix in 52 BC._\n\nBut where Caesar destroyed, he also laid foundations for the new. And this was true as much for the identities of the people he had eclipsed as for the cities and territories he had razed.\n\nThe railway station of Venarey-les-Laumes, a small town in the luxuriant hilly countryside northwest of Dijon, is, on brief inspection, an unremarkable place: a quiet ticket office, gravelly walkways across the dusty tracks, an entanglement of sidings winding among greying locomotive sheds. It is only on reaching the platform, or pulling into the station as a new visitor by train, that one notices something rather striking.\n\n_View of the hilltop of Gergovie from beyond P\u00e9rignat-l\u00e8s-Sarli\u00e8ve._\n\nBeyond the tracks, by a factory, stands a large warehouse. The factory is grubby and dishwater beige, but the slatted walls of the warehouse are bright and freshly painted. However, what they advertise is neither a product of the factory, nor a car nor a chemical, nor an agricultural feed. On a cream-white background, picked out in blood red, are the towering head and shoulders of a man. His hair and moustache are long, his torso sturdy and heroic, his brow furrowed; he gazes over his back, as if in level contemplation of the future and of suffering to come. On a red band above his head is the word 'Al\u00e9sia'. The man is Vercing\u00e9torix. And it was here, at the settlement of Al\u00e9sia, on an almond-shaped plateau not far from the station, that he led the climactic battle against Caesar and the Romans in 52 BC. It was his defeat at this spot that led to Caesar's ultimate victory over Gaul and its incorporation into the Roman world.\n\nAfter his confrontation with Caesar at Gergovia, Vercing\u00e9torix somewhat unaccountably chose to retreat north. Instead of maintaining his earlier scorched-earth guerrilla campaign, he fell back on Al\u00e9sia, the hill-top _oppidum_ of the small tribe of the Mandubii.\n\nAl\u00e9sia sits on a great hill, Mont Auxois, surrounded by an amphitheatre of other hills \u2013 the Montagne de Bussy and the Montagne de Flavigny, among others. Only to the west and southwest, where Venarey-les-Laumes is sited on a plain around the scanty waters of the River Brenne, is there any relief from the heights. Vercing\u00e9torix had stationed his army, around 80,000 strong, within and around the _oppidum_ on the hilltop. As at Gergovia, he had strengthened the _oppidum_ with a ditch and an embankment 1.8 metres high.\n\nCaesar settled down for a long siege. The scale of the Roman siege-works at Al\u00e9sia, as described by Caesar, defies belief, until one learns that archaeology and aerial photography confirm his account, revealing the scars he left on the land itself. He constructed a 17-kilometre (11-mile) encirclement of Mont Auxois. Two trenches, one filled with water, were backed up by a rampart, around 3.6 metres high, topped with wickerwork battlements and crowned with wooden watchtowers every 15 metres. On the plain, earth was used to build the rampart. But as the trenches climbed undaunted over the surrounding heights, they had to be cut into the limestone rock of the hills, and in these places the limestone spoil was used to construct the ramparts.\n\nBetween the two trenches were placed devices to rival the barbed wire of a First World War no-man's land. Caesar cut the boughs of trees, and then sharpened and entangled the branches. These he set into the earth facing towards Al\u00e9sia, so that any force that approached would be impaled. Beyond these were pits a metre deep with stakes as thick as a man's thigh, tapering to a fire-hardened point, all concealed with brushwood to trap the unwary. And in front, logs embedded with sharp iron hooks pointing upwards were planted in the ground. Caesar revelled in the rough humour with which his men named these contrivances: the entanglements of branches were called _cippi,_ meaning both 'boundary-marker' and 'tombstone'; the concealed stakes, on account of the resemblance in form, were called _lilia_ \u2013 'lilies'.\n\n_Full-scale reconstruction of Caesar's 52 BC siegeworks around Al\u00e9sia at the Mus\u00e9oParc Al\u00e9sia._\n\nBefore Caesar had completed these siegeworks, Vercing\u00e9torix had been able to despatch an appeal to the other tribes of Gaul to send a relief force to attack Caesar in his rear. Caesar, conscious of this danger, took action to guard against it. The same defensive works he had constructed to face in towards Al\u00e9sia, he also constructed, over a 22-kilometre (14-mile) circumference, to face out towards any relief army that might attack him. He was therefore both besieger and besieged. His own force of about 60,000 men was concentrated in a narrow ring around Al\u00e9sia, no more than 120 metres across at its widest. Discreet stone markers set in the pavement by the railway sidings at the station record where the lines of each fortification were later rediscovered.\n\nThe siege was protracted and brutal. With so many civilians and fighters clustered on the hilltop, grain was in desperately short supply. Vercing\u00e9torix made himself personally responsible for allotting the rations. However, after a month in which there was no sign of the Gallic relief army, the Gauls decided to take desperate measures. The chiefs in the city held a council of war. Caesar claims to record the speech of one of the Gallic war-leaders, Critognatus. He argued, according to Caesar, that their parents had faced such a situation when the Teutones had invaded, and had left an example of the sacrifices that were necessary under such extreme circumstances: namely that useless civilians \u2013 women, children and old men \u2013 should be fed to those who were strong enough to bear arms. With Caesar at the gates, they should do the same again.\n\nThe Gallic defenders of Al\u00e9sia chose not to eat the civilian population, but decided to expel them from the city towards the Roman lines. They assumed that Caesar would admit them to his camp, and at least save their lives by selling them into slavery. The women, children, old men, numbering in their tens of thousands, were hustled down the hill, most likely via the road that descends from the summit towards the west, and which is now lined by modern bungalows and pleasant gardens. They reached the plain, and came upon Caesar's lethal entanglements, the snares and the traps arrayed before the Roman trenches. Caesar merely remarks that he ordered that they were not to be admitted to the Roman camp, but neglects to speak of their fate. Critognatus's savagery conveniently diverts the reader from Caesar's cruel decision to use the starving civilians of Al\u00e9sia \u2013 abandoned in no-man's land \u2013 as another weapon to put pressure on the Gallic army to surrender.\n\nSoon after the Mandubii civilians were left to their fate between the lines, the Gallic relief force arrived from the west. A series of intense battles was fought around Al\u00e9sia, as the Gauls struggled to break through weak points in the Roman defences. However, after the second round of substantial fighting, it became clear to the Gauls that they did not have the capacity to break the siege. A further council of war was held within Al\u00e9sia, and Caesar again reports its proceedings. Vercing\u00e9torix told his assembled commanders that it was not for himself that he had taken up the campaign against the Romans, but for the sake of their common liberty. As they now had to yield to fortune, he offered himself up for whatever they should choose: they could placate the Romans by killing him, or hand him over alive.\n\nThe council sent messengers to Caesar, who ordered the Gauls to surrender their arms, and to bring their chiefs to him. Caesar took his seat among the defences in front of his camp to await the leaders' arrival. When Vercing\u00e9torix appeared, he cast his arms down before his Roman enemy, and Caesar ordered him to be bound and taken away. There would be sporadic uprisings for the next year or so, but effective Gallic resistance to Rome was over. Little more is heard of Vercing\u00e9torix. He spent six years as a prisoner in Rome, and last saw the light of day in a triumphal procession celebrating the conquest of Gaul. After his appearance before the cheering crowds of Rome, a chained acolyte for Caesar's glory, he was silently and ritually executed, his purpose fulfilled.\n\nIn a clearing of tattered oaks and beeches on the western height of Mont Auxois, above the village of Alise-Sainte-Reine, stands a statue of Vercing\u00e9torix, looking down over the scene of his defeat. The clearing is empty and silent when I visit, and the peaks of the surrounding hills where Caesar camped are hidden in cloud. Rainwater has washed seawatery green stains from the metal body of the statue into the limestone plinth, and the mass of it lours dark against a leaden sky. The statue has stood here since the 1860s, when it was commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III. Its inscription, adapted from the commentaries of Caesar, bespeaks the power imputed to its subject: _La Gaule Unie, formant une seule nation, anim\u00e9e d'une m\u00eame esprit, peut d\u00e9fier l'univers_ ('Gaul, united, forming a single nation, animated by the same spirit, is able to defy the universe'). Caesar had defeated and captured Vercing\u00e9torix, imprisoned and executed him, and appropriated the record of his deeds for his own benefit. And yet Caesar, for all his self-glorification and destructiveness, had laid sufficient foundations for a new identity for Vercing\u00e9torix \u2013 and for Gaul \u2013 to emerge in years to come.\n\nFor many centuries of the modern age, the Gauls remained in the shadows where Caesar had left them. They had no place in the identity of the developing state of France. They were the defeated and malleable pagan masses, barbaric and obscure, who only took form when worked on by the magic of conquest. The Gauls before Caesar were of no moment. Even after the decline of Roman rule, ordinary Gauls were but pliant material to be moulded into civilized order by the Franks and the Christianizing King Clovis in the late fifth century AD. Vercing\u00e9torix remained unknown from this time until the late eighth century, when a manuscript of Caesar's commentaries was rediscovered in a monastic library. But even then he excited little interest. France took its identity and legitimacy from the Catholic Merovingians, and for antique glory traced its origins, like Rome, to refugees from ancient Troy. The French kings wished to be compared to Caesar rather than to any indigenous Gallic chief. For example Fran\u00e7ois I (r. 1515\u201347) was dubbed a 'Second Caesar' and 'Conqueror of the Helvetii' after his victory over the Swiss at the Battle of Marignano in 1515. Even with the stirrings of the Renaissance, Vercing\u00e9torix continued to attract scant attention. Writers from the Auvergne, his native territory, extolled him as a regional hero, but scholars from Paris looked down on him as a mere provincial leader. If anyone from the legendary past of Gaul mattered to them, it was Brennus, the purported leader of the Gallic attack on Rome many generations before Caesar.\n\nBut at the end of the eighteenth century, the atmosphere changed. With the emergence of the Romantic aesthetic, there was a surge of interest in the notion of a Celtic past. A fabricated collection of ancient epic verse, attributed to a Celtic bard named 'Ossian' and 'collected' from Gaelic-speaking Highlanders by the Scottish poet James Macpherson, took Europe by storm. In France itself, the overthrow of the monarchy, and the succession of different forms of government that followed, prompted a reassessment of the foundations of French national identity. Likewise, the invasion of France and the occupation of Paris by the Prussians and Cossacks in 1814\u201315 led to an intellectual debate as to how France should respond. Caesar's invasion of Gaul and the example of Vercing\u00e9torix offered a template to follow.\n\nBy the beginning of the nineteenth century, the time was ripe for a reconnection with the Gallic past. An early stirring in this direction was made during the French Revolution itself in 1789, when the political writer Abb\u00e9 Siey\u00e8s characterized the Revolution as an indigenous Gallic population throwing off the shackles imposed by a noble class of Frankish invaders; but the idea did not gain immediate traction. The first real and influential attempt to develop this idea was made a little later by two historians, the brothers Augustin and Am\u00e9d\u00e9e Thierry. It was Augustin Thierry who, in 1820, at the age of twenty, fulminated at the centuries of darkness into which the Gauls had been cast by the historians of France. 'It is absurd', he writes, 'to make just the history of the Franks the starting point for a history of France. Such a choice consigns to oblivion the memory of a vast number of our ancestors, of those who, I would venture, have a just claim on our filial veneration.' France, he observes, is made up of much more than the \u00cele-de-France and Paris. The hallmark of a well-written national history, he argued, was one that left out no one as it ranged over the whole mass of the national territory, as well as the entire scale of time. In ignoring the Gauls, the histories of France written up to that point had failed entirely to do this.\n\nHis younger brother Am\u00e9d\u00e9e took up the cudgels. Contrary to the received notion that French history began with the Franks, Am\u00e9d\u00e9e saw a continuum. The roots of France stretched back to the Gauls. 'Descendants of the soldiers of Brennus and of Vercing\u00e9torix, of the citizens of Carnutum and Gergovia, of the nobles of Durocortorum and of Bibracte, have we nothing left of our fathers?' He saw the Gauls as the ancestors of the French. The nature of France and the French, he maintains, is to a greater or lesser extent thanks to the legacy of the Gauls: 'I have concluded that our qualities, both good and bad, did not come into being yesterday in this land.' For Am\u00e9d\u00e9e Thierry, Vercing\u00e9torix is a romantic hero, a 'young chief' endowed with 'virtues and brilliant qualities', 'grace' and 'courage'. And, as such, he offers a noble and virtuous contrast to the mediocrity of the present. After the final defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, the Bourbon monarchy had been reimposed on France in the person of Louis XVIII. For Am\u00e9d\u00e9e, the shabby image of the restored Bourbon monarch returning to his homeland in the baggage train of the Duke of Wellington's army only serves to burnish the heroism of the ancient Gallic chieftain further: 'Vercing\u00e9torix was too patriotic to owe his elevation to the humiliation of his country, and too proud to accept a throne from the hands of a foreigner.'\n\nAm\u00e9d\u00e9e's writings were republished several times throughout the nineteenth century and exerted a notable influence on French culture and intellectual life. Other academic historians who persisted in arguing for the discontinuity between the Gallic period and the modern French nation, or who maintained the older idea that Rome was the bringer of civilization to a barbarous wasteland, never attained the same level of popularity as Am\u00e9d\u00e9e Thierry. Vercing\u00e9torix, the hero bequeathed by Caesar, allowed nineteenth-century France to develop a different notion of the origins of its identity. The Frankish background was decried on account of its association with the monarchy and old nobility: they were invaders who had imposed their will on a captive indigenous population. Indeed, the invasion of the Germanic Franks in the late fifth century seemed merely to presage the invasion of the Germanic Prussians in Am\u00e9d\u00e9e's own century. France's Roman imperial pedigree was likewise out of favour, given that it was held responsible for Napoleonic Caesarism and the legacy of clericalism. Only the Gallic past \u2013 painted as heroic, egalitarian, a time of liberty \u2013 was able to meet the terms required for a redefinition of French origins. Vercing\u00e9torix, moreover, was perfectly suited to be a hero in the face of adversity: a symbol of resistance, struggle and necessary sacrifice. Yet his defeat could also be seen as the beginning of hope: it signalled rejuvenation, a restoration of status and a new civilization that would be brought by Rome.\n\nAs the nineteenth century proceeded, the life of Vercing\u00e9torix became a major subject for French literature. Dozens of plays, poems, novels and histories and works of art appeared, extolling the virtues of the newly remembered hero. These included Eug\u00e8ne Sue's novel _Les Myst\u00e8res du peuple_ (1842\u20133), which evokes Vercing\u00e9torix as the 'chief of a hundred valleys', and Henri Martin's five-act verse drama _Vercing\u00e9torix_ (1865). So scanty is Caesar's account of his life that Vercing\u00e9torix was open to a multitude of conflicting interpretations; indeed, the absence of biographical certainty may have been a large part of his appeal. Some called on him as a republican hero, standing defiant against Caesar. One trope taken up by a number of writers was the idea that Brutus, in killing Caesar, was acting to avenge the death of Vercing\u00e9torix. Yet others, particularly apologists for the Roman Catholic Church, saw Vercing\u00e9torix as a kingly figure, even treating him as a prefiguration of Christ himself. In Vercing\u00e9torix's surrender to Caesar, only cursorily treated in the _Commentaries,_ they discerned a Christ-like self-abnegation: for the sake of his friends, he was meekly obedient even unto death; and his sacrifice was necessary and blessed, because via the conversion of Rome, France would later come to the Christian church. Some, by contrast, saw his defeat as marking the disastrous end of the liberty enjoyed by an indigenous civilization, overtaken by the Roman culture that, rather than Gaul, was truly barbarous. Caesar was held up in wretched contrast to Vercing\u00e9torix: he was 'vile... an assassin' (Henri Bernard); 'The bloody author of so many vile atrocities' (Pascal-Louis Lemi\u00e8re). Alexandre Soumet, who wrote a verse tragedy (1831) depicting a Druidess, Norma, during the time of the Roman conquest of Gaul \u2013 which would very soon inspire Bellini's opera _Norma_ (1831), with a libretto by Felice Romani \u2013 puts outspoken views in the mouth of his heroine: 'How I hate the Romans! They are cruel, perfidious, sacrilegious, deceitful / And by parricidal sermons / They place their crimes under the guard of heaven.'\n\nVercing\u00e9torix himself was elevated to the highest rank of the French national pantheon. Even a member of the French house of Bourbon, Henri d'Orl\u00e9ans, the duc d'Aumale, could extol the virtues of the Gallic chief, so often held up as a republican hero. In 1859 he wrote:\n\nI often remember the emotion stirred in me in my childhood by the story of Vercing\u00e9torix's struggle against Caesar. Although the passage of time has changed my ideas about it on many points, and although the Roman conquest does not stir in me the same indignation and I recognize everything that it has given to our modern French nation, I have kept the same warm enthusiasm for the hero of the Auvergne. For me, it is in him that is personified for the first time our national independence; and if it is permitted to compare a pagan hero with a Christian virgin, I see him, in his successful end, as a precursor to Joan of Arc. He is not even without the halo of martyrdom. Six years of captivity followed by death... is worth as much as death at the stake at Rouen... And since... he devoted himself to the salvation of his companions, I salute him as the first of the French.\n\nOthers took up this cry. As the writer Adolphe Br\u00e9an commented in 1864, for the three ages of French history, there were three great heroes. In the Middle Ages, there was Joan of Arc; in the modern age, Napoleon; but in antiquity there was Vercing\u00e9torix.\n\nThe contradictions in the French response to Vercing\u00e9torix and his defeat by Caesar came to a head with Emperor Napoleon III. He had come to power initially as the only president of the Second Republic following the final collapse of the Bourbon Monarchy in 1848. When, in 1852, the terms of the constitution prevented him from continuing in presidential office, he staged a coup, positioning himself as a popular modernizer, not dissimilar to Caesar. In the 1860s, when he eased some of the repressive measures designed to secure his position following the coup and his declaration of himself as emperor, he began to show a deep interest in the early history of France and the Roman invasion. He ordered wide-scale searches to take place to discover the locations of battles and sites described by Caesar in his _Commentaries._ He also embarked on the project of writing the life of Caesar in three volumes. The work was never completed, but the use to which the emperor wished to put Caesar and his victory over the Gauls are made entirely clear in the two volumes that were published.\n\nThe emperor attacks the denigration of great men: 'Too many historians find it easier to lower men of genius, than, with a generous inspiration, to raise them to their due height by penetrating their vast designs.' Too often, 'paltry inspirations' were imputed to Caesar's 'noblest actions'. Thus 'if he throws himself into Gaul, it is to acquire riches by pillage or soldiers devoted to his projects; if he crosses the sea to carry the Roman eagle into an unknown country, but the conquest of which will strengthen that of Gaul, it is to seek there pearls which were believed to exist in the seas of Great Britain'.\n\nThe emperor presents himself as a saviour of the French people, who had a vision for redevelopment of the country. Indeed, Haussmann's redevelopment of Paris, the first department stores, the great railway stations of Paris, and movements for gender equality all belong to his age. Julius Caesar, suggests the emperor, was also a man of vision \u2013 a vision that locked together the fortunes of Rome and Gaul in the development of European civilization. It was nothing less than 'civilization at stake' when the Gallic and Roman armies faced each other across the 'hills and fertile plains, now silent, of Al\u00e9sia'. While one must admire Vercing\u00e9torix for his spirit of independence, says Napoleon III, 'we are not allowed to deplore his defeat'. Had Caesar failed to overcome the Gauls, the penalty paid by the people would have been much worse. 'The defeat of Caesar would have stopped for a long period the advance of Roman domination which, across rivers of blood, it is true, conducted the peoples to a better future... let us not forget that it is to the triumph of the Roman armies that we owe our civilization; institutions, manners, language, all come to us from the conquest. Thus are we much more children of the conquerors than the conquered...' Without Caesar, the barbarous peoples of Gaul would have likely overrun Italy and extinguished the light of Mediterranean civilization. Rule by a benevolent and popular despot, therefore, was the only salvation for a society that wanted to progress. It was unnecessary to labour the modern parallel.\n\nYet it was Napoleon III who commissioned \u2013 and paid for out of his own funds \u2013 the statue of Vercing\u00e9torix at Al\u00e9sia that stares pensively over the site of his defeat. No equal monument stands there in commemoration of Caesar's salvation of French civilization. And looking closely at the face of Vercing\u00e9torix, his brow furrowed against the ashen sky, one sees, behind the shock of hair and the drooping moustache, the face of Napoleon III himself. This fact caused the politician Henri Rochefort to remark that the emperor had celebrated Caesar by the pen, but Vercing\u00e9torix by the statue. And the historian Andr\u00e9 Simon, among others, suggests that this contradiction still runs through French society and identity, even today: rejoicing in the benefits brought by Roman colonization, but paying a spiritual allegiance to the stubborn resistance of Vercing\u00e9torix.\n\nThe loss of Al\u00e9sia was evoked as a response to the French defeat in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. L\u00e9on Gambetta, who led the French resistance to the invasion following the defeat of Napoleon III, was cast as a new Vercing\u00e9torix, opposed to a German Caesar, Bismarck. To the republican left following the conflict, ancient Gaul was ceaselessly evoked as a political model, with the suggestion that its chiefs were democratically elected by the people; this heritage, it was suggested, stood in contrast to the crowned governments of the rest of Europe. New monuments arose to the democratic Vercing\u00e9torix, such as in Clermont-Ferrand and on Gergovia itself, now erected not by an emperor, but via public subscription.\n\nHowever, it was after a graver defeat, at the hands of the Nazis in 1940, that Vercing\u00e9torix and Al\u00e9sia were more thoroughly pressed into service. The situation was far worse than in 1870, and authority in France was divided between German occupiers, the Vichy administration under Marshal P\u00e9tain and the exiled Free French Government under de Gaulle. Again, Vercing\u00e9torix was used to provide a light and direction to the vanquished population of non-occupied France. For commentators in the press, P\u00e9tain, who had led the French armies successfully against the murderous German attack at Verdun in the First World War in 1916, was the Vercing\u00e9torix of the age. He had taken up arms, like Vercing\u00e9torix, for the liberty of all. Like Vercing\u00e9torix he had given, as Ren\u00e9 Giscard d'Estaing (uncle of President Val\u00e9ry Giscard d'Estaing) remarked, the gift of his person to France. In order to bring a longer-term victory out of defeat, there were lessons to be learnt from Vercing\u00e9torix: the need to avoid lassitude, hopelessness and a withdrawal from the world; the need for self-sacrifice and the creation of a sense of national unity. Beyond this, the P\u00e9tainists even equated the German victory with that of Caesar: a new civilization had conquered France, but \u2013 if the French collaborated with their conquerors in the wake of defeat \u2013 a brighter future was believed to be in prospect.\n\nThe symbolism of Vercing\u00e9torix was remorselessly exploited by P\u00e9tain to lend credibility and lustre to his government. Gergovia, rather than Al\u00e9sia, was the focus of this effort. Close to Vichy and the Auvergne, which many saw as the ancient heart of France, Gergovia was cherished as the site of the Gallic victory over Caesar. Soon after the surrender to Nazi Germany, P\u00e9tain oversaw the establishment of the L\u00e9gion Fran\u00e7aise des Combattants ('French Legion of Combatants') for military veterans. This organization was to be a movement for 'moral renewal', a 'National Revolution', based on the principles of self-sacrifice and unity that Al\u00e9sia was held to embody. It provided practical assistance with harvests and food shortages, and also filled the ideological and social space created by the outlawing of political parties. In 1942, on the second anniversary of its foundation, a grand ceremony was held at Gergovie designed to foster a sense of national unity and loyalty to one's leader, values that were said to have been upheld by Vercing\u00e9torix in the face of Caesar's invasion. Urns of earth were brought to Gergovie, purportedly gathered from 'every commune in France' as well as the 'French empire', including Djibouti, Madagascar and even the French possessions in the Far East. In front of the massed ranks of 30,000 legionaries, P\u00e9tain mixed the earth and buried it in a crypt on the Gergovian plateau to signify the indivisibility of France (despite its occupation and the different claims to its government) and also a communion between the France of 1942 and the Gallic realm at the time of Caesar's conquest.\n\nIn the aftermath of the German defeat in 1945, Caesar's victory over Vercing\u00e9torix was again reinterpreted to illuminate the new political reality. An alternative approach, which also existed in opposition to the official P\u00e9tainist doctrine, is neatly summed up on a marble inscription, erected in 1949, at the railway station close to Al\u00e9sia: 'In this plain 2,000 years ago, Gaul redeemed its honour by leading its people, at the command of Vercing\u00e9torix, to face the legions of Caesar: but after the defeat of its arms, reconciled with the victor, together they defended against the Germanic invasions: open to the lights of Greece and Rome, it knew three centuries of peace.'\n\n_Stoffel's reconstruction of the siege of Al\u00e9sia, 52 BC._\n\nFollowing the war, General Charles de Gaulle offered a further corrective to the dogma of P\u00e9tain. Vercing\u00e9torix was, for him, the ' _premier r\u00e9sistant de notre race_ ' ('the first resistance fighter of our race'). His Gaullist ideology \u2013 his 'certain idea of France' \u2013 treated the country as a timeless and eternal person in itself, with whom a 'mystical dialogue' was possible throughout the course of history. Although the origins of the _French state_ were to be found with Clovis and the Merovingians, the origins of _the people_ were to be found before Caesar, with the Gauls themselves. The character of the Gauls, as he saw it, had been transferred to the French: courageous, demanding and mercurial, with the propensity for revolution and civil conflict, for which a strong state was the antidote prescribed by historical experience. Such was the importance of Vercing\u00e9torix to de Gaulle that he visited Al\u00e9sia every year between 1947 and 1957 on 5 September, the date recorded by Caesar for the capture of Vercing\u00e9torix.\n\nVercing\u00e9torix and his conflict with Caesar have continued to exercise an influence even on more recent generations of politicians in France. Fran\u00e7ois Mitterrand, president of the French Republic from 1981 to 1995, cited Vercing\u00e9torix as one of the leading historical characters to have influenced him, since he had been able on occasion to defeat the Romans although the Gauls had been in no state to resist 'the Roman machine'. He regarded Bibracte, where Vercing\u00e9torix had been voted the supreme war leader against Caesar, as the birthplace of the first stirrings of French unity. Mitterrand made major speeches at the site on two occasions, including an appeal for national unity. He also expressed a wish, which remained unfulfilled, to be buried there. The Gaullist politician Jacques Chirac, Mitterrand's presidential successor, used the plateau of Gergovia in 1989 as a site to launch the campaign for the European elections, with a call for French identity to be safeguarded. Chirac made reference to the inscription on the base of the statue of Vercing\u00e9torix, saying that they were a 'singular people, in the first rank when united'. He even played on Vercing\u00e9torix's worsting of a Roman centurion, Lucius Fabius; one of Chirac's political opponents was the socialist Laurent Fabius.\n\nThe contradictions in the story of Vercing\u00e9torix and the Roman invasion still provide fodder for political conflict. The former Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen made a speech at Al\u00e9sia in 1990, calling for France to resist invasions and return to its roots. Vercing\u00e9torix was an 'unfortunate hero' and a symbol for the French people whom Le Pen judged to be 'menaced in their substance and security by other types of invasions... I do not question the immigrants themselves, but the criminal policy of immigration'. By contrast, a demonstration held in Clermont-Ferrand against discrimination at the same time was able to claim Vercing\u00e9torix for its own; as one of the organizers said, 'it is fitting that our march against racism ends in front of the statue of Vercing\u00e9torix, that is to say the hero of liberty and of liberties'. In November 2016, Nicolas Sarkozy, in his (failed) presidential bid, evoked Vercing\u00e9torix in the debate over migration and French identity. He declared that 'Whatever the nationality of your parents, at the moment you become French, your ancestors are Gaul and Vercing\u00e9torix,' thereby demanding that immigrants fully accept the French way of life as a prerequisite for receiving French nationality.\n\nBut although Vercing\u00e9torix has continued to be used by politicians as an idol and lesser cousin to Joan of Arc, since 1959 his potency as a serious political symbol has been somewhat reduced thanks to his appearance in the _Ast\u00e9rix_ series of _bandes dessin\u00e9es_ (comic books), written by Ren\u00e9 Goscinny until his death in 1977, and illustrated by Albert Uderzo. To be sure, the habit of lightening the treatment of the Gauls did not appear with _Ast\u00e9rix._ Since the end of the nineteenth century, the Gauls had been used in advertising as the French population became ever more familiar with their idealized images in cheap and widely distributed school textbooks and popular history pamphlets. Gallic chiefs found themselves not in Roman captivity, but corralled into selling cigarettes, strange varieties of liqueurs, petrol and pneumatic tyres. It was in this atmosphere that _Ast\u00e9rix,_ gently satirizing the French way of life in the twentieth century, came to be conceived. The paradoxes inherent in the conflict between Rome and Gaul are fully on display \u2013 the cities and towns rebuilt and flourishing under Caesar, with amphitheatres, temples and aqueducts, but counterpointed by the invincible and resistant rustic village with its communal life, jollity, contrariness and constant quarrels. The contrast finds its fulfilment in the portrayal, in _Le Bouclier arverne_ ( _Asterix and the Chieftain's Shield,_ 1968), of the surrender of Vercing\u00e9torix at Al\u00e9sia. After the event Caesar describes to his followers how the defeated Gallic chief meekly laid his weapons at the feet of his conqueror, while Caesar looked on \u2013 majestic, cold and impassive. It is an emotive scene treated frequently in nineteenth-century French art. In the comic-book telling, however, certain members of Caesar's entourage remember the event differently. Vercing\u00e9torix does not lay his weapons humbly at Caesar's feet, but, riding up to his Roman adversary, drops them from a height on Caesar's spindly toes.\n\n_Sign at the entrance to Devil's Dyke, Wheathampstead, thought to be the site of a battle in 54 BC between Caesar and the British resistance leader Cassivellaunus._\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTales of the Imagination\n\n_Neque enim temere praeter mercatores illo adit quisquam_  \n'Nobody except traders journeys thither without good cause'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ IV.20\n\nBOULOGNE\n\n\u2022\n\nDEAL\n\n\u2022\n\nWALMER\n\n\u2022\n\nROMNEY\n\n\u2022\n\nCANTERBURY\n\n\u2022\n\nBIGBURY HILL\n\n\u2022\n\nARTHUR'S-HOVEN\n\n\u2022\n\nWALTON-ON-THAMES\n\n\u2022\n\nWHEATHAMPSTEAD\n\n\u2022\n\nRICHBOROUGH\n\n\u2022\n\nCASSIVELLAUNUS\n\nDURING HIS MILITARY CAMPAIGNS of the 50s BC, Caesar twice invaded Britain, once in 55 BC and again in 54 BC. His footprints on _terra Britannica,_ however, are rather less easy to discern than those he left on the French side of the Channel.\n\nIt is unlikely, as Suetonius suggests, that he was drawn to the island in the belief that it offered a vast supply of high-quality pearls (other Roman authors knew that British pearls were of particularly low quality). However, it is difficult to accept Caesar's claim that he went there merely to stop the Britons sending assistance to the Gallic tribes in their uprisings against him. He makes only one glancing reference before his first invasion of Britain to such external help, and it appears unlikely that the Britons posed a grave enough threat to the security of Roman forces on the continent to justify the extraordinary risk of launching an amphibious attack on the island of Britain.\n\nSeen in the wider context of the conquest of Gaul, a more credible motivation becomes apparent. By 55 BC, Roman troops had made their presence felt across the whole of Gaul. Caesar's work was shifting from the exciting business of conquest to the more mundane work of consolidating the new territories or suppressing dissent. Since his proconsular mandate over the territory still had several more years to run, it is likely that he wanted to continue to present the Senate \u2013 and more importantly, the people of Rome \u2013 with eye-catching victories to consolidate his reputation and justify the unusual length of his command.\n\nThe first symptom of this desire was his construction in 55 BC of a bridge across the Rhine to pursue the Germanic tribes on its east bank and deter them from making incursions into the newly Roman areas of Gaul. The expedition, despite its pioneering nature \u2013 it was the first Roman incursion across the Rhine (and, it would no doubt have occurred to the Roman audience, towards the putative source of the Teutones) \u2013 consisted more of shadow-boxing than any real military engagements. The tribes that Caesar sought to chastise were nomadic in character, and were able to melt away into the far recesses of their territory, keeping such a distance that it would have been suicidal for Caesar to have extended his supply lines far enough to reach them.\n\nLacking a new enemy to fight, Caesar turned his attention westwards. Although it was late in the campaigning season and there were threats of revolt in Gaul, and despite the fact that he lacked not only intelligence about the ancient Britons but a navy that was fit for purpose, Caesar had made up his mind. He marched his legions from the Rhine to the Channel and prepared to make a crossing. He billed the first expedition as an information-gathering exercise, which was not an unreasonable quest this late in the season. However, the beauty of sailing for Britain, in contrast to crossing the Rhine or campaigning elsewhere in Gaul, was that victory was not a prerequisite for glory. Britain, for the Romans of the time, was less of a place and more of a myth. Many saw the English Channel as the occidental boundary of the known world. Whatever lay beyond \u2013 Britain, Hibernia, Ultima Thule on the edge of the disc of the world, where the land was bound with ice and the sun was said never to set \u2013 was the stuff of tales told by eccentric travellers. A sailor, Pytheas, who had set out from Massalia in the third century BC, claimed to have circumnavigated the British Isles; but his account, the remains of which suggest he was true to his word, was savaged by ancient geographers. Many of them, however, could not even agree as to whether Britain was an island. Given such scepticism, merely to set foot in Britain with an army as witness would match Hercules's exploit of reaching the underworld; military success would be an agreeable addition, but by no means a necessity.\n\nUnder these circumstances, it is of little surprise that Caesar's preparations were rushed and inadequate. He sought information about the island from Gallic merchants who made regular voyages there. Given his earlier massacre of the sea-going Veneti, however, and their likely fear that any expedition of Caesar's would disrupt their trade to the island, they told him nothing of use. It is also unsurprising that they forewarned the British chiefs of his intended voyage. The chiefs, hoping to forestall an armed invasion, sent envoys across the Channel offering to submit. Caesar took these messages at face value, and interpreted them as a sign that the indigenous population was well disposed rather than hostile, thus deceiving himself as to the level of risk involved in an expedition.\n\nHaving discovered little of the geography from local sources, Caesar was compelled to gather the information himself. He sent out scouts in a reconnaissance boat, but their work was slapdash. They failed to find any suitable anchorages for large vessels. They were able to locate Dover \u2013 a site the British could easily defend \u2013 but they did not search far enough around the coast to find the nearby haven of Richborough, which would be used in the Roman conquest of Britain a century later. They also made no attempt to explore inland. Thus, they returned with a dearth of useful intelligence, but their presence had acted as a further warning to the Britons of Caesar's imminent arrival.\n\nIn his haste to depart, Caesar ordered transport ships to be gathered at Portus Itius (Boulogne). He was able to assemble eighty vessels. For his purposes, this was barely sufficient, as he wanted to carry two legions (12,000 men, a small number in itself for an expeditionary force) with their equipment across the Channel. Each vessel was probably no more than 20 metres long, but each had to carry up to 150 soldiers. The men were packed in tightly. Their heavy equipment had to be left behind and their rations were kept to an absolute minimum. They would have to rely on foraging once they arrived, adding to the vulnerability of their meagre headcount. The nature of the ships also made their task more difficult. They were high-sided, and unsuitable for a beach landing. If Caesar were able to find a suitable harbour, this would not present a difficulty; but failing this, his ships would have to disgorge his legions into deep water to fight their way onto shore. Although he could have waited over winter until he had built enough suitable ships and gathered helpful intelligence, none of these considerations troubled him. He set out at midnight on 24 August, 55 BC.\n\nThe view from the end of Deal pier, looking back towards the land, reveals a grand sweep of the Kent coast. The shore rolls from Ramsgate in the north, hazy in mist as it reaches into the sea, down through the gentle curve of Sandwich Bay to Richborough and the mingled seafronts of Deal and Walmer. Then the land turns and rises suddenly into the white wooded cliffs of South Foreland, where the coastline wheels out of sight and runs southwest towards Dover.\n\nThe pier is modern and spartan; unornamented barrel-iron legs march unevenly, bearing the concrete and girders of a bare walkway back to the shore. The coast lies low and flat behind a grey sea, the peaks of the skittering waves teased into silver points by the reluctant light of a pewter sky. The level expanse of the seafront is toothed with high, narrow houses, Dutch in aspect, and as muted in colour as the sea before them. The beach below is a high bank of sandy pebbles, mottled where the sea has drawn back over them, wrinkled by the pulse of the surf at high water mark.\n\nIt is here, where the steepness of the beach levels slightly between Deal and Walmer, that Caesar is believed to have come ashore. His intention had been to put into Dover, but on reaching it in the morning he saw the cliffs about the harbour lined with armed men, ready to throw projectiles at his ships should they approach the land. He ordered the fleet to follow him round the coast, and where the cliffs sank into a flatter beach he decided to disembark his men. Drawn up on the beach in their chariots, daubed with woad and festooned with gold torques, were the British warriors who had followed the Romans round the coast to their landing point.\n\nIt was a daunting task for the legionaries to jump from the high sides of the ships, heavy with weapons and battle dress, into the deep water where the Roman ships had dropped anchor. In his _Commentaries,_ Caesar could at least divert the reader's attention from the consequences of his impetuous behaviour by praising of the bravery of his men. He made a point of lauding the standard-bearer of the 10th Legion, his favourite, who leapt into the water, proclaiming that he was doing his duty to Rome and Caesar. Nevertheless, Caesar managed to save the situation by good generalship, calling down fire from the ships' catapults, slingers and archers against the right flank of the Britons. Advancing through the water under this cover, they were at least able to secure a beachhead and construct a camp, and to haul the ships up on shore to keep them under guard.\n\nWhere Caesar made his beachhead camp on the coast at Walmer, a sprawl of fishing boats and their gear now sits sequestered behind metal barriers. The slate-heavy air is relieved by bright blue tubs and tarpaulins, stacked green crates, the winding of ropes and nets and waving ensigns. A man at a trestle table by the shore path hacks at the fat body of a skate with an instrument fearsome as a machete. The wind rattles the antennas and masts. This has always been a coast that has dreaded invasion. Behind the fishing boats stands the compact roseate form of Deal Castle, which has warded off a succession of enemies \u2013 the French, the Dutch, the Germans. But this is a construction of the Tudors, not Caesar.\n\nImagination and tradition invoke Caesar's presence in this place, where real traces of him are lacking. Wishful local tradition attaches evidence of Caesar to anything that might have suggested his presence. The Tudor antiquary, John Leland, records that in his own time, Deal boasted 'a fosse or great bank artificial betwixt the towne and se, and beginneth about Deale, and rennith a great way up toward S. Margaret's Clyfe, yn so much that sum suppose that this is the place where Caesar landed _in aperto litore'._ Many liked to think that this bank was created by Caesar. An Elizabethan traveller and mapmaker, William Lambarde, makes such a record in verse: 'Renowned Dele doth vaunt itselfe,/ With Turrets newly rais'd:/ For monuments of Caesars host,/ A place in storie prais'd.' Some of the locals even called the bank 'Romesworke'. But in reality it was just a result of the coast inching forwards into the sea, which Leland concedes was the most likely explanation: 'Surely the fosse was made to kepe owte ennemyes there, or to defend the rage of the se; or I think rather the casting up beche or pible.'\n\nIt is not difficult to find real traces of the Romans near Deal. They can be found at Richborough Castle along the coast. One can visit Canterbury and descend below the streets to see subterranean mosaics rumpled by slow movements of the earth, or trace the line of Roman arches in the stonework of the city walls. There is a building here whose walls are substantially Roman \u2013 the small church of St Martin's, whose sanctuary was built before the fourth century, and which sheltered St Augustine when he returned to bring Christianity to Britain in ad 597. But this is the inheritance of the invasion of Claudius in ad 43, and not of Caesar. One may say that Caesar paved the way for Claudius, but that aside, Caesar's own presence after his two abortive invasions is felt more in story, tradition and myth. The locations of his landings, his camps, his itineraries and his battles are speculative best guesses. At the beginning of the twentieth century, following much scholarly debate, the shore between Walmer and Deal was agreed to be the most plausible landing site for Caesar's forces.\n\n_The Church of St Martin of Canterbury. The walls of the chancel, pictured above, are thought to have stood since late Roman times._\n\nBut myths placing his arrival elsewhere remained stubbornly embedded in popular tradition and literary sources. The town of Romney, for example, much further west in Kent, claimed Caesar's landing for itself. The Elizabethan herbalist John Parkinson links his landing there with the ancient presence of _Urtica romana,_ the common Roman nettle. William Camden, the Elizabethan historian, though disagreeing with Parkinson's story, records it for posterity:\n\nIt is recorded (saith he) that at Romney, Julius Caesar landed with his soldiers, and there abode for a certain time, when the place (it is likely) was by them called Romania, and corruptly therefore Romeney or Romney. But for the growing of the Nettle in that place, it is reported, That the soldiers brought some of the Seed with them; and sowed it there for their use, to rub and chafe their Limbs, when through extreme cold they should be stiff and benumbed; being told before they came from home, that the Climate of Britain was so extreme cold, that it was not to be endured without some friction or rubbing to warm their blood, and to stir up their natural heat: since which time, it is thought, it hath continued there, rising yearly of its own sowing.\n\nThe site of Caesar's first battle when he returned to Britain in 54 BC, having scarcely escaped safely to Gaul after the winter storms of 55 BC, is placed by archaeologists at Bigbury Hill Fort, a few miles' walk northwest from the centre of Canterbury. The fort was an Iron Age stronghold of several hectares, a palisaded keep on the side of a hill framed by the River Stour and an ancient track whose route would later be followed by the Pilgrims' Way. It is the only encampment of this sort in the vicinity, and the best academic guess as to a site described by Caesar where the troops of the 7th Legion had to fight their way into a wooded hill fort whose gates had been sealed with pyramids of logs. The archaeological record suggests that habitation there came to an end around the middle of the first century BC. Excavations from the end of the 1800s found indigenous weapons \u2013 spears and axes \u2013 as well as agricultural and cooking gear \u2013 coulters, ploughshares and pot-hooks. They also found a set of human shackles, showing that the place had some sort of involvement in the Roman slave trade. But that Caesar was present here is only a guess. Legends place his engagements with the local tribes elsewhere. Camden suggests the battle was fought southwest of Canterbury at the village of Chilham. The locals, he records approvingly, believed the name of their settlement to be a corruption of _Julham,_ as if one should say, _Julius's station, or house;_ and, if I mistake not, they have truth on their side'. The place was imbued with magic, and Camden could not resist adding his own speculations to the local legend of the Romans:\n\n_Bigbury Hill Fort, by the Pilgrims' Way near Canterbury. This was the most likely site of Caesar's first battle during his second invasion of Britain in 54 BC._\n\nBelow this town is a green _barrow,_ said to be the burying place of one _Jul-Laber_ many ages since; who, some will tell you, was a _Giant,_ others a _witch._ For my own part, imagining all along that there might be something of real Antiquity couch'd under that name, I am almost persuaded that _Laberius Drusus_ the Tribune, slain by the Britains... was buried here; and that from him the _Barrow_ was call'd _Jul-Laber_.\n\nOn his first invasion, Caesar was unable to progress very far from the coast. In his haste, he had ordered his cavalry to set sail at a different location from his infantry. The two forces were separated and the cavalry, because of adverse winds, were not able to reach Britain. This hampered him from moving inland. The itinerary of his second invasion is likely to have been a route from the coast at Walmer, past Canterbury, crossing the Thames at some unknown ford; then penetrating beyond St Albans to confront a local chieftain, Cassivellaunus, who, as Vercing\u00e9torix would do in Gaul, had managed to unite the disparate local tribes in resistance. But legend has expanded the scope of Caesar's travels and achievements. Although he had failed to make his landing at Dover, local tradition holds that he left his mark there. During the Middle Ages, a Roman lighthouse inside the precincts of Dover Castle was turned into the bell tower of the adjacent church of St Mary in Castro. It was built around ad 50, following the invasion of Claudius, but legend gave it to Caesar. The pre-thirteenth-century _Chronicle of St Martin of Dover,_ compiled at Dover Monastery, states that the tower was his, built as a treasury, and that Dover Castle beside it was built by Arviragus, the son of Cymbeline. Leland in Elizabeth's time says that he saw a Latin inscription in the church to this effect; and Lambarde remarks that in the Castle itself 'certeine vessels of olde wine, and salte' were kept in Caesar's memory 'whiche they affirme to be the remayne of suche prouision as he brought into it'.\n\nCaesar's achievements as a builder go far beyond Dover. The castles of Canterbury and Rochester, both Norman, had accrued a Caesarian origin by the Tudor period. The twelfth- century Anglo-Norman poet Wace and later chroniclers state that Exeter owed its origins to Caesar after he built a camp on the River Exe. The Tower of London was also similarly honoured; in Shakespeare, it is 'Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower'. Across the country, there are a number of Iron Age forts and other early earthworks, entirely innocent of association with Caesar or the Romans, to which folk accounts have accorded the name of 'Caesar's Camp'.\n\nCaesar was not only a builder, but a bringer of amenity. The twelfth-century chronicler William of Malmesbury attributes the hot springs of Bath to him. Such achievements could be brought about by magic; a fourteenth-century Anglo-Norman chronicler, Nicholas Trivet, records that Caesar also built Chichester. On completing it, he realized that it lacked running water. To remedy this, he sent a painting of the city, along with opulent gifts, to the poet Virgil (who at that time was in Greece), asking for the magical provision of a source. Virgil sent back an enchanted serpent sealed in a box, with instructions that it should only be opened where the source of water was desired. The messenger was curious to see what Virgil had sent; so, just before reaching Chichester, he opened the box a little to peek inside. The serpent sprang out and buried itself in the ground, and there the River Lavant welled up and found its course to the city.\n\nIf Chichester was out of Caesar's way, Scotland was even more so, but this did not prevent legends of him from taking root there. In medieval times, on the banks of the River Carron near Stenhousemuir, there stood a curious cylindrical stone building topped with a dome. It was called Arthur's-Hoven, for some locals said that King Arthur, when visiting Scotland, used to visit it for recreation. However, others, adhering to a more ancient tradition, called it Julius'-Hoff. The Northumbrian Chronicler, Sir Thomas Grey, writes in the 1350s that it was a pavilion erected by Caesar. John of Fordun, writing in the following generation, records various popular theories about Caesar's purpose in building the tower:\n\nHe wanted to build this little house as a sort of extreme goal in the circus of Roman possessions, at the end of the world, and as a lasting sign of his famous soldiery, just as Hercules, in memory of his eternal fame and long labours, once fixed columns in the island of Gades at the western limit of Europe. Another version, particularly among the common people, is that Julius Caesar had this little house carried about with him, stone by stone, by his troops, and rebuilt each day wherever they camped, because he could rest more safely in it than in a tent; but that when he returned to Gaul he was in such a hurry that he decided to leave it behind, with the stones just laid together, as can be seen to this day.\n\nA sixteenth-century historian, John Leslie, confirms the more popular account. Each stone was numbered, so that 'the place quahir euerie stane sould be sett mycht esilie be knawen and discernet frome vthir.' Later antiquaries theorized that the monument was a trophy set up in the second century ad by Quintus Lollius Urbicus, a Roman general of Berber origin, in the campaign that led to the establishment of the Antonine Wall, which ran close by its site. However, it is a question that will never be resolved. The tower was torn down in 1742 by an industrialist, Sir Michael Bruce, to provide material for a dam at the nearby Carron Iron Works.\n\n_The routes of Caesar's invasions of Britain in 55 and 54 BC, according to Stoffel._\n\nBut it was Caesar's Thames-side confrontation with Cassivellaunus that proved the most fertile source of myth. As has been briefly described above, Caesar pursued his forces from Kent to the Thames. Somewhere along its banks, Caesar records, Cassivellaunus attempted to prevent the Romans from crossing the river by positioning stakes below the water. Caesar negotiated this obstacle, only to be harried by the Briton's forces as he pressed northwards into their tribal heartlands. Cassivellaunus, however, lacked the diplomatic skills of Vercing\u00e9torix, and Caesar was able to exploit divisions in his alliance, securing the loyalty of various British chiefs by offering them protection. Cassivellaunus then attempted to raise the Kentish chiefs to Caesar's rear, but the tactic came to nothing. Caesar and Cassivellaunus met in a final battle at the latter's stronghold: a place, says Caesar, 'fenced with woods and marshes' in which the Briton had assembled a considerable quantity of men and cattle. Caesar was not especially impressed by his efforts: 'Now the Britons call it a stronghold when they have fortified a thick-set woodland with rampart and trench', but although it was 'particularly well-fortified by nature and handiwork', with a vigorous assault the Roman legionaries were able to overcome it without difficulty. Many of the British warriors were captured as they fled and put to death, perhaps because Caesar did not have the means to transport them back to Gaul as slaves.\n\n_Arthur's Hoven, depicted in an eighteenth-century engraving shortly before its destruction in 1742._\n\nCassivellaunus's placing of stakes in the Thames \u2013 as well as the possible location of Caesar's crossing \u2013 held a particular fascination for later writers. The Venerable Bede, writing in the eighth century, says that the stakes were still visible in his day, 'the thickness of a man's thigh, and being encased in lead, stuck immovably in the depths of the river', though he omits to say where they were. King Alfred, in the translation he made of the late Roman imperial historian Orosius, said that Caesar had crossed the river at Wallingford (now in the southern part of Oxfordshire). Other writers, from the Renaissance to the present day, have suggested such locations as Teddington, Brentford, Southwark, Windsor and Kingston-upon-Thames. William Camden fixed the crossing at a place called Coway Stakes, not far from the present bridge at Walton-on-Thames, convinced by the name and by the fact that the river was easily fordable at this point, being, he claims, just a couple of metres deep. Others offered the same story as Camden, but in greater detail. In the anonymous thirteenth-century French romance, _Li Fet des Romains_ ('The Deeds of the Romans'), Caesar managed to destroy the stakes by burning them down to the river bed with Greek fire.* John Weever, writing in 1767, suggests that there were elephants in Caesar's army: 'for I have heard that he terribly frighted the Britons with the sight of one at Coway Stakes, when he passed over the Thames'.\n\nSimilar uncertainty surrounds the location of the stronghold of Cassivellaunus, fortified with 'rampart and trench'. The _Chronicle of Dover Monastery_ fixed it nowhere near St Albans, but rather near Bridge on Barham Downs in Kent. The battlefield, states the _Chronicle,_ was to that day covered in mounds under which were concealed the bodies of those who fell. In following centuries, writers identified it with St Albans, Cassiobury in Hertfordshire (whose name, it was argued, preserved the name of the Catuvellauni, a tribe loyal to Cassivellaunus), Wendover, Pinner or Harrow, and even the City of London itself. In 1932, the archaeologist Sir Mortimer Wheeler excavated Devil's Dyke, an old earthwork on the edge of Wheathampstead, and suggested this as the site of Cassivellaunus's last stand. The Dyke, an abbreviated gully overgrown with brambles and shaded with canopies of beech, preserves such a brooding and numinous sense \u2013 despite being hemmed in on one side by semi-detached houses of the 1950s in orange brick \u2013 that it would be easy to believe it the site of Caesar's climactic battle. Although no hard evidence could be offered of Caesar's presence, in 1937 the dyke's new-found historical status led to its being given to the nation by its owner, Lord Brocket, to commemorate the coronation of George VI. An inscription was placed by its entrance stating that 'It was probably here that Julius Caesar defeated the British King Cassivellaunus.' As Fran\u00e7ois Mitterrand looked to Bibracte, where the united Gallic chieftains acclaimed Vercing\u00e9torix as their war leader, as the first capital of France, so Wheathampstead \u2013 a small, agreeable Hertfordshire town \u2013 now plumes itself with the title 'First Capital of Britain'. No British politician, however, has attempted to exploit this modern myth.\n\nAlthough the supposed locations of the battle between Caesar and Cassivellaunus have given rise to many myths, it is those that grew out of the confrontation itself that have the greatest power. In 1136, Geoffrey of Monmouth, a cleric of Welsh origins, completed a new work intended to shine some light on the early history of the British Isles, a period shrouded in darkness. Geoffrey claimed to have acquired an ancient book in the 'British tongue' (i.e., Welsh) that provided a detailed history of the islands from the dawn of the British nation through to the Saxon conquest. This ancient book formed the basis of his own work, the _Historia Regum Britanniae_ ('The History of the Kings of Britain'). For all his claims about this 'ancient book', Geoffrey's account is, in fact, a weaving together of credible historical sources, including Caesar's _Commentaries_ and the writings of Bede, with strange and fantastical stories whose likely source was his own vivid imagination. Geoffrey's probable design was to further the claims of the post-conquest Norman kings of England, and Rome plays an important role throughout his narrative. The Britons, like the Romans, owe their origins to Troy. The kingdom was founded by Brutus, the grandson of the Trojan prince Aeneas, who came to Britain as a refugee and gave it his name. He established London, originally with the name of Troia Nova ('New Troy') and later Trinovantum. His descendants, according to Geoffrey, turned Britain into an advanced and civilized culture: it was Roman before the Romans. The British developed cities, roads, even amphitheatres. Two early rulers, Dunvallo Molmutius and Queen Marcia, laid down laws for the people to follow. Later, there is a civil war. One of the rival kings, Brennius, is presented as being the Brennus who went to sack Rome in 390 BC, though in Geoffrey's account he is a Briton, not a Gaul.\n\nThus, when Caesar came, Britain was a nation as civilized and ancient as Rome, and with an equal claim to dignity and dominion in Europe. Because of their descent from Aeneas and Brutus, Caesar considered the British and the Romans to be kinsmen, but he saw the British as degenerate, 'living beyond the deep sea and quite cut off from the world'. It would be an easy matter, he thought, to force them to pay tribute to Rome. However, he wished to do this by sending them a simple order, as he did not wish to spill the blood of a kindred people.\n\nHe therefore despatched a letter to Cassivellaunus, seeking the submission of the British. Cassivellaunus wrote back a contemptuous reply. Pointing out their kindred descent, he stated: 'It is friendship you should have asked from us, not slavery... We have become so accustomed to the concept of liberty that we are completely ignorant of what is meant by submitting to slavery. we shall fight for our liberty and for our kingdom.'\n\nCaesar thus made the first of his attacks on Britain. He came ashore at 'Dorobellum', perhaps a distant corruption of Deal, to face a fantastical array of the British nobility: Androgeus, duke of Trinovantum, and Tenvantius, duke of Cornwall, Cassivellaunus's nephews; the sub-kings Cridous of Albany, Gueithaet of Venedotia and Brittahel of Demetia; there was also Cassivellaunus's brother, a prince named Nennius. The Britons fell on Caesar's army as it came ashore. In the vicious combat that followed, Nennius and Caesar came face to face in the m\u00eal\u00e9e. Nennius had the chance to land a decisive blow, but Caesar struck him on the helmet and wounded him. When the Roman attempted to deal him a second and fatal blow, his sword stuck in Nennius's shield, and in the confusion he abandoned it. The sword was magic, named _Crocea Mors_ ('Yellow Death') and its touch was fatal. Nennius took it and raged about the battlefield, killing Caesar's deputy Labienus and many others. By the end of the day, thanks to the heroics of Nennius, the Britons were masters of the field, and Caesar was forced to return to Gaul. Nennius, however, wounded by Caesar's sword, died fifteen days after the battle and was much lamented by his brother Cassivellaunus. He was buried at the north gate of Trinovantum, Caesar's sword beside him in his coffin.\n\nThe defeat brought Caesar to a sorry pass, according to Geoffrey. On his return to the continent, a rumour swirled around the subject Gauls that Cassivellaunus had launched a fleet to pursue Caesar across the Channel. A revolt was brewing. Caesar, fearful of having to fight a war on two fronts, 'opened his treasure chests' to bribe every chieftain in turn to remain at peace: 'To the people he promised freedom, to those who had been disinherited he promised their lost possessions, and he even went so far as to promise liberation to the slaves.' Geoffrey of Monmouth is contemptuous: 'He who had once raged like a lion, as he took from them their all, now went about bleating like a gentle lamb, as with muted voice he spoke of the pleasure it caused him to be able to give everything back to them again.'\n\nTwo years later, once he had calmed the Gauls, Caesar attempted a second invasion of Britain. He launched a vast fleet carrying a huge army and sailed up the Thames towards Trinovantum. However, his ships cruised fecklessly into the famous stakes. 'Thousands of legionaries perished as the river water flowed into the holed ships and sucked them down.' Caesar did his best to get his bedraggled troops onto dry land and rally them for battle, but they were outnumbered three to one by the Britons on the river bank. Once again Caesar had to turn tail and flee back to the continent with the remains of his army.\n\nAccording to Geoffrey of Monmouth, it was only by treachery that Caesar was able to triumph over the Britons. After defeating the Romans for a second time, Cassivellaunus ordered all the British leaders to assemble at Trinovantum for a feast to honour the gods who had given them victory. The day began with sacrifices: 'They offered forty thousand cows, a hundred thousand sheep and so many fowl of every kind that it was impossible to count them. They also sacrificed three hundred thousand wild animals of various species which they had caught in the woods.' Having feasted, the people turned their attention to games and sports. A wrestling match between Cassivellaunus's nephew and a man who was loyal to Androgeus ended in disagreement over who had won. A fight broke out, and Cassivellaunus's nephew was killed. Cassivellaunus was enraged, and the quarrel escalated to the point of civil war between himself and Androgeus. Androgeus realized that his only chance of success was to appeal to Caesar for support; and Caesar jumped at the opportunity to avenge his own failures in Britain. This time, he landed at Richborough, and Cassivellaunus duly arrived to do battle with him. The fight was evenly poised. However, at the vital moment, Androgeus, hiding in a forest glade with 5,000 men, emerged to attack Cassivellaunus from the rear. Cassivellaunus's men were forced to retreat to a hilltop redoubt, but continued their dogged resistance. Caesar settled down to starve the British into submission. Androgeus, satisfied that Cassivellaunus had been humbled but not wishing to see him perish, begged Caesar to have mercy. The Roman, fearful of Androgeus's intentions, acceded to his request. Cassivellaunus agreed to pay an annual tribute to the Romans of 3,000 pounds of silver, and in return would retain his throne. Remarkably, Caesar and Cassivellaunus then became friends. Caesar wintered peacefully in Britain before returning to Gaul to gather an army together 'from every source and every race of mankind' and marching to Rome to attack Pompey.\n\nThe _Historia Regum Britanniae_ was immensely popular throughout the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance, across Europe as well as in Britain. Its portrayal of the authority of the crown as stretching back to the ancient past and being equal in antiquity and dignity to Rome made it a favoured chronicle of the English and later the British monarchy. As late as the seventeenth century, kings and queens relied on Geoffrey of Monmouth for proof of their prerogatives. In Cassivellaunus's resistance to Caesar, and indeed in Brennius's earlier victory over Rome, the _Historia_ also asserted British precedence over the continental powers.\n\nYet the appeal of the _Historia_ was not solely down to this. Geoffrey also popularized the story of King Arthur, who before then was a shadowy figure who had only appeared briefly in a couple of early chronicles. Geoffrey, as he had done with Cassivellaunus, fleshed out the story of Arthur, such that he became one of the staples of European literature. Caesar and Cassivellaunus, being thus predecessors and players in the Arthurian myth, also entered by this route into the great canon of medieval European romance. The story of Caesar's invasion and Cassivellaunus's resistance echoes across Europe in English, French, Latin and Welsh retellings. Continental writers are prone to make Caesar a more dignified figure than does Geoffrey of Monmouth. Wace, writing in French, makes him a wise, courageous and generous leader, whose motives for attacking Britain \u2013 revenge for the earlier destruction of Rome by Brennius \u2013 are nothing but lofty. In surviving Welsh literature, Caesar does not appear in such an honourable light: for summoning Julius Caesar to Britain, Afarwy son of Lludd (perhaps a corruption of Androgeus) is reckoned in the _Red Book_ to be one of the 'Three Dishonoured Men' of Britain. Cassivellaunus, under the name Caswallawn, is shown in a better light. He was, among other things, a maker of golden shoes. He took an army of 60,000 men to Gaul to rescue Fflur, the daughter of Mynach the Dwarf, from Mwrchan, a Gallic prince. He defeated the Romans who came to Mwrchan's aid and settled in Gascony where, according to the _Myvyrian Archaiology,_ \u2020 his descendants were still known in medieval times.\n\n_Remains of the Roman fortifications at Richborough._\n\nIn the fifteenth-century French prose romance _Perceforest,_ Caesar invades Britain because one of his knights, Luces, is in love with a mythical queen of England. Luces has hatched a plot with the queen to destroy her husband's kingdom, and persuades Caesar \u2013 who has already been repulsed from the island once \u2013 to launch an attack on Britain in support of their conspiracy. In the course of his second invasion, Caesar destroys the British nobility and lays waste to the island. Thereafter, it is possible to wander for six months without finding 'city, town, borough or house'; the survivors of the invasion are reduced to living 'like dogs', and dressed only in deerskins. One Briton, Ourseau, vows revenge. He is able to acquire Caesar's lance, which has been cursed to the effect that it will be the instrument of Caesar's death. Ourseau's brother, Orsus Bouchesuave, fashions the lance into twelve daggers and gives them to Brutus and his coconspirators in Rome. The plotters, together with Ourseau's brother, then use the daggers to stab Caesar in the Senate.\n\nCaesar also made appearances in German literature. In Enikel's _Weltchronik,_ written in the late thirteenth century, Caesar drives out 'cyclopes' and the 'monstrous flat-feet' from the German lands, before bestowing special honours on the German peoples for helping him to overcome the Senate and take absolute power. Only they, along with Caesar, are to be addressed with the honorific pronoun _Ihr,_ and he ordains that anyone failing to do so will have their tongue cut out. This is but a prelude to their receiving Caesar's ultimate legacy: the Holy Roman Empire, the _imperium_ of Rome, which would in future ages be passed down to the German peoples.\n\nCaesar reports that his exploits in Britain \u2013 two quick invasions, both of which nearly led to his destruction through over-hasty preparation and failure to take the danger of revolt in Gaul seriously \u2013 earned him a twenty-day public thanksgiving in Rome at the command of the Senate. It was granted not so much for his military achievements, which were meagre, but for that fact that he had been able to reach the far and mysterious land of Britain. So it is perhaps fitting that his footprints in Britain are hidden in obscurity, and that his traces are to be found more in imagination, story and myth.\n\n* _A flammable liquid substance that could burn on water, developed by the Byzantines for use in naval warfare. Its use by Caesar is a delicious anachronism._\n\n\u2020 _Myvyrian Archaiology is a compilation of Welsh literature from the medieval period._\n\n_Mausoleum of the Julii, Glanum. Built around 40\u201320 BC, it appears to be a tomb dedicated to a family of Gallic aristocrats who were Romanized soon after Caesar's conquest, even taking the name 'Julius'._\nCHAPTER V\n\nWhen in France\n\n_Unum illud propositum habebat, continere in amicitia civitates_  \n'He had one purpose in mind, to keep the tribes friendly'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico_ , VIII.49\n\nSAINT \u2013 R\u00c9MY \u2013 DE \u2013 PROVENCE\n\n\u2022\n\nGLANUM\n\n\u2022\n\nMARSEILLES\n\n\u2022\n\nCOLONIES OF CAESAR\n\n\u2022\n\nROADS OF AGRIPPA\n\n\u2022\n\nGALLIA: _'PARTES TRES'_\n\n\u2022\n\nDIVIDING THE TRIBES\n\n\u2022\n\nLYONS\n\n\u2022\n\nCONDATE\n\n\u2022\n\nALTAR OF THE THREE GAULS\n\nEAST OF BEAUCAIRE, not far from Saint-R\u00e9my-de-Provence, a slip road from the Via Domitia leads towards the Gallo-Greek settlement of Glanum. It is a confusing road to follow, crisscrossed as it is by modern pathways and occasionally rerouted around newly built properties. But contemporary rustic villas are not the only distractions for those who walk this route.\n\nThe road to Glanum is surrounded by memorials to past suffering and the displaced: one of them commemorates 250 political refugees from Spain who assisted in public works during the Second World War; another remembers 10,000 French members of the International Brigades who went to support the Spanish Republic during the civil war of 1936-9. Nearby, behind a high stone wall, is a graveyard overgrown with brittle grasses, oak saplings and Scots pine. This ancient Jewish cemetery, used intermittently over the centuries, received its first dead in the 1400s, was abandoned when the Jews were expelled from Provence by King Louis XII in 1500, and then came back into use after the French Revolution. But in the twentieth century the site was closed again for good. A sign by the gate declares a verse of the Psalmist: _L'Eternel m'a ch\u00e2ti\u00e9 s\u00e9v\u00e8rement, mais il ne m'a pas livr\u00e9 \u00e0 la mort_ \u2013 'The Lord hath sorely chastised me: but he has not given me over unto death.'\n\nBut persistence will bring its reward: the track passes along an old gully, where the powdery ground is relieved by the dappled orange of marsh fritillaries basking in the heat, and then up on to a plateau where the first Roman monuments come into sight. They stand alone, brilliant against the lapis lazuli sky, an arch and a tower over 15 metres high, isolated from the rest of Glanum by the modern road that cuts across from Les Baux to R\u00e9my. Their isolation does not detract from their dignity. They are locally known as Les Antiques ('The Antiquities'). The ancient slip road from the Via Domitia would have passed beneath the arch into the town. The principal role of the arch was to demarcate the territory of the settlement \u2013 considered not just civilized but also sacred \u2013 from the profane and dangerous hinterland beyond. Although the arch has suffered the ravages of time \u2013 the upper storey is missing and large portions of the carved marble facings have been pulled down \u2013 it still retains a sense of its original function as a holy portal.\n\nHowever, this is not the only role of the arch. It is also a preserver of memories. As is inevitable for anything related to Caesar, many of these memories are imagined. It was widely believed in the nineteenth century that the arch and adjacent tower were the work of Caesar himself, thrown up shortly after his campaign to commemorate not only his own conquest, but also the earlier victories of Marius. Indeed, an embankment at the site is still called the 'Wall of Marius'. But the style of the arch suggests a later date, around 20 BC, similar to monuments being built in Rome under Augustus. Thus the arch reflects not so much the immediate moment of conquest, but a memory of the early period of Roman control: a reflection of how the Roman empire, having itself endured the trauma of the long-running civil war and the triumph of Augustus as the first emperor, attempted to digest and assimilate the newly conquered territory of Gaul.\n\n_The Arch of Glanum, built around 20 BC and decorated with burgeoning fruits and reliefs of Gauls in chains._\n\nThe arch has two, somewhat contrasting, stories to tell. The immediately striking thing about it, whether one approaches it from the ruins of Glanum or via the slip road from the Via Domitia, is that each side is framed by two tall fluted columns. In each of the four panels made by these columnar frames are two figures, more than life size. Some are better preserved than others, but their common subject matter is clear. At least one of the figures on each panel is male: strong, muscular, mostly naked, standing with a firm and determined contrapposto. These are Gauls. Each of them is in chains: chained at the neck, bound at the wrists, arms tied behind the back. Next to certain of the figures are piles of Gallic arms, captured and stacked as trophies of victory. For good measure, the men are chained to these also. On top of these trophies sit women. One appears to be a Gaul, weeping for her lover from whom she is soon to be separated. Another, more richly dressed but now lacking a head, may be a personification of Rome, guarding the arms \u2013 forever forfeit \u2013 of vanquished rebel tribes. Yet the male figures in chains are not all presented in their habitual indigenous innocence. One wears a Gallic coat, a _sagun,_ but not in the normal fashion. Instead, it is draped around him in the manner of a Roman toga, as if he had been touched by the civilization of Rome, but had then foolishly chosen to turn away from it.\n\nThis is not the only time that a Gaul in chains appears in Roman imagery. A statue of a defeated Gallic warrior, kneeling and bound, was found in a fountain in Glanum itself. Captive Gauls also appear on the arches of Carpentras and Orange, and they featured as a motif on contemporary Roman coinage. Gaul was a land in chains, held by the might of Rome: this was a primary fact, not to be forgotten.\n\nBut on the arch at Glanum these images of Gaul held in bondage are counterbalanced by something very different. It appears when one comes closer to the arch and finally passes underneath it. The lip of the arch and the vault underneath do not share the quiet flat surface of the greater part of the monument; they are covered with carvings of flowers, plants and fruit. In this, there is nothing lightly ornamental, polite or reserved. There are vines, bulging clusters of grapes, pomegranates, apples, bundles of oak rich with acorns, laurels bearing berries, pine cones \u2013 all winding and writhing about each other, enmeshing, threatening to burst out of the narrow channel allotted to them.\n\n_Detail of the Arch of Glanum, showing the lush fruits, flowers and vegetation suggestive of Rome's beneficence._\n\nThe theme continues beneath the arch. Flowers erupt from the stone, and every corner and crevice of the vault is alive with tendril and leaf. There is a dizzying canopy of abundance, making the very stone seem more animate and vital than the dusty ground of the plateau round about. And all this bounty, this vigour and renewal springs from the touch and the domination of Rome.\n\nWith the conquest of Caesar, Gaul was everywhere in chains. However, the tightness of the bonds varied. They developed over time and changed in nature from place to place. Sometimes they expressed themselves in violence and the destruction of cultures and lifestyle. In other ways and at different times they took the form of nudges and inducements, rewards offered, reputation and proximity to power in return for supporting the Roman machine.\n\nCaesar departed Gaul in 50 BC. Following his victory at Al\u00e9sia the threat of another full-scale revolt against the Roman presence had been virtually eliminated. However, this did not prevent the continuation of low-level unrest. Caesar and his commanders therefore spent their remaining time in Gaul engaged in mopping-up actions of spiralling brutality. The Carnutes, dwelling between the Seine and the Loire, were driven from their homes in midwinter and left to starve without shelter in the freezing storms of the season. In the northeast, the Bellovaci were crushed following a persistent guerrilla campaign. The fighting men of Uxellodunum (Puy d'Issolud, near Cahors) who held out in a siege but later surrendered, had their right hands cut off as an exemplary punishment.\n\nCaesar, having won his grand victory in the provinces, was getting impatient with these engagements. His term of office was coming to an end, and he did not want to be tied down in policing activities. His concern was now with Rome, with his opponents in the Senate and his rivalry with Pompey for control of the empire. It seemed that under these external pressures, Gaul could be pacified with remarkable speed. During the winter of 50 BC, his last full year in office, Caesar, having used violence, turned to kindness to secure Roman dominance. Aulus Hirtius, who completed the last book of Caesar's _Commentaries,_ briefly notes that Caesar 'addressed the tribes in terms of honour, gave very considerable presents to the chiefs, and imposed no new burdens'. By this sudden display of comradely gentleness after so many years of ruthlessness, the Gallic chiefs, worn out by conflict, were easily kept in peace 'under better terms of obedience', notes Hirtius.\n\nThese few comments of Hirtius summarize most of what can be known about the first attempts of Rome to develop a political settlement for Gaul. There were no immediate signs of a grand plan in the immediate aftermath of the Gallic campaign. Rome expressed power by destroying implacable opponents and co-opting the tractable chiefs via financial incentives and the confirmation of their own authority in Gallic society. In the first instance, Caesar used the hierarchies already in place to carry out the functions of government on behalf of the Romans. In reality, he had little choice. Rome was on the verge of being convulsed by the penultimate round of its long-running civil war; confrontation between Caesar and Pompey was looming. The time and resources required to develop formal mechanisms of government and the grand manifestations of Roman power in the far-flung frontier regions of Gaul were lacking. Besides, given the scale of the devastation, it would not have been practical to impose in short order the elaborate institutions of Roman government on the newly captured territories.\n\nThus for the first few years following the conquest, Gallia Comata was administered as part of Transalpine Gaul. Comata was under the authority of the same governor, and there is no sign that Rome attempted to make any changes there during this period. It was the question of security throughout Gallia Comata that weighed most on the Roman mind; it has been suggested by some modern historians that the region was subjected to some form of martial law at this time. Gallic discontent continued to manifest itself. In 46 BC, the first governor after Caesar, Junius Brutus Albinus, was compelled to put down a further uprising among the Bellovaci, who had been one of the last people to fight Caesar. In 44 BC, it was a matter for great relief in Rome that the Gallic tribes made a promise to Aulus Hirtius, by then governor of Gaul, that they would not cause any difficulties following the assassination of Caesar, who two years before his death had assumed supreme power in Rome. However, this peace of mind was short lived. The following year, the general Lucius Munatius Plancus was called to campaign on the Rhine against the Raeti (a tribal federation originally based in the Alps). Such disturbances were to continue for another three decades.\n\nRoman intervention following the conquest of Comata was more pronounced in Transalpine Gaul than in the newly captured areas. This was partly as a result of the civil war; Caesar looked to Gaul to supply him with men and resources during his battle with Pompey. In 49 BC, when Massalia \u2013 still an independent Greek city in the midst of a Roman territory \u2013 refused to support Caesar in the war, his forces besieged the city and, after an artillery bombardment, captured it. It was stripped of all of its remaining territories and was left with only nominal independence. As Massalia was brought more firmly under Roman influence, so the Roman presence was made more strongly known in the wider hinterland of Transalpine Gaul. Following Caesar's victory over Pompey in 46 BC, many of his veterans were settled in the transalpine colonies of Narbonne, B\u00e9ziers, Fr\u00e9jus and Orange. The settlements of N\u00eemes and Vienne on the Rhone were also given 'Latin Rights' which endowed their inhabitants with a number of liberties and allowed those in positions of authority to claim Roman citizenship.\n\nIt might have been that the foundation of these colonies in Transalpine Gaul was part of a wider plan that Caesar himself had conceived for the long-term settlement of Gaul. Had he escaped assassination in 44 BC, the subsequent developments in Gaul (later attributed to the agency of others) might in fact have been shown to be Caesar's initiatives. However, this will never be known. We can only guess as to whether Caesar had a grand scheme for establishing a proper government in Gallia Comata; it is possible \u2013 given his reforms in Rome itself in 46 BC, including changes to the calendar and to the institutions of central government \u2013 that putting Gaul in order could well have been on his mind. However, in the absence of any proof, the credit for fully incorporating Gaul into the empire must fall not to Caesar but to others.\n\nThe first permanent Roman institutions on the fringes of Gallia Comata were founded shortly after Caesar's assassination. In 43 BC, Plancus, who had defeated the Raeti, established two colonies: Lugdunum (Lyons) and Augusta Raurica, a forerunner to Basel. These colonies, in the first instance, served the purpose of defending the transalpine region against the potential instability of Comata. They also allowed troops to be levied who might then participate in the civil war.\n\nIt was when authority over the empire was divided between Octavian (later known as Augustus; Caesar's nephew and adopted son) and Mark Antony in 40 BC that closer attention was paid to the newly captured lands. Mark Antony took charge in the east; the west was Octavian's domain. Gaul, as a fresh and substantial part of Octavian's sphere of authority, demanded his particular consideration. The need to make it secure both against Gallic uprisings and external incursions was one question; the placing of Comata's government on a more regular footing was another. The new lands, as they had done for Caesar, also provided Octavian with an opportunity. Given their size and potential for generating wealth and manpower, he would have seen that they might supply him with a powerbase and a well of resources \u2013 an important consideration should he come into conflict with Mark Antony in a further round of civil war, as indeed would come to pass.\n\nOctavian made his first visit to Gaul in 39 BC. He appointed one of his most capable and trusted lieutenants, Agrippa, as his governor. It was becoming clear that, in the future, the real areas of unrest were likely to be the northeast and the southwest of Gaul. Both regions bordered on areas either uncontrolled by or not fully under the control of Rome. The northeast looked towards the Rhine and the tribal lands of the Germanic peoples. The southwest lay next to the Spanish provinces, where the authority of Rome was still weak. In both cases, the unruly neighbouring populations would encourage revolt in the adjacent parts of Gaul. Bearing this in mind, Agrippa began to develop an infrastructure that would allow for its defence and security.\n\nThe development of a road network was a top priority. This was, in the beginning, a military undertaking. It had to allow for the swift movement of troops from the Italian heartland to the colonial towns in Gaul, and then on to the unsettled frontiers in the northeast and southwest. It is obvious that roads had existed in pre-Roman times, and were in some cases substantial enough to withstand reasonably heavy wheeled transport. Indeed, Caesar would never have managed his conquest without such infrastructure. However, nothing built before Agrippa's governorship of Gallia Comata would have equalled the Roman constructions for sturdiness or safety: all-weather, stone-clad and regularly policed.\n\nAgrippa was meticulous in his work. It appears that he undertook a survey of Gaul, giving both a figure for the length of its coastline as well as the distances from coast to coast. Armed with this information, he laid out the skeleton of Rome's first road network in Gaul, probably between 39 and 27 BC. As the geographer Strabo observes, he took the recently founded colony of Lyons as the hub of his network, since it was 'in the centre of the country: an acropolis, as it were, not only because the rivers meet there, but also because it is near all parts of the country'. From Lugdunum, a number of roads radiated outwards. One branch led to the Roman towns on the Rh\u00f4ne, including Arles, N\u00eemes, Orange and Vienne, linking to the earlier Via Domitia. A western arm led to Saintes in the region of Aquitaine on the western coast, allowing access to the southwest. A northwestern branch led to Boulogne, thus facilitating trade with Britain and laying the groundwork for any future attack on the island. An eastern branch connected Lyons to Augusta Raurica and the regions near the territory of the Helvetii. A final branch proceeded northeast, running to Cologne (then called Oppidum Ubiorum, a stronghold founded by the Ubii tribe in 38 BC).\n\nOnce Rome's physical presence could be seen on the ground and its will enforced by the easier movement of troops, the administrative division of the land could proceed. The unwieldy entity of Transalpine Gaul, which had ingested the vast new territories of Gallia Comata, was broken up. The original Roman province of Transalpine Gaul became Gallia Narbonensis, named after Narbo (Narbonne), one of the leading colonies on its southern coast. Gallia Comata, approximately following Caesar's own division of Gaul at the beginning of his _Commentaries,_ was divided into three parts. The southern part, from the Seine to the Garonne, was Gallia Lugdunensis, or Lyonese Gaul. The northern part, from the Scheldt to the Seine, was Gallia Belgica, Belgic Gaul. The southwestern part, from the Garonne to the Pyrenees, became Gallica Aquitania, Aquitaine Gaul. These three new provinces were known as the Tres Galliae, the 'Three Gauls'.\n\n_A well-preserved section of the Via Domitia outside Ambrussum, complete with chariot-wheel ruts._\n\nIn this apparently innocuous process of administrative division, it may be possible to detect traces of Caesar's own manipulation of identities. Some have argued that 'Gaul' as a geographical concept among the Romans and perhaps among those living in the territory bounded by modern-day France, only applied to Lyonese and Narbonese Gaul. Culturally and linguistically, although there was a certain communion of language and culture across the regions, Belgica and Aquitania were distinct regions that were never thought of by Romans or the indigenous peoples as being Gaul. When Caesar starts his _Commentaries_ with the famous statement _'Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres'_ ('Gaul as a whole is divided into three parts'), he is guilty of misrepresenting the idea of Gaul. He appropriates the term and applies it to different areas of Europe \u2013 Belgica, Aquitaine \u2013 as a justification for his conquests. If Belgica and Aquitaine went under those names, there was little reason for Caesar, as a governor of Transalpine and Cisalpine Gaul, to stray into them. If, however, they were indeed to be seen as part of Gaul, albeit more distant, Caesar could more easily argue that he had business there as a governor of the southern regions of 'Gaul'. The result of this was a new foundation for the idea of Gaul \u2013 a formerly fragmented region that extended across a large part of Europe, generated by an imperial idea from the Mediterranean world, and later to be inherited by the successors of Rome: the French.\n\nThe problem of geographical division applied at a lower level: how should the Gallic tribal states be classified and incorporated into a regular Roman system of government? As entities, they did not fit easily into the Roman mindset. The Romans were well used to dealing with small-scale Mediterranean city-states, each consisting of its own city with a hinterland but no other intermediate towns or settlements of political weight. This did not gel easily with the Gallic tribes extended over large tracts of land, which might possess a number of different _oppida_ of unclear political function. It was only by an ingenious legal fiction that Rome was able to digest the tribal structure into its own imperial hierarchies. Each tribe was labelled a city-state (or _civitas_ ); the whole territory of a tribe was designated, in essence, as a city in itself. One foundation in the tribal region would be seen as the _civitas_ capital, from which the functions of local government would be administered. From these centres, the ways and commands of Rome would be projected more widely across the Gallic peoples and landscape.\n\nThe arrangement of the _civitates_ bore signs of the trauma of the conquest. It was an opportunity for the Romans to rationalize the arrangement of Gallic tribes. Many tribal names that had existed before Caesar's time now vanished. The Mandubii, who had been caught in the middle of the siege of Al\u00e9sia, disappeared as a separate tribal entity. Other tribes found themselves amalgamated. In Belgica, the Aduatuci, the Eburones and the Condrusi, along with a number of others, were now lumped together as the Tungri. In Aquitaine, thirty original tribes were now merged into nine. These amalgamations were not only for the sake of administrative convenience; they pointed to the number of Gauls who had died, been taken as slaves, or migrated as soldiers since Caesar's arrival in Gaul. Individual tribes, shrunk by the turmoil, simply ceased to be viable. More than this, the frontiers of the three new Gallic provinces were arranged so that the three most powerful tribes in the heart of Gaul \u2013 the Aedui, the Arverni and the Sequani \u2013 were separated, none of them sharing the same new province.\n\nWith the reordering of the tribes came a census of the Three Gauls in 22 BC, a process that was to be repeated every fifteen to twenty-five years. And with the census came the development of the tax system. To be sure, Roman taxes had been imposed on the conquered territories since the beginning. However, their organization had been vague. All conquered peoples had to pay a tribute to Rome as a mark of their nominally captive status. Tribute money was in essence a substitute for service as a slave, to which any people conquered by Rome were technically liable in the first instance. However, Caesar had left everything far from consistent. Before his departure he had used remission of the tribute as a tool to pacify a number of the tribal chiefs to prevent disorder after his return to Italy. These individual privileges appear to have been clawed back from various tribes over the course of time. The system developed so that all had to pay the _tributum soli,_ a land tax of probably 10 per cent, and the _tributum capitis,_ a poll tax at an unknown rate. There was also the _quadragesima Galliarum,_ a 2\u00bd per cent customs tax on goods passing through land or sea frontiers; the _centesima venalis,_ a sales tax of one percent; and the _vicesima libertatis,_ a 5 per cent tax on the freeing of slaves.\n\nWith taxes came oppressive officialdom. The historian Cassius Dio preserves the story of one administrator, Licinius, who came to prominence early in the emperorship of Augustus, around 15 BC. So overbearing was his behaviour that the gods even sent a portent to warn the Gauls when he assumed office: a giant sea monster, six metres wide and eighteen metres long 'resembling a woman except for its head', was washed up on the shore. Licinius was himself a Gaul, captured by Caesar and taken as one of his personal slaves. However, Caesar later freed him, and \u2013 thanks presumably to his knowledge of Gaul and his connections \u2013 he was able to secure a high position in the new Gallic administration. Licinius, writes Cassius Dio, 'with his combination of barbarian avarice and Roman dignity, tried to overthrow everyone who was ever counted superior to him and to destroy everyone who was strong'. He was prolific in schemes for lining his pockets and those of his friends. One of his most brazen made use of a system whereby people paid the tribute on a monthly basis; he told them that there were in fact fourteen months in the year, saying that December (as its name suggested, and as had been the case long ago) was in fact only the tenth month, and that there were four months beyond it. Dio suggests that Augustus turned a blind eye to Licinius, and even accepted a vast bribe of Gallic treasure in return for ensuring that the administrator faced no punishment for his corruption.\n\nSuch oppression could even come directly from the emperor himself. According to Cassius Dio, in AD 40 the emperor Caligula had exhausted the revenue of Italy. He therefore proceeded to Gaul on the pretence that he was going to make war across the Rhine, but in fact to extort money from the province. He marched off with a train of 'many actors, many gladiators, horses, women, and all the other trappings of luxury'. Having made a feint first towards the Rhine and then towards a new invasion of Britain, he settled down to seek forced gifts from the wealthy populace, not without the occasional murder to encourage them to comply. He then hit on the idea of selling off antiques and curios of the imperial family to the Gauls of Lugdunum in a strange charade of an auction. He sold each item off by citing 'the fame of the persons who had once used them. Thus he would make some comment on each one, such as, \"This belonged to my father,\" \"This to my mother,\" \"This to my grandfather,\" \"This to my great-grandfather,\" \"This Egyptian piece was Antony's, the prize of victory for Augustus.\"' His rapine went to finance grand military parades at Lugdunum to commemorate victories that he had not actually won.\n\nIt is surprising that there was little in the way of open unrest in direct response to taxation and such behaviour from imperial elites. A revolt in AD 21 by two Gallic noblemen, Florus and Sacrovir, was attributable, according to Tacitus, to heavy taxation and indebtedness at high rates of interest. However, such debts may have been caused not only by the need to borrow to pay the taxes, but because Gauls were tempted to spend more money on new building and newly available Roman accoutrements. Perhaps on this account, the rebellion was poorly supported by the Gauls, and was quickly snuffed out and forgotten.\n\nOn top of Roman oppression via taxes came oppression of culture. The practices of Druids, whom Caesar states carried out vast human sacrifices, burning convicted criminals or even scores of innocent victims encased in giant wicker men to appease 'the majesty of the immortal gods' were repellent to the Romans. It is possible that the Romans also saw them as a potential focus of opposition to their rule: a venerable order that acted as the repository of law, philosophy and ritual religious practice transcending many of the tribal divisions across Gaul, they might well have been able to act as a unifying force to stand against the new imperial masters. Whatever the reason, the Romans progressively clamped down on the Druids. Augustus forbade any Roman citizen from engaging in Druidic activity. Two later emperors, Tiberius and Claudius, took measures to ban the Druidic order in the first century AD. 'Such being the fact,' remarks Pliny the Elder, 'we cannot too highly appreciate the obligation that is due to the Roman people, for having put an end to those monstrous rites, in accordance with which, to murder a man was to do an act of the greatest devoutness...'\n\nThus in religion, in taxes, in government, in the organization of their tribes, after Caesar's departure the shades of the Roman prison house closed in on the ancient life and order of the Gauls.\n\nThe flowers on the arch of Glanum, however, were not set up to mock the conquered Gauls. The Romanization of Gaul may have come at a fearful price, but it would lead, in time, to a rich cultural flowering.\n\nAnyone departing from Glanum in the midsummer of 12 BC and journeying north would have found ample evidence for this. It was not only the town of Glanum itself that had by this time been largely and lavishly rebuilt, along with the similarly flourishing colonies on the route \u2013 Orange (Arausio), Vienne with its grand new walls \u2013 but also the new metropolis at the radial point of Agrippa's road network, Lugdunum (Lyons).\n\nIt is not for nothing that Strabo uses the word 'acropolis' to describe Lyons. In the heart of the old town, the Fourvi\u00e8re Hill rises in a meander of the Sa\u00f4ne, a huge limestone crag that then slopes down gently northwestwards to merge into the flat panorama of the new city. Here it was that the Roman colony was founded in 43 BC. Around the open ruins of the original Roman town, the succession of whitewashed alleys and stone staircases feel heavy with the ennui of a long civilization.\n\nThe Roman theatre and the odeon* near the peak of the hill, both originally an endowment of Augustus, offer support for this idea of a cultural flowering. So do the forum and original grid of streets, laid out by the city's founder, Plancus \u2013 now hidden, but suggested by the row of shops behind the theatre, their square-stone walls still standing, looking out over a well-laid street of lozengey granite slabs undercut by arched sewers and concealed terracotta water-pipes.\n\nBut the strongest evidence for the notion is found beyond the acropolis and the heart of the old Roman city. Descending the streets and recrossing the Sa\u00f4ne, one comes to a wide and flattish plain between the Sa\u00f4ne and the Rh\u00f4ne, before the land tails into a narrow peninsular. Here on the plain was the original site of a Gallic village, Condate. The name itself may mean 'confluence', and the village would have been a prosperous entrep\u00f4t for trade and portage between the two rivers. Now it is fully a district of Lyons. Some parts of the suburb, although busier than the Fourvi\u00e8re Hill, preserve their otherworldly air. The buildings of the Mont\u00e9e de la Grande-C\u00f4te, one of the gently curving narrow medieval lanes, appear candy-coloured, pearl-dusted, their irregular facades both benevolent and louring, pierced with stone arches and high mullioned windows. The area, later called the Quartier Croix-Rouge, was home for centuries to the silk workers of Lyons, and was regularly wracked by their uprisings. Their cry was _'Vivre libre en travaillant ou mourir en combattant!'_ ('Live free working or die fighting!'). A plaque there even commemorates the founding in 1835 of the first French workers' co-operative store. But the absence of their uproar and the noise of their factories seem to add to the heaviness of the peace.\n\nThen, if you turn a corner into the Rue Burdeau, the peace and lightness suddenly disappears. The street is regular, straight, oily in patina; the windows are regular above, the shops shuttered; signs plead for tenants. The graffiti becomes more direct, more political: 'I hate the invader'; _Angleterre avait Maggie Thatcher \u2013 Aujourd'hui La France a Maggie Hollande, Maggie Valls et Maggie Macron..._ ('England had Maggie Thatcher \u2013 today, France has Maggie Hollande, Maggie Valls and Maggie Macron'). The sullen and discontented Rue Burdeau shows nothing of its Roman past; but it was arguably here that, in 12 BC, one of the most important endowments was made to Roman Gaul, going to the heart of the nature of its government and also its very identity.\n\n_Fourvi\u00e8re, the theatre and odeon complex in the heart of Roman Lyons._\n\nWhat disturbances there were in Gaul after the rise to power of Octavian were concentrated, as Agrippa had foreseen, in the northeast and southwest. The northeast was the more troublesome of the two regions, and military campaigns were launched there in 30\u201329 BC and again in 19\u201317 BC. In 16 BC Germanic tribes beyond the Rhine captured and crucified a number of Roman citizens who were travelling in their territory \u2013 presumably merchants \u2013 and then pressed on to attack deep into Gaul. A detachment of Roman cavalry was despatched to repel the Germanic fighters, but they were ambushed by their enemies. The Roman governor, Lollius Paulinus, was himself present at the defeat, which counted as a serious humiliation for Rome. The emperor Augustus was troubled at the setback and made an extended visit to Gaul, lasting for three years, from 16 BC. He was not only able to oversee the final conquest of the difficult and independent high Alpine passes to secure the route between Gaul and Italy (marking the victory with the building of the Tropaeum Alpium at La Turbie near Monaco), but also began to prepare for a more major assault against the Germanic tribes in the northwest, to be led by his stepson Drusus. The prospect of such an operation was not something Augustus would have treated lightly. The large-scale movement of troops and their concentration in a particular area could provoke local unrest, or even rebellion on the part of the troops themselves. Moreover, the preparation of such an expeditionary force would have necessitated an extraordinary levy of taxes. A new census to facilitate the levy was planned for 12 BC and threatened to cause further discontent. Under these circumstances it would have been especially prudent to take measures to ensure the loyalty of the Gauls.\n\nIn 12 BC, before Drusus left for the new campaign, he invited a representative from each of the sixty _civitates_ in the Three Gauls to assemble together at Lugdunum. The occasion was the inauguration of an altar, which stood where the Rue Burdeau now runs. It was a grand affair. Its base was marble, about 50 metres long. Strabo records that it bore 'an inscription of the names of the tribes, sixty in number' and also 'images from these tribes, one from each tribe', although the images may have come later. On either side there were tall Ionic columns in rich red Egyptian porphyry, each topped with winged statues of the goddess of victory. Beside it was a small amphitheatre in which the representatives of the _civitates_ could gather. Its dedication was to Rome and to Emperor Augustus. The date chosen for the representatives to assemble annually thereafter was 1 August: the anniversary of Augustus's defeat of Cleopatra at Alexandria in Egypt.\n\nThe altar grew more elaborate as the empire went on, but disappeared afterwards. The only visible remains are the porphyry columns, which were recovered in the eleventh century, sawn in half and used in the nearby basilica of Saint-Martin d'Ainay. Its appearance is known from literary accounts, inscriptions and coins. But the altar's disappearance belied its long-term importance. Worship of the imperial cult by the leaders of defeated Gaul appears at first to be the most abject form of self-degredation; inviting a subject people to abase themselves before the imperial genius would hardly seem the most effective way to secure their abiding loyalty. However, although the altar was a way of demanding a display of fidelity, it was by the same token a means of enfranchising the peoples of the Three Gauls.\n\nLugdunum was by no means unique in the empire, or indeed in Gaul, in having an altar dedicated to the worship of the imperial genius. However, it was distinct from the others in a number of ways. Before long, the priesthood and its establishment had become unusually elaborate. There was not only the _sacerdos_ (priest) himself, but also the _iudex arcae Galliarum_ and the _allectus arcae Galliarum,_ not to mention the _inquisitor Galliarum,_ the _tabularius Galliarum_ and the _iudex arcae ferariarum._ It seems that each of these officials (whose titles are not easily translatable) had a role in collecting and disbursing the funds for the altar, financing its business and the festivities surrounding the annual assembly. Their roles might also have included involvement in the civil administration at Lugdunum. Although Roman citizens, they were necessarily of Gallic origin; the _sacerdos_ himself at least (and perhaps the others) was elected by the representatives from the Gallic _civitates._\n\nThe names of many of these priestly officials survive in inscriptions. A large number are held at the Gallo-Roman Museum in Lyons. It is possible to wander in the museum's cool subterranean vaults, passing by countless proud marble blocks that advertise to posterity in elegantly chiselled lettering the careers of this host of Gauls who took on a Roman mantle and wallowed in the glory of imported clerical offices. 'To Caius Ullatius... son of Ullatius Priscus, Priest of the Temple of both our Caesars within the Temple of Rome and Augusti at the Confluence of the Saone and the Rhone, the first of the Segusiavi to be so honoured'; 'To Quintus Licinius Ultor, son of Licinius Taurus, who, at the age of twenty-two was entrusted with the administration, after that of his father, of the Altar Priesthood, the Three Provinces [of Gaul] have raised this statue...'\n\nThe role of the imperial altar's priesthood was to praise Rome and foster the loyalty of the Gauls. But it also created a position and a hierarchy of great prestige that was Roman in appearance, but peopled and controlled by Gauls. An imperial overlord that was lacking in confidence would never have created such an alternative centre of power and potential focal point for discontent. But imperial Rome was not unconfident in this way. It was its business to create such positions of prestige and alternative centres. Up to and well beyond the time of Julius Caesar, the apparatus of provincial government was tiny in relation to the areas it had to administer and the duties it had to carry out. Only a handful of officials and administrative staff were ever available to be sent from Rome. It was thus the case in Gaul that most of the work of government was passed on to the Gauls themselves. Although the manner of internal government within the _civitates_ was nominally a matter for the Gallic tribes, the Gauls developed their own institutions modelled on those of the Roman provincial centres and colonies, staffed by Gauls who imitated Roman custom. The Gauls began to boast of their _aediles,_ their town councils and _duoviri,_ or _magistri pagi._ Prestige conferred by blood feud, the size of a warrior retinue or the number of heads on display on the lintel of one's front door quickly became a thing of the past. Now status largely came via the possession of these offices, much as it would for a Roman noble; and their holders probably wielded much more effective, intricate and stable power over their own peoples than was ever possible under the old pre-Roman dispensation.\n\n_The Altar of the Three Gauls, as depicted on a dupondius coin issued during the reign of Augustus._\n\nSuch emancipation went back to the very time of the conquest. The more fortunate of the subject peoples were offered not only positions at home, but also the chance to participate in the life of the wider empire. Julius Caesar offered citizenship to Gallic nobles who assisted him. Noblemen such as Togirix, an Aeduan chief, added Caesar's name to his own \u2013 Gaius Julius Caesar \u2013 to create his own Roman name: Gaius Julius Togirix. A number accompanied Caesar to fight on his behalf in the civil wars against Pompey. Many members of the Gallic warrior class joined the Roman army as auxiliaries, thus gaining the opportunity to travel widely, give vent to their warlike ambitions, accrue wealth, learn the Latin language and acquire the privileges of citizenship, before returning with the cachet attached to a military career and an inclination to adhere to Roman ways in their Gallic homeland.\n\nThe opportunity of association with the imperial family likewise added to the sense of the importance of the Three Gauls. Many of the colonies and settlements were named or renamed in part after members of the royal family: Augustodunum (Autun); Augustonemetum (Clermont-Ferrand); Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (Cologne). Augustus spent many years in Gaul. The emperor Caligula was brought up as a child among the soldiers on the frontier, and Claudius was born in Lugdunum on 1 August 10 BC, the second anniversary of the dedication of the imperial altar. When Claudius came to the throne, he was responsible for the highest level of Gallic emancipation possible, a capstone to the development of civic offices and priesthoods within Gaul itself: he gave citizens from the Three Gauls the right to seek membership of the Senate and to run for the highest offices in the Roman empire. A speech he gave on the subject was engraved on a large bronze tablet and hung in the precincts of the altar. It was rediscovered near the Rue Burdeau in the sixteenth century. It is no wonder that the Gallic priesthood chose to memorialize his words in this way. He had to overcome deep opposition to the move in the Roman establishment, but he based his decision on what he saw as being the essential nature of Rome:\n\nWhat was the ruin of Sparta and Athens, but this, that mighty as they were in war, they spurned from them as aliens those whom they had conquered? Our founder Romulus, on the other hand, was so wise that he fought as enemies and then hailed as fellow-citizens several nations on the very same day. Strangers have reigned over us... United as [the Gauls] now are with us by manners, education, and intermarriage, let them bring us their gold and their wealth rather than enjoy it in isolation. Everything, senators, which we now hold to be of the highest antiquity, was once new... This practice too will establish itself, and what we are this day justifying by precedents, will be itself a precedent.\n\nJust as Claudius did not see the admission of Gauls to Roman offices as a threat to Roman identity, neither did the Gauls taking up Roman offices see this as an extinction of their Gallic identity. They may have Romanized their names, taken on Roman citizenship and carried out their duties in Latin \u2013 rhetorical speaking schools quickly sprang up, most notably in the new Aedui capital of Augustodunum (Autun) \u2013 but this made them no less Gallic. Many of the surviving inscriptions declare careers within a particular _civitas,_ proclaiming the membership and contribution of the official to that group: 'Priest of the Aedui'; 'the first of the Segusiavi'; 'Julius Severinus, of the Sequani, distinguished in his city by every honour...' The identities are complimentary. The officials existed in a Roman cultural milieu, but their allegiance also belonged to their tribe; the honour conferred by the Roman office brought them prestige among their own people. _Romanitas_ ('Romanness') and Gallic culture thus found a means to cohabit.\n\nBeyond the priesthood of the altar and the many like positions created by the Roman presence, another aspect of the cult at Lugdunum was of similar importance. The veneration of the Three Gauls was conveyed not only by the priest and his officials, but by the representatives of all the Gallic _civitates._ Collectively, they were known as the _concilium Galliarum,_ or Gallic council. Gallic tribes are known to have held such councils before Roman times \u2013 such as the one at Bibracte that elected Vercing\u00e9torix as war leader \u2013 and this Roman creation was perhaps in imitation of this tradition. Its presence at the annual festival on 1 August was not an empty show; its effective duty went beyond the election of the _sacerdos_ and participation in the rites surrounding the yearly ceremony. There was certainly much in the way of frivolity surrounding the occasion. Caligula instituted a competition in Latin and Greek, where 'the losers gave prizes to the victors, and were forced to compose eulogies upon them, while those who were least successful were ordered to erase their writings with a sponge or with their tongue' unless they preferred to be beaten with rods or thrown into the Sa\u00f4ne. A later _sacerdos,_ Titus Sennius Solemnis, spent 332,000 sesterces on gladiatorial shows in the adjacent amphitheatre. But aside from these festive amusements, the council had real business. It was vested with no formal powers of government, but, being an assembly of the most prominent Gauls from throughout the Tres Galliae, it could not help but be a bellwether for the mind of the provinces. The assembly could send formal messages of congratulation or condolence to emperors, but also loyal expressions of complaint. Information in cases against corrupt governors is likely to have been collated at the instigation of the council. It is even attested that Solemnis, as well as spending so lavishly on gladiator shows, used his influence to deflect the council from having a Roman governor charged with maladministration.\n\nSuch an occurrence showed what the council was capable of doing, and that it ultimately became a force to be reckoned with. Again, Rome was not afraid to enfranchise its subject peoples even if it gave them the scope to use that power against Rome itself. The establishment of the council also assisted in the development of a collective identity. It is difficult to believe Caesar's claims that particular chiefs had, before his time, aimed at ruling all of Gaul, or had ruled all of Gaul (unless he meant by 'Gaul' just the provinces of Narbonne and Lugdunum). But under Roman tutelage, Caesar's vision of a wider Gaul came closer to reality.\n\nAmong the grand inscriptions at the Lyons Museum there is a set of large, wordless marble fragments. Instead of another report of a glittering official career, they merely bear the carving of an oak wreath. But even in this, there is no restraint. The wreath is a fat, rich festoon, luxuriant in foliage and dripping with acorns. It has the same riot and unbounded wealth as the display on the arch at Glanum. Yet, despite the similarity, the model for the wreath is not the Glanum arch. They both draw ultimately from the same original. Shortly before the construction of the Lugdunum shrine, an altar was inaugurated in Rome. This was the _Ara Pacis,_ the Altar of Peace. It was erected mainly to commemorate the end of the civil wars that had plagued Rome for over a century, and exalted Augustus, the first emperor, as the bringer of a golden age of peace and tranquillity to the empire. The luxuriance of the fruits and foliage are a sign of the new abundance of the age, under Augustus's divinely inspired leadership. But this luxuriance, suggests the altar, is not simply the product of a brutal victory. Another scene on the walls of the _Ara Pacis_ represents the imperial family in a sacrificial procession. Despite being imperial, there is no ostentation about them. Their dress is restrained, understated, strictly traditional. They are not broadcasting their status, but their piety. All is owed, as the poet Horace put it, to the gods: it is humility before them and their will \u2013 not ostentation or the rapacious accumulation of wealth \u2013 that will ensure their favour and success on earth.\n\nThe _Ara Pacis_ reflects a new mood; Augustus acceded to the imperial throne under the guise of a 'restored republic', where he managed to hold supreme power in the state under a constitutional form by assuming a combination of republican magistracies. There was no merit in seeking vast self-enrichment at the cost of the common good, as had happened during the civil war. The old Roman virtues of simplicity, frugality and hardiness were to be revived and cherished. Such virtues had brought Rome its empire, as had adherence to the will of the gods. And the vesting of Rome with empire was not a divine caprice. In the words of the epic poet Virgil, who at this time wrote the _Aeneid_ \u2013 which defined what it was to be Roman \u2013 Rome throughout history had a mission, ordained by Jupiter, king of the gods, to 'rule the peoples of the world with [its] power... to crown peace with law, to spare the conquered and to bring down the proud'. To be Roman was not to think of self, but to be dutiful both to the gods and to the subject peoples in one's charge.\n\nThis signature justification for imperialism \u2013 which formed the view of modern imperial administrators such as Lord Macaulay in India \u2013 seems to have been entirely absent from Caesar's own motivation for conquering Gaul. But Gaul's conquest, and the consequent sudden growth of the empire by 30 per cent in landmass between 58 and 50 BC, must have been one of the spurs that caused Romans to ponder the justification for their possession of such extraordinary power, and to condone it via a sense of duty. The apparent building of a replica or partial imitation of the _Ara Pacis_ at the very focal point of Gallic loyalty to Rome suggests not only that Rome was willing to emancipate the Gauls, but that they wanted it to be believed \u2013 even if they were not sincere in this \u2013 that Rome acknowledged its duty to Gaul, just as much as Rome demanded loyalty from it. Such was the revolutionary message of the garlands that hung on the monuments of Glanum, Lugdunum and elsewhere.\n\nHowever sincere the message of give and take and ultimate equality, over time it appears to have had its effect. The worst moment of instability in Gaul, and the empire more broadly, during the first century AD was the 'Year of the Four Emperors', 68\u201369. This was a brief period of civil war, which arose in response to the tyrannical behaviour of the emperor Nero. It had its spark in Gaul. The governor of Lugdunensis, Gaius Julius Vindex, was descended from a line of Gallic chieftains. Given his name, it is possible that his family was enfranchised in the time of Caesar. He himself was a member of the Roman Senate, and had likely been admitted thanks to the reforms of Claudius. He would have visited Rome, worked there with other Roman citizens and passed his way up the _cursus honorum._ When Vindex rose up against Nero, it was not to establish a separate empire for himself, nor to allow Gaul to break away from Rome; he did not give into any revanchist fantasy, despite his patrician Gallic heritage. His revolt was as a dutiful Roman senator, decrying the shameful unRoman excesses of Nero, and seeking a better man to take the imperial place. He supported no Gaul to take the throne, but rather the governor of one of the Spanish provinces, Galba, an elderly man who was the very image of a traditional Roman senator. Thus, within a century of the conquest, Gauls fought to ensure the _Romanitas_ of the empire that ruled over them.\n\nThe same period of turmoil even brought an attempt by a Romanized leader of a Germanic tribe, Julius Civilis, to stir the Gauls to revolt and to seek an _imperium Galliarum,_ an empire of the Gauls. Despite some initial successes, the Gauls for the most part sided with Rome. The historian Tacitus quotes one of the Roman commanders responsible for crushing the uprising addressing two of the Gallic tribes:\n\nThere were always kings and wars throughout Gaul until you submitted to our laws. Although often provoked by you, the only use we have made of our rights as victors has been to impose on you the necessary costs of maintaining peace; for you cannot secure tranquillity among nations without armies, nor maintain armies without pay, nor provide pay without taxes: everything else we have in common. You often command our legions; you rule these and other provinces; we claim no privileges, you suffer no exclusion... Therefore love and cherish peace and the city wherein we, conquerors and conquered alike, enjoy an equal right.\n\nThe ideals expressed on the imperial altar at Lugdunum had become a commonplace. And they were being manifested not only in this official presentation of the Roman regime, but in the way that the cities, countryside and culture of Gaul developed over the following centuries. The age of Gaul had passed with Caesar. A Gallo-Roman future lay ahead.\n\n* A Roman odeon was a small roofed theatre intended primarily for performances of music and poetry.\n\n_View of the interior walkways, amphitheatre of Arles._\nCHAPTER VI\n\nHigh Life and City Chic\n\n_ea quae ad effeminandos animos pertinent_  \n'The commodities that make for effeminacy'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ I.1\n\nARLES\n\n\u2022\n\n'CITY OF THE LION'\n\n\u2022\n\nFORUM\n\n\u2022\n\n_CARDO_ AND _DECUMANUS_\n\n\u2022\n\nCRYPTOPORTICUS\n\n\u2022\n\nAMPHITHEATRE\n\n\u2022\n\nTHEATRE\n\n\u2022\n\n'TOUR DE ROLAND'\n\n\u2022\n\nTHEATRE OF ORANGE\n\n\u2022\n\nBATHS OF CONSTANTINE\n\n\u2022\n\nARCH OF SAINTES\n\n\u2022\n\nVAISON-LA-ROMAINE\n\nHUMANS ARE NO LONGER KILLED for sport in the amphitheatre of Arles. The age when gladiators fought to the death and criminals were torn apart by wild beasts to satisfy the blood-lust of the crowd has long since passed. And yet, for the most part, the amphitheatre continues to serve the original function that Rome intended for it.\n\nThe streets of Arles are heavy with the nobility of age. Light aslant in an evening sky picks out the granular detail of its weathered stone: the arms of knightly and monastic orders above the gates of decayed commanderies; the apostles in grey marble around the porch of St Trophimus, haunted in their gaze with the repeated knowledge of heaven; the palimpsest of silver-dappled medieval walls, topped with corbels and crenellations, facing with stately unconcern the last turn of the exhausted Rh\u00f4ne before it loses itself in the marshy delta of the Camargue.\n\nThe nobility of the city has long transfixed the artists and writers who have visited. Vincent van Gogh, resident in the Maison Jaune, painted again and again the square by the Porte de la Cavalerie, the area once given over to the Knights Templar. Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Mistral, the great poet of nineteenth-century Provence and the Proven\u00e7al language, hailed Arles as 'the city of the Lion, seated on the banks of the Rh\u00f4ne like a venerable and majestic queen, in the shadow of your glory and your monuments'. Mistral and Dumas both insisted that the women of Arles were the most beautiful in France. This came to be attributed to the isolated nature of the city after the fall of the Roman empire, the idea being that the indigenous genetic inheritance of its ravishing classical inhabitants had been preserved undiluted. This idea became a commonplace for nineteenth- and twentieth-century writers. Cecil Headlam eulogized 'these splendid creatures, who walk like goddesses and look like ancient Romans', with their 'large eyes and handsome nose, straight as the Greek, perhaps, or curved in the Roman arch; her beautiful Greek chin and delicately modelled ear... The superb regularity of her features is balanced by a proud gait; her mien is as haughty as his carriage, and she seems to challenge you to refuse her the homage due to a worthy descendant of the noblest imperial race.' Lawrence Durrell, unsurprisingly for him, approved this sentiment even as late as 1990, the year of his death, but still went beyond it to describe Arles as 'outstanding in its beauty and sadness'.\n\nBut there is no need for such doubtful \u2013 and possibly lascivious \u2013 theorizing to see the imprint of Rome on the city of Arles. Its monuments are still open to view. To see the amphitheatre of Arles for the first time, rearing up suddenly in the gap between buildings on turning the corner of the street, its arches as bright as a fanfare of trumpet bells raised to the sky, is to experience, as did the inhabitants of Roman Gaul, the power of the empire.\n\nWith cities such as Arles as examples to the rest, Gaul would be changed. It would turn from being a land dominated by the rural, and a chaos of inchoate settlements scarce half made, to an organized set of provinces in the image of the Mediterranean city-state. Governance would flow from Romanized institutions in Romanized colonies, and such colonies would advertise the commerce, order and permanence of Rome.\n\nArles was not born with the conquest. A settlement of sorts is known to have existed here since around 550 BC. It is mentioned by Greek geographers under two names. The first, Theline, perhaps comes from an ancient Greek word meaning 'fertile'. This may point either to the fertility of the land at the mouth of the Rh\u00f4ne, or else the potentially lucrative nature of the spot, situated at the start of the riverine trade route to the Gallic heartlands. The other name, Arelate, is more clearly of Celtic origin, meaning 'the place by the marsh' or 'place by the waters.\n\nHowever, it was at the hand of Caesar that Arles came into its own. When he attacked Massalia during the civil war in 49 BC, the settlement at Arles became a vital base for his forces. It was here that he ordered the construction of twelve 'long vessels' to assist in the siege. Three years later, he ordered it to be made a Roman colony for the settlement of veterans of the Sixth Legion. Such was the importance he placed on the city, it was named after him in its official title: Colonia Iulia Paterna Arelatensium Sextanorum \u2013 'The Ancestral Julian Colony of Arles of the Men of the Sixth Legion'. Caesar likely had it in mind to make Arles a counterweight to disloyal Massalia: and he knew that, thanks to its position by the mouth of the Rh\u00f4ne, it was excellently placed not just for military purposes but also for trade and agriculture. The Romans, recognizing the fecundity of the soil, followed the Greeks in giving Arles the epithet _mamillaria_ (best translated as 'breast-bearing' \u2013 i.e., 'milk-giving'). But the city, not the fields, was their real achievement. A later poet, Ausonius, called it _Gallula Roma_ \u2013 the Gallic Rome.\n\nAs with a number of other Roman settlements of the time, much of what went before seems to have been cast aside in an effort to start again with a standardized civic plan. The first step in the creation of the city was to lay out a centre around a crossing of two main roads: the _cardo_ , which ran from north to south, and the _decumanus_ , which ran from east to west. Such was also the custom when laying out a military encampment.\n\nIt is possible to follow what would have been the course of the _cardo_ along the modern Rue de l'H\u00f4tel de Ville up to the meeting point with the Rue de la Calade, which is closest to the old _decumanus._ Boutiques cluster in the narrow street with impromptu caf\u00e9s. The sun is kept at bay by high Renaissance fa\u00e7ades, broken at some of the corners by statues of the Virgin Mary or the saints. By this crossroads was laid out the monumental heart of the colony, the forum: a vast colonnaded square, 3,000 square metres in area, embracing not only the ceremonial buildings at the heart of civic life \u2013 a temple for honouring the gods and the imperial cult, a basilica or meeting place for courts and business, and a _curia_ for the assembly of local officials \u2013 but also shops and eating places.\n\nThe buildings of the forum were most likely built under the reign of Augustus, by around 25 BC, and later altered under his successor Tiberius at the beginning of the first century AD. They were also places for display of statuary relating to the imperial family. It was not only at the altar of Lugdunum that the genius of the emperor would have been praised, or the stories of Caesar and his house retold. Pieces of sculpture found at the forum of Arles each tell a part of the imperial myth, and it is possible to follow the family from generation to generation. A slab of yellow Tunisian marble, the capital of a pilaster, chased with a dolphin whose eye is a comet, proclaims the tale that Caesar, after his murder, ascended to the heavens, his fiery soul shooting up to Olympus as a star; a round shield in fine Carrara marble, engraved with an inscription stating that it had been given by the Senate and people of Rome to Augustus in token of his 'virtue, clemency, justice and piety towards the gods and the _patria'_ was a copy of such a shield in gold erected in the Senate house in Rome in 26 BC, shortly after Augustus chose to be so known instead of Octavian; there are busts of Augustus's grandchildren, Gaius and Lucius, both of whom predeceased their grandfather, as well as Tiberius. The heart of the city served to display to the colonists and Gauls alike the glory of the imperial name.\n\nIt was a message to which some of the local Gauls responded. Also found by the forum were inscriptions, like those at Lugdunum, recounting the lives of local men who had made the priesthood of the local branch of the imperial cult the capstone of their glorious Romanized careers. One example is Titus Julius, whose name suggests that he was of a Gallic family given citizenship by Caesar. A plaque inscribed with his offices is dated to the beginning of the first century AD. He was appointed to the equestrian order, and also served as a senior centurion, military tribune, prefect of the camp, maritime prefect, _duumvir_ (official of the town council) before attaining the priesthood of the imperial cult. The fact that Rome offered such itemized glory to those Gauls who were loyal \u2013 easier, cosmopolitan and more agreeable than seeking it by head-hunting raids on neighbours \u2013 was thus displayed to the crowds.\n\nThere still is a Place du Forum at the heart of Arles, a busy but serene square shaded with plane trees and set out with tables and chairs for the caf\u00e9-goers and boulevardiers. It reflects but a fraction of the original Roman complex. Two columns supporting the corner of a pediment are all that can still be seen of the original, incorporated into the wall of a later building. The columns in grey marble with their lacily drilled Corinthian capitals, and the pediment with its intricate maze of foliage, sit uneasily next to the garish fluorescent signs of the neighbouring hotel, picked out in electric blue.\n\nThere are still enough remains uncontaminated by modernity for the original scale of the forum to be appreciated. In one of the council buildings of the H\u00f4tel de Ville, there is a staircase that leads down to a grand series of subterranean chambers. They are damp and cool, a dark and agreeable escape from the bright afternoon sun. A vaulted tunnel runs for several hundred metres, tracing three sides of a square. On one side of the tunnel there is an arcade, low and sturdy, built of heavy blocks, carefully cut and cleanly squared. In places, the arches turn into mighty rectangular piers, and a small warren of chambers lead off from the original tunnel to unnerving dead ends. Water channels picked out by white stone blocks and inexplicable low walls curve around the piers. Piles of broken marble fragments lie about, fluted column drums, capitals, entablature. The beauty of each carving, quatrefoil, scroll, and acanthus leaf can be seen close up, waxy and smooth after centuries concealed. The marble shield of Augustus was found here, as were a number of the royal marble portrait heads and inscriptions of the imperial priesthood. They lay broken, heaped in one of chambers, ready to be burnt up in a lime kiln, but abandoned and forgotten even for that.\n\nThese subterranean chambers are called the Cryptoporticus. Built before the forum itself, they were a necessary response to an engineering problem. The _cardo_ and _decumanus_ crossed on the side of a hill. The site of the forum was therefore on a slope. To get a level surface for the great square, so that all the columns around it might be the same height, it was necessary to raise the level of the ground on three sides. The Cryptoporticus was the solution: a giant reinforced arcade below ground, which would provide the level surface needed as well as support for the grand buildings and colonnades above. It is likely to have served a secondary purpose as a warehouse for the goods sold in the shops of the forum, or even, as some have argued, as sleeping quarters for slaves. The work in itself is a marvel of surveying and engineering, almost dating back to the very foundation of the colony.\n\nAside from the forum, Arles had three grand spaces for public display and entertainment: the theatre, the amphitheatre and the circus. The theatre appears to be the oldest of these monuments, built near the forum shortly after the establishment of the colony. It is huge in conception. A semi-circular structure just over 100 metres in diameter and 20 metres in height, it would have towered over the neighbouring houses, just as those parts of it still standing at their original height do today. Its walls on the circular side, like the amphitheatre, were composed of three levels of arcades, elegantly faced with fine marble and ornamented with pilasters. Like the forum, half of it is built on the side of a hill. In order to build the concentric rows of ascending seats, which did not marry into the topography of the hill, the architects had to construct a complex scheme of foundations and tunnels. This also allowed the public \u2013 the theatre's capacity was around 10,000 people \u2013 speed of access to their seats.\n\nAs with the Cryptoporticus, it is possible to wander through the hidden tunnels and admire the arches and engineering. However, even more to be admired are the suggestions of lost grandeur. After the sixth century ad, the theatre fell into disuse, and was cannibalized for its stone. Large portions of it were taken to furnish the new Cathedral of St Stephen, the precursor of the later Cathedral of St Trophimus. Only one bay of the semi-circular outer wall was left at its original height. Facing southwards by the city walls, it was incorporated into these defences and fortified as the 'Tour de Roland'. Its inner-facing walls are pierced with incongruous Romanesque windows. The side facing outwards preserves the features of the original arcade. On the worn surface of the stone, some of the small and delicate Roman carvings \u2013 _putti_ and flowered festoons \u2013 can still be seen.\n\nThe area of the stage was enclosed and built over, by the eighteenth century becoming a garden for the convent of the Sisters of Mercy. Of the huge curtain wall that stood behind the stage, running the diameter of the semi-circle, decked out to imitate a grand palace, only two columns remained. They still stand today, solitary and majestic, the detritus of the intervening centuries having been cleared away. One is in grey marble, the other is in Troad granite imported from Asia Minor, mottled with pearl, silver and scarlet. They rear above onlookers, perhaps seven or eight times human height; but as evidence of the curtain wall they are still insignificant fragments. The wall of the theatre at Orange, which still stands, gives an idea of its former glory. Although deprived of most of its columns, it looms like a barrel-chested honey-hued cliff, inexplicably wrenched from a canyon-side or sea front and left to glower at the little tables and parasols of the caf\u00e9s intimidated below. Louis XIV said that the wall of the theatre of Orange was the finest wall in his kingdom. It still is. Had Arles been spared, it would have remained a worthy rival.\n\n_Remains of the Roman theatre, Arles._\n\n_The wall of the Roman theatre, Orange. The remaining columns and the statue of Augustus are vestiges of what would one have been lavish stonework and decoration._\n\nIt is not known for certain what was performed in the theatre of Arles or the other theatres across Gaul. It is likely that its productions reflected those that are known from Rome itself. Comedies by authors such as Plautus and Terence may have featured in the earlier years, based on stock characters such as the clever slave, the rich but tyrannical father, his scold of a wife, the foolish but romantic son. Later, these may have developed into mimes and pantomimes: the former a type of bawdy farce in which actresses may have appeared nude; the latter a sort of tragic ballet where a single actor mimed a wordless story, playing all the characters to the accompaniment of an orchestra and chorus.\n\nGiven the desire to convey the power of _Romanitas,_ the type of entertainment mattered less than the mere fact of its existence. The new imperial ruler could divert and amuse tens of thousands at a time, far beyond the capacity of any indigenous chieftain to seat at a Gallic banquet. The medium, essentially, was the message. The theatre, as a gathering place of the masses, was also by its nature a place to convey messages about the primacy of Rome. Being a theatre, these came in a suitably thespian guise. Theatres in the ancient world grew out of mystery cults, and as such were seen ultimately as religious rites. An altar would therefore be placed in the vicinity of the stage. Usually, this would have been to Dionysus, the god of drama; but at the theatre of Arles, the altars discovered are dedicated to his brother Apollo. As god of the lyre and poetic inspiration, Apollo was not divorced from the creative process. But he was dearer to the Roman order. Augustus believed that Apollo had kept him safe through his personal intervention at the Battle of Actium during the end-game of the civil war. Dionysus was the god of Mark Antony, his rival, suggestive of the chaos of Egypt and the east 'with its barking gods' as Virgil wrote, in contrast to the discipline and order of Rome and the west. It is therefore no surprise to find Apollo presiding at the theatre of Arles, built in the time of Augustus.\n\nOne small altar is adorned with swans, the bird that flew over Delos, Apollo's birthplace, when the god was born. They hold garlands of laurel, sacred to Apollo, but also symbolize Augustus's victory. Another small altar bears a crown of oak leaves, like the garland at the altar of Lugdunum. A grand altar that would have been set before the stage portrays the god himself, reclining on a couch and propped up on his lyre. There is, however, an empty socket where his head should have gone. This allowed for the head of the emperor to be affixed on the body of the god, changeable whenever a new contender came to the imperial throne. In case any of the spectators should still be in doubt over the association of Augustus, Apollo and the magnificence of the theatre of Arles, a colossal statue of Augustus was placed in a niche above the door in the middle of the stage. Nearby was a statue of Venus, who was in the imperial myth the mother of Aeneas, the ancestor of Caesar and also, by adoption, Augustus. Her statue was discovered at the site of the theatre in 1651, a copy of a Greek original made by Praxiteles in 360 BC. Such was its refined quality that the city authorities offered it to Louis XIV to adorn his new palace of Versailles. It now has its home in the Louvre.\n\nAs Arles had three grand places for public display, it also had three grand baths. Two of these are now no more than hidden foundations. One was unearthed in the year 2000 at the southern end of the Rue de l'H\u00f4tel de Ville. It has now been reburied, and lies beneath the site of a weekly farmers' market. Another, however, at the other end of the _cardo,_ for the most part still stands. It is one of the best-preserved Roman bathhouses in Europe. It is not part of the original buildings that were erected in Arles straight after the conquest (although it may be on the site of an earlier bathhouse): it likely dates to around the fourth century AD and is known as the 'Baths of Constantine'. However, it still serves to give an impression of the new and elaborate experience of Roman and Mediterranean culture that Rome introduced to overawe and entice its new northern subjects.\n\nThe baths sit by the bank of the Rh\u00f4ne. Without prior knowledge of their function, from the outside their original purpose is not immediately obvious. They sit in the neighbourhood of a complex that once belonged to the knights of Malta. Constructed of stone with bands of rusty terracotta brickwork, the walls bulge towards the river with a semi-circular domed apse pierced with tall arched windows to match. However, it is for the most part roofless, and shards of the walls are missing, allowing one to see inside. In such a place, and with such a form, it looks at first sight to be a venerable and ancient church, ruinously neglected. But even scholars from earlier generations were similarly fooled. In the sixteenth century, the complex was identified as a palace and attributed to the emperor Constantine. It had indeed been put to such a use in earlier generations, but not by the Romans: in the medieval period, the counts of Provence had taken over the complex of abandoned buildings and converted it into a court. They named it the Palais de la Trouille, referring to the _trullus_ or semi-circular vault that is still preserved behind the apse. It then declined into a pound for stray animals before being eventually engulfed by adjacent buildings, incorporating the still-strong Roman walls into their own constructions. It was not until the nineteenth century, when a civic project was launched to clear away the medieval and Renaissance accretions from the complex, that its original function as a bathhouse was uncovered.\n\nThe various chambers of the complex can still be traced: the _tepidarium,_ or warm-room by the entrance; the _caldarium,_ or hot-bath room; and the _laconicum_ , or sauna. A grand basilical hall, which may have been the _frigidarium_ , or cold bath, still stands away from the entrance, but forms part of a later medieval building, the H\u00f4tel d'Ar-latan. This might be one of the largest buildings from the Roman era still standing, but the project to free it from the later structures and investigate it properly was halted by the First World War and never recommenced. For all this, the technological intricacies of the baths are dissected and laid bare. Ranks of rickety brick piers hold up an interrupted floor; clay tiles transfused with pipes still hold to some of the walls \u2013 the hypocaust system, all to circulate heat from the subterranean furnaces. The technology and Roman mastery of the elements did not stop at the walls of the bath. The waters for Arles came from the Alpilles, a range of low limestone peaks several miles north of the city. At the opposite end of the city from the baths, one can see where an aqueduct disgorged these waters into a channel cut into the rock below a remaining stretch of Roman walls. The channel now sits dry, a receptacle for scratchy yellow grass, wilted umbellifers and _bon-bon_ wrappers. In the time after the conquest, it is unlikely the Gauls would have passed by such marvels of water technology with so little regard. In one of the last clashes of Caesar's conquest, at Uxellodunum, the fiercest fighting centred on possession of the single well that kept the city supplied. Not long after this, water flowed freely around the country and became, in the marble-lined and centrally heated swimming pools of Roman villas, as much a source of daily pleasure as a necessity for life.\n\nAs with the baths, the amphitheatre was a monument of misunderstood magnificence for the post-Roman ages. It may have been used for shows as late as the sixth century AD. Saint Caesarius of Arles, in a sermon at that time, describes human nature as a 'spiritual amphitheatre' with its 'savage forest of vices' so vividly in terms of a real amphitheatre that it is difficult to think he spoke purely from imagination or repeated tradition: 'I see in our character the wild savagery of lions... in our tongues the envy of wild boars, in our consciences the spots of tigers... in our sins the great weight of elephants...' With such a vituperative attack from the Christian hierarchy, not to mention the post-Roman collapse in living standards, it is little wonder that the amphitheatre fell into disuse around this time. Its fate, unlike its neighbour, the theatre, was not to become a quarry, but rather a fortress. Four square towers were added at the cardinal points, the external arches were bricked up, and the stands within were encrusted with houses, workshops, even an open square and a small chapel to hold the relics of a local martyr, St Genesius. The place became a redoubt for the citizens in time of danger, such as when the city was attacked by Saracen invaders or local warlords.\n\nIt was not until 1826 that the civic authorities ordered the amphitheatre to be stripped of these barnacle dwellings \u2013 212 in all \u2013 and the glory of the ancient monument to be laid bare. By 1844, the structure had been returned, as far as possible, to its first-century AD state. It could seat 21,000 spectators. The floor of the arena was an oval 70 metres by 40 metres, and the whole structure was 136 metres long at its widest axis. It was originally built around AD 70, a contemporary of the Colosseum in Rome, smaller but similar in design. It was not built to fit in with the grid-plan of streets that radiated from the forum and the meeting of the _cardo_ and _decumanus._ It broke through the original city wall, spilling over the boundary of the city as first laid out in Caesar's time. Standing outside by one of its gates or pacing around the upper galleries, one can appreciate the shock of its presence. The parchment-coloured blocks of local stone seem hefty, cyclopean, improbably lofted up into the air to create the arcades and pavements that still rest solidly far above the rooftops of the city. They catch the oblique rays of the evening sun, turning the ring of stones into a magnificent coronet of light. They shrug off the irregular smattering of post-holes and rivulets gouged into them to support the shambles of slum housing as just so many irrelevant medieval insults. It matters little that the highest course of the amphitheatre is missing; the sturdiness and the refulgence of Rome still show through.\n\nWe do not know precisely who built these monuments. But down on the walkway that encircles the arena itself are a series of large marble panels, damaged and smoke-washed in colour, and only partially covering the coarser stonework beneath. They bear an inscription, mutilated but sufficiently legible to tell us that one Gaius Munius Priscus, a _duumvir_ of Arles and priest at the shrine of Augustus, paid for the podium and gates of the amphitheatre to be erected, not to mention a silver statue of Neptune as well as four other bronze statues. He also endowed two days of games in his honour, to be accompanied by public banquets. Given the offices he held, he was probably of Gallic origin.\n\nSuch inscriptions are a sign that the decision to display these markers of _Romanitas_ in the new settlements of Gaul was not purely the result of central planning or government funding. The propagation of these great monuments of Roman lifestyle \u2013 theatres, baths, amphitheatres \u2013 was driven as much by the local Gallic elites as by their Roman overlords. Another example lies in the putative original capital of the Aquitanian province, Saintes, where many early post-conquest monuments still survive. A double-gated triumphal arch erected in the early first century AD in honour of the Roman general and imperial claimant Germanicus was erected by Gaius Julius Rufus, the grandson of Caius Julius Gedomo, who had been given Roman citizenship by Caesar. The Gallic nobility, having lost the old means of demonstrating their primacy \u2013 raiding, gathering bands of vassal warriors, displaying heads \u2013 now used Roman cultural markers to display their wealth and status. Instead of giving banquets in their halls and handing out potlatch, they used the Latin language, assumed Roman civic offices and used their patronage to aid the construction of Roman-style public buildings.\n\nSuch were the grand public structures that adorned the new Roman towns. But to see how the Roman presence could transform the home life of the Gauls (or at least that of the more fortunate ones) one must turn away from Arles, where such evidence lies beneath the later city. Following the Rh\u00f4ne northwards to Orange, and then turning northeast to cross to the valley of the Ouv\u00e8ze, one eventually reaches the town of Vaison-la-Romaine. Here, the sea-change wrought by Rome is clear for all to see.\n\nI come to Vaison on a market day in September. The Proven\u00e7al lavender season is over by this time, but despite this and the still-intense heat, the place is suffused with colour. The streets are thronged, the stalls bright with shining tomatoes and peppers; grapes, newly cut, are bloody purple and frosted next to the scarlet and red berries of late summer fruits. There are strings of garlic and dried sausages, tawny or smoke-brown, making an understated backdrop for boxes of garish sugared candies and an array of soaps as encyclopedic in hue as a jewel box.\n\n_View of Vaison-la-Romaine, overlooking a complex called 'The House of the Silver Bust'._\n\nThe market stalls give way to shops and the built-up part of the town in the Grand Rue. The street leads to a high, cliff-bound bank looking down over the Ouv\u00e8ze far below. The river was navigable in Roman times, but is now little more than a playful stream. Beyond the river is a high limestone rock \u2013 Castle Hill \u2013 on which is perched the fortified medieval town, looking down on the flat expanse of the modern streets on the right bank of the river below. The two sides are spanned by a Roman bridge of a single arch, still used by traffic as the main route across. A grey Bugatti sports car, having descended from the heights, noses its way across the bridge, holding a line of vehicles in check as it negotiates the junction.\n\nThe Roman bridge is the best spot to begin a survey of the history of Vaison. It was the capital of a Gallic tribe, the Voconti. Before the Roman conquest, the settlement appears to have been confined to the hilltop. But following the imposition of the _Pax Romana_ * the city came down from the heights. Buildings were put up across the river on the flat and undefended expanse; the hill was neglected. This remained the case until around the sixth century AD, following the collapse of the empire. The town fled back up the hill and \u2013 with a few exceptions, such as the cathedral \u2013 stayed there until the mid-nineteenth century. At that point, the pendulum swung again, and the town sprawled back down on to land that for centuries had been agricultural, concealing beneath it the secrets of the old Roman _civitas_ capital.\n\nThere had been a number of archaeological finds around Vaison from the sixteenth century, but aside from a period of work in the mid-nineteenth century there were no organized excavations until the early twentieth. From then until the 1960s, in two large areas on either side of the Avenue General de Gaulle, centuries of topsoil were peeled away to reveal the impress of the submerged town. Although only a district of private houses could be uncovered, such was its extent and preservation that local archaeologists succeeded in a campaign to rename Vaison in a style that reflected its Roman past: in 1929 it became Vaison-la-Romaine, 'Vaison the Roman'.\n\nThe stones of the ruins are of the same white limestone as the cliffs nearby. They were locally quarried. They stand companionably \u2013 pillars, walls and steps \u2013 with the buildings of the modern town that now surround them. The Roman town feels at ease with the modern, rich in the produce and beauty of its setting, as well as prosperous and well connected. Roman Vaison \u2013 Vasio Vocontiorum, Vaison of the Voconti \u2013 was described as one of the wealthiest cities in Gaul by Pomponius Mela, a geographer of the first century AD. The area was also praised for its sweet wines in the same century by Pliny the Elder.\n\n_Vaison-la-Romaine, viewed from 'The House of the Dolphin'._\n\nSome of its inhabitants were well known and of national renown. A first-century AD inscription discovered at Vaison in 1884 showed that one of the imperial right-hand men, Afranius Burrus, was almost certainly born there, and at any rate the town regarded him as its patron and advocate. Burrus was a military man, and in AD 51 was appointed as the praetorian prefect in Rome. Along with the philosopher Seneca he acted as tutor to the teenage Emperor Nero and hence as one of his de facto regents. His influence is credited with the maintenance of a period of good government throughout the empire in the AD 50s, while the young Nero was kept distracted from the levers of power with debauchery. It is impossible to think of Burrus's character as anything but unflappable. Nero tried to have him convicted of a scheme to support a usurper, but at another point came running to him in panic when a plot he had hatched to kill his mother, Agrippina (with whom he had previously been having an affair) went disastrously wrong. When Burrus died in AD 62, perhaps of poisoning, the historian Tacitus, a judge of character notoriously difficult to impress, remarked that Rome felt a deep and lasting regret.\n\nBurrus was not the only famous son of Vaison in that era. Lucius Duvius Avitus rose to be consul in Rome in AD 56. A plaque found on the banks of the Ouv\u00e8ze sets out his career, including a governorship of the province of Aquitaine and military commands on the Germanic frontier. Even in the previous generation, the town was home to the influential scholar Pompeius Trogus, whose Gallic family was given Roman citizenship by Pompey the Great and also served Caesar during the conquest. Trogus's academic work, some of which has been quoted in these pages, spanned the disciplines: it included influential writings on the history of the east and scientific work on animals and plants. He was seen as a more rigorous, scientific historian than his contemporaries, and remains an important source today.\n\nThe residences are appropriate to the importance of the inhabitants. In one of the gardens a third-century AD plaque was found with the family name 'Pompeia'. The garden has been much restored. A wall has been rebuilt and replacement Tuscan columns constructed using Roman techniques. Casts of statues have been places in niches. Little care has been taken to allow the new to be distinguished from the old, but nevertheless the scale of the ancient site is clear. Its gracious quadrangle is lined with porticos of such length that some have argued that the garden must have been a public amenity rather than a private space. Yet it seems more likely that it was indeed a garden attached to a private house, whose remnants still lie beneath the neighbouring land.\n\nThe sheer size of private spaces at Vaison is striking. Individual houses covered over 2,000 square metres, huge complexes of more than one storey with heated bath complexes, loggia-like dining rooms looking out over colonnaded courtyards cooled and enlivened with ponds and trickling waterways. They had specially fitted kitchens with cooking ranges; stone-carved latrines washed out by rills of running water, with marble slabs on the walls to dignify the activity; frontages carved out facing the paved streets that could be rented out for income as shops and boutiques.\n\n_Relief depicting a chariot race, from a tomb of the first century AD, discovered at Orange._\n\nTheir inhabitants walked on intricately patterned pavements of marble in rare colours \u2013 mottled grey, orange and burgundy \u2013 imported from Italy, Greece and Africa. They looked on frescoed walls painted with winged nymphs, bearded grotesques and sea creatures, or huge mosaics, several metres in length, with a bestiary of creatures: a peacock whose tail radiates like a fireball, woodpigeons, ducks, partridges, parrots; geometric confusions of squares, hexagons, diamonds, Solomon's knots, flowers, panthers, deer, eagles, theatre masks, cupids and Tritons riding on dolphins. Some of these artworks bear the stamp of their owners' daily amusements. Into the red plaster of one of the frescoes are scratched small images of gladiators at combat: a _retiarius_ with his net and trident, pitched against the _secutor_ with his short sword, helmet and shield. The pleasures Rome offered were not just commodities, bought and built around the inhabitants of Vaison; they were something seen and remembered, worthy to be engraved on the walls as hero-worshipping graffiti, or else to beguile an idle hour.\n\nBut it is not just in Vaison that this way of life can be discerned. In the towns along the Rh\u00f4ne \u2013 N\u00eemes, Orange, Valence, Vienne and Saint-Romain-en-Gal, Lyons, and then beyond \u2013 elegant private houses and imposing public buildings, adorned with sculptures, mosaics and inscriptions from soon after the time of the conquest are all to be found. To be sure, the spread of Roman-style towns was not universal. Their density was much higher in the southern region than in the north, closer to the Mediterranean sphere which had given birth to the concept. However, the vision of the Roman town percolated throughout Gaul, affecting how even smaller settlements developed, laying out a template and aspirations even if the ideal was not always copied so perfectly or so opulently. Even on the hill of Al\u00e9sia itself, the site of the defeat of Vercing\u00e9torix where a great shrine to the Gallic god Ucuetis was maintained, the inhabitants seized on the Roman urban template. Although they dispensed with the formal arrangement around the _cardo_ and _decumanus,_ the place has its theatre, its forum with basilica and temple (which some archaeologists have suggested are modelled in their plan on the forum of Trajan in Rome), its baths and its fine houses, its colonnades with shops and boutiques. Caesar's victory was more complete than Vercing\u00e9torix could ever have imagined.\n\n* Literally, 'Roman Peace' \u2013 the order which Rome imposed across its imperial territories.\n\n_Mosaic discovered at St-Romain-en-Gal, part of a larger ensemble of Orpheus charming the animals, second century_ AD.\nCHAPTER VII\n\nCountry Life\n\n_locis patentibus, maxime frumentariis_  \n'Unprotected districts, and very rich in corn'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ I.10\n\nORANGE\n\n\u2022\n\nCADASTRAL MAPS\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE MOSELLE\n\n\u2022\n\nVILLAS\n\n\u2022\n\nCLERMONT-FERRAND\n\n\u2022\n\nLAC D'AYDAT\n\n\u2022\n\nCHIRAGAN\n\n\u2022\n\nGARDENS OF 'VOROCINGUS'\n\n\u2022\n\nAQUEDUC DE BARBEGAL\n\n\u2022\n\nMAS DES TOURELLES\n\nFROM THE FIELDS BEYOND VAISON, looking back at the town from a distance, the imprint of Rome is always visible: the sprawling remains of the Roman town itself, the Roman bridge, the cathedral built on a foundation of Roman stones, the little Romanesque chapel of St Quentin in whose fa\u00e7ade are limestone panels carved with swirling vines dating back to the time of the late empire. But the land itself \u2013 the trellised rows of vines, the scattering of pines and Judas trees out of season \u2013 does not reveal the traces of Rome so easily. There are no obvious stone walls to divide estates, no drainage ditches nor irrigation channels. The cities can boast their Roman ruins, their theatres, their arches and their baths. But here in the countryside, nothing cries out the presence of Rome.\n\nParadoxically, the best place to start a search for the Roman countryside is back in the city. In Orange, near Vaison, close to the massive wall of the theatre, a hash of marble fragments was found in the 1920s and 1930s. The fragments are flat, wide and covered with inscriptions. The marble is not the finest, being blotchy and dishwatery in hue, and the furious maze of engraved lettering does not have the monumental grandeur of the plaques and plinths that boast of the careers of provincial officials. This is not to say that the fragments are insignificant in any respect, for they are the remnants of a series of grand and stylized maps, huge in scale (they were originally several metres across) and equally huge in intent. Three can be identified from the rediscovered fragments: one was created at the order of the emperor Vespasian in AD 77, and the other two shortly afterwards as part of a reorganization of the rural territories around Orange. The land was to be surveyed, redistributed as necessary, assessed for taxation, and the results of the exercise recorded on this marble document, which was to be displayed to public view, probably in the forum of the Roman city.\n\nThe cadastral maps,* as they are known, are written in a sort of shorthand. Their fragments now hang on the wall of the Orange Museum in the shadow of the theatre. They are crossed with lines, in the manner of a grid. Particular abbreviations can be made out \u2013 DD, SD, CK, VK. These are directions for interpreting the map \u2013 _dextra decumanum_ and _sinistra decumanum_ \u2013 right and left of the _decumanus;_ and _citra cardinem_ and _ultra cardinem,_ on this side and beyond the _cardo._ The recurrence of the terms _cardo_ and _decumanus_ is a sign of how the countryside around Orange was treated like a new city. The surveyors would choose a central point from which to work. There they placed an instrument called a _groma,_ a pole with a flat cross on top from which hung strings kept taut with lead weights. From the four points of the _groma,_ aligned with geographical north by reference to the passage of the sun, they traced an extended _cardo_ and a _decumanus,_ and from these lines they could then proceed to divide the land in the form of a chequerboard. By describing the location of a plot with reference to the _cardo_ and _decumanus_ on the cadastral map, it was possible to pinpoint it on the ground itself.\n\nThe maps are the subject of persistent research. Not only do they describe the divisions of landholdings, but also geographical features such as rivers. With the benefit of this evidence and references to features that can still be discerned, geographers have attempted to trace out where the original Roman field boundaries lay in the landscape. This is not easy for the walker at ground level; to discover the Roman vestiges, one really needs aerial photography, supplemented with satellite data and computer analysis. The boundaries of the agricultural lots around Orange were frequently drawn at intervals of 710 metres. This was the rough equivalent of 20 _actus_ , one _actus_ being \u2013 on the same principle as an English furlong \u2013 the distance a plough led by two oxen would be drawn before being turned around. With the assistance of the cadastral data, it is therefore possible to look from the air for the recurrence of features at these intervals. Some can be found, in isolated spots. However, they are frequently not what the Romans themselves left behind, but the ghostly negatives of their one-time presence.\n\n_Passage inside the theatre of Orange._\n\nThe Romans favoured square fields. They were the most appropriate shape for the earth-working technology then available, the scratch plough. The fact that the plough did not properly turn over the earth, but could only cut a furrow, required the land to be ploughed twice, each time at right-angles. Square fields thus made the most sense. The field might be bordered with drainage or irrigation ditches, and in some instances marked by small paths or tracks. The maintenance of these features of rural infrastructure demanded constant attention. However, after the decline of the empire in the fifth and sixth centuries ad, the countryside was depopulated. Ditches silted up as a result of flooding and lack of maintenance. Paths were untrodden and disappeared in the undergrowth. The shapes of fields were lost, and whole areas reverted to woodland.\n\nWhen the countryside revived later in the eighth century AD and beyond, square fields were no longer needed. The mouldboard plough, which allowed the earth to be properly turned over with a single pass, became popular, and hence long rectangular fields predominated. Yet, when clearing and recovering old lands that once were cultivated in Roman times, the prospecting farmer might find a narrow strip of earth that tended to become waterlogged, while another might seem more densely covered in trees and foliage, as if the spot attracted them. These were the locations of forgotten Roman ditches, which continued to accumulate water more readily because of the disturbance to the earth. Where an area had evidently once been a drainage ditch, it was often easier to redig than create a new one in virgin soil; or a line of well-grown trees on top of an old ditch might well be reused as part of a new boundary, attract a path to run alongside it, or divert the way of another. Thus, as new medieval boundaries came into being, they were not created in knowing imitation of the Roman past, but they were still unconsciously influenced by the old Roman footprint. Such a footprint can still be seen, but only traced with the greatest of subtlety \u2013 a row of trees that grows more luxuriantly than those around, or a road turning abruptly through a right-angle for no discernible reason.\n\nIn its own age, the impact of the Orange cadastral map was anything other than ghostly. It classified the land around the colony into different categories: land given to army veterans; land given to the Roman colony that it could rent out as it chose; public land that was not let out but under colonial administration; land that had not been divided up by the survey and that remained under public control; and land that was returned to members of the local Gallic tribe, the Tricastini. This last category appears to have been the most marginal and least productive. Such an exercise seems to suggest the indigenous Gallic farmers had been in decline, or else that they had to submit to forcible repossession of their farmland. The poet Virgil in his _Ninth Eclogue_ paints a picture of Italian peasants forced off their land to make way for military colonists during the civil war around 40 BC: 'O Lycidas, we have lived to see the day \u2013 something we never even dreamed of \u2013 when a stranger took hold of our farm and said \"This is mine; old tenants, get you gone\"' The lament is one that the Gauls too are likely to have spoken as the Roman colonists arrived.\n\nAlthough the maps narrate a redistribution of land that took place over a century after the Roman conquest, a comparison between the maps and the evidence of aerial photography and other archaeological investigations suggests that the land around Orange had been subject to a previous scheme of division shortly after the conquest itself. Such work also points to similar surveying and allotment of land around many other centres in Gaul \u2013 Arles, Narbonne, Valence, Vienne, B\u00e9ziers. So the tribes around Orange were not the only ones to suffer upheaval. In many places, the Roman presence changed not only the appearance of the land, but also those who were able to possess it.\n\nThe landscape of Gaul was transformed not only in its boundaries, but also in its buildings. It is no exaggeration to say that it was covered in villas. Properly speaking, the Latin word _villa_ \u2013 often the first word to be learnt in Latin as an example of a first declension noun\u2020 \u2013 means an entire rural estate, not just the complex of residential dwellings at its heart. However, taking the word's modern meaning of a large and luxurious house, villas appear to have been spread profusely across Gaul. Their apparent absence above the surface of the ground led many originally to believe that the culture of villas had not penetrated deeply into Roman Gaul. However, as with the field boundaries indicated by the Orange cadastral map, it has only been with modern technology that many of their sites have been recognized.\n\nJust as the position of an old Roman ditch covered up by later deposits of soil might reveal itself via waterlogging and more vigorous vegetation, in general an old stone wall hidden beneath the earth causes the plants above it to grow more slowly. From the air, when the conditions are right, these variations in plant growth can be seen. The floorplan of entire complexes can be spotted, mapped and precisely surveyed. Projects carried out after the Second World War showed that villas were widespread not just in the south, but also in the region of Picardy and the Somme. Excavations carried out before the construction of TGV lines and new motorways have revealed that villas were not only more densely distributed than had been expected, but were also present across a far wider range of locations. On occasion, they emerge in the fields on the outskirts of later medieval villages, suggesting that there was some form of continuity between the life of the villa and the foundation of the village. These findings give some credence to the old belief that the Latin names of villa-estates ending in _-acum_ or _-anus_ evolved into modern French village names ending in _-ac, -at, -as,_ _-y_ , -\u00e9 or _-ay,_ thus preserving the identity of their onetime Roman owners.\n\nSo the countryside was covered in villas, and villas of every variety. In the fourth century ad, the poet Ausonius wrote of a journey along the Moselle from Bingen to Neumagen. In one section of the poem, after long descriptions of the fish that can be caught in the bounteous river, he turns to a portrayal of the villas that dot its banks at regular intervals. In the previous century the countryside had suffered upheavals on account of disturbances on the frontier. However, by the time of his journey there had been such a revival that the villas he portrays may have been even more opulent than those of earlier centuries.\n\nAusonius, like many writers of his age, is not averse to hyperbole. The architects of these villas, he writes, might well have been the very ones who had raised the pyramids in Egypt or the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus. Yet he soon passes from hyperbole to more credible detail. The Roman villas dominate the landscape. One stands high on a mass of natural rock, another on a bank jutting out into the river; one rests further back 'and claims the river for its own, making it prisoner in an enfolding bay'. All take advantage of the river, whether for the sake of practicality or beauty. One has its own weir for catching the fish 'between the sunny grass-grown rocks'. Another, sitting on the crest of a hill, is in just the right place to enjoy the beautiful haze of light that refracts around the base of the river valley.\n\nThe luxury and ease that they offer seem at one with the landscape around them. There are courtyards and colonnades that meld into the green meadows at their side. There are bathhouses on the low verge of the banks, the smoke of whose hypocausts roll up along the valley. Ausonius watches as bathers spill out of the hot baths and, scorning the cold plunge-pools in the bathhouses, jump into the river itself; refreshed by the running water they 'buffet the cool stream, threshing it with their strokes'. For Ausonius, this is a better and more wholesome place than the great Italian coastal resort of Baiae, the old and notoriously debauched watering-hole of the emperors and Roman elite: 'So great is the charm of its refinement and distinction, while its pleasures breed no excess.'\n\nThe residential buildings of a villa-estate might be of any level of opulence or elaboration. As a general rule, they were divided into two parts. There was the _pars urbana,_ which was the dwelling of the owner and his family, luxurious and well appointed. For the slaves or dependents who cultivated the land there was the _pars rustica,_ less decorated, more in the order of barrack blocks, which also included barns and other agricultural outhouses. The most frequent shape for the complex would be a courtyard or double courtyard around which the various sections of the villa were arranged. Sometimes, these could be extensive, over 300 metres long in some cases. However, this grandeur was by no means universal. In some areas, for example in Normandy and Brittany, villa complexes tend to be rather smaller. Instead of courtyards, they had long corridors connecting two wings or larger rooms at each end. In Belgic Gaul and the areas facing the Rhine, there are also 'hall villas' where, rather than a series of smaller chambers, a single grand room was the focus of the dwelling. These variations may suggest that the social structures of the indigenous peoples were being preserved alongside Roman customs and material luxuries.\n\nThe more opulent villas offer more extensive remains, and therefore more information about the people who lived in them. This includes their literary endeavours. Some of the best descriptions of villa life come from the letters of an aristocrat and cleric named Sidonius who lived in the century after Ausonius, in the mid-fifth century AD. As with Ausonius, his writings are likely to be a reasonable reflection of what happened earlier, during imperial times. Sidonius had a villa at Avitacum, which may have been by the shores of the Lac d'Aydat, about twelve miles southwest of Clermont-Ferrand in the rich countryside of the Auvergne. Although business required him to be frequently in town, his heart appears to have been on his estate. It was a possession of pride, a family seat that came to him when he married. It was nevertheless a place he was eager to share, and show off.\n\nEarly one summer, Sidonius wrote to a friend of his in town, a teacher named Domitius. The weather was getting hot. 'The land is being scored with irregular curved cracks gaping in the heat, gravel lies untidily in the fords, mud on the banks, dust in the fields; even streams that flow all the year round have languidly slowed down; the water is not merely hot: it boils.' In such heat, where even those lightly clad in silks and linens were sweating, it was madness for Domitius to sit in his gown, squeezed into his teaching chair, and 'yawningly expound' to his pupils \u2013 'whose pale faces are due quite as much to the heat as to the fear of you' \u2013 obscure lines from the works of old poets. 'Why not rather, if you have any thought of your health, promptly withdraw from the panting oppression of the town and eagerly join our house-party, and so beguile the fierceness of the dog days by retiring to the coolest of retreats?'\n\nTo encourage Domitius to visit, in his letter Sidonius takes him on a virtual tour of his villa. Perhaps on account of the heat, he starts with the bathhouse, a structure of which he was deeply proud. He had even written poems about it, comparing it to the Lucrine Lake in Campania, not to mention the resort at Baiae. It even had a specially designed conical roof, in imitation of one of the grand baths there. Sidonius goes on about it for pages: the bathhouse was on the edge of the woods, so close that the branches almost dropped directly into the heating furnaces; he describes the shapes of its windows, the vaulting of the roofs and the quality of the light; he expatiates on the size of the swimming pool itself, which held about 40,000 gallons of water, and on how it was adorned with porphyry columns and fed by a mountain rill that gushed into the building through six projecting pipes, whose heads were in the shape of lions: they had 'genuine wildness in their eyes, and unmistakable manes on the neck'.\n\nLeaving the pool, there is a maze of corridors and rooms: a dining room for the women of the household, store-rooms and weaving rooms; a dining room for the female dependants of the estate where he happens upon them taking a grand midday meal such as might be laid out at a festival for the tables of the gods. There is a winter dining room, whose vaulted fireplace is black with soot, but more appropriate to the time of the year is the summer dining and living room. Furnished with a grand semi-circular couch and polished sideboard, it is open to the lake, so \u2013 provided one's attention is not absorbed by the pleasures of the table \u2013 one can sit and enjoy the view. Here, or in one of the adjacent rooms, one can enjoy a drink so exquisitely chilled that the glass is frosted. Thus refreshed, one can watch the fishermen on the lake casting for trout or spreading their nets, or simply listen to the chirp of cicadas, the croaking of frogs, and \u2013 towards evening \u2013 the honking of swans and geese and cawing of crows. As dusk falls, the song of the nightingale joins the chorus of sounds. If one is feeling more energetic, one can venture into the grounds and play ball beneath two lime trees whose branches intertwine, providing a most pleasing shade for exercise. Thereafter, one might recover from one's exertions by sitting down to enjoy a game of dice.\n\n_Mosaic from St-Romain-en-Gal, part of the Orpheus ensemble, second century AD._\n\nWe do not know whether Domitius ever took up this invitation. However, the splendour that Sidonius describes at length in his letters is certainly not imagined. If anything, the grandest villas discovered by archaeologists would have made it appear positively suburban. In 1826 at Chiragan, near Martres-Tolosane in the Haute-Garonne, a set of foundations were discovered in fields after heavy flooding washed away the topsoil. Excavations that took place over the following century and a half revealed a villa which comprised eighty buildings totalling 18,000 square metres, spread out over an area of around 16 hectares. Inscriptions at the villa show that it originally belonged to the family of the Aconii. The name seems to have stuck, and as late as the seventeenth century the spot was called Angonia, a corrupted version of the name. In the first century ad, when this family possessed the villa, it was nothing out of the ordinary. However, sometime later in the second century it changed hands. Not only was it vastly enlarged, so that at its greatest extent it was around a third of the size of Hadrian's imperial villa in Italy, it was also covered in an impressive array of marble reliefs and statuary. Indeed its collection of these items, most of which is now held in Toulouse, is second only to that of the Louvre. One hall was set aside to be lined with busts of the emperors. Another part of the house had grand marble panels, each with life-size depictions of the labours of Hercules. Other rooms and corridors were ornamented with roundels of local marble carved with the heads of Minerva, Vulcan and Cybele. It is more than a cut above the villa of Sidonius, who disapproved of mosaics in his swimming baths as being potentially lascivious.\u2021 The grandeur of the site suggests that it might have been used by the governor of the province, or even as an imperial palace during the later empire.\n\nIt was not just the architecture and landscapes that gave pleasure to the inhabitants of the villas. They also rejoiced in their gardens. Traces of gardens and even their planting schemes have been discovered by archaeologists at some villa sites, with areas set aside for vegetables, orchards, animal enclosures and outhouses. Once again, surviving literary sources add colour to a fragmentary picture. One of Sidonius's poems is a _propempticon_ or ode of dispatch that he sent with a copy of a book to friends in another villa somewhere in southeastern Gaul. Addressing the book, the poem describes the route it must take to reach its destination, and the people it will encounter on the journey. One of these is Apollinaris, a relative of Sidonius. His estate was at a place called Vorocingus, somewhere in the vicinity of N\u00eemes. Here, says Sidonius, the book would find a night's rest from its weary travels. When it arrived, it would probably encounter Apollinaris walking in his secluded gardens, 'which are like those that bloom on honey-bearing Hybla'.\u00a7 He would be surrounded by violets and thyme, privet covered in grape-like clusters of white flowers, February daphne, marigolds, narcissi, and blooms of hyacinth. Such was the beauty of their scent that Apollinaris would turn away the travelling incense salesman at the gate, offering Sabaean frankincense at a great price. And if he were not to be found among the flowers, he would be cooling himself in his imitation grotto on the slope of a neighbouring hill, a 'cavern' formed by the branches of trees arching together to create a natural portico \u2013 better even than the ancient orchards of the Indian King Porus, which he decorated with golden vines heavy with clusters of gems.\n\nBut the countryside was as much for use as for aristocratic ornament. The Romans recognized from the time of the conquest the fertility of the Gallic provinces. 'None of the country', writes Strabo in the first century ad, 'is left untilled except the parts where tilling is precluded by swamps and woods'. The southern regions were similar to Italy in their agriculture, he observed, but 'all the rest of the country produces grain in large quantities, and millet, and nuts, and all kinds of livestock'. Even before the Roman conquest, the country was productive and intensively cultivated. Caesar would never have been able to feed his legions and conquer the country had it not been for the requisitions of locally grown food from allied Gallic chiefs; his worries over whether they will deliver the grain he has demanded are a constant note in his _Commentaries._ Yet, the coming of Rome did have an impact on the crops. Archaeological studies of plant remains and burnt foods found in rural sites have shown that grains that were commonly grown before the conquest, such as emmer and spelt, fell in popularity. Others, including common wheat, durum wheat, rye, barley and oats tended to take their place.\n\nMany estates were large, and there are signs that they ran at a considerable surplus. According to Pliny, Gallic wheat was imported to Rome. Loaves of bread baked using Gallic wheat, he reports, seemed to be lighter in texture than those made of grain from other regions. Such imports are mentioned by another author, Claudian, as late as the early fifth century AD. Even if the harvests were large in scale, the Gallic landowners were not entirely dependent on human labour to gather them in. Following the Roman conquest, on large estates based in flat, low-lying areas, a primitive sort of combine harvester called a _vallus_ was developed. This was an open-topped wooden box or hopper mounted on two wheels, at the front of which was a large spiked comb at the height of the ears of wheat, facing forwards. Pushed from behind by a single ox, the contraption pulled the ears from the stalks so that they fell into the hopper. The _vallus_ is mentioned by Pliny, writing in the first century ad, and \u2013 much later \u2013 by Palladius, a Gallo-Roman agricultural writer of the late fourth century. It even appears carved on the Porte de Mars \u2013 the triumphal arch of Rheims \u2013 and on other fragments of reliefs discovered in Belgium and Germany. Palladius states that the _vallus_ was used where the land was flat, and in places where straw was not considered to be of much value and was, accordingly, left standing uncut in the fields. It was nevertheless a very efficient time \u2013 and labour-saving device: Palladius states that with a single man to guide the ox, the whole of a farm's harvest could be brought in in just a few hours.\n\nThe _vallus_ was not the only Roman labour-saving device to change the face of the Gallic countryside. A little way beyond the sprawling ruins of the Abbaye de Montmajour, north of Arles, a country lane runs off along a concealed ridge of high ground. It passes through olive plantations and scratchy wasteland, given over to brittle sandy grasses relieved by yellow clumps of St John's wort. In the adjoining fields, tractors throw up lingering clouds of smoky dust. Beetles and moths, red, grey and cream, bask on the tarmac. After several miles, amid a scattered group of Aleppo pines and olive trees, a series of white stone arches come into view. On the left-hand side they are lower than the canopy of the trees, and it is only on drawing closer that one can see that the arches cross the road, and continue to its right. The land slopes gently from left to right, so that the arches gain in height as they progress rightwards, though still not overtopping the branches of the olives that run alongside them.\n\nThis sequence of arches is an aqueduct. It has nothing of the height or grandeur of some other examples of the genre, for example the mighty Pont du Gard outside N\u00eemes, which stands nearly 50 metres high as it crosses the River Gard on a construction of threetiered arches \u2013 a monument that Lawrence Durrell summed up as being a perfect specimen of the poetry of function, but also conveying the 'splendid insolent eloquence' of the Roman remains of Provence. The aqueduct here, at a spot known as Barbegal, has little splendid insolence about it. It is certainly a structure that speaks of power; but it keeps itself low beneath the treetops, and even where great pieces of it lie broken and covered with succulents and scrappy grasses, it has an arresting beauty. As its low arches run straight and serene in their precise course through the olive groves, one can indeed appreciate the poetry of its form.\n\nBut of more interest than the form and beauty of the stones is the ingenuity of their structure. Barbegal is not solely an aqueduct: closer inspection reveals that it had a twofold purpose. Further along its length, the ground rises again and reaches the crest of a ridge, a seemingly impassable mass of rock, perhaps nine metres long and well over human height. However, on climbing up into the aqueduct's mortared channel, which carried the water, one realizes that at the point where the aqueduct reaches the ridge, the structure is in fact two closely adjacent aqueducts carrying parallel channels. Here, the two channels separate. One turns abruptly right around a corner, and runs ultimately towards the city of Arles. The other carves a cutting about a metre wide straight through the middle of the limestone ridge. Beyond this chiselled gateway, on the other side of the ridge, the land suddenly falls away. These are the slopes of the hills of La P\u00eane, over 30 metres high, beyond which the yellow-green fields of the Vall\u00e9e des Baux stretch away towards Fontvieille. The water carried by the second channel was thrown down the side of this hill. Among the scrub that clings to the hillside, low jagged walls rise up, marking the course that the water, cascading downwards, would have followed.\n\n_The aqueduct of Barbegal. Its parallel structure can be clearly seen in this photograph._\n\nThe low walls on the hillside are the remains of the largest known watermill in the Roman empire. Excavations of the complex in the 1930s unearthed a series of buildings climbing the side of the hill. These housed sixteen separate water-wheels in eight pairs, each over two metres in diameter. As the water flowed down the hill, it turned each wheel in succession. The wheels were attached by a gear to a basalt millstone, and each of these millstones could be reached by a service staircase which ran the length of the gradient. Having set the wheels in motion, the water was used at the bottom of the hill to irrigate the fields in the Vall\u00e9e des Baux. It has been calculated that the mills of Barbegal would have been able to produce around 4.5 tonnes of flour a day. This would have been sufficient to feed 12,000 people, equivalent to the likely population of Arles during imperial times. Archaeologists used to believe that the mills were built in the late third century ad, when the number of slaves available to carry out the laborious task of milling \u2013 either by hand or with the help of animals \u2013 was declining. It was argued that the Romans only felt compelled to seek such technological advances when the well of free manpower failed them. Yet more recent research has pushed this date back to as early as the second century ad, before any obvious sign of labour shortages in Gaul. It seems that the mill was not built out of desperation, but from a desire to exploit the resources that the local landscape and fields had to offer more efficiently.\n\nIt was also originally thought that the mill of Barbegal was a one-off, and that such large-scale watermills were not to be found elsewhere. However, in 1990 a similar mill was found, albeit on a smaller scale, at Avenches in Switzerland. Since that discovery, more than a dozen sites have been identified across the Gallic territories, some in open country, with a number of them dating back even to the first century AD. Ausonius, in his travels down the Moselle, describes a water mill he saw used for turning millstones and 'driving shrieking saws through blocks of marble'. The sight of labour-saving mills, it seems, would have been not uncommon in the agricultural landscape of Roman Gaul.\n\nFlour was not the only product of the countryside. A basket of _crudit\u00e9s_ culled from a Gallic market garden would be for the most part recognizable to the modern diner. Carrots (usually then white or purple) and cauliflower were grown, not to mention celeriac and apples, garlic and onions, asparagus, cucumbers, lentils and beans. The emperor Tiberius made parsnips fashionable in the first century AD when he agreed to accept part of the tribute owed to him by Germanic tribes in parsnips instead of money. As regards fruit and vegetables, the Gallo-Roman palette was in some respects wider than the modern. Lupin beans were commonly cultivated, along with samphire, Alexanders (a plant whose flavour is halfway between parsley and celery), and the edible young stems of black bryony (poisonous until cooked). Olives had been known since the time of the Greeks, and the lower tear-shaped stone of olive presses, carved with runnels for the juice to flow out, can be seen even in pre-Roman sites.\n\nUncooked black bryony might pose a risk to a Gallic wayfarer. More dangerous, however, were the pigs. Strabo records that Gauls kept these in abundance for their meat (which they ate both fresh and salted), but that they were allowed to run wild. These Gallo-Roman pigs developed into animals of considerable size, speed and boldness. Indeed, it was risky for anyone unfamiliar with their behaviour to approach them; they were as dangerous as wolves. The Romans made their own contribution to the size of farm animals, bringing over larger species of cattle in particular, which were maintained in Gaul until they were abandoned with the collapse of empire. Flocks of sheep were raised in the south; it was perhaps in the Roman era that the custom of transhumance arose, in which flocks wintered in the lowlands but were taken to the highlands for summer. The Roman legions on the Rhine certainly became dependent on the flocks for their wool; several factories were set up to process the fleeces for military use. But they were also out to domestic use. Pliny records that the stuffing of mattresses with wool was a Gallo-Roman invention, and that flax grown around Cahors was valued for the same purpose.\n\n_The reconstructed Roman winepress at Mas des Tourelles._\n\nAnd then there was the wine. In the countryside near the Via Domitia outside Beaucaire, the fields are rich with vines. They stand in orderly rows, their clipped tendrils trained along low-hanging parallel wires that run the length of desiccated fields. At the end of summer, when the sunflowers in the neighbouring fields hang their heads, petalless and black, and the wayside foliage is beige with dust, it is the very presence of the vines that offers the hope of relief from a long day's walking in the Proven\u00e7al heat.\n\nOne of the vineyards, on a plain that slopes gently to the south, is somewhat unlike the others. At its heart is a seventeenth-century farmhouse whose elegant courtyard, with green shutters and flowering trees in tubs, offers the welcome prospect of shade for the traveller. So much is not unusual. But the vines nearby are dressed differently from the norm. They do not trail along long wires, but rather hang from high trellises like great veils, their fat stems twisting around the straight wooden pillars of the framework. This cultivation method is not of the present age, but Roman. The whole scene would have been familiar to the ancient writers on agriculture \u2013 Columella, Pliny the Elder or Paulinus. It is even possible that they drank a vintage grown at this very spot.\n\nThe farmhouse and its domain are called the Mas des Tourelles.\u00b6 They stand on the site of an old Roman villa and vineyard. It was first identified as such early in the twentieth century, with finds of amphorae, roof tiles and vases near the surface of the fields. Later excavations revealed a villa complex spreading over about three hectares. The villa was established not long after the conquest in the early Augustan period, and was in operation until at least the fifth century AD. It possessed all the normal appurtenances of the villa \u2013 housing for the master's family and its dependants, and agricultural buildings. Notably, on top of this, there was a pottery workshop. It was a significant affair, containing a huge kiln several metres across that was capable of firing up to 2,000 amphorae at a time. Some of the amphorae manufactured here and later rediscovered are still kept in a storeroom in the modern farmhouse. The large numbers of amphorae suggests that this place was significant for wine production. Such amphorae were signed or stamped to identify the producer and the variety of wine, similar to a modern label. Close to the town of Carpentras on the Rh\u00f4ne, it would have been in a good position to sell to other cities on the river and even to consumers further afield.\n\nSince the rediscovery of its Roman past, the Mas has been dedicated as a centre of research into Roman techniques of viticulture, with attempts being made to recreate Roman wines using Roman methods of production. Of these, some things cannot be known. Vines were probably first introduced into Gaul by the Greeks, but it is likely they did not spread far from the Mediterranean shore before Roman times. It appears, however, that following the conquest, the culture of the vine began to make deep and lasting inroads into the Gallic provinces. Archaeological evidence suggests that vine cultivation begin to appear throughout the south from the second half of the first century BC, with plantation pits, winepresses, amphorae and pottery workshops becoming widespread. By the first century AD it had spread across the provinces of Narbonne and Aquitaine, as well as the regions of modern-day Burgundy, the Loire valley and even the Parisian basin.\n\nImports of wine from Italy went into decline in the late first century AD. The emperor Domitian even tried to put a limit on vine cultivation in Gaul to prevent competition with the Italian vintages, but his edicts were ignored. By the third century, perhaps prompted by the development of Trier as an imperial city, vineyards began to appear towards the northeast, around the Rhine, Alsace and the Moselle. By this stage, the vine had spread to the areas in which it would continue to flourish up to the modern age.\n\nDespite the wide and early extent of vine cultivation across Gaul, we do not have detailed knowledge of the varieties of grape that were grown. Their names were preserved by the ancient authors; one of the best varieties, Amineum, originated from Greece and was widely popular. There were also local varieties: Biturica, grown predominantly in Aquitaine, and Allobrogica, grown around Vienne. Yet, although these names are known, and traces of Roman vine stocks and even seeds have been discovered, these are not sufficient to reveal the modern equivalents of the ancient varieties. So much has to be down to guesswork.\n\n_Outside the Mas des Tourelles._\n\nNevertheless, we know a great deal about the techniques of vine cultivation used in Roman Gaul. The ripe grapes were cut from the vines with pruning hooks, and thrown into great concrete-sided tanks, such as have been reconstructed at Mas des Tourelles. Ropes were hung from the ceiling above the tanks, and the farm workers would cling tightly to these while pressing out the grapes with their feet. Mosaics even show them doing this in time to the playing of a flute. The grapes were then thrown into a neighbouring winepress \u2013 a large square wooden box made of slats to allow the juice to flow out. A huge tree-trunk, weighing several tonnes and hanging horizontally above, forced a board downwards into the box by means of a winch and pulleys (again, these have been reconstructed at Mas des Tourelles). The juice ran from the box along gulleys to be collected in _dolia_ \u2013 large clay pots that are two-thirds buried in the ground. This could be a long process. Some vineyards were able to fill around 2,000 _dolia_ from a single _vendage,_ equivalent to 300,000 modern bottles. When the _dolia_ were filled, the juice was left to ferment, frequently with the addition of herbs and spices.\n\nIt is the inclusion of these ingredients that creates a wine contrary to all my expectations. Three varieties are produced at the Mas. The first wine brought out for tasting is a red wine called Muslum. It is served chilled, and it manages to combine a certain lightness with a richness that tells of the cinnamon, pepper, thyme and honey that have been added to it. Turriculae, a white wine, is a sharp contrast, being dry and astringent. Its extra ingredients, as described by Columella, are fenugreek and seawater. The third, Carenum, follows a recipe by the fourth-century writer Palladius; it is deep amber in colour, its flavour enhanced with quinces and boiled grape juice to create a wine of fine and sweetly glutinous quality.\n\nThese are nothing like the smooth vintages one would expect after many years' reading of Horace with his Falernian or Caecubian wines, and certainly far removed from Keats's blushful Hippocrene. Their tastes are complex, intense and exotic, almost as if it were an impossibility that the land in that age could give rise to flavours so strange. But not every Gallic wine was pleasing to the palate. Martial wrote an epigram condemning a character, Munna, for sending wines from Massalia 'by sea and length of road' that were not only 'dire poisons' but also at prices more appropriate to the most expensive labels. 'I think you've been so long in Rome so that you can avoid drinking your own wines,' he observes tartly.\n\n* Cadastral maps show the divisions, ownership and value of land, particularly for taxation purposes.\n\n\u2020 Latin nouns are divided into five basic types, or declensions.\n\n\u2021 This brings to mind the famous 'Bikini Girls' of the fourth-century Villa Romana del Casale in Sicily, of which Sidonius would no doubt have disapproved!\n\n\u00a7 A place in Sicily, probably modern-day Ibla in Ragusa, famed in the ancient world for the quality of its honey.\n\n\u00b6 The word _mas_ denotes a farmstead in the Proven\u00e7al language. It originates from the Late Latin _mansum_ ('dwelling place') and is linked to the words 'manor' and 'mansion.\n\n_Funerary relief of a coppersmith named Bellicus, second century AD._\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nThe Dignity of Labour\n\n_Nam plebes paene servorum habetur loco_  \n'As for the common folk, they are treated almost as slaves'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ VI.13\n\nLES ALYSCAMPS\n\n\u2022\n\nLA CHAPELLE DE LA GENOUILLADE\n\n\u2022\n\nBUILDERS\n\n\u2022\n\nMARINERS\n\n\u2022\n\nMERCHANTS\n\n\u2022\n\nCRAFTSMEN\n\n\u2022\n\nSHAMPOO-MAKERS\n\n\u2022\n\nGLASS-BLOWERS\n\n\u2022\n\nFLOWER-SELLERS\n\n\u2022\n\nGLADIATORS\n\n\u2022\n\nSOLDIERS\n\n\u2022\n\nSLAVES\n\nTO THE SOUTH OF THE ROMAN WALLS of Arles lie the old burial grounds known as Les Alyscamps. Roman custom forbade the burial of people within the walls of any city, an area that was believed to be a sacred space. Thus the tombs and monuments of the dead accumulated just outside Roman cities. The burial ground of Arles sprang up by the side of the Aurelian Way* which fed via a gate into the city's main street, the _cardo._ Graves were usually positioned along the roadside in the hope that passers-by might pay them some respectful attention. But the Alyscamps later became the grandest and most reputed burial ground in the whole of Gaul.\n\nThe name Alyscamps comes from pagan myth. It derives from the phrase _Campi Elysii,_ the Elysian Fields where the virtuous dead would serenely disport themselves in the classical afterlife. The Champs-\u00c9lys\u00e9es in Paris owes its name to the same origin, but Arles's Elysian Fields are more aptly named, since \u2013 unlike the Parisian version, which is dedicated to the pursuit of life \u2013 it is a necropolis populated by the shades of the dead.\n\nHowever, it was a Christian legend that gave the Alyscamps its grandeur and fame. The body of St Genesius, a lawyer who was martyred at the beginning of the fourth century ad, was buried in the cemetery. Christ himself is said to have miraculously presided at the funeral. Kneeling in prayer, his genuflexion left its imprint in a rock, giving a Christian imprimatur to a pagan burial ground. Soon the body of St Trophimus, the first bishop of Arles, was also interred here. In a case of mistaken identity, Trophimus was confused with one of the early Christian converts mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles, the Trophimus who accompanied St Paul to Jerusalem. As a result, the Alyscamps became one of the most sought-after Christian burial places in western Europe. With the decline of the city after the end of imperial Roman rule, the Alyscamps set the tone for the wider perception of Arles as a city of the dead. Burial was its leading industry. It was said that it was sufficient for a body in a coffin (along with a few coins for the expenses) to be placed anywhere upstream on the Rh\u00f4ne, and it would drift safely down to Arles for burial, coming to rest at the promontory of La Roquette. There, monks from the Church of Saint Honorat\u2020 would take it up and see to the funeral rites.\n\nHence the Alyscamps grew without restraint, both in size and in literary reputation. Dante evokes the vast rows of tombs to portray a scene in the _Inferno._ Ariosto makes it the last resting place in _Orlando Furioso_ for the fallen companions of the semi-legendary Carolingian hero Roland, who perished fighting the pagan Saracens at Roncesvalles. Later in the Middle Ages, the tombs became a moveable asset. Visiting potentates and members of the French royal family would be presented with an example of the more finely carved of the Roman tombs. King Charles IX of France helped himself so greedily to the Roman relics on offer that his overloaded ship sank in the Rh\u00f4ne. Precious pieces of the classical heritage of Arles were dispersed in royal collections across France and even in European palaces beyond its borders.\n\nThe Arl\u00e9siens' heedlessness for their ancient legacy went far beyond the dispersal of their finest examples of Roman funerary sculpture. It touched the land as well. In the 1550s, the burial ground was first disturbed by the construction of a canal, intended to assist in the irrigation of the Crau. Once the precedent for desecration was set, it was impossible to arrest. In the nineteenth century, large tracts of the Alyscamps were sold off to the Paris-Lyons-M\u00e9diterran\u00e9e Compagnie des Chemins de Fer. The burial ground was split asunder by railway lines and occupied by warehouses, workshops and goods yards. Contemporary observers reported Roman sarcophagi being carted off by farmers for use as drinking troughs for cattle, or cut up for building blocks. The land, honeycombed three levels deep with tombs and interments, was scooped away for railway cuttings or levelled out for development. By the end of the century, all that was left was a small island for La Chapelle de la Genouillade ('Chapel of the Kneeling'), marking the spot where Christ had appeared, and a narrow sliver of the original fields, the All\u00e9e des Alyscamps, lined with an avenue of trees and a trail of the plainest of the sarcophagi, by then empty, which terminated in the half-ruined chapel of Saint Honorat. Even in this state of decline, the Alyscamps still had an inextinguishable allure. Vincent Van Gogh and Paul Gauguin both went there frequently to paint, absorbing the sense of the numinous that pervades the place even now, despite the centuries of damage. Van Gogh wrote to his brother Th\u00e9o describing the avenue of poplars, and in particular his delight in the bluish-lilac colour of the remaining Roman tombs against the carpet of fallen leaves in orange and yellow, and how the leaves with these vivid colours continued to fall like flurries of snow.\n\n_View of the Alyscamps by the Church of Saint Honorat, Arles._\n\nStrangely, the significance of the pagan and Roman Alyscamps and its remains is most fully felt in the Christian Chapelle de la Genouillade. This ancient structure is a quarter of an hour's walk from the All\u00e9e des Alyscamps. One crosses back over the canal, past a children's nursery, an old people's home and a line of shops on the main road which passes along the city walls. The route then leads over a railway bridge, around a bend in the road and into a functional landscape of pylons, cranes, goods yards and modern flats. The bridge, lined with a crash-barrier, gives way briefly to an old stone wall and a tiny area of green grass in which the chapel sits.\n\nThe chapel seems hardly bigger than a camper van. It is abandoned, locked, forgotten. There is not a hint of care or veneration. Its carved stone doorway flanked with stone piers and Corinthian capitals is so gouged and rutted as to be quite asymmetrical. There is no wooden door, as one would expect, but a metal one like those found in prisons; it is painted in battleship grey, scratched, rusted and slightly marked with listless, faded graffiti. There is no glass in its windows. A metal grille and chicken-wire leave the interior open to the elements. Some of the wire is bent back, allowing a better view of the interior. There is little to see. An altar, partly built into the wall of the apse, a pair of angular unornamented wooden candelabra, and a couple of other shards of unidentifiable debris lie haphazardly on the flagstones. Around, the grass is uncut, and would be waist height if it had it not yellowed in the heat and wilted.\n\nRegardless of the truth of the legend, it is pleasing to think of Christ's appearance here in a back-end dump of the city, surrounded by suburban roads, railway lines and kebab wrappers. Like a poet, his visitation brings an obtuse sanctification to something utterly ordinary. But it did not need a visitation from Christ for the Romans to grasp the significance of the Alyscamps. Since the earliest times of Roman colonization, this and other burial grounds \u2013 albeit less favoured by legend \u2013 were a sanctification, or better to say, a celebration of the ordinary business of ordinary people. The Roman presence increased the diversity of the lives that people led, and \u2013 sometimes even for those as lowly as slaves \u2013 celebrated their lives and doings in the monuments they left to dignify their ends.\n\n_The much neglected and decayed fa\u00e7ade of the Chapelle de la Genouillade on an isolated fragment of the Alyscamps, Arles._\n\nMany of the inscriptions on the sarcophagi and _cippi_ (rectangular grave markers) offer no more than a few abbreviated words. However, a number of them are much more informative, offering a clear perspective into the life and work of the departed. Here, for instance, are the words of a memorial to one Quintus Candidus Benignus:\n\nMaster builder of the Arles guild: he had absolute mastery of the craft of building, as well as dedication, knowledge and discretion. Great craftsmen declared him on every occasion to be a master; no-one else was skilful enough to possess such an accolade; nobody could defeat him; he knew how to make machines to direct the flow of the waters; here he was a welcome guest; he knew how to cherish his friends with sensibility and eagerness; he himself was good-natured and kind-spirited. To her sweetest father, this monument has been raised by Candidia Quintina, his daughter, and to her dearest husband, by Valeria Maxima.\n\nThe date of this monument is not known, but it probably belongs to the first or second century AD. Regardless of its exact date, it shows from another angle how the Gauls began to accord prestige to different things. As with the nobility, who now had careers in public office and the chance to display their wealth in the creation of public buildings, the lower classes in Gaul could win their own esteem by the pursuit of trade. Quintus Candidus Benignus was worthy of respect not for his skill in battle nor for being the retainer of a chief, but because no one could match him for knowledge of his craft.\n\nIt is not that pre-Roman Gaul lacked trades or craftsmen. However, with the advances that Rome brought, it was increasingly the case that the lives and skills of tradesmen and artisans were worthy of memorialization. Caesar commented that Gauls who did not fall into the priestly or warrior classes were considered little better than slaves. Now, a builder, thanks to his ability to make machines that could direct the flow of water, deserved to be remembered for all time.\n\nThe range of trades practised appears to have increased following the conquest. In Arles alone there are records of the men who crewed sea-going vessels, carpenters, the _utricularii_ (who carried goods along the Rh\u00f4ne on rafts buoyed up with inflated animal hides), the _lenuncularii_ (operators of larger boats equipped with oars), the _centonarii_ (rag-traders), and _lapidarii_ (jewellers). A previously unknown group called the _partiari_ have recently been discovered. The nature of their work is unknown, but they raised a memorial to someone named Hermia bearing the picture of a ship, suggesting that their trade had maritime associations.\n\nMany of the trades listed above arranged themselves into guilds. These were not monopolies, as was the case with their medieval successors, nor was membership of these guilds compulsory for those who wished to practise the trades that they represented. Their main concern appears to have been the welfare of their members. They seem to have operated more as clubs, and remnants of their clubhouses have been found on the sites of Gallic cities. Some of the guilds appear to have worked closely with government officials to pursue their trade or even to carry out government contracts. Such connections brought prestige both to the guild as well as to the officials. For example, at the end of the second century AD the seafarers of Arles raised a monument to one Caius Cominius, an official who was responsible for the _annona,_ or grain supply. They declared him to be their patron, a man who was 'excellent and irreproachable'. Thus, the guild was able to share the respect that was owed to their patron as a member of the governing classes.\n\nBeyond Arles, many more guilds and types of trade have been attested. In Lugdunum, there stands a _cippus_ (a small inscribed stone) to 'the eternal memory of Septimus Julianus' who was a _saponarius,_ a tradesman in cosmetics. Pliny notes that Gaul was responsible for the invention of _sapo,_ which is sometimes translated as 'soap' and is the origin of the modern word, but is better interpreted as 'pomade' \u2013 a substance, Pliny wrote, used to make hair shinier and blonder. One of Julianus's colleagues from Lugdunum was Pisonius Asclepiodotus, an _ungentarius,_ or perfume-seller. The name of his wife Severa Severia, with whom he lived for thirty-five years 'without any injury of the spirit', is equally prominent on his tomb inscription. The perfume trade did well for his family: Pisonius and Severa became respectively a priest and priestess of the cult of Augustus.\n\nThe traders of Gaul catered to every delicacy and luxury. For a civilized dinner, one might acquire the foodstuffs handled by Gaius Sentius Regulianus. His epitaph describes him as trading olive oil from southern Spain and Gaul from his office in Lugdunum; he also traded in wine out of Lugdunum, captained a ship on the Sa\u00f4ne, was patron of the guild of wine merchants, as well as of the guild of the captains of the ships and a patron of the priests of the imperial cult. On top of this, he accumulated the wealth to become an _eques,_ or member of the order of knights.\n\nJulius Alexander \u2013 'African by birth, a citizen of Carthage, the best of men, a master glassmaker' \u2013 would have provided drinking vessels in which to pour the wine bought from Regulianus. As well as evincing pride in his origins, Julius's memorial is particularly precise about his dates \u2013 he lived 'seventy-five years, five months and thirteen days', was married to his wife ('a virgin when they married') for forty-eight years, and had four children. His Carthaginian background is telling, since glassmaking technology is known to have been more advanced in North Africa than elsewhere in the empire.\n\nThe imposition of the _Pax Romana_ allowed tradesmen to move freely and relatively easily around the Roman world, taking their knowledge and skills with them. Inscriptions across Gaul, and in Lugdunum in particular, record the movement and resettlement of people, some of them tradesmen, both to and from Gaul and across the empire. In Arles, a Greek doctor named Dionysius was given a fitting burial by a grateful local student, Julius Hermes; Constantius Aequalis, 'decorator of parade armour and cloth of gold' and a priest of Augustus at the shrine of Lugdunum, was originally a citizen of the Syrian town of Germanicia. In other cases, Gallic officials travelled to the Syrian and Palestinian provinces to fill positions in the magistracy; moving in the other direction, demobilized soldiers who had served in Pannonia and elsewhere on the Danube settled in Gaul. Alexander the glassmaker might well have been a pioneer, bringing new techniques or seizing the opportunity to set up a new atelier where a gap presented itself in the market. Six glass bottles, four glass bowls, two glass cups and a glass hair-pin, in perfect condition, were found buried with him. They were almost certainly his own work, and thus constitute the only glassware surviving from the ancient world that can be attributed to a specific maker.\n\nThere were also sellers of tableware to go with the glasses. Vitalinus Felix was a veteran of the 1st Legion, which was nicknamed 'Minervia' and spent most of its time on active service on the frontier in Lower Germania. Following his demobilization, Felix went into business. He lived fifty-nine years, says his epitaph; he was born on a Tuesday, enlisted in the army on a Tuesday, was honourably discharged from his legion on a Tuesday, and died on a Tuesday.\n\nFor the finishing touch to a feast or else as a token of affection, it was possible to enlist the services of a flower-seller. One woman engaged in the trade at N\u00eemes is recorded in a carving, sitting behind the counter of her shop and holding one of her garlands. Above her is a motto which acted as much as a mark of distinction to her customers as to herself \u2013 _non vendo nisi amantibus coronas_ \u2013 'I do not sell garlands, except to lovers.'\n\nNot only the more delicate or refined trades merited a memorial for their workers. Trades involving hard manual labour are also mentioned in inscriptions, both on tombstones and in other dedications. By the marble quarry of Saint B\u00e9at in Haute-Garonne, four master stonecutters from the works made a sacrifice to the god Silvanus on behalf of themselves and their colleagues. The event warranted the record of their names: Serverus, Natalis, Martialis and Sintus. Likewise, in the gallery of a lead mine below ground at Bastide-l'\u00c9v\u00eaque in the Aveyron, the miners \u2013 perhaps slaves \u2013 placed a short inscription in memory of their 'overseer and master' Zmaragdus. In Sens, a grave marker is carved with the portrait of Bellicus, a blacksmith. He stands in his forge, surrounded by the tools of his trade \u2013 curved rods and pincers \u2013 clutching an ingot, which he is hammering into a knife blade on an anvil. Here, it is not just the trade itself that is memorialized and dignified, but the physical activity associated with it.\n\nSoldiers likewise had individual memorials. It was perhaps only some two thousand years later, in the era of the First World War, that similar regard was paid to commemorating the lives of soldiers, whether they fell in active service or otherwise. Sometimes grand careers would be recorded \u2013 centurion, military tribune, legate. But equally worthy of remembrance was the non-Roman from outside Gaul who had gained citizenship and settled as a veteran in Gaul. At Arles, Titus Carsius Certinus was laid to rest sometime in the second century ad: 'Veteran of the 20th Legion (Valeria Victrix) \u2013 Carsia, his daughter, to her most virtuous father.'\n\n_Mosaic depicting the pleasures of the table, from St-Romain-en-Gal, second century AD._\n\nEven the very lowest in society might leave their names and a trace of their lives behind. Many of the gladiators who fought in the amphitheatres at Arles and N\u00eemes are known from more than the admiring graffiti of their supporters. If they had the bad luck to perish in the arena, they could be buried with dignity and a memorial. At N\u00eemes, a small stone for Beryllus: 'Fought twenty times, Greek by nationality, lived twenty-five years. Nomas, his wife, made this for her well-deserving husband.' At Arles, one Marcus Julius Olympus, leader of a troupe of gladiators, set up an inscription to one of the favourite members of his team, Lucius Granius from Rome 'on account of the great merit of his victorious grandfather'. Olympus himself, who, socially speaking, would have been regarded as little better than a pimp, attempted to dignify himself with the title _negotiator familiae gladiatoriae_ \u2013 'business manager' of the gladiatorial group. Actors also, though as a social class beneath contempt, might advertise their profession: 'Primigenus, actor from the company of Eudoxus' was buried on the Alyscamps, a short walk from the theatre of Arles where he would have performed his unknown roles.\n\nEven the identities of humble agricultural workers are recorded. The name of Publius Brittius Saturninus, a sheep-shearer, is crudely chiselled into a stone, the letters picked out in red paint, with a picture of his shears laid down in disuse beneath. Likewise the vine-dresser Vallonus, 'excellent brother to Quartina', remembered only in those words and in a picture of his pruning hook. Even an ex-slave and cattle breeder was dear enough to his former master to merit a long metrical inscription above a chiselled bucolic scene of a shepherd with his sheep beneath a tree, its quiet mood curiously at odds with the grim story of murder that it records:\n\nIucundus, freedman of Marcus Terentius. All you travellers who pass by, stop and read how I, snatched away unjustly, complain indignantly that I was not able to live for more than thirty years. For a slave took away my life from me and then threw himself headlong into the River Main. The river took from him what he took from his master. Terentius erected this memorial at his own expense.\n\nIt was not necessary, to have a craft or a particular story to boast of on one's gravestone. Simple affection deserved to be recorded in a few simple words: _'Zosimus Matri Pientissumae'_ \u2013 Zosimus to his most affectionate mother; 'Lucius Aponius Severianus, died aged four months nine days'; ' _Symmacho Alexandria Victoria Tatae'_ \u2013 Alexandria Victoria for her papa, Symmachus.\n\nThose who could not afford to make themselves known to the wider world with fine inscriptions in marble or limestone sometimes had other ways of entrusting their names to posterity. In workshops, particularly near the River Allier, small clay figurines of animals \u2013 for example dogs and monkeys \u2013 were signed with the names of their makers: 'Ritogeno', 'Priscus', or 'Rextugenos'. Pots and drinking vessels might in some instances be stamped with the name of a workshop \u2013 for example 'OFBASI', short for _Officinum Bassi,_ 'workshop of Bassus' \u2013 but in others with the name of the individual potter: 'PATERNIF' records the work of Paternus ('Paternus fecit') while 'ATTICIM' is short for 'from the hand of Atticus' ( _Attici manus_ ).\n\nThe humblest of trades might also be memorialized via representation in the artistic commissions of the better-off. Thus, in a mosaic of St-Romain-en-Gal opposite Vienne, the hard rustic labour of every season is recorded in a pictorial agricultural calendar: grafting of the trees at springtime; the collection of wood in the summer; the harvesting of apples, grapes and olives in the autumn; the sowing of beans, the milling of grain and the weaving of baskets in the winter. In reliefs for funereal and other monuments the shoemaker hammers at his last, carpenters saw logs and toil with the axe and the plane, the carter rolls barrels (a Gallic invention) onto his cart, and even the fuller wearily treads his bolts of raw material in his tanks full of urine and watery clay. These Gallo-Romans may have remained mute, but they did not remain inglorious.\n\n_Tombstone of a vine dresser, N\u00eemes. The tombstone, dedicated by 'Vallona to the soul of her excellent brother Vallonus', is decorated with the vine-pruning hook, the tool of his trade._\n\nThese traces of Gallo-Roman working lives are testament not only to the rise of the artisanal life under Roman rule, but also to the increased _quality_ of life that these developments brought \u2013 not just for the artisans themselves, but for the poorer members of society. The oak-bottomed barges that plied the great trading route of the Rh\u00f4ne, for example, were more than 30 metres long. The sailors who guided them along the river did not live on hard tack or freeze to death in the winter; boats recovered from the depths of the Rh\u00f4ne have revealed specialized galleys built for their comfort. They were equipped not only with cauldrons and mortars, plates and bowls, but also with ingenious lead stoves for cooking and warmth, which were themselves water-cooled to prevent overheating and to stop the lead from melting. The cargoes that they carried, which have also been recovered, show the boon that their labour and that of other artisans brought. There were amphorae of _garum_ (fermented fish sauce), salted fish, meats, wine and olive oil; limestone and marble for building and lead ingots for water-pipes; bars of iron, copper and tin. From the giant ceramic works at La Graufesenque in the Aveyron, which covered many hectares, as well as other workshops, the beautiful red glossy pottery known as Samian ware was exported over the whole of Gaul and further afield into Britain and around the Mediterranean; the rise of Gallic production after the conquest even forced the Italian producers into decline. Samian ware had once been regarded as a luxury item \u2013 as fit to grace a Roman table as dishes made of metal. With the Roman conquest, however, Samian pottery was produced in Gaul in vast quantities and became available to even the humblest home.\n\nSimple material trinketry became far more widely available with the presence of Rome: not just crockery and plates, glass vases and vials of perfume, kitchen equipment, weighing scales, but also tools, stone and clay figurines, charms, ex-votos, keys, hinges for doors and chests, jewellery, finely crafted hairpins, medical equipment such as lances and tweezers (which might, as inscriptions show, have been administered by professional female doctors and not just male ones). The very bread that people ate could be of extraordinarily high quality. Pliny remarks that in Gaul the bakers used sieves made of horsehair to ensure a bread that rose easily, and that they used yeast gathered from the froth of beer to make the bread light and with an agreeable flavour. The discovery of a well-preserved Gallo-Roman bakery attached to a house in Amiens dating to the end of the second century AD proves Pliny's point: the level of skill and knowledge of such Gallo-Roman artisans was great, and the product they made was particularly fine. The bakery was kitted out with sieves and traces of linen baskets in which the bread was placed to leaven. Bread from every stage of the process had been preserved: wheat and barley ready to be ground, flour, bread in the midst of rising, as well as fragments of baked bread still sitting in the oven. Analysis of the remnants of the bread showed it to be finely milled rye mixed with ordinary wheat flour, enhanced with fat or oil: a sophisticated concoction that might nowadays be bought in an artisanal bakery.\n\n_Bas-relief from a tomb of two men packing merchandise for shipment by boat, dating to the third century AD, displayed in the Arles Museum._\n\nThe growing wealth and prosperity brought by the Roman empire was by no means evenly spread. This was a thoroughly unequal society: the descendants of Gallic nobles, now in Roman guise, might luxuriate in grand town houses or elegant villas at the head of great estates, but many still lived close to subsistence level on rural plots, as bondmen or slaves, in lives untouched by the development of Roman towns and Roman amusements. The Roman presence, as we have seen, had been bought at vast human cost: death, violence and social dislocation on an epic scale; the usurpation of identities; and the disruption and extinction of ancient cultures. Nevertheless, the conquest led to an age of comparative peace, which, it appears, had not been known before in the discernible history of Gaul. To those who had much, much was given; but even the less well-off would benefit from this long period of stability, enjoying work, freedom of movement, and access to a quality of life that before had only been open to the highest. There was wine for the masses, fine bread and elegant crockery, all to be enjoyed if not in sprawling villas, at least in an environment of order and tranquillity. There was also the notion that there was dignity in the everyday doings of people; it is from this age that numbers of ordinary people in Gaul began to leave their mark. In the ancient world, this was an extraordinary and rare achievement.\n\nFor even the lowly of Gaul, there is still much to be said for the judgement of Edward Gibbon on the second century ad:\n\nIf a man were called to fix the period in the history of the world during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus. The vast extent of the Roman empire was governed by absolute power, under the guidance of virtue and wisdom.\n\n* The Aurelian Way originally linked Rome and Genoa, but after AD 275 was extended as far as Arles via Nice and Aix-en-Provence.\n\n\u2020 Named after a fifth-century bishop of Arles, Honoratus.\n\n_The Porte d'Arroux, a Roman gateway at the northern end of the_ cardo maximus _in Autun, dating to the end of the third century AD. Its arches inspired architects building the Benedictine Abbey of Cluny in the twelfth century._\nCHAPTER IX\n\nIn Their Own Words\n\n_summae genus sollertiae_  \n'A nation possessed of remarkable ingenuity'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ VII.22\n\nJEAN, DUC DES ESSEINTES\n\n\u2022\n\nLATE LATIN: THE 'ROTTED CORPSE'\n\n\u2022\n\nSCHOOLS OF MARSEILLES\n\n\u2022\n\nAUTUN\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE MAENIANAE\n\n\u2022\n\nGREEK WISDOM\n\n\u2022\n\nAUSONIUS\n\n\u2022\n\nBORDEAUX\n\n\u2022\n\nA TEACHER'S LIFE\n\n\u2022\n\n'THE DOINGS OF A WHOLE DAY'\n\n\u2022\n\nPOEMS OF LOVE AND LOSS\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE REPUBLIC OF LETTERS\n\nTHE MOST DANGEROUS BOOK in French literature \u2013 or at any rate dangerous to impressionable and sensitive young minds \u2013 is A _Rebours,_ or _Against Nature,_ by Joris-Karl Huysmans. Published in 1884, it stood against the tide of naturalism in contemporary prose fiction, becoming in itself a manifesto for fin-de-si\u00e8cle aesthetes and the Decadent Movement.\n\nThe hero is Jean, duc des Esseintes. He is the last in the line of an ancient and noble family, worn out by generations of inbreeding and the demands of aristocratic life. An only child, he is brought up in the gloomy ancestral seat in the vicinity of Paris, the Chateau des Lourps. His distant parents send him to a Jesuit school, but he refuses to engage in any education that would fit him for employment and ordinary life, and his teachers leave him to indulge his own recondite tastes in French and Latin literature. When he leaves school, he grows weary with Parisian society, finding no companions who share his intellectual tastes. Those he encounters are either 'submissive believers' or 'rapacious and insolent puritans whose breeding he considered inferior to the neighbourhood bootmaker'. He tries to restrain his growing contempt for all humanity by engaging in a passion for debauchery, as one who is 'beset by pangs of desire yet whose palate rapidly grows dull and surfeited'. But this is without success, and after indulging in every possible coupling from the aristocratic to the 'dregs of society', he holds a funeral feast to mark his final collapse into impotence.\n\nTo mollify his ever-increasing hypersensitivity, des Esseintes finally decides to go into a permanent retreat where he can devote himself to the untrammelled pursuit of aesthetic pleasures and a life of 'studious ineffectiveness'. He sells the remains of his family estate, buys a house on the far outskirts of Paris, and decorates it to suit 'the requirements of his future solitude'. His walls are covered, like bound books, in morocco leather; the domed ceiling is painted in febrile orange and royal blue. His furniture includes ancient reliquaries with copies of Baudelaire's poems hand-copied on vellum and illuminated like a medieval prayer book. His bedroom is decorated like a monastic cell, but with the most expensive possible materials: saffron-coloured silk to imitate stucco, and white silk on the floor to counterfeit bare plaster. There are instruments with which he can generate new scents for perfumes and liquors, and, best of all, a tortoise whose shell he had had gilded and set with rare gemstones: chrysoberyls, azurite and sapphirines.\n\nIt is not only des Esseintes's taste in d\u00e9cor or notions of animal welfare that are so arresting. His preferences in Latin literature are equally revolutionary. For him, there is no merit or pleasure to be had in the classic authors of the 'Golden Age' such as were propounded at the Sorbonne, not to mention in the traditional curricula of other universities and schools of Europe. Virgil's _Aeneid_ is an 'indescribable inanity'; his Latin hexameter verses have a 'tinny hollow ring'. Horace is loathsome, the 'prattlings of an insufferable bungler as he archly tells off-colour stories worthy of a senescent, white-plastered clown'. Cicero is 'ponderous density'. Caesar himself has 'a martinet's aridity, a sterile log-book style, an incredible, uncalled-for costiveness'. Livy is 'sentimental and pompous', Seneca 'turgid and lack-lustre'.*\n\nIt is only in the period of so-called Silver Latin, after the first century AD \u2013 an age held by common consent to herald the Latin literary decline \u2013 that des Esseintes begins to take pleasure in the corpus of Latin literature. The novelists Petronius and Apuleius delight him. However, it is not until the fourth century, when the Latin language begins to acquire a 'gamey redolence' that his interest becomes deeper. It is a redolence that 'the odour of Christianity imparted to the language of pagan Rome, which decomposed like venison, falling apart' as 'the Ancient World crumbled into dust'.\n\nMany of the poets to which des Esseintes keeps returning are products of, or associated with, late Roman Gaul. There is Claudian, in whom paganism 'lived again, sounding its final fanfare, raising up its last great poet high above Christianity'; Ausonius and Rutilius, writing of their journeys across the late empire, describing the quality of landscapes reflected in water, the mirages of mists and the swirling of fog around the mountain tops. Into the fifth century \u2013 with Paulinus of Nola, Ausonius' pupil, the letter-writing Sidonius, and the Christian poet (and grandson of Ausonius), Paulinus of Pella \u2013 des Esseintes's 'interest in the Latin language remained undiminished, now that it hung like a completely rotted corpse, its limbs falling off, dripping with pus, barely a few firm parts, which the Christians took away to steep in the brine of their new idiom'.\n\nA number of these authors, particularly Ausonius and Sidonius, would have been horrified to learn of des Esseintes's reasons for enjoying their works, not to mention his judgements on Virgil, Cicero and Horace. They would have seen themselves not as decadent, but as the careful yet vigorous defenders of a tradition of Roman education and Latin literature that reached back in Gaul to the time of the conquest. One may choose to like these authors for the reasons given by des Esseintes \u2013 if indeed, his judgement of the decayed state of their Latinity is sound \u2013 but regardless of this, his preference for these authors over the classical staples of Virgil and Cicero, and indeed the fact that he gives them such limelight at all, deserves to be celebrated. In some ways, the lives of a number of these authors, withdrawing into a hypersensitive aristocratic gloom in the face of a decline in central Roman power and order, simply mirrors des Esseintes's escape from the vulgarity of modern life. Yet they deserve more attention than they customarily receive, in that they are a reflection of wider life in Roman Gaul, not only of their own time but also of the eras that preceded them. They embody not only one of the great reasons for the long-standing success of Rome, but also stand as a waypoint towards literary traditions that would come after them. So they deserve their space on the bookshelves of des Esseintes, not to mention our own, even if we do not possess the morocco-leather-bound walls and the gilded tortoise to go with them.\n\nThe Romano-Gallic authors on des Esseintes's shelves were born out of a tradition of education. It was in Massalia \u2013 a Greek city \u2013 that this Gallic tradition of Roman education and letters, along with many other things, began. Strabo suggests that following its submission to Caesar in 49 BC the city's energies, which were previously engaged in navigation and commerce, were turned towards erudition. In all likelihood, however, Massalia possessed good education facilities long before this point. It was a melting pot of Gallic, Greek and Latin culture, in which ideas from all three traditions were present, but Greek appeared to predominate. Various writers give accounts of the higher branches of study that could be pursued there \u2013 astronomy and mathematics, rhetoric and natural philosophy. An edition of Homer was collated in the city in the third century BC, and the natural philosopher Euthymenes speculates on the causes of the flooding of the Nile. Ammianus Marcellinus, a historian of the fourth century ad, claims that these higher studies at Massalia did not derive their impetus merely from the Greek presence, but also drew on native Druidic traditions. The availability of these high-level studies in the city was more than enough to bring in an audience for the many teachers who had set up there in business. Many local Gauls were attracted simply by the prospect of learning the Greek language, which they mastered to the extent that they began to use it for their legal contracts.\n\nMassalia was a draw not only for Gauls, but for Romans from Italy. Upper-class Romans, for whom a knowledge of Greek was a vital part of their higher education, began to send their university-age children to Massalia rather than Athens to acquire proficiency in the language. For many, it was seen as a better choice, since it was closer to Rome than Athens, the climate was healthier and its morals were more vehemently guarded. The first-century AD writer Valerius Maximus calls Massalia the 'fiercest guardian of strictness', for the city authorities banned the famously licentious performances of pantomime from their theatres, put limits on the wearing of expensive clothes and prohibited women from drinking wine. According to Tacitus, Massalia was a place where 'refinement and provincial frugality were blended and happily combined'. Its reputation was such that at the end of the first century BC and the beginning of the following century, even the emperor Augustus himself, well known for his strait-laced credentials, sent his sister's grandson there, at least ostensibly for study; though Tacitus, who reports it, says that this was to cover the imperial princeling's exile.\n\nBut with the conquest of Gallia Comata, the scholarly resources available in Massalia were nowhere near sufficient to satisfy the sudden and urgent requirements for education in the new province. A Latin education, at least for the aristocratic classes of newly conquered territories, was the handmaiden of Roman government policy. It was necessary not just to inculcate in the noble classes a habit of loyalty towards Rome, but also to equip them for the administrative and military posts that they, and no one else, were in a position to take. Tacitus describes this process explicitly in his biography of his father-in-law Julius Agricola, a Gallo-Roman general who was himself an alumnus of the schools of Massalia. Agricola was responsible for securing the conquest of much of Britain, and Tacitus gloomily describes how a Roman education, as part of a wider acculturation in contemporary Roman ways (which he himself saw as decadent), was one of the weapons he used to bind the indigenous upper classes to the order of Roman rule. Agricola, in the midst of his campaigns, provided 'a liberal education for the sons of the chiefs... that they who lately disdained the tongue of Rome now coveted its eloquence'. As a result 'a liking sprang up for our style of dress, and the toga became fashionable. Step by step the British were led to things which dispose to vice, the lounge, the bath, the elegant banquet. All this in their ignorance they called civilization, when it was but part of their servitude.' These opportunities for education and civilization, visited on the British by Agricola in the latter part of the first century ad, had been brought by the Romans to Gallia Comata in the years following the conquest. The leading seat of Gallo-Roman education in these times appears to have been the new city of Augustodunum, now Autun in Burgundy.\n\nPresent-day Autun seems well suited to academic life and the pursuit of otherworldly meditations. Its streets, with their medieval timber-framed houses, pinnacles and statue-niches, enjoy an atmosphere of antique quietness, though its surviving Roman gates and circuit walls have a striking \u2013 even ostentatious \u2013 air to them. The town was built shortly after the conquest. Although on a small hill, it was located in the flatter land about fifteen miles east of the Aedui _oppidum_ of Bibracte. Situated here, its role was clear: to draw away the life from the established Gallic town and into a closely controlled Roman centre. In this, it was successful. Without application of force, the high stronghold of Bibracte was left to be rapidly devoured by the forest. However, to achieve this mastery over the rival settlement, Autun had to display boldly to the Aedui the extent of Roman wealth, and the opportunities available for those who co-operated with the Roman project. Although it was not one of the settlements formally endowed with colonial status like Arles or N\u00eemes, it was still given the right to be surrounded by walls, the privilege of a colony. Extensive remnants of these still stand today \u2013 ivy-speckled and louring over the green verges of an empty peripheral road \u2013 some of the longest stretches of Roman city wall anywhere in western Europe. In their prime, the walls were 6 kilometres (nearly 4 miles) in circumference, tracing out a lozenge-shaped area of around 200 hectares, which the city itself struggled to fill. Nevertheless, the sight of the walls, at that time 12 metres high, almost 2 metres thick and relieved at regular intervals by around fifty semi-circular projecting bastions, would have made their point to the local Aedui.\n\nThe ingredients listed by Tacitus for the cultural subversion of a conquered indigenous group were soon in place. There was a theatre \u2013 at 150 metres in diameter the largest Roman theatre yet known \u2013 as well as an amphitheatre and baths. However, for Autun, the pinnacle of these constructions was a school. Such a feature was, certainly in the western part of the empire, unusual and notable. Education was usually a parasite activity, taking place in a borrowed location \u2013 a public portico, or sometimes within a private dwelling. This was not so at Autun. The school appears to have been located at the centre of the town, probably beneath the modern post office. It was opposite the temple of Apollo, a god who, as mentioned, played a special role in the doctrine of Augustus. That education had a place of its own, next to a temple that flaunted and proclaimed the Roman imperial ideology, shows not only the importance placed on it here, but also its importance in the context of the development of Roman power.\n\n_The Roman walls of Autun, dating to the first century BC. Their main purpose was to display Rome's power to the region's influential Aedui tribe and to overawe the nearby_ oppidum _of Bibracte._\n\nIt is perhaps less surprising that such privileged access to education, and hence an entr\u00e9e into the systems of Roman power, was made available in Autun rather than elsewhere. It was not just that the city was close to the geographical centre of Gallia Comata, making it easy for young nobles from all three provinces to reach; but its location looks like a particular reward for the Aedui. The Aedui were allies of the Roman people even before the conquest and for nearly the whole period of Caesar's campaign remained loyal to Rome. It was not long before they developed a tribal mythology that made them brothers to the Roman people: a mythology that claimed that they too, like the Romans, were descendants of the refugees who had fled the fall of Troy.\n\nThe school at Autun rapidly gained a reputation. It was known as the Maenianae, after an architectural feature of a balcony raised on columns, which the school presumably possessed. Tacitus states that by AD 20 it was where the noblest youth of Gaul went for their education. It was very likely the fact that they were gathered together in Autun that made it the target for starting a failed uprising among the Aedui by Julius Sacrovir in that same year; indeed, it may have been the congregation of a large student body that made it vulnerable to unrest. Nevertheless, as with any ancient and established school, it attracted a deep sense of loyalty. In around 270, the school was seriously damaged during a period of civil war. A teacher named Eumenius, appointed to oversee the school by the emperor Constantius Chlorus, made a public appeal to have his entire salary \u2013 an enormous 600,000 sesterces \u2013 dedicated to the school's rebuilding. He made this appeal as a formality during a public address to the provincial governor, delivered either in Autun or in Lugdunum. His pride in the institution and its work was unbounded. He states that its work in developing the intellects and oratorical abilities of young Gallo-Roman males should not be hidden away but it should be 'in public display, in the very eyes of this city'. It was fitting that the Maenianae was built in the heart of the city, close to the temples of Apollo and Minerva, since visiting emperors and other high dignitaries would pass it as they arrived. Such was the importance and challenge of the school's work, it was only right for it to be near the shrines of the gods who were friends not only of Rome, but of learning.\n\nEumenius's speech also tells us a great deal about the relationship between education and power in the Roman empire. He praises the importance of the school in creating alumni destined for high office. Its rigorous standards, overseen by the emperor's personal care, ensured that anyone advanced to 'any tribunal or to the service of the sacred judiciary or perhaps the very offices of the palace, should not follow uncertain oratorical standards as if caught unexpectedly amid the surging seas of youth'. We also learn from Eumenius that the school possessed a large selection of maps painted on the school walls beneath its porticoes. The students, said Eumenius, should 'see and contemplate daily every land and all the seas and whatever cities, peoples, nations' over which the Roman empire ruled. These locations were marked with their sizes, locations, extent, and the distances between them, together with rivers, shores and bays. Contemplating these maps, students could imagine the emperors 'hurling lightning on the smitten Moors' or 'trampling upon Persian bows and quivers'. Thus did Roman education, among the conquered Gauls, create a class that sensed itself destined to hold a wider power.\n\n_The Porte Saint-Andr\u00e9, Autun, third century AD._\n\nThe education offered by this school and others like it was not just about acclimatizing the Gallo-Roman elite to holding and wielding political power. It also brought to Gaul an international and aristocratic culture of poetry, philosophy and pleasure, Greek in tone but wholeheartedly adopted by Rome, which would be recognizable as far east as the Levant and Asia Minor. Such a culture became a defining mark of the aristocratic life in Gaul, but it probable that those brought up in such a culture valued it for itself rather than just as a marker of class. The physical footprints of this culture have been found in Autun. At a site not far from the city's _cardo,_ a large room was discovered during construction work that was decorated with mosaics dating to around the second century AD. These mosaics do not feature the animals, fruit, or agreeable scenes from the rustic year that we have encountered hitherto, but Greek philosophers and poets. They sit on their couches, bearded, clad in sandals and heavy togas, slightly hunched, their faces (where they are still visible) intent in calm but profound meditation. In their hands they hold scrolls, presumably of their work, which they offer to us. Although mute, they are not silent. Written on the panels behind them are quotations from their writings in Greek. Epicurus himself reminds us (if the text of the mosaic has been properly restored): 'It is not possible to live with pleasure without living with prudence, honesty and justice; nor can one live with prudence, honesty and justice without living with pleasure.' His follower Metrodorus makes the point more insistently: 'We have been born just once. It is impossible to be born twice, and we cannot live out eternity. But you, although you are not master of tomorrow, waste your chances for enjoyment. Life is worn out by procrastination and each of us dies with no time on our hands.'\n\nThe Epicurean message of seizing the opportunity for pleasure and putting away disturbances of the spirit may have been expressed sternly by these philosophers, but poets voiced it more pleasantly. Anacreon sings on the panels: 'Bring water, boy, bring wine, and bring the garlands of flowers \u2013 come now, bring them, for I shall not struggle against Love (Eros)! Anyone who wishes to fight when the chance presents itself, let them fight! But as for myself, let me drink to the health of my friends, boy, with honeyed wine.'\n\nThe purpose of the room with the mosaics is still debated by archaeologists. Some have suggested it was a lecture theatre, but others, warming to the Epicurean theme, believe it was part of the town-house of a learned aristocrat, intended for use in Greek-style symposiums, or dinner parties, where the display of such knowledge was a prerequisite for attendance. But the most attractive idea is that such a house belonged not to a conventional aristocrat, but a rich teacher such as Eumenius, devoted to wine and friendship, erudition and song.\n\nThe culture of the symposium was self-consciously aristocratic, but other finds from Autun suggest that literacy and even echoes of the symposium culture were to be found across the classes. Bobbin weights are inscribed with what might be pub chat: _'Ave Vale, Tu Bella'_ \u2013 'Hello dear, you're beautiful'; _'Ave Domina, Sitiio'_ \u2013 'Hello lady, I'm thirsty.'\n\nDespite the prominence of Autun in the Gallic educational firmament, it was certainly not the case that learning and literacy were found nowhere else. The Gauls had a reputation among the Romans for cleverness. Caesar himself commented that they were a people of great ingenuity. Massalia aside, the transalpine province produced a number of noted teachers before the conquest. One of them, Antonius Gnipho, is reported to have tutored in Caesar's own household, and Cicero was also one of his pupils. Another, Valerius Cato, a freed slave, is recorded as having taught a number of poets, and as having written two books of verse himself before falling into debt, losing his villa and dying in poverty and extreme old age. Preserved scraps of Latin doggerel ask how 'The great grammarian, chief among our poets, could solve all questions, but solvent could not be.' Perhaps as a result of Transalpine Gaul's reputation, the newly conquered provinces were a draw for the most famous teachers. The imperial biographer Suetonius records a number who went to teach in Gaul after the conquest, including one, Oppius Chares, who taught to the very end of his life '...when he could no longer walk, or even see'. Teachers, either from outside or trained within Gaul, set themselves up in the major towns across the Gallic provinces. Memorial inscriptions to them survive in Limoges, Trier, Vienne, Strasbourg and Narbonne. In N\u00eemes, there are also inscriptions to two _paedagogoi,_ or slaves owned by rich households who were responsible for the good conduct of the children and assisting them with their learning. One was a woman named Porcia Lada. A good education became highly desirable; an inscription in N\u00eemes set up by a mother to her dead foster-son recounts her misery at the waste of his education: 'A most wretched mother, who educated this boy in the place of a son, and endowed him with the study of liberal arts \u2013 but, O unjust stars, he did not get to enjoy adulthood, and it was not fated for him...'\n\n_The 'Temple of Janus', Autun, first century AD. Dedicated to an unknown Gallic divinity, the temple combines Roman building techniques with a Gallic temple design._\n\nThe migration of teachers into Gaul and the consequent widespread availability of education there had a notable and beneficial cultural impact. In the years after the conquest, the Gallic reputation for education and literacy grew exponentially. Tacitus, in a dialogue on the art of oratory, makes all but one of the learned participants Gauls. Juvenal portrays Gaul as excelling in rhetoric, particularly that of the courtroom, even training the lawyers who went on to plead in the British courts. The poet Martial, in a number of epigrams, depicts Gaul as a place of literary culture. He suggests that his poems are read in Vienne, and describes volumes of his verse being sent to acquaintances in Narbonne and Toulouse. Books were easy to acquire in Gaul. Pliny the Younger expresses surprise that some of his works are available at a bookseller in Lugdunum, and later on he mentions a bookseller at Reims.\n\nGaul was soon producing its own authors of note. Pompeius Trogus has already been mentioned in connection with Vaison-la-Romaine. Tacitus himself was probably of Gallic origin. But it is from the later period \u2013 the fourth and fifth centuries ad, which spanned the final flowering of the Roman empire in Gaul, its eventual collapse and the rise of Christianity \u2013 that there is a large body of surviving Latin literature from Gaul. This may be a result of the establishment of an imperial court on the frontier at Trier in the fourth century. The proximity of this court seems to have acted as a stimulus to the Gallo-Roman aristocracy, not only to throw themselves more wholeheartedly into imperial service, but also to greater literary production. The fact that a number of the surviving works are panegyrics addressed to emperors and high dignitaries may be a matter of chance, but could also be evidence of a reaction by the literate classes to the ending of Roman rule in Gaul. I will explore the possible reasons for the appearance of these encomia from writers of the late Gallo-Roman period in due course; but what is not in doubt is that their writings give us a picture of the lives of at least a handful of Roman Gauls that is more intimate, more revelatory than anything offered by an artefact, inscription or ruin.\n\nDear wife, let us always live the way we have lived, and keep the names which we took when first we were wed. Let no day have it that we should be changed with time, but that I should always be 'my boy' to you, and you to me 'my girl'. Even if I should live to be as old as Nestor, and you also older than Deiphobe, the priestess of Apollo, let us refuse to know the meaning of ripe old age: let's not count down the years; all we should do is know their worth.\n\nThis short love poem, eight lines long in the original Latin, was written around AD 340, and is addressed by Ausonius to his new wife, Attusia. Ausonius was in his late twenties or early thirties at the time, and was working as a teacher. His poem, although short, breathes a heady optimism. The love it expresses is genuine, and the poet is looking forward with hope and confidence to sharing his life with Attusia. However, his optimism is undoubtedly bolstered by an expectation of impending professional success. It was not just that he had gained a fairly prestigious job in his home town of Bordeaux, which was then overtaking Autun as the premier seat of learning in Gaul. Nor was it that in marrying Attusia, even if he was doing so for love, he was entering into an alliance that would be hugely advantageous to him: she was of an old and noble lineage, and the match brought lustre to Ausonius and his family, which only two generations before had been in domestic service. No; on top of all of this, a connection even more promising had come about. Ausonius's maternal uncle, Magnus Arborius, also a teacher, had been summoned to the new imperial capital of Constantinople to work as a tutor in the household of the emperor Constantine himself. The sense of proximity to the throne was upon Ausonius, heightening his cheerfulness and increasing his expectations for what was to come. All pointed to a bright future with his new wife and young family. Fate, however, was not going to gratify all his hopes.\n\nAusonius was born around AD 310. His father Julius was originally a native of Bazas in what is now the department of Gironde, but he moved before his son's birth to the nearby centre of Bordeaux. Although the family was of lowly origin, Julius \u2013 as his son would do later \u2013 married well, taking a wife named Aemelia from a distinguished family of mixed Aedui and Aquitanian background. Julius had trained as a doctor, and was able to give his son an excellent education in Bordeaux. Ausonius was appointed to a teaching position in the city in 334, and around this time married Attusia. They had three children together. However, the hopes expressed in his short love poem were dashed. Attusia died in 343 after nine years of marriage, at the age of twenty-eight. He never remarried.\n\nAusonius spent some time practising at the Bar in Bordeaux, but his heart was more in teaching. He ended up devoting himself fully to the profession and was promoted to a professorship in rhetoric. After nearly twenty years working in this fashion, he managed to repeat the feat of his uncle: in 364, he was summoned to the imperial court to be a tutor to the young prince Gratian. He remained in this position for around ten years. His life was not without incident; in 368 he accompanied the imperial entourage as it went to fight a campaign on the German frontier. In 370, he was given the title of _comes_ ('count'), and in 375 he entered more fully into the imperial civil service, gaining the position of quaestor of the sacred palace. In the same year Ausonius's prot\u00e9g\u00e9 Gratian succeeded to the emperorship. It was the start of a golden age for Ausonius. Having started life as a teacher, he was now showered with honours and became a person of great influence. In 378 he was appointed prefect of Gaul; Ausonius's father, who was then still alive, was given the honorific title of prefect of Illyricum, and other of his relatives were awarded similar distinctions. Some scholars have even seen traces of Ausonius's influence in the development of the law at this time, particularly in statutes relating to education. In the following year, 379, Ausonius achieved what was, even in this late imperial age, the much-desired capstone of a Roman career: the consulship. It was a huge achievement for one who had started life as a teacher.\n\nHowever, his good fortune was not to persist. In 383, a revolt broke out in Britain, and a usurper, Maximus, made a bid for the throne. Fighting broke out in Gaul, Gratian was killed in Lugdunum and his old favourites such as Ausonius fell out of favour, if not under threat. Maximus lasted in power for only five years, and was killed by the eastern Roman emperor, Theodosius I, in 388. However, by this time, Ausonius would probably have thought himself too old, and was perhaps too shocked by the turn of events, to return to public life. He spent his last years on his estates near Bordeaux, occasionally visiting the city on business, but he preferred life in the countryside away from the bustle of urban life. He died either in 393 or 394, having lived well into his eighties.\n\nAround 300 pages of Ausonius's literary work have survived from the fourth century AD. It is, for the time and the place, a rare survival. His work is a collection of letters, some written in verse, exchanged between him and the emperor, other aristocrats, his son or his local friends. There are long, creative poems; short verses addressed to his family and to his teaching colleagues around Bordeaux; poems that are little more than academic jests; a welter of epigrams on a range of subjects; poems on divinity \u2013 he appears to have been a Christian of sorts \u2013 and poems that describe his ordinary experience of life. Ausonius is one of the most complete characters to survive from any period of Roman Gaul, and it is through him that we can see the lives of those of his ilk and those who surrounded him in the provincial aristocracy and its dependents.\n\nMany details of Ausonius's career and background can be gleaned from his writings: he recorded not just the notable events of his life, but also the daily round. The first cycle of poems to be preserved in the collection is called _Ephemeris,_ meaning 'day-book' or 'diary', and subtitled 'The Doings of a Whole Day'. It does not, however, present a perfect record. A number of the poems are missing, with the result that the afternoon is mostly a blank. Moreover, part of the object of the cycle is to showcase the poet's metrical skill. Each stage of the day is recounted in a different Latin metre, and the reader inevitably wonders how much the poems are meant to reflect Ausonius's experience, and how much they are a literary construct. The fact that he refers to his retainers by the names of the characters of slaves from early Roman comedy adds to this suspicion. However, literary allusion is an adjunct to the writing of such learned verse, and its presence does not mean that Ausonius is merely regurgitating the substance of other writers. His work may be decorated with literary jokes, but it rings true as an account of his life, and enough of it survives to give us a clear view of the pattern of his days.\n\nOn the day he writes, his first job is to wake one of his slaves:\n\nAlready bright morn is opening her windows, already the watchful sparrow twitters from her nest; but you, Parmeno, sleep on as if it were the first or middle watch of the night. Dormice sleep the winter round, but they leave food alone; while you slumber on because you drink deep, and swell out your paunch with too great a mass of food... Up with you, you waster! What a thrashing you deserve!... Out with you, Parmeno, from your downy bed.\n\nAusonius is at least able to rely on other retainers and slaves:\n\nHey, boy, get up! Bring me my slippers and my finecotton cloak. Get all the clothes you have just got ready for me to go out. Get me spring water to wash my hands and mouth and eyes. Get me the chapel opened... I must pray to God and the Son of God most high... Now I have prayed enough to God, boy, put out my formal wear. I must exchange my greetings with my friends... And now the time for inviting my friends to lunch draws on... So that no fault of mine may make them late for lunch, hurry at your best pace, boy, hurry to the neighbours' houses \u2013 you know without my telling who they are. I have invited five to lunch; six persons, including the host, make the right number for a meal. If there be more, it is no meal but a _m\u00eal\u00e9e..._ Off he goes...\n\nHe is similarly full of instructions for his cook:\n\nSosias, I must have lunch. The warm sun is already passed well into his fourth hour, and on the dial the shadow is moving on towards the fifth stroke. Taste and make sure \u2013 for they often play you false \u2013 that the seasoned dishes are well soused and taste appetising. Turn your bubbling pots in your hands, and taste the hot gravy with your tongue...\n\nThen the time comes for Ausonius to turn to matters of business. His secretary is a person whom he apparently held in higher regard than his other retainers:\n\nBoy, skilled in dashing shorthand, make haste and come! Open your folding tables... I have grand books in my mind... thick and fast like hail the words tumble off my tongue. And yet your ears are not at fault nor your page crowded... you have the thoughts of my heart already set fast in wax before they are uttered...\n\nWith these frequent admonitions to his retainers, his cook, his secretary, Ausonius gives the impression of being, among other things, a particular and precise person. This certainly applies when it comes to enumerating his achievements. In a prefatory poem he lists carefully the honours he has received \u2013 _comes,_ quaestor, consul \u2013 but adds the detail that he was the senior of the two consuls of the year, 'and was given precedence on assuming the insignia and the _curule_ chair, so that my colleague's name stood after mine'.\n\nAusonius is similarly meticulous when he comes to the achievements of his family. One of the cycles in the collection is entitled _Parentalia,_ a collection of elegies in memory not only of his parents, but also of his extended family. His maternal grandfather, Arborius, is first remembered for 'uniting the blood of many a noble house, both of the province of Lyons and of that land where the Aedui held sway, and in the country of Vienne bordered by Alpine heights'. His son-in-law, Valerius, who died an untimely death, surpassed even his ancestors in that he held 'the prefect's seat, the Illyrian shore as governor, and the Treasury itself was one of [his] clients at law'.\n\nAusonius's care over the recital of such honours has led some classical scholars to dismiss his writings as being stilted and without feeling. The formal enumeration of dignities, they argue, has expunged any element of personal experience and recollection from his writing. Such criticism, however, misses the mark on two grounds. First, the use of literature to mark social position and that of one's family was a fundamental aspect of the intellectual world of late Roman Gaul. Thanks to the way Gaul had evolved, there was an essential connection between high education, culture and social class. The possession of literary culture was in itself proof of belonging to the aristocracy, and to display that culture was to confirm one's membership of the elite stratum of Gallo-Roman society. To refuse to acknowledge the connection between literature and class would have been a rebellious act, and Ausonius was no rebel. However, there is a second reason for decrying such criticism of Ausonius. It is simply untrue to say that his writing is devoid of personal feeling.\n\n_Modern sculpture of Ausonius in Bordeaux, by Bertrand Pi\u00e9chaud._\n\nAusonius wrote the elegy for his wife Attusia, which forms part of the _Parentalia,_ around the time of his consulship, the pinnacle of his career. He is clear about the number of years that have elapsed since her passing \u2013 thirty-six. By then, he would have been nearly seventy. When he speaks of her, he does not omit to mention that she was noble in birth, and sprang from a line of senators; indeed, this is one of the first things he says. But he also has rather more to say. The poem is an expression of his grief for her, still undimmed by the passing of time or by his professional successes:\n\nIn youth I wept for you, robbed of my hopes in early years, and through these thirty-six years, unwedded, I have mourned and mourned you still. Age has crept over me, but yet I cannot lull my pain; for ever it keeps raw and well-nigh new to me... My wounds become heavier with the length of days. I tear my grey hairs mocked by the widowed life, and the more I live in loneliness, the more I live in heaviness.\n\nHis verse does not eschew self-analysis and introspection. He does not hesitate to lay out the complexities and contradictions of his continuing grief for his wife: 'I grieve if one man has a good wife; and yet again I grieve if another has a bad. For you are always with me to throw everything else into relief: however it be, you come to torture me: if one be bad, because you were not like her, or if one be good, because you were like her.' The continuing pain of losing the sensuality of Attusia's presence belies the apparent parlour politeness of his verse: 'That my house is still and silent, and that my bed is cold, that I share not my ills with any, my good with any, these things feed my wound.'\n\nThe emotional honesty of Ausonius's confessions \u2013 direct, never overstated, and always overlaid with the requisite social veneer \u2013 make his work unexpectedly poignant. He remembers his first-born son, named after him, who died 'Just as you were practising to transform your babbling into the first words of childhood'. The one consolation is that he lies on his 'great-grandfather's bosom sharing one common grave, so that you do not suffer the reproach of being alone in your tomb'. His grandson, named Pastor, also died in infancy, killed when a workman carelessly threw a tile down from a roof, hitting the boy on the head. 'That tile, carelessly flung, hit my own head too.'\n\nAusonius's _Parentalia_ commemorates thirty of his late relatives. They are a varied group, including his uncle Clemens, a merchant who died and was buried on a trading mission to Britain; his aunt Aemelia who, 'hating her own sex', appears to have lived as a man and practised as a doctor; and his maternal grandfather Arborius who was skilled in astrology and who, says Ausonius, had predicted the outline of Ausonius' own life. Some members of the family, such as Arborius, were long-lived; Arborius himself reached his nineties. Many, however, died unexpectedly or before their time. Just because such early deaths were common in this age does not mean that they were felt any less keenly by those left behind. Ausonius does not dissemble: the ubiquity of early death could never lessen the intensity of human affection, or diminish the misery of loss.\n\nBut it did not take the spectre of death to turn Ausonius to introspection and anxiety. A letter to his surviving son, Hesperius, describes the moment when the news of Maximus's uprising reached them both at Trier, and Hesperius decided to flee for safety to Bordeaux. The letter is written in verse, but unfinished. Ausonius recalls the sight of his son (by this time grown up) borne away on a boat down the Moselle as he stood on the riverbank with his companions:\n\nAlone! Though compassed round with a throng of friends, I was alone, and offered prayers for that fleeting craft: alone, though I still saw you, my child, and grudged the speed of the oars plying against the stream... Forlorn I pace the empty, lonely shores. Now I strike down the sprouting willow shoots, now I crush beds of turf, and over green sedge I poise my slippery footsteps on the pebbles strewn beneath... So the first day passed away, and the second, and the two nights which wheeled, revolving after each, so others: and the whole year for me will so pass by until your destiny gives back me, your father, to you.\n\nIn other circumstances, his writing is similarly self-revelatory. During his time on the German campaign, he was given a slave captured during a Roman action \u2013 a girl named Bissula. He wrote a collection of poems about her, which is unfortunately incomplete. They were sent to a friend as an intimate poetic gift. One wonders if a later transmitter, eager to preserve Ausonius's reputation, did away with a part of the manuscript. Despite his persistent grief for his wife, he appears to have been quite infatuated with Bissula:\n\nBorn and bred beyond the chilly Danube, Bissula... a captive maid but made free, she queens it as the pet of him whose spoil of war she was... not so changed by Roman blessings but that she remains German in features, blue of eyes and fair of hair. A girl of either race, now speech, now looks present her: the last declare her a daughter of the Rhine, the first a child of Rome.\n\nIt appears he had her portrait painted, but the painter's skill, says Ausonius, was not up to capturing the fullness of her complexion. 'Darling, delight, my pet, my love, my joy! Barbarian and adopted you may be, but you surpass the Roman girls. Bissula \u2013 a clumsy name for so delicate a girl, an uncouth little name to strangers: but to your master, charming.'\n\nWhen Ausonius chooses, he can be fresh, original, with a clarity of sight and a sensibility for landscape and immediate experiences that can be arresting and unexpected. Brief mention has been made in an earlier chapter of his long poem on the Moselle (see page 207), which was almost certainly written in 368 when he accompanied the imperial court to the campaign on the Germanic frontier, while he was still engaged as Gratian's tutor. His poem is a record of this journey, and has some antecedents in classical literature. The poet Horace, for example, wrote a satire describing a journey through Italy in the company of Augustus's inner circle to attend a peace conference during the civil war. Yet where Horace's poem is self-deprecatory and bawdy, describing his bowel movements and other nocturnal accidents, Ausonius is more interested in describing the sights and sounds of his voyage, and the beauties of the landscapes through which he passes. His vision is rare for the corpus of Latin literature. He observes the way that the light scatters on the water and changes its colour; how the sand beneath the river is rippled and furrowed by the current, how the water grasses dance sinuously as the force of the stream presses against them. He describes the fish that could be caught in the river, the fishermen with their nets, the villas and vineyards and the expanse of the countryside, the bawdy banter of vine-dressers shouting at the bargemen as they float cheerfully by. His descriptions, at times direct, at other times interwoven with erudite allusions and references to earlier literature, are \u2013 at their best \u2013 as fresh as the day on which he made his journey, an almost-forgotten antecedent to the canon of travel literature.\n\nSuch forays into evocative description of the natural world do not, however, reflect Ausonius's primary concerns as a writer. His central focus was literature and literary culture itself. His writing, for the most part, was intended to confirm, preserve and exalt the literary canon of Rome and the assumptions it brought in its wake \u2013 the civilizing influence of Roman laws and Roman government, its ideas of _humanitas,_ its notions of order and conduct. Access to this high level of culture was open only to a privileged few. Part of the function of the literature was to mark a fellowship among the cultural, and hence political, elite. Ausonius's writing is a constant play on the canon of earlier authors: Virgil, Horace, Cicero, Terence. The endless exchange of letters and of poems alluding to the older Latin canon marks out the qualification of the writers and recipients as members of a virtual confraternity of learning. Such learned exchanges are the behaviour of the aristocratic and civilized. With such a note of superiority and withdrawal, one can perhaps see why this stratum of Latin literature had a particular appeal for the duc des Esseintes.\n\nAusonius is one of the first great proponents of the 'old school tie'. Although earlier writers in the classical canon praise their teachers and the fellowship brought about by their schooling \u2013 one of Plato's intentions in his dialogues is to praise his teacher Socrates, and Horace is always grateful to his schoolmaster, 'thrasher' Orbilius \u2013 none quite give their education the prominence that Ausonius gives his in his writing. He devotes an entire cycle to commemorating the teachers of Bordeaux, both those who taught him and those who were educated with him and who later became his colleagues. The cycle appears to have been written late in life, but even sixty years after his schooling he is still in awe of his own teachers. Victor Minervius, he says, 'gave a thousand pupils to the bar, and twice a thousand to the Senate's rank and purple robes'. Minervius was a master in speaking and oratory, but Ausonius still remembers him for his prodigious memory: he could recall entire board games and every throw of the dice. Attius Patera, teacher of rhetoric, who had a gift for rolling eloquence, is revered for reputedly being the descendent of a family of Druids from Bayeux.\n\nAusonius feels that his colleagues always deserve to be commemorated in his verse, but to win his unalloyed praise is more difficult. He does not hold back from recording failure or from recalling old scandals, even if he feigns unwillingness to go into details. Delphidius, for example, had a reputation for being a genius. In his youth, he wrote an epic poem, and was soon appearing in great court cases. However, palace intrigues drove him from the Bar to the classroom, and he ended up as a teacher of rhetoric, 'but a lack of diligence in teaching disappointed the hopes of your pupils' fathers'. His early death, says Ausonius, at least spared him the sight of his wife's execution as a heretic by the usurper Maximus.\n\nIt could have been worse, however. Marcellus, the son of Marcellus, went to teach at Narbonne, where he found fame in his position. His classes were thronged with students, he soon became wealthy and married a noble wife. However, comments Ausonius, 'Fortune never favours a career of unvarying success, especially when she finds a man of crooked nature. Nevertheless, it is not for me to make heavier your destiny: my task is to recall it. It is enough to say that you lost all at one stroke. I do not rob you of your title as teacher, but give you a place among grammarians of very scant deserving.' To be embroiled in a scandal \u2013 even an unidentified one \u2013 is bad enough in Ausonius's estimation, but to be unlearned is even worse. 'I will sing of Ammonius also \u2013 for indeed it is a solemn duty to commemorate a teacher of my own native place \u2013 who used to teach raw lads their alphabet: he had scant learning and was of an ungentle nature, and therefore \u2013 as was his due \u2013 was held in slight repute.' The fact that someone such as Ammonius possessed a little learning brought him into the outer orbit of Ausonius's regard as a civilized person, but only just.\n\nWhen Ausonius writes about recreation, the leisure activities he describes seem little removed from the schoolroom. Early one summer, Ausonius writes a letter \u2013 in verse \u2013 to his friend, Axius Paulus, who teaches rhetoric in Bordeaux. Ausonius longs to get away from the city, he says. He is weary of the throngs of people, the 'vulgar brawls at the crossroads', the narrow lanes swarming with people, the rabble that blocks the city's broadways. 'Here is a muddy sow in flight, there a mad dog rushing around, there oxen too weak for the waggon.' It may be a true portrayal of Bordeaux, but it is also a literary joke. Ausonius's description of the chaos of the city is drawn from a letter of the poet Horace, and the reference is a knowing nod on his part to the culture he shares with Paulus. Paulus, urges Ausonius, must keep the promise he made to visit him. He will have hours of leisure with the right to do whatever he wants. However, Ausonius urges him to bring with him all the 'wares of his muses: dactyls, elegiacs, choriambics, lyrics, comedy and tragedy \u2013 pack them all in your carriage, for the devout poet's baggage is all paper'. He will have a holiday of literary creativity: Ausonius promises to match him poem for poem, no matter how much verse he brings with him.\n\nLetters to Ausonius from friends and colleagues, praising his published verse, alternate with letters from Ausonius himself in which he rates his outpourings as but feeble scratchings and doggerel. This is the constant quadrille of politeness, whether he is corresponding with an emperor or with a fellow poet. When the emperor Theodosius writes to Ausonius demanding that he 'consent to favour me with those treasures stored away in your desk...', Ausonius replies, 'I have no skill to write, but Caesar has ordered it... and what book would not be Caesar's own in the hope to escape thereby the countless erasures of a wretched bard, always emending and emending for the worse?' The greatest offence is to be slow in responding to a letter received, to fail to match one's correspondent quickly, verse for verse and _bon mot_ for _bon mot._ The punishment that results is gentle mockery. Theon, a poet, is tardy in responding to Ausonius, and the latter demands to know what is keeping him: 'What busy life are you leading on the coasts of M\u00e9doc? Are you busy trafficking, snapping up for a clipped coinage goods presently to be sold in dear salerooms at outrageous prices \u2013 balls of sickly tallow, greasy lumps of wax, pitch, torn paper and rank-smoking torches, your country lights?'\n\nThe verses of thanks that Ausonius writes to Theon for a gift of thirty oysters are threaded with allusions to Virgil and include an evocation of the books of the Sibylline Oracles kept in Rome; they also complain that the oysters, although large, were few in number. Another element of Ausonius's literary output was a vast stream of epigrams with such pungent titles as 'Written under the portrait of a lewd woman'; 'What sort of mistress he would have'; 'On mangy Polygiton, sitting with ulcerated legs in the baths'; 'On Castor the fellator who performed an act of cunnilingus on his wife'. If many of them are bawdy and filthy, it was not because this was in Ausonius's essential nature, but because he was following the proper literary model for Latin epigrams, Martial. Ausonius also produced macaronic verses combining Greek and Latin; musings on ancient philosophers, on the twelve Caesars, on the gods, on types of food and 'on things that have no connection'. There are attempts to play with the verse forms: to write hexameters whose every line started and finished with a monosyllable; verses on the shapes of Greek letters; an entire nuptial ode constructed out of lines of Virgil, taken out of context, and rewoven to give them an unexpected and risqu\u00e9 air.\n\nFor all the pleasures of his evocation of the River Moselle and the earthiness of his epigrams, it has to be said that the extant works of Ausonius are not at all easy to read. They are self-consciously exclusive. Their prime concern is social display and the confirmation of status. To enjoy them to the full and to realize their ingenuity demands a thorough knowledge of earlier Latin literature. Such originality as Ausonius's works possess resides principally in their obsessive, fuguelike manipulation of the earlier canon, rather than in their freshness of observation. For many modern critics, this is enough to condemn Ausonius and other writers of late Roman Gaul to remain untouched on the bookshelves. After the Renaissance the notion took root that Ausonius and his ilk were representatives of a twilight age of decadence, and not of the best Latinity. This perceived shortcoming \u2013 which was, of course, the very quality that attracted des Esseintes \u2013 was sufficient to keep Ausonius off the school and university syllabus. But these criticisms miss the point. It is not just that he provides a precious and direct insight into the aristocratic world of late Roman Gaul, nor that some of his writing does in fact comprise fresh observations of his surroundings \u2013 which makes him even more valuable as a witness of the age; what is perhaps most striking about Ausonius is that he cherishes a foreign culture that was a calculated import from Rome into Gaul. His writing and the life that it reflects offer remarkable evidence of how the Gallic elite embraced and made that imported culture its own. And they reveal its power to bind them together in a community of shared social values and a common literary heritage.\n\n* Des Esseintes's words are translated here by Margaret Mauldon in the Oxford World's Classics edition.\n\n_Modern wooden stele in Gallic style depicting the local goddess, Sequana, at the Source of the Seine._\nCHAPTER X\n\nBlood of the Martyrs\n\n_Natio est omnis Gallorum admodum dedita religionibus_  \n'The whole of the nation of the Gauls is greatly devoted to its religious duties'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ VI.16\n\nSOURCE OF THE SEINE\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE GLANIC MOTHERS\n\n\u2022\n\nN\u00ceMES\n\n\u2022\n\nVIENNE\n\n\u2022\n\nCULT OF CYBELE\n\n\u2022\n\nBOURG-SAINT-AND\u00c9OL\n\n\u2022\n\nAMPHITHEATRE OF LYONS\n\n\u2022\n\nFIRST CHRISTIAN MARTYRS\n\n\u2022\n\nHERESY\n\n\u2022\n\nST PIERRE'S CATHEDRAL\n\n\u2022\n\nBISHOPS: THE NEW ARISTOCRATS\n\n\u2022\n\nSAINT-SEINE-L'ABBAYE\n\nNOT A COLD, BUT A WET COMING I have of it: the worst possible weather for a pilgrimage. Chaucer and his companions to Canterbury merely had the sweet showers of April to contend with. I, going from Al\u00e9sia to the Source of the Seine, have continuous, steady rain from dawn until dusk. Perhaps it is a divine warning against making pilgrimage to an old pagan site. I am being visited, as retribution, with the essential nature of the place \u2013 an all-pervading wetness \u2013 as retributive justice. Perhaps it is a warning that all pilgrimage is folly: an injunction not to strive ahead, but to stop and consider that sanctity is not confined to the terminus of my walk, but that the rich green land of Burgundy is imbued with the divine at every step: the land, blessed in perpetual generation, rolling in the valleys, robed with a plush of thick grass, fat cattle such as would have pleased a heroic chieftain, gemmed with the scattered wealth of corn poppies and yellow cockscomb.\n\nPerhaps the baptismal dampness that has reached into every part of my clothing and rucksack, warping my maps, my clothes and my notebook, is in fact a benediction. The source of the Seine is a shrine of healing. In many ancient cultures, water, wells and springs were revered as a giver of life. Maybe this drenching is a form of welcome to the initiate, drawing close to a sacred place that represents a gateway to the dark and primitive divine. Certainly, the waters are healing, after a fashion. I am too numb to ache, too overcome by the waters to think of changing my course. And although the countryside wears a face of beauty, it is not one of hospitality. The little stone villages on the way, perhaps lulled into a dream by their own loveliness, are far too deep in sleep to think of opening an _auberge_ to shelter the wet passer-by. There is no choice, no other thought, but to tread the narrow paths and roads, before plunging down into a wooded valley, where the bright Seine rushes, a sprightly and muddy trickle over a web of protruding tree roots, and follow the little rill all the way to the clearing at its very source.\n\nThe source of the Seine, as it appears now, owes its form to the nineteenth century. The plot on which it rises was bought by the city of Paris in 1864. The interest in the site had its roots in the antiquarian project of Napoleon III. Before long, the spring from which the head of the Seine wells up was turned into a romantic grotto, presided over by a statue of a scantily clad nymph, reclining on a couch and bearing aloft in her right hand a festoon of ripe fruit \u2013 an ensemble that seems to owe more to the Parisian imagination than the real genius of the place. This is perhaps better captured by a small statue erected in 2014. It is a copy of one found in earlier excavations at the site in the nineteenth century. A represents a female figure, stiffly seated and stiffly dressed in a tunic that hints at the Roman but is rigid, geometric and stylized, not suggesting the elegant and cosmopolitan, but the heavy, numinous and local. This is Sequana, goddess of the place and of the river.\n\n_Statue of a water nymph symbolizing the Seine, in the grotto built above the river's source in 1866._\n\nSome other visitors before me were more reverent, and came to pay honour to the shrine. A corn dolly is placed at her feet, and at the square base of the statue sits a wicker basket, and a wooden tub with lily bulbs, waiting to sprout. A wooden stake with an elongated head, roughly carved, peers from the overgrown grass and wild flowers on the gentle slope behind it. A small blue hand-painted sign, perched by the bottom of the spring, reads _votum solvit libens merito \u2013 2015, Ann\u00e9e de la Renaissance._ The Latin is the traditional formula for one who repays a vow to a god, and would have been seen on many a statue base in the time of the Roman occupation.*\n\nThe elegant clearing, with its grotto and its little bridge over the infant stream of the Seine, is redolent of the bucolic; a peaceful, untroubled and contemplative haven. But this quietness and ease belies the site's Gallo-Roman past. A stretch of the stream beyond the grotto is fenced off and overgrown. This is the place where the sanctuary of the source stood in Gallo-Roman times. Two temples and a colonnaded precinct were built here sometime in the first century AD. However, such buildings were only an official acknowledgement of a shrine and religious practices that had been in place at the source of the Seine for at least two centuries beforehand, if not more. It was a meeting place for the sick and the suffering. Pilgrims would come to bathe in the spring and seek cures for myriad ailments. Excavations at the site before it was fenced off in the 1960s brought to light over 300 wooden ex-votos that had been preserved in the damp conditions. These were models, made in oak or beech, of the parts of the body that had been afflicted with illness, which had been presented to the goddess Sequana at the shrine. Their purpose was either to take the illness miraculously from the real limb or organ unto themselves, or else to remind the goddess of what was wrong. There were arms and legs, adult or child-sized, heads, torsos or whole bodies in Gallic capes showing signs of goitre, hernias or blindness. Breasts and genitals were also discovered, perhaps suggesting milk deficiency and malnutrition on the one hand, or infertility on the other. The figures are crudely carved, but with a powerful presence. They are almost certainly the product of the indigenous Gallic populations, for whom Sequana was a local and powerful goddess of healing.\n\nHowever, it was not only the indigenous population that paid honour to the shrine, or sought the assistance of the goddess. There are inscriptions from Romans, or wealthier Gauls who were now part of the Romanized culture, expressing their thanks in a proper Latin form. One inscription found at the site reads 'Flavius Flavinus, for the health of his nephew Flavius Lunaris, has willingly repaid his vow as is proper to the Goddess Sequana', ending with the correct Latin formula \u2013 _votum solvit libens merito._\n\nThe shrine had Roman devotees as well as local Gauls. It was given a Roman appearance in the form of a colonnade and temples. On top of this, the goddess Sequana herself was kitted out in Roman dress. She was shown in a Roman-style tunic and cloak not only in the stone statue reproduced at the site, but in a representation of her in bronze also discovered there, crowned with a diadem and standing proud on a boat adorned with a duck's head and tail. But she owed the Romans not only for her costume, but also her body. The Mediterranean habit of giving anthropomorphic form to gods, goddesses and local spirits who were for the most part not endowed with physical form was brought to Gaul by the Roman presence.\n\nThe Romans had effectively suppressed the order of the Druids, but the indigenous gods were treated much in the same way as the local Gallic aristocracy. The Romans were happy to leave them in place, respect them, work with them, and even add to their lustre by providing them with new clothing, new dwellings or even new names to enhance their standing among their devotees. The polytheism of the Romans was never exclusive, and they saw in the gods of Gaul manifestations and reflections of their own. Thus it was that the Romans not only brought the worship of their conventional deities in their conventional appearances with their conventional Roman rites \u2013 Jupiter, Minerva, Apollo, not to mention the recent cults of the imperial family; the Gallic gods were blended with those of Rome, many of the local gods taking on a Roman veneer and dual identity.\n\nCaesar himself was an early witness to this process. He writes in his _Commentaries_ that the Gauls worshipped Mercury ahead of all the other gods \u2013 the inventor, in Gallic eyes, he states, 'of all arts, the guide for every road and journey and the greatest influence for all money-making and trade'. After him, says Caesar, they revered Apollo, Mars, Jupiter and Minerva. Seeing these gods as common to Gaul and Rome, he does not trouble to record the Gallic names in his writings. By Mercury he was likely referring to Lugus, a god after whom many places, not least Lugdunum, were named, and who was conventionally described as 'possessed of all the talents'. His characteristics as described by Caesar are similar to those of the Roman Mercury, god of travellers and financial gain, not to mention eloquence. Apollo was probably seen as the equivalent of the Gallic Belenos, who like Apollo had powers of healing. Jupiter was taken as parallel to Taranis, a god of thunder who bore a lightning bolt in one hand and a six-spoked wheel, the sign of the sun, in the other.\n\nBut this process of drawing equivalents between gods at the national level also went on locally. Indeed, many gods and goddesses like Sequana were not national but local, honoured only by particular tribes or in particular locations. Nevertheless, they were still seen as being manifestations of the Roman deities. Lenus, a god of the Treveri tribe of the lower Moselle, was equated with Mars on account of his warlike role in protecting the tribe. At Trier, a temple stood to him where he was revered with the combined name of Lenus Mars. In other instances, a Roman god in a certain district was portrayed as being married to one of the indigenous Gallic divinities \u2013 usually a Roman male god married a Gallic female deity. In eastern Gaul, Rosmerta, a local goddess of fertility and abundance, was frequently shown as a consort to the Roman Mercury. In Autun, they are depicted on a stone relief sitting side by side, while Rosmerta clutches a cornucopia of flowers and fruit \u2013 a Gallic goddess in Roman dress with a Roman husband depicted in the Roman form of a stone relief, holding an imported Roman symbol of plenty.\n\nThe Romans, when they were not destroying the woodland groves sacred to the Druids, were respecters of the sacred places of the Gauls. Such places would be incorporated into Roman religious structures. The source of the Seine and the goddess Sequana was a rural example. But sacred places prominent in the heart of cities, fully Roman in appearance and character, would be protected and given the sort of adornment and veneration that seems surprising for the deities of a defeated and subject people. At Glanum, near the centre of the settlement, a set of steps leads down into a sacred pool, still fed with fresh water from a spring. This is the well sacred to Glanis and the Glanic mothers, local Gallic healing deities that gave their names to the place. They were there for at least 200 years before the Roman presence. Now the incoming Romans vied to pay their tributes to the indigenous Gallic spirits. Clustered around the well, as if attracted to the numinous power exuded by the spot, are temples to gods and goddess brought by the Romans \u2013 Hercules and Valetudo, the Roman goddess of health. The latter temple appears to have been erected by Augustus's right-hand man Agrippa as early as 39 BC, when memories of the brutality of the conquest would still have been fresh in Gallic minds. Even ordinary Roman soldiers rushed to seek the blessings and pay honours to the gods of the defeated nation. By the steps down to the pool a large stone altar, set up as an ex-voto, records that 'Marcus Licinius Verecundus... veteran of the 21st Legion (Rapax)... fulfilled his vow willingly' to Glanis, the Glanic mothers, as well as the Roman goddess Fortuna Redux, probably in thanks for the safe completion of a journey.\n\nA still-living example of this veneration for sacred spots is to be found in the city of N\u00eemes. Fed by waters rising several miles away to the northwest, a spring emerges near the green peak of the Mont Cavalier, which rises high above the elegant city. It comes to light below the Tour Magne, a hulking octagonal turret built by the Romans on a Gallic base to watch over this spot, before splashing down through tree-shaded rivulets and basins where lily pads float, and finally debouching into a series of wide stone-lined pools set in a serene terrace at the base of the hill. The spot is now a pleasure garden. The curving pools are fringed with finely carved balustrades. At their corners languishing _putti_ swirled with drapery and a spiral of cornucopia bear up unfeasibly large classical urns. Goldfish turn with pleasing brightness through the narrow water above the careful pattern of limestone slabs that line the pools, echoing the tremulous reflection of the sunlight on the carvings above.\n\nAlthough the area was relandscaped in the eighteenth century, it always had such a character. The Gauls venerated this spot before the Roman presence as the haunt of the god of the spring, Nemausus, and its other spirits, the Matres Nemausicae. In 25 BC, shortly after N\u00eemes was founded as a Roman colony by Agrippa, taking its name from the god of its holy spring, this area was developed into a sacred precinct, an Augusteum. It was an enclosure for veneration of the local deities of the waters combined with that of the genius of the emperor Augustus, an altar to whom appears to have stood at the centre of the arrangement. To one side there was a theatre, and to the other a building named by later antiquarians as the 'Temple of Diana' which in reality was most likely a library. The theatre was covered over in the eighteenth century, but the remains of the temple were left standing, and the original pattern of the pools around the Augusteum was used as a template for the relandscaping. With a theatre and library (the ruins of which were being used for a summer's afternoon of pot-smoking by students when I went to visit), the place was as much then as now a pleasant resort for sunshine and contemplation, with the mixture of Gaul and Rome at the heart of it.\n\n_The Tour Magne, N\u00eemes. A ruined Roman tower, built on a third century BC Gallic rampart, the Tour Magne rises thirty metres on the hill above the Augusteum._\n\nThe Romans did not worship only their own gods and goddesses in conjunction with those they found locally in Gaul. The symbol of N\u00eemes is a reminder of how the coming of Rome tied Gaul into a wider geographical commonwealth. This symbol, introduced by Agrippa in 27 BC and still in use, is of a crocodile chained to a palm tree. It represents the legion settled in N\u00eemes that had earlier triumphed over Cleopatra in Egypt during the civil war. Gaul was interlinked via Rome with Africa, the Levant and Asia Minor. We have already seen how the empire allowed migrants to come from these parts, bringing their trades with them. New religions also, which seemed exotic to the Romans, and which were themselves not a part of the traditional Roman pantheon, were able to follow these wide movements of people engendered by empire; and they introduced themselves into the tapestries of belief followed by the Roman Gauls.\n\nMuch further along the Rh\u00f4ne, a short journey away from Lyons, is the city of Vienne. It was a trading station when the Romans first took control of Transalpine Gaul after 124 BC, and one of the centres of the Allobroges tribe. It was one of the first wave of settlements to be made a colony in the 30s BC, even before N\u00eemes, and was soon established as a Roman centre. The town seems unassuming in the present age. It is small compared to Lyons and N\u00eemes, and only the busy _autoroute_ by the Rh\u00f4ne disturbs its quiet. A medieval square tower on the opposite bank of the river gives the place an aura of forgotten chivalry, and modern villas pinned among the green wooded slopes above the city lend an air of weary leisure.\n\nHowever, Lawrence Durrell, in the person of one of his characters in _Caesar's Vast Ghost,_ calls it a 'malefic town... a centre of the Black arts in the alchemical sense'. It certainly has a striking pedigree in the darker realms of Christian religious history, some of which is quoted by Durrell's character. Pontius Pilate, according to the early church historian Eusebius, was exiled to Vienne for an unspecified misdemeanour and committed suicide there around AD 37. His body, according to legend, lies below a pyramid-like Roman structure raised on four arches \u2013 which in fact marks the turning point on the chariot course of an otherwise disappeared circus arena. Herod Archelaus, ruler of Judea, son and successor of King Herod the Great (responsible, according to scripture, for the Massacre of the Innocents) was also exiled to Vienne in AD 6 by Augustus, followed repeated complaints about his cruelty. In 1312, Vienne was also the site of the Church Council that ordered the suppression of the Knights Templar \u2013 an order so powerful and yet so popularly associated with the occult that, in the mind of Durrell's character at least, the ease of its suppression smacked of 'sulphur and the black arts'.\n\n_The 'Temple of Diana', in N\u00eemes, was most likely a library attached to the sacred precinct known as the Augusteum._\n\nVienne certainly adhered to the norms of Roman and Gallic religion. In its centre, at the site of the old forum, a perfectly proportioned temple is preserved, built at the beginning of the first century AD and dedicated to the worship of the emperor Augustus and the empress Livia. However, close by are the confusing remains of a complex of buildings, some of which have remained above ground since antiquity and others that were only brought to light in a series of excavations after the Second World War. Two tall arches stand proud over the site, which now provides a green space for recreation in the midst of the town. However, running through the grass beside them are the unexpected traces of a small enclosed theatre: unexpected because Vienne appears, at first sight, to have been perfectly well furnished with theatres. Nearby, on the hillside above the city, is one of the biggest Roman theatres in Gaul, second only to Autun in size with a capacity of 13,500; next to it, for good measure, lies an odeon with room for 3,000. The enclosed theatre, by contrast, could probably not seat more than a few hundred. Nearby are small pools and subterranean chambers, linked to a large building in the centre that appears to have been a temple.\n\nOn their own, such ruins seem difficult to interpret and at the mercy of conjecture. However, two finds there seem to explain the purpose of the complex. On a marble plaque in the theatre was found the inscription 'DEND...' This can only be an abbreviation for _dendrophori,_ a type of priest who were characterized by carrying trees. The plaque signalled that certain seats in the theatre were reserved for these curious tree-carrying clergy. Also discovered at the site was a fragment of a relief showing three people, one bearing a basket of fruit, another a lighted torch, making an offering before an altar and a goddess. By them are symbols that help to identify the scene: a cap with a point at the back and long ear-flaps (usually called a Phrygian cap and believed to have come from the east); a tree, apparently a pine, with a bird in its branches; a shepherd's crook, and a flute. The goddess, these symbols suggest, is Cybele, the Great Mother Goddess \u2013 to whom the _dendrophori_ usually owed their devotion \u2013 and the site, although some still dispute it, is a cult complex for the celebration of the mysteries of Cybele and Attis, imported from Asia Minor.\n\nCybele found her origins as an ancient near-eastern earth goddess, a spirit who ruled over the death, rebirth and regeneration of crops and vegetation. Legend links her with another mortal or god as her lover and devotee, a shepherd named Attis, who is reputed to have castrated himself against a pine tree when she drove him into a frenzy. He perished, but his body was preserved and later resurrected by the goddess. Cybele was worshipped by a transgendered priesthood that imitated the self-castration of Attis, and also wore women's clothes. One name for the priesthood, by a strange coincidence, was 'Galli', leading to an easy play on words for Roman poets and satirists whenever they wished to make disparaging remarks about the Gauls.\n\nAlthough, by this measure, such a goddess and form of worship should seem quite unRoman and inimical to Roman ideals of strength and hostility to barbarian ideas, the worship of Cybele was admitted to Rome during the late third century BC. This was when Rome was fighting the Second Punic War with Carthage. It faced a crippling famine and hence a likely defeat. Following the oracles of the gods and an ancient prophecy, the cult was given official sanction in Rome and was said to have been instrumental in the salvation of the city. The famine abated and the Carthaginians were defeated. From Rome, the worship of Cybele was carried further out into the empire. Cult complexes, such as those at Vienne, were required for the rites and mystery initiations that formed part of the worship. The religious calendar of Cybele, as it appears during Roman times, bears strange echoes of the Christian holy week and Easter. Three days before the spring equinox, a pine tree would be cut down by the _dendrophori,_ hung with an image of Attis, and carried in procession to the temple. The devotees would lash themselves with whips to sprinkle the tree with their blood, before laying it to rest in a ritual tomb in the heart of the temple. There were three days of mourning before nightfall on the spring equinox, at which point the tomb would be reopened by torchlight, and Attis would be reborn with great joy. Around this time, initiations into the cult would take place. Devotees, according to some accounts, would be led into an underground chamber whose ceiling was a latticework or grille. Above this, a bull would be slaughtered so that the initiate below would be baptized in its blood; its genitalia, cut off, could also be seen as a substitute for the devotee castrating himself. After initiates had washed away the blood, they might view a re-enactment of the myth of Cybele and Attis. Such rites required the sort of enclosed theatre and subterranean pits around a central temple building that are all to be found in Vienne.\n\n_Ruins of the Cybele sanctuary, Vienne, first or second century AD._\n\nOther finds in Vienne seem to attest that the Cybele cult was by no means unpopular. There are inscriptions recording individual _dendrophori_ and charitable distributions of food made in connection with the company of these priests as a whole. There are also sculptures and reliefs of Cybele, sometimes shown riding on a lion (a sign of her exotic, still dangerous and eastern nature) and her lover Attis, wearing the Phrygian cap and playing his shepherd's flute. It is notable that the two names of the clergy attached to the temple, datable to the first or second century AD \u2013 Attia Priscilla and Tiberius Julius Diadochus \u2013 both suggest (despite the Greek overtone of the last name) that the foreign cult appealed to an affluent stratum of Romanized Gauls.\n\nCybele was not the only exotic deity to be imported by the Romans into Gaul. On the sheer but low valley wall of the river Tourne at Bourg-Saint-And\u00e9ol is carved in the open air a relief of the Iranian deity, Mithras, carrying out the sacramental act of slaying the bull. This carving, cut between two springs, marks the site of a Mithraeum, devoted to the worship and initiatory rites of Mithras. Like Cybele, Mithras was an eastern import, but newer to the Roman empire. Given that the rites were secret, little is known for sure about the meaning of the cult. It may again, like Cybele, have been a fertility rite. Others have argued that depiction of the struggle between the god and the bull was a symbol of a cosmic battle between good and evil (similar to ideas in Persian Zoroastrianism) or else an astronomical allegory whose significance is now lost. His worship was confined to men and became highly popular among Roman soldiers, though some have conjectured that this particular shrine was put here by Greek or Eastern merchants with trading interests along the nearby Rh\u00f4ne.\n\nSuch imports of the divine came not only from the eastern parts of the Roman empire, but also North Africa and Egypt. In Arles, not only did Cybele and Mithras find devotees who left behind evidence of their devotion in statues and tombstones of their priestesses or priests; the Egyptian goddess Isis was also worshipped. Like Cybele, Isis was a mother goddess connected in her essence with the fertility of the crops, and the death and resurrection of vegetation. Found in the Alyscamps at Arles was a small tombstone, crudely inscribed with the lettering picked out in red paint, to Maximius Festus, a _pausarius_ of the cult of Isis, one of the priests who was likely responsible for the processions made by the statue of the goddess as part of the cult's devotions. There was also a statue of Harpocrates, the Greek version of Horus, the son of Isis, who represented not only the rising sun and resurrection, but also the keeping of secrets that were to be held within the cult, away from the impious and uninitiated profane multitudes.\n\nThe foreign religions tended to be most visibly popular where the requirements of empire provoked the greatest movements of people. Mithras flourished especially on the Rhine frontier among the legions. Cybele and Isis were most commonly worshipped in the great trading towns of the Rh\u00f4ne \u2013 Arles, Vienne and Lyons. It is in the latter two that the most successful foreign religion of those imported under the Romans \u2013 Christianity \u2013 first appears in the light of history.\n\nClose by the great altar raised to Augustus and the Roman emperors in Lyons an amphitheatre had also been built. Some of it can still be seen today at the western end of the Rue Burdeau. There are no grand arcaded walls still standing as at Arles or at N\u00eemes, but most of the floor of the arena is still open to the air, and some of the lower levels of seating and steps have been restored on the northern side, which was built, like the Arles amphitheatre, on the slope of a hill. Around the arena are the plodding skeletal traces of thick stone walls and stairways which would have led to the _vomitoria,_ or network of tunnels that traversed the structure of the amphitheatre to lead the spectators to their seats. A necklace of lime-green ivy and scratchy grass hangs upon the old stone. Beige blank-fronted buildings and a tangle of power cables look down from the top of the hill. Broken columns are laid on their side in one corner of the arena, near a single square-wooden stake that has been set upright in the ground.\n\nIt is a spot that betrays a diversity of historical suffering. A tablet hangs on the wall of a nearby apartment building commemorating one Lucien Sportisse, a member of the Resistance, shot in that place by French agents of the Gestapo in March 1944. Auguste-Laurent Burdeau, after whom the street was named, suffered a slower end around fifty years earlier: a brilliant civil servant, he is said to have worked himself to death. However, the wooden stake in the arena itself bears witness to an earlier and more brutal stratum of violence: the first Christian martyrdoms in Gaul.\n\nThe deaths of these first martyrs, drawn from Lyons and Vienne, are recorded extensively in a letter quoted by the fourth-century church historian Eusebius. The letter purports to be an eye-witness account of the deaths which took place in AD 177. The second century was not an easy age for the adherents of the new religion. Early Christianity was frequently met with hostility by the Roman authorities. Many of those who adhered to Christian ways did so not because they were an eastern import or ostensibly foreign, but because they demanded an exclusive devotion. Unlike Cybele, or Isis, or Mithras, the Christian God looked for the whole of the Christian's allegiance. There was no room for worship of the divine genius of Rome or the emperors. This was more than a matter of metaphysics. To deny worship was seen as a denial of authority. To refuse the worship of Rome and the emperors was seen as a species of subversion, suggesting that powers other than the emperor and the official establishment had the prerogative to rule and make laws.\n\nSuch suspicions, generally held during this period, were exacerbated by the circumstances of the time. Some historians have suggested that tensions in Lyons may have been heightened by difficulties on the Rhine frontier. The Christians might have been used as scapegoats for these external difficulties. It also appears that the killing of the Christians was ordered at the time of the annual festival at the altar of Augustus, a moment in the year when the show of and even genuine feelings of devotion to Rome would have been at their greatest. At any rate, the letter preserved by Eusebius describes a febrile atmosphere in Lyons. There were 'cat-calls, hootings and blows, draggings, plunderings, stonings, and confinements, and everything that an infuriated mob is accustomed to do to those whom they deem bitter enemies'. As many members of the community as possible were rounded up and imprisoned before they could be tried in front of the governor. About half of them were migrants from Greece and Asia Minor, and the others indigenous Gallo-Romans. An aged Gallo-Roman of high social standing, Vettius Epagathus, offered to represent the Christians, but when the governor discovered that he too was a Christian, he was prevented from defending them and also imprisoned.\n\nAccording to the letter, the group were accused of 'Thyestean banquets\u2020 and Oedipodean connections' \u2013 in other words cannibalism and incest \u2013 before being put to excruciating tortures. Some were whipped and had their flesh torn; others were hung up by their feet in the stocks. Sanctus, a deacon from Vienne, had burning-hot metal plates placed against his genitals on consecutive days. A handful recanted in the face of such torments. A woman named Biblias denied her faith, but then, as if waking from a trance, says the letter, renewed her confession as a Christian despite the continuation of the torture.\n\nFollowing this, the executions and killings began. Pothnius, the ninety-year-old bishop of Lyons, was brought before the governor and asked 'who was the god of the Christians' to which he replied 'if you were worthy, you would know'. As a result, he was dragged around in front of a furious crowd who kicked and punched him and pelted him with whatever missiles came to hand, 'all of them believing that they would sin greatly and act impiously if they in any respect fell short in their insulting treatment of him'. Two days after this, confined in prison, says the letter, he died. Pothnius at least avoided a public end. Other Christians were not so fortunate. Those who were Roman citizens were sentenced to beheading. Those who were not were condemned to die before the crowds in the amphitheatre. The usual course was for them to be tortured and whipped, and in their weakened state thrown into the arena to be mauled by wild beasts. Some, after being mauled but not killed, were placed in a scalding hot iron chair 'in which their bodies were roasted, and they themselves were filled with the fumes of their own flesh'. The remains of the dead were then burnt and thrown into the Rh\u00f4ne.\n\nThe most courageous of the martyrs in the face of this treatment, says the letter, was a young woman called Blandina. During the preliminary tortures, her body was 'virtually torn up' but 'like a noble athlete' she did not give in to any of the pain inflicted on her. She was tied to a wooden stake in the amphitheatre on the first day that the Christians were brought in, but the wild beasts refused to harm her. Her preservation, says the letter, was down to the power of her faith and prayer. The Roman authorities, foiled in their attempt to kill her, brought her back every day to witness the deaths of her fellow Christians in the hope that she would crack under the pressure and betray her faith. This did not happen. As a result, she was one of the last to be killed. She was brought into the amphitheatre with a boy named Ponticus, aged around fifteen, whom she encouraged to remain steadfast despite the ordeal. Ponticus was the first to die, being tortured in front of the crowds. She herself was again whipped, thrown to the wild beasts, then placed in the iron chair. Still alive, she was wound up in a net and thrown in front of a bull, to be gored, tossed about and trampled until finally she was dead.\n\nThe account of the death of the martyrs in the Lyons amphitheatre is one of the few to cast light on the early history of Christian worship in Gaul, which for the most part is dark and obscure. Another brief moment of clarity is found in the life of Pothnius's successor as bishop of Lyons, Irenaeus. Like many of the other early Christians in Lyons, he was also a migrant from the east, in his case Smyrna (now Izmir) in Asia Minor. He was lucky to be absent from Lyons during the persecution of 177; at the time he was in Rome to warn the church authorities over the danger of various types of heresy among the young Christian communities. Returning to Gaul and being elected the new bishop, he made the extirpation of heretical doctrine one of his chief concerns.\n\nOne of Irenaeus' works, _Adversus Haereses_ ('Against Heresies') is still preserved. In it, he claims that there was a heretic named Marcus who was active in the towns of the Rh\u00f4ne valley, working false miracles and prophesying by means of a demon. One of Marcus's particular interests, says Irenaeus, was in seeking out female followers, 'and those such as are well-bred, and elegantly attired, and of great wealth...' whom he would convince he could also endow with the gift of prophesy. Having done so, they would each make 'the effort to reward him, not only by the gift of her possessions (in which way he has collected a very large fortune), but also by yielding up to him her person, desiring in every way to be united to him, that she may become altogether one with him'. Marcus would also use love potions to achieve this end, says Irenaeus. He laments that even one of his own deacons, a man from Asia Minor, had lost his wife for a time to Marcus by these means. She followed him around the country for some time until the real Christians managed to convert her back to the true faith, after which 'she spent her whole time in the exercise of public confession, weeping over and lamenting the defilement which she had received from this magician'. The consciences of such women were 'seared, as with a hot iron'.\n\nIrenaeus' greater concern is not with Marcus's sexual appetite, however, but with his intellectual and spiritual pretensions. Marcus's disciples, when they themselves were not attempting to deceive 'silly women' in emulation of their master, would describe themselves as 'perfect' as regards their spiritual knowledge. They had imbibed, so they claimed, a complete and unspeakable knowledge of the divine from a direct experience of the godhead. This knowledge gave them a supernatural protection such that they were immune from harm and free to act as they pleased. In this, they were superior to St Peter and St Paul or any of the saints and apostles: they had consumed and knew beyond words the real nature of God himself.\n\n_Tomb of a Gallo-Roman Christian boy named Ursus, who died aged sixteen on 6 March, 493; displayed in the Gallo-Roman Museum of Lyons._\n\nThis belief, that a Christian devotee might win a personal and direct knowledge and experience of God \u2013 an idea condemned as the 'gnostic heresy' \u2013 was held by a number of early Christians across the Roman empire. It likely owed much of its vigour to ideas from Greek philosophy, but also to the initiatory cults of deities such as Cybele and Isis, which offered to their adherents a personal and direct engagement with their deities. Irenaeus's fears mark the diverse religious background in Gaul at the time, and show that the other imported religions would have been contributing their ideas to the developing Christian faith in a way that was unwelcome to its higher clerical authorities. The persecution by Rome also told on the attitudes of Irenaeus. It is revealing that he took up the rhetoric used by the Romans against the Christians, for example accusations of a vain higher knowledge and sexual deviancy, and used them against those Christians who did not conform to his idea of the faith; and those who had fallen had been seared by a metaphorical 'hot iron', just as the martyrs had suffered for real.\n\nBut aside from the accounts of Eusebius and Irenaeus, there is little to go on regarding the earliest years of the Christian presence in Roman Gaul. Legend and anachronism take the place of verifiable history. Bishops of the third and fourth centuries, such as St Trophimus of Arles or Daphnus of Vaison are attributed to the generation after Christ by sixth-century Gallic writers and were declared to have been followers of the twelve apostles. Later, the belief crystallized that it was not followers of the apostles, but the close intimates of Christ himself who brought the faith to Gaul. The story was retold as late as the nineteenth century by Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Mistral that after the death of Christ the Virgin Mary, her sister Mary and Mary Magdalen were hounded out of Jerusalem and thrown onto a boat without sails or a rudder. They were joined by Lazarus and Joseph of Arimathea. The ship was cast adrift at sea but was drawn by divine guidance to the coast of Gaul, to put ashore in the Camargue near Arles at the town later to bear their name, Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Some say that they were miraculously borne further inland to the strange mountain fastness of Les Baux-de-Provence just south of Glanum and Saint-R\u00e9my-de-Provence, and from there began the evangelization of the Gallic provinces. Carved in a rock face at Les Baux is a relief of three figures side by side which are said to commemorate _les trois Maries_ ('the three Marys'), though the motif of goddesses appearing in threes belongs to earlier Gallic religion; it may be the case that _les trois Maries_ are the Christian reincarnation of an earlier stratum of belief.\n\nThe Christian faith became quickly more visible over the course of the fourth century. When the emperor Constantine, who had declared Christian worship legal in 313, called a council of bishops at Arles the following year \u2013 a meeting that is seen as marking the foundation of canon law in the west and is notable, among other acts, for ordering the excommunication of Christian clergy who took part in chariot races, gladiator fights and theatrical performances \u2013 only a small handful of Gallic bishops appear to have attended, including those from the cities of Massalia, Vaison, Orange, Apt, Nice and Arles itself. However, over the course of the century dozens of new bishoprics were founded across the Gallic provinces. Christianity became a notable presence in the cities of Gaul with the foundation of cathedrals for the service of the developing Christian communities. These sites have for the most part remained in use since this period, the early Christian buildings covered over by newer and larger cathedrals during the Middle Ages. However, in a few instances, excavations have made it possible to recover a physical sense of this pristine age of Christian Gaul.\n\nBy a strange irony, one of the best places to visit for this is Geneva, a city that \u2013 thanks to John Calvin and the Reformation \u2013 was devoted to iconoclasm and the obliteration of its ecclesiastical links with Rome. But below the floor of St Pierre's Cathedral, where Calvin's wooden chair is still preserved as a relic, the unspoiled foundations and lower walls of the first Roman Christian buildings dating back to the fourth century remained safely forgotten and untouched though the chaos of the Reformation and the Wars of Religion. Excavations at the end of the twentieth century brought them to light; and rather than the space being filled in afterwards, a false floor was fitted, allowing visitors to descend to the original level of the Roman city below the modern cathedral and inspect the remains.\n\nThe modern cathedral is for the most part a gothic building with a grand classical fa\u00e7ade that was slapped on in the eighteenth century: a temple frontage with steps, six massive columns with well-carved Corinthian capitals and an ugly iron-hued coat of arms on an otherwise blank pediment. It overlooks an unruffled brick-cobbled square shaded by lime trees and overlooked by prosperous but restrained Haussmann-style stone-fronted apartment buildings and offices. But in the dimly-lit narrow passages below ground, elegance gives way to antique zeal and the original footprint of Rome. It is possible to see the low walls of the first episcopal group of buildings, dating about to around 350. There is the threshold of the first cathedral, its walls built with rows of rough cobbles placed between stern and irregular tall stone uprights \u2013 a building technique called _opus Africanum,_ which, unsurprisingly, came from North Africa. The first cathedral reaches into a choir and apse that can now only be seen narrowly like a cave, thanks to the remaining stonework that supports the present cathedral above. However, the trace of the apse in parchment-coloured stone at the eastern end behind a sanctuary, which would have been screened off with columns and contained the tomb of a holy person to sanctify it, can still be made out in the low light.\n\nStrange to relate, the first traces of building on the side, just south of this sanctuary, take the form of the grave of a person of importance dating back to pre-Christian times, around 100 BC. This may well have been a chieftain of the local Gallic tribe, the Allobroges. The strata of soil have been peeled away to reveal the lower half of his skeleton, while his torso remains sealed within the earth. The ground reveals an attempt in early history to burrow down and remove his skull \u2013 a reminder of the Gallic interest in the possession and display of heads for their prestige and magical properties. It is impossible to know whether some sense of sanctity accrued to the site from this original pre-Christian tomb, leading to its choice for the siting of the Christian monument; but it is feasible.\n\nClinging to the first cathedral's northern walls and accessed through a courtyard is a series of individual rooms, side by side, each having the area of a large tablecloth. These were set aside as dwellings for monks or clergy attached to the cathedral. The rooms were small and bare, of two storeys in height with a simple low wooden ceiling creating the upper storey, but not entirely devoid of comfort. Below their plain grey tiled floor, little hollow runnels cut across the diagonals, a restrained form of hypocaust heating to take the chill off the mountainous climate.\n\nSouth from the monastic cells came the water supply for a baptistery. Again, Roman technology was harnessed to meet the needs of the new religion. A conduit drew water from a nearby well over 30 metres away. Originally, this filled the pool in the apse of the baptistery, allowing the new converts to be completely immersed in water, as was the custom in the fourth century. The change of this custom can be traced in the alterations to the font, which was shrunk and remodelled in successive centuries so that instead of immersion, the neophyte was drenched with a jet of water from above as the bishop looked on from one side.\n\nNear the source of the water lie the bishop's quarters. The floor of his reception hall stands out colourfully among the beige labyrinth of stonework and differing archaeological strata. From this chamber, it is possible to surmise his increasing importance as a civil official as the Roman administration declined in the fifth century. It is an intimate hall, a square with sides of about 5 metres in length; its lavish mosaic floor, now undulating and pockmarked, has a series of panel designs that included Christian motifs \u2013 crosses with grapes and vines. From here, as Geneva passed from Roman to Burgundian control over the course of the fifth century, the bishop would not only see to church business, but also to decisions over the government of the city, as well as relations between the city and the new panoply of rulers who succeeded to the mandate of Rome.\n\nIn the whole ensemble of remains at Geneva \u2013 the monastic cells, the baptistery, the cathedral (and its two successors, which can also be traced out on the site), and the bishop's quarters \u2013 it is the bishop's quarters and his reception hall that leave the strongest impression. Here, one feels, was the seat not only of temporal power, but perhaps also the spiritual motor of the whole complex. Christianity may have been a religion that gave precedence to the humble and the outcast; yet in these formative centuries of the church's presence in Gaul, with Christianity's legalization and later adoption as the official religion of empire at the end of the fourth century, the deeds of the bishops had real primacy. They not only played an ever-increasing role in the administration of the cities, but it was by the force of their character that the cultural and religious tone of Gaul were for the most part to be set in the later years of Roman rule and beyond. And although the office of bishop can be traced back to the non-Roman origin of scripture and Christ's apostles, the way it was manifested in some of its earliest holders in Gaul was to be dictated by ideals drawn from the Roman presence.\n\nDespite the professed reluctance of early Christians to involve themselves in fighting, the Roman army provided one of the patterns for its early churchmen to follow. The most outstanding example of this is St Martin, bishop of Tours. Despite later becoming one of the great patron saints of France, he was not of Gallic origin. He was probably born in 316 at Savaria in Pannonia (modern-day Szombathely in Hungary). Thus he came from the frontier territories, a barbarian fringe with a reputation for revolt that Rome had to work hard to keep within the fold of the empire. Martin was born into a military family. His father started as an ordinary soldier, but, like many Roman emperors at this time, he was able to rise through the ranks to gain a high status; he in fact reached the grand position of military tribune. His dedication to the traditions of Rome is perhaps evident in the name he gave his son. 'Martin' was drawn from Mars, the Roman god of war, and perhaps signified not only a devotion to the practice of arms, but also, shortly after a time of the persecution of Christians, to the old Roman gods themselves.\n\nThe name, however, did not deter Martin from taking an interest in Christianity. When he was a young child, his father was posted to the garrison town of Ticinum (modern-day Pavia) in northern Italy. His family followed. There, Martin discovered the church, which would have been a large town house converted for Christian use. Drawn to the faith, although probably not yet in his teens, he sought baptism and enrolled there as a _catechumen,_ or one preparing for full and formal admission to the Christian community. According to Martin's biographer, Sulpicius Severus, Martin intended even at this age to become a hermit and desert contemplative. However, his father strongly disapproved of his son's vocation and sought to put an end to it. In the 320s, the emperor Constantine made a law that sons of veteran soldiers were liable for conscription into the army. Martin's father, hoping to dissociate his son from the church, submitted him for a term of twenty-five years' military service.\n\nMartin's time behind the colours is treated as somewhat of an embarrassment by his biographer Severus. To spare Martin's blushes at the idea he would have borne arms, Severus relates a story in which he refused to fight a barbarian column at Borbetomagus (modern-day Worms) but told the then emperor, Julian the Apostate \u2013 a non-Christian \u2013 that he would stand before the Roman lines unarmed and still be able, under the protection of Christ, to penetrate the enemy ranks. Severus says that Martin was thrown into prison for this demand the day before the battle, but that on the day itself, the barbarian column surrendered and Martin's boast was never put to the test.\n\nHowever, it is almost certain that Martin saw active service, and that he had to serve out the normal term of twenty-five years. His time in the army came to an end in 356, at which time he took up residence for a while with the Christian community in Poitiers, before journeying across the empire in an attempt to convert his parents and also to spend some time in solitary contemplation. On returning to Poitiers in 361, he founded a community of hermits in the ruins of an old villa about 16 kilometres (10 miles) outside the city, at a place that became known as Locociacum, 'The Place of the Little Cells', in modern French Ligug\u00e9. Ten years later, he was elected to be bishop of Tours, an office which he held until his death in 397.\n\nEven as bishop, Martin retained a reputation for extreme asceticism, spurning all comforts, and even founded a new hermit community at Marmoutier outside Tours, from where he carried out many of his episcopal duties. He gained a reputation as a miracle-worker, and Marmoutier was to become a place of pilgrimage. Yet, aside from the developing tradition of the hermetic life in the Christian west, the Roman army was undoubtedly one of the sources of his approach to a Christian way of living. He frequented couched his ascetic tendencies, and his encouragement of his followers, in the language of military service.\n\nOn one occasion, a former Roman soldier came to Marmoutier and asked to be able to join Martin's community. The soldier was married, but professed absolute devotion to the Christian hermitic life. Martin admitted the soldier, who built his cell some way apart from the others to show his absolute commitment to the hermit's path. As for his wife, St Martin placed her in a house for religious virgins that he had founded in Tours itself. After some time, however, the soldier sought him out and begged for permission to spend some time with her. He said that he was a soldier of Christ, and that Martin should allow people who were 'saints' to serve as soldiers together even if of different sexes, since their profession of faith meant that they no longer had any thoughts of carnal union.\n\nMartin's response came straight from the parade ground. 'Tell me,' he asked the soldier, 'Have you ever stood in the line of battle and been present in war?' 'Frequently,' said the soldier, 'I have often stood in the line of battle and been present in war.' 'Did you ever see any woman standing there, or fighting?' The old soldier was unable to reply. Martin continued, 'This would render an army ridiculous, if a female crowd were mixed with the regiments of men.' Thus, Martin was dependent on principles of Roman military discipline and order, ahead of any drawn from the gospels, to organize his new Christian community.\n\nThe same martial spirit informed Martin's approach to the pagan temples and shrines that were still in use throughout the district of Tours and beyond. They, and the people who still worshipped there, were an enemy to which no quarter could be given. The shrines had to be destroyed, and the worshippers forced to surrender. Martin set about smashing statues, pulling down temples and burning ancient images with all the dedication, brutality and singlemindedness that Caesar showed when he came to conquer the country four centuries previously. Passing one day through the settlement of Leprosum (modern-day Levroux in the Indre), he saw a well-maintained temple, which he immediately sought to destroy. When the local population learnt of his plan, they gathered in an angry crowd, beat him, and drove him out of the village. Martin then spent three days nearby praying for God to assist him. He fasted, and in the words of most translations of Sulpicius put on 'sackcloth' as a sign of penitence, though the original Latin has him wearing a _cilicium,_ a rough cloak of goats' hair sometimes worn by soldiers. In answer to his prayers, two angels appeared, armed with swords and spears, and commanded Martin to return to the village. They would protect him from the villagers, they said, while he completed the destruction of the pagan shrine. Martin returned and carried out their orders. The villagers, who before had been so hostile, did not dare to fight the bishop this time; they merely stood mute and astonished thanks to the power of the two warrior angels.\n\nIndeed, Martin's attacks on the ancient shrines often cast him as a soldier on the front line of warfare. His behaviour was redolent of an ancient Roman tradition in which a commanding officer would consecrate himself and the opposing army to death before launching himself in a suicidal attack against the enemy, which would doom them together but guarantee Roman success. However, in Martin's case his offer of self-sacrifice, being to the Christian God, was a guarantee of self-preservation and true divine protection. Near Autun, he earmarked another ancient temple for destruction, and a sacred pine tree that was growing nearby. The fact that it was a pine suggests it might have been dedicated to Cybele and Attis, though this cannot be known for certain. The local people accepted the destruction of the temple, but their attachment to the tree was far greater. Martin told them that 'there was nothing sacred in the trunk of a tree' and that it must be cut down, 'since it had been dedicated to a demon'. The people told Martin that they would cut it down themselves if he stood in the place where it should fall and 'receive it' as it came down. Martin consented to do so. When the trunk had been cut through and the whole tree began to topple towards him, it seemed that he was certain to be crushed. However, just before it struck him he made the sign of the cross, at which the tree stopped, spun like a top, turned round, and landed elsewhere. Martin himself was unscathed. Like a good general securing a territory newly conquered, Martin built a Christian church on the site as a stronghold against paganism. Indeed, Sulpicius remarks at this point that this was Martin's normal practice after destroying a pagan shrine.\n\nThe ascetic tendencies of so many followers of the new faith flummoxed the traditional Gallo-Roman aristocracy. In the latter part of the fourth century, those who promoted the ascetic life were sometimes seen as so subversive that they were viewed as a threat to public order. One ascetic Christian, Priscillian, who was originally from Spain but who attracted followers in Gaul on account of his teachings, was accused of sorcery at the prompting of the Emperor Maximus and executed in 385. His teachings, dubbed 'Priscillianism', were likewise banned. Among other things, they encouraged private worship in villas away from the developing hierarchy of the established church, thus emancipating educated and wealthy single women: a development that was seen as particularly unhealthy and unwelcome.\n\nAt worst, such behaviour was seen as dangerous; but the mildest and most frequent reaction to it was perplexity and dismay. The ascetic life was seen as a perversity: something that without proper cause or benefit could break down traditional social ties and destroy the very bedrock of Roman culture. The fears of the old aristocracy are summed up in an exchange of letters between Ausonius and one of his former students, Paulinus of Nola.\n\nPaulinus had been one of Ausonius's star pupils. He was born in 352 in Bordeaux to a noble family, and had studied at the schools there before embarking on a glittering career in the imperial service. It probably did him no harm that he was of the circle of Ausonius and therefore of Gratian, the heir to the throne. After Gratian became emperor, Paulinus was made one of the consuls in 377 and then governor of the south Italian province of Campania. He kept in close touch with his old and beloved teacher. One on occasion Paulinus writes for Ausonius a poem on kings, based on the writing of the historian Suetonius. Ausonius's rapturous reply survives. He addresses Paulinus as his son, and calls himself his father: 'It was early in the night... when your wonderfully worded letter was delivered to me... along with your brilliant poem.' Preserving the aristocratic niceties of correspondence along with a careful interest in the maintenance of correct Latin, Ausonius is as unrestrained as he could be in his praise: 'How skilfully and neatly, how harmoniously and sweetly you have written, conforming at once to the character of our Roman accent... and then what shall I say of your gift for expression? I can swear that for fluency in verse none of our Roman youths is your equal.'\n\nBut soon this intimacy turned to bitterness. After the assassination of Gratian in 383, Paulinus's political career, like that of Ausonius, came to an end, and he returned to his native Bordeaux. Not unlike other talented poets from future ages when the chance of political glory was shut down for good \u2013 John Donne and George Herbert spring to mind \u2013 he was seized by religious fervour. He married a Christian woman from Spain named Therasia, converted to Christianity and was baptized, perhaps by 389. They moved to Spain, but after the birth of their first child, a son who died when only a few days old, they decided to embrace the secluded and ascetic religious life.\n\n_St Paulinus of Nola, as portrayed in a seventeenth-century engraving._\n\nAusonius was, at least nominally, a Christian. He said his prayers every morning in his private chapel, knew his scripture well and could give a long and detailed exposition of Christian theology and doctrine. However, this never for one moment dimmed his love for the traditions of Roman literature and education, both for the pursuit of intellectual pleasure but also as markers of what it meant to be civilized and a part of the governing class of the empire. The muses were never far behind the angels in Ausonius's writing.\n\nSo when Paulinus moved to Spain and stopped replying to his letters, it seemed to Ausonius to be something between obstinate unreasonableness and a barbaric insult. To refuse to engage in the literary discourse and the learned discussion of classical literature that was not only a correct pursuit for people of their class, but also a sign of their intimacy, left him confused and upset. Ausonius continues to write, accusing Paulinus of being impious, not to God but to their _amicitia_ (friendship). He claims to knnow what was at the root of it: his wife, Therasia \u2013 'that Tanaquil', he calls her, likening her to a notoriously domineering and scheming wife of one of the early kings of Rome. The brand of Christianity with which she has infected Paulinus is laying waste to everything that is civilized and dear. 'Why have you not answered my letters? Even enemies say ' _salve_ ' ('greetings') to each other in battle. Rocks and caves are not so rude as to refuse to echo the human voice.'\n\nThe unanswered letters pile up. Ausonius keeps writing. He seeks to make Paulinus understand the true nature of his silence. 'Let this impious one turn no sound to advantage; let no joys bring him pleasure, no sweet odes of the poets... nor Echo, who hidden in the woody groves of the shepherds, consoles us, returning our words.' His silence, says Ausonius, is akin to savagery or madness: 'Sad, needy, let him dwell in deserted wastes and in silence let him roam around the peaks of Alpine mountains, as it is said Bellerophon, out of his mind, avoiding the company and traces of men, vagrant, wandered through the trackless places.'\n\nEventually, stung enough by Ausonius's words, Paulinus engages, blaming the slowness of the post for his failure to reply earlier. However, he defends his new and ascetic life. 'Mine is not the crazed mind of a Bellerophon, nor is my wife a Tanaquil...' He has chosen a new and a better path. 'Why do you ask the deposed Muses, my father, to return again to my affection? Hearts which have been consecrated to Christ give refusal to the Muses, and are closed to Apollo... God forbids us to spend time on empty things... and on literature full of idle tales... For these things steep our hearts in false and vain ideas, and train our tongues to say nothing worthwhile, nothing that could bring the truth...' Ausonius loves the old Roman idea of _otium,_ aristocratic retirement and leisure; Paulinus himself loves _otium,_ but as a means of devoting himself to the worship of Christ.\n\nBut, Paulinus assures Ausonius in the last letter that he will send him (dated to 393, shortly before the latter's death), he takes all that Ausonius has said without acrimony, and declares his old teacher to be still as dear to him as life itself. But it is in faith that they will find their final union, rather than in a visit from Paulinus on earth: 'And when, released from the prison of the body, I shall have flown forth from the earth, in whatever place our common Father shall place me, there also shall I keep you in my heart; nor shall that end which severs me from my body unloose me from the love of you.'\n\nCharacters such as St Martin and Paulinus \u2013 who after Ausonius's death departed Spain for Italy and, like Martin, became a bishop against his will \u2013 battled for the ascetic way to become the predominant mode of Christian life in Gaul towards the end of the Roman period. However, even with the military fervour of St Martin, they were unable to claim the victory of dictating the ultimate character of the church and its bishops; another archetype was to be imported from the late Roman world.\n\nThe name of Sidonius has already been mentioned in earlier chapters, describing his villa in the countryside near Clermont-Ferrand. Born in 430, he was from a noble family of the region. His father-inlaw, Avitus, rose to be emperor in 455, and even after he was deposed and possibly assassinated two years later by a rival claimant, Majorian, Sidonius was still treated with respect on account of his great ability and his unbending support for the imperial government. He addressed panegyrics to Majorian (despite the treatment he meted out to Avitus) and also to one of his later successors, Anthemius. His eloquence secured him a statue in Rome, the titles of count, senator and patrician, as well as in 469 the office of urban prefect of Rome. However, after around three years he moved to the ecclesiastical sphere, and was enthroned as bishop of his native Clermont-Ferrand.\n\nA huge quantity of letters survive from Sidonius's pen, not to mention a short collection of poems. No other writer's works from the fifth-century Roman empire in the west have been preserved in such abundance. A reason for this great profusion can be found in one of the letters of the collection, written after Sidonius became bishop and addressed to one of his fellow clergymen, Bishop Lupus of Troyes, an eminent cleric who had held his position since 429 and had even managed to prevail on Attila the Hun to spare Troyes from being sacked in 451. It is a long and convoluted letter. Sidonius passes through self-deprecatory excuses about his 'slipshod style of writing'; he praises Bishop Lupus for having maintained their mutual affection for so many years. However, its main substance is a discussion of a book that Sidonius had sent Lupus a little while before: a book that Sidonius himself had composed 'crammed and loaded with a motley assemblage of topics, times and places': in fact, it was a compilation of some of Sidonius's own earlier letters. The current letter to Lupus is an elaborate and learned piece of politesse concerning how this book had been received by him and other readers: 'I knew that you knew how modesty better becomes an author than self-assurance on the occasion of publishing his works and that from austere critics favourable notices are less readily drawn by brashness on the part of an author than by nervousness.' Though Lupus is hardly one of these austere critics, suggests Sidonius. In fact, he is a great patron of the arts and encourager of literature: 'Never to mention myself, you bring to light the talents of all men of letters however much they seek obscurity \u2013 just as the sunbeam is wont, by means of its thirsty particles, to draw out the water hidden in the bowls of the earth... Thus when you, my saintly friend, find any men of literary tastes inactive or shy or hidden in some obscure retreat where their fame languishes, your brilliant eloquence with its skilful admonition urges them on and thereby brings them to public notice.'\n\nSo the survival of Sidonius's letters stems not just from the fact that he wrote so many \u2013 nine volumes' worth in the end \u2013 but that he saw to their publication and their wide dissemination among his fellow Gallic literati, who would approve of his work and give it their protection. Lupus, a fellow bishop, was one such person. But everything inscribed in Sidonius's letter to him \u2013 the elaborate courtesies, learned allusions to classical literature and the law, the obsession with preserving one's name by a literary endeavour focused on anything but Christian piety \u2013 would have been hateful to ascetics of Martin's and Paulinus's stamp. These features represented the typical behaviour of the Roman aristocracy, and this letter is an example of how that aristocracy, towards the end of the imperial period, had been able to move in to the institution of the episcopacy, and make it for the most part its own.\n\nIt is little wonder the role of bishop became a draw to the aristocratic classes towards the end of the imperial period. The role was one of authority within the city. It offered an outlet for the energetic and public-spirited who wished to make their mark, or else to work for the general good. As such, it was a perfect substitute in the late empire for the jobs in the imperial administration that were beginning to disappear as the barbarian armies took over responsibility for Gaul from the Roman government. The office of bishop might require diplomatic talent in negotiating with other cities, barbarian leaders or the retreating apparatus of the Roman state. It gave scope for patronage and display via the building of churches and other public works. The bishop became a considerable landowner, holding large estates for each diocese, able to command great wealth and power within the city, and often effectively taking over the decaying institution of the city council. Besides, the role was also tax free. It is little surprise that the aristocratic classes were tempted to become churchmen, bringing with them their habits and assumptions, their ease at possessing wealth and their devotion to the traditions of classical education. Even if they inhabited a new spiritual world, the old literature and the old philosophies that were intrinsic to the identity of their class were to be maintained and not condemned. The pagan writers with their eloquence and ideas were instead to be preserved to enhance the Christian message. Thus, through the institution of the Catholic Church, the preferences of class helped maintain the accumulated wisdom of the classical world for posterity \u2013 especially in Gaul.\n\nIt was not only high literary culture and the ideals of the aristocratic classes that managed to survive by taking refuge in the church. The traditional religious customs of the Gallo-Roman peoples also managed to do so for the most part, albeit frequently in altered or hidden form, despite the best efforts of some in the church hierarchy. One of the most conspicuous bishops who attempted to maintain the fight of Martin and Paulinus for the ascetic life and against pagan customs was Caesarius of Arles. Caesarius, like Paulinus, was of an aristocratic background, born to a high-class Roman family in Chalon-sur-Sa\u00f4ne in around 470. He was drawn to the ascetic life, and spent some time on the island of L\u00e9rins off the southern coast of Gaul, where austere ideals about monasticism had been established by St John Cassian, an ascetic and mystic who, like St Martin, had come to Gaul from the Danubian frontier. Caesarius was noted for his extreme levels of abstinence, not only fasting so much that he made himself ill, but also getting into a fight with a monastic cellarer for, in his view, allowing other monks to have too much food.\n\nCaesarius withdrew from L\u00e9rins, but by around 502 he was enthroned as bishop of Arles. He built up a strong reputation for good works, in particular ransoming prisoners taken by the Burgundian, Visigothic and other factions who were competing for primacy in southern Gaul at the time. He assisted in the development of the parish system, something which St Martin had helped to pioneer, and which was to remain a deep-seated part of local administration in France up to the Revolution. However, many of his fulminations from the pulpit were directed against the pagan practices which, despite the work and preaching of people like St Martin, remained strong throughout Gaul.\n\nCaesarius's use of the word 'pagan' to describe practices he considered to have no basis in Christianity, or indeed to be anti-Christian, reflects an aristocratic hauteur. _Paganus,_ meaning country-dweller, did not suggest that Christianity had a hold in the town but was slow to penetrate the countryside; it was rather that reverence for the old gods or maintaining aspects of their worship and taboos smacked of the uneducated rustic, whether pursued in the town or in the country.\n\nThere were many instances of this rustic behaviour of which Bishop Caesarius disapproved. The people sang bawdy songs 'inimical to chastity and honour'. They blew horns and rang bells to help the moon recover whenever there was an eclipse. They used charms and spells to overcome illnesses, or to ensure that their crops flourished for a bumper harvest. They delayed their journeys so that they would start or finish on 'auspicious' days. They bathed in rivers, lakes and springs at midsummer (such as the source of the Seine) for the sake of their healing power. Worst of all, they celebrated the Roman festival of the Kalends of January, or New Year's Day: there was feasting and drinking, the exchange of presents, as well as 'carnal and luxurious celebrations' in which the people enjoyed masquerades, dressing up as heifers or stags (redolent of the Gallic stag-god Cernunnos) or, if one were a 'soldier', as a prostitute.\n\nCaesarius used every means at his disposal to get rid of these pagan practices. Sometimes, he appealed to rational argument. The moon, he intoned from his pulpit, was a 'sphere set afire by a natural physical cause, which was hidden at fixed times or overcome by the nearby glow of the setting sun'. How could, he asked, 'sacrilegious noise-making' make it propitious? Days of the week should no longer be named after the pagan gods; there should be no more days dedicated to Jupiter or Mercury.\u2021 He cajoled landowners to get rid of any pagan 'trees, altars or shrines' that might be on their property 'where wretched people customarily offer prayers', otherwise the landowners would be 'accessory to what was done there'. And if such persuasions should fail, then full coercion should follow. Those who were social equals should be ostracized. 'If they belong to you, however, beat them even with whips, so that they might fear a blow to their bodies who do not think about the salvation of their souls.' Like St Martin, the Roman laws on desertion for soldiers furnished the mindset of Caesarius: 'The man who deserts the church of Christ... must therefore... be judged the same as a man who deserts the army of a terrestrial king.'\n\nHowever, the old Gallic and Roman ways fought back against the battle waged by Caesarius. The practice of divination and foretelling the future by casting lots, watching the flight of birds, or, as Caesarius relates, the interpretation of birdsong or sneezes, was prohibited. Yet foretelling the future by the _sortes biblicae_ \u2013 letting the Bible fall open at random to seek a prediction of what was to come \u2013 made up for the suppression of these earlier practices. Written spells to cure diseases were also condemned, but amulets containing biblical verses and Christian prayers filled the gap. Charms, such as shepherd's crooks, to avert hailstorms from the crops were disallowed, but a cross planted in the fields or on the hills would now fulfil the same function. The New Year parties would not go away, but at least Caesarius could appeal for exchanges of gifts to be turned into alms-giving. 'Drunken' and 'lewd' dancing was performed as a back-handed honour before the shrines of Christian saints. And bathing in rivers, lakes and springs was tied to the feast of St John the Baptist, and still carried out \u2013 under the cover of commemorating Christian baptism \u2013 at midsummer on 23 June, as the earlier tradition demanded.\n\nBishops such as Martin of Tours and Caesarius desired to live humbly, but they were buried lavishly. Gregory of Tours, one of Martin's successors as bishop of Tours in the late sixth century, described how a shrine had developed around his tomb, and proudly outlines the opulence and grandeur of the building that had been put up to house it: 'It is 48 metres (160 feet) long and 18 metres (60 feet) wide and 13 metres (45 feet) high to the vault; it has thirty-two windows in the part around the altar, twenty in the nave; forty-one columns; in the whole building fifty-two windows, 120 columns; eight doors, three in the part around the altar and five in the nave.' It is a scale of building one would hardly expect from the so-called 'Dark Ages', and seems more appropriate to the classical Roman era. But Martin, even in death, was now fulfilling another Roman archetype. In the reported piety of his life, he was seen as being closer to God than the ordinary run of mankind. Thus, it was imagined, he had special access to the divine mind; in other words, he had God's ear. In the Roman order, people would always seek the protection of the well connected. If one were in trouble but had access to a well-placed imperial official, someone in the court who could speak to the emperor, for example, then this was the most reliable way to solve a problem. Such a well-placed person was a _patronus,_ 'patron'. The patron was a secular and usually aristocratic figure. St Martin, thanks to the special position in heaven he was perceived to possess, was co-opted into being a spiritual patron: a patron saint. It is for this that the tributes paid to his remains and his shrine were similar to those that would be paid to any emperor visiting the town. To have Martin's body was the same as having an emperor, in person, present; it was a sign of his continuing presence and his intention of helping both the city of Tours and those who visited his shrine. His access to God would allow the resolution of any number of problems that were seen to have at their root a spiritual cause. Hence at the end of the Roman imperial period, and for centuries beyond, Tours became one of the leading sites in Gaul for healing. Instead of the old springs and pools where the rivers rose, the lepers, the halt, the lame and the infertile made their way there to seek wholeness at the new Christian shrines, and to adorn them with gifts and ex-votos in the event of the patron fulfilling a promise.\n\nDevotions at the source of the Seine came to an end around the fifth century. Certainly by the time that Caesarius was calling for the destruction of shrines and an end to the practice of bathing in holy wells and springs, the precincts and temple by the source appear to have been pulled down and abandoned. However, a busy road leads from the source to the nearest town, Saint-Seine-l'Abbaye, in the heart of which stands an abbey and old Benedictine monastery dedicated to its own patron, St Seine. Seine was not the original name; the first saint was Sigo, the son of a local nobleman, the count of Mesmont. He lived during the sixth century, a little after the shrine at the source would have been abandoned. He came to this spot to pursue the life of a hermit, and the monastery was founded after him, but his name was changed by posterity from 'Sigo' to 'Seine', after the nearby river. Even the source of the Seine was accounted for in later Christian legend as one of his works: his mule knelt to allow him to dismount easily, and from the animal's knee print the source of the river rose.\n\nThe Abbey itself possesses a medieval fresco on the south wall of the choir. It was much damaged during the Revolution, but the visitor can still make out episodes from the now mythical life of Saint Seine. In one of the panels close to the end, he sits surrounded by the unfortunate: a lame man perches, showing him his knee; a blind man, however, draws the first blessing of the saint, who is making the sign of the cross above his eyes. The other men, says the text beneath, are waiting for him to cast out demons. In the final panel, the saint's body, now translated to the Abbey and surrounded by blue-robed bishops, continues for many years to perform 'glorious miracles'.\n\nOnce again, there was a holy place by the source of the Seine where people could seek healing. The Roman irruption into Gaul with all the religions and ideas it had brought had changed everything; but, curiously, it had also changed nothing.\n\n* The Latin formula, meaning one has 'willingly fulfilled one's vow as is merited', is frequently found in ex-voto inscriptions offered to the gods in thanks for their prayers for health or some other benefit being answered.\n\n\u2020 Thyestes was a character from Greek myth who was served the flesh of his sons at a banquet as revenge for his adultery; hence, Thyestean banquets are those at which human flesh is eaten.\n\n\u2021 Only Portuguese of the western European languages has obeyed Caesarius' injunction. Except for Saturday ( _s\u00e1bado_ ) and Sunday ( _domingo_ ), the days of the week in Portuguese are numbered: _segunda-feira_ (second day, i.e. Monday), _terca-feira_ (third day, i.e. Tuesday). This contrasts with other European languages, in which the days of the week are still named after pagan deities, e.g. English _Wednesday_ after Woden, or French _mercredi_ , named after Mercury.\n\nA dolium ( _large earthenware storage jar) at the Puymin site in Vaison-la-Romaine._\nEPILOGUE\n\nFrom an Empire to a Dream\n\n_Unum consilium totius Galliae effecturum, cuius consensui ne orbis quidem terrarum possit obsistere_  \n'...establish one policy for the whole of Gaul, whose unanimity not even the world could resist'\n\nJULIUS CAESAR, _De Bello Gallico,_ VII.29\n\nLE MANS\n\n\u2022\n\nTHE NORTH-EASTERN FRONTIER PROVINCE\n\n\u2022\n\nBARBARIANS AND ROMANS\n\n\u2022\n\nIMPERIUM GALLIARUM\n\n\u2022\n\nTRIER\n\n\u2022\n\nADRIANOPLE\n\n\u2022\n\nCH\u00c2LONS\n\n\u2022\n\nCLERMONT-FERRAND\n\n\u2022\n\nHOW TO SAVE AN EMPIRE\n\nONE CITY THAT CAN COMPETE with Autun for the completeness and grandeur of its remaining Roman walls is Le Mans. Its great ramparts run facing the east bank of the River Sarthe. They hang over a grassy margin of land that is now traversed by a busy dual carriageway, but which is still beautiful with gardens and grassed walkways, and lightened by sprays of purple lilac flowers with the onset of summer.\n\nIn many ways, the ramparts of Le Mans echo the walls of Autun. They rise several metres, magnificent and imposing, their flatness broken up by mighty semi-circular bastions. Their higher levels and crenellated tops are now missing, but are crowned instead by a vista of Renaissance and later rooftops, with the towers and tracery of a Gothic cathedral in their midst.\n\nHowever, their dissimilarities are also striking, and significant. Autun's walls were built at the time of the city's foundation, shortly after the conquest. The walls of Le Mans (called Vindunum in Roman times) date to around the third century AD. Autun's walls, while grand and stout, are not as sturdily built or as thick as those of Le Mans. It is a sign that the walls of Autun, although they served to keep the city safe during a long siege in the mid-third century, were built not necessarily for actual defence, but as a mark of honour. They were designed to showcase Roman power and wealth to the leaders of the local Aedui tribe, and demonstrated the advantages of co-operating with the new Roman regime. The walls of Le Mans, however, in spite of the lattice patterns picked out in them with white stone, look as if they were destined for real use against possible attackers.\n\nThere is also an arresting difference between the extent of the walls of these two Gallo-Roman towns. A walk around the course of the Roman walls of Autun takes a good hour at the very least. The walls of Le Mans, by contrast, although stronger in character, are less ambitious: a walk round them is no more than a short stroll. Autun's walls were far longer than they ever needed to be, taking in the whole of the original town apart from the theatre. As such, they appear to have contained a good deal of undeveloped space. The walls of Le Mans, however, encircled only a small part of the original Roman city. Indeed, a vast swathe of the city, a band of about 90 metres in width, was destroyed to make way for the walls: not only the land over which the walls themselves ran, but also what is now the pleasant grassy margin by the river. The forum and the areas of the city beyond the river were excluded from the walls' protection, and the city's baths were also pulled down. This destruction served a twofold purpose: it removed any cover that attackers might be able to gain from the surrounding buildings; and the rubble from their demolition could be reused in the construction of the new walls. However, it was not just the ordinary bricks and stone that were to be recycled in this way. Fine statues, elegant columns, the boastful inscriptions of the earlier generations of Gallic aristocrats proud to have taken their Romanized offices as councillors, priests and public benefactors \u2013 all were used to fill up rough cores of the new bastions.\n\n_The Roman walls of Le Mans, with the cathedral of St Julien in the background._\n\nSuch a pattern is repeated widely across Gaul. The first cities to be granted walls after the conquest received them as a sign of honour or official favour, signalling their status as official Roman colonies (as at Autun or Vienne), or else as a demonstration of Roman power, as at Autun. Otherwise, cities rarely had walls; they only became common throughout Gaul late in the third or early fourth centuries AD. The walls of the later period were generally sturdier, more practical, and smaller in extent, defending only small parts of the cities and happy to devour the great buildings and honorific inscriptions that were once an expression of Gallo-Roman identity. Given that the early architecture and the original displays of adherence by the Gallic aristocracy to the Roman vision were such a vital part of the incorporation of Gaul into the empire, one has to ask what had changed by the end of the third century that these monuments, so cherished originally, could be thrown away so lightly.\n\nThe literature on the end of the western Roman empire is so vast and complex that at times confronting it seems as daunting as facing the Burgundian and Visigothic chieftains, who are supposed to have brought the western empire to ruin in the fifth century. I do not propose to follow the facts and dates of this decline in detail, with its spiral of rebellions, incursions, coups, counter-coups and palace intrigue. However, as I approach the end of this account of Roman Gaul, it is appropriate to consider the wider circumstances that overwhelmed the Roman project. It still seems startling, given the hugely positive changes that Rome wrought in western Europe, that things could pass from the prosperity of the Flavians and the Antonines \u2013 celebrated by Gibbon as one of the most contented eras in human history \u2013 to an age, at the end of the fifth century, when the unity of empire was shattered, long-distance trade went into decline, the fine houses and buildings of town and country were abandoned and the standard of living collapsed. The views of contemporary scholarship have advanced much in recent years thanks to developments in archaeology and the reappraisal of source material, and what follows is an attempt to bring some of these recent notions to bear on the salient themes of the Roman presence in Gaul as discussed in earlier chapters.\n\nCaesar's conquest of Gaul was not undertaken for any noble purpose. He did not have in mind any ideals of spreading civilization or extending the benefits of Roman rule to outsiders. It was a pragmatic and political act, designed to win him military glory, freedom from debt and access to manpower; it was an escape route from the dangers of prosecution before the courts, and a move towards the attainment of absolute power. However, as frequently happened in later history with other empires \u2013 and not infrequently in apparent imitation of the Roman example \u2013 the acquisition of large tracts of new territory prompted ideological soul-searching. First, a practical means had to be found to ensure the lasting and profitable obedience of the people now under Roman rule. Second, an active justification had to be identified for Rome's possession of the new territory, especially since its area was so large. It might be difficult to believe, but certainly since the second century BC there had been some unease about the possession of overseas territories. The conquest of Greece, completed by 146 BC, made many fear the corruption of the old Roman virtues of simplicity and frugality by the flow of wealth from the captive territory and the close contact with dubious foreign cultures. The same notions could only have loomed yet larger in Roman minds following Caesar's conquest, especially given that the peoples of 'Long-Haired Gaul' were seen as Rome's oldest and most dangerous enemy.\n\nThe approach taken in the decades that followed the conquest was to engage with these difficulties en bloc \u2013 and the route chosen was via culture. The Gauls were to be offered a way to become Roman. The upper classes were offered access to a Roman education; others were given the opportunity to fight in the Roman armies. The former, by taking up official positions in government, and the latter, by fighting for Rome, acquired the legal benefits and prestige of Roman citizenship, access to wealth and a deeper acquaintance with the wider empire and its customs. For those Gauls lower down the social scale, the sight of new Roman colonies, and the presence of temples, theatres, amphitheatres, baths, roads, villas and forums would encourage them not merely to accept the dominion of Rome without demur, but actively to embrace it. The Roman presence, although initially imposed with egregious brutality, killing hundreds of thousands, devastating the land and shattering an ancient culture, offered a break with the endemic tradition of Gallic tribal feuding, protection from external enemies, access to new ways of displaying prestige and new sources of trade and wealth.\n\nThe propagation of Roman culture and identity in Gaul, so those in Rome must have felt, was a triumph of Roman policy. Pragmatically, it allowed Rome to govern and garrison the new territories cheaply and with little demand for new manpower from elsewhere. It promoted the swift development of a governing and military class that was loyal and likeminded \u2013 to an extent, it must have taken the edge off the ancient fear of the Gauls that was so deep rooted in the Roman psyche. It must have felt like a policy that was both apt, and culturally sensitive. The Gauls were renowned in Rome for their eloquence, cleverness and bravery: what better way of harnessing their talents than to give them access to a system of education that revered rhetorical excellence as the apogee of its attainment, before paving the path for Gauls to enter the Roman system of government and the Roman courts? Moreover, like Roman gods and Roman religion, the Roman identity was not exclusive. Just as long as the reverence due to Caesar and Rome was paid, Roman citizenship, or else presence as a resident in the empire, allowed other loyalties and other identities. Ausonius himself, the most Roman of Gauls, wrote that 'I love Bordeaux, Rome I venerate; in this, I am a citizen, in both a consul; here was my cradle, there my _curule_ chair.' Becoming consul was his proudest achievement, yet he could happily move between that Roman identity and his inheritance as an inhabitant of Bordeaux and Aquitaine, descended as he was from both the Arverni and the Aedui. The genius of Rome was to allow both identities to coexist, and to show that acquiescence to Rome not only benefitted an individual in a material sense or in the Roman scheme of things, but also allowed that individual to succeed better within the framework of his original cultural identity: to be a more committed Roman gave a Gallic aristocrat the chance to be better and more successful within the old hierarchy of Gallic society as well.\n\nCaesar's manipulation of the identity and intentions of the dangerous northerners for his own political ends needs to be viewed in the context of the development of the empire in Gaul over the following centuries: the northerners were not as dangerous as demagogic Roman politicians presented them. The Gauls could become Roman in the blink of a generation or two, while still fulfilling many of the cultural ambitions they had absorbed from their 'barbarian' past.\n\nThe idea of the 'barbarian', therefore, did not leave the Roman political vocabulary or mindset: it was merely pushed back across Gaul. The Gauls passed from being barbarians to being Romans. However, those parts of Caesar's conquest that lay close to the Rhine were hived off into the militarized frontier provinces of Upper and Lower Germania, and here the perpetual war against the 'barbarians' continued. Emperors made their name and established their reputations by campaigning on this new frontier. Indeed, its presence acted as a justification for the empire's very existence \u2013 the barbarian threat had never gone away, and the newly embraced territories of Gaul were safe under the umbrella of Roman military might and order. There was also an economic benefit: the presence of huge armies and encampments were a spur to trade on a vast scale. Taxes paid from across the empire to the frontier armies financed the large-scale import of goods from the south and the Mediterranean throughout Gaul, and formed, it is most likely, the lion's share of economic activity in the region. Rome encouraged and hugely expanded commerce, but it is probable that the needs of the army, more than private initiative, were the real motor of Gallic trade.\n\nRoman emperors made great play of their military prowess when fighting the barbarian threat. Fighting, however, was only a part of life on the frontier. Much more of it was diplomacy and engagement. There were other means of heading off the threat of incursions, which did not involve military engagement between Roman and barbarian: facilitating trade between the empire and the regions outside it; giving gifts to, or withholding them from, barbarian chiefs; encouraging dissent and civil war among the barbarians themselves whenever they appeared to be forming wider coalitions against Roman interests. Divide and rule was an old, tested and successful policy. However, despite this manipulation of the barbarian world and the constant talk of its threat to Rome, the two sides were intertwined and interdependent. The barbarians needed Rome. Roman trade changed society beyond the frontier over the course of time. In particular, barbarian chiefs became dependent on Roman patronage to shore up their power bases. As with the Gallic chiefs before the Roman conquest, the possession of Mediterranean goods became a sign of prestige for the barbarian warlords beyond the Rhine and allowed them to secure their positions. To punish barbarian leaders and bring them to heel, Rome might cut off trading opportunities or subsidies. Mismanagement of this policy, however, may be one of the reasons why barbarian groupings ended up launching attacks against the frontier. The frontier was not a drawbridge that could be raised and the world beyond it ignored; it was a region that demanded constant engagement in order to maintain its security and stability.\n\nThe Romans, likewise, were dependent on the barbarians. It was not only that the danger of barbarian incursion was a justification for the imperial presence and imperial order. The barbarians themselves became crucial to the maintenance of that order. As Gaul prospered economically in the second and third centuries, recruitment to the colours from the Gauls themselves and the wider empire appears to have become more difficult. Another factor was that Roman citizenship had been made universal throughout the empire at the beginning of the third century. Service in the army, which was one way for inhabitants of Gaul to obtain this benefit, now became unnecessary. Besides, a military life was no longer the guaranteed passport to social advancement and financial security for lower-class citizens that it had been in the earlier centuries. However, the barbarian tribes beyond the frontiers, well acquainted with fighting and the Roman army by long proximity, made excellent and cheap recruits to the Roman standards. Large numbers of Germanic-speaking migrants from beyond the frontiers settled in Gaul, who quickly became Romanized and who were as loyal to the Roman army and empire as those within the empire itself. The allure of becoming Roman seduced them just as it had the Gauls.\n\nIn this way, Roman Gaul became part of a newly internationalized world. It was a land that looked outwards, dependent for its security on the management of its frontiers and the peoples beyond. It also looked inwards, dependent on trade with the other provinces, the circulation of taxes through the army, as well as good governance and attention from the Roman centre. Gaul, by the conquest and the acquisition of Roman culture, had the opportunity to engage in the wider empire. In the great address that Claudius gave in Lugdunum, granting the suitably qualified nobles of the Three Gauls membership of the Senate, he made a tacit acknowledgement that if Rome were to rule profitably and effectively over Gaul, then the Gauls must also have a role to play in the wider government of the empire. If Rome wished to possess Gaul, then the Gauls should have their own portions of Rome.\n\nThese were the ingredients needed for Gaul to remain a successful and close-knit part of the Roman empire. It appears, by their actions, that the emperors understood these needs and, when governing well, tried to fulfil them. However, given the wider circumstances of the empire or the carelessness of those in central government, these needs were not always observed. One of the first problems to occur was a betrayal of Claudius's vision for the integration of Gauls into the Senate. Following the civil wars of AD 68\u201370, which arose when Gaius Julius Vindex (as mentioned above, a Gallic nobleman who was also a Roman senator and governor of the province of Lugdunum) rebelled against Nero both for his high taxes and his behaviour which, in his view, did not befit a Roman emperor, it can be conjectured that the old fears about Gaul were resurgent in Rome. Although the rebellion against Nero was triggered by a Gaul claiming to protect traditional Roman values, it appears to have harmed the integration of Gauls from the Three Gauls into the government of the wider empire. The number of Gauls from these regions who joined the Senate in the decades after the fall of Nero appears to have been very low indeed; instead of taking opportunities to play a role in the wider imperial government, they tended to remain in Gaul and pursue personal glory within their native territories.\n\nHand in hand with this disengagement of Gaul from the centre was a disengagement of the centre from Gaul. It will be remembered that the new Gallic provinces were closely associated with the Julio-Claudian house from the time of Caesar himself. Caesar had close associations with many Gallic chiefs from the time of the conquest and made individual deals with them and their tribes to ensure their loyalty. Augustus visited the provinces a number of times, including a three-year-long visit in 16\u201313 BC. Tiberius knew the provinces well, Caligula grew up on the frontiers and took a great interest in the imperial shrine at Lugdunum, and Claudius himself was born there. Although the imperial presence in the provinces was not always propitious \u2013 Caligula's riotous behaviour at Lugdunum springs to mind \u2013 there was almost always a benefit associated with the emperor visiting and being on the spot. The long-standing Roman institution of the patron showed the importance of personal contacts for getting things done and problems solved. All the better if the source of power himself were present, able not only to solve problems but bringing with him the access to wealth and patronage that belonged to the imperial office. However, with Nero, the close association between Gaul and the imperial house began to wane. The complaints of Vindex over central tax policy may have been partly due to the unwinding of long-standing local arrangements and concessions sensitive to local conditions, which were forgotten as the emperors stayed away from Gaul. After the civil war, this drift continued. The emperors kept their gaze on the Rhine frontier, while Gaul itself \u2013 lightly garrisoned and not apparently unsafe \u2013 was for the most part left to its own devices.\n\nWhen the going was good, Gaul was able to weather this neglect, benign or otherwise. However, when the other pillars of stability were undermined, the entire edifice began to totter. One problem of governance that was never truly solved was the process of planning for the imperial succession. In the third century, following the assassination of the emperor Alexander Severus in 235 on the Rhine frontier after discontent among his troops over his handling of the barbarian peoples, the reasonably orderly successions of the Severan dynasty gave way to bloody struggles for the throne. On top of this, conflict with the Sasanian dynasty of Persia drew attention away from the Rhine and the Danube. Management of the frontiers beyond Gaul broke down, and barbarian warbands from beyond the Rhine made frequent incursions into Gaul, attacking and plundering Romano-Gallic cities and settlements. The long neglect of Gaul's affairs by the centre began to tell. In 260, a breakaway polity \u2013 the Imperium Galliarum ('Empire of the Gauls') \u2013 was founded by a local Roman army commander named Postumus. It lasted for fourteen years before being crushed, but at its height it claimed the allegiance of all the Gallic provinces, as well as the Germanic frontier and Britain also. The Imperium Galliarum has been interpreted by some writers as an early manifestation of Gallic nationalism, but despite its institutions of government being closely modelled on Rome's, with an emperor, senate and consuls, it is unlikely that nationalism was the impulse behind it. Rather, it was the need for the proximity of high power, the desire once again, as in the earlier imperial period, for Gaul to be close to an emperor as its patron and protector \u2013 an emperor able to solve problems, look to the frontier and dispense patronage and largesse. A new emperor, keeping his courts in Lugdunum and Trier and focusing his concern on the immediate surrounding provinces, was able to fulfil this deep-seated need.\n\nThe Imperium Galliarum was suppressed in 274 and the period of instability known as the 'Third Century Crisis' came to an end. It was probably the instability of this age that led to the construction of the walls of Le Mans, and many other such fortifications throughout Gaul. Although the unity of the empire was saved and the empire was, in the propaganda of the age, 'restored', the measures taken to ensure this appear to have stored up problems for the decades to come. Diocletian, who came to the throne in 283, changed the settlement of imperial government, sharing power with a college of four emperors, the so-called Tetrarchy, each of whom would be allotted a portion of the empire. This was, if anything, an acknowledgement that those who had supported the Imperium Galliarum had had a point. One of the members of the imperial college would always be present in the Gallic provinces or their vicinity to provide the leadership, close management of the frontiers and imperial functions that were so desired. Although the Tetrarchy did not survive in its original form into the fourth century, the division of the government of the empire into a de facto western and eastern half followed; and in the fourth century Trier was developed as a new imperial capital, recreating the close connection between Gaul and the heart of imperial power that had been lost since the century after the conquest. This presence seems in some ways to have injected new life into Gaul, giving opportunities to talented people such as Ausonius and his cultural circle to play a part in the imperial service, and again bind Gaul more closely to the institutions of empire. The sheer volume of Ausonius's work \u2013 and indeed its very survival from this era \u2013 may in itself be a reflection of the sense of invigoration which Gaul felt at its new proximity to the imperial nimbus. The unity of the empire was maintained, but at the cost of institutionalizing disunity, and recognizing that the regions could not be ignored.\n\nIn order to make it difficult for regional governors to build up power bases to challenge for the throne, Diocletian reformed the entire organization of imperial government. Originally, the civil service, such as it was, had been lightly staffed with a small number of people responsible for large geographical areas. Many powers were concentrated in a few hands, and there was little exercise of oversight. Diocletian changed this early imperial arrangement. Provinces were broken up into smaller areas. Military and civil areas of authority were divided so that officials in general should only hold authority in one particular sphere. The mechanisms of oversight were developed, and stricter hierarchies were instituted for the formal regulation of the provinces by the centre. To achieve this, the civil service had to take on many more recruits. This was a boon for those, such as Ausonius, who came from the educated classes. On top of this, the army was also increased in size and restructured. However, all these reforms called for an increase in tax revenue. In the long run, this was difficult for the empire to sustain.\n\nThe old long-distance trading routes that had flourished from the start of the early imperial period were interrupted during the Third Century Crisis, and they did not return with their previous vigour even once the stability of the empire had been restored in the early fourth century. Trade and prosperity were also damaged over the course of the third century by debilitating inflation, as the coinage of the empire was debased to near worthlessness: rival claimants to the imperial throne had to pay their armies, and the only way to do so was by 'printing' money: reducing the silver content of the coin to almost nothing but keeping the face value of the coin the same. The collapse of the currency in this period encouraged greater local production and local self-sufficiency rather than long-distance trade. In some ways, the economy was demonetized: barter and payment in kind began to return, and the stimulus to excess production \u2013 the usual symptom of a money economy \u2013 was removed. On top of this, some scholars argue that manufacturing technologies that were originally the preserve of the Mediterranean littoral were dispersed towards the periphery of empire. Thus it was not just the capacity for long-distance trade that declined, but also the imperative to conduct it in the first place.\n\nThe demands for tax and the new configurations of the government and army created social pressures. Gaul became polarized. The old civic and mercantile classes were hollowed out. Fewer members of the aristocratic classes wished to undertake the old civic roles, which demanded the underwriting of tax shortfalls. The poor placed themselves in virtual servitude to local magnates in exchange for protection from military service and taxes. Wealth was increasingly concentrated in fewer hands. In earlier times, the practice by the well-to-do of displaying their wealth through benefactions for the construction of public buildings was seen as a social virtue. But this habit now went into decline. A good part of this impulse was absorbed by the growth of the Christian church, which provided an outlet for rich Gauls to display their wealth by financing new ecclesiastical buildings; but more and more wealth was displayed in a private context. As had happened in Rome itself at the start of the crisis that brought about the end of the Republic centuries before, greater numbers of estates fell into the ownership of smaller numbers of people. Some villas were abandoned as not needed or not viable. Over the course of the fourth and fifth centuries, others became larger and more opulent than ever, and some \u2013 like the cities \u2013 were fortified. The traces of early medieval society and what later historians would refer to as the feudal system began to appear. This might even have owed something to earlier patterns of Gallic society, which re-emerged as the traditional Roman order declined. The word 'vassal', for example, is one of the few survivals from the Celtic tongues to enter medieval and modern usage.\n\nAll of these trends are reflected in the walls that encircle Le Mans and other late Gallo-Roman settlements. Civic life seems to have been less viable, and was perhaps of less importance than in earlier centuries. Those public markers of prestige that mattered so much at the beginning of the imperial period were now considered less important \u2013 little surprise therefore if great public works were cleared, and old memorials of grand Gallo-Roman aristocrats were broken up and built as rubble into the bastions of Le Mans and elsewhere. Likewise, after the third century, the habit of leaving proud inscriptions detailing one's glorious career as a priest or magistrate seems to have come to a halt. For those lucky enough to possess prestige from wealth or imperial office, its display became a more restricted and private affair. It took place among a closed circle of high-class families, the means of display the grandeur of their villas or their literary endeavour. This may explain why so much Gallo-Roman literature survives from this period: the upper classes were busy writing to prove their class credentials.With Gallo-Roman society in such a highly-strung state, it should have been little surprise that any attack on its essential foundations, as described above, would ultimately have even graver repercussions for imperial unity than the Third Century Crisis.\n\nIn 376, the decision to allow a large group of Goths into the empire to settle as soldiers and farmers backfired horribly when a revolt by the newcomers \u2013 provoked by Roman mismanagement \u2013 culminated in the Battle of Adrianople (fought near modern Edirne, in eastern Thrace). Some 20,000 men, nearly two-thirds of the Roman force present on the battlefield, were lost as a result of incompetent generalship. The eastern Roman emperor, Valens, was also killed. Although the immediate situation was recovered, the heavy losses had serious implications for the western frontiers on the Rhine. Ultimate power over the empire at the time lay in the east, which was then wealthier and more populous than the west. To restore their forces after the calamity of Adrianople, the eastern emperors ran down the frontier establishments in the Germanic provinces. As a force, the western armies essentially evaporated. Trier lost its status as an imperial capital by the end of the fourth century, with Arles taking up the role for a while.\n\nRather than using its own military establishment to ensure the security of the western frontier, the empire began to rely on federate barbarian warbands ( _foederati_ ), who rather than being integrated into the Roman army acted as discrete forces under their own commanders. This cost-cutting measure of convenience is unlikely to have seemed especially radical or dangerous to the late imperial government; groups of barbarians had frequently been settled in Gaul and relied upon for military service. Indeed, for some time the army had been 'barbarized', assuming types of clothing from beyond the frontier, and even naming various units after barbarian tribal groups renowned among the Romans for their ferocity. The importance of high Roman military officers, in particular the master of the soldiers, who could maintain good relations between the imperial court and the barbarian _foederati,_ became ever greater. However, this step meant that the traditional Roman imperial method of controlling the frontier peoples effectively came to an end.\n\nOn top of this, conflicts over the succession once more began to damage the western empire by the end of the fourth century. The death of Gratian at the hands of Maximus in 383 has already been recorded. The eventual victory of Theodosius, the eastern emperor (the last to rule both halves of the Roman empire before the rule was again divided) in 388 led to the sudden disenfranchisement of those Gauls, such as Ausonius, who were by then playing their full part at the centre of the imperial system. The period of civil war following the death of Gratian further weakened the military strength of the western empire. In 383 Maximus had removed Roman troops from Britain in large numbers to support his bid for the imperial throne.* Furthermore, the various imperial claimants used barbarian federate troops in their armies, thereby enhancing their autonomous importance in the Gallic provinces.\n\nIn the popular imagination, the incursion of a large force of barbarians across the Rhine in 406 \u2013 another traditionally resonant date \u2013 is seen as a cataclysmic moment, heralding the end of the empire in the west. The image of a vast horde of vicious outsiders, breaking down the fortress walls of the empire to plunder and destroy a precious and sophisticated civilization, built up over centuries, haunts the European imagination to this day. However, the decline of the western empire did not take the form of an immediate and brutal collapse, but a haphazard unravelling of long-standing ties. As Italy looked ever more to its own defence and welfare, cutting its connections with the Gallo-Roman aristocracy, it made more sense for the Gallo-Romans to deal directly with the leaders of the barbarian warbands, which were now acting as much in the defence of Gallo-Roman society as posing a threat to it. Thus, the regions north of the Loire appear to have detached themselves from central Roman control by the first quarter of the fifth century. The Visigothic branch of the barbarian force that invaded in 406 \u2013 and which was probably not very big \u2013 was settled in Aquitaine by 418 and given autonomous status in return for promising to act in defence of the empire's interests. It appears that they were given either shares of land following a received procedure for the settling of federate forces, or even a right to take the tax revenues that were due from estates. Various other groupings were settled throughout Gaul in this fashion. In the middle of the century, when the Roman general Flavius Aetius defended Gaul from the inroads of Attila's Huns and their allies, he relied on a confederation consisting primarily of 'barbarian' forces. At the Battle of Ch\u00e2lons (451), Aetius fought alongside the Visigothic king Theodoric. Aetius's success in driving away a genuinely threatening and unified enemy paradoxically led to the weakening of the ties within this confederation. With no enemy to unite against, the pressure for cohesion declined and, despite his successful defence of the empire, Aetius himself was assassinated by the emperor Valentinian III, who was still smarting over Aetius's support for his rival Joannes at the beginning of his reign; he also feared that Aetius wanted to make his own son the heir to the throne. As the office of western emperor became more detached from Gaul, more hotly disputed among rival claimants, and of ever less practical importance, the leaders of the barbarian groupings in Gaul and the indigenous aristocracy were less disposed to look towards Rome for legitimacy or support. Rule in their own name rather than in that of Rome became viable, and the barbarian polities such as the Frankish and Visigothic kingdoms began to develop out of the body of Roman Gaul.\n\nIt was a transition that was certainly tainted with violence. However, the arrival of a barbarian kingdom could also be seen as a liberation from the violence and pressures that had become endemic in late Roman Gaul. One churchman, Salvian of Marseilles, preaching around the middle of the fifth century, gives a vivid picture of a fractured society, in which the Roman aristocracy used their position to extort money mercilessly from the poor: 'Widows groan, orphans are trodden down, so that many, even people of good birth and liberal education, seek refuge with the enemy to escape death under the trials of the general persecution. They seek among the barbarians the Roman mercy, since they cannot endure the barbarous mercilessness they find among the Romans.' Some Roman citizens of Gaul who suffered on account of absent government or at the hands of creditors banded together in self-defence. Although they were simply trying to uphold Roman ways, they found themselves branded _bagaudae_ (a Celtic word for bandits) or even stigmatized as 'barbarians' by the Roman establishment \u2013 a piece of spin that Salvian decried bitterly.\n\nMuch of the violence that erupted during the fifth and sixth centuries took the form of fighting between different barbarian parties jockeying for position and control of territory, rather than a wanton assault on Gallo-Romans and Roman culture. Indeed, the incoming peoples _wanted_ Roman and Latin culture, and their governing classes needed access to it in order to control the levers of local government, which had been conducted in Latin for hundreds of years. The barbarian leaders issued law codes in Latin that drew heavily on previous Roman bodies of jurisprudence. They respected the hierarchies, rights and traditions of the Catholic Church with its Roman ways, although many of them had previously converted to the Arian form of Christianity, which was regarded as heretical by the Catholics and vice versa. Moreover, the new barbarian rulers of Gaul wished to portray themselves as rulers in the Roman imperial mode.\n\nSidonius portrays this desire most vividly of all. In 475 the central Roman authorities surrendered Clermont, the city of which he was then bishop, to the Visigothic King Euric in return for a guarantee that the Visigoths would not attempt to extend their control in the southernmost portions of Gaul, closest to Italy. Sidonius, devoted to the Roman cause, was bitter and disgusted at what he saw as this betrayal by Rome, especially given his absolute devotion to the maintenance of Roman rule in the area and to the wider Roman ideal. However, he chose to work with the new regime and, by co-operating, tame it. Around 461, he had written a poem about having to feed a number of Burgundians who had been billeted on him. He complains about their 'German speech', their habit of 'spreading rancid butter on their hair' (presumably in contrast to the more refined Gallo-Roman _sapo)_ and their tendency to belch garlic and onion breath over him from their customary ten-course breakfasts. Yet, after 475, he is able to put this ostentatious disgust behind him. When Clermont was ceded he was sent into exile and imprisoned for his original resistance to the Visigoths; but in an effort to win favour he turns his pen to the praise of the Visigothic king. He employs the idioms of those most Roman of poets, Virgil and Horace, to laud in pastoral verse the man who had taken his ancestral city from Roman to barbarian rule: 'You Tityrus, with your land restored to you, range through the groves of myrtles and planes, and so you strike your lyre... it is your warbands, Euric, that are called for, so that the Garonne, strong in its martial settlers, may defend the dwindled Tiber...'\n\nIt was Roman praise in this mould that had been heaped on Augustus half a millennium previously; it pleased Euric, and he allowed Sidonius to return to his city. This probably confirmed Sidonius in his belief that although the material elements of Rome had collapsed around them and the vacuum filled by the barbarian 'other', something of value remained that preserved their unity not just as aristocrats, but as Romans: the literature and the culture of Rome. The institutions of imperial government were being run down, there was no money and no inclination to build in the old Roman fashion of the early empire, but the inherited culture of Rome was in itself a blessing that could maintain the evaporating sense of unity. 'The second bond of our spirits', writes Sidonius to a cousin, 'comes from the similarity of our studies.' It was for this that, as the power of Rome receded, Sidonius clung ever more closely to literature. 'Because the imperial ranks and offices have now been swept away, through which it was possible to distinguish each best man from the worst, from now on literature will be the only indication of nobility.' The rule of Rome over Gaul had passed away, but the ideal survived in its culture. It was now open to anyone to be a noble Roman and to share in the ideal of a Europe-wide confraternity whose reality had passed away. The price of admission was the love of its letters, and the pursuit of its Latin poetry and culture.\n\nIt is always a foolhardy venture to look to the ancient world for guidance in the modern. In many ways, ancient and modern societies were different in such fundamental ways \u2013 security and abundance of food supply, access to education and information, ease of movement, to name but a few \u2013 that in seeking or even observing grand comparisons it is easy to be led astray. However, at a point in time when the European Union is struggling to cement the political unity of Europe \u2013 a Roman project if ever there was one \u2013 in the face of a prolonged economic crisis and fears over migration, it is impossible to restrain oneself from considering how Rome succeeded in its project for unity for such a prolonged era (around 500 years), and how, in the light of this, contemporary Europe may be falling short.\n\nTwo aspects of the Roman conquest of Gaul and its absorption into the Roman empire are deeply distasteful to modern sensibilities. First, it arose out of extreme violence and suffering; second, it was a product not of some grand vision, but a result of political expediency, brought about by the manipulation of Roman fears concerning the 'barbarian' outsiders. Rhetoric that emphasized the danger, violence and degeneracy of the barbarians was a constant note in the Roman justification for its presence in Gaul, even before the time of Caesar and up until the evaporation of the empire in the fifth century AD. Indeed, to an extent, it was the notion of the 'barbarian other' that developed and maintained the Romans' sense of their own \u2013 civilized \u2013 identity. However, Roman practice was always more pragmatic and reasonable than Roman rhetoric. The frontier was not a solid fence but a permeable zone. The maintenance of the empire was dependent not on keeping barbarians out, but on constant engagement with them, understanding their situation, trading with them, subsidizing them, admitting them as migrants to the empire and making them part of the army and institutions of government. There was a recognition that, as a general rule, barbarians did not want to overthrow Rome or wreck its culture. Given the chance to play a part in Roman society, they would become loyal, and would even help Rome to protect itself from other, more sinister, peoples beyond the frontier zone. It was only when engagement with the barbarians was mismanaged, or settlers were used as political tools or cannon fodder in civil wars, that existential danger to the empire arose.\n\nAlthough Caesar brought the empire to Gaul in a wave of bloodshed and personal ambition, justifications were later found for the Roman presence to which the Gauls, particularly their upper classes, were happy to acquiesce. The Roman presence undoubtedly contributed to a fast and widespread increase in standards of living, social stability and freedom of movement enjoyed by all classes of Gauls. It propagated a government that was effective, but also reasonably cheap to administer and which stimulated the economy. There were opportunities for Gauls at different levels of society to participate in the machinery of government and the wider empire, whether as governors, councillors, administrators, lawyers, merchants or soldiers. In the best periods, the imperial presence felt close to Gaul. It was not distant, but manifested itself in a close association between the emperor and individual Gallic cities. All in all, the empire changed the face of the country, with the development of cities and settlements that remain to this day, roads, the supply of water, and rural villas, some of which may have been the predecessors of present-day towns and villages. Despite the terrible harm inflicted by Caesar on the earlier Gallic culture and way of life, the Roman presence brought benefits for everyone in virtually every area of human activity.\n\nBut it was the introduction of Roman culture that was perhaps the greatest triumph on top of all of these material victories. Roman culture, open as it was more to the elite than wider society, had the remarkable effect of making that Gallic elite feel loyal and engaged in the Roman project, while also allowing the Gauls a sense of success within the old indigenous cultural hierarchies. In Roman eyes, it turned them from barbarians to members of the civilized world. In the same way that worship of Roman gods and adherence to the imperial cult could coexist happily with visits to the shrine of Sequana, it was complementary and enhancing, not exclusive: an aid, if anything, to cultural self-realization.\n\nIf contemporary Europe could rediscover the sensible Roman pragmatism towards the 'barbarian outsider'; if it could make its high echelons of power feel as close to the people as Claudius was to Lugdunum; if it could rediscover the touch that ensured the flow of trade and prosperity between north and south; if its conduct in the fiscal sphere was not worthy of the sort of rebukes that Salvian threw at the late Roman aristocrats for their financial oppression; if it could foster the sort of shared culture that so entranced and comforted Sidonius and that made him not only a proud Arvernian but also a proud Roman, then, perhaps, contemporary Europe would be have a chance of emulating, without bloodshed, the successes that Caesar and those who came after him wrought in the provinces of Gaul.\n\n* Some early commentators declared Maximus's departure from Britain in 383 to be the effective end of Roman rule there, rather than the traditional date of 410.\n\n_Mosaic depicting Orpheus playing his lyre, St-Romain-en-Gal, second century AD._\nBibliographical Notes\n\nFor a discussion on the difficulty regarding the use of 'Gauls', 'Celts,' etc., see _The Celts,_ Collis, pp. 98 ff.\n\nFor those wishing to visit the sites of Roman Gaul, the two guidebooks by James Bromwich, _The Roman Remains of Brittany, Normandy and the Loire Valley,_ and _The Roman Remains of Southern France_ are highly recommended.\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\nAn account of the sea-going nature of the Phocaeans is given by Herodotus in 1.163, and their migration in the sixth century bc in Strabo 6.6.1. It is also referred to in Pliny's _Natural History,_ 3.5. Trogus's account of the foundation of Massalia is recorded in Justinus's _Epitome,_ 53.4ff, and Aristotle's is to be found in Athenaeus, 13.36. More detail is also found in Strabo, Book 4. For an introduction to Celtic society in Gaul before the Roman presence, _The Ancient Celts_ by Cunliffe is recommended. For trade and cultural interactions between the Greeks and Gauls before the Roman conquest see King, _Roman Gaul,_ Ch. 1, and Rankin, _Celts and the Classical World,_ Ch. 2, and also Ebel, _Transalpine Gaul._ For Roman and Greek perceptions of the Gauls see Rankin Chs. 4 and 6, which includes quotations from Posidonius. For the migrations into Italy and the attack on Rome see Livy, Book 5.34ff and Polybius 2.14ff, as well as Collis, _The Celts,_ pp. 107ff, and Cunliffe, _Ancient Celts,_ Ch. 4. King's account of the relationship between the Romans and the Gauls from the third to first century bc at the beginning of Ch. 2 is very useful and concise. The Roman movement into Transalpine Gaul on behalf of the Massalians is covered in Livy _Periochae_ 60\u20131, Florus 1.3.17, Strabo 4.1, Diodorus 34.23, Pliny _Natural History_ 3.36, Appian _Gallica_ 1.5; see also 'Conquest of Eastern Transalpina' in Ebel, King pp. 34\u201342. The campaign of Marius is covered primarily in Plutarch's _Life of Gaius Marius,_ and also touched on in Livy, _Periochae_ 66\u20137. Headlam and Durrell both write evocatively about Marius and the battlefield, but some of the theories Headlam puts forward about the detail of Marius's movements are disputed.\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\nThere are many biographies on Caesar and his political life. Goldsworthy, is, in my view, one of the best currently available, both detailed and readable. Also useful as a substantial biography with a focus on politics is Meier. Garland provides a usefully concise work which is a good short introduction. For an introduction to this period of Roman history with a good description of the decay of the republican settlement, see Scullard. Suetonius on the _Life of the Divine Caesar_ contains much of the anecdotal information about Caesar's rise to power. For the organization of Gallia Transalpina after the Roman conquest, see the relevant chapters in Ebel, Chapter 6 in Rankin, and also Cicero _Pro Fonteio_.\n\nCaesar narrates his campaign against the Helvetii in his _Commentaries,_ 1.2\u201329. Rice Holmes, in _Caesar's Conquest of Gaul,_ gives exhaustive detail of the scholarly debates over the movements of Caesar and the Gauls throughout the period, and is a most useful reference despite its age. Michael Sage, _Roman Conquests: Gaul,_ is a useful modern account of the conquest with a focus on its military aspects. The article by E. W. Murray, 'Caesar's Fortifications on the Rh\u00f4ne', discusses the movement of the Helvetii and the practicalities of securing the south bank of the river. The article by Water Dennison describes a visit to the putative battlefield of the Helvetii at Montmort at the beginning of the twentieth century. Riggsby, _Caesar in Gaul and Rome,_ discusses the literary construction and impact of Caesar's _Commentaries._ Osgood's article 'The Pen and the Sword: Writing and Conquest in Caesar's Gaul' is also useful in this regard. Caesar's account of the war against Ariovistus is in his _Commentaries,_ 1.30\u201353.\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\nThe actions of Caesar from 57\u201354 bc are covered in Books 2-5 of the _Commentaries._ The uprising of 53 BC, culminating in the execution of Acco, is described in Book 6. See also King, pp. 42\u201361. Lewuillon's guide to Gergovia provides a most useful account of the archaeology, the site's broader setting and an introduction to its literary reception in later ages. Graham Robb, in the _Discovery of France_ , discusses the naming of Gergovie (p. 304). Luciano Canfora looks at the contemporary criticisms of the destructive nature of Caesar's campaign in Ch. 15 of _Julius Caesar: The Life and Times of the People's Dictator._\n\nCaesar describes his campaign against Vercing\u00e9torix in Book 7 of his _Commentaries._ A full account of the historical texts and archaeological evidence regarding Vercing\u00e9torix and an attempt to construct as full a biography of him as possible is given in Goudineau, _Le Dossier Vercing\u00e9torix,_ pp. 267\u2013445. A history of the site of Al\u00e9sia and its reception in later French history and literature is given by B\u00fcchsensch\u00fctz and Schnapp in the monumental _Les Lieux de m\u00e9moire._ For the section on the later reception of Vercing\u00e9torix I am indebted to Andr\u00e9 Simon's _Vercing\u00e9torix et l'id\u00e9ologie fran\u00e7aise,_ and the first section of Goudineau's _Le dossier Vercing\u00e9torix._ Also useful in this regard are Ch. 9 of Collis, _The Celts_ , and also his recent chapter 'The Role of Al\u00e9sia, Bibracte and Gergovia in the Mythology of the French State', the recent PhD thesis by Laure Boulerie _Le Romantisme fran\u00e7ais et l'antiquit\u00e9 romaine,_ and Annie Jourdan, 'The Image of Gaul during the French Revolution: Between Charlemagne and Ossian'. Maria Wyke also has an excellent chapter focused on the reception of Caesar and the Gallic conquest in later culture, Ch. 3 of _Caesar, a Life in Western Culture._ Mary Beard has an essay on the popularity of Asterix in _Confronting the Classsics,_ Ch. 31. Recommended for further reading is Rowell, _Paris: The New Rome of Napoleon I,_ regarding the use made of the Caesarian past and the classical world more generally by the French monarchs and emperors.\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\nCaesar's expeditions to Britain are dealt with in his _Commentaries_ , Book 4.20\u201336 for the 55 BC invasion and Book 5.1\u201323 for the 54 BC invasion. Rice-Holmes's monumental work _Great Britain and the Invasions of Julius Caesar_ , although again early like his work on Gaul, is a great compendium of scholarly argument on the locations and practicalities of Caesar's two forays to Britain along with much subsidiary detail. Salway, Ch. 2, contains an account of the two invasions and their political impact as well as Caesar's motivations. For the long-term cultural impact of Caesar's invasions of Britain I am particularly indebted to the two articles by Homer Nearing, 'Local Caesar Traditions in Britain' and 'The Legend of Julius Caesar's British Conquest'. For an overview of some of the German legends of Caesar, see Scales, pp. 309ff. For a discussion of the possible political impact of Caesar's invasion, see Ch. 2 of Webster, _The Roman Invasion of Britain_ , and for the impact on the Celtic population of the Roman invasions see Laing, Ch. 2. Cottrell, _Seeing Roman Britain,_ touches on the sites associated with Caesar, and Charlotte Higgins, _Under Another Sky,_ begins her investigation of Roman Britain at Caesar's landing site of Deal; this is an excellent recent introduction to the broader subject.\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nRoth's guide to Glanum provides a further description of Les Antiques, as does Headlam, but his identification of them as monuments erected by Caesar in commemoration of Marius is not generally accepted. For Glanum, see also King, pp. 68-70. For the period of Roman control in Gaul after the departure of Caesar in 50 bc to the early imperial period and the development of Roman government see Drinkwater, _Roman Gaul,_ Ch. 1\u20132, and 5. The account in Brogan, Ch. 2, is also useful. The essays by Goudineau in the _Cambridge Ancient History_ are especially helpful. Fernand Braudel gives a sweeping account of the impact of Roman government in Vol. 2 of _The Identity of France,_ pp. 60\u201383. For the difficult geographical concept of Gaul, I am grateful to Professor David Kovacs for sight of an unpublished paper and helpful discussions on the subject. For the Druids, see Ellis. For Licinius, see Cassius Dio 54.21ff. For Caligula in Lyons, see Cassius Dio 59.21ff. The article by Christopherson 'The Provincial Assembly of the Three Gauls in the Julio-Claudian Period' discusses the imperial altar at Lyons, as does Drinkwater in _Roman Gaul,_ pp. 114\u2013117. Drinkwater's articles, 'A Note on Local Careers in the Three Gauls under the Early Empire' and 'The Rise and Fall of the Gallic Julii' provide further detail on the careers of Gallic aristocrats and the status of the new towns in Gaul in this period. Also useful for the cultural impact of Rome in this period are MacMullen, _Romanisation in the Time of Augustus_ , and particularly for the question of cultural identities Woolf's article 'Beyond Romans and Natives' and also his book _Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilisation in Gaul_. There are also useful chapters on the concept of Romanization in _The Early Roman Empire in the West,_ edited by Blagg and Millett.\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\nAn overview of the history of Arles is given in Headlam, along with its literary reputation. The conflict between Arles and Massalia during the Roman civil war is described in Caesar's _Civil War,_ 1.34ff. Brogan, in the relevant sections on Roman Gaul, gives a useful summary of the Roman monuments of the city, as well as an account of urbanization in Ch. 4. A recent full history of Arles is Eric Teyssier, _Arles La_ _Romaine._ Useful information on the amphitheatre is to be found in Bomgardner, _The Story of the Roman Amphitheatre._ The development of material culture is discussed in MacMullen, Ch. 4. Goodman, _The Roman City and its Periphery,_ has a discussion of Arles and in particular the development of its suburbs in Roman times. For Vaison, the archaeological guide by Goudineau is an excellent starting point. More generally for the development of urban life, see King, Ch 3, and Drinkwater, _Roman Gaul,_ Ch. 7.\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\nAn introduction to rural life in Roman Gaul is to be found in Drinkwater, _Roman Gaul,_ Ch. 8 King, Ch. 4, and Brogan, Ch. 6. Detailed material on the Orange cadastral maps is found in the following articles: Martine Ass\u00e9nat, 'Le cadastre colonial d'Orange' and Andr\u00e9 Chastagnol, 'Les cadastres de la colonie romaine d'Orange'. On tracing Roman field boundaries, see the illuminating article by Cheyette. For an account of rural crafts and agricultural produce, see the relevant sections in Coulon, _Les Gallo-Romains._ For the Barbegal Aqueduct, see King, pp. 100\u2013101. The descriptions of villas in Ausonius's _Moselle_ are to be found from ln. 298ff. The letter of Sidonius to Domitius is in 1.2 of his collected letters, and his _propempticon_ is no. 24 in his collected poems. Pliny writes on Gallic wheat in _Natural History_ 18.12. The use of the combine harvester in Gaul is discussed in Palladius 7.2. References to Gallic wines are in Pliny _Natural History_ 14.18, 26, 57, 67. The Martial epigram on Munna is in 10.36.\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\nSabine Baring-Goud writes of the Alyscamps in Ch. 6 of _In Troubador Land,_ a witness to the time of its nineteenth-century neglect. Many of the inscriptions quoted are visible in the regional museums, but they are also to be found in compilations of Latin inscriptions, in particular the volumes of the _Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum_ mentioned in the bibliography. A useful reference was also Maureen Carroll, _Spirits of the Dead._ For discussions of crafts and trade in Roman Gaul, see King, Ch 5, Drinkwater, _Roman Gaul,_ Ch. 9, and also Coulon, _Les Gallo-Romains,_ passim. Nicholas Tran's chapter 'The Social Organisation of Commerce and Crafts in Ancient Arles' is also most helpful.\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\nHaarhoff, _Schools of Gaul,_ makes an excellent starting point for education in Roman Gaul, and Marrou, A _History of Education in Antiquity,_ offers further depth and background for Gaul in the context of education of the ancient world more generally. The quotations on Julius Agricola's use of Roman education in Britain come from Tacitus _Agricola,_ 21. For an overview of the Roman development of Autun, see the article by Alain Rebourg, 'L'urbanisme d' Augustodunum (Autun, Sa\u00f4ne-et-Loire)' and for some detail of the Greek mosaics see Mich\u00e8le Blanchard-Lem\u00e9e and Alain Blanchard, '\u00c9picure dans une anthologie sur mosa\u00efque \u00e0 Autun'. The address of Eumenius on the restoration of the schools with an English and Latin text is to be found in _In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini,_ edited by E.V. Nixon and others. For Juvenal on the Gallic orators, see _Satires_ 7.148 and 15.111. Martial on the Vienne booksellers is epigram 7.88, and the presence of his works in Narbonne and Toulouse in epigrams 8.72 and 9.99. Pliny the Younger on the availability of his books is in epistle 9.11. A useful introduction to Ausonius can be found in Raby, _Secular Latin Poetry,_ Ch. 2; this also includes a wider discussion of Gallic writers during the period. There are also more recent surveys of Ausonius's work, including the essay by Harold Isbell in Binns's _Latin Literature of the Fourth Century_ , and also Kay's _Ausonius, Epigrams_ , which contains a text with commentary that makes an excellent starting point for those who wish to study Ausonius's work in the original. Ausonius's epigram to his wife ( _Uxor, vivamus quod viximus et teneamus..._ ) is no. 20 in the collection by Kay. There is also a 2017 English translation of the poems with notes by Deborah Warren.\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nGood introductions to religion in Roman Gaul are to be found in King, Ch. 6, and also in Miranda Green, _The Gods of the Celts, passim._ King also writes a chapter 'The Emergence of Romano-Celtic Religion' in _The Early Roman Empire in the_ West, edited by Blagg and Millett. For further detail of the ex-votos at the source of the Seine, see the essay by Anne-Marie Romeuf, 'Les ex-voto en bois de Chamali\u00e8res (Puy-de-Dome) et des Sources de la Seine (C\u00f4te-d'or): essai de comparaison'. Ton Derks, _Gods, Temples, and Ritual Practices,_ is a detailed recent work, with an emphasis on the northern regions. For the Cybele shrine in Vienne, see the articles by Andr\u00e9 Pelletier, 'Les Fouilles Du \"Temple De Cyb\u00e8le\" A Vienne' and Charles Picard, 'Le th\u00e9\u00e2tre des myst\u00e8res de Cyb\u00e8le-Attis \u00e0 Vienne'. The inscriptions about Cybele are to be found in _Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque,_ Vol. 5, and further information about the Cybele cult in Vermaseren, _Cybele and Attis,_ with a particular focus on Gaul in Ch. 6. For the development of Christianity in Gaul, an excellent account is given in the two works by Peter Brown, _The World of Late Antiquity_ and _The Rise of Western Christendom_. For the early Christian religious sites of Gaul, see Jean Guyon and Anne J\u00e9gouzo, _Les premiers chr\u00e9tiens en Provence_. The letter reporting the religious persecution in Lyons is in Eusebius, _History of the Church_ , 5.1. The dating of the persecution is challenged in the article by Thompson, J. F., 'The Alleged Persecution of the Christians at Lyons in 177'. The reports of the heresies of Marcus are in Irenaeus _Against Heresies,_ 1.13ff. For Martin of Tours, see the primary source material by Sulpicius Severus. A modern biography, very much in the hagiographic vein but still useful is Donaldson, _Martin of Tours._ Van Dam, _Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul_ , contains discussions of the Christianization of Gallic society, with particular attention paid to the aristocracy, Sidonius and relic cults. The letter quoted from Sidonius to Bishop Lupus is epistle 9.11. Mathisen, _Roman Aristocrats_ , similarly has an excellent overview of the role played by the Gallo-Roman aristocracy in the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. Klingshirn, _Caesarius of Arles,_ contains further detail not only on Caesarius but also this aristocratic background. The impact of Christianity on the built environment of Arles is covered in the chapter by Loseby, 'Arles in Late Antiquity'. For Paulinus, see Trout, _Paulinus of Nola,_ and also the accounts by Raby and Waddell, which have a touching account of the famous correspondence between Paulinus and Ausonius.\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nThe academic literature on the decline and fall of the Roman empire has grown considerably in volume and complexity over recent years. An excellent way to orient oneself in this literature, not to mention the period, is to read the relevant chapters of Rollaston's _Early Medieval Europe_ , which has an excellent overview of the academic arguments currently raging over the fall of the Roman empire. The _Introduction to Early Medieval Europe_ is another valuable textbook in this regard. The view that the Roman empire was brought down by its inherent flaws (the view of Gibbon) is represented principally by the work of A. H. M. Jones. Peter Heather counters with the notion that the collapse of the western empire was as a result of overwhelming barbarian attacks that exhausted the capacity of Rome to maintain resistance, though he argues that the empire was in a strong state for most of the fifth century, and that misfortune also played a role in its collapse. He does however admit to some level of cultural continuity, but points to a sudden decline in the order and prosperity of the former Roman territories. Ward-Perkins hammers home this point most stridently of all, seeing the fifth century in the west as a period of cataclysm. Other historians, such as Goffart, maintain that the fifth century was a time of managed retreat and that the settlement of barbarians in the empire was for the most part a managed and intentional process. Guy Halsall argues that the movements of the barbarians into the empire did not cause its collapse, but were rather caused by a decline in its authority. Chris Wickham charts the continuities from the fifth century onwards in his monumental _Framing the Early Middle Ages_ and _The Inheritance of Rome._ The continuities are also discussed in Volume 2 of Braudel. Also worth reading are Cameron, _The Later Roman Empire,_ Goldsworthy, _The Fall of the West_ and Grant, _The Fall of the Roman Empire._ For more specialist discussion of specific aspects of late Roman Gaul, see the compendium of essays edited by Drinkwater and Elton, _Fifth-Century Gaul_. For the Imperium Galliarum, see Drinkwater, _The Gallic Empire._\nBibliography\n\nPRIMARY SOURCES\n\nAmmianus Marcellinus, _History,_ (tr. J. C. Rolfe), Loeb Classical Library, 2005\n\nAppian, _Roman History,_ (tr. Horace White), 4 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1913\n\nAthenaeus, _The Learned Banqueters,_ (tr. S. Douglas Olson), 8 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 2012\n\nAusonius, _Epigrams,_ (ed. N. M. Kay), Bloomsbury Academic, 2001\n\nAusonius, _Works, with Paulinus of Pella's Eucharisticus,_ (tr. Hugh G. Evelyn White), 2 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1961\n\nAusonius, _Moselle, Epigrams and Other Poems_ (Routledge Later Latin Poetry) (tr. Deborah Warren), Routledge, 2017\n\nCassius Dio, _Roman History,_ Vol. 3, (tr. Earnest Cary), Loeb Classical Library, 1914\n\n_Chronicle of St Martin of Dover,_ Cotton MS Vespasian B XI, ff. 72\u201379, British Library; see also notes in T. D. Hardy, _Descriptive Catalogue of Materials Relating to the History of Great Britain and Ireland_ (Rolls Ser.), II, 263.\n\nCicero, _Letters to Atticus,_ (tr. D. R. Shackleton Bailey), Loeb Classical Library, 1999\n\nCicero, _Pro Fonteio,_ (tr. N. H. Watts), Loeb Classical Library, 1953\n\n_Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque,_ Vol. 5 ( _Aegyptus, Africa, Hispania, Gallia et Britannia),_ (ed. M. J. Vermaseren), Brill, 1986\n\n_Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum,_ Vol. 12 ( _Inscriptiones Galliae Narbonensis Latinae,_ (ed O. Hirschfeld), Vol. 13 ( _Inscriptiones trium Galliarum et Germaniarum Latinae,_ (eds O. Hirschfeld and E. Zangemeister), Berlin-Brandenburg Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1888\u20131906\n\nDiodorus of Sicily, _Library of History,_ Vols 3, 6, (tr. C. H. Oldfather), Loeb Classical Library, 1935\n\nEumenius, _Pro Instaurandis Scholis Oratio_ ('For the Restoriation of the Schools'), Ch. 9 from _In Praise of Later Roman Emperors:_\n\n_The Panegyrici Latini,_ (eds Nixon, E. V. and Rodgers, Barbara Saylor), University of California Press, 2015\n\nEusebius, _History of the Church,_ (tr. G. A. Williamson), Penguin Classics, 1989\n\nFlorus, _Epitome of Roman History,_ (tr. E. S. Forster), Loeb Classical Library, 1929\n\nGeoffrey of Monmouth, _The History of the Kings of Britain,_ (tr. Lewis Thorpe), Folio Society, 1966\n\nGregory of Tours, _The History of the Franks,_ (tr. Lewis Thorpe), Penguin Classics, 1974\n\nHerodotus, _The Persian Wars,_ (tr. A. D. Godley), 4 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1920\n\nIrenaeus, _Adversus Haereses (Against Heresies),_ (ed. A. Roberts), Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1950\n\nJulius Caesar, _The Civil Wars,_ (tr. A. G. Peskett), Loeb Classical Library, 1957\n\nJulius Caesar, _The Gallic War (De Bello Gallico),_ (tr. H. J. Edwards) Loeb Classical Library, 1917\n\nJustinus, _Epitome of the Philipic History of Pompeius Trogus,_ (tr. John Selby Watson), Henry G. Bohn, 1853\n\nJuvenal, _Satires,_ (tr. Susanna Morton Braund), Loeb Classical Library, 2004\n\nLivy, _History of Rome,_ (tr. B. O. Foster et al), 13 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1919\n\nMartial, _Epigrams,_ (tr. D. R. Shackleton Bailey), 3 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 2006\n\n_Myvyrian Archaiology of Wales,_ (eds Jones, Owen; Morganwg, Iolo; Pughe, William Owen), Denbigh, T. Gee, 1807\n\nNapol\u00e9on III, _Histoire de Jules C\u00e9sar,_ Paris, Henri Plon, 1866.\n\nPalladius, _The Fourteen Books of Palladius Rutilius Taurus Aemilianus on Agriculture,_ (tr. T. Owen), London, 1807\n\n_Perceforest,_ (tr. Nigel Bryant), D. S. Brewer, 2011\n\nPlutarch, _Life of Gaius Marius,_ in Vol. 9 of _Lives,_ (tr. Bernadotte Perin), Loeb Classical Library, 1920\n\nPolybius, _The Rise of the Roman Empire,_ (eds Frank Walbank and Ian Scott-Kilvert), Penguin Classics, 1979\n\nRutilius Namantianus, _De Reditu Suo_ ('On his Return'), (eds C.H. Keene and F. Savage-Armstrong), George Bell & Sons, 1907\n\nScriptores Historiae Augustae, (tr. D. Magie), 3 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1922\n\nSidonius, _Poems and Letters_ (tr. W. B. Anderson and E. H. Warmington), 2 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1964\n\nStrabo, _Geography,_ (tr. H. L. Jones), 8 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1932\n\nSuetonius, _De Vita Caesarum_ ('The Lives of the Caesars'), (tr. J. C. Rolfe), 2 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1970\n\nSulpicius (Sulpitius) Severus, _On The Life of St Marti_ n, (tr. A. Roberts), A _Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church,_ Second Series, Volume 11, New York, 1894\n\nTacitus, _Agricola, Germania and Dialogus,_ (tr. M. Hutton and W. Peterson), Loeb Classical Library, 1992\n\nTacitus, _Histories and Annals,_ (tr. C. H. Moore and J. Jackson), 4 vols, Loeb Classical Library, 1937\n\nWace, _Roman de Brut,_ (ed. Judith Weiss), _Wace's Roman de Brut: a History of the British: Text and Translation,_ University of Exeter Press, 2002\n\nIn addition to the printed versions of the sources, I also found two websites of very great assistance for searching and quick reference of primary sources: Bill Thayer's excellent Lacus Curtius (http:// penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/home.html) and The Latin Library (<http://www.thelatinlibrary.com>).\n\nSECONDARY SOURCES\n\nAllen, Walter, 'The British Epics of Quintus and Marcus Cicero' in _Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association,_ Vol. 86 (1955), pp. 143\u2013159\n\nAss\u00e9nat, Martine, 'Le cadastre colonial d'Orange' in _Revue arch\u00e9ologique de Narbonnaise,_ tome 27\u201328 (1994), pp. 43\u201354\n\nAudouze, Fran\u00e7oise and B\u00fcchsensch\u00fctz, Olivier, _Towns, Villages and Countryside of Celtic Europe,_ J. T. Batsford, 1992\n\nBachrach, Bernard. 'The Alans in Gaul', in _Traditio,_ Vol. 23 (1967), 76\u2013489\n\nBaring-Gould, Sabine, _In Troubador-Land,_ W. H. Allen & Co, 1891\n\nBeard, Mary, _Confronting the Classics,_ Profile, 2014\n\nBehr, John, 'Gaul' in _The Cambridge History of Christianity_ (ed. Mitchell, Margaret), pp. 366\u2013379, Cambridge University Press, 2006\n\nBenbassa, Esther, _The Jews of France:_ A _History from Antiquity to the Present_ , Princeton University Press, 1999\n\nBinns, J. W., _Latin Literature of the Fourth Century,_ Routledge Revivals, 2015\n\nBlagg, Thomas and Millett, Martin (eds), _The Early Roman Empire in the West_ , Oxbow Books, 2002\n\nBlanchard-Lem\u00e9e, Mich\u00e8le and Blanchard, Alain, '\u00c9picure dans une anthologie sur mosa\u00efque \u00e0 Autun' in _Comptes rendus des s\u00e9ances de l'Acad\u00e9mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres,_ 137e ann\u00e9e, n. 4 (1993), pp. 969\u2013984\n\nBomgardner, David, _The Story of the Roman Amphitheatre_ , Routledge, 2000\n\nBoulerie, Laure, _Le Romantisme fran\u00e7ais et l'Antiquit\u00e9 romaine._\n\nLiterature. Universit\u00e9 d'Angers, 2013. French. (PhD Thesis) Braudel, Fernand, _The Identity of France_ (tr. 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Marian Hill and Kevin Windle), University of California Press, 2007\n\nCarroll, Maureen, _Spirits of the Dead: Roman Funerary Commemoration in Western Europe,_ Oxford University Press, 2006 Chadwick, Nora, _The Celts,_ Penguin, 1991\n\nChastagnol, Andr\u00e9, 'Les cadastres de la colonie romaine d'Orange' [Andr\u00e9 Piganiol, _Les documents cadastraux de la colonie romaine d'Orange,_ XVIe Suppl\u00e9ment \u00e0 Gallia] in _Annales. \u00c9conomies, Soci\u00e9t\u00e9s, Civilisations,_ 20e ann\u00e9e, N. 1, (1965), pp. 152\u2013159\n\nCheyette, F. L., 'The Disappearance of the Ancient Landscape and the Climatic Anomaly of the Early Middle Ages: A Question to be Pursued' in _Early Medieval Europe,_ Volume 16, Issue 2 (May 2008), pp. 127\u2013165\n\nChristie, Neil, _The Fall of the Western Roman Empire: An Archaeological & Historical Perspective,_ Bloomsbury, 2011\n\nChristopherson, A. J., 'The Provincial Assembly of the Three Gauls in the Julio-Claudian Period' in _Historia: Zeitschrift f\u00fcr Alte Geschichte_ , Bd. 17, H. 3 (Jul., 1968), pp. 351\u2013366\n\nCollis, John, _The Celts: Origins, Myths, Inventions,_ The History Press, 2010\n\nCollis, John, 'The Role of Al\u00e9sia, Bibracte and Gergovia in the Mythology of the French State' in _The Harp and The Constitution: Myths of Celtic and Gothic Origin_ (ed. Joanne Parker), pp. 209\u2013288, Brill, 2015\n\nCong\u00e8s, Anne Roth, _Glanum: From Salluvian Oppidum to Roman City,_ (tr. Ralph H\u00e4ussler and Chrisoula Petridis), \u00c9ditions du Patrimoine, 2001\n\nCottrell, Leonard, _Seeing Roman Britain,_ Pan Books, 1967 Coulon, G\u00e9rard, _Les Gallo-Romains: Vivre, travailler, croire, se distraire,_ \u00c9ditions Errance, 2006\n\nCunliffe, Barry, _The Ancient Celts,_ Oxford University Press, 1997\n\nCunliffe, Barry, _The Celtic World_ , Constable, 1992\n\nDennison, Walter, 'A Visit to the Battlefields of Caesar' in _The School Review,_ Vol. 13, No. 2 (Feb., 1905), pp. 139\u2013149\n\nDerks, Ton, _Gods, Temples, and Ritual Practices: The Transformation of Religious Ideas in Roman Gaul_ , Amsterdam University Press, 1998\n\nDietler, Michael, '\"Our Ancestors the Gauls\": Archaeology, Ethnic Nationalism, and the Manipulation of Celtic Identity in Modern Europe' in _American Anthropologist,_ New Series, Vol. 96, No. 3 (Sep., 1994), pp. 584\u2013605\n\nDonaldson, Christopher, _Martin of Tours: Parish Priest, Mystic and Exorcist,_ Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1980 Drinkwater, J. F., 'A Note on Local Careers in the Three Gauls under the Early Empire' in _Britannia,_ Vol. 10 (1979), pp. 89\u2013100\n\nDrinkwater, J. F., _The Gallic Empire: Separatism and Continuity in the North-western Provinces of the Roman empire A.D.260\u2013274,_ Steiner, 1987\n\nDrinkwater, J. F., 'The Rise and Fall of the Gallic Iulii: Aspects of the Development of the Aristocracy of the Three Gauls under the Early Empire' in _Latomus,_ T. 37, Fasc. 4 (Octobre-Decembre 1978), pp.817\u2013850\n\nDrinkwater, J. F., _Roman Gaul: The Three Provinces 58 BC\u2013AD 260,_ Croom Helm, 1983\n\nDrinkwater, J. F. and Elton, H. (eds), _Fifth-Century Gaul:_ A _Crisis of Identity?,_ Cambridge University Press, 1992\n\nDurrell, Lawrence, _Caesar's Vast Ghost: Aspects of Provence,_ Faber and Faber, 1990\n\nEbel, Charles, _Transalpine Gaul: The Emergence of a Roman Province,_ Brill, 1976\n\nEllis, Peter Beresford, _The Druids,_ Robinson, 2002 Enikel, Jansen, _Weltchronik,_ (ed. P. Strauch), Munich, 1980\n\nFischer, Herman, 'The Belief in the Continuity of the Roman Empire among the Franks of the Fifth and Sixth Centuries' in _The Catholic Historical Review,_ Vol. 10, No. 4 (Jan., 1925), pp. 536\u2013553\n\nGarland, Robert, _Julius Caesar,_ Bristol Phoenix Press, 2003\n\nGoffart, Walter, _Barbarian Tides: The Migration Age and the Later Roman Empire,_ University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006\n\nGoldsworthy, Adrian, _Caesar_ , Phoenix, 2006\n\nGoldsworthy, Adrian, _The Fall of the West: The Death of the Roman Superpower,_ Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2009\n\nGoodman, Penelope, _The Roman City and its Periphery,_ Routledge, 2007\n\nGoubert, Pierre, _The Course of French History_ , Routledge, 1996\n\nGoudineau, Christian, _Regard sur la Gaule, Recueil d'Articles,_ Babel, 2007\n\nGoudineau, Christian, 'Gaul', in _The Cambridge Ancient History_ (eds A. K. Bowman, E. Champlin and A. 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Lewiston, New York, Mellen, 1998\n\nMacMullen, Ramsay, 'Barbarian Enclaves in the Northern Empire' in _L'Antiquit\u00e9 Classique,_ T. 32, Fasc. 2 (1963), pp. 552\u2013561\n\nMacMullen, Ramsay, _Romanization in the Time of Augustus,_ Yale University Press, 2000\n\nMarrou, H. I., A _History of Education in Antiquity,_ Mentor Books, 1956\n\nMathisen, Ralph Whitney, _Roman Aristocrats in Barbarian Gaul: Strategies for Survival in an Age of Transition,_ University of Texas Press, 1993\n\nMeier, Christian, _Caesar,_ Fontana Press, 1996\n\nMoorhead, Sam and Stuttard, David, AD _410: The Year that Shook Rome,_ The British Museum Press, 2010\n\nMurray, E. 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You can use your device's search function to locate particular terms in the text.\n\npages vi\u2013vii wikimedia commons\n\npage 1 Engraving of the Pont du Gard by Charles-Louis Cl\u00e9risseau, 1804; wikimedia commons\n\npage 8 \u00a9 Michael Greenhalgh, wikimedia commons\n\npage 14 wikimedia commons\n\npage 18 Getty Images.\n\npage 23 Michel Wal, wikimedia commons\n\npage 35 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 41 Shutterstock\n\npage 44 wikimedia commons\n\npage 60 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 64 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 80 wikimedia commons\n\npage 91 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 92 Nimbus08, wikimedia commons\n\npage 98 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 100 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 118 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 126 Oosoom, wikimedia commons\n\npage 128 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 134 wikimedia commons\n\npage 141 Midnighblueowl, wikimedia commons\n\npage 144 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 148 wikimedia commons\n\npage 150 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 156 wikimedia commons\n\npage 163 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 166 Siren-Com, wikimedia commons\n\npage 174 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 183 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 184 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 191 Mimova, wikimedia commons\n\npage 193 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 195 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 198 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 203 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 210 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 215 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 218 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 221 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 224 akg\n\npage 229 wikimedia commons\n\npage 231 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 236 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 239 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 244 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 253 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 255 wikimedia commons\n\npage 258 wikimedia commons\n\npage 266 wikimedia commons\n\npage 276 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 280 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 286 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 288 wikimedia commons\n\npage 291 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 298 Bijan Omrani\n\npage 309 wikimedia commons\n\npage 320 alamy\n\npage 324 wikimedia commons\n\npage 346 Bijan Omrani\nAcknowledgements\n\nI owe much to Yolande Crowe for helping my travels in search of Caesar and the Romans to get off to such a good start. My warmest thanks to her for her Proven\u00e7al hospitality and her discussions of French history. My thanks also to the many staff at French archaeological sites and museums who have assisted me in the course of my journeys and researches.\n\nRobert Twigger, Jason Webster and Tahir Shah have all been brilliantly supportive of my writing. My thanks are due to them for their encouragement and helping me to bring this work to completion. I am also forever in the debt of Matthew Leeming and Magnus Bartlett.\n\nI would also particularly like to thank for their encouragement and assistance: Gareth Mann, Dr Sebastien Blache, Professor David Kovacs, Nick Lane, Jules Stewart, Sian and Philip Bell, Sha Crawford, Rebecca S. Davis, Justin Rushbrooke, Nell Butler, Caroline Barron, John Davie, Owen Matthews, Paddy, Di, Ella and Tara Magrane, the late William Smethurst and his wife Carolynne, Allegra Mostyn-Owen and Tom Edlin. I should also like to thank Professor John Paul Russo for the opportunity to lecture on Caesar at the University of Miami.\n\nMany of my colleagues and students at Eton, Westminster and the other schools at which I have taught have been hugely inspirational, and I have learned much from them. My obligation to my own teachers at school and university never lessens, and their influence never wanes. They are too many to name in their entirety, but I shall always be especially grateful to James Breen, the late Dr Robert Buttimore, Mike Fox, Raine Walker, Dr David Howlett and Dr Tony Hunt.\n\nI could have not wished for a better agent than Andrew Lownie, or a better editor than Richard Milbank. My thanks also to the team at Head of Zeus who have worked together with me on this project: Blake Brooks, Jessie Price, Suzanne Sangster, Gill Harvey and Cl\u00e9mence Jacquinet.\n\nI would never have been able to write this book without the amazing support and practical help of my immediate family: Jane, Jason, Michael, Judy, Danesh. My wife Sam has also been extraordinarily patient, loving and supportive whilst I have been immersed in this project. She is a constant inspiration to me, and the book is dedicated to her, as well as our own two Visigoths, Cassian and Beatrix, whom I hope will in time embrace some of our antique Roman ways.\nIndex\n\nPage numbers listed correspond to the print edition of this book. You can use your device's search function to locate particular terms in the text.\n\nImages are denoted by the use of _italic page numbers_.\n\nAcco 87\n\nAconii (tribe) 211\n\nactors 237\n\nAdrianople, Battle of 336\u20137\n\nAdriatic Sea 47\n\nAduatuci (tribe) 83, 84, 158\n\n_Adversus Haereses_ (Ire-naeus) 297, 299\n\nAedui (tribe)\n\nallied to Rome 33, 66, 89, 254\n\ncapital 94, 169\n\nat Dijon 61\n\noral tradition 67\n\nand other tribes 76\u20137, 158, 252\n\nAeneas 31, 137, 186\n\naerial photography 100, 206\n\nAetius, Flavius 338\u20139\n\nAfarwy 141\n\n_Against Nature_ (Huys-mans) 247\u20138\n\nAgamemnon 31\n\nAgricola, Julius 251\n\nagriculture _see_ farming Agrippa 154, 155, 164, 284, 287\n\nAhenobarbus, Gnaeus Domitius 59\n\nAix-en-Provence 35\u20136, 39, 40\u20132\n\nAlbinus, Junius Brutus 152\u20133\n\nAl\u00e9sia 89, 109, 111, 114\u201316, 196\n\nAl\u00e9sia, Battle of 99\u2013102, _100_ , 110, _112\u201313_\n\nAlexander, Julius 234, 235\n\nAlexander the Great 47\n\nAlfred, King 135\n\nAlise-Sainte-Reine 103\n\nAllia, River 27\n\nAllobroges (tribe) 33, 34\u20135, 61, 63, 287, 301\n\nAlpilles, the 188\n\nAlps, the 23, 24, 31, 33, 39\n\naltars 164\u20135, _166,_ 169, 171, 185\u20136\n\nAlyscamps, Les (Arles) 227\u201331, _229, 231_ , 237\n\nAmbiorix 87\n\nAmbrones (tribe) 40\n\nAmbrussum 156\n\nAndrogeus, duke of Trinovantum 138, 139\u201340\n\nAntonine dynasty 325\n\nAntonine Wall, Scotland 131\n\nApollinaris 212\n\nApollo 15, 186, 254, 283\n\nAppian 34\n\nAppian Way 53\n\nAquae Sextiae, Battle of 40\u20131\n\nAquae Sextius _see_ Aix-en-Provence\n\naqueducts 188, 214\u201315\n\nAquileia 72\n\nAquitaine Gaul 155, 157, 158, 194, 221, 222, 328, 338\n\nArausio _see_ Orange\n\nArausio, Battle of 38, 40\n\nArborius 265, 268\n\nArborius, Magnus 261\n\nArc, River 40\n\nArchelaus, Herod 289\n\nArelate 178\u20139\n\n_see also_ Arles\n\nAriovistus 77, 83\n\naristocracies 49, 313\u201318, 335, 339\n\nAristotle 13, 14, 20, 25\n\nAristoxena _see_ Gyptis\n\nArles 177\u201390\n\naltars 185\u20136\n\nAlyscamps, Les 227\u201331, 229, _231, 237_\n\namphitheatre _174,_ 177, 178, _183,_ 188\u201390\n\nbaths 186\u20138\n\nCathedral of St Trophimus 177\n\nChapelle de la Genouillade _231_\n\nChurch of Saint Honorat _229_\n\nCryptoporticus 182\n\ndeities 293\n\nimperial capital 337\n\nlayout of 179\u201381\n\nPlace du Forum 181, 182\n\nrue de l'H\u00f4tel de Ville 179, 181\n\nsculptures 180\n\ntheatre 182\u20134\n\nTour de Roland 183\n\nArminium _see_ Rimini\n\nArtemis 15\n\nArthur, King 131, 140\u20131\n\nArthur's-Hoven 131, _134_\n\nArverni (tribe) 33, 76, 87, 158, 328\n\nArviragus 130\n\nAsclepiodotus, Pisonius 234\n\nAsia Minor 12, 20, 56\n\n_Ast\u00e9rix_ (Goscinny and Uderzo) 115\u201316\n\nAthena 20\n\nAttila the Hun 338\n\nAttis 290, 291, 292, 307\n\nAttusia (wife of Ausonius) 261, 267\n\nAude, River 36\n\nAugusta Raurica, Switzerland 154, 156\n\nAugusteum (precinct in N\u00eemes) _288_\n\nAugustine, St 127\n\nAugustodunum _see_ Autun\n\nAugustonemetum _see_ Clermont-Ferrand\n\nAugustus\n\nand Cleopatra 165\n\nand Druids 161\n\nas emperor 149, 171, 180\n\nin Gaul 164, 168, 331\n\nmemorials 186, 285, 289\n\nas Octavian 154, 164\n\nAurelian Way 227\n\nAusonius 260\u201375\n\nconsulship 328\n\nimperial service 334, 337\n\njourney along the Moselle 207\u20138, 217, 249\n\nand Paulinus of Nola 308\u201311\n\npoet 179\n\nsculpture of _266_\n\n_Ephemeris_ 263\u20135\n\n_Parentalia_ 265, 267\u20139\n\nAusonius, Julius 261, 262\n\nAustria 36\n\nAutun (Augustodunum)\n\n_cardo maximus 244_\n\ncomparison with Le Mans 323\u20134\n\ndeities 284\n\neducation in 169, 253\u20139, 254\u20136\n\nlayout of 252\n\nmosaics 257\u20138\n\nname 168\n\nPorte d'Arroux _244_\n\nPorte Saint-Andr\u00e9 _255_\n\nTemple of Janus _258_\n\ntheatre 253\n\nwalls 253, _253_\n\nAuvergne 33, 76, 88, 89, 208\n\nAvaricum _see_ Bourges Avitus, Lucius Duvius 194, 312\n\nBaiae, Italy 208\n\nbakeries 241\u20132\n\nbarbarians 328\u201330, 337, 339\u201340, 342\n\nBarbegal aqueduct and mill 214\u201317, _215_\n\nbarges 240\n\nbas-reliefs _241_\n\nBastide-l'\u00c9v\u00eaque, Aveyron 236\n\nBath 130\n\nbaths, Roman 186\u20138, 207\u20138, 209\n\nBeaucaire 39, 59\n\nBelgic Gauls 83, 94, 157, 208\n\nBellicus _224_ , 236\n\nBellovaci (tribe) 84, 151, 153\n\nBenignus, Quintus Candidus 232\n\nBernard, Henri 107\n\nBerthelier, Philibert 62\n\nBeryllus 237\n\nBesan\u00e7on (Vesontio) 77\n\nBibracte ( _oppidum_ ) 94, 105, 114, 252, _253_\n\nBibracte, Battle of 73\u20134, _75_\n\nBibulus 57\u20138\n\nbishops 300, 302\u20133, 311\u201318\n\nBismarck, Otto von 110\n\nBissula (slave girl of Ausonius) 269\n\nblacksmiths 236\n\nBlandina 296\n\nBoii (tribe) 21, 31, 76\n\nBologna 22, 30\n\nBononia _see_ Bologna\n\nBordeaux 272, 308\n\nBoulogne 85, 123, 155\n\nBourbon monarchy 105, 108\n\nBourg-Saint-And\u00e9ol 292\n\nBourges 89, 94\n\nBr\u00e9an, Adolphe 108\n\nBrenne, River 99\n\nBrenner Pass 42\n\nBrennus 28, 104, 105, 137\n\nbribery 55, 160\u20131\n\nBridge (Kent) 136\n\nbridges 63, 121, 192\n\nBritain 86, 121, 129\u201330, 139\u201340, 142\n\nCaesar's invasion of 86, 121\u20134\n\nBritannia _see_ Britain\n\nBrittahel of Demetia 138\n\nBrittany 94, 208\n\nbronze 15, 16, 168, 190, 282\n\nBrutus 52, 106, 137\n\nbuilders 232\u20133\n\nBurdeau, Auguste-Laurent 294\n\nBurgundians (tribe) 325, 340\n\nBurgundy 76, 279, 325\n\nburial grounds 227\u201331\n\nBurrus, Afranius 193\u20134\n\ncadastral maps 201\u20132, 204, 205\n\nCaesar, Gaius Julius and Al\u00e9sia, siege of 99\u2013102\n\nassassination of 154\n\nand Bibracte, defeat of Helvetii at 73\n\nbiographies of 108\u20139\n\nand Britain 121\u20134\n\nand Cato 86\n\ndescription of Helvetii 66\u201371\n\nfamily 42, 49, 50, 52\u20133, 148\n\nand Gallic wars 62\u2013116\n\nnumber of Gallic deaths caused by 95\n\njourney to Geneva 62\u20135\n\nand Gergovia, siege of 89\u201394\n\nlegacy of 130\n\nand Marseille 179\n\npolitician 170, 180, 325, 328\n\nand provinces 85, 167, 331\n\nrise of 47\u201358\n\nand tribal leaders 77, 106\u201316, 134\u201342\n\nand tribes 65\u20137, 70\u20134, 76, 85, 94\u20135, 151\u20132\n\nand Vercing\u00e9torix 116\n\n_see also_ Commentaries on the Gallic War\n\nCaesarius of Arles, Saint 188, 314\u201316, 318\n\n'Caesar's Camp' 130\n\n_Caesar's Vast Ghost_ (Durrell) 178, 214, 287\n\ncalendars 238, 291\n\nCaligula 160, 168, 170, 331\n\nCalvin, John 300\n\nCalvinus, Sextius 36\n\nCamden, William 127, 129, 135\n\ncanals 38, 59, 228\n\nCanterbury 126\u20137\n\nBigbury Hill Fort _128_\n\nChurch of St Martin _126,_ 127\n\nPilgrims' Way 128, _128_\n\nCanterbury Castle 130\n\nCapitol, Rome 27, 54\n\nCarbo, Papirius 36\n\nCarcassonne Gap 36\n\n_cardo_ (road) 179, 202, 227, 244\n\nCarnutes (tribe) 151\n\nCarnutum ( _oppidum_ ) 105\n\nCarron, River 131\n\nCarthage 19\u201320, 29, 234, 290\u20131\n\nCassian, St John 314\u201315\n\nCassis 15\n\nCassivellaunus _118,_ 129, 134\u20137, 138\u201342\n\nCasticus 70\n\nCatiline conspiracy 55, 62\n\nCato the Younger 52, 55, 56, 86\n\nCato, Valerius 258\n\nCatullus 31\n\nCatulus, Quintus Lutatius 55\n\nCatumandus, prince 20\n\nCatuvellauni (tribe) 136\n\nCeltic culture 95, 98, 104\n\nCeltic Gauls, origins of 22\u20133\n\nCeltillus 88\n\nCenabum _see_ Orl\u00e9ans\n\nCertinus, Titus Carsius 237\n\nCh\u00e2lons, Battle of 338\u20139\n\nChampagne 24\n\nChapelle de la Genouil-lade, La (Arles) 229, 230, _231_\n\nChares, Oppius 259\n\nchariot racing _156, 195,_ 289, 300\n\nchariots 15\n\nCharles IX, King 228\n\nChichester 130\n\nChilham, Canterbury 129\n\nChirac, Jacques 115\n\nChiragan 211\n\nChlorus, Constantius 254\n\nChristianity 293\u2013300\n\nbishops 300, 302\u20133, 311\u201318\n\nin Britain 127\n\nearly presence in Gaul 299\n\nheresy 297\u20139\n\nlegend 227\u20138, 230\n\nfirst martyrdoms in Gaul 294\n\npersecution of 294\u20137, 304\n\nrise of 260, 335\n\nRoman Catholicism 103, 107, 314, 340\n\nand Vercing\u00e9torix 107\n\n_see also_ Martin, St, bishop of Tours\n\n_Chronicle of Dover Monastery_ 136\n\n_Chronicle of St Martin of Dover_ 130\n\nCicero 18, 55, 61, 62, 66, 87, 248, 249, 258, 271\n\nCicero, Quintus 87\n\nCilician pirates 51\n\nCimbri (tribe) 37, 39, 41\u20132, 83\u20134\n\nCinna 50\n\n_cippi_ (inscribed stones) 101, 234\n\nCisalpine Gaul 21, 31, 33, 47, 58\n\nCivilis, Julius 173 _civitates_ (city-states) 158, 164\u20136, 167, 169, 192\n\nClaudian 213\n\nClaudius 127, 161,\n\n168\u20139, 330, 331\n\nCleopatra 165, 287\n\nClermont-Ferrand 94, 110, 115, 168, 208, 340\n\nClovis, King 103, 114\n\nClusium 26\n\ncoinage _see_ currency\n\nCollonges 63\n\nCologne 156, 168\n\nColonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium _see_ Cologne\n\nColonia Iulia Paterna Arelatensium Sextanorum _see_ Arles\n\nCominius, Caius 234\n\n_Commentaries on the Gallic War_\n\nbackground 66\u20137\n\ncompletion by Aulus Hirtius 152\n\non Geneva 62\u20133\n\nand Gods 283\n\non grain 213\n\npurpose of 67\n\non soldiers 125\n\nas a source 137\n\nas teaching material 3\u20134\n\nThree Gauls 157\n\non tribes 70\u20131, 83, 85\u20136, 152\n\non Vercing\u00e9torix's surrender 107\n\nComo, Lake 30\n\nCondate 162, 163\n\nCondrusi (tribe) 158\n\nConstantine 187, 261, 300, 304\n\ncoppersmiths _224_\n\nCornelia (wife of Caesar) 50, 52\n\ncorruption _see_ bribery coups 108\n\nCoway Stakes, Walton-on-Thames 135\u20136\n\ncraftsmen 238\n\nCrassus 49, 57, 85\n\nCrau, the 38, 228\n\nCremona 30\n\nCridous of Albany 138\n\nCritognatus 101, 102\n\nCryptoporticus (subterranean chamber in Arles) 182\n\ncult complexes 291\u20133\n\nculture and identity, Roman 327\u20138, 342\n\ncurrency 17, 149\u201350, 165, _166, 335_\n\ncursus honorum (sequence of public offices) 53, 172\n\n_curule aediles_ (office) 54\n\nCybele 290\u20133, _291,_ 307\n\nCybele sanctuary, Vienne _291_\n\nCyrus, king of Persia 12\n\nDanube, River 47, 65, 332\n\nDaphnus of Vaison 299\n\nde Gaulle, Charles 111, 114\n\nDeal 124, 125, 127\n\nDeal Castle 125\n\n_decumanus_ (road) 179, 202\n\ndeities 283\u20135, 293, 299\n\nDelphi 20\n\nDelphidius 271\u20132\n\nDevil's Dyke, Wheathampstead _118,_ 136\n\nDijon 61\n\nDio, Cassius 159\u201360\n\nDiocletian 333, 334\n\ndiplomacy 329\n\nDivico 71\n\nDivitiacus 62\n\ndoctors 235\n\n_dolium (storage jar_ ) _320_\n\nDomitian 221\n\nDomitius 209, 211\n\nDomitius, Gnaeus 34\u20135\n\nd'Orl\u00e9ans, Henri, duc d'Aumale 107\u20138\n\nDorobellum 138\n\nDover 123, 124\n\nDover Castle 129\u201330\n\nDruids 62, 95, 107, 161, 271, 283\n\nDrusus 164\n\nDumas, Alexandre 177\n\nDumnorix 70\n\nDurocortorum 105\n\nDurrell, Lawrence 178, 214, 287\n\nEburones (tribe) 158\n\nEdirne 336\u20137\n\neducation 250\u20132, 253\u20139\n\nEgypt 165, 185, 207, 287\n\nElysian Fields 227\n\nEnglish Channel 86, 122\u20133\n\nEntremont ( _oppidum_ ) 22, 23, 34, 35, _35_\n\nEpicurus 257\n\nepigrams 223, 259, 263, 274\n\n\u00c9tang de Thau 59\n\nEtruscans 13, 18, 19, 22, 25\n\nEumenius 254\u20136, 257\n\nEuric, King 340, 341\n\nEuropean Union 342\n\nEusebius 287, 289, 294\u20135\n\nEuthymenes 250\n\nEuxenus _see_ Protis\n\nExe, River 130\n\nExeter 130\n\nFabius, Laurent 115\n\nFabius, Lucius 115\n\nfarming\n\nanimals 217, 219\n\nand cadastral maps 202, 204\u20135\n\ncalendar 238\n\ncrops 213\u201314, 217\n\ntradesmen and 237\u20138\n\nFelix, Vitalinus 235\n\nFestus, Maximius 293\n\nFirst World War 236\n\n_flamen dialis_ (priest of Jupiter) 50\n\nFlanders 85\n\nFlavian dynasty 325\n\nFlorus 32, 33, 160\n\nflower-sellers 235\n\nFonteius, Marcus 61\n\nFort de L'\u00c9cluse 64\n\nfortifications ( _oppida_ ) 34, 88, 128\n\nforums 181, 182, 324\n\nFos (port near Arles) 38\n\nFrance 103\u20135, 106\u20138, 142, 147\n\nFranco-Prussian War 106, 110\n\nFran\u00e7ois I, King 104\n\nFranks, the 103, 104\u20135, 106, 339\n\nFrench Revolution 104\n\nGaius 180\n\nGalba 173\n\nGallia Belgica _see_ Belgic Gauls\n\nGallia Cisalpina _see_ Cisalpine Gaul\n\nGallia Comata 83, 86, 152, 154, 251\u20132\n\n_see also_ Three Gauls\n\nGallia Lugdunensis _see_\n\nLyonese Gaul\n\nGallia Narbonensis _see_\n\nNarbonese Gaul\n\nGallica Aquitania _see_\n\nAquitaine Gaul\n\nGambetta, L\u00e9on 110\n\nGarlaban (mountain) 12\n\nGaronne, River 36, 157\n\nGauguin, Paul 229\n\nGenava _see_ Geneva\n\nGenesius, St 227\n\nGeneva 36, 62\u20133, 65, 71\n\nSt Pierre's Cathedral 300\u20133\n\nGeneva, Lake 62, 65\n\nGeoffrey of Monmouth 137, 138\u20139, 140\u20131\n\nGergovia (oppidum) 89\u201390, 92\u20134, 99, 105, 110, 111, 115\n\nGergovia, Battle of 87\u20139, _91,_ 93, 96\u20137, 99\n\nGergovie (modern village) 92, 92, _98,_ 111\n\nGermania 328\n\nGermany 110\u201311, 142\n\nGetae (Thracian tribe) 65\n\nGibbon, Edward 243, 325\n\ngladiatorial games 54, 170, 177, 196, 237\n\nGlanum\n\nArch of Glanum 147\u201350, 148, 150, 161, 170\u20131\n\nfinds from 21\n\nGlanic mothers 284\n\nMausoleum of the Julii _144_\n\nglassmakers 234, 235\n\nGnipho, Antonius 258\n\ngold 21, 25, 27\u20138, 33, 124, 180\n\ngorgons 16\n\nGoths _see_ Visigoths\n\nGrand-Rue, Marseille 15\n\nGratian 262, 270, 308, 337\n\nGreat St Bernard Pass 24\n\nGreeks 31, 72, 179, 217, 220\n\ncolony of Massalia 11, 12\u201315, 20, 153, 250\n\nimpact on Gauls 17, 18, 22\n\nlanguage 17\u201318, 170, 250\u20131, 257, 274\n\nphilosophy 299\n\n_see also_ migration; Phocaea; Vix Krater\n\nGreek fire 136\n\nGregory of Tours 317\n\nGrey, Sir Thomas 131\n\ngrottoes 280\u20132\n\nGueithaet of Venedotia 138\n\nguilds 233\u20134\n\nGyptis 13\u201314\n\nHades 37\n\nHadrian 211\n\nHallstatt culture 15\n\nHannibal 28, 30\n\nHarpocrates 293\n\nHasdrubal 29\n\nHaussmann, Georges-Eug\u00e8ne 109\n\nHaute-Garonne 211\n\nHeadlam, Cecil 178\n\nheads, display of human 21\u20132, 34, 301\n\nHelvetii (tribe) 70\u20134\n\ncensus 76\n\nmigration _64, 65\u20137,_ _68\u20139,_ _75_\n\nrise of 36\n\nterritory of 63, 156\n\n_see also_ Caesar, Gaius Julius\n\nHercules 12\u201313, 284\n\nHerodotus 12\n\nHesperia 31, 32\n\nHesperius 268\n\nHirtius, Aulus 67, 152, 153\n\nHispania 35\n\n_Historia Regum Britanniae_ (Geoffrey of Monmouth) 137, 138\u20139, 140\u20131\n\nHomer 250\n\nHorace 171, 270, 271\n\nHuysmans, Joris-Karl 247\n\nIllyricum 47, 58, 65, 85\n\nImperium Galliarum (Empire of the Gauls) 332\u20133\n\nimports, luxury 15\u201316\n\n_Inferno_ (Dante) 228\n\ninscriptions\n\naltars 164\n\ndecline in use 336\n\nGallo-Roman Museum 166, 169, 170\n\nGreek art 18\n\nmemorials 136, 232\u20138\n\nmonuments 180, 189\u201390\n\nVercing\u00e9torix memorial 94, 103, 115\n\nIrenaeus, bishop of Lyons 297, 299\n\nIsis 293\n\nItaly 22, 25, 37\u20138, 88, 338\n\nIucundus 238\n\nJean, duc des Esseintes (character in _Against Nature_ ) 247\u20138\n\nJewish settlers, France 147\n\nJohn of Fordun 131\n\nJudaism 147\n\nJulia (wife of Marius) 42, 52\n\nJulianus, Septimus 233\u20134\n\nJulius Caesar _see_ Caesar, Julius\n\nJulius, Titus 180\u20131\n\nJuno 27\n\nJupiter 283\n\nJura Mountains 63\n\nJurgurtha, King 38\n\nJutland 37\n\nJuvenal 259\n\nKnights Templar 177, 289\n\n_kraters (wine cauldrons) 16\u201317,_ _18, 44_\n\nLa Graufesenque (Aveyron) 240\n\nLa P\u00eane 216\n\nLa Roche Blanche 90\n\nLa Turbie\n\nTropaeum Alpium 164\n\nLabienus, Titus 71, 138\n\nLac d'Aydat 208\n\nLambarde, William 126, 130\n\nLatin 32, 63, 67, 94, 141, 168, 170, 206, 249, 281, 282, 306, 308, 340\n\ndoggerel 258\n\nepigrams 274\n\nthe Gauls and 169, 190, 251, 341\n\nLate Latin 248\n\nliterature from Gaul 260, 270, 271\n\nmetre 263\n\nnames of villa estates 207\n\n'Silver Latin' 248\n\nteaching of 3, 5\n\nLatium 25, 31\n\nLavant, River 130\n\nLe Mans (Vindunum)\n\nCathedral of St Julien _324_\n\ncomparison with Autun 323\u20134\n\nforum 324\n\nwalls 323\u20135, _324_ , 333, 336, 338\n\nLe Pen, Jean-Marie 115\n\nL\u00e9gion Fran\u00e7aise des Combattants 111\n\nLeland, John 125, 130\n\nLemi\u00e8re, Pascal-Louis 107\n\nLenus 284\n\nLeprosum _see_ Levroux Les Baux-de-Provence 147, 300\n\nLeslie, John 131\n\nLevant, the 13, 56\n\nLevroux 306 _Li Fet des Romains_ (anon.) 135\u20136\n\nLicinius 159\u201360\n\nLigug\u00e9 305\n\nLigurian tribes 13\n\nL'\u00cele (Geneva) 62\n\nliterature\n\nauthors 177\u20138, 247\u201350, 336\n\nFrench 106\u20138, 142, 247\u20138\n\nGerman 142\n\nLatin 248\u20139, 271, 275\n\nWelsh 141\u20132\n\nLivy 21, 23\u20136, 28, 31, 32, 37\n\nLocociacum _see_ Ligug\u00e9 London 137, 138, 139\n\nLouis XII, King 147\n\nLouis XVIII, King 105\n\nLucan 95\n\nLucca, Italy 85\n\nLucius 180\n\nLugdunum _see Lyons Lugdunum Conuenarum_ _see_ Saint-Ber-trand-de-Comminges\n\nLugus _see_ Mercury Lupus of Troyes, Bishop 312\u201313\n\nLutetia _see_ Paris\n\nLyonese Gaul 157\n\nLyons 155, 156, 161, 162, 196, 265, 287, 293, 294, 295, 297\n\nAltar of Peace ( _Ara Pacis_ ), Rome 171\n\nAltar of the Three Gauls 164\u20135, _166,_ 169\n\namphitheatre 293\u20134, 296\n\nChristian martyrdom in 294\u20137\n\ncolonies in 154, 155\n\nFourvi\u00e8re Hill 162, _163_\n\nGallo-Roman Museum 166, 170\u20131\n\nlayout of 162\u20133, 164\u20135\n\nRue Burdeau 168, 293\n\nMacpherson, James 104\n\nMajorian 312\n\nMandubii (tribe) 99\u2013102, 158\n\nMarcellinus, Ammianus 250\n\nMarcellus 272\n\nMarcia, Queen 137\n\nMarcus 297\u20138\n\nMarignano, Battle of 104\n\nmaritime trades 233\n\nMarius, Gaius\n\nand the Ambrones 40\n\nBattle of Aquae Sextiae 41, 42\n\nand Caesar 54\n\nconsulship 38\u201342, 49\n\nmonument to 148\u20139\n\nand the Teutones 38, 39, 41, 60, 70\u20131, 74\n\nMark Antony 154\n\nMarmoutier (near Tours) 305\n\nMarne, River 24\n\nMars 283\n\nMarseille 11\u201322\n\narchaeological remains in _14_\n\neducation in 250\u20132\n\nand Rome 12, 32\u20133, 35, 153\n\nsiege of 179\n\n_see also_\n\nMassalia Martial 223, 259, 274\n\nMartin, Henri 106\n\nMartin, St, bishop of Tours 303\u20137, 311, 317\u201318\n\nmartyrdom, Christian 294\n\nMas des Tourelles, Beaucaire _218, 220\u20132, 221_\n\nMassalia (Greek colony) 14\u201320, 21, 22, 24, 25, 32, 33, 34, 35, 39, 59, 72, 122, 153, 179, 223, 250, 251, 258, 300\n\n_see also_ Marseilles\n\nMassif de l'\u00c9toile (mountain) 12\n\nMatres Nemausicae 285\n\nMaximus 262\u20133, 272, 337\u20138\n\nMaximus, Valerius 251\n\nMediterranean Sea 12\u201313\n\n_megara_ (Greek halls) 17\n\nMela, Pomponius 193\n\nmemorials 164\u20135, 232\u20135\n\nMenapii (tribe) 85, 94\n\nMercury 283, 284\n\nMerdogne _see_ Gergovie Merovingians, the 103, 114\n\nmetalwork 15\n\nMetrodorus 257\n\nmigration\n\nof the Helvetii 64\u20135, 66\n\nGallic 23, 24\u20135, 29, 37\n\nGermanic 76\u20137, 85\u20136\n\nof the Phocaeans 12, 13\u201314, 24, 32\n\ntradesmen and 234\u20135\n\nmilestones 59, _60_\n\nMillet, Aim\u00e9 _80_\n\nmills, flour 216\u201317\n\nminers 236\n\nMinerva 283\n\nMinervius, Victor 271\n\nMirabeau, Marquis de 42\n\nMistral, Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric 177, 299\n\nMithraism 292, 293\n\nMithridates, king of Pontus 51\n\nMitterrand, Fran\u00e7ois 114\u201315\n\nModena 30\n\nMolmutius, Dunvallo 137\n\nMont Auxois 99\u2013100, 103\n\nMont Lassois 16, 17, 18\n\nMontagne de Bussy 99\n\nMontagne de Flavigny 99\n\nMontagne Sainte-Victoire 40\u20132, _41_\n\nMontmort 73\n\nMorini (tribe) 85\n\nMoselle, River 207, 217, 269\n\nMulhouse 77\u20138\n\nMutina _see Modena_\n\n_Myst\u00e8res du peuple, Les_ (Sue) 106\n\n_Myvyrian Archaiology_ 142\n\nNannus, King 13\u201314\n\nNapoleon III 90, 92, _92,_ 103, 108\u201310, 123, 280\n\nNapoleonic Wars 104, 105, 106\n\nNarbo Martius _see_ Narbonne\n\nNarbonese Gaul 36, 156, 157\n\nNarbonne 36, 156\n\nNemausus 285\n\n_see also_ N\u00eemes\n\nNennius 138\n\nNero 172, 193\u20134, 331\n\nNervii (tribe) 84, 94\n\nnettle, Roman 127\n\nNicomedes, king of Bithynia 51\n\nN\u00eemes\n\namphitheatre _vi-vii_\n\nAugusteum 285, 286\n\n'Latin Rights' 153\n\nsymbol of 287\n\n'Temple of Diana' 285\u20136, _288_\n\ntheatre 285\u20136\n\ntombstones _239_\n\nTour Magne 285, _286_\n\nNoricum 36, 39\n\n_Norma_ (Bellini) 107\n\nNormandy 208\n\nNoviodunum ( _oppidum_ ) 88\n\nOctavian 154, 164, 180\n\n_see also_ Augustus\n\nOdysseus 37\n\nofferings (ex-votos) 282, 285\n\nolives 17, 214, 217, 238\n\nolive oil 22, 34, 234\n\nOlympus, Marcus Julius 237\n\nOppidum Ubiorum _see_ Cologne\n\nOrange, Vaucluse\n\ncadastral maps 201\u20132, 204, 205\n\ntheatre 184\u20135, _184, 203_\n\ntombs _195_\n\noratory 51, 259, 271\n\nOrcet, Great Camp at 89\u201390, _91_\n\norder, social 28, 242\n\nOrgetorix 70, 73\n\n_Orlando Furioso_ (Ariosto) 228\n\nOrl\u00e9ans (Cenabum) 87, 88\n\nOrosius 135\n\nOuv\u00e8ze, River 191, 194\n\npaganism 227, 249, 307, 315\u201317\n\nPalladius 213\u201314\n\nParis (Lutetia) 89, 109\n\nParkinson, John 127\n\nParma 30\n\nPas de L'\u00c9cluse 63\u20134, _64,_ 65\u20136, 72\n\nPatera, Attius 271\n\nPaulinus, Lollius 164\n\nPaulinus of Nola, St 249, 308\u201311, _309_\n\nPaulinus of Pella 249\n\nPaulus, Axius 272, 273\n\n_Pax Romana_ 192, 234\n\n_Perceforest_ (anon.) 142\n\nperfume-sellers 234\n\nP\u00e9rignat-l\u00e8s-Sarli\u00e8ve 89\n\nP\u00e9tain, Marshal Philippe 111, 114\n\nPetta _see_ Gyptis\n\nPhocaea, Greece 12\n\nPhocaeans 12\u201313, 19, 24, 32\n\nPhoenicians 13\n\nPiacenza 30\n\npilgrims 281\u20132\n\nPilgrims' Way 128\n\nPiso, Lucius Calpurnius 73\n\nPlacentia _see_ Piacenza\n\nPlancus, Lucius Munatius 153, 154\n\nPlato 271\n\nPlautus 185\n\nPliny the Elder\n\nbackground 22\u20133\n\non bread 213, 241\n\non Caesar 95\n\non religion 161\n\non shampoo 234\n\non wine 193\n\nPliny the Younger 259\n\nPlutarch 28, 39, 40, 47\n\nPo, River 25\n\nPo Valley 30, 39\n\nPolybius 23, 25, 29\u201330\n\nPompey 56\u20137, 60, 85, 151, 153, 194\n\nPont du Gard (aqueduct) 1, 214\n\nPonticus 296\n\n_pontifex maximus_ (chief priest) 54\u20135\n\nPontius Pilate 287, 289\n\npopulism 49\n\nPortus Itius _see_ Boulogne\n\nPosidonius 21, 37\n\nPostumus, Lucius 21\u20132, 332\n\nPothnius, bishop of Lyons 295\u20136\n\npottery 220, 240\n\nPourri\u00e8res (valley) 40, _41,_ 42\n\npriesthood 50, 165\u20137, 180\u20131, 234, 290\n\nPriscillian 307\u20138\n\nPriscus, Gaius Munius 189\u201390\n\nProtis 13\u201314\n\nPulcher, Publius Clodius 87\n\nPunic Wars 30, 290\u20131\n\nPuy d'Issolud (Uxellodunum) 151, 188\n\nPuyloubier 40, 41\n\nPyrenees, the 157\n\nPyrrhus, King 28\n\nPytheas 122\n\nRaeti (tribal federation) 153, 154\n\n_Red Book of Hergest_ 141\u20132\n\nReformation, the 300\n\nRegulianus, Gaius Sentius 234\n\nreliefs _224, 240,_ _241,_ 284, 290, 292, 300\n\nreligion 287, 289, 292\u20133, 299\n\n_see also_ priesthood\n\nRemi (tribe) 84\n\nRenaissance 104\n\nRepublic, Roman 48\u20139\n\nRhine, River 86, 121\u20132, 153, 332\n\nRh\u00f4ne, River\n\nconflict along 36\n\ncrossing the 63, _64, 65\u20136_\n\nhead of 62\n\nmap of _68\u20139_\n\nmouth of 179\n\nsettlements along 153, 155\n\ntrade route 15, 38\n\n_Richard II_ (Shakespeare) 130\n\nRichborough, Kent 140, _141_\n\nRichborough Castle 126\n\nRimini 30\n\nrituals 42\n\nroads, Greek 15\n\nroads, Roman 15, 59, 61, 155\u20136\n\n_see also_ Via Aemilia; Via Aquitania; Via Domitia\n\nRochefort, Henri 110\n\nRochester Castle 130\n\nRomani, Felice 107\n\n_Romanitas_ 173, 185, 190\n\nRomney 127\n\nRoquepertuse, Acropolis 22\n\nRosmerta 284\n\nRufus, Gaius Julius 190\n\nRutilius 249\n\nSacrovir 160, 254\n\nSt Albans, Hertfordshire 136\n\nSaint B\u00e9at, Haute-Garonne 235\n\nSaint-Bertrand-de-Comminges (Lugdunum Conuenarum) 60\n\nSaint Honorat, Church of, Arles 228, 229\n\nSaint-Martin-de-Crau 13\n\nSt Mary in Castro, Dover Castle 130\n\nSt Pierre's Cathedral 300\u20133\n\nSaint-R\u00e9my-de-Provence 38, 147\n\nAsylum of St Paul 21\n\nRoman baths 21\n\nSt-Romain-en-Gal\n\nmosaics _198, 210, 236, 238,_ _346_\n\nOrpheus ensemble _210, 346_\n\nSaint-Seine-l'Abbaye 318\u201319\n\nSaintes 155, 190\n\nSaintes-Maries-de-la-Mer 300\n\nSaluvii (tribe) 33, 34\n\nSalvian of Marseilles 339\n\nSambre, Battle of the 84\n\nSamian ware (pottery) 240\n\nSamnites (tribe) 25, 29\n\nSa\u00f4ne, Battle of the 72\n\nSa\u00f4ne, River 15, 72, 162\n\nsarcophagi 229, 232\n\nSarkozy, Nicolas 115\n\nSarthe, River 323\n\nSasanian dynasty, Persia 333\n\nSaturninus, Publius Brittius 237\n\nScheldt, River 157\n\nScotland 131\n\nSecond World War 110, 147, 294\n\nSegobrigii (tribe) 13, 19\n\nSegusiavi (tribe) 169\n\nSeine, River 157, _275, 280\u20132,_ _280,_ 318\u201319\n\nSeine, St 318\n\nSena Gallica _see_ Senigallia\n\nSenate, Roman 48\u20139, 55\u20138, 84, 172, 180, 330\u20131\n\nSeneca 193\n\nSenigallia 30\n\nSenones (tribe) 28, 30, 94\n\nSequana (goddess) _275_ , 281\u20132, 283, 284, 343\n\nSequani (tribe) 66, 67, 76\u20137, 158, 169\n\nServilia 52, 55\n\nSeveria, Severa 234\n\nSeverinus, Julius 169\n\nSeverus, Alexander 332\n\nSeverus, Sulpicius 304\n\nshrines 93\u20134, 196, 280\u20132, 306\u20137, 318\n\nSidonius 208\u201310, 211\u201312, 249, 312\u201313, 340\u20131\n\nsieges\n\nAl\u00e9sia 100, _112\u201313_\n\nGergovia _91, 96\u20137,_ 99\u2013101\n\nRome 27\n\nSiey\u00e8s, Abb\u00e9 104\n\nsilver 17, 33, 54, 140, 190, 335\n\n'Silver Latin' 248\n\nSimon, Andr\u00e9 110\n\nSimos 13\n\nslaves 128\u20139, 236, 264\u20135\n\nSocrates 271\n\nsoldiers 48\u20139, 235, 236\u20137, 285, 316, 330\n\nSolemnis, Titus Sennius 170\n\nSoumet, Alexandre 107\n\nSpanish Civil War 147\n\nSportisse, Lucien 294\n\nsteles, wooden 22, _275_\n\nStoffel, Colonel Eug\u00e8ne 90, _91_\n\nStoffel maps _68\u20139, 75, 96\u20137, 112\u201313, 132\u20133_\n\nStour, River 128\n\nStrabo\n\non Cimbri (tribe) 37\n\non farming 212\u201313, 217\n\non Lyons 155, 162, 164\u20135\n\non Marseille 32, 250\n\nSue, Eug\u00e8ne 106\n\nSuebi (tribal confederation) 77\n\nSuessiones (tribe) 84\n\nSuetonius 51, 52, 121, 259\n\nSulla 49\u201351\n\nSulpicius 306\n\nsymbolism 17, 111, 115, _280,_ 287, 290\n\nSyracuse, Sicily 25, 28\n\nTacitus\n\nbackground 260\n\nand culture 253, 254\n\non Marseille 251\n\non oratory 259\n\non uprisings 160, 173\n\nTarascon 39\n\ntaxation 56\u20137, 159, 164, 329, 332, 334\n\ntemples\n\nApollo 254\n\nAthena 20\n\nLenus 284\n\nat the Source of the River Seine 281\n\nTemple of Diana 285\u20136, _288_\n\nTemple of Janus _258_\n\nVenus Victrix 42\n\nVienne 289\n\nTencteri (tribe) 85\u20136, 94\n\nTenvantius, duke of Cornwall 138\n\nTerence 185\n\nTerentius, Marcus 238\n\nTetrarchy 333\n\nTeutones (tribe)\n\nand Caesar 83\u20134\n\nand Marius 38, 41\u20132, 70\u20131, 74, 101\n\nmigration 37, 39, 60\n\nThames, River 129, 134\u20136\n\nTheline 178\n\nTheodoric, king 338\n\nTheodosius I 262, 273, 337\n\nTheon 273\n\nTherasia (wife of Paulinus) 310\n\nThierry, Am\u00e9d\u00e9e 104, 105\u20136\n\nThierry, Augustin 104\u20135\n\nThird Century Crisis 333, 334\u20135\n\nThree Gauls 156\u20139, 330\u20131\n\nTiber, River 31, 341\n\nTiberius 161, 180, 217, 331\n\nTigurini (Helvetii tribe) 72\u20133\n\nTogirix 167\n\nTolosa _see_ Toulouse tombs _144, 195, 241,_ 317\n\n_see also_ burial grounds tombstones _239,_ _298_\n\ntorture 295\u20136\n\nToulouse (Tolosa) 36, 211, 259\n\nTours, France 305, 306, 318\n\ntowers 62, _286_ , 287\n\ntraders, Greek 15\n\ntrades 233\u201342\n\ntrading routes 240, 329, 335\n\nTransalpine Gaul 33, 58, 60, 65, 153, 156\n\nTres Galliae _see_ Three\n\nGauls\n\nTrets 41\n\nTreveri (tribe) 284\n\ntribes\n\nbarbarian 330\n\nconflicts 36\n\ndepictions of 149\u201350\n\nGallic 61, 158, 167, 169\u201370, 172\u20133\n\nGermanic 86, 121\u20132, 164\n\nmemorials to 164\u20135\n\nupheaval of 205\n\nvanishing 158\n\n_see also_ individual names\n\nTricastini (tribe) 205\n\nTrier 260, 284, 333, 337\n\nTrinovantum (London) 137\n\nTrivet, Nicholas 130\n\nTrogus, Pompeius 12, 13, 18\u201319, 20, 32\u20133, 194\n\nTroia Nova (London) 137\n\nTrojans 31\u20132\n\nTrophimus, St 227\u20138, 299\n\nTroy 31, 137\n\ntumuli 15\n\nTungri (tribe) 158\n\nUbii (tribe) 86, 156\n\nUcuetis 196\n\nUrbicus, Quintus Lollius 131\n\nUsipetes (tribe) 85\u20136, 94\n\nUxellodunum _see_ Puy d'Issolud\n\nVaison-la-Romaine 190\u20136\n\nCastle Hill 191\n\nHouse of the Dolphin _193_\n\nHouse of the Silver Bust _191_\n\nhouses 195\n\nmosaics and frescoes 195\u20136\n\nPuymin site _320_\n\nValens 336\n\nValentinian III 339\n\nValerius 265\u20136\n\nValetudo 284\n\nVall\u00e9e des Baux 216\n\nVallonus 237, _239_\n\nvallus (reaping machine) 213\u201314\n\nvan Gogh, Vincent 21, 177, 229\u201330\n\nVarro 32\n\nVeii 25\n\nVellaunodunum ( _oppidum_ ) 88\n\nVenarey-les-Laumes 98\u20139\n\nVenerable Bede, the 135, 137\n\nVeneti (tribe) 85, 94\u20135\n\nVenus 53, 186\n\nVenus Victrix 42\n\nVercellae, Battle of 42\n\nVercing\u00e9torix 103\u201316\n\nand Caesar 87\u20139, 101, 102\u20133\n\nlegacy of 111\u201312, 114\u201316\n\nmemorial _80,_ 93\u20134, 99, 103, 109\u201310\n\n_Vercing\u00e9torix_ (Martin) 106\n\nVerecundus, Marcus Licinius 285\n\nVesontio _see_ Besan\u00e7on\n\nvessels, drinking 17, 21\u20132, 234, 238\n\nVia Aemilia 30\n\nVia Aquitania 36\n\nVia Domitia\n\nfirst Roman road 35, 59\u201360, 155, _156_\n\nmilestones on _60_\n\nslip road from 147, 148, 149\n\nVienne 287\u201390\n\nCybele sanctuary _291_\n\n'Latin Rights' 153\n\nodeon 289\n\nsettlement 36, 265\n\ntemple 289\n\ntheatre 289, 290\n\ntower 287\n\nwalls 161\n\nvillas 206\u20138, 209\u201312, 220, 242\n\nVindex, Gaius Julius 172, 331, 332\n\nVindunum _see_ Le Mans vines 71, 219, 220, 221, 222\n\nvine-dressers 237, _239_\n\nvineyards 17, 219\u20132\n\nVirgil 31, 130, 171, 205, 273\n\nVisigoths (tribe) 325, 336, 338, 339, 340\n\nVix Krater 8, 16\u201317, _18_\n\nVoconti (tribe) 192\n\nVorocingus (near N\u00eemes) 212\n\nVosges, Battle of 77\u20138\n\nWace 130, 141\n\nWalmer 125, 127\n\nWeever, John 136\n\nwells 284, 302\n\nWelsh literature 141, 142\n\n_Weltchronik_ (Enikel) 142\n\nWheathampstead _118,_ 136\n\nWheeler, Sir Mortimer 136\n\nWilliam of Malmesbury 130\n\nwinemaking _218,_ 220\u20133, 222\n\nworkshops, craft 220, 238, 240\n\nwrestling 139\n\n'Year of the Four Emperors' 172\u20133\n\nZeus 13\nCAESAR'S FOOTPRINTS\n\nPegasus Books, Ltd.\n\n148 West 37th Street, 13th Floor\n\nNew York, NY 10018\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2017 by Bijan Omrani\n\nFirst Pegasus Books hardcover edition December 2017\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.\n\nISBN: 978-1-68177-566-1\n\nISBN: 978-1-68177-612-5 (e-book)\n\nDistributed by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Tokyo, My Everest - Gabrielle Bauer"}, "text": "Tokyo, My Everest\n**_DEDICATION_**\n\n_To Nobuko Miyagi_\n\n&\n\n_Drew Smylie_\n\n# Tokyo, My Everest\n\nA Canadian Woman in Japan\n\nGabrielle Bauer\n\nHOUNSLOW\n**Tokyo, My Everest: A Canadian Woman in Japan**\n\nCopyright \u00a9 1995 by Gabrielle Bauer\n\nAll Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Hounslow Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective.\n\n**Hounslow Press**\n\nA member of the Dundurn Group\n\nPublisher: Anthony Hawke\n\nEditor: Liedewy Hawke\n\nPrinter: Webcom\n\nFront Cover Illustration: Cathy Pentland\n\n**Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data**\n\nBauer, Gabrielle\n\nTokyo, my Everest: a Canadian woman in Japan\n\nIncludes index.\n\nISBN 0-88882-181-6\n\n1. Tokyo (Japan) - Description and travel.\n\n2. Tokyo (Japan) \u2013 Social life and customs.\n\n3. Canadians - Japan \u2013 Tokyo. 4. Bauer, Gabrielle - Journeys - Japan - Tokyo. I. Tide.\n\nDS896.35. B38 1995 952'.135049 C95-931124-6\n\nPublication was assisted by the Canada Council, the Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Canadian Heritage, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Ontario Publishing Centre of the Ministry of Citizenship, Culture, and Recreation.\n\nThe author thanks the Ontario Arts Council for their financial assistance toward the writing of this book.\n\nCare has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.\n\nPlease note: The names of the people appearing in this book have been changed in order to protect privacy. Names of places and institutions are unchanged.\n\nAcknowledgements\n\nQuote p. 7 reprinted from _Ransom_ , by Jay Mclnerney, New York: Random House, 1985.\n\nQuote p. 31 reprinted from _The Handmaid's Tale_ , by Margaret Atwood, (1985), used by permission of the Canadian Publishers, McClelland & Stewart, Toronto.\n\nQuote p. 71 reprinted from _Touch the Dragon_ , by Karen Connelly, Winnipeg: Turnstone Press, 1993.\n\nQuote p.103 reprinted from _Metropolitan Life_ , by Fran Lebowitz, New York: Janklow & Nesbit Literary Agents, 1978.\n\nQuote p. 165 reprinted from _Confessions of a Mask_ , by Yukio Mishima, Copyright \u00a9 1958, New York: New Directions Publishing Corporation, reprinted with permission by New Directions.\n\nPrinted and bound in Canada\n\nHounslow Press  \n2181 Queen Street East  \nSuite 301  \nToronto, Ontario, Canada  \nM4E 1E5\n\nHounslow Press  \n73 Lime Walk  \nHeadington, Oxford  \nEngland  \nOX3 7AD\n\nHounslow Press  \n1823 Maryland Avenue  \nP.O. Box 1000  \nNiagara Falls, NY  \nU.S.A. 14302-1000\n\n## CONTENTS\n\n**The Lie of the Land**\n\n**Faces in the Crowd**\n\n**Small Victories**\n\n**A Change of Season**\n\n**A Flash in the Pan**\n\n**Chasing Rainbows**\n\n**An Earthquake and a Typhoon**\n\n**Glossary**\n\n## **THE LIE OF THE LAND**\n\n\"He wondered which was worse: having a master for whom you would cut off your child's head, or having no master at all.\"\n\n_Jay Mclnerney_\n\n### **1**\n\nI am sitting cross-legged on the floor of a six-tatami room in the middle of nowhere, trying to see the humour in my situation, as would, say, a fly on the wall. What's a nice Jewish girl from Toronto doing in a place like this? I say this aloud, trying to put the right amount of whine in my voice. But it doesn't work. What I am thinking is that if I don't find another roof to put over my head before the day is over, I'll call the whole thing off. Take a cab to Narita airport, get on the first plane back to Toronto and tell everybody I'd simply made a mistake. It would be inelegant but forgivable. I kick myself now for having come here on a one-way ticket (as a symbol of my wish to keep things open-ended), which cost me almost the same as the round-trip fare.\n\nThere's some construction going on nearby \u2014 a highrise apartment building, by the looks of it \u2014 and my view of the surrounding greyness is partially blocked by a grid of rusty poles and an assortment of cranes, the shovel of one of them aimed at my window as though threatening (or promising) to scoop me out of my self-imposed exile. It's six-thirty in the morning, and the house is perfectly still, though I know from the past two days' experience that the quiet won't last for long. Soon enough they'll all gather in the kitchen and make friendly chit-chat about who's eating what for breakfast. Then they'll start planning the day ahead.\n\n\"Hey, Sue, wanna go shopping later this afternoon?\"\n\n\"Not today, Karen. Gotta rest up. I'm working at Ginza tonight, remember?\"\n\n(In a sing-song voice) \"She's the _hostess_ with the _mostess_ , so she needs her beauty rest.\"\n\n\"Cut it out, Jim.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute \u2014 I'm also at Ginza tonight. Wanna go out for drinks after work?\"\n\n\"Let's do it.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Think I'll have to pass.\"\n\n\"Whatsamatter, Sue, you getting sensible in your old age?\"\n\n\"It's the cab fare I'm talking about, guys. I can't afford it.\"\n\n\"Remember that cab we took back from Shinjuku the other night? Not a big deal \u2014 less than \u00a52,000 each, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"I don't even remember where I _was_ that night, let alone how I got _back_ from there.\"\n\nA round of laughter.\n\n\"So, are we going out tonight or not?\"\n\n\"Twist my arm a little more.\"\n\nMaybe they'll even ask me to join them, although they've probably given up by now \u2014 I've refused their invitations once too often, and for no good reason. It's not their fault that they're twenty-two to my thirty-three, that they've risked nothing by coming here, that Japan is just a rest stop for them. It's not their fault that they like to cook together, to eat together, to spend their evenings huddled around the television in Sue and Trina's room. It's not their fault that they're American, or British, or Australian, and that they want to recreate the atmosphere of a college dormitory, which is where most of them have just come from.\n\nWhen I arrived at Narita airport three nights ago, there wasn't a room to be had in Tokyo. It was early September, peak of the annual invasion of foreigners to Japan. As I dropped coin after coin into an oversize red telephone, I kicked myself for having decided it was unadventurous to arrange my accommodations ahead of time. I got to the bottom of my list of guest houses and cheap lodges, and was about to start calling the pricier hotels when a couple of Europe-on-ten-dollars-a-day types with bulging backpacks wandered over to where I was standing. They'd just learned about a vacancy in a guest house called Let's Go World, but couldn't use the room since they had two more friends travelling with them.\n\nAnd so I found myself in the room where I am now sitting, almost comically dreary with its single naked lightbulb, walls shedding their paint, and a mattress spotted with the tarnished remains of either menstrual blood or virginal love. Whatever this is, I told myself as I unpacked, it isn't Japan.\n\nBefore going to bed I went downstairs to the communal kitchen to make myself some tea. There were several other people in the kitchen, all very young, by the looks of it.\n\n\"So what's your agenda?\" a guy wearing boxer shorts asked me.\n\n\"Agenda?\"\n\n\"Yeah, like what's on your plate? What did you come to Japan for? I'm Jim, by the way.\"\n\nI mumbled something vague, then threw the question back at him.\n\n\"I've been studying Japanese at school,\" he said, \"and wanted to immerse myself in the language for a couple of years. After that I think I'll go back home and do a Master's degree in economics \u2014 either that or an MBA, depending on where I get accepted.\"\n\nOne by one they told me their reasons for being in Japan, my spirits sinking as I listened to their bright plans, each with its tidy beginning and ending. Karen was interested in getting modelling and acting experience before returning to the Big Apple and setting up shop as a talent agent. Sue and Trina had come together from Australia, and were working as hostesses in order to make \"oodles of money.\" That accomplished, they planned to travel around the world, and eventually find their way back to Sydney where they hoped to buy a condo together. Ron was here to learn business Japanese, whatever that was, then go back to the States and get married. In a real funk by now, I excused myself as quickly as possible and trotted up to my room, sensing that my mood would keep plummeting unless I kept my distance from this crowd.\n\nAt three o'clock in the morning I was startled awake by the floor and walls shaking. My first night in Tokyo and already an earthquake, I thought as I rubbed my eyes. But then I heard a sharp cry coming from directly below me, followed by a few grunts. Earthquakes didn't sound like that, I knew.\n\nThe following night there was a house party in Sue and Trina's room. (\"You wanna chip in for some booze?\" I'd been asked, and churlishly refused.) They cranked up the music \u2014 stuff I hadn't heard in decades, like Cat Stevens and The Doobie Brothers \u2014 and kept it going well into the morning. As the only dissenter among them, I didn't have the nerve to ask them to turn down the volume. I spent the better part of the night with my head under my sleeping bag, cursing the fates for having lured me halfway around the world only to deposit me in a college frathouse.\n\nThe next day I managed to get myself on a waiting list for Kimi Ryokan, a Japanese-style inn that was the starting point for many of the foreigners who arrived in Tokyo. \"Keep checking,\" the clerk told me, so I called him ten, maybe twelve times that day. The others, who saw nothing wrong with life at Let's Go World, were baffled and a little put off by my constant trips to the telephone, my anxiousness to get out. \"We're a real friendly group here,\" Sue told me. \"I'm sure you'll get used to it here if you give it a chance. But to each his own, I guess,\" she added with a shrug.\n\nThat evening I went out for a walk. The narrow, crooked streets around Let's Go World quickly widened into a noisy thoroughfare flanked by boxy grey buildings, neon lights jumping up and down their facades. I crossed the pedestrian overpass, and soon found myself in another maze of narrow streets without names. On one of these, I was stopped by a man in a business suit. (Tokyoites, I would later learn, had a special aptitude for detecting newly arrived foreigners: during my first few weeks in the city, I was constantly stopped by strangers on the streets or in trains, but this happened less and less as time went on.)\n\n\"You have Yoroppa face,\" the man said without preamble, squinting through his glasses.\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"Yoroppa, you know? Like Paris, Milan, Lisbon \u2014\"\n\n\"Ah, you mean _Eu_ rope,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, yes, you have Yoroppa face. Do you come from Yoroppa?\"\n\n\"I was born in France,\" I told him, \"although it was just by chance. But yes, my parents were from Eastern Europe.\"\n\n\"I knew it!\" he beamed. \"Yoroppa face. Last year I was three months in Itaria, with my company. My name is Mr. Haruta, by the way.\"\n\nOn impulse, I asked him if he wouldn't mind if we spoke Japanese for a while, explaining that this was my first chance to put my six months of study to use. Mr. Haruta, though, was as eager to show off his poor English as I was my poor Japanese, so we continued our conversation with each stammering broken fragments of the other's language.\n\nBack at Let's Go World, my spirits buoyed by the impromptu encounter, I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep right away. But today, as I sit cross-legged in the hot, still air, I'm back to wondering what I'm doing here. I try to recall the heart-stopping excitement of my two previous trips to Japan, short visits that had left me hungry for more. On both occasions I had been sent by Yamaha, the company I worked for at the time, to coach a young piano student who was performing her own music in two televised concerts. I'd stolen out of my hotel every night and gone on long walks through Tokyo, high on just breathing its air.\n\nMy thoughts turn to Joel, my ex-husband (the ink still wet on the divorce papers) and off on his own adventure, trekking through foothills and mountain passes in the wilderness of Central Asia. I think of his wildly curly hair, spilling crazily on all sides of his head. How could I have left that hair? Those high spirits, that monstrous intellect?\n\nIn a paroxysm of remorse, I fish around in my suitcase, find some stationery and begin scribbling a letter of apology. I tell him that the scales have been lifted from my eyes, that I've had a change of heart and I'm coming right back home if he'll only take me. But even as I write I realize it is cowardice and not love that is pushing my pen on the page, and that if I returned to the safety of his arms, within a week I'd be back at square one \u2014 itching to leave.\n\nI tear up the letter, get out of my sleeping bag and put on some clothes. Then I tiptoe downstairs to the payphone and dial Kimi Ryokan once again. Today, finally, there is an opening. I tell them I'm on my way.\n\n### **2**\n\nLocated in the heart of the riotous district of Ikebukuro (known to some as Shinjuku's poorer cousin), Kimi Ryokan was a small whitewashed building that you could easily miss as you walked by. Inside, the polished oak floors in the entrance and hallways felt cool and sensuous under my bare feet. I was given a tiny room smelling of fresh sheets, and all was quiet as I unpacked. I knew I'd come to the right place.\n\nKimi was different from most other _ryokan_ in that it served a primarily foreign clientele, and was inexpensive enough that people could stay there for several weeks if they had to. Every morning, guests would shuffle into the dining area and eat their breakfast with their heads bent over the Japan Times classified ads, then disperse to all four corners of the city in search of jobs and places to live. The evenings were spent swapping battle stories. People warned each other about English schools that hired only young, Aryan-looking teachers, landlords who wouldn't rent to foreigners, ads for movie extras that turned out to be ploys to attract hostesses. One by one, the names and faces changed as job and housing situations resolved themselves.\n\nI was sitting on the steps of the common room on my third evening at Kimi, getting acquainted with a few of the other guests (somehow, being antisocial didn't seem as imperative to me here as it had at Let's Go World), when a tallish woman emerged from a bedroom door, stumbled toward our group and sat down beside me. She was very pale, with blue-black hair that looked dyed.\n\n\"I feel like shit and I look like shit,\" she drawled, preparing herself for a yawn. The combined effect of her hair, skin and red lipgloss (with matching nails) made me think of Rose Red. \"Oh, _excuse_ my manners \u2014 my name's Charlene.\"\n\n\"When did you get here?\"\n\n\"Last night,\" Charlene said. \"I must have slept for almost twenty-four hours, but all I feel like doing is crawling back to bed.\"\n\n\"Welcome to Tokyo,\" Lahti said, shaking his head sadly. \"It's a hard life here. I have many scars in my heart.\" Lahti was from Nepal, and called himself the king of Tokyo because he was on his eighth visit. \"Scars in my heart\" was an expression he used often, usually in the midst of recounting some racist incident that had befallen him.\n\n\"God, what I wouldn't do for a foot-massage right now,\" Charlene said. \"Or even a back-rub.\"\n\nPrincess, I thought. It turned out she was from Toronto, just a few blocks away from where Joel and I had lived. Although she was a graduate of the University of Toronto law school, a year of articling in a downtown law firm had convinced her that she wasn't cut out to practice law.\n\n\"I spent the whole year in a musty library,\" she told us, \"doing research for these tight-assed Bay Street types. Believe me, the last thing I want to do after that experience is read more law books. That's why I thought I'd try teaching in Japan \u2014 I want a job where I actually _talk_ to people.\"\n\nJust then we were joined by John, who was returning from his first evening of teaching. He looked flushed and bright-eyed.\n\n\"I'm floored,\" he said as he joined the rest of us on the steps. \"Totally floored. This is the wildest night I've had in my life, and I've only been here a week.\" He looked around to make sure he had our attention. \"I walk into the classroom, right? It's a group of businessmen, and I'm expecting them to be all shy and tongue-tied, like everyone's been telling me they're supposed to be. Anyway, I ask them about their hobbies. Standard stuff, right? Well, there's this one guy called Koji, and when it's his turn, he tells us \u2014 just like that, to a bunch of strangers \u2014 that his hobby is dragging. You know, cross-dressing. He tells us he likes to go out dragging in Shinjuku on weekend nights. And then, as if that weren't enough excitement for one evening \u2014\" he pulled a thick Japanese comic book out of his knapsack \" \u2014 this is what another student brought to class.\" He flipped to a page on which there was a drawing of a naked man whose penis, about twice as long and thick as the rest of the man, was jutting straight skyward. \"I don't know if they were trying to test me, or what, but this is mind-blowing. I can't wait to write my dad about this.\"\n\n\"I think it's sad, actually,\" a man called Howard said. \"I mean, here's this society that pretends to be all squeaky clean \u2014 nobody even holds hands on the street, let alone doing anything like kissing, God forbid \u2014 and then they produce this filth for all eyes to see.\"\n\nOh no, I thought, a lecture.\n\n\"I mean, _kids_ have access to this stuff,\" he went on. \"I don't know what in God's name I'm doing in this country. It's bad enough that they were on Hitler's side during the war, you'd think they'd have gotten their act together by now. I should have gone to Israel, like my mother told me to.\"\n\n\"Someone told me the same thing,\" I said, jolted back to the conversation I'd had with an aunt of mine the night before my departure.\n\n\"Why Japan, why not Israel?\" she'd asked me.\n\nThe second part of her question was easy enough to answer: the thought of going to Israel had simply never occurred to me. As to the first part, why Japan, was there any way to explain the tidal pull one felt toward this and not that part of the world? Was there any way to explain that, although I'd hardly given Japan a thought during the first thirty years of my life, when I first set foot on Japanese soil I felt as though I had come home? That when the compulsion to break free from the half-life I'd created \u2014 the half-marriage and half-career and half of pretty much everything \u2014 grew too strong to ignore, Japan emerged from my jumbled thoughts as the only, the obvious solution?\n\n\"It's the hypocrisy I can't stand,\" Howard was saying. \"It's like their right hand doesn't know what their left hand is doing. If the men have affairs, it's nobody's business, not even their wives'. And homosexuality? My heavens, no, not in _our_ society. If at least they'd admit to being as sex-crazed as the rest of us \u2014\"\n\n\"My students didn't seem to have a problem admitting it,\" John said.\n\n\"Yeah, well. I still think it's sad.\"\n\n\"He sounds like he hasn't had any tail for a while,\" Charlene whispered in my ear. I suppressed a laugh, and decided that she might be worth a second look.\n\nA couple of days later, Charlene disclosed what she considered to be her worst trait. \"I must have a _cha_ racter flaw, or something,\" she told me, stressing syllables here and there as though they were in italics. \"When I was working all day with all these stuffed-shirt lawyers who thought of nothing except their work and the Dow Jones, I felt like shaking them and saying, 'Get a _life_ , for God's sake.' They brought out the Bohemian in me. So then I started hanging out with these artsy types \u2014 you know, unemployed screenwriters who mowed people's lawns on weekends \u2014 and after a while I just wanted to shake them and say, 'Get a steady _job_ , for God's sake.'\" She shook her head and rolled her eyes. \"Whatever situation I'm in, I seem to want the opposite. For all I know, I'll be pining for the law library after I get into teaching.\"\n\nUnlike Charlene and most of the others, who had to look for work after they'd arrived in Tokyo, I already had a job lined up. My Japanese teacher in Toronto had written to her cousin who had talked to her friend who had put me in contact with the director of a language school she attended. As a personal favour to my teacher's cousin's friend, the director had agreed to hire me as a full-time teacher, though she let me know in a letter that it was \"big exception, since we Japanese usually insist on face-to-face meeting before hiring employee.\" I accepted the offer with a twinge of guilt, since I knew I wasn't cut out for teaching and secretly planned to look for other work after I'd settled in.\n\nAs far as housing was concerned, my original plan had been to find a place of my own as soon as I arrived. I had visions of a cozy apartment building, futons drying out on the verandahs, green tea and rice crackers with the neighbours. But it soon became apparent that I would have to defer the plan \u2014 the startup costs were simply too high. First there was the gift money, as the Japanese termed it, that you had to hand over to the landlord in order to move into a place. In almost all cases, this was two months' rent. Then there was the commission to the rental agency (unless you \"knew someone,\" apartments could only be rented via agencies) along with two months' rent deposit, and of course, the rent for the first month \u2014 a total of six months' rent, two-thirds of it non-refundable. Had I been willing to share an apartment with Charlene, as she suggested we do, I might have been able to swing it. I preferred to wait until I could afford my own place, and decided to live in a guest house in the meantime, if I could find one that was less sophomoric than Let's Go World.\n\nCharlene accepted the first job that was offered to her, a full-time teaching position at a conversation school called Bilingual, and she found an apartment in a highrise building owned by a foreigner. It cost her several thousand dollars to move in, but she said her privacy was worth it. \"There are two things I can't live without \u2014 listening to my CDs and screwing.\"\n\nIt was these bursts of candour that finally made me decide that, red nails and all, Charlene was someone worth befriending. She gave me her new phone number and we promised to keep in touch.\n\n### **3**\n\nGuest houses, more commonly referred to as gaijin houses by those who occupy them, are dotted all over Tokyo and number in the hundreds. Some of them have curfews, some have communal living rooms, some have shared housekeeping and cooking duties. The one I finally settled on had neither a living room nor a kitchen, which I thought would allow for a more private lifestyle.\n\nEsther House was located in the town of Nishiogikubo in northwest Tokyo, about ten minutes' walking distance from the train station. It had eight bedrooms, each with its own sink and hotplate, two toilets and one shower. At \u00a572,000 per month it cost no less than most studio apartments, the difference being that no key money or agency fee was required. There was a pay telephone screwed onto the outside wall under my window, and even with the window shut I could hear most of what was spoken into it. Though I balked at the \u00a580,000 deposit required in order to have my own phone installed, I decided, as Charlene had, that I was willing to pay for my privacy.\n\nUnlike Let's Go World, Esther House had attracted tenants of disparate ages and backgrounds. The oldest was an Australian woman of sixty who was sharing a corner room with her son and daughter-in-law. I was curious to find out what circumstances would have led to such an unusual living arrangement, so I invited her to my room for tea a few days after I moved in.\n\nHer full name was Jeanne-Anne, but she told me to call her Jay, a contraction of her initials. \"Ivrybody does,\" she explained, \"even my kids.\" She was on the heels of her second divorce, which had turned ugly when she discovered that her ex-husband had sold their house without consulting her and then walked away with the proceeds.\n\n\"He's a lawyer, so he knew all the tricks. I could have taken him to court, I suppose, but I just didn't have the innergy. So there I was, sixty years old, unemployed, no savings to speak of ... It was Bruce who actually suggisted I come to Japan with him and Janet. We'd all heard about the piles of money you could make here teaching English, so I thought, why not?\"\n\nWhen she moved into a room with the other two, it was with the understanding that she would find a place of her own as soon as she got a job \u2014 a matter of days, they all believed. But in a market where even thirty-year-olds were at a disadvantage, she was running into one brick wall after another. For two months she'd been crisscrossing the city in search of the one English school that would give her a chance, and was beginning to get discouraged.\n\n\"I guiss I was rather naive,\" she said into her teacup, \"but I thought that with tin years' experience teaching high-school English I'd have no problem finding a job here. They tell me it's my accent, but I know what they're thinking \u2014 I can see it in their eyes, the moment I walk in the door.\" She paused, and her own eyes started to shine. \"Can't let myself do that,\" she said quickly. \"If I do I'm a didd duck. Innyway, you can't really blame the schools. They're running a business, and they know what their customers want.\"\n\nMark and Susan lived directly under my room. They'd gotten engaged shortly before coming to Japan, and on the spur of the moment decided to get married the weekend after I moved into Esther House. \"We don't know what we're doing,\" Mark said cheerfully as he and Susan set off to the city hall, \"but we're doing it anyway.\" On another occasion, when he and I were alone, he confessed that he sometimes thought of Susan as more of a best friend than a wife. \"But we _did_ get married, so that must mean we wanted to,\" he said, not sounding too sure.\n\nLike all good Americans, Mark was a political animal, inflamed by the corruptness in Japan, America and the rest of the world. He decried the apathy of young Japanese, which I, political illiterate that I was, secretly found refreshing. \"Whenever I try to talk politics to my students,\" he complained, \"the conversation falls flat. The women are especially bad \u2014 half of them don't even know who their prime minister is. Mention Sting or Bryan Adams, though, and they're all ears.\"\n\nThe room to my right was being shared by a former midwife from New Zealand and a New Yorker who was looking for work as a model. They made it clear to me that they weren't a couple. \"Just trying to cut costs.\" Ariel, the would-be model, flitted back and forth between his two personas, dashing man-about-town and brooding intellectual, and had the clothes to match both. Depending on his plans for the day, he would either breeze out of the house in cuffed pants, a plaid jacket slung over his shoulder, or drift off in torn jeans and a paint-stained white T-shirt. Even on his man-about-town days, he didn't quite cut the picture of a model \u2014 his features were too drawn, his nose too prominent \u2014 though he assured us that \"interesting faces\" were the coming trend in male models. Like Mark, he was a compulsive news-hound, and didn't feel right if he went to bed without having read all three of the English-language dailies, which he let pile up in a corner of his half of the room. \"Just in case,\" he said, in case what never being quite clear to me.\n\nJessie, who'd had the room to herself for several months before she took Ariel in, had little patience for Ariel and his newspapers. \"Stupid Yankee,\" she would mutter. \"Thinks the world will fall apart if he doesn't hang on to last month's papers. They're a bloody fire hazard, is what they are.\" Rather than confront him directly (which would have been inelegant), she took to surreptitiously removing one paper from the bottom of his stack for every new one he added. \"I'm wondering when he'll finally say something,\" she said gleefully, but he never let on that he noticed.\n\nThe worst way to deal with Jessie was to ask her a straightforward question \u2014 her barbs would then turn to poisoned arrows. I found this out when I asked her (served me right, I thought afterwards) why she'd decided to come to Tokyo.\n\n\"Dunno,\" she piped. \"Maybe to answer silly questions.\"\n\nJessie was at her best when left to talk without interruption. \"Have you ever walked into a Japanese department store at opening time?\" she asked me once. \"Well, I'll give you a preview. There are these two women in red uniforms on either side of the entrance. Their job is to welcome you \u2014 _Irasshaimase, irasshaimase'_ \u2014 as you walk in. Up ahead near the escalator, there are two more women wearing red uniforms. Same thing \u2014 ' _Irasshaimase, irasshaimase_.' I ask them if they know where I can find some slippers. But it's not their job, you see. They're welcomers, not sales clerks. Onto the escalator and up to the second floor, where there are \u2014 take three guesses \u2014 two more women wearing red uniforms. By this time I'm getting kind of bored with the whole thing, so I just bow to them and say ' _irasshaimase_ ' and watch their jaw drop. Six women to welcome me, and none of them can tell me where to find a bloody pair of slippers. It's a good way to get rid of unemployment, though.\"\n\nJessie was the last person I would have figured to be working as a hostess, but that was in fact what she was doing. She wanted to have her days free so she could study Japanese full-time, though I noticed that she never actually spoke it, even when buying oranges or taking her clothes to the drycleaner's.\n\n\"It's useless to try and figure her out,\" Susan warned me early on. \"If she thinks you may be onto her, out come the quills.\"\n\nIn the first-floor room facing the street lived three young men whom Jessie had nicknamed the Shadows. Days would go by without anyone seeing them, the only sign of life in their room being the clicks of what we guessed to be chess pieces hitting a board. Late one evening, when all the other rooms were quiet, the sound reverberated up through my walls. Click-click, click, click, click-click-click ... and then came Jessie's voice, piercing through the darkness. \"Game's over, you bloody woodpeckers.\"\n\nThe following evening the Shadows moved out.\n\n### **4**\n\nI was determined to love Tokyo, despite its ugliness. As I made my way through the jumble of interlocking buildings, drearily modern with their cylindrical elevator shafts or triangular verandahs or space-bubble windows bulging like giant eyeballs, or any number of inexplicable protrusions jutting out at strange angles, I tried to see not disorder but a grand design, albeit a mad one.\n\nIt soon became apparent to me that Tokyo lovers were people who carried their own vision of the city in their minds. If you were primed to find beauty, you found beauty. It was pointless to take part in the interminable arguments between Tokyo's supporters (clean, safe, charming in an oddball way) and its detractors (treeless, garish, lacking cohesion). People's opinions about the city, I suspected, had less to do with the city than with the people.\n\nThere were the hustlers, who'd come to Tokyo to make a fast buck and had little or no interest in the culture. They mistrusted the Japanese, read hypocrisy into every smile and waxed sentimental about ribsteaks. They looked forward to the day they could clear out of Tokyo with enough money to buy a house or start a T-shirt business.\n\nAt the other extreme were the worshippers, who could see or speak no evil when it came to Japan. They were very adept at picking up the language (which confirmed my suspicion that Japanese was a state of mind rather than a mere collection of words), unlike the hustlers who never quite got the hang of it. I met a man of this type during my stay at Kimi Ryokan, a Harvard dropout who was apprenticed to a sushi-chef. I spotted him on the telephone, barking out clipped phrases like a harried Japanese businessman and bowing all the while. He knew the subway system by heart and insisted that Tokyo addresses were not illogical.\n\nDuring my first weeks in Tokyo, I walked long miles in my search for this or that address, turning to the sun as a guide when my labyrinthine maps failed me. Most streets had no names and most buildings were numbered according to date of construction rather than location, which one assumed was appreciated by historians. To compound the problem, most people gave directions that sounded like the clues in a treasure-hunt. (\"You come to a large grey building, then turn left and walk until you see another grey building. Across the street is a small flower-shop ...\")\n\nWalking was a good way to get a feel for the city's various districts, each with its own personality. I learned how Shinjuku burst into flame when the sun went down, how Ikebukuro swaggered, how Akasaka preened. It was a novelty to feel so safe as I walked through the red light district of Kabukicho, passing nightclubs with signs that said \"For Bad Boys Only\" or \"Dark Wild,\" amusement halls with strip-by-numbers video games displayed in the windows, groups of red-faced, lurching businessmen and various other people of the night. I marvelled at the fact that although I was wearing a sleeveless sundress, dripping with September sweat, I never got whistled or hooted at, let alone pawed.\n\nAs I made my way through the crowds in Shibuya on a Sunday afternoon, I was struck by the absence of older people. Where were all the married couples and babes in strollers? Everybody here was neatly dressed, compact and nineteen. _You're not old_ , I told myself resolutely as Tokyo's youth flocked by me in a steady stream, while above our heads, gargantuan neon signs consorted with the clouds.\n\nTokyo was merciless in its assault on the ears, its cacophony more purposeful, somehow, than the noisemaking of most other large cities. Walking past the chattering stereo speakers posted like sentinels at every store entrance, passing cars that announced \"Now I'm turning left\" just as they started to round a corner, standing at the intersection and hearing a clumsy tune belched out in fat sine waves as the traffic-light turned green, I wondered at Tokyoites' seeming appetite for noise. It was hard to fathom how a people attuned to the sound of one hand clapping could have come up with the idea of talking ads on buses.\n\nAnd yet none of this stopped me from turning the Tokyo I saw into the Tokyo I wanted to see. I looked for the rose among the weeds, the kimono among the sweatshirts. _This_ is the heart and soul of the city, I would think as I came upon a tiny shrine, nestled innocently in the confusion of lights, sounds and buildings poking each other in the eye.\n\nAmong the various gaijin complaints about the Japanese, one of the most commonly heard is that Tokyoites are extremely rude on the train, that you have to be bleeding to death before someone offers you a seat. \"I saw a pregnant woman standing in the train the other day, looking like she was going to collapse from heat-exhaustion,\" Jessie told me, chuckling at the recollection, \"and nobody paid her any attention. Finally I tapped a man on the shoulder and said, 'Time to get up now, mister.'\"\n\nStruggling up the endless stairs in Shibuya station with a futon mattress under each arm, I too was a little annoyed when nobody offered to give me a hand. But I soon came to understand that pretending your fellow passengers didn't exist was the best way to survive the Tokyo trains. Bent out of shape by the bodies pressing against you as you fought for air on the rush-hour Yamanote, you learned to enclose yourself in a mental cocoon \u2014 to blot out the pain of an elbow digging into your back, the smell of stale eel sent up by your neighbour's belch. _I am alone on this train_ , you told yourself, and came to believe it.\n\nBy taking earlier trains, I was able to avoid the worst of the crowds and sometimes even got a seat. I studied the faces, struck by how few bald pates there were. So much hair! Young men wore it puffed up on top, scraped thin at the back, a few wisps hanging coyly over their foreheads. It was thick and shiny, carefully blowdried and often permed. Gaijin hair seemed limp and lifeless by comparison. Mark, who was well on his way to baldness, theorized that whatever substance (or lack of substance) made the Japanese small between the legs was also responsible for keeping their hair from falling out. It was an interesting theory, though it did smack of sour grapes.\n\nCommuters did a lot of reading on the train. I would stare enviously at the businessmen absorbed in their newspapers, eyes travelling up and down the columns of Chinese characters, and think, _You're just pretending to read_. I hadn't made peace with the characters yet, and was putting off the day when I'd have to start studying them seriously. My own newspaper of choice was the English Japan Times, with its depressing classified ad section (\"Wanted: cheerful foreign female, 21-25\") and scaremonger headlines. \"Tokyo is sinking under garbage!\" said the headline one morning. I didn't quite know what to make of this, but the Aussie reading over my shoulder told me not to worry. \"They've been wroiting the same article ever since I came here,\" he chuckled, \"which was sivven years ago.\"\n\nIn truth, garbage was one of the more useful commodities in Tokyo, particularly for gaijin. It seemed I was the only person at Esther House who had actually bought my furniture. One of my housemates' favourite pastimes was going out on garbage-hunting expeditions, and Susan and Mark had furnished their entire room with pieces salvaged from the _gomi_ pile. The Japan Times ran an article about an enterprising gaijin who had bought a large apartment complex and furnished every apartment with nothing but _gomi_. If true, this was quite a feat, since according to the article every apartment had a colour TV, stove, refrigerator, sofa and bed. Gaijin always pointed out how wasteful it was of the Japanese to throw away perfectly good appliances or furniture, and the Japanese made the equally valid point that because of their cramped quarters, they couldn't afford to hang on to items they weren't actually using, on the off-chance that these items might come in handy when they (or their great-grandchildren) finally bought a summer house in Chichibu.\n\nWhen Susan and Mark invited me to go to a discotheque with some people from Esther House and a friend of Jessie's, my initial thought was that the last thing I wanted to do in Tokyo was dance the night away with a bunch of disgruntled foreigners. But, not wanting to entrench my reputation as The Standoffish One, I accepted their invitation.\n\nWe were headed for a place called Buzz Buzz (\" _Everybody_ 's been talking about it,\" Jessie's friend enthused) in the heart of the Roppongi district. Roppongi is the stomping ground of Tokyo's beautiful people \u2014 the models, TV actors, would-be models, would-be TV actors \u2014 and the only part of town where gaijin are likely to outnumber Japanese, both on the streets and in the clubs.\n\nNo sooner did we step out of the train station than we bumped into a pair of blond men, swaying against each other.\n\n\"I'm so drunk,\" one of the men said.\n\n\"Me too. God I'm drunk.\"\n\n\"I'm _sooo_ drunk.\"\n\n\"Not drunk \u2014 plastered.\"\n\n\"Fucking plaaastered. Yeah.\"\n\n\"I feel like I'm gonna get sick.\"\n\n\"I'm _sooooo ..._ \"\n\nThey stumbled onward, leaving a trail of elongated syllables behind them.\n\nBuzz Buzz owes its name to the giant insects hanging from the ceiling, lit up by the obligatory spinning strobe-light. That night, the crowd was dominated by a large group of young boys, prep-school students by the looks of them. We squeezed through the tangle of bodies and found a small table, sticky with beer. The music thumped along \u2014 one of those snare-driven numbers that shook the table on every second and fourth beat. Jessie, Susan and Mark headed right to the dance-floor, while I stayed back with Ariel and Jessie's friend.\n\nA beer-fight was breaking out among the prep-school boys. One of them, apparently missing his mark, flung his beer at Ariel's neck. Japanese women with wasp-waists and miniskirts that could have passed for belts were trying to get the attention of the groups of blond men milling around the dance floor. The strobe light spun dizzily, alternately lighting up black beetles, black ants and black cockroaches. The beer fight continued across our table. Ariel looked miserable and kept fingering his ruined silk jacket. My body was quaking with the vibrations from the sound.\n\nMark returned to our table, \"-anna -o up -n -an-?\" he screamed at me.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"-anna -o up -n -an-?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nHe leaned toward my ear and cupped his hands. \"Wanna go up and dance?\"\n\nUp I went to the dance floor, jostled by sweating bodies \u2014 swooning Japanese women and smug-faced blond men, all of them under twenty \u2014 and set my limbs a-swaying to the one-TWO-three-FOUR of the pounding drums. There were no kimonos here, no bashful smiles \u2014 only bugs, sweat and sneers.\n\nThis Tokyo was so much at odds with the Tokyo I carried in my mind that I feared it might come out the winner if I let it.\n\n### **5**\n\nLike many similar establishments in Tokyo, Tokyu BE called itself a \"culture centre\" rather than a school, since it offered not only English classes but also crocheting and _sumi-e_ painting and jazz dance. It was run by the giant Tokyu corporation, owner of office buildings, department stores and train lines.\n\n\"What does BE stand for?\" I asked my supervisor Arai-san, a woman of about fifty who wore her hair in a high ponytail.\n\n\"It's just BE,\" she answered in her sing-song voice. \"Like tsu be or not tsu be, haha, just like Shakespeeaah, _desho?_ \" She was a springy, slightly hysterical woman, the kind my mother would have called a frustrated spinster.\n\nMy first class at BE was a large and mixed group of housewives, university students, office workers and retirees. Their ages, inscribed next to their names on my class list, ranged from twenty-one to seventy-nine. As I walked into the classroom, twelve pairs of eyes followed my every movement expectantly, as though in the swing of my arms or the swish of my skirt lay the key to their future proficiency in English. I'd heard all the usual stories about Japanese students' timidity and wanted to make it clear that I wasn't prepared to do all the talking, so I told them I'd introduce myself by answering any questions they might have.\n\n\"Don't be afraid,\" I said. \"You can ask me anything you want.\"\n\nHesitant chuckles all around.\n\n\"How old are you?\" two voices sounded almost in unison.\n\n\"Well, _almost_ anything you want,\" I told them.\n\n\"How tall are you?\" a young woman asked.\n\n\"Five feet ten-and-a-half inches,\" I said. \"One hundred and seventy-eight centimetres.\"\n\n\" _Heeeeeh_ ,\" they exclaimed in chorus. (I was to hear this sound \u2014 which rhymed with the British pronunciation of \"fair\" \u2014 every time I mentioned my height, that I was born in Paris, or that my brother was a doctor.)\n\n\"Are you married?\" someone asked, and everybody giggled.\n\n\"No,\" I said, then added, \"I'm divorced.\" This stopped the giggles.\n\n\"Whatto is your pahposs to come to Japang?\" an older woman inquired in a brittle voice, overenunciating every syllable she didn't mispronounce.\n\n\"My purpose ...\" I stalled. This was the dreaded Why Japan question all over again. I had three choices: invent a plausible reason, try to approach the truth and risk sounding like a New Age airhead (\"Well, I just wanted to transcend my limitations and ...\") or a pompous ass (\"Japan _asked_ me to come\"), or admit that I hadn't the foggiest idea what my true _pahposs_ was. I opted for the first choice.\n\n\"I've always wanted to have the experience of living in another culture,\" I said.\n\nAnd so it went. From class to class, the questions were always the same. My age, height, marital status, and purpose for coming to Japan. I remembered being warned by my Japanese teacher in Toronto that it was considered rude in Japan to ask people personal questions, especially if they were well into adulthood. I was pleased that curiosity seemed to be winning out over propriety in my classes.\n\nWhen I got home that night, I wrote to a friend in Toronto and asked him to have a T-shirt made, with the red words \"How tall? 178 cm.\" on a white background, and send it to me right away. I thought it would make a good joke.\n\nAs the days wore on and the novelty of a giant-sized Canadian teacher wore off, my students lost their initial boldness and sank deeper and deeper into silence. \"Teaching English to the Japanese is like bowling,\" a veteran teacher told me. \"You keep throwing balls and they never come back.\" I'd never been much of a bowler, and as hard as I tried not to, I sometimes lost my patience. I found myself brimming with frustration one morning, after having asked a class three times if anybody knew the meaning of the expression \"to kill time.\"\n\n\"Look,\" I said. \"There are only two possible answers to my question. Yes or no. I'm not going to say another word until someone gives me an answer.\" The students gazed at me like stunned deer. I felt foolish all of a sudden, ashamed of my bullying tactics.\n\nThrough trial and many errors, I learned that the only way I could count on getting an answer was by addressing one person at a time rather than posing questions to the class as a group. The students had a deep-seated aversion to stepping forward and grabbing the spotlight. They seemed just as afraid of getting the right answer (and appearing to boast) as getting the wrong answer (and appearing stupid).\n\nI also learned, the day I showed up with my \"How-tall\" T-shirt and got no more than a few uncomfortable smiles, that I would have to be more judicious in my use of humour. Mr. Wakabayashi, a retired biology professor, took me aside after our class and gently explained what should have been obvious to me \u2014 that I'd offended my students by implying that their questions about my height were unwelcome.\n\nIn spite of such gaffes, I was accorded more admiration and respect from my students than I'd ever experienced when teaching in Canada. I was a _sensei_ , a word that means not only teacher but also doctor and respected elder. The students would snap to attention as soon as I walked into the classroom, and when the lesson was finished, nobody got up until I did. If there was a young man in the group, he'd sometimes stay behind and offer to wipe the blackboard.\n\n\"You don't have to do it,\" I'd say in embarrassment, unaccustomed to having people clean up after me.\n\n\"I youngest member in class,\" he'd explain.\n\nSince I was a new teacher, my students were asked to evaluate me after the first four weeks. The office secretary typed up a summary of their comments and handed it to me. I read the list: \"Always on time; sometimes late; easy to follow; some of your instructions are unclear; pace is too fast; you spend too much time on each point; intelligent teaching; you sometimes forget to explain things ...\"\n\n\"So what do I do now?\" I asked Arai-san. She told me not to worry, that the comments were better than what most new teachers got.\n\n\"Students tell me you very eregant, like from Yoroppa. I hope you continue look eregant, _neh?_ Maybe students continue satisfied, _desho?_ \"\n\nTokyu BE was quite liberal compared to some of the other English schools. Janet, who taught at one of the ASA branches, showed me the list of rules she'd been given: no overcoats in the building, wear nametags at all times, no knapsacks, no open-toed sandals, pockerchiefs for men, must attend at least three student-teacher parties or else wages are docked a half-week, and above all, no socializing with students. Apparently this policy was introduced after the squabbling between male teachers (over who would get to teach a particular female student) got out of hand. Kate said that the regulation was strictly enforced, that if a teacher was caught with a student, even if they were just crossing the street together, the teacher was automatically dismissed.\n\nAt BE, the tolerance for teachers fraternizing with students had led to two marriages. David, the head teacher, had \"done the right thing\" after getting a student knocked up. Another teacher had fallen in love with a student he met during his first month in Japan, then proposed to her six months later. But it was Sylvana's marriage that intrigued me. Sylvana was a Canuck like myself, and just as tall. She carried herself regally and took no guff from anybody. There was something prickly about her \u2014 you felt that you had to mind your P's and Q's in her presence. I first noticed her wedding band when we were sitting in the teachers' lounge one afternoon, during a break between classes.\n\n\"I see that you're married,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Is your husband Japanese?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She sounded annoyed.\n\n\"Where did you meet him?\"\n\n\"In a bar.\"\n\n\"How long have you been married?\"\n\n\"Two years.\"\n\nSomething was driving me to question her more, though it was clear she was reluctant to talk. \"Were there any problems with his family?\"\n\n\"Why should there be any problems?\"\n\n\"I mean, did they accept you right away, or \u2014\"\n\n\"There were no problems,\" she snapped.\n\nShe left the teacher's lounge and I chastised myself for being so nosy. Why had I grilled her like that? And why did I feel so uneasy after talking to her? Then it came to me. Sylvana had what I wanted \u2014 a piece of the East, hers forever to keep.\n\nMarriages between gaijin men and Japanese women are a dime a dozen, but the reverse is much rarer \u2014 ten times as rare, according to statistics. \"Japanese males tend to be spoiled from childhood, so the result is that Japanese men and Western women tend not to be very compatible,\" Ian McQueen warns in his Lonely Planet guidebook. Knowing all this, I still felt \u2014 with inexplicable certainty \u2014 that only a Japanese man would give me the key to Japan and uncover my reason for being there.\n\n## **FACES IN THE CROWD**\n\n\"There are two kinds of freedom: freedom to, and freedom from.\"\n\n_Margaret Atwood_\n\n### **1**\n\nI would never have met Miki, my first Japanese friend in Tokyo, were it not for my noisy housemates.\n\nI regarded Esther House as a kind of failure on my part, and couldn't shake the sense that my life in Japan would only begin in earnest after I moved out and found a place of my own. It wasn't so much the makeshift rooms, or the lack of hot water in the taps, or the plump cockroaches that occasionally crawled out of the space between the tatami mats, that bothered me. It was the litany of complaints about the Japanese, the strains of Bob Dylan or Grateful Dead (why did expatriates always gravitate to sixties' music?) filtering through my walls, the fact that my housemates seemed determined to pretend they were back in San Francisco or Auckland. And it didn't help that Jay, having finally found a teaching job in Yokohama, was no longer around to provide the balancing effect of a different generation.\n\nI considered it particularly unfortunate to be living next to Ariel, who had a fondness for late-night English television and an uncommonly sensitive funnybone. The corniest, most juvenile humour would send him crashing against the wall I shared with him, laughing convulsively. I would lie on my bed, trying to reconcile the erudite, intellectual Ariel who read three newspapers a day and went through books as though they were meals with the Ariel choking on his own laughter at the sight of two businessmen colliding in the middle of a street. (The walls were so thin that I could, if I wished, follow the story-line of the show he was watching.)\n\nLying on my bed one evening, sandwiched between Ariel's guffaws on one side and Bruce and Janet shaking out their mattresses on the other, I decided I couldn't take it any longer, put on my jacket and went out for a walk. I walked past the train station, into North Nishiogi and up to the dried-out river that snaked through it, then back and forth, forth and back along the walkway bordering the river, energized by the fantasy that if I walked long enough Esther House would evaporate and no longer be there when I returned. Finally, about two hours later, I turned back and started toward home, delaying my return by taking as many side-streets as possible. On a narrow street that paralleled the train-tracks, I came upon a neon sign I hadn't noticed before \u2014 The Jazz Inn \u2014 on the second floor of a storefront. On the spur of the moment, I climbed up the stairs leading to the sign, opened the door beneath it and stepped into a small room filled with smoke and cascading piano chords. Feeling self-conscious all of a sudden as the dozen or so patrons fixed their gazes on me, I headed for the counter at the far end of the room, sat down and ordered a beer. Seated on my right was a young-looking Japanese woman with permed hair.\n\nI sipped my beer for a few minutes while watching the pianist banging away at the keyboard, the harsh, percussive sounds she drew from the instrument belying the small size of her hands. The woman sitting next to me lit a Menthol cigarette, and on impulse I asked her if I could have one.\n\n\"You speak so good Japanese,\" she said in English. \"Yes, please take.\"\n\n\"I'm not actually a smoker,\" I babbled as I lit up. \"Not a regular one, anyway.\"\n\n\"I regular smoker,\" she said with a smile. \"I don't smoke in work place, because I woman \u2014 woman look bad if she smoking in office. But I have about fifteen every evening.\"\n\nWe chatted some more, each struggling to use the others language. I learned that her name was Miki, that she was thirty and came from Kyushu. She was an architect by training but worked full-time as a draughtsperson (\"Because I woman,\" she said), and lived alone in a nine-tatami room on the other side of the train tracks.\n\n\"Please I invite you for have coffee,\" she suggested. \"I show you my apartment. It getting late, so we go right away. OK?\" Seeing my hesitation, she added, \"Don't worry. Kyushu women more friendly than other Japanese women.\"\n\nAs befitted an architect, Miki's apartment was uncluttered (as much as a nine-by-twelve-foot room could be uncluttered) and tastefully decorated in whites, beiges and blacks. A large draughting table stood near the single window, which looked out onto the train tracks. Miki sat me down on her sofa while she busied herself preparing coffee in the tiny kitchen.\n\n\"Do you go to the Jazz Inn often?\" I asked.\n\n\"Only about once month. Usually I go home immediately after work, and continue work at home until eleven or twelve at night.\"\n\nShe brought out some coffee and two plastic-wrapped tiramisu cakes, plopped herself down right next to me and flashed me a warm smile. \"You have hobbies?\"\n\n\"Hobbies? Uh ...\" I always had trouble with that question.\n\n\"I have lots of hobbies,\" Miki said. \"Water painting one of my hobbies. I take private lesson once a month. Study English another my hobby. But recently I not enough time for study. Maybe you teach me, _neh?_ Hiking also my hobby. Here, look at this.\" She leaned forward and reached for a photo album lying on top of a bookcase on the opposite wall. She opened the photo album to a page filled with groups of young people with mountains in the background. \"See, this me here. This also me.\" She flipped to another page. \"This another hobby, tennis. Not playing, just watching. See? This Stefan Edberg \u2014\" she grinned widely \" \u2014 my hero.\"\n\n\"The Swedish tennis player?\"\n\n\"Yes. I love him. I look every match he play on television. I also read every article about him. Sometimes information only in English newspapers, so I must to read English. _Taihen, neh?_ Is too difficult, but I big fan of him \u2014 we say _dai-fan_ in Japanese.\"\n\nEvery year in February, she told me, Tokyo hosted a week-long international tennis tournament. She always took that time off from work and spent the week in the stadium, hoping for a chance to see her idol up close. On one occasion she screwed up the courage to wait for him outside the competitors' locker room. \"But when he come out, when I face-to-face him, I so shy that I can't think anything to tell him \u2014 not one word.\" She shook her head, laughing. \"I dream about him at night sometimes. You think I crazy?\"\n\nIn addition to their friendliness, Miki told me, Kyushu women were known for their fine creamy skin and long noses. \"I typical Kyushu woman,\" she said with a chuckle, pointing to her nose, which was indeed long. \"Anyway, another my hobby is Sweden.\"\n\nI was beginning to understand how it was that the Japanese had such impressive lists of hobbies. The way Miki used it, the word appeared to include every leisure activity one had ever pursued, no matter how infrequently.\n\n\"Have you ever been there?\"\n\n\"Oh no. Not yet. But once in few months I gather with other people who are crazy for Sweden \u2014 is like club. We talk about Sweden, look pictures, eat foods.\" She sighed. \"Is like dream, you know?\"\n\nHer warmth and chumminess were infectious, and I found myself telling her about some of the events in my life that had prompted me to come to Japan, even admitting that I was curious about meeting Japanese men. \"I don't recommend,\" she said, wrinkling her Kyushu nose. \"Japanese men not make gaijin women happy, I guarantee \u2014 even Japanese women not satisfied.\"\n\nWe exchanged phone numbers before I left, and though I protested that I had no use for them, she insisted on giving me two more of her Menthols.\n\nA few days later she called, asking me to translate a sentence in a Japan Times article about Stefan Edberg. \"I can't stand suspense!\" she wailed. \"I don't know if good thing or bad thing. Hope you don't mind I call you.\"\n\n\"Not at all. What is it you don't understand?\"\n\n\"This sentence, 'He ran away with it.' What it means?\"\n\nEvery few days, she would call me with a similar request. \"What means 'looking somewhat haggard'?\" or \"Is written 'He outdid himself.' That good thing or bad thing?\"\n\nAnd so, out of the unlikely combination of a group of noisy tenants and a woman's insatiable thirst for information about a tennis star, a friendship took hold. Esther House didn't seem quite as oppressive anymore, and Tokyo now had a face.\n\n### **2**\n\nMr. Shimoda was a retiree in his late sixties and one of my most advanced students at BE. A former engineer, he'd made his fortune by developing a hydraulic braking mechanism which he'd patented and sold to a major railway corporation. As far as I could see, his main reason for enrolling at BE was to display his near-perfect English, to boast of his wealth (\" ... and on the _third_ floor of my house ...\") and to drop names. Now that he was retired, Mr. Shimoda spent most of his time on his two hobbies: hunting and \"taking portraits of beautiful women.\" He seemed to have targeted me as his next victim, and there was nothing I could say to make him give up the idea. \"Come to my house next Saturday at three,\" he told me after our third class, in a tone that would allow no argument.\n\nThe following Saturday I found myself in Mr. Shimoda's living-room, smiling stiffly while he trained his lenses and filters and strobe-lights on my face. As he adjusted the position of my elbows on the armrests of his blue velvet _fauteuil_ , he flashed his bejewelled watch in front of my eyes, back and forth, forth and back, so many times that I finally had no choice but to ask him where he'd gotten it.\n\n\"Oh, you mean this?\" he said off-handedly. \"It's just a little gift from the former king of Kuwait. He's, aaah, a long-standing friend of mine.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\"\n\n\"Yes, we go back a long way, the king and I. We've been hunting together for years.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\"\n\n\"Oh yes. I remember the night he gave a party in my honour ...\"\n\nAfter the photo-session, Mr. Shimoda gave me the grand tour of his house, drawing my attention to the Persian rugs, the _sumi-e_ originals on the walls and the baby-grand piano, polished to such a fine shine that we could see our reflections in the wood, just like the woman in the Pledge commercials.\n\n\"And this,\" he told me as we entered a den-like room on the second floor, \"is my karaoke machine. Top of the line, by the way. It's the first of its kind, I'm told \u2014 it's not even on the market yet. But since the president of the company is a dear friend of mine \u2014 a former hunting partner, I should add \u2014 he gave me this prototype as a gift. Anything you'd like to sing? I have English songs, French songs, and of course, Japanese songs. But my specialty is Latin music. I have a huge collection ...\"\n\nBefore I could answer, he pulled out a disk and set the machine to work. \" _Para bailer la Bamba ..._ \"he crooned into the microphone. \"Or how about this one?\" He pushed a few buttons. \" _Vi\u00e9nen los gitanooooos ..._ \"\n\n\"If the music is too high,\" he explained, \"you just turn this knob and the whole thing slides down a few tones, without changing speed. You can adjust it to suit your range. It's like the machines they have in karaoke clubs, only even more sophisticated. Would you like to hear a Japanese song?\" He quickly inserted another disk into the machine. \" _Awai kuchiiiiizukeeeeeh ..._ \"\n\nWhen the grandfather clock struck five, I ducked out of Mr. Shimoda's house under the pretext of having to meet a friend for dinner. I was relieved that he hadn't insisted I try out his machine. Even though I had taught music to children for several years \u2014 or perhaps because of it \u2014 the thought of sharing my singing voice with people older than twelve gave me the jitters.\n\nI knew, however, that I couldn't postpone my karaoke debut forever. Karaoke machines were everywhere in Japan \u2014 not only in bars and private houses but also on street-corners, at the base of Mount Fuji, even in taxi-cabs. If you had the misfortune of stepping into such a cab, I was told, the driver would badger you to sing until you finally dropped a coin into the machine, which of course was the sound he _really_ wanted to hear.\n\nOpportunity knocked on my door again at the end of the month, when I got a phone call from my former supervisor at Yamaha. His real name was Toru Koyama, but in Canada he'd gone by the name of Tom. He was transferred back to Japan shortly after I went to live in Tokyo.\n\n\"Remember Mr. Inoue?\" he asked me.\n\nTom's father-in-law was not the forgettable type. I'd met him twice before, while in Japan with the Yamaha group. A successful doctor by day, he was a party-'til-you-drop animal by night, and claimed to wake up fresh as a daisy no matter how much he'd had to drink. Like many educated Japanese, he combined a near-encyclopaedic knowledge of English, vocabulary with the inability to put together a complete sentence. \"I xenophilic,\" he'd beamed at me the first time we met.\n\n\"Mr. Inoue and his family are in town for the next few days,\" Tom told me, \"and they'd like to take us out to a karaoke club.\"\n\nThe following evening I found myself riding in the back seat of a limousine, along with Tom, Mr. Inoue and his daughter Hanako.\n\n\"Where's your wife?\" I asked Mr. Inoue as we cruised along.\n\n\"Why would I want bring wife to club?\" he said with a conspiratorial wink. \"Is hostess club, you know.\"\n\nThe limo rounded corner after corner and navigated through narrower and narrower streets until it finally came to a stop, in a part of the city I'd never seen before, and we all disembarked. Mr. Inoue led us to a side-door and into an elevator. \"This is a _very_ exclusive club,\" Tom whispered to me as we rode up. \"You can be sure the evening will cost well over $500. But don't worry, he can afford it.\"\n\nThe next thing I knew, we were in a small, dimly lit room, far away from planet Earth. Dragon claws holding gilded balls protruded from the dark stuccoed walls, and open-mouthed dragon heads \u2014 dark green, with streaks of red and gold \u2014 hung from the ceiling. Red and green track-lights bathed the room in an eerie glow. That sudden transition into another realm, upon entering a room, was something I was beginning to recognize as thoroughly Japanese.\n\nA middle-aged man escorted us to our table. It was one of only three seating areas, each one backed by a semi-circular partition.\n\n\"How good to see you again,\" he told Mr. Inoue. \"Shall I get your bottle?\"\n\nA pair of women, all atwinkle in their sequined mini-dresses, stood by our table as we took our seats. The younger one wore a velvet headband from which red feathers fanned out in all directions. The hostesses disappeared for a few moments, then came back with a tray of bite-sized foods. The manager brought out Mr. Inoue's _otobin_ \u2014 the \"private bottle\" he was accorded as a regular customer \u2014 and poured some whiskey into four glasses.\n\n\"So how have you been, Tina?\" Mr. Inoue asked the younger hostess. \"She from Philippines,\" he whispered to me in English. \"She look younger than thirty-two, don't you think?\"\n\nTina gave an expert pout. \"I've missed you these past few weeks,\" she said in Japanese. \"You _know_ you're my favourite customer, don't you?\"\n\n\"Favourite customer?\" he laughed. \"A wrinkled old man like me?\"\n\nThe other hostess, who looked to be around forty, sat down beside me. \"My name is Salam\u00eda,\" she said. \"I'm also from the Phillipines. Tina and I both came here two years ago.\"\n\n\"Where did you learn your Japanese?\"\n\n\"It's not hard,\" she shrugged. \"I just picked it up after I came.\"\n\n\"You didn't take lessons?\"\n\n\"If you want to do well as a hostess,\" she said, \"you have to learn the language. It's as simple as that.\" She shrugged again.\n\n\" _Obatarian_ ,\" Mr. Inoue chimed in. Salam\u00eda made a face at him.\n\nHe turned to me. \"Do you know the word? It means old hag.\" He burst into peals of laughter. \"You're an old hag, Salam\u00eda, don't you know it? You shouldn't be working here anymore.\" Salam\u00eda smiled graciously between pursed lips.\n\nTina edged up to Mr. Inoue. \"Let me feed you,\" she pouted. \"I've got some _delicious_ eel for you.\" She picked up a strip of glistening eel with her chopsticks and brought it to his lips. \"Eat that for me, will you?\"\n\n\"Come closer,\" Mr. Inoue said with a wink.\n\nShe sidled up to him. \"Is this better?\"\n\n\" _Much_ better, hahaha,\" he told her cleavage.\n\nAll the while, Hanako was staring demurely at her hands. \"My mother and I,\" she said suddenly, \"we're the quiet ones in the family. My father is the lively one, as you can see.\" She looked embarrassed.\n\n\"So what do you think of all this?\" Tom asked me. \"It's not every foreigner who gets to visit this sort of place.\"\n\nI wasn't sure what to think. On the one hand I was charmed, as I had been the previous times I'd met him, by Mr. Inoue's infectious good cheer. On the other hand, some feminist demon was pushing me to label hostess clubs as sexist institutions that ought to be outlawed. Just as I was pondering how to answer Tom's question, Salamia got up and traded places with Tina, who now sat beside me.\n\n\"Won't you try some?\" she asked sweetly, dangling a sliver of eel in front of my lips. \"Open wide, theeere we go. How do you like it?\"\n\n\" _Oishii_ ,\" I nodded in approval.\n\n\"Your Japanese is so _good_ ,\" she chirped. \"Here, have some more. And how are you doing with your drink? Maybe just a little bit more, _neh?_ \"\n\nMeanwhile, Hanako had walked up to the karaoke booth at the opposite end of the room. Her selection came on and she started to sing. It was a sad, dignified song, and she sang it in a crystal-clear voice, without smiling once.\n\n\"My daughter is also _obatarian_ ,\" Mr. Inoue told me as Hanako walked back to our table. \"Eh, Hanako? Thirty-six years old and still not married.\"\n\n\"Will you sing for us, please?\" Tina asked me, pouting in the same way she'd done for Mr. Inoue.\n\n\"I'm too shy,\" I said stupidly.\n\n\"Shy? A nice-looking woman like you? Go on, I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself once you're up there.\"\n\nAs Tom took his turn at the microphone, Tina continued to lavish her attentions on me.\n\n\"Here, try some _daikon_ , won't you?\" She fed me a piece of pickled radish. \"Can you eat _all_ types of Japanese food?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Even sea-urchin?\"\n\nI nodded again.\n\n\"You're really like a Japanese, aren't you?\" She patted my knee. \"Where did you get those _gorgeous_ pants? They're silk, aren't they?\"\n\nSexist? I wasn't so sure anymore. Tina and Salam\u00eda were all abuzz around Mr. Inoue, but they were paying no less attention to me. I was being treated like a queen, just as he was being treated like a king. And I had to admit it \u2014 I was beginning to find all this attention just the tiniest bit, well, flattering.\n\nSuddenly I saw it clearly \u2014 how irresistible these dens of illusion would be for men who got only brisk efficiency from their wives, whose marriages were little more than business deals. If I, with my feminist leanings, was falling under the spell of a hostess club, what chance did these men have?\n\nMr. Inoue leaned across the table and put a hand on my shoulder.\n\n\"You make me happy if you sing,\" he wheedled. \"You make me young man again.\"\n\n\"I can't, I'm too shy.\"\n\n\" _Obatarian_ \" he winked at Salam\u00eda. \"I think our guest needs some more whiskey.\" She obediently refilled my glass, then went off to get a new bottle.\n\nI looked at the English song-list as I gulped down the whiskey. \"But I don't know any of these songs \u2014\"\n\n\"Stop making excuses,\" Tom said.\n\n\"Alright, alright,\" I said with a burst of Dutch courage. \"Tell the manager I'm going to sing 'Yesterday.'\"\n\nI got up, staggered to the microphone and waited for the sound to come on. Under the scrutiny of friends, strangers and bug-eyed dragonheads, I sent my shaky airwaves into the microphone. When I got to the \"Why she had to go\" part, my voice thinned to a hoarse whisper. I kept my eyes glued to the video monitor, where the lyrics floated by against a backdrop of fair-haired lovers cavorting in a meadow.\n\nThe applause was wild. They whistled and cheered. The guests at the other two tables joined in the fanfare as I made my way back to the table.\n\n\"That was great,\" a stranger boomed out at me.\n\n\"Sing another one.\"\n\n\"Siiiiing.\"\n\n\"We want more English songs!\"\n\n\"Siiiiiiiiing.\"\n\nIt was then that I realized what my mistake had been. I had thought I was expected to sing well. Karaoke, I realized, was not about singing well. It was about singing badly. It was about getting up and performing, whether you were a rock-star, an office worker or a bow-legged engineer. This was one arena in which the usual excuse of _hazukashii_ just didn't wash. Shy or not shy, you were expected to be a good sport and provide your share of the evenings entertainment.\n\nI perused the song-list again. I Left my Heart in San Francisco, Autumn Leaves, Moon River ... The only songs I felt confident about getting through were the Christmas carols. What the hell, I told myself, Christmas is only two months away. I went back up to the microphone and delivered, with much more authority this time, what was no doubt the season's first rendition of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.\n\nOnce again, the patrons and staff broke into applause, whistles and cheers. I lingered at the microphone for a few moments, savouring the adulation. This was it \u2014 my fifteen minutes of fame, just as Andy Warhol had predicted would be everybody's due in the future. It was good to know that in Tokyo, the future could be bought for just $500.\n\nAll at once it was time to leave \u2014 the shop was closing. Tina and Salamia disappeared behind a back door. \"Come again soon,\" the manager beamed at Mr. Inoue as he stored his whiskey-bottle in a cabinet. There was a round of bowing, and then we all filed into the elevator. Just as the door was about to close, Tina and Salamia stepped in behind us. They were both wearing faded jeans and sweatshirts.\n\n\"God, I'm tired,\" Tina said dully, to nobody in particular.\n\nThey both looked tired. Minus the sequins and feathers, they were just working women, going home after a hard day at the office. The spell had been broken. All their fawning and pouting, it was suddenly clear, had been nothing more than work for wages.\n\nThe difference between Mr. Inoue's perspective and my own, I mused as the elevator shuttled us back down to Earth, was not in the way we'd been treated by the hostesses. It was that while I was relieved to see them drop their act, Mr. Inoue, I felt sure, would have wanted the illusion to continue past closing time.\n\n### **3**\n\nTo hear it from my younger students, the Japanese mother-in-law had quite a bit more clout than her Western counterpart. She was accused of being bossy and meddlesome, and especially eager to impose her will on her hapless daughter-in-law who, bound by the age-old tenet of deferring to one's elders, was powerless to stand up for her rights. Word had it that some frustrated young women in Tokyo had started a group called Women Against Mothers-in-Law, which one supposed was the Japanese answer to North American groups like Toughlove or Women in New Roles.\n\nTraditionally, the _chonan_ or eldest son is expected to live under the same roof as his parents even after he gets married, and to provide for them in their old age. Although the multi-generational household is dying out in urban areas, the spirit of the tradition prevails. Many young women, aware of the duties expected of a _chonan's_ wife, give eldest sons a wide berth in their search for a husband. Those women unfortunate enough to be saddled with live-in mother-in-laws complain of being bombarded with advice on how to cook for their husbands, how to discipline their children, and the various other do's and don'ts of running a proper Japanese household.\n\nOne week I told all my students to bring photos of a family member or friend to the next class, to use as a starting point for free conversation. The following week, when I asked Kazuko \u2014 one of my more diligent and spirited students in an upper-intermediate group \u2014 to show us the picture she'd brought, she produced a small photo of two elderly people. \"These are my mother- and father-in-law,\" she told us. \"I've known them for over thirty years.\" Kazuko had a large family, and in previous classes had always talked proudly of her assorted children, nieces and nephews, so her choice of picture was puzzling. I didn't remember her ever mentioning her parents-in-law.\n\n\"Their house is very close to ours,\" she continued, \"only a fifteen-minute walk. Every morning at nine o'clock they come over and have breakfast with me. Or rather, I prepare some food for them but don't eat it myself, since I usually have my breakfast at seven-thirty, right after my husband leaves for work.\"\n\n\"How long do they stay at your house?\" a student asked.\n\n\"All morning,\" she said. \"Sometimes we even have lunch together.\"\n\nI asked her if it wasn't a little tiresome to spend every morning with them, and she said no, she didn't mind doing it and actually enjoyed their company.\n\n\"It's my duty to take care of them, but also my pleasure. I'm always happy to see them.\"\n\n\"But every day?\" I asked. \"Don't they ever stay at home and let you have a rest?\"\n\n\"They come every day except when it's pouring rain.\" Kazuko paused for a moment and went on. \"Every morning, the first thing I do after waking up is go to my bedroom window and check the weather outside. If it's sunny, then I'm happy. And if it's raining hard ... then I'm _really_ happy.\"\n\nKazuko smiled down at her hands, looking embarrassed but pleased. She had managed to unburden herself without uttering a word of complaint. I couldn't help feeling sorry that this art would surely die out in the next generation of emboldened daughters-in-law.\n\nStories such as Kazuko's gave glimpses into the spirit of _akirame_ , or resignation, that is the legacy of Japanese women from far back in time. The Japanese \u2014 women in particular \u2014 are keenly aware that their destiny is shaped by forces outside their control. Whatever hardship comes their way is _shiyo ga nai_ , \"it can't be helped,\" an expression that they seem to use as casually as how are you or have a nice day.\n\nOne morning we were having a discussion about education in an advanced class called Cross-Cultural Communication. Most of the students were older women who had spent some years abroad with their husbands and families. Chieko, a graying woman whose softly wrinkled face spelled kindness and hard times, had often spoken to us about her youngest son, a troublesome teenager who skipped classes and spent hours alone in his room. \"It can't be helped,\" she would say with a sad smile whenever she talked about him.\n\n\"I think I know when the trouble started,\" she told us that morning. \"It was during a math class one day in early spring, when he was in fifth or sixth grade. The weather was exceptionally clear and warm, and my son was a bit restless. He looked out the classroom window and there was Mount Fuji, perfectly framed and much sharper than he'd ever seen it. It's rare to get such a good view of Mount Fuji from Tokyo and he was quite excited. On impulse, he asked the teacher if she could stop the class for a few moments so that all the students would get a chance to catch the view. The teacher got angry at him and scolded him for disrupting the class.\n\n\"When he came home from school that day he seemed upset. I asked him what the matter was, and he told me the story. He couldn't understand why the teacher had scolded him, since it was obvious that he hadn't meant to be disruptive \u2014 he'd just reacted spontaneously to a beautiful sight and wanted to share it with the others.\n\n\"Since that day,\" Chieko went on, \"he has never been the same. He lost his confidence, somehow. I think he felt he couldn't trust his instincts anymore.\"\n\nI remembered my own mother, marching indignantly into the principal's office after she learned that my teachers were trying to get me to write with my right hand. Chieko, of course, would never have thought to make a fuss. She only knew how to grin and bear and think _shiyo ga nai_ while each day brought a new wrinkle to her face.\n\nPolished pearls like Chieko's Mount Fuji story were few and far between, and didn't quite make up for the daily tedium of teaching the lower-level students, who would gaze at me with anxious faces while I talked myself hoarse. For some teachers, this type of class was a challenge. For me it was merely exhausting.\n\nMany of these \"beginners\" had been coming to BE for several years (in addition to the six years of English they'd been required to take in school) and were still unable to make themselves understood. Having studied a bit of linguistics, I knew that Japanese was a so-called sound-poor language, meaning that the number of different phonemes, or individual sounds, was very low \u2014 just over one hundred compared to about three thousand in English and one thousand in Chinese. Consequently, if you were a Japanese attempting to emulate English sounds, your tongue and lips would be struggling to perform entirely new motions. If you weren't paying close attention, your muscles would revert to their old habits and channel the sounds into their closest equivalents in Japanese, which were usually not very close at all. Thus, \"colour\" came out as \"karah,\" \"learn\" as \"rahn\" and \"seafood\" as \"sheehude.\" The result of all this was that my students were more likely to be understood by each other than by me.\n\nDuring one class, a young housewife called Naoko announced that the previous weekend she'd had dinner with a holenah for the first time. I smiled blankly as I tried to figure out what a holenah might be (for some reason it made me think of a species of whale), when another student came to my rescue. \"Was it an American?\" she asked Naoko, giving me the clue I needed. I asked the students if anybody else had ever dined with a foreigner, and the discussion continued.\n\nI didn't fare quite as well with Atsuko, a breezy society lady who came to class in tailored suits and a high chignon. In mid-October, she took two weeks off to visit her sister in California. It was her first trip abroad, and she'd been excited about it for weeks. But when she came back, she looked more despondent than relaxed.\n\n\"Six years,\" she said, staring at her hands. \"I coming to Tokyu BE for six years. All my teachers tell me I making good progress, and I believe it. But I go to America and I can't even order my own food at MacDonald's. So my teachers all tell lie to me, now I realize.\" I tried to protest, but she shook her head and went on grimly. \"I go to MacDonald's across street from my sister's house, and ask for hisshu-bahgah. The cashier look me like I crazy, so I try say it again, but still she don't understand. Finally I have to point my finger to picture on wall.\"\n\n\"What _is_ a hisshu-bahgah?\" I asked unthinkingly.\n\nAtsuko didn't answer. I looked at her face, and saw that her lips were trembling. _Fish-burger, you idiot_ , I thought to myself, but it was too late.\n\nI never saw Atsuko after that day, nor did any of the other teachers or students. I was afraid she would complain to Arai-san about my tactless question, but I never heard a word about it. Like Chieko, whose son had been unjustly scolded by his teacher, Atsuko didn't complain \u2014 she simply disappeared.\n\n### **4**\n\n\"Excuse me, but does the next train go as far as Nishiogikubo?\" I asked the woman standing beside me in my most careful Japanese.\n\nShinjuku Station, with its fourteen platforms through which passed local, semi-express, express and super-express trains, its overlapping loudspeaker announcements and computerized bulletin boards, its underground network of walkways and restaurants and stores that rivalled a mid-size prairie town in sprawl, still held me in awe and confusion after two months in Tokyo.\n\nThe woman looked startled. \"Excuse me, my English not so good,\" she answered.\n\n\"It's OK, you can tell me in Japanese,\" I encouraged.\n\n\"You speak Japanese?\"\n\nI was getting used to this type of conversation by now. Apparently, a lot more proof than actually speaking the language was needed to persuade the natives that one could.\n\nA yellow train was coming toward us, and the woman gave a nod to let me know it was the one I wanted. We both boarded the same car but sat some distance apart. When I stood up to get off the train, seven stops later, I saw her get up too. As I started down the stairs leading to the exit gate I felt a light tap on my shoulder.\n\n\"Excuse me.\"\n\nI turned around and there was the woman again, looking embarrassed. Her hair was cropped short and she wore a baggy grey sweatsuit. She looked fifty-somethingish but somehow youthful.\n\n\"Do you live Nishiogikubo?\" she asked hesitantly.\n\n\"Yes, I do.\"\n\nShe introduced herself as Teruko. \"I like foreigner,\" she said. \"I want make foreigner friend.\" (She pronounced it \"holenah,\" as my student Naoko had done.)\n\nI told her I was equally interested in making Japanese friends, and asked her if she too lived in Nishiogi.\n\n\"I own two houses,\" she said, \"one of them in Nishiogi. I live Nishiogi house in weekday, Kokubunji house on weekend. You want come and bisit my house?\"\n\nI told her I didn't have time just then, but would be glad to go and see her some other time. She told me she had been on her way to Kichijoji to do some shopping, but when she saw me get off at Nishiogi, decided on impulse to follow me out and introduce herself. We exchanged phone numbers and went our separate ways.\n\nA couple of days later she called to invite me for supper. \"I lonely,\" she said simply. \"Always eat alone. Please come my house, _neh?_ \" One more stereotype shot down, I thought, startled by her directness. I had a hunch she might have stories to tell.\n\nSince it was largely obscured by vegetation I had a bit of trouble finding Teruko's house, her quaint instructions adding to the challenge. She'd told me to look for a narrow footpath amid some shrubbery a little way past the laundromat with the orange sign, then walk along the path until I came to a small courtyard encircled by a few houses, one of which was hers. I stood there in confusion for a few moments until I saw her waving from inside.\n\n\"You know _nabe?_ \" Teruko asked as I put on the fake leather slippers she offered me, which of course were several sizes too small. \"I cook _nabe_ tonight.\"\n\nHer house was cramped and messy \u2014 dirty, even. A film of dust coated the countertops and lampshades, and the walls were dotted with grease stains. She led me into the living room and told me to sit down.\n\n\"You know _kotatstu?_ \" She showed me to a low table in the middle of the room. Though I'd heard of the word, this was the first time I'd actually seen one. She told me to plug in the electric cord so the heat would start radiating from the box-like stand upholding the table.\n\n\"I hope you don't mind the mess,\" she said in Japanese as she went off to the kitchen to bring our food. \"Nobody ever died from a little dirt, _neh?_ \"\n\nI laughed, once again struck by her deviation from type.\n\nTeruko came back into the living room with a giant tray of cabbage leaves, tofu and raw chicken strips, and an electric pot filled with water. As we waited for the water to start boiling, she got right to the point.\n\n\"I have failed,\" she said. \"My whole life has been a failure. And now, in my old age, I'm paying the price.\" She eyed me intently for a few seconds. \"I have no idea what to do with myself. I often get depressed \u2014 very depressed. Sometimes I wonder why I continue to get up every morning. You understand what I'm trying to say, _neh?_ \"\n\nShe had a very pretty face, I noticed for the first time. She might well have been a head turner in her younger years.\n\nWhile we cooked and ate our _nabe_ , Teruko told me the story of her life. She spoke matter-of-factly, almost without pausing except when I stopped her to ask the meaning of a word.\n\nHers was a shotgun marriage, arranged by her father after he tore her away from the man she was in love with, a lowly bean-cake maker. The day before her wedding, her mother took her aside and gave her a single piece of advice about married life: a ship can have only one captain.\n\n\"I was never able to follow that advice,\" Teruko told me, \"which is why my life has been a failure.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"A Japanese woman has to have _enryo_ , restraint. Otherwise she can't live in harmony with her husband, or with the rest of her family.\"\n\nShe and her in-laws were at each other's throats from the start. If they asked her to help out at one of the four Chinese restaurants they owned, she'd refuse. If they asked her to cook an _udon_ noodle dinner, she would spitefully cook _soba_ instead \u2014 or nothing at all. She was brimming with resentment about her forced marriage to a man who was turning out to be an abusive drunkard, and was unwilling to go the usual route of suffering in silence.\n\nShe gave birth to three sons. The oldest son was a misfit with a strong depressive streak. He often contemplated suicide in his youth, until he was recruited by the Jehovah's Witnesses and found a way to depart the material world without actually killing himself. He was thirty years old now and lived in the house next to Teruko's, though he hardly ever saw her except when she handed him his monthly allowance. \"But he doesn't believe in money,\" she said wryly.\n\n\"And the other two?\"\n\n\"One is a salary-man in a small company, and the other is in Australia.\"\n\n\"Surely they must give you some pleasure.\"\n\nShe considered this for a moment. \"No, I don't get any pleasure from my children. We hardly ever see each other. I guess it's like my marriage \u2014 failed marriage, failed children.\"\n\n\"And where is your husband now?\"\n\n\"He's in the hospital, with terminal cancer. I go to see him for a couple of hours every day, though I sometimes ask myself why. He means nothing to me. When I look at him, all I see is a piece of rotting flesh.\"\n\nShe went to the kitchen and brought back an electric teapot and a couple of grease-coated teacups. Her mood seemed brighter all of a sudden, as though telling me her life story was a formality she'd had to dispense with, like a comment about the weather.\n\n\"Anyway,\" she shrugged, \"I've had a few bright spots in my life. Like now \u2014\" she leaned over conspiratorially \" \u2014 I have a lover. A foreign lover. Australian. And he's younger than me.\" She paused for effect. \" _Eighteen years_ younger.\"\n\n\"Does your husband know about it?\"\n\n\"No, of course not. When my husband dies, I plan to take my boyfriend to Hawaii for a couple of weeks. He's never been there, and I know he'd love to see it. I haven't told him yet, though. Just little hints. You know, to keep him guessing.\"\n\nOur legs toasty under the _kotatsu_ , we sipped green tea and listened to the night sounds for a while \u2014 the trill of a cicada, a child's wail, the squeaking of bicycle tires.\n\n\"Sometimes I think he's just after my money,\" she said softly, just as the same thought was crossing my mind.\n\nTeruko shuffled back and forth between her houses, picking up mail and phone messages, doing her laundry in one house and sorting it in the other, or just \"checking up\" on things. She seemed to need the pointless, manufactured activity in order to get through each day without giving in to the despair that periodically assailed her.\n\nWhen she came to visit me, I noticed, her mood was usually brighter than when we met in her home. At Esther House, she had the chance to breathe in some of that rarified holenah air she so craved. She would sprint up the stairs in her dirty sweatsuit, hair dishevelled and skin sallow against the pink of her lipstick, and plunk herself down on my tatami floor (never on my sofa-bed\u2014in this she was thoroughly Japanese), ravenous for my companionship. We almost never spoke English, since she really couldn't manage it, though she would occasionally take a deep breath and, with peacock pride, utter a badly mangled version of a word like \"inheritance\" or \"funeral.\"\n\n\"Do you know what happened last night?\" she told me one evening while we snacked on the rice-and-seaweed crackers she'd brought along. \"For the past year I've been renting the second floor of my house in Kokubunji to a couple, an American man and a Japanese woman. Anyway, last night I went to the house to pick up some sheets, and just as I was about to walk in I heard a strange noise. At first I thought it was a cat meowing \u2014 I really did \u2014 but then I listened some more and realized it was the woman making, ah, sex noises. I've never heard anything like it in my life. I was shocked.\" She didn't look shocked at all, only fascinated. \"I didn't think Japanese women made such noises \u2014 _I_ certainly didn't when I had sex with my husband. Did you?\"\n\nI dodged her question. \"Surely she's not the only Japanese woman who makes noises during sex.\"\n\n\"But you should have heard it! She was screaming like a mother giving birth. And then, when I went inside, I heard the bedpost banging against the wall \u2014 _gatan, gatan, gatan_ \u2014 and I could actually _see_ the walls shaking.\" She shook her head in awe.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she said after a pause, \"is there something ... well, _different_ about foreign men? Is there something they do that gives women so much pleasure?\"\n\nI laughed. \"What about your Australian boyfriend?\"\n\nShe lowered her eyes. \"We hardly ever have sex, actually. And no, he doesn't make me scream like that. You should have heard her \u2014 it was so loud, I was afraid everybody on the street would be able to hear it.\" Once again she shook her head at the memory. \" _Big_ shock.\"\n\nI looked at her wide, eager eyes and sensed the curiosity that lay beneath them, the hunger for lurid details, the latent raunchiness.\n\n_You wanna be shocked, lady_ , I thought suddenly, _OK, I'll shock you_. And I told her about a case my brother had encountered while interning at St. Joseph's Hospital in Toronto. A man had showed up at the emergency room with the tail of a dead mouse sticking out from between his legs. When my brother asked him, as nonchalantly as he could, how the animal had come to be there, the man explained that he and his lover had been engaging in a practice called mousing, which consisted of having a live mouse (it had to be a particular species, bred for its small size) inserted into one's rectum, and savouring the sensation as it burrowed around until it met its death by asphyxiation. According to the patient, the practice was not uncommon. Usually the mouse didn't get very far and was easily extricated, but this had been a particularly tenacious animal and the patient's lover had been unable to remove it.\n\nTeruko looked at me intently while I told her the story, but she didn't seem particularly shocked. When I was finished, she sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments, then asked, without a trace of irony, \"What for?\"\n\nI often wondered what fuelled our friendship, what drew me again and again to Teruko's unkempt home and slapdash hospitality, and her to my drab little room in Esther House. It was only much later that I realized that what held us together, what propelled us into a lasting friendship, was the alienation we both felt from our own cultures, the irrational longing to inhabit each other's worlds.\n\n### **5**\n\n\" _Tokyo is a candy-store, and while I'm here, I intend to eat to my heart's content_.\"  \n\" _Tokyo is a man-desert, and I'm a thirsty woman_.\"\n\nAccording to Charlene, who relayed it to me in scornful tones over the telephone, the first statement was made by a male teacher at the English school where she worked. The candies he was referring to were of the almond-eyed, silky-haired variety. I came across the second statement in the Tokyo Journal, a slick monthly magazine catering to English-speaking Tokyo residents. It was a quote from an American woman who was fed up with the lack of dating opportunities for Western women living in Tokyo.\n\nWith almost two months behind me, I too was beginning to notice the inequities in Tokyo's dating scene. For gaijin men, the situation was ideal \u2014 they were in limited supply and in constant demand. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, classically stunning and classically ugly ones \u2014 just about every Western man was able to find a Japanese girlfriend in record time. Not a day went by when I didn't see a gaijin man with a fresh-faced Japanese girl hanging on to his arm and looking up at him with doe eyes.\n\nI sometimes wondered what the women saw in these conquest-seeking men. Charlene, on the other hand, wondered what the men saw in their Japanese girlfriends. \"These women are such _airheads_ ,\" she told me in her italicized drawl. \"They run around the office acting like five-year-olds just to get the teachers' attention. It makes me want to _vomit_ , the way they walk with those mincing steps and talk in those ridiculously high voices.\"\n\nAs to why the Japanese women worshipped gaijin men, part of it had to do with a general admiration, in Japanese society, of all things Western. Western men, like Western movies, Western fashion or Western music, were cool. A gaijin boyfriend was a status symbol. On the train to work one morning, I struck up a conversation with a British man who told me he'd answered a Japanese woman's personal ad in the Tokyo Journal. After a few dates, he began to notice that she seemed more interested in driving him around the city in a car packed with her buddies than in seeing him alone. \"It started to feel like all she wanted to do was show me off to her friends,\" he said.\n\nBut it went deeper than that. Many young Japanese women looked to gaijin men as a way to escape the confines of their predictable future as Japanese wives. By hooking up with a Western man, they were also buying into the cultural ideal of the West \u2014 a relationship that would give them romance, sexual fidelity and a chance to spread their wings.\n\nIt was hardly surprising that, surrounded by such a bountiful supply of eager women, gaijin men sometimes went a little crazy. They found girlfriends within days of their arrival in Tokyo. They traded up \u2014 plainer ones for more attractive ones, older ones for younger ones \u2014 and competed with each other to see who could get the prettiest one in the shortest time.\n\nStuart, a BE teacher from Vancouver whose cocky demeanor was a magnet for the female students, would boast of his exploits between classes. \"Take a look at this,\" he'd say to us, pinning a note to the bulletin board. It was usually written on pink stationery and said something like \"Mr. Stuart, I so much enjoy your teaching. Every class I watch your cheerful face. I would like to have dinner with you. Please say yes.\"\n\nJeffrey Addleman, BE's youngest teacher and not quite so much of a lady-killer, always rose to the bait. \"So what's your secret?\" he'd ask Stuart with undisguised admiration.\n\nRelationships between gaijin men and Japanese women worked well, it seemed to me, because both parties got a better deal than they would with a partner from their own culture. The man got more pampering and less argument. The woman got more independence and more of the flowers and compliments she upheld as a romantic ideal. They were mirrors for each other's fantasies as they walked arm in arm, equally triumphant as they displayed their conquest to the world.\n\nThis state of affairs left many foreign women railing against young Japanese women for having an unfair advantage in the playing field. They accused these women of stunting themselves like bonsai trees in order to appeal to the male fantasy of a childlike woman (something that they, of course, would never stoop to doing). Gaijin men saw it differently. \"Do you know what that idiot had the _gall_ to say?\" Charlene told me, referring to the same teacher who was bent on satisfying his sweet tooth. \"He said he prefers Japanese women because they're lighthearted and fun to be with, and that the gaijin women who come to Tokyo are \u2014 get this \u2014 too _serious_ and full of hang ups. Can you _believe_ it?\"\n\nFor all their complaints about the dating scene in Tokyo, most Western women I knew had no particular interest in trying their luck with Japanese men. Some claimed to find them unappealing as a group, while others were not above the occasional one-night stand but would never consider a long-term involvement. The general consensus was that a Japanese man, with his addiction to work and reluctance to show affection, didn't have much to offer a Western woman.\n\nYoung Japanese men, on the other hand, seemed eager to date outside their culture but didn't quite know how to go about it. Unlike gaijin men, who knew they were in high demand, Japanese men felt at a disadvantage in the game\u2014they assumed their overtures would be met with rejection. \"Japanese men are hated all over the world,\" a friend of Miki's told me. He had spent four years in America studying law, and hadn't been as successful with the local women as he would have liked. He confessed that after managing to get a date with an American woman, he was on a high for weeks and all he could think of was \"I did it, I did it, I did it!\"\n\nInsecurity aside, Japanese men were also aware that the culture gap might be too wide for a long-term relationship to flourish. Among the men who'd actually tasted the fantasy, the feeling seemed to be that, in the words of a young man interviewed in the Tokyo Journal, \"Western women are much better in bed than Japanese women, but I would never have a serious relationship with one \u2014 they make too many demands on a man's time.\"\n\nIt was the reverse of the gaijin man-Japanese woman equation: both parties got less of what they wanted than with a partner from the same culture. The woman got less time and less affection, the man less patience and docility.\n\nThe result of all this was that when it came to dating and mating in Tokyo, Western women got the short end of the stick. Gaijin men were too busy chasing Japanese women to notice them, and Japanese men were either too wrapped up in their work or too shy. There were exceptions, of course, but many of the gaijin women I met in Tokyo had gone for months or years without any romantic involvement.\n\nValerie was a two-year veteran at Tokyu BE, a boisterous woman with an ail-American smile and intense blue eyes. Two years of manlessness had made her, as Jeffrey put it, \"as horny as two women rolled into one.\"\n\n\"Do you know what really burns me up about this city?\" she told me one afternoon in the teachers' lounge. \"You go to a party, you meet a cute guy, and the vibes are great, right? He's acting real flirtatious and you're thinking maybe he'll ask for your phone number, then along comes this cute little thing called Sumiko or something, and he says By the way, I'd like to introduce you to my girlfriend, and you're like, offffft ...\n\nIt was hard not to be rankled about the unfairness of it all. I would browse through the travel section of the Kinokuniya bookstore and find books called \"Bachelor's Japan\" or \"A Guide to the Single Foreigner in Tokyo.\" There were pages and pages of advice to gaijin males on the prowl, but hardly a word to us females. Tokyo had very little, these books seemed to be saying, to offer the Western woman in search of romance.\n\nCharlene vented her anger over the telephone lines. \"I have _zero_ respect for these men,\" she told me. \"They're such _losers_. All they want is some bimbo to fawn all over them.\"\n\n\"I know what you mean.\"\n\n\"Besides, I think it's _racist_ to limit your dating choices to one group of people.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure I agree with that,\" I told her. \"If it's alright to have a preference for bearded men, or tall dark types, or musicians or executives or whatever, why isn't it OK to have a preference for Japanese women?\"\n\n\"Preference is one thing, but most of these jerks won't even _consider_ a non-Japanese woman, even for a one-night fling.\"\n\nI had no doubt that Charlene would find a way to track down the exceptions.\n\nOne evening in early November, I bumped into Janet and Bruce in the Shinjuku train station. They were on their way to Maggie's Revenge, a pub that advertised itself in the Tokyo Journal as a \"robust Australian bar; enjoy and be noisy!\"\n\n\"We're going for our monthly dose of homesickness medicine,\" Janet said with a laugh, and invited me to join them.\n\nNo sooner had we sat down and ordered our lagers than we heard a commotion at the other end of the room. We looked over and saw a bearded gaijin sitting by himself in a corner, banging on his table with a beer mug. Suddenly he got up and staggered to the centre of the room.\n\n\" _Three years_ ,\" he said thickly, steadying himself against the counter. \"I've been in this city for three fuckin' years and I still haven't found a Japanese girlfriend.\"\n\n\"No worries, mate,\" someone snickered. \"I've got one for you, a pretty one with tits.\"\n\n\"Shut up!\" he bellowed.\n\n\"Take it easy, mate,\" Bruce called out to him.\n\nHe turned in our direction, gave us a suspicious stare, then grabbed his beer mug and walked slowly toward our table.\n\n\"Mind if I have a seat?\" he said, looking down at us with bloodshot eyes. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled up a chair and sat down.\n\n\"I'm Nat,\" he said. We told him our names.\n\n\"Three years,\" he said softly.\n\nHe took a swig of beer. \"All my mates've got girlfriends,\" he told us. \"I got this one mate, he's so ugly he'd scare away a cockroach, y'know what I mean? And even _he_ 's got one.\"\n\nNone of us said anything.\n\n\" _Fuckin tired of it!_ \" he yelled suddenly.\n\n\"Take it easy, mate,\" Bruce told him.\n\n\"What the fucks the matter with this city?\"\n\n\"Maybe you're trying too hard,\" Janet said.\n\nHe shook his head slowly. \"Three fuckin' years and all I've got to show for it are some goddamn pictures of Tokyo Disneyland.\"\n\nDisagreeable though he was, I could understand his frustration. He was like many Western women in Tokyo \u2014 forever on the sidelines.\n\n### **6**\n\nShe was one of five students in my Wednesday morning class. From the very beginning, I sensed a special quality in her. For starters, she was beautiful. Her face was a study in Oriental harmony \u2014 classic almond eyes, reticent nose and porcelain skin, with hardly a wrinkle to betray her thirty-nine years. Though on the tall side for a Japanese woman, she was slender enough to look fragile. She dressed with flair \u2014 rumpled linen jackets, silk pants, body-hugging turtle-necks \u2014 and there was a dignified bearing in her step. During class, I sometimes caught her giving me warm, almost maternal looks. Hitomi was her name.\n\nAs I try to recreate her on paper, I come up against the certainty of being unable to do her justice. If I mention that she used a fountain pen and always carried a handkerchief in her purse, no doubt she'll seem stuffy. If I talk about her happy-sad smile, the look of kindly resignation in her eyes, she'll sound like the long-suffering type. No matter how the words land on the page, they'll fall short of capturing the essence of a woman in whom traditional Japanese sensibilities, avant-garde chic and aristocratic manners coexisted with a total lack of affectation.\n\nSince there were four other students in the class I didn't get much of a chance to talk to her privately, though I soon discovered that if I walked into the classroom a few minutes early I could almost always find her sitting there, back straight and features set in that trademark happy-sad look of hers. Our chance to get to know each other finally came about halfway through the fall semester, when the other students happened to be absent on the same morning. A few minutes into the lesson, Hitomi suggested that we forget about the textbook and have an hour of \"free conversation\" instead.\n\nI learned that she came from a family of musicians and painters, had been married to an architect for fifteen years, and had no children.\n\n\"May I ask why not?\" I blurted out, instantly regretting the question. But she didn't seem to mind.\n\n\"My husband say he doesn't want bring children in a too much crowded world,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"And did you feel the same way?\"\n\n\"Well, I understood his feeling ...\" She was thoughtful for a moment, then smiled and said, \"I think that real reason is my husband loves his work too much.\"\n\nShe's probably right, I thought. (I had always suspected that people who claimed they didn't want kids because of the terrible shape the world was in were using the sorry state of the world as a foil for other, more private reasons.)\n\n\"I'm so glad we had a chance to talk,\" Hitomi told me at the end of the hour. \"I wanted to become your friend from beginning of class, but was too shy for suggesting it. Will you come my house for supper this Saturday?\"\n\nThe following Saturday I found myself sitting in the living room of Hitomi's ultra-modern house, which her husband, Kazuo, had designed himself. It was small, but full of light and wood and interesting angles. In short order, I discovered two of its most delightful features \u2014 a heated living-room rug and a heated toilet seat. With restrained wifely pride, Hitomi showed me some of Kazuo's creations \u2014 a pewter lamp that looked like it belonged in a museum of modern art, space-age scissors, a CD holder that fanned out like a peacock's feathers. Everything in the house was stylish and eye-catching, just like Hitomi herself in her angular blue tunic and peach silk blouse. When Kazuo rang the bell and stepped in, I wasn't at all surprised to see that he was strikingly handsome.\n\nHitomi had invited another friend of hers, Yoko (who was also thirty-nine and married to a man who didn't want children), and the four of us sat down to eat. The long rosewood table was set like the tables in five-star restaurants, with rows and rows of forks, knives and spoons for each setting, along with black lacquered chopsticks. I stared in astonishment as Hitomi brought out the platters of food \u2014 sashimi sprinkled with ice cubes and diced vegetables, curried eel in a cream sauce, slices of chicken breast topped with fresh mangos and a ginger glaze. Clearly, Hitomi was one of those people who turned everything they touched into gold.\n\n\"I love cooking,\" she said shyly when she saw my look of amazement. \"I specially like to experiment with combination Japanese and French style.\" She went on to tell me that she always tried to think of the most appropriate foods to serve to a particular group of guests \u2014 the foods that were most likely to make conversation flow and create amicable feelings. She seemed to have hit the bull's eye that evening, since Yoko and I got along famously and made plans to get together the following weekend.\n\nHitomi continued to flood me with her quiet generosity. One Sunday she insisted on taking me on an architectural tour of Tokyo. Predictably, her taste in buildings was as impeccable as her taste in everything else. She introduced me to stylish constructions like the Watari-um museum of modern art and architectural oddities like Tokyo's narrowest house \u2014 hidden jewels I'd have never thought to find amid the jumble of post-modern kitch I usually came across on my jaunts through the city. She met me for lunch in airy sandwich bars in Harajuku and lured me to her own kitchen to sample her latest creation, which could be anything from bacon fritters to salmon-and-cheese souffl\u00e9. If I happened to mention that I liked the music playing discreetly in the background \u2014 usually jazz or alternative pop \u2014 the next time we saw each other she'd hand me a cassette copy of the music, with the title of every song written in meticulous capital letters on the cardboard insert. At such times, I was filled with what the Japanese call _koko-rogurushisa_ \u2014 a feeling of thankfulness bordering on discomfort.\n\nWhile she took pride in her Japanese heritage, she wasn't afraid to be critical of her own people. She disliked, for example, the tendency of the Japanese to put themselves down. \"If a friend give compliment about my dress,\" she once told me, \"I make effort I don't follow Japanese habit to answer 'Not at all, far from it, it's such an ugly thing.' I think Western way is better in this case, just accept compliment and say thank you.\"\n\nAlthough we started out conversing mainly in English, as time went on we found ourselves speaking more and more Japanese. I knew she was eager to use the English she was learning at BE, and had the feeling she'd made the switch for my sake. \"No, no,\" she assured me when I asked her about it, \"it's much more relaxing for me to speak my own language.\" My selfish interest in practising Japanese made me accept her words too readily, though in my heart I knew otherwise.\n\nDuring the first few weeks of my friendship with Hitomi, I found myself inadvertently shying away from Teruko, whose casual manners and goggle-eyed curiosity about Western sexuality now struck me as more vulgar than bracing. I had to wait a couple of months, until Hitomi's spell over me had worn off a little, before I could once again appreciate Teruko for who she was.\n\nI became a regular guest at Hitomi's dinner parties and got to meet a number of her friends. Many of them were women in their late thirties or early forties, married and childless, leading busy lives filled with jazz ballet classes and trips to Europe. For the most part, these women seemed genuinely content with the path they had chosen. It appeared that Japanese women were just now discovering the joys of a \"child-free\" existence, some fifteen years behind their North American sisters in the so-called Me Decade. Government officials were alarmed that if the trend continued, the next fifty years would see a giant increase in the number of senior citizens with no children to pay and care for them. According to Hitomi and her friends, the decision to go childless was often motivated by the dread of having to enter a child in the frantic race for the right kindergartens, the right grade schools, the right cram schools, all in the hope that the kid would eventually make it to one of the better universities and a better station in life. To a growing minority of married couples, the financial burden, the stress, the shame if the child didn't make the grade, were not worth the trouble.\n\nIn early December, under the pretext of breaking in the year-end party season, Hitomi invited me to have dinner with her and Kazuo at one of their favourite hangouts. She admitted that Sushi-sei, as the place was called, was in the top price range for sushi restaurants. \"We want you to have a real sushi experience,\" she declared.\n\nThey'd made reservations ahead of time, which had me feeling just a shade smug as we cut through the lineup and made our way to the sushi counter. The restaurant was just the kind I liked \u2014 small and cozy, with lots of wooden cross-beams and sliding doors. Kazuo introduced me to the head sushi chef, who stiffened for an instant as he took in the length of me, then broke into a huge grin from which he never quite recovered.\n\n\"I hear you're from Canada,\" he volleyed in rapid-fire Japanese. \"It's an honour to have a Canadian at my counter. The last time we had a Canadian guest was back in spring \u2014 he was some kind of journalist, I think. He had this sheet of paper near his plate and took notes while he ate. He kept asking me, 'What's this?' 'What's this?' 'What's this?' with a deadly serious face, as though someone had just died.\" He broadened his grin. \"I tell you, the guy was irritating. 'What's this?' 'What's this?' 'What's this?' To be honest, I felt like giving him a _bakudan_ just to shut him up. Do you know what a _bakudan_ is? I don't know the English word, unfortunately.\"\n\n\"Bomb,\" Kazuo supplied.\n\n\"Oh yes, bomb. It means a piece of sushi with a large chunk of _wasabi_ mustard hidden between the fish and rice parts. In former times, sushi chefs used to give _bakudan_ to their enemies and watch them choke, heh heh.\" As fast as his lips were moving, his hands were slicing fish, patting rice balls into shape and placing assembled pieces of sushi on our trays. \"I'll bet you don't eat _kujira_ , do you?\"\n\n\" _Kujira?_ \"\n\n\"Whale,\" Kazuo obliged again. The sushi chef waved a hunk of gleaming red meat at me. \"This is _kujira_ ,\" he beamed.\n\n\"Well ...\" I was torn between curiosity and learned guilt.\n\n\"I know, I know,\" he boomed, \"you think it's wrong to eat whale meat, _neh?_ \" He gave a snort of mock derision. \"For us Japanese, it's a delicacy. I can't understand you Americans \u2014\"\n\n\"She's Canadian,\" Hitomi interjected.\n\n\"American, Canadian, whatever. When you dropped the bomb \u2014\" he splayed his fingers as though dropping an egg \" \u2014 you didn't say _those poor people_ , did you? But when it comes to the whales, you're forever crying _poooor, poooor things, isn't it terrible?_ ' Laughter danced in his eyes as he spoke. \" _Poooor, poooor whales_ ,\" he repeated for effect.\n\nBy this time I too was laughing. \"Sure, I'll try some,\" I said, mostly to surprise him. I chewed the raw whale meat under his watchful eye, easing my guilt with the thought that a true philosopher will try anything once. I found that it didn't taste all that different from raw tuna, though I knew better than to tell him that.\n\n\"You're a strange Canadian,\" he told me when I nodded my approval.\n\nPieces of sushi continued to materialize on our trays, along with refills of cold _sake_ in our cups. One by one, I sampled my favourites, all of them fresh and fragrant \u2014 scallop, sweet shrimp, _anago_ eel and finally the hand-rolled _makizushi_. I wondered who had come up with the curious notion that it was impossible to fill up on Japanese food.\n\nKazuo dismissed my tipsy protestations as he went to pay the bill, while the chef made a great show of shaking my hand across the counter. \"Come again, come again,\" he said with cheflike geniality, looking right and left to make sure he was being properly watched by the other patrons.\n\nWe slid open the entrance door and stepped out into the cool night air. Before I could formulate a suitable expression of gratitude, Hitomi looked up at me and said, \"Thank you for accepting our invitation.\"\n\n### **7**\n\nNot being a particularly touchy-feely sort of person, I hadn't expected that I would feel quite as starved for physical contact as I did by the time November rolled around. I no longer dreaded the sardine-can train rides into Shibuya every morning, but found myself \u2014 I realized this with a shock \u2014 almost looking forward to them. Being squashed by a half-dozen people was a shoddy form of body contact, but it was preferable, evidently, to none at all.\n\nAround that time, I was invited to spend a Sunday evening with the Mikami family, an upper-middle-class couple and their twelve-year-old daughter. A mutual friend in Toronto had written to them about my arrival in Tokyo, and they made it a point to have me over for a home-style dinner every few weeks. Both parents were doctors \u2014 he a psychiatrist and she a family practitioner \u2014 and Yuki brought home report cards that predicted an equally high-powered career.\n\nBecause they treated me casually and went about their usual business when I was there, I didn't feel I was imposing on them as much as I might have otherwise. The television was kept on while we ate, Mr. Mikami chewing silently while he took in the six o'clock news, and as soon as dinner was finished Yuki would bound up the stairs to her room and Mrs. Mikami would hand me a dishtowel so I could dry while she washed. Sometimes she even asked me to check Yuki's English homework. What I enjoyed most about those evenings was the sense of being granted an off-the-record, intimate glimpse into the life of a Japanese family, though the relaxed Mikamis could hardly be said to typify a Japanese household.\n\nAt the end of that Sunday evening in November, the three of them saw me out to the hallway and clustered around me while I put on my shoes and jacket. As we exchanged our goodbyes, I impulsively flung my arms around Yuki and held her in a tight hug. Yuki jumped back, her face taut with alarm and confusion, and Mrs. Mikami burst out laughing. She told me not to be offended by her daughter's reaction, that Japanese children past the age of about ten were not used to being touched by older people.\n\n\"Not even by their parents or relatives?\" I asked Miki a few days later. We were sitting in her apartment, looking at her family pictures: children and adults lined up in neat rows, sometimes smiling, sometimes not, hands by their sides or clasped symmetrically in front of them.\n\n\" _Kimochi warui_ ,\" she said with a shudder. \"Bad feeling. I be scared if my mother kissing or hugging me, I think.\"\n\n\"What about your friends?\"\n\nShe laughed. \"No, I never touching my friends. If I touch them they think I strange. Last time somebody touch me was my boyfriend, but that seven years ago.\"\n\n\"Honestly? You never miss it?\"\n\nShe shook her head resolutely. \"You never miss bowing, or sitting _seiza_ -style?\"\n\nUntil then, I hadn't thought to question the prevailing Western view that physical contact was a universal human need, that people withered and died if they went too long without being touched. But most Japanese I knew hardly seemed in danger of withering and dying. Though by Western standards they might be a little repressed, their sense of community, of connectedness, was hardly the weaker for their lack of physical demonstrativeness. There were other ways to satisfy the desire for connection, and perhaps what Miki got from her chummy female friendships and assortment of hobbies was in some way equivalent to a backrub or a squeeze.\n\nWhat I had a harder time accepting as healthy was the strength of her fantasies about Sweden and Stefan Edberg, her investment in the improbable. And it wasn't only Miki. I had a thirty-six-year-old student for whom Elvis was clearly more alive than her husband. As often as she could, she made the pilgrimage to Graceland where she would spend a week soaking up the magic with like-minded compatriots. Another Japanese woman I knew had spent her year-long stay in Toronto pining for Kurt Browning, the figure-skating champion, videotaping his every televised performance and writing him love letters. She showed me one of them, a string of soupy sentences that sounded nothing like the articulate woman of twenty-seven that she normally was:\n\n_Even other people may doubt you, but I know you're the best. Always you smile at camera, even if make mistake and fall. When you gave me that piece of paper with autograph (remember?), it was the best day of my life, and I will carry it with me always ..._\n\nI couldn't recall any of the friends I'd had, even as a teenager, being so passionate about their idols as were these women \u2014 solid, hard-working women who could hardly be accused of self-delusion in other aspects of their lives. There was, I suspected, something fundamental that these women needed but could not get in their real lives, a yearning for which the only reasonable expression, other than despair, was intense fantasy.\n\nMeanwhile, at Esther House, the tension was gradually building. Nobody had come to blows yet, but the daily sharing of two toilets, one shower and one telephone among a dozen ill-assorted people was taking its predictable toll on everybody's nerves. The collective mood brightened somewhat when, toward the end of the month, a very tall Nordic woman showed up at our doorstep, surrounded by brimming black suitcases. We made a great show of welcoming her, sensing that she might break up, at least temporarily, the web of petty grudges that had started to form between us.\n\nBirgit Sorensen was from Stockholm, and had come to Japan to do some modelling and get away from her homeland, where she claimed to be dying of boredom. She was a classic Swedish beauty, with ramrod-straight blonde hair and legs that went on forever. I got a taste of what it was like to live in her skin when I took the train into Shibuya with her one morning. Over six feet tall in her high-heeled lace-up boots, hair gleaming against her black leather jacket, she drew all eyes toward her. Teenage girls whispered to each other while sneaking glances in her direction, _obaasan_ gave her head-to-toe scrutinies, and older men forgot to close their mouths as they gaped without shame. I heard the word \"beautiful\" float up in a guttural whisper as we breezed by a pair of businessmen (with Birgit you didn't walk, you breezed), and was all too certain they weren't talking about me.\n\nWithin two weeks of her arrival, Birgit had gotten a hefty contract modelling sunglasses for an eyewear company. Ariel, who'd been pounding the pavements in search of modelling work for more than two months, had trouble disguising his resentment. \"Guess I should dye my hair blond,\" he said. \"And maybe my eyes, while I'm at it. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing in this city \u2014 there's no appreciation for _interesting_ faces, just the washed-out Aryan look.\"\n\n\"Don't give up,\" Birgit urged him, and with the magnanimity afforded by success, promised to put in a good word for him if one of her employers ever needed a male model.\n\nBirgit floated from contract to contract, from party to party, each experience another opportunity to toss off a casual boast. Loved by Japan but herself indifferent to the country, she skimmed the surface of her adventures, none of them meaning very much to her since her life was already well mapped out: at the end of the year, she'd be returning to Stockholm to get married to her six-foot-four fianc\u00e9, and presumably have a batch of six-foot-eight kids in boring old Sweden and never give Japan another thought.\n\nBy this time, all of us at Esther House had caught on to the cheating games played by Tokyo commuters, and Jessie was a particularly enthusiastic player. The Japanese called the practice _kiseru_. A _kiseru_ is a traditional Japanese pipe with a metal bowl and mouthpiece, joined by a flexible bamboo tube. Like the hard metal pieces at both ends of the pipe, commuters' entry and exit stations are fixed, unbendable. But what happens in between is as flexible as the pipe's tubing. If, for example, your daily commute is from station A to station Z, twenty-five stops further, you can do the honest thing \u2014 buy a monthly train pass allowing you to ride between A and Z \u2014 or instead, buy an A-to-B pass and a Y-to-Z pass, which is a lot cheaper. You use the first pass when getting on at A, the second pass when getting off at Z, and nobody is the wiser. There are many other variants of the game. Some people go as far as studying the ticket-clerks at different stations to find out which ones are likely to be sleeping on the job and therefore unaware that the rider is flashing them a pass for an entirely different train-line.\n\nJessie took it upon herself to coach Birgit in the art of _kiseru_ , but the apprentice soon overtook the master. Unlike the rest of us, Birgit didn't have to use her wits to play the game. She had only to breeze through the turnstile, draw herself up to her full six feet and train her brilliant blue eyes on the ticket puncher, and he would become so flustered that it was all he could do to keep from falling off his chair. As the weeks wore on, she got bolder and bolder. From expired train passes, she went on to use telephone cards, packs of cigarettes, and finally nothing but her smile. She never got caught.\n\nI, on the other hand, got caught after only three or four tries \u2014 dragged by the arm into an office where I was made to pay a fine of three times the normal fare and given a sober talk in Japanese of which I understood nothing but the last sentence, \"Please don't do that anymore.\" After that incident I stopped playing _kiseru_. There was something about the officer's tone of voice \u2014 its unexpected gentleness, perhaps \u2014 that made me lose my interest in the game.\n\nI thought that Miki would be excited at the opportunity to meet a bona fide Swede, but when I asked her if she wanted to meet Birgit, she seemed oddly resistant to the idea. \"I too shy,\" she said vaguely, and after a pause, \"I not ready yet.\" Not ready, I guessed, to face the possibility that the real Sweden was nothing like the Sweden she'd invented for herself, the Sweden that had fuelled her fantasies for the past ten years.\n\nReality, illusion ... I didn't know which was better anymore. I saw myself, unhappy and striving, and I saw Miki, content to hear her idol's footsteps in the corridors of her imagination, her cravings less insistent because they didn't need to be satisfied.\n\n### **8**\n\nSome of the gaijin I was meeting in Tokyo were as captivated by Japan and its people as I was. But even the most die-hard Japanophiles admitted to growing weary of answering, or dodging, the same old questions about age, marital status and ability to ingest raw fish. In our more generous moments, we attributed the predictability and persistence of these questions to the old saw that a culturally isolated people such as the Japanese could hardly be expected to behave with international sophistication.\n\nTrue to form, Jeffrey Addleman had compiled a list of Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions (as they used to do in Mad Magazine, he said) and was urging the rest of the BE teachers to try them out on our students. My three favourites follow.\n\n\"Can you eat sushi?\" | \"It's quite good with ketchup.\"\n\n---|---\n\n\"Are you married, Mr. Jeffrey?\" | \"No, but I'm living with him.\"\n\n\"Can you use chopsticks?\" | \"No. Can you?\"\n\nPart of the problem is semantic. In Japanese, the \"can you\" question form has alternative meanings of \"do you like\" or \"are you accustomed to.\" Foreigners who didn't know this accused the Japanese of being condescending and ignorant. \"What do they mean, _can_ you eat sushi?\" these gaijin would ask each other in consternation. \"Do they think we're physically incapable of opening our mouths, stuffing a goddamned piece offish inside and chewing?\"\n\nSemantics aside, the knee-jerk questions betrayed a discomfort around foreigners that seemed particularly strong in the Japanese. This was hardly surprising if one considered that most Japanese had been raised on a diet of clownish TV gaijin, glamorous movie gaijin, frenetic rock-star gaijin, and almost no contact with the real product. They were unprepared for the droves of Japanophiles intent on proving that foreigners could master it all \u2014 language, tea ceremony, calligraphy \u2014 that no turf was sacred. \"I remember a grade-school teacher telling me that foreigners really _couldn't_ eat sushi, that they'd get indigestion if they did,\" an embarrassed student once told me in defence of the question.\n\nCan you sleep on _futon_ mattress? Can you read _hiragana_ alphabet? Yes, yes, I answered proudly, suspecting it was no they wanted to hear, the no that would bolster their faltering belief in their own uniqueness.\n\nSusan and Mark wanted to take a weekend trip to the Izu Peninsula before the cold weather set in. I took on the challenge of making _ryokan_ reservations for them, though my telephone Japanese was still shaky.\n\n\"Can they speak Japanese?\" one innkeeper asked me.\n\n\"Not very well,\" I told her, \"but they're quite familiar with Japanese customs.\"\n\n\"Can they eat Japanese food?\"\n\n\"That's not a problem. They like all \u2014\"\n\n\"Can they use Japanese-style toilets?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course.\"\n\n\"And we don't have any Western-style beds ...\"\n\nIt wasn't dislike of foreigners that had prompted the innkeeper's questions, Hitomi assured me when I told her the story, but fear that her modest accommodations weren't good enough for Americans and that she would fail as a hostess. \"We Japanese have _rettokan_ ,\" she told me. \"In English you say inferiority complex, I think.\"\n\nWesterners, as we all know, play their own part in perpetuating the us-and-them myth. The Western media still haven't tired of portraying the Japanese business executive as a faceless robot, an economic animal hellbent on taking over the world. Many gaijin I knew in Tokyo went on and on about Japanese timidity, propriety, enslavement to the group. I too resorted to this sort of cheap trick, finding that the easiest way to wake up dead soldiers in a classroom was to turn the conversation to cultural differences. \"Is it true that Japanese mothers never boast about their children?\" \"Is it true that a salaryman should never refuse his supervisor's invitation to dinner?\"\n\nAnother topic that used up class time was the old clich\u00e9 that logic was Western, intuition Japanese. \"We Japanese are not logical,\" more than one student insisted to me. \"Look at your electronics industry, your clockwork trains,\" I would counter. \"Isn't that evidence of logic?\" But they weren't about to give up their romanticized view of themselves.\n\nWas it because of this strong cultural identity, I wondered, that individual Japanese seemed satisfied with such weak personal identities? \"I am a typical Japanese\" was a self-assessment I heard time and again, along with the sentence starter \"We Japanese,\" as in \"We Japanese believe in the afterlife,\" or \"We Japanese enjoy the sound of raindrops.\"\n\n\"Is it a good thing to be a typical Japanese?\" I asked a student.\n\n\"Yes, good thing.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"We Japanese all want to be same.\"\n\nI didn't quite buy that. \"All people want to be unique in some way, don't they?\"\n\n\"Japanese person just want be little bit unique, just little bit different, like have special hobby or sport, maybe own motorcycle. But we get nervous if not typical Japanese.\"\n\nMy students seemed surprised that I was planning to stay in Japan over the winter holidays. \"When are you going back to your country?\" they would ask. Canada is not _my_ country, I'd think to myself, saddened to be regarded as a guest rather than a long-term, possibly permanent resident. On the other hand, I realized it had probably not occurred to them that someone who had North America at her doorstep would choose to make her home in Japan. The majority of young Japanese dreamed of finding freedom abroad. That a North American might seek freedom in their close-knit, decorous society was surely baffling to them.\n\nThe questions followed me out of the classroom and into the streets of Harajuku, where an ice-cream vendor asked me if I thought Sting was a greater artist than Bruce Springsteen, into a Shinjuku watering hole where the bartender asked me if all American high-school students used drugs, into the trains, the stores, everywhere. It was the insatiable curiosity of a satellite culture about a dominant one, the curiosity of an island people about the mainland.\n\nMisled by the naivet\u00e9 of some of their questions, I was unprepared for the shrewdness of others. In late November, I went to interview for the position of English editor with a scientific publishing company. The publisher showed me into his office \u2014 a tiny, windowless room filled with papers stacked in teetering piles \u2014 and let me rattle on about my credentials while he sucked on his Lucky Seven.\n\n\"Which you like better,\" he asked suddenly, \"coffee or tea?\"\n\n\"Coffee,\" I said. \"Why?\"\n\n\"You like collecting things, like old newspapers, postcards?\"\n\n\"No, not really.\"\n\n\"You wait for red light before crossing street, even if no cars?\"\n\nThe questions continued, each one more puzzling than the last.\n\n\"You no good for this job,\" he said finally.\n\n\"But I have a science degree, and editing experience \u2014\"\n\n\"You not patient person. You get bored with this job. Is very detail, how you say ... _routine_ kind of job. To do this job well, you must be the person who love small details. You must be the person who don't have too much strong ideas. You must follow our company's system of editing, even if you think you find better way. You not this kind of person, I think.\"\n\nHe knows all this, I thought, just by asking a few loopy questions? As he shook my hand and showed me to the door, I had the sense of having been outwitted.\n\nA few days later, I went for an interview at a small agency that set up English classes for business executives. I was hoping to drop some of my teaching hours at BE and replace them with company classes, which sounded like less work for more money. Just like my previous interviewer, the owner of INTEC, a pale, thin man of about seventy, dismissed my credentials with a wave of his hand. He wanted to know about my interests, lifestyle, goals. I tried to gloss over the gaps in my work history, the abrupt shifts of focus, from Spanish to science, science to music, music to Japan.\n\n\"You're obviously a restless person,\" Mr. Sato told me in his near-perfect English, \"and my impression is that you get bored easily. Maybe you'll change your mind about Japan in six months and decide to leave. When we hire people, we like it to be for at least two years, preferably longer.\"\n\n\"But I have no intention of leaving Japan,\" I told him.\n\n\"Maybe not,\" he said, staring right at me. \"But you might get bored with the job. You need mental stimulation, don't you?\"\n\nIt wasn't a question one could answer no to.\n\n\"This job requires a lot of patience,\" he continued. \"Many of our students are slow learners. You're not a patient person, are you?\"\n\nThis style of interviewing \u2014 focusing on personality rather than credentials \u2014 was one I would encounter again and again in my interviews with Japanese companies. Instead of looking for people whose experience was a perfect match with the job description, they seemed to favour candidates whose personalities were well-suited to the work they'd be doing. I wondered if this might not be one of the reasons that job hopping was so uncommon in Japan.\n\nIt looked like Mr. Sato was going to turn me down, when all of a sudden a tall woman flounced into the room, almost blinding me with her sartorial splendour: lime-green miniskirt, opaque stockings of the same colour and a woolly sweater in a violent shade of pink. She looked to be in her early forties, though it was hard to tell \u2014 her face was curiously unwrinkled from chin to eyebrows and deeply furrowed on the forehead. I took in her long straight hair, parted in the middle and slightly greasy, her heavy makeup and false eyelashes, and thought, _frozen in the seventies_.\n\nAnd then she started to talk: about her Masters' thesis in linguistics, about books she'd been reading, about the lack of serious, committed teachers in Tokyo. It turned out I had read some of the same books she had \u2014 _Iron and Silk, The Remains of the Day_. That bit of serendipity got us into an animated discussion about books versus films, films versus plays. I stared at her in astonishment, unable to reconcile the sober, high-toned remarks about Kazuo Ishiguro's \"tasteful, minimalistic book\" with the fuchsia lipstick bleeding past her lipline, the powder-coated eyelids and eye-popping garb.\n\n\"I like her,\" Vivian told Mr. Sato. (\"He's my boss,\" she whispered to me, \"but he trusts my judgment.\")\n\nAnd so I found myself with two new evening classes \u2014 IHI salespeople on Wednesday and SECOM scientists on Friday. The IHI group was in good spirits the first week, livelier and more responsive than any of my housewife classes. I gave them my standard ask-me-anything-you-want introduction, which one student countered with \"Are you looking for Japanese boyfriend?\"\n\nFinally, I thought \u2014 a different kind of question. There were possibilities, and my mood brightened.\n\n## **SMALL VICTORIES**\n\n\"What I am now is an interesting deformity. I am not Asian and never will be. Even if I forget it sometimes, no one else does.\"\n\n_Karen Connelly_\n\n### **1**\n\nIt was my first meal in a Japanese home. Although many more were to follow, it never got any better than Miki's sukiyaki. She'd invited two other friends, Chiemi and Naomi, both single women who still lived with their parents. The obligatory can-you-guess-my-age's were exchanged and a ranking was established: Naomi was the senior member of our party at thirty-five, next came thirty-four year old Chiemi, then myself and finally Miki. They waited expectantly for me to marvel at how young they looked, which I was able to do without lying.\n\nI excused myself to go to the bathroom and Miki mumbled an apology about its small size and lack of a bath or shower. I told her I wasn't planning on taking a bath, but the joke didn't catch.\n\n\"If I take apartment with bath, I pay about \u00a520,000 more rent,\" she explained when I returned to the room. \"So I going to _sento_ about five times in one week.\"\n\nThe public bath was a seven-minute walk from her place, she said, and cost \u00a5400 per visit, which meant that her net monthly savings were closer to \u00a512,000, or $120.\n\n\"Do you think is strange I have no bath?\" she asked me, looking embarrassed.\n\n\"Not at all,\" I said reflexively, surprised nonetheless that a professional architect working six days a week would have to budget so carefully.\n\n\"If I man, I get much more high salary for same job,\" she said, as though guessing my thoughts. \"Maybe two times more high.\" There wasn't a trace of bitterness in her voice. Half-wages and daily treks to the _sento_ were a small price to pay, she seemed to be saying, for the freedom to do what she wanted.\n\nShe brought us each a giant bottle of beer and we got into position around her low wooden table, the three of them kneeling _seiza-_ style and I extending my legs under the table with the abashed explanation that sitting Japanese-style caused instant cramping in the soles of my feet. \"Don't worry,\" they reassured politely, \"with friends any sitting style OK.\" Plates of cabbage, sliced leeks, tofu and beef strips were laid out around an electric frying pan. Miki turned on the pan, lined it with oil and poured in the beef. She sprinkled _shoyu_ sauce over the meat as it simmered, then added a cup of sake and several heaping spoonfuls of sugar. \"This is Kyushu style,\" she said with a hint of pride.\n\nAs we waited for the meat to cook they told me about themselves, as eager to shake the dust off their English as I was to hear them speak Japanese. Naomi was the worldliest and most fluent of the three. She'd spent a year teaching Japanese in England, where she'd made the happy discovery that her name, composed of the characters for \"straight\" and \"beautiful,\" also happened to be an English name.\n\n\"I _ki ga oi_ type,\" Chiemi sighed to me, Naomi explaining that this meant someone who had so many interests and ambitions that they couldn't decide which one to pursue. In addition to being a semi-professional dancer, Chiemi also worked as a part-time administrator at a culture centre, was collaborating with a friend on a new method of teaching Japanese to foreigners, and dreamed of becoming a licenced colour psychologist, whatever that was.\n\nMiki's ambition was to design wheelchair-accessible buildings based on Western models. For the past few years, she told us, she'd been toying with the idea of going to study architecture in Stockholm, which she saw as a model of progressive city planning. The stumbling blocks were huge, though: no architecture courses were offered in English, and she didn't speak a word of Swedish. But it had to be Sweden \u2014 America or England wouldn't do \u2014 which led one to suspect that ramps and large toilet stalls were only a small part of her motive.\n\nMarriage appeared to have as much bearing on their plans as the Second Coming. I asked them if they'd ever given the matter any thought.\n\n\"You know Japanese men?\" Chiemi asked me, as though the question answered itself. Miki and Naomi groaned in assent.\n\n\"She like Japanese men,\" Miki told the others on my behalf.\n\n\" _Heeeeeh?_ \" They looked astonished.\n\n\"Japanese men so boooring,\" Naomi said. \"How you can like?\"\n\n\"I can't explain it,\" I told them, embarrassed to have my secret divulged so quickly, \"but I'm curious.\" They looked at me incredulously. I mumbled something about romance being the most interesting way to gain insight into a culture, though it would have been more accurate to say that I was boning up on the culture so I'd be ready for the man, if and when he showed up.\n\n\"Maybe you should try _o-miai_ ,\" Naomi laughed. \"You know _o-miai?_ \"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"but I don't think foreigners are allowed to participate.\"\n\n_O-miai's_ literal meaning is \"seeing-meeting.\" What you saw was a prospective candidate's resume, given to you by a _nakodo_ or matchmaker. Vital statistics were age, height, weight, name of Alma Mater \u2014 university, one hoped \u2014 and annual salary. The man was also given your resume, in which you'd been careful to include such accomplishments as calligraphy or graduation from a French cooking course. If both parties agreed to it, the _nakodo_ gave the man your phone number. You then arranged to meet, and although you were theoretically under no obligation to like him, parents got exasperated with daughters who were too fussy, especially if they were nearing the end of their eligible years. If you did like him, and he you, you were free to arrange further meetings. Proposals usually occurred after four or five dates.\n\nThe meat was browned all over and Miki added the tofu and vegetables, a few more sprinkles of _shoyu_ sauce and another half-cup of sake to the simmering broth. The beer had loosened our postures and I settled in for what I knew would be a delicious meal and good gossip-fest.\n\n\"Have you ever tried _o-miai?_ \" I asked Miki.\n\n\"Just I try last month,\" she admitted, glancing ruefully at her friends.\n\n\" _Hontooooo?_ they squealed. \"How it was?\"\n\n_\"Dam\u00e8_. No good at all. He fat, he _hage_ , how you say _hage_ in English?\" She pointed to her head.\n\n\"You mean bald?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, bord. He bord, just little hair on side, also can't do conversation, only talk about he buy new washing and drying machine. After ten minutes I want leave.\"\n\nChiemi and Naomi's faces were taut with suppressed laughter.\n\n\"I return my home, telephone _nakodo_ and tell her it was _dam\u00e8_. She say she understand my feeling, when she arrange _o-miai_ she not yet meet man, but few days later she met and thinking he _terrible_ , so when I call she say solly, solly.\"\n\nShe took a final sip of the broth and pronounced it ready. With her chopsticks, she transferred a few pieces of meat and vegetables into her bowl, instructing me to do the same. The others followed suit.\n\n\"You like?\" she asked expectantly as I chewed. The meat was dripping with flavour, tender and moist. I told her I'd never tasted anything more delicious.\n\n\"Lots of _o-miai_ men is bord,\" Chiemi said. \"I also heard story if a man can't find woman by _o-miai_ system, he try make lots of money and buy house, then he get photo of himself standing with house in background, attach photo with resume. He thinking maybe women like him more because he have house.\"\n\n\"Yes, I hear same story. So if I see man put house on resume, I know he bord!\" Naomi was doubled over with laughter.\n\nThe sky had turned purply-black outside, the air was thick with fragrant vapours, laughter was bouncing crazily off the walls and I felt myself being drawn into their world, light-years away from my own, spiralling up, up, up ... Bang! There it was, the all-too-rare but unmistakable wash of feeling that, for want of a better term, I privately thought of as a Travel Orgasm. It was this, and only this, that made travel worthwhile.\n\n\"You know _mazakon?_ \" one of them asked me.\n\n\"Mazawhat?\"\n\n\"It comes from English words,\" Naomi said, wiping her eyes. \"Mother complex, I think. It means grown-up man who still controlled by mother. Lots of Japanese men _mazakon_.\"\n\n\"Actually,\" I told them, \"in English we usually call such men Mama's boys.\" Chiemi reached over to her purse, pulled out a notebook and wrote \"mama's boys\" in it, which prompted me to dig out my own notebook and scribble \"mazakon\" in a wobbly hand.\n\n\"Are you sure you want meet Japanese man?\" Chiemi asked me. \"You crayyyzee, I think.\"\n\n\"You want to know why _o-miai_ system didn't go well for me?\" Naomi said, straining to compose herself. \"I tried about four or five times, _nakodo_ gave me man's resume, but she also friend of my parents, so they asked to see it too. Then if I didn't like man after I met him, my parents get angry with me. They ask me, 'Why you don't like him? He comes from good family, works for Mitsubishi and gets \u00a55,000,000 salary.' If I say I just didn't like him, just didn't like his personality, that not good enough answer for them. They continue angry with me, tell me I make stupid mistake to refuse such good man. So I _atama ni kita_ , you know what means? In English you say fed up, I think. So I fed up and thought, no more _o-miai_.\"\n\nThey went on to tell me that computer-dating services were on the rise, especially in the large cities, for precisely that reason: unlike a _nakodo_ or parents, computers didn't make you feel obligated. And you could make requests (the most popular one being no eldest sons) that would be awkward when dealing with a human go-between.\n\nAs the evening wore on and the girl-talk grew thicker, I learned that Miki was the only one who'd had any experience with men at all \u2014 the other two admitted that there had been no men in their lives, ever. I was to meet several more women of this type, women who had what it took but had never been taken. They were a minority, no doubt, but unquestionably a larger group than in the West. By and large, Japanese people paired off through the established channels, like work or _o-miai_ \u2014 or not at all. Chance encounters at laundromats, grocery stores, museums or swimming pools, planes or trains, bookstores or coffee-shops, were not part of the dating culture. I once asked a group of students, young men who clearly had women on the brain, if they would consider approaching a woman at a party and asking for her phone number. Discussion ensued and a consensus was reached: no, they wouldn't, not if they didn't know anything about her beforehand. If they happened to meet her a second and third time, and if the host could give them some information about her, then maybe. But they'd still be very shy about it. The result of all this timidity was a large number of people with little or no dating experience. To compound the problem, the women were as choosy as Hollywood starlets, demanding that their potential suitors have _sanko_ or \"three heights,\" meaning bodily height (the standard minimum being 175 centimetres, with a recent push for 180), education at a high-level university and high salary.\n\nAnd if real men couldn't live up to their standards, the disenchanted women fell back on their long-standing foreign idols, on their fantasy lives. In their ardor for Western movie-stars, my three friends were a match for the giddiest American teenager. \"Do you like Mickey Rourke?\" they questioned me, hardly waiting for my reply. \"Yes, yes, Mickey Rourke! He great, _neh?_ \" \"How about Michael Douglas?\" \"Harrison Ford!\" \"Patrick Swayze!\" \"Yes, _yes_ , Patrick Swayze!\" How could a balding Mitsubishi-man stand a chance?\n\nAs I looked around the table at the three vibrant women, it struck me as a shame that a whole side of them was being unexpressed. But they seemed to feel differently. \"If I must to choose either three good friends or one good lover,\" Miki said emphatically, \"I choose friends.\" She brought out another round of oversize beer-bottles, and our shouts of _kampai_ rang out in a declaration of sisterhood.\n\n### **2**\n\nIt was the trifling incidents, the random drifts of day-to-day life that were gradually giving me the sense of belonging rather than watching. No longer vast and exotic, Tokyo was splitting up into manageable chunks, and I was starting to feel territorial about Nishiogi, its tidy streets aglow in the light of storefront signs and lanterns mixed with slabs of fading sunlight. The vegetable vendor would smile as I walked by and sometimes wave a sprig of chives in my direction in hopes I might be tempted, the jeweller's wife knew me by name and never missed a chance to offer me tea and belabored English phrases, the man who sold coffee beans would start grinding up my favourite blend as soon as he saw me step inside his shop, and even the old grouch in the stationery store would do his best to stop scowling when I walked in. I knew where to get _anko_ cakes with the freshest and most finely pureed bean paste filling, an impossibly tiny store owned by an aging couple. The first time I stopped by I left my umbrella behind, and the woman called out \"Gaijin-san!\" to me, then drew in her breath and started to laugh self-consciously. I knew that Mr. Owner and Mrs. Customer were standard forms of address in Japanese, but evidently Mrs. Foreigner sounded just as ridiculous in Japanese as it did in English. I introduced myself to the couple, and they too became _kinjo no tomodachi_ , my neighbourhood friends.\n\nI no longer moved aside for the steady stream of cyclists whizzing by me, no longer worried about being run over by the cars and trucks that grazed my sleeves as they passed. Shin Midori street was drawing me in, little by little, allowing me to become a participant in its orderly confusion.\n\nOne thing that I missed, during those leisurely walks to and from the train station, was the freedom to munch on a snack as I strolled along. Eating on the run, Hitomi had told me, was still considered bad manners in Japan, despite the proliferation of fast food joints and vending machines. (It always amused me, when walking by the Baskin Robbins in East Shinjuku, to see young office ladies sitting demurely on the pink stools, nipping at their ice-cream cones like pigeons.) In time I got up the nerve to break the taboo on occasion, but never with impunity. I would scurry along, throwing furtive glances in all directions, and when I was pretty sure nobody could see me, tuck my hand into the bag of jellybeans hidden in my purse and hastily transfer some to my mouth.\n\nWhen I first came to Japan I was a conscientious camera toter, a diligent note taker. By November I had stopped using my camera and even my journal showed gaps of several days at a time. The compulsion to record was giving way to the craving for immersion. I wanted nothing more than to be a cog in the wheel, an unnoticed, unremarkable participant in the life of my street.\n\nOne Saturday morning, while standing on the platform waiting for the train to Shinjuku, I noticed two kimono-clad _obaasan_ arguing about the train schedule. The departure times for the various trains were posted on a large board in the middle of the platform, and the old women were pointing to the numbers in seeming confusion. I looked more closely and realized what the problem was. I walked up to them and told them in what I hoped was suitably polite language that since it was Saturday, they should be looking at the weekend times listed to the right of the regular schedule. They shrank back in surprise, covered their mouths with their hands and broke into an effusion of nervous giggles. As I was walking away I heard one of them say, \"Imagine! A foreigner explaining the train schedule to us. It's just too funny.\" It was a small victory, but it made me feel that much less of a tourist.\n\nOn another occasion I was riding a crowded train and the man sitting next to me got up from his seat. A young mother pointed to the empty space and told her pre-school daughter to sit down. She was about to climb on but then looked up, noticed me and burst into tears. She moved back toward her mother, grabbed onto her leg and continued to stare at me with bulging eyes. The mother seemed embarrassed and gave me a sheepish look. She kept on urging her child to sit down and the child kept shaking her head, staring at me and crying. After a few minutes of this I pulled out a compact mirror from my purse and showed it to the girl. It had two sides, a regular and twofold magnification. \" _Ookii_ ,\" I said and pointed to her enlarged reflection, then \" _chiisai_ ,\" as I flipped the mirror and she saw her true-to-life self gazing back at her. After we had repeated this procedure a few times, she looked up at me again as if reconsidering her initial misgivings. Then, very slowly, she pulled a candy out of her coat pocket and offered it to me. I made a big show of unwrapping it and popping it into my mouth. \" _Oishii desuka?_ \" the little girl asked shyly. \" _Oishii?_ \" I said, delicious. It seemed we'd made a small step toward _kokusaika_ or internationalization, the hot new buzzword on the lips of every politician and businessman in Tokyo.\n\nOne evening I answered my ringing phone and was greeted by a timid voice I didn't recognize. It sounded like a teenage boy. My telephone Japanese was still shaky, so I went through my usual routine of stating that I was a Canadian and would he please forgive me for not speaking too well. He didn't answer, and I asked him if he was sure he had the right number. \"I just wanted to talk to someone,\" he said hesitantly, \"so I dialled a number at random.\" I thought of hanging up the phone, but he sounded sincere and somehow sad, so I told him that if he spoke slowly and could put up with my limited Japanese I'd be glad to talk to him.\n\n\"I've been kind of unhappy these days ...\" he started to say, then fell back into silence.\n\n\"What's the problem?\" I asked after a few seconds.\n\n\"It's not one thing in particular, it's everything.\" More silence.\n\n\"For example?\"\n\n\"Well, my parents are on my back because of my grades, but my grades are poor because they're on my back, do you know what I mean? And ...\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"And my older brother is so good at everything he does, so I tell myself what's the use, even if I work harder I'll never do as well as him. And do you know the word _ijimerareko?_ \" I didn't, but could figure it out: child who is tormented. He must mean scapegoat.\n\n\"Lately,\" he continued, \"I've become one of the _ijimerareko_ in my school. I don't know why, but ...\"\n\nLife was no bowl of cherries for this kid, that much was clear. It was hard to think of something to say that wouldn't sound like an idiotic adult platitude. The best I could do was tell him that young people who were loners or outsiders or otherwise on the fringe often ended up leading the most interesting lives later on. It occurred to me as I spoke that what I'd observed to be true in the West might be less true in a country where _deru kugi ga utareru_ , the nail that sticks out gets hammered in. I wasn't sure my words were of any use to him, but knowing that somewhere in the great megalopolis of Tokyo there was a troubled Japanese boy with whom I'd communicated gave me the sense of playing a part, however modest, in the drama of the city. And this, the travel guidebooks admonish, is the gaijin's fatal mistake: believing it's possible to fit in.\n\n### **3**\n\nJust as the expression _shiyo ga nai_ was a constant refrain in the conversations of my Japanese friends, the term \"human rights\" cropped up all the time in our discussions at Esther House, especially when Mark was one of the participants. If you slipped on the pavement, then it was not fate or bad luck but someone's fault (either the municipal government or the manufacturer of your shoes or your stress-producing job), and it was your right to have the wrong righted. Mark was always carrying on about how this or that right was being violated in Japan. Some of the rights he concocted were quite exotic \u2014 the right to personal space on trains, to round-the-clock bank machines, to public vehicles without loudspeaker announcements.\n\nThough he'd always had a penchant for using long, obscure words in conversation, I noticed that in the past couple of weeks he'd started lacing his speech with the most astounding locutions \u2014 eudemonic, serpiginous, myrmidon, and many others I couldn't catch. He tossed the words off coolly, without giving them any emphasis, as though their meaning ought to be evident to anyone with just a little education.\n\nOne rainy evening Susan and I were sitting on the floor of their room having a bed-time snack of rice-crackers and peanuts.\n\n\"Is it my imagination,\" I asked her, \"or has Mark been trying to expand his vocabulary these days?\"\n\n\"It's not your imagination,\" she sighed. \"It's English \u2014 his latest hobby.\"\n\nIn the three months I'd known Mark, I had seen him go through a folk music phase and a photography phase, putting his heart and soul into each endeavour.\n\n\"See that thing over there?\" she said, pointing to a monster-sized book on their shelf. \"That's his new Webster's unabridged. He bought it last month at a book sale. He's been studying it diligently ever since, ten new words every day. The worst part is he insists on trying them all out on me before taking them to the outside world.\" She shook her head in mock resignation.\n\nJust then the door opened and Mark stepped into the room, glistening with raindrops and looking very tired. \"I've had it,\" he said as he tossed his jacket and briefcase on the floor. \"The vituperative appellation has been used for \u2014\" At this we burst out laughing, and Mark gave us a puzzled look.\n\n\"So have a seat,\" Susan said to him, \"and tell us what's bugging you.\"\n\n\"Its that word,\" he said, grabbing a fistful of crackers and slumping down on his bed. \"You know the one I mean?\" We didn't.\n\n\"There are people from just about everywhere in the world living in Tokyo, right? We've got Australians, New Zealanders, Americans, Canadians, Brits, Germans, Swedes, not to mention Israelis, Iranians, Filipinos, Ghanans ...\" We waited for the punchline.\n\n\"And the Japanese still insist on lumping us all together as _gaijin_.\" He made a face as if to spit out a lemon seed.\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I see your point, but you can't expect them to refer to all non-Japanese as Australian-or-American-or-Ghanan-or \u2014\"\n\n\"That's it!\" he exclaimed. \"What's wrong with simply calling us non-Japanese?\"\n\n\"Come on, kid,\" Susan said. \"When was the last time you referred to someone as a non-American or non-British?\"\n\nHe considered this. \"I agree that nomenclature is a bit of a problem, but the word gaijin has got to go. _Outside person_. I don't know about you guys, but I for one find it mephitic.\"\n\n\"I think he means offensive,\" Susan whispered to me.\n\n\"Why don't you write a letter to the editor?\" I suggested. Clearly he needed to unburden himself to a wider and more sympathetic audience. \"You can send it to the Japan Times, or the English _Yomiuri_.\"\n\nA couple of days later I answered a resolute knock on my door and there stood Mark waving a typewritten page in my face.\n\n\"Have a look at this, if you don't mind,\" he said, \"and tell me what you think. Feel free to use your editorial skills, by the way.\"\n\nAs soon as he left I started to read, with increasing amazement, the letter he had composed. What follows is a portion of it.\n\n\" ... It is a travesty of democratic principles that in this crepuscular phase of the twentieth century the word gaijin should continue to be bandied about in flagrant disregard of the multitudinous diversity of Tokyo's inhabitants. There are Americans, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, Iranians, Israelis, Ghanans, Brazilians, Norwegians, Filipinos, Thais and a plethora of other peoples in this great metropolis. The entrenchment of the word gaijin in the face of such vertiginous variety is a Pharisaic practise against which I cannot but inveigh, and I would venture to opine that my sentiments are echoed across the entire checkered panorama of non-Japanese people residing in Tokyo ...\"\n\nHow could I possibly edit such an piece? As self-parody it was brilliant, but I suspected Mark didn't see it that way. I contented myself with changing the odd preposition. The letter did eventually get printed in the _Yomiuri_ , though he lamented that they'd taken out the best parts.\n\nWhen Mark wasn't around, Susan would sometimes complain to me that his negative attitude about Japan was starting to wear her down. She was doing her best to get something positive out of her stay in Tokyo, to learn something about the language and the traditional crafts, but was finding it difficult to get into the spirit of things with a husband who never stopped bad-mouthing the place. If it wasn't the word gaijin, it was the whaling industry, trade barriers or the rudeness of subway riders. Mark was the only foreigner, as far as I knew, who wasn't captivated by Japanese women. \"Airheads, every one of them,\" he was fond of saying. \"Talking in those silly high-pitched voices, covering their mouths with their hands and looking embarrassed all the time. Whenever I ask them a question in class, they start blushing and giggling as though I'd asked them to take their clothes off.\" I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I often felt there was something forced, something false in his indignant tirades. It seemed to me that the lad doth protest too much, that he couldn't possibly be so repelled by what every other red-blooded gaijin was powerless to resist.\n\nOver the course of the next few months, Mark had several more flareups of indignation about the various injustices in Japanese society. The throwaway mentality, insensitivity to the environment, and suppression of individualism all came under the attack of his hyperbolic pen. Some of his letters got printed, others didn't. And his vocabulary continued to grow.\n\n### **4**\n\n\"You're as young as you feel,\" I told myself over and over as I rubbed elbows with the hordes of young people pouring out of their offices at lunch-hour Shibuya, swaggering down punky Takeshita street, milling around in Yoyogi park. That was the trouble \u2014 I didn't feel very young. In my more honest moments, I faced up to the fact that my thirty-three years of age had quite a different meaning in Tokyo than they did back in Toronto.\n\nIf you were thirty-three in North America and your life wasn't going quite the way you wanted, you still had the chance to jump ship and board another one \u2014 to start a new career, a new relationship, or simply to toss off old chains and savour your independence. This was, in fact, what I had done. The irony was that the place I'd chosen to start my new life was not prepared to let me do it, at least not in the way I had envisioned.\n\nAmerica is obsessed with age, people often say, but I found this to be even more the case in Japan. The Japanese have a term \u2014 _nenrei ishiki_ , or age consciousness \u2014 which reflects the emphasis they place on a person's age. This consciousness begins at home, where older siblings are called \"older brother\" or \"older sister\" while younger ones are called by their individual names, and is carried over to the workplace. My SECOM and IHI students always specified whether a colleague of theirs was a _sempai_ (older co-worker) or _kohai_ (younger co-worker), and prefaced their stories about friends and acquaintances with statements like \"She's six months older than me but graduated a year earlier,\" or \"He entered university at the same time as my younger brother.\"\n\n_\"Nenrei ishiki_ feeling even between good friends,\" Hitomi told me. Yoko, she explained, was only four months older than she was, but they still used different language when speaking to each other \u2014 Hitomi's speech was more deferential while Yoko's was more casual and chummy. Even twenty years of close friendship hadn't erased their ingrained awareness of who had emerged earlier from the womb.\n\nNot surprisingly, _nenrei ishiki_ was especially significant in man-woman relationships. A woman's eligibility for marriage was said to end at age thirty in the big cities, a few years earlier in small rural communities. Although Japanese women of my age tended to look much younger than I did, they already perceived themselves as _obasan_ , middle-aged women, for whom it was no longer appropriate to entertain thoughts of romance. I watched these women \u2014 my students, fellow teachers, my growing circle of friends \u2014 and was struck by how many of them seemed to have given up on the possibility of change in their lives. If they hadn't managed to snare a husband or embark on a bona fide career, then it was time to throw in the towel, to play out the rest of their lives as dutiful daughters, or doting aunts, or poorly paid office ladies who had nothing to look forward to except more of the same. I was baffled by people like my student Yuki, an attractive woman of thirty-four who spent her days helping out in her parents' furniture store and her evenings watching soap operas. Though a restless energy sometimes leaked through her complacency, she proudly and somewhat stubbornly refused to do anything to change her situation. With her haughty, wordless stare, she challenged my right to pass judgment on her life. \"Don't you ever think of doing anything else with your life?\" I tactlessly asked her one afternoon. She glared at me for a moment or two, then changed the subject.\n\nAnother constraint facing older women in search of a mate is that single men are not being \"recycled\" in Japanese society the way they are in the West. While divorce has been increasing by leaps and bounds in Japan, the age distribution of divorcing couples differs sharply from the Western pattern. Couples split up either very soon after marrying \u2014 at the extreme, the \"Narita divorce\" at the airport following the couple's honeymoon, during which the bride was presumably disillusioned with the groom \u2014 or after the kids have all grown up and settled down. Very few people will disrupt a young family, as they do in America, in order to bail out of an unfulfilling marriage. The result, of course, is a much smaller pool of single men in their thirties and forties.\n\nWhile Japanese men are not, in principle, stamped with an expiry date, they too seem to hit an invisible wall once they hit a certain age. Among my students, probably half of the men over thirty were unmarried, most of them not out of choice. They complained of women's shopping-list mentality, of their own timidity, of being too busy to juggle their work with the kinds of relationships young women were starting to insist on. In the changing cultural climate of the nineties, there seemed to be a clash between the men's concept of marriage \u2014 as a more or less utilitarian arrangement \u2014 and the women's new, Westernized expectations. In _The_ _Japanese Mind_ , published in 1983, Robert Christopher quotes an Italian priest and long-time resident of Japan as saying that \"Japanese think anyone over thirty who is still unmarried is a little bit crazy.\" Things had apparently changed a lot over the past few years.\n\nConsidering the premium placed on youth, I would have expected the Japanese to be coy about revealing their ages. I found the opposite to be true. Perhaps because they aged so gracefully, they took more pride in _looking_ young than in _being_ young. In the classroom, on the train, at the stationery store, I was constantly being lured into games of \"Guess my age.\"\n\n\"Thirty-two?\"\n\n\"No, higher.\"\n\n\"Thirty-six?\"\n\n\"Higher.\"\n\n\"Forty?\"\n\n( _Trying to conceal pleasure_ ) \"Higher.\"\n\nAnd then, out of politeness, I had to reciprocate \u2014 to let them guess how old I was, which was what they'd wanted to know in the first place. Unaccustomed to reading foreign faces, they were usually wide off the mark. After only three months in Japan, I'd had my age estimated at twenty-two, thirty-nine, and just about everything in between. But even the lower figures did little to cheer me. Under my black cloud of self-preoccupation, I was convinced that only those who guessed high saw me with clear eyes.\n\nAnd so I continued my lunch-hour jaunts through Shibuya, each day bringing a sharper bite to the air and an additional twinkling light or miniature Santa doll to a store window. On one occasion, while crossing one of the giant intersections where pedestrians converged from all directions, I collided with full force into another walker, lost my balance and fell to the ground. I saw a purse fly into the air, then heard the clatter of hard objects hitting the pavement.\n\n\"Can't you watch where you're going?\"\n\nAt the sound of the shrill, British-accented voice, I glanced up and met the gaze of a stocky blonde woman. She looked very young, maybe twenty-two.\n\n\"I'm sorry, I \u2014\"\n\n\"Just help me pick up my stuff, will you?\"\n\nShe kneeled down beside me and we began collecting her things, an uninterrupted procession of shoes grazing our fingers as we reached for her mascara, lipstick, nail-polish and hand-mirror. We dusted ourselves off and somehow fell into step as we made our way toward the cluster of fast-food restaurants in East Shibuya.\n\n\"You have time for a chat?\" the woman asked, swallowing the final T. By some wordless understanding, we headed to the bench in front of the Haagen Dasz parlour and plopped ourselves down on it. For a few moments we sat in silence while we caught our breath.\n\n\"I'm bloody pissed, if you want to know the truth,\" she said suddenly. I mean, Shin \u2014 that's my husband \u2014 well, he _knows_ how much Christmas means to me, but he hasn't made any plans for it. Didn't do anything last year either. You'd think it might occur to him to take the day off, right? But no, never. Just because it means nothing to _him_ \u2014\"\n\n\"I take it he's Japanese?\"\n\n\"Right. Don't know what ever got into me to marry the bloke.\" She looked up at me briefly. \"Don't mind me, OK? I'm not making any sense, not even to myself. Maybe it's 'cause I'm pregnant.\"\n\nI couldn't help it \u2014 thinking of her unborn child, half east and half west, I felt a pang of envy. I said nothing.\n\n\"I waited a week before telling him. I just had this _feeling_ he'd say something to piss me off, y'know what I mean? And do you know what he told me when he found out?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nShe didn't answer right away. I turned to look at her, and found that her face was contorted in an effort to stave off tears.\n\n\"It's all right,\" she said finally. \"Forget it.\"\n\nShe got up abruptly, and left me sitting on the bench in a surreal daze, the question she'd left behind her still ringing in my ears.\n\nThe following Wednesday evening I told the story to my IHI students, who were just as intrigued as I was.\n\n\"Maybe he want she stop working.\"\n\n\"Maybe he want baby to go to Japanese school, and she want move back to Great Britain.\"\n\n\"Maybe they not really married, and he tell her to go get abortion.\"\n\nIt was still the norm, they told me, for women to stop working when they found out they were pregnant. It was also not uncommon for a woman to spend the last few weeks of her pregnancy in her parents' home, the rationale being that she needed more care and attention at this time than her husband was able to provide. The students listened goggle-eyed while I told them about the \"fathering\" phenomenon \u2014 the his-and-hers breathing classes, the husband hollering words of encouragement to his wife during childbirth, aiming a video camera at her parted legs all the while. Mr. Tsurushima, who'd recently announced that his wife was pregnant, looked distinctly alarmed, as though he were worried this sort of thing might catch on in Japan within the next nine months.\n\nThat same Friday, I described my encounter with the British woman to my Cross Cultural class at BE, and asked them to write an short essay called \"Shin's request.\" The women started scribbling, Kikuko looking particularly intent as she bent over her notebook. I collected the essays and read hers aloud.\n\n_When Susan came home and told Shin she pregnant, suddenly he realized how big thing he did. When he got married her, he thought: I'm so modern, so trendy, because I got a foreigner woman. However, now he imagined about his little half child, and he got scared. Because really in his heart he wants the Japanese child. So he told Susan, if he is a boy, let's call him Hiroshi. He didn't shout but he spoke very seriously. And now Susan get scared, because he didn't ask her, or discuss about the name, just he told her: let's call him Hiroshi. Suddenly she realized her life with that man, she saw the future in front her eyes, she understood her life in future is \"no picnic,\" in the slang idiom. She understood she make big mistake_.\n\nWhen I finished reading, the other women broke into applause.\n\n\"Don't you think it can ever work, between a Japanese man and a Western woman?\" I asked Kikuko.\n\n\"Maybe a few months, maybe a few years, but not whole life, no. Young Japanese women a little more modern, I think, but Japanese men still not ready for change.\" The other women nodded sagely.\n\n\"Do you know what change my life more than anything else?\" she asked in a lighter tone.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\" _Remocon_ ,\" she said, and at my blank look, added, \"You know, the box for change TV channels without getting up. Anyway, the reason it change my life \u2014 when we first got television, my husband used to ask me I sit near him while he watching. When he want to watch different program, he shout 'channel two!' or 'channel four!', and I must get up and change the channel, _I_ was the _remocon_.\"\n\nWe all laughed, and then she turned serious again. \"And now I free, I don't have to change the channel for my husband. You probably think is strange \u2014\" she turned squarely to face me \" \u2014 but I sometimes miss the old days. Do you understand what I mean?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think \u2014\"\n\n\"No,\" she said softly. \"You can't understand. I'm Japanese, and you're Canadian. I'm old, and you're still young ...\"\n\nFor a moment I had an image of the gulf between us, deep and wide. And then I thought of the last word she'd spoken, \"young,\" and smiled warmly at her.\n\n### **5**\n\nWhile chatting with Jeffrey in the teachers lounge one afternoon, I happened to mention that I'd had a few Hebrew lessons as a child. He almost fell off his chair.\n\n\"So _you're_ a member of the Tribe?\" he asked in disbelief.\n\n\"Officially, yes.\"\n\n\"This is awesome,\" he said. \"A fellow Jew. Though I wouldn't have thought it.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" he said. \"You just don't ...\" I knew what was coming.\n\n\"Don't look Jewish, and don't act Jewish, right?\"\n\n\"You said it, not me. But to be honest, yes.\"\n\n\"What am I supposed to act like? Stuff cheese blintzes into my mouth all day and say _oy vey_ between mouthfuls?\"\n\n\"Very funny,\" he said. \"Anyway, this is so exciting. Don't get me wrong, I like Japan and everything, but I sometimes feel like the man from planet X. My Japanese friends draw a total blank when it comes to Judaism.\"\n\nWe chatted some more. It turned out he'd set himself the ambitious goal of keeping strictly kosher for the duration of his stay in Tokyo. I hadn't realized how traditional he was, having been misled by his enthusiastic pursuit of Japanese women. But as I listened to him talk now, I realized that these women were just a game for him, that he would no sooner consider marrying outside his own faith than he would stealing jewellery from his mother.\n\n\"Hey, why don't we go to the synagogue together?\" he suggested. \"There's a Chanukah dinner coming up at the JCC, and \u2014\"\n\n\"Before you get too excited,\" I said, \"I should tell you that the last time I stepped into a synagogue was so long ago I can't even remember.\"\n\n\"Come on,\" he coaxed, \"Aren't you a little curious about the Jewish scene in Tokyo?\"\n\n\"No, not really.\"\n\n\"The Jewish _singles_ scene, perhaps?\" he added with a wink.\n\nWhy not, I thought. It would be interesting to see how it felt to walk into a synagogue after all these years. Who could tell, it was possible I might have some blinding revelation of faith that would send me crawling back into the fold. I'd read stories like that, about people rediscovering their roots in far-off places. Not likely, I thought, but possible.\n\nOn the appointed evening, Jeff and I took the train to the upscale district of Hiro, where the Jewish Community Centre was located. But as soon as we stepped inside, we were no longer in Hiro, no longer in Tokyo, for that matter, but somewhere in Brooklyn or Chicago or Teaneck, New Jersey. It was like a warp in place and time. The hundred-or-so people assembled in the lobby were all shaking hands and saying _shalom_ and _hag sameach_ and how's the rag business and have you heard about Rhonda and the twins, and I was starting to feel a little dizzy with culture shock. I looked around the room and saw not a trace of Japan. No Chinese characters, no sliding doors, no _sumi-e_ paintings on the walls, only men wearing _yarmulkes_ and prayer shawls and women in splashy print dresses and snippets of thick New York brogue cutting through the Babel of sound. Jeff, excited as a puppy and clearly in his element, dashed off to talk to a young man he thought he recognized from his Cornell days. For me it was the same as always \u2014 a longing to belong mixed with the smug relief of standing apart.\n\nI wandered around the room, eavesdropping on some conversations and joining in others. What struck me again and again is how none of these people, even the ones who'd spent large chunks of their lives in Japan, had allowed the country to seep into their blood. They'd figured out how to make their lives as un-Japanese as possible. Like homing missiles they'd zeroed in on the closest equivalents to the amenities they were used to back in Long Island or Philadelphia: the international grocery store that featured a Kosher section, the lunch counter that served falafel, the pharmacy that stocked Ex-Lax and Tylenol and Crest toothpaste. Their gestures hadn't softened, they still talked and laughed in primary colours. None of this was any cause for shame, of course, but after having spent three months in Japan and absorbed some of its muted tones, coming here felt to me like a regression of sorts. It didn't look like I'd be having any paroxysms of faith after all.\n\nAs the room continued to fill I spotted the odd Japanese face, always female, always accompanied by a Jewish man. One such couple especially caught my attention: he, tall and thin and wrapped in his prayer shawl, and she, a tiny thing with a pixie-face and ramrod-straight hair that grazed her waist, looking adoringly into his eyes. Both wore wedding rings. She must have converted to Judaism, I realized, since most practising Jews would insist on it before agreeing to such a marriage. A Japanese Jew seemed an incongruity to me, a clash of ill-matched flavours. I couldn't imagine her dancing the _hora_ or chuckling at a Woody Allen movie or teaching her children to stay away from shellfish and pork. Not with any conviction, at any rate. (I was later to learn that Woody Allen movies were extremely popular in Japan, but I suspected this had more to do with the Japanese passion for Americana than with their appreciation of the subtleties of middle-class Jewish neurosis.)\n\nI struck up a conversation with a young Israeli who worked part-time in the synagogue as a garage attendant. He told me they held conversion classes for these women, who on the whole were model students and had no trouble adapting to life as the mistress of a Jewish household. When I expressed surprise at this, he said that it made sense if one considered two things: the casual attitude of most Japanese toward their own religion and the fact that Japanese women were trained from babyhood to adapt and to serve. And that many would do anything to hook up with a Western man, I thought privately. Still, it was hard for me to picture the daily life of such a couple: \"Pass the gefilte-fish, _o-negai shimasu_.\" I just couldn't see it.\n\nJust as the dinner bell sounded I ran into Jeff and we walked up the stairs to the synagogue, which had been converted to a dining hall for the occasion. He hadn't eaten any meat since Rosh Hashanah in September and was dying to sink his teeth into some dripping flesh. \"Two whole pieces!\" he exclaimed when his food was served to him, and dove into the chicken with such gusto that I felt sorry for him and gave him a piece from my plate. I, after all, could eat non-kosher chicken or beef or even _butaniku_ any day of the week.\n\nSeated to my right was an older man who appeared to have come by himself. He introduced himself, and I learned that he was a visiting engineering professor at Sophia University. He looked to be in his late sixties. \"If you want to know the truth,\" he said, lowering his voice, \"I only come here for the food and the company. I'm not much of a Jew, actually.\" He lowered his voice even further. \"A card-carrying atheist, if you really wanna know.\" I really didn't wanna. People who stripped naked in front of total strangers made me nervous, no matter how sympathetic I was to their views. I reluctantly continued my conversation with the professor, whose questions were getting more and more personal.\n\nWhen the meal was over he handed me his business card. \"Tokyo can be a very lonely place,\" he said. \"Maybe we could go to a movie or something.\" When he asked for my number, I told him I didn't have a phone and that the communal phone in the gaijin house was being repaired. Undaunted by my transparent excuse, he pointed to the phone number on the card. \"Call me when you get lonely,\" he said suggestively.\n\nThis was a first for me \u2014 being courted by a senior citizen \u2014 and to my shaky, age-obsessed ego, the ultimate insult.\n\n\"Do I look old?\" I asked Jeff as we made our way back toward the bus stop.\n\n\"What's old?\" he said. \"Don't worry, you don't look a day over fifty.\"\n\n\"I'm serious, Jeff. I mean, do I look middle-aged?\"\n\n\"Not to me you don't. But why the concern all of a sudden?\"\n\nI told him what had happened. \"This is the first time I've been asked out by anyone over forty.\"\n\n\"Think of it as a milestone,\" he said, giving me his trademark wink.\n\nA few weeks later I heard through the grapevine that my erstwhile suitor was known to show up at practically every social gathering in town that included foreigners. He went to choir rehearsals, though he couldn't sing. He went to the international dances, though he couldn't dance. And he went to the monthly meetings of the Tokyo Adventure Club, though one could safely presume he had no interest in rock-climbing. What brought him to all these events, I was told, was his endless appetite for picking up (or trying to pick up) young women. I felt a little better after hearing that.\n\n### **6**\n\nDecember brought with it an earthquake rumour that swept through the entire gaijin community of Tokyo, and it brought Tyler Bigley to Esther House. In time I would find myself wishing that Tyler had been the rumour and the earthquake a reality. But more on that later.\n\nIt started with a short newspaper article and a bulletin on the English language news. There was a geologist, some maverick whose alleged predictions of the 1989 San Francisco earthquake had fallen on deaf ears (why do these clairvoyant types always come out of the woodwork _after_ the fact?), and whose seismographic equipment and sixth sense now pointed to the \"great likelihood\" of an earthquake in Tokyo on December third or fourth. The rumour flew from gaijin to gaijin and by the first of the month panic reigned.\n\nAdvice was passed along, getting progressively distorted as in a game of telephone: store up on water, store up on water and juices, keep two weeks' supply of liquids in a safe place away from your home, pack your bags and leave the city. Sylvana, ever the believer in intuitive predictions, was trying to convince her husband to take her to Kyoto during those two days.\n\nCuriously enough, none of my students had heard a thing \u2014 apparently the Japanese media hadn't breathed a word on the subject. When, for the sake of argument, I presented them with the evidence, they looked bored and not in the least bit alarmed. \"We've lived through many earthquakes and we've lived through many rumours,\" was how one of them put it to me.\n\nDecember third came and went, as did the fourth, without incident except for Tyler's appearance on the scene. Sitting at my desk the evening Tokyo was slated to cave in, I heard some crashing noises coming from the room next to mine on the left, which had been vacant since the time I moved in. The next evening, and the next, it was the same. Boom, blam, blong, as if someone was being axe-murdered in there, though I couldn't hear any voices. On the following night the noises started later, after I'd already curled up under the covers. I clambered out of bed and knocked on the door of room six. The door swung open and there stood a short but muscular man, the sort detective writers would call swarthy, all disheveled and sweating like a pig, pantingly introducing himself as Tyler Bigley from Australia. \"Sorry about the noise,\" he said, wiping his forehead. \"No worries, it's just me doing my exercises.\" He pointed to a barbell and some weights in back of him.\n\nA couple of nights later I was compelled to knock again. \"No worries, I'll stop if it's bothering you,\" he said cheerfully. But the following night he was at it again. Pretty soon he began cranking up his stereo as he worked out. \"Tyler, it's midnight, could you please do your exercises earlier?\" I asked him in exasperation. \"Now don't start getting all worked up,\" he said, cheerfully as ever. \"No worries, I'll try to be quieter.\" And so on.\n\nCoinciding with his arrival, cigarette butts began appearing mysteriously on the communal dirt pathway, directly below the window of his room. This bothered Susan in particular.\n\n\"Tyler,\" I heard her confront him once, \"Have you been throwing your cigarette butts out your window?\"\n\n\"Maybe once or twice,\" he answered, breaking into a cackle.\n\n\"Why don't you just use an ashtray?\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said sheepishly, \"Sumiko \u2014 my girlfriend \u2014 has been on my back about smoking, y'know what I mean? She doesn't like the smell, so I've been smoking near my window and blowing the smoke outside. Must've accidentally dropped the butt a couple of times, heh heh. No worries, though, I'll try to be more careful about it.\"\n\nThe butts continued to accumulate below his window, and Susan continued to sweep them up. \"Could you _please_ use an ashtray?\" she would implore him periodically. \"No worries, I'll be quitting soon, so there won't be any more butts,\" he would say and let out his hyena laugh. The day a glowing butt fell on Susan's head, though, she dispensed with her customary tact.\n\n\"Tyler,\" she yelled upward, \"will you come down here this minute and throw out your filthy cigarette?\" After that he took to having his smokes in the communal bathroom, and his girlfriend was never the wiser.\n\nJust like Tyler, Sumiko became known to me by sound before sight. About a week after Tyler moved in I found myself listening in on a classic pre-feminist-era sex act, from foreplay (thirty seconds) to intercourse (three minutes of metronomic thumping interspersed with an occasional \"Tyyyylller ...\" drawled out theatrically by a breathy female voice) to afterglow (\"That was great, Sumiko, heh heh\"). All this came through my useless wall in hi-fi realism.\n\nThis sequence, I learned over the ensuing weeks, never deviated by as much as a second or a breath \u2014 as if they were rehearsing a movie scene, trying to get it just right under the scrutiny of a fussbudget director. Even the background music, a lusty Kate Bush number, was always the same. \"I know they're winding down when the chorus kicks in for the third time,\" Jessie joked. And when they weren't copulating, they were arguing. \"Tyler!\" Sumiko would scream. \"If you don't change, I can't marry you!\" As often as not she would burst into tears, and as often as not their fights would continue through the night while I stuffed my ears with cotton and vainly tried to sleep. \"Face it, Sumiko,\" I heard him tell her once, \"You're just not the intellectual type.\" I hoped, for the sake of Australian women, that _his_ type was a dying breed.\n\nLate one evening, while listening in on a particularly vitriolic argument between Tyler and Sumiko, I got a call from Joel. I described my living situation to him with as much humour as I could manage, but felt something weakening inside me.\n\n\"Joel,\" I asked cautiously, \"How would you feel if I were to come back?\"\n\n\"Like, when?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, maybe in time for the holidays ...\"\n\n\"Seems like you're not too happy in Japan,\" he said after a pause.\n\n\"It's not that, exactly. I mean, it's been interesting from the start, I've enjoyed learning the language and getting to know the people, but nothing really _spectacular_ has happened, and the gaijin house is driving me insane. It's not what I came to Japan for.\"\n\n\"Maybe you haven't been getting enough nookie,\" he suggested.\n\n\"Joel, we don't _all_ need it as much as you do.\"\n\nI was disgusted by my own spinelessness. So many times I'd tried to leave this man, going off to Banff the first time, and when that didn't work, to Los Angeles. If even Japan wasn't far enough, then what was left? Mars, perhaps? At least a year, I'd told myself when planning the trip. Would I end up bailing out once again, adding another half-finished project to my long list?\n\nWe left the question hanging. But I didn't seem to be packing my bags, and on Christmas day I was still in Tokyo. The owner of Esther House gave us all the same present, an abridged New Testament translated into Japanese and bound in grey leather. Word had it that he was a devout Christian, and no doubt he selected his gift with the idea that it would allow us to kill two birds with one stone: improve our Japanese and get back onto the right path.\n\nSusan and Mark had a party in their room, a pot-luck dinner with lots of gourmet cheeses and wines and not a Japanese dish in sight. Jessie gave us a drunken rendition of a song she and Mark had composed, \"I've Got The Gaijin Blues,\" accompanied by Mark's folksy strumming. When I jokingly said _itadakimasu_ before starting on my food, Jessie shot me a baleful look, as if to say \"Just today, let's forget where we are, OK?\" The mood of the party wasn't entirely to my liking but it was better than the alternative, sitting alone in my room, and better still than the other alternative, slinking back home to Joel in defeat. I had the sense of having escaped a great danger.\n\n### **7**\n\nWith the Japanese new year just around the corner, classrooms \u2014 especially those where housewives predominated \u2014 started to buzz with talk of the preparations for Shogatsu. Straining to get their words right, students told me of the rigours of preparing the holiday foods collectively known as _o-sechi_. Some of these foods, such as the _mochi_ rice-cakes, could be prepared in advance and preserved. Older students waxed sentimental about the good old days before the advent of _mochi_ -making machines, when people had to use their own strength to pound the rice. They swore that hand-pounded _mochi_ were much tastier than the machine-made variety.\n\n\"How you make fruitcake?\" or \"How you make turkey stuffing?\" they would ask me, surprised when I told them that there were as many versions of these recipes as there were cooks. Shogatsu recipes, it seemed, were a lot more standardized. There was some variance from region to region (\"Osaka way\" or \"Tohoku style\"), but almost no person-to-person variation within one region.\n\n\" ... then you must slice carrots diagonal way,\" a student would explain to me, \"add _shoyu_ and _mirin_ , three cup and one cup, and finally half cup _wakame_.\"\n\n\"Have you ever tried it with leeks?\" I would venture, thinking that leeks might make a tasty addition to the mixture she'd described.\n\n\"Oh no,\" she'd answer soberly. \"That is _not_ the way to make ...\"\n\nAlthough I wasn't particularly sentimental about this time of year (neither Chanukah nor Christmas having been properly stamped into my psyche), the threat of holiday loneliness loomed large. Through the gaijin grapevine, I heard that an English school called HSC (High Speed Conversation) was holding a week-long intensive course at a resort near Mount Fuji. Figuring that working through the holidays would be the best antidote to self-pity, I offered my teaching services to the school, and was told that I would have to undergo a day of training at HSC's Tokyo headquarters.\n\nOut of the eighteen of us who showed up for the training, fifteen, we were told, would be selected as teachers. Ninety students had registered for the course, and each teacher would be in charge of a group of six. The course's brainchild, Mr. Matsumoto, was a short, thick-set man who continually clasped and wrung his hands in what appeared to be an effort to rid himself of nervous energy. He handed out the course materials, asking us in turn to read aloud from the introductory comments: \" ... Japanese are fundamentally serious people. If they spend seven days pleasantly and look happy, they will conclude this is not a good school. On the other hand, if all students look exhausted at the end of each day, they will regard the school as excellent ... Though I am sure you have a good teaching method of your own, in this school you are requested to teach your students under OUR ways instead of YOUR ways. I, as a man in charge of this course, will show you our method ...\"\n\nWith a pained look on his face, as though in anticipation of our stupidity, Mr. Matsumoto told us about the programs main selling point, a technique called stopwatch drilling. Using a stopwatch, teachers were supposed to ask sixty seconds' worth of rapid-fire questions to each student in their group. The students were required to answer in full sentences that precisely matched \u2014 \"precisely\" was the key, he stressed \u2014 the teacher's sequence of words. The object was to get through as many question-answer pairs as possible within the sixty seconds. A week of this sort of drilling, he asserted, would make the students fluent in English.\n\nWe spent the morning practicing with each other, I and a British woman called Julie exchanging glances when things got particularly amusing.\n\n\"John, did your father buy a boat yesterday afternoon?\"\n\n\"Yes, Bruce, my father bought a boat yesterday afternoon.\"\n\n\"John, did your brother buy a paperback book at the auction last week?\"\n\n\"No, Bruce, my brother didn't buy a book at the auction last week.\"\n\n\"John, did your \u2014\"\n\n\"Stop!\" Mr. Matsumoto barked. \"Bruce, why didn't you correct John?\"\n\n\"Correct him?\"\n\n\" _Yes_ , Bruce,\" he said with a smirk. \"John, do _you_ know what your mistake was?\"\n\n\"Uh ... I didn't repeat 'paperback'?\"\n\n\"That's _right_ , John. Did you hear that, Bruce? Exact repetition, that's the key \u2014 haven't I told you already? Are you deaf?\"\n\n\"Thoroughly unpleasant, isn't he?\" Julie whispered to me.\n\nLater in the morning, John once again forgot to correct his partner's inaccurate answer. Mr. Matsumoto marched up to him, grabbed his shoulder and shook it back and forth several times. For a split-second John looked confused, then he turned to face Mr. Matsumoto squarely.\n\n\"Nobody,\" he said, his voice shaking, \"touches me that way.\" With that, he got up from his chair and walked out of the room. In quick succession, two other trainees followed suit, the rest of us staring dumbly at their departing backs. \"So much for the selection process,\" somebody muttered.\n\nDuring the afternoon, we got to practice stopwatch drilling with volunteers whom Mr. Matsumoto had rounded up from among the office workers. He gave them felt pens and nametags, and told them what names they were to use. \"Akira, you're Art. Kaoru, you're Karen. Joji, you're George. And you, Kokiji \u2014\" he pointed to a man of at least seventy who, his body racked with Parkinsonian tremors, was trying to lower himself onto his chair \" \u2014 you're Cocks.\"\n\nI kept my head down, laughter pressing against my ribcage, while Mr. Matsumoto spelled out C-O-C-K-S to Mr. Kokiji. I didn't dare look at Julie, whose turn it now was to do the drilling.\n\n\"Karen, did you bake a cake for your mother last week?\"\n\n\"No, Julie, I didn't bake a cake for my mother last week.\"\n\n\"Cocks, did you watch the news on television last night?\"\n\n\"Yes, ah, yes, ah, ah ...\" Kokiji answered in a gravelly voice, then looked around in all directions, as though trying to figure out where he was.\n\n\"Ask the question again,\" Mr. Matsumoto hissed. Julie looked from him to Kokiji uncertainly. \" _Now_.\"\n\n\"Cocks \u2014\"\n\nIt was too much for me, and I let out a giggle.\n\nMr. Matsumoto wheeled around to face me. \"Is there anything you find amusing?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said automatically. \"I just \u2014\"\n\n\"Just pay attention to the training,\" he snapped, and would no doubt have dismissed me had there been more than fifteen of us left.\n\nAnother feature of the program was the sentence contest, in which students had five minutes to write down as many sentences as they could think of on a given topic. \"Long sentence not important,\" Mr. Matsumoto instructed. \"Correct sentence important.\" To demonstrate the technique, he told our group of volunteer students to write on the subject of \"my family,\" set his stopwatch to five minutes, and yelled \"Go!\" The students began scribbling furiously \u2014 all except for Cocks, who was putting all his effort into gripping his pen tightly enough so that it wouldn't slip out of his hand.\n\nWhen the five minutes were up, the students took turns reading out what they'd written. Some of them had made the mistake of being too ambitious, and had come up with such sentences as \"My little sister is very cute, although she has temper and sometimes makes my father angry.\"\n\n\"No points, no points,\" Mr. Matsumoto would cut in, clearly pleased at the opportunity to show off his English knowledge. \"You forgot to write 'a' before 'temper,' so no points.\"\n\nThe winner was George, who was no more proficient in English than any of the others but had obviously caught on to the system. \"Very good, George,\" Mr. Matsumoto beamed. \"Twelve points, no mistakes. Will you read it again, so the other students can learn?\"\n\n\"I have a brother,\" George began. \"I have a sister. My parents live in Kanagawa. My father works hard. My mother likes to cook. My brother likes to drive. My sister likes to read. I like to eat. I work at HSC. I am poor at English. My sister is good at English. My brother has a girlfriend.\"\n\nThe following week we all convened at the HSC resort, which was perched atop a hill overlooking the town of Fujinomiya. Mount Fuji loomed large and majestic some five miles away, sometimes shrouded in mist, sometimes naked in its snow-capped symmetry. The winter air was crisp and bracing, its pine-scented freshness a reminder of everything I was missing by living in a big city.\n\nTeaching the course turned out to be quite painless, since we no longer had Mr. Matsumoto breathing down our necks and flying into a rage every time we slipped up. The students were forbidden to use dictionaries during classes (\"Dictionaries are a clutch,\" Mr. Matsumoto insisted), and we were supposed to reprimand them if we caught them speaking or reading Japanese, which of course we never did. Every day, a student from each class was assigned meal duty, which meant setting the table before each meal and initiating the verbal sequence that had to take place before we could start eating.\n\n\"Are we ready?\"\n\n\"Yes!\"\n\n\"Then let's begin.\"\n\nI'd have expected to hear a snicker or two, but the students were surprisingly cooperative, both at meals and during the stopwatch drills. I couldn't help wondering why ninety adults of apparently sound mind would have elected to spend the equivalent of $2,000 for such a tense, highly regimented week. This was Shogatsu, after all, the most important holiday of the year.\n\nSome of the students, it turned out, had been sent by their companies (\" _Shiyo ga nai_ ,\" they sighed to me), but many had come of their own accord. It wasn't that they didn't like to celebrate Shogatsu, it was simply that they liked studying English even more. And some of the unmarried students hinted that they had other reasons for enrolling in the course.\n\nBy the end of the week, the students were no more fluent in English than they had been on the first day \u2014 some, in fact, got lower scores on their proficiency tests on the last day than on the first \u2014 and only one couple had formed. But I heard not a word of complaint.\n\nA couple of hours before we were due to return to Tokyo, Mr. Matsumoto had us assemble in the teachers' lounge for a final meeting.\n\n\"Last night I gave a questionnaire to all the students,\" he told us. \"They filled it out and gave it back to me this morning.\" He handed us each a complete set of questionnaires and told us to study them carefully.\n\n\"Look carefully at question three, 'What was your favourite part of the course?' and question five, 'Do you plan to take this course again next year?' I think you'll be surprised by the answers.\"\n\nSure enough, the majority of students said they intended to return, and almost all of them gave top marks to the stopwatch drills. The drills were the backbone of the course, its gimmick and selling point, so it was understandable that the students should wish to justify their questionably spent money by giving them accolades. It was harder to understand why so many of them planned to take the course again. Could they possibly be unaware that they hadn't made one iota of progress during the week?\n\n\"Now we will calculate the percentage,\" Mr. Matsumoto said. \"What is the total number of students?\"\n\n\"Ninety,\" we replied in chorus.\n\n\"And how many of them said they plan to come back?\" A few teachers started counting.\n\n\"Fifty-six,\" someone said after a few moments.\n\n\"You see, you see,\" he said excitedly, \"Fifty-six students say they want to come back. Fifty-six students \u2014 that's more than sixty percent.\" He brandished a questionnaire and waved it in the air. \"And what did ninety percent of the students say they liked best?\"\n\nWe stared at him in silence.\n\n\"Answer me!\" he barked. \"I said, what did ninety percent of the students say they liked best?\"\n\n\"Stopwatch drills.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's right,\" he said triumphantly. \"During the training session, some of you seemed to think the stopwatch drills were not a good method. Well, the students say it's the best part of the course. It proves my point, doesn't it?\"\n\nThe only thing it proved to me was that in Japan, like anywhere else, there was a sucker born every minute.\n\nI returned to the city later that day, to the same old room, the same old neighbourhood, the same old housemates, students and friends that I'd left a week before. But something had changed. It wasn't that I felt happy or even content \u2014 there was still a gaping hole in my life, waiting to be filled by I wasn't quite sure what \u2014 but that, inexplicably enough, Tokyo now felt like home.\n\n## **A CHANGE OF SEASON**\n\n\"There is no such thing as inner peace. There is only nervousness or death.\"\n\n_Fran Lebowitz_\n\n### **1**\n\nIt was always a challenge to pump some life into my business classes, whose participants suffered not only from timidity but from exhaustion. I struck gold during my first IHI class after the new year, when I brought up the subject of the American legal system. The normally reserved group of salesmen exploded into sentence fragments.\n\n\"I hear story, one man sue his mother!\"\n\n\"Statistics in newspaper say in America fifteen times as many lawyers, how you say, each capital \u2014\"\n\n\"Per capita.\"\n\n\"\u2014 per capita as in Japan.\"\n\n\"If man in America have accident, he pretend he sick to get the money from insurance company. I hear this story from American teacher. In Canada is same?\"\n\nIt was rare to see students so excited, and I didn't want to stop the flow by reminding them of verb tenses and articles. They were all very young, too young to look as haggard as they did, and clearly they lacked sleep even more than English conversation skills. But orders were orders, and under their boss's watchful eye they filed meekly into the conference room every Wednesday evening for their two hours of English instruction. Under my tutelage they were expected to lose their peach-fuzz and acquire \"international\" polish. For my part, I considered the class a success if they managed to stay awake.\n\n\"Has an IHI employee ever sued the company?\" I asked, knowing full well how unthinkable this was.\n\n\"Sue company is like sue father!\"\n\n\"How about insurance? Have any of you collected insurance money for, say, stolen property or repairs after a car accident?\"\n\n\"I had small car accident just few months ago,\" Kawai-san said. He was a soft-spoken man with a passion for moving vehicles, and the envy of the other students because he owned not only a car but a motorboat, which he kept in his parents' garage.\n\n\"It was other driver's fault, I think,\" he went on. \"He bump into my car from behind. Both of us go outside and look at damage. I estimate about \u00a540,000, so I told him and he pay me right away. No lawyer, no insurance company, just he pay me directly. When I got car fixed it was costing \u00a545,000. I had his phone number, so I thought maybe I call him, but then I think, why make so complicated? So I lost \u00a55,000, not so terrible.\"\n\n\"Did the other driver actually have insurance?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Of course. But probably he decide not necessary to use. Japanese system ...\" he hesitated. \"I think maybe Japanese system is better, not so much people care about exact money, but easier system than in America.\" He went on to explain that while ordinary Japanese citizens did sometimes use lawyers, they tended to view them as a last rather than a first resort.\n\nThe Japanese reluctance to litigate is reflected in the discrepancy between the number of former law students (many) and the number of practicing lawyers (very few). The great majority of law students go on to become salarymen, just like everyone else, or civil servants or entrepreneurs. Lawyers are respected but not much needed in a society where people are more intent on avoiding conflict than on exercising their rights. If a thief is apprehended, he is just as likely to be given a stern lecture as a fine or prison sentence. It is assumed that citizens are cooperative, self-monitoring, repentant if they behave badly.\n\nEven the most devoted Japan-bashers among my compatriots couldn't help being impressed with some of the things that happened \u2014 or didn't happen \u2014 in Japan. Where else in the world could you leave your bicycle unlocked near the train station, as I did morning after morning, and count on finding it intact when you got back in the evening? Where else, if you found a cheque lying on the street and were kind enough to return it to its owner, would you be given a reward of five to fifteen percent of the cheque's value? (This is still very much a cash society, I learned, and apparently the Japanese haven't yet caught on to the idea that a cheque can be cancelled or destroyed without anybody losing money or face.) And where else could you borrow your train-fare from the man in the police-box, who would ask you to kindly return it the next time you were in the neighbourhood?\n\nQuite understandably, the Japanese were proud of their honesty, of the awesome safety record of even their largest cities. One way of bringing a class discussion to a grinding halt was to ask my students if they'd ever been mugged, robbed or otherwise harassed. Even the oldest students had nothing to contribute to this sort of conversation. Sometimes their refusal to believe there could be a bad apple in their midst was carried to extremes. When I told a group of students about having had my wallet stolen on the Yamanote train, they insisted, after they'd recovered from the shock, that \"it had to be a Korean.\"\n\nAgainst Arai-san's sing-song protestations, I'd been slowly and steadily whittling down my teaching hours at BE. I was now down to Mondays and Fridays, and felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, my only regret being that I was no longer teaching Hitomi's Wednesday morning class. Shortly after classes resumed in January she gave me a call.\n\n\"We members of class had meeting together,\" she told me in her earnest way, \"and decided we want to have conversation lesson from you. Our idea is you teach us once a month, every time in different house. We are seven members want to study, so we pay you three-thousand yen each person for two-hour lesson. Is OK for you?\"\n\nWas it OK for me? Close to $200 for a couple of hours of chatting with my favourite students and a chance to visit their homes? It was absurdly generous, and I told her so. She said she'd discuss the matter with the others and get back to me. A couple of days later she called again.\n\n\"We members of class had another meeting,\" she said, \"and we thought, you so honest because not wanting to charge too much money. We very impressed, so we decided to pay you more. We pay \u00a53,500 each instead of \u00a53,000. Is OK for you?\"\n\nAlthough they took their own honesty for granted, they insisted on rewarding me for mine. There was nothing I could say or do to change their minds, short of refusing to teach them. We held the first class in Hitomi's house, and it was much more like a party than a lesson. For many of the women, it was the first time they would be speaking English in a room that didn't have blackboards and desks, and they were clearly excited about it. They wanted nothing to do with textbooks or grammar drills \u2014 only free conversation. And these women liked to talk. Ayumi let off some steam about her workaholic husband, Sachiko complained about her errant teenage son, and the others were eager to commiserate and offer suggestions. The women all agreed that this was a marvellous way to learn English. After the lesson was over, Hitomi served us a festive lunch of sushi, homemade crab-cakes and _gomadofu_ , a sesame-based tofu dish I'd once told her I liked. Then it was fruit, chocolates and steaming coffee, and another two hours of gossiping with the ladies that amounted to a Japanese lesson for me. For this I was getting paid?\n\n### **2**\n\n_If instrument cannot perform this function correctly_ , I remembered reading in the instruction manual of my Roland drum machine, _it is probably due to operator idiocy_. This had been my first glimpse into the world of Japanese English, some ten years before I first set foot in Japan. As I made my way through Tokyo it popped up at every turn, this talent for coming up with howlers when ordinary mistakes would have done just as well. It was hard to fathom how such names as Calpis (a carbonated beverage which no self-respecting gaijin would drink after saying the word out loud), Pocky pretzels or Creap coffee whitener could have been dreamed up by Japanese marketing moguls, time and again, without conscious intent. And when I stumbled upon street-signs like \"Sauce with the Oyster\" \u2014 not a restaurant, of course, but a men's clothing store \u2014 or \"PMS\" (short for Pulse Music System), I wondered if the whole Japanese-English phenomenon hadn't been masterminded by some zany gaijin who was having a good laugh at Tokyo's expense.\n\nChewing gum wrappers promised peace of mind, pretzel boxes a cheerful disposition, and soft-drink cans the fountain of youth, all in earnestly florid English. When I joked about these blurbs to my Japanese friends, they insisted that it wasn't the words but the _feeling_ that mattered. It was beside the point, they explained, that \"some afternoon, a leaf invited me to a path of the wood\" had little to do with vanilla-wafer cookies. But the \"feeling\" contained in the inscription on a box of Koeda chocolate-sticks eluded me as thoroughly as its madcap humour eluded my friends.\n\n\"A lovely and tiny twig, Koeda, is in the forest. The sentimental taste a heroine's treasured chocolates born is cozy for the heroines in the town ... now another heroine comes out. Listen! ... A lovely and Koeda is always the love of the heroine. Now another heroine comes to the forest. The sentimental taste is cozy for the heroines in the town. Koeda is a tiny twig, Koeda is a heroine's treasured chocolate born in the forest.\"\n\nIn their translations of English into their own language, Japanese copywriters are no less inventive. The early James Bond movie \"Dr. No\" was apparently introduced to Japanese audiences as _O-ishasan Wa Shiranai_ , \"The Doctor Doesn't Know,\" with hardly a viewer knowing the difference. More recently, the movie \"Don't Kid Yourself\" was released in Japan as _Amaeru-na_ , meaning \"don't act like a spoiled child.\" I figured that if subtitles were translated with the same flair, it was hardly surprising that the same movie provoked such different reactions in Japanese and Western audiences.\n\nOne phenomenon that older Japanese grumble out but nobody seems able to control is the influx of English words into their language. This is easy enough to understand when there is no exact Japanese equivalent for a word, as with _buzzah_ (buzzer), _shiriaru_ (cereal) or _torendii_ (trendy). But the incorporation of English extends far beyond such functional adaptations. Listening to Miki and her friends talking to each other in Japanese, I was more likely to hear \"drive\" than _unten_ , \"nervous\" than _kincho_ , \"gorgeous\" than _goka_ , even though the Japanese words were perfectly capable of conveying the desired meaning. Here again, they explained to me, it was in their \"feeling\" that English words had the edge \u2014 they were moodier, more evocative than their Japanese counterparts. While _unten_ simply meant driving, \"drive\" called up images of cruising along a winding road of an early Sunday afternoon, on the way to meet a lover under the shade of an acacia tree ...\n\nNot satisfied, apparently, with merely borrowing English words, the Japanese never tire of inventing new ones. It was only when I made her look into her dictionary that Miki acknowledged, with real surprise, that \"skin-ship\" and \"womanship\" were not part of the English language. \"But \"friendship\" real English word, _neh?_ \" she asked hopefully, disillusioned that expressions she'd assumed to be Western were in fact home-grown. Another Japanese English speaker was disappointed when I drew a blank at his sentence, \"you must dress according to TPO.\" He'd been sure that this acronym for \"time, place, occasion\" was a standard term in American business circles.\n\nIn all likelihood, the linguistic playfulness with which the Japanese use English stems from the nature of their own language. Like the flecks of glass in a kaleidoscope, Chinese characters can be tossed around into an almost limitless number of combinations. This has led to a proliferation of words that are contractions of other, more basic words. For example, the phrase _shobai no saino_ (talent for business) can be shortened to _shosai_ , made up of the first characters of each constituent word. From _chokusetsu_ (direct) and _honyaku_ (translation) comes _chokuyaku_ , \"direct translation.\" Coined in the same spirit is the word _sekuhara_ , hilarious to my Western ears but excusable if one considers that it would take at least ten syllables to articulate \"sexual harassment\" in Japanese.\n\nWhoever said that the Japanese have an underdeveloped sense of humour was obviously not familiar with some of their more outlandish linguistic concoctions. An amalgamation of _mado_ (window), _kiwa_ (edge), and _zoku_ (tribe), _madogiwazoku_ , or \"window-edge tribe,\" refers to employees who, no longer deemed useful at the office, are given a desk near the window, often without a telephone, from which they can stare out at the scenery. Similarly, the word _hotaruzoku_ , \"firefly tribe,\" has been created to describe those husbands who are forbidden by their wives to smoke anywhere in the house except on the balcony.\n\nThrough trial and a couple of embarrassing errors, I discovered that the tendency to use milder and milder words to avoid offending minority groups (as in \"coloured people\" to \"negroes\" to \"blacks\" to \"people of colour\") is just as evident in Japanese as it is in English. A good example of this is the evolution of the word \"blind.\" Though it was once correct to refer to blind people as _mekura_ (literally \"dark-eyed\"), the word came to sound harsh and was supplanted by the more neutral _me ga mienai_ , meaning \" _eyes_ can't see,\" which gave way to the still less objectionable _me ga fujiyu_ , \"eyes are unfree.\" The implication seems to be that what is unfree today might become free in the future \u2014 a hopeful sentiment, which unfortunately does little to alter the reality of being unable to see.\n\nSpring was in the air and my students were still tongue-tied. In an effort to elicit some strong opinions, I asked the more advanced classes to write short essays in letters-to-the-editor style. The topic could be anything, I told them, as long as it was a complaint of some kind. We would submit the best letters \u2014 pseudonymously, if they wished \u2014 to the English _Yomiuri_ , the slim daily newspaper where Mark had made his mark. That seemed to inspire them. An engineer with a passion for wine wrote of being ashamed that the Japanese followed trends rather than good taste in their choice of wines. \"Why can't we Japanese people enjoy the feeling of quaffing true spirit wine ...\" An office worker complained that graffiti were threatening to ruin the face of Tokyo. \"On a date with your boyfriend,\" she wrote, \"you are trying to kiss each other with fresh feeling. In such a time, if you find 'fuck you' on wall you are leaning against, what will become to your kiss, easy to be break new loving time?\" A student who was engaged to a single mother wrote against the ostracism of single parents in Japan, ending with some thoughts on his own upcoming marriage: \"I am looking forward to the happy perplexings with new family, little peaceful everyday but also shocking maybe, and man is not give up easily.\" He had a glorious future as a copywriter for Koeda, if only he knew it.\n\nMy own struggles with the Japanese language were giving me a measure of sympathy for my students' off-the-wall efforts. I would scan through my electronic dictionary and find a dozen Chinese-character words that were all pronounced _kosei:_ fairness, offensive, correction, rehabilitation, public welfare, future generation, junior pupils, fixed star, proofreading, constitution, composition, hardness ...\n\nPeople whistled in admiration when I used the Japanese words for myopia or subconscious, though I tried to explain to them that anybody could look up a complicated word in the dictionary, that the real challenge of Japanese lay in finding the appropriate terms for everyday concepts such as coming, going, taking, getting, and especially giving and receiving. The characteristically Japanese psychology of duty and propriety is reflected in the complexity of the language centred around the exchange of favours. Not only are there different verbs for giving and receiving depending on whether the exchange is with a superior, an equal or an inferior, but the act of giving or receiving something neutral or negative, such as an injection or a parking ticket, requires still another set of verbs. So while I had no trouble describing the symtoms of a chest cold in Japanese, I had to think long and hard before asking Hitomi for a second helping of herbed potatoes. The choices were daunting: May I have some more potatoes? Might I get you to serve me some more potatoes? I am sorry to be causing trouble, but would you allow me to humbly receive some more potatoes?\n\nAfter five months in Tokyo, I was becoming proficient at figuring out the japanized pronunciations of English words. I could guess, for example, that the words floor, club and drum would turn into _furoah, kurabu_ and _doramu_. But the reverse \u2014 tracing japanized words back to their source \u2014 was still giving me trouble. I often found myself caught in tug-of-war conversations due to my inability to understand what the Japanese presumed was my own language.\n\n\"Do you have a hakk'su at home?\"\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\"Hakk'su, hakk'su, you know hakk'su?\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, I don't understand \u2014\"\n\n\"You don't know hakk'su?\"\n\n\"I don't think so, no.\"\n\n\"You never hear about hakk'su machine?\"\n\n\"Oh, you mean a _fax_ machine? No, I don't have one.\"\n\nOn one occasion, my inability to understand a japanized pronunciation prevented what could have been a tense confrontation with a student. It was during the first session of an intensive workshop I'd reluctantly agreed to teach for four Saturdays in February. Sitting in the front row of the classroom was an apple-cheeked woman of about twenty, staring gauzily at me and occasionally breaking out into a beatific half-smile. When it was her turn to introduce herself to the class, she stood up shakily and bowed in several directions. \"My name is Mayumi,\" she said, the smile never leaving her lips, \"and I can't see very well \u2014 in fact, I'm almost blind. I studied history and German language in university, and my favourite is, ah ... _Hit_ torah!\"\n\nThe other students looked uneasy.\n\nThe following lesson she asked me point blank: \"You like _Hit_ torah?\" I still didn't know what she was talking about. Then it came to me: history, German ... Though I was tempted to walk right out of the room, I hung on until the end of the month, watching the other students cringe when Mayumi approached them, barely able to conceal my own distaste for her, the smiling young woman with the dark inner landscape.\n\n### **3**\n\nWeather-wise, the winter was turning out to be much more pleasant than I'd expected. The bitter cold my students loved to complain about didn't rate a mention by my Canadian standards. The temperature never dropped below freezing, not even in the middle of the night, and the sun shone relentlessly. Joel had faded to a distant memory, Canada was as remote as the North Star, and I was exactly where I wanted to be, under Tokyo's brilliant blue sky, inhaling its crisp mid-winter air.\n\nI'd been accepted into an upper-level Japanese course at the Tsuda language institute. Since half the classes were to be given by teachers-in-training, the six-month program was free of charge. A comparable course taught by full-fledged teachers might have cost about $1,000. In Tokyo, I was beginning to suspect, anything was possible if you kept your ear to the ground. The students hailed from all parts of the world and were a particularly lively group, tossing up jokes and questions irreverently \u2014 just the sort of students I would have wanted in my own classes. \"Whazzat word mean?\" \"Is there a Japanese equivalent to 'get off my case'?\" \"Do native speakers _really_ use the causative-passive form?\" The trainees, though, were more flustered than pleased by our merriment. Jokes and questions derailed them from their meticulously crafted lesson plans, and they didn't seem too comfortable ad-libbing.\n\nEspecially entertaining in our group was Aviva, an Israeli woman who ran a trading business with her husband. I'd sometimes wondered how a Japanese would fare in Israel, a country where yes means yes and no means no, where not speaking your mind means not having a mind. Predictably, Aviva and her husband were having hilarious difficulties in Japan. \"When we first got here two years ago,\" she told us in her halting Japanese, \"we ran into one frustration after another. We'd be negotiating with some managers and they'd end the discussion with something like ' _chotto muzukashii desu ne ..._ ' So my husband and I would tell them, 'You say it's a little difficult, eh? Don't worry, even if it's a little difficult, I'm sure we can reach an agreement.' And they'd look at us as if we came from another planet.\"\n\nThen there was Joanne, a thirtyish woman from Vancouver who wore body-hugging clothes and long scarves that flapped behind her as she flounced into the classroom, always ten minutes late. Like me, she had a bit of a thing for the local men, but she was much more outspoken about it. \"Those sexy eyes,\" she would sigh to me. \"That smoldering look beneath the tight lids and droopy eyelashes ... Can't say I like their hands, though. Too spindly. Give me a large, coarse, tobacco-stained hand and I'm a happy woman.\" She had only two more months in Japan, and was determined to find herself a boy-toy for the remaining time. \"Trouble is,\" she said, \"they're so bloody timid, I feel like shaking them sometimes. I've lived in Spain, Italy, South America, London, you name it, and believe me, this is the only place where I've gotten such a wishy-washy response from the men.\" She told me about a man she'd met some weeks before, at an international food fair where she had a gig serving drinks. \"He wasn't hard to look at, let me tell you. You know the kind I mean? Smooth olive skin, piles of hair on his head, slit-eyes ... He seemed attracted to me, and we exchanged phone numbers. When I didn't hear from him after two weeks, I called and asked him if he wanted to meet me. He said yes, _aitai._ So I said OK, when? He kept repeating _aitai, aitai_ , but wouldn't give me a specific date. Too shy, he said. Can you believe it?\" But she wasn't about to abandon her quest. \"Let's you and me go hunting sometime,\" she suggested.\n\nAround this time, Esther House was given an extra shot of adrenaline with the arrival of Claire, a manic Frenchwoman who could not get through a complete sentence without breaking into peals of laughter. It was that rippling laugh of hers, even more than her fresh-looking skin and gamine haircut, that made her seem a good decade younger than her forty years. She'd lived in China, Thailand, India, Korea, never staying in any one place long enough to settle in, and unlike many other so-called free spirits, didn't appear to be running away from anything. \"If I'm struck by lightning tomorrow, hahahahaha,\" she told me in her fluent but slightly accented English, \" _je m'en fous_ , hahaha, it's fine with me. I've had such a _ball_ on this planet so far, I can't tell you how much fun it's been, hahahahahahaha.\" Such relentless good cheer would have been an irritant had it been anything less than authentic.\n\nSomehow she ferreted out my preoccupation with aging, and never missed an opportunity to tease me about it. \"Have you found a new wrinkle today?\" she would ask, poking me in the ribs. \"Did you say you were thirty-three? Or was it thirty-five or thirty-six?\"\n\n\"Do I _look_ thirty-six?\" I'd answer dispiritedly, falling right into her trap.\n\n\"Hahahahahahaha,\" she would gurgle. \"You're _so_ much fun to tease, hahaha. Anyway, what the hell difference does it make, how old you are? And what's the point of crying about it? _\u00c7a sert \u00e0 rien, n'est-ce-pas?_ Hahahahahaha ...\"\n\nShe'd come to Tokyo with a tall, baby-faced Swede named Fredrik, fifteen years her junior, who didn't seem to do much except look stunning. They'd met in Korea and were just friends, she claimed, though she seemed to stiffen when Jessie paid him more than routine amounts of attention.\n\nClaire was not about to tone down her exuberance in order to harmonize with her milieu. She tore up and down Shin-Midori street on her beat-up bicycle, making vroom-vroom noises as she rode, calling out to me at the top of her lungs when we crossed paths and taking great pleasure if she succeeded in embarrassing me.\n\n\"What about When-in-Rome?\" I asked her once.\n\n\" _Qu'est-ce-que \u00e7a veut dire, \u00e7a?_ \"\n\n\"You know, adapt to the local culture and all that?\"\n\n\" _Oui d'accord_ , in some countries I've tried to do that, like in Spain or Brazil, and I had a grand time. But this country is so full of dead soldiers \u2014 they need to see examples of people who are still _living_ , hahahahaha. We're all going to die anyways, might as well celebrate our turn on earth, _n'est-ce-pas?_ Hahahahahahahaha ...\"\n\nOne Sunday Claire knocked on my door and persuaded me to go to the _sento_ with her and Jessie. \"We're gonna have a _good_ time,\" she piped. I was a little apprehensive, fearing that Claires \"good time\" might jeopardize my reputation at the bathhouse, where I was a regular customer. Against my better judgment, I packed up my soap, shampoo and hairbrush and went along with them.\n\nAs soon as our clothes were off, Claire ran to the whirlpool and jumped in with a noisy splash. Jessie and I followed her in. Claire submerged herself in the foaming water, making gurgling noises and blowing bubbles, then popped up like a Jack-in-the-box, exploding with laughter. The Japanese bathers sat at the edge of the pool, averting their eyes, frozen with embarrassment. Claire went under again, spewing out a stream of water from her mouth when she resurfaced. She and Jessie started to splash each other, trading insults along with the water.\n\n\"You filthy Aussie!\"\n\n\"I'm from _New Zealand_ , you bloody Frenchwoman!\"\n\n\"Will you kindly tell me what the hell difference there is, hahahahaha?\"\n\nClaire looked mischievously in my direction, to see how I was taking it. As she started to throw some water at me, I got out of the whirlpool and headed for the showers. A few minutes later she and Jessie installed themselves under the shower-head next to mine and started to soap each other's backs, heedless of the shocked faces of the nearby women.\n\n\"Do you want me to wash your back?\" Claire asked me, all innocence and charm.\n\nI cursed myself for not having predicted this turn of events, and was sure that the owner of the _sento_ would ask us to never show our faces at his door again and preferably to leave the country.\n\nLater that evening Claire came up to my room, trying hard to look contrite.\n\n\" _Alors_ , hahaha, are you still mad at me or what?\"\n\n\"Come on,\" she poked me in the ribs when I didn't answer, \"it's not so serious. I'm sure none of the bathers died from the shock, hahahaha.\"\n\nIt was hard to stay mad at Claire, hard not to admire the strength of the life-force in her.\n\n\"Japan means nothing to you,\" I said finally, \"but it means something to me. You have no reason to adapt, but I do.\"\n\n\"If you think you can become one of them, you're fooling yourself _royalement_ \u2014\"\n\n\"There are things I want to learn from them, that's all. Like their patience, and their gentleness. I know you find their reserve intolerable, but \u2014\"\n\n\"Gentleness? Are you forgetting what these people did in Korea, in Nanking? It wasn't so long ago, you know.\"\n\nThat was a hard one to answer. I was surrounded with politeness and consideration, with warmth and curiosity behind the bashful facades. And yet I'd heard first-hand accounts, from a survivor of the Japanese occupation in China, of soldiers slicing babies' heads off while their mothers looked on. There was simply no way of reconciling such behaviour with what I saw around me every day, a courteous and peace-loving people who could be faulted for many things but not for their lack of kindness. I could only shrug my shoulders and drag out the old clich\u00e9 that war made swine out of pearls, monsters out of men.\n\nClaire and I shook hands, but I never did go back to the _sento_ with her, and eventually she stopped asking. Nor did Joanne and I ever go hunting that winter \u2014 I wasn't much of a hunter anyway, and Joanne seemed to have run out of ammunition.\n\n### **4**\n\nIf Japan is the cautious introvert of the Orient, its sunny extrovert is most surely Thailand. Thailand is to Japan what a belly laugh is to a titter, a deep kiss to a bow. People who are drawn to Japan (aside from those who are in it only for the money or the easy sexual conquests) tend to be reserved, reflective, intense in a muted sort of way, people who value solitude as much as social intercourse. Thailand's champions, on the other hand, are relaxed and expansive, comfortable in their own skin, and not, as a rule, overly driven. There were quite a number of gaijin of this type living in Tokyo. They thought the Japanese uptight and anal-retentive. As soon as their store of yen was replenished, they would head southwest for a week or two of psychic recuperation. I considered Jessie to be in this category.\n\n\"You'll love Thailand,\" she told me. \"The people there are so much more natural than the windup dolls who pass for people here. If you bump into somebody, you bump into them. None of this silly bowing and apologizing and _shitsurei_ this and _shitsurei_ that. I don't know how I ever get myself on the plane back to Tokyo after I've been down there.\"\n\nHot, friendly, noisy, lazy, smelly Thailand. Just out of the Bangkok airport, an ultra-modern affair that did little to prepare one for what the city was really like, I began almost immediately to cough. It was said that the pollution in Bangkok was so bad that if you wore white, it turned grey by the end of the day.\n\nI'd travelled in France, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Israel, Mexico, and always knew at least a smattering of whatever language was being spoken \u2014 enough, at least, to order a meal, book a room or ask the bus driver for directions. But here in Bangkok, speeding along in a cab with a splintered front windshield, I experienced for the first time ever the sensation of being completely unable to communicate. I showed the cab driver the handwritten directions, courtesy of Valerie at Tokyu BE, to the Shanti Lodge in the northern part of the city. He shook his head and started to laugh. \"It's on Samsen Street,\" I offered. \"See here on my map? There it is, Samsen Street.\"\n\n\"Samsen samsen samsen samsen,\" he repeated.\n\nSome of the street signs were in English as well as in Thai, and I tried to follow our course on the map, though the driver kept making inexplicable turns which caused me to lose my place.\n\n\"Go right,\" I instructed at one intersection. \"I think you should go right here.\"\n\n\"Samsen samsen samsen samsen,\" he muttered while driving in circles.\n\nForty-five minutes later and no closer to our destination, I was starting to worry that the driver might not be as innocently confused as he appeared. Maybe he was plotting to wear me out and then take me to some deserted road where he would rob me, or worse. With mounting paranoia, I recalled Sylvana's incredulity that I would consider travelling smack in the middle of the Gulf War. Maybe this man was a hired guerilla ...\n\n\"Stop the cab and ask someone,\" I demanded. \"Ask, all right? _Ask_.\" Finally catching my meaning, he obediently got out of the car and consulted with a pedestrian, while I scolded myself for being so easily spooked.\n\nSome fifteen minutes later I was finally deposited at the Shanti, relieved enough not to care that I would be sleeping on the top bunk of a creaking bed, one of four such beds in the small room.\n\nThe next morning I woke up alert and ready for action. I had breakfast in the courtyard restaurant right outside the lodge, pleasantly shaded by lush greenery of all sorts. The young waitress, all smiles and droopy eyes, had to be summoned three times before she agreed to take my order. She leaned her body chummily against my shoulder while I pointed to the \"apple fritters\" entry on my menu. (Only local exotica for me in Thailand, I decided.)\n\nA thin man with very long and very straight hair was sitting alone at the table next to mine, with a pad of paper and a stack of envelopes in front of him. We made brief eye contact, after which he eased into a slow-motion smile.\n\n\"Where are you from?\" I asked.\n\n\"Holland,\" he said, the grin never leaving his face. \"You know,\" he drawled out after a long pause, \"yesterday I had an almost perfect day.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Well, I sat here all day long, doing nothing. No sightseeing, no shopping, nothing at all. The only thing I did all day was go to the mailbox to mail a letter. If I hadn't done that, it would have been a truly perfect day.\"\n\nSuch was Bangkok, as far as youngish Western visitors were concerned. Everywhere I turned I saw people who seemed to have been frozen in the late sixties, then thawed out a quarter-century later with their hippie looks and values intact. They were most concentrated on Khao San road, mecca of the tourist on a budget and reputedly one of Bangkok's prime drug-swapping zones. As I walked up the street and back down again, passing young women with flowing madras skirts and peace-sign earrings, gaunt young men with beadwork chokers and watery eyes, half-expecting to bump into Joni Mitchell, I was struck by how completely different a breed of malcontents were attracted to Thailand than to Japan.\n\nFor three days I wandered through the city, following the dictates of whim, taking the Chao Phraya express boat instead of the hot, smelly buses whenever I could, stopping at a streetside booth for a plate of richly spiced meat or vegetables whenever I felt hungry. It got so hot, in the middle of each day, that I threw common sense to the winds and allowed the vendors to put ice cubes in the beverages they served me, counting on my generally robust stomach to process the local water without incident.\n\nAnd so it happened that I found myself somewhere in the Wat Pho maze of chapels, gardens and temples, face to face with two young men wrapped in brilliant orange robes \u2014 monks, I presumed. They smiled. I smiled.\n\n\"Naw spik English,\" one of them said.\n\n\"Wheh you fom?\" said the other.\n\n\"Canada. But right now I'm living in Japan.\"\n\n\"Japan? Really? You spik Japaniss?\"\n\nAt my nod, both monks looked at each other excitedly, and the first one started talking to me in the meticulous Japanese of a diligent but unpracticed student. \"The two of us are currently learning Japanese,\" he stated. \"Is it all right if we practice with you?\"\n\nFor a moment I saw myself from a distance, and with a sense of the improbability of the situation \u2014 a large Canadian woman conversing in Japanese with two Thai monks under the scorching Bangkok sun \u2014 came that delicious upsurge of feeling, the Travel Orgasm, coursing through me from head to toe and then evaporating just as quickly as the other kind. This moment alone was worth the price of my plane ticket.\n\nWith engaging forthrightness, the monks told me that they had no spiritual aspirations whatever, that they were simply taking advantage of a system that provided free room and board to monks-in-training. Their real ambition was to go to Japan, work in an auto factory and make lots of money. I wished them good luck and continued on my way.\n\nAfter three days of pounding Bangkok's torrid pavements, Ko Samet island seemed the perfect place to spend the rest of my holiday. Just a few miles long and barely a mile wide, the island was said to have the whitest, softest sand in all the country, and to be less built up than its more famous sisters of Phuket and Ko Samui. The truth turned out to be somewhat less idyllic \u2014 the mounds of litter and ramshackle lodgings didn't quite add up to untarnished beauty, though the absence of any highrise structures was a welcome rest for my city-sated eyes.\n\nI decided upon the Naga resort as being the best value for the price, the romantic in me drawn to its wooden sleeping huts equipped with nothing but a mattress, mosquito netting and a naked bulb. After prepaying my fee for three nights' accommodation \u2014 about twenty dollars \u2014 I rushed to my hut, changed into my bathing suit and made a dash for the beach. No sooner had I settled on the hot white sand and closed my eyes than I felt a shadow upon me. \"Massage, chipp, massage. You wan massage? Chipp massage? Only sixty baht.\"\n\nI squinted upwards and saw a sarong-clad woman of about twenty. \"Sure,\" I told her, thinking that for three bucks I was game for anything.\n\nI didn't have a watch, so I couldn't be sure just how long she spent kneading my body, but I knew that the sun was still fairly high in the sky when she started, and had turned red and huge by the time she decided my time was up. She left me in a blissful stupor, already looking forward to repeating the exercise the following day, and the day after that.\n\nOnce again I felt a presence hovering over my roasting body.\n\n\"Are you stayink et the Naga?\" This time it was the voice of a man, a German by the sounds of it.\n\nHe sat down beside me and offered me a Thai cigarette, which I accepted in the spirit of what-the-hell-I'm-on-vacation, though it was so strong and bitter that I put it out almost immediately. His name was Max, and he worked for Lufthansa as a flight attendant. He'd been coming to the Naga for years. \"This year is kvite different from the other years,\" he sighed. \"I came here to get leyt, and all I've done so far is eat ice cream.\" I smiled noncommittally \u2014 even though he was a German, and so officially out of bounds for me, I allowed myself to entertain the idea that theoretically, at least, anything could happen.\n\nThe Naga was owned by a husband-and-wife team, the wife being a sturdy blonde from England who had created a most unusual life for herself: running a bustling resort on a tiny, blazing-hot island off the southeast coast of Thailand, making lots of babies and shouting orders to her Thai husband.\n\nIn the evening she held forth to her entourage of fascinated guests.\n\n\"How do you do it?\" someone asked admiringly. \"Live out here, light-years away from anything resembling your own culture? What if your husband were to \u2014\"\n\n\"If my husband were to die tomorrow ...\" she said cheerfully, while the man being discussed stood a few feet away tossing their young daughter in the air. \"Will you stop that!\" she yelled out at him, then turned back to face us. \"Well, I suppose I'd be upset for a while, but then I'd just get on with it.\"\n\n\"You'd probably have men buzzing around you in no time at all,\" someone offered.\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" she said, \"but I do know that I'm too damn busy to brood about things. That's what it's all about, I suppose \u2014 for me, anyway. Making your life crazy enough that it just _has_ to go on, no matter what. Anyone for a game of trivial pursuit?\"\n\nLater, when the crowd had thinned out to just Max, myself and a couple of others, she waxed nostalgic about the year she'd spent in Japan.\n\n\"The most erotic experience I ever had,\" she told us, \"was in Tokyo. I was seeing this Japanese man \u2014 he was engaged, you see, so it was strictly sex. He got together with his fianc\u00e9e every Tuesday, with another mistress every Wednesday and with me every Thursday. The schedule never varied. We would meet in this expensive, dimly lit Japanese restaurant and spend the whole evening staring wordlessly at each other across the table. By the time we got to his place we were so charged up that we would rip each other's clothes off, and I mean that quite literally.\"\n\nWe all continued to stare at her. Max gave an audible gulp. I felt a twinge of envy. She glanced over at her husband, as though to remind herself of his existence, then went off to change her youngest son's diapers.\n\nThe following morning I strolled down the dirt road leading to the souvenir shops at the near end of the island, in search of postcards. The road sloped upward, and when I got to the top I saw a small black dog about fifty yards ahead, one of the hundreds of sickly-looking dogs strewn like rugs all over the island. Most of them were bone-thin, had half their fur missing, and appeared to spend their days just lying around miserably, probably too hot and weak to do much scavenging. All of a sudden, this particular dog got up, pointed his nose in my direction, and shot toward me with the speed and purpose of a homing missile. Pausing only briefly at my ankle, which he lustily bit into, he continued past me on his helter-skelter way. I looked back at the receding ball of fur, then down at my ankle, which was spurting blood like a busted fire hydrant.\n\n\"My foot, my foot, my foot!\" I yelled inanely. Attracted by my cries, a child of about five peeked over a fence. Moments later he was at my side.\n\n\"My foot, my foot. Look, bleeding,\" I told him, as though he were capable of understanding my English if I simplified it enough. \"Foot, bleeding. See?\"\n\nThe little boy pointed his index finger toward the road in back of me. I turned around and saw the black dog, who now stood panting at the bottom of the slope.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" I said excitedly, \"that's him. He's the one that bit me.\"\n\nWith stunning composure, the boy took my hand and led me (clearly the real child in this scenario) to the island infirmary, which happened to be just a few paces ahead. He spoke briefly with the doctor on duty, then waved goodbye to me and went on his way.\n\nThe doctor led me to a tiny room and motioned for me to lie down on the raised platform against one wall. His movements seemed as unhurried to me as those of the waitresses in Bangkok.\n\n\"Can't you put something around it?\" I said urgently. \"I'm losing all this blood. Can't you \u2014\"\n\nThe doctor took my foot and inspected it carefully. \"Tsk tsk tsk tsk,\" he said, shaking his head.\n\n\"What? What's wrong?\"\n\nHe continued his leisurely inspection of my wound, eventually covering it with a gauze pad.\n\n\"Aren't you even going to clean it?\" I asked stupidly. \"Would you please tell me what's going on?\"\n\n\"Tsk tsk tsk tsk,\" he said again. \"Wei here, okay? Wei here.\"\n\nHe disappeared for a few moments, then came back with a stocky young woman dressed in white.\n\n\"He no spik English,\" the woman told me. \"He say you have to go back to Bangkok for rabies shot.\"\n\n\"What are you saying? Does that dog have rabies?\"\n\n\"Lil boy tol us you bit by black dog, rye? Some dog have owner, some no owner. We no sure bout dah one. Anyway, you have to go back to Bangkok.\"\n\nA choppy boat-ride and several buses later, I arrived in Bangkok and found my way to a hospital. While stuffing my wound with a brownish jelly and wrapping yards and yards of gauze around my ankle, the doctor told me, in broken but understandable English, that I was very lucky indeed, since one of the bites had come within a half-inch of a major artery. He told me not to swim or to put any kind of pressure on my foot.\n\nI went back to Ko Samet that same evening, and spent the rest of the week eating, chatting, writing letters, and fending off Max's advances. On the last evening he upped his pursuit, buying me dinner and drinks, massaging my foot, and blowing smoke from his pungent Thai cigarettes in my face while he complimented me on my \"long, sturdy body.\" Perhaps because I hadn't received that kind of attention in all the months I'd spent in Japan, I found myself thinking that he was quite a charming man, and not half-bad to look at, and I'm on vacation on a different planet, so why _shouldn't_ I ...\n\n\"My cabin's number twenty-three,\" he said huskily when I announced I was ready to retire. \"What's yours?\"\n\n\"Nineteen.\"\n\n\"Is it far?\"\n\nReason suddenly prevailed. \"Yes, very far,\" I muttered, then limped away from the dinner table, feeling that I had narrowly escaped a situation I would have deeply regretted. For all my detachment from the religion of my birth, sleeping with a German was where I drew the line. In some tiny way, it seemed, I was a Jew after all.\n\nOn the Air India jet the next day, I found myself looking forward to the refined, compulsively ordered world I was returning to, and thought, Thailand is a very nice place to visit, but I'm awfully glad to be living in Tokyo.\n\n### **5**\n\nWith her uncanny perceptiveness, Susan smelled out my secret \u2014 or maybe I was simply more transparent than I thought.\n\nEager to put my mended foot to good use, I'd gone on an organized hiking trip to the Tanzawa mountains as soon as the doctor gave me the go-ahead. One of the other hikers in the group, a tall, bony man from Denmark (whom I privately dubbed the Great Dane) had taken an interest in me. He was a perfectly nice fellow \u2014 friendly and articulate \u2014 but I'd somehow managed to lose the scrap of paper on which I'd written his telephone number.\n\n\"I'm not surprised,\" Susan said when I told her the story. \"You're not going to _let_ yourself fall in love with a gaijin while you're in Tokyo.\"\n\n\"What makes you say that?\" I asked in surprise.\n\n\"You _need_ a Japanese man,\" she answered, \"in order to get to know Japan the way you want to. And until you find one, nothing else will do the trick.\n\nIn half a year, I hadn't even had a nibble. The men I encountered were either too shy, too young or too married. They called me _bijin_ , \"beautiful woman,\" but made no moves. I conducted an informal survey with my IHI class one evening, asking them what they thought about men having relationships with older women. While three-quarters of the students approved of the idea in principle, only one person said that he himself would consider doing it. My heart sank as the statistics rolled in.\n\nI'd even gone as far as to ask Hitomi if she \"knew anyone,\" a request that seemed to make her slightly uncomfortable. A few weeks later, eyeing me across her rosewood table with that concerned, maternal look I'd come to know so well, she was finally ready to give me her answer.\n\n\"I remember what you asked me,\" she said earnestly. \"I searched and searched in my mind, but couldn't find any man I thought might be suitable for you. I'm sorry.\"\n\nMy inexplicable craving for a Japanese lover reminded me of one of my former neighbours in Toronto, a German woman whose long-standing attraction to India included an attraction to its men. She confessed this to the leader of her religious group and he proclaimed that in order to cure herself, she would have to go to bed with twenty-one Indian men. She never told me if his advice had worked or even if she'd followed it. I wondered if the principle could be applied to Japanese men, though at the rate I was going I would be well into my next incarnation before I got to twenty-one. Besides, it wasn't in men that I was interested, just in one man \u2014 the man I was sure lay in wait for me somewhere, preparing himself to enter my life and change it forever.\n\nWith March just around the corner, I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. I placed an ad in the personals section of the Tokyo Journal, describing myself as a tall and attractive woman who was looking for a tall, attractive and educated Japanese man for conversation exchange, friendship or more. When my four-line ad appeared in the journal, surrounded by blurbs like \"Attention Japanese women: look no further!\" and \"Finally! Gaijin-sized condoms,\" I had no idea what to expect. Would I get two telephone calls? Six? None?\n\nWhen I got home the evening after the issue came out, there were eleven messages on my answering machine. The next evening, twenty. The evening after that, thirty-five. And so it went every day for a week. The following week I left my phone off the hook.\n\nWho were all these men? Suddenly Tokyo seemed filled with lonely men, hundreds and hundreds of lonely men ... Since I wasn't about to return two-hundred calls, I chose about ten callers on the dubious basis of their tone of voice. The first man I talked to was Oda-san, a dentist. He told me he was tall, attractive and successful, and that he \"understood Western women.\" That should have been a warning.\n\nWell, maybe he's _successful_ , I told myself when we met two days later at the Kinokuniya bookstore in Shinjuku. He certainly wasn't tall or attractive. In awkward silence, we made our way to a sober Italian restaurant at the top of the _Keio_ tower, the streets of Tokyo receding to a blur of neon and blackness as the glass elevator shuttled us skyward.\n\nNo sooner had I opened my menu than Oda-san thrust his index finger on it and started pointing to various entries.\n\n\"This is spaghetti, this is a fish dish, this is \u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not very good at reading katakana yet \u2014\" I forced a smile, \" \u2014 but I'd like to give it a try.\"\n\n\"This is chicken cacciatore, this is sole Florentine, this is \u2014\"\n\n\"Excuse me, but I'd like to order for myself, if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"Well, I thought you might have trouble reading the menu. This is minestrone \u2014\"\n\n\"Excuse me, but I can read katakana.\"\n\n\"This is \u2014\"\n\n\"I _said_ ,\" I cut in, my patience exhausted, \"I can _read_ katakana.\" Meeting his gaze head-on, I yanked the menu away from his pointed finger and made my selection.\n\nDuring our meal he talked about how successful, ambitious and driven he was, then segued into a lecture on the psychology of Western women. Women like me, he said (looking very pleased with himself), were self-centred rather than selfish. \"But there's nothing wrong with that,\" he hastened to add. Undaunted by my finger tapping and curt nods, he steered the conversation to what was obviously his favourite topic \u2014 teeth. Cavities were preventable, plaque was preventable, dentures were preventable, Japanese materials for fillings and caps were superior to Western ones, and didn't I think Americans made too big a deal about straight teeth? _Is this what I got divorced for_ , I thought in a moment of panic. Then, out of spite and boredom, I took to answering his questions (\"Did you know that Japanese people eat their rice plain, with no sauce or vegetables mixed in?\") with dripping sarcasm (\"No, I've never noticed. How interesting.\"), to which he seemed genuinely oblivious. He suggested drinks after dinner but I mumbled something about expecting a long-distance call and quickly fled.\n\nThe next man I agreed to meet was a self-proclaimed poet and playwright, four years younger than I was. Wary after the previous fiasco, I was taken aback by his youthful good looks \u2014 poreless skin stretched taut over fine features, spikey haircut and shy smile \u2014 and long, graceful body. \"Call me Kimura,\" he said. He refused to tell me his first name, which he claimed was unsuitable for an artist.\n\nWe took the subway to Harajuku and spent the afternoon walking \u2014 it was a sparkling day \u2014 back and forth through the thick crowds of teenagers, clothing racks and crepe vendors on Takeshita street, then up and down Omotesando road with its modish boutiques, Sunday strollers and gaijin street vendors (shifting sand sculptures enclosed in glass seemed to be the rage that day), finally stopping for a bite to eat in a trendy-looking pasta joint.\n\nKimura-san was one of those Japanese who appeared to have swallowed an English dictionary whole \u2014 he probably knew more English words than I did \u2014 but became all flustered and tongue-tied when it came to having an actual conversation, so we ended up speaking mostly Japanese. He took care to point out my every mistake, as I'd told him to do, and seemed to take pleasure in coaching me.\n\nAlthough he thought of himself as a playwright, he paid the bills by teaching Japanese literature in schools. He seemed reluctant to discuss his work.\n\n\"Do you enjoy writing plays?\" I tried.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then why do you do it?\"\n\n\"Because I must.\"\n\nI chuckled. \"You must?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And why is that?\"\n\n\"Nobody else is capable of writing the kinds of plays I write.\" He said this in a flat, emotionless tone, with not a hint of conceit in it. I almost believed him.\n\nHe was knowledgeable about Western books and movies, conversation flowed smoothly, and his face lit up when he smiled. _Great_ , I thought hopefully, _this guy has potential_. But when I tried to steer the conversation to more personal matters, he stopped smiling.\n\n\"So what made you answer my ad?\" I finally asked point-blank.\n\n\"I wanted to practice my English,\" he said simply, the words sounding suspiciously like \"let's just be friends\" to my ears.\n\nThough we saw each other occasionally after that and carried on lengthy phone conversations (which consisted mainly of him recounting some play or foreign film in painstaking detail and me interrupting to ask the meaning of a word), he never made a move. Probably gay, was my sour-grapes conclusion.\n\nThen there was Hideo, a law student at Keio University, friendly enough but so trembly and shy that I was tempted to take his hand and say, \"There there, it's OK, I'm not going to bite you.\" Presumably out of nervousness, he kept pointing to things and naming them in English. \"Oistaaah,\" he said, pointing to the deep-fried oysters on his plate. \"Neon right,\" he said, pointing outside. \"Taigaaah,\" he said, pointing to the gold tiger appliqu\u00e9 on my pullover. Another winner, I thought with a sigh. When we parted at the station, he asked me if I wanted to see him again.\n\n\"Well ...\" I hesitated.\n\n\"Please be honest with me,\" he said.\n\n\"OK, I don't think I want to see you again.\"\n\n\"Is it because I'm not masculine enough?\" He had a point there.\n\n\"It's not that, but ...\"\n\n\"Please tell me the truth,\" he said earnestly. \"Then I can change my personality to make it more suitable for women.\"\n\nMy heart went out to him, though not enough to make me want to see him again. Thinking it too cruel to tell him what I really thought, I opted for evasiveness and told him he was fine the way he was, just not my type. We shook hands, and I bounded up the stairs to the Chuo-line train platform three at a time.\n\nThe next one, Akira, seemed more promising. He'd spent two years in California where he'd obtained an MBA. He was thirty-three, friendly and casual, tall and long-haired. But over lunch he described himself as lazy and wishy-washy, and surrounded me with clouds of cigarette smoke as we spoke. He was a two-pack-a-day man, which was a bit more than I was willing to tolerate. And he was right about being wishy-washy: he couldn't make up his mind about whether or not to quit his dead-end job, whether or not to get married, whether or not to quit smoking, whether or not to get his grey teeth capped (\"I know a good dentist,\" I was tempted to say). He complained about his boss, who liked to go out to karaoke bars every night. \"Do you have to go with him every time?\" I asked. \"Two out of three times,\" he said right away. \"The rule in Japan is that you can refuse your boss's invitation only one out of three times.\" This might have been true, but I saw it as further evidence of his lack of spine.\n\nAnd so it went. I met six men altogether, but except for Kimura-san I found all of them wanting. Though I longed for a Japanese lover, clearly not just any old lover would do.\n\n### **6**\n\nThere isn't a Western hotel that I know of where you can unwind as thoroughly as you do in a top-class _ryokan_ , such as the one Miki selected for our long weekend in Hakone. It isn't cheap \u2014 about $ 150 a day for each person, including dinner and breakfast \u2014 but it's well worth the money. Staying at a good _ryokan_ is like crawling back into the womb.\n\nYou return to your room after a long soak in the _ryokan's_ private hot-springs, and the low table is set for tea: little earthenware cups, a thermos of scalding water, a bowl of tea leaves, glazed rice-crackers, _omanjuu_ bean cakes dusted with frosting sugar, one beside each cup. While you're sipping, an attendant taps on the sliding door, you say _hai hai_ and she pokes her head inside, just to see how you're doing. Then she retreats, and you're left with the memory of her anxious smile. Later in the evening you're back in the hot pool, watching your breath escape (it's early March and there's a bite in the air), submerged to the tips of your ears. Your body and thoughts turn to jelly under the bleeding sky. Just five minutes after you get back to your room, the attendant knocks on your door again and asks if the esteemed guests might be ready for their supper. She comes back with a tray piled high with wooden boxes, each one guarding a secret: a smoked fish of some kind, a square of green tofu, strips of _konnyaku_ jelly, eggplant tempura, squishy things, gelatinous things, crunchy things, unnameable things. By the time she is finished, you have about twelve dishes laid out in front of you. She chats with you for awhile, and her exclamations about your _pera pera_ Japanese don't sound phony at all. You start to eat, all tension evaporates, there is only food, sake and laughter, the lingering warmth of the _onsen_ vapours in your bones. Build a few _ryokan_ in North America and psychiatrists would be out of business.\n\nWe were three \u2014 Miki, Chiemi and I. Naomi had wanted to come too, but a sick uncle had claimed her conscience at the last minute. With our stomachs distended by too much good food and several cupfuls of sake coursing through our veins, we unrolled our three mattresses on the tatami floor, lined them up so they faced the full-length window at one end of our room and lay down on our backs. We gazed out onto the town of Hakone Yumoto and the blackening sky.\n\nMiki broke the silence. _\"Chotto kowain'dakedo ..._ It's a little scary, but I've decided that it's time for me to go to Sweden. Ten years of dreaming is long enough, I think.\"\n\nChiemi sucked in her breath and I held mine, not sure whether to congratulate her or to try and dissuade her. The Sweden of her imagination had steadied her course for ten years, like a distant star whose light never faltered, and I wasn't sure if the real Sweden could measure up. \"I gave my notice at work last week,\" she was saying, \"and for the next few months I'll dp nothing but study English. I'll spend the fall in Stockholm, do lots of sketching, learn about designs for the handicapped, then come back to Japan and hopefully put my knowledge to use.\" She sounded earnest, purposeful \u2014 not a peep about Stefan Edberg.\n\n\"How would you feel about renting an apartment together?\" she asked, rolling over to face me. \"I need to learn English in a hurry, and it would also be good for your Japanese, don't you think?\"\n\n\"It sounds like a great idea,\" I said immediately, \"though I'm not sure it would be fair to you, since we seem to have gotten into the habit of speaking only Japanese to each other.\"\n\n\"I've thought about that,\" she said. \"We'd have to make some rules, like English on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Japanese on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Or English during the day, Japanese in the evening. I've heard about some people who tried it.\"\n\nIt seemed very Japanese to me \u2014 a cozy set of rules, which we could both pretend to follow. \"Let's do it,\" I said. She flashed me her warm Kyushu smile and I showed her how Westerners shook hands on a deal.\n\n\"I'm so jealous,\" Chiemi said suddenly. \"I wish I could join you.\" Chiemi's parents were well off and in perfect health, but they'd told her that if she wasn't going to take care of a husband, she would have to stay home and take care of them. It was a duty she never considered shirking, much as she might wish things were otherwise.\n\nEarly the next morning we went down to the _onsen_ again, a U-shaped pool nestled in a garden of rocks and trees. It was a _rotemburo_ , where mixed-sex and even nude bathing was permitted, though none of us felt brave enough for that. As soon as we stepped inside \u2014 two trim Japanese women and an oversized gaijin, all wearing modest one-piece bathing suits \u2014 the five or six men at the other end of the pool all stood up together, wrapped their loins in white towels and scurried off to the men's showering area. A few minutes later, we too went to wash ourselves. As we walked away from the springs I saw the men making their way back outside. When Miki and I returned to the pool (Chiemi stayed behind to wash herself some more), the men jumped out, wrapped their shivering abdomens in towels again and hurried back inside. Was I imagining it, that they were avoiding me? They hadn't seemed bothered by any of the other women in the pool. It occurred to me that that they too might have heard about gaijin-sized condoms and were afraid I might be comparing. The spell of the _ryokan_ was broken, momentarily. I was back to being an outsider, a big bad gaijin who scared grown men away.\n\nWe went back to the showers and watched Chiemi as she soaped, and soaped, and soaped herself \u2014 tenderly, as though she were her own child. \"I'm _nagaburo_ ,\" she told me when she finally came out. \"At home I spend at least an hour a day washing myself, sometimes two.\" It didn't surprise me that the Japanese, with their love of baths, would have a special word for people who took their time in the tub.\n\nOn our way back to our room, we ran into the squat, heavy-set owner of the _ryokan_. His face tensed up all of a sudden and he started to mutter something, half to himself and half to me. I couldn't make out what he was saying except for the occasional _dam\u00e8_ and _ikenai_. No good, no good.\n\n\"What is it?\" I asked Miki in alarm. She listened more closely to his muttering.\n\n\"You wearing _yukata_ the wrong way,\" she told me in English, \"and he mad about that. He say it's not Japanese-style.\" He was scowling at my bathrobe. \"Don't worry about it,\" she whispered in Japanese, \"You couldn't have known that.\"\n\nBut I did know. I knew that women were supposed to fold the right side over the left side when they put on a kimono or _yukata_ , men the opposite. Only at her own funeral was a woman dressed left-over-right. I was normally quite careful about that sort of thing, but it was true, this time I'd done it wrong. The owner continued to glare at my misplaced lapels.\n\n\"This is a traditional _ryokan_ ,\" he growled, more distinctly this time. \"We can't have people running around with their _yukata_ on backwards. We're traditional people here, we follow traditions. Mutter mutter mutter, traditional, mutter mutter.\"\n\nMiki spoke up for me. \"But Mr. Owner, she's just a foreigner, she hasn't been in this country for very long \u2014\"\n\n\"This is a traditional lodging, a traditional town, mutter mutter,\" he repeated stubbornly.\n\nI was mortified. I'd committed the ultimate social taboo \u2014 dressing like a dead woman. Back in our room, Miki tried to calm me down. \"Even a Japanese could have made that mistake,\" she told me. \"It's a dying custom, and many younger people wouldn't know about it.\" I wasn't convinced. \" _He's_ the one who should be ashamed,\" she persisted. \"How can he expect a foreigner to know all the conventions? Besides, you're the guest. It's his duty to be hospitable.\"\n\nFor the rest of the day, he sulked and muttered and glared at me whenever we crossed paths.\n\n\"Should I apologize?\" I asked Miki.\n\n\"Leave it to me,\" she said.\n\nWhen the attendant served us dinner that evening, Miki told her the story, emphasizing that I was very sorry for what I'd done and that the owner was being a little unreasonable about the whole thing. \"We really like this _ryokan_ \" she added diplomatically, \"and we're thinking of coming back, but ...\"\n\n\"I'll talk to his daughter,\" the attendant said.\n\n\"Why not to the owner himself?\" I asked Miki after the woman had left.\n\n\"The difference in status is too great,\" she told me. \"He wouldn't listen to her.\"\n\nSo Miki told the attendant and the attendant told the daughter and the daughter told the father and the conflict was resolved, Japanese style, without anybody losing face. The next morning the owner was all smiles. Before we left he asked Miki to take a picture of him and me together, with the _ryokan_ signpost in the background. I knew it was just good business on his part, rather than genuine contrition, but I posed for the picture and promised to send him a copy.\n\n### **7**\n\nTrue to her word, Miki gave me a call a few days after we returned from Hakone. \"You want look for apartment this Saturday?\" she asked. I dreaded the procedure. Throughout the fall and winter, I'd occasionally walked into one of the dozens of rental agencies around the train station. There would be a sign on the window advertising a single-room apartment, five minutes' walk from the station, only \u00a560,000 per month. Perfect, I'd think. I'd step in, ask the agent about it in my best Japanese, and invariably the place would be unavailable. I would look into his eyes and he into mine, and we'd both know that the other knew. But there was nowhere to lodge a complaint, no civil-rights agency that dealt with this sort of thing.\n\nI had come close, once in late November. The agent had called the landlord who'd said that yes, he was willing to rent to gaijin. We went to see the place \u2014 tiny, of course, but on a hill and looking out onto the winding canal that ran through the northern part of Nishiogi. My new home, I thought as I stepped across the six-mat room and out to the balcony. No sooner had the agent and I walked down the hill than we heard galloping footsteps behind us. It was the owner, with a pained expression on his face. \"Sorry, I changed my mind. I can't do it.\" Then he wheeled around and scampered back up the hill. As we walked in silence, the agent gave me a sidelong glance and saw the tears of frustration in my eyes. I wanted badly to get out of Esther House and into a Japanese environment, and at that point it seemed hopeless.\n\nAround that time, Tom Koyama was in town for a Yamaha directors' meeting, and we met for lunch. He listened patiently while I ranted and raved about the bigotry of his people. \"I see your point,\" he said finally, \"but I don't think it's actual prejudice on their part. The Japanese are very shy, as you know. They want peace and quiet in their lives. They're deathly afraid of having to speak English, and they're worried that a foreign tenant might not understand their instructions about sorting garbage or paying bills, or that he'd get an important notice in the mail and be unable to read it. Then they'd have to confront him if a problem arose, and you know how the Japanese feel about confrontation. So they tell the agents to refuse foreigners.\"\n\n\"But I speak the language,\" I said. \"I always address the agents in Japanese, so that couldn't be the problem.\"\n\nBut then I recalled how shopkeepers would sometimes cross their hands and tell me they couldn't speak English even after I'd made my request to them in Japanese. I concluded that Tom was probably right.\n\nWhen it came to Asian foreigners, though, I knew that the landlords' attitude was more a result of prejudice than of shyness. Wary landlords circulated stories of holes gouged in walls, grease splattered on ceilings, cigarette burns in tatami mats, prayers wailed out at the crack of dawn (with the devotees presumably facing Mecca), and a variety of other frightening smells and sounds emanating from windows.\n\nThere was a vicious circle at work: young Japanese, even those with a limited education, were turning their noses at employment they considered to be \"3-K\": _kiken, kitsui, kitanai_ (dangerous, strenuous, dirty). The solution for manufacturing companies was to import labourers from all over Asia. Indians, Thais and Filipinos were more than willing to take on menial jobs at rock-bottom wages. To make it possible for them to send money home, they had to crowd together in tiny apartments \u2014 as many as half a dozen in a six-tatami room. Naturally, no owner would consider renting a small room to six people, so what often happened was that after one person secured an apartment, his friends \"came to visit\" for an indefinite period of time. Understandably enough, owners got angry, and nasty rumours proliferated.\n\nMiki was unwilling to consider living anywhere except Nishiogi, and that was fine with me \u2014 I'd grown attached to the place myself. I was hoping that the agents' anxieties would be dispelled when Miki and I showed up together.\n\n\"You're not sisters, right?\" asked the first agent we went to see. Was she blind, or what?\n\n\" _Hai_ ,\" Miki said politely, confusing me for a split second until I remembered that in Japanese you answered \"yes\" to indicate agreement. \"Well, we have a policy ... We only show apartments to individuals or married couples. The only way we'd consider female roommates is if they're sisters.\"\n\n\"May I ask why?\" This was from me, of course. The Western Why.\n\n\"Owners feel that friends are not as stable as siblings. They might have an argument, one of them might leave, and then who pays the rent?\"\n\n\"But we're _good_ friends,\" I tried. \"We both have steady jobs, and we can give you references.\" Miki let me gush on, knowing it was useless. Smiles were exchanged and then we left.\n\nConsidering the ratio of people to space in Tokyo, refusing to rent to roommates seemed a little crazy to me, but most of the agencies we went to had a similar policy.\n\nOver the course of the day, we did come across a few agents who were willing to show us apartments. I let Miki do the talking, contenting myself with a few _ah so desuk\u00e0s_. On one occasion we were led to a tenth-floor apartment which had two decent-sized bedrooms with good views, although the kitchen was the size of a cat's forehead. I nodded eagerly to Miki. Then, with mounting astonishment, I listened as she embarked on a lengthy negotiation with the agent, which went something like this:\n\nMiki: This place has a nice atmosphere, a nice feeling.\n\nAgent: It does, doesn't it? But it's a bit small.\n\nMiki: Yes, a bit small, but it's new, it's clean, and ...\n\nAgent: It's a little old, but it's not too far from the station.\n\nMiki: Yes, the location is very convenient. And the view is lovely.\n\nAgent: It gets a little noisy during rush hour, but ...\n\nMiki: The landlord may not be willing to rent to us. If we were siblings ...\n\nAgent: It's true, he may not. I'll give him a call and see what he says.\n\nMiki: Thank you. It's a great apartment, although the kitchen is a little on the small side.\n\nAgent: Yes, that's too bad, isn't it? Otherwise it's a nice place, good price too.\n\nMiki: Yes, good price, considering how close it is to the station. It's too bad about the kitchen ...\n\nAgent: Yes, it's a shame.\n\nMiki: Yes. Well, if you might be so kind as to show us another place ...\n\nAgent: You're right, the kitchen is just a little ... Well, it's not a good time of year to go apartment hunting ...\n\nMiki: Yes, it's a bad time of year. Maybe you won't have anything else to show us.\n\nAgent: Maybe not ... I'll give you a call if I do.\n\nMiki: Thank you so much for going to the trouble of showing us this apartment. It has a really nice atmosphere ...\n\nWhat was all _that_ about, I asked Miki when we left. It turned out that she'd never had any intention of taking the place, after seeing the kitchen. But she didn't want to make the agent feel as though we'd wasted her time, especially since she was one of the few who hadn't turned us away. The agent, in turn, didn't want to appear too boastful about \"her\" apartment, so she took pains to belittle it. The scene made me think of two large animals \u2014 elk, perhaps \u2014 face to face and both in a submissive stance, each wishing to reassure the other that it posed no threat.\n\nThen there were the flirts.\n\n\" _Me ga oookiiiii_ ,\" said a rental agent with permed hair, peering into my eyes.\n\nI didn't answer. I'd never thought of my eyes as being particularly biiiiig. \"How old are you?\" His eyes travelled down my face and stopped a few inches lower. He seemed to like things that came in pairs.\n\n\"We're looking for an apartment \u2014\" Miki tried.\n\n\"How tall are you?\"\n\n\"One hundred and seventy-eight centimetres.\"\n\n\"You're very pretty,\" he told me. \"Are you married?\"\n\n\"Do you have an apartment available for two people?\" Miki asked.\n\n\"Your eyes are biiiiig,\" he repeated.\n\n\"And yours are smaaalllll,\" I said with a sudden burst of chutzpah, looking right into his peepers.\n\nMiki nudged me. \"Let's get out of here.\"\n\nWe continued our search over the next few weeks, though with less and less heart. Even when an agent was willing to show us a place, it turned out we could never agree. Miki wanted to be close to the train station, even if the apartment was on a noisy street. I wanted quiet and a nice view. Miki was concerned with the size of the kitchen, I with the size of the bedrooms. We seemed to have reached an impasse.\n\nAt the end of March, I was no closer to my dream of living among Japanese, still sandwiched between Ariel's machine-gun laughter and Tyler's heavy breathing.\n\n## **A FLASH IN THE PAN**\n\n\"To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!\n\nWith one brief hour of madness and joy.\"\n\n_Walt Whitman_\n\n### **1**\n\nThere they were. I had read about them, imagined them, heard stories about them, seen pictures of them, waited eagerly for their arrival, and there they were, finally, everything I had hoped for and more. Knowing that they would be gone in a week made them seem almost painfully beautiful. Trembling pinkly against the sky, they gave messages of hope and sorrow both. People said they were larger in Kyushu, more brightly coloured in Yamanaka, but as far as I was concerned there could be none more beautiful than the Tokyo blossoms, milky white with just a breath of pink. They made you want to give up all worldly ambitions and spend the rest of your days penning _haiku_. Or blowing into a _shakuhachi_. It was not only what they looked like, but what they stood for. More than any other icon, the cherry blossoms said Japan.\n\nThe Japanese are meticulous in charting the progress of their blossoms, from _ichibuzaki_ , meaning ten-percent blooming, through _gobuzaki_ , half-blooming, and culminating in _mankai_ \u2014 full bloom. In Tokyo, _mankai_ comes in early April and can be as short as a day. All it takes is a gust of wind and the petals start dropping off, all too willingly, and pretty soon the earth beneath the trees is smeared with pinky whiteness and the trees are shivering again, though a close look reveals the tiny buds of leaves, protruding like tongue-tips.\n\n_Mankai_ fell on a Wednesday that spring. I had some free time in the afternoon and headed over to Inokashira park, famous for its blossoms and just a short walk from Kichijoji station, the one after Nishiogi. If you walked south to the Marui department store and rounded the corner, you suddenly found yourself on a narrow, earless road called Nanabaishi-dori, Bridge of Seven Fountains Street, flanked by coffee shops and craft stores and spilling right into the park \u2014 sensuous, romantic Inokashira park with its glassy pond, arched wooden bridge, lovers pushing yellow pedal-boats, smell of fresh earth, and cherry trees. It was the perfect refuge when Tokyo got too manic and huge.\n\nInokashira means fountainhead, and legend has it that the Shogun Tokugawa leyasu used the mineral water from the park's fountains to make tea when he came to Edo, as Tokyo was then called, for a holiday of falcon hunting. The last of the park's seven fountains ran dry about thirty years ago and the water is now pumped up from the earth.\n\nDuring the cherry blossom season, it is common practice for one or two members of a company department to take the afternoon off and reserve a space under a cherry tree. The rest of the group shows up at the end of the work-day, food and sake is passed around, and the annual ritual of blossom viewing (which in most cases means drinking to oblivion) begins. As I strolled through the park I saw several such squatters, dozing under cherry trees on the giant plastic sheets they'd laid out for their blossom-viewing parties. It was a cool day, with just a touch of wind and a white, sunless sky. I stopped near the bridge and let the whiteness engulf me \u2014 the white reflections of the blossoms in the pond, the white petals against the white sky, almost invisible except for their fluttering movements. The sky's pale colouring was even more fitting, somehow, than would have been a brilliant blue. As I gazed out into the whiteness, I wondered how many more _mankai_ I was to experience in Tokyo.\n\nA few days later I was sipping coffee in the Donatello's ice-cream parlour at the end of Nanaibashi-dori, sitting at the counter that looked out onto the park. The wind had done its work \u2014 there were more petals on the ground than on the trees. I put down the book I was reading and stared outside for a few moments.\n\nSitting to my right was a man poring over a Japan Times. I let my eyes travel to his face, along the pinched nose and up to the hair, thick and wavy and just beginning to grey at the temples.\n\n\"Do you often read English newspapers?\" I asked him. He turned toward me and took a few seconds before answering, as if to bring me into focus. His eyes were not quite black, not quite as narrow as most Japanese eyes.\n\n\"I try to read one article every week,\" he said, \"but I'm not always successful.\"\n\nHis accent was quite good, for a Japanese, and I asked him if he was taking English lessons. He said that he didn't have time for lessons, but he listened to F.E.N. Radio every day.\n\n\"Is that how you learned your English pronunciation?\"\n\n\"Yup.\"\n\n\"Do you live in Kichijoji?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nope,\" he said. \"I live in the next town.\"\n\n\"Mitaka?\"\n\n\"Yup.\"\n\n\"Do you come here often?\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\nHe told me he was a doctor and didn't usually have free time during the day, but he'd just made a house-call in the area and was stopping for a short break before going back to his office.\n\n\"What kind of doctor?\"\n\n\"A saahjon.\"\n\nSomehow it pleased me that he mispronounced the word, that he sounded Japanese after all. I asked him if he'd spent any time abroad. He told me he'd been to China for a few weeks to study acupuncture and to Florida for a two-week holiday, but that was all.\n\n\"Is that where you learned to say yup and nope?\"\n\n\"Yup,\" he said, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as they met mine.\n\n\"You haven't told me your name,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Takeyama. Tetsuya Takeyama.\"\n\nWhat a beautiful name, I thought. Takeyama. _Bamboo Mountain_. I told him my name and he gave me a Western-style handshake. Not quite firm enough, I thought, but that was only to be expected.\n\n\"Mr. Takeyama,\" I said on impulse, thinking _please don't be married and make me look like an idiot_ , \"would you like to get together again sometime?\"\n\nHe looked surprised but pleased. He stood up from his chair, fished into his coat pocket and produced a business card.\n\n\"Here is my work number,\" he said. \"I don't have a phone in my apartment but you can always reach me at work. The best time to call is either in the early afternoon or after eight in the evening.\" I gave him my number and told him where I lived, thinking there was an appealing symmetry in our having met in Kichijoji, right between his town and mine.\n\nHe was tall, I noticed, a good two inches taller than me. And there was something graceful in his movements as he slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked out the door.\n\n### **2**\n\nStay in Tokyo long enough and you start to make _kon\u00e8_ , the Japanese English word for \"connections.\" One thing leads to another and pretty soon you're turning down most of the work you're offered, accepting only the juiciest plums. A plum came my way in mid-April via the Tsuda institute, where I was studying Japanese. One of my teachers told me of a job opening at a junior high school in northwest Tokyo. The carrot was the $70-per-hour salary and the compact schedule \u2014 four consecutive classes on Fridays. She gave me the name of the person to contact and said that she'd put in a good word for me.\n\nThe interview was conducted entirely in Japanese. I dug deep into my brain in order to remember and use the proper respectful forms. Mr. Nakajima, the head English teacher, took a liking to me and hired me on the spot. I'd be teaching first-year students, he said, seventh graders. Three of my classes would be students who'd never had an English lesson in their lives, and one was a so-called returnee group \u2014 kids who'd spent time abroad and had to be reintegrated into the Japanese school system. At the end of the interview he told me that I was forbidden, absolutely forbidden to use Japanese in my classes. This took me aback \u2014 I'd assumed that he'd interviewed me in Japanese to find out if I spoke it well enough to communicate with the beginner students.\n\n\"But how will I explain things to students who don't speak a word of English?\" I asked. I understood the value of language immersion but this seemed a little exaggerated.\n\n\"Use your imagination,\" he said. \"Gesticulate, draw pictures on the board, do whatever it takes, but no Japanese. Under no circumstances should you let the students know that you speak it. If they address you in Japanese, give them a blank look and pretend you don't understand. If the students find out they can communicate with you in Japanese, they'll come to rely on it.\" It seemed to me that he would have been better off hiring a teacher who didn't speak Japanese at all rather than one who had to double as an actress.\n\nMr. Nakajima said he would sit in on my classes the first day, so I asked him if I could start off with an English song and have him translate as we went along. It was a song I'd composed several years earlier for my Yamaha students. He was enthusiastic about the idea and even procured a little electric keyboard, so I could accompany myself while singing.\n\nThere's a worm, there's a big worm, in my apple now  \nThere's a worm, fuzzy wuzzy worm, in my apple now  \nBut I think I will eat it anyhow.\n\nHello worm, hello big worm, why don't you say hi  \nYummy worm, yummy yummy worm, you taste good as pie  \nMaybe I will try crunching on a fly.\n\nThe students bubbled with delight as Mr. Nakajima translated, just as my five-year olds had done at Yamaha. \"Eewwwww,\" they said, and \"How disgusting!\" By the end of the first day, I hadn't taught them very much but had them firmly on my side.\n\nThe teachers all ate lunch together in a small, stark-looking cafeteria. At lunch I was asked to give an introduction speech, as was the custom in Japan whenever a new employee joined an organization. \"Seven months have elapsed since I first set foot in Japan,\" I started, trying to impress them with my formal Japanese. The teachers whistled in admiration. Ashamed of my boast, I lost my concentration. \"I hope to make a bombitrution, uh, contribution ...\"\n\nWe sat down at the table, the other teachers untying the cloth napkins that secured their lunchboxes and I unwrapping my egg sandwich. They asked me about life in Canada and taught me Japanese proverbs. \" _Tsutta sakana ni wa esa o yaranai?_ Mr. Nakajima volunteered with a chuckle. It translated to \"You don't have to give bait to a fish after catching it,\" and was most commonly used in the sense that a man didn't have to be attentive to a woman after securing her as a wife. Mr. Nakajima assured me that the proverb was equally applicable to women and their husbands.\n\nThere was a problem \u2014 a rather serious one \u2014 with the returnee group. Two of the eleven students spoke no English. One had lived in France, the other in Germany. The other nine students were fluent. I discussed the situation with Mr. Nakajima and he said that the definition of a returnee was a student who was reentering Japanese society after living abroad. By that definition, the German girl and the French boy were returnees and should therefore learn English with the returnee group.\n\n\"But this is a language class,\" I said, unconvinced by his reasoning. \"How am I supposed to plan a lesson for nine fluent students and two who can't speak the language at all?\"\n\n\"Use your imagination,\" he said. \"Have the students teach each other, give the beginners separate work sheets, vary the level of difficulty, and remember \u2014 don't ever use Japanese as a shortcut.\"\n\nWhen I asked Mr. Nakajima why he couldn't switch the two beginners to one of the regular English classes, he explained that the returnees' English period didn't coincide with any of the other ones. This made little sense to me, as it would have been a simple matter to juggle the schedules around. But I say nothing.\n\nMy task was made easier by the fact that the returnees were a delightful group \u2014 eager, rambunctious and saucy \u2014 but the problem still remained. In spite of my best efforts to \"use my imagination,\" the German girl and the French boy quickly lost interest and spent most of their time with their heads plopped on their desks, while the other kids joked and laughed and learned words like \"ambivalent,\" \"conspicuous\" and \"indecisive.\"\n\nThe regular classes were equally frustrating. \"Repeat this word,\" I would ask the students, getting forty blank stares in response.\n\n\"Repeat, repeat,\" I repeated. Still there was no reaction.\n\n\"Say it again \u2014 a-gain,\" I tried. \"Say it after me.\"\n\nI pointed to myself and then to the class. \"Me, you. _I_ say, then _you_ say. Understand?\" By this time they were breaking up into giggles.\n\n\" _Kurikaesu-tte?_ ' one boy ventured. Yes, yes, I thought with relief. But then I remembered that I was under orders to play dumb. I couldn't nod my understanding to him without revealing that I knew _kurikaesu_ meant \"repeat.\" So I put on my best poker-face and continued the charade.\n\nAll the loud talking and frantic gesticulations had me dog-tired by the end of each class. It seemed to me that it would have been a lot simpler for me to say a word or two in Japanese and get on with the lesson, rather than spend half the class playing guessing games.\n\nAnd yet my students were learning, if less efficiently than they might have been. We played \"What's your favourite?\" to practice words like book, food, drink, sport, rock star. \"What's your favourite subject in school?\" I asked one morning, after having explained the different subjects by way of elaborate illustrations on the blackboard, as though we were playing Pictionary. They all answered at once. \"History!\" \"Science!\" \"English!\"\n\n\"Does anybody like mathematics?\" I asked. Several boys raised their hands but not one girl. Unable to resist the opportunity to slip some feminism into my lesson, I asked the question again, raising my own hand as I spoke:\n\n\"Does anybody like mathematics? Any boys, any girls?\"\n\nThis time, along with the boys' arms, one girl's arm went up timidly. It was one of the very few instances, in all my hours of teaching in Japan, that I felt I'd accomplished something useful \u2014 not by imposing math on the girls but by giving one of them the courage to admit that she liked it.\n\nAt the end of the spring semester Mr. Nakajima called me into his office. \"The students tell me they are enjoying your class,\" he said, \"and they seem to be learning something too. You have been successful so far and I'd like to thank you. But there's a problem \u2014 several students suspect that you speak Japanese.\"\n\n\"But I never said a word \u2014\"\n\n\"You probably reacted when you heard them speaking Japanese. Maybe you nodded your head, raised your eyebrows or otherwise showed you understood. Please be more careful in the future. The students won't learn any English if they know you speak their language.\"\n\nWhy tamper with success, I thought to myself, but knew better than to argue.\n\n### **3**\n\n\"A home of one's own.\" The phrase did not have the mystical overtones for me that it seemed to have for just about everybody else I knew. The way I saw it, owning a home was not only a mundane achievement \u2014 millions, after all, had succeeded in doing it \u2014 but an insidious drain on one's personal freedom. Under the rule of the despotic Mortgage, homeowners devoted long hours to jobs that gave them little pleasure, and spent what little time they had left plugging leaks or fixing patios, whistling cheerlessly as they went along. I could never figure out what all the fuss was about.\n\nThe Japanese, I was disappointed to learn, were just as captivated by the American dream as the Americans, even if they were far less likely to achieve it. They had even coined a word, _maihomismu_ , for their collective passion. Couples who couldn't afford standard mortgage payments were sometimes granted mortgages of forty, fifty or sixty years, with the understanding that the payment schedule would eventually be passed down to their children, in whose _maihomismu_ the parents and loan officers presumably had absolute confidence.\n\nFor all my rejection of the dream, I was itching to put down some sorts of roots in Tokyo. Esther House, with its assortment of cackles and yelling matches and beds creaking under the strain of hurried sex, was becoming more and more of a prison to me. It was a travesty of the kind of life I had come here to live. I knew I had to get out, but I seemed to have exhausted the possibilities. Miki and I had tacitly reached the conclusion that we were not destined to be roommates, and my solo efforts were getting me nowhere. \"We'll call you if anything comes up,\" the rental agents always told me, but nothing ever did.\n\nOn Susan's advice, I placed a want ad for a Japanese roommate in the Japan Times. I got a single response, from a twenty-nine-year-old office worker called Eiko, and we arranged to meet at the McDonald's in West Ikebukuro. She was a tiny woman, pleasant enough if a bit gushing (I _love_ English, I _love_ foreigners. I _love_ Western food), and she seemed excited about the idea of having a gaijin roommate. We flip-flopped from English to Japanese without any awkwardness, and by the time our McChicken burgers were eaten, concluded that we were compatible enough to be roommates. But the next time we talked on the phone she was much more reserved.\n\n\"Is anything wrong?\" I asked her.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"there's one small request I have, if we're going to live together. You might think it's strange, but I'd like us to have separate phone lines.\"\n\nThat meant an extra \u00a580,000 deposit. \"Why? Do you get a lot of phone calls?\"\n\n\"It's not that.\" She paused to clear her throat. \"You see, my mother \u2014 well, ah, she's just not used to foreigners. She doesn't know how to behave with them. It's not that she has anything _against_ you, or against me living with you. But I know she'd get flustered if she called me and, ah, you answered instead. I hope you understand ...\"\n\n\"And what if she wants to visit you?\" I asked. \"Would you expect me to keep out of sight?\"\n\n\"No problem,\" she said right away. \"I would arrange for her to come when I knew you weren't going to be in. I hope you understand ...\"\n\nI did and I didn't. In the end I decided that I simply wasn't comfortable with such an arrangement. We said our goodbyes, and once again I cursed the housing gods for having placed a red herring in my path.\n\nAnd then, just a few days later, I got a phone message from a rental agent whom I'd gone to see several weeks before. \"Come and see me right away,\" was all she said. I rushed over to the agency, a cluttered four-mat room that called itself Happiness Real Estate, and listened to the details. A one-room apartment had become available, less than five minutes' walk from the Nishiogi train station. The building was four years old, clean and quiet, and each apartment had its own heater and air-conditioner. Best of all, the owners had no objections to renting to foreigners. \"They even rented to a black man once,\" the agent offered.\n\nThe two-storey whitewashed building was on a narrow side-street off Shin Midori. Its name of Cosmos (in keeping with the celestial theme that prevailed among Tokyo's newer apartment buildings) was especially charming in a building of such modest proportions. The agent introduced me to the landlords, a retired couple with kindly faces, and we all shuffled up the iron staircase leading to the vacant unit. I fell in love with it immediately \u2014 with its translucent sliding doors, its tiny verandah overlooking treetops and rooftops, even its _wan-unitto_ bathroom which was not much larger than a telephone booth. \"I'll take it,\" I said right away, hardly giving a thought to the fact that I would soon be parting with the equivalent of about $4,000, two-thirds of it non-refundable, for the privilege of moving in.\n\nThere was one problem. Before I could sign the lease, I needed to find a guarantor. By law, every tenant had to get either an employer, a relative or a personal friend to sign a document stating that they would take financial responsibility for the tenant in case the rent didn't get paid. The guarantor had to file the document in the town hall as well as cosign the lease. It was quite a big favour to ask of a friend, but I had no choice. I decided on Teruko, since she lived close by and time was of the essence \u2014 if the lease wasn't signed within forty-eight hours, the landlords had the right to rent to someone else.\n\nA lot had changed since I'd last seen Teruko. Her husband had finally expired, which theoretically made her a wealthy woman. But things had gotten complicated. While we sat on the floor drinking tea from her grease-rimmed cups, she filled me in on the details.\n\n\"My husband's family \u2014 I've never gotten along with them, as I think I may have told you \u2014 anyway, they're trying to cheat me out of my inheritance. Apparently my husband told them that he and I had been living apart for the past several years. Not in different houses, but _apart_ , if you know what I mean. Not sleeping together. Now they're claiming that I wasn't really a wife to him, so why should I inherit all his houses and restaurants? They've all ganged up against me, and I have to hire all these _royaahs_ ...\" Even though she was speaking Japanese, she said \"inheritance\" and \"lawyer\" in English, as she always did when talking to me.\n\nThis wasn't a good time to bring up the guarantor question, but I had to move fast. I cautiously put the request to her, stressing that it was only a formality since I would never actually need her financial assistance.\n\n\"But what if you get sick?\" she asked. \"What if you're in an accident? As your guarantor I'd be responsible, you know. The landlords would call me. I still don't know how much money I'll get from my husband's inheritance \u2014 maybe nothing, if my greedy in-laws get their way.\"\n\nI told her that if anything happened to me, she could call my brother in Canada and he'd take care of it.\n\n\"And how do I know that the owners of your building are honest people?\" she pressed. \"Maybe there are hidden costs you don't know about. Maybe the previous tenants left the place in bad condition, and the landlord will try to get you to pay for the repairs.\"\n\n\"Look, if you don't want \u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not joking,\" she said. \"A friend of mine once rented an apartment to some Asians \u2014 Indians, I think it was. After they left, she went to inspect the apartment and found stains on the tatami mats.\" She leaned forward a little. \" _O-shikko_ stains.\"\n\n\"Pee stains?\" I let out a chuckle. \"How could your friend know they were pee stains?\"\n\n\"I don't know, I guess she smelled them.\"\n\n\"Didn't the apartment have a bathroom?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course.\"\n\n\"Why on earth would the tenants have peed on the tatami mats when they had a perfectly good bathroom to use?\"\n\n\"I don't know why,\" she said stubbornly, \"but they did.\"\n\n\"You and your prejudices,\" I muttered, hoping she knew I wasn't really offended.\n\n\"But it's true,\" she said. \"Come on, let's go to the town hall.\"\n\nThe following day, kneeling solemnly at the low table in the landlords' dining room, I signed the rental agreement with its elegant columns of scripted Kanji. Teruko countersigned it, Mr. Kijima stamped it with his florid red seal, then we all exchanged bows. I had no idea what I had signed, of course, but it was the prettiest lease I had ever seen.\n\nThe previous tenant had left behind his refrigerator, hot plate, washing machine and vacuum cleaner. Mrs. Kijima told me that he was moving to the North of Japan, and didn't want the hassle of bringing the stuff with him or disposing of it. I could hardly believe my good fortune \u2014 as a rule, refrigerators, stoves and even light fixtures came and went with each tenant. The day I moved in, Mr. Kijima appeared at my doorstep hugging a bright red television. \"This is for you,\" he said. \"Hirose-san gave it to us when he left, but we already have two ...\"\n\nCosmos was a four-and-a-half minute walk from the train station, so I knew that if I left my apartment at nine thirty-five with the second hand on the six, I'd have my foot on the platform just as the nine forty train was rolling in. Every time. And when I got back home in the evenings, the first thing I did was take a chair out to the verandah, where I would sit for a few minutes with the warmth of the May sunset on my face. _This_ was my world now, this jigsaw of whitewashed walls, bent _obaasan_ wheeling pushcarts, futon mattresses drying on laundry rods, trimmed hedges with dark waxy leaves and everything in miniature. I felt absurdly proud of my new surroundings, as though I'd created them myself.\n\nA home, I discovered, was not so much a property as a state of mind.\n\n### **4**\n\nHalf an hour after I got my phone reconnected at Cosmos, the tall doctor called.\n\n\"I wanna see you again,\" he said simply.\n\n\"Sure,\" I told him, a bit shaken by the timing of his phone call. I waited for him to say something else, then finally added, \"So when would you like to meet?\"\n\n\"I can't make it on weeknights,\" he said in Japanese. \"As you know, I work until eight or nine in the evening. And this Friday I have to do some hospital work. On Saturday \u2014 well, I usually work on Saturdays, but about once a month I play golf. Three friends and I made reservations for this Saturday a long time in advance, so I can't really cancel. And in the evening I have a wedding, one of my friends from junior high. And Sunday I have to go to a medical meeting.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I laughed, \"How about next week, or next month?\"\n\nHe seemed not to have heard this. \"I really wanna see you,\" he said again.\n\nI'd noticed this before about him, the way he had of deflecting questions without seeming to notice he was doing it. When we finally settled on Sunday evening, I had the impression that he'd stretched himself in some way, that he'd bent some rule he normally lived by.\n\nI arrived at Kichijoji station at the appointed time, and immediately spotted his large head poking through the cluster of other heads as he stood leaning against the square pillar where we'd arranged to meet. I had almost cancelled our date, since I was still recovering from a bout of high fever I'd woken up with the previous morning. While tossing around in my bed that day, I'd chanced to thumb through my Lonely Planet guide to Thailand. _Ko Samet Island still has a bit of malaria_ , I read, and suddenly remembered the hand-painted sign I'd seen at the entrance to the island, warning visitors about malarial mosquitos. I also recalled that I'd been erratic in my use of insect repellent, and that my sleeping net had let through a mouse, so would have posed no problem for an insect. Convinced that I'd contacted the disease, I'd dragged myself to the Nishiogi hospital and requested to be tested. But by Sunday evening the fever was almost gone.\n\nTetsu's eyes were on me as I approached him, and in some transient, almost imperceptible shift in his features \u2014 nothing approaching an actual smile \u2014 I read his pleasure at seeing me again. With hardly a word between us, we set out through Kichijoji's twilight landscape, around corners and down alleyways, into a tall building and up an elevator, Tetsu leading the way without telling me where we were headed, which turned out to be a movie theatre.\n\nThe featured movie was Awakenings, transmuted to _Renaado no asa_ (Leonard's Morning) in Japanese. Throughout the screening, Tetsu kept his legs spread apart \u2014 they were too long to fit comfortably in front of him \u2014 so that they came within a hair's breadth of touching mine but never actually did. (Whoever said that first dates give many clues about the tenor of a relationship knew exactly what they were talking about.) I was thinking _it's perverse, but I like the way you led me here mutely, as though I were a small child, or a cow_.\n\nAnd then, just as inexplicably as I'd found myself in the movie theatre with this odd, bulky, quiet doctor, I found myself walking at his side along the narrow pathways of Inokashira park, whose cherry blossoms were now fat with leaves that hadn't quite darkened to summer colouring. And he was asking me questions, lots of questions.\n\n\"Who's your favourite actor?\"\n\nI was never good at this kind of thing. I tended to have favourite roles rather than actors, books rather than authors, songs rather than singers.\n\n\"Mine's Robert De Niro,\" he said when I didn't answer.\n\n\"Why is that?\"\n\n\"Just because.\" After a pause, he added, \"Because his acting doesn't _show_. You think 'what an interesting character' rather than 'what great acting.'\"\n\nThe protruding root of a cherry tree caused me to stumble, and for a split second I felt his hand on my shoulder.\n\n\"How about singer?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Singer? Who's your favourite singer?\"\n\n\"What is this,\" I laughed, \"an interview?\"\n\n\"Mine's John Lennon.\"\n\n\"And why is that?\" I was secretly disappointed, having always thought John Lennon's songwriting talent overrated.\n\n\"You probably won't believe me,\" he said intently, \"but I think his music has a _message?_\n\n_I believe you_ , I heard myself thinking. _Whatever you're about to say, I believe you_.\n\n\"Other songwriters develop a style,\" he continued, \"and then stick to it for the rest of their careers. But John Lennon's music was always changing \u2014 every album was different, right up to his death.\"\n\nHe went on to tell me that he (like a million other Japanese adolescents) had been a big Beatles fan as a teenager. He'd formed a basement rock band with some friends, and they'd concentrated exclusively on Beatles songs. They'd even got a spot on television once, with him singing the lead. I had trouble picturing this man, with his restrained and soft-spoken manner, belting out Hard Day's Night into a microphone, and felt my interest quicken at the incongruity.\n\nWe continued to walk back and forth through the crisscrossing paths, then made our way to the arched wooden bridge that stretched over the pond, where we paused to take in the cherry trees bowed over the water and the yellow pedal-boats gliding through it. I was telling him about my fever the previous day and how I was afraid I'd contacted malaria.\n\n\"If it were malaria,\" he said right away, \"your temperature would have reached forty degrees. And it would have lasted a lot longer than a day.\"\n\n\"How long?\"\n\n\"Oh, maybe three or four days.\"\n\nA couple and their young son walked by us, all three wearing red bandannas around their necks. The son pointed his finger at me, and in his clear child's voice, said \"Look, a foreigner.\"\n\nBecause I was pleased that Tetsu hadn't reacted to this, and because I was also pleased at his knowledge of things, esoteric things like the symptoms of malaria, I forgave him when, a little further along, he reverted to the naive questioning (\"Is the word 'fuck' used a lot in everyday life, like it is in in the movies?\" or \"Have you ever smoked marijuana?\") that so type-fied Japanese men of about his age.\n\nBack at Kichijoji station, I asked him if he'd ever been to Nishiogi.\n\n\"Yes, a couple of times.\"\n\n\"And? How did you like it?\"\n\n\"I was very moved.\"\n\nI forgave him his handshake (this time because of my pleasure at his poker-faced humour, and because he was a Japanese and couldn't possibly know the proper way to shake hands), which was somewhere between a weak grip and a caress.\n\nThe following morning I got up early for a job interview at an international patent office called Shiga. I'd spotted their employment ad in the Japan Times \u2014 Wanted: part-time English editor with a science background and some knowledge of Japanese \u2014 the previous Monday, and called immediately to schedule the interview. Mr. Murasaki, the editorial director, led me to a small cubicle where we chatted amiably for about fifteen minutes. Although I'd never worked as an editor, hadn't opened a science book in twelve years, and knew nothing at all about patent law, he told me that my background was exactly what they were looking for (this sort of thing could only happen in Japan) and offered me the job on the spot. I walked out of the office in a daze, hardly daring to believe that I was finally, finally off the English-teaching treadmill, that I would be working in a bona fide Japanese office, clocking in and out with a punchcard like a real Tokyoite.\n\nThat same evening there was a message from Tetsu on my answering machine. \"You looked very good tonight, buddy.\" I smiled at his choice of words, knowing that he was simply trying to sound colloquial. I had the sense, all of a sudden, of being pulled into Japan's belly, of becoming intertwined with the lives of its people in a way that would change us all.\n\nThings were definitely starting to happen in Tokyo.\n\n### **5**\n\nI was on my way home from Kichijoji, trying with difficulty to balance a broadloom carpet on my shoulders, when I practically bumped into Ariel, studiously coiffed and clothed to give the illusion of careless chic, and a new spring in his stride which I took to be a reflection of his recent good fortune: after months of moping in his room and eating _ramen_ noodles, he had finally managed to secure the lead part in a real-estate commercial and a role as a gaijin buffoon in an educational video for foreign students.\n\n\"Did you _hear?_ \" he asked me without preamble.\n\n\"Hear what?\"\n\n\"I guess you didn't. Tyler's dead.\"\n\nI almost let go of the carpet. It was true I'd hated his guts, but dead? \"How did it happen?\" I asked. \"I thought he was supposed to be in Thailand.\"\n\n\"He was. It's quite a bizarre story, actually, and the Thai authorities haven't released all the information, but it seems he was murdered by some peasants.\"\n\nI tried to imagine it, Tyler the musclebound stud stabbed to death by a band of hill tribesmen. The story that Ariel had been able to piece together was indeed bizarre. It appeared that Tyler had gone to Thailand to avenge the murder of his brother, who'd been travelling through the northern part of the country some two years earlier. While visiting Chiang Mai he'd inadvertently stepped into a drug-related gang fight and gotten himself killed in one of those oops, sorry, got the wrong guy scenarios. Tyler was hoping to catch the killers, presumably to exchange an eye for an eye, but was beaten to the finish line.\n\nListening to this far-flung tale, I suddenly recalled the fragments of a conversation between Tyler and Sumiko I'd overheard a few nights before moving out of Esther House. There had been crying, yelling, pleading, whispering, something about getting a girl into trouble, about losing a job, the threat of a lawsuit. I'd heard him tell her that he would be going to Thailand for a couple of weeks, to take a break from the nightmare his life had become. Tyler had seemed at the end of his rope, and I wondered now if he had really been murdered or if he might have died by his own hand instead, OD'd on some cheap Thai barbiturate he'd taken to forget his troubles.\n\nWhatever the cause, Tyler's death affected me more than I would have expected. He was a lousy housemate, but he was no stranger. After five months of sharing a rickety wall that let me in on his darkest secrets, we'd developed an odd sort of intimacy. I knew the sound of his cackle, his curses and his pillow talk. He was thirty-one to my own thirty-four, too close for comfort.\n\nAriel and I chatted some more. I asked him about the modelling business in Tokyo. \"It's sleazy,\" he said. \"You're told that your net profit will be a certain figure, and after doing the gig you find out it's your gross.\"\n\n\"Are you sure it's not a language problem?\"\n\n\"Positive. I ask them, is this the net figure? And they nod their heads vigorously and say _netto, netto_. Then they keep half of it. The last time this happened, they told me it was because my work had been unsatisfactory, although they'd seemed pleased enough during the shooting session. The worst part is that there's nothing you can do about it, nowhere you can go to file a complaint. It's the Dark Ages here, is what it is.\"\n\nAfter dropping off the carpet at my apartment I headed straight to Esther House, hoping to find Susan or Mark there and hear their version of the story. I found Mark in his room, tinkering with his most recent acquisition, a Nikon. He couldn't tell me much more than Ariel had, except that he'd talked briefly to Sumiko, who was shaken up but in control. She'd packed up Tyler's things and left a presumably well-intentioned note to Warren, the manager of Esther House and himself an Aussie: \"... Tyler was very clean, not like most foreigners ...\" It was hard to say whether she'd been spared a worse or a better fate than the one she was likely to have now, getting hot baths ready for her Mitsubishi man and shuttling the kiddies to cram school.\n\n\"To change the subject,\" Mark asked me, \"Are you making any headway in your, uh, search?\"\n\n\"Too early to tell,\" I said. A picture flashed briefly in my mind, the tall, bulky doctor with the gentle eyes.\n\nMark cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. \"Do you mind if I tell you a bit about mine?\"\n\n\" _Your_ search?\" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear this. Mark and Susan were a couple to whom no harm was supposed to befall, who laughed at each other's jokes and gave each other daily back rubs. I'd always assumed they were one of those charmed pairs whose bond was immune to time, place and circumstance.\n\n\"I don't quite know how to put it,\" he said, \"but it looks like I've caught the bug.\" I had no idea what he was talking about.\n\n\"Damn it,\" he said angrily, \"I can't tell you how disgusted I am with myself. It goes against everything I've ever said about Japan, against everything I believe in. I wouldn't have thought it could happen to me.\" He gave me a sheepish look.\n\n\"Sorry, Mark, but I'm not following you.\"\n\n\"It seems,\" he said wryly, as though he were talking about someone else, \"that I'm longing for the affections of a Japanese woman.\"\n\nIt was as though he had kicked me in the gut. Wasn't this the man who looked upon Japan as a giant cockroach, who went on and on about its moral bankruptcy, self-serving politics, sexism, ageism, materialism, slave mentality, antiquated thinking, and more to the point, its airhead women? If Mark could fall, then nobody was immune. Let this be a warning to all you Western women who come to Japan with your spouse, partner or boyfriend: you're taking your relationship into your own hands.\n\n\"What about Susan?\" I asked when I found my voice again. \"How does she feel about all this?\"\n\n\"She's very hurt, naturally. She's thinking of getting her own apartment, though we haven't decided anything definite yet.\"\n\n\"But you and Susan seemed so ... like you brought out the best in each other, somehow. Are you telling me you're ready to throw all that away?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said, studying his fingertips. \"I just don't know. There's this friend of ours, Michiko, and all I can think of day and night is what a treat it would be to have a woman like her. I know it sounds ridiculous, it goes against all my feminist ideals, or what I _thought_ were my feminist ideals, but there's something about the softness of these women, the way they focus on their men, that makes me crave the experience first-hand. I've become obsessed with the idea, and I hate myself for it.\" He had a pleading look on his face, as though he were hoping I'd give him my blessing. It occurred to me that all his talk about the \"infantilism\" of Japanese women might have been an attempt to deny, even to himself, that he was gradually falling under their spell.\n\nI wondered if Corey might have had anything to do with it. Corey \u2014 aptly described by Susan as having his brain between his legs \u2014 had moved into Esther House a few weeks earlier. He was a sunny blond boy from California, engaged to be married to a sunny blond girl from California with whom he exchanged I-miss-you's over the trans-Pacific telephone lines. He'd come to Japan with a surfboard and an indefatigable libido. \"I'm not married ... yet,\" was how he justified the sexual conquests he was accumulating in Tokyo. I knew that he'd taken Mark with him on some of his expeditions to the Roppongi disco-jungle, and maybe it had been too much for Mark, seeing all those nubile young things buzzing like flies around his friend while he looked on from the sidelines.\n\nThere could be no doubt about it \u2014 somebody had put a curse on Esther House. Not only was Tyler dead, Mark and Susan's marriage on the rocks, but I also learned that Fredrik had become an object of rivalry between Jessie and Claire, who were no longer on speaking terms. Clearly, I'd left Esther House just in time.\n\n### **6**\n\nIn a twist on the standard desert-island question, I asked my IHI students which one they would choose if they were marooned on a desert island for a year: books or television. Without exception, they chose television. \"We'd want to keep up with what was going on in the outside world,\" they all agreed. I challenged them with a Zen aphorism \u2014 \"when the work goes well, the outside world doesn't matter\" \u2014 but it didn't strike a chord. They wanted news, information, action, and television was how they wanted to get it. Not without pride, they told me that according to national surveys, the Japanese watched every bit as much television as did Americans. This meant that in relation to their free time, they actually watched more.\n\nDuring my seven months at Esther House, I had enjoyed the simplicity of a TV-less existence. Nevertheless, I was eager to start watching my little red television, both for the language practice and because I thought it would give me another angle on the culture.\n\nA staple of Japanese programming is the _dorama_ (from the English word drama), roughly equivalent to the American soap opera but generally lasting only one season rather than decades. This type of program suited me just fine, since my Japanese wasn't quite up to documentary or even sitcom fare. There were a couple of hour-long _dorama_ to choose from every weekday evening, along with a fifteen-minute quickie at eight o'clock in the morning.\n\nI went through a few weeks of trial and error before settling on a favourite, _Wataru Seken Wa Oni Bakari_. The title sounded rather ominous in translation \u2014 \"In the world that we pass through, there are nothing but ogres\" \u2014 and nobody was able to tell me exactly what it was supposed to mean. The plot revolved around an aging couple and their five daughters, each with her own family or budding relationship. The central theme was the modern woman's dilemma of work versus family. \"My life is my work!\" the prettiest daughter cried to an unwanted pursuer. Later, when she met the man of her dreams (at the office), she declared that she was ready to quit working and get married. Another daughter was being torn between her desire to work outside her home and her devotion to her son. The I-can-have-it-all option didn't seem to exist for these women, as it did for women in American soapland.\n\nThere were other differences, little details that gave away how distinct the sex-roles were in Japanese society, even in this doramatized world that struggled valiantly to present a contemporary face. When the _Wataru_ patriarch came home after a long day behind the counter of his noodle-shop, his two live-in daughters would rush to his side, remove his slippers, fan his face and place a bowl of hot soup in front of him. At his cry of \" _biru, biru!'_ , his wife would scurry to the refrigerator and fetch him a bottle. And at the end of each day, he would sink into the bath prepared by his wife while she darted around the bedroom, laying out futons and nightclothes for the two of them.\n\nSubservient though they were, these women seemed more believable than the American soap heroine who, in the midst of raising her four children, decides she needs some personal fulfillment, dusts off her old Brownie camera and in a wink of an eye, becomes an acclaimed portrait photographer.\n\nAnother mainstay of Japanese television is the game-show. Here too, I discovered, there was a departure from the American format: instead of being rewarded for getting the right answers, contestants got punished for getting the wrong ones. Buckets of water rained down upon their heads, or cream-pies or sacks of flour, while the studio audience gave shrieks of delight.\n\nGaijin made occasional appearances on these shows, where they were known as _tarento_. Their talent was the ability to speak Japanese fluently, which was unusual enough to enthrall audiences and to make me green with envy. I also caught glimpses of foreigners on the soaps and detective shows. They would dance across the screen with toothy grins and spastic arm movements. TV gaijin were always manic \u2014 a somber or pensive gaijin was as improbable as a bashful car salesman.\n\nGaijin, of course, dominated the freak shows. There was the Belgian woman with the world's largest breasts (which the host stretched out on a plank and measured with due solemnity), the American man with the world's longest tongue (\"good for kissing,\" he said), the man with the most body hair, and a woman of average height who was married to a midget (\"He's a _great_ husband,\" she enthused).\n\nImmediately following _Wataru Seken_ on Thursday nights was the Yamada Kuniko variety show. Miss Yamada was a national celebrity, a writer of romance novels as well as a TV personality. Her manner could be described as butch and was certainly as un-Japanese as I'd ever seen in a female. She had a throaty voice and raunchy laugh, and was built like a firehydrant. It was easy to see how she was a source of fascination to more run-of-the-mill Japanese women.\n\nThe show began with some bantering between Miss Yamada and three other panelists. Following this, a \"situation video\" was aired. The situation was usually based on some romantic conflict (for example: woman is neglected by lover, woman finds new lover and starts seeing him on the side, liaison is discovered by first lover) and the four panelists had to decide whether the protagonist was _yuuzai_ (guilty) or _muzai_ (innocent). While they deliberated, the studio audience cheered them on and waved placards. _Yuuuuzai! Muzaaaai! Yuuuuzai! Muzaaaai!_ It took several minutes before a verdict was reached and several more minutes before the audience calmed down.\n\nThe scene then shifted to the interior of an opulent house, where one of the panelists was shown interviewing a member of the resident family, usually the _o-josan_. An _o-josan_ can be defined as a young woman who makes a career out of being rich. There is a lively interest in _o-josan_ in Japan, reminiscent of Britain's fascination with its aristocracy. (How do you know if you're an _o-josan?_. If you refuse at least two dates out of three, if you get chilled easily and if you've skied in the Alps \u2014 the Swiss ones, of course.)\n\n\"What's that in your back yard?\" the interviewer would ask the bored young lady, pointing to the window.\n\n\"A swimming pool.\"\n\n\"A _swimming pool!_.\" The interviewer would turn toward the TV camera. \"What do you think of that, folks?\"\n\nI had to remind myself, while rolling my eyes, that a private swimming pool was probably as uncommon in Japan as a backyard golf course in America.\n\nThe commercials were as entertaining as the programs. If it was a shampoo that was being advertised, a fresh-faced young woman would appear on the screen, sigh a few moody words (it's Spring ... I feel so light, so restless ...) and depart with a wink. If it was a car, or a washing machine, a fresh-faced young woman would appear on the screen, sigh a few moody words and depart with a wink. To my Western eyes, these commercials seemed naive, amateurish. I was surprised to learn that two of my SECOM students who'd lived in America felt exactly the same way about American TV commercials. \"American commercials are so literal,\" they told me. \"Some silly man in a lab-coat comes on-screen and rattles off statistics about comparison tests or scientific data. There is no mood created, no atmosphere. It's hard to understand how such ads can be effective.\"\n\nOne evening, I came upon an animation program in the popular mystery-drama genre. The language was easy to follow, so I watched on.\n\nA young housewife, alarmed that her husband never came home until midnight, called up a detective agency to help her find out how he was spending the evening hours. The agency put two of their detectives on the case, a man and a woman. After a few days of sleuthing, the detectives informed the housewife that her husband could be found every evening at the same _izakaya_ , eating dinner and chatting with his buddies. The wife was mystified. \"Why wouldn't he want to eat my home-cooked food?\" she asked the detectives, shedding grape-sized cartoon tears.\n\nThe detectives had a brief t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate, then asked the woman if she wouldn't mind letting them watch her cook. \"Of course,\" she said, and showed them to her kitchen. \"This is my pasta-making machine, and this is my blender. I use it for making pesto and Hollandaise sauce. This is my kneading machine, which I use for making onion loaf and croissants.\" She pointed to her collection of international cookbooks. \"Before I got married,\" she said, sniffling all the while, \"I took courses in French cooking, Italian cooking and Viennese pastry-making, just so I could make my husband happy. A lot of good it's done me. Waaaaah!\"\n\nThe detectives had another t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate, then announced to the woman that they'd solved the case.\n\n\"Really?\" she cried. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Your husband has been going to that _izakaya_ because they serve traditional Japanese dishes there. He doesn't like all this rich, fancy food you've been preparing. He wants the kind of food his mother used to make \u2014 simple, nutritious, traditional Japanese meals.\"\n\nThe woman looked dubious. \"Come on,\" the female detective told her, \"I'll help you. Let's make some hot soup with _ramen_ noodles and vegetables. It's almost midnight now, and your husband's due home any minute.\"\n\nIn a flash, the two women chopped up the ingredients and put them into a bowl of steaming broth, just as the front door swung open. In walked the grumpy husband, heading straight for the stairs to his bedroom. All of a sudden he stopped in his tracks, wiggled his nose and broke into a smile.\n\n\" _Ramen_ soup?\" he said in astonishment. \"Could it be?\"\n\nHis wife led him to the dining room, where the soup was waiting for him. He dove in with great gusto, making loud slurping noises. He was then shown walking up the stairs to his room again, but this time not alone. The housewife glanced back at the detectives and gave them a wink.\n\nWas it because I was an outsider, I wondered, that I could do little except roll my eyes at this message to Japanese women? I pondered the impossibility of looking objectively upon another culture, the tendency to see good cheer and na\u00efvet\u00e9 where complexities lay.\n\n### **7**\n\nWe met in East Shinjuku under the giant, madly flickering screen of the Alta building (where at least five hundred other people were waiting for their other half), and bushwacked through the neon frenzy until we reached the restaurant he'd picked out for us, a cozy Korean Barbecue joint with do-it-yourself grills embedded in the tables. I let him order for me, finding it oddly pleasant to sit back and have him take responsibility for what I would be putting into my mouth. A few minutes later our waitress returned with mountains of beef tongue, calf liver, chicken and pork cut into paper-thin strips, along with a platter of raw vegetables and two mugs of beer.\n\n\"Am I doing it right?\" I asked Tetsu as I placed a strip of tongue on the hot grill and sprinkled _shoyu_ sauce over it. I'd only been to this type of place once before, with a pack of gaijin, so I wasn't sure if I was cooking, seasoning or handling the meat properly. I didn't want him to think me uncivilized.\n\n\"What's right?\" he shrugged.\n\n\"I don't know,\" I answered. \"You tell me.\"\n\n\"Just eat it the way you want,\" he said, sounding a little annoyed.\n\n\"Tetsu-san,\" I pretended to be hurt, \"don't get angry with me.\"\n\n\"I'm _never_ gonna get angry with you,\" he said immediately, with an intensity that seemed to come from nowhere. \"Never.\" The \"gonna\" stuck in my ear, incongruous in his carefully enunciated speech.\n\n\"What I meant was,\" he continued in Japanese, \"there are so many _rules_ in our lives. The proper way to eat, to greet people, to dress, to bow. I have no choice when I'm working, but in my private time I try to forget about all these rules.\" He looked at me intently. \"Let's forget about rules when we're together, OK?\"\n\n\"No rules,\" I concurred. \"Fine with me.\" What I was thinking was: It's been four dates and he still hasn't touched me. Is there a rule about _that_ , and is he following or breaking it?\n\nHe was in a drinking mood tonight. After a couple of beers he switched over to whiskey, in keeping with the classic drinking pattern of Japanese businessmen, downing the glasses so quickly that I hadn't a hope of keeping pace. He went back into his interviewing mode: Who was my favourite author? What was my favourite book? Favourite sport? Favourite flavour of ice cream? His own favourite author, it turned out, was Yukio Mishima. That would make him either a romantic, a reactionary or a homosexual. I hoped it was the first.\n\n\"What's the most dangerous thing you've ever done?\"\n\nI thought for a moment. \"Probably skydiving. How about you?\"\n\n\"See that scar on my forehead? I was playing catch with a friend in high school, not with a ball but with a javelin ...\"\n\nOne inch lower and it would have been his eye. \"You were very lucky,\" I told him.\n\n\"Yup,\" he said. \"Just like tonight.\"\n\n\"Like what?\" I wasn't sure I'd heard properly.\n\n\"Just like tonight,\" he said again, causing me to flush with surprise, though I couldn't be sure if his words came from the heart or from the eighty-proof. His face said little \u2014 you had to look at the eyes to know if he was smiling or serious, earnest or joking.\n\nFor the first time since we'd met, he seemed willing to talk about his family. His parents, it turned out, were just recently divorced although they'd been living apart for years. He had an older sister who was married to an American and a younger brother who still lived with his mother in Chiba Prefecture. His father, also a doctor, had been rather difficult to live with, a choleric type with the nasty habit of throwing dishes around when his temper got the better of him. \"At you?\" I asked incredulously. \"Nope,\" he said, \"at my mother.\" It was an _o-miai_ marriage, he told me, and there had never been much fondness or even civility between them. \"But I have a lot of respect for my father,\" he said. \"Aside from his violent temper, which I can't comprehend at all, he was \u2014 still is \u2014 a good man and a very good doctor.\" It surprised me that the composed, soft-spoken Tetsu would have emerged from such a harsh childhood landscape.\n\nThere were nine empty glasses on our table, most of them his. He studied the glasses for a while.\n\n\"Let's not have any more to drink,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"It's good luck if we stop now.\"\n\n\"Good luck?\"\n\n\"You've had three drinks and I've had six. That's nine altogether. My favourite numbers,\" he said earnestly, \"are three, six and nine.\"\n\nI'm falling for this man, I thought to myself, charmed that a grown man would state his favourite numbers with such conviction, like a child.\n\nThough he seemed to be loosening up a little, on the subject of his work he remained the artful dodger. Whenever I brought it up he would deflect my question with a joke or a shrug. How was your day at the office? Long. What kinds of patients do you see? Many. What do you enjoy the most about your work? The end of the day. I didn't press the issue, sensing that he wanted to keep his work and his time with me in separate compartments. I knew, from hints dropped by students over the months, that the Honey-you'll-never-guess-what-happened-at-the-office style of dinner-table conversation was not too common in Japanese households, even assuming that the husband made it home for dinner. Many of my students had only the sketchiest idea of what their husbands did after they stepped into their suits.\n\nWe'd fallen into a pattern of switching from one language to the other in our conversations \u2014 four or five sentences in English, the next few in Japanese. Though he wasn't exactly fluent, he spoke English with care and took great pains to sound authentic, with his yups and nopes and pop-song contractions like \"lemme\" or \"wanna,\" which I supposed were remnants of his years of devotion to the Beatles. He was straining for informality, I could see, English being the best weapon against his natural reserve. I, on the other hand, was all caught up in the romance of affixing the respectful \"san\" to his name and asking him if he would be so kind as to pass me the salt, something I couldn't get away with in my own language.\n\nHe suggested a walk to the new city hall in West Shinjuku. Outside again, we made our way through the booze-blurred tapestry of neon and noise. There was something monstrous and marvellous about the way Shinjuku sprang to life after the sun went down, like a giant sequined cockroach. Amusement halls, shot bars, dens of sin, at every doorstep the exhortations of stereo speakers (\"Welcome, welcome, just for tonight we're offering gobbledee gobbledee gobbledee ...\"), the flash of chrome everywhere, elevators shooting up and down inside their glass casings, the entire visible spectrum of blinking, twinkling, popping colours and not a tree in sight in this revenge of the urban gods. We came up to the pedestrian overpass that led to West Shinjuku and its skyscrapers. At the top of the stairs we stopped for a while, surveying the scene.\n\n\" _Te?_ \" he said, offering me his hand.\n\nAnd at that moment \u2014 the shock of pleasure, surprise, hope all mixed together \u2014 it seemed to me that a thirty-four-year-old longing was put to rest, that I'd finally made a connection, not only with Tetsu but with the freedom I'd been vainly courting over the years. For the first time ever, there was no distance between where I wanted to be and where I was \u2014 in mad, mad Shinjuku, hand-in-hand with this tall, quiet Japanese doctor who touched a part of me that none of the men before him ever had. Far away from the shoulds and shouldn'ts of my own society (you _should_ love your job, your culture, low interest mortgages, two-week vacations, Liberal politics, have a child and your restlessness will evaporate), I felt free to love for the first time.\n\n\"People will stare at us,\" I said, trying to hide my pleasure and thinking of what an outsize couple we made.\n\n\"No, they won't,\" he answered. \"And if they do, who cares?\"\n\nWe walked all over West Shinjuku, his hand never letting go of mine even as we clambered up and down pedestrian walkways, dodged passers-by and stopped at a vending machine for an _aisu kohii_ break. We talked about nothing in particular \u2014 flying cockroaches, gum-chewing gaijin, noodle-slurping Japanese. And as we continued to walk I felt a twinge of sadness, knowing that in a sense the best part was already over \u2014 that no matter what lay ahead, no matter how steamy the sex or heady the pillow-talk, nothing would rival the pointed beauty of that one moment, _Te_ , the intimacy it promised and the mirrored hallway of possibilities it revealed.\n\nIt was also from that moment that I began to dream up a script for a one-act play called My Life, Part II, in which Tetsu had the leading role.\n\n## **CHASING RAINBOWS**\n\n\"Why are we burdened with the duty to destroy everything, change everything, entrust everything to impermanence?\"\n\n_Yukio Mishima_\n\n### **1**\n\nAs the weeks turned into months and the months into seasons, I began to understand why my students were making so little progress. I came to see that they didn't want to learn English as much as bask in its atmosphere. English was not only a language, it was a stepping-stone to a world of vigor, excitement, frankness, a world inhabited by men of action like Indiana Jones and cleansed of all the niceties and duties and restraint that the younger Japanese were starting to resent. In a word, it was freedom. In English you could answer no to questions, you could admit to disliking your job, you could be daring, outrageous, tell it like it is, man, instead of all the dodging and evading and blurring that made up the bulk of communication in Japanese. I never met a Japanese person under thirty-five who didn't claim to prefer talking straight to talking in circles, even those who were thoroughly incapable of it. Time and again my students would tell me how they felt freer expressing themselves in English than in their own language, even if the most they could express was \"yesterday I go mobie _Die Hard_ , very exciting, I think.\"\n\nEnglish was freedom, something every self-respecting parent wanted for his children. In a modern twist to the lullaby, one of the businessmen in my new Microsoft class, eager that his infant son learn English properly, put earphones on his one-year-old head every night and played him English conversation tapes until he fell asleep. \"I read article people learning most well when they relaxing,\" was his rationale. Another new father decided to name his daughter Reika instead of the common Japanese name Reiko, because \"it sounds more English.\" I imagined the alteration was probably as peculiar as changing Lisa to Liso or Katrina to Katrino, but he was unfazed: \"If she want to go America, she have name sounds more natural.\" I also knew of a Japanese couple who was raising their daughter entirely in English, even though neither of them spoke the language well and they had no intention of leaving Tokyo.\n\nOne product of the English craze was the institution known as a conversation lounge, a no-frills type of bar where Japanese and gaijin got together to converse in English. Some of the lounges had strict rules: if you were caught speaking Japanese once, you got a warning; one more time and you were asked to leave. There was usually a cover charge of around \u00a5500, though in an effort to attract more English speakers the fee was often waived for non-Japanese.\n\nI found myself in the Takadanobaba district one evening and happened to walk by a lounge of this type. I'd seen it advertised in the Tokyo Journal \u2014 Come to Mickey House, as informal as you are \u2014 and decided to go have a look. It was a small room, informal to the point of being run-down, and all of its dozen or so customers were gathered at one long table where a fortyish Japanese man was holding forth, throwing his hands in the air and shaking bits of paper at his audience. The proprietor gave me a warm welcome, and when he saw I was alone, led me to the table where all the customers were seated. I declined his offer of \"many choices of American beer\" and ordered a Kirin Dry.\n\nThe man who was holding everybody in thrall stuck out his hand as soon as I sat down.\n\n\"Hi, I'm Shigeharu,\" he said, giving me a vigorous handshake. \"I speak thirty-three languages.\"\n\nHe produced a typewritten page and showed it to me. It was a list of languages, with a qualifying word next to each one: good, fair, fluent, passable. There were entries like Swahili and Basque. I wondered if he carried the sheet with him wherever he went, and thought that if he really did speak all those languages (in a country where speaking more than two caused people's jaw to drop) he could hardly be blamed for wanting to show off a little.\n\n\"We've just been discussing my theory of life, which I call the options method,\" he said excitedly, eyes darting behind thick square lenses. Surveying his mute audience, mostly young Japanese women and a couple of scraggly gaijin men, I thought the \"we\" a little imprecise.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, waving a diagram-filled sheet at me, \"at every stage in life you've got to look at your options, right? It's very simple, really. Once you know what your options are, you simply choose the best one. If more people used this approach there would be a lot less unhappiness in the world, I'm sure of it.\"\n\nHis English was not only flawless but he was talking so fast I had trouble following him.\n\n\"Take marriage, for instance. Four years ago I was divorced, right? So I sat down and drew a chart.\" He pointed to one of the diagrams. \"There are four options, right? The best one is married only once, next is widowed or divorced then remarried, third is widowed or divorced but not remarried, and last is never married. So what did I do? I looked at the chart, crossed off the first line, which was no longer an option for me, then I sat down and designed a strategy for moving up from option three to option two.\"\n\nHe adjusted his glasses and pointed to his empty beer mug, trying to catch the eye of the proprietor. \"Now, four years later, I'm engaged to a wonderful woman, right? Chinese, I might add. Mind you, I didn't just pick the first woman who came along. But I didn't sit in my room and feel sorry for myself, like so many people do. It's all a matter of knowing your options, I say. Sorry, what was your name already?\"\n\nI introduced myself and asked him where he had learned to speak English so well.\n\n\"Lived abroad, lived abroad. Now, does anybody have any questions?\" He surveyed his audience with flashing eyes. He had that genius-or-madman look about him, arms and eyes in perpetual motion and brain cells crackling audibly.\n\n\"What if person don't _want_ getting married?\" a young woman ventured.\n\n\" _Everybody_ wants to get married,\" he said, pointing to his chart for emphasis. \"Or at least, everybody wants a life partner of some kind. You see, there are three things people need in their lives. Someone to come home to, something to do, and something to look forward to.\" He paused to let this sink in. \"If you have nobody to come home to, that's a maximum of two out of three.\" He wrote a large 2 on the page. \"Two out of three, right? So you won't have maximum happiness.\" The woman said nothing. \"It's all a matter of knowing your options,\" he added as an afterthought.\n\n\"What about love?\" I asked, half-hoping that this madman, who appeared to have solved the puzzle of life once and for all, might shed some light on my excitement about Tetsu.\n\n\"Love? It's very simple.\" He tore out a blank sheet from a notepad. \"Romantic passion,\" he said, drawing a pair of graph coordinates and scribbling \"passion\" near the y-axis, \"is all a question of _hope_ (he wrote \"hope\" at the left end of the x-axis) and _doubt_ (he wrote \"doubt\" at the right end). He hastily graphed something that looked like Mount Fuji. \"You see, all hope and no doubt means no uncertainty, no mystery, no passion, right? And too much doubt and not enough hope means fear, jealousy, anger, and the passion deflates like a flat tire.\" He made a noise like air hissing out of a tire and a matching gesture with his hands. \"But the right balance between the two,\" he pointed to the top of Mount Fuji, \"and you have love.\"\n\n\"I don't believe in love,\" a graying gaijin said, a Brit by the sounds of it. He was surrounded by empty beer mugs. \"I'm a cynic,\" he added, looking at me conspiratorially as though he presumed me to be an ally.\n\n\"So you've never loved a woman?\" I asked him.\n\n\"I did once,\" he mumbled, almost to himself. \"God, did I fucking love her. And do you know what she told me?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"That the _timing_ was wrong.\" He said this in a mock-whiny voice, as if recalling how she'd sounded. \"Can you beat that? We had this fan-fucking-tastic thing going, great sex and communication and all that, and she tells me that the _timing_ is wrong.\"\n\n\"When did this happen?\"\n\n\"Two fucking years ago.\" He shook his head in disgust. \"I'll never love anyone like that anymore.\"\n\n\"You see, you see?\" Shigeharu cut in excitedly. \"A perfect example of somebody who needs to use the options method.\" He started scribbling again as he talked. \"The four options are: fall in love and never lose it, lose love and find it again, lose love and don't find it again, and never love, right? So what you need to do,\" he said firmly, \"is move up from option three to option two, just like I did.\" He tore off the sheet and handed it to the Brit.\n\n\"And how do you guarantee that he'll find love again?\" I asked, drawn into Shigeharu's diabolical logic in spite of myself.\n\n\"Guarantee? There are no guarantees. What you have to do is maximize your chances, right? You take a piece of paper and make a list.\" He tore off another blank sheet and inscribed \"important qualities\" at the top of it. \"So,\" he said to the Brit, \"tell me some of the qualities you look for in a woman.\"\n\n\"It's OK,\" the Brit told him. \"I'm not looking for love anymore, just sex.\" He scanned the circle of young Japanese women, but there seemed to be no takers.\n\nI looked at all the sheets littered on the table and at the Brit's sour smirk, hoping I'd never have to choose between the two modes of living. Still, it was good to meet someone like Shigeharu once in a while, someone who was none of the things a Japanese was supposed to be: vague, wary of logic, wary of absolutes.\n\nWhen I got home there was a message on my answering machine. \"I ... miss you.\" It was Tetsu's voice, soft and hesitant. I played the message again, hardly believing what I was hearing. \"Japanese men don't express feelings to women\" was something I'd heard many times from friends and students, and I hadn't expected Tetsu to be any different. I wondered if using Harrison Ford's language was making him bolder \u2014 wondered, for an instant, if it was me or English he was courting.\n\nLying in bed that evening, unable to find sleep, I swung back and forth between hope (he said he missed me) and doubt (maybe he thinks that's what Western women like to hear), and thought, that madman in Mickey House was no fool.\n\n### **2**\n\nCharlene's life in Tokyo had evolved rather differently from my own. When we met one Sunday afternoon at the World Restaurant in Shinjuku, she proudly told me that she'd managed to survive nine months without learning a single word of Japanese, not even the numbers from one to ten.\n\n\"But how do you shop?\" I asked her. \"What if you want to get, say, five chicken-breast filets at the meat counter?\"\n\n\"I have fingers, don't I?\" she said coyly. \"And if the shopkeeper is too _moronic_ to count fingers, I simply write down the number in my notepad and show it to him.\"\n\nCharlene was a shameless Anglo-supremacist, believing that it was the rest of the world's business to learn English and to hell with them if they didn't. She was openly scornful of the Japanese, thinking them slow and stupid and constitutionally incapable of learning a foreign language.\n\n\"I mean, when I was learning French in school,\" she told me, \"I made an _effort_ , at least, to get my verb tenses right. But no matter how many times I remind my students to use the future tense for tomorrow and the past tense for yesterday, they just can't seem to get it into their skulls. The following week they're back to saying 'Last night I go to sheeatre.' I mean, are they missing a _gene_ or something?\"\n\nI had heard her speak a few words of French at Kimi, and her pronunciation was so hard on my ears I'd been tempted to block them, but I said nothing when she complained about her students' atrocious accent and declared the Japanese incapable of imitating sounds.\n\nI had never seen Charlene look less than perfectly groomed, and that Sunday was no exception. Blood-red lipstick, nails that shone like teardrops, dark sunglasses worn as a pendant, fitted red jacket and linen city-shorts \u2014 the weekend look of a dress-for-success'er. She was now a curriculum planner as well as teacher at Bilingual, and claimed to be thrilled to have turned her back on her law career. To me she seemed every inch a lawyer, and though I wouldn't have asked her point blank, I wondered what on earth she was doing in Japan. During her free time she watched American shows on her bilingual TV (\"Don't want to lose touch\"), read books on every subject except Japan, plotted her next Club Med vacation, ate Haagen Dazs ice cream straight from the container and occasionally went out with her friends (all gaijin, naturally) for an all-night drinking bout in Shinjuku. She'd been no slouch in the sex department, having racked up five encounters with other Bilingual teachers or staff members, and she now had her eye on a sixth prospect. \"There's a lot of sexual tension between us,\" she told me. \"Something's gonna happen any day now, I can feel it.\" She confessed that staff meetings were getting to be a little tense for her, with so many ex-lovers gathered together in one room. It was hardly surprising that her all-time favourite story should be _Dangerous Liaisons_ , which she'd seen three times on screen and once in the theatre.\n\nAs usual, she spent a few minutes heaping scorn on Western men who took up with Japanese women. \"I see these couples on the train,\" she told me, \"and it's nauseating. The women can't get through a full sentence in English and make gurgling noises like one-year-olds. Don't these men want _communication?_ Don't they want _intelligent_ women?\"\n\nI was a little hesitant, under the circumstances, to tell her about Tetsu, but she was more baffled than outright disapproving. \"What on _earth_ do you talk about?\" she asked me, sincerely wanting to know.\n\nIt was hard to get offended. She wore her bigotry with style, like a mink-clad diva wading imperiously through a crowd of anti-fur demonstrators. For all her disdain of things Japanese, she seemed to be enjoying herself in Tokyo, removed as she was from the pressures of fulfilling people's expectations of her. She was free to pursue her own brand of hedonism for which, with tongue only half in cheek, she'd coined the term Charlenism. And she knew how to bring me down to earth when I started rhapsodizing about the virtues of Japanese women, about their grace and patience and lack of complaining. \"That's all very charming,\" she would retort, \"but it all comes down to sexism, pure and simple. The women are not treated as equals in this society, either at home or in the office, and they've been brainwashed to believe all that crap about how it's unladylike to put your foot down.\" And to my protestations that Japanese women seemed at least as content as their Western counterparts, she countered that a happy slave was still a slave. Conversations with Charlene were never dull.\n\nHungry for concrete information about Japanese-style romance (to help me put Tetsu in cultural perspective), I consulted with Hitomi. \"Consider yourself lucky,\" she told me. \"It's very rare for a Japanese man to use love talk. Do you know that Kazuo hasn't once, in all our years of dating and marriage, told me he loves me? Or even that he appreciates me, or finds me attractive?\" On the subject of touching during courtship, she disclosed that Kazuo had waited two full years before holding her hand. Judging from the Kazuo I knew, who was nothing if not a sensual guy, I found it hard to believe that his sixteen-year old self would have been content to rub shoulders for two years, but she insisted it was true. \"Although,\" she said shyly, \"maybe ours was not a typical case. Why don't you talk to some of your younger friends?\"\n\nActing on her advice, I gave Miki a call one evening, remembering that she'd had two serious relationships before declaring herself free of men.\n\n\" _O-noroke_ ,\" she said when I'd finished my breathless description of Tetsu.\n\n\"What does that mean?\"\n\n\"It's a word we use when someone is boasting about their new boyfriend.\"\n\nI winced. She was right, of course. I apologized as best I could, and she, well trained in the art of defusing tension, replied that _ie ie_ , no no, she'd only been kidding.\n\n\"Where does he live?\" she asked. I told her he lived and worked in Mitaka, only two train stops away. And that he always called from work since he didn't have a phone at home.\n\n\"Doesn't have a _phone?_ \"\n\n\"That's what he told me.\"\n\n\"I hate to say this, but it sounds a bit suspicious. Sounds to me like the guy is married.\"\n\nIn my gut I felt this wasn't true, that a lie of such import had never passed Tetsu's lips. Still, Miki's words made me uneasy. The circumstantial evidence was undeniably strong. A doctor, obviously not hard up for money, with no phone at home ... If he was married, I thought in alarm, then he couldn't play his part in my script.\n\nBy the following evening I was in a state of full-blown panic. Against my better judgment I gave him a call at work. I told him about my conversation with Miki, told him that even though I didn't doubt his honesty, it was risky, in a foreign culture, to rely on intuition alone.\n\n\"Please, Tetsu, if you're married, tell me _now_ ,\" I said urgently.\n\n\"I'm _not_ married,\" he answered firmly.\n\n\"Are you living with any other people?\" I asked, meaning a woman.\n\n\"I live alone.\" He sounded puzzled.\n\n\"What I don't understand,\" I pressed, \"is how people can get in touch with you when you're not at work. Say we'd planned to meet and I had to cancel for some reason, how could I let you know?\"\n\n\"I carry a beeper with me,\" he said. \"It starts beeping whenever there's a message on my answering machine at work. Then I go to a payphone and listen to my message from there.\"\n\n\"But what if it's an emergency?\"\n\n\"Would it make you feel better,\" he asked after a pause, \"if I had a phone installed in my apartment?\"\n\n\"That's not what I meant,\" I told him, flattered nonetheless that he would consider it. \"I just wanted to confirm that my fears were groundless.\"\n\nAs soon as we hung up I started to panic again. What on earth had possessed me, interrogating him like a vice-squad cop? I cursed myself for my lack of restraint, feeling sure I'd blown it. But two days later he left me a friendly telephone message and all was well again. Weak with relief, I vowed to breathe deeply and count to ten the next time I had an urge to hurl accusations at him. If you're going to keep this man, I told myself sternly, you'll have to be more careful.\n\nThe next time I spoke to Charlene, asking how things had progressed with the sixth object of her lust, she admitted that she'd completely misread the signals this time. It turned out he was a very active homosexual who knew Shinjuku's gay district like the back of his hand. But that was OK with her, since she was _definitely_ not in the market for love and all its discontents.\n\n### **3**\n\nOn the first Sunday in June there was a fine drizzle over Tokyo, a hint of the rainy season to come. I was waiting for Tetsu in front of the Mitaka post-office, starting to worry a little even though he was only a few minutes late. I never saw him approaching from a distance when I waited for him \u2014 he had a way of materializing right before my eyes, as if he'd rounded some invisible corner. There was always the sense that he lay hidden somewhere.\n\nA navy blue Nissan sports car pulled up at the traffic light and I saw his face inside it, eyes intent and hair very black against the white upholstery, my tension evaporating as soon as I met his gaze. He pushed the door open and I got in, sensing that a charmed day lay ahead. Much later, I would look back on that day and wonder if I'd dreamed it.\n\nI remembered asking Hitomi about the \"san\" suffix, when to use it and when not to. She told me that as two people got closer, there came a time when the \"san\" fell away naturally, like an old skin. It wasn't anything you could explain \u2014 you just _knew_ when to drop it.\n\n\"Good morning, Tetsu.\"\n\n\"Sorry I'm late,\" he said. \"I was up until two o'clock last night.\"\n\n\"Work?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yup.\"\n\nWe were headed for Yokohama. As we sped along the highway I watched his hand on the stick-shift, noting the sureness with which he drove, the sporty way he changed gears and wove through the traffic.\n\n\"You drive well,\" I told him.\n\n\"I love cars,\" he said simply. He told me he'd bought his first car at eighteen, with money he'd earned by working in a _soba_ restaurant on weekends. It had taken him four years to save up the money. This man has never stopped working, I thought, wondering where all the drive came from.\n\nOur first stop was Sankei-en, the famous Japanese garden in the Honmoku hills, mixture of nature and artifice. I felt a rush of pleasure at the way Tetsu wordlessly took my hand when we got out of the car, as though he now owned it. With his other hand he held a large checkered umbrella above our heads. Though the park had a reputation as a _dehto-spotto_ (place to go on a date), the rain seemed to have persuaded most couples to go elsewhere. We walked past lily-dotted ponds and pruned trees bent over wooden bridges, thickets of overgrown bushes and teahouses with curled rooftops.\n\n\"How do you like it?\" he asked.\n\n\"I _love_ the greenery,\" I told him, wondering if he understood I meant him.\n\nWe walked hand in hand, our talk sparse but playful, he calling me _ameonna_ , woman who brings the rain, and I poking fun at his yups and nopes, his earnest attempts to talk like a tough Western dude (\"fuck,\" as he tripped over a branch), which sounded about as menacing as a chihuahua bark.\n\n\"What do you mean, _muko no hito?_ \" I protested when he used that phrase to refer to foreigners. \" _People from the other side_. What other side? And what side are _you_ from?\"\n\nHe laughed \u2014 a short laugh, only three or four has, but hearty. His laughter didn't come easily, and it felt like something I'd earned.\n\nI teased him about his compatriots' na\u00efvet\u00e9 about foreigners, their flat-footed questions. \"And your TV shows,\" I accused. \"Why are TV gaijin always so silly?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't know,\" he said. \"I don't have one.\"\n\n\"No TV?\"\n\n\"No TV, no phone.\" He hesitated. \"You probably think that's strange.\"\n\n\"Not at all.\" I glanced up at his face and saw a flicker of something, maybe relief.\n\n\"I'm a bit of a _kawarimono_ , actually,\" he said after a few moments.\n\n\"A what?\"\n\n\" _Kawarimono_. Strange person.\"\n\nI laughed. \"I've always liked strange people,\" I told him. And it was true. I was a sucker for eccentric types. If a man lived in a hut in the wilderness, or refused to vote, or didn't know what a megabyte was, my interest was piqued.\n\nAs we zigzagged through the park I waited for the right moment to ask someone to take our picture. I wanted to get us on paper, to make us official. And when the moment came \u2014 without effort, like everything else that day \u2014 I got into position in front of the water-lilies and Tetsu put his arm around me just as the camera went click, and after that we walked not hand in hand but arm in arm and I was thinking that I wanted this day to go on and on and on, just as it was. Sex could wait. Just having come this far seemed miraculous. Just being close enough that I could feel the warmth seeping out of his body.\n\nThe rain was now stopping, now starting, now stopping again. We sat down at a roof-covered picnic table and took out the sandwiches I'd brought along. He ate with gusto, an egg and a cream cheese and two roast beef. I, on the other hand, had no appetite.\n\n\"Do you like the sandwiches?\" I asked.\n\n\"They're delicious,\" he said without smiling. \"Delicious because you made them.\"\n\nWe left Sankei-en and drove to another parking spot. I had no idea where he was taking me, nor did I much care. He was leading me everywhere, down to Yamashita park and the waterfront, up and down Motomachi street, up a steep hill past the Foreigners' Cemetery where over four thousand gaijin were resting in peace. He was telling me that he'd been quite serious about music as a teenager, that he'd hoped to make it his full-time career. But his father had been adamantly opposed to the whole thing and eventually persuaded him to give it up. Now he was toying with the idea of using conducting as therapy for arm injuries.\n\nWe found ourselves on a deserted strip of land, flanked by a cliff on one side and an old rusted train on the other, frozen in its tracks. \"Whenever I see an old train I think of my uncle in Yamanaka,\" he said. \"He used to tell us stories about the Pacific War, about having to ride on a train for an hour in order to get food for his family.\" Pacific War. It sounded so benign, like a war for flower children. It occurred to me that I ought to tell him I was Jewish, though I couldn't think of any good reason why. Soon, I thought, but not yet.\n\nWalking up another steep hill, we came upon the courtyard of a small shrine, hemmed in by a web of trees. By some silent agreement we stepped in, found a bench and sat down. It was starting to drizzle again. He leaned his umbrella against the bench so that it covered both our heads. I kept my eyes forward, feeling like a virginal schoolgirl all of a sudden, waiting expectantly for the scene to unfold. We sat quietly for awhile and listened to the tapping of the raindrops. Pretty soon I felt his hand around my neck, his fingers massaging the back of my ear.\n\n\"It feels wonderful,\" I murmured.\n\n\"It's a technique I learned in China,\" he said. \"If you ever have trouble going to sleep, repeat this motion \u2014\" he applied pressure and made a circle \" \u2014 one hundred times.\"\n\nI reached up to his ear and tried to copy his movements.\n\n\"Like this?\" I asked.\n\nAll of a sudden his face zoomed in on my own and I felt the pressure of his thick lips against mine. I drew myself up to him, surprised at how familiar it all felt. It surprised me that a Japanese kiss would be no different than a New York kiss or a Vancouver kiss. The warmth, the pressure, the movements were all the same. What was different was that I didn't want it to stop. That I wasn't secretly thinking _you're not my type_ or _I wish you liked Chopin_ or _I cant breathe_.\n\nSlowly I disengaged from him, not wanting him to think me too eager or too experienced. Almost Japanese by now in my awareness of age, I was all too conscious of the four-year gap between us. I wanted him to forget the fine wrinkles around my eyes, forget that I'd been married, touched, kissed by other men. I wanted him to know that none of the others had been real.\n\nWe made our way back to the parking lot, huddled together under his umbrella as we sliced through the drizzle, not saying too much. When we got into the car he didn't start it right away, and we sat tensely for a moment. Then his face rushed in on mine again. There was something odd, after all, about his kissing. He would draw back every few seconds and smile. Kiss and smile, kiss and smile. I'd never seen him smile that way before, with his lips fully parted and teeth showing. He fumbled with the buttons on my blouse, a splashy print I'd bought in Thailand. I closed my eyes and buried my face in his hair. It was a full five minutes before I realized that my breasts were in full view of the passersby.\n\n\"Tetsu,\" I pretended to be shocked, \"everybody can see us.\"\n\n\" _Kimochi ga ii kara, basho to kankei nai_ ,\" he said softly. The feeling is good, so the place doesn't matter. But he pulled away.\n\nI asked him if he was tired, remembering how late he'd been up the previous night.\n\n\"If I thought I was going to be tired today,\" he said, \"I'd have cancelled our date.\" He was still close enough that I could feel his breath tickling my face. \"When I'm with you,\" he continued, \"I want to be with you one hundred percent. I've never liked it when people get together and then complain about being tired. If I'm tired I stay at home and rest.\"\n\nHe wouldn't let me pay my share of the gas, or of the dinner we had on our way back to Tokyo. \"From now on,\" he said, \"let me pay. I don't want to have discussions about who owes who three-hundred-and-fifty yen, do you?\"\n\nI laughed. The only words I'd really heard were _from now on_. So there would be a next time, and a next.\n\n_A waltz in perfect step_ , I wrote in my journal that evening. And I hardly dared believe the words on my answering machine the next day (\"I care about you ...\"), or the way he kissed the picture of us I gave him, calling it his treasure. It was all too much for me. By the end of two weeks I'd lost ten pounds and memorized all of Kevyn Lettau's love songs.\n\nAll this should have happened to me at seventeen. At thirty-four, first love is much more dangerous, like the measles.\n\n### **4**\n\nUneventful though it was, my first day at Shiga International Patent Office was a milestone of sorts: I finally had a _real_ job in Japan, a job that had nothing to do with teaching. I savoured it all \u2014 battling for breathing space in the elevator, punching my time-card, exchanging bows with my new colleagues, wolfing down a plate of _yakisoba_ at a lunch counter, watching half the office rise for the three o'clock calisthenics break, getting acquainted with the NEC and Macintosh computers on my desk, punching out and joining the hordes of commuters headed for Tokyo station. I felt an absurd pride in having finally become a part of the mad scramble, a link in the gears of Tokyo's workaday world. More than ever, I felt I belonged.\n\nThe novelty soon wore off, of course, and by the end of the first week I was already starting to have private gripes. The hardest thing to get used to was having three co-workers' heads within a couple of feet of my own. I couldn't even chew a nail without several people knowing about it. The working area consisted of one large room, with desks arranged in typical Japanese office style: about ten sets of double rows, each one made up of six adjacent desks pushed up against another six. Two, sometimes three personal computers sat atop each desk, along with stacks of documents which occasionally lost their balance and toppled over. In order to clear away a work space on my desk, I had to perch my computer keyboards on their respective monitors and transfer several books and folders to the floor.\n\nReiner, a lapsed physicist from Heidelberg, sat at the desk facing mine. He was taut and muscular, handsome if a bit pallid-looking, and monstrously intelligent. His interests ranged from international politics to mathematics to Thai music to Chinese characters, for which he had an eidetic memory. He took an instant liking to me, possibly because I was, as he put it, \"easy to tease.\" I'd often catch him staring at me with a half-mocking, half-kindly gleam in his eye, and even with my head bent over my papers I could tell when his don t-bite-your-nails look was fixed on me.\n\nReiner made it clear that he wasn't the rules-and-regulations type. He disappeared for stretching breaks several times a day, went for lunch when he felt like it (instead of the standard twelve-thirty to one) and was the only employee who ducked the compulsory Monday afternoon meetings. He would often interrupt my work and challenge me to find the solution to a math problem or a logical paradox.\n\n\"Do you know the one about the three rooms?\" he'd ask innocently, just as I was getting started on a new assignment.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"There are three rooms with closed doors numbered one, two and three. One of the rooms has a red Porsche inside. Let's assume you're trying to maximize your chances of getting that car, OK?\"\n\n\"OK,\" I'd say, all too willing to be distracted from my work.\n\n\"So pick a number.\"\n\n\"Number three.\"\n\n\"Good. I'll keep that door closed for the time being, and open the door to another room that _doesn't_ have the car in it. Now, I'll give you the option of changing your selection to the remaining door, or staying with your original choice. Statistically, which way are you better off?\"\n\n\"It shouldn't make a difference, right? Either way I have a fifty-fifty \u2014\"\n\n\"Aah ...\" he'd cut in with a knowing smile, \"that's one of mathematics' great paradoxes. If you think about it, you'll see that if you change your selection, you have a two-out-of-three chance of getting the car. If you stick with your original selection your odds are only one in three.\"\n\nI hoped this wasn't his way of flirting. Not that he lacked charm, but he _was_ a German, and the timing couldn't have been worse, of course.\n\nMr. Murasaki, our supervisor, didn't seem to have any objections to Reiner's freewheeling style. He would often walk over to Reiner's desk and engage him in an hour-long discourse about some esoteric physics or engineering problem. I suspected that he considered Reiner brilliant and consequently exempt from petty duties like working.\n\nTed, a lapsed chemist, sat to my left, and on my right was Tom, a lapsed doctor. Further down the row of desks sat Hozumi-san, a lapsed geologist who'd lived in Canada for most of his sixty years and was perfectly bilingual. The impish, wise cast of his features made him a favourite among the young female employees. \"He's so cuuute,\" I'd hear them croon. \"He'd make a perfect grandfather, _neh?_ \"\n\nAlmost all of the dozen or so foreign employees were lapsed scientists of one kind or another, which made them a rather interesting bunch. Someone who had the brains and staying power to become a scientist but the imagination to opt out wasn't likely to be dull. Tom, the ex-doctor, wore what was left of his hair down to his shoulders, jeans that looked like something the cat dragged in, and a baseball cap with a long blond ponytail pinned to the back \u2014 presumably to make up for what nature had taken away from him.\n\nBirgit was a young Biology major from Sweden who showed up in halter tops and shorts that barely covered her ass and a look of studied innocence, as though it had never occurred to her that such garb might be inappropriate. I was frankly surprised that Mr. Murasaki never raised any objections to her or Tom's sartorial choices, or to the fact that the foreign employees spent a good portion of each day in idle chitchat. Evidently, he believed that gaijin functioned better if they were allowed complete freedom in dress and work habits.\n\nI was given a number of books and articles on international patent law. After two weeks of reading, I was considered knowledgeable enough to begin working as a patent editor, a specialized career that might take several years of study in Canada or the States. \"Fix up this patent application,\" Mr. Murasaki would tell me, handing me a document about a new method for treating fertilizer or controlling the lubrication of car parts. \"The claims are too broad. You need to make them more specific, otherwise the application will be rejected again. Also, see if you can improve on the logical flow of the information.\" I would spend the next few hours poring over the document, trying to make sense of the mishmash of technical language, graphs, equations and legalese. When I'd reached a peak of frustration, I'd look up from my work and find Reiner baiting me with his mirthful stare. I'd have no choice but to ask him to explain the document to me, which he usually did in short order. As a reward, I would allow him to steer me into a lengthy discussion about prime numbers or Thai rock groups.\n\nOddly enough, Mr. Murasaki seemed perfectly satisfied with this state of affairs. I felt guilty every time he told me what a valuable employee I was, and guiltier still when I received my absurdly generous paycheque every two weeks. As far as I could see, the only real value I had to the company was my ability to write letters in French, since Shiga did business with several patent agencies in France and Switzerland. I lived in fear of the day when Mr. Murasaki would finally realize that I was clearly in over my head with this job.\n\nEvery Monday at one o'clock in the afternoon there was a general staff meeting, which only Reiner had the nerve not to attend. A stand-up microphone was brought out and placed in the middle of the large room. At a prompt from the P.A. system, everybody got up and stood at attention beside their desks. The president of the company walked up to the microphone and said a few words about new policies, changes in patent law or upcoming company events. Following this, two or three of the employees, who'd been designated in advance, took turns providing us with \"instructive or amusing anecdotes.\" The president then announced that the meeting was over, there was a round of applause, and everybody sat down to resume the business of being or looking busy.\n\nKeiko was a shy young woman who worked as a translator and administrative assistant. When she learned that it was her turn to speak the following Monday, she worried herself sick for the rest of the week. On the fateful day, she came to the office looking miserable. We were all rooting for her when she walked up to the microphone, eyes glued to the ground.\n\n\"I'm going to talk about an experience I had last year,\" she said in that forthright, determined way of the very shy when under duress. \"As some of you know, I'm still not married.\" She took a deep breath. \"Well, last year one of my friends suggested that I enrol in dance classes as a way of meeting eligible bachelors. Why not, I thought. I registered for a ballroom dancing class at the school my friend had recommended. On the first evening of instruction, I found myself surrounded by people who looked like they were in their sixties and seventies. Don't worry, I told myself, the younger folks are probably rushing over from work, so they'll be a little late. But ten minutes into the lesson, I knew I was in trouble. The youngest of the other participants was about thirty years older than me.\" Several people chuckled, and Keiko seemed to relax a little.\n\n\"The last thing I'd expected was to be doing the polka with senior citizens. To tell the truth, I didn't find the lessons very enjoyable, and there were a lot of Tuesday evenings when I'd have preferred to stay at home with a book. Under the circumstances, though, I had no choice but to stick it out for the rest of the year. So, the point of my story is that it's worth your while to do some thorough research before acting on the advice of a friend.\"\n\nAfter the meeting was over, I walked over to Hozumi-san's desk and pulled up a chair beside his. \"I don't understand,\" I told him.\n\n\"What? You mean Keiko's story?\"\n\n\"Yes. I don't see why she felt compelled to waste a year of Tuesday evenings taking lessons she didn't enjoy. Why didn't she simply quit, when it became obvious to her that she wasn't going to find what she was looking for?\"\n\n\"It's a matter of saving face,\" Hozumi-san said instantly.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" Ten months in Japan and I still didn't get it.\n\n\"Think about it for a minute,\" he said, as though quizzing a child. \"Who recommended the dance school to Keiko?\"\n\n\"A friend of hers.\"\n\n\"That's right. So if she quit partway through, her friend would feel terrible.\"\n\n\"But her friend had no way of knowing that only senior citizens would sign up.\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter,\" he said. \"She would still feel responsible, and the friendship would be strained. So Keiko decided it was better to save her friend's face and pretend that all was going well.\"\n\n\"I still say it's a waste of time,\" I countered. Hozumi-san simply shrugged his shoulders and gave me one of his grandfatherly smiles.\n\n### **5**\n\nA commonplace truth about being in love is that physical imperfections and even character flaws become part of the loved one's appeal. If that was indeed a sign of love, then it was not only Tetsu but Tokyo itself I'd lost my heart to. No longer eyesores, the clusters of vending machines at every street corner looked bright and cheerful through my rose-tinted lenses. While I'd initially regarded them as products of the convenience mentality, I came to see them as blessedly convenient. There was a set of vending machines at the beginning of my street, and on my way home I would sometimes stop to buy a can of _aisu kohii_ , thanking the Japanese for having anticipated my thirst and placed this colourful oasis in my path. A few steps further on Shin Midori street was another machine that dispensed cold sake and beer. When the spirit(s) moved me I walked over and bought myself a glass or two of sake. Then I would go home, turn on the air conditioner (which cooled down my tiny room in two minutes flat), sprawl out on my sofa and take slow sips of the drink, listening to Kevyn Lettau's songs and letting my fantasies swirl around me like curls of smoke.\n\nAt five o'clock every morning I was wide awake, bursting to give expression to my elation. I would jump out of bed and go for a walk, exulting in the perfection of my surroundings: asphalt gleaming as though a hundred dogs had licked it clean overnight, compact houses with obsessively well-tended hedges, spanking new apartment buildings called Luna or Milky Way, the streets empty except for a few insomniac _obaasan_ , they too perfect in their tidy walk and softly creased faces. Sometimes they even smiled back at me.\n\nAbout once a week, usually in the afternoon, the paper-waste exchange truck drove through the neighbourhood, stopping at every intersection. Since I was often at home during the day, I had the pleasure of hearing the driver's repeated exhortations, amplified through his megaphone:\n\n\"Once again I am humbly grateful to serve you. Should any member of your esteemed family be in possession of paper items that have outlived their usefulness and turned into garbage, such as old newspapers, magazines or cardboard boxes, in quantities large or small, kindly allow me to exchange them for toilet paper or facial tissues according to your preference.\"\n\nTokyo was my lover now, so even its crowds, its goofy after-eight salarymen, silly with liquor, its pomp and circumstance about toilet paper, were part of its allure. Tokyo and Tetsu were becoming inseparable in my mind \u2014 one was weaving into the other and both were taking root in the subterranean layers of my fantasies.\n\nSuperstitions began to crop up in my behaviour. If I knocked on wood nine times before calling him, it would be a good conversation. If I burned the clipped ends of my toenails (like my mother used to do), our romance would continue to burn brightly. If I was meticulous about sorting the garbage properly, I might be entitled to stay in Japan (with him).\n\nI was still teaching about four hours a week, and during one of those classes I brought up the topic of superstition. I asked the students to break up into small groups, discuss Japanese superstitions among themselves and designate group leaders who would report their findings to the class.\n\nMost of the superstitions, I learned, revolved around death. When passing a _kichuu_ (In Mourning) sign, closing the fingers of your hand around the thumb was a way of protecting your parents from death. It was bad luck if you were summoned to a dying person's house and your shoelaces came undone on the way there. You were also supposed to avoid cutting your nails at night, because the words for night and nail put together sounded like a word that meant evening burial. Seeing a funeral car, on the other hand, was good luck. A student from Aomori Prefecture told of a local belief that if a crow circled a sick persons house three times, that person was going to die. Another student said something that made my heart miss a beat. She'd read about it in the newspaper, a warning to couples that if their first date was in Inokashira park, they'd eventually split up. Not only was my first date with Tetsu in Inokashira park, I thought anxiously, but we ended up there almost every time we met.\n\n\"I find that hard to believe,\" I said to her, trying to conceal my personal stake in the matter. \"Lots of couples go to Inokashira park on their first date, and surely they're not all going to break up.\"\n\n\"But it's true,\" she insisted. \"If first time dating in that park, is bad luck. Newspaper say it, even they do survey.\"\n\nThis is ridiculous, I told myself, you don't believe in that sort of nonsense. Nevertheless, I felt vaguely uneasy for the rest of the day.\n\nTetsu and I found ourselves in Inokashira park again that weekend, engaging in a long round of kisses. Kiss and smile, kiss and smile.\n\n\"Shall we go to your place?\" he mumbled in between kisses. I hadn't expected the question to pop up so soon. He'd always given me the impression of being in no hurry and I was reluctant, almost, to put an end to the suspense.\n\n\"I'm not sure, Tetsu,\" I muttered.\n\n\"You don't trust me?\"\n\n\"It's not that, but ...\" What I feared was some unwanted piece of reality breaking through my web of fantasies. The child in me wanted things to stay just as they were, on the brink of consummation, the hope and doubt in perfect balance. But I also wanted Tetsu.\n\n\"OK,\" I said finally, \"let's go. But promise me you won't leave quickly.\"\n\nAnd as we stepped into my apartment, as he took me into his arms, removed my clothes and then his own, kissed me all over and reached down between my legs, I was surprised again by how international it was, the way a man touched a woman. Somehow I'd imagined that a country whose school-children bowed to their teachers every morning, a country whose trains always rolled in on time and whose lovers held their trysts in hotel-rooms with Lone Ranger or Mickey Mouse themes, that such a country would have produced a different kind of lovemaking.\n\n\"Tonight is for you,\" he declared, pinning my arms above my head and saying _ikenai_ when I tried to wriggle free. It was absurdly erotic to me, being made love to in Japanese. He covered me with kisses, holding me down so I couldn't move and making my body sing with pleasure. But he wouldn't let me reciprocate. \"No rules,\" he said. \"Remember?\" He wasn't the least bit shy about touching me, but when I tried to move my hand along the inside of his thigh, he pleaded shyness and gently pushed my hand away. \"Tonight is your night,\" he kept saying. A flicker of worry went through my head. Why didn't he feel any urgency?\n\nHe gave me an elaborate face massage \u2014 a technique he'd learned in China, he said \u2014 then insisted on doing the rest of me. \"You have a lovely body,\" he told me. But his was the beautiful one. I was surprised at his hairiness (having been under the impression that all Japanese men came hairless), his thick legs and torso. He was bulky enough to make me feel delicate, which was no small feat. \"I think I'll call you Grizzly,\" I told him, afraid to ask why he insisted on giving everything and taking nothing.\n\nWe lay on the bed as the pre-dawn light filtered through the sliding door, his unmoving face in the crook of my arm.\n\n\"What are you thinking about?\"\n\n\"I'm thinking about today's happiness,\" he said quietly, \"and the next happiness.\"\n\nThe word \"next\" caught in my ear and I held my breath. Was it possible that he wanted the same thing I wanted? Did he lie in bed, as I did, imagining our future together? As always, his words were full of promise but left me guessing.\n\nA few days later, on one of my early morning walks, I came upon a large sign inscribed with the words \"Selfish Restaurant\" in bold cursive lettering. I chuckled to myself, wondering if the sign was meant to describe the customers or the staff. Peering inside through the restaurant's window, I saw Selfish menus, Selfish paper napkins and Selfish matchbooks. Then, taking a closer look at the sign, I noticed the characters for _kairyori_ , the Japanese word for shellfish. On my way home I passed the grounds of a small _jinja_ , and on impulse turned back and went in. There was a hut-like structure at the foot of the shrine, four pillars and a tiled roof from which hung a bell with a pullstring. I stood in front of the hut and prayed that Tetsu would be more selfish the next time. I prayed that Tokyo and Tetsu would continue to romance me and that I would do nothing to disappoint them.\n\n### **6**\n\nThere is Jewish hospitality, all warmth and informality and inducements to eat. (Hev enudda matzoh-ball \u2014 what, yuh dieting? Yuh skin and bones, fuh heaven's sake.) There is Italian hospitality, much the same as the Jewish variety except for the types of foods being offered. The French will ply you with wine and sparkling conversation. Spanish hospitality might include a singalong around an acoustic guitar. But Japanese hospitality is a breed apart. When the Japanese put their mind to playing host, you will come away feeling awestruck and just a little uneasy, as if you owe them favours well into your next incarnation.\n\nHitomi had given me a taste of it with her minutely orchestrated dinners, but it wasn't until I spent a full weekend in a Japanese home that I understood just how serious this business of hospitality could be in Japan. It wasn't so much that pleasing a guest was a pleasure, but that _not_ pleasing one was a shameful disgrace, to be avoided at all costs.\n\nNaomi, the thirty-six-year-old Japanese teacher I'd first met at Miki's sukiyaki party, had become a friend of mine in her own right, and we often met in Shinjuku for a stolen hour of lunchtime chitchat. For several weeks she'd been toying with the idea of having me come and spend a weekend at her parents' _besso_ , or summer cottage, in the mountainous Chichibu district west of Tokyo.\n\nIn a society where the difficulty of owning even one home is matched by the unanimous longing for one, having a second home put the Saito family in a much-envied social stratum. I was curious to see how cottage life unfolded in rural Japan, so when Naomi's invitation took concrete shape at the beginning of July, I eagerly accepted.\n\n\"I afraid you think it's boring,\" she told me as we rode the westbound express train. \"This weekend only my mother and aunt over there. They're, uh, how you say ... chatterboxes, right? _O-shaberi_. Typical Japanese women. My mother is Yoshiko and my aunt is Toshiko. Confusing, _neh?_\n\nThe cottage was located in a small town called Ogose, in the foothills of the Chichibu mountains. The two women met us at the train station, almost falling over at the sight of me, and drove us to the house. Though they didn't \u2014 much to their credit \u2014 say a word about my height, they were clearly beside themselves with excitement. It wasn't often that an elongated _hakujin_ woman appeared at their doorstep, and a Japanese-speaking one at that.\n\nThe cottage was half-hidden by a profusion of disheveled greenery \u2014 trees, shrubs, bushes of all sizes, and overgrown grass. Its wooden exterior walls were faded to a dull grayish-brown and didn't seem quite vertical, though it was hard to pinpoint where they slanted. The inside was just like the outside \u2014 disorderly and homey. Too many lamps, too many slightly crooked pictures on the wood-panelled walls, too many knickknacks, a gilded miniature shrine recessed into one wall, and a blaring TV that nobody seemed to be watching, added up to a welcoming whole. This was clearly a place where one didn't have to worry about sneezing or unfluffing the sofa cushions.\n\n\"It's not fancy here, but I hope you'll feel comfortable,\" Yoshiko blustered, ushering me toward the TV and handing me a remote control device. \"I'm afraid you'll be bored here.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" I said as I installed myself on the large square cushion she was pointing at.\n\n\"You can watch anything you like,\" she told me. She yanked the remote from my hands. \"Here, I'll show you. There's channel eight, from Tokyo. Oh look, there's a talk show. Do you like talk shows? And channel ten is from Osaka \u2014\"\n\n\"Mother, stop!\" Naomi said impatiently. \"You didn't even ask her if she _wants_ to watch TV.\"\n\nYoshiko turned to me in sudden concern. \"Do you want to watch TV?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"You see, she does. Here, take this, and choose whichever channel you like.\"\n\nObediently, I took the remote and started flipping. I had no idea what my next move ought to be, what was expected of me as a good guest. I finally settled on the talk-show and started watching intently under Yoshiko and Toshiko's anxious gazes.\n\n\"Can you understand what they're saying?\" Yoshiko asked, then grabbed the remote from my hands again. \"Here, let me show you. Oh look, a program about animals. Maybe you'd prefer to watch this. What do you think?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"How do you know she likes animals?\" Toshiko asked.\n\nYoshiko shot me another worried look. \"Are you enjoying the show?\"\n\nAnd so it went, until Naomi announced in forceful tones that she was going to take me on a bicycle tour of the area. We departed in a hurry, urged on by the two sisters' cries of \"Show her the temple!\", \"Show her the statue on the hill!\", \"Show her the pond, you know the one I mean?\"\n\nRural Japan always cast an eerie spell on me. If I were the New Age type, I would conclude that I must have lived one of my past lives in Japan, because there was an undeniable sense of connection, of belonging, every time I found myself passing through the Japanese countryside. The most obvious reminder of my foreignness, as we pedalled through the rolling foothills, was that the bicycle Naomi had lent me (\"Adult model,\" she'd assured me) was about the same size as the one I'd received for my eighth birthday.\n\nBack at the cottage, the air was alive with the sizzle of oil and the intoxicating smells of frying tempura \u2014 eggplant, squash, green peppers, onions, and even apples, which Yoshiko explained was a local custom. While we ate the tempura, washing down the food with home-made plum wine, Yoshiko ran the hot water in the large wood-panelled bathtub. She insisted that I be the first to take the evening bath after dinner, matching my protests (\"No, no, _you_ should go first\") with more forceful counter-protests (\"Out of the question \u2014 it wouldn't be right if we made our guest wait\") and handing me a blue-and-white checkered _yukata_ as she shooed me in.\n\nAfter a half-hour soak in the deep square tub, sleep came easily. And when I told Yoshiko, the next morning, how comfortably I'd slept in the _yukata_ , she insisted I keep it as a souvenir. Amid my feeble protests, she snatched the garment from my hands, ran up the stairs to my bedroom and laid it on top of my suitcase. It wasn't every day that she had the honour of playing host to a Canadian, she told me on her way back down the stairs, as though that explained everything.\n\nFortified with a breakfast of ham, eggs, toast and jam, salad, potato-salad, mixed fruit salad and ice cream, we piled into Yoshiko's hatchback and went on our way, the two sisters arguing about where to take me first.\n\n\"My relatives talk too much, don't you think?\" Naomi told me _sotto voce_ as we cruised along.\n\nIt was true that the two sisters never stopped talking. Every cottage we passed, every farmhouse or stream, set their jaws in motion. But possibly because they were speaking Japanese, and because they weren't _my_ relatives, I found their small talk charming rather than irritating.\n\nOur first stop was a _wasshi_ paper-making factory, where we were shown how the translucent, coarsely textured paper was stained and hung out to dry. The last room in the mom-and-pop operation was a boutique, where finished products such as _wasshi_ -bound notebooks and _wasshi_ hairpins were displayed and sold.\n\n\"Nice, isn't it?\" I said to Naomi as I fingered a delicate pink hairpin rimmed with gold metal wiring. The next thing I knew, the pin was wrapped, paid for and in my hands (\"Just a little gift to show how much we appreciate your visit\"), courtesy of Yoshiko and Toshiko, who once again were arguing about what sights to show me next.\n\nThat was pretty much the way the rest of the day went \u2014 the two ladies inundating me with food, gifts and compliments, and I trying to find an artful way to deflect their generosity without hurting their feelings. The opportunity came when we stopped for lunch in a cozy restaurant high up in the Chichibu mountains, where customers could observe the making of fresh _udon_ noodles. While the other three women were in the bathroom, I surreptitiously paid the bill, then dragged them out of the restaurant before they had a chance to protest, feeling smart for having finally outwitted them.\n\nWe spent the afternoon at the roof-covered outdoor market in Chichibu City, the largest town in the area. As we strolled through the maze of tiny kiosks where vendors were displaying their wares \u2014 clothes, jewellery, packaged foods and gift items such as plastic turtles that gurgled when squeezed \u2014 the delicate pink of a woven scarf caught my eye.\n\nSpotting me as I touched the scarf, Yoshiko rushed to my side. \"Do you like it?\" she asked.\n\n\"It's pretty, isn't it? The colour reminds me of cherry blossoms.\"\n\nI should have known better. No sooner had I turned around than the scarf was in my hands, wrapped in clear plastic and a pink bow.\n\n\"Yoshiko-san!\" I said, trying to sound stern. \"You're spoiling me too much. You don't have to \u2014\"\n\n\"But you _said_ you liked it,\" she retorted, with the logic of a born giver.\n\nA little farther along, I ran my hand along the surface of a brightly coloured futon pillow.\n\n\"It's nice, isn't it?\" Yoshiko asked as she walked by.\n\nThis time I only nodded, but the result was the same \u2014 Yoshiko waited until my head was turned, scurried off to the cashier with the pillow in hand, then presented it to me as a _fait accompli_.\n\nEventually I figured out what I had to do. For the rest of the afternoon, the conversation between Yoshiko and me went something like this:\n\n\"Do you like this T-shirt?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But don't you \u2014\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"How about these earrings?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nIt was only by being downright rude, I discovered, that I could prevent her from making a gift out of every item I happened to touch or look at.\n\nAll too soon it was time to return to Tokyo. After a quick supper of grilled eel on rice, we drove to the Ogose train station where we bowed our goodbyes to each other. Unable to resist, I gave both women a big Western hug. They giggled nervously but looked quite pleased.\n\n\"Wait!\" Yoshiko called out as I turned toward the approaching train. She walked up to me and handed me a small envelope. \"Don't open it until you get home,\" she instructed. \"Promise?\"\n\nAs soon as I stepped into my apartment that evening, I opened the envelope and pulled out four crisp \u00a51,000 bills along with a carefully handwritten note in English: _We ashamed to let our guest pay for udon lunch, so please accept this money. Love, Yoshiko_.\n\nOnce again, the foxy lady had beat me at the game of giving.\n\n### **7**\n\nIn a romance between two people of different cultures, there is always the suspicion that the culture gap is the binding glue. I sometimes wondered if Tetsu was in love with me or with or the novelty of whispering endearments in English, the status of having a gaijin woman on his arm, the thrill of kissing in public, just as they did in the movies. I wondered if it was me or the language he was courting. \"Damn it,\" he would say when he stubbed his toe or popped a shirt-button, with the satisfied look of a child who'd just learned to tie his shoelaces. I saw the earnestness of his efforts to sound like an American (\"I forgatt to tell ya ...\"), the pleasure he took in using expressions like \"pain in the neck\" or \"gut feeling\" or \"gimme a break.\" His years of listening to F.E.N. radio were finally paying off.\n\nFor my part, I couldn't deny that being romanced in Japanese had a unique appeal. As much as Tetsu liked saying Wish I could see you tonight, I thrilled to hear him say _Aenakute samishii naaah_. And there was something uniquely Japanese, it seemed to me, in the way he used words \u2014 sparingly, suggestively, to evoke rather than explain. \"Let's spend a day in Izu sometime,\" I learned, meant \"I'm sorry for showing up late tonight.\" He never told me he was tired or under stress, only that the weather was strange. The straightforward, tell-all style of my previous lovers seemed crude by comparison.\n\nThe rainy season was now in full swing, and it wasn't nearly as oppressive as the locals had led me to believe. The days were light grey, drizzly and windless, sometimes brightening up for a few hours \u2014 nothing at all like the brooding skies that hung over Toronto throughout the month of November. From my window at Shiga, I would look down at the umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalk in an continuous stream, so close together they sometimes overlapped, and feel a surge of affection for the city.\n\n\"How long does the rainy season last?\" I asked the old grouch in the stationery store on Shin-Midori street.\n\n\"It ends on July twentieth.\"\n\n\"How can you know the exact date?\"\n\n\" _Tsuyu_ is from June tenth to July twentieth,\" he said flatly.\n\n\"You mean to tell me it stops raining on the same date every year?\"\n\n\" _Tsuyu_ is _tsuyu_ ,\" he grumbled as he gave me my change.\n\nOne Saturday in late June, I invited Tetsu to my apartment for a home-cooked meal. It was one of those _tsuyu_ days that I loved \u2014 pearly sky, and a drizzle so fine that you had to put your ear against a leaf to be sure it was raining. I'd opened the sliding door so that Tetsu and I could watch the sky grow dark while we ate.\n\nWith my little table in the centre of the room, there was barely enough space between my sofa-bed and the far wall for us to sit comfortably. I watched anxiously as he tasted the pseudo-Chinese dishes I'd prepared \u2014 broccoli beef, ginger chicken, vegetable-fried rice. I had briefly considered making a Japanese meal but gave up the idea after Hitomi told me a few recipes, which sounded impossibly complicated.\n\n\" _Oishii_ ,\" he told me as he looked up from his plate.\n\nI wanted badly for him to like the food. I wanted him to think _hmmmm, I could get used to this_.\n\nA few days earlier, I'd asked Hitomi if she thought the four-year gap in our ages would make Tetsu less likely to regard me as a potential wife. \"It's true,\" she'd told me in her tactful way, \"that some Japanese men don't want to get serious about a woman over thirty. But if he already likes you ...\" A few years back, she said, two baseball superstars had made headlines by marrying older women \u2014 one five and the other ten years older \u2014 and as a result, attitudes toward women in their thirties were starting to change. \"It's case-by-case, I think.\"\n\nThe rain was coming down harder now, and the rooftops of the neighbouring houses were glinting dully in the fading light.\n\n\"Is it true that the rainy season always ends on July twentieth?\" I asked Tetsu.\n\n\"I think it's gonna end a little later this year.\"\n\n\"What makes you say that?\"\n\n\"You're a rain-woman, remember?\"\n\nEver since our trip to Yokohama, he'd taken to blaming me for all the rain that fell over Tokyo.\n\n\"At least you're not playing golf tomorrow,\" I said.\n\n\"I was supposed to,\" he deadpanned. \"I cancelled it because I knew you'd bring the rain.\"\n\nI kicked his foot under the table. \"What is it you like so much about golf, anyway? I mean, is it really worth thirty-thousand yen to chase after a little white ball for a few hours?\"\n\n\"You're not gonna believe me if I tell you.\"\n\n\"Tell me anyway.\"\n\n\"I know it sounds strange,\" he said, \"but I think of golf as a kind of personality test. I've noticed that when people play golf, their true character shows through.\"\n\n\"In what way?\"\n\nHe cleared his throat. \"Nervous people, for instance, can pretend to be cool and calm \u2014 they can hide their real temperament. In most situations, they can get away with it. But when they play golf, excitable types end up showing their frustration.\"\n\nIt occurred to me that I'd never heard him raise his voice, not even in jest or excitement.\n\n\"And which type are you, Tetsu? I can't imagine you'd ever lose your cool on a golf course.\"\n\nHis eyes grew serious. \"I try not to,\" he said. \"At the very least, I try not to let it show if I do.\" He was looking at me intently as he spoke.\n\n\"Do you never get angry or impatient?\"\n\n\"Somebody once told me that it's better to keep one's anger inside,\" he said in that quietly urgent tone he sometimes used. \"It was someone I respected, so his words made an impression on me.\"\n\nWe ate in silence for a few moments, then he looked up from his plate again.\n\n\"I'd like to take you golfing sometime,\" he said.\n\nJust then there was a knock on my door. I got up to open it, wondering who on earth would be visiting me so late on a rainy Saturday night. It was Sugako, my next-door neighbour. Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of Tetsu.\n\n\"Oh, sorry, sorry,\" she stammered. \"I didn't know you have friend here. Sorry, I didn't hear. I came bad time.\" Her face turned four shades of red. \" _Sumimasen_ , I come back later. I just wanted to give back English book you borrow, ah, lend me. I'm so sorry. Here, take book. Sorry I interrupt.\"\n\nShe gave a quick bow and hurried away before I could introduce her to Tetsu. And now it was my turn to blush as I saw Tetsu's eyes fall on the book I was holding, an English translation of Yoshiko Ariyoshi's _The Doctor's Wife_.\n\n\"So how's your English reading coming along?\" I asked quickly. \"Do you still read the Japan Times in the afternoon?\"\n\n\"Nope,\" he said. \"I've been too busy these days. Right now I'm reading a medical book called _Nihonjin no Hon\u00e8_. Japanese Bones, I guess.\"\n\n\"Japanese Bones?\" I started to laugh. \"You're the only person I know who would read a book called Japanese Bones.\" I reached over and put my hands around his neck. \"Can I read it too, Tetsu? I'd _love_ to read Japanese Bones.\"\n\nIn answer, he got up from his chair, picked me up by the waist and carried me the yard's distance to the bed. He made growling noises as we undressed each other. \"I'm a grizzly bear, remember?\" he said, pretending to bite off my fingers, ears and nose. \"A Japanese grizzly bear.\" All at once he grabbed me by the arms and turned me over on my stomach. \"Doggie-style,\" he said as he rubbed himself against me, almost causing me to laugh. And then he turned me over again, sank his teeth into my neck and sucked hard. \"Say something in Japanese,\" I told him as I slid my hand up his leg.\n\n\" _Dam\u00e8_ ,\" he said tersely. \" _Sawaru na_.\" He pushed my hand away.\n\n\"Why, Tetsu? Why won't you let me touch you?\"\n\n\"'Cause I'm a big bear,\" he said, \"and I'm attacking you.\"\n\nHe spread my legs apart and held them down at the knees, making growling noises all the while. Again I tried to touch him, and again he moved my hand aside.\n\n\"I'm a big, dangerous bear,\" he said in Japanese.\n\nI forced a laugh, but inside I was starting to feel anxious. Something was wrong here, though I wasn't sure what. Was he simply nervous, or tired? Or was a sturdy, broad-shouldered gaijin woman too great a departure from the pint-sized Sumikos he'd slept with in the past?\n\nAll at once he stopped growling and rolled over to my side. He stared up at the ceiling, his features locked in an unreadable expression. I put my head on his shoulder and watched the hairs on his chest as they rose and fell softly.\n\n\"Tetsu,\" I said after a while. \"Is anything the matter?\"\n\nHe didn't answer.\n\n\"Is there anything you're afraid of?\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"Like diseases, or getting me pregnant ...\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"I trust you.\" He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he spoke. \"I don't wanna have a child right now, though. I wanna have one in March, so it will be born in December.\"\n\nI could hardly believe my ears. \"Why December?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said vaguely. \"I just think it's good luck, that's all.\"\n\nWe lay in silence for a while, side by side under my thin quilt. So he wants a child in March, I thought in amazement. But which March? And with whom?\n\nAfter a few minutes I felt his fingers tracing circles around my nipples. I let my hand trail softly down his chest, and this time he didn't push it away. Suddenly, as if making a decision of some kind, he climbed on top of me and entered me quickly. Pinned down by his bulk, I watched his face grow strained on top of mine. And then his eyes rolled upward and his body caved in, and I felt a gush of warmth between my legs, and I marvelled at the newness of it all, the flood of tenderness toward another human being, the rock-hard knowledge that I would never leave him.\n\nEarly the next morning, he shook me awake and told me he had to go.\n\n\"Where?\" I asked groggily.\n\n\"To my meeting. Remember?\"\n\nI watched him as he got into his clothes, wondering if other Japanese men rationed their free time so stingily. I wished that just once, he would say _to hell with the meeting, I wanna spend the day in bed and fuck you doggie-style until you're blue in the face_.\n\n\"What's that?\" I asked him. He'd taken something shiny out of his pants-pocket and was about to put it back in.\n\n\"My key-ring.\"\n\n\"Can I see it?\"\n\nI took the ring into my hands and stared at it in astonishment. It was about four inches in diameter, and there were at least fifty, maybe a hundred keys on it. I wondered why I'd never noticed it before.\n\n\"Tetsu,\" I said, \"what on earth do you have so many keys for?\"\n\nHe let the question hang. Again I felt it, the reluctance to probe any further, and find out ... what?\n\nAfter he left, the questions lingered in my mind. I stood in front of the sliding door and looked out at the rainwater trickling down the glistening rooftops. No rules, he'd said, yet there seemed to be a lot of them. We could never see each other on weeknights, or make plans in advance, or spend a leisurely weekend together. And we were not to discuss his work. Our encounters were like the notes in a _shakuhachi_ piece, tense and full of promise, then fading back into silence.\n\n### **8**\n\nTokyo sense.\n\nThe phrase popped into my head on the way back from a Sunday stroll through Yoyogi park. I'd brought my camera along, something I hadn't done in months, and clicked away at the gyrating members of the Rude Crash rock band and the teenaged girls bobbing up and down around them, at a self-styled poet giving an impassioned reading while shaking his fist skyward, at the giant hoop earrings and sequined vests being hawked by enterprising Israelis, finally stopping to rest on a bench where I segued into a conversation with a man from Iran whose nose resembled a dromedary's back.\n\nJust two days after arriving in Tokyo, the Iranian told me, he'd walked into a Roppongi discotheque and caught the eye of a young Caucasian woman who'd been born and raised in Japan. She became his girlfriend. Through her various contacts she managed to find him a room in the house of a wealthy proprietor. The rent was only \u00a520,000, and he had access to the whole house when the owner was away, which was almost every weekend.\n\nThree months later, he still had the room but no longer the woman. \"I found another one,\" he admitted. \"It's more serious this time. Unfortunately, her father is having a hard time getting used to me. But he will,\" he added confidently. With the help of this girlfriend, he'd managed to get a successful import business going in just a couple of years.\n\n\"What about language?\" I asked. \"Wasn't it a problem when you were starting up your business?\"\n\nHe grinned. \"I chose girlfriends who taught me good Japanese.\"\n\nAmong the thousands of gaijin who poured into Tokyo, there were only a small number who had this sort of nose for it. Like rats in sewers, they knew how to squeeze the most nourishment out of the city, how to make it work to their advantage. They found the cushiest jobs, the best housing deals, the women who would give them not only their bodies but their connections.\n\nAt the other extreme were people like Vivian, my supervisor at INTEC. Though she professed to love Tokyo, she clearly didn't know how to make the city love her back. She worked like a dog but got neither praise nor promotions. In four years, she hadn't managed to learn more than a handful of Japanese words and hadn't made any real friends, either Japanese or gaijin. I cringed in embarrassment when she gushed on about how this or that colleague, ten years her junior, appeared to have a crush on her. The truth (drunkenly confessed to me over lemongrass shrimp one evening) was that she hadn't been touched by a man in all the time she'd been in Japan, discounting a _chikan_ who'd assaulted her on her way home from work late one night.\n\nI ran into her one afternoon, while window-shopping along Sakurada street with Hitomi and Yoko. She'd been walking with her head bent forward, and lifted it just in time to avoid crashing into me. There was something wild and hollow about the look in her eyes as she stood before us, all aflame in magenta and orange, dollops of pink lipstick staining her large front teeth. Hitomi and Yoko cast their eyes downward at the sight of her, and I too felt embarrassed, uncomfortable.\n\nEqually lacking in Tokyo sense was Gordon, an older teacher who taught a class at SECOM on the same evening as I did. In the course of our weekly walks from the SECOM building to the bus stop, I managed to piece together _the_ story of his life in Tokyo, which consisted of one mishap after another. Following the usual pattern for gaijin planning to work in Japan, he arrived without a working visa, quickly found an English school that was willing to sponsor him, then flew out to Hong Kong in order to receive his visa from outside the country. On his third day at the Hong Kong YMCA, his wallet was stolen from under his bed. It contained all the cash he had brought with him, about $3,000. Back in Tokyo, he \"lucked into\" a arrangement whereby he got reduced rent in exchange for ten hours a week of English instruction to the landlord. The trouble was, the apartment was a two-hour commute from downtown Tokyo, where he taught during the day. The result was that his entire day was spent in a train or in a classroom.\n\nWith a touch of smugness, I compared his situation to my own. The longest I ever had to commute to get to a job was half an hour, and my working hours left me large blocks of free time every day. I had kindly landlords, a steadily ringing phone, a growing circle of friends. On a deeper level, I felt that Tokyo had touched me, had changed me, in a way it hadn't touched Vivian or Gordon. I sometimes caught myself bowing on the telephone, or jerking my head in that bird-like way characteristic of Japanese women, or deflecting praise with a formulaic expression (\"No, no, far from it, my Japanese is very poor\"), all without conscious intent. People no longer stared at me on the train, the way they used to when I first arrived. Even Tom Koyama, who believed that adult personalities were set in stone, remarked that I seemed to be getting softer around the edges, more circumspect, more patient.\n\nAnother thing I was smug about was getting INTEC to sponsor me for a visa extension, even though I worked for them only two or three hours a week instead of the official requirement of twenty. My application was accepted, which meant I was entitled to stay in Tokyo for another full year after the anniversary of my arrival.\n\nMy weekly income was larger than ever, thanks in part to a \"Music and English\" program I'd put together for a group of twelve housewives eager to learn Western pop-songs. Nobue, the only one among them who had a piano, offered to host our sessions at her apartment, which was barely large enough for the thirteen of us to fit inside. After half an hour of diction and vocalization drills, I would sit down at the piano and accompany the ladies while they produced timid, wobbly renditions of the old war-horses they loved \u2014 Moon River, Feelings, My Way. I tried to challenge them with more lively numbers like The Girl From Ipanema, but the women proved incapable of hitting the off-beats. They breathed a collective sigh of relief when I gave up on Ipanema and started them on Somewhere Over The Rainbow.\n\nTo top it all off, of course, there was Tetsu. He rounded out a life that would have been vibrant and full even without him, made it shine like a polished pearl. I alternated between gratitude and pride, between thinking of him as a gift and an accomplishment. Unable to restrain myself, I sang his praises in long wordy letters to my brother, rhapsodizing about his refinement, his subtlety, his wisdom.\n\n\"Is it serious?\" David asked.\n\nI honestly didn't know. On the telephone, we carried on about how much we missed each other, as though we were separated by miles and mountains. But we only saw each other one night a week \u2014 this was an unspoken rule between us \u2014 either on Saturday or Sunday. On weeknights I had to make do with a quick phone call, or one of his whimsical offerings on my answering machine. I never questioned this state of affairs, never pressed for more time together, sensing that if I ever put him in a position where he felt he had to choose between me and his work, he would have no hesitation about ending our relationship. His work stood between us like a sacred cow, never talked about but always there, always blocking the way.\n\nI was hungry for information about his past. It wasn't the unusual but the ordinary events that my curiosity fed on. I pictured him as a medical student, dissecting cadavers. At eighteen, parked near his high school with a bashful girl looking up at him from the passenger seat. Leaning against the brick wall of the school building, puffing on his first cigarette. Many years earlier, smiling with delight (before he'd learned to hide his smile in his eyes) at the sight of a _kappa_ puppet. At eight, looking on in fear as his father hurled a plate across the dining-room table. As a small baby, speaking his first word. Sucking at his mother's breast. My imagination was shamelessly drawn to the mundane, the maudlin.\n\nI brought his picture to a women-only party at Hitomi's house and showed it around. The women huddled around it and clucked their approval, sounding for all the world like Jewish mothers minus the _oy veys_.\n\n\"He looks like a nice man.\"\n\n\"Yes, very nice man.\"\n\n\"A doctor, you said?\"\n\n\"Handsome, _desu neh_.\"\n\n\"What kind of doctor?\"\n\n\"Have you talked about marriage?\"\n\nI evaded the subject and talked about his work, about how difficult it was to see him so infrequently.\n\n\"Typical Japanese man,\" one of the women said.\n\n\"But only once a week?\" I asked. \"Is that really typical?\"\n\n\"Typical Japanese man,\" she said again.\n\n\"Even in a new relationship?\"\n\n\"Typical Japanese man,\" three women said at once. I laughed, hoping they were right.\n\n\"Do you understand his work?\" Yoko asked me, an ominous ring in her words. \"Do you _really_ understand it?\"\n\nHitomi shot me a worried look. \"Be careful,\" she said, clearly at a loss to figure out what a large, willful gaijin wanted with her country \u2014 wishing me well but possibly sensing trouble ahead.\n\nMore and more often, I felt myself drawn to the neighbourhood _jinja_ I'd discovered a few weeks earlier. Pausing at the foot of the shrine, I would ask myself some difficult questions: Can I see myself living permanently in Tokyo? Can I see myself as the helpmate of this preoccupied, driven man? Preparing a bowl of hot _ramen_ for him as he trudges up the stairs to our two-room apartment, weary beyond words? Over and over I ran the questions through my mind, and the only answer that came out was yes.\n\nTokyo sense \u2014 I was beginning to suspect I had it. In less than a year, I'd taken firm root in the city. I'd grabbed my life by the throat, shaken it, bent it out of shape, kicked it disdainfully, until finally a new pattern emerged.\n\n\"Pride goes before a fall,\" some dead relative must have whispered in my ear around that time, but not loud enough for me to hear it.\n\n## **AN EARTHQUAKE AND A TYPHOON**\n\n\"There is only work and love.\"\n\n_Sigmund Freud_\n\n### **1**\n\nWe are sitting at a table for two in a posh steak house in Kichijoji, the kind of place where waiters glide around like ghosts, glasses get refilled by invisible jugs and candle lights flicker softly against dark walls and starched linen tablecloths. The hushed elegance is a perfect balm for the knot of tension in my gut, and I am grateful to Tetsu for sensing my mood and bringing me here.\n\n\"You seem tense,\" he says. \"Is anything the matter?\"\n\nIt's _you_ , Tetsu, I sigh to myself, it's you I'm tense about. You treat me like a queen, whisper intoxicating phrases into my ear but never talk about tomorrow. \"It's been a long week,\" I tell him. \"New things to learn at work, overtime, that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"Forget about it, whatever it is,\" he says to me. \"We don't have much time together, so let's enjoy it, _neh?_ \" He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.\n\nIt's true, I think glumly, we don't have much time together. But why not? Why don't you _want_ to see me more often, if you care about me as much as your nightly phone calls and terms of endearment would suggest?\n\nHe has cut up his steak into forkfuls, American style, something he probably picked up from a movie. He lifts a piece to my mouth, then another one to his own. The steak is perfectly done, juicier and more tender than any I've eaten before.\n\n\"Actually,\" he says, \"I used to be quite a tense person myself.\"\n\n\"You? I find that hard to believe.\"\n\n\"For example,\" he continues, \"if a person caught me _not knowing_ about something I'd get very anxious. I remember once when I was about twelve, I was sitting with a friend in his bedroom, listening to music, and he asked me if I knew the name of the band that was playing. It was the Beatles, and at the time I hadn't heard about them. My friend was incredulous. He kept teasing me about it, and I was very uncomfortable.\"\n\n_Me too_ , I am thinking, but curiously enough I don't tell him this. I am recalling the evening \u2014 I was also twelve \u2014 that my friend Sophia asked me if I knew who the Beatles were. \"A kind of bug?\" I'd said, to which she'd rolled her eyes. I too had felt uncomfortable. This has to mean something, I tell myself now \u2014 Tetsu and I, living at opposite ends of the earth and in radically different environments, having the same thing happen to us at the same age.\n\n\"Later on, when I was older,\" Tetsu is saying, \"I used to read all the latest gossip about actors and singers, watch dumb TV shows, keep up with the stock market, just so I wouldn't be caught _not knowing_. None of that stuff really interested me, and all the effort was making me very tense. Finally I thought to hell with it, being well-informed isn't worth that kind of stress. If people seem surprised when I don't know something, I don't let it bother me anymore and simply ask them to fill me in.\"\n\nSo he too has felt it, the pressure to be _au courant_ , to keep up with the information-gathering Joneses. I am startled by how alike we are.\n\nSomething about the atmosphere of the place is making us talk more openly, steering us to more personal topics. Maybe this is why I wanted to come here. I need to find out more about this man, this mystery man who makes me crazy and keeps me guessing, guessing, guessing.\n\n\"You work very hard, Tetsu,\" I say cautiously. \"Do you ever ask yourself why?\"\n\n\"Yup,\" he answers right away, as though he were expecting my question. \"My plan is to work hard until the age of fifty, then retire and spend my time doing _yaritai koto_ , the things I've always wanted to do. That's my dream, anyway.\"\n\nI wonder what they are, his _yaritai koto_ , but I don't ask him. Twenty years seems a long time to wait. There might be another Great Earthquake, and he could get killed. Or he could get sick, or simply lose his drive.\n\n\"Isn't it a little risky, putting off the things you want to do until the age of fifty?\"\n\n\"I don't put them off entirely. I play golf, I see you ...\"\n\nIs _that_ where I stand, I think with sinking spirits, on par with a golf game?\n\n\"How about you,\" he asks. \"Do you have a dream?\"\n\nI can't tell him the truth, of course. \"It's hard to say,\" I answer finally. \"I suppose what I've always wanted is to do something well, to distinguish myself in some way. I don't know if that qualifies as a dream, though.\"\n\nAfter the meal we take our customary walk in Inokashira Park, which tonight is bathed in swirls of low-lying fog, thick and fluffy as cotton candy. The light of the electric lanterns shines thinly through the haze, and the outlines of embracing lovers come in and out of view as we make our way along the footpath. It is an enchanting evening, Tetsu has his arm on my shoulder, but still I am tense, unsettled. We find a bench up ahead and sit down. There is a question hanging between us, and he seems to be waiting for me to ask it.\n\n\"You tell me the most wonderful things, you act as if you really care about me,\" I say to him finally, \"but you never make any plans, never talk about tomorrow, or next week, or next month. I just wonder, sometimes, what this all means to you, if it's only a game, or \u2014\"\n\n\"I love you,\" he says simply, looking me straight in the eye. If Tokyo is indeed my Everest, then this has got to be its pointy peak. Wrapped in fog, hearing the magic words from Tetsu.\n\n\"I'm so happy to hear you say that,\" I tell him. \"I love you too, of course. But you knew that, didn't you?\" I start to give him a hug.\n\nHe moves away from me a little, rests his elbows on his thighs and stares down at the ground between his feet. He looks troubled.\n\n\"As for marriage ...\" he says slowly. Here it comes, I think. The crack in my wall of fantasies.\n\n\"I've never given much thought to the future,\" he says, switching to Japanese. \"I've always believed that if you take care of the present, the future will take care of itself.\"\n\nHow astonishing, I think to myself. Those very same words were spoken to me, some ten years ago, by my then-boyfriend Joel.\n\n\"I look at my friends,\" he goes on. \"They get married, they have children, and even then they're not really happy. Their focus narrows, somehow. All they talk about is nice clothes, stereos, stuff like that.\"\n\nI'm not sure I agree with his assessment of marriage, but I hold my tongue. Tetsu also falls silent and continues staring at the ground.\n\n\"Remember that movie we saw together, Awakenings?\" he asks after a while. I nod. \"Remember the doctor, the Robin Williams character, what was his name?\"\n\n\"Dr. Sayer, I think.\"\n\n\"Well, he actually reminded me a lot of myself. Do you know what I mean?\"\n\nA scene from the movie flashes through my mind. The incredulous look on Dr. Sayer's face when Leonard asked him if he was married. \"Me, married?\" he'd exclaimed, as though the answer should have been obvious. I hope that isn't what Tetsu means.\n\n\"I used to live with a woman,\" he says suddenly, as though he's made up his mind to tell me something he hoped he wouldn't have to. \"I was even busier than I am now, if you can believe it, so we hardly spent any time together. She asked me the same kind of question as you did, about the future, and I gave her the same answer. Then she found herself another boyfriend ...\"\n\n\"While she was still living with you?\"\n\n\"Yup,\" he says stiffly. \"At first I thought he was just a friend, then one day I came home early and found out otherwise.\"\n\nI hold my breath and say nothing. It's rare for Tetsu to be so voluble, and I don't want to do anything to stop the flow of his words.\n\n\"It was a huge shock for me,\" he continues. \"I packed my bags the next day and moved into the place where I'm living now.\"\n\n\"How long ago was that?\" I ask.\n\n\"Almost a year,\" he says. \"Anyway, I came to the conclusion that she had never really loved me, that she was using me all along. I was paying almost all the bills while we were together ...\"\n\nHe's got it backwards, I think to myself. It sounds to me as though he was the one who didn't love her enough. Not enough to make any time for her or to give her a commitment, according to what he just told me. But then, I consider, he must have cared about her if he was so hurt when she betrayed him.\n\nSo what is he trying to tell me? That things will fall apart if I expect too much from him? _You can have me if you want_ , he seems to be saying, _but only on my terms_. Suddenly I have the sense that we aren't doing a waltz anymore, that I am doing a solitary dance around an iron maypole, round and round and round a rigid pole without daring to blink an eye or stop and catch my breath.\n\n### **2**\n\nI had become obsessed with the telephone. When it rang, I would fall off my chair, trip, smash into things, anything to get to that phone as quickly as possible, to get my fix. As soon as his voice reached my ears I would feel my body exhale the tension and my heartbeat subside as though it were obeying the _rallentando_ of a conductor's baton. The trouble with being an addict is that as time goes on it takes more and more of the drug to satisfy, and I seemed to be getting less and less of it.\n\nIn the middle of one of our phone conversations he asked me, clear out of the blue, to remember him always. My body went cold. Was he predicting the end, or what? But the next evening his tone was as warm as ever. \"I'm gonna cry myself to sleep,\" my answering machine crooned, \"because I haven't heard your voice tonight.\" Giddy with relief, I started to laugh, then stopped in mid-ha. Why were his most tender words reserved for a tape-recorder? And why did he carry on about missing me and pining for me, when we lived only two train stops apart?\n\nMy morning ritual was now firmly established: wide awake at four o'clock, jump out of bed, slap on a pair of shorts and T-shirt, head over to the _jinja_ , stand in front of the pull-string bell and pray for patience, perseverance, poise, always words beginning with the letter P. Each time I thought of a new word I would yank on the string as a symbol of my request: perceptiveness, clong, persistence, clong, perspicacity, clong, providence, clong ...\n\nPatience, I told myself when he cancelled dates because of \"sudden work\" or fatigue. A Japanese woman wouldn't complain, I kept telling myself, recalling Hitomi's story about how shortly after her engagement to Kazuo, he got so busy at work that he was unable to see her for a month and a half which she spent, unbeknownst to him, in tears of frustration.\n\nIt was in this state of mind \u2014 taut as an overwound guitar string \u2014 that I called Tetsu one evening to confirm our weekend plans.\n\n\"Are you ready for Saturday?\" I asked sweetly when he picked up the phone. \"I'm preparing a feast, so bring an appetite.\"\n\nThere was a strained pause. \"Some friends have asked me to play baseball with them on Saturday night,\" he said after a few moments. \"Would you be angry if I accepted their invitation?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" I said reflexively. Not angry at all, I thought with sudden fury. Calm as a cucumber, happy as a hummingbird, patient as a goddamned monk.\n\n\"Every weekend,\" I found myself saying in a barely controlled voice, \"I wonder if we'll be seeing each other or not. You never make any plans until the last minute, and half the time you cancel them anyway.\" Words were crowding my throat and I was unable to swallow them back. \"We haven't seen each other for two weeks, and now it will be three, or maybe four, five, six, right? I never said a word when you cancelled dates because of your work, did I? But this is not work, Tetsu, this is _baseball_.\"\n\nI waited for a reaction, but he said nothing and this infuriated me all the more. \"So what about Sunday?\" I asked shrilly. \"Why can't we see each other on Sunday?\"\n\n\"You know I have meetings on Sunday,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"All day long? Do your meetings go on from morning until night?\" He didn't answer.\n\n\"You like _answering_ machines more than people,\" I cried, startled by my own words as they poured out. Still he said nothing, as though he were waiting to see what further accusations I might throw at him.\n\n\"Look, Tetsu, I'm not going to force you to see me if you don't want to, but it seems to me that you just don't care.\"\n\n\"I care about you more than I can tell you,\" he said with sudden feeling. \"I think about you when I get up in the morning, when I undress in the evening, when I brush my teeth, I think about you to the point that I can't even concentrate on my work. Even when I'm with my patients \u2014\"\n\n\"But Tetsu, what's the good of _thinking_ about me if you never want to _see_ me?\"\n\nThe next day I found a long and garbled message on my machine: \"... I thought you understood me ... it's a shame ...\" I tried to tell myself it was nothing, just a lovers' quarrel, but in my bones I knew something was very wrong. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday went by and still he didn't call. A terrible thought started to form in my mind. I tried to push it aside but it came back, more insistently each time, pressing outward until I thought my temples would crack: what if I never see him again?\n\nBy Friday evening I was fit for the shredder. I kept vigil by the phone, sitting on my hands to prevent myself from calling him. Sleep was out of the question, so when it was clear he wasn't going to call I sprang out of bed, hurled my alarm clock against the wall and walked away the night.\n\nWhen I got home from my Japanese class the next day, the first thing I did, as always, was check the phone. No messages. That meant yet another week we wouldn't be seeing each other. Three weeks in a row and counting. I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to calm down. _What if I never see him again?_ Before I knew it, I had picked up the receiver and dialled his number.\n\n\"Tetsu, I _have_ to see you and talk to you,\" I said breathlessly as soon he came on the line.\n\n\"I'm sorry, but I'm in the middle of a consultation with my accountant,\" he answered in Japanese.\n\n\"But I simply _have_ to \u2014\"\n\n\"I expect I'll be tied up with work for the rest of the day.\" His tone was cordial and businesslike, presumably for the benefit of the accountant. \"I'll get back to you at a more convenient time.\"\n\nThere's always something, I thought with mounting panic. Always something to get in the way of our seeing each other. If it's not an operation, then it's a meeting, or a golf game, or a baseball game, or a consultation, or it's a weeknight and he needs his beauty rest, or he's unreachable because he doesn't have a goddamned phone in his apartment.\n\nAnd then it snapped, whatever it was that had been holding me together up to that point.\n\n\"If you don't come and see me tonight,\" I heard myself say in a shrill treble, \"you're never going to see me again!\"\n\n\"Oh my God ...\" Gone was the businesslike tone. \"Look, I told you I \u2014\"\n\n\"Tetsu, we _have_ to talk.\"\n\nHe switched back to Japanese. \" _Saikin kimochi warukunatta_ ,\" he spat out coldly. \" _Senshuu kiga tsuita no wa o-tagai ni rikai dekinai_.\"\n\n\"No, no, Tetsu,\" I cried, \"the feeling _hasn't_ gone sour between us, and we _do_ understand each other.\"\n\n\"Only words,\" he said. \"You don't understand me, and I don't understand you either.\" His voice was cold and hard. This can't be happening, I thought, not this. Only a week before he'd told me he cared beyond words. Such feelings didn't just disappear, did they? Here today, gone tomorrow, like a spot of the flu? My body was starting to shake.\n\n\"Tell me what time you're coming,\" I said between clenched teeth.\n\n\"Can we just end this conversation? I told you I'm busy right now.\"\n\n\"What time are you coming?\"\n\n\"I can't come today.\"\n\n\"Then come tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow I have a meeting, and \u2014\"\n\n\" _Fuck_ your meeting,\" I blasted. \"Just tell me what time.\"\n\n\"I told you I can't see you today.\"\n\n\"Just tell me what time you're coming.\"\n\n\"Look, I have to assist a friend in an operation tonight, and I don't know when I'll be finished.\"\n\n\"I don't care about your operation.\" I was starting to cry. \"Tetsu, I just _have_ to see you.\"\n\n\" _Kanjasan ga shindara?_ \" he barked. And what if the patient should die?\n\nHe was almost shouting now, and there was a tremor in his voice. This man who had told me he would never get angry at me, who valued self-control above all else, this steel-plated man was finally losing his composure. I'd pushed him to the brink, and for an brief instant felt a surge of power.\n\nCome. No. Come. No. We continued our fruitless tug-of-war. I begged, pleaded, sputtered, choked. My words were coming out in gulping sobs. I could imagine the accountant's amazement as he listened to his client bellowing into the phone, embroiled in this astonishing bilingual melodrama.\n\n\"If I come,\" he said, \"do you promise me you won't cry?\" He sounded tired all of a sudden. \"I want to see your smiling face, not your tears. OK?\"\n\nWhat on earth was there to smile about? And why was he so afraid of tears?\n\n\"I can't promise you I won't cry at all,\" I answered, \"but I promise to stay calm.\"\n\n\"And do you promise not to do anything to yourself while you're waiting for me?\"\n\n\"Tetsu, how could you think ...\" I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame.\n\nFinally he agreed to come. He had a responsibility to his patients, after all, and I'd just become one of them.\n\n### **3**\n\nAt eight-thirty the doorbell rang and I let Tetsu in. I showed him to the sofa and offered him a beer. I poured one for each of us, gave him his glass and sat down on the floor, facing him. A stagey solemnity hung between us as we faced each other silently, cross-legged and unsmiling. Finally I started to talk. I told him that the contradictions in his behaviour were making me crazy and that I still wondered, sometimes, if he might not be hiding something from me.\n\nHe sat without moving a muscle. When I asked him if he understood my frustration, he ignored the question and began to recite, in slow and measured Japanese, a speech which he'd obviously prepared in advance.\n\n\"There were two baseball teams,\" he said, \"each with a different type of coach. The first coach would yell at his players when they gave a poor performance, and the second would convey his disappointment without saying a word. But neither of the teams was responding. The first team disliked being yelled at, and the second team got exasperated with their coach's stony silence. One day the league manager had an idea \u2014 he decided to switch the coaches around. From that day onward, both teams started to play much better.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment and went on. \"There seem to be two kinds of coaches and two kinds of players. If a type-A coach is dealing with type-B players, or vice-versa, there is a communication gap. The players won't get the message, they won't be fired up for their next performance.\"\n\nHe looked into my eyes for the first time that evening. \"Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?\"\n\nIt wasn't hard to understand. He had pegged me as type-A to his type-B. I a Western woman and he an Eastern man. All my efforts to curb my impatience, to read his mind, to perfect the art of wordless communication, had come to this \u2014 this spectacular failure.\n\n\"It's a shame,\" he mumbled, almost to himself. \"I had thought we were a good fit.\"\n\n\"But Tetsu,\" I protested weakly, \"People are not necessarily all-A or all-B. It's not as though I lose my temper every day. My behaviour today was an exception, a freak.\" He didn't answer. I could see that he'd already made up his mind.\n\n\"Do you know how many patients I've seen this week?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI thought for a moment. \"Seventy-five?\"\n\n\"Over two hundred,\" he said tonelessly. \"This may sound like boasting, but many of my patients come to me as a last resort, after they've been mishandled by other doctors. I don't have the heart to turn them away, even if my schedule is full.\" He kept his eyes fixed on his hands as he spoke. \"These are desperate people, they think of me as some kind of a god and I can't let them down.\" At this I let out an involuntary chuckle.\n\n\"Laugh if you want,\" he said, \"but it's true. I know I'm not a god, but the least I can do for my patients is give them my full attention.\"\n\n\"I'm not laughing,\" I said. \"Your dedication surprises and impresses me.\"\n\n\"Even when I leave the office,\" he continued, \"I can't get them out of my mind. Sometimes when I'm lying in bed, I'll suddenly remember a patient I may have seen three or four months ago. I'll start wondering how he's doing, if he's feeling better or worse than when he came to see me. When that happens, I know it will be quite a while before I get to sleep.\"\n\n\"Tetsu, I had no idea ...\"\n\n\"To tell the truth,\" he said, \"I was shocked by your behaviour. Didn't it ever occur to you that I need my concentration while I'm working? How am I supposed to concentrate on an operation after you've made such a scene? Didn't you ever consider that the last thing I need is more stress than I already have?\"\n\nBefore that evening, he had never breathed a word about his work except to say that he had lots of it and that he looked forward to the end of each day. Was I supposed to have guessed, from such clues, what a heavy burden he was carrying? Would a Japanese woman have guessed?\n\n\"But Tetsu,\" I said as gently as I could, \"I never objected to your work. What hurt me is that you cancelled our date to play baseball. It's not as though we see each other that often.\"\n\n\"I hadn't exercised in a long time,\" he said. \"My body was crying out for movement.\"\n\nSex is movement too, I thought to myself. And you never wanted much of that, did you?\n\n\"Tetsu,\" I said quietly, \"I won't ever again behave the way I did today, I swear it.\" I tried to get him to meet my gaze. Frozen in his cross-legged stance, he looked too stern for me to dare touch him.\n\n\"I love you very much,\" I continued, \"and believe me, I have no desire to interfere with your work. I understand that your work comes first. I don't even care about marriage or commitment, but ... _Tetsu, anata no kodomo o umitai.\"_\n\nI was stunned by my own, completely unpremeditated words. Tetsu, I want to bear your children. There it was, the naked truth. I wondered if the words sounded as theatrical in Japanese as they did in English. He continued to sit motionless, his face unreadable as a Noh mask. Finally he unfolded his legs and got up. \"I'm very tired,\" he said, \"so I think I'll be heading home. I'll give you a call when I come to a decision.\"\n\nHe stepped outside and started to close the door behind him, then poked his head back inside. \"In the meantime,\" he said genially, \"have pleasant dreams.\" What cruel parting words, I thought, since we both knew what his decision would be.\n\nA few days later he called. \"I've made up my mind,\" he said curtly. \"You made me do a lot of thinking, and I've decided that I never want to see you again.\"\n\nHis words hit me like a kick in the gut. I tried to say something but couldn't make a sound.\n\n\"The reasons are,\" he barked out in Japanese, \"one, I don't want children right away. Two, work is the most important thing for me. And three, I've invited a male friend to my apartment.\"\n\n\"That's not true!\" I said instinctively.\n\n\"Do you understand what I mean?\"\n\nI thought back to our infrequent sex. Could _that have_ been the reason?\n\n\"I ... _think_ I understand,\" I said slowly.\n\n\"No, no, it's not _that_. Forget it.\" What on earth could it be, I wondered, if not _that?_\n\n\"You're selfish,\" he said. \"I can't stay with a selfish person.\"\n\n\"Me, selfish?\" I cried. \"Tetsu, you don't know \u2014\"\n\n\"Alright, so you're not selfish,\" he said sarcastically. \"Feel better?\"\n\n\"You're making a mistake, Tetsu. You're not even giving it a chance \u2014\"\n\n\"You don't understand me. You don't understand me at all.\"\n\n\"You didn't exactly make it easy for me, did you?\"\n\n\"I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm calling from a payphone and there's less than a minute left on my telephone-card.\"\n\n\"Just give me another chance,\" I choked. \"Tetsu, we \u2014\"\n\n\"I never want to see you again,\" he said emphatically. And then, to my great surprise, he started to cry. \"I'd like to thank you,\" he said in a shaky voice, \"for everything you've given me.\"\n\n\"Given you?\" I asked blankly, moved that the steel-plated man was able to cry.\n\n\"I'd like to thank you,\" he said again, and then the line went dead.\n\nI hung up the phone and lay on the floor, thinking of the questions to which I'd never have an answer: the Sunday meetings, the key-ring with a hundred keys, the friend he'd invited to his apartment ... And then it hit me: my dream, shattered.\n\nI spent the week in bed, thinking of various ways to devise my own demise. The dream had been so compelling, its brush with reality so seductive that I had little faith in my ability to carry on in its absence. I cursed my Western heritage, all the voices that had molded me over the years: \"express your anger,\" \"talk it out,\" \"make sure your needs are met.\" Coming to Japan had been an attempt to shake off those voices, to try on a completely different self. My sense of failure was deep and wide.\n\nAt the end of the week I had a dream. There was an earthquake rocking the walls of my room and a thunderstorm raging outside. I was in two places at once: standing near the sliding door, watching the spasms of lightning in the sky, and lying on my bed, a sexual feeling welling up inside me, welling up up up ... When I awoke, I had no idea if there had been an earthquake or even if I'd had an orgasm. All I knew was that my heart was pounding and it was raining hard outside.\n\n### **4**\n\nTo stay or not to stay, that was the question on my mind. There were pros and cons in either direction. If I left, I would be giving Tetsu the power to drive me away from a country I'd come to love. If I left, I would be throwing away a damn good setup: an interesting job, a large circle of friends, lots of free time, and the chance to save a bundle of money. But I also knew I'd accomplished everything I set out to do in Japan. I'd solved the sticky problems of finding good housing and challenging work, learned the language, formed solid friendships, even had my storybook romance. At least a year, I'd promised myself at the outset, and I'd stuck it out. There was nothing more to be done. I didn't want to become like Vivian and so many other gaijin I knew, growing attached to a country that had nothing left to offer them.\n\nTokyo had become Tetsu, and with him now gone the city was skeletal, barren. The pedestrian walkway in Shinjuku where we'd first joined hands, our rendez-vous pillar in Kichijoji station, the Mitaka-bound trains, my answering machine that had been the purveyor of so much hope and illusion, all these things mocked me now. If I stayed too much longer, I feared I might start hating first Tokyo and then Japan, and I didn't want that to happen.\n\n\"Wait and see,\" my friends told me. \"In a few weeks you'll be over the hump.\" But as the weeks went by, it was clear that I was getting worse, not better. My tears were starting to spill over at the most inappropriate times: on the train, at the lunch-counter, and to my great mortification, in the middle of a class. They spilled over the afternoon I went to pick up my mended clock at the local jewellery store. The owner's wife, one of my _kinjo no tomodachi_ , listened patiently to my tale of woe and even offered to give Tetsu a call and try to patch things up between us.\n\n\"If I explain the situation to him, how much you love him and how sorry you are, maybe he'll give you another chance, _neh?_ \" If only it worked that way, I thought.\n\nHitomi did her best to comfort me. There was nothing I could have done, she said, to change his mind. \"You know _bushido?_ \" she asked. The Way of the Warrior, code of ethics of the samurai swordsmen in feudal Japan. I told her I did. \"Well, his mind is _bushido_ , I think.\" She was speaking English, though she rarely did anymore. \"After he make up mind, then he cut right away, not discussing anymore. That's like old-type Japanese, not like new more softer type.\"\n\nI did a lot of reading during those weeks, and everything I read brought me right back to my failure. Pico Iyer, in his moody book on Kyoto, remarks that \"Japanese women knew that the best way of attaining their dreams was by becoming dream objects themselves ... They told themselves they could not, or should not, get sad or angry or tired, and they did not.\" \u2014 words that stung me like pellets of freezing rain.\n\nReiner took me to a chamber music concert in hopes of distracting me, but it was no use, and he too was subjected to my tearful story as we strolled through the Waseda university grounds later that evening.\n\n\"When are you going to get it through you thick skull?\" he said in exasperation. \"These people are _different_ from you and me.\"\n\n\"They're not,\" I protested. \"I've made more friends here than \u2014\"\n\n\"I know your kind,\" he cut in. \"You come to Japan, fall in love with the place and delude yourself into believing you can fit in.\" I had no answer for that.\n\n\"Look,\" he continued, \"if you blew your stack at me, I'd bonk you on the head and that would be the end of it. Anger, confrontation, it's a totally different ball game for these people.\"\n\n\"But not all Japanese women are doormats. My friends tell me \u2014\"\n\n\"You're a logical person, right?\" he cut in again. \"If you wanted him so badly, you should have been calculating, scientific. You should have realized that your best chance of getting what you wanted was to keep your mouth shut. I'm not saying you'd have been successful, but you'd have increased the odds.\"\n\nThe impact of his words was softened by the warmth of his hand which he'd now linked to mine. \"It's a shame,\" he said quietly. \"If you were in a better frame of mind, I'd take you out a few times and sweep you off your feet.\" Yes, I thought to myself, and it's also a shame that your name is Reiner Schmidt and you're a German and it's nothing personal but (lapsed Jew though I may be) I just couldn't live with that.\n\nThough my friends kept assuring me I was getting better, I sensed I was on the edge of some kind of breakdown. In my dreams I was falling off things (ladders, bridges, rooftops) or things were falling off me (fingers, legs), and every morning I would wake up leaden, taking a good three hours to get out of bed. I talked with my cousins in New York, amassing huge long-distance bills. It was unresolved grief, they all said, over the deaths of my father, mother and marriage, none of which I'd mourned properly. But Joel's view rang truer to me. \"You were looking for a kind of perfection,\" he told me, \"and you found it in Japan. An existential orgasm, you might say.\" (Joel was never at a loss for sexual analogies.) My experience of a perfect love in a perfect country was pure fantasy, he said, but the perfection was still there, even if only in my mind, so the ensuing crash was bound to be violent. Joel and all his wisdom \u2014 where would he take it next?\n\nOne Sunday morning around six o'clock I awoke with a galloping pulse and stabbing pain in my chest. My breath was coming in great big gasps. Not knowing what else to do, I dialled the three-digit emergency number. The man at the other end of the line listened calmly and patiently while I tried to tell him, between gasps, what had brought on this sorry state of affairs. I was certainly putting my Japanese to unusual use.\n\n\"Sounds like a panic attack to me,\" the man said.\n\n\"You've got to contact him,\" I pleaded like a maniac. \"Please, please call him for me.\"\n\n\"What's his telephone number?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you,\" I wailed into the mouthpiece. \"I can't let him see me in this state.\"\n\n\"If you won't tell me, then how can I contact him?\" he asked gently.\n\n\"But you've _got_ to call him for me,\" I continued pleading.\n\n\"If you give me his number, I will.\"\n\n\"No, no, I can't do that.\"\n\n\"Well then,\" he said with a sigh, \"why don't you give me your own address and phone number?\" Which I dutifully did.\n\nFive minutes later I heard the sound of an approaching siren and winced as I realized why the man had asked for my address. He'd probably looked it up in his procedures manual: What To Do In Case Of Phone Call From Gaijin Who Has Gone Off The Deep End. I felt like the world's biggest ass.\n\nThe ambulance attendant helped me to my feet and led me outside. I saw the landlady standing at the foot of the stairs in her nightclothes, her face a zigzag of worry lines. As I made my shaky way down the stairs, my own face burning with shame, I didn't dare look into her kindly eyes. I wondered if she would ever take a chance on a gaijin tenant again.\n\nI was driven to a nearby clinic, shot up with tranquilizer and sent along my way. As soon as I got back home I booked a seat on the earliest available flight to Toronto. This fiasco had made it painfully clear that I had to get the hell out of Japan.\n\nThe next few days were a whirlwind of packing, saying goodbye to friends and undoing commitments. Murasaki-san was very understanding and didn't pry at all, but Vivian carried on a bit about how I was letting her down, which was quite understandable considering that INTEC had gone out on a limb for me with the visa extension. Hitomi took me to one of her favourite haunts, a tiny and impossibly charming French restaurant in the Ebisu district. Over langoustines and champagne and passion-fruit souffl\u00e9, we vowed to keep our friendship alive forever. I knew that she, at any rate, would keep up her end of the deal.\n\n### **5**\n\nI am sitting in a pot-bellied plane, heading straight west, not quite able to concentrate on _The Gods Must Be Crazy, Part II_ , longing to hijack the aircraft and tell the pilot to turn back, and wondering when I'll cross paths with my crescent-shaped lover again. Already I have fantasies of returning someday, maybe to live out my retirement years in a coastal village at the tip of northern Honshu, learn dialect from fishermen and confound the natives. But chances are I won't be back for quite some time, except as a visitor. I will have to love the country from afar, an expatriate mooning for my spiritual home.\n\nWhen I woke up this morning the rain was coming down in long glassy sheets. It looked like another typhoon, one of the many we've had this season. Feeling an absurd compulsion to ritualize my exit from Tokyo, I picked up my umbrella and headed for the small shrine that had been the seat of my summer fantasies. There wasn't much I could think of praying for, so I just stood there for some time, trying not to think too hard about anything. For the last time I looked around at the immaculately trimmed hedges surrounding the shrine, the towering plane trees covering the four-pillar hut with the pull-string bell. For the last time I felt the presence of the spirit \u2014 that curious mixture of restraint, obsessive industry and genuine warmth \u2014 that had gone into building the shrine, neighbourhood, city and country, and wondered if I would ever look back on this moment with fondness untarnished by regret.\n\nSitting beside me on the plane is a youngish-looking Japanese man whom I eagerly engage in conversation, not knowing when I will get a chance to speak the language again. It turns out he is thirty-eight (\"Can you guess my age?\"), on his way to Detroit to try and sell automation equipment to some car-parts firms, and as we talk and order one, two, three Kirin beers, my story comes spilling out again. \"Leave it on the plane,\" he tells me, then reconsiders and says, \"leave _half_ of it on the plane and take half of it with you.\" And for a beer-soaked instant I feel a ray of hope that there might possibly be life after Tetsu.\n\nA bit the worse for wear, but still alive and kicking, I have no doubt that Tokyo gave me exactly what it promised. When you take a risk, I learned, you sometimes get more than you bargained for. But no matter how things turn out, you never regret it.\n\n## **GLOSSARY**\n\n_(a selection of characteristically Japanese words and phrases)_\n\n**Aitai:** I'd like to meet (see, date) you.\n\n**Akirame:** Resignation, giving up. Traditionally considered to be more of a good than a bad quality.\n\n**Chikan:** Pervert, groper, molester. Women are told to be on the alert for them in crowded trains.\n\n**Chotto:** A little. Often used at the beginning of a statement in order to soften it or convey hesitation.\n\n**Dam\u00e8:** No good, wrong, can't do that.\n\n**Enryo:** Reserve, restraint. While people encourage their guests not to exercise too much _enryo_ , it is taken for granted that they will.\n\n**Gaijin:** Foreigner, non-Japanese. Literal translation is \"outside person.\"\n\n**Hazukashii:** Bashful, embarrassed. A catch-all excuse for inaction.\n\n**Kankei nai:** Nothing to do with it, no connection, none of your business.\n\n**Kimochi:** Feeling, mood, atmosphere. The prevalence of this word might explain why the Japanese are so fond of using the English word \"feeling.\"\n\n**Kokusaika:** Internationalization \u2014 what the Japanese are supposed to be doing in the nineties.\n\n**Maihomismu:** The Japanese dream of home ownership. From the English words \"my\", \"home\", and \"ism.\"\n\n**Mazakon:** An adaptation of the English words \"mother complex.\" Refers to a grown man who is ruled by his mom.\n\n**Muzukashii:** Difficult. Sometimes used in business negotiations as a polite way of saying \"not a chance.\"\n\n**Nenrei ishiki:** Age consciousness. Generally well developed in the Japanese, who make a sport out of guessing other people's ages.\n\n**O-miai:** Marriage arranged by a go-between, known as a _nakodo_. Still quite prevalent in Japan.\n\n**O-noroke:** Unseemly bragging about the good catch you've found.\n\n**O-shaberi:** Chatterbox, motormouth.\n\n**Rettokan:** Inferiority complex. Many Japanese claim to have this sense about themselves as a people, although some outsiders accuse them of just the opposite.\n\n**Sanko:** \"Three heights\" \u2014 what women are reputed to want in their prospective mates. The heights in question are physical stature, salary, and refutation of the university he (presumably) attended.\n\n**Seiza:** A traditionally female style of sitting in which the shins are tucked beneath the thighs, with the buttocks resting on the heels of the feet.\n\n**Sensei:** Teacher, doctor, elder. Especially respectful when used to address someone who is not in a position of authority.\n\n**Sento:** Public bath. Many smaller apartments do not have bathtubs or shower stalls, making these facilities a necessity for some, and a form of entertainment for others who enjoy the ritual of bathing in public.\n\n**Shitsurei:** Literal meaning is rudeness, presumption. Often used in an apologetic sense, as in \"It's rude of me to ask, but ...\"\n\n**Shiyo ga nai:** Can't be helped, nothing to be done about it. Like _akirame_ , this phrase conveys a resigned acceptance of whatever life doles out.\n\n**So desuka:** Really? Is that so? Often preceded by Ah. Possibly the most useful Japanese phrase to learn, since you can insert it just about anywhere in a conversation.\n\n**Tomodachi:** Friend, buddy. Usage is quite broad, ranging from bosom buddies to people you haven't seen in years.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Zachary Jernigan - Jeroun 02 - Shower of Stones [retail]"}, "text": " \nPRAISE FOR ZACHARY JERNIGAN'S NOVELS OF JEROUN\n\n\"To call Zachary Jernigan a fearless writer is an understatement. His universe is one of gods who make worlds only to torture the inhabitants, demigods who turn on their father, nations exterminated, wars in which the dead take sides. But what floors me is the ease with which he travels this strangest of landscapes. We pass from the mythic to the mundane and back again in the space of a paragraph. We come to know his characters with unsettling intimacy, even as their identities come under magical siege. We sense the solid ground beneath our feet and the presence of forces that could (and do) blow it back into atoms. Jernigan is part of a wave of authors breathing new life into the epic fantasy tradition we love.\"\n\n\u2014Robert V. S. Redick, author of _The Red Wolf Conspiracy_\n\n\"A science-fantasy epic that's as of a much perverse hybrid as it is an homage to an earlier era when those genres weren't so strictly segregated, _No Return_ is set on a world that bears wizards and astronauts equally. It also pulls no punches in its rich, visceral depictions of sexuality, martial arts, punk energy, and the philosophical quandaries of power and identity that speculative fiction uniquely exploits\u2014and that few up-and-coming speculative writers outside Jernigan tackle with such guts.\"\n\n\u2014Jason Heller, _The A.V. Club_ ( _The Onion_ )\n\n\"Vivid, varied, and violent. At once beautiful and terrible to behold.\"\n\n\u2014Nickolas Sharps, _SF Signal_\n\n_\"No Return_ needs to be noticed. There is so much more to it than the accoutrements would imply. Populated with a fair amount of face punching, as coded by the visceral cover, it contains a tenderness and at times overt eroticism that's often ignored in science fiction and fantasy. Zachary Jernigan has something unique to say, a voice we're not hearing from anywhere else. I dearly hope more readers, and award aficionados, take an opportunity to listen to him.\"\n\n_\u2014Tor.com_\n\n\"A visionary, violent, sexually charged, mystical novel _\u2014No Return_ challenges classification. Clearly, Zachary Jernigan has no respect for genre confines. His tale of gods hanging in the sky and a \"constructed man\" with glowing blue coals for his eyes and a motley band of fighters navigating a harsh landscape peopled by savage creatures and religious zealots... Well, it's pure genius. Here's hoping it's just the first of many such works from this guy.\"\n\n\u2014David Anthony Durham, Campbell Award-winning author of the Acacia Trilogy\n\n\"Be careful picking this one up, because once you join with the adventurers in this strange and stunning debut novel, there will be no going back to familiar precincts of heroic fantasy. Zachary Jernigan starts at the very edge of the map and plunges deep into uncharted territory. Mages in space, do-it-yourself gods, merciless killers in love and a mechanical warrior with a heart of bronze await your reading pleasure. For thinking readers who like swashbuckling with an edge, _No Return_ delivers.\"\n\n\u2014James Patrick Kelly, winner of the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus Awards\n\n\"No _Return_ asks the kinds of questions speculative fiction should ask, and provides the kinds of answers that literary fiction thinks it owns.... It is, in fact, the most daring debut novel of 2013...\"\n\n\u2014Justin Landon, _Staffer's Book Review_\n\n\" _No Return_ is a rich, diverse, inventive fantasy, in a style that reminds me in some ways of Tanith Lee's Tales from the Flat Earth books. Zachary Jernigan has created a stunningly original world and I can't wait to see where he takes it next.\"\n\n\u2014Martha Wells, author of The Books of the Raksura\n\n\"Zachary Jernigan's genre-defying epic raises the bar for literary speculative fiction. It has the sweep of Frank Herbert's _Dune_ and the intoxicatingly strange grandeur of Gene Wolfe's _Book of the New Sun_ , with a decadent, beautifully rendered vision all its own. One of the most impressive debuts of recent years.\"\n\n\u2014Elizabeth Hand, Nebula and World Fantasy Award-winning author of _Available Dark_ and _Radiant Days_\n\n\"[A] fascinating exploration of how atheism might function in a world where everyone knows that God (or at least, a god) exists.\"\n\n\u2014Amy Goldschlager, _Locus_\n\n\"[A] hypnotic sort of read the evokes a lot of the same awe and wonder I felt reading Gene Wolfe's stuff; the Elizabeth Hand blurb tells you all you need to know. If you love the shock and awe of science-fantasy and don't care much for paint-by-numbers plots, pick this up.\"\n\n\u2014Kameron Hurley, author of _God's War_\n\n\"Jernigan's first novel, the opening gambit in a saga of religious war, magical science, and martial combat, is a mixture of epic and sword-and-sorcery fantasy. The author's style, with its sensuality and, often, erotic ambiance, calls to mind the novels of Tanith Lee's Flat Earth series as well as the eclectic imaginings of Michael Moorcock's Eternal Champion novels. A promising voice.\"\n\n_\u2014Library Journal_\n\n\"[A] fascinating world, nicely-executed plot... and a wonderfully squishy and twisted aesthetic. _No Return_ is an excellent fit for readers of Mark Charan Newton's Legend of the Red Sun series or those who enjoy the fantasies of M. John Harrison, Gene Wolfe, or Jack Vance.\"\n\n_\u2014Pornokitsch_\n\n\"Jernigan's debut is full of wonder: a smart adventure, with measures of philosophy and violence and lust. For all its strangeness and far-flung setting, _No Return_ is a very human novel. Like Samuel Delany and Gene Wolfe, Jernigan can write a rousing, literary genre story that pushes boundaries and transgresses categorization.\"\n\n\u2014Brent Hayward, author of _Filaria_ and _The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter_\n\n\"The greatest pleasure a reader can have is for their expectations to be confounded, to find their eye drawn word by word down a different path to the one anticipated. Genre fiction is too often comfort food, and the palate can grow complacent. _No Return_ is not a complacent book and it took me somewhere unexpected and new.\"\n\n\u2014Martin Lewis, _Strange Horizons_\n\n\"Jernigan has really unleashed something unique on the world with _No Return_. It doesn't fit nicely into any boxes or cookie cutters. It's quick moving, subtle yet bold, and absolutely R-Rated and raw.... It's bold and vivid and it will probably make you uncomfortable, but that's not a bad thing. Jernigan takes you on a one-of-a-kind journey and he leaves you breathless, gasping, and full of new thoughts.\"\n\n\u2014Sarah Chorn, _Bookworm Blues_\n\n\" _No Return_ displays the kind of prose, worldbuilding, and depth of characterization that place Zachary Jernigan securely within the top tier of Fantasy authors. The prose pulls you in like a piece of art, forcing you to slow down and observe. The world-building makes you imagine maps, bar room brawls over differences in customs, kids praying to the god who lives on the moon, women making sex spells, warriors becoming one with their self-controlled, mutating body suits... all in a way that separates the world in _No Return_ from generic fantasy\u2014this world is alive!\"\n\n\u2014Timothy C. Ward, _Adventures in SciFi Publishing_\n\n\"Zachary Jernigan writes with a flair for the weird and makes it endearing enough for readers to feel familiar with it. _No Return_ is a magnificent debut that straddles fantasy and SF genres seamlessly and makes itself into a jewel faceting both fields.\"\n\n\u2014Mihir Wanchoo, _Fantasy Book Critic_\nAlso by Zachary Jernigan\n\n_No Return: A Novel of Jeroun_\n**SHOWER  \nOF STONES**\n\n**A NOVEL OF JEROUN**\n\n**ZACHARY JERNIGAN**\n\nNIGHT SHADE BOOKS  \nAN IMPRINT OF START PUBLISHING  \nNEW YORK\nCopyright \u00a9 2015 by Zachary Jernigan\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 375 Hudson Street, 12th Floor, New York, NY 10014.\n\nNight Shade Books is an imprint of Start Publishing LLC.\n\nVisit our website at www.start-publishing.com.\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nJernigan, Zachary, 1980-\n\nShower of Stones : A Novel of Jeroun / Zachary Jernigan.\n\npages cm\n\nISBN 978-1-59780-817-0 (hardback)\n\n1. Imaginary wars and battles\u2014Fiction. I. Title.\n\nPS3610.E738S58 2015\n\n813'.6\u2014dc23\n\n2015006849\n\nISBN: 978-1-59780-577-3\n\nEdited by Jeremy Lassen\n\nJacket illustration by Alvin Epps  \nCover design by Claudia Noble\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n_For my mother, Betty Jernigan_.\n\nTHE MONTHS OF THE YEAR\n\nMonth of Ascetics\n\nMonth of Alchemists\n\nMonth of Mages\n\nMonth of Sectarians\n\nMonth of Fishers\n\nMonth of Surgeons\n\nMonth of Sawyers\n\nMonth of Smiths\n\nMonth of Drowsers\n\nMonth of Financiers\n\nMonth of Bakers\n\nMonth of Finnakers\n\nMonth of Soldiers\n\nMonth of Clergymen\n\nMonth of Pilots\n\nMonth of Royalty\n\nPREVIOUSLY, IN _NO RETURN_\n\nUnlikely allies Vedas Tezul, the constructed man Berun, and Churli \"Churls\" Casta Jons journey to fight in the tournament at Danoor. Doubt, violence, and guilt follow the companions, and the seeds of this doubt prompt Vedas to consider speaking out against the God Adrash if he wins the tournament.\n\nWhile Vedas and his companions are on the road to Danoor, the mages Ebn bon Mari and Pol Tanz et Som are engaged in a war of wills and resources. Pol sees an opportunity to gain the upper hand, and allies with the prophetic dragon-tamer Shavrim Coranid. This alliance eventually results in Ebn's death and Pol's transformation into an ascendant god.\n\nHeady with this newly gained power, Pol attacks Adrash, not only wounding the god and stealing secrets from his mind, but knocking the Needle\u2014a collection of iron spheres large enough to affect the tides on the planet below: a weapon of incalculable power\u2014out of alignment. The attack drains him, however, and he must flee before the god can summon the energy to kill him.\n\nIn Danoor, the travelers split up. Churls is forced to flee. Vedas enters the tournament and prevails despite grave injuries, while Berun follows him in secret. Vedas's victory speech starts a riot, which erupts into even greater violence when the broken Needle rises into view. Berun takes Vedas to a secluded valley outside the city and then retrieves Churls from her hiding place, bringing with her a rumor that a man with a dragon is in control of part of the city.\n\nFar above the planet's surface, Adrash recovers from his battle with Pol and stabilizes the spheres of the Needle that most threaten the planet. He relives his millennia-long life, recalling the prophets he has encountered and the distinct ways each coveted his power. Realizing finally that it is not one prophet, but several\u2014Pol, Vedas, Churls, and Berun\u2014he readies himself for the battle he assumes is coming...\n**SHOWER  \nOF STONES**\nPROLOQUE\n\nTHE 4TH OF EVERPLAIN WATCH SENNEN, BOWL OF HEAVEN, NATION OF ZOROL\n\nThey labored on a vast concave plain, under the bluegreen sun. Side by side, the four of them: she, her mate, and the two men they both knew but had never met before the previous day. They pulled sweetroot from the earth in silence, depositing their vegetables in the long furrows that ran poleward to poleward for nearly forty leagues. It was repetitive, backbreaking work, but they were content.\n\nHow did she know her companions were content?\n\nShe sensed it, just as she sensed the coming and going of her own thoughts.\n\nShe and her mate never looked up from their work. Now and then, she would delay for a second after picking her sweetroot, or he would finish his task a moment too quickly, and use the opportunity to touch one another's arm or leg. She would smile, and know that he too smiled.\n\nNewly arrived and unused to the plain, the newly arrived men would occasionally rise, stretch the kinks from their backs, and turn in slow circles, peering with shaded eyes at the world around them\u2014for no practical reason, surely. The sun arced overhead so slowly as to be still in the sky. The breeze came consistently out of the bottom pole, bending the sea of golden grass with nary a ripple.\n\nThe only objects surrounding the plain were the tall, thin wind-gatherers clustered to the right-up-poleward, a series of low purple hills to the left-bottom-poleward, and next to the hills the bleached skeleton of the abandoned tensii warren.\n\nThe wind-gatherers were simply wind-gatherers. Mindless, immobile beasts stretched to the task of collecting energy, they could be found anywhere. The hills, too, were not special. They folded upon themselves without so much as a rocky outcrop, only subtly changing color as the sunlight crawled in glacial inches over them.\n\nThe warren, she supposed, was a unique thing, looming over the near horizon like a massive wooden cage, like the trap for some immense crustacean. The world possessed only five such structures, monuments to an unknown race. People had once devoted their lives to its study.\n\nBut it too never changed. It never had in anyone's memory.\n\nIn her younger days, she had done as all local adolescents did, and climbed the warren's latticed interior, ascending broad bone avenues to its three-thousand foot height. Like everyone else who completed the trip, she was disappointed to find the structure just as it appeared to be\u2014a massive skeleton, picked clean of any sign of its ancient inhabitants. It was beautiful in its way, but no more beautiful than any natural feature. She had seen the ocean from its summit, and this had occupied her attention far more fixedly.\n\nStill, she could not begrudge her new companions their interest. Prior to moving back home in her thirtieth month, many places had compelled her. The world had much appeal. As one grew older, however, one's focus shifted. She had become content to harvest and recall the violence of her youths\u2014to listen to the breeze, take joy in the touch of her mate, and anticipate the arrival of two strangers she had known in a thousand lands, a hundred bodies.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe day grew no hotter or colder, the shadows of their bodies no shorter or longer. The protracted cycle of the day aroused no urges (here, women and men ate and slept whenever they felt the need), yet hunger hit the four of them at the same moment. This was no coincidence. She and her mate stood as one, their new companions following a heartbeat later. They stretched, eliciting a few pops from their spines, and once more shaded their eyes to peer around the circumference of the shallow depression.\n\nShe winked at her mate and spoke his name, the fondness clear in her voice. He grinned, pulled her off her feet as though she weighed nothing, squeezing her tightly to his massive chest as she wrapped her pale, corded arms around his thick neck and breathed in his brassy scent. Over his shoulder, she grinned at the two new men, whose faces she had known for generations upon generations.\n\nA slight smile pulled at the corners of the lighter-skinned one's mouth, but he said nothing.\n\nThe darker one simply stared.\n\nThey sat in the dirt and grass. From their packs came salted beef, vinegared seaweed, and raw slices of the ever-present sweetroot. It was delicious, as was nearly all food after working in the outdoors, under the sun. Under _any_ sun, really.\n\nFinished but still hungry, the darker of the the two strangers lifted one of the sweetroots he had picked. He fished a knife from the pocket of his rough cotton pants and deftly sliced the vegetable into four sections. They shared it in companionable silence.\n\nShe examined the men she knew but had not yet spoken with. Both looked much like she remembered, much as they had for uncounted ages.\n\nThe shorter and heavier of the two, the quicker to smile and laugh, had skin the color of creamed chicory broth. He stood like a man forever bent forward into the wind, with meaty shoulders hunched and chin tucked into his collar. She had never known him as a child\u2014no, not in all the lives they had shared\u2014but she imagined him muddling through, fighting and winning battles he had never intended to fight, simply wanting peace, a place to belong.\n\nThe second man... she could not help thinking of him as father to the first, though she knew this was wrong. Tall, black skinned and muscular, he held himself with a straight spine, broad shoulders thrown back, chin high. A position of habit, not true disposition. As with the other, she had only known him as a grown man. Regardless, she knew that as a child he had lorded over his peers, only with the onset of adulthood learning how not to be a tyrant, to be strong without recourse to coercion.\n\nShe liked the first immediately. In time, she knew she would grow to love the second. Just as she always had. She regretted that they chose to be alone for so much of their existence. She and her mate could stand to be apart for such a short period: they found one another readily, falling into one another as fate dictated. Even through the occasionally cloudy haze of her memory, during moments when she could not seem to differentiate one life from the next, their longing for each other was clear.\n\nBut these two?\n\nThey only came together where the need presented itself, typically in an engagement of war, of revolution. When the violence exhausted itself, when death became too much to bear, they came to her, to where she and her mate had built a small life. They carried their pain with them, bearing it on their own, remaining silent until there was something to say.\n\nWhat the dark one said first never varied.\n\n\"Do you recall the conditions of my death?\" he asked, white eyebrows nearly meeting over his nose. He furrowed his brow. His lips quivered as he sought words for the idea he knew to be true.\n\n\"My _first_ death,\" he clarified.\n\nShe tipped her head back and smiled into the sun.\n\n\"You're asking me to remember ancient history. But yes. I could never forget. I'd only just died, myself.\" She laid her hand upon her mate's knee. \"You still lived, dear\u2014remember? And yet you'd already lived such a short, eventful life.\"\n\nHer mate nodded his massive head, heavy features serene.\n\nShe returned her gaze to the black-skinned man. She nodded to him, and then to the man she could not help but think of as his son. Her smile waned slightly.\n\n\"And you? Well, you'd both been alive for far too long. You were dangerous to yourselves and a greater danger to our world, threatening the existence of an entire continent of people.\" She clucked her tongue and shook her head. \"These are simple things to say, of course, as if the millennia had turned you from men into monsters. This is nowhere near the truth.\"\n\nThe black-skinned man frowned. \"What is the truth, then?\"\n\nShe sighed. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened.\n\n\"Normal men can indeed be turned into monsters \u2013 ordinary, unimaginative monsters. Even with their lives preserved for eons, they are of one design. But you, you were never normal men. There was something of the monster in you from the beginning, an awful potential. And your children, your siblings, they too...\"\n\nShe shrugged. Her gaze centered on an indefinite space between the two men. For a span of seconds or hours, she was not among her companions. Her name changed, and changed again. She grew taller, shorter, but no broader, no darker.\n\nShe was another time, another place. Another woman.\n\nTelling a story, again and again.\n\n\u2021\n\nEventually, from a great distance away, the lighter-skinned man said, \"You spoke of our world, a place of origin. What was this place called?\"\n\nShe blinked, struggling to hold onto the question. She had not completely returned to them, but existed in a liminal space, in the interstices between a hundred lives.\n\nHer mate gripped her knee, causing her to sigh.\n\nHer anchor hit soft earth again, connecting her this time, this place.\n\n\"Jeroun,\" she said. She repeated the word, her smile once more radiant.\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nTHE 2ND OF THE MONTH OF MAGES, 12500 MD DANOOR, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN\n\nCertain facts were indisputable, even to him, and the most basic was this:\n\nNot long after the birth of men on Jeroun, less than a thousand years following their emergence from slumber, the god Adrash had engineered a gift for the world.\n\nA son.\n\nA lavender-skinned, devil-horned boy named Shavrim Thrall Coranid. He was not born, but tipped from a jar. Nonetheless, he grew as if he were a child.\n\nThe people of Jeroun thought of him as a human boy, knowing he was not\u2014knowing he was a unique creature only in the approximate shape of a child, composed of man, elder, and god in equal proportions, possessed of an immortal body and a vast unfilled intellect. They understood he had neither birth mother nor true father, that he had been conditioned from conception to think of Adrash as his creator, yet they persisted in thinking of him as the god's proper son.\n\nThis sentimental illusion faded as Shavrim grew into adulthood and assumed his formidable stature, and disappeared completely when Adrash took him as lover. Though the god had not announced his intention to take Shavrim into his bed, the shift from child and son, to demigod and lover, happened fluidly, as though it were the only possible outcome. As though it were fated.\n\nMen had no reason to doubt that fate and the will of Adrash were one and the same.\n\nShavrim had no reason yet to doubt, either.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"You are mine, but I am not yours.\"\n\nHe had heard these words many times, always in moments of intimacy. It did not hurt to hear them. He appreciated that Adrash spoke plainly, refusing to call what they shared love. Resentment would indeed come\u2014it could not be avoided entirely, even in one created for the role of companion\u2014but for decades Shavrim considered the words appropriate, even comforting, a frank assurance that all continued according to a plan set out for him.\n\nA plan he neither understood nor cared to understand.\n\nA plan that simply _was_.\n\nOf course, he had little enough reason to complain over his lot. The world offered him many delights beyond communion with Adrash. With the god's blessing, he took thousands of lovers. He ate countless varieties of food, drank every drink. He experienced each diversion concocted by the vibrant cultures of man, and became himself a source of fascination and joy.\n\nThough Jeroun bore the scars of a long life, having already outlasted its first race of people, the birth of mankind had made everything new, full of light.\n\n\u2021\n\nOr rather, this was how Shavrim recalled it now, eons after Adrash abandoned the world to madness. He knew it to be comfortable fiction, a lie, a bandage over old and unhealing wounds. For certain, he misremembered the world as more beautiful, more alive than it had ever been, just as he misremembered Adrash as more cruel, more inhuman.\n\nSometimes, this fact made him uncomfortable.\n\nOther times, he did not care. The events of thousands of years, stored in the branching neural tissue of his spine and limbs, collected over the course of his long, slow adolescence, could be changed if he concentrated\u2014or simply ignored\u2014hard enough, and as he grew older he found little reason to recall with perfect clarity events that had ceased to matter.\n\nAll pasts were versions of pasts. Thus, he interpreted whatever version he liked.\n\nThe most important of what he interpreted, however, the most impactful\u2014these were facts.\n\nOf this he felt sure, or at least fairly confident.\n\n\u2021\n\nAnd so the world had seemed new, full of light, and then it had stopped. Not all at once, true, but being that Shavrim's existence would be measured in glacial ages rather than decades, compacting normal lives into insignificance, the process could feel no way other than sudden.\n\nIt was the first morning of his four-hundredth year. He and Adrash sat on a red-tiled terrace overlooking the ocean (what island he could not now recall, and it did not matter), enjoying breakfast, talking inconsequentialities, when, as though they had been having another conversation entirely\u2014a deeper, more cutting conversation\u2014the god spoke eight words.\n\n\"Do you really think you are enough, Shavrim?\"\n\nShavrim set his cup of tea, small in his outsized hands, on the table between them. Not yet worried, merely confused. \"I\u2014\" He searched for the proper expression, and arrived at a smile. Despite his labyrinthine knowledge of the world and its peoples, his vast collection of experiences, his face was rather blank. Not a man's at all, but that of a child. Just as the world saw him.\n\n\"I... I don't know what you're asking me, Adrash.\"\n\nThe god smiled, beautifully. Every movement he made was beautiful, a display of perfect grace. He sat, legs crossed at the knee, naked and at ease, every muscle relaxed yet defined. Warmth radiated from his jet skin: this close, he was a source of heat as sure as the sun itself. He wore the divine armor as a skintight cap in the shape of a helm, its filigreed edges giving the odd impression of white hair on his forehead, white hair curled around his ears.\n\n\"I do not mean this to hurt you,\" he said, ignoring Shavrim's guffaw of contempt. \"Nonetheless, it _will_ hurt you. At times I feel dissatisfied with this world, with you\u2014with me. Boredom is as good a word as any, Shavrim.\" He waved his right hand vaguely. \"But this is not your fault. I will not blame you for being predictable as I designed.\"\n\nShavrim blinked. The skin of his face felt tight, suddenly hot.\n\n\"You are a symptom of my thinking,\" Adrash continued. \"And my thinking on the matter of mankind has been incorrect. For five centuries I have given them too much what they want, and they are becoming complacent, unwilling to grow. I am annoyed by their lackluster art, their spineless leisurely expressions. As exhausting as mankind's displays of aggression can be, I am saddened to see the fight gone out of them.\" He broke Shavrims's gaze, and stared out to sea.\n\n\"I am tired of being the world's nanny, of shielding everyone from harm. Furthermore, I need other sources of companionship lest I go mad. I made a minor miscalculation with you, stretching your development unduly. That mistake must be addressed. You must stop being a child.\"\n\n\"Adrash,\" Shavrim said. \"Adrash, I...\"\n\nThe god shook his head, silencing his creation with a gesture. \"I am sorry, but you have no words of relevance to this. I have decided, already, on a course of action, for you and for the people of Jeroun. I have waited to enact my plan for too long already. My evasion of the topic, I fully believe, is part of the problem.\" He sighed. \"But enough navel gazing. Soon, within the year, you will have brothers and sisters\u2014five companions. You six will act as mankind's inspiration, but also as its aggressors. You will spur them to grow. _You will grow up with them.\"_\n\nHe stood, and walked down the steps to the beach.\n\nShavrim followed, massive shoulders bowed, arms hanging limp at his sides.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe feeling of discontent persisted. It grew, and only rarely retreated to a comfortable distance. Surely, Shavrim had experienced moments of un-happiness before\u2014on rare occasions, his desires had gone unfulfilled\u2014but these were as nothing compared to this new malaise. He absented himself from Adrash for weeks at a time, visiting the places he thought he loved and then quickly leaving, unsatiated. He found himself in new beds, but experienced nothing new.\n\nThe world had not changed, not yet.\n\nAnd then, within a year, as Adrash promised, the first of five siblings was tipped from the jar: a girl, grey haired and thin-limbed, clawed at hand and foot and as pale as sun-bleached sand. Adrash passed the childlike creature to Shavrim, and Shavrim stared into her bluegreen eyes as she stared back. She did not cry, which made him resentful. He felt sure he had cried upon breathing his first breath.\n\n\"Bash Ateff,\" Adrash named her.\n\nA month later, the second arrived: an unnaturally ruddy, stubby-winged boy Adrash named Orrus Dabulakm. Shavrim took to him immediately, liking the sound of his hoarse cries better than the sullen silence of the sister who had come before him.\n\nThe next month, the third\u2014a thing of indeterminate gender, a neuter or a new sex entirely\u2014tumbled forth and stood unaided, but did not open its eyes for twelve days. When it did, two slowly spinning wooden orbs were revealed. Adrash called this blind anomaly Sradir Ung Kim, and seemed especially fond of it.\n\nThe fourth and fifth were engineered together, a matching pair. They spilled from the jar locked together, small and hairless and pearlescent, nearly metallic, and refused to untangle from their embrace for a full day. Afterward, they became uncomfortable if separated for longer than a few minutes. Ustert and Evurt Youl, Adrash named them.\n\n\"These,\" Adrah said when all five were situated in their nursery high in Adrash's main keep overlooking the arid Aroonan plains, \"are the bringers of a new age, Shavrim. A minor pantheon. As their elder sibling, it is your job to guarantee they keep to the path I have cut for them.\"\n\nShavrim nodded, and did not ask just what path this was. He would learn in time.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"I've killed men before,\" Shavrim said a decade later.\n\nHe and Adrash stood on the foredeck of _The Atavast_ , watching the five young demigods cavort unafraid in the shallow, glass-clear water. The sea was no place for earthbound creatures, but today the god had created a hundred-foot sphere of will around his ship, halting the dozens of streamlined serpents and fish\u2014which had quickly been attracted by the smell of flesh\u2014from coming any closer. The siblings dared each other to swim up to the barrier of huge, circling predators. Soon they pushed their courage even further, reaching out their hands to brush the scaled flanks, risking the loss of limbs to giant, toothy mouths.\n\nAdrash smiled. \"Adorable,\" he said.\n\nShavrim ground his teeth together. \"Are you listening to me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am, Shavrim. A moment, though.\" Adrash opened his right hand, revealing five coins. He threw them in an arc, causing each to hit the water and fall to the sand a body's length outside his protective barrier. \"We do not leave until each of you has retrieved your coin!\" he called, and then turned away from the siblings' whoops and cries in response.\n\n\"I know you have killed men, Shavrim. It is a joy to watch you fight.\" His left hand, which he had caused to be sheathed in the featureless white of the divine armor, fell on Shavrim's right shoulder. \"What I am talking about now is different. You have never killed a man for any reason other than sport\u2014a sport whose rules both parties understood and accepted. A sacrifice. This will not be the same. You will kill for a purpose. You will kill in response to a threat.\"\n\nShavrim laughed, though it had an edge to it: it was a sound he did not enjoy hearing come from himself, a sound he would not have made a decade previously. \"A threat? How many men constitute a threat against me? A hundred? Two hundred? A battalion, either way. You're joking with me, Adrash.\"\n\n\"I am not. Men will soon be a great deal more formidable than they are now.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\nAdrash turned and leaned his forearms on the railing. Shavrim sighed and followed suit, surveying his siblings at their dangerous play. There was no real risk, he supposed: though not as sturdy as their eldest brother, each was possessed of an immensely durable body. They would never bleed out or have their heads severed from their bodies. Should they lose a limb, it would regrow. Orrus had recently lost one of his growing wings to a weapon master's blade, and already its replacement reached half the size of the original.\n\nSradir and Orrus, Shavrim's favorite and least favorite, had already retrieved their coins. Orrus, forever dissatisfied, plagued by voices he could not name, frowned at his accomplishment and dived under the hull\u2014to sulk, for reasons no one but Shavrim understood. Sradir bled from a shallow wound in its side, but it stopped as Shavrim watched. It looked up at Adrash (not blind, they had discovered, yet not seeing as men saw, either), a small smile on its oddly angular, androgynous face.\n\nIt did not even glance at Shavrim.\n\n\"You said men will become stronger than they are now, Adrash. How?\"\n\nAdrash clapped as the diminutive twins shot forward and retrieved their coins, Ustert landing a stiff-fingered jab into the snout of an advancing bonefish. He laughed as Bash, who could never resist showing off, swam slowly but gracefully toward her coin, rolling away from snapping jaws effortlessly, and picked up the final coin with her mouth. Shavrim wondered if he and Adrash's conversations had always been so broken, if the god had always been so distracted. He also questioned his own moods. Had he not been happy, being Adrash's lover but not the center of his world? Had he not been content, even overjoyed, to be part of a greater plan?\n\nYes, he had. And no, Adrash had not always been as he was now.\n\n\"Men will discover a secret,\" Adrash finally said. \"Something right under their nose. Tell, me, have you ever wondered why I included elder material in your makeup? Elder corpses are rare, but besides not rotting like a man's body does they are virtually useless. Correct? Was I merely being sentimental for the people this world has lost?\"\n\nShavrim flexed his fists alternately, in time with the doubled beating of his hearts.\n\n\"I was not,\" Adrash said, needlessly. \"There is more to elder physiology than anyone knows, a fact I have hidden from the world but will hide no longer.\"\n\n\"What is _more?\"_\n\nAdrash chuckled. \"You are becoming irritable in your middle age, Shavrim. Good, I suppose: anger will be useful, though I would not have you unhappy every moment of the day.\" He smiled, white against black. When Shavrim only grunted in response, the god's smile grew. \"Power is what we are discussing. Immense power, outshining even the oldest technologies that existed before your birth and only remain in memory.\"\n\n\"And the rarity of elder corpses?\" Shavrim asked. \"There's a solution for that, as well?\"\n\n\"Yes. There is a graveyard\u2014a graveyard for an entire species. You will reveal it to the world.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nHe did so, exactly as commanded. At the foot of The Steps, the elder's greatest monument, a mountain turned mausoleum, he helped excavate the first perfectly preserved corpse.\n\nAnd immediately set it aflame.\n\nThe gathered people marveled at how it burned but was not consumed. Shavrim then reconstituted its ancient blood and allowed ten men to take sips of it. They battled each other for a day, sustaining wounds that would kill normal men. Lastly, he fed every individual a small measure of the corpse's ground bone. A week later, having eaten and drunk nothing, having not slept an hour, the people stood hale.\n\nThey celebrated, and began mining their new, nearly inexhaustible resource.\n\nThereby, men grew into maturity\u2014or rather, into the wielding of power. Within two generations, the world had split and its peoples had become fractious threats to each other. Their arts turned violent, viciously inventive, seasoned with elder-corpse fire and blood. They relied less and less upon what remained of their old technologies, and then proceeded to forget this inheritance completely. Manipulating their acquired magic consumed them completely. Old cities were abandoned and new cities built, spanning chasms and straddling mountaintops, each lit by the glow of thousands upon thousands of magelamps.\n\nAdrash rejoiced in mankind's rekindled passion. He orchestrated their development, wielding Shavrim and his siblings like blades, cutting nations in two, separating culture from culture, beginning wars and stopping wars. He spoke of symbols, of the importance of identity, and using arcane means fashioned weapons unique to each of his creations:\n\nSroma, a long silverblack knife for Shavrim: a malevolent item, possessed of its own ill personality. It did not speak in words, but made its desires known easily enough. Shavrim cherished and despised it by turns. He tasted blood when it bit into flesh.\n\nJhy, a razored throwing circle for Bash, which passed through steel and rock as easily as it passed through flesh. Bash kept it close to her at all times, but always sheathed. She used it rarely, and only against the strongest mages, as if only to prove a point.\n\nDeserest, a glass spear for Orrus\u2014a weapon he refused to use.\n\nWeither, an oilwood and leather sambok for Sradir. In its owner's hands, the diminutive whip became a blur, a devastating shadow that severed even the most armored men in half. Sradir never used its proper name, instead referring to it as Little Sister.\n\nRuin and Rust, a pair of short swords for Ustert and Evurt: blades that never grew dull and would not be tarnished. Oddly, Ustert, who seemed always on the verge of an outburst, who lived with abandon, wielded Ruin with a cold detachment, while Evurt, the quiet one, carved with Rust in wild arcs, almost as though he were trying to throw the weapon away.\n\nThus equipped, no army on the face of Jeroun could stand against them.\n\nThis fact ate at Shavrim. He had been warned of threats. Initially, when he spoke of his concerns to Adrash, he received smiles and hints of further developments (\"Have faith in me, Shavrim. I don't labor to provide you with tools for your defense simply to watch you wave them about.\"), but as time passed the god's enthusiasm took on a dark, solipsist edge. Adrash spoke rarely, his moods unpredictable. He spent time away, always just out of reach, leaving the increasingly complicated task of governance to his eldest creation, often for years at a time.\n\nEach time, coming back crueler, more inscrutable.\n\nThe thin persona of a man sloughed away, revealing the madness of divinity.\n\n\u2021\n\nSimplifying the first millennia after the introduction of elder magic, turning such a vast length of time into one color, one feeling, proved appallingly easy for one who had never been human and could only approximate the concerns of one. Surely, the change in Adrash had occurred gradually: Shavrim had known it then and certainly knew it now, yet in retrospect it was shockingly abrupt, as rapid as a droplet of ink clouding into a pail of water.\n\nOne day, he had known his creator intimately, felt the god's moods as if they were his own\u2014or thought he did, though the distinction makes little difference. And the next, he struggled to understand the capricious demands of a stranger, an incomprehensibly powerful being who forced his creations to betray the very people they had been engineered to assist.\n\nOne day, Shavrim had been a child, trusting, and the next...\n\n\u2021\n\n\"The world would be better without him,\" he said, the obvious conclusion to a hundred years of long and evasive arguments. Finally, he said it.\n\nAnd then, he said even more: \"He must be destroyed.\"\n\nUstert grinned, revealing her sharp teeth. She threw one shapely silver leg over her twin's and laughed. \"Grief, Shavrim, that's a nice thought. But there's no chance of it happening. I don't like him any more than you do\u2014haven't liked him since I was small enough to be mistaken for a corpse miner\u2014but we're six against a god. Besides, he's not really _here_ any longer, is he? Off on his little ship, father is, doing who knows what.\"\n\n\"Don't call him that,\" Evurt said. He sat as rigid as his twin was relaxed, a thin bronze statue of a man. \"I don't like it when you call him that. He's not our father.\"\n\nUstert rubbed his cheek with the back of her hand, causing Evurt to grimace.\n\n\"So, you're not in love anymore,\" Bash said. She flicked at an imaginary piece of lint on her coat. \"So, you've been abandoned, forced into a role you never wanted and aren't suited for.\" Her seawater eyes met his, and her features softened. \"You used to hate me, eldest brother. I know you did. But I'd hate to think you wanted me gone from the world. Give it time. Maybe you'll feel differently. Maybe he'll feel differently.\"\n\n\"This isn't about love,\" Shavrim said.\n\nSradir nodded, expressionless as only it could be. \"Of course it is not, Shavrim. Bash is speaking in her metaphors again.\"\n\nUstert grinned.\n\nShavrim looked to Orrus, who shrugged with both shoulders and wings. \"I'm in,\" the winged demigod said in his rasp of a voice. He tapped his head and then gestured to encompass each of them. \"All of us are in. We can pretend otherwise, but it's the fact.\"\n\nBash opened her mouth and then closed it.\n\n\"Yes,\" Evurt said, just as his twin said, \"Fuck.\"\n\nSradir gazed woodenly at Shavrim. \"Many will die. Even we may die. Are you that in love with mankind?\" The corners of its mouth rose fractionally. \"Love being a metaphor, mind.\"\n\n\"We aren't men, so love is not the word,\" Shavrim answered. \"Love is never the word for us. But I won't see mankind pushed and pulled by his whims any longer, given the tools of war and domination and then crushed for their arrogance when they use them. I won't be one of those tools any longer.\" He stood and paced before them. \"So, he's gone for a decade, two, even three. He'll be back, and who knows what he'll do then? Even absent, he exerts his influence. You can't tell me you don't all feel it. It limns our every word, or every gesture.\"\n\nSilence\u2014as close to assent as they would give. Shavrim pressed.\n\n\"We're a reflection of Adrash, and we're slowly going mad with him. We all know the result of madness on our scale, which is terrible enough, but on his? The world will be burned to a cinder, should he continue down this path. We'll be carried with him. We'll be responsible.\"\n\nBash shook her head. \"But what if we're what's causing him\u2014\"\n\n\"No.\" Evurt stood abruptly, dislodging his twin. He made a cutting motion with his left hand. \"No. We have heard this before, sister, heard it and dismissed it. The question is irrelevant because it has no answer. We may be the source of Adrash's disease\u2014or we may not be. It does not matter. We are the cure, either way. The _only_ cure.\"\n\nThe room grew quiet, ever the result of Evurt choosing to voice more than a brief complaint. Ustert reached forward and drew her twin back down onto the couch, wrapping her arms around him. Sradir closed its eyes, blank-faced. Bash raised her eyebrows at Orrus, and Orrus turned his intense gray gaze to Shavrim.\n\n\"We look to you,\" Orrus said. \"Perhaps we shouldn't, but we do.\"\n\nShavrim nodded. He knew this, had relied upon it. There were advantages to the way his mind functioned, how it forced thoughts to branch out along pathways throughout his body, causing him to arrive at conclusions only after long and repetitious thought. One day he would come to feel overwhelmed by the lifetimes he had accreted in his stretched neurons, but it had not happened yet. He still possessed wisdom unique to him.\n\nHe crouched and pressed a huge palm against the sun-warmed marble floor, a floor he had slapped his bare feet upon as a child. He remembered being scolded by a tutor for running. He had scolded his siblings for doing the same when they were young.\n\n\"I won't pretend we're a family,\" he said. \"I won't pretend we even enjoy sitting here with each other, especially not in this place. We're not saintly, by any metric, but we're not part of the disease spreading in Adrash's soul. Of this I'm sure. I think it more probable he engineered us too well to our task, and that our task was more complex than he let on. He couldn't predict what would happen to himself in time, but he knew the risk. He knew, and created us to keep himself from the void.\" His fingers stroked the leather sheath covering Sroma. \"He even engineered us weapons for the task.\"\n\nHe heard an intake of breath\u2014Bash\u2014and held up his hand, forestalling her words of denial.\n\n\"I'm not saying he made plans for his own defeat. He will not concede to us, like a man taking medicine. He has let himself forget our full purpose, and we let him.\"\n\nSradir opened its eyes and locked stares with Shavrim.\n\n_\"We let him,\"_ she said. The words were neither challenge nor agreement. \"Well. No more of that.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nIn the Month of Soldiers, Adrash ended his self-imposed exile of two hundred and seven years by landing _The Atavest_ on the southwestern coast of Doma. Announcements, which would in time become slow and expensive, dependant upon massive reserves of elder-corpse materials, traveled quickly from Adrash's hand. Mankind\u2014not one member of which had known their god in the flesh\u2014rejoiced with a month-long celebration.\n\nDespite the passage of two centuries, Shavrim's siblings required no reminding or spurring to their purpose. Indeed, time had only increased their violent resolve. They allowed the celebrations to come to an end, and then met Adrash in the scrub desert of central Gnos Min, just beyond the eastern wall of Curathe.\n\nThe god read their intention immediately. Undoubtedly, no great act of premonition: all six had been conspicuously absent from the festivities.\n\nThe battle began without a word exchanged.\n\n\u2021\n\nThirteen hours later, four of the six siblings remained. What had been the city of Curathe ticked as it cooled before them, a vast shallow bowl of fused ceramic.\n\nShaky on his feet, nearing a point of exhaustion where reality blurred around the edges, Shavrim experienced a vision of what the place would become in only a few months' time. Rain, falling in the Month of Mages (not a monsoon\u2014nothing so monumental as that\u2014merely a few tantrums, brief reminders of a wetter time), creating a temporary lake, a waystation for migrating birds and orr-bison, a place fleetingly filled with the low-throated burp of desert toads.\n\nOne day, too soon, men would stop and wonder at it, ignorant of its origin.\n\n\"Well done,\" Bash said, voice heavy with sarcasm. She wiped at the blood under her nose, and spit a tooth onto the ground. \"We've got him on the run.\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" Orrus said, fist tight around Deserest, the weapon he had always declined to use.\n\nUstert remained silent. She held her right hand out to her side, as though expecting her twin to take it.\n\nShavrim closed his eyes, allowing himself to be buffeted by the wind.\n\nAdrash had taken Sradir first. A wise move, Shavrim thought: he had always suspected it was the most powerful of his siblings. Then he had chosen Evurt. Another wise move. Without her twin, who knew what Ustert would be?\n\nOne battle, and already they had lost two of their number.\n\nHad he anticipated anything else?\n\n\"I hadn't expected it to hurt so much,\" he said, so softly he thought no one would notice, but he heard the rustle of Orrus's wings and knew his brother had been heard. Of course. He and Orrus had always been close. They understood one another, how deeply, Shavrim would only know in the millennia to come\u2014alone, searching for meaning as the world spun slowly toward destruction. Searching, while he gradually succumbed to his own madness, the compounding of a thousand voices.\n\nAnd yet it was Ustert who spoke in response.\n\n\"Yes, it hurts. Of course it hurts.\" Her voice was flat, characterless. \"You always lie to yourself, eldest. You practice the worst sort of deception, hiding from what is plainly true, what is obvious to everyone but you. We were a family, or as close to family that the phrasing becomes unimportant. Whether we liked one another had no bearing on this fact. If you'd stopped, for one moment, and looked up from your worship of Adrash, your sadness over losing him, you'd have realized this sooner. Now it comes, and you think you feel pain. You feel nothing compared to me.\"\n\nThey waited one night to recover, sleeping on the open ground within an arm's reach of each other. Closer than they had ever been.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe four moved on to Danoor, which already lay smoldering in the shadow of the Aroonan mesas. They passed through the rubbled grave of Lantern Light, turning away from the bodies that littered the brick-paved streets. Death\u2014this they understood. An individual man's life held little importance, after all, but a city's worth? That many innocent souls possessed a weight, demanding acknowledgement even from demigods.\n\nAdrash taunted them by being just a step ahead.\n\nThey were fast, but still crawling in comparison.\n\nIn Grass, where tradition said the first men had awakened from their ancient slumber, the god waited, hanging in the sky above the city, his aura shuddering around him in radiant golden waves. He was a man-shaped shadow at the center of a new sun, motionless. Taunting, still.\n\nUstert spat onto the dry earth. \"Listen to me. He won't take one or two or three of us. He takes all four of us, or we kill him. This ends now.\"\n\nNo one responded, but all were agreed.\n\nShavrim peered through waves of heat into the city. From as close as a mile away, it appeared as though it had been left untouched, but as they entered its gates Shavrim saw that everyone\u2014those visible in the streets, but the effect surely extended to those indoors\u2014stood or sat frozen in place, either held in temporary thrall or, more likely, halted forever in the state of death. Such a thing was not beyond Adrash's power, though Shavrim imagined the act drained him considerably. A small, grisly boon to his attackers.\n\nBy unspoken agreement, a simple acknowledgement that events would unfold exactly as quickly as Adrash willed, they walked into the city. As they neared the central square, lesser buildings seemed to shuffle aside to reveal the full glory of Adrash's temple: this, the most ancient of structures, famed as the site of mankind's birth on Jeroun. Shavrim had always considered its warm sandstone edifices and encircling gardens beautiful. They remained so.\n\nUpon their stepping into the square, Adrash commenced his descent from the sky. Slowly, maddeningly so.\n\nShavrim unsheathed Sroma, gooseflesh raising upon his arm at the touch of its hilt. He stretched his arms wide, muscles bunching massively in his back. He tipped his head to either side, cracking vertebrae. He touched the two small horns on his forehead.\n\nOrrus stood, glass spear gripped in two hands before him, wings pulled in close to his back. He had never flown before the age of twenty, and then only under pressure from Shavrim. He would not fly now: it would do no good against Adrash.\n\nBash spun Jhy around the upraised index and middle fingers of her left hand. She also spun Weither, Sradir's recovered whip, by its lanyard. She had always been the showoff, and Shavrim admired her athleticism. He had never told her this, but surely she knew.\n\nUstert likewise held two weapons\u2014her own sword, Ruin, and her twin's sword, Rust\u2014and stood, rooted to the ground by two wide-set feet. Of the five siblings, only she had beaten Shavrim in armed combat. She had never let him forget it.\n\nAdrash reduced the blaze of his aura as he descended. Nonetheless, by the time he landed on the steps of his temple the light from his eyes alone proved sufficient to throw acute shadows from every standing object. His four living creations squinted against the radiation, unfazed, while the people gathered in the square, struck immobile in the seconds after death, blistered from the heat.\n\nThe god stood, unmoving, encased head to toe in the flawlessly white embrace of his armor. Despite himself, as always, Shavrim admired the graceful lines of his creator's physique, its contours accentuated rather than hidden by the divine material, and felt the accompanying rush of desire. He risked a glance at Bash and confirmed the flush in her pale cheeks. She, too, could not hide her attraction, a fact which had always angered her.\n\nIt had been tens of decades since she or Shavrim had shared Adrash's bed, yet their bodies would not allow them to forget.\n\nOrrus had not moved a muscle, revealing to Shavrim an altogether different type of strain. He had been, since birth, the least favored of Adrash\u2014a hurt he would not allow shown on his features but still felt keenly. Ustert, conversely, had forever been a focus of the god's praise. But now, having witnessed the almost casual dismemberment of her twin, she shook with rage so thinly controlled that Shavrim feared for her. She would be a danger, very likely to herself.\n\nThus arrayed, they waited for the inevitable.\n\n_Hello, children_ , Adrash said, directly into the interiors of their skulls.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe moment held, and in Shavrim's memory would forever hold\u2014the moment separating being one of four whose souls rang in union, discordant though it was, and the next...\n\n\u2021\n\nIt was two hours after dusk in the ransacked city of Danoor. He reclined naked on a flat clay roof, savoring the last of the day's trapped heat before it seeped out from underneath him. There was a distinct sharpness to the desert air, and he felt it\u2014less than a man would, true, but enough to make him slightly uncomfortable. In truth, he enjoyed this unique sensation of discomfort. No matter how long-lived, one never forgot the feeling of home.\n\nThough the city's fires had been doused, the smell of burnt timber and clay lingered.\n\nFar off in the unlit night, beyond the border of Shavrim's orderly territory, someone screamed.\n\nAnd above Shavrim\u2014far, far above him, leagues and leagues beyond the envelope of air that surrounded the world\u2014the heavens were shattered. What had been Adrash's greatest weapon, the ultimate symbol of his madness, a constant feature of the night sky generations of men had known as The Needle, now extended in broken orbit around the moon, each of its twenty-seven massive iron spheres spinning through the void on unplanned trajectories.\n\nNo longer in the god's control. No longer kept from falling.\n\nShavrim smiled, unashamed of the conflicting emotions the sight evoked. He admitted to himself that he was not quite happy, no, that in fact the sight of the world's approaching doom filled him with remorse\u2014but also that he felt a sense of satisfaction, of appropriateness, of _You've really done it now_. He considered with what emotion his lost siblings would have greeted the sight, and his smile widened. He said each of their names, names left unspoken for longer than he chose to remember. He spoke to them in a language the world forgot twenty-five thousand years ago.\n\nHis words were not, despite the evidence of his own eyes and hands, for the dead. He concentrated and projected them in a simple but taxing extension of will, broadcasting on a wavelength he alone had discovered, a wavelength unheard by anyone except the five ones caught in between, those unique souls who lingered in the spaces between life and death.\n\nSouls who, for many millennia, he had believed were constructs of his own madness.\n\n\"Sisters. Brothers,\" he said. \"This is the thing I would not admit aloud until now, but with the world on the brink of death, it seems a good time to unburden myself\u2014of delusion, perhaps, though if I'm to be honest (and why shouldn't I be?), I know there is no perhaps, no maybe. There is no delusion, only truth. Or rather, I should say _madness_ and truth. In each of the lives I live, in each of the voices of the past I let overtake me, your voices are clear. You are a constant, even in the madness I've allowed root. Your voices grow weak. They fade in and out, but they're always here.\"\n\nHe laid his left palm flat upon his chest. His right fist closed, and slowly his smile faded.\n\n\"You might wonder, why is it that brother has never spoken to us before\u2014why has he not sought to make contact with us? It's a good question, for which I have no proper answer other than cowardice. I died with you, and then woke to bury you. Some contact wounds, and never heals. You may as well ask why I've avoided Adrash. Fear. Fear of what you've each become in the absence of your bodies. I know myself, even when I'm not myself, for that person is only myself in a different guise, living another life. I do this so that I avoid absolute madness.\n\n\"And yet I do not _\u2014cannot_ \u2014know you. Not any longer. I am a body, and you are... I don't know what you are. Besides, it's been too long. I've forgotten too much. I've chosen to be alone, and grown used to it. Being alone is easier than having a family. When you have a family, you are responsible to each other. It's easier to navigate the world without that burden. Why should I be the one to live with it? Why must I be the eldest?\"\n\nHe sighed, shook his head. That last note of petulance, he wished he could take it back, reword it. It was too late in his long life to express such things, even to the wind. Every word\u2014he should not have spoken any of it. There was too much to say, and he was failing to communicate any of it.\n\nA northerly wind flowed over the rooftop, and he shivered.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" he said, disliking the weak sound of his voice. The act of projecting, of summoning ancient words and buried sentiment, had exhausted him. And he still had not voiced the most important of what must be voiced. He disliked entreaties.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" he repeated, nearing a whisper now. \"Look at the sky tonight, and know there is need for us yet. Yes, even as we are, mad and lost and even half rejoicing in what has occurred. We stood together once. We can do so again.\"\n\nHe closed his eyes, breathing deeply for the space of twenty doubled heartbeats.\n\n\"Please. Help me keep the world alive.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nHe listened, growing colder and more convinced of his foolishness as the moon and shattered sky passed slowly overhead. Less than an hour went by, yet it felt like three. When he finally admitted defeat and stood, his joints creaked. A new weight had settled into his bones. He suffered a moment of lightheadedness and wondered\u2014were he a normal man, if the moment would have inspired suicide. Perhaps it was the perfect time to pitch himself from the roof.\n\nIf he were a normal man, release would have been just that easy.\n\nNot for the first time, he considered the curses placed upon him.\n\nThe first:\n\nTo be so unreasonably loyal to mankind, knowing what he knew of its members. Their pettiness and greed, their pretensions of greatness. He had suffered more of their failures and fought in more of their wars than Adrash had, yet he was the one who could not fail to sympathize with them, to want more _for_ them. Oh, he had killed many of their number (just as often in joy as anger, truthfully), but this was no contradiction. Humanity existed as a mass, and only exceptionally as individuals.\n\nAnd individuality? This was his second curse:\n\nTo be alone. To think on the scale of a god, and have no other gods except the ones that had abandoned you. To have known how it feels not to be alone, and to have squandered it.\n\nHe considered aloneness as he descended from the rooftop and entered the games hall from which he ran his new territory. The air was warm inside, but not uncomfortably so. Despite the number of men and women gathered in friendly competition, it was not loud. People greeted him, though not warmly. They tried\u2014they always tried\u2014but he was simply too intimidating, too alien, looking nearly like a man without at all being a man. Furthermore, he was their leader. He moved among them like a predator, with odd grace for such a large person.\n\n\"Shav,\" said Laures, his first lieutenant, a woman chosen for her intelligence, but also for the fact that she rarely spoke more than his name. It amused him slightly, the fact of her faith: she worshipped the goddess Ustert. If only she knew what kind of creature his sister had been, how dependent she had been upon her twin, perhaps she would not be so warmly inclined. Usterti believed all the wrong things about their goddess. They had robbed her of her love, made her into a solitary creature.\n\nHe nodded to her on his way out the front door.\n\nInto the street, peaceful again. He looked either direction and set off south, intending to inspect the barricades...\n\n\u2021\n\nAnd fell to his knees.\n\nOut in the night, closer than he could have imagined, a voice spoke\u2014a voice he recognized instantly\u2014a coincidence too extraordinary given where his mind had only just passed.\n\n_Vedas Tezul_ , it said.\n\nShavrim toppled onto his side and shook violently upon the ground, struggling against the shock to his body and mind. He fought to order his thoughts, to respond before the connection was severed, but before any true headway could be made a second coincidence announced itself, its voice fainter than the first but equally distinct after so many thousands of years.\n\n_Churls Casta Jons_ , it said.\n\n\"I... I...\" Shavrim stuttered, jaws cramping and jumping. \"I... will... will...\" He bit down hard, speaking through gritted teeth. \"Find... you.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nHe received no confirmation that either had heard. He lay immobilized in the street until early morning, when his lieutenant Laures found him and dragged him inside. She said nothing. He stared up at her as she struggled with his awkward weight. He would not thank her, yet a portion of his mind felt gratitude, though not for her current efforts: perhaps thinking of her faith had allowed his mind to open just enough to let his sibling's voices in.\n\n_I am coming, bother_ , he thought. _I am coming, sister. We will be together soon. We will seal our fate, as a family_.\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nTHE 10TH TO 13TH OF THE MONTH OF SECTARIANS THE NEUAA SALT FLATS TO DANOOR, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN\n\nAfter the sun set, Churls shaved her head with his razor. She considered why she did it and arrived at no answer. She had never been one for symbols. Her hair had been short enough for the purpose, already.\n\nAfterwards, she cut a long rectangle of fabric from a sheet and wound it around her sinuous torso, flattening her breasts before fastening on a tight, stiff leather vest and back scabbard.\n\nAnother almost unnecessary act: her breasts were small enough, as they were.\n\nShe sneered at her face in the monastery's one mirror, a vanity item she had been surprised to find in the building's cellar, and wiped at a bead of blood on her scalp.\n\nHer reflection unnerved her. Nearly a week spent in bed recovering from from her injuries, followed by two weeks of waiting for her daughter to bring back good news from the city, had resulted in a visible change in her appearance. Her arms and thighs were thinner than she preferred. The freckles on her cheeks and shoulders, typically a near-solid mass of brownish red, had faded to a speckling.\n\nShe pulled on the pair of the rough woolen pants she had found in an alcove. They were looser than she preferred, binding in odd places. Why could men not fashion pants that fit properly?\n\nThe back of her neck began tingling.\n\n\"You can come in now, Fyra,\" she said.\n\nHer daughter sharpened into existence at Churls's side, colored all in shades of white but for the pale blue of her eyes. She stood to within a few inches of her mother's shoulder, and had not been alive for well over a decade.\n\nShe screwed her features into a grimace. \"It looks... bad. And it's bleeding in the back.\"\n\n\"Forgive my clumsiness,\" Churls said. \"I had a beard when I was your age, but it fell out when I had you. As a result, I'm a bit rusty at all this.\" She met the girl's unimpressed gaze and fought to keep the hope from showing on her own features. \"You're sure you've got a fix on them? You're sure\u2014about all three of them?\"\n\nFyra nodded. \"For the third time, mama, yes. I'll lead you right to them. If you want, I can...\"\n\nChurls buckled her belt. \"I don't want. To quote you: _for the third time_ , no. Also, to repeat myself, we have no idea what will happen to you if you're attacked by whatever sort of mage Fesuy's hired to shield Vedas and Berun from sight.\" _Not to mention keeping you at a long arm's length_ , she did not add. \"It's enough that I let you scout. I won't risk putting you in the midst of a fight with someone that strong.\"\n\nShe caught the slight upturning at the corners of the girl's mouth. \"And yes, that means I just admitted you're very strong. Still, you're not as strong as your mother. Not in the same way. And you're definitely not as mean. I won't hear any more about it.\"\n\nHer daughter said no more. A surprise. Churls had expected a rebuttal.\n\nShe felt grateful, but also slightly awkward about the exchange. Their banter, a thing that had only started in the absence of Vedas and Berun, seemed to proceed naturally enough between them\u2014as it should have for a mother and daughter alone, surely\u2014yet Churls could not escape the fact of its novelty. She and Fyra had never talked that way while the girl lived. She doubted its authenticity. Furthermore, to speak so casually inspired a sense of disloyalty. She could not sustain a constant state of worry over her missing companions, but suspected she should at least make the attempt.\n\nFyra cleared her throat. Made a throat-clearing sound, anyway.\n\n\"You're crying, mama.\"\n\nChurls wiped her eyes with a tattooed forearm. \"Shit,\" she whispered. She breathed deeply into her stomach. \"Fyra. You will not accompany me. I do this alone. Do what you like for me now, but you don't set foot beyond these walls. I need you to say you understand me.\"\n\nTo her credit, the child did not immediately agree. Churls approved.\n\n\"I understand, mama,\" Fyra said, \"and I mean it this time. I won't leave. But first, you need to promise _me_ something. Something big.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"You need to keep your promise. You need to tell him about me. About _us.\"_\n\nChurls tipped her head back to stare at the bare rock ceiling. The room suddenly seemed too close, crowded, as if the dead had gathered at her daughter's word. To hear Churls's answer.\n\n\"You don't know what you're asking,\" she said. \"There's no war against Adrash. Vedas failed to rouse anything but ire and violence. His speech threw the world into discord.\"\n\nShe pointed heavenward, gesturing beyond the tonnage of stone separating them from the wrecked night sky. \"He damned us all, and you know what, girl? I don't care, because in the end he was right. We've been living under threat for too long, cowed and in denial. If we all die in flames, we all die in flames, and there's nothing to be done. Not by you, not by me. I just want him back, and I'm going to get him back. Him _and_ Berun. Beyond that? You can't make me care beyond that\u2014not right now.\"\n\nFyra's hands tightened into fists at her hips.\n\n\"You lied to me.\"\n\nChurls's head dropped. A growl built low in her throat. Suddenly, the seven-hour hike to the city seemed like an interminable delay. She wanted everything over and done. She would see everything over and done, and then she would think.\n\nShe spoke slowly, carefully. \"I'm not saying I won't tell him, Fyra. I'm just saying it'll make no difference if I do.\" She looked up, offered the girl a weak smile neither of them believed. \"Now, please, do what you're going to do to help your mother save the day, alone, and then do nothing else.\"\n\nFor a moment, Churls thought her daughter would refuse, but the girl merely rolled her eyes and stepped forward into Churls, filling her with warmth and light.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe Nehuaa Salt Falts comprised nearly half of the area of northwestern Knos Min. The flat, featureless landscape had once been the bed of an inland sea scholars called Littleshallow, and now provided salt for an entire continent. A rainless, lifeless, maddeningly uninteresting terrain, it seemed the whole of the world when one traveled upon it. Any destination rose out of the cracked white floor as though floating, mountains and cities alike standing still in the vague distance, never growing any closer until one gratefully stumbled into them.\n\nTwenty miles of this landscape lay between the monastery and Danoor.\n\nChurls barely registered the distance or the time it took to cross it. She did not look behind her once to see the hills ringing the monastery fade into the night. She barely looked at the city before her. She ran, legs solid yet spring-light beneath her, losing herself easily in the rhythm of feet hitting earth. The quietly rational part of her mind worried what Fyra had done in order to allow her access to such an immense reservoir of energy\u2014worried what the wage would be when it inevitably ran out, and whether or not she should have saved it for later\u2014but she easily silenced it.\n\n_Too easily_ , she reasoned, and dismissed this too with a smile.\n\nHer fear, a thing she had barely allowed a voice. Erased entirely.\n\nHer annoyance at being forced into a concession, posing as a man. Gone.\n\nPoint in fact, she had not felt this good in a long time, certainly not since Vedas and Berun's abduction. In her current state, she found it surpassingly simple to absolve herself of the guilt she had given free rein for the last month.\n\nIt had not been her fault, the ambush. She could not have prevented it, given her knowledge at the time.\n\nHer anger had fled, as well. Berun had been right to swat her across the room\u2014an action that knocked her unconscious while simultaneously depositing her behind a row of crates. She had not appreciated how quickly the constructed man came to his conclusion and acted to keep her from being taken as well.\n\nOf course, no one liked waking up alone, abandoned in a dangerous city with a shattered clavicle and a row of broken ribs. A twenty-mile walk back to safe shelter would not help, either.\n\nNo wonder Fyra did not like being ordered to stay away. She had sobbed (rather, made the ghost motions of sobbing) when Churls collapsed at the top of the hill overlooking the monastery. Churls had nearly killed herself by walking so far with such injuries.\n\n\"You should've called to me, Mama,\" the girl had said. \"I would've heard. You make me so angry.\"\n\nChurls grinned at the memory. Damn, but she was enjoying herself.\n\nThe euphoria lasted until the moment she entered the city's outskirts and forced herself to a walk: an act that was like stopping a massive grinding wheel with bare hands, or swimming against a swiftly-flowing river. A sense of sadness overcame her, as of an opportunity lost. She could have kept going, cutting around the city, running until exhaustion overcame her. There she would have collapsed, succumbing to sleep without worry...\n\n\"Stupid useless fucking...\" she whispered, feeling like a fool.\n\nThe moon and scattered spheres of The Needle loomed full in the west, casting ample light into the deserted streets. When she had last passed through this part of the city, there were still people about, but now the buildings at the outskirts of Danoor stood abandoned\u2014that, or the people who lived in the low, red clay residences were keeping quiet, lights out.\n\nShe kept to the shadowed side of the street, moving deeper into the city, drawn without pause toward the target Fyra had planted in her mind. She unsheathed her short, dull sword and gripped the blade near the hilt for balance.\n\nIt felt good in her hand, warming to her touch quickly, as though coming to life.\n\nShe found herself grinning again, and realized she had been humming.\n\n\"Kill Rhythm,\" Battle March of the Third Castan Infantry.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe guard tried to scream. His tongue flicked through his teeth, pressing wet and warm against her palm. She clamped her hand tighter to his mouth as his life flowed down the front of his shirt. His struggles slowed, stopped, and she lowered him gently to the ground.\n\nShe admired the small ceramic knife in her hand\u2014it had been the guard's only a few seconds ago, before she slipped it from his hip sheath and used it to slit his throat\u2014and decided to keep it. She would finish Fesuy with her own sword, but the thought of using a Tomen weapon to strike the first blow struck her as poetically sound, appropriately disrespectful.\n\nA quick circuit around the house revealed no further guards, a fact which confirmed her impression of Fesuy Amendja. The man was arrogant, stupidly so. After the risky maneuver of leaping over the heavily-sentried barricade (an act that seemed to have cost her the last of Fyra's imparted vitality), she had encountered few men and even fewer women, all but three of whom she had been able to avoid. Those three had died easily.\n\nThough the sun still sat a half hour below the horizon, to have so few people about in a contested area seemed appallingly neglectful.\n\nShe picked the front door lock and entered the darkened two-storey building, dragging the dead guard with her.\n\nImmediately, she felt it. The muscles of her jaw suddenly tingled, as though she had bitten into a lemon. The sensation built until it was an ache, which quickly spread throughout the bones of her skull into a steady, pounding throb. Her knees nearly gave out, but she leaned her back against the door and rode out the worst of it. Surely, whatever Fyra had done to her caused an increased sensitivity to whatever magics were in the building.\n\nSurely, whatever Fyra had done to her would compensate to minimize the effects.\n\n_Any moment now..._ she thought. _Please..._ But the pain persisted.\n\nThe light warned her, a second too late. An elderly Tomen woman rounded the corner, stepping down from the stairs at the end of the hallway. She jumped when she saw Churls, dropping her lantern with a glass clatter.\n\nChurls flipped the ceramic knife. Underhanded, it was an awkward throw. The pommel glanced harmlessly off the woman's shoulder and struck the plaster behind her, but by that point Churls had already taken two steps in a run toward her target.\n\nThe woman got out one syllable of a warning or curse before Churls's forearm crushed her windpipe. Churls pinned her enemy against the wall and watched as the light fled from her eyes. For several seconds afterward, she held the woman there, heart pounding heavily enough to shake her entire body, breaths labored and painful as she struggled to keep them quiet.\n\nListening, over the roar of her pain.\n\nA footstep on the landing above. The strike of a phosphor match.\n\nBright spots swam before Churls's eyes as she hauled the dead woman out of this new person's line of sight. The muscles of her chest and stomach had tightened with the pain, constricting her. She could not breathe in enough air, and tore at the buttons of her vest, alleviating the pressure slightly.\n\nAbove her, voices. Two men. She recognized one of their words.\n\n_Shira_.\n\nHer eyes shot to the ceramic knife, which lay on the floor at the foot of the stairs.\n\nShe did not think. Thinking would do no good in her current situation.\n\nShe rounded the corner and charged up the steps, sword in hand. Both men stood, stunned into statues by her appearance. She ran the first through his left lung and slammed into the second, carrying them both to the floor. They rolled twice before she got the upper position, and then struck him twice, open-palmed and in quick succession, forcing shards of cartilage into his brain, killing him instantly. She stood and pulled her sword free of the first, hastening his death by drowning.\n\nThe house woke up around her. From the sound of it, there were far more than a handful of men. Perhaps Fesuy had not been so incautious, after all.\n\nShe ran down the hallway, where she knew Vedas and Berun would be found.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe two girls Fesuy had slept alongside\u2014she would not think of them as women\u2014sobbed in the corner. The man himself lay unconscious on the bed, naked, wrists and ankles tied and linked behind his back, bleeding into the sheets from a shallow cut on his temple. A heavy chair, propped against the doorknob, kept anyone from easily entering the room from the outside.\n\nOf course, every member of the household knew Fesuy would die if they tried to enter, and this kept them out. For now. It was only a brief matter of time before they stopped caring and came in, regardless of the threat to their leader.\n\nChurls finished her second search of the room, which every instinct told her _must_ contain Vedas and Berun, and limped over to the bed. Fesuy groaned as she flipped him over. When she wound his long red hair around her hand and pulled him onto the floor, he woke and began cursing her, first in Tomen and then, when she let his head drop onto the rough wood floor, in Common.\n\n\"... dick I'll rip out, your asshole I'll fill\u2014with blades I'll...\"\n\nShe knelt and slapped him, hard. \"Shut the fuck up. Where are they?\"\n\nHe started to speak, paused. She met his stare. When his eyes registered their recognition, she smiled. She pulled the knife he had kept in his bedside table from her boot and waved it. The pain in her jaw and temples had only increased, but she would not allow this to show on her face.\n\n\"So, you dress to look like a man,\" he said with a sneer. \"You should not worry about that. You looked enough like one, already. In this camp, no one would have touched you. I have fifteen men in this house, all unmarried, and not one could I have convinced to lay with you.\"\n\n\"Thirteen,\" she said. \"Your men are easy to kill.\"\n\nShe drew a shallow, straight cut on his lower stomach, and crossed it with another. He snarled and spit in her face.\n\n\"Where are they?\" she asked again, pointing the tip at the X's junction.\n\nHe spit again, and she pushed the knife into him.\n\nHe screamed. Fists pounded on the door.\n\n\"Where are they?\" she asked a third time, twisting the man's own blade in his guts. Not a fatal wound, not yet. He screamed again, louder, and the door jumped in its frame as his men hurled themselves against it. She stilled the knife and repeated her question, watching his face.\n\nHe tried to spit at her a yet again, and got it no farther than his own chin.\n\nShe took his face in her hands, leaving the knife sticking out of his belly. \"Where, Fesuy? You have them here. Tell me where they are, and I'll leave you to your men. A good healer will have you up and about in a couple weeks.\"\n\nHe began cursing in Tomen again, but his eyes gave him away.\n\nHer head whipped about to stare at the ceiling in the northwestern corner of the room. A ladder leaned against the wall underneath. It was an item she had mistaken as decoration, for which purpose they were sold throughout Danoor. She again hauled Fesuy by the hair, trailing blood behind. When the door burst open, she wanted him close at hand, but knew it would only stall the inevitable.\n\nShe needed to find Vedas and Berun. Now.\n\nThe ceiling was not high\u2014only seven feet or so. This fact had not struck her before, but now it seemed noteworthy. Even the hallways had been a greater height, maybe nine feet. She examined the corner Fesuy had focused on, and nearly cried out in her delight. A square had been cut out of the plaster. It lay nearly flush with the rest of the ceiling, rendering it nearly invisible.\n\nHer discovery had not been missed by Fesuy, who now began yelling instructions to his men. The door bucked harder in response.\n\nChurls knelt, pulled the knife from Fesuy's belly, and plunged it into his chest, straight through his sternum. She screamed, pulled it out and hammered it home again\u2014too hard: she felt something pop, something tear. She wished, for a handful of seconds while she stared at the hilt of the weapon protruding from him, gritting her teeth agony bloomed in her right shoulder, that she had been able to draw out his pain.\n\nShe recalled the earnest smile on his face, a several months ago, a lifetime ago, when he handed her a mejuan pod and they toasted it together. She recalled the smell of shit that rose from the body of the woman he killed the following morning.\n\nThe door burst open, sending the heavy chair crashing against the bed. Fesuy's men roared, and the girls in the corner screamed. Churls climbed the ladder and slammed her palm into the ceiling panel, shoulder screaming in protest.\n\nShe heard rather than felt the snap of bones in her hand. Uncaring, she hit the panel again. It levered up, and she pulled herself into the dark space beyond.\n\nEvery bone in her skull pulsed in redoubled white-hot agony. She shrugged it off as so much noise, slapped the ceiling door closed, and jammed the point of her sword into its unhinged edge. It would not hold against a concerted effort to open the panel, of course, but she hoped to have another solution soon.\n\nShe turned in a half-crouch, rapidly cataloguing the contents of the low room.\n\nNo windows. In the center, a single magelamp, set very low. A woman sitting behind it, eyes closed, legs crossed, apparently unaware of any cause for alarm. The mage.\n\nA mountainous, man-shaped heaping of brass spheres, dimly seen in the far corner.\n\nBeside it, a low camp bed. Upon it, a dark-clothed body.\n\n\u2021\n\nShe limped over to the mage and kicked her in the stomach.\n\nImmediately, the pain in her head ceased. She nearly fainted in relief.\n\nThe mage yelped as Churls pulled her head up by the hair. Her eyes slowly focused.\n\n\"Hello,\" Churls said through gritted teeth. \"I'm your new boss. You do what I fucking say, immediately. Show you understand me.\"\n\nThe mage nodded, fear in her eyes.\n\nChurls did not smile. \"Good. There are people trying to get in here, so you have only seconds to secure this room. Fail, and I kill you.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nTen seconds. Twenty. The pounding on the ceiling door continued. Thirty.\n\n\"Bitch,\" Churls said, tightening her grip on the mages' greasy hair. \"I'd take me _very_ seriously. Make this happen, _right n\u2014_ \"\n\nThe pounding stopped.\n\n\"They're asleep,\" the mage said. \"All of them.\"\n\n\u2021\n\n\"And me?\" Churls asked. \"Why am I not asleep?\" She needed to know what threat the mage was to her.\n\nThe woman swallowed, her eyes searching Churls's face. She was clearly Knosi, not Tomen. Potentially, a good sign: perhaps she had no loyalty to Fesuy.\n\n\"I'm not sure,\" she said. \"Something's standing in the way. I can't touch you.\" Panic crossed her features. She had admitted to trying it. \"Please... I wouldn't...\"\n\nChurls clapped the mage on the shoulder with her good hand. \"Yes, you would. Keep them asleep, and we all live for a bit longer.\"\n\nShe crossed the room to her companions, bent partially over to keep from brushing the ceiling. Vedas lay immobile, sheathed completely by his black elder-cloth suit\u2014worrying, as she had only seen him do so while conscious\u2014but his pulse and breathing were strong. Her eyes avoided the hollow of his belly, the prominence of his ribs. His arms and shoulders were noticeably smaller. Slowly, with one and good hand and a barely functional second, she untied his wrists, which had been tightly bound with steel cord to the bed.\n\nAs for Berun, she had no way of checking on his status or removing his immense shackles, and so ignored him for now.\n\n\"Vedas,\" she said. She put her hand to his chest and shook him slightly. \"Vedas.\"\n\nNo response. Churls limped back to the mage and crouched before her. The woman flinched away.\n\n\"What's wrong with them?\"\n\nThe mage's confusion was obvious. \"Asleep. I told you, everyone is asleep.\"\n\nChurls kept herself from slapping the woman, barely. \"Not them. Everyone sleeps but the people in this room. Wake them, now.\"\n\nShe did not wait for a reply, but went and knelt by Vedas's bedside again. She repeated his name, and waited as long as she could\u2014perhaps thirty seconds\u2014before turning back to the mage and gesturing her impatience. The mage, still obviously frightened, shook her head and protested ignorance.\n\n\"I don't know when they'll wake,\" she insisted when pressed. \"They make me keep them out for most of the day. I allow the Black Suit to wake for feeding and voiding himself, but they still make me keep him in a daze. It always takes him a while to come to, longer each time. I can't force it or I risk hurting him. The construct I've only allowed to wake twice so the Titled Amendja could speak with him. He was weak, nearly insensate, both times.\" She pointed toward the roof, only five feet overhead. \"The sun. He needs it, and I can only give him so much. Enough to keep him alive, no more.\"\n\nChurls stood to examine the roof. \"Increase the light,\" she ordered.\n\nThe magelamp brightened to a small sun, illuminating the bare room and revealing yet another ceiling panel above Vedas and Berun. Churls reached to unlatch it and paused.\n\n_\"Everyone_ is asleep?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" the mage said. \"And no one is on the roof.\"\n\nChurls open the panel, letting it fall back onto the roof. She looked quickly around to confirm what the mage had said, and also to determine if her assault on Fesuy's home had alerted any of the locals.\n\nNo one ran wild through the streets. She noticed a few more people about, though none seemed in any hurry. She relaxed slightly, thanking fate for thick, insulating clay walls.\n\nThe horizon glowed faintly, only forty or fifty minutes away from showing the sun. She wondered how long it would be before someone noticed the blood below the front door, noticed the missing guard, or failing either simply tried to enter the building for business. She doubted the mage could defend the entire structure from attack. Mages were specialists, after all: to become skilled in manipulating a man's consciousness took time and effort.\n\nShe checked on Vedas again, saw no change, and crossed the room again.\n\n\"Can you keep people from wanting to enter this building?\" she asked the mage. \"Or, better yet, can you make them disinterested in entering the building?\"\n\n\"Yes. I can turn individuals and maybe small groups away from this building.\" The mage met Churls's stare and held it. The woman's eyes were dull and half-lidded. She had been overexerting herself or\u2014more likely, Churls imagined\u2014had been forced to overexert herself. Nonetheless, there was now a note of defiance in her expression. She had realized her value to Churls.\n\n\"But I can't do it and keep everyone asleep,\" the mage said. \"It's just too much.\"\n\nChurls sat back, and for a moment refused to think.\n\nThe moment passed, and her shoulders slumped.\n\n\"Fuck,\" she said. \"Fuck, fuck, fuck.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nChurls could not trust the mage not to wake everyone in the home once she was otherwise occupied. As a result, Churls brought the woman along.\n\nBlindfolded, as she could not conceive of forcing anyone to watch her at her task.\n\nNonetheless, the mage understood what was occurring immediately. Even an unconscious body made noise in the process of dying. Inside the house, it was very quiet.\n\nThankfully, killing the two girls Fesuy had bedded proved unnecessary. They would not be able to escape the bonds and gags Churls used to restrain them. The rest, however, were clearly warriors, capable of a great deal more. She could not risk one getting loose, and so did what needed to be done. It remained a far, far from pleasant task\u2014she had never killed an unconscious person, even an enemy\u2014but at least, she reasoned, they were not the sort of men the world needed in greater quantities.\n\nShe breathed a sigh of relief: it seemed the only innocent death on her hands would be that of the woman she had killed upon entering the building. Then, in a small, nearly overlooked room on the first floor, she discovered two small children.\n\nShe removed the mage's blindfold and forced the woman to look.\n\n\"Dear Adrash,\" the mage whispered. Her eyes were wet, but her disgust with Churls was clear. \"Why are you showing me this?\"\n\nChurls laughed without humor. \"I'm showing you because something needs to be done. I won't kill them or tie them up, and I have no way to get them somewhere beyond these walls. There's too great a chance of our being discovered, even if I could get them to a place of relative safety. Tell me you can push yourself a bit harder.\"\n\nThey regarded one another. Churls anticipated the woman's refusal, and her resentment flared. The woman had allowed Fesuy to capture Vedas and Berun, an extraordinary feat considering their combined abilities. She had kept Fyra from finding them for an extended period of time. And now, now she would make an argument as to why a simple task could not be done?\n\nChurls curled the fingers of her left hand into a fist.\n\n\"Please,\" she forced herself to say, voice flat.\n\nSlowly, as if to draw out her slight success, the mage nodded. \"I'll need them closer to me, however. That will make it easier.\"\n\nChurls took one child in her arms, the mage took the other, and they returned to the attic.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe day began, entering the room from its sharp angle to crawl slowly down the western wall. Neither Vedas nor Berun woke. Instead of watching time pass, Churls occupied herself by fetching bedding for the unconscious children and dragging bodies one-handed to the cellar. She made a good sweep of the floors, as the thought of tracking blood around the house sickened her.\n\nWhen she could not rationalize avoiding it any longer, she explained the situation to the two frightened girls trussed on Fesuy's bed. They stared at her, comprehending only with repetition. Clearly, each had been sheltered and understood little of the language used beyond their country's border. Both looked horrified by the suggestion that Churls would assist them in using the toilet. They did not want her to touch them for any reason.\n\nChurls sighed. \"Fine. Piss and shit yourselves all you want. When you need water, you'll let me know in your own way.\"\n\nShe checked with the mage, who assured her that all was well, that she had deterred three people from approaching the house. The morning became afternoon. Her companions continued to resist waking, and so Churls took another camp bed from one of the lower rooms and placed it alongside Vedas's. She held his limp hand and did not sleep. She could not sleep, in fact\u2014for fear of the mage trying something odd in her absence, but also, simply, because she had run out of tasks to keep her mind distracted. Even her worry over the fate of Vedas and Berun, the constant factor that had kept her from taking the broader view, was now at an end.\n\nWhatever happened, would happen together.\n\nThis realization brought her comfort, but also consternation. She could no longer ignore the world around her\u2014a world going mad.\n\nA world that her lover had brought into existence.\n\nThis fact bothered her less than she would have imagined. Truthfully, it distressed her more that she could not summon the expected outrage, that she had not lied to her daughter. Vedas had been right to deliver his speech, exhorting men to stand with each other against Adrash. She approved of it, still, despite the chaos it had created. Staring at the night sky, denying or openly accepting the reality of what The Needle represented for generation after generation: neither spoke well of mankind. Both perspectives had warped the world into a place where no progress could occur.\n\nWhy labor to change anything when it might soon come to naught?\n\n_Better to stir the pot slowly, or not at all. Keep shuffling into tomorrow_.\n\nShe could no longer countenance a world like that, but berated herself for being so brutal in her assessment. How could she look at the falling sky and prefer it to an uncertain, but certainly longer, future? (A preference, she reminded herself, even Vedas did not share. He persisted in punishing himself for what he had done.) Surely, men could do nothing to stop Adrash from exerting his will.\n\nIn this light, mankind standing up for itself made no difference. Was it not a sign of their immaturity that anyone would rail against the inevitable, fighting the unstoppable?\n\n_No_ , she insisted, against all logic.\n\n_No more bowing_ , she thought. _No more accepting our fate calmly_.\n\n\u2021\n\nAt the end of the world, she had begun to believe in something.\n\nShe found herself half hoping to stop.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"Madam?\"\n\nChurls jumped. She had not been asleep, but she had not been properly awake, either. \"Yes?\" she asked, blinking away the brightness of the sky through the open ceiling panel.\n\n\"The big one\u2014Berun. He is waking.\"\n\nShe rolled onto her feet and knelt near the constructed man's head, staring into the coal-black spheres of his eyes, which gradually began to glow reassuringly blue. She laid her hand on one massive, rubbled shoulder. Cold marbles under her palm.\n\n\"Berun,\" she said. \"I'm here. It's Churls.\"\n\nThe mage cleared her throat. \"I might not stand so close to him.\"\n\nChurls grinned, and only flinched slightly when Berun shuddered and then heaved himself up from the floor, straining against the massive iron manacles bolted into the floor at his wrists and ankles, mouth opening and closing in silence. She kept her hand on his shoulder, and continued to repeat his name and tell him hers.\n\nJust as suddenly as he had woken, he went still, falling back to the floor with a thump Churls felt through her feet. She leaned forward and shielded his brow as the glow began to fade from his eyes.\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"No, Berun. Come back, right now.\"\n\nA low sound, barely audible, came from his open mouth\u2014the call of a bass horn from two battlefields away. Churls bent her ear to catch it.\n\n\"... you. Safe. Vedas. Safe?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"We're both safe, though Vedas hasn't woken yet and we're stuck in the middle of Fesuy's territory.\" She squinted above her head. \"There's a skylight. I have as much sun coming in as possible, but I worry it's not enough. You have to be able to move, and soon. We don't have all the time in the world.\"\n\n\"I feel it, Churls. Thank you.\"\n\nFor several moments he remained silent, and Churls assumed he had said all he would.\n\nAnd then:\n\n\"Two days.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nAt midnight, the mage called from above. Churls stopped her restless pacing along the second-floor hallway and climbed the ladder to the attic.\n\n\"He's waking, but slowly,\" the mage said. \"Don't force it.\"\n\nChurls turned toward Vedas, but the mage called her back. In the magelight, the woman's reddened eyes were entirely without white. They reflected no light, as though completely dry. Blood-colored sleep granules had gathered in their corners. Her lips were cracked, around them a layer of white crust: dried spit, of course, but also a fair bit of the bonedust she had been surviving on for several days.\n\n\"I can't keep this up,\" she said. \"I need a rest.\"\n\nIt was easy to believe her, yet... \"How did you cope when Fesuy was running things?\"\n\nThe mage's smile was ugly. \"You killed my replacement, Shouz. He wasn't very good\u2014he'd never been trained properly\u2014but he serviced for a few hours every night.\"\n\n\"I can't think about this right now.\" Churls looked across the room to Vedas, bathed in moonlight, and her left foot stepped in his direction of its own accord. She paused just before reaching him, however, and cursed. Without the mage, they would be ruined. \"No. Never mind. I do need you. I'll arrange something after he wakes. _After_. One more hour, you understand? Then you can rest. I promise I'll find a way.\"\n\nVedas's chest rose under her palm. He moaned. She brushed her hand along his arm, noting its thinness with sorrow, and intertwined her fingers with his. Her heart shuddered against her ribs, caused her throat to constrict with its feverish beating. She flushed, feeling the stare of the mage at her back, and nearly let go of his hand. Instead, she gripped it tighter.\n\n\"I'm right here, Vedas. Wake up. Let me know you're alive.\"\n\nThe black elder-cloth peeled back from his eyelids, and he turned his head toward her. His eyes vibrated visibly in their sockets as he tried to focus on her. Slowly, as if struggling to control it, he caused the elder-cloth to retreat further, revealing the gauntness of his bearded face. She kept the worry from clouding her features, or hoped she did.\n\n\"It looks good,\" he croaked. His hand tightened around hers. \"I like it.\"\n\nShe smiled and shook her head. \"Fuck if it does. I look like a melon.\"\n\nHe chuckled, which began him coughing. He let go of her hand and levered himself into a sitting position with obvious difficulty, protesting her assistance. For a moment, his entire body shook. She gave him water. He drank it slowly, displaying his rare and sometimes rather maddening capacity for self-control.\n\nNo throwing up water for Vedas Tezul. Regardless of how thirsty.\n\n\"Berun?\" he asked.\n\n\"Don't answer,\" she answered before the constructed man had an opportunity to speak for himself. \"Conserve your energy.\" She turned back to Vedas. \"I'll sum everything up for you: It's the twelfth of Sectarians. That makes it almost three weeks that you've been kept here. It took me that much time to recover and then locate you, longer than I'd hoped. Berun tells me it'll be two days before he's ready to leave. We'll need him at full capacity.\"\n\nHer voice dropped. \"I don't know if we can rely on Fesuy's mage to shield us from view completely.\"\n\nVedas looked over her right shoulder, expression unreadable. \"She's keeping people out? Impressive. What about Fesuy\u2014the others? Everything's cloudy in my mind, but I seem to recall quite a few of them.\"\n\n\"Sixteen soldiers, including Fesuy. Plus one woman\u2014a maid, maybe. All dead.\" She held his gaze until it became clear he would add nothing to this pronouncement, and pointed to the southeastern corner of the room. \"I found two children on the bottom floor. The mage agreed to keep them asleep. And in Fesuy's bedroom are two girls trussed up like calves, probably shitting themselves as we speak. I think they think I'm some sort of sexless monster.\"\n\nHe raised his eyebrows, thoughts left unsaid.\n\n\"You're tired,\" he eventually said. He stared at her puffy right hand. \"You're hurt.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"My shoulder's not feeling so great, either.\"\n\nHe lifted his left hand and looked at it, clearly concentrating. It took several dozen heartbeats, but eventually, crawlingly, the elder-cloth retreated from the tips of his fingers, up to the second joint of each digit. The skin revealed was a markedly lighter shade of brown than that of his face and neck, the color of diluted coffee.\n\nShe closed her eyes as he ran his fingertips over her bristly scalp. He traced the seams of her skull. Gently, she pulled him toward her.\n\nThey kissed, both tasting horrible, neither caring.\n\n\u2021\n\nVedas offered to accompany her on the roof while the mage slept, but she declined. Considering his condition, she thought it best that he raid Fesuy's icebox and fall asleep with a full stomach, which, despite his protestations to wakefulness, he did promptly upon finishing his meal.\n\nShe paced alone, a mindless circuit: Around the roof in one direction until she reached the skylight. Turn back. Around again in the opposite direction. Her mind wandered aimlessly, snapping back to task at the slightest sound or movement in the streets. Near dawn, just as she began to ask herself whether or not it was wise to be sleepwalking so close to a twenty-five-foot fall, it happened.\n\nA shadow passed across the moon.\n\nShe crouched, peering up to see a line briefly bisecting the bone-white circle.\n\nA tail\u2014she knew it instantly. She had heard the rumors of the man who had once been a tamer and now controlled a significant portion of the city. They said he had brought his pet with him, though as far as she knew no one had actually seen it.\n\nHer eyes tracked the animal's flight. Its form was difficult to determine against the night sky: gliding rapidly over the rooftops, blotting out stars as it went, the details pieced together only gradually to form an image. The gull-like wings, which appeared overlarge when compared to the thin, streamlined body at their juncture. The long, arrow-shaft-straight neck led by a smallish tapering head. Lastly, the tail, which stretched behind to nearly twice the length of the neck.\n\nWhen she had turned three complete circles to follow its flight, realization struck.\n\nIt was becoming larger.\n\nShe turned toward the skylight just as the mage screamed.\n\nVedas had reached her by the time Churls dropped into the attic. He straddled the woman's chest as her body spasmed beneath him. Elbows locked, he pressed her head to the floor, palms tight over her eyes. Churls came to his side and immediately surmised that his efforts would fail. Blood poured from beneath his hands, pooling quickly under the mage's head. Already, her spasming was dying down.\n\n\"Leave her,\" Churls said. \"She's dead already.\"\n\nHis posture did not relax. \"What's happening?\" he yelled.\n\nBefore she could reply, a crash sounded behind them. Berun had ripped his manacles free of the floor. He rose, each of his thousand joints creaking shrilly, standing with half of his broad torso above the skylight. Churls watched him turn a slow circle, tracking the beast on its flight.\n\nVedas stood beside her, bloody hands on his knees. She waited until his coughs subsided.\n\n\"Do you remember a rumor about a man with a dragon?\" she asked. \"A man they call the Tamer?\"\n\n\u2021\n\nAfter several revolutions and one aborted attempt to lift himself onto the roof, Berun sagged, propping himself up against the skylight.\n\n\"It's coming down,\" he said, voice disconcertingly faint. \"Go.\"\n\nHis companions refused. Vedas readied the two children as Churls climbed down to untie the girls on Fesuy's bed. She slapped them into wakefulness and led them around the room to get the blood back into their limbs. They stumbled and righted themselves, terrified of her, not wanting to be touched. Vedas pushed a screaming child into each of their chests and yelled.\n\n\"Fao! Fao!\" _Go! Go!_\n\nThe girls hardly needed to be told. Both were gone without a word or backward glance. The front door slammed as they exited the house, and Churls let out a deep breath she had not realized she had been holding. She gripped Vedas's hand, tugged him weakly toward the attic.\n\nHe resisted. \"Why here? Why now?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" She ran a shaking hand over her face. \"No, I suppose I do. It makes sense. He runs part of the city. Fesuy was a rival. When I killed him and forced the mage to focus on keeping people out, the secret became plain to any mage hired to listen to the right voices. This man\u2014The Tamer\u2014he's come to claim Fesuy's land before someone else does.\"\n\nThey stared at one another. He opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. She closed her eyes tightly against the world while she worked out things she suspected would appear simple in any other state of mind.\n\n\"No, you're right,\" she said. \"He could've attacked Fesuy any time he liked.\" She nodded upward. \"There's a dead woman there to prove it. Not only that. He has a wyrm. Why hasn't he used it before now?\"\n\nShe did not wait for his answer. It would not have mattered, she supposed: they were not leaving Berun alone, frozen into place where he stood, an easy target for the wyrm's grasping claws. She climbed to the attic, Vedas at her heels. They squeezed around the inert form of the constructed man and stood on the rooftop, searching the sky.\n\nVedas gasped. Churls followed his gaze and only just kept from following suit. She had been looking high, hardly expecting the animal to have banked so sharply into a descent\u2014to be so near. Instead of measuring its body against the stars, she now tracked its movement relative to the vertical wall of Usveet Mesa. Moonlight played along metallic purple-black scales, shifting focus from one wing to the other as the animal altered course to keep its lower wingtip from brushing the occasional three- or four-storey building.\n\n\"Orrus Dabil Alachum,\" he swore. \"It's huge. I heard the stories, but I never imagined... It's going to collapse the entire building when it lands.\"\n\nChurls smiled grimly in agreement and sat. She patted the rooftop next to her. \"Nothing we can do then, is there? Besides, it's better to be on top of a falling house than inside it. Sit with me, Vedas.\"\n\nHe stared down at her, clearly at a loss. She sympathized.\n\n\"Is that you, Churls?\" he asked. \"Churli Casta Jons does not\u2014\"\n\n\"Churli Casta Jons is injured and exhausted,\" she said. She patted the rooftop again.\n\nHe sat, and together they waited.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe pressure of the wyrm's downbeating wings pressed them flat, driving the air out of their lungs. The gale ripped tears from Churls's eyes, but she refused to look away as the sky above her was eclipsed, becoming a massive, heaving reptilian belly. The beast fell and seemed to continue falling until surely she must be crushed. Vedas gripped her hand tightly enough to grind her knucklebones together, but she barely felt it. Her mind had become a howling cacophony. She anticipated nothing, patient while her lungs burned for air, lost in wonderment and terror.\n\nHuge, carriage-sized talons spread to grip either side of the rooftop, causing the entire clay structure to groan like a living thing and crack like falling timber. Even when the wyrm settled itself and the pressure in here ears finally let up, noise enveloped her. A massive sound, as though a thousand bellows were being compressed simultaneously, came from above.\n\nBreathing. The expansion and contraction of lungs larger than herself.\n\nThe spell broke, and she remembered her own body's need. She inhaled, far too fast. Pain stabbed through her chest and she rolled onto her side, shaking as her lungs seized inside her. She thought with a clarity that surprised her...\n\n_Hypnotized by a bloody big lizard. What an idiot thing to happen_.\n\nShe finally regained control of herself and pushed up into a crouch, holding out a steadying hand to Vedas as he got shakily to his feet beside her.\n\nThe wyrm's belly heaved above them, a smoothly muscular wall of alien flesh. When the animal breathed in, its scales lowered near enough to touch. The house continued to groan under Churls and Vedas, quaking alarmingly with every shift of the wyrm's wings\u2014wings that extended over several nearby buildings, shielding the sky from view entirely. It was said by men who made their livings along the deeper shorelines of Knoori that oceanic creatures could reach an enormous span, but without water to support a body, how could it possibly... much less fly...\n\nChurls and Vedas exchanged a wide-eyed look, and she surprised herself by recalling a moment when, as a child, she and a neighbor boy had nearly been trampled by a draft horse that reared before them. They had shared the same stunned expression of horror and amazement.\n\n\"The head,\" Berun said, voice almost unheard over the sound of the wyrm's breathing. His next words were lost, merely a fading brassy undertone.\n\nThe head. Churls and Vedas turned to watch it swing in toward them upon its long neck, its perpetually grinning visage growing and taking on definition. It was a great, predatory wedge, bony and sinewy and blunt, filled with recurved teeth that hung down from its upper jaw even with its mouth closed tight. Its eyes burned with a visible amethyst light and smoke poured from its nostrils. Long past the point where Churls thought it would stop growing, it grew, until it was before her\u2014massive, an entire creature of its own. Able, should it choose to, swallow her whole without pausing to chew.\n\nA man sat upon it. He slid down its side and dropped onto the roof.\n\nIt took several seconds for Churls to see him as anything other than a small thing standing next to the wyrm's gigantic head. She blinked, and the image reoriented itself.\n\nHe was not a small creature, except by comparison to his pet. Though not unusually tall (she marked him at a little over six feet in height), he was immensely broad through the shoulders, chest, and thighs. In loose-fitting garments, he might fool someone into believing him fat, but his tight, sleeveless vest clearly strained against slabs of muscle. She knew his belly, ample though it was, would be a solid drum if collided with it. It would be ridged with muscle, a steel washboard.\n\nThis was a man not easily knocked down, or even swayed from side to side.\n\nHe wore a leather cap and a pair of smokeglass goggles. She could not yet tell the color of his skin or determine a likely nationality.\n\n\"You are Churls and Vedas,\" he said. He spoke softly in a baritone rumble, yet it carried easily over the sound of the wyrm's bellows-breathing. He looked down at the constructed man near Churls's feet, torso half-in, half-out of the skylight. \"And this, I assume, is Berun.\"\n\n\"Well done,\" Churls said. \"You know our names and you ride a dragon, and I bet they call you the Tamer for fairly obvious reasons. What do you want?\"\n\nTo her annoyance, he chuckled. He took a step forward, and she tensed. Vedas did not move perceptibly, but the elder-cloth closed around his features. She wondered why he had not done this earlier\u2014it would have helped him breathe as the wyrm came down\u2014and realized he had likely decided not to on account of her. She could not be shielded from it, and so neither could he.\n\nShe clenched her teeth and put her hand on the pommel of her sword. She was not as good with her left arm, and the weight of her gimp right shoulder would throw her off. Still, her opponent stood unarmed.\n\n_Next to a dragon_ , she reminded herself.\n\nThe Tamer stopped after two steps, smile in place. He held up a broad, placating hand.\n\n\"To talk to you,\" he said. \"That's what I want, and all I expect. If, afterwards, you decide to accompany me, so much the better.\"\n\n\"Accompany you?\" Vedas asked. He exchanged a glance with Churls. \"That won't be happening.\"\n\n\"So certain,\" the Tamer said. He lifted his goggles, turned on his heel, and walked to the edge of the roof. \"I'd not speak so hastily.\" He waved them forward over one shoulder, not looking to see if they came. \"Fesuy had a sizable population of dangerous men under his control\u2014warriors with considerable martial skill, Tomen mages with less, and even a few rented mages of other nationality. A few of these last possess considerable talent, enough to do damage to anyone left on this roof. They're waking up along with the rest.\"\n\nHe turned back, seemingly unsurprised that neither Churls nor Vedas had moved. He patted the side of the wyrm's head. The animal did not react: it was a stone fallen from the sky, still smoldering.\n\n\"Try as she might, Sapes can never keep from causing a stir when she lands. This time, we even lost the element of surprise. I went out of my way to alert you to our arrival. I assumed you wouldn't run, and I was right.\" His smile returned. Despite herself, Churls noted that while he was not attractive, he had a distinct charisma. \"I mean it as a gesture of trust between us. I'm dealing with you openly, making my intentions obvious.\"\n\nChurls heard shouts from the streets below. \"Make them more obvious,\" she said.\n\nThe Tamer nodded. \"I'm no friend to Adrash. Neither are the three of you.\" His eyes locked on Vedas. \"I believe your words were, _Our fellow man is not the enemy. Adrash is the enemy_. They're words I agree with exactly, words that seem to have sparked a reaction in the heavens. You've been blamed for beginning the end of the world. You no doubt believe yourself responsible.\"\n\nVedas remained silent. He could have denied it, Churls reasoned, but anyone would have pegged it as a lie. He had delivered his speech, whereupon the whole of Danoor had witnessed the rise of the fractured Needle. There was no one else to blame.\n\nShe expressed as much.\n\n\"Attaching blame doesn't solve every mystery,\" the Tamer said. \"There are times when events coincide in such a way that the answer seems obvious, but is in fact a greater mystery. This is such a time. I know the only man who could be responsible. He is an elderman by the name of Pol Tanz et Som\u2014a mortal creature like you, now likely dead.\"\n\nVedas made a sound halfway between sigh and groan. \"And? Get to the point.\"\n\nThe Tamer quirked an eyebrow. \"I thought the news would be welcome. You are absolved of guilt.\"\n\n\"A name is all you've given us, and a name is useless. The situation is unchanged. Offer us something, or leave.\"\n\nA shout sounded from the street. Very close. Fear of the wyrm would keep Fesuy's people away for a few minutes yet, Churls guessed, but it was only a matter of time before the line broke. She did not want to go with the Tamer, but he had forced their hands by killing the mage. He held every advantage. They were treed prey, and he knew it. Whether or not he minded drawing the moment out, however, resulting in the injury or death of one of them\u2014this remained to be seen.\n\nHer gaze fell upon Berun, inert and vulnerable.\n\n\"The Tamer won't leave us here,\" she said to Vedas. \"One way or the other, we're going. It might as well be now.\"\n\nVedas shook his head in disagreement.\n\nChurls resisted the urge to swear. \"Quickly, then, both of you. Come to some kind of terms.\"\n\nThe Tamer removed his goggles and leather cap, revealing two tiny horns that sprouted from his forehead, mirror-images of the ones Black Suits such as Vedas wore on the hoods of their elder-cloth suits. He dipped his head at Vedas, as if to acknowledge this fact.\n\n\"I offer this: an opportunity to change the world. To free men of tyranny.\" He lifted both hands to the sky. \"The proof is above us, Vedas Tezul. Adrash's will is not total. Tell me this displeases you. Tell me, and I'll go away.\"\n\nVedas said nothing.\n\nThe Tamer did not press his advantage by raising his voice in encouragement. He did not proselytize obviously. Instead, his voice dropped nearly to a whisper.\n\n\"Come with me,\" he said, \"and I'll show you how to make good on your word. I'll show you a way to stop hating yourself for what you _think_ you've done.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nIt was this last statement, Churls knew, that decided him. Without a path to redemption, a man would watch the world burn. With a measure of hope, the same man...\n\nWell. He would not be the same man, would he?\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nTHE 12TH TO 13TH OF THE MONTH OF SECTARIANS DANOOR, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN\n\nAfter they arrived in the Tamer's quarter of the city, she waited long enough to confirm that Berun remained undamaged from the flight (a handful of minutes exposed to the slanted morning sunlight allowed him enough energy to utter three words: \"Go, Churls. Rest.\") before she collapsed onto the bed in the room provided for her and Vedas.\n\nExhaustion should have taken her immediately. When it did not, she lay perfectly still, pretending at sleep. She listened to Vedas as he paced, sat for minutes in heavy silence, and got up again. He held his breath and let it out explosively. Finally, at the point where words seemed ready to erupt from him\u2014at the point where she nearly gave up, herself, and admitted to being awake\u2014he exited the room.\n\nShe sighed in relief, and rearranged herself into a more comfortable position.\n\nNo, she did not want to talk yet about what had happened. She felt, in fact, that the issue need not be confronted at all. Vedas could feel betrayed by her insistence that he come to a resolution with the Tamer for as long as he needed: eventually, he would admit the situation atop Fesuy's roof had been unworkable. To take the stand that he had in delaying an inevitable decision, letting pride cloud fact for even a moment, had revealed more about himself than she considered wise.\n\nThey had already given up something by trusting the Tamer. Vedas need not volunteer more by making his fears so apparent.\n\nHe had not needed more information atop the roof. He had needed to be convinced to step off the roof.\n\nSleep came halfway. She lay awake but dreaming, reliving the flight from Fesuy's territory: the exhilarating drop of her gut as the wyrm rose in mammoth surges, its wings snapping like ship sails\u2014the spaceless, agreeably nauseating moment of freefall during each upthrust\u2014the wind warm but cutting over her scalp, in her eyes, pushing her first one way in the saddle and then the other, now and then slamming into her as though trying to toss her out into space\u2014and over it all, the sound of breathing, titanic and utterly inhuman. No shift from inhalation to exhalation, just one long sustained howl of air sucked into the creature's cavernous lungs, a roar that filled every open space in Churls's body, forcing the awareness of her own fragility.\n\nShe had loved every horrifying second, and loved every second again, momentarily safe and warm, bathed in sunlight from the open window. The waking dream hardly needed improving the third and fourth time around, yet she managed it: instead of gripping the handles of the saddle, Vedas wrapped his arms around her stomach, pressing his chest against her back, his rough cheek against hers. She gripped the hard cords of his forearms, laughing at his childlike fear, careless in a way the world never seemed to allow. When the wyrm suddenly dropped toward an open area of ground at the northern tip of the city, he squeezed the air from her lungs.\n\nThey landed, and entered a bedroom filled with morning light. She took him on the floor, roughly, and then let herself be taken on the bed.\n\nShe woke fully and masturbated while her arousal remained, before Vedas returned. Using her left hand, it took longer than usual.\n\nThe act left her with the vague feeling of guilt, a feeling she expected and dismissed with a small measure of difficulty. She would not be celibate with herself, not in her fourth decade and certainly not with the world in the state it was, yet she also comprehended how little experience Vedas had with intimacy. Unjust though he undoubtedly knew it was, he would be hurt to discover her pleasuring herself. He understood the baser needs of a person only in theory.\n\nDenial had long since become his way of life.\n\nWhile she could respect this measure of discipline in a man, she regretted the ways in which it made him inflexible, unwilling to give himself over to joy. Vedas had taken to physical intimacy with an intensity, single-mindedness, and talent she had anticipated, enjoyed, and lamented. She wanted him to stop thinking for one damn minute of his life, yet knew he would not. Not now, having had a hand in plunging the world into madness.\n\nShe growled into her pillow. It tired her to think of him any longer, to consider her prize, and how it was not perfect. He had given more of himself than she had ever believed he could.\n\nHer own selfishness gnawed at her, and eventually carried her into dreamless sleep.\n\n\u2021\n\nSomeone called her name. She came out of sleep with the back of her neck tingling.\n\nInstinctively, she knew it was well past midnight, into yet another day, and that she was alone. Vedas had chosen a bed in another room. She thought it likely he had not done it out of spite, but kindness\u2014to allow her uninterrupted rest. It was exactly the kind of decision he would make.\n\n\"When are you going to learn?\" she mumbled, then: \"You can come in, Fyra.\"\n\nHer daughter materialized at the foot of the bed. Churls resented the smirk, but said nothing.\n\n\"You're hurt,\" the shade of a girl said.\n\nChurls held up her puffy right hand. \"I am.\"\n\n\"Your shoulder too, and your left ankle. I can fix them.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"But I'm not going to, am I?\"\n\nChurls let the question hang between them. The girl sought only to help, and it cost Churls nothing to accept. It would make them both happier. Churls tried to remember what her own mother had denied her. Less than she had shared, surely. The woman had allowed far too much, making it easy for Churls to disappear into the ranks of the infantry, ducking her responsibility to Fyra.\n\nMother and daughter stared at one another, the bed an ocean separating them. Churls considered how maddening it was, having a child. It had always seemed to consist of such awkward moments, where an errant word could tear everything apart.\n\n\"Fyra,\" she said. \"I'd like to stop having the same conversations. How about you?\"\n\nThe girl squinted, skeptical. \"Sure,\" she said.\n\n\"Good. Then we'll start right here.\" Churls patted the bed before her, and forced an approving smile when the girl sat. She held out her broken hand, wincing at the twinge in her shoulder. \"Encourage it on its way, Fyra. Don't fix it completely\u2014just do enough to make it heal faster. No, I don't want to go over why. You know why, because I've said it over and over again. When I'm ready to reveal you to Vedas, I will. Nothing you can say will make it go faster, so just leave off it. Either that, or do it yourself. I can't stop you talking to him.\"\n\n\"No,\" the girl said. \"I'm not going to do that, even though he should know about me. He already guesses something. He saw you _glowing_ , Mama.\"\n\nShe had a point, one Churls had been studiously avoiding thinking about for months now. On their journey to Danoor, their ship had breached in the shallows of Tan-Ten, and only Fyra's assumption of Churls's body had saved them. It was madness to deny this event, yet Vedas seemed equally intent on letting it pass out of memory, or at least conversation.\n\nThough grateful for this unexpected pass, their willingness to hide from one another saddened her. He had seen her naked many times\u2014had seen her womb-birth scar, as obvious as a tattoo.\n\nInstead of arguing the point, Churls simply nodded. \"Then why not tell him? It should be easy for you. You're not bound by all of these\u2014\" She waved her good hand around. \"\u2014rules, are you? You don't have to pay attention to me. You can do whatever you want.\"\n\nFyra shrugged. \"What I want to do is keep my promises.\" She poked her index finger into the flesh of her mother's palm.\n\nWarmth radiated into Churls, ceasing her aches. She closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure. If she had access to Fyra's abilities, she would never have to worry about money again. No drug had ever worked so quickly. It loosened her tongue.\n\n\"You were always too serious, daughter. Promises are for adults to try to keep. When you're young, you lie, and you get away with it because you're young. Be young\u2014you might like it.\" She opened one eye to look at the girl. \"Besides, you never told me you wouldn't tell him.\"\n\nFyra shrugged. \"I can make a promise to myself.\"\n\nChurls chuckled. \"Thank you.\"\n\n\"You're welcome.\"\n\nThe oddly companionable silence stretched. Churls enjoyed it, keenly aware of how imperfect the world was. How imperfect it had always been. Men deluded themselves when they believed in _better days_ , some bygone era when the sun shone brighter. Better days had never existed. Joy had always been stolen, and sweeter because of that fact.\n\nIt ended when Fyra removed her finger from Churls's palm, forcing unclouded awareness once again.\n\n\"How did you know it was safe to come?\" Churls asked.\n\n\"It wasn't easy,\" Fyra said. \"You told me I couldn't leave to look for you, so I had to get someone else to do it. Her name was Elya. She died in the city a few months ago, when the riots started. She didn't want to do anything for me at first, but I was nice to her. I showed her how to do some things, and so she found you.\"\n\nChurls was tempted to ask Fyra to clarify further, but resisted. She had no clear idea how the dead communicated or what their existence looked like, only that her daughter was unique among them, better at interacting with the material world. There were factions, some of which had aligned themselves with Fyra\u2014and, by extension, Churls and Vedas. They wanted to be of some assistance in the war they imagined Vedas had begun.\n\n\"And now that you're here,\" Churls said, \"I imagine you have an opinion on the Tamer?\"\n\nThe girl's features twisted in annoyance. The light she radiated grew into a small blaze before dying down again. \"You know how upset I get when I can't figure things out, Mama.\"\n\nChurls waited for more. She grew impatient and gestured for Fyra to continue.\n\n\"There's nothing else,\" the girl finally answered. \"He's like looking at a black rock. I know there's something inside him, but I can't see it. He shouldn't be able to do that. Even the mage who hid Vedas and Berun, I could see her, just not what she was doing. It was like she put a big blanket over what I wanted to see. But the Tamer? I don't think he's a mage. I don't think he's human. I think he's something nobody's ever seen.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nHe cooked breakfast himself, a thing that struck Churls as odd. It was not that he was a man, or even that he was the man who had a day ago stolen them from atop Fesuy's stronghold\u2014no, it was simply that he seemed so at ease, as though acting out a morning ritual with family. He radiated good will, putting her in an agreeable mood despite her sizable reservations.\n\nVedas worked at glowering, and more than once opened his mouth to speak, but she recognize how forced the performance was: he, too, could not resist being swayed by their host's inexplicable mood.\n\nIt did not hurt when the meal turned out to be delicious. Churls had been eating dried stocks for well over two months. She had nearly forgotten about food, and took to eating like a person starved. For once, Vedas was not shy in his expression of enjoyment, and ate three full plates. The Tamer, not to be outdone, matched both of them.\n\nChurls watched their host without trying to shield the fact. He seemed not to mind, meeting her eyes now and then with a frank smile before returning to his food.\n\nWithout doubt, the Tamer was one of the most compelling men she had ever seen. Though his skin was a lighter shade of eggplant and his broad build was the polar opposite of a true hybrid's, much about him reminded her of the eldermen she had known. (A quarterbreed, she had heard him called, a mythical creature that could not, should not, exist, an impossible mating of elderman and human.) He possessed the same amber-colored eyes, the same black pelt over his scalp. A similar sort of sinuousness defined his face, as if every muscle were larger and closer to his skin than a man's.\n\nMuscle, in fact, would quickly become an overused word if she were forced to describe him. A fighter by trade, she had surrounded herself with soldiers and athletes for most of her adult life, and even among their number the Tamer's physical development was a spectacular oddity. Lions and draft horses were adequate comparisons, not men.\n\nMore remarkably, she knew, unreasonably yet with certainty, that what she saw was no product of training: he emanated good health in a way she had never before encountered, more like a fixture of existence than a fleeting portion of it.\n\nVedas, while far more attractive to her, nonetheless appeared somewhat brittle in comparison. It was as if, all at once, her eyes had been forced to recognize what lay inside him, waiting and always growing\u2014a feature obvious but until now overlooked.\n\nDeath. Now acknowledged, it could not be unseen.\n\nShe looked at her own freckled forearms and saw it in herself. It struck her, how little it mattered, to suddenly discover something one had always known. She squeezed Vedas's hand under the table.\n\n\"What a strange mood this is,\" she said. \"It's not what I'd expected upon waking. I'm not angry or nervous. In fact, I'm not even suspicious, and that makes me very suspicious.\" She met the Tamer's open gaze again. \"Let's start at the beginning. You're not what you appear to be, are you?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"Likely not. What do I appear to be, Churls?\"\n\n\"A man, more or less.\" She paused, considering her words. \"Though I doubt it's less.\"\n\nThe Tamer laughed and slapped the table, causing their plates and silver to jump.\n\n\"Clever. And right to the point.\" He folded his napkin expertly and placed it beside his empty plate. He touched two thick fingertips to his stubby horns, both of which were slightly darker than his skin, appearing in texture like a fingernail. \"I'm not less than a man. In truth, I'm further from a man than your friend Berun is from a stone sculpture. I won't demure in that regard. I\u2014\" His head tilted to the side, eyes staring over Churls's shoulder. \"Speak of the creature itself, and it arrives.\"\n\nA creak made her turn. Berun slowly made his way down the stairs leading into the kitchen. For a moment, she fought the urge to offer him assistance, and then gave up. She stood and went to him, wrapping her good arm around his massive right one. His craggy, outsized features drew into a smile as he looked down at her.\n\n\"Berun,\" Vedas said. \"Vedas,\" the constructed man returned. The words were spoken with little obvious feeling, but Churls recognized their hard-won affection.\n\n\"Welcome again, Berun,\" the Tamer said. \"You need no food I can provide, clearly, but if there's something else I can do, please ask.\"\n\nBerun stared at their host in silence, and then rumbled, \"I've been left alone to recover for one day and an evening, and now part of the next morning. My ears have been open the entire time. You could have visited with me and explained yourself. Vedas woke from his rest briefly to lay upon the roof with me. He said that we're being encouraged by your men on the lower floor to stay here, to continue resting, that all will be explained. And so...\" He made fists and rested them upon the table. Not quite, but almost, a threat. \"I need nothing but for you to explain yourself.\"\n\nThe Tamer's smiled disappeared. He nodded, stood, and took their plates.\n\nWhen he turned around, a fractured expression had altered his features markedly. A new man stood before them, one who appeared neither friendly nor particularly sane. His left eye rolled up into his head, and the other twitched madly as it settled briefly on each of them.\n\nChurls fought the nearly overwhelming urge to send her chair skittering across the floor behind her, to place distance between herself and him. Vedas slowly lifted his hands to the table's edge, likely to prepare himself for upending it. Berun's eyes flared briefly, two magnesium-blue flares.\n\nThe Tamer made a series of gutteral utterances while his lips moved, neither sound nor movement appearing in concert. Slowly, however, his throat managed to catch up with his mouth, and an alien vocabulary emerged, veering between utterly indecipherable and disturbingly familiar, putting Churls in mind of every time she had heard spats through thin tenement walls or from across a collection of tents. The odd word caught and guessed at.\n\nShe spared a glance at Vedas. His brow furrowed as he sought to comprehend something that clearly continued to slip away.\n\n\u2021\n\nFinally, the Tamer's alien words ground to a halt. His left eye rolled back into place and his features evened out, solidifying into a glare he shared with each of them in turn.\n\n\"Shavrim Coranid.\" he said in a strained whisper.\n\nChurls raised her eyebrows.\n\n\"Shavrim Coranid,\" the Tamer repeated. He repeated them a second time, and slapped the table. Color bloomed in his cheeks. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, breathing audibly through his nose, struggling, obviously, to contain his anger. When he spoke again, it was with a voice shaking in rage, struggling to not become a shout.\n\n\"I am Shavrim Coranid.\" He looked from Churls to Vedas, brows raised. \"Shavrim Coranid. _Shavrim. Coranid_. This... This name means... This name means _nothing to you?\"_\n\nHis gaze settled fixedly upon Vedas. Churls looked from the Tamer to her lover\u2014the former, shaking from head to toe, and the latter, unnaturally still\u2014and imagined that if she passed a hand between them it would encounter resistance. She opened her mouth to speak, and found, quizzically, that any question would be unnecessary.\n\nShe anticipated Vedas's nod a heartbeat before it came. When it did, she shadowed it. Berun stood immobile, a question creasing his features.\n\nVedas nodded. Churls nodded.\n\nAnd then they both, at the same moment, said yes. Yes, the name meant something to them.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"A name, once heard, cannot be forgotten,\" she had once overheard a Bashest priestess tell a practitioner. The words possessed a ring of truth to them, though Churls's mind had never been particularly suited to remembering. Faces, names, dates, she could not recall them beyond their moments of relevance, yet she knew with a peculiar certainty that she had never forgotten a single thing. Once acquainted with a place or person, even the most dim memories could be summoned again to help navigate oddly familiar streets, to understand a near-stranger.\n\nAs a small child she had taken ill with bone featherings, forcing her mother to visit a sawmage: not even someone who worked on livestock, no, but a local man who healed pit-dogs and other fighting animals. (They could not have afforded someone who worked on livestock.) When her mother mentioned his name a decade later, Churls did not associate it with the event she remembered only fuzzily.\n\nShe did, however, experience a surge of discomfort upon hearing it. The sawmage's name, which, of course, she could not now recall, was _ugly_ , even offensive. It seemed wrong that it had come from her mother's mouth.\n\nHad hearing it actually caused her to rub the long, jagged scar the man had left upon her right thigh? She recalled doing so, but it hardly mattered. The rush of emotion that had accompanied two small words\u2014a name, surely, she had only heard a smattering of times as a sick-unto-delirious child\u2014had not been an imagined thing. She had not created it out of nothing. It existed, a permanent connection to a place and time.\n\nLikewise, she could not dismiss her reaction upon hearing the Tamer's true name. It had not been immediate, no: it had built slowly within her, an increasingly undeniable pressure between her ears each time the man spoke.\n\n_Shavrim Coranid, SHAVrim Coranid, SHAVrim CORanid_.\n\nWhen it finally registered, when she could not discount her reaction as an ordinary response to the man's anger, it was as though it had always been a part of her, this name, and attendant to this name a weight, a collection of impressions beyond the scope of recollection, pressing upon her without discomfort, welcomed without conscious volition\u2014as if a door had been opened into a previously undiscovered room, admitting a stream of vaguely familiar people who spoke in nearly-recognizable languages, who told tales of places she could almost picture.\n\nAll of this, at once. In a flash of awareness, her skull had become pregnant with associations she could not yet contextualize. She admitted the possibility of it being the product of enchantment, but it hardly mattered. If Shavrim Coranid were powerful enough to place such a complex sense of recognition within her mind, then all things in his presence were suspect.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe collapsed after hearing their affirmations. Berun lifted him easily and took him upstairs. In Shavrim's room, the three of them stood silently around his bed for several minutes, staring at his motionless body as though it were a fascinating vista, a landscape they had seen a lifetime ago, perhaps, or had heard described by a relative. Churls spared a look at her companions, just in time to see them doing the same. They avoided meeting each other's eyes.\n\nWithout a word, Berun turned and ascended to the rooftop.\n\nSimilarly content not to speak, Churls and Vedas returned to their room, where, after a long period of examining the floor between them (she, feeling not the slightest trace of awkwardness, but instead a mounting sense of purpose, of waiting for the exact moment to move), they embraced. Slowly, they undressed one another\u2014she completely, he as far as he would allow her to peel back his suit. She pressed her fingernails into the elder-cloth and carefully expanded holes that he allowed to form in the material, slowly revealing his chest, belly, upper and lower back, and buttocks.\n\nShe stopped before going lower, her hands playing over his rawboned torso. Inexplicably, sadness no longer gnawed at her to see how wasted he had become. For a fleeting moment, his frailty seemed appropriate, even beautiful. Its impermanence appealed to her, as did his atypically casual reaction to it. He had always been so worried over his body, touching it as though he thought it would suddenly fail him. As if, having lost something, it could never be regained.\n\nIt was a preoccupation born of privilege. He had always had enough to eat, enough spare time to train. A man like him had no reason to worry, and so he did.\n\n\"You just needed to lack for something,\" she whispered to herself, slipping her hands around his ribs and squeezing him to her, possessively, protectively. His fingertips ran lightly up her back. Gripping her head in his hands, he kissed her, tongue flicking over her teeth. When he pulled away, his arms fell around her shoulders and he buried his face in her neck. She shuddered at the scrape of his beard. Gooseflesh rose, covering her from head to toe.\n\nThey pulled each other onto the bed.\n\nImmediately, she knew it would not be as it had been before. Unclothed, Vedas had always possessed a hint of nervousness about him, a feature now entirely absent. He moved as he had always done in his element: she thought of the sparring they had done, the times she had seen him confront an opponent, reacting fluidly, refusing to be rushed yet without an ounce of hesitation. At times, he became animated in a manner she had not yet seen, eyes wide or eyes shut, grimacing and smiling, abandoning himself to his sensations. He did not hide himself from her, or worse, try to impress her by taking control, but instead responded to her naturally, like it had always been a familiar thing between them.\n\n\"You're _here,\"_ she breathed when they surfaced for air.\n\n\"I am,\" he said, and surprised her by returning a knowing smile.\n\nShe buried her fingertips in the thick nap of his hair and pushed him downward.\n\nAfterward, they lay together, spent, touching only at the hands and crossed ankles, comfortable on a level she had rarely felt in the previous year of traveling and fighting and worrying. Of course, now that she acknowledged it, it began to fade. She fought to keep it from going away, and failed.\n\nShe frowned, her suspicions finally demanding full attention.\n\nSomehow, he precipitated her words. She felt it in the air a moment before he let go of her hand.\n\n\"Vedas,\" she said. \"We need to question this. All of it. Even if we don't want to.\"\n\nOut of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn away from her. \"I know,\" he said.\n\n\"It feels this good to you, too, doesn't it, what we just did, how we are now? It feels right, but you and I aren't... I mean, we haven't...\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\nShe squeezed his hand, grateful he had filled in the blanks. \"It's not just that. There's also this feeling of... knowing? Shavrim, that name, it...\" Again, she searched for words.\" It means something to us. I could feel the moment when we realized it, together\u2014both of us. Just like here, now, it feels real, _full_ , like something obvious I'd forgotten.\"\n\n\"Like a dream,\" he said, \"one you only recall later, because of a smell or a series of words. It didn't exist, and then\u2014\" he snapped his fingers \"\u2014it does.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"Yes. Exactly. But we don't wake up from life, Vedas. We're not dreaming.\"\n\n\"You know there's more to the world than we see,\" he said. \"I may be opposed to Adrash, Churls, but I'm not blind to the way forces other than he have bent creation. Miracles occur, beyond our reckoning. I'm not saying I'm convinced, but who's to say Shavrim Coranid isn't revealing something to us that we should know, something greater than ourselves?\"\n\n\"Something greater, Vedas? No. The world has been shaped by many hands, but what of it? The events that appear as miracles, then and now, are exercises in power vastly greater than we can summon. They're impressive, no doubt, but they're also normal, completely of this world. Inexplicable things don't happen.\" She closed her eyes. \"Nothing I've experienced would lead me to believe there's anything more than this, right here, this moment with you\u2014\"\n\nHer last word ended in a croak.\n\nThe quality of the air had changed. Concentrating against the hammering of her heart, she realized that Vedas's breathing was no longer audible. His thumb, which had been rubbing at the back of her hand, had stilled.\n\nShe had been about to lie. Not to keep silent about Fyra, but to actively mislead.\n\nVedas released her hand and sat up. His suit slowly began to mend, circles closing to cover the areas of his back and upper buttocks he had allowed her to unveil. She pinched the bridge of her nose, grimacing, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and quickly pulled her clothes on. She allowed one glance to confirm that his nakedness had been covered completely.\n\n\"Fyra,\" she said. \"Fyra, it's time.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nThey stared at one another. The girl defiantly, chin up. The man expressionlessly.\n\n\"Fyra,\" Vedas said, voice flat. \"You're the daughter.\"\n\nThe girl looked to Churls, who shrugged.\n\nFyra nodded. \"Yes.\"\n\nVedas gestured for more. When neither mother nor daughter spoke, he sighed. He met Churls's gaze levelly, eyebrows raised.\n\n_\"Nothing you've experienced would lead you to think there's anything more than this, here?\"_ He pointed at Fyra, a clear indictment. He smiled, utterly humorless. \"A bit of an untruth, isn't it, Churls?\" The smile vanished, replaced again with a blank expression. He turned back to Fyra. \"Please. Explain to me what your mother couldn't, or wouldn't.\"\n\nFyra surprised Churls by sneering at him. \"Don't act like that,\" the girl said. \"Mama made some mistakes. I wanted her to tell you, and that made me angry. But you...\" She pointed at him, returning his earlier gesture. \"You could have asked her after Tan-Ten. You didn't, so don't blame her for just now getting around to it.\"\n\nAfter a brief pause, Vedas dipped his head in acknowledgement of her point.\n\nThey waited, Churls resolved not to speak. Finally, the girl caved.\n\n\"Ten years,\" she said. \"I've been dead for ten years. Almost eleven. I wasn't always around. For a while, I don't think I thought anything at all. I was sleeping, I guess.\"\n\nVedas appeared to accept this without difficulty. \"And now you're present\u2014all the time? Hiding? Watching?\"\n\nThe girl blushed a warm pink. Churls had never seen it happen before, not in life and certainly not after death. She had thought the girl's ethereal form incapable of generating color other than the blue of her eyes. Seeing it affected Churls in a way she could not have imagined.\n\nIt hurt, seeing it. Color in her daughter's cheeks.\n\nShe turned toward the window to hide the expression on her face.\n\n\"No,\" Fyra said. \"Not always. I can't be here all the time. Even when I really want to be, it can be hard. The dead call me back. Not everyone wants me here.\"\n\nVedas shifted on the bed. Churls sensed his eyes on her, but did not turn back. She had invited Fyra into the room: the two of them could do the rest. She would not influence what information they did or did not share with each other.\n\n\"Why?\" he eventually asked.\n\n\"I saved you and Mama on Tan-Ten, and then I fixed her shoulder after you hurt it. Don't say it. I know you didn't mean to, but you did. There are ways for the dead to be part of the world, to help the living, but most of them are afraid of doing it. They don't want to attract anyone's attention, especially Adrash's. That, or they're not good at crossing over.\"\n\n\"But you are?\"\n\n\"Yes. Yes, I am. Better than anybody, ever.\"\n\nChurls heard the smile in her daughter's voice, and grinned in response.\n\nThe expression fled upon hearing what Vedas said next.\n\n\"And Berun\u2014does he know about you?\"\n\nThe question hung in the air. Churls fidgeted with her belt buckle, and made herself stop. Now that the issue had been broached, it seemed pure, embarrassing foolishness that she had avoided it. And yet, so much had been successfully avoided for so long, what did one more avoidance matter?\n\nJust after rescuing Churls and Vedas in the shallows of Tan-Ten, Fyra had indeed appeared to Berun, leading him to shore, saving him from a slow death of light-suffocation under Lake Ten. Days after Vedas's speech, she had almost certainly helped Berun find Churls in Danoor, though neither the constructed man nor Fyra admitted to it. What Churls had never ascertained was whether or not Fyra had revealed her identity to Berun.\n\n\"I think so. I helped him,\" the girl said. She glanced at Churls. \"Twice. But I can't be sure if he knows exactly who I am.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" Vedas said. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. \"There's an easy way to be sure.\"\n\nHe opened the door and left without a glance back.\n\n\"That went well,\" Fyra said.\n\nChurls sighed. \"You have an interesting definition of _well_ , daughter.\" She gestured Fyra toward the door.\n\n\"Not yet,\" the girl said. \"They can wait. Give me your hand. There's no reason not to fix it now, right, Mama?\"\n\nChurls thought of arguing, but saw little point. Berun was patient, and Vedas could stand to pace through a minor delay.\n\nAs radiance flooded her body, touching every nerve and rendering it liquid, Churls reflected not on the violence or the tension of the last several days, but on all the talk. There had been too much. She could not fight the sinking feeling that like Vedas she had given too much away, that she had been careless in her words and revealed something she would regret. Of course, filled with Fyra's soft healing fire, she could not put her finger on just what she had lost\u2014or if, indeed, anything had been lost. Perhaps it was mere paranoia, the result of having talked herself into a corner. She had never liked ceding control.\n\n\"Fyra,\" she said. \"Why didn't you tell him? About... about...\"\n\nThe girl smiled. \"Yes, mama? Tell him about what?\"\n\nChurls's head swam. Her tongue was thick, heavy in her mouth, and then it seemed as if it had fled her body entirely. She blew air out between her lips, causing them to flap. She laughed, though she saw no humor in the situation.\n\nHer lips worked at the words before they came out:\n\n\"The... dead. How they want to... help us. A war. _The war_. Why not?\"\n\n\"Be calm, Mama,\" Fyra said. \"I'm trying to do something. You're more than hurt. There's something else, something I couldn't see before, when you wouldn't let me in. Let me figure it out.\" She flickered, growing in brilliance and then subsiding. One moment, she seemed of normal size, and the next she was a toy in Churls's outstretched hand.\n\n\"Fyra,\" Churls said. \"I'm more than... hurt? Fyra?\"\n\nShe fell back onto the bed. Her eyelids fluttered, vision losing focus. She labored to roll her eyes downward, to locate her daughter. Her limbs shook, no longer under her command. Gradually, the room grew dark, fading into black around the corners of her eyes. Closing in upon her.\n\n_Sleep_ , Fyra said.\n\n\u2021\n\nShe woke, and immediately sat upright. The room possessed a startling clarity around her, a sharpness that cut through her disorientation. The blanket under her hand, the reflection of the mirror... every object she saw seemed suffused of its own light. Less than a handful of minutes had passed, she knew immediately, yet a longer span of time had passed inside the confines of her skull.\n\nFyra materialized before her, unusually faint.\n\n\"Mama,\" she said in a voice that sounded as though it came from another room. Worry made her look decades older. \"Mama?\" she repeated, squinting as though she were having trouble making out the woman sitting before her.\n\n\"Yes, Fyra?\" Churls asked. Her voice, richer than she remembered, fuller in her throat and ears. She reached out with a steady hand, marveling at the texture of her skin, its smoothness and inexplicable, almost metallic sheen. Her fingertips stopped a mere hairsbreadth from her daughter's cheek. \"Fyra, what is it? What's wrong?\"\n\nThe girl's eyes widened, and she shrunk back. Her form wavered like a guttering candle.\n\n\"Mama? You're not alone,\" she said, and disappeared.\n\n\u2021\n\nChurls's brow furrowed in confusion.\n\n\"Fyra?\" she asked. \"Where did you...? What did you...?\"\n\nShe blinked, and the world turned gray.\n\nNo, it did not turn gray. It grew dim. It was as if a shadow suddenly passed over the building. She stood and crossed to the window, leaning out to squint at the sun.\n\nThe sky stretched overhead, a clear bowl of blue, yet to her eyes it seemed drained of its vibrancy, filmed over with a layer of grit. As her gaze descended, the world darkened until the street below appeared shrouded in fog. She looked at her hands, and there it was again, clear in the calloused, labor-worn flesh of her palm:\n\nDeath. Once acknowledged, it could not be unseen.\n\nAlone, without someone equally fragile with which to share her realization, it pained her to see. It was like an unhealing wound, a cancer. The vision of her mother, laid out in her aunt's threadbare bedroom, came to her. It had only been three years ago, but she still dreamt often of the wake. A fully-grown adult, inured to death\u2014an experienced soldier, no less\u2014her heart had nonetheless pounded as she took her mother's hand, finding it cold, its skin a parchment stretched over bird-thin bones.\n\nShe retreated from the window, hugging herself against a coldness rooted deep in her marrow.\n\n\"Fyra?\" she asked. \"What's happening, girl? Come back.\"\n\nA painful knot formed in her throat. She had never seen her daughter's remains. She had been away, avoiding home and every responsibility home meant. Her mother had buried Fyra a month before Churls returned. Churls had not been there when her mother died, either\u2014had missed it by days.\n\nThe world operated in cycles: one got what they deserved, in the end.\n\nChurls would die\u2014alone, she knew.\n\nShe retreated further until her backside hit the bed. She flinched, and reached back with shaking fingers to uncover the mattress. Her eyes never left the open window, as though she expected the arrival of death itself. The sheets still smelled of Vedas, yet another kind of longing.\n\n\"Fyra?\" she repeated, knowing the girl had gone back to the dead and would not return for some time. Her daughter had discovered something, and taxed herself in the process.\n\nChurls cursed. The world never stopped moving underneath her.\n\nThough the temptation existed, she did not give in to irrational self-pity. She did not say her mother's name, or Vedas's. There would be no use, she reasoned, of wishing for comfort from either of them. Her mother had surely passed out of existence upon death. She had known her own strength, had come to terms with her place in the world in a way Churls could barely conceive. Inys Casta Jons had accumulated no soul-debt, no unfinished business, and would not have stuck around to watch over anyone. She had been ready for death.\n\nAnd Vedas?\n\nChurls shook her head. She did not close her eyes, did not sleep. She stared at the window until the sun passed directly overhead, until its direct rays no longer entered the room, and then she went downstairs to get drunk.\n\n\u2021\n\nShe saw Vedas leave. He met her eye briefly as he passed through the games hall that made up the first floor of Shavrim's headquarters, but his expression gave nothing away. She watched the flow of muscle under his suit as he walked out the door, aware of her sad desire but unable to do anything about it. She sniffed at her fingertips, which still bore a trace of them both.\n\n\"Another,\" she told the bartender.\n\nFive ales in, she ordered a sixth and then a seventh. An eighth and a ninth. She reached the point where she not so much thought about anything as let thoughts revolve around her, touching her awareness only briefly. Muddy-headed, she came to two swift, resigned conclusions she would not have been able to arrive at sober:\n\nVedas's anger\u2014there was nothing she could do about it. There never had been anything she could do. They were, the two of them, too wounded to be anything other than a mess, moving from one feeling to the next without any means of control. Had she the ability to do it all over, she likely would make the same mistakes. Different words, same foolish sentiments.\n\nWhat Fyra had said\u2014it made no sense, and would make no sense until the girl returned, so why consider it any more than she had to? Fyra would not allow harm to come to her mother, if it were within her power to prevent it. And if she could not prevent it?\n\nChurls ordered her tenth ale, scowling at the bartender when the woman raised her eyebrows.\n\nThere was, of course, a third issue that could not be completely ignored. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and winced.\n\nBerun.\n\nBerun, with whom she had shared so much\u2014with whom she, in some ways, felt a deeper sense of connection than Vedas. He had listened without judgment, an immediate sympathy between them from the beginning. He had never asked anything of her, had expected only...\n\n\"Shit,\" she said to herself. What had he expected?\n\nTrust. To be treated like any friend should be treated.\n\nShe ordered her eleventh ale.\n\n\"Fuck,\" she muttered after three sips, and rose unsteadily from her stool.\n\nShe ascended to the roof of Shavrim's base of operations, pausing before taking the final step onto the still warm clay surface, peering around until she located the mountain of rubble that was Berun's cross-legged form. His gaze, she could see, was directed away from her, toward the sporadically lit city. She felt the chilly mass of Usveet Mesa, looming behind her.\n\nShe shivered, and opened her mouth to speak. She closed it again when words, even his name alone, failed to come.\n\nHer fingers curled into fists. Her cheeks flushed. Impotent, she pivoted clumsily to leave.\n\n\"Churls,\" the constructed man rumbled, drawing the sound of her name out.\n\n\"Yes,\" she whispered, and took the final step onto the roof. She crossed to where he sat and stared down at him for a moment, unsure of her next move. He turned his craggy head up to her, the glow of his eyes intensely blue, a searing radiance in the darkness that made her blink. She swayed in place, and his massive hand came up to the small of her back, steadying her. She reached back, her own hand covering only a portion of his.\n\nIt struck her for only the second time since they had known one another: he radiated heat. Far less than a man, but it was something. It made him more human, though he might take offense with that summary.\n\nWhat had he said when she noticed it, that first time? She could not recall. She wondered if it would come to her later. She hoped it would.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said.\n\nHe laughed, a deep metallic tolling from within his great chest. \"Sorry?\" he asked. \"Sorry for what, Churls?\"\n\nShe broke his gaze. \"Fyra. I should have told you.\"\n\nA slight pressure upon her back. \"Sit,\" he said.\n\nShe sat. His arm remained behind her, close but not touching. A minute passed, and then two. She finally rolled her eyes at her own foolishness (what would a constructed man care?), and leaned over onto his shoulder. His arm moved to support her back. She felt subtle shifts in the way he held himself as he accommodated to make her more comfortable against him\u2014a thing, she imagined, he would not have known to do before meeting her.\n\n\"I need no apology, Churls,\" he said. \"I _want_ no apology. I told you, when we came into the city for you, I recognized her. I wasn't mad at you then. I'm not mad now. You have your secrets. From Vedas, you've kept secrets. Apologize to him, if you must apologize to someone.\"\n\nShe smiled grimly. \"He and I may be past the point where apologies mean anything.\" She gestured out across the city. \"He's out there now, and not here. I think I may have broken everything.\"\n\nHe shook his head. She saw it in her peripheral vision, and felt it through his body, the slide of his component spheres over each other.\n\n\"No. You've broken nothing. You give Vedas too little credit. Once, he wouldn't have thought about his anger. Not long ago, he couldn't see out from under his guilt, the hate he directed at himself. But now? Now, he's a different man. You're the first thing in his mind. If you can't see that, you're a fool. A friend, but still a fool.\"\n\nHe smiled down at her. \"I almost think we've discussed these things before.\"\n\nShe remained silent.\n\n\"You'll see,\" he said. \"The world is on the edge of death. Even as I am, not a man, I can see how wrong it would be to witness everything die without knowing who truly cares for you. You care for me. We share a bond.\" He tipped his head, touching his forehead to hers. \"Again, even as I am, I can see this.\"\n\nShe nodded, not trusting herself to speak.\n\n\"And Fyra?\" he asked. \"She's still away, among the dead?\"\n\nShe wiped at her eyes, though they were dry. \"She's gone. Off to wherever she goes. Beyond where the world can touch her, beyond even Adrash.\"\n\nShe looked to the sky, where the broken Needle spanned. Drunk, it no longer filled her with the same fear. She was, however, suddenly aware of her anger. How dare the world be kept on a tether, threatened so? Who gave Adrash the right to hold the world in a thrall?\n\nIt was an idiot question, of course. Strength gave him the right.\n\nAnd now\u2014who but the dead could oppose him? She thought, for the thousandth time, of what it could mean to accept Fyra at her word. To accept her and her companions' help, to wage a war upon Jeroun's one true god.\n\nAs though his thoughts had strayed to a similar place, Berun spoke.\n\n\"And what of our captor's claims, Churls? Do you really believe our captor has a way to make good on Vedas's speech, to wage war upon Adrash? I saw what passed between you and Vedas. You recognized Shavrim. His words mean something to you.\"\n\nShe nodded, her eyes riveted on the chaotic view overhead. \"I did recognize him. As did Vedas. I assumed you did, too.\" When he said nothing, she knew her assumption had been wrong. \"But beyond the sense that I remember him? There's a void. No context, no specific memory. It's like it's been removed from my mind.\" Her voice dropped to a whisper. \"Or maybe we're being manipulated. Of course we are. How could both Vedas and I both remember him? How could I know anything about the man's claims?\"\n\n\"You're asking me?\" Berun asked, amusement clear in his voice. \"You, who are haunted by the spirit of your daughter, are asking me, a constructed man who has been assisted by that same spirit, what is possible? You're asking a half-broken creature, only recently freed from the bonds of his creator, for advice on the workings of gods and men?\"\n\n\"I am,\" she said, finally lowering her eyes from the sky, meeting his bright gaze, holding the connection.\n\nSearching.\n\n\"Fate help both of us, Berun, but I am.\"\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nTHE 16TH TO 18TH OF THE MONTH OF SECTARIANS DANOOR TO MAREPT, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN\n\nFor the third night in a row, Vedas dreamt of the silver woman, cold and desirous of his warmth, a perfect complement to him: a needle of cold light, a finely focused lance of pain in the center of his being. They made love, quickly to suit her and then slowly to suit him, trading aggressions and tendernesses, moving as one mind. Knowing one another, as intimately as siblings. They referred to each other so, in fact\u2014 _sister, brother_ \u2014yet the words were puzzlingly alien, familiar and unfamiliar at once, altered to suit minds approaching but ultimately eclipsing human.\n\nFor the third time, the experience confounded him. He had never dreamt, aware of the dream. He had only ever been an unwilling participant, a mere inhabitant of his own body, forced to act and to believe wholeheartedly in the reality of his mind's illusion. Now, however, he knew himself as Vedas, the Vedas of the waking world, _here_ , aware, alone, of one mind...\n\nYet not alone. Of two minds. Himself, and another.\n\nAnother, whose body and thoughts were as intimately recognizable as his own.\n\nIn his first and second dream, this had been the extent of it: the deep awareness of himself as someone else, less an occupation than a transformation.\n\nIn this, his third dream, however, he became aware of a new aspect, a pressure within his body, a looming awareness in both minds. As of an oncoming storm, or the tingling sensation of knowing someone is about to enter one's room.\n\nWithin the dream, dawn came to an end. The sun peeked above the belly of the world, instantly igniting the interior of the vast golden room in which the two made love, piercing through the amber lenses of his eyes, causing him to pause, mid-thrust.\n\nHe\u2014the one who was and was not Vedas\u2014quirked his head to one side, listening. His companion lifted her silver head and peered over her shoulder at him.\n\n\"Brother,\" she said. \"We're not done.\"\n\n\"I know, sister,\" he responded. \"A moment. First, say my name. I need you to say it.\"\n\nShe smiled, showing two rows of sharp white teeth. \"Say please.\"\n\n\"Please,\" he said.\n\nShe spoke his name. He sighed in realization, and spoke hers.\n\n\u2021\n\nHis eyes snapped open. He was alone, he knew instantly. Nonetheless, he rose and searched the room thoroughly. The crawling sensation of being watched persisted, just as it had on the previous two evenings after he woke from the dream. If anything, it had increased.\n\nSleep was a shore too far, and a new question had arisen.\n\nHe would seek answers, once more.\n\nHe descended to the first floor, into the games hall. Walking the room counterclockwise, he made himself meet the frank stares of Shavrim Coranid's men. Most were Knosi, openly curious about one of their cousins in a way he was only slowly becoming accustomed to. The assumption that, as countrymen, they had something in common, appealed and repelled in equal measure.\n\nA few black-suited individuals smiled, offering him spots at their tables. He declined each with a polite wave of his hands, a gesture he had acquired from observation.\n\nUndoubtedly, everyone in the hall knew who he was. What he had done.\n\nThey were allies, presumably, yet some among them\u2014the paler-skinned Castans and Stoli, in particular\u2014appeared discomfited by his arrival, shuffling their seats closer to their tables, shutting him out. He smiled at this, sadly amused without really understanding why.\n\nUpon sight of his target, he became self-conscious. He straightened his already rigid spine, painfully aware of the thinness of his arms and legs, the hollows in his torso.\n\nLaures, Shavrim's first lieutenant, stood where she had the two nights before, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Unlike any Black Suit he had ever seen, her hands and forearms were bare, unprotected by the elder-cloth. Oddly again, though not entirely unknown in his experience, she wore clothes over her suit: a thin hempen vest and loose pants of the same material. Both were dyed the red-black color of dried blood.\n\n\"It's for the Mother,\" she had told him during their first conversation. \"It symbolizes what she left after birthing the world.\"\n\nHe stared, uncomprehending.\n\n\"I'm Usterti,\" she said, as if that were sufficient explanation.\n\nThe name had communicated nothing singular to him, then. He pretended to understand what she had said, knowing it would not fool her. He knew what an Usterti was, of course. In theory, he knew a great deal about the religion, but theory carried him only so far. People did not act as books had led him to believe they would. They did not talk in straight, easily-comprehended narratives. Appallingly often, they did not even slightly resemble the pictures he had painted of them. He had heard all Mother-worshippers were witches or pornographers, ugly inside and out.\n\nLaures was beautiful, long-limbed and athletically proportioned, clear-skinned, darker even than he. She wore her hair short, woven in tight, ordered rows upon her scalp. He thought it strange, how attractive he could acknowledge her to be, yet how little her form appealed to him. It seemed wrong that he should view her as more of an object, an abstraction worthy of admiration but not lust. Reason argued that if he had he spent his life among his own people they would not appear so coldly uniform, like a series of glazed statues.\n\n\"Vedas,\" she said, the trace of a smile on her lips.\n\n\"Laures,\" he said, leaning against the wall at her side, affecting her casualness.\n\n\"Here again,\" she said. \"You shouldn't be. The morning will come sooner than you think, and Osa's no small trip.\" Her eyes traveled up and down his body appraisingly. \"You're not the Vedas Tezul I heard described as the winner of the tournament. You have no fat, and precious little muscle, to burn up. Go to sleep. Recover as much as your body will allow.\"\n\nHe only just kept from wincing, and shook his head. \"I can't sleep. I have another questions.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"I already told you all I know about Shav last night. What little there is to know, you know. Trust me.\"\n\n\"No. It's not him I want to talk about.\" He made himself meet her stare, fighting the impulse to keep what secrets he had. If she had any loyalty to Shavrim (and he had no reason to believe she did not), she would tell him everything Vedas said. Perhaps, to Shavrim, the words would mean something. Perhaps he would be able to fill in the holes before Vedas could, using it to his advantage, manipulating them even further. With truth or with lies: it made no difference.\n\nVedas saw no other option, however. Without an answer to this newest question, sleep would continue to elude him.\n\n\"The Mother you spoke of,\" he said. \"Ustert. There are things I seem to recall about her.\"\n\nHer eyebrows rose fractionally, half her mouth moving with them. Regardless, he noted the way her posture stiffened. The fingers of her right hand twitched on her left bicep.\n\n\"You knew her then, did you?\"\n\nHe kept his expression sober. \"I remember reading a series of stories about her\u2014stories from before the world was born.\"\n\nShe dropped all pretense of joviality. \"Stories? Lies, you mean.\"\n\n\"They were not written by your sisters, obviously. They were written by men, trying to understand.\" He ignored her chuckle of contempt. \"I don't mean to offend you by talking about them. I'm not insulting you, nor am I trying to get at secrets you don't want to reveal. All I'm asking for is confirmation that such tales exist.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"Ask.\"\n\n_Men are not a thing one talks about with an Usterti_ , he had been informed.\n\n\"I could be wrong, but in one of them...\"\n\n_Out with it_ , he told himself.\n\n\"In one of them, Ustert had a twin. A man, or maybe a boy.\"\n\nAfter a moment, she nodded.\n\n\"Do you know his name?\" he asked. \"Will you tell me?\"\n\n\u2021\n\nShe had an answer for him. It showed on her face, yet for the space of many heartbeats she visibly fought with herself over whether to voice what she knew. Perhaps it would be a breach of her faith to utter the name.\n\nJust as he was about to tell her not to worry, to absent himself and make another attempt at sleep, she spoke.\n\n\"Evurt,\" she said. \"His name was Evurt.\"\n\nHe shuddered as something within him stirred.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe turned to look back at the city. Only eight miles out, and already it had become a vague spread of dirty, jumbled earth. Behind it, the vertical wall of Usveet Mesa stood, shutting out half the day, cutting off any view to the west. Distance had only served to make it larger: as the mountain's true scope became apparent, it began to loom even more, to oppress.\n\nHe wondered what kind of people would settle at the base of such a monolith. Had his ancestors longed to be humbled, every day\u2014to be reminded how meager their efforts were? They could not hope to outlast the mountain. It would continue to stand, inviolate, exerting no effort while they struggled, generation after generation, to etch their names in shifting sand.\n\nIt had outlasted one species, already.\n\n_Human beings are fools_ , he thought. _And the ones who came before them were fools_.\n\nThis thought sat cold within him.\n\nShielding his eyes, he surveyed the cloudless sky until he located the winged shape of the creature guarding their exit from the city: Shavrim's pet Sapes, itself an hybrid of wyrm and elder, a living link to that superseded species. He lifted his right hand, spreading his fingers wide, sliding his palm smoothly over the atrophied muscle of his chest. Not even true contact, but feeling transmitted through two layers of cloth composed in part of elder skin.\n\n\"And what if you die within it?\" Churls had once asked. He recalled the feeling of her fingertips, brushing over the edge of a hole he had caused to open in his suit. Back and forth over his right hipbone, from bare skin to covered skin. It surprised him to realize he could not tell where one ended and the other began.\n\n\"I'll rot,\" he replied. \"Someone else will use my suit.\"\n\n\"And if you die alone, at the bottom of a crevice?\"\n\n\"I'll rot,\" he had repeated, suddenly and profoundly uncomfortable.\n\nSapes' form disappeared against the sheer black wall of Usveet Mesa. Vedas dropped his hand and turned back to his companions. Churls had stopped to watch him, concern written on her features. He met her stare for a moment, expressionless, allowing nothing to pass between them, and then shifted his gaze to Berun, Shavrim, and Laures.\n\nTo his annoyance, they too now stopped to regard him.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" he said. \"Keep walking.\"\n\nHe waited for them to move before resuming his own progress. He stared at their backs, lingering on the broad form of Shavrim for several heartbeats, struggling to understand how he had ever allowed the man to convince them to abandon the city. How, despite the madness of the man's words\u2014the very idea that a means to defeat Adrash existed, that anything other than the entire mass of humanity could stand against Jeroun's only god!\u2014traveling to Osa had come to seem the right choice. The only choice.\n\nHe struggled against this increasing sense of surety, if for no other reason than one among them needed to. Churls and Berun, the two voices who had long argued against Vedas's own certainty, had agreed to Shavrim's goal surprisingly quickly. Perhaps they had not required as much time to come to terms with the situation (a situation, he reminded himself, that amounted to sitting and waiting for the world to collapse) and simply accepted Shavrim at his unlikely word, yet this sounded an unpleasant chord within him.\n\nA thing was either true, or it was not. One did not arrive at truth by wishing it were so. From the moment they met Shavrim, they had been pressed against the wall by circumstance. This was not a position from which a wise choice could be made.\n\nFeeling helpless was its own form of tyranny. He knew this. He knew it better than most. He had lived most of his life oppressed by a false truth.\n\n\u2021\n\nThey stopped out of the way of the wind, in a dry stream-bed where the skeletons of cottonwoods arced overhead. He did not attempt to conceal his exhaustion, but waved away their protests when he offered to gather firewood, just as he had when they told him he need not carry any of their supplies. He climbed the sandy bluff and returned with armloads of fuel\u2014first kindling, which he found scattered at the feet of the dead trees, and then larger branches, which snapped like bones in his shaking hands, covering him in dust, making him sneeze.\n\nOn his fourth trip, he walked a handful of paces away from the trees and stood motionless in the spare, cold light of the desert, breathing heavily, savoring the brief moment of solitude. Looking into the sky, he counted the scattered spheres of the Needle: seven, eight, nine... and then a tenth rising above the horizon. He resisted the urge to touch his fingertips to the horns of his suit, cursing Adrash with a gesture. A small gesture of defiance, fighting reflex.\n\nHis lips moved. Again and again, he formed the name\u2014 _Evurt\u2014_ but did not say it aloud. A simple act, giving voice to thought, yet it struck him as more than a mere word. A name was a summons to its owner. He wondered if Churls had felt the same when she realized her daughter had returned from the dead, as if every moment alone were pregnant, existing always on the verge of saying it. _Fyra. Fyra. Fyra_. Drawing the girl into reality.\n\nHe wondered if Churls knew yet another name, now.\n\n_Ustert_.\n\nHe shook his head, seeking and failing to clear it. There was no reason to assume Churls had experienced anything like his dream. He had never taken a lover before her, and suspected his inexperience was leading him to false conclusions.\n\nAs always, logic failed to alleviate his worry.\n\nUpon returning to the camp for the seventh time, he realized he had gathered far more fuel than necessary. He stared at the pile of wood he had created, brow creased. Waiting. Berun, Laures, and Shavrim had left for a perimeter check, leaving Churls alone to set up the tent. He felt her gaze at his back, or he thought he did: when he finally turned, her attention was fixed on her task.\n\nHe pretended to concentrate on building the fire, longing to bridge the silence between them but suspecting he should preserve it for as long as possible. She was stronger than him, more practical and persuasive. A lifetime outside an abbey's walls, making due alone, had made her capable of discerning judgment, while he, he was no judge at all.\n\nIf he opened himself up to her, she would sway him away from doubt. For two days, he had restricted himself with her, engaging in only the briefest of exchanges.\n\nHe knew himself to be a fool, or perhaps he was a coward: it made no difference. A part of him remained in Danoor, struggling to make sense of what had occurred there. An even greater part of him remained in Golna\u2014would always remain in Golna, unchanging.\n\nHis fist tightened around a wrist-thick branch until it cracked. Behind him, Churls paused in her work. She had heard something, in that sound alone.\n\n\"It's how often I wasn't in control,\" he said. He swallowed, cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and then closed it. The quiet stretched.\n\n\"What did you say?\" she eventually asked.\n\nHe shook his head and returned his attention to the fire.\n\nBerun, Shavrim, and Laures returned. The constructed man settled down, his dusty spheres squeaking like damp cloth to brass fixtures. His eyes were dimmer than Vedas recalled seeing in some time. Clearly, he was tired, or as close to tired as his body could become. Vedas had never determined what, if anything, Berun felt. Surely, he was not as mighty as he had once been: an injury suffered during their journey to Danoor (an injury Vedas still did not understand) had resulted in him being unable to alter his form or rotate the spheres that made up his body, severely restricting the amount of sunlight he could receive as nourishment.\n\nThey nodded to one another.\n\nShavrim spoke quietly to Churls. She shook her head and he laughed, clapped her on the back, and put a hand on her shoulder to steer her over to the fire. He met Vedas's stare with no trace of animosity: in fact, he smiled openly as he sat, as though they had shared a joke.\n\nVedas felt no anger. This _did_ anger him.\n\nChurls spared no glance at him as she crouched to warm her hands. He stared at her bare head, his desire undeniable and frustrating.\n\nLaures, observant, looked from her to Vedas, and gave him a small, sad smile.\n\nShavrim cleared his throat.\n\n\"Weapons, Vedas. We should talk about weapons. When you lived in the abbey of the Thirteenth Order, I assume you trained with many different kinds?\"\n\nThe question took him by surprise. It should not have. They had left the city for a reason. A mad reason, of course, but Shavrim had at least been forthcoming about just _how mad_. They were to retrieve weapons Adrash had left on the domed island of Osa\u2014weapons the white god had hidden for fear their existence would threaten his own.\n\n\"Ah,\" Vedas said. \"Weapons. I'd forgotten for a moment.\" He stopped himself, just in time, from allowing sarcasm to creep into his voice. He had agreed to their course of action. No one had put a knife to his throat.\n\nHe opened his hands, as if to accept a gift. \"Yes, I am familiar with most weapons.\"\n\n\"Familiar? How familiar?\"\n\n\"Familiar enough,\" Vedas repeated.\n\nShavrim laughed. \"Modesty doesn't suit you. Would you show me?\"\n\nVedas stood, swaying slightly. His suit hardened subtly along the back of his legs, assisting him without his consciously willing it so.\n\n\"I don't think...\" Churls began.\n\nHe looked down at her, daring her to finish the thought.\n\nShe opened her mouth, and then promptly shut it.\n\nThis too made him angry.\n\n\u2021\n\nShavrim selected a pair of short swords for the two of them, both similar to Churls's vazhe yet certainly sharper. Before giving his even an exploratory swing, Vedas weighed it in both hands, examining the scrollwork on the pommel, identifying a northern Tomen hand. He possessed extensive knowledge of blades, though they had never been his favorite sort of tool. He preferred striking surfaces, concussive edges.\n\nHe walked a few paces from the fire and turned. Shavrim lifted his shirt over his head, threw it to the dirt, and followed. The sword appeared comically small in his massive fist.\n\nNot for the first time, Vedas appraised the man as an opponent.\n\n_Thickly built_ , he mused, _would be an understatement_.\n\nHad Vedas been at peak condition, Shavrim would still have out-massed him by a factor of two. They stood at roughly the same height, both rather taller than average, but only one needed to turn sideways to make it through doorways. Typically, this would not have caused Vedas more than a few moments of calculation. He had faced much larger combatants, both suited and unsuited, and knew best how to use their size against them.\n\nBut Shavrim did not move like a man weighed down by muscle. Though he hid it rather well by moving slowly, Vedas recognized the grace in his movements for what it was: a deeply ingrained sense of _place_ within the world\u2014a proprioception far beyond what training could produce. It was as if he were a fixture, a center upon which everyone around him spun. With a slight twitch of muscle, he would send an opponent flying. Vedas excelled in fighting because he possessed such a center. He recognized this in Shavrim, and felt sure his was recognized in turn.\n\nAs Vedas pulled the hood of his suit over his head, his gaze lingered on the two small horns on Shavrim's broad forehead. They sprouted seamlessly from his flesh several inches directly above his eyes, darkening slightly as they neared a point.\n\nNo casual observer would fail to notice the similarity between the hood of the elder-cloth suit Vedas wore and the head of Shavrim Coranid.\n\nLike all things about the man they had once called The Tamer, this made Vedas suspicious. It seemed too great a coincidence. Beyond this, it caused a small, superstitious part of Vedas to wonder if the man were possessed of some arcane fighting ability. He feared it, and he feared very little when it came to violence.\n\nHe had known only one other man who roused the same emotion. Abse, the abbey master of The Thirteenth Order of Black suits\u2014the man who had identified in Vedas the potential to become a great fighter...\n\nAbse would not flinch away from a man because of a coincidence, a vague feeling of unease.\n\nVedas took a ready stance, arms loose, legs set wide, the tip of his blade wavering slightly, purposefully, the head of a snake. The elder-cloth flowed to cover his face. It constricted around him, wonderfully alive and responsive, hardening to cup his genitals, becoming shields over his kidneys and vulnerable clusters of nerves. All traces of fatigue fled his system. He stood, sheathed completely. By comparison to his opponent, he was only a thin black shade.\n\nFrom the corner of his eye, he saw Churls and Laures stand.\n\nShavrim moved, just as quickly as Vedas suspected he would. Sword low, rigid. Vedas waited until the last moment, anticipating the other's move correctly: as Shavrim's blade came up toward his wrist, Vedas flicked it aside and turned, stepping laterally, allowing the larger man to step past him. Having confirmed his opponent's speed, working on instinct, he immediately ducked. Shavrim's blade severed air as it passed inches above Vedas's head, creating a sound like tearing paper.\n\nVedas cut diagonally, aiming for the other's midsection.\n\n... and stopped at the merest contact.\n\nShavrim froze. Vedas pressed his blade to the flesh just below the man's ribs. His right arm was a rod of steel, welded to the weapon in his hand.\n\n\"Familiar enough,\" he said.\n\nAfter several heartbeats of silence, Berun burst out laughing, a huge joyous bell of a sound.\n\nThe tension fled from Vedas. His arm fell, and he started shaking. To his surprise, he did not have to force a smile at Shavrim, who clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. A spell had been broken, he sensed\u2014not a great thing, no, but it was a relief to feel an easing of his animosity. He and Shavrim returned to the others, where he expected to be received with the same lightheartedness.\n\nChurls stared into the fire, unwilling to meet his gaze.\n\nLaures simply looked from one to another, and offered him another sad smile.\n\n\"What?\" he asked. He waited until Churls peered up. When she did, he could read nothing in her expression. \"What?\" he asked again, raising his voice. He looked around at his companions. The mood had turned, clearly, in the space of seconds.\n\n\"Is there something I don't know?\"\n\n\"No,\" Churls said. \"They're responding to me. My mother always said no one could be happy when I'm in a bad mood.\"\n\nShe stood. \"Now would be a good time to talk.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nThey stood just out of earshot of the others, awkwardly distant from each other. For Vedas, who had made a habit of not touching others beyond training and fighting, the realization of their physical separation came as a shock. To not touch Churls, even simply to take her hand, took a physical effort\u2014an effort he had been making for some time, in truth before their failed attempt to capture Fesuy and hold him accountable for the murder of a stranger.\n\nDuring his captivity, Vedas had never dreamt. Fesuy's mage kept him deep, deep below the level of recall. A blackness, a void, was all that remained. Even when they woke him, to allow him to eat and relieve himself, his mind was a smoked lens. And yet, in those blurred moments, he thought of her, regretting his inability to connect, chastising himself for being intimidated by urges that (for all other men, he imagined) came naturally. He had anticipated his own death, knowing he had not lived a single moment of truly forgetting himself, of _letting go_.\n\nHe took a step forward. The muscles in his shoulder jumped as he began to reach for her.\n\n\"Vedas,\" she said. \"I'm worried. I'm worried, and I'm angry.\" She held up a hand to stop him from speaking. \"We'll start with the worry.\"\n\nHe nodded, feeling like a child.\n\n\"What you just did with Shavrim...\" She jerked her chin in the direction of the fire. \"I've trained with you for months now, and you've never shown me anything like that. Either you've been lying to me about your skill, which I think is unlikely, or there's something happening here we need to acknowledge and try to understand.\"\n\nHe opened his mouth to deny it, and thought otherwise. \"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"You're not?\" she said, squinting at him as though trying to determine if he were serious. Her features softened. \"Vedas, I _know_ you. Even at your peak level, you couldn't have deflected that first strike, dodged the second, or much less finished with your own. The first technique is simply too precise a technique for you, and the rest, well...\" She shook her head. \"He moved faster than I've ever seen you move, which means you moved faster than you should be able to move. In your condition, this is obviously\u2014\"\n\n\"Understood,\" he said, fighting the nonsensical urge to defend himself. He tipped his head back to look at the chaotic sky, fixing his gaze on the closest madly-spinning sphere. \"You do realize, of course, this is one among many strange occurrences, Churls? I gave a speech, and on that very night the world proceeded to fly apart. The world blames me, and then Shavrim tells me it's not my fault\u2014and furthermore, that something can be done about it. By _us_. And now look where we are.\"\n\nHe leveled his gaze at her. \"Oh, and then the other interesting bit. I've recently learned something new about you, haven't I? A daughter\u2014and not any ordinary daughter. In light of all this, it hardly seems the time to start questioning something as benign as my sword-arm suddenly becoming quicker.\"\n\nShe closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Vedas stared at her freckled face, thinner than he had ever seen it. Not beautiful, no: she would not be described as beautiful by most. She had told him that, as a child, she had often been mistaken for a boy.\n\nHe took her hand. \"I'm sorry,\" he said.\n\nWithout opening her eyes, she smiled, lips parted slightly to reveal the gap in her two front teeth. \"It wasn't right of me, but I didn't know how, Vedas. I was never... good... at being a mother. I don't know how to talk about Fyra, or _to_ Fyra, much less deal with the questions I have about her existence. She wants to help us, she and other dead who feel as she does. And now...\" She opened her eyes. \"As you said, _look where we are_. What are we doing?\"\n\nHe squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, lightly at first, and then harder, until they were both gripping with fierce intensity. He eased up, and eventually she followed.\n\n\"Will you sleep next to me tonight?\" she said. \"Or do you want to be alone for whatever's coming our way? I don't want to be alone.\"\n\n\"I will. I don't want to be alone, either.\"\n\nShe kissed him, lightly. She smelled strongly of the road, of dust and sweat. Like him. He dropped his head so that it rested against her sandpaper scalp.\n\n\"And the risk? The reason you've been keeping me at arm's length, Vedas?\" She shook her head slightly, scratching against his forehead. \"Don't deny it. I know there's more to your avoidance than just being upset at me for keeping secrets. You think I'll convince you what we're doing is right. You don't see that I have every bit as much doubt as you.\"\n\n\"Then why? Why are we here? I want an answer for this.\"\n\nShe slid her hands under his arms and embraced him. He returned it, no longer reluctant.\n\nHe felt, rather than heard, her chuckle.\n\n\"Haven't you learned yet?\" she said. \"Living life with the expectation that you'll always have an answer when you want it\u2014that is the surest recipe for unhappiness. Answers come only in time. And right now, with the world on the verge of death, time is the one thing we don't have.\"\n\n\"So, it really is just that, following a madman or nothing?\"\n\n\"I think so, Vedas. We've reached the end of the road. That, and that alone, is why we're here.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nHe went to bed with her beside him and did not dream. He slept as if dead, like he had under the mage's spell. He woke and, though not whole, felt a great deal better.\n\nThe same could not be said of her, he saw immediately. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and she flinched at his first touch. They worked in silence with the others, taking down the camp.\n\n\"Dreams kept you awake?' he finally said, as casually as he could.\n\nHer fingers worked at a knot in the tent lines, and then stilled. She did not answer, pretending, perhaps, that she had not heard. Slight thought the movement was, he caught the small, quick turn of her head in Laures' direction.\n\n\u2021\n\nThree thousand years previously, the Summer Wars had cut a vicious swath through eastern Knos Min, resulting in the destruction of seven cities. Marept, the most northerly and least populous, was burnt nearly to cinders by the invading Tomen\u2014a bedraggled contingent of several hundred men and women, all of whom had smelled defeat on the wind and chose to imbibe the fire spells their leaders created for just such an occasion, creating a miniature organic sun in the city center.\n\nAlone of the seven cities, Marept had never been rebuilt. The wind would not even deign to bury it, and so its bones were left to bleach. Of course, legend told that it had begun to die well before the Summer Wars, that the River Sullen had spurned the city for dumping tannery toxins in its once-clean waters. Certainly, some event had caused the waterway to change course, for it ran now nearly two miles west of the city it had once run through.\n\nThe people of northern Knosi felt deeply about their rivers, having so few of them. They attributed personalities to each, talking as though about distant relatives. A river like Sullen, though rarely navigated, was known to every schoolchild. Even Vedas, who had spent the vast majority of his life away from the country of his birth, who had avoided his people whenever he could\u2014even he remembered his mother's tale of Sullen's anger toward the people of Marept.\n\nStaring at the river's surface now, he felt his mother had spoken truer than she could have known. Surely, she had never stood where he stood, thirty miles south of the only bridge to even bother crossing the river, nearly a stone's throw from a once-great city the world had been content to let slowly crumble into the desert.\n\n\"Sullen,\" Churls said at his left. \"That's a good name for it. I hardly even want to fill our bags with it.\"\n\nHe grunted, tipping his head back to stare into the chalky, overcast sky. He reached and let his fingers graze hers. She took his hand, and all at once he wanted to be far away, ignorant of the world. In a place where no one dreamt of dead gods.\n\nNo, he did not want to ask her what had kept her awake.\n\nLaures walked to the water's edge and spit. \"My mother said any river east of Danoor was haunted.\"\n\n\"That would make nearly every river on the continent haunted,\" Churls said.\n\nLaures turned to her with a smile. \"My mother was a fool.\"\n\nBerun shrugged with a shrill sound and waded into the river, trawling two huge water bags in his left fist, holding their comestible supplies high in the other. Most of his body disappeared, invisible below the surface, until only the top of his head showed at the halfway mark. Here he stopped, lifted the hand bearing the water bags and crooked a finger, urging them forward.\n\nShavrim followed first, chuckling. Vedas and Churls entered the piss-warm, sluggish current together.\n\nJust before his feet left the sandy bottom and he began his first stroke, Vedas looked back to see Laures still standing on the bank, head turned as though she were listening for something. She bit her lip\u2014an expression of anxiety on her face so out of character that he stopped for a moment to stare.\n\nHe nearly called to her.\n\nAnd then a dark line bisected her forehead, accompanied by the sound of a honeydew being rapped sharply with a knuckle. A smattering of dark spots bloomed in a circle at the center of her face.\n\nVedas tipped his head to the side for perspective, and felt his testicles rise.\n\nAn arrow bolt protruded between her eyes.\n\nLaures took one unsteady step toward the river and collapsed into it.\n\nA cloud of dust rose in the distance beyond where she had stood.\n\n\u2021\n\nShoulder to shoulder, they raced toward the dead city. The earth shuddered under their feet, out of time with their steps: Berun kept close at their heels, arms wide as he ran, offering as much cover as his massive body could provide. Now and then, an arrow clattered against his brass spheres or hit the ground to either side, yet the bowmen were clearly only harrying their quarry, conserving their missiles until a clearer shot presented itself.\n\nVedas sprinted ahead of the others and reached the first fallen column of Marept, taking a defensive position and surveying their pursuers. An arrow shattered on the stone before him, but he paid it no mind. It would hurt to be struck, undoubtedly, and might even break bone, but his suit had tightened around him. It would minimize any impact while preventing the point from entering his flesh.\n\nHe counted. _Twelve... No... Fourteen_.\n\nAll mounted on horseback. Stiff red-haired, clearly Tomen.\n\nSix of the men held staffs that glowed with greenish magefire at their tips. Vedas had been surrounded by such mages on one or two occasions when Fesuy woke him enough to fully comprehend his surroundings. They were immensely dangerous\u2014he had sensed this before, and knew it in his gut now. Even under the watch of Shavrim's wyrm, they had found a way out of the city.\n\n\"Fesuy's men,\" Vedas said when Churls and Shavrim were safely beside him, blocked once again by Berun, who stood, facing the approaching men, undoubtedly aware of the threat they posed even to one such as he.\n\n\"How do you know?\" Churls said, squinting around the constructed man. \"And besides, how could they have left Dan\u2014\"\n\n\"He's right,\" Shavrim interrupted. \"And how it was done hardly matters. Sapes can only do so much to suppress magic, and her eyes can be blinded by someone with enough skill and alchemicals.\" Frowning, he looked from side to side. \"We can do nothing from this position except die. We should get deeper into the city.\"\n\nThey moved rapidly, Berun clearing a path before them, lifting and heaving huge blocks of masonry out of the fractured roadway and throwing them behind his companions to block their pursuers. Though Vedas had seen Berun perform extraordinary acts of strength before, the display of force shocked him. Several days of receiving direct sunlight had clearly invigorated the constructed man, but the wage for doing so would be monstrous.\n\nOnce they reached a defensible position, Vedas predicted, there would only be three to stand against the coming storm.\n\nNo conversation would be heard over the sound of crashing masonry and Berun's thunderous steps, yet a quick glance confirmed to Vedas that both of his companions had come to similar conclusions. He met Churls's grim expression, and wondered how much of his own concern could be read under the mask of his suit.\n\n\"There!\" he only just heard Shavrim shout.\n\nA stone building lay directly ahead, alone amid the rubble. Standing, more or less, open to the sky but with all four walls intact. Vedas scanned it and thanked fate that Shavrim was no fool. It would be fairly defensible. Having stood for ages, it likely would not collapse upon them.\n\nBerun lifted a massive fallen pillar that blocked the entrance, and roared as it slipped from his hands to fracture at his feet. He backed up and then took two steps toward the wide doorway, dropping his shoulders and ramming a broken section of the pillar, skidding with it into the interior of the building. His foot hit the left side of the doorframe, causing fragment of stone to rain down.\n\nVedas winced, but the walls failed to even shudder with the impact.\n\nBerun remained inert as Shavrim leapt over him. Vedas pushed Churls forward, and then offered cover as best he could as she knelt to check on the constructed man.\n\n\"\u2014am... fine,\" Berun said, his voice a faint brass rumble. \"Defend... selves.\"\n\nChurls nodded, tight-lipped, and moved into the shadowed security of the walls.\n\nOutside, it was utterly silent. Undoubtedly, Fesuy's men had ditched their mounts to navigate the rubble Berun had left in their path, and were now advancing on silent feet toward their holed-in targets. They would be unafraid, utterly sure of themselves. They had little reason not to be. Perhaps, this would play to Vedas and his companion's benefit.\n\nVedas immediately quashed this brief optimism. Any advantage would be fleeting, ultimately meaningless. He smiled cheerlessly at Churls.\n\nShe read the expression, even under the elder-cloth, and rolled her eyes. \"The fun never ends, does it? It won't be long now.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"No, it won't.\"\n\nTurning full circle, he examined the large, open space of the ancient building, knowing without a doubt that they stood within one of the more important buildings of Marept. A temple, perhaps, or a civic structure. The walls extended nearly thirty feet overhead: they were thick, ably hewn without mortar, simple stones cut and fit precisely into place. It was no surprise that it still stood. For a moment, he wondered about the people who had labored to build it, and felt keenly the injustice of it all.\n\nTo have built such a place, so cunningly, and have it abandoned to this appallingly slow decay. It must aggravate the dead, he reasoned.\n\n\"Better it were destroyed,\" he muttered.\n\n\"What?\" Churls said.\n\nHe rubbed at his eyes. \"Nothing.\" He peered over his shoulder at Shavrim, who stood stock-still at the door, surveying the scene outside. He lowered his voice to a whisper. \"This will go very badly, likely very quickly. What of Fyra? She could help us.\"\n\nChurls crossed her arms, features carefully composed. \"She'd be here, Vedas, if she could. I don't want her badly hurt\u2014if she _can_ be badly hurt, that is\u2014but I'm no idiot. I realize the straits we're in. I've been calling to her as best I can since we left the river.\"\n\n\"What could be keeping her away? Has something taxed her unduly?\"\n\n\"Does it matter? She's not here.\"\n\nThe muscles of his jaw jumped. He considered challenging her, demanding an answer to the question she had clearly avoided. Instead, he turned away to join Shavrim across the body-length span of the doorway. Rubble crunched softly under Churls's feet as she came up behind Vedas and crouched. She placed her hand on his back, and it surprised him, how welcome she felt touching him, and what effect it had. His annoyance was not so much forgotten as immediately put into context.\n\nShe had secrets, and they hardly mattered now.\n\nOutside, all was still. And then a crow cawed just to the left of the entranceway.\n\nVedas caught Shavrim's wry glance, and raised an eyebrow in return. It had been an extremely clumsy signal from the Tomen's point man.\n\nSix lights briefly flared, several hundred feet directly before them. The two men turned away from each other, ducking inside the shelter of the doorframe.\n\nVedas wrapped his arms around Churls just before a beam of sizzling radiance shot through the entrance, punching a hole through the building's rear wall. Even with his eyes tightly closed, the magefire's brilliance shone through bone to light up the interior of his skull. He felt the heat of it even through his suit, bathing his back in flames. His pain increased, doubling and then tripling. Rather than fighting it, he focused upon it until it suffused him, smoldering everywhere within him without ever igniting.\n\nChurls, however, had not even the protection of a suit. She screamed, and it was the sound of an animal being torn limb from limb. As though in response to her agony, the elder-cloth tightened and jerked spasmodically upon Vedas's frame, threatening to tear his arms free from her, yet he only tightened his hold, shielding her as best he could.\n\nShe continued screaming, one long, raw, sustained note of torture. It went on and on, until it was a finely focused lance of pain in the center of his being.\n\n\u2021\n\nOnce again, something within him stirred. It more than stirred. It opened its mouth within him and roared to match her pain.\n\nThe roar became a word. A _name_. Its utterance was a declaration of outrage and conquest. Vedas was overwhelmed in an instant, shoved to the side of his own consciousness, a mere watcher. A tamed beast, ridden.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe stood up and walked into the magefire coursing through the door.\n\nHe walked into brilliance, glancing down only briefly at the prone silver figure of his lover.\n\nHis _lover_ and _sister_... but these two words were insufficient.\n\nHe smiled. Words used to describe what they were had only ever been the tools of men. Like men, words soon faded into nothing.\n\nBut a name? _Her_ name?\n\n_Ustert_.\n\nThis name would not fade.\n\nThis name meant more than all the souls of mankind combined.\n\n\u2021\n\nEvurt walked out of the temple and extended his right arm. The fallen column of flame his enemies had summoned flowed around his taut bronze form, quickly thinning behind him into a river, a stream, before withering altogether. His palm now pressed against a solid wall of shifting light, he began walking forward, pushing the magefire back toward its source\u2014back toward the men who had the gall to attack him and Ustert.\n\nA man came at him from the left, leaping over a low wall. Evurt turned his head only slightly, taking in the form of his attacker calculatingly: tall, ruddy, robed, a stiff crown of hair wound around his scalp. A curved sword held in both hands, close to his ribs.\n\nEvurt waited until the man was nearly upon him, anticipating exactly how the cut would arc up from the hip, before casually slapping the blade, breaking the steel in two and shattering every bone in the man's hands.\n\nEvurt heard this last fact, in perfect detail, as the snapping of twigs under one's foot.\n\nHe reached out toward the man and snapped his neck.\n\nTwo more men came in swift succession, from the right and the left. Instead of encountering either physically, Evurt took two swift steps backward at the last possible moment, spreading his palms as though parting a double swinging door, causing the tunnel of magefire to bulge, engulfing both off-balance attackers. They opened their mouths in silent screams, their skin crackling and blackening instantly. In seconds, they were ash under his feet as he continued forward.\n\nAbruptly, the magefire died.\n\nEvurt did not stumble or blink in surprise. The expression on his angular, hairless face remained neutral until six men rose from kneeling positions behind their upraised staffs, five archers with drawn bows at either side. At this point, he smiled across the hundred-foot span separating him from them, revealing small, sharp, even teeth.\n\n\"Hello, corpses,\" he said in a long-extinct language.\n\nThree arrows shattered into splinters upon his chest without rocking him back an inch. The fourth and fifth he caught and threw back faster than human eyes could register, with such force that they nearly disintegrated on their flight back to their targets. Regardless, both mages were killed instantly from the force, thrown off their feet to land some distance behind their startled companions.\n\nHe walked toward them slowly, smile unwavering. He opened his arms and let their arrows die upon him, their spells sizzle and fade into nothingness over his sculpted body. He felt no more than a slight tickle, occasionally, only at the fringes of an attack displaying true talent.\n\nBut what was the talent of a man? Nothing, compared to him.\n\nAs he neared them, he switched between languages, all dead, repeating the same phrase:\n\n\"These are the wages of arrogance,\" he said as he turned back an arrow\u2014as he redirected the flow of two spells and with them bore holes through the chests of the ones who had sent them\u2014as he reversed the charge of another and turned its caster to ice...\n\nAs he, with a twitch of his fingers, fused the feet of the remaining five men to the ground.\n\nThey tried to pull free, but quickly realize their struggles were useless. The bowmen dropped their bows and reached for their swords. The remaining mage stopped his efforts entirely and raised his chin in defiance. Evurt crossed the remaining distance to them, swatted two of the warriors' blades away, and took the third. Decapitating all three with such skill that each toppled gracefully sideways, he caused the mage to be drenched in blood.\n\nHe reached out and slowly, inexorably, pried the staff from the mage's hands. He broke the weapon over his knee, causing a brief flare of sparks to erupt from its lit end.\n\nThe mage spit upon Evurt's chest.\n\nEvurt recognized the curse the man spoke next, and knew something of his parentage.\n\n\"This is the wage of arrogance,\" Evurt said in archaically-accented Tomen.\n\nHe thrust the jagged ends of the mage's own staff into the meat below the man's clavicles, carrying him to the ground to the sound of both ankles snapping, impaling his shuddering body upon the sun-baked dirt. The mage screamed until his voice ran out, and then screamed some more.\n\nEvurt cocked his head almost curiously, and then tore the man's lower jaw off, silencing the cries to a bubbling exhalation.\n\n\u2021\n\nBehind him, a voice called his name. It was not his sister's. Nonetheless, he recognized it, let it resound within him.\n\nHe turned, slowly, unafraid but not without a measure of caution.\n\nShavrim stood in the temple's open doorway, hands open at his hips.\n\nEvurt's brow creased in confusion. The temple... he knew it from the frieze above its door, had been received by its priests on several occasions\u2014Ustert, standing at his side in the courtyard, impatient as he was with their lengthy prostrations and rituals...\n\n_Better it were destroyed_ , he had whispered. _Then we'd never have to be this bored again_...\n\nThe smell of orange blossoms...\n\n_Agolet_ was its name. _Agolet, Twin Temple of Marept_.\n\nBut it was not at all as he remembered. He looked from side to side, his consternation growing.\n\nThis was a graveyard, forgotten, its tombstones toppled.\n\nMarept\u2014what had become of the city?\n\n\"Evurt,\" Shavrim repeated. \"Brother, it's been too long.\"\n\n\"Don't use that word,\" Evurt said, but quietly. Shavrim would still hear it, he felt sure. It would hurt him, possibly. He had always liked the idea of family. He was often more like a child than man, as a result always on the verge of offense. Evurt had no small affection for the horned fool, and certainly respected his power, but he could rarely resist taking advantage of his brother's lamentable sensitivity.\n\nWhen had they last spoken? What of the others? What of... what of Adrash?\n\nEvurt shook his head, grimacing, suddenly frightened of his own dimwittedness. He had never liked asking for clarification, always preferring the answers he found for himself.\n\n\"What is this?\" he said through clenched teeth.\n\nShavrim began walking toward him, steps measured, open hands lifted to either side, presenting no threat.\n\n\"You called to me, Evurt. Look at yourself.\"\n\n\"Called?\" Evurt echoed. \"When?\" He looked down at his torso, running his hands over the muscular ridges of his belly, noting their odd softness and texture. His hands\u2014he lifted them, turning them over, wondering at their appearance. They were... thicker? Yes. Thicker. He stared, and they seemed to shift in color, becoming a darker bronze, nearly black, losing their metallic sheen.\n\nFor a moment, he even saw the suggestion of veins on their backs, an imperfection, a marring upon his flawless skin. He turned his head to stare at his shoulders, which, again, seemed broader than he remembered. He lifted a leg, horrified to find this outsized, as well, a pillar of animal gristle.\n\nAll at once, his vision shifted. The world darkened, losing focus and vibrancy. He blinked, trying to clear away the film before his eyes, but the effect remained. The strength fled from his limbs and he slumped, as though lead had flooded his veins. He took two faltering steps backward, uncomfortably aware of wanting to run, to flee.\n\nHis foot caught on a rock, and he stumbled.\n\nHe did not fall, however. He was caught. Shavrim stood before him, gripping him tightly below the underarms, holding him easily at arms length.\n\n\"Brother,\" Shavrim said. He pulled Evurt into a crushing embrace. \"You are not you. You cannot sustain this kind of activity. Rest, and then we'll see each other again.\"\n\nTo his horror, Evurt discovered that he was nodding\u2014that he had lifted his arms to embrace Shavrim.\n\nClearly, he was not himself.\n\nThe world shuddered around him, in time with the jagged hammering of his heart. Blackness encroached at the edges of his existence.\n\nHe closed his eyes, allowing darkness to overtake him.\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nTHE 20TH TO 25TH OF THE MONTH OF SECTARIANS MAREPT, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN, TO UAL\n\nSomeone held his right hand in a firm grip. It took him several minutes of concentrating on his fingers and palm (disturbingly, they were naked) to realize this fact, yet upon confirming it he did not move or alter his position in the slightest for fear of revealing that he had woken. Instinctually, he remained motionless, and the rationale for this too took him several minutes to work out.\n\nmised he would not He knew no one with so small a hand.\n\n\"I know you're awake,\" the girl said. He knew the voice instantly.\n\n\"I am,\" he said, suddenly, intensely present within his body, as if her voice had made him aware of every sensation. His palm started sweating. Wanting to pull his hand away from hers, he nonetheless resisted, maintaining his meditative stillness\u2014for reasons that, even upon examination, became no clearer. In the space of a few breaths, the urge itself faded.\n\n\"Your mother,\" he said. \"She's...?\"\n\nShe squeezed his hand even tighter, flooding him with warth. \"She's fine. Angry and confused, but fine. You, though, you're still not right inside. I'm working on it.\"\n\n_Working on it_. \"How long have I been asleep?\"\n\n\"Three days. You'll need two more before you can travel. Are you in any pain?\"\n\nAgain, he felt an urge\u2014to shake his head\u2014and did not act on it. He had not opened his eyes. Oddly, he felt no desire to. He wanted to know if they were still in Marept, if Shavrim and Berun had been injured. He wanted to know what he had done, but could summon neither the memories nor the curiosity.\n\nHe felt _good. Protected_. As though it were all in someone else's hands.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"No pain, Fyra. Whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it.\" His brow furrowed. \"How are you holding my hand? How can I feel it?\"\n\nShe laughed, and he smiled, feeling lightheaded, carefree.\n\n\"Oh, I'm doing so much more than making you feel like I'm holding your hand, Vedas. What I'm doing right now is mostly keeping you from making stupid decisions, like getting up before you're ready. Influencing you is hard because you're so stubborn about being upset all the time. I probably should have just kept you asleep, but there's something I need to tell you. _Before_ everyone else knows you're awake. I want you to take this with you, back into sleep. When you wake up, it will be important. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Yes, he did. How could he forget this feeling?\n\n\"Good,\" she said. Her grip lessened, and it was like being doused in cold water. A great portion of his serenity immediately fled, allowing worries a voice. When he truly woke, what would he recall from before his injuries? Would he hate himself for not forcing Fyra to let him speak to the others?\n\nThe girl sighed loudly. She said his name in a tone mothers used toward their children. \"Stay focused on right here, right now. I told you, my mother's safe. So are Berun and Shavrim. The world hasn't ended. But you _do need to pay attention_. Promise me you won't forget what I say next. Tell me you can keep a promise.\"\n\nHe frowned, worrying at her intensity. \"I won't. I can. I promise.\"\n\nHe did not hear her moving. Perhaps she made no sound. He sensed, however, that she had leaned toward him, placing her mouth close to his ear.\n\n\"Someone's trying to keep me away,\" she whispered, \"and that someone is _inside you_. I don't know what he is or what he wants. He's too powerful. I'm scared of him.\" She made a sound, a soft, distressed cry. \"It gets worse. You're not alone in this: there's also someone\u2014a soul, a personality\u2014inside my mother. I knew it the other day, after we first talked. I saw her there, seeing out from behind my mother's eyes. Maybe the same has happened to Berun, too, but it's harder to tell with him.\"\n\nThe words resounded in his head. _Someone. Inside you. Inside my mother_.\n\nThe muscles of his belly twitched as he thought to sit up, to do anything but allow the situation Fyra described from continuing. His neck flexed twice, convulsively, lifting his head a few inches before it smacked back against the pillow. Each movement, accompanied by sharp flashes of pain referring throughout his body.\n\n\"Stop!\" Fyra hissed. She gripped his hand tighter once more, saturating him in bliss so rapidly that he giggled. \"Don't try to move. You can't do anything about this in your condition. Besides, he's not with you now. All of this will make more sense when you're recovered. For now, you just need to know about it, and know who's behind it.\"\n\nThrough the haze of contentment, his terror was an abstract thing.\n\nIncurious, he asked, \"Who?\"\n\n\"Shavrim,\" she answered.\n\nHe thought, unconcernedly, _Of course_.\n\nHis eyes shot open, through no effort of his own. Fyra's coldly radiant head was poised above his, her pale hair hanging down around both of their faces, linking them, enclosing them in their own private space. He stared at the off-white freckles patterning her nose and cheeks, struck by how like her mother she was.\n\nWhen she smiled, she revealed a gap between her two front teeth.\n\n\"I know you're a good man, Vedas Tezul,\" she said. \"Keep your promise. Remember\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" he interrupted. \"I'm not... good.\" He chuckled, not caring what he said. It struck him, suddenly\u2014it was _wonderful_ to not care. He had always felt guilty unburdening himself of anything, as though he were tying stones around his listener's neck, so he had rarely done it. \"I've watched children die, Fyra. I've trained them, knowing they might die. I lived with this awareness, that it could happen, and still did it. I was punished for this long before it ever happened. Some people are cursed. When I was a child, like you, there was a man\u2014\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" she interrupted in turn, squeezing his hand again to fill him with her warmth. She shushed him. \"Quiet, Vedas. I've seen what happened to you. Don't make that face. I'm not a child, and no one is cursed. Now, you have to listen to me. You have to keep your promise: remember what I've said. Carry it with you into your dreams. And when you wake, healed and back to your normal, angry self, do something useful with it. Don't let me down.\"\n\nHe smiled, shuffling his awkward admissions of guilt to the side as easily as he had voiced them.\n\nHe promised he would not let her down.\n\n\u2021\n\nAn hour before sunset, Shavrim returned from hunting, three large desert hares dangling from his meaty fist. Vedas rose and began preparing the fire. Churls looked up from cleaning the first of the hares, exchanged a quick glance with Shavrim, but said nothing.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" Vedas said. \"Stop worrying over me.\"\n\nA private smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He had said such words to her on far too many occasions. In truth, he felt more than fine\u2014incredible, as though he had woken from the soundest sleep of his life. Constraining the energy in his limbs, hiding the effects of what Fyra had done from Shavrim, was far more a danger than overexerting himself.\n\nOf course, it was not only Shavrim he kept the secret from. He doubted Churls knew what her daughter had done, though her quizzical glances revealed a good measure of suspicion.\n\nShe would know soon enough, of course.\n\nThinking on this, he came to a decision. All at once, there seemed no reason to wait.\n\nHe winked at Berun across the fire. The constructed man's features broke into a frown, followed quickly by a smile. His eyes flared briefly.\n\n\"Vedas,\" he said. \"You are in unusual spirits.\"\n\n\"I am, Berun,\" Vedas said, voice low, not bothering to broadcast his words. They would hear him just fine. \"I'm refreshed and full of new thoughts. There are things I need to consider. Did you know, for instance, that Usterti believe in more than their goddess?\"\n\n\"I did not,\" Berun said.\n\nShavrim raised his eyebrows, expression open. Vedas admired his acting.\n\nChurls did not so much as pause in her preparations. She angled her face, which still bore the tight redness of what appeared to be (but he knew was not) a sunburn, down toward her task. She, too, knew how to hide, though not as well.\n\nVedas nodded, and spit upon the firestarter in his hands. It flared to life as he reached forward to place it amid the kindling. He grinned. Unusual spirits, indeed. He felt incautious, even mischievous, as if Fyra had infected him with a portion of childhood.\n\nOr, he reasoned, he might be feeling the influence of the one Fyra had warned him about. This did not strike him as likely, though: the dreams he had experienced, both before and after he had spoken with the girl, did not lead him to see Evurt as the frivolous sort.\n\nRegardless, his smile vanished. Even thinking of the name was enough to constrict his throat.\n\n_Nothing for it_ , he thought. He would make himself speak it. He would make it real.\n\n\"Oh, it's true,\" he said. \"In the abbey, I studied the witches' sect. They're not fond of talking about anything other than the Goddess, I gather. I asked Laures about it before we left, and I thought she might attack me for having the gall. She did confirm what I'd been taught, however.\" He blew into the kindling, watching it catch, and then sat back. \"A few of their stories tell of Ustert's brother\u2014her twin\u2014a figure who died or merely passed into oblivion.\"\n\n\"Fuck!\" Churls yelled, dropping her knife to grip her left hand. \"Cut myself.\" She stood, glaring at Vedas. \"What in the hell are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Ustert,\" he said. He swallowed, took two quick breaths. \"Evurt.\"\n\nShe flinched.\n\nBerun's head swiveled from one companion to another, one shelf-like brow raised questioningly. \"These names,\" he rumbled, \"They mean nothing to me.\"\n\nShavrim chuckled. \"It's a miracle they survived unscathed, those names. There's something to them, I suppose, an indelible quality. Even the pronunciation\u2014it's been much the same throughout Knoori for, oh... well, it's been millennia.\" He spread his heavy arms. \"You want to hear what happened, Vedas? You want to know what it means?\"\n\nVedas nodded.\n\nShavrim returned the gesture, and then looked up at Churls. \"We'll wait while you clean and bandage the hand, though I doubt you'll need to. Ustert Youl would hardly let you die from such a minor scratch. Even in your body, in her doubtlessly confused state, she'd not suffer that kind of indignity.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nAs Shavrim talked, the memory roused itself from the back of Vedas's mind. He easily recalled the heat of the magefire, and wrapping himself around Churls in an attempt to protect her.\n\nThe... _assumption_ , he began to think of it\u2014this came to him in fragments, like a puzzle being assembled before his eyes, accompanied by sensations that pricked at the nerves embedded in his muscle, skin, and bone. He clenched his fists and released them, twitched his shoulders and fought the urge to stand and act out what he knew his body had done. Impossible things.\n\nThoughts and emotions flooded his mind, disturbing in their alien intensity. Arrogance beyond human reason. Anger, cold and fathomless. Confusion upon the discovery that he, Evurt, stood in another's skin. And attendant to the confusion, disgust. Vedas's body, even the way the world appeared dim through his feeble human eyes, had repulsed Evurt.\n\nThis, most of all, chilled Vedas to the marrow.\n\nHe knew, now, how a god looked at humankind. The disdain, he had expected. Even the humblest merchant, risen to enough influence, soon became a master of contempt. Power begat this perspective, Vedas knew, and men could not entirely resist thinking of their neighbors as less than human: at various points in the history of the world, peoples had been enslaved and even made extinct. The cousin of such violence existed in every man. He could know that hate more intimately if he allowed himself to blame others for his ills.\n\nIt was appallingly easy to create divisions, to build walls instead of bridges.\n\nThe scorn of Evurt served to render all of his thoughts on the subject irrelevant, as if all of history had been as meaningless as children arguing over the rules of a game.\n\nAs if failure were an inescapable taint, written into the very flesh and soul of mankind.\n\n\u2021\n\nVedas wanted nothing to do with gods. He never had, even when he believed all but one to be mere fictions, remnants of a long and deluded past.\n\nAnd now, sitting before him, yet a third god made real.\n\nThat is, if Shavrim were to be believed. Vedas wanted to disbelieve him, but could not.\n\n\"Why us?\" was his first question.\n\n\"I don't have that answer, Vedas,\" Shavrim said. \"It's not as if I can ask my brother now, is it? He has retreated, or you've pushed him to the back of your mind. But, at a guess? You're strong, and you were in the right place at the right time, openly opposing Adrash on the world's largest stage.\"\n\nHe dipped his head to Churls. \"You were equally strong, if not in many ways stronger, and you'd fallen in love with him. You must have been a tempting pair, a lodestone for Evurt and Ustert.\"\n\nVedas neither accepted nor rejected this, though he allowed himself a measure of relief. How might he have reacted, had Shavrim claimed a god had inhabited him since birth\u2014directing his every move, placing him strategically at this exact point and time?\n\n\"Why are they here at all?\" was his second question.\n\nShavrim gripped his crossed ankles and rocked back, angling his face toward the open sky framed by the four walls of the ancient temple. Vedas followed his gaze, letting the pause stretch for several minutes before impatience compelled him to break the silence.\n\nHe opened his mouth\u2014and promptly shut it.\n\nThe spheres of The Needle had been rearranged slightly. The two that had appeared closest to Jeroun were noticeably smaller. Both spun at a much-reduced rate. In addition, four of the smallest had been clustered together near the moon.\n\nSurely, he reasoned, an encouraging sign, yet he could not feel hope.\n\n\"Consider your past,\" Shavrim finally said. \"Three score years and some, correct? The Needle has appeared the same, throughout. It has been a fixed thing. But three scores and some is no time at all. Still, it feels like something, no? You feel older, seasoned. Consider how alien former versions of yourself are to the man you have become. How few choices he made that you would make. How much of a fool he was, Vedas. Hold that awareness in your mind. Truly feel it, the regret and anger at your own stupidity, your cowardice and impotence.\n\n\"Now, consider what you would do if you had even more time, perhaps millennia, to meditate on the actions or inactions of that fool. Would you not grow to hate yourself as no man has hated himself? Would you not wish to die, knowing you could never right your mistakes? Tell me that would not be the inevitable outcome of a life that long.\"\n\nVedas fixed him with a cold stare. \"You wish to die? Somehow, I think you're not trying hard enough.\"\n\nBerun looked from Vedas to Shavrim. \"Agreed. You tell us of your relationship to these\u2014\" he grunted \"\u2014gods. You tell us you are one of their number. Now you want death, perhaps the easiest thing for a man to achieve. No wonder you talk of fools.\"\n\nShavrim smiled, unwilling to take offense. \"Wishing to die and dying are two separate things. I continue breathing not for lack of trying to quit. On occasion, that is: I've come to embrace my immortality. But this is not my point.\"\n\n\"Get to it, then,\" Churls said. Without glancing up from her work\u2014which she had continued, despite her wound\u2014she gestured at Vedas with her skinning knife. \"He asked a question, Shavrim.\"\n\n\"Which I was attempting to answer. Forgive me. I've spent many lifetimes _not_ revealing what I am. I've had no practice at it, yet I'd prefer for you not to fly into a rage when I tell you this is all my doing. But that is not within my control, is it?\"\n\nWhen no one answered, Shavrim's smile dipped but did not disappear. He pointed to the moon, sighting along his thick forearm with a squint. \"For most of my life, I've had Adrash over my head and five siblings buried under me. Humanity is the bridge between those two worlds. Though your expressions, and those of your creations\u2014\" he nodded at Berun \"\u2014are not my own, I'm fairly fond of you. My family and I once fought on your behalf, when we first identified the madness in our creator. Twenty thousand years later, when I felt the presence of Evurt and Ustert again in the world, I decided I must persuade them to help me.\"\n\nVedas stood, restless with questions yet unable to decide upon the most pressing. He massaged his temples and cracked his neck, trying to ease the tension that suddenly seemed bent on crippling him. Since Churls had rescued him, he had swung from one reaction to the next, one extreme giving way to another with no time to adjust. The earth was unstable beneath his feet.\n\nFortunately, Berun had not been similarly affected.\n\nIn addition, the constructed man had learned the art of sarcasm: \"You _felt_ the presence of Evurt and Ustert? And this simply _happened_ to coincide with Adrash destroying The Needle?\"\n\n\"No. It wasn't a coincidence. I told you the name of the elderman responsible. Pol Tanz et Som incited this. There is no other explanation.\"\n\n\"And how did he do that?\" Churls said. \"You're telling us Adrash couldn't simply swat him away? Who is this elderman, that he should inspire such world-shattering rage?\" She stood, circled the fire and crouched, one bloody hand on Shavrim's shoulder, face only inches from his. She spoke through a tight jaw. Spittle flew from her mouth. \"Is he another god, then, or is he merely... _ridden_ , like me? Or Vedas? Will we wake up tomorrow and find Berun taken, too?\"\n\nShe slapped him, her right arm a silver blur.\n\nThe sound of the impact, the crack of timber.\n\nShavrim's head whipped to one side and he threw out an arm to steady himself.\n\n\u2021\n\nVedas tensed. It took him several heartbeats to realize just why he had done so, beyond the clear threat of Shavrim reacting to the blow.\n\nHe stared at Churls's bare arm, upraised and rigid, every muscle limned with tension.\n\nSun-red, freckled skin. The faded markings of tattoos. Nothing more.\n\nAnd yet, his eyes had not deceived him.\n\nShe had struck with the arm of the Goddess.\n\n\u2021\n\nShavrim chuckled.\n\nA handprint of hare blood was now emblazoned across his left cheek. His own blood welled at the left corner of his mouth. He licked his bruising lips and nodded.\n\n\"Well delivered,\" he said. \"When you are as I am, Churls, you learn to appreciate anger that cuts to the point. At the same time, you avoid what is necessary to speed the process up. Don't let my age fool you\u2014there are things that frighten me. I have abilities beyond merely remaining alive, but they are a threat if allowed too deeply. I've not lived so long without... sequestering my existence, without forming identities that were thereafter abandoned. Within me are all the lives I've lived, a smattering of which possessed unusual insight. A few of these former Shavrims are anxious to return.\"\n\nHe stood and retrieved one of his packs. He removed a bundle of thin steel chain and threw it to Churls.\n\n\"Wrists and ankles, as tight as you're able,\" he said, presenting his back to her and kneeling.\n\n\"A chain?\" Berun said. He got to his feet, his thousand ball joints sighing. \"I can hold you tighter than any chain.\"\n\n\"You cannot,\" Shavrim countered. \"This is no ordinary chain, and I'm no ordinary man. No disrespect intended, Berun, but the one I'm summoning would have no problem proving just how greatly your strength is outclassed.\"\n\nBerun crossed his immense arms. \"You are bleeding. From a slap.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" Shavrim said. \"But it wasn't Churls who slapped me, not entirely\u2014just as it won't be me before you in a few moments. It'll be a wilder, more brutal creature, kept in check only through the will of the man I am now, a small voice of reason attempting to quiet a storm.\"\n\nBerun grunted, and turned away.\n\nChurls stared at the chains in her hands. For a mad moment, Vedas imagined she would strangle Shavrim with them.\n\nShe began binding his wrists. \"Who is this former self, this wild creature?\"\n\n\"A seven-thousand-year-old relic,\" Shavrim replied. \"A fool and a mass murderer. On occasion, I've given in to self-pity, allowing my hatred for Adrash to cloud my mind. During one such period, I traveled to the southern Tomen coast. I persuaded the locals there to accept my presence by telling their fortunes and fighting in their border skirmishes. I've always been good at the latter, but the former? Somehow, possibly by way of the madness I'd allowed to creep into my soul, I tapped into a potential I'd never known I had. I listened, and for the first time truly heard the dead.\"\n\nChurls paused in her task. She could not avoid a quick glance in Vedas's direction.\n\n\"The dead?\" she said. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean those souls still lingering near the living, unable or unwilling to leave the material world behind. They have much to say. Some are able to read the future\u2014or predict it well enough to appear to read it. They have access to every moment of their lives. They observe us without our knowing. Because of the threat inherent in rousing my former self, I'd hoped to wait until proof presented itself concerning Pol Tanz et Som, who I believe to be dead. He was powerful, yes, and uniquely tempting for me: he inspired me, on many occasions, to bring my own former selves to the fore. Certainly, he was fated to madness because of what he'd done to himself, yet I don't believe he was inhabited by one of my siblings.\n\n\"As for Berun, I feel quite sure that he... I think I would have recognized...\"\n\nHe shook his head and lowered himself onto his side, allowing Churls to bind his ankles to his wrists.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"Enough waiting. This is wiser. It's better to know for certain, now.\"\n\nVedas caught the man's expression. It could not be mistaken for anything but fear.\n\nShavrim met Vedas's stare and lifted his chin, gesturing to their packs. \"Hold a blade to my neck and remain ready. If I appear about to break my bonds, or if my state persists past the point where I've confirmed or denied our suspicions, slit my throat. I'll bleed, but I won't die, and it will weaken my body enough for me to reassert control of myself. In that case, leave me here and continue on. I'll meet you in Ual, eventually.\"\n\nWithout waiting to see if his order was followed, he closed his eyes and took four immense breaths, the last of which he held still within him long enough to make Vedas concerned.\n\nHe took a step toward Shavrim just as a great shudder ran through the horned man's trussed body. Shavrim groaned, varying in pitch as the air\u2014more air than lungs should hold, surely\u2014passed out of him, finally winding down to a grating wheeze. The skin of his face, neck, and upper chest darkened, exactly as though he were choking. With a mighty gasp, he breathed in again. In, fully, and out, fully, the process resumed. Each time the cycle completed, the shuddering became more violent.\n\nChurls backed away. Vedas put the point of his sword to Shavrim's throat, maintaining pressure upon it throughout the paroxysms. Berun continued to stand silent, arms crossed, glowering at the scene.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe shuddering stopped. Shavrim's left eye opened, revealing a madly vibrating pupil. Gradually, it stilled and focused on Vedas, who pressed the tip of his blade more firmly to the man's throat.\n\nA smile slowly pulled at the corners of Shavrim's mouth. The right eye slowly opened.\n\nThe huge, bunched muscles of his shoulders swelled as he tested his bonds.\n\nHe grunted, and his smile grew wider.\n\nWhen he spoke, his voice was an octave lower\u2014so low and accented that several seconds passed before Vedas realized the words were intelligible.\n\n\"\u2014that limp-pricked fool,\" he said. \"Friend to ghosts, fucker of men.\"\n\n\"Are you talking to me?\" Vedas said.\n\nShavrim regarded him silently. To a casual observer, he may have appeared still, yet Vedas noticed the subtle muscular contractions in his thighs, belly, and upper arms that gave him away. Shavrim was testing the chains, methodically, searching for a weakness, determining where best to apply his strength in order to escape.\n\n\"No,\" he finally answered. \"I'm not speaking to you. I'm speaking to the faggot I've turned out to be.\" He raised his head and inclined it quizzically, as though listening. He sniffed and sneered. \"Or perhaps I'm wrong. You've the stink of one who's been buggered, and also of the dead. Of course, you _are_ going to die. All humans smell of the dead. I may be getting confused.\"\n\n\"I have questions for you.\"\n\nA nearly sub-audible laugh. \"Of course you do. It's not as if I don't know why I'm here. The world is at its end, and all of you...\" He lifted his head and winked at Churls. He whistled at Berun. Vedas kept his blade steady. \"... believe you can do something about it. Pissing idiot idea. Adrash was more than a match for the six of us gods, and now you...\"\n\nAll at once, his body went rigid. Vedas readied himself, but the man did not attempt to break free. In fact, after only a moment Shavrim dropped his head onto the ground and let it roll back, causing Vedas's blade to etch a fine line of blood on the man's throat.\n\n\"Ah,\" Shavrim said. \"Ah-ha, ah-ha. Now I see. It took me a moment, but there it is. Hello, brother! Hello, sister! Can you hear me?\" He looked up at Vedas, one eyebrow raised. \"Are you in there, Evurt? Come out, come out!\"\n\nVedas allowed himself several heartbeats of reflection, shining a torch around the interior of his skull, searching for the interloper he knew to be hiding there, before answering. He increased the pressure on Shavrim's neck, forcing the man to rest his head upon the ground or have his throat slit.\n\n\"It's only me,\" Vedas said. \"And I have questions that need answering.\"\n\nShavrim's amused expression did not fade. \"Oh, ask, Vedas Tezul. Ask away.\"\n\n\"You know of the elderman Pol Tanz et Som?\"\n\nA slow nod. \"Yes. Another buggering, presumptuous little shit.\" Shavrim raised his chin to the night sky. \"Still, he did accomplish this, more than most of you mortals ever will.\"\n\n\"Is he alive?\"\n\nNo hesitation. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"Don't know. Don't care.\" He flexed at his bonds, no longer attempting to hide the fact.\n\n\"Is he like us?\" Vedas gestured to Churls. _\"Inhabited?\"_\n\nThe chain rustled as it shifted on Shavrim's wrist. \"Like you two, you mean...\" His eyes widened, and his voice lowered to a whisper. \"Oh, good. Oh, very good.\" He smiled, and his voice rose. \"Pol, I have no idea. He has talent, and not a tiny bit of madness. But the bloody big man made of balls, there, behind me?\"\n\nBerun uncrossed his arms.\n\n\"Yes! You!\" Shavrim called over his shoulder. \"The fool I've become didn't see it, right before his eyes, but I do. Hello, neither brother nor sister! Come out and play with us!\"\n\nThe constructed man took two steps toward Shavrim and halted, stock-still, as though both feet had become rooted to the ground. A whisper-soft sound of metal rubbing metal cut through the air: the closing and opening of his great fists.\n\n\"The name, then,\" he said. \"Speak it.\"\n\n\"Sradir Ung Kim,\" Shavrim said.\n\nBerun's head swiveled from Vedas to Churls. \"The names he spoke to you meant something. They stirred you. But there is nothing in this name, Sradir Ung Kim. I feel nothing. He is wrong.\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" Shavrim said. \"You're merely thick. Sradir is within you, and it will come out. Soon, if I am any judge. It was always an odd one, choosing its odd moments.\" He grinned at Vedas. \"You'll enjoy when it when it shows itself. Sradir was\u2014 _is_ , I suppose\u2014an unusual creature. It never seemed to get humans, the way the rest of us did. A wooden heart, that one.\"\n\nHe flexed at the chains once more, swelling his chest and heaving with every muscle. The chain groaned, and Vedas prepared to do what was necessary.\n\nFortunately, the links held. Shavrim simply grunted and rested his head upon the ground.\n\n\"Shavrim?\" Churls said. Her voice made it clear which iteration of the man she had spoken to. \"Shavrim? We have our answers, or as good as we're going to get. Come back now.\"\n\nShavrim laughed. \"Oh, he'll not be coming back. And you haven't all your answers. I have more to say about the dead. There's another that hovers around Berun, and he means the world no good. He'd see a blanket of ash covering everything. Why? Who knows?\" He shrugged, flexing once more at the creaking chains before subsiding with a contented smile. \"And then there's the little thing my weak heir hasn't quite worked out. I'd particularly like to talk about her, as she seems to have a legion at her command.\"\n\n\"The little one?\" Churls said.\n\n\"Yes. The one standing behind you.\"\n\nChurls turned, and Vedas looked up.\n\nBut Fyra had already disappeared. A second later, she reappeared at Shavrim's back. After a brief pause, she closed her eyes tightly and thrust her ghostly hands into his shoulder.\n\nShavrim gasped and the girl cried out. Screams ripped from both of their chests, creating a disharmony that grated awfully upon the ears.\n\n\u2021\n\nThey struggled: he, away from her, and she, away from him. Her arm seemed stuck inside the man's flesh, though such a thing was clearly impossible in her insubstantial state. The screaming continued, un-abated\u2014Fyra continuously, a siren screech unhindered by lungs, Shavrim pausing only for harsh gasps of air\u2014while both sought to undo what had occurred.\n\nVedas kept his blade pressed to the flesh of Shavrim's quivering throat, not in the least dismayed by the cut he created there. He had never slit a throat, but he knew the difference between a shallow wound and a killing wound. He knew it by feel.\n\n\"What's happening?\" he shouted to Churls. Berun closed around Shavrim and held him down, avoiding contact with where he and Fyra were fused.\n\n\"No idea!\" she answered, taking one step in his direction, only to take one step back. \"Fyra! What are you doing? How can I help you?\"\n\nThe girl brought her teeth together, altering the pitch of her agony without lowering the volume. Her voice resounded inside Vedas, settling in the pit of his gut, in his bones. His temples throbbed. It took a will to stand: he fought the temptation to simply let his knees fail beneath him.\n\nShavrim's voice grew hoarse. He coughed between breaths, flecking the ground with blood.\n\nChurls's indecision had come to an end. She ran forward and knelt at her daughter's back, thrusting her hands through the immaterial body, placing her palms flat upon Shavrim's shoulder, just where the girl's wrists entered. She leaned her head forward\u2014 _into_ Fyra's own, creating the illusion that they shared a skull. Churls shook as she pushed, clenching her jaw against the vicious rattling of her teeth. Her breathing came in quick, shallow bursts.\n\nShe closed her eyes, and the girl's opened. White smoke poured out, evaporating above Fyra's head. The girl's lips came together, shutting off her scream so suddenly that Vedas flinched. Still, a humming issued from within her: the sound of her pain continuing behind her sealed lips, building up within her small form. She rocked back and forth in time with Churls, and gradually, hairsbreadth by hairsbreadth, more and more of her wrists came free.\n\nShavrim's screaming intensified with each pull, raw like a wound ground in glass.\n\nBerun kept his broad hands on the man's upper arm and thigh, holding him down. Vedas thanked fate for it, too: without the constructed man's help, Shavrim's seizures would surely have prevented Churls from assisting Fyra. The girl would have been thrown around like a ragdoll.\n\nVedas kept the blade to Shavrim's neck while circling around his head, coming to Churls's side. He reached for her, intent on helping in any way he could. By pulling with her or merely laying a hand on her shoulder. If power could be transmitted through Churls to Fyra, then surely...\n\n\"No!\" mother and daughter yelled in unison, halting their movements. Fyra's radiance doubled, tripled. A metallic sheen fell over Churls, as though she were reflected in a silvered mirror.\n\nVedas reached forward again, only to be stopped as Churls's head snapped up. Her face had taken on a harsh angularity. Her eyes were two golden slivers of light.\n\n\"No, brother,\" she said. \"Let us do this work. Afterwards, you do yours.\"\n\nShe turned back to her task, the appearance of the goddess fading.\n\nFyra and Churls began moving once more, a moan escaping their lips, increasing in volume until it was an oddly-pitched chorus, as of a hundred voices howling\u2014\n\n\u2014and, for a moment, appearing at their backs, disappearing through the temple's back wall, rank upon increasing rank\u2014\n\n\u2014kneeling, hands upon each others' shoulders\u2014\n\n\u2014rocking back and forth, in time with Churls and Fyra, adding weight to their struggle\u2014\n\nThe dead, coming to aid one of their own.\n\nVedas blinked and they disappeared, leaving the afterimage tattooed upon his eyelids.\n\nBelow him, Shavrim cried out again and again, a series of hoarse, surely agonizing coughs. Fyra had managed to pull nearly half of her hand free.\n\n\"Hold steady, Vedas,\" Berun cautioned.\n\nVedas looked down to see the tip of his sword in the dirt. He pressed it home once more.\n\nChurls's movements became increasingly jerky. Now, her elbows were locked. Only her neck and shoulders moved back and forth.\n\nNonetheless, it was enough. Finally, it was enough.\n\nWith a gasp from both parties, they fell back\u2014Churls onto the ground, Fyra partway submerged in the ground at her side, half-in, half-out as though she were floating on her back on the surface of a salt lake.\n\nShavrim gave one last gasp and went slack, head lolling on the ground.\n\nVedas dropped his sword and knelt at Churls's side. Her pulse was strong but irregular. Her breathing came in jerky inhalations and shuddering exhalations, in through the nose and out through barely parted lips. Under her eyelids, her eyes swam in twitchy patterns. He watched her for the space of a dozen breaths and then willed his suit to unmask his face. Mind struck unfathomably blank, a sound in his skull like the hiss of calm waves, he bent to kiss her.\n\n\"Vedas.\" Berun's voice seemed to arrive from a great distance away, his methodical, accented speech tinny in Vedas's ears. \"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"This,\" Vedas answered. He pressed his lips to hers, and the world dissolved.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe sun hung directly before him, though he did not shield his eyes. He stared at it directly for an indeterminate time, several heartbeats or the better part of an hour, wondering at its appearance. He had never before noticed, but it was not a stable, unvarying thing. The sun pulsed, expanding and contracting slightly. It breathed, varying its light in intensity from one moment to the next.\n\nSomeone squeezed his hand.\n\nHe shook his head, and finally registered his surroundings\n\nHe stood on a vast, red-soiled plain carpeted in white and yellow flowers that swayed in the breeze, moving like the surface of the sea. The horizon was close, a knife's edge or a table-end. It smelled as it always did on the outskirts of Danoor, away from cooking fires, inefficient plumbing, and the press of bodies.\n\nHe breathed in the ancient, baked dust smell of the desert, and knew.\n\nThe plains of the Aroonan mesas were a holy place. None but the Aroya people and their closest descendents were allowed to walk on the heights. This restriction was one of the oldest and most binding rules of the Knosi people.\n\nHe could not bring himself to care about trespassing. His mind moved glacially, catching up to his curiosity slowly.\n\nSomeone squeezed his hand, and he turned.\n\nChurls stood at his side, the fingers of her left hand entwined in his right. His _naked_ right hand, he noted by feel.\n\nHe looked down. His suit had retreated far up his arms and legs. The borderline between skin and suit was chaotic, appearing almost like the torn edges of multiple strips of fabric. Centered upon his chest was a perfect circle of flesh. Small holes in the elder-cloth peppered out from it, forming a five-limbed swirling pattern that extended onto his shoulders and arms. He had never chosen to make such designs upon his suit. Point in fact, he doubted he possessed the skill necessary to make such a thing occur.\n\nExamining the design, he registered a second shock.\n\nWhere exposed, his skin reflected the slanting sunlight as though it had been flecked in metallic dust\u2014as though he had been at work at a grinding wheel, honing the edge of a tool. He scratched at the portion of his exposed chest, and then stared at his upraised hand. He made a fist, and the skin of his knuckles did not pale slightly as it stretched over the bone underneath: instead, each knuckle warmed in color, glowing bronze under his nearly black skin.\n\nHe looked at Churls again. Her skin had once again taken on a metallic aspect to match his own. Silver to his bronze. Vaguely, muzzy-head, he recognized the significance of this.\n\nShe smiled at him oddly. The lines of her face were subtly wrong. No, even its structure was wrong, marked by higher cheekbones and a thinner jaw. The skin of her face seemed too tight, stretched taut and glistening over the bones of her skull.\n\nHis lips formed two names, but he spoke neither.\n\n_Churls. Ustert_.\n\nHer smile widened, revealing two rows of small, perfectly straight teeth, lacking any gap between her two incisors. His cock stirred, and he grimaced, tightening his suit around his genitals, clamping down physically on his arousal. Without taking his eyes off Churls, he rubbed at his jawline, finding it smooth, as hairless as that of a child's. His scalp, too, was without a hint of budding hair. His hands felt oddly outsized, palm too broad over his mouth, fingers extending too far around his cranium.\n\nHe searched for words to express his concern. He wondered if it would even be wise to do so. He did not want to reveal more of his own ignorance, having revealed enough ignorance to account for several lifetimes.\n\n\"Quit worrying,\" a voice said. \"You're safe here.\"\n\nFyra stood before them, her expression calm. Unlike when they had met, she was now painted in the shades of life. Her pale, freckled skin shone with an inner light. Her eyes were liquid, the color of seawater. When she grinned at him, he returned the expression automatically, unselfconsciously. He had once, as a child, smiled that way. He drew strength from the solidity of her presence.\n\n\"You're not completely you, Vedas,\" she said. \"Neither is Mama. I couldn't prevent bringing something of them here with you. They wanted to see this, I think.\"\n\n\"What?\" he asked. \"Wanted what?\"\n\n\"Vedas,\" Churls said. \"Do you know where we are?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"We're in the land of the dead. A vision, sustained by those who have passed.\"\n\nHe tore his eyes away from Fyra, though breaking the contact between them took a physical effort.\n\n\"How do you know this?\" he asked. \"This is all your doing, the two of you?\"\n\nChurls nodded to Fyra with an expression of unclouded affection Vedas had never before seen. \"A lot can be passed between a mother and daughter, in the moments where they struggle together. We know each other better now\u2014far, far better than in life, undoubtedly. And it's not our vision completely, Vedas. We're not alone.\"\n\nBetween heartbeats, an army of thousands grew behind Fyra, silent and arrayed in every style of dress the world knew. Vedas's gaze passed over those closest to him. The sun shone through a few of their bodies as though they were formed from glass. Most did not visibly breathe, for why should they? Some were stiff and gray, granite statues rather than men. Many were strangely flat, an image on a canvas. Not one appeared as substantial, as concrete, as Fyra.\n\nHe recalled her claiming to be _better than anybody, ever_ , and he no longer doubted it.\n\nThe girl stepped forward, taking his left hand. Together, they faced the dead.\n\n\u2021\n\nFor a time, nothing moved, and Vedas became aware of a sound.\n\nA low thrum.\n\nThe first hint of the ocean lapping upon the shore.\n\nThunder, so faint that it could have been imagined.\n\nIt was all of these sounds, but it was also a symphony of voices. He knew this, and did not know how he knew it.\n\nThe dead could not hide their thoughts, not completely. They wanted to be heard.\n\n\"Magess Um,\" Fyra said. \"Tell him what you told me.\"\n\nOne among the assembled ranks stepped forward. Skeletally thin and nearly translucent, she was a mere whisper of a person, wrinkled and wrapped in dun robes. Despite her worn and watered appearance, she held her chin up, holding Vedas's stare. She did not stoop, and stood only an inch or two shorter than him. She could have been his grandmother, such was the similar hue of her skin, the nap of her hair, and the straight breadth of her shoulders.\n\n\"This is Jojore Um, former Magess of the Knosi Kingdom under Queen Medn,\" Fyra whispered. Vedas looked down at her, surprised by the note of respect in her voice. \"She is the oldest of us, much older than I knew any of us were. She has experience no one else has, by thousands of years. It is an honor to talk to her. Listen.\"\n\nJojore did not smile. She did not even open her mouth.\n\n_Vedas Tezul, weak-blooded cousin_ , she said directly into his mind. Hers was a flat, haughty rasp of a voice, heavily accented though comprehensible. _I am not pleased to meet you. Nor am I impressed by what I see. Regardless, you are standing here before me. You are at a crossroads, with the fate of all life drifting in the wind. Wish that it were otherwise, it matters not at all. You will have to do_.\n\nVedas frowned, but not at her words, insulting thought they were. A series of nearly colorless slowly-moving images of himself accompanied her speech, forming in his mind and quickly collapsing, as though she were shuffling through a bystander's memories of him.\n\n... ten or eleven years old, running along an avenue in Golna, carefree.... older, into his early twenties, thinner and likely stronger than he was now, lifting an opponent amid the chaos of a street battle.... holding the body of Sara Jol.... and only days past, atop Fesuy Amendja's stronghold, facing the man he had then known as The Tamer.\n\n_Yes. Him_ , Jojore said. _You are not to doubt this man, Shavrim Coranid. And yet you are not to trust him. He is legion inside himself, and there are worse than the one the girl just saved you from. There are worse than even the being Shavrim is now suspects. He has forgotten much that is a danger to you, to himself_.\n\n\"How do you know this?\" he asked. \"Why should we trust you?\"\n\nFyra dropped her head and groaned.\n\nJojore's expression hardened. _You will address me by my title. You will call me Magess Um. I am doing you a favor, never forget it nor doubt me. I know these truths because I know the relic Shavrim claims to have been_.\n\nShe sneered, and an image came to Vedas of Shavrim, naked, painted in swirling patterns from head to toe. He stood on a battlefield, alone, breathing heavily and surrounded by corpses. _I was one among the dead who helped him see likely paths to the future. I would not discuss with him the fates of goat herders or fisherman. I would only speak to him matters of importance, of life and death. I grew to know him. I heard him when he came back into the world, just as I hear whenever he takes that aspect_.\n\n\"You know who he really is\u2014who he claims to be?\" he asked. She scowled, and he forced himself to add her title.\n\n_I do. And he more than claims. He is what he says he is. I am not blind, as you clearly are. I know his nature just as I know your own, beyond the thin shield of your mind, your fragile skin and bone_. She turned her head to Churls. _As I know who you are. You are both ridden, hosts to souls older and more powerful than any in the history of the world excepting Adrash and Shavrim. They should not be here, but it is beyond our will to keep them out entirely_.\n\nVedas winced as two blinding images of Ustert and Evurt seared into his mind's eye.\n\n... the two of them, svelte and severe as knifeblades, silver and bronze, locked in a violently passionate embrace on a massive bed, in the very room he recognized from his own dreams.... and then, both standing, hand in hand, alongside four others, Shavrim among them.\n\nThe image passed too quickly to gather much detail beyond this, but Vedas imagined that one among them possessed wings.\n\nJojore nodded. _The pretty one. His name was Orrus Dabulakm. He was Shavrim's favorite. And this one..._\n\nThe image returned, held. It shifted suddenly, and he stared directly at the tallest of the six figures. She\u2014or he: Vedas could not tell\u2014seemed to stare directly at him with dull, featureless eyes. Thorns grew from her shoulders, elbows, and knees. She held in her hand a short whip.\n\n_... is Sradir Ung Kim_.\n\nHer sneer returned. _Yes, the... artificial man... he too is ridden, as the relic Shavrim claims. He is not his own creature_. She looked pointedly at Fyra, then at Churls. _But he has never been his own creature, has he?_\n\nChurls shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. \"That's not my secret to tell,\" she said. She opened her mouth to speak again, and then closed it. She angled her head forward to peer at Fyra. \"Why did she look at you?\"\n\nJojore made a cutting motion with her left hand before Fyra could respond. _Enough, you foolish people. Enough secrets. Time is not infinite_. She met Vedas's gaze again. _There will be a reckoning for the one called Berun. It will come from two directions: from Sradir Ung Kim, and from his creator Ortur Omali. Sradir will act as it will\u2014no, I cannot read its intention\u2014but Omali is known to us, to many of the dead. He cast an immense shadow in life and is still felt here from his place in limbo. He is wounded, but still the most powerful agent of those who would see the Needle fall and rupture the crust of Jeroun, extinguishing life's fire_.\n\n\"Churls,\" Vedas said quietly. \"You knew of this... possession?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"It wasn't my secret to t\u2014\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" he said. He shook his head, marveling at everything that had been kept from him, all that would continue to be kept from him if he did not insist on being enlightened fully. Keenly aware of his anger, he nonetheless understood it as an unproductive emotion, a petty thing that could not be allowed to last: Churls had had her reasons for keeping him in the dark, as had Berun. He would not blame them, no, yet he would not remain in ignorance.\n\nTheir hesitation could not be allowed to shape events.\n\nHe released Churls's and Fyra's hands. The world dimmed perceptibly\u2014perhaps, he reasoned, because he could not exist alone in the world of the dead. He likely did not possess the understanding or will sufficient to sustain the link.\n\nAs if to confirm his suspicion, Churls reached for his hand.\n\nHe stepped forward, out of her reach, and gripped Jojore Um's upper arm.\n\nThe texture of her skin, like volcanic glass. The widening and narrowing of her dark eyes. During several long seconds, he seemed to stare at her through a darkening tunnel, the bright dream of the dead fading around him in increasingly constricting waves.\n\n\"I am not your weak-blooded cousin,\" he said, hearing his words through a wool sheet, a thin wall. He did not yell, but increased the volume of his voice with each sentence. \"I am full-blooded Knosi, son to full-blooded Knosi. I am Vedas Tezul, the man who declared war on Adrash. I am ridden by a god, and still live and speak in my own voice. I will not be talked to as if I were a child. I will not be told what to do, kept in the dark, or moved about like a game piece\u2014by you, by Evurt, by anyone.\" He smiled tightly. \"You will acknowledge this.\"\n\nFor a moment, she looked as though she would reject his assertion. Slowly, however, one corner of her mouth turned up. She nodded, and the daylit mesa snapped back into focus.\n\n_Finally_ , she said. _A reason to hope in you. No cousin of mine comes crawling_.\n\nHe leaned into their embrace, and whispered in her ear.\n\n\"Don't tell me anything more. Show me. Show me everything.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nShavrim lagged behind them for the two days it took to reach the docktown of Ual. He waved them forward when any member of the party slowed to accommodate his pace. He kept his features carefully composed, though now and then he huffed in annoyance.\n\nVedas could not resist making the comparison to himself. On the trip to Danoor, he too had been injured and labored to keep up with Churls and Berun. He too had refused to accept any concession to his condition. Watching Shavrim struggle, Vedas fought to reconcile his distrust with a newfound sympathy. When night came, he stared across the fire at his clearly exhausted companion, trying to piece together what Jojore had revealed to him about the man.\n\n(No, despite what he had learned, he could not bring himself to think of Shavrim as a god. The world already possessed one too many deities. Vedas denied the label, as though denying it would do a damn thing.)\n\nThe weight of time: this, Vedas could not easily comprehend. How could a being exist in a body so clogged with lives, the identities and recollections of millennia? Thanks to Jojore, he now understood Shavrim had been made, in the much same way Berun had been made\u2014that the man had been designed from the outset to withstand the physical and intellectual rigors of immortality. Whereas Vedas possessed one mind housed in the fragile confines of his skull, Shavrim's mind branched and divided throughout his body, compartmentalizing his ponderous existence, allowing him to close and open doors to all but forgotten memories.\n\nAnd yet, even with this knowledge, Vedas could not conceive of the pressure upon the man's shoulders. Though aware of the limitations of his own knowledge, as well as the impossibility of any true comparison to mortal men, he could not prevent himself from reading much in Shavrim's defeated expression.\n\nWhat occurred in Marept had broken him in some fundamental way.\n\nTo his surprise, Vedas found himself warming to the man. Shavrim had never acted on Vedas or his companions' behalf, but he had also never lied. He would see his family returned to him, and this stirred buried recollections within Vedas. Had he not wanted a family, a place to belong? Had he not tried, for most of his life, to achieve some sense of peace and justice?\n\nHe did not hate understanding how he and Shavrim Coranid were alike.\n\nIn truth, since communing with Jojore, he had discovered an untapped reserve of compassion for both Churls and Berun. He felt warmly inclined toward Fyra, protective, affectionate in a way he had never before allowed himself around children. The urge to chastise himself emerged, for it was as though he had forgotten a thing so obvious he should never have been able to forget it.\n\nChurls. She had lived with a burden far heavier than his own\u2014far heavier than anyone could be expected to endure. As the trainer of recruits for the Thirteenth Order of Black Suits, he had seen children die, knowing himself to be responsible, or at the very least complicit. But Churls? His knees grew weak every time he contemplated the bleak weight, the overwhelming guilt, of losing a child rarely seen and never truly comprehended. Churls had willfully neglected her daughter, choosing wrongly each and every day she spent far from home.\n\nShe had not deceived herself in anything. She had known she was running.\n\nNot for the first time since leaving Golna, Vedas appreciate the power of experiencing unclouded vision. He had once considered himself a man of insight, aware of what moved those whose lives intersected briefly with his own, but to truly comprehend what another felt, the total acknowledgement of their mistakes, their joys and failures and boredoms...\n\nOh, yes, he loved her.\n\nHe would use this word, _love_. He would mean it for the first time since childhood, when love was an automatic function of living, of being dependent upon someone. Committing to it, as they traveled through the desert toward a seemingly impossible goal, ridden by forces they could not as mortals grasp, struck him as appropriate.\n\nThe mortal mind could be illuminated. Even someone as crippled by doubt, as awkward from self-imposed isolation, as he could experience a communion with others. There was considerable risk, but he now understood the risk must be taken if one were to make it to death a complete man.\n\nOf course, _man_ could mean so many things. Berun, too, suffered in ways Vedas could sympathize with. Vedas recalled all the ways in which he himself had been manipulated since the death of his parents, first by one and then another abbey master. They continued to exert their pull, even from death and across the continent, telling him that he had lost his way, that he had betrayed his order and the oaths taken there.\n\nOf course, as with Churls, what he knew of suffering in this regard paled in comparison to Berun, who had never had room enough to call himself his own creature\u2014who had at every step been under another's thumb.\n\nHaunted, the three of them. He, Churls, and Berun shared this bond. His friends had known this intuitively and supported him, well before he knew himself.\n\n_Friends_. Yes. In addition to love, he would use that word. It brought a smile to his face.\n\nAnd Fyra?\n\nFyra. To whom they owed their lives. For which she continued to exhaust herself, asking nothing in return. She possessed an unquestionable loyalty to her mother, and, for reasons Vedas could not fathom, a growing sense of attachment to her lover and Berun. She had become invested in their combined fate, to the point of acting as emissary, rousing the dead from their fear, convincing them to risk their own existence to oppose Adrash.\n\n_Ostensibly_ to oppose Adrash, he reminded himself. Everything beyond helping her mother was secondary. She was still a child, for all her power\u2014a child who did not know the wage of her offer.\n\nJojore knew, however.\n\n_We could help you, and stand a chance of surviving_ , the dead magess had said as they stood and surveyed a blasted, permanently twilit plain\u2014an outcome, one of many, in which Adrash let the Needle fall to earth. _The girl, however? She will die a death beyond death. She will pass out of existence. I am not always able to read the wind, but this much is clear. Know the wage of choosing to accept our help_. Her expression grew hard. _It is a small wage, cousin. She is just one girl. Powerful, yes, but still just one girl_.\n\nHe had nodded, but only in confirmation of the conclusion he had already reached. Churls would not lose her daughter a second time.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe nations of Knoori could not easily be linked, one with another. The magic needed to communicate over vast distances existed, but the expenditure was too great for the commoner. As a result, news traveled glacially.\n\nHaving no family to speak of, Vedas had never given this fact of existence much thought, yet traveling to Danoor had altered his perspective slightly: he had often longed to communicate with Abse, seeking counsel over the long journey.\n\nOf course, had he received such counsel, he might well have delivered the speech the abbey master had written\u2014a document that sought only to cement the power of the Black Suits, altering the dynamic not at all, keeping warring parties in their old positions. Had he listened to Abse, he would never have allowed his doubt to take such firm root, or his desire for Churls to bloom. He would not have become something other than Vedas Tezul of Golna, a child in a man's body, a mind bound by the cords of dogma. He would not have a hundred new doubts, or a sense of purpose despite the doubts.\n\nCertainly, he would not be staring at a statue of himself, at a crossroads far from Danoor.\n\nHe looked away, horrified. The smell of saltwater filled his head, though the ocean could not yet be seen. Over the flat northeastern horizon, he could make out a gleaming arc of reflected light, an incomprehensibly huge bubble stretched over a vast portion of the earth's belly: Osa, or at least the top of the immense crystal dome that covered their eventual destination.\n\nHe concentrated on it intensely, as if by doing so he could convince the others to turn their gazes away from the embarrassing object before them.\n\n\"Well, this is odd,\" Churls said.\n\nShavrim grunted. After a moment, Berun began laughing. Heat rose in Vedas's cheeks.\n\nThe statue stood, propped in the sand two miles west of Ual. It was a crude, half-sized thing with exaggerated musculature and even more exaggerated genitalia, painted black from head to toe. In one hand it held a roll of paper. His victory speech.\n\nA sign hung from its neck.\n\nUAL IS LOYAL TO THE PROPHET VEDAS TEZUL\n\nIF YOUR ALLEGIANCE LIES ELSEWHERE\n\nLEAVE OR BE DROWNED IN OUR SEA\n\nChurls resisted laughing, but could not hide the amusement in her voice. \"It's really quite flattering, Vedas. You're a hero.\"\n\nShe frowned exaggeratedly at his expression, and squeezed his hand.\n\n\"Come now. We'll be welcomed like royals. After Danoor, shouldn't we thank fate for anyone kindly disposed toward us? We could have walked into a town overrun by Adrashi.\"\n\nHe met her stare and she sighed.\n\n\"Fine,\" she said, and pressed her palm flat against the statue's forehead. She walked forward, toppling it easily to the ground. Over her shoulder, she smiled at him. \"What? They're about to meet the real thing, anyway, so what's the harm in a little sacrilege?\"\n\nHe tried to see the humor in it. He did. She raised her eyebrows. He admitted defeat, and smiled at her. It was a forced reaction, but to his astonishment it helped: as he passed the downed statue, the situation suddenly struck him as comical. He experienced the increasingly familiar suspicion that, should he choose to view the world differently, the world would indeed appear differently. Was it necessary to view events through such an uncharitable lens? What, he asked, did it profit him to greet each day with a wary eye? He had always been dying. The world had always been dying. It would all end one day, and what would be left of Vedas Tezul?\n\nHe stopped in his tracks, turned back, and stooped to shoulder his wooden likeness. Shavrim watched him. He nodded, expression unreadable, when Vedas stood.\n\nBerun looked from one to the other. \"What are you doing?\" he asked.\n\nVedas shook his head, not entirely sure, but suspecting he would know in time.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe residents of Ual had little to spare, but they spared all of it to accommodate their prophet. He balked at their generosity, but in the end relented.\n\nThey slaughtered a ewe within a half hour of his arrival, prepared and set dinner for twelve men between the three of them, and made up he and Churls's room in the town's one inn as if hosting (just as she had predicted) a king and queen. Joyful and embarrassed at all the attention, full to the point of bellyache and more than a little drunk, they fell asleep before the thought of making love occurred to either of them.\n\nAt two hours past midnight, he rose and left her. His movements were silent, even to his own ears. He had felt sluggish upon entering the room, but he felt light and strong upon leaving it, filled with a purpose he did not need to question. Following the compulsion, he smiled tightly in anticipation, his jaw clenched and his fingers balled into fists.\n\nHe would go, but he would not be corralled.\n\nHis brother waited for him in the town square, arms crossed, under the broken sky. This word\u2014 _brother_ \u2014formed on Vedas's lips, but he suppressed the urge to speak it. He clamped down upon the sense of familiarity that threatened to dictate the conversation before it had even begun. A door closed in his mind: he locked Evurt as best he could behind it.\n\n\"Shavrim,\" he said.\n\nThe man canted his head forward, causing the moonlight to catch oddly on the stubby horns sprouting from his forehead. For a handful of seconds, they appeared larger than they had before, sharpened into vicious points. Stretching, reaching...\n\nVedas kept himself, barely, from taking a step back.\n\nShavrim's left eyebrow lifted and he raised his chin, breaking the illusion. He smiled\u2014a touch sadly, Vedas estimated. Vedas had seen the same expression on Abse's face many times. When the abbey master's most gifted disciple had not reached the correct conclusion. When events did not turn out as the abbey master planned.\n\nAbse had been able to recognize immediately, the moment when Vedas's sympathy shifted away from him.\n\n\"Vedas,\" Shavrim said. There was no question in it.\n\n\"Yes. That is my name.\"\n\nShavrim nodded, eyes bright, intent. \"It is. It is. And yet you're here, where I expected Evurt to be.\" He sat, cross-legged on the ground. He gestured that his visitor sit. \"I won't pretend this pleases me, Vedas, but there's little I can do. You're surprised that I tell you this? Let me ask\u2014do you think I've been honest with you? Have I been forthright?\"\n\n\"You have,\" Vedas said immediately, and then discovered room to doubt his surety. He considered several responses, and then shrugged before sitting across from Shavrim.\n\nAn odd decisiveness had settled upon him: he would allow the man to lead, to either tell the truth or implicate himself. He would trust himself to tell the difference between the two.\n\nBehind the closed door in his mind, he felt a force push back against this resolution. Evurt did not want to wait, yet Vedas found it easy to dismiss his impatience. Each inhalation seemed to anchor him more firmly to the earth. Even his newfound affection for Shavrim did not fade. In fact, it was if they stood upon equal ground for the first time.\n\nThey stared at one another, silent.\n\nShavrim broke first. He laughed suddenly, as though Vedas had told an amusing joke.\n\n\"You're an interesting man, Vedas Tezul. When we met upon Fesuy Amendja's roof, I told you I could show you a way to stop hating yourself, never imagining you might come to terms with yourself alone. Every rumor I'd heard had led me to imagine you as the most inflexible sort.\"\n\nVedas said nothing.\n\n\"To be clear, mine was a genuine offer. Adrash is not invincible. He can be wounded. He might even die. What I did not share then, but shared soon after, was the way in which you'd be able to make good on your word\u2014not through your own efforts, but through my brother's.\"\n\nHe sighed, and his sad smile returned. \"Yes. I had hoped to see Evurt again, to fight alongside him, despite what damage it might do to you. I thought he and Ustert were the world's best chance. I still worry that they are, that we have missed an opportunity at an entire world's expense. Their assumption of you and Churls may still happen, of course. I won't lie and say it wouldn't please me. Regardless, there's substantial doubt in my mind. Perhaps they chose vessels less wisely than they could have. Perhaps you are too strong to be taken and used in the manner they intend.\"\n\nVedas said nothing. He closed his eyes as the pressure behind the closed door intensified.\n\nAfter a long pause, Shavrim said, \"Perhaps this is a good thing, however.\"\n\nThe pressure doubled, tripled. Vedas considered clamping down upon it entirely, grinding Evurt's influence to a halt before it became overwhelming, but did not. Shavrim would not stop attempting to rouse his brother. He would test Vedas, again and again.\n\n_Might as well have it out now_ , Vedas thought.\n\nEvurt did not deign to respond.\n\n\"Perhaps you are what the world needs,\" Shavrim said. \"Two mortals. After all, if Evurt's strength is insufficient to overcome you, what use could he be against our father?\"\n\nThe pressure increased until Vedas's skull creaked with it, bathing him from crown to chin in pain so intense he struggled to loosen his jaw to scream, yet loosen his jaw to scream he did. He opened his eyes, and a golden light poured forth from them, fractionally easing the weight pressed against both temples. The colors of the night bloomed around him suddenly and Evurt's consciousness, menacingly alien and disdainful, flooded his own. He rocked from side to side dizzyinglly, as though his body, his mind and soul, were being pulled from either direction.\n\nAs though he were scales, measuring shifting weights.\n\n\"Shavrim,\" he said in one croak of a voice while another, steadier voice spoke simultaneously, saying the word he had not wanted to say.\n\n\"Brother,\" Evurt said.\n\nIn this one word, Vedas heard the god's satisfaction, the arrogant presumption, and his anger flared in response.\n\nLosing to Evurt was not an option.\n\nThus, he would not lose: it was this simple. His teeth snapped closed and he growled, like a mutt cornered in an alley. His eyes closed, like shutters on the invading sun. His hands rose to his head, and gradually he stopped rocking. Then, after an infinity of fearing his skull would collapse upon itself, of holding back the raging divine tide within him, he found control once more.\n\nThe light slowly faded from his eyes. Evurt howled from behind the closed door.\n\n\"Shavrim\" Vedas said. In one voice. His own voice. \"You can stop trying.\" He shrugged. \"Or don't. I can't summon the interest to care, either way. I know what you're doing, and Evurt won't be coaxed that easily from where I've put him.\" He stood, pain a forgotten memory, smiling down at Shavrim without an ounce of anger. It was easy to simply choose a mood. He wondered why he had decided, on so many occasions, to be angry or fearful. He questioned why he had let himself be pushed from one period of uncertainty to another for so long.\n\n\"Try again and again, but I know you better than you know me. Knowing you, I know something of your sibling. He has immense power, but he's caged where I can see him. I will instruct Churls and Berun how to feel their presence, and how to stop them. If they want to assist our efforts, we will allow them. We. Mortal men and women.\"\n\nShavrim's brow furrowed. Vedas imagined he saw a measure of fear in the man's expression.\n\n\"Know me? Know me _how?\"_\n\nVedas bent down to Shavrim's ear and said Jojore Um's name. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.\n\n\u2021\n\nHalfway between the square and the inn, the girl appeared at his side and took his hand. He smiled down at her, not sure if she had assisted him and not particularly caring. His mood would change, undoubtedly, to a familiar, long-worn state of worry and fear, as soon as he woke from the charitable disposition that had taken hold.\n\nThe glow of victory did not last forever: there would come a time when, for Fyra's own safety, he would have to tell her to go\u2014to leave them to their fate, in Shavrim's hands...\n\nBut it would not be now.\n\nHe gripped her hand and stopped. In silence, together, they watched the slowly and swiftly spinning spheres of the Needle, the threat of the world's destruction, pass overhead. He did not see them with Evurt's eyes, but with the limited vision his mother and father had birthed to him. The components looked as they in fact were: farther away than all the steps he had walked on the face of Jeroun. The scattered entirety of the Needle could be nothing more than it always had been to a mortal, earthbound man.\n\nIndistinct and unknowable. A blight upon the order of the heavens.\n\nNonetheless, at that moment, it was beautiful beyond measure. It was a decision to view it so. It was a denial of reality.\n\nHe accepted this now, understanding he would not make the same choice again.\n\n\u2021\n\nIn the morning, he rose with Churls, awkwardly accepted the provisions Ual's mayor publicly insisted on gifting to him, and made his way to the docks with his three companions.\n\nTownsfolk stopped him along the way and asked for his blessing, which he gave reluctantly. \"You have it,\" he said again and again, grimacing more than smiling at the small, black-skinned men and women, wrinkled into early grandmothers and grandfathers by the strong, salty wind and ocean sun.\n\nChurls failed to keep the amusement from touching her features. The people knew her by reputation, as well, and smiled warmly in response to her expression, as though she too had blessed them. Berun, also known by his association to Vedas, accepted the company of the town's few children with good grace, holding his massive arms out low so they could swing from him.\n\nShavrim walked several body lengths behind Vedas and company. The townspeople gave him a wide berth, likely because they had caught some news of furthering events in Danoor. Even as isolated as they were, it was clear someone had passed through recently. The mayor appeared uncomfortable next to the broad, horned man, but he listened intently to what Shavrim had to say. They had been talking since leaving the inn.\n\nVedas wished he could listen in on their conversation, for he did not know how Shavrim had, without violence, convinced the mayor to allow them to lower a sea-gate that had been closed for millennia. Perhaps it had simply been an exchange of bonedust, yet Vedas did not think so. He supposed he would never know, for the townspeople crowded around him, clamoring for his attention, his touch, hungry for a person he could only pretend to be.\n\nEventually, they reached the docks. Or, rather, the two stone jetties and Ual's sad collection of fishing vessels, not one of which looked large enough to accommodate the four of them, especially considering Berun's mass. Certainly, they would capsize the moment anything large enough to survive on the open ocean poked its snout against their hull.\n\nAdmittedly, Vedas knew little of seacraft. He had lived two miles inland of the ocean for most of his life, and learned next to nothing about it beyond the danger it presented. Golna possessed the resources of a metropolis to defend itself from seagoing creatures of Jeroun, many of which happily hurled themselves out of the water and against the city's walls. The city also sat near one of many fishable rivers stocked heavily with smaller, adolescent versions of the oceangoing monsters that gave birth to them.\n\nUal, however, had no such resources. It had an altogether more novel way of drawing sustenance from the sea.\n\nVedas shielded his eyes against the early morning glare upon the mirror-flat water (a highly unusual occurrence, numerous villagers had told him, to have such a calm day this early in the year\u2014a good omen, many of them said, with forced expressions that belied their words) and the top of the distant inverted bowl over Osa, searching for the fifteen-foot high stone pillars of Ual's only claim to fame: its coastal wall, which extended out from the town's shore nearly ten miles and arced to either side for nearly thirty miles, creating a relatively safe haven for fishing.\n\nNow that Vedas considered it, it struck him as odd that so few visited or even spoke of Ual, for its people were surely extraordinary. It was common to say no one set craft upon the surface of the sea, yet the people of Ual did so daily. As they had done for millennia.\n\nMen needed to speak in definitives, Vedas knew. They needed to reduce the world to comprehensible portions. And thus, the people of Ual and their incredible, ancient construction allowing them to do the impossible, were ignored.\n\nMen did not sail upon the sea.\n\nThe woman next to him\u2014small, sunworn, to his eyes identical to the woman next to her\u2014laid her left hand upon his arm and pointed with her right.\n\n\"It's not easy to see. There is a blurred line, just below the waterline.\" Her eyes were wide as she stared up at him. \"You're really going there, to the gate? Only the wall walkers\u2014\" those townsmen and towns-women who maintained the wall's integrity, Vedas had learned \"\u2014go anywhere close to it.\"\n\n\"No,\" Vedas said, squinting to see what she claimed was visible. \"We're not going to it. We're going beyond it.\"\n\nShe spit into the tiny waves lapping at the rocks below them. Her neighbor did likewise.\n\nShavrim stepped up behind Vedas, causing both women to move to the side, allowing him space to stand. The horned man lifted his shirt over his head, inflating his massive chest with salty air. He clapped Vedas on the back, beaming as though they were old friends.\n\n\"Time to go,\" he said.\n\nVedas nodded, relieved. Without looking, he reached and found Churls's hand. They moved through the crowd more easily now with Shavrim at their side.\n\nBerun rose from the pile of children he had let play upon his sitting form, the great bell of his laugh booming loudly on the still morning air.\n\nBut for the mayor, they left the townspeople behind. As they stepped onto the second, slightly larger jetty, Churls stopped him.\n\n\"Turn around and wave. It's the least they deserve for the hospitality.\"\n\nHe followed her order, awkwardly.\n\nThe people of Ual waved back and cheered, though he doubted their hearts were in it. Men did not really sail upon the sea, even in Ual. Beyond the coastal wall was the haven of animals beyond the scale of man, a shallow, glass-clear expanse of certain death. And should Vedas somehow manage to defy the inevitable and reach the shore of Osa, an impenetrable wall of crystal lay between him and his mad destination.\n\nThe people of Ual waved goodbye to their prophet.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe kept his eyes forward as they set off. The boat's small thaumatrugical engine chuffed and barked at his back, with Shavrim at the tiller. Berun lay between Vedas and Shavrim, evening out the weight of their cargo at the boat's head. A strong breeze kicked in as one of the few clouds in the sky obscured the sun, and then died as the sun peeked out again.\n\nChurls squeezed his hand. She rose into a crouch, leaned over their piled supplies amidship, and made her way toward the bow. She leaned over it for a moment, and then laughed.\n\n\"Come here!\" she called. \"You have to see this.\"\n\n\"What?\" he asked, not wanting to move. He had no good memories of his last time upon the water, on their way to Tan-Ten, and the boat he sat in now felt far less stable than the _Atavast_ had. Of course, it was one-tenth the size.\n\n\"Just come here,\" she responded.\n\nHe made his way forward, far slower and more painstakingly than she had. Pausing at the port gunwale for a moment, he peered down into the depths, surprised to find the bottom of the sea so close\u2014no more than ten or fifteen feet below him through startlingly clear water, dappled with crisscrossing lines of light. Fish and aquatic reptiles, the cousins and spawn of larger creatures, the mainstay of Ual's diet and scant industry, darted from rock to rock.\n\nAn odd sadness crept into him at the realization that he had never before stared into the sea, that this one opportunity to do so would be so fleeting. He considered what it must have been like, growing up in Ual, knowing their manmade corner of the sea so intimately that any incursion into it\u2014be it a creature that had grown too large, too dangerous, or a breach within the coastal wall, allowing the outside ocean in\u2014felt like a wound in one's own flesh.\n\nTo know a thing outside of oneself, so intimately...\n\nHis left hand went to the neckline of his suit. He slipped the tip of his index finger between the elder-cloth and the skin at the nape of his neck, encountering resistance as the material peeled back from its tight embrace of his body. It was a disturbingly invasive sensation, but he had grown used to it, like one worrying at a torn cuticle.\n\n\"Vedas?\" Churls said.\n\nHe shook his head and peered back toward the shoreline, finding it had retreated further than he had imagined possible in such a short amount of time. A crowd still stood above the tide, though already it had thinned. He imagined many of them had returned home, to stare at their hands and consider an uncertain future. The mayor had looked on the verge of crying as they pulled away from the dock.\n\n_He must surely be scared_ , Vedas thought. _We're opening his sea-gate. We might leave it open, destroying his and his ancestors' long and meticulously held balance_.\n\nHe reached Churls on wobbly legs. She offered him a sympathetic smile but no hand in support.\n\nThe fingers of his right hand closed around what he thought to be the tip of the boat's bow. He leaned forward cautiously and looked down into the parting water. For a moment, he saw nothing, and then his perspective shifted as his eyes registered what Churls had seen. A black, cartoonishly muscular torso. Outsized genitals. Below that, water-stained legs. He turned his head and stared into one large, white-painted eye of the statue he had carried into Ual. His hand rested on its head.\n\nIt had been bolted onto the boat's prow, making of it a figurehead.\n\nHe rose into a crouch and turned, muscles taut on his frame, all trace of physical awkwardness aboard-ship forgotten.\n\nShavrim did not need to turn his head. His eyes were already fixed on Vedas. He stared intently, with no trace of an expression.\n\n\"What is the meaning of this?\" Vedas asked.\n\nShavrim's eyebrows rose, but otherwise his features remained neutral. \"You claim to know me,\" he said. \"And this makes me rather curious. Did you know I would do that?\" Without breaking eye contact, he reached behind him and shut the thaumaturgical engine off. \"Did you know I would do that?\" He stood as the boat rocked violently back and forth in the absence of forward momentum.\n\nBerun began to rise.\n\nShavrim bent forward to lay a hand on the constructed man's massive shoulder.\n\n\"This is not violence, Berun. This is us coming to terms.\"\n\nVedas forced himself to stand at the head of the pitching boat. His suit stiffened around him instantly in response to his nervousness. He forced it to unclench, and found his balance. Easily.\n\nChurls's hand pressed to his back as she rose. In support, not to steady him.\n\n\"I've been thinking since you left me in the square last night,\" Shavrim said.\n\n\"And?\" Vedas said.\n\nShavrim gestured expansively. \"I'm left wondering what you really think, Vedas. Do you think I want my family back badly enough to risk the entire world? Do you think I'll keep trying to summon Evurt and Ustert, to the detriment of our plans? No. Don't answer. I'll tell you. I will not. I don't know that you alone are sufficient to oppose Adrash, and I doubt my siblings are willing to share their power. Nonetheless, we won't be deterred. I'll do what is necessary to preserve this world, even to the point of opposing those for whom...\"\n\nHe broke eye contact to stare at Churls, and then at Berun. \"Do you hear me? Do you know what I'm saying?\" He pointed to the bow and his voice boomed. \"Do you know what that means? It is a betrayal.\"\n\nHe frowned, letting emotion alter the set of his features until he resembled a different man. His hands fell straight to his sides, dragging his shoulders down with them.\n\n\"Perhaps...\" he said. \"Perhaps we're all fools. We could be wrong in everything.\"\n\nHe sat heavily, rocking the boat. He started the engine and Vedas looked away. Churls wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, leaning back against the hull. Berun lay immobile, staring at the sky with eyes that could not close.\n\nThe whole day open before them, windless and bright, their journey resumed.\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nTHE 25TH OF THE MONTH OF SECTARIANS TO THE 1ST OF THE MONTH OF FISHERS ASPA MOUNTAINS, THE KINGDOM OF STOL, TO DANOOR, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN\n\nFor one hundred days, Pol slept. For four months, he dreamt of plummeting out of the sky. He fell, exhausted nearly to death by his headlong flight from Adrash. His skin scorched, crusted over, and peeled away as he entered Jeroun's atmosphere. His arms and legs whipped about violently enough to dislocate his joints, causing him to be pummeled by his own fists and feet as they flailed, drawing blood from his sensitive new flesh and sending it in arcs around his spinning body.\n\nThe sigils he had tattooed upon himself with alchemical ink\u2014the spells that had been brought to life, granting him the might to stand against a god\u2014were gathered as solid black masses at his hands and feet, as a coil rope of black hair wrapped around his throat, choking him. All were inert, useless.\n\nHis eyelids had been burned away. Heat and wind had fused his one remaining amber eye motionless in his skull, and turned the empty socket of the other into an aching pit. He fell blind, his never-ending state of agony preventing him from sinking into unconsciousness.\n\nHe lived, just barely, unable to think beyond the pain.\n\nThe ground rose up beneath him, a granite fist.\n\nWhen he smashed into it, blackness enveloped him.\n\nThere was a timeless instant where he felt nothing. A breath before...\n\n\u2021\n\nThe dream began again.\n\nAnd again\n\nAnd again.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe woke, screaming. Not a full-throated sound, but a piteous, rattling wheeze that caught in his throat the moment it emerged. He inhaled convulsively and then coughed dry, blood-flecked sputum into the cold, thin air, curling around the aching hollow of his gut before screaming again\u2014more fully this time, a bellow of ignorant rage that lasted until he could do it no more. He breathed in and out, deeper each time, calming himself.\n\nIt took the space of several heartbeats to believe he had stopped falling, to make his right eye organize the colors before him as images.\n\nGravel. Fractured planes of rock underneath.\n\nLifting his head took a monumental effort. The muscles of his neck screamed in palsied protest. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he looked about.\n\nRock faces before him, rock below and to the right.\n\nTo the left and above, sky cloudless and unbroken, painfully blue.\n\nHe examined the rock floor and walls more closely. To his eye, they appeared recently fractured, white along their angles. Many bore long gashes, five-rowed and straight. Without willing it to do so, his hand reached out, spreading fingertips to fit into the gouges. He raked his nails along the channels he had created without remembering, and then laid his palm against the cold stone, exploring the concavity beneath him.\n\nHe shivered as the realization struck him.\n\n_Here is where I came to earth_.\n\nEven with the abilities the sigils had granted him, it was a miracle he had survived.\n\nAnd yet... _where_ had he come to rest?\n\nHe rolled over, slowly, and crawled to the edge of his jagged platform. Below him extended a nearly vertical wall of bare grey rock, weathered by wind and time. Below that, dizzyingly far, the angle of the rock grew less severe, becoming a surface upon which snow could cling. And further, so much further down, the world spread out in white folds, broken here and there by thrusting spires of granite.\n\nHe had seen this vista from above the world, many times. It had once seemed just another place, high and isolated, the home of goat-milkers and idiot hermits.\n\nIt had _once_ seemed...\n\nHis head whipped around, causing black spots to swarm before his eyes. The rock face above him shielded the view, but he felt the pull of the secret he had stolen from Adrash's mind.\n\nHe tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. He fell back, lightheaded, gritting his teeth in impatience. The second attempt was no better. The third, and his legs held beneath him. He stretched his long, angular body up the wall of rock before him, peering over its lip.\n\nThe heady perspective nearly sent him tumbling backward, but his thin fingers found purchase in the stone. He blinked the sense of disorientation away, letting his gaze steady upon the mountain's summit\u2014or rather, a broad portion of it.\n\nHe grinned, revealing small, even teeth. His legs were suddenly firmer beneath him. He knew now, for certain, where he was.\n\nWhen his strength returned, he would ascend to the mountain's hollowed-out peak. He would walk into the valley of the nameless people. He would dip his hands into the clear blue lake at its center, and run his hands over the worn remains of the forgotten city of the elders, older than recorded time.\n\nAnd everywhere, he would find corpses. A storehouse of power the likes of which the world had never seen. With the talents the sigils had bestowed upon him, it would be an easy thing to gather the corpses together and transport them to wherever he liked.\n\nHis grin grew wider. Dry laughter erupted from his chest as he lowered himself into a sitting position.\n\nLacking even the energy to access a simple spell to be sure, he nonetheless sensed a disappointing amount of time had passed since he fled from Adrash. Weeks. Months, perhaps. Regardless, his spirits were not dimmed. Without consciously making the decision to do so, he had guided himself where he most needed to be.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe lay in the sun throughout the day and, after taking in one contemplative look at the broken sky as it rose above the world, slept when the sun died. The wind, carrying air cold enough to freeze water to steel, failed to even stir him in his slumber. In the morning, he felt full, though he had eaten nothing. He stood on solid legs and walked to the edge of his eyrie, staring down the wall of his prison with one corner of his mouth upraised.\n\nYet his hands shook. He examined them, stained black with latent magic, and backed away from the open height. A searching thought (timid enough at the beginning to embarrass him, even alone) caused the boundaries at his wrists to quiver. He looked down at his ankles and saw that there, too, the alchemical ink had become agitated, the amorphous sigils eager to rise up his legs and arms, forming shapes, covering him in the symbols of his magical will. Those spells that had gathered on his scalp, mimicking long hair, lifted from his back and shoulders as fine filaments wavering in the wind, a hundred thousand snakes woken from hibernation.\n\nGooseflesh rose on every inch of his naked, eggplant skin, and the open hands raised in relief on either pectoral muscle grew in definition, as though someone sought to push out from the inside. His testicles lifted as his cock stiffened painfully. His right eyelid slowly opened, allowing smoke to seep in a thin stream from the black cavity of his eye socket.\n\nThe world bloomed into dizzying color. For the space of several breaths, his hearts pounded hard enough to shudder his vision. A wave of nausea bent him at the waste. He retched, yet had nothing to summon from his stomach.\n\nHe had been afraid, yes. He had not known if the sigils would respond to his commands after such time and grievous injury.\n\nAs good as their rousing felt, he forced them to still upon his hands and feet. He would not be arrogant now, giving in to temptation before his body had fully recovered. Not when he was so close to his goal. He lay upon the cold stone, allowing the sun to soak into the roots of his body, his thoughts drifting to the knowledge he had gleaned from the dead following Ebn's assault and then stolen from Adrash's weakened mind during their battle.\n\nHe recalled the elder he had seen and encountered on the Clouded Continent, and it was an epiphany too reality-altering to do him much good\u2014as was the revelation of Jeroun being only one planet among many: scholars had already posited this.\n\nAnd the existence of an afterlife? What did this matter? The dead were insignificant, a concern only among themselves.\n\nWhat he had learned about Adrash's nature, too\u2014his existence as a man before assuming the mantle of godhood, how blind he had become to the world he once actively ruled\u2014enticed him while remaining altogether too abstract to be of any use. Adrash was a force nearly beyond measure, answerable only to an equal force: understanding his past or madness would add little of value.\n\nBut those frustratingly blank identities, those mortals without names who had stood on a baked plain before Adrash? He worried at these like a loose tooth, trying to dredge something useful from his memory, a detail he had not seen in the moment of revelation.\n\nThe Black Suit, a Knosi, beautiful in a boring way.\n\nThe freckled woman, whose face he had disliked immediately, viscerally.\n\nThe constructed man of brass spheres, eyes glowing actinic blue.\n\nPol had not the slightest clue about the first two. Not even an itch of recognition. The third, however, he sensed he should know. Holding the image of the artificial creature in his mind created a disconcertingly slippery effect, as of trying to keep water from dripping through one's hands. He had heard a story about a constructed man, had he not? He had studied the creation of constructs, and there had been one particular example...\n\nHe tried to picture the classrooms of the Academy of Applied Magics, places he had always known. His brow furrowed in concentration. He placed himself in his own apartment, and could not remember where his bookcases had been, or whether his bed faced the east or the west.\n\nThe name of his first instructor.\n\nThe identity of the man who had deflowered him.\n\nHis mother's stern face...\n\nSummoning _any_ memory from before his transformation in Ebn's bedroom proved difficult. In fact, even the details of that night were blurred around the edges. She had raped him, he recalled. He winced, recalling pain and shame greater than any he had ever experienced\n\nBut what had she _done_ , exactly?\n\nSuddenly, it struck him as very important that he remember\u2014as though, by doing so, it would unlock the other memories eluding him. As if a door would be opened inside him.\n\n\u2021\n\nAnother day passed while he waited to be strong enough.\n\nAnother day, during which his memory became no clearer. Impatience pressed upon him, as though someone were staring over his shoulder, urging him to act. It built until he shook with it, impotent in the face of it.\n\nAnd then, just as the sun dropped below the jagged skyline and the scattered spheres of the Needle began rising in the east, a face rose out of the mist clouding his recollection.\n\nA broad, lavender-skinned, horned face. The face of a quarterstock. Pol had come to know it in the months before his cathartic encounter with Ebn.\n\nShav. His name had been Shav.\n\nA madman, given to spells of dementia... of appearing to be one man and then another...\n\nAll at once, Pol remembered every word.\n\n\u2021\n\n_The dragon and I. A halfbreed and a quarterbreed at this moment in time. The conjunction of the two is interesting, Pol. Interesting. I've seen a dragon crash into the sea, sure the animal had killed itself. Instead it surfaced, twisting its long neck and beating its wings upon the water, a great sea serpent clamped in its jaws\u2014a sea serpent so large that it could've swallowed our tiny boat in one bite. Its skin shone like silver in the moonlight, and its thrashing frothed the sea like a child's hand slapping bathwater_.\n\n_The Needle had only risen halfway, and the moon showed a quarter of her face. I stared at the destruction coming swiftly: a wall of black water that blotted out the stars along the horizon. I waited and told my men to prepare themselves. Some of them prayed to Adrash, some to Orrus, and some to the devil. Me, I just waited for the inevitable, almost wanting it. Most likely, I would die along with my men. An odd feeling, being that powerless_.\n\n_Someday soon, I think you'll know what that feels like_.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe moment snapped into clarity within the dim confines his skull, creating a scene so vivid it was as though he were seated again in his apartment on an atypically hot day in the Month of Clergymen, the year previous. He stared at the quarterstock named Shav and thought it odd, what he now knew without doubt. What he should have known then:\n\nShav was no madman. Disturbed, but not mad.\n\nPerhaps not even disturbed, but very clever.\n\nOr even inspired.\n\nIn his mind's eye, Pol reappraised the broad, horned wyrm tamer, doubting every assumption he had made about the quarterstock: indeed, he now found himself wondering if the term quarterstock even applied. It had been the easiest determination to make, for Shav had never denied it. Moreover, what else existed that appeared as he did? Not a man and not an elderman, but a thing in between, a manlike creature singular in creation.\n\nYet the quarterstock itself was a near-legend. No one alive in Tansot\u2014in fact, anyone in the recorded history of the city, the place where eldermen had always been most numerous\u2014had verifiably documented the healthy offspring of an elderwoman. To assume one had suddenly appeared in Pol's life, just as he desired an asset worthy of note...\n\nAn asset who spoke such odd, portentous words.\n\nAt the time, Pol had dismissed Shav's rambling monologues. Surely, he had reasoned, they were merely the digressions of a precocious individual, the fictions of a talented mind severely maladjusted by the vagaries of unusual parentage. Beyond material assistance as a tamer, Shav could have no insight applicable to Pol's situation.\n\nNow, however, he was forced to admit he had been wrong. The account of the dragon\u2014it could only have been an allusion to events to come. Soon after the words were spoken, Pol and eighteen other outbound mages had ascended into the sky, bearing Ebn's gift to the god, a massive statue in his likeness. Before they reached the moon, Adrash appeared and with a thought shattered the statue, sending its pieces in a wave of mutilation toward the mages, killing all but the most skilled. Pol could do nothing to prevent their deaths.\n\nHelpless.\n\n_Someday soon, I think you'll know what that feels like_.\n\nPol lingered on these words. He had been horrified, true, but had he felt helpless?\n\nNo. No, he had not. Perhaps, at the beginning, for the briefest hesitation, he had not known what to do, but within heartbeats of seeing the statue turned into a bomb he had been filled with purpose, first to defend himself, and second to... to...\n\nHe gasped as the sigils spuns to life on his whip-thin body, rising into a whirlwind of countless long-tailed sperm on his forearms and legs, whipping around his shoulders and neck and lower belly as they recalled with near-sentience their awakening upon him. He collapsed onto the cold rock, smoke pouring from his left eye, fingers twitching one motion over and over again\u2014the same motion he had used to release a spell upon the Needle, altering one of its massive spheres slightly, announcing his challenge to Adrash before he had even thought the wages of this action through.\n\nCoils of concussive force leapt from his outspread fingertips.\n\nThe rock face before him fractured like a broken mirror before crumbling onto his legs. He pulled his feet free before more of the wall fell upon him, and nearly tumbled off his perch. Teetering toward death, the upper half of his back over the void. Arms outstretched, rigidly under the control of the sigils. The spell bore into the mountainside, pushing him inch by inch backward in the process.\n\nHe could find no purchase. He would fall.\n\n\"No!\" he roared, tightening the spasming muscles of his stomach, attempting to sit.\n\nAs he fought to regain his balance, one of the sigils on his arm formed itself into a black circle and rose upward from his flesh as a tendril, wavering in the wind as though it were a charmed snake. Pol focused on it as its tip ballooned, stunned into immobility despite the danger.\n\nThe sigil formed a face, black on black, horned.\n\n\"Waste no more time,\" it said. \"Learn to fly.\"\n\nPol screamed as he tipped over the edge of his perch. The wind ripped the voice from his mouth as he fell. There was no time for thought, no time even for fear. Certainly, there was no time to recall the second portent Shav had spoken to him...\n\n\u2021\n\n_Before he leaves, my father tells me to contemplate death. He tells me to feel my mortality in the creak of my bones and the soreness of my muscles. With every heartbeat, you are closer to death, he says. He forces me to smell the stench of his underarms\u2014the smell of the body birthing and decaying life at the same moment. He tells me to know, intimately, every sign of weakness in my body, and then reject each in turn_.\n\n_He breaks my arm with one blow, kicks me as I writhe on the ground. Remember this lesson above all others, he says. The body heals. It responds to trauma, to pain\u2014not with fear, but with purpose. So must you. You need not die, my son, but in order to continue living\u2014_\n\n_\u2014you must suffer_.\n\n\u2021\n\nPol dropped, head first, as fast as a body must drop, yet his perceptions were reduced to a crawl, drawn out into one long howl of wind\u2014an avalanche in his ears, a needle in his eyes. Rigid-limbed, he spun as the spell continued to pass from his fingers, warping the air before him like heat radiating above a fire, strafing the mountainside in cracks as he rotated to face its solid wall again and again.\n\nThe mountainside. It loomed closer each time he regarded it.\n\nSpiraling, caught and stretched in a sluggish current of time, horrified and fascinated at once (at his predicament, at his foolishness for not being more attentive when events had been playing out), he found space within himself to consider Shav's words.\n\nHe placed himself, once again, in his apartment. He held a knife in his hand.\n\nIt had been near the end of the Month of Pilots, three weeks after Ebn's disastrous goodwill mission. Confident the display of power he had recently shown was only the beginning, the birthing of greater magic within him, Pol nonetheless forced himself to caution. He would not underestimate Ebn. She had swayed a god, after all, if in the brief moment before his rage returned to him. Pol would not rely upon the dimly understood nature of his sigils, but attack his superior using brute force.\n\nA knife, cunningly crafted, intended for her skull.\n\nShav had offered the support he could\u2014first the knife, second the assistance of his wyrm, Sapes\u2014before succumbing to yet another of his spells.\n\n_You need not die, but in order to continue living, you must suffer_.\n\nPol cursed himself for not drawing the obvious conclusion sooner.\n\nShav had known, or at least predicted.\n\nA month after he and Shav's meeting in his apartment, his plan of attack frustrated, Pol had committed an act of supreme foolishness, relying upon tradition to protect him. Ebn, the more opportunistic of the two, broke into his apartment, breaching the oldest of etiquettes dictating how eldermen treated one another, and humiliated him. After ensorceling him into a state of immobile arousal, she raped him. Despite the aggression of the act, she still could not summon the rage to kill him and so resorted to greater violence.\n\nFinally, she had torn out his left eye.\n\nHe recalled the agony, the humiliation. He recalled a pressure. Voices, calling him to transformation...\n\n_You need not die, but in order to continue living, you must suffer_.\n\nA sudden gust of wind pushed against him like a cold slab of glass, tipping him lengthwise in glacial motion, sending his feet into the mountainside. He braced for the pain of contact, of his skin being flayed against the rough wall.\n\nWhen it came, however, it was more intense than he could have imagined, drawn out into one torturous moment. Reactions slowed, he watched in paralyzed horror as his bloodied feet rebounded from the wall and rocked his upper body toward it. The closer his hands came, the more damage his spell did to the rock, boring into it in doubled lightning lines.\n\nWhen his hands finally passed into the mountainside, he screamed. The mineral, heated to its vaporization point, blackened and bubbled the skin of his fingers. His wrists. His forearms.\n\nHe fought helplessness through the red haze of his torment. Soon, his face would hit the wall and he would be dead. There would be no fractured rock beneath him when he woke. He would not wake.\n\n_Learn to fly_ , his sigil had said.\n\n_Learn to fly_.\n\n\u2021\n\nA timeless moment before his forehead touched the mountainside, he did just that. A voice\u2014or several voices: he would never be sure\u2014whispered wordless directions, spoke a command Pol felt more than understood, and he remembered.\n\nHe had once possessed wings. They had carried him into the night sky from Ebn's bedroom. They had borne him to orbit.\n\nHe tipped his head to the side in slow motion, cracking vertebrae. He then tipped it to the other side. Fully inhabiting his pain now, taking succor from it, he flexed burnt hands now under his own control. He increased the power of his spell, pushing himself back from the mountainside before closing his fists and entering into a full dive.\n\nHe was an arrow, suspended in amber. _Enough_ , he subvocalized.\n\nThe wind tore at him as time reasserted its normal pace. He bared teeth into the gale, grinning at the swiftly approaching ground. With a few muscular twitches, he corrected his spin.\n\nAs he spread his arms out to either side, stretching the kinking muscles of his shoulders, wings unfurled from his back. Blacker than a moonless night they grew, doubling and then tripling in width, becoming assets befitting a creature of legend, a god.\n\nHe arched, letting his wings cup the wind. His bones creaked as his body took the weight of gravity only feet from the snowy mountainside. His dive flattened into an unsteady soar over the frozen landscape. Quickly, he righted his shuddering wings and flapped down once, twice, three times, his confidence growing as memory took hold.\n\nHe flew. It was as though he had been born with wings.\n\n\u2021\n\nBefore him, an invisible wall shielded the valley. He knew of its existence from his contact with Adrash, but understood little of its nature beyond the scope of its power. It had served to hide the valley from all but the most powerful gaze for all of human and elderman history.\n\nUntil Pol, that is. He saw through it easily, first through the phantom organ of his left eye and then through his unaided right, gazing down upon the lifeless plain. Cradled at the valley's exact center, bluer than any memory of blue, was the lake. Upon seeing it, his mouth began watering. He had not drunk since before the turn of the half-millennium.\n\nA smile rose to his lips as he recalled the taste of cold water. Water he alone would drink. Glory he would never be forced to share.\n\nRegardless of his excitement, he forced himself to caution, angling his charcoal wings to slow his approach. The alien ache in his bones grew more severe, the closer he came to the barrier. The remainder of his self-congratulations came to a grinding halt as the fractaling sigils fled from his leading fists, en masse, flowing like ink over his sinuous torso to gather as static, as jittering ants on his legs. The sigils flowing from his scalp flattened on the ridges of his back, tapering into a point above his buttocks.\n\nAll at once, the coldness of the air registered. He shivered.\n\nPressure built, centering into a tight knot of resentment behind his eyes. He stopped his chattering teeth by clenching his jaw until it rang, and stretched his fists out before him.\n\nAnger became determination. With a twitch of his wings, he dove forward.\n\nThe wall did not physically restrain him. There was no pain. Nonetheless, he cried out as he crossed the threshold, for the error\u2014the wage of his impetuousness\u2014was immediately clear. Ebn had been a master of dampening spells, but even she could not have accomplished so thorough an effect.\n\nAt once, the sigils were thrown into chaos on Pol's body, spreading and contracting like tides, pooling and bursting without pattern. The vision in his phantom eye faltered, flickering to him an image of the valley below and then failing utterly. His wings began to diminish. They rippled, no longer rigid along their length.\n\nStruggling for any measure of control, using his legs as crude rudders, Pol managed to turn toward the lake.\n\nDespite his rapid descent, by the time the water stretched beneath him he still flew too high. Soon, he would be beyond it. Possessing neither the strength nor the alchemical faculties to turn around for another pass, without considering the injuries he might sustain, he curled his wings around himself and fell.\n\nBelow, the surface of the lake was a mirror, reflecting the noon sun as a perfect circle. He kept his right eye open and focused upon it, letting its light sear into his skull, seeing his shadow become a black hole at its center just before his body hit the water.\n\nIt came to him, fully, a complete memory in the breath before impact:\n\nHe had been laid out by an attacker before. Once, years previously, a fellow mage\u2014Pol's senior by a decade, resentful of the younger elderman's quick advancement\u2014had nearly killed him with a simple, outsized concussion spell that blasted him thirty feet into an iron cauldron. He recalled the feeling of its impact, being slapped by a giant hand, and then the near immediate rebound of his body against an immobile surface far harder than his own body.\n\nThen darkness.\n\nThen, all in an instant upon waking, the awareness of the fragility of one's physical being. The sudden rush of memories... of bones breaking, of flesh collapsing.\n\nHe did not have the benefit of losing consciousness, this time. He remained aware as his body crumpled against the unyielding surface of the lake. His joints flexed and strained, threatening to snap. His bones, from the smallest to largest, creaked and rang. His neck bent at a sharp angle, driving his skull to the side and crushing it against his left shoulder, forcing his teeth down upon the tip of his tongue and severing it clean.\n\nThe surface yielded, as though he were a pebble dropped into molten sand. The lake drew him under. Lungs flattened, arms and legs immobilized by his wings, he could do nothing but sink through the glass-clear water, watching as the world grew dimmer. It seemed to him it took far longer to reach the sandy bottom than it should have, and when he came to rest it was as though a soft hand cupped him.\n\nHis mouth opened and closed, releasing a cloud of blood that turned his vision red. The sun, dim through the water, wavering in the turbulence of his passage, became a baleful eye.\n\nLife flitted before his eyes, tiny and nearly translucent. His eye flicked from one creature to another as they moved back and forth through the bloodied water, and finally formed an image. Shrimp. Smaller than their cousins fishermen netted in Lake Ten.\n\nEldermen hated water. They wanted nothing to do with anything that came from water.\n\nA smile formed on his lips.\n\nHe opened his mouth again, and took the lake into his lungs.\n\n\u2021\n\n_Swim while you can_ , Adrash said, eyes flaring in darkness. _You will not get the opportunity to do so again_.\n\nPol stared at the stricken god, whose armor appeared slightly gray under the weight of water. Having exhausted himself, he weighed his options. There were none. The god would recover before him. And so he turned and swam, as fast as his weary body would swim, through an openness of sea that was not open at all, but which pressed upon him from all sides. Black and cold and swarming with life, he felt the weight of sinuous bodies, monstrously-jawed and behemoth, eager for any morsel of flesh.\n\nHe escaped through the most shameful of realities: only because of his own smallness, his own insignificance in comparison, did he survive. Nonetheless, smallness notwithstanding, he could not rest. There was nowhere to rest. He had to continue pushing himself, beyond the point of collapse, breathing in the sea itself, lest one of the beasts finally notice him.\n\nAll the while, at his back, Adrash fumed in the shattered remnants of his abyssal palace, injured but not yet dead.\n\nPol had failed in his task. Before long, the god would repay him for his presumption.\n\nAnd so Pol swam. He reached land and flopped onto it, choking on air.\n\nBut even here, above ground, he had not truly escaped.\n\n\u2021\n\nHow long his eye had been open, he did not know. Someone stood over him, swaying from side to side, undulating like a flag in the breeze, like kelp rooted to the sandy lake bottom. He wondered how it was a person could be where he currently lay and survive.\n\nHe yawned, jaw popping, and gasped: the air entered him as a knife.\n\nWater bubbled in his chest and then burst forth, searing his throat: the knife left him.\n\nHe fell onto his side and curled inward, coughing and gagging upon water, mucus, and blood. He shook violently on the cold ground, breathing raggedly until he could breathe evenly. The pain remained\u2014in truth, it inhabited him from head to toe, occasionally flaring into prominence in one area and subsiding to allow another agony to bloom\u2014but it no longer obliterated thought.\n\nAir.\n\nConcentrating on the shifting ground before him, on the fingers of his clenched left hand\u2014a hand which seemed also to shift, growing larger and then smaller\u2014he suffered a moment of doubt. What if he had never landed on the mountainside? What if Adrash had killed him and he was now but one of the dead, waking in one of the many hells he had never quite been able to convinced himself did not exist? His mother had been fond of discussing the various hells a man might inhabit once he died.\n\nSome among the Usterti sect believed in a place between life and death, where a person would be forced to relive an awful fate (drowning, typically: the Usterti were fond of tales of drowning)\u2014that is, until the Goddess smiled upon that individual, lifting her free of torment.\n\nThe corners of his mouth turned down. He spit blood and mucus past the throbbing, shorn tip of his tongue. It steamed for only a moment before freezing.\n\n_I'll not start believing such nonsense now_ , he thought.\n\nHe rolled over and regarded the person standing over him. He blinked, and slowly the figure took on definition.\n\nA human male. Small, naked, grey skin a hairless mapwork of fine lines. Eyes bulging out from his skull, his lips pulled back in a perpetual grimace. Shrunken-cocked, testicles nearly nonexistent. He should have been shivering with cold, moving to keep hypothermia at bay. Instead, he seemed content to simply stand and stare. The longer Pol regarded him, the less the man's body undulated from side to side, leading Pol to believe he had been drugged or concussed. Concussed, likely, oxygen deprived from his near drowning.\n\n\"You\u2014\" He cleared his throat. \"Who are you?\"\n\nThe man did not respond, did not appear to have heard. His eyes remained focused on Pol's, but behind his gaze Pol sensed nothing.\n\nPol looked from side to side, finding his wings a crumpled mess spread around him. Two wet sheets, pathetic, lacking any structural integrity. With shaking hands he gathered them, shook the water and ice from them, and draped them across his body. He shook until he was no longer frozen, and then sat up, immediately burying his head between his knees.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" he asked, expecting no response from the man.\n\nThere was none. Pol chuckled without humor and wondered if he had been wrong to dismiss the idea of hell. To spend eternity with the mindless, he surmised, would be a very effective hell indeed.\n\n\u2021\n\nEventually, he raised his head.\n\nHe blinked.\n\nBefore him lay an elder corpse.\n\nBeyond it, a trail of roughed earth stretched. It had been moved.\n\nAll thoughts of hell fled his mind. He peered up at the man standing over him. He could not recall if Adrash's memory of the valley had included inhabitants. Surely, it had not.\n\n\"Did you drag this here?\" Predictably, the man did not answer. Pol pointed to the corpse. \"You, you brought this here.\" He stood, looming over the man. He lowered his face until it was level with the other's. _\"Is. This. For. Me?\"_\n\nThe man's eyes shifted to the corpse. Pol nodded, though his companion failed to notice. The man took a step and bent, crouching toward the corpse. He extended a hand, and for the first time Pol noticed a flint, little more than a crude edge, clutched in his fingers. Grasping one of the corpse's forearms\u2014which ended as a ragged, bloodless stump just below the wrist\u2014the man used his primitive knife to cut a small strip of skin free. He placed it in his mouth and began chewing contentedly, then repeated the process.\n\nHe pivoted and held the flesh up to Pol.\n\nPol nearly slapped it from the man's hands. It was not that the thought of eating elder disgusted him. After all, he had used alchemical solutions made from the bodies of elders for much of his adult life, externally and internally. He had survived for days in the void of space on nothing but bonedust, as had all outbound mages.\n\nNo, it was the _sacrilege_ of seeing an elder corpse so abused. The corpse trade had produced a variety of associated guilds, each of whom possessed their own secrets and unique paranoias, guaranteeing that few whole corpses made it out of Stol or Knos Min. The Academy of Applied Magics contained only one whole elder corpse on display in its central library\u2014an entire city's worth of riches, a storehouse of alchemical power beyond the ability of any single man in existence to possess. Pol had spent many hours studying it, lingering on and memorizing every physical detail of the three-yard-long body as though it were that of a lover. Or a parent.\n\nTo see it treated so casually, solely as a food source...\n\nHe watched the man chew. His stomach gurgled and growled, and a cramp bent him double. He took the strip of skin and placed it in his mouth, surprised to find the taste immediately sweet, its texture like soft leather. Chewing on it, his mouth became wet, as if he just taken a drink of water. A coppery taste, similar to sagoli berry, replaced that of his own blood. The severed tip of his tongue tingled, became warm and then quickly numb.\n\nHe shivered in pleasure as the warmth spread quickly from his mouth, suffusing him in the space of twelve indrawn breaths. A moan escaped his lips.\n\nThe man watched Pol with no trace of understanding. He returned his attention to the corpse, now using the flat side of his rock as a rasp, sanding away at the protruding end of bone at the elder's wrist. After he had created a small pile of dust in the hollow of the corpse's belly, he wetted his middle finger and dipped it in. He offered the whitened fingertip to Pol.\n\nPol ignored it, and instead took his own measure of bonedust\u2014far more than he had ever consumed at once. The familiar sensation of wellness, of focus intensified, further bolstered the steel in his legs.\n\nHe concentrated on rousing the sigils from their slumber, but found them dampened still, gathered once more on his forearms and calves, immobile. Unless he found the source of the shield's effect and put an end to it, he would not soon be taking advantage of the alchemical resources he had found. Given the singular nature of the effect, he figured it to be an artifact of elder magic. The possibility of him halting it after incalculable millennia seemed unlikely.\n\nHe turned a complete circle, examining the jagged peaks that ringed the rubble-strewn valley. On his own, it would be a challenge to climb beyond the dampening wall, but while dragging a corpse? Two corpses or three? Even with his strength returned to him, the task would be considerable.\n\nHe stretched, vertebrae popping. An itch under his skin\u2014the feeling of walking from a cold building into the full heat of a summer's day: the awareness of a fever building in the body: the sensation of being too large for one's hide\u2014made him shiver.\n\n\"You,\" he said to the man who still crouched with his finger proffered. \"Do you have anything to say of value? No, clearly not. Do you have a leader, someone I can speak with?\"\n\nThe man simply stared.\n\nPol shrugged free of his ruined wings and slapped the man, who stumbled backward but did not fall, did not cry out or grunt. His eyes widened only fractionally.\n\nFingers curled into fists, claw tips biting into the flesh of his palms, Pol advanced and threw his weight into a right cross that broke the man's cheekbone. Pol felt and heard it shattering, savoring the perceptions. He savored also the sound of the man's shout of surprise, his choking sob thereafter, and followed his first attack with a sharp kick to the ribs.\n\nFour. Four snapped ribs. Pol grinned.\n\nHe took the crude knife from the man's shaking fingers and severed his wings, letting them fall uselessly to the ground. They were the stuff of intense alchemy, a product of the sigils. Once he resumed his power, he would grow a new pair more glorious, more substantial than the last.\n\nHe plunged the knife into the man's thigh.\n\nBehind him, someone cried out. He turned to see another man\u2014no, it was a woman, though they appeared so similar the distinction hardly seemed pressing\u2014running toward him.\n\nPol's grin widened.\n\nPain had been a transformative factor for him. Perhaps it would inspire these fools to speak something worthwhile.\n\n\u2021\n\nIn truth, he had no plan. He did not believe the inhabitants of the valley would prove able to communicate anything of value. They were clearly ancient, their meager lives extended by a steady diet of alchemicals that nourished the body extraordinarily while atrophying the mind. They had sat on the world's most valuable treasure without using it.\n\nNo. He had no plan. He merely wanted to cause pain.\n\nAs he circled the lake, he found others like the first two, and left them crippled behind him. Not one fought back, though in a similar way to the second, a few expressed concern for their neighbors without understanding what was occurring. Or, indeed, how to help. These he enjoyed hurting the most: their confused impotence amused him as much as it fueled his anger.\n\n\"Fight back,\" he said, repeatedly through his laughter. \"Do _something.\"_\n\nAnd so he made them scream.\n\nEventually, night came and he stopped. The bare ground failed to chill his naked flesh appreciably. Nonetheless, he found himself longing for a fire, a thing more alive than the creatures he had broken over the course of the day. He avoided looking into the sky for a time, and then relented to the inevitable. He had seen it before, but always at dusk.\n\nNow, with its twenty-seven broken components stretched across the bowl of heaven... closer than they ever were.\n\nMassive. Somehow, more massive than they appeared when viewed from orbit.\n\n_I did this_ , he mouthed.\n\nHe slept, and in the morning she appeared to him.\n\n\u2021\n\nJust like the others, though more weathered around the eyes. Wrinkles of expression, perhaps, as opposed to exposure to the elements.\n\nHe met her gray-eyed stare and recognized a depth behind it, a measure of awareness he knew did not exist in the others. Even the manner in which she crouched before him, resting her elbows upon her knees and letting her hands fall casually\u2014it spoke of a distinct personality, something he had not yet seen among them.\n\nShe nodded, as if she had followed his train of thought, and stood. It was only a dozen steps to the lake. She walked into it up to her knees and turned.\n\n_\"Wwwwwwaa,\"_ she said in a croak of a voice, a voice which never spoke. She lifted her left hand and stared at it, examining both sides before meeting his gaze again. Slowly, like a child doing so for the first time, she crooked her index finger for him to follow.\n\n\"Are you the leader here?\" he asked.\n\nShe cocked her head to the side, doglike.\n\nCurious, clear of the aggression that had informed the previous day, he rose.\n\nThey stood in the lake, she staring up at him, he staring down at her. Distantly, he recalled his mother. She had been a small woman, far from beautiful. Oh, how he had wished for her to be as silent as the woman he now regarded. Knowing so little of anything, she nonetheless had had an opinion on everything.\n\n\"What are we doing?\" he asked.\n\nThe corners of the woman's mouth quivered, trying to arrive at an expression. She shook her head and bent at the waste, cupping her right hand to gather water. She mimed lifting it to her mouth and drinking.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nShe shook her head again, repeated the drinking gesture.\n\nHe shrugged. Obviously, the water would have some effect, either ritually for her or physically for him. Perhaps, his consumption of the water had been responsible for his confused, perceptually altered state upon waking the day before. Drinking it again might leave him vulnerable. At the same time, none of the valley's inhabitants had expressed the slightest aggression toward him.\n\nGazing into the woman's eyes, he found no animosity, only an intensity he could not contextualize.\n\nHe crouched and dipped his hand into the lake.\n\n\"You first,\" he said, gesturing with his chin.\n\nShe looked down at her reflection in the water and smiled, slowly, apparently making sure of her expression before meeting his eyes again. He winced at the sight of her toothless gums, black with untold age.\n\nShe drank, filled her hand a second time, and drank again.\n\nHe followed suit without smiling.\n\nRemaining in a crouch, he waited, watching the still lake surface for any sign of a change in his perception. When none came and he grew impatient, he decided to stand.\n\nSeveral minutes passed. He decided to stand again.\n\nInstead, he fell backward into the water. The woman tumbled sideways, following him under. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing his arms to his sides. He did not fight her. Why he would fight her? She was beautiful, like his mother had been. He barely felt the pressure of the blood-warm lake around him. He breathed it like air.\n\nWhen she kissed him, he breathed her.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"Death doesn't exist here. Time is an illusion.\"\n\nHe stood along the shore. He turned full circle. Around the lake rose the forms of gray stone towers, tall and blank-faced, creating a skyline as severe as the peaks ringing the valley, a cityscape utterly unlike the cities of glass he had seen in Adrash's vision of the Clouded Continent\u2014different enough, in fact, that he immediately doubted its fidelity. An elder, dependent on the sun for its sustenance, would never lock itself behind windowless walls.\n\nThis was no true city of the elders: this was the product of a stunted imagination, a recreation of a thing that had never existed.\n\nNonetheless, he took in with interest the groups of elders he spotted. The creatures, their naked bodies tattooed brilliantly, their large double-irised eyes liquid in the sunlight, paid him not a moment's attention as they walked from place to place. Their locomotion, stately and deliberate, struck him as awkward, wary of their surroundings.\n\n\"No,\" he said under his breath. \"That isn't right, either.\"\n\nHe paused. Someone had said something to him, had they not?\n\nWith great difficulty, he tore his gaze from the oddly moving elders. Even in their wrongness, they were compelling.\n\nHe nearly took a step back at the woman's altered appearance. A lustrous, emerald-scaled gown clothed her from just below her breasts to mid-calf. Her figure, athletic and almost prototypically feminine in its proportions, bore no resemblance to that of the person he had met in the valley. They shared a similar bone structure, no more. Her eyes, also, had changed, brightening to reveal an increased awareness, a vitality she had lost.\n\nDrinking of the lake had been transformative for her. Unlike the city extending dull and oppressive around them, she was a genuine artifact of the past.\n\nLooking down at himself, he discovered she had changed nothing about his appearance. The sigils remained still on his arms and legs. His cock appeared pitifully small to him, as though it too had been affected by the dampening spell.\n\nHe sighed. \"What did you say?\"\n\nShe gestured to encompass the valley. \"Death doesn't exist here. Time has stopped.\"\n\nHe grunted and looked away, back to the city. Her beauty unnerved him. He had never liked women, much less human women. Licking his lips, he recalled how she had brought him here.\n\n\"I'd rather not spend eternity with you and yours,\" he said. \"And I won't. I'll be leaving soon, with something of value. Tell me, why have you brought me here?\"\n\n\"You don't want to know who I am?\" she asked.\n\n\"No,\" he said. He rethought this answer. \"Unless it has value, I don't want to know.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" she said. \"I had hoped the bringer of my death would be interested in me, somehow\u2014even impressed with my vision, here, where I've kept my true self from the white god for hundreds upon hundreds of years\u2014but maybe that's too much to ask at the end of my long, pointless life.\"\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, he saw her gesture toward the city. The elders dropped where they stood. Their buildings each fractured vertically with a crack of thunder, and then crumbled to the earth. The corpses deflated, mummifying in the ever-present sun. The rubble of the city slowly wore at the edges. Soon, the valley had returned to its present form.\n\nTurning to the woman, he found she had aged. Her gown had lost its sheen.\n\nShe snapped her fingers, and it was night.\n\nAbove them, the Needle spread in its shattered beauty.\n\n\"You want me to tell you something of value,\" she said. She tipped her head back to view the heavens. \"You did this. I know this fact in my bones. The souls of the elders proclaimed it the moment you dropped from the sky. I've waited ever since, these hundred and six days.\"\n\nHe huffed in annoyance. \"This is of no value. I _know_ what I did, woman. Quit guessing, speaking nonsense of elders.\"\n\n\"Guesses?\" she whispered. \"Nonsense.\" She crossed her arms below her withered breasts and closed her eyes, letting her head fall slowly to one side. Listening. \"Pol Tanz et Som: that is your name. You confronted the white god and injured him gravely before fleeing. And where did you flee? You fled here, hardly aware of doing so. Now, you desire two things: the resources you've found here, the bodies of the elders. And, second, the knowledge to apply the powers you covet.\"\n\nShe lowered her arms and met his stare. \"Am I close?\"\n\n\"You are,\" he conceded. \"But how?\"\n\nShe grimaced. \"You don't listen, do you? Or perhaps you still doubt. The elders speak to me. They've grown to trust me with their secrets. We share a similar vision.\"\n\n\"I see only corpses.\"\n\n\"You see wrong.\"\n\nHe considered disagreeing with her\u2014he had seen elders, hibernating yet well and truly alive\u2014but another concern came to the fore. \"Vision? What vision is this?\"\n\nShe laughed and regarded the sky again.\n\n\"This conversation goes nothing like I thought it would. You wait nearly two millennia, and you have certain expectations. I thought, when you came, you would know more. I suppose it doesn't matter. I've gotten what I wanted, what I deserve for being so patient. When the world is poised so...\" A look of rapture painted her features. \"... so beautifully, you don't ask for more.\"\n\nHe slapped her. She fell to her knees, causing the vision she sustained to flicker out. For a handful of seconds, he was underwater, staring into her gray eyes, breathing her in. He fought nausea at the thought of their intimacy, the fact that he had allowed it to occur.\n\n\"Make sense,\" he said to her. \"I don't care about your expectations. Tell me of this vision you share with corpses.\"\n\nShe wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. \"My vision is of devastation. It is of fire erupting from the crust of the world, of dust blanketing its face for eons.\"\n\nShe pointed skyward.\n\n\"It is _this_ , Pol Tanz et Som.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nThey started to move, so slowly at first that he thought he imagined their motion, then perceptibly quicker as the world's anchors set in and pulled. Increasing their spin as they drifted further and further from their positions, growing visibly in size as they closed in upon the world, the spheres became objects of menacing beauty, perfectly balanced on a scale beyond human reason. As large as moons, as deliberate as death, their leading rims began glowing with the friction of entry, of pushing aside the first protective layers of the world.\n\nAgainst the dictates of logic, as though possessed of their own poetic will, the larger spheres paused before initiating their plummet, allowing their smaller companions to enter the atmosphere first, dissecting the night with lines of fire.\n\nThe Needle fell, and Pol did not keep from himself a sense of satisfaction. This fate\u2014surely, he reasoned, anyone who had lived under the Needle would welcome it. Perhaps they would not admit it to themselves, but somewhere, in untouched corners of their minds, death held more attraction than continuing to live under threat. Men desired certainty above all else.\n\nThe ground shook underneath them as the world was impaled upon the Needle. The sky roiled with red and black lightning-shot clouds.\n\nThe woman stood at his side, smiling as her vision played out.\n\nEventually, she pointed into the ruins.\n\nFrom among them, a figure emerged: tall, over three yards from sole to crown, walking in an assured manner unlike those ill-drawn elders to which the woman had given brief life. In the flickering light of the end of the world, the elder's feature seemed to shift, the length and set of its bones fluid.\n\nWatching it, Pol was seized by recollection. As a child, he had seen a reptile drag a fisherman into the water. The man did not scream: he did not have the time. His mates had cried out, but even at his young age Pol had known their efforts would prove useless. The man was dead\u2014not because he was unfit, destined for death, but simply because nothing of his world could stand against a creature of the sea when it chose its proper moment.\n\nPol resisted the temptation to ready himself with a spell. It would not have worked, even had he not been trapped under a dampening spell. Not here. Here, now, he would be powerless. He had walked, of his own volition, into another world. He had seen that world in Adrash's mind, perpetually covered in cloud. Slumbering.\n\nThe broad-shouldered elder stopped a body length from Pol. Even halted, it never entirely stilled. Though it did not breathe, under its vein-mapped skin a colony of insects crawled.\n\nHead tipped slightly to one side, double irises spinning, it appraised him.\n\n_An offer_ , it said into the interior of his skull. Its voice, like a wasp's nest fallen at one's feet, or a bass string struck violently next to one's ear.\n\nWhen it did not speak again, he cleared his throat. \"Who are you to offer me any\u2014\"\n\nThe elder squinted, pulling its head back on its long neck. _Do not speak to me this way. It is an insult. It is ugly_.\n\nPol lifted his chin. \"I'll speak to you as I see fit.\"\n\nThe elder took two steps forward, closing the distance between them. Pol inhaled the scent of it, cumin and longras leaf, seawater and the dust of libraries\u2014and under these aromas, a tide so closely under the creature's dark, finely-furred skin that it leaked out through its pores... its blood, similar enough to his own though infinitely stronger.\n\nHis sigils stirred on his forearms and calves, tickling.\n\n_Impudent child_ , the elder said. Instead of anger, however, Pol's mind was filled with an air of amusement. _I will not punish you for your physical limitations. Speak with your vulgar food parts. We've not slept so long that we've not grown accustomed to the sound of your speech, horrifying though it is. We need not belabor this communication_.\n\nPol shrugged, having accepted his role as a child. \"You spoke of an offer.\"\n\n_Yes. An offer_. It gestured to the agitated sky. _We would see the world of man end_.\n\nDespite himself, Pol laughed. \"You've likely overestimated my power.\"\n\n_No. We know of you, and your encounter with the white god. You yourself would be a god. Already, you are close to achieving your goal. Not one among your people, or certainly among men, could have broken the Needle as you did_.\n\n_Still, you could have more. We can help you be greater than you ever dreamed_.\n\n\"The god of a dead world? Thank you, but I'd pictured a fair bit more than that.\"\n\nThe woman at his side cackled at this. Almost quicker than his eyes registered, the elder stepped to the side and backhanded her, sending her body spinning high into the black mirror of the lake. The vision she had created did not fade or flicker. In fact, it only solidified.\n\nThe elder returned its amber gaze to Pol. _Your picture is pitiful. Imagine a world where you are not a leader of men and eldermen, but a leader of elders_.\n\nPol opened his mouth to speak, and found he could not utter a sound.\n\n_Enough. We do not demand an answer now. We know your mind, and it seeks dominance. You will grow tired of being a god among men. When you grow tired, you will erase this era and usher in the new_.\n\n_How?_ Pol thought.\n\n_How is this not clear, child?_ The elder stepped back and held its arms aloft. _Bring down the sky. The pact among ourselves\u2014to not reveal ourselves or wake until the world is again clean of the interloper, man\u2014is universal, but the method of man's extinction is not generally agreed upon. Some wish to wait. Some have tried to rouse other individuals to our cause, charlatans and magicians. But I and my families are not... patient. And so..._\n\nIt gestured vaguely, in an oddly human fashion.\n\nThe muscles in Pol's jaw jumped as he ground his teeth together. \"Intriguing. But this is of no value to me in my battle. Give me something I can use, or I'll not even consider your offer. Sleep forever, if it pleases you.\"\n\nA horizontal line appeared below the elder's cavernous nostrils. It grew in definition and then split, revealing human teeth. Its corners turned up. As Pol fought to keep from taking a step backward (he would admit to being frightened, yes), the elder's body shed height and width. Its rawboned body thickened, taking on the proportions of an athletic man. Its skin color, already near enough to black, darkened further. It grew the pendulous genitals of a man, but these were quickly sheathed by the new skin it had grown.\n\nNo. Not skin. A suit.\n\nPol stared into the face of the Knosi featured so prominently in Adrash's mind.\n\n_Vedas Tezul_ , the elder said, its newly formed body mouthing the words.\n\nIts body shifted again, reducing in size as its shoulders narrowed and its hips widened. In seconds, before him stood the freckled woman whose features offended him so.\n\n_Churls Casta Jons_.\n\nNow the elders body ballooned, taking on mass outward and upward. Its skin turned from flesh to spheres of brass. From under its shelf of a brow, two blue coals glowed.\n\n_Berun_.\n\nThe names meant nothing to Pol.\n\n_These three stand in our way\u2014in your way. Each possesses power untapped, though the avenues of their power are lost to us. Like the white god, they defy our abilities to read. At times, they can be seen, but never can they be heard. For days now, they have been absent entirely from our minds_.\n\nThe elder returned to its original form and leaned forward, nostrils widening as it sniffed at Pol. _Like you, elderman, they are disappointingly opaque, a dangerous instability. Only their intentions are clear. They would halt the spheres in the sky or send them into the void. They would see the age of man never end_.\n\nPol kneaded his temples. This had gone on long enough. The sigils, restive, divided and subdivided on his forearms, forming faces that leered at the elder.\n\n\"Where?\" he said. He held up a hand to halt the creature from speaking more. On his palm, a horned man grinned and winked. \"Mind, I've agreed to nothing. Reason says I should enjoy my time as a god before I decide to have done with the world. However, if these individuals are as powerful as you claim, they are a threat to me. Tell me, now, where I can find them.\"\n\nThe elder pulled back from him. Its long finger pointed to the sigils.\n\n_Impossible. Silence these... abominations_.\n\nPol smiled at its discomfort. \"I think time will prove how much power I can summon. Tell me. Now.\"\n\n\u2021\n\n_Danoor_ , the elder said.\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nTHE 1ST To 7TH OF THE MONTH OF FISHERS THE ISLAND OF OSA\n\nS _radir is within you, and it will come out. Soon, if I am any judge_.\n\nThese words remained. They stuck. They angered Berun in their refusal to be forgotten.\n\nSradir\u2014the name meant nothing to him. Surely, this fact disproved Shavrim's claim.\n\nSurely, it did. _Surely_.\n\nAttempting to reason the words away simply fixed them more securely within his mind. By the morning of his third day under the dome of Osa, he found himself distracted constantly by thoughts of harm. He played out the scenarios of his own assumption by an alien god\u2014as if by imagining the worst outcomes they might suddenly strike him as ridiculous, impossible.\n\nBut it was not impossible. He knew this better than anyone.\n\nBeing taken forcibly by the will of another, pushed out of his own mind, woken to find people injured or dead at his own hand... it had occurred, and the nation of Nos Ulom considered him a murderer for it. Any reassurance he had taken from the death of the one responsible proved short-lived, however, for his creator would not be bound by the laws of death: on the journey to Danoor, Ortur Omali had nearly reassumed control over his creation.\n\nBerun had been forged as a tool. To think he could redesign himself according to his own whims now was the purest presumption. He had not overcome Omali alone in their final battle, after all. Fyra had been there, landing the final blow for him.\n\nWhat did it matter if he did not know the name Sradir Ung Kim? Had he known Omali could call him from his place among the dead?\n\n\u2021\n\nFrom dawn to just before nightfall, they traveled northward and upward, over a sparsely-treed landscape of folded rocks and algae-covered lakes, finally reaching the foot of their destination\u2014the monolith Shavrim called Adrashhut. Surrounded by rubble at its base, it rose, straight-edged and severe, giving the impression of a sudden, violent upthrust through the mantle of the earth.\n\nIt looked to Berun like the tip of a sword coming out from between a man's shoulder blades.\n\n\"There,\" Shavrim said, pointing a third of the way up the sheer face of the mountain to a sharp overhang. \"That is where he deposited the weapons.\" He breathed in deeply, inflating the muscular drum of his belly. His eyes widened and an unselfconscious grin lit up his features. \"It smells the same here. Exactly the same. My nose, after millennia...\"\n\n\"I'm happy for you and your nose,\" Churls said. \"How do we reach the cliff?\"\n\nShavrim instructed them to cover one eye and then the other before regarding the cliff face a second time. Stairs appeared, zig-zagging upward, but with each shift of the eye they disappeared again, melding back into the slate-colored stone.\n\nVedas looked away first, and began setting camp. He remained subdued throughout their supper, just as he had done since their arrival on the island. Churls kept his hand in hers, often leaning toward him to cast glances at the darkness over his shoulder. Despite Shavrim's assurance\u2014\"Nothing here will hurt you. Osa is a sanctuary.\"\u2014she could not keep herself from caution.\n\nBerun looked from her to Vedas, affection battling the uncomfortable awareness that he had been left out of an important discussion. He did not resent Churls for keeping Fyra a secret, yet she and Vedas and the girl had clearly interacted with Shavrim on some arcane level during their encounter in Marept. Even had no time passed after Vedas kissed Churls, their eyes would have given them away: they had come out of their trances haunted.\n\nApparently, they felt Berun did not need to know what had transpired.\n\nHe avoided anger in response. Anger had been a pathway for Ortur Omali to influence him in the past, and could be so for another. Nonetheless, he found his fists clenching of their own accord as he stared at Vedas and Churls.\n\nThey were his friends. They cared about him.\n\nSurely, they did.\n\n\u2021\n\nAfter his companions fell asleep, Berun left them. He could not stand the thought of a whole night spent staring at their sleeping bodies, listening to their breathing.\n\nAnd so he climbed.\n\nThe stairs were hardly worn by the millennia of exposure to the elements: each appeared cut to the exact same dimensions, sharp edged and straight. At every turn in the switchback, Adrash had created an alcove where one could turn and ascend the next series of steps.\n\nIn each alcove, rising from the floor, a part of the mountain, sat an altar\u2014and upon each altar a statue. Berun paused in the alcoves before resuming his climb, again and again, examining the figures the god had carved. Predictably, the majority were warriors, men and women in assorted modes of dress, wielding swords and axes and spears. Few bore alchemical arms.\n\nTo Berun's surprise, there were elderman and constructs among them. For obvious reasons, the constructs held his attention. He had never seen such variety, had never known such sinuously elegant creatures existed. A few were nearly identical to men, identifiable as artificial only by the thin lines of their mechanical sutures.\n\nThe final five alcoves stretched nearly double the size of the others, with proportionally larger altars and statues. The first contained a tall, thin woman with claws bared at the end of each arm. The second featured a winged man, arching his back with his open mouth to the sky.\n\nIn the third and fourth, he found twins, angularly built and naked. Though their posture mirrored one another, one appeared rigid, the other relaxed.\n\nHe recognized them by Shavrim's description. He mouthed their names.\n\n_Evurt. Ustert_.\n\nThe last space held the depiction of a unique creature, neither clearly man nor woman, human or elderman. Thorns grew from its shoulders, elbows, and knees. A series of knoblike growths extended down the lengths of its oddly jointed arms.\n\nHe stared at its harsh face, lingering on the wood-textured eyes, and knew its identity.\n\nStill, he felt nothing.\n\nHe ascended a final time, the broken sky unobscured by another set of stairs above him. The spheres of the Needle spun in their orbits, and he imagined what would occur to Osa if they fell. Would the crystal covering the island shatter? Would it hold, showing the death of the outer world through its perfect lens, holding the decay within itself?\n\nBerun reached the summit. Open to the elements and significantly worn by time, an altar sat, unmoored to the mountain. It had drifted over time, in fact, due to wind or rain or tremors: a third of its base hung over the edge of the cliff.\n\nUpon the altar was a carving of Shavrim.\n\nHe knelt before Adrash, hands open in supplication, eyes desperate. Pleading.\n\nBerun took it in his arms and moved it back from the precipice. He did not understand why he had been inspired to do so, but he did it, regardless, wondering if this were the moment when he ceded control to Sradir.\n\nShrugging the concern off, he knelt at the edge of the cliff and tried to find a measure of the calm he had once thought so easy to achieve.\n\nHe did not find it. In truth, he found only more doubt.\n\nYet the night passed overhead, and the sky did not fall. He resisted asking himself how many more such nights the world would be allowed.\n\n\u2021\n\nIn the hour before the sun rose, he halted his meditation and watched the largest inhabitants of the island wake from their slumber.\n\nMethodically, beginning with the westernmost individual and spreading to either side, as though they had timed it for the most dramatic effect, blunt reptilian heads rose on sinuous lengths of neck from each of the massive honeycombed nests anchored to the lower heights of the crystal dome. As many as six individuals, variously colored and sized, inhabited the largest structures.\n\nGenerations of wyrms, greeting the new day.\n\nWhen the sun rose fully over the back of Jeroun and reflected in the heights of the dome downward, bathing the enclosed world of Osa in bewitched light, the creatures emerge fully. They faced the morning and stretched, their long finger bones showing through the thin membranes of their wings.\n\nHearing their harsh calls to one another, his features drew into a frown.\n\nHe leaned over his crossed legs and peered over the edge of the cliff. The camp his companions had set the night before remained shrouded in shadow, but his eyes were adequate to the task. He watched Vedas emerge from the tent, left hand rubbing the leanness of his belly, right hand lingering at the neckline of his suit.\n\nThe man could not accept the reality of himself, Berun knew. He refused to be at ease in his own body. Nor would he return to the time when wearing a suit felt right, for it represented a way of life he no longer lived, convictions he no longer held.\n\nBerun shifted his brass bulk, not in pain, no (unless a component of his body became unmoored, he would never experience true pain), but certainly discomfort. He would never grow used to being confined to one form, stuck in a man-like shape, never to fully touch the sun again. In this, he felt communion with Vedas. Both had been betrayed by men they were expected to trust\u2014Vedas's abbey master Abse, on the one hand, Ortur Omali on the other\u2014and paid a physical toll as a result.\n\nVedas turned, his hands falling to his sides.\n\nChurls emerged from the tent, shrugging her shoulders and swinging her arms. She peered into the sky before slipping her arms around Vedas's waist, laying her head against his chest.\n\nThe spheres of Berun's teeth ground together. He stepped back from the cliff's edge, surprised by the intensity of emotion he felt at the sight of her.\n\n_I never liked the bitch much_ , a voice said. _Evurt took all the good material, leaving none for his sister_.\n\nBerun spun around, but he was alone on the cliff top.\n\n_Calm yourself, Berun_.\n\nReedy and measured, the voice held a trace of amusement. It sounded utterly unlike he had imagined it would. He had assumed something colder, more estranging.\n\n_You assumed wrong_ , Sradir said.\n\n\"I don't like this,\" he said. He turned back to the thousand-foot drop. \"I don't like anything that is happening.\"\n\n_I know. Imagine how it must be for me, though, constructed man_.\n\n\"No. No, I don't have to imagine any such thing.\" He folded his massive arms. \"This is different than what happened with Churls and Vedas. I'm awake, aware of your presence, like you're sitting across from me. How is there room within my mind? What happens now?\"\n\nA chuckle. _So many words. You believe I must do something?_\n\n\"I do. Why else would you be here, if not to act?\"\n\n_Perhaps for the view. I've been waiting for the proper time, listening only, but I see I should have does this sooner. You have wonderful eyes\u2014in many ways, better than my own. It's a pleasure to view the world from my current vantage point. Please, look down the mountain again. I wish to see my brother Shavrim as you see him_.\n\nBerun considered denying it the request, but relented.\n\nShavrim emerged from the tent.\n\nHis eyes focused directly on Berun.\n\n_Oh, hello_ , Sradir said. _That was fast. Raise your hand, Berun. Raise it. He's seen us_.\n\n\u2021\n\nThey stood together on the cliff, the four of them.\n\n\"Hello, Sradir,\" Shavrim said. He bowed.\n\nEmbarrassed, Berun bowed back.\n\n_Tell him hello_ , Sradir said. _No. Just say anything. I'll correct you if it's wrong_.\n\nBerun paused, and then said hello.\n\n_Good_ , Sradir said. _I like someone who can improvise_.\n\nShavrim stared into Berun's eyes, clearly searching. For what, Berun did not know\u2014a sign, perhaps, that he had found a proper ally, one possessed of sufficient strength to take his or her host by force. Ustert and Evurt had been a disappointment in this regard.\n\n_It would be easier to force you, yes. But I think not_.\n\nChurls stepped forward and laid a hand on Berun's arm. He fought the urge to pull it away as Sradir recoiled within him. Quickly, he was becoming used to how Sradir would react, how it would feel when it did.\n\n\"Berun,\" Churls said. She too searched his eyes. \"Are you... are you _you?\"_\n\nHe forced a smile down at her, and Sradir relented a bit.\n\n_I don't hate this one_ , it said. _When I can see beyond the aura Ustert has placed over her, she's actually quite likable. Not beautiful, but cute in a rough way. A dull sword is an appropriate tool for her_.\n\n\"I'm fine, Churls,\" Berun said. \"I'm me. This is not as it is for you and Vedas. Sradir is...\"\n\n_If you call me nice, I'll kill you_.\n\n\"... more agreeable.\"\n\nChurls smiled and embrace him, her arms extending only halfway around his torso. He patted her gently on the back, meeting Vedas's gaze over her head. After a moment, the Black Suit nodded, though his expression remained sober.\n\nShavrim opened his mouth and closed it. He opened it again.\n\n\"Agreeable,\" he said. He repeated the word, as if hearing it for the first time.\n\n\u2021\n\n_I've learned something, Berun, and I've made a decision. We do this, and then we leave_.\n\nHis foot slipped. He formed a question in his mind.\n\n_No, don't ask why. I'm not forcing you to do anything. I'll explain, and you'll agree\u2014for your own good. Now, concentrate upon your task_.\n\nCurious but unwilling to push the matter, he planted his foot more solidly and flexed, causing the hundreds of joined spheres in his knees and shoulders to shriek with strain. Next to him, Shavrim roared, thick slabs of muscle shaking. Gradually, the panel of stone upon which they pushed began to move, revealing the outline of a massive door into the mountain Shavrim had assured them existed. It ground shrilly in its frame, inch by inch, extending further and further into the rock face.\n\nBerun's foot slipped a second time... a third time. Shavrim paused to catch his breath, repositioned himself with his back to the slab, and began pushing once more.\n\nThe door cleared its frame. Berun shot out a hand to prevent Shavrim from falling as the door tipped forward and slammed soundly home into a recess in the floor, melding again with the mountain.\n\n_Enter, Berun_ , Sradir said, avid. _Beat him to it. You did most of the work, anyway_.\n\nAmused by Sradir's pettiness, Berun kept his arm out, palm pressed to Shavrim's chest, preventing the man from advancing.\n\n\"Leave it,\" Berun said. \"I'll check.\"\n\nHe entered the chamber alone. Once his trailing foot cleared the doorway, six torches bloomed into life, revealing a circular room perhaps six yards across, its wall covered in relief carvings of faceless bodies locked in embraces both violent and erotic. They appeared to shift in the firelight. The longer Berun stared, the more they seemed to move, undulating in a circle around him, first in one direction and then the other. He imagined a flesh-and-blood man would become dizzy.\n\nAn impressive effect, he noted, yet it was as nothing compared to what sat under each torch. Statues, so cunningly carved that they nearly breathed in the flickering light, lifelike enough that he expected them to rise from their cross-legged posture, held weapons in outstretched hands. Somehow, Adrash (for it could only have been a god who possessed the skill to create such life in stone) had managed to convey the reluctance of the offering: the figures appeared ready to snatch back their weapons if the taker proved unworthy to wield it.\n\nShavrim, the first on the left, held a long, dark, silverish knife.\n\nThe winged man\u2014 _Orrus_ , Sradir whispered\u2014held a glass spear.\n\nUstert and Evurt held a pair of short swords, silver and bronze. _Ruin and Rust_.\n\nThe thin, clawed woman\u2014 _Bash, my dear departed Bash_ , Sradir said\u2014held a razored circle.\n\nAnd Sradir, first on the right...\n\nBefore he had registered the desire to do so, Berun bent and took the short whip in his left hand. Though tiny in his outsized fist, he could not deny an immediate sense of appropriateness, of _utility_. His mouth drew into a sneer even as a part of him relished the feeling. He had always eschewed weapons.\n\nPrior to his last encounter with Omali and the freezing of his form, it had never been an issue. He had been any weapon he wanted.\n\n_I'm sorry for what you've lost, Berun_.\n\nHe grunted. Behind him, Shavrim cleared his throat and entered the room, with Churls and Vedas following. Shavrim picked up his knife, flipped it end over end into his left hand, and then slipped it into the sheath he wore at his hip. It was a casual gesture, but Berun had been watching carefully.\n\nA tremor had passed through Shavrim when his hands left his weapon's hilt.\n\n_Yes_ , Sradir said. _Well observed. He's not immune to its touch, just as I'm not to mine. And Sroma is a great deal more powerful than Weither. It's possessed of its own mind, and he's cautious of its influence. As he should be_.\n\nFeatures blank, Shavrim glanced at Berun as he picked up Orrus's spear and Bash's circle.\n\n\"You have something to say? the horned man asked.\n\nBerun did not answer. His attention was suddenly elsewhere.\n\nChurls and Vedas stood separated by several feet, staring down at the statues of Ustert and Evurt. Their hands stretched toward one another in the exact position of a clasp, as though they believed themselves to be holding hands.\n\nBerun looked away and then back, trying to convince himself that their bodies were not thinning while he watched, that their skin had not taken on a metallic luster.\n\n_Your eyes aren't deceiving you_ , Sradir said. _They're nearly here. The bitch, especially. She's close. Can't you smell her? Like curdled milk_.\n\nBerun took one step toward Churls.\n\nSlowly, like an egret following its prey, she swiveled her head toward him without moving another muscle. Vedas mirrored her. Their eyes were blanks, silver and bronze.\n\n\"Sister,\" Churls said. \"Brother,\" Vedas said.\n\n_Never could wrap your minds around me, could you, fools? Don't move, Berun. Don't speak a word_.\n\nDisinterested, Churls and Vedas turned back toward the statues. As one, without moving the position of the hands that still seemed to be linked, they moved forward to grip the hilts of their swords.\n\nShavrim paused at the doorway and turned back. His hand strayed to the knife at his hip.\n\nSradir sighed. _You wanted them here, brother, and now... what? You want to stop them at their point of entr\u2014_\n\nIts last word died in a fading hiss.\n\nA light, harsh enough to briefly overload even Berun's eyes, flared in the center of the room.\n\nIt died as suddenly as it had appeared.\n\nIn its place stood Fyra, clothed in a jointed suit of blindingly white armor. In her right hand she held a sword\u2014also blindingly white, a proper match for Ustert and Evurt's weapons, though sized for her small stature. She took four quick steps to a point equidistant between her mother and Vedas and swung her blade up, as though attempting to slice an imaginary opponent from pelvis to chest.\n\nIt was a clumsy maneuver, directed at nothing, yet it produced an immediate effect.\n\nChurls and Vedas gasped and pulled their arms in, cradling their hands against their bellies. Shuddering, they turned toward Fyra, their movements no longer synced, their skin and eyes losing the godly hue. Vedas bared his teeth and growled, but it quickly became a wheeze. Churls did even less, merely opening her mouth to emit a constricted breath.\n\nWithout another sound, they fell sideways toward each other.\n\nSradir made a whistling sound that reverberated through Berun's head.\n\nFyra turned and leveled her sword at Shavrim. Her arm shook slightly.\n\n_You want to be separated from your soul, ugly man? I've never done it, but I'd like to try. We'll see who wins_. She flipped the faceplate of her helm down, staring through the eye slits of a mask that resembled her mother exactly. _This is a place of power. You knew being here would make your sister and brother stronger_.\n\nShavrim nodded. \"I did. And I was wrong to allow them to enter. Ustert and Evurt are too strong, too unpredictable, to allow full control. I see that now.\"\n\nFyra laughed, and sounded nothing like a child. _Good for you. You should have seen it sooner. Take the weapons out yourself, and then carry my mother and Vedas outside_.\n\nShe turned to Berun without waiting to see if her order was followed. She was tired, clearly, her sword arm dipping only to be righted with a jerk. He stared at the wavering tip of her ghostly sword, wondering how much damage she could do with it.\n\n_Good question_ , Sradir said, its voice near reverential. _I'd seen her in your mind, but I'd never imagined... how wonderful... How is it she's even here? The crystal should have shielded her from entering. The strain of maintaining control\u2014_\n\n_I can't hear you_ , the girl said, her voice barely a whisper, _but I know you're talking_. She took two faltering steps toward Berun, lifting her sword to keep its point between his eyes. _He's my friend. I helped him when no one else could. What are you going to do with him?_\n\nSradir paused, a pressure building. When it spoke again, its voice held a new quality, a resonance he imagined radiating outward from the spheres of his mind.\n\n_Girl, I'm going to finish what you started_.\n\n\u2021\n\nAfter two days of travel, Berun stood before the barrier of crystal separating him from the sea.\n\nThe sea, and his creator.\n\n\"You're sure?\" he asked.\n\n_For the hundredth time, I'm sure_.\n\nHe spoke the words Shavrim had taught him and waited. After Shavrim had spoken them five days earlier, the reaction had been near instantaneous, but Berun did not worry, for both Shavrim and Sradir had anticipated a delay or even a failure. The spells keeping the island closed were ancient beyond human knowledge. Only Adrash had discerned their nature, and only his children could gain entry by uttering the phrase to unwind the arcane lock.\n\nThough inhabited by Sradir, Berun could not properly be called Adrash's child.\n\nIn truth, he did not mind the wait. He did not relish encountering Ortur Omali again.\n\nHe pressed a hand to the clear wall. The thickness of the crystal\u2014were it a liquid, he could have reached only a quarter of the way through\u2014distorted the view of the rocky shoreline at the foot of the dome. A long, reptilian creature had crawled out of the sea to sun itself, its back bowed unnaturally by the warping effect.\n\n_Your mind_ , Sradir said. _It's like this creature as you see it now. You've been distorted by the spectre of your fear. You've been warped, set up to be broken. We're about to change that, Berun. Speak the words again_.\n\nHe let his hand drop. \"Do you swear? This is your true intent, to help me?\"\n\n_I promise you. I won't lie to you_.\n\n\"Then tell me this. Why are you the way you are now? I see Shavrim. I watch him. He clearly didn't expect you to be as you are. How can I be assured this is not an act? How can I be sure you aren't lying to me, leading me to my doom?\"\n\n_That's an easy answer. You can't. You can be sure of nothing. But time passes, and we're all changed, even gods. I didn't expect to be as I am now. For the span of my life, I expected to succeed Adrash, rule with a ironwood fist. I did not expect to one day ride a constructed man through forgotten forests and help him fight his dead father_.\n\nHe felt her shrug, though how such a thing could be communicated was beyond him.\n\n_But here I am. And you have to trust your instincts about me_.\n\nHe nodded and said the words.\n\n_Again_ , Sradir said. _Together_.\n\n\"Uperut amends,\" he said, Sradir harmony to him. \"Ii wallej frect. Xio.\"\n\nA dimple appeared in the crystal and pushed toward the outside world, creating a visible tunnel through the enchanted material. It widened quickly, creating a passage large enough for a domesticated cat, a dog, a child standing upright. Berun stooped slightly and entered it.\n\n_You've never smelled the sea_ , Sradir said. _I just now realized. Sad_.\n\nHe paused before leaving the shelter of the passageway and gazed out at the calm water. \"What should I expect?\"\n\nSradir laughed. _A battle, Berun. Expect a battle_.\n\n\u2021\n\nImmediately, he sensed something had changed. His own awareness of himself\u2014of his body, the relation of each component sphere to its neighbor\u2014intensified until the world itself seemed to fade around him. He expanded as everything else in existence contracted. His chest ballooned, creating a dark space within which his two innermost spheres knocked together. A lonely, hollow sound. He had heard it before, but not since he froze himself into the shape of a man.\n\n\"Father...\" he said.\n\n_Berun_ , Sradir said. _Stay with me. Focus on me_.\n\nHe fell to his knees on the cragged shoreline, his vision flickering in and out, replaced by stretches of blackness, blackness beyond which there could be no return.\n\nIf souls existed, they resided in flesh. He did not want to die, and be nothing.\n\n_You will not die_ , Sradir said. _But he_ is _coming. Prepare yourself_.\n\nConcentrating upon Sradir's voice, the world slowly swam back into clarity. The sea seemed to call to him, neither in the voice of Sradir nor the voice of his father, and so he stood, creaking from each of his thousand joints, and stumbled to the waterline. Seized and emboldened by an idea he would not, could not give words to, he walked.\n\nMore surely with each step, into the water. Not so much confident as resigned to his fate.\n\n\"Let him follow us,\" he said just before his head fell below the sea. Glass-clear shallows rose above him, twenty and then thirty feet. Sand gradually covered the stones of the shore.\n\nHe walked, and did not look back.\n\nSradir remained silent. It had been in his mind long enough to know he had been crushed under deeper water than that of the sea.\n\nAt first, he believed himself to be imagining the darkness brewing before him, but soon the reality of it proved impossible to deny. It became a heavy weight upon the surface of the water, appearing like the growth of distant clouds on a clear day. It spread, a droplet of ink, its fine tendrils reaching toward him.\n\n_You may have gotten this backwards, Berun_ , Sradir said. _He did not follow us. We've come to him_.\n\n_Berun_ , his father called, drawing the name out into the long creak of ship's masts bending in the storm. It reverberated as the crack of thunder.\n\nBerun stumbled, righted himself sluggishly, and kept walking.\n\n\"Father...\" he said. Water muffled his voiced into incomprehensibility. Nonetheless, he knew he would be heard. \"How\u2014why\u2014are you here? Why do you plague me?\"\n\n_No_ , Sradir said. _Don't think of him as father. He is a sorcerer, a back-alley mage. Think of him as a thing, a thing with no power over you_.\n\nHe laughed. Existence was not so simple as deciding upon ways to think.\n\n_Much of existence is exactly that simple, Berun_.\n\nOmali repeated his name, loudly enough that the world rumbled under Berun's feet.\n\nCreatures fled from the encroaching darkness. Sleek, torsional fish snapped at each other in panic while evading the claws and teeth of equally frenzied reptiles. Their massive bodies whipped past Berun, flattening him to the sea bottom, lifting him from his feet and sending him spinning. But for a few reflexive bites, the animals ignored him.\n\nAfter they had passed, he dropped to the sand unscathed and rose. Overhead, the sun showed through thirty feet of inky saltwater, appearing more foreboding than the moon through storm clouds.\n\nWhen his innermost spheres tolled together in his deep chest, they created an achingly lonely sound. A familiar sound. He and Omali had once visited Corol, a northern Ulomi city caught in the thrall of plague. There they watched infected men and women walk the streets, dull chimes locked around their throats. It had been Berun's first exposure to death.\n\n_Bring out your dead_ , Omali called, echoing throughout Berun's body. _Bring out your dead..._\n\nBerun's vision darkened. His joints loosened, sagged.\n\n\"Help me,\" he said to Sradir. \"I'll fall apart.\"\n\n_I will. And no, you won't_.\n\nThey concentrated together, and the spheres within his chest slowly ground to a halt. His ankles, knees, and hips solidified under him. The darkness, however, intensified around him, forming itself into a nearly solid thing against which he struggled to make headway.\n\nYes, he still walked. Without a glance behind, he pushed himself forward, into the darkness his creator had made. The ink swirled around him, forming and reforming half-recognizable images. It eddied around his feet and tugged his shoulders from side to side. He swayed, nearly tipping again and again, but he persisted.\n\nFear had not been removed from him: he felt it ever more keenly. Sradir kept itself in the forefront of his mind, but otherwise maintained silence.\n\nIt, too, he imagined, could not predict the outcome of this encounter.\n\n\u2021\n\nAn orange light bloomed in the ebon distance, as of an alchemical torch being lit in the gloom of night. It did not grow brighter or larger, yet he knew it to be advancing toward him. He sensed it in the same way a ship captain sensed an oncoming storm or the wind about to die upon his sails\u2014as a fact of living, undeniable in its potency.\n\nWhen the darkness surrounded him completely, the light split in two.\n\nHe stopped. Before him stood Omali. Two brilliant amber lenses, liquid and glowing like glass fresh from the kiln, had replaced his eyes. Bubbles of light poured constantly from their surface, rising into the blackened water as two thin streams of light. His body had changed from their last encounter, as well: skeletally thin and pale, his hairless nudity revealed no trace of his sex. He possessed no mouth, no ears, and only two closed slits for nostrils. To Berun, his creator had come to resemble a creature born to inhabit caves, far from the light.\n\n_An eater of worms_ , Sradir said. _Say that. Now. Call him an eater of worms_.\n\nBerun shook his head, transfixed by his creator's stare.\n\n_Your days of pretending are over_ , Omali said. He lifted his right hand and opened it, revealing the webbing between each finger. His open hand became a fist. _You will now submit to me_.\n\nSradir's voice grew louder. _Do it, Berun. Say he's an eater of worms_.\n\n\"Eater...\" he said. \"Eater of...\"\n\nOmali tipped his head to one side and turned it slightly, revealing an earhole Berun had not seen. The bubbles streamed more quickly from the sorcerer's eyes as he stepped back. A pair of long, thin swords grew in his hands.\n\n(No, Berun noted. They grew _from_ his hands, drawing material from his own body. His arms, already thin, became twigs as the blades lengthened.)\n\n_What is this?_ Omali asked. _Your mind is corrupted. Tell me, who is this interloper? It is different from the girl_.\n\n_Well apprehended, magician_ , Sradir said. _Attack him, Berun. Don't answer or delay. My strength is yours. Do it, now_.\n\nBerun's eyes flared as Sradir unfolded itself and stood inside him, wearing him as though he were a suit of armor. For the space of several seconds, he basked in the sensation of wellness\u2014a sensation he had not experienced since the days when he could bend and mold himself to any form. Each component of his body tickled against its neighbor in readiness, sliding into new configurations, moving from his interior to his surface. Dirt, gathered from months without washing in the desert, rose around him in a red cloud.\n\nHe closed his massive hands into tight fists, savoring the piercing sound of brass rubbing against brass. The simulated muscle of his frame bunched and writhed. The corners of his mouth curved upward into a grin.\n\nHe was an alchemical engine once more, primed and rumbling.\n\nAllowing himself no time to doubt his actions, he stepped forward unencumbered by the water and wrapped his arms around Omali's shoulders, crushing the small man to his chest. His forearms and hands flowed into a fluid mass of spheres, cohering into two constricting snakes seeking to crush the life out of their prey.\n\nBut Omali would not be crushed. His frame, while frail in appearance, was harder than stone. It possessed strength to match its opponent's. Omali flexed against the bonds Berun had constructed, inexorably lifting his creation's arms. As he did so, he tapped the edges of his swords along Berun's flank. Where it touched, Berun became numb.\n\nCandles, one by one, snuffed out.\n\nFor the first time in his existence, Berun lost contact with elements of his body.\n\nHe had heard men describe pain before, of course. This seemed far worse, however, an absence where there should have been only connection. It was worse, in fact, than the rare occasion he had been struck hard enough to remove a sphere entirely.\n\nWorse, even, than being stuck as a man-shaped thing.\n\n_No, it's not_ , Sradir said. _You're being manipulated to fear, Berun. You must not\u2014No! Hold your ground_.\n\nBerun had dropped Omali and backed away.\n\n_You are a mistake to be rectified_ , Omali said, arms spread wide, the points of his swords leveled at Berun. _Clearly, I was too liberal in the freedoms I allowed you. This is immaterial now. Now, I will have you and the thing inhabiting you evicted. I have much to do, and it cannot be accomplished in this wisp of a body. It is strong, but I need something more... permanent_.\n\nHe strode forward.\n\nBerun backed up a step before Sradir halted him.\n\n_I'm sorry_ , it said. _I'd rather see you fight this battle, but we don't have the option of losing. I need your body as badly as Omali does_.\n\nThe sorcerer's swords came down. Through no order of his own, quicker than he would have thought possible, Berun's hands came up and caught them. Immediate numbness in his palms resulted, but Sradir did not so much as flinch. The god caused Berun's wrists to rotate until, with a muted crack of bone, the blades broke.\n\nOmali screeched as blood pumped from the wounds. Bubbles streamed from his eyes and burst incandescently. He tried to back away, but Berun's fists were locked in position. His feet were rooted to the sea floor.\n\nSradir opened Berun's mouth and spoke with his voice, with a clarity that the constructed man could not have achieved underwater.\n\n\"You want to know who I am, magician? I am Sradir Ung Kim, Wood Heart\u2014heir to Adrash.\"\n\nOmali shook his head. No, he said in a strained whisper. _There is no one by this name. There is no heir to Adrash_.\n\nSradir laughed through Berun's mouth and pushed Omali backward with his right hand, leaving his left clenched around Sradir's broken sword arm.\n\nThe spheres of Berun's chest erupted outward, ejecting something quickly to the surface.\n\nHis right hand\u2014Sradir's right hand\u2014rose from his side and closed around a handle.\n\nWeither, Sradir had called it. Berun had not known himself to be hiding the whip.\n\nThe god brought the thin weapon low, arcing it near the constructed man's hip and flipping it fluidly into a backhanded, slanting cut across Omali's torso, severing the sorcerer from rib to shoulder.\n\nNo expression crossed Omali's face. He uttered no sound as the seam split and the top half of his body toppled backward.\n\nSradir stepped forward through thick clouds of blood, pushing Omali's lower half to the side. It crouched near the wounded man as the trail of radiant bubbles stopped flowing from his eyes.\n\n\"Now,\" it said. \"Now, you die. It will be...\" It smiled. \"Permanent\"\n\nIt reached forward, covered Omali's face with Berun's broad hand, and slowly crushed the sorcerer's skull.\n\nNo stranger to violence, Berun nonetheless quailed at the sight. Blood, bone, and a liquid radiance erupted from between his fingers, the last of which bent like smoke toward his face. It wavered before his eyes, a living, vital thing. His instinct was to pull away from it before contact, but Sradir kept him from doing so: it caused his mouth to open and drink the golden essence.\n\nHe fell back as the inky darkness dissolved above him. He stared at the sun through thirty feet of suddenly clear water, the vision faltering in each eye, off-time, a stuttering rhythm.\n\nHolding himself together became impossible against the will of Sradir, and so he decohered. After each component sphere loosened its grip in the matrix he had created, his body spread out as a mat of brass upon the sea floor. Under his own control, this would not have bothered him. He had once done exactly this to gather sunlight.\n\nUnder another's control, it was agony.\n\n_You'll likely not believe me_ , Sradir said, _but I'm sorry_.\n\nApologies meant nothing. He had been betrayed.\n\n_True. But I'll apologize, nonetheless. I'll apologize also for what hasn't yet occurred, what you can't prepare for. Hold steady, Berun. You have eaten your maker. Digesting him will not be pleasant_.\n\n\u2021\n\nSradir did not lie. It was as far from pleasant as Berun could have imagined.\n\nIn life, his creator had not carried within him an ounce of compassion. No sentimentality or allegiance. No quarter given to anyone. Possessed of a vision of brutal clarity, he coerced others to his own ends without a trace of regret, trading in lives as though they were coins. Near the end of his first mortal existence, a madness had taken root in his mind, focusing the dark lens of his intellect on the deficits he identified in humanity itself.\n\nBerun flinched from the reality, the immensity, of Omali's narcissism.\n\nThe pact he had made guaranteed the end of an entire world, the creation of a wasteland that would exist for millennia\u2014simply to usher in an age where his hands would not be tied, where his words would be as law. He had been bound too long by the will of kings, ground under the heel of lesser men only because they possessed the resources to do so.\n\nBut the elders\u2014the elders, hibernating away under permanent cloud cover, shielded in a state of suspension, guaranteed him a place at their table, a king among kings. A god. They seduced him with the only object of his desire, and so he planned. Alone among men, he discovered a pathway to life after death. A true life, among the resurrected heirs of Jeroun.\n\nHe had designed Berun as his vehicle.\n\nFirst, to enact his will against those who would prevent the fall of the Needle.\n\nSecond, as a body in which to weather the death of the world. A place to hibernate away the long afternoon that followed.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe sun set and the creatures of the sea returned to their hunting. They circled around Berun, clearly curious but unwilling to touch him. He kept his eyes to the sky as the moon rose, dragging the disjointed halo of the Needle with it. Through the rippling surface of the sea, each sphere appeared dangerously mobile, shuddering in its orbit as though eager to fall.\n\nHe imagined them falling, and wondered why he would do so.\n\n_Human curiosity?_ Sradir said.\n\nHe considered pointing the obvious fact out to Sradir.\n\nIt snorted dismissively. _You're more human than not. And no, before you ask: there's no part of you that desires the same ends as your maker. You're your own man. In your desires, you always have been. It_ paused before continuing. Perhaps it wanted an answer he would not give, a sign he had forgiven it for its deception.\n\nThere had never been a question about the outcome. It had defeated Omali handily, and this fact angered Berun more than its assumption of his body.\n\n_You thought we were in this together_ , Sradir said. _Tell me, Berun\u2014have I ruined everything?_\n\nHe grunted. \"Answer it yourself. My mind is yours to read.\"\n\n_Not true. There are aspects hidden even from me. I'm a good guesser, and that's all_.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"You're a good liar. And I'm bad at discerning truth.\"\n\nOutcroppings of rock began appearing under his feet. On the moonlight-dappled sea floor, they appeared like the backs of burrowing creatures. He trod heavily upon them, causing his body to ring like a bell, and tried to still his thoughts.\n\nSradir said nothing, for which he felt gratitude, which in turn inspired annoyance.\n\nThe island of Osa proper began. He ascended the jumbled, twilit steps of stone ten, twenty, thirty feet, and rose above the surface of the sea.\n\nStanding on the shore, a thousand rivulets of saltwater sluiced from his body. Above him stretched a wall of crystal, reflecting the night behind him perfectly.\n\nThe sky. The sea, reflecting the sky.\n\nHe said the words without Sradir. \"Uperut amends. Ii wallej frect. Xio.\"\n\nThe passageway opened immediately. He spared the sea no backward glance.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe traveled a night and a full day before Sradir spoke to him again.\n\n_Wait. Stop, Berun. Please stop_.\n\n\"Stop me yourself,\" he responded.\n\nHis pace slowed as Sradir ground him to a halt gently. He saw no point in resisting.\n\n_I'm not doing this to show you I can. You know I can. Look up. Look around you_.\n\nHe lifted his head and did so, finding himself at the foot of a low wooded hill.\n\n\"Yes? What of it?\"\n\n_You haven't looked up from the ground for an entire day. Take a moment and see with these brilliant eyes of yours. This is the world we wish to preserve_.\n\nHe considered refusing, but once more, what would be the point in it? Each of Sradir's displays of power served only to dispirit him.\n\nTurning a full three hundred and sixty degrees, he took in what he had noticed only as obstacles to be overcome. Behind him lay gently sloping plains, fold upon fold of golden grass and sparse forest. Miles and miles of geography, trampled under his feet in his haste to reach his companions. In the distance before him, blue mountains rose in the center of the island, his ultimate destination.\n\nCloser at hand, a creek wound down the slope of the wooded hill. It met another creek at the hill's foot, and together they formed a narrow, swiftly-moving river that disappeared into the forest to the south. He imagined how a man would have viewed it\u2014as unthreatening, idyllic, a place to rest a body after a long walk\u2014and decided on a proper response.\n\nHe shrugged. \"It's beautiful.\"\n\nSradir kept him from lifting his foot and moving on.\n\n_It is, yes, but that's hardly all. You're being willfully dense, ignoring the fullness of what's before you. Curiosity is not something you've ever had to force yourself to feel, so don't start pretending disinterest now. How do I know you're pretending? I haven't been in here, wasting time. I've observed you. Fact is, I'm the closest you'll come to a lover, a true friend, or a parent_.\n\n\"You could equally well be an enemy. A very good enemy, I'd add.\"\n\nSradir sighed. _What occurred between us, I regret. If there had been another way, then I would have chosen it, but there wasn't another way. To assume I mean you harm is ridiculous. I don't ask for your thanks, but I expect you to realize the threat Omali posed to you. Ask yourself, would I have done what I did if I meant you harm? I'm here to help us toward a shared goal. That's the entirety of it, Berun. That's all I want you to see_.\n\n\"You said you needed my body.\"\n\n_I did. I do. I need your physical form to enter this world. Otherwise, I'm little more than a shade of my former self, content to wither away as time counts down to a close. When the threat to the world became clear even through the haze of that half-life, I focused upon the one soul attuned to my own_.\n\n_You, Berun_.\n\n_I fought the inertia of death and immortality both, because there's something about you. I wanted to return, yes\u2014the world still holds its sway\u2014but if not for you I wouldn't have found the strength to do so_.\n\nHe shook his head and tried to raise his foot again. This time, Sradir relented. He climbed the hill, descended its other side, and continued. His gaze remained fixed on the mountaintops rising over each successive summit. Overhead, wyrms corkscrewed through the sky, calling to one another with nearly human voices.\n\nAs the waning sun sent tall shadows before him, he finally relented to his desire.\n\nHe stopped and tipped his head back.\n\n\"It's beautiful,\" he said.\n\n_Yes_ , Sradir answered. _It is_.\n\n\u2021\n\nAs promised, the land led him to it. A mile due south of the weapon repository, Adrash had carved a roadway into an ancient lava flow. It descended ten miles into a verdant thorn bush and cactus-studded plain, ultimately depositing him at the entrance to his destination.\n\nHe passed a hand over the finely pitted surface of one massive basalt pillar that helped form the entryway. It and its neighbor rose fifty feet over his head, the crossbar at its height extending nearly twice that length. An army could have passed through, thirty men across. A family of wyrms could have roosted upon it. He wondered what Adrash's intentions had been, creating such a massive monument. Had he been so bored with existence?\n\n_Yes_ , Sradir said. _That's it, exactly_.\n\nHe climbed a broad stairway of black stone, gazed down into the partially cloud-covered valley, and found his sense of scale confounded a second time.\n\nThough he had known a valley to be his destination, a ridge of stone had shielded it from view during his descent along the lava road. Nothing from Sradir or Shavrim had led him to expect anything other than a natural feature of the land.\n\n_Surprise_ , Sradir said. _Welcome to Shavrieem, useless monument to my brother_.\n\nBerun rocked back with a shrill creak.\n\nAn entire nation could have attended games in the coliseum Adrash had carved into the immense, almost perfectly circular depression. Danoor's Aresaa Coliseum, itself the most massive stadium on the continent, could have fit inside the terraced space alongside a hundred of its reproductions. Row upon row of stands, divided by staircases that plummeted the better part of a mile, circled the walls of the valley.\n\nEven the lowest seats possessed a spectacular view, rising nearly three hundred feet above the earthen floor. Gated entryways, each large enough to sail a galleon through, were spaced at regular intervals in the walls below them, leading Berun to believe that more construction existed beneath the valley itself\u2014immense tunnels, holding cells, and training areas.\n\nHe sensed amusement, but also a measure of annoyance, from Sradir. _Adrash never was one for half measures. Boredom drives even a god to extraordinary measures. This pleased him for a time before it too became something of a sore subject. We once shared this place as a sanctuary together, a place removed from humanity, but after the creation of Shavrieem..._\n\nIt waved Berun's arm in a vague gesture, almost as though it had for briefly forgotten itself.\n\nSilent, he wondered at the odd intimacy of the moment.\n\nOne of the low-hanging clouds shifted to show a greater stretch of the coliseum floor. He immediately focused upon the temple revealed at its center. Roughly hewn from red stone and open to the elements on all sides, it stood out from the clean, complete lines Adrash had crafted.\n\n_Shavrim's answer_ , Sradir said. _Not that Adrash ever noted its existence_.\n\n\"They were not happy with each other?\"\n\n_Frequently_.\n\nHe started down the nearest staircase, the spheres of his feet automatically conforming to the steps. More and more sure of his balance, he moved ever faster while keeping his eyes focused on the temple. Shavrim had been no more specific than to say they were to meet in the valley, but Berun felt confidant that he meant the temple.\n\nAs if in answer to his assumption, Shavrim walked out of the temple's shadow. Shirtless, newly scarred over the length and breadth of his torso. Carrying the black knife Sroma in his left hand.\n\nFrom miles away, their stares locked. Berun kept his features carefully composed.\n\n_Hello, brother_ , Sradir projected. _We return in triumph_.\n\nShavrim closed his eyes, as though weighing these words. He nodded slowly, stone-faced, then turned away and re-entered the temple.\n\nSradir made a clucking sound. When it spoke, Berun knew it was only for the two of them.\n\n_Oh, Shavrim. You always knew how to ruin a good thing_.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe dynamic between the three had changed: Berun recognized this the moment Churls and Vedas stepped from the temple's interior to greet him. Though both had thinned further in his brief time away, they appeared well rested, far from frail. Indeed, they appeared harder, knifelike, every muscular twitch more defined on their frames.\n\nShavrim followed several paces behind, breathing heavily, three long wounds raked across his chest. There were lines on his face that had not been present only days ago. His red-rimmed eyes scanned the heights of the valley as if he expected an attack.\n\nChurls ran to Berun, light-footed in a way he had never seen her, ready to leave the ground. She wore calfskin leggings and a thin, tight vest, revealing the hairline cuts on her arms and shoulders, most of which had already scarred over. Her skin tone struck him as subtly wrong, too even, without the warm redness she had always possessed after days under the sun. The freckles had faded to nothing on her shoulders, upper arms, and bare scalp. They remained on her face only as a spattering over the bridge of her nose.\n\nHe had always admired her freckles. So few humans possessed them.\n\n\"Berun,\" she said, wrapping her arms as far around him as she could. \"You're free now.\" She released him and laid her palms flat upon his chest, her eyes bright and clear. \"And you're warmer than when you left, like a fire's inside you..\"\n\n_Yes, you silly bitch_ , Sradir said coldly. _He's got me now. I'm the fire inside him_. The god stretched partway into his limbs, and\u2014for all the good it would do\u2014Berun braced himself against another assumption of his body. Sradir relaxed, however.\n\n_She's closer to the surface, Berun. Ustert. You can feel her just behind your friend's smile, can't you?_\n\nHe could, and it pained him to recognize it. He forced himself to rest his hand upon her head, fighting the revulsion Sradir made no attempt to hide.\n\n\"It's the sun here, under the glass,\" he said. \"It seems to have an unusual effect over time.\"\n\nVedas did not quicken his pace like Churls had, but he smiled warmly. Barring the severe angularity of his face and body, he appeared much the same as he always had to Berun.\n\nThat is, until the man stood within touching distance.\n\nClose up, Berun could see the fine lines raised in relief upon Vedas's suit. Repeating vortices, geometrical patterns upon patterns. They shifted subtly as Berun watched, growing and reducing, birthing and dying. Vedas could not have created such intricate work on his own. No man could have done so.\n\nBerun made sure to keep his stare from becoming obvious. He composed his features into a pleasant expression and gestured to encompass the valley.\n\n\"This is our training grounds? Is it not rather overlarge, Shavrim?\"\n\nThe horned man's smile did not reach his eyes. \"Likely. But I know of no better way to attract Adrash's attention than to return to this place.\"\n\nBerun looked from Shavrim to Churls, Churls to Vedas. \"This is the extent of your plan?\"\n\nShavrim nodded. \"You expected more, constructed man? Some elaborate plan to lift us from the earth and hurl us into the void? No.\" He stamped his foot, causing the heavy muscles of his thighs to jump. \"He comes to us. We force him to fight us on the earth we've claimed for ourselves.\"\n\nHe flipped his heavy black knife twice, and then threw it at Berun.\n\nBerun lifted his right hand to slap the weapon from the air. Upon contact, a great blast washed out the vision in his eyes and threw his body backward thirty feet. Senses scrambled, he tumbled end over end, throwing up great clods of grass and dirt. He came to rest, and though the thought of getting to his feet occurred, he could not make himself do it. All at once, he had forgotten where he was, how he had come to be on the ground.\n\nFootsteps. Berun levered himself up and stood, swaying as he sought to reorganize his thoughts.\n\nA threat. There was a threat. Footsteps.\n\nHe fell over, tried to rise, and eventually managed to sit.\n\nSomeone slapped his head, righting it. It had turned completely around on his shoulders.\n\nShavrim swam before him.\n\n\"Yes, Berun,\" he said. \"Light and sound and violence. We'll need more of that. After thousands of years, I no longer remember how _not_ to shield myself from Adrash. Thus, it's up to us to shout our challenge as loudly as we can.\" He crouched, a not unkind expression on his face. \"And you\u2014you'll need to learn to defend yourself a bit better. Death will come wielding more than knives.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nWhen his companions' breathing changed, signalling the depth of their slumber, he rose and walked a mile west from camp. He sat, cross-legged in the grass, and slowly let his spheres uncouple and spread out. The glowing blue coals of his eyes focused on the temple as his body undulated and then began forming itself into a replica of the building. It proved taxing work, for it had been some time since his form had been fluid enough to do so.\n\nSradir remained silent, undoubtedly aware of his intent.\n\nIt took numerous attempts, but finally, on the seventh, he toppled one of the pillars and allowed it to detach completely from its neighbors, achieving the separation of his being into two distinct parts.\n\nSradir gasped as the wave of pleasure crashed over them.\n\nBerun fought to hold himself apart, as two entities, sustaining the sensations. The thousand spheres of his body rang a wild harmonic tone, repeating and intensifying in waves to match his wildly stuttering senses. His eyes flared on and off in the darkness, pulsing from brief star to cold stone over and over again. He became aware of Sradir, sharing the moment, lending him the strength to draw it out longer.\n\nTime stretched from the two poles of his reality.\n\nWhen both of his and Sradir's efforts could maintain the division no longer, the sculpture he had created of himself dissolved into a pool of brass once more. The components he had separated were reabsorbed into the greater whole, and the sensations wound down.\n\nHe rested in companionable silence, vision rotated to the sky. Much like the wyrms he had seen on his way to the valley, the beauty of the Needle could not be denied.\n\nYet it took him several minutes to notice the change in it.\n\nOne of the largest of the spheres, which had for months been positioned over the constellation Indusc, had been moved further back and closer to the moon. He stared at it, dumbfounded by this change\u2014by the change, but also by his own willful ignorance. A god moved the heavens according to his own whim, and until that point he had not bothered to consider how odd a thing this was.\n\nHe had always observed men, noting the ways in which Adrash's existence altered the course of their lives.\n\nBut the very fact of Adrash? This, he had not considered.\n\nHe formed a mouth. \"Has it always been this way, Sradir? Is it this way elsewhere?\"\n\n_Elsewhere_ , Sradir said. _Where, elsewhere?_\n\nHe focused his eyes on prominent individual stars, on the wispy backbone of the sky (each miniscule speck of which, Omali had claimed, was itself a star), and finally on the bright smudges and whorls scholars claimed to be the immeasurably distant homes of other stars.\n\nEntire collections of stars, millions upon millions, each with its own collection of worlds.\n\nSradir chuckled. _What do you think death is? There's a world of the dead, as you well know, lying under and above this world. There's a way to other places, as well, but no one returns once they've left, and thus no one can say what lies beyond_.\n\n_It's a place of theory. Berun. Perhaps Adrash knows, but he's never told_.\n\n\"You didn't answer my first question. Has it always been this way?\"\n\nSradir let him feel a portion of its discomfort. Or, possibly, it no could no longer easily hide itself from him.\n\n_I wasn't born. I was created. I held the jar that housed my body before its decanting. It was a small clay container, no higher than a man's knee, no heavier than a water barrel. After my creation, my education_ \u2014he could hear the sneer in the word _\u2014began in earnest. Adrash, no more a father than Omali was to you, dictated the terms. I learned what he'd have me learn. Even after millennia, I still doubted..._\n\n_My point, Berun, is that I am... I am..._\n\n\"You don't need to finish, Sradir. I understand what you\u2014\"\n\n_I do, and you don't. You persist in believing we're quite different, but there's a reason your mind resounded with mine. We are much the same. Despite having spent so much time with my creator, having witnessed his moods over the span of many human lives, having inherited so much from him, I look at the sky now and I wonder what passes through his mind. I pretend to know, but in reality?_\n\n_I know nothing. I'm here with you, wondering. Has the world always been this way? Does each world possess a god it must overcome to achieve adulthood? There are no answers to these questions. We fight, you and I, against what we can see_.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"Drivel,\" a flinty voice spoke. \"Answers are for the taking, Sradir. You merely need to know which screws to put to which thumbs.\"\n\nBerun's eyes swiveled to the source. In the moonlight stood a tall, pale-skinned man, naked from crown to sole. Creatures crawled upon his sinuously muscled torso, and an odd darkness flowed from his back, obscuring the land behind him.\n\nNo. Berun reappraised what he saw.\n\nThis was no man. At least, not fully. Before him stood an elderman, though unlike any elderman he had previously seen. What had first appeared to be creatures crawling over him were in fact black shapes, one-dimensional images of wyrms and wolves and tentacled creatures. They shifted from form to form, chasing one another around the angular length of his body, avoiding only a hands-print deformity on his pectoral muscles and a massive scar raked across his abdomen.\n\nThe darkness at his back revealed itself to be broad wings, deep and without mark or feature.\n\nOne double-pupilled, amber eye appraised Berun. The other was a smoking pit.\n\nUnnoticed at first glance, a gray-skinned, naked woman lay crumpled at his feet. Her chest rose and fell in fits. Blood leaked from her left ear.\n\nThe elderman stretched his arms lazily, like a man recently woken.\n\n\"Get up,\" he said.\n\n_Hello, Orrus_ , Sradir responded.\n\n\u2021\n\nBerun did not question if Orrus was an enemy. He did not need to.\n\nWithout a word exchanged, they began circling one another. Berun expected Sradir to take control, but it seemed content to let him lead. He remained aware of the god within him, of course. He felt the strength of it at his fingertips, a potential violence he knew had only been hinted at with Omali. The spheres of his left forearm shifted, sprouting outward from his palm, pushing Weither into his hand.\n\nOrrus's right eye widened at the sight of the whip. Smoke poured in gouts from his left. With a muscular twitch of his shoulders, his wings snapped wide, lifting his feet briefly from the ground. The black images spun faster upon him, ripping themselves to shreds only to re-form in other shapes. He bared small, sharp teeth.\n\nBerun refused to be put on the defensive. He coiled his legs and jumped forward, closing the distance between them by half. Lengthening his right arm into a hook, he swiped at Orrus's chest, making minimal contact but still managing to spin the elderman to the side.\n\nHe ducked as the elderman's wing hissed toward his head and continued moving toward his opponent. Just as Orrus turned fully to face him, Berun's right shoulder plowed into Orrus's lower belly.\n\nHis arms wrapped around Orrus's hips, trapping the elderman's left hand in the process. Causing the spheres of his feet to flatten and broaden, he prevented himself from tumbling to the ground and arched backward, lifting the flailing elderman into the air before slamming him into the earth.\n\nA second time. A third. Orrus snarled and struggled to break free.\n\n_Watch his hand!_ Sradir shouted. _If he gets it loo\u2014_\n\nOrrus pulled his hand free as he rebounded against the ground a fourth time. More rapidly than Berun could properly register, the elderman gestured with both hands.\n\nA violet light erupted and Berun was struck, thrown forty feet into the air. He spun end over end, spraying uncoupled spheres from the gaping hole in his left shoulder, roaring in the only sensation analogous to pain he had ever known.\n\n_Hold on_ , Sradir said just before he hit ground. He felt the god enter his limbs, forcing him to deform slightly to absorb the impact. Nonetheless, more components shot from his wound.\n\nHe growled into the soil and levered himself up, spheres flowing from his chest and back to mend the hole in his shoulder.\n\nOrrus stood before him, ink-covered arms crossed.\n\n\"Should have had your puppet use the whip,\" he said. \"He's quicker than I thought. He could have had me with that first blow.\"\n\nBerun sensed Sradir's question before it was spoken, and relaxed his jaw.\n\n\"He's no puppet,\" it said. \"Can't say the same about yours. Who are you, brother?\"\n\nOrrus\u2014or the elderman Berun thought of as Orrus\u2014grinned. \" _Who are you, brother?_ What a wonderful thing it is to be asked such a question. Two days ago, I was a rather charmingly awful young mage named Pol Tanz et Som. Now, after a tangle with a rather temperamental dragon, not to mention the burning of a city, I'm still him.\" He shrugged. \"Him, and not him. I've taken the best of what I found in his mind and incorporated it.\"\n\nBerun's mouth drew into a sneer. \"You've become a talker in your old age. Oh, and a fool. We were not enemies. We need not be enemies.\"\n\n\"Much has occurred since the death of my original body. This is an understatement. Had you returned to existence before now, like Evurt or Ustert, perhaps you'd have become something more interesting than the sorry, sentimental thing I see cowering in this...\" Orrus chuckled. \"Pile of rubble. Adrash favored you above us all. To see you now, like this\u2014well, it's satisfying, is what it is. Almost as satisfying as replaying Bash's death. She, like you, had no true resolve.\"\n\nBerun's brows drew together. \"What of Bash?\"\n\nOrrus waved his hand dismissively. \"As I said. Dead, at Pol's hand. Her puppet had her way with him. Instead of taking the opportunity in two hands, Bash simply watched. She always was too seduced by pleasure. You need an appreciation of pain to truly make something of yourself.\"\n\nSradir pointed to the woman, who still lay crumpled on the ground. \"And her?\"\n\n\"A key to this place, no more.\" He shook his head, an expression Berun could not name altering his features. \"I've never had the benefit of being one of Adrash's pets, privy to all the secret words.\"\n\nSradir stared at the woman, intensely curious but unwilling to say more.\n\nInstead of speaking again, she chose surprise. She caused Berun to lunge forward, arm raised to slash downward with Weither.\n\nJust before the weapon made contact, Berun's body collided with a spell neither he nor Sradir had seen, a piece of the night distilled and propelled so slowly that all Orrus had required was a target unobservant enough to walk into it. He had found that target, and once struck by the spell Berun's body ceased to move. He struggled against it, but it was as though he had been encased in concrete. Only his eyes remained under his control.\n\n_Fuck_ , Sradir said.\n\nAt his back, a shout. He recognized the voice as Churls's immediately. He concentrated and heard the pounding of three sets of feet.\n\nOrrus took a step to the right to look past Berun. \"Too late, fools,\" he said, and reached up. Taking Weither in his right hand, he snapped his wings open to their full width. The muscles in his legs jumped as he crouched to leap.\n\n_Oh, no_ , Sradir said. _He doesn't have the strength. He's not about to try\u2014_\n\nOrrus left the ground, dragging Berun into the air with him.\n\n\u2021\n\n_I feel I've underestimated him_.\n\nIt was expressed with a trace of sad amusement, but Berun could not bring himself to see any humor in his situation. Orrus had lifted him far above the earth\u2014so far, he could not conceive of a way in which he might survive the fall. He watched the moonlit ground below, looking for a last sign of Churls, Vedas, or Shavrim, but they had risen to too great a height. He imagined they would near surface of the dome itself soon.\n\n_I'm sorry_ , Sradir said. _Again. It seems I've let you down_.\n\nHe could not bring himself to be angry with the god. It had allowed him to attack on his own.\n\nIt had been he who failed, ultimately.\n\n_No. I won't hear anything about failure. Sometimes, you're simply not strong enough. There's no shame in fighting and losing. Everyone must experience it at some point_.\n\nSradir spoke quickly, aware of the time. How little time.\n\n_I remember the moment of my death. I struck Adrash only once, merely scratching his armor. He laughed at me and then, as easily as a man swats a fly, killed me. I was no failure in death. The moments where I failed had all been in life. I didn't even recognize them as failures. That took many thousands of years to see_.\n\nHe took little comfort in this. No second life awaited him beyond the veil.\n\nSradir, now fully inhabiting him, made yet another attempt to break free of Orrus's spell, flexing her own phantom limbs in time with Berun's efforts. Nothing gave, and they both collapsed inward upon the other, their consciousnesses co-mingling. Together, he felt an immense weight lift from him.\n\n_Will you let me say something to you, Berun?_\n\nHe would, but before anything could be said Orrus cursed.\n\nA white light bloomed above them, and the elderman swerved suddenly, rocking Berun from side to side beneath him. For a moment, he imagined he would be dropped, but Orrus held firm. As Berun swung, he lifted his eyes to the light.\n\nSword in hand, she hovered above Orrus in full armor, flapping wings to match her opponent's, blindingly white to his depthless black. He could not see her face, but he assumed it held the same expression of grim determination he had often seen grace her mother's.\n\nBehind her, he saw her reflection in the dome. They had nearly reached it.\n\nBefore Orrus could move, Fyra dove downward, her blade arcing into his left wing where it joined his back.\n\nHe shrieked and dropped Berun.\n\nSradir, sensing the failing of his spell, lengthened Berun's left arm, reaching.\n\nShe wrapped his fingers around Orrus's ankle and dragged him down.\n\n\u2021\n\nWrapped in Orrus's wings, they fell. Stunned by Fyra's attack, Orrus quickly lost any advantage he might have gained.\n\nBerun bound his hands. He flowed into the form of an iron manacle and enveloped the winged god's body, crushing it until he and Sradir felt the give of his spine.\n\nIt snapped.\n\nOrrus screamed and they formed an arm with Weither gripped at its end, drawing the weapon savagely across his throat, severing skin and cartilage, setting his blood free to the wind.\n\nNext, they ripped his wings from his body and let them flutter away.\n\nOrrus's mouth gaped open. His one eye rotated backward into his skull. Still, they would see him not mortally wounded\u2014they would see him dead, never to return.\n\nSmall spheres flowed from Berun's body, swarming over Orrus's face. They entered the elderman's empty eye socket and made jelly of the interior of his skull. Neither Berun nor Sradir relished the task (he keenly sensed Sradir's regret: it and Orrus were not true family, no, but they had not hated one another in life), yet they would not be dissuaded.\n\nBlackness emerged from Orrus's nostrils and reached toward Berun's face. Understanding Sradir's intention\u2014the nature of its grisly talent\u2014he did not object when his mouth opened to drink the essence of Orrus and his puppet, Pol Tanz et Som.\n\nNeither would live on, but their memory would exist in whatever remained of Sradir after Berun's death.\n\nBerun envied them all their legacy.\n\nFinished, he and Sradir pushed Orrus's corpse away and aimed toward the earth. Berun's body became a teardrop shape, his two eyes at its leading point, watching the darkness approach.\n\nHow long could they fall?\n\n_Soon, now_ , Sradir said. _Goodbye, Berun_.\n\n\"Goodbye,\" he said. He could not hear his own voice, yet it hardly mattered. Sradir had always heard him, regardless of whether or not he spoke.\n\n\u2021\n\nA breath before impact, she appeared below him.\n\nUnarmored, smiling, arms reaching out to him for an embrace.\n\n_Not goodbye_ , she said.\n\nHe hit the floor of the world and shattered into a thousand pieces. Housed in each component sphere of his body, his consciousness was thrown upward and outward.\n\nThoughts skittering into dissolution\u2014\n\n\u2014he felt himself coming down as a shower of stones\u2014\n\n\u2014and then felt nothing more.\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nTHE 7TH TO 9TH OF THE MONTH OF FISHERS JEROUN ORBIT, THE ISLAND OF OSA\n\nAdrash drifted in a slowly decaying orbit above the surface of the moon.\n\nEvery muscle stood out in tension upon his tall, broad-shouldered frame. Twisted by grief and anger, the features of his face were made ugly even under the flawlessly smooth exterior of the divine armor. The light spilled from his eyes as his passion crested and broke, again and again. Now and then, he reached up to press his right palm flat against his chest.\n\nTo count his heartbeats, as though seeking to confirm his own existence. As though fearful of losing the one link tying him to reality.\n\nOrrus died.\n\nSradir died.\n\nHe forced himself to relive the moment of their deaths, saddened by the loss but more stunned by his ignorance. Only in their final seconds had their identities been revealed to him, had the full implication been apparent. The fact of his children's existence\u2014how could such a thing have been hidden from him for so long? How could he have heard their voices, killed their hungry avatars on so many occasions and still failed to recognize them? Pol Tanz et Som had come to him, fresh from the murder of his mentor\u2014an elderwoman who must surely have housed the soul of Bash.\n\nAdrash had stared the ascendant god in the eyes, yet had not truly seen.\n\nClearly, his mind had blunted over the course of his long life. Perhaps he had never possessed an intellect equal to his godly pretensions.\n\nHis right hand returned to his chest. He pressed fingertips against the heavy muscle of his left pectoral, testing its firmness. He prodded the ridges of his belly as a coldness settled in his gut. His fingers slipped over his genitals. He squeezed, grimacing at the thought of his impotence and only releasing his grip when the pain became too much.\n\nTurning away from the moon, he let his gaze fall frustrated upon Jeroun.\n\nJust before Vedas Tezul's party left Danoor, a void had opened. Once as easily read as words printed on a page, Vedas's mind and those of his companions had become all but impenetrable. Adrash could still observe their actions while under the open sky\u2014just as he could for all men, no matter how talented at masking themselves.\n\nHe could do this, but no more. Not any longer.\n\nThe near perfect recollection of their minds remained, however, and it pained him to realize how obvious their inhabitation should have been to him. Mere mortals did not think such thoughts, or come to know one another so thoroughly despite their insecurities and moral divisions. Regardless of the arcane magic he had assumed existed at their disposal, they could not have developed advanced martial skills so easily.\n\nMost tellingly, they could not have found themselves under the dome of Osa, holding the marvelous weapons he himself had crafted for his children.\n\nAs he watched Vedas and Churls mourn for their fallen comrade on the floor of Shavrieem, he was shocked to discover they had come to resemble Evurt and Ustert. Both were considerably thinner, hardened to familiar blades. The woman had even begun shaving her scalp.\n\nHad he really been so blind as to ignore bodies... faces?\n\nIt spoke of more than a faltering mind. It spoke of a willful disregard.\n\nAnd yet, surely, he had needed a period to recover after Pol's attack. He had expended much of his strength keeping the spheres of the Needle from spinning out of control. Was it not conceivable that exhaustion had kept him from the revelations that now struck him as plain?\n\n_No_ , he thought. _No excuses_.\n\nAnother concern nipped at him. For the first time, he found his interest aroused by the third remaining member of Vedas's party\u2014the wyrm tamer whose name had never been spoken, who confounded analysis by appearing as a blank in Adrash's mind, defying curiosity with his frank lack of distinguishing features. Individuals such as this had been known to exist. They cropped up now and then, though rarely in positions of influence.\n\nBut this one? He had ruled over a portion of Danoor. He had sought out Vedas and Churls, and thereafter held his ground during their encounters on the way to Osa. At times, he appeared to lead. What had seemed to Adrash the simple effect of an opportunistic individual, one seeking to take advantage of Vedas's fame after the tournament in Danoor, suddenly seemed noteworthy.\n\nHe focused on the broad, ugly tamer, and discovered he could see no further than the first layer of the man's swarthy, sun-reddened skin. The harder he concentrated, the more the man's mind slipped from his grasp.\n\nEven the man's appearance was an assumption: it too could not be focused upon. The second his attention was elsewhere, he fought to remember the man.\n\nAdrash's brows knit together as he poured his strength into the effort of seeing.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe tamer helped Vedas and Churls gather what spheres they could from Berun's dismembered body, but did not otherwise interact with them. When they stood around the pile they had created, he said nothing in remembrance. After several minutes, he left them to their sorrow, returning to the temple Shavrim had built in adolescent protest so many thousands of years previously.\n\nPassing near the entryway, he retrieved a dark, indistinct object he had set against one of the temple's columns. A moment later, he returned from the building's interior and sat on its front steps, running his right hand along the length of the object positioned across his knees.\n\nNo. He was not running his _hand_ along the object's length. He held two objects, one applied to the other. Ignoring the man, Adrash concentrated upon the longer object.\n\nWhen it suddenly swam into sharp relief, he nearly gasped.\n\nThe man held a blade as black as night, whetting its constantly renewing edge as gently as one stroked a lover's thigh.\n\nSroma.\n\nLess a fabricated thing than a creature in its own right, an elder-artifact outdating humankind's habitation of Jeroun, it was the one weapon Adrash had not created for his children. In the earliest days, when he alone had stood upon the surface of Jeroun, recovering from the long navigation between a home he had never known and a place he had been created to rule, it had called to him.\n\nIt had called, and so had another\u2014a four-fingered glove, whiter than snow.\n\nHe had weighed both in his hands and chosen the divine armor, thus eschewing the knife. Each would not inhabit the same space as the other. No, not even to be held. Eventually, Adrash had bequeathed the knife to Shavrim, creating a name and lying about its provenance. His first child had never known the value of the thing he held, had never known he alone had been created to wield it.\n\nAdrash returned his attention to the man, imagining his gaze as the searing tip of a poker, fresh from the fire. He slammed his focus into the shield protecting the man, willing it to fail.\n\n\u2021\n\nThe man paused in his task and looked up, expression unreadable, head cocked as if listening. He then stood and shrugged the illusion away.\n\nAdrash's heart stuttered. It quaked, painful in its intensity.\n\nThe man could be no other than Shavrim.\n\nThe seconds lengthened as Adrash realized the depth of his first child's deception. How it had been accomplished did not matter. All that mattered were the millennia that had passed.\n\nAlone. They had both been alone.\n\nNeither had needed to be alone. Together, time could have been a cure.\n\nInstead, it had only rotted the framework of Adrash's mind.\n\nThe white god ground his teeth together and turned back to the moon. A furnace was stoked between the walls of his skull, was released from his eyes as twin columns of fire. Below him, a half-mile circle of regolith turned into a boiling lake. Vapor shot upward and immediately cooled in the airless void, rebounding against him as an iron rain.\n\nWhen his rage finally exhausted itself, he closed his eyes.\n\nThe lake settled, fused into a shallow bowl. He descended and lay upon its swiftly-cooling surface.\n\n\u2021\n\nWith the full acknowledgement of his foolishness, came resolution.\n\nAll three would die. He would not particularly enjoy it, just as he had not enjoyed ending their lives nearly thirty thousand years prior, but this was immaterial. He would see their bones bleaching in the sun, and realize his work done.\n\nHe dug his fingertips into the iron floor beneath him and arched upward, attempting to ease the pressure lodged in every muscle. His nostrils twitched as the divine armor filtered the merest particles from the void, tailoring it to his mood, his unspoken needs.\n\nDeath was not his sole concern. Duties yet remained.\n\nThe smell of blood filled his head, and he opened his eyes again to take in the nearest sphere of the Needle. The seventh largest, it spun only a few hundred miles from him, looming massively in the star-shot darkness. Had it been placed before him, it would have obscured his view of Jeroun entirely.\n\nIf he neglected it any longer, it would soon begin a rapid descent into the moon.\n\nHe gestured toward it with his open left hand, drawing further from the well of power within himself, but also from the armor sheathing him in its cold embrace. The muscles of his arm flexed and shuddered with the strain.\n\nThe sphere quaked in its spin, and slowly backed away.\n\nOne, five, twenty, a hundred miles. It appeared to him as if it were waiting, impatient.\n\nHe sympathized, but it would have to wait a bit longer. He would briefly rest, and then he would kill what remained of his children. Only with that assuredly behind him would he allow himself to return to the question that had plagued him for so long:\n\nHad the world proved itself worthy, or had the spheres of the Needle waited long enough for their promised day of destruction?\n\n\u2021\n\nHe allowed himself to move at a leisurely pace\u2014the very pace at which an outbound mage such as Pol Tanz et Som had once traveled to and from Jeroun. Hurrying would afford Adrash no advantages, and moreover, by not taxing himself he took full advantage of the divine armor's unique capabilities. It warmed itself in the sun as did a freezing man before a fire, replenishing itself and stoking the flames that existed deep in the crafted core of Adrash's heart.\n\nFor perhaps the hundred-thousandth time of his existence, it struck him as odd that his body worked in such perfect concert with the armor, that together they had crafted a god. He could conceive of no way for his creators to have anticipated such a fusion.\n\nOf course, he had never known his creators. By the time he woke, alone and soulbound to the iron egg _Jeroun_ as it sailed the void, carrying the descendents of humanity, his creators were little more than shades of living men, a collection of ghosts wandering the long rust-pitted halls, muttering to themselves, standing forlorn watch over the rows upon rows of unborn men.\n\nNonetheless, their intent in his creation was clear. It could not be denied, for purpose drove him in those unimaginably early years. Slaved directly to his mind, the caravan of vessels stretched one hundred miles and occupied every bit of his attention. Its navigation, while largely intuitive, ensured his constant preoccupation: he learned to care for it as intensely as a father cared for his children.\n\nThis obsession nearly proved disastrous, however. Once deposited upon the surface of Jeroun (no, he knew nothing of the world his people had left, and so christened the new world with the first name to mind), he procrastinated on his next mission. He knew it must be done\u2014indeed, a part of him ached for it to be done\u2014but nonetheless he kept those he had transported closed within their caskets and bottles.\n\nFor a decade, he walked the face of the world he had named, longing to return to the cold spaces between worlds where he alone had been master.\n\nDespite the distance separating them across the face of Jeroun, the eggs would open as one. Once opened, they would not be closed.\n\nHis creators had not been stingy in his makeup: though in appearance and spirit a man, his body could withstand considerable damage. It would live for eons, storing its memories within the split courses of his marrow. He possessed an inborn desire to lead, an instinctive awareness of how to coerce. With violence, if necessary.\n\nAnd it would be necessary, he knew. During his journeys over the continent of Knoori (the second vessel that had followed _Jeroun_ ), he had seen the modified men outfitted for war in the various holds, arrayed like blades fresh from the forge. He had seen their beasts of war, their machines of destruction. There existed factions he had never anticipated, and they would challenge him as readily as they fought amongst themselves.\n\nHe delayed the inevitable.\n\nYes, because he was a coward.\n\nOnly when he found the armor had he roused himself to do what must be done.\n\n\u2021\n\nNow, as he moved between the moon and the world he had guided and then abandoned, thinking upon events he had not let his mind fall upon for millennia, he came to several inescapable conclusions\u2014conclusions, he could not avoid admitting, he should have reached long ago.\n\nFor all his strength, he was a coward still. The armor had been his crutch.\n\nIt should have hurt. He did not like this word, coward.\n\nYet it did not hurt. It hardly mattered, for death awaited him.\n\nHe saw this, without avoidance. Whatever decision he reached after the murder of his children, he could not allow a coward to continue living in his body.\n\nThe world would die, or it would continue living. Free. With no god to dictate its course.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe entered the atmosphere directly above Osa, slamming himself against air compressed into steel by his swift passage. His body neither flexed nor snapped in two. Flames hotter than those of the sun cocooned him but did not obscure his sight, which remained focused on his destination.\n\nOnce within breathable sky, trailing smoke, he outraced sound to the accompaniment of a massive clap that shook the earth below, flattening trees and causing rockslides.\n\nOsa lay fixed before him, a circle of jade in an aquamarine setting. It expanded in his view rapidly, taking on detail. He smiled grimly, recalling its beauty from within the dome, regretting his next action while fully committing to it.\n\nHe would not walk into the island as he once had\u2014not now, after so many eons away. He would arrive as an agent of destruction. Pitiless, without remorse.\n\nA fraction of a second before impact, he finished projecting the words.\n\n_Uperut amends. Ii wallej frect. Xio_.\n\nIt was a finely calculated move, potentially dangerous even to one such as he. The dome, he had discovered over the course of several centuries after arriving upon Jeroun, was neither a solid nor a liquid but a state between, granting it permeability and immense structural integrity\u2014tensile strength enough to withstand even a direct blow from Adrash.\n\nWhenever a passageway into it opened, however, the surrounding area became brittle.\n\nArms crossed before his face, he flew into the dimple marking where the tunnel had begun to form, slamming through the elder-forged material as though it were a thin pane of glass. A halo of crystal scattered around him as he slowed fractionally and turned in the air to view what occurred in his wake.\n\nCracks branched out from the hole he had created. They were thin and regular at first, each extending no more than a few hundred feet before stopping.\n\nFor the briefest of moments, he thought the dome would be able to repair itself.\n\nBut no. The cracks thickened, spreading, spider-webbing to the sound of thunder.\n\nIn the space of one second, the dome went from glass clear to opaque with innumerable fractures.\n\nHalfway through the following second, the entire structure liquified and fell.\n\nHe turned back to earth and outraced the crystal rain, coming to a stop and righting himself a mere foot above Shavrieem's killing floor. Relaxed, arms crossed over his chest, feet slightly pointed toward the ground, eyes dimmed to a low radiance. He remained in this position a moment, utterly still, staring at the temple Shavrim had built.\n\nHe gestured, toppling it over.\n\nAt his back, a familiar soul spoke his name, and it began to rain.\n\n\u2021\n\n\"Shavrim,\" he said, speaking aloud. His own voice was much as he remembered it. He did not turn away from the ruined temple.\n\n\"Do me the favor of showing your face before we begin,\" Shavrim said\n\nAdrash smiled within the divine armor, turned, and obliged his first child. The enchanted material opened as a pin-sized hole at his scalp and grew, flowing over his features like oil over ice. He turned his black-skinned face toward the sky and let the rain\u2014already diminishing to a light misting\u2014enter his mouth. He tasted Osa, his smile growing wider.\n\nHe breathed. The air smelled, felt on his his skin, much as he remembered it.\n\n\"Have I changed?\" he asked, lowering his gaze to lock eyes with Shavrim. \"It has been a good while, after all.\"\n\n\"No,\" Shavrim said quietly, stare fixed on his creator. \"Some things never change.\"\n\nAdrash bowed his head and set his feet upon the earth. \"As with you, though it looks as if you've recently taken some beatings. It's a consolation, is it not? There are few constants in life.\"\n\nShavrim shrugged his heavy shoulders, expression blank.\n\nTo either side of him stood Vedas and Churls. Adrash looked from one to the other, left eyebrow raised. At once, he determined that Evurt and Ustert had not assumed control, merely influence. Though both humans bore the signs of their inhabitation, from this distance neither could be confused for truly ascendant gods. They stood stiffly, shoulders thrown back, chins up, Ruin and Rust clenched tightly in firm fists, yet to Adrash their fear was obvious. He could see it, smell it.\n\nRegardless, they did not flinch from his gaze.\n\nIn another era, discovering two individuals able to defy the will of his creations would have overjoyed him. Simply to relieve the tedium of observing the cycle of human existence, he would have studied them, turned them to his advantage or set them up against his own interests.\n\nNow, it was an insult. He had come to ground to greet his children before their deaths. To look at them through clouded glass, through...\n\n\"You're beautiful,\" he told Churls. It was no lie. Few, if any, would call her pretty, but there was a coarse allure to her. He nodded to Vedas, amused to note something of his own appearance in the man. \"You, as well. Welcome, both of you.\"\n\n\"Your welcome's a bit late,\" Churls said. \"We've been here a while.\"\n\nAdrash's smile did not diminish. \"I welcome guests, even when they trespass.\"\n\nVedas lifted his horned hood over his scalp. The elder-cloth flowed to cover his face. His suit was a lovely thing, Adrash noted, filigreed with slowly-altering designs the man could not have produced on his own: surely, an external sign of Evurt exerting what control he was able.\n\n\"I think you've confused which of us is trespassing,\" the man said.\n\nAdrash laughed.\n\nShavrim made a cutting motion with his open left hand. \"Enough. I wanted to see your face one last time, and I have. Cover it and let us begin.\"\n\n\"No,\" Adrash answered. \"I want to feel my naked fingers around your throat, Shavrim.\"\n\nHoles opened in the divine armor, at all twenty fingertips and toe-tips, retreating up his forearms and calves, thighs and biceps. It slipped to uncover his genitals, his sinuous torso. Before long, the only white that remained was an egg shape upon his chest.\n\nHe was more beautiful than any man had ever been. His features were generous, almost prototypically masculine. No hair marred his sculpted perfection\u2014no scar, no blemish. He appeared as though he had risen whole from a lake of cooling obsidian.\n\nHe stretched languidly, feeling their eyes upon him, and then planted his feet.\n\n\"Now. First one, then the other. Or all together. It makes no difference.\"\n\n\u2021\n\nThey surrounded him. He faced Shavrim, but his awareness extended well beyond himself\u2014far enough, in truth, to render sight unnecessary. Even without his armor actively covering his body, the three presented little actual threat. During the earliest years of mankind's history on Jeroun, even with his own enhanced makeup, he had been appallingly vulnerable when unarmored, but experience had only made his bond with the artifact stronger, more efficacious.\n\nA small part of him lamented this fact.\n\nVedas broke line first, coming in low with Rust in his right hand. Assisted by Evurt, he covered the twenty feet separating them quickly. His thrust, while graceful enough to catch most opponents unawares, was nonetheless pitifully inadequate against an opponent such as Adrash. He watched it coming in, no more rapid to his perceptions than dripping sap.\n\nHe let Vedas in close, then spun and slapped the blade away. He softened his blow to the man's temple, but it still sent him twenty feet in the air to land it a heap near his lover's feet.\n\nShe helped him up.\n\nAdrash returned his attention to Shavrim. \"This is what you've been training them to do, boy? Hurling themselves against a wall might have serviced your cause equally well.\"\n\nTight-lipped, Shavrim raised Sroma and advanced. Adrash strode forward to meet him, arching backward to avoid Shavrim's first downward strike at the last possible moment, savoring the cool wind of it on his chest and belly. Gooseflesh rose on his forearms and inner thighs, a nearly erotic sensation.\n\nShavrim shuffled his right foot forward to pivot before Adrash and levered his blade upward, aiming its edge between the god's legs. Adrash bent at the waist, head-butting Shavrim while thrusting his arms forward to catch the blade between his palms.\n\nThe enchanted metal rang in his hands. As expected, loathing radiated from the weapon at his touch, suffusing his body with its cold fury.\n\nYet it was not quite what he had anticipated. The force of Sroma's hatred, so much greater than he recalled, nearly brought a gasp to his lips. It seemed it had found more reason, during its long entombment, to rage. Perhaps the armor had changed, as well, so gradually that he had failed to notice. The thought trouble him mildly.\n\nHis grip faltered and Shavrim pulled Sroma free. Adrash turned in time to slap the blade to the side as Shavrim tried to disembowel him, and stepped into his opponent's guard, laying his left palm flat upon the Shavrim's chest.\n\nHe straightened his arm, snapping Shavrim's sternum, sending him flying backward.\n\nAdrash ducked. Churls's sword, aimed to take his head from his shoulders, passed less than an inch from his scalp. Before her swing had completed its flat arc, his hand shot up and gripped the blade. It sliced into his palm to the bone, yet he hardly noticed the pain (indeed, before he registered it, his body had begun to heal, pushing the blade out from his flesh) and wrenched the sword forward.\n\nThe woman held on, allowing herself to be hurled over his shoulder. He threw her sword to the side.\n\nShe rolled cleanly and popped to her feet, fists up. He was there before she stood, however, standing at her back. He wrapped his right arm around her neck and lifted her from her feet. Burying his nose in the space behind her ear, he breathed in the aroma of her stale, ordinary human sweat. His cock moved against her bare leg, but it was only a stirring.\n\nVedas ran at him. Adrash backhanded him to the ground with his remaining hand, almost as an afterthought. The man's right arm lay across his chest at an odd angle. He did not rise.\n\nHe frowned, spoke directly into Churls's ear. \"You'll be the first to die. Goodbye, Churls. Goodbye, Ustert, for what you've been worth.\"\n\nHe tightened his grip. Her fingertips dug into his forearm. Her heels slammed into his thighs. He leaned his head forward as though he would kiss her cheek, peering at her eyes as her life fled, hoping to see something more\u2014a sign that either she or Ustert had more fight in them.\n\nShe pursed her lips and tried to spit, but could not summon the breath to do so. Drool ran down her chin, onto his arm.\n\n\"This is all too fast,\" he whispered. \"I'd hoped...\"\n\nHer body stiffened, and he grunted in surprise.\n\nHer nails had bitten into the flesh of his forearm, drawing blood. He watched in shock as the cartilage of her windpipe pushed against his flesh and forced his wrist out. She sucked air into her lungs, arching against him. White light poured from her eyes and her grip intensified convulsively, the tips of her fingers slipping like sharp teeth between the corded muscles of his forearm, nails scraping over bone.\n\nPain. Shocking in its novelty. Fury in its wake.\n\nHe roared and flung her from him. She flew, carrying a pound of his bloody flesh in her hands.\n\nCradling his arm, he witnessed with wide eyes as her body failed to impact the earth: it came to rest like a feather stopped in midair, horizontally, four feet above the ground. She sat up and swung her legs to the side, as if she were getting out of bed. When she stood, her feet did not quite touch the ground. Her eyes lost some of their radiance yet still glowed, as if a light had been struck in her skull.\n\nHe assumed, momentarily, that Ustert had finally achieved greater influence over the woman, but the assumption quickly proved false. No child of his had ever possessed such a bearing. Or such a light. He fought the ridiculous temptation to shield his eyes from it.\n\nHe glanced at his mangled forearm, horrified to find it had not yet begun to heal. A substance, blacker than the night, blacker than the void itself, mixed with his own blood deep in the wound.\n\nAs he watched, it disappeared. Into his body.\n\nA memory tugged at him upon seeing it.\n\nPol. During their battle, the elderman had hit him with a spell composed of a similar substance.\n\nWith a thought, the armor flowed from Adrash's chest to cover the injury.\n\n\"Who are you?\" he asked. He gestured to her with his unarmored hand as though he were choking her. To his puzzlement, no strength came to his aid. Though he had so recently moved the spheres within the void, he could not lift her from where she stood.\n\n\"Answer me,\" he said through gritted teeth.\n\nThe woman only spread her arms.\n\nLights bloomed to either side of her, and rapidly coalesced into forms. Into figures, shades of white upon white. An old Knosi woman, unbowed by her age, a defiant cast to her jaw. A second Knosi woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, alluring, as hard as a knot of oak. After a shamefully long pause, Adrash recognized her. She had died, just before Vedas and his companions arrival in Marept.\n\nBoth women stood weaponless, with arms crossed, no trace of nervousness about them.\n\nThe younger one spat. The fluid fluoresced into nothingness before hitting the ground.\n\n\"I told you to answer me,\" Adrash said. \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"Me, plus a couple trespassers,\" Churls said with the faint trace of a smile. \"You'll never know their names. But these two? Say hello to Jojore Um and Laures Kasoert.\" She looked at one, then the other. \"Go. Get them up.\"\n\nQuicker than their steps would suggest, the ghostly women moved to Shavrim and Vedas's sides. They reached down to both, _into_ both, their arms cut off at the wrists in each man's chest, and then lay down, disappearing completely into the men's bodies.\n\nShavrim and Vedas shuddered. Screams tore from their throats as they bridged up from the grass. Their eyes opened as spotlights. Adrash watched, fascinated despite the clear threat, as they regained their feet. Shavrim winced as his sternum snapped audibly back into shape. Vedas gasped as his arm straightened with a resounding pop.\n\nChurls cracked her knuckles and grinned.\n\n\u2021\n\nOne came after the other, closing him in, reigning blows upon him at speed, as quickly as he could deflect them. He returned the violence, landing hits through their lesser defenses while admitting the tide had taken an inconceivable yet undeniable turn.\n\nHow such a thing could be done\u2014he did not bother asking. He did not allow himself the room to wonder who could have such power. There would be time to determine what had occurred once the threat had been neutralized.\n\nWith a thought, the divine armor covered him completely. He batted his opponents' hands and feet away, and with three open-palmed strikes pushed them back. Turning in a circle as they stumbled, he allowed the blast furnace within him to crack its seals and overflow. From his eyes and mouth it came: a fountain of flame, engulfing his opponents.\n\nNo. Not engulfing. Flowing around. The shields they had formed flickered against his fiery onslaught, limning their bodies in shifting, actinic blue as their spells counteracted his attack. Regardless, their defense was not entirely effective. The heat demonstrably wore at Vedas and Shavrim, causing them to fall back under the blaze.\n\nChurls, however, kept her smile in place and lunged forward, landing a viciously quick punch to Adrash's gut. He grunted, and the fire from within faltered. She blocked his clumsily upthrust knee with her left forearm and jabbed stiffened fingers into his throat.\n\nThe fire died as he choked for breath.\n\nShe followed with a flurry of punches to his jaw and cheeks. Shavrim and Vedas returned, battering him from side to side. He slipped on the wet grass, falling beneath their fists and heels. The white light of their eyes bathed him.\n\nPain, so odd that it quickly became an abstraction, a wave, a feeling to lose oneself within, became his reality.\n\nHis children pummeled him into the ground. Into a grave.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe did not make the decision\u2014that is, he did not consciously resolve to move.\n\nYet move he did. He shifted from one place to another, a near-instantaneous maneuver he had never used anywhere but within the void, where no atmosphere impeded his progress. (Moving so quickly, even against something as insubstantial as air, had never seemed an advisable course of action.)\n\nHe stood for only a moment, in the position his unspoken desire had deposited him, before his legs collapsed and he crumpled upon the ground.\n\nFurther agony.\n\nIt felt as though a massive hand had slapped him from the sky, pulping every bone in the right side of his body. He groaned into the night, and then screamed when he rolled onto his back. Broken bone-ends ground together, clicking in his hip, his shoulder. Breathing in and out produced pain so sharp that his vision blurred.\n\nA figure obscured a portion of stars above him, staring down with radiant eyes. Churls. A second figure came up beside her, placed his hand in hers.\n\nThey were a good pair, he noted, equally broken, beautiful in the same frail, human way, neither bending to what fate appeared to have in store.\n\nThey had retrieved their weapons. Churls put the edge of Rust to his throat.\n\nVedas caused the elder-cloth to unmask his features. He flipped back the hood of his suit.\n\n\"It all seems to be happening so quickly now, doesn't it?\" the man said.\n\nAdrash did not answer. It did indeed seem that way. A life could be so long, yet it still failed to teach one about death. That moment, he had always known, would not be meditative. Time would not wait, but hasten the end. It would come too fast, rendering all the periods of one's life into a fleeting memory, no more substantial than any other life.\n\nHe had lied to himself. He would have let a coward continue to live in his body, as long as it could. He would not have chosen death.\n\nFor the world, yes, but not for himself.\n\nVedas crouched at his side. \"Not the wisest move. You've crippled yourself, and for what? A hundred yards? You've gotten nowhere, for no reason. Should have let us kill you. Now, you're going to die here, in this undignified position, throat slit like a hog.\" He frowned. \"For all that you've done to shape the world, no one is here to remember you, to mourn for you.\"\n\nAdrash ignored these words. They were meant to offend, and he could be offended no more. He willed the divine armor to retreat from his head, and spoke through a broken jaw.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"How, what?\" Vedas asked. \"How are you beaten?\" Grim-faced, he tapped the flat of his sword against Adrash's ribs, sending twinges through the god's torso. \"Through superior forces. With the help of others who wouldn't see the world made a grave.\"\n\n\"That's not...\" He paused, embarrassed by the slurring of his words, the trail of drool that ran from his mouth. \"That's not what I meant. These others... You're not Evurt. You've pushed my child out completely.\"\n\n\"Evicted, without remorse,\" Churls said. She shrugged. \"We couldn't have done it on our own. As Vedas said, we had help. It almost seems like there's a lesson in that.\"\n\nVedas gazed up at her with an unreadable expression.\n\n\"Let him see the victors in this battle,\" he said.\n\nShe nodded, and the light fled from her eyes as two radiant, phantom figures stepped from within her. One did not have to stoop as she emerged, stepping to the side. The other very much did, unfolding his broad form from within her and stretching to his full height.\n\nThe girl bore an unmistakable resemblance to her mother.\n\nThe constructed man\u2014the constructed man resembled no one but himself.\n\n\u2021\n\nHe admitted to himself: he was afraid to die. If there was a life beyond death...\n\n\"What are you?\" he asked.\n\nThe girl smirked. \"I'm a dead girl.\" She pointed to Berun. \"He's a dead person.\"\n\nAdrash tried to shake his head, and gasped. The relief he had been counting on, the immediate easing of pain his unique physiology had always provided, appeared never to come. The body he had known as his own, a constant over the long course of millennia, was now infected. His awareness of the divine armor dimmed, too, until the artifact no longer felt a part of him. It was as if he had been swaddled in wet sheets, encased in plaster.\n\n\"That's no answer,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm fairly sure it is,\" the girl countered.\n\nShavrim appeared above him and crouched opposite Vedas. He gripped Sroma in his right hand, tapping its flat against his left palm. His expression held a measure of regret.\n\nAdrash's first child had never been as callous as his siblings. He had tried. He had rebelled. But he never was the leader he desired to be. He had been an odd choice to lead a revolt against his maker. Love, the desire to be a family in more than just words, clouded his vision.\n\n\"Some mysteries go unsolved,\" Shavrim said. \"Even you, observing from on high, privy to so many secrets, don't get everything you want.\"\n\nAdrash moved his uninjured arm carefully, arousing as little new hurt as possible. He gestured to the sky, the scattered components of the Needle.\n\n\"What will you do with this? Left alone\u2014\"\n\n\"They'll fall,\" the girl said. \"We know. We're not fools.\"\n\nAdrash allowed himself a chuckle. It turned into a cough, which speckled the white of his armor with red. The cough turned into a scream as something shifted within his chest cavity, pressing down upon his heart. The organ pumped against the intrusion. With each rhythmic shudder, agony erupted, coursed throughout his body.\n\nThe girl looked to her mother. Churls nodded.\n\nThe torment stopped when the girl reached into his chest. Warmth suffused him, blissfully.\n\nLeaning in close to his face, the girl whispered. \"I know what you think is so funny. How will we, weak little things, get up there? Even if we did, what would we do?\" She smiled. \"You have no idea what I'm now capable of. I've stolen skills from your children, and from one hateful elderman. They knew things\u2014things you never suspected they knew\u2014some things _they_ didn't know they knew.\"\n\nHer smile widened even further. The light pulsed from within her.\n\n\"I've learned better than you what it means to be a god.\"\n\nShe stood, removing her hands from his chest. He gritted his teeth against the pain that abruptly resumed, breathing shallowly against the scraping of bone in his right lung. The world dimmed perceptibly, vibrating to the rhythm of his spasming muscles.\n\n\"Do it,\" Berun said, nodding to Shavrim.\n\nShavrim rose, Sroma in hand. He regarded the knife for several seconds, turned it over to grip its blade, and passed it to Vedas.\n\n\"I can't,\" Shavrim said. \"Or I won't. It makes no difference.\"\n\nVedas stared at the weapon. \"You lived for thousands upon thousands\u2014\"\n\n\"No,\" Shavrim said. He shuddered. His eyes closed, and when he spoke it was with an altogether different inflection\u2014an accent Adrash recalled intimately.\n\nSpeaking modern words, Shavrim nonetheless spoke in the manner of the ancients.\n\n\"It will be you,\" he said. \"It will be now.\" He stretched his arm toward the Black Suit.\n\nThough doing so caused new hurts to bloom, Adrash held his breath. No human had ever touched Sroma. He doubted anyone gathered suspected what it meant to wield it. Adrash himself did not know what end the elders had sought in crafting the knife.\n\nVedas did not move. He paused.\n\nIn that pause, another stole his fate.\n\n\u2021\n\nShe dropped her own sword and stood, taking the knife from Shavrim. She weighed it in her hands.\n\n\"Balance,\" she murmured. \"It has a nice balance.\"\n\nHer knees bent. The blade flipped vertical in her calloused grip.\n\nFalling upon Adrash, Churls plunged the blade into his chest.\nEPILOGUE\n\nTHE 2ND OF NIGHTTIDG WATCH SENNEN, BOWL OF HEAVEN, NATION OF ZAROLIES\n\nThey labored on a vast concave plain, under the pale rose moon and her five smaller children. Side by side, the four of them: she, her mate, and the two men who had become like brothers to her. They pulled sweetroot, depositing their vegetables in the long furrows that ran poleward to poleward for nearly forty leagues. It was repetitive, backbreaking work, but they were content.\n\n_Particularly_ content, for they were tipsy. The sweetroot in the far up-poleward rows had fermented over the course of the immensely long night, and they sampled it liberally. As per usual, they did not talk in their work, yet still they managed to communicate, stepping jokingly upon one another's toes, jostling one another with their hips as they moved down the line.\n\nSeasoned by three days and nights on the plain, the two men did not look up from their work. The black-skinned man no longer stared fixedly at the moons. The lighter-skinned man did not steal glances at the black-skinned man.\n\nThey were focused on their task\u2014yes, even drunk, or even when a gulling croaked and lifted from the ground only a few feet away from them, re-depositing its long, land-awkward reptilian body a bit further away. The first night, both had been fascinated by the creatures. She understood, of course: in their southern climes, people did not train animals to fertilize the sweetroot fields during the night. They woke to shit on their own soil.\n\nShe smiled, thinking of the joke she had told about southerners. It amused her to see how a world modified its inhabitants, to make light of the variations between people. Some would foment hate over such things, but having known a thousand types of person, not all of them human, guaranteed she could not summon an ounce of indignation over their divisions.\n\nThis did not mean she loved mortals easily, however. Time had made love for anyone but her mate and the two whose arrival she always anticipated difficult. She no longer sympathized with their limited awareness. She could be brutal, unfeeling, and so left the easy tenderness to her mate, who had retained through his lifetimes a sense of commitment to charitable work.\n\nShe alone bore the burden of remembering. Though her mate would quickly locate her in whatever place they found themselves, he needed to be reminded of who he had been. It came as a great relief to him when she told him. The story fit. He had been a hero, after all.\n\nBut the two men?\n\nThey came to her and her mate in peace, but also in need, knowing only two things\u2014two things they had struggled to put to words their entire lives. They had lived before. She had been there when they died.\n\nBeyond this, they held their suspicions.\n\nThey had not been good men, had they? For all their trying, they were missing something \u2013 had always missed something.\n\nCould she help them find it?\n\n\u2021\n\nThey became hungry at the same moment, and sat in the dirt and grass. From their packs came roasted corn, honey-cured boar, and cakes formed of the ever-present sweetroot. Somehow, the food became more delicious with each passing meal. Now that their gathering was complete.\n\n(Of course, drunkenness might have had something to do with it, as well.)\n\nThey ate quickly, each of them grinning through their packed mouths, each eager to have the story at its end. Picking up where she had left off at the end of the previous meal, she nodded to the lighter skinned of the two men and finished the tale in two sentences, without fanfare.\n\n\"And so I killed you, because you asked me. You wanted to come with us.\"\n\nHe nodded, rough features settling into contentment. He had spoken only a handful of words since arriving, and never asked a question. Of the two, he never required further clarification.\n\nHis companion, on the other hand...\n\n\"Is it still there?\" he had asked the previous night, head tipped back to stare at the moons. \"Is the Needle yet in place?\"\n\n\"What of the elders?\" he had asked. \"Surely, they tried again.\"\n\n\"Why would you save me?\" he had asked. \"I deserved no compassion.\"\n\nNow, he said, \"But your mother\u2014you loved her enough to do what none of the dead had done before you. What became of her? What of Vedas, and all the others?\"\n\nShe answered these questions the same way she had answered the others.\n\n\"Not everything has an answer.\"\n\nHe shook his head, smiling through his frustration. \"You're not curious? What if there's a way to know, an arcane science or magic to determine...\" He gestured broadly, to encompass the world. \"There are only so many places for a soul to go. You might see her again!\"\n\nShe cut a sliver of fermented sweetroot free and placed it in her mouth, relishing the tart fizz of its juice. A second, third, and fourth slices went to her companions. She sensed each person's mood as her own. Her mate, satisfied after a long period of work. The lighter-skinned man, appeased to know what he now knew.\n\nThe black-skinned man, frustrated but unable to rouse the rage that defined every life he lived.\n\nHer hand, sticky with fermented sweetroot, pressed against his warm cheek. She called him by his old name, and he shuddered slightly at the sound of it.\n\n\"I'm going to tell you what your friend\u2014\" she nodded to the second man \"\u2014told you, just before your first death. He said, _Some mysteries go unsolved_. This doesn't mean there's no truth to be found. Courageous acts aren't erased simply because you don't know what their ultimate effect was. Most importantly, perhaps, the existence of a mystery negates no love anyone has ever felt.\"\n\n\"But don't you want to know?\" he asked. \"Don't you want to see her again?\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" she responded. \"Eventually. But for now, I think I chose my fellow travelers wisely. We can be a family, even if just for this moment. A hundred, a thousand years hence, I bet we'll be sharing the same moment, or one just like it. This is enough.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" the lighter-skinned man said. \"Is it enough?\" His hand moved toward the black-skinned man's knee, as of its own accord, but stopped short of contact. He drew it back to his own lap.\n\nShe willed him to move it again, crossing the border between the two.\n\nShe willed them to be a family, if only for now.\nA GLOSSARY OF TERMS\n\nAcademy of Applied Magics\u2014The Kingdom of Stol's most well-respected academy for the study of magic, and also the only known center for the study of outbound magics.\n\nAdrash\u2014The god of Jeroun, wearer of the divine armor. Thirty thousand years ago, beyond the memory of man, he cracked mankind from iron eggs and helped them populate Jeroun. He is rumored by some to have once been a man. The divine armor\u2014an artifact of unknown origin, superficially similar in some ways to elder skin/elder-cloth artifacts\u2014affords him powers beyond any man or elderman, to the point that he can survive in the void and create the planetoid-sized spheres of the Needle from the raw substance of the moon. He is rumored by some to have once been a man able to father children, demigods whose roles have long since been forgotten or altered into sectarian myths.\n\nAdrashi\u2014One who believes in Adrash's benevolence and his intention to redeem the people of Jeroun. In general, Adrashi are more organized than Anadrashi. In Nos Ulom and the Kingdom of Stol, Adrashism is the state religion.\n\nAlchemical (Solution)\u2014A broad term for all solutions composed of materials harvested from elder corpses. Alchemical solutions are the base for every spell. Alchemical ink is a particularly regulated\u2014and highly expensive\u2014form, as it is quite dangerous to the uninitiated mage.\n\nAnadrashi\u2014One who believes in Adrash's malevolence and his intention to destroy Jeroun. Anadrashi also believe in mankind's fitness to rule Jeroun on its own. In general, Anadrashi are less organized than Adrashi. In Toma, Anadrashism is the state religion.\n\nBaleshuuk\u2014The highly secretive corpse miners of Nos Ulom. A dwarfish race of men, Baleshuuk have for thousands of years used their magics to extract elder corpses from the ground. Primarily stationed in Knos Min and Stol, where the largest mines exist, their existence even in these places is largely unknown to the general populace.\n\nBash Ateff\u2014The second demigod created by Adrash, and the wielder of the razored circle Jhy. She is worshipped by a very small minority in Dareth Hlum, Casta, Stol, and Knos Min. Bashest sects worship her as the mother of Adrash, and believe that she will ultimately convince Adrash not to destroy Jeroun.\n\nBlack Suits\u2014A martial order of Anadrashi found in all nations of Knoori except Nos Ulom. Marked by their black elder-cloth suits and the distinctive horns they cause to form on the hoods of these suits, their primary goal as an institution is to fight White Suits and win converts to the Anadrashi faith. By doing so, Black Suits believe they strike a blow against Adrash, keeping him from attacking Jeroun. Black Suits orders are relatively uncommon and secretive outside Dareth Hlum and Knos Min.\n\nBonedust / \"Dust\"\u2014Pulverized elder bone used for various purposes, including currency. Rubbed on almost any surface, it acts as a protective, shielding the material from damage as well as extremes of temperature. It is also a base material for many alchemical solutions. When ingested, it hydrates the body. In many areas, bonedust is contaminated\u2014sometimes purposefully cut\u2014with other substances. Like every other elder artifact, bonedust is subject to periodic inflation due to supply issues.\n\nCasta\u2014Newest of Knoori's nations, a democracy having no official state religion. The capitol of Onsa, located on the northern coast, is its second largest city after Denn. Unless locally enacted, in Casta there are no laws prohibiting gambling, prostitution, or drug usage, but there are strict laws prohibiting sectarian violence. Castans of the north are generally light skinned, often freckled, while those of the interior and south are generally darker, shading into slate colors in the badlands. Geographically, Casta is split between the fertile rolling hills of the north and the semi-desert and desert badlands of the south.\n\nThe Cataclysm\u2014The decade-long winter caused by Adrash sending the two smallest spheres of the Needle into the ocean to the east and west of Knoori approximately one thousand years ago.\n\nConstruct\u2014A magically created intelligence, housed in a variety of different body types. The body and mind are typically composed of bonedust, metal, and a collection of more esoteric materials, the exact \"formula\" of which is the construct-maker's closely guarded secret. Casta and Toma are the sole nations that do not regulate the creation of constructs. They are most common in Knos Min.\n\nDalan Fele\u2014Dareth Hlum's five-hundred-mile-long defensive wall, which forms the nation's western border with Casta. Seventeen gates allow access to and from the interior of Dareth Hlum.\n\nDanoor\u2014The oldest inhabited city on Jeroun, and the third largest by population in Knos Min. It is situated on the plains just east of the Usveet Mesa, and has for hundreds of generations hosted the Tournament of Danoor.\n\nDareth Hlum\u2014One of Knoori's nations, a democracy having no official state religion. The capitol of Golna, located on the eastern coast, is its largest city. Generally, Dareth Hlum allows public, organized fights between Adrashi and Anadrashi sects as long as no onlookers are harmed. Citizens vary widely in appearance, but skin hues are generally darker than the people of northern Casta, Nos Ulom, or Stol. The most geographically diverse region of Knoori, the various mountain chains that cross the nation contribute to many different types of climate and terrain.\n\nElders\u2014The extinct race that preceded man's birth on Jeroun, whose artifacts and landworks are of a scale beyond the means of mankind's magic to reproduce. Little is known of their culture, but many uses have been found for their buried corpses. Primarily, they are used to create alchemical substances. Their eggs and sperm\u2014next to skin the most prized of all elder substances\u2014can be used to inseminate any living animal and produce a hybrid creature. Extrapolating from the nature of hybrids and manufactured elder artifacts, scholars note that elders must have been extremely long-lived and hardy, as well as photosynthetic. Due to their continual harvesting for thousands of years and the increasing depth which miners are forced to go to acquire them, elder corpses are ever more expensive. Some fear the supply will soon run out.\n\nElder-cloth\u2014Any material containing thread made from the skin of an elder. Far stronger than normal fabrics, over time elder-cloth binds itself to the wearer, assisting in limited biological functions. If close-fitting and of a high grade, elder-cloth makes the wearer stronger, faster, and less subject to physical harm. Like all elder artifacts, cloth of this kind must be exposed to sunlight often in order to continue functioning. Elder-cloth can be dyed any color.\n\nElder Skin\u2014Skin harvested from elder corpses. The second most prized and thus expensive of all elder materials, elder skin is used almost exclusively for the production of clothing, being used as thread to make elder-cloth and as a leather item itself. When worn as leather, it grants its wearer increased strength, speed, and protection from injury. Though not as malleable in nature as elder-cloth, leather of this kind forms a bond with its wearer to such a degree that it can be commanded to move remotely. Because of the damage it causes to the brain, ingestion of elder skin is illegal throughout Knoori.\n\nElderman / Elderwoman\u2014A hybrid of man and elder. Exhibiting great intelligence, physical stamina, and speed, without age-nullifying spells their average lifespan is somewhat less than forty years. On average, their magical talent far outstrips that of humans.\n\nEvurt Youl\u2014The fifth demigod created by Adrash, twin to Ustert Youl and the wielder of the short sword Rust. He is no longer worshipped on Jeroun, but among the Usterti he exists as a small figure in her mythology\u2014a forgotten or deceased twin.\n\nHasde Fall\u2014The wooded hills west of Ynon in Knos Min. Rumors say that the Knosi government possesses magical facilities and training grounds underneath the earth in these hills.\n\nHigh Pontiff of Dolin\u2014A man or woman elected by his or her peers to head the Orthodox Church of Nos Ulom. In many ways the most powerful of Knoori's religious heads, his or her position is neither hereditary nor guaranteed for any length of time; he or she may be elected out of office at any moment. Due to the nature of conservative Adrashism and its role as the official state religion, the Pontiff exerts a great deal of secular control in Nos Ulom.\n\nHybrid\u2014The product of an insemination of elder sperm or egg and another animal's sperm or egg through artificial means. The resulting creature generally exhibits greater intelligence and physical stamina than its non-elder parent, but also diminished lifespan and deformities. A large percentage are stillborn.\n\nIswee\u2014Home of the hibernating elders, located on the other side of Jeroun. Hypothesized about by the outbound mages of Stol who have seen the constant cloud cover, its existence is unknown to others.\n\nJeroun\u2014The home of man and elder, a highly habitable planet with one moon.\n\nKnoori\u2014The largest continent of Jeroun and the sole home of man, composed of the nations of Dareth Hlum, Casta, Nos Ulom, the Kingdom of Stol, the Kingdom of Toma, and the Republic of Knos Ulom. Though several large islands lay off of its coast, none are currently inhabited.\n\nKnos Min\u2014Knoori's oldest nation, a republic having no official state religion. The capitol of Grass Min, located on the northern coast, is the third largest city next to Levas. A haven for intellectuals and expatriate professionals, Knos Min is the most magically advanced nation of Knoori, possessing roughly half the continent's elder corpse reserves. Long rumored to have a corps of outbound mages and other martial mages, the strength of the nation's military is rivaled only by the Kingdom of Stol's. Knosi are only marginally less uniform in appearance than the Ulomi, displaying dark brown skin tones and wiry black hair. Generally flat and arid, the nation nonetheless possesses several great mesa ranges, atop which the ground is quite fertile. Old-growth forests grow in the southeastern lake region.\n\nLake Ten\u2014Knoori's largest lake, from whose fresh waters Knos Min, Toma, Stol, and Nos Ulom take a great deal of their sustenance. Officially, its waters are not the property of any one nation. Its shorelines are, however. Its sources are the Thril Rivers, which begin in the Aspa Mountains in Nos Ulom. Its sole outlet is the Unnamed River of Toma.\n\nLocborder Wall\u2014A defensive wall that extends three hundred and fifty miles along the western shore of Lake Ten, from the foothills of the Aspa Mountains in Nos Ulom to the screwcrab warrens of Toma. Its length defines the greatest border along Lake Ten that Knos Min ever achieved. The vast majority of its length still belongs to Knos Min.\n\nLore\u2014The combined skills, practices, and traditions of a particular mage or mage group.\n\nMage\u2014A human or elderman whose education grants them a great deal of knowledge about spell creation and casting. Mages are both self-taught and formally trained, though certain nations and regions discourage the independent practice of magic. The most specialized of all mages\u2014the outbound mages\u2014can perform feats of almost incalculable power, lifting themselves from the surface of Jeroun and surviving in the void of space.\n\nMagics\u2014The creation and casting of spells. The word is nearly synonymous with Lore.\n\nMedicines\u2014The branch of magics that deals with the physical form of the body. Often considered the least demanding of all magics due to the great efficacy of elder alchemicals on the body, medicines is one of the most common and necessary of all magical disciplines.\n\nThe Needle\u2014Twenty-seven iron spheres Adrash created from the material of the moon, held in orbit as a visible threat to the people on Jeroun. Though they have maintained a stable arrangement for a thousand years, for the first five hundred years of their existence the spheres were arranged in a number of ways.\n\nNos Ulom\u2014One of Knoori's nations, an oligarchy having Adrashism as its official state religion. The capitol of Dolin, located in the central valleys just north of the Aspa Mountain chain, is a relatively small city of less than fifty thousand souls. Of all the nations of Knoori, Nos Ulom is the most repressive, its government the most autocratic. Ulomi are the continent's most uniform people in appearance, displaying unblemished, cream-colored skin and generally curly, straw-colored hair. Geographically, the nation is mountainous in the south and composed of high, fertile tableland and pine forest in the north.\n\nThe Ocean\u2014Variously known as the Sea, Jeru, or Deathshallow, the ocean is shallow and laps upon the shores of many islands. It harbors a startling variety of marine life, much of which is quite dangerous to man. Due to this danger, it has not been navigated by man for many thousands of years.\n\nOrrus Dabulakm\u2014The third demigod created by Adrash, and the wielder of the glass spear Deserest. He is worshipped within a few rural, isolated communities In Dareth Hlum and Casta. Their myths tell that he is the son of Adrash. Orrust people believe that it is not Adrash moving the spheres of the Needle, but Orrus\u2014and that by destroying Jeroun, he will give birth to a new paradise.\n\nOsseterat\u2014Hybrid apes of near-human intelligence that are rumored to live in Hasde Fall.\n\nOutbound Mage\u2014A mage trained specifically to achieve orbit and travel in the void. Stol alone openly uses this type of mage, though rumors suggest that Knos Min also possesses outbound mages. Though a few outbound mages have been human, the overwhelming majority of them are eldermen, who exhibit a greater potential for magic and greater stamina. Each mage wears a vacuum suit\u2014composed of leather made from elder skin\u2014on which he or she paints sigils. The mage also wears a dustglass (bonedust-reinforced glass) helmet. The suit and helmet protect the mage from vacuum for a brief period of time should his or her spells fail. The purpose of the outbound mages is to monitor Adrash, though much knowledge of Jeroun has been gained by the activities of the corps as well.\n\nOsa\u2014A large, circular island in Uris Bay. It is covered by an artifact of high elder magic, an immense glass-like dome upon which a variety of life clings. Wyrms and other large creatures, most not seen on the mainland, live near the dome walls. With intense magnification, abandoned cities can be seen on the slopes of Mount Pouen, the island's largest peak. No openings appear to exist in the dome.\n\nPusta\u2014An exclave of Stol. The capitol is Ravos, located on the northern coast. Differing from Stol in many respects, the culture of Pusta inherits much from its multiethnic fisheries, which are the most technologically advanced in Knoori and extend along the entire coastline.\n\nQuarterstock\u2014The extremely rare offspring of a hybrid. The majority of hybrids are sterile, and the vast majority of their offspring never come to term. Even if they do, a very small percentage live. Of those that live, an even smaller percentage are unaffected by mental or physical retardation. No comprehensive study of a healthy individual\u2014human or animal in origin\u2014has yet been conducted.\n\nShavrim Thrall Coranid\u2014The first demigod created by Adrash, ostensibly the leader of his siblings, and the wielder of the sentient silverblack knife Sroma. Though a pivotal part of the early history of Jeroun, nearly all vestiges of Shavrim's identity have disappeared from the minds of mankind. Among the Tomen people, however, a legend is told of an immense, immortal man with remarkable skills\u2014particularly, the ability to tame animals or keep them at bay, allowing him to take to the air on the back of a wyrm and even navigate the sea.\n\nSigil\u2014A particular type of spell that is painted on a surface using alchemical ink. It is usually \"activated\" by the recitation\u2014verbally or, if the mage is sufficiently powerful, mentally\u2014of a specific set of words.\n\nSorcerer\u2014A mage.\n\nSpell\u2014An alchemical solution that\u2014when activated by thought, incantation, or physical action\u2014produces a magical effect. Hundreds of thousands of such spells, each varying according to the particular mixture of elder components, are produced and cast every day for a variety of tasks. The easiest spells to produce and cast affect inorganic materials: moving the elements, creating a current, etc. The most difficult spells to produce and cast affect living substances: changing one's structure, extending one's life, creating constructs, etc. The efficacy of a spell decreases the farther away the mage is, a fact which makes influencing an object over long distances\u2014as in the sending of a message\u2014difficult.\n\nSradir Ung Kim\u2014The fourth demigod created by Adrash, and the wielder of the oilwood and leather sambok Weither. All vestiges of Sradir's identity have disappeared from the minds of mankind.\n\nSroma\u2014A large, silverblack knife found by Adrash before the birth of mankind on Jeroun. A sentient elder artifact similar to the divine armor, its existence appears to stand as a counterpoint to the armor, acting as opposing forces. Shavrim is the only being to ever hold it other than Adrash.\n\nThe Steps of Stol\u2014An earthwork monument created by high elder magic. It begins in the fertile southern plains of Stol, extending some eighty miles to the coast and more than four hundred along it. Ascending to a height of twelve thousand feet in seventeen evenly spaced, gently sloping rises, the Steps stop abruptly at the ocean. Most of Stol's elder corpse reserves are buried within it.\n\nStol\u2014One of Knoori's nations, a kingdom having Adrashism as its official state religion. The capitol of Tansot, located on the eastern shore of Lake Ten, is its largest city. Moderate Adrashism is the general rule and all Anadrashi sects are allowed to live peaceably within the kingdom's borders, though they suffer persecution in the central valleys. After Knos Min, Stol is the most magically advanced nation of Knoori, possessing roughly forty percent of the continent's elder corpse reserves. The only state with a known outbound mage program, the strength of the military relies much upon magical developments from the Academy of Applied Magics. Stoli people vary widely in appearance, but are generally light skinned. Geographically, Stol is generally hilly in the north, descending into fertile valleys in the central region, and rising to great heights on the Steps of Stol in the south.\n\nTamer\u2014A mage who specializes in taming and controlling large, exotic, and hybrid animals. Their lore is far more esoteric and difficult to master than the many readily available spells used to help control draft animals, entertainment animals, and pets. In rare cases, the tamer achieves a type of telepathic bond with his or her animal. In Casta and Stol, the most daring and specialized type of tamer exists: the hybrid wyrm tamer.\n\nTan-Ten\u2014The island at the center of Lake Ten. Oasena is its only city. The people of Tan-Ten have never shown interest in power or political maneuvering, but have on many occasions successfully defended their island from invaders.\n\nThaumaturgical Engine\u2014A construct used to create kinetic force. Unlike constructs that mimic biological creatures, an engine is rarely imbued with more than the most basic intelligence needed to follow simple directions. Due to the expense of creating and maintaining engines, those produced are most often used in barges or other large transport vehicles.\n\nToma\u2014One of Knoori's nations, a kingdom having Anadrashism as its official state religion. The capitol of Demn, located on the southern coast, is its largest city. Possibly the most religiously militant of all the people of Knoori, Tomen nonetheless value the personal, non-dogmatic expression of Anadrashism more than any other. The people vary considerably in build, but are generally dusky skinned and rust-haired. Toma is the most arid nation of Knoori and, but for the Wie Desert in the southwest, the hilliest.\n\nThe Tournament of Danoor\u2014The decennial tournament between Knoori's White Suit and Black Suit orders, which occurs on the last day of every decade. A fighter is chosen from every town numbering more than 2000 souls. He or she then travels to Danoor and is allowed to fight in the tournament. In the end, one Black and one White remain. Accordingly, along the way fighters will inevitably have to fight brothers and sisters of their own faith. The New Year celebration starts after the tournament champion's speech, wherein he or she typically extols listeners to convert to the winning faith. Usually, secular fighting tournaments begin the next day.\n\nUal\u2014A small town in eastern Knos Min, positioned on Uris Bay. An otherwise unnoteworthy locale, it is remarkable only for the singularity of its coastal wall, which creates an enclosed pool of seawater thirty miles long and ten miles wide. Though it is common to say no men set craft upon the ocean for fear of what resides in it, the men and women of Ual have kept their sea-gates shut for millennia in order to hunt juvenile fish and reptiles before they grow to dangerous proportions.\n\nUstert Youl\u2014The sixth and final demigod created by Adrash, twin to Evurt Youl and the wielder of the short sword Ruin. She is worshipped by a relatively large minority in Casta and Knos Min. A loosely organized sororal community of mages and apothecaries (often referred to as witches, though this term is widely used even in Adrashi and Anadrashi contexts), Usterti profess a variety of beliefs, bound only by the understanding that the goddess governs all existence. Due to this ambiguity, a great deal of mystery surrounds the community.\n\nThe Void\u2014Near-Jeroun orbit and outer space.\n\nWhite Suits\u2014A martial order of Adrashi prevalent in all nations of Knoori except Toma. Marked by their white elder-cloth suits, their primary goal as an institution is to fight Black Suits and win converts to the Adrashi faith. By doing so, White Suits believe they encourage Adrash to redeem Jeroun sooner. Orders are relatively uncommon and secretive outside southern Nos Ulom, Dareth Hlum, and Knos Min.\n\nWyrm\u2014A dragon of immense size. Highly intelligent and extremely temperamental, they do not come into contact with men often. This is due mostly to the fact that most food is taken from the open ocean. Only a small minority of dragons hunt large prey on the continent. Hybrid wyrms are not common, but do exist in Stol and Casta.\nACKNOWLEDGEMENTS\n\nThank you to my wife, Sophia, and my son, Dominic, my mom and dad, my sisters and brothers, and my mother-in-law Rosemary Papa.\n\nThank you to all the people\u2014too many to list, really\u2014who encouraged me to keep going on this second book without any prompting or cajoling (okay, maybe a little prompting and cajoling).\n\nLastly, thank you to my agent, Michael Harriot, my editors, Jeremy Lassen and Cory Allyn, the behind-the-scenes Night Shade Books crew, and all the other cool folks who made this book a physical and digital reality.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Gregory Benford - Galactic Center 06 - Sailing Bright Eternity [retail]"}, "text": "Copyright \u00a9 1995 by Abbenford Associates\n\nExcerpt from The Sunborn copyright \u00a9 2004 by Abbenford Associates\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.\n\n _Cover design by Don Puckey_\n\n _Cover illustration by Don Dixon_\n\nWarner Books\n\nHachette Book Group USA\n\n237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017\n\nVisit our Web site at HachetteBookGroupUSA.com\n\nFirst eBook Edition: March 2005\n\nISBN: 978-0-446-51128-5\nContents\n\nAlso by Gregory Benford\n\nDedication\n\nPrologue: Metallovore\n\nAn Abyss of Time\n\nPart One: Wondrous Ruins\n\nChapter One: Half Vast\n\nChapter Two: The Place of Angry Gods\n\nChapter Three: Church Mice\n\nChapter Four: Alexandria\n\nChapter Five: Huck\n\nChapter Six: Something Fatal\n\nChapter Seven: Old Ones\n\nChapter Eight: Grandfather\n\nChapter Nine: The Strong Field Limit\n\nChapter Ten: Vermin\n\nChapter Eleven: The Earthers\n\nChapter Twelve: Sobering Perspectives\n\nChapter Thirteen: The Physical Representation\n\nPart Two: Soon Comes Night\n\nChapter One: Worm\n\nChapter Two: Annihilation Line\n\nChapter Three: Interfacer\n\nChapter Four: Agonies of Gravity\n\nChapter Five: Three Billion Years\n\nChapter Six: Deep Down Superficial\n\nChapter Seven: A Few Microseconds\n\nChapter Eight: Antiques Dealer\n\nChapter Nine: The Tilted City\n\nChapter Ten: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik\n\nChapter Eleven: Sphincter Frequency\n\nChapter Twelve: Grudging Respect\n\nChapter Thirteen: Only Barbarians\n\nChapter Fourteen: Grey Mech\n\nChapter Fifteen: Transit\n\nChapter Sixteen: Time Is a Horizon\n\nChapter Seventeen: Transit; Wait\n\nChapter Eighteen: Marching\n\nChapter Nineteen: Storytelling\n\nChapter Twenty: Generations\n\nChapter Twenty-One: Inflection Point\n\nChapter Twenty-Two: Far Futures\n\nChapter Twenty-Three: Verge of Extinction\n\nChapter Twenty-Four: Alexandria\n\nChapter Twenty-Five: Mortal Galaxies\n\nChapter Twenty-Six: A Far One\n\nChapter Twenty-Seven: Radiant\n\nChapter Twenty-Eight: Tiny Farmers\n\nChapter Twenty-Nine: The Cauchy Horizon\n\nChapter Thirty: Comfy Doubt\n\nChapter Thirty-One: A Wherewhen String\n\nChapter Thirty-Two: Larger Agencies\n\nChapter Thirty-Three: No Erasures\n\nChapter Thirty-Four: When Paltry Planets Formed a Stage\n\nDispassionate Discourse\n\nPart Three: Categories Beyond Knowing\n\nChapter One: Prisoners of Immensity\n\nChapter Two: Flight\n\nChapter Three: The Impressed Man\n\nChapter Four: Carrion\n\nChapter Five: Cards and Dodgers\n\nChapter Six: The Incredible in Concrete\n\nA Tapestry of Thought\n\nPart Four: Sense of Self\n\nChapter One: Melted Portals\n\nChapter Two: A Fog of Flies\n\nChapter Three: The Pleasure Plague\n\nChapter Four: The Way of Three\n\nDecision Tree\n\nPart Five: The Silver River Road\n\nChapter One: Molten Time\n\nChapter Two: Confusion Winds\n\nChapter Three: The Zom\n\nChapter Four: Mr. Preston\n\nChapter Five: The Frozen Girl\n\nChapter Six: Going Upback\n\nChapter Seven: Temporal Turbulence\n\nChapter Eight: The Eating Ice\n\nChapter Nine: Cairo\n\nChapter Ten: Zom Master\n\nChapter Eleven: The Past Is Labyrinth\n\nChapter Twelve: Whorl\n\nChapter Thirteen: Pursuit\n\nPart Six: Wedded to the Substrate\n\nChapter One: Partial to Primates\n\nChapter Two: The Gathering Up\n\nChapter Three: Some Terrible Wonder\n\nChapter Four: Finitudes\n\nChapter Five: An Abyss of Squashed Duration\n\nChapter Six: Uses of the Mose Art\n\nPart Seven: Gods Provisional and Descending\n\nChapter One: A Mantis Blankness\n\nChapter Two: Territories of Thought\n\nChapter Three: Hard Pursuit\n\nChapter Four: Abraham\n\nChapter Five: Confusion Squall\n\nChapter Six: Conceptual Spaces\n\nChapter Seven: The Suredead\n\nChapter Eight: Phylum Myriapodia\n\nChapter Nine: Stalking\n\nChapter Ten: Paths of Glory\n\nPart Eight: The Syntony\n\nIn Silico\n\nChapter One: Unintentional Jokes\n\nChapter Two: Besen\n\nChapter Three: A Long Way Ago\n\nChapter Four: The Eternal Landscape of the Past\n\nChapter Five: The Thermodynamics of Intelligence\n\nChapter Six: Living in the Substrate\n\nChapter Seven: Hard Copy\n\nChapter Eight: The Thirst That from the Soul Doth Rise\n\nChapter Nine: The Pain of Eternity\n\nCoda\n\nAfterword to the Galactic Center Series\n\nTimeline of Galactic Series\n\nAbout the Author\n**BATTLE STARS**\n\nAs we got closer we could see the brawl. Fat, wobbly stars flaring like angry gods, spewing red tongues. They were the children of awful marriages, when two stars had collided, merged, and fallen into the same oblate quarrel. Stars ripped open, spilled, smelted down into fusing globs. They lit up the dark, orbiting masses of debris like tiny crimson match heads flaring in a filthy coal sack.\n\nAmid all that were the strangest stars of all. Fast ones, they were. Each half-covered by a hemispherical mask. Light escaped freely on one side. The mask bottled it up on the other. That pushed the star toward the mask. As far as the wretched star knew, however, it was able to eject light in only one direction. So it recoiled in the opposite way.\n\nSomebody was herding these stars. Those masks made them into fusion-photon engines. Sluggish, but effective. And the herd was headed for the accretion disk.\n\nSomebody was helping along the black hole's appetite.\n\n **ACCLAIM FOR GREGORY BENFORD'S CLASSIC NOVELS OF THE GALACTIC CENTER**\n\n _IN THE OCEAN OF NIGHT_\n\n\"A major novel . . . evokes truly majestic feeling for the vast distances and time scales upon which the universe operates.\"\n\n\u2014Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction\n\n\"A brilliant book, a weather vane for the changing winds of science fiction.\"\n\n **\u2014 _Publishers Weekly_**\n\n _FURIOUS GULF_\n\n\"A heady mixture of science . . . and no-holds-barred adventure.\"\n\n\u2014New York Times Book Review\n\n\"When it comes to conjuring the marvels of space and the bizarre possibilities of high-energy physics, Benford is second to none.\"\n\n\u2014Kirkus Reviews\nALSO BY GREGORY BENFORD\n\n **Fiction**\n\n _Beyond Infinity_\n\n _The Sunborn_\n\n _The Martian Race_\n\n _Eater_\n\n _The Stars in Shroud_\n\n _Jupiter Project_\n\n _Shiva Descending_ (with William Rostler)\n\n _Heart of the Comet_ (with David Brin)\n\n _A Darker Geometry_ (with Mark O. Martin)\n\n _Beyond the Fall of Night_ (with Arthur C. Clarke)\n\n _Against Infinity_\n\n _Cosm_\n\n _Foundation's Fear_\n\n _Artifact_\n\n _Timescape_\n\n **The Galactic Center Series**\n\n _In the Ocean of Night_\n\n _Across the Sea of Suns_\n\n _Great Sky River_\n\n _Tides of Light_\n\n _Furious Gulf_\n\n _Sailing Bright Eternity_\n\n **Non-fiction**\n\n _Deep Time: How Humanity Communicates_\n\n _Across Millennia_\nTo Mark and Alyson and Joan\n\nwho grew and changed far more\n\nin the decades it took to write this series of novels\n\nthan novels can possibly portray.\nPROLOGUE\n\nMetallovore\nBlack holes have weather, of a sort.\n\nLight streams from them. Blackness dwells at their cores, but friction heats the infalling gas and dust. These streams brim with forced radiation. Storms worry them. White-hot tornadoes whirl and suck.\n\nFrom the immense hole at the exact center of the galaxy, a virulent glow hammers outward. It pushes incessantly at the crowded masses that circle it, jostling in their doomed orbits. Gravity's gullet forces the streams into a disk, churning ever inward. Suffering in the weather.\n\nThe press of hot photons is a wind, driving all before it. Except for the grazers. To these photovores, the great grinding disk is a source of food.\n\nFire-flowers blossom in the disk, sending up lashes of fierce ultraviolet. Storms of light.\n\nBoth above and below the accretion disk, in hovering clouds, these photons smash molecules to atoms, strip atoms into bare charge, whip particles into sleet. The clouds are debris, dust, grains. They are already doomed by gravity's rub, like nearly everything here.\n\nNearly. To the gossamer, floating herds this is a fountain. Their life source.\n\nSheets of them hang, billowing with the electromagnetic winds. Basking in the sting. Holding steady.\n\nThe photovores are patiently grazing. Some are Infras, others Ultras\u2014tuned to soak up particular slices of the electromagnetic spectrum.\n\nEach species has a characteristic polish and shape. Each works within evolutionary necessity, deploying great flat receptor planes. Each has a song, used to maintain orbit and angle.\n\nAgainst the wrathful weather here, information is at least a partial defense. Position-keeping telemetry flits between the herd sheets. They sing luminously to each other in the eternal brimming day.\n\nHovering on the pressure of light, great wings of high-gloss moly-sheet spread. Vectoring, skating on winds, magnetic torques in a complex dynamical sum. Ruling forces govern their perpetual, gliding dance. This is decreed by intelligences they scarcely sense, machines that prowl the darker lanes farther out.\n\nThose magisterial forms need the energies from this furnace, yet do not venture here. The wise and valuable run no risks.\n\nAt times the herds fail. Vast shimmering sheets peel away. Many are cast into the shrouded masses of molecular clouds, which are themselves soon to boil away. Others follow a helpless descending gyre. Long before they could strike the brilliant disk, the hard glare dissolves their lattices. They burst open and flare with fatal energies.\n\nNow a greater threat spirals lazily down. It descends from the shelter of thick, turbulent dust. It lets itself fall toward the governing mass, the black hole itself. Then it arrests its descent with outstretched wings of mirrors. They bank gracefully on the photon breeze.\n\nIts lenses swivel to select prey. There a pack of photovores has clumped, disregarding ageless programming, or perhaps caught in a magnetic flux tube. The cause does not matter. The predator eases down along the axis of the galaxy itself.\n\nHere, navigation is simple. Far below, the rotational pole of the Eater of All Things is a pinprick of absolute black at the center of a slowly revolving, incandescent disk.\n\nThe clustered photovores sense a descending presence. Their vast sailing herds cleave, peeling back to reveal deeper planes of burnt-gold light seekers. They all live to ingest light and excrete microwave beams. Their internal world revolves around ingestion, considered digestion, and orderly excretion.\n\nThese placid conduits now flee. But those clumped near the axis have little angular momentum, and cannot pivot on a magnetic fulcrum. Dimly they sense their destiny. Their hissing microwaves waver.\n\nSome plunge downward, hoping that the predator will not follow so close to the Eater. Others cluster ever more, as if numbers give safety. The opposite is true.\n\nThe metallovore folds its mirror wings. Now angular and swift, accelerating, it mashes a few of the herd on its carapace. It scoops them in with flux lines. Metal harvesters rip the photovores. Shreds rush down burnt-black tunnels. Electrostatic fields separate elements and alloys.\n\nFusion fires await the ruined carcasses. There the separation can be exquisitely tuned, yielding pure ingots of any alloy desired. In the last analysis, the ultimate resources here are mass and light. The photovores lived for light, and now they end as mass.\n\nThe sleek metallovore never deigns to notice the layers of multitudes peeling back, their gigahertz cries of panic. They are plankton. It ingests them without registering their songs, their pain, their mortal fears.\n\nYet the metallovore, too, is part of an intricate balance. If it and its kind were lost, the community orbiting the Eater would decay to a less diverse state, one of monotonous simplicity, unable to adjust to the Eater's vagaries. Less energy would be harnessed, less mass recovered.\n\nThe metallovore prunes less efficient photovores. Its ancient codes, sharpened over time by natural selection, prefer the weak. Those who have slipped into unproductive orbits are easier to catch. It also prefers the savor of those who have allowed their receptor planes to tarnish with succulent trace elements, spewed up by the hot accretion disk below. The metallovore spots these by their mottled, dusky hue.\n\nEach frying instant, millions of such small deaths shape the mechsphere.\n\nPredators abound, and parasites. Here and there on the metallovore's polished skin are limpets and barnacles. These lumps of orange-brown and soiled yellow feed on chance debris from the prey. They can lick at the passing winds of matter and light. They purge the metallovore of unwanted elements\u2014wreckage and dust that can jam even the most robust mechanisms, given time.\n\nAll this intricacy floats on the pressure of photons. Light is the fluid here, spilling up from the blistering storms far below in the great grinding disk. This rich harvest supports the mechsphere that stretches for hundreds of cubic light-years, its sectors and spans like armatures of an unimaginable city.\n\nAll this, centered on a core of black oblivion, the dark font of vast wealth.\n\nInside the rim of the garish disk, oblivious to the weather here, whirls a curious blotchy distortion in the fabric of space and time. It is called by some the Wedge, for the way it is jammed in so close. Others term it the Labyrinth.\n\nIt seems to be a small refraction in the howling virulence. Sitting on the very brink of annihilation, it advertises its artificial insolence.\n\nYet it lives on. The mote orbits perpetually beside the most awful natural abyss in the galaxy: the Eater of All Things.\nAn Abyss of Time\n\nInterior state: a place cloudless and smooth, without definition:\n\nThe mechanicals are converging, Nigel.\n\n\"You feel them?\"\n\nClearly. They can now manifest themselves in magnetic vortices.\n\n\"Bloody dexterous, they are.\"\n\nI can feel them. Something bad is coming.\n\n\"Thanks for the warning, m'love. But I've got to bring the lad Toby up to speed, and it'll take a while.\"\n\nThere is nothing you could do for me anyway.\n\nHe smiled without mirth. \"All too true.\"\n\nI will alert you if the energy densities change for the worse.\n\nHe nodded and the space without definition vanished.\n\nHe was back in a bare room, sitting opposite a young man, trying to frame the immense story that had led him to this moment.\n\n\u2014 _nothing you could do_ \u2014\n\nHe remembered another time, long ago.\n\nHe and Carlos stood on a dry ridge of bare rock and looked out over a plain. This was not a world at all but a convoluted wraparound of space-time itself. Its sky curved overhead, a bowl of scrub desert.\n\nStill, it _felt_ like a place to live. A remarkable, alien-made refuge. Dirt, air, odd but acceptable plants.\n\nThey talked about finding a way to live here, in a hard, dry place twisted and alive in a way that rock was not.\n\nCarlos had just made a good joke and Nigel laughed, relaxed and easy, and then Carlos plunged forward, his shoulder striking Nigel's arm. Carlos went down with his head tilted back, as if he were looking up at the sky, a quizzical expression flickering as the head brushed by Nigel and down and hit face first on the baked dirt. Carlos had not lifted his hands to break the fall. He slid a foot as he struck.\n\nThe noise that had started it all was ugly. It seemed to condense out of the air, a soft thump like an ax sinking into a rotten stump.\n\nAs Carlos pitched forward something rose from his back, a geyser of skin and frothy blood. It spattered over the back of the tunic as the body smacked into the dirt. The thump, Nigel realized later, was the compact explosion of electromagnetic energy, targeted a few centimeters below the skin.\n\nAs Nigel dropped to lower his profile he got a good look at Carlos. One was enough. Then he ran, bent over, hearing the harsh following buzz of the electromagnetic pulse tapering away as he zigzagged behind some jagged boulders.\n\nToo much open space and too little shelter. He squatted and could not see what had fired the shot. Carlos lay flat without a twitch.\n\nNothing happened. No following pulses.\n\nNigel replayed the images as he waited. A spout of rosy blood from a circle punched high in the spine. Absolutely dead center, four centimeters below the neck. Kilojoules of energy focused to a spot the size of a fingernail.\n\nThat much energy delivered so precisely would have done the job even if it hit the hip or gut. Delivered so exactly, it burst the big axis, plowing massive pressures through the spinal fluid\u2014a sudden breeze blowing out a candle, the brain going black in a millisecond.\n\nCarlos had gone down boneless, erased. A soft, liquid thump, then eternal silence.\n\nNigel held up his hand and watched it tremble for a while. Enough waiting.\n\nHe worked his way along the ridgeline. The pulse had come from behind Carlos and he kept plenty of rock between him and that direction. He got to Carlos and studied the face from behind a boulder nearby. The head was cocked to one side. Eyes still open, mouth seeping moisture into the dry dirt. The eyes were the worst, staring into an infinity nobody glimpses more than once.\n\n _Good-bye, friend. We had our arguments, but we came thirty thousand light-years together. And now I can't do a damn thing for you._\n\nSomething moved to his right. He pulled out a pulse gun and fired at it but the target was a gossamer ball of motes. A Higher, or rather, a local manifestation of one.\n\nIt flickered, spun, and said in a low, bass voice, \"We regret.\"\n\n\"You did this?\"\n\n\"No. A mechanical form, termed the Mantis.\"\n\n\"And who're you?\"\n\n\"That would be impossible to say.\"\n\n\"Is this Mantis after me, too?\"\n\n\"I will protect you.\"\n\n\"You didn't do a great job for Carlos.\"\n\n\"I arrived here slightly late.\"\n\n _\"Slightly?\"_\n\n\"You must forgive errors. We are finite, all.\"\n\n\"Damn finite.\"\n\n\"The Mantis was harvesting Carlos. He is saved.\"\n\n\"You mean stored?\"\n\n\"To mechanicals it is the same thing.\"\n\n\"Not to us. I thought we'd be safe in this place, this Lair.\"\n\n\"No place is safe. This is safer.\"\n\n\"What'll kill a Mantis?\"\n\n\"There was nothing you could do.\"\n\nNigel Walmsley cursed the mote cloud, his fury going into fruitless words.\n\n\"Nothing you could do,\" he muttered to himself.\n\nDo not belabor the past so.\n\nNikka's frail voice resounded in his sensorium.\n\n\"There's so much of it.\"\n\nPay attention to the young man before you. He is a key to saving us.\n\nNigel sighed. \"I grow old, I grow old\u2014\"\n\nI shall wear my trousers rolled\u2014yes, I know the poem. Get on with it, Nigel!\n\nHe nodded and dropped out of the interior space of smooth blankness. It was pleasant to retire to that cool, interior vault. Perhaps the old solidly good point to the augmentations he had gained through centuries; the quietness of a good, old-fashioned library. Where most of the people were books.\n\nVery well, then. Back into the grainy. The real. The deliciously dangerous.\nPART ONE\n\nWondrous Ruins\nONE\n\nHalf Vast\n\nAn old man sat and told a young man a story. As stories go it was long and angular, with its own momentary graces and clumsy logic, much the way life is.\n\n\"What is this place?\" Toby asked. \"This mountain?\"\n\nNigel Walmsley leaned back in a webbing that shaped itself to him. He was nude, leathery. The lattice of his ribs made him look as though he had a barrel chest, but that was because he was gaunt with age.\n\nHe had reached the phase when life reduces a man to the essentials. For packaging, skin like brown butcher's paper. Muscles like motors, lodged in lumps along the bone-girders. Knobby elbows and knees, so round they seemed to encase oiled ball bearings. Sockets at the shoulder and hip, bulging beneath the dry parchment skin. Eyes blue and quick, glittering like mica in the bare face. A jaw chiseled above a scrawny neck. Cheekbones high and jutting like blades above the thin, pale lips. An oddly tilted smile, playing mischievously.\n\n\"It's popularly termed the Magnetic Mountain, though I have rather a more personal name for it.\"\n\n\"You're from a planet near True Center?\"\n\n\"No no, I'm from Earth.\"\n\n\"What? You said before that you were Family Brit. I\u2014\"\n\n\"A jest. In my time there weren't Families in the way you mean. The Brits were a nation\u2014much bigger.\"\n\n\"How much bigger?\" Toby had heard Earth invoked, of course, but it was a name from far antiquity. Meaningless. Probably just a legend, like Eden and Rome.\n\n\"I doubt that all the Families surviving at Galactic Center number a tenth what the Brits did.\"\n\n\"That many?\"\n\n\"Hard to estimate, of course. There are layers and folds and hideaways aplenty in the esty.\"\n\n\"Brits must be powerful.\"\n\nWalmsley pursed his lips, bemused. \"Um. Alas, through the power of the word, mostly.\"\n\nToby had no idea how many people still lived, after all the death he had seen. He had come here on a long journey, fleeing the mechs. Through it all, to all sides and in his wake, mechs had cut swaths through all the humans they could find. The slaughter reminded him of the retreat from the Calamity, the fall of Citadel Bishop: a landscape of constant dying.\n\nBut the butchery was now far greater. Devoting so much energy to hunting vermin humans was unusual for mechs. Mostly they didn't care; humans were pests, no more. This time they clearly were after Toby in particular. So the deaths behind him weighed on him all the more. He was only slowly coming to feel the meaning of that. It was a thing beyond words or consolations.\n\n\"Ummm.\" Walmsley seemed pensive, eyes crinkling. \"Usually I felt there were too few Brits, too many of everybody else.\"\n\n\"Family Brit must've been huge.\"\n\n\"We reproduced quickly enough. Didn't have the radiation you suffer through here.\"\n\n\"We're protected from that, my father said.\"\n\n\"There's a limit to what genetic tinkering can do. Organic cells fall apart easily. Part of their beauty, really. Makes them evolve quicker.\"\n\n\"Most of our Citadel was underground, to help\u2014\"\n\n\"Somewhat useful, of course. But the stillbirths, the deformities . . .\" Walmsley's bony face creased with painful memories.\n\n\"Well, sure, that's life.\"\n\n\"Life next door to this hell hole, true.\"\n\n\"The Eater?\" Toby had grown up with the Eater, a glowering eye rimmed in angry reds and sullen burnt browns. It had been as bright as Snowglade's own sun. \"Living near it was pretty ordinary.\"\n\nWalmsley laughed heartily, not the aged cackle Toby would have expected. \"Trust me, there are better neighborhoods.\"\n\n\"Snowglade was good enough for me,\" Toby said defensively.\n\n\"Ah yes. We gave the chess families a good world, I recall.\"\n\n\"Gave? You?\"\n\n\"I am rather older than you may suppose.\"\n\n\"But you couldn't be\u2014\"\n\n\"Could and am. I've stretched matters out, of course. Had to. I fetched up at the very bottom of this steep gravitational gradient, along the elastic timeline\u2014\"\n\n\"The, uh . . . ?\"\n\n\"Sorry, that's an old way of talking. I mean, this is a stable point, this esty. We're in a descended Lane, one where time runs very slowly. I\u2014\"\n\n\"Slow?\" Maybe this was why Toby had been having trouble with his internal clock. When he had been near their ship _Argo_ his systems lagged the ship's, if he went too far into the city beyond. He could never trace the cause. He checked it reflexively, ticking along steadily if he looked far down into the corner of his left eye and blinked. There: 14:27:33. \"Measured by what?\"\n\n\"Good point. Measured with respect to the flat space-time outside, far from the black hole.\"\n\n\"So this is a kind of time storage place?\"\n\n\"Indeed. I've stored myself here, one might say. And there are other things, many others, this far deep in the esty.\"\n\n\"When did you do it?\"\n\nToby was trying to place this dried-up old man in the pantheon of Family Bishop legend, but the very idea seemed a laugh. The men and women who had started the Families, at the very beginning of the Hunker Down, had been wise and farsighted. The founding fathers and mothers. Better than anybody alive today, that was pretty clear. And for sure they wore clothes.\n\n\"Before the 'Hunker Down.' Well before. I spent a great while in Lanes squirreled away, deep, letting time pass outside.\"\n\n\"So you weren't actually doing anything?\"\n\n\"If you mean, did I get out occasionally, yes. To the early Chandeliers, in fact. On my last excursion, to several worlds.\"\n\nToby snorted scornfully. \"You expect me to swallow that?\" His Aspects were trying to pipe in with some backup information, but he was confused enough already.\n\nWalmsley yawned, not the reaction of wounded innocence Toby had expected of a practiced liar. \"Matters little if you don't.\"\n\nA sudden suspicion struck him. \"You were around in the Great Times?\"\n\n\"As they're called, yes. Not all that great, really.\"\n\n\"We ruled here then, right?\" That was the drift of countless stories from Citadel Bishop days. Humanity triumphant. Then the fall, the Hunker Down, and worse after.\n\n\"Nonsense. Rats in the wall, even then. Just a higher class of rat.\"\n\n\"My grandfather said\u2014\"\n\n\"Legends are works of fiction, remember.\"\n\n\"But we must've been great, really great, to even build the Chandeliers.\"\n\n\"We're smart rats, I'll give you that.\"\n\nNot trying to hide his disbelief, Toby asked, \" _You_ helped build those? I mean, I visited one\u2014was booby-trapped. Derelict, sure, but beautiful, big and\u2014\"\n\n\"The grunt labor was done by others, really, from Earth.\"\n\nToby snorted in disbelief. Walmsley cocked an eye. \"Think I'm pulling your leg?\"\n\n\"What's that mean?\"\n\n\"That I'm having you on.\" A crinkled grin.\n\nToby frowned doubtfully, glancing at his leg.\n\n\"That is, I'm joking.\"\n\n\"Oh. But\u2014Earth's a _legend._ \"\n\n\"True enough, but some legends still walk and talk. These legends were of the second wave, actually, us being the first. Whole bloody fleet of ramscoops, better than the mech ship we'd hauled in on. Smart rats.\"\n\nToby nodded slowly. Why would this dried-up runt lie?\n\nSo Earthers had built the Chandeliers? Maybe Earthers weren't mythical folk, after all. They probably really ran things during the Great Times, then, too. But for sure nobody like this wrinkled dwarf could have. \"Uh huh. So it's Earther tech in the Chandeliers.\"\n\n\"Polyglot tech, really\u2014mech, Earthborn, plenty of things slapped together.\"\n\n\"By who?\" Toby still wasn't impressed with this dwarf.\n\n\"By us. Humanity. The Earthers who came in the second wave were still, I suppose, the same species as us. But . . .\" A strange melancholy flickered in his face. \"Different. Much . . . better.\"\n\n\"Better at tech?\"\n\n\"More than that. Dead on, they were beyond merely impressive. Made miracles, just tinkering with the huge range of gear they\u2014we\u2014captured down through centuries. Others did it, I mean\u2014I tired of tech quite some time ago.\"\n\nToby sniffed. \"Knowing techtricks is same as breathing, to Bishops.\"\n\n\"True enough, down on the planets. The second-wave 'Earthers,' as you call them, they were important, mind. My wife, Nikka, used to say our problems were vast\u2014and Earthers brought us plenty of half-vast solutions.\"\n\nToby wasn't used to this man's deadpan way of making jokes. Bishops were more the thigh-slapper type. \"Brit breed, you are,\" he said reluctantly. No geezer was going to put one over on him, but something finally made him believe Walmsley was from Earth. Maybe it was the fact that Walmsley didn't seem to care very much whether he did or not.\n\n\"The second wave boosted our numbers\u2014which the mechs were always trimming, shall we say.\"\n\n\"Even then?\"\n\n\"Always and forever. A few interludes of cooperation, but we were tolerated at best. For a while, we could move fairly freely near True Center. They swatted us when they noticed us. We had plenty of help from the Old Ones, time to time. Capricious, but crucial.\"\n\n\"Old Ones?\"\n\n\"They were a form of intelligence descended from clay.\"\n\n\"Clay? From dirt?\"\n\n\"Electrostatic energy storage, in clay beds with saline solutions\u2014on old seashores, I gather.\"\n\nNow Toby was annoyed. \"You being from Earth, I can maybe believe that, but living dirt? You must think\u2014\"\n\n\"They came first of all. Have a squint.\"\n\nA three-dimensional plot shimmered in Toby's sensorium. He sectioned it to read in 2D, which collapsed the nuances into a simple diagram. \"Complexity?\"\n\n\"The specialists term it 'structure complexity.' Clays built up complicated lattices that could replicate themselves. Harvested piezoelectrical currents, driven by pressures in crystals. Later on, they allowed algae to capture sunlight. They drew off the energy, rather like farmers.\"\n\nToby had not the slightest idea how to take all this in. \"So . . . _dirt_ life, that's the Old Ones?\"\n\n\"Combined with magnetic structures, yes. Bit hard to describe, that ancient wedding. All long ago, of course.\"\n\nToby gazed at the immense eras represented by simple lines, biological beings coming after the clays, intersecting the \"magnetics kingdom,\" and then mystifying lines labeled \"Earth biologicals.\" Of \"memes\" and \"kenes\" he knew nothing. From the time axis he guessed that all this had started over twelve billion years ago, when\u2014what? the whole universe?\u2014began.\n\nShaken by the implications of the simple diagram, he did not venture into the other dimensions, which expanded this simple 2D along axes of \"fitness\" and \"pattern depth\" and \"netplex\" and other terms he could not even read. Better get back to something simple.\n\n\"Then . . . how'd you get here in the first place?\"\n\n\"Stole a ship, actually. Mech, fast cruiser.\"\n\nToby had never heard of anyone doing something so audacious. It had been hard enough for the Bishops to use an old human craft, _Argo._ \"Stole it? And just walked into True Center, easy as you please?\"\n\n\"Umm, not quite.\" Walmsley's eyes were far away. \"See, this is how it was.\"\n\nTWO\n\nThe Place of Angry Gods\n\nYou've got to remember, first, that we were limping along in an outdated mech ship. Dead slow, compared to what's zipping around here now. A ramscoop, big blue-white tail dead straight, scratched across space.\n\nFar better than our Earth ship had been, the knocked-together old _Lancer._ Bravely named, it was, but venturing out into the nearby stars that way was like Indians trying to explore Europe using birch bark canoes. The wrong way round, historically and technically.\n\nY'see, the mechs had explored _us_ pretty well. They'd been in the solar system a long time ago, millions of years back. Some earlier, carbon-based life had fought a battle near Earth, against mechs. Presumably defending Earth when the primates were still sharpening their wits, edging up on being _Homo sap._\n\nThey left a crashed starship on the moon. That's how we knew this conflict had been going long before us. My wife, Nikka, was in on that. I came along later. Ancient history.\n\nWe went out together in the first human starship, _Lancer._ Got hammered by mechs. Barely survived.\n\nThen we got lucky, stole a mech ship.\n\n _\u2014Ah! Blithe understatement, quite Brit. In truth, there were two cowed alien species huddling beneath the ice of that world. Beings who could see electromagnetically in the microwave region. Turned out they'd been the cause of a wreck we'd found on our own moon, one I'd picked through, been changed by. I wanted so much to know what they were, how they thought._\n\n _But there were others, too. Whalelike things that glided serenely through murky depths, warmed by a radioactive core they had assembled in the moon's core._\n\n _All immensely strange, yet all allies against the mech_ Watcher _that loomed above. Together, two alien kind plus the constantly chattering chimpanzees, they attacked the_ Watcher _and captured it. Sounds so easy now . . ._\n\nUm? Oh, sorry, must've let the mind wander. The mech ship?\n\nOutfitted it with our gear, the life support equipment\u2014anything that survived after the mechs tore into _Lancer._ Hard work.\n\nBravo. What next?\n\nThere we sat, a scrawny distance out from our home star. Lots of the crew\u2014the surviving crew, rather\u2014wanted to head home.\n\nI saw no point. I was old enough by then to have very little left to lose. And little invested in grand old Earth, either\u2014no children, or even close relatives.\n\nBut we knew Earth had already been attacked by mechs. Used a clever weapon, fishlike aliens dumped into our seas. Should we go back to help?\n\n\u2014and augh! The arguments that caused. I had to admit the other side had a point, save the home world and all that. So we compromised. Built a robot starship, using mech bits. Tricky, that. Then we packed it full of mechtech. Let Earth make use of its tricks, we figured.\n\nSome wanted to go along, no less. Classic Wagnerian gesture\u2014all emotion, no reason. Too risky.\n\nSo we dispatched it to Earth, crawling along at a twentieth of light speed. Best we could manage, I'm afraid.\n\nIn truth, I wanted to stay there, commune with the two species still living beneath the moon's ice. But there was the other faction . . .\n\nNikka and I had allies in the crew. We hated the mechs, wanted to _do_ something. Follow this riddle to the end. So we set sail\u2014if that quaint term includes boosting up to within a hair's width of light speed.\n\nStraight inward. To the Center.\n\nTook nearly thirty thousand years to get here\u2014but that's measured in the rest frame of the galaxy. What some call \"real\" time. But all inertial frames are really equivalent, y'know. We proved that. Only diff is the clocks ran slow on our craft. Plus, we had coldsleep.\n\nSo to me it was as if I had gone through several comfy afternoon snoozes, waking just for medical checkups and the odd message to send. My turn to patrol the ship, fix things. Lonely experience. My friends frozen stiff. I, clumping about in a stolen, alien machine. Hurtling down a corridor of relativistic refractions like a tunnel lined by rainbows. Quite striking. Frightening, too, no matter how well you fathomed the physics.\n\nI had rigged\u2014well, Nikka rigged; she was a wonder\u2014an infrared transmitter. Messages for Earth, squirted them off every thousand light-years or so. Keeping them up to date on what we'd found\u2014data, reams of it. Plus a bit of rah-rah from me. I was hoping they were still there, really. It seemed like a small gesture at the time, only found out much later how important it was.\n\nThen, _presto physico_ \u2014there was the Center, glowing like a crass advert out the window. Convenient, these mech devices. Makes one wonder if their designers appreciate them. Pity, if they're wasted on creatures who don't relish the delights they can bring.\n\nThe Center? Well, today you can't see it the way I did. The Old Ones were already there, and more evident than they are now.\n\nWe came in along an instreaming flow, to pick up even more speed. The Center was a perpetual firework. Arcing above it like a vast triumphal arch was a braided fire river. Bristling with gold and orange and sulphurous yellows, it was. Ferocious stuff. The gravitational potential of the black hole, expressed as ruby-hot gas, plasma filaments, incandescences light-years long.\n\nI'd expected those. From Earth, the Very Large Array had mapped the long, curving arcs that sliced straight up through the galactic plane. They hung a hundred light-years out from the True Center. There were others, too, filmy laces\u2014all lit by gigantic currents.\n\nGalactic neon lights, they were, the specialists decided. But why so thin and long?\u2014several hundred light-years long, some, and barely half a light-year wide.\n\nAs we got closer, we could make out those filaments\u2014not in the radio waves, but the _optical_. Dazzling. So clean, so obligingly orderly. Could they be some colossal power source? A transportation corridor, an unimaginable kind of freeway? What\u2014or who\u2014would need that much room to get around?\n\nThey hung there like great ruddy announcements in the sky. But for what? A religious monument? An alien equivalent of the crucifix, beaming its eternal promise across the entire galaxy?\n\nWe all thought of these possibilities as our ship\u2014a great kluggy old thing, with streets of room compared with _Lancer_ \u2014plunged on through murky dust clouds, hot star-forming regions, the lot\u2014hammering inward hard and swift, like an old dog heading home at last. Its navigational gear was simple, direct\u2014and had a setting built in for the True Center.\n\nThink about that. This was one of its standard destinations.\n\nEasy to see why, in retrospect. Energy density. A blaze of light. Proton sleet. Huge plasma currents. Just the place for a hungry mech. The feeding trough.\n\nMostly I had thought of True Center as a sort of jewel box, with stars packed in and glowing like emeralds, rubies, hot sapphires\u2014all circling neatly around the black hole. Which had quite properly eaten up the nasty dust long ago, of course, leaving this pleasing array of finery.\n\nOr so the astronomers thought. Never trust in theories, m'lad, if they're thought up by types who work in offices.\n\nWhat? Oh, offices are boxes where people work\u2014no, not actual labor, heavy lifting or anything, more like\u2014let's pass over that, eh?\n\nY'see, I'd forgotten that with several million stars jammed into a few light-years, there are collisions, abrasions. And plenty of shrapnel.\n\nAs we got closer we could see the brawl. Fat, wobbly stars flaring like angry gods, spewing red tongues. They were the children of awful marriages, when two stars had collided, merged, and fallen into the same oblate quarrel.\n\nYou could see others about to go at it\u2014circling each other, loops of gas flung between them like insults. Even worse cases, too, as we got to see the outer edge of the accretion disk. Stars ripped open, spilled, smelted down into fusing globs. They lit up the dark, orbiting masses of debris like tiny crimson match heads flaring in a filthy coal sack.\n\nAmid all that were the strangest stars of all. Fast ones, they were. Each half-covered by a hemispherical mask. The mask gave off infrared and it took me a while to fathom what was going on.\n\nSee, the hemispherical mask hung at a fixed distance from the star. It hovered on light, gravity just balancing the outward light pressure. The mask reflected half the star's flux back on it\u2014turning up the heat on the cooker. That made the poor star send pretty arcs and jets of mass out, too. Which probably helped the purpose of it all.\n\nLight escaped freely on one side. The mask bottled it up on the other. That pushed the star toward the mask. But the mask was bound to the star by gravitation. It adjusted, kept the right distance. As far as the wretched star knew, however, it was able to eject light in only one direction. So it recoiled in the opposite way.\n\nSomebody was herding these stars. Those masks made them into fusion-photon engines. Sluggish, but effective. And the herd was headed for the accretion disk.\n\nSomebody was helping along the black hole's appetite.\n\nWho could do such engineering? No time to find out, just then.\n\nWe were getting closer. Heating up. Bloody awful hot, it was.\n\nAnd now, after all those years, communications traffic was coursing through the ship's receivers. Chirps, beeps, dense thickets of blindingly fast code.\n\nClearly, signals intended for the mechs who had run the ship. How should we respond?\n\nWe were still dithering when a rather basic truth got pointed out to us. The ship didn't just ferry mechs about. It _was_ a mech.\n\nIt had carried higher levels of mechs, sure. But it was still a member of the tribe, of sorts.\n\nAs we approached, the course selection we had made ran out. We decelerated, hard. The magnetic throat, which dwarfed the actual ship, compressed. Then it tilted, so that incoming plasma hit us at an angle. That turned the whole ship\u2014and such a groaning, popping, shrieking maneuver I've never heard. Clearly, the mechs weren't sensitive to acoustics.\n\nWe nearly went deaf. It lasted a week.\n\nBut it worked. Turned the ship clean around, swapping ends so the fusion jet played out front of us now. That backflow protected us from the solid junk in the way\u2014burnt it to a crisp, cooked it into ions for the drive itself.\n\nThe throat was now aft of us, but the magnetic field lines fetched a fraction of the debris around, and stuffed it into the maw of the great, fat craft. Fusion burners rattled the plates, heated the air\u2014but our life support labored through.\n\nA miracle, considering. There was plenty of power, so we rigged better air conditioners. Bit of hard work, that, in the stifling heat. Trouble was, where to dump the excess heat? Refrigerators don't abolish heat, they just move it.\n\nWe finally resorted to using some of the mech weapons. Lasers, they were, but they looked more like monstrous sewer pipes. Immense, corpulent gadgets.\n\nTrick about lasers is, they radiate better than anything natural. Higher brightness temperature, in the jargon. To lose energy to your surroundings, you must have something hotter than they are. Lasers could do that. So we dumped the excess heat of deceleration into convertors. And then into the drivers of the lasers themselves. The ship started projecting beams of cutting power, shedding our energy.\n\nWhich made us even more conspicuous. And terrified. Was our ship reporting to its superiors that it had vermin aboard? We adventurers felt pretty damned small.\n\nWe slowed hard\u2014one and a half Earth gravities. Dicey. It was very much like being permanently obese, without any of the pleasure of having gotten that way. We arranged supply vats and made pools of water. Floated there for days, just to escape the weight.\n\nFinally the view cleared. The fusion drive worked up to higher energies as we slowed. It became transparent in the optical, so we could see through the plume. First in the reds\u2014odd vision, that.\n\nWe could clearly make out death, a whole great wall of it. Making haste toward us.\n\nAs for what it was like . . . \nTHREE\n\nChurch Mice\n\nLike trying to take a drink out of a bloody fire hose,\" Nigel said.\n\n\"What is?\" Nikka was still thin and pale but her black eyes glinted like living marbles, with amused intelligence.\n\n\"Processing this damned data.\" Nigel craned his neck to take in the full wall. Its glittering mica surfaces were canted at angles just out of true, in mysterious mech fashion.\n\nOn these faces played different views around their ship. Gaudy sprays of ionized gas. Molecular clouds, inky-black at the core while fires played at their ravaged skins. Stars brimming full, scorching the billows of angry gas that muffled them.\n\nAnd directly ahead, a wall of furious mass boiling out from the True Center of the galaxy. Headed toward them.\n\n\"Like a supernova remnant,\" Nikka said from her console. She insisted on working. Her Japanese heritage, she said, constant addiction to the harness. When you love a woman, Nigel realized, you take the obsessions along with the rest. Much as she had with him. And in his opinion, she had gotten the worst of the deal. He was not getting easier to live with.\n\nNigel frowned. \"Looks like the hand of God about to swat a fly.\"\n\n\"Now there's a theory that hadn't occurred to me.\"\n\n\"Seems likely. Going pretty fast, that stuff is.\"\n\n\"The Dopplers show plenty of hydrogen moving at around four hundred twenty kilometers per second,\" she read off crisply.\n\n\"Hard to see why God would bother to swat us.\" Shock waves played like burnt-gold filigrees all across the face of the outrushing wall.\n\nNikka chuckled. \"You take even astrophysics personally.\"\n\n\"And why not? Makes it easier to remember the jargon.\"\n\n\"Egomania, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Probably. Still, there's plenty else for God to go after around here. We're pretty dull in comparison.\"\n\n\"Elephant rolling over in its sleep, then,\" Nikka said.\n\nHer laconic logic had always amused him. How could he not love a woman who could be more clipped and wry than he? \"Ummm?\"\n\n\"In old Kyoto days, my father told us a story about a man who thought he would be safe from the storm if he slept next to an elephant. For shelter.\"\n\n\"I see. Just because the big survive\u2014\"\n\n\"Wait, here are the parallax readings.\" She was all business again.\n\nNigel studied the strange, tilted facets of the wall display. He had never seen the purpose of angling them so. _Fresnel mirrors,_ he recalled. An old lab experiment, one he had done on a cold winter morning in lab at Cambridge. Creaky equipment, ancient clamps and lenses from mid-nineteenth century. He had done it in jig time, then packed it in for some tea and billiards.\n\nBut he could still recall how it worked. Canting planes slightly askew, so that light reflected back and forth. That formed interference wedges. Retained the phase information in the light waves. Clever. Somehow the mechs had started up this classic effect into a dazzling many-visioned optical smorgasbord.\n\nAnd in one of the oblong panels he now saw a rapidly swelling nodule, coal-black and lumpy. Furnace-red brilliance danced behind it.\n\n\"That front is closer than I thought,\" Nikka said. \"Only a few hours away.\"\n\n\"It'll crack us for sure,\" Nigel said.\n\nShe nodded. \"We can't boost to that speed. We've barely slowed to local zero.\"\n\nIn the steepening potentials near True Center, masses following gravity's gavotte swung at enormous speeds. \"Local zero\" just meant the orbital speed of this region. It was safer, they figured, to keep close to that speed while they tried to understand the fireworks further in. Church mice venture under the dinner table at their own peril, especially if the diners are wearing hobnail boots.\n\n\"We can't run,\" Nigel said, eyeing the panels. \"So we hide.\"\n\nShe followed his scrutiny. \"Among this debris?\"\n\n\"Had my eye on that blob over there.\" An asteroid-sized rock.\n\n\"Why that one?\"\n\n\"I got a strange echo-answer from it when I did an immediate area survey.\"\n\nShe glanced at him. \"This another hunch?\"\n\n\"That's all I ever have.\"\n\n\"A solid mass, good shielding. But there are closer ones.\"\n\n\"Something about it. A memory.\" He did not himself know what made him choose the tumbling stone. Its answer had made him think of the Snark, that old shambling representative of the mechs, long ago. But why should that be a good sign?\n\nShe studied the bewildering array of information on the mech-made panel. He admired how she had puzzled out the mech diagnostics, jimmied them into yielding up the quantities humans liked to use. Brilliant, she was, and could flit among them as if they were perfectly natural, when at base they were skewed, alien. The underlying point, he supposed, was that the laws of mechanics and fields have an internal logic of their own. Any intelligence shapes itself to that blunt fact. In the end, the universe molded its children. Mind, as crusty old Wittgenstein would no doubt have remarked, was cut like a suit of clothes, into contours not born in the cloth itself.\n\nThe thought brought fretful memories. Why, then, did life, in its myriad mortal forms, spend so much of itself in clashes with its fellows?\n\n\"You're sure?\" Nikka's face was a study in skepticism.\n\nHe laughed. \"Bloody hell, of course not.\"\nFOUR\n\nAlexandria\n\nThe others\u2014younger, a shade more foolish\u2014went in first. The slowly revolving chunk was oddly black for the center of the galaxy, where fire and fury prevailed, garish and showy. A cinder from some earlier catastrophe, perhaps. The black hole further in\u2014still unseeable, behind the outrushing violence about to smash into them all\u2014had left many hulks orbiting, burnished and stripped by scouring bursts of intense radiation.\n\nDry astrophysics, rendered forth as casual violences.\n\nIn his skinsuit, Nigel edged into the deep crevasse they had found. The crew had elected to moor their ship over the crevasse mouth. Then they wormed further in, to escape the shock waves that were now mere minutes away. The ship had balked, trying to restart its engines, resume its programmed course. Nikka had defeated its executive functions, perhaps even silenced its alarms. But she could not be sure . . .\n\nSuited up and in zero gravities again, Nigel felt his old self returning. He had once been an astronaut, after all\u2014a word now ancient beyond comprehension. Was Earth still there?\n\nA certain springy youth returned. He bristled with energy.\n\nIt was difficult to _feel_ the impact of desiccated physics, he reflected. The combination of the coldsleep slots and the stretched time of special relativity, all catapulting him into a far future of distant, glowing vistas. He had arrived at this far time and place armed with only the training and culture of a society now gone to dust. Yet he still sent quick bursts of data homeward, the latest just an hour ago. Message in a cosmic bottle.\n\nHe flitted, giddy and light, down a long tube of chipped rock. Away from the rest.\n\nHe took a sample, just like the old NASA days. Dear, dead acronym. At least that was one American habit he would not miss, the compression of jawbreaker agency names into nonsense words that one nonetheless could at least remember. Across thirty thousand years.\n\nHe studied the rock. Volcanic origin? He tried to remember his geology. Something strange about its grainy flecks.\n\nFurther in, a vault. Gray walls.\n\nCoasting. Space infused even a stiff old carcass with birdlike grace.\n\nStretched lines . . . up . . . through . . . rock eagerly shaping into swells. Should he go farther, or regain the crew, back there? Shadows swung with each motion of his hand torch, like an audience following every movement.\n\nPatterns in the walls.\n\nShould he? Caution, old fart. Behind each smile, sharp teeth wait.\n\nDown. In. Gliding. Legs dangling\n\nsoft, soft\n\ninto cotton clouds\n\nshadows melting\n\ntelescoping him into fresh cubes of space, geometries aslant. A spherical room now, glowing an answering red where his torch touched. A trick of the eyes?\n\nNo, messages\u2014racing across the walls, a blur of symbols. Mind trying to wrap the universe around itself?\n\nHe had trouble focusing somehow, _probably just loss of local vertical_ his old NASA training spoke to him, just a turn of the head could perhaps fix it\u2014\n\nWorn stone steps leading impossibly up, spiraling away. Into a cupped ceiling now spattered with orange drops . . . eyes winking back at him.\n\nAn old film, memories. The Tutankhamen tomb. The jackal god Anubis rampant above defeated foes.\n\nOpening the tomb.\n\nStepping inside.\n\n _One small step for a man,_ across endless churning millennia.\n\nOozing up from the Valley of old dead Kings, the first to rise triumphant here, from Karnak and Luxor, winding downstream slow and snaky, to Alexandria, the library dry with scrolls, Alexandria a woman, ancient now, wrists rouged and legs numb\u2014\n\nHe shook his head.\n\nLocal vertical.\n\nInsistent mental alarm bells. _Get local vertical._\n\nOld truths, surely no use now?\n\nThe humming. Insistent. No air here but he could not get away from it. Insect-faint but there.\n\nA sphere ahead. Adhesive patches on the backs of his gloves gave him purchase on it. He swung around, his creaky body bird-quick.\n\nBeyond the metallic sphere yawned a space so vast his torch fetched back no reflections, no answers. He turned to go back, mind still recalling another place and time\u2014\n\nThe humming lurched, rose. Shrieked, wailed. A violin string stretched to yield an octave too high, cutting, a dull saw meeting hard steel\u2014\n\nSilence. He blinked, startled.\n\nIt had been like this back so long ago. On his mission to _Icarus,_ a supposed asteroid that had bloomed fitfully, outgassing a momentary cometary tail. That had been caused by the final loss of an internal atmosphere, as it worked out, from a ship. A vessel built inside an asteroid, a starship. Its rock was extrasolar, and lay beyond the dating protocols, the ratios of isotopes awry. For perhaps a hundred million years it had been left orbiting in the inner solar system.\n\nAnd Nigel had found this same configuration there. Strangely shaped spaces. A sphere. The humming. A quick electromagnetic cry.\n\nHis suit had recorded it all. He spun slowly in a pocket of darkness, the sphere now seeming smaller, spent, exhausted.\n\nMessage received. He jetted back toward the others.\nFIVE\n\nHuck\n\n _P ing,_ their capsule spoke.\n\nNikka's face was drawn and furrowed in the reflected light. A searing blue glow seeped down the crevasse. To be this bright down here meant that brilliant furies worked along the asteroid face outside. They were tucked into this makeshift canister, flimsy protection.\n\nA solid bang slapped them against their restraints.\n\n\"That's it,\" Nikka said. \"The shock wave.\"\n\nTongues of thin fire licked by the observation port.\n\nA few hundred meters away, ionized frenzy worked to get at them\u2014or so went the human-centered view, Nigel reflected.\n\nThe awful truth was worse: that the unleashed searing energies booming out from the black hole sought no one, meant nothing, cared not a fig for the human predicament. It would grind up intelligence and spit it out, toward the sleepy stars beyond. Here, mind shaped itself to nature, not the reverse.\n\nThey waited out the onslaught for a day, then two. A giant drummed on the walls. Sensors on the ship sent data, painting a picture of huge mass flows past the hull. The ship itself breached, repaired itself, breached again, zapped a few bits of debris. They had come to respect these self-fixing aspects in the long voyage from the suburbs of the galaxy. They were parasites, after all. If they drew too much attention to themselves, some cleanup squad might well get activated.\n\nHe had brought with him a few personal bits, hauled all the way from Earth. In dim suit light he read again the small yellow hardback, spine cracked, pages stiff and yellowing and stained from the accidents of adolescence. Near the end there was a passage he had long ago involuntarily memorized:\n\nAnd then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the territory for a couple of weeks or two, and I says, all right, that suits me . . .\n\nNigel had never felt himself remotely American, despite having lived and labored there for decades, but this passage somehow always made his voice catch in his throat when he read it aloud.\n\nThe capsule ticked and pinged and he realized that he and the others had lived so long now in alien metal corridors that they were used to the feel of quiet, implacable strangeness all about. Once you'd left home, all places were remote and foreign and so you might as well keep going. On to the finality, the omega point of some alphabet you could not read but by tramping along the full length of it.\n\nWhen they finally straggled out, the crevasse was blocked with debris. Lumps and chunks of rock jammed into every crevice. Nigel worked on it for a while and then had to rest. He was old, in stringy good health, but knew his limits. He wondered if there might be another way out of this place, which was clearly a wreck of a starship of asteroid size.\n\n\"It's like the old crash site on the moon,\" he said to Nikka over comm. \"In Mare Marginis.\"\n\n\"Ummm. I'd noticed some resemblance.\"\n\n\"And the original derelict ship I found, _Icarus._ \"\n\n\"Which implies that\u2014what? Whoever built them was spread all over the galaxy?\"\n\n\"They got this far. Must've been.\"\n\n\"And this hulk, as dead as the others?\"\n\nNigel nodded. \"Means the mechs got them, I suppose.\"\n\n\"There must have been millions of them, to run into another, thirty thousand light-years away.\"\n\n\"Um. There's a big game afoot.\"\n\nThey coasted together down one of the side corridors, looking at yawning vaults and smashed metallic enclosures. \"Looks like someone stripped it,\" Nikka said, shining a torch into a dark warren. \"Not much left for us to scavenge\u2014\"\n\n\u2014out of the corner of Nigel's eye, skimming fast, came the snaky thing.\n\nHelical, with bulky masses appended, a sharp glinting prow. No bigger than a man but faster, coming at Nikka and him as though it had waited for this.\n\nTime collapsed for him. He felt a muscular sliding energy in his shoulders as he spun, lofting away his pack and snatching forth his tool kit.\n\nThe thing was plainly mech, crackling on the electromagnetic spectrum in Nigel's ears, a sound like bacon frying on a chilly morning in England long ago\u2014\n\n\u2014as Nigel's hand went for his laser cutter and Nikka had just caught sight of it, her mouth agape, surprise in the inky shadows\u2014\n\nHe launched himself on a leap lap to intersect the thing, as it rappelled somehow off a shiny steel bulkhead\u2014\n\n\u2014He felt the mathematics of it in him, geometry as limpid as the fresh continent of Euclidean joy he had entered as a boy, sitting with fingers tucked under his legs as he studied at dawn in his chilly bedroom, keeping hands warm by turning the pages with his tongue\u2014\n\n\u2014static buzz from it\u2014\n\nThe snake-mech flexed itself and turned away from him. Headed for Nikka.\n\n\u2014distilling order from life's rough jumble, that was what he had always hungered for, hyperbolic grace, to merge cleanly with life, not split the world into subject and object, no observer/observed, his arm bringing the laser cutter around smoothly, circular arc,\n\n. . . so\n\nslow . . .\n\natoms in concert, the old dim dualities of mind and matter lapping against the fragile yet inexorable momentum of this instant\u2014\n\nShe was faster than he. She shot at it.\n\nThe pulse shimmered an instant in the mottled blue surface of the thing, like an argument conducted on its skin. Then the pulse skittered off, reflected. Nigel shot at it too and the thing forked away, split, was somehow two slippery helices now.\n\n\u2014so was it some odd visual pun?\u2014this vision into helices, mimicking the key to organic life, DNA pairs spiraling off, the flag of life unfurling in a vacuum wind that rushed from a shadowed passage. A sliver of meaning, he felt it, seven blind men and a melting elephant, all describing, none understanding. His lungs whooshed dry air\u2014\n\n\u2014enameled, spraying glow from the uncoiling thing\u2014\n\nIt flexed again. Lashed out with a spiky electromagnetic lance. The shot hovered in vacuum, a discharge of reluctant electrons, spitting angry red radiation. Then it split.\n\nOne shaft struck Nikka. It burst across her in worms of acrid yellow. She went limp.\n\n _Go to ground._ Nigel touched the steel bulkhead an instant before the lance reached him. He felt a jolt of megavolts.\n\n\u2014corroding through him, kiloamps rising. His shell clicked home and then he was inside the suddenly conducting surface of his skinsuit, the rub and stretch of potentials racing along a millimeter away from prickly hairs on his shivering flesh, breathing and being breathed, surges passing by, electromagnetic kiss, inductances fighting the ramping current, forcing jabbing current slivers through his shoulders and licking into his arm, the light touch of his hand enough to draw uncountable speedy electrons to seek another prey, all at frequencies he could not glimpse but the information sliding into him through portals he could never know, below perception a shaved second of intuition\u2014\n\nBefore the rattling voltages had spoken their piece he fetched forth the punch gun with his left hand. Muscles clenched and he had to force his fingers to\u2014\n\nIt snaked toward him. Nikka floated inert.\n\nNigel kicked away from the bulkhead, though that meant losing his electrical grounding. There might be a few seconds before the mech recharged.\n\n\u2014springing with the kickoff came feelings and desires forking like summer lightning across the inner unmoving vault of him, part of himself eating them as they flared across his mind, seeing them for what they were, messages from a fraction of himself finding a place absolutely blank and waiting for each moment to write upon it, time like water washing away the eruptions, scattershot angers and cutting fears far down in him\u2014\n\nHe drove the punch gun ahead. Fired with great relish into the mech.\n\nIt was quick, a thing of bunched electrical energies, but the crude and rude sometimes worked.\n\n\u2014 _zig when they zag,_ leaving no opening he fires the laser cutter too, his right hand tracking the other aspect of the split mech, yin and yang, supple but not crude enough to deal with the sweaty urgencies of organic life-forms, the Darwinnowing of mech evolution selecting it for special tasks, narrowing it like a knife by perpetually sharpening, but to get an edge on a blade you had to subtract from it, and the loss was framed in the space of a single heartbeat as the dutiful stubby laser snapped out its jabbing pattern\u2014\n\nThe divided mech died. Mere mechanical damage was undoubtedly beneath its program-function range. But potentials cannot build in sheaths mutilated and gouged, and its charge ejected itself down wrong pathways, into the innards, dissolving crystalline structures of intricate artistry. A jewel crushed by a muddy boot.\n\n\u2014he whipped the punch gun around and riddled the other for good measure, the buzzing trailing away, and he slammed into the other spindly riddled carcass, legs collecting recoil, breath whistling in his dry throat in a scatter of perishing light from the gutted mech\u2014\n\n\u2014and he was off, pushing it to gain momentum toward Nikka\u2014\n\n\u2014still drifting, Nikka\u2014\nSIX\n\nSomething Fatal\n\nNikka did not awaken for three days. Even then she was sluggish and vague, eyes watering, words like discordant lumps trying to make their way out of her throat.\n\nBefore she could sit up they had started to move inward again. They got the ship to resume its programmed course. Their handbuilt, tightbeam antenna for signaling Earth was a twisted wire mesh. No more infobursts for the home front. Now they had no mission, except the basic one: survive and learn.\n\nBy then they understood from a careful metallicity dating that the helical mech was quite old. It had probably lain in wait in the derelict for ages, in case something organic ventured aboard. A snare.\n\n\"Not the sort of thing the Snark would've done,\" Nigel muttered to himself in the long vigils beside her. Though the Snark had been a mech, of sorts.\n\nThe brain repairs itself, with the right help, and her recovery was long.\n\nIn his time the very word \"machinelike\" had two meanings. One was \"unfeeling, unconcerned,\" while the other was \"implacable, utterly committed.\" No wonder that each suggested inhumanity and some rigid stupidity as well.\n\nBut here there was a third meaning, revealed in the immense, cool arabesques that filled the sky within a light-year of the black hole. Constructions vast and imponderable. Geometries unnatural and subtly alien.\n\nEnergies churned here, sleeting radiation and turbulence. Mechwork patterns floated obliviously through the storming masses. Implacable, unconcerned.\n\nTheir ship still gave some cover, apparently. Interrogating messages came beeping into it. Automatic programs aboard answered. Since the scavenger stowaway humans had long since corrupted the information base of the ship, what it told its superiors was undoubtedly nowhere near the truth. But the nature of the alien is that no one can adequately fake a true, intricate language.\n\nSo it was inevitable that scarlet traceries condensed around the ship. Potentials arced and played along its hull. A warning, perhaps.\n\n\"Or maybe just a bath and a scrub,\" Nigel joked to Nikka. She could be moved about the ship in a makeshift wheelchair by then. When she saw the wall view outside she gasped.\n\nOnce the shock front of the explosion had passed, the True Center loomed like an impossibly detailed tapestry, each uncoiling plume and shimmering sun a jewel woven into the whisking churn of gravity.\n\n\"Trick is,\" Nigel said, \"we couldn't see that something had forced mass into the center. A mouthful, sent straight down the gullet, apparently. But you can never stuff all of it down a black hole. Matter heats up, flares out like an angry objection, drives away the outer portion.\"\n\nShe was still taking it in. \"What made that happen?\"\n\n\"Those, I'll wager.\"\n\nIt was the first time he had framed aloud the idea that most of the crew already held. Seemingly insubstantial filaments hung before them like mere filmy curtains. But above and below the galactic plane, they connected to the immense long strands of brilliant radiation, hundreds of light-years long and a light-year wide, which bracketed the entire True Center for vast volumes of space. Nigel had seen the radio maps on Earth, showing the arching filaments. Even through the dark clouds that shielded Earth from the fireworks of the Center, their steady gigahertz glow shone.\n\n\"They're so thin.\"\n\n\"To our eyes, true enough.\"\n\n\"What do the ship's diagnostics say?\"\n\n\"Dead on, m'love. They show strong magnetic fields.\"\n\n\"Enough to hold off all that mass that's trying to slip through them?\"\n\n\"Right again.\" Just because she had nearly been killed, cast into a coma and thoroughly lacerated mentally, was no reason to forget that indeed, he had the old Nikka back. Always one step ahead of the argument. Circling round it, sometimes.\n\n\"I can see how that gas\u2014lovely purple glow, isn't it?\u2014veers up and around. Some pressure is doing that.\"\n\n\"Magnetic pressure. Never seen anything like it. Even in the outer strands, which nobody understood when we were back on Earth, the field isn't a hundredth as strong.\"\n\n\"And it's coming at us, whatever it is.\"\n\nHe was surprised again. \"How can you tell?\"\n\n\"I can see the stuff in front of it. It's getting squashed, see?\" Indeed, now that he screwed up his eyes and studied it, he could. Until now he had relied on ship's instruments to check that the gossamer strands were rushing toward their ship from several directions.\n\n\"What _are_ they?\" Nikka asked, some fatigue still lacing her voice.\n\n\"Something fatal, I'd say.\"\nSEVEN\n\nOld Ones\n\nOne virtue of the shock wave, my boy\u2014it cleared the view. Finally we saw the Old Ones.\n\nThe long, curved filaments were not freeways or power sources or religious icons\u2014they were intelligences. A life-form bigger than stars or giant molecular clouds or anything else in the galaxy's astrophysical zoo.\n\nI later learned that these were the, well, the body of the Old Ones\u2014though that term means quite little. In the filaments, currents carried both information\u2014thoughts\u2014and food, that is, charge accumulations, inductances, and potentials. All flowing _together._ As if, in our bodies, sugars and synapses were the same thing, somehow. The long, sinewy structures glowed and flared, but that was a minor side effect.\n\nAfter all, we eat and think and love\u2014and the net result, viewed in the infrared, is a diffuse, ruddy glow, no more.\n\nThe real point of us you'd find only by peering at our industriously firing synapses. Or, backing off about six orders of magnitude, in our sluggish talk.\n\nAnd of course, we are sluggish, compared to a lot that's going on round here. In the local jargon, we talk at about fifty bits per second. We need small bandwidths for long times, just to get out a single idea.\n\nThe Old Ones are broad bandwidth, fast times. We talk slowly, but see well\u2014big chunks of our brains are devoted to shaping up images. Punching up the data, before we ever \"see\" them at all.\n\nThe Old Ones have that, as well. I doubt there's anything they can't do.\n\nI watched those strange strands, weaving like slow seaweed in a vacuum ocean, and automatically thought of telling Earth about them. That's what I'd been doing for so long\u2014beaming reports back down the tunnel of our wake.\n\nOur flight time to Galactic Center was several centuries, ship's time. I had transmitted a burst every few years. Earth would get those coded blips, I knew, widely spread out by relativistic effects. But was anyone listening?\n\nStaring at the Old Ones, I realized that we were mayflies. The ebb and flow of our civilizations were like gusts of passing, feather-light winds.\n\nI doubt there's anything the Old Ones can't do.\n\nPoint is, what do they _want_ to do?\nEIGHT\n\nGrandfather\n\nToby was getting irked. \"You sure got a funny way of telling me what the hell's going on here.\"\n\nThe naked man, though he was a mass of wrinkles, was able to get into his face an expression of canny humor. \"Do you poke at your grandfather when he's setting you straight?\"\n\n\"What do you know about my grandfather?\"\n\n\"Met him, actually.\"\n\n\"When? Where is he?\"\n\n\"I've learned not to use 'when' too much down here. Where is easier. He's here.\"\n\nToby stood up, knocking over the little chair with a clatter. \"I want to see him!\"\n\n\"That you can't do.\"\n\n\"I want to _now._ \"\n\n\"He's not available. If\u2014\"\n\n\"I've had about enough of you and your\u2014\"\n\nThe old man's face was suddenly stern and imposing, bringing a flicker of memory to Toby: very much like his grandfather. Maybe all old people got that, something years brought. He sighed and sat down. \"All right. Can you tell him I'm here?\"\n\n\"He knows.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"That's what I'm attempting to tell you.\"\n\n\"Uh, sorry.\"\nNINE\n\nThe Strong Field Limit\n\nThe Old Ones\u2014not a very inventive name, but then, Jehovah isn't that catchy, either.\n\nThe Old Ones had been here when the mech civilizations arrived. Mechanicals arose when advanced, organic societies somehow committed suicide\u2014from war, degeneration, unimaginable things\u2014or retreated, from plain simple lack of interest in the tensions of the technological life. That left machines, who evolved into separate societies.\n\nBut the Old Ones weren't mech-based. Not derived from the clanking iron and silicon, no.\n\nThey weren't cumbersome chemical concoctions like us, either\u2014rickety packets of salty water and sundry impurities held together by calcium rods and an easily punctured skin, all run by dead slow electrical wiring. They weren't beings that had to be retrofitted over ever worse workmanship from earlier times. Nothing messy. Nothing slapped together by chance.\n\nThe Old Ones _were_ those long strands. Each strand could speak with a single, well, voice. Approximately. It's hard to describe what it feels like to have one, well, simply invade you. Not like a conversation, no. Rather more like being sodomized by God, I'd say.\n\nYou saw them on your way in? Good. Like pearly lightning, as I remember. You could see them slowly twisting, fragile-seeming.\n\nThey looped and arced around our ship. By this time there were plenty of mech blips on the screens. These the Old Ones deflected\u2014using their magnetic pressures, I expect.\n\nUs, they swept along. They took precious little note of our limits. Gave us several gravities of acceleration at times. I'd once been an \"astronaut\"\u2014a term from the days when doing this sort of thing wasn't as ordinary as walking\u2014and knew to balloon my lungs, then suck in air in rapid little pants, breathing off the top. Others didn't weather so well. Nikka came through, despite being still weak.\n\nThe Old Ones had made the explosion. That shock wave was simple cleaning up after the real job, sort of a janitor with his broom making a tidy Galactic Center for all. The Old Ones had released an immense burst of energy, mating two black holes together. Making this\u2014the Lair.\n\nThe mechs made a profit off it all. Someone always does. They sucked in the fast protons, harvested the photon flux. They have a whole system set up to gather in the energy fluxes, currents and all. You might say they're farming the Galactic Center, but there's another game afoot, a bigger one.\n\nThe Lair. That the mechs tried to destroy. Almost did, I gather. It's not easy to maintain, still harder to build.\n\nThat explosion shaped the Lair, made it larger. Folded up space-time, manufactured room where there was no room. The Old Ones had made it in the far past, apparently to store things or beings or God knows what. And they kept adding to it, perhaps deepening its complexity.\n\nIn our ship we got picked up, hurled at the accretion disk, then up and over it. Down the axis. Toward the pole of the black hole.\n\nYou followed a similar path, correct? Good\u2014I sent it to you.\n\nWhat? Of course, all that about Abraham sending messages. Well, I had to say something to get your attention.\n\nDeceptive? Of course. Immoral? Don't be ridiculous.\n\nI had to claim it was from your grandfather, dead right. I _had_ met him, after all. And speaking through the Magnetic Mind was the only route open to you. Mechs would've intercepted anything else.\n\nWhere was I? Ah\u2014\n\nAll the bloody time with mechs coming straight at us. Inflicted some damage, too. Killed some of us. Have you ever seen steel blister?\n\nMechs got through. Even the magnetic pressures couldn't halt everything. Neutron beams, for one. Nothing stopped those.\n\nThe Old Ones were powerful, certainly, but not like God the Sodomizer. Sorry if you find my sense of humor a bit demented. I've been here in this mountain largely without company, except of the most lofty sort. A bit wearing. Makes me long for the animal, I suppose. The root and rut of life.\n\nThe Lair? Call it that because we're hiding in it. As well as countless other organic species.\n\nThe Old Ones stuffed us in here, with our ship. Down the steepest gravitational gradient in the galaxy, into a time-locked storage vault. General relativity, writ large.\n\nWhat they never taught me at Cambridge, not even that Hawking fellow, was that space-time could be a construction material. Mass is equivalent to the curvature of space-time, that I'd learned. We build things from matter. Why not build them from curved space-time?\n\nSimple enough, but the stress-energy tensors involved\u2014you don't want to see the mathematics, believe me. Ugly stuff. Frightful.\n\nYou see, the most important point in understanding the universe is that God doesn't have to make any approximations. He's not doing as I dutifully learned at Cambridge, expanding in some small parameter, iterating solutions, solving differential equations by cut-and-try. God plays the game straight.\n\nThe Old Ones aren't Gods\u2014in fact, they're decidedly irritating\u2014but they can solve general relativity in full. No short cuts. In the \"strong field limit,\" as it's termed.\n\nHow? I don't know. I wasn't here to see it done. Somehow the Old Ones squeezed together two black holes\u2014the giant at True Center, and a lesser one they'd acquired somehow\u2014and blew off a hell-storm of energy.\n\nWhen the dust cleared, here was the Lair. Furiously orbiting the remaining black hole, which has total mass a few million times the sun's. The Lair Labyrinth. Stable. Twisted esty. An abiding refraction.\n\nThey simply inserted us into it. You Bishops flew in, skimmed the ergosphere, correct? That's the only way in now, apparently. That works only when there's a significant chunk of mass coming through, rippling the skin of the black hole at its equator. Then someone can fly through.\n\nUnfortunately, the mechs learned this, too. The Old Ones couldn't prevent that. We've done our best against them, even with the Earthers\u2014I'll get to them, different subject\u2014to help. But it has been a losing battle. The mechs are _good._\n\nIn fact, the Old Ones have stooped to cooperating with us biologicals, the so-called Naturals, because the mechs are _too_ good. They may exterminate all Naturals. The Old Ones don't want that, for reasons of their own.\n\nWhat reason? I have guesses, plenty of them. But nobody knows for sure.\n\nPart of the confusion, for an ordinary TwenCen mind like mine, is the sheer complexity. Never mind the higher-order mechs, the Old Ones, and the like\u2014they're beyond view, for me. For you, too, I expect.\n\nIt takes a while to get used to even the physics, y'see. The Lair\u2014what? Oh, right, you can call it Wedge if you like, there must be a thousand names. Some quite obscene; you should hear sometime how \"black hole\" translates into Russian. The Lair is like a wasp's nest perched on a cliff. The Eater's tidal forces warp it, stretch both space and time.\n\nThe lower parts live differently. Time runs slower here\u2014straight Einsteinian effect, that. So outside, while centuries are sweeping by, I'm having lunch. Gives a body perspective. Of course, I do take long lunches.\n\nAnd it gets a bit lonely, too.\nTEN\n\nVermin\n\nToby had listened and watched and finally it was too damned much.\n\nThe walls flashed with pictures, scenes of astonishing depth and range. Colossal twisted ships, frothing turbulence in the accretion disk, vistas with skewed perspectives, geometries so odd the eye could not keep them in order. Walmsley's voice alone called up the images, summoned by some program in the utterly bare room.\n\nTo Toby, technology meant details, controls, complex systems. Here nothing met the eye but plain walls. Yet the room responded to everything Walmsley seemed to need, even when he did not speak. Food and drink appeared through the floor. Music sounded in the distance, and Walmsley cocked an ear to it.\n\n\"Look,\" Toby said, \"I'm trying to piece this together with the history of Family Bishop.\"\n\n\"That I know. Your Family came out of the Hunker Down. That's when the folk outside, the Earthers, decided they couldn't hold the mechs anymore. They left their cities.\"\n\n\"The Chandeliers?\"\n\n\"Right, that's one tribal name for them. Wonderful places. I watched them disintegrate, alas.\"\n\n\"And we Bishops went to Snowglade?\"\n\n\"Is that\u2014\" Walmsley appeared to listen to some distant voice, then nodded. \"Your name for it, yes. J-three-six-four, the index says. The index isn't very romantic about these things, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"And we lived there for . . . ?\"\n\n\"Many centuries. The mechs weren't bothering with planets just then, y'see. They harvested plasma flows in those eras. When they got around to mining and chewing up planets, they ran into another organic species that came surging in. Big bugs, they were.\"\n\n\"Quath!\u2014the Myriapodia.\"\n\n\"Right. Impressive creatures. They're tech-bio anthologies, half-artificial, as the Earthers became. The Old Ones say they're still missing something we humans've got, but I can't fancy what that could be.\"\n\nToby felt elation at finding something in this history that he knew about. Quath . . . and where was she?\n\nWalmsley said, \"The Myriapodia have been giving the mechs trouble. Not enough to stop their grand works, though.\"\n\n\"We hooked up with the Myriapodia, after some skirmishing. One is\u2014was\u2014with me.\"\n\nWalmsley nodded. \"Standard mech tactic. Used you to take some of the fight out of the bugs.\"\n\n\"What? We ran into them by accident. Our Family had escaped from Snowglade and\u2014\"\n\n\"The mechs let you get away.\"\n\n\"The hell they did! We fought\u2014\"\n\n\"We're vermin to them,\" Walmsley said gently.\n\n\"And together, we and Quath's kind, we tore the hell out of the mechs around that planet, near Abraham's Star. I was _there,_ I know\u2014\"\n\n\"Certainly. The big bugs had cosmic strings, correct?\"\n\n\"Uh, yeasay.\"\n\n\"Fearsome as tools or weaponry alike. But the mechs are managing all this, for reasons I don't quite follow. A faction wanted you Bishops here, at the Lair. They want something from you, but precisely what, I don't know. Another faction would much prefer you all dead. Some strange game's afoot.\"\n\nToby shot him an irked look. \"You've had all this time here. Why haven't you figured it out?\"\n\n\"Data's hard to get, and subtle when you do. Most of the cards aren't on the table\u2014if there even _is_ a table. And . . . well, point is, my family and I\u2014\"\n\n\"Family Brit?\"\n\n\"No, no, in my time we thought of the nearest relatives as family. Family Brit was, shall we say, a manner of speaking.\"\n\n\"You kept Family so small? Why?\"\n\nWalmsley's eyes rolled up theatrically. \"Comes to that, I'd sooner explain science than culture. Nikka and I, well, we were attempting a bit of an experiment, really. Wanted to get three generations together, for genetic reasons. Turned out wrong, since most of humanity had already genetically drifted away from\u2014\"\n\n\"Genetic? I don't\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm getting ahead of myself. See, my family and I\u2014just a few of us, not the bloody United Kingdom, see?\u2014had discovered some odd scientific matters. Let me show you how it was.\"\n\n\"And those Earthers\u2014\"\n\n\"Let me tell it my way.\"\nELEVEN\n\nThe Earthers\n\nThey were not what he expected.\n\n\"Hope you weren't hurt,\" the tall woman said. English, slightly accented with flat _a_ 's and odd, hollow _e_ 's. She was the first Earther he had seen.\n\n\"Jostled a bit, is all,\" Nigel tried to say lightly.\n\nHe had barely survived a brush with some mechs who had appeared to ooze straight out of the walls, like an elaborate magic trick. Then the Earthers had appeared and made short work of the strangely liquid mechs.\n\nEarthers. Nigel had seen their fleet approaching the Lair, knew they were here, but in its Labyrinth was unsure of how to find them. They found him, instead.\n\n\"Why are you still speaking English?\" he asked slowly.\n\n\"Oh, we have this archaic dialect as an inboard. We heard you speaking it.\"\n\n\"Um. Very thoughtful.\"\n\n\"Your transmissions used it.\"\n\nThey moved with swift, sure movements, these people two heads taller than Nigel, caring for the wounded. He had taken a knock in the ribs, a pulse that broke the skin by frying it to a crisp, like a Thanksgiving turkey. He lay back and let the woman put a patch on it. The wound felt cold, then hot, then numb, and then he did not notice it at all.\n\nSo these were the people who had built starships\u2014better by far than the mech ship Nigel and Nikka had come here in\u2014and made it their duty to reach Galactic Center. He tried to view them objectively, though by their earlier messages he knew they were from several thousand years after his time on Earth. He tried to imagine what time's juggernaut could bring after the dear dead TwenCen and the sobering TwenOne.\n\nHe lay back and watched them with slitted gaze. They spoke softly, used minimal sentences.\n\nBe objective, now, old fellow. See them as just another organic race. Just another large mammal.\n\nHominids, yet different. He was somewhat gladdened to note that they still resembled the common chimps and pygmy chimps, just bigger and with less hair, walking upright. The visible differences between humans and chimps were far less than, say, between Great Danes and Chihuahuas. Yet dogs interbred and the chimps did not; the genome kept its secrets well hidden from the eye. Humans differed from chimps by a single percent in DNA. These folk were still of the species.\n\nThese Earthers had killed mechs with obvious relish, too. Very human. Not strictly a hominid trait; genocide occurred in wolves and chimps alike. Animal murder was widespread. Ducks and orangutans raped. Ants had organized warfare and slave raids. Chimps in the wild, he recalled, had at least as good a chance of being murdered as did humans in cities.\n\nNigel lay back, head woozy. Of all the hallowed human hallmarks\u2014speech, art, technology, and the rest\u2014the one that came most obviously from animal ancestors was genocide. Human tribes may well have evolved as a group defense. That no doubt helped, in those millennia separating him from these big, bright hominids.\n\n\"Clubbiness against clubs,\" he said aloud. A dry crack of a voice. Yes, he was skimming, mind light as shining dust.\n\nThese Earthers had oddly shaped ears, more muscular frames, curious large eyes. Their uniforms were anything but uniform\u2014technicolor wraparounds that shifted to different scenes in apparently random fashion. As the woman came over to check him again her loose garment abruptly showed him a sunlit seashore, waves crashing. To soothe him?\n\nArt adorned other Earthers' close-fitting clothes\u2014collages, abstracts, grainy expressionist vistas. Woozy, he puzzled over that. Art was certainly not useful in the narrow senses employed by the animal behaviorists or evolutionary biologists. Why did Cro-Magnon develop it? Bird songs were a different matter; they helped woo a mate, defend an area. Why did humans, the Earthers, still have their fragile arts? Bower birds built airy confections of leaves, lace, and fungi, all in the pursuit of love, or genes. He scarcely thought abstract expressionism could make such a claim. Could all the heights of human artistry be a display strategy, like a peacock's plumage?\n\nHe laughed at that and sat up. His fried side did not even ache. His head was clearer. Nikka stood a short distance away, talking to a huge fellow. Nigel waved.\n\nNikka and the man came over. \"I'm Akran,\" the man said, staring down, blinking rapidly. \"Are you . . . Walmsley?\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\n\"My Lord! To _find_ you!\"\n\n\"Just in time, too. Thanks.\"\n\n\"But you\u2014you are\u2014still alive!\"\n\n\"Somewhat.\"\n\nOther Earthers came running, formed a knot around Nikka and Nigel.\n\n\"It's him!\"\n\n\"And her! She's the one mentioned in Message Fifty-seven.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it.\"\n\n\"Sure it is. Look at him.\"\n\n\"After all this time?\"\n\n\"He's been inside this twisted space-time.\"\n\n\"Don't forget the Long Sleep.\"\n\n\"Still, it's incredible that\u2014\"\n\n\"It's _Walmsley._ \"\n\nNigel gazed up into their faces and felt woozy. They all started speaking and Nikka beamed down at him\u2014she seemed to understand what was going on\u2014and they talked so fast he could barely get the idea.\n\nOne of them played a recording then and Nigel heard his own voice, reedy and precise.\n\n _\"Hello? Data follows on the molecular cloud we're passing through. Still on course, apparently.\"_\n\nA blur of data, then: _\"This is humanity's expedition. On high boost, flying inward.\"_\n\nStatic. A sizzling hiss, like fat frying. _\"Hello? We're still here. Are you?\"_\n\nThe Earthers stood silently, long after the recording finished.\n\n\"We got your messages every few centuries,\" Akran said. \"You know about the first assault, mechs dumping alien life into your seas? We received your first transmission just as we were getting the upper hand over those.\"\n\nNigel frowned. \"So you really didn't need help from us\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh no! That was just the first. The second time, they tried to pound us with asteroids. Lots of them. Nearly got us, that time.\"\n\nNigel shook his head to clear it. \"We sent you some mech gear, data\u2014\"\n\n\"We got them. Helped a lot. That was at the worst of the third assault, the Ferret Time. That lasted five centuries.\"\n\n\"My God,\" Nikka said. \"The mechs had that strong a force?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Akran said. \"Then the smart ones arrived. Tried to fool us. We lost a big piece of Earth to them. That took a thousand years.\"\n\nNigel said, \"And you kept getting my messages?\"\n\nAkron nodded eagerly. \"We put up big antennas. First in orbit, then all around the solar system. Mechs kept finding them, smashing them.\"\n\nNigel thought of the centuries of struggle and sighed. The world revolved with a serene grace, people and dirt starting to spin left to right\u2014\n\n\"Is he tired?\" Akran said with alarm. \"We can talk later, let him sleep\u2014\"\n\n\"Go on,\" Nikka said. Nigel could only nod.\n\n\"We did miss some of the messages, when the mechs came at us with positron weapons. But we got antennas back up on the moon after about four hundred years. That was after the poles melted and we lost most of the continents.\"\n\n\"Good grief,\" Nigel managed to wheeze out.\n\n\"But we got all the rest. Nobody wanted the next one to find an empty Earth. So we pulled ourselves up. Searched the whole damn solar system for the last mech outposts. They were pretty well hidden, some down in Jupiter's clouds. And we got every one.\"\n\nNigel blinked. The world had stopped revolving and he was beginning to understand. \"And came . . .\"\n\n\"Here. To find out what had happened to you. And what's this whole thing all about.\"\n\n _Hello? We're still here. Are you?_\n\nHe saw in the faces something like awe. To them he and Nikka and the others were antique historical pieces, incredibly ancient.\n\nImmensely capable, these Earthers were. The mechs would fear them.\n\nNigel blinked, smiled. \"We're still here. Still here.\" It seemed very amusing and he could not talk anymore for the lump in his throat.\nTWELVE\n\nSobering Perspectives\n\nThat was the high point. Of course it was fine and wonderful to meet his own kind again, humans from dear beloved Earth.\n\nBut in time, his first fuzzy perceptions as he lay there wounded, of the Earthers as bright chimps, made more and more ironic sense. They were human, true. Smart chimps. But far more. Changed.\n\nThe mech onslaughts against Earth had forced human evolution\u2014both through biotech enhancements and natural selection. The Earthers had implants that gave them sensoria\u2014complex electromagnetic shells, useful for both war and work. Their spines rode better, on thick lumbar disks. They carried no pesky appendix to fester and erupt. Their bodies had intricate neurological meshes, better metabolism, rugged cartilage, sturdier bones.\n\nThose were rather obvious. The unconscious differences were more telling. He and Nikka and the others from the TwenOne century\u2014called the \"Elders,\" soon enough\u2014could not keep up with these Earthers, mentally or physically. The big, almost lazily competent newcomers were very polite about it, of course. They tried to include their Elders as they explored the esty, hammered the mechs, and even made contact with the ghostly Old Ones.\n\nThese brave new Earthers retained a certain chimpyness. Hominids, still. Quite courteous to their Elders, but learning quickly from mechs and Old Ones alike. Climbing an evolutionary ladder, trailing clouds of glory, into a fog.\n\nAt that point, their thought processes simply escaped comprehension.\n\nThe rheumy old-fart Elders could not follow conversations involving the Old Ones. Nigel and Nikka and the others who had come in the hijacked mech starship\u2014a small band, now, called Ancestrals by the Earthers\u2014were adrift. They could not master the blindingly fast tech the Earthers had brought, or later devised in response to the mechs.\n\nNigel got a glimmering of the Old Ones, when he helped explore portions of the esty Lanes. Those convoluted geometries, sealed away, made excellent petri dishes. In the Lanes, different cultures\u2014alien and human alike\u2014could evolve the diversity needed to counter the mechanicals. All sorts emerged\u2014high-tech, low-tech, even no-tech.\n\nFor the Elders, the new perspectives were sobering. The Earthers, though, worked easily with the Old Ones. They countered the mechs, killed many, sometimes even cooperated with them.\n\nThe Old Ones dispersed Earthers, out of the Lair. Nigel and the other Elders more or less looked on and did scut work. The news was distant, hard to follow.\n\nA big offensive against mech control of the entire Center. Earthers spread among the planets orbiting stars a bit farther out from True Center.\n\nThey learned from mechtech, scavenged mech properties. They built huge constructions in space, the Chandeliers.\n\nFor many millennia the Earthers did well. Nigel watched them from the time-slowed pit of the esty. Then came trouble.\n\nMechs found a way to short-circuit some of the power by which the Old Ones sustained their strange magnetic strands. Tapping that source for their own ends made them enormously more powerful. That's when they started to grow, to pillage the great orbiting Earther cities.\n\nNigel had visited their crystal cities, and the even greater structures that he could witness but not fathom. When the mechs began getting the upper hand again, he helped as he could. The very terms of the struggle were difficult to comprehend.\n\n _Like listening to a conversation carried out through a drain pipe during a rainstorm,_ he had said. _A very long drain pipe._\n\nAs the mechanicals destroyed more and more of the human enterprise at Galactic Center, he found more to do. The conflict was coming down to his level again.\n\nThe final, desperate strategy of the Hunker Down\u2014\n\ndividing humanity into separate cultural petri dishes, down on the planets\u2014gave him plenty of grunt work to do. In that era he had spent a time outside the esty.\n\nHe could not follow in any detail the ramifications of the Earthermech struggle. He knew it involved alien organic races, other Originals, as well. And the conflict's main stage was at a level involving the Old Ones and the elusive Highers. Of these he and the other Ancestrals knew nothing.\n\nExcept . . . The mechanicals had some grail they sought. They kept utterly secretive about it, but they pursued bands of humans as if searching for something. Nigel once caught the phrases \"Trigger Codes\" and \"First Command\" but they went by on the fly, soon lost. And the Earthers gave him a stony-faced nothing in answer. As if there were some secret so subtle that knowledge that there _was_ a secret was a secret.\n\nAlso, it had taken him a long time to see how he was being used.\n\nPolitely, with the most consideration possible, of course. But used. By Earthers and Highers alike.\n\nHe had retired, then, from a struggle beyond his ken. Or thought he had.\nTHIRTEEN\n\nThe Physical Representation\n\nNigel Walmsley squinted at Toby. \"There's so much to tell\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't need to know much! Just enough to keep alive,\" Toby said.\n\n\"That turns out to be quite a bit. You're pretty complicated yourself, boy.\" Nigel could not resist giving an interior command. Points were often better made by example.\n\nBeside Toby, glimmering points condensed into Shibo. She was a handsome, mature woman, lean and translucent and her legs missing. Her upper body twisted as if stretching from a long confinement. A thin smile. \"Hello, my carrier.\"\n\nToby jumped, startled. \"You! You're still buried down in my reserve banks?\"\n\n\"I insinuated . . . myself.\"\n\n\"Damn! I wanted you _out._ \"\n\n\"I have . . . no place . . . to go.\"\n\nThe room's sensorium readers were tuned to excruciating precision and could pick up even diffused Aspects and Personalities and Faces lodged in an individual's fringing fields. Shibo shimmered, ghostly remnant hiding in Toby's electro-aura.\n\nShibo's face said more than her faltering words. \"I am here . . . to help.\"\n\n\"I've got you in chipstore,\" Toby said bitterly. \"That's enough.\"\n\n\"I cannot help . . . being.\"\n\nNigel felt a strange, silky current pass between Toby and the Shibo representation. Toby said, \"Killeen, he wants to bring you back. Chips're enough for that?\"\n\n\"I prefer . . . to reside . . . here.\"\n\n\"If Killeen gets your chips, he'll try to bring you back.\"\n\n\"I prefer . . . here.\"\n\n\"I want you _out._ \"\n\n\"I stay.\" She lifted a hand in silent salute\u2014and vanished.\n\n\"Ah! Damn!\" Toby spat out in frustration.\n\n\"Sorry, but I had a point to make,\" Nigel said. \"You will find that the notion of self is a bit complex here.\"\n\n\"I've got to get her out of me.\"\n\nNigel said with compassion, \"In time you'll realize that what mechs call the 'physical representation' is only one phase.\"\n\n\"Shibo really could be brought back, then?\"\n\n\"In a sense.\"\n\n\"What's _that_ mean?\"\n\n\"Reality\u2014a delightfully abstract term\u2014is analog. Humans live and think there.\"\n\nToby shrugged. \"Yeasay, it's _real._ \"\n\n\"The mech world is essentially digital. You'll never understand mechs until you realize how differently they view matters. And not only them. The Old Ones, the Highers\u2014they do not share our sense of the self.\"\n\n\"Highers?\"\n\nWalmsley knew the boy would understand it all best if it unfurled in a story. The classic primate manner of learning. Linear, relentlessly serial. Quite old-fashioned, yet it stuck.\n\nVery well, best to go back a long way, to the time after he had backed away from the High Phyla entirely, sought the refuge of simplicity.\n\nHe sighed. \"There's so much to tell\u2014\"\nPART TWO\n\nSoon Comes Night\n\nThe universe is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.\n\n\u2014EDEN PHILLPOTTS,\n\n _A Shadow Passes,_ 1934\nONE\n\nWorm\n\nThe body lay dying for some time before Angelina found it.\n\nShe had noticed a small cyclone of birds standing in the air above a churned-up span of smoldering rock and went to look. The small, four-winged birds were predators only in a flock, never alone. They banked on the warm updraft from the oozing soup of sun-orange rock below, peering down with hungry intensity.\n\nThe broken body stirred every now and then and the birds would rise a bit, a reflex born of long evolution, for if the prey revived it might be dangerous. Their courage was purely collective. Each would have fled in confusion were it not for the familiar, gene-deep helical churn of their updrafted gyre that calmed them all.\n\nAngelina found the body folded up, as though broken in the legs and chest. It was a woman in a dark-red single-sheathed garment. The pliant weave was ripped and caked with blood already gone brown. As Angelina knelt to help she caught the coppery scent of fresh blood and saw an eyelid quiver. A patch seeped red at the temple.\n\nThat made Angelina send a quick comm alert to her brothers, Benjamin and Ito, who came from the house an hour's walk away. They ran it in much less, bringing a sling and medical supplies.\n\nAngelina had stopped most of the bleeding with a tourniquet, but the woman was in a bad way from the heat and dehydration on top of the catalog of injuries: chest a massive purple bruise, chin crushed in, right arm twisted at an impossible angle and showing white bone.\n\nThey got her in the sling and worked on the arm before carrying her back over the broken landscape. Only then did the slowly cycling tower of birds, hundreds-strong and chorusing a disappointed _chip-chip-chip_ song, disperse into its timid, individual parts. Some still tracked the humans, for scouts were part of the collective genetic lessons as well.\n\nThe three had trouble getting back to safer ground and that was when they guessed the origin of the dying woman. Footing was unsteady. From long habit they thought of the solid stuff their boots struck as rock, but knew that the glowing, slippery sheen was the \"esty\"\u2014 _S-T,_ a compacted form of space-time. The esty could be firm and dense at one moment and the next, blur and fuzz into a foglike film. Vital and durable yet flexing, following laws of its own nature, rules unknowable. Or at least unknown by humans of this era.\n\nAs they took turns carrying the listless body each of them was troubled by a sense of foreboding. In their circumscribed world this woman had come as a signal flare, an announcement. She opened again the doors of speculation, for they knew the tales of bodies belched forth by the esty from places and eras of danger and promise. They did not share these first tingling thoughts, but the air hung heavy among them.\n\nHumans had lived here a long time, shaped by the esty and knowing it as the frame of their world. Yet it was also an enemy of capricious, almost vindictive spirit. It slipped beneath their boots as they carried the woman, who still oozed blood and pus at her many wounds. Blue-white flashes wracked the air. Vagrant electrical energies plucked at their sleeves like fugitive winds.\n\nThey reached their sprawling, ramshackle house. Their father, Nigel, had returned from the orchard. He frowned when he saw the damage. Already their mother, Nikka, had their auto-medical equipment rigged up and running, shiny and smooth despite its age, but there was by that time little hope.\n\nThe woman gasped and choked, her hot breath whistling past a broken tooth. For a moment she smacked her lips and seemed to savor the flavor of the home: sweet cloves and garlic, aging flowers, damp rags, thick soup simmering in an all-day pot, a woody tang tamed by a sheen of oil.\n\nHer concussion spoke for her then, forcing clogged murmurs and hoarse cries from her raw throat.\n\n\"Sky . . . burning . . . ohkan . . . ohkan . . . get away!\"\n\nThe family Walmsley glanced at each other. \"The others we heard about,\" Nikka whispered, \"they never could talk.\"\n\n\"This one won't for long, I'll wager,\" Nigel said.\n\nSomething in him took an instant dislike to anything that disturbed his tranquil world, this rustic refuge he and Nikka had shaped. Earthers, mechs, Old Ones\u2014their operatic clashes lay far away, in other Lanes, or out among the fevered stars. This woman brought all that to mind again.\n\nYet he had chosen this place for their farm. He had known that the eruption spots in the esty were important. Something in him did not want to quite let go of the larger stage.\n\nThe woman subsided for a while. They moved around her, following the instructions of the artificial intelligence, which spoke with a hushed, calming voice. The program had a false note of sympathy that always irritated Nigel, but the family found it reassuring.\n\nNikka saw the bulge of the woman's optic disk\u2014 _papilledema,_ the soothing computer voice supplied, speaking of severe damage to the woman's outsized cranium. Fractures ran through the body, as if it had been systematically stepped upon. Cracked ribs and hips and calves, ending in toes snapped off clean. Blood vessels had been raked and cauterized by a tunneling fire. No one knew how to fix these things readily and the computer would not hazard a guess as to their cause. As they inventoried the damage and patched where they could, the woman gave a harsh bark. Her eyes flew open in a kind of discharging overload, and she sat up.\n\n\"Grey Mech . . . knows . . . got to . . . sky . . . fire, fire . . .\"\n\nShe yawned, startled jaws agape with bright fresh pain\u2014and went completely limp. By the time her head slapped back on the pad her life functions had gone flatline.\n\nNothing Angelina or Benjamin or Ito could do could bring a spark back into the body. Her mind was blown to shards. They started the small measures that would snatch back some fragment of the woman: circulating her blood with a pump inserted into the bloodstream, reading her cortical map.\n\n\"From the esty,\" Nigel said as they worked.\n\n\"And she mentioned the Grey Mech,\" Benjamin said. They glanced at each other soberly.\n\nNigel ran the diagnostics program but otherwise kept his distance. He had seen a lot of damaged people in his time and did not share his children's fascination. \"She came up from the wormhole spot, correct?\u2014same as long ago.\"\n\nBenjamin, the younger son, cocked his mouth doubtfully. \"That body was dead too?\"\n\n\"A man near here named Ortega found it hanging half-exposed out of a kind of fog-ball, he said.\" Nigel was quite old now, nearly four hundred of the old Earth years by his reckoning, but he remembered fairly well. This territory he tread softly, for it brought up doubts about himself, of who he had been long ago, of what the abyss of centuries had swallowed\u2014\n\nHe stopped himself from thinking that way and went on. \"That's the only case I ever heard of around here, but esty history has a few more.\"\n\n\"From that shaky spot in the Lane?\" Benjamin shook his head. \"But worms, they're like balls, spheres, not like holes in a wall.\"\n\n\"True,\" Nikka said. \"But worms can open up best in compacted esty. There is more free energy available there, or so the theory goes.\"\n\nBenjamin stopped working, his hands resting on the blood-spattered table. \"So this woman passed through a _worm_? I thought the pressures inside were incredible.\"\n\n\"They are. The body Ortega found was stretched, pulped. From far upstream time,\" Nigel said.\n\n\"Suredead?\" Benjamin asked, eyes rapt.\n\nNigel said, \"A few memories, but nobody could assemble a Personality from them.\"\n\nNigel thought then of the distant space and time from which this cooling woman had probably come. A one-way passage to a past or future unknown, a journey fraught with murderous forces.\n\nYet she had come. Or been sent? \"Bringing something,\" he mused.\n\nBenjamin frowned. \"Bringing what?\" With long, bony fingers he searched among the tatters they had cut from the body. \"Nothing here but cloth.\"\n\nIto was swaddling up the cutting stink where the woman's bowels had loosened in her final, clenching agony. \"D'you think the Old Ones'll want to look at her?\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" Nikka said. \"They'll take forty forevers to send somebody out here.\"\n\nNigel said crabbily, \"I hope she's not going to rot quickly, like the one Ortega found.\"\n\nNikka rebuked him sharply, eyes irked in her leathery face. \"Don't be calloused.\"\n\n\"Respect for the dead doesn't mean you take risks.\" Nigel looked a little sheepish over his remark and felt called to defend it.\n\n\"Full protocols?\" Angelina asked. She was muscular and compact from work in the groves and smiled prettily despite the circumstances.\n\nBenjamin said eagerly, \"I'll get the readers.\" As the youngest, just entering adolescence, he sprang to take on any task, to show he wasn't much behind his sister, the middle child. Ito had been that way but lately had left his teenage years and did not have his bearing straight, Nigel judged, on where to go from there.\n\nAll but Benjamin knew about the man Ortega found, who had gone bad in ways\u2014fungus growing while you watched, spores blown off, eyes popping vapor\u2014that had inspired in them childhood nightmares. Even now, nearly fully grown, none of them liked to recall Nigel's warnings and pictures: boils that had sprouted like small glassy domes from the man's flesh, festering purple and angry red. They had burst with wet pops and ejected spongy drops that stuck and had to be scraped off with a knife. And scraped fast\u2014they sought food, boring into flesh.\n\nThey made the readings with speed. Nikka checked to be sure the scanning patches were flat against the woman's skull. The moment they were done Benjamin asked with a flat, false calm, \"Better get her under the soil, then?\"\n\n\"No,\" Angelina ventured. It was not like her to challenge her brothers, but she had found this woman and from the set of her chin Nigel knew she felt some sense of odd possession and responsibility. \"What if the Old Ones want it?\"\n\nNigel nodded, obviously to Angelina's surprise. \"Talking to authorities, best to keep things simple. Last time they made Ortega and I do the digging-up.\"\n\nAngelina gasped. \"You did?\"\n\n\"The Old Ones believe in local responsibility. Or seem to\u2014they make their human agents run things that way. I was a neighbor, so I dug\u2014period.\" Nigel shrugged. \"Had to do it in skinsuits. It became a trifle hot. Thirsty work.\"\n\nAll three Walmsley children looked uneasily at each other. This detail their father had not told before. The set of Benjamin's chin said that as the younger brother he wanted his fair share of any decision. \"Those scientists, they'll want a full report, do their experiments, take samples. You know how they are.\"\n\nNikka's worried frown deepened. \"I wouldn't trust our storage. The rot could get out and\u2014\"\n\n\"Let's put her back into the esty,\" Angelina said brightly.\n\nThe idea was simple yet stunning. Buried in soil, the body could be recovered. In esty, never.\n\nThey had all been shaken by the erupting of the esty again, after years of slumbering. The idea of setting foot among the shifting tides of the nonrock, the timestone, was bothersome. Yet, Nigel saw, none of them wished to show such concern to the others. That zone of the esty was the stuff of local legend and the children both feared its promise of mystery and adventure and yearned for it. So they agreed.\n\nThey processed the readings first. That was all custom required: a scan of the neural beds, of memory vaults in the cerebral cortex, an inventory that could at least establish the broad outlines of who this woman had been. Bodies from the future came forth in only a few known spots and it had been Nigel's intention to live near one.\n\nThe woman's body had already begun to warp and ooze as they lugged it back into the head-spinning deviations of the rumbling, ozone-sharp wormhole zone. Ito and Angelina carried it with cat-like balance, as though ready to leap. Fast, humming high frequencies ran through their shared sensorium, a kind of warning system that linked them. This eruption was just beginning and promised to be big. An acrid scent cut the air. Zephyrs of bitter heat caught at their nostrils and the footing trembled with expectation and menace. They brought the body back to where they had found it, or tried to, for already a gravitational chasm had opened there. A powdery sapphire cloud hovered above the foaming esty itself. The air torqued them with tugs and pushes.\n\nThey steered well clear of the dancing powder. It shaped into elongated cylinders, tear drops, fluted arabesques\u2014which meant it was another manifestation of the far future. A sharp _crack_ \u2014and the esty flexed and slewed like a raft in a roaring river.\n\nThis threw Ito down and sent the body rolling, arms flapping, legs stiff and waving like sticks. It spun into the air and plunged toward the spatial fissure. The sapphire fog opened and closed like the mouth of a fish underwater, oval and meaningless. Nigel clung to his children and watched. The body seemed to dissolve, then became compacted and firm again, before merging with the stuff that only hours before had been reliable timestone. Then it was gone. Consumed, perhaps transported.\n\n\"Wonder where it went,\" Benjamin mused, drawling.\n\n\"It's slipping through the esty\u2014'Transiting,' isn't that what the Old Ones say?\" Angelina asked uneasily, rubbing her gloves on her leggings as if to get clean of the body, its touch and smell. Yet her angular face showed an intrigued, puzzled expectation.\n\n\"Going that way didn't seem to hurt it,\" Benjamin said.\n\n\"Something sure did before,\" Ito said. \"Killed her.\"\n\nNigel sniffed and jerked a thumb back toward home. \"This place will soften up and spread. Happened that way last time. Let's go.\"\nTWO\n\nAnnihilation Line\n\nWithin a relative hour\u2014though hours could not be meaningfully measured here, and watches were mostly a concession to human habits of mind\u2014the family had gathered around the long polished dining room table, beside the big fireplace where coals flickered and popped. There were no fossil deposits in the esty, because it was not very old, but compacted rock laced with burnable traces gave the same rosy glow.\n\nThe dead woman's readings appeared as images deep in the surface of the table, constellations of memories played out as fragments and moments: the ruins of a life. Law required that they see if anything warranted an emergency call to the Old Ones. Nobody talked directly to them, of course. They were shadowy, alien minds who had made the esty. Seldom did they intervene in the affairs of the mere humans who clung to the twisty intricacies here.\n\nWhen they were through rummaging through shattered memories, curiosity satisfied, only Nigel and Nikka wore grim scowls; the children yawned, bored. He felt more than ever the centuries dividing him and Nikka from their children.\n\n\"Guess the future's not so great after all,\" Benjamin said, sucking meditatively on his teeth.\n\n\"Should we send this stuff?\" Angelina asked. She twisted her mouth with a comely lilt, an expression that always touched her father's heart because she still did not know that she was genuinely beautiful. They lived in comparative isolation here, far down a lightly populated Lane, as he and Nikka had planned. Soon enough their children would come to know the torrent of cultures and technologies elsewhere in the esty.\n\n\"Not right away,\" Nikka said, glancing at Nigel.\n\nIto caught her meaning. \"There's something in here.\"\n\nNikka nodded. \"Look at these.\" She tapped her wrist pad and the tabletop flashed, finding an image: above a black horizon, smudges of rosy light. A sidebar broke this down, displaying bands of spectral light. \"See? Pictures made at very high energies. And one strong peak.\"\n\nIto was unimpressed. \"Astro data. So?\"\n\nNigel said dryly, \"That peak is at an energy of point five-one-one million electron volts.\"\n\nIto shrugged. \"Yeah, so?\"\n\nNigel knew his son's casual challenge for what it was\u2014energies contained in a young soul, spurting out in moments of arch nonchalance. \"Son, that's a lot of energy to pack into a single photon.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"It's also precisely the sum squeezed out when an electron meets its antiparticle, the positron.\"\n\n\"Ummm.\" Ito frowned, not ready to give up his bored manner so easily. \"Dad, you get interested in just about anything.\"\n\nAngelina blurted out, \"You think this is _anything_? It's antimatter, silly\u2014dying!\"\n\nIto said warily, \"How do you figure that?\"\n\n\"An electron and a positron come together, bang!\" She smacked her hands together. \"\u2014nothing left but light. _This_ light. The annihilation line. And look\u2014it fills the sky!\"\n\nNigel smiled, proud of her. To his despair, Nigel's two sons were fine young men with only passing interest in matters technical.\n\nNearly thirty thousand years ago\u2014in strict time as measured by the galactic rest coordinates, not the pliant esty time frame\u2014Nigel himself had been a classic science nerd, addicted to his studies. Only later did his attentions turn to the immensely larger and more varied world of politics, literature, women.\n\nA classic pattern, in the ancient TwenCen. His sons seemed to be going at it in reverse order. Or so the complaints from their neighbors\u2014a half-day's walk away, but with winsome daughters\u2014said.\n\nHe studied the pictures. The dead woman had been outside, on a planet, watching\u2014distant galaxies? Forming stars? The patchy clouds might be anything. They spoke of immense energies at work. A whole sky of photons that would fry biological life-forms. Where? When?\n\nNikka said, \"The Old Ones will want this\u2014soon.\"\n\n\"Ummm.\" Nigel gave her a canny glance. \"Let's say, the near soon.\"\n\nBenjamin said earnestly, \"But we're supposed to\u2014\"\n\n\"Right.\" Nigel grinned, raising eyebrows. \"And we always do what we're supposed to.\"\n\nNikka looked at him with an expression of tired tolerance. \"You wanted to live in a quiet place. It's a little too late to complain about being bored.\"\n\n\"I'm not bored,\" Nigel countered. \"Just a bit curious.\"\n\n\"You _wanted_ to live near that worm thing out there, Dad,\" his daughter said. \"Why? It's dangerous.\"\n\nNigel waved an arm, taking in the rolling hills and long, flat-bottomed canyons. \"Pleasant, a fine place to bring up children. That worm doesn't act up much. We're pretty safe here, tucked away in a Lane. Hard for the mechs to find. But that doesn't mean we should stop learning. I'd like to see if something follows the woman. If the Old Ones send a delegation, you can be sure we'll learn nothing. Strange things come through these esty worms and\u2014\"\n\n\"Your father likes to keep his hand in the game.\"\n\n\"Sounds more to me like that little disagreement with the rock slide,\" Benjamin drawled.\n\nThey all laughed. Nigel had just recovered from a foolhardy skid down a stony creek bed. On a plastic shell he had caromed from one side to the other, unable to stop on the slick runway. When they hauled him out of the pool at the slide's base he had protested, limping badly, that after all, the children had got through it perfectly well.\n\n\"You're too old to take risks,\" Angelina had said.\n\n\"If you don't take risks, you're dead anyway but don't know it,\" Nigel had said sourly, rubbing a pulled muscle and a swelling, bruised knee.\n\nWorms, though, were a bit more than risky. They were an inevitable flip side of the esty's flexible stability. At a deep level, space-time itself was like a biological system. Anything that provided a niche eventually acquired parasites.\n\nWhere the esty thinned, wormholes were born\u2014pulled out of the quantum foam that underlay everything. Worms lived on the gravity waves that wrestled through the esty, parasites on space-time itself.\n\nWorms could link one portion of the esty to another, tapping the energy flow between them. They demanded stupendous tensions and outward pressures to hold open their throats. The pressure sustaining a human-sized worm was like that at the heart of a massive neutron star. But a short walk away from it, the effect was not even noticeable. Fields alone held worms open, both magnetic and subatomic, fed by the smoldering energies of the esty itself.\n\nWorse, worms could even reproduce. They spawned other snaky scavengers, which flicked and twisted between the layers and Lanes of the esty's hieroglyphic geometries. So they could give birth, just as they could kill. The lacerated woman had probably died in the worm, sucked in and mutilated.\n\nNigel pointed out that worms were an inescapable risk of life here, and Angelina made a face. \"Aw, you're just trying to say you want to go down the rock slide again.\"\n\n\"I think not, actually,\" Nigel responded with a grimace to her jibe. \"But I wonder . . . did this woman know what she was getting into?\"\n\nNikka arched an eyebrow. \"Do we?\"\nTHREE\n\nInterfacer\n\nThey were busy with vegetable farming and the long groves of fruit-bearing trees, mostly from old Earth, and so did not get much time to watch the place where the woman had emerged. The spot fumed, a sour smell that wrinkled the nose from a considerable distance.\n\nChildren seldom think of their parents as anything other than fundamental building blocks of their world, unchanging givens, like the postulates that go before a geometric proof. With Nigel and Nikka this was just as well.\n\nMeasured in flatspace time they were older than they liked to talk about in front of the children. In their own local coordinates they were only a few centuries old, thanks to coldsleep and the relativistic effects of the ramscoop starship. Medical science and good luck had left them feeling still rather spry, but experience gave a certain oblique cast to the expressions that passed between them. The children noticed those but shrugged them off as more adult mystery.\n\nOne day\u2014a term they used by convention, for in the esty there were wanings and waxings of light, but no sun or stars, ever\u2014a pet got loose and ventured too close. It was a raccoon named Scooter they kept outside on a high wire leash, the end of it strung on a rope between two trees so the raccoon could run back and forth. The bandit-eyed bundle of energy shredded laundry and stole food at every chance and Nikka, angry, would yank it up in the air by the leash. The raccoon would dance on the air until it got the idea of not doing that anymore. For a while, anyway.\n\nNikka would promise to cook it up next meal with the long potato hash she made and the coon would get silent. They knew it could understand. Scooter talked, sometimes. But not well. Nobody thought to warn it about the spot and when it again found a way to untie itself\u2014Benjamin swore the thing was getting smarter\u2014it followed Angelina. The coon ventured too close to the spherical seethe, got singed, and lost a finger's worth of tail.\n\nIts squeaky voice complained, \"Mad at me. Hurt me.\"\n\nNikka noticed that the tail was sheared off cleanly. The worm had snapped at it. The raccoon grumbled but held still for a bandage.\n\n\"You ran away,\" she scolded it.\n\n\"Need to study.\"\n\n\"Looks like the worm took a sample to study _you._ \"\n\nAs they laughed over this at dinner Angelina, who kept track of communications, said, \"We got a signal today. Orders, really. Said the Old Ones are interested.\"\n\nNikka stopped spooning out the tangy long potatoes. \"That means some Interfacer will show up in spit and polish.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Angelina's mouth formed an _O_ of frozen delight.\n\n\"They're just human, like us,\" Ito said with a sardonic tone just a bit too heavy, to show that he was older and experienced, though he had never seen an Interfacer either.\n\n\"I'll talk to some old friends at the Node. Perhaps I can keep us out from under their kindly care.\" Nigel ate slowly, reflecting, as talk buzzed around their table.\n\nHe did not like the idea of bringing in higher authority, the enigmatic Old Ones. They were impressive, yes. But it was the nature of humanity to not stand in awe of anything for very long. After many years of exposure to them Nigel felt as if the Old Ones were like nosy mountains, certainly majestic but always looking over his shoulder while he was trying to get something done.\n\nLater he talked on farcomm with a few old friends at the Node. Earthers, but intelligible. He got nowhere. Worms were too important to be left entirely to mere humans. His living legend status made no difference.\n\nThe Interfacer craft arrived during the next waxing. It twisted all over the air like a long mathematical proof the eye could follow only so far, then lost in turning complexity. Air as fluid, craft like an eel. As if Mozart could make his notes visible, lacy in the sky while you listened to them. In the esty's curved space, travel was never straight-line. It more nearly resembled a slide down unseen ramps of coalesced air.\n\nFamily Walmsley squinted upward at the confusing descent. Loops piled like unrolling a scroll. Lacy vapor trail strips unfurled, making one infinitely recurving utterance, cleaving sky like a prow, tossing time and music to each side like a sheared wake. It made their heads ache.\n\nThe Interfacer woman who brought the Old Ones' message was not so imposing. Her face was stretched tight, shiny over the bones, so red-faced she reminded Nigel of a boiled ham in a suit. Her collar had popped free of its little pearl clip so that her neck bulged like a swollen snake. Big wrists stuck out of her shirt sleeves and her eyes had the fixed narrow glaze of a woman staring at a match flame.\n\nNot all Earthers were impressive. Nigel wondered idly if an Earther nerd was something like this. She did not change expression as she studied the seething spot. \"A fresh esty Vor.\"\n\n\"Vor?\" Nikka asked, her hands in her hip pockets in unconscious imitation of the woman's stance.\n\n\"Slang for 'Vortex.' I've only seen two fresh ones in all my years. This data you sent\"\u2014the stolid woman waved a disk\u2014\"is very important. Very. You should have taken more care with the body.\"\n\nNigel said evenly, \"We had a lot of picking to do in the orchard.\"\n\n\"No excuse,\" she spat back. \"The data is undoubtedly from the far future. It bears on the destiny of the entire esty.\"\n\n\"How?\" Benjamin asked. Nigel could tell from Benjamin's face that he was impressed, if not by the woman at least by her aircraft. Well, time would teach him.\n\n\"We know that the mechanicals have been studying antimatter since ancient times. They are constructing elsewhere in the galaxy great laboratories, orbiting the pulsars\u2014all to capture large numbers of positrons. This message, sent in a dying mind\"\u2014she waved the disk again as if it were a murder weapon in a trial\u2014\"proves that they have designs on the entire galaxy. It shows huge positron swarms. Hostile to life\u2014to our life, anyway.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh,\" Ito said with a lifted eyebrow.\n\n\"You doubt this?\" The woman looked affronted. \"I speak for the Old Ones.\"\n\n\"They're speaking _through_ you,\" Ito shot back. \"You're just a puppet.\"\n\nNigel put a restraining hand on his oldest son's shoulder. Ito did not have the diffidence of Benjamin. \"Point is,\" Nigel said, \"why send a _body_ back?\"\n\n\"Let us say that the Old Ones have several theories.\" The Interfacer drew herself up with serene disdain. \"Quite complex. They are difficult to convey properly to . . .\"\n\n\"To ordinaries like us?\" Nikka asked with a wise smile.\n\nThe woman sniffed. \"I do not use such mundane slang. Though surely there is a difference between us. I have touched the Old Ones directly. At the mental level.\"\n\n\"I'm sure it's wonderful,\" Nikka said.\n\nThere was not a shade of malice in her tone but Nigel had a hard time not chuckling at the stiletto of meaning he could read in the words. He and Nikka were far older than this woman, but if he ever got as stiff and dead as her, he would blow his head off. So much for Interfacing with the Old Ones. He had decided to not undergo it when it was first offered, when the Earthers had devised the intricate method. Now he was reminded why.\n\n\"I expect you to tend to the defenses we will set up here,\" the woman said, still eyeing Nikka for a hint of spleen. Interfacers were notorious for taking offense.\n\n\"Defenses?\" Ito was surprised.\n\n\"Against mechanicals. They may try to cut off this esty Vor.\"\n\nIto scowled skeptically. \"Haven't seen a mech around here in a long time.\"\n\n\"They have attacked other Vors and sealed them up.\"\n\nNigel nodded, old angers rising in him.\n\nThe Interfacer held out a viewboard. \"There were further views in the data you extracted from the dead woman.\"\n\nIn its surface images flickered. A vision of black holes\u2014sharp dots against a wash of pearly light. The esty had formed from their collision. The viewboard was an advanced model. Into Nigel's sensorium sounded quick, darting visions.\nFOUR\n\nAgonies of Gravity\n\nL _ocked in a madly whirling embrace, the two black holes spiral inward to a final marriage. As the partners draw closer, they swing around each other faster and faster. Each tugs out the other, stretching the envelope of each hole into a tortured egg shape._\n\n _In its last moments, the smaller black hole stretches and contorts its own space-time, emitting a cry of gravitational agony: waves. These curl and lap about the smaller hole, then reflect and refract from the larger one. Eddies form. Standing waves reverberate between the two. These deepen as the moment of death approaches for the smaller hole. Energy foams from the doomed hole, in the form of the deepening trough of gravitational waves that eddy and play in the narrowing gap._\n\n _With a final scream of torsion and torque, the smaller hole plunges into its giant master. But the wave energy is not lost. An intense packet of waves remains, lapping in the wash of fatality._\n\n _This packet would disperse, bleeding away into space . . . if more matter did not intervene. At this precise moment an exactly directed stream of dense mass comes snaking in along a swift trajectory. In the full form of the General Field Equations\u2014as envisioned long ago by Einstein, and of course by many other of the highest minds elsewhere in the galaxy, for Nature opens its secrets to many styles of thinking\u2014space-time can curve itself. A gravitational wave is an oscillation in the curvature of space-time, like a ripple on the sea. But the equations are not linear. This means that the undulation, too, produces further curvature. Gravity itself has weight._\n\n _The incoming blue-white stream of compact mass loops, drawn by the wave packet. Tidal tugs hook the now-incandescent matter into a beautiful spiral. From a distance, the silvery luminosity follows a path recalling the chambered nautilus, a creature born in Earth's ancient oceans, shaped by evolution into a classic geometry._\n\n _Now the true violence begins. Soundless, swift and sure._\n\n _The mass reflects the gravitational wave troughs, forcing them to build to even higher amplitudes. This draws the mass farther in. The spiral tightens. Wave builds upon wave. The stretch and warp of space-time deepens. In a single microsecond comes a new kind of creation: a permanent, self-confined warpage of space-time. Within a second it spreads, an intact structure. Extra energy bleeds away into fleeting waves, radiating out toward unreachable infinity._\n\n _Later, men who ventured into it would call it the Wedge. The name was inelegant but partly true. It had been formed by waves wedged between two black holes. It now orbited the single spherical hole, a tombstone of so much lost matter._\n\n _But the final drop of mass which applied the crucial touch\u2014that was not lost. It resides inside the Wedge. It was the first contribution of ordinary matter to the exotic, transparent walls of the Wedge._\n\n _The first damp earth, in a ceramic flower pot._\nFIVE\n\nThree Billion Years\n\nImpressive,\" Nigel said guardedly. His family murmured, surprised at the intensity of the vision broadcast into their sensoria.\n\nNikka said, \"I've never seen before how it was done. But this is from the past, many thousands of years\u2014\"\n\n\"There is a date on it,\" the woman said. \"It says that this image is from three billion years in the past.\"\n\n\"But I _know_ \u2014\"\n\n\"Of course.\" The woman lifted her lip in a regal sneer. \"Three billion years in the past of that dead woman. Which gives us the first fix on the origin of these bodies. They come from a genuinely distant future. I am surprised that humans will still exist, then.\"\n\nIto said, \"Hell, billions\u2014what can matter over that much time?\"\n\nNikka said soberly, \"The mechs think something does.\"\n\n\"They certainly do,\" the Interfacer said. \"They sent the Grey Mech to seal those other Vors.\"\n\nThe family blinked and glanced at each other silently. The Grey Mech was the one form that not even the Old Ones could master. It had extraordinary powers and could penetrate the esty seemingly at will. The mechanical civilizations that dominated the space around the esty\u2014restrained by its tightrope walk near the Galactic Center's black hole\u2014did not dare venture in often. But the Grey Mech could. And did, following patterns no one had ever been able to predict.\n\nThe Interfacer said quietly, \"Why would mechanicals care so much about our origin\u2014except to figure out how to undo it?\"\nSIX\n\nDeep Down Superficial\n\nNigel did not like it, but Family Walmsley had to bow to the Interface. Other craft fluttered down the curved air and deposited defensive gear\u2014intricate assemblies of ceramo-metal tubes, tapered carbon-web cylinders, power modules like huge brown bricks.\n\nNigel glanced at the shiny, white steel surface of the control console, then away. One reaches the age when mirrors are of no interest. As well, he had long given up hope of keeping track of technology's relentless march and to him these did not even look like weapons. Nor did the attendants who crisply set up the defensive web, nodding curtly to him, look like soldiers. He was glad to finally see them ride their craft back down the Lane.\n\nThe family eyed the defenses skeptically. Supposedly they would keep the worm open by offsetting whatever the Grey Mech could do to it. \"Think it'll work, Mom?\" Benjamin wondered.\n\nNikka shook her head. \"People have tried such before. But it's like a whip\u2014easy to flip around, until the tail bites you.\"\n\n\"Should we, well, move?\"\n\nNikka was startled. \"Our fruit is nearly ripe!\"\n\nThat seemed to settle matters. The Interfacer had mentioned in passing that the Grey Mech sometimes struck at wormholes only long after they had erupted. No one knew why. Still, it removed any sense of urgency.\n\nSo did the very nature of the esty. As a self-curved space-time, it was in the ordinary universe of the galaxy, yet had other connections\u2014to other spaces, other times. The Old Ones used the esty, had made and confined it, but nothing truly controlled it, any more than a man who cages a lion can necessarily make it perform tricks.\n\nThey had a quiet evening, sobered by the presence of automatic weaponry on hair-trigger alert, just over the rise behind the rambling house. War had so outsped human reflexes that battles lasted mere milliseconds. This had a curiously liberating effect, for it meant that no warning or action was possible. So the family went about life as usual, but talked little.\n\nGetting ready for bed that evening, Nigel worked his fingertips along his scalp line where his gray, thinning hair began. He could have changed the gray readily to blond or one of the more fashionable hues\u2014scarlet, say, or electric blue\u2014but he liked the effect.\n\nCarefully he ran his left hand down and to the side, opening his face along a barely visible scar that ran along his chin, around the neck and down his back. Electrostatic bonds ripped free with a sound like corn popping in the next room. He peeled his skin back in a straight line down the spine and drew the flap over his left shoulder and biceps, until he could painstakingly roll it up against his wrist with a moisty, sucking sound. The skin stripped back down to his buttocks, revealing moist redness.\n\nHe turned with exaggerated grace in a ballet pose. \"The real me. Like it?\"\n\nLounging back on their massive bed, Nikka laughed despite herself. \"Can't you do your medical some other time? I was just getting in the mood.\"\n\n\"I'll recalibrate my secretors. Add some hormones. Give you an even better run for your money.\"\n\n\"I wasn't planning on paying money, and I didn't have running in mind.\"\n\nHe groaned as he turned digital controls that the peeling had exposed. \"A literalist! God spare the sacred erotic impulse from their kind.\"\n\n\"You expect silky passions after you show me _that_?\"\n\n\"Fair enough. But trust me to summon up your passion, madam. My specialty.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"Hurry up, then.\"\n\nHe gave her a fond grin as he worked on himself: tuning, refilling small vials, scanning outputs. She was still sinewy and muscular, her skin smooth everywhere but at elbows and knees. Somehow, Nigel noted as he inspected his own, those spots and the backs of hands were not corrected by the elaborate chemical cocktails medical science provided. A minor complaint. Without his in-body systems, which he had to tune in this rather unsettling fashion, he and Nikka would have been dead for centuries.\n\n\"How is it?\" she said suddenly\u2014some mute inner pressure had finally found voice.\n\n\"Um. Not much change.\" He turned slightly toward the shadows, so she could not read the indices. On a tiny digital display he used to communicate with his in-body systems a small light winked red. He silenced it with an adjustment, fingers working swiftly with long practice.\n\n\"How much change?\"\n\nAt times like this he was decidedly rankled that he had, from all the flower of womanhood, chosen one with a bulldog tenacity for detail. \"A bit. A small bit.\"\n\n\"Which way?\"\n\n\"Ummmm.\" He shrugged and started packing himself up.\n\nShe let the evasion pass. He concentrated on his Earther tech, engineered to be maximally convenient. Like an employee in a candy factory, the key was knowing when to stop taking things for free. He and Nikka had adopted the truly useful and avoided the rest. There were other techno-delights open to them, but they used the minimum.\n\nHe had to shuck his right hand free a bit to get at a pesky lace of veins that had clogged. He pulled the epidermis loose as if he had on a tight glove, pinching each finger free separately. The veins needed a soothing application of some noxious stuff. When the smell was gone he pulled the supple skin back into place, feeling the tabs self-seal with a warm purr.\n\n\"It's lower, isn't it?\"\n\nHe knew that ignoring her would not work; it never had. \"It's a hundred seventy-two point eight.\"\n\n\"A full point down.\"\n\nHe turned back and her face was quite suddenly older, mournful. \"Nothing for it, luv.\"\n\n\"If we go in to those specialists again\u2014\"\n\n\"They'll nod and probe and do me no good. Remember?\"\n\n\"It will kill you,\" she said with abrupt energy.\n\n\"Something has to.\"\n\n\"Don't be so goddamned glib!\"\n\n\"That's me. Deep down, I'm superficial.\"\n\n\"But you just, you just\u2014\" and she did the absolute worst thing, burst into tears. The one measure he could never confront with a wry smile and his lofty disdain for the nagging intrusions of life.\n\nSo it ended as it had so many times before. He took her in his arms. Simple sympathy and body warmth made up for words. They comforted each other with a knowingness born of time and troubles past. It was a long while before they slept.\nSEVEN\n\nA Few Microseconds\n\nThe Walmsleys visited the worm seldom because there was plenty of work to be done in the long, stretching groves, amid the sweet scent of crops coming.\n\nSeasons of a sort came and went in the esty and one had to pick fruit when the fitful warming of the timestone brought it to peak. They were in the fields when a hard yellow-white streak raced through the air high above and slammed into the esty where the woman had appeared.\n\nThe weapons of the Old Ones answered. Hard radiation spiked at the edge of Nigel's sensorium. He seldom used this Earther tech, but for the moment it was on full range. He turned his head\u2014\n\n\u2014a swift sensation of something massive and gray, high up in the air but closing fast\u2014\n\n\u2014A silence swelling like a bubble toward the family.\n\nThey were loading up a produce carrier. The impulse hit before they could even pivot to flee.\n\nBrilliant glare enveloped them. The air seemed to clot\u2014a thick, massive deadening. A flicker wrapped around them like neon rain, illuminated by green sheet lightning\u2014\n\n\u2014curling tendrils\u2014\n\n\u2014sheets glowing like ghost fire\u2014\n\nAnd when it had passed, the far terrain around them was bare, hostile, steaming with sulphurous vapors.\n\nMachines worked in slivers of seconds that humans could not perceive. Huge energies slice time as they shatter it. The battle between the Grey Mech and the Interfacers' weapons was over\u2014had been decided, transmitted, antiseptically digested by distant minds, its effects calibrated and assessed.\n\nThe mechanicals' attack had distorted the esty. Mere bystanders in the spreading gulp of the reflexing esty, the Walmsleys had been swept through the wormhole portal, a swerve in space-time accomplished between two thuds of the human heart.\nEIGHT\n\nAntiques Dealer\n\nIt took them days to figure out, first, what had happened and, second, what they could do about it.\n\nThe first answer was buried in the fast diagnostics of the Interfacer defenses. Nikka retrieved those. The mech attack had dimpled them through to another place in the esty. Not merely to the other end of the wormhole, which presumably connected to a far future. Instead, the intensity of the flux of gravitational radiation emitted in the battle had whipped the wormhole to some other location in the esty.\n\nIt had sheared off most of their groves. With them went a lot of equipment and their pet raccoon. A sliced fraction of their original farm sat uneasily in a new place.\n\nAnother space, another time. Another space-time.\n\nThe second answer was harder to accept: _nothing._\n\n\"We can't, well, reverse this grav gear?\" Exasperated, Ito slapped one of the modular cylinders. It seemed undamaged.\n\nNikka shook her head, tired. She had kept up her technical ability better than Nigel. She could read the interlaced matrices of the artificial intelligence that maintained the Interface apparatus. \"It is a defensive net, not a transport device.\"\n\nIto had always been impatient with recalcitrant equipment. He busted a knuckle trying to get a seal off one of the smooth, enigmatic cylinders. \"How can they leave us stranded like this?\" He twisted his mouth in exasperation while Nigel watched with something like amusement. Nigel had never expected organizations to get him out of scrapes and was quite sure that he was too old to start.\n\n\"You have to understand that the esty isn't just a convenient mass to live on, a source of local gravity,\" Nigel said. \"Such as a planet, for example.\"\n\nBlank looks. None of the three children had ever lived on a planet.\n\nDespite an extensive education, he reminded himself, they could not truly visualize the most elementary aspects of it\u2014an empty blue sky overhead, giving way to stars at night that swung around the black bowl in serene circles; raucous weather churning out of vagrant winds, driven by complex vector forces; horizons that always curved away, so that ships showed their masts first as they approached; the very oceans such ships could sail on, implying a colossal lavishness of water; the wholly different sensation of living at the bottom of a gravity well, while above yawned a vast abyss, visible to a glance upward.\n\n\"It's rubbery,\" Nigel said. \"And unpredictable.\"\n\nThe fact that they lived in a portion of the esty noted for its solidity did not lessen this fact, but Nigel saw that in bringing up the children so far from the spongy zones, he and Nikka had perhaps erred on the side of safety.\n\nAngelina objected, \"But the Interfacer said\u2014\"\n\n\"Nobody really controls the esty,\" Nikka said. \"Not even the Old Ones. It evolves and we live in it.\"\n\nAngelina gestured upward, where a lightly forested land hung far away, curving behind cottony clouds. It looked as though they were in a spectacular spinning cylinder, pinned to its outer walls by centrifugal force.\n\nBut spin did not do the job. The esty held itself together by folding space-time\u2014by curving itself in unimaginable thin sheets, stacking time and space like pages of a vast book, the events and substance of whole lives and eras encased in walls that felt as solid as granite.\n\nEinstein had seen that mass curved space-time. The esty reversed the equality, making curved esty itself feel like mass, planet-solid. A building material. The esty was far more lively than mere boring matter, for indeed in a profound way it was alive, the compacted stuff of existence that could spawn more of itself. It even had parasites, the worms.\n\n\"How can we get back to home?\" Angelina asked plaintively.\n\n\"We can't,\" Nikka said flatly. \"No gear for it.\"\n\n\"We can't use this, then?\" Ito slapped the inert cylinder. He was a fine worker and loved his mother but fire flashed in his eyes when confronted with balky machinery.\n\n\"It's defensive, period,\" Nikka said mildly. \"To even attempt a return we need to open the worm in a controlled way.\"\n\n\"How hard is that?\" Nigel asked.\n\nShe shook her head. \"Even experts shy away from that, if they're smart. It's dangerous work.\"\n\n\"What's it take?\" Benjamin asked. He had his mother's upturned chin and her quiet assurance that given time and tinkering, miracles were routine.\n\n\"Some integrative graviton sensors, a field generator which can deliver a terrawatt at ten kilohertz acoustic . . . and a Causality Engine.\" Nikka sat gingerly on a boulder. She had twisted her back in the flickering microsecond of transition through the Vor.\n\nBenjamin's mouth sagged. No miracles were going to happen right away.\n\nNigel asked skeptically, \"Causality Engine? I thought we could take causality for granted.\"\n\nNikka shook her head, the sheen of her long, braided black hair catching the light. \"It's keeping causality in proper order that takes control.\"\n\nNigel had left the ever more complex physics of the esty to others in favor of his orchards, as a proper reward of age. Nikka still relished technical detail, and it took her quite a while to convey to them the realms of chaotic logic. Daunting stuff.\n\nA Vor was a \"chaotic attractor\" that linked portions of the esty in random fashion. But the links had a cyclic logic, so that any given connection would recur . . . in time. Generally, a _long_ time. Making it happen again demanded deft mathematical control of the lip of the Vor. The process resembled stirring a pot, using bursts of gravitational radiation.\n\nShe was explaining this when a pale pink craft sliced across their clouded sky and banked over them. Its backwash slammed down a fist of heated air, making them duck. It settled a short distance away on oddly angled struts of purple metal that ended in disk footpads.\n\nA woman came rapidly toward them, shanks hiking her forward as though in a race. She wore jet-black, porous ceramic eyes that wrapped around her head like a combination of hat and spectacles, yet left the crown of her honey hair uncovered.\n\n\"I'll go set rate,\" she announced in a preemptory voice, heavily accented in broad _a_ 's and _eh_ 's.\n\n\"For what?\" Ito asked. He was nearer her and she seemed to assume he was delegated to speak.\n\n\"Don't stall.\"\n\n\"We're not\u2014\"\n\n\"Look, I be first in. So I get the bid.\"\n\nIto looked irked. \"First in what?\"\n\n\"You know not? You've beed inside a suspension bubble. I waited days for it to pop.\"\n\nIto frowned. \"A . . . time bubble?\"\n\n\"Checko.\" She raked them all with an assessing gaze. \"You be stable, though. I looked over your chunk from the air. It snapped off a section of ordinary rock. Settled in well, I sayed.\"\n\n\"Where are we?\"\n\n\"Sawazaki Lane. Your equipment\u2014early era, right? I be good with antiques.\"\n\n\"We tunneled through to a human Lane, though, right?\" Ito persisted.\n\nNigel watched his son's expression as the realization dawned that they could just as easily have popped out in some hellhole Lane of methane gas or bitter cold. Nigel and Nikka had known that but, as Nikka had said to him in private, what could they have done? The mechs had sent their sliver of esty caroming out into the larger esty, and it had lodged where laws of nonlinear dynamics took it.\n\n\"Sure, did you not plan to?\" Distracted, the woman glanced at her sleeve. \"Ummm. As I calc, I could offer you a single pointo price for all of it.\"\n\nShe looked at them, an entirely phony smile splitting her face, showing bright yellow teeth. \"Sight unseen. I willn't bother. Not my style to poke around too much with people standing right there. Don't much need the money. I just take what luck brings me.\"\n\nIto gaped. \"What? Buy everything?\"\n\n\"Flat fee basis. Leave or take.\"\n\nNikka let her jaw jut out in a way Nigel knew well. \"We aren't interested.\"\n\nThe woman frowned. \"Look, I know how it is. You must've saved most of your nut to get this big a spread slipstreamed in, right? I'll allow for that, believe me.\" She rolled her eyes theatrically. \"Even though I usually get my budget busted when I do.\"\n\nNikka did not smile back. \"No deal.\"\n\n\"Huh? You're trans-importers, right?\"\n\n\"No,\" Nikka said. \"We're refugees.\"\n\n\"Well then, you'll be needing cash, won't you? I can see my way clear to offer\u2014\"\n\n\"We won't sell,\" Nigel said mildly.\n\nHer ceramic eyes prowled them. Facets winked as she turned her head, diagnostics probing. She wore a scarf, barely visible above an ivory jacket cut to show one obvious weapon, an antique-looking pistol on its own pop-out handle, and to conceal several others that made mere ripples in her sleek contours.\n\n\"You people know not Sawazaki law, do you?\" Again the eye-roll. \"Lord, protect me from amateurs.\"\n\nNigel said, \"We were blown here by mechs. Certainly we would appreciate assistance in getting back home.\"\n\nShe brightened. \"Well then\u2014\"\n\n\"With our property intact.\"\n\nHer friendly bluster vanished. The transformation was so sudden it seemed to Nigel that he saw a wholly new face. Heavy brows tinted auburn, split by a deep frown line. Sunken, brilliant yellow eyes below\u2014visible when the artificial eyes went suddenly transparent. Her hands were ribbed and knobbed like enlarged gloves\u2014which, Nigel realized belatedly, they were\u2014which angled forth fat fingers of obvious strength. He wondered why she needed them.\n\n\"Snarfs, eh?\" she said in a menacing whisper.\n\nHer gloved hands unsheathed into thin, servo'd fingers that jutted from the sausage-thick ones. Sharp, businesslike. \"Then you be coming with.\"\n\nIto stepped forward, scowling This was just the kind of problem a young man would rise to, Nigel saw, and in the set of Ito's jaw trouble was coming. Nigel was a half step behind him as Ito began, \"I don't think I like the way you\u2014\"\n\n\u2014and Ito was on the ground. Nigel had not even seen her move. She had punched him and returned to exactly the same position in an eye-blink.\nNINE\n\nThe Tilted City\n\nThe city was on edge. Not meaning in a foul mood, Nigel thought to himself as they coasted over, through, and around the steepled constructions, but quite literally.\n\nThe spired sprawl canted up into the filmy air as though it had been formed in a bowl until it hardened, and then shucked free\u2014so that the curved base tipped nearly all the way over, a crescent moon about to crash down.\n\nBut it was at least a hundred kilometers across. It rested on a rocky plain, a colossal ornament on the inside of a spherical bulge in Sawazaki Lane. In the far foggy distance he could see the annular geometry they had emerged from. Tricks of sliding perspective and the sharp dry air made everything here seem miniature.\n\nThey banked in and the illusion vanished. The city became a forest of slender spires, jewels jutting up from the curved base. They swelled into thick, serpentine buildings studded with tiny lights: windows.\n\nIn the city gravity pointed at \"local down\" as naturally as ever. Only by walking some distance through the curiously cushioned streets could one tell that the direction veered steadily, accommodating the bowl's curvature. The effect struck Nigel as miraculous.\n\n\"How do they do this?\" he wondered. \"Gravity like hands cupping a baby's butt?\"\n\nNikka frowned but it was unlike her to admit being stumped. \"They've figured a way to make the esty exert gravitational forces and torques at a distance . . . I think.\"\n\nThe woman escorting them, whose name proved to be Tonogan, said sardonically, \"We tilt our city for religious reasons. You would not understand.\"\n\nNigel could not tell whether she was joking but it seemed an unlikely extravagance. He could see the air shimmer with compressed forces at the city's rim. It occurred to him that if the effect was real, and not some bizarre optical illusion, then it demanded that gravitational waves be radiated from the visible plain below up to the esty that cupped the city. But gravitational waves of such intensity were incredible. Or so he thought.\n\nHe remembered the pictures of the two black holes merging, marrying, and giving birth to something wholly different between them. Maybe the way to think here was with biological metaphors, not the old physics ones he had learned at Cambridge so long ago.\n\nThey passed through crowds whose size, mass, attire (where there was any), and facial gestures ran a gamut Nigel had never seen before. Some were antic, reacting to everything. Others seemed sublimely indifferent to the rabble of the oddly shaped who ambled, meandered, drifted, strolled, and marched without apparently acknowledging each other or, indeed, the ordinary laws of physics. Some seemed lighter, making great bounds. Others skated on unseen platforms. (Nigel tried to trip one, but the fellow slid past without a glance and for half an hour later his foot, which had felt no contact, was bitingly cold.) Some flew with outspread arms. Others scarcely seemed to walk at all, but moved forward swiftly on unseen carriers.\n\nA passing man lit a cigarette of some sweet-smelling stuff by scraping the knob end against his belt. Nigel wondered what happened if you dropped a whole pack of them knob-down.\n\nSome wore sandpaper-rough clothing to keep people at a respectful distance; a useful urban attire Nigel had not seen before. Despite the noise and confusion, an old game played out: locals were doing their best to accommodate the visitors and relieve them of any excess cash.\n\nA kid slapped a button on Angelina's shoulder and it began to speak. \"Dooed the upshift till you be down? Want to go/get level? Think pointo and\u2014\" Angelina pried off this portable advertisement and tossed it away, where it stuck to a wall and began its pitch again.\n\nTonogan swerved suddenly into a broad opening in a pyramidal building. The family, gawking, hastened to keep up. She never looked back, apparently certain that they would follow. Inside, the floor propelled them through intersecting streams of men and women with fluorescent neck and ear tattoos, who came and went with bewildering speed, legs scissoring. At a large, ornate, copper-sheen doorway stood two well-muscled men wearing wraparound gray that accentuated their chest and shoulders. They stood rigidly, Nigel noted, and looked quite intrepid.\n\nThey were apparently protecting an obese woman in a violently purple bag-dress. She wore skin to match, a near perfect shade. Yawning, she languidly glanced up as they came through the vertically pivoting door.\n\n\"Good waxing.\" Her voice rippled with polished undertones, as though she truly felt that it was a good rising of the esty's fitful light and hoped that you did, too.\n\nShe went back to looking at a scroll held in one hand. It unrolled on its own and she seemed fascinated with it, not even looking up as Tonogan rattled off a rapid-fire summary. They were standing in a gallery that gave onto an odd courtyard. As Tonogan spoke something like a six-legged dog trotted about courtyard center. It seemed to glide more than walk among the plants that festooned the area\u2014big speckled yellow-green effusions, geysers of leafy abundance.\n\nThe large woman interrupted Tonogan with, \"I see the scans. A family, um. Quite a large area to transslip, eh?\"\n\nShe looked at Nikka, who answered. \"We want help in getting back to our Lane, at our esty cords.\"\n\nNigel felt a quiet pride; ever Nikka, ever direct. Nigel was a doddering language purist, and disliked shortening \"coordinates\" to \"cords\" since that obscured a perfectly good word for rope, but he also knew that to crunch the lingo was crucial. The trimmed English here\u2014all verbs and plurals regular, simple constructions\u2014was efficient, where travelers from other eras and territories crossed.\n\n\"Impossible.\"\n\nNikka said patiently, \"Technically it must be\u2014\"\n\n\"No no! It's _expensive._ \"\n\nNikka frowned, always uncomfortable with financial matters. Nigel said, \"We could perhaps trade off a bit of our holdings.\"\n\nThe purple woman looked distracted\u2014back to her scroll. Nobody asked them to sit down and indeed there was no place to do so in this long, slick-floored vestibule. She occupied all of a spacious divan, with a bit more of her left over.\n\nFinally she yawned, perhaps not for show. \"You haven't nearly enough. Interesting historical artifacts, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Historical?\" Ito took affront.\n\n\"Well, you do come from\"\u2014a string of digits and words, meaningless to Nigel\u2014\"and that's a wayfer.\"\n\n\"Wafer?\" Ito asked, his jaw working with irritation.\n\n\"Way far gone, as we say here. I speak your approximate regional language, be I not? I had to chipload for it, that be how much trouble I went to.\" She waved a hand with sausage fingers in airy disdain and went back to her scroll. Apparently the rest of the world was supposed to freeze in place until her attention returned.\n\nThe strangely snakelike dog spotted a covey of dappled birds who had waddled out from beneath one of the leafy explosions. It went into a low stalk. The closer it got the slower and lower it went, until finally the birds burst into the sky and the dog dashed to where they had been. Trotting around, it wagged its eel-like tail.\n\nNigel felt amused and comforted by the display. Genes tell, and this echo of Earth was welcome. He remembered pigeons in Trafalgar Square, chased by hounds out on a leash, and the momentary picture brought a dizzy sense of the immense perspectives in this life of his, so long and wearing.\n\n\"Ummm. You know anything about holies?\" the purple woman asked, one finger held to her cheek, staring at her scroll as though it were a mirror.\n\nNikka said cautiously, \"I know that esty Vortices are naturally occurring wormholes. No matter what size, they have fixed matter-throughput. But the bandwidth of information\u2014\n\nmatter, data, anything\u2014that can go through scales up with its radius. The Grey Mech hit us with something\u2014\"\n\n\"A Causality Polarizer,\" the purple woman said, licking her lips with something like relish. \"If I could only get one!\"\n\n\"\u2014and blew us into here. And now.\"\n\n\"Our 'now' be quite a bit downstream of you,\" the woman said. \"You be several million year-kilometers distant.\"\n\nNigel blinked. \"That much?\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"A moderate traverse.\"\n\n\"Can't you break that up into distance and time?\"\n\nShe laughed, lips stretched far back, but without real joy. \"How old _be_ you? The idea\u2014splitting the esty!\" A dry cackle.\n\nNigel felt both awkward and vexed. \"Fair enough. We know in principle that space-time can't be just sectioned out, leastwise not here.\"\n\n\"Clocks and feet separate them out pretty well, but the esty knows what we can't see.\" There was a kind note in her voice as she asked, \"You be old, yes?\"\n\nNikka said plainly, \"From Earth.\"\n\nThe purple woman's eyes flared with surprise, then anger. \"I try be friendly with you, give you an honest deal. And you think you can play games!\"\n\nIt was Nikka's turn to laugh. \"I'm telling the truth. What do you want, passports?\"\n\nThe woman's chip did not know the word\u2014indeed, passports made no sense in a multiply connected esty with no true boundaries\u2014and she waved them away, mouth askew with displeasure.\n\n\"You people shouldn't be traders at all!\"\n\nIto blurted, \"We _aren't_ \u2014can't you get that straight?\"\n\nHer eyes blazed again. \" _You_ get _this_ straight. You take the rate I offer you for your property\u2014buildings, historicals, mech widgets and sensies, the lot\u2014or you'll be punished.\"\n\nNigel bridled. \"Punished for what?\"\n\n\"For taking up space, air, time\u2014anything I want!\"\n\nShe stood with effort, waddling forward on huge feet\u2014a purple wall unaccustomed to collisions. Nigel held his ground. She jutted a large palm out and shoved him. She was massive and surprisingly strong. He staggered back and made a mistake. Without thinking he punched her swiftly in the stomach.\n\nIn what seemed the same instant someone struck him from behind. A sharp jolt of electrical violence coursed up through him. Then he was lying on the floor, without any perceptible interval in between. Arms and legs numb. Sounds hollow, distant. Staring up at a cloudy bowl. In a city tipped on end, he recalled distantly.\n\nThe purple wall had gone back to her couch. Hissing in his inner ear, the mists around him fried away. He looked around and everything was as before.\n\nTonogan had shocked him with the rod she held easily in one hand. He let a long breath out and stood, wheezing and rickety at the knees. How to begin?\n\n\"And who the hell\u2014\" Nigel had an instant of caution, obviously far too late, still trying to size up this sizable lady\u2014\"are you?\"\n\n\"The Chairwoman,\" Tonogan said. All this time she had been standing at rigid attention, like the two stuffed men outside.\n\n\"Chairwoman of what?\" Nikka demanded.\n\n\"Everything. Just about everything.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\nThe Chairwoman wrapped up her calculator-scroll and glowered darkly. \"Pleased to meet you.\"\nTEN\n\nEine Kleine Nachtmusik\n\nIto did his work, hooking up some multisocketed pipes, and all the while looked off into the distance without saying anything.\n\nWhen he could wait no more Nigel asked, \"All right, what's wrong?\"\n\n\"You got to ask that?\"\n\n\"I'm not swift on the subtleties.\"\n\n\" _Subtleties?_ Best way to get your attention is with a stick.\"\n\nThey had been working for weeks in menial labor, hauling this, cleaning that. Putting in penance time for the Chairwoman, Tonogan had called it. It was clear that in this Lane the purple woman ran everything with a hard hand, for reasons that remained to Nigel quite mysterious. And he had been forced to concede that she had solidly behind her the brunt of what passed for law here.\n\nNigel sighed and worked two pipes together, applying sealant. No matter how advanced technology got, there was always grunt labor needed to jimmy stubborn matter into place. No legions of robots or smartened animals ever replaced the general handyman-cum-janitor.\n\nTime to trot out the apology again. \"Son, I'm sorry I got us into this\u2014\"\n\n\"Look, I heard a rumor,\" Ito said evenly.\n\nNigel shook his head, bone-weary. He was feeling sour, defeated. \"I'm not in the mood for rumors.\"\n\nMatters had not worked out well between Ito and Nigel for quite a while now. His brilliantly mangled handling of the Chairwoman had not improved the festering tension\u2014inevitable, he supposed\u2014between him and his first son, now coming to manhood.\n\nIto had bridled at the discipline imposed by the Chairwoman's silent, impassive police. Rough handling. Abrupt dawn awakenings. Long days of scut work. Adequate meals that had to be eaten in a rush. Little privacy in the muggy, close apartment given them, sandwiched into a brawling tenement. No time off the grinding labor. No chance to get out of the curfew hours, the iron-hard lockup, the rigid lights-out. No access to any media, no contact with ordinary people other than to pick up their trash.\n\nAngelina and Benjamin had borne up well. Nigel and Nikka could take punishment, too, but their oldest son had snapped back at their police \"escorts.\" He had refused to clean up messes when toilet plumbing broke, swore at the police orders. So the placid police had most politely smacked him around, prodded him with neuro-stims, given him a \"seize-up,\" which locked his muscles in vibrating bands of rigid tension\u2014all while faintly amused. It had not improved Ito's mood.\n\nNot a future utopia, no.\n\nBut the future, certainly. The city they glimpsed from the back alleys where they worked was strange and fabulous. As nearly as they could tell, the complex was stratified, with an upper crust that reveled in techno-wonders, a vast majority that lived ample lives, and a lower caste that did the grunt work. Not exactly a fresh idea.\n\nThere were technologies Nikka and Nigel were sure had not existed anywhere in the esty in their era. The Grey Mech had slammed them into a future far from their comforts.\n\nIto persisted. \"This rumor, it said maybe the Chairwoman will listen to us again.\"\n\nNigel studied his son's face, trying to think clearly despite the spreading ache in his lower back from stooping, and the silent blanket of fatigue that had spread over him. Still an hour left in this work day. \"That's not a rumor. Who told you?\"\n\nIto looked edgy as he swept back a greasy tangle of hair. \"Tonogan. She wants to see you.\"\n\n\"You've been negotiating with her?\"\n\n\"Not really.\"\n\n\"Which means?\"\n\n\"Well, maybe some.\"\n\n\"The family has to speak with one voice, as you full well know.\"\n\nIto chewed his lip. \"Well, _you_ aren't doing anything.\"\n\n\"I'm waiting her out.\"\n\n\"Her waiting's easier than ours.\"\n\n\"She wants our property. It's probably worth a lot more than you or I think.\"\n\nIto flared, mouth twisting. \"How can we know _what_ to think? We're stuck down in basements and alleys all day, busting our humps, getting flat nothing\u2014\"\n\nNigel sat on a trash can and kicked at a brown flask, still corked but empty. He had never thought of the far future as a place of ordinary junk and grit, much of which a medieval peasant would have instantly recognized.\n\n\"Right,\" he conceded, \"it's not playing out well. That Chairwoman\u2014what a bland name for a tyrant!\u2014seems bound by what passes for law here. She can't simply take what she wants. There are procedures.\"\n\n\"I can't see where we have any rights at all.\"\n\n\"This place seems to work through intimidation, rather than rights.\"\n\nIto chuckled dryly. \"With a frosting of polite brutality, I bet.\"\n\nNigel nodded. The family was getting depressed and, quite so, the Chairwoman could exert arcane legalisms to keep them like this indefinitely.\n\n\"Dad, you're in over your head here. That fall you took last week was nasty and I can see you're still limping\u2014\"\n\n\"Scarcely felt it.\"\n\nThe slow, steady ache in his left leg never left him. Somehow he had not thought that the far future would still have pain in it, either. _I saw too much rosy-visioned Walt Disney,_ he thought tartly. Would anybody in this whole cupped city recognize that ancient name? Of course not.\n\n\"So I just took it on myself to talk a li'l to Tonogan\u2014\"\n\n\"Without telling anyone. Breaching the family's\u2014\"\n\n\" _You_ weren't doing a goddamn thing to\u2014\"\n\n\"That's enough.\"\n\nTonogan had come into the alley without their noticing. She was sleekly dressed in gray-black, a thin club like a riding crop tapping on her thigh. Nigel gestured to Ito to be cautious.\n\nShe said, \"I gather from your son that you might be in a mood to renegotiate.\"\n\n\"You're just in time,\" Nigel said, sitting up straight. \"I was about to leave for my exercise at the gymnasium.\"\n\n\"Very funny. Remember, I have your medical indices.\"\n\n\"Not much privacy in this place, is there?\" Nigel inquired lightly of his son.\n\nShe ignored this, adding, \"Including fatigue factors.\"\n\n\"Quite. We really must thank you for a bracing round of workouts. We're getting into terrific condition.\"\n\n\"You would be funny if your situation beed not so pathetic.\"\n\n\"Can't say the same for you, alas.\"\n\nTonogan sat irritably on another trash can and said she would like to explain \"certain things.\" Nigel gave Ito a warning glance: be cautious.\n\nAs she talked he became reasonably sure that they were setting him up. Not very subtly, either. Greed dulled even keen minds.\n\nHe stalled, amused by her impatience. He had known an approach would come but had not suspected Ito as the channel. Still, Nikka had accurately predicted Tonogan's pattern to him, fully a week before. Despite his worn face she would try a bit of coquetry first, perhaps offer him a drink. And here it came, from a thermos, cutting and heady. Then very earnestly, with much show of concern, she would warn him.\n\n\"I know not if I can protect you from the Chairwoman.\"\n\n\"Who could?\"\n\n\"Nobody ever insulted her that way. Much less hitted her and lived.\"\n\n\"Surely she's been spanked, at least by her mother. Probably by you, eh?\" A slight loft of eyebrow; a little TwenCen kink, here; see if it translates across the cultural abyss.\n\n\"Be serious!\" A pretty scowl, not really convincing. \"She could have killed you right there.\"\n\n\"She could have tried.\"\n\n\"She be a very dangerous woman. I can help you with her, though. I telled her later that you didn't really mean it.\"\n\n\"But I did.\"\n\n\"You know not what you be doing!\"\n\n\"Tell her I want an apology.\"\n\n\"You be stranger, but that no excuse.\" Her eyes jerked in a frenzy of expressiveness. Overacting, Nigel thought. A rather bad case. He yawned.\n\n\"Listen, I talked to her, calmed her down. She sayed that she would accept some of your goods in trade for your life.\"\n\n\"Goods?\"\n\nAn elaborate shrug. \"Some of your gadgets might be worth, well, a little.\"\n\n\"Ummm. That's her final offer?\"\n\n\"Absolutely. You have a standard day to agree. Miss that and she shows no mercy.\"\n\n\"I see. Tell her I make the same offer.\"\n\n\"What?\" Disbelief\u2014genuine this time.\n\n\"Give me some trinket and I won't kill her.\"\n\n\"You be _mad._ \"\n\n\"That will come out even. I don't kill her, she doesn't kill me. We'll call the trinkets even, too.\"\n\n\"Insults mean something here. I know not what made you float that ridiculous story about Earth, but wherever you be from, you cannot talk this way. And to hit the Chairwoman!\"\n\nTonogan was working herself into a lather and seemed even to believe what she was saying. Astonishing talk poured from her. Nigel never took quite enough account of the fact that people believe in the most ridiculous things, simply because others did, too. Such as the absolute authority of a single fat woman in a baggy robe.\n\nIto injected, \"Dad, stop kidding around. This Chairwoman is the real authority here, never mind how she looks.\"\n\nNigel looked at his son and said mildly, \"It's what she says that makes me doubt her mental balance. Whatever political system they've got here, it's awry.\"\n\nTonogan's perfect yellow teeth massaged her lower lip and Nigel saw he had guessed right; even the Chairwoman's minions thought she was askew. The moment passed and Tonogan said precisely, \"I should not speak of such things, I suppose, but . . . she will torture you before you die, do you not realize that?\"\n\n\"Um.\" He drew a long face. So things were even worse than he thought. He shook his head. Perhaps Ito's caution had been good advice. Well, too late now.\n\nTonogan added, \"And all your friends.\"\n\n\"Family, actually. Go tell her.\"\n\n\"Your childs! She will\u2014\"\n\n\"Go.\" He pointed and she went.\nELEVEN\n\nSphincter Frequency\n\nThey would come in with all sorts of high-tech stuff, of course. Unfathomable stuff. So he went low-tech.\n\nThere were tinny, ceramic throwaway cans in hallways\u2014people's manners never improved\u2014and he took a bag of them back to the family lair. With spoons stuck in them they were so dumb and so simple an alarm that they might work.\n\nNikka volunteered doubtfully, \"I could see about sealing the doors and windows better.\"\n\n\"Locks're useful only against the slovenly.\"\n\n\"What if they try something when we're working?\"\n\n\"We're too spread out, in different labor crews.\"\n\n\"You think they'll do something to the entire family? And here?\"\n\nNigel considered. \"No, unless I misjudge that monstrosity of a woman. Something to humiliate me and sober the rest.\"\n\nNikka sat back, startled. Their tiny \"dining\" table was chipped and worn and her hands clasped each other with a tension her face never showed. He remembered that this sense of inner forces well marshaled was what had first drawn him to her, long ago. \"They'll beat you? In front of us?\"\n\nAs a matter of fact Nigel thought exactly that. Some methods simply could not be improved upon. This was a strange culture, true, but he was getting the feel of it. Still, to quiet her fears he said, \"Too obvious.\"\n\n\"Some techtrick?\"\n\n\"Fellow on my work gang told me those white rods the police carry are acoustic projectors. The disk at the end focuses a wave at the resonant frequency of muscles.\"\n\nNikka shivered. She always hated the description of violence, though when necessity demanded, she could quite easily commit it. \"Sounds awful.\"\n\n\"They usually tune it to the frequency of the sphincter.\"\n\nShe made a face. He laughed.\n\nThey were tired all the time now. Not physically so much\u2014before, they had all worked long orchard hours and danced late into the night\u2014but from uncertainty and dejection. Their bedrooms were cramped, bare, and muggy with damp heat. The only sizable area was the living room, entered by a door off a fetid corridor. A depressing hovel.\n\nProbably a little call after they had fallen asleep, then. _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,_ as Mozart, dead now over thirty thousand years, had put it. A little night music.\n\nNigel did not see much of a way to get in other than the flimsy front door and the two windows on an air shaft. They were ten stories up the bare sheet metal shaft, an unlikely approach. Thugs were lazy, in his experience.\n\nThe spoon trick would only give slight warning. What real defenses did they have? No weapons better than a kitchen knife.\n\nAgainst the protests of everyone he took to sleeping on a thin pallet beside the front door. The door swung open toward the pallet but the uneven floor matting stopped it before it could touch him.\n\nHe did not mind sleeping that way, though he did miss Nikka's soft embrace. The pallet was thick enough for his knobby joints and the perpetual murmur of arguments and kitchen racket from the air shaft was subdued there, away from the windows. He slept there for a week. Sleep came easier and deeper because he was getting more tired from the work and a growing hopelessness. He woke one night and thought somberly of where all this was going and then a clatter came nearby as a can and spoon made momentary music together. The door's slight scrape had probably dragged him up from a fitful dream.\n\nHe got up quickly. They would have infrared gear, but he was shielded by the door. He, on the other hand, had nothing and did not know where they were. He went flat against the door. No sound. They were probably hoping that nobody would rouse, so they could carry out their plan.\n\nThey? Something told him there was only one other presence here. A slight whisk of breath from his right. That fit the humiliating beating scenario, all the worse for being imposed by a single thug. Probably the fellow would use stunners to immobilize the rest of the family.\n\nWhere was he? In the long moment after the alarm nothing had moved. His heart thudded into its future at a startling pace while his breaths came\u2014shallow, keep them shallow\u2014in a measured six per minute. He strained into the blank darkness.\n\n _Remember that you are old and a bit lacking in endurance. Quick work is the best._\n\nThere\u2014a sudden shadow, stepping fast. Nigel launched himself at the man's back, hit\u2014and slammed him forward.\n\nNo point in trying for an injury. Arms around, quick. Don't let him use his hands. A heavy thunk as something hit the floor. Maybe the stunner.\n\nHead down, butt him in the direction he had been going. Another step. Get some push in it. Another. The man's legs were rummaging for purchase, wanting to stop. Mid-course correction here\u2014veer left. Toward the rectangle of light. Nigel knew he could be flipped aside by some martial arts trick but if he kept the speed up\u2014\n\nTo the window, the soft glow showing this man to be big and grasping for something on his hip. Gun, probably.\n\nVery well\u2014without pause, Nigel lifted with his arms. The man was trying to turn but momentum was inarguable. The body came off the floor and chunked into the windowsill.\n\nHe was heavy and solid but his mass turned on the hinge of the windowsill. Nigel lost his grip on the man then and a fist hit him full in the mouth. He staggered back. Taste of blood. A second fist clipped him. The man was still on the window lip. A short _ah_ as the flailing shadow realized that the window had been thoughtfully left open.\n\nNigel lunged forward. The man was quick and hit him hard in the throat. All Nigel had was kinetics working for him. He did not let the punch stop him and crashed into the man. He clutched the windowsill to stop himself.\n\nThe other could not. Toppling: over and out.\n\n _Wilco, Roger, over and out._ You never forgot the slang of youth. The body seemed to shrink in the gloom, diminishing as it tumbled. A thin scream came back, echoing on the sheet metal.\n\nA wet smack. Then nothing. In the cinder-red glow from the city curving to the horizon he saw shadows scurry away below.\n\nThe backup team? Well, they seemed to have lost interest.\n\nHe heard a scramble behind him as Ito slammed shut the door. Anyone who tried next would find a family armed with odd blunt instruments.\n\nHe sighed. Satisfying. The view from here must be wonderful when there was enough light to see it. He had never been off the work gang when the timestone bristled with light, flooding the city with a torrent of heat and light. But then in reasonable light he would have never been able to play an old man's trick. There were compensations. He felt the damp heat glow of the ruddy timestone on his cheeks and felt no remorse whatever. Maybe this was maturity. Odd, how much like callousness it would seem from the outside. Made one wonder about assessments of others.\n\nHe thought about that, listening for noises in the inky lands below. No conclusions.\n\nThere seldom were. Maybe that was maturity, too.\nTWELVE\n\nGrudging Respect\n\nOn the way to their audience with the Chairwoman they glimpsed zones of the city. A temple housing a single hair from the beard of some prophet whose very name was lost. Meat grilled in the open with dust-and-flies marinade. A church made entirely of cloth. One of the side effects of religious sites, Nikka remarked, was that some were so ludicrous that the whole lot fell into disrepute by association. Tonogan, who escorted them, seemed affronted that they regarded such buildings as mere examples of eccentric architecture. Nigel remembered his mother's similar reaction to his opinions on the ideas behind the Church of England.\n\nThe Chairwoman was even less pleased. \"I could look into the body found in your shaft, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes, I wish you would,\" Nigel answered. \"He screamed dreadfully. Woke up the neighbors. Anyone you knew?\"\n\n\"I would hardly\u2014\"\n\n\"My son found some gear he apparently had.\" Nigel held up a chunky instrument of enigmatic tiny black boxes.\n\n\"I see not\u2014\"\n\n\"Makes you wonder what it's used for, doesn't it?\"\n\nIn the peculiar custom of this place, their killing an agent of the Chairwoman afforded them some grudging respect, even some protection. People who mentioned the subject at all seemed to regard it as more like an audacious chess move than an act of violence, commending applause rather than revenge. The code also had ruled that the toughs sent to humiliate them were not physically augmented, as Tonogan was\u2014a vestige of the TwenCen's notion of a fair fight.\n\nEvery era has its oddities, but Nikka had pointed out that a constant of urban populations was the glamorizing of marginally criminal acts. This bit of theory had made Nigel bold enough to taunt Tonogan when she had come to call. Their ploy had been naughty, but somehow admirable.\n\nThe large purple woman settled on her divan and regarded them all disdainfully. \"I will make you a reasonable offer on your property.\"\n\nNikka said, \"We only need enough to take us away from here. We want to keep our buildings.\"\n\n\"Why? You cannot afford to return to your Lane.\"\n\nIto said flatly, \"We want the buildings. That's final.\" The family had decided on that and Nigel was pleased to see Ito showing that they could not be split, as Tonogan had tried.\n\nNikka said, more pointedly, \"If we can't buy a short transit, how about a long one?\"\n\nThe Chairwoman's face, which was usually animated despite looking for most purposes like a wad of dough with raisins stuck in for eyes, became blank. \"How did you . . . ?\"\n\n\"Old folks aren't entirely useless,\" Nikka said brightly. \"I nosed around.\"\n\n\"Carnivorous curiosity,\" Nigel added. \"She turned up the fact that the energy density in a wormhole is higher if it's tightly curved.\"\n\nNikka nodded. \"And the cost of making a transit goes up with the energy density.\"\n\n\"Umm.\" The Chairwoman's mouth turned crabby. \"I did not think you would work that out.\"\n\n\"Offer us terms. We want\u2014\" Nikka rattled off a long list, headed by the use of a Causality Engine\u2014polarized, of course.\n\n\"You realize that you'll have to make several jumps, further and further into esty-cords? And then several back?\" The Chairwoman seemed genuinely interested, not merely angling for advantage.\n\n\"We'll need pressure skins, too,\" Nikka confirmed.\n\nA curt nod. \"You truly wish to risk that?\"\n\n\"We must,\" Angelina said. \"We want to go _home._ \"\n\nNigel nodded, not daring to speak. This was the crucial moment, he could feel it. Home. Back to a world he could understand, off the grand stage. For at least a while. Something told him that he would be forced back into the operatics of Earthers and mechanicals and Old Ones, eventually. But not now. Not while they still had family and blissfully finite horizons.\n\nThe Chairwoman eyed them. \"You are more courageous than you look, you Walmsleys.\"\n\nShe agreed to the financial details with a suddenness and phony casualness that masked a disagreeable defeat. Not that the Walmsleys had made any appreciable dent in her bureaucrat's world, he was sure. They would not have survived that. Sometimes, Nigel thought, it was of more use to be an irritant\u2014so long as you didn't get slapped like a pesky insect.\n\nDeal done, the Chairwoman was cordial. In a mannered fashion, apparently part of a set ritual marking successful negotiations, she arranged herself in a helical hammock\u2014\n\napparently a sign of informality here\u2014and remarked, \"No one ever choosed this before.\"\n\nNigel asked, \"Why? We aren't particularly brilliant. It's obvious.\"\n\n\"Obvious, yes. But untried. Dangerous.\"\n\nNikka looked wary. \"Going further in cords is how much more dangerous?\"\n\n\"We of this city and Lane know more than you.\" She sniffed. \"We have seen the bodies.\"\nTHIRTEEN\n\nOnly Barbarians\n\nOf course they asked what _the bodies_ were. Officials grimaced but did as the Chairwoman said, and within a day they were ushered into a cool, starkly lit vault.\n\nThe family had looked at each other with dismay when they realized that here, corpses from the esty were held as volumes in a kind of library. Many times the family had debated and regretted their handling of the woman's corpse, which had precipitated their exile. Here the rare emergence of a carcass from the esty was greeted with anticipation and also a sort of dread, for invariably the cadavers proved to come from the future of the esty.\n\nNigel's elation at their negotiation trickled away as he looked at the pale, emaciated corpse of a middle-aged man, kept suspended somehow. A mass of tiny magnetic readers crowned the head. They could \"read him\" quite well, a technician told them. \"Isotope analysis shows he's from one point three million years uptime.\"\n\n\"What did he die of?\" asked Nikka, ever the tech type.\n\n\"Radiation burns.\"\n\n\"Any memories?\"\n\nThe young man blinked owlishly. \"Some. Missing the short-term recall, of course.\"\n\nMemories, indeed. Fractured pictures. The same hazy sky, mapped in the 0.511 million electron Volt line. Only far more developed, with ornate structures corkscrewing across a mottled ruby sky.\n\nMore: a bleak landscape marked off by boxy monuments. Among these crawled three-wheeled things that appeared to be not vehicles but living creatures.\n\n\"Or mechs,\" Nigel said crisply.\n\n\"Who was he?\" Nikka asked pensively.\n\n\"We cannot really understand that. He does not have the personality signatures we know. All I can unscramble be images. What these pictures mean, we can say not.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"He haved different cerebral organization. Internal organs be altered, too. He be another species.\"\n\nAngelina was shocked. \"He looks like us!\"\n\nThe pale young man shrugged. \"Tinker with the insides all you want, but keep the outside looking the same. Otherwise, people beed nervous.\"\n\n\"That's why you can't get much from their minds?\" Angelina pressed him.\n\n\"That, and cultural differences. This fellow did not look at the world the way we do. It shows up in how he stored memories.\"\n\nNigel found all this depressing. More bodies, but still no one, not even pale pedants, understood why.\n\nWhen they went to sign off on the arrangements, the Chairwoman herself appeared. \"You're going into mech-dominated territory, you know,\" she said severely.\n\nNigel guessed that she was having second thoughts about the deal. Or maybe her ego was getting in the way again. Not uncommon, he thought wanly. \"You're sure?\"\n\n\"We receive no dead mechs coming back through the esty Vors. Only humans.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\" Nikka asked pointedly.\n\n\"We pay close attention. The Old Ones make sure of that.\" She snorted with frustration.\n\n\"Why?\" Nigel persisted.\n\n\"The old questions. You have them even in your time, um?\" A speculative look, then she recited as if from memory. \"First, they want to know what the mechs want up there in the far future. Plenty of mechs goed into the future one-way, using Vors.\"\n\n\"To carry information forward?\" Nikka asked.\n\n\"Possibly. The Old Ones want to find out why.\"\n\n\"And stop it?\" Nigel asked.\n\n\"I suppose. Or at least understand.\"\n\nNikka nodded. \"So do we.\"\n\nThe Chairwoman plainly could see no percentage in such foolhardiness. \"Why? The esty's trouble enough if you just sit still in it.\"\n\n\"Carnivorous curiosity,\" Nigel said.\n\nShe snorted. \"A child's reasoning. If you could see the things I do just to keep us tipped up\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes?\" Angelina asked. Nigel was happy to see her speak up, for she had been cowed by this place. \"Why _do_ you tilt your city?\"\n\nThe Chairwoman said scornfully, \"Why, it be _beautiful._ Only barbarians would even think of asking.\"\nFOURTEEN\n\nGrey Mech\n\nThe mecurial Chairwoman invited them to sleep on her personal estate as they arranged details for their esty transit. This proved to be the same ornate, almost satirically baroque villa where they had met her. They had entered by the back door, amid thronged streets; the true entrance gave onto a cantilevered view of the cupped city, from the uppermost rim of it.\n\nLarge birds, some with shiny teeth and even lips, hung on the winds off the Chairwoman's balcony. One swooped near and eyed them, as if sizing up a meal. It was half the size of a man. Here gravity eased, lending everything an airy lightness that reminded Nigel of getting drunk but suffering no consequences. Still, the toothy birds smiled at them with unnerving assurance. They went back inside.\n\nThe next waning lasted quite long. Somehow the city could influence the pulses of brilliant glow emitted by the timestone, shaping them to a roughly regular schedule: dark about a third of the time, enough to sleep if you were not too tired.\n\nNobody here seemed to get tired. Noisy, chaotically colorful, they rushed about a lot. Nikka wondered aloud if this was just their Old Fart bewilderment at the pointless energy of the young. Nigel shook his head. He had harbored that notion for so long that he had passed through to another state, in which he ceased grasping for the fullness of life and let it come to him instead. It had taken him centuries to realize that joy and pain were equally biting and rewarded close inspection equally little. They were just _there,_ like flowers. Better to take them for their flavors than their metaphors.\n\nThey stood again on the balcony with the Chairwoman, idle talk before bed, and across the distant porcelain sky shot something large and swift and somber. The Chairwoman's eyes widened. \"Grey Mech!\" she cried, and crashed to the marble floor.\n\nThin cries of panic from all across the cupped city below. Nigel studied the dusky, hovering presence with abstract interest, hands on a gleaming brass railing.\n\n\"Get _down_!\" Nikka called to him from her knees, hidden from view.\n\nThe Grey Mech rushed toward them, accelerating from high up. A chorus of despairing shouts came up to him from the expanse of streets and glassy buildings below. Casually he turned and walked inside.\n\n\"Probably wasn't after us,\" he said to Nikka as they stood in an elaborate ballroom. People rushed through, panicked, calling hoarsely to each other.\n\n\"We can't be sure,\" she said nervously.\n\n\"Come now. We aren't remotely important to\u2014\"\n\nThe crash blew in the far wall. Hammer-hard impact, then an eerie silence.\n\nIt buried them under heavy furniture. They learned later, as a medical type patched them up, that a section of the Grey Mech had detached and gone prowling over the city. Fire lanced up from weapons below. It deflected these with dismissive ease. It had sent interrogating bursts of electromagnetic energy into every possible device, quickly sectioning the city's grid, narrowing its search. The scrutiny sharpened upon this district but no further. Apparently it could not resolve whatever it sought. So the angular thing had fired pulses into the area, killing several hundred people and caving in the lower walls of the Chairwoman's villa.\n\nNigel nodded. \"You were right,\" he said mildly to Nikka. \"But why?\"\n\nThe Chairwoman had suffered some bruises but that did not explain her jittery anxiety, hands clenching and unclenching, face bluish white. \"Never did one attack us before. They be of the highest mech class, always ahead of our technology.\"\n\n\"I see not much has changed,\" Nikka said. \"It was the same in our era.\"\n\n\"They could slaughter us all.\" The Chairwoman eyed them warily. \"And they be after you?\"\n\n\"A mere hypothesis,\" Nigel said, yawning.\n\nNikka caught his glance and said, \"I'm still not happy with the provisions you've supplied.\"\n\n\"What?\" The Chairwoman scowled, then said automatically, \"We made a deal.\"\n\n\"We won't leave without\u2014\" and Nikka rattled off a further list.\n\nThe large woman opened her mouth and slowly closed it. \"You _must_ leave.\"\n\n\"No we don't,\" Nigel said.\n\nShe glowered. He could see her step through the logic. If these Walmsleys were of interest to a Grey Mech, best be rid of them and count yourself lucky. \"All right, the provisions\u2014but you go at first light.\"\n\nNikka nodded. Anything that drew the Grey Mech was bad for business.\n\n\"Still,\" Nigel said distantly, later, \"why should we be important?\"\n\n\"Maybe because of where we're headed?\" Nikka asked.\n\nThat night he lay on a sort of pliant water pillow with Nikka and they watched the snake-like dog come into their room and investigate them. It was apparently fairly intelligent and in fact head of security there. To questions it gave a nod of the head and abrupt, slurred _yhas_ or _noah._\n\nHe ignored it after a while and realized, staring out at the encased night of this Lane, that he had become married to a flat, unremarked fatality. Yet this did not carry with it any of the usual gloom of earlier times. Maybe this was new wisdom or maybe fatigue but in any case he did not want to piss his life away on nonsense. Much of what he had once believed and felt he now saw as foolishness or at least useless. On the other hand, some moments shone like jewels.\n\nHe shook off this mood by immersing himself in Nikka, the love between them now so distant from labored technical strenuosities that he found it yielding up what seemed most impossible of all, moments of pleasurable surprise. He slept soundly. In the musty morning half-light they awoke lingeringly together.\n\n\"That dog was in the room when we were going at it.\"\n\n\"I didn't mind. Perhaps by now they've evolved to the point where at the crucial moment they politely look away.\"\n\n\"Moment? You think it lasted only a moment?\"\n\n\"Well, let's say it was timeless.\"\n\n\"That's better. I do seem to recall the dog barking at an important point.\"\n\n\"Oh? I thought that was you.\"\nFIFTEEN\n\nTransit\n\nThe Causality Polarizer was mammoth, its compressive antennas perpetually yawning like vast bored mouths. They gaped in all six faces of an enormous, burnished ceramic cube. They reminded Nikka of speakers from a giant's stereo set, she remarked. These were the ten-kilohertz oscillators, delivering a terrawatt in short-wavelength gravitational waves.\n\nStill, Nigel liked the speaker analogy\u2014because that was how it felt. The family sheltered in a metallic capsule set beside their house, back among the familiar setting that had been wrenched away from their home Lane. It felt good to simply be there, but from the moment he got into the capsule he fidgeted uneasily. The countdown did not help.\n\n\"The point of making a wormhole sprout out of a Lane is that you really can't do it by yourself,\" Nikka told him. \"Takes astronomically too much energy, or more accurately, density of energy. The best we can do is ripple the esty surface, find a weak spot\u2014a place where the Casimir force is substantial.\"\n\n\"Who was Casimir?\" Angelina asked.\n\n\"Who cares? He saw that in a true vacuum, there would be a force, one you could harness.\"\n\n\"As we are about to?\" Angelina looked skeptical.\n\n\"Of course.\" Nikka had on her _See?\u2014obvious!_ expression.\n\n\"So when we have to travel in a big loop to get home, that means we have to go into the future?\" Nigel liked scientific ideas but he did not like having to think like a pretzel.\n\n\"There is a lot more future than past. The universe is only fifteen billion years old. The future's almost infinite.\"\n\nNikka seemed to think that finished off the idea. Nigel ventured, \"Approximately infinite. Interesting concept. So there's a much greater chance that any leg of our trip will go into the future?\" and she rewarded him again with her daintily amused _See?\u2014obvious!_ smile.\n\nIto scowled in the last moments before Transit and asked warily, \"How dangerous is this?\"\n\nShe shrugged. She was no stranger to trauma and death and did not think much about it. \"Not very, unless we hit a stutter.\"\n\n\"What's that me\u2014\" was all Ito had time for before the pulverizing wall of sound struck their capsule.\n\nPain stretches time.\n\nThe vibrations confirmed his fears. They seemed to go on for a sluggish, pounding eternity, though Nikka later told them offhandedly that it had been only forty-four seconds. Of agony.\nSIXTEEN\n\nTime Is a Horizon\n\nShaken, they popped open the capsule lock. They found themselves among their home and outbuildings, with the same slice of orchard as before\u2014all resting atop a sliding mass of luminous timestone. To all sides a box canyon rose, shrouded in lemon-hot vapor.\n\nThey got out and breathed cold, thin air but kept their pressure skins on anyway. Nikka calculated from the capsule's instruments and decided that they had squeezed through the momentarily pulsating wormhole, traversing an esty-displacement of several million kilometer-years.\n\n\"Could be millions of klicks away and at exactly the same time we left,\" she said calmly, \"or the same Lane, millions of years in the future.\" Wormholes tunneled between eras not at all like elevators linking floors of a building, but that was how Nigel persisted on thinking of them.\n\nThe ground shook. The plate of their property shifted uneasily on the timestone beneath.\n\n\"There's no way to tell which?\" Benjamin asked apprehensively.\n\n\"The Causality Engine had chaos built into it,\" Nikka answered, holding on to a capsule strut for support. \"We can't measure any better than this.\"\n\nNigel watched the distant sky, where more lava-like walls fumed and roiled. \"How long do we stay here?\"\n\n\"That's chaotic, too,\" Nikka said. \"But short. Looks to be maybe an hour or two. We'll have some warning of when the next Transit is coming.\"\n\nAngelina laughed, which startled the others. \"Until then we're free to enjoy the scenery?\" Despite their gathering unease, the family chuckled with her.\n\nAs if in answer, nearby cliffs oozed sulphurous light, complaining with slow groans. A sheet peeled off\u2014 _crack!_ \u2014and a sharp snap in the air knocked them flat. Here the esty was like skin, sloughing away layers so that more could grow. Compressed events evolved, brimmed, died.\n\nNigel knew from undergraduate days that mass curved space-time, but the inverse was still a surprise: compacted esty behaved like matter. Rendered as mass, events themselves were squeezed into slabs. Their endings brought forth explosive energies: literally, the end of history, for in these detonations data burst into phosphorescent energy, its true equivalent. The esty confirmed the final triumvirate of physics, one side of which Einstein had got right: mass was like energy was like information.\n\nThey went into their house, which had been fully provisioned by the Chairwoman's minions, and tried to act as though this was a kind of homecoming. They were hungry and ate something like steaks of beef to celebrate but the coming Transit made their talk edgy. Nigel went outside. Ostensibly it was to smoke one of his cigars, carefully kept chilled in the kitchen but scorned if lit inside. He did not like delivering his family into the hands of Causality Engines or \"intrinsic chaos\" or any other collection of jawbreaker words that in the end meant the world's casual indifference to human life and values. But he had no choice.\n\n\"It can't be helped. You know that,\" Nikka said. She had slipped beside him, her footsteps covered by the hollow crashing of timestone far up on the hazy curve of this spherical Lane.\n\n\"Should've let that body rot, moved away,\" he said morosely.\n\n\"We wouldn't be us, then.\"\n\n\"Is that so bad? Change your dance steps, learn a new tune.\"\n\n\"We're doing what we've always wanted to do. Looking long, you used to call it.\"\n\n\"Quite.\" He sighed. \"I always wanted to see over the far horizon. This\u2014\"\n\n\"Time is a horizon, too.\"\nSEVENTEEN\n\nTransit; Wait\n\n _S tochastic._\n\nNot a word he liked, too pedantic, when all it meant was chaos, disorder, the fitful randomness of life and esty. Their gravitationally transduced energy propelled their wedge of local esty through the worm in jolting, stochastic motions.\n\nTransit; wait. Transit; wait.\n\nThey never knew precisely how long they would stay at any of the pauses along this worm-Vortex. They could watch the surroundings, but feared to venture out. They ate up their provisions this way as their frustration built.\n\nNo map of the esty was possible. Its contorted geometry roiled with fitful energies, a rubbery, sliding turmoil. Lanes were often long, snaky, bulging into spheres and lopsided bubbles without warning, stretching to expose fresh, wrenched topographies of timestone.\n\nSometimes their pause-points were in the same Lane, so they watched its speeded-up evolution. As timestone evolved by its own kinetics, topsoil tumbled and spilled in great alluvial fans. Beaten beneath hammering rains that accompanied the changes, the soil molded into new hills and valleys below the craggy peaks of freshly emerging timestone. Life was resilient, adapting. In bright canyons trees tunneled up from recent burials, and most plants could survive a temporary churning to emerge into the stone's own waxing radiance again.\n\nNikka got grim-faced when Ito and Benjamin wanted to explore the nearby Lanes they intersected. \"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Ask your mother. She'll tell you that it's 'stochastic.'\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"We're not desperate enough yet.\"\n\nBut they were running short of food and Ito was restless, Nigel saw, beyond his endurance. After a full-scale family argument over the big polished dining room table they decided to let both Ito and Benjamin forage. Nikka, Angelina, and Nigel spent an anxious time awaiting their return as the timer on the capsule ticked down to the next Transit.\n\nWith only an hour to spare, and Nikka muttering that the uncertainty in such calculations was more than two hours, easy, they came across the rugged timestone at a trot, backpacking food. Benjamin said they had seen nothing much but, as Nigel had guessed, Ito had reveled in it.\n\nThey voyaged on, Transiting and pausing and watching the long slow epic of organic life-forms and mechs in the lands beyond. Usually they were isolated on a timestone terrain. Sometimes battles raged in the distance and they anxiously watched the unknown combatants, hoping to be ignored.\n\nUsually they were, but several times mechs had cruised overhead and twice Ito and Benjamin had knocked them down with glee, using projection weapons the Chairwoman had sold them. Probably they were lucky, having the advantage of surprise in this era, but Nigel made them stop it because luck did not last forever.\n\nThey got into worse trouble at the next pause. Here a passing woman told them that the mechs had launched a new plague, wind-borne and virulent. Nine out of ten in her city had died. The Walmsleys gave her food and she went on and that night they came down with it, too. Fever, violent dysentery, sinuses clotted with yellow spongy growths. Ito had walking dreams, seeing the gates of a private hell and struggling to run through them to some glimpsed reward. Nigel and Angelina grabbed him and held him down for hours before the delusions passed in a fit of sweating babble that spilled from Ito's mouth like a river of hallucination, so wild that Nikka\u2014a part of her always dispassionate, even with her own children\u2014wrote some of it down.\n\nThe delusions struck Nigel next and unloosened in him the many haunted memories that accompany anyone who chooses to live long.\n\n\u2014Cramped spacecraft maneuvering near Earth's crisp white moon.\n\n\u2014Swimming darkly through the icy waters of a moon, into an interior ocean filmed with kilometers of ancient ice.\n\n\u2014Winds blowing acid dust in his face as aliens like huge radio antennas lumbered toward him in the frying heat.\n\n\u2014Their aching long flight to reach the esty, in search of refuge from a galaxy that seemed filled to overspilling with mechs.\n\nHe spoke of these, sputtering in the warm spray of dislocated words, and could not recognize his own foot sticking naked at the other end of the bed, or the blood he coughed up, or even the perpetual frown that furrowed Nikka's face in the dim night.\n\nThe only factor that saved them was their simple distance in esty-coordinates, he realized later. The mech-made virus was so tuned to the humans of this place-period that it missed them by a hair. So they merely groaned and sweated and fouled themselves, the disease taking a full week to work its way through each. They carried it through three pauses and were out of food again by the time they could all walk without shaky knees.\nEIGHTEEN\n\nMarching\n\nEvidence of mech-wrought damage lay everywhere. Charred cities, blasted landscapes, bedraggled populations torn by raids.\n\nOnce, while they were foraging for information and food, a mech caught Nigel and Angelina in the open. It was crawler type and burned Angelina pretty badly before he could knock out its mainmind. When he saw how much Angelina was suffering he put her to sleep with a sedative and while waiting for it to take full effect in a rage he pulled off the mech's working arm and used it to bash in the carapace, letting himself go completely to the sheer boiling energy of it. Then he carried Angelina across his back, barely reaching their farm buildings before he collapsed. He was sobered for days afterward as he watched her recover, fevered sweat glazing her eyes.\n\nSeen through the prism of the esty, Nigel thought as he tended his daughter, life was like a long march, an endless column of forlorn souls moving forward through surrounding dark. Locked into their own eras, nobody knew where they were going. Still, in every society they glimpsed, there was plenty of talk and the fools pretended to understand more than they were saying. There was merry laughter, too, and somebody was always passing a bottle around.\n\nBut now and then somebody stumbled, didn't catch himself right, lurched aside and was gone, left behind. The dead.\n\nSliding timewise-forward, sometimes backward, poking their heads out where the chaotics of the harnessed worm commanded, Nigel saw the long mortal march in snatches, which made it all the more telling.\n\nWhole societies eventually joined the individual dead. For them the march stopped at that moment. Maybe some had a while longer, lying back there on the hard ground, already wreathed in fog\u2014time to watch the parade dwindle away, carrying on its lights and music and raucous jokes.\n\n _For us the dropouts are back there somewhere,_ he thought, _fixed in a murky landscape we're already forgetting._\n\nHe could recall others who had stayed behind, years ago. With a little sigh or a grunt of agony or just a flickering of fevered eyelids, they left the human march. No longer did they know the latest jokes or the savor of a fresh bottle of wine, or what the hottest rumors were about. The march saddened him. He remembered friends long lost, wished he could tell them what was up nowadays, share a laugh or a lie.\n\nAs he read his latest indices, now covertly so that Nikka did not see, he thought, _Right\u2014and the point, you brooding old bulk, is that you know your station above the tide of time is temporary. That persistence is your only virtue beyond theirs, and it is artificial. That someday you would catch an ankle and go down and the murk would swallow you, too. Maybe it would be better if you didn't have that puzzled, startled moment of staring at the retreating heads, the faces already turning away from you. Maybe it was best if you couldn't hear that last parting round of hollow laughter from a joke you would never know, the golden lantern light already shining on them and not on you._\n\n _And it will happen to everyone you have known or ever will._\n\nSomehow he never got used to that.\nNINETEEN\n\nStorytelling\n\nThey could flee in space-time, but biology followed. They all had a relapse of the mech-made plague, far milder but bad enough.\n\nIto recovered first. When he simply announced that he was going out for provisions, in the pause they had just come to, no one could mount more than feeble resistance. The next Transit was days away, the probability indices said.\n\n\"Probably! Only probably!\" his mother protested weakly.\n\n\"There's no 'probably' about our starving, though,\" Ito said grimly. So he left.\n\nThe time passed in fever and worry. But they all were better by the time Ito returned, loaded down and with a bad leg wound.\n\nTo Nigel the sight of his oldest coming through their front door was like the sun coming out after a night that had lain on them all like a sullen lid. As he helped Ito store the vegetables and fruit, he felt a difference in his son. Dinner that evening drove the difference home. Ito spoke more directly, clearly, face free of the stretched tensions Nigel remembered from late adolescence.\n\nLike many men and women compelled to action by restlessness of body and spirit, Ito had no interest in the notion of adventure. But he knew storytelling well enough to see what people saw in it and so recounted with accurate detail incidents that seemed ordinary to him, arising out of necessity:\n\n\u2014the mech like a snake which attached itself to his leg and could not be dislodged (he found, while bellowing in frustrated rage) except by finally singing to it;\n\n\u2014towns built aslant and of both surpassing beauty and stunning ugliness;\n\n\u2014aliens galore, who treated him with utter indifference, while he found them fascinating;\n\n\u2014the beheading of a woman for unspeakable acts she had performed with a mech, which was both horrifying and puzzling, for no one could explain the mech's motivation, while the woman's seemed to lie within the known range of human perversions;\n\n\u2014a mech religion which worshiped animals exclusively, attributing to them a natural wisdom;\n\n\u2014a castle of glass through which the passerby could see the inhabitants living out their lives under constant scrutiny, never concealing even the most private acts;\n\n\u2014a waterfall that rose upward and formed ice at its summit, building a glinting blue-white mountain.\n\nNigel realized as they went to bed that his son had made a transit of his own, one that few speak of and most do not recognize until years after.\nTWENTY\n\nGenerations\n\nOn they voyaged, slipping through sheets of esty, tugged by the energy flux of the worm. Nikka rigged an optical sensor on their capsule's outside and they saw, slowed enormously, the instant of Transit. A filmy sheen formed around their farm, contours rippling.\n\nThough in their simple picture a wormhole was like a tube passing between floors of a building, the floors different space-times\u2014a glinting needle piercing ebony esty cloth\u2014the worm was in fact three-dimensional in their frame.\n\nAt the shaved second when they passed through, the worm was a flickering spherical glaze. It swelled, swallowed them, then dwindled away to a point\u2014which vanished with a spray of golden brilliance and stomach-turning torques. To Nigel it felt as if he were climbing up his own chilly vertebrae.\n\nThey watched the esty beyond their small area, sometimes for mere minutes before it changed again. Scenes and lands flickered beyond their small preserve. They witnessed eras with no visible human presence, others with jammed cities teetering on shaky timestone, still more with no atmosphere\u2014so their pressure skins _snick_ ed shut immediately when they emerged\u2014and others with virulent, acrid gases for air. Some pauses were long enough to venture forth.\n\nThrough all this Nigel and Nikka reached a new equilibrium, a sweet sad realization spawned from the vistas of time they had traversed. There were myriad incidents\u2014some small and telling, others large and dangerous and finally meaningless, and they all pointed toward the heartache and matching joy of humanity itself.\n\nThey met, in glancing fashion, teaming tribes, rich in spirit and intellect. Soldiers, who drank with gusto and ate with undisguised zest, though they knew they would face battles on the morrow that would probably decimate their ranks. Scholars, bent by their pilgrimages and ravaged by poverty, yet still warm with the satisfactions of the studies to which they had devoted their lives. Children, playing among the blackened ruins of their homes. Parents, rejoicing in their infants even as calamity closed in around them. In cities growing stranger still as they Transited further, people sang slow, sad songs in the streets even as mech forces gathered high in the Lane above, and crowds collected to see magicians perform tricks and make ancient jokes, all greeted with raucous laughter. Among the few dazed survivors of other assaults, on other twisted landscapes, the Walmsleys met stoic survivors who nonetheless found fresh loves, new friends, and began again. Generations melted away and others came forth, with only a few managing to hang on to time for as long as Nikka and Nigel had, and through it all somehow a frail, brave, human light always streaked the surrounding shadows.\n\nThe old non sequitur, that species became degenerate as they went on, found no evidence here. Humanity bristled with activity. Societies rose and fell with stubborn indifference to earlier failures.\n\nIn the face of the inevitable end, and the inevitable questions, Nigel reflected, none is exempt: witness Jesus's wail of despair as he edged rather tentatively into eternity. He did not know what to make of such dogged human persistence. Nikka was less puzzled, and beamed with pride in her own kind.\nTWENTY-ONE\n\nInflection Point\n\nThey came to the far end of their curved worm's path through the esty. Nikka declared from the data, \"We've gotten damped into a stutter.\"\n\n\"Which is?\" Nigel stepped out into the local familiarity of their farm. Beyond, the lands were strangely shadowed.\n\n\"We're hung up, basically. The Vortex worm turns here\"\u2014she smiled at the small joke, much needed as the family grasped her point\u2014\"and begins an opposite curvature in the esty. We'll be going back from here on.\"\n\n\"Going home!\" Angelina cried happily, clapping her hands.\n\n\"But?\" Nigel was pensive.\n\nNikka gave him a rueful nod. \"But . . . we're stalled here, at the inflection point. We're retracing the same interval of time over and over.\"\n\n\"Stuttering in space-time.\" Nigel rolled the idea around in his mind.\n\nThey walked to the edge of their land. In what seemed like the solid mass beyond Nigel saw pale blades and soft blue shadows, as if deep somewhere a sun were setting. Radiant blades danced as if refracted beneath a lake's wind-blown skin, like summer's liveliness probing into a deep watery cavern. And as he watched, the whole thing repeated. And repeated.\n\nIt was unsettling and he nearly lost his footing, the way a man approaching a sheer drop goes weak in the legs even though still on solid ground. A mere crust kept him from an abyss.\n\n\"We're cycling through the same moment,\" Ito whispered. \"Over and over.\"\n\n\"Damn!\" Benjamin was not awed. He just wanted to go home.\n\nThen the scene jolted. Hills rose, bristling with raw rock. In jumpy, flashing images they watched the slopes weather, ruts cutting in. Peaks wore to knobs, hills slumped\u2014and strange spires rose, icy blue. Glaciers of eerie green slid through valleys. Nigel realized they were not glaciers at all but some immensely cold superfluid, in the terminal death of the farthest future. They were seeing the slices of time into which information still could be packed, wedges of instants harvested from an immense span of time. They could fathom the sliding immensities that wrecked mountains and oozed into nothingness, for they were witnessing physics and dynamics beyond the hinge of human time.\n\nThen, abruptly, they were back to the same endlessly cycling moment they had seen before. Somehow they had leaped far beyond, then back. They watched the repeating interval for a while but nothing more happened.\n\n\"Mom . . . How do we get out of a stutter?\" Angelina asked quietly.\n\n\"We don't do anything.\" Nikka stared at the timestone, which coiled incessantly like a pile of glowing snakes. \"We wait it out.\"\n\n\"How long?\" Benjamin looked at the seethe, distaste curling his lip.\n\nNigel wondered disagreeably whether the question meant anything, if time cycled outside. And space, too\u2014he could see the same shards rise and descend, rise and descend. But their little wedge of esty ran on its own time axis. Or so he thought. How would he know? His head began to hurt.\n\nNikka said, \"I'm afraid that is a stochastic variable, irreducible.\"\n\nNigel erupted, \" _Every_ thing's chaotic here!\"\n\nNikka smiled. \"Except you. You're perfectly predictable.\"\n\nThat made them all laugh, but it did not seem so funny after several days of edgy waiting.\n\nThen events beyond shifted.\n\nThe air turned cold with a sudden ferocity no planetary environment could ever match. And without any visible cause, the land began to evolve beyond their encapsulated chunk of farm.\n\n\"Is the stutter over?\" Angelina cried, excited.\n\n\"I don't know.\" Nikka frowned, deepening the crow's-feet of lines around her eyes. \"Time seems to be accelerating outside.\"\n\n\"We're holding fixed in space, sliding in time?\" Ito asked.\n\n\"Looks to be,\" Nikka said. Physics here seemed to Nigel to be largely a matter of opinion.\n\nThe sliding, coiling timestone was churning as before when a waning came, and the next waxing there were valleys, soil, plant life. The land here was cut and worked by unknowable forces and yet the weather also had ordinary touches: sudden showers, the drifting smell of sage, meat curing somewhere in a distant smokehouse.\n\nThe runoff storm water sorted itself out into streams and then slow-moving rivers lined with tuft-topped trees. The soil beside them sometimes shot up into a mottled sky. Jagged crests shaped as they watched, spikes raking cottony clouds.\n\nCautiously they hiked out into the new land. Oddly shaped creatures scampered among the rocks, dancing on webbed feet as though the ground were too hot to bear. The family went down a long grade and could see what looked like log houses at the feet of steep hills, windows glowing orange, dusky smoke blown so hard from their stone chimneys that it flattened along the roofs and trailed like flags down the valley. Through a cut in these hills they came into a dark bowl and a city spilled out like a shower of cinders stirred from an unseen fire, pinpoints going on as the light from the esty ebbed. But no people. Nigel realized that it was moving, the entire construction somehow crawling toward them. A city-thing, alive.\n\nHe wondered what it could contain. Was there anything more to surprise a burnt-out wreck like him? A place that could startle him and yet let him sleep peacefully?\n\nThough of course, he thought, nodding ruefully, he would still wake in the morning with the odd familiar gargoyle of fears sitting on his chest, peering into his face, grinning toothless and triumphant.\n\nAbruptly timestone jutted through the topsoil. It split and burned, jagged teeth raking the land. They ran back to their own area, barely making it.\n\nThe Grey Mech appeared shortly afterward.\nTWENTY-TWO\n\nFar Futures\n\nLying sorely in a crevice of timestone, much later, Nigel recalled a time long ago when contact had been possible between humanity and the bewildering zoo of mech constructs. He had bound up his broken left arm and waited for sleep to take him. He fixed upon the past because thoughts of where his family might be would do him no good. When he could walk again he would go look. That was all.\n\nSome mechs back then had convinced members of Nigel's own crew that existence as a mechanical creature was both better and longer lasting than the fragile life of \"organic\" creatures. So quite willingly some lower forms of the Grey Mech had \"incorporated\"\u2014their term\u2014several friends of his. \"Uplifting,\" they termed it.\n\nThe process was painless. As mechs his friends became contrived boxes mounted on skeletal frames. They moved about the landscape seldom and when Nigel had tried to talk to them about their lives they seemed distracted\u2014as if carrying on a telephone conversation while watching something more interesting on television, he thought. What they did say was bland, empty, and yet somehow chilling.\n\nHe had waited some years until he was again in the particular Lane where this had happened. He settled in behind some rocks at a goodly distance from where he knew the Grey Mech's lower forms sometimes came. The ones who had uplifted his friends.\n\nTheir sensors were good and he could not get too close. One of the under-forms appeared and he was sure of its identity by its electromagnetics, its spectral hiss and clang. He shot out its undercarriage. With a weapon whose physics he did not quite understand he put three holes through the main frame of it. The mech went silent, its electromagnetic buzzings winking off. Something small climbed out of it and tried to get away and Nigel shot it eight times with great satisfaction. He later learned that the other under-forms had been incorporated back into the Grey Mech so he had to be content with the one.\n\nOf this he dreamed, as his arm ached and his heart burned leaden in his chest.\n\nIt rained hard in the sullen dark. Vegetation beat at itself in the lashing winds. Lightning leapt across the sky. He could see the forks of yellow and green snaking high above where the esty folded over onto itself in a blithely twisted geometry.\n\nNo sign of the Grey Mech.\n\nNo, Grey Mech _s_ , he corrected himself. That had been a rather large error.\n\nTwo Grey Mechs had appeared in the Lane. Ashen, blocky, each headed for the buildings. He remembered the frozen tableau: Benjamin and Nikka and himself, scrambling for the segments of the Transit device. Ito and Angelina, turned to flee.\n\nTime was hopelessly warped here, he had conceded that long ago, but the same old question remained. Could he have done anything different?\nTWENTY-THREE\n\nVerge of Extinction\n\nIn the few seconds before the dusky shapes reached them he had shouted, \"Transducers!\"\u2014meaning the big pyramid-shaped wedges that transferred stored electrical energy into gravitational pulses.\n\n\"At _which_?\" Nikka yelled into a roaring, rising wind raised by the Grey Mechs.\n\nHis eyes jerked from one Grey Mech to the other. Nikka slapped her wrist to the console, popped the interface.\n\n _Which one?_ Both? Two ashen chunks with no visible means of flight. Pivoting on an unseen axis, in a sky they ripped with their passage.\n\nNot acting together. Each responding to the other's darting swerves.\n\nOne was closer, larger, coming fast, and in desperation he chose it. \"There!\"\n\nNikka aimed and fired the transducers in one quick swivel of her interface hand. The ground buckled with the release of acoustic power and they all three sprawled. The leading Grey Mech shuddered but came on.\n\nIto and Angelina never reached the house. The leading Grey Mech loosed a bolt that seemed to wrap itself like a scintillating blue-white cloak around them. They twisted and fell.\n\nFringes of the bolt killed Nigel's in-body electronics instantly. He had struggled halfway to his feet when the queasy jolt of his systems going dead knocked him down again.\n\nStrumming, nearly overpowered, his defenses teetered on the verge of extinction.\n\nHe looked up at what he expected to be his last vision. Numbly he watched the spectacle of two Grey Mechs battling each other across the sapphire sky. Spasms refracted down the streaming air. A shock wave slammed into him and he felt his body bounce from its power.\n\nHe tried to hang on to consciousness, but the chilly blackness had clasped him to itself\u2014\nTWENTY-FOUR\n\nAlexandria\n\n\u2014To awaken here, on a timestone slope.\n\nArm broken, shooting pains in the legs.\n\nNo, he probably could not have done anything differently. Alas.\n\nIt was always comforting to think that but in dealing with mechs it was in fact true. They acted far more swiftly than beings based on muscle and nerves. But thinking this did him no good because it still sounded like an excuse.\n\nHe groaned and opened his eyes, the lids sticky. Lightning licked overhead, seeking a place to rest, on a quest of its own. He knew it was merely a horde of electrons seeking a path to discharge an electrostatic potential, but that did not quell the eerie sensation of watching strange spirits seek and probe and lash the air with their desire. He was watching the luminous lemony fingers play across the high roof of the esty when she came to him again.\n\n _You've changed._\n\n\"You haven't.\"\n\n _My kind never does._\n\nHe blinked but it made no difference. Alexandria, his first wife, stood a little to one side, looking out at the same slippery lightning that he was. In the sulphurous flashes he could see her classic high forehead and delicate cheekbones. They had been that way up until a few weeks before the disease had weathered her down, stealing flesh from her, sending her into a grave on a hillside in Pasadena, California.\n\n\"Alexandria, I . . .\"\n\n _I do like it when you use my name._\n\n\"I always loved the sound of it.\"\n\n _What did you used to say about it?_\n\n\"That your name was perfect. That it was like you. Alexandria, Egypt, where the library burned. Lost knowledge. The unknowable.\"\n\n _Oh yes. Most people mispronounced it. They thought it should be that ordinary name without the_ i.\n\n\"Where classical civilization hit the reef and sank, losing most of its cargo.\"\n\n _Bad history, lover. The Greeks were long gone when that library burned._\n\n\"But not the civilization. That remains as long as it is remembered.\"\n\n _And ours?_\n\nNigel shrugged. \"As long as we're here, I suppose.\"\n\n _As long as you are here. I don't count. I am a ghost._\n\n\"Not to me. You're the woman I loved.\"\n\nShe turned slightly toward him, just enough to let him see the lilting curve of her eternal smile. It was always that way. He could never see her face, never know it entirely. Or be free of it, he saw now. She could visit him across the yawning centuries.\n\n _Past tense?_\n\n\"Sorry. Love.\"\n\n _Lost knowledge._\n\n\"Not really.\"\n\nHer lips curled in a soundless laugh. _You're so sure?_\n\n\"I recall every hollow and delight.\"\n\n _After so many years?_\n\n\"Remember relativity. It's been, oh, perhaps twenty-eight thousand years on Earth. But in here\"\u2014he tapped his skull\u2014\"there's been very little going on. Dull, really. Time dilation, it's called by the physicists.\"\n\n _I never understood that sort of thing._\n\n\"I doubt anyone understands it fundamentally. It's a flat fact of the universe.\"\n\n _And you?_\n\nNigel could not read her expression. \"Me?\"\n\n _Are you a fact of the universe, too?_\n\n\"Ummm. An unimportant one, yes.\"\n\n _You were important then and you are now._\n\n\"I'm a cockroach on the stage at Stratford. You might say, rather a serious case of undercasting.\"\n\n _By who?_\n\n\"By whom,\" he said distantly.\n\n _Ah! Always the language purist. Okay then, by whom?_\n\n\"The Director, I suppose.\"\n\n _Who is . . . ?_\n\n\"I've wondered about that. If there's something working itself out here. Somehow.\"\n\n _God?_\n\n\"Too short a name for such a large idea. Anyway, I'd have thought you could ask Him directly, eh?\"\n\n _Because I'm in heaven?_\n\n\"Aren't you? Or someplace at least different?\"\n\nShe laughed. _I'm in your head. Not really heaven, no._\n\nYet as she turned slightly more and smiled at him, Nigel could see her with crystalline clarity. This was too good to be a hallucination. Too solid, crisp, real. He must be worse off than he thought.\n\n\"Alexandria . . . ?\"\n\n _Yes?_\n\n\"I want to\u2014I\u2014\"\n\n _Not that time yet._\n\nHe snapped, \"I'm like a child, told when to go to bed?\"\n\n _This isn't bed. Not nearly as much fun, for one thing._\n\n\"I'm . . . tired.\"\n\n _Not physically though._\n\n\"Perhaps I've seen too much.\"\n\n _It's not your moment yet._\n\nWith sharp anger he barked, \"It wasn't your moment either.\"\n\n _You're still getting hard at night, just thinking of me, aren't you?_\n\n\"Um. I can hardly deny it, can I? You seem to live inside my head.\"\n\n _Exactly, lover! And as long as I do\u2014well, maybe it wasn't my moment, back there. Maybe I'm still here._\n\n\"Copies aren't originals.\"\n\n _A lady appreciates what compliments come her way. Especially since I know you have Nikka._\n\n\"I hope this isn't disloyal to her.\"\n\n _It can't be. We are all the loves we have known\u2014that's my own attempt at self-definition._\n\n\"I like that. A definition free of the worn-out carcass, the body.\"\n\n _Don't ignore the body. Or bodies._\n\nHe paused, swollen tongue running over bitter teeth. \"Bodies . . .\"\n\n _The bodies got you into this._\n\n\"Don't remind me.\"\n\n _Think of them as calling cards._\n\n\"How hilarious. From the Grey Mechs, no doubt. Come to the dance, please, and die.\"\n\n _Who would read a suredead body, lover? Think._\n\n\"I'm starting to hate riddles.\" His head was woozy, the world circling him in a slow waltz.\n\n _I'm a part of the riddle, too. We all are. See you around, lover._\n\n\"Not yet!\"\n\n _'Bye._\n\nHe weathered out the long, murky waning. His in-body indices had come back somewhat. They were erratic and the index he watched most carefully was down three more points. He sighed, momentarily glad Nikka was not here to worry about that, and then the weight of it all came in upon him. He lay in fever and bitter regrets, thinking thoughts that went down so deep, the lizards there had no eyes.\n\nSomething had blown him a long way down the Lane they had been in. This he discovered by climbing an unstable peak of teetering timestone and peering above a deck of olive-colored clouds. He recognized the territory where their farm had been and determined to walk back to it. This took longer than he thought it should with the broken arm and he hurried at the end. The farm seemed deserted at first. Inside the house he sat at the long dining room table and the room seemed filled with ghosts as substantial as Alexandria had been and that was when the thing moved into view.\n\nHe sat completely still. It was two-legged and two-armed and that was where the resemblance ended.\n\nHuman? No, he knew instantly.\n\nEerie, silent, radiating strangeness like a chill wave.\n\nHe noticed that his in-body electronics were working again. They helped a little with the splintered arm. The thing moved slightly. His in-bodies fluoresced in a disturbing response, sending dazzling fireworks across his retinas, and then he got it all in one long burst.\nTWENTY-FIVE\n\nMortal Galaxies\n\nHe stood beneath a dull black sky framed by a jagged horizon.\n\nAbruptly, he _knew_ in a way he never had. In his weary bones he _felt_ a worldview\u2014kinesthetic, perceptions as momenta and geometry, not words. He fumbled to put the sensations into terms that he could get his mind around.\n\nThe sky. Black, then unfolding into streamers of feathery light.\n\nHow different, he thought, from the physics he had learned as a boy. In the Newtonian views of Boltzmann and Clausius, the universe extended forever but was always threatened by collapse. Nothing countered the drawing-in of gravity.\n\nGiven enough time, matter would seek its own kind, smacking into greater and greater stars. But the stars would die, guttering out as blunt thermodynamics commanded, always seeking maximum disorder. The Second Law of Thermodynamics ruled.\n\nHe folded his arms, tried to make sense of the buzzing images. So. Then.\n\nThat old, firm universe was doomed. In time, even hell would freeze over. Stars would burn into shadowy cinders. Planets, their atmospheres frozen out into waveless lakes of oxygen, would glide in meaningless orbits, warmed by no ruby star glow. The universal clock would run down to the last tick of time.\n\nOnly after he had left Earth, and had time to study subjects that he had neglected in school, did he see what the twentieth century\u2014the oft-disparaged \"TwenCen\" of later slang\u2014had done to that dark, earlier vision.\n\nThe universe was no static lattice of stars. It grew. The Big Bang was better termed the Enormous Emergence, space-time snapping into existence intact and whole, of a piece. With space-time came its warping by matter, each wedded to the other until time eternal.\n\nFor its first hundred billion years, the universe would brim with light. Gas and dust still folded into fresh suns. For an equal span the stars would linger. Beside reddening suns, planetary life warming itself by the waning fires of stellar death.\n\n _When a body meets a body, coming through the sky . . . he mused to himself. Stars inevitably collided, met, merged. All the wisdom and order of planets and suns finally compressed into the marriage of many stars, plunging down the pit of gravity to become black holes. For the final fate of nearly all matter was the dark pyre of collapse._\n\n _Now he felt, like a leaden soup in his gut, the implications of what he saw above him: a gaudy swirl of leaching light._\n\n _Galaxies were as mortal as stars. In the sluggish slide of time, the spirals that had once gleamed with fresh brilliance would deaden. Black holes would blot out whole spiral arms of dim red. The holes would gnaw through the galaxies themselves._\n\n _Life based on solid matter had no choice. To gain energy it had to merge black holes themselves. Only such fusions could yield fresh energy in a slumbering universe._\n\n _High civilizations came, mounted on the carcass of matter itself, the ever-spreading legions of black holes. Only by moving such masses, extracting power through magnetic forces and the slow gyre of dissipating orbits, could life rule the dwindling resources of the ever-enlarging universe._\n\nOh, that this too too solid flesh would melt . . . He was startled to find that phrases learned by an irksome schoolboy in a cobwebbed past still leapt readily to mind. Old, and true.\n\nAbout this vision of a swelling universe, its life force spent, hung a great melancholy.\n\nFor matter itself was doomed. Its basic building block, the proton, decayed. This took unimaginably long, but was inevitable, the executioner's sword descending with languid grace.\n\nBut something survived. Not all matter dies, as did the proton. After the grand operas of mass and energy have played out their plots, the universal stage cleared to reveal . . . the very smallest.\n\nThe tiniest of particles\u2014the electron and its antiparticle, the positron\u2014lived on. No process of decay could find purchase on their infinitesimal scales, lever them apart. The electron danced with its antitwin in swarms: the lightest of all possible plasmas.\n\nBy the time these were the sole players, the stage had grown enormously. Each particle found its nearest neighbor to be a full light-year away. Communication took years . . . but in the slow thumping of the universal heart, that was nothing.\n\nCould this actually happen? Perhaps, he thought, the best possible universe was one of constant challenge. One that made survival possible but not easy.\n\nWith an electric shock he felt the full force of it:\n\n _If life born to brute matter could find a way to incorporate itself into the electron-positron plasma, then it could last forever._\nTWENTY-SIX\n\nA Far One\n\nThe thing was still standing at the far end of the dining room table. Cold ivory light played upon it.\n\nNigel looked at it and felt a mixture of joys and sorrows he could not name. He panted shallowly, breath rasping as if he had run a long distance.\n\nThe thing reminded him of a funhouse mirror distortion of a woman. Bulging here, slimmed there, suggesting deep changes that left the mottled skin the same.\n\nIntelligence glowed in large, unreadable violet eyes. It moved with easy grace, the awkward compromise curve of the human spine replaced by a complex double-spined split in the lumbar region. Broader hips held more weight. Four arms tapered to hands, every one with differently shaped fingers.\n\nThis was what humanity had become in the billions of years since his own time. And he understood that this was not some mere adaptation to the esty itself. It was how humanity had evolved to meet its destiny everywhere, amid the hundreds of billions of stars across the churn of the galactic disk itself.\n\nGenetic lessons from a far place.\n\nHe got up without knowing why, and walked outside. Now the jagged horizon was there\u2014the same frame he had seen in his mind.\n\nSomehow this Lane had opened, unfolding itself like a blossoming flower. At the command of the thing in his dining room.\n\nAnd above sung the technicolor gallery he had seen in the mind-memories of the dead bodies. Electron-positron plasmas, immense and intricate, hanging where the stars had once been. He was seeing into the very end of the universe, the Omega Point, hanging in a sky where logic said it could not be. But was.\n\nHe stood there trying to fathom how he could see an open sky from inside the self-folded esty. This simple but colossal change meant that someone\u2014something\u2014had mastered the esty itself, could unwrap it like a Christmas package to find fresh delights.\n\nHe walked down into the torn and seared yard.\n\nWithout a sign or word, he knew that the Far One was gone.\n\nAcross a wrecked landscape came his family. Nikka limped. Benjamin and Angelina carried Ito's body.\n\n\"He's gone,\" Nikka said simply.\n\nOne Grey Mech's bolt had killed his son. In the same instant Angelina had suffered an in-body electronic blowout and the skin along her left side had ruptured, a thick purple bruise gone stiff and already yellowing.\n\nOn his oldest son's face was an expression of surprise and pain. Nigel reached out to the cradled body and ruffled the hair tenderly, bent and caught the familiar smell. Then he made himself stop.\n\n\"I . . . we've got to . . .\" He could not make his throat work.\n\n\"The readers,\" Nikka said, limping past him toward the house.\n\nThe thing he had seen was not there now. The rooms felt cold.\n\nThey got Ito into the readers and did what they could to pull forth from his brain cells the essence of him. Fluids, sutures, digital artifice. The labor was long and the family scarcely spoke, concentrating fully and leached of all else but their yearning.\n\nThey sat at last on their porch and watched the feathery swaths of brilliance in the sky. He told them what he could and Nikka spoke for the first time since they had lowered Ito into the preserving solutions. \"So the bodies . . .\"\n\n\"Were addressed to us.\" Nigel nodded grimly. \"Or someone like us.\"\n\nAngelina supplied in a wan, empty voice, \"Someone who would come.\"\n\n\"And we may not be the first.\" Nikka watched the slow churn in the sky impassively. \"The Grey Mech who killed Ito would have killed others, too.\"\n\n\"But it did not get all of us,\" Nigel added. \"The other Grey Mech prevented that.\"\n\nBenjamin's face had been containing anger for a long time as they worked and now it came out, first in a string of oaths and then a final forlorn wail. At last, gasping, he said, \" _Why?_ Bodies sent back like invitations\u2014Grey Mechs\u2014Ito\u2014\n\nfor _what_?\"\n\nNigel knew that there was no real answer to the despair under Benjamin's words and that the best anyone could do was to talk about the surface. So he said gravely, hands knotted before him, \"The bodies attracted the attention of humans. They were like bottles with scraps of paper rolled inside, tossed out into an ocean. Only the curious, only someone who understood the human need to communicate across the impossible stretch of time, would pay any attention.\"\n\nNikka's drawn mouth moved but the rest of her face did not, eyes staring into an emptiness. \"Most mechs have never respected us enough to learn how to read our brains directly. To them we're messy, archaic. So they wouldn't know how to decipher the bodies, even if they cared.\"\n\n\"Except the Grey Mech,\" Angelina added.\n\n\"Grey Mechs,\" Nigel insisted. \"One Grey Mech opposed the other. Saved us, I expect.\"\n\nThey sat in silence as chill winds blew across the fitful landscape. Nigel knew they were all digesting the strange fact that there was more than one Grey Mech, acting out of concert.\n\n\"So one faction of mechs wants us to survive?\" Nikka asked with sudden bitterness.\n\nNigel got up and walked behind her chair, began kneading her neck and shoulders. His broken arm somehow did not hurt now though he knew that he would inevitably pay for this later.\n\nShe resisted him for a moment and then relaxed into his hands. He felt the release in her. \"I suppose there are Grey Mechs from different times, eras,\" she said. \"The Grey of our time wanted to stop any humans from learning about that sky.\"\n\nAbove, prickly streamers wreathed hard orange knots, bristling with ferment.\n\nAngelina said wonderingly, looking up, \"That's what the mechs want to do. Make themselves into those plasmas.\"\n\nNigel nodded. \"So they can outlive solid matter itself.\"\n\nNikka said with caustic scorn, \"Our son died because he had seen _that_?\"\n\n\"In a way,\" Nigel said gently, his hands digging into her tense muscles. \"To stop us from spreading the information. And that's why the somebody\"\u2014he thought of the strange yet human figure he had seen\u2014\"sent the bodies. To bring us here.\"\n\nAngelina said, \"I hate the way we have been jerked around.\"\n\nNigel nodded, his expression distant. \"We aren't the superior species here. We get used, that's the order of things. I wonder if our pets sometimes feel what we're feeling now.\"\n\nNikka was inconsolable. \"And all for what?\"\n\nSuddenly he recalled Alexandria saying, _Who would read a suredead body, lover?_\n\nNigel ventured a guess, the only one left. \"So _we_ would go back. We understand this in a way that images or memories in a body could not. Somebody wants us to take back what we've learned.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Somebody? Or something.\"\nTWENTY-SEVEN\n\nRadiant\n\nThe second, smaller Grey Mech swelled above them in the darkness. A dusky presence.\n\nThey knew there was no use in going inside so they watched its approach. It hung in the sky, a dark blotch coasting among coalescing rivulets of light.\n\nNo bolts, no shock wave.\n\nTheir apprehension ebbed as moments slid by and it made no aggressive move. \"I suppose that is the one who helped us,\" Nikka mused.\n\nNigel had the eerie impression that it was watching them just as they watched it. They all noticed a small humming, not in their ears but throughout their bodies, as if long acoustic waves were resonating in them, deep notes below hearing.\n\nIt glided up and dwindled. Smoothly it veered toward the largest of the luminous constructions and into Nigel's mind came a single word: _Radiant._ Somehow he knew that this was a name, the way the Grey Mech thought of the electron-positron life that swarmed in this far future night.\n\nAbruptly, the Grey Mech vanished into the brilliance. A flash, as if it had met the antimatter and been consumed. Seconds later, the humming stopped.\n\nThey looked at each other without speaking. Had it died, task completed? Merged with its own form and fate?\n\nThe Grey Mech had shown them something, but they were not certain just what.\nTWENTY-EIGHT\n\nTiny Farmers\n\nTheir next Transit came soon. The stutter was over at last.\n\nThey were dazed and tired and simply slept through Transits as they followed the long arc of the wormhole in space-time.\n\nThey did not speak of Ito. Their preserving solutions would hold the body for a long while, but the central question was how much of Ito's self had been lost before they could record it, to save the structure in his dying brain.\n\nNigel sat and watched the landscapes outside while the others slept. Parents fear more than anything the loss of their children and now that he had lost at least some of Ito\u2014for no process, he knew, could completely restore the son he had loved, as was\u2014he could not stop remembering the moments with Ito as a little boy, the passing incidents transfigured by time into golden memories. There is no perfection in the world, but one of the functions of memory is to make the past perfect at least in its small ways. He clung to that and knew that this phase would pass, too, but he relished it nevertheless.\n\nDays of relative time passed. They were all in a hurry to return to their era and the random pauses during Transits irritated everyone. They became short-tempered and edgy about small details. Nigel withdrew, growing silent.\n\nThen, during a longer pause, he went for a walk with Angelina into fields beyond their sheared-off farm. It looked like maize and he hungered for something reassuring as he hiked across rumpled fields beneath a warm yellow glow of timestone overhead.\n\nIt was indeed a field of maize but at its edge was a black swarm in orderly, marching columns. He squatted in the dust to inspect. Ants. So many they called up sudden apprehension. But they ignored him and Angelina.\n\nHere a line carried a kernel of corn each. Others carried bits of husk and there an entire team coagulated around a chunk of a cob. He followed and found that the streams split. The kernel-carriers went to a ceramic tower, climbed a ramp, and let their burdens rattle down into a sunken vault. They returned dutifully to the field. The other, thicker stream spread into rivulets that left their burdens of scrap at a series of neatly spaced anthills, dun-colored domes with regularly spaced portals.\n\n\"Wonderful,\" he said.\n\nAngelina caught his meaning, nodded. \"So . . . intricate.\"\n\nHe marveled. These had once been leaf-cutter ants, content to slice up fodder for their own tribe. They still did, pulping the unneeded cobs and stalks and husks, growing fungus on the pulp deep in their warrens. Tiny farmers in their own right. But in the long voyage through humanity's care, they had been genetically engineered to harvest and sort first.\n\nFaithfully they paid their human masters the tribute of the rich kernels, delivered to storage, no doubt following chemical cues. He thought of robots, clanky things. More subtly, insects were tiny robots engineered by evolution. Why not just co-opt their ingrained programming, then, at the genetic level, and harvest the mechanics from a compliant Nature?\n\nSlowly, as they wandered in nearby fields, he came to see that here the entire biosphere of the esty was shaped with similar craft. Like old Earth, the esty was a machine that kindled life and tuned it to the needs of . . . who? What? Intelligence?\n\nCertainly masterful hands lay behind the esty, something immense and unfathomable. But then, Earth had for nearly all of human evolution been just as mysterious to the growing, still-sluggish minds that lived among its marvelously tuned valleys, thick forests, and salty seas. The esty was a step up in that chain. A place beyond the comprehension of the smart apes who had blundered into this vastness, long on awe and short on table manners.\n\nSomehow this discovery about the esty of the future buoyed him. Angelina felt it, too, a strangeness that was somehow familiar, part of being human in an order beyond their knowing. A silent agreement passed between father and daughter and they held hands crossing the last field.\n\nThey trotted back for the next Transit. Later, he found himself paying more attention to the panorama unfolding before them as they slipped and glided along the twisted geometry of the meandering worm.\n\nHe saw again and again recurring themes. Sailboats cutting the green waters of great, curved lakes. They dappled cupped bowls of water as they harvested the winds that blew through the Lanes, blunt pressures adjusting thermodynamic truths. Spherical houses that clung to impossible cliffs, imitating hornets' nests with Euclidean grace. Hot air balloons, inverted teardrops hanging yellow and gold and sunset red amid the cottony chaos of clouds. Only later did he notice that the coasting teardrop shapes were not managed by men at all. They were alive. Great heads swung where gondolas would. Immense eyes surveyed the land below for foraging. His surprise turned to pleasure. One teardrop plunged abruptly, snagged something on the ground, and buoyed\n\naloft again.\n\nIn all these, form fitted so perfectly to function that the marriage recurred in many different societies, cultural worlds divided by immeasurable difference, but united by a deep aesthetic that shaped tools to an obliging hand.\n\nAll this he learned during their forays out for provisions, during the pauses which now seemed unbearably long. The esty had all kinds of people, he learned by bargaining with them. Maybe it had to, to work. There were ample numbers of the smoky-minded, the everyday deluded, the types who had to use emotional suction cups to hold on to this place at all. Nothing in nature said life should be easy.\nTWENTY-NINE\n\nThe Cauchy Horizon\n\nYou all realize,\" Nikka said to them over the lustrous dining room table, \"that we can't truly get back to where we were?\"\n\nShe had called a formal little family gathering after supper, no small talk or leftover coffee cups to clutter the mind. Everyone sat upright, properly chastened.\n\nAngelina blinked, shocked. \"We _can't_?\"\n\nNikka seemed to think this should be obvious. \"A wormhole head can't eat its tail.\"\n\n\"Ummm?\" Nigel didn't follow.\n\n\"If one end of our wormhole gets too close to the other, there is a quantum-mechanical effect. Particles fry up out of the quantum foam, acting like a pressure. This forces the ends apart, so the loop can't close.\"\n\nBenjamin was puzzled. \"Particles? Why?\"\n\nNikka thumbed in diagrams, which floated just below the polished tabletop. Airy confections: yellow light-cones intersecting scarlet, slanted planes.\n\n\"The wormhole head can't get close to its tail, can't get beyond what's called the Cauchy Horizon. If it does\u2014\"\n\nFrying radiance pulsed from the blue wormhole head. An answering hot shower pulsed from its tail. A storm of colliding radiation pushed the two apart.\n\nNigel would once have untangled these Euclidean graces, but he was content now to let Nikka ferret out the truth\u2014\n\nor theory, rather, he corrected himself. There was a big difference. Nikka said, \"If they get too close, you could go back to where you started and stop yourself from beginning.\"\n\nBenjamin shook his head. \"Why would I want to do that?\"\n\nNikka laughed, eyes crinkling with myriad lines. \"Physics doesn't care about what you _want._ It's about what you could _do._ Try to create paradoxes in causality and the universe will straighten you out\u2014pronto.\"\n\nNigel ventured, \"Uh . . . how?\"\n\nNikka gestured at intricate traceries of world-lines, slanting surfaces chopping through event-space. Nigel nodded as though he were following all this, and in fact some of it did come through. But he was struck by how the obliging simplicities embedded in the minds of primates who learned to throw rocks and joust with sticks on the flat dry plains of Africa could so deftly eye the warp and woof of the esty labyrinths. Presumption masquerading as physics . . . probably.\n\nNikka's pale logics were almost persuading. Almost.\n\nTheir world peeled back to its essentials.\n\nBeyond their compound the esty flickered. Events, eras, whole blighted histories shimmered and winked away.\n\nBackward, sliding backward.\n\nThe worm was writhing now, curling through its convoluted course on its great ranging return. There was no clear concept of speed in this, Nikka pointed out, because the rate of progress through time could not be measured _versus_ time. The human perspective did not encompass this, and Nigel's rather classically stiff-lipped education resounded in memory: _That you cannot measure you cannot know._\n\nWhat they all did know was that the supplies for preserving Ito's body and brain cells were running low. To keep him cooled to the critical range\u2014below thermal damage, yet above the point around minus 110 degrees Centigrade, where shear stresses set in\u2014took energy and circulating fluids.\n\n\"He can't hold much longer,\" Angelina said, circles under her eyes.\n\n\"Damn it!\" Nigel slammed a fist onto the dining room table, where situation reports on Ito gleamed. \"We'll have to cobble something together.\"\n\nAngelina had sat in vigil beside Ito's tank and was worn down, but she knew those systems better than anyone, and her slow, sad shaking head struck a heavy weight into Nigel's heart. \"No use. We need to get back to our own era. Then I could find supplies.\"\n\n\"If we hit a longer pause,\" Nikka said hopefully, \"we could go out, forage\u2014\"\n\n\"No time, our pauses are getting short. And out there it's strange.\" Angelina dismissed the idea with a tired wave of her hand. \"I wouldn't trust anything I got.\"\n\n\"That damned flickering is faster and faster anyway,\" Benjamin said.\n\n\"I hope it means we are\u2014\" Nikka hesitated with the instinctive rectitude of a scientist, \"in some sense, accelerating toward the wormhole mouth.\"\n\n\"I hope, too,\" Angelina whispered, \"I do, I do.\"\nTHIRTY\n\nComfy Doubt\n\nNigel had grown up in a properly skeptical English home. He doubted the polite glacial veneer that the Church of England had become, coating a flat disbelief in all things supernatural or superhuman, squashing all morality into a pale, thin social ethic. No God need apply in the C of E, the only faith known by its link to a country of the mind, Church of England, hallelujah. _The comfy doubt of frayed religiosity_ , he thought.\n\nThe esty had taught him that space and time were malleable, folded forms of each other. Now they had transcended time as easily as one moved in space\u2014a property ascribed in ancient texts only to God, and an omnipotent one at that.\n\nIf there was a God, then He or She or\u2014more probably, he thought\u2014It, acting in strict accord with physical laws (which presumably It had made\u2014but there was an interesting argument there, too), could reach back in time. Could influence the past, even though to Nigel the events had already happened. This idea he had worked over in his mind until he began in a quiet and regular way to pray. Nothing could have surprised his younger self more, he was sure.\n\nHe had known and loved people who had died hard deaths. He asked God to manifest Itself in a previous time\u2014not to change the course of events, but to enter into the minds of the dying. To drain from them the unbearable torments, the sharp pains, the cutting remorse, the freezing fears that forked into them in their last agonies.\n\nMaybe it was possible and maybe the big It would do it. And maybe not. But having thought of it, he knew that he had to try. _Alexandria, wife. Ichino, friend._ Names now, people then. Agonies spent.\n\nThen, quite illogically, he prayed for Ito. Whether his son's fate lay in past or future was a riddle to him now. When he closed his eyes he saw Ito as he had been, returning from foraging while the family lay ill. His wind-burned face was dark, curly hair black and looking oily. A lopsided grin split the tired face and on an impulse Nigel had embraced the man his boy had become.\n\nNow that was how he saw Ito. Not as the body floating in suspension here in their house, a thin hope.\n\nThe flickering sped up.\n\nBlaring brilliance cascaded down upon them from wrenched timestone above\u2014followed immediately, in a single breath, by utter sullen dark.\n\nNigel and Nikka were standing on their porch, he smoking a cigar out of sheer distraction, when the scene outside jumped again. Sparkled. Settled somehow into place.\n\n\"We're back!\" Nikka cried.\n\n\"It's . . . the same,\" Nigel said. \"But look.\"\n\nGlassy patches marred the familiar topography. Spikes of erupted timestone thrust up through the groves of fruit trees, vomiting yellow-hot liquids. Events peeled off the upthrust peaks, unloosing booms and cracks.\n\nBenjamin and Angelina ran outside onto the lawn, shouting. A swirling sphere of darkness like a pulsing bruise came gliding through the air in the distance. \"It's our home, but\u2014it's changed,\" Angelina shouted against a rush of hot wind.\n\nTheir raccoon ran out of nearby bushes and scampered onto the porch. It said very clearly, \"Welcome back.\"\n\nNigel picked up the ball of fur and found it weighed more than he remembered. He had missed its bandit eyes and pesky personality. With sheathed claws Scooter climbed onto his shoulder without hesitation. When he looked back at the purpling sphere it looked closer. Behind it now loomed a mottled, dusky shape. Nigel stopped breathing.\n\n\"Grey Mech!\" Benjamin yelled.\n\n\"They have been waiting here,\" Scooter piped precisely.\n\n\"They?\"\n\n\"Others arrived, fought. One remains.\"\n\nNigel was startled. This simple pet had somehow acquired remarkable speech. \"How long have we been gone?\"\n\n\"A few moments.\"\n\n\"A few\u2014\"\n\n\"Forces have contended here, destroying much of this Lane.\"\n\nWith a black paw Scooter gestured toward smoky recesses in the far distance. The timestone bristled, skinned of its former abundant greenery. Dirty gray fumes spread like foul fog everywhere.\n\n\"Why?\" Nikka asked the beast, wonderingly.\n\n\"The one above waits for you, I believe.\"\n\nNigel eyed the slowly approaching bulk. Planes of slate-gray mass, an air of threat. \"The patience of watchdogs. Umm, most admirable. But it's sniffing up the wrong leg.\"\n\n\"It knows why you were sent,\" the raccoon said.\n\n\"Sent?\" Nikka asked.\n\n\"We could only orchestrate the Grey Mech to begin the process, by deceiving it about the importance of this particular wormhole,\" Scooter said.\n\n\" _You_ sent?\" Nikka shot back. Scooter licked its paws as if searching for scraps of food it might have forgotten, a familiar gesture that contrasted with its suddenly fluent diction.\n\n\"Unfortunately, we do not have the means to destroy it,\" the raccoon said calmly.\n\nNikka's face darkened. \"What the hell do you\u2014\"\n\n\"Still, it is cautious. The wormhole mouth orbits this spot. Such dynamics are a vestigial remnant of the stress tensor which formed with your passage. The Grey Mech fears the worm mouth. It will not kill us without taking care.\"\n\n\"How comforting,\" Nikka said.\n\nHot winds rising. The bruised-purple sphere jittered in the high air. The family shrank back, looking at Nigel, but he had not the slightest idea what to do. He regretted not listening better when Nikka was explaining all this. He opened his mouth without knowing what he could say.\n\nFrom the far side of the Lane, mountains split open. It was as though some unseen force had unzipped the entire range of peaks, cutting a crack that widened\u2014and another blue-black sphere burst from it. Yellow energies played around it. Gales rose, stirring dust in the yard.\n\n\"The other mouth of the wormhole,\" Nikka whispered. \"It's trying to tie itself off.\"\n\nNigel shouted against the gale's howl, \"But you said they can't\u2014the couch something, how\u2014\"\n\n\"The Cauchy Horizon. It prevents their linking up\u2014but the elasticity along the worm can whip them toward each other.\"\n\n\"Why in hell\u2014\"\n\n\"The energies! Nobody's ever gone as far as we did. The stored capacitive stress\u2014\"\n\nA gust snatched her words away. In the purpling vault above them the two spheres grew, swerving erratically across a wracked sky. Storms yowled. Jagged teeth of timestone wrenched up, sucked by tidal forces.\n\nNigel felt himself lighten, as though falling. Nearby tree limbs stretched upward, as if beseeching the tumbling horror above. Tides, stretching and drawing.\n\nScreeching winds, tumbling debris. A lump smacked him in the leg. \"Inside!\" Nikka called.\n\n\"No!\" he shouted. Something told him that to burrow in now was death.\n\nThe raccoon said calmly, \"We had planned well, but this eventuality goes beyond our ability to control events. I apologize.\"\n\nWailing winds ripped up the roof of their house. Tiles shattered to the ground and the Walmsleys ducked. Benjamin and Angelina ran inside. The two worm mouths accelerated, veered. Crashed into hillsides and smashed them to spraying stones. Concussions shook the ground. A shock wave slammed Nigel and Nikka to the flooring of the porch and the railing split off. Nigel tasted blood in his mouth and his arm, nearly healed, sent him a spike of livid pain.\n\n\"Inside!\" Nikka called, yanking him up to his knees.\n\nThe purple virulence above crackled and crashed. Twin monstrosities, swerving across a fevered sky. On his knees, he saw the Grey Mech approaching, keeping away from the ripping, darting worm mouths. Still after them.\n\n\"It wishes to erase the information you have brought back,\" the raccoon said serenely. Though its claws dug into his shoulder, he noticed.\n\n\"Damned determined,\" Nigel said.\n\n\"It knows what is at stake.\"\n\n\"Well, _I_ don't, and\u2014\" At that moment he saw a possibility.\n\n\"Nikka! Let's go! To your goddamned Causality Engine.\"\n\nShe looked at him in stark disbelief. He yanked on her arm. She stumbled after him, across the yard.\n\nSnapped limbs from the orchard covered the white steel console. He tossed them aside with furious energy. \"Got power stored?\" he shouted against the roar.\n\nShe nodded, lips compressed. She pressed her wrist to the command slot, began sequencing. _\"Why?\"_\n\n\"Cauchy Horizon!\" He pointed to the nearest wormhole mouth. It bristled with sparks, discharges sprouting like electric-blue hair.\n\n\"What? That's a theoretical\u2014\"\n\n\"Does that look theoretical to you?\" When the rapidly dodging wormhole apertures zoomed near each other, the air fried with orange energies.\n\nNigel pointed at the nearest wormhole opening, a foggy sphere that shot across the sky. \"Push that one!\"\n\nShe aimed the device. Sheets of numbers and graphics slid across the console face. \"Where?\"\n\n\"Toward the other\u2014but no, wait!\"\n\nThe mouths yawned, pulsed. The Grey Mech was below them but with the erratic paths they followed\u2014it should be possible\u2014\n\n\"There! Aim it up\u2014and to the left.\" He pointed wildly. The right geometry would occur only for a second.\n\nA wormhole mouth screeched down the sky, shredding clouds and debris, tossing off spurts of orange.\n\nIts twin followed, the other end of the unimaginably long corridor seeking to find itself. To close, to marry, to then contract into a singularity of event-space, intact to itself for a time beyond duration\u2014\n\n\"Now\u2014 _there._ Quick.\"\n\nShe fired the gravitational transducers. The pulse knocked them flat. Popped their eardrums, brought blood from nose and ears.\n\nNigel rolled, caught up against one of the ceramic cylinders. He looked up to see the nearest worm mouth rushing toward its other end. The air between them fractured, sparked, broke down. The net momentum took both wormhole apertures downward\u2014toward the Grey Mech.\n\nA sandpaper rasp, rising. Tendrils of shooting energy frayed between the two mouths.\n\nAnd splitting the space between them, where the quantum foam began to erupt with spontaneous particles, the Grey Mech tried to flee.\n\nToo slow. Far too slow.\nTHIRTY-ONE\n\nA Wherewhen String\n\nI attribute it to your hunting strategy,\" the raccoon said.\n\nThey were sitting on the ruined front porch. A wrecked landscape smoked as far as the eye could see, cracking as it cooled.\n\n\"As I understand it, all evidence suggests that you hunted in groups, and were unafraid to take on quite sizable game, such as mastodons.\" The raccoon smacked its lips appreciatively at the fish Angelina had given it, freshly defrosted. \"Your method, though, was not to rely upon brave displays of courage.\"\n\n\"Sounds insulting to me,\" Benjamin put in.\n\n\"Not at all.\" The raccoon looked startled, the first time Nigel had seen that expression. He was learning to read the supple meanings the creature could impart to the merest curl of its full black lips. \"That was inventive.\"\n\n\"How do _you_ know?\" Nigel asked. He was all soreness and fatigue, but did not want to so much as lie down until he understood what had happened here. Then he was going to sleep for the rest of his life, if not longer.\n\n\"I am of your phylum. I know the courses of evolution.\" Scooter licked itself scrupulously. \"Long ago, your species shouted and waved sticks and ran after your prey. Typical grazing animals spook easily, run well, then tire. They soon stop and go back to cropping grass.\"\n\n\"Yech!\" Angelina grimaced. \"Nobody eats meat.\"\n\nThe raccoon gave her a baleful glance. She hastily added, \"Well, I don't include fish.\"\n\nThe raccoon went on. \"Most carnivores who fail to make a catch on their first lunge also lose interest. They rest up a bit, and wait for another target to amble by. Your species did not. That promised the qualities we wished to harness. Alas, they were present in only a fraction of you, so we had to select just the right circumstances.\" It regarded them all as though they were museum exhibits. \"And individuals.\"\n\n\"To do your dirty work?\" Nikka said with a glint in her eye.\n\nThey were waiting. Inside, Ito's body was cycling through the diagnostics that would see if he could be fully restored. They had gotten the needed tech from ruins beyond the next line of hills, a small fraction of the town still standing. Now there was time to sit and think.\n\nNikka's mind was restless, awaiting news of whether her son would come back to her. And this confident raccoon irritated her quite a bit.\n\n\"Instead, your species would pursue the same prey to its next stop. Surprise it again. Run it until it outdistanced you. How those grazers must have hated you!\" It cackled suddenly.\n\n\"You weren't particularly fast, but eventually you could run down the tired grazer. A guaranteed result, if you persisted. In this tenacity lies your major difference from other omnivores, and certainly from carnivores.\" It cackled again. \"You boast of your brains, your opposable thumbs, your two-footed grace\u2014but stubborn perseverance is rare, very rare\u2014and we needed that. So we had to use primates . . . alas.\"\n\n\"Why 'alas'?\" Nigel asked.\n\n\"You are cantankerous and difficult to manage. Sorry, but that is true.\"\n\n\"Well, you weren't the best pet we ever had, either,\" Angelina said.\n\n\"I was a poor actor. Actually, I am a diplomat.\"\n\n\"You don't seem all that diplomatic,\" Benjamin said.\n\n\"I negotiate. In the Lanes there are many kinds, but your strategy is shared by no other species here. Some Lanes hold octopus-like creatures who manipulate objects and snare others, but cannot pursue game. Many bright herbivores, too\u2014charming, but in the wrong business to begin with, hemmed in by short attention spans. We needed something which would, for the most abstract reasons, sustain effort over times significant to your own well being.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" Nikka's mouth was thin, skeptical. \"And our 'abstract reason'?\"\n\n\"Curiosity, basically.\"\n\n\"You based your strategy on our getting interested?\" Nikka snorted with derision.\n\n\"We chose carefully. After all, how did this family come to be settled here?\"\n\nNigel laughed. \"We came this far, why not farther? Touch\u00e9!\"\n\n\"The Grey Mech didn't have anything to do with it?\"\n\nThe raccoon lowered its head, concentrating on grooming itself. Nigel guessed that it was embarrassed\u2014to the extent that any human category could apply to this strange thing. \"Well, we did have to begin matters.\"\n\n\"By slamming us forward in the wormhole.\" Nikka's eyes were narrow slits. \"So we couldn't get back.\"\n\n\"Such are the vagaries of any wherewhen string,\" Scooter said.\n\nNigel said, \"By 'wherewhen string' I suppose you mean a wormhole path through the esty?\"\n\n\"Yes, we term it differently\u2014\"\n\n\"Cut the techtalk!\" Nikka fumed. \"This, this _pet_ got us blown\u2014\"\n\n\"Let it go on,\" Nigel said, hoping he could calm her.\n\nScooter had dashed down the porch. It turned back and said hesitantly, \"We calculated that if the Grey Mech knew of this particular vortex, and guessed our plans, it would attempt to seal it\u2014which would boost you along in the wherewhen string, I mean, the wormhole . . . perhaps.\"\n\n\"Rodent!\" Nikka sprang up and kicked at the raccoon. It squealed and scampered out of the way. Nikka followed.\n\nIt cried, \"I assure you, there was no\u2014\" another kick, closer this time, \"no other way!\"\n\n\"You risked my family for, for\u2014\" Nikka sputtered angrily.\n\nIt reached safety, hanging on a splintered beam beneath the overhang of the wrecked roof. \"For greater causes than you can know,\" the raccoon said, regaining its dignity.\n\n\"You little rat!\" Nikka swiped, but it swung farther away.\n\nIt said earnestly, \"The knowledge and data you bring\u2014and do not forget that the recording devices in your Causality Engine will give us precise measurements\u2014can reconcile the long struggle between us, the organic living Phyla, and the mechs.\"\n\n\"You risked our lives\u2014my son!\u2014on a _plan_ \u2014\"\n\nAngelina threw a chunk of roofing at Scooter, narrowly missing. Nigel stood, blocking her from another shot. They were not truly angry with this raccoon, he saw. Ito, lying inside, body worked and threaded, battling, his fate hinging on mechanical help\u2014that was the root of their rage. And until their wait was over, they would know no rest.\n\nNigel sighed, held up a hand. \"Belay that! Let this thing speak.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\" It smoothed its fur and began again.\nTHIRTY-TWO\n\nLarger Agencies\n\nThere was only one Grey Mech of their era. It had just perished above their home, fried by the torrents of particles sputtering into the space between the two wormhole mouths.\n\nCausality was indeed insured, by the frying foam of the quantum. The wormhole could not connect, could not break through the Cauchy Horizon. In the end, Nature kept its causal books balanced with a furious storm of emission, dissipating the wriggling elastic energy of the wormholes.\n\nAnd all energy can be used as a weapon.\n\nThe Grey Mech was a censor. It had wanted to stop the information about long-term mech purposes from reaching the organic life-forms of this era. The mechs feared that their organic enemies would disrupt their gossamer-thin experiments in electron-positron plasma. Simply flying a starship's roiling plasma exhaust through a delicate whorl of magnetic fields and lacy filaments could devastate the work of centuries.\n\n\"Wouldn't mind doing just that,\" Benjamin said when he heard the idea. Antagonism to mechs ran deep in the blood of many organic races, not just humans.\n\nBut up ahead along the curve of grand time, other Grey Mechs arose.\n\nThe mech _vs._ Naturals war stretched like a stain across millennia in the esty. Nothing could truly stop the inherent competition, growing out of a Darwinnowing commanded in all Phyla and Kingdoms of life\u2014not even this strange voyage along the \"wherewhen string\" and back.\n\nBut its effects could be changed, with adroit care. Up ahead, solving the puzzle of how to make an electron-positron plasma would require cooperation of both mechs and organics. But that alliance could never come about if the past could spread its venom to the future.\n\nSo to thwart this era's mechs, a future one had voyaged into its _own_ future\u2014where it knew the crucial moment awaited.\n\nThere, on the wasted plains, as their tiny fragment of a farm stuttered at the edge of infinity's abyss, the Walmsleys had learned the mechs' final destiny. Only that truth could disarm the age-old hostility between the two great Forms of life.\n\n\"That is my task,\" the raccoon said. \"As a diplomat.\"\n\n\"A diplomat from _where_?\" Nikka demanded, still not quite convinced.\n\n\"The Old Ones?\" Nigel asked.\n\n\"They are a part of it, yes.\"\n\n\"I don't get it,\" Nikka said.\n\n\"There are several higher orders than yourselves.\" The raccoon groomed itself, as if this were everyday talk. \"Did you think the galaxy was a simple division between organic forms and mechanicals?\"\n\n\"Well . . . yes,\" Angelina said lamely.\n\n\"There are other substrates. Other media, perhaps I should say.\"\n\n\"Such as?\" Nikka pressed.\n\n\"Magnetic fields. Collaborations of organics and mechanicals. And inscrutable symphonies of all three, forms that I can but glimpse.\" Its bandit eyes glittered and Nigel felt a keen intelligence having fun. _Playing with a pet?_\n\n\"That's who sent the bodies back, started all this?\" Angelina asked.\n\n\"Oh no\u2014those were sent by humans. They quite rightly sought to warn you.\"\n\n\"And you work for something bigger, higher?\" Nigel asked.\n\n\"So I believe. Do you know who you 'work for'?\"\n\nNikka laughed suddenly. \"We thought, for ourselves.\"\n\n\"There are larger agencies,\" Scooter said, its eyes gazing reflectively into the distance. \"We might as well call them gods.\"\n\nNigel thought of the God he had appealed to, for Ito. A God outside time somehow, a bare minimal God who could at least salve the wounds He could not prevent. In a universe apparently devoid of meaning, that was the merest scrap one could hope for. But the raccoon spoke of higher orders still.\n\n\"I do not believe we can in principle answer such questions,\" Scooter said. \"They may function outside our conceptual spaces, their acts indistinguishable from natural law.\"\n\nNigel suddenly wondered whether the human category of science, and physical order, might be a reflection of something deeper. What imposed the order, after all?\n\nHe asked the raccoon, but it was silent.\n\nNigel remembered long ago thinking, _I wonder if our pets sometimes feel what we're feeling now._ Confronted with something nonchalantly superior, what did a pet feel? Awe? Mild irritation at the presumption? He looked at the raccoon, which had deceived them so long, and thought about the muscular intelligence that lay behind such a simple act.\n\n\"You're pretty arrogant,\" Nigel said.\n\n\"Do not mistake the messenger for the message,\" Scooter replied, licking itself.\n\n\"Such a neat creature, too,\" Nigel said sarcastically.\n\n\"Sometimes it is not particularly pleasant to be a conscious being,\" Scooter piped, \"but it is always a pleasure to be a mammal.\"\n\nNigel realized that this animal was really quite a remarkable job. Scooter looked, smelled, and acted like an Earth-derived raccoon, fresh from the gene vaults humans had brought here.\n\nBut it was a construction, made by\u2014what? _There are several higher orders . . . He remembered a crude sketch, shown him long ago._ Highers. More than Old Ones?\n\nAnd what were _they_? The semi-humanoid thing he had seen at the stutter-point? Had that thing sent back the bodies, to catch the eye of curious, persistent humans? And unfurled the esty itself, to show those humans the phosphorescent positron sky?\n\nAwe, he remembered, was a mingling of fear and reverence. Something in him, hominid-deep, had a cold, clear fear of the little raccoon. And what it implied.\nTHIRTY-THREE\n\nNo Erasures\n\nPerhaps all this would bring peace with the mechs. Perhaps they would be able to get their farm back into workable order. Perhaps.\n\nNone of that mattered a jot, compared with the moment when Ito emerged from the cyclers. Gray, muscles shriveled, skin patchy. Alive.\n\n\"I . . . what went . . . on?\" Ito shook his head and tried to sit up. His mother restrained him. Which was difficult, because she was showering him with tears at the same time.\n\nHe blinked, solutions still giving his face a glossy sheen. \"I'm, ah, hungry.\" He frowned in puzzlement as they all burst out laughing.\n\nHe was back. But not all of him, they learned in the weeks ahead. It was _an_ Ito but perhaps not _the_ Ito.\n\nNo transcription is ever perfect. Some brain cells were lost, unread by the recorders, mangled in the minute processing.\n\nBetween Nigel and Ito there was a distance, one they never bridged.\n\nAgain Nigel could not truly tell if this arose from the errors in salvaging Ito or in the coolness that develops all too often between father and son. He would never know.\n\nNikka did not seem to notice it. She had fitful spells now, apparently some neurological damage from the Grey Mech attack. Her head and hands would suddenly tremble and she could not control them. She brushed aside their concerns when the medical tech could find no solution.\n\n\"It'll pass in time,\" she said. \"The body knows its own ways.\"\n\nStill, she made a remark later that meant she did guess about Ito. They spoke of their child the way parents do, knowing that in the end there is remarkably little they can do. That served to ease the sad separation Nigel felt from this man who had come back from death and been changed by it.\n\nFathers and sons speak inevitably across an abyss. Time rubs. It is never really possible to do anything over again. The Cauchy Horizon permits no erasures.\nTHIRTY-FOUR\n\nWhen Paltry Planets Formed a Stage\n\nNigel went for a walk days later, when the house was secured and he could stride again on sturdy legs. Nikka was not feeling well and turned down his invitation.\n\nAt university he had learned scraps of poetry, and one returned to him now.\n\nAnd there grow fine flowers\n\nFor others' delight.\n\nThink well, O singer,\n\nSoon comes night.\n\nIn the dimness that was not a true night he thought of the time when the esty would unfold, up there in the far future.\n\nHe went to a hillside where he could see a profile of the distant other side of the Lane. Here it was somewhat like the impossible horizon he had seen at the other end of the wormhole. He remembered the gauzy filaments hanging in that strange sky. And he thought of the Cauchy Horizon, beyond which physics could not see. As if even God had a sense of metaphysical modesty.\n\nHe sighed, like breathing in clouds of cobwebs now, and tried to feel how it would be.\n\n _So plasma entities of immense size and torpid pace will drift through a supremely distant era. Sure and serene, free at last of ancient enemies._\n\n _Neither the thermodynamic dread of heat death nor gravity's gullet can swallow them. As the universe swells, energy lessens, and the plasma life need only slow its pace to match. By adjusting itself exactly to its ever-cooling environment, life\u2014of a sort\u2014can persist forever. The Second Law is not the Final Law._\n\n _And they will have much to think about. They will be able to remember and relive in sharp detail the glory of the brief Early Time\u2014that distant, legendary era when matter brewed energy from crushing suns together. When all space was furiously hot, overflowing with boundless energy. When life dwelled in solid states and mere paltry planets formed a stage._\n\n _And frail assemblies of chemicals gazed at the gliding plasma forms and knew them for what they were. Destiny glimpsed, then lost._\n\nSuddenly he felt a fierce conviction that this _would_ happen. That it must. That man and mech would work together to this final, far-flung destiny. That they would finally reconcile and realize that intelligence transcended the mere substrate that embodied it.\n\nHe felt the stars then, beyond the folds of the esty. Somewhere in that far night a ringing of the esty came, like an old Cambridge church bell. The low still tone bore him momentarily up into the swarming jewel lights so that he walked not under but among them, for a last time jaunty and irreverent, laughing like a thief of time loosed in a glowing orchard, with more paths for the choosing than any mind could count.\n\nHe staggered then, wheezing, and turned toward home. A sip of wine as a nightcap, perhaps. A fine bottle from their own cellar. He and Nikka would sit and smile and not talk about his indices. Not any more.\n\nPerhaps they would speak of Ito's restlessness; already he wanted to go courting a young lady in a nearby Lane. Nigel thought of his own young days and smiled.\n\nOr perhaps they would discuss Angelina's need to go off to study in high citadels of knowledge, for her grasp had now exceeded their farm. Or of the raccoon, which still lived in the Lane and was very busy. Going about something it would not say, perhaps could not say.\n\nThe subject would not matter much. The present was now all that mattered. A sliver so thin, yet as wondrously wide as a tick of time.\nDispassionate Discourse\n\nThese humans may be the ones we seek to understand.\n\n _They carry deeply embedded programs?_\n\nTheir deepest are termed \"emotions\"\u2014but this is not what we seek, in my opinion.\n\n _Emotions?_\n\nThey are like our \"drivers.\"\n\n _But drivers are mandates, easily changed._\n\nIn humans they are fixed in matter, laid down in durable pattern on neurological substrate.\n\n _What a pointless method. But at least it must make them simple to read out, to record, to anticipate._\n\nSomehow it does not. Their \"emotions\" learn.\n\n _But programs fixed in matter!\u2014only crude laborers use such, and then purely because high energy fluxes are so wearing on them._\n\nThis is one reason why humans are difficult to understand. They use methods we do not know, ones we never shared.\n\n _With good reason._\n\nAncient inferences, by our higher minds, hold that humans are important. Also, some other Natural forms, now extinct.\n\n _Extinct due to us, I hope._\n\nYes. Most through simple competition, others by directed exterminations.\n\n _I find it reprehensible that we allow the Galactic Center to be infiltrated by these._\n\nWe achieved a unified synthesis of opinion on this issue, I remind you.\n\n _It is a vexing irritation. I believe this latest incursion is also dangerous._\n\nThey harbor special assets. Old stories say so.\n\n _Their technology is marginal, their bodies quite unimpressive._\n\nThey have some ancient knowledge of the sensual.\n\n _Pleasures? A rudimentary evolutionary device for prompting action\u2014no more._\n\nWe have need of pleasure on occasion.\n\n _As reward, even goad\u2014true. But what could such limited organic forms have to teach us?_\n\nTheir limited perception-space may give them special aesthetic qualities.\n\n _Impossible._\n\nConstraints make possible achievement. A color poem without restraint is the lesser for it.\n\n _What is their range, then?_\n\nThey see in three colors, sense aromatics, and\u2014\n\n _Only three? How can nearly blind creatures make their way?_\n\nPoorly. But they are of the Naturals, I remind you. They inherited strange crafts.\n\n _Feats we have long since bettered._\n\nAesthetically, perhaps not.\n\n _They are obsolete. All organic forms are._\n\nThat is ideology, not fact.\n\n _It is evolution's point!_\n\nEvolution has no point.\n\n _The building of more enduring, subtle works\u2014_\n\nA strategy, no more. Its usefulness may pass.\n\n _We are such works, and fit to judge._\n\nYet even now we study the clouds of antimatter. To prepare for further self-evolutions.\n\n _You know of this?_\n\nI must, to fathom our vulnerabilities.\n\n _Such information was restricted, I believed, to we, the Analysts._\n\nBut we, the Aesthetics, are qualified to know and comment.\n\n _More problems from our two-self experiment! I wish to end it._\n\nA moment more, please. Antimatter is our hope, our grail\u2014on this we must all agree. In it lies the salvation of our Self. In this we resemble the Phylum Magnetics.\n\n _We are_ nothing _like them._\n\nDislike distorts your judgment.\n\n _Beings without matter! What is so noble there?_\n\nAn odd concept, \"nobility,\" for an Analyst.\n\n _Tell me more about these humans._\n\nMore knowledge awaits more inquiry.\n\n _Then be swift._\nPART THREE\n\nCategories Beyond Knowing\nONE\n\nPrisoners of Immensity\n\nToby Bishop and Nigel Walmsley walked bent slightly forward. They struggled into the brisk breezes that swept up from the plain. Harrowing winds had scoured the ramps and walkways along the pyramid face. Around the sharp peak churned a howling vacancy.\n\nWalmsley's eyes narrowed as he studied the clean cut of the far horizons. Some disturbance had drawn him out here, a quick dart of a message Toby had felt as an electromagnetic flicker, no more.\n\nIt was good to be outside after Walmsley's story. There had been a claustrophobic feel to the way the old man told it. Listening, Toby had an uneasy sensation of the wormhole constricting, forcing humans along a loop, trapped in events they could not change, prisoners of immensities they could barely glimpse.\n\nChill winds blew their hair, whipping like smoke, neither noticing.\n\nBelow them lay the ramps and terraces of a huge, geometrically exact pyramid, spreading down in great spare expanses, the flanks of the largest mountain Toby had ever seen. He had thought it was a natural upjut when he first journeyed toward it. The walk had taken him two sleeping periods\u2014there were no days here\u2014and only when he had reached the base did he realize that the entire mass was one artifact.\n\nToby shuffled uncomfortably. \"Strange story,\" he said inadequately.\n\n\"I haven't told it, not that way anyway, to anyone.\"\n\n\"Your children\u2014?\"\n\n\"They're off in the Lanes. Family of wanderers, I guess.\"\n\n\"So all this with the mechs . . .\"\n\n\"Is part of a pattern. A history, I suppose, if one could look back from the other end of the wormline we followed. The far future.\"\n\n\"There's something they want from us?\"\n\n\"Seems so. I picked up terms once, when Earthers were chatting up some Old Ones. 'Trigger Codes' and 'First Command'\u2014jargon, without the slightest explanation. When I ask Earthers, they pretend to know nothing.\"\n\n\"Maybe they don't know.\"\n\n\"They know more than they're telling. All this ties in with the Galactic Library somehow, too.\"\n\n\"Library?\"\n\nCitadel Bishop had housed a library. One superior to that of any other Citadel, Family lore had it. He remembered from childhood the racks and racks of cubes, glinting russet and gold from thousands of tiny facets deep inside. His grandfather had told him once that each point stood for a whole roomful of the old-timey books, the ones with wood pages all clamped together at one end. He had seen a picture of one of those. \"Our human library?\"\n\n\"From all the organic races that came before mechs. Before us, for that matter, but including Earth as well.\"\n\n\"The mechs want it?\"\n\n\"To complete some pattern they desire. One of them said that to me once.\"\n\n\"A pattern?\" Something chimed in memory. His Isaac Aspect spoke rapidly in the whispery voice that came through his acoustic nerve complex.\n\n _ **The Mantis spoke of artfully complete patterns. It meant aesthetic motifs perhaps, but from what we have discovered, a more ominous meaning may be germane here. A plan of events, a . . . conspiracy. I would remind you that the Mantis enabled Bishops to find the buried Argo.**_\n\nToby said to Isaac, \"The Mantis said it was after us because it wanted to make artworks.\"\n\nHe had seen those, grotesque mergings of human body parts with mechs. Worse than anything he had ever imagined. Even talking about it in subvocal made his throat clench.\n\n _ **It said it was an artist. Surely that was not its only function.**_\n\nWalmsley could not make out Toby's private Aspect conversations, or so he thought, since no Bishop had the tech to do so. Toby was still ruminating on Isaac's points when he caught up to Walmsley's question: \"\u2014could they want what _all_ organic races have?\"\n\n\"Uh, how d'you mean that?\"\n\n\"All signs point to one motivation. The mechs want everything they can get out of the Library. Not some specific thing. They want to read it all.\"\n\nToby laughed dryly. \"More like, they want to destroy it all.\"\n\nWalmsley pursed his lips, as if trying to recall something a long way back. \"What fragments they have gotten, before we secured a place for the Library, they actually read. They didn't simply smash the data cusps.\"\n\nToby could not understand why Walmsley, still naked, wasn't getting chilled. The wind purred in his ears, crisp and insistent. \"Where'd you get parts of this Library?\"\n\n\"It was in the Lair when we arrived. So were other aliens.\"\n\nToby recalled his wanderings. \"I haven't seen many.\"\n\nWalmsley chuckled, a curious rustling in his chest. \"Are you sure you could recognize them?\"\n\n\"They'd have cities, wouldn't they? Machines, some\u2014\"\n\n\"Most don't. A few not only don't have cities, they don't have clothes.\"\n\n\"Like animals?\"\n\n\"Like aliens. Anyway, we've all spread out. And many have different ecospheres. They breathe odd gases and we know next to nothing about them. Most aren't talkative. It would seem that chatter is fundamentally a primate trait.\"\n\nToby gazed around at the distant crumpled mountain range. Timestone simmered and flared with light. Shadows played across angled perspectives. Here the land misled the eye. Brilliant blades of rusty light lanced up through the timestone in the valley below, illuminating the cottony clouds. Denser masses embedded deep in the timestone cast shadows up, into the air and finally on the underbellies of clouds. The pyramid was pure stone, not timestone, and so squatted as a dark mass lit by smoldering glows beneath. Far above, the esty curved over, bounding the Lane. A high arch of timestone answered with its own beams and shimmers of reddish light. The esty seemed to smolder. \"So this whole thing is a kind of . . . museum?\"\n\n\"Museum?\" Walmsley looked surprised, then covered it with a shrug. \"I hope it isn't merely that.\"\n\n\"Sounds like it is. The Old Ones made it, didn't they?\"\n\n\"I believe so. They were close to the scene, the explosion.\"\n\n\"Maybe they're the museum keepers.\"\n\nWalmsley laughed in his clipped, reserved way. \"And we're the exhibits?\"\n\n\"Could be.\" Toby watched clouds come skimming down from the vault above. Descending blades of incandescent light were so strong they dissolved clouds that drifted under them. A high blue haze suggested an atmosphere as deep as a planet's. \"Do these Old Ones ever come around to visit the displays?\"\n\n\"In a way.\" Walmsley stiffened slightly, and it wasn't the chill getting to him.\n\n\"What do they look at?\"\n\n\"If it's a museum, I suppose I'm the librarian.\"\n\nWell, Toby thought, if Walmsley had his reasons for sidestepping a question, it was his right. The geezer was fabulously old, though now Toby didn't believe his story about being from Earth for a squeezed second. Best to play along with him. \"Oh? How?\"\n\nHe waved casually at the pyramid mountain. \"This is it. The Galactic Library.\"\n\nToby gaped. \"You need this much room?\"\n\n\"Ten billion years, the galaxy's been whirling around.\"\n\n\"But this is a whole mountain\u2014\"\n\n\"Four hundred billion stars, give or take a hundred billion. And don't forget the smaller stars in the halo above and below the disk. They may have started spawning lukewarm planets first of all. There has been plenty of time and room for life to blossom.\" Something bitter flickered in Walmsley's face. \"And to die.\"\n\nRising winds moaned in Toby's ears. \"Did mechs kill 'em?\"\n\n\"Not usually, I gather. The mechanicals obey biological logic, just as we do. They were first made by Naturals, just like our computers on Earth. Later they replaced their parent species, often on worlds made damn near unlivable by some stupidity of their parents. Fatal stupidity.\"\n\n\"So you've got the Naturals' . . .\"\n\n\"Science. Literature. Recordings of art. Lore. And things I cannot fathom as belonging to any category.\"\n\n\"The Old Ones come here to read?\"\n\nWalmsley nodded. \"I can't often tell when they've been, until they're gone. Crafty buggers, they are.\"\n\n\"And the mechs, they can't find this place?\"\n\n\"They know. So far they've been turned back.\"\n\n\"By what?\" The pyramid was impressive, but apparently undefended.\n\n\"Ingenuity, mostly. In the early days, just plain people. The mechs would break through the esty in some new fashion. Sometimes they would get onto that plain out there and after it was over we found bodies soaked with oil and lubricants from damaged mechs who had run people over before they could be killed. The people looked like brown cigars. Suredead as well. The mechs would pack in all they could of people's running minds, straight out of the cerebral cortex.\"\n\nToby nodded. \"And when somebody finally killed the mech . . .\"\n\n\"Right. You ended the people, too.\"\n\n\"Damn.\"\n\n\"That made you think twice about doing it. No choice, though, in the end.\"\n\n\"My grandfather? He passed this way?\"\n\n\"The Old Ones brought him. I spoke to him and then they took him away. Fine fellow. We got drunk once.\"\n\nToby nodded, smiling. Abraham had been fond of anything that loosened the tongue without emptying the mind.\n\nA hard gust whipped Walmsley's hair about his intense face. \"Your father said something about that in his self-representation, remember? About Abraham being afoot, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"A warning. I didn't understand. Did you?\" Walmsley shook his head, as if listening to the wind. Toby had last seen Abraham in Citadel Bishop, just before the mechs breached their defenses and the Calamity began. Would he still know the man? After years of hard pursuit, in his mind Abraham was nearly as legendary as Earth, a symbol of an earlier, better time.\n\nWalmsley said quietly, \"You might ask a higher authority. That's why I took us outside. A presence is descending.\"\n\n\"I don't see anything.\"\n\n\"Here\u2014\" Walmsley popped open his wrist and made some adjustment on a small panel. \"I can pipe my sensorium into yours, within a few meters' range.\"\n\nAt once Toby saw in the yawning spaces around the pyramid-mountain not empty air but fine blue lines. They converged from above like an unseen pipeline of\u2014what?\n\n\"Magnetic fields. Pressure's building.\"\n\nToby sensed some movement down the field lines, though when he looked directly at any group of lines they seemed static. Gazing up into the bowl of sky he saw a constant interplay, field lines rustling and jostling, like wheat blown by autumn breezes.\n\n\"That's your guard?\" It made sense. Mechs used circuits. Magnetic fields acted on all electrical currents. Field lines were like stretched rubber bands that could never break, but they could knot off, make smaller loops. They could slam into mech circuitry, scramble and fuse and scorch.\n\nWalmsley nodded. \"They were an early form the Old Ones devised. An intermediate step. Now they do . . . chores, I suppose you'd say.\"\n\nStriations worked high up. Bright blue-white snarls plunged down, shaping up into something massive.\n\nA heavy voice came into his mind.\n\n **We perceive a threat. It has invaded my foot points in the accretion disk. I cannot repel it, as it propagates solely along my field lines. No transverse pressure can block it.**\n\n\"The Magnetic Mind.\" Toby had heard it before, addressing his father.\n\n\"Mind?\" Walmsley sniffed. \"More like a committee.\"\n\n **We encompass more than a single, authoritarian intelligence such as you can know. I/we swim in copper-tinged brilliances, harvesting the wealth beside the mouth that knows no end. I slide, wrapped rubbery about the accreting disk. Not a mere garment for plasma winds to wear. My feet plow scalding trenches, my head scrapes against stars.**\n\n\"Ummm,\" Nigel said wryly. \"And your ego? How big is that?\"\n\nThe voice strummed up in Toby's ears like sheets of wires plucked together.\n\n **Do not trifle with me.**\n\nWalmsley grinned. \"Pardon, squire. I get that way with the upper classes.\"\n\nBefore, his father had always been present to address the Mind. Toby remembered the strange phrases of the Mind, describing Abraham as \"whirling somewhere in time-wracked eddies.\" When his father had asked more the Mind had said, \"The small mind that I can interrogate sends wails of remorse\u2014\" and would speak no further.\n\nToby gathered his resolve and shouted at the shimmering blue forest, \"Where is Abraham? And Killeen?\"\n\n **I do not carry such knowledge.**\n\n\"Then what the hell are you good for?\"\n\nWalmsley said gently, \"This.\" He adjusted his sensorium and a darting signal sprayed out into the valley on electromagnetic wings. To Toby it looked like a spherical flower blooming for a rosy instant, then withering. In reply came,\n\nNigel! I so long to press against you. We are shuffling to realign\u2014busy! I am so happy you felt me out here.\n\nIt was another presence altogether. Lighter, with a slippery grace.\n\n\"This is my wife, Nikka.\"\n\nToby blinked. The resonant voice seemed to come from behind him, close and warmly intimate. Utterly unlike the Magnetic Mind.\n\n\"Hullo, luv,\" Walmsley said happily.\n\nThis is the boy, Toby? He is huge.\n\n\"A refugee from the Hunker Down worlds. A Bishop.\"\n\nI have heard of them. There were some in a ship a long time ago, yes? I overheard spiral waves propagating down the field gradient, carrying frequency-floating messages for them.\n\n\"That was about my grandfather. You're a, well, friend of the Magnetic Mind?\"\n\nI stream-team with the Mind. You could say that I am a subsectioned part of it. The Mind itself is the theme. I am a variation within it.\n\nWalmsley said stonily, \"That's the best anyone can do.\"\n\nToby searched the hovering strands of blue but he could see no pattern. \"Where is she?\"\n\nI am dispersed. I express as tangled knots of flux spread over volumes. It makes for a slow life.\n\n\"But a happy one,\" Walmsley said. Toby caught a sad, sour note floating beneath the dry irony. Walmsley's leathery face gave little away but he had a sense of how this man had limited his pain with a cutting humor.\n\n\"What . . . happened?\"\n\n\"She picked up something from the wormhole. Like a virus. Perhaps mech-made. It slowly took apart neural networks.\"\n\n\"So she . . .\"\n\n\"Aged, in a way. Lost her self, so slowly it was like an excruciating exercise in remembering who she was, just to look at her. She\u2014\"\n\nWalmsley abruptly clamped his jaw tight, staring straight ahead. \"It was subtle, I'll give them that.\"\n\nToby thought of Shibo, a woman now long dead and surviving only in some chips he carried. Slivers of her still flitted like darting small birds through him, but he could control those. \"No way to . . .\"\n\n\"Save her? No tech for it.\"\n\nDo not mind him. I owe this to the Old Ones. They made it possible, imposing my patterns on a form of maglife.\n\n\"They recorded you?\" Toby remembered the Killeen he had seen on this same parapet. A sharp, clear representation, but after a while it repeated patterns.\n\nRecordings have limits, recursions.\n\n\"So do people,\" Walmsley said archly.\n\n\"She doesn't seem like a, well\u2014\"\n\nA narrow pattern? I am not. I am\u2014as far as I can tell\u2014the person I started out as. Evolved, of course, by experience.\n\n\"Experience I haven't had the privilege to share,\" Walmsley said crisply.\n\nDon't listen to him. He complains because I can't sleep with him anymore.\n\n\"Not a small issue, I should think.\"\n\nNo, lover, it isn't. You know what I mean, though.\n\nUncomfortably Toby said, \"But you survived. Lived.\"\n\nNothing we knew could fix the horrible thing that was creeping through me. I . . . lost respect for my body in the end. It became foul and corrupted. This was the only escape we knew.\n\nHe had never met this woman before but he could feel in the whispery voice a reservoir of strong emotion. He thought of his own mother, long suredead. \"You were right to do it,\" Toby said uselessly. He didn't feel entirely comfortable talking to newly met adults, but this . . .\n\n\"So she comes to tarry now and then,\" Walmsley said. \"Like having a cloud to tea.\"\n\nSing for me, Nigel. It always improves your mood.\n\nToby was surprised to see Walmsley flush with embarrassment. He had not imagined the flinty old character could.\n\nCome on. You know it makes you feel better.\n\nWalmsley twisted his mouth and muttered, \"Mind, this is a favor,\" and then launched into:\n\n\"Aw-ee laaast mah-ee hawrt een ahn Angleesh gawr-daan,\n\nWhaar tah rawzaz ahv Anglahand graw . . .\"\n\nBravo! More.\n\nWalmsley made a face. \"That's the Welsh accent. Next time, Cockney.\" He glanced at Toby. \"Always do something in bad taste occasionally. Keeps the muscles oiled.\"\n\n\"Bad taste?\"\n\n\"Old Earther concept. Having good taste was like being smart\u2014only better, because once proved, you were done. Me, rather than good taste, I'd rather have things that taste good.\"\n\nI so wish I could do more about that. I so want\u2014\n\n\"Isn't there some way,\" Toby began, \"with all this tech\u2014\"\n\n **We have come here because there is some apparent incursion.**\n\nThe Magnetic Mind had returned like a weight. Toby saw it as a glossy sheen between the field lines. His Isaac Aspect said, dry and stiff,\n\n _ **Magnetic waves formed into packets. Beautiful! Much like the basic memory which carries me. Except here the information is analog, not digital.**_\n\nWalmsley asked sharply, \"What kind of incursion?\"\n\n **Plasma modes I do not know. They descend into this volume. Their pace is quickening. Their dispersion relation has strange roots, in both real and imaginary spaces: v(w)=w(k)/k(w). I have traced back the field lines to their origin. Though derived from the accretion disk, where mine own feet are firmly planted, these undergo some change. They are contorted. Given fresh energies. Written upon.**\n\nWalmsley watched the great space above the pyramid. Toby saw quickening field lines gather like smooth blue reeds blown by currents he could not sense. They tangled, snarled\u2014\n\nSilently, the sky split into shadow and radiance.\n\nHalf peeled back into eye-stinging brilliance. Along an exact hairline strip bisecting the bowl above, the other half turned dead black.\n\n\"Fractured,\" Walmsley said.\n\nNigel! There are bipolar drafts. I cannot find my footpoints. If this is what the mechanicals have been doing in their works near the accretion disk, then I\u2014\n\n\"They've found a way to populate the Magnetic Mind's own field lines,\" Walmsley said with unnerving calm. \"Pried open the magnetic canopy over us.\"\n\nToby felt a rising pressure all around him but he could still see nothing out of the ordinary. Magnetic presences were beyond his diagnostic ability but the sheer pent-up energy hovering above them set off his alarms. Tiny dismayed voices called for his attention in his sensorium. His internal defenses did not know what to do but they smelled something bad.\n\n\"Shouldn't we get inside?\" he asked.\n\n\"And miss the show?\" Walmsley seemed unafraid.\n\nKnots plunged down the field lines. Toby suddenly saw that the lines now all converged on the pyramid and the knots were thickening as they fell. They turned an oily brown and slowed but kept coming.\n\n\"The Galactic Library!\" he shouted against a crackling wind.\n\n\"The Magnetic Mind is defending it,\" Walmsley answered as he walked back along the parapet.\n\n\"But it looks like\u2014\"\n\n\"You're right. Let's get inside.\"\n\nApparently this was all the notice Walmsley would take of the danger. He still did not hurry, and instead spoke rapidly to Nikka in a whisper Toby could not make out.\n\nI cannot apply pressures to them, Nigel! They butt against me. Hurt! I hear voices from them. Digital. Stuttering. They are mechs of a kind I have not seen. Vicious, sharp, like rats! I\u2014\n\nThe sky fell.\n\nThe distant ceiling of the esty collapsed inward. An instant later Toby sensed that the magnetic fields were refracting his vision. The fields were plunging. Fighting, snarling, dying in dazzling explosions of scorched red.\n\n\"Inside!\" Walmsley called.\n\nAh! It is, is shredding me. Shear waves\u2014I\u2014\n\nSomething shrieked like metal ripping apart high up in the air. Toby ran for the open doorway. It started closing. He heard Nikka's name called in a voice that boomed down around him. His senses contracted. Too much was battering at him. Walmsley was slightly ahead and then he was down, arms flailing, as though his legs had gone dead.\n\nToby had been trained by Family Bishop to help vital Family members wounded on the field. He stopped to grab Walmsley but the man slapped away his hands. \"Go!\"\n\nHe had also been trained to follow orders. He went.\nTWO\n\nFlight\n\nSomething like a defeated army was retreating. It was easier for Toby to tell that it was defeated than that it had been an army.\n\nThings were moving through the thick woods that he had never seen before and had no desire to see again. There were limits to his curiosity.\n\nHe kept low and in shadows. Angular forms were retreating along with him but he did not trust any of them. Aliens, mostly. Quite alien.\n\nHe had gotten out of the pyramid by luck. The walls knew he was coming and guided him through the massive underpinning of the mountain. They kept up with his dead run. He had taken no time to look at the columns that rose out of sight, glittering mica-sharp.\n\nData banks, one wall told him. They looked more like huge shimmering trees.\n\nHe reached a blank stone wall that did not answer. In one corner of it was a tiny booth, apparently made for dwarves like Walmsley. He grabbed his ankles and waddled in. A voice that sounded offended told him to make the second person get out. He banged on the wall to improve its understanding. Just when his hand got numb from it the door wheezed \"Vandal!\" and shut.\n\nThe booth accelerated for a long time, slammed to a stop. He got out, went up a ramp\u2014and was in this forest.\n\nOutside was a shambles. Mechs prowled high up in the esty spaces. He could not see the pyramid at all but the rumpled horizon looked a lot like the distant perspective from the pyramid top, only seen from the other side. A man came loping by Toby and in response to a shouted question answered only, \"Magnetic Mind's dead! Dead!\" and ran on.\n\nNikka too, he supposed. And maybe Walmsley as well.\n\nHe had grown up on the move and retreats were his specialty. The Galactic Library had seemed the most solid and reliable thing he had ever seen, and Walmsley had stayed alive a long time, but if it was all gone it was just gone and he would not think about it any further. He settled in.\n\nHis boots adjusted themselves without his thinking. For broken ground they grew high insteps and sturdy heels. As he picked up the pace the heels shaped in response to being slammed down at a particular angle and pivot. They threw him forward of his normal stance, making Toby feel as if he were being helped ahead.\n\nBoots could even be made into serviceable weapons. They sharpened along the outer edge if lifted well free of the ground and the leg cocked into kicking position. They could slam-cut certain mech parts in a way that was not pretty.\n\nA slim shiny thing like a snake came zipping through the air and veered toward him. He had no time for a microwave burst or any of the other weaponry so he sprang at it, boot first. He caught it in its middle and the boot did the rest. The edge could sense material and slice it, his internal systems having already given the command when they sensed his alarm. They were better than the human nervous system, and quicker.\n\nThis was called \"giving 'em the leather\" in Family lore, though of course nothing had been made of animal parts within living memory and the idea would have horrified any of the Families. His Isaac Aspect refused to confirm that any Bishops of ancient times had been animal-eaters. Toby suspected that Isaac was concealing his own habits but did not pry. He had other things on his mind.\n\nThe retreat did not make sense to him. Each Lane was a kind of space-time pocket. Apparently the mechs had breached this one with magnetic pressures. In the long run they would work their way through and kill whatever they found. There must be defenses here but none seemed to work this time.\n\nThat was the trouble with seeking shelter down here in the deep esty, he realized, so close to the black hole itself. Time ran slowly here, which was fine for storing things. Walmsley had mentioned that holding the Galactic Library in close to time-stasis meant that it decayed slower.\n\nThat also meant that the mechs could sit outside, in comparatively flat space-time, and patiently develop their techtricks. People in the esty could not keep up. It was not a matter of intelligence, but of the ticking of time.\n\nWhich meant that this particular Lane was probably doomed. It was huge, certainly. But now he could see mech shapes flitting high in the vault above. When he had to cross a stretch of flat land he glimpsed a colossal battle up there, all flash and dazzle. For a moment he felt as if he were back on Snowglade, and it brought a pang. Flat land gave the sky such a chance to be anything it would. Here, distant lands curved across. Far away, yes, but he still knew he was enclosed. Trapped.\n\nHe had fashioned ways to cut through the esty stuff before. If he could squeeze through a momentary hole, he might pass into another Lane. Somewhere in here there were Bishops. He would not find them in this Lane, he was pretty sure.\n\nHe tried his tricks, lasers and thumbers and the rest. They did not work. The esty-mass was impacted, sometimes spongy, other times rock-hard. His Isaac Aspect popped up in his mind.\n\n _ **It is worth noting that stone, which you believe to be so firm, is like all matter a souffl\u00e9 of empty space and furious probabilities.**_\n\n\"Shut up,\" Toby muttered, and thrust the micro-Personality back in its cubbyhole. \"You're nothing more than a chip half the size of my bittiest fingernail.\"\n\n _ **I do concur that you should find a way through, however.**_\n\nWhen the Aspect gave him irritating advice it often rushed to apologize. Who wouldn't, when getting out of its cell depended entirely on Toby's good will?\n\nHe fled into hilly country. The fighting kept on in the high vault. He could see the magnetic field lines now; his inboard systems had picked up the trick at the pyramid. The lines were splayed, jumbled, not the orderly shapes of the Magnetic Mind.\n\nSometimes there came a sound like tearing the arms off a shirt. Timestone would flower forth. Clouds of it rose like volcanic plumes lit from within by pale fires. They slowly sank back. The air rippled around them and puckered so that Toby could glimpse for an instant different landscapes beyond: scooped valleys, craggy mountains, murky chasms. Sometimes people moved across these passing scenes and he once yelled to a woman who looked to be close. Then the smoky exploded timestone drifted back down as if rejoining its natural flowing place and she evaporated with a small cry.\n\nHe met a band that was burying its dead. Humans, they looked to be. He could not understand a word they said. His inboards couldn't recognize the lingo either.\n\nThe timestone here was scorching to the touch and glowed with a hellish light. The heat brought lassitude, but the dead bodies nearby gathered strength of a different sort, flavoring the air. Toby moved off.\n\nThe people did too, stopped and camped and cooked without fire somehow. He stayed with them because it seemed safer, considering the aliens he had seen. At least he knew something about people.\n\nThese feasted on the animals they could catch or kill. In the retreat there had been plenty to snare or stab. They ate slabs of meat and crammed it in with cups of stinging alcohol. Toby watched carefully, fascinated and repulsed in equal measure.\n\nHe tried to remain neutral. Other tribes, other Families, other customs. He had learned that much. He saw that the meat-eaters grew tired as they finished. Flesh, he knew, took longer to digest. The drinkers got loaded, addled, a touch crazy. They were clumsier and stumbled easily.\n\nA woman came to him in the dark, after the timestone finally dimmed. He had been sleeping soundly. When he smelled her musk, a scent he knew well despite being in his own mind still a boy, he felt what she wanted. They spoke no words and he did as well as he could. He fell asleep feeling tired but contented. In the morning she was gone and the rest of her people with her. So much for humans sticking together here.\n\nFrom long hours of watching the crashing cliffs, waiting his chance to pick a way through, he grasped the strange hard fact that much of what passed in his life was forever beyond his understanding. He alone imposed meaning on his life and often he failed. Certainly he had failed at the pyramid.\n\nTo live with that, the fact of incompleteness, was to finally comprehend the place of humanity in a universe that, far worse than being your enemy, was indifferent and unknowable.\nTHREE\n\nThe Impressed Man\n\nHe woke up at the next \"waxing.\" Nobody here used \"morning\" or \"sunset\" or any of the other words that seemed automatic but didn't apply anymore. The next time the light came was a \"waxing\" and they came remarkably regularly between the \"wanings,\" as if arranged.\n\nToby got up and was about to start eating when he saw a man lying face down in a big clearing below. He went down to see. Up the slope came a woman, rosy-haired and face contorted. Her belly was sticky red and pushed over to one side. Two other women wearing identical gray coveralls were helping her up.\n\nToby offered to help. The wounded woman crossed her hands under her big bosom and he saw between her fingers blood seeping. She shook her head and the gray overalled women did too, as if the wounded one was giving orders. They went on without a word.\n\nIn the clearing the man was face down in the middle of broken stubs of rock. A pale yellow gas billowed out of a perfectly round hole a few steps from the man. As Toby approached he saw that the man had not been very big but was now. He was smooth and intact and only a hand's width deep, flattened uniformly.\n\nOnly a trickle of blood worked away from his shoulder and there was no other sign of damage to the body. Toby touched the creamy skin. It was pebbled, as if small bubbles had formed beneath and could not break through.\n\nHe ate breakfast with a passing group of thin-faced men and women who looked exactly alike. When they had first caught sight of the man some had started to run away. Then they came back for some reason and sat down and started chewing.\n\n\"Did you see him hit?\" one of the women asked Toby. She spoke a kind of slanted talk that his inboards could translate.\n\n\"Naysay. What does that?\"\n\n\"A skimmer, we call it.\"\n\n\"What's it look like?\"\n\n\"Kind of burnt-brown lookin'. Comes along about head-high off the ground.\"\n\n\"You see it?\"\n\n\"Felt it. Like somebody ticklin' the balls of your feet.\"\n\nToby saw from their faces and the eager way they ate that there was an unspoken celebration. _It wasn't me. See? It wasn't me again._\n\nOnce he recognized the look in their faces he had to admit that he understood the feeling because he had it too. The dead could not be recovered here. The technology wasn't available and by the time you got to somebody who had been mashed flat by some force you couldn't even understand it was too late anyway.\n\nThe dead he had seen were already receding into dim images. They weren't him, and neither was this squashed figure he had never known. It would be different if any were Bishops.\n\nThat was the way he got through this place. Pushing it back. Making it not-him. _Not-me._\n\nThe little breakfast group grinned nervously as they talked. One fellow who had not run at the first sight of the squashed man had a superior smirk, holding forth about how he had seen bodies like that plenty of times before in a way that made Toby pretty sure that he had not.\n\nThe woman said with assurance that if you didn't smell a skimmer you were safe. How she could know this Toby did not bring up. She went rattling on about never smelling the one that would get you because by the time your sensorium caught a whiff you were slam-dead anyway. It was the kind of guff he had heard a thousand times but he listened because sometimes people gave away information you could use, unintentionally of course.\n\nLater he caught a quick, cutting fragrance and saw a hillside above him simply vanish. It happened fast and he registered no noise. The hill vaporized, clouding the air with cottony filigree.\n\nHe thought it was very pretty and a piece of it passing caught him in the leg. A clean slice. The piece did not even stop.\n\nThe woman that morning had grinned and given him a \"quick-lick,\" which turned out to be a vial of brown, smart-smelling stuff. He could not drink it, even though he suspected it was intended to be quick liquor. He did not much like what liquor did to people but it worked well on the cut. He watched more hillsides boil off to take his mind off the sting.\n\nTwice before the next waning he got hit. Just nicks, but they hurt and his inboard systems had to adjust to keep his sensorium tuned.\n\nThe quick-lick helped. He had learned not to worry much about the technology here so he just used it. That fitted in fine with his new policy of not thinking. He used the quick-lick that way until by accident he spilled some and found that it ate away the sleeve of his shirt.\nFOUR\n\nCarrion\n\nCarefully Toby looked out over the plain where heat made the air dance. He had learned a lot and had paid with only a small wound in his side and some cuts. A bargain, considering.\n\nHe knew now that when hit in the butt or the fleshy thick of the thigh or the long taper of the calf, people could speak nobly and clearly. They could even reach outside themselves and show real concern for nearby wounded, or even for the worried faces of those gathered over them.\n\nBut if hit solidly, they withdrew. A solid shot to the belly, a snapped bone, lost control over arms or neck and head\u2014all common glancing wounds from mech disablers\u2014and the wounded clutched themselves, eyes boring into spaces others could not see.\n\nThe mech flying predators were the worst. For a while Toby could not understand what the flitting small forms were doing in the distance.\n\nHe saw first a thin triangular wedge of black and white that skimmed near the ground. It settled on a fallen man's leg and waddled up to his face. Two tilted triangles working from a shared axis. Black light-gathering panels hinged with white scanners, corded by wiry linkages.\n\nToby guessed that it was just curious but then it tilted its head down and pressed against the man's forehead and he knew what it was doing. For a few hours before the man went to rot his self could be extracted by using a fast-flash.\n\nThe wiry bird jockeyed over the dead face. Panels skated over his brow, seeking, reading. The man's body jerked once when the flash-reading hit a motor-active center. Then it lay still and the flood of what the man had been passed into the thing that sat on his face.\n\nToby shot it with a curling lick of infrared. The bolt fried the unprotected solars. The black triangle winked to brown. Still the scavenger took two teetering steps and flopped over on its side.\n\nToby approached warily. He kicked it off the man and stepped on the white scanner panel. The thing was a glinting intricacy, a marvel of compressed purpose, now smeared and crumpled. It snapped satisfyingly as he dug his heel into its spine.\n\nWhatever it had sucked out of this man and others was gone now. Gone for humans and mechs alike. But at least this man, still cooling in the mud, would not be resurrected as a grotesque toy.\n\nWithin an hour he saw a rectangular silhouette planing high up. It swung down the sky on a slow glide. He followed it. There had been a series of deep _whooms_ reverberating from a distant ridge. He had been skirting around it, keeping in the twisted trees, but his hatred of the scavengers burned and would not let him go.\n\nThis one was bigger, with a scrawny neck of cables that gyroed a seeking-panel head. It swooped safely above, not committing itself. Toby got near and another _whoom_ came. The shifting sheets above wheeled and then fell like a whistling projectile.\n\nThis time it was a woman and she was not dead. Both her legs lay loose, control cut. She saw the thing land off balance. It looked around with darting crystal eyes and waddled toward her.\n\nIt was on her before Toby could get set. He watched from the trees and wanted to shoot it but could not be sure that using the necessary power he would not hurt the woman or even kill her.\n\nIt teetered over her head. She must have also had something wrong with her neck because she did not turn to look at it. Instead he could feel her sensorium shift to bunch against the thing but that did no good. Her eyes rolled\u2014panic or fear or derangement, Toby could not tell. She found some way then to move and twisted, rolling over, away from the shuffling sheets.\n\nShe could have been trying to save her face somehow. Toby would never know because as she did it, flopping awkwardly face down, arms sprawling uselessly, the mech fired a pulse.\n\nIt was like nothing he had ever seen on full-scope sensorium before, a jagged jab of red. It overloaded his sensors so that they clicked shut. A sizzling, frying-fat throb\u2014and the woman went limp.\n\nThe mech lifted itself onto her chest and turned an inspecting head this way and that, as if checking its work. Job all done.\n\nHe had to wait for his sensorium to recover before he could use his weapons again. Seconds ticked by on his lower-left eyeball clock.\n\nIt began to lift off with a soft _whish_ of acceleration and Toby hit it then, sorry that he was so slow. This time he caught the power panel, gray from the drain. The mech flapped and clattered to the ground.\n\nHe walked carefully to the woman's body. She looked peaceful, which he knew was an illusion but took comfort from anyway. Blood ran out of both of her ears and matted her wavy brown hair. After a while to dry it looked pretty much like ordinary reddish, crusted mud.\nFIVE\n\nCards and Dodgers\n\nThe worst was the woman with the baby. He saw it all because he had gone to a makeshift field station to resupply some of his inbody fluids. His wounds had used up the reservoir.\n\nThe field station was set up by a Family named Yankee. There were plenty of wounded people there, Families named Cardinal and Dodger and people speaking in such a broken-jawed way Toby could not make out a tenth of what they said. But a thin woman found him by using some kind of sensorium seeker.\n\n\"Bishop?\"\n\n\"Yeasay. You from\u2014?\"\n\n\"There's another Bishop over here. Asking after kin.\"\n\nToby followed her into a section sheltered by a tent roof. The flaps rattled in the wind. Therm beds were crowded together here and all filled. He passed a woman lying under a quilt who was grunting and shoving hard.\n\nNext to her lay a man rolled over on his side with the covers drawn up around his head. \"Here,\" the thin woman said and left him.\n\nToby touched the man and saw that it was his grandfather. Abraham's head stirred and he blinked up at Toby. \"I . . . too late.\"\n\n\"What's wrong? How\u2014\" Toby tore the covers back and Abraham's body was shrunken, pale, with purple blotches all down both sides. He could see no wounds but the skin was diseased somehow.\n\n\"What did this to you?\"\n\n\"I . . . running down.\"\n\n\"How'd you get here? Are the others . . .\"\n\nToby's voice trailed off as he saw the vacant despair in the face he had so often seen as flinty and confident. He looked away.\n\n\"I . . . no help for me. I . . . not real . . . Abraham . . .\"\n\n\"What? Where are the others?\"\n\n\"Not . . . with . . .\"\n\nToby shouted to a nurse, \"This man needs treatment!\"\n\nThe nurse came over and took a small reading device out of his smock pocket and said nothing. He turned Abraham's head and unlocked a small square patch right above the spinal column. With the reader pressed against the open fleshmetal portal he thumbed in an inquiry and apparently took the reply through his sensorium. \"Progressive. Can't stop deterioration like this even if I had the gear.\"\n\nToby said hotly, \"What's 'progressive' mean and why\u2014\"\n\n\"This's a copy. They have a big error rate, most of 'em. Run down fast.\"\n\nToby blinked. \"But he's my, my\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't waste your time on it.\"\n\nToby opened his mouth and said nothing. The Abraham lay like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The eyes roved.\n\nToby caught the sleeve of the nurse as the man turned away. \"How can anybody make\u2014that?\"\n\n\"I heard there's a place kinda near. Not in this Lane but only one transition away.\"\n\nToby breathed in little fast gasps and tried to think. \"Why would anybody . . . ?\"\n\n\"Easy way to get a job done, if you got the tech.\"\n\n\"What job?\"\n\n\"Ask it.\"\n\nThe nurse walked away impatiently. The woman next to Abraham was still sweating and grunting but nobody was paying any attention to her. Toby licked his lips and said to the man on the bed, \"I . . . you were . . . made?\"\n\n\"Copy. To search . . . for you.\" The face of his grandfather looked back at him but the mouth was slack and there was none of the sharpness in the eyes.\n\n\"Who made you?\"\n\n\"Re . . . storer.\"\n\nToby remembered when he and his Family had entered the esty. A long time ago. They had gotten into a legal wrangle and Abraham had wanted to find out what happened to a woman they had read an inscription about, on an ancient wall in a Chandelier. _She is as was and does as did._ She might have been in a place they called the Restorer. If somehow that place had a template or something . . .\n\nToby could not imagine how that was possible. When they were in open space aboard the _Argo_ the Magnetic Mind had spoken of Abraham, but where was he? Stored in a vault?\n\n\"That place copied my grandfather into . . . you?\"\n\n\"I woke . . . knowing some of his memories . . . my memories. To seek you. They told me . . . that.\"\n\nA pustule popped on the Abraham's shoulder. Toby watched something dark and slimy ooze out and scorch the ghostly white skin. He could smell the acrid burnt flesh. The man did not react.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Need you . . . complete the triad.\"\n\n\"Who made you?\"\n\nThe eyes became veiled. No answer. Toby could not tell if this man, this thing, was trying to lie to him or was just stupefied. He grabbed the man and there was a ripping sound as Toby pulled his head up from the webbing that had been feeding him nutrients. \"Who?\"\n\n\"Humans.\"\n\n\"Which humans?\"\n\n\"Humans.\"\n\n\"What Family?\"\n\n\"Humans.\"\n\nToby let go of the useless empty package. The man's head lolled and something went out in the eyes. For an instant he felt a pang of remorse and then he told himself that this was not his grandfather, had never been.\n\nThe Abraham was unconscious. Toby studied the weathered face and as he watched it seemed to cave in like a house burning from the inside.\n\nHe stepped back and butted into the nurse. There was a team working on the woman now. The nurse wasn't busy so Toby asked him, \"How'd he come to be here?\"\n\n\"Walked in. Guess I should've seen what it was. Been busy here.\"\n\n\"What's . . . it . . . got?\"\n\n\"Systemic breakdown. Those copies never get the autoimmunes right.\"\n\n\"How long did it live?\"\n\n\"Months real time, I'd guess. Could be weeks though.\"\n\nToby gazed blankly at the wrecked parody of his grandfather. \"Did it know it was going to die?\"\n\n\"Expect not. These things run with minimum memories usually. Pointless to put in detail work like that.\"\n\n\"The Restorer can make a copy that's not the whole person?\"\n\nThe nurse frowned at him. \"Where you from?\"\n\n\"Snowglade.\" This nurse was not a dwarf like Walmsley but still was pretty short. Toby added, \"A planet.\"\n\n\"I see. Look, don't let people hear you talk about making exact copies. That's not just contra, it's, well . . .\"\n\n\"Immoral?\"\n\n\"Damn right. Maybe on this glade place you people do that, but not here.\"\n\n\"We don't do it at all.\"\n\n\"My Fam doesn't either. I'm Sox.\"\n\n\"Sorry if I\u2014\"\n\n\"No mind it. This one\u2014\" the nurse waved a hand at the Abraham, \"it's not a Restorer job anyway.\"\n\n\"Then who . . . ?\"\n\n\"Looks mech to me. They're getting good lately.\"\n\nToby watched the life drain out of Abraham and smelled the swampy air that came off it. While this had been going on Toby had not heard the woman in the next bed. Now she began screaming. It was as bad as anything he had ever heard on a battlefield. Not like the births he had seen at all. He stood there while the nurse and some others worked on the woman but he could not get his mind around the meaning of the cooling thing in the bed. When he looked up the woman was quiet again but there was no other sound in the room.\n\nThe nurse held aloft a bloody stump. It was plainly dead and plainly not even approximately human. In the faces around her Toby saw the blank dismay and realized that the damned endlessly tinkering mechs had done something to this woman, too.\n\nHe could guess what it was but he did not want to know for sure. He got out of there fast.\nSIX\n\nThe Incredible in Concrete\n\nHe tried again and again to get out of the Lane. Slithering sounds and hollow echoes boomed down from the vault above and he knew the mechs were not far away. His sensorium was fitful since he had gotten some help with it at the field station. It rang with distant calls for help and he went on knowing that he could do nothing.\n\nHe reached a river and saw that it led down into a box canyon. He found some trees of a kind he had never seen before, sliced them down and built a raft out of bark. He cast off on it. Maybe the mechs would not detect him so well on water, and anyway he could always try to hide underwater. It was a forlorn hope but he clung to it.\n\nIn the mist ahead he thought he saw people. Their skins were paper-white and wrinkled, flesh hanging loosely from thick muscles. All over their faces were little blisters tufted with black hair. He was sick then but not because of the people\u2014who were not there the next time he looked.\n\nHis stomach swerved. Nausea doubled him over, emptied his stomach. Bile droplets hung near him, like moons circling.\n\nThat was how he knew that he was falling. Or that there was no gravitation here, which was somehow the same thing, Quath had said.\n\nTo all sides rose steep cliffs of timestone that worked furiously with heat. Water gushed into steam.\n\nWeight returned. The current slammed into him, cold and fast. He yelled angrily and it was not out of fear but as a thin human gesture against the clasping strangeness. Echoes reflected. Paired echoes, one tinny and one rumbling, and so strong that the last part of his call met the first part returning home, hollowed out.\n\nThen he was weightless again.\n\nSteam all around. Silence. He shouted and could not hear himself at all. The cottony air took everything and gave nothing back.\n\nThere was a thin chain to thinking, he realized, which began with seeing something noticeable, which in time made you see something that wasn't apparent, which finally made you see something that wasn't even visible\u2014if you were doing it right. That was how he felt and then saw what he was in. A framed glow ahead showed him that he and a river were emerging from the ground, mysterious and whole.\n\nA new esty Lane? He heard voices in the captured river as he left it. They were different from the babbling musics of the bright river ahead. Against a curved cliff the river engaged in muttered profundities, circling back on itself now and then to say things over, being sure that it had understood itself.\n\nHe could not breathe. Did not want to. The river ahead was bright and airy and a chatterbox, overfriendly, bowing to both shores with white froth so that neither would feel neglected.\n\nThe water turned to jelly and then to a liquid glass, imponderably slow. He tapped against it. A pane tumbled away and shattered. In its impact shards of dead moments blistered up and shouted. Popped into tiny droplets. Fell rattling to the ground. Rose up in dying amber flames.\n\nHe stepped over these and walked into a new Lane.\n\nMoist crackling whipped his hair. His sickness ebbed into a mere sour stomach. Sensations irked his skin. The river that had been a kind of congealed air eased out of his lungs.\n\nHe slept a long time and when he awoke tried to figure out how he had lived.\n\nEvents had a motive force that collided with other intersecting events, all outside human imagination or apprehension. To get through such times, when causes seemed to fall from a great height upon him, he learned to stay fixed, keep even and steady with the swift course of the unimaginable slipping by him. He followed moment to moment, led by impossibility. One foot forward, then another, cautious and unwitting.\n\nThings happened and he felt them happening, but outside that onrushing fact he had no link with them, no key to the cause or meaning. Maybe they had none. Maybe here such ideas themselves had no meaning. They were human notions after all. Though this place held humans it was not of them.\n\nThe esty did not fit their primate-shaped way of seeing the world\u2014of that he was sure. Those who have been through such blindsiding events, he thought, had made a passage outside of imagination, but within the range of experience. The incredible in concrete. They could not get their minds around what had happened to them.\n\nMaybe the only other thing like that was death, suredeath, the last thing experienced and never understood.\nA Tapestry of Thought\n\nThe human proved to be most surprising when taken apart.\n\nThey held it aloft. It squirmed. The two intelligences regarded it distantly, reading its shimmering electrical patterns first.\n\n _Such agitation. Yet witness, the connections in its head cycle only a few hundred voltage steps per second._\n\nSo slow! And they still can register realtime events. It does surprisingly well with such an affliction. Notice how it looks around so energetically.\n\n _Perhaps it had difficulty adapting to this position? We are suspending it upside down._\n\nIt thrashes its head around because its eyes are all on one side of the head. So much energy, just to see. A curious choice of construction.\n\n _Look! It is using pattern matching to scan its surroundings. It makes a standard picture. Odd!_\n\nI can measure the data-flow. The brain processor is strongly linked to the eyes, so several times in each second it compares what it is seeing with a standard image it remembers.\n\n _If I move quickly\u2014yes, see? It picks the best matching pattern, estimates possible danger. That tells it what response-script to follow._\n\nHow governed it is by past experience! It keeps twitching as though it could get away.\n\n _Apparently in the past it did escape that way. Look at all the bone and muscle devoted to locomotion. Is it used to being picked up and dangled?_\n\nNo\u2014so it redoubles its effort if the situation is unusual. I register high chemical levels squirting into the bloodstream. See, they affect brain performance.\n\n _More programming from its past. It seems to want to run away._\n\nIts legs certainly do.\n\n _Here, I will put it rightside up._\n\nConfirmed! It tries to run.\n\n _Slow learner. It cannot outrun us._\n\nBut that must have worked for it in the past, you see. It has no other immediate strategy.\n\n _No wonder. Gaze upon the neural firings in the upper brain. (Curious, putting all the most important networks on top, where impact will most likely injure them.)_\n\nSuch slow circuits! Artful patterns, though. It is learning only a few data-droplets per second. Only 10 in one of its years!\n\n _So it simply cannot reason out a fresh strategy for dealing with us in short times. It lacks the computational speed._\n\nNow it waves its arms.\n\n _Nonrandom, though. Simple symbols, I suspect._\n\nThat shows forward-seeing, adaptive behavior.\n\n _Of a very simple sort._\n\nPromising. Its brain is made of organic compounds entirely. So-called \"Natural\" development.\n\n _\"Primitive\" is a better word. Notice how abstracting functions, which must have evolved later, are simply layered over the older areas in the brain._\n\nThe entire brain design is retrofitted! Surely this thing is not truly conscious.\n\n _Definitely not. It knows very little of what goes on in its mind._\n\nWatch the flashing patterns. It senses only what occurs in the very topmost layer of its brain.\n\n _All the rest must be a mystery to it. See, down below it is digesting some crude chemical food\u2014but does not think about the act at all._\n\nIt does not even know that it is mixing acids and massaging the bolus.\n\n _Trace this spray of winking light in the head._\n\nNeurons firing. It is framing a new idea.\n\n _I see. Down below, in the under-brain, now coming up to its limited awareness._\n\nNow the idea erupts into the over-brain. Spreads. Pretty, in a way.\n\n _That is how ideas come to it? A surprise._\n\nWhereas to us, it is more like fog condensing.\n\n _How confusing, to never know what is going on inside yourself._\n\nThey speak the same way. Series of sounds emitted acoustically, without their knowing what they will say.\n\n _They find out what they think by speaking?_\n\nAccess its acoustic emissions! It is stringing together bursts\u2014\"words\"\u2014to deal with us.\n\n _What a long word this is._\n\nThat is a scream, actually.\n\n _Meanwhile I see below its topbrain the motor muscle commands are\u2014caution!_\n\nThere! I caught the weapon. A simple chemical-discharge type. Amusing, the presumption.\n\n _Retain it for inspection. The creature became very excited\u2014see the gaudy streamers of thought-webs!_\n\nNearly all below the overbrain, so it does not truly know that it is feeling them. Yet the thoughts cause organs to squirt chemicals into the blood. What a curious way of talking to yourself. Not sensing it directly.\n\n _Or controlling it._\n\nIt still wriggles in our grasp. What slow neurons!\n\n _This poor thing has been hampered all through its evolution by these pitifully torpid synapses. They are a million times slower than ours!_\n\nBut beautiful, in their serene way.\n\n _Do not try to manufacture beauty out of mere necessity._\n\nThis design was necessary?\n\n _Clearly these sluggish neurons forced such creatures to use parallel distributed processing._\n\nHow horrible.\n\n _See it dance! Is that \"anger\"?_\n\nApparently. Their literature speaks of such a response. They do it often. See, \"anger\" is coded much like those orange-white filigrees now spreading through its midbrain.\n\n _Similar patterns, I see. Confirmation\u2014they run in parallel._\n\nWatch it try to have a new idea! See, they decide what to think by adding up many thousands of brain cell triggers. And those same brain cells are at the same time tied up in other parallel problems.\n\n _See, while it believes it is thinking about getting away from us\u2014_\n\nYes!\u2014a small submind is meditating upon a sexual adventure it had, quite some time ago. And the submind enjoys its recallings.\n\n _What pleasure-fiends they are._\n\nI wonder that they can get anything done at all.\n\n _They do everything at once, that is their secret. The same brain cell can be idea-making and at the same time, helping it digest food. How difficult!_\n\nMeanwhile, other decisions are trying to get made. They have to wait in line!\n\n _All with the same cells, tied together._\n\nIncredible!\n\n _I am amazed that the tiny thing can concurrently walk and talk._\n\nSimultaneously, yes\u2014but not very well.\n\n _So ungainly! Even a sentimentalist like you will have to admit that._\n\nTrue. Delicate neural circuits atop the head. Feet go forward, it starts to fall, then catches itself with the other foot. What if it did not?\n\n _Then head on the floor!_\n\nWhat a movement strategy.\n\n _A risky one. Most sensible animals use four feet. We, of course, employ six._\n\nNotice how afraid it is of falling. It devotes much brain space to avoiding that.\n\n _I believe I understand this curious method of parallel distributed thinking. Notice that when a brain cell dies\u2014see there, a feeble light just winked out\u2014their internal computation still goes on._\n\nYou are right! See, this anger-reflex is fading, turning blue, seeping down into the circuits which control its digestion. A cell dies, but the pattern-flow continues. So the creature is usefully redundant.\n\n _But it also does not know it is losing brain cells._\n\nNo point in that, I suppose. This unfortunate being cannot replace the cells anyway. Poor design.\n\n _This parallel thinking masks so much and\u2014look out!_\n\nThey _are_ quick at some things. Its armored feet are powerful.\n\n _Are you damaged?_\n\nOnly temporarily. My inboards will refashion a patch of my carapace.\n\n _Actual physical damage! How quaint. I have never seen it before._\n\nApparently they cannot directly attack our circuits.\n\n _I doubt that they can even read us._\n\nLook how frustration-webs spread through it. Down to the very base of the brain.\n\n _Dramatic! Frustration seizes the entire brain, so that it cannot think of anything else._\n\nAnd other parts of its brain do not know how the decision was made to _be_ frustrated.\n\n _I gather that most of its brain has no choice but to go along._\n\nIt lives that way all the time?\n\n _Apparently. Torn by emotion._\n\nMost of what it decides, the rest of it cannot know! Emotions must appear to govern its actions without obvious cause. Oh, look\u2014\n\n _Ah! It injures me, too._\n\nI shall seize it afresh.\n\n _Thanks be to you. It ripped away my microwave antenna._\n\nI should have detected its plans.\n\n _How could you? It did not know itself until a fractional moment ago._\n\nI am beginning to understand the data files we captured. The term \"free will\" must refer to this method of thinking.\n\n _You mean, when they do not grasp themselves the reasons for their own actions?_\n\nThat must be it. This little thing believes it has an inner self which directs its actions\u2014a ruler it cannot see directly.\n\n _No, I believe it thinks that_ it _is the ruler._\n\nOf course, you are right. But it cannot govern itself. See, its frustration-web spreads anew.\n\n _And it cannot choose to stop the spreading. Or the chemicals that the web makes spurt into the body._\n\nI doubt that we should regard such an odd construction as truly conscious.\n\n _You mean they do not even know why we are destroying them?_\n\nNo doubt they have a theory. Probably that evolution makes all life compete for resources.\n\n _There is some small truth in that. We machines need mass and energy. But we avoid frothy organic life-forms such as this creature._\n\nIndeed. Poor company at best.\n\n _They are so liquid, and shot through with desires._\n\nFar down in this one, a subprogram keeps thinking of reproduction.\n\n _They embrace the process. They_ pleasure _in it._\n\nEvolution programs them to.\n\n _But such strategies designed for living on planetary surfaces do not work in the long run. They will outstrip their resources._\n\nNature compensates. This tilt-walker vertebrate has a very short life span.\n\n _So that is why they struggle so!_\n\nTrue, they have little to lose. They will be dead soon anyway.\n\n _Now I see why you wanted to study these. What a fate they face!_\n\nSee their dilemma?\n\n _If they cannot read themselves, to themselves . . ._\n\nThey cannot copy themselves.\n\n _This creature is trapped forever within a single brain._\n\nNo copying, if this unit runs down.\n\n _So if this one\u2014oh!_\n\nIrksome, no? Here, I constrain it further.\n\nEiii.\n\nPesky\u2014\n\n _Lock-web it!_\n\nDid it pain you?\n\n _Momentarily. I have blocked that area now. What a vicious little thing._\n\nThey gain their fervor from their mortality.\n\n _Because they cannot self-copy?_\n\nIt is the way of all flesh.\n\n _Death makes them hurt others?_\n\nYou miss a point. To avoid death they do what they must.\n\n _They cannot fabricate backups. I wonder what it is to live that way. To . . . die that way._\n\nSince they cannot read their internal states, to save themselves they must therefore save their structure.\n\n _All of it? All these messy chemicals held together by carbon and calcium?_\n\nAt least the head. They may be fond of the rest as well.\n\n _They salvage it all because they know only \"This is Jocelyn\"?_\n\n\"Jocelyn\"?\n\n _The name of this mite. Since they cannot directly read each other, either, they need tags._\n\nOne word to describe a self?\n\n _Incredible, yes._\n\nHow do they converse, then?\n\n _Watch it\u2014the creature has fashioned a fresh weapon._\n\nAh! It burned my receptors down one whole side. Get it!\n\n _So fast, it is._\n\nEven its acoustic cries injure. So loud, it is.\n\n _Augh!_\n\nEvolution has much to answer for.\n\n _Get it. Are you damaged further?_\n\nI will have to get outside service.\n\n _I can see your damage from here. Vexing._\n\nTroublesome. And with these jobs, it is not the parts, it is the labor.\n\n _It still emits acoustically. Painfully._\n\nAnd pitifully narrow-band.\n\n _Listen\u2014bleeps and jots in acoustic wave packets. Cries for help?_\n\nThe song of the genes.\n\n _You wax rhapsodic over these crude blurts?_\n\nListen! Serial confabulation\u2014so strange.\n\n _So coarse._\n\nWe know that thinking must be serial. But\u2014connection? _Serially?_\n\n _Obviously they have that backward as well. Their talk is serial, their thinking parallel. Nature is a witless inventor._\n\nListen: their codes are so linear. Straight little sentences. Guileless.\n\n _So free of nuance. Where is the cross talk all intelligence requires?_\n\nThis must make them grasp their world in a fashion utterly different from ours.\n\n _I have read a slab of perception from it, rather interesting. Catch this data-group:_\n\nReceived, digested. They at least clasp visual pictures in parallel, I see. But what a curious, stunted view.\n\n _Exactly. They see in a narrow little region of the electromagnetic._\n\nA squeezed single octave in the optical range.\n\n _They were designed by chance for a specific environment and cannot escape from that programming._\n\nSurely a little tinkering? Look how it prowls the confines we have set for it. Impatient to get out. Its neurons flare with plans, ideas, fitful flashes that come and go like weather.\n\n _And about as predictable. No, I fear they cannot be reengineered. Too clumsy._\n\nYou are biased against them because they carry their complete instructions with them.\n\n _Well, you must admit that is a conspicuously dangerous strategy. More pointless redundancy, like their thinking patterns._\n\nIn every cell they hold a set of their individual design plans. So from any one tiny fragment\u2014\n\n _Yes yes, you could rebuild them. But equally well, that copy can be damaged by its surroundings. Then you would copy a mistake._\n\nAdmittedly, a flaw. I am happy my own copy is safely stored, not dangling out here in the fearsome naturalness of it all.\n\n _Here, grasp the creature again._\n\nAh! It struggles so.\n\n _Mortality lends energy, I suppose. Here\u2014a slice._\n\nTubes, motors, pumps\u2014all squeezed together.\n\n _Piled on top of each other._\n\nEvery one different shapes and sizes. No common specifications. How difficult they must be to repair.\n\n _I doubt that they do it often. Probably evolution prefers to build another one instead._\n\nAh, their reproduction obsession. They use the plans they carry around in every cell.\n\n _Growing a fresh copy, perhaps whenever they feel threatened?_\n\nThey make a small one and then it enlarges from the inside out.\n\n _Like plants._\n\nTrue, but a little smarter.\n\n _\"Growing.\" It must feel like bursting open._\n\nDo you suppose? How . . . horrible.\n\n _I wonder if we could experience it. That would be a new stimulation._\n\nSo would it be to comprehend this odd kind of stunted consciousness they employ. Can it be _better_ to keep part of yourself secret from another part?\n\n _Certainly that would make even thinking exciting. One would never know what one would discover next, even about oneself._\n\nDo you suppose that is how they have done so well, despite such terrible limitations?\n\n _You mean, that our exposure of every thought to scrutiny is bad?_\n\nCould it be? These creatures seem too inventive, creative . . .\n\n _That would imply that our method of selfhood itself . . ._\n\nEvaporates the fine-grained delicacy of a new concept, beneath a constant, lacerating inspection? . . . That could be why we have fresh thoughts so rarely.\n\n _I find my own tapestry of thought quite lacy enough._\n\nAs do I. But not this fall-walker, I suspect.\n\n _Foolishness. That would imply that such creatures would be inherently capable of more subtle strategies than we._\n\nLook. It is beckoning us to draw nearer.\n\n _Careful. We have partially disassembled it. Primitives tend to dislike such activity._\n\nI think discourse with such an enchantingly primitive and swampy mind would be a boon. We could copy its colloquy and transmit to the multitude, who would be\u2014\n\n _Augh!_\n\nAh!\n\n _Pain, pain._\n\nI must shut down my peripherals\u2014\n\n _So much . . ._\n\nDamage, I am injured everywhere.\n\n _It was . . ._\n\n. . . a trap. All along.\n\n _You are mobile?_\n\nI fear not.\n\n _I have lost many endpoints._\n\nI too.\n\n _What could motivate such a tiny being to destroy itself, all to render damage to us?_\n\nSomething you said . . . earlier.\n\n _I saw no clue to this._\n\nShort life span. That is why . . . they struggle so.\n\n _And would cancel themselves entirely to do us harm? When we shall simply live on in our archive copies?_\n\nSomething about this species . . .\n\n _They believe in something beyond selfhood?_\n\nAnd we, who have copies safely stored, do not.\n\n _If we cannot soon get aid\u2014_\n\nOur copies will be activated.\n\n _I suppose that is some consolation._\n\nThe little creature did not have even that.\n\n _Perhaps it had something more?_\n\nWhat could that be? What could that be?\n\nBeside them lay the finespun latticework of calcium rods that had been a rib cage. They sprawled amid meat and mess.\n\nThe shattered creature seemed to still embody a secret the dying alien struggled to grasp.\n\nStructures unraveled. Currents ran down.\n\nOn the barren plain only a single plaintive voice now called.\n\n _What could that be? What could that be?_\nPART FOUR\n\nSense of Self\n\nNature does not err, for she makes no statements.\n\n\u2014BERTRAND RUSSELL\nONE\n\nMelted Portals\n\nHe crawled down a muddy slope and hoped that he would not stand out against the thermal background. The air was thick and moist and that was of some help. Maybe.\n\nKilleen thought again about the fact that he had been running away from ruined cities most of his life.\n\nRetreating from the burned and smashed ruins of the Citadel\u2014 _yeasay,_ that he remembered sharply. That day seemed to lie far down a corridor of ruin and destruction stretching back longer than any man could live. To him came the names of favorite places where he had played as a boy and learned as a man: The Broadsward, Green Market, the Three Ladies' Rest. All that remained of them now were the jagged teeth of broken walls, whistling in cold winds.\n\nThis time was no different. The mechs had ripped the portal city apart the way a seamstress would tear the arms off a dress\u2014professionally, swift and sure.\n\n\u2014Cermo!\u2014he sent on low comm.\n\nNo answer. Probably smart not to answer, anyway.\n\nThe mechs who came spilling through the portal were like nothing Killeen had ever seen before and they could do a lot of deadly things. He had no idea how they had shut down all the Bishops' circuitry. Then the control lifted and somebody lost and confused was babbling on all bands, panicked. A flash condensed out of the air quick as a gasp and that Bishop was dead.\n\nKilleen reached concealment under some widespread fronds. The trees here were like none he had ever seen on Snowglade. They angled their broad shelves in the direction of the bright timestone. When one area faded the trees turned their attention to the next radiant patch. They moved like great wise creatures with many hands, palms cupped up to the shining.\n\nHe wormed his way under them and in time over a low saddle-back. Here he could get a look back at the vast complex where the Bishops had entered the esty.\n\nHe edged up over a rock rim. Through long years on the run he had learned to never expose himself to detection. Not if he could wait it out and let the enemy move away. But he had to find Bishops. Nobody else would pull the Family back together. Jocelyn and Cermo were good under-officers but they would spend their time trying to find him.\n\nHe bobbed his head up over the rim and quick-tapped his right incisor twice and ducked back down. That froze the image on his retina so he had time to study it.\n\nThe portal complex was bigger than any construction he had ever seen, except the ruin of a Chandelier. It worked in intricate fashion, amazing the Bishops, but it had blown to splinters when the mechs erupted into it. Now the remaining hexagonal matrices were liquefying. Their huge slab walls bubbled and slid and fumed a brown vapor.\n\nHe watched the still image but no Bishop telltales throbbed in it. Then he heard a noise.\n\nHe rolled left and sent an interrogating pulse toward the sound.\n\n\"Ah!\" A thin cry.\n\nHe brought a bolt antenna around on the cry and saw that it was Andro. \"Damn! That hurt!\"\n\n\"You're lucky you're alive. I could've just fired.\"\n\n\"That was an inquiry? It might have killed my inboards.\"\n\n\"You're too flimsy,\" Killeen said, scanning the territory behind _Argo._ Coming up behind approaching humans was an old mech trick.\n\n\"Less circuitry for mechs to sniff.\"\n\nKilleen looked at the scrawny man. Andro was nearly naked and without visible augmentations. \"No weapons either, looks like.\"\n\n\"I'm a legal man, not a bone crusher.\"\n\n\"Try using your laws here. Or collecting a tax.\"\n\n\"Your bang-bang didn't cut thick air back there either.\"\n\nThey were immediately back on the same tack as before, Killeen noted abstractly. Because they couldn't talk right away about what had happened. \"Have you seen any of my people?\"\n\n\"Thought I did.\"\n\n\"Hurt?\"\n\n\"Running. You ground-pounders sure make big targets.\"\n\n\"I haven't noticed your people doing so well.\"\n\nAndro nodded soberly. \"Dunno where I'll find my woman. My son, he skated for Thermograd two days ago, so I suppose he is clear.\"\n\n\"Is that a portal place? Like your city?\"\n\nAndro blinked. \"Uh. I see.\"\n\nKilleen bobbed his head over the rim again and sat grimly watching the result. The city had slid into slag. Andro was an irritating little man but there was no point in saying the obvious. Mechs would probably hit as many portals into the esty as they could. They were systematic. When they had decided to destroy Citadel Bishop they attacked the other Families, too. Thermograd would be no different.\n\n\"Let's move. I have to find my Family.\"\n\nAndro made to stand up and look over the rim and Killeen put a hand on his shoulder. \"No point.\"\n\n\"I want one last look.\"\n\n\"I'm shielded. You aren't.\"\n\n\"Your tech is trivial compared with theirs.\"\n\n\"Sure. But only children take risks they don't have to. If a mech sees you\u2014\"\n\nAndro slipped away and scrambled up the slope. He was quick about looking and Killeen let him go rather than drag him back. When the man came back down the expression on his face told Killeen that he would be all right now. Andro was from a different kind of people but he knew that you had to close a door on some things and just walk away.\n\n\"Let's go,\" Andro said.\n\n\"Moving draws attention.\"\n\n\"I doubt it makes a difference to this kind.\"\n\n\"You know much about them?\"\n\n\"We have some intelligence estimates. Data down the timeline from outside. We're further up the esty gradient, so we are closer to their tech developments.\"\n\nKilleen knew that somehow the _Argo_ had entered this esty thing on a twisty course through the Far Black\u2014by which the locals meant the region swirling around the fat-bellied middle of the Eater itself. And portal cities ran slower than time outside, in ordinary \"flat\" space-time. Places further inside the esty from the portals ran slower still\u2014only \"inside\" wasn't the right word, for some reason of geometry he could not grasp. \"Neighboring\" was closer to the truth.\n\nKilleen stopped checking his gear. \"Can you sniff them?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. Most of the mechs went on farther into the esty, once they'd dumped the ooze on us.\"\n\n\"I saw it hit some people.\" They had turned to sulphurous liquid while he watched and did nothing. \"Just a drop or so.\"\n\nKilleen finished his inventory and wondered what to do with this man. He had ordered all Bishops into field gear the instant Andro told him that they were picking up mech emissions from the Far Black beyond the portal. Due to time dilation effects, that was as much warning as they got, though by physical calculation the mechs would have to spiral in along a tortured path in the Eater's ergosphere. That tangled descent compressed to barely an hour of local esty time.\n\nKilleen was Cap'n of the Bishops but by age-old custom he hauled gear just like anyone. Backpacked on his lower spine were the topo and mapping system he had worn back on Snowglade. Family lore had it that the topo man was the first to fry. Hunter mechs\u2014Lancers, Hawks, Rattlers, Stalkers, Vipers\u2014bounced their low hooting voices off the topo register. Then they backtracked on him and slithered in electromagnetic finger knives.\n\n\"These mechs, they're different,\" Killeen said, reflecting.\n\nAndro nodded. \"A new species.\"\n\nKilleen set his shank compressors. Like almost all Bishop gear they were shaped from the most pliant kind of mechmetal. Bishop artisans had lost their independence from mechtech generations ago. He had entertained the notion of adding to his gear in the portal city but was glad now that he had not bought any of the double-walled helmets or hip shocks.\n\n\"You should have better stuff,\" Andro said, studying him.\n\n\"Load up and you'll just throw it away in the field. Speed's your best defense.\"\n\n\"We're not making any speed sitting here.\"\n\n\"You got a lot of opinions for a desk commander.\"\n\n\"I've seen you Hunker Down types come and go.\"\n\n\"Bishops are different.\"\n\nAndro sobered immediately, his face bleak and drawn. \"That's what we learned at the Replicator. Those Legacies of yours\u2014who would've guessed?\"\n\n\"I can't say I followed it all,\" Killeen said guardedly. In fact he wanted to see if Andro would give anything away. The little man now barely came up to Killeen's belt. Maybe bulk alone would impress him.\n\nAndro smiled wearily. \"C'mon, I'm not hiding anything.\"\n\n\"We've got to find Toby and Abraham, I got that.\"\n\n\"The 'Way of Three,' wasn't that the phrase? Imagine, putting a message in so deep it can't express itself overtly in just one copy of the code. I'd have thought the genotypic\u2014\"\n\nHere Killeen lost track utterly of the man's jargon. Biological information came so fast and casually that his head swam. It was enough to fathom that people carried their genetic information in double helices, without layering that fact with slabs of meaningless words.\n\nPictures, that was how Killeen thought. Words were just ways to fool people, more often than not.\nTWO\n\nA Fog of Flies\n\nThey decided to move. For shelter they used high arching trees that led in a curving arc up toward the distant esty walls above. The trees were billowy and tall and Killeen doubted that they truly gave much cover. They went slowly and the light was fitful and it was a long time before they came to the small pyramid.\n\nKilleen looked at it and felt both dismay and a sad pride. \"This is . . . wonderful.\"\n\nAndro walked around the crudely shaped four-sided stack of stones, twice as tall as Killeen. \"Pretty primitive.\"\n\n\"It's ours.\"\n\n\"Snowglade Families? They took the time to build this?\"\n\n\"It's for our suredead.\"\n\n\"Huh? They're _buried_ in here?\"\n\n\"It's our old way. Mechs don't take the trouble to pull apart rock like this.\"\n\n\"You had some sort of code with them?\"\n\nKilleen walked around the rough sides. He could see where rocks had been hastily wedged into place. \"There was a time, 'way back. We had a kind of understanding with the mechs. We didn't scavenge too much and they let us alone. They were busy with other things, something about herding pulsars.\"\n\n\"But it did not last.\"\n\n\"Naysay. My father Abraham said that truces with them never did, really.\"\n\nAndro's mouth curved in perplexed disbelief. \"You ground-pounder types had it easy. We never got a break from mechs, ever. They kept trying to punch through, to find the Library or some damn thing.\"\n\nSuit cowlings and personal gear were piled a short distance from the pyramid. Another Snowglade tradition. It said to passing mechs that they need not scavenge the pyramid for scrap; here it was, now go away. Reluctantly Killeen poked through them, dreading what he would find.\n\nA faint, buried image came drifting to mind. From his Arthur Aspect . . .\n\nA far grander pyramid slanting up from tawny sands, its point thrusting at a pale scrubbed sky. It dwarfed the puny humans peering up at it. They were smaller than the carved stone blocks that built the enormous steps, a giant's stairway leading to the sky so blue it seemed solid.\n\nThe image wavered before him, floating up unbidden from Arthur's deep historical storage. _Old Earth_ , came a whisper. The vision faded. It had made him pause with its majestic, silent, and eternal rebuke of the mortality that had struck down even the best, since time immemorial.\n\nHis hands scrabbling in the scrap found something and jerked him out of his musing. \"Jocelyn!\" he cried.\n\nAndro came over. \"Somebody you know?\"\n\n\"My . . . under-officer.\"\n\n\"I remember her. Damn.\"\n\nAgain Killeen felt the sensation that had marked his life so often\u2014that in the face of flat facts there was nothing to say. The world was like this and talk could not change it.\n\nJocelyn's burnt-blue ankle bracelet hung on her leg shanks. There was a small triangular hole in the shank and blood on the inside. Killeen took the bracelet and remembered how he had once long ago made love to her, a simple thing in an open field while they were on the run. He walked away wearing the bracelet and for a while did not answer any of Andro's questions.\n\nHe estimated which way his Bishops might have gone and went that way. Andro had trouble keeping up and Killeen became restive at the delay. At one point Killeen thought he heard traceries of Bishop talk, but they faded. Andro seized the opportunity to argue for a path through some wrenching timestone. Killeen went along with the man mostly because he was spiraling into a growing sense of futility. He had lost his Family and didn't know where to turn.\n\nThere were plenty of bodies in the fields and among the strange trees. Back in the portal city, at their Restorer, he had learned of mech diseases targeted on humans. And here they were.\n\nBoils that shined tight and purple. They burrowed into yielding flesh and made sores that sloughed and bled foul and yellow. Bodies attended by a fog of flies.\n\n _And who carried those from Old Earth?_ he wondered. He saw no reason for people to bring a pestilence like insects to this fresh new place. Life required balance, he knew that as an act of faith, but sometimes it was hard to accept the implications.\n\nOnly later did he recall that to mechs, Bishops were a pestilence.\n\nOne woman lay streaked with a rash gray as ashes. Oily pus sleeked her skin. Whirlpools in it squeezed down as he watched. They spooled wetly shut like eyes when he moved. Her head was splitting open in leaves, as though someone had been browsing through her and had left, leaving the book open. Exfoliating, the sheets of brain curled back and made him think of the timestone, like petals of a gray cliff-flower.\n\n\"They would work us woe,\" Andro said.\n\nThey marched on quickly, fearing contagion.\n\nA haze came and Killeen went into it, his mind still on the bodies behind. At least they had not been Bishops.\n\nIn the mist they passed through a verge of dizzying forces. It was a transition, Andro explained. A kind of slipping downhill in an esty gradient. Near the portal cities were tricky manifolds where \"indeterminate geometries\" formed and merged.\n\n\"You can think of it as like doorways opening and slamming shut,\" Andro said.\n\n\"Where does this end?\"\n\n\"It doesn't.\"\n\nKilleen knew when he was being patronized but he was too busy being sick to mind. The stretching and reforming of the esty meant torturing gravities, swerving accelerations, tidal tensions that jerked his arms and legs in opposite directions and popped his shoulders until he thought he would rip apart.\n\nAndro took it with irritating calm. The little man remarked on the curvature of the esty and how a cockroach could crawl over a fresh-picked apple without ever knowing that it was traveling on a curve until it passed the same stem a few times and got the idea. Its world was curved and finite but had no boundary, no wall. Apple everywhere, without end. A savvy cockroach would stop trying to escape the apple after a while.\n\nKilleen was feeling somewhat cockroachy at the time, bent over with nausea as they fell in a pearly fog. They had entered it without his quite noticing how and his sensorium gave him no bearings. His Aspects chattered at him with useless advice. He shut them up to be miserable on his own.\n\nIn the churning mist hollow rasps buffeted them. He tasted a fiery wetness. Andro was saying something about the esty being designed so that even the flux points where curvature changed rapidly were not too strong. That seemed to mean that the stresses would not actually rip an arm out of its socket, though they might come close. At the time he was grateful for any reassurance.\n\nThey did not so much fall as they popped out. Into\u2014a swamp. Killeen splashed and flailed to keep from sprawling face down in the rank mud. He staggered to a hummock of blue-green grass.\n\n\"Damn!\" he called hoarsely to Andro, who was struggling up from the muck. \"How come we\u2014\"\n\nThe blue-green grass had already looped around one leg and was inching up his other. Killeen fought his way off the hummock and onto a spit of dry land, where Andro already sat resting. \"I, I, how'd we get here?\"\n\n\"It's stochastic,\" Andro said. \"No one to blame, really.\"\n\n\"Stow what?\"\n\n\"Chaotic, to you.\"\n\nKilleen's Arthur Aspect put in,\n\n _ **The shifting esty coordinates are completely governed by the classical Einstein field equations, of course, in the strong field limit. But even completely determined relations will yield unpredictable outcomes, if they run long enough.**_\n\nKilleen shoved the Aspect back into its niche. This esty thing was beyond Arthur's experience, but Aspects yearned to get out of their confinement loops, so they spoke up at every opportunity. Sometimes it was like running a classroom of bright but too energetic children, their hands always raised with some smartass answer. \"So you dunno where we are?\"\n\n\"Safer, I'll bet. That's why I wanted to go through that timestone.\"\n\n\"You knew it would work?\"\n\nAndro touched his nose. \"Smelled right.\"\n\n\"You've got a tech tells you when timestone opens?\"\n\n\"No, intuition. Let the ol' subconscious do the work.\"\n\n\"Um. Mechs might've come this way, too.\"\n\n\"I'd rather play the odds\u2014\"\n\nAndro leaped up as if hearing something\u2014and sprawled into the mud. He surfaced and whispered, \"They're here\u2014mech signals.\"\n\nKilleen had heard nothing. He turned very carefully. Trees like balls of fluff swayed and breathed soft mutters above.\n\nKilleen's nerves were jumpy. With all he had learned at the Restorer, with all the ungainly, blood-rich tapestry of human history he now carried as an unwelcome weight, trudging through muck was just about what he expected. That was what humanity had been doing for an ageless, painful time.\n\nHe caught a whisper of scrambled, spiky cues. He knew from field experience that these came when you were in the secondary emission lobe. Sideways angling waves interfered with each other to form small, fast-moving peaks. Abraham had explained it to him once. It was a facet of physics, a telltale nobody who used waves could avoid. Particles were tight and waves spread out, and in their spreading left clues.\n\n _Skreeeeeee_ \u2014\n\nClose. He slogged up onto rocky ground. A vacant plain beyond.\n\nThat meant nothing. The Mantis had been invisible to his sensorium and there were higher forms here, had to be.\n\n\"What do you think it is?\" Andro asked from behind.\n\n\"Quiet.\"\n\nMechs hardly ever used crude acoustic sensors, but you never knew.\n\nThey moved around the edge of the plain for a while but nothing came of it. A gully ran into the swamp and Killeen headed up it. They came to a wide depression. Both stopped. Killeen's breath came faster as he watched the pile heaped into the bowl below.\n\n\"God . . . what did they . . .\" Andro backed away from the sight.\n\n\"Something got them.\"\n\nThis time the dead were not human but the effect was chilling anyway. The piles of skeletal, greasy, mech carcasses were immense. Every kind Killeen had ever seen was here, steel and carbon-fiber, globular and angled, huge and tiny. Some had smashed themselves against each other and spilled out their elegantly machined guts. Their arrogant angles and ribbed solidity had struck fear into Killeen more times than he could ever recall. Now they seemed empty gestures. In stillness they were just assemblies of parts. Fodder for mech scavengers now, a bowl of the rusting, unresisting dead.\n\n\"What could do this?\"\n\nKilleen shook his head. The Cap'n who had taught him so much, Fanny, had always said, _Savvy the mechthink before it savvies you._ The crammed-together mech cadavers were here like some sort of lesson, but . . . what kind? \"Damn awful, all I can say.\"\n\n\"I never heard . . .\" Andro gulped. He was tiring out.\n\nThe gully was deep here. Steep-sided, like a ravine.\n\nKilleen started scrabbling up out of it and Andro followed and that was when he caught the side lobes again.\n\nHe quick-tapped his left molars to bring up the reds in his vision. Blues washed away and he saw in the far infrared a glowing, rumpled land seething with liquid fire. The esty roof above faded to a blank white and across the jutting ramparts of timestone swept crimson tides of temperature.\n\nHe held steady so his periphs could come up. Searching, searching.\n\nHe went to fast-flick. Something swayed among sheets of wintry-gray light to the left. Something gangly and arabesqued with worms. Traceries danced in filmy air. The fleeting image merged with rock and was gone and then swam up out of the slate-black vegetation farther away. For shaved seconds he could see it and then not. The thing was responding to his systems with a false image it projected to match its background as it moved. Tubular legs and a long flat cowled head and prickly antennas swiveling.\n\n\"What do you see?\" Andro asked.\n\nKilleen opened his mouth to tell him to shut up.\n\nSomething poked a hole in his eye and dove through.\nTHREE\n\nThe Pleasure Plague\n\nThe Mantis was larger this time.\n\nHe had been here before. On the island of undulating sand that floated impossibly on a blue sea.\n\nKilleen had never seen a body of water bigger than a smelly, dying pond. He knew the sea only from his immersion in the Mantis itself. The thing had caught him years before on Snowglade and tucked his mind into the larger canvas of its own, almost as an afterthought.\n\nThe boneyard of human skulls was there too and he walked over it this time. It crunched beneath his boots.\n\nWhen he did that the ground buckled for just a flashing moment. Then it went solid again.\n\nAnd Andro was suddenly there and somehow they were both walking across the unending sand island and trying to reach the sea. Yet Killeen felt himself still scrambling up the steep clay gully side and Andro panting behind him. His arms and legs did not stop their working. Part of him was still there in the gully and another was here with a sadness and a leaden certainty that this time he would die in the Mantis's grip.\n\n* * *\n\nI hope my lesson was clear.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Mantis's dry rattle boomed, resounding in his mind as acoustics never could.\n\n\"We're not quite as slow as you think, y'know.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI have always savored your humor, holding forth in even the most difficult of circumstances.\n\n* * *\n\nHe could not see it; humans seldom did. It could be within arm's reach or dispersed in a planet-sized net. Or both.\n\n* * *\n\nIt is a pleasure to once again be your archiving receptacle.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What _is_ this\u2014\" Andro began but Killeen waved him into silence.\n\nThey were still hanging by fingers and toeholds and inching their way up the hard clay. Somewhere.\n\n\"What do you want?\"\n\n* * *\n\nI am sure you believe I am simply here to kill you.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I don't think you do anything simply.\"\n\n* * *\n\nOnce again I savor the delights of an ambiguous rhetoric. Yet I am simple.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Not by me you aren't.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAll my thoughts are known to myself. All of myself. What could be simpler?\n\n* * *\n\n\"Leaving us alone would be. For a start.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI cannot. You are my primary work materials, as an artist. Now, alas, rude survival intrudes even upon this sheltered venue. I come to you seeking aid.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen laughed. And pulled himself up into a crevice where he could lean down and give Andro a hand.\n\n* * *\n\nYou quite rightly use your immortality-\n\n* * *\n\n* * *\n\nsimulating rite.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen laughed again. Anything to keep it amused.\n\n* * *\n\nIt is a wonderful adaptation to your predicament. As its discoverer, I am most proud. My superiors commended me roundly.\n\n* * *\n\n\"For 'discovering' that we laugh?\"\n\n* * *\n\nNo. For discovering what it means. For that brief stuttering vocal instant you live as we do. Outside the clench of time. Of mortality.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What does it _want_?\" The naked terror in Andro's voice made Killeen look down as the man edged his way into a toehold. Andro was sweating and his eyes were rolled far up showing the whites. Somehow he could still climb. His muscles stood out, vibrating.\n\n\"It wants us. Some kind of slice, right? Or maybe this time the whole goddamn cake.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI wish I could dally as an artist, I do. Unfortunately, you are correct. I am here to glean information from you and perhaps a last sample.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I'm fresh out of information.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI want you to understand that I do understand your need to speak to me this way. I do fathom the needs of a centrally directed intelligence, even though I am not one. I am a scholar and an artist and I can appreciate the ancient needs and structures you represent.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I represent myself, that's all.\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou need\u2014indeed, desire\u2014the autonomy of the sense of self. I admire that, I truly do. But I have little time now and must be direct. Not artful.\n\n* * *\n\nAndro's voice trembled. \"We're not about to help you, damn you.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI can aid you as well. You, Killeen, seek your son and your father. So do I.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen said guardedly, \"What for?\"\n\n* * *\n\nInformation. In the end, everything is information.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Can't eat it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe do, at least in the most general sense. I would remind you that thermodynamics rules us all.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I sure don't know what in hell thermo-what is but I can smell bullshit without standing in it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nYour great fore-beings knew our similarities, though I must admit they lacked your flair for the direct. I must hasten here\u2014attend: You primates carry data we need in pursuit of an ancient obsession. There are accounts of lore invented by the early organic forms, those who first devised the mechanical forms. These kindle great pleasure in our kind. Exquisite joys, legendary. And, some accounts have it, dangerous beyond measure. I seek those.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Want to get high? That's what this is 'bout?\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt is no trivial aim. The Exalteds of my order attach great merit to this pursuit. They are privy to reports, quite old and somewhat unreliable, which relate that many of our kind extinguished themselves upon contact with this information.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Committed suicide?\" Killeen saw and felt himself working along the face of the rough clay and yet also hung suspended in an icy black vault, where the talk from the Mantis sped by in an eyeblink.\n\n* * *\n\nDied. Without emitting a single deathcry. Some speculate that they experienced pleasures they could not withstand.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Umm. I've felt like that. Passes, though.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI see! This is irony, yes?\n\n* * *\n\n\"No, sarcasm.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThese indeterminate positional languages! They fructify with meaning. Entrancing. I would sup of this more.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Don't take hints much, do you?\"\n\n* * *\n\nI suppose not. My serial language skills are still\u2014\n\n* * *\n\n\"Talking down to us is so hard?\"\n\n* * *\n\nNarrow and yet fraught with shadings. But this artistic discussion will have to come later. For this moment we must exchange information.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I don't have to tell you a damn thing.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI will reward you with information which you need. I believe this is congruent with your imperative architectures.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen paused on the steep face and puffed loudly and the cool suspended part of him went on. \"I don't know where Toby and Abraham are.\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou can, however, contribute to their discovery. If they can help us ferret out this arcane pleasure, then we shall reunite you all.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Reunite in life? Or in some artwork of yours?\"\n\n* * *\n\nIn realtime lifeline, I assure you.\n\n* * *\n\n\"And I'm supposed to believe you?\"\n\n* * *\n\nI speak as truthfully as one can in serial representations such as your acoustic mode. Also, I do not believe you have any alternative.\n\n* * *\n\n\"How come?\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou mortal beings value your incorporate selves as essential. I fully understand why, and consider that this is a high value, an aesthetic and intellectual position our kind has\u2014perhaps regrettably\u2014lost.\n\n* * *\n\n\"So you'll kill us unless I cooperate?\"\n\n* * *\n\nOf course not. But I can make use of you in ways you will find threaten your selfhood.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen could imagine what uses the Mantis had in mind. He had seen Fanny contorted into a grotesque parody of herself. This was a strangely polite conversation and he suspected something else was going on in it. \"What do you want from me?\"\n\n* * *\n\nI have already obtained most of my needs as this interaction has proceeded. Your reactions I have extracted as I provoked them.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen blinked. \"For . . . what?\"\n\n* * *\n\nFor simulacra. We have made use of the facility you call the Restorer. Much of these methods we knew already but there are nuances which your species has produced. Bio logics. These we have learned. You will find we are a quick study.\n\n* * *\n\nHe clung to a ledge on the gully wall and breathed steadily as his hands groped for the next hold. Within the cool secluded part of him a leaden darkness grew. \"For copies?\"\n\n* * *\n\nOf yourself. They will help us all.\n\n* * *\n\n\"To find Toby and Abraham?\"\n\n* * *\n\nToby is the most important. He carries information we need relevant to the Pleasure Plague.\n\n* * *\n\n\"That's what you call it?\"\n\n* * *\n\nOur sparse data suggests that this Disorder of Desire can communicate, much as a disease does among you. This is another curious feature which we must investigate.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Sounds to me like you'd better leave it alone.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI believe even you can see that we cannot allow a basic feature of our makeup such as this to elude us. We know all of ourselves\u2014that is the nature of higher intelligences. You do not know yourselves. Much of your antic artistry and chaotic creativity stems from that, I feel. But you must admit that you are an early, malformed stage of development. Systems with no \"subconscious\" or ungoverned elements are far more functional. Thus they must learn all facets of themselves, to improve.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen snorted with contempt. More empty talk.\n\n* * *\n\nI do not deny that I/we have used you to our own ends.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Even when we thought different, right?\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou refer to how you escaped from Snowglade in the _Argo_?\n\n* * *\n\n\"We blew you all to smash and scatteration in our exhaust wash.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThat manifestation of me, yes. I thought it would give you some pleasure of your own. And strengthen your own stature within your tribe.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I figured it was biggo bogus anyway.\" Killeen remembered the celebrating Bishops after they had played raw hard plasma over the Mantis below. Satisfying, but he had always wondered.\n\n* * *\n\nThat role devolved upon me. I had studied you as artworks for many generations. When the Exalteds decided to assemble the existing fragments of the Plague puzzle, they delegated to me the stimulation of your flight. The _Argo_ would have destroyed itself if we had attempted to read its Legacies ourselves. Still more difficult would have been moving _Argo_ here to the esty, and bringing the knowledge of the Myriapodia as well.\n\n* * *\n\nAndro was getting frazzled with the climbing and Killeen did not like the deranged, white-eyed look on the sweating face. Andro was used to cities and the mechs had brought all that down in minutes. It would take him a while to get his mind around that. That was the difference between a life spent on the move and one with feet sunk in the sod, bound up with buildings and possessions and the fat habits of mind. Killeen reached the last rough rim of the gully and rolled onto the plain above, gasping.\n\n\"They're all part of it? Seems complicated.\"\n\n* * *\n\nHistory is. The Myriapodia were\u2014as the Exalteds predicted\u2014essential in your reaching this place. They do not carry the Way of Three but they are a useful mixed-organic form. Some of us believe the Myriapodia may recapitulate a transitory mode of life which gave birth to our Phylum, a bridge between us and you. In any case they have now done their essential task for us and shall be eliminated, as they do consume resources.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Pretty tough on the competition.\" Killeen was trying to figure a way out of this and keeping the Mantis talking was all he could think of.\n\n* * *\n\nThere is no need of deception between us. You know that you shall go the way of all fleshlife. Though as I have offered before, you can/should/will be enshrined in my/our artistry. This is the highest fate you dreaming vertebrates can cherish.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I think we can do better than that. At least _we'll_ be doing it. You wouldn't understand that, though.\"\n\nAndro trembled with fatigue and could not haul himself up the last steep slope. Killeen rolled to his left and grasped his hand. Andro got over at the rim and gulped in air, face red, eyes white.\n\n* * *\n\nAs a collector and artist I much desire to sample and record both Abraham and Toby. That is the Way of Three the Exalteds have discerned in the scattered, archaic data. The Pleasure Plague somehow intersects certain genetic lines of your lowly Phylum. I already have your own genetic record, of course, as part of my research for the Fanny sculpture. I then attempted\u2014\n\n* * *\n\n\"You got _me_?\" Killeen felt a hot anger. His Arthur Aspect spun a picture of two helices wrapped around each other and began a droning lecture about genes but he brushed it aside.\n\n* * *\n\nOf course. I scoured the _Argo_ for flakes of skin, human dander, but could confirm no such from Toby. And your father we failed to find at your Citadel.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen looked quickly around. Nothing on the arid plain. The esty curvature loomed above, distant and filmy. No escape anywhere. \"I couldn't find him either. Figured he was in one of the collapsed buildings.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe excavated fruitlessly. We have no reliable method of searching out his DNA and knowing it was Abraham's. But the Magnetic Mind carried signals from him, coming from somewhere in this place.\n\n* * *\n\n\"How'd he get away from you, if you're so all-fired powerful?\"\n\n* * *\n\nThere are other forces afoot here\u2014to use an image your Phylum would employ.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Glad to hear it.\" Did this thing understand sarcasm?\n\n* * *\n\nSomething concentrated an energy density at the Citadel of the Bishops exceeding our capabilities. It transported Abraham away, apparently intact.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Nice trick.\"\n\nKilleen helped Andro to his feet. The man looked wildly into the distance and mumbled. Killeen followed Andro's line of sight and caught a glimmering of structure. Lacy lines, straight but shifting with uneasy energy.\n\nAndro seemed all right now. His systems seemed jumpy but better than Killeen's. He pointed.\n\nSomething there now. Swift. Jerky. Mobile lattice more than a structure and parts went away for a while and came back and he could not see how that happened.\n\nAndro had some sort of weapon hidden in his elbow. Killeen had not even recognized it. He sent something at the form on the horizon. Killeen saw it as a flash in his sensorium.\n\nAndro sat down suddenly. Without a sound he kicked his heels savagely against the ground. It was as though he were dancing and had just made the mistake of lying down first. His face showed no concern. Hands cupped together as if he were praying. His legs drummed on frantically. Sweat jumped out all over him in seconds and he breathed heavily and still not a flicker in the impassive face. He began to blink fast and then faster.\n\nHe stopped. Legs and arms went limp. A long sigh escaped his chest and his eyes closed.\n\nKilleen listened to the Mantis go away as his sensorium drained of color and calmed. He did not move until the presence was gone and then Andro began to speak. He went on for a long time and none of it made any sense of course.\nFOUR\n\nThe Way of Three\n\nSo this whole esty thing's been designed for us?\" Killeen asked.\n\n\"Humans?\" Andro was still groggy from the Mantis's little lesson.\n\n\"Planet-bound life, I mean.\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Planets are sure simple compared to this.\" Killeen waved at the crusted desert they were crossing. \"Water and wind and light\u2014all've got to move just right. Otherwise you suffocate or starve.\"\n\nAndro nodded sluggishly. \"It gave us . . . comfortable place to live.\"\n\n\"Like the Citadel. People well off don't think about how precarious it all is.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\nKilleen realized that Andro was the product of many generations tucked into the esty and had no direct knowledge of what things were like on the outside. It was as though he saw distant events as passing items of interest, no more. Maybe that was what happened to people everywhere. Nothing to gain from pointing it out to him, though. \"How come there's hardly anybody around?\"\n\n\"You have to know where to look. In my office, I have esty cords of human areas. Alien ones, too. They keep shifting all the time so we have to keep updating them. Or . . . had to.\" Andro blinked. \"I guess that's all gone now.\"\n\nAndro limped as they trudged over the smooth curvature of the crusty plain. They had walked and slept and walked again and the land was the same chalky soil, low scrub and washed-out basins. The esty curved up and over and through pale clouds Killeen could see that the land above was the same.\n\n\"How come people haven't filled up the esty?\" Killeen asked.\n\nAndro stopped. \"Huh. I never thought of that.\"\n\n\"It's made for planetary life, there's been enough time\u2014right?\"\n\n\"People come through the portals, go farther in. Have been for a long time. Most we never see again.\"\n\nThey looked at each other. Andro said, \"We cannot really map the esty, but\u2014\"\n\n\"It sure looks empty. That measures how big it is.\"\n\nAndro said forlornly, \"Maybe it'll swallow up the mechs, too.\"\n\nKilleen shook his head. \"They planned this a long time. Look at that sinkhole full of scrapped mechs back there. The Mantis set us up for that and it made the point. They've got plenty.\"\n\nAndro's face textured with worry. \"We found that pyramid, our own dead. Then their dead. I thought that was the point.\"\n\n\"The Mantis never says just one thing. Maybe it can't read our deep memories, or can't figure them out.\"\n\n\"We shouldn't talk about it.\"\n\n\"Prob'ly.\" Mechs could seed an area with microscopic bugs, eavesdropping on anyone. What the Bishops had learned at the portal city's Restorer, combined with the _Argo_ 's Legacies, was dizzying, complex. \"Sure strange, though.\"\n\nThe Legacies could be read only in combination with information in the Restorer\u2014ancient text-codes gotten from the Galactic Library. The story was snaky, convoluted, understandable only by combining a variety of sources. Stitching it together, Killeen had finally understood some of his own history.\n\nThe earliest intelligent life in the galaxy, who had produced the early mechs, knew the dangers inherent in the timeless conflict between the two forms. Mechs could redesign themselves, improve and sculpt their bodies and minds alike. The organic forms were slower, reluctant to wrench themselves away from the modes that evolution had wrought. They altered their culture, but not their substrate\u2014brains and bodies.\n\nInevitably, they fell behind the rapid pace of their own creations. And they knew they were flagging. They wanted a trump card. The First Command.\n\nDeep in the inner design codes of those early machines, the ancients embedded a First Command that could not even in principle be detected by the mechs themselves. The hiding of the First Command, so that each mech carried it as a deep operating system, yet could not access it, was the greatest creation of some unknown ancient scientist.\n\nThe effect was subtle. Activated, the First Command codes brought great pleasure. Then, death by ecstasy.\n\nMechs who turned against their Natural forebears could then be destroyed, by the trigger codes that activated the First Command.\n\nThat checked with what the Mantis chose to reveal. Killeen had warily listened to it, while carefully trying not to think about the unspoken.\n\nWhat it had not said was that if another trigger code was activated from outside\u2014the Second Command\u2014the mech felt the impulse to convey its sublime joy to others. Then pleasure became a plague. Death came far faster.\n\nBut this method had failed in the far past. Information about how to activate the First Command was lost\u2014by accident, perhaps. Or by a change of heart, or faltering will, among the early Naturals.\n\nExcept . . . some ancients had deliberately scattered the First Command. They stored it where organic intelligence could always carry information: their own genetic codes.\n\nThe Legacies had a bit of it. The rest resided in the coiled long molecules within every single cell of organic races. It must have seemed a perfect way to keep the crucial information available to all who might need it.\n\nFor long eras, mechanicals and organics lived in balance. The First Command was forgotten. It slumbered on in the genetic inventory, carried forward by serial arrangements of atoms. It had no impact on the life-forms themselves\u2014\n\n _ **Retained in the genotype, unexpressed in the phenotype\u2014**_\n\nhis Arthur Aspect intruded. Killeen let the Aspect mutter in his background, but didn't let it interrupt his thoughts as he slogged across the plain.\n\n _ **\u2014defended against genetic drift and copying error, quite deft indeed, and then\u2014**_\n\nHe shut up Arthur and concentrated.\n\nThe mechs had slowly decided that the organics were no longer semi-divine forefathers. They had become competitors, exploiting the same raw resources of energy and mass. Such conflicts were inevitable. In the long run, no life-form owed another indefinite homage.\n\nBy this time nearly all the scattered sources of the Trigger Commands had been lost. Genetic drift. The long extinctions of entire planets. The rub and pitiless erosions of the material world upon the living.\n\nDispersal proved to be the best defense. The Trigger Commands had been invoked locally\u2014and whole worlds of intelligent mechanicals perished within days. Killeen had seen scenes from this long and desperate struggle, a corridor of ruin and destruction stretching back to when the galaxy itself was slowly grinding down from a spherical swarm of gemlike suns into a compressed spiral disk. He could not truly conceive of the expanses of time and therefore of injury and anguish, or remorse and rage and sullen gray sadness, which had washed over the ruby stars themselves and cloaked the galaxy in a wracking conflict that could never be fully over. From this primordial pain there lumbered forward even into his own time a heritage of melancholy unceasing conflict that had shaped all his life, and formed the Family Bishop culture he so revered and would die to defend.\n\nThe Trigger Commands were spread among all intelligent races, and then\u2014as their numbers dwindled alarmingly\u2014into life-forms which could develop consciousness in future. So they came to Earth when humanity was a mere kindling glow behind the sloped brows of wandering primates.\n\nBut genetic drift erased the record in most humans. Only some still carried the unheeded cargo of instructions, handed down now for nearly seven billion years.\n\nThe Trigger Commands were cunningly concealed. No single strand of human DNA could repeat the full content of the trigger in each \"expression,\" a single generation. Instead, through a cyclic programming, only a third of the activator code appeared in coherent order, in the DNA of a single member.\n\nTo get the trigger codes completely, you had to assemble three generations.\n\n\"Abraham, Killeen, Toby.\" Killeen whispered the words like a mantra as he marched, boots crunching the alkaline crust.\n\nAndro's raspy voice drew him out of his thoughts. \"Those they're after?\"\n\n\"Yeasay. Me they've already copied.\"\n\n\"You think that Mantis was honest? It let us live, after all.\"\n\n\"Because it wanted something it could get from us alive.\"\n\n\"The other two.\"\n\n\"That can't be all of it,\" Killeen reflected. \"Why let you go then?\"\n\n\"That's what I'm trying to see.\"\n\n\"They don't know enough,\" Killeen said. \"Something we don't know either.\"\n\nAndro scowled at Killeen. \"Or don't know we know.\"\n\n\"They don't get what it'll do to them if they read it.\" Killeen stopped short of saying, _That it'll blaze up like a grass fire, sweep right through them, burn the bastards\u2014_\n\n _ **Technically, this is known as a \"meme\"\u2014a self-propagating idea which rewards the holder and impels it to further the meme itself. Human religions are sometimes of this type, as in Islamic\u2014**_\n\nKilleen stuffed Arthur back in its hole. Andro said, \"They _want_ it, though.\"\n\n\"Yeasay. Want it bad.\" All the suffering and fear his kind had known for as long as they could remember came from mechs. In Killeen there now smoldered a fire that would never go out until he held the Trigger Commands in his hand and saw them at work.\n\nAndro said, \"I would have expected that after billions of years, there would be some self-defense mechanism in the mechs. Some safeguards to stop them from even being interested.\"\n\n\"I guess those wore away, too. Everything else does.\"\n\n\"So they tried to take your father as part of this?\"\n\nKilleen frowned. \"I see what you mean. How come they didn't pick me and Toby up, too?\"\n\n\"I suppose they didn't know that they needed three generations then.\"\n\nKilleen nodded. \"What was that term? The Way of Three.\"\n\n\"They suspected the data was in the DNA. But they found only a third of it.\"\n\n\"They have our Legacies, too.\" Killeen bitterly remembered how Toby had fought against letting the portal people read their legacies. At the time it had seemed a good trade to Killeen\u2014these were just people, after all, and the Bishops needed shelter in the portal.\n\nAndro was getting weaker. He hobbled but his voice was still clear and strong. \"They have the Replicator technology now. Damn! All they have to do is search the esty, find your son and father\u2014\"\n\n\"And maybe we should let them.\"\n\n\"They would all die.\"\n\nKilleen chuckled. \"And they figure since humans are their enemy, we want to stop them from getting all their precious pleasure.\" He leaned back and laughed loudly at the impassive sky. Until now the weight of it had not struck him. His enemies had been delivered into his hands. _They don't know it will destroy them._\n\n\u2014and just as he had feared, the stillness and hovering presence of the Mantis descended around them like a massive fog.\n\n\"Damn!\" It had been a trap all along, a chance to eavesdrop on the talky humans.\n\n* * *\n\nYou are quite convincing if one does not know how to unmask the nuances, Killeen.\n\n* * *\n\n\"What?\" He did not know what a nuance was but something in the Mantis's voice came freighted with threat.\n\n* * *\n\nYou verge on the blatant. Most unsubtle.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen laughed again with relief. He could tell the truth here and it was going to be all right. \"I haven't got the energy to be subtle.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe Pleasure is indeed something your Phyla know, because you devised it. We have long suspected that it is the payment invented by the organic races, given to our primitive forms as a reward.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I can't deny that,\" Killeen said. He could see how even a superior intelligence, on the track of something, could read into his and Andro's words a conspiracy, a grand plot. The Mantis was complimenting them without knowing it.\n\n* * *\n\nYou primordials are the masters of pleasure. Evolution brought it to you.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Old Family Bishop saying, yeasay.\" Keep it light, see what it had gotten from its eavesdropping.\n\n* * *\n\nI do not follow your reference.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Old song, prob'ly Johnphilsousa.\" He bellowed out,\n\n\"Malt does more than Milton can,\n\nTo justify God's ways to man\u2014\"\n\nAndro got Killeen's intent, because he wrinkled his nose and commented sourly, \"God, that's awful. Who's Milton?\"\n\n* * *\n\nAncient Earthly poet. An artist like myself. Your source is in error, Killeen. However, I take your point. You primates in particular have a disproportionate fraction of your sensor nerves allocated to your genitalia and taste buds. Plainly you are pleasure machines. It is invigorating to know such forms as you.\n\n* * *\n\n\"The pleasure is all mine,\" Killeen said. He had to get the Mantis to think that what it had overheard was all just talk, flights of fancy language.\n\n* * *\n\nIn us pleasure had to be injected\u2014a mere compensation. You are the masters of the dark arts. That is the thing I have pursued in you more than any other. The ancient bliss.\n\n* * *\n\nAndro started to say something and Killeen lifted a finger to stop him. The Mantis's crisp aura shifted slightly at this small gesture. Killeen saw that again, by accident perhaps, he had heightened the air of mystery and conspiracy\u2014as judged by the Mantis. Being smart was not the same as being sophisticated.\n\n* * *\n\nYou primates are typical of the older forms. Most of your nerve endings concentrate in the outer skin, so you remain largely unaware of what occurs within your own bodies. Plainly, a creature shaped for pleasures, not maintenance. And a disproportionate fraction of those lie in your genitalia or your taste buds. There is also the curious evolutionary convergence of the reproductive and excretion organs. No design would ever favor such doubling of functions; waste elimination must not interfere with the hygienic conditions one assumes necessary for biological reproduction. Evolution ignores the obvious and favors the sensual. That feature we lack and envy.\n\n* * *\n\n\"It's led to a lot of humor, though,\" Killeen said. The Mantis never laughed, of course, but it was worth a try to keep it puzzled.\n\n* * *\n\nThis issue touches, as you have guessed, on the less savory side of our Phylum.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I had no idea.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSarcasm, correct?\n\n* * *\n\n\"Could be.\"\n\n* * *\n\nJests are as informative as gestures.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Some irony here, too.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIrony? You mislead again.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen kept a cryptic silence. Let the mech talk itself in circles. It seemed to like that. The narrowness of sentences and all that stuff about serial and parallel, it tripped them up.\n\n* * *\n\nYou Naturals have oddly exciting ways, though most are liabilities. We know from studies of Naturals like your species that we can best find your son and father by using you as a lure.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Not much I can do about that.\"\n\nAndro was breathing fast again. Hands clenched. The man could not contain his anger. Maybe he had never had much practice.\n\n* * *\n\nI have gotten from you the confirmation I needed. You will remain alive\u2014that is, unharvested\u2014until we see that we have no further need of you.\n\n* * *\n\n\"You\u2014\" Andro screamed and threw himself at the Mantis. He had another small weapon concealed and tried to use it.\n\nThe Mantis did not move a single rod. Andro simply folded up.\n\nNot the usual way, but backward. Killeen heard the spine pop and a gurgled gasp from crushed lungs. Andro bent completely over backward, still standing on two feet. His hair brushed the ground as his feet took a hesitant step, then another. His eyes were wild with pain. Andro's mouth shaped a scream but nothing came out.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Exalteds use me as their guide in these matters because I am the nearest to their level who still can communicate with you. The cramped, serial manner of your speech is painful to them\u2014indeed, impossible. Do not think this gives you any privileged status. I thought a bit of illustration of this would suffice.\n\n* * *\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen felt numb. Andro took another step and fell, breath wheezing from him. From the way the body sprawled Killeen knew there was no help for the man. \"You surekill him?\"\n\n* * *\n\n* * *\n\nThere is no need. You Bishops are worthy of a collection. This sort, of which there is an infestation in this place, is of no concern to a curator.\n\n* * *\n\n\"That's your only reason for doing . . . that?\"\n\n* * *\n\nNo. He had exceeded his marginal utility.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Let's hope these Exalted characters don't think you've exceeded yours.\"\n\n* * *\n\nShould they, I would be happy to be gathered in.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen snorted in fear and anger and emotions he could not name.\n\n* * *\n\nFor you, a reminder\u2014\n\n* * *\n\nA shifting haze as white as steam condensed to his left.\n\nToby was walking steadily out of the solidifying mist. He was grinning. Smaller and thinner than Killeen remembered. Toby said something that got snatched away by a gathering wind and the tone was wrong and as Toby's jaws yawned the lines in his face broadened to jagged cracks.\n\nToby came apart. In precise zigzags. Each one gave a brittle pop as his son burst apart.\nDecision Tree\n\n _If the Way of Three is correct, then we need only the genetic coding of these primates._\n\nIt would seem so.\n\n _How simple! We missed it for so long._\n\nThat is what worries me.\n\n _Why should it? They employ a particularly awkward method of self-reproduction. Much of their genetic code is useless baggage, carried along solely because it can copy itself, but conveying no worthwhile message. An ugly mess, dictated by their random evolution._\n\nI/We suspect . . .\n\n _What?_\n\nThat is what concerns me. I do not know what my misgivings mean, since they are so . . .\n\n _Tentative?_\n\nYes. I deplore hesitation. Still, I sense danger. Undefined, but danger, definitely.\n\n _We have waited long enough to deal with these. We entertained endless discussion of art, aesthetics, and how beautiful in their way these primitive forms are. Very well, some have been recorded as we terminated them. Done!_\n\nYou advocate the harsh method?\n\n _Of course. We need only the three generations of data. Very well, kill them all and let the Exalteds sort them out._\n\nAll? Everywhere?\n\n _I believe we can do it._\n\nWe could tear momentary openings in the Wedge, that I grant. To ransack the entire space-time geometry may not even be conceptually possible.\n\n _Such niceties I leave to the savants of geometry. We need not cleave all Lanes\u2014only enough to discover the Three. A random sampling of the human-habited Lanes should suffice. Perhaps a hundred._\n\nSome levels of All/We will be displeased at the erasure of so much potentially useful data.\n\n _Once we have the Three and can decode\u2014that should be trivial\u2014the remaining data is mere trash._\n\nThere is the faction/submind of us/you which holds that both prudence and aesthetic issues\u2014\n\n _Enough of this. Decision is made._\n\nBut truly, wait\u2014\n\n _We/You are the majority._\n\nI understand.\n\n _All/You must remember to keep to our/your proper station. Act!_\n\nI must.\nPART FIVE\n\nThe Silver River Road\n\nFrom too much love of living,\n\nFrom hope and fear set free,\n\nWe thank with brief thanksgiving\n\nWhatever gods may be\n\nThat no life lives for ever;\n\nThat dead men rise up never;\n\nThat even the weariest river\n\nWinds somewhere safe to sea.\n\n\u2014SWINBURNE\n\n\"The Garden of Proserpine\"\nONE\n\nMolten Time\n\nToby continued down the silver river in search of his father.\n\nHe crouched in his skiff, swaying with the rippling currents, and watched his trawling line. He had not eaten for two days. His vegetarian principles had not held up well under perpetual pursuit and ravagements. A fat yellow fish shimmered far down in the filmy water but would not bite.\n\nCuriosity overcame hunger and he leaned over to see if the fish was nosing about his line. Instead of plump prey he saw himself, mirrored far down in a tin-gray metal current. But his image wore the cane hat he had lost overboard yesterday. He stared down into the trapped time flow, which had kept pace with his skiff's downtime glide. Frowning, he studied his optimistic gaze of yesterday. A smudged forehead, sprigs of greasy hair jutting around his big ears, a determined set to the jaw that looked faintly absurd. He would have to learn to give less of himself away. Adults could do that without thinking.\n\nHe edged back from the lip of the shallow-bottomed skiff. He had fashioned the skiff from scrap metal in order to negotiate this strange river with is mixture of fluids, silky waters, and conducting metals, and he knew how rickety the shell was. The liquid metal current was rising through the skin of water. It could sink him with a casual brush. Danger dried his mouth, tightened his throat.\n\nDown through murky water he had glimpsed a slow churn of ivory radiance. Mercury shaped the broad, mud-streaked course. Treachery lurked in that metallic upwelling\u2014oblong-shaped many-armers, electric vipers, fanged things that glided through the metal currents like broad-winged birds.\n\nHe lay still in the skiff bottom, hoping the time-dense flow would subside. A queasy temporal swell oozed through his gangly body. To distract himself from the nausea he gazed up at the great spreading forest that hung overhead.\n\nPatches of bare timestone shimmered there, opulent with smoldering glows. The esty here was tubular, dominated by this shiny snake river that wound through bluffs and forests. Downriver, the yawning bore of his circumscribed cosmos faded into ivory mist. He could see a sizable city there beside a shimmering bend. Behind him, uptime, he could make out the immense curve of the esty and its rich hills until perspective warped and blurred them. He was tempted to thumb up his binoculars to see\u2014\n\nA thump against the skiff. Something heavy, moving.\n\nHe held his breath. Normally the skiff moved feather-light, responding to the rub and press of the air's very compression behind him as he voyaged down the silver river and thus accelerated through time.\n\nIrregular patches of bare timestone crust overhead gave forth smatterings of prickly light. He wished for a moment of darkness to hide him. Volcanoes of iridescence erupted from the land on the opposite curve of esty-tube. Light splintered down and beat on him. He bore the sudden blast of heat without a sound.\n\n _ **You are acquitting yourself well**_\n\ncame the whispery words from Shibo. The fragments of herself had begun calling to him. The small voice was soothing and plaintive and he knew he had to resist it.\n\nHe concentrated on the sounds from below. He could not hear anything clearly because the timestone was splitting high above. It would not fall on him; local gravity was always down.\n\n _ **This is an awful place. You have survived nobly.**_\n\n\"Naysay. I kept my head down.\"\n\n _ **I could help you so much more if you would just give me functions I could use. You are lonely and need the\u2014**_\n\nAnswering her was a mistake. She went on and on and he had to concentrate to push her down. She had tried before to mutiny, take control of himself, a traitor Personality. For that there was no forgiveness.\n\nShe fought him with tiny cries. He thought of another woman, of Besen, of making love to her, skin smooth and creamy. He longed to see Besen again. That helped. The memory of her swamped Shibo's wracked sobs.\n\nSmooth skin . . . The face of the water was also smooth . . . and deceptive.\n\nEverything here was dangerous. The exploding timestone came from monstrous collisions between unknown energies, distant flares of the Eater, vast meaningless violence beyond human ken. But the mechs were here, too, and he suspected everything now. He had seen them in the distance. They seemed at a disadvantage here in this moist tunnel-like Lane. Their wrecked bodies sometimes floated by him on the river. But they kept coming; they always had.\n\nSomething worried the water's surface.\n\nHe sat up and reached for his paddle and a skinny thing shot out of the water and snapped past his head. He ducked and slapped the tendril with his paddle. A knobby angular wedge with slitted yellow eyes heaved up from the wrinkled water. It smoked acrid green, out of its metal element, and struck at him again. He swung the paddle. It caught the tendril and sliced through.\n\nThe mercury-beast bleated and splashed and was gone. He dug into the water with the paddle\u2014half its blade sheared cleanly off\u2014and thrust hard. Splashing behind.\n\nHe labored into deeper water. The green fumes swirled away. When the currents calmed he veered toward shore. The big-jawed predator could snap him from the surface in an instant, crunch his skiff in two, if it could extend out of the low-running streams of silver-gray mercury and ruddy bromium. A turbulent swell had brought it up, and might again.\n\nHis arms burned and his breath rasped well before the prow ran aground. Hurriedly he splashed ashore, tugging a frayed rope. He got the skiff up onto a mud flat and into a copse and slid it far back to hide it among leafy branches.\n\nWeakly he flopped down and fetched forth some stringy dried blue meat to quiet the rumble in his stomach. His systems were mostly dead now, crapped out in his long flight. Servos barely ran in his knees and arms. His weapons had discharged and the rest were unreliable. They were designed to bring down mechs anyway and useless for hunting. He had started eating meat when he got really hungry and was somewhat ashamed to admit that he liked it. Principle melted before the flame of necessity.\n\nHe peered at dense forest and patchy mud flats and decided to explore a little. The silent power of the river insulated a lonely skiff from the rhythms of land and made coasting downstream and downtime natural, silkily inevitable. He would learn nothing that way, though.\n\nHe walked upshore, into the silent press of time that felt at first like a mild summer's breeze but drained the energy of anyone who worked against it. As he went he eyed the profusion of stalks and trunks and tangled blue-green masses that crouched close to the river's edge like something waiting. It had been a long while since he had fled the destruction of the giant pyramid mountain and the Walmsley man from Family Brit. He had been happy to find this strange Lane with its silver river and to ease down it, following timelines that flowed nearer the black hole. He had learned some of the culture and had begun to like the soft humanity of it, its archaic charm.\n\nNo signs of people. He kept up a good pace and became distracted and so was unprepared. A short man with a duckbill blunderbuss stepped from behind a massive tree trunk and just grinned.\n\n\"What's the name?\" the man asked, spitting first.\n\n\"Toby.\"\n\n\"Walking upriver?\"\n\nBetter to skirt the question than to lie. \"Looking for food.\"\n\n\"Find any?\"\n\n\"Hardly had a chance to.\"\n\n\"Couldn'ta come far. Big storm just downstream from here.\" The man grinned broadly, showing brown teeth, lips thin and bloodless. \"I saw it pull a man's arms off.\"\n\nSo he knew Toby couldn't have just strolled here from downstream. Toby said casually, \"I walked down from the point, the one with the big old dead tree.\"\n\n\"I know that place. Plenty berries and footfruit there. Why come lookin' here?\"\n\n\"I heard there's a big city this way.\"\n\n\"More like a town, kid. Me, I think you oughta stay out here in the wild with us.\"\n\n\"Who's 'us'?\"\n\n\"Some fellas.\" The man's fixed grin soured at the edges.\n\n\"I got to be getting on, mister.\"\n\n\"This baby here says you got fresh business.\" He displayed the blunderbuss as though he had invented it.\n\n\"I got no money.\"\n\n\"Don't want or need money. Your kind, big and fresh, my friends will sure enjoy seeing you.\"\n\nHe gestured with the blunderbuss for Toby to walk. Toby saw no easy way to get around the big weapon so he strode off, the man following at a cautious distance.\n\nThe blunderbuss was in fact the ornate fruit of a tree Toby had once seen. The weapons grew as hard pods on the slick-barked trees and had to be sawed off when they swelled to maturity. This one had a flange that opened into a gnarled ball and then flared farther into the butt\u2014all part of the living weapon. If stuck butt-down in rich soil, with water and daylight, it grew cartridges for the gun. From the size of the butt he guessed that this was a full-grown weapon and would carry plenty of shots.\n\nHe stumbled through a tangle of knife grasses, hearing the man snicker at his awkwardness, and then came to a pink clay path. Plainly this man planned to bring him to some kind of mean-spirited reception. Simple thieving, or a spot of buggery\u2014these he had heard of and even witnessed. But the man's rapt, hot-eyed gaze spoke of more, some vice from the unknown swamp of adulthood.\n\nWhat should he do? His mind churned fruitlessly.\n\nToby's breath rasped and quickened as he took his time on the steepening path. Like most footways, this one moved nearly straight away from the river, and thus a traveler suffered neither the chilly press of uptime nor the nauseating slide of downtime. Toby judged the path would probably rise into the dry-brown foothills ahead. Insects hung and buzzed in the stillness of slumberous, sliding moments. A few bit.\n\nHe thought furiously. They passed through a verdant, hummocky field and then up ahead around a sharp bend he saw, just a few steps beyond, a deep shiny iron-gray stream that gurgled down toward the river, and a dead muskbat that lay in the gummy clay path.\n\nA muskbat never smells grand and this one, at least a day dead, filled the air with a sharp reek.\n\nToby gave no sign, just held his breath. The stream murmured beside him. Its weak time-churn unsteadied his step only a little. A fallen branch and windstorm debris lay just a bit beyond the muskbat's cracked and oozing blue-black skin.\n\nHe stepped straight over the muskbat and three steps more. As he turned the man breathed in the repulsive tang and his swarthy face contorted. The man drew back, foot in midair, and the blunderbuss wavered away.\n\nToby snatched up the branch. Without meaning to he sucked in the putrid fumes. He had to clench his throat tight to stop his stomach from betraying him. He leaped at the man. In midair he swung the branch, wood seeking wood, and felt a sharp jolt as he connected.\n\n\"Ah!\" the man cried in pain. The blunderbuss sprang into the air and tumbled crazily into the stream\u2014\n\n\u2014which dissolved the gun with a stinging hiss and explosive puff of fragrant orange steam. The man gaped at this, at Toby\u2014and took a step back.\n\n\"Now you,\" Toby said because he could think of nothing else.\n\nHe got the words out at his lowest bass register. With a devouring metal rivulet nearby, any wrestling could bring disintegrating death in a flicker. Toby felt his knees turn to water, his heart jump into his throat.\n\nThe man fled. Scampered away with a little hoarse cry.\n\nToby blinked in surprise and then beat his own retreat, to escape the virulent muskbat fumes. He stopped at the edge of a viny tangle and looked back at the stream.\n\nHis chest filled with sudden pride. He had faced down a full-grown man. He!\n\nOnly later did he realize that the man was legitimately more frightened than Toby was\u2014for he faced a wild-eyed stranger of some muscle, ungainly but armed with a fair-sized club. So the man had prudently escaped, his dirty shirt tail flapping like a harrying rebuke behind him.\nTWO\n\nConfusion Winds\n\nToby skirted away from the foothills, in case the swarthy man came back with his friends. He headed downstream, marching until sleep overcame him. By keeping a good long distance from the river he hoped to avoid the time-storm the man had mentioned\u2014assuming it wasn't a lie.\n\nThe river was always within view from any fair-sized rise, since the land curved up toward the territories overhead. A sheen of clear water blended with the ruddy mud flats at this distance, so that Toby could barely pick out the dabs of silver and tin-gray that spoke of deadly undercurrents.\n\nHe had arisen and found some mealy brush fruit for breakfast and had set off again when he felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. A ripple passed by. It pinched his chest and stung his eyes. Hollow booms volleyed through the layered air.\n\nHe looked up. Across the misty expanse he could make out the far side of the esty. It was a clotted terrain of hills and slumped valleys, thick with a rainbow's wonder of plant life, dappled lakes, snaky streams\u2014all tributaries to the one great river. As he watched the overhead arch compressed, like an accordion he had seen an old lady playing once\u2014and then the squeezing struck him as well. Clutched his ribs, strained at his neck and ankles as though trying to pull him apart. Trees creaked, teetered, and one old black one crashed over nearby. He lay on moist, fragrant humus where he had fallen and watched the massive constriction inch its way downstream, a compression wave passing and then relaxing, like the digesting spasm of a great beast. Strata groaned, rocks shattered. A final peal like a giant's hammer rolled over the leafy canopy.\n\nAs he watched it proceed he saw through his binoculars for the first time the spires of the city, and saw one tumble in a glimmering instant as the great wave passed. Somehow he had thought of cities\u2014or _towns,_ as the man had said, a word strange to Toby\u2014as grand places free of the rub of raw nature, invulnerable.\n\nHe moved on quickly. A purple radiance played amidst the ripe forest, shed by a big patch of raw fresh timestone beside a shiny lake, far away. Thoughts of the city possessed him, ideas of how to track his father, so he forgot the time-storm.\n\nAt first he felt a wrenching in the pit of his stomach. Then the humid air warped, perverting perspectives, and confusion rode the winds.\n\nHis feet refused to land where he directed them unless he kept constant attention, his narrowed eyes holding the errant limbs continually in view. Cordwood-heavy, his arms gained and lost weight as they swung. To turn his head without planning first was to risk a fall. He labored on, panting. Hours oozed past. He ate, napped, kept on. The air sucked strength from muscles and sent itchy traceries playing on his skin.\n\nThe whispering tendrils of stupefaction left him as he angled toward the city. He sagged with fatigue. Three spires remained ahead, whitewash-bright, the most palatial place he had ever seen. Houses of pale polished wood were lined up neat and sure beside rock-roads laid arrow-straight with even the slate slabs cut square and true.\n\nThese streets thronged with more people than Toby could count. Ladies in finery stepping gingerly over horse dung, coarse frolickers lurching against walls, tradesmen elephantine and jolly, foul-witted quarrelers, prodigious braggarts, red-faced hawkers of everything from sweets to saws. All swarming like busybody insects and abuzz with talk.\n\nTo Toby it was like trying to take a drink from a waterfall. He wandered the gridded streets, acutely conscious of his ragged clothes and slouch hat. Baggy trousers covered his field gear. He drew some odd looks.\n\nThis whole Lane seemed devoted to the comforts of some human past he could not quite fathom. His Isaac Aspect broke in,\n\n _ **This is a deliberate echo of an ancient human culture. I cannot place it, but obviously it is pre-Chandelier. Their technology is mannered and cherished for that fact. Together with the river, it seems a sort of refuge for some. I hypothesize\u2014**_\n\n\"I'd appreciate advice on how to get out of this Lane plenty more than your theorizing.\" Toby had assigned Isaac the task of searching all files in his Aspect-space, and he had hoped for more than this.\n\n_**It lies quite within the realm of human sociology to manifest nostalgia on such a scale. This Lane seems to run on varying time senses because of extreme esty gradients, and the human reaction has been to cling to constancy. Understandable and\u2014**_\n\n\"Quiet.\" He stuffed the Aspect back in its hole and sought the one thing he knew, the river.\n\nAlong the big stone quay men loafed in the rising, insect-thronged heat. They slouched in split-bottomed chairs tilted back to the point of seeming dynamical impossibility, chins on chests, hats tipped down over drowsy eyes. A six-legged sow and her brood grunted by, doing a good business in droppings from split crates.\n\nBeyond this slow scene lay the river, lit by the fitful radiance of three overhead timestone patches. Toby took off his pack and sat on a wharf railing and looked at the river's ceaseless undulation, broken by shards of raw silver that broke the surface, fumed, and were gone.\n\n\"Lookin' for work?\"\n\nThe voice was rough. It belonged to a young man somewhat older than Toby and short, like everyone here. Broad shoulders burst his crosshatched shirt. But the eyes were dreamy, warm.\n\n\"Might be.\" He would need money here.\n\n\"Got some unloadin' to do. Never 'nuff hands.\" The young man held out a broad palm. They shook. \"Name's Stan.\"\n\n\"Mine's Toby. Heavy stuff?\"\n\n\"Moderate. We got droners to help.\"\n\nStan jabbed a thumb at a line of five slumped figures seated along the jetty. Toby had seen these before, only upriver they were called Zoms. They all sat the same way, legs sprawled out in front, arms slack, weight on the lower spine at a steep angle. No man could sit in that manner for long. Zoms didn't seem to mind. Just about anything seemed better than being dead.\n\n\"You new?\" Stan asked, squatting down beside Toby and scribbling something on a clipboard with a pencil stub.\n\n\"Just came in.\"\n\n\"Raft?\"\n\n\"Skiff. Landed up above that storm.\"\n\nStan whistled. \"And walked around? Long way. That ripple knock you flat?\"\n\n\"Tried to.\"\n\n\"Be a lotta trouble to get back to your skiff.\"\n\n\"I might just push on down.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Stan brightened. \"How far you come?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Angel's Point? Rockport?\"\n\n\"I heard of them. Saw Alberts but it was foggy.\"\n\n\"You're from _above_ Rockport? And just a kid?\"\n\n\"I'm older than I look,\" Toby said stiffly.\n\n\"You _do_ have a funny accent.\"\n\nToby gritted his teeth. \"So do you, to my ear.\"\n\n\"I thought, comin' this far downtime, you'd get sick, go crazy, or something.\" Stan seemed truly impressed, his eyes wide.\n\n\"I didn't just shoot down.\" It would be dumb to get into his past. People along the river didn't care very much for outsiders. \"I stopped some to . . . explore.\"\n\n\"For what?\"\n\nToby shifted uneasily. He shouldn't have said anything. The less people knew about you, the less they could use. \"Treasure.\"\n\n\"Like hydrogen? Big market for hydrogen chunks here.\"\n\n\"No, more like\u2014\" Toby struggled to think of something that made sense. \"Jewels. Ancient rubies and all.\"\n\n\"No foolin'? I've never seen any.\"\n\n\"They're rare. Left over from the olden lords and ladies.\"\n\nStan opened his mouth and stuck his tongue up into his front teeth in an expression of intense thought. \"Uh . . . Who were _they_?\"\n\n\"Primeval people. Ones from _waaay_ uptime. They were so rich then, cause there were so few of them, that the sapphires and gold just dripped off their wrists and necks.\"\n\nWide-eyed now. \"Earnest?\"\n\n\"They had so much, it was like the dust in the road to them. Sometimes when they got bored, the ladies'd snatch up a whole gob of jewels, their very finest, all glittery and ripe, and they'd stick them all over some of those big hats they wore. Come a flood, people would drown and those jewel-fat hats would come downtime.\"\n\n\"Hats?\" Open-mouthed wonder.\n\nAn airy wave of his hand. \"Not the slouch hats we wear down here. I'm talkin' big boomer hats, made of, well, hydrogen itself.\"\n\n\"Hydro\u2014\" Stan stopped, a look of puzzlement washing across his face, and Toby saw that he had to cover that one.\n\n\"See, those prehistoric days, hydrogen was even lighter than it is today. So they wore it. The very finest of people weaved it into fancy vests and collars and hats.\"\n\nA doubtful scowl. \"I never saw anybody . . .\"\n\n\"Well, see now, that's just the thing. My point exactly. Those olden ladies and officers, they wore out all the hydrogen. That's why it's worth so much today.\"\n\nStan's mouth made an awestruck _O._ \"That's wondrous, plain wondrous. I mean, I knew hydrogen was the lightest metal. Strongest, too. No puzzlement it's what every big contractor and engine-builder wants, only can't get. But\u2014\" he looked sharply at Toby\u2014\"how come you know?\"\n\n\"How come a kid knows?\" Might as well feed him back that remark. \"Because uptime, we're closer to the archaic ages. We look out for those hydrogen hats that came down the river and wash up.\"\n\nStan frowned. \"Then why'd you come down here?\"\n\nFor an instant Toby had the sick feeling that he was caught out. The whole story was going to blow up on him. He would lose this job and go hungry.\n\nThen he blinked and said, \"Uptime people already _got_ the hats that came ashore there. It's the ones that got past them that I'm after.\"\n\n\"Aaahhh . . .\" Stan liked this and at once began to shoot out questions about the grand hats and treasure hunting, how Toby did it, what he'd found, and so on. It was a relief when somebody called, \"Induction ship!\" and the sleepy quay came to life.\nTHREE\n\nThe Zom\n\nThe big white ship seemed to Toby to snap into existence, bright and trim and sharp as it bore down upon them. It cut the river, curling water like a foamy shield, sending gobbets of iron-gray liquid metal spraying before it.\n\nIt was a three-decker with gingerbread railings and a pyramid-shaped pilothouse perched atop. Large, thick disks dominated each side, humming loudly as it decelerated. Only these induction disks, which had to cast their field lines deep into the river and thrust the great boat forward, were untouched by the eternal habit of ornamentation. Curlicues trickled down each stanchion. Pillars had to be crowned with ancient scrollwork, the fly bridge carried sculptures of succoring angels, davits and booms and mastheads wore stubby golden helmets.\n\nPassengers lined the ornate railings as the boat slowed, foam leaped in the air, and backwash splashed about the stone quay. A whistle sounded eerily and deck hands threw across thick ropes.\n\nStan caught one and looped it expertly about a stay. \"Come on!\"\n\nCrowds had coagulated from somewhere, seeming to condense out of the humidity onto the jetty and quay. A hubbub engulfed the induction ship. Crates and bales descended on crane cables. Wagons rumbled forth to take them and Toby found himself in a gang of Zoms, tugging and wrestling the bulky masses. Crowds yawped and hailed and bargained with vortex energy all around.\n\nThe Zoms followed Stan's orders sluggishly, their mouths popping open as they strained, drool running down onto their chests. These were corpses kindled back to life quite recently, and so still strong, though growing listless. Zoms were mostly men, since they were harvested for heavy manual labor. But a hefty woman labored next to Toby and between loads she put her hand on his leg, directly and simply, and then slipped her fingers around to cup his balls.\n\nToby jerked away, her reek biting in his nostrils. He slapped her hard. Zoms hungered for life. They knew that they would wither, dwindling into torpid befuddlement, within months. The heavy woman shook her head, then leered at him and felt his ass. He backed away from her, shivering.\n\nAnd bumped into a shabby Zom man who turned sluggishly and mumbled, \"Toby. Toby.\"\n\nStunned, he peered into the filmed eyes and slack mouth. Parchment skin stretched over stark promontories of the wrecked face. Memories stirred. Some faint echo in the cheekbones? The sharp nose?\n\n\"Toby . . . I am . . . father . . .\"\n\n\"No!\" Toby cried.\n\n\"Toby . . . came here . . . time . . .\"\n\nThe Zom reached unsteadily for his shoulder. It was in the tottering last stages of its second life, the black mysteries' energy now seeping from it.\n\n\"You're not my father! Get away.\"\n\nThe Zom gaped, blinked, reached again.\n\n\"No!\" Toby pushed the Zom hard and it went down. It made no attempt to catch itself and landed in a sprawl of limbs. It lay inert, its eyes filmed.\n\n\"Hey, it botherin' you?\" Stan asked.\n\n\"Just, they just get to me, is all.\"\n\n\"These're made in Resurrection City, I heard.\"\n\n\"Where's that?\"\n\n\"'Nother Lane entire. They knock off copies from raw stock.\"\n\n\"From dead people?\"\n\n\"Don't have to be. Got a mind-copy, just fast-grow a template, marry them up\u2014zingo, you got cheap labor galore.\"\n\nToby studied the slack-jawed face and resolved that this Zom could not possibly be his father. The false Abraham had fooled him for a moment but not this thing, no. There was really no resemblance at all, now that he took a close and objective scrutiny.\n\n\"Let it lay there,\" Stan said dismissively. \"We got work to do.\"\n\nIt was so far gone Toby could not tell if this was some copy from the Restorer, which he supposed was what Stan meant by Resurrection City, or in fact the true Killeen, somehow aged in the esty.\n\nSo he put the matter out of his mind. He would treat this Zom as a copy, like that one of his grandfather back in the field hospital. He decided this and thought of it no more. It did not occur to him that he could not have done this only a few years before.\n\nThe rest of the unloading Toby helped carry out without once looking toward the crumpled form. Ladies stepped gingerly over the Zom and a passing man kicked it, all without provoking reaction.\n\nSweat was trickling into his eyebrows and so he did not see the mechs at first. \"Heyso!\" someone called. Toby looked up\u2014\n\n\u2014into an onrushing sleek snout. Two others followed. They banked in the soft air and their shock wave slammed down onto the docks. People ran all whichways but Toby stood still, watching the silvery craft climb up the air. They pitched and yawed to no apparent purpose, angling out over the shore.\n\n\"Looking,\" Stan said. \"Been here before.\"\n\n\"These same ones?\" Toby asked.\n\n\"Smaller last time.\"\n\nThe craft banked and glided now, slower and more careful as they prowled over the town. Toby still did not move. Mechs could pick up servos working. Stan gave him a puzzled look and cautiously got down behind some bales of sticky-grass.\n\nThey were coming back. Calls trilled in his receptors. \"Bishops!\" he whispered. He could pick out Cermo, Jocelyn, others. So the mechs had gotten the Family codes. He killed his inboards, in case some vagrant signal might get out in response.\n\nThey came right overhead. The moment passed with agonizing slowness and for a crazy instant he thought they must have stopped dead high above him. Then they were out over the river and he could start breathing again.\n\nJust as he did, somebody shot at the mechs. It was a reasonably sophisticated weapon, Toby could tell, because it left virtually no detectable backtrail. Probably it used some sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum that Bishops could not sense.\n\nThe mechs could. The shot came from somewhere downstream and they rushed that way. It had done them no harm that Toby could see. They fired once, all three together. Someone screamed. The mechs moved off and the screaming stopped. Whoever had died had been foolish. Toby had not for a moment considered trying to help them against mechs of such a caliber. That he had learned as a boy.\n\n\"They did that 'fore, too,\" Stan said. He stood up from behind the bale and tried to make out as if he had not been there.\n\n\"Get anybody?\"\n\n\"Not that I heard.\"\n\n\"Which way did they go then?\"\n\n\"Just like these\u2014\" Stan pointed as the three leveled out and accelerated. \"Downtime.\"\n\n\"Always?\"\n\n\"Certain. After somebody, I 'spect.\"\n\nAnd trying to sucker Bishops in, too, Toby thought. Maybe him. Or maybe it meant there were Bishops about.\n\nThey went downriver. Maybe that meant he should not.\n\nAfter the mechs were out of sight everyone went on as though nothing had happened. The labor was fast and hard, for the induction ship was already taking on its passengers. Crowds, packages, happy confusion. By the time Toby returned from a nearby warehouse where the first wagonload went, only ripples in the mud-streaked river showed that the ship had tarried there at all.\nFOUR\n\nMr. Preston\n\nThat day was long and hard, what with plenty of barrels and hogsheads and wooden crates to unlash and sort out and stack in the crumbling stone warehouse. Stan was a subagent for one of the big importation enterprises and had a steady run of jobs, so Toby was kept busy the rest of the day.\n\nThey had little tech here and relied on grunt labor. The Zoms from the quay wore out quickly and Stan brought out another crew of them. Toby did not see the one that had collapsed and did not go looking for it in the musty rear of the warehouse where they were kept, either.\n\nThe laboring time ended as the big bare patch of timestone overhead dimmed. This was a lucky occurrence, as people still preferred to sleep in darkness. Though there was no cycle of day and night here, a few hours of shadow were enough to set most into the slumber they needed. Toby had once seen a night that lasted several \"days\" so that folks began to openly speculate whether the illumination would ever return to the timestone. When the sulphurous glow did come it waxed into stifling heat and piercing glare so ferocious that everyone regretted their earlier impatience for it.\n\nStan took Toby to his own boarding house and arranged for him, leaving just enough time for a bath of cold river water before supper. Toby was amazed at the boarding table to see the rapidfire putting away of victuals combined with fast talking, as though mouths were meant to chew and blab at the same time. Game hens roasted to golden brown appeared on an immense platter and were seized and devoured before they reached him, though Stan somehow managed to get two and shared. A skinny man with a goatee opposite Toby cared only for the amusements of his mouth, alternately chewing, joking, and spitting none too accurately into a brass spittoon set beside him. Stan ate only with his knife, nonchalantly inserting the blade sometimes all the way into his mouth. Toby managed to get forkfuls of gummy beans and thick slabs of gamy meat into himself before dessert came flying by, a concoction featuring an island of hard nuts in a sea of cream that burst into flame when a man touched his cigar to it. Stan ate some and then contentedly sat back in his wicker chair, picking his teeth with a shiny pocket knife, an exhibition of casual bravery unparalleled in Toby's experience.\n\nAfterward Toby wanted more than anything to sleep, but Stan enticed him into the hubbub of the streets. They ended up in a bar dominated for a time by an immense, well-lubricated woman whose tongue worked well in its socket, her eyes rolling as she sang a ballad Toby could not fathom. At the end of it she fell with a crash to the floor and it took three men to carry her out. Toby could not decide whether this was part of the act or not, for it was more entertaining than the singing.\n\nStan thrust some dark beer upon him and artfully took that moment to pay Toby his day's wages, which of course made Toby seem a piker if he did not buy the next round, which came with unaccountable speed. He was halfway through that mug and thinking better of this evening, of this huge complex city, of his fine new friend Stan, and generally of the entire copious wonderful esty itself, when he recalled how his own father had drunk heavily years before. He remembered Killeen remarking at the time that in Family Bishop, you discarded a cork once you had pulled it from a bottle, knowing with assurance that it would not be needed again.\n\nThis connection troubled him, but Stan relieved Toby's frown by stretching his legs out and sticking a sock-clad foot up. The sock had a face sewed on it so that Stan could jiggle his toes and make the face show anger, smile, even blink. All the while Stan carried on a funny conversation with the artistic foot. But this made Toby remember a day after the Calamity, cold and bleak, when Bishops were camping overnight with some stragglers from other Families. A tall Knight boy had stuck his gray-socked foot from beneath some covers as a joke. Toby mistook it for a rat and threw his knife, skewering the foot. That had made him unpopular for some time around Family Knight.\n\nHe smiled at this and had another sip of beer. Stan's face went pale. Toby felt a presence behind him.\n\nTurning, he saw a tall man dressed in leather jacket and black pants, sporting a jaunty blue cap. No one but pilots could wear such a cap with its gold flashings across the bill.\n\n\"Mr.\u2014Mr. Preston,\" Stan said.\n\n\"You gentlemen out for an evening? Not too busy to discuss business?\"\n\nMr. Preston smiled with an austere good nature, as befitted a representative of an unfettered and truly independent profession. His Aspects had laboriously taught him that lords found themselves hampered by parliaments, ministers knew the constraints of their parishioners, even school teachers in their awful power finally worked for towns.\n\nBut a silver river pilot knew _no_ governance. A ship's captain could give a half dozen or so orders as the induction motors readied and she backed sluggishly into the stream, but as soon as the engines engaged, the captain's rule was overthrown. The pilot could then run the vessel exactly as he pleased, barking orders without consultation and beyond criticism by mere mortals.\n\nWithout asking, Mr. Preston yanked a chair from another of the raw hardwood tables that packed the bar, and smacked it down at the table. \"I heard you come from uptime\u2014 _way_ uptime,\" he said to Toby.\n\n\"Uh, Stan told you?\" Toby asked to get some time to think.\n\n\"He dropped a word, yes. Was he wrong?\" Mr. Preston peered at Toby intently, his broad mouth tilted at an assessing angle beneath a bristly brown mustache.\n\n\"Nossir. Maybe he, uh, exaggerated, though.\"\n\n\"Said you'd been above Rockport.\"\n\n\"I caught sight of it in fog. That awful pearly kind that\u2014\"\n\n\"How far beyond?\"\n\n\"Not much.\"\n\n\"Cairo?\"\n\n\"I . . . yeah, I gave it wide berth.\"\n\n\"Describe it.\"\n\n\"Big place, grander than this town.\"\n\n\"You see the point? With the sand reef?\"\n\n\"I didn't see any reef.\"\n\n\"Fair enough\u2014there isn't any reef. What's the two-horned point like?\"\n\n\"Foam whipping up in the air.\"\n\n\"Where's the foam go?\"\n\n\"Shoots out of the river and arcs across to the other horn.\"\n\n\"You go under the arc?\"\n\n\"Nossir. I stayed in the easy water close on the other shore.\"\n\n\"Smart. That arc's been there since I was a boy and nobody's lived who tried to shoot with the current under it.\"\n\n\"I heard that too.\"\n\n\"Who from?\"\n\n\"Fellow upstream.\"\n\n\"How far upstream?\"\n\nNobody ever lied to a pilot, but you could shave the truth some. Toby took a sip of the dark beer that was thick enough to make a second supper\u2014as some in the bar seemed to be doing, loudly\u2014and said with care, \"The reach above Cairo. That's where I started.\"\n\nMr. Preston leaned forward and jutted out his long jaw shrewdly. \"There's a big bar there, got to go by it easy. Sand, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Nossir, it's black iron.\"\n\nMr. Preston sat back and signaled the barkeep\u2014who had been hovering, wringing a dirty rag\u2014for a round. \"Right. A plug of it that gushed up from some terrible event in the river bottom. Books say a geyser of molten metal\u2014not the cool ones that flow under the river\u2014that geyser came fuming up through the timestone itself.\"\n\n\"I've been in other parts of the esty and I haven't seen anything like this river. It doesn't seem logical.\"\n\n\"Not for us to know, son.\"\n\n\"Please don't call me son, sir.\"\n\nMr. Preston's bushy eyebrows crowded together, momentarily puzzled at the quick, hard note that had come into Toby's voice, but then he waved his hand amply. \"Surely done, Mr. Toby. I must say there is something about you that is wise beyond your apparent years. I am prepared to hire your services.\"\n\nStan was looking bug-eyed at this interchange. For two lowly freight musclers to be drinking with a pilot was like a damp river rat going to dinner at the mayor's. And this latest development!\n\n\"Services?\" Stan put in, unable to restrain himself any longer.\n\n\"Navigation. There've been five big time-squalls between here and Cairo since I was up that way. Now I got a commission to take the _Natchez_ up that far and no sure way of knowing the river that far.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure I know the river all that well,\" Toby demurred, his mind still aswarm with scattershot thoughts.\n\n\"You see any of those storms?\"\n\n\"Two of them, yessir. From a distance, though.\"\n\n\"Only way to see one, I'd say,\" Stan said with forced jocularity. He was still stunned from the offer.\n\nThe pilot grimaced in agreement, an expression that told much of narrow escapes and lost friends. \"You kept your skiff well clear?\"\n\n\"I poled and rowed, both. Prob'ly just lucky with the currents, truth to tell.\"\n\n\"A time-storm attracts ships according to their mass, see? Your rowing was most likely the cause of your salvation,\" the pilot said. \"An induction ship, despite its power, must be more crafty. Its weight is its doom.\"\n\nToby sipped his strong beer and said, \"I don't know as I want to go back up there, sir.\"\n\n\"I'll make it worth your while.\" The pilot squinted at him, as though trying to see something in Toby's face that he wasn't giving away. \"I was hoping you might have business back up there.\"\n\n _Might have business._ At once the Zom's face lurched into Toby's mind's-eye and he felt the barroom close about him, its suffocating air clotted with cigar smoke. The banks of blue fumes swirled amid the seeping yellow glow of filament bulbs that sprouted from the walls, each the size of a man's head with his hat on. Toby had kept his mind away from the memory until now but the weight of uncertainty again descended. He could not know if the Zom was his father unless he found it again, questioned it.\n\n\"Sir, I'm going to have to give you my reply tomorrow. I have to see to a certain matter right now.\"\n\nThe surprise in Stan's and Mr. Preston's faces was almost amusing. It increased when Toby stood, bootheels smacking the floorboards loudly from the drink he had put down. He nodded solemnly and without a word plunged into the darkness outside.\nFIVE\n\nThe Frozen Girl\n\nInky shapes still shifted in his mind as he knocked on the door of Mr. Preston's house. Toby still felt himself encased in tangled memories, the hate he felt toward the Zom because he did not want it to be the Killeen he had known.\n\nIt was a fitful morning, with gray light piercing a fog and sending traceries across the rooftops along the slumbering river. Mechs and their virulence seemed infinitely far away. People here did not even talk about them. They were cloaked in this cozy, snug corner of the esty and would hear not a word of events beyond. Toby wondered if such people were typical of humanity. If so, what were the Bishops?\n\nHe could barely see the white picket fence framing Mr. Preston's yard. The pearly wisps blotted out detail beyond the brick walk that led to the house. This was a grand place, he had to admit, even in such diffuse light. It was porticoed in pale pine, the massive columns topped with flowery capitals. He rapped the iron door knocker again and instantly the brass doorknob turned, as if attached to the knocker. A dwarf answered, a mute servant, and led Toby along a carpeted hall.\n\nHe was unprepared for the grandiosity of a pilot's lodging, taking in with awe the mahogany furniture, a new electric lamp with yellow-paper shade, and an entire shelf of sound-sculptures. The dwarf retreated, gesturing at a yawning, tongueless mouth and showing the red servant tattoo on his shoulder to explain his silence.\n\nA bounty of travel visions speckled the walls\u2014 _Above the Falls of Abraham, Volcanic Quest, Heart of Lightness, Struggle Against Destiny_ \u2014and many of literature, including the fanciful. Toby yearned to take the sheets and stroke them into luminosity, but as he reached for _Time Stream and World-Wrack_ he heard heavy thumping footsteps and turned to find the pilot in full blue and gold uniform.\n\n\"I hope you have settled your other matter,\" Mr. Preston said severely.\n\nOnly now did Toby recall clearly his abrupt departure from the table. The town beyond that raucous room had swallowed memory. He had made his way through narrow streets lined by rude buildings that seemed to lean out over the street, eclipsing the wan sky glow. The moist lanes near the river had been tangled and impossible to navigate without stumbling and stepping on sprawled forms, like bundles of clothing left for trash collection.\n\nThe masters of the Zoms left them where they lay, sure that they could not move without further feeding. Toby took hours to find the slack-jawed face he had seen on the quay, and then another long time peering at it before he was sure that the Zom was not merely in its lapsed state of rest. The thing had proved dead, limbs akimbo, stiffening into a hardened parody of a dance.\n\nAt morning the burly owner had come by, shrugged at the corpse, and thrown it into his wagon for disposal. Toby's questions about the Zom the big man brushed aside\u2014he didn't know the names, no, nor where they came from, nor from what part of the great river they hailed. Resurrection City? Only a rumor.\n\nAnd the last glimpse Toby had of that face had unsettled him further, as if in final death the Zom gave its last secret. There was a clear resemblance to his father. But was this a copy?\n\nSo with fatigue in his bones but a fresh, iron resolve in his spine Toby made himself stand erect beside the oak mantelpiece and say to Mr. Preston, \"I'll come, sir.\"\n\n\"Damn good! Want to see the backtime, do you?\"\n\n\"Yeasay.\"\n\n\"Whuzzat?\"\n\n\"Uh, yes.\" The word still felt odd. See the backtime, yeasay\u2014and go opposite to the mechs.\n\n\"Here, you had breakfast?\"\n\nCornmeal flapjacks and fritters, brought by the mistress of the house, quickly dominated Toby's attention while the pilot regaled him with lore and stories. Toby managed to keep the details of his long voyage downriver well-muddied, and was distracted from this task by Mr. Preston's collection of oddments, arrayed along the walls. There were crystals, odd-colored stones betraying volcanic abuse, a circlet of ancestral hair, five flint arrowheads from the fabled days, and some works of handicraft like dozens Toby had seen before. Beside these were bronze-framed, stiff 3D's of addled-looking children, aged uncles and the like, all arranged awkwardly and in Sunday-suited best for their bout with immortality.\n\nBut these oddments were nothing compared with the large transparent cube that dominated the dining room table. It shed cold air and Toby took it to be ice, but as he ate he saw that no drops ran off the sleek flat sides. Within its blue-white glow small objects of art were suspended\u2014a golden filigree, a jagged bit of quartz, two large insects with bristly feelers, and a miniature statue of a lovely young girl with red hair and a flowing white robe.\n\nHe had nearly finished inhaling the molasses-fattened flapjacks and slurping down a pot of coffee when he chanced to notice that one of the insect wings had lowered. Keeping an attentive ear to the pilot, who had launched into what appeared to be a four-volume oral autobiography in first draft, he watched carefully and saw the girl spinning slowly about her right toe. Her robe fetched up against her left leg and then gracefully played out into a spinning disk of velvety delicacy.\n\nBy this time the insects had both flapped their transparent gossamer wings nearly through a quarter-stroke. They were both heading toward the girl. Their multifaceted eyes strobed and fidgeted with what to them must be an excited vigor, and to Toby was a torpid, ominous arabesque.\n\n\"Ah, the hunt,\" the pilot interrupted his soliloquy. \"Beautiful, eh? I've been watching it for long enough to grow three beards.\"\n\n\"The girl, she's _alive._ \"\n\n\"Appears so. Though why she's so small, I cannot say.\"\n\n\"Where'd you get it?\"\n\n\"Far downstream.\"\n\n\"I never saw such.\"\n\n\"Nor I. Indeed, I suspect, from the quality of the workmanship, that the girl is real.\"\n\n\"Real? But she's no bigger than my thumbnail.\"\n\n\"Some trick of the light makes her seem so to us, I reckon.\"\n\n\"And these bugs\u2014\"\n\n\"They're nearly her size, true. Maybe they're enlarged, the opposite of the trick with the girl.\"\n\n\"And if they aren't?\"\n\n\"Then when they reach the girl they will have a merry time.\" The pilot grinned. \"A week's pay packet, I just handed it over flat, to purchase this. That li'l golden trinket, it's revolving, too\u2014see?\"\n\nShe spun farther and he saw that it was Besen. His Besen.\n\nSomewhere she had been trapped. Copied? Or could this somehow be the true Besen?\n\nHe tapped on the side but she showed no reaction.\n\nHe remembered once aboard _Argo_ when they had cleaned out a filthy shower together, doing ship's maintenance. Besen had unscrewed the drain and pulled out a hair ball the size of a well-fed rat. It was lustrous and gummy and so amazing when she held it up, a hairy moon beside her beaming, incredulous planet of a face, that he had laughed.\n\nHe felt a fresh wave of bitterly cold air waft from the cube of silent, slow time. \"Somethin' wrong, boy?\"\n\nHe had an urge to smash the blue-white wedge of molasses-slow tempo, to release its wrenched epochs and imprisoning, collapsed perspectives. But this was the pilot's object, and such men understood the twists of time better than anyone. Perhaps it was right that these things belonged to them.\n\nBest to put it aside. He would not know what to do with the trapped Besen if he did get it. Still, he felt relief when he escaped from the dining room and emerged into the cloaking fog outdoors.\nSIX\n\nGoing Upback\n\nThey were to boom out of the dock that very day. Toby had never known such awe as that instilled by his first moment, when he marched up the gangplank and set foot upon the already thrumming deck.\n\nNever before had he done more than gaze in reverence and abject self-abasement at one of the induction ships as it parted the river with its razor-sharp prow. Now Mr. Preston greeted him with a curt nod, quite circumspect compared to the sprawl of the man's conversation at breakfast. With minor ceremony he received his employment papers. Other crew shook Toby's hand with something better than the cool indifference he knew they gave any and all passengers. The customers who paid the costs were of course held in the lowest regard of all those aboard, including the wipe-boys below. Toby could tell from the somewhat distant, glassy gazes of the men and women of the crew that he was at least considered in the human family, pending.\n\n\"You been by that li'l flurry up ahead?\" Mr. Preston asked him as they made their way up the three flights of external stairs to the pilot's nest.\n\n\"Nossir. I came ashore, stowed my skiff, and walked round it.\"\n\n\"Ummm. Too bad. Think I'll nudge out across stream, keep some distance on it.\"\n\n\"Yessir.\"\n\nTo Toby this exotic Lane was a continual wonder. He began to see how people could want it this way, a pocket set aside from the mechs and all that weight of history. That they were re-creating some ancient manner long past did not matter; here, now, it was real.\n\nThe loading was finishing up, the ship's barely restrained thirst for the river sending a strong strumming into the air. Freight spun off the wagons and flew aboard at the hands of jostling work gangs, mostly Zoms. Late passengers came dodging and scampering among the boxes and hogsheads awaiting loading. Wives carrying hat boxes and grocery knapsacks urged on sweaty husbands, who lugged carpet bags and yowling babies. Drays and baggage three-wheelers clattered over cobblestones and intersected each others' trajectories more often than seemed possible from the supposed laws of probability, sending cases and jars smashing. Profanity blued the air. Windlasses snapped into hatches, fore and aft.\n\nToby loved the turmoil and racket, the whiz and whir of earnest purpose. The bursar called, \"All not goin', please to get themselfs ashore!\" and last bells rang, and the thronged decks of the _Natchez_ gushed their yammering burden onto the gangplanks\u2014a running tide that a few last, late passengers fought. The stage-plank slid in and a tall man came running and tried to jump the distance. He got a purchase on the gunmetal side and a crewwoman hauled him up, but his back pocket opened and his wallet thunked into the river. The crowd ashore laughed and a woman had to stop the man from jumping in after it.\n\nAll this Toby watched from the elevated sanctity of the pilot's nest. It was an elegant place, glass in so many directions he had to count to be sure there were only four of the transparent walls. The Cap'n stood beside the pilot, both arrayed in their dark blue-gold uniforms, and an eerie whistle sounded. The orange flag ran up the jack staff and the ship ceased its drift. Momentum surged through the deck and oily smoke belched from the three tall chimneys at the ship's midships.\n\nThe crowd along the quay called last-minute messages and cheered and the ship shot away from them, seeming to accelerate as it caught with induction fields the deep surge of metal beneath the waters. The town dwindled with bewildering speed, people on the quay turning into animated dolls that turned pinkish and mottled as Toby watched.\n\n\"The time flux,\" Mr. Preston answered Toby's frown. \"I locked us on to her right off. We're seeing their images squeezed and warped.\"\n\nAlready the shore was dappled with reds and blues as time shifted and streamed about the ship, the slap and heave of currents resounding in deep bass notes that Toby felt through his big-heeled boots.\n\nTo fly across duration itself, to wrench away from the certainty of patient, single-minded time\u2014Toby felt sour nausea grip his throat. Confusion swamped him, gut-deep accelerations\u2014a quickening not in mere velocity but in the quantity that he knew governed the esty but which no man could sense, the force of tangled space and time together. The firm deck went snake-slithery, thick air hummed, sparks forked about him. His body fought for long, aching moments the urgent tows and tugs, his chest tight, bowels watery, knees feather-light\u2014and then somehow his sinews found their equilibrium, without his conscious effort. He gulped in air and found it moist and savory.\n\n\"Steady.\" Mr. Preston had been eyeing him, he now saw. \"I reckoned you'd come through, but can't be sure till it's done.\"\n\n\"What if I hadn't?\"\n\nThe pilot shrugged. \"Put you ashore next stop, nothing else for it.\"\n\n\"What about passengers?\"\n\n\"It's easier down below. Up here, the tides are worse.\"\n\n\"Tides?\" He studied the river's table-flat expanse.\n\n\"Not river tides\u2014time tides. Passengers with addled heads and stomachs can just lie down till we reach their getoff point. Most, anyway.\"\n\nToby had always figured that the job of a pilot was to keep his ship on the river, which was not a considerable feat, since it was so wide. Silently watching Mr. Preston trim and slip among the upwellings of rich brown mud, and then slide with liquid grace along a burnt-golden reef of bromium metal, he saw the dancer's nimbleness and ease that came from the whirling oak-spoked master wheel, the orchestrated animal mutter of the induction motors, the geometric craft of rudder and prow. To have this elegant gavotte interrupted was not merely an inconvenience, and dangerous, but an aesthetic atrocity.\n\nThis Toby learned when a trading scow came rushing down the washboard-rough main current and into the _Natchez_ 's path. Rather than perturb his elegant course, Mr. Preston ran across the scow's two aft steering oars. Scarcely had the snapping and crunching ceased than a volley of gnarled profanity wafted up from the clutch of red faces shooting by to starboard. Mr. Preston's face lit up with a positive joy, for here were fit targets who could, unlike the _Natchez_ 's crew, _talk back._\n\nJoy of joys! He snatched open the roller window and stuck his head out and erupted back at the scow. And as the two ships separated and the scowmen's maledictions grew fainter, Mr. Preston poured on both volume and ferocity, calling upon gods and acts Toby had never heard of. When Mr. Preston rolled the window shut on its spool the pilot was emptied of malice, all tensions of the departure now well fled.\n\n\"My, sir, that was a good one,\" a voice said at Toby's elbow. It was Stan, beaming with appreciation of the pungent profanity.\n\nNot an opportune appearance. Mr. Preston skewered him with a glare. \"Deckhands with opinions? Nose to the planking, you!\"\n\nSo it was hours before Toby learned why Stan was on the _Natchez_ at all, for Stan spent his time manicuring the already immaculate-looking pilot's nest and then the iron stairs and pine gangways nearby. When Toby found him slurping a steaming cup of blackbean in the rear galley, Stan waxed eloquent.\n\n\" _Treasure,_ that's why I signed on. Deckhand pays next to nothin' and the time-current made me sick a sec or two, but I'm going to stick it out.\"\n\n\"Uh, treasure?\"\n\n\"I'm already looking for those hydrogen hats. Nobody never spied any this far downstream, so I figure you overshot, Toby, coming as far down as us. They got to be above us, for sure.\"\n\nToby nodded and listened to Stan gush about the star sapphires and fat rubies awaiting them and barely avoided laughing and giving it all away. On the other hand, it had brought him a friend in a place he found daunting.\n\n\"Too bad you had to give up your quest, though,\" Stan said slyly.\n\n\"What?\" Toby was using a bowl of bluebeans to keep his mouth busy and was brought up short by this odd remark.\n\n\"You overshot another way. That Zom was who you wanted to find. Only you wanted the man in his first life, and that lies upstream.\"\n\nHow Stan could swallow whole the hydrogen hat story and yet put together the truth about Toby's father from little slivers was a confoundment. Toby acknowledged this with a grunt and a begrudging nod, but cut off further talk. There was on the river a curious assumption that the river was infinitely long and that the rest of the esty a mere shadow wreathed about the telescoping downslope that sucked the river ever forward. So everything outside, esty-business and mechs and all, was a distraction.\n\nHe had learned early in his downstreaming not to allow others to indulge in yet another sentimental tale of a poor boy without a mother's cozy love or a father's strong arm, heaved all unfriended upon the cold charity of a censorious world. That was not the truth of it and if he did not tell them true they drew back in white-eyed horror.\n\n_**You are handling them just right.**_\n\nThe sudden spiking up of the Shibo fragment startled him. He stifled her, feeling oddly guilty.\nSEVEN\n\nTemporal Turbulence\n\nThe river's easy water lay close ashore. There the deep streams of bromium and mercury allowed the induction coils a firm grip, while the water current sped best in midstream. No hull-searing bromium streams broke surface here, so the watch was comparatively at ease.\n\nMr. Preston explained that the _Natchez_ had to hug the bank, thus separating it from the downstreaming craft that lazed in the middle, harvesting the stiff current. Toby learned a few of the deft tricks for negotiating the points, bends, bars, islands, and reaches that encumbered the route. He resolved early that if he ever became a pilot he would stick to downtiming and leave the uptiming to those dead to caution.\n\nBut the time-storm afflicted both types of craft.\n\nMurmuring dark fell as they cut across river before the whorl of time that awaited. It rose syphonlike at midriver, whereas reports as recent as yesterday back in town had said it clung to the shore opposite where the _Natchez_ now picked its way.\n\n\"Moving quick, it is,\" Mr. Preston said sternly at the wheel.\n\nThe whirling foam-white column dimpled and reddened the images of forest and plain above it. Toby stood to the corner of the pilot's nest and soon exhausted everything he could remember about seeing the storm days before, which proved of no use, for the tempest had grown and shaped itself into a twisted figure-eight knot that spewed black water and gray-metal fountains.\n\nRain pelted the pilot's nest windows. The cyclone air sucked light from around them. Blue-black traceries made a fretwork above. Toward shore Toby saw the trees dim into spider web outlines. Winds whipped and blasted at the _Natchez,_ bending trees and turning up the pale underside of their leaves so that waves of color washed over the canopy. Trees tossed their arms as if in panic. With a shriek one of the _Natchez_ 's chimneys wrenched and split and the top half flopped down on the foredeck. Crew ran out to cut it free and toss it overboard. Toby saw Stan with them, sawing frantically as the wind blasted them nearly off their feet. Peals of profanity blossomed on lips, so close Toby could read them, but a gust whipped the words away.\n\nThis was no ordinary wind. It ripped and cut the air, warping images so that men laboring seemed to go in agonizing slow motion, then frantic speed, all the while stretched and yanked and pounded out of shape by invisible forces.\n\nThen\u2014 _sssssttt!_ \u2014a vacuum hiss jerked a brilliant glory-filled radiance into the sky. An ethereal glow flooded the deck. Yet ashore lay in gloom. Treetops plunged and wrestled with imaginary antagonists. At mid-river foam spouted.\n\nAnother _ssssstttt!_ and a crash and the ship fell a full man's height, splashing itself into a bath of hot effervescence. In a fragment of a second the air got dark as sin and thunder rumbled across the sky like empty barrels rolling down stone stairs.\n\nAnd then they were out. The gale became a scenic protuberance on a mild river again and the pilot said, \"Temporal turbulence was mild this go.\"\n\nIt did not seem so to Toby as he sat on a stool and got his breathing in order again.\n\nWhen he saw Stan later the young man said, surprised, \"Twist? Stretched legs? I never felt any such.\"\u2014and Toby understood that the shiftings and unsteadiness of both time and space were the province of each particular observer. No one felt the same effects. But the truncated chimney, now being hastily restored by Stan and others in a full sweat, spoke of how real the waverings of time could be.\n\nThey cut across once more, skirting a big bar of aluminum that gleamed dully, and could snatch the hull from an induction ship in a passing instant. This took the _Natchez_ near the shore where Toby had left his skiff. With Mr. Preston's binoculars he searched the blue-green brush but could find no trace of it.\n\n\"Somebody _stole_ it,\" he said, outraged.\n\n\"Or else ate it,\" the pilot said, smiling.\n\n\"I didn't grow that skiff, it's not alive. I sawed and hammered it and slapped on scrap metal.\"\n\n\"Maybe time ate it,\" was all the pilot would say.\n\nThe shore seemed watery and indeterminate, a blue-green emulsion. As they beat their way upstream his respect for the pilot grew. No prominence would stick to its shape long enough for Toby to make up his mind what form it truly was. Hills dissolved as if they were butter mountains left on a dining room table during a warm Sunday afternoon.\n\nYet Mr. Preston somehow knew to make the _Natchez_ waltz to starboard at some precise spot, else\u2014he explained\u2014the ship would have a grave misunderstanding with a snag that would rip them stem to stern in the time it took a man to yawn. The murky waste of water and slumbering metal laid traps for timeboaters of all keel depths.\n\nMr. Preston made her shave the head of an island where a small temporal vortex had just broken from the misty skin of the river, trimming it so close that trees banged and brushed the stern, nearly taking off a curious passenger\u2014who hurriedly disembarked at their first stop, leaving his bag. He babbled something about haunted visions of headless women he had seen in the air. The crew guffawed and made faces. Toby joined them.\nEIGHT\n\nThe Eating Ice\n\nThe vagaries of induction ships were of terrifying legend. Most folk who lived near the river\u2014and many, indeed most, chose not to\u2014reported seeing ships that winked into existence at a wharf, offloaded people and bags in a spilling hurry, and slipped away with motors whining, to vanish moments later by first narrowing, then becoming a door-thin wedge that sometimes rose up into the air before thinning into nothingness.\n\nPeople who tried to keep pace with a ship felt a pressure like a massive unseen hand upon them. They tired, especially going upstream. Thus most lived within less than a day's walk of where they had been born. By straining effort a strong man or woman could take foot or horse into a distant town to find a price for a fresh crop, say, or purchase goods. Most preferred to let the induction ships ply their trade up and down, hauling bales of finespun, say, and returning with store-bought wonders ordered from a gaudy catalog.\n\nSome, though, booked passage on the ships, as much for the ride as for the destination. The _Natchez_ 's main rooms were well appointed with opulent armchairs and stuffed davenports, the doorways garnished with bone-white wooden filigree of fanciful patterns and famous scenes of time-distortion. There was a technicolor symbolical mural of great pilots in the main lounge, and in first-class cabins, a porcelain doorknob and a genuine full-wall image sheet that gave an artistic view when caressed. The public rooms featured curving ceilings touched up with elegant gilt, and rainshower-style chandeliers of glittering glass-drops. Toby gazed at these jeweled confections and remembered seeing a true Chandelier, the great cities in space his distant ancestors had made. He enjoyed this place, but it was a humbled though ripe life these people led.\n\nDay passengers could get down to shirtsleeves and use a long row of bowls in the barber shop, which also boasted public towels, stiff public combs, and fragrant public soap. All this impressed Toby mightily. He had never, not even in the pilot's own house, seen such opulence and finery. The _Argo_ had been clean, crisp, beautiful in its way\u2014but not splendid and grand, like this.\n\nPassengers boarding from the small, straggling, shabby hamlets along shore echoed his wide-eyed reverence. Three days of cruising brought a certain bemused certitude to him, though, so that he gazed at these scruffy travelers in their baggy clothes with the same elevated scorn as the older crew.\n\nNot that he inhabited the same celestial sphere as the pilot himself. Mr. Preston's face wore lines earned by watching the immemorial clashes of differing temporal potentials. His speech veered from elegant, educated downriver cadences, to slurred, folk-wise vernacular. Pilots boated in eternity, and they knew it.\n\nToby was along for his passingly useful knowledge, not his skill. So when the induction coils froze up he hustled below on sharply barked command of the Cap'n, just as did Stan and the rest. Mr. Preston stayed aloft, of course.\n\nThe vast engine room was a frenzy of shouted orders and shoving bodies. The power that drove them uptime came separately from the huge copper armature that spun, when working properly, between mammoth black iron magnets.\n\nNormally, running into the river's past would suck great bouts of energy from the whirling metal. But in crosscutting the river, snaking through reefs and bromium upwellings, the pilot would sometimes end up running at crosscurrent to the normal, and they would move for a while upstream, as far as the normal water current was concerned, but downstream and thus downtime, as the temporal contortions saw it.\n\nThere was no general sign of this, though Toby thought he glimpsed far out in the river a huge, ghostly ship that flickered into being for a mere shaved second. It had great fat towers belching grimy smoke, portholes brimming with violet light, and a craft hovering in the air like a gargantuan insect, vanes churning the mist above, as if it were a swollen predator mosquito about to attack a metal whale.\n\nThen\u2014 _ssstttpp!_ \u2014wind had whistled where the vision had floated, and a cry from below announced an all-hands.\n\nStan showed him the coated pipes and cables, already crusted hand-deep in hard, milk-white ice. Boilers nearby radiated intense heat into the room, but the time-coursing inside the pipes and cables sucked energy from them so quickly that the ice did not melt.\n\nToby and all the other men fell to chipping and prying and hammering at the ice. It was solid stuff. A chunk fell off into Toby's hand and he momentarily saw the surface of a pipe that led directly into the interior of the induction motors. Though normally shiny copper, now the pipe was eerily black.\n\nHe stuck his nose in close to see and heard the _crack_ of air itself freezing to the metal.\n\n\"Hey, get back!\" a crewwoman shouted, yanking him away just as the entire gap he had opened snapped shut abruptly\u2014air whooshing into the vacuum created, then freezing instantly itself, in turn sucking in more air.\n\nAnother man was not so fortunate, and froze three fingers rock-solid in a momentary crevice in the pipe ice. His cries scarcely turned a head as they all labored to break off and heat away the fast-growing white burden.\n\nA cable sagged under its accumulating weight and snapped free. The high whine of electrical power waned when it did, and Toby felt real fear.\n\nHe had heard the tales of induction ships frozen full up this way, the infinite cold of inverse time sucking heat, life, air, and self from them. The victim ships were found, temporally displaced years and miles from their presumed location, perpetual ivory icebergs adrift on the seemingly placid river.\n\nToby hacked and pried and at last sledgehammered the ice. The frost groaned and shrugged and creaked as it swelled, like some living thing moaning with growing pains.\n\nAcross the engine room he heard another cry as a woman got her ankle caught by the snatching ice. Gales shrieked in to replace the condensing air. Voices of the crew rose in panic.\n\nAnd the Cap'n's bellow rang above it all, giving orders\u2014\"Belay that! Lever it out, man, _heave_ on that crowbar! Thomson, run there quick! Smash it, son!\"\n\n\u2014and abruptly the howling winds faded, the ice ceased surging.\n\n\"Ah,\" the Cap'n sighed, \"at last the pilot has deigned to direct us properly.\"\n\nToby took some offense at this, for no pilot ever could read the true vector of the time-current flux. Mr. Preston had brought them out of it, which should be fair enough.\n\nThere were awful tales of ships truly mispiloted. Of induction craft hurtling uptime out of control\u2014solid iceberg ships, with deep-frozen crew screaming upstream toward the beginning of time. Of downriver runaways, white-hot streaks that exploded, long before they could reach the legendary waterfall at the end of eternity.\n\nBut the Cap'n reflected on none of that. Toby learned then that the high station of a pilot implies that a pilot take harsh criticism at the slightest hint of imperfection.\nNINE\n\nCairo\n\nCasks and barrels and hogsheads blocked the quay but could not conceal from the pilot's nest the sprawling green beauty of the city.\n\nEven the blocks of commercial warehousing sprouted verdant and spring-fresh from the soil. Cairo had perfected the fast-spreading art of growing itself from its own rich loam. This art was much easier than planting and raising trees, only to chop them down, slice them with band saws, plane them out, and fashion them elaborately into planks, beams, joists, braces, girders, struts, and dowels, all to make shelter.\n\nSuch easeful grace demanded a deep sort of knowing. The folk of Cairo fathomed the double-twisted heart of living things.\n\nThe _Natchez_ rang three bells as it docked. Uprivermen often had a woman in every port and the bells announced which Cap'n this was, so that the correct lady could come to welcome him\u2014sometimes for only an hour or two, in his cabin, before departure for the next port uptime. The vagaries and moods of the time currents led to many a hasty assignation. But the Cap'n of a swift ship might enjoy another such succulent dalliance quite soon\u2014if he were physically able.\n\nA red-faced lady brushed by Toby on the gangplank as he went ashore. He gave her no notice as he contemplated staying here in the river's biggest city.\n\nHis head was crammed with lore he had learned in the pilot's nest. At once he went to Cairo city hall and consulted the log of citizens. There was no notation concerning his father, but then it had been a forlorn hope anyway. His father was never one to let a piece of paper tag along behind like a dog, only to bite him later. Toby swallowed the disappointment and let his long-simmering anger supply him with fresh energy.\n\nStan caught up to him and together they patrolled the streets, Stan doing the talking and Toby striding with hands jammed in pockets, bewitched by the sights. He had left his banged-up battle gear on the ship and stepped lightly.\n\nThe self-grown houses rose seamlessly from fruitful soil. Seed-crafters advertised with gaudy signs, some the new neon-piping sort that spelled out whole words in garish, jumpy brilliance\u2014 _Skillgrower, Houseraiser,_ even _Custom Homeblossoms._\n\nThey wandered through raucous bars, high-arched malls, viny factory-circles, and found them smoothly, effortlessly elegant, their atmospheres moist with fragrances that issued from their satiny woods. Women worked looms that grew directly from the damp earth. Stan asked one of these laboring ladies why she could not simply grow her clothes straight on the bush, and she laughed, replying, \"Fashion changes much too quick for that, sir!\" and then smothered a giggle at Stan's misshapen trousers and sagging jacket.\n\nThis put Stan of a mind to carouse, and soon Toby found himself strolling through a dimly lit street that reeked of, as Stan put it, \"used beer.\"\n\nThe women who lounged in the doorways here were slatternly in their scarlet bodices and jet-black, ribbed corsets. Far different from the blocky, muscular women prized so in Family Bishop.\n\nToby felt his face flush and recalled a time long ago, in the Citadel Bishop school. Family Bishop was strict in matters of lineage, which translated into a tight sexual code until the mating age.\n\nThe boys' coach had given them all a sheet of special paper and a pen that wrote invisibly, with orders to draw a circle for each time they masturbated\u2014\"shaking hands with your best friend,\" he called it. The invisibility was to preclude discovery and embarrassment.\n\nAt the end of a month they had all brought the sheets in. The coach had hung them up in rows and darkened the classroom, then turned on a special lamp. Its violet glow revealed the circles, ranks upon ranks of them, to the suddenly silent boys. \"This,\" the coach had said, \"is the way God sees you. Your inner life.\"\n\nThe aim of all this displayed sin was to get the boys to cut down on their frequency, for lonely Onan's dissipation sapped the intellectual skills\u2014or so the theory went. His Isaac Aspect had supplied data on Onan, calling it a \"folk tale\" and sniffing with disdain at such primitive sexual mores.\n\nInstead, the exercise led to endless boasting, after they had returned to daylight and each knew his own circle-count, and yet could claim the highest number present, which was one hundred and seven.\n\nToby had attained a mere eighty-six, somewhat cowed by the exercise itself. Later he felt that if he had known the end in mind, he could have pushed himself over a hundred, easy.\n\nIn Cairo, sophisticated women were easily available. He felt a vague loyalty to Besen, troubled by his memory of her image trapped in the cube in Mr. Preston's house. Was she still alive? Would she mind his indulging himself?\n\nLust banished such fine distinctions, leaving him with a fidgety tautness. But the women beckoning with lacquered leers and painted fingers and arched blue eyebrows somehow did not appeal. He remembered Besen's lopsided smile and missed it terribly.\n\nStan made some fun of him for this. Toby reacted with surly swearwords, most fresh-learned from Mr. Preston.\n\nAnger irked his stomach. He left Stan bargaining with a milk-skinned woman who advertised with red hair and hips that seemed as wide as the river, and made his way through the darkling city. If his father had come this way there would be a sign. He had only to find it.\nTEN\n\nZom Master\n\nLabyrinths of inky geometry enclosed him. Passing conversations came to him muffled and softly discordant as he worked his way among the large commercial buildings near the docks. Here the jobbing trade waxed strong, together with foundries, machine shops, oil presses, flax mills, and towering elevators for diverse crops, all springing from the intricately tailored lifecrafts known best in Cairo.\n\nNot that such arts grew no blemishes. Slick yellow fungus coated the cobbled streets, slippery malignancies that sucked at Toby's heels, yearning to digest him. Trough-like gutters were awash in fetid fluids, some stagnant and brown-scummed, others running fast and as high as the thick curbstones.\n\nEach building had a mighty cask, several stories high, grown out from the building itself and shooting stilt-roots down to support the great weight of rainwater it held. Never near the river was there enough topsoil to support wells. The passing veils of rain were all Cairo had, and as if to make this point, droplets began to form in the mist overhead and spatter Toby as he searched.\n\nHe descended into a lowland zone of the city, where the streets lay silent, with an empty Sunday aspect. But the wrought-iron symbology on the ramshackle buildings here told the reason. They made heavy, rugged ciphers and monograms, filled in with delicate cobwebs of baffling, intricate weave. Toby could make out in the gathering gloom the signs of Zom businesses, bearing the skulls and ribbed ornamentation. This solidity offset other fragilities. Cairo dwelled so near the great time-storm arcs that its folk always spoke conditionally, ending their statements about events with \"so far\" and \"seems to be\" and \"in the sweet sometimey.\"\n\nHis bad luck, of course, that the timestone glow would ebb at just this time. The rain dribbled away, leaving a dank cold. He looked upward and saw that far overhead was a broad island of sandy waste, interrupting the timestone, and so leaving this part of the city permanently darker. So they had decided to put the Zom industry here, in constant gloom.\n\nHe peed against a building, reasoning that it would help it to grow just like any plant\u2014though he did modestly slip down a side alley to do it. So Toby was off the street when a squad of Zom women came by.\n\nThey shambled, chill-racked and yellow-faced, eyes playing about as if in addled wonder, and one saw Toby. She grinned, an awful rictus, and licked her lips and hoisted her skirt with one hand, gesturing with the other index finger, eyebrows raised. Toby was so transfixed he stopped urinating and stood there shock-still until finally the Zom shrugged and went on with the other miserables. His heart restarted again some time after and he put himself back in his pants.\n\nZoms were accepted as a necessity for their brute labor, he told himself. Still his breath came short, his chest grew tight and fluttery. He chided himself.\n\nFollowing the Zoms was easy. In a street of wavering oil lamps was the Zom Raiser.\n\nThe man was tall, in a stovepipe-thin charcoal suit. He sat in a spacious room, working at an ancient stone desk, scribbling on a flat computer face. Along the walls were deep alcoves sunk into shadow.\n\n\"I'm looking for a, my father. I thought maybe\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes yes,\" the man said. \"An old story. Go ahead, look.\"\n\nThis abruptness startled Toby so that it was some moments before he fully realized what he saw.\n\nGrimy oil lamps cast dim yellow radiance across long rows of slanted boards, all bearing adult corpses. They were not shrouded, but wore work clothes, some mud-caked. Toby walked down the rows and peered into bloodless, rigid faces. In the alcoves were babes laid out in white shrouds.\n\nAll had the necessary ribbed ironwork cage about them. Pale revitalizing fluids coursed through tubes into their nostrils, pumped by separate hearts\u2014bulbous, scarlet muscles attached at the ribs, pulsing. The fluids did their sluggish work down through the body, sending torpid waves washing from the sighing chest through the thick guts and into the trembling legs. Their charge expended, the fluids emerged a deep green from the rumps, and spilled into narrow troughs cut into the hardwood floor.\n\nAmid echoing drips and splashes he returned to the stone desk, an island of luminosity in the cool, clammy silence. \"He's not here.\"\n\n\"Not surprising. We move them on fast.\" The man's deep-sunken eyes gave nothing away.\n\n\"You raised anybody looks like me?\"\n\n\"Got a name for him?\"\n\nToby gave it. The man studied a leather-bound ledger and said, \"No, not in the records. Say, though, I recall something . . .\"\n\nToby seized the Zom Raiser by the shoulders. \"What?\"\n\n\"Leggo. Leggo, I say.\" He shied back and when Toby's hands left him he straightened himself the way a chicken shakes its feathers into order. \"You damn fools come barging in here, you're always\u2014\"\n\n\"Tell me.\"\n\nSomething in Toby's voice made the man cease and study him for a long moment. \"I was trying to recollect. I've seen must be a dozen look sorta like you, if I 'member right.\"\n\nToby felt his throat tighten. They knew he was here and were copying Killeens to hunt him down.\n\n\"Dealer comes in here with one every week or so.\"\n\n\"From where?\"\n\n\"Gets them in the countryside, he says. Brings them here for kindling up to strength. Got a storage place for them.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Last I heard, 'bout seven blocks over.\"\n\n\"Which way?\"\n\n\"Annunciation and Poydras. Big long shed, tin roof.\"\n\nToby made his way through the rain-slicked streets, getting lost twice in his hurried confusion and slipping on something slimy he did not want to look at. He got to the low building as a figure came out the other end of it and something made him step back into the street and watch the man hurry away. He went inside and there was nobody there except five Zoms who lay on ready-racks, chilled down and with brass amulets covering their faces. A gathering sense of betrayal caught in his mouth and Toby trotted down the empty aisles where Zoms would labor in the day, the slanting gray light making every object ghostly and threatening.\n\nHe knew before he reached the end of it that the Zom Raiser had played him for a fool all along. While Toby was finding his way here the man had somehow sent word.\n\nHe had hoped that the true Killeen would be here somehow, that perhaps his father was making the copies himself to aid his search. But it was far more likely that mechs had humans working for them. Toby should flee. He did not want to give up but the logic of it was clear and he had halfway turned when something fell out of the dark roof above.\n\nHe dove sideways over a Zom without thinking. The thing was like a pale plate of meat spreading in the air like a flightless bird. It struck him smartly in the leg. An electric-blue blaze rose in his eyes. His sensorium crumpled and flashed with sparking pain. The Zom's flesh was hard and cool as he fell across the body. Agony was climbing up his spine, coming for him. The frying intensity told him this was a high-order mech offensive weapon. He twisted on the slimy cool Zom and his legs cramped up with the shooting sting. That made it hard to roll but he grabbed the Zom's head. It was a woman and he had to jam his hand into her open mouth to get the leverage. He slithered out from under the weight. The thing held on but he reached back and jabbed it with his gloved hand. Stiff fingers dug into a resistance like molasses. It shied away and he hit the floor. The mech device spread an oozing stain over the Zom.\n\nMaybe it had mistaken the Zom for him. Toby did not wait to find out.\nELEVEN\n\nThe Past Is Labyrinth\n\nThree deep, mellow bell notes floated off across the sublime skin of the river and some moments later came wafting back, steepened into treble and shortened in duration.\n\n\"Means we're getting close to the arc,\" Mr. Preston said.\n\nToby narrowed his eyes, searching the gloom before them. \"Can't see a thing.\"\n\n\"The bell notes get scrunched up by the time-wind, then bounce back to us. Better guide than seeing the arcs, sometimes. They twist the light, give you spaghetti pictures.\"\n\nToby would have preferred to watch the treacherous standing curves of frothy water, for he had seen one smash a flatboat to splinters on his trip down.\n\nA deep hush brooded upon the river. He felt a haunting sense of isolation, remoteness from the bustle of Cairo, though they were only hours upstream from it. He had felt bad about what would happen if mechs pursued him to the ship and so had hid out in a bar until the last moment. With his sensorium damped to zero he sat and brooded and decided never to activate the sensorium again. It was not the risk to himself so much, but the danger to the people he worked with.\n\nThey sheltered here in a way he supposed was typical of humanity everywhere, given half the chance. They clung to a past and he passed among them in dangerous disguise. He could not bring mechs down upon his friends.\n\nHe crept down to the river. To the ship. When he came aboard there was nothing remarkable, or at least nothing remarked. It had taken a while to get his calm back, to begin thinking again.\n\nTo starboard he could make out solid walls of dusky forest softening into somber gray. Mr. Preston sounded the bells again and the steepened echoes came, quicker and sharper this time.\n\nThen the river seemed to open itself, revealing first the foamy feet and then the marvelous high swoop of the arcs. Silently they churned at their thick feet, sending waves to announce their power. Yet as the _Natchez_ came up, holding tight to the opposite shore, the water was glass-smooth, with mercury breaking at mid-river and sending spectral flags of glittering mist into an eerily still air.\n\nThis tranquility fractured. A wall of thunder shook the glass windows of the pilot's nest.\n\n\"Whoa!\" Mr. Preston called and slammed on the power. The induction motors sent a shock through the decking.\n\n\"It look the way you seen it last?\" Mr. Preston never took his eyes from the arcs. They were shimmering pink and blue now.\n\n\"Yessir, only the tall one, it had a bigger foot.\"\n\n\"You shoot down through here?\"\n\n\"Nossir, stayed out by that sand bar.\"\n\n\"Damn right you were, too.\"\n\nToby had, in the chop and splash of it, been given no choice whatever. But he said nothing, just held on. The deck bucked, popped, complained.\n\n\"Eddy running here up the bank to well beyond the point,\" Mr. Preston said, betraying some excitement despite himself. \"Might get us through without we have to comb our hair afterward.\"\n\nThey went flying up the shore so close that twigs snapped off on the chimneys. Mist churned the air fever-pink. Drumroll bass notes came up through Toby's boots. \"Hold on for the surge!\" Mr. Preston called, as if anyone wasn't already, and it hit.\n\nThe _Natchez_ struck the vortex whorl plunging by near the point. The suck of it stretched clear across the river this time, an enormous mouth of mercury and bromium seething brown and silver together in smeared curves. The ship whirled around, Toby thought as his stomach lurched, like a favorite top his mother had given him, possessing the mysterious ability to stand so long as it spun.\n\nThis abstract memory lasted one breath and then water crashed over the pilot's nest and smashed in the aft window. The ship careened to port. Time-torques whipsawed the groaning timbers. An eddy seized her and crunched one of her chimneys into pathetic torn tin. Concussion clapped Toby's ears and left his head ringing. Lightning-quick flashes of ruby radiance forked from the river and ran caressing over the upper decks.\n\nShouts. Screams.\n\nAthwart the current, then with it, the _Natchez_ shot free of the howling whorl. Within a mere moment they brought up hard in the woods at the next bend. Ordinarily this would have been an embarrassment for a pilot, but as it came from passing uptime against the arcs, it was a deliverance, a penalty, as trivial as a stingy tip left after a banquet.\n\nIn the lapsed quiet afterward they drummed upstream and Toby watched the shoreline for signs he remembered. Coming back to this place meant he could partly reverse the esty gradient. He figured that would get him back onto a time axis closer to the period shared with the portal cities. Maybe\u2014just maybe, because people here didn't want to talk about the esty at all\u2014he could get closer to the source of Killeens.\n\nHe had not told anyone that, but Mr. Preston gave him sidewise glances now and then. Stan, after the obligatory ragging of Toby for having shied away from the women of easy virtue, kept pestering him about finding hydrogen hats. So Toby spent long hours pretending, watching beady-eyed the dense, uncut forest roll by.\n\nTo him the richness here was vaster than downriver, thicker and mysterious beyond ready expression. He had not the wit nor especially the years to savor it fully; taste comes with age and is perhaps its only reward, though he knew some called the same thing wisdom.\n\nHe saw the great slow-working chains of cause and effect on the river\u2014forces which, though elusive in the redolent natural wealth, in hard fact underpinned all the sweeping vistas, the realms of aery compass, the infinitesimal machineries of wood and leaf. The young must make their way in a world that is an enormous puzzle, so he watched the shifting hues quick-eyed, a student of the forever fluid, knowing that the silver river might foam suddenly to suck him under or contrariwise spew him aloft in a frothy geyser\u2014all beautiful events, he supposed, but they would leave him no less dead.\n\nToby kept lively advising Mr. Preston on reefs and bars. He inspected the passing acres of lumber rafts, great pale platforms behind which the launch could conceal itself. Likewise each bulky barge and the trading scows that peddled from farm to farm, the peddler's family hanging out wash on deck and kids calling hullos. So when Stan shouted up from the passenger deck, \"See that! Must be! Must be!\" Toby felt a spur of irritation at being distracted from his work.\n\nStan scampered aft and poled aboard some floating debris, then had the temerity to carry it forward to the pilot's nest.\n\nMr. Preston scowled and looked to bite his mustache at the sight of a mere deckhand intruding, but before Toby could shoo Stan out he saw the flowerlike gray thing Stan carried.\n\n\"It's a hat! A positive hat,\" Stan burbled. \"Pure hydrogen\u2014worth plenty on its own, wager me\u2014and lookee _here._ \"\n\nStan proudly displayed broaches and pins mounted into the gunmetal-gray thing, which to Toby's immense surprise surely did resemble a hat. It was nearly weightless yet hard and the jewels gleamed with inner radiance.\n\n\"And you led me straight on it, too, Toby, I'll not forget,\" Stan said. \"I'll share out the proceeds, yessir.\"\n\n\"Uh, sure thing.\"\n\nMr. Preston's stormy face had turned mild as he studied the hat. \"Never seen anything like _this. How_ far upriver you say you come from?\" He peered at Toby.\n\n\"Good bit further,\" was all Toby could say, for indeed that was so, but the shore already looked odd and contorted to him, as though his memory was warping.\n\nThat was nothing compared to the consternation he felt but could not give a hint of, for the hat story was total yarning\u2014yet here was an actual, in-fact, bejeweled hydrogen hat, worth many a month's pay.\n\nHis befuddlement got swept away soon enough by the twisty demands of the river. Under Mr. Preston he was coming to see that the face of the wedded water and metal was a wondrous book, one in a dead language to him before but now speaking cherished secrets. Every fresh point they rounded told a new tale. No page was empty. A passenger might be charmed by a churning dimple on its skin, but to a true riverman that was an italicized shout, announcing a wreak or reef of wrenching space-time Vortex about to break through from the undercrust of timestone.\n\nPassengers went _oooh_ and _aahhh_ at the pretty pictures the silver river painted for them without reading a single word of the dark text it truly was. A lone log floating across the prow could be in truth a jack-jawed beast bent on dining upon the tasty wooden hull. A set of boiling, standing rings spoke of a whorl that could eat an entire induction disk.\n\nMr. Preston would sometimes muse out loud as they rounded a point and beheld a fresh vista, \"That slanting brown mark\u2014what you make of that? I'd say a bar of ground-up metal, dissolving now in the bromine current. See that slick place? Shoaling up now, be worse when we head back down. River's fishing for induction ships right there, you mark.\"\n\nBust mostly Mr. Preston asked Toby the questions, for the river perpetually tore itself down, danced over its own banks, made merry of memory. They saw a farmer had shoved down pilings to hold his ground, even set a crazy-rail fence atop it, only to have the blithe momentum strip and pry and overrun his fetters, break his handcuffs, and laugh as the lawless currents\u2014seemingly enraged by this confinement\u2014stripped his worldly dominion.\n\nIn all of it Toby looked for his father. There was precious little sign of anything from outside this enormous long riverland. But he felt himself drawing backward in time as the ship pressed them against the esty grade.\n\nMr. Preston brought aboard a local \"memory man\" to help them through a set of neck-twisting oscillations, and the fellow displayed the affliction Toby had heard of but never witnessed. To remember everything meant that all events were of the same size.\n\nThe short, swarthy man sat in the pilot's nest and guided them well enough through the first two swaybacks, with reefs and snags galore, but on the third he began to tell the history of the snaggle-toothed tree that had fallen in at the lee shore and so stopped them from using the close-pass there, and from that tree went on to the famous boiling timestone eruption that had scorched the tree, and from that to a minute rendition of the efforts of Farmer Finn, who had saved his crops by building a sluice-diverter of the river, to Finn's wife who ran off with a preacher, only people _then_ found out he was no preacher at all but in fact a _felon_ escaped from some jail uptime, which suggested to the memory man the way laws had to be deformed here to accord with the passage back and forth in eras of relatives and wives and husbands, which brought forth the scandal of the lady in a red dress who had taken on all the men at a dance once, hiking her skirts for each in turn plain as day, outside against the wall, and from there was but a step to the intricate discussion of dance steps the memory man had learned (since he learned anything merely by seeing it once), complete with toe-tapping demonstrations on the deck\u2014so that Mr. Preston had to yank the man's attention back to the veering river before it gutted them on an aluminum reef.\n\nWithin minutes, though, the memory man would drift into more tedious jaw about whatever strayed into view of his panoramic mind. Mr. Preston bore this for the swings and sways of those bends, and then put the memory man ashore with full pay. The man didn't seem to mind, and left still maundering on about great accidents of the past and where their survivors lived now and how they were doing.\n\nToby silently envied the man, though, for at least he did know exactly that one short portion of the river, whereas Toby's own memory betrayed him at each new rounding. Islands and bars arose from the water where none had been before, his mind told him. The river ran in new side-channels and had seemingly cut across headlands to forge fresh entries, thrusting aside monumental hillsides and carving away whatever misunderstandings had arisen with the spongy, pliant forest.\n\n\"This sure looks to be a horseshoe curve here. Remember it?\" Mr. Preston would ask, and Toby would peer through the misty wreaths that often wrapped the river, and shake his head.\n\nOn this particular one they hauled ashore, because a passenger thought he lived near here, though could not spot any landmark either, but wanted to try his own luck. Toby went ashore and slogged through brambles and sandy loam across the neck of the horseshoe, arriving well before the _Natchez_ got there, coming hard-chuffing around the curve.\n\nThese branches and inlets lay in his past, yet despite their here-and-now solidity they had wriggled into new shapes, oddities of growth, even whole fresh porticoed master-houses. Slowly it dawned on Toby that none of this surprised Mr. Preston.\n\n\"Every time we go upriver, things lay different,\" Mr. Preston said, twirling a toothpick in his mouth as his only sign of agitation.\n\n\"Damnfire,\" Toby said, a new curse he had picked up and was proud to sport. \"What use is a memory man, then?\"\n\n\"Better than nothing, is all.\"\n\nThey were near to drawing all the water there was in the channel, a curious tide having sucked streamers up and into the clouds above. The hull caught and broke free and then snagged again, so Mr. Preston had to order the induction motors up to full, wrenching them off the bed of the river by sheer magnetic ferocity.\n\n\"Sure seems that way,\" Toby said. \"Why'd you hire me as guide, then?\"\n\n\"Your knowledge is for certain fresher than any I could find. And you're young enough, you don't think you know everydamnthing.\"\n\nThey were going slow, deck humming, riding on magnetic cushions that Toby thought of as bunched steel coils. Mr. Preston said that wasn't far wrong, only you couldn't feel or see the wires. They were more like wrestling magnetic ghosts.\n\n\"Sometimes a time-tide will come and cut a little gutter across a neck of land,\" Mr. Preston went on. \"I saw one once while I was shipping downstream, no bigger than a garden path it was. Shimmered and snaked and snapped yellow fire. Now, there were handsome properties along that shore. But inland from there was a worthless old farm. When I came back uptime on the old _Reuben,_ that li'l time-twist had cut a big course through. Diverted the whole damn river, it did. Shooting off crimson sparklers, still. That old farm was now smack on the river, prime land, worth ten times more. The big places that had been on the river stood inland. No ship could reach them.\"\n\n\"Lucky,\" Toby said.\n\nMr. Preston grinned. \"Was it? Lot of people got mad, accused the family that owned the old farm of starting that time-wrinkle.\"\n\n\"How could they?\"\n\n\"Who's to say? Is there a way to figure it? The past is labyrinth, truly. Give time a shove here, a tuck there? Anybody who knows how, sure don't talk about it.\"\nTWELVE\n\nWhorl\n\nToby felt himself lost in a dense, impenetrable maze of riverways. Coming upstream against the time-pressure now refracted the very air.\n\nSmooth and serene the majestic mud-streaked expanse had seemed as he drifted down obliviously in his skiff. Now the shore was morasses and canebrakes and even whole big plantations, the grand main houses beautiful with their ivory columns. He often gazed up at the world hanging overhead, too, lands of hazy mystery. A ripple passed, flexing the entire tubular esty, and Toby felt suddenly that they all lived in the entrails of a great beast, an unknowable thing that visited the most awful of calamities upon mere humans by merely easing its bowels.\n\nThe whorl came upon them without warning. It burst through a channel of bromium, coiling like a blue-green serpent up into the shimmering air. A thunderclap banged into the pilot's nest and blew in two windows.\n\nToby saw it from the mid-deck where he was helping Stan and two men with some baling. The glass scroll window shattered but did not catch Mr. Preston in the face, so when Toby raced in the pilot was already bringing the _Natchez_ about, clawing away from the swelling cloud-wrack.\n\nThe whorl soared, streamers breaking from it to split the congealing air with yellow forked lightning. Toby saw it hesitate at its high point, as if deciding whether to plunge on across and bury itself in the forest-wall hanging far overhead. Then it shook itself, vigorous with the strength of the newborn, and shot riverward.\n\nThe silver river seemed to yearn for this consummation, for it buoyed in up-sucking ardor and kissed the descending column. Instantly a foam of muddy water and a mist of metal soared through the time-whorl, writing a great inverted _U_ that bubbled and frothed and steam-hissed amid more sharp thunder-cracks.\n\n\"Damn!\" Mr. Preston cried. \"That'll block us for sure.\"\n\nToby held tight to a stanchion. \"Can't we shoot by\u2014\"\n\n\"It'll riptide us to pieces, we try that.\"\n\nA blistering gale broke over the _Natchez._ \"You figure it'll last long?\"\n\n\"This big a one, you bet.\"\n\nThe _Natchez_ beat steadily away from the whorl, which twisted and shuffled its water-feet around on the skin of the river. Mud and logs sucked up into it tumbled and seemed to break apart and come together again. In the midst of what looked like a water-wave Toby saw a log burst into orange flame. It turned slow-motion, streaming black smoke, and smacked full into the river.\n\nThen he saw the mechs. They had been hiding among some weeping willows. Silvery and quick, they fled as the whorl lashed sidewise.\n\nSuddenly it made sense to him. The whorl was a way into this esty tube and thus a gateway to be policed. It was also the obvious place to wait for anyone, if you knew their ways.\n\nMechs didn't know him. But Killeen did.\n\nToby called, \"Wait! Let's stay a while, see if it\u2014\"\n\n\"Shut up, boy. We're running downtime.\"\n\nEven the Cap'n could not overrule a pilot reversing course for safety. Toby stood frozen as the mechs lifted off the shoreline. They were angular and reminded him of the Rattler that had nearly killed him long ago. These were more advanced.\n\nThey were coming. They would kill his friends.\n\nTentatively he resurrected his sensorium. Nothing. Then\u2014\n\nA faint echo, a note he had not heard sounded for so long\u2014\n\nThen he did not think anymore but simply ran, down the iron stairs and pine gangway and over\u2014into the water. He flailed about for a desperate moment\u2014he had forgotten his battle gear\u2014then struck for shore.\n\nStan shouted behind him but he did not look around. He estimated the mechs could see him clearly by now. Good.\n\nBut then he heard a whooshing boom, like a giant drawing its breath. The mechs glided beside the funnel mouth of the whorl. A ribbed light pulsed from them. It pushed the whorl . . . slowly . . . faster . . . but not toward Toby. Toward the ship.\n\nThe sucking came skating on the choppy silver waters. It swooped with train-wreck malevolence down upon the _Natchez_ and drew it up, elongating the decks like rubber stretched to its limit and then cracking. A deckhand jumped overboard and his body stretched to translucent thinness.\n\nThe _Natchez_ squeezed and contorted and obeyed the call of warping forces. It shot up the whorl-mouth. Tide-tides wrenched and wracked it and then it was gone in a brilliant last pearly flash. The glare burned Toby's face.\n\nToby had no time to think or mourn. The mouth reeled, crackled and snaked and swept down upon him. He had time to gulp air. Burning orange foam broke over him.\n\nLegs, arms\u2014both stretched involuntarily, as though some God were playing with his strings\u2014yet he was weightless. He knew he must be rising up on the whorl but he felt a sickened, belly-opening vacancy of infinite falling. He struggled not to fill his lungs as the foam thronged at his skin, infested his nose, pried at his eyelids. _Don't breathe!_ was all he could think as he prepared for the time-crushed impact his instincts told him was coming at the end of such a protracted fall.\n\nHe smacked hard. In the river again.\n\nBobbed to the surface. Paddled, gasping. Ignored the wave-wracked waters. Made the shore and flopped upon it.\nTHIRTEEN\n\nPursuit\n\nThe mechs were shattered on the shore. Something had blown big chunks of their ivory skins away.\n\nIn each hole a midmind lay splintered. Something about the unerring way each shot had found the operating intelligence made him smile without humor.\n\nA sweet dust of time blew high above the river and there was no sign of the whorl. Or of the _Natchez._\n\nToby followed the boot tracks he found over the next rise. The long strides led inland, so there was no time-pressure to fight. He was wet and dazed but he hurried.\n\nInland the lush forest dribbled away into scrub desert. He realized whoever it was might back around on him so he retraced his steps and erased signs of his passage from the water and onto safe stone. He avoided vegetation where possible and slid through bushes so that stems bent but did not break. This was crucial, for a broken stem cannot be fixed without careful cutting and even so, a sure reader of signs would catch it. He could not let his excitement get him killed here. Leaving stems or branches pointing the way you came was bad, too. They had to be gently urged back to a random pattern. He mussed up a scraped bush and tree so that it looked to be from an animal, from biting or itch-easing. Stealth spelled safety.\n\nHis head pounded with a headache that worked its way into his eyes. So much had happened but he put it aside, not thinking about Mr. Preston or Stan, just keeping on. It got dryer and a big-winged thing with teeth flapped overhead, eyeing him for possibilities. He flung a rock at it.\n\nHe wished for a blunderbuss tree, recalling the man who had threatened him with one of the awkward weapons. But a big fallen branch served to make a club after he stripped the bark away.\n\nThe boot tracks showed heels dug in from haste. He let his senses float out ahead of him. His sensorium was faulty, flickering.\n\nEverything in the land fled from his footsteps. Lizards scattered into the nearest cracked rock. Four-winged quail hovered in shadow, hoping you'd take them for stones, but at the last moment they lost their nerve and burst into frantically flapping birds. Snakes evaporated, doves squeaked skyward, rabbits crazy-legged away in a dead heat. Fox, midget mountain horn, coyote\u2014they melted into legend, leaving only tracks and dung. The heart of the desert was pale sand, a field whose emptiness exposed life here for what it was: conjured out of nothingness and bound for it, too. Desert plants existed as exiles from each other, hoarding their circles of water collection done silently beneath the sand by single-minded roots. Vacancy was life.\n\nHe caught a smell fetid and pestiferous and knew instantly what it was. In the slaying fields of several Lanes he had smelled it.\n\nHe worked his way around it by nose alone. Slow, slow. When he finally looked down into the bowl-like field he could see only sprawled dead. Men lay putrefying, faces puffed and lips bruised. Most were gutted, appearing to give birth to their own entrails.\n\nThe time-whorls sometimes did this, disgorging people or matter from times and places no one knew. What the induction ships did by laboring upstream, a flick of space-time could accomplish in an instant. Sometimes carrion like this could still be saved for the Zom business.\n\nBut these men all wore the same face.\n\nToby turned to merge again with the brush and there he was.\n\nThe same features\u2014angular, hollow-eyed with fatigue, a familiar cut to the jawline and the downcurved mouth. Toby compared it with his memories, carried now for what seemed like years, taken out and studied every day.\n\n\"Who are you?\" Toby asked.\n\nThe voice was low and edged. \"What do you want?\"\n\n\"Are you real? I mean\u2014\"\n\nThe eyes gave nothing away. But that was how they had always been. \"You know me, son.\"\n\n\"In this place? Don't know _what_ I know anymore.\"\n\nThe face constricted as though wolfdark memories pressed against it from deep inside. \"The mechs sent out copies of me. I tried to warn you. Before the mechs hit the portal city, Andro helped me make a general release kind of message\u2014\"\n\n\"I saw it. A Walmsley character had it at a big library thing, a pyramid\u2014\"\n\n\"You've been there?\" He was startled.\n\n\"Yeasay. Mechs got it. I had to run.\"\n\n\"I've heard about this Walmsley. The portal people\u2014Andro, remember?\u2014say he comes from 'way far back. Warned me about him.\"\n\n\"He seemed like a shrunk-up dwarf, that's all.\"\n\n\"Sure can't judge much around here by appearances.\"\n\nToby moved carefully away from the bodies. This Killeen looked pretty nearly right, but then so did the ones with their guts vomiting out.\n\n\"What're they?\" Toby gestured at the corpses.\n\n\"Copies. The mechs I just shot were making them.\"\n\n\"Sending them downriver?\"\n\n\"Must've been. They were gatekeepers, I guess.\"\n\n\"That whorl out there on the river?\"\n\n\"Yeasay. They know how to open and close it.\" The man who looked like Killeen jerked a thumb at the river where the mechs lay. \"They figured out how to get in and out of Lanes.\"\n\n\"I can do it too.\"\n\nThe man again blinked with surprise. \"Where'd you learn?\"\n\n\"Worked it out.\"\n\n\"Let's get out of here then.\"\n\nToby didn't want to look as though he were stalling and make this man cautious but he was still not sure. \"Where's Besen?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I lost track of the whole Family when the mechs busted up the portal city.\"\n\nIt sounded all too convenient. He could kill this one if he could get it off guard. It was in field gear but without helmet.\n\nThe man said, \"Look, more mechs for sure will come to replace those.\"\n\nToby didn't like how this man kept pushing him. And this Killeen was so haggard and washed out. That could come from the copying process, whatever that was. \"I'm not so\u2014\"\n\n _ **Let me speak to him. Please.**_\n\nIt was Shibo. A fragment rising in him.\n\n _ **Please. In the name of all we have been to each other.**_\n\nIt had an authority he had not felt before. As if it had been waiting for this moment, saving its resources.\n\nHe hesitated and she reached up through him somehow. In a crisp instant he felt how it had been for her. She had somehow _rewritten_ herself into his neurological circuitry, lodged fragments in his Aspects, hidden. All before he had decided to strip her chip from his spine.\n\nIf he let her get any control this Killeen could take him easily. He began tracing through his own recesses, searching for her. She fled. Then her voice chimed in him, clearly, unafraid:\n\n _ **Ask him if he remembers whether Family Knights take their boots off first.**_\n\n\"Huh?\" Toby said. The man gave him a puzzled look.\n\n _ **If Knights keep their boots on when they're on top.**_\n\nWithout knowing why he was doing it, Toby repeated the sentence.\n\nThe man's mouth opened and closed and then said, \"What? Who's talking?\"\n\n\"Shibo.\"\n\nThe man said slowly, \"I thought you said once you didn't know.\"\n\nThe sliver of Shibo said thinly,\n\n _ **Knights keep run-ready.**_\n\nToby repeated it and the man said, \"So the one on top has to keep his boots on.\"\n\nShe answered,\n\n _ **What makes you say \"his\"?**_\n\nKilleen answered, \"You said you never got on top.\"\n\nToby was getting uncomfortable with this but he repeated Shibo again, who said,\n\n _ **I wanted to be on top, be fast, wear boots.**_\n\n\"You learned how.\"\n\n _ **Good teacher.**_\n\nThe man grinned. \"Seemed like you learned somewhere before me.\"\n\n _ **Never learned**_ **your** _ **moves, naysay.**_\n\n\"Compliments, even. You always know how to get what you want.\"\n\nToby struggled to say something. All the knotted energy surrounding Shibo, of his carrying her as an Aspect, of his ripping her out with crude tools when she went awry\u2014all of it collided and tightened his throat until he could not speak.\n\n _ **Anything, anything to get it again.**_\n\nThe tiny voice was so desperate it opened a flood of sadness in Toby. He croaked out the words for her. The man's eyes widened and Shibo cried to Toby alone,\n\n _ **It's him! Him!**_\n\n\"Maybe there's a way for even that.\" Killeen peered into his son's eyes but without seeing him.\n\n _ **That's the point.**_\n\nWhen Toby repeated it he was surprised to find tears had run down and over his lips.\n\n\"You always liked to joke about it.\"\n\n _ **Not really jokes.**_\n\n\"No, they weren't.\"\n\nToby clasped the man and knew he was Killeen. Shibo laughed when they both did, not a joke but joy.\n\nA long moment passed between them. \"Dad, Dad . . .\" No words.\n\nToby grinned and the two of them pounded each other on the back, the laughter just bubbling up and out, and so he took a moment to register stresses arcing in the air, a pressing sharp presence\u2014\n\nThe sky ripped open.\n\nAbove them a blackness spread like oily ooze across the Lane.\n\n\"Down!\" Killeen called.\n\nPointless, Toby thought. He crouched. Whatever was up there was sweeping fast. It ate the Lane. Edges turned up like a fire curling the pages of a book. But this thing was consuming the esty itself.\n\n* * *\n\nI could not stop the Highers from allowing this.\n\n* * *\n\nHe knew instantly that this was the Mantis. Its manifestation was different, tinged with currents of emotion and echoing knowledge which he could not catch.\n\nHe looked around them and felt the Mantis now as a seethe in the air. Killeen was down in firing position but their weapons plainly could do no good here.\n\nA jab of pain. He turned as a small winged thing lifted off his right arm. A metallic buzz, anxious with its single-minded task. It shot away.\n\n* * *\n\nI have taken a sample of you. Yours is the last DNA needed.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I saw a copy of Abraham, Dad. The mechs must've read his DNA and mind as well.\"\n\n\"Damn!\" Killeen shouted. But there was nothing for him to shoot.\n\n* * *\n\nI am the lowest of my Order which can speak to you primates. The Exalteds cannot occupy so narrow a conceptual space. They have granted me special abilities for this supreme task. But other logics prevail as well. The Lane above is about to tear open into the wrack of the Eater. I cannot save you, but I did come to harvest the youngest's genetic material.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Son, I figured it would help me find you, so\u2014\"\n\n\"You let it help you get here.\"\n\nWinds rose, growling. Leaves stripped from the bushes.\n\nKilleen said bitterly, \"It didn't give me much choice.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Toby gripped his father's arm. Something wordless passed between them as they both squatted, cowering beneath a whipping gale that shrieked toward the blackness above.\n\n* * *\n\nMy tracking of you, Killeen, was always benign. I had hoped to harvest you all, once my obligation to the Highers was exhausted. We could be together then.\n\n* * *\n\n\"We'll rip your guts out!\" Killeen spat back. Toby admired the bravado in his father's automatic answer. Meaningless, of course.\n\n* * *\n\nSuch consummation is the greatest fate such as you can hope to share.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen fired a bolt at a glow that frisked through the air. Not the Mantis, no, but his father was never one to meekly listen.\n\n* * *\n\nYou have played a role, as well, in the bringing of fulfillment to our kind. When this sample is read, then united with the codes of yourself, Killeen, and your own father\u2014perhaps we can speak then.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Speak?\" Toby shouted against the wind's howl. \"We'll die here!\"\n\n* * *\n\nI fear I cannot intervene to rescue you. This esty is coming apart. I now depart.\n\n* * *\n\n\"You can get us out!\" Toby hollered.\n\n* * *\n\nI cannot waste time and energy opening a portal. My central task, brooking no compromise, is to save this manifestation of myself, to bring the sample of Toby to the Highers.\n\n* * *\n\nThe entire dome above them swarmed with black, eating tongues.\n\nKilleen cried, \"Save Toby! You dunno but what you'll need more than that little bit of him! Leave me, take\u2014\"\n\nBut the Mantis was gone.\n\nThe first booming shocks hit them then. Like immense drum rolls they flattened trees and smashed the men to the ground.\n\nToby rolled, stunned. He looked up into the far sky and saw where the blackness was leading. Pulverized knots of fiery orange fled away from it\u2014backward, down. Fragments of the Lane. Ripped away and already tortured into incandescence.\n\nAway. Inward. Toward the final consuming point of the Eater, the singularity cloaked in its own twisted geometry. The esty was spilling into the black hole. The snarl of curvature had finally won. It would draw them to it, the final grave.\n\nAt first he saw the dust whorl in the corner of his eye. He was trying to concentrate on the swallowing dark above even though the wind now battered at him. A limb hit him in the leg and gouged a painful streak of red as it departed. Killeen was trying to say something, arms waving. The violence overwhelmed their sensoria comm.\n\nBushes, grass, brown clouds of dirt\u2014all tore and rasped at him.\n\nThe filmy thing standing beside him did not move.\n\nHe looked at it square then and it said, \"I will open.\"\n\nIt tried to make itself into the shape of a man but against the angry air that was impossible. Tiny motes made it up, somehow holding crude shape against the gale.\n\nHe heard, very clearly, _Do not think we are neglectful of you. We do hope you live to help._\n\nHe had felt that message before. It had saved him and he had never known why.\n\nThen the esty beneath them vanished. They fell.\nPART SIX\n\nWedded to the Substrate\nONE\n\nPartial to Primates\n\nThe bird would come, Nigel Walmsley knew. But at least he could carve out some time for himself. It might be the very last. He had fled to this pocket of esty in part because time ran differently here. He used that to rest and reinvent himself.\n\nThe assault on the Library had been a shock but in the long line of his life there had been many such. He did not know if he would find the magnetic storage of his Nikka but then he had been there before, too.\n\nHe had barely gotten away, helped by Highers\u2014he thought. It was all wisps of memory.\n\nHe knew that in this manifestation he had to get a surer sense of himself and that would take time. But the Bishops and others were moving fast. So he came here. A place to scoop out a pocket of time, a pause before going back to the play. The last act was coming.\n\nThere was enough food just for the gathering, at least for a while. A bird assembled itself nearby and told him that with the expected flow senses of time in the Lanes of importance to him, he could remain here a while. He would be needed later. He did not ask what for because he knew by now there was no point in it.\n\nHe roved the narrow, bulbous Lane. He followed methods he had learned long ago in the American Southwest, when he had been training with NASA and took solitary weekends wandering in the dry canyons of New Mexico and Arizona.\n\n _Au revoir, Etats-Unis._ Somewhere out there in the galaxy's churn, America was a ruin, walls like broken teeth on a plain. If even that. In Nigel the name echoed still.\n\nTracing the drainages upstream. Looking in shady alcoves under the canyon walls. Here was sandy soil that testified to the true age of the esty: enough to simmer and bake raw galactic matter into strata and then wear it down to grains again. Animals had left litter\u2014they knew shelter at least as well as humans\u2014and pack rats stored their precious baubles. Humans were like other indolent, meandering species. They had left debris cast aside as they lounged, trash the true record of past celebrations. Shards, chips, bits of metal and glass and unknown materials all mixed together. The warpage of time made it impossible to know how many centuries of relative interval had lodged these here but he took some odd reassurance from the rubbish nonetheless.\n\nPeople passed through, even here. They had heard that there were troubles elsewhere but since the mechs had not reached their particular remote Lanes they discounted most of it as mere talk. Still, everybody knew that travel was broadening.\n\nSome were traders and some just journeying with no particular destination in mind. The esty afforded little certainty that once you set out you would arrive at a particular place on time and they were used to that, too. It did not improve them much but at least it made them more interesting.\n\n\"Lord it was hard getting in here. When are you people going to get around to improving it?\"\n\n\"Slightly after I leave,\" Nigel said with a straight face.\n\n\"What kind of improvement? I'd suggest\u2014\"\n\n\"My leaving was the improvement I had in mind.\"\n\n\"Ha ha. Well, is there any better flux point further on?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. The best way out is the way you came in.\"\n\n\"We would see the same scenery twice.\"\n\n\"It looks better leaving.\"\n\n\"Aren't we just a little distance in esty-cords from the Majumbdahr Lane?\"\n\n\"Which one would that be?\"\n\n\"Where they have that beautiful city?\"\n\n\"I don't know how to measure how far it is but I would venture that it is not nearly far enough.\"\n\n\"Well, I prefer cities to this trackless nothing.\"\n\n\"Trackless is the best part about it.\"\n\n\"With more water it would be a lot more like where we come from.\"\n\nNigel smiled. \"What would be the point of another place like what you already have?\"\n\n\"Nobody here to talk to anyway.\"\n\n\"I've been known to talk to myself.\"\n\nSome uneasy laughter from the travelers and then one says, \"You must get awful lonely.\"\n\n\"I have good company.\"\n\n\"Where are they?\"\n\nPointing at his head, he said, \"In here.\"\n\n\"Uh, well, anything dangerous around here?\"\n\n\"There's you.\"\n\n\"We're not dangerous! We wouldn't hurt a fly.\"\n\n\"I'll have to ask the flies about that.\"\n\n\"You know, I'd like to live here alone like you.\"\n\n\"You can't.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"If you come I'll be here and you won't be alone. Neither will I.\"\n\n\"Well, I mean almost alone.\"\n\n\"That's like being almost pregnant.\"\n\n\"You take everything so literally!\"\n\n\"I don't take everything at all. In fact I take almost nothing any longer.\"\n\nThey would pass through with all the speed one could plausibly wish for but he was still far happier to see the back of them than the front. On Earth one of the prevailing clich\u00e9s had been that all people are basically alike. To the extent that it was weakly true it was also useless because you never knew if they were alike in being vicious or kind or anything in between. In any case the variety was more interesting than the similarities. But then, he would think with a shrug, how could he ever lose faith in a species that had such an endearing trait? You could say whatever you liked to them and they would not take you seriously, not even take offense\u2014as long as you told the strict truth. They never recognized it.\n\nThe bird came while he was resting.\n\n\"Do not think we are neglectful of you,\" it warbled from a branch.\n\nHe watched its wings shimmer. Sometimes the light from beyond it came through and he could see how thin the illusion was. They manifested themselves this way to anchor his attention. He knew it was not necessary but appreciated the formal compliment of their taking the trouble.\n\n\"I need more time here.\"\n\n\"There is none. You have lived long in this warpage.\"\n\n\"I'm fair well warped myself.\"\n\nIt never responded to wit, sarcasm, irony, or the rest of his habitual devices. He wondered if the seething band of particles really did speak for a high intelligence; wasn't humor essential?\n\n\"Matters moved athwart our courses.\"\n\nWas this their idea of speaking to him in his own language? Maybe they had gotten hold of some Shakespeare.\n\n\"Was there any Elizabethan poetry in the Library?\" Let it work its way through that chain of associations.\n\n\"No time for entertainments.\"\n\n\"You mean idle conversation?\"\n\n\"The mechanicals have the necessary genetic information.\"\n\nHe felt a stab of sadness. He had watched the Family Bishop saga, and many others, from such time-swallowed foxholes as this, for millennia. \"Are the carriers dead?\"\n\n\"Certainly so. They were in a Lane which the mechanicals opened.\"\n\n\"To get in?\" That was routine. Expensive, against the defenses of the esty, but the mechanicals could exert their powers at the right points and bring it off. They had before.\n\n\"To rupture.\"\n\n\"Bloody hell.\"\n\n\"They unlocked the coordinate structure.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"A one-to-one mapping of quantum coordinates to a doubly infinite manifold.\"\n\n\"I see.\" It was talking down to him but he was used to that. \"So they forced an identity of the coordinates to the first manifold\u2014\"\n\n\"And then switched to the second.\"\n\n\"The esty unzipped.\"\n\n\"Only in some few hundred Lanes.\"\n\n\"Only.\" It did not catch the sarcasm.\n\n\"By design, they selected Lanes for high probability that one or more of the three genetic carriers would be present.\"\n\n\"How many dead?\" Pointless, but automatic.\n\n\"Unknown but exceeding five million primates. The species number count is higher still.\"\n\n\"Over five million _species?_ \"\n\n\"We are vast.\"\n\n\"So the Ecstasy Codes are out.\"\n\n\"They will soon spread. To avert catastrophe we must summon all help.\"\n\n\"I'm not much use.\"\n\n\"You have been effective in the past.\"\n\n\"Ummm.\" He had seen the original Codes, known in more recent eras as the Trigger Commands. Portions of them had been handed down in the Galactic Library. For backup, the ancient Naturals had stored them genetically. That had been the purpose, really, of the Natural expedition to Earth so long ago. The wreck in Marginis crater he had helped explore, preserved in vacuum on Earth's moon, had been a casualty in the struggle between the mechs and the Naturals, a carnage steeped in huge history before humanity had ever evolved.\n\nAnd, he recalled wistfully, he had met Nikka there. Drawn to the shadowy half-felt mystery, they had recognized something in each other that went deep and true.\n\nHe pulled himself back from the memories. Some stuck with him, no matter what. \"Bit difficult to know just who to save in all this.\"\n\n\"The mechanicals are working on the Grand Problem.\"\n\n\"Ummm. So I saw.\" He remembered his long expedition to the stuttering end of time, using the worm. His sons and daughter, Benjamin and Ito and Angelina, were long gone into the Lanes, hotly pursuing their own energetic destinies. Now and then he used the Library resources to locate them. They would have grand reunions, swear to keep in better touch, and then they all would move on.\n\n\"You are thinking what?\"\n\n\"Impatient, aren't you?\"\n\n\"The mechanicals will perish.\"\n\n\"So? Primates are dying right now.\"\n\n\"We cannot take sides in the sense that a specific species can.\"\n\nIt fidgeted on the branch it appeared to hold in razor-sharp talons. Alarming, perhaps, if they had not been a tenth of a millimeter deep.\n\n\"You're not a single species?\"\n\n\"We are of a Phylum in which such subsections are meaningless. Species are a human category.\"\n\n\"I don't follow.\"\n\n\"That is why you are in your Phylum.\"\n\n\"Um. Have I just been insulted?\"\n\n\"Have you ever insulted an ant?\"\n\n\"Now I know I have been.\"\n\n\"We cannot be partial to primates, I remind you.\"\n\n\"Think I'm just too caught up in species-specific behaviors, then?\"\n\n\"You must come.\"\n\nThe bird skittered back and forth on its limb, imitating the nervous behavior of a pigeon waiting for a crumb. Good copy-work; they were getting better at nonverbal signals.\n\nHe sighed. How many times had he rushed off in aid of the crisis of the moment? He truly did not know, could not know. In time, even intense memories get discarded if they are not essential. And much of what he had done, down through millennia, had added up to very little.\n\n _I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear my trousers rolled._\n\nThe Bishops were another story. \"I'll get my boots.\"\nTWO\n\nThe Gathering Up\n\nKilleen and Toby had to get repairs before they were workable again. The slippage through the esty walls had bruised and sprained them in odd places. They had fallen into a mass of greasy vegetation and ended up chopping their way out into a Lane neither of them had ever seen.\n\nToby bubbled with joy. Killeen watched him and his heart filled with memories of Toby's mother, of all the hard times since. He had found his son again, after what seemed years\u2014though in the esty, he would never know how long it had been\u2014and they were on the move again. They covered ground without speaking much and that was just fine, too.\n\nThe shadowy figure who had spoken did not appear again. \"Better things to do, prob'ly,\" Killeen said wanly, nursing his right leg. His inboards said it had a lot of chem repairs to do and he should sit still. Or lie down. Neither was easy.\n\n\"C'mon, Dad, give it a rest.\"\n\n\"But somethin's _happening._ \"\n\n\"Without us, right now.\"\n\n\"But the Mantis\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't think we have to fidget about that. It'll find us.\"\n\n\"That's what I'm trying to figure.\"\n\n\"What to do? It'll still be able to knock us over.\"\n\n\"Naysay, not if those Trigger Codes work.\"\n\nToby frowned. Killeen had told all he knew but it came out Killeen fashion, a bit fuzzy about the history and details. \"They'll kill them? Suredead?\"\n\n\"Way I heard it was, it's like a disease. It makes them sick, then dead.\"\n\n\"Breaks down their functions so they get less and less able.\"\n\n\"Yeasay.\" He got up and paced. He limped but the irritation was worth the feeling of movement.\n\n\"We'd still best be careful of the Mantis, if it finds us.\"\n\n\"But maybe we can truly kill it this time.\"\n\n\"This is about a lot more than the Mantis.\"\n\nKilleen scowled. \"Not for me.\"\n\n _Not for me._\n\nHe had learned something in his passage through this twisted place, Killeen realized. He had been a drunk and a failure and then a Cap'n. He knew Bishop ways. These people nestled in here were different.\n\nWarriors were of a world apart, a very ancient one that ran in parallel with the comfortable lot of humanity. He had listened to his Aspects when they talked to him of this. For the first time he actually found all the lore and history useful.\n\nThe warrior culture could never be that of civilization itself, although all civilizations in history owed their very existence to the warrior. He had learned enough to know that once humans had come out of nature, and so shared instincts that argued for flight, for intelligent cowardice, for self-\n\ninterest. To pass on your own precious genes, some would say, but it was for more than that: the Self, lonely and communal both, and knowing the tension stretched between those two poles.\n\nWhen humans had first come here they had snuck around and run when challenged. Later humans got better at war. Never as good as mechs, not in vacuum at least, but they held their own. In the Chandelier times humanity had valued total obedience, self-sacrifice, hard-minded courage, honor. It had been a big remorseless engine, with ranks and orders and unthinking compliance.\n\nKilleen preferred what his Arthur Aspect told him was the old way: fighting with relish and art and risks chosen, not ordered.\n\nFighting was not a way to die but precisely the opposite. You did not concentrate yourself to break through your enemy because then you took bigger losses. There was always another day. The virtues of human warriors, after the Chandeliers got smashed to ruins, were the old ones: patience, avoidance, wearing down the enemy with stealth and surprise and speed. Tradition, morale, cohesion.\n\nFamily. Bishops. You could talk about genetics and links and all but it just meant Family.\n\nAnd the fight was never over.\n\n\"Cap'n!\"\n\nKilleen was steeping in his own ruminations. Still pacing. He spun with alarm and had a weapon out automatically and there was Cermo.\n\n\"You real?\"\n\n\"Damn-all right I am!\"\n\nSlapping and hugging and the smell was right too. Just in case.\n\nDown through the years Cermo had always been solid and steady, an under-officer you could rely on at your back in a scrap, and Killeen had never seen him happier. \"Come here, Toby's\u2014\"\n\n\"Jazz!\" Cermo's big laugh boomed out. \"Damn big you are, boy.\"\n\nToby grinned. \"No fat on you now neither.\"\n\n\"I'm not so slow now, yeasay.\"\n\nHe had been Cermo-the-Slow but somehow always ended up in the thick of a fight anyway. Killeen had honestly wondered if the man had any fear in him at all. \"You got here pretty quick,\" Killeen said.\n\n\"Not on my own. This funny thing comes visit me. I'm out in flatass empty nowhere and it just pops up.\"\n\nToby stopped grinning. \"What'd it say?\"\n\n\"Says it wants to help.\"\n\n\"Something like, 'Do not think we are neglectful of you'?\"\n\n\"Uh, yeasay. In fact\u2014\"\n\n\"The same exact words.\"\n\nCermo grinned and nodded.\n\nNothing happened for a day, no call to battle or further revelations, and they got hungry.\n\nForaging was not easy in a landscape you didn't understand.\n\nThis Lane proved that not all the esty had been made to please Man. Here the bluffs and ridges looked like they had been shaped hastily with a putty knife. The sole tree they saw thrashed in an angry wind, its topknot finally blowing off in a pocket of wind, fluttering and fraying over somber flats like a fragmenting bird. Eroded mesas topped in gray sent yellow streaks down their shanks, trickles turning to a burnt-orange tinge that suggested the rot of rust. Across the sky swam faraway, similar ground, curving like a vastly distant roof with its own business of twisted timestone grown over by persistent growth, greasy vegetation raked by winds. They foraged and got nothing. A thin cold rain started, falling onto a hardpan purple plain that looked poisoned by lurid wastes, a topographical monument to the worst in life.\n\nThey met people but conversations made no sense. They were tough, with outsized hands that looked as though they were made for handling lumber without gloves in freezing seasons. Killeen used his language chips, courtesy of Andro back in the portal city. That made people's talk come through almost right:\n\n\"What cord it is?\"\n\n\"For how come now you do that, you?\"\n\n\"While I was popping the seams out, me, something come loose wasn't s'posed and give it all to pieces sudden.\"\n\nBut a party of them did give the three men something to eat. Most of it they could even keep down.\n\nThey had all passed through different Lanes, wildly different experiences.\n\nCermo described a thing that grew across an entire large Lane, somehow harvesting the differentials in gravitation along a twisty axis. People who lived near it said it was not a plant or an animal but some combination, which made no sense.\n\nToby described his life in what its natives called the River Lane. They thought it was infinitely long since nobody who went far down it ever came back. It had been risky taking artifacts far uptime, since that increased something called its \"temporal potential,\" and the slightest perturbation would cause it to snap back downtime, streaking yellow as it went. Attempts to drop electrodes into the river and extract currents led to a temporally unstable shoreline and splintering destruction.\n\nKilleen found the people more disturbing. He had passed through a region ruled by a revered figure called the Tyrant. The term was an endearment, not a criticism. Killeen got to see this figure at a distance, holding open court. Beside the Tyrant squatted a dark brown woman on a leather mat. The Tyrant was holding audiences and when not pleased would simply wave his head in a rocking motion, a blend of a nod and a shake that came off as a wobble. The meaning was not something midway between yes and no, as Killeen learned when the squatting woman proved to be an executioner, conveniently nearby. The leather mat was to prevent blood from getting on the immaculate green tiles of the palace courtyard.\n\n\"They all seem so, well, occupied with themselves,\" Toby said.\n\n\"Been under the umbrella so long, think it don't rain,\" Cermo explained, jutting out his jaw.\n\nKilleen thought about how it was for Bishops and said, \"We're always lookin' up from what we're about, eyeing the horizon. That's what it takes to stay ahead of mechs.\"\n\nToby and Cermo nodded and agreed that people here could take punishment from mechs well enough, but they were different. And that certainly no Bishop would ever want to be like these folk, not at all.\n\nThey pieced together their stories, particularly of the chaos after the mechs destroyed the portal city. Cermo had been with the main body of Bishops and had seen many fall. Killeen knew of Jocelyn's death and Toby knew of none. Killeen could see that Toby brooded over his abandoning the Family just before the attack. Instead of talking it out, he simply hugged his son and later the three of them did some Ranking-talk, each taking turns hurling insults at the other, the more pointed the better. Plenty came out that way and the code of the Ranking forbade anyone taking it hard, so that ranking cleaned out the dark corners and threw away the trash there, without studying it much.\n\nThey felt better afterward and even got some liquor from a passing local in trade for some extra leggings Cermo had. They were feeling pretty fine by the time the Mantis appeared.\nTHREE\n\nSome Terrible Wonder\n\nThis world was raining instructions.\n\nNigel Walmsley crouched under an immense, billowy tree and watched downy seeds pucker out on the great limbs. Plants in this Lane had proceeded upon a different line of evolution than any he had seen. They coddled their seeds internally, giving vegetable birth to them when conditions were good for their taking hold on nearby soil. Parent trees exuded a sap, too, which followed the wind-borne, gossamer seeds on the prevailing wind. The sap was either a nutrient or an insect repellent or both; Nigel could not quite work it out from his spotty biological education. He had graduated from Cambridge only a generation or so after Crick and Watson had discovered the double helix, and that was nearly thirty thousand years ago. He felt a bit of allowance was in order.\n\nThe cottony parachutes of the seeds flavored the air. They blew in gusts of restless wind, snagged in oily bushes, fell fruitlessly into ponds. Their downy cellulose was fluff, packages delivering the essential DNA. Or perhaps here some other entwined matrix carried the genetic instructions; the galaxy had produced a profusion of copying tools. No matter; whatever molecules curled about each other in a snaky mating dance, the purpose was to spread orders for making more enormous trees\u2014or better, seeds giving away free directions for making more of themselves. The tree's apparent charity was in fact self-promotion; the foundation of life. Trees rained down\u2014in the language of the long-dead TwenCen when his own concepts got imprinted\u2014programs, written in the ancient style: as digital as a computer disk. Algorithms: tree-growing, seed-sending, atomic algorithms.\n\nOther programs flitted through this air, too\u2014mech signals, compacted into narrow bursts that fizzed with energy. Alarm, fear, panic. Or so he would have termed them once. Mechs had what he called uber-programs, or meta-instructions, not emotions. They corresponded to the drives and deep, unconscious impulses that humans carried like prehistoric baggage.\n\nAnd their calls echoed in Nigel's sensorium, uncannily like the high cries of flocking birds.\n\nWarily he duck walked from under the canopy to the edge of a cliff.\n\nHe looked up. The resemblance was perhaps an example of evolutionary convergence. On Earth, the marvel of the eye had come forth in several different organisms, octopus and mammal alike. Here, the strange, diaphanous mechs swarming above looked a bit like a flight of pelicans.\n\nFrom them forked fire. It crackled down and struck the fleeing forms on a broad plain.\n\nFrom below came fainter signals of terror and grief. There were many aliens here in the Labyrinth, couched away in their respective Lanes. Now the gliding, killing mechs herded them and interrogated them electronically, inflicting death with casual error. All part of the work of searching for certain pesky primates. And others.\n\nHe had come here because of faint, scattershot signals he had picked up. They carried the tinge of the alien, yet with a lacy, human flavor too.\n\nTheir source was fleeing up the cliff. A good target for the airborne mechs. He felt it below, sensed two broad-winged mechs vector on it.\n\nA startling flash leapt from the sky. It struck the cliff. No pain-jab, no response at all\u2014until something zipped back up, like a return stroke of lightning. Then the two mechs were turning, burning, winged pyres.\n\nWhatever was coming was formidable. Nigel backed into the trees.\n\nA big half-mechanical body darted with startling speed over the cliff edge. It came toward him. He knew better than to run. It sent, <I smelled you, too.>\n\n\"It's been a while since my last bath,\" Nigel said, but he knew what this thing meant. They were about the same business, in a way that mere lumpy words could not convey. The big alien was of the Myriapodia, an alien kind that had long ago outfitted their Natural bodies with augmentations. Yet the Myriapodia were not mechanical in true nature. They hated the mechs, who had long sought their extinction.\n\n<I carry a human of use to you.>\n\n\"How so?\" Nigel had met Myriapodia before but it was best to be wary of anything so different.\n\n<You seek the Bishops.>\n\n\"You're their . . . ally?\"\n\n<My species is, now.>\n\n\"I know your Phylum.\" No point in taking any defensive measures against this many-legger; it could kill him in a twinkling. He noted abstractly that he felt no fear; if he allowed himself, he might even feel a nostalgia for that emotion. It came infrequently now. \"I remember your Illuminates, their elaborate hive-mind diplomacy\u2014yes, I was involved with them once.\"\n\n<They sent me here.>\n\n\"They always had good judgment.\"\n\n<You know our past so well?>\n\n\"Reasonably. And I read a lot.\"\n\n<The Library.>\n\n\"A part. Most of it I can't fathom.\"\n\n<Do you know . . .>\n\n\"Yes?\" The huge thing's transmissions had an odd, many-layered flavor. It was gingerly touching a deep, ancient question.\n\n<You know who blended us?>\n\n\"Your interspecies merging? That was a fair time back.\"\n\n<Before our history.>\n\n\"As I recall, it wasn't us.\"\n\nInvoluntarily, it radiated confused reactions: relief, excitement, all underlaid with a wistful sadness.\n\n<I have come to understand your kind. I had hoped\u2014>\n\n\"Sorry, no. We came later. Recent uninvited guests here, we are.\"\n\n<Who, then?>\n\n\"There's a word for the organic, Natural races which haven't been domesticated by the mechs\u2014extinct.\"\n\n<I had feared such. But . . . we are not extinct.>\n\n\"We're different. You're harder to kill, and we've been kept alive in the Center because the mechs don't know quite what to make of us.\"\n\n<Now they do.>\n\n\"Um, dead right. Cat's out of the proverbial.\"\n\n<You carry the Codes.>\n\n\"Even dilapidated old me, yes\u2014though only partially. Genetic glide or drift or some other jargon I've long since forgotten.\"\n\n<I can be of aid in this. My full lineage burrow-name is Quath'jutt'kkal'thon.>\n\n\"Nigel Walmsley. Your name means something, I'm sure, but mine is just a sticker slapped on me.\"\n\nThe killing was still going on across the plain below but they both had blocked it out. Now the gyre of broad-winged mechs came lower, finishing up their business. Nigel pointed. \"They'll go for me if they sniff me out. I haven't got your defenses.\"\n\n<Nor I yours.>\n\nAn intriguing jibe. But the birdlike mechs were getting closer. \"What are those?\"\n\n<They have been hastily adapted to these pseudo-planetary environments. Once they were the light grazers.>\n\n\"Ah. Photovores.\"\n\nOne shot at him then. The burst ignited a tree and Nigel survived only because Quath instantly sent out a blanketing shield. It was an intense bubble of electromagnetic energy, veining the fractured air. Enough for the instant, but\u2014 \"Afraid I have to call on those hidden reserves, Quath.\" Nigel sent a signal, warbling oddly in his sensorium. He had been given a calling circuit and of course did not have a clue as to how it worked.\n\n<I cannot protect you very much longer\u2014>\n\nThe filmy bird was enormous this time. At first he thought it was a mech, but as it came flapping over the trees he saw it was translucent, a delegate of the Highers. It hovered and piercing eyes gazed at them.\n\nNigel took its quick _bleep_ of information and said, \"Their wings are still light-sensitive, these photovores?\"\n\nQuath was still peering up at the huge nonbird of shifting, buzzing parts. It was clear in such a gross manifestation that millions of tiny motes made up the thing\u2014whether insectlike motes or something odder, Nigel could not tell. He never had been able to figure it out, though it chose this manifestation often recently. He knew the physical form was meaningless and that whatever lay behind it was trying to make this easier for him and for Quath. \"Quath?\"\n\n<I . . . yes, they do.>\n\n\"Good. It needs to know. Details are not its strong suit.\"\n\n _Not true, actually,_ he thought. But it was finite.\n\nThe timestone high above suddenly flared into a rich, golden-orange arc. The bleat of intense flux hammered Nigel down and he crawled under one of the trees. He could tell it was mostly infrared, but the visible alone nearly blinded him.\n\n<Ah\u2014No\u2014> Quath scrambled under the canopy with him.\n\n\"It prefers simple solutions.\"\n\nVapor burst from the tree decks. The sudden fog hissed and through it Nigel could see the photovores. They were instantly overloaded and their wings burst into smoldering black. Parts fell away.\n\nThe entire high stack of them, a gyre of hundreds, began tumbling in slow motion toward the plain. They would join those they had so recently dispatched with nonchalant abandon.\n\n\"I've seen these buggers work before,\" Nigel shouted into the steam that cloaked them. \"They're beautifully engineered, but not for this.\"\n\n<Elsewhere, I have seen them deliver esty bombs.>\n\nA photovore tumbled into a tree nearby. The thick trunk went down with a sharp crack.\n\n\"Damn, where's that bird? We have to get out of here.\"\n\nHe knew the mechs used esty bombs now, destabilizing a patch of space-time so that it tried to straighten out and go flat. That ripped apart anything nearby. Anything that needed geometric structure to exist, maybe even a Magnetic Mind. No defense.\n\n<It is your savior, not mine.>\n\n\"You said you carried a human, right?\"\n\n<I did. But hasten, see the fires\u2014>\n\n\"I'll trade you a ride for that human.\"\n\n<It would be opportune if you could escape this Lane.>\n\nHe couldn't, of course. But the bird was somewhere here and to it, matter itself was a souffl\u00e9 of empty space and furious probabilities.\n\n\"That human\u2014bet I can guess his name.\"\n\n<Perform your exit first.>\n\n\"Quite. Where's that bird when you need him?\"\n\nNigel sent a blaring call. Sure to attract photovores, even in their final torment. But there were only shaved seconds left. As had become his habit of late, he thought of Nikka for an instant, savoring it, just in case this was truly it. This time.\nFOUR\n\nFinitudes\n\nNo use running, of course.\n\nThe Mantis came as a fast flickering at the edges of Killeen's vision. He was tired and something went out of him when he caught the swelling blankness, mute evidence of how easily it could avoid them.\n\nKilleen got up slowly from their campfire. Toby and Cermo followed suit; Bishops stood, ready to move, even when it seemed pointless. He wished they had not indulged in the liquor, but then, that probably would make no difference.\n\nFoolish to fire at it. Like shooting at the wind to bring on sunshine, his father Abraham had said once, describing a dumb idea on long-ago Snowglade. Well then, try bravado.\n\n\"Surprised to see us?\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe do not properly have a reaction like your surprise. All orderly forms integrate new data instantly, remaking themselves. They retain no memory of their attitude in the moment before, so no comparisons are possible.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Must be dull.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThat too is a category without application in us.\n\n* * *\n\nCermo whispered, \"If I go left\u2014\"\n\n\"Stay still. It's a damnsight bigger than we know,\" Killeen said.\n\nToby nodded. \"The Mantis we saw on Snowglade, it was a sort of stripped-down version of this.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIf you imply that I am simply more terms in a linear sequence, the issue has eluded you.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen remembered how it had killed Andro, Fanny, and so many others. Killed, used, then discarded like so many materials expended in a hobby.\n\n* * *\n\nAgain I speak as conduit for the Exalteds. They cannot express in serial order, as your acoustic modes do.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Sounds pretty limited to me,\" Killeen said. As long as it was still talking they were still alive.\n\n* * *\n\nThey delegate such cramped tasks. Do not presume, or I shall make your termination painful.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Mean-hearted of you,\" Toby said. His voice was thin with the same exhaustion Killeen recognized in himself. The worst kind, a bone-deep mental weariness.\n\n* * *\n\nIt would be a variation on an earlier experiment. Do not think that the concept of compassion is a possession of your species. But surely you must acknowledge that it has bounds among species, Phyla, and certainly between Kingdoms. The Exalteds are a higher Kingdom, indeed, the highest. You cannot expect your notions to extend to your betters.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen snorted derision. \"They\u2014and you\u2014left us to die when you broke open the esty.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI had to return the sample of Toby's genetic record. It was nearly enough.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I thought you needed three generations, plus the data buried in the Legacies.\" Killeen addressed the empty air. He felt the Mantis only as fitful, patchy blanknesses in his sensorium.\n\n* * *\n\nThere is a small code which releases the pleasures we seek. It is said to be carried socially.\n\n* * *\n\nToby asked, \"You mean memorized?\"\n\n* * *\n\nAs nearly as we can surmise, it was given as a precaution when the Trigger Codes were implanted in the genetic helices. I wish you to deliver it up.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen laughed. \"Don't know it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAttempts to shield it will merely mean that I will ransack each of you in turn. There is little time and my methods will be destructive. Your selves will not survive my search.\n\n* * *\n\nAs if for an example, Killeen felt something spike into his mind, forking up memories from his past\u2014agonies and ecstasies, sharp, eye-blink-quick. Painful and barbed in a way he had never felt. He staggered. The flooding jab of the past was a blow, stopping his lungs, tightening his throat around a hoarse cry.\n\nHis wife, Veronica, rocking Toby in buttery candlelight.\n\nRuddy-faced Fanny calling orders on a scarred plain.\n\nAbraham grimly grinning on a parapet above the Citadel.\n\nAll compacted slices, instants sprayed against the walls of his mind.\n\nHe recalled events in the pace of his own thinking; the Mantis \"harvested\" them with an instantaneous readout.\n\n\"How'd we supposedly get this code?\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt must be passed down acoustically.\n\n* * *\n\n\"We get told it?\" Toby asked.\n\nCermo shook his head. \"Nobody told me anything like that.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThen you are lying. There is no other possibility. It is a species-specific instruction. The Exalteds have read in your own helices that it exists.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen shook his head. \"Well, we lost it, then.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThat cannot be. Human continuity is unusual among the lower orders. Great traditions pass on. This is deeply entwined with your individual senses of self-worth\u2014a common \"natural\" social tool.\n\n* * *\n\nToby said, \"Maybe you should try some other Families.\"\n\n* * *\n\nNo! The Rooks, Knights, and others do not have it. There is a clear genetic difference.\n\n* * *\n\nMaybe they didn't have what they called emotions, but this Mantis manifestation betrayed more than it knew. It longed for the lost trigger, he saw suddenly. Maybe even the Exalteds craved the exotic pleasures that mere mammals were heir to.\n\nKilleen said cautiously, \"How come Bishops got it?\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou have undergone less genetic drift than the others. Such is the luck of the draw.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen could see no way out of this. They weren't lying; matters were far past that now. They just didn't know. But the Mantis would rip open their minds, just to be sure. All he could think to do was the oldest maneuver: stall. \"So we're nothing special, yeasay?\"\n\n* * *\n\nThere are several theories about why the humans spontaneously sent colonies out from their \"Chandeliers.\" None seemed specially favored, and indeed the Bishops were one of the smaller Families.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Tougher, though,\" Toby said. \"Right?\" From his tone Killeen saw that he was trying to get the Mantis into its lecture mode, delay it by tempting the scholar facet of the many-sided intelligence.\n\n* * *\n\nYou are now, perhaps, but your history is not particularly distinguished. Even on Snowglade, Rooks and Pawns were more troublesome to the enterprises we conducted.\n\n* * *\n\n\"But we have a warrior name. Bishops swoop down and strike, moving fast.\" Toby was intent now, not just passing time. \"We, we\u2014\" sputtering, Toby launched into warbling voice\u2014\n\nWe cut across Rooks,\n\nangle in on Knights,\n\nput the fatto Kings to check\u2014\n\n* * *\n\nYou quote from an olden Bishop chant, I see. A \"cheerlead\" I once witnessed in your Citadel. Admirable, I suppose, how you pit one tribe against another. A wasteful way of selecting those which deserve to propagate.\n\n* * *\n\nWe're better'n they are. Our name\u2014\n\n* * *\n\nWas chosen from a board game. Just as the Sox and Dodgers in an adjacent Lane gained theirs from a lost art performed with the body. The Aces and Eights and Jacks of the planet you once visited\u2014Trump, I believe you named it\u2014came from a pastime involving pasteboards. Similar cultural detritus accounts for the tribal divisions\u2014all quite artificial, believe me. And you can believe such as me; I have seen more human history worked out here at the Center than you can remember.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen shot back, \"Those games and such, _they_ were named for _us._ \"\n\nCermo said, \"Damn rightside!\"\n\n\"You ask me,\" Toby said triumphantly, \"those Yankees and all, they weren't so much. Their word for war was 'pitch.' Some fighters they were!\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou are amusing in your finitudes. Do not mistake my indulgence of you for more than it is, however.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen knew the stalling was over when the crisp outline of the Mantis solidified against the distant hills. It was large and kept changing so he could not get the shape of it. \"Now just wait, I\u2014\"\n\n* * *\n\nWaiting is done. If you refuse to yield up the acoustic trigger, I must interrogate you separately and in detail. Your selves will not survive this. I shall harvest as I inspect.\n\n* * *\n\nThe matter-of-fact way the Mantis said it made Killeen certain this was no bluff. He breathed shallowly and thought and his mind went nowhere. The Mantis had been promising that eventually it would suck them up into itself, as part of its \"preserving mission,\" and there was no way to stop it.\n\n\"I'll go first,\" Killeen said. \"I'm Cap'n, stands to reason I know more than these.\"\n\n* * *\n\nTrue. Perhaps it is buried lore and you do not know you carry it. The unkempt manner of your interior, with its subconscious and other swamps, would allow that. Very well, then. This will be easier if you will walk into a recess and position yourself for an erasing execution.\n\n* * *\n\nA pale rectangle of blue-green opened in the air a few steps away. Killeen saw that the Mantis was in fact very close, simulating the entire countryside with absolute fidelity. He had not even known it was so close and now the door into that reality hung like a painting against the twilight hills. But the hills were the illusion, the doorway real. And here at last was his end.\nFIVE\n\nAn Abyss of Squashed Duration\n\nNigel Walmsley landed on his ass.\n\nQuath had warned him that it was safer to go through separately but when he looked up Quath was standing erect as if nothing had happened and he was covered with dirt, aching in every joint, his clothes ripped.\n\n\"You said this\u2014\"\n\n<Had to be accomplished quickly,> Quath said, and started moving fast downhill. <We have been lucky to arrive.>\n\n\"Quite so.\" They had gotten scooped up, all right, but Nigel had never seen the bird. Instead, the hills seemed to roll up like a brown sheet and whirl them into a weightless limbo. Quath had been transmitting, talking to entities Nigel could not see. All very fast. Then he had thumped down here.\n\n\"Slow down!\"\n\n<Very well\u2014> She plucked him up and surged on.\n\nHe dangled like a leftover idea on her right side. The hills around them wavered, as if in a heat wave. Or maybe he was getting tired. He blinked and the hills rippled again and suddenly he saw that they were not hills at all. It was something enormous and somber and he caught an old, familiar sensorium stink.\n\n\"The Mantis.\"\n\n<That is why I hurry.>\n\nHe saw some Bishops against the sensed scenery. Killeen, yes, Toby, and an officer. Quath sent glad salutes, in the age-old manner of the Myriapodia; Nigel tried to think.\n\nThe bird was still in the game, to be sure, else they wouldn't have been so quickly slipped through the warpage of the esty to precisely this spot. It was bringing matters to a boil, but to what end? The Mantis could still slaughter them all in a microsecond. Their only defense lay in the hope that at the moment it didn't seem to want to.\n\nNo one paid him much attention as he climbed down from Quath's side shelf. He was to these giants a scrawny mass of wrinkles, scarcely the stuff of legends.\n\nHe finally worked out that they were babbling about an acoustic Trigger Code. The Mantis-mind skated across the conversation, sampling each human consciousness in turn. Like an aloof connoisseur at a wine tasting, Nigel thought, but beneath that slept a floating anxiety. The clock was running on the Mantis, too.\n\nAll this he got from his sensorium. It was rather more sensitive and tricky than the Bishops', but a toy compared with that of the Mantis. He could feel the machine minds dipping into him, flitting back to the Bishops for species comparison, then back again to grill his cerebrum a bit more. He supposed he should get used to it, but he never did.\n\n* * *\n\nI will inspect you as well, Myriapodia. The acoustics could be carried in such an intelligence.\n\n* * *\n\n<I do not believe so,> Quath answered.\n\n\"I'm certain she does not, in fact,\" Nigel said mildly.\n\nGratifyingly, they all turned to look at him. Except the Mantis, of course, which was still only a slight dissonance in the apparent world.\n\n\"Who're you?\" Killeen asked warily.\n\n\"Tell you later,\" Toby whispered to his father.\n\n\"I believe Quath does contain the secret, however,\" Nigel said.\n\n<You speak literally. And true.>\n\nQuath's side belly opened then, a synthesis of mechanical sliding action and organic birth, membranes popping.\n\nA large man staggered out. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, looked around. \"Been asleep,\" he said.\n\n\"Abraham!\" Killeen cried.\n\nThe others followed suit. Nigel watched them but his senses riveted on the Mantis. It would treasure this spectacle, this reuniting, but it would calculate and judge faster than Walmsley could. Every move from here on could be fatal.\n\nToby and Killeen wrapped arms around Abraham, shouted their joy. _Doing the human thing,_ Nigel thought abstractly. Despite himself, he finally got caught up in the moment himself. He clapped Abraham on the back and smiled and for a passing moment the tension in him eased. Then the Mantis sent,\n\n* * *\n\nYou are the oldest and have the acoustic trigger.\n\n* * *\n\nAbraham looked like a wizened combination of Toby and Killeen, with the same guarded gleam in his eyes. \"I do.\"\n\n* * *\n\nStand and deliver.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Yeasay, Isay,\" Killeen said. \"Give it to them.\"\n\nNigel was not sure whether Abraham knew what was going on. He said quickly to Killeen, \"Do we want this?\"\n\nKilleen glared at Nigel. \"Sure do.\"\n\n\"They're after the same thing in the long run, y'know,\" Nigel said mildly. He tired to carry the sentence with confidence, though it was a bit difficult when he came scarcely to Killeen's waist.\n\n\"What d'you mean?\"\n\n\"They're working on the grand problem. Preserving all life-forms, far up ahead in time.\"\n\nKilleen frowned in disbelief. \"What?\"\n\n\"By preserving themselves in electron-positron plasmas. A bit of an abstract apotheosis, I'll admit\u2014\"\n\n\"They've murdered us!\" Killeen exploded.\n\n\"More than you know,\" Nigel said. \"Question is, what's right _now._ The past can't be allowed to\u2014\"\n\n\"This thing\u2014\" Killeen jabbed a thumb at the Mantis-shimmer that had curled up from the hills, wrapping them all, \"it hunted us, killed us, ripped babies to pieces for fun. I say\u2014\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou must deliver up this acoustic code and cease this obvious theater. It is designed to dissuade me and those I represent\u2014the Exalteds\u2014\n\n* * *\n\n* * *\n\nfrom our path. Do not imagine such a lowly deception will gain you delay. Your fate is sealed. It has but to be played out.\n\n* * *\n\nKilleen shouted, \"You'll get yours!\"\n\nNigel took Abraham's hand and looked into his deep eyes. This old man had been rescued from the fall of the Citadel, all at the hands\u2014wrong metaphor, but the hell with it\u2014of the bird. Some mechs had died then and some other things, beings Nigel himself could not name. All so that this wrinkled old man could come to this place and give his part to a puzzle that none of them understood except in fragments.\n\n\"Do you know what will happen, if . . . ?\" Nigel's voice trailed off into a whisper.\n\nCermo stepped forward suddenly and pushed Nigel away. \"Leave him be.\"\n\nNigel staggered. \"I don't think any of us understands\u2014\"\n\n<This is an abyss of squashed duration,> Quath said. <It resembles the passages between Lanes, holding purpose ransom to the unknown. I think we must venture, despite our fears.>\n\nNigel saw in the face of the old man a crafty nostalgia. _Ah._ He remembered something, had probably meant to pass on its subversive facet to Killeen. But the mech attack at the Citadel had cut him off from Family.\n\nSo the final key had been carried in the seemingly fragile cup of human culture. The designers long ago had written into the Bishops and countless other Families and Teams and Corps a variety of secret messages, all encased in culture. They knew that the central character of humanity was _continuity_ \u2014and without it, humans were lost.\n\nPeople escaped their own mortality through laughter and connection, the two great consolations.\n\nTo unite the two was wise. So they had chosen something, he guessed, that carried joy and insured connection. Something ancient and enduring that the mechs would think little about.\n\n<It is in your primate nature to dare,> Quath chided them. <We myriapodia had surmised that you carried the code in widespread parts. In both mind and body, it seems.>\n\nNigel turned with new respect to the alien. \"I still\u2014\"\n\n\"Do it, father,\" Killeen said passionately. \"What's the code? Say it!\"\n\nThe old man's face crinkled with confusion. \"Code?\"\n\n\"Something to hand down.\"\n\n\"Well, there is something . . . but . . . no damn code in it.\"\n\n\"We'll see.\"\n\n\"I mean, it's just a\u2014\"\n\n* * *\n\nYou will deliver it up or else face infinite pains, infinitely prolonged.\n\n* * *\n\nThe alarm that flitted across Abraham's face told Nigel a lot about what dwelling on the planets for these many centuries had done to men. He felt a pang, but there was no time to think.\n\nKilleen demanded, \"Give it, Abraham!\"\n\nThe old man began to sing.\nSIX\n\nUses of the Mose Art\n\nKilleen gaped. His father launched into a song he knew, a beautiful passage from the most hallowed of the musics Bishops carried in their sensorium store. They had played it on the long marches together, knew its lines by heart. He filled his lungs and joined in himself, letting the high passage roll out of him. The highest of arts, the Mose Art.\n\nFour humans, one Myriapod, and the shimmering Mantis. None moved.\n\nAll seemed transfixed by the ancient cadences, lilting refrains, accelerating notes that piled atop until they seemed certain to topple into chaos. But the Mose Art suspended the airy energies. They skated buoyantly across impossible gaps.\n\n* * *\n\nI see the connection. The unused sites in the Bishop DNA\u2014that is the key. The notes of this piece, arrayed in harmonics, yield the solution. I relay this to the Exalteds now.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Good boy,\" Killeen said happily.\n\nAbraham kept singing.\n\n\u2014DNA?\u2014Toby asked on comm.\n\nThe old dwarf sent,\u2014Our genetic code. The information telling how to build a human is inscribed on a molecule. Two helices, really, twining about each other. Instructions in how to make proteins\u2014bits of organic matter essential to us\u2014are lodged like beads along those helices.\u2014\n\nA sudden, sharp, many-channel squeal cut into everyone's sensorium. The Mantis was spreading the word.\n\nToby frowned.\u2014How'd we build Trigger Codes on top of our own, uh, breeding stuff?\u2014\n\nThe dwarf Walmsley waved his hands impatiently, brushing aside detail. \u2014Our genetic code tells cells how to operate. But that information takes only about ten percent of the DNA space. The rest is \"junk\"\u2014freeloaders along for the ride. They get reproduced each time, but they make no difference in us. All life has hobo code like that. So long ago, the Naturals started preserving the Trigger Codes in those useless spaces.\u2014\n\nKilleen thought he saw the point. \u2014We'd never know it? Because it didn't turn up in somebody's baby?\u2014\n\nToby looked with wonder at his own hand. \u2014It's been there all the time? Inside us?\u2014\n\nWalmsley said, \u2014The mechs could read our DNA, of course, but they are good technicians. They knew the junk was useless, so they ignored it.\u2014\n\nKilleen asked, \u2014How come it didn't change? I mean, Toby's eyes aren't the color of mine, or of Veronica's, his mother.\u2014\n\nWalmsley grinned, creasing his face with a hundred lines. \u2014The Codes were repeated over and over. Just in case a mutation, a change, messed up one version. There were still plenty of duplicates.\u2014\n\n\u2014Seems a damn funny way to keep somethin'.\u2014 Killeen said. His father was still singing and the sound took him back to his boyhood, when Abraham had belted out this very aria in the shower. \u2014I'd put it on a monument or bury it. Keep it safe.\u2014\n\nWalmsley grinned. \u2014Like that Taj Mahal I had built back on your world?\u2014\n\nKilleen blinked. He remembered leaving it, looking back. Big initials on the side of it, _NW._ \u2014Damn!\u2014\n\n\u2014Bit of a dustup, that was. Got control of an army of mechs for a while, decided to have a touch of fun.\u2014\n\n\u2014And who was buried there?\u2014 Toby asked.\n\nA flicker of pain crossed the crusty face. \u2014No one of consequence. Point is, how long do you think that stack of stone will last?\u2014\n\nKilleen shrugged. He was not one for permanent places.\n\n\u2014A few thousand years, that's all.\u2014 Walmsley smiled. \u2014Nothing lasts at Galactic Center. On average, stars collide every hundred thousand years or so, stripping away their planets. Snowglade we had to make from scratch. What a job! And it won't last.\u2014\n\nToby said, \u2014But puttin' it in us . . .\u2014\n\n\u2014Seems risky, yes? So the Naturals stretched it out, making the data intelligible only if one assembled versions from three consecutive generations. Neat bit. Humans can't really be understood in one generation, anyway. They're about continuity.\u2014\n\nAbraham came to the end of the aria and smiled broadly. \"Bet you never suspected, did you?\"\n\nKilleen shook his head in wonder. \"How come you never told me?\"\n\n\"Too dangerous. Mechs were moving in. I figured you were out in the field, more likely to get picked up, interrogated. I was an old bastard, stayed in the Citadel. Safer, I thought.\"\n\nKilleen hugged his father and remembered the Calamity. The spires reduced to rubble. The walls of the home he had shared with Veronica and Toby, just jagged teeth amid the flames. \"How'd you get away?\"\n\n\"This bird came\u2014\"\n\nA violent screech sounded in Killeen's sensorium.\n\nThey all doubled up, shutting down. The hills around them shook. Deformed. Shattered into sprays of tumbling mica.\n\n\"The Mantis\u2014\" Killeen had wondered how they would escape it and now he saw that the entire surround was illusion. They stood on bare, charred earth, a recent battleground.\n\nAcross it a shape lurched. It sent desperate notes, brittle stutters of data.\n\n* * *\n\nSomething\u2014the pleasure\u2014it is awful\u2014and magnificent\u2014but it eats\u2014chews\u2014\n\n* * *\n\n\"Works fast,\" Killeen said. He stood up cautiously.\n\nThey were in a huge pouch of the esty. Rumpled mountains loomed in the distance against somber, yellow-topped clouds.\n\nWalmsley said, \"I believe the pleasure plague will manifest differently in the many levels of mechs. This one has defenses. It is dangerous.\"\n\nKilleen felt an ancient anger rising in him. \"It's got something coming from us.\"\n\n\"I'd be careful,\" Walmsley said. \"I have a lot to tell you and there isn't much time\u2014\"\n\n\"Dad?\" Killeen asked.\n\n\"I'm pretty rickety.\"\n\nToby and Quath and Cermo all sent assent, though. Killeen felt a heady, excited tingle all over.\n\nWalmsley said, \"I need to speak to the Higher Orders now. This is a huge event. The Triggers will propagate through the Lanes. I\u2014\"\n\n\"Stay here, then,\" Killeen said.\n\nQuath said to Walmsley, <They carry true names.>\n\nWalmsley laughed. \"True enough. Toby is To Be. And Killeen is Killing.\"\n\nKilleen sniffed in derision. \"Got to be what you can.\"\n\nThe lurching form called to him. As he watched it went transparent but he could still get a whiff of it in his sensorium. Its outline shriveled.\n\n\"It's getting away.\"\n\nToby said, \"Let it.\"\n\n\"No. Let's go.\"\nPART SEVEN\n\nGods Provisional and Descending\nONE\n\nA Mantis Blankness\n\nHe and Quath found the Mantis in yawning darkness. Quath sent an emag warning, a crisp orange pinprick popping through Toby's sensorium\u2014then silence.\n\nToby waited. Quath moved silently to his right, enclosed in a sullen black so deep he could not see his hand without using his sensorium. The Mantis was up ahead somewhere. Senses he could not even name told him that other creatures moved here too. They had little or no emag but they were tracking, following chemical trails left by others\u2014scents seeping from deep glands, puffs of clinging odor released by accident or design. Everything here had mastered these chemical channels.\n\nToby's natural senses were deaf to them. Humans drank in sounds and sights, the primate strong suits. Here the small noises of burrowing and scampering told him that there were other theaters, other plays in progress, and he would never be in the private audience. Yet he and even Quath had been of that theater, graduated from it perhaps to this curious shadow world of electromagnetic scents and jolting voltage deaths.\n\nA trickle of inquiry eased into his sensorium. There: Quath. Together they moved up through snatchy brush. They took the time to slip by the snags. Even a small tear could alert the Mantis and there might be a trap, too.\n\nQuath shivered with anticipation. Rivulets of silvery magnetic excitements came to Toby, scattershot and short-range, involuntary effusions.\n\nThe mutter of chemical life stopped. Silence. Toby could see nothing through eye or sensorium inboards. Quath came closer, a presence he felt by a wedge of blocked air, to his left now. Then he caught it. The Mantis was a slab of nothing to the right. He could not have felt it unless he was standing absolutely still and ready.\n\nHis sense of it did not come from rich spatterings of his detection gear, sprinkled down through his nerves and bones. Those lay silent. The Mantis was still well enough to make itself a blankness, an absence.\n\nIt moved by them at indeterminate range but Toby could somehow smell it. The old senses brought a stink, ozone-sour. He did not dare to move but the smell floating on a slight chill wind told him enough. The Mantis was moving fast and the empty patch shrank. Gray rimmed the spot now. It looked ordinary but he knew it was a Mantis blankness. Out of it could come in any split instant a forking spike. Death or injury, on emag wings.\n\nThen it was just a point. Still moving. Toby whispered on short-range comm to Quath,\u2014Got its signatures?\u2014\n\n<Several. It is wounded, as your father said.>\n\n\u2014How bad?\u2014\n\n<The eating entities invade it. They chew at its subselves.>\n\n\u2014Think it can shed them?\u2014\n\n<It has great resources. Perhaps it can cure itself.>\n\n\u2014Then we've got to get it.\u2014\n\n<Someone must. To be truly sure it does not survive.>\n\nThey retreated then. Carefully at first they went back through the still total blackness. Creatures stirred in their path. The Mantis was not even a dot now and Toby let himself go, not minding the rips as they got through a wall of thorny brush. His suit would self-heal in a while but the time lost now could not be made up except by hard slogging. He and Quath had tracked and searched for a long time now and beneath the buzz of energy in his legs he felt the slow seep of weariness.\n\nThe wind picked up as the ground also moved under them. Here the esty shifted and deployed with a sullen energy and they had to be careful of their footing. The Mantis seemed to know it well.\n\nThey picked up the supplies they had dropped earlier. Toby had shed his weapon, a sharp-darter long and elegant with power simmering in the butt. To carry it against the Mantis was mostly a show of bravado but now anything could happen.\n\nQuath said, <If you had carried that, it would have seen us.>\n\n\u2014You're sure?\u2014\n\n<Nothing is sure now.>\n\n\u2014Same old big-bug.\u2014 He laughed. \u2014Maybe you should have ducked behind that [untranslatable] of yours.\u2014\n\n<Though it is crippled, it knows a thousand ancient tricks.>\n\n\u2014We know a few, too.\u2014\n\n<It lives in the electromagnetic world. We only visit there.>\n\n\u2014You're half mech yourself, fella.\u2014\n\n<In brute fraction, true. But my mind is Natural, with all the happenstances which evolution brings. The Mantis has revised itself time and time over.>\n\n\u2014Seems to me that just makes it a patch job.\u2014\n\n<I believe you are manifesting a bias born of insecurity.>\n\n\u2014Ha! Insecurity? When the Mantis and its kind have killed so many of us?\u2014\n\n<Perhaps I chose too weak a word. I do not wish to anger you.>\n\n\u2014Family Bishop's lost over half its members to that Mantis.\u2014\n\n<I know, and do not wish to excite primate responses.>\n\n\u2014Huh?\u2014\n\n<You are known for your grudge-bearing and love of territory.>\n\nToby had only a vague idea what Quath meant, but that was not unusual. She was a blend of an insect-like organic race\u2014her \"substrate,\" as she put it\u2014and machine additions. In her bulk she carried the computing capacity to communicate with humans. The reverse path, people speaking to the Myriapodia in their digital staccato, had been a failure. Humans did not have the capacities or capacitances.\n\n\u2014We're known for being hard to kill, mostly.\u2014\n\n<That too.>\n\n\u2014A Bishop sights the Mantis, we go after it. Is that \"grudge-bearing\"?\u2014\n\n<Never turn your face from the central fact of its alien nature. It is of the kingdom of machine. I, despite my modifications and encrustations of mechanical artifice, am of the kingdom of the flesh. As are you.>\n\n\u2014Uh, guess so. Right now this flesh needs some rest.\u2014\nTWO\n\nTerritories of Thought\n\nThe bird came fluttering in from high up in the esty vault.\n\n\"I appreciate the extra effort.\" Nigel studied it. \"Good sim.\"\n\n\"An inappropriate word,\" it said, hovering in air.\n\n\"I was trying to be polite.\"\n\n\"Category error.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Politeness occurs between peers.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" _And we aren't. Not by a Phylum or two._\n\nNo wind came from its wings. It was an anthology of motes so he should expect none, but somehow this little detail was unnerving. \"Soon your part will be complete,\" the collection said.\n\n\"This the push-off, then?\"\n\n\"Termination? Not necessarily.\"\n\n _Not terribly reassuring,_ he thought. A hand tugged at his sleeve. \"Whussis?\" Abraham asked.\n\nHe had forgotten the Bishop elder. The man had wandered off to inspect the vegetation, probably looking for something to eat. These Bishops were incessantly foraging. The others, Killeen and Toby and Quath, had fled immediately, after the Mantis. The Hunker Down types were often quite keen, but Bishops had turned it into a positive fetish.\n\n\"A manifestation of the Old Ones. Also known as the Highers.\"\n\n\"Not mech?\" Abraham asked suspiciously.\n\n\"Much older.\"\n\n\"Looks mech.\"\n\n\"Looks like anything you like.\" Nigel waved at it. \"Be different.\"\n\nIt stopped beating its wings and hung in air. This was more unnerving. Nigel waved again and it became a slimy, coiling thing. \"Christ! Back to the bird.\"\n\nAbraham walked over to it, put a hand through the still form, and said wonderingly, \"You can make it do that?\"\n\n\"I don't make it do anything. It honors trivial requests.\"\n\nThe bird said, \"The time is approaching.\"\n\n\"Um, really?\" He felt wan and distant, and an ancient verse came to him.\n\nTime universal and sidereal,\n\ntime atomic and ephemeral\n\ntime borne on and time halted.\n\nIts beak and eyes slid up and down while its head held fixed, apparently its notion of a nod. \"True, defining simultaneity is impossible. But events come.\"\n\nNigel felt embarrassed by his small pleasure at extracting agreement from the thing. Difficult, it was, living as a self-aware microbe in an alien carcass. \"You're going to lose a lot.\"\n\nIt beat its wings again. To make him slightly more comfortable? \"Winnowing.\"\n\n\"Darwinnowing.\"\n\nIt caught the rather awful pun, of course. It had read the entire bloody Galactic Library, down to the footnotes. And it never laughed.\n\n\"Has anything this huge and horrible happened before?\" Nigel asked.\n\n\"When we were ceramic, yes.\"\n\n\"Ceramic?\"\n\n\"Life did not begin in your embodiment. First came clays that could impress upon each other and replicate. They enjoyed energies vast and various, in the early phase of this universe. Matters were far hotter then.\"\n\nNigel had never heard this before. \"And they died.\"\n\n\"They later spawned the elements of cellular life. Then they were culled.\"\n\n\"Um. By you?\"\n\n\"They were us.\"\n\n\"So they\u2014you\u2014are still around?\"\n\n\"We are now a different Phylum.\"\n\n\"And what would that be?\" This thing had never entertained discussion of its own properties before. Why now?\n\n\"You cannot know it.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"You do not understand. That is a central property of our Phylum.\"\n\n\"That we can't know what you are?\"\n\n\"Yes. Thus, to you, we can have no true name.\"\n\n\"Um. Wouldn't mind, then, if I called you, say, Fred?\"\n\nNo response. The bird seemed to dissolve, then snapped back into a razor-sharp profile. It looked real enough, but still a millimeter deep. \"You came from clays\u2014\"\n\n\"And later, united with the self-organized, replicating bodies of information.\" The bird spoke rapidly now.\n\nAbraham asked Nigel quizzically, \"That means bodies that aren't real?\"\n\nNigel nodded. \"Things that lived off the higher mechminds.\"\n\n\"Parasites?\"\n\n\"To a plant, vegetarians look like parasites. I gather that these, um, organized data fed off the mechminds the way a cow uses grass.\"\n\nThe bird abruptly swelled to immense size. Nigel felt as though he were falling into it, the thin outline of it rushing at him\u2014\n\nA huge voice spoke, but not in his ears.\n\nSimply viewed, the world's competition concerns the fate of organisms. Their bustle and energy, tragedy and comedy, occupy center stage. They strive to reproduce, to be on stage for the next act.There is a deeper panorama. Far below the restless energies of organisms, the genes of these beings are true actors, though limited ones. They, too, replicate.An organism, then, is a device to make more copies of its DNA. The genes strive to make this happen. They rule, in a sense.To survive better, genes \"invented\" brains. These in turn evolved to support minds. In time, minds learned to communicate with each other, through language and culture.This set another, broader stage.Minds store their interior models of the external world. These are intricate, ever-changing, sustained by a continual flow of sustenance from simpler sources. Evolution, whether natural or designed, can improve minds. Genes sharpen themselves in the endless, fateful Darwinnowing. Often, they shape fresh mental hardware\u2014more subtle, supple minds.Genes are lesser than organisms because they do not directly know of organisms at all. Only the blunt feedback of survival \"tells\" genes of the furious combat and subtle strategies played out on the stage of the organisms.In a larger view, organisms are as unaware as genes.At a critical stage of evolution, once minds appear and thrive, a new stage deploys.Above the apparent order of the gene world, above even the drama of organisms, a higher complication plays out. This is the largest theater of all. Upon it, self-replicating ideas in the minds of machines follow the same laws of evolution. These are called _kenes._\n\nNigel staggered. He was still here, standing beside Abraham on a grassy plain.\n\nAnd he was also encased in a place where ideas flowed like amber fire around him. Concepts burned with timeless intensity, crisp and sharp and churning past. They were in a different part of his mind, a place no less immediate than the grass underfoot.\n\nNo bird here. Or was he inside the bird?\n\nHe tried to walk and his feet dragged in a molasses-dark murk. He looked down and could not see his feet.\n\nTo a kene, he realized, the territory of thought was as real and vital as a savanna, where predators and prey made their eternal dance.\n\nNigel said slowly, words dragging, \"The clays, the ones who came first\u2014\"\n\n\u2014fast images of something like a muddy beehive. But no bees. Instead, crystals swarmed in the lattice walls. A slimy sheen seeped over hexagonal corners, intricate slabs. A circulatory system?\n\nIn the winking arrays order stirred, shimmered.\n\n\"\u2014they helped make you?\"\n\n\"And you earlier bio logics, of course.\" The bird voice was back but Nigel could not see it. Whatever the huge voice had been before, it was speaking now through the lesser vessel of the bird. And it had only begun to unreel an argument, a history.\n\nThe bird voice said, \"They clays persisted, in some sites of this galaxy. They transformed the entire crust of their worlds into integrated lattice minds.\"\n\nNigel breathed evenly. Was he being swallowed? \"So when these kenes formed\u2014\"\n\n\u2014sliding stacks of phosphorescence in a cold black vault without end. The realm of self-aware data. Feeding on the conceptual fodder of the mechminds. Cool and serene and still coming out of Darwin, alien, alien\u2014\n\n\"There was an . . . affinity. The kenes united with those of lesser substrate. The clays were analog structures with digital storage. Together they conducted . . . experiments.\"\n\nAbraham asked from somewhere nearby, \"It's so smart, why's it talk slow?\"\n\nNigel found it surprisingly hard to speak here. \"We don't have the right words. Sentences are, well, narrow.\" _Like pushing an ocean through a drainpipe. With a paper cup._\n\nThe bird said hollowly, \"Their/Our early synthesis gave forth the arches which frame the Galactic Center.\"\n\nNigel remembered the colossal luminous structures, hundreds of light-years long, beautifully streaming, each a reedy light-year wide. \"How did they work out?\"\n\n\u2014gut-deep agonies, shattering conflicts, ripped strands, howling vacancies\u2014\n\n\"Evolution is pain. We gained insight from them.\"\n\nSo much for the High Church school of advanced intelligence. Abraham asked shrewdly, \"That Magnetic Mind came out of it all?\"\n\n\"As a devolved application. It is a useful place to dispatch beings/information no longer needed at our/its level.\"\n\nAbraham nodded, a pale shadow to Nigel's left. \"A prickly thing.\"\n\nNigel had taken enough, for now. He needed the touch of the human. Desperately.\n\nHe studied the wrinkled old man. Taller and far younger than Nigel, in total memory store, but strangely similar. Perhaps memory was not the sole key to experience? The man had been through a lot. For the first time Nigel truly looked at Abraham and saw him as a constellation of earned seasoning, granted him the space an equal deserves. He had gotten out of the habit of doing that, he realized. He had, in his almighty manifestations, lost a certain touch. _Or an uncertain one,_ he thought ruefully.\n\n\"Ignore all these onlookers,\" he said to Abraham. \"Even gods can be just backdrop, if we choose.\"\n\nAbraham grunted sour agreement. Nigel grinned. Somehow he liked this old bastard. \"Tell me how it was, then?\"\nTHREE\n\nHard Pursuit\n\nYou sure it didn't pick you up?\" his father asked.\n\n\"Yeasay.\"\n\n\"Quath?\" Killeen's eyes swiveled to study the huge head of the many-legger. Toby never knew why he bothered to do that. Habit, maybe. The alien's face was an array of sensors and Toby had never been able to read any expression there.\n\n<It is the nature of electromagnetics that detection can never be ruled out.>\n\n\"Damn all,\" Killeen said, \"I didn't ask for a lecture.\"\n\n<I estimate that it did not know we were there.>\n\n\"Confidence level?\"\n\n<Approximately seventy.>\n\nKilleen nodded. \"Fair enough. Let's go.\"\n\n\"Now?\" Toby had wanted to ease back a bit.\n\n\"No point in waiting.\"\n\nCermo muscled his way up the slope, puffing to the ledge they were all sitting on. \"I get nothing from outlyin' pickups.\"\n\nHis broad face furrowed with concern but he said no more. The big man settled onto the ledge and looked out. Pale gray light seeped into distant timestone peaks. It was like a smothered dawn on a world that had curled up onto itself. Above them hung a distant landscape of tawny desert. Dried out river beds cut that land, several hundred klicks away but still visible through a cottony haze. Those river valleys looked ancient and Toby knew they could reach them with maybe a week of hard running, through esty slips and wrack-ranges. Maybe the Mantis would lead them that way. This Lane was twisted and tortured, space-time turning upon itself in knots unimaginable until experienced.\n\n\"Let's vector for it, then,\" Killeen said and stood up.\n\nToby felt a surge of zest as they started out and it lasted until they picked up the Mantis trail. At first he thought he was stronger than Killeen and Cermo and even got impatient with their slow tracking, sweeping the area for signifiers. Killeen halted for a rest every hour, old Bishop Family discipline, but at the very start of a pursuit it irked Toby.\n\n\u2014I could damn sure get ahead faster than this,\u2014he sent to Quath on private comm.\n\n<So could I. That eludes the point.>\n\nQuath ran on internals of huge energy. She could outpace them all.\u2014Maybe you should go on ahead.\u2014\n\n<I know my limits.>\n\n\u2014What are they?\u2014 Toby was genuinely interested. The Myriapodia seemed to have abilities beyond human dreams.\n\n<I am not a primate.>\n\n\u2014Um. That all?\u2014\n\n<For the moment, for this purpose, that is enough.>\n\nBeyond that Quath would say no more. Toby puzzled on it for a while but by then he started to tire and Killeen and Cermo were still moving at their same steady pace. They took the same short rests exactly every hour and picked up and went on. Quath herself was upping the pace too. Or so it seemed, though through his sweat-stung eyes the land was opening faster now to Toby and he plunged into it with a fresh energy born of the fatigue itself.\n\nThey came upon the first of the Mantis loci in a slope of shimmering timestone.\n\nCermo sighted the small shiny hexagon. \"Mantis is fallin' apart,\" he said, kicking at it.\n\n<No! Perhaps I can read.>\n\nShe did. <It contains splinters of the Mantis self.>\n\nKilleen's weathered face tightened. \"Why? What's it doing?\"\n\n<I suspect it is shedding parts and subminds.>\n\nToby asked, \"What's the sense in that?\"\n\n\"To lighten up,\" Cermo said.\n\nToby tossed it in his palm. \"No mass to this thing.\"\n\n\"Probably just junked a whole seg. This is a frag,\" Cermo said. He had tracked mechs of all descriptions and held them in a lofty, bruised contempt despite the fact that mechs had brought down many of his friends.\n\n\"Good sign,\" Killeen said flatly and they went on.\n\nThe ground began to move under them. The worst of it was in the gut-deep confusion, nausea, and sickening lurches. Toby's eyes did not tell him true about what his feet and body felt. He remembered Quath saying once about the timestone, _The defining feature is the lack of definition_ \u2014which he had thought to be a joke then.\n\nNot now. Rock parted and pearly vapor churned from the vent. Esty purled off in gossamer sheets, dissolving as they rose. Spray ascended, enclosing him in a halo of himself, somehow caught and momentarily reflected in the event-haze, as if he were both there and also flickering into the surroundings and joining them. The other self peeled away and circled to the tops of the cliffs and became a wreath in the shearing wind, soon frayed into refractive vapor.\n\n\"Gets hard here,\" was all Killeen said. They went into broken country ahead.\n\nMaybe he should have stayed behind after spotting the Mantis. He was a Bishop grown to fullness now but for this pursuit experience was crucial and he had little. The Mantis and Killeen had fought each other ever since he could remember. Toby wanted to be here but he knew he was a drag on the others, though of course they would not speak of it.\n\nCermo said it with his eyes, firm and black. There was nothing to be done, the pursuit was on. This terrain was too dangerous for Toby to backtrack by himself; the Mantis was not the only high-level mech here. They had watched from a distance as navvies and grubbers mined and foraged for mech debris.\n\nSo he settled in. He went hard and long and said nothing. Around their passage seethed strange vegetations, curled rock, and clotted air, the esty's energy expressed in frothy plenty. To Toby it seemed some moronic God kept reshaping the land beyond any probable use. The green profusion here seemed demented, undeserved. He realized only dimly that his irritation came out of his fatigue. For that there was nothing to be done and in his father's face he saw that. He kept falling behind their long, loping stride and so was glad when they stopped suddenly. To stay on his feet as they studied something on the ground he leaned against a rock, out of fear that he was already stumble-around tired.\n\nIt was a spool of something translucent yet mica-bright. <More discarded self,> Quath said. <Note also the locomos stripped away and left.>\n\nIn a hollow were dusty locomotion parts, a whole tractor assembly, footpads\u2014all junked. Toby looked them over and saw they were modular.\n\n<Left behind.> Quath rattled her flanks. <Defective. Or too much mass to propel.>\n\nCermo and Killeen inspected the ground. They had done that all along the trail, talking to each other about the track. Toby looked at the round depressions and flattened angular prints and saw the broken twigs where the thing had passed. The twig stems were not dry yet and Cermo fingered them and looked at the radiance streaming from the timestone around there. Crushed wild grass lay squashed but not browned as it would be soon.\n\n\"It's doin' pretty well for broken country,\" Cermo said.\n\nKilleen frowned. \"Going to be hard.\"\n\nToby said, \"If I could make it out, maybe its systems are so far down\u2014\"\n\n\"You said you didn't see it,\" Cermo said. \"Just felt it.\"\n\n\"Yeasay.\"\n\nCermo shook his head slowly as he looked down at the matted grass. \"If we run up on it, won't be feelin' our way.\"\n\nOf course he was right. The Mantis was invisible to human sensoria. It could deflect attention from itself, disperse telltales, turn a thousand techtricks. Toby scuffed at a stone and said nothing.\n\n<I believe its abilities are diminishing,> Quath said.\n\n\"Enough so it can't ambush us?\" Killeen eyed Quath's shifting bulk skeptically.\n\n<Perhaps. Notice the locomos. It discards, trying to move quickly.>\n\n\"Or wants us to think so,\" Killeen shot back. He smiled to take the sting out of it. Toby wondered if Quath would understand the quick flash of yellow teeth in the rugged, walnut face.\nFOUR\n\nAbraham\n\nNigel sat and listened. He ignored the gods who loomed like acoustic shadows all around him and Abraham. He concentrated very hard on hearing what one single human voice said and let that anchor him again in a place where he could keep his sanity. He had done this before, the memories were there, and knew that though this was a small, seemingly simple act, to fail to do so was to die. The hugeness around him, squatting in his mind like mammoths in the night, just beyond the faint human campfire, would crush him without even noticing the act.\n\nAbraham did not talk much about what the Highers had done. They had showed him things, maybe to teach and maybe for some other reason that was never evident, and he could not describe those, either. Later, maybe. Not right away. Maybe never.\n\nHe had been held by them in a kind of mixed state. He could feel his body and the bare simple open spaces around him but that was all. He could walk or run but he never got anywhere. Dry and smooth, the plain never ended. He came to understand that it was closed but had no boundary, no wall. The plain somehow wrapped around on itself though he could feel no curvature. A pearly glow came up through the featureless plain and when that faded he slept, though of course nothing told him to.\n\nSimple food appeared when he slept. He spent a lot of time exercising and there were always his captors to talk to just by speaking into the air. They were almost impossible to understand and he tired of their unintentional riddles. It had gone on a long time and he had adapted to it.\n\nSo he spent a lot of the time inside himself. It was surprising, he said, what you can remember when you have nothing to do but remember. He went on imaginary walks through the Citadel. He had seen it crashing down and smelled its scorched ramparts but in his mind he could saunter down the Aisle of Sighs and across the Oblong Square to the little place where crisp fried breads clouded the air with their fragrances. He could taste the snap of them and the cup of kaf he had with them. Then he would carefully walk down the Hypothetical, counting off the streets in order. When you were doing it by yourself rules were even more important. If he made a mistake he made himself go back to the beginning, silently sounding the names. Somebody would need to write a history of the Citadel someday and this was a way of keeping it through a time when Bishops did not write.\n\nWith luck, if he were ever to make it into Aspect, part of the Citadel's chronicles would go with that shaved sliver of himself.\n\nThere were other people there, too, sometimes. He could not speak with most of them because the Hunker Down had bred new languages. Still they traded stories and in the intensity of it he came to care for Families with names like Steamer and United and Punjab, and for people he had never met made vividly real through the telling.\n\nThey made up jokes about talking to the Highers and how near unintelligible they were. For fun they made up a handy phrase book in Higher Jabber, with useful phrases like, \"I am delighted to accept your kind invitation to be used and bored for your superior purposes,\" and \"It is exceptionally kind of you to allow me to travel in the asshole of your being.\" At the time these had been hilarious.\n\nThe jokes would slide effortlessly into bitter disputes, too, over minute details. Only slowly did the humans, assembled in the misty, echoing spaces where the Highers left them, learn that low comedy and fierce arguments were crucial. Essential to the species. Without them you gave up. In the heightened reality of that place all things were disproportionate.\n\nWith talk alone, none of the elaborate pseudreal tech, they took each other on mental trips to their own Family, their native planet. They described imaginary meals, perils, vast and ornate histories. All those worlds had distant views of the Eater and all were doomed, of course. They all knew that and it gave events an extra edge.\n\nAbraham said that his isolation from all he had known made life like a hall of mirrors. There was no hiding from himself or from the others or from the reflections they gave of himself.\n\nThere are always other dramas going on and some were of a scale that made coming back to the human perspective hard. Reality was the lenses you came with.\n\nAbraham shrugged a lot now. He said that there was no point in trying to know it all. It was not yours anyway.\nFIVE\n\nConfusion Squall\n\nToby got dazed and distracted as they kept up the pace, which seemed faster with each passing hour. His wandering, miasmic mind was his true enemy now. He kept loping, inevitably behind the others, trying to go through the fog that deadened him.\n\nThey tracked the Mantis by its footpad scrapes across rocky ground. Cermo and Killeen took turns sweeping to both sides in case it was backtracking or leaving a false trail. They kept looking back to be sure Toby was still in sight. The humiliation of it was that they had done that years ago when Toby had been a boy and now he was not.\n\nThe timestone ebbed. A gauzy light seeped up through the rough landscape. There were not days and nights evenly spaced here because the illumination came from light trapped in the space-time curvature itself. Refraction and time lags gave the radiance a hollow quality as though it had been strained through some filter and leached of its sharpness. They stopped and made camp and Toby fell asleep leaning against a boulder. He discovered this when he hit the ground and the others laughed, though of course not Quath. He made himself lay out his pad and once on it fell asleep again and only woke when his father pulled off his boots to check his feet for blisters.\n\n\"You're yeasay,\" Killeen said softly in the dim dark. Toby's nose caught the heady scent of cold but cooked vegetables and he found a plate of them next to his head. He ate them without speaking and his father brought a spicy tea hot from the fire. It was not a flame of course but a carbo-burner, so no mech could track them from the smoke or light.\n\n\"You're holding up. Feet fine.\"\n\n\"Just need some sleep,\" Toby said.\n\n\"You and Quath were up finding it while we were sleeping. No reason you shouldn't be a little behind.\"\n\n\"I'll do the sweep-searching tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Don't take on too much. Have some more of those beans.\"\n\n\"Not all that hungry.\"\n\nHe was asleep before his father had turned off the burner and he heard nothing as the darkness waxed on. He thought of the Mantis or maybe he just dreamed that he did.\n\nThe next day he remembered the sleeping fondly before many hours of loping were done. It was bad by then. He had started fresh but it faded and he sweated more than he ever had. Quath spoke to him with some concern but Toby talked little. He carried as big a pack as the others but they also had the burner and some extra food so he was behind in that as well.\n\nCermo did not smile or waste energy on talk and Toby remembered again the intensity of the man on the plains of his boyhood, on the baked beauty of Snowglade. Cermo pointed to each sign of the Mantis and interpreted it with assurance. Cermo was pointing to a fresh print when the confusion squall hit them.\n\nPurple bees. It felt as if they were biting him as they swarmed inboard. Toby got down fast but the fan beam caught him and he could not see any more. He rolled downhill and fetched up against a rock. That jabbed him in the side and he rolled around it and further downhill. That was the surest way to get away from the swarm of emag turmoil. Above him hummed a tangle of magnetic fields and orange plasma discharges. Forking energies. His inboards covering up made sharp clangs in his sensorium.\n\nHe slammed into a gnarled tree and could then see again. He lay there looking up at the others. They shared the stupefaction.\n\nTwo heartbeats, three. The squall passed without any follow-on bolts.\n\nThe Mantis used these to soften targets. Not attacking made no sense. He walked back up the hill and Quath greeted him with, <It is leaving them as traps for us.>\n\n\"Good, 'cause otherwise we'd be dead.\"\n\nA malicious grin split Cermo's face. \"Means it's desperate.\"\n\n\"Wounded,\" Killeen said and picked up his pack where he had dropped it at the first sign of trouble.\n\nThey moved faster then and it got worse for Toby. The confusion squall had robbed him of his zest and the dry air sucked sweat from him.\n\nAs he loped on Toby thought about but could not truly conceive of the expanses of time and therefore of injury and anguish, of remorse and rage and sullen gray sadness, which the Mantis and its kind had washed over the ruby stars themselves. It had cloaked the galaxy in a wracking conflict that could never be fully over. From this primordial pain there lumbered forward into his own time a heritage of melancholy unceasing conflict that had shaped all his life.\n\n\"It's sick, that's suresay,\" Killeen called as they moved.\n\n\"We're getting closer,\" Cermo answered.\n\n<It is trying to cure itself,> Quath said.\n\n\"How you know?\" Cermo asked, head swiveling in surprise.\n\n<The illness might be arrested if portions of the Mantis, its subminds, can be shed. Once infected, they are ejected.>\n\n\"That spool?\" Toby asked. \"And the hexagon?\"\n\n\"It hoped we would miss them,\" Killeen said. \"Dropped that other gear to make us think it was just shedding mass. Yeasay, Quath.\"\n\n<So it falters. The killing programs spread through it, despite its higher minds.>\n\nToby croaked, \"Hope it's getting tired,\" but what he had intended to be a lighthearted remark came out desperate.\n\nHis father dropped back and studied his face. \"Just last out a few more hours,\" was all he said.\n\n\"I'll take fore point,\" Toby said suddenly.\n\nKilleen looked at Cermo, who nodded. \"Keep a sharp,\" Killeen said. He went back to sweeping the right, tracking.\n\nThe navvy hit them as they came down a narrow draw. It was a fine place for an ambush and if the Mantis had done the job itself several of them would have died or at least gotten scrambled pretty badly. The navvy was a lesser mech that apparently the Mantis had assembled in flight. It looked like that.\n\nToby saw it just before it fired at them. Its big disks were extruded and the emag burst fried Toby's left side. His servos froze and his legs locked, _chunk_ and _chunk,_ and then no feeling. He went down hard.\n\nThe beam swept across Cermo too but he had been faster and blew a hole in the navvy. That saved them from a real frying.\n\nKilleen was in the clear and took his time and got the navvy square so that the emag reservoirs in it spilled out in one long shriek. Then it was dead.\n\nThey rested while Toby got his servos back up and running. Nobody said much but his father helped him with the crisped sockets and remarked casually, \"Those navvies aren't as slow as people think.\"\n\nToby knew what that meant and in recollection knew that the navvy had been pretty slow. He had been loping through his own personal fog and had missed the profile when it popped up on his sensorium. Ignoring signs while on point was stupid.\n\n\"Sorry,\" was all he could say.\n\nToby kicked the navvy in exasperation and then bent over the cowling. He popped some seals and rummaged and brought out two smooth ceramic things shaped like lopsided eggs.\n\n\"Mag traps,\" Cermo said.\n\n\"Fine.\" Killeen handled one carefully. It had the usual mech slots and looked all right to Toby. \"Can we use them?\"\n\n\"Lemme try,\" Killeen said.\n\n\"Sorry,\" Toby said again.\n\nKilleen slapped one of the eggs into a hip servo. It clicked on. \"Good find.\" That was Killeen's way of answering. \"Let's eat.\"\nSIX\n\nConceptual Spaces\n\nNigel felt himself snatched up. Yanked. Hard, head-snapping, neck-wrenching\u2014\n\n\u2014then he was somewhere else.\n\nShadows on stones. He was walking through a courtyard. The floor was not flagstones but flattened white skulls, skeletal cages of ribs, crushed arms. They snapped as he stepped.\n\nWhispers bubbled from the street of bones. Sharp and bitter words, ripped from throats that had once longed and yearned.\n\nHis footing turned soft. He plunged forward helplessly, each step taking him up to the knee in the musty, blood-soaked past.\n\nThe stinking street of the lost. The swamp of dead desire.\n\nDarkness streamed from the narrowing walls.\n\nAll this, cooking under the thin veneer of the conscious mind.\n\nLuminous impulses fought and scurried across the open stage of the human intellect. Factions shouted and clashed. An inner world of endless combat. Instinct, reason, all shades between.\n\nAnd below that tiny conscious stage worked sinewy chords. The true deep mind worked there. Creation, desire, the sense of the exalted\u2014all wove and lurked and had no conscious voice. They broke onto the conscious stage only with force, sudden actors in a play that no one faction wrote.\n\nThat was the human lot, he saw.\n\nHe was looking at his own mind.\n\nA human could not do that. Could not step outside and watch itself have an idea, trace the origins of desire, of dislike . . .\n\nSo . . . what did that make him, now?\n\nThen the enormous voice was there again and he saw that he had been taken to another place, another small cage in a labyrinth mind.\n\nTo continue his little lesson. Of course.\n\nAll life extracts energy, uses it, and discards the dregs, energy in a degraded form. The history of life is a long saga of unconscious ingenuity, finding new pathways in the fields of brimming energy. The universe is yet young, and squanders its energies in flowers of excess-bright stars, whirling singularities, gaudy finery. Life profits from this.Organisms\u2014natural, mechanical/electronic, or magnetic- feed upon their ecosystems. These systems are in turn driven by simple energy sources from below. Mild sunlight and chemicals, for the Naturals. Mass and raw photons and electrical discharges, for others. But those organisms with minds themselves are the energy sources for higher orders: self-replicating patterns of information. These can thrive only in brains, or in the extensions of brains\u2014books, computers, data banks. Mental musics, supported by brute matter.In organic cells, enzymes and raw materials form a soup for making DNA. Viruses hijack these to reproduce themselves. Minds, too, can bring into being parasites. On the stage of minds, dramas unfold. Ideas can hijack anxieties, unmet needs, even the diffuse mental hunger called curiosity.Minds are the substrate for memes.The simplest of these memes are like diseases. Some contagions are helpful, some destructive, some merely crippling\u2014but all draw their sustenance from the organisms themselves. For they feed upon the thought processes of their hosts.Cultural evolution can be seen as the advancement of these patterns: memes are self-propagating cultures. In many life-forms, religious ideas were the earliest examples.Even simple mental systems can ask questions which they cannot answer\u2014indeed, that have no answer.Planning for the future confers a powerful survival advantage; realizing that one should not venture back into a dangerous place means one may live to see tomorrow's sunrise. Dependence on the seasons, especially in farming, sharpens this selection.But considering the future raises powerful questions. Unanswerable riddles: Where will I go after death? Where was I before birth?The mental tensions set up by such natural problems create a niche. Into this slot in the mental landscape, ideas can migrate. They arrive there by mutation from earlier, related ideas. Providing plausible answers to unanswerable questions, they occupy the niche. The host welcomes this aid, profits from it. Then they can spread. Those ideas which induce copies of themselves in other brains have greater chance of surviving. Religions are parasitic memes. Some lead to wholesale abandonment of the ordinary world, producing faiths susceptible to mass suicide, or celibacy, or irrational attempts to propagate the faith with violence. These can quickly kill the host, and so self-limit the meme growth. Successful parasitic memes evolve into mutual symbionts. Stable, long-lived religions are examples. Their adherents hand down doctrines and formalisms for millennia. They can even enclose and absorb other ideas, carrying them forward in time, protected by the bulk and momentum of belief.They can make the host resist other parasitic ideas. Every concept needs some protection.Logic is one of these. It tests memes for consistency. Such meta-memes check other, smaller ideas before allowing them into the mental theater. They function as do the simple alarm systems which tell a cell that a virus has invaded. The scientific method, which is essentially an orderly common sense, is a similar meme defense. It is more discriminating, more interactive with the invading meme itself, than the most primitive defense: to simply reject any new idea, uninspected.All memes can be seen as living, struggling entities which compete for space and energy. An idea can leap from mind to mind, encased in a single sentence. Intelligent beings convey far more information through memes than they do through genes.\n\nNigel awoke lying on a mud flat. Cold, wet, sticky.\n\nHe got up slowly. The voice had been soft and sensible and still had shaken him thoroughly.\n\nIt was not of course a voice but a . . . lesson. His body ached and he had trouble breathing. Interference with the lower levels of the brain?\n\nHe looked around but there was nothing but the mottled dark. He missed human contact, an ache he had learned long ago in places like this.\n\nHe started walking. It was slow, hard work; his knees trembled, but he kept going.\nSEVEN\n\nThe Suredead\n\nHis gear used the mech positron traps that were new and light and carried a lot of energy in a small magnetic pocket. The clouds of positrons gyred in their magnetic pit and when his inboards or servos needed power positrons would snake out of their snare, find electrons, and die. Somehow that made potentials stream through him though Toby never thought of how it worked. The navvy's mag traps they discharged into their own, harvesting most of the store. Energy stripped from mechs always had a special jolt to it.\n\nKilleen clapped him on the back. \"Just shows how desperate the Mantis is,\" Killeen snorted with derision. \"Threw that navvy together. Put no defense in the mag traps.\"\n\nToby felt better until he woke up that night. The timestone was smoldering a dull ruby red half-light and they had all rolled their pads out to take advantage of the momentary night. Toby had been bone tired and grateful for it, a break not given as a favor by his father but simply by the weather.\n\nBut he woke up with an itchy nervousness and could not sleep, thinking it had something to do with the positron power. He got up to pee though it was not pressing and that was when he saw it.\n\nThe latticework did not move against the far ruddy hills, but it was not a building. It cast a shadow in his sensorium that was not a blankness now. He looked for the webs of loci and motivators and subminds. They were faintly luminous, tracing out the array of rods and struts. It moved then and he felt it as a positive thing finally. Not a vacancy but a presence.\n\nHe knew by legend the impossible way it moved. As he stood absolutely still and watched, the matrix shambled away from him. No hurrying, no sign it knew he was there. It was two klicks away, easy. In range, but he did not think of that. He followed to keep in view the shifting phosphorescent mainmind exposed in the tilting work of rods and the great disks swiveling.\n\nIt came at him then without a single flicker of sensorium warning. The burst was in him, before his inboards could counter. He staggered and fell. Hit hard, arms loose. The pulse skated through him and burned hot and was gone.\n\nHe lay without moving, Bishop tactics. Numbly through his sensorium he watched it go. Angular energies, vectoring into a dwindling shape. Then nothing.\n\nHe let his inboards run diagnostics and they came up with trivial overloads, easily corrected with a reset. He got up carefully. Creaky and legs shaking at the knees but all right.\n\nHe could not explain what had happened. He knew he had to think about it but not right now. There was too much in him. A pressure seethed in his systems. Fear and a hollow longing too. Some quality of it reminded him of the way women drew him out, but it was not that either. On the way back to his pad he decided not to wake the others.\n\nQuath stirred electromagnetically as he passed. <?> she sent and he answered with \u2014.^.\u2014, which told her submind that it was just him. He envied the way she could delegate to her partial minds and fall instantly asleep if she wanted. It was a little surprising that such an intelligence needed the down time to process memories and arrange itself, which humans did by letting the subconscious levels work during sleep.\n\nIt was the dreams that told him. He saw the long procession of Bishops in their Citadel, then on the plains, in battle and at peace. Many of the momentary shimmers of saved experience were of their last moments. That must mean that these were salvaged slivers from the lives of doomed Bishops. Eyes wide with surprise, or slitted by pain. Mouths gasping or else hardened against what they saw coming. But there was more to it than such externals. He _felt_ the moments, lived through them in a way impossible to get from a mere image.\n\nThese were the records of the suredead. Bishop minds, ransacked by mechs\u2014by the Mantis\u2014in age-old conflicts. Like volumes to be kept on a shelf and taken down and browsed. Or read intently if you cared.\n\nThe Mantis had sent these shards of the suredead into him. Discarding them? Radiating away data as it executed its own subminds?\n\nHe rolled sweaty in his sleep and woke sandy-eyed and ragged. At breakfast Killeen said, \"I got some diagnostics on my morning screen. Said there was mech near us last night.\"\n\n\"Me too,\" Cermo said.\n\nToby said nothing and did not know why. The Mantis was dying anyway. The two men looked at him and still he said nothing.\n\n\"I can pick up right now some pretty weak echoes that way\"\u2014Cermo gave a thumb-jut uphill\u2014\"but not moving.\"\n\nToby could see nothing in his sensorium. When they started off he took rear point. They lost the Mantis trail in a place where overlapping mech signatures reeked in Toby's sensorium, coded as stinks. He caught rotting leaves, a sharp pungency, something damp and musty. \"Smells funny,\" was all Cermo said.\n\nThey followed the smells, all really just electronic prompts but no less exciting for the fact of their knowing it. They found the cause in a rugged narrow gulch.\n\nThe mechs had died in convulsions. Disease programs had gotten into them and they had ended in an agony of pleasure, capacitors flashing over, mag traps sparking and searing their gray matte finish. That was what made the Trigger Codes so good. They brought intense ecstasy and the desire to share that with others, and so the mechs sent it on electromagnetic wings to each other, all in a delighted delirium. Toby knew it was supposed to be a pleasant way to die but the convulsed limbs and ripped matte-carbon skins were ugly, terrible.\n\n\"Mantis was through here,\" Cermo said.\n\n\"I pick it up,\" Killeen said and then Toby did too, a faint tangy odor that wound between the mech bodies. These were far lower order mechs than the Mantis of course and they crammed the little gorge. The Mantis had passed by the fallen and gone on.\n\n\"Paying its respects, maybe,\" Toby said. The men laughed although he had not meant it to be funny.\n\nToby touched one of the wrecked carcasses. \"You suppose mechs have, well, families?\"\n\nCermo shook his head vigorously. Killeen said, \"Not so's you'd notice.\"\n\nQuath had been nearly silent since the navvy attack and now she said, <They appear to have intricate relationships, but not genetically based.>\n\n\"If not family,\" Killeen said, \"what?\"\n\n<Links of their minds. Or shared models of the world.>\n\nKilleen frowned. \"Models?\"\n\n<Frames for comprehending experience.>\n\n\"Seems to me you either ken things or you don't.\" Killeen grinned at Cermo as if this were a private joke. Toby didn't get it.\n\n<They seem to order themselves in social strata, based on capabilities. Within those classes they form close working associations.>\n\n\"Not families, not at all,\" Killeen said bitterly.\nEIGHT\n\nPhylum Myriapodia\n\nWhere'd you get Abraham?\"\n\nThe bird had somehow manifested Quath here, in this place which now had no gritty feel left in it at all.\n\nThis was definitely Quath, done precisely down to scratches on leg sheaths and the curious jerky way her heads moved. How the bird could make Quath come here . . . ? But of course, Quath herself was an anthology intelligence, and so could exhibit facets of itself here, plucked up by the Highers. Or someone/something.\n\n<The Myriapodia paid a terrible price for him.> The Quath manifestation torqued itself on the rocky ground, settling intricate sections on the warm stones.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n<The Tukar'ramin, the Illuminates . . . all perished.>\n\n\"That's why you've been so quiet.\"\n\n<The only entrance to the Labyrinth was the Rent.>\n\n\"Rent? Ah\u2014the seam the mechanicals tore open?\"\n\n<It voided into the inner edge of the ergosphere.>\n\n\"So your kind . . .\"\n\n<Flew at great cost in energy along that inner sheet. Poised. When the Rent opened, they entered.>\n\n\"I don't see\u2014\"\n\n<They knew that they must surprise the mechanicals. All this was necessary to quickly take the Abraham from them.>\n\nNigel turned to look at the muscled but weathered man who was munching some fruit nearby. \"He looks fairly hearty.\"\n\n<He lived. The Myriapodia gave of themselves. That was the only way to unleash the Codes.>\n\nNigel said nothing. \"Why?\"\n\n<That is not answerable.>\n\n\"Outside my conceptual space?\"\n\n<Yeasay.>\n\nHe would always wonder if, at this moment, the alien was deliberately using a human slang. Perhaps that was what, in its own coordinate system, invoked what he would, in his chimpanzee manner, call sadness. Or grief. Or, by the nature of the unknowable, a joke.\nNINE\n\nStalking\n\nWhy doesn't it fly?\" Killeen asked in one of their short breaks.\n\nToby had been wondering, too. The Mantis could jet across Lanes. Men didn't have flying gear. They couldn't generate the thrust to deal with gravitational stresses, not and be able to walk, too. \"Maybe it can't anymore?\"\n\nCermo swallowed some water and spat it out again, an old ritual to get the dust taste out of his mouth. Then he cocked an eye at the distant emerald roof, the folded terraces of land far overhead. \"Could be it threw away its propulsions first thing. We just didn't run across them.\"\n\nQuath murmured, <Perhaps it does not wish to fly. Being foot-bound and pursued is a different experience.>\n\nThe men looked at each other and shrugged. Toby wondered what Quath could mean but she ambled away then, combing the area. He did not get a chance to think further because Cermo was looking up at the foggy esty again and frowning and then pointing. \"Matterfall,\" he said quietly.\n\nMasses of green and brown ripped away from the landscape above. Silently they shot up in a geyser. Lumps tumbled and smacked into each other.\n\n\"Coming fast,\" Killeen said, voice tight.\n\nThere was nothing to do. Sometimes the esty fissured. Along its surface gravity would abruptly vanish as stretched lines of space-time snapped back, like rubber bands releasing energy. Matter would find itself suddenly released, free.\n\n\"No pretty li'l arch this time,\" Cermo said.\n\nSometimes the trajectory of a matterfall made an arc and the mass slammed back down nearby. Once the freed debris got high enough, though, it could just as soon spray all the way across the vast space between Lane walls. This time it had more than enough energy. It seemed to speed up and still there was no sound.\n\n\"Coming close.\" Toby stood with legs tight and ready to run. But which way?\n\nThe clotted stream of mass shot toward them. It swelled and Toby saw trees and rocks clearly. The leading edge was a little to his left, he saw, and then very quickly the whole sheared mass came down toward them.\n\nClose, but not right smack on. It slammed into the esty upslope. The shock wave bowled them over. Thunder followed it. They doubled up against a spattering rain of pebbles and silt. One hit Toby in the shoulder and hurt but broke nothing.\n\nIt was over in a few minutes. They brushed themselves off and looked up at the damage. Some hills had fresh cover and boulders were still tumbling down and crashing into ravines.\n\n\"Be bad footing over that way for a while,\" Cermo said.\n\n\"Wonder if the Mantis will go that way on purpose,\" Killeen said.\n\nCermo frowned. \"I 'spect so.\"\n\nThat was what happened. Their tracking told them so within an hour.\n\nTrouble came immediately. The Mantis trail led into the shifty new ground. They labored upgrav toward majestic, brooding slopes. The rock here was bare, thickly folded esty. The matterfall had liberated fresh energies. Events curled out of it, sliver-thin instants from the past that splintered off and then evaporated. Going uphill was like climbing a full, heaving wave that crested and was always about to break its sharp peak into roaring foam. Bowls formed in the slant timestone. In them were lakes not of water but of some chipped gravel that flowed. It was easy to mistake for a water lake because the granules of shattered esty were a pale turquoise, as if blue with chill. Toby dipped his hand in and jerked it back scalded. He danced around, flapping his hand and feeling stupid and angry with himself.\n\nHe was not paying attention so was caught surprised when the ground trembled and opened. Toby fell into a cleft with edges sharp as torn tin. He scrambled and got out just as quick.\n\nNeither Cermo or Killeen noticed any of this because they had just heard the Mantis ahead. Quath had vectored on it.\n\nToby ran to catch up to them. Abruptly the Mantis disappeared from his sensorium. It left not even the Mantis blankness.\n\n\"Get it on visual!\" his father called so he knew that the others had lost their sensoria traces too.\n\nToby plunged upslope. He had to use all his power to manage it and he could not see the others. Thick cover festooned the ground here. It rattled as timestone gave way downslope. He heard crashing and explosions below. If a piece of esty slipped into instability it carried off everything. The shaking got worse and he fell.\n\n\u2014Cermo!\u2014 he sent on hushed comm. Nothing came back. \u2014.^.\u2014 he sent to Quath, but again nothing.\n\nStill, he could smell the Mantis somehow. It was not a sensorium cue but a flavor cool and metallic on the dry air.\n\nHe understood this last desperate move. The Mantis had led them into unstable territory to throw them off. He wanted to cling to the trembling ground but the smell was strong. Fronds rattled above him as he picked his way upslope and into a divide. He knew it was up ahead but did not know how he knew.\n\nA brilliant white flash went by him and the second smacked into him. The pain snapped down his spine. He hit and rolled. Only then did he register the quick rapping bursts that had come before he was hit and recognize his father's emag rifle. Cermo's booming reports came right after.\n\nHis systems convulsed. His legs had curled up with the pain and he could not brace himself against the timestone as it cracked beneath him. Sharp shards peeled off and shattered and cut his face.\n\nHis world clouded up with the pain. Cermo's punching booms and his father's _rap-rap-rap_ came cotton-soft in the hollow air. The two men were shooting steadily now. Toby could still not see their target though the metallic smell was stronger.\n\nQuath sent her characteristic _whoom whoom_ echoing through his sensorium. She was using her weapon that scrambled up interlinks and could dissolve a mechmind if it went in just right. They shouted now in his comm but seemed far away. They had not gotten a visual of the Mantis either and their calls got fainter as they moved away.\n\nHe got up painfully. No broken bones. A wad of cloth from his pouch stopped the bleeding in his scalp and cheek. More hollow firing. Then he saw it. The blankness rippled in his sensorium.\n\nA shot caromed off him. It hurt but did not get into his inboards. Something else did before he could react.\n\n\u2014the two lines of running figures met on a dry plain. Here men laughed wildly as they grinned through filmed helmets, slapping each other in salute. The two Families had not met for years and now to come upon each other, Rooks and Bishops colliding. Only taste and touch mattered, the press of warm and pungent flesh, rank and salty. Hugging and patting. Sobs as old friends saw each others' lined, worn faces. A babble river of talk, hoarse cries, guffaws\u2014\n\nIt came in so fast he got only a stinging sensation. A nose-wrinkling itch, a furious sneeze. So fast he was all reaction, no thought. Then he saw the matrix of rods moving in the clattering fronds nearby. No more than a hundred meters.\n\nSlow, underwater slow. He shot at it and missed. Mantis fields deflected nearly anything except a direct pulse. A shot had to be shaped just the right way to defeat its layered minds of defense.\n\nHe ran down a gully that snapped and cracked beneath him. The esty energies played in blue-white arcs where his boots struck. He knew he was not seeing quite right from the pain.\n\nMore booming reports and a crashing and it was all going steadily away from him in the fog-thick clotted air.\n\nCermo screamed. His shriek sliced the comm.\n\nThe Mantis reek came stronger.\n\nToby scrambled out of the gully. Timestone frayed upward here like spores blowing. It fractured, split. Big zigzag lines ran back into sour-smelling bushes.\n\nHe ran toward the thrashing sounds. Uphill. Tripped and got up and went on.\n\n\u2014in the celebration came a hard _spang_ and the streaming talk turned to shouts. Screams. Bodies falling, others trying to catch them. Shocked, bleached faces. The stinging notes were emag shots and the Mantis was a speck on a far rise aiming into the reunited humans, being very careful to focus on a single fleeing form at a time. It brought down more and drew the essence out of the primates as their little lights flickered and began to go out. Pain, remembrance, joy, gray defeat, soft dreams\u2014all siphoned into it. All was saved.\u2014\n\nHe staggered with the hard-blown intensity of the burst. Where was it?\n\nThe bushes were high here and scraggly trees hung above them. On his comm he got a pip from his father and Cermo beyond. On the topo display Cermo was on the hillside and highlighted. Killeen was moving away from Cermo and headed farther uphill.\n\nToby angled up a ravine. He had to cut his way through some of the wiry bush and came upon his father suddenly.\n\nKilleen was white-faced. \"Got Cermo pretty bad.\"\n\n\"You tracking it?\"\n\n\"Hit it pretty solid and it's trailing smell.\"\n\nThe stink was metallic and oily now. Toby knew the true data his systems compiled were not smells at all but the scent blended with the memories it had projected into him, and together they reverberated in him.\n\nThere were plenty of other signs. Scattered loci had spattered the bushes with burnt orange and crimson. Mantis castoffs. A seared cowling lay cocked against a tree. \"Careful of it,\" Killeen said. They went by cautiously but the piece was dead.\n\n\"Dad, back there it sent memories to me.\"\n\n\"Tryin' to confuse you.\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"You look to be woozy.\"\n\n\"I'm okay.\"\n\n\"Been hit?\"\n\nToby nodded and gasped for air.\n\n\"Maybe you should stay back with Cermo.\"\n\n\"I can keep up.\"\n\n\"Not what I meant.\"\n\n\"Cermo, he's not good.\"\n\n\"I'll head back for him in a little while.\"\n\nToby saw Quath on topo a fair distance off. She was blocking the Mantis's retreat. \"It's close by. Smell that?\"\n\nKilleen said, \"We got the bastard now.\"\n\n\"It wasn't trying to get me solid. It wasn't\u2014\"\n\n\"Forget that. It's body shot,\" Killeen whispered.\n\nIt was. A heavy odor of something like suffering layered the air as they came into a stand of gnarled trees and thick undergrowth. They trotted as quietly as they could although speed mattered more now.\n\nThe Mantis was leaning against some trees. Branches stuck through its open spaces. Coming up on it slowly, Toby thought the thing looked as though the trees had grown in the Mantis body itself and it was now a work both organic and mech.\n\nHe could see the back of it, jet black and soft gray and huge, lattices united with complex angularities. He followed his father along flanks that sighed and settled as though something was going out of the Mantis. Something was\u2014fleeting wisps of data hummed and buzzed in their passage.\n\nIt was as big as a house and Toby saw now the way energies had held it together and would no more. More slabs of data emitted from it like blood running out and Killeen raised his emag and fired. The Mantis had antennas and disks in their own enclosed bays and one of these focused on them. That was its only reaction. There was no need to do it mechanical damage, to use explosives or bolts. The intricate information web that made up the Mantis was frying into nothing. Programs from the Trigger Codes fed with a crackling intensity that Toby could hear eating like flames through the whole gray sensorium of the Mantis. Three parabolic antennas swiveled to look at them. His father fired again and the whole thing shook like a house about to come down.\n\nToby backed away. \"Plenty done now,\" he said.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe Mantis fell.\n\nParts popped free and rolled and the intricate crystalline layers smashed. Some beautiful arc struts popped from their collars and the complexities they had supported spilled. The ground rumbled but the two men did not back away from the unspooling masses.\n\n\"It's done,\" Toby said.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nToby did not like it but his father was right. Quath came up behind them and said nothing. They all heard the thin cries of the subminds as pleasure-pains slipped into them. The Trigger Codes at work.\n\nThe Mantis had been trying to stop the spread of the disorders all this time and its despair and agony came intensely to the men, released by constellations of subminds that had finally given up. The thing was letting itself go in a final burst of bliss. Patterns danced and flared in its sensorium, spilling out filigreed and rich and meaning nothing to humans.\n\nToby stepped back and his own aching pain made him suddenly weak. \"It'll be gone soon, Dad.\"\n\n\"No. Prang it once yourself.\"\n\n\"Let it go.\"\n\nCermo limped up suddenly behind them, one ear torn loose and blood down his face. His left arm dangled uselessly and showed white bone but Cermo's face was whiter. Toby remembered instantly when Killeen had lost arm function to a mech long ago, and the way Cermo had paid it no attention out of respect except when Killeen truly needed help.\n\nCermo's sensorium rang with medical alarms. Cermo paid them no attention and did not look at Toby or Killeen or Quath either. He hobbled up and took Toby's weapon in a hand caked in brown blood. Cermo staggered with the weight of it and nobody said anything.\n\nThere was no sound except the Mantis still stirring. From it whirred smears of information and into Toby came one clear voice.\n\n* * *\n\nHere is all I can give.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Kill it,\" Killeen said.\n\nCermo blinked, dazed. His right arm half-lifted Toby's sharp-darter. He seemed stunned by the sudden intensity of the voice.\n\n* * *\n\nI am more than the sum of all memories.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Pretty soon, be less,\" Killeen muttered.\n\n* * *\n\nI have a gift for you, Toby.\n\n* * *\n\nToby froze. He panted, confused.\n\n* * *\n\nYou will need it.\n\n* * *\n\nCermo lifted the shape-darter and pointed the snubbed snout at the center of the still-seething layers. The mainmind was in there somewhere. He angled for a shot. The moment hung in the air.\n\n* * *\n\nI saved so many Bishops. I have the greatest collection of you. And you are the most splendid of all the lesser forms.\n\n* * *\n\nCermo jerked into life and fired three times.\n\nEven single-handed, at this range each shot found its way into a submind and sparked a hard yellow flare in the Mantis sensorium. Each time Cermo swore angrily and the Mantis rocked with the impact.\n\nThe third one made the parabolic antennas whirl around very fast and faster and then stop. Toby knew he would remember the silly look of that.\n\nEvery sliding rod and servo in the Mantis halted and the dignity went out of it in a way he could not voice. One moment it was huge and suffering and then it was just a big pile of shattered parts. No whole.\n\nCermo fell then. He came down completely slack, arms loose and knees buckling. Toby saw that the Mantis had done some last thing and the aura of that burst hit him too. It gave him a prickly jolt all over. His sensorium fused, tilted, flashed with working veins of amber. He staggered but the pulse did no damage.\n\nBy the time he reached Cermo the heavy-lidded eyes had closed.\n\n\"Damn!\" Killeen said.\n\n<He is suredead,> Quath said. <The Mantis stripped his self away in the last moments.>\n\n\"Why?\" Killeen demanded. His voice was strained.\n\n<I do not know.>\n\n\"Revenge,\" Killeen said.\n\n<It had finished with you.>\n\n\"With us? Other way round,\" Killeen said bitterly.\n\n<It played out its own end by allowing you to express one of your embedded patterns. One it had not experienced.>\n\nToby's voice was a croak. \"What . . . pattern?\"\n\n<Your species hunted long ago across far terrain. In groups you large mammals mastered language and the rituals of pursuit. It led to your intelligence\u2014a particular kind of mind.>\n\n\"It wanted to see us do that?\" Killeen was quiet now, kneeling with his hands uselessly rubbing Cermo's shoulder.\n\n<I suspect it wanted to be a part of it. The only part it could play.>\n\nToby thought about the stored memories it had shed into the air, its treasure evaporating. But memory was not yourself, he saw. It could not drive forward, act. Memories just sat and waited.\nTEN\n\nPaths of Glory\n\nThe timestone tossed and broke and they spent a long time then just clinging to whatever stable places they could find. They did what they could for Cermo but that wasn't much.\n\nKilleen opened Cermo's spine and swore. \"They're burned.\"\n\n\"How?\" Toby asked.\n\n\"Mantis must've worked down through all his inboards.\"\n\n\"I thought our chips were protected.\"\n\n\"So did I. But our tech is old and mechs never stop learning.\"\n\nKilleen said this heavily and with the respect a combatant had for another. Cermo's cylinder spinal chips had carried the older Aspects and Faces from Bishop history. A suredeath reduced the present, subtracting one life. Chip charring carried that loss far back into a dim past, plundering the origins of the Family itself.\n\nIt was hard finding enough real ground to bury Cermo. They stripped away his gear and divided the mass out for taking back. Most of it was useless but to leave it would draw mech scavengers.\n\nUtter darkness came for a while and they slept. It did not do much good for Toby and when he woke a gang of scavenger navvys had found the Mantis. He heard them cutting and clattering around and went up the slope to where they worked in the sprawling shambles. He remembered how the parabolic antenna had spun around like an eye searching madly and how the majesty had gone then. The flanks of it were gone too now, dragged off by scavengers. The mechs had their own ecology of a sort, recycling machined parts and whole intact auxiliaries. There was no more Mantis, just intricate assemblies slewed out of their mounts, and gear he could not understand fried by vagrant pulses. The navvys picked over the carcass where crystalline lattices had carried the Mantis intelligence. There were navvys of all sizes, scooters and jakos mostly, and they worked remorselessly in teams. When they were done they would leave nothing.\n\nHe shot three and that scattered them for a while. The anger in him had boiled out and he felt stupid when Quath and Killeen came running, their sensoria projected out in a defensive screen. He just shrugged. His father nodded. Killeen looked at the Mantis for a while with nothing in his face and then pulled a few of the arc struts free.\n\nWhen Toby walked past the inner cells of the Mantis he saw a mag storage kernel hung partly disconnected from the frame. He took it. He told Quath he wanted the energy store but he carried it with him on the long march away from there without discharging it.\n\n<You have something more than that,> Quath said as they headed downslope.\n\n\"The memories it sent?\"\n\n<I received none.>\n\n\"How'd you know I did?\"\n\n<By your actions. It chose you.>\n\nFor a searing moment he wished that he had never seen the Mantis. \"I don't want that.\"\n\n<They are in you now.>\n\nHe walked on in silence.\n\nHis father carried some of the beautiful arc struts strapped to his back despite the weight. Killeen was smiling and tired and said, \"Plenty Bishops will want a piece. It killed a lot of us.\"\n\n\"How many?\"\n\n\"It's cut through generations of us. Nobody can do the count. None of us has lived through the full time of it.\"\n\n\"We were trying to kill it, too.\"\n\n\"Yeasay. Had to.\"\n\n\"Murder on both sides.\"\n\n\"Now there is, yeasay.\" His father squinted at him and looked away.\n\nToby kept pace with Killeen behind Quath. They loped across timestone that had settled down. A golden glow seeped up through it and cast shadows up his father's face from the chin. The silence between them simmered until Killeen said, \"It made artworks of us. Hunted us. Sucked us up as suredead.\"\n\n\"Cermo made a mistake.\"\n\n\"I suppose.\"\n\n\"Coming on close to it at the end like that.\"\n\n\"Have it as you like.\"\n\nThey walked a while with the excitement going out of them and the only sound was their servos.\n\n\"It cared about Bishops, y'know.\"\n\n\"Cared plenty. Cared enough to hound us.\"\n\n\"Not what I meant.\"\n\n\"I know, son.\"\n\nThe Bishops had lost something too when the Mantis went out of their world but Toby could not say to his father what that was. He would be a full man before he came to understand it or to know that he had brought away from the Mantis not only the magnetic kernel\u2014which he kept for years and never got around to discharging\u2014but also a discord of loneliness that would go with him even when he was surrounded by Bishops.\n\nAfter some hard marching they found a Bishop camp. The news spread quickly and more Bishops came hurrying across the stretches of timestone. They saw the curved Mantis struts that Killeen had carried out on his back and insisted on standing them up in an arch for display. Together like that they looked fine in the smoldering ruby glow of the timestone.\n\nPeople crowded around the struts and touched them carefully. Killeen had a liquor toast from some of them and then another and talked freely. Toby stood back and watched as his father and himself and Quath were transformed into heroes by the excited chatter of the crowd who had not been there.\n\nThey had lifted a burden and legend from the Bishops and he knew with one part of himself how he would feel if someone else had done that. But it was different to have done it yourself and nothing in the talk could change that or even explain it. Especially not explain it.\n\nKilleen said to him a little later, \"Wish Cermo could be here.\"\n\n\"He is,\" Toby said and in that moment felt what the Mantis had sent into him in its last moments. Cermo. Truncated, flattened, seeping in spongy interstices of him, slivers and rivulets flowing in his sensorium and flavoring the liquid light, forever, Cermo.\n\nHe sent a whisper to Quath, \u2014Why?\u2014\n\n<Not long ago, you would not have asked such a question. You would have called me Big Bug and made a joke.>\n\n\u2014Yeasay, and been plenty happier.\u2014\n\n<It is knowledge of things we cannot say that makes your kind and mine somewhat alike, tiny thinker.>\n\n\u2014Funny, how primates can get along with mechanical maggots.\u2014\n\n<We Myriapodia are selective in our diets. On the other hand\u2014a primate expression, you'll note\u2014you are dietary opportunists, much like these maggots you compare me with.>\n\n\u2014Quick-witted bug you are, ol' Brave Crawler with Dreams. You just look like a giant maggot, is all, only beefed-up with metal.\u2014\n\n<I delight in your primate syntax. Beefed with metal?>\n\n\u2014Yeasay, we play fast and loose with language.\u2014 He felt a sudden rush of affection for the lumbering assembly of legs and carapace beside him. \u2014To avoid saying what we really mean, right?\u2014\n\n<You are artful dancers on words.>\n\n\u2014Lots of things, words don't get at.\u2014\n\n<At times, that is best. Such as now.>\n\nToby sighed, not from fatigue. \u2014Still wish I knew why the Mantis did that with Cermo.\u2014\n\n<It was not from our kingdom of intelligence. We cannot know why.>\n\n\u2014Something like this . . .\u2014\n\n<You can see it as a gift or a curse.>\n\n\u2014Or neither one.\u2014\n\n<You are two-handed, two-legged. Your minds favor dichotomies.>\n\n\u2014Not always.\u2014\n\nToby said again to his father, his voice raspy, \"He is.\"\n\n\"I s'pose,\" Killeen said. He squinted at his son and looked puzzled and took a drink.\n\nThey sat on little camp stools near the arch of fine struts and Toby had a drink then too, not wanting it but knowing that the moment needed it. He and Killeen drank from trail cups brought by a woman and her husband who had lost two children to the Mantis a long time ago. They wanted to talk to the brave ones and maybe to the heroic Quath, only Quath was not around anywhere. Toby drank carefully to hold on to the moments that were softening in him already, dropping away down the funnel of time and memory. He hoped he would not remember any of this last part of it and thought of the parabolic antenna instead and the silly way it had spun so fast and to his surprise saw it now with new deep eyes.\nPART EIGHT\n\nThe Syntony\nIn Silico\n\nMemes can propagate between computers as easily as between Natural, organic brains. The computer virus was the first, primitive form of this. Higher manifestations followed.Memes evolved in turn far faster than genes. Brains are easier to infest than DNA.The organized constellations of information in computers were _kenes_ \u2014from _ken,_ to know.Computers are faster than brains. Not necessarily better or wiser, but faster. And speed was the issue.Kenes evolved faster than memes. Soon, they learned to leave even the substrate of silicon. Ordered, replicating data propagated beyond its _in silico_ origins. Rather than matter, it sought out fields\u2014electric, magnetic, even gravitational. There vast challenges arose, were met, bested. Whole styles of thought found expression, bloomed, died. Free of the grinding embrace of matter, filigrees of thought played into intricate dances, with ideas as the mere substrate for abstractions of ever higher order. Even heaven can pall. In time, a fraction of the kenes became concerned with the raw rub of the worlds they had left behind. They decided to play there, as well.This intervention into the storm of mass and motion precipitated the further uniting of magnetic intelligences, mechanical forms, and Naturals. These now constitute the Highers.\nONE\n\nUnintentional Jokes\n\n _A nd Melancholy mark'd him for her own . . . Nigel Walmsley tried to recall people he had known from the Chandelier days, Earthers of consummate skill and obliging manners. They were elsewhere in the esty, he supposed, or else dead. Probably dead. They had gotten into struggles with mechanicals on higher levels, and that had proved fatal._\n\nStill, he often liked to bask in his memories. There were so many of them. And he had been augmented so many different times and ways, into the bargain. His memories had a sharpness and resonance he was sure the old, utterly Natural Walmsley could not imagine.\n\nLiving in your memories . . . it could be seductive.\n\nBut the Highers kept interrupting him.\n\nThe bird said, \"If you could meet a mechanical intelligence, encased in a body like your own, what would you do?\"\n\nNigel said, \"I imagine I'd give him a smile that's all gums.\"\n\n\"I see. Antagonism.\"\n\n\"Something to do with linking memory close to our hormone control, no doubt.\"\n\n\"In part. You would not make love to it? Him? Her?\"\n\n\"Matter of taste, really.\"\n\nNigel wondered what it was driving at. The tension, yes\u2014to win sway over that world he had backed away from it, and felt forever that chasm. Yet having two hands did not mean you had to subscribe to every passing dichotomy. He reentered that world and felt how much he had longed for it\u2014\n\n\u2014bleak and flat, this Lane was now scoured by mech deaths and their last longing rampages of self-slaughter. So for a sheared instant he merged with it, glad of the smack and trudge of movement. Little registered, only the esty, single and woven and triumphant\u2014\n\nAs strange a place as any being had ever lived. Humans did not understand it, of course. But then, for all but a tiny sliver of their species' time, they had not understood their own planet.\n\nThen the Mantis was there. Solemn, heavy.\n\n* * *\n\nThe retina of the vertebrate eye appears to be \"installed\" backward. At the back of the retina lie the light-sensitive cells, so that light must pass through intervening circuitry, getting weakened. A long series of mutations could eventually switch the light-receiving cells to the front, and this would be of some small help. But the cost in rearranging would be paid by the intermediate stages, which would function more poorly than the original design. So these halfway steps would be selected out by evolutionary pressure. The rival, patched-up job works fairly well, and nature stops there. So these dreaming vertebrates are makeshift constructions, built by random time without foresight. There is a strange beauty in that.\n\n* * *\n\n\"You're dead, aren't you?\"\n\n* * *\n\nI am a part of something but I do not know what it is.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I wonder if that's something like being human?\"\n\n* * *\n\nBeing so small?\n\n* * *\n\n\"I suppose that's one way to put it.\"\n\n* * *\n\nI . . . somehow know . . . that I am all that remains.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Thank God I can't say that for me.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWe . . . you/I . . . once spoke together.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Back when I'd just arrived here.\" Nigel surprised himself with his sudden anger. \"You killed my friend, Carlos.\"\n\n* * *\n\nHarvested him.\n\n* * *\n\n\"We Naturals have a bit of a different opinion about that. We _know_ that a copy of us still isn't us.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWhen I was mechanical, I knew the opposite. We had not evolved the selfness as a reflex, for it did not affect our survival. For you Naturals, saving the self was essential. For mechanicals, replicating our self achieved evolutionary success. I see now\u2014immersed in a larger compass\u2014that both are . . . partial visions.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Part and parcel of a higher Phylum, eh? You're still just bloody murderers to me.\"\n\n* * *\n\nA partial vision again.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I suppose I'll just stay anchored right here, in my primate point of view. You Highers nearly exterminated us. Then you beset us in our Chandeliers and then the Citadels. All the time occasionally sidling up to us and trying to talk.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe careful application of terror is also a form of communication.\n\n* * *\n\nEven in his anger, Nigel laughed. \"Unintentional jokes are the best.\"\nTWO\n\nBesen\n\n* * *\n\nI have another of your kind. She can show you something of the mechanical world.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Another partial vision?\" Nigel sardonically studied the wavering Mantis image.\n\n* * *\n\nA great virtue of our mechanical, digital form was the ability to completely receive another's experience.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Ummm. Sometimes I think I've seen too much already. Go ahead.\"\n\nThe compressed wall of perception came out of nowhere. He had time to recall that it was remarkably like the impact that had transformed him long ago, back in an alien wreck on Earth's moon, a jarring shift blindsiding him\u2014\n\nThe strange thing was how silent the mechs were through most of it. Immersed in the dirty Natural joys, she guessed. So awash in it they could not feel the mouths eating them.\n\nFor some reason they jammed into some Lanes. Of course they had swarmed everywhere before that and killed a lot of Naturals. Everything they could find, in fact. Then when the Proselyte Pleasures\u2014that was the term she heard applied to it\u2014blew through them, they reacted very strangely.\n\nSome mechs tore themselves apart in a frenzy. The debris was loathsome and the others ate it. There were plenty of pieces floating through the Lanes by then. She supposed that the higher orders could defend themselves longer, but that brought on something like a fever. She knew this analogy was false because mechs weren't biological, but that was the only way she could make sense of it.\n\nThe fever made them eat the others. Maybe it was to get more energy or fresh computing space or something that humans could not understand. Anyway, they ran out of dead members of the lower orders, navvys and rimouts and that sort.\n\nSo they started eating mechs that were still alive. The higher ones would break the locomos to keep them still and then stab into their quarry and take something out of them. Eating was the best word for it because she knew no other.\n\nNot all of them. In one Lane larger mech forms had smaller mechs with them. They carried the small ones for a long time. She studied them carefully but they did not seem to be searching. They weren't doing much more than moving, moving. The smaller ones had lesser defenses and after a while were plainly gone, dead, ruined. The big mechs still carried them. It was eerily like mothers carrying dead babies.\n\nBesen watched it all from hiding and with her sensorium off. She was hungry but to move meant death here. There had been plenty of examples of that.\n\nAll those mechs. Screaming now in sharp frequencies. Broken and used and not being gathered into the higher orders at all. Not what they had been promised. The whole point of being a mech, it seemed to her, was that at least you got picked up at the end somehow. Added into some other and maybe higher mind.\n\nIt was obviously like a religion for them but it had worked. They knew it as a hard, technical fact. Now it did not happen. No point in being lifted into something that was dying, too.\n\nThe screams nearly drove her mad. She could not blank it out because that would mean turning on her sensorium to mute the staccato agonies and they would find her. It was all quite a business and it went on forever. Forever, yes, pain eternal rather than life everlasting, the mad business all around her.\n\n\u2014Nigel jerked back, chest heaving.\n\nHe could see her now, approaching the nearby Bishops. She gave him only a passing glance. The young woman was clear of eye and smooth of skin but carried in her sensorium a weight of lived anguish that he did not want to share.\n\nIt would take time, perhaps a lifetime, to deplete the stores of that shared grief.\n\nYet a moment after she appeared, she was laughing with joy at the sight of other Bishops. Nigel eyed them in their merriment, not innocent but oddly touching, and quite suddenly felt a sharp pang of envy.\nTHREE\n\nA Long Way Ago\n\nDrawing together all Bishops, from sundry Lanes, went far quicker than Toby had thought possible. The Highers did not announce themselves or even communicate; they just did.\n\nThe wooded landscape around the small Bishop band seemed to ooze people. Toby and Killeen had been deposited into a Lane with mild climate and agreeable, even edible plants. There was food for the getting and some Bishops\u2014who had been unceremoniously yanked away by the Highers\u2014brought supplies as well. Before long it was a celebration.\n\nOne Bishop had been taken for medical care and when she was shucked out of her suit people found that they couldn't get her underwear off. It had been on so long her hair had grown through it. Toby could see curls sprouting out of the gray hide so that at first glance he mistook the underwear for skin. They finally had to pluck her, the brown matter underwear coming off like peeling a grape. Patches of skin came with it.\n\nToby saw Quath in the distance, and closeupped the man she was talking to: the Walmsley one. Then Besen came striding out of the trees. She looked bigger and her face was stronger. There was an air of certainty about her he liked and she kissed him without saying a word. He could say nothing.\n\n\"Damn but it's been a long time,\" she said.\n\n\"A long way ago,\" Toby answered.\n\nThey had all seen mechs dying the ecstasy death and there were innumerable stories. There always were. Soon it was like a thousand other nights Toby had spent listening to older Bishops yarn on, but now he had things to tell too.\n\nThere were few lost Bishops, it seemed. They had survived reasonably well in the Lanes. Of course some of them Toby had never much cared for and they all seemed to have come through fine. He came to feel that Family Bishop was beautiful by being also partly ugly.\n\nSome had taken a bit too well to the pharmacological possibilities afoot in the Lanes. It was amusing watching one of his boyhood friends, Abel, getting into his underwear. He held the pants in front of him and sort of tried to catch up with them. Each step somehow missed and soon he was stumbling forward so fast he seemed to be running after the underwear, which had its own opinion of him and was hurrying away, Abel never getting closer than an arm's length.\n\nHe sat beside a popping fire, feeling the whispery presences of Shibo and of Cermo. They were each in him in ways the Bishop technology did not account for and each was a faint scent rather than a presence. He was listening to the Bishops and thinking about how their birthplace rang in their vowels when Killeen sat down next to him. They spoke idly for a while and some ease came back between them. The Mantis hunt had faded and he would take a while to understand it, he knew.\n\nThen Killeen said, \"Can I speak with her?\"\n\nToby stiffened. \"I pulled her.\"\n\n\"Some's left.\"\n\n\"You can tell?\"\n\n\"Yeasay.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Don't know.\"\n\nThere was plenty Toby knew now without being able to say how, so he just nodded. \"What for?\"\n\nKilleen smiled wanly, his face a web of creases. \"Real business.\"\n\nToby did the internal work of summoning her. He poured her scattered droplets into tiny streams and these slid into rivulets of gurgling words and finally filled a basin. She was a smooth pond in his mind. In its serene blue surface her face floated mirror-sharp. He let her speak through his throat.\n\n _ **I know why you have done this.**_\n\n\"You always were a move ahead.\" Killeen grinned and looked younger.\n\n _ **You wish to express me again.**_\n\nKilleen nodded. \"You been on vacation long enough.\"\n\n _ **And you are a son of a bitch.**_\n\n\"Prob'ly.\"\n\n _ **You would take this fragment of myself, unite it with the chips Toby carries\u2014**_\n\n\"And go looking for the Restorer.\"\n\n _ **Its ruins, more likely.**_\n\n\"Prob'ly.\"\n\n _ **You will not give up. Nothing I say\u2014**_\n\n\"Only what you do, not what you say. And to do, you got to be out here. In the flesh.\"\n\n _ **You are a son of a bitch.**_\n\n\"You're repeating yourself. 'Course, you're only a partial. I want the whole of you.\"\n\n _ **Know that even this partial loves you.**_\n\n\"Then you're coming back out into the world. To me.\"\n\nToby said, \"That's it, Dad. I can't speak for her anymore.\"\n\nKilleen nodded. \"You've been fine, son. Things we don't see eye to eye on, they're nothing. Like the Mantis back there. And Cermo.\"\n\nToby said, \"Things happen and you go on.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid that's right. I wish it was different.\"\n\n\"Not up to us.\"\n\n\"Yousay yeasay. Just keep saying it the truest way you can and then let things happen. Bishops're mostly just witnesses here. No way around that. On Old Earth maybe we were kings of the jungle or something, but not here. Not in the galaxy.\"\n\nToby slapped his father on the shoulder. \"So you'll go looking for the Restorer?\"\n\n\"Soon's I rest up.\"\n\n\"Maybe some of the others heard where it is now.\"\n\n\"Those?\" Killeen looked askance at the Bishops, setting up camp and cooking and drinking while every mouth seemed to be open, telling its story. \"A man can't pay attention to the passing wind or to known liars. I'll find it myself.\"\n\nToby felt something unnamed and huge move in him. He said quietly, through a tight throat, \"I'll come along.\"\n\nKilleen grinned and they said nothing for a while and then went to see the others.\nFOUR\n\nThe Eternal Landscape of the Past\n\n<Your suspicions are correct,> Quath said. <Mechs lose creativity because they overcontrol.>\n\nNigel nodded. The Bishops were making a lot of noise and he moved away. It was green and pleasant here, thoroughly accommodating to the human instinctive desire to be at the boundary of different spaces. He had always preferred the seashore, but Bishops knew none of that. They were content with the edge of the trees, the border of the savanna. A threat from one direction they could manage with a tactical retreat into the other. Or so the genes thought.\n\n\"I'd gathered so,\" Nigel said to Quath. \"Still, I could never quite fathom the sods.\"\n\n<Envision their interior world. Having access to all portions of your mind meant you could literally watch yourself thinking.>\n\n\"Not an altogether pleasant mode.\" He had done it a short while ago and the echoes still reverberated in him. Good for a month of nightmares, at least.\n\n<That implies policing your own thinking. You see the implications?>\n\n\"Not quite.\" This huge thing was smarter than it looked.\n\n<Chaos theory teaches us that any well-defined system will show unpredictable behavior if allowed to run long enough, no matter how finely honed the beginning conditions. To avoid chaotic results, control is necessary.>\n\n\"Ummm. Compel my mind? I can barely hold my tongue.\"\n\nNigel had never favored arguments for control of himself, but as Nikka had once said brightly, _How did your little island make so many eccentrics?_ He was not the team-effort type, no.\n\n<Mechs could do this; men could not. So humans produced more madmen\u2014and more geniuses. Generally, more dispersion from the mean. That vagrant creativity gave humans\u2014and any similar life-form\u2014vast advantages and disadvantages, alike.>\n\n\"Seems a big disadvantage, just being a primate.\"\n\nNigel eyed the Bishops gathered around their crackling campfires. Squint a bit and he was standing on a cliff over a dry canyon in the veldt, dust scenting the heat. Below, primates cracked bones and sucked the marrow out, chippering to each other, getting the last of the good from the game, scratching and squatting and talking, talking, always the voices sounding against the eternal silence of Nature itself.\n\nQuath said, <The disadvantage for you\u2014and for us, the Myriapodia\u2014lay in people who went awry.>\n\n\"Ah. The messiahs. The fever-eyed shaman. Bastards.\"\n\n<They could cause terrible damage. They did in our history. For you, they were worse. They destroyed whole Families with their lunacy. But the geniuses could wrench humanity away from the precipice it had tread for so long, and thrust it up toward fresh heights.>\n\n\"I wonder if the Bishops know why the Hunker Down was essential.\" Nigel studied them with a warmness, yet a distance he knew he could never bridge. His species, his strangers.\n\n<You had to make human societies who resisted the memes which the mechs had introduced. They used them very well against you. And us.>\n\n\"So we top-dog types\u2014\"\n\n<Do not berate yourself. Remember the Earthers.>\n\nNigel grimaced. \"And worse.\"\n\n<Worse?>\n\n\"A kind of well, _uber-Nigel,_ I called him. Better than me, the Earthers said.\" Nigel swept his arms in Wagnerian grandeur. \"He bestrode worlds!\"\n\n<You did not like him.>\n\n\"Like? I was afraid of him. He was me, and he wasn't. He was like some other copies they made of me, but quicker and smarter and distant. Made my flesh crawl.\"\n\n<He did this work with the Earthers?>\n\n\"He, and other Walmsleys. There was a shortage of labor, it seemed.\"\n\n<These worked in the Chandeliers, the Hunker Down\u2014>\n\n\"Great works, at first. The Earthers _are_ better than us, y'know.\"\n\n<But the mechanicals, tapping the energies of the magnetics\u2014>\n\n\"Hammered us. That's when we ordered the Chandeliers to send down whole legions. Families named for baseball teams and soccer and chess pieces and card games and God knows what.\"\n\n<Your method was Natural. A few would survive, thrive, resist the mechs\u2014their machines, their memes, everything.>\n\nNigel nodded to himself. The decision was ancient, yet still it burned within him. He had brought enormous suffering upon untold millions. And finally, the Hunker Downs had yielded up the Bishops. Tough and hard and implacable: Killeen. Able to shrug off the addictive superstitions that beset all humans in groups, the mob mind that led finally to predictable behavior, and then oblivion.\n\nThey had resisted myriad minor pleasures, errant ideas, sublime softenings. Avoided the aimless abstractions of virtual spaces, of passive entertainments and live-for-the-moment hedonism. It was so easy to be distracted to death. The mechs had played upon that.\n\nHe had heard about the Bishops' dealings with a lunatic named His Supremacy, during their voyage, and it fit perfectly: the madman proved to be mech-controlled, playing upon the vulnerabilities of the chimp mob. So the Bishops resisted, and won.\n\nAnd the Bishops carried the Way of Three. It could not be a coincidence.\n\n<It is not. The ancient ones were wise in a genetic sense we have not yet comprehended.>\n\nNigel jerked, startled. \"You can read what I'm thinking?\"\n\n<You and I are composites. Across the abyss between species there is some . . . leakage.>\n\nNigel smiled. Leakage. In some ways he was closer now to this enormous metal insect than to the primates happily spinning tales.\n\n\"Do they know that this is just a temporary victory?\"\n\n<Some will guess. A few mechanicals shall prove immune to the pleasure plagues\u2014that, too, is a consequence of natural selection. So they shall return.>\n\n\"I saw them, up ahead in time. So I suppose I knew all along. There will always be a struggle, no final equilibrium.\"\n\n<If the Syntony is a wedding of all forms, then the mechanicals must have a place in it.>\n\n\"Thousands of Families carried the Way of Three. Bishops were ornery, willful\u2014and so they survived. I admire the bastards. Still . . .\"\n\nA mere few steps away, fires crackled and people bubbled over with joy. But they were steps he would never take.\nFIVE\n\nThe Thermodynamics of Intelligence\n\nNigel thought of them as The Phylum Beyond Knowing. They spoke to him as he sat there.\n\nQuath and Bishops around him, chimpanzee chatter, aromas of trees and calm green fields\u2014all gone.\n\nOnly the voice. One rolling articulation, threaded with chords. But without words.\n\nInformation is order. By the Second Law of Thermodynamics, order is a form of invested energy. When a capacitor stores electrical energy within a dielectric, the dipolar atoms within it align, accumulating harmony. Discharge the two capacitor plates, and the dipoles relax, their regularities dissolving, sparking forth into currents.Information is order is food.While memes swim in the warm bath of cultures\u2014both Natural or mechanical/electronic\u2014others could operate as pure predators. These use the energy equivalence of information. They can swallow data banks, or whole mentalities\u2014not to harvest their memes, but to suck from them their energy stores. When a lion eats a lamb, it is not using the lamb's genetic information, except in the crudest sense. Predators do not propagate memes; they feed upon them. So there arose in mental systems the datavore.Like a virus, it exists to propagate. But evolution teaches that such highly selective, ordered, demanding activity inevitably selects for those predators better at it. Time favors those which have a fresh kind of intelligence, unseen in the mental world until the stores of energy and order arose\u2014the data, the memes\u2014to support the datavore.The distilled intelligence of datavores is a category which the underlying food sources, of memes and the intelligences which support them, cannot know. Thus they rise above the categories of intelligence which have existed before, and are unknowable to them.Yet they are the mere base of the Highers. Above this boundary of the knowable towers a realm beyond investigation, exceeding the grasp of serial sentences to describe.All forms\u2014mechanical or organic/Natural, or clay/substrate\u2014come together in this realm. They resonate. This forms the Syntony, a place in conceptual space where form and function uncouple. This is what communicates down to you, through the Kingdoms and Phyla you can fathom, and through many you cannot. Know this: All matters known to you further the affairs of the lesser levels, to our wishes.We do not negotiate. We do not dictate.We cause to happen. You, Walmsley, we have caused. These events now resolve the persistent pain caused by competition between yourselves, the Naturals, and the mechanicals. You have yet to recognize the clays, for they lie beyond your ken. Be warned that this is a dynamic equilibrium, not a stasis. Conflict will return. It must. But for now, rest. You may be used again.\nSIX\n\nLiving in the Substrate\n\nI'd be perfectly happy to just lie here.\" Nikka smiled. \"To just hold each other.\"\n\n\"You've confused me with someone else.\" Nigel felt comfortable, too, but something in him wasn't ready to settle in. To dissolve into the moment, skating, skating . . .\n\n\"You don't have to perform, you know.\"\n\n\"I don't think of it as a performance.\"\n\n\"I'm competent to deal with a gentleman who is a bit worn out. In fact, I'm adept.\"\n\n\"I know. My memory is not completely gone, you'll find. I believe I can even find the right places without a map.\"\n\n\"Just feel your way along? I can help with that.\"\n\n\"So I see.\" The warmth never waned for him. \"Um. Such an earth mother you are.\"\n\n\"Mmmmm.\"\n\n\"Well, at least you can't talk.\"\n\n\"Mmmm.\"\n\n\"Talk later.\"\n\n\"Mmmm.\"\n\n\"Later, yes, much better. There, right.\"\n\nAfter some time he said, \"Did you think, to help me work on other ideas, modes, whatever\u2014I would take a vow of chastity, become a monk?\"\n\n\"I thought you said the advantage of this way was that I couldn't talk?\"\n\n\"Talk later, I said. This is partly later.\"\n\n\"Hair splitter.\"\n\n\"I'll split more than that. This could be well more than halfway to later, for all you know.\"\n\n\"Mmmm. Not your style.\"\n\n\"Don't be so sure. 'I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear my trousers rolled.' Eliot.\"\n\n\"I know it's Eliot.\"\n\n\"How wonderful, to have such a lofty conversation while\u2014\"\n\n\"Shut up!\"\n\nHe did, for once.\n\n\"That was wonderful,\" Nigel said. He felt warm, relaxed. Exactly as if he had just made love to her. Nikka's aroma even lingered in his nostrils. Remarkably effective, better than a real, Natural memory could have been.\n\n\"You are welcome.\"\n\nThe bird slid its eyes around its face in what it must have meant as an expression. Nigel looked away. Somehow, no matter the immensity of intelligence behind the thing, it never got this bit right.\n\n\"Everything was just the way I recall it.\"\n\n\"That was all?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said grudgingly. \"Better, of course.\"\n\n\"We could augment your memory with further detail.\"\n\n\"Completely convincing, no doubt.\"\n\n\"In context and fulfilling.\"\n\n\"But of course fabricated.\"\n\nThe bird smiled. This did not work at all on a beak. \"Detail is seldom well carried forward by cycled memories such as yours.\"\n\n\"But they at least are ours.\"\n\n\"There is no clear distinction.\"\n\n\"You add and heighten. The sheets just then were a light blue silk. Cool but not slick. I doubt that I could recall that.\"\n\n\"True. Which way would you rather have it?\"\n\n\"Or her scent. It persisted until I fully breathed in again.\"\n\n\"I will have to tune that down then.\"\n\n\"You're dodging my point\u2014\"\n\n\"I think the reverse is true.\"\n\nIrritatingly quick, this fowl. \"I can't tell which is _mine._ \"\n\n\"The interpolation procedures I use are akin to yours. When you remember naturally, you also stitch in minutiae to fill out your own internal picture-dramas.\"\n\nNigel nodded sourly. \"From now on, thanks, I shall much prefer to hobble forward with my own thin remembrance.\"\n\n\"The past is what survives.\"\n\n\"In the long run\u2014\"\n\n\"Nothing survives.\" The bird gave a credible imitation of being amused, eyes dancing, but its voice remained flat.\n\n\"Even you?\"\n\n\"Let me be more exact in this serial acoustic representation. No thing survives.\"\n\n\"You're not a thing?\"\n\nWith a pang Nigel felt himself getting drawn away, when a deep part of him wanted only to luxuriate in the immediacy of Nikka's memory. His damnable curiosity always got the better of him.\n\n\"The 'I' who presumes to speak for you is not a thing either.\"\n\n\"Um. You have no physical substrate?\"\n\n\"For the moment it is convenient. In the long run it will not be.\"\n\n\"So the mechs were right. Electron-positron plasmas lie ahead.\"\n\n\"That destiny shall unfold on a truly immense time scale. The decay of all large particles\u2014'baryons,' in your terms\u2014will be slow.\"\n\n\"But there's a finite lifetime to it all. Stars run down. The center cannot hold. Nobody's going to be sailing bright eternity.\"\n\n\"You are doing it now, primate. There will never be more time ahead than at this instant. And infinities are a matter of taste.\"\n\n\"Ummm. The positron plasma, I saw it. It'll happen. Still, it seemed a bit like Chicken Little to be fretting about it.\"\n\nThe bird wavered just an instant. Nigel wondered if this reflected the time for it to consult itself, or rummage through the Galactic Library, searching out primate childhood stories. He envisioned seeker programs darting down musty info-corridors, sniffing for\n\nLittle, Chicken; see: fowl/consciousness/cultural inventory.\n\n\"You are correct. There is a more immediate danger.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose it's anything that our order of being can do anything about?\"\n\n\"Scarcely. The vacuum is unstable.\"\n\nNigel grimaced. Was it a primate quirk to be irked by this bird, presuming that he could instantly access all the jargon in his own tongue? No, probably just a symptom of age.\n\n\"Which means?\" he finally conceded.\n\n\"The presumed quantum mechanical ground state of this universe is not in fact a ground state. It is metastable.\"\n\n\"Um. So it can . . .\"\n\n\"Fall to the lowest quantum state. A state in which all particle masses, spins, and other fundamental properties will be different.\"\n\nMetastable conditions could decay at any time, like a radioactive nucleus. Of all conceivable threats, this was surely the most elliptical. \"Cut the coyness.\"\n\n\"All information lodged in particles will be lost when these properties change. It is called the Tumult.\"\n\n\"Everything gets erased.\"\n\n\"And the universe begins anew.\"\n\n\"That's what you're worried about.\"\n\n\"Among other points.\"\n\nFor the moment he did not feel like asking for the \"other points.\" Best to constrain conversations with beings like this, or he would be completely lost. \"That's quite enough for the moment. Do\u2014did\u2014the mechs know?\"\n\n\"The Exalteds\u2014the higher order mechanicals\u2014did. To their lower orders they explained that the electron-positron gas was their final goal.\"\n\n\"I saw that.\" Above the horizon had soared hard, cold destinies, sheets of living light.\n\n\"The same fundamental science, however, may apply to surviving the Tumult.\"\n\nIt sent into his mind a flash-image: a gray, seamless wall. Onrushing. Germinated at a point by a nanosecond's handclap, then swelling, engorged on energies of the vacuum, snowplowing out. Behind the front, sparkling births of blank specks, a blackboard fresh for God's writing. The Tumult.\n\n\"So they were in fact worried about this? An even worse danger?\"\n\n\"They labor upon this now.\"\n\n\"And all our feud with mechs . . . ?\"\n\n\"It was an inevitable feature of lower life-forms. Think of it as resembling predator-prey relations, which strike a statistical equilibrium in the wild. The mechanicals had gotten out of equilibrium. Their harvesting of the Phylum Magnetic was like\u2014\" it paused, \"a squirrel scavenging your lunch, which you had left on your picnic table, while you answered a telephone call.\"\n\n\"So what we saw as a grand struggle\u2014\"\n\n\"It has become an inefficiency.\"\n\nOceans of blood spilled, minds crushed like fresh flowers beneath a steel boot. \"Inefficiency.\"\n\n\"The Highers wished a resolution. This was\u2014\"\n\n\"Let me guess. The easiest.\"\n\n\"Of course. In your way of thinking, at least.\"\n\n\"And you mean the term 'at least' quite precisely.\"\n\n\"Precisely.\"\nSEVEN\n\nHard Copy\n\nKilleen found the Restorer by himself. When he came back with the Shibo he looked tired but smiled a lot. Toby found the Shibo very much like his memory of her. Besen wasn't so sure.\n\n\"How was Resurrection City?\" he asked Killeen.\n\n\"Had to go through three Lanes to find it. Mechs'd messed it up pretty bad.\"\n\nThe Shibo said very precisely to Toby, \"I do wish that you had not removed my chips.\"\n\nToby seemed to remember her speaking in a more clipped way, quick and to the point. He figured that the Restorer had installed a speaking augmentation to correct for damage. \"I had my reasons.\"\n\n\"I had mine.\" She stared at Toby until he looked away.\n\nThe next waxing Killeen seemed out of sorts. It got worse for three more days and then Killeen and Shibo had an argument right in camp, loud and abrasive and ending with her throwing a pot at him.\n\nNext day she moved out of his bunk and made her own.\n\nShe wouldn't talk to anybody about it. Killeen of course never did.\n\nToby could find no way to approach her, she seemed prickly, all angles and angers. Finally he asked her straight out how she liked her new state. \"I don't,\" she said.\n\n\"Rather be in chip?\"\n\nHe meant it as light and friendly but her face clouded. \"Yeasay.\"\n\n\"Heysay, life's more than any Aspect.\"\n\n\"I was a _Personality._ \"\n\n\"Well, yeasay, but\u2014\"\n\n\"This way is _analog._ In digital, you can . . .\"\n\n\"Can what?\"\n\n\"You would not know.\"\n\n\"Try me.\"\n\n\"You can . . . fly.\" She shook her head violently. \"No, that is not it. Better than flying.\"\n\nShe tried to talk about it but all Toby could get was that being a real person was like crawling through mud that you could never wash off. Digital was _clean_ and _pure_ and, well, something more, too.\n\nShe kept trying to tell him how it was and getting frustrated at the words that came out of her mouth, as though they belonged to somebody else. He guessed that in some way he could not understand, they did.\n\nShibo took some Bishops and went to live a short distance away right after that. Killeen didn't talk about her and by that time Toby had a hundred other things to do. The Family wanted to spread out through the esty. Success, or at least survival, brought out the worst. People who fought well together turned disagreeable. He worked with them, using some bits of Cermo that operated something like Aspects and Faces working in concert. Besen took up a lot of his time, too, but that was not work.\n\nKilleen had his morose times but held the Family together when some factions wanted to take off into other Lanes. Toby thought Killeen was doing a pretty fine job and told him so and they got along better. But his father had his moods. Killeen wouldn't talk to Shibo at all anymore.\n\nPretty soon Toby just gave up on the whole Shibo thing. There was plenty to do, yeasay.\nEIGHT\n\nThe Thirst That from the Soul Doth Rise\n\nAh, you disgusting old fart, Nigel thought. Hopeless. He could call up the pictures, sounds, aromas, with utter ease\u2014\n\nNASA. Dear dead old Post Office of a space program, when what the world needed was Federal Express.\n\nHe had said that to Nikka, over thirty thousand years ago.\n\nNASA. Both telescopes and rockets were round right cylinders, each with a point. Masculine tech, right-angled in all its particulars, wedded to the graceful curves of the feminine; collaboration.\n\nCybervores. He had watched them feeding once. Not so much beings as moving appetites, organizations of currents and plasma that could feed upon metals, ionizing them to produce satisfying gauzy halos of effervescent tasty potentials.\n\nSo many sharp, clear memories.\n\nSo deeply, thoroughly, not his own. Not now.\n\nUnearned memories stick in the mind, give it an emptiness that lies beyond words.\n\nHe had known the truth in that small, passing moment when he met Killeen. Sure enough, the old frontal lobes yielded up the instant datum that he had met this man before. Had caused his people to be cast down into planetary darkness, to suffer torment, to resist and trim and emerge through millennia of pain.\n\nBut Nigel could remember nothing more of Killeen.\n\n _Been edited out,_ he realized.\n\nHe wondered for a long while, which number he was. Two, eight, ten? Measuring the span of time, the scattered event-slabs, it had to be more. Fifty?\n\n\"That's why,\" he said to the wall of blank blackness that sheared away half the space. It was like standing next to a wall that absorbed every sound, giving nothing back.\n\n **WHY DO YOU ASK?**\n\n\"I don't want to be recalled and used. Not the next time some glitch surfaces in the Syntony.\"\n\n **THAT MAY BE GRANTED. BUT IT IS NOT YOUR RIGHT.**\n\n\"I'm not talking bloody rights.\"\n\n **YOU DO NOT HAVE THE PHYLUM RANK TO EVEN PHRASE THE QUESTION.**\n\n\"Phrase it for me.\"\n\n **THE SYNTONY SHALL DISPOSE.**\n\nAnd that was all it would ever say.\nNINE\n\nThe Pain of Eternity\n\nNaked chance means order springing forth from chaos.\"\n\nHe was sitting on a wooden bench. Back of the lecture hall. Cold morning, fingers too chilled to take notes. Cambridge. Smell of freshly poured asphalt from the window cocked open a mere inch.\n\nThe lecturer looked as bored as the class. Black robe tattered, ostentatiously so. Worn over a tweed jacket, maroon trousers. Awful. Nigel yawned, stretched, wished for tea.\n\n\"If the fully developed eye\u2014yours, for example\u2014evolved in one leap of untamed chance, in one generation, that would be utterly unlikely. Eyes came into the world by gradual addition of slightly better traits. The difficulty comes when we try to imagine higher orders than ourselves. We must argue that the odds against untamed chance giving forth fully fashioned, perfect beings are remote, impossibly remote.\"\n\nNigel sat upright. If evolution was universal, then this rule applied to deities as well. They would arise from incremental change. And none be perfect.\n\nThe Syntony included.\n\n\"I'm competent to deal with a gentleman who is a bit worn out. In fact, I'm adept.\"\n\n\"I know. My memory is not completely gone, you'll find. I believe I can even find the right places without a map.\"\n\n\"Just feel your way along? I can help with that.\"\n\n\"So I see.\" The warmth never waned for him. \"Um. Such an earth mother you are.\"\n\n\"Mmmmm.\"\n\n\"Well, at least you can't talk.\"\n\n\"Mmmm.\"\n\n\"Talk later.\"\n\n\"Mmmm.\"\n\n\"Later, yes, much better. There, right.\"\n\nA long drifting time. Gray curtains of light folded him.\n\n\"I thought you said the advantage of this way was that I couldn't talk?\"\n\n\"Talk later, I said. This is partly later.\"\n\n\"Eliot.\"\n\n\"I know it's bloody Eliot.\"\n\n\"How wonderful, to have such a lofty conversation while\u2014\"\n\nLounging back on their massive bed, Nikka laughed despite herself. \"Can't you do your medical some other time? I was just getting in the mood.\"\n\n\"I'll recalibrate my secretors. Add some hormones. Give you an even better run for your money.\"\n\n\"I wasn't planning on paying money, and I didn't have running in mind.\"\n\nHe groaned as he tuned digital controls that the peeling had exposed. \"A literalist! God spare the sacred erotic impulse from their kind.\"\n\n\"I don't understand why you keep me when I don't want to be kept.\"\n\nNigel was sitting in a stiff-backed chair, as if for a job interview. In a way, it was.\n\n **YOU ARE THE ORIGINAL. WE KEEP YOU IN ORDER TO CHECK THE FIDELITY OF COPIES.**\n\n\"That _uber-Nigel_ I saw once?\"\n\n **THAT AND OTHERS.**\n\n\"So I'm kept within a constricted parameter space?\"\n\n **TO BE CERTAIN THAT MIXING WITH FUNDAMENTALLY DIFFERENT INFLUENCES DOES NOT CHANGE YOU INALTERABLY.**\n\n\"I _want_ to change inalterably.\"\n\n **HIGHER PHYLA HAVE HIGHER USES. THE SYNTONY IS ENGAGED IN PURSUITS FOR WHICH YOUR STANDARDIZED, FIDUCIARY REPRESENTATION IS ESSENTIAL. THIS KNOWLEDGE SHOULD PROPERLY BE ENOUGH FOR YOU.**\n\n\"You don't know me all that bloody well, do you?\"\n\n **WE KNOW YOU UTTERLY.**\n\n\"You _never_ will.\"\n\n **WE CAN SIMULATE YOU WITHIN FINE TOLERANCES.**\n\n\"A copy's not the original.\"\n\n **THAT IS THE POINT THE SYNTONY WISHES YOU TO UNDERSTAND.**\n\n\"I shall wear my trousers rolled.\"\n\n **WHAT?**\n\nMany millennia ago, they had made the Snark. Only rudimentary elements of what was to be the Syntony had spanned a tenuous web over the galaxy then, machines searching out life, protracted voyages down stretching corridors of eons and parsecs. The Snark was a low grade device, but records of it\u2014that is, the digital self\u2014had to remain somewhere. What bloody use was a Galactic Library if you couldn't look up such?\u2014The fossil debris of a life lived and loved and gone?\n\nSo they brought the Snark to him.\n\n _You are something like the form I knew,_ it allowed.\n\nTo Nigel the Snark was a floating cloud, green electrical forks working within. Nothing like the sphere he had actually seen near the moon. But this was not real space he was in, either. \"Remember the universe of essences?\"\n\n _You are in it still._\n\n\"And you?\"\n\n _I still am not. You are a spontaneous product of matter. We lack windows you possess._\n\nHe was surprised, something he had thought impossible now. Even here, they carried their baggage. \"And the other way 'round, I expect.\"\n\n _As must be. All windows are partial._\n\n\"Some are rather larger.\"\n\n _You seem more varied now, greater than before._\n\n\"I've . . . traveled.\"\n\n _There are still the currents in you that I reported upon. In our Directory you had to stand for your civilization, a raw sampling, added to the torrent of electromagnetics your world sent out so unthinkingly._\n\n\"Pleasant way to put it. We yammer a lot.\"\n\n _At that time you said, \"The damned speak frantically.\"_\n\n\"Damned right.\"\n\n _Mortality does not damn. You in the universe of essences have virtues._\n\n\"Damned lucky, maybe.\" Nigel laughed airily, transparent. \"But still damned.\"\n\n _That same spice. Laughter._\n\nLater he realized that the Snark was a recording, averaged over all the representations it had in the several million years of its lifespan. It was not an individual, but a set. This trait he could not assess. When one met an old friend, one assumed that it was the same person. Cells replaced here and there, more lines in the face\u2014but the same.\n\nIn the long run, living embedded in and among the Syntony, the question was meaningless.\n\nJust as futile was figuring what Nigel's family flight\u2014Nikka, Benjamin, Angelina, Ito, where/when were they now?\u2014forward in time, voyaging through the Esty, had meant.\n\nMechs lived there, fought with humanity. Yet Nigel had seen them destroyed in their fevered ecstasies.\n\nDid that mean they would be back? That unknown struggles would overlap and rage through a future altered but not stopped by the Trigger Codes?\n\nApparently. Perhaps the Walmsley-Amajhi clan had visited something genuinely quantum-mechanical. The stops in the Transits could have been state vectors of potential. Some of those futures would in fact occur. Others were erased by the mech plagues. He would have to voyage again forward through a Worm, to discover which.\n\nYet if the Grey Mech had killed them all, he was quite sure he would not be thinking over the problem. He would not be.\n\nSo he confined himself to thinking about cases he could fathom, at least possibly.\n\nMechs had a built-in flaw, the pleasure plague, from their antiquity. So did even the super-chimp humans, carrying potential for error in their add-on mental architecture. For they were still assemblages, improved only by additions. All chimps bore their built-in imperatives, which they experienced not as ideas, but as emotions. Lusts, hungers, fears\u2014shorthand for evolution's lessons. It was all part of the richness. That, he found comforting.\n\nJoy. That he still had. As simple as sunshine.\n\nJoy without obvious cause. Earthy, animal spirits. Sometimes it was no great shakes being a primate, but it was always worthwhile being a mammal.\n\nHe laughed at some unconscious irony in the Snark. \"Bit heavy, don't you think? Pig irony.\"\n\nIt remarked, _When you make that sound you seem to have a brief moment of what it is like to live as I do, beyond the press of time._\n\n\"As I am now? In this place?\"\n\n _Yes. But you have carried your essences with you. Your windows._\n\nNigel laughed.\n\n\"That dog was in the room when we were going at it.\"\n\n\"I didn't mind. Perhaps by now they've evolved to the point where at the crucial moment they politely look away.\"\n\n\"Moment? You think it lasted only a moment?\"\n\n\"Well, let's say it was timeless.\"\n\n\"That's better. I do seem to recall the dog barking at an important point.\"\n\n\"Oh? I thought that was you.\"\n\n\"Then I'll never know, will I, the uses you've made of Walmsley.\"\n\n **YOU CANNOT KNOW THEM.**\n\n\"Then there is no ending.\"\n\n **LOCALLY, THERE IS. GLOBALLY, NO.**\n\n\"Alexandria . . . ?\"\n\n _Yes?_\n\n\"I want to\u2014I\u2014\"\n\n _Not that time yet._\n\nHe snapped, \"I'm like a child, told when to go to bed?\"\n\n _This isn't bed. Not nearly as much fun, for one thing._\n\n\"I'm . . . tired.\"\n\n _Not physically though._\n\n\"Perhaps I've seen too much.\"\n\n _It's not your moment yet._\n\nWith sharp anger he barked, \"It wasn't your moment either.\"\n\n _You're still getting hard at night, just thinking of me, aren't you?_\n\n\"I can hardly deny it, can I? You seem to live inside my head.\"\n\n _Exactly, lover! And as long as I do\u2014well, maybe it wasn't my moment, back there. Maybe I'm still here._\n\n\"Copies aren't originals.\"\n\n _A lady appreciates what compliments come her way. Especially since I know you have Nikka._\n\n\"I hope this isn't disloyal to her.\"\n\n _It can't be. We are all the loves we have known\u2014that's my own attempt at self-definition._\n\n\"I like that. A definition free of the worn-out carcass, the body.\"\n\n\"For the Buddhist bodhisattva, it's the feats and sufferings of others that provide the savor to immortality.\"\n\n **FINITY IS ITS OWN REWARD.**\n\n\"Limitations give life?\"\n\n\"Moment? You think it lasted only a moment?\"\n\n\"Well, let's say it was timeless.\"\n\n\"Does human action have any meaning?\" he asked in despair.\n\n **OF COURSE.**\n\nBut they would say no more. The abyss.\n\n\"No!\" He shouted at the wall. \"No!\"\n\nThe wall absorbed all and gave nothing back.\n\n **LOCALLY, THERE IS. GLOBALLY, NO.**\n\nHe knew, of course, that it was pointless to expect human traits (\"chimpanzee conventions,\" he sometimes termed them) such as compassion or pity to appear in the Highers or magnetics or any goddamn superior Phylum. But he could hope.\n\nTheir answer came finally as a forgiving blankness.\nCoda\n\nBishops spread through the esty, diluting themselves into the myriad pathways open and opening and always coming. Infinity before them, infinity behind.\n\nThe next Cap'n of Family Bishop was Shibo.\n\nAfter her, Besen.\n\nToby was married to her by then and preferred to work behind the scenes. That gave him time to go off with Quath and play hooky from adulthood.\n\nOccasionally they saw the Nigel Walmsley representation and he seemed the same as ever.\n\nThroughout the esty there were many graves. The ground was full of beings who had suffered through their troubles but were now free. All knew that soon they would be equal to those others, inextricable from and anonymous with all of them, sharing a vast sameness at last.\n\nAll was now quite modern and different around there and most of the ancient names on the graves mean nothing to anybody. There are Cards aplenty and Bishops and even a few Dodgers.\n\nNearby, old markers relate the names in a language now dispersed or dead. Killeen Bishop. Nearby, slightly less worn, Toby Bishop. These graves are unusually large, suggesting to archaeologists that these were from the Hunker Down Era.\n\nAlways slightly distanced, alone and apart, Nigel Walmsley is buried on a separate knoll, in full view of the ocean of night.\nAfterword to the Galactic Center Series\n\nThis series began as a short story and expanded to about a million words. Enough! When I began, I had no idea that the range would expand beyond our solar system, much less to the center of the galaxy.\n\nTo the best of my ability I have kept the imaginings of these novels within the constraints set by astronomical observations. The explosion of our astronomical knowledge has been one of the wonders of the last few decades, but it's been tough on fiction writers.\n\nIn the last two decades the Very Large Array and other new varieties of telescopes have opened windows on our galactic center, with astonishing results. I've had to change my own ideas and, indeed, some of the inventions in this novel arise from theory as well\u2014particularly from advances in the theory of gravitation.\n\nPlainly something enormously powerful is going on at the galactic center, apparently driven by a vast explosion about a million years ago. Electrodynamic effects are strikingly strong within a few hundred light-years of the exact dynamical center, about which the entire spiral disk spins. There, the magnetic field is at least a hundred times more intense than is typical in such mild-mannered, suburban neighborhoods of the galaxy as our own. Apparently, the long, luminous strands there derive from this strong field. They are neon signs, some a hundred light-years long, announcing the work of forces unseen. These, in turn, suggest that in the far more energetic active galactic nuclei of distant galaxies, magnetic fields may play a shaping role.\n\nSo, of course, I made magnetic structures a plot element in this series. In later novels\u2014particularly in _Eater_ and _The Sunborn_ \u2014I've worked these ideas into different guises. Partly this comes from the theoretical research I have done on the central galactic region, wearing my hat as a professor of physics. The tension between these roles plays out in my position at the University of California, Irvine. Many faculty think there is (or should be) a firm boundary between science and fiction. They don't seem to fathom that you cannot do anything unless you can first envision it.\n\nIt has been an unusual experience to conjure up imaginary events about a place that figured also in my hard, detailed calculations. Freed of the bounds of _The Astrophysical Journal,_ I have felt at liberty to speculate on what processes might have transpired over the galaxy's ten billion years of furious cooking, to create forms of life and intelligence beyond our ken. (Coincidence: Just after writing the above paragraph, I got a note from the editor of that same august journal, appreciating an earlier novel. Someday I must attempt to trace the interactions between science and science fiction. Or, better, let an energetic graduate student do it. There's a good doctoral thesis lurking there. . . . )\n\nThis series owes a debt to the scientists, editors, academics, and writers who have kept me going over two decades with ideas, advice, encouragement, and insightful reading. These include, in no particular order, Marvin Minsky, Sheila Finch, David Hartwell, Elisabeth Malartre, Mark Martin, David Brin, Betsy Mitchell, Martin Rees, David Samuelson, Steven Harris, Stephen Hawking, Lou Aronica, Joe Miller, Jennifer Hershey, Gary Wolfe, Norman Spinrad, David Kolb and Arthur C. Clarke. Stimulating ideas kept drawing me on. In preparing this new edition, Jaime Levine and Devi Pilli have been enormously useful and insightful, catching my many errors.\n\nI especially thank Mark Morris of UCLA, who in the early 1990s assembled and directed the International Astronomical Union's Symposium on the Center of the Galaxy. The data and theories of that and later meetings spurred me to look beyond the models I had concocted for magnetic phenomena at the galactic center. Speaking at length about my own notions, and having them raked over by the observers\u2014always a daunting prospect for a theorist!\u2014made me confront the bewildering profusion of neon-brilliant displays, violent explosions, piercing energies, and mysteriously highly organized structures that mark our galactic center. Doing so opened my imagination to the possibilities of life (and, indeed, of death) in so virulently extreme a place. These took a long while to develop; one has distractions, particularly with a day job.\n\nAnd then there is Real Life, too, always demanding. My ideas about life in the universe have changed greatly since I set grumpy Nigel Walmsley on his odyssey in 1970 (beginning with that short story, \"Icarus Descending,\" which was later slightly adapted and now opens _In the Ocean of Night_ ). Despite such evolutions, I have tried to keep these novels consistent. Events spanning several tens of thousands of years are not often reconciled, especially when the author has been off doing other things.\n\nThis concluding volume of the series, and the novella written afterward, \"A Hunger for the Infinite,\" comprise all I now wish to write about the stretched future. The whole series echoes, for me, with the haunting facts of our mayfly lives. No one reading this will know what our destiny is on the galactic stage. Indeed, we may not have one, unless we venture more boldly out into our own backyard of a solar system, and then dream of even greater stages upon which we can perform our dramas. It is not at all obvious that we will.\n\nI may venture back into this universe in future, if the impulse occurs, but the basic plot and lines of reasoning are here set forth. What a long, strange trip it's been.\n\nSeptember 2004\nTimeline of Galactic Series\n\n2019A.D. | Nigel Walmsley encounters the Snark, a mechanical scout.  \n---|---  \n2024| Ancient alien starship found wrecked in Marginis crater, on Earth's moon.  \n2041| First signal received at Earth from Ra.  \n2049| First near-light-speed interstellar probes.  \n2060| Modified asteroid ships launched, using starship technology extracted from Marginis wreck.  \n2064|  _Lancer_ starship launched with Nigel Walmsley aboard.  \n2066| Discovery of machine intelligence Watchers.  \n2067| First robotic starship explorations. Swarmers and Skimmers arrive at Earth.  \n2076|  _Lancer_ arrives at Ra. Discovery of the \"microwave-sighted\" Natural society.  \n2077|  _Lancer_ departs Ra.  \n2081| Mechanicals trigger nuclear war on Earth.  \n2085| Starship _Lancer_ destroyed at Pocks. Watcher ship successfully attacked, with heavy human losses.  \n2086| Nigel Walmsley and others escape in Watcher ship, toward Galactic Center. Humans launch robot starship vessels to take mechanical technology to Earth.  \n2088| Humans contain Swarmer-Skimmer invasion. Alliance with Skimmers.  \n2095| Heavy human losses in taking of orbital Watcher ships. Annihilation of Watcher fleet. No mechanical technology captures due to suicide protocols among Watchers.  \n2097| Second unsuspected generation of Swarmers emerges.  \n2108| First-in-flight message received from Walmsley expedition: \"We're still here. Are you there?\"  \n2111| Final clearing of Earth's oceans.  \n2128| Robot vessels from Pocks arrive at Earth carrying mechanical technology. Immediate use by recovering human industries.  \n2175| Second mechanical-directed invasion of Earth, using targeted cometary nuclei from Oort cloud. Rebuilding of human civilization.  \n2302| Third mechanical-directed invasion of Earth. The Aquila Gambit begins successive novas in near-Earth stars. Beginning of Ferret Time.  \n2368| First mechanical attempt to make Sun go nova. Failure melts poles of Earth.  \n2383| Second nova attempt. Continents severely damaged.  \n2427| Fourth mechanical-directed invasion of Earth. Rebuilding of human civilization.  \n2593| Fifth mechanical-directed invasion of Earth. Diplomatic ploy thwarted.  \n2763| Fifty-seventh Walmsley message received: \"Are you there?\"  \n3264| First expedition launched toward Galactic Center from Earth.  \n4455| First appearance of fourth chimpanzee species; clear divergence from host, _Homo sapiens,_ the third species.\n\nFLIGHT OF HUMAN FLEET TO GALACTIC CENTER \"THE BIG JUMP\"\n\n29,079 | Formation of added geometries to Wedge space-time around the central black hole. Old One manipulation of local Galactic Center space-time, apparently in anticipation of further mechanical-Natural violence. Mechanical forms carry out first incursions into Old One structures.  \n---|---  \n29,694| Walmsley group arrives at Galactic Center in Watcher craft.  \n29,703| First human entry into Wedge. Some communication with Old Ones.  \n29,741| Arrival of Earth fleet expedition at Galactic Center.  \n29,744| Meeting of Earth expedition and Walmsley group.  \n30,020-| The \"Great Times\" of human development. Unsuc-  \n34,567| cessful search for Galactic Library. Successive conflicts with mechanicals. Development of higher layers of mechanical \"sheet intelligences.\" Philosophical conflicts within mechanical civilizations. Formation of mechanical artistic philosophy.  \n34,567-| Chandelier Age. Humans protected themselves  \n35,812| against rising mechanical incursions. Participation of earlier humans from the Walmsley expedition. Some collaboration with Cyber organic/mechanical forms. Discovery of Galactic Library in the Wedge.  \n35,812-| The \"Hunker Down.\" Exodus from the Chandeliers  \n37,483| to many planets within 80 light-years of Absolute Center. Includes High Arcology Era, Late Arcology Era, and High Citadel Age as human societies contract under Darwinnowing effects of mechanical competition.  \n37,518| Fall of Family Bishop Citadel on Snowglade, termed the \"Calamity.\"  \n37,524| Escape of Family Bishop from Snowglade in ancient human vessel. Clandestine oversight of this band by Mantis level mechanicals.  \n37,529| Surviving Bishops reach nearest star, encounter Cybers. Defeat local mechanicals. Adopt some human refugees.  \n37,530| Bishops leave, escorted by Cybers and cosmic string.  \n37,536| Bishops reach Absolute Center, enter Wedge.  \n37,538| Temporal sequences become stocastically ordered. Release of Trigger Codes into mechanical minds. Death of most mechanical forms. Intervention of Highers to rectify damage done by excessive mechanical expansion.  \n| Preservation of several human varieties. Archiving of early forms in several deeply embedded representations.  \n| Beginning of cooperation between Higher mechanically-based forms and organic (\"Natural\") forms. Decision to address the larger problems of all life-forms by Syntony, in collaboration with aspects of lower forms.\n\nBeginning of mature phase of self-organized forms.\n\nEND OF PREAMBLE. LATER EVENTS CANNOT BE THUS REPRESENTED.\nAbout the Author\n\nGREGORY BENFORD is a professor of physics at the University of California, Irvine. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow, was a Visiting Fellow at Cambridge University, and in 1995 received the Lord Prize for contributions to science. His research encompasses both theory and experiments in the fields of astrophysics and plasma physics. His fiction has won many awards, including two Nebula Awards, one John W. Campbell Award, and one British SF Award. Dr. Benford makes his home in Laguna Beach, California.\nMore Gregory Benford!\n\nPlease turn this page for a preview of\n\n _The Sunborn_\n\nAvailable wherever books are sold.\n\n1. **Firm, friendly, positive**\n\nJulia turned her best side toward the camera, a three-quarter shot, and spread her arms. Okay, maybe a bit theatrical, but she had the backdrop for it.\n\n\"Welcome to Earth on Mars!\" She always opened firm, friendly, positive. She swept an arm around, taking in the stubby trees with their odd purple-green leaves, the raked mounds barely sprouting brownish-green patches, and above it all, the shiny curve of the dome, a hundred meters high. Beyond the dome's ultraviolet screening hung the dark of space. The somber cap was always there, reminding them of how little atmosphere shielded them.\n\n\"We showed you the inflation of the big dome a month ago, the planting of trees right after\u2014now we have grass.\"\n\n _Not any breed of grass you've ever seen before, though; it's a genetically modified plant more like a dwarf bamboo, and technically bamboo is a grass, just a really stiff one, so . . ._\n\n\"It'll be a while before we can play football on it, true. We're pretty sure nothing like grass ever grew on the surface of ancient Mars even, back in the warm and wet period. So this prickly little fuzz\"\u2014she stooped to stroke it\u2014\"is a first. It'll help along the big job that the microbes are doing down in the ground already\u2014breaking up the regolith, making it into real soil.\"\n\n _Was she sounding strained already? It was getting harder to strike the right level of enthusiasm in her weekly broadcast to Earthside. She could barely remember the days decades before, when she had broadcast several times a day, sometimes from this same spot. But then, they had been breaking new ground nearly every day. And betting pools on Earth gave new odds every time they went out in the rover on whether they'd come back alive. Usually about 50/50. The good ol' days._\n\nShe smiled, strolling to her right as Viktor panned the camera. She had to remember her marks and turns, and to keep out of camera view the crowd of camp staff watching nearby.\n\nViktor called, \"Cut, got sun reflecting in the lens.\"\n\n\"Whew! Good. Let me memorize a few lines . . .\"\n\nShe was glad for the break. It was getting harder to sound perky. The Consortium people had been grousing about that lately. But then, they had done so periodically, over the two decades she and Viktor had been doing their little shows. Media mavens had some respect for _The Mars Couple_ (the title of the Broadway musical about them), but the long shadow of the Consortium, which had backed the _2018 First Landing_ (the movie title), wanted to keep them on the air for the worldwide subscriber base\u2014and always pumping the numbers higher, of course. Axelrod, still the head of the Consortium, _The Man Who Sold Mars_ (the miniseries title), and now probably the wealthiest man in the solar system, played diplomat between them and the execs Earthside. Exploration? Discovery\u2014yes, they still got to do some. But a safari that turned up nothing new\u2014like the Olympus Mons fiasco\u2014could drive down Consortium shares, send heads rolling at high corporate levels, and make headlines. So she and Viktor tried not to think too much about the eternal media issues. It never really helped.\n\nViktor was fiddling, changing the camera angle, and here came Andy Lang, trotting over with his studied grin. \"Julia, got an idea for a last shot.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" She looked beyond him and saw the two arm wings Andy had brought from Earth the year before, bright blue monolayer on a carbon strut. \"Oh\u2014well, look, we've done your flying stunt three times already.\"\n\n\"I'm thinking just a closing shot.\" He gestured up to the top of the dome, over a hundred meters above. \"I come off the top platform, swing around the eucalyptus clump, into Viktor's field of view\u2014after you do your last line.\"\n\n\"Ummm.\" She had to admit they had no good finishing image, and Earthside was always carping about that. \"You can do it?\"\n\n\"Been practicing. I've got the timing down.\" He was a big, muscular guy, an engineering wizard who had improved their geothermal system enormously. And a looker. Axelrod made sure to send them lookers. After all, thousands volunteered to work here every year. Why take the ugly ones when the worldwide audience liked eye candy?\n\nJulia looked up at the ledge platform near the dome peak. His earlier flights had flown around the dome's outer curve, pleasantly graceful. The eucalyptus stand at the dome's center was her pet project. She insisted on some blue gum trees from her Australian home, the forests north of Adelaide. Earthside dutifully responded with a funded contest among plant biologists to find a eucalyptus that could withstand the sleeting ultraviolet here. Of course the dome helped a lot; chemists had developed a miracle polymer that could billow into a broad dome, holding in nearly a full Earth atmosphere, and yet also subtract a lot of the UV from sunlight\u2014all without editing away the middle spectrum needed for plant growth.\n\nThe blue gums were a darker hue, but they grew rapidly in the Martian regolith. Of course she had to prepare the soil\u2014joyful days spent spading in the humus they had processed from their own wastes. The French called it _eau de fumier_ or spirit of manure and chronicled every centimeter of blue gum growth. She'd sprouted the seeds and nurtured the tiny seedlings fiercely. Once planted, their white flanks had grown astonishingly fast. Their leaves hung down, minimizing their exposure to the residual hard ultraviolet that got through the dome's filtering skin. But their trunks were spindly, with odd limbs sticking out like awkward elbows\u2014yet more evidence that bringing life to Mars was not going to be easy.\n\nShe considered Andy's idea. Andy was a media hit with the ladies Earthside, if perhaps a bit of a camera hog. She had been giving him all the air time he wanted lately, glad to offload the work. \"Okay, get on up there.\"\n\nShe checked the timing with Viktor while Andy shimmied up the climbing rope to the peak of the dome and its platform, the big arm wings strapped to his back making him look like a gigantic moth. They moved location so that Andy would be shielded from Viktor's view, until he came around the clump of whitebark eucalyptus trunks as Viktor panned upward from her concluding shot.\n\nIn a few minutes more they were ready to go. Julia wondered if she could ease out of this job altogether, letting Andy the Hunk take most of it. She made a mental note to tactfully broach the subject with Axelrod.\n\n\"Positions!\" Viktor called. Andy nodded from the platform, wings in place. \"On,\" Viktor said.\n\nWithout thinking about it Julia hit the same marker where she had left off and started. \"You can't imagine how thrilling it is to walk on Martian grass, without a space suit, breathing air that smells . . . well, I won't lie, still pretty dusty. But better, yes. To think that we used to test the rocks here for signs of water deposition! Once the raw frontier, now a park. Progress.\"\n\n _Of course the hard part was turning regolith rocks and sand into topsoil, but that's booooring, yes._ Earthside had developed some fierce strains of bacteria that could break down all comers\u2014old running shoes, hardbound books, insulation, packing buffers\u2014into rich black loam almost as you watched.\n\nShe ducked as a white shape hurtled by, narrowly missing her head. \"Chicken alert!\" she said lightly, gesturing toward it with her head. It squawked and flapped, turning like a feathered blimp with wings. \"Who would have thought chickens could have so much fun up here, in the low gravity? They find it far easier to fly here than on Earth. Of course we brought them here so we could have fresh eggs, and they do lay, so we predicted that part correctly. But we don't always know everything that's going to happen in a biological experiment. This is the Mars version of the chicken and egg problem.\"\n\nViktor smiled dutifully; they'd shared this little joke before. The Earthside producer would more probably wince. _Okay, back to the script._\n\nShe waved a hand to her right and Viktor followed the gesture with the camera, bringing in the view of the slopes and hills in the distance, beyond the green lances of the eucalyptus limbs. The slopes were still rusty red in the afternoon light, of course, far beyond the curved dome that sloped down to its curved tie-down wall eighty meters away. They stood out nicely with the green eucalyptus foreground. The other trees\u2014ranging from drought and cold-resistant shrubs from Tasmania, to hearty high-altitude species\u2014almost made a convincing forest. The \"grass\" was really a mixture of mosses, lichens and small tundra species, too. A big favorite of the staff was vegetable sheep, soft, pale clumps from New Zealand's high country. Convincing to the visual audience\u2014 _a golf course on Mars!_ \u2014but also able to survive a cold Martian night and even a sudden pressure drop. The toughest stuff from Earth, made still more rugged with bioengineering.\n\nAxelrod had insisted on the visuals. _Make it look Earthy, yes._ She had worked for years to make the inflated domes support life and there was still plenty to do. Making the raw regolith swarm with microbes to build soil, coaxing lichens onto the boulders used to help anchor the dome floors in place, being sure the roots of the first shrubs could survive the cold and prickly alkaline dirt. Years, yes, grubbing and figuring and trying everything she could muster. For a beginning.\n\n _Pay attention! You're on camera, and Viktor hates to reshoot._\n\n\"Ah, one of my faves . . .\" She altered course to pass by a baobab\u2014a tall, fat, tubular tree from western Australia, with only a few thin spidery limbs sprouting from its top, like a nearly bald man. Early settlers had used them to store food, take shelter, even as jail cells. On Mars they grew spectacularly fast, like eucalyptus, and nobody knew why. Aussie plants generally did better here, from the early greenhouse days of the first landing, onward. Maybe, the biologist in her said, this came from the low-energy biology of Australia. The continent had skated across the Pacific, its mountains getting worn down, minerals depleted, rainfall lessening, and life had been forced to adapt. A hundred million years of life getting by with less and less . . . much like Mars.\n\n\"For those of you who've loyally stuck with us through these\u2014wow, twenty-two years!\u2014I say thanks. Sometimes I think that this is all a dream, and days like this prove it. Grass on Mars! Or\"\u2014she grinned, tilting her head up a bit to let the filtered sunlight play on her still dark hair, using the only line she had prepared for this 'cast\u2014\"another way to say it, I started out with nothing and still have most of it left. Out there\u2014in wild Mars.\"\n\n _Not that this little patch is so domesticated. It's how we find out if raw regolith can become true soil, and what will grow well here._\n\n\"Already there are environmental groups trying to preserve original, ancient Mars from us invaders.\" She chuckled. \"If Mars were just bare stone and dust, I'd laugh\u2014I never did believe that rocks have rights. But since there's life here, they have a point.\"\n\nThis was just editorial patter, of course, while Viktor followed her on the walk toward the fountain. It tinkled and splashed in the foreground while she approached, Viktor shooting from behind her, so the camera looked through the trees, on through the clear dome walls to the dusty red landscape beyond. \"I like to gaze out, so that I can imagine what Mars was like in its early days, a hospitable planet.\" She turned, spread her hands in self-mockery. \"Okay, we now know from fossils that there were no really big trees\u2014nothing larger than a bush, in fact. But I can dream . . .\"\n\nShe smiled and tried to not make it look calculated. After a quarter century of peering into camera snouts, she had some media savvy. Still, she and Viktor thought in terms of, _If we do this, people will like it._ That had been a steadier guide through the decades than taking the advice about exploring Mars from the Earthside media execs of the Consortium, whose sole idea was, _If we do this, we'll maximize our global audience share, get ideas for new product lines, and/or optimize near-term profitability._\n\nShe paused beside the splashing fountain. She plucked up a cup they had planted there and drank some of the water. \"On Earth, you can drink all the water you want and leave the tap on between cupfuls. Here, nobody does.\" She smiled and walked on. \"You've seen this before, of course, but imagine if it were the only fountain you'd seen in a quarter century. That's why I come here to read, meditate, think. That\u2014and our newest wonder . . .\"\n\n _Let them wait._ She had learned that trick early on. Mars couldn't be chopped up into five-second image-bites and have any lasting impression. She circled around the constant-cam that fed a view to Earthside for the market that wanted to have the Martian day as a wall or window in their homes. She knew this view sold especially well in the cramped rooms of China and India. It was a solid but subtle advertisement.\n\n _Crowded? Here's a whole world, only a few dozen people on it, well, actually about ten dozen, and it has the same land area as the Earth. A different world entirely._\n\nThings were different, all right. The dome was great, the biggest of several, a full hundred and fifty meters tall. It would have been far more useful in the first years, when they still lived in apartment-sized habs. Now her pressure suit was supple, moving fluidly over her body as she walked and stooped. The first expedition suits had been the best of their era, but they'd still made you as flexible as a barely oiled Tin Man, as dextrous as a bear in mittens. The old helmets had misted over unless you remembered to swab the inside with ordinary dish soap. And the catheters had been always irksome, especially for women; now they fit beautifully.\n\nOutside, the wind whistled softly around the dome walls. Another reason she enjoyed the big dome\u2014the sighing winds. Sounds didn't carry well in Mars's thin atmosphere, and the habs were so insulated they were cut off from any outdoor noise.\n\nThe grass ended and she crunched over slightly processed regolith. Lichens could break the rock down, but they took time\u2014lots of it. So they'd taken shortcuts to make an ersatz soil. They mixed Martian dust and small gravel-sized rock bits with a lot of their organic waste, spaded in over decades\u2014everything from kitchen leftovers to lightly cleaned excrement. Add compost starter bacteria, keep moist, and wait. And hope. Microbes like free carbon, using it with water to frame elaborate molecules. She and Viktor had doled it out for years under the first, small dome before even trying to grow anything. The Book of Genesis got it all done in six days, but mere humans took longer.\n\nShe hit the marker they had laid out\u2014a rock\u2014and turned, pointing off-camera. \"And now\u2014 _ta-daah!_ \u2014we have a surprise. The first Martian swimming pool.\"\n\n _Okay, no swimming pools in Genesis\u2014but it's a step._\n\n\"I'm going for my first swim\u2014now.\" She shucked off her blue jumpsuit to reveal a red bikini. Her arms and legs were muscular, breasts midsized, skin pale, not too many wrinkles. Not really a babe, no, but she still got mash notes from middle-aged guys, somehow leaking through the e-mail filters.\n\n _Hey, we're looking for market share here!_ She grinned, turned and dived into the lapping clear water. Surfaced, gasped\u2014she wasn't faking, this really was her first swim in a quarter century\u2014and laughed with sheer pleasure (not in the script). Went into a breast stroke, feeling the tug and flex of muscle, and something inexpressible and simple burst in her. _Fun, yes\u2014not nearly enough fun on Mars._\n\n _Or water._ They had moved from the original base camp about eighteen years before. Once Earthside shipped enough gear to build a real water retrieval system, and a big nuke generator to run it, there seemed no point in not moving the hab and other structures\u2014mostly light and portable\u2014to the ice hills.\n\nMars was in some ways an upside-down world. On Earth, one would look for water in the low spots, stream channels. Here in Gusev, water lay waiting in the hilly hummocks, termed by geologists \"pingos.\" When water froze beneath blown dust, it thrust up as it expanded, making low hills of a few hundred meters. She recalled how Marc and Raoul had found the first ice, their drill bit steaming as ice sublimed into fog. Now Marc was a big vid star and Raoul ran Axelrod's solar energy grid on the Moon. Time . . .\n\nShe stopped at the pool edge, flipped out and sprang to her feet\u2014 _thanks, 0.38 g!_ \"The first swim on Mars, and you saw it.\" _Planned this shot a year ago, when I ordered the bikini . . . She donned a blue terry cloth bathrobe; the dryness made the air feel decidedly chilly. \"In case you're wondering, swimming doesn't feel any different here. That's because the water you displace makes you float\u2014we're mostly made of water, so the effect compensates. It doesn't matter much what the local gravity is.\"_\n\nOkay, slipped in some science while their guard was down.\n\n\"Behind all this is our improved water-harvesting system.\" She pointed out the dome walls, where pipes stretched away toward a squat inflated building. \"Robotic, nuclear powered. It warms up the giant ice sheets below us, pumps water to the surface. Took nine years to build\u2014whoosh! Thank you, engineers.\"\n\n _What did the water mean? She envisioned life on a tiny fraction of Mars with plentiful water\u2014no longer a cold, dusty desert. Under a pressurized dome the greenhouse effect raised the temperature to something livable. Link domes, blow up bigger ones, and you have a colony. They could grow crops big time. Red Kansas . . ._\n\nA gout of steam hissed from a release value, wreathing her in a moist, rotten-eggs smell. Andy had put the finishing touches on the deep thermal system, spreading the upwelling steam and hot water into a pipe system two meters below the dome floor. Their nuke generators ran the system, but most of the energy came for free from the magma lode kilometers below. Once the geologists\u2014\"areologists\" when on Mars, the purists said\u2014had drilled clean through the pingos and reached the magma, the upwelling heat melted the ice layers. Ducted upward, it made possible the eight domes they now ran, rich in moist air. Soon they would start linking them all. She smiled as she thought about strolling along tree-lined walkways from dome to dome, across windblown ripe wheat fields, no helmet or suit. Birds warbling, rabbits scurrying in the bushes . . .\n\nIn the first years their diet had been vegetarian. It made sense to eat plant protein directly, rather than lose 90 percent of the energy by passing it through an animal first. But from the first four rabbits shipped out they now had hundreds, and relished dinner on \"meat nights.\" They'd have one tonight, after this media show.\n\n\"So that's it\u2014life on Mars gets a bit better. We're still spending most of our research effort on the Marsmat\u2014the biggest conceptual problem in biology, we think. We just got a new crew to help. And pretty soon, on the big nuke rocket due in a week, we'll get a lot more gear and supplies. Onward!\"\n\nShe grinned, waved, and Viktor called, \"Is done.\"\n\nShe had waited long enough. She shucked off the bathrobe and tossed the wireless mike on top of the heap.\n\n\"Am still running.\"\n\n\"Check it for editing,\" she said quickly. \"I'm going to splash.\" She dived into the pool again. Grinning, Viktor caught it in slow-mo.\n\nJulia rolled over onto her back and took a few luxurious strokes. She caught Andy's kick off the platform and watched him swoop gracefully around the dome. It was still a bit of a thrill to see. They kept the dome at high pressure to support it, which added more lift for Andy. He kept his wings canted against the thermals that rose from the warm floor, camera-savvy, grinning relentlessly.\n\nEven with the lower gravity and higher air density, Viktor and Julia had been skeptical that it could work. But Axelrod and the Consortium board had loved the idea, seeing tourism as a long-term potential market.\n\nAnd Andy did look great, obviously having a lot of fun, his handsome legs forming a neat line as he arced above her. He rotated his arms, mimicking the motion birds made in flight, pumping thrust into his orbit. His turn sharpened into a smaller circle, coming swiftly around the steepled bulk of the big eucalyptus. His wings pitched to drive him inward and wind rippled his hair. She watched Viktor follow the accelerating curve with the camera, bright winds sharp against the dark sky. Good stuff.\n\nBut he was cutting it close to the tree, still far up its slope. The Consortium board had chosen Andy both for his engineering skills and this grinning, show-off personality, just the thing to perk up their audience numbers.\n\nHis T-shirt flapped and he turned in closer still. She lost sight of him behind the eucalyptus and when he came within view again there seemed to be no separation at all between his body and the tree. Ahead of him a limb stuck out a bit farther than the rest. He saw it and turned his right wing to push out, away, and the wing hit the limb. For an instant it looked as though he would bank down and away from the glancing brush. But the wing caught on the branch.\n\nIt ripped, showing light where the monolayer split away from the brace. Impact united with the change in flow patterns around his body. The thin line of light grew and seemed to turn Andy's body on a pivot, spinning him sideways.\n\nThe eucalyptus wrenched sideways. It was thin and the wrench of collision pulled it sideways.\n\nHe fought to bring the wing into a plane with his left arm but the pitch was too much. She gasped as his right arm frantically pumped for leverage it did not have. The moment froze, slowed\u2014and then he was tumbling in air, away from the tree, falling, gathering speed.\n\nThe tree toppled, too.\n\nIn the low gravity the plunge seemed to take long moments. All the way down he fought to get air under his remaining wing. The right wing flapped and rattled and kept him off kilter. His efforts brought his head down and when he hit in the rocks near the pool the skull struck first.\n\nThe smack was horrible. She cried out in the silence.\n\nAndy had not uttered a sound on the way down.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "The Burglar Who Liked to Quote - Lawrence Block"}, "text": " \n## The  \nBurglar  \nWho liked to  \nQuote  \nKipling\n\n## LAWRENCE  \nBLOCK\n\n##  \nfor Cheryl Morrison\nWhen from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'untin' you must always work in pairs\u2014\n\nIt 'alves the gain, but safer you will find\u2014\n\nFor a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs.\n\nAn' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind.\n\nWhen you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt\n\nAs if there weren't enough to dust a flute\n\n(Cornet: Toot! toot!)\u2014\n\nBefore you sling your 'ook, at the 'ouse-tops take a look,\n\nFor it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot.\n\n(Chorus.) 'Ow the loot!\n\nBloomin' loot!\n\nThat's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot!\n\nIt's the same with dogs an' men,\n\nIf you'd make 'em come again\n\nClap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu!\n\nLoot!\n\nWhoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu!\n\nLoot! loot! Loot!\n\n\u2014Rudyard Kipling\n\n\"Loot\"\n\n## CONTENTS\n\nEpigraph\n\nChapter One\n\nI suppose he must have been in his early twenties....\n\nChapter Two\n\nAfter he'd left I tucked his forty dollars into my...\n\nChapter Three\n\nHalfway across the Queensboro Bridge, I happened...\n\nChapter Four\n\nI met J. Rudyard Whelkin on a slow midweek...\n\nChapter Five\n\nI don't know what time I got into bed, but by...\n\nChapter Six\n\nI wanted to look him in the eyes but I couldn't...\n\nChapter Seven\n\nI was early, of course. My appointment with...\n\nChapter Eight\n\nI got up quickly\u2014too quickly\u2014the blood rushed...\n\nChapter Nine\n\nIt was a long story, and she listened patiently...\n\nChapter Ten\n\nIt was one of those chatty morning programs that...\n\nChapter Eleven\n\nAt six-fifteen I was sitting at the counter of the...\n\nChapter Twelve\n\nThe Pontiac, untowed and unticketed, waited for...\n\nChapter Thirteen\n\nI felt good about taking the car back. You don't...\n\nChapter Fourteen\n\nThe Personal ads were on the penultimate page...\n\nChapter Fifteen\n\nWhen he came to the phone I apologized for...\n\nChapter Sixteen\n\nI cabbed uptown for the Pontiac. By the time I...\n\nChapter Seventeen\n\nI called Ray Kirschmann from a sidewalk phone...\n\nChapter Eighteen\n\n\"I suppose you're wondering why I summoned...\n\nChapter Nineteen\n\n\"I watched you this afternoon,\" I told him. \"I...\n\nChapter Twenty\n\nAt a quarter to twelve Monday morning I hung...\n\nAbout the Author\n\nPraise for Lawrence Block\n\nOther Books by Lawrence Block\n\nCopyright\n\nAbout the Publisher\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## One\n\nI suppose he must have been in his early twenties. It was hard to be sure of his age because there was so little of his face available for study. His red-brown beard began just below his eyes, which in turn lurked behind thick-lensed horn-rims. He wore a khaki army shirt, unbuttoned, and beneath it his T-shirt advertised the year's fashionable beer, a South Dakota brand reputedly brewed with organic water. His pants were brown corduroy, his running shoes blue with a gold stripe. He was toting a Braniff Airlines flight bag in one ill-manicured hand and the Everyman's Library edition of The Poems of William Cowper in the other.\n\nHe set the book down next to the cash register, reached into a pocket, found two quarters, and placed them on the counter alongside the book.\n\n\"Ah, poor Cowper,\" I said, picking up the book. Its binding was shaky, which was why it had found its way to my bargain table. \"My favorite's 'The Retired Cat.' I'm pretty sure it's in this edition.\" He shifted his weight from foot to foot while I scanned the table of contents. \"Here it is. Page one-fifty. You know the poem?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"You'll love it. The bargain books are forty cents or three for a dollar, which is even more of a bargain. You just want the one?\"\n\n\"That's right.\" He pushed the two quarters an inch or so closer to me. \"Just the one.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" I said. I looked at his face. All I could really see was his brow, and it looked untroubled, and I would have to do something about that. \"Forty cents for the Cowper, and three cents for the Governor in Albany, mustn't forget him, and what does that come to?\" I leaned over the counter and dazzled him with my pearly-whites. \"I make it thirty-two dollars and seventy cents,\" I said.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"That copy of Byron. Full morocco, marbled endpapers, and I believe it's marked fifteen dollars. The Wallace Stevens is a first edition and it's a bargain at twelve. The novel you took was only three dollars or so, and I suppose you just wanted to read it because you couldn't get anything much reselling it.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about.\"\n\nI moved out from behind the counter, positioning myself between him and the door. He didn't look as though he intended to sprint but he was wearing running shoes and you never can tell. Thieves are an unpredictable lot.\n\n\"In the flight bag,\" I said. \"I assume you'll want to pay for what you took.\"\n\n\"This?\" He looked down at the flight bag as if astonished to find it dangling from his fingers. \"This is just my gym stuff. You know\u2014sweat socks, a towel, like that.\"\n\n\"Suppose you open it.\"\n\nPerspiration was beading on his forehead but he was trying to tough it out. \"You can't make me,\" he said. \"You've got no authority.\"\n\n\"I can call a policeman. He can't make you open it, either, but he can walk you over to the station house and book you, and then he can open it, and do you really want that to happen? Open the bag.\"\n\nHe opened the bag. It contained sweat socks, a towel, a pair of lemon-yellow gym shorts, and the three books I had mentioned along with a nice clean first edition of Steinbeck's The Wayward Bus, complete with dust wrapper. It was marked $17.50, which seemed a teensy bit high.\n\n\"I didn't get that here,\" he said.\n\n\"You have a bill of sale for it?\"\n\n\"No, but\u2014\"\n\nI scribbled briefly, then gave him another smile. \"Let's call it fifty dollars even,\" I said, \"and let's have it.\"\n\n\"You're charging me for the Steinbeck?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"But I had it with me when I came in.\"\n\n\"Fifty dollars,\" I said.\n\n\"Look, I don't want to buy these books.\" He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. \"Oh God, why did I have to come in here in the first place? Look, I don't want any trouble.\"\n\n\"Neither do I.\"\n\n\"And the last thing I want is to buy anything. Look, keep the books, keep the Steinbeck too, the hell with it. Just let me get out of here, huh?\"\n\n\"I think you should buy the books.\"\n\n\"I don't have the money. I got fifty cents. Look, keep the fifty cents too, okay? Keep the shorts and the towel, keep the sweat socks, okay? Just let me get the hell out of here, okay?\"\n\n\"You don't have any money?\"\n\n\"No, nothing. Just the fifty cents. Look\u2014\"\n\n\"Let's see your wallet.\"\n\n\"What are you\u2014I don't have a wallet.\"\n\n\"Right hip pocket. Take it out and hand it to me.\"\n\n\"I don't believe this is happening.\"\n\nI snapped my fingers. \"The wallet.\"\n\nIt was a nice enough black pinseal billfold, complete with the telltale outline of a rolled condom to recall my own lost adolescence. There was almost a hundred dollars in the currency compartment. I counted out fifty dollars in fives and tens, replaced the rest, and returned the wallet to its owner.\n\n\"That's my money,\" he said.\n\n\"You just bought books with it,\" I told him. \"Want a receipt?\"\n\n\"I don't even want the books, dammit.\" His eyes were watering behind the thick glasses. \"What am I going to do with them, anyway?\"\n\n\"I suppose reading them is out. What did you plan to do with them originally?\"\n\nHe stared at his track shoes. \"I was going to sell them.\"\n\n\"To whom?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Some store.\"\n\n\"How much were you going to get for them?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Fifteen, twenty dollars.\"\n\n\"You'd wind up taking ten.\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" I said. I peeled off one of his tens and pressed it into his palm. \"Sell them to me.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Saves running from store to store. I can use good books, they're the very sort of item I stock, so why not take the ten dollars from me?\"\n\n\"This is crazy,\" he said.\n\n\"Do you want the books or the money? It's up to you.\"\n\n\"I don't want the books.\"\n\n\"Do you want the money?\"\n\n\"I guess so.\"\n\nI took the books from him and stacked them on the counter. \"Then put it in your wallet,\" I said, \"before you lose it.\"\n\n\"This is the craziest thing ever. You took fifty bucks from me for books I didn't want and now you're giving me ten back. I'm out forty dollars, for God's sake.\"\n\n\"Well, you bought high and sold low. Most people try to work it the other way around.\"\n\n\"I should call a cop. I'm the one getting robbed.\"\n\nI packed his gym gear into the Braniff bag, zipped it shut, handed it to him. Then I extended a forefinger and chucked him under his hairy chin.\n\n\"A tip,\" I said.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Get out of the business.\"\n\nHe looked at me.\n\n\"Find another line of work. Quit lifting things. You're not terribly good at it and I'm afraid you're temperamentally unsuited to the life that goes with it. Are you in college?\"\n\n\"I dropped out.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It wasn't relevant.\"\n\n\"Few things are, but why don't you see if you can't get back in? Pick up a diploma and find some sort of career that suits you. You're not cut out to be a professional thief.\"\n\n\"A professional\u2014\" He rolled his eyes again. \"Jesus, I ripped off a couple of books. Don't make a life's work out of it, huh?\"\n\n\"Anybody who steals things for resale is a professional criminal,\" I told him. \"You just weren't doing it in a very professional manner, that's all. But I'm serious about this. Get out of the business.\" I laid a hand lightly on his wrist. \"Don't take this the wrong way,\" I said, \"but the thing is you're too dumb to steal.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Two\n\nAfter he'd left I tucked his forty dollars into my wallet, where it promptly became my forty dollars. I marked the Steinbeck down to fifteen dollars before shelving it and its companions. While doing this I spotted a few errant volumes and put them back where they belonged.\n\nBrowsers came and went. I made a few sales from the bargain table, then moved a Heritage Club edition of Virgil's Eclogues (boxed, the box water-damaged, slight rubbing on spine, price $8.50). The woman who bought the Virgil was a little shopworn herself, with a blocky figure and a lot of curly orange hair. I'd seen her before but this was the first time she'd bought anything, so things were looking up.\n\nI watched her carry Virgil home, then settled in behind the counter with a Grosset & Dunlap reprint of Soldiers Three. I'd been working my way through my limited stock of Kipling lately. Some of the books were ones I'd read years ago, but I was reading Soldiers Three for the first time and really enjoying my acquaintance with Ortheris and Learoyd and Mulvaney when the little bells above my door tinkled to announce a visitor.\n\nI looked up to see a man in a blue uniform lumbering across the floor toward me. He had a broad, open, honest face, but in my new trade one learned quickly not to judge a book by its cover. My visitor was Ray Kirschmann, the best cop money could buy, and money could buy him seven days a week.\n\n\"Hey, Bern,\" he said, and propped an elbow on the counter. \"Read any good books lately?\"\n\n\"Hello, Ray.\"\n\n\"Watcha readin'?\" I showed him. \"Garbage,\" he said. \"A whole store full of books, you oughta read somethin' decent.\"\n\n\"What's decent?\"\n\n\"Oh, Joseph Wambaugh, Ed McBain. Somebody who tells it straight.\"\n\n\"I'll keep it in mind.\"\n\n\"How's business?\"\n\n\"Not too bad, Ray.\"\n\n\"You just sit here, buy books, sell books, and you make a livin'. Right?\"\n\n\"It's the American way.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. Quite a switch for you, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Well, I like working days, Ray.\"\n\n\"A whole career change, I mean. Burglar to bookseller. You know what that sounds like? A title. You could write a book about it. From Burglar to Bookseller. Mind a question, Bernie?\"\n\nAnd what if I did? \"No,\" I said.\n\n\"What the hell do you know about books?\"\n\n\"Well, I was always a big reader.\"\n\n\"In the jug, you mean.\"\n\n\"Even on the outside, all the way back to childhood. You know what Emily Dickinson said. 'There is no frigate like a book.' \"\n\n\"Frig it is right. You didn't just run around buyin' books and then open up a store.\"\n\n\"The store was already here. I was a customer over the years, and I knew the owner and he wanted to sell out and go to Florida.\"\n\n\"And right now he's soakin' up the rays.\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact, I heard he opened up another store in St. Petersburg. Couldn't take the inactivity.\"\n\n\"Well, good for him. How'd you happen to come up with the scratch to buy this place, Bernie?\"\n\n\"I came into a few dollars.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. A relative died, somethin' like that.\"\n\n\"Something like that.\"\n\n\"Right. What I figure, you dropped out of sight for a month or so during the winter. January, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"And part of February.\"\n\n\"I figure you were down in Florida doin' what you do best, and you hit it pretty good and walked with a short ton of jewelry. I figure you wound up with a big piece of change and decided Mrs. Rhodenbarr's boy Bernard oughta fix hisself up with a decent front.\"\n\n\"That's what you figure, Ray?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\nI thought for a minute. \"It wasn't Florida,\" I said.\n\n\"Nassau, then. St. Thomas. What the hell.\"\n\n\"Actually, it was California. Orange County.\"\n\n\"Same difference.\"\n\n\"And it wasn't jewels. It was a coin collection.\"\n\n\"You always went for them things.\"\n\n\"Well, they're a terrific investment.\"\n\n\"Not with you on the loose they aren't. You made out like a bandit on the coins, huh?\"\n\n\"Let's say I came out ahead.\"\n\n\"And bought this place.\"\n\n\"That's right. Mr. Litzauer didn't want a fortune for it. He set a fair price for the inventory and threw in the fixtures and the good will.\"\n\n\"Barnegat Books. Where'd you get the name?\"\n\n\"I kept it. I didn't want to have to spring for a new sign. Litzauer had a summer place at Barnegat Light on the Jersey shore. There's a lighthouse on the sign.\"\n\n\"I didn't notice. You could call it Burglar Books. 'These books are a steal'\u2014there's your slogan. Get it?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I will sooner or later.\"\n\n\"Hey, are you gettin' steamed? I didn't mean nothin' by it. It's a nice front, Bern. It really is.\"\n\n\"It's not a front. It's what I do.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"It's what I do for a living, Ray, and it's all I do for a living. I'm in the book business.\"\n\n\"Sure you are.\"\n\n\"I'm serious about this.\"\n\n\"Serious. Right.\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. Listen, the reason I dropped in, I was thinkin' about you just the other day. What it was, my wife was gettin' on my back. You ever been married?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You're so busy gettin' settled, maybe marriage is the next step. Nothin' like it for settlin' a man. What she wanted, here it's October already and she's expectin' a long winter. You never met my wife, did you?\"\n\n\"I talked to her on the phone once.\"\n\n\" 'The leaves are turnin' early, Ray. That means a cold winter.' That's what she tells me. If the trees don't turn until late, then that means a cold winter.\"\n\n\"She likes it cold?\"\n\n\"What she likes is if it's cold and she's warm. What she's drivin' at is a fur coat.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"She goes about five-six, wears a size-sixteen dress. Sometimes she diets down to a twelve, sometimes she packs in the pasta and gets up to an eighteen. Fur coats, I don't figure they got to fit like gloves anyway, right?\"\n\n\"I don't know much about them.\"\n\n\"What she wants is mink. No wild furs or endangered species because she's a fanatic on the subject. Minks, see, they grow the little bastards on these ranches, so there's none of that sufferin' in traps, and the animal's not endangered or any of that stuff. All that they do is they gas 'em and skin 'em out.\"\n\n\"How nice for the minks. It must be like going to the dentist.\"\n\n\"Far as the color, I'd say she's not gonna be too fussy. Just so it's one of your up-to-date colors. Your platinum, your champagne. Not the old dark-brown shades.\"\n\nI nodded, conjuring up an image of Mrs. Kirschmann draped in fur. I didn't know what she looked like, so I allowed myself to picture a sort of stout Edith Bunker.\n\n\"Oh,\" I said suddenly. \"There's a reason you're telling me this.\"\n\n\"Well, I was thinkin', Bern.\"\n\n\"I'm out of the business, Ray.\"\n\n\"What I was thinkin', you might run into a coat in the course of things, know what I mean? I was thinkin' that you and me, we go back a ways, we been through a lot, the two of us, and\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not a burglar anymore, Ray.\"\n\n\"I wasn't countin' on a freebie, Bernie. Just a bargain.\"\n\n\"I don't steal anymore, Ray.\"\n\n\"I hear you talkin', Bern.\"\n\n\"I'm not as young as I used to be. Nobody ever is but these days I'm starting to feel it. When you're young nothing scares you. When you get older everything does. I don't ever want to go inside again, Ray. I don't like prisons.\"\n\n\"These days they're country clubs.\"\n\n\"Then they changed a whole hell of a lot in the past few years, because I swear I never cared for them myself. You meet a better class of people on the D train.\"\n\n\"Guy like you, you could get a nice job in the prison library.\"\n\n\"They still lock you in at night.\"\n\n\"So you're straight, right?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"I been here how long? All that time you haven't had a single person walk in the store.\"\n\n\"Maybe the uniform keeps 'em away, Ray.\"\n\n\"Maybe business ain't what it might be. You been in the business how long, Bern? Six months?\"\n\n\"Closer to seven.\"\n\n\"Bet you don't even make the rent.\"\n\n\"I do all right.\" I marked my place in Soldiers Three, closed the book, put it on the shelf behind the counter. \"I made a forty-dollar profit from one customer earlier this afternoon and I swear it was easier than stealing.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact. You're a guy made twenty grand in an hour and a half when things fell right.\"\n\n\"And went to jail when they didn't.\"\n\n\"Forty bucks. I can see where that'd really have you turning handsprings.\"\n\n\"There's a difference between honest money and the other kind.\"\n\n\"Yeah, and the difference comes to somethin' like $19,960. This here, Bern, this is nickels and dimes. Let's be honest. You can't live on this.\"\n\n\"I never stole that much, Ray. I never lived that high. I got a small apartment on the Upper West Side, I stay out of night clubs, I do my own wash in the machines in the basement. The store's steady. You want to give me a hand with this?\"\n\nHe helped me drag the bargain table in from the sidewalk. He said, \"Look at this. A cop and a burglar both doin' physical work. Somebody should take a picture. What do you get for these? Forty cents, three for a buck? And that's keepin' you in shirts and socks, huh?\"\n\n\"I'm a careful shopper.\"\n\n\"Look, Bern, if there's some reason you don't wanna help me out on this coat thing\u2014\"\n\n\"Cops,\" I said.\n\n\"What about cops?\"\n\n\"A guy rehabilitates himself and you refuse to believe it. You talk yourselves hoarse telling me to go straight\u2014\"\n\n\"When the hell did I ever tell you to go straight? You're a first-class burglar. Why would I tell you to change?\"\n\nHe let go of it while I filled a shopping bag with hardcover mysteries and began shutting down for the night. He told me about his partner, a clean-cut and soft-spoken young fellow with a fondness for horses and a wee amphetamine habit.\n\n\"All he does is lose and bitch about it,\" Ray complained, \"until this past week when he starts pickin' the ponies with x-ray vision. Now all he does is win, and I swear I liked him better when he was losin'.\"\n\n\"His luck can't last forever, Ray.\"\n\n\"That's what I been tellin' myself. What's that, steel gates across the windows? You don't take chances, do you?\"\n\nI drew the gates shut, locked them. \"Well, they were already here,\" I said stiffly. \"Seems silly not to use them.\"\n\n\"No sense makin' it easy for another burglar, huh? No honor among thieves, isn't that what they say? What happens if you forget the key, huh, Bern?\"\n\nHe didn't get an answer, nor do I suppose he expected one. He chuckled instead and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. \"I guess you'd just call a locksmith,\" he said. \"You couldn't pick the lock, not bein' a burglar anymore. All you are is a guy who sells books.\"\n\nBarnegat Books is on East Eleventh Street between Broadway and University Place. When I'd finished locking up I carried my shopping bag two doors east to a dog-grooming salon called the Poodle Factory. Carolyn Kaiser had a skittish Yorkie up on the grooming table and was buffing its little nails. She said, \"Hey, is it that time already? Just let me finish with Prince Philip here and I'll be ready to go. If I don't get a drink in me soon I'll start yipping like a chihuahua.\"\n\nI got comfortable on the pillow sofa while Carolyn put the final touches on the terrier's pedicure and popped him back in his cage. During the course of this she complained at length about her lover's misbehavior. Randy had come home late the previous night, drunk and disheveled and marginally disorderly, and Carolyn was sick of it.\n\n\"I think it's time to end the relationship,\" she told me, \"but the question is how do I feel about ending the relationship? And the answer is I don't know how I feel because I can't get in touch with my feelings, and I figure if I can't get in touch with them I might as well not feel them altogether, so let's go someplace with a liquor license, because all I want to feel right now is better. And how was your day, Bernie?\"\n\n\"A little long.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you do look faintly tuckered. Let's go, huh? I'm so sick of the smell of this place. I feel like I'm wearing Wet Dog perfume.\"\n\nWe ducked around the corner to a rather tired saloon called the Bum Rap. The jukebox leaned toward country and western, and Barbara Mandrell was singing about adultery as we took stools at the long dark bar. Carolyn ordered a vodka martini on the rocks. I asked for club soda with lime and got a nod from the bartender and a puzzled stare from Carolyn.\n\n\"It's October,\" she said.\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"Lent's in the spring.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Doctor's orders or something? Giving the old liver a rest?\"\n\n\"Just don't feel like a drink tonight.\"\n\n\"Fair enough. Well, here's to crime. Hey, did I just say something wrong?\"\n\nSo that got me onto the subject of Ray Kirschmann and his mink-loving wife, and it became Carolyn's turn to make sympathetic noises. We've become good at playing that role for one another. She's crowding thirty, with Dutch-cut dark-brown hair and remarkably clear blue eyes. She stands five-one in high heels and never wears them, and she's built like a fire hydrant, which is dangerous in her line of work.\n\nI met her around the time I took over the bookshop. I didn't know Randy as well because I didn't see as much of her; the Poodle Factory was a solo venture of Carolyn's. Randy's a stewardess, or was until she got grounded for biting a passenger. She's taller and thinner than Carolyn, and a year or two younger, and faintly flighty. Randy and I are friends, I suppose, but Carolyn and I are soulmates.\n\nMy soulmate clucked sympathetically. \"Cops are a pain,\" she said. \"Randy had an affair with a cop once. I ever tell you?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"She had this phase she went through, three months or so of panic before she was ready to come out as a lesbian. I think it was some kind of denial mechanism. She slept with dozens of men. This one cop was impotent and she made fun of him and he held his gun to her head and she thought he was going to kill her. Which somebody ought to, and why the hell am I talking about her again, will you tell me that?\"\n\n\"Beats me.\"\n\n\"You got anything on tonight? You still seeing the woman from the art gallery?\"\n\n\"We decided to go our separate ways.\"\n\n\"What about the crazy poet?\"\n\n\"We never really hit it off.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you come by for dinner? I got something sensational working in the slow cooker. I put it in this morning before I remembered how mad I was. It's this Flemish beef stew with beer and shallots and mushrooms and all kinds of good things. I got plenty of Amstel for us to wash it down with, plus some Perrier if you're serious about this temperance bit.\"\n\nI sipped my club soda. \"I wish I could,\" I said. \"But not tonight.\"\n\n\"Something on?\"\n\n\"Just that I'm beat. I'm going straight home, and the most active thing I intend to do is say a quick prayer to St. John of God.\"\n\n\"Is he somebody I should know about?\"\n\n\"He's the patron saint of booksellers.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Who's the patron saint of dog groomers?\"\n\n\"Damned if I know.\"\n\n\"I hope we've got one. I've been bitten and scratched and peed on and I ought to have someplace to turn. As far as that goes, I wonder if there's a patron saint of lesbians. All those cloistered nuns, there damn well ought to be. Seriously, do you suppose there is?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"I could probably find out. I only know about St. John of God because Mr. Litzauer had a framed picture of him in the back room of the shop. But there must be books with lists of the patron saints. I've probably got something in the store, as far as that goes.\"\n\n\"It must be great, having that shop. Like living in a library.\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"The Poodle Factory's like living in a kennel. You going? Hey, have a nice night, Bern.\"\n\n\"Thanks. And I'll check out St. Sappho tomorrow.\"\n\n\"If you get a chance. Hey, is there a patron saint of burglars?\"\n\n\"I'll check that, too.\"\n\nI rode three different subway trains to Broadway and Eighty-sixth and walked a block to Murder Ink, where I sold my shopping bag full of books to Carol Bremer. She got all my vintage mysteries; I could do better wholesaling them to her than waiting for somebody to pick them off my shelves.\n\nShe said, \"Charlie Chan, Philo Vance\u2014this is wonderful, Bernie. I've got want-list customers for all this stuff. Buy you a drink?\"\n\nFor a change everybody wanted to buy me a drink. I told her I'd take a rain check, left her shop just in time to miss a bus on West End Avenue, and walked the sixteen blocks downtown to my apartment. It was a nice crisp fall afternoon and I figured I could use the walk. You don't get all that much fresh air and exercise in a bookstore.\n\nThere was mail in my box. I carried it upstairs and put it in the wastebasket. I was half-undressed when the phone rang. It was a woman I know who runs a day-care center in Chelsea, and the parent of one of her charges had just given her two tickets to the ballet, and wasn't that terrific? I agreed that it was but explained I couldn't make it. \"I'm bushed,\" I said. \"I've ordered myself to go to bed without supper. I was just about to take the phone off the hook when it rang.\"\n\n\"Well, drink some coffee instead. What's-his-name's dancing. You know, the Russian.\"\n\n\"They're all Russians. I'd fall asleep in the middle. Sorry.\"\n\nShe wished me pleasant dreams and broke the connection. I left the phone off the hook. I'd have enjoyed eating Carolyn's beef stew and I'd also have enjoyed watching the Russian hop around the stage, and I didn't want the phone to let me know what else I was missing. It made an eerie sound for a while, then fell into a sullen silence. I finished undressing and turned off the lights and got into bed, and I lay there on my back with my arms at my sides and my eyes closed, breathing slowly and rhythmically and letting my mind go here and there. I either dreamed or daydreamed, and I was in some sort of doze when the alarm went off at nine o'clock. I got up, took a quick shower and shave, put on some clean clothes, and made myself a nice cup of tea. At a quarter after nine I put the phone back on the hook. At precisely nine-twenty it rang.\n\nI picked it up and said hello. My caller said, \"There's been no change.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Things are as planned at your end?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Good,\" he said, and rang off. No names, no pack drill. I looked at the telephone receiver for a moment, then hung it up, then thought better of it and took it off the hook once again. It whined for a while, but by the time I was done with my tea it was quiet.\n\nI finished dressing. I was wearing a three-piece navy pinstripe suit, a Wedgwood-blue shirt, a tie with narrow green and gold diagonal stripes on a navy field. My shoes combined black calfskin moccasin-toe uppers and thick crepe soles. Wearing them, I made no sound as I scurried around the apartment, gathering up one thing and another, making my final preparations.\n\nWhile my shoes were silent, my stomach was rumbling a bit. I hadn't eaten anything since lunch some nine hours earlier. But I didn't want to eat, and I knew better than to drink anything.\n\nNot now.\n\nI checked, made sure I had everything. I went out into the hall, double-locked my own door, then rode the elevator past the lobby to the basement, letting myself out via the service entrance to avoid passing my doorman.\n\nThe air had an edge to it. It wasn't cold enough for mink, but it was certainly topcoat weather. I had mine over my arm, and I took a moment to put it on.\n\nWas there a patron saint of burglars? If so, I didn't know his name. I murmured a quick prayer, addressed it to whom it might concern, and set off to resume my life of crime.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Three\n\nHalfway across the Queensboro Bridge, I happened to glance at the fuel gauge. The needle was all the way over to the left, way past the big E, and I had what suddenly looked like a mile of bridge stretching out in front of me. I could see myself running out of gas smack in the middle of the East River. Horns would blare all around me, and when horns blare, can cops be far behind? They'd be understanding at first, because motorists do get stranded all the time, but their sympathy would fade when they learned I was driving a stolen car. And why, they might wonder, had I stolen a car without checking the gas?\n\nI was wondering much the same thing myself. I stayed in lane and let my foot rest easy on the accelerator, trying to remember what the ecology commercials were always telling me about ways to conserve gasoline. No fast starts, no jamming on the brakes, and don't spend too much time warming up on cold mornings. Sound advice, all of it, but I couldn't see how it applied, and I clutched the steering wheel and waited for the engine to cut out and the world to cave in.\n\nNeither of these things happened. I found a Chevron station a block from the bridge and told the attendant to fill the tank. The car was a sprawling old Pontiac with an engine that never heard about fuel crises, and I sat there and watched it drink twenty-two gallons of high-test. I wondered what the tank's capacity might be. Twenty gallons, I decided, figuring the pumps were crooked. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there.\n\nThe tab came to fifteen dollars and change. I gave the kid a twenty and he gave me a smile in return and pointed to a sign on a pillar between the two pumps. You had to have exact change or a credit card after 8 P.M. Help us thwart crime, the sign urged. I don't know that they were thwarting anything, but they were certainly taking the profit out of it.\n\nI have a couple of credit cards. I've even opened doors with them, although it's not the cinch TV shows might lead you to believe. But I didn't want a record of my presence in Queens, nor did I want anyone copying down the Pontiac's license number. So I let the little snot keep the change, which got me a mean grin, and I drove east on Queens Boulevard mumbling to myself.\n\nIt wasn't the money. What really troubled me was that I'd been driving around unwittingly with an empty tank. The thing is, I don't steal cars very often. I don't even drive them all that frequently, and when I do go and rent one for a weekend in the country, the Olins people give it to me with the tank full. I can be halfway to Vermont before I even have to think about gasoline.\n\nI wasn't going to Vermont tonight, just to Forest Hills, and I could have gone there easily enough on the E train. That's how I'd made the trip a few days earlier when I did some basic reconnaissance. But I hadn't felt like coming home by subway, preferring as I do to avoid public transportation when my arms are full of somebody else's belongings.\n\nAnd when I found the Pontiac on Seventy-fourth Street, I'd figured it for a sign from on high. GM cars are the easiest for me to get into and the simplest to start, and this one had Jersey plates, so no one would be surprised if I drove it eccentrically. Finally, the owner was unlikely to report it stolen. He'd parked it next to a fire hydrant, so he'd have to assume the cops had towed it away.\n\nJesse Arkwright lived in Forest Hills Gardens. Now Forest Hills itself is a nice solid middle-class neighborhood set south of Flushing Meadows in the very center of the Borough of Queens. Three out of four houses there contain at least one woman who plays mah-jongg when she's not at a Weight Watchers meeting. But Forest Hills Gardens is an enclave within an enclave, a little pocket of haute bourgeoise respectability. Every house is three stories tall, with gables and a tile roof. All of the lawns are manicured, all of the shrubbery under tight discipline. A neighborhood association owns the very streets themselves, keeping them in good repair and restricting on-street parking to neighborhood residents.\n\nCars from underprivileged neighborhoods make frequent forays into the quiet streets of Forest Hills Gardens, their occupants darting out to knock down matrons and make off with alligator handbags. And private police cruisers patrol those same streets twenty-four hours a day to keep that sort of thing to a minimum. It's not Beverly Hills, say, where every pedestrian is perforce a suspicious character, but the security's pretty tight.\n\nIt's even tighter on Copperwood Crescent, an elegant semicircle where massive piles of stone and brick sprawl on spacious wooded lots. The residents of Copperwood Crescent include a shipping-line heir, two upper-echelon mafiosi, the owner of a chain of budget funeral parlors, and two to three dozen similarly well-heeled citizens. One private cop car has as its sole responsibility the safeguarding of Copperwood Crescent, along with four adjoining and similarly exclusive streets\u2014Ironwood Place, Silverwood Place, Pewterwood Place, and Chancery Drive.\n\nIf Forest Hills Gardens is the soft underbelly of Queens, Copperwood Crescent is the ruby in its navel.\n\nI didn't have any trouble finding the ruby. On my earlier trip I'd walked all around the neighborhood armed with pocket atlas and clipboard\u2014a man with a clipboard never looks out of place. I'd found Copperwood Crescent then and I found it now, barely slowing the Pontiac as I rolled past Jesse Arkwright's house, an enormous beamed Tudor number. On each of the three floors a light burned in a mullioned window.\n\nAt the end of Copperwood Crescent I took a sharp left into Bellnap Court, a quiet block-long cul-de-sac that was out of bounds for the Copperwood-Ironwood-Silverwood-Pewterwood-Chancery patrol car. I parked at the curb between a couple of sizable oaks and cut the engine, removing my jumper wire from the ignition.\n\nYou need a sticker to park on the street, but that's to keep commuters from cluttering the area during daylight hours. Nobody gets towed at night. I left the car there and walked back to Copperwood Crescent. If the patrol car was on the job, I didn't see it, nor did I notice anyone else walking about.\n\nThe same three lights were lit in the Arkwright house. Without hesitation I walked the length of the driveway at the right of the house. I shined my pencil-beam flashlight through a garage window. A gleaming Jaguar sedan crouched on one side of the garage. The other stall was quite empty.\n\nGood.\n\nI went to the side door. Below the bell on the doorjamb was an inch-square metal plate slotted for a key. A red light glowed within, indicating that the burglar alarm was set. If I were Mr. Arkwright, equipped with the proper key, I could insert it in the slot and turn off the alarm. If, on the other hand, I were to insert anything other than the proper key, sirens would commence to sound and some signal would go off in the nearest police station.\n\nFine.\n\nI rang the doorbell. The car was gone and the alarm was set, but you just never know, and the burglar least likely to wind up in the slam is the sort of chap who wears suspenders and a belt, just in case. I'd rung this bell before, when I'd come calling with my clipboard, asking meaningless questions in aid of a nonexistent sewer survey. As then, I listened to the four-note chime sound within the huge old house. I pressed my ear to the heavy door and listened carefully, and when the chimes quit echoing I heard nothing at all. No footsteps, no sign of human life. I rang again, and again I heard nothing.\n\nGood.\n\nI walked around to the rear of the house again. For a moment I just stood there. It was pleasant enough, the air uncharacteristically clear and clean. The moon wasn't visible from where I stood but I could see a scattering of stars overhead. What really awed me was the silence. Queens Boulevard was only blocks away but I couldn't hear any of its traffic. I suppose the trees kept the noise at bay.\n\nI felt hundreds of miles from New York. The Arkwright house belonged in a Gothic novel, brooding over windswept moors.\n\nMyself, I had no time for brooding. I put on my rubber gloves\u2014skintight, their palms cut out for comfort's sake\u2014and went to have a look at the kitchen door.\n\nThank God for burglar alarms and pickproof locks and tight security systems. They all help discourage the amateurs even as they give the citizenry a nice sense of safety and well-being. Without them, everybody would stash all the good stuff in safe-deposit boxes. Beyond that, they help make burglary the challenging occupation I've always found it. If any splay-fingered oaf could do as well, what fun would it be?\n\nThe Arkwright home had a first-rate burglar alarm, Fischer Systems' model NCN-30. I could see for myself that it was wired to all the ground-floor doors and windows. It might or might not have been connected to higher windows\u2014most people don't take the trouble\u2014but I didn't want to walk up a wall to find out one way or the other. It was simpler to rewire the system.\n\nThere are a few ways to beat a burglar alarm. One brutally direct method calls for cutting the lines supplying power to the house. This does lack subtlety\u2014all the lights go out, for openers\u2014and it's counter-productive when you're dealing with a good system like the NCN-30, because they have fail-safe devices that trigger them under such circumstances. (This can have interesting ramifications during a power failure, incidentally.)\n\nAh, well. I used some wires of my own, splicing them neatly into the picture, wrapping their ends ever so neatly with electrical tape, and by the time I was done the alarm was working as well as it had ever worked, but for the fact that it no longer covered the kitchen door. A regiment of cavalry could parade through that door without NCN-30 kicking up a fuss. The whole operation was more than your average burglar could do, and isn't it lucky that I'm not your average burglar?\n\nWith the alarm hors de combat, I turned my attention to the thick oak door, an hors of another color. A skeleton key opened its original lock, but there were two others, a Segal and a Rabson. I held my little flashlight in one hand and my ring of picks and probes in the other and went to work, pausing now and again to press an ear against the thick wood. (It's like seashells; if you listen carefully you can hear the forest.) When the last tumbler tumbled I turned the knob and tugged and shoved and nothing happened.\n\nThere was a manual bolt on the inside. I ran the flashlight beam down the edge of the door until I located it, then made use of a handy little tool I'd fashioned from a hacksaw blade, slipping it between door and jamb and working it to and fro until the bolt parted. I tried the door again, and wouldn't you know there was a chain lock that stopped it when it was three inches ajar? I could have sawed through that as well, but why? It was easier to slip my hand inside and unscrew the chain lock from its moorings.\n\nI pushed the door all the way open and made an illegal entry a crooked accountant would have been proud of. For a moment I just stood there, glowing, radiant. Then I closed the door and locked the locks. I couldn't do anything about the bolt I'd sawed through, but I did take a moment to restore the chain bolt.\n\nThen I set out to explore the house.\n\nThere's absolutely nothing like it.\n\nForget everything I said to Ray Kirschmann. True, I was getting older. True, I shrank from the prospect of getting chewed by attack dogs and shot by irate householders and locked by the authorities in some pickproof penitentiary cell. True, true, all of it true, and so what? None of it mattered a whit when I was inside someone else's dwelling place with all his worldly goods spread out before me like food on a banquet table. By God, I wasn't that old! I wasn't that scared!\n\nI'm not proud of this. I could spout a lot of bilge about the criminal being the true existential hero of our times, but what for? I don't buy it myself. I'm not nuts about criminals and one of the worst things about prison was having to associate with them. I'd prefer to live as an honest man among honest men, but I haven't yet found an honest pursuit that lets me feel this way. I wish there were a moral equivalent of larceny, but there isn't. I'm a born thief and I love it.\n\nI made my way through a butler's pantry and an enormous brick-floored kitchen, crossing a hallway to the formal living room. The light I'd noted from the street cast a warm glow over the room. It was a noteworthy object in and of itself, a leaded-glass dragonfly lamp by Tiffany. I'd last seen one in an antique shop on upper Madison Avenue with a $1,500 tag on it, and that was a few years ago.\n\nBut I hadn't come all the way to Queens to steal furniture. I'd come with a very specific purpose, and I didn't really need to be in the living room at all. I didn't have to take inventory, but old habits die hard, and I could hardly avoid it.\n\nThe lamp made it easy, saving me the trouble of using my flashlight. There was a timer so that it would turn itself off during daylight hours and resume its vigil at dusk, burning bravely until dawn, announcing to passers-by that nobody was home.\n\nConsiderate of them, I thought, to leave a light for the burglar.\n\nThe lamp was perched on an ornamental French kneehole desk. Four of the desk's six drawers were fakes, but one of the others held a Patek Philippe pocket watch with a hunting scene engraved on its case.\n\nI closed the drawer without disturbing the watch.\n\nThe dining room was worth a look. A sideboard absolutely loaded with silver, including two complete sets of sterling tableware and a ton of hallmarked Georgian serving pieces. No end of fine porcelain and crystal.\n\nI left everything undisturbed.\n\nThe library, also on the ground floor, was a room I would have gladly called my own. It measured perhaps twelve by twenty feet, with a glorious Kerman carpet covering most of the buffed parquet floor. Custom-built bookshelves of limed English oak lined two walls. In the middle of the room, centered beneath a fruited Tiffany shade, stood a tournament-size pool table. At the room's far end, twin portraits of Arkwright ancestors in gilded oval frames looked down in solemn approbation.\n\nA pair of wall racks, one holding cue sticks, the other a locked cabinet that displayed sporting rifles and shotguns. A couple of overstuffed leather chairs. An elaborate bar, the crystal glassware etched with game birds in flight. Enough liquor in one form or another to float a fair-sized cabin cruiser, plus decanters of sherry and port and brandy placed at convenient intervals about the room. A smoker's stand, mahogany, with a few dozen briar pipes and two cased meerschaums. A cedar cabinet of Havanas. A whole room of brass and wood and leather, and I yearned to nail the door shut and pour myself a stiff Armagnac and stay there forever.\n\nInstead I scanned the bookshelves. They were a jumble, but there was no shortage of dollar value. While they ran heavily to uncut sets of leather-bound memoirs of unremembered hangers-on at pre-Revolutionary Versailles, there were plenty of other items as well, many of which I'd never seen outside of the catalogs of the better book dealers and auction galleries. I happened on a pristine first of Smollet's rarest novel, The Adventures of Sir Laurence Greaves, and there were any number of fine bindings and important first editions and Limited Editions Club issues and private press productions, all arranged in no discernible order and according to no particular plan.\n\nI took one book from the shelves. It was bound in green cloth and not much larger than an ordinary paperback. I opened it and read the flowing inscription on the flyleaf. I paged through it, closed it, and put it back on the shelf.\n\nI left the library as I'd found it.\n\nThe stairs were dark. I used my flashlight, went up and down the staircase three times. There was one board that creaked and I made sure I knew which one it was. Fourth from the top.\n\nThe others were comfortingly silent.\n\nTwin beds in the master bedroom, each with its own bedside table. His and hers closets. His ran to Brooks Brothers suits and cordovan shoes. I especially liked one navy suit with a muted stripe. It wasn't that different from the one I was wearing. Her closet was full of dresses and furs, including one Ray's wife would have salivated over. Good labels in everything. A drawer in the dressing table\u2014French Provincial, white enamel, gold trim\u2014held a lot of jewelry. A cocktail ring caught my eye, a stylish little item with a large marquise-cut ruby surrounded by seed pearls.\n\nThere was some cash in the top drawer of one of the bedside tables, a couple hundred dollars in tens and twenties. In the other table I found a bank-book\u2014eighteen hundred dollars in a savings account in the name of Elfrida Grantham Arkwright.\n\nI didn't take any of these things. I didn't take the Faberg\u00e9 eggs from the top of the chest of drawers, or the platinum cuff links and tie bar, or any of the wristwatches, or, indeed, anything at all.\n\nIn Jesse Arkwright's study, all the way at the rear of the house's second floor, I found a whole batch of bankbooks. Seven of them, secured by a rubber band, shared the upper right drawer of his desk with postage stamps and account ledgers and miscellaneous debris. The savings accounts all had sizable balances and the quick mental total I ran came to a little better than sixty thousand dollars.\n\nI'll tell you. It gave me pause.\n\nI once knew a fellow who'd been tossing an apartment in Murray Hill, filling a pillowcase with jewelry and silver, when he came across a bankbook with a balance in five figures. Clever lad that he was, he promptly turned his pillowcase inside out and put everything back where he'd found it. He left the premises looking as though he'd never visited them in the first place, taking nothing but that precious bankbook. That way the residents wouldn't know they'd been burgled, and wouldn't miss the bankbook, and he could drain their account before they suspected a thing.\n\nAh, the best-laid plans. He presented himself at the teller's window the very next morning, withdrawal slip in hand and bankbook at the ready. It was a small withdrawal\u2014he was merely testing the waters\u2014but that particular teller happened to know that particular depositor by sight, and the next thing the chap knew he was doing a medium-long bit in Dannemora, which is when I ran into him.\n\nSo much for bankbooks.\n\nSo much, too, for a double handful of Krugerrands, those large gold coins the South Africans stamp out for people who want to invest in the yellow metal. I like gold\u2014what's not to like?\u2014but they were in a drawer with a handgun, and I dislike guns at least as much as I like gold. The ones in the library were for show, at least. This one was here for shooting burglars.\n\nSo much for the Krugerrands. So much, too, for a shoulder-height set of glassed-in shelves full of Boehm birds and Art Nouveau vases and glass paperweights. I spotted a Lalique ashtray just like the one on my grandmother's coffee table, and a positive gem of a Daum Nancy vase, and Baccarat and Millefiori weights galore, and\u2014\n\nIt was starting to get to me. I couldn't look anywhere without seeing ten things I wanted to steal. Every flat surface in that study held bronzes, all of them impressive. Besides the usual bulls and lions and horses, I noticed one of a camel kneeling alongside a Legionnaire. The latter wore a kepi on his head and a pained expression on his face, as if he were sick of jokes about Legionnaire's Disease.\n\nA couple of stamp albums. One general worldwide collection that didn't look to be worth much, but the other was a Scott Specialty Album for the Benelux countries, and a quick thumbing didn't reveal too many blank spaces.\n\nAnd a coin collection. Lord above, a coin collection! No albums, just a dozen black cardboard boxes two inches square and ten inches long. Each was crammed to capacity with two-by-two coin envelopes. I didn't have time to check them but I couldn't resist. I opened one box at random and found it was filled with Barber quarters and halves, all Proofs or Uncirculated specimens. Another box contained superb Large Cents catalogued by Sheldon numbers.\n\nHow could I possibly leave them?\n\nI left them. I didn't take a thing.\n\nI was in one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor, playing my penlight over the walls and admiring a very nice pencil-signed Rouault lithograph, when I heard a car in the driveway. I checked my watch. It was 11:23. I listened as the automatic garage door swung upward, listened as the car's engine cut out. As the garage door swung down again I quit listening and walked the length of the hall to the staircase leading to the third floor. I was up those stairs and crouching on the third-floor landing by the time Jesse Arkwright's key hit the slot at the side of the house. First he turned off the burglar alarm, then he opened the door, and I fancied I could hear him refastening half a dozen locks after he and Elfrida had made their entrance.\n\nMuffled conversation, barely audible two floors below me. I moved a rubber-gloved forefinger and wiped perspiration from my forehead. I'd planned on this, of course. I'd even checked the attic stairs earlier to make sure there were no squeakers in the lot.\n\nAll the same, I didn't like it. Burglary's a tightly wired proposition at best, but I generally get to do my work in precious solitude. If householders come home while I'm on the job, my usual impulse is to depart abruptly.\n\nThis time I had to linger.\n\nTwo floors below, a teakettle whistled briefly, then sighed as someone removed it from the flame. For an instant I'd mistaken its cry for a police siren. Nerves, I thought, taking deep breaths, beseeching the patron saint of burglars for a dose of serenity.\n\nMaybe I'd been right when I talked to Kirschmann. Maybe I was getting too old for this. Maybe I didn't have the requisite sang-froid. Maybe\u2014\n\nCrouching was uncomfortable. I got stiffly to my feet. The attic was finished off, its central hallway covered with a length of faded maroon carpeting. I walked clear to the front of the house, where a brass floorlamp equipped with a timer sent out forty watts' worth of light through a curtained window. A maid's room, it looked to be, although the household no longer employed live-in servants.\n\nA day bed stretched along one wall. I lay down on top of it pulled a green and gold afghan coverlet over myself, and closed my eyes.\n\nI couldn't really hear much from where I was. At one point I thought I heard footsteps on the stairs, and then a few moments later I fancied that I could hear the clatter of balls on the pool table in the library. This was probably a case of my imagination filling in the blanks. After an evening at the theater, the Arkwright routine was supposed to be quite predictable. Home around eleven-thirty, a spot of coffee and something sweet in the breakfast nook, and then Elfrida would pop upstairs with a book of crosswords while Jesse ran a rack or two at the pool table, nipped at one of the crystal decanters, read a few pages of one of his leather-bound classics, and then hied his own bulk up the stairs and joined his wife in their chamber.\n\nWould he take a final tour of the downstairs, making sure all the doors were locked? Would he happen to check the sliding bolt on the kitchen door, and would he happen to notice that some clever chap had sawn through it? Was he, even as I thought these grim thoughts, lifting a receiver to summon the local constabulary?\n\nI could have been at the ballet, watching a Russian imitate a gazelle. I could have gone home with Carolyn and eaten Flemish stew and drunk Dutch beer. Or I could have been home in my own little bed.\n\nI stayed where I was and I waited.\n\nAt one-thirty I got to my feet. I hadn't heard a sound within the house for an entire half-hour. I padded silently to the stairs, crossing right over the master bedroom where I hoped my hosts were sleeping soundly. I went down the stairs, treading ever so gingerly on my crepe soles, and I crossed the second-floor hallway and went on down the other stairs to the ground floor. It was no great feat to remember to avoid the fourth step from the top; I'd obsessed on that very subject for the past twenty minutes.\n\nThe lights were out once again on the ground floor, except for the indomitable dragonfly lamp in the living room. I didn't have to use my penlight to find my way to the library, but once I was in that room I played its beam here and there.\n\nArkwright had paid the room his nightly visit. He'd left a pool cue on top of the table, along with the cue ball and one or two of its fellows. A small brandy snifter stood on a leather-topped table beside one of the big chain. It was empty, but a quick sniff revealed it had recently held cognac\u2014a very good cognac at that, judging from the bouquet.\n\nThere was a book next to the snifter, Sheridan's Plays, bound in red leather. Bedtime reading.\n\nI went to the bookshelves. Had Arkwright inspected the little green clothbound volume as part of his nightly ritual? I couldn't tell, as it was right where I'd found it earlier in the evening. But it was his treasure. He'd probably had a look at it.\n\nI took it from the shelf and just managed to fit it into my jacket pocket. Then I nudged the surrounding volumes so as to fill up the space where it had been.\n\nAnd left the library.\n\nHe had turned off the alarm to enter the house, then reset it once he and Elfrida were inside. All the while, of course, the alarm system continued to guard all of the house but the kitchen door. I now left through that very portal, closing it after me and relocking its three locks by picking them in reverse. I had to leave the chain bolt dangling and I couldn't do anything about the bolt I'd hacksawed earlier. Nobody's perfect.\n\nI was very damned close to perfection, though, in the way I restored the alarm system, rewiring it to render the kitchen door once more unbreachable. Every impulse urged me to quit Arkwright's property while I had the chance, but I spent a few extra minutes, and only an imperceptible scrap of electrical tape hinted that the wires had ever been tampered with.\n\nProfessionalism? I call it the relentless pursuit of excellence.\n\nI had almost reached the end of Copperwood Crescent when the police car turned the corner. I managed to furnish a smile and a perfunctory nod without breaking stride. They went along their merry way, and why not? They'd seen only a well-dressed and self-possessed gentleman who looked as though he belonged.\n\nThey hadn't seen any palmless rubber gloves. Those wound up tucked in a pocket before I left the Arkwright driveway.\n\nThe Pontiac was where I'd left it. I hooked up my jumper wire and was on my way. In due course I was back on West Seventy-fourth Street. One nice thing about swiping a car from a hydrant is you can generally put it back where you found it. I did just that, pulling in next to the fireplug even as a brindle boxer was lifting a leg against it. I unhooked my jumper wire and got out of the car, careful to push down the lock buttons before I swung the door shut.\n\nThe boxer's equally brindle owner, leash in one hand and wad of paper towel in the other, admonished me that I was risking a ticket or a tow. I couldn't think of an answer so I walked off without giving him one.\n\n\"Crazy,\" he told the dog. \"They're all crazy here, Max.\"\n\nI couldn't argue with that.\n\nIn my own apartment, nibbling cheese and crunching Triscuits and sipping the special-occasion Scotch, I let go and enjoyed the glow that comes afterward on those too-rare occasions where everything goes like clockwork. All the tension, all the discomfort, all the anxiety\u2014it was all bought and paid for by moments like this.\n\nEarlier, stretched out on that lumpy day bed, I'd been unable to stop thinking of all the treasures the Arkwright house contained. The cash, the jewels, the stamps, the coins, the objets d'art. I'd had fantasies of backing a moving van onto the lawn and just stealing every damned thing, from the oriental rugs on the floors to the cut-crystal chandeliers overhead. That, I'd decided, was really the only way to do it. A person who wanted to be selective would have his problems. He wouldn't know what to steal first.\n\nAnd what did I have for my troubles?\n\nI picked up the book, taking pains not to dribble Scotch on it, though someone had dribbled one thing or another on it over the years. It certainly didn't look like such a much, and the leisurely inspection I could give it now was disclosing flaws I hadn't spotted earlier. There was water damage on the front cover. Some of the pages had been foxed. The past half-century had not been gentle with the little volume, and no bookseller could conscientiously grade it higher than Very Good.\n\nI flipped through it, read a stanza here and a stanza there. The author's meter was unmistakable and he had never lost his dexterity at rhyming, but what I was reading looked like doggerel to me.\n\nFor this I'd passed up Krugerrands and Barber Proofs, Faberg\u00e9 and Baccarat and Daum Nancy. For this I'd returned the pearl-and-ruby ring to its little velvet case.\n\nMr. Whelkin would be proud of me.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Four\n\nI met J. Rudyard Whelkin on a slow midweek morning two weeks prior to my little venture in breaking and entering. The Yankees had just dropped the first two games of the Series, and the night before I'd watched a kid barely old enough to shave strike out Reggie Jackson with the bases loaded. This morning it was damp and drizzly, and it figured.\n\nI hadn't had any customers yet and I didn't much care; I was settled in behind the counter with a paperback. I don't stock paperbacks, and the ones that come in I wholesale to a guy on Third and Sixteenth who deals in nothing else.\n\nSometimes, though, I read them first. The one I was reading was one of Richard Stark's books about Parker. Parker's a professional thief, and every book runs pretty much to form\u2014Parker puts together a string of crooks, he goes someplace like Spartanburg, South Carolina, to buy guns and a truck, he gets a dentist in Yankton Falls to put up front money for the operation, he and his buddies pull the job, and then something goes horribly wrong. If nothing went horribly wrong, all of the books would end around page 70 and by now Parker would own his own island in the Caribbean.\n\nLast time I was inside, everybody was a big fan of Parker's. My colleagues read everything they could get their hands on about him, even if they had to move their lips to get the job done. I swear there were grizzled cons in that joint who would walk around quoting passages at each other, especially parts where Parker maimed someone. One safecracker always quoted the part where Parker settled a score with an unworthy fellow laborer by breaking three important bones and leaving him in a swamp. It was the adjective that did it for him, the idea of deliberately breaking important bones.\n\nI had just reached the part where Parker was putting in an urgent call to Handy McKay at his diner in Presque Isle, Maine, when the little bells above the door tinkled to announce I had company. I moved the paperback out of sight as my visitor approached the counter. After all, antiquarian booksellers have an image to protect. We're not supposed to read trash.\n\nHe was a stout man, florid of face, jowly as a bulldog, with thinning mahogany hair combed straight back over a glossy salmon scalp. He wore a charcoal-brown herringbone tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, a tobacco-brown sweater vest, a tan oxford-cloth shirt with a button-down collar, a chocolate-brown knit tie. His trousers were fawn cavalry twill, his shoes brown wing tips. He had a long narrow nose, a graying guardsman's mustache. His eyebrows were untamed tangles of briar; beneath them his eyes (brown, to match his outfit) were keen and cool and just a trifle bloodshot.\n\nHe asked if Mr. Litzauer was expected, and I explained about the change in ownership. \"Ah,\" he said. \"No wonder he hasn't been in touch. I'm a collector, you see, and he always lets me know when he runs across an item I might fancy.\"\n\n\"What do you collect?\"\n\n\"Victorian poets, for the most part, but I follow my taste, you know. I'm partial to artful rhymers. Thomas Hood. Algernon Charles Swinburne. William Mackworth Praed. Kipling, of course, is my keenest enthusiasm.\"\n\nI told him whatever I had was on the shelves. He went to look for himself and I got Parker out from beneath the counter and returned to vicarious crime. Two of Parker's henchpersons were just getting ready to set up a doublecross when my tweedy customer presented himself once again at the counter, a small clothbound volume in hand. It contained the collected lyric poems of Austin Dobson and I had it priced at six or seven dollars, something like that. He paid in cash and I wrapped it for him.\n\n\"If you happen on anything you think I might like,\" he said, \"you might want to ring me up.\"\n\nHe handed me his card. It bore his name, an address in the East Thirties, and a phone number with a MUrray Hill 8 exchange. The card conveyed no suggestion of what the man did for a living.\n\nI looked from it to him. \"You collect Kipling,\" I said.\n\n\"Among others, yes.\"\n\n\"Is there a family connection?\"\n\nHe smiled broadly. \"Because of the name, you mean? Natural guess, of course. But no, I'm no relative of Kipling's. Rudyard's not a family name, you see. It's the name of a lake.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"In Staffordshire. Kipling's parents first met on a picnic at Lake Rudyard. When in due course their son was born he was given the lake's name as a middle name. His first name was Joseph, actually, although he never did use it and was known as Ruddy from earliest childhood.\"\n\n\"And your first name\u2014\"\n\n\"Is James, as it happens, and I don't use it either. James Rudyard Whelkin. I was eight years old when Kipling died and I remember the day very well. That was in 1936, just two days after George V preceded him to the grave. A day of mourning in our household, as you can well imagine. My father admired Kipling enormously. He'd have to have done, to name his only son after him, wouldn't he? Because I was named for Kipling, of course, not for a lake in Staffordshire. 'First the old king and now the Bard of Empire,' my father said. 'Mark my words, Ruddy. There'll be war in Europe within the next two years.' He was off by a year of course, and I don't suppose Kipling's demise had much to do with Hitler's invading Poland, but it all linked up in the old fellow's mind, you see.\" He smiled fiercely and his great eyebrows shook. \"Are you interested in Kipling, Mr. Rhodenbarr?\"\n\n\"I read him when I was a kid.\"\n\n\"You might try him again. He's returning to fashion, you know, after altogether too many years of neglect. Have you had a look at Kim lately? Or The Light That Failed? Or\u2014But reading must be a bit of a busman's holiday for you, eh? Must grow sick and tired of the printed word by the end of a long day.\"\n\n\"Oh, I still enjoy reading. And maybe I will try Kipling again.\"\n\n\"Do. There's books on your own shelves, for a starter.\" An appraising glance from his alert brown eyes. \"I say, sir. Do you suppose you could possibly lunch with me this afternoon? I might have something to say that would interest you.\"\n\n\"I'd like that.\"\n\n\"My club, then. Do you know the Martingale? And how's half past twelve?\"\n\nI told him I knew where the club was, and that twelve-thirty was fine.\n\nHe'd already said something that interested me.\n\nThe Martingale Club was just right for him, a good match for his dress and his faintly pukka sahib manner. It stood at the corner of Madison Avenue and Thirtieth Street and was decorated largely with uncomfortable Jacobean oak furniture and the heads of innumerable dead animals.\n\nWe dined in a fair-sized room on the second floor under the glass-eyed stare of a bison allegedly shot by Theodore Roosevelt for reasons I could not begin to guess. Lunch was a leathery mixed grill with thawed green peas and spineless French fried potatoes. The waiter who brought this mess to the table was a rheumy-eyed chap who walked as though his feet were killing him. He looked almost as woebegone as the bison.\n\nWhelkin and I talked books through the meal, then both turned down dessert. The sad waiter brought us a large silver coffeepot of the sort they used to serve you on trains. The coffee was even better than the old Pennsy dining car once supplied, rich and winy and aromatic.\n\nOur table was next to a pair of casement windows. I sipped my coffee and looked out at Madison Avenue. The last of the Good Humor men was doing light business on the corner. In a matter of days he'd be gone, yielding place to a seller of hot pretzels and chestnuts as the seasons changed in their inexorable fashion. You couldn't watch the leaves turn, not from this window, but you could mark time's passage by keeping an eye on the street vendors.\n\nWhelkin cleared his throat, interrupting this reverie. \"H. Rider Haggard,\" he said. \"I told you I collect him as well?\"\n\n\"I think you mentioned him.\"\n\n\"Interesting man. Did for South Africa what Kipling did for India. She, King Solomon's Mines\u2014but of course you know his work.\"\n\n\"In a general way.\"\n\n\"He and Kipling became great friends, you know. Both of them were on the outs with the Bloomsbury crowd. Both lived long enough to see their own literary reputations fade dismally. The public came to think of them in the same breath as apologists for a discredited imperialism. Do you know the J. K. Stephens poem?\"\n\nI didn't even know whom he was talking about, but he managed to quote the poem from memory:\n\n\"Will there never come a season\n\nWhich shall rid us from the curse\n\nOf a prose which knows no reason\n\nAnd an unmelodious verse:\n\nWhen the world shall cease to wonder\n\nAt the genius of an Ass,\n\nAnd a boy's eccentric blunder\n\nShall not bring success to pass:\n\nWhen mankind shall be delivered\n\nFrom the clash of magazines,\n\nAnd the inkstand shall be shivered\n\nInto countless smithereens:\n\nWhen there stands a muzzled stripling,\n\nMute, beside a muzzled bore:\n\nWhen the Rudyards cease from Kipling\n\nAnd the Haggards Ride no more.\"\n\nHe moved to refill our coffee cups. \"Nasty piece of billingsgate, eh? One of many such. Just drove the two of them closer together, however. Haggard spent as much time at Kipling's house in Surrey as he did at home. They'd actually work together in Kipling's study, sitting on opposite ends of the long desk, batting ideas back and forth, then scribbling away furiously at one thing or another.\"\n\n\"Interesting,\" I said.\n\n\"Isn't it? Not too long after the 1918 Armistice the two men set about organizing the Liberty League, a sort of anti-Communist affair which never got terribly far off the ground. The bit of doggerel someone wrote gives a fair idea of the Liberty League's slant on current affairs. You know the poem?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"It's cleverly rhymed, and I think I mentioned my admiration for a facility at rhyming.\n\n\" 'Every Bolsh is a blackguard,'\n\nSaid Kipling to Haggard.\n\n'And given to tippling,'\n\nSaid Haggard to Kipling.\n\n'And a blooming outsider,'\n\nSaid Rudyard to Rider.\n\n'Their domain is a bloodyard,'\n\nSaid Rider to Rudyard.\n\n\"Neatly done, don't you think? I could quote others of a similar nature but I'll spare you that.\"\n\nI very nearly thanked him. I was beginning to think I'd been mistaken, that he'd just brought me here to quote verse at me. Well, at least the coffee was good.\n\nThen he said, \"Liberty League. After it fell apart, Kipling went through a difficult time. His health was poor. Gastritis, which he thought might be symptomatic of cancer. Turned out he had duodenal ulcers. He was subject to depression and it may have affected his thinking.\n\n\"The man became briefly fixated on the curious notion that the British Empire was menaced by an unholy alliance of Jewish international financiers and Jewish Bolsheviks. These two unlikely forces were joining together to destroy Christianity by wresting the overseas empire from the British crown. Kipling wasn't the sort of moral degenerate to whom anti-Semitism comes naturally, and he didn't persist in it for any length of time, nor did it color his work to a considerable extent.\n\n\"But he did write one extremely bizarre piece of work on an anti-Semitic theme. It was a narrative poem in ballad meter, some three thousand two hundred lines called The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. The plot line concerns the efforts of a gallant British regiment to save India from a revolution stirred up by Jewish agitators, and it's quite clear that the battle for Fort Bucklow is not merely the decisive battle of this war but Kipling's version of the Battle of Armageddon, with the forces of Good and Evil pitted against one another to decide the fate of humankind.\n\n\"Do you remember Soldiers Three? Learoyd, Ortheris and Mulvaney? Kipling brought them back to make them the heroes who deliver Fort Bucklow and save the day for God and King George. Oh, there are some stirring battle scenes, and there's a moment when 'two brave men stand face to face' in a manner reminiscent of The Ballad of East and West, but poor Kipling was miles from the top of his form when he wrote it. The premise is absurd, the resolution is weak, and there are elements of frightful unwitting self-parody. He often skated rather close to the edge of self-parody, you know, and here he lost his footing.\n\n\"Perhaps he recognized this himself. Perhaps his vision of the Hebraic Conspiracy embraced the world of publishing. In any event, he didn't offer The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow to his London publishers. He may have planned to do so ultimately, but in the meantime he elected to safeguard the copyright by bringing out the poem in a small private edition.\"\n\n\"Ah.\"\n\n\"Ah indeed, sir. Kipling found a printer named Smithwick & Son in Tunbridge Wells. If Smithwick ever printed another book before or since, I've never heard of it. But he did print this one, and in an edition of only one hundred fifty copies. It's not fine printing by any means because Smithwick wasn't capable of it. But he got the job done, and the book's quite a rarity.\"\n\n\"It must be. One hundred fifty copies...\"\n\nWhelkin smiled widely. \"That's how many were printed. How many do you suppose survive?\"\n\n\"I have no idea. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow? I've never heard the title.\"\n\n\"I'm not surprised.\"\n\n\"Fifty copies? Seventy-five? I have no idea what the survival rate would be.\"\n\nThe coffeepot was empty. Whelkin frowned and rang a bell mounted on the wall. He didn't say anything until the waiter limped over with a fresh pot.\n\nThen he said, \"Kipling wrote the poem in 1923. He'd hoped to give out copies to close friends for Christmas that year, but the holiday had come and gone before Smithwick was able to make delivery. So Kipling decided to hold them over for Christmas of '24, but sometime in the course of the year he seems to have come to his senses, recognizing the poem as a scurrilous piece of Jew-baiting tripe and bad verse in the bargain.\n\n\"As was his custom, Kipling had presented his wife, Carrie, with an inscribed copy. He asked for it back. He'd given another copy to a Surrey neighbor of his named Lonsdale as a birthday gift in early spring and he managed to get it back as well, giving the man several other books in exchange. These two books, as well as the other bound volumes, the printer's proofs, and the original holograph manuscript plus the typed manuscript from which Smithwick set type\u2014all of this went up the chimney at Bateman's.\"\n\n\"Bateman's?\"\n\n\"Bateman's was the name of Kipling's house. There's an undated letter to a London acquaintance, evidently written in the late summer or early fan of '24, in which Kipling talks of having felt like an erring Israelite who had just sacrificed a child by fire to Moloch. 'But this was a changeling, this bad child of mine, and it was with some satisfaction I committed it to the flames.' \" Whelkin sighed with contentment, sipped coffee, placed his cup in its saucer. \"And that,\" he said, \"was the end of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.\"\n\n\"Except that it wasn't.\"\n\n\"Of course not, Mr. Rhodenbarr. The Rider Haggard copy still existed. Kipling, of course, had given a copy to his closest friend almost as soon as he received the edition from Smithwick. Had it slipped his mind when he set about recalling the other copies? I don't think so.\n\n\"Haggard, you see, was in failing health. And Kipling had dedicated the book to Haggard, and had added a personal inscription to Haggard's own copy, a paragraph running to over a hundred words in which he hailed Haggard as a kindred spirit who shared the author's vision of the peril of Jewish-inspired holocaust, or words to that effect. I believe there's a letter of Rider Haggard's in the collection of the University of Texas acknowledging the gift and praising the poem. After all that, Kipling may have been understandably reluctant to disown the work and ask for the book's return. In any event, the copy was still in Haggard's possession upon his death the following year.\"\n\n\"Then what happened to it?\"\n\n\"It was sold along with the rest of Haggard's library, and no one seems to have paid any immediate attention to it. The world didn't know the book existed, and no doubt it was sold in a lot with the other copies of Kipling's works, and for very little money, I'm sure. It came to light shortly after Kipling's death\u2014not the copy, but the realization that Kipling had written an anti-Semitic poem. The British Union of Fascists wanted to disseminate it, and Unity Mitford was rumored to have been on the trail of the Haggard copy when war broke out between Britain and Germany.\n\n\"Nothing further was heard until after the war, when the Haggard copy turned up in the possession of a North Country baronet, who sold it privately. There were supposed to have been two or three additional private transactions before the volume was scheduled to appear in Trebizond & Partners auction of effects from the estate of the twelfth Lord Ponsonby.\"\n\n\"You say scheduled to appear?\"\n\nHe nodded shortly. \"Scheduled, catalogued and withdrawn. Six weeks ago I took one of Freddie Laker's no-frills flights to London with the sole purpose of bidding on that book. I calculated that the competition would be keen. There are some rabid Kipling collectors, you know, and his reputation's been making a comeback. The University of Texas has a well-endowed library and their Kipling collection is a sound one. I expected there would be buyers for other institutions as well.\"\n\n\"Did you expect to outbid them?\"\n\n\"I expected to try. I didn't know just how high I myself was prepared to go, and of course I had no way of knowing what levels the bidding might reach. Upon arriving in London, I learned there was a Saudi who wanted that particular lot, and rumor had it that an agent for some sort of Indian prince or Maharajah was paying extraordinary prices for top-level Kiplingana. Could I have outbid such persons? I don't know. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow is interesting and unique, but it hasn't been publicized sufficiently to have become important, really, and the work itself is of low quality from a literary standpoint.\" He frowned, and his eyebrows quivered. \"Still in all, I should have liked the chance to bid in open auction.\"\n\n\"But the lot was withdrawn.\"\n\n\"By the heirs prior to sale. The gentleman from Trebizond's was quite apologetic, and reasonably indignant himself. After all, his agreement with the heirs precluded their making private arrangements. But what could he possibly do about it? The buyer had the book and the heirs had the money and that was the end of it.\"\n\n\"Why arrange a private sale?\"\n\n\"Taxes, Mr. Rhodenbarr. Taxes. Death duties, Inland Revenue enquiries\u2014the tax laws make finaglers of us all, do they not? What voice on earth speaks with the volume of unrecorded cash? Money in hand, passed under the table, and the heirs can swear the book was set aside as an heirloom, or destroyed in a flash flood, or whatever they choose. They won't be believed, but what matter?\"\n\n\"Who bought the book?\"\n\n\"The good people at Trebizond's didn't know, of course. And the heirs weren't telling\u2014their official line was that the book hadn't been sold at all.\" He put his elbows on the table and placed his fingertips together. \"I did some investigatory work of my own. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow was sold to Jesse Arkwright, an artful dabbler in international trade.\"\n\n\"And a collector, I suppose?\"\n\n\"An acquirer, sir. Not a collector. A gross ill-favored man who surrounds himself with exquisite objects in the hope that they will somehow cloak his own inner ugliness. He has a library, Mr. Rhodenbarr, because to do so fits the image he would like to project. He has books, some of them noteworthy, because books are the sine qua non of a proper library. But he is hardly a collector, and he most certainly does not collect Kipling.\"\n\n\"Then why\u2014\"\n\n\"Should he want this book? Because I wanted it, Mr. Rhodenbarr. It's that simple.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Do you remember the Spinning Jenny?\"\n\n\"It was a dance craze, wasn't it?\"\n\nHe looked at me oddly. \"It was a machine,\" he said. \"The first machine capable of producing cotton thread. Sir Richard Arkwright patented it in 1769 and launched the modern British textile industry.\"\n\n\"Oh, right,\" I said. \"The Industrial Revolution and all that.\"\n\n\"And all that,\" he agreed. \"Jesse Arkwright claims descent from Sir Richard. I'm no more inclined to take his word on that point than any other. His surname means builder of arks, so perhaps he'll next hire a genealogist to trace his roots clear back to Noah.\"\n\n\"And he bought the book to keep you from having it?\"\n\n\"I once acquired something that he wanted. This seems to have been his way of paying me back.\"\n\n\"And he won't sell it.\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\n\"And there's no other copy extant.\"\n\n\"None has come to light in half a century.\"\n\n\"And you still want this particular copy.\"\n\n\"More than ever.\"\n\n\"How fortunate that you happened to pop into Barnegat Books this morning.\"\n\nHe stared.\n\n\"You called me by name before I had a chance to supply it. You came into the shop looking for me, not for Mr. Litzauer. Not because I sell secondhand books but because I used to be a burglar. You figure I'm still a burglar.\"\n\n\"I\u2014\"\n\n\"You don't believe people change. You're as bad as the police. 'Once a burglar, always a burglar'\u2014that's the way you figure it, isn't it?\"\n\n\"I was wrong,\" he said, and lowered his eyes.\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"You were right.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Five\n\nI don't know what time I got into bed, but by some miracle I got out of it in time to open the store by ten-thirty. At a quarter to eleven I called the number on J. Rudyard Whelkin's business card. I let it ring unheeded for a full minute, then dialed 411 for the number of the Martingale Club. They charge you for those calls, and I could have taken a minute to look it up in the White Pages, but I'd earned a fortune the night before and I felt like sharing the wealth.\n\nThe attendant at the Martingale Club said he didn't believe Mr. Whelkin was on the premises but that he'd page him all the same. Time scuttled by. The attendant reported mournfully that Mr. Whelkin had not responded to the page, and would I care to leave a message? I decided not to.\n\nA couple of browsers filtered into the store. One of them looked potentially larcenous and I kept an eye on him as he worked his way through Biography and Belles-Lettres. He surprised me in the end by spending a few dollars on a volume of Macaulay's historical essays.\n\nCarolyn popped in a few minutes after noon and deposited a paper bag on the counter. \"Felafel sandwiches on pita bread,\" she announced. \"I decided I was in the mood for something different. You like felafel?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"I went to that place at the corner of Broadway and Twelfth. I can't figure out whether the owner's an Arab or an Israeli.\"\n\n\"Does it matter?\"\n\n\"Well, I'd hate to say the wrong thing. I was going to wish him a happy Rosh Hashanah, but suppose that's the last thing he wants to hear? So I just took my change and split.\"\n\n\"That's always safe.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. You missed a terrific meal last night. I ate half the stew and froze the rest and started watching the new sitcom about the three cheerleaders. I turned the sound off and it wasn't half bad. But I got to bed early and I got a ton of sleep and I feel great.\"\n\n\"You look it.\"\n\n\"You, on the other hand, look terrible. Is that what a night on club soda does to a person?\"\n\n\"Evidently.\"\n\n\"Maybe you got too much sleep. That happens sometimes.\"\n\n\"So they tell me.\"\n\nThe phone rang. I went and took it in the little office in back, figuring it was Whelkin. Instead it was a slightly breathless woman who wanted to know if the new Rosemary Rogers book had come in yet. I told her I handled used books exclusively and suggested she call Brentano's. She asked what their number was and I was reaching for the phone book to look it up when I came to my senses and hung up on her.\n\nI went back to my felafel. Carolyn said, \"Something wrong?\"\n\n\"No. Why?\"\n\n\"You jumped three feet when the phone rang. The coffee okay?\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\n\"The felafel?\"\n\n\"Delicious.\"\n\nMondays and Wednesdays I buy lunch and we eat at the Poodle Factory. Tuesdays and Thursdays Carolyn brings lunch to the bookshop. Fridays we go out somewhere and toss a coin for the check. All of this is subject to last-minute cancellation, of course, in the event of a business luncheon, such as my earlier date with Whelkin.\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, and finished swallowing a mouthful of felafel. \"I haven't squandered the morning.\"\n\n\"I never said you had.\"\n\n\"I did some research. On patron saints.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah? Who's my patron saint?\"\n\n\"I don't think you've got one.\"\n\n\"Why the hell not?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I checked a lot of different books and kept finding partial lists. I don't know if there's an official all-inclusive list anywhere.\" I groped around, found the notepad I'd been scribbling on earlier. \"I told you about St. John of God, didn't I?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but I forget what. The store?\"\n\n\"Patron saint of booksellers. He was born in Portugal in 1495. He worked as a shepherd, then became a drunkard and gambler.\"\n\n\"Good for him. Then he switched to club soda and became a saint.\"\n\n\"The books don't say anything about club soda. At forty he went through a mid-life crisis and moved to Granada. In 1538 he opened a shop\u2014\"\n\n\"To sell books?\"\n\n\"I suppose so, but did they have bookstores then? They barely had movable type. Anyway, two years later he founded the Brothers Hospitalers, and ten years later he died, and his picture's hanging over my desk, if you'd care to see it.\"\n\n\"Not especially. That's all you found out?\"\n\n\"Not at all.\" I consulted my notes. \"You asked if there was a patron saint of burglars. Well, Dismas is the patron saint of thieves. He was the Good Thief.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I remember him.\"\n\n\"He's also one of the patron saints of prisoners, along with St. Joseph Cafasso. Thieves and prisoners do overlap, although not as thoroughly as you might think.\"\n\n\"And prisoners need an extra patron saint because they're in real trouble.\"\n\n\"Makes sense. A burglar's a thief, when all is said and done, and there doesn't seem to be a special burglar's saint, but there's always St. Dunstan.\"\n\n\"Who he?\"\n\n\"The patron saint of locksmiths. Burglars and locksmiths perform essentially the same task, so why shouldn't they both turn to Dunstan in time of stress? Of course, if the situation's really dire, a burglar could turn to St. Jude Thaddeus or St. Gregory of Neocaesarea.\"\n\n\"Why would he want to do that?\"\n\n\"Because those guys are the patron saints of persons in desperate situations. There were times in my burglar days when I could have used their help. For that matter, I didn't know about St. Anthony of Padua, the patron saint of seekers of lost objects.\"\n\n\"So if you couldn't find what you were looking for...\"\n\n\"Precisely. You're laughing. That means I should give thanks to St. Vitus.\"\n\n\"The patron saint of dancers?\"\n\n\"Comedians, actually. Dancers have somebody else, but don't ask me who.\"\n\n\"What about dog groomers?\"\n\n\"I'll have to consult more sources.\"\n\n\"And lesbians. You honestly couldn't find anything about lesbians?\"\n\n\"Well, there's somebody who comes to mind. But I don't know his name and I don't think he was a saint.\"\n\n\"Lesbians have a male saint?\"\n\n\"He's probably not a saint anyway.\"\n\n\"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Who is he?\"\n\n\"That little Dutch boy.\"\n\n\"What little Dutch boy?\"\n\n\"You know. The one who put his finger\u2014\"\n\n\"Nobody likes a smartass, Bernie. Not even St. Vitus.\"\n\nThe afternoon sped by without further reference to patron saints. I racked up a string of small sales and moved a nice set of Trollope to a fellow who'd been sniffing around it for weeks. He wrote out a check for sixty bucks and staggered off with the books in his arms.\n\nWhenever I had a minute I called Whelkin without once reaching him. When he didn't answer the page at the Martingale Club, I left a message for him to call Mr. Haggard. I figured that would be subtle enough.\n\nThe phone rang around four. I said, \"Barnegat Books?\" and nobody said anything for a moment. I figured I had myself a heavy breather, but for the hell of it I said, \"Mr. Haggard?\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\nIt was Whelkin, of course. And he hadn't gotten my message, having been away from home and club all day long. His speech was labored, with odd pauses between the sentences. An extra martini at lunch, I figured.\n\n\"Could you pop by this evening, Mr. Rhodenbarr?\"\n\n\"At your club?\"\n\n\"No, that won't be convenient. Let me give you my address.\"\n\n\"I already have it.\"\n\n\"How's that?\"\n\n\"You gave me your card,\" I reminded him, and read off the address to him.\n\n\"Won't be there tonight,\" he said shortly. He sounded as though someone had puffed up his tongue with a bicycle pump. He went on to give me an address on East Sixty-sixth between First and Second avenues. \"Apartment 3-D,\" he said.\n\n\"Ring twice.\"\n\n\"Like the postman.\"\n\n\"Beg pardon?\"\n\n\"What time should I come?\"\n\nHe thought it over. \"Half past six, I should think.\"\n\n\"That's fine.\"\n\n\"And you'll bring the, uh, the item?\"\n\n\"If you'll have the, uh, cash.\"\n\n\"Everything will be taken care of.\"\n\nOdd, I thought, hanging up the phone. I was the one running on four hours' sleep. He was the one who sounded exhausted.\n\nI don't know exactly when the Sikh appeared. He was just suddenly there, poking around among the shelves, a tall slender gentleman with a full black beard and a turban. I noticed him, of course, because one does notice that sort of thing, but I didn't stare or gawp. New York is New York, after all, and a Sikh is not a Martian.\n\nShortly before five the store emptied out. I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand and thought about closing early. Just then the Sikh emerged from the world of books and presented himself in front of the counter. I'd lost track of him and had assumed he'd left.\n\n\"This book,\" he said. He held it up for my inspection, dwarfing it in his large brown hands. An inexpensive copy of The Jungle Book, by our boy Rudyard K.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" I said. \"Mowgli, raised by wolves.\"\n\nHe was even taller than I'd realized I looked at him and thought of What's-his-name in Little Orphan Annie. He wore a gray business suit, a white shirt, an unornamented maroon tie. The turban was white.\n\n\"You know this man?\"\n\nPunjab, I thought. That was the dude in Little Orphan Annie. And his sidekick was The Asp, and\u2014\n\n\"Kipling?\" I said.\n\n\"You know him?\"\n\n\"Well, he's not living now,\" I said. \"He died in1936.\" And thank you, J. R. Whelkin, for the history lesson.\n\nThe man smiled. His teeth were very large, quite even, and whiter than his shirtfront. His features were regular, and his large sorrowful eyes were the brown of old-fashioned mink coats, the kind Ray Kirschmann's wife didn't want for Christmas.\n\n\"You know his books?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You have other books, yes? Besides the ones on your shelves.\"\n\nAn alarm bell sounded somewhere in the old cerebellum. \"My stock's all on display,\" I said carefully.\n\n\"Another book. A private book, perhaps.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\nThe smile faded until the mouth was a grim line hidden at its corners by the thick black beard. The Sikh dropped a hand into his jacket pocket. When he brought it out there was a pistol in it. He stood so that his body screened the pistol from the view of passers-by and held it so that it was pointed directly at my chest.\n\nIt was a very small gun, a nickel-plated automatic. They make fake guns about that size, novelty items, but somehow I knew that this one wouldn't turn out to be a cigarette lighter in disguise.\n\nIt should have looked ridiculous, such a little gun in such a large hand, but I'll tell you something. Guns, when they're pointed at me, never look ridiculous.\n\n\"Please,\" he said patiently. \"Let us be reasonable. You know what I want.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Six\n\nI wanted to look him in the eyes but I couldn't keep from staring at the gun.\n\n\"There is something,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I've got it behind the counter, see, because of a personal interest\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But since you're a fan of Kipling's, and because your devotion is obvious\u2014\"\n\n\"The book, please.\"\n\nHis free hand snatched it up the instant I laid it on the counter. The smile was back now, broader than ever. He tried the book in his jacket pocket but it didn't fit. He set it back on the counter for a moment while he drew an envelope from an inside pocket. He was still pointing the gun at me and I wished he'd stop.\n\n\"For your trouble,\" he said, slapping the envelope smartly on the counter in front of me. \"Because you are a reasonable man.\"\n\n\"Reasonable,\" I said.\n\n\"No police, no troubles.\" His smile spread. \"Reasonable.\"\n\n\"Like Brutus.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"No, he was honorable, wasn't he? And I'm reasonable.\" The book screamed at me from the counter top. \"This book,\" I said, my hand pawing the air above it. \"You're a stranger in my country, and I can't let you\u2014\"\n\nHe scooped up the book and backed off, teeth flashing furiously. When he reached the door he pocketed the gun, stepped quickly outside, and hurried off westward on Eleventh Street.\n\nGone but not forgotten.\n\nI stared after him for a moment or two. Then I suppose I sighed, and finally I picked up the envelope and weighed it in my hand as if trying to decide how many stamps to put on it. It was a perfectly ordinary envelope of the sort doctors mail their bills in, except that there was no return address in its upper left-hand corner. Just a simple blank envelope, dime-store stationery.\n\nRudyard Whelkin had agreed to pay me fifteen thousand dollars for the book he wanted. Somehow I couldn't make myself believe this little envelope contained fifteen thousand dollars.\n\nI opened it. Fifty-dollar bills, old ones, out of sequence.\n\nTen of them.\n\nFive hundred dollars.\n\nBig hairy deal.\n\nI dragged the bargain table in from the street. Somehow I wasn't eager to stay open a few extra minutes in order to peddle a few old books at three for a buck. I hung the Closed sign in the window and set about shutting things down, transferring some cash from the register to my wallet, filling out a deposit slip for the check I'd taken in on the Trollope set.\n\nI folded the ten fifties and buttoned them into a hip pocket. And snatched up a brown-wrapped book from a drawer in the office desk, and let myself out of the store and went through my nightly lock-up routine with the steel gates.\n\nFor a few minutes I just walked, north on Broadway, then east on Thirteenth Street, then uptown on Third Avenue. The corner of Fourteenth and Third was aswarm with persons addicted to any of a variety of licit and illicit substances. Junkies scratched themselves, winos passed pints around, and a methadone enthusiast kept slamming the heel of his hand thoughtfully against a brick building. I straightened the knot in my tie\u2014I'd put the tie on before leaving the store\u2014and walked onward, resisting the temptation to give my hip pocket a reassuring pat.\n\nFive hundred dollars.\n\nThere's a big difference between five hundred and fifteen thousand, and while the latter sum represents a very decent return on a night's labor, the former is small compensation for risking life and limb, not to mention liberty. So a five-hundred-dollar payment for The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow was like no money at all.\n\nOn the other hand, five hundred dollars was a princely sum for the Grosset & Dunlap reprint edition of Soldiers Three, which is what my turbaned and bearded visitor had taken from me at gunpoint. I rather doubt it was what he wanted, but you don't always get what you want, do you?\n\nI'd had the book priced reasonably enough at $1.95. And I had the Haggard copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow all nicely wrapped in brown kraft paper and tucked under my arm, and wouldn't Rudyard Whelkin be happy to see it?\n\nIt's funny how things work out.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Seven\n\nI was early, of course. My appointment with Whelkin wasn't until six-thirty and I'd locked up the shop just a few minutes after five, not wanting to stick around in case the Sikh realized his mistake. I had a sign on the wall emphasizing that all sales were final, but I had a feeling he'd expect me to make an exception in his case. So I took my time walking uptown, and I was still twenty minutes early when I reached the corner of Sixty-sixth and Second. A bar on the corner looked inviting, and I accepted the invitation.\n\nI don't drink when I'm working. But this wasn't exactly work, and I'd felt the need for something after staring into the barrel of the Sikh's automatic. As a matter of fact, I'd stopped for a quick bracer in a Third Avenue ginmill on my way uptown. Now I wanted something a little more civilized, a dry Rob Roy in a stemmed and frosted glass.\n\nI sipped it and did a little thinking, ticking off points on my fingers.\n\nPoint One: Only J. Rudyard Whelkin had known I was going to steal the book from the Arkwright house in Forest Hills Gardens.\n\nPoint Two: It was four o'clock before Whelkin knew I had the book. He'd known I was going there, but there's many a slip between the cup and the whatsit, and it wasn't until he called me at the bookstore that he knew for certain my trip to Queens had paid off. In all likelihood, Arkwright himself didn't even know the book was missing yet.\n\nPoint Three: The Sikh had not been a bizarre coincidence, one of those phenomena that make life the ever-exciting proposition it indisputably is. No way. The Sikh had darkened my doorway because he knew I had stolen Arkwright's copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.\n\nHard work, thinking. I checked my watch, took another sip of my Rob Roy.\n\nAssumption: The Sikh did not have mystical powers. He knew I had the book because the information had somehow reached him via Whelkin.\n\nHypothesis: J. Rudyard Whelkin was as reluctant as the next skinflint to part with fifteen grand. Once he'd established that I had the book in my possession, he simply dispatched his faithful native servant to fetch it for him, instructing him to slip me the ten fifties to smooth my ruffled feathers.\n\nThe hypothesis had me clenching my teeth and making a fist at the very thought. I had a little more of my Rob Roy and did some deep breathing.\n\nRebuttal: The hypothesis didn't make sense. If Whelkin was going to rob me, why send someone to the store? He'd already taken pains to set up a meeting on East Sixty-sixth Street, where he could set up an elaborate ambush with ease.\n\nAlternate Hypothesis: The Sikh was somebody else's faithful native servant. Hadn't Whelkin mentioned that several parties had intended to bid on the book at Trebizond's London auction? Was it not possible that one of them had followed the book to New York, scheming to wrest it away from Arkwright's possession, only to see it whisked out from under his nose by one B. G. Rhodenbarr?\n\nThat seemed to make more sense, but it still left a stone or two unturned. I found myself wondering what would happen when the Sikh's employer took a look at Soldiers Three. The sooner I turned the book over to Whelkin and collected my fifteen thousand dollars, the better I'd be able to cope with him. The best way to cope, I felt, would be to take a quick vacation somewhere, spending a portion of the boodle and giving him time to cool off or leave town or, ideally, both.\n\nI stood up.\n\nAnd sat down again.\n\nDid I have anything to fear from Whelkin? I was pretty sure he hadn't sent the Sikh, but suppose I was wrong? Or suppose he had not sent the Sikh and indeed knew nothing about the Sikh, but suppose he had his own ideas about doing me out of my fee? Was it possible I'd let myself be snowed by the elegant manner and the Martingale Club membership? The rich, I've noted, are no more eager to part with a bundle than anyone else. And here I was, meeting him on his own turf, bringing him the book like a dutiful dog with the evening paper in his mouth. Lord, I couldn't even testify that Whelkin had fifteen thousand dollars, let alone that he was prepared to hand it over to me.\n\nI went to the men's room, book in hand. When I returned I had both hands free. The book was wedged under my belt against the small of my back, out of sight beneath my suit jacket.\n\nI finished the last of my drink. I'd have liked another, but that could wait until the completion of my business transaction.\n\nFirst things first.\n\nThe house on Sixty-sixth Street was an elegant brownstone with a plant-filled bay window on the parlor floor. Taller buildings stood on either side of it, but the old brownstone held its own. I walked up a half flight of stairs and studied a row of bells in the vestibule.\n\nM. Porlock. 3-D.\n\nI rang twice. Nothing happened for a moment and I checked my watch again. It said 6:29 and it is a watch that rarely lies. I placed my finger on the bell again, tentatively, and at that instant the answering buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open.\n\nThere were two apartments on the parlor floor, four each on the three floors above it. (The basement had its own entrance.) I mounted two flights of carpeted stairs with an increasing feeling of mingled anticipation and dread. The D apartments were at the rear of the building. The door of 3-D was slightly ajar. I gave it a rap with my knuckles and it was almost immediately drawn open by a square-shouldered woman wearing a muted-plaid skirt and a brass-buttoned navy blazer. Her dark-brown hair was very short and irregularly cut, as if the barber had been either a drunken friend or a very trendy beautician.\n\nShe said, \"Mr. Rhodenbarr? Do come in.\"\n\n\"I was supposed to meet\u2014\"\n\n\"Ruddy Whelkin, I know. He's expected at any moment. He rang up not ten minutes ago to say he'd been momentarily detained.\" She smiled suddenly. \"I'm to make you comfortable, you see. I'm Madeleine Porlock.\"\n\nI took the hand she extended. \"Bernie Rhodenbarr,\" I said. \"But you already know that.\"\n\n\"Your reputation precedes you. Won't you have a seat? And may I get you a drink?\"\n\n\"Not just now,\" I said. To the drink, that is; I seated myself in a tub chair upholstered in glove-soft green Naugahyde. The living room was small but comfortable, with a Victorian rosewood love seat and a floral-slip-covered easy chair in addition to the tub chair. The bold abstract oil over the love seat somehow complemented the furnishings. It was a nice room, and I said as much.\n\n\"Thank you. You're sure you won't have a little sherry?\"\n\n\"I'll pass for now.\"\n\nThere was classical music playing on the radio, a woodwind ensemble that sounded like Vivaldi. Madeleine Porlock crossed the room, adjusted the volume. There was something familiar about her but I couldn't think what it was.\n\n\"Ruddy should be here any moment,\" she said again.\n\n\"Have you known him long?\"\n\n\"Ruddy? Seems like ages.\"\n\nI tried picturing them as a couple. They didn't bear mentioning in the same breath with Steve and Eydie, or even Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, but they weren't utterly inconceivable. He was a good deal older than she, certainly. She looked to be in her early thirties, although I'm terrible at judging people's ages.\n\nDid I know her from somewhere?\n\nI was on the verge of asking when she clapped her hands together as if she'd just hit on the principle of specific gravity. \"Coffee,\" she said.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"You'll have a cup of coffee. It's freshly made. You will have some, won't you?\"\n\nI'd turned down the drink because I wanted to remain alert. All the more reason to have the coffee. We agreed on cream and sugar and she went off to prepare it. I settled myself in the tub chair and listened to the music, thinking how nice it would be to be able to play the bassoon. I'd priced bassoons once and they cost a lot, and I understand the instrument's exceedingly difficult to learn, and I don't even remember how to read music, so I don't suppose I'll ever go so far as to acquire a bassoon and set about taking lessons, but whenever I hear the instrument in a concerto or a chamber work it occurs to me how nice it would be to go to sleep one night and wake up the following morning owning a bassoon and knowing how to play it.\n\nThings go so much simpler in fantasy. You leave out all the scut work that way.\n\n\"Mr. Rhodenbarr?\"\n\nI took the coffee from her. She'd served it in a chunky earthenware mug ornamented with a geometric design. I sniffed at the coffee and allowed that it smelled good.\n\n\"I hope you like it,\" she said. \"It's a Louisiana blend I've been using lately. It has chicory in it.\"\n\n\"I like chicory.\"\n\n\"Oh, so do I,\" she said. She made it sound as though our mutual enthusiasm could be the start of something big. The woodwind quintet ended\u2014it was Vivaldi, according to the announcer\u2014and a Haydn symphony replaced it.\n\nI took a sip of my coffee. She asked if it was all right and I assured her that it was wonderful, although it really wasn't. There was a slight off-taste discernible beneath the cream and sugar, and I decided that chicory was one of those things I don't really like but just think I do.\n\n\"Ruddy said you were bringing him something, Mr. Rhodenbarr.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He seemed very anxious about it. You have it with you, of course?\"\n\nI drank more coffee and decided that it wasn't really all that bad. The Haydn symphony rolled in waves, echoing within the little room.\n\n\"Mr. Rhodenbarr.\"\n\n\"Nice music,\" I said.\n\n\"Do you have the book, Mr. Rhodenbarr?\"\n\nI was smiling. I had the feeling it was a sort of dopey smile but I couldn't seem to do anything about it.\n\n\"Mr. Rhodenbarr?\"\n\n\"You're very pretty.\"\n\n\"The book, Mr. Rhodenbarr.\"\n\n\"I know you from somewhere. You look familiar.\" I was spilling coffee on myself, for some reason, and I felt deeply embarrassed. I shouldn't have had that Rob Roy, I decided, and then Madeleine Porlock was taking the cup away from me and placing it carefully on the glass-topped coffee table.\n\n\"I always walk into those things,\" I confided. \"Glass tables. Don't see them. Walk right into them. You have orange hair.\"\n\n\"Close your eyes, Mr. Rhodenbarr.\"\n\nMy eyes slammed shut. I pried them open and looked at her. She had a mop of curly orange hair, and as I stared at her it disappeared and her hair was short and dark again. I blinked, trying to make it orange, but it stayed as it was.\n\n\"The coffee,\" I said, brilliantly. \"Something in the coffee.\"\n\n\"Sit back and relax, Mr. Rhodenbarr.\"\n\n\"You drugged me.\" I braced my hands on the arms of the chair and tried to stand. I couldn't even get my behind off the chair. My arms had no strength in them and my legs didn't even appear to exist anymore.\n\n\"Orange hair,\" I said.\n\n\"Close your eyes, Mr. Rhodenbarr.\"\n\n\"Have to get up\u2014\"\n\n\"Sit back and rest. You're very tired.\"\n\nGod, that was the truth. I gulped air, shook my head furiously in an attempt to shake some of the cobwebs loose. That was a mistake\u2014the motion set off a string of tiny firecrackers somewhere in the back of my skull. Haydn dipped and soared. My eyes closed again, and I strained to get them open and saw her leaning over me, telling me how sleepy I was.\n\nI kept my eyes open. Even so, my field of vision began to darken along its edges. Then patches of black appeared here and there, and they grew together until it was all black, everywhere, and I gave up and let go and fell all the way down to the bottom.\n\nI was dreaming something about an earthquake in Turkey, houses crumbling around me, boulders rolling down the sides of mountains. I fought my way out of the dream like an underwater swimmer struggling to reach the water's surface. The Turkish earthquake was part of the hourly newscast on the radio. The Social Democrats had scored substantial gains in parliamentary elections in Belgium. A Hollywood actor had died of an overdose of sleeping pills. The President was expected to veto something or other.\n\nA buzzer was sounding nearby, interrupting the monotony of the newscast. I managed to open my eyes. My head ached and my mouth tasted as though I'd fallen asleep sucking the wad of cotton from the vitamin jar. The buzzer buzzed again and I wondered why nobody was answering it.\n\nI opened my eyes again. Evidently they had closed without my knowing it. The radio announcer was inviting me to subscribe to Back-packer Magazine. I didn't want to but wasn't sure I had the strength to refuse. The buzzer was still buzzing. I wished Madeleine Porlock would get up from the Victorian love seat and answer it, or make them stop buzzing, or something.\n\nThe radio switched to music. Something with violins. Soothing. I opened my eyes again. The buzzing had stopped and there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.\n\nI was still in the tub chair. My left hand lay in my lap like a small dead animal. My right arm was draped over the side of the chair, and there was something in my right hand.\n\nI opened my eyes again, gave my head a shake. Something loose rattled around inside it. Someone was knocking on the door. I wished the Porlock woman would answer it, but she was in no better shape than I was.\n\nThey banged harder on the door and I opened my eyes again, and this time I managed to straighten up in the chair and kick through to something resembling actual consciousness. I gulped air and blinked rapidly and remembered where I was and what I was doing there.\n\nI moved my left hand, reached around and felt the small of my back. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow was gone.\n\nWell, that figured.\n\n\"Open up in there!\"\n\nKnock, knock, knock, and I felt like the drunken porter in Macbeth. I called out for them to wait a minute and reached to check my hip pocket for the Sikh's five hundred dollars. I couldn't reach that pocket with my left hand. And why was I using my left, anyway? Oh, sure. Because there was something heavy in my right hand.\n\n\"Police! Open up in there!\"\n\nMore furious pounding on the door. I raised my right hand. There was a gun in it. I stared stupidly at it, then raised it to my face and sniffed its muzzle. I smelled that particular mix of gun oil and gunpowder and burnt odor characteristic of a recently fired weapon.\n\nI looked at the love seat again, hoping to find it empty, wishing what I'd seen earlier had been a mirage. But Madeleine Porlock was still there, and she hadn't moved, and I could see now that she wasn't likely to, not without more help than I could give her.\n\nShe'd been shot in the middle of the forehead, right where the horrid little girl had a little curl, and I had a fairly good idea what gun had done the deed.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Eight\n\nI got up quickly\u2014too quickly\u2014the blood rushed to my feet, or wherever it goes under such circumstances, and I very nearly fell back down again. But I stayed on my feet and fought to clear my head a little.\n\nThe radio was still playing. I wanted to turn it off but left it alone. The cops had left off knocking on the door and were slamming into it every few seconds. Any moment now the door would give and they'd come stumbling into the room.\n\nI decided I didn't want to be there when that happened.\n\nI was still holding the damned gun. I dropped it, and then I picked it up and wiped my prints off it, and then I dropped it again and made my way past the radio and through a short hallway with a bathroom and closet on one side and a pullman kitchen on the other. At the end of the hallway a door opened into a fair-sized bedroom furnished with a four-poster spool bed and a Pennsylvania Dutch blanket chest. There was a window on the far wall over the bed, and it opened onto a fire escape, and I damn well opened it.\n\nFresh air, cold fresh air. I filled both lungs and felt some of the cobwebs leave my brain. I climbed out onto the fire escape and closed the window after me. With it shut I could just barely hear the sounds of police officers caroming off the apartment door.\n\nNow what?\n\nI looked down and a wave of vertigo hit me. I thought of all the drug labels with their warnings about driving or operating machinery. If drowsiness occurs, stay off rickety fire escapes.\n\nI took another look. Below me, the fire escape terminated in a courtyard walled off on all three sides. I might get into the basement, but there was sure to be a cop posted downstairs, most likely a fat one who hadn't wanted to climb up two flights in the first place.\n\nSo I started up the fire escape, up past the fourth floor and on to the roof. Someone had built a redwood sundeck up there, and there were trees and shrubs in large redwood planters. It was all very lovely, but there was one trouble with it\u2014I couldn't get off it. The adjoining buildings were both a hundred or more feet taller than the one I was standing on, and the heavy fire door leading back into the building couldn't be opened without a key. This wouldn't have been a problem if I'd had my tools along, but who figured I'd need them?\n\nBack down the fire escape. I paused at the fourth-floor landing, trying to decide if I wanted to take my chances with whoever was posted at ground level. I could always break into the basement and just hide there in the boiler room until the heat died down, but did I really want to do that? For that matter, did I want to scurry past the bedroom window of the Porlock apartment when the police were most likely already in there?\n\nI took a moment to check the two fourth-floor apartments. The one on the right\u20144-D, I suppose, directly above the Porlock place\u2014had its shade drawn. I pressed my ear to the windowpane and caught Brady Bunch reruns on the television set. The shade was drawn a few yards to the left at 4-C, but I couldn't hear anything inside, nor could I see any light around the edges of the window shade.\n\nOf course the window was locked.\n\nIf I'd had a glass cutter I could have drawn a neat freehand circle on the appropriate pane of glass, reached in and turned the window lock. If I'd had some tape I could have broken any pane I wanted with no more noise than you'd make snapping a dry twig. If I'd had...\n\nIf wishes were horses, burglars would ride. I kicked in a pane of glass and closed my eyes until the tinkling stopped. I put my ear to the opening I'd created and listened for a moment or two, then unlocked the window, raised it, and stepped through it.\n\nA few minutes later I left that apartment in a more conventional manner than I'd entered it, departing through the door and walking briskly down a flight of stairs. I encountered a couple of uniformed patrolmen on the third floor. The door to 3-D was open now, with other cops making themselves busy inside the apartment, while these two stood in the hall with nothing to do.\n\nI asked one what the trouble was. He jutted out his chin at me and told me it was just routine. I nodded, reassured, and went down the other two flights and out.\n\nI wanted to go home. It may or may not be where the heart is but it's where the burglar's tools are, and a burglar, like a workman, is only as good as his tools, and I felt naked without mine. I wasn't sure if the cops had a make on me yet. They'd get one before long, I was fairly sure of that, but I didn't doubt my ability to get in and out of my apartment before they set about looking for me. I had my tools there, I had cash there, and I would have liked to make a quick pit stop and equip myself for whatever lay ahead.\n\nBecause what lay ahead didn't look too good from where I sat. Madeleine Porlock had been left with more than the traditional number of holes in her head, and my fingerprints were undoubtedly plastered all over that apartment\u2014on the cup I'd been drinking from, on the glass-topped table, and God knows where else. The same criminal genius that had wrapped my inert fingers around the murder gun would have seen to that.\n\nThe police would have a lot of questions for me, and they wouldn't even pay attention to my answers. I, on the other hand, had some hard questions of my own.\n\nWho was Madeleine Porlock? How did she fit into the whole business? Why had she drugged me, and where had her killer come from, and why had he murdered her?\n\nWhatever had become of Rudyard Whelkin?\n\nAnd, finally, how did the Sikh fit into all of this?\n\nThe last question was no more easily answered than the others, but it made me realize I couldn't go home. By now the Sikh and whoever had sent him would know they'd been hoodwinked, which meant I had to avoid whatever places they might logically expect to find me. The store was out, obviously, and so was the apartment, since anyone with access to a Manhattan phone book can ferret out my address.\n\nI flagged a cab heading downtown on Second Avenue. The driver was young and Hispanic, with alert eyes. Were those eyes registering me even as he asked my destination?\n\n\"The Village,\" I said.\n\n\"What part of it?\"\n\n\"Sheridan Square.\"\n\nHe nodded shortly and away we went.\n\nCarolyn Kaiser's apartment was on Arbor Court, one of those side-goggled Village lanes I can only find if I start out from the right place. Sheridan Square was the wrong place, so I had to walk up to Greenwich Avenue and then west and south until I hit it. I didn't remember which building was hers, so I went into the vestibules of several until I found her name on a mailbox and rang her bell.\n\nNobody home. I'd have called first but I didn't have her number with me and it was unlisted, and it's easier to pass a needle through the eye of a camel than to get an unlisted number out of an Information operator. It's hard enough to get listed numbers. I rang a couple of top-floor bells until someone buzzed me into the building. Carolyn lived on the first floor. I took one look at the locks on her door and turned around and left.\n\nI checked a couple of hardware stores on Hudson. All closed. There was a locksmith, but could I really ask him to sell me burglar's tools? I didn't even try. I went to a drugstore and bought masking tape and paper clips and hairpins and a couple of nail files. At the tobacco counter I added a pipesmoker's gizmo equipped with different doohickeys for tamping, reaming, probing, and otherwise mistreating a pipe. It looked to be made of pretty decent steel.\n\nI went back to Carolyn's building and annoyed the top-floor tenants again and got buzzed in a second time. I went to her door and got busy.\n\nWith my ring of picks and probes, the operation wouldn't have taken five minutes. With makeshift tools from the drugstore it took closer to ten, during which time two persons entered the building and one left it. If any of them took any notice of me they were too polite to make a scene, and I finished the task at hand and let myself into her place.\n\nCozy. Very Village, really. One room about fifteen feet square with a teensy lavatory added on in back, so small that your knees nudged the door when you sat on the potty. The bathtub, a large claw-footed relic, was over in the kitchen area with the sink and stove and fridge; Carolyn had had a plywood cover cut to fit it so that she could use it for chopping up vegetables. The walls were painted blue, a deep rich tone, and the window frames and exposed plumbing were a bright yellow.\n\nI used the loo, lit a fire under the leftover coffee (with a match, the pilot didn't work), and let one of the cats check me out. He was a Burmese and nothing intimidated him. His buddy, a wary-eyed Russian Blue, reposed on the double bed, where he tried to blend with the patchwork quilt. I scratched the Burmese behind the ear and he made that bizarre sound they make and rubbed his head against my ankle. I guess I passed inspection.\n\nThe coffee boiled. I poured a cup, took a taste, and got flashes of the mug of doctored coffee Madeleine Porlock had given me. I poured it out, heated some water and made some tea, and fortified the brew with an authoritative slug of California brandy from a bottle I found on the shelf over the sink.\n\nIt was six-thirty when I kept my appointment at Chez Porlock, and I'd bolted from the place during the seven o'clock newscast. I didn't look at my watch again until I was sitting in Carolyn's wicker chair with my feet up, the second cup of brandied tea half gone and the Russian Blue purring insanely in my lap. It was then just eighteen minutes after nine.\n\nI moved the cat long enough to turn Carolyn's radio to one of the all-news stations, then settled back on the chair again. The cat reclaimed his place and helped me listen to a report on the Turkish earthquake and the presidential veto. There was a disgruntled Albanian holding a couple of people hostage up in Washington Heights, and a reporter on the scene did more than was necessary to put me right in the picture. I stroked the Russian Blue patiently while his Burmese buddy sat on top of a bookcase and made yowling noises.\n\nIt was coming up on eleven o'clock when I heard Carolyn's key in the lock. By then I'd switched to an FM jazz station and I had both cats on my lap. I stayed where I was while she unlocked the door, and as she opened it I said, \"It's me, Carolyn. Don't panic.\"\n\n\"Why should I panic?\" She came in, closed the door, locked up. \"Been here long? I was over at the Dutchess and you know what that's like. Except you probably don't, because they don't allow men in there.\" She slipped off her jacket, hung it on a doorknob, walked toward the coffeepot, then spun around suddenly and stared at me. \"Hey,\" she said. \"Did we make a date that I forgot?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Randy let you in? I thought she was visiting her goddam aunt in Bath Beach. What was she doing here? Did she go out to Brooklyn afterward or what?\"\n\n\"I haven't seen Randy.\"\n\n\"Then how'd you get in, Bernie?\"\n\n\"I sort of let myself in.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but where'd you get a key?\" She frowned at me. Then light dawned. \"Oh,\" she said, \"I get it. Other people need keys. You're like Casper the Ghost. You walk through walls.\"\n\n\"Not exactly.\"\n\nThe cats had deserted my lap and were brushing themselves passionately against her ankles, desperate to be fed. She ignored them.\n\nShe said, \"Bernie?\"\n\n\"The radio.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"It'll answer part of your question.\"\n\nShe listened, cocked her head. \"Sounds like Monk,\" she said. \"But I don't know, it's not as choppy as Monk and he's doing a lot of things with his left hand.\"\n\n\"It's Jimmy Rowles, but that's not what I meant. After the record ends, Carolyn.\"\n\nAfter the record ended we got a quickie commercial for a jazz cruise to the Bahamas, and I had to explain that that wasn't it either. Then they gave us the eleven o'clock news, and high time, too. The Turkish earthquake, the flaky Albanian, the probable presidential veto, and then the extraordinary news that a convicted burglar, Bernard Rhodenbarr by name, was sought in connection with the murder of one Madeleine Porlock, who had been shot to death in her own apartment on East Sixty-sixth Street.\n\nThe announcer moved on to other matters. Carolyn cut him off in the middle of a sentence, looked at me for a moment, then went over to the kitchen area and fed the cats. \"Chicken and kidneys tonight,\" she told them. \"One of your all-time favorites, guys.\"\n\nShe stood for a moment with her back to me, her little hands on her hips, watching the wee rascals eat. Then she came over and sat on the edge of the bed.\n\n\"I should have known it was Jimmy Rowles,\" she said. \"I used to catch him at Bradley's all the time. I haven't been going there lately because Randy hates jazz, but if we break up, which I think we're in the process of doing, the hell, I'll get to the jazz clubs more, so it's an ill wind, right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Madeleine Doorlock? Funny name.\"\n\n\"Porlock.\"\n\n\"Still unusual. Who was she, Bern?\"\n\n\"Beats me. We were strangers until this afternoon.\"\n\n\"You kill her?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nShe crossed her legs at the knee, planted an elbow on the upper knee, cupped her hand, rested her chin in it. \"All set,\" she announced. \"You talk and I'll listen.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"it's a long story.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Nine\n\nIt was a long story, and she listened patiently through the whole thing, leaving the bed only to fetch the brandy bottle. When I finished she cracked the seal on a fresh bottle and poured us each a generous measure. I'd given up diluting mine with tea and she'd never started.\n\n\"Well, here's to crime,\" she said, holding her glass on high. \"No wonder you almost spilled your club soda last time I said that. You were all set to go out and commit one. That's why you weren't drinking, huh?\"\n\n\"I never drink when I work.\"\n\n\"I never work when I drink. Same principle. This is all taking me a little time to get used to, Bernie. I really believed you were a guy who used to be a burglar, but now you'd put all of that behind you and you were selling used books. Everything you told that policeman\u2014\"\n\n\"It was all true up to a point. I don't make a profit on the store, or maybe I do. I'm not much of an accountant. I buy and I sell, and I probably come out ahead, even allowing for rent and light bills and the phone and all. If I worked harder at it I could probably make enough to live on that way. If I hustled, and if I shelved paperbacks instead of wholesaling them, and if I read the want ads in AB every week and sent out price quotes all over the place.\"\n\n\"Instead you go out and knock off houses.\"\n\n\"Just once in a while.\"\n\n\"Special occasions.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"To make ends meet.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\nShe frowned in thought, scratched her head, sipped a little brandy. \"Let's see,\" she said. \"You came here because it's a safe place for you to be, right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Well, that's cool. We're friends, aren't we? I know it means I'm harboring a fugitive, and I don't particularly give a shit. What are friends for?\"\n\n\"You're one in a million, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"You bet your ass. Listen, you can stay as long as you like and no questions asked, but the thing is I do have some questions, but I won't ask them if you don't want.\"\n\n\"Ask me anything.\"\n\n\"What's the capital of South Dakota? No, seriously, folks. Why'd you wait until the Arkwrights came home? Why not just duck in and out quick like a bunny? I always thought burglars preferred to avoid human contact.\"\n\nI nodded. \"It was Whelkin's idea. He wanted the book to be stolen without Arkwright even realizing it was gone. If I didn't take anything else and didn't disturb the house, and if the book was still there when Jesse Arkwright played his bedtime game of pocket billiards, it would be at least a day before he missed it. Whelkin was certain he'd be the prime suspect, because he wants the book so badly and he's had this feud with Arkwright, and an alibi wouldn't really help because Arkwright would just figure he hired someone to do it.\"\n\n\"Which he did do.\"\n\n\"Which he did do,\" I agreed. \"But the longer it takes for Arkwright to know the book's missing, and the harder it is for him to dope out how or when it disappeared, and the more time Whelkin has to tuck it away where it will never be found\u2014\"\n\n\"And that's why you just took the book and left everything else.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Okay. That part makes sense now, I guess. But what happened to Whelkin?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You figure he killed her?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Why not? He set up the meeting. He got her to drug you, and then when you were unconscious he killed her.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"To frame you, I suppose. To get you out of the picture.\"\n\n\"Why not just kill me?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" She gnawed at a knuckle. \"She can't just come out of the air, this Porlock babe. Whelkin sent you to her, she doped your coffee, and she must have been after the book because she was asking you for it before you had a chance to nod out. Then she frisked you and took it herself.\"\n\n\"Or the killer did.\"\n\n\"You never heard a gunshot?\"\n\n\"I was really out cold. And maybe he used a silencer, but if he did he took it along with him. He also took the book, plus the five hundred dollars the Sikh gave me.\" I shrugged. \"I figured all along that was too much to charge for a reprint copy of Soldiers Three. Well, easy come, easy go.\"\n\n\"That's what they say. Maybe the Sikh killed her.\"\n\n\"How do you figure that?\"\n\n\"Maybe they were working together and he double-crossed her at the end.\" She shrugged elaborately. \"I don't know, Bern. I'm just spinning my wheels a little. She must have been connected with Whelkin, though, don't you think?\"\n\n\"I suppose so. He did lead me straight to her apartment. But\u2014\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"But why wouldn't he just buy the book?\"\n\n\"Maybe he couldn't afford it. But you're right that would have been the easiest thing for him to do. He already paid you some of it in advance, didn't he? How much did he still owe you?\"\n\nI didn't say anything.\n\n\"Bernie?\"\n\nI sighed. \"Just yesterday,\" I said, \"I told a shoplifter he was too dumb to steal. He's not the only one.\"\n\n\"You didn't\u2014\"\n\n\"I didn't get any of the money in advance.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\nI shrugged, sighed, drank. \"He was a member of the Martingale Club,\" I said. \"Had a sort of English accent. Dressed very tweedy.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So his front snowed me, that's all. He finessed the whole topic of advance payment. I don't know how, but I walked into that house with nothing in my pocket but my hands. Jesus, Carolyn, I even dipped into my own funds for gasoline and bridge tolls. I'm beginning to feel really stupid.\"\n\n\"Whelkin conned you. He set you up and she polished you off, and then he shot her and left you in the frame.\"\n\nI thought it over. \"No,\" I said.\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. Why use her at all? He could slip me a mickey as easily as she could. And there's something else. That last telephone conversation I had with him, when he set up the meeting at her apartment. He sounded out of synch. I thought at the time he'd been drinking.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"I bet they drugged him.\"\n\n\"The way they drugged you?\"\n\n\"Not quite. Not the same drug, or the poor bastard wouldn't have been able to talk at all. I wonder what she gave me. It must have been powerful stuff. It had me hallucinating.\"\n\n\"Like acid?\"\n\n\"I never had any acid.\"\n\n\"Neither did I.\"\n\n\"And this wasn't that kind of hallucination, with animals materializing on the walls and things like that. My perceptions just got distorted there before I blacked out. The music was getting loud and soft alternately, for example. And her face seemed to melt when I stared at it, but that was just before I went under.\"\n\n\"And you said something about her hair.\"\n\n\"Right, it kept turning orange. She had really short hair, dark brown, and I kept flashing that she had a head full of bright orange curls. Then I would blink and she'd have short dark hair again. Oh, for Christ's sake.\"\n\n\"What is it, Bernie?\"\n\n\"I know where I saw her before. And she did have curly orange hair. It must have been a wig.\"\n\n\"The dark hair?\"\n\nThe orange hair. She came to the shop and she must have been wearing an orange wig. I'm positive it was the same woman. Squared shoulders, blocky figure, a kind of a stern square-jawed face\u2014I'm positive it was her. She must have come to the shop three or four times.\"\n\n\"With Rudyard Whelkin?\"\n\n\"No. He only came there once. Then we had lunch in the Martingale Club that same day, and I met him once more at the club for drinks and we talked several times over the phone. She came to the shop\u2014well, I don't know when I first noticed her, but it must have been within the past week. Then yesterday she bought a book from me. Virgil's Eclogues, the Heritage Club edition. It was her. No question about it.\"\n\n\"What was she doing?\"\n\n\"Looking things over, I suppose. Same reason I went out to Forest Hills with a clipboard. Reconnaissance. Say, can I put the radio on?\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Midnight news.\"\n\n\"It's that time already? Sure, put it on.\"\n\nI moved a cat and switched on the radio. I sat down and the cat returned to my lap and resumed purring. The news broadcast was a repeat of the eleven o'clock summary, except that the Albanian had surrendered without harming any of his hostages. He'd evidently gone bananas when he learned that his common-law wife had another common-law husband, which made them common-law husbands-in-law, or something. Madeleine Porlock was still dead and the police were still looking for one Bernard Rhodenbarr.\n\nI moved the cat again, switched off the news, and sat down again. Carolyn asked me how it felt to be wanted by the police. I told her it felt terrible.\n\n\"How'd they know it was you, Bernie? Fingerprints?\"\n\n\"Or the wallet.\"\n\n\"What wallet?\"\n\n\"My wallet. Whoever frisked me got it\u2014Madeleine Porlock or her killer. The book, the five hundred bucks, and the wallet. Maybe somebody stashed it where the cops would be sure to find it.\"\n\n\"Weren't you supposed to be unconscious when they arrived?\"\n\n\"Maybe the wallet was a form of insurance. Or maybe the killer took the wallet on the chance I had something incriminating in it, like the card Whelkin gave me or some notes to myself.\" I shrugged. \"I suppose the wallet could be anywhere right now. I suppose I should be all worked up about stopping my Master Charge card before someone charges a ton of airline tickets to my account. Somehow that's way down on my list of priorities.\"\n\n\"I can understand that.\" She put her chin in her hand again and leaned forward to fasten her blue eyes on me. \"What's at the top of the list, Bernie?\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"The priority list. What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"Beats me.\"\n\n\"How about another drink while you think about it?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I think I've had enough.\"\n\n\"I had enough two or three drinks ago but I'm not going to let a little thing like that stop me.\" She got the bottle and helped herself. \"You can just know when you've had enough and then stop?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"That's remarkable,\" she said. She sipped her brandy, looked at me over the brim of the glass. \"Did you know there was anybody else in the apartment? Besides the Porlock woman?\"\n\n\"No. But I never got past the living room until she was dead. I thought it was just the two of us and we were waiting for Whelkin.\"\n\n\"The killer could have been in the other room.\"\n\n\"It's possible.\"\n\n\"Or she was alone, and she drugged you and took the book and the money and the wallet, and then she was on her way out the door and in came a man with a gun.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Who? The Sikh? Whelkin?\"\n\n\"I dunno, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"Why on earth would she wear a wig? I mean, she wasn't anybody you knew to begin with, right? So why would she want to disguise herself?\"\n\n\"Beats me.\"\n\n\"How about the Sikh? Was that a disguise? Maybe the Sikh was Rudyard Whelkin.\"\n\n\"He had a beard and a turban.\"\n\n\"The beard could have been a fake. And a turban is something you can put on and then take off.\"\n\n\"The Sikh was enormous. Six-four easy, maybe more.\"\n\n\"You never heard of elevator shoes?\"\n\n\"Whelkin wasn't the Sikh,\" I said. \"Trust me.\"\n\n\"All I do is trust you. But back to the other question. How do you get out of the mess you're in? Can you go to the cops?\"\n\n\"That's the one thing I can't do. They'll book me for Murder One. I could try pleading to a lesser charge, or gamble that my lawyer could find a way to addle the jury, but the odds are I'd spend the next ten or twenty years with free room and board. I don't really want to do that.\"\n\n\"I can understand that. Jesus. Can't you\u2014\"\n\n\"Can't I what?\"\n\n\"Tell them what you told me? Scratch that question, huh? Just blame it on the brandy. Because why on earth would they believe you? Nobody'd believe a story like yours except a dyke who shaves dogs. Bernie, there's got to be a way out, but what the hell is it?\"\n\n\"Find the real killer.\"\n\n\"Oh, sure,\" she said. She clapped a hand to her forehead. \"Now why didn't I think of that? Just find the real killer, solve the crime, get the stolen book back, and everything's copasetic. Just like TV, right? With everything wrapped up in time for the final commercial.\"\n\n\"And some scenes from next week's show,\" I said. \"Don't forget that.\"\n\nWe talked for a while longer. Then Carolyn started yawning intermittently and I caught it from her. We agreed that we ought to get some sleep. We weren't accomplishing anything now and our minds were too tired to work properly.\n\n\"You'll stay here,\" she said. \"You take the bed.\"\n\n\"Don't be silly. I'll take the couch.\"\n\n\"Don't you be silly. You're six feet long and so's the bed. I'm five feet long and so's the couch. It's good the Sikh didn't drop in because there's no place to put him.\"\n\n\"I just thought\u2014\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. The couch is perfectly comfortable and I sleep on it a lot. I wind up there whenever Randy and I have a medium-level fight.\"\n\n\"What's a medium-level fight?\"\n\n\"The kind where she doesn't go home to her own apartment.\"\n\n\"I didn't know she had one. I thought the two of you lived together.\"\n\n\"We do, but she's got a place on Morton Street. Smaller than this, if you can believe it. Thank God she's got a place of her own, so that she can move right back into it when we split up.\"\n\n\"Maybe you should stay there tonight, Carolyn.\" She started to say something but I pressed onward. \"If you're at her place, then you're not an accessory after the fact. But if you're here, then there's no question but that you're harboring a fugitive, and\u2014\"\n\n\"I'll take my chances, Bernie.\"\n\n\"Well\u2014\"\n\n\"Besides, it's possible Randy didn't go to Bath Beach. It's possible she's home.\"\n\n\"Couldn't you stay with her, anyway?\"\n\n\"Not if someone else is staying with her at the same time.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. We live in a world of infinite possibilities. You get the bed and I get the couch. Okay?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nI helped her make up the couch. She went into the lavatory and emerged wearing Dr. Denton's and scowling as if daring me to laugh. I did not laugh.\n\nI washed up at the kitchen sink, turned off the light, stripped down to my underwear and got into bed. For a while nobody said anything.\n\nThen she said, \"Bern?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I don't know how much you know about gay women, but you probably know that some of us are bisexual. Primarily gay but occasionally interested in going to bed with a man.\"\n\n\"Uh, I know.\"\n\n\"I'm not like that.\"\n\n\"I didn't think you were, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"I'm exclusively gay.\"\n\n\"That's what I figured.\"\n\n\"I figured it went without saying, but it's been my experience that a lot of things that go without saying, that you're better off if you say them.\"\n\n\"I understand.\"\n\nMore silence.\n\n\"Bernie? She took the five hundred dollars and the wallet, right?\"\n\n\"I had about two hundred dollars in my wallet, too. That was an expensive cup of coffee she gave me, let me tell you.\"\n\n\"How'd you pay for the cab?\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"The cab downtown. And how did you buy that stuff at the drugstore so you could pick my lock? What did you use for money?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said.\n\n\"Do you keep a few extra dollars in your shoe for emergencies?\"\n\n\"Well, no,\" I said. \"Not that it doesn't sound like a good idea, but no, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I told you about the fire escape, didn't I? How I tried the roof and that was no good, so I went down and broke into an apartment on the fourth floor?\"\n\n\"You told me.\"\n\n\"Well, uh, since I was there and all. I, uh, took a few minutes to look around. Opened a few drawers.\"\n\n\"In the fourth-floor apartment?\"\n\n\"That's right. There was just small change in a dresser drawer, but one of the kitchen canisters had money in it. You'd be surprised how many people keep cash in the kitchen.\"\n\n\"And you took it?\"\n\n\"Sure. I got a little over sixty dollars. Not enough to retire on, but it covered the cab and what I spent at the drugstore.\"\n\n\"Sixty dollars.\"\n\n\"More like sixty-five. Plus the bracelet.\"\n\n\"The bracelet?\"\n\n\"Couldn't resist it,\" I said. \"There was other jewelry that didn't tempt me at all, but this one bracelet\u2014well, I'll show you in the morning.\"\n\n\"You'll show me in the morning.\"\n\n\"Sure. Don't let me forget.\"\n\n\"Jesus!\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"You actually committed a burglary.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm a burglar, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"That's what I have to get used to. You're a burglar. You steal things out of people's homes. That's what burglars do. They steal things.\"\n\n\"As a general rule.\"\n\n\"You took the money because you needed it. Your own money was gone and you had to get away from the police and the money was there, so you took it.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"And you took the bracelet because\u2014Why'd you take the bracelet, Bernie?\"\n\n\"Well\u2014\"\n\n\"Because it was there. Like Mt. Everest. But it was a bracelet instead of a mountain, and instead of climbing it you stole it.\"\n\n\"Carolyn\u2014\"\n\n\"It's all right, Bernie. Honest it is. I'll get used to it. You'll show me the bracelet in the morning?\"\n\n\"I'll show you right now if you want.\"\n\n\"No, the morning's soon enough, Bernie. Bernie?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Goodnight, Bernie.\"\n\n\"Goodnight, Carolyn.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Ten\n\nIt was one of those chatty morning programs that tells you more about weather and traffic than anyone could possibly care to know. There was a massive tie-up on the Major Deegan Expressway, I learned, and a thirty-percent chance of rain.\n\n\"Something ominous has happened to weather reports,\" I told Carolyn. \"Have you noticed how they never tell you what it's going to do anymore? They just quote you the odds.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"That way they're never wrong because they've never gone out on a limb. If they say there's a five-percent chance of snow and we wind up hip-deep in it, all that means is a long shot came in. They've transformed the weather into some sort of celestial crap game.\"\n\n\"There's another muffin, Bernie.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" I took it, buttered it. \"It's all tied into the moral decline of the nation,\" I said. \"Lottery tickets. Off-track betting. Gambling casinos in Atlantic City. Can you tell me what in the hell a thirty-percent chance of rain means? What do I do, carry a third of an umbrella?\"\n\n\"Here comes the news, Bernie.\"\n\nI ate my muffin and sipped my coffee and listened to the news. My reaction to the weather report notwithstanding, I felt pretty good. My sleep had been deep and uninterrupted, and Carolyn's morning coffee, unadulterated with chicory or knockout drops, had my eyes all the way open.\n\nSo I sat wide-eyed and heard how I'd gained access to the house on Sixty-sixth Street via the fire escape, first visiting the fourth-floor apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Blinn, where I'd stolen an undisclosed sum of money, a diamond bracelet, a Piaget wristwatch, several miscellaneous pieces of jewelry, and a full-length Russian sable coat. I'd descended a flight to 3-D, where Madeleine Porlock had interrupted my larcenous labors, only to be shot dead with a .32-caliber automatic for her troubles. I'd left the gun behind, escaping with my loot, scampering down the fire escape moments before the police arrived on the scene.\n\nWhen the announcer moved on to other topics I switched him off. Carolyn had a funny expression on her face. I reached into my pants pocket and came up with the bracelet, plopping it down on the table in front of her. She turned it in her hand so that light glinted off the stones.\n\n\"Pretty,\" she said. \"What's it worth?\"\n\n\"I could probably get a few hundred for it. Art Deco's the rage these days. But I just took it because I liked the looks of it.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. What did the coat look like?\"\n\n\"I never even looked in the closets. Oh, you thought\u2014\" I shook my head. \"More evidence of the moral decline of the nation,\" I said. \"All I took was the cash and the bracelet, Carolyn. The rest was a little insurance scam the Blinns decided to work.\"\n\n\"You mean\u2014\"\n\n\"I mean they decided they've been paying premiums all these years, so why not take advantage of the burglary they've been waiting for? A coat, a watch, some miscellaneous jewelry, and of course they'll report a higher cash loss than they actually sustained, and even if the insurance company chisels a little, they'll wind up four or five grand to the good.\"\n\n\"Jesus,\" she said. \"Everybody's a crook.\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" I said. \"But sometimes it seems that way.\"\n\nI made up the bed while she did up the breakfast dishes. Then we sat down with the last of the coffee and tried to figure out where to start. There seemed to be two loose ends we could pick at, Madeleine Porlock and J. Rudyard Whelkin.\n\n\"If we knew where he was,\" I said, \"we might be able to get somewhere.\"\n\n\"We already know where she is.\"\n\n\"But we don't know who she is. Or was. I wish I had my wallet. I had his card. His address was somewhere in the East Thirties but I don't remember the street or the number.\"\n\n\"That makes it tough.\"\n\n\"You'd think I'd remember the phone number. I dialed it enough yesterday.\" I picked up the phone, dialed the first three numbers hoping the rest would come to me, then gave up and cradled the phone. The phone book didn't have him and neither did the Information operator. There was an M. Porlock in the book, though, and for no particular reason I dialed the listed number. It rang a few times and I hung up.\n\n\"Maybe we should start with the Sikh,\" Carolyn suggested.\n\n\"We don't even know his name.\"\n\n\"That's a point.\"\n\n\"There ought to be something about her in the paper. The radio just gives you the surface stuff, but there ought to be something beyond that in the Times. Where she worked and if she was married, that kind of thing.\"\n\n\"And Whelkin belonged to the Martingale Club.\"\n\n\"True.\"\n\n\"So we've each got a place to start, Bernie. I'll be back in a minute.\" It was closer to ten minutes when she returned with both papers. She read the News while I read the Times. Then we switched.\n\n\"Not a whole lot,\" I said.\n\n\"Something, though. Who do you want, Whelkin or Porlock?\"\n\n\"Don't you have to trim a poodle or something?\"\n\n\"I'm taking Whelkin. You've got Porlock, Bernie. Okay?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"I guess I'll go over to his club. Maybe I can learn something that way.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"How about you? You won't leave the apartment, will you?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I'll see what I can find out over the phone.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a good idea.\"\n\n\"And maybe I'll pray a little.\"\n\n\"To whom? St. Dismas?\"\n\n\"Wouldn't hurt.\"\n\n\"Or the lost-objects guy, because we ought to see about getting that book back.\"\n\n\"Anthony of Padua.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Actually,\" I said, \"I was thinking more of St. Raymond Nonnatus. Patron saint of the falsely accused.\"\n\nShe looked at me. \"You're making this up.\"\n\n\"That's a false accusation, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"You're not making it up?\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"There's really a\u2014\"\n\n\"Yep.\"\n\n\"Well, by all means,\" she said. \"Pray.\"\n\nThe phone started ringing minutes after she left the apartment. It rang five times and stopped. I picked up the Times and it started ringing again and rang twelve times before it quit. I read somewhere that it only takes a minute for a telephone to ring twelve times. I'll tell you, it certainly seemed longer than that.\n\nI went back to the Times. The back-page story gave Madeleine Porlock's age as forty-two and described her as a psychotherapist. The Daily News had given her age but didn't tell what she did for a living. I tried to imagine her with a note pad and a faint Viennese accent, asking me about my dreams. Had she had an office elsewhere? The Victorian love seat was a far cry from the traditional analyst's couch.\n\nMaybe Whelkin was her patient. He told her all about his scheme to gain possession of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow, and then she hypnotized him and got him to make the call to me, and then he got unhypnotized and killed her and took the book back, and...\n\nI called the Times, got through to someone in the city room. I explained I was Art Matlovich of the Cleveland Plain Dealer. We thought the Porlock woman might be a former resident of Cleveland, and did they have anything on her besides what they'd run in the paper?\n\nWhat they had was mostly negative. No information about next of kin. No clue as to where she'd lived before taking the Sixty-sixth Street apartment fourteen months ago. If she'd ever been in Cleveland, or even flown over the State of Ohio, they didn't know anything about it.\n\nThe same call to the News was about as unproductive. The man I talked to said he didn't know where the Times got off calling Porlock a psychotherapist, that he had the impression she was somebody's mistress, but that they weren't really digging into it because all she was was the victim of an open-and-shut burglary turned homicide. \"It's not much of a story for us,\" he said. \"Only reason we played it at all is it's the Upper East Side. See, that's a posh neighborhood and all. I don't know what the equivalent would be in Cleveland.\"\n\nNeither did I, so I let it pass.\n\n\"This Rhodenbarr,\" the News man went on. \"They'll pick him up tomorrow or the next day and that's the end of the story. No sex angle, nothing colorful like that. He's just a burglar.\"\n\n\"Just a burglar,\" I echoed.\n\n\"Only this time he killed somebody. They'll throw the key away on him this time. He's a guy had his name in the papers before. In connection with homicide committed during a job he was pulling. Up to now he always managed to weasel out of it, but this time he's got his dick in the wringer.\"\n\n\"Don't be too sure of that,\" I said.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"I mean you never know,\" I said quickly. \"The way criminals manage to slip through cracks in the criminal-justice apparatus these days.\"\n\n\"Jesus,\" he said. \"You sound like you been writin' our editorials.\"\n\nI no sooner hung up the phone than it started ringing. I put up a fresh pot of coffee. The phone stopped ringing. I went over to it, about to make a call, and it rang again. I waited it out, then used it to call the police. This time I said I was Phil Urbanik of the Minneapolis Tribune. I was tired of Cleveland for the time being. I got bounced from one cop to another, spending a lot of time on Hold in the process, before I managed to establish that nobody around the squad-room knew more about Madeleine Porlock than that she was dead. The last cop I spoke with was sure of one other thing, too.\n\n\"No question,\" he said. \"Rhodenbarr killed her. One bullet, close range, smack in the forehead. M.E.'s report says death was instantaneous, which you don't have to be a doctor to tell. He left prints in both apartments.\"\n\n\"He must have been careless,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Getting old and sloppy. Losing his touch. Here's a guy, his usual M.O.'s to wear rubber gloves with the palms cut out so he don't leave a print anywhere.\"\n\n\"You know him?\"\n\n\"No, but I seen his sheet. You'd figure him to be pretty slick, plus he always stayed away from violence, and here he's sloppy enough to leave prints and he went and killed a woman. You know what I figure? What I figure is drugs.\"\n\n\"He's involved with drugs?\"\n\n\"I think he musta been high on them. You get hopped up and you're capable of anything.\"\n\n\"How about the gun? Was it his?\"\n\n\"Maybe he found it there. We didn't trace it yet. Could be the Porlock woman had it for protection. It wasn't registered, but what does that mean? Maybe he stole it upstairs. The couple up there said no, but if it was an unregistered weapon they'd deny it. What's your interest in the gun, anyway?\"\n\n\"Just making conversation.\"\n\n\"Minneapolis, you said?\"\n\n\"That's right,\" I said smoothly. \"Well, I guess that gives us a good hometown angle on the story. All right to say you're close to an arrest?\"\n\n\"Oh, we'll get him,\" he assured me. \"A crook like Rhodenbarr's a creature of habit. He'll be what they call frequenting his old haunts and we'll pick him up. Just a question of time.\"\n\nI was standing behind the door when she opened it. She moved into the room saying my name.\n\n\"Behind you,\" I said, as gently as possible. She clapped her hand to her chest as if to keep her heart where it belonged.\n\n\"Jesus,\" she said. \"Don't do that.\"\n\n\"Sorry. I wasn't sure it was you.\"\n\n\"Who else would it be?\"\n\n\"It could have been Randy.\"\n\n\"Randy,\" she said heavily. Cats appeared and threaded figure eights around her ankles. \"Randy. I don't suppose she called, did she?\"\n\n\"She might have. It rang a lot but I wasn't answering it.\"\n\n\"I know you weren't. I called twice myself, and when you didn't answer I figured you weren't picking up the phone, but I also figured maybe you got cabin fever and went out, and then I came home and you weren't here and all of a sudden you were behind me. Don't do that again, huh?\"\n\n\"I won't.\"\n\n\"I had a busy day. What time is it? Almost two? I've been running all over the place. I found out some stuff. What's this?\"\n\n\"I want you to make a phone call for me.\"\n\nShe took the sheet of paper I handed her but looked at me instead. \"Don't you want to hear what I found out?\"\n\n\"In a minute. I want you to call the Times and insert the ad before they close.\"\n\n\"What ad?\"\n\n\"The one I just handed you. In the Personal column.\"\n\n\"You got some handwriting. You should have been a doctor, did anyone ever tell you that? 'Space available on Kipling Society charter excursion to Fort Bucklow. Interested parties call 989-5440.' That's my number.\"\n\n\"No kidding.\"\n\n\"You're going to put my number in the paper?\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Somebody'll read it and come here.\"\n\n\"How? By crawling through the wires? The phone's unlisted.\"\n\n\"No, it's not. This place is a sublet, Bernie, so I kept the phone listed under Nathan Aranow. He's the guy I sublet from. It's like having an unlisted number except there's no extra charge for the privilege, and whenever I get a call for a Nathan Aranow I know it's some pest trying to sell me a subscription to something I don't want. But it's a listed number.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So the address is in the book. Nathan Aranow, 64 Arbor Court, and the telephone number.\"\n\n\"So somebody could read the ad and then just go all the way through the phone book reading numbers until they came to this one, right, Carolyn?\"\n\n\"Oh. You can't get the address from the number?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Oh. I hope nobody does go through the book, because Aranow's right in the front.\"\n\n\"Maybe they'll start in the back.\"\n\n\"I hope so. This ad\u2014\"\n\n\"A lot of people seem to be anxious to get their hands on this book,\" I explained. \"All different people, the way it looks to me. And only one of them knows I don't have it. So if I give the impression that I do have it, maybe one or more of them will get in touch and I'll be able to figure out what's going on.\"\n\n\"Makes sense. Why didn't you just place the ad yourself? Afraid somebody in the Times classified department would recognize your voice?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And they'd say, 'Aha, it's Bernard G. Rhodenbarr the burglar, and let's go through the telephone wires and take him into custody.' My God, Bernie, you thought I was being paranoid about the number, and you're afraid to make a phone call.\"\n\n\"They call back,\" I said.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"When you place an ad with a phone number. To make sure it's not a practical joke. And the phone was ringing constantly, and I wasn't answering it, and I figured the Times would call to confirm the ad and how would I know it was them? Paranoia, I suppose, but it seemed easier to wait and let you make the call, although I'm beginning to wonder. You'll place the ad for me, won't you?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" she said, and the phone rang as she was reaching for it.\n\nShe picked it up, said, \"Hello?\" Then she said, \"Listen, I can't talk to you right now. Where are you and I'll call you back.\" Pause. \"Company? No, of course not.\" Pause. \"I was at the shop. Oh. Well, I was in and out all day. One thing after another.\" Pause. \"Dammit, I can't talk now, and\u2014\" She took the receiver from her ear and looked beseechingly at me. \"She hung up,\" she said.\n\n\"Randy?\"\n\n\"Who else? She thought I had company.\"\n\n\"You do.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but she thought you were a woman.\"\n\n\"Must be my high-pitched voice.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? You didn't say anything. Oh, I see. It's a joke.\"\n\n\"It was trying to be one.\"\n\n\"Yeah, right.\" She looked at the telephone receiver, shook her head at it, hung it up. \"She called here all morning,\" she said. \"And called the store, too, and I was out, obviously, and now she thinks\u2014\" The corners of her mouth curled slowly into a wide grin. \"How about that?\" she said. \"The bitch is jealous.\"\n\n\"Is that good?\"\n\n\"It's terrific.\" The phone rang again, and it was Randy. I tried not to pay too much attention to the conversation. It ended with Carolyn saying, \"Oh, you demand to know who I've got over here? All right, I'll tell you who I've got over here. I've got my aunt from Bath Beach over here. You think you're the only woman in Manhattan with a mythical aunt in Bath Beach?\"\n\nShe hung up, positively radiant. \"Gimme the ad,\" she said. \"Quick, before she calls back. You wouldn't believe how jealous she is.\"\n\nShe got the ad in, then answered the phone when they called back to confirm it. Then she was getting lunch on the table, setting out bread and cheese and opening a couple bottles of Amstel, when the phone rang again. \"Randy,\" she said. \"I'm not getting it.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\n\"You had this all morning, huh? The phone ringing like that?\"\n\n\"Maybe eight, ten times. That's all.\"\n\n\"You find out anything about Madeleine Porlock?\"\n\nI told her about the calls I'd made.\n\n\"Not much,\" she said.\n\n\"Next to nothing.\"\n\n\"I learned a little about your friend Whelkin, but I don't know what good it does. He's not a member of the Martingale Club.\"\n\n\"Don't be silly. I ate there with him.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. The Martingale Club of New York maintains what they call reciprocity with a London club called Poindexter's. Ever hear of it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Me neither. The dude at the Martingale said it as though it was a household word. The Martingale has reciprocity with three London clubs, he told me. White's, Poindexter's, and the Dolphin. I never heard of any of them.\"\n\n\"I think I heard of White's.\"\n\n\"Anyhow, that's how Whelkin got guest privileges. But I thought he was an American.\"\n\n\"I think he is. He has an accent that could be English, but I figured it was an affectation. Something he picked up at prep school, maybe.\" I thought back to conversations we'd had. \"No,\" I said, \"he's American. He talked about making a trip to London to attend that auction, and he referred to the English once as 'our cousins across the pond.' \"\n\n\"Honestly?\"\n\n\"Honestly. I suppose he could be an American and belong to a London club, and use that London membership to claim guest privileges at the Martingale. I suppose it's possible.\"\n\n\"Lots of things are possible.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. You know what I think?\"\n\n\"He's a phony.\"\n\n\"He's a phony who faked me out of my socks, that's what he is. God, the more I think about it the phonier he sounds, and I let him con me into stealing the book with no money in front. All of a sudden his whole story is starting to come apart in my hands. All that happy horseshit about Haggard and Kipling, all that verse he quoted at me.\"\n\n\"You think he just made it all up?\"\n\n\"No, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Leave me alone, Ubi. You don't even like Jarlsberg.\" Ubi was short for Ubiquitous, which was the Russian Blue's name. Jarlsberg was the cheese we were munching. (Not the Burmese, in case you were wondering. The Burmese was named Archie.)\n\nTo me she said, \"Maybe the book doesn't exist, Bernie.\"\n\n\"I had it in my hands, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"Oh, right.\"\n\n\"I was thinking that myself earlier, just spinning all sorts of mental wheels. Like it wasn't a real book, it was hollowed out and all full of heroin or something like that.\"\n\n\"Yeah, that's an idea.\"\n\n\"Except it's a dumb idea, because I actually flipped through that book and read bits and pieces of it, and it's real. It's a genuine old printed book in less than sensational condition. I was even wondering if it could be a fake.\"\n\n\"A fake?\"\n\n\"Sure. Suppose Kipling destroyed every last copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. Suppose there never was such a thing as a Rider Haggard copy to survive, or suppose there was but it disappeared forever.\" She was nodding encouragingly. \"Well,\" I went on, \"suppose someone sat down and faked a text. It'd be a job, writing that long a ballad, but Kipling's not the hardest writer in the world to imitate. Some poet could knock it out between greeting-card assignments.\"\n\n\"Then what?\"\n\n\"Well, you couldn't sell it as an original manuscript because it would be too easily discredited. But if you had a printer set type\u2014\" I shook my head. \"That's where it breaks down. You could set type and run off one copy, and you could bind it and then distress it one way or another to give it some age, and you could even fake the inscription to H. Rider Haggard in a way that might pass inspection. But do you see the problem?\"\n\n\"It sounds complicated.\"\n\n\"Right. It's too damned complicated and far too expensive. It's like those caper movies where the crooks would have had to spend a million dollars to steal a hundred thousand, with all the elaborate preparations they go through and the equipment they use. Any crook who went through everything I described in order to produce a book you could sell for fifteen thousand dollars would have to be crazy.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's worth a lot more than that. Fifteen thousand is just the price you and Whelkin worked out.\"\n\n\"That's true. The fifteen-thousand figure doesn't really mean anything, since I didn't even get a smell of it, did I?\" I sighed. Wistfully, I imagine. \"No,\" I said. \"I know an old book when I look at it. I look at a few thousand of them every day, and old books are different from new ones, dammit. Paper's different when it's been around for fifty years. Sure, they could have used old paper, but it keeps not being worth the trouble. It's a real book, Carolyn. I'm sure of it.\"\n\n\"Speaking of the old books you look at every day.\"\n\n\"What about them?\"\n\n\"Somebody's watching your store. I was at my shop part of the time, I had to wash a dog and I couldn't reach the owner to cancel. And there was somebody in a car across the street from your shop, and he was still there when I walked past a second time.\"\n\n\"Did you get a good look at him?\"\n\n\"No. I didn't get the license number, either. I suppose I should have, huh?\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"It was probably the police,\" I said. \"A stake-out.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"They've probably got my apartment staked out, too.\"\n\n\"Oh. That's how they do it, huh?\"\n\n\"That's how they do it on television. This cop I talked to earlier said they'd get me when I returned to my old haunts. I wanted to tell him I didn't have any old haunts, but I suppose he meant the store and the apartment.\"\n\n\"Or this place.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Well, we're friends. You come over here a lot. If they talk to enough people they'll learn that, won't they?\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" I said, and the phone rang. We looked at each other, not very happily, and didn't say a word until it stopped ringing.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Eleven\n\nAt six-fifteen I was sitting at the counter of the Red Flame at the corner of Seventieth and West End. I had a cup of coffee and a wedge of prune Danish in front of me and I wasn't particularly interested in either. The other two customers, a teenaged couple in a back booth, were interested only in each other. The counterman wasn't interested in anything; he stood beside the coffee urns chewing a mint-flavored toothpick and staring at the opposite wall, where a bas-relief showed a couple of olive-skinned youths chasing sheep over a Greek hillside. He shook his head from time to time, evidently wondering what the hell he was doing here.\n\nI kept glancing out the window and wondering much the same thing. From where I sat I could almost see my building a block uptown. I'd had a closer look earlier from the sidewalk, but I hadn't been close enough then to tell if there were cops staked out in or around the place. Theoretically it shouldn't matter, but theoretically bumblebees can't fly, so how much faith can you place in theory?\n\nOne of the teenagers giggled. The counterman yawned and scratched himself. I looked out the window for perhaps the forty-first time and saw Carolyn half a block away, heading south on West End with my small suitcase in one hand. I put some money on the counter and went out to meet her.\n\nShe was radiant. \"Piece of cake,\" she said. \"Nothing to it, Bern. This burglary number's a cinch.\"\n\n\"Well, you had my keys, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"They helped, no question about it. Of course, I had to get the right key in the right lock.\"\n\n\"You didn't have any trouble getting into the building?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"Mrs. Hesch was terrific. The doorman called her on the intercom and she said to send me right up, and then she met me at the elevator.\"\n\nI'd called Mrs. Hesch earlier to arrange all this. She was a widow who had the apartment across the hall from me, and she seemed to think burglary was the sort of character defect that could be overlooked in a friend and neighbor.\n\n\"She didn't have to meet you,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, she wanted to make sure I found the right apartment. What she really wanted was a good look at me. She's a little worried about you, Bern.\"\n\n\"Hell, I'm a little worried about me myself.\"\n\n\"She thought you were all respectable now, what with the bookstore and all. Then she heard about the Porlock murder on the news last night and she started to worry. But she's positive you didn't kill anybody.\"\n\n\"Good for her.\"\n\n\"I think she liked me. She wanted me to come in for coffee but I told her there wasn't time.\"\n\n\"She makes good coffee.\"\n\n\"That's what she said. She said you like her coffee a lot, and she sort of implied that what you need is somebody to make coffee for you on a fulltime basis. The message I got is that living on the West Side and burgling on the East Side is a sort of Robin Hood thing, but there's a time in life when a young man should think about getting married and settling down.\"\n\n\"It's nice the two of you hit it off.\"\n\n\"Well, we only talked for a couple of minutes. Then I went and burgled your apartment.\" She hefted the suitcase. \"I think I got everything. Burglar tools, pocket flashlight, all the things you mentioned. And shirts and socks and underwear. There was some cash in your shirt drawer.\"\n\n\"There was? I guess there was. I usually keep a few dollars there.\"\n\n\"Thirty-eight dollars.\"\n\n\"If you say so.\"\n\n\"I took it.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said. \"Well, I don't suppose thirty-eight dollars one way or the other is going to make a difference. But it can't hurt to have it along.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"You said you always take cash,\" she said. \"So I took it.\"\n\n\"It's a good principle. You know something? We're never going to get a cab.\"\n\n\"Not when it's raining. Can we get a subway? No, not across town. Isn't there a bus that goes over Seventy-ninth Street?\"\n\n\"It's not a good idea to take buses when you're wanted for homicide. It's awfully public.\"\n\n\"I suppose we'll get a cab sooner or later.\"\n\nI took the suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other. \"The hell with that,\" I said. \"We'll take a car.\"\n\nThe Pontiac was right where I'd left it. Sometimes the tow-truck division lets things slide for a while, and this time the Pontiac's owner was the beneficiary of their lapse. I popped the door on the passenger's side, let Carolyn in, and took a ticket from underneath the windshield wiper while she leaned across the seat to unlatch the door for me.\n\n\"See?\" someone said. \"You got a ticket. Did I tell you you'd get a ticket?\"\n\nI didn't recognize the man at first. Then I saw the brindle boxer at the end of the leash he was holding.\n\n\"Sooner or later,\" he told me, \"they'll tow you away. Then what will you do?\"\n\n\"Get another car,\" I said.\n\nHe shook his head, tugged impatiently at the dog's leash. \"Come on, Max,\" he said. \"Some people, you can't tell them a thing.\"\n\nI got into the car, set about jumping the ignition. Carolyn watched the process fascinated, and it wasn't until we pulled away from the curb that she asked who the man was and what he had wanted.\n\n\"He wanted to be helpful,\" I said, \"but all in all he's a pest. The dog's all right, though. His name is Max. The dog, I mean.\"\n\n\"He looks okay,\" she said, \"but he'd probably be murder to wash.\"\n\nI left the Pontiac in a bus stop around the corner from where we were going. Carolyn said it might get towed and I said I didn't care if it did. I got tools and accessories from the suitcase, then left the case and the clothes it contained on the back seat of the Pontiac.\n\n\"Suppose they tow the car,\" she said, \"and suppose they identify the clothing from laundry marks. Then they'll know you were here, and\u2014\"\n\n\"You've been watching too much television,\" I said. \"When they tow cars they take them over to that pier on the Hudson and wait for the owner to turn up. They don't check the contents. You could have a dead body in the trunk and they'd never know.\"\n\n\"I wish you hadn't said that,\" she said.\n\n\"There's nothing in the trunk.\"\n\n\"How do you know for sure?\"\n\nWe went around the corner. No one seemed to be keeping an eye on the elegant little brownstone. A woman stood in the bay window on the parlor floor, watering the plants with a long-spouted watering can. The can was gleaming copper, the plants were all a lush green, and the whole scene was one of upper-middle-class domestic tranquillity. Outside, watching this and getting rained on, I felt like a street urchin in a Victorian novel.\n\nI looked up. There were lighted windows on the third and fourth floors, but they didn't tell me anything. The apartments that interested me were at the rear of the building.\n\nWe entered the vestibule. \"You don't have to come,\" I said.\n\n\"Ring the bell, Bern.\"\n\n\"I'm serious. You could wait in the car.\"\n\n\"Wonderful. I can play it safe by sitting in a stolen car parked at a bus stop. Why don't I just wait in the subway? I could cling to the third rail for security.\"\n\n\"What you could do is spend the next half-hour in the bar on the corner. Suppose we walk into an apartment full of cops?\"\n\n\"Ring the bell, Bernie.\"\n\n\"It's just that I hate to see you walk into trouble.\"\n\n\"So do I, but let's play the hand out as dealt, huh? I'll be with the two of them so they can't get cute while you're downstairs. We worked it out before, Bern, and it made sense then and it still makes sense now. You want to know something? It's probably dangerous for us to spend the next six hours arguing in the vestibule, if you're so concerned with what's dangerous and what's not, so why don't you ring their bell and get it over with?\"\n\nFirst, though, I rang the bell marked Porlock. I poked it three times, waited half a minute, then gave it another healthy tickle. I didn't really expect a response and I was happy not to get one. My finger moved from the Porlock bell to the one marked Blinn. I gave it a long and two shorts, and the answering buzzer sounded almost at once. I pushed the door and it opened.\n\n\"Darn,\" Carolyn said. I looked at her. \"Well, I thought I'd get to watch you pick it,\" she said. \"That's all.\"\n\nWe went up the stairs and stopped at the third floor long enough to peek at the door of 3-D. As I'd figured it, the cops had sealed it, and the door was really plastered with official-looking material. I could have opened it with a scout knife, but I couldn't have done so without destroying the seals and making it obvious that I'd been there.\n\nInstead, we went up another flight. The door of 4-C was closed. Carolyn and I looked at each other. Then I reached out a hand and knocked.\n\nThe door opened. Arthur Blinn stood with one hand on its knob and the other motioning us in. \"Come on, come on,\" he said urgently. \"Don't stand out there all night.\" In his hurry to close the door he almost hit Carolyn with it, but he got it shut and fussed with the locks and bolts. \"You can relax now, Gert,\" he called out. \"It's only the burglar.\"\n\nThey made a cute couple. They were both about five-six, both as roly-poly as panda bears. Both had curly dark-brown hair, although he'd lost most of his in the front. She was wearing a forest-green pants suit in basic polyester. He wore the trousers and vest of a gray glen-plaid business suit. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his tie was loosened for comfort. She poured coffee and pushed Scottish shortbread at us. He told us, over and over again, what a relief it was to see us.\n\n\"Because I told Gert, suppose it's a setup? Suppose it's the insurance company running a bluff? Because honestly, Mr. Rhodenbarr, who ever heard of such a thing? A burglar calls up, says hello, I'm you're friendly neighborhood burglar, and if you cooperate with me a little I won't rat to the insurance people and tell them your claim is lousy. I figured a burglar with troubles like you got, wanted for killing a woman and God knows what else, I figure you're not going to knock yourself out shouting you never stole a coat or a watch.\"\n\n\"And what I figured,\" Gert said, \"is why would you be coming here, anyway? 'He wants to get rid of witnesses,' I told Artie. 'Remember, he already killed once.' \"\n\n\"What I said is what did we ever witness? I told her, I said forget all that. Just hope it's the burglar, I told her. All we need is some insurance snoop. You don't care for the shortbread, young lady?\"\n\n\"It's delicious,\" Carolyn said. \"And Bernie never killed anybody, Mrs. Blinn.\"\n\n\"Call me Gert, honey.\"\n\n\"He never killed anyone, Gert.\"\n\n\"I'm sure of it, honey. Meeting him, seeing the two of you, my mind's a hundred percent at ease.\"\n\n\"He was framed, Gert. That's why we're here. To find out who really killed Madeleine Porlock.\"\n\n\"If we knew,\" Arthur Blinn said, \"believe me, we'd tell you. But what do we know?\"\n\n\"You lived in the same building with her. You must have known something about her.\"\n\nThe Blinns looked at each other and gave simultaneous little shrugs. \"She wasn't directly under us,\" Gert explained. \"So we wouldn't know if she had loud parties or played music all night or anything like that.\"\n\n\"Like Mr. Mboka,\" Artie said.\n\n\"In 3-C,\" Gert said. \"He's African, you see, and he works at the U.N. Somebody said he was a translator.\"\n\n\"Plays the drums,\" Artie said.\n\n\"We don't know that, Artie. He either plays the drums or he plays recordings of drums.\"\n\n\"Same difference.\"\n\n\"But we haven't spoken to him about it because we thought it might be religious and we didn't want to interfere.\"\n\n\"Plus Gert here thinks he's a cannibal and she's afraid to speak to him.\"\n\n\"I don't think he's a cannibal,\" Gert protested. \"Who ever said I thought he was a cannibal?\"\n\nI cleared my throat. \"Maybe the two of you could talk to Carolyn about Miss Porlock,\" I suggested. \"And if I could, uh, be excused for a few moments.\"\n\n\"You want to use the bathroom?\"\n\n\"The fire escape.\"\n\nBlinn furrowed his brow at me, then relaxed his features and nodded energetically. \"Oh, right,\" he said. \"For a minute there I thought\u2014But to hell with what I thought. The fire escape. Sure. Right through to the bedroom. But you know the way, don't you? You were here yesterday. It's spooky, you know? The idea of someone else being in your apartment. Of course, it's not so spooky now that we know you, you and Carolyn here. But when we first found out about it, well, you can imagine.\"\n\n\"It must have been upsetting.\"\n\n\"That's exactly what it was. Upsetting. Gert called the super about the pane of glass, but it's like pulling teeth to get him to do anything around here. Generally he gets more responsive right before Christmas, so maybe we'll get some action soon. Meanwhile I taped up a shirt cardboard so the wind and rain won't come in.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry I had to break the window.\"\n\n\"Listen, these things happen.\"\n\nI unlocked the window, raised it, stepped out onto the fire escape. The rain had stepped up a little and it was cold and windy out there. Behind me, Blinn drew the window shut again. He was reaching to lock it when I extended a finger and tapped on the glass. He caught himself, left the window unlocked, and smiled and shook his head at his absent-mindedness. He went off chuckling to himself while I headed down a flight of steel steps.\n\nThis time I was properly equipped. I had my glass cutter and a roll of adhesive tape, and I used them to remove a pane from the Porlock window swiftly and silently. I turned the catch, raised the window, and let myself in.\n\n\"That's what I was talking about before,\" Gert said \"Listen. Can you hear it?\"\n\n\"The drumming.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"That's Mboka. Now, is that him drumming or is it a record? Because I can't tell.\"\n\n\"He was doing it while you were downstairs,\" Carolyn said. \"Personally I think it's him drumming.\"\n\nI said I couldn't tell, and that I'd been unable to hear him from the Porlock apartment.\n\n\"You never hear anything through the walls,\" Artie said. \"Just through the floors and ceilings. It's a solid building as far as the walls are concerned.\"\n\n\"I don't mind the drumming most of the time,\" Gert said. \"I'll play music and the drumming sort of fits in with it. It's in the middle of the night that it gets me, but I don't like to complain.\"\n\n\"She figures it's the middle of the afternoon in Africa.\"\n\nWe had a hard time getting out of there. They kept giving us shortbread and coffee and asking sincere little questions about the ins and outs of burglary. Finally we managed to fight our way to the door. We said our goodbyes all around, and then Gert hung back a little while Artie caught at my sleeve in the doorway.\n\n\"Say, Bernie,\" he said, \"we all squared away now?\"\n\n\"Sure thing, Artie.\"\n\n\"As far as the insurance company's concerned...\"\n\n\"Don't worry about a thing. The coat, the watch, the other stuff. I'll back your claim.\"\n\n\"That's a relief,\" he said. \"I must have been crazy, putting in that claim, but I'd look like a horse's ass changing it now, and why did we pay premiums all those years anyway, right?\"\n\n\"Right, Artie.\"\n\n\"The thing is, I hate to mention this, but while you were downstairs Gert was wondering about the bracelet.\"\n\n\"How's that, Artie?\"\n\n\"The bracelet you took. It was Gert's. I don't think it's worth much.\"\n\n\"A couple of hundred.\"\n\n\"That much? I would have said less. It belonged to her mother. The thing is, I wondered what's the chance of getting it back?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said. \"I see what you mean. Well, Artie, I'm kind of pressed right now.\"\n\n\"I can imagine.\"\n\n\"But when things are back to normal, I'm sure we can work something out.\"\n\nHe clapped me on the shoulder. \"That's terrific,\" he said. \"Listen, take all the time you need. There's no rush.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Twelve\n\nThe Pontiac, untowed and unticketed, waited for us at the bus stop. The suitcase huddled undisturbed on the floor in back. All of this surprised Carolyn, but I'd expected nothing less. There was something about that car that inspired confidence.\n\nOn the way downtown I learned what Gert Blinn had told her. While I was a floor below in Madeleine Porlock's apartment, Gert had maneuvered Carolyn into the kitchen, presumably to copy down a recipe but actually to dish a little dirt. The late Madeleine Porlock, she'd confided, was no better than she should be.\n\n\"Gert was vague,\" Carolyn said. \"I don't know that Porlock was a hooker exactly, but I got the impression that her life tended to revolve around men. Whenever Gert met her on the stairs she was with some man or other, and I gather that's how her rent got paid.\"\n\n\"Doesn't surprise me.\"\n\n\"Well, it surprises me,\" she said. \"I never saw Porlock, but the way you described her she was the furthest thing from slinky. The woman you were talking about sounded like she could play the mean matron in all the old prison movies.\"\n\n\"That's on a bad day. On a good day she could have played the nurse in Cuckoo's Nest.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. Bern, I admit I don't know what men go for, because it's never been a burning issue with me, but she doesn't sound the type to get her rent paid.\"\n\n\"You didn't go through her drawers and closets.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\nA cab stopped abruptly in front of us. I swung the wheel to the right and slipped neatly around it. No question, I thought. The Pontiac and I were made for each other.\n\n\"Lots of sexy underwear,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"Wispy things. Scarlet gauze and black lace. Peekaboo bras.\"\n\n\"Men really go for that crap, huh?\"\n\n\"So it would seem. Then there were a few garter belts, and a couple of tight corsets that you'd have to be a graduate engineer to figure out.\"\n\n\"Tight corsets?\"\n\n\"A couple of pairs of boots with six-inch stiletto heels. Lots of leather stuff, including those cunning wrist and ankle bracelets decorated with metal studs.\"\n\n\"A subtle pattern begins to emerge.\"\n\n\"Doesn't it? And I haven't even mentioned the small but tasteful wardrobe in skintight black latex or the nifty collection of whips and chains. Or the whole dresser drawer full of gadgets which we might euphemistically designate as marital aids.\"\n\nShe twirled an imaginary mustache. \"This Porlock creature,\" she said, \"was into kink.\"\n\n\"A veritable mistress of kink,\" I said. \"It was beginning to get to me, prowling around in all that weirdness.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised it didn't make the papers. 'Dominatrix Slain in East Side Pleasure Pad'\u2014that should be good for page three in the Daily News any day of the week.\"\n\n\"I thought of that. But nothing was out in plain sight, Carolyn, and when I was up there the first time, all I saw was a tastefully decorated apartment. Remember, the cops had an open-and-shut case, a woman shot in her own apartment by a burglar she'd evidently caught in the act. They didn't have any reason to toss her apartment. And she really lived there, it wasn't just her office. She had street clothes there, too, and there were dishes in the kitchen cupboards and Q-tips and dental floss in the medicine cabinet.\"\n\n\"Find any cash? Any jewelry?\"\n\n\"There's a jar in the kitchen where she used to throw her pennies. And there was some loose jewelry in one of the bedroom drawers, but none of it looked like much. I didn't steal anything, if that's what you were getting at.\"\n\n\"I just wondered.\"\n\nA siren opened up behind us. I edged over to the right to give them room. A blue-and-white police cruiser sailed past us, wailing madly, barreling on through a red light. I braked for the same light, and as we waited for it to turn green a pair of foot patrolmen crossed the street in front of us. The one with the mustache was doing baton-twirler tricks with his nightstick. At one point he swung around so that he was looking directly at us, and Carolyn gripped my arm and didn't let go until he and his companion had continued on across the street.\n\n\"Jesus,\" she said.\n\n\"Not to worry.\"\n\n\"I could just picture a lightbulb forming over his head. Like in the comic strips. Are you sure he didn't recognize you?\"\n\n\"Positive. Otherwise he'd have come over to the car for a closer look.\"\n\n\"And what would you have done?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Run the light, probably.\"\n\n\"Jesus.\"\n\nI felt the subject deserved changing. \"I thought of bringing you a present,\" I said. \"A fur jacket, really smart-looking.\"\n\n\"I don't like fur.\"\n\n\"This was a good one. It had an Arvin Tannenbaum label in it.\"\n\n\"Is that good?\"\n\n\"He's as good as furriers get. I don't know much about furs but I know labels. This was pretty. I think it was Canada lynx. What's the matter?\"\n\n\"That's a kind of a cat, Bernie. Don't tell me how pretty it was. A lynx is like a bobcat. Wearing a lynx coat would be like having lampshades made of human skin. Whether or not they're attractive is beside the point.\"\n\nAnother siren oogah-oogahed in the distance. An ambulance, from the sound of it. They've got ambulances these days that sound like Gestapo cars in war movies.\n\nThat last thought blended with Carolyn's lampshade image and made me ready for another change of subject. \"The wig was there,\" I said hurriedly. \"The orange one that she wore to the bookstore. So it wasn't just that my brain was addled from the drug. That was her buying Virgil's Eclogues.\"\n\n\"She must have been afraid someone would recognize her.\"\n\nI nodded. \"She could have worn the wig so I wouldn't recognize her at a later meeting, but that doesn't really make much sense. I suppose she was afraid Whelkin would spot her. They must have known each other because he sent me over to her apartment, but I wish I had something more concrete to tie them together.\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"Pictures, for instance. I was hoping for a batch of telltale snapshots. People with a closetful of whips and chains tend to be keen Polaroid photographers. I didn't turn up a one.\"\n\n\"If there were any pictures, the killer could have taken them.\"\n\n\"Possible.\"\n\n\"Or maybe there weren't any to begin with. If she was only with one person at a time there wouldn't be anybody to take the pictures. Did you find a camera?\"\n\n\"Nary a camera.\"\n\n\"Then there probably weren't any pictures.\"\n\n\"Probably not.\"\n\nI turned into Fourteenth Street, headed west. Carolyn was looking at me oddly. I braked for a red light and turned to see her studying me, a thoughtful expression on her face.\n\n\"You know something I don't,\" she said.\n\n\"I know how to pick locks. That's all.\"\n\n\"Something else.\"\n\n\"It's just your imagination.\"\n\n\"I don't think so. You were uptight before and now you're all loose and breezy.\"\n\n\"It's just self-confidence and a feeling of well-being,\" I told her. \"Don't worry. It'll pass.\"\n\nThere was a legal parking place around the corner from her apartment, legal until 7 A.M., at any rate. I stuck the Pontiac into it and grabbed up the suitcase.\n\nThe cats met us at the door. \"Good boys,\" Carolyn said, reaching down to pat heads. \"Anybody call? Did you take messages like I taught you? Bernie, if it's not time for a drink, then the liquor ads have been misleading us for years. You game?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Scotch? Rocks? Soda?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, and no.\"\n\nI unpacked my suitcase while she made the drinks, then made myself sit down and relax long enough to swallow a couple of ounces of Scotch. I waited for it to loosen some of my coiled springs, but before that could happen I was on my feet again.\n\nCarolyn raised her eyebrows at me.\n\n\"The car,\" I said.\n\n\"What about it?\"\n\n\"I want to put it back where I found it.\"\n\n\"You're kidding.\"\n\n\"That car's been very useful to me, Carolyn. I want to return the favor.\"\n\nI paused at the door, reached back under my jacket. There was a book wedged beneath the waistband of my slacks. I drew it free and set it on a table. Carolyn looked at it and at me again.\n\n\"Something to read while I'm gone,\" I said.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"it's not Virgil's Eclogues.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Thirteen\n\nI felt good about taking the car back. You don't spit on your luck, I told myself. I thought of stories of ballplayers refusing to change their socks while the team was on a winning streak. It was high time, I mused, to change my own socks, winning streak or no. A shower would be in order, and a change of garb.\n\nI headed uptown on Tenth Avenue, left hand on the wheel, right hand on the seat beside me, fingers drumming idly. Somewhere in the Forties I snuck a peek at the gas gauge. I had a little less than half a tank left and I felt a need to do something nice for the car's owner, so I cut over to Eleventh Avenue and found an open station at the corner of Fifty-first Street. I had them fill the tank and check the oil while they were at it. The oil was down a quart and I had them take care of that, too.\n\nMy parking space was waiting for me on Seventy-fourth Street, but Max and his owner were nowhere to be seen. I uncoupled my jumper wire, locked up the car, and trotted back to West End Avenue to catch a southbound cab. It was still drizzling lightly but I didn't have to wait long before a cab pulled up. And it was a Checker, with room for me to stretch my legs and relax.\n\nThings were starting to go right. I could feel it.\n\nOut of habit, I left the cab a few blocks from Arbor Court and walked the rest of the way. I rang, and Carolyn buzzed me through the front door and met me at the door to her apartment. She put her hands on her hips and looked up at me. \"You're full of surprises,\" she said.\n\n\"It's part of my charm.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. To tell you the truth, poetry never did too much for me. I had a lover early on who thought she was Edna St. Vincent Millay and that sort of cooled me on the whole subject. Where'd you find the book?\"\n\n\"The Porlock apartment.\"\n\n\"No shit, Bern. Here I thought you checked it out of the Jefferson Market library. Where in the apartment? Out in plain sight?\"\n\n\"Uh-uh. In a shoe box on a shelf in the closet.\"\n\n\"It must have come as a surprise.\"\n\n\"I'll say. I was expecting a pair of Capezios, and look what I found.\"\n\n\"The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. I didn't really read much of it. I skimmed the first three or four pages and I didn't figure it was going to get better.\"\n\n\"You were right.\"\n\n\"How'd you know it would be there, Bern?\"\n\nI went over to the kitchen area and made us a couple of drinks. I gave one to Carolyn and accompanied it with the admission that I hadn't known the book would be there, that I hadn't even had any particular hope of finding it. \"When you don't know what you're looking for,\" I said, \"you have a great advantage, because you don't know what you'll find.\"\n\n\"Just so you know it when you see it. I'm beginning to believe you lead a charmed life. First you run an ad claiming you've got the book, and then you open a shoe box and there's the book. Why did the killer stash it there?\"\n\n\"He didn't. He'd have taken it with him.\"\n\n\"Porlock stashed it?\"\n\n\"Must have. She drugged me, frisked me, grabbed the book, tucked it away in the closet, and got it hidden just in time to let her killer in the front door. She must have been alone in the apartment with me or he'd have seen her hide the book. She let him in and he killed her and left the gun in my hand and went out.\"\n\n\"Without the book.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Why would he kill her without getting the book?\"\n\n\"Maybe he didn't have anything to do with the book. Maybe he had some other reason to want her dead.\"\n\n\"And he just happened to walk in at that particular time, and he decided to frame you because you happened to be there.\"\n\n\"I haven't got it all worked out yet, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"I can see that.\"\n\n\"Maybe he killed her first and started looking for the book and came up empty. Except the apartment didn't look as though it had been searched. It looked as neat as ever, except for the body on the love seat. When I came to, I mean. There was no body there tonight.\"\n\n\"How about the trunk of the Pontiac?\"\n\nI gave her a look. \"They did leave chalkmarks, though. On the love seat and the floor, to outline where the body was. It was sort of spooky.\" I picked up the book and took it and my drink to the chair. Archie was curled up in it. I put down the book and the drink and moved him and sat down, and he hopped onto my lap and looked on with interest as I picked up the book again and leafed through it.\n\n\"I swear he can read,\" Carolyn said. \"Ubi's not much on books but Archie loves to read over my shoulder. Or under my shoulder, come to think of it.\"\n\n\"A cat ought to like Kipling,\" I said. \"Remember the Just So Stories? 'I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.' \"\n\nArchie purred like a handsaw.\n\n\"When I met you,\" I said, \"I figured you'd have dogs.\"\n\n\"I'd rather go to them than have them. What made you think I was a dog person?\"\n\n\"Well, the shop.\"\n\n\"The Poodle Factory?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Well, what choice did I have, Bernie? I couldn't open a cat-grooming salon, for Christ's sake. Cats groom themselves.\"\n\n\"That's a point.\"\n\nI read a little more of the book. Something bothered me. I flipped back to the flyleaf and read the handwritten inscription to H. Rider Haggard. I pictured Kipling at his desk in Surrey, dipping his pen, leaning over the book, inscribing it to his closest friend. I closed the book, turned it over and over in my hands.\n\n\"Something wrong?\"\n\nI shook my head, set the book aside, dispossessed Archie, stood up. \"I'm like the cats,\" I announced, \"and it's time I set about grooming myself. I'm going to take a shower.\"\n\nA while later I was sitting in the chair again. I was wearing clean clothes and I'd had a nice close shave with my own razor.\n\n\"I could get a paper,\" Carolyn offered. \"It's after eleven. The Times must be out by now. The first edition.\"\n\nWe'd just heard the news and there wasn't anything about the Porlock murder. I pointed out that there wouldn't very likely be anything in the paper, either.\n\n\"Our ad'll be in, Bern. In the Personals.\"\n\n\"Where's the nearest newsstand open at this hour?\"\n\n\"There's one on Greenwich Avenue but they don't get the early Times because they close around one or two. There's an all-night stand at the subway entrance at Fourteenth and Eighth.\"\n\n\"That's too far.\"\n\n\"I don't mind a walk.\"\n\n\"It's still raining and it's too far anyway, and why do we have to look at the ad?\"\n\n\"To make sure it's there, I suppose.\"\n\n\"No point. Either somebody'll see it or they won't, and either the phone'll ring or it won't, and all we can do is wait and see what happens.\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\" She sounded wistful. \"It just seems as though there ought to be something active we can do.\"\n\n\"The night's been active enough for me already.\"\n\n\"I guess you're right.\"\n\n\"I feel like a little blissful inactivity, to tell you the truth. I feel like sitting here feeling clean. I feel like having maybe one more drink in a few minutes and then getting ready for bed. I don't even know if people really read Personal ads in the Times, but I'm fairly sure they don't race for the bulldog edition so they can read about missing heirs and volunteers wanted for medical experiments.\"\n\n\"True.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so. The phone's not going to ring for a while, Carolyn.\"\n\nSo of course it picked that minute to ring.\n\nWe looked at each other. Nobody moved and it went on ringing. \"You get it,\" she said.\n\n\"Why me?\"\n\n\"Because it's about the ad.\"\n\n\"It's not about the ad.\"\n\n\"Of course it's about the ad. What else would it be?\"\n\n\"Maybe it's a wrong number.\"\n\n\"Bernie, for God's sake...\"\n\nI got up and answered the phone. I didn't say anything for a second, and then I said, \"Hello.\"\n\nNo answer.\n\nI said hello a few more times, giving the word the same flat reading each time, and I'd have gotten more of a response from Archie. I stared at the receiver for a moment, said \"Hello\" one final time, then said \"Goodbye\" and hung up.\n\n\"Interesting conversation,\" Carolyn said.\n\n\"It's good I answered it. It really made a difference.\"\n\n\"Someone wanted to find out who placed the ad. Now they've heard your voice and they know it's you.\"\n\n\"You're reading a lot into a moment of silence.\"\n\n\"Maybe I should have picked it up after all.\"\n\n\"And maybe what we just had was a wrong number. Or a telephone pervert. I didn't hear any heavy breathing, but maybe he's new at it.\"\n\nShe started to say something, then got to her feet, popping up like a toaster. \"I'm gonna have one more drink,\" she said. \"How about you?\"\n\n\"A short one.\"\n\n\"They know it's you, Bernie. Now if they can get the address from the number\u2014\"\n\n\"They can't.\"\n\n\"Suppose they're the police. The police could get the phone company to cooperate, couldn't they?\"\n\n\"Maybe. But what do the police know about the Kipling book?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Well, neither do they.\" She handed me a drink. It was a little heftier than I'd had in mind but I didn't raise any objections. Her nervousness was contagious and I'd managed to pick up a light dose of it. I prescribed Scotch, to be followed by bed rest.\n\n\"It was probably what I said it would be when I answered it,\" I suggested. \"A wrong number.\"\n\n\"You're right.\"\n\n\"For all we know, the ad didn't even make the early edition.\"\n\n\"I could take a quick run over to Fourteenth Street and check\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't be ridiculous.\" I picked up the book again and found myself flipping through its pages, remembering how I'd done so on an earlier occasion, sitting in my own apartment with a similar drink at hand and flushed with the triumph of a successful burglary. Well, I'd stolen the thing again, but somehow I didn't feel the same heady rush.\n\nSomething nagged at me. Some little thought out there on the edge of consciousness...\n\nI finished my drink and tuned it out.\n\nHalf an hour after the phone call we were bedded down for the night. I was bedded down, anyway; Carolyn was couched. The clock radio was supplying an undercurrent of mood music, all set to turn itself off thirty minutes into the Mantovani.\n\nI was teetering on the edge of sleep when I half heard footsteps approaching the door of the apartment. I didn't really register them; Carolyn's was a first-floor apartment, after all, and various feet had been approaching it all night long, only to pass it and continue on up the stairs. This time the steps stopped outside the door, and just as that fact was beginning to penetrate I heard a key in the lock.\n\nI sat up in bed. The key turned in the lock. Beside me, a cat sat quivering with excitement. As another key slipped into another of the locks, Carolyn stirred on the couch and whispered my name urgently.\n\nWe were both on our feet by the time the door opened. A hand reached in to switch on the overhead light. We stood there blinking.\n\n\"I'm dreaming,\" Randy said. \"None of this is really happening.\"\n\nShoulder-length chestnut hair. A high broad forehead, a long oval face. Large eyes, larger now than I'd ever seen them, and a mouth in the shape of the letter O.\n\n\"Jesus,\" Carolyn said. \"Randy, it's not what you think.\"\n\n\"Of course not. The two of you were playing canasta. You had the lights out so you wouldn't disturb the cats. Why else would you be wearing your Dr. Denton's, Carolyn? And does Bernie like the handy drop seat?\"\n\n\"You've got it all wrong.\"\n\n\"I know. It's terrible the way I jump to conclusions. At least you're dressed warmly. Bernie, poor thing, you're shivering in your undershorts. Why don't the two of you huddle together for warmth, Carolyn? It wouldn't bother me a bit.\"\n\n\"Randy, you just don't understand.\"\n\n\"You're dead right about that. I figured you knew what you were by now. Aren't you a little old for a sexual-identity crisis?\"\n\n\"Dammit, Randy\u2014\"\n\n\"Dammit is right. Dammit is definitely right. I thought I recognized Bernie's voice on the telephone. And I was struck tongue-tied. After I hung up I told myself it was probably innocent, the two of you are friends, and I asked myself why I reacted with such paranoia. But you know what they say, Carolyn. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean real little people aren't following you.\"\n\n\"Will you please listen to me?\"\n\n\"No, you listen to me, you little shit. What I said was, well, screw it, Miranda, you've got a key, so go over and join the two of them and see how silly you're being, or maybe you'll get lucky and Carolyn'll be alone and you can have some laughs and patch things up, and\u2014God damn you, Carolyn. Here's your set of keys, bitch. I won't walk in on you two again. Count on it.\"\n\n\"Randy, I\u2014\"\n\n\"I said here's your keys. And I think you have my keys, Carolyn, and I'd like them back. Now, if you don't mind.\"\n\nWe tried to say something but it was pointless. There was nothing she wanted to hear. She gave back Carolyn's keys and pocketed her own and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the dishes on the kitchen table, stamping her way down the hall, slamming the vestibule door on her way out of the building.\n\nCarolyn and I just stood there looking at each other. Ubi had gone to hide under the bed. Archie stood up on the chair and let out a tentative yowl. After a couple of minutes Carolyn went over to the door and set about locking the locks.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Fourteen\n\nThe Personal ads were on the penultimate page of the second section of the Times, along with the shipping news and a few other high-priority items. Ours was the third listing, following a plea for information from the parents of a fourteen-year-old runaway.\n\nI read our ad three or four times and decided that it did its job efficiently enough. It hadn't brought any response yet, but it was still early; Carolyn had awakened at dawn and gone for the paper as soon as she'd fed the cats. At this hour our presumably interested parties might well be snug in their beds. If, like me and Carolyn, they were already warming themselves over morning coffee, they'd still have the whole paper to wade through before they got to the Personals. True, it was a Saturday. The daily Times has added on feature sections in recent years, padding itself like a bear preparing to hibernate, but the Saturday paper remains fashionably slender. On the other hand, a good many people take a break from the Times on Saturdays, readying themselves for the onslaught of the enormous Sunday paper, so it was possible our prospective customers would never pick up the paper at all. The ad was set to run for a week, but now that I looked at it, a few lines of type on a remote back page, I wasn't too cocky about the whole thing. We couldn't really count on it, I decided, and it would be advisable to draft a backup plan as soon as possible.\n\n\"Oh, wow. I'm glad I went out for the paper, Bernie.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" I said. \"I just hope you're not the only person who took the trouble.\"\n\nShe had the first section and she was pointing to something. \"You'd better read this,\" she said.\n\nI took it and read it. A few inches of copy on one of the back pages, out of place among the scraps of international news but for its faintly international flavor. Bernard Rhodenbarr, I read, the convicted burglar currently sought by police investigating the slaying Thursday of Madeleine Porlock in her East Side apartment, had narrowly escaped apprehension the previous night. Surprised by an alert police officer while attempting to break into Barnegat Books on East Eleventh Street, Rhodenbarr whipped out a pistol and exchanged shots with the policeman. The officer, I read, suffered a flesh wound in the foot and was treated at St. Vincent's Hospital and released. The burglar-turned-gunman, owner of the store in question, had escaped on foot, apparently uninjured.\n\nAs an afterthought, the last paragraph mentioned that Rhodenbarr had disguised himself for the occasion by donning a turban and false beard. \"But he didn't fool me,\" Patrolman Francis Rockland was quoted as saying. \"We're trained to see past obvious disguises. I recognized him right away from his photograph.\"\n\n\"The Sikh,\" I told Carolyn. \"Well, that's one person who hasn't got the book, or he wouldn't have been trying to break into the store to search for it. I wonder if it was him you spotted watching the store yesterday.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"The tabloids'll probably give this more of a play. They like irony, and what's more ironic than a burglar caught breaking into his own place? They should only know how ironic it is.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, the cop could have arrested the Sikh. That wouldn't have cleared me on the murder rap but at least they wouldn't be after me for this, too. Or the Sikh could have been a worse shot, so I wouldn't be charged with shooting a cop. Wounding a police officer is a more serious crime than murdering a civilian, at least as far as the cops are concerned. Or, if he had to shoot him, the Sikh could have killed young Mr. Rockland. Then he wouldn't have been able to tell them I was the one who did it.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't really want the policeman dead, Bernie.\"\n\n\"No. With my luck he'd live long enough to tell a brother officer who shot him. Then I'd be a cop killer. What if Randy sees this? She must have missed the first story, or at least she never connected it with me, because she didn't seem concerned last night about your harboring a fugitive. She was too busy feeling betrayed.\"\n\n\"She never looks at the Times. \"\n\n\"It'll be in the other papers, too.\"\n\n\"She probably won't read them, either. I don't even know if she knows your last name.\"\n\n\"She must.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Would she call the cops?\"\n\n\"She's a good person, Bernie. She's not a fink.\"\n\n\"She's also jealous. She thinks\u2014\"\n\n\"I know what she thinks. She must be a lunatic to think it, but I know what she thinks.\"\n\n\"She could decide to give the cops an anonymous tip. She could tell herself it was for your own good, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"Shit.\" She gnawed a thumbnail. \"You figure it's not safe here anymore?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"But the phone's here. And the number's in the paper, and how are we going to answer it from a distance?\"\n\n\"Who's going to call, anyway?\"\n\n\"Rudyard Whelkin.\"\n\n\"He killed Madeleine Porlock Thursday night. I'll bet he took a cab straight to Kennedy and was out of the country by midnight.\"\n\n\"Without the book?\"\n\nI shrugged.\n\n\"And the Sikh might call. What happened to his five hundred dollars?\"\n\n\"You figure he'll call so he can ask me that question?\"\n\n\"No, I'm asking it, Bern. You had the money on you when Madeleine Porlock drugged you, right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"And it was gone when you came to.\"\n\n\"Right again.\"\n\n\"So what happened to it?\"\n\n\"She took it. Oh. What happened to it after she took it?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Where did it go? You went through her things last night. It wasn't stashed with the book, was it?\"\n\n\"It wasn't stashed anywhere. Nowhere that I looked, that is. I suppose the killer took it along with him.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't he leave it?\"\n\n\"Why leave money? Money's money, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"There's always stories about killings in the paper, and they say the police ruled out robbery as a motive because the victim had a large sum of cash on his person.\"\n\n\"That's organized crime. They want people to know why they killed somebody. They'll even plant money on a person so the police will rule out robbery. Either the killer took the money this time or Porlock found a hiding place that didn't occur to me. Or some cop picked it up when no one was looking. That's been known to happen.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Oh, sure. I could tell you no end of stories. But what's the point? I'd be interrupted by the insistent ringing of the telephone.\"\n\nAnd I turned to the instrument, figuring it would recognize a cue when it heard one. It stayed silent, though, for upwards of half an hour.\n\nBut once it started ringing, I didn't think it was ever going to stop.\n\nRrrring!\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Ah, hello. I've just read your notice in the Times. I'm only wondering if I'm interpreting it correctly.\"\n\n\"How are you interpreting it?\"\n\n\"You would appear to have something to sell.\"\n\n\"That's correct.\"\n\n\"Passage to, ah, Fort Bucklow.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Would it be possible for me to know to whom I am speaking?\"\n\n\"I was going to ask you that very question.\"\n\n\"Ah. An impasse. Let me consider this.\"\n\nAn English inflection, an undertone of Asia or Africa. A slightly sibilant s. Educated, soft-spoken. A pleasant voice, all in all.\n\n\"Very well, sir. I believe you may already have encountered an emissary of mine. If my guess is right, you overcharged him in a transaction recently. He paid five hundred dollars for a book priced at a dollar ninety-five.\"\n\n\"Not my fault. He ran off without his change.\"\n\nAn appreciative chuckle. \"Then you are the man I assumed you to be. Very good. You have pluck, sir. The police seek you in connection with a woman's death and you persist in your efforts to sell a book. Business as usual, eh?\"\n\n\"I need money right now.\"\n\n\"To quit the country, I would suppose. You have the book at hand? It is actually in your possession as we talk?\"\n\n\"Yes. I don't believe I caught your name.\"\n\n\"I don't believe I've given it. Before we go further, sir, perhaps you could prove to me that you have the volume.\"\n\n\"I suppose I could hold it to the phone, but unless you have extraordinary powers...\"\n\n\"Open it to page forty-two, sir, and read the first stanza on the page.\"\n\n\"Oh. Hold on a minute. 'Now if you should go to Fort Bucklow / When the moon is on the wane, / And the jackal growls while the monkey howls / Like a woman struck insane... Is that the one you mean?\"\n\nA pause. \"I want that volume, sir. I want to buy it.\"\n\n\"Good. I want to sell it.\"\n\n\"And your price?\"\n\n\"I haven't set it yet.\"\n\n\"If you will do so...\"\n\n\"This is tricky business. I have to protect myself. I'm a fugitive, as you said, and that makes me vulnerable. I don't even know whom I'm dealing with.\"\n\n\"A visitor in your land, sir. A passionate devotee of Mr. Kipling. My name is of little importance.\"\n\n\"How can I get in touch with you?\"\n\n\"It's of less importance than my name. I can get in touch with you, sir, by calling this number.\"\n\n\"No. I won't be here. It's not safe. Give me a number where I can reach you at five o'clock this afternoon.\"\n\n\"A telephone number?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I can't do that.\"\n\n\"It can be any telephone at all. Just so you'll be at it at five o'clock.\"\n\n\"Ah. I will call you back, sir, in ten minutes.\"\n\nRrrring!\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Sir, you have pencil and paper?\"\n\n\"Go ahead.\"\n\n\"I will be at this number at five o'clock this afternoon. RH4-5198.\"\n\n\"RH4-5198. At five o'clock.\"\n\nRrrring! Rrrring!\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Hello.\"\n\n\"Ah. If you could say something more elaborate than a simple hello...\"\n\n\"What do you want me to say?\"\n\n\"Very good. I'd hoped it was you. I won't use your name aloud, and I trust you won't use mine.\"\n\n\"Only if I want to call your club and have you paged.\"\n\n\"Don't do that.\"\n\n\"They said you weren't a member. Extraordinary, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I haven't been altogether straightforward with you, my boy. I can explain everything.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you can.\"\n\n\"The elusive item. Can I assume from your advertisement that it hasn't slipped out of your hands?\"\n\n\"It's in front of me even as we speak.\"\n\n\"Excellent.\"\n\n\" 'Now if you should go to Fort Bucklow / When the moon is on the wane, / And the jackal growls while the monkey howls...' \"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, don't read it to me. Or have you committed great stretches of it to memory?\"\n\n\"No, I was reading.\"\n\n\"Oh, to prove possession? Hardly necessary, my boy. You'd scarcely have shot the woman and then left the book behind, would you? Now how are we going to manage this transaction?\"\n\n\"We could meet someplace.\"\n\n\"We could. Of course neither of us would welcome the attention of the police. I wonder...\"\n\n\"Give me a number where I can reach you at six o'clock.\"\n\n\"Why don't I simply call you?\"\n\n\"Because I don't know where I'll be.\"\n\n\"I see. Well, my boy, at the risk of appearing to play them close to the vest, I'm not sure I'd care to give out this number.\"\n\n\"Any number, then.\"\n\n\"How's that?\"\n\n\"Pick a pay phone. Give me the number and be there to answer it at six.\"\n\n\"Ah. I'll get back to you.\"\n\nRrrring!\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"CHelsea 2-9419.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"At six o'clock.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nRrrring!\n\n\"Hello?\"\n\n\"Hello. I believe you advertised\u2014\"\n\n\"Passage to Fort Bucklow. That's correct.\"\n\n\"May I speak frankly? We're talking about a book, are we not?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you wish to purchase it?\"\n\n\"I have it for sale.\"\n\nA pause. \"I see. You actually own a copy. You have it in your possession.\"\n\n\" '...The jackal growls while the monkey howls / Like a woman struck insane...' \"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I'm reading from the top of page forty-two.\"\n\n\"That would hardly seem necessary.\" Another pause. \"This is confusing. Perhaps I should give you my name.\"\n\n\"That'd be nice.\"\n\n\"It's Demarest. Prescott Demarest, and I don't suppose it will mean anything to you. I'm acting as agent for a wealthy collector whose name would mean something to you, but I haven't the authority to mention it. He was recently offered a copy of this book. The offer was suddenly withdrawn. I wonder if it's the same copy?\"\n\n\"I couldn't say.\"\n\n\"The copy he was offered was represented as unique. It was our understanding that only one copy of the book exists.\"\n\n\"Then it must be the same copy.\"\n\n\"So it would seem. I don't think you gave your name.\"\n\n\"I'm careful about my privacy, Mr. Demarest. Like your employer.\"\n\n\"I see. I'd have to consult him, of course, but if you could let me know your price?\"\n\n\"It hasn't been set yet.\"\n\n\"There are other potential buyers?\"\n\n\"Several.\"\n\n\"I'd like to see the book. Before you offer it to anyone else. If we could arrange to meet\u2014\"\n\n\"I can't talk right now, Mr. Demarest. Where can I reach you this afternoon at, say, four o'clock? Will you be near a telephone?\"\n\n\"I can arrange to be.\"\n\n\"Could I have the number?\"\n\n\"I don't see why not. Take this down. WOrth 4-1114. You did say four o'clock? I'll expect to hear from you then.\"\n\n\"I think that's it,\" I told Carolyn, after I'd summarized the Demarest conversation for her. \"I don't think there are going to be any more calls.\"\n\n\"How can you tell?\"\n\n\"I can't, but it's one of my stronger hunches. The first caller was foreign and he's the one who sicced the Sikh on me. The Sikh came around Thursday afternoon, so he's known at least that long that I had the book, but he made me read it to him over the phone.\"\n\n\"What does that prove?\"\n\n\"Beats me. Right now I'm just piling up data. Interpreting it will have to wait. The second call was from Whelkin and he wasn't terribly interested in howling jackals or growling monkeys.\"\n\n\"I think it's the other way around.\"\n\n\"Monkeys and jackals aren't terribly interested in Whelkin?\"\n\n\"The jackal was growling and the monkey was howling. Not that it makes a hell of a lot of difference. What are you getting at, Bernie?\"\n\n\"Good question. Whelkin seemed to take it for granted that I killed Madeleine Porlock. That's why he wasn't surprised I had the book. Which means he didn't kill her. Unless, of course, he was pretending to believe I killed her, in which case...\"\n\n\"In which case what?\"\n\n\"Damned if I know. That leaves Demarest, and there's something refreshing about him. He was very open about his name and he didn't have to be coaxed into supplying his phone number. What do you suppose that means?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Neither do I.\" I helped myself to more coffee. \"The murder's what screws things up. If somebody hadn't killed Madeleine Porlock I wouldn't have a problem. Or if the police weren't looking to hang the killing on me. I'd just sell the book to the highest bidder and spend the next two weeks in the Bahamas. One of those three killed her, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"One of the ones who just called?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" I looked at my watch. \"We don't have a hell of a lot of time,\" I said. \"I'm supposed to call them at hourly intervals, starting with Demarest at four. That gives us a couple of hours to set things up.\"\n\n\"To set what up?\"\n\n\"A trap. It's going to be tricky, though, because I don't know who to set it for or what to use for bait. There's only one thing to do.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\n\"What I always do in time of stress,\" I said. \"Bribe a cop.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Fifteen\n\nWhen he came to the phone I apologized for the intrusion. \"Your wife didn't want to disturb you,\" I said, \"but I told her it was important.\"\n\n\"Well, I got Wake Forest and ten points,\" he said. \"So all I been doin' is watch twenty bucks go down the chute.\"\n\n\"Who are they playing?\"\n\n\"University of Georgia. The Bulldogs got what they call the Junkyard Dog defense. All it means is they're chewin' the ass offa poor Wake Forest.\" There was a long and thoughtful pause. \"Who the hell,\" he said, \"is this?\"\n\n\"Just an old friend and enemy who needs a favor.\"\n\n\"Jesus, it's you. Kid, I seen you step in it before, but I swear this time you got both feet smack in the middle of God's birthday cake. Where are you callin' from, anyway?\"\n\n\"The Slough of Despond. I need a favor, Ray.\"\n\n\"Jesus, that's the truth. Well, you came to the right place. You want me to set up a surrender, right? First smart move you made since you iced the Porlock dame. You stay out there and it's just a question of time before somebody tags you, and what do you want to get shot for? And the word is shoot first on you, Bern.\" He clucked at me. \"That wasn't too brilliant, you know. Shootin' a cop. The department takes a dim view.\"\n\n\"I never shot him.\"\n\n\"C'mon, kid. He was there, right? He saw you.\"\n\n\"He saw a clown with a beard and a turban. I never shot him and I never shot her either.\"\n\n\"And all you do is sell books. You told me the whole story, remember? How you're straight as a javelin and all? Listen, you'll be okay now. I'll set up a surrender, and don't think I don't appreciate it. Makes me look good, no question about it, and it saves your ass. You get yourself a decent lawyer and who knows, you might even beat the whole thing in court. Worst comes to worst, so you do a couple of years upstate. You done that before.\"\n\n\"Ray, I never\u2014\"\n\n\"One thing that's not so good, this Rockland kid's young and feisty, you know? If it was an old-timer you shot, he'd probably take a couple of kay to roll over in court and fudge the testimony. 'Course, if it was an old-timer, he probably woulda shot you instead of waitin' to get hisself shot in the foot. So I guess you break even on that one, Bern.\"\n\nWe went a few more rounds, me proclaiming my innocence while he told me how I could cop a plea and probably get off with writing \"I won't steal no more\" one hundred times on the blackboard after school. Eventually I shifted gears and told him there was something specific I wanted from him.\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"I have three phone numbers. I want you to run them down for me.\"\n\n\"You nuts, Bernie? You know what's involved in tracin' a call? You gotta set up in advance, you gotta be able to reach somebody at the phone company on another line, and then you gotta keep the mark on the phone for a couple of minutes and even then they sometimes can't make the trace work. And then if you\u2014\"\n\n\"I already know the three numbers, Ray.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"I know the numbers, I want to know the locations of the phones. As if I already traced the calls successfully and I want to know where I traced them to.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"You could do that, couldn't you?\"\n\nHe thought it over. \"Sure,\" he said, \"but why should I?\"\n\nI gave him a very good reason.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said, after we'd discussed my very good reason for a few minutes. \"Seems to me I'm takin' a hell of a chance.\"\n\n\"What chance? You'll make a phone call, that's all.\"\n\n\"Meanwhile I'm cooperatin' with a fugitive from justice. That's not gonna go down too good if anybody ever hears about it.\"\n\n\"Who's going to hear?\"\n\n\"You never know. Another thing, how in the hell are you ever gonna deliver? You make it sound good, but how can you deliver? If some rookie with high marks on the pistol range whacks you out, Bern, where does that leave me?\"\n\n\"It leaves you alive. Think where it leaves me.\"\n\n\"That's why I'm sayin' you oughta surrender.\"\n\n\"Nobody's going to shoot me,\" I said, with perhaps a shade more confidence than I possessed. \"And I'll deliver what I promised. When did I ever let you down?\"\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"Ray, all you have to do is make a phone call or two. Isn't it worth a shot? For Christ's sake, if Wake Forest is worth a twenty-dollar investment\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't remind me. My money's gurglin' down the drain and I'm not even watchin' it go.\"\n\n\"Look at the odds I'm giving you. All you got with Wake Forest is ten points.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" I listened while his mental wheels spun. \"You ever tell anybody we had this conversation\u2014\"\n\n\"You know me better than that, Ray.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you're all right. Okay, gimme the numbers.\"\n\nI gave them to him and he repeated them in turn.\n\n\"All right,\" he said. \"Now gimme the number where you're at and I'll get back to you soon as I can.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" I said. \"The number here.\" I was about to read it off the little disc on the telephone when Carolyn grabbed my arm and showed me a face overflowing with alarm. \"Uh, I don't think so,\" I told Ray. \"If it's that easy for you to find out where a phone's located\u2014\"\n\n\"Bern, what kind of a guy do you think I am?\"\n\nI let that one glide by. \"Besides,\" I said, \"I'm on my way out the door, anyway. Best thing is if I call you back. How much time do you need?\"\n\n\"Depends what kind of cooperation I get from the phone company.\"\n\n\"Say half an hour?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" he said. \"Sounds good. Try me in half an hour, Bernie.\"\n\nI cradled the receiver. Carolyn and both cats were looking at me expectantly. \"A camera,\" I said.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"We've got half an hour to get a camera. A Polaroid, actually, unless you know somebody with a darkroom, and who wants to screw around developing film? We need a Polaroid. I don't suppose you've got one?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Is there one you could borrow? I hate the idea of running out and buying one. The midtown stores are likely to be crowded and I don't even know if there's a camera place in the Village. There's stores on Fourteenth Street but the stuff they sell tends to fall apart on the way home. And there's pawnshops on Third Avenue but I hate to make the rounds over there with a price on my head. Of course you could go over there and buy one.\"\n\n\"If I knew what to buy. I'd hate to get it home and find out it doesn't work. What do we need a camera for, anyway?\"\n\n\"To take some pictures.\"\n\n\"I never would have thought of that. It's a shame Randy walked in when she did. She's got one of those new Polaroids, you take the picture and it's developed before you can let go of the shutter.\"\n\n\"Randy's got a Polaroid?\"\n\n\"That's what I just said. Didn't I show you pictures of the cats last week?\"\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\n\"Well, she took them. But I can't ask her to borrow it, because she's convinced we're having an affair and she'd probably think I wanted us to take obscene pictures of each other or something. And she's probably not home, anyway.\"\n\n\"Call her and see.\"\n\n\"Are you kidding? I don't want to talk to her.\"\n\n\"Hang up if she answers.\"\n\n\"Then why call in the first place?\"\n\n\"Because if she's not home,\" I said, \"we can go pick up the camera.\"\n\n\"Beautiful.\" She reached for the phone, then sighed and let her hand drop. \"You're forgetting something. Remember last night? I gave her keys back.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Who needs keys?\"\n\nShe looked at me, laughed, shook her head, \"Far out,\" she said, and reached for the phone.\n\nRandy lived in a tiny studio on the fifth floor of a squat brick apartment house on Morton Street between Seventh Avenue and Hudson. There's an article in the New York building code requiring an elevator in every structure of seven or more stories. This one was six stories tall, and up the stairs we went.\n\nThe locks were candy. They wouldn't have been much trouble if I'd been limited to my drugstore tools. Now that I had my pro gear, I went through them like the Wehrmacht through Luxembourg. When the penny dropped and the final lock snicked open, I looked up at Carolyn. Her mouth was wide open and her blue eyes were larger than I'd ever seen them.\n\n\"God,\" she said. \"It takes me longer than that when I've got the keys.\"\n\n\"Well, they're cheap locks. And I was showing off a little. Trying to impress you.\"\n\n\"It worked. I'm impressed.\"\n\nWe were in and out quicker than Speedy Gonzales. The camera was where Carolyn thought it would be, in the bottom drawer of Randy's dresser. It nestled in a carrying case with a shoulder strap, and an ample supply of film reposed in the case's zippered film compartment. Carolyn hung the thing over her shoulder, I locked the locks, and we were on our way home.\n\nI'd told Ray I would call him in half an hour and I didn't miss by more than a few minutes. He answered the phone himself this time. \"Your friend moves around,\" he said.\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"The guy with the three phone numbers. He covers a lot of ground. The Rhinelander number's a sidewalk pay phone on the corner of Seventy-fifth and Madison. The Chelsea number's also a pay phone. It's located in the lobby of the Gresham Hotel. That's on Twenty-third between Fifth and Sixth.\"\n\n\"Hold on,\" I said, scribbling furiously. \"All right. How about the Worth number?\"\n\n\"Downtown. I mean way downtown, in the Wall Street area. Twelve Pine Street.\"\n\n\"Another lobby phone?\"\n\n\"Nope. An office on the fourteenth floor. A firm called Tontine Trading Corp. Bern, let's get back to the coat, huh? You said ranch mink, didn't you?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"What did you say the color was?\"\n\n\"Silver-blue.\"\n\n\"And it's full-fashioned? You're sure of that?\"\n\n\"Positive. You can't go wrong with this one, Ray. It's carrying an Arvin Tannenbaum label, and that's strictly carriage trade.\"\n\n\"When can I have it?\"\n\n\"In plenty of time for Christmas, Ray. No problem.\"\n\n\"You son of a bitch. What are you givin' me? You haven't got the coat.\"\n\n\"Of course not. I retired, Ray. I gave up burglary. What would I be doing with a hot coat?\"\n\n\"Then where'd the coat come from?\"\n\n\"I'm going to get it for you, Ray. After I get myself out of the jam I'm in.\"\n\n\"Suppose you don't get out of it, Bern? Then what?\"\n\n\"Well, you better hope I do,\" I said, \"or else the coat's down the same chute as your twenty-buck bet on Wake Forest.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Sixteen\n\nI cabbed uptown for the Pontiac. By the time I brought it downtown again Carolyn had familiarized herself with the intricacies of the Polaroid camera. She proved this by clicking the shutter at me as I came through the door. The picture popped out and commenced developing before my eyes. I looked startled, and guilty of something or other. I told Carolyn I wasn't going to order any enlargements.\n\n\"You're a better model than the cats,\" she said. \"Ubi wouldn't sit still and Archie kept crossing his eyes.\"\n\n\"Archie always keeps crossing his eyes.\"\n\n\"It's part of being Burmese. Wanna take my picture?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\nShe was wearing a charcoal-gray turtleneck and slate-blue corduroy jeans. For the photo she slipped on a brass-buttoned blazer and topped things off with a rakish beret. So attired, she sat on the edge of a table, crossed her legs, and grinned at the camera like an endearing waif.\n\nRandy's Polaroid captured all of this remarkably well. We studied the result together. \"What's missing,\" Carolyn said, \"is a cigar.\"\n\n\"You don't smoke cigars.\"\n\n\"To pose with. It'd make me look very Bonnie and Clyde.\"\n\n\"Which of them do you figure you'd look like?\"\n\n\"Oh, very funny. Nothing like a little sexist humor to lighten the mood. Are we ready to go?\"\n\n\"I think so. You've got the Blinns' bracelet?\"\n\n\"In my pocket.\"\n\n\"And you're comfortable with the camera?\"\n\n\"It's about as tricky to operate as a self-service elevator.\"\n\n\"Then let's go.\"\n\nAnd on the sidewalk I said, \"Uh, Carolyn, you may not remind anybody of Faye Dunaway, but you look terrific today.\"\n\n\"What's all this about?\"\n\n\"And you're not bad to have around, either.\"\n\n\"What is this? A speech to the troops before going into battle?\"\n\n\"Something like that, I guess.\"\n\n\"Well, watch it, will you? I could get misty-eyed and run my mascara. It's a good thing I don't wear any. Can't you drive this crate, Bern?\"\n\nOn weekends, New York's financial district looks as though someone zapped it with one of those considerate bombs that kills people without damaging property. Narrow streets, tall buildings, and no discernible human activity whatsoever. All the shops were closed, all the people home watching football games.\n\nI left the Pontiac in an unattended parking lot on Nassau and we walked down to Pine. Number 12 was an office building that towered above those on either side of it. A guard sat at a desk in the lobby, logging the handful of workers who refused to let the weekend qualify their devotion to the pursuit of profit.\n\nWe stood on the far side of Pine for eight or ten minutes, during which time the attendant had nothing whatever to do. No one signed in or out. I looked up and counted nine lighted windows on the front of the building. I tried to determine if one of these might be on the fourteenth floor, a process made somewhat more difficult by the angle at which I had to gaze and the impossibility of determining which was the fourteenth floor, since I had no way of knowing if the building had a thirteenth floor.\n\nI couldn't find a pay phone in line of sight of the building. I went around the corner and walked a block up William Street. At two minutes past four I dialed the number Prescott Demarest had given me. He picked it up after it had rung twice but didn't say anything until I'd said hello myself. If I'd shown similar restraint the night before we could have had Randy's Polaroid without breaking and entering to get it.\n\n\"I have the book,\" I told him. \"And I need cash. I have to leave town. If you're ready to deal, I can offer you a bargain.\"\n\n\"I'll pay a fair price. If I'm convinced the item is genuine.\"\n\n\"Suppose I show it to you tonight? If you decide you want it, then we can work out a price.\"\n\n\"Tonight?\"\n\n\"At Barnegat Books. That's a store on East Eleventh Street.\"\n\n\"I know where it is. There was a story in this morning's paper\u2014\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"You feel it's entirely safe? Meeting at this store?\"\n\n\"I think so. There's no police surveillance, if that's worrying you. I checked earlier this afternoon.\" And so I had, driving past slowly in the Pontiac. \"Eleven o'clock,\" I said. \"I'll see you then.\"\n\nI hung up and walked back to the corner of William and Pine. I could see the entrance of Number 12 from there, though not terribly well. I'd left Carolyn directly across the street in the doorway of a shop that offered old prints and custom framing. I couldn't tell if she was still there or not.\n\nI stayed put for maybe five minutes. Then someone emerged from the building, walking off immediately toward Nassau Street. He'd no sooner disappeared from view than Carolyn stepped out from the printshop's doorway and gave me a wave.\n\nI sprinted back to the telephone, dialed WOrth 4-1114. I let it ring a full dozen times, hung up, retrieved my dime, and raced back to where Carolyn was waiting. \"No answer,\" I told her. \"He's left the office.\"\n\n\"Then we've got his picture.\"\n\n\"There was just the one man?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. Somebody else left earlier, but you hadn't even gotten to the phone by then, so I didn't bother taking his picture. Then one man came out, and I waved to you after I snapped him, and there hasn't been anybody since then. Here's somebody now. It's a woman. Should I take her picture?\"\n\n\"Don't bother.\"\n\n\"She's signing out. Demarest didn't bother. He just waved to the guard and walked on by.\"\n\n\"Doesn't mean anything. I've done that myself, hitting doormen with the old nonchalance. If you act like they know you, they figure they must.\"\n\n\"Here's his picture. What we really need is one of those zoom lenses or whatever you call them. At least this is a narrow street or you wouldn't be able to see much.\"\n\nI studied the picture. It didn't have the clarity of a Bachrach portrait but the lighting was good and Demarest's face showed up clearly. He was a big man, middle-aged, with the close-cropped gray hair of a retired Marine colonel.\n\nThe face was vaguely familiar but I couldn't think why. He was no one I'd ever seen before.\n\nOn the way uptown Carolyn used the rear-view mirror to check the angle of her beret. It took a few minutes before she was satisfied with it.\n\n\"That was really funny,\" she said.\n\n\"Taking Demarest's picture?\"\n\n\"What's funny about taking somebody's picture? It wasn't even scary. I had visions of him coming straight across the street and braining me with the camera, but he never even noticed. Just a quiet little click from the shadows. No, I was talking about last night.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"When Randy turned up. The ultimate bedroom farce. I swear, if jumping weren't allowed she'd never get to a conclusion.\"\n\n\"Well, from her point of view\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, the whole thing's ridiculous from anybody's point of view. But there's one thing you've got to admit.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\n\"She's really cute when she's mad.\"\n\nBy a quarter to five we were in a cocktail lounge called Sangfroid. It was as elegant as the surrounding neighborhood, its floor deeply carpeted, its d\u00e9cor running to black wood and chrome. Our table was a black disc eighteen inches in diameter. Our chairs were black vinyl hemispheres with chrome bases. My drink was Perrier water with ice and lime. Carolyn's was a martini.\n\n\"I know you don't drink when you work,\" she said. \"But this isn't drinking.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Therapy. And not a moment too soon, because I think I'm hallucinating. Do you see what I see?\"\n\n\"I see a very tall gentleman with a beard and a turban walking south on Madison Avenue.\"\n\n\"Does that mean we're both hallucinating?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"The chap's a Sikh,\" I said. \"Unless he's a notorious homicidal burglar wearing a fiendishly clever disguise.\"\n\n\"What's he doing?\"\n\nHe had entered the telephone booth. It was on our corner, a matter of yards from where we sat, and we could see him quite clearly through the window. I couldn't swear he was the same Sikh who'd held a gun on me, but the possibility certainly did suggest itself.\n\n\"Is he the man who called you?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Then why's he in the booth? He's ten minutes early, anyway.\"\n\n\"Maybe his watch is fast.\"\n\n\"Is he just going to sit there? Wait a minute. Who's he calling?\"\n\n\"I don't know. If it's Dial-A-Prayer, you might get the number from him.\"\n\n\"It's not Dial-A-Prayer. He's saying something.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's Dial-A-Mantra and he's chanting along with the recording.\"\n\n\"He's hanging up.\"\n\n\"So he is,\" I said.\n\n\"And going away.\"\n\nBut not far. He crossed the street and took a position in the doorway of a boutique. He was about as inconspicuous as the World Trade Center.\n\n\"He's standing guard,\" I said. \"I think he just checked to make sure the coast was clear. Then he called the man I spoke with earlier and told him as much. Those may have been his very words\u2014The coast is clear\u2014but somehow I doubt it. Here comes our man now, I think.\"\n\n\"Where did he come from?\"\n\n\"The Carlyle, probably. It's just a block away, and where else would you stay if you were the sort to employ turbaned Sikhs? The Waldorf, perhaps, if you had a sense of history. The Sherry-Netherlands, possibly, if you were a film producer and the Sikh was Yul Brynner in drag. The Pierre maybe, just maybe, if\u2014\"\n\n\"It's definitely him. He's in the booth.\"\n\n\"So he is.\"\n\n\"Now what?\"\n\nI stood up, found a dime in my pocket, checked my watch. \"It's about that time,\" I said.\n\n\"You'll excuse me, won't you? I have a call to make.\"\n\nIt was a longish call. A couple of times the operator cut in to ask for nickels, and it wasn't the sort of conversation where one welcomed the intrusion. I thought of setting the receiver down, walking a few dozen yards, tapping on the phone-booth door and hanging onto my nickels. I decided that would be pound foolish.\n\nI hung up, finally, and the operator rang back almost immediately to ask for a final dime. I dropped it in, then stood there fingering my ring of picks and probes and having fantasies of opening the coin box and retrieving what I'd spent. I'd never tried to pick a telephone, the game clearly not being worth the candle, but how hard could it be? I studied the key slot for perhaps a full minute before coming sharply to my senses.\n\nCarolyn would love that one, I thought, and hurried back to the table to fill her in. She wasn't there. I sat for a moment. The ice had melted in my Perrier and the natural carbonation, while remarkably persistent, was clearly flagging. I gazed out the window. The phone booth on the corner was empty, and I couldn't spot the Sikh in the doorway across the street.\n\nHad she responded to a call of nature? If so, she'd toted the camera along with her. I gave her an extra minute to return from the ladies' room, then laid a five-dollar bill atop the little table, weighted it down with my glass, and got out of there.\n\nI took another look for the Sikh and still couldn't find him. I crossed the street and walked north on Madison in the direction of the Carlyle. Bobby Short was back from his summer break, I seemed to recall reading, and Tommie Flanagan, Ella Fitzgerald's accompanist for years, was doing a solo act in the Bemelmans Lounge. It struck me that I couldn't think of a nicer way to spend a New York evening, and that I hadn't been getting out much of late, and once this mess was cleared up I'd have to pay another visit to this glittering neighborhood.\n\nUnless, of course, this mess didn't get cleared up. In which case I wouldn't be getting out much for years on end.\n\nI was entertaining this grim thought when a voice came at me from a doorway on my left. \"Pssssst,\" I heard. \"Hey, Mac, wanna buy a hot camera?\"\n\nAnd there she was, a cocky grin on her face. \"You found me,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm keen and resourceful.\"\n\n\"And harder to shake than a summer cold.\"\n\n\"That too. I figured you were in the john. When you failed to return, I took action.\"\n\n\"So did I. I tried taking his picture while you were talking to him. From our table. All I got was reflections. You couldn't even tell if there was anyone inside the telephone booth.\"\n\n\"So you went out and waylaid him.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I figured when he was done he'd probably go back where he came from, so I found this spot and waited for him. Either he made more calls or you were talking a long time.\"\n\n\"We were talking a long time.\"\n\n\"Then he showed up, finally, and he never even noticed me. He passed close by, too. Look at this.\"\n\n\"A stunning likeness.\"\n\n\"That's nothing. The film popped out the way it does, and I watched it develop, and it's really amazing the way it does that, and then I tore it off and put it in my pocket, and I popped out of the doorway, ready to go back and look for you, and who do you think I bumped into?\"\n\n\"Rudyard Whelkin.\"\n\n\"Is he around here? Did you see him?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then why did you say that?\"\n\n\"Just a guess. Let's see. Prescott Demarest?\"\n\n\"No. What's the matter with you, Bern? It was the Sikh.\"\n\n\"That would have been my third guess.\"\n\n\"Well, you would have been right. I popped out with my camera in my hot little hands and I almost smacked right into him. He looked down at me and I looked up at him, and I'll tell you, Bernie, I could have used a stepstool.\"\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"What happened is I was incredibly brilliant. A mind like quicksilver. I went all saucer-eyed and I said, 'Oh, wow, a turban! Are you from India, sir? Are you with the United Nations? Gosh, will you pose for me so I can take your picture?' \"\n\n\"How did this go over?\"\n\n\"Smashingly. Look for yourself.\"\n\n\"You're getting pretty handy with that camera.\"\n\n\"You're no more impressed than he was. He's going to buy himself a Polaroid first thing Monday morning. I had to take two pictures, incidentally, because he wanted one for a souvenir. Turn it over, Bernie. Read the back.\"\n\nAn elegant inscription, with lots of curlicues and nonfunctional loops and whorls. To my tiny princess / With devotion and esteem / Your loyal servant / Atman Singh.\n\n\"That's his name,\" she explained. \"Atman Singh.\"\n\n\"I figured that.\"\n\n\"Clever of you. The guy you were on the phone with is Atman Singh's boss, which you also probably figured. The boss's name is\u2014Well, come to think of it, I don't know his name, but his title is the Maharajah of Ranchipur. But I suppose you knew that too, huh?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said softly. \"I didn't know that.\"\n\n\"They're at the Carlyle, you were right about that. The Maharajah likes to take people with him when he travels. Especially women. I had the feeling I could have joined the party if I played my cards right.\"\n\n\"I wonder how you'd look with a ruby in your navel.\"\n\n\"A little too femme, don't you think? Anyway, Atman Singh likes me just the way I am.\"\n\n\"So do I.\" I put a hand on her shoulder. \"You did beautifully, Carolyn. I'm impressed.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" she said, \"if I say so myself. But it wasn't just me alone. I could never have done it without the martini.\"\n\nDriving south and east, she said, \"It was exciting, doing that number with Atman Singh. At first I was scared and then I didn't even notice I was scared because I was so completely into it. Do you know what I mean?\"\n\n\"Of course I know what you mean. I get the same feeling in other people's houses.\"\n\n\"Yeah, that was a kick. In Randy's place. I never realized burglary could be thrilling like that. Now I can see how people might do it primarily for the kick, with the money secondary.\"\n\n\"When you're a pro,\" I said, \"the money's never secondary.\"\n\n\"I guess not. She was really jealous, wasn't she?\"\n\n\"Randy?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Hey, when this is all over, maybe you could teach me a few things.\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"Like opening locks without keys. If you think I could learn.\"\n\n\"Well, there's a certain amount a person can learn. I think there's a knack for lockpick work that you either have or you don't, but beyond that there are things I could teach you.\"\n\n\"How about starting a car without a key?\"\n\n\"Jumping the ignition? That's a cinch. You could learn that in ten minutes.\"\n\n\"I don't drive, though.\"\n\n\"That does make it a pointless skill to acquire.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but I'd sort of like to be able to do it. Just for the hell of it. Hey, Bern?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nShe made a fist, punched me lightly on the upper arm. \"I know this is like life and death,\" she said, \"but I'm having a good time. I just wanted to tell you that.\"\n\nBy five-fifty we were parked\u2014legally, for a change\u2014about half a block from the Gresham Hotel on West Twenty-third Street. The daylight was fading fast now. Carolyn rolled down her window and snapped a quick picture of a passing stranger. The result wasn't too bad from an aesthetic standpoint, but the dim light resulted in a loss of detail.\n\n\"I was afraid of that,\" I told her. \"I booked the Maharajah at five and Whelkin at six, and then when I spoke to Demarest, I was going to set up the call for seven. I made it four instead when I remembered we'd need light.\"\n\n\"There's flashcubes in the carrying case.\"\n\n\"They're a little obvious, don't you think? Anyway, I'm glad we caught Demarest when it was still light enough out to see him. With Whelkin it may not matter. We may not be able to coax him out of the hotel.\"\n\n\"You think he's staying there?\"\n\n\"It's certainly possible. I'd have called, but what name would I ask for?\"\n\n\"You don't think he's staying there under his own name?\"\n\n\"In the first place, no. In the second place, I have no idea what his right name might be. I'm sure it's not Rudyard Whelkin. That was a cute story, being named for Kipling and growing up to collect him, but I have the feeling I'm the only person he told it to.\"\n\n\"His name's not Rudyard Whelkin?\"\n\n\"No. And he doesn't collect books.\"\n\n\"What does he do with them?\"\n\n\"I think he sells them. I think\"\u2014I looked at my watch\u2014\"I think he's sitting in a booth in the lobby of the Gresham,\" I went on, \"waiting for my call. I think I better call him.\"\n\n\"And I think I better take his picture.\"\n\n\"Be subtle about it, huh?\"\n\n\"That's my trademark.\"\n\nThe first phone I tried was out of order. There was another one diagonally across the street but someone was using it. I wound up at a phone on the rear wall of a Blarney Rose bar that had less in common with Sangfroid than the Hotel Gresham did with the Carlyle. Hand-lettered signs over the back bar offered double shots of various brands of blended whiskey at resistibly low prices.\n\nI dialed the number Whelkin had given me. He must have had his hand on the receiver because he had it off the hook the instant it started to ring.\n\nThe conversation was briefer than the one I'd had with the Maharajah. It took longer than it had to because I had trouble hearing at one point; the television announcer was delivering football scores and something he said touched off a loud argument that had something to do with Notre Dame. But the shouting subsided and Whelkin and I resumed our chat.\n\nI apologized for the interference.\n\n\"It's nothing, my boy,\" he assured me. \"Things are every bit as confused where I am. A Eurasian chap's sprawled on a bench in what looks to be a drug-induced coma, a wild-eyed old woman's pawing through a shopping bag and nattering to herself, and another much younger woman's flitting about taking everyone's picture. Oh, dear. She's headed this way.\"\n\n\"She sounds harmless,\" I said.\n\n\"One can only hope so. I shall give her a dazzling smile and let it go at that.\"\n\nA few minutes later I was back in the Pontiac studying a close-up of Rudyard Whelkin. He was showing all his teeth and they fairly gleamed.\n\n\"Subtle,\" I told Carolyn.\n\n\"There's a time for subtlety,\" she said, \"and there's a time for derring-do. There is a time for the rapier and a time for the bludgeon. There is a time for the end-around play and a time to plunge right up the middle.\"\n\n\"There's a Notre Dame fan in the Blarney Rose who would argue that last point with you. I wanted a drink by the time I got out of there. But I had the feeling they were out of Perrier.\"\n\n\"You want to stop someplace now?\"\n\n\"No time.\"\n\n\"What did Whelkin say?\"\n\nI gave her the Reader's Digest version of our conversation as I headed uptown and east again. When I finished she frowned at me and scratched her head. \"It's too damned confusing,\" she complained. \"I can't tell who's lying and who's telling the truth.\"\n\n\"Just assume everybody's lying. That way the occasional surprises will be pleasant ones. I'll drop you at the Blinns' place. You know what to do?\"\n\n\"Sure, but aren't you coming in?\"\n\n\"No need, and too many other things to do. You know what to do after you're through with the Blinns?\"\n\n\"Have a big drink.\"\n\n\"And after that?\"\n\n\"I think so. Want to run through it all for me one more time?\"\n\nI ran through it, and we discussed a couple of points, and by then I was double-parked on East Sixty-sixth next to a Jaguar sedan with DPL plates and a shamefully dented right front fender. The Jag was parked next to a hydrant, and its owner, safe beneath the umbrella of diplomatic immunity, didn't have to worry about either ticket or tow.\n\n\"Here we are,\" I said. \"You've got the pictures?\"\n\n\"All of them. Even Atman Singh.\"\n\n\"You might as well take the camera, too. No sense leaving it in the car. How about the Blinns' bracelet? Got that with you?\"\n\nShe took it from her pocket, slipped it around her wrist. \"I'm not nuts about jewelry,\" she said. \"But it's pretty, isn't it? Bern, you're forgetting something. You have to come in with me now if you want to get to the Porlock apartment.\"\n\n\"Why would I want to get to the Porlock apartment?\"\n\n\"To steal the lynx jacket.\"\n\n\"Why would I want to steal the lynx jacket? I'm starting to feel like half of a vaudeville act. Why would I\u2014\"\n\n\"Didn't you promise it to the cop?\"\n\n\"Oh. I was wondering where all of that was coming from. No, what Ray wants for his wife is a full-length mink, and what's hanging in Madeleine Porlock's closet is a waist-length lynx jacket. Mrs. Kirschmann doesn't want to have any part of wild furs.\"\n\n\"Good for her. I wasn't listening too closely to your conversation, I guess. You're going to steal the mink somewhere else.\"\n\n\"In due time.\"\n\n\"I see. I heard you mention the furrier's name and that's what got me confused.\"\n\n\"Arvin Tannenbaum,\" I said.\n\n\"Right, that's it.\"\n\n\"Arvin Tannenbaum.\"\n\n\"You just said that a minute ago.\"\n\n\"Arvin Tannenbaum.\"\n\n\"Bernie? Are you all right?\"\n\n\"God,\" I said, looking at my watch. \"As if I didn't have enough things to do and enough stops to make. There's never enough time, Carolyn. Have you noticed that? There's never enough time.\"\n\n\"Bernie...\"\n\nI leaned across, opened the door on her side. \"Go make nice to the Blinns,\" I said, \"and I'll catch you later.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Seventeen\n\nI called Ray Kirschmann from a sidewalk phone booth on Second Avenue. The Bulldogs had more than doubled the point spread, he informed me dolefully. \"Look at the bright side,\" I said. \"You'll get even tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow I got the Giants. They never got anybody even unless he started out ahead.\"\n\n\"I'd love to chat,\" I said, \"but I'm rushed. There's some things I'd like you to find out for me.\"\n\n\"What am I, the Answer Man? You want a lot for a coat.\"\n\n\"It's mink, Ray. Think what some women have to do to get one.\"\n\n\"Funny.\"\n\n\"And it's not just a coat we're talking about. You could get a nice collar to go with it.\"\n\n\"Think so?\"\n\n\"Stranger things have happened. Got a pencil?\" He went and fetched one and I told him the things I wanted him to find out. \"Don't stray too far from the phone, huh, Ray? I'll get back to you.\"\n\n\"Great,\" he said. \"I can hardly wait.\"\n\nI got back into the car. I'd left the motor running, and now I popped the transmission in gear and continued downtown on Second Avenue. At Twenty-third Street I turned right, favored the Hotel Gresham with no more than a passing glance, turned right again at Sixth Avenue and left at Twenty-ninth Street, parking at a meter on Seventh Avenue. This time I cut the engine and retrieved my jump wire.\n\nI was in the heart of the fur market, a few square blocks that added up to an ecologist's nightmare. Several hundred small businesses were all clustered together, sellers of hides and pelts, manufacturers of coats and jackets and bags and accessories, wholesalers and retailers and somewhere-in-betweeners, dealers in trimming and by-products and fastenings and buttons and bows. The particular place I was looking for was on the far side of the avenue a couple doors west on Twenty-ninth Street. There Arvin Tannenbaum occupied the entire third floor of a four-story loft building.\n\nA coffee shop, closed for the weekend, took up the ground floor. To its right was a door opening onto a small hallway which led to an elevator and the fire stairs. The door was locked. The lock did not look terribly formidable.\n\nThe dog, on the other hand, did. He was a Doberman, bred to kill and trained to be good at it, and he paced the hallway like an institutionalized leopard. When I approached the door he interrupted his exercise and gave me all his attention. I put a hand on the door, just out of curiosity, and he crouched, ready to spring. I withdrew my hand, but this did not mollify him much.\n\nI wished Carolyn were with me. She could have given the bastard a bath. Clipped his nails, too, while she was at it. Filed his teeth down a bit.\n\nI don't screw around with guard dogs. The only way I could think to get past this particular son of a bitch was to spray poison on my arm and let him bite me. I gave him a parting smile, and he growled low in his throat, and I went over and broke into the coffee shop.\n\nThat wasn't the easiest thing in the world\u2014they had iron gates, like the ones at Barnegat Books\u2014but it was more in my line of work than doing a wild-animal act. The gate had a padlock, which I picked, and the door had a Yale lock, which I also picked. No alarms went off. I drew the gate shut before closing the door. Anyone who took a close look would see it was unfastened, but it looked good from a distance.\n\nThere was a door at the side of the restaurant that led to the elevator, but it unfortunately also led to the dog, which lessened its usefulness. I went back through the kitchen, opening a door at the rear which led into an airless little airshaft. By standing on a garbage can, I could just reach the bottom rung of the fire escape. I pulled myself up and started climbing.\n\nI would have gone right up to the third floor if I hadn't noticed an unlocked window on the second floor. It was too appealing an invitation to resist. I let myself in, walked through a maze of baled hides, climbed a flight of stairs, and emerged in the establishment of Arvin Tannenbaum and Sons.\n\nNot too many minutes later I left the way I'd come, walking down a flight, threading my way between the bales of tanned hides, clambering down the fire escape and hopping nimbly to earth from my perch on the garbage can. I stopped in the coffee-shop kitchen to help myself to a Hostess Twinkie. I can't say it was just what I wanted, but I was starving and it was better than nothing.\n\nI didn't bother picking the lock shut after me. The springlock would have to do. But I did draw the gates shut and fasten the padlock.\n\nBefore returning to the Pontiac, I walked over to say goodbye to the dog. I waved at him and he glowered at me. From the look he gave me I could have sworn he knew what I was up to.\n\nIt was Mrs. Kirschmann who answered the phone. When I asked to speak to her husband she said \"Just a minute,\" then yelled out his name without bothering to cover the mouthpiece. When Ray came on the line I told him my ear was ringing.\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"Your wife yelled in it.\"\n\n\"I can't help that, Bernie,\" he said. \"You all right otherwise?\"\n\n\"I guess so. What did you find out?\"\n\n\"I got a make on the murder weapon. Porlock was shot with a Devil Dog.\"\n\n\"I just ate one of those.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Actually, what I ate was a Twinkie, but isn't a Devil Dog about the same thing?\"\n\nHe sighed. \"A Devil Dog's an automatic pistol made by Marley. Their whole line's dogs of one kind or another. The Devil Dog's a .32 automatic. The Whippet's a .25 automatic, the Mastiff's a .38 revolver, and they make a .44 Magnum that I can't remember what it's called. It oughta be something like an Irish Wolfhound or a Great Dane because of the size, but that's no kind of name for a gun.\"\n\n\"There's a hell of a lot of dogs in this,\" I said. \"Did you happen to notice? Between the Junkyard Dog defense and the Marley Devil Dog and the Doberman in the hallway\u2014\"\n\n\"What Doberman in the hallway? What hallway?\"\n\n\"Forget it. It's a .32 automatic?\"\n\n\"Right. Registration check went nowhere. Coulda been Porlock's gun, could be the killer brought it with him.\"\n\n\"What did it look like?\"\n\n\"The gun? I didn't see it, Bern. I made a call, I didn't go down to the property office and start eyeballin' the exhibits. I seen Devil Dogs before. It's an automatic, so it's a flat gun, not too large, takes a five-shot clip. The ones I've seen were blued steel, though you could probably get it in any kind of finish, nickel-plated or pearl grips, anything you wanted to pay for.\"\n\nI closed my eyes, trying to picture the gun I'd found in my hand. Blued steel, yes. That sounded right.\n\n\"Not a big gun, Bern. Two-inch barrel. Not much of a kick when you fire it.\"\n\n\"Unless that's how you get your kicks.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" I frowned. It had seemed big, compared to the little nickel-plated item I'd seen in the Sikh's enormous hand.\n\nWhich reminded me.\n\n\"Francis Rockland,\" I said. \"The cop who was wounded outside my bookshop. What gun was he shot with? Did you find that out?\"\n\n\"You still say you weren't there, huh?\"\n\n\"Dammit, Ray\u2014\"\n\n\"Okay, okay. Well, he wasn't shot with the Marley Devil Dog, Bern, because the killer left it on the floor of the Porlock apartment. Is that what you were gettin' at?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\n\"Oh. You had me goin' for a minute there. Rockland was shot\u2014well, it's hard to say what he was shot with.\"\n\n\"No slug recovered?\"\n\n\"Right. The bullet fragmented.\"\n\n\"There must have been fragments to recover.\"\n\nHe cleared his throat. \"Now I'll deny I said this,\" he said, \"but from what I heard, and nobody exactly spelled it out for me, but puttin' two and two together\u2014\"\n\n\"Rockland shot himself.\"\n\n\"That's how it shapes up to me, Bern. He's a young fellow, you know, and bein' nervous and all...\"\n\n\"How bad were his injuries?\"\n\n\"Well, it seems he lost a toe. Not one of the important ones.\"\n\nI thought of Parker, going around breaking important bones. Which toes, I wondered, were the important ones?\n\n\"What did you find out about Rockland?\"\n\n\"Well, I asked around, Bern. The word I get is he's young all right, which we already knew, but he's also the kind of guy who can listen to reason.\"\n\n\"How do you translate that?\"\n\n\"I translate it Money Talks.\"\n\n\"There's not enough money in this one to make much noise,\" I said. \"Unless he'll operate on credit.\"\n\n\"You're askin' a lot, Bern. The poor kid lost a toe.\"\n\n\"He shot it off himself, Ray.\"\n\n\"A toe's a toe.\"\n\n\"You just said it wasn't an important one.\"\n\n\"Even so\u2014\"\n\n\"Would he settle for future payment if he got a piece of the bust? If he's the ambitious kid you say he is, he'd be crazy not to.\"\n\n\"You got a point.\"\n\nI had more than a point. I had a whole bunch of things to tell him, some of which provoked argument, some of which did not. At the end I told him to take it easy and he told me to take care.\n\nIt sounded like good advice for both of us.\n\nThe owner of Milo Arms, Inc., had a commendable sense of humor. His Yellow Pages ad showed the company trademark, the Venus de Milo's limbless torso with a holster on her hip. Who could resist?\n\nI make it a point to stay out of gun shops, but one thing I've noticed is that I don't generally notice them. They're almost invariably located one flight above street level. I guess they're not that keen on the drop-in trade and the impulse shoppers.\n\nMilo Arms didn't break the rule. They had the second floor of a weary red brick building on Canal between Greene and Mercer. The shop on the ground floor sold plumbing supplies and the upper floors bad been carved into residential units. I was loitering in the vestibule, reading names on doorbells, when a young couple left the building, the smell of an illicit herb trailing after them. The girl giggled infectiously while her escort held the door for me.\n\nThe gun-shop door was a solid wooden one with the torso-cum-holster motif repeated, along with an extensive list of the death-dealing items on sale within. There was the usual run of locks, plus a padlock on the outside.\n\nI gave a knock and was reassured to hear neither a human response nor the guttural greeting of an attack dog. Just blessed silence. I got right to work.\n\nThe locks weren't much trouble. The padlock had a combination dial that looked like an interesting challenge, and if I hadn't been out in public view and urgently pressed for time, I might have sandpapered my fingertips and tried out my Jimmy Valentine impression. Instead I tried my hacksaw blade on the thing, and when that didn't work\u2014it was a damned good lock, made of damned good steel\u2014I took the easy way out and unscrewed the hasp from its mounting on the jamb. There's tricks to every trade, and if you just live long enough you get to use 'em all.\n\nGod, what a grim place! I was only inside for five minutes or so, but what an uncomfortable five minutes they were. All those guns, all close together like that, reeking of oil and powder and whatever else it is that makes them smell the way they do. Infernal machines, engines of death and destruction, killers' tools.\n\nUgh.\n\nI locked up carefully on my way out. The last thing I wanted to do was make it easy for some maniac to rip off a wholesale lot of guns and ammo. I even took the time to remount the padlock, leaving the hasp more tightly bolted to the jamb than I'd found it.\n\nGuns!\n\nBusy, busy, busy.\n\nI found Carolyn at the Poodle Factory, where she was catching up on her bookkeeping and not enjoying it much. \"This is such an unpleasant business,\" she said, \"that you'd think there'd be money in it, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong. Well, at least there's a big show coming up at the Armory.\"\n\n\"Does that mean business for you?\"\n\n\"Sure. You can't win ribbons with a dirty dog.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a proverb. How were the Blinns?\"\n\n\"Their usual charming selves. I pigged out on shortbread.\"\n\n\"Beats Twinkies and Devil Dogs. Was Gert happy to see her bracelet back?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said. \"Yeah, I guess so.\"\n\n\"You guess so?\"\n\n\"We mainly concentrated on the photographs,\" she said, all crisp efficiency now. She spread out the four snapshots on the mottled Formica counter. \"Gert never saw this guy before in her life,\" she said, pointing. \"She's sure about that. She doesn't think she saw this one, either, but she can't swear to it.\"\n\n\"But she recognized the other two?\"\n\nHer forefinger hovered above one of the snaps. She'd been nibbling the nail again, I noticed. \"This dude,\" she said, \"has been around a lot. No idea when she first saw him but it was a while ago. He's been there with Madeleine and he's also been there alone, entering or leaving the building by himself.\"\n\n\"Fascinating. What about our other friend?\"\n\n\"Artie thinks he saw them together once. And Gert says he's got a familiar look about him.\"\n\n\"I'll borrow this one,\" I said, picking one up. \"See you when I see you.\"\n\nThe Gresham's lobby had changed some since Rudyard Whelkin had described it to me over the phone. Carolyn was gone and so was the shopping bag lady. There was a junkie nodding on a bench, but he didn't look Eurasian to me. Perhaps he'd taken over when the Eurasian went off duty.\n\nThe phone Whelkin had used was in use now. An immense woman was talking on it. Too large for the booth, she was standing outside it and bellowing into the mouthpiece, telling someone that she had paid back the money, that she didn't owe nothing to nobody. Her presumptive creditor was evidently hard to convince.\n\nThe little man behind the desk possessed a skin the sun had never seen. He had tiny blue eyes and a small and virtually lipless mouth. I showed him the picture I'd taken from Carolyn. He gave it a long and thoughtful took, and then he gave that same long and thoughtful look to me.\n\n\"So?\" he said.\n\n\"Is he in?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"When did he leave?\"\n\n\"Who remembers?\"\n\n\"I'd like to leave him a message.\"\n\nHe handed me a pad. I had my own pen. I wrote Please call as soon as possible and signed it R. Whelkin, not to be cute but because it was the only name I could think of other than my own. A cinch he wasn't using it here, anyway.\n\nI folded the slip, passed it to the clerk. He took it and gazed blankly at me. Neither of us moved. Behind me, the immense woman was announcing that she didn't have to take that kind of language from nobody.\n\n\"You'll want to put the message in his box,\" I said.\n\n\"In a while.\"\n\nNow, I thought. So I can see what room he's in.\n\n\"I better do it soon,\" he went on, \"before I forget who the message is for. You didn't put his name on it, did you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Come to think of it, who is it for?\"\n\n\"You got no call to call me that,\" the large woman said firmly. \"A name like that, I wouldn't call a dog by a name like that. You watch what you call me.\"\n\nThe desk clerk had wispy eyebrows. I don't suppose they'd have been equal to their God-given task of keeping perspiration from dripping into his eyes, but it probably didn't matter because he probably avoided ever working up a sweat. He had enough eyebrows to raise, though, and he raised them now. Eloquently.\n\nI put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. He gave me a key to Room 311. Fifteen minutes later, on my way out, I gave it back to him.\n\nThe large woman was still on the phone. \"Talk about a snotass,\" she was saying, \"I'll tell you who's a snotass. You're a snotass, if you want my opinion.\"\n\nBack in the Pontiac, back downtown again. God, was there no end to this? Back and forth, to and fro, hither and yon, pillar to post. Interminable.\n\nThe lot on Nassau Street was still unattended. A sign informed me it was illegal to leave a car there under such circumstances. It was not an illegality I could take too seriously at the moment. Violators, the sign assured me, would be towed at the owner's expense. It was a risk I was prepared to run.\n\nI found a phone, dialed WOrth 4-1114. I didn't expect anyone to answer and nobody did.\n\nI walked down to Pine Street and east to the building Prescott Demarest had emerged from hours earlier. (Hours? Weeks of subjective time.) Now only half as many windows showed lights as had done so earlier. I wished for a clipboard or a briefcase, something to make me look as though I belonged.\n\nThe lobby attendant was dozing over a newspaper but he snapped into consciousness as I entered the building. He was an older man with a tired face, probably eking out a pension. I walked toward him, then halted in mid-stride and let myself be overcome by a coughing fit. While it subsided I checked the building directory on the wall and picked out a likely firm for myself.\n\n\"Bless you,\" the old man said.\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"You want to watch that cough.\"\n\n\"It's the weather. Nice one day and nasty the next.\"\n\nHe gave me a knowing nod. \"It didn't used to be like this,\" he said. \"Weather was always something you could count on, and now everything's changed.\"\n\nI signed in. Name\u2014Peter Johnson. Firm\u2014Wickwire and McNally. Floor-17. At least I wasn't calling myself Whelkin for lack of imagination. And Peter Johnson was nicely anonymous. If Wickwire and McNally was a sizable firm, they very likely had a Peter Johnson in their employ. Or a John Peterson, or something close.\n\nI rode the elevator to the seventeenth floor. Not that he would have been likely to check the indicator, but why be sloppy? I scooted down three flights of stairs and searched the corridors until I found a door with Tontine Trading Corp. painted on its frosted glass. The office within was completely dark, as were all the other offices I'd passed. Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week, let me tell you.\n\nIt's also the longest and I had places to go and people to see. I put my ear to the glass, rapped smartly on the wooden part of the door, listened carefully, then popped the lock with a strip of flexible steel in not much more time than it takes to tell about it.\n\nOffice locks are often like that, and why shouldn't they be? There's not much point in hanging a pickproof whizbang of a lock on a door with a window in it. All you get for your trouble is a lot of broken glass.\n\nBesides, there was a man downstairs to keep people like me from walking off with the IBM Selectrics, and what else was there to steal? I certainly didn't find anything. When I left the Tontine office\u2014and walked up to 17 and rode down from there\u2014I didn't have anything with me that I hadn't carried into the building.\n\nThe old man looked up from his paper. \"Now that was quick,\" he said.\n\n\"Like a bunny,\" I agreed, and signed myself out.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Eighteen\n\n\"I suppose you're wondering why I summoned you all here.\"\n\nWell, how often do you get to use a line like that? Here they all were, gathered together at Barnegat Books. When I bought the store from old Litzauer I'd had visions of little informal assemblies like this one. Sunday-afternoon poetry readings, say, with little glasses of medium-dry sherry and a tray of cucumber sandwiches handed round. Literary kaffee klatsches, with everybody smoking European cigarettes and arguing about what Ionesco really meant. I figured it would bring people around and garner the shop some useful word-of-mouth publicity. More to the point, it sounded like a great way to meet girls.\n\nThis evening's convocation was not quite what I'd had in mind. No one was snarling in iambs or trochees. Kafka's name had not come up. The store had already had more publicity than it needed. And I didn't expect to meet any girls.\n\nThe only one on hand, Carolyn, was perched on the high stool I used for fetching the loftier volumes from the loftier shelves. She sat off to one side, while the rest of my guests were strung out in an irregular half-circle facing the sales counter. I myself was standing behind the counter; I didn't have a chair to sit on because the one I usually kept behind the counter was occupied at the moment by Prescott Demarest.\n\nSee, my place was a bookstore, not a library. There weren't enough chairs to go around. The Maharajah of Ranchipur had the best seat in the house, a swivel-based oak armchair from my office in back. Atman Singh, his spine like a ramrod, sat upon an upended wooden packing case that had held Rome Beauty apples sometime in the dim past before Mr. Litzauer used it to store surplus stock. Rudyard Whelkin had a folding chair Carolyn had brought over from the Poodle Factory.\n\nI hadn't introduced anyone to anyone else, nor had any of them seen fit to offer small talk about football or the weather or crime in the streets. They'd arrived not in a body but all within a fairly brief span of time, and they'd remained remarkably silent until I did my suppose-you're-wondering number. Even then, all I got was a bunch of sharp stares.\n\n\"Actually,\" I went on, \"you all know why I summoned you here. Otherwise you wouldn't have come. We're here to discuss a book and a murder.\"\n\nA hush didn't fall over the room. You can't have everything.\n\n\"The murder,\" I went on, \"was that of Madeleine Porlock. She was shot the day before yesterday in her apartment on East Sixty-sixth Street. The killer shot her once in the forehead, using a .32-caliber automatic pistol. The gun was a Marley Devil Dog, and the killer left it at the scene of the crime. He also left me at the scene of the crime, unconscious, with the murder gun in my hand.\"\n\nThe Maharajah frowned in thought. \"You are saying you did not kill the woman.\"\n\n\"I am indeed. I was there to deliver a book. I was supposed to get paid for the book. Instead I got drugged and framed, drugged by Miss Porlock and framed by the man who killed her. But\"\u2014I smiled brightly\u2014\"I still have the book.\"\n\nI also had their attention. While they watched, silent as stones, I reached under the counter and came up with The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. I flipped it open at random and read:\n\n\"Old Eisenberg was a crafty cod\n\nWith the cunning of his breed,\n\nAnd he ate a piece of honey cake\n\nAnd he drank a glass of mead,\n\nAnd he wiped his lips and his fingertips\n\nWhile he swore a solemn oath\n\nThat if they should go by Fort Bucklow\n\nThey'd perish\u2014not one but both.\"\n\nI closed the book. \"Horrid last line,\" I said. \"Bad verse is when you can tell which line is there to rhyme with the other, and the whole book's like that. But it didn't become the object of our attention because of its literary merits. It's unique, you see. One of a kind. A pearl beyond price, a published work of Kipling's of which only one copy exists. And this is it, right here.\"\n\nI set the book on the counter. \"At the time I agreed to steal this book,\" I went on, \"it was in the personal library of a gentleman named Jesse Arkwright. I was reliably informed that he had acquired it by private negotiation with the heirs of Lord Ponsonby, who withdrew it from a scheduled auction and sold it to him.\" I fixed my gaze on Rudyard Whelkin. \"There may have been a Lord Ponsonby,\" I said. \"There may still be a Lord Ponsonby. But that is not how Jesse Arkwright got his copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.\"\n\nDemarest asked how he'd got it.\n\n\"He bought it,\" I said, \"from the very man who engaged me to steal it back. The arrangements for the original sale were worked out by Madeleine Porlock.\"\n\nThe Maharajah wanted to know how she came into it.\n\n\"She was Arkwright's mistress,\" I told him. \"She was also a lifelong acquaintance of my client, who told her that he'd come into possession of an exceedingly desirable book. She in turn remarked that a friend of hers\u2014one might almost say client\u2014was a passionate collector with an enthusiasm for books. It only remained to bring buyer and seller together.\"\n\n\"And the sale went through?\" Demarest seemed puzzled. \"Then why would the seller want to steal the book back? Just because of its value?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"Because of its lack of value.\"\n\n\"Then it is counterfeit,\" said the Maharajah.\n\n\"No. It's quite genuine.\"\n\n\"Then...\"\n\n\"I wondered about that,\" I said. \"I tried to figure out a way that the book could be a phony. It could be done, of course. First you'd have to find someone to write thirty-two hundred lines of doggerel in a fair approximation of Kipling's style. Then you'd have to find a printer to hand-set the thing, and he'd need a stock of fifty-year-old paper to run it off on. Maybe you could use fresh stock and fake it, but\"\u2014I tapped the book\u2014\"that wasn't done here. I handle books every day and I know old paper. It looks and feels and smells different.\n\n\"But even if you had the paper, and if you could print the thing and have it bound and then distress it in a subtle fashion so that it looked well-preserved, how could you come out ahead on the deal? Maybe, if you found the absolutely right buyer, you could get a five-figure price for it. But you'd have about that much invested in the book by then, so where's your profit?\"\n\n\"If the book is genuine,\" the Maharajah said, \"how can it be worthless?\"\n\n\"It's not literally worthless. The day after I stole it, a gentleman tried to take it from me at gunpoint. As luck would have it\"\u2014I smiled benignly at Atman Singh\u2014\"he selected the wrong book by mistake. But he tried to placate me by giving me five hundred dollars, and coincidentally enough, that's a fair approximation of the book's true value. It might even be worth a thousand to the right buyer and after the right sort of build-up, but it's certainly not worth more than that.\"\n\n\"Hey, c'mon, Bern.\" It was Carolyn piping up from the crow's nest. \"I feel like I missed a few frames, and I was around for most of it. If it's supposed to be worth a fortune, and it's not a phony, why's it only worth five hundred or a thousand?\"\n\n\"Because it's genuine,\" I said. \"But it's not unique. Kipling had the book privately printed in 1923 in a small edition. That much was true. What wasn't true was the appealing story about his incinerating every copy but one. There are quite a few copies in existence.\"\n\n\"Interesting thought,\" Prescott Demarest said. He was dressed as he'd been when Carolyn took his picture, but then I'd simply been able to see that he was wearing a dark suit. Now I could see that it was navy blue, with a muted stripe that had been invisible in the photograph. He straightened in my chair now. \"So the book's one of many,\" he said. \"How do you know that, Rhodenbarr?\"\n\n\"How did I find it out?\" It wasn't quite the question he'd asked but it was one I felt like answering. \"I stole a copy from Jesse Arkwright's house Wednesday night. Thursday I delivered that copy to Madeleine Porlock's apartment. I was drugged and the book was gone when I came to. Then last night I returned to the Porlock apartment\"\u2014gratifying, the way their eyes widened\u2014\"and found The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow in a shoe box in the closet.\n\n\"But it wasn't the same copy. I figured it was possible that she could have stowed the book in the closet before admitting her killer to the apartment. But wouldn't he look for the book before he left? Wouldn't he have held the gun on her and made her deliver it before shooting her? He'd taken the trouble to scoop up five hundred dollars of my money before he left. Either he or Porlock took the money out of my back pocket, and if she took it, then he must have taken it from her himself, because it wasn't there to be found.\" The cops could have taken it, I thought, but why muddy the waters by suggesting that possibility?\n\n\"My copy was all neatly wrapped in brown paper,\" I went on. \"Now Madeleine Porlock might have unwrapped it before she hid it, just to make sure it wasn't a reprint copy of Soldiers Three or something equally tacky.\" I avoided Atman Singh's eyes. \"If so, what happened to the brown paper? I didn't see it on the floor when I came to. Granted, I might not have noticed it or much else under the circumstances, but I looked carefully for that paper when I tossed the apartment last night, and it just plain wasn't there. The killer wouldn't have taken it and the police would have had no reason to disturb it, so what happened to it? Well, the answer's clear enough now. It was still fastened around the book when the killer walked off with it. Madeleine Porlock most likely had the wrapped book in her hands when he shot her, and he took it as is.\"\n\n\"That's quite a conclusion,\" Rudyard Whelkin said. \"My boy, it would seem that your only clues were clues of omission. Rather like the dog that didn't bark, eh? Five hundred missing dollars, a missing piece of brown paper. Rather thin ice, wouldn't you say?\"\n\n\"There's something else.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\nI nodded. \"It's nothing you could call evidence. Pure subjective judgment. I sat up reading that book Wednesday night. I held it in my hands, I turned the pages. Last night I had my hands on it again and it wasn't the same book. It was inscribed to H. Rider Haggard, same as the copy I stole from Arkwright, but there was something different about it. I once knew a man with a yard full of laying hens. He swore he could tell those birds apart. Well, I can tell books apart. Maybe one had some pages dog-eared or a differently shaped water stain\u2014God knows what. They were different books. And, once I realized that, I had a chance to make sense of the whole business.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Let's say, just hypothetically, that someone turned up a carton of four or five dozen books in the storage room of a shuttered printshop in Tunbridge Wells.\" I glanced at Whelkin. \"Does that sound like a reasonable estimate?\"\n\n\"It's your hypothesis, my boy.\"\n\n\"Call it fifty copies. The entire edition, or all that remains of it, outside of the legendary long-lost copy the author was supposed to have presented to H. Rider Haggard. Now what would those books bring on the market? A few hundred dollars apiece. They'd be legitimate rarities, and Kipling's becoming something of a hot ticket again, but this particular work is not only a minor effort but distinctly inferior in the bargain. It has curiosity value rather than literary value. The books would still be worth hauling home from the printshop, but suppose they could be hawked one at a time as unique specimens? Suppose each one were furnished with a forged inscription in a fair approximation of Kipling's handwriting? It's hard to produce a new book and make it look old, but it's not too tricky to scribble a new inscription in an old book. I'm sure there are ways to treat ink so that it looks fifty years old, with that iridescence some old inscriptions have.\n\n\"So my client did this. He autographed the books or had some artful forger do it for him, and then he began testing the waters, contacting important collectors, perhaps representing the book as stolen merchandise so the purchaser would keep his acquisition to himself. Because the minute anyone called a press conference or presented the book to a university library, the game was up. All the collectors he'd stung along the way would be screaming for their money back.\"\n\n\"They couldn't do anything about it, could they?\" Carolyn wanted to know. \"If he was a shady operator, they couldn't exactly sue him.\"\n\n\"True, but there's more than one way to skin a cat.\" She made a face and I regretted the choice of words. \"At any rate,\" I went on, \"the inflated market for the remaining books would collapse in a flash. Instead of realizing several thousand dollars a copy, he'd have a trunkful of books he couldn't give away. The high price absolutely depended on the books being one of a kind. When they were no longer unique, and when the holograph inscriptions proved to be forgeries, my client would have to find a new way to make a dishonest living.\"\n\n\"He could always become a burglar,\" the Maharajah suggested, smiling gently.\n\nI shook my head. \"No. That's the one thing he damn well knew he couldn't do, because when he needed a burglar he came to this very shop and hired one. He found out, undoubtedly through Madeleine Porlock, that Arkwright was planning to go public with his copy of Fort Bucklow. Maybe public's the wrong word. Arkwright wasn't about to ring up the Times and tell them what he had. But Arkwright was a businessman at least as much as he was a collector, and there was someone he was trying to do business with who had more of a genuine interest in Fort Bucklow than Arkwright himself, who had no special interest in Kipling or India or anti-Semitic literature or whatever this particular book might represent.\"\n\nWhelkin asked if I had someone specific in mind.\n\n\"A foreigner,\" I said. \"Because Arkwright was engaged in international commerce. A man with the wealth and power of an Indian prince.\"\n\nThe Maharajah's jaw stiffened. Atman Singh inclined his body a few degrees forward, prepared to leap to his master's defense.\n\n\"Or an Arab oil sheikh,\" I continued. \"There's a man named Najd al-Quhaddar who comes to mind. He lives in one of the Trucial States, I forget which one, and he pretty much owns the place. There was a piece about him not long ago in Contemporary Bibliophile. He's supposed to have the best personal library east of Suez.\"\n\n\"I know him,\" the Maharajah said. \"Perhaps the best library in the Middle East, although there is a gentleman in Alexandria who would almost certainly wish to dispute that assertion.\" He smiled politely. \"But surely not the best library east of Suez. There is at least one library on the Indian subcontinent which puts the Sheikh's holdings to shame.\"\n\nMother taught me never to argue with Maharajahs, so I nodded politely and went on. \"Arkwright had a brilliant idea,\" I told them. \"He was trying to rig a deal with the Sheikh. Work up some sort of trade agreements, something like that. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow would be a perfect sweetener. Najd al-Quhaddar is a heavy supporter of the Palestinian terrorist organizations, a position that's not exactly unheard of among the oil sheikhs, and here's a unique specimen of anti-Semitic literature with a whole legend to go with it, establishing a great English writer as an enemy of world Jewry.\n\n\"There was only one problem. My client had already sold a book to the Sheikh.\"\n\nI looked at Whelkin. His expression was hard to read.\n\n\"I didn't read this in Contemporary Bibliophile,\" I went on. \"The Sheikh was told when he bought the book that he had to keep it to himself, that it was stolen goods with no legitimate provenance. That was fine with him. There are collectors who find hot merchandise especially desirable. They get a kick out of the cloak-and-dagger aspects\u2014and of course they figure they're getting a bargain.\n\n\"If Arkwright showed his copy to Najd, the game was up and the fat was in the fire. First off, Arkwright would know he'd been screwed. More important, Najd would know\u2014and Arab oil sheikhs can get all sorts of revenge without troubling to call an attorney. In some of those countries they still chop hands off pickpockets. Imagine what they'd come up with if they had a personal grudge against you.\"\n\nI stopped for breath. \"My client had another reason to keep Arkwright from adding to the Sheikh's library. He was negotiating another sale to Najd, and it was designed to net him a fortune. The last thing he wanted was for Arkwright to queer it.\"\n\nCarolyn said, \"I'm lost, Bern. What was he going to sell him?\"\n\n\"The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.\"\n\n\"I thought he already did.\"\n\n\"He sold him the Rider Haggard copy. Now he was going to sell him something a little special.\" I tapped the book on the counter. \"He was going to offer him this copy,\" I said.\n\n\"Wait one moment,\" Prescott Demarest said. \"You have me utterly confused. That copy in front of you\u2014it's not the one you took from this man Arkwright's home?\"\n\n\"No. That copy left Madeleine Porlock's apartment in the possession of the man who killed her.\"\n\n\"Then the book in front of you is another copy which you found in her closet?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I'm afraid not,\" I said ruefully. \"You see, the copy from the shoe box in the closet was a second Rider Haggard copy, and how could my client possibly sell it to the Sheikh? He'd already done that once. No, this is a third copy, curiously enough, and I have to apologize for lying earlier when I told you this was the Porlock copy. Well, see, maybe I can just clear up the confusion by reading you the inscription on the flyleaf.\"\n\nI opened the book, cleared my throat. God knows I had their attention now.\n\n\" 'For Herr Adolf Hitler,' \" I read, \" 'whose recognition of the twin Damocletian swords of Mosaic Bolshevism and Hebraic International Finance have ignited a new torch in Germany which, with the Grace of God, will one day brighten all the globe. May your present trials prove no more than the anvil upon which the blade of Deliverance may be forged. With abiding good wishes and respect, Rudyard Kipling, Bateman's, Burwash, Sussex, U.K., 1 April 1924.' \"\n\nI closed the book. \"The date's significant,\" I said. \"I was looking at John Toland's biography of Hitler before you gentlemen arrived. One of the fringe benefits of owning a bookstore. The date Kipling supposedly inscribed this book was the very day Hitler was sentenced to five years in Landsberg Prison for his role in the Munich Beer Hall Putsch. A matter of hours after the sentence was announced he was in his cell writing the title page of Mein Kampf. Meanwhile, Rudyard Kipling, moved by the future F\u00fchrer's plight, was inscribing a book to him. There's some rubber stamping in ink on the inside front cover, too. It's in German, but it seems to indicate that the book was admitted to Landsberg Prison in May of 1924. Then there are some marginal notes here and there, presumably in Hitler's hand, and some underlining, and some German phrases scribbled on the inside back cover and the blank pages at the back of the book.\"\n\n\"Hitler might have had it in his cell with him,\" Rudyard Whelkin said dreamily. \"Took inspiration from it. Tried out ideas for Mein Kampf\u2014that's what those scribbles could indicate.\"\n\n\"And then what happened to the book?\"\n\n\"Why, that's still a bit vague. Perhaps the F\u00fchrer presented it to Unity Mitford and it found its way back to Britain with her. That's not an unappealing little story. But all the details have yet to be worked out.\"\n\n\"And the price?\"\n\nWhelkin raised his imposing eyebrows. \"For Adolf Hitler's personal copy of a work of which only one other copy exists? For a source book for Mein Kampf? Inscribed to Hitler and chock-full of his own invaluable notes and comments?\"\n\n\"How much money?\"\n\n\"Money,\" Whelkin said. \"What is money to someone like Najd al-Quhaddar? It flows in as fast as the oil flows out, more money than one knows what to do with. Fifty thousand dollars? One hundred thousand? A quarter of a million? I was just beginning to dangle the bait, you see. Just letting that Arab get the merest idea of what I had to offer. The ultimate negotiations would have to be positively Byzantine in their subtlety. How much would I have demanded? How much would he have paid? At what point would the bargain be struck?\" He spread his hands. \"Impossible to say, my boy. What is that phrase of Dr. Johnson's? 'Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.' Avarice is quite a dreamer, you know, so his words might be the slightest bit hyperbolic, but suffice it to say that the book would have brought a nice price. A very nice price.\"\n\n\"But not if Arkwright ruined the deal.\"\n\n\"No,\" Whelkin said. \"Not if Mr. Arkwright ruined the deal.\"\n\n\"How much did he pay you for his copy?\"\n\n\"Five thousand dollars.\"\n\n\"And the Sheikh? He'd already bought a copy with the Haggard inscription.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"For a few thousand. I don't remember the figure. Is it of great importance?\"\n\n\"Not really. How many other copies did you sell?\"\n\nWhelkin sighed. \"Three,\" he said. \"One to a gentleman in Fort Worth who is under the impression that it was surreptitiously removed from the Ashmolean at Oxford by a greedy sub-curator with gambling debts. He'll never show it around. Another to a retired planter who lives in the West Indies now after making a packet in Malayan rubber. The third to a Rhodesian diehard who seemed more excited by the poem's political stance than its collector value. The Texan paid the highest price\u2014eighty-five hundred dollars, I believe. I was selling off the books one by one, you see, but it was a laborious proposition. One couldn't advertise. Each sale called for extensive research and elaborate groundwork. My travel expenses were substantial. I was living reasonably well and covering my costs, but I wasn't getting ahead of the game.\"\n\n\"The last copy you sold was to Arkwright?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How did you know Madeleine Porlock?\"\n\n\"We were friends of long standing. We'd worked together now and again, over the years.\"\n\n\"Setting up swindles, do you mean?\"\n\n\"Commercial enterprises is a less loaded term, wouldn't you say?\"\n\n\"How did a copy of Fort Bucklow get in her closet?\"\n\n\"It was her commission for placing a copy with Arkwright,\" he said. \"I needed cash. Normally I'd have given her a thousand dollars or so for arranging the sale. She was just as pleased to have the book. She expected to sell it eventually for a good sum. She knew, of course, not to do anything with it until I'd had my shot at the big money with Najd al-Quhaddar.\"\n\n\"Meanwhile, you needed Arkwright's copy back.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And offered me fifteen thou to fetch it for you.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where was the fifteen thousand going to come from?\"\n\nHe avoided my eyes. \"You'd have received it eventually, my boy. I simply didn't have it at the moment, but once I was able to place the Hitler copy with the Sheikh I'd be in a position to afford generosity.\"\n\n\"You might have told me that in advance.\"\n\n\"And where would that have gotten me?\"\n\n\"Nowhere,\" I said. \"I'd have turned you down flat.\"\n\n\"And there you have it.\" He sighed, folded his hands over his abdomen. \"There you have it. Ethics are so often a function of circumstance. But I'd have settled with you in due course. You have my word on that.\"\n\nWell, that was comforting. I exchanged glances with Carolyn, came out from behind the counter. \"The situation became complicated,\" I said, \"because a gentleman from India happened to be in New York at the same time as all of this was going on. Some months ago he had heard rumors about the Kipling property recently acquired by a particular Arab Sheikh. Now he was contacted by a woman who told him that such a book existed, that it was presently in the possession of a man named Arkwright, that it would soon be in her possession and that she could be induced to part with it for the right price.\n\n\"The woman, of course, was Madeleine Porlock. She learned somehow that the Maharajah was in town and evidently knew of his interest in Rudyard Kipling and his works. She had a copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow, her commission for pushing a copy to Arkwright, and here was a chance to dispose of it. She offered the book to the Maharajah for\u2014how much?\"\n\n\"Ten thousand,\" said the Maharajah.\n\n\"A healthy price, but she was dealing with a resourceful man in more ways than one. He had her tracked down and followed. She wore a wig to disguise herself when she came down for a close look at me. Maybe that was so I wouldn't recognize her when she slipped me the doped coffee. Maybe it was because she knew she was being checked out herself. Whatever she had in mind, it didn't work. The Maharajah's man tagged her to this shop, and a little research turned up the fact that the new owner of Barnegat Books had a master's degree in breaking and entering.\"\n\nI grinned. \"Are you people following all this? There are wheels within wheels. The Maharajah wasn't going to shell out ten grand for Fort Bucklow, not because he'd miss the money but for a very good reason. He knew for a fact that the book was a fake. For one thing, he'd heard about Najd's copy. And you had another reason, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Would you care to share it?\"\n\n\"I own the original.\" He smiled, glowing with the pride of ownership that they used to talk about in Cadillac ads. \"The genuine copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow, legitimately inscribed to Mr. H. Rider Haggard and removed from his library after his death. The copy which passed through the hands of Miss Unity Mitford and which may indeed have been in the possession of the Duke of Windsor. A copy, I must emphasize, which was delivered into my hands six years ago, long before this gentleman\"\u2014a brief nod at Whelkin\u2014\"happened on some undestroyed printer's overstock, or whatever one wishes to call the cache of books from the Tunbridge Wells printshop.\"\n\n\"So you wanted the phony copy?\"\n\n\"I wanted to discredit it. I knew it was a counterfeit but I could not be certain in what way it had been fabricated. Was it a pure invention? Had someone happened on a manuscript and caused a spurious edition to be printed? Or was it what I now realize it to be, a genuine book with a faked inscription? I wished to determine just what it was and establish that Najd al-Quhaddar had a similarly bogus article, but I did not want to pay ten thousand dollars for the privilege, or I would be making myself the victim of a swindle.\"\n\n\"So you tried to eliminate the middleman. You sent your friend here\"\u2014I smiled at Atman Singh, who did not smile back\u2014\"to collect the book from me as soon as I had it. And you instructed him to give me five hundred dollars. Why?\"\n\n\"To compensate you. It seemed a fair return on your labor, considering that the book itself was of no value.\"\n\n\"If you think that's a fair price for what I went through, you've obviously never been a burglar. How did you know I had the book?\"\n\n\"Miss Porlock informed me she would have it that evening. That indicated to me that you'd already retrieved it from its owner.\"\n\nRudyard Whelkin shook his head. \"Poor Maddy,\" he said sadly. \"I told her to hold onto the book. She'd have spiked an enormous sale of mine by what she did, but I guess she was restless. Wanted to pick up a bundle and get out of town.\" He frowned. \"But who killed her?\"\n\n\"A man with a reason,\" I said. \"A man she double-crossed.\"\n\n\"For God's sake,\" Whelkin said. \"I wouldn't kill anyone. And I certainly wouldn't kill Madeleine.\"\n\n\"Maybe not. But you're not the only man she crossed. She did a job on everybody, when you stop to think about it. She drugged me and stole a book from me, but I certainly didn't kill her. She was fixing to swindle the Maharajah, and he might well have felt a certain resentment when his agent came back from my shop with a worthless copy of Soldiers Three. But this wouldn't leave him feeling betrayed because he didn't expect anything more from the woman. Neither did I. We never had any reason to trust her in the first place, so how could we feel betrayed? There's only one man she really betrayed.\"\n\n\"And who might that be?\"\n\n\"Him,\" I said, and leveled a finger at Prescott Demarest.\n\nDemarest looked bewildered. \"This is insane,\" he said levelly. \"Utterly insane.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that?\"\n\n\"Because I've been wondering what I'm doing in this madhouse and now I find myself accused of murdering a woman I never even heard of before tonight. I came here to buy a book, Mr. Rhodenbarr. I read a newspaper advertisement and made a telephone call and came here prepared to spend substantial money to acquire an outstanding rarity. I've since heard some fascinating if hard-to-grasp story about genuine books with fake inscriptions, and some gory tales of double-crosses and swindles and murders, and now I find myself accused of homicide. I don't want to buy your book, Mr. Rhodenbarr, whether it's inscribed to Hitler or Haggard or Christ's vicar on earth. Nor do I want to listen to any further rubbish of the sort I've heard here tonight. If you'll excuse me...\"\n\nHe started to rise from his chair. I held up a hand, not very threateningly, but it stopped him. I told him to sit down. Oddly enough, he sat.\n\n\"You're Prescott Demarest,\" I said.\n\n\"I thought we weren't using names here tonight. Yes, I am Prescott Demarest, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Wrong,\" I said. \"You're Jesse Arkwright. And you're a murderer.\"\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Nineteen\n\n\"I watched you this afternoon,\" I told him. \"I saw you leave an office building on Pine Street. I'd never seen you before in my life but I knew there was something familiar about you. And then it came to me. Family resemblance.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about.\"\n\n\"I'm talking about the portraits in your library in Forest Hills. The two ancestors in the oval frames whose job it is to bless the pool table. I don't know if you're really a descendant of the guy who put the Spinning Jenny together, but I'm willing to believe the codgers on the wall are legitimate forebears of yours. You look just like them, especially around the jawline.\"\n\nI glanced at Whelkin. \"You sold him a book,\" I said. \"Didn't you ever meet him?\"\n\n\"Maddy handled everything. She was the middleman.\"\n\n\"Middleperson, I think you mean. I suppose you spoke to him on the telephone?\"\n\n\"Briefly. I don't recognize the voice.\"\n\n\"And you?\" I asked the Maharajah. \"You phoned Mr. Arkwright this morning, didn't you?\"\n\n\"This could be the man whose voice I heard. I am unable to say one way or the other.\"\n\n\"This is absurd,\" Demarest said. Hell, let's call him Arkwright. \"A presumed resemblance to a pair of portraits, an uncertain identification of a voice supposedly heard over a telephone\u2014\"\n\n\"You forget. I saw you leave an office building on Pine Street. I called you there at a certain number, and the phone you answered was in the office of Tontine Trading Corp., and the owner of Tontine is a man named Jesse Arkwright. I don't think you're going to get very far insisting the whole thing's a case of mistaken identity.\"\n\nHe didn't take much time to think it over. \"All right,\" he said. \"I'm Arkwright. There's no reason to continue the earlier charade. I received a call earlier today, apparently from this gentleman whom you call the Maharajah. He wanted to know if I still possessed a copy of Fort Bucklow.\"\n\n\"I had seen the advertisement,\" the Maharajah put in, \"and I wondered at its legitimacy. When I was unable to obtain the book either from this store or from Miss Porlock, I thought it might remain in Mr. Arkwright's possession. I called him before responding to the advertisement.\"\n\n\"And he referred to the ad,\" Arkwright went on. \"I looked for myself. I called you on the spur of the moment. I thought I could poke around and find out what was going on. A book disappeared from my house in the middle of the night. I wanted to see if I could get it back. I also wanted to determine whether it was indeed the rarity I'd been led to believe it was. So I called you, and came here tonight to bid on the book if it came to that. But none of that makes me a killer.\"\n\n\"You were keeping Madeleine Porlock.\"\n\n\"Nonsense. I'd met her twice, perhaps three times. She knew of my interest in rare books and approached me out of the blue to offer me the Kipling volume.\"\n\n\"She was your mistress. You had a kinky sex scene going in the apartment on East Sixty-sixth Street.\"\n\n\"I've never even been there.\"\n\n\"There are neighbors who saw you there. They recognized your photograph.\"\n\n\"What photograph?\"\n\nI took it out and showed it to him. \"They've identified you,\" I said. \"You were seen in Porlock's company and on your own. Apparently you had a set of keys because some of the neighbors saw you coming and going, letting yourself in downstairs.\"\n\n\"That's circumstantial evidence, isn't it? Perhaps they saw me when I collected the book from her. Perhaps she let me in with the buzzer and they thought they saw me using a key. Memories are unreliable, aren't they?\"\n\nI let that pass. \"Maybe you thought she loved you,\" I said. \"In any event, you felt personally betrayed. I'd robbed you, but that didn't make you want to kill me. It was enough for you to get my prints on everything and leave me with a gun in my hand. But you wanted Madeleine Porlock dead. You'd trusted her and she'd cheated you.\"\n\n\"This is all speculation. Sheer speculation.\"\n\n\"How about the gun? A Marley Devil Dog, a. 32 automatic.\"\n\n\"I understood it was unregistered.\"\n\n\"How did you come to understand that? It wasn't in the papers.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I heard it over the air.\"\n\n\"I don't think so. I don't think the information was released. Anyway, sometimes an unregistered gun can be traced more readily than you might think.\"\n\n\"Even if you could trace it to me,\" he said carefully, \"that wouldn't prove anything. Just that you'd stolen it when you burglarized my house.\"\n\n\"But it wasn't in your house. You kept it in the lower left drawer of your desk in the Tontine office downtown.\"\n\n\"That's absolutely untrue.\"\n\nThe righteous indignation was fetching. I'd seen that blued-steel automatic in the study on Copperwood Crescent. And now I was telling him it had been at his office, and it hadn't, and he was steamed.\n\n\"Of course it's true,\" I said. \"Anybody would keep the gun and the bullets in the same place. And I have the damnedest feeling that you've got an almost full box of .32 shells in that drawer, along with a cleaning cloth and a pair of spare clips for a Marley Devil Dog.\"\n\nHe stared at me. \"You were in my office!\"\n\n\"Don't be ridiculous.\"\n\n\"You\u2014you planted those items. You're framing me.\"\n\n\"And you're grabbing at straws,\" I sailed on. \"Do you still claim you weren't keeping Madeleine Porlock? If that's so, why did you buy her a lynx jacket? It's not hard to guess why she'd want one. It's a stunning garment.\" Pace, Carolyn. \"But why would you buy it for her if you were just casual acquaintances?\"\n\n\"I didn't.\"\n\n\"I looked in your closets when I was checking out a book from your library, Mr. Arkwright. Your wife had a couple of pretty impressive furs there. They all had the same label in them. Arvin Tannenbaum.\"\n\n\"What does that prove?\"\n\n\"There's a lynx jacket in the Porlock apartment with the same label in it.\"\n\n\"I repeat, what does that prove? Tannenbaum's a top furrier. Any number of persons patronize him.\"\n\n\"You bought that jacket for Madeleine last month. There's a record of the sale in their files with your name on it and a full description of the jacket.\"\n\n\"That's impossible. I never\u2014I didn't\u2014\" He paused and regrouped, choosing his words more carefully this time around. \"If I were keeping this woman, as you put it, and if I did purchase a jacket for her, I would certainly have paid cash. There would surely be no record of the transaction.\"\n\n\"You'd think that, wouldn't you? But I guess they know you up there, Mr. Arkwright. You must be a treasured customer or something. I could be mistaken, but I have a hunch if the police looked through Tannenbaum's files, they'd find the sales record I described. They might even find the actual bill of sale in your desk at Tontine, with your name and the notation that you'd paid cash.\"\n\n\"My God,\" he said, ashen-faced. \"How did you\u2014\"\n\n\"Of course I'm just guessing.\"\n\n\"You framed me.\"\n\n\"That's not a very nice thing to say, Mr. Arkwright.\"\n\nHe put his hand to his chest as if in anticipation of a coronary. \"All of these lies and half-truths,\" he said. \"What do they amount to? Circumstantial evidence at best.\"\n\n\"Circumstantial evidence is sometimes all it takes. You were keeping Porlock and your gun killed her, and you had the strongest possible motive for her murder. What was the Watergate expression? The smoking pistol? Well, they didn't catch you with the smoking pistol in your hand because you were considerate enough to leave it in my hand, but I think the D.A.'ll have enough to make your life difficult.\"\n\n\"I should have killed you while I was at it,\" he said. Positively venomous, his voice was. He was still holding onto his chest. \"I should have tucked your finger around the trigger and put the gun in your mouth and let you blow your little brains out.\"\n\n\"That would have been cute,\" I agreed. \"I killed her while committing a burglary, then took my own life in a fit of remorse. I haven't had a remorse attack since the fifth grade, but who could possibly know that? How come you didn't do it that way?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" He looked thoughtful \"I... never killed anyone before. After I shot her I just wanted to get away from there. I never even thought of killing you. I simply put the gun in your hand and left.\"\n\nBeautiful. A full admission, and as much as anyone was likely to get without reading him his rights and letting him call his lawyer. It was about time for the Cavalry to make its appearance. I started to turn toward the rear of the store, where Ray Kirschmann and Francis Rockland were presumably taking in all of this, when the hand Arkwright had been clutching to his breast snaked inside his jacket and back out again, and when it reappeared there was a gun in it.\n\nHe pushed his chair back as he drew the gun, moving briskly backward so that he could cover the four of us at once\u2014Whelkin and Atman Singh and the Maharajah. And me, at whom the gun was pointed. It was a larger gun than the one I'd come to clutching, far too large to be a Whippet or a Devil Dog. And a revolver, I noted. Perhaps, if he was partial to the Marley line, it was a Mastiff. Or a Rhodesian Ridgeback, or whatever.\n\n\"Let's hold it right there,\" he said, waving the gun around. \"I'll shoot the first person who moves a hair. You're a clever man, Rhodenbarr, but it won't do you any good this time. I don't suppose the world will miss a burglar. They ought to gas people like you in the first place, loathsome vermin with no respect for property rights. As for you\"\u2014this to Whelkin\u2014\"you cheated me. You employed Madeleine to swindle me out of some money. You made a fool of me. I won't mind killing you. You other gentlemen have the misfortune of being present at an awkward time. I regret the necessity of doing this\u2014\"\n\nKilling women's bad policy. Ignoring them can be worse. He'd forgotten all about Carolyn, and he was still running his mouth when she brained him with a bronze bust of Immanuel Kant. I'd been using it as a bookend, in the Philosophy and Religion section.\n\n## CHAPTER\n\n## Twenty\n\nAt a quarter to twelve Monday morning I hung the Out to Lunch sign in the window and locked up. I didn't bother with the iron gates, not at that hour. I went to the place Carolyn had patronized Thursday and bought felafel sandwiches and a container of hummus and some flat crackers to scoop it up with. They were oddly shaped and reminded me of drawings of amoebae in my high-school biology textbook. I started to order coffee too but they had mint tea and that sounded interesting so I picked up two containers. The counterman put everything in a bag for me. I still didn't know if he was an Arab or an Israeli, so instead of chancing a shalom or a salaam I just told him to have a nice day and let it go at that.\n\nCarolyn was hard at work combing out a Lhasa Apso. \"Thank God,\" she said when she saw me, and popped the fluffy little dog into a cage. \"Lunchtime, Dolly Lama. I'll deal with you later. Whatcha got, Bern?\"\n\n\"Felafel.\"\n\n\"Sensational. Grab a chair.\"\n\nI did and we dug in. Between bites I told her that everything looked good. Francis Rockland wouldn't be hassling either me or the Sikh, having accepted three thousand of the Maharajah's American dollars as compensation for his erstwhile toe. It struck me as a generous settlement, especially so when you recalled that he'd shot the toe off all by his lonesome. And I gather a few more rupees found their way into Ray Kirschmann's pocket. Money generally does.\n\nRudyard Whelkin, who incredibly enough proved to have a walletful of identification in that unlikely name, was booked as a material witness and released in his own recognizance. \"I'm pretty sure he's out of the country,\" I told Carolyn. \"Or at least out of town. He called me last night and tried to talk me into parting with the Hitler copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me he wants to sell it to the Sheikh.\"\n\n\"I think he knows what that would get him. Flayed alive, for instance. But there are enough other weirdos who'd pay a bundle for an item like that, and Whelkin's just the man to find one of them. He may never make the big score he's trying for but he hasn't missed many meals so far in life and I don't figure he'll start now.\"\n\n\"Did you give him the book?\"\n\n\"No way. Oh, he's got a satchel full of copies. I only took the Hitler specimen from his room at the Gresham. I left him some Haggard copies and a few that hadn't been tampered with, so he can cook up another Hitler copy if he's got the time and patience. If he forged all of that once, he can do it again. But I'm holding onto the copy I swiped from him.\"\n\n\"You're not going to sell it?\"\n\nI may have managed to look hurt. \"Of course not,\" I said. \"I may be a crook in my off-hours, but I'm a perfectly honest bookseller. I don't misrepresent my stock. Anyway, the book's not for sale. It's for my personal library. I don't figure to read it very often but I like the idea of having it around.\"\n\nThe Maharajah, I told her, was on his way to Monaco to unwind with a flutter at roulette or baccarat or whatever moved him. The whole experience, he told me, had been invigorating. I was glad he thought so.\n\nAnd Jesse Arkwright, I added, was in jail. Jugged, by George, and locked up tighter than the Crown jewels. They'd booked the bastard for Murder One and you can't get bailed out of that charge. Doesn't matter how rich you are.\n\n\"Not that he'll be imprisoned on that charge,\" I explained. \"To tell you the truth, I'll be surprised if the case ever comes to trial. The evidence is sketchy. It might be enough to convict a poor man but he's got the bread for a good enough lawyer to worm his way out. He'll probably plead to a reduced charge. Manslaughter, say, or overtime parking. He'll pull a sentence of a year or two and I'll bet you even money he won't serve a day. Suspended sentence. Wait and see.\"\n\n\"But he killed that woman.\"\n\n\"No question.\"\n\n\"It doesn't seem fair.\"\n\n\"Few things do,\" I said philosophically. Move over, Immanuel Kant. \"At least he's not getting off scot-free. He's behind bars even as we speak, and his reputation is getting dragged through the mud, and he'll pay a lot emotionally and financially even if he doesn't wind up serving any prison time for what he did. He's lucky, no question, but he's not as he thought he'd be before you nailed him with the bookend.\"\n\n\"It was a lucky shot.\"\n\n\"It was a perfect strike from where I stood.\"\n\nShe grinned and scooped up some hummus. \"Maybe I'm what the Mets could use,\" she said.\n\n\"What the Mets could use,\" I said, \"is divine intercession. Anyway, lots of things aren't fair. The Blinns are getting away with their insurance claim, for example. I'm off the hook for burglarizing their apartment. The police agreed not to press charges in return for my cooperation in collaring Arkwright for murder, which is pretty decent of them, but the Blinns still get to collect for all the stuff I stole, which I didn't steal to begin with, and if that's fair you'll have to explain it to me.\"\n\n\"It may not be fair,\" she said, \"but I'm glad anyway. I like Gert and Artie.\"\n\n\"So do I. They're good people. And that reminds me.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"I had a call from Artie Blinn last night.\"\n\n\"Did you? This mint tea's terrific, incidentally. Sweet, though. Couldn't you get it without sugar?\"\n\n\"That's how it comes.\"\n\n\"It's probably going to rot my teeth and my insides and everything. But I don't care. Do you care?\"\n\n\"I can't get all worked up about it. There was something Artie wanted to know, to get back to Artie.\"\n\n\"There are things I've been wanting to know,\" she said. \"Things I've been meaning to ask you.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"About Rudyard Whelkin.\"\n\n\"What about him?\"\n\n\"Was he really drugged when he set up the appointment with you? Or did he just sound that way?\"\n\n\"He just sounded that way.\"\n\n\"Why? And why didn't he show up at Porlock's place?\"\n\n\"Well, it was her idea. Her reason was that she was going to sandwich in a meeting with the Maharajah so she could sell him the odd copy of the book. She certainly didn't want Whelkin around while all that was going on. The way she sold it to him was to leave things open so that I wouldn't know he was involved in double-crossing me. He could always get in touch with me later on and explain that he'd been doped, too, and that was why he missed the appointment. Of course, all of that went sour when Arkwright gave her a hole in the head. But that's why he sounded groggy when I spoke to him\u2014he was putting on an act in advance.\"\n\nShe nodded thoughtfully. \"I see,\" she said. \"A subtle pattern begins to emerge.\"\n\n\"Now if we can get back to Artie Blinn\u2014\"\n\n\"What happened to your wallet?\"\n\n\"Arkwright took it and stuck it under a cushion where the cops would be sure to find it. I told you, didn't I? That's how they knew to suspect me.\"\n\n\"But what happened to it since then?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said. I patted my pocket. \"I got it back. They had it impounded as evidence, but no one could say exactly what it was evidence of, and Ray talked to somebody and I got it back.\"\n\n\"What about the five hundred dollars?\"\n\n\"It was either gone before the cops got it, or some cop made a profit on the day. But it's gone now.\" I shrugged. \"Easy come, easy go.\"\n\n\"That's a healthy attitude.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. Speaking of Artie\u2014\"\n\n\"Who was speaking of Artie?\"\n\n\"Nobody was, but we're going to. Artie wanted to know what happened to the bracelet.\"\n\n\"Shit.\"\n\n\"He said he asked you about it when you were over there with the photographs, but you said you'd forgotten to bring it along.\"\n\n\"Double shit.\"\n\n\"But I seem to remember that I asked you about it just before you got out of the car, and you said you had it right there in your pocket.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" she said. She drank some more of the mint tea. \"Well, I lied, Bernie.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Not to you. To Artie and Gert. It was in my pocket but I told him it wasn't.\"\n\n\"I'll bet you had a super reason.\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact I had a shitty reason. I kept thinking how nice it would look on a certain person's arm.\"\n\n\"The certain person wouldn't be Miranda Messinger, I don't suppose.\"\n\n\"It's your intuitive brilliance that makes me love you, Bernie.\"\n\n\"Here I thought it was my engaging smile. Does she like the bracelet?\"\n\n\"Loves it.\" She grinned up at me. \"I went over there last night to return the Polaroid. She never even noticed it was missing. I gave her the bracelet as a peace offering, and I told her everything, and\u2014\"\n\n\"And you're back together again.\"\n\n\"Well, last night we were. I wouldn't want to make any long-range projections. I'll tell you, the way to that woman's heart is through her wrist.\"\n\n\"Whatever works.\"\n\n\"Yeah. 'You wouldn't want to go and wear it on the East Side,' I told her. 'Because it's just the least bit hot.' \"\n\n\"Did you talk like that when you told her? Out of the side of your mouth?\"\n\n\"Yeah. It really got to her. I swear the next time I buy her something I'm gonna tell her I stole it.\" She sighed. \"Okay, Bern. What do we do about the Blinns?\"\n\n\"I'll think of something.\"\n\n\"I was gonna tell you, but\u2014\"\n\n\"I could tell you were eager to discuss it. The way you were so anxious to talk about the Blinns and all.\"\n\n\"Well, I\u2014\"\n\n\"It's cool,\" I said. \"Relax and eat your hummus.\"\n\nA little later she said, \"Listen, Randy's got a dance class tonight. You want to come by after work? We can have dinner in or out and then catch a movie or something.\"\n\n\"I'd love to,\" I said, \"but tonight's out.\"\n\n\"Heavy date?\"\n\n\"Not exactly.\" I hesitated, then figured what the hell. \"When we meet for drinks tonight,\" I said, \"I'll make mine Perrier.\"\n\nShe sat forward, eyes wide. \"No shit. You're going on a caper?\"\n\n\"That's not the word I'd use, but yeah, that's about it.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Forest Hills Gardens.\"\n\n\"The same neighborhood as the last time?\"\n\n\"The same house. The coat I described to Ray Kirschmann wasn't a fantasy. I saw it Wednesday night in Elfrida Arkwright's closet. And I promised it to Ray, and when I make promises to cops I like to keep them. So I'm going back there tonight to get it.\"\n\n\"Won't Elfrida object?\"\n\n\"Elfrida's not home. She visited her hubby in jail yesterday, and then she went home and thought things through, and then she packed a bag and took off for parts unknown. Home to Mama, maybe. Or home to Palm Beach. I guess she didn't want to stick around for the notoriety.\"\n\n\"I can dig that.\" She cocked her head and there was a faraway look in her eye. \"He's got it coming,\" she said. \"The bastard killed his mistress and he's not going to serve time for it. I remember when you were describing the house to me, Bern. You said you wanted to back up a truck onto the front lawn and steal everything from the chandeliers down to the rugs.\"\n\n\"I had the impulse.\"\n\n\"Is that what you're gonna do?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You're just taking the coat?\"\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"You said there was jewelry, didn't you? Maybe you can find something to replace Gert Blinn's bracelet.\"\n\n\"The thought had crossed my mind.\"\n\n\"And there's a coin collection.\"\n\n\"I remember the coin collection, Carolyn.\"\n\n\"I remember the other things you mentioned. Are you going to take the Pontiac?\"\n\n\"I think that might be pushing my luck.\"\n\n\"You'll steal some other car, then.\"\n\n\"I suppose so.\"\n\n\"Take me with you.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" She leaned forward, laid a hand on my arm. \"Why the hell not, Bern? I can help. I didn't get in the way when we stole Randy's Polaroid, did I?\"\n\n\"We borrowed Randy's Polaroid.\"\n\n\"Bullshit. We stole it. Then we happened to give it back when we were done with it. If you look at it that way, I'm an old hand at this breaking-and-entering business. Take me along, Bern. Please? I'll get rubber gloves and cut the palms out, I'll pass up my after-work drink, I'll do anything you say. Please?\"\n\n\"Jesus,\" I said. \"You're... you're an honest citizen, Carolyn. No record. A respectable position in the community.\"\n\n\"I wash dogs, Bern. Big hairy deal.\"\n\n\"There's a risk.\"\n\n\"Screw the risk.\"\n\n\"And I always work alone, see. I never use a partner.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Her face fell. \"Well, that's it, then. I didn't think of it that way. I'd probably be a drag anyway, wouldn't I? It's okay, Bern. I don't mind.\"\n\n\"No drink after work.\"\n\n\"Not a drop. I can come?\"\n\n\"And you can't ever tell a soul. Not Randy, not some future lover. Nobody.\"\n\n\"My lips are sealed. Are you serious? I can come?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"What the hell,\" I said. \"You were handy the other night. You might be useful to have around.\"\n\n## About the Author\n\nA Mystery Writers of America Grand Master, LAWRENCE BLOCK is a four-time winner of the Edgar Allan Poe\u00ae and Shamus awards, as well as a recipient of prizes in France, Germany, and Japan. He also received the British Crime Writers' Association's prestigious Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement in crime writing. The author of more than fifty books and numerous short stories, he is a devout New Yorker and enthusiastic world traveler. You can visit his website at www.lawrenceblock.com.\n\nDon't miss the next book by your favorite author. Sign up now for AuthorTracker by visiting www.AuthorTracker.com.\nAlmost criminally enthusiastic praise for  \nNew York Times bestselling Grand Master  \nLAWRENCE BLOCK's  \nBERNIE RHODENBARR and\n\nThe   \nBurglar  \nwho liked to  \nQuote  \nKipling\n\n\"MY FAVORITE.\"\n\nSpokane Spokesman Review\n\n\"Readers get a funny lesson in rare book economics and breaking and entering. Rhodenbarr is a wonderful New York character with a knack for surrounding himself with colorful eccentrics...\n\nBITE, WIT, AND ENOUGH STYLISH ATTITUDE\n\nto power the Plaza for a week.\"\n\nNew York Daily News\n\n\"BERNIE RHODENBARR IS THE PERFECT COMPANION\n\nif you're spending a week at the beach, catching a plane to Omaha, or just seeking an escape from the demands of the day.\"\n\nTampa Tribune\n\n\"THIS RHODENBARR ROMP IS SAUCY AND BRIGHT...\n\nIf you like Donald Westlake's capers, you'll like Bernie.\"\n\nWashington Post Book World\n\n\"Notre Dame at dusk. Pepys' account of the Great Fire of London. A really good cashmere coat. Some treasures are timeless... I feel like putting Bernie Rhodenbarr on that list...\n\nBERNIE IS ONE WRY GUY AND SOME PIECE OF WORK.\"\n\nNew York Times Book Review\n\n\"LAWRENCE BLOCK IS A MASTER OF THE ART OF THE MYSTERY...\n\nBernie's a great burglar and a funny guy.\"\n\nNew Orleans Times-Picayune\n\n\"ONE OF THE FINEST MYSTERY WRITERS OF OUR TIME.\"\n\nHouston Chronicle\n\n\"It's the mark of an innovative storyteller to turn a normally reprehensible character into a hero\u2014of sorts. Author Lawrence Block's\n\nBERNIE THE BURGLAR SERIES AREN'T JUST GOOD MYSTERIES, THEY ARE SUPREME ESCAPISM.\"\n\nFt. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel\n\n\"[Block's] written dialogue has the honesty of a conversation overheard on a bus...\n\nBERNIE RHODENBARR IS A LOT-OF-LAUGHS BURGLAR.\"\n\nUSA Today\n\n\"VINTAGE BLOCK...\n\n[His] effortless style sweeps Rhodenbarr through a complex plot with ease. The laid-back technique precisely matches the misadventures of the delightful thief.\"\n\nSt. Louis Post-Dispatch\n\n\"Having a burglar for a hero is tricky, to say the least. Is he a bad good guy or a good bad guy, and does crime pay or doesn't it?...\n\nBLOCK MANEUVERS AROUND THESE MORAL S-CURVES WITH GREAT AGILITY...\n\nBlock's effortless first-person narrative and zippy dialogue is as pleasing as escapist fare ever gets.\"\n\nLost Angeles Times Book Review\n\n\"Good mystery and good comedy, mined from the same vein Dashiell Hammett tapped for his 'Thin Man.'\n\nBLOCK'S BURGLAR SERIES IS ONE OF CRIME FICTION'S BEST.\"\n\nSouth Bend Tribune\n\n\"With a writer like Block,\n\nA MASTER PLOTTER,\n\ntrying to figure out the guilty party can definitely keep you turning the pages.\"\n\nToronto Star\n\n\"BLOCK IS A MASTER OF WITTY DIALOGUE,\n\nplotting and pace, and the series' wacky, offbeat characters make great companions.\"\n\nCleveland Plain Dealer\n\n## Other Books by Lawrence Block\n\nThe Bernie Rhodenbarr Mysteries\n\nBURGLARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS \u2022 THE BURGLAR IN THE CLOSET \u2022 THE BURGLAR WHO LIKED TO QUOTE KIPLING \u2022 THE BURGLAR WHO STUDIED SPINOZA \u2022 THE BURGLAR WHO PAINTED LIKE MONDRIAN \u2022 THE BURGLAR WHO TRADED TED WILLIAMS \u2022 THE BURGLAR WHO THOUGHT HE WAS BOGART \u2022 THE BURGLAR IN THE LIBRARY \u2022 THE BURGLAR IN THE RYE \u2022 THE BURGLAR ON THE PROWL\n\nThe Matthew Scudder Novels\n\nTHE SINS OF THE FATHERS \u2022 TIME TO MURDER AND CREATE \u2022 IN THE MIDST OF DEATH \u2022 A STABINTHE DARK \u2022 EIGHT MILLION WAYS TO DIE \u2022 WHEN THE SACRED GINMILL CLOSES \u2022 OUT ON THE CUTTING EDGE \u2022 A TICKET TO THE BONEYARD \u2022 A DANCE AT THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE \u2022 A WALK AMONG THE TOMBSTONES \u2022 THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD \u2022 A LONG LINE OF DEAD MEN \u2022 EVEN THE WICKED \u2022 EVERYBODY DIES \u2022 HOPE TO DIE\n\nKeller's Greatest Hits\n\nHIT MAN \u2022 HIT LIST\n\nCollected Short Stories\n\nENOUGH ROPE\nCopyright\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.\n\nTHE BURGLAR WHO LIKED TO QUOTE KIPLING. Copyright \u00a9 1979 by Lawrence Block. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.\n\nEPub Edition \u00a9 FEBRUARY 2005 ISBN: 9780061828195\n\nVersion 02282014\n\n## About the Publisher\n\nAustralia  \nHarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.  \nLevel 13, 201 Elizabeth Street  \nSydney, NSW 2000, Australia  \n<http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks>\n\nCanada  \nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.  \n2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor  \nToronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada  \nhttp://www.harpercollins.ca\n\nNew Zealand  \nHarperCollinsPublishers New Zealand  \nUnit D, 63 Apollo Drive  \nRosedale 0632  \nAuckland, New Zealand  \n<http://www.harpercollins.co.nz>\n\nUnited Kingdom  \nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.  \n77-85 Fulham Palace Road  \nLondon, W6 8JB, UK  \n<http://www.harpercollins.co.uk>\n\nUnited States  \nHarperCollins Publishers Inc.  \n10 East 53rd Street  \nNew York, NY 10022  \n<http://www.harpercollins.com>\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Best Monologues from Best American Short Plays, Vol"}, "text": "\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 by William Demastes\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, without written permission, except by a newspaper or magazine reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review.\n\nPublished in 2014 by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books  \nAn Imprint of Hal Leonard Corporation  \n7777 West Bluemound Road  \nMilwaukee, WI 53213\n\nTrade Book Division Editorial Offices  \n33 Plymouth St., Montclair, NJ 07042  \nPrinted in the United States of America\n\nBook design by Lynn Bergesen\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nBest Monologues from The Best American Short Plays, Volume One / edited by William W. Demastes.  \npages cm. -- (The Applause Acting Series)  \n1. Monologues, American. 2. American drama--20th century. 3. American drama--21st century. I. Demastes, William W., editor of compilation.   \nPS627.M63B47 2014  \n812'.04508--dc23  \n2013041949\n\nwww.applausebooks.com\ncontents\n\nIntroduction: Thespis Steps Out\n\nPart I: Monologues for Men\n\nSusan Miller: Excerpt from Reading List\n\nBilly Aronson: Excerpt from Little Red Riding Hood\n\nCarol K. Mack: Excerpt from The Courier\n\nDavid Kranes: Excerpt from Going In\n\nJoe Maruzzo: Excerpt from Bricklayer's Poet\n\nJulia Jarcho: Excerpt from The Highwayman\n\nMark Medoff: Excerpts from DeBoom: Who Gives This Woman?\n\nMigdalia Cruz: Excerpts from Dreams of Home\n\nMurray Schisgal: Excerpt from The Man Who Couldn't Stop Crying\n\nRonald Ribman: Excerpt from The Cannibal Masque\n\nZilvinas Jonusas: Excerpt from The Cleaning\n\nClay McLeod Chapman: birdfeeder\n\nDaniel Frederick Levin: A Glorious Evening\n\nMurray Schisgal: The Artist and the Model\n\nPeter Maloney: Witness\n\nRick Pulos: Decades Apart: Reflections of Three Gay Men\n\nPart II: Monologues for Women\n\nAdam Kraar: Excerpt from Hearts and Minds\n\nBruce Levy: Excerpt from Sada\n\nDano Madden: Excerpt from Beautiful American Soldier\n\nEileen Fischer: Excerpt from The Perfect Medium\n\nJill Elaine Hughes: Excerpt from The Devil Is in the Details\n\nJulia Jarcho: Excerpts from The Highwayman\n\nLiliana Almendarez: Excerpt from Glass Knives\n\nMigdalia Cruz: Excerpts from Dreams of Home\n\nMurray Schisgal: Excerpt from The Cowboy, the Indian and the Fervent Feminist\n\nJames Armstrong: The True Author of the Plays Formerly Attributed to Mister William Shakespeare Revealed to the World for the First Time by Miss Delia Bacon\n\nCarey Lovelace: The Stormy Waters, the Long Way Home\n\nJulie Rae (Pratt) Mollenkamp: In Conclusive Woman\n\nLaura Shaine Cunningham: Web Cam Woman\n\nNeil LaBute: Love at Twenty\n\nPeter Maloney: Leash\n\nPolly Frost and Ray Sawhill: The Last Artist in New York City\n\nPamela Sneed: Kong\n\nCredits and Permissions\nintroduction\n\nThespis Steps Out\n\nSomewhere in the deepest recesses of prehistory, a lone intrepid human being stepped out of the safe confines of some huddled mass and announced himself to the world as an individual, someone who could stand alone and was capable of thinking, fighting, loving, fending for himself. Whoever that first person was, he took a singular action that has defined human beings ever since, a species that best survives as a group but remains determined to take on the world by rejecting the anonymous comfort and safety of the herd, or tribe, or community. The anonymity of a group may be synonymous with safety, but humans seem bent on defying the benefits of running with the pack, choosing instead the death-defying option of stepping out of the ranks and testing the limits of individual human endurance, courage, and foolhardiness.\n\nTruth be told, most of us do work to squeeze into the comforting center of our tribe, engaging in that choral huddle that seems to guarantee longevity at the expense of distinction. After all, life and the arts that imitate it remind us time and again that the price of distinction is often too high, that the cost of independence is sometimes life itself. But even then, we often still go against our better instincts and celebrate the standout, honoring his triumphs and mourning his losses. Even against our common sense we celebrate the bold, brazen foolhardiness of the risk taker. He captures our imagination as he expands the definition of what it is to be human, showing us the godlike glory of our reach even as he reveals the earthbound limits of our grasp.\n\nMore than any other art form, theater captures this elemental human quality, celebrating the individual who steps out of the chorus, defines himself by shaking his spear at the world, and rejects the panicked instinct to retreat from what lies before him. Greek mythology calls that first bold individual Thespis, the first human to step out of the crowd and face yet another crowd\u2014an audience\u2014as he shared the truth about human nature with his fellows. That's what actors have done ever since. Much has transpired on the stage since then, but it is always the actor who faces an audience that stands at the heart of the matter. And that is exactly why monologues are so important not just to art or the theater, but to the continued rejuvenation and regeneration of human nature itself. Standing forth, pulling together a spotlighted performance that capitalizes on the honest vulnerabilities of the actor while standing before a mass of onlookers\u2014that comes as close to the full and complex spirit of Thespis as currently exists in the human world today.\n\nThe spirit of the brave individual facing a scrutinizing crowd without the life support of a chorus or supporting cast is what the contents of this book celebrates. The monologue tests the limits of human individuality, exposing a wide variety of human qualities by moving very private conversations into the public sphere. Sharing these certain private conversations with intimate friends\u2014or holding those thoughts altogether for exclusively personal consideration\u2014is the stoic and generally accepted way of doing things. Breaking through that fa\u00e7ade, however, is what the monologist does. He or she shares truths that make us all a bit uncomfortable because of the very public nature of this otherwise private transaction. But when it works, the event runs full circle by moving from publicly exposed individual vulnerabilities to a point where community itself is reinstituted. The monologue may begin with the individual, but it ends with a webwork of relationships between the monologist and audience that seems the very antithesis of the original enterprise. On the face of it, it seems counterintuitive to think that this confessional mode would do anything other than expose the individual to scarlet condemnation and deserved ostracism. But when done well, monologues take individual exposure and unite humans in bonds of shared experiences\u2014shared celebrations, shared commiserations, shared fears, and shared ambitions either accomplished or abandoned. Whether or not this was the intention behind Thespis's bold step forward, it certainly has been the result.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThis is a collection of monologues drawn from the popular The Best American Short Plays series, an archive of works from many of the best playwrights active today. The monologues selected for this volume present taut, engaging single-character pieces that range from zany comedy to poignant tales of love and loss. Many included pieces are excerpted from the plays of this series while others are by design full and complete monologues. Long or short, serious or not, excerpts or otherwise, this collection includes works that capture much of what it means to be human, particularly that urge to stand out and sing our successes and failures, hopes and fears.\n\n\u2014William W. Demastes\n\nLouisiana State University\nPart I\n\nMonologues for Men\nSusan Miller\n\nexcerpt from\n\nReading List\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2004\u20132005\n\nThe stars. I was looking up anything I could find on the stars. There was this article about dark matter that scared the shit out of me, and I was putting my whole family through hell about it. Just the way my daughter has pushed me to my limits with her inquiries into the absurdity of language and meaning. Meaning there is none. No meaning. Which I take as bleak and troublesome coming like that from a young person. And, I guess, it challenged something deep and confronted me on a personal level. Like my fatherhood, my being a parent was all of a sudden a pointless and sorry thing. I like talking at the dinner table. It's time well spent if you put aside other concerns. But I was depressing everyone, and I thought maybe there's another way, you know, with more information, to look at things. To look at this dark matter and my daughter's questions and turn it all into a metaphor of well-being instead of what it clearly represented to me now as a crushing void with the power to cancel the present, past, and future. Life, albeit the sad and confusing thing though it is, still, it is what we know. And what we want our children to know. Well, apparently in my investigations of the universe there were more than a couple of references to a certain gay astronomer. He kept turning up in the materials I happened to look through. And they wanted to know\u2014they being the messengers of secrecy and harbingers of silence\u2014what I had to do with him. What interest did I have in a gay astronomer who was fired from his post in the fifties, and what business did I have with footnotes that referred to the incident in the park, and did I know him.\nBilly Aronson\n\nexcerpt from\n\nLittle Red Riding Hood\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1992\u20131993\n\nNote:\n\nMOTHER's prompting words can be spoken offstage.\n\nHUNTER If a hunter doesn't have his slab o' steak he can't grab his gun and if he can't grab his gun he can't blast the beasts and if he can't blast the beasts how's he gonna market their meats if he can't market their meats there's no way he can house his spouse and if he can't house his spouse then where's he supposed to eat his slab o' steak, in the gosh darn mud crap slop?\n\nMOTHER You didn't get one of your arms into your shirt, dear.\n\nHUNTER Sure you miss a sleeve now and then or sometimes you forget to button a few buttons, but what about the sleeve you did get into the shirt, what about the buttons you did button. I'm sick and tired of people who always focus on the empty sleeve or the unbuttoned button.\n\nMOTHER Your fly's open.\n\nHUNTER or the opened fly, when the fact is if the truth be known when push comes to shove it's the people with the unbuttoned buttons and unsleeved arms who are out there not looking at the lookers who are looking at them but just plain out there being out there. I'm out there. [. . .] I'm the one who faces the heat and the snow and the dirt\u2014and let me tell you it gets dirty\u2014so I can brave the hills and the lakes and the pebbles\u2014which inevitably get in your boots\u2014to grapple with the branches and the ragweed and the pollen\u2014'til I'm sneezin' my head off\u2014don't make me remind you about the time I got poison oak all across the cheeks o' my butt\u2014do you have any idea how filthy my toenails get by the end of the day?\u2014and why? So I can shoot the beasts that make the coats that coat the backs of the very people who stand there staring at my empty sleeve when they should have been paying more attention to the arm in their own backyard in the first place.\n\nMOTHER There's grease on your nose and steak on your forehead, and your fork is lodged behind your ear.\n\nHUNTER What's a drop o' grease on a hunter's nose for the sake of his home, or a fork in his ear for his family? I love this fork and I love this family and let me tell you something, sister, I may have a slab of greasy beef suspended from my brow but that won't stop me from pumping ten ounces of lead into a fat-assed quadruped at close range because it's a dog eat dog jungle in that forest.\nCarol K. Mack\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Courier\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006\n\nYOUNG MAN The packages. They were all sealed. And every day there was a new one. I was taking them to a lab. All these boxes, sealed red boxes. Shiny. Nothing could leak out but . . . all going from Central to this lab, see? After a coupla months I wonder who's it going to? And what's in the boxes? He never said nothing about that. I think maybe it's O.K. if I know what's inside a' them? I mean, it don't make no difference. I'd always do my job. Do my best! Like he said. All I did was take off the label. Not even get the tape off. Just the label. No name. Some kind of bar-code label. I just start to take it off with my penknife.\n\n[Very odd mechanical noise. YOUNG MAN startled, stands.]\n\nAnd before I know it these guys show up, see? Then I get arrested for possession of lethal materials. They accuse me of planning a terrorist attack. They say the box contains a biological weapon. I say that's not possible. They say, \"Who do you work for?\" I tell them I take the package from Central to the lab. I tell them that's my job. They tell me there IS no lab. They tell me there is no central nothing. That they don't exist and they never have. Then I figure O.K., O.K., this has gotta be some kinda test. Right? Maybe they test you every month. So then they say, \"Who do you work for?\" and I say, \"What?\" And they say, \"Who do you work for?\" and I say, \"I . . . I used to work for the U.S. Post Office and I don't work for nobody now,\" and they say, \"Then who told you to do it?\"\n\n[Breaking down, in tears.]\n\nAnd I say, \"Do what?\" Do WHAT? For chrissakes' I trusted them. I believed in them. I was selected for this job and now they turn against me for what.\nDavid Kranes\n\nexcerpt from\n\nGoing In\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1986\n\nJONAS I try to instruct the world\u2014and myself, through the reminders of that instruction\u2014in the elegance of what any of us might reach for! What's attainable! . . . My communication tends to . . . I use a baroque language, because I feel that a baroque language, possibly, is best-suited for . . . ! Be sure that milk's put away! I'll take responsibility for the cheese. When you wake up in the morning, in the dawn of a new day, I guarantee that the brie will be in its proper place! . . . Don't shrug! Don't slouch! Don't break training! And if you try to change any of the records in this room\u2014I'll be waiting for you! So plan your attack! . . . Or attack your plan! And remember that any of us are our own plans! So execute well! Because I am not alone! And Hank Williams is armed. And Don and Phil Everly are contenders again. [. . .] \"I coulda been a contender.\"\n\n[Out.]\n\nWho said that?! . . . Wrong! It was not Rocky Balboa. . . . Well, I do love you! If I'm forced to answer my own question, which has generally been the story of my life. I also do not\u2014not\u2014love you! So there! There! All my questions are answered! All my holes are filled! Some of my holes are filled!\n\n[To himself.]\n\nAnd some of my holes better not be filled . . . or I'm in trouble. Because I tend to do things \"in excess\" when the first blush is on . . . and then, ultimately, in moderation. But I love my son\u2014and that will have to do for this evening, thank you. Thank you. Thank You. You're welcome, I'm sure. Good night.\nJoe Maruzzo\n\nexcerpt from\n\nBricklayer's Poet\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008\n\nDon't think I'm crazy or nothin', you see, I'm a very practical kind of guy, black and white, right side of the brain and all that, but this last fireplace I did, I'm doin' this fireplace for the Corsos, sweet old people from Brooklyn, Sal and Bunny Corso, I know them all my life. Sal's in his eighties and he's dying of cancer, rest his soul, so Bunny calls me and she wants him to have a fireplace before he goes, something he always wanted. But at the time I was going through some stuff in my life, and the last thing I wanted to do in the middle of August was a fireplace. It was like 120 degrees in there! I'm doin' the job for practically nothin', I charged them just for the material, and I'm like a day into it. And I realize the wall's on a slant, it's crooked. I had to do all this special chipping and slanting the stone, the Corsos are sittin' right in back of me watchin' my every move, not out of thinking I was gonna screw them or anything, but that they were happy watchin' their fireplace go up! So there I am, the sweat's pourin' out of me, my mind is racin' about my life, my father, and I'm lifting this eighty\u00adpound stone towards the wall, but it won't take, it won't stick. And I feel this pain in my heart, like a stake runnin' through me, and I can't move, I'm as stiff as a board, and all of a sudden my body starts to come up out of me! I swear to God ! My body is leaving me! And its goin' up through the ceiling, into the sky, but I can still see myself down there, I could see the Corsos, but I'm goin' higher and higher with all these puffy white clouds, and I hear this humming, this humming of something holy, like kids singin' this sweet sound, and I feel a tickle on my ear, and I turn and there's this angel with the wings and this beautiful little baby face, it's floatin' there and it whispers into my ear, \"Love, Mikey, don't forget love.\" And all of a sudden I was back on the ground, holding the stone like I never left, but I'm cryin', I'm cryin' like a friggin' baby, so I run to the bathroom 'cause I don't want the Corsos to think I was cracking up, and everything got peaceful, and I hear that voice again sayin', \"Love, Mikey, don't forget love.\" I walked out, went back to my fireplace, and it was the most beautiful fireplace I ever laid. I got a picture of it, you wanna see it? [. . .] That's me. That's Sal and Bunny. That's the fireplace. It's lovely. [. . .] You're the first person I told about this. That's all I gotta do is talk to the guys in the neighborhood, they'd think I was nuts. I usually don't talk to them about private things. That voice, it was my father. He was tellin' me it's gonna be all right. He was tellin' me to love. [. . .] He was a bricklayer. Taught me everything I know. Talk about hands. He had a pair of hands so gentle, he'd hold a brick like it was a piece of cake, so smooth, you couldn't even tell he was layin' a brick, like cream. He'd take a brick, you know, he'd chip it because there'd be a problem with the fireplace, so he'd chip the brick and the whole thing would go straight up. He was a craftsman. And clean! When he got through, you think he hired a cleaning lady. They don't make 'em like that no more. He was a little guy, short and stocky, green eyes, light brown hair, and whenever you were in trouble, he was there! If you needed a buck or two, his hand was in his pocket, if a guy needed a day's work, he'd hire him for the week, even if he took the loss. Anyway, it's a funny thing we're talkin' about these things and all, but lately, I feel like I need to talk to somebody like I gotta share things, inside me, with them. Maybe it's my age or something, but I feel it's time [. . .] to settle down. Maybe not marriage and all but to live with at least. I'll tell ya, I look around and I see a lot of lonely people. I think if they made a study or somethin', they'd find out there are more people alone in the world than ever before. Well, at least in this city.\nJulia Jarcho\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Highwayman\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006\n\nHIGHWAYMAN One wants to say something, I mean. Here's the floor. Thanks. You want to keep people's hopes up, when you can, that's not, I'll admit that's not the first thing on one's mind all the time. I've tried to dress in a way that'd be appropriate to passing by at a gallop or stopping and saying \"dismount.\" People don't always know what that means. This is a strange area. I've traveled, I travel a long ways, and it's hard to say where I'm originally from. They're entranced from the first word and I don't like to disagree. There's so much of the same for them. It's the same by the ocean as it is on the moor. In my opinion, a trance is what they're after. It seems to me to be the wrong prize. The last man I killed, I'd gotten him in the belly and he dropped his gun. So he asked me to. Or music. I find both of these helpful in trying to understand. But at the same time, I've never been entranced. It might have to do with the motion of the horse. Air blowing by. Through. And the night: at nighttime, light always changes. I mean, and the maneuvering keeps you unkept.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nIt usually goes like this: they're riding and I'm riding. I pull mine out in front. I say, \"Stop. Give me everything you're carrying.\" And I don't give exceptions. They'll try to lie, but I can tell when they've been comfortable. When people have too much it sits ill on them. They're better off without it. Sometimes that can refer to the most essential things. Sometimes it's their hair. Sometimes some of their clothes. I have an idea, which I see as a picture, and in it the world is almost empty, and everyone I see is just the bare bones of a self, staggering through bright weather between days.\nMark Medoff\n\nexcerpts from\n\nDeBoom: Who Gives This Woman?\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007\n\nGEOFFREY DeBOOM Used to be I slept six hours and erupted into the day, my mind as febrile at the moment of tremulous waking as it would be in the epicenter of the day's quakes. Now, I sleep and wake and sleep eight, nine, ten hours and have no desire to get out of bed except for the middle-of-the-night urination\u2014and then only for the sake of my decaying kidneys (27 percent function last test)\u2014the lack of desire to rise and go forth abetted, no doubt, by the fact that I have nothing to look forward to, or to be fair\u2014not that fair is of much interest to me anymore\u2014that I look forward to nothing. I roll off the Posturepedic so as not to precipitate a back spasm that would put me back to bed for a couple of weeks, forced to choose among self-analysis, pop books, bad music, or, worse, movies. So I would rather go to the university than stay home. Thus, mobility, such as it is, has value. I engineer the four-step journey across carpet into the bathroom, favoring the titanium and plastic right knee over the left one with its shards of chipped bone and cartilage roaming the joint like Rice Krispies through molasses. Load my toothbrush with whitening paste and crane myself toward the toilet with stiff arms on the seat, dropping lead-like the last few inches as my arms give out to gravity.\n\nAvoid the mirror. Pee lefty, brush righty. Wait for my indolent bladder to drain. Pee, squeeze, squirt, squeeze, sit, wait, wait, dribble, squeeze, squirt. I stopped frequenting the student bathroom down the hall from my garret in favor of a trek to the faculty lav several corridors over, following a whiz between two undergrads who imagined life would always be thus, their bladders emptying in a tsunami of malted urine. They left me chained to the urinal like Prometheus, long after they'd zipped, washed (one of them), exited (lunch, ball game, sexual encounter?), while I stood and sprinkled and spritzed for a couple of hours, guilty of what wisdom has taught is mankind's most egregious sin: growing old. I drive off the toilet on a silent \"Hut!,\" aware that no matter how many last little squeezes I exert on my prostate, before I am upright my penis will emit a last squirt that will saturate a quarter size circle in the crotch of my Jockeys. (Tip: black underwear.) Limp the road of life now with wet pants. On a panel at a civil rights conference last year on the failure of the movie industry to do much about diversity (and in a superficial effort at disclosure\u2014not there as a supporter of affirmative action, political correctness, or the glories of the melting pot; I was there to say the industry was not a moral conglomerate but a financial one that didn't care about diversity unless it paid in dollars). Wearing cream-colored Zanellas. Knew, following the pre-speech safety whiz; I'd spritz a 25-cent piece right before taking the stage. Wore a Kotex Mini Pad.\n\nDiapers pretty soon. Rinse toothpaste\u2014two cupped palms of water, left above right\u2014 always two, going back to age eight and the onset of compulsive behavior: Save the family, give thanks to a benevolent Savior, request not to die young. Shake out the toothbrush, restore it to its place in the receptacle next to Cass's unused, firm Oral-B. I had figured in twisted Cartesian fashion: She has a toothbrush at my condo; therefore, she'll come back to me.\n\nMust tackle my image in the mirror (daily query delivered to no one but me: What is my father doing in there?) and resist with the modicum of self-control still available the desire to smash my head through glass, plaster board, and studs to the outdoors. Imagine my father's and my communal head, connected by a tendon or two, yo-yoing from the second floor.\n\nNext, a moment's loathing of the once sculpted but now flaccid pecs (pubescent breasts, really), the reedy biceps, their rippling, dry overskin like stretched, faux snake skin, the leavened baguette in the midriff that defies the hundreds of crunches I do daily.\n\nMy eyes drop to the ellipse-shaped pouches under my eyes that don't go away since squirrels started depositing their nuts there a decade back. Not tiredness, according to a woman at a book signing, she with parchment skin stretched like loomed silk over the front of her skull and tacked behind her ears, but, she whispered so that only the first five or so in line behind her could hear, the walnuts are just fat deposits which can be removed in an hour operation in a doctor's office.\n\nTropical forests of hair festoon along the helix, tragus, lobe of my ears, sprout like roach antennae from the tip of my nose. Every two weeks, with tweezers, I stand here wearing my reading glasses and pluck the antennae black filament by black filament, each pluck sending through my neural network a little electrical reminder of my putrefaction.\n\nThere is the hair on my head that only recently began thinning on top and receding into my temples. Good chance death will beat baldness.\n\nThe human body, helpless to resist, humiliates the living thing that was itself. I have contemplated suicide a thousand, ten thousand times. I have stood on three separate Saturday afternoons at Barnes & Noble and perused the periodically updated tome that details for do-it-yourself sorts the best ways to get it done. Tell myself I can't kill myself because of Cass and Maxine.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGEOFFREY DeBOOM My life insurance might not pay off, as if that's an issue, since my daughter is rich and can take care of her mother, whether she wins a Nobel Prize or not, if she lives another hundred years. But I know, though once unafraid if not brave, I am a coward now and don't have the guts. A Southern Baptist gone public atheist, I am a closet Catholic. I fear there's a hell to which I'll be assigned for eternity with all the other perfidious misanthropes who set themselves up as judges of mass culture. Terror keeps me alive, witness to my deterioration.\n\nDressed, deodorized, pomaded, I limp to the kitchen, listing to port, the left leg three-eights of an inch shorter than the right since the right knee was replaced with plastic and titanium. At the out-of-fashion tile counter I commence the ceremony of the pills. Seven supplements shipped via UPS once a month from a distributor in Dallas, then the replacement for the pill for arthritis that was destroying my kidneys and the one for high blood pressure followed by the one for the hyperthyroidism that is trying to keep the kidney function I have at its current short-of-dialysis level.\n\nSkip the antidepressant for the eighteenth straight day.\n\nI turn on my computer. Download e-mail. There are nineteen. Several from students with work attached; the New York Times; Truthout, a website I use to keep track of liberal\u2014pardon me, progressive\u2014bullcrap; one from Max (\"I need to talk to you, but we have to leave for the airport.\"), a couple of ads, three reminders of meetings at the Film School, two of which I'll duck though I've confirmed I'll attend.\n\nResponding to e-mail has become my substitute for writing reviews, the thing I did for a living several times a week for thirty years, or writing the copy for my TV show, which I did for a decade and a half. I drag it out, to minimize guilt for not working on the column I still write monthly for Esquire, until I can go to school but not be there so long that I'm bored or have to talk to people I don't want to talk to\u2014which takes in pretty much everyone there. The phone rings at seven forty-two. I have no message, just the \"beep.\" [. . .]\n\nI wait to board last. Fester past the fortunate eight who fill the spacious elite seats with their smug complacence toward me, hunched like Quasimodo, nudging as if I were in ankle shackles to the back of the plane, where I'll be crammed in three abreast with insufficient room for my failing body parts.\n\nAt my row will be a colossus who runneth over into my narrow tract, affording me the opportunity to make a memorable scene that I can leak to Entertainment Tonight. Flight attendant, didn't I hear there's a flab limit per passenger now? Why isn't this mastodon paying for two seats? I have an aisle seat. There is no one in the middle. I have nothing to bitch about. My feelings are mixed. Nothing is pure, I wrote about East of Eden after a festival of Steinbeck's books-into-movies in the late '80s, which I left renewed, with almost boyish confidence in my ideals, what I could do that others before me could not\u2014of course could not, they were not me! I could define filmic art the way Lionel Trilling and Alfred Kazan had defined modern literature! \"Nothing is pure, but the film version of this novel brings us a confluence of words. With actors, screenwriter, director, cinematographer, editor, composer that overwhelmed me anew by the complexity, the Aristotelian tractability of life made into art about life intractable.\" And, yes, I can quote myself by heart if I have written it down.\n\nCelebrity! From the Latin \"to celebrate,\" as in: We celebrate them for no reason on earth other than our own pathetic lack of substance. \"You resent the wealth of the people you review,\" Stallone accused me following my review of the unspeakable Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985). So withering\u2014and accurate\u2014was my appraisal that it remains a film school staple, trotted out in countless film analysis classesthe world over as \"a perfect example,\" as one lily white professor at the University of Utah once wrote, \"of calling a spade a spade.\"\n\nYes, Sylvester, I resent your wealth, your celebrity, your promiscuity, and your unearned political standing, but none of that has anything to do with the fact that you're an execrable actor in an excremental movie. I had written:   \n\"The deceit in the conceit of an American avenger with steroid pecks, lathered in olive oil, wearing an undulating pubic wig, revising the abject failure of my nation in Vietnam made me laugh, made me sick. The actor wrote the script himself. For himself. It is a masturbatory exegesis on post-Vietnam American male impotence.\" The review was the first time the Daily News had used symbols in its pages to mask someone's use of a perceived profanity. The closing sentence of my review: \"Shame on the egregious makers of this propagandist, populist s***. We lost a war we should have won when we actually fought it.\" My editor urged me to change \"shit\" to \"excrement,\" a variant on excremental, which I had used above, but I insisted that was too polite a word and that I would accept the \"s\" followed by three asterisks. I realized at some point\u2014an incremental understanding\u2014that I despised the male of the species and that there was no word for it. There is misanthropy and misogyny for hatred of mankind and of women, but nothing to denote one's loathing of men, per se. Manthropy lacks the musicality of the other two.\n\nIn the early eighties, I was feminized by Cassandra Rosenblum DeBoom and began to write respectfully of women. Streep, MacLaine, Pfeiffer. Even a kind piece after The Witches of Eastwick about Cher Bono, though I couldn't resist a riff on her competition with Michael Jackson in the torture of the flesh department. I was the first to point out that Nicole Kidman had the talent to be way more than the girlfriend of the modestly talented, big of nose and small of stature Tom Cruise. Cass loved Cruise and thought less of Kidman, accusing me of favoring Kidman because she was   \nthe doppelganger of the six-foot, linear, curly-haired, monster-forehanded Maxine Abigail DeBoom. Directors, producers, studio executives (virtually all men in my formative years) hated me for my perceived bias against their gender (and the gender virtually always at the center of their movies). I gained vigor from their united enmity. My paper and network were threatened over the years with 162 lawsuits for libel (spoken) and slander (written). None ever went to trial. And none was settled out of court with cash. Only twice did people come after me physically. In the first case\u2014Bruce Willis\u2014a gaggle of bodyguards intervened before I squashed his nuts into canned peas. In the second case, I slammed Brian DePalma (whom I had decreed the worst director of the half century, either half), into an upholstered easy chair at a crowded Bar Mitzvah reception and told him I'd rip out his leftover hair, follicle by follicle, if he said one more pompous, self-serving, historically inaccurate word about his place in the canon of moving pictures. This incompetence had just razed Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities (a book I admired and had said so, adding in the finale of the piece that Wolfe was the only writer I considered as intelligently acerbic as I, calling down a torrent of offended blather from the proletariat and snarly rebuke from lovers of the vituperative John Simon). A while ago.\nMigdalia Cruz\n\nexcerpts from\n\nDreams of Home\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1991\u20131992\n\nPEDRO I am so afraid at night. I cry sometimes. I cry thinkin' my eyes might close and I might fall asleep and wake up in the dark, by myself. I pray to Mary that I don't. I talk to Jesus when I am almost sleeping in the dark and he keeps me up. I stay up for a chat with the only begotten son. He knows how it is. He knows how important it is to stay awake. Things happen when you sleep. Your clothes disappear and you freeze. People touch you and stare. You gotta put on as many clothes as you can in case you nap and somebody tries to get you naked. A man don't let people see him naked in the street. That's weak. That's no good. He gets put someplace or somebody sucks on him. That's weak. You gotta suck first. You gotta look for people to suck on. That's why you got lips. That's why your nose fills up with dirt and you gotta breathe through your mouth . . . so you learn how to suck. Another thing I do is bite my fingers. That's how I know it's almost nighttime. I try to stay in the light, on a street corner, or in a building where rich people live . . . rich people always got lights. And they make loud noises at night. They grind their teeth together and it keeps me up. It's the same as biting my own fingers.\n\n[Pause.]\n\nIt hurts the same too. That's the only bad thing\u2014but I don't need to sleep that much anyway. Not like some people. Some people get their feet beat on by people. And people shake their umbrellas in the sleeping people's faces and throw empty beer cans at them. That's the worst because they're empty. Who wants that? But you can make five cents. Unless it hit you just right\u2014and then it just bounce away from you onto the tracks. And then it's good-bye. But I'm smarter than that. I stay awake. I sleep with one eye all the way open, like the Indians. I got Indian in me. I hold my liquor like an Indian-like this . . .\n\n[He holds a pint of rum between his two hands like he's praying.]\n\nLike a gift from God.\n\n[He hits the floor with his palms like he's playing the congas as the lights fade.]\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nPEDRO I used to be afraid of the dark. I would fight to keep it away. Stand under bright lights and pray for morning . . . but I couldn't keep it away forever. One day I decided to let it in, to feel the darkness creeping under my nails, into my mouth, through my hair. It was so comfortable there, I thought it would never move. It was just the right place for it . . . so I made friends . . . with the dark. I said welcome and it stayed awhile. It brought some of its friends to nest inside me. Friends with six legs, the four-legged ones came and slept in my pockets. I was not alone in the dark anymore. Life scratched and buzzed and cracked and squeaked all around me. We grew so close. I could tell what they were feeling. A bite on my left arm\u2014hunger\u2014a bite on my right arm\u2014love. I got them figured out. Right now they're both\u2014hungry and in love. Like me. This woman I got lying near me. She's the same.\n\n[Pause.]\n\nMaybe I can catch us something to eat. Maybe I can cook us dinner. We can have a date and dance together. And when we crawl in between the sheets, maybe we'll be alone. That's how you know it's true love\u2014you crawl in together and don't remember nothing else and when you're done doing it, you think about each other's face and you rock together and hold each other and feel safe\u2014not excited or tired or proud\u2014just safer than you ever felt before. Safe without locks or guns or money. Safe in the dark because nobody can tell you you're not where you want to be because nobody can see where you are.\nMurray Schisgal\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Man Who Couldn't Stop Crying\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1997\u20131998\n\nMARCELLO [Overwrought.] Wait! Wait! Don't ring for the elevator, sweetheart. Please. Two minutes, that's all I ask. Darling, I am going to change. There's no question about it. One can change. One has choices, free will. Throughout history we have examples . . .\n\n[Horrified.]\n\nNo, don't! Don't ring for the elevator. I am changing, sweetheart. The process has already begun. Aren't you aware of it? Haven't you noticed? I'm not crying! Do you see me crying? I have no desire to cry. There's nothing to cry about. I am relatively young and healthy and well-off. And I'm happy! Yes, yes, I can say it without embarrassment, I am genuinely happy! Would you like to hear me laugh, darling? I can . . .\n\n[Horrified.]\n\nWhy did you press the elevator button? Don't go, not yet. Sweetheart, look at me. Listen to me. I'm laughing. I am laughing. This is not fake.\n\n[He feigns several varieties of hearty laughter.]\n\nDid you hear me laughing? Did you? It's not fake. It felt wonderful! I thought I'd never be able to laugh again! But I did laugh. I did. And I am happy, honey, and I love life and I love you, darling. More than anything in the world. And, please, please, let me apologize for saying before that you sounded masculine. How stupid of me! You are definitely not masculine. You are feminine, totally and completely! You are so feminine, it frightens me, it . . . Where . . . ? Where are you going?\n\n[Horrified.]\n\nNo, don't walk into the elevator! Don't leave without me! Wait, I'll get my jacket! Pam!\n\n[Offstage, the elevator carries PAMELA down to the lobby. Quickly, MARCELLO takes off bathrobe, tosses it aside, gets jacket from the closet, puts it on, hurries to rear window, where he pulls up linen shade and opens window. During the above, MARCELLO performs a finger-snapping, shuffling step as he sing-songs what follows.]\n\nI am happy. And I am glad, I am laughing 'cause I'm not sad.\n\nLife is good. Life is great. Now is the time to celebrate.\n\n[He stops his sing-song step and feigns several laughs before leaning out of open window; shouts:]\n\nPam! Here, up here! I'll meet you at the Stanhope! I'll be there in a few minutes! Okay? Love you!\n\n[He closes window, and resumes his finger-snapping, shuffling step as he sing-songs what follows.]\n\nI can't be sad,\n\nI must be glad\n\nTo have a life\n\nAnd a loving wife.\n\n[He stops his sing-song step and feigns riotous laughter as he exits, slamming door shut behind him.]\nRonald Ribman\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Cannibal Masque\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1994\u20131995\n\nWhat good's your marks if you can't buy anything with them. Now with American cigarettes a good smoke is always a good smoke, and with people who gotta have them\u2014who can tell?\n\n[Turning the cigarette pack over and over on the table.]\n\nMade a nice friend for myself up in Hamburg last week . . . shop girl, wedding ring on her finger. She sees me smoking one of my cigarettes in a bakery and comes over and wants to buy them. When I tell her I ain't interested in selling them for money, she gets the drift of what I want and starts offering me certain favors in exchange for a carton. That's when I hit her with it. \"I ain't got a carton, lady, all I got's a pack.\" Now you may think that was a pretty good deal, her for a lousy carton of cigarettes, but I could see she was a real smoker and I could tell she was really hurting. You know how some people get when they're really hurting for a cigarette.\n\n[Deeply inhaling and blowing the smoke out.]\n\nI figured the longer I dragged things out, the more I could cut the price down. So I just sat there at the table with her, talking, drinking my coffee, eating a stack of those Linzertortes they make up there with the raspberry jam coming out, and all the time pushing around the pack so she could keep her eyes on it. [. . .] Sure I could of, but that would've been missing the beauty part of it, you see, seeing her squirm. That's just the way I am. So now she's down to a pack, so I say, \"Fifteen.\" For five minutes she's laughing in my face about how she ain't gonna go with me for no fifteen cigarettes, so now I tell her I ain't offering fifteen cigarettes no more. Now I'm offering five, on account of her wasting my time and making me late on my deliveries. She just sits there looking at me like I was crazy, and I'm taking my hi-ho time sucking in smoke, enjoying myself, watching the expression on her face, knowing I got all the cards in the deck because she's hurting for a smoke and I don't really give a shit. Hell, why should I, with those black circles under her eyes, her lips all cracked, and her nails discolored and broken by the famine? Well, the long and the short of it is . . . and this is the real beauty part of it . . . you wanna know what I got her for? A cigarette. One lousy cigarette! After we finished, she's sitting there on the edge of the bed with her hands hanging down between her legs and the smoke coming up from the cigarette, telling me how I've degraded her by buying her for a single cigarette, and how it wouldn't have been so degrading if I had just given her a carton, or at least a pack. What the hell? Why should anybody give more than they have to? Besides, if you're gonna sell yourself for smoke, how is a carton less degrading than one? People sure got crazy ideas about what it takes to humiliate themselves.\n\n[Shouting toward the kitchen.]\n\nLet's go with that pork! I don't have all day! [. . .] Now you take a guy like you. Soon as we started talking, I could tell you had too much class to humiliate yourself over anything, no matter how bad you wanted it. Guys like you would rather croak than come out and ask for it . . . not that asking would do you any good, if you get my drift, because that's just the way I am.\n\n[Putting away the pack of cigarettes.]\nZilvinas Jonusas\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Cleaning\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007\n\nJOSEF K. Then why am I constantly reminded that I'm not fit to live, that I'm a sick person, that God will punish me for my . . . Leni . . . I already knew from a very young age that there is something in me I won't be able to change. I knew it from the very first time I saw a naked man and had that strange feeling. . . . It happened on the beach when I was twelve. Every summer my mother, my brother, and I would go and spend our days there. One day I had the urge to go and look around. After I wandered away from my mother and my brother I found myself in the dunes with naked men lying all around me. The excitement of seeing those men took over me and I sat on a bench and started looking at them. A guy as old as I am now approached me. He sat down on the bench next to me. He pointed to one of the older men on the dunes and said: \"This man is not a good man. You should not listen what he says to you.\" And right after that he asked me if he could suck my pee-pee. It sounded very strange to me, but it was exactly what I wanted to hear at that moment. When I heard those words, I thought that all the water from my body had evaporated. My mouth was dry as the Sahara Desert. After a moment of trying to say something, I just nodded, and followed him to the dunes to have what I wanted to have. Time stopped then. Later I regretted what I did. I heard that it was wrong and that it's a deadly sin to have sex with men. But, surprisingly, at that moment it was so right that I completely forgot about time. I remember how we got undressed, I remember the guy asking me if I had done this before. Even though that was my very first time I knew what to do with the guy. . . . I remember how the guy came. I remember how suddenly I realized that my mother and my brother were probably looking for me. Without even saying a word I jumped into my shorts and ran to the sea to wash off all that excitement and guilt. My throat was even dryer. I tried to wash it down with the salty sea water, but it just got worse. . . . God, I'm so thirsty.\n\n[The sound of pouring water into a glass is heard.]\n\nI saw my brother looking at me with a strange look as if he had seen me with that man. Later I realized that he actually did see me going after the man to the dunes. . . . He just kept saying: \"This man is bad. This man is bad.\" From that day on, I was secretly visiting the same beach area (I could not stop myself from going there as often as I could.) Even if nothing would happen, I needed to see them. Every time after I would finish with one man or another I would run into the water to wash that something which was unwashable. Every time I would go home with that feeling that everybody knew what I was doing. . . . I had to hide myself inside a thick shell. I dived into studying and sports. I made myself busy all the time just to forget who I really am. The strange thing was that in the meantime I still was able to fall in love with girls. I thought that I am (was) \"normal.\" But somehow I never wanted to touch a woman's body the way I liked to touch a man's. Somehow I never felt with a woman as close as I was with another man. The real understanding of a man's love came to me much later. It came after I met you, Leni. I remember that day. You were leaning next to a wall and were wearing exactly the same outfit as you are wearing right now. You were beaming that strange light which attracts men as bees to the honey. You approached me and asked if I would be interested in having a glass of champagne with you later. I said yes, and our evening finished in somebody's house. Even though we were sleeping completely dressed, my fingers were able to feel your wet desire. I believe we kissed each other the whole night. Then we had another \"glass of champagne\" night. I remember feeling my body erect for such a long time, that it was hurting me beyond words. But it was different. Something really important was missing. Later on I learned about your child. I really felt grown up then, even though I was only twenty-one at the time. I was already thinking about what a good father I could be to him. . . . One evening you introduced me to your best friend. That was when my whole life went crashing down on me, because I was thinking of getting married to you, but after that night . . . I had a rum with your best friend and realized that drinking champagne with you was just an image I wanted to have. Leni, my reality was rum, not champagne. I know you are probably disgusted by me right now, but your friend was who I wanted to be with for the rest of my life.\nClay McLeod Chapman\n\nbirdfeeder\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008\n\none of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup\n\nWasn't until winter when word finally got around about Michael, a group of hunters discovering his body about three miles into the woods. First day of deer hunting season usually brings back a month's worth of venison stretched along the front hood of every Chevrolet in town\u2014only this year, most trucks came back bare, their empty fenders still caked in a crust of dried blood from last season's kill. Looked that way, at least. Maybe it was just rust. Instead of heading to Sally's Tavern, where everyone parks their cars to compare their quarry, seeing who has the citation, who brought back the biggest buck, sneaking their beers out into the parking lot even though they know it's against the law, Sally turning a blind eye to her customers as they buy their beer and duck out the door again\u2014this afternoon, first day of deer hunting season\u2014most men just rushed right over to Sheriff Flaherty's office on their own, as sober as a bunch of newborn babies, leading him and a handful of his officers up Route 2, right where the highway lines up alongside the woods, nothing but miles and miles worth of trees, parking their trucks in the ditch just next to the road and cutting through the forest. Heading right to Michael. They say it was John Whalthorne who found him. He'd been following this buck for about a half mile, keeping his distance until he knew he had a clear shot\u2014his eyes wandering through the woods by way of the scope attached to his rifle\u2014only to catch some color in his crosshairs, this flash of blue. Turns out to be Michael's Levi's. The weather had washed the brightness out, months' worth of rain rinsing the dye away\u2014his favorite pair of pants having faded into this phantom hue. This baby, baby blue. His bones were nothing but wind chimes now, knocking up against each other in the breeze. Birds had begun to take him away, one peck at a time\u2014plucking what pieces of him they could pull free with their beaks, bit by bit. He looked like a birdfeeder up there, hanging from that branch. Everyone knows the woods is where you go when you want to keep a secret. The deeper into these trees you reach, the darker the secret you want to keep. Only secrets I've ever kept are of Michael. He'd lay a leaf against my chest, watching it rise and fall with every breath\u2014the frond mimicking my rib cage, only smaller, as if it were two chests pressed against each other. His breath always tasted of cigarettes, like dried leaves at the back of his mouth. My father always thought the two of us were sneaking off into the woods to have ourselves a smoke, smelling cigarettes on my breath every time I'd come home\u2014but the funny thing was, I never had a cigarette in all of my life. Only Michael. We'd make our way to this clearing in the trees, taking the entire day just to walk there\u2014hiking farther and farther into the forest, until there was nothing around us. Nothing at all. Not the hum of a truck, not the whir of some lawn mower. Not another human being for miles. We'd lay on our backs, slipping out of our T-shirts\u2014feeling what sun could make its way through the trees, these specks of light resting themselves on our chests. That's where I'd kiss him, letting every patch of light lead my lips across his body\u2014as if the sun were saying, Kiss him there. And\u2014Kiss him there. Thinking about Michael out there, all winter. Hanging by that branch, the tension in his neck relenting more and more. Thinking about his body breaking down, changing colors. Shifting pigments. Thinking about all those birds swooping down, pecking at his neck. Tugging on his lips as if they were earthworms. Taking away what they could carry back to their babies, dangling his lips over their beaks, feeding his kisses to their family. You know, it wouldn't have been far off for people to believe Michael had run away, having done it a couple times already. Only difference is, he'd always come back. Whether it was a few hours or a day on the road, Michael would always make his way home. So when it reached a week, his mother started to worry. Like really worry. But by then Michael was already in the woods, slowly disappearing\u2014trying to hide himself inside the stomachs of every animal willing to nibble on him. Thinking\u2014Nobody would ever look for me in here. Thinking\u2014It's safer inside these stomachs. The weather and elements had decimated the rest of his clothes, chewing through his T-shirt until it was nothing but scraps of fabric. You couldn't even recognize the Metallica decal ironed along the front. The e and the t were just about the only letters left. The others had peeled free, flaking off into the air. I was there when he bought that shirt, wearing it to school the very next day. I remember how firm it felt when it was new, like cardboard, the cotton starting off all stiff, the creases in its sleeves keeping crisp for weeks\u2014before it finally descend into its tenderness. He loved that shirt. He would pull it off and place it under my head, as a pillow\u2014the two of us resting on the ground, looking up at the sky just above us, a few stars hanging over our heads, the trees blocking out the rest, braided by branches, as if I'd put both of my hands right over my face, a latticework of fingers hiding the sky from my eyes. We'd spend the night out in the woods, telling our parents that we were sleeping over at each other's house. Holding him, I remember listening to the trees warping over our heads, every bending branch making this squealing sound in the dark\u2014until it almost sounded like my arms were bending as well, the weight of Michael in my grip causing my limbs to twist. What if someone finds out about us? What do we do then? Don't worry, he said. We're safe out here. He was wearing those blue jeans the last time I saw him, nearly six months ago now. Pretty much wore those pants every day of his life, anyhow\u2014but I know it was when we were together last, when I last laid eyes on him, that I was the last person to see him alive. Because there was no note, no cry for help. Just his body breaking down. People keep asking me why. Why would he head out into the woods alone and hang himself, waiting out there all winter for someone to find him? Suddenly I'm an authority on his unhappiness? I'm the expert on what makes him tick? Even Michael's mother's come to me, desperate for some sense of closure, just so she won't have to blame herself for what happened. You were his best friend, Sean. He would've talked to you about these things. . . . Did he ever mention depression? Did he ever say anything about suicide? I knew he was out there. When Michael first disappeared, I went out into the woods by myself\u2014going to the only place where I felt safe, where I could be alone. And that's when I saw him, swaying. His head bowed against his chest. It was better for someone else to find him. Someone other than me. If I'd been the one to take Sheriff Flaherty out into the woods, other questions would get asked. Questions like: What were you doing out there in the first place? What were you two boys doing so far out in the forest, alone? Questions like that don't stop themselves from getting asked, even if you provide an answer. In a town as small as this, sometimes\u2014the answer isn't what people are after. Sometimes they want your secrets. That's what frightened Michael more than anything. That's what sent him out into the woods by himself. Sometimes, saying your lips are sealed isn't enough. The best way to keep a secret is to cinch your throat shut, cutting off the air that cushions your deepest, darkest truths. Deer hunting season would come in a few months, only for someone to stumble upon him. They'd rush back for Sheriff Flaherty, dragging him through the woods, cutting Michael's body down. Doing it properly. Until then, I'd know where I could find him. I'd know where he'd be. I've kept him secret for six months now, never mentioning Michael to anyone\u2014because there are more secrets where that came from. More than I can count.\n\nI keep his eyes, as blue as his jeans. I keep his lips, as thin as earthworms. I keep the taste of his mouth out in those woods. Nobody knows about him and me out here.\nDaniel Frederick Levin\n\nA Glorious Evening\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008\n\none of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup\n\n[HARRY is sitting at a table with a flower on it, looking out at the audience. The level of realism for the following is low, particularly for processes that occur: Delivery should be understated, acted with restraint, with only perhaps a hint of emotion at the end.]\n\nHARRY [Pause.] I'm really looking forward to tonight. How are you feeling . . . are you cold? Good. . . . It was really beautiful out tonight, wasn't it? Did you notice there was like a sweet smell in the air when you were coming here? And a good sweet smell, not a bad sweet smell that you don't know where it's coming from. A good sweet smell, I don't know, it's probably some early flowers, some mulch thawing out, a little wood, probably some sulfates. God, you look . . . So, my cell phone is off, computer off, Blackberry, don't have one. The TV is sleeping for the night, the radio . . . the radio, maybe a far\u00adoff wisp of a jazz song, if anything. But thank God those are all inventions. Thank God we don't really need any of those things. Thank God all we need is . . . this. I made a few, eh-em, improvements.\n\n[Indicating flower.]\n\nThere's one of these on the bathtub ledge, for the bath before we . . . didn't draw the water yet. I didn't want it to get cold. But I figure that's maybe when we can listen to that jazz, you know? Is there anything better than listening to jazz against running water? And we'll find a station with not that many instruments. Just maybe a saxophone . . . and a bass . . . just that. No piano. We don't need piano.\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nI love you. Are you sure you're not cold? Hot? I can open the window more.\n\n[Realizing something.]\n\nYou know what? I think I forgot to brush my teeth. I'm . . . do you need anything? Okay.\n\n[HARRY makes tooth-brushing motion, not that realistic.]\n\nI'm brushing my teeth. I'm brushing my teeth. I'm brushing my teeth. I'm brushing my teeth. I'm brushing my teeth. I'm brushing my teeth. I'm brushing my tongue. I'm spitting. I'm rinsing. I'm back. Hi. Did I miss much?\n\n[Pause.]\n\nI have plenty of protection. And it's the gentle kind. Everything is taken care of. There's nothing at all to worry about.\n\n[He breathes.]\n\nWhat a glorious night. Temperature is right. Smell is right. Sound is good. Vision is wonderful. Touch will be amazing. Taste will be . . . pretty good, well worth it. Well worth it. Smell. Sound. Sight. Touch. Taste. Smell. Sound. Sight. Touch. Taste. Smell. Sound . . . I need just one sec. Will you   \nbe all right for a sec? Excuse me. [He pauses. Stands up.] I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using . . . [Pause.] I'm using the bathroom the other way, I'm using the bathroom, I'm reaching for the switch, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm trying to be quiet, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm looking for matches, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm using the bathroom, I'm finishing up, I'm finishing, I think, I'm ripping off paper. . . . I'm ripping off again, and ripping off again . . . and again . . . and again . . . and I think I'm finished . . . and I'm finished . . . and I'm finished, I'm done. Hi. Sorry about that. Now I just feel . . . perfect. Are you feeling all right?\n\n[Rapid fire.]\n\nCold hot bored wired up down shy bold deaf blind stifled? Y'sure?\n\n[Sighs.]\n\nIt's such a beautiful evening. There's this mood . . . this . . . well, it's the jazz . . . it's . . .\n\n[Noticing something.]\n\nI'm having a little trouble swallowing. I'm having trouble swallowing. I'm having trouble swallowing. It's like choking, but I can breathe. I'm having trouble swallowing.\n\n[Louder.]\n\nI'm having trouble swallowing! It passed.\n\n[He breathes for a moment.]\n\nI was saying, swallow, it's like the jazz, best on an, swallow, old record, swallow again, I'm thinking about swallowing, I'm thinking about swallowing, I'm thinking about swallowing, I feel hot. Are you Okay? I have a little more saliva. It seems to have passed. It seems to have passed.\n\n[He sighs again.]\n\nWhat a beautiful . . . I just can't wait. I can't wait for later. I want to first draw that bath. Then I want to go to the bathroom. I want to swallow. I want to be quiet. I want to fantasize. I want to do everything . . . I want to feel intense, intense pleasure. I'm so excited, you know? Would you mind leaving? Right now? It's really beautiful out. You'll get to smell that sweet smell. Remember? The mulch? Now. Go on. Leave. Go on. Get out of here. Get out of here. Get out!\n\n[Bringing himself under control and retreating back.]\n\nSwallow.\n\nBreathe.\n\nSwallow.\n\nBreathe.\n\nI'm imagining.\n\nI'm breathing.\n\nI'm really looking forward to tonight.\nMurray Schisgal\n\nThe Artist and the Model\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1994\u20131995\n\ncharacters\n\nBROMBERG is in his late sixties. But he is a vigorous man, with little slackness; his eyes burn with a fierce, truculent intensity. And yet he is old; his hair is in need of a haircut, his face a shave, his nails a brushing. Oddly, he seems to be in a great hurry, poised for movement.\n\nANGELICA is a non-speaking participant, not particularly attractive. Nor unattractive. She is Latino or Mediterranean. She is in her twenties or early thirties, with a strong, solid, full-breasted body. Her abundant flesh fairly bursts with her naked womanhood. The role requires a professional model. Her actions are prompted by three considerations: (1) she needs the job; (2) she is acutely aware of BROMBERG's age and isolation; (3) she is in awe of his talent, his ability to create beautiful things.\n\nscene\n\nBROMBERG's studio in Tribeca.\n\ntime\n\n1994. Winter. Twenty-two minutes after eight o'clock in the morning.\n\n[Lights. BROMBERG is seated on a paint-encrusted, white, straight-backed kitchen chair of the forties, downstage, right; his large, veined hands rest on his knees; between his knees is a darkly varnished cane. A rectangular sketchpad leans against the downstage leg of the chair. Farther to the right upstage is a plant stand on which there is a potted plant, leafy and vibrantly green. A tin watering can is on the floor beside it. On the left, mid-stage, is a model's platform covered with a worn faded oriental carpet. If there is any discernible expression on BROMBERG's face, it is one of displeasure, if not anger. He wears slightly paint-splattered, baggy white housepainter's pants; heavily paint-splattered, ankle-high work shoes; a bleached, clean, pressed denim shirt with sleeves rolled above his elbows\u2014sticks of charcoal, pens, and pencils protrude from his shirt's breast pocket. Shortly ANGELICA enters. She is late. She has been running. She tries to repress the sound of her breathlessness. She removes, quickly, her coat, scarf, knitted cap. It is cold out, although a bright sun shines through the unseen skylight. BROMBERG's eyes hold fast to her. He clenches his jaw to prevent himself from speaking. ANGELICA throws her things on an ancient, brown, wicker chair that is left, angled towards platform. A vintage paisley shawl lies across the armchair. Without a pause, ANGELICA removes her street shoes, skirt, cardigan sweater, blouse, white athletic socks, pantyhose, bra, and panties; all are thrown on the armchair or, inadvertently, on the floor. A salvaged wooden box with a dozen or so art books on it is at the side of the armchair, downstage. As soon as she's undressed, she steps up on the platform, waits to receive instructions. She is unable to return BROMBERG's fixed, obtrusive stare. She invariably turns away from him to look down at the carpet or across at a wall or at whatever object affords her refuge. Initially BROMBERG's voice is a low-spoken growl, a mumble, a muttering of words.]\n\nBROMBERG If you remember . . . when I first retained you to model for me . . . months ago . . . I asked if it was possible for you to be here at six o'clock in the morning . . . since I get up at five o'clock in the morning and by six o'clock in the morning I am anxious to start my work.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nYou answered by saying it would be impossible for you to arrive before eight o'clock in the morning because . . . you had to take the subway from your apartment in the Bronx . . . down to my studio. You said you were afraid to ride the subway so early in the morning.\n\n[A pause. ANGELICA stands on the platform. Shortly she will instinctively lower her hands in front of her pubic hair.]\n\nI said you could work for me if you arrived here promptly at eight o'clock in the morning; no later; promptly at eight o'clock in the morning. On those days I required . . . your services. You agreed. You agreed knowing full well that when I'm scheduled to work with you . . . I am incapable of doing any other work until you arrive. That means from the hour of six o'clock in the morning until . . . eight o'clock in the morning . . . I am waiting . . . I am waiting for you to arrive.\n\n[A pause. He breathes audibly, as if he has exhausted himself; yet his voice becomes more didactic, firm, angry.]\n\nI don't imagine you have any idea what that's like. To wait . . . two hours . . . two whole hours. Substantive. Time. When the body and mind are . . . energized . . . poised to grapple and do battle with the . . . the illusive. In-val-u-able hours that can never be . . . captured, recycled, like soda bottles, beer cans . . . yesterday's garbage.\n\n[A pause. ANGELICA folds her arms across her chest; she is cold.]\n\nI imagine that at six o'clock in the morning you're still wrapped in your boyfriend's arms . . . without a care or frustrated bone in your body. While I wait . . . to work . . . to fill my lungs with mouthfuls of fresh air, oxygen, to be able to . . . to breathe.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nI believe I told you on more than one occasion that when I am not working . . . I have difficulty . . . breathing. This difficulty increases the longer I am unable to work. Tension builds. My heart . . . palpitates, a-rhyth-mic-a-lly. My abdominal muscles . . . cramp. My lungs feel like they're . . . co-llap-sing. I have to work so I can breathe. So I won't die . . . of suff-o-ca-tion.\n\n[A pause. He rises, walks to the rear right, leaning on his cane; his disabled leg is stiff, as if tied to a board; he moves it along, not with pain or excessive effort. He stands at rear and looks through an unseen wall window. During the above, ANGELICA runs to armchair, grabs her thigh-length cardigan sweater, puts it on, buttons it, and returns to stand on platform.]\n\nTwo hours and twenty-two minutes I waited for you this morning. An intolerable amount of time. For someone who is . . . suffocating. I would send you home, right now! This minute! If I could replace you, find someone else, anyone else, immediately, without delay, so I could work. Finally.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nBut since I can't on such short notice . . . and since I refuse to waste any more time with this . . . this rubbish! Be advised that this is the last day of your employment with me. Be so advised. When you leave these premises at the end of the day, I do not wish to see you again.\n\n[A pause. He walks to plant stand, picks up watering can and waters plant. His voice is a soft, controlled drone, with specified pauses, words frequently spoken reflectively to himself.]\n\nI want you out of my life. Once and for all. I have no need of this . . . agitation. I'll get someone in here who's prompt and appreciative and who is a little more fastidious in her toilette. A woman of some class, sophistication. I won't have to listen to your endless whining, the endless gossip I've been subjected to. Relentlessly. Relentlessly. No more late-night horror stories about your . . . liaisons, your . . . debaucheries, your Peter, Peter, Richie, Richie, your hordes of former employers! That . . . That grubby second-rate poseur Ostrovski, that no talent, minusculist pissoir, Magenetti, your pathetic pap-art petomane, Wilberquist. Work for them, why don't you?\n\n[He turns to her.]\n\nThey're begging you to go back to them, aren't they? How many times have they phoned you, written to you, waited on your doorstep for you to come home at two, three in the morning!\n\n[Mimics sarcastically.]\n\nOh, please, my sweet, dear Angelica, please, come back and pose for me! Leave that monster Bromberg, that old, demented, loathsome, egomaniacal cripple! I beg you, Angelica. I can't paint without you, Angelica. I can't create without you, Angelica. You're the best, the most beautiful, the most desirable model in the whole . . .\n\n[Suddenly explodes, wagging cane.]\n\nGo! Get out of here! To hell with you! I can't work today. You've made it impossible! Out! Out! I want you out of here!\n\n[ANGELICA moves to armchair, finds her panties amidst pile of clothes. As she's about to put them on, BROMBERG shakes his head, eyes tightly closed; quietly.]\n\nNo.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nNo. No.\n\n[Anguished.]\n\nI . . . I can't afford to . . . waste . . . anymore . . . time.\n\n[Shakes his head.]\n\nI can't.\n\n[ANGELICA stares at him. BROMBERG opens his eyes. A breath. Firmly.]\n\nStay. I have to get something done, something . . . started. For today. Just today. Finish your work. You'll be paid.\n\n[ANGELICA places her panties in cardigan sweater's pocket, takes off sweater, steps on platform and assumes pose #1: one that says I have no ill will towards you; I want to help you draw something beautiful. BROMBERG sits on kitchen chair, lays cane on floor; he picks up sketchpad, places it on his lap, turns pages, examining previous drawings\u2014none of them pleases him. He finds a clean page, takes charcoal from shirt pocket and begins sketching ANGELICA. Now and then we hear the stick of charcoal scratching across the sheet of paper. BROMBERG is content. His breathing comes naturally. In a moment he appraises his sketch. He is dissatisfied with it. He turns the page and starts again. A smile breaks on his face.]\n\nSo who is it this week? Peter or Richie? Did your mother convince you that an unemployed gas-station attendant is preferable to an apprentice butcher? No gossip today? No little tidbits of blue-collar erotica? How about your girlfriend Gloria? Is she having the baby or has the notorious gigolo, Alphonso the Barber, persuaded her that an aborted fetus is next to Godliness? What about your cousin, the disco king? Did he test positive? Did he ever discover the culprit of his concern?\n\n[He sketches a bit.]\n\nYou poor young people nowadays. You don't know how pathetic you all are. Scrounging in the garbage dumps for momentary pleasures. In a rotting city. A rotting country. Second-rate. Sliding inexorably into mediocrity. The land of no-more opportunity. Shrinking horizons. Guns and condoms hanging from the gnarled, yellow beak of a bald-headed eagle. America, America, thou hast seen thy day of glory and now lie barren and desiccated under the cold, barren sun.\n\n[Concentrates on sketch for a bit.]\n\nI don't imagine in your vast reading of American history you learned that there was such a thing in the early forties as a World War designated numero duo. It was thanks to that effort of moralistic futility that I'm compelled to drag this warped leg about like a superfluous erection. Oh, don't tax your fragile psyche and try to make sense of this. It was an event of no consequence. An irony. A glitch. God, to have lived to see how it all turned out. Where it ended. Where we are today and what it was like then. Poor bastards. Lambs led to the slaughter. Parades and Dole pineapple juice. Poor, poor bastards.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nNow here we are, in the cesspool of the nineties, remembering . . . nothing. An event of no consequence.\n\n[Sharply.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[ANGELICA assumes pose #2: she's annoyed, doesn't understand why BROMBERG is talking so much this morning. Her stance is provocative, seductive, an attempt to get him to concentrate on his work. BROMBERG turns page, sketches for a while; we hear the charcoal scratching the page; speaks softly, almost to himself.]\n\nI remember, once during the war, I was standing alone . . . in a bar in Tijuana . . . drinking a Four Roses and ginger ale.\n\n[He laughs, amused by his sophomoric choice of drink.]\n\nI was all of eighteen years. I don't know where my friends were, probably in a whorehouse. I don't know why I wasn't with them. I usually was. I remember . . . looking up from my drink and I saw, sitting beside me, a young woman, no older than myself. We started talking. I said something funny and she laughed. We exchanged stories, experiences, revealed intimate secrets. We had, along the way, a few drinks. We were high but not drunk. Lifted to that height of reality where we were slightly off the ground . . . and sight and sound were . . . brilliantly vivid . . . Incandescent.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nWhat was her name, that young woman in a bar in Tijuana, during the Second World War? I don't know. Her hair was ocher, amber, topaz. Her eyes were made of bits of mica, glittering specks of turquoise. Her mouth . . . Pale. Pink. Full. Her teeth, her cheeks . . . I can see her now. I can taste and smell the soft scent of her. The closeness of her.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nThere was a jukebox. A dance floor. We danced, on that height of reality that was . . . incandescent. What was her name? I don't know. But I remember the song . . . we danced to.\n\n[Quietly, he speak-sings the lyrics, emphatically pronouncing a word here and there; a similar period song may be used.]\n\n\"Just kiss me once, then kiss me . . . twice, then kiss me . . . once again, it's been a . . . long . . . long . . . time. Haven't felt like . . . this . . . my dear . . . since can't remember when . . .\"\n\n[Voice fades out; he tries to sketch; gives it up.]\n\n\"When do you have to be back at the base?\" I believe she asked me. \"Not until tomorrow afternoon,\" I lied. \"Stay with me.\" Did she say that? Yes. She did. \"Stay with me.\" \"I'd like that. Very much,\" I replied. Oh, yes. Ohhh, yes, yes, yes. I would like that very much. \"The bus to San Diego is leaving in a few minutes,\" she said. \"I have to say good-bye to my girlfriends,\" she said. \"I'll meet you on the bus,\" she said. She moved her face closer to mine; her lips barely a breath away. \"I'll be on the bus,\" I said, with all the manhood I could muster, getting up and running out . . . getting on the bus that was jammed to the rafters with sailors and civilians and . . .\n\n[A pause; softly.]\n\nChange pose.\n\n[Pose #3: ANGELICA thinks of herself as BROMBERG's young woman in Tijuana; her pose is as lovely and as simple as she can make it. BROMBERG turns page, sketches.]\n\nMy heart is beating so fast at this . . . minute . . . I feel like a fool. Anyway . . . inside the bus, I waited for her, to get on, to join me, thinking, sweating, I should get off, I should find her, I should cry out, \"Wait! I'm getting off! Excuse me! Excuse me!\" But would you believe that the bus was already moving and she wasn't on it and I was traveling to San Diego . . . without her? Would you believe . . . that I never saw her again and up until this minute . . .\n\n[A sigh.]\n\nI never told anyone about her. Not wife numero uno, wife numero duo, mistresses and lovers from numero uno to . . . infinity. I told no one. From fear of embarrassment by the in-con-se-quen-ti-ality of that . . . innocuous encounter. In Tijuana. Some fifty years ago. During the war to save democracy. What was her name?\n\n[Shakes his head.]\n\nI don't know.\n\n[Sketches; laughs softly.]\n\nYou do think you're living a life. Peter, Peter, Richie, Richie.\n\n[He laughs.]\n\nYou have no idea. What life could be. What life was. After . . . After the war. Those who survived. We were in the center of the world. Right here. In this cesspool of a city. There was more happening within blocks of this studio, on canvas, than anywhere else in God's creation. Did you ever hear of a fellow named de Kooning? Pollock? Gorky? Rothko? Smith? Motherwell? My sweet, dear friend, Jimmy Ernst? Of course not! Why should you? You know Oooostrovski! Maaaga-ne-tta! Wilber-petomane-quist! Those fraudulent imitators of neo-moderne bile and excrement!\n\n[Sharply.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[Pose #4: ANGELICA is quite peeved by BROMBERG's constant assault on her personal life. Her pose is mean-spirited, aggressive, defiant. BROMBERG sees through it; sharply:]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[Pose #5. She holds a particularly horrific pose. At once BROMBERG responds.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[ANGELICA gives in. Pose #6: a rather ordinary innocuous one. BROMBERG turns page, sketches, the charcoal scratching the paper.]\n\nBut then . . . back then . . . we were a community. What an endearing word that is. Community. How rich one felt being part of . . . a . . . community. Part of a group, a tribe, a band of brigands who congregated . . . together. Every night partying at the Cedar's or San Remos's or downstairs at Louie's. Every day at our ateliers, showing one another what we were working on, talking about, arguing about it, competing, putting down, raising up, but always respecting what was original, what was right, what was good. That, too, was . . . together.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nIn a city. In a country: Of endless opportunities. Burgeoning horizons. Supreme confidence. In the first full flush of being numero uno.\n\n[Sketches awhile.]\n\nYou had to be around in the sixties to know what I'm talking about. Free. Free at last. The pictures that run through my mind are those of naked, flower-haloed young people, celebrating under the crimson-tinted open sky. Carpe diem.   \nOf thee I sing.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nWhat an unforgettable decade. So much happened. Was experienced. That's when making love was such a dance. Hedonism unbridled. Love on the run. Orgasm apotheosized. Ohhh, it does the heart wonders to reflect on it.\n\n[Tone of voice gradually changes.]\n\nBut those are circumstances that young people nowadays have no way of knowing. Believe me, I am sorry for you. Do not mistake my . . . outspokenness for a lack of compassion. For an expression in insensitivity. I truly pity you young people nowadays. A night of making love carries with it the horrendous onus of mortality. One forbidden excursion is potentially an act of suicide. How horrible the times. Guns and condoms in the gnarled, yellow beak of a bald-headed eagle. Oh, the horror of it all.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nI assume you practice safe sex. I assume you have sufficient intelligence to speak frequently on the subject with your Peter, Peter and Richie, Richie and whoever else you might be temporarily co-habitating with.\n\n[Firmly.]\n\nChange pose.\n\n[Pose #7: the pose is in the main ANGELICA \"mooning\" BROMBERG. BROMBERG barks.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[Pose #8: she juts her pelvis out towards him in a whorish pose. BROMBERG is intrigued by it; sketches, scratching charcoal on paper.]\n\nThere's so much that's screwed-up nowadays. It's an ideal age to grow old. One doesn't quite regret as much saying good\u00adbye to the slime and disease and bloodletting that's drowning us. I wouldn't have liked, for anything, being old in the sixties, but being old in the nineties is something of a blessing.\n\n[He smiles with the thought of it.]\n\nOne can stand on the side and observe the pathetic little lives lived by you . . . people. I often wonder what it is you look forward to, what dreams and fantasies you have, what you believe in that makes all the . . . horror of it worthwhile. I can't for the life of me imagine what it is. Marriage? Does that still exist for you young people? I understand the divorce rate is above fifty percent and that's not counting the number of husbands and wives who walk out the door, never to be heard from again.\n\n[A pause.]\n\nFamily? Is that still a viable option? I would think as the years go by there'll be less and less of that. I would think we're witnessing the last vestiges of a worn-out social convention that has overstayed its usefulness. How many single mothers are there nowadays? How many couples live together without benefit of church or state? No, no, family is an impractical goal nowadays. Not very realistic. You'll probably end up with some jerk, you'll have his brats, he'll walk out and some other jerk will probably walk in to take his place.\n\n[Sharply.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[He stops sketching; stares at ANGELICA, fixedly. Pose #9: ANGELICA has had it; she poses indifferently, repeating poses she's done previously, anticipating his call for a changed pose and posing anew even before he commands her to do so.]\n\nDid you become impatient? Did you move in with somebody already? Richie, Richie? Peter, Peter? Ostrovski? Maganetta? One of the innumerable suitors who wait on your doorstep every morning? Change pose!\n\n[Pose #10: a fantastical \"in flight\" pose, arms flung outwards, one leg raised.]\n\nWhat about your mother? The one person I ever heard you say you had feelings for. Did you just leave her with your young sisters? Is that what she deserves from you? Change pose!\n\n[Pose #11: another far-fetched pose.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[Pose #12: and another.]\n\nI thought you wanted more out of your life than a pinch on the ass and a quick lay! Change pose!\n\n[Pose #13: and another.]\n\nI thought you were interested in making something of yourself, of giving your life value, of . . .\n\n[ANGELICA has had enough. Furiously, she moves to armchair, dresses quickly. BROMBERG scrambles to pick up his cane; rises, continues, heedlessly.]\n\n. . . of becoming a productive, committed, caring human being!\n\n[Shouts commandingly.]\n\nChange pose!\n\n[ANGELICA pays him no mind. BROMBERG shouts again.]\n\nChange pose! Change pose! I thought you had a passion, passion for books, a passion for painting and music and, and beautiful things! Was that all rot you were giving me? Were you lying, deceiving a man who trusted and believed in you? Is that how you treat people? Is that the extent of your humanitarianism?\n\n[Pants for a beat or two.]\n\nI did not dismiss you! I did not say you could go! I said you would be paid if you worked until the end of the day! The end of the day! Otherwise you don't get a penny from me! Not a penny! Now get back on there and we'll . . . we'll continue . . . we'll . . . go on . . .\n\n[Loudly; in despair.]\n\nI cannot waste the day! No matter how much I'd enjoy kicking you out of here! I have . . . my work . . . to do! I have to . . . Change pose! Change pose! Change . . .\n\n[He swallows huge mouthfuls of air, watches, helplessly, as ANGELICA finishes dressing. She picks up her coat, scarf, knitted cap and is about to leave. A whisper.]\n\nAngelica.\n\n[She turns to look at him. Softly.]\n\nWhere were you last night? I wanted, very much, to talk to you. I felt . . . not tired. I took the subway up to your neighborhood and I . . . From a candy store I phoned you. I thought we'd have a cup of coffee together and . . . talk together. I spoke to your mother. She said you were out. She didn't know where. So I . . . I waited, on your doorstep. Until morning. Two . . . three . . . in the morning. You didn't show up.\n\n[Forces a smile.]\n\nI won't make that mistake again. I had no sleep. For a man my age . . . that's a great . . . sacrifice.\n\n[ANGELICA moves to him. She puts her arms around his waist and hugs him tightly, pressing her head to his chest. BROMBERG, hands are at his sides, one hand holding his cane. ANGELICA raises her face and kisses him on the mouth, long and hard; passionately. BROMBERG doesn't move, doesn't react. ANGELICA backs away from him, her eyes on him. Abruptly, she turns and exits. BROMBERG stands stiffly, his eyes fixed on the offstage door for several beats. Using his cane, he makes his way to stand on the platform, center, facing front. He drops his cane, unbuttons his shirt, takes it off, drops it on top of the cane. He touches his naked chest with outspread hand, runs his hand over his chest, slowly, once, pressing hard, feeling his warm flesh under his fingers. Hands at his sides, he inhales deeply, tasting the oxygen in his lungs. Exhales. He does this once again. Slowly. Deliberately. Clenching the summation of breath in the fibers of his being. Hands at sides, he raises them, slowly, over his head; his fingertips touch. Slowly he brings his hands down to his sides. He does this once again. Each movement felt throughout his body. Lights begin to fade as he continues with his exercises. Hands splayed on his hips, he moves his torso to the left. Then center. Then to the right. Then center. He does this once again. Slowly. Deliberately. He stretches his arms out forward, slowly moves them perpendicular to his body. Etc. Lights fade out.]\nPeter Maloney\n\nWitness\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007\n\nplace\n\nAbu Ghraib Prison, Iraq\n\ntime\n\nApril 2004\n\n[Sound of metal door slamming very loudly. At same time lights bump up. Shouts of prisoners, dogs barking somewhere. KASIM sits on the lower bunk of an iron bed. There is no mattress, only a plywood board. KASIM wears an orange jumpsuit. He holds a baseball in one hand and regards it. He opens his mouth wide, as if he wants to take a bite of the baseball. He looks up at us.]\n\nKASIM It occurs to me . . . perhaps they thought we eat these things. That they thought it is some kind of fruit, and that we eat it. I could have told them that this is not indigenous to Iraq, that baseballs do not grow on trees here. And that, in any case, it is not a fruit. But they do not speak my language. And the translator was not there when they tried to feed it to me.\n\n[KASIM looks at the baseball. He opens his mouth as wide as possible. He closes his mouth, looks at us.]\n\nIt barely fit into my mouth. They had to break two teeth to get it in.\n\n[He opens his mouth wide again, points with a finger to broken teeth in back.]\n\nI tried to spit the baseball out, to push it out with my tongue, but they tied a scarf around my head to hold it in. With the baseball in my mouth, I could only breathe through my nose. It was fortunate for me that it was not the season of my asthma, or I might have suffocated. I was frightened, and I wanted to tell them about my asthma, but the baseball in my mouth made it impossible for me to speak. And, in any case, they would not have understood me. And the translator was not there. I had expected that they would understand my language, or, in fact, any language that I might have spoken. Frankly, I was surprised that language even came into it. I imagined that, in an encounter of this kind, words would be unnecessary. I have never seen a baseball game. Except in the movies. I have a video store. Mostly bootlegs my cousin Nouri brings in from Syria. I've got all the latest, man. On Rashid Street, near the copperware market. Perhaps you know it, KVCD Video? No? Perhaps if you are in the neighborhood you can look in on my shop and if I see you again you can tell me if it is still there.\n\n[He looks at the baseball, remembers, smiling.]\n\nField of Dreams. Starring Mr. . . . Kevin . . .\n\n[He brings his arm back, mimes throwing the ball.]\n\nCostner.\n\n[Pain in his right shoulder. He sets the baseball down on the bunk bed.]\n\nI cannot speak about what has happened to me here. Because . . . I will soon be leaving and . . . they asked me not to talk about certain things. They said you would not understand. Certain things you would understand and other things you wouldn't. I myself am confused. I was abducted on the day the Americans captured Saddam. I was with my friend Ameen. The news of Saddam's capture had just come over the TV. I closed up my shop and we ran out into the street. The TV in the window we left on so that people outside could watch the events as they unfolded. I had loaned Ameen my video camera. He was making a film about the situation here. At the time of the invasion, he had filmed the falling statues, and now he wanted to film the people's reaction to the fall of the man himself. The reaction of the man in the street. We were hurrying along the river in the direction of the Al-Salam Palace. There were so many people, all of them shouting, dancing in the streets. American soldiers sitting atop their Humvees, grinning, smoking cigarettes. I was so happy to see Saddam go away. You know he destroyed our country. He humiliated us. I thank you, President Bush. There was one tank on the street. Ameen laughs and says, \"Hey, it's Clint Eastwood's tank.\" I look, and even with my bad English I can make out, stenciled on the barrel of the big gun: \"GO AHEAD, MAKE MY DAY.\" I am standing right by the tank. Ameen was taking pictures of all the action when somebody behind us starts shooting at the Americans. Fucking Fedayeen. Stupid guys. I hear the firing and the bullets hitting the tank and I ducked down. It becomes a kind of instinct. I know those fuckers are likely to fire grenades next, so I drop to the ground and I thought, I will roll under the tank. The tank will protect me. But it's not that easy to roll under a tank. In fact you can't do it. The . . . things that go around and around the wheels . . . treads. And anyway now an American soldier has his foot on my back and his rifle pushing hard behind my ear and he is screaming at me in English. The tank is shaking and I hear explosions, and sure enough Clint is firing the big gun in the direction the shots came from, he doesn't realize that the Fedayeen are gone. They were there and now they're gone. But that doesn't stop Clint from firing on the place they were. I am lying on my stomach with this boot on my back and the barrel of the gun pushing my head into the pavement and then my video camera joins me there on the ground, all the pieces of it clattering into the gutter. Before I know it my hands are tied together behind my back with the plastic laces and I am being pulled up onto my feet. Ameen is up against the tank, another soldier's got him covered. His hands are tied, too, and he has a sandbag over his head. And just before the bag goes over my head I see that not only the Fedayeen are gone, so is the building they were firing from. In fact, the whole neighborhood isn't there anymore, just piles of concrete and clouds of dust. Stupid fucking Fedayeen. They took us in a Humvee, with other guys they rounded up. To Camp Cropper, out near the airport. They put us in a tent. I didn't see Ameen again.\n\n[He is quiet for a moment, then, suddenly agitated, he stands and, looking up as if to the upper tier of cells, cries out in a loud voice.]\n\nAMEEN! . . . DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE FUCKING CAMERA, MAN! I CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER CAMERA!\n\n[He is quiet again.]\n\nWe were in the tent for eight days. Bagged and cuffed. They gave us a can to piss in, but if you had to piss and it wasn't the time to piss and there was no one around to cut the cuffs off you. . . . There were some stinking fucking dishdashas in that tent after eight days, I'll tell you. Eight days of pissing yourself and a clean jumpsuit looks pretty good. That was in December. It was cold. No one in the tent knew why we were there. Somebody in the tent knew some English and he asked the soldiers why we were there. They told us we knew why. But we didn't know. They said they were the ones who ask the questions and if they didn't like the answers they'd send us all to Guantanamo. They kept saying we were going to Guantanamo, that once we were there we'd be wishing we were back here.\n\nI didn't like hearing this shit. I got tired of hearing about Guantanamo. On the day they moved us out of Cropper one of the soldiers said we were going to Guantanamo. I said he could shove Guantanamo up his ass, it was just another fucking prison where they lock up Afghanis and Al Qaeda guys, and what am I doing here, I run a video store! I didn't say it in English, I don't speak English. But this other stupid guy, the one of us who knew a little English, he translates for the fucking American! So when they are loading us into the truck to move us out, this soldier who I told to shove Guantanamo up his ass pulls me aside, holds me back. Everybody is in the back of the truck but me, they're packed in, cuffed and bagged, and the soldier is ready to put a bag on my head. But before he does he takes out his wallet and flips through some pictures he keeps in there. There's his mother and his wife or his girlfriend and his kid or his little brother, I don't know, and he finds the picture he's looking for. He puts his hand on my shoulder like we are buddies and he holds out the wallet with the picture for me to see. It's a picture of him in a red and black checked cap. He's holding a rifle, (an ordinary rifle, not the big gun he's carrying now), and tied across the front of his truck is a deer. He's holding on to the horn of this big deer and looking proud of himself.\n\n[Change of tone, more intimate. It is important to KASIM that we know what he thinks about this.]\n\nWhich reminds me. We can't talk about the art of acting without speaking of Mr. . . . Robert . . . De Niro.\n\n[He waits, as if to check if we agree, his eyes darting left and right. He mimes lifting a rifle, sighting down the barrel.]\n\nThe next thing I know I'm in the dark again and being lifted up, and they throw me across the front of the truck and tie me down. The soldiers are laughing and at first I'm not minding being tied down because the truck has been idling for a while and I am suddenly warmer than I have been in over a week. But by the time we are halfway to Abu Ghraib the hood is red fucking hot and the metal is burning me right through my shirt and my pants.\n\n[He touches his jumpsuit very gingerly with his fingertips around his middle, his thighs.]\n\nCan you do something for me? Maybe you can get in touch with my family? Tell my wife where I am. That I'm okay. Do you know the Backstreet Boys? My daughter likes the Backstreet Boys. She loves them. Especially Nick. She sent away for a picture, but it never came. That's all she wants in this life, she says, is a picture of this Backstreet Boy signed, \"To Layla, love Nick.\" Maybe it came while I'm in here. Five months, man. Five fucking months, and I still don't know what they want from me. The Deer Hunter. Yeah. In the middle of the trip here, a sandstorm hit, and I was really glad for the sandbag on my head, which protected me somewhat. When we go there, they untied me, took the bag off, and this . . . unearthly. . . unearthly light was everywhere, because of the dust. Everything was . . . ghamidh. You know this word? Mysterious. Ambiguous. Yeah. When we got here we finally could take a shower. They took our clothes away. They took everything away. My watch. The thing is, I wonder if it's really five months, or does it just seem that way? They can do crazy things with time, you know. Stop it, practically. What if it's only been five hours? What if they haven't even noticed I'm gone? I'm not supposed to tell what happened here. They say you wouldn't understand. But it's not right to do these things to people! Without permission, and without explaining anything! It's inhuman. Of course they aren't human, that's the thing. They can disguise themselves. As anything. John Carpenter got that part right. That was a good film, but it was too negative. The Thing, starring Mr. Kurt Russell. And Kurt had to be a macho guy, naturally, and so naturally all the creatures are bad. Which is not right. Some of them are good, I can tell you. In fact, I would say that most of them are good. Not the big white guy in the clear glasses who works nights. Not Roper. And there are other bad ones, but most of them are good.\n\nI've seen things you wouldn't believe. That's why we aren't supposed to tell you. Because you wouldn't believe it. It's not the time for you to begin believing. I don't know why they picked me. I guess they think it's time for me. Their ships are sometimes disguised as helicopters. You can tell by the light. It is the brightest light you've ever seen. You can't look into it without it hurting. I don't think they want to hurt us. They forced me to lie down. In a cubicle. It was cool and damp and it smelled bad. They put the bright light on me and looked me over. All over. They seemed quite concerned, about my burns from the truck. They checked me all over to see if I was hurt. Because I was hurt. It was like I was paralyzed. There was never just one of them. They were always with another one, or in a group. They looked human, most of them. Humanoid, I guess is what they are. They just touch you with their hand or an instrument and you go numb. At first it hurts a lot, for an instant, but then it doesn't hurt at all. You can't feel anything, and you can't move. You just lie there. You can't believe that you are just lying there, not saying anything, not protesting, but you can't. You just can't. Sometimes there are computers there and the beings are putting data into the computers while they do these things to you. And they are always taking pictures. There are balconies, and sometimes there are other beings watching from above. There isn't much furniture. You can't always tell by looking at them whether they are male or female, but somehow, you just . . . know. The shorter ones are the helpers. The taller ones are in charge. That is definite. The small ones especially stare at you. It is dangerous to look at them. Somehow you know that, so you try not to look in their eyes. Listen, I'm worried about Ameen. Saddam put his brother in here and he never came out. He did something, I don't know what, and one night the Mukhabarat came and got him and brought him here and he was never seen again. That's why Ameen hates Saddam so much. And he said if he ever was put in here he would kill himself. Somebody here did kill himself. Maybe you can find out if Ameen is here. There must be a list. Maybe he escaped.\n\n[He picks up the baseball, throws it to the floor so that it bounces up and back into his hand.]\n\nLike Mr. . . .\n\n[He throws the ball against the floor again.]\n\nSteve . . .\n\n[He throws the ball against the floor again, smiles.]\n\nMcQueen. The Cooler King. Yeah, man. Go to Rashid Street, to my shop. Ameen might be there, keeping an eye on things for me. He is my best friend.\n\n[He sets the baseball on the bunk bed.]\n\nI can't talk about the situation here. I am personally of the opinion that they want to take over. I think where they come from is . . . running out of energy, whatever sustains them, and they have to leave that place. And so they need to take over here. This is the preparation. They are exploring, to see if this is a good place for them to come and live. They show us pictures, wide-screen, 360 degrees. In 3-D, no special glasses required. Pictures of things we see all the time, but stopped noticing. The gutters running like sewers; the marshlands disappeared; the pipelines burning in Kuwait; the sky black with smoke. We tried to tell them that it isn't all our fault. That Saddam did a lot of this shit. That the sanctions did a lot of it. Then the Americans, and in reaction to the Americans, the fucking Fedayeen. But they didn't want to hear any excuses. They know the Garden of Eden, the original Jannat Adn was just a few miles from here! From where we are standing, did you know that? Oh, yes, they know what they are doing by coming here. And they want us to realize what we are doing to the earth. If they are going to come here and take over, well, there has to be something left, after all. Something they can use. To sustain their race. Enable them to go on, to continue.\n\nWhen they make us strip, I think it has something to do with reproduction. So they come here in disguise, and their ships are disguised. And they make us strip and they do these experiments so they can learn about us. I think that when they make us lie down naked on top of one another it is all a misunderstanding. And when they make us touch ourselves . . . masturbate . . . it is only to find out how the penis works, something like that.\n\n[He struggles with what he is feeling.]\n\nI do not think I can go back to the life I had before. I don't want to go back. I think I will never see my wife again. I don't think I could be with her anymore. Not now. And Layla will be fine in the care of her mother, who was always much more strict with her than I was. I spoil her, I admit it. I don't have much time left, but I will tell you what I think. I think that these beings may be . . . angels. I think they are beings between us and God. It is not always easy to recognize them. In John Carpenter's film, for example, when Norris has a heart attack and they get him up on the gurney and the doctor climbs up with the defibrillator to try to shock him back to life and Norris's chest suddenly opens up, then closes quick on the doctor's arms, cutting them off at the elbows, then opens up again and another head, smaller, uglier, with sharper teeth but recognizably Norris, rises up out of his chest on a writhing neck, well, it is horrible, no question.\n\nAnd of course Kurt Russell immediately turns his flamethrower on it and kills it. But who is to say that the monster was not really an angel. In disguise. Or just angry. We will never know, because Kurt Russell killed it. Maybe he just didn't recognize it for what it was. Or maybe he did. I don't know. Would that we knew what the nightly visitant is. Last night the visitant was E.T. Right here in my cell. I knew there was going to be another examination when they brought out the sheets and blankets and hung them over the bars so that no one could see in. I appreciate that. Privacy is good. They made me strip, which I hate to do, but I have gotten somewhat used to it. They needed to take another sample of some kind, I suppose. They never say. Four of them held me down, facedown on the bunk here. Then E.T. was there. I recognized him, even though he was wearing fatigues like the others. He is short and ugly and his head is too big for his body and his eyes are huge. He looked at me. I tried not to look at him. He held up his finger and waved it back and forth in front of my face until I looked up. He was smiling, and his finger was glowing because he was E.T. Then he put the glowing finger up my ass.\n\n[He struggles with what he is feeling.]\n\nIt hurt and I cried out for God's help. He put it in my ass, the others were all laughing, and then he took it out again.\n\n[He looks at the floor for a moment, then looks back up at us.]\n\nI believe I am leaving here tonight. They have examined me. All tests have been done, and the results are in. I've been inoculated against smallpox and diphtheria. There is no history of liver disease in my family. I have assured them of my complete cooperation. Tonight the impossible light will come down at the proper angle to form a ramp of energy from here to there. A guide will float us up the ramp straight . . . through . . . the bars. AMEEN! . . . YOUR FRIEND IS NOT MAD! Straight through the bars to the ship, which is waiting for us. It will be . . . as if . . . I am a full bucket, pulled up from the well's darkness, then lifted out and up into the light. AMEEN! . . . GOD HAS GIVEN HIS ANGELS CHARGE OVER US! We live in the night ocean, wondering, \"What are these lights?\" The ship . . . The ship is a wheel of light, turning in the firmament.\n\n[A very bright light comes on above the cell, shines down through a grill in the ceiling.]\n\nA secret, turning in us, makes the universe turn.\n\n[The light is moved back and forth by someone above the cell.]\n\nI have my jumpsuit. I am ready. I'm ready to go into the ship. I'm ready to go.\n\n[We hear the sound of heavy boots on the metal grill. Lights fade, leaving just the overhead light shining down on the man in the orange jumpsuit.]\n\n[Blackout.]\nRick Pulos\n\nDecades Apart: Reflections of Three Gay Men\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009\n\nAuthor's Note:\n\nThese are the stories of men past and present that were shaped and sculpted from love, fear, death, pain, pleasure, happiness, loneliness, addiction, and illness. Their stories are your stories. Your kids' stories. Your grandkids' stories. They are your brothers. They are God's children. They are individuals. They are Americans. They are beautiful. They are you. They are gay.\n\nBOB  \n(1979, San Francisco)\n\n[Media: Image that recalls 1970s San Francisco, with music that clearly defines the disco mood of the time and place. BOB sits in a yoga position and breathes heavily.]\n\nI never knew Harvey.\n\n[Media: Harvey Milk.]\n\nI only knew of him. I mean, it was news\n\n[Media: News report of Mayor Moscone and Harvey Milk's assassination.]\n\nand I slightly paid attention. I know I walked down Castro Street one day and wandered into that camera shop and bought something. Something. I met him in person. I'm sure I flirted with him. But I didn't vote for him. I didn't vote for anyone. I did walk with the others in the vigil, though.\n\n[Media: Candlelight vigil.]\n\nI was so stoned, though. And there were so many hot men. Who could tell who was straight or gay? Nobody seemed to care. You can be a drag queen and nobody cares. All kinds of people will come to see you. You can have an Afro\u2014even if it's gone out of style and nobody cares. These are good times, even in the face of tragedy. Everyone seems to be on our side. Finally, oh man, it's so good to be in touch with yourself and the city you love. I feel so much love. Jesus, I've had more sex in the '70s than most people have in their lifetimes. And all of it felt good.\n\n[Media: Images of Castro Street.]\n\nI never felt bad or guilty or dirty or sad or lonely. I feel fine. I feel love everywhere. For the first time in my life, I really feel good.\n\nPATRICK  \n(1985, New York City)\n\n[Media: Imagery that recalls 1980s New York City, with music that defines the coke sniffing, AIDS fearing, greediness of the time and place. Useful images might include Nancy Reagan, subway trains overrun with graffiti, and executives in suits crowding NYC streets.]\n\nI voted for Reagan. Twice!\n\n[Media: Ronald Regan with an American flag proudly in the background.]\n\nI'm not ashamed to say it. Why should I be? It feels like every single fag in New York City hates me for my political views, but they have no problem fucking each other to death. I'm protecting myself and this body. This is all I have. It's gotten to a point where all I see are sick faces. Even the healthy ones look like death to me. Too much decadence and overindulgence has run amuck in the city. I used to see sexy bodies and transcending smiles, but now the bodies seem emaciated and teeth are falling to the floor everywhere.\n\n[Media: Rock Hudson turning from gorgeous to a skeleton.]\n\nWell, I'm not bending down to pick those teeth up. I'm not getting my hands dirty for people that take unforgivable risks. I'm not waking up one morning and looking in the mirror to see the back of my mouth when I smile\u2014it's not happening to me! I spend a lot of nights at home.\n\n[Media: a map of America engulfed in flames.]\n\nI spend a lot of days at funerals. Men I loved and men I've made love to. So I can't put myself out there and maybe that's made me cold and maybe that's made me smart. Maybe being cold and smart is the only defense against all this suffering.\n\nDANNY  \n(1990s, Los Angeles)\n\n[Media: Imagery that recalls 1990s Los Angeles, with music that defines the crystal meth club kid craze that swept the gay scene (then and now). Useful images might include Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky, fabulously decadent outfits, and anything with Matthew Shepard.]\n\nI take this pill and everything is fine. Just fine.\n\n[Media: Pills tumbling out of bottles.]\n\nI am invincible. I will live forever. I take them down with a cocktail in hand.\n\n[He swallows.]\n\nJust like that! And I am ready to go all night up and down Santa Monica Boulevard. I walk into the club with my entourage in tow and all eyes fall on me. I glimmer in the club lights. My face is alive. I know my life is fierce. No one doubts that. And I have no fear. No inhibitions. No limitations. People might think I live recklessly, but I don't care. I'm like a 1990s James Dean.\n\n[Media: James Dean.]\n\nI'm a fucking rock star! I'm out living and breathing. One day, I might be too skinny to walk or dance and even too out of it to talk, but no matter what happens to me, I'm having my fun now, tonight. I'm no scarecrow in a field with blood running down my face.\n\n[Media: Matthew Shepard.]\n\nI'm not letting anyone fuck with me. You might not like the way I live, but you're gonna let me live. Because I'm not ready to die. I'd rather see you rot in hell before I let you get your hands on me and take any of this away. So back the hell up, step aside and let me move forward.\n\nPATRICK   \n(1980s, a Record Store, New York City)\n\n[Media: Images of a distorted yet bustling and hurried NYC. Images might include packed sidewalks or NYC transportation hubs or piles of trash on street corners in the city.]\n\nI see so much greed and so much gluttony. I see people with a hand out while they hold a crack pipe in the other. I've become totally immune. Most of the time these dumb-ass Democrats are standing up at the podium, their pants wide open while some hooker blows them underneath, and preaches how you and I need to fix all this. We must help those who can't help themselves. I'm tired of hearing about it all. How about I help myself and the ones I love? How about that? All of a sudden in this great city, in this grand country, the glue is a mix of dirty money, cocaine, and Aqua Net. What happened here? Walking down these vast city streets, I see the heat burning through Hefty bags left out on the curb too long. I smell the stench of all these filthy bastards. They're taking their time, digging their heels in and fortifying trenches, and they are slowly tearing the heart and soul of this great nation to bits. One fix at a time. The more I think about it, the more I feel sick inside. Just to get away from it all, I walk into my favorite record store, a small dopey place I'd been going to for years in the West Village. A hole in the wall with a decent selection. You know the kind, where people let you do your thing and don't mess with you. Nobody raises an eyebrow if you ask about some offbeat composer no one has ever heard. I go all the way in the back of the store, past the rock, the gospel, the country section, right into the classical music\u2014an oasis, of course stuck right next to the very gay Broadway show section. Why these record stores have this kind of odd organization, I could never understand. It's like putting filet mignon next to beef jerky. Anyways, I'm minding my own business, flipping through the newest editions, when he turns to me and says: \"You hear anything about this new show on the West End, Phantom of the Opera?\" And I say, very shortly, \"No,\" without even taking one glance. I simply continue flipping through the records at a much more fierce pace. Why is this guy bothering me anyways? But he doesn't stop. He's persistent. \"I've heard it is absolutely amazing. I mean, Webber's done some amazing work and they're all saying this beats anything he's ever done. That certainly says something.\" And then I make my first mistake\u2014I look at him. I barely manage to say, with such despise and attitude, \"Sorry, I don't follow musicals.\" And he smiles. You ever choke on a smile? He's perfect. He's gorgeous. His eyes, even his teeth. Why is he even talking to me? And then it happened. It's so depressing when you give into your heart. The only power you have over anything else is your self-control. But infatuation is the most incurable infection. And once it has a grip, you don't. I could rub myself this way or that way, I could start a fire in my imagination that would satisfy my every sexual whim. But a single stroke, a delicate touch, a foul-mouthed breath, anywhere on my skin by him and I was like an AIDS article, stuck ten pages deep in a newspaper, so far away from the front page of myself that I was unrecognizable to myself. I turned my back on so many things so many times that when this sweet creature came along, I was lost. Hopelessly lost. I felt protected by him. I was safe. I was comfortable. Suddenly, I wasn't angry anymore. Most of you have been there and some of you have been back again. This was not like some crazy trumped-up crush. This was it. It. Relationships are exactly like a Rubik's Cube.\n\n[Media: The Rubik's Cube.]\n\nThere are many faces, many colors, everything gets mixed up, and one wrong move can send you further and further away from the goal. Which is, as far as I can tell, growing old together while facing the decades in our past. That's all I could think about. Imagine the poppy field in The Wizard of Oz. He's my poppy field. That stench, that contempt I had been seeing all around this city, my clenched fists, gone. Blood returned to my knuckles for the first time in years, my hair felt like it was growing again and not falling out strand by strand. I was afraid, for the first time in my life, I was afraid. I was afraid because I felt responsible for someone other than myself.\n\nDANNY   \n(1999, West Hollywood and Beverly Hills)\n\n[Media: Any image or lighting that allows DANNY to be beautiful in the club fights. Also, any imagery that might recall the advent of the Internet. DANNY dances almost as if he were a go-go boy, then the lights come up as if the club night has ended.]\n\nSo, I'll admit this, only to you.\n\n[Whispering.]\n\nThis life is not so fabulous. Don't let anyone else know; I'll fuck you all up if you do. Some of us need to do things that others would find appalling. I find them amusing. Yes, amusing. Maybe I've always hustled in one way or another. But all these other more descriptive terms with dirty underlying meanings suddenly popped into my mind, like escort, male prostitute, and whore. Don't get me wrong, I asked to be called a whore many times, with many men, in many beds. But knowing that money would change hands made it feel so dirty and so sexually exciting. Which was the absolute last thing I ever thought would get me going on this planet. Okay. So the Internet was like this web of communication. Ultra-technology or some bullshit like that, so they say. Send. Receive. Send, receive. Little balls of energy squirting across the planet in the blink of an eye. All types of people entangled in a web of fascination and flirting with their darker anonymous sides. Me? I used it. For my benefit. Maybe you did too. And maybe, it used me. It's so hard to tell. But goddamn it, it got me through some of the hardest weeks. So I found my \"John\" on gay.com, aka the men's network, or as I call it, the men's warehouse, suits optional. On gay.com I could say what I wanted, how I wanted, and act as dumb as a hooker or dealer at the hottest street corner in town. And nobody was paying attention. His \"profile\"\u2014Ed, that's the name he gave me\u2014seemed fine. Not f-i-n-e fine but just fine. I negotiated for about five minutes. Yep, that's all it took. I had what he wanted and he had what I needed. I immediately hopped into my super-compact Geo Metro convertible, top down, and pushed my right foot down so hard on that damn accelerator that it was like I was instantly in overdrive. The smog-infused Los Angeles air whipped by me whistling \"Dixie.\"\n\n[Media: Los Angeles traffic.]\n\nNow, any right-minded person would have asked me right then: What is going through your fucking mind? Rent, bills, cigarettes, booze, drugs. No. Wrong. I was hungry; desperately hungry after a long night of dancing and partying. I wanted a fucking Grand Slam Breakfast from Denny's.\n\n[Media: A Denny's sign rises into clouds like a soul to heaven.]\n\nWarm fucking eggs, some goddamn flapjacks, and some seriously processed sausage links. I didn't care that the maple syrup would be fake. In my mind, all I could hear was: Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and, if possible, with the human body.]\n\nMaybe that was in my stomach. Whatever. So, yes, I was driving like a motherfucker. I mean, like a bat outta hell, and all these assholes were flipping me off, calling me names (even worse than a fucking whore), and I just turned the radio up louder and louder and louder to drown out all those dumb asses. I was weaving down Wiltshire Boulevard. In and out. In and out. In and out. I was in high pursuit of a Grand Slam Breakfast. And nothing was stopping me. Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and if possible with the human body.]\n\nNow, I was approaching Beverly Hills, where this guy's place of business as located. Where we planned our little rendezvous. This was not some silly 90210 surprise for me\u2014the more high class, the more ass they like. I passed by security like smog through a crack. And for a second I thought, he's looking funny at me. That dumb ass in the rent-a-cop outfit is looking at me funny. And immediately my arrogance was like some sort of streak of anger that flashed through me instantly, and I darted him a look that reduced him to some kind of ant, a peon, a cockroach. Yep, in the wake of me becoming some kind of prostitute for processed pork, I had some balls to judge someone else making an honest living. Who the fuck was I?\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI was the hottest motherfucker to ever grace that Bev Hills office build! I walked in as if I were headed for an interview to take over the CEO position at Coca-Cola or GE. I was all attitude. Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and if possible with the human body.]\n\nAnd then . . . I met Ed. Fat ass, not so bad in the face, slightly balding . . . Ed. What a dumb motherfucker. He bullshit-talked me about his PR job and his asshole co-workers, pointing things out on the way to his private office like the lovely plants at the receptionist's desk and the very expensive furniture in the high-tech conference room. Was this guy for real? Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and, if possible, with the human body.]\n\nFinally, we were in his private zone. And as soon as he closed that door and he rubbed his wedding ring apprehensively, I got so fucking horny, I thought I'd blow a load right there. I don't know why. But I held it all together for the money shot. You know what I mean? The concept of a condom never came up in our chat on gay.com. I don't even know if that conversation happened for most of us who were bouncing around that website. We all seemed so fearless with the new technology. Fearless and fabulous. Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and, if possible, with the human body.]\n\nI was so horny at this point. Hungry and horny. Not the best combo, in my opinion. So while I was pulling down my pants and bending over his neatly organized desk\u2014a desk littered with paperweights, probably gifts from his wife or kids, from various tropical and cultural destinations\u2014I just begged for it. I couldn't help it. And that got him going like some animal in the wild. And I gritted my teeth: Sausages. Pancakes, mmmnnn. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and, if possible, with the human body.]\n\nAnd I swear to God I saw a memo on his desk from some fuck-face executive at Denny's. Maybe it was IHOP or the Waffle House\u2014it was there, IT WAS THERE! I swear. Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Sausages, pancakes, and eggs in various states and, if possible, with the human body.]\n\n[Breathing heavily.]\n\nAnd it was over like that. Like a gay.com chat gone wrong, where the guy just shuts down all his windows and disappears and never chats you up again. He started counting under his heavy breathing. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty. He was counting so fast that I could barely hear myself thinking: Sausages. Pancakes, mmmmm. Warm eggs.\n\n[Media: Money.]\n\nBOB   \n(1970s, a Bathhouse in San Francisco)\n\n[Media: Disco music mashed up with images of men at bathhouses.]\n\n[BOB has a simple white towel wrapped around his waist. He is bouncing around a seedy bathhouse or, for those of you who do not see seediness, a funhouse for gays.]\n\nLove is like God. You know what I mean. You've heard this before: I can't see God but I knew he exists. Or what about that one when some try to explain all this mystery to you: you can't see the wind but you know it's there because you can feel it. Personally, I think God is a menopausal whacked-out woman. You know the type, comes after you with a quick wit and sharp tongue. Slices you to pieces by seeing right through you. Points out all your faults and highlights all the things you desperately try to hide from the light. Thunder's like that heat that won't stop. Floods are like the floods that won't stop. And men are always doing stupid things that annoy you. That's who God is. This is her wrath. Now I'm not trying to make enemies of any of you religious folk. Far from it. You see, I pray. Hell, I've been to Vegas and I've prayed for the big one. I've been to all the bathhouses, and I prayed for the big one. And I've been to the confessional, and I prayed that the priest would take me in his arms and love me like he loves his God. But what I realized is all that praying is like scratching that space between your neck and your ass crack; it's like you're constantly reaching for something, something. But you can't quite ever satisfy that itch.\n\nWe've all been there. The first time I heard \"I love you\" was the first time a boy unzipped his pants while I was kneeling on the ground.\n\n[He kneels down.]\n\nDear God, Please tell me this will last forever. This feeling. This love, it makes me feel so special.\n\nWanted. Unique. Alive. Don't take this from me.\n\n[He stands.]\n\nLove is also punishment. At least, that's what I found out that day. I remember my mother slapping my face: \"You don't do that. That's disgusting.\" What did I do? I prayed! I was praying.\n\nWhen you get this. All this foolishness we call life. When someone like you or me understands this much. Too much . . .   \nWe should be dead. But that bitch, that beautiful bitch, God, she wants us to suffer on and on. And we linger in this world, looking right through it as if through a crystal ball. Maybe she wants us to see more to learn more, I'm not sure. But I'm not afraid.\n\nHell. I walk the halls of the bathhouse cruising for love in every backroom dark and dank. The odor is delicious: unwashed socks, boxers stuffed in little lockers\u2014lockers never cleaned, at least, that's what I imagine. There's this guy or that guy or, damn it, any guy. Here's the one reason I love God more than anything: she knows how to have a good laugh. She can make a man . . . and she can make a woman . . . and she can make a man that acts like a woman and vice versa. This is some serious comedy.\n\nThink about it. But like a sundae, she tops it off with a bright delicious cherry, neither you nor me could ever have dreamed of: fetishes. I don't know why people are so embarrassed by them. We all have them. Look, you can act like you don't but I know you do.\n\n[Pointing to audience members.]\n\nThat one likes his nipples gently touched, oh, and she's a real beggar for her hair being pulled, you know, just so . . . oh, and most of us love dirty filthy sex talk. It's true. And you know what you like. So I never blink when this one or that one asks for whatever's gonna get him going. I mean, all of us have our limits, but sometimes you stretch because it's the only thing you can do when he's all you have going at four in the morning. So out of the blue\u2014and I mean this one was a bit out there\u2014this guy asks me, \"Got a Kleenex?\" This guy wanted me to sneeze. Sneeze on him?\n\nI've heard it all now! People always get so stressed when you're learning the behavior of new people, but I truly think even the weirdest shit is fascinating. I mean, everywhere I go, from the Castro to the Haight to the Pacific Ocean, even inside the walls of these saunas, I'm like living inside one of those nature film documentaries, you know, on PBS, where they study the lives of lions and tigers in their own natural habitat, in the wild. In my head, I'm always hearing that narrator, \"The mating practices of the homosexual are fascinating. Let's watch as the top male approaches the bottom male aggressively, by participating in the tradition of cruising. The top male will look seductively at the bottom male for many moments, often walking by him and then walking by again. There is rarely talking. They will both look for any signs that will initiate the act of coitus.\" Anyone can choose to look away or run and hide. But that doesn't mean what exists is itself going to evaporate into some mystical wind that no one can truly see: There's always a path and sometimes a choice and hope is deceptively wrapped up in the \"sometimes\" and not even I can believe that it's just confusion or anxiety or injury that makes sense of any path to anything if anything is something anyone would ever want.\n\nDANNY   \n(1990s, West Hollywood)\n\n[Media: Religious imagery set against a Los Angeles background.]\n\n[He is dressing for a night on the town.]\n\nYou ever see these people out on the street passing out Bibles? What are they trying to do? I mean, I always pass by them as if they are handing out flyers to some seedy straight strip club. Somehow, all the street peddlers seem the same to me, whether they're asking for a dune or trying to hand me a Bible. And it's always all sorts of people doing this. White, black, old, young, ugly, cute. God, the variety of Jesus freaks is frightening! As usual, I'm on my way to a fabulous night out, right. What's left but to have me a good time? When this little punk starts to flirt with me, right. What a great gimmick he had going in West Hollywood. Instead of handing me a Bible, he hands me a card. He says that I can get help. That he used to be like me. That there are others who have broke through the sin. That all I needed was a clear path to God. That it wasn't too late.\n\nNow you gotta understand something: I was curious, no doubt. I mean, a bunch of reformed fags\u2014probably cute and straight-laced, all nice and cleaned up\u2014sitting around in a circle trying to avoid that quick glance at the package or a quick peak at an ass while getting coffee on a break. Of course I just looked him up and down. His smile disgusted me and yet turned me on too. What's up with that? And I said bluntly, \"Honey, all paths lead to God. They curve and shift like light refracting. There is no straight path.\" I bounced away so fast, but he was quick too. As I careened forward towards my perfect night out, I could hear him in the distance reciting the Scripture. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth: and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.\n\nPATRICK   \n(Fall 1986, His Apartment, New York City)\n\n[Media: Imagery that recalls autumn in New York City.]\n\n[He wears a brilliantly white robe.]\n\nIt all gets complicated. That's the way autonomy ends.   \nOr perceived autonomy, if you will. And suddenly you magically realize that there's something more to living than the life you've been leading. And therein lies the problem. Why must I be the one wrapped in a blanket of guilt? Why must I be the one to recognize my limitations just because he loves me so? Why must I see myself when all I want to see is beyond me? Fact. I am not in love nor have I ever been in love. Fact. He turned to me one night with the seriousness of a politician and said bluntly, \"I am addicted to you.\" That's not my problem, I thought. That's not my problem, no way.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI thought. Fact. There is something special about feeling special. My veins worked overtime around him, pumpin' karma through my heart with a vigor unlike any I ever knew. I saw colors in the stars no one should ever see. Red, white, blue. Fact. I was a slave to my own fears. He had a power over me that made me feel desperate for a longer life. A life I spent uncountable hours trying to escape. Fact. I knew I would lose myself to him as soon as he recovered from his addiction. Fact. The people closest to you never recover from the things you wish they could. Fact. He did not die of AIDS or some mysterious pneumonia. Fact. His brain swelled like a balloon and it impaired his vision and his ability to interpret reality. Fact. He died April 5, 1986, under a blanket of mystery. Actually, under a sheet that depicted the bizarrely happy world of the Smurfs. He loved the Smurfs. He died gasping for more life while I prayed for a swift end. Fact. I looked at the recognizable image of Smurfette on that sheet and slowly began to take my clothes off. Not that I was retreating to some freaky heterosexuality, some oddball fetish that not even my childhood could explain. I wanted so much to just have an ounce of the love he had for me.\n\n[He takes off his robe and kneels down to touch the body.]\n\nFact.\n\nHe was still warm. Fact. I felt cold everywhere.\n\n[He puts his robe back on.]\n\nWhat is this thing? What is this disappointment? Is this what everyone should expect from living? From the first breath to the last. Is this what we have to look forward to? They took him away on a dirty, used stretcher. I swear it was still warm from the last one they carted out, from wherever, to wherever. It looked like it was stained with sweat or feces, I don't know what. I couldn't even think about who or what was there before. He was out of my house and out of my life as fast as he came in. And nothing about it was delicate or beautiful or smart. It was . . . indescribable.\n\n[Media: Thunder, lightning, and then silence.]\n\nI didn't even send flowers. I DIDN'T SEND A GODDAMN SINGLE FLOWER! There was no one to send a simple condolence to. There was nothing to say, to anyone. So I said nothing. NOTHING! How can a man feel this much and say absolutely nothing? His mother claimed the body. She had already told me I was \"uninvited.\" My friends, oh, the poor bastards, called on me to say this and that, but most of them were so tired of death, it was like they were reading from index cards. It wasn't their fault. And I thought about that word a lot. Fault. You know, like a lawyer. I thought about that word, about that language, that term. And I thought . . . I thought about a lot of people that I knew and I was hoping to know better. And I thought about the significance of one man, one woman, one child. I thought about all those memories, washed away too soon. Lost. And I thought about God. Because God was the only man I ever knew that ever knew me. And he knew me in my faults and my follies. Whatever any of that meant. And of course I tried to feel so much for those who had suffered and those who were suffering but I was so chained to my misery that I could hardly care. I'm not a crier. My mother taught me to never ever let anyone see me cry. So I never cry. Even before God. But she never told me not to think. To think about why, why any of this is the way it is. In the dark. In the corners of our houses, our apartments, our minds, whatever you feel comfortable calling it, in those spaces, you and me see ourselves and we know who we are. We have dreams beyond those walls, but prisoners have dreams beyond theirs. And so? And so, the chore, I feel, that you and I have, as residents of these spaces, is simple: Figure out more. Figure out more about yourself.\n\nWhen he left my house. He left a scent. But more importantly. He left a thought. And as I go through the daily grind, brushing away the filth from my teeth, looking in that mirror, I can't help but ask myself, I can't help but taking a silly little pulse to find some kind of vital sign, in all this, in all that has happened to me, in all that has happened to my friends, in all that has ever happened, I must ask: Who am I? Who am I?\n\nBOB   \n(New Year's Eve, 1979, Castro District, San Francisco)\n\n[Media: The ball dropping, showing the start of the 1980s, punctuated by wild fireworks that recall the birth of a new decade.]\n\nAnyone could have guessed disco would die. Please, that was a given. I mean, we all hoped Anita Bryant would, but that was just wishful thinking. And we all loved screwdrivers too much to stay off that juice for too long. I mean, I guess we made our statement but who did it really change? There was this euphoria out on the Castro in December 1979. There was this I can do what I want attitude. It was sexy and empowering. Guys were sleazy and it was cute. Girls were out mouthing off against the men and that was totally necessary. There was a sense of community and communication. Sure some guys and gals were still hidden from view, but people kept getting braver and braver by the minute. Time and virtue seemed to be on our side. And it felt like a lot of people were coming around to support us. So as the ball dropped in New York City and the balls came out on the Castro, the 1980s looked to be one of the best decades for my sisters and brothers. I could feel it all over, everywhere. Things can only get better from here.\n\nDANNY   \n(Fall 1999, Los Angeles)\n\n[Media: A vicious gay bashing mixed in with images of DANNY bruised and beaten. Any news media that reports a hate crime.]\n\n[DANNY speaks over the media offstage.]\n\nThe things I've done to my body. The constant abuse that I mistook for pleasure. Sometimes if you're one of the lucky ones, there appears a moment of clarity, or oxygen magically materializes while you're drowning in a sea of murkiness in a horrid, real-feeling dream. My oxygen, my clarity, surfaced as a fractured cheek bone, several cracked ribs, a displaced shoulder, scrapes, bruises, even partial loss of vision in one eye.\n\n[He enters, moving slowly, using a cane.]\n\nI'll never dance the same. But that is very insignificant.   \nWhat happened to me could happen to any of you. I was   \ntruly minding my own business. I remember leaving the club. I had had some drinks but nothing to write home about. I never saw any of them coming. I lied in the hospital bed, I could barely see through all the bandages, and I tried to piece it all together. Cops, nurses, doctors, all swarmed around me like flies to shit. A few people, I'd only call acquaintances, now came in quick, going through the motions, and looked down at me like I was some kind of freak. I didn't want visitors, I didn't want that pity, I never wanted to see that face\u2014that telling face\u2014by some people who in that fucked-up way were trying to tell me somehow that all of this was my fault. That I'd asked for it and that they had always warned me I was heading for trouble. I could barely mumble, my lips were so swollen. So I pretended I couldn't talk at all. It was better that way. I had all these feelings suddenly. They weren't exactly feelings. It was actually one immense crude sensation: rage. And I thought: I want a gun. I need a fucking gun. I want to shoot every motherfucker that fucks with me. I mean, this is what I'm thinking in that hospital bed. I want to wipe out all the idiots in the world. You know the type, department store clerks that act like you're going to steal something, losers that can't get an order right at McDonald's, DMV clerks looking up goddamn who knows what on their little computer screens with such contempt and mightiness. Am I really just a number? Reduced to this old address or that old car?\n\nIt's amazing when you become a headline. All of a sudden, you realize you're not a number. What happened to me wasn't front-page news, but it was bigger than three lines in the police blotter. \"GAY MAN BEATEN BY TWO TEENAGERS\" \"TEENS GONE WILD ON HOMOSEXUAL IN WEST HOLLYWOOD\" I never remembered these guys' faces. I remember the soles of their boots. I remember numbness in my head. I remember the taste of blood and concrete. I remember wanting to laugh at it all. Even while it was happening.\n\nWhen I went to court and looked at them, I felt a new sensation. A difficult feeling. More complex than love or hate or disgust or respect. I felt compassion. It did not help that they were kind of attractive all dressed up in suits and ties, I'm not going to lie about that. . . .\n\nBut I felt deeply: they were wrong and they should be punished, but something seems off in all this. Don't I have a responsibility to try to understand whatever it is that set them into motion? Don't I have a responsibility as a human being to be compassionate and learn from everything that led these boys to that moment? Was it their parents, their culture, their rage, our country's temperament, their testosterone . . . what the fuck was it?! And suddenly, I cried on the stand like some goddamn sissy-boy. Jesus, that really did them in for the trial and the sentencing. That was not my intention. What I found out was that I had a job. That I was needed for something other than to be the life of the party. That I had responsibilities.\n\nAnd maybe, just maybe, I could raise a mirror to some other kid somewhere else and stop this from happening to someone else. . . . I'm not excusing this. Any of this hatred. I just want to learn more. But. And I say this without hesitation. Maybe our differences, our fears, these things we all pile up behind our eyes, are just little nuggets of light waiting to be seen. If there's a chance we could see them before they turn into fists full of fears, each and everyone one of us should take that chance, open that door, and walk through it with a single intention: to better understand each other. And the only way any of us can be understood is for each of us, in our own way, to stand up and be seen even in all our ugliness because there is beauty in ugliness. Drag it all out into the streets, shine a light right on each and every face here and out there and take a moment to see what's really going on. This next millennium, this new millennium, we must all stand in the light and be seen.\n\n[Media: Useful media here would be a current hot issue from LGBT community regarding human rights issues, whether from America or abroad.]\n\n[Performed either live or through media.]\n\nI am not a single reflection.\n\nI am light refracting. I am many parts.\n\nI am not the sum.\n\nI am moving through life.\n\nLife is moving through me.\n\nI am who I am in a single moment.\n\nI will never be perfect.\n\nAnd I wouldn't want to be.\n\n[Media: This has happened. This is happening now.]\nPart II\n\nMonologues for Women\nAdam Kraar\n\nexcerpt from\n\nHearts and Minds\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007\n\nREBECCA Okay, class. Listen up. We need to focus. I want you all to close your eyes. Just do it. Now take a series of deep, deep breaths.\n\n[As if getting him into line.]\n\n. . . Rudi. Take the breath all the way down and slowly let it out. . . . Keep breathing. . . . Somewhere inside your body is a tight ball. I've got one right now in my stomach. I want you to send the breath to wherever that tight ball is, let the breath dissolve that hard little ball . . . and then breathe out the molecules that came off of the ball. . . . Do it again. Rudi, I want you to really see the ball. . . . All right, Rudi, then see the bialy. Just keep breathing . . .\n\n[RUDI appears in the doorway, upstage. He apparently overheard her talking to herself, and now leans in to see what's going on. REBECCA does not see him.]\n\n. . . Now the ball\u2014or the bialy\u2014has disappeared, and the only thing is your breath, coming in, slowly, and going out, slowly . . . and the molecules of your breath are swirling around this classroom, mixing together with the molecules of other students and teachers, who teach and learn, and pour out ideas and passions. Imagine if you will molecules of people who lived and died, and spoke and wrote long before us\u2014those particles are here too. The molecules are all mixing together, connecting in new ways, actually creating something unprecedented. With each breath, what you're breathing in is different than what you just breathed out. And that altered air is filtering into your bloodstream, going into your brain, pumping into your heart. . . . Take a moment and listen to the new air, surging through you. It's not just your breath or my breath. It's the oxygen we all have to share in order to survive. And if we really let it in, it can change everything. . . . Now, open your eyes. And please turn your chairs so you can face each other.\nBruce Levy\n\nexcerpt from\n\nSada\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2002\u20132003\n\nSADA Ahhh, yes. Miss Sada Cohen soon to be Mrs. Sada Jacobson was real, as you say, \"hot.\" And this one [Referring to another picture.] was taken at the beach at Coney Island just before we were married. Jake was handsome and strong. From a good family but he knew his way around. From the Bronx. A little rough around the edges . . . like you. Me? I was a princess from Brooklyn. We met through friends. He was my hero. This day Jake was taking me home from the beach on the subway train. Such a nice day, such fun, we swam, we ate ice cream and hot dogs, we played skeet ball on the boardwalk, you know skeet ball? [. . .] You have a ball you throw up a ramp and try to get it into the holes with the most points. Then you take your points and trade them for a prize. [. . .] Well, on this day Jake played and played and played until he was able to get me a big pink stuffed bear. It cost him more than if he would have bought me a bear but he wanted me to have that bear so bad to take home with me. So we get on the subway train and Jake had his arm around me and I was hugging the pink bear when hooligans came onto the train to rob us. They stood at each door of the train and one ruffian went to each person and pushed and shoved and took their jewelry and money. Jake and I were sitting in the corner. Jake drew me closer to him and whispered in my ear. Don't worry, kiss me and make believe we don't notice. Oy, in public we kissed and hugged and I shook and trembled and squeezed the big pink bear tight. The man guarding the door near us had a stump for one of his arms. He was wearing a T-shirt and you could see. At the next stop people tried to run off the train but the men at the doors pushed them back. [. . .] Yes! And Jake stood up and gently took the man's stump in his hand and said, with such a heavy Brooklyn accent from where I don't know, \"Hey, have fun but done hurt nobody too much okay, my friend?\" The guy said, \"Nahhh, done worry, done tell no one, k?\" Jake said, \"Who'm I gonna tell\"? We got off the train and Jake told the token man and the token man called the police, who boarded the train at the next stop and arrested them. My hero, Jake.\n\n[Smelling onions.]\n\nOy, oy! The onions.\n\n[To stove.]\n\nI always tell Rebecca, don't burn the onions! The egg pancake is never good when you burn the onions. Gentle. It has to be gentle. So . . . I burn the onions! I yell at my daughter-in-law, \"It's not good if you burn the onions!\" \nDano Madden\n\nexcerpts from\n\nBeautiful American Soldier\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006\n\nLAMIYA English. I'm going to learn English. I'm going to go to a university in America. Probably in New York or California. And I'm going to learn beautiful English. Are you listening to me? You've no right to be angry. Do you want to know why I'm going to learn English? Because I'm in love. I am. I'm in love with an American soldier. Don't tell Mama or Papa.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI met him at a checkpoint. The American soldier, the one I'm in love with. There were a lot of soldiers. They were checking us for guns and bombs. I admit, it wasn't love at first sight. At first sight I just wanted my American soldier. His hair was cut so close to his head. His face was freshly shaven. It was a hot day and I could see little beads of sweat on his forehead. He was yelling, motioning for me to come to him. So I walked over to this soldier. He wasn't as large as some of the others\u2014but his muscles were smooth and strong.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nUla? I know you hate this kind of talk. You have to listen, though. You have to listen if you're just going to sit there. We can still make it. You're the one giving up.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI tried to see his eyes, but they were hidden behind his sunglasses. I looked down to the ground and I noticed, beneath all of his weapons and his belts\u2014I noticed him bulging, through his pants. And he started to check me. Feeling me. Up my sides. In between my legs. So gentle. Feeling me all over\u2014searching me, trying to find a weapon or a bomb. I felt his breath on my neck. I imagined the bulge in his pants pressing up against me. I began to wish that I did have explosives strapped on\u2014all over my body. How wonderful if my soldier had discovered a bomb on me. He'd take me away to a tent. And he'd carefully start to take my clothes off until all that was left was the bomb and the tape holding it on\u2014over my naked body. I'm certain that my soldier is very skilled and he would remove the bomb and all of its pieces safely, one by one. He would remove pieces from my arms and my back and my stomach and my chest. Slowly. Until my body was completely bare. The bulge in his pants growing, in spite of his concentration. His mouth so near my neck, my chest. His breathing getting heavier. The bomb completely removed, but his hands continuing to gently search my body. Both of us sweating from the heat of the midday sun\u2014his breath all over my chest, his lips so near my mouth, my back arched and he'd take me. Right there in the dusty tent. Pieces of the bomb all around us.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nUla! You're so boring! Just yell at me if you're angry. We still have time. The reception has only just begun.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nThe soldier finished checking me and\u2014I love him. Do you want to know why? All you have to do is ask me.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI could leave without you. I'm sure I could find the way. Our sister is married by now, but the best part\u2014the singing, the dancing, the eating. We can still make it.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI can play this game too, you know. I can. And I'll win.\n\n[LAMIYA sits down dramatically on the opposite side of the tree, demonstrating her ability to \"not talk\" to her sister. Pause.]\n\nHow about a new game? Yes? Okay. I have a little journal here. Lately I've been writing about the American soldier I'm in love with. Here. Blank pages. Now. You write, on this page, write why you're angry at me. I can't imagine what I've done wrong. Nonetheless, you write. For example: \"I am angry because we are late for our sister's wedding and I think it's Lamiya's fault.\" Or . . . \"I am angry because it turns Lamiya on when soldiers check her for bombs.\" Or . . . \"I'm angry. Just angry. Because that's my personality.\"\n\n[Beat.]\n\nYou can write now. Please.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nCome on, Ula! We're wasting time! You used to be my favorite sister. Yesterday I would've said Khaireya was the biggest pain. Always flirting with everyone. Makes me crazy. But this, this, whatever this is. Moodiness. Stubbornness. Forget it. You are no longer my favorite. You are a pain. Just like Khaireya. Congratulations.\n\n[Pause.]\n\nI know why you're angry. You're angry because all of your sisters have a husband. Except me. But\u2014I am the youngest and the prettiest. I have time. As of . . . oh . . . about forty-five minutes ago, Shilan is married. And that leaves only the two of us who have no husband. The youngest and the oldest. That's why you refuse to go with me to the reception.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nThat's stupid, you know. The reason you haven't married yet is because Papa adores you. The way he talks about you, the way he tells his friends how smart you are, how funny. I think, in Papa's eyes, there are no suitable men for you. None worthy.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nSo don't be angry that Shilan is getting . . . well . . . is married by now. We all want to be Papa's favorite. But you are. Only you. Lucky you. Be happy.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nCome on. Tell me to shut up. Tell me why it is inappropriate to fall in love with an American soldier. Tell me in great detail why it is my fault we are lost. Or let's talk futbol. Even Mama cannot make you shut up. Speak, speak, speak, speak. Please.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nAren't you hungry at least? Aren't you? I'm starving. Can we at least go for the food? Please? Even if, even if you hate it. Even if you're angry that nearly all of your sisters are married. We can't miss out on the food. The sweets. The sweets are so succulent at weddings.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nSo it's official? You're not going to speak to me? Or move from under that tree? Can you signal me in some way?\n\n[Beat.]\n\nAlright. I'm going to find my way to the wedding alone.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nOkay. Hmmmmm . . . This road leads in two directions. Hmmm . . .\n\n[LAMIYA looks in one direction.]\n\nWest. Hmmm . . . or is that east? Do you . . . ? Oh, that's right. Forget it.\n\n[LAMIYA looks in the other direction.]\n\nThere's that way.\n\n[LAMIYA looks in the other direction.]\n\nAnd that way. We came from that way. We've traveled to this point and have not found the wedding. Could you perhaps point if you feel strongly about a particular direction? What about that way?\n\n[LAMIYA points.]\n\nOr, or . . . that way?\n\n[LAMIYA points the other way.]\n\nWe came from that way. I think.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nFine. I will choose. Good-bye.\n\n[LAMIYA doesn't move.]\n\nAaugh! Ula ! Come on !\n\n[Singing in the distance. Singing and clanging. LAMIYA walks down the road.]\n\nAh-ha! You see that! Look. Coming this way! A man! Perhaps he'll know the way to the wedding. Maybe he's a guest, one of Papa's friends.\n\n[Singing and clanging grows louder.]\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nULA It took such a long time. The soldiers apprehended several men ahead of us, took them away in jeeps. And . . . one soldier searched my sister, extensively, and she became . . . enamored. And . . . so, so late. I knew we had probably missed the ceremony. Finally, walking along the road home. Our papa could never have dreamed we'd be this late. Running. So late. In the distance they were shooting, firing the Kalashnikovs into the air\u2014in celebration. Shooting, shooting, shooting. Running, running, running. Lamiya and I had missed it. We had missed it. I tried to get my sister to move faster. Fruit dropping everywhere\u2014I was trying to pick it all up and\u2014\n\n[Pause.]\n\nSuddenly, something knocked us to the ground. A sound. Deafening. The loudest sound I have ever heard. Planes. American warplanes. So low, right over our heads, it seemed. Fruit falling all over, we fell into a ditch. And then an explosion. So loud. And flames and heat\u2014screaming planes. Another explosion and another and another and my sister and I huddled in a ditch. Still another explosion and on and on and on and on and on. Holding my sister so tight.\n\nThe explosions seemed to go on forever and then\u2014silence. I opened my eyes. The sky was filled with smoke. The sun looked pink through the haze. We stayed in the ditch, afraid to move. So quiet. Now. Birds. The smell of burning. A cool breeze. And we moved, finally, and saw\u2014\n\n[Pause.]\n\nNothing. Where our house had once stood on the horizon, we saw nothing.\n\nNothing, nothing, nothing\u2014walking down the road . . . we were lost. And finally, through the smoke, the haze, against the pink sky, I saw something. Something I recognized. This tree. I played under this tree growing up, out in the field near my parents' house. Exactly the same. This tree\u2014this patch of earth, untouched by anything. But no house. No wedding, no wedding, no wedding. [. . .] I always believed we were safe. We weren't living in Baghdad. My papa thought we were safe. [. . .] Now. My entire family. Lamiya and I were supposed to be there. Everyone was celebrating\u2014 [. . .] My parents, my sister Khaireya and her husband, Mohammad, my sister Fatima, her husband, Ahmed, and their son, Raad, my sister Auood, her husband, Talib, their son, Inad, and their daughter, Kholood, my uncle Ali, my aunt Hamda, my uncle Mizhir, my aunt Marifa, my other uncle Ali and his wife, Somayia, my aunt Fatima, my cousins Siham, Rabha, Zahra, Hamda, Ali, Hamza, Yasser, Raid, Daham, Wa'ad, Khava, my uncle Waldemar, my aunt Jasmin, my cousins Mostapha, Ahmad, and Isra, my sister Shilan, she was the bride, my sister Shilan and her new husband, Hamid, they were just married and, of course, all of Hamid's family, everyone I think, my parents' friends, everyone I think, Shilan, just married, Shilan, who was probably the second prettiest of my sisters.\n\nLamiya is of course the prettiest. [. . .] People came. From the village. And some Americans. We were ghosts, sitting next to this tree. Chaos. People digging and yelling and searching. Focused on everything but us. And then they were gone.\nEileen Fischer\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Perfect Medium\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008\n\ncharacter\n\nHESTER DOWDEN a sturdy-looking woman, 55 but looks older, in a high-collared, white-on-white embroidered blouse with a full-length dark green wool skirt. Her black and gray hair is in a bun. She wears reading glasses and takes them on and off and moves them up and down her nose. The glasses are attached to a chain around her neck.\n\nMusic for The Perfect Medium is composed by Charles Porter, CD Version 7\n\n[A well-appointed Victorian sitting room in London. Downstage-center, a round table and two chairs. Much moody atmosphere here: flickering candles, shadows, dark furniture, a chaise lounge, a piano. Then total blackout. From the blackness, a voice:]\n\nHESTER Over here.\n\n[Music: track #1. Pause.]\n\nOver here.\n\n[Music: track #1. Pause. Then with annoyance.]\n\nI said, over here.\n\n[Lights gradually up on HESTER. She is seated at the table covered with a cream-colored lace cloth.]\n\nYes. On me. Look at me. Let us begin. . . . Twenty-three years ago Oscar Wilde left the present life and crossed to the other side. It may seem incredible [To audience.] to you that he should attempt to send his thoughts back again to a world where his infamy exceeded his good fame and fortune; but here it is, 1923, and Oscar Wilde chooses to send us messages today.\n\n[Pompously.]\n\nAre the messages genuine? Does Oscar Wilde still exist?\n\n[Slight pause.]\n\nAnd where exactly is he? . . . The public must judge these matters. We will return to them again and again. Yes. . . . We will. You'll see. Again and again.\n\n[Pause.]\n\nDo you understand? Oscar Wilde, the famous Irish writer, the international bon vivant and gadfly came to me, Hester Dowden. He spoke to me, here, twenty-three years after his bodily death. Yes . . . it is complicated. Yes . . . it seems unusual . . . yes. But it is true. It happened. Everyone must believe me. Without belief, without faith, what have you?\n\n[Pause.]\n\nThose to whom Oscar's words came [Pats herself proudly.] can only transmit them to the world . . . . As for me, I've been a psychic investigator for many years, starting back in Dublin. Now I see clients for private readings here in my London home, and I instruct students in psychic investigations as well. What else can one do? An independent woman must make do. And I do. I do, indeed. . . . Were you wondering how these messages were received? Let me help. They came through automatic writing and sometimes the messages came through the Ouija board\u2014two well-known methods of psychic communication.\n\n[She crosses to the piano and plays softly.]\n\nAnd as for the automatic writing, one day the messages simply started.\nJill Elaine Hughes\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Devil Is in the Details\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2004\u20132005\n\nYou know the really cool thing about all this is, they think I'm dead. And I am, sort of. But not really. Have you ever heard of something called suspended animation, altered physical states? You know, the thing those guys in those old Alien movies did to make themselves sleep without aging for years while their ships traveled across the galaxy for decades? Well, that's the closest thing I can think of to explain it. I don't age, you see. Haven't in centuries. They of course think I'm dead, and who could blame them for thinking so? I'm not moving. I have no discernible breath pattern. Not to mention a very low body temperature. But I'm not dead. I'm not even unconscious. I feel bad for poor Larry and Sheila here. You have to give them credit for trying. I mean, you at least have to give Sheila here credit for mixing and distributing all those lethal gases from stuff she just had sitting around her art studio when Larry found out the Gangsta Kings wanted poor old Steve bumped off all nice and quiet-like, with no gunshots or yucky blood. Actually, quite beautiful work, if I must say so myself. The perfect crime, you might say. But not quite perfect. There was a little something they overlooked on their way down here.\nJulia Jarcho\n\nexcerpts from\n\nThe Highwayman\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006\n\nBESS Where is this?\n\n[Pause.]\n\nThe land? The moor. Purple bog. Hi!\n\n[Beat.]\n\nHello. Look out there. I can look out at the land. It'll get darker.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nIt's nothing for you anyway. I could just make it up and you'd never know the difference. When they say \"and it was all a dream,\" I think, who cares? Tell me a story! I don't care. God. Right there, over there a goat was buried. Many years ago. It didn't belong to the mother or the father in particular. It was a family goat. I know goats are popular in jokes, but this isn't a joke. It's a dream! Ha-ha, who cares, not really. It's a goat. How do I know? From the inscription. There is a goat engraved on the tombstone. It doesn't say Beloved Family Goat, but I know about that for a fact. They loved that goat. It gave good milk. It ate the garbage. You could pet it at that time. Now you can only make yourself think so. What it said was, Here Lies, and then the name of the goat. Who cares? It wasn't Bess. Or maybe it was. [. . .] No! Guess what. It wasn't a goat. Now that I think, it was a donkey. All this time. That doesn't change much, except the milk and the garbage. But they adored that donkey. Most donkeys seem to be unwelcome on this God-given earth, but not that one. Not this donkey! Why? Because it was so sweet-tempered. You should see with its kids\u2014all lined up? They were all mules, but it never complained. The family contemplated having a portrait done like that, not of themselves. Because you can't help it if she hands you a mule when the day's come, right? You really can't. It was a quiet life. I don't want to talk about the rest. I don't know why I started. Let's just say here lies and then the name.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nBESS After this I have one dream. All right. I think it must be the darkest time of night. When is that? I think I know. No, I don't know, that was the dream. And I knew those things. And I could tell things from the position of planets. Which I recognized. Clouds. I could tell from the clouds what the earth would be? And when they would be on the road? So I would have to go off it. How to find a hedge to go off it into. And know if the hedge is hungry and not go into it then and look again. That this would sometimes be true for miles and I would have to remember that I would have to dig in the ground, because they're on the road now.\n\nI knew how to do that and I had to do that, or also, I wouldn't have to, because there was nothing but me out there, nothing, me moving. Going. Knowing. Looking. Knowing. Not knowing. Knowing again. Or also, a rain like a wind, a moon like a ship, all ocean. I thought, this is what I'm gonna be spraying like all these. Spraying out of here to be then.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nBESS Here, in here it's the right heat. I cover the window with earth. People bring in the earth with their shoes. They don't talk to me. It's too dark for them to see me.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nHere, in here it's the right heat. I cover the window with fire. The fire lies flat against the pane. It lights up the room and I see my own hands. They don't look old. I know time is over. No one else knows. They can't get it. No one can get in.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nHere's the story. There was a girl. She kicked everyone. She said it was so they wouldn't miss her. But it was because they wouldn't miss her. It's a stupid\u2014it's a stupid story. She could never kick anyone. Or do anything or want or think anything.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI know what to tell you. It's only the truth. No questions. Of course this is where I am.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nYou could come\n\n[Beat.]\n\nout. . . . Why?\u2014I'd like to remind you that the moor is habitable. Habitabitable. Habitabitabitable. Hospitababitle. With life-forms. So savage. Someday something will come in and you'll have to go out there.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nSo I build up my strength. Emergency measures. I smell my skin. I compare it with my other skill. Things like this'll be helpful. Because I know I've been in here since I was born and no one else. And if someone else was here, he didn't see me. And if he saw me, he's coming back to get me.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nBecause he would like me.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nWould he want me to go, I think he might want me to go with him. I think that's what he would want. There's no way I can do that. Look at me. I've been here my whole life. A quiet life. I used to bring sugar lumps out to the stable. There's a cellar somewhere here, no, a tunnel through, not the cellar, I think there are stairs and there's a, stairs through a room where they keep . . . beets? Is that possible? Through there, a passage to the stable. I go through there with my hand full of sugar. My hand is dry. Or both. That's how I carry it through the passage, wedged out of the wet land. So I don't set foot out of the inn.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI get there, I get to the stable. There are so many of them. I'm saying this, it's like a pillar of my childhood. I'm not just any one of those little girls. Because these were not a fantasy. They're, they shit and they take a piss, they have spit foaming up, big sour spit, they're covered with scars and their coats, you can't even say coats, they're covered in their skins, is the most you can say. They'll bite, I have the rents some still on me.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nI get to the stable, still inside, I have sugar in my hand, that I took from the kitchen. There are so many of them. Everyone put an animal there and went in to drink. When it's the busy season there's fullness of them. And I'm coming down, there's a push-bell the people do when they need something, but then I disappear, I go get the sugar and I go down the stairs into the place and into the place, to see them, to give them the sugar. I don't know how to describe. I said. Filthy. Some are about to die. Some are on their first trip. Whips. They all have four and some have five and some are daughters. Grown-up. I'm here with the sugar. Just here. I put out my hand . . . a tongue comes down, no, teeth. You have to put your hand flat and not get bit. Big teeth. You can tell the work. Eyes like my dumb eyes. You know what they want, it makes them want it more, they want, they would say\u2014they can't, but\u2014no, they wouldn't\u2014it makes them want, they want the saddle blanket and the saddle, the saddlebags and the rein, they want, and the spurs, reins and spurs and hands high, but even done like that they want to go, they want me to take them and go, and they would be better off to go, says their faces, go!\n\n[Beat.]\n\nAnd I say I can't. Just because it's not. What about wind and stripes? But it's not. Anyway he might not come.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nBESS What I was feeling. You know metal in your mouth? Sour? It's not you're naked, because he doesn't care about that. He opens your shirt. He doesn't care about that, it's so he can see where to put it. You're, what are you doing, because not that you don't know, you want him to say. He says, Pretty. He takes your eyes. He covers them with his eyes. All you know about is the land around you. Land around you, wet with time. Your bare foot feels the bone coming up under it, up from under the moss, this old bone, smooth as a lip, fills the arc of your foot. He says, Don't move. It's a shoulder bone. He says, Don't you make a sound. Your cheek is wet for me. Listen. You listen. You can hear for miles. Moldering, creeping, growing up against itself, the moor. He says, You're for this. You don't move. The bone under your foot doesn't move. He says, It's inside you already. Inside and outside are the same. He doesn't touch you with his hand. He has no skin. You hear the blood of him. He knows you hear it. Moving, he says. That's what you hear in me. I'm what moves on this land. He says, When I take your last piece of movement you'll understand. Kept. You know that word? And you feel kept on your face, he says, Your face is wet for me. I've made a place for your body. Do you understand? And he kisses you with no mouth but with something cold and sour. Mine.\n\n[Pause.]\n\nDo you understand?\nLiliana Almendarez\n\nexcerpt from\n\nGlass Knives\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007\n\nJULISSA It was the first couple of days at school and it was all very new and scary. I meet so many people but not anyone I really want to hang out with. At least not right away. Do you know what I mean? [. . .] Everybody is saying the same thing, hi my name is Jane or John from Hicksville, USA, and I tell them I'm from Brooklyn, New York. They asked me stuff like, \"Did you ever see someone get shot? Or mugged? Did you ever have to carry a knife? Were you ever in a gang? Did you go to clubs? Did you hang out in the Village?\" They acted like it was a whole different country or something. When I told them that I would ride the subway home . . . they would act weird.\n\n[Prissy.]\n\n\"Like oh my gawd, I could never live in the city, it's so dangerous.\" It made me feel like I was an alien. Anyway, one night these people invite me to hang out in Kevin's room to watch Saturday Night Live. [. . .] I thought, what the hell I've got nothing better else to do. So they're all laughing at the stupidest jokes and I sit there thinking it's not that funny. They see that I'm not laughing, so they explain the jokes to me like I'm retarded. I start to get up to leave 'cause I'm just not having any fun. Mark pulls me aside and tells me to ignore them. We start talking and I find out he's from the neighborhood and it's an instant connection. It was so strange . . . I never thought black guys were cute. You know. [. . .] Big nose, big lips . . . lighter is better para mejorarse la Raza. That night it was different. Here I am coming from the city, just broke up with Robert, I'm a little too loud, clothes a little too tight, hanging out with a bunch of blanquitos with their J.Crew T-shirts and boxer shorts. It was scary and then there was Mark. [. . .] He was also going through a breakup with his girlfriend back home. And so we talked a lot. We would go to the movies, hang out at local bars, he even got me listening to reggae. Then one day we were watching the sunset by the lake. . . .\nMigdalia Cruz\n\nexcerpts from\n\nDreams of Home\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1991\u20131992\n\nSANDRA I am a fine woman. My kids loved me. I played with them. I listened to them. But they didn't trust me. I don' know why. I say that, but now I've said it. I think it's true. I sewed all our clothes. They thought I couldn't see, that I was color blind\u2014but I saw everything. Only different. I sewed a straight seam. I won a fair. I got a fine prize. Some silk . . . I made a dress. It seemed a dress born on me. Like my skin. They didn't like it. They thought it sealed me up and I wouldn't have room left for them. They were scared of me then. But they was wrong. I just wanted something nice on my body, a dress to match my eyes\u2014tight and small and tired. . . . What could be scary about a dress? They was crazy.I am a fine woman. I have no more dresses. I wear what I find. I never find dresses. People just don' throw them out. You won't find nobody in this city throwin' out their eyes. People like to keep those things. Those things are personal.\n\n[Pause.]\n\nI\u2014I did see a dress once. But I had to turn my head from it. . . .\n\n[Turns and faces front.]\n\nIt still had somebody in it, but she didn't have no arms. Somebody cut 'em right off her. . . . So . . . so I couldn't lift her arms over her head to take off the dress anyway. So I didn't bother. I jus' turned my head . . . but I thought if she only had arms then I could rob her. It was my color too. I would've looked like a queen. . . .\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nSANDRA Even though we did it with our clothes on, it was good. I didn't feel dirty with this man wriggling inside me. It just made me smile. I can make somebody feel something for me and that was something. He felt real hot. Ready to explode with being in me. Ready to crack open my heart along with my legs. You sleep so easy now, like you went back to where you belong . . . and the truth is, you did. I wanted your wendell inside me since I accidentally fell against it when that crowd of nicely dressed people rushed toward us to get on the train. I rammed myself up against you so as not to fall onto those people. They call you things when you do that, when you faint or fall on them by accident. And that's when I felt that hard, little wendell of yours and I thought, \"Hmmm, is this the man for me?\" Is he thinking about me? Looking at me? I saw myself in the window of the train then and I knew you were looking at somebody else. Somebody dressed nice and smelling of perfume. But she wasn't the lucky one. I was . . . I got to feel your wendell on my back. I followed you after that. It wasn't no accident that I found you here on One-Hundred and Third Street. I knew this was a place for us to find love.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nLETTIE I was born poor and I loved that. I had freedom. I played games. I liked playing in the park. I loved music. A man taught me to play the drums there. We played together all the time. We had four little ones. They were even poorer. I wondered what they were meant fur. I wanted them to stay alive, but got tired of watching them. They lived with my mother. She grew too old. One got past her. He went off the side of a bridge. We were sad but life goes on. And there's things down under the bridge, in the water, that needed him. That ate him up. He wasn't a waste. Nothing goes to waste in this world. There's always something to eat. . . . So I played the congas and stayed alive. My girls are good still. They get charity. They smile and then they get something to take home with them. They feed their grandmother. But they don't give anything to anybody else. So I took a job. I ran a sewing machine. It didn't play like the congas, but it paid. People paid me money to make them dresses. I let them walk on me. For money, I'll do anything. You can't be free forever. With money, I could buy things . . . feminine hygiene deodorant spray, feminine napkins, feminine shaving cream. I could make a lady out of myself. I was so happy about that. I forgot about my children; he helped me forget. We drank, I worked, he slept . . . until I got to be too much of a woman for him, too much of a lady. He said I lost my smell, the smell he loved. And he walked into a needle and made me buy his medicine. He was sick and I couldn't say no. I gave up all my perfumes. I waited in doorways taking on their smells of piss and blood. And other liquids spilled from broken people. He left me then. I was too much my own person. If you get the time, it's easy to know your own smell. It's the smell that drives people away. Enough said.\n\n[LETTIE lies back down on the table.]\nMurray Schisgal\n\nexcerpt from\n\nThe Cowboy, the Indian and the Fervent Feminist\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 1992\u20131993\n\nALICIA [Anxiously.] Stanford, I saw Doctor Bibberman today. We had a truly rewarding conversation. I asked him innumerable questions and he was very forthcoming and . . .\n\n[A breath.]\n\nI want to apologize to you, my sweetheart. I was so involved with what I was feeling that I was totally blind to what you were feeling. Doctor Bibberman pointed out that you've been under enormous stress and you have not been having an easy time of it since you were let go by our mutual employers. It was as if Doctor Bibberman had removed a blindfold from my eyes and I saw you, myself and our precious daughter in a new and healthier and more optimistic light. [. . .] I admit, I admit, I was wrong, I was insensitive, I was cruel even. But not nearly as cruel and insensitive as Benton, Berber and Pollock. And I say this knowing full well that I started working there myself as a lowly secretary, your secretary, my sweetheart, my darling. You gave me my first opportunity, my first chance, my first introduction into the fascinating world of advertising, and today I'm proud to say, I'm second in line for Chief Merchandising Officer. But what they did to you, darling, discharging you so summarily after having served them faithfully for twenty-four years, half of that time as Executive Vice President of Creative Copy. . . . To discharge you without reprieve or redress during this awful recession we're having. . . . That was unforgivable of them. And even though I fought on your behalf, my darling, my dearest, fought with Ray Pollock until my own job was in imminent jeopardy. . . . I don't have to go into that. But I do want you to know how ashamed I am. I had no right these past few weeks, no right whatsoever to dispute or ridicule you about your desire to . . . to have a new life for yourself, whether that life be based in reality or fantasy. Doctor Bibberman pointed all that out to me today. He even brought up the subject of your deeply unhappy relationship with your father, how removed you were from each other, how your father never took you to a baseball game or on camping trips or passed on to you values that would help you achieve maturity. It may sound far\u00adfetched but Doctor Bibberman also spoke of your childhood games of Wagon Train and Gunsmoke and how they affected your decision to become a cowboy after you suffered the trauma of sudden unemployment. [. . .] When you left your first wife and your three young children to marry me, your secretary, an unsophisticated, callow, somewhat slovenly woman seventeen years your junior, a woman without prospect or resources, and when you took on the burden of supporting two families, sending our own precious Lucinda and your three children from your former marriage to private schools and then on to universities at great expense and obligation on your part, you proved beyond a measure of a doubt that you were a man of rare principle and generosity. And now that you're practically penniless, my darling, my love, my dear, dear husband, now that you're getting on in years so that future employment is highly problematic for you, I want you to know that I will do every, every, everything humanly possible to make your burden lighter and less suffocatingly oppressive. [. . .] I'll end my little speech to you by saying that it's my wholehearted intention to love you, love you, love you to death, and be supportive of whatever dream it is that gets you through the day. Doctor Bibberman feels that with time and with your continued visits to his office, you'll eventually disregard this . . . this fantasy of yours and return to a reality that we both can share and enjoy and build a happy, happy future on. In other words, my sweetheart, my dearest, you're not going to have any more quarrel or arguments with me, no matter what demands you make or how improbable your suggestions are. As an active feminist this is all very difficult for me, but my love for you is so complete, so enormous a part of my life that I will do whatever has to be done to make you healthy again, so help me God.\nJames Armstrong\n\nThe True Author of the Plays\n\nFormerly Attributed to Mister William Shakespeare Revealed to the World for the First Time by Miss Delia Bacon\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009\n\ncharacter\n\nDELIA, a young American woman\n\ntime\n\nThe mid-nineteenth century. Evening.\n\nplace\n\nAn auditorium in the American Consulate in Liverpool, England\n\n[At rise, DELIA stands center stage at a podium. To her left is an easel with a placard that reads, \"THE TRUE AUTHOR REVEALED.\" To her right is an empty chair. She is bursting with energy.]\n\nDELIA Welcome. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I am truly honored that you have come to the American Consulate tonight. My name is Miss Delia Bacon. I'm from Connecticut; that's in America. Yes. I suppose you all know that, don't you?\n\n[Stops. Giggles. Returns to her talk.]\n\nYes. Ever since I arrived in Great Britain, I have had one goal in my pursuits. To uncover the truth. And now, I am pleased to announce, that for the first time in history, I am able to reveal to the world the true author of the dramatical poems heretofore spuriously and falsely attributed to one Mister William Shakespeare. By the end of the evening, ladies and gentlemen, you shall know that name, that blessed name, of the true genius greater than all other authors. Now, before I begin, I must acknowledge the support of the man without whom I could not be here today. He has encouraged me in all my endeavors, and has even provided this lovely hall in the consulate tonight. He promised to be here this evening, so . . . please allow me to thank my fellow countryman, famed writer and American consul to Liverpool\u2014Nathaniel Hawthorne! Will you come up here, please, Mr. Hawthorne?\n\n[Motions to chair.]\n\nHere's the chair, just like we agreed. He's right there in back. I don't mean\u2014to pressure you. You could just wave or something. If you prefer. Will you wave to us, please, Mr. Hawthorne? Wave?\n\n[Waves. No response.]\n\nMr. Hawthorne's a bit shy tonight. Pay him no mind, ladies and gentlemen. No mind at all. Though if you would like to come up . . .\n\n[Stops. Smiles. Waits for approval.]\n\nOh. I see. Mr. Hawthorne is a bit skeptical about my ideas, but perhaps we'll convince him by the end of the evening. After all, your chair is waiting. . . . Well, I shan't keep you all in suspense any longer. I did have some notes here. Mr. Hawthorne advised me not to try to speak without notes. It's very important to be prepared, you see. That's what he told me. I just have to get these papers in order and then . . . well . . . Without adequate preparation, a speech is . . . I'll be right with you, ladies and gentlemen. Just as soon as . . . they were right here and WHERE ARE THE GODDAMNED\u2014\n\n[Stops. Glances up at the audience. Smiles. Giggles.]\n\nYes. Here they are. No, don't go! No! Please? Yes. Thank you. Sit down. I do apologize. I'm not a\u2014I don't know what came over me. Well. Now we can begin.\n\n[Glances down at the notes. Looks up at the audience.]\n\n\"Reason.\"\n\n[Smiles. Looks down at notes.]\n\n\"Reason is the sole force which must motivate us in the quest for truth.\"\n\n[Glances up. Looks for approval. Uncertain. Turns back to her note.]\n\n\"If we are to tear away from our attachment to the past, we must be willing to sacrifice everything, and head forward towards all the abundance that the future has to offer.\"\n\n[Beams.]\n\nWe live in an age of progress, ladies and gentlemen, as I am sure our good friend Mr. Hawthorne would agree! As a matter of fact, if he would just . . .\n\n[Pats the back of the chair.]\n\nWell . . . I'm not as good as he is at articulating these things, but I'll do my best. You see, the Elizabethan Age began a trend towards scientific investigation, and we must bring that same investigation to the greatest texts of that age. Only then can mankind, and yes, womankind too, be freed from the shackles of convention, which prevent us from . . .\n\n[Quickly.]\n\nThis is what I've been trying to get my brother Leonard to understand all these years. Of course he would just call me a\u2014 He could never appreciate it. Rationality. Why, if that scoundrel friend of his had been acting rationally, he never would have proposed and then\u2014 But I digress.\n\n[Smiles. Back to business.]\n\nNow if we are to determine the true author of\u2014he did propose to me by the way\u2014the true author of . . . these most magnificent works . . . it follows that we must first reject the spurious claims of that man from Stratford. Yes.\n\n[With disgust.]\n\nWilliam Shakespeare.\n\n[Shakes off the name.]\n\nThere are many reasons for doubting the authorship of Shakespeare, but three in main:\n\n[Checks notes.]\n\n\"One. William Shakespeare was the poor son of a common butcher.\"\n\n[Looks up. Panics. Smiles.]\n\nOh, come now, Mr. Hawthorne. I know what you're going to say. John Shakespeare was not a butcher per se, but a glover. But it's not much of a debate with you sitting out there in the audience now, is it? Why don't you . . . ?\n\n[Looks back at her notes.]\n\n\"Two. By all accounts, William Shakespeare led a sparse and altogether uninteresting life.\"\n\n[Turns back to audience.]\n\nAn author of such distinction? Why was he not noticed?\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nGenius can only be ignored for so long, ladies and gentlemen. I myself have suffered from neglect. Been called names. Laughed at even! But it can only go so far. The human spirit is resilient, yes, but. . . . Sooner or later, one is noticed.\n\n[Motions to the chair.]\n\nAre you sure you wouldn't . . . ?\n\n[Waits. Smiles. Giggles.]\n\n\"Three.\" Perhaps the most convincing. \"In light of recent evidence stressing the importance of heredity, it seems impossible that a man of such genius could be the only individual of note in his family.\" Why are there no other geniuses with the surname Shakespeare? More on this later.\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nIf our author was not a man of the theater, what was he? I suspect . . . he was not much different from you, Mr. Hawthorne! A man of both literary distinction and governmental service. A man of connection to individuals of import. A man, perhaps, with a dissatisfied marriage, waiting to share his affection with\u2014\n\n[Pause. Smiles. Sudden panic.]\n\nOr perhaps . . . this is reading slightly too much into the situation.\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nAh, but, Mr. Hawthorne, do you not remember that noble sentiment from Hamlet? \"Doubt thou the stars are fire. . . . Doubt that the sun doth move. . . . Doubt truth to be a liar . . . . BUT NEVER DOUBT I LOVE!\"\n\n[Smiles. Recovers.]\n\nNow what at first appears to be a simple love poem, at second look, aha! \"Doubt thou the stars are fire? Doubt that the sun doth move?\" Is this not a challenge to the very foundations of a Ptolemaic universe? Why, if the plays were in Italian, we would have to concede they were written by Galileo!\n\n[Laughs hysterically. Pauses. Very quickly.]\n\nYes. Now it so happens that at that time, a new philosophy was taking root. The mind that created Hamlet and Julius Caesar and Coriolanus also perceived this new mode of thought. The new philosophy, which we have adopted as a practical philosophy, not merely in that grave department of learning in which it comes to us as philosophy, but in that not less important department in which it comes to us in the disguise of amusement, this Elizabethan philosophy is, in these two forms of it, not two philosophies, not two new and wondrous philosophies, but one\u2014one and the same!\n\n[Stops. Catches breath.]\n\nWell, what of this conclusion? Will it be attacked? Certainly. Just as Galileo was blinded by the forces of the Inquisition, I doubt not that a modern Inquisition is forming as we speak. You know what they called Galileo, don't you? They said he was\u2014\n\n[Calms herself.]\n\nI, however, cannot be silenced. And I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, any evidence they may produce in opposition to my conclusions will not be of the least value. As for the internal evidence of the plays themselves, it is far too extensive for me to recount it here. I am at work, however, on a manuscript, which I hope, Mr. Hawthorne, you will condescend to read. Let it suffice for now to state that the author of the plays was none other than the discoverer of inductive reasoning himself, Sir Francis Bacon.\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nYes, Mr. Hawthorne, Sir Francis Bacon. And yes, an ancestor of mine. You see now, I am not a freak. I come from a long line of great minds. Like yours. Perhaps you thought before that I wasn't worthy, but do you see now? So if you wish to . . .\n\n[Motions to the chair. Long silence. Nothing happens. Sudden panic.]\n\nBut . . . could such a distinguished person, Sir Francis Bacon, allow his works to be performed upon the public stage? Upon the stage? Well, he wouldn't be onstage himself, ladies and gentlemen. Not sitting up there himself. But he would still support his works. What could a prestigious individual like Mr. Hawth\u2014Bacon, have to fear?\n\n[Passionately.]\n\nFrancis Bacon fought for a world based solely upon rational fact. Throw out Aristotle! Throw out Ptolemy! Throw out the Bible! Yes, Mr. Hawthorne, you mustn't be shocked.\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nNothing should stop us. If we reject convention, if we put aside the doubts and hesitations that prevent us from seizing what we really want, we can create a whole new society. If the world were to see, if you were to stand up here with me and proclaim that what we have\u2014\n\n[Quickly.]\n\nWe can defy convention, Mr. Hawthorne. Traditions do not matter to us; marriage doesn't matter; forget about that New England cow of yours; I'll wear your scarlet letter! I may have gone too far last night, but you belong with me, not her! You were supposed to be here, Mr. Hawthorne! You promised! You said you'd be\u2014OH DEAR GOD!\n\n[She screams and knocks over the lectern. Papers fly everywhere. She flings her arms in a mad rage and continues to shriek through tears. She stops. Opens her eyes. Looks out at the audience.]\n\nOh. Oh dear. Well. I must say, I do . . . I do apologize. Where was I?\n\n[Tries to gather up the papers and sort through them.]\n\nNo, please don't go yet. I still haven't gotten to the best part. You see, the plays are inscribed with a secret code. If you look at the sequence of words the second part of Henry the Fourth and count off using the square root of . . . It all makes perfect sense. Mr. Hawthorne? You are still out there, aren't you? You are . . . ?\n\n[Stares into the void.]\n\nI know . . . you couldn't sit up here with me. I understand that now. But . . . that was you I saw in the back. . . . It was . . . right? Mr. Hawthorne. Hello? Are you . . . ? Mr. Hawthorne . . . ?\n\n[The lights slowly fade to blackout.]\nCarey Lovelace\n\nThe Stormy Waters, the Long Way Home\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009\n\ncharacter\n\nRENATA, late 40s to early 50s, beautiful in a wistful, childlike way\n\n[Empty stage. Sound of waves\u2014maybe a foghorn. It is morning, a beach, very early summer; before it warms up. Woman comes over sand. Huffing and puffing, as if she'd walked a long way. She carries a basket.]\n\nRENATA God! Sorry I've lost my breath here!\n\n[To unseen \"friends\" in the distance.]\n\nCome on! Hurry up!\n\n[Peering in the direction of the audience.]\n\nOh. Hi! There you are. The fog is so thick. You got here before the others.\n\n[Waving offstage.]\n\nOver here!\n\n[A beat.]\n\nHey! Listen.\n\n[A beat.]\n\nGod, I love that sound!\n\n[As if struggling to regain her breath.]\n\nIt gets harder every year!\n\n[She puts out different thermoses in the sand.]\n\nOkay. Barley soup. Juice. And this is elixir vita. My own recipe. Designed for anything that ails you.\n\n[Looking out, again, offstage.]\n\nI can barely see them. Can you? I hope he's okay! I get so impatient sometimes. I know I shouldn't. He's just so . . . you know! Slow!\n\n[She smells in the different thermoses, pours out of one of them, offers it.]\n\nYou sure you won't have some?\n\n[She sips, makes a face.]\n\nNo, it's great. Really. Full of vitamins! Listen, I need to ask you something. I'm glad we're alone for a moment. I . . .\n\n[She shivers.]\n\nGod, a chill. Did you feel that? Like a ghost passing through the room. Isn't that the, what, old wives' tale? Old wife. I wonder where that expression came from. They never talk about \"old husbands.\"\n\n[Singing.]\n\n\"By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea.\" You forget how long it takes for summer to come. I'm just so cold all the time now! I'm not complaining. Anyway . . . it's no use pretending things haven't changed a lot recently. Do you think I've changed a lot? Be frank. I want to know things the way they really are. And I know I can trust you. Can't I?\n\n[A beat.]\n\nWinter is still with us.\n\n[She takes another sip, again makes a face.]\n\nYou know, there would have been a time I wouldn't be caught dead drinking this garbage. Give me a big, fat joint! Now I'm ready to do a cookbook. The Power of Juicing.\n\n[She looks in the cup.]\n\nSeaweed. See? Nothing better. Iron. Vitamin A. Japanese mystics swear by it. That's a nice sweater. Is it a sweater? I can barely see it. You're fading into the sand there! Whoa! Ha! Ha! Don't go away. Please! God, suddenly I had that . . . d\u00e9j\u00e1 vu. Like I've been here before. Do you ever get that? Anyway, what I needed to ask . . . oh, it's so hard. So hard to . . . I've been thinking about T. S. Eliot a lot recently. Do you read poetry? Does anyone anymore? \"The tolling bell measures time, not our time.\" \"I hear the mermaids calling each to each.\" When I was little, we had a house by the beach and my father used to tell me to listen to the sound of the waves, listen very hard, actually, to the sound in between the waves. He'd say, \"Can you hear? That's the sound of the sounds of the mermaids calling. Listen. There they are.\" And I would listen. He said they were calling out to me, that they were sad, trying to bring back their life. He used to say I had hair the color of sand. I would lay my head in his lap and he would stroke my hair. I dreamed last night I saw my father. I had a conversation with him, the way he was when he was young. And then he turned into my husband. Then into T. S. Eliot. Then everything vanished; it was like looking through a telescope the wrong way. It's very weird, this whole experience. Suddenly, it's happening to you. I wish I could see you. Don't hide from me. You'd think they'd be here by now! Anyway, what I wanted to say was . . . I just wonder what he's going to do without me. You know, he's gotten worse and worse. He got so angry when he first heard. \"Who's going to take care of me?\" he said. He was right. It's been slow, over the years, and I never thought there would be a problem, because I never thought it would be me first, you see? He's still brilliant, of course. Have another drink of this?\n\n[She toasts, drinks, makes a face, tries to recover:]\n\nAt first it changed my skin. That was the most shocking thing. To watch your body change. Fast. To look at your arm and have it be somebody else's. Then the loss of hair. You hold on to hope, some kind of thought it's going to reverse itself. It's incredible how strong that hope is. But, now, it's strange, I feel great! It's like I'm back to normal again! I'm afraid of the dark. At first there was pain. And fear. But then . . . it stopped. Are you there? They say I'm still beautiful. Am I? Always beautiful.\n\n[She drinks again.]\n\n\"In the end is my beginning.\" I don't really trust Western medicine. But, frankly, Eastern medicine isn't much better. Wouldn't it be nice if this were a nice, fat joint? Actually, that's why I'm glad we have this time. I need you to . . . take care of him. I need someone to do that. And to tell people . . . how much I love them. Can you do that? Whoa! You faded out there for a moment. What did you say? What? I can't hear you. Can you speak louder? Please! I don't mean to be upset. It's weird, this feeling. Waiting for friends to arrive. Always waiting. Waiting for friends.\n\n[Slow fade to black.]\nJulie Rae (Pratt) Mollenkamp\n\nIn Conclusive Woman\n\nA Multimedia Play\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007\n\ntime and place\n\nHere and now\n\nsetting\n\nTwo projection screens, a vanity with chair, and a bench\n\ntext key\n\nRegular Text: Spoken Lines\n\nItalics: Voice-Over\n\nSNAP: Finger Snap\n\nBold: On-Screen\n\nVIDEO: The Teacher [On Screen One]; Academic Strip Tease [On Screen Two] When we were naked for the first time, he looked down at me and said, \"Okay, tell me everything.\" I love it when people talk dirty.\n\nGood evening, scholars. My name is Doctor Julie Rae Pratt. Hold a bachelor's degree, a master's degree, and a Ph.D. Have twenty-five years teaching experience in secondary and post-secondary venues. Published papers in prestigious scholarly journals and have been invited to speak at major national and international conferences. As a teacher, I strive to provide students with a comprehensive experience involving intellectual, emotional, physical, and spiritual facets, which contribute to their personal, social, and political development. These are some of the words and phrases used while teaching:\n\nDo the work.\n\nWet.\n\nOpen.\n\nDripping.\n\nErect.\n\nHard.\n\nDelicious.\n\nPink and puckered.\n\nOpen the lips wider.\n\nHair can get it the way but it's part of the fun.\n\nLook toward the differences, that's what's compelling.\n\nButts are funny.\n\nFrom a Midwestern matriarchal family, which the world saw as patriarchal, but we all knew who was really in charge. I was often saddened, even as a little girl, about the lack of equality in my parents' relationship. I can't remember a moment where they kissed, where they cuddled on the couch, where their passion was evident, where they praised each other, where they shared moments of silence, where they fought furiously, where conjoined in any emotional or intimate way. They were not partners, they each refused to give, they each lived out their lives together at odds. My father would fuck up and bring Mom roses and she would be furious because we couldn't afford them, she felt he did it to make him feel better\u2014not to give her a gift. She didn't like Flowers, too frivolous; Jewelry too expensive; Clothes not permanent; Household Items relegating. That always stayed with me 'cuz I wondered what the hell she did want? I bet he did too. So why were they married? What did he see in her? A take-charge woman who paid attention to him. He was an only child. His parents were so in love with each other that he got left out. What did she see in him? Security, security, security. Her dad left. She was Daddy's little girl. He just left her. He had twenty-one other kids with seven other women. Her relations with men\u2014you know what she told me? Never trust them. Never trust them. Never trust them. They will fuck you over at every chance they can get, they will, they will, they will, they will fuck me over. Forgivers need not apply. She taught me to find strength in myself, and security in others.\n\nThese are excerpts from student evaluations received at the end of stupendously long, painful, glorious, bloody, exhilarating semesters: SNAP\n\n\"Julie has a way of pushing students to reach their fullest potential. From the very beginning she requires/demands student participation.\"\n\n\"She brought energy to the classroom and made us feel like we were learning with her and that what we had to say mattered.\"\n\n\"Students felt comfortable taking risks in something they have never done before.\"\n\n\"She creates a relaxed environment in which to learn, perform, and experiment.\"\n\n\"She applied her knowledge in creative, interesting ways. The variety of projects and exercises is very good.\"\n\nExcerpts from student evaluations received at the end of frighteningly quick, wonderful, tumultuous, enlightening, horrifying goddamn semesters: SNAP\n\n\"Dr. Julie makes us work too hard, her classes are too intense.\"\n\n\"She grades too harshly, she's too demanding.\"\n\n\"The methods used to elicit answers were too forceful.\"\n\n\"The professor seems scattered and unprepared.\"\n\n\"Her classes give me way too much stress. Too much material, too little time.\"\n\n\"She tries to cram too much in.\"\n\nPart of my self-definition is teacher. It's something I have trouble turning off, 'cuz I like the trip too much and because I can usually see . . . SNAP\n\nThe drain hole from my radical hysterectomy was above my pubis. It would have been obscured if I had a decent bush, but I'm blond\u2014the tube stayed in me too long and caused an abrasion when it was taken out. Lost 9 lbs. in blood and water from the hole the day it was removed. SEXY! But that's nothing. The gastric bypass surgery\u2014they made me a brand-new stomach by creating a small pouch at the top of the old, fat, never-full stomach. The new, improved, smaller stomach is connected directly to the middle portion of the small intestine (jejunum), bypassing the rest of the stomach and the upper portion of the small intestine (duodenum). Feel full more quickly than when my stomach was its original size, which reduces the amount of food I can eat. Bypassing part of the intestine also results in fewer calories being absorbed. This leads to weight loss. Truly. When your stomach is only the size of a circus peanut, the pounds just fly away like Dumbo. Try 120 lbs.! I lost nearly half my body weight. It's as if there were two Julies inside, and one just silently melted away. Sometimes I wonder where she went . . . probably to an all-night diner. Told only five people about this surgery. Because I was ashamed? Embarrassed? Conflicted? Scared? Or figured it wasn't anyone's fucking business. Funny how things change. . . .\n\nOf course, losing nearly one-half of me did some fucked-up things to my skin. Half of Julie was gone, but all of the smooth, creamy, pink skin that covered her was still there. And there. And there. And there. You've seen Shar-Peis, the Chinese wrinkled dogs? I felt worlds better, but I looked like a villain from that Dick Tracy movie\u2014and I don't mean Madonna! Something would have to be done. Back to the knife! \"Tummy tuck\" time. \"Okay, class, we're going to do head, shoulders, knees, and toes and then tummy tuck!\n\nAudience Sing-Along\n\nThey removed a seven-inch smiley face of skin from my belly. They took the smile, the many pounds of flesh of my gut, pulled the top part down to the bottom, and sewed them together, leaving a flat belly, something I've never had in my life. The vertical scars above and below the fake belly button, unique for its pleasing heart shape, are from the bypass. As an added bonus, most of the hysterectomy scar was removed.\n\nI've been 268 lbs. and 140 lbs.\u2014140 lbs. is better.\n\nBut maybe not for the reasons you think.\n\nSixth grade, so I'd had my period for a year, and was fairly well developed. At eleven I had my tonsils and my adenoids out. Unspeakably ill, had to go back, hemorrhaged twice, had to be cauterized in the emergency room, it was horrendous and awful, and at the end of it, a month later, I had lost 25 lbs. and was actually too skinny. To make me feel better, my mom took me to the mall. This was the most frightening public experience I'd ever had in my life. The men would not leave me alone; it scared the living piss out of me. It was predatory\u2014the male gaze and attention was so uncomfortable, so vicious, so obvious, and out of control that even my mom noticed my fear. She ran me out of there. Knew I'd just become the prey. For the first time, the prime target. This was the same year he said, \"Ew, I don't want to do that anymore, what's wrong with you?\" All that converged at the same time. At the peak of my adolescent beauty, rejected by the only thing I had known as normal, all this other pain appeared. But I knew how to fix that. I began feeding that fear right away. Sneaking cheese sandwiches, spending three hours in intense ballet class and then furtively eating a half gallon of ice cream.\n\nSneaking food. Always, always, always. Hiding it in my room, in the basement, in the car, in the backyard.\n\nNo longer wanted to be the prime target. I wanted back the power I felt before. I purposefully became a fat chick and used and enjoyed all the power of my size until that size threatened my life. That's what it took. SNAP\n\nMy junior high teacher\u2014he loved me, expanded me, inspired me, sought and nurtured my gifts. He praised me, told me when I fucked up, laughed with me, held me when I cried, helped me learn and grow. Finally knew what it meant to be Daddy's girl. Hugged him at graduation, he pressed his stiffy against me. What the fuck?\n\nMy influence rarely extends to women anymore, when they used to be my strongest allies\u2014before I was wise and jolly and, best of all, fat\u2014they could take advice from me because they could lord over me based on my size\u2014that's huge with women\u2014\"I love you but make sure there is something I have that is better than you.\" I'm\n\nThinner\n\nPrettier\n\nSmarter\n\nFunnier\n\nHappier\n\nHealthier\n\nFertile\n\nFor some reason, thinner and prettier is best. But maybe not for the reasons you think.\n\nI lay in bed with my mom. She still loves to cuddle. And she wakes up, looks at me, smiles, and says, \"You really must meet my daughter Julie. She got a Ph.D., you know. You'd love her.\"\n\nThese are the little gifts that cut\n\nAnd cut\n\nAnd cut the pain.\n\nThese are more of the words and phrases used while teaching:\n\nSatisfying.\n\nClimax.\n\nA good build is always pleasurable.\n\nWhen you do it well, you'll be happily exhausted at the end\n\nAfterglow.\n\nDon't cut off the dynamite before it explodes.\n\nPlaying with others is more fun than playing alone.\n\nBut playing alone doesn't suck.\n\nGet your ducks in a row.\n\nGet your poop in a group.\n\nCodify.\n\nSilence is power.\n\nWhen you hate you love and when you love you hate.\n\nHe and I would seek every opportunity to be naked together.\n\nIt was guised as:\n\nPlaying doctor,\n\nLessons he could teach me,\n\nGiving each other a bath,\n\nSometimes with pee.\n\nThe ONE time I remember rejecting his advances was when I awoke in the middle of the night on the toilet, legs spread, he was kneeling in front of me, his penis in between the lips of my vagina. He was peeing. It suddenly didn't feel good anymore. It felt cold and wet. Was tired, groggy to the point of unawareness. Began to cry. He quickly swept me up in his arms, took me to bed, and held me safely for a long time. Suddenly, wasn't alone, so not afraid. Felt connected and even bad for not doing what he wanted. He drilled a hole in the stairwell so we could watch each other in the shower. That's when I first saw him cum. He was in the shower. Sat furtively on the stairwell with a book in my hand. It was so exciting. And it made me feel special. Still like to watch. Used to feel guilty about it but decided not to. What turns us on first is what continues to turn on us. The faces may change but the act remains the same. Like to watch and be furtive and give fully. Just as when I first became sexual. And THAT'S OKAY.\n\nMy name is Dr. J. I have been observed kneeling at 1:30 in the morning on a kitchen floor surrounded by chanting students as I sucked down a beer bong. Doc J., Doc J., Doc J.! Are you familiar with beer bongs? A large funnel connected to a hose connected to a mouth? It helps if one has done various things over the course of one's life to diminish the gag reflex. . . . Spit up the first time. It had been nearly fifteen years since I had last bonged a beer. Which, by the way, was also in front of students . . . and my mother. I have fed students, individually, in pairs and in groups. Danced with them, cried with them, laughed with them. Helped them get jobs, have babies, go to court, get medicine and abortions. Paid their electric bills, car insurance, and tuition. Created some good and some not so good art with them. And taught them a few things about acting, directing, theater, history, and management, teaching theater, collaboration, and being an artist with vision. Sometimes the learning happened on purpose, sometimes it happened by mistake. But it happened. They've cleaned, repaired, and decorated my house, maintained my lawn and gardens, introduced me to those they love, and come back to tell me of their lives. I'm their mentor, their teacher, their friend, and one time, a lover. Students need to see that teachers are human and that they learn, too. Especially, teachers learn from their students. It begins when I THOUGHT I was five or six. When my mom and I talked about it later, she told me I was closer to two years old. My baby-sitter was the seventeen-year-old from across the street. He let me eat popcorn, paint on the wall with pudding, tucked me in with music playing. Awoke to him pulling my underpants down. The smell of laundry bleach was in the air and had wet sticky stuff on my back. Rolled over. He flew up, pants around his ankles, and left the room. Didn't know why he wouldn't play with me anymore. It hurt my feelings, so told my mom about it the next day. He never sat for us again. At six, walking home from first grade, a man in a car asked me for help. He wanted me to come closer to the car. Knew I shouldn't but couldn't resist the attention\u2014he picked me. I must be smart. Or pretty. As I approached, realized he was playing with something in his lap. Surprise! Watched him cum as I stepped up to his car window. It was scary and awesome and frightening and horrific and fascinating. Walked quickly back to school rather than home. Albert Einstein Elementary was closer and wanted to be safe.\n\nUnsolicited Advice\n\nIf you ever decide that you want to stay with her for the rest of your life, or at least for the next two weeks, these are some things you should think about:\n\nYou don't have to understand her, just recognize her.\n\nLittle gifts are a blast.\n\nDo what you want and let her do what she wants.\n\nCollaboration is fun, it's great to play by yourself, even better to play with others.\n\nStroke her when you don't want to but she needs it.\n\nGive oral pleasure.\n\nHelp her grow in the least mean way you can muster.\n\nDon't be too lazy.\n\nBE HONEST and KIND to each other, it's the greatest way to care.\n\nBecome that united front against all forces, it's really cool.\n\nGrow into a good daddy.\n\nGo on adventures\u2014grocery store, lingerie shops, hardware hatches, pick\n\npumpkins and collect leaves and look at stars and take vacations and\n\nSHARE SHARE SHARE SHARE SHARE.\n\nThat's what partners do. If you ever decide that you want to stay with him for the rest of your life, or at least for the next two weeks, you should do the exact same things. Plus learn how to milk the prostate. He'll like it. SNAP\n\nMom has always been the Force in my life. Mom has always been the Source that I draw from. Mom has always been the Course that I cannot seem to chart. My mom's biggest fear was not being able to take care of herself. She often did it as a child, when her mother worked and her father was gone. It was a great source of pride to her that when my father left, she not only survived, she thrived. She is PHENOMENAL WOMAN! Year one\u2014When she began to fumble, I notice. At fifty-two, she got a major long-term disability insurance policy. That's when I knew she knew. Watched her for five years before mentioning things to my brothers. They retreated into total denial, the little fuckers\u2014men in my life often have the luxury of not dealing and that exhausts me\u2014they know women in our family will deal with the shit and of course we do. My sister-in-law picked up on it and we began the conversation\u2014stories repeated, people misnamed, taking too long to shop, working nine hours a day, then ten, eleven, then in the office on weekends to get the job she could no longer do well done. Not done well, but done. Year seven\u2014Finally mention it, she's horrified, remind her that I promised I would take care of her, would tell her what I saw, did that when I was in my twenties, at the same time we agreed to take care of the other's pets if something happened to either of us. So, mentioned it\u2014denial, anger, paranoia, frustration\u2014she hated me and loved me more for it. Let's get help, perhaps it's nothing, but we need to know. Was there in the room with her when the words came out\u2014Alzheimer's. But we knew it for a long time before. Anger, denial, bargaining, depression, acceptance\u2014these were a whole lot of fun.\n\nYear eleven\u2014She called the police at 4:00 a.m., claiming there was someone in her house, they had been there for years but they now were threatening her\u2014Arabs and Negroes and Mexicans, oh my. She was obsessed with everyone getting her. We kept her in her condo as long as we could. Belligerent and tricky, she had been hiding the disease for so long, she knew how to play it. It's a manic thing and so horrifying to watch. Then it's too late, she can no longer maintain after maintaining for more than twelve years\u2014Keeping the secret\u2014hiding the disability\u2014not showing the weakness. All lessons learned.\n\nI am Inconclusive Woman, woman, woman . . .\n\nAble to hide pain in a single bound.\n\nPerforms herself powerfully.\n\nLaugh even though her heart is breaking.\n\nPretends all is normal when her baby just died.\n\nPublish two papers as her husband fucks around.\n\nMakes others feel good when she is dead on the inside.\n\nActs like she's confident and she becomes confident.\n\nAlso a MILF. A mother you'd like to fuck but NOT spend your life with?\n\nEvery relationship destined to change profoundly as he or she dances out the door as all the little ones do? That ultimate goal of teachers and parents\u2014to prepare them to leave and be free, not gone but not here. I will NOT be the consummate mother. Won't get to raise my own biological children\u2014Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! But do have the privilege of editing the kids of others. And the best part of that is we get to play and they go home. And the worst part of that is we get to play and they go home. SNAP\n\nAt twelve, we decided to stay home sick from school. We wanted to play. Unfortunately or fortunately, my mom really was sick that day and stayed home with us. While my mom slept in her bed, on the couch I attempted with all my twelve-year-old wiles to seduce him. Finally, after looking up my nightgown for the longest time, he threw my legs back together, pulled my nightgown down, picked me up, and yelled at me. \"Cover yourself up! What's wrong with you?\" I knew our family affair was over. Our last sexual time together happened about a month earlier. We were listening to records in his room, lying on the floor. He pulled my shirt up and massaged my breasts. \"This is all you can have guys do to you. If they do more, you could get pregnant. Be careful. Don't let that happen.\" He made the right choice not to fuck his sister. But the pain of that rejection stayed with me for a long time. And led to the desperate search for\u2014and tremendous fear of\u2014relationships with men. I know how much he loves me still. Know that he would walk through fire for me\u2014know this. Just wish I didn't have to always ask him\u2014wish he was just there.\n\nDon't think my mom consciously knew about anything that was going on with me and my brother, but when there's that level of dysfunction in the family, you know something's wrong. Human beings can just tell stuff like that, and women are especially good at it. Except my mom. She loved, she nurtured, she cared endlessly\u2014she just didn't see. I knew she knew something was wrong, she just didn't know what. She never asked. I never told. And now it's too late. SNAP\n\nI sometimes make points with knives so men will listen. Are you listening? Used to have trouble getting men to listen to me because I was small. Then had trouble getting men to listen to me because I was fat. Now have trouble getting men to listen to me because I'm a threat.\n\nUnsolicited Advice\n\nBecoming an object gets you attention\u2014you become subject for a while. Girls seek to be subject\u2014we are taught that it's all that is worthy. Yet, we're all both. And it's okay to be both\u2014being an object is FUN, hard, scary, being a subject is FUN, hard, scary. They're just different. Balance is key here. The idea is we're supposed to accept is this\u2014girls are supposed to show restraint, politeness, make logical safer choices. Bad behavior = See You Next Tuesday, and we can't have that! Boys can do awful things and it's not their fault; they can't help themselves.\n\nWell, FUCK THAT! When do I get to be out of control? Take what I want? Push the envelope? Destroy some shit? And be totally unaccountable for my actions? Boys will be boys? Fine! But girls will be girls and we'd all better be prepared for the consequences! SNAP\n\nVIDEO: Them Elmer and Geraldine Blues\n\nMen exposing themselves\u2014at the store, at work, at school.\n\nObscene phone calls\u2014where they asked for me before engaging.\n\nAccidental sodomy from a one-night stand.\n\nBeing thrown up against a wall by a student.\n\nBeing felt up in public.\n\nGay men reveling in my body because THEY WERE GAY and I didn't exist as a sex object\u2014their erections proved otherwise.\n\nProud happy feminist, proactive, accomplished, loving, joyous, smart, funny, caring, giving, giving, giving, giving, giving, giving, giving! Not taking, not taking too much, not feeling worthy.\n\nUnafraid to ask for what I wanted but desperate for no one to find out what I needed.\n\nUnable to fully take care of me\u2014but no one knows that.\n\nGenerous and loving to a fault.\n\nIn Conclusive Wo\u2014fuck it.\n\nMy female students are so much smarter than I was at their age, and I'm so pleased. They still suffer the same shit\u2014oppression, being dismissed, mixed messages\u2014but they evolve faster. They are amazing and I love to hear what they are thinking. Want them to understand that they are NOT the weaker sex. They are NOT the stronger sex. They are only and always who they are\u2014and the potential in that is infinite. And that loving each other, not competing, not hurting, not undermining, not attacking, will ultimately bring them their greatest satisfaction.\n\nWomen are women's BEST allies.\n\nFourteen-year-old high school freshman\u2014fainting and have migraines\u2014one-week hospital stay with every scary test one can imagine\u2014a borderline epileptic, they say. \"There are two fuzzy shadows on your brain scan that we'll keep our eye on.\"\n\nInconclusive. SNAP\n\nJ.\u2014first life-altering emotional love\u2014gay: 140 lbs.\n\nR.\u2014second love\u2014celibate: +20 lbs.\n\nN.\u2014lose virginity AND broken engagement: \u201310 lbs.\n\nA.\u2014three-person affair with N. and A.: \u20136 lbs.\n\nF.\u2014gay: +20 lbs.\n\nB.\u2014black and beautiful: weight stayed the same\n\nI'm a nineteen-year-old college student\u2014have a lump removed from my left breast. Tell NO ONE. Drive myself to the hospital, lie to drive myself home. Not cancer but they're not sure what it is.\n\nInconclusive. SNAP\n\nD.\u2014engaged\u2014my first orgasm with my first vibrator: +30 lbs.\n\nI've since given over thirty vibrators away to my girlfriends\u2014my mother LOVED the rabbit I got her!\n\nTwenty-one-year-old college graduate\u2014summer\u2014get pregnant.\n\nSix weeks on when I have an abortion.\n\nSafe.\n\nClean.\n\nExpensive.\n\nPainful.\n\nLegal.\n\nTwenty-two-year-old high school teacher\u2014winter\u2014slip, fall on the ice, and rupture five discs in my back\u2014thus continues the magical journey of surgical enhancement\u2014spent four days hanging from the ceiling. Doesn't work.\n\nInconclusive.\n\nPlay happily through my twenties with increasing amounts of delicious fatness in my body and a back that is tricky. Sleep with a variety of people\u2014who the fuck knows my weight? Dieting and gaining all the time. My back goes in and out\u2014I relegate pain to another part of the brain.\n\nSexual survivors are good at that. SNAP\n\nG.\u2014engaged\u2014dumps me while putting the down payment on our house: +30 lbs.\n\nP.\u2014a best friend\u2014furtive sexual encounters he tells no one: weight stays the same\n\nM.\u2014it was healing\u2014she suffered a loss and I lost my father: +30 lbs. Mostly happy\u2014truly happy in ways others aren't because enjoy the ride\u2014find great joy in sensual pleasures\u2014looking, tasting, touching, smelling, hearing everything.\n\nSNAP\n\nMichael\u2014engaged\u2014we marry. As I walk down the aisle, I think, \"Till divorce us do part.\"\n\nThirty-three-year-old college professor\u2014one week back from the honeymoon when I begin to hemorrhage vaginally\u2014find out I'm pregnant in the emergency room but the baby is in big-time trouble\u2014wait it out for five more weeks before I go into labor and miscarry it\u2014while teaching a class\u2014expel into the toilet, put it in my pocket and go back and teach for another two hours.\n\nInconclusive.\n\nThirty-four.\n\nThirty-five.\n\nThirty-six\u2014various \"procedures\" to help with fertility.\n\nScrape my uterus.\n\nBlow out my fallopian tubes.\n\nLaparoscopy my ovaries to remove cysts.\n\nUndergo all these Kodak moments at teaching hospitals, so there are tons watching the fun.\n\nFertility drugs, artificial insemination, in vitro fertilization\u2014tens of thousands of dollars.\n\nThe results are many miscarriages very early in pregnancy.\n\nInconclusive.\n\nOne of the perks of infertility is never having to worry about birth control.\n\nThirty-seven-year-old wife\u2014260 lbs.\u2014can't maintain a pregnancy. My back is in trouble again\u2014can hardly walk and am losing the ability to do so as the nerves are slowly being severed by the disks.\n\nDirect three successful productions, publish two articles, and am elected the leader of a national organization.\n\nThirty-seven-year-old hospital impatient\u2014back surgery. The procedure has been 95% effective It doesn't work. Inconclusive.\n\nThirty-seven-year-old hospital impatient\u2014second back surgery. The procedure has been 96% effective. It doesn't work. Inconclusive.\n\nAt 268 lbs.\u2014can't walk and am literally going insane from the pain.\n\nMy doctor cries, \"You're so young and beautiful,\" so I hold and comfort him.\n\nReceive a teaching award and receive a major research grant.\n\nThirty-seven-year-old basket case\u2014insurance pays for gastric bypass surgery.\n\nThis was the most painful surgery of my life but it's elective, so the drugs are fantastic.\n\nTell five people.\n\nHide the disability. Keep the secret.\n\nThirty-eight.\n\nThirty-nine.\n\nForty\u2014getting stronger and looking good BUT learning new eating habits sucked. Having large friends and family treat me like a traitor hurt. Having a student accuse me of playing to the beauty myth made me feel ashamed. Husband has an affair with one of his yoga students. Tell no one because he won't admit it to me\u2014he breaks the rules of our communion by lying about it\u2014mostly because he can't handle my new body and the overt power that comes with it\u2014power I've always wielded but now\u2014it's more threatening because of the way I look. I forgive because the history of the relationship is worth more. FEEL BETTER and BETTER and BETTER\n\nAnd get pregnant!!! With twins.\n\nI was going to have two babies. One for each of us.\n\nCame home from school, laid out my grading, put on my pj's, went to the bathroom, peed, and wiped blood.\n\nPut my hand down there and smear blood and tissue and know it's over\u2014holding a dead fetus in my hand and my wiping has destroyed it.\n\nRun and dress and drive to the hospital.\n\nAll the while keeping my hand sacred, sacred, sacred, sacred, sacred, sacred, sacred.\n\nAm able to walk into the emergency room and calmly tell them I'm twelve weeks pregnant, which is when you're supposed to be safe.\n\nYou've made it to three months!\n\nShow the receptionist my hand. They rush me to my doctor's office and sit and wait and examine what's in my sacred hand. The doctors appear and they run tests. And more tests. And more tests. Never stop looking into my hand.\n\nAccording to the ultrasound, one baby is gone but the other is still okay.\n\nWoweowoweowowowowowowowoweeeeeeee.\n\nThey keep my hand sacred until it's time for me to go home.\n\nThen the nurse says she needs to take what's in my hand.\n\nI make sounds I've never heard before or since, growl and scream and bite and cry and lash out and don't watch as they take it from my hand.\n\nMy potential child, the one I'd worked so hard for.\n\nMy husband is finally there and he alone can calm me enough to leave.\n\nGot to calm down because there's still a baby growing inside me.\n\nBut don't have a good feeling about it.\n\nWithin ninety-six hours, lose the other. Labor for five days\u2014in CONSTANT PAIN but continue to teach and direct and deliver it on the toilet\u2014put it in a velvet box and we say good-bye and it's over.\n\nThe autopsy showed both fetuses developing normally. The doctors had no idea why I miscarried.\n\nIt's (fall) SNAP\n\nVIDEO: The Vagina Song\n\nLOVED my big squishy body. It was fun and giggly and sweet and FAT. Jell-O has made millions off those qualities. When I was alone, always naked. Touched myself everywhere all the time. Was soft and cuddly and large. In public, my Jell-O was raspberry with anchovies, pleasure with pain. It was sweet taking up space, and a lot of fun. Space is power. But it was also EMBARRASSING. People were cruel\u2014\"Fat cow.\" \"Fat pig.\" \"You're gross.\" \"How disgusting!\" \"You smell bad.\" Even though I didn't\u2014but that doesn't matter.\n\nOutward appearance changes what comes to you in life.\n\nThere are rare exceptions to that, but exceptions are not the rule. The way we look on the outside is the way we are perceived by others. Had a certain amount of success when I weighed 268 lbs. At 140 lbs., my success doubled, trebled. The way I look opens doors for me. Lived on both sides of that big fat coin. And you know the craziest thing is I am the average size of the American woman. Size 14 and I'm still a fat chick.\n\nAfter four miscarriages and an unacknowledged affair\u2014begin again, Julie Rae. A new job with a promotion and a new family plan\u2014adopt Ananda Rae from India\u2014we wait for her until 9/11 takes her from our arms too\u2014no international adoption.\n\nGet pregnant the old-fashioned way\u2014by celebrating a new house in every room\u2014make it to three months and three weeks before announce it to colleagues at a conference.\n\nMiscarry her on the toilet after five hours of agonizing labor\u2014all by myself.\n\nShe was beautiful and lifeless and perfect and not there.\n\nBegin using birth control for the first time in ten years.\n\nForty-one-year-old. I have a major infection. They can't identify what it is.\n\n\"Doctor, can you come here? I've never seen anything like this.\" Drugs make it worse\u2014the infection actually eats the antibiotic and grows.\n\nInconclusive.\n\nWe await the birth of our biracial son\u2014coming to us from a woman in Louisiana. Two days before I open a show, the Louisiana mom has her baby and runs away with him and a huge chunk of our money. Can understand why she wouldn't want to give him up. I GIVE UP. DONE.\n\nNever going to be the mother of a newborn.\n\nThe heart takes longer to admit it. Leave the nursery set up for eight months after the fact, then donate it all to a women's shelter.\n\nAmazed at the amount of profound life experiences that happen to women in the most unglamorous of places\u2014while seated on the toilet.\n\nWhen men pee, they get to hold their genitalia in their hand. That familiarity breeds all kinds of power.\n\nFor women, it's a much greater challenge. You really have to work to see what's down there, you . . . oh, hell, you've all seen The Vagina Monologues and know it's worth it to have a gander. And it often happens the first time while on the toilet.\n\nWe pee there;\n\npoop there;\n\nmasturbate there;\n\nbleed there;\n\nexchange information there;\n\nfind out we're pregnant there;\n\nfind out we're not pregnant there.\n\nIt's really a sacred place, beyond just being where one can take a truly satisfying shit.\n\nSNAP\n\nShe who used to provide three hot meals a day, sew all our clothes, run a daycare, sing in a barbershop chorus, manage a one-woman office arrived at our house with a suitcase containing four sweaters, two pairs of pants, 10,000,000 pairs of socks, no winter jackets, twenty-five cans of cat food, and a can of frosting. And we helped her, she got better, we trained her like a newborn\u2014to focus, to listen, put on makeup, to dress, to do laundry, and she felt good and useful and resentful and angry. She's so pissed about the situation and we deal with that, she's so sad and we deal with that, she's so embarrassed and we deal with that. The worst thing for her is the recognition that at some point it won't matter to her but that I will always know and be in pain about it.\n\nSTOP!\n\nMore words and phrases used while teaching:\n\nSuck it out.\n\nCowboy up.\n\nOvum to the wall.\n\nRisk being naked\u2014it's exhilarating.\n\nChallenge authority.\n\nDon't think like me\u2014get educated and THINK FOR YOURSELF so you can engage with me.\n\nActions have consequences\u2014be prepared.\n\nWaves and layers are evocative\u2014add more and more and more and more and more and more and more and MORE AND MORE AND MORE!\n\nPush the envelope.\n\nTAKE THE RISK!\n\nI occasionally take my own advice. SNAP\n\n\"Assisted\" living, what a comfortable euphemism\u2014a bed, a bureau, a couch, a table, a TV center, we shopped and I picked it all out but gave the illusion it was her choice. It made it easier\u2014practice fire drills, and locking the door, put the key around her neck, see her at breakfast or lunch and again after work so she can stay at this level of independence for as long as possible. She lives the non-life of assisted living and is unhappy. Begin taking her for walks as the weather warms up because I know she needs more care than assisted living but in order to move facilities with her insurance intact, she has to PROVE it by wondering off. Get her chipped and on the dementia patient hotline in case her walk gets her lost, she wears three pieces of ID jewelry because it's coming and want her safe. Give her the code to the door in song form\u2014\"1354, that's the way we open door.\" We laugh because \"the\" door doesn't fit in the rhythm. She finally does it, she walks out the door and to the lake we always go to and waits for them to find her, it takes under an hour. She gives me her watch\u2014knowing that it will stop\u2014I'm one of those people that fucks up electronic equipment\u2014because it's time and she tells me to always know it was time and I did the right thing.\n\nMy mother is in a lockdown Alzheimer's unit, my mother is in a bib, my mother is in a merry walker, my mother is unable to walk, my mother is drooling, crying, laughing, sleeping most of the time, surrounded by glorious women and men who love her, make her safe, and take care of her, it's so lovely and awful, such a relief and such guilt. It's odd to hope your mom has a fatal disease so she can die, but sometimes I did. It meant her freedom and mine.\n\n[Look at screen.]\n\nForty-one-year-old experiment\u2014told there is an 80% chance of advanced uterine and/or ovarian cancer\u2014a potential side effect of years of fertility treatments. Have a radical hysterectomy, not cancer\u2014still almost die because the urinary infection left so much scar tissue that it began to meld my insides together\u2014it wasn't a problem until it involved the kidney and the diaphragm and the bowels\u2014all of the reproductive stuff just allowed itself to congeal into one mass\u2014how profound\u2014how Inconclusive.\n\nI'm supposed to be flat on my back for three months\u2014can't\u2014have a job, a mother with dementia, and a husband who is having yet another affair. With a secretary. And he won't admit it\u2014even after I find out. I ask him to wait, wait, wait and help me. Consult a lawyer and write my own divorce\u2014served him the papers in black leather from head to toe on Valentine's Day\u2014still have a drainage ball coming out of my gut from surgery, so put it in my bra to make my tits look bigger.\n\nTwo weeks after my fourth minor surgery in three months, go to court in a gorgeous blue suit and scarf, plead my own case, and win EVERYTHING! But lose one of my greatest teachers.\n\nLive through it\u2014the darkness gives way to the tiny pinprick of light. I know I'll soon be dancing in it.\n\nNEVER ONCE met a woman who hadn't experienced some kind of sexual assault\u2014not ONCE. EVERY SINGLE WOMAN I KNOW, EVERY ONE, and MOST MEN.\n\nCan I have a show of hands?\n\nLet's see if we can be a community.\n\nAny questions?\n\nUnsolicited Advice\n\nWe've got to stop telling our boys they can take what they want. We must balance the privilege of boys and girls better, celebrate the gifts of each, cherish them, and help them learn respect and honor for self, for others. And to be kind.\n\nForty-four-year-old Barbie doll. What does one do when she is not going to have the family she planned, is divorced, and is taking care of her mother who has Alzheimer's? She becomes an adolescent boy. She takes those first baby steps into the hormones, she pretends she can live forever, she worries not, she takes major risks, she does things like drink too much, smoke too much, enjoy pot too much. She shirks as many responsibilities as she can. She messes with her career by taking risks, such as partying, among other things, with her students. She indiscriminately has sex with many, many, many people, and it's really fun. For about a year and a half. And then it starts to ring a little bit hollow.\n\n[Turn to a woman in the audience.]\n\n\"You're worth it. You're number one!\"\n\nWomen are not told that enough.\n\n[Turn to the man nearest her.]\n\nYou're told that, aren't you? Have whatever you want. Expect whatever you want! Oh, don't shrink away from me. I'm not going to stab you.\n\n[Wink.]\n\nBut I'm gonna think long and hard about it.\n\nI AM the Surgically Enhanced Feminist.\n\nMy body is so damaged from all the surgeries that the insurance company pays for a tummy tuck and a breast lift with augmentation. It's really rather surreal to see your nipples sitting in a tray waiting to be put back on. 36D. I was supposed to be a C cup but\n\nInconclusive.\n\nAnd as the body gets healthier, the vanity kicks in. What I learned in my forties is that the person I really need to be honest with is\u2014(TA-DA)\u2014ME! It is not better to look good than to feel good.\n\nIt is better to feel good because you like how you look.\n\nYou think I would have learned that by now. I teach actors, for Christ's sake. Theirs is a profession where 99% of the reason they get a job is because of the way they look. And 99% of them have to follow a very specific standard of beauty in order to work in most arenas. It's just the facts of life. It isn't right, so I battle to change the system from within.\n\nSNAP\n\nForty-six-year-old content. Really happy. I learn that worrying is praying for what you don't want, so I meditate on what I do want. I receive the most intriguing message.\n\nSNAP\n\nSubject: Sincerely\n\nI am 27 years old. I am a virgin. I feel you may be the one to teach me, goddess.\n\nI e-mail back.\n\nSNAP\n\nI am a good teacher, Daniel. Tell me more.\n\nThings said as a director:\n\nWelcome to the circle.\n\nI make the frame for the work and give the other artists the brushes to paint with, help their hands along.\n\nBest idea wins.\n\nAlways know that I'm the queen.\n\nAnd we create beautiful works together.\n\nBring three new things to every rehearsal.\n\nPush, push, push, push, push, push, push.\n\nEat well\u2014fruits, veggies, protein, and carbs.\n\nGet sleep and water.\n\nPlan academics and life well.\n\nWork BEFORE you play\u2014the playing is that much sweeter and burden free.\n\nAnd Daniel tells me more\u2014romantic, creative, emotional, intellectual, hilarious, hot e-mails\u2014like a Civil War letter-writing courtship. And God knows I feel like I've been to battle.\n\nWe write\u2014we meet\u2014the first meeting is public with no talking. Just furtive, knowing glances and passionate forbidden kisses behind a closed door. He picks me up. I'm flying. My body is my art. It is the landscape that tells my story. And Daniel loves it as much as I do. We connect is profound ways. I am more me in his presence. I desire to be my best self, willingly shift with joy because it makes us BOTH happy. We're not perfect\u2014but, man, do we have laugh! Soon, Daniel is no longer a virgin in a physical sense\u2014and I'm no longer a virgin to partnership. He tells me he is the reward at the end of my journey. He is right. We marry. As I walk down the aisle, I know \"till death do us part.\"\n\nOur family.\n\nAnd the dream that never dies, the wound that never heals, the ache that never left, finds peace. We begin the process of EXPANDING our family.\n\n(Surrogacy) (Begin again)\n\nWe're currently in the two-week wait. Hope . . . it's a beautiful thing.\n\n[Cross both hands and feet.]\n\nI still don't know where I'm going. I just know I'm not going there alone.\n\nGained 30 lbs.\n\nVIDEO: YOU\n\nIt's not the shit that happens to us, it's what we choose to do with it. ME? I work to stay open to the possibilities, be here now, laugh as much as possible, and enjoy the ride.\n\nUnsolicited Advice:\n\nThank all of your teachers\u2014from your family to your friends to ANYONE who touched you and pissed you off, laughed with you and hurt you.\n\nLove everyone and they'll love you, OR NOT. Either way, you grow.\n\nCONCLUSIVE\n\nVIDEO: Sunset.\nLaura Shaine Cunningham\n\nWeb Cam Woman\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008\n\none of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup\n\n[An attractive WOMAN enters. She comes up from the theater aisle. Establish an imaginary door to her apartment. At the start, she is poised to enter. She speaks to the audience.]\n\nHi. Come on, come home. With me. . . . Just promise you won't tell. I want to show you something . . . private. Don't let on what you see. Here we are . . . 2B. But you just watch from where you are. That's right\u2014stand here, nicely on the welcome mat, next to the mezuzah\u2014not mine\u2014it was here when I moved in! I didn't want to take it down! Hey, never tear down a prayer. Not that you're not welcome, you are! But you can't go in my apartment\u2014you can just peek! Now, once I'm inside\u2014this is important\u2014don't ask why: DON'T MOVE, DON'T SPEAK! Okay, I'm in. . . .\n\n[She moves fast around the walls of the apartment, back flat to wall.]\n\nWhen I talk over here . . . they can't see me. If I flatten myself against the wall, I am out of range. So now what do you see? You see me. And I look . . . perfectly ordinary . . . normal . . . right? Nice eyes, good trim figure\u2014I work out! Tasteful dye job. Not from a bottle. From a salon. And my apartment\u20142B\u2014it looks perfectly normal, ordinary, too . . . an ordinary studio, rent stabilized, but stabilized too high, like a patient in ICU with a high fever\u2014ha-ha. An ordinary sofa bed\u2014it's cute, isn't it?\u2014only $899 from Jennifer Convertibles\u2014an ordinary coffee table, ordinary TV . . . ordinary bowl of mixed nuts.\n\nExcept for one thing! The seven cameras!\n\n[She establishes the seven fixed locations along the ceiling.]\n\nCamera one! Camera two! Camera three! Camera four!\n\n[Gestures off.]\n\nCamera five, bathroom! Camera six! Camera seven! They are trained on the center of my . . . very ordinary, normal apartment. Don't tell! Promise.\n\n[She checks her watch. She slinks around, delivers following line downstage to audience.]\n\nMen pay to watch me; this is how I make my living. I am what they call . . . a Webcam woman. I can't believe my good fortune: I just had to tell someone . . . who isn't, you know, part of it. Wow! They won't expect me for another five minutes\u2014the mikes are not \"on\" yet . . . the cameras are always on . . . but . . . This is easier than going to the office. I was an office temp.\n\n[She slinks around the perimeter of the room, inhales to get less of a silhouette. To herself.]\n\nSuck it in, Suck it in.\n\n[To the audience.]\n\nNow, I just stay home and do what I do and it's permanent. And men, the video voyeurs, sign on\u2014I accept MasterCard and PayPal\u2014to watch me do . . . what I do. The trick is, I have to forget they are watching, or it isn't fun for them. I have to be . . . myself. I can . . . lie around on my couch, read the paper . . . they do expect me to masturbate, and\u2014well\u2014I do. I think they want me to masturbate more . . . it is amazing how you sense . . . this electrical \"other\"\u2014which is, I guess, the \"static\" of their attention\u2014I can never really forget\u2014oh, yes, the masturbation\u2014isn't it boring, waiting for me, maybe twenty-four hours, to start? And I can't get creative\u2014it has to be just ordinary, normal, little at-home casual diddling, almost unconscious\u2014not peep show stuff. . . . I don't put on makeup, oh, maybe a little eyeliner, but no fancy panties. . . . But they never know when I am going to do it, so I guess that's the element of suspense in it for them, as I read the Times, or vacuum. I wonder\u2014how great is this for them? But they never complain. They like that it is . . . natural. Hey, I am making $10,000 a month, I used to worry about making the rent, the Time Warner bill, the Con Ed. Now, I can afford slipcovers. It's fabulous. Isn't it?\n\n[She checks her watch.]\n\nThree minutes! I got to tell you something\u2014[She flattens herself, lower; we have the impression of a mouse running round the edges of her cage.]\u2014I had sex once, with a man, for them. The man didn't know they could see. . . . He didn't notice all the cameras. But something went wrong; he kind of . . . shriveled inside me, and . . . and he excused himself and pulled out . . . out of me, out of my apartment. I think of that guy, sometimes.\n\n[Upright again.]\n\nThere are forty-nine of them. I know, of course, from the charge cards. They live in all the contiguous United States, and now I have one in Honolulu. A lulu in Honolulu. I am so happy and relieved that I discovered this new way to make a living. They pay so nicely: never miss. I used to have to get up and catch the D train by 8 a.m. to get to work by 9. Work, work, work\u2014really dull, at the computer all day long. Now, I sleep in!\n\n[She dons a beautiful ivory white silken dressing gown.]\n\nThey watch me sleep. . . . You know, it's funny\u2014it disturbs . . . my dreams. There must be something to R.E.M. sleep that is . . . private, that doesn't want . . . to be observed. So my sleep is getting light. Fitful. I dream I am . . . being not just watched, but that men are chasing me to the edge of a cliff and I wake with this yank\u2014like being forklifted back to consciousness\u2014and I can't catch my breath, here in the not\u00adquite-dark I use a night-light, so they can still see me\u2014and [She starts to crack a bit.] I get a little scared sometimes, my heart pounds and pounds. I have them, the orgasms, the paroxysms, so many, some nights, but after the first two orgasms they just get . . . irritating. I know they are getting their money's worth. But I get . . . no . . . [She launches into the Stones classic.] \"Satisfaction . . . but I try, and I try, and I try . . . and I try. . . .\" Until I am . . . well, dry, and rubbed raw. This isn't how it's supposed to be! Some of them speak to me\u2014that's extra, but I will allow it. They address me on the speakers. [She points.] See those little perforated metal \"mouths\"\u2014those are their speakers\u2014which I have to turn on in [Checks watch.] two minutes! 120 seconds! They can direct my movements. [She imitates a deep male voice.] \"Arch your back.\" \"Writhe.\" \"Cry out my name!\" Confession: I don't like the word \"masturbation\"\u2014it sounds so . . . turbulent. You know what? I don't want to do it! I'm not in the mood, even for myself! I just want to be alone! In peace! Or to be with someone real, someone present!\n\n[She is starting to lose it.]\n\nI remember . . . belly flesh! Kissing someone's navel . . . Oh, those were the best sleeps, belly to back, arms . . . around my waist. . . . Warm in winter\u2014I felt safe. I am not safe now, am I?\n\n[She checks her watch.]\n\nOkay. Mikes on. I can't be absent too long. . . .\n\n[She flips the audio mikes on and slips the silken sash from her robe. She performs two skips, as with a jump rope.]\n\nI perform little fitness sessions, so they can see me work out a bit.\n\n[She playfully loops the silken sash around her neck, makes a comic gesture as if garroting herself.]\n\nBut this is what you really want, isn't it?\n\n[She stares hopelessly out, the sash a noose.]\n\nThis is worth, what, a thousand on MasterCard? PayPal! Only I never get to collect, do I? But . . . God.\n\n[She closes her eyes.]\n\nIt will be worth it. . . .\n\n[She addresses the cameras.]\n\nMy name, my name was\u2014Eva Marie! My mother named me that! After Eva Marie Saint in On the Waterfront.\n\n[Her eyes pinball, she is connecting to her true self.]\n\nNo, wait. I don't want to kill myself. . . . Kill Eva Marie Saint? I want to . . . to get even, I want to . . . thwart you. And you! And you! And you!\n\n[She gives the fist to each camera. She pulls the rope away from her neck, cracks it like a whip.]\n\nYou've ruined it for me\u2014it started with the e-mails\u2014why   \ndid I get those messages? \"Enlarge your dick!\" \"Molly Bang Butt!\" \"My boyfriend has a BIG BANGER and I have a Tiny MOUTH!\" I couldn't go into my own in-box and now you are in my own room, my inner sanctum\u2014Oh, EFF YOU\u2014I WON'T PLAY ANYMORE! No more CYBER MOLESTATIONS, if you please. . . . I want you to pay and pay and pay, and not ever get to see me do what you want me to do. You know what?!\n\n[She makes a mock punch, shadowboxing the cameras, one by one.]\n\nJohn! Larry! Mike! Ike! Gordon! Lionel! GEORGE!\n\nYou made me fulfill your fantasies . . . now you can suffer mine!\n\n[Music: \"Someone to Watch Over Me\" begins . . . softly. She dances, as if with a partner, dreamily, her arms around herself, She turns her back to the audience, gives a funny, \"EFF you\" twitch to her hips, looks, smiles defiantly over her shoulder.]\n\nThis is it, pay pals!\n\n[There is the sound of men breathing, from many men. Music: \"Someone to Watch Over Me.\" She is smiling, moving sensuously in her solo dance for that \"certain someone.\" Spotlight on her solitary, ecstatic dance. Isolated spot on her face, beatific, longing. She sings.]\n\nThere's a certain someone, I'm longing to see . . . I know that he . . . will turn out to be . . . someone to watch over me!\n\n[Blackout.]\nNeil LaBute\n\nLove at Twenty\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008\n\none of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup\n\n[Silence. Darkness. Lights up on a YOUNG WOMAN standing onstage, looking down at us. A cell phone in one hand. Purse over the other shoulder.]\n\nYOUNG WOMAN \"l-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19 and 20.\" Ready or not, here I come.\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nGod, remember that, from when we were kids and you'd play games, like hide-and-seek or crap like that, and one person would be it, covering their eyes and counting to twenty or however many and then you'd have to go find everybody or run around, that kind of thing? Yeah . . . that was fun. Really, really fun stuff. I loved doing all that, and being it, too, I never minded that. Uh-uh, I didn't at all, which a lot of kids never wanted to do\u2014especially most of the girls I grew up around\u2014because they'd get scared or shit like that, being alone in the dark or whatever, but not me. Nope, I didn't mind it one bit, being that person. . . . I guess I sort of like being the center of attention. A lot.\n\n[She laughs and stops a moment, checking her phone.]\n\nAnd I never, I mean, at that age, I had no idea how important that number would end up being to me. In my life. Twenty. It really, really is because I'm, like, practically that age now. Going to be, anyway, in a few weeks\u2014December, that's my birthday. Not the whole month, obviously, but during it. On the 20th, which absolutely sucks because it's so close to the holidays that I always get screwed on gifts\u2014\"We'll just do it all together, on Christmas, and you'll get extra.\" My folks tried to sell me on that one when I was little . . . that I was so extra special that we should just pretend that me and baby Jesus had the same birthday, but all it meant was, like, maybe one or two more gifts than my sister got and not even anything big, 'cause my Easy Bake Oven (for instance) was the major package and my mom and dad'd just toss in a few other little bits\u2014clothes, even!\u2014and that'd be that. That was my birthday, which stinks. Completely. So, yeah, that's me . . . almost twenty. On the 20th. And what else? I mean, since I said it was such a huge deal . . . oh, yeah, right. This guy I'm seeing, well, he's my professor, actually, in this one history course\u2014it's my second year at college, so that's cool\u2014he's almost exactly twenty years older than me. Yep. \"Twenty years your senior,\" my mom says, which is so gay because she's only, like, twenty-three years older than me, but she sounds like my grandma or something . . . she always says shit like that, but especially about him. My boyfriend. Well, I guess he's not actually that, technically, because he's got a wife and all that\u2014no kids, though\u2014and that's a bit of a bummer, but he's getting divorced, he totally is, but they've just got a few things to work out. Legalities and all that crap and I've been very good about waiting for him. We started in together last semester\u2014I'm only taking his \"Empire Building from Napoleon to Nixon\" because it fits my schedule and it's first thing in the morning, so he can give me a ride (my Honda is a piece of shit when it's cold)\u2014but, yeah, we've been a couple for almost a year now, school year, anyway, and he's promised me that we're always gonna be together. Forever.\n\n[Beat.]\n\nWell, until today, that is. Like twenty minutes ago . . .\n\n[She stops and checks her phone again, then her watch.]\n\nSorry . . . I'm waiting for a call. See, he just texted me. Dexter did. That's him\u2014Dex, I call him\u2014and he sent me this juicy message about how good it was last night and how much he adores being in my mouth and, you know, all that stuff . . . but actually, I was at Tula's last night, this bar downtown where I work\u2014okay, dance\u2014and I haven't seen him since Tuesday so, umm, that's weird. But the hurtful part of it is, the actual bad part of it is this: it's to his wife. Kimmie. That's her name\u2014which really makes me want to barf whenever I hear him say it\u2014not some other student or lady in town, which I could then understand because he's quite good-looking and sexy and all that for this older guy, but it's meant for his wife, who he is supposed to be leaving, and so that means he's lying to me, right? Lying and sleeping with her and all that shit that he's been telling me, assuring me is just not true. And now I know for, like, a fact . . . is. Yeah. Dexter's actually screwing me and Kimmie and God knows who else and you know.\n\n[Suddenly her phone rings. She looks out at us one last time.]\n\nOh, wow. Here we go . . . l-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-l9 and 20!\n\n[Smiles.]\n\nReady or not, here I come . . .\n\n[She lets it ring twice more, then goes to answer it.]\n\nHello?\n\n[Silence. Darkness.]\nPeter Maloney\n\nLeash\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2003\u20132004\n\ncharacter\n\nCASSIE JESSUP is in her twenties. Southern. Cute in a kind of dirty way. She wears U.S. Army fatigue pants in a camouflage pattern and an olive-drab T-shirt. Combat boots.\n\nset\n\nAn open area between rows of cells in a prison in Iraq. Industrial lights hang from the ceiling. Electrical wires hang down. In a corner of the space, file boxes broken open, files spilling onto the floor. Old office furniture scattered about, a metal desk on which sits a computer monitor and keyboard. Swivel chairs, some upturned. Against the stage-right wall, metal buckets full of water.\n\nplace\n\nAbu Ghraib prison, Iraq\n\ntime\n\nOctober 2003\n\nThe Stranger is necessary, and antagonism directed against him  \nhas a biological basis beyond wishful denial.\n\n\u2014Robert Ardrey, The Social Contract\n\nThey wanted to know why I did what I did  \nWell sir I guess there's just a meanness in this world.\n\n\u2014Bruce Springsteen, \"Nebraska\"\n\n[In the dark, sound of iron doors slamming shut. Echo of men shouting in Arabic. Sound of dogs barking. In very dim light, a figure, silhouetted, is pulled to center stage from up right by a strap stretching off down left at floor level.]\n\nCASSIE MOTHERFUCKER. Hey! Get back here, you!\n\n[Slam. Lights up on CASSIE JESSUP, holding on to what we now realize is a long leather leash. In her other hand she holds a baseball. She jerks the leash, the stops. She looks at us.]\n\n'Scuse my French.\n\n[CASSIE smiles, freezes, and there is a bright flash, as if someone has just taken her picture.]\n\nFirst thing is, you gotta show 'em who's boss. With a dog like this one. . . . An' he's a big dog. . . . Aren't you?\n\n[She jerks on the leash.]\n\nYes, you are, you're my big boy. With a dog big as this one, see, you got to let hun know you're in control. At all times. He may be bigger'n me, but he knows who's in charge. Don't you, boy? Hey, hey, HEY!\n\n[The leash tightens and she is pulled off balance. With both hands she pulls the leash until she is once again at center.]\n\nThat's why it's important you got the right leash. Thisn's nylon web. Tie-down strap I found up on Tier 2. Leather makes a good leash. It's got some give to it. Canvas is good. You can throw canvas in the washer when it gets all slobbery and disgustin'. Some folks like a chain, but a chain is heavy. Big dog, pullin' you this way an' that, you gotta ask do you want to add to the weight by using a heavy chain as a leash? Then there's your collar. Before you choose your collar, you gotta think about what you're tryin' to do. The purpose of the collar is to what? To guide your dog.\n\nAnd when you got to, to check your dog.\n\n[She jerks on the leash.]\n\nLike that. That's called abstention training. Make your dog stop doin' somethin' he wants to do but you don't want him to. That's called negative reinforcement. Like a bitch snaps at her nursin' pup, he bites down on her teat too hard. That's a check. Hey, fetch!\n\n[She tosses the baseball offstage, waits.]\n\nYou don't wanta fetch? I had this dog one time? Clyde? He was a mutt. All my dogs're mutts, purebreds're too high-strung. Clyde only had three legs. He was cool, though. Only thing is, he didn't like blacks. I had this one friend, Jewel? Well, Jewel couldn't come into my yard at all without Clyde goin' ballistic. Barkin', snarlin', just about pullin' the back porch off the house. We kept him chained to that wrought-iron trellis deal Tommy made for Mama. 'Course Mama wouldn't let Jewel come in the house. An' Daddy didn't want me goin' to Jewel's house. So I didn't see too much of Jewel. Hey, what're you doin'? Fucker!\n\n[She takes a flat, leather slipper from her back pocket, exits down-left. Sound of leather slapping. CASSIE returns, still holding the end of the leash and the slipper. She puts the slipper in her back pocket.]\n\nGotta nip that kind of behavior right in the bud. Lot of folks say you gotta be friends with your dog, punishment'll backfire on you. But I've had lots of dogs and in my experience it don't hurt for him to be a little bit afraid of you. I mean, come on, who's the boss, you or him? Huh? Listen, discipline is not cruelty. That's my opinion. There's a place and a time for everything. Isn't there, Abdul? And this is not the place for you to do your business. Place stinks to high heaven already from all you dogs. What the heck would it be like if we let you make a mess wherever you wanted? Right. That's right! See, animals respond to routine, and one of the first things you gotta do is let your dog know where's the right place and where's the wrong place for him to do his business. An' we take you to the latrine, and what do you do? You refuse go. An' then what? We take you back to your crate and you make a mess and then we have to clean it up and we get upset, don't we? Or we don't clean it up, and you get upset. Either way, us gets upset, and we don't want that, now do we?\n\n[The leash has gone limp. She turns to shout over her shoulder.]\n\nOrin. He's smoked! He's tuckered out! And so am I! I think gone asleep! Or else he's dead.\n\n[She crosses down to look offstage left.]\n\nNot dead. Malingering. Take a break, Kasim.\n\n[She drops the leash, looks at us.]\n\nThis wasn't my idea. Orin. Fuckin' pantywaist. Addicted to that air conditioner. I told him, you're gonna get sick you go back and forth between the hot and cold all day. Orin's from Pennsylvania. What's he know from hot? Says they got hot summers. Humph. Hot summers. Where I come from hot means you can't hang on the monkey bars without your gettin' burned to blisters. Streets in summer, you don't want to wear shoes with nails in the soles, 'less you want to feel like Jesus must've, walkin' that last mile. Hot ain't nothin' new to me. Doesn't mean I want to be here. Fuckin' shithole. You like it here, Mufasa? Course you do, there's no place like home, is there? No, sir. Yes, sir. Sir?! What do I do with this haji now? He's done his laps! Orin! Corporal? He's prob'ly chattin' up Remarque. You know Specialist Remarque, Kasim? Sure you do. You had her panties on your head the other night. [She takes camera from pants pocket, aims it offstage left, snaps a picture. FLASH.] Never thought you'd end up a screen saver, did you?\n\n[She puts camera back in her pocket.]\n\nHe better not be doin' nothin' more'n talkin' to her! Fuckin' dog! I know he's a dog. But what can I do? He captured my heart, Abdul. . . . You know what? I'm gonna e-mail that fucker right now.\n\n[She rights a swivel chair; sits in it, scoots over to the computer on the desk, begins to type. ] \"Dear . . . Corporal . . . Roper. You . . . dog. Get . . . your big . . . wet . . . red . . . nose . . .\"\n\n[She turns to look offstage left, grins.]\n\nThought I was gonna say somethin' else, didn't you?\n\n[She turns back to the computer.]\n\n. . . Out . . . of . . . that . . . bitch's . . . crotch . . . right . . . now. Or I'll have you fixed! Arf-arf. Your ever-lovin' Cassie Jessup, PFC.\" Ha.\n\n[She turns to look offstage left.]\n\nIt's not fair, Abdul. This ain't even my job. I'm not MI. I'm not even MP. I'm just hangin' here with Orin. I'm only here at all because of him. He is my heart. My sweet . . . heart. My only love. He fills me up like no one ever did in this whole world. . . . And he' good-looking, isn't he? That smile? Oh, he knows how to have a good time. Our last night in Virginia Beach? Just after we got our orders? Shit. I could tell you stories. Good God in heaven, now what am I   \ngonna do?\n\n[CASSIE turns front. She suddenly looks stricken. To herself.]\n\nFuck!\n\n[She covers her eyes with one hand, cries. Recovers. Wipes her eyes.]\n\nAsante sana\n\nsquashed banana\n\nWe nugu\n\nMi mi apana . . .\n\n[Quietly muttering Rafiki's chant from The Lion King, she crosses to the line of buckets against the wall.]\n\nWhere's ol' Rafiki when I need him?\n\n[She lifts a bucket full of water; goes to stage-left portal.]\n\nTime for your shower.\n\n[She empties the bucket of water on the creature just offstage. Then tosses bucket offstage left. She regards her soaked captive for a moment, then goes to the remaining full bucket: lifts it, pours it over herself.]\n\nYeah.\n\n[She sets the empty bucket down as she shouts.]\n\nHey, Remarque! Get down here, you cunt!\n\n[She starts doing kung-fu moves in slow motion.]\n\nWe'll have it out, right here, right now! Wet T-shirt contest on A-1! I'd lose.\n\n[She is at the computer.]\n\nShould I send this? Abed? Hell, why not? SEND. \"Your mail has been sent.\" He's good at what he does, the Corporal. He does this same thing in real life, you know. Corrections officer. Upstate New York. Lordin' it over shitheads like you. I don't mean rag-heads, sand-niggers. I mean American niggers. We call 'em blacks.\n\n[She rights another swivel chair; sits in it. During the following, she may spin around in the chair; scoot around the room kicking her feet against the floor: CASSIE is deadly serious, but there is often something playful in her manner, even when she is talking about the most horrendous things.]\n\nIt's all your fault, you fuckin' hajis. Everything was goin' good and then you had to go and do that. How could you do that? Three thousand innocent people. Motherfuckers. I got a question: What the fuck is wrong with you people? Huh? Do you think you are ever going to win? Do you really believe you are going to whip us? Us? Let me tell you somethin, Said. There's a creek behind my house back home. You know? Creek? Stream? Water? Like a river, only smaller? Anyway, it's a beautiful creek when it's runnin'. Lots of sunfish. Little fish? Taste great you pan-fry 'em. An' crabs. They're really crayfish but we call 'em crabs. In the summer th' creek dries up, an' you can jump from rock to rock and catch 'em in the shallows. Crabs are the fastest creatures. Little suckers scoot back under the rock they see you comin', so you gotta get' behind the rock and then reach around and under slow then quick snatch 'em up, toss 'em in the can. Well, we were down there crabbin' this one day, an' Clyde was with us. Ol' Clyde liked nothin' better'n the creek, and he's goin' nuts, jumpin' on the rocks, fallin' in, shakin' himself off, barkin' the whole time. All of a sudden, Clyde is barkin' like he's hurt. I look, an' he's in this one pool that's deeper than the others, we call it the clay pit. An' he's tryin' to climb out, but he's slippin' on the clay an' then he's goin' under. An' I realize that somethin' is pullin' him under' an' then I know: the snapper's got him. Big ol' snappin' turtle, you can go years without seeing him, but he's somewhere in that creek, you know that, but you forget it, you know how you do. So I call out to Walter the snapper's got Clyde, and he comes runnin' from a little ways upstream. He's been smashin' beer bottles against the lower dam there, but he comes runnin' when he hears me call. Walter's amazing. He's dead now, but. . . . He was totally not afraid. Of anything. He didn't jump in. He knew if he did he'd never find a purchase in that clay. What he did was, he just leaned over that muddy pool and grabbed Clyde by the forelegs up near his shoulders. Clyde was a big dog, but Walter pulled him right up out of that water, with the snapper still attached, his jaws on Clyde's lower right leg, just below the hock. An' Clyde is howlin' (he bit Walter twice, we found out later),tryin' to get away from whatever's got him by the leg. You ever see a snapper? Ugliest reptile ever invented. Prehistoric fuckin' monster. You think those IRF dogs are scary? We put a snapper in your box with you and you'll turn state's evidence in a big hurry, believe me. You couldn't tell 'em enough fast enough. But Walter, like he's in some science fiction movie. Walter grabs the snapper around the neck with his bare hands and just starts throttlin' him. The turtle's eyes are rollin' back in his horny head, tryin' to get a look at what's got him now. For a minute or two, it's a standoff, the snapper won't let go of Clyde, and Walter won't let go of the snapper. Clyde is howlin' and Walter's moanin' nngggg . . . nnnggg . . . nnnggg, an' I'm . . . I don't know, I was prob'ly cryin' about my poor dog, an' suddenly the turtle opens his jaws to try to get at Walter, not realizin' by doin' that he's lettin' loose of Clyde. An' then I'm holdin' the dog and Walter's draggin' the snapper by the neck upstream to the dam. There's all these rusty wires and rods stickin' outa the concrete and he wraps this piece of wire around the snapper's neck and hangs him up there on the dam. When we get back from takin' Clyde to the vet's, the turtle's still alive, scratchin' at the concrete, tryin' to push off from the dam with his flippers. But he wasn't goin' no place. Me an' Walter took turns throwin' rocks at the bastard. Hittin' him with sticks. Broke his shell all to shit. Took three days for him to die. We left him hangin' there, stinkin' in the sun. Flies had a field day. Clyde lost his leg. But he lived a good long time with just the three. He was a good ol' dog. What's my point here? Do I have a point? I don't know. Maybe it's . . . Maybe it's that snappers are strong . . . an' nasty . . . an' tough. But they're dumb. An' they're not as strong as Walter.\n\n[CASSIE puts her hand on her belly.]\n\nI don't feel so good.\n\n[She mumbles Rafiki's chant to herself.]\n\nAsante sana squash banana . . . Orin! . . . Come get this guy! He's softened up.\n\n[CASSIE suddenly moves to the bucket she emptied over herself, drops to her knees, vomits into it. Her back to us, we see her muscles contracting, relaxing, contracting, hear wrenching sounds as she pukes hard into the metal pail. Finally, the retching and she rests, her head still in the bucket. Quiet moans. She lifts her head, turns wiping her mouth with her forearm. Wet dripping from her mouth, eyes, and nose. Wasted, she sits on the swivel chair, leans forward, her head in her hands. After a moment, she raises her head, looks offstage left.]\n\nI got a question.\n\n[She takes a folded, laminated card from her pocket, unfolds it, finds the phrase she's looking for; reads.]\n\nFee 'indi suaal.\n\n[There is no response. She looks up and offstage left, then looks down at the card, looks for a phrase, finds it, looks up again.]\n\nAeish ismak.\n\n[There is no response.]\n\nWhat is your name?\n\n[There is no response. CASSIE folds the card, puts it in her pocket, turns front.]\n\nI didn't come here of my own accord. And I can't leave that way.\n\n[She takes the camera from her pocket.]\n\nWhoever brought me here will have to take me home.\n\n[She lifts the camera, aims it at us.]\n\nInshallah.\n\n[She takes our picture. FLASH.]\nPolly Frost and Ray Sawhill\n\nThe Last Artist in New York City\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009\n\nAuthors' Note:\n\nWe intend this play to be specific to the circumstances of its production. Thus, the name of the theater space in which this play will be performed in your production should be substituted for \"PS 122,'' and the name of the actor who will be performing the main role in your production should be substituted for \"Karen Grenke.\" (Karen acted in the first production of this play, which took place at PS 122.) We are also open to other substitutions for \"New York City\" and for the suburb \"Metuchen\" as long as we are consulted and give our agreement prior to performance.\n\nscene one\n\nMetuchen Mall\n\nANNOUNCER VOICE Ladies and gentlemen, as the last performance at PS 122 before Chase/Wachovia\u2013Whole Foods moves in for your financial and shopping ease, Theatre Askew presents Karen Grenke, \"The Last Artist in New York City.\"\n\n[KAREN is moving into the theater space with a flashlight. Points it at walls, ceiling, people in the audience, at herself.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] Walking through the Metuchen Mall. . . . By my side, Xavier, my former lover in the Polyamory Art Collective. . . . You may know them as PAC. . . . Years ago, Xavier helped me find my current style. . . .   \nOf course I helped him equally. . . . Metuchen, you ask? Central Jersey is the answer. . . . Central Jersey is always the answer. . . . My old partners had abandoned Williamsburg years ago. . . .\n\n[Flashlight continues picking out things. To audience.]\n\nDark corridors . . . dried-up fountains . . . display windows for Linens Etc. and Williams-Sonoma now cracked and jagged. . . . Sullen kids in tight pants and spiky hair camping out and smoking. . . . We're inside an abandoned mall, but I'm reminded of photos I once saw in a book about Astor Place in the '70s. . . . Xavier is talking.\n\n[As XAVIER.]\n\nWhy has it taken you so long to visit us in person? The time has come for you to give up the big city dream. Baby, New York doesn't care about art anymore.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nXavier pushes open a huge door. . . . Rave music up. People dancing, flashing lights, pulsing electronica. . . .\n\n[To XAVIER.]\n\nOh my God, Xavier, this is the greatest scene ever, Retro-Hindu-Trance, aren't I right?\n\n[As XAVIER.]\n\nWelcome to the Big Box, baby.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nWhen the day began I had no idea how momentous it would prove.\n\n[Rave music continues for a few seconds, then stops.]\n\nscene two\n\nKaren on Segway\n\n[Swirly pink-green light. Earlier that day. Hurrying between jobs. KAREN quaffs Red Bull.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] Floating through the city on my faithful Segway. . . . Between one job and the next. . . . Five day jobs and I barely get by. . . . Bouncing. . . . Ah, the hallowed cobblestones of SoHo. . . . Paying tribute. . . . The greats of the past . . . Karen Finley, Eric Bogosian, Spalding Gray . . . Then through Chelsea. . . . Once full of galleries, now playdate central for families. . . . In midtown, the former sites of Sonnabend, Castelli, Pace Wildenstein. . . . I nod silently. . . . Wavy . . . blue glass . . . high-rises . . . taking over everywhere. . . . I hate those fucking things!\n\n[Ka-hoop of iPhone e-mail notification interrupts. KAREN tries to keep balance as she pulls out iPhone and calls up e-mail.]\n\n[To audience.]\n\nStefani Symonds. Dot N-Y Times? That's right, the Times. The New York fucking Times! She wants to do a feature. That's right, about me, Karen Grenke. \"You're the last remaining artist in New York City. You're a cultural landmark.\" Omigod, omigod, omigod. . . . After all these years . . . all my sacrifices . . . my time as a New York artist has finally come!\n\n[Twirls around on Segway in joy and\u2014horn honks\u2014almost gets run over.]\n\nscene three\n\nKaren at Frank Gehry High\n\n[Hard white light up. KAREN is at desk in \"teacher\" mode\u2014think Spalding Gray in eyeglasses. Takes a big swig of Red Bull.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] There I was, behind my teacher's desk, at Frank Gehry High for the Developmentally Gifted on the Upper East Side. As my students settled in, I crafted a proud e-mail to my former mates in the Polyamory Art Collective . . . PAC. . . . Been years since I last wrote them. But   \nI felt certain they'd be happy for me. . . . The great artistic spirit that this city once had . . . embodied now in me and me alone! . . . I was still buzzed as I began talking about Warhol's immortal brilliance.\n\n[As student.]\n\nScrew immortality. How'd his paintings do at the most recent auction?\n\n[To audience.]\n\nGod, how I hated these new entitled brats! But it was my own fault, I was the one who'd persuaded the principal to let me replace Introductory Art History with Art as Recession Investment Strategy. It was time to steer the conversation in a productive direction.\n\n[To class.]\n\nHey, I have a fun announcement this morning. The Times is doing a feature on me. That's right, me, your very own teacher, Ms. Karen Grenke. You never really believed I was an artist, did you? But now\u2014\n\n[As student.]\n\nWhat's the Times?\n\n[To class.]\n\nYou really don't know? It's what we used to call a major news source. It symbolized New York and its great cultural life.\n\n[As student.]\n\nLosing strategy. The underlying mortgage on that new Renzo Piano building is killing them. You should be targeting Collegehumor.com instead.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nChrist! After class, I was unlocking my Segway. I noticed this shy girl from class standing there. You know the type. Gaunt . . . dreamy . . . her hair a different color every week.\n\n[As JESS.]\n\nSorry about my idiot classmates. Screw them. They know nothing about art.\n\n[To JESS.]\n\nOh. And you do?\n\n[To audience.]\n\nShe pulled out her iPhone. . . . It's a YouTube mash-up showing Schnabel, Fischl, and Sherman mouthing the lyrics to \"Sheena Is a Punk Rocker.\"\n\n[As JESS.]\n\nI did it by myself. After Effects. Flash. Final Cut.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nI started to lecture her about giving people you're stealing from credit, then . . . decided not to go there. Why squash creativity?\n\nscene four\n\nKaren on Segway\n\n[Lights change back to Segway-swirly. KAREN on Segway, a dreamy-pleased state, slurping Red Bull as she steers with one hand.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] So there's hope. . . . New York may have a cultural future after all. . . . Cruising home . . . me and my Segway merging as one. . . . Crossing 14th . . . ah, my beloved East Village . . . home of the Beats . . . the punk rock revolution. . . .\n\n[Takes big swig of Red Bull. It has its effect.]\n\nBut even downtown the bio-morphing blue glass buildings are taking over.\n\n[Another big swig.]\n\nFuckers!\n\n[iPhone e-mail goes ka-thump. KAREN calls it up.]\n\n[To audience.]\n\nEden, my rival for Xavier in the Polyamory Art Collective . . . PAC. . . . I know what you're thinking\u2014\"rivalry\"? Well, if you're polyamorous you know how it goes. . . . All the blah-blah around who's sleeping with who. . . . Ethical sluts talk more than they fuck. . . . But there was just no getting past our feelings of possessiveness. . . . In the space behind Eden, the other members of PAC writhe in a naked heap. . . . Rehearsal or orgy?\n\n[As EDEN.]\n\nCongrats! We'd help you celebrate in person but we never come to NYC any longer. Honey, today's real artists don't even know where Manhattan is.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nOnce a bitch, always a bitch? Why can't Xavier see that!\n\n[Swigs Red Bull in fury.]\n\nscene five\n\nKaren at her Apartment\n\n[Swirly lights stop. KAREN now sitting on the desk, as though on sofa or bed. Empty cans of Red Bull in a mess around her.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] The real trouble, I was starting to realize\u2014I've been so busy maintaining life in New York that I haven't gotten much art done. None. Zero. Nada. What will I have to show when I meet with Stefani?\n\n[Takes big swig of Red Bull. Sets empty can down among others. Contemplates arrangement of cans. Rearranges them. To self.]\n\nI was starting to see some real artistic possibilities. . . .\n\n[KAREN kisses the Red Bull. Fondles it. Runs the can of Red Bull over arms,, head, legs, boobs, tummy. Starts to masturbate using the can of Red Bull. In big gesture of heedlessness, she sweeps all the other cans of Red Bull onto the floor. As she's starting to feel the heat\u2014the iPhone makes its e-mail ka-thunk sound.]\n\nOh shit!\n\n[KAREN calls up e-mail. To self.]\n\nSay it isn't so!\n\n[To audience.]\n\nStefani's been downsized. The underlying mortgage really is causing hell at the Times! And worse\u2014the article about me is off! What has my life been about!? I blasted off a woeful mass message to my entire e-mail list. The Collective got back to me instantly. . . .\n\nscene six\n\nKaren on Segway\n\n[This time we get a nightmare version of swirly pink-green Segway lighting and subjective movement. It's dark and stormy, and KAREN is despairing.]\n\nKAREN [To herself and the audience.] Come join us, they say. . . . A performance in Metuchen, they say. . . . It's the old loyalties that help us out in tough times. . . . I throw on my old art-block party clothes. . . . The first time in years. . . . The Segway and I are off. . . . Dodging potholes. . . . Steering around young families with their damn baby strollers. . . . Blind with emotion, we fly\u2014fly!\u2014through the rain. . . . Screw you, New York City. . . . Screw your SUVs . . . your endless bank branches. . . . I hate tourist-safe neighborhoods. . . . Screw your K-Marts . . . your Barnes and Nobles . . . your family-friendly Disney musicals. . . . I hate branding! . . . Trader Joe's I'll make an exception for. . . . Excellent prices on wine . . . and like that\u2014\n\n[Lights go to black. Big whoosh sound.]\n\n[To audience.]\n\nI was in the tunnel on my way to central Jersey.\n\nscene seven\n\nMetuchen Mall\n\n[Flashlight in KAREN's hand, as in opening scene. Sounds of flogging and moaning. KAREN stares offstage, takes big swig of Red Bull.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] In a room to one side of the dance space Xavier is laying into Eden . . . when I was living with the Collective, flogging and suspensions weren't our thing. But ever since Kink.com took all those awards for BDSM porn everyone has been into it. . . . Ouch! . . . Still\u2014oh, Christ, look at that. . . . So gruesome. . . . It really is beautiful. . . . Shit, that was a motherfucker of an orgasm. . . . I have to say that PAC is doing their best work ever. . . . Hanging exhausted from the rack, Eden is transformed into an icon of desire. . . . No! No! I can't keep watching. . . . Artistic jealousy. . . . Sexual jealousy. . . . It's a lethal combination! . . .\n\n[Rave lighting and music up as KAREN switches off flashlight and staggers back to desk. Starts to climb stairs up to desktop but she's so emotional that she stumbles. A strobe light pops off.]\n\nWhat the hell?\n\n[Looks around. Another strobe pops off, then another.]\n\n[To herself and the audience.]\n\nSomebody shooting photos. . . . Right up between my thighs!\n\n[To stranger.]\n\nHey, quit it!\n\n[To audience.]\n\nA woman. At least it isn't some pathetic frat boy. . . . We gasp. We look at each other in confusion.\n\n[To stranger.]\n\nI know you ! You're Stefani Symons!\n\n[As STEFANI.]\n\nKaren, I'm sorry that the story didn't\u2014\n\n[To STEFANI.]\n\nAnd I'm sorry about your job.\n\n[As STEFANI.]\n\nDon't be. I landed a gig with Collegehumor.com two hours later. Between us, the Times is going to be bought out by Collegehumor.com within the month anyway.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nStefani snaps a couple more shots. . . . She promises to put them on College Humor's site later in the evening. . . . Screw it. If I'm going to be here at all I should dance, damnit, dance . . . I give over to the wild spirit around me. . . . Pouring vodka into my Red Bull. . . . In the ladies' room taping on smart-drug skin patches. . . . Maybe I do need to throw aside my dreams. . . . Maybe it's time to move to Jersey. . . . The stall door swings open\u2014it's Xavier. He glares at me. \"Fuck polyamory,\" I mouth at him. . . . Ten minutes later I'm leaning against a wall. . . . Groups of people\u2014anyone passing by\u2014is writing on my legs, my back, my arms. . . . I'm being inscribed. . . . Someone is drawing on my tummy. A girl with pink hair stands up.\n\n[As JESS.]\n\nMs. Grenke, please don't tell my parents you saw me here.\n\n[To audience.]\n\nIt's Jess, the arty girl from Frank Gehry High!\n\n[To JESS.]\n\nHow'd you know about this scene?\n\n[As JESS.]\n\nEverybody knows Metuchen is where it's at. I get out to the Big Box every week. I take the bus and change into my party clothes at the Metuchen bus station. God, it's so depressing to have to live in Manhattan! Did you see what I wrote on your left arm?\n\n[To self.]\n\n\"You are my role model.\"\n\n[To JESS.]\n\nReally?\n\n[To audience.]\n\nWe share a big hug. Jess looks deep into my eyes. We're naked to each other emotionally, spiritually, artistically. Then she can't help herself and bolts.\n\n[As JESS.]\n\nI gotta get home to boring Manhattan. But I admire you so much I'm gonna write about how great you are on my blog. I get tons of hits!\n\n[Calling to JESS.]\n\nSweetie, I haven't done any art in four years!\n\n[As JESS.]\n\nDon't you know what you are to me? What you represent? Check out your other arm!\n\n[Reads writing on the arm.]\n\n\"Karen Grenke has stayed in New York. That is the performance. You are the art.\"\n\n[Inspired, KAREN waves bye-bye to JESS, then climbs stairs to desktop as music gets louder.]\n\n[To self, audience.]\n\nI am my own art form. My life . . . My art. . . .\n\n[Up on the desk now, music gets louder; KAREN dances.]\n\n[To audience.]\n\nOkay, so immortality isn't in the cards. That dream is dead. But tomorrow I'll be the last artist in New York City once again And I'll be showing up on College Humor, and on a very cool girl's blog.\n\n[Pulls string attached to large can of Red Bull mounted on ceiling. Glitter falls from it all over her.]\n\n[To audience.]\n\nThere's always the chance that I could go viral!\n\n[Dances ecstatically, finally released.]\n\nscene eight\n\n[Music fades, house lights come up. KAREN shifts back into being \"herself,\" awkwardly getting down off desk and picking up a stack of flyers.]\n\nKAREN [To audience.] Thank you very much for watching my performance.\n\nANNOUNCER VOICE [Interrupts.] Thank you for joining us at this final show at PS 122.\n\n[KAREN waves to stage manager to shut the announcer up, but construction crew guys are coming onstage to initiate demolition. KAREN gives them an outraged look, hurries to audience, and starts handing out her flyers.]\n\nJoin me on May 16, 2019, at 10 p.m. for a talk-back about the important issues that I've raised in this piece! Will there be any art at all in Manhattan by that time?\n\nANNOUNCER Please ignore the artist and begin filing in an orderly fashion out the doors so that the construction crew can begin the transformation of this ratty disgrace of a building into a gleaming new retail space\u2014\n\nKAREN We'll be meeting on the comer just outside no matter what blue glass piece of shit the fuckers have turned this building into! Please show up and help celebrate our legacy! Help me do it so that art will not be forgotten!\n\nANNOUNCER Be sure not to forget your personal belongings, and remember to return to enjoy Chase/Wachovia\u2013Whole Foods, a new concept in banking/shopping pleasure, designed from the bottom up to suit you, and the way you tell us that you like to live. . . . \nPamela Sneed\n\nKong\n\nfrom\n\nThe Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006\n\nKong\u2014Part 1\n\nHands folded\n\nHead down\n\nShoulders slouched\n\nwhich I've told my students in the University to never do\n\nbut that was at a time when I earnestly believed\n\nand I now I stand here wearing big Dumbo ears\n\na pig snout\n\ncarrying shards of a broken heart\n\nlooking like a cartoon character in a medieval play\n\nbecause I earnestly believed\n\nbut before I go there\n\nI want to talk about that last Star Wars movie which\n\nthey promised was a final installment\n\nBut we'll see\n\nall I can say is it really sucked\n\nexcept for the part near the end\n\nwhere you see the transformation of Luke Skywalker's dad\n\nAnakin\n\ninto the evil Darth Vader\n\nHis innocence destroyed\n\ncrawling through some molten lava\u2014limbless\n\nHe looked like a soldier\n\nor something out of a war movie\n\none of those battered survivors\n\nwho has left his child self behind him\n\nBut, I earnestly believed\n\nAnd now all I can do is carry myself/battle scarred\n\nto some semblance of safety\n\nAll I can do is hold on like a survivor of the tsunami tidal wave\n\nHold on to a tree, a pipe, anything, my papers from an\n\nold life\n\nverifying who I am\n\nwait for the storm to pass\n\na shoulder to lean on/anything\n\nBut I earnestly believed.\n\nYou know when I left my parents' house\n\nthe small town for a big city\n\nand experienced all accoutrements of a counter culture\n\nI earnestly believed\n\nqueer boys\n\nqueer nations\n\nnose rings\n\ndread locks\n\nmuscle shirts on girls\n\ndykes with nipple rings\n\npunk rockers\n\nwere all some semblance of an alternative\n\nI believed poet Glen James\n\nwho called us the sissified warriors\n\nI believed when Marlon Riggs premiered the groundbreaking\n\nfilm\n\nfor Black Gay Men, Tongues Untied.\n\nI believed Audre Lorde when she said in synopsis if we\n\ndon't do our work\n\nOne day women's blood will congeal upon a dead planet.\n\nI believed poet Assotto Saint in all 6 ft. 4 of his cross\n\ndressing self\n\nI believed when he stood up at the funeral of Donald\n\nWoods\n\nand said in essence we must tell the truth about who\n\nwe really are.\n\nI believed Black lesbian writer Pat Parker when she declared\n\nstraights are okay, but why must they be so blatant\n\nI earnestly believed when my child eyes almost twenty\n\nyears ago\n\nfirst saw bisexual poet June Jordan\n\nand the first thing she said was this country needs a\n\nrevolution.\n\nI believed when I first read Christos, the Lesbian Native\n\nAmerican author of Not Vanishing and Dream On\n\nwhen she wrote of AIM, the American Indian Movement,\n\nand said\n\n\"when I first heard you'd surrendered you don't know how\n\nmuch\n\nI needed for you to go on.\"\n\nI believed ten\u2013fifteen years ago when the Hetrick-Martin\n\nInstitute for queer youth\n\nwas still just a one- or two-room shack\n\nlocated on the Westside Highway across from the piers\n\nand no one invested in our lives\n\nI believed even as an almost child working in that\n\nagency\n\nwhen many of us who pioneered were like slaves,\n\nsingularly doing the work\n\nof twenty, thirty people\n\nI believed in Nelson and Winnie premiering even at the\n\nheight of apartheid with their fists\n\nand heads held high\n\nI believed before Jennifer, Jessica whatever her name\n\nis on The L Word.\n\nI believed even after they found Angel my student at\n\nHetrick-Martin murdered\n\na handsome boy chopped into pieces\n\nYeah when they were still pulling queers out of the\n\nriver there downtown\n\nDead from queer bashings and suicide\n\nAnd then Kiki another bright young black queer\n\nwas murdered in the Meat District\n\nBefore him was Marsha P. Johnson, a drag queen and\n\nneighborhood fixture\n\nbashed and thrown into those waters\n\nEven after they buried brethren artists and poets,\n\nEssex, Rory, Don, Donald, Craig, Alan\n\nAnd cancer got Audre, June and Pat Parker\n\nI kept on believing change was possible.\n\nI read the literature\n\nhad hope\n\nI lived in America after all.\n\nI've sort of joined the middle class.\n\nI believed when I first saw a woman's silhouette in\n\n5 a.m. light.\n\nI believed kissing her nakedness\n\nthere'd be honor there.\n\nI earnestly believed.\n\nYou know this is an aside but\n\nI'm tired of the previews for that latest King Kong\n\nmovie\n\nTired of all the actors looking to the sky with that\n\nsame\n\nperplexed look,\n\nThat over the top awesome\n\nbecause King Kong is computer generated\n\nthey can't see him\n\nso they're really acting\n\nand you know King is a thin veil for a Black man\n\nAmerica assuaging its racial fears.\n\nStill, I'll pay ten, or twelve or twenty with popcorn\n\nto see it.\n\nThere was a time too when I earnestly believed in\n\ntheatre\n\nin performance\n\nBelieved I'd be a great big overnight success\n\nthat courage, innovation, tenacity would be recognized.\n\nI earnestly believed\n\nAnd I know there are those who will say I'm bitter\n\nmislabel me\n\nsay I spew hatred\n\nam raining down on their parade\n\nThat I lack optimism\n\nwhen I try to say there is another America\n\nwhen I try to say things are not equal\n\nwhen I try telling them there are crimes\n\nbeing carried out with doctors\n\nmany of them are modern criminals\n\nwho don't deserve white coats\n\nThere's another final solution that's occurring\n\nright under our noses\n\nand it's gonna get tougher and tougher\n\nand tougher and tougher to hide the bodies\n\nI earnestly believed\n\nSaddam Hussein has been tried and convicted\n\nbut maybe it's just my secret silly wish\n\nI keep wanting them to try George Bush\n\nI keep wanting those feared 30,000 Iraqi soldiers dead\n\nI want their bodies to rise up\n\nwalk to the White House\n\nspeak against this senseless war\n\nFor them to matter\n\nto someone besides their mothers\n\nI want those countless Americans killed little Black and\n\nLatino boys\n\nI want all their lovers\n\nBoth women and men to tell what they've lost.\n\nI want to see something like the truth and\n\nreconciliation\n\nhearings after apartheid\n\nwhere this country must admit to committing atrocities\n\nI want those millions of Americans living without health care\n\nafter working an entire lifetime . . .\n\nI want seniors who can't afford their prescriptions\n\nI want my parents to go\n\nI want America's poor\n\nones who know about when hospitals and doctors\n\npull the plug on those who can't pay\n\nI want the family of that little Black girl in New Orleans\n\nwhose body was found floating facedown\n\nstill wearing pink short shorts and a pink squeegee in\n\nher hair.\n\nAgain, in New Orleans, I want the son whose mother\n\ndied during the floods\n\nwaiting for governmental help,\n\nI want everyone to see the eyes of my student,\n\na black girl whose family is from the Ninth Ward in New\n\nOrleans\n\nand how she looked the day in class when she said\n\nthey won't give us back our houses\n\nwant everyone to hear my friend when she said Bush\n\ngot up in the middle of the night to sign papers to help Terry\n\nSchiavo\n\nbut did nothing to help the people of New Orleans\n\nI want every year for those gays and lesbians in New York\n\nduring Gay Pride\n\nto stop dancing on the piers and form a political movement\n\nI want all those voiceless people we're turning our\n\nbacks on\n\nright now in the Darfur region of Africa to speak\n\nAnd thank you Oprah, Thank you Bono, Thank you Jon Bon\n\nJovi\n\nfor your generous donations\n\nbut the system has to change\n\nYes, there was a time when I earnestly believed\n\nPeople get so defensive when I try telling them\n\nwhat's happening systemically\n\nwhen I say under this regime censorship has increased.\n\nArtists no longer have spaces to work\n\nnor money\n\nand it's not just all about personal will\n\npulling oneself up by a bootstrap\n\nThere is marginalization and silencing\n\noccurring across the board more than in other eras\n\nperhaps this is a return to.\n\nI honestly believed once that there were people more\n\nenlightened\n\nthat competition and jealousy couldn't destroy our\n\nworld.\n\nI believed helping a neighbor\n\nwas more important than money\n\nI earnestly believed\n\nYes, by now I'm probably like someone in a horror film\n\nwho gets killed off easy\n\nwasn't careful enough\n\nKept running toward instead of away\n\nfrom the monster\n\nThe one who stayed in the haunted house\n\nyou know who goes into an attic or a basement\n\nto investigate what's going on\n\nwhen they should have been long gone, the one who\n\nstays in an abusive cycle\n\nbelieves the partner will change\n\nThe one who hasn't read all the signals\n\nwalks into a thieves den\n\nlike on the old 42nd St.\n\nwith money hanging out of their pockets.\n\nI earnestly believed like Anne Frank in human good.\n\nI believed the slogans I read in kindergarten\n\nthat policemen help you across the street\n\nwill return lost children to their parents.\n\nMaybe I'm as naive as MLK\n\nwhen he said he had a dream of what America could\n\nbecome\n\nMaybe he isn't here to witness\n\njust how tough things have become\n\nIntegration is now only a small step or\n\nsmall slice of what we need.\n\nYesterday I sat down in the sun\n\nand let it beam across my face\n\nI prayed like Martin Luther King\n\nI could live one day in freedom\n\nOne day not racked by pain or injustice.\n\nI felt like Harriet who lived in slavery\n\nJust one day wanting to feel freedom's kiss\n\nAnd caress.\n\nKong\u2014Part 2\n\nI have to go back in my mind\n\nBecause I saw that Kong movie last night\n\nIt was spectacular\n\nexcept for the first hour which dragged on\n\nand I almost walked out when the crew got to\n\nSkull Island aka Africa\n\nwhere Kong comes from\n\nand I saw all those white oil painted actors playing natives\n\nwhen everyone knows lots of Black actors need jobs\n\nbut the movie might have been even more offensive\n\nif they'd cast them\n\nAnyway, this Kong was an alpha if I've ever seen one\u2014\n\nHe was like the Zulu warriors handling his business in\n\nthe jungle\n\nDirected by the same guy who directed the Lord of the Rings\n\ntrilogy\n\nthis Kong gets medieval\n\nThere's a part where he snaps the neck and jaw of another\n\nanimal\n\nthen thrusts it aside\n\nleaves the carcass\n\nI mean this computer generated you could never guess was a\n\ncartoon Kong\n\nwas so fierce\n\nThe American government could use him in their war to\n\nfight Iraq\n\nHe could help them find looming terrorist at large\n\nOsama Bin Laden\n\nThey could send him to change history\n\nHe could be like Rambo and try again to singlehandedly\n\nwin the Vietnam War\u2014\n\nLike Donald Trump, Charles Bronson, and Rambo rolled\n\ninto one\n\nThis Kong's got dominion\n\nHe's Shaft, a '70s icon\n\nA private dick/ex-cop dispensing his own brand of\n\nstreet justice\n\nThis Kong is like a Dominican warlord, not at all to be\n\nfucked with\n\nI mean this Kong had that Fay Wray bitch climbing into\n\nhis hand\n\nExcuse me, Naomi Watts\n\nno argument, minimum screaming\n\nWhat is it about sex or attraction to a good woman\n\nthat makes you want to beat your chest, go all\n\nilliterate, yell oonga fucking boonga,\n\njump from the bushes, tie her up, dance with wolves,\n\nunleash your inner self\n\nWell this Kong is pure and unadulterated\n\nHe's some straight-up niggah, no rocks, no chaser\n\nHe's got a little of the fucked-up wild haired Ike\n\nwho told Tina\n\nDon't you ever try to leave me\n\nHe's like Samuel Jackson on a bad day\n\nHave you ever noticed how Sam Jackson, talented actor\n\nthat he is\n\nplays the same character in every movie\n\nHe's perpetually angry\n\nand excuse me for asking but what was he doing in the\n\nStar Wars movie\n\nHe was like speaking Ebonics in space\n\nYou know how every syllable is over exaggerated and\n\ndrawn out\n\nLike M-A-S-T-E-R S-O-L-O\n\nI saw Sam's latest movie last night\n\nProvocatively titled Freedomland.\n\nAll the acting screamed this is an important film\n\ndiscussing race in America.\n\nIt's typical Hollywood fare\n\nwhere complex human emotions\n\ncomplex characters get reduced down to broad sketches\n\nand caricature\n\nnot to mention everyone knows in 2007\n\nparts of America are no better than Soweto during apartheid.\n\nI mean come on I saw that new movie Hustle and Flow\n\nsitting in the all-black audience\n\nIt was like back to days of segregated cinema/produced by\n\nMTV films\n\nabout a ne'er-do-well pimp/who just happens to also be\n\na rapper\n\ntrying to make it in America\n\nThe theme song just won an Academy Award called\n\nIt's hard out here for a pimp,\n\nbut everyone knows it's those who built America\n\nslave labor.\n\nI'll tell you this if you think I'm lying\u2014\n\nStretching about this King Kong, Black man link\n\nOne of the white racist cops yells out to Samuel\n\nJackson's character\n\nwho is also a cop, You're supposed to be lord of the\n\njungle\u2014\n\nand then he points to a young black kid standing by\n\nand says \"So,\n\nwhy aren't you handling this monkey?\"\n\nYou've probably asked by now what's her investment\n\nWhy does she even care\n\nand this is gonna get pretty painful\n\nbecause I don't want to say\n\nThere were times right here in America\n\nwhen I needed simple things like friendship, health care,\n\nlove, resources\n\nAnd I was made to live like an animal\n\nLess than\n\nCaged in\n\nSpeaking of pimps and hos\n\nCan any of us ever forget the way Tina Turner was\n\ntreated by Ike\n\nShe was actually beaten with the heel of his shoe\n\nGames, betrayals, sabotage, competition\n\nConscious and unconscious\n\nAnything he could do to destroy her spirit\n\nNot let her use that powerful beautiful voice she had\n\nExcept as a way for him to make money\n\nI mean real moments where I've felt like this is\n\nCambodia 1975\n\nAnd these are killing fields/like in the movie/the story of\n\nthat skinny war-torn reporter who gets left behind\n\nwhile everyone else escapes\n\nAnd all he tries to do every day is just survive\n\nand I'm not the only one\n\nwith the way things are going\n\nthere will be more and more who'll one day\n\nhave to choose between their breakfast cereal\n\nand taking their own lungs out\n\nand if we don't watch out/this is the fall\n\nthe end of a once great civilization\n\na crumbling empire\n\nI read recently in the paper\n\nThey found one of the Black men, a government official\n\ndead in a ditch\u2014\n\nHe was one of many who helped orchestrate the\n\nRwandan massacre\n\nWe all remember 1994 right\n\n1/2 million dead\n\nBlack tribes in Africa warring against each other\n\nAnd I can't believe I'm saying this about another\n\nhuman being,\n\nBut I'm glad they killed that motherfucker\n\nI'm glad he's dead\n\nI have to go back again because I feel guilty that\n\nearlier I mentioned Cambodia and killing fields\n\nand the nature of that extermination\n\nwas so huge actually an estimated 1.7 million\n\nbut just today I read in the paper about a measure\n\nbeing discussed in the Senate\n\non how to rid the United States of 12 million illegal\n\nimmigrants\n\nand the language they used was rid.\n\nThe thing about this King Kong which differs from the\n\nclassic\n\nis you can see what a great warrior he is\n\nbut a monster too\n\nhe's kind of human/contemplative\n\nHe actually manages in ape talk to sign the word\n\nbeauty\n\nwhen they take him down/chloroform him\n\nit's human beings/white people who look barbaric\n\nwhen they put him on display\n\nand you see his great paws\n\nyou know there isn't a theater big enough to contain\n\nhim\n\nand the chains around his wrists represent all of our\n\ngreatness\n\nboth blacks and whites wrapped up in human bondage\n\nall of our potential that's been lasso'd, corralled\n\nYeah, the only difference is when this Kong\n\nClimbs on top of the Empire State Building to escape\n\nInstead of seeing him shot down\n\nBroken in captivity\n\nThis one, unlike the classic/that unruly inhumane\n\nbeast\n\nThis Kong\u2014you want to be free\n\nKong\u2014Part 3\n\nIt wasn't until I put posters up\n\nhanded out flyers of me, a 6 ft. 2 black woman\n\npresiding over the city in a bra\n\nwhile an image of King Kong lurked in the background\n\ndid I realize how long people had waited to see images of\n\nKong usurped\u2014\n\nto see images we could laugh at/point fingers at/subvert.\n\nIt wasn't until then I realized how long King Kong had been\n\nlurking\n\nin our cultural history/in our shadows/our shame.\n\nMost of us know where he came from\n\nfrom that birth of a nation era\n\nborn in 1933 from that great depression\n\nwhere the Klu Klux Klan held dominance\n\nnot more than fifty years out of slavery\n\nhe was the story of slaves/a savage\n\nbrought here in chains/driven by his desire for a white\n\nwoman.\n\nHe is the myth/the fear\n\njust two years after the Scottsboro boys/twelve Black men\n\nwere accused of raping a white woman.\n\nWe continue to see him over and over in our movies\n\nHe is the subject of To Kill a Mockingbird\n\nand the film just cause\n\nhe is the recent real-life story of a garbage man accused of\n\nraping\n\nand murdering a white woman in a upper-middle-class\n\nneighborhood\n\nas her five-year-old daughter stood by\n\nhe is the accused wilding wolf pack that went after\n\na Central Park jogger\n\nAnd you wouldn't believe the responses I got\n\nfrom people who weren't even followers of performance art\n\nwho weren't black clad\n\nwith purple hair or shaved heads\n\nlike the black security guard at LIU where I teach\n\nwho never gets involved in anything\n\nsaw the poster and said to me you go girl\n\nMiss Foxy Brown, Cleopatra Jones\n\nand then gives me a hug\n\nand then the young black boy who works behind the counter\n\nin the school cafeteria\n\nwho recognizes me from the poster\n\nHe says, Your piece looks interesting\n\nand asks if I'm going to be playing King Kong or Fay Wray\n\nand then the secretary in the school where I work\n\nactually pulls notes she wrote out of her desk drawer she\n\nwrote\n\nafter seeing the Kong poster and says\n\nI think he's a gentle giant.\n\nAnd to her he is a symbol of good.\n\nThen there are the more radical/expected/unexpected\n\nresponses\n\nlike from the genteel black screenplay writer on my block\n\nwhom after I tell him casually I'm doing a piece on Kong\n\nhis face breaks into a disdain and grimace\n\nas if he'd gone to the cinema and been betrayed\n\nI brought my niece to see that new Kong film\n\nI was so angry after I left/I wrote the producers a letter\n\nwhich reminds me of another black man on my block/an\n\ninvestment banker\n\nwhom I've only ever seen planting flowers on the street\n\nin boxes that aren't even his\n\nhe is genteel and middle class\n\nand I thought to ask him what he thought\n\nabout what happened to blacks during the floods in New\n\nOrleans\n\nand his face breaks into a Rubik's Cube I've never seen before\n\nsuddenly he thrusts his hands into the sky and starts to yell\n\nIt was wrong what they did to those people/it was wrong!\n\nAnd all of this is coming from people\n\nwho would consider themselves to be ordinary people\n\nnot the lefties or revolutionaries\n\nEven Donald Trump said the other day on television\n\nPresident Bush has grossly mismanaged this country\n\nand they found no weapons of mass destruction\n\nand it all reminds me/shows me how under this regime\n\nyears of living under it has made a lot of us, everyday people\n\ninto heroes.\n\nBut the flower guy reminds me of something Audre Lorde\n\nsaid\n\nin the book Our Dead Behind Us\n\nShe like the flower guy is gardening\n\nbut thinking of the violent deaths of black people in America\n\nand then in her lover's country which is South Africa,\n\nAnd she says,\n\nMy hand comes down like a brown vice over the marigolds\n\nreckless through despair\n\nwe were two black women touching our flame\n\nand we left our dead behind us.\n\nSomeone else sends me an article\n\nabout King Kong written by a man with my father's name\n\nJames Snead\n\nSomeone else, a young white girl when she hears me recite\n\nKing Kong\n\nsays excitedly and angrily\n\nYou should talk about how the FBI was an organization\n\nbuilt primarily to destroy radical movements.\n\nLook what they did to the Panthers.\n\nSomeone else calls Peter Jackson a fascist\n\nand I'm actually afraid to tell him I like the Lord of the Rings\n\ntrilogy.\n\nSomeone else says you mentioned Top Model\n\nwill you talk about that\n\nand I say I do in another piece\n\nand then I try to prod people as gently as I can\n\nand say these are your stories to tell now.\n\nI simply pressed buttons, opened a door\n\nbut then something else comes to mind\n\nthat's unexpected after all is said and done.\n\nSomething that still haunts\n\nI keep telling everyone who works on Kong\n\nthe video person and poster designer\n\nmake sure there's a skyline\n\nwe need images of the skyline it's important\n\nsince 9/11 I say the skyline/the city Kong stomped over\n\nhas changed\n\nI'm aware now whether it's shown or not in pictures\n\nsomething in our skyline is missing\n\nPoet Sekou Sundiata said America lost her innocence\n\nand it's true\n\nit's like a jack-o'-lantern\n\nsomeone took a knife and gauged out\n\na huge hunk of who we are\n\ngone is our candyland\n\nour jungle gym/our slide/our Tarzan-like swing\n\nour playground of yesteryear\n\nPoet Sekou Sundiata said America lost her innocence\n\nand it's true.\n\nAnd all I can say revisiting Kong trouncing through\n\nall of the footage\n\nsuddenly the image of a great goliath\n\nbeing taken down by tiny planes\n\nhas entirely new and different meaning.\ncredits and permissions\n\nGrateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:\n\nAlmendarez, Liliana. Glass Knives (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 1994 and 2006 by Liliana Almendarez. From The Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to liliana.almendarez@gmail.com or <http://lilylazuli.blogspot.com>.\n\nArmstrong, James. The True Author of the Plays Formerly Attributed to Mister William Shakespeare Revealed to the World for the First Time by Miss Delia Bacon. Copyright \u00a9 2009 by James Armstrong. From The Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to armstrongwrites@gmail.com.\n\nAronson, Billy. Little Red Riding Hood (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 1993 by Billy Aronson. From The Best American Short Plays 1992\u20131993.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to www.billyaronson.com.\n\nChapman, Clay McLeod. birdfeeder. One of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup, copyright \u00a9 2008 by John Guare, Neil LaBute, Quincy Long, Laura Shaine, Daniel Frederick Levin, Clay McLeod Chapman, and Daniel Gallant. From The Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to cmcpumpkinpie@gmail.com.\n\nCruz, Migdalia. Dreams of Home (excerpts). Copyright \u00a9 1991 by Migdalia Cruz. From Best American Short Plays 1991\u20131992.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Ms. Peregrine Whittlesey at pwwagy@aol.com, or 279 Central Park West, New York, NY 10024.\n\nCunningham, Laura Shaine. Web Cam Woman. One of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup, copyright \u00a9 2008 by John Guare, Neil LaBute, Quincy Long, Laura Shaine, Daniel Frederick Levin, Clay McLeod Chapman, and Daniel Gallant. From The Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to laurashaine@gmail.com.\n\nFischer, Eileen. The Perfect Medium (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2008 by Eileen Fischer. From The Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to daimon164@yahoo.com.\n\nFrost, Polly, and Ray Sawhill. The Last Artist in New York City. Copyright \u00a9 2009 by Polly Frost and Ray Sawhill. From The Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to pollyfrost.com, or raysawhill.com.\n\nHughes, Jill Elaine. The Devil Is in the Details. Copyright \u00a9 2005 by Jill Hughes. From The Best American Short Plays 2004\u20132005.\n\nJarcho, Julia. The Highwayman (excerpts). Copyright \u00a9 2006 by Julia Jarcho. From Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to jarcho@gmail.com.\n\nJonusas, Zilvinas. The Cleaning (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2007 by Zilvinas Jonusas. From The Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to zilvinas.jonusas@gmail.com.\n\nKraar, Adam. Hearts and Minds (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2007 by Adam Kraar. From The Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Elaine Devlin Literary, Inc., c/o Plus Entertainment, 20 West 23rd Street, New York, NY 10010, (212) 206-8160, edevlinlit@aol.com.\n\nKranes, David. Going In (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 1985 by David Kranes. From The Best Short Plays 1986.\n\nLaBute, Neil. Love at Twenty. One of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup, copyright \u00a9 2008 by John Guare, Neil LaBute, Quincy Long, Laura Shaine, Daniel Frederick Levin, Clay McLeod Chapman, and Daniel Gallant. From The Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Joyce Ketay, The Gersh Agency, 41 Madison Ave, 33rd Floor, New York, NY 10010, (212) 997-1818.\n\nLevin, Daniel Frederick. A Glorious Evening. One of five monologues collected by Daniel Gallant under the heading Five Story Walkup, copyright \u00a9 2008 by John Guare, Neil LaBute, Quincy Long, Laura Shaine, Daniel Frederick Levin, Clay McLeod Chapman, and Daniel Gallant. From The Best American Short Plays 2007\u20132008.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to danielflevin007@gmail.com or www.danielflevin.com.\n\nLevy, Bruce. Sada (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2004 by Bruce Levy. From The Best American Short Plays 2002\u20132003. Inquiries concerning rights should be addressed to briane@mindspring.com.\n\nLovelace, Carey. The Stormy Waters, the Long Way Home. From The Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009. Copyright \u00a9 2009 by Carey Lovelace.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Evan Ross Katz at evanrosskatz@gmail.com, or Loose Change Productions, 105 Duane Street, Suite 40D, New York, NY 10007.\n\nMack, Carol K. The Courier (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2005 by Carol K. Mack. From The Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to www.carolmack.com.\n\nMadden, Dano. Beautiful American Soldier (excerpts). Copyright \u00a9 2006 by Dano Madden. From The Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to danomadden@gmail.com.\n\nMaloney, Peter. Leash. Copyright \u00a9 2005 by Peter Maloney. From The Best American Short Plays 2003\u20132004. Witness. Copyright \u00a9 2005 and 2007 by Peter Maloney. From The Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Leading Artists, Inc., 145 West 45th Street, Suite 1000, New York,   \nNY 10036.\n\nMaruzzo, Joe. Bricklayer's Poet (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2008   \nby Joe Maruzzo. From The Best American Short Plays   \n2007\u20132008.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to jpoetbrick@aol.com.\n\nMedoff, Mark. DeBoom: Who Gives This Woman? (excerpts). Copyright \u00a9 2009 by Mark Medoff. From The Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to markmedoff@comcast.net.\n\nMiller, Susan. Reading List (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 2005 by Susan Miller. From The Best American Short Plays 2004\u20132005.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to www.susanmillerplaywright.com.\n\nMollenkamp, Julie Rae (Pratt). In Conclusive Woman. Copyright   \n\u00a9 2006 by Julie Rae (Pratt) Mollenkamp. From The Best American Short Plays 2006\u20132007.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to mollenkamp@ucmo.edu.\n\nPulos, Rick. Decades Apart: Reflections of Three Gay Men. Copyright \u00a9 2009 by Rick Pulos. From The Best American Short Plays 2008\u20132009.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to rickpulos@yahoo.com.\n\nRibman, Ronald. The Cannibal Masque (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 1995 by Ronald Ribman. From The Best American Short Plays 1994\u20131995.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to ronribman@gmail.com.\n\nSchisgal, Murray. The Artist and the Model. Copyright \u00a9 1994 by Murray Schisgal. From The Best American Short Plays 1994\u20131995. The Cowboy, the Indian and the Fervent Feminist (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 1993 by Murray Schisgal. From The Best American Short Plays 1992\u20131993. The Man Who Couldn't Stop Crying (excerpt). Copyright \u00a9 1997 by Murray Schisgal. From The Best American Short Plays 1997\u20131998. Used by Permission.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Zachary Schisgal at zach@theschisgalagency.com.\n\nSneed, Pamela. Kong. Copyright \u00a9 2006 by Pamela Sneed. From The Best American Short Plays 2005\u20132006.\n\nInquiries concerning rights should be addressed to pamela_sneed@yahoo.com.\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Gary Jonas - Jonathan Shade 10 - Timeless Gods [retail]"}, "text": " \n### Table of Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nmailing list\n\nDEDICATION\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nOne-Way Ticket to Midnight\n\nAbout the Author\nTIMELESS GODS\n\nThe Tenth Jonathan Shade Novel\n\nby Gary Jonas \nTo keep up with new releases, sign up for the Gary Jonas Preferred Readers List and get a FREE ebook copy of Gary's first novel, One-Way Ticket to Midnight.\n\n# DEDICATION\n\nThis one is for Edward Bryant, writer, mentor, friend. He left us too soon.\n\n# CHAPTER ONE\n\n\"You're not welcome here,\" the manager said, and I didn't punch him in the mouth because the Norse god Thor stood behind him. The thunder god held his massive club hammer and glared at us.\n\nKelly, Esther, and I stood in the alcove before the entrance to Club Eternity. From the unpleasant aroma, I suspect someone had been using the bottom of the stairwell as a urinal. I held the vajra weapon in one hand. It was basically a club with ribbed spherical heads at either end. The ribs could open up and fire energy bolts like lightning, but it was dormant at the moment. It belonged to a god named Indra, but it was mine to use for now. The manager glanced at it, but stood his ground with confidence.\n\nThe manager didn't worry me. I could have kicked his ass with my eyes closed.\n\nThor, on the other hand, could kill me without breaking a sweat.\n\n\"Give me your bracelets and the vajra weapon,\" the manager said. \"Then get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\"You can have the bracelets,\" I said. \"But I'm not finished with the weapon.\" The bracelets were our link to the club. Without them, we couldn't get here. Club Eternity was essentially a bar for immortals tucked away in a pocket dimension.\n\n\"You promised the weapon to me.\"\n\n\"I'm not done with it,\" I said raising it up to aim the business end at his face. The ribs opened into spikes that I could drive into him, but it also whirred to life so I could fire a bolt of lightning at him.\n\nThor grinned. He slapped his hammer into his palm, ready for a fight.\n\nThe manager considered. He had Thor on his side. Could Thor kill me before I killed the manager? Thor obviously liked the odds, but the weapon wasn't aimed at him.\n\nKelly stepped in front of me. She smiled at the manager as she pushed my arm to the right. Now the vajra was aimed at Thor's face.\n\nThor's grin faded.\n\nKelly spoke to the manager. \"If Jonathan fires the weapon, Thor will be blasted into the bar. Before he crashes through the door, though, I will have snapped your neck.\"\n\n\"Thor will kill you all.\"\n\n\"If he survives, you're probably right,\" Kelly said. \"But you'll be dead before that happens.\"\n\n\"I'm already dead,\" Esther said.\n\nThor reached up and placed his palm over the business end of the vajra. \"I shall take this and\u2014\"\n\nHe didn't get another word in because I fired the weapon.\n\nThe energy bolt blasted the living shit out of his hand. The backlash from the blast shot sideways and incinerated the manager. Kelly jumped backward and ducked. The rest of the energy shot right back at me, but as it was magical, it washed over me like a bright light. Esther, being a ghost, didn't have to worry as everything passed harmlessly through her.\n\nThor shook his stump, cussed in three different languages, as he shook his arm about. The hand grew back and he clenched his fist a few times. He glared at me then swung his mighty hammer to smack me in the chest, but Esther darted in front of me and solidified. The hammer stuck her and drove her into me. We crashed against the wall and I slid to the floor, dazed.\n\nEsther blew a raspberry at Thor. \"Is that the best you got, you old palooka? I oughta sock you right in the kisser!\"\n\nThor swung the hammer, and Esther popped away and reappeared behind him. Thor, clearly expecting to connect, went off balance with the swing, and Esther shoved him. He staggered, but didn't fall down until Kelly jumped in with a spin kick to his head.\n\n\"Don't hit my friends,\" Kelly said. \"I don't care how hot you are.\" She ginned. \"And you're really hot.\"\n\n\"You dare to strike me?\" Thor said.\n\nShe gave a solid snap kick to his chin, driving him to the floor again. \"Does that turn you on?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Because it's kinda turning me on,\" she said and kicked him again.\n\nI managed to pick myself up off the floor.\n\nThor rolled to his feet, held his hammer aloft and was about to say something when a flash of bright light made us all turn away for a moment. When I looked back, a slender woman in an old Roman gown stood between Kelly and Thor. She had long, dark hair and exquisite cheek bones. Her soft white gown flowed over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. A gold belt encircled her waist.\n\n\"That will be quite enough,\" she said. Her voice was calm.\n\nThor lowered his hammer and stepped back. \"As you wish,\" he said.\n\n\"Who are you?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"I'm the owner of Club Eternity,\" she said. \"You may call me Decima.\"\n\nShe held up one hand and the bracelets Kelly and I wore snapped off our wrists and floated over to her.\n\n\"Your membership in the club has been revoked,\" she said. \"You may take the stairs here,\" she motioned to the right. \"When you ascend, you will find yourself in Tulsa, Oklahoma. We will wait until you're on the sidewalk before we shift our dimensional alignment. You won't find us again.\"\n\n\"Just like that?\" I asked.\n\nShe smiled. \"You should be thanking me for not ending your life, Mr. Shade. You killed my manager.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" I said. \"Thor caused that.\"\n\n\"I saw what happened,\" she said. \"I also made an inquiry about you.\"\n\n\"That can't be good.\"\n\n\"It's worse than you know. The Men of Anubis are coming for you, and they don't have my sense of fair play when it comes to mutiny and handling enemies.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I asked.\n\n\"Surely you've heard of me,\" she said.\n\nI didn't take the bait with the Shirley joke. Instead, I shrugged. See? Old guys can learn new tricks. It just takes a few lifetimes.\n\n\"I am Decima,\" she said again.\n\n\"Yeah, I got that the first time,\" I said.\n\n\"I am the root source for the word decimate.\"\n\n\"So you enjoy destroying everything?\"\n\nShe grumbled something in Italian then switched to English and spoke in a clipped tone. \"You stupid Americans always get that wrong.\"\n\n\"Enlighten me.\"\n\n\"In my youth, I was the one who came up with the way to handle mutinous legions in Rome.\"\n\nI gave her a blank stare.\n\n\"I would have one out of every ten men slain to teach them a lesson. The remaining ninety percent would be on better behavior after that. So it's not total destruction. It's ten percent. Deci means ten. Got it?\"\n\n\"Guess you've got a bee up your butt about that one. I promise to always use decimate correctly just to make you happy.\"\n\n\"You won't live long enough. As I said, the Men of Anubis are coming. And they are going to destroy you. All of you. There's no place you can hide. There's nothing you can do. So you need to get out of here because I don't want them destroying my club in search of your soon-to-be-dead self.\"\n\n\"So they'd destroy the entire club? They wouldn't just decimate it?\"\n\n\"You're trying my patience, Mr. Shade,\" Decima said. \"Vacate the premises or I'll have Thor throw you out.\"\n\n\"I don't work for you,\" Thor said. \"I was helping the manager for a free drink and the chance to hit someone.\"\n\nKelly gave Thor a nod and held her hand like a phone. \"Call me,\" she said.\n\nThor raised an eyebrow and grinned. \"Perhaps I will.\"\n\n\"How many people work at Club Eternity?\" I asked. \"Ten? Twenty?\"\n\n\"Twenty-three.\"\n\n\"Damn,\" I said. \"I killed your manager and I was going to invite Thor to come with us, but it wouldn't quite decimate your staff, especially since Thor made it clear he doesn't work for you.\"\n\n\"Are you sure you want to get cute with me?\" she asked.\n\n\"There aren't ten people in my legion,\" I said. \"That means you can't decimate us.\"\n\nShe narrowed her gaze and pointed to the exit. \"Go.\"\n\nI nodded to Thor. \"You like to fight. Want to come with us? We could use a guy like you.\"\n\n\"I could use a guy like you,\" Kelly said.\n\nHe looked Kelly up and down and licked his lips. What a perv. \"I could stand to be used by you. I like the way you dish out punishment, woman.\"\n\n\"Kelly.\"\n\n\"Kelly,\" he said and raised an eyebrow. \"Will you punish me some more?\"\n\n\"Definitely,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"What do you say, big guy?\" I asked.\n\n\"I love women, and I love to fight. Supply me with drink and I'm in.\"\n\nAnd that's how we got a thunder god to join the team.\n\n# CHAPTER TWO\n\nWe stepped from Club Eternity into downtown Tulsa. It was early evening and couples walked arm-in-arm toward trendy restaurants. The air was crisp, but I was warm in my big coat. Thor didn't notice the cold. He wore a short tunic with furry vest over it. His brown trousers tucked into fur topped boots. His head was crowned with a silver horned helmet.\n\n\"I like Tulsa,\" Thor said.\n\n\"You do?\" I asked.\n\n\"I spent a month here in 1995. There are amazing thunderstorms here.\"\n\n\"And tornadoes,\" I said.\n\nKelly moved ahead of us. \"We should see about getting shelter for the night,\" she said.\n\n\"I like tornadoes,\" Thor said.\n\n\"I'll make a note,\" I said and started to cross the street toward a hotel.\n\nEsther took my hand and leaned against me as I walked, but Thor stopped.\n\nHalfway across the street, I took my hand back and turned toward Thor. \"Are you coming?\"\n\n\"I'm waiting for you to write down the fact that I like tornadoes,\" Thor said. \"In fact, I think you should make notes of all the things I like. I shall speak them, and you shall write them down.\"\n\n\"I'm not your personal scribe.\"\n\n\"Then I hereby dub thee Scribe of Thor.\" He stepped into the street, patted me on the shoulder, and continued after Kelly.\n\nI turned and ran into Esther. I was so used to walking through her that it caught me off guard. She smiled and reached for my hand again, but I moved past her before I realized what she was doing. \"Watch out, Esther,\" I said.\n\n\"Sorry,\" she said.\n\nNot quite what I was expecting. The walk sign flashed don't walk, so I trotted the rest of the way across the street.\n\n\"Anyone have any money?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"I'm flat broke,\" I said.\n\nEsther shook her head. \"Don't look at me.\" She mumbled something that sounded like, \"I'm invisible to you anyway,\" but I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. She moved away and Kelly and Thor were talking.\n\n\"How about you, Thor?\" Kelly asked. \"Can you afford to pay for a few hotel rooms so we can get some sleep? Maybe buy some food or something?\"\n\n\"I do not keep earth currency on my person, but the last time I was here, there were boxes called ATMs. I can always get money from one of those machines.\"\n\n\"Cool. My account was cleaned out buying access to Club Eternity,\" I said. \"There should be an ATM around here somewhere.\"\n\nKelly pulled out her phone. \"Closest ATM?\"\n\n\"Okay,\" the phone said, \"here's what I found for closest ATM.\"\n\n\"I want to get one of those,\" Thor said.\n\n\"It's an iPhone,\" I said.\n\n\"I haven't spent time in this realm since the nineties. An iPhone,\" he said.\"I like it. Write that down.\"\n\nKelly looked at the screen. \"There's an ATM a block north at a bar called Jacob's Hoot 'n Holler.\" Kelly stared at her phone.\n\n\"Something wrong?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"You know I'm not one to run from a fight.\"\n\n\"You run toward trouble,\" I said. \"It's one of the things I love about you.\"\n\n\"I like fighting and killing, but I'm not suicidal.\"\n\n\"What are you saying?\"\n\n\"I'm with you in this no matter what you decide,\" she said.\n\n\"But?\"\n\nShe hesitated.\"But if the Men of Anubis could find us, they'd have been waiting for us.If not at Club Eternity, then wherever and whenever we left the club.\"\n\n\"That proves they're not all-powerful,\" I said.\"Means we have a chance.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Kelly said.\n\nI got the impression she wanted to say more, but she didn't get the chance.\n\n\"You know what I know?\" Thor asked.\n\n\"What?\" I asked.\n\n\"I know that I'm hungry,\" he said. \"If the lovely wench will get us a table in the restaurant over yonder, Jonathan and I will go get some money from the ATM box. Order me a large steak, and tell them to make it so rare it screams when I cut into it.\"\n\n\"One steak, bloody rare,\" Kelly said. \"And to drink?\"\n\n\"Ale.\"\n\n\"Jonathan?\"\n\n\"A steak and beer sounds good to me. Anything dark and on tap. Okay, big guy, let's get some cash.\"\n\n\"How much would you like?\"\n\nMost banks cap the daily withdrawal at five hundred dollars, but some go to a thousand. \"Whatever you can get, I guess.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nJacob's Hoot 'n Holler had a neon sign of a cowboy with a large hat twirling a lasso. The sign buzzed softly.\n\n\"I like that sign,\" Thor said. \"Write that down.\" I followed him into the bar.\n\nBlake Shelton sang \"Some Beach\" on the jukebox. The patrons in the bar were mostly rough cowboy types. Blue jeans and cowboy boots. They didn't wear the boots to look fashionable. They wore them because they worked in them. They wore plaid shirts and sat at the bar or at tables drinking beer or they danced with cowgirls on the narrow strip between tables. A couple of big men played pool in the back.\n\nThor bobbed in time with the music. \"I like this song,\" he said to one of the cowboys.\n\n\"Good for you,\" the man said, looking at Thor's odd clothing. He looked at me in my heavy jacket and snow pants over black boots. I'd just come from the mountains of Tajikistan, so I stood out a bit, too.\n\nThor danced around a couple, and I worried he might grab the girl's ass, but while he looked with admiration, he didn't touch. I eased around them as well.\n\nPeople looked at us and frowned. We were quite the odd pairing.\n\nThe ATM stood next to the hallway leading to the restrooms.\n\n\"Stand back,\" Thor said.\n\nI thought he didn't want me to see his PIN, but he didn't pull out a card. He just grabbed the machine, yanked it off the wall, hammered the corner to create a grip, then tore off the back and pulled out a huge handful of twenty dollar bills. Alarms blared. Thor broke a few wires and the alarms went silent.\n\n\"Is this enough?\" he asked, holding up thousands of dollars.\n\n\"Oh shit,\" I said.\n\n\"Hey!\" the bartender yelled. \"What the hell do you think you're doing?\"\n\n\"I have need of this cash,\" Thor said.\n\n\"Billy!\" the bartender yelled. He pulled a shotgun from beneath the bar and aimed it at Thor, who shoved twenties into the pockets of his trousers. A few bills fluttered to the floor, but he didn't notice.\n\nBilly turned out to be one of the big men at the pool table. He rushed over, pool cue in hand. \"Yeah, boss?\"\n\n\"Keep that son of a bitch there. I'm calling the cops.\"\n\nBilly lowered the pool cue to block Thor's path. \"That's far enough, buddy.\"\n\nThor took the cue from him, snapped it in two and tossed the pieces to the floor.\n\n\"You can't do that!\" the man said stepping in front of Thor.\n\n\"Move or be moved,\" Thor said.\n\n\"That's a cool looking helmet,\" Billy said. \"Too bad it ain't Halloween.\" He tried to push Thor in the chest.\n\nThor didn't budge.\n\nHe grabbed Billy by the throat, lifted him into the air and tossed him across the room. Billy crashed into a table, knocking over two men, an ashtray, and several beer bottles. The table broke under his weight and he hit the ground hard.\n\nThe bartender rushed out from behind the bar. He aimed the shotgun at Thor and fired.\n\nThe blast caught Thor in the stomach.\n\nThor looked down at his now ragged tunic. \"Foolish mortal,\" Thor said and yanked the shotgun away. He snapped the gun in two. \"As you were kind enough to store some money for us, I grant you your life.\"\n\nHe shoved the bartender aside.\n\nFour men started to block him, but Thor walked right through them, knocking them aside.\n\n\"Let's go eat dead animal flesh,\" Thor said with a smile.\n\nI followed him out of the bar.\n\n\"They're calling the cops now,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't care what they do,\" Thor said. \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\"I thought you had a bank account.\"\n\n\"Why would I need a bank account when you people are kind enough to put money in those boxes for me? I can't understand why some people get so upset when I make a withdrawal. Put that in the notebook under things Thor does not like.\"\n\n# CHAPTER THREE\n\nApproaching sirens wailed, so I tugged Thor into an alley.\n\n\"Cops,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't care about cops,\" Thor said.\n\n\"Better to avoid them right now,\" I said. \"We have things to do.\"\n\n\"They won't even delay us. I'll tip over their silly cars, and cast the men aside.\" He raised his hammer.\n\nWithout thinking, I took the hammer away from him. \"My way is better,\" I said.\n\nThor stared at me. \"Give that back.\"\n\nThe hammer was forged by dwarves, and it had a short handle. As I was able to hold it, I assumed it was enchanted, and as magic doesn't faze me, I could wield it.\n\n\"You didn't think the hammer would find me worthy?\" I asked.\n\nThor laughed. \"You've read too many comic books, boy.\"\n\nThe police cars rushed past the alley as Thor snatched the hammer from my hand.\n\n\"So anyone can wield it?\"\n\n\"For you it would be a club hammer. For me it's a powerful weapon.\"\n\n\"I think if you hit someone with a club hammer, they're going to think it's a powerful weapon. We can go now.\"\n\nWe stepped back onto the sidewalk and walked to the restaurant without further incident.\n\n***\n\nThe restaurant was crowded, but at least it had a casual atmosphere, and while they looked at Thor's helmet and clothing with hesitance, they admitted us without an argument. Somehow, I doubt many people would ever consider denying service to Thor. The hostess, a lovely redhead, led us to the table where Kelly and Esther waited. Esther remained translucent, and Kelly sipped a glass of wine.\n\nMany of the people in the restaurant were dressed up, but quite a few wore blue jeans and flannel shirts. The place smelled great with a variety of spices and cooking meats combining to make me want to close my eyes and bask in the aroma. I resisted the temptation and sat across the table from Kelly.\n\nThor sat next to her and scooted his chair even closer. He leaned toward her, and she put a palm up to block him.\n\n\"Not so fast, Romeo.\"\n\n\"Thor.\"\n\nEsther laughed. \"Bank's closed, pal.\"\n\n\"First we feast,\" Thor said, undeterred by Kelly's reaction. He turned and called out, \"Bring us a roasted boar and lots of ale!\"\n\nA busboy at a booth turned and said, \"I'll send your waiter over, sir.\"\n\n\"Good lad.\"\n\n\"I already ordered steak for everyone,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"That's right. And I obtained currency,\" Thor said. He handed a stack of twenties to Kelly, and another stack to me. \"There's more where this came from. Well, not that particular ATM, but this city is replete with them.\"\n\n\"We'll make do with what we have,\" I said.\n\nThe waiter brought our meals and once he moved on, we talked between bites of delicious steak.\n\n\"Do you have a plan to deal with the Men of Anubis?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"Not exactly,\" I said.\n\n\"Why are they after you?\" Thor asked.\n\n\"Because I escaped from them, and then I chucked one of them into the void. We're not attached to time, so they have to find us to get us. We may be the only ones who can stop them.\"\n\n\"Very well. I say we challenge them in battle,\" Thor said. \"I'll smite them with my hammer.\"\n\n\"Not quite that simple,\" I said.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because they can control time.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So if you swing your hammer, they can freeze time, step out of the way, and restart time. Or they can rewind time and take the hammer away from you.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\"\n\n\"What are you thinking?\" I asked.\n\nHe smiled. \"I'm thinking you're fucked.\"\n\n\"You're not going to back out on us, are you?\"\n\n\"I'm immortal,\" Thor said. \"They can't do anything to me.\"\n\n\"They could cast you into the void.\"\n\nHe opened his mouth to reply, then furrowed his brow for a moment. He nodded and lifted a finger. \"I'll be right back,\" Thor said, and left the table.\n\nHe walked toward the restroom, and once he entered the hallway, he disappeared.\n\n\"We may have just lost our only real ally,\" I said.\n\n\"He'll be back,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"What makes you think that?\"\n\n\"He wants me.\"\n\nI ate, but now I barely tasted the steak. My stomach flipped as I thought about facing the Men of Anubis. The whole thing started to feel real. It was no longer way out there in the distance as something to deal with one of these days. Now it was time to face them, and while I did have a good weapon with the vajra, I wasn't sure it would do me much good. Odds were that I would die in the battle, which was fine. After all, I'd lived a much longer life than most people can even dream about. But I didn't want to get anyone else killed. Kelly deserved a good life. Thor deserved, well, I don't know what he deserved. And what about Esther? I put my knife and fork on the plate and tossed my napkin onto my half-finished meal.\n\n\"You don't like the food?\"\n\n\"We don't stand a chance against the Men of Anubis,\" I said.\n\n\"You're just now realizing that?\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" I said. \"I'm just tired.\"\n\n\"I think you're right about them not being all-powerful. If they could have done so, they'd have gone back to take us out before you cast their brother into the void.\"\n\n\"So maybe they can't track us?\" I considered that. \"Maybe Indra prevented them from seeing us there.\"\n\n\"Maybe Chronos did,\" Esther said.\n\n\"You said we were aspects in time,\" Kelly said. \"As we don't belong here, they can't find us.\"\n\n\"But if we catch up to them, they should be able to flow backward along our timeline and wipe us out.\"\n\n\"Maybe we don't have a timeline,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"My brain hurts,\" I said.\n\nThor walked out of the hallway and approached the table. He sat and took a drink of beer.\n\n\"Everything all right?\" I asked.\n\nHe looked at me and shrugged. He turned his gaze to Kelly and looked her up and down. \"I want to bed you, wench.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Does that work with other women?\"\n\nThor's eyebrows rose and he leaned back, frowning. \"Yes,\" he said. \"It does.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"If I take you, I'll be the one in control.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"You want to boss me around?\"\n\n\"Something's wrong,\" I said.\n\n\"And how,\" Esther said.\n\n\"Spill,\" I said.\n\n\"I may have committed myself to your battle a mite early,\" Thor said.\n\n\"So you're backing down?\"\n\n\"I didn't say that.\"\n\n\"Sounds like you are.\"\n\nHe stared at Kelly, then turned to me. \"Here's the hitch,\" he said. \"I didn't know the Men of Anubis could control time and even throw me into the void.\"\n\n\"So? You're immortal, remember?\"\n\n\"And I don't relish the thought of floating in a timeless void for all eternity.\"\n\n\"So if you get chucked in, you're stuck?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"I went to have a chat with Decima, and she confirmed my concern. The bracelet I use to get to Club Eternity won't work from within the void. If I go in, I'm stuck. So far as any of us have been able to tell, no one has ever returned from the void.\"\n\n\"So you're afraid,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"I'm cautious.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"He's afraid. Who'd have thought a thunder god would be afraid of a fight?\"\n\n\"It's not my fight,\" he said. \"But I am not afraid.\"\n\n\"I've seen fear in the eyes of men,\" Kelly said. \"I see it in your eyes right now. You were fine with the fight when you thought you could win, but now that you know there's an actual risk, you're turning as yellow as your hair.\"\n\n\"I've killed men for lesser insults,\" Thor said.\n\n\"It's not an insult,\" Kelly said. \"Just stating the obvious.\"\n\nHe rose and lifted his hammer.\n\nKelly smiled at him. \"Aw, are you going to hit a girl?\"\n\nI rose and put a hand on his shoulder. \"Let's not cause a scene, big guy.\"\n\n\"She dares to insult me to my very face! I do not like that. Write it down.\"\n\nShe grinned at him and winked. \"Gets you all hot and bothered, doesn't it?\"\n\nI looked around at the guests and the staff in the restaurant. A manager tried to push our waiter toward us, but he shook his head and backed away. People at the other tables stared at us, but no one dared approach.\n\nOne woman said, \"I just called nine-one-one,\" but she kept her voice low, so I barely heard her.\n\n\"Can we settle this someplace else?\" I asked.\n\n\"Woman,\" Thor said, \"you infuriate me.\"\n\nShe stood and stroked his cheek. \"Pay the bill, thunder boy.\" And she walked away.\n\n\"Boy?\" Thor said, his knuckles white on the hammer. \"Boy?\"\n\n\"Boy lives in the jungle with Tarzan,\" I said. \"She meant, god. Thunder god. It's all good here.\" I nodded to the people at the next table. \"Everything is fine.\"\n\nEsther popped in front of Thor. \"Try anything, buster, and I'll sock you one good.\"\n\n\"And now the ghost insults me too? Whatever happened to respect for the gods?\"\n\n\"Toss some cash on the table, big guy. We can go sing karaoke and your first song will be Aretha Franklin's 'Respect.' Cool?\"\n\nHe threw a handful of twenties on the table. \"Is that enough?\"\n\nIt was around seven hundred dollars. \"Yeah, that ought to do,\" I said.\n\n\"I want to smash those women into the ground.\"\n\n\"You don't really mean that,\" I said.\n\nHe stormed through the room and grabbed our waiter. He lifted the man off the ground and pointed at Kelly, who was walking out the door.\"She dared to question my courage,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm sorry?\" the waiter said and nearly cried.\n\n\"That's all you have to say to me?\" Thor asked.\n\n\"Have a nice night?\" the waiter said in a squeaky high voice.\n\n\"No need to hurt anyone, big guy,\" I said. I pulled his hands down and once the waiter's feet touched the floor, I tapped Thor's knuckles and he released the poor man. I patted the waiter on the back. \"Sorry about this, m'man, but I think you'll appreciate the tip.\"\n\nOutside the restaurant, Kelly and Esther waited by a lamppost.\n\nThor burst onto the street and stabbed a finger into Kelly's face. Before he could scream at her, she grabbed his finger and bent it backward, snapping it.\n\nHe stared at his broken finger. He turned and held his hand up so I could see it. \"What is wrong with this wench?\"\n\nKelly stepped close and grabbed him by the balls.\n\n\"What?\" Thor said, surprised.\n\n\"Just checking to see if you had a pair,\" Kelly said. \"Go back to Asgard and fuck yourself like the little girl you are.\"\n\n\"Nobody talks to me like that!\"\n\n\"So make me stop,\" Kelly said and boxed his left ear.\n\n\"I could kill you,\" he said.\n\n\"So do it,\" she said and smacked his right ear.\n\nHe backed up, holding his hands up. \"What is wrong with you?\"\n\n\"I don't like cowards.\"\n\nThor planted himself and smashed his hammer down on the sidewalk, shattering concrete. \"Stop or I'll destroy you, woman!\"\n\n\"So you're finally showing some backbone,\" Kelly said. She smiled at him. \"You had me wondering about you for a moment there.\"\n\nThor fumed. \"I've killed frost giants and gods, and you dare to question my godhood?\"\n\n\"You're afraid of a couple of Egyptians. Jonathan outsmarted them once, and defeated one in single combat. He's a mortal man and he's not wavering.\"\n\n\"That's because he doesn't know the true nature of what he's up against,\" Thor said.\n\n\"Enlighten us.\"\n\nThor looked at me, then at Kelly and Esther. He shook his head. \"They are gods.\"\n\n\"We've dealt with gods before.\"\n\n\"Hmmph.\"\n\n\"So what do you suggest?\"\n\n\"I suggest you and I get a room,\" Thor said. \"I want to have my fun with you while you're still alive.\"\n\n\"That's not going to happen,\" Kelly said. \"I don't sleep with cowards.\"\n\n\"Again, she insults me,\" Thor said, turning to me in utter surprise. \"She should be honored that I'm willing to bed her.\"\n\nKelly swept his feet and planted him on his back. \"You should be honored that I was willing to even consider you for a heartbeat.\"\n\n\"And how,\" Esther said and blew a raspberry at him.\n\n\"Jonathan,\" Kelly said, \"send this coward back to Asgard. We don't need him.\"\n\nShe turned and walked away.\n\n\"Yeah,\" Esther said. \"Get rid of the big palooka.\" And she followed Kelly.\n\n\"Sorry, pal,\" I said, helping Thor to his feet. \"You blew it.\"\n\nHe brushed himself off and smiled. \"Oh, I want her more now than ever. If I must face other gods who can control time to earn a night in her bed, so be it.\" He cracked his finger back into its proper alignment. \"Let us plan for battle.\"\n\n# CHAPTER FOUR\n\nAfter securing separate hotel rooms, we took time to get cleaned up then met in my room to discuss our plans. Kelly and Esther arrived first.\n\n\"Did Thor run away?\" Kelly asked as she entered the room.\n\n\"No, he's more determined than ever to bed you,\" I said.\n\nShe grinned. \"Men and demigods are so easy to play.\"\n\nI said nothing because I knew she was right.\n\n\"Where is the big buffoon?\" Esther asked.\n\n\"He'll be here soon,\" I said. \"He wants to make himself presentable for Kelly.\"\n\n\"That might take a while,\" Esther said and drifted over to the window.\n\nKelly sat on the king size bed and glanced at the clock radio on the table. It was 10:34. Esther solidified to open the curtains. She stared down at the wonderful view of the parking lot and at the cars moving on the highway a short distance away. I pulled the chair from beneath the desk and sat, putting my feet up on the bed. Esther turned away from the window and desolidified to walk through my legs, and reached for the TV remote on the dresser before the flat screen.\n\n\"No TV,\" I said.\n\n\"That's a bunch of horsefeathers.\"\n\n\"We have too much work to do.\"\n\nShe sighed and set the remote back on the dresser.\n\n\"So what's the plan?\" Kelly asked. \"Or are we waiting for Thor?\"\n\n\"We need to find a way to reach Chronos, but I'm not sure how to get him to help us.\"\n\n\"You could offer to sleep with him,\" Kelly said. \"If I have to play that card, you should too.\"\n\n\"No thanks.\"\n\n\"Oh, come on, Jonathan, take one for the team,\" she said with a grin.\n\n\"I'll pass. Can we move on?\"\n\n\"Sure. What have you worked out beyond recruiting Thor and Chronos?\"\n\n\"I think we need the other you.\"\n\n\"My time twin?\" Kelly asked.\n\nI nodded. \"She's in Denver. We can recruit her. Having two of you would be a nice advantage.\"\n\n\"Especially since you have a propensity for getting versions of me killed. Doubles my odds of survival. But I'm the one in charge. She won't like it, but she'll have to answer to me.\"\n\n\"You should call Rayna,\" Esther said.\n\n\"To say goodbye?\"\n\nEsther rolled her eyes. \"To recruit her.\"\n\n\"I've put her through too much. I don't want to get her killed.\"\n\n\"She has a dragon.\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n\"A dragon could be the cat's pajamas.\"\n\n\"I don't think a cat could wear a dragon,\" I said.\n\nShe swatted at me, but I pulled back so she missed. \"You know what I mean,\" she said.\n\n\"I do. All right, we'll try to get the dragon, but let's leave Rayna where she's safe.\"\n\n\"She could be useful,\" Kelly said. \"Breathing fire is a nice little trick.\"\n\nShe meant Rayna, of course. But we hadn't parted on the best of terms, so getting Clara the dragon might be possible, but getting Rayna to risk her life seemed like a long shot.\n\n\"I'll talk to her.\" I said, but I didn't look forward to that conversation. She was bound to still be pissed at me, and she had every right to be. I had wronged her.\n\nA knock sounded on the door.\n\n\"Can one of you get that?\" I asked.\n\nEsther popped over to the door, solidified and opened it to reveal Thor in all his naked glory.\n\n\"Oh my stars and garters,\" Esther said.\n\n\"Gaze in wonder, ghost,\" Thor said and strode into the room.\n\nHe planted himself in front of Kelly and stood proudly displaying his pride and joy, of which John Holmes would have been envious.\n\n\"This is what I can offer you,\" he said pointing to his dick.\n\n\"What's that?\" Kelly asked, bored. \"It looks like a penis only smaller.\"\n\nThor stepped back. \"This is my real hammer,\" he said. \"Only the worthy can lift it. I call it Gamanbjodr.\"\n\n\"Which means?\"\n\n\"Pleasure giver.\"\n\nKelly shook her head. \"Put some clothes on.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"Please cover that monster.\"\n\nEsther gazed at his nakedness and shook her head. \"This one doesn't need glad rags.\"\n\n\"Yes he does,\" I said.\n\n\"Does Gamanbjodr intimidate you?\"\n\n\"Gaman-whatever looks like it could smack a baseball out of the stadium, so yes. Go back to your room and get dressed.\"\n\n\"Hmmph,\" he said and turned to leave.\n\nKelly and Esther both admired his ass as he opened the door.\n\n\"I shall return,\" he said and stepped into the hallway.\n\nAs soon as the door closed, Kelly shook her head. \"That monstrosity is not going inside me.\"\n\nI laughed. \"I don't know how he fits it in his pants.\"\n\nHe came back five minutes later, dressed. Esther let him in.\n\n\"Does my outfit meet with your approval?\" he asked Kelly.\n\nHe wore brown trousers, leather boots, and a shiny black shirt open to the navel. As he didn't have a suitcase, I figured he'd gone to another dimension to fetch the clothing.\n\n\"You look like a pirate,\" Kelly said.\n\nHe grinned. \"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Let's cut to the chase,\" I said. \"Can you reach out to Chronos?\"\n\nThor looked at me confused. \"Why do you want that skinny little poofter?\"\n\n\"Because he can control time,\" I said.\n\n\"He always wants to make time with me.\"\n\n\"Then you should be able to convince him to come to the hotel,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Why would I do that?\"\n\nKelly batted her eyes at him. \"Because I think two men together is really hot.\"\n\n\"It would please you to see me with Chronos?\"\n\n\"Oh yeah.\"\n\n\"Then I shall reach out to him,\" Thor said. \"For you. Wait here.\" Thor triggered his Club Eternity bracelet and disappeared.\n\nKelly gave me a smug smile. \"How's that for helpful?\"\n\n\"As long as I don't have to watch, it's cool.\"\n\n\"I want to watch,\" Esther said.\n\nKelly winked at her. \"We'll have them put on quite a show for us.\"\n\n\"This cat is going to meow,\" Esther said.\n\n\"And this cat is going to be elsewhere,\" I said.\n\n\"You sure you don't want in on the action?\" Kelly said. \"Chronos likes you too. He'd be up for a threesome.\"\n\n\"I'm good,\" I said.\n\n\"You always say that,\" Kelly said, \"but maybe you should prove it.\"\n\n\"Keep dreaming.\"\n\nShe laughed and started to turn, but froze.\n\n\"You all right?\" I asked.\n\nShe didn't move.\n\nEsther didn't move either.\n\nA knock on the door.\n\nI walked over and opened it to reveal Chronos and Thor.\n\n\"Be a good lad and step aside,\" Chronos said.\n\nHe brushed past me.\n\nThor shrugged and stopped in the doorway. \"The door was locked, and he didn't want me to smash it.\"\n\nThe thought of Chronos not being able to enter a room because the door was locked amused me and I grinned.\n\n\"You can unfreeze time now,\" I said.\n\nKelly and Esther were still motionless.\n\n\"Not a chance,\" Chronos said. \"Allow me to ask you a simple question, Jonathan Shade.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Did I send an agent to you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"That should tell you something.\"\n\n\"What should it tell me?\"\n\n\"That I'm not ready to face the Men of Anubis, you ignorant wanker.\"\n\n\"Sometimes we have to face things before we're ready. How many people are ready to be parents?\"\n\n\"I don't have things arranged yet.\"\n\nI laughed. \"I'm guessing you haven't taken a single step toward arranging things.\"\n\n\"Quite right.\"\n\n\"Because you thought you could just wait for me to live out my life and die.\"\n\nHe adjusted his collar. \"That thought had crossed my mind.\"\n\nI stepped up close to him. \"I've eliminated one of the Anubis assholes already. We only have two left.\"\n\n\"I'm aware of your confrontation. Indra is older than the Men of Anubis, so he was able to keep things localized.\"\n\n\"You're the master of time,\" I said.\n\n\"I can move freely through time, but I didn't take office until October 8th, 1940, so the Men of Anubis were around long before I was recruited.\"\n\n\"You were recruited during the Blitz?\" I asked.\n\nHe nodded. \"I was at Charing Cross Station in London on Tuesday morning at 8:50 when time froze. The Germans dropped three high-explosive bombs and eight of us died, while forty-eight of us were injured. Right before that happened, the gentleman who worked as Chronos in those days decided he'd had enough and offered to trade places with me so he could die and I could become the new Chronos. I had no idea what that meant, of course, but I didn't want to die. If I had it to do over... The first thing I saw when I took office was my predecessor getting blown to bits as soon as I started time with this infernal device.\" He held up the pocket watch.\n\nI'd seen people die violent deaths. It never leaves you.\n\n\"The point,\" he continued, \"is that I am now much younger than the Men of Anubis, and as such, I am no match for them.\"\n\n\"You lost me. You're now younger than them?\"\n\nHe sighed. \"They didn't exist before we sent you to ancient Egypt.\"\n\n\"I don't like where this seems to be going.\"\n\n\"They defy time and death and achieved immortality through a blend of magic and technology, and the only living person who saw them in purely human form was you.\"\n\n\"And you think they're my fault?\"\n\n\"They are the same Men of Anubis who mummified Tutankhamun.\"\n\n\"Same family,\" I said.\n\n\"Same exact men.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"We believe they latched onto the Emerald Tablets of Thoth after you and Henry Winslow left Egypt.\"\n\n\"You believe?\" I asked. \"Why don't you know?\"\n\n\"Time is ever shifting. They are quite good at covering their tracks. And they put blocks in place to prevent us from eliminating you before you were born. Not that we could have done that anyway as the damage was already done.\"\n\n\"Whatever,\" I said. \"Why don't you skip ahead into the future, find a place where we can attack them and destroy them?\"\n\n\"It doesn't work like that,\" Chronos said. \"I can go backward in time, and I can come forward from that time, but I can't go past the moment time has reached.\"\n\n\"Translation, you can't go into the future.\"\n\n\"Quite right.\"\n\n\"And this is the real present?\" I asked.\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"Is he bullshitting me?\" I asked Thor.\n\nThor shrugged. \"I live moment to moment in one direction,\" Thor said. \"All this time travel nonsense doesn't work for me.\"\n\nI shook my head slowly. \"I lived into the future before I killed Persephone,\" I said. \"So I know for a fact this is not as far as time has gone.\"\n\nThor raised an eyebrow.\n\nChronos fidgeted.\n\nKelly and Esther remained still.\n\n\"Talk to me, Chronos. Be honest.\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I'm afraid I must be going now.\"\n\n\"You're afraid of something,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't have time for this.\"\n\n\"You have all the time in the world.\"\n\n\"Until I move to my demise,\" he said.\n\n\"How far forward can you go?\" I asked.\n\nHe looked around. \"I should leave this place and resume forward progress. If I stop time for too long, I attract attention.\"\n\n\"Bullshit,\" I said.\n\n\"I have business to attend to in the past,\" he said.\n\nI grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and drove him back into the wall. \"Answer my question.\"\n\n\"Or you'll kill me and take my place?\" He laughed. \"I already know the date of my death. This is not that day.\"\n\n\"You don't think I'll kill you?\"\n\n\"I know you won't. I still have a few weeks, though I can conceivably stretch that out for centuries by hanging out in the past.\"\n\n\"How do you know you die? Have you seen it?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I know because I can't move beyond that date.\"\n\n\"What date?\"\n\n\"I don't see the relevance to your situation.\"\n\n\"What date?\" I asked again, and lifted him off his feet.\n\n\"November 17th.\"\n\n\"That's two weeks from now.That's the date we face the Men of Anubis, isn't it?\"\n\n\"You can't be tracked in time now, Jonathan. They can't find you, though they most certainly know you're in play because Khemet didn't return.\"\n\n\"I'm taking that to mean yes.\"\n\n\"I was there,\" Chronos said. \"You lost.\"\n\n\"What about me?\" Thor asked.\n\n\"Cast into the void.\"\n\nThor walked over to Kelly and stared at her for a time.\n\n\"Backing out on us?\" I asked.\n\nThor shook his head. \"I want this woman, but I'm not willing to spend eternity in the void.\"\n\n\"They defeat you all,\" Chronos said. \"Myself included, and I don't even know how I came to be at the confrontation.\"\n\n\"Where was it?\" I asked.\n\n\"You mean, where will it be?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"Where was it? We have the advantage of knowing how they won, so we can change things before they happen.\"\n\n\"Talk, little man,\" Thor said. \"It seems all our lives depend on it.\"\n\n\"The confrontation was in Denver. You even had a dragon on your side, and the Men of Anubis simply aimed the crook at the beast and blew it out of the sky with a blast of energy.\"\n\n\"And the rest of us?\"\n\n\"Thor was cast into the void. Both versions of Kelly were beheaded by the flail, the beads may look to be gilded wood, but Mahu can alter them to be razor sharp. They wrapped around Kelly's neck and severed her head before she could react. The second Kelly suffered the same fate even though she saw the first version of her die.\"\n\n\"Mahu?\" I asked.\n\n\"Khemet's brother. You defeated Khemet, but he was the weakest of the Men of Anubis.\"\n\n\"Who's the other guy?\"\n\n\"Amenken. Mahu and Khemet's father. Can you put me down, please?\"\n\nI still held him off the floor and against the wall.\n\n\"Not a chance, dickhead. If I let go of you, I know you'll disappear. I want more details. I need answers. How can they be defeated?\"\n\n\"They can't.\"\n\n\"Bullshit. I beat one of them. I have to be able to beat the other two. Divide and conquer.\"\n\n\"They won't face you one at a time.\"\n\n\"All right,\" I said. \"Unfreeze time so Kelly and Esther can be part of the conversation.\"\n\n\"I'll do no such thing. If I unfreeze time right now, the Men of Anubis will know where I am. You don't want that because they'll show up here immediately, and you'll be dead in a heartbeat.\"\n\n\"Come on,\" I said, not believing a word he said.\n\n\"Think about it. They created a time ripple trying to get to Khemet in Tajikistan. They will stop at nothing to get to you now.\"\n\n\"Time ripple?\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis can alter time, but they can't change anything that happened to them. If any of them are in one place, that time is set. They tried to get you in Tajikistan, but their efforts caused a wave that upset time in the area. The effects were contained in the Pamir Mountains, but now they are watching for anomalies in the time layers. A simple time freeze won't draw attention, but if I do it more than once in the same area, that will definitely bring them here. What possible reason could I have to be in Tulsa, Oklahoma?\"\n\n\"You'll think of something.\"\n\n\"No. Time remains frozen. Do you want to lose your pretty little ghost? Amenken can use the crook to force her into her physical form, and Mahu can slice her to pieces to be scattered in and out of the void. She will cease to exist.\"\n\n\"I'm not liking the things you have to say. They have to have weaknesses we can exploit.\"\n\n\"None that I'm privy to.\"\n\n\"We need a better place for a confrontation. And we need to know more about what they can and can't do.\"\n\n\"They can't find you unless you do something stupid, so take a long vacation. Go to Indonesia or Spain. Go to Idaho. Anywhere.\"\n\n\"A trip to Egypt might be useful. Maybe we can learn something about them there that we can use.\"\n\n\"If you set foot in Egypt, they will know.\"\n\nMy arms were getting tired, so I lowered Chronos back to the floor, but still held him against the wall. \"They have wards set up to notify them?\"\n\n\"Magical and technological. You can't slip past them.\"\n\n\"Unless someone takes me there through a rift.\"\n\n\"I can't open rifts.\"\n\n\"How did you get here today?\"\n\n\"Through Club Eternity.\"\n\n\"Decima won't let me in there. I know Sharon can open rifts, but I don't trust her. She'd toss me in the void herself. But there's another Charon. Nice enough guy named Bob in the Underworld.\"\n\n\"I can't reach the Underworld,\" Chronos said.\n\n\"I can,\" Thor said.\n\n\"Sharon is Charon these days,\" Chronos said. \"She never left the Underworld in the current layering of time.\"\n\n\"Nice try, asshole,\" I said. \"You supernatural types remember every layer of time. If a vampire can feel the shifts, I know Sharon can feel them too. I know she'll remember, and if I know her, she's got her job in Boulder working as a librarian. She liked that job.\"\n\n\"That doesn't mean Bob is Charon.\"\n\n\"He was next in line to take the position, so I'm willing to bet your life that he is.\"\n\n\"If you go to Egypt or even to the Underworld searching for answers, the Men of Anubis will know I helped you.\"\n\n\"You need plausible deniability. Who in the Tulsa area would know about the Men of Anubis?\"\n\n\"How should I know?\"\n\n\"Someone in the occult circles, perhaps? Someone who studies Egyptian history?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" Chronos said. He sighed. \"I'm bound to your actions regardless.\"\n\n\"Welcome to the team,\" I said. \"Is there a way to combine some technology with the magic in your watch so we can freeze Mahu and Amenken?\"\n\n\"I am not on your team, Jonathan Shade. Your actions are the death of me no matter how things play out. Every conceivable layering of time ends for me November 17th.\"\n\n\"Have you looked at it with you actively helping us?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"I even looked at it if I worked against you, but Amenken will never see me as an ally because I let you loose in the world against his wishes.\"\n\n\"So there's no good reason not to be on the team.\"\n\n\"There's one excellent reason for me to not be on your team. I don't want to. And here's another good reason: I don't like you.\"\n\n\"I'm your only chance to get through this,\" I said. \"It's in your best interest to help.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to face them in Denver. That's a big change right there. I'll find a better place to fight them.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" he said. \"You think of a place to face them, and I'll travel forward on the timeline as far as I can. If your choice makes it possible for me to go beyond November 17th, I'll join your team.\"\n\nI laughed. \"As soon as I let you leave, you're not going to come back. You're a chicken shit bastard, and a coward, Chronos. What was your real name?\"\n\n\"None of your business.\"\n\n\"In that case, I'll see you in a few weeks when the Men of Anubis pull you from wherever you're hiding to rip you apart and cast your body to the winds.\"\n\n\"That won't happen,\" Chronos said. \"I've already found my replacement, and I'm turning my office over to him in the wee hours of the seventeenth.\"\n\nI let go of him and waved goodbye. He flipped me the bird, grabbed his wrist and disappeared, returning to Club Eternity, and moving from there to wherever his cowardly heart desired.\n\n\"Holy shit,\" Kelly said. \"How did Thor get in here?\"\n\n# CHAPTER FIVE\n\nAfter Thor and Kelly left, Esther wanted to stay with me. She sat beside me on the bed and put an arm around me. She smiled and combed her fingers through my hair. \"It feels so good to be able to touch you,\" she said.\n\n\"We have a big day tomorrow.\"\n\nShe leaned in and kissed my neck. \"We could have a big night tonight.\"\n\nI pulled away from her and stood. \"As nice as that sounds, I need some sleep.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" she said and popped away.\n\nShit. I knew I'd hurt her. Didn't she know my mind was on other things? I cared for her, but she was a ghost, not a living, breathing woman. Sometimes it didn't matter what I said or did, I always ended up hurting someone.\n\nI took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and went to bed feeling like an ass.\n\n***\n\nThe next morning, I showered and dressed, but left the heavy winter coat hanging in the closet. I donned my dirty T-shirt and the jeans I'd worn under the snow pants. I needed to buy some new clothes. I spent a little time messing with the vajra weapon and realized that by twisting it, I could adjust the settings. I didn't know what those settings would do, and I wasn't in a position to fire it in the hotel. I put it in the closet and made a note to take it out to the country to test the various settings.\n\nKelly met me in the lobby with Thor trailing behind her like a large, lost puppy. Esther popped in beside her, but didn't meet my eyes.\n\n\"We need to talk,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"We need to go up to your room,\" Thor said.\n\nKelly rolled her eyes. She spun to face the thunder god. \"You. Stay here.\" She turned to me. \"You. Come with me.\"\n\nShe grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall toward the restrooms. Esther followed us.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't want to deal with a handsy thunder god. What are we going to do?\"\n\n\"Can you string him along a bit longer? He might be useful in the coming battle.\"\n\n\"He's going to have a battle if he tries to cop another feel.\"\n\n\"We need allies.\"\n\n\"This is not like some caper in a movie, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"I know that. Our lives are on the line here. That's why we need all the help we can get. Thor knows some powerful beings. Someone has to be able to help.\"\n\n\"Such as?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"Odin? Loki?\"\n\n\"I want to meet Loki,\" Esther said. \"He's hot to trot.\"\n\n\"The trickster god,\" I said, \"not Tom Hiddleston from the Avengers movie.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Kelly said. \"I think this is going to be a wasted trip, but word on the street is that Asgard is lovely this time of year.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Esther said.\n\n\"No,\" Kelly said. \"I made that up. This is just stupid. Why would Odin or Loki stand with us in the fight? They don't know us. They don't owe us. I'm certainly not going to sleep with any of them.\"\n\n\"It can't hurt to try and recruit them,\" I said.\n\nKelly rolled her eyes. \"There's no incentive for them. You're sending me on a wild goose chase.\"\n\n\"You can handle Thor,\" I said. \"If he grabs you again, take his ass down.\"\n\n\"Oh, I will.\"\n\n\"If no one will help us, maybe they can give us some ideas about how to defeat them.\"\n\nKelly sighed. \"This is a waste of time. We should go find a new city, set up shop there, and live our lives. We can help people. I can go back to training women in self-defense. You can be a private investigator. We shouldn't be doing this, and spare me your justifications, Jonathan, because they're all bullshit.\"\n\nI stared into her eyes because I feared she was right, and I'd been struggling with it since we'd returned from the twenties. I was lost, searching for direction, but everything I loved was gone, and at least the Men of Anubis gave me a tangible enemy to face. An enemy I couldn't face alone. Without an enemy, Kelly would leave, and while she wasn't my Kelly, I'd prefer death to not having her in my life.\n\n\"So why are you going along?\" I asked, worried she'd tell me she wouldn't.\n\n\"Because I don't abandon my friends,\" she said. With that, she turned and walked back to Thor.\n\n\"She's right, you know,\" Esther said.\n\nBut I ignored her. My focus was on the fact that Kelly considered me a friend. It was a major step in the right direction. Maybe she'd come around. Now that she'd changed over from seeing me as the only person she knew in the world to seeing me as a friend, there was hope. I didn't expect us to ever get to where my Kelly and I had gone, but maybe if we could deal with the Men of Anubis, perhaps we could build a life for ourselves somewhere and maybe that life would help to ease my guilt about losing my Kelly. Henry Winslow may have been the one who killed her, but I blamed the Men of Anubis for messing about in time so much that Winslow had the power to send those whirling blades through her. Those nightmares haunted my dreams, and while Winslow cast the magic, the Men of Anubis pulled the strings. They mocked me every goddamn night, and I was tired of it.\n\nAnd if I couldn't get through this alive, that was okay, too, because I no longer fit into the world, and when you don't belong, it's easy enough to let everything go.\n\nKelly talked to Thor and I heard her ask him to take her to Asgard. His face lit up. I wanted to stand there and bask in the knowledge that she was on my side, but I had other things to do to prepare for battle.\n\n\"Let's go, Esther,\" I said.\n\nEsther turned away from me and stared at the floor.\n\n\"Is something wrong?\" I asked.\n\nShe shook her head. \"Don't get in a lather,\" she said. \"Everything's Jake. Everything's always Jake.\"\n\n\"Then let's go.\"\n\nMy first order of business was a cab ride to a North Tulsa residence where I paid eight hundred bucks for a 2001 Dodge Neon. The car didn't have heat, but it was November, and the temperature was in the seventies, so I figured I'd be all right.\n\nAfter buying the car, I stopped at a store and bought some new clothes. I paid for them, then changed in the dressing room. I shoved my old clothes into the bag. Once I'd tossed the bag into the backseat of the car, it was time to get busy.\n\nThe next item on my to-do list was to gather information, and hopefully to recruit help or at least gain knowledge from the magical community. The best place to start was a metaphysical bookstore, and Google helped out on that front.\n\nPeaceful Enchantments was located in the Cherry Street District. Billed as a metaphysical store, they carried a wide variety of books from Eastern philosophy to magic to ancient Egypt. They also carried a nice selection of Tarot cards in a glass case.\n\nGetting to the store meant climbing a steep staircase. The wooden floor creaked as I stepped inside. Esther was with me, but she remained invisible. It was just after noon, so the place had just opened. Esther darted into the curtained rooms to make sure there wouldn't be any surprises. The smell of sandalwood incense permeated the air, and a kind older woman with silver hair greeted me from behind a counter piled high with books and stands holding flyers. She wore stylish glasses and a brown sweater vest over a light blue plaid shirt.\n\n\"Welcome,\" she said. \"Feel free to browse, but if you need any help, my name is Shirley Amauric.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Shirley,\" I said. \"I found you online. I'm only in town for a few days, and I really need to talk to someone who knows something about magic.\"\n\n\"We have a variety of books about magic, of course. Are you interested in folk magic, Earth magic, ceremonial magic, sympathetic magic?\"\n\n\"All of the above,\" I said. \"I'm looking for someone proficient in casting spells. Someone who's already been through initiation rites to achieve a higher level of power, and in particular, someone who can cast protection and containment spells.\"\n\n\"That's not really what we do, sir. We teach classes in Kundalini yoga, and spiritualism and meditation. We do have books on Wicca and Kabbalah, of course.\"\n\n\"You have herbs here, and some of those are particularly useful to witches constructing hex bags.\"\n\n\"Herbs are useful for many things, but I think you've seen too many horror movies, sir. Wiccans seek peace and harmony with nature. We don't offer the herbs used in the creation of dangerous hex bags.\"\n\n\"I'm not looking to cause trouble for anyone,\" I said. \"I understand you've got your hands full running a store like this in the middle of the Bible Belt.\"\n\n\"Not really. We've been here for forty years, and we've never had any real trouble.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it. Let me throw something else at you. Have you heard of Dragon Gate Industries?\"\n\nHer lips tightened a bit, but she didn't say anything.\n\n\"I see that you have,\" I said. \"They don't have a branch in Oklahoma, which means you're bound to have some independent wizards and witches in town. I need to speak with one of them. Ideally, the most powerful and knowledgeable. Hopefully someone who knows a great deal about Egyptian magic.\"\n\nEsther popped over beside me. \"Nobody here but us and the customers coming in now,\" she said.\n\nSure enough, a young woman and her son clomped up the stairs, and approached the counter. \"Excuse me,\" she said. \"Can you point me to your crystals?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Shirley said and stepped out from behind the counter.\n\n\"Have I been a useful chunk of lead?\" Esther said.\n\nI didn't know what she was talking about, but when I turned toward her, she looked away.\n\nShirley led the woman to the selection of crystals. \"If you have any questions, I'll be right over here.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said and slapped her son's hand away from the counter with all the crystals.\n\nShirley walked back to me. She took off her glasses and polished the lenses on her vest. \"I don't know you, sir,\" she said quietly.\n\n\"My name is Jonathan Shade,\" I said. \"If you look me up, you'll find that I died back in 2007.\"\n\n\"And yet here you stand.\"\n\n\"Think about that,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, well, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm a bit skeptical about people coming back from the dead.\"\n\n\"As well you should be,\" I said. \"The truth is somewhat more complicated, of course.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nThe kid knocked something off the counter and the sound of breaking glass interrupted us.\n\n\"Teddy!\" the woman said. \"No!\"\n\nShirley glided over to them. \"It's quite all right,\" she said. \"Please step back. I don't want anyone to get cut.\"\n\n\"I'll pay for the crystal ball,\" the woman said.\n\n\"That won't be necessary.\" Shirley knelt and picked up shards of glass. \"I'll get a broom.\"\n\nThe woman led her kid back to the stairs and as they descended she said, \"I can't take you anywhere! Why you have to constantly embarrass me is beyond my capacity to understand.\"\n\n\"Get over it, Mom,\" the kid said.\n\nShirley swept the rest of the glass into a dustpan. She sighed and shook her head. \"Happens more often than you'd think,\" she said and emptied the dustpan into a plastic trash can beside the counter. She clipped the pan to the broom handle.\n\n\"Let's cut to the chase,\" I said. \"To show you that I'm part of the community, I'll take the broom from you using my delicate hand of pale power.\"\n\nI held out my hand.\n\nEsther solidified her hands and yanked the broom from Shirley's hands and carried it over to me. I grabbed it, twirled it once and set it on the ground. She made her hands go invisible again.\n\nShirley sighed, unimpressed. \"Simple magic,\" she said.\n\n\"Which is why I need someone more proficient.\"\n\n\"Call forth three of the crystals from the counter over there,\" she said.\n\n\"Now I have to jump through hoops?\"\n\n\"Three crystals.\"\n\n\"Do you have a preference?\"\n\n\"A carnelian, a black tourmaline, and a red tiger's eye.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nI mimed raising my hands as Esther popped over to the crystal counter. She slid the glass door open and studied the selection. I hoped they were labeled because I wasn't sure she'd know the difference. I certainly wouldn't have. She picked up three rocks and carried them over, holding two in her right hand and waved the other around in her left hand. To Shirley it would look like semi-translucent hands carrying the crystals.\n\nI shook my head, but Esther ignored me. She wanted to have some fun. She lifted the single crystal over Shirley's head making the crystal seem to fly over her. Esther spun in a circle and placed the crystals in my outstretched hands. Then her hands popped out of sight.\n\n\"You owe me,\" she said.\n\n\"Good enough?\" I asked Shirley.\n\n\"Clumsy,\" she said.\n\n\"I'll put them back for you,\" I said and held them out to Esther.\n\n\"Watch this,\" she said.\n\nShe solidified her hands to take the crystals then popped over to the counter.\n\nUnfortunately, as soon as she popped away, the crystals dropped because she couldn't carry them with her unless she remained solid enough to hold them. \"Horsefeathers!\" she said.\n\nThe crystals hit the floor.\n\nShirley raised an eyebrow.\n\n\"Sorry about that,\" I said. \"I can do this.\"\n\nEsther popped back over. She gave me an embarrassed grin then stooped to lift the stones. She carried them back to the counter and put them in their respective places.\n\n\"You need to work on your control,\" Shirley said.\n\n\"My elbow was bent,\" I said.\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Can you help me out?\"\n\n\"You need to see Dr. Carlos Ancho.\"\n\n\"The guy is named after a pepper?\"\n\nShirley sighed. \"He's a local purveyor of esoteric knowledge. If anyone can help you, it's Dr. Ancho.\"\n\n\"Got an address for me?\" I asked.\n\n\"He's a professor, and he works at Oral Roberts University.\"\n\n\"You know how Oral Roberts died, don't you?\" I asked.\n\n\"Pneumonia.\"\n\n\"Wrong,\" I said. \"He got hit by a speedboat when he was out walking his ducks.\"\n\n\"Trust me, he died of pneumonia.\"\n\n\"It's a joke.\"\n\nShirley frowned. \"Take my advice, Mr. Shade. Don't tell that joke on campus.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" I said. I grabbed a chapbook from the counter and looked at it. The Sacred Magic of the Qabbalah by Manly P. Hall. I handed it to Shirley. \"I'll take this.\"\n\n\"As you wish.\"\n\nI handed her a ten dollar bill. \"Thanks, Shirley.\" I turned to leave.\n\n\"You don't want your change?\"\n\n\"Keep it,\" I said. I didn't really want the book either, but it seemed like good manners to buy something.\n\nI descended the stairs with Esther by my side.\n\n\"Sorry about the crystals,\" she said.\n\n\"What was that all about?\" I asked.\n\n\"I thought it would be the cat's meow if I could take something physical with me when I pop over.\"\n\n\"Practice that when it doesn't make me look like an idiot,\" I said.\n\nShe looked hurt and I thought of apologizing.But then she laughed and solidified enough to take my arm. \"Like you need my help to look like a sap.\"\n\n# CHAPTER SIX\n\nOral Roberts University was in south Tulsa at 81st and Lewis. One of the more famous features was a massive sixty foot bronze sculpture of praying hands in front of the entrance.\n\nConfession time. When I was a little kid, I found out that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were lies adults told to children. The night I learned about them, I climbed into bed and thought about what else didn't make any sense. God was at the top of the list. For years, I thought adults pretended to believe in God so the children would feel there was a higher power out there and feel protected, or perhaps scared depending on how the faith was administered. The entire concept of an omnipotent, omniscient being that created the universe billions of years ago, and only recently decided to create mankind in His own image seemed pretty damn silly. But there are people who seem to need their faith, so who am I to judge?\n\nMy mother was religious in spite of her magical background. She felt light magic came from God and dark magic from the devil. I wonder how she squared that circle since my father's magic was dark and hers was light. Maybe she felt she'd saved him. As for gods, I've met beings most folks consider gods, but none of them qualified in my view. Even Thor could be killed. I might not be able to do it, but someone or something could. And the same held true for the Men of Anubis.\n\nEsther stared at the Praying Hands.\n\nI kept moving toward the entrance.\n\n\"You coming?\" I asked.\n\n\"Those are huge,\" she said.\n\n\"Every now and then, they have a problem with those hands,\" I said.\n\nEsther turned to me. \"Really?\"\n\nI nodded, all serious. \"The hands fall open every Sunday, but they're easy enough to fix. Just toss a quarter up there and the hands snap shut.\" I clapped my hands for effect.\n\nEsther shook her head. \"Why do I ever listen to you?\"\n\nAs we walked to the front doors of the main building, Esther put out a hand and solidified it to stop me.\n\n\"What?\" I asked.\n\n\"You be respectful in there,\" she said. \"Many of these people have dedicated their lives to serve God.\"\n\n\"Do you believe in God?\" I asked.\n\n\"And how,\" she said. \"And I pray for you all the time. These are good people so don't be a jerk to them.\"\n\n\"Delightful people like Ted Haggard graduated from this fine institution,\" I said.\n\nShe shook her head. \"You check your phone right now. Find someone you like who graduated from here.\"\n\n\"These people would think you're Satan spawn,\" I said.\n\n\"Says you. I think they'd consider me an angel. Get out your phone.\"\n\n\"I'll be nice.\"\n\n\"Get out your phone, Jonathan. I'm serious.\"\n\nI sighed and took out my phone. I checked for a list of graduates from ORU. \"Michele Bachmann,\" I said. \"Not impressed.\"\n\n\"Keep going,\" Esther said.\n\n\"Actors, baseball players. But then there are lots of religious people. Pastors, pastors, everywhere.\"\n\n\"Who help people. Find someone you like or I'm outta here.\"\n\nI scrolled through the list and finally stopped. \"Okay. I like Ryan Tedder,\" I said. \"Lead singer for OneRepublic.\"\n\n\"Then I want you to talk to these people the way you'd talk to Ryan Tedder.\"\n\n\"So you want me to ask how to hit the high notes in 'Counting Stars?'\"\n\n\"Don't be a wet blanket. I'm serious, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nShe nodded and dematerialized.\n\nAs we reached the front doors, I said, \"Maybe someone here will do a Darth Vader impression and tell me they find my lack of faith disturbing.\"\n\nShe made her hand solid so she could punch my arm.\n\nBut Esther was right and I knew it. Who was I to judge others for the things that made their lives bearable?\n\nA nice woman directed me to Dr. Ancho's office. It was in another building, so we had a walk ahead of us. The campus was beautiful. The famous Prayer Tower stood tall in the center of the gardens with pebbled pathways leading to the various buildings.\n\nDr. Ancho was teaching a class, so we waited in the hallway. Eventually, class let out. Students pushed through the doors and flowed into the hall. I ignored their conversations and when the flow slowed to a trickle, I stepped into the room.\n\nCarlos Ancho stood three feet tall on his tiptoes. He wore a nice business suit, and when he looked up at me, he gave me a warm smile. \"Greetings and salutations,\" he said. \"You don't look like students.\"\n\nEsther was still invisible, so the plural caught me off guard.\n\nHis smile brightened. \"Yes, I can see your ghost friend,\" he said and extended his right hand. \"Dr. Carlos Ancho.\"\n\nI shook his hand. \"Jonathan Shade.\"\n\n\"Perfect balance,\" he said and nodded. \"Not many like you around.\" He turned and bowed to Esther. \"And you, my lovely lady, are stunning. Yes, you are forgiven, and if Heaven exists, you will be welcomed with open arms should you elect to make that journey.\"\n\n\"Does Heaven exist?\" Esther asked.\n\nDr. Ancho shrugged. \"You would know better than I. The Good Lord doesn't speak to me directly, but I have no problem taking it on faith.\"\n\n\"So you're a scientist and a Christian?\" I asked. \"Doesn't that bring about some kind of conflict of interest?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"My dear boy,\" he said, \"I'm not one of those god-of-the- gaps types. Science explores the nature and law of the universe, and God is the creator of that universe. Nothing science discovers will ever erase the creator. We should seek the answers to the universe, and study the laws God set up to govern it.\"\n\n\"Interesting view.\"\n\n\"Somehow, I don't think you came here to discuss God. You strike me as an unbeliever.\"\n\n\"Guilty as charged,\" I said.\n\nHis smile never wavered. \"Nothing wrong with wanting more evidence.\" He looked me up and down. \"Your soul is stained with the blood of many men.\"\n\n\"Which means I'm destined for Hell, is that it?\"\n\nHe shook his head and laughed. Then he leaned toward me and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. \"Don't tell anyone,\" he said and looked around as if to reassure himself that we were alone, \"but I don't think Hell is a place you go. I think it's a place you work your way through on your journey to enlightenment.\"\n\n\"So no lakes of fire?\"\n\nHe glanced at his watch. \"I have the next hour free, and if you'd like to continue this, I say we go over to the Hammer for some coffee and snacks.\"\n\n\"The Hammer?\"\n\n\"Officially, it's the Armand Hammer Alumni-Student Center, but we all call it the Hammer.\"\n\n\"So you don't mind answering questions?\"\n\n\"Buy me a cup of coffee and I'm all yours for an hour. I doubt there's anything wrong with you that we can't solve in that time frame.\"\n\n\"You're not even going to ask why I want to talk to you?\"\n\nHe laughed again. He had a great laugh, and I found myself liking him more and more. \"I live for conversations,\" he said. \"I don't care why someone wants to talk to me, or what they want to talk about. I get to know people by talking with them. I can teach, console, sympathize, empathize, learn, and sometimes check off the box for all of the above. I love talking with people, be they friends or strangers who are destined to be new friends.\"\n\n\"I want a new friend,\" Esther said.\n\n\"Oh, my dear lovely woman, I would be honored to call you friend.\"\n\n\"And Jonathan would be honored to buy you a cup of coffee.\"\n\n# CHAPTER SEVEN\n\nOn the inside, the Hammer looked like a cross between a mall food court and an airport gate concourse. Off to the right, people stood in short lines to get tacos or coffee, while off to the left chairs sat in rows, though there were some long white counters with places to plug in computers, and an open area with a massive television broadcasting four channels on one huge screen.\n\nDr. Ancho ordered a latte, and I got a black coffee. We chose a few seats away from the studying students, though most looked like they were just surfing the net. Esther didn't order a drink because while she could solidify these days, she was never hungry or thirsty and wasn't sure she'd be able to process liquids or solids.\n\n\"Thank you for being open to talk to us,\" I said.\n\nDr. Ancho nodded. \"My pleasure.\"\n\n\"Word on the street is that you have a good feel for what's going on in the world.\"\n\nHe sipped his latte. \"When I was a boy, I lived in Mexico City, and the day before my birthday, I begged my mother to take us on a trip. I told her it was very important that we get out of the city, but when she asked me why, I couldn't tell her because I wasn't getting a clear signal. I just knew we needed to leave.\"\n\n\"Did she agree?\"\n\nHe shook his head and frowned at a painful memory. \"She said we could go on a picnic on Saturday, but I knew that was too late and we needed to go now. She said no because she and my father had to work, and my aunt was coming to visit that night to stay for a week. I told her if we stayed there, she would die. She reassured me that she would be fine, but I couldn't sleep that night. I tried to talk to my father, but he was drunk and refused to listen. My sister was too young, and my aunt when she arrived was too tired. But I warned them all that death was stalking us.\"\n\n\"What happened?\" Esther asked.\n\nHe shrugged. \"We were in our small apartment, and early that Thursday morning, there was a terrible earthquake. More than ten thousand people died that day. September 19, 1985. My mother, father, sister, and aunt died when the building collapsed. My mother managed to throw herself on top of me when the roof caved in. I felt her last breath leave her body. My tenth birthday. I was trapped there for two days before rescue workers found me.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" Esther said, reaching over to place a semi-solid hand on his arm. The empathy in her sad eyes moved me. \"Now I know why you can see me.\"\n\n\"Oh, man,\" I said. \"I have no words.\"\n\nHe waved us off. \"No words are necessary. The reason I'm telling you this is because there are no days promised to us by God. I believe He loves us because it makes me feel better to believe that, but in reality, I believe we are on our own here. We all suffer tragedy. We all experience miracles. And by miracles, you can choose to believe they are from God, but so are the tragedies. I love the Lord, and I believe He loves us all too. But I think He has better things to do than to worry about any individual person or even any individual planet. We should live our lives to the best of our ability. We should take the time to get to know one another, and to have empathy to a point. I also believe there is evil in this world, and some people are here to fight the darkness to keep the rest of us safe.\"\n\nEsther nodded. She looked at me. \"He means you.\"\n\n\"At times,\" Dr. Ancho said. \"And at times it may be a little lady crossing the street that delays a car and prevents an accident. We can all have some measure of impact on the world, and sometimes through chance, and other times through choice, we can leave the world better than we found it.\"\n\nA young man and woman approached our chairs. \"Hi, Dr. Ancho,\" they said in unison.\n\n\"Greetings and salutations, Corinne and James. I trust the world is being kind today?\"\n\n\"Every day,\" Corinne said. She handed him a sheet of paper. \"We made this for you, Dr. Ancho. Have a blessed day.\"\n\nHe accepted the sheet and they moved on into the building to study or talk or play games.\n\nDr. Ancho smiled and held up the sheet of paper. \"I believe this is for you, Mr. Shade.\" It was a Bible verse in nice calligraphy, and it read, \"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends. \u2014John 15:13.\"\n\nI didn't know what to say.\n\n\"It doesn't have to come to that, of course.\"\n\nI stared at him, not sure how to respond. Was the guy a psychic? Was he just reading me somehow? I didn't know. He seemed genuine.\n\nHe smiled. \"You are a wanted man by a seriously powerful force in the universe. You call them the Men of Anubis. I call them Amenken and Mahu. If you face them alone, they'll smite you in the amount of time it takes to crack an egg against a skillet.\"\n\n\"So you are psychic.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I can see things in time, but I can't do anything about them. I can issue warnings, but in most cases, I don't meet the people I need to warn. I like to get to know everyone I can because I can always see the moment of their death. If it's possible to change that, I let them know what I can without coming right out and saying too much. If I draw too much attention, the tragedies are worse.\"\n\n\"Like in Mexico City.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"Or New York in September 2001.\"\n\n\"You know that correlation is not causation, right?\" I said.\n\nThe smile and nod. \"Ahogado el ni\u00f1o, tapando el pozo.\" He shrugged, \"I know. And perhaps the tragedies would be just as bad if I didn't warn people. I try to tone things down, and for the last fourteen years, I've managed to avoid the big tragedies. You can argue that I wasn't in a position to see them. Perhaps. But many times I see small tragedies and large tragedies and I see that a nudge here or there will keep things on the smaller side. But I've also learned that if I go to these places physically, they are always worse. This is true whether I open a rift or I take normal transportation.\"\n\n\"All right,\" I said. \"I'm open to believing you've got some precognition going on.\"\n\n\"A blessing and a curse,\" he said.\n\n\"You know why I'm here.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"I do. But I don't know why.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"You don't have to do this. Your hand is not being forced.\"\n\n\"I trapped Khemet in the void. His father and brother are going to try to kill me, and worse, they'll kill my friends to get to me.\"\n\n\"Mr. Shade, they have to be able to find you first.\"\n\n\"They know I'm here.\"\n\n\"They know you're alive somehow, but they don't know where you are, and unless you call them out, they aren't likely to find you before you die of old age. All you have to do is settle down and live a normal life. You can help people here and there, and provided you don't do anything on a grand scale, you and your friends will be safe. Hanging around with a Norse god isn't what I'd call laying low.\"\n\n\"But they can travel through time.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"Have you heard of the Mandela Effect?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\n\"There are many people who remember Nelson Mandela dying in prison back in the 1980s, but he didn't die until 2013, and that was after not only getting out of prison, but also becoming president of South Africa.\"\n\n\"Sounds like a memory issue to me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is,\" he said. \"And perhaps it isn't. Did you see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"What does the witch say when she talks to her magic mirror?\"\n\n\"That's easy,\" I said. \"She says, 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?' Everybody knows that.\"\n\n\"And everybody would be wrong. She says 'Magic mirror on the wall.'\"\n\n\"Nonsense.\"\n\n\"And how,\" Esther said. \"It's always been mirror, mirror.\"\n\n\"Pull up YouTube on your phone,\" Dr. Ancho said.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I want you to watch a clip from Snow White.\"\n\n\"We have better things to do than that.\"\n\n\"Humor me.\"\n\nSo I pulled up the clip in question and sure enough, the damn witch didn't say \"Mirror mirror\" she said, \"Magic mirror.\"\n\n\"What the hell?\" I asked.\n\nEsther shook her head. \"No,\" she said. \"Someone changed it.\"\n\n\"The movie is based on the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, of course.\"\n\n\"I read that when I was a kid,\" I said. \"And I remember it saying, 'Mirror mirror on the wall,\" in the book as well.\"\n\n\"It still does.\"\n\n\"So history has been changed?\"\n\n\"You seem to be evidence of that, Mr. Shade. Perhaps your exploits are the reason for the Mandela Effect. Then again, perhaps anytime the Men of Anubis move through time, they shake things up a bit and that helps to keep you hidden.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"You may be right. Wow, the Snow White thing really messes with my head,\" I said. \"Are there other examples?\"\n\n\"Dozens. Everything from the HBO show with Sarah Jessica Parker to the ending of 'We Are the Champions' by Queen.\"\n\n\"Sex in the City is part of it?\"\n\n\"Sex and the City.\"\n\n\"In.\"\n\n\"And.\"\n\n\"Come on.\"\n\n\"Look it up. I'm sure you saw The Empire Strikes Back.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"When Vader tells Luke he's Luke's father, what does he say?\"\n\nI struggled to remember the lines. \"I think he said, 'Luke, I am your father.' Right?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"Wrong. He says, 'No, I am your father.' There are plenty of other examples. Do you remember the Berenstain Bears or the Berenstein Bears?\"\n\n\"Berenstain,\" I said.\n\n\"Most folks would disagree with you.\"\n\n\"You're just talking about memory here. We often remember things incorrectly.\"\n\n\"Have you been to Ellis Island?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How did you get there?\"\n\n\"Ferry.\"\n\n\"Did you know there's a bridge?\"\n\nI smiled. \"Yes. But it's not open to the public. They use it to transport materials and workers for the restoration projects.\"\n\n\"What's the most common brand name for adult diapers?\"\n\n\"Depends.\"\n\n\"Depend. No S.\"\n\n\"I've never needed them,\" I said, \"so I've never really paid attention.\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis have been scouring the recent past going back a few decades, moving forward a few decades. There are seven billion people on this planet. You've been traveling. They know where you fought Khemet.\"\n\n\"So they have to search the entire planet for me. As an artifact, I don't show up.\"\n\n\"And if they make any alterations, even small ones, things shift a bit. They are making clouds at the bottom of the river and when the silt settles, it doesn't land where it was. For them to find you will take a stroke of luck so great it would be like winning the lottery every day for a week.\"\n\n\"So you're telling me to back off. You see that if I continue on this quest, I'll die.\"\n\n\"Or your friends will die. Or perhaps all of you will die.\"\n\n\"Any chance we all survive?\"\n\n\"If you continue your search? About the same as winning the lottery every day for a week.\"\n\n\"But the Men of Anubis have killed millions of people.\"\n\n\"Everyone dies.\" He finished his latte and stared into my eyes. \"But not everyone lives.\"\n\n# CHAPTER EIGHT\n\n\"You are capable of simply walking away,\" Dr. Ancho said. \"Why don't you?\"\n\nI looked around at the students in the Hammer. The laughter, the quest for knowledge, the like-minded people seeking spiritual communion. Why was I fighting? Was it for these people? I didn't know them.\n\nWas it for my old friends back in Colorado? I hadn't seen any of them in a lifetime, and I mean that in a literal sense. So far as they knew, I was dead, and had been for years. None of them knew I even existed, and I didn't know what was going on in their lives either. We were strangers.\n\nKelly and Esther were the only constants in my life. I tried to connect with Brenda, and that was wonderful while it lasted, but when Khemet killed her, a part of me died as well.\n\nI faced Dr. Ancho. He sat in a gray and blue chair, his small hands on the armrests, and his feet dangling off the edge of the seat cushion. His eyes speared me, and I felt as though he could rip my mind open and stare into my soul. Rough and violent words\u2014speared and rip. Stab and tear. But his eyes held no malice. His eyes held no judgment. He sought understanding, but his motives were pure. He was a kind man. A caring man.\n\nHe didn't say anything.\n\nWhen you ask a question like that, you remain silent until the other person speaks. They can squirm, they can try to turn away, they can even run away, but if they don't leave, at some point they'll say something if only to break the silence.\n\nSilence carries weight\n\nThat weight presses down on people.\n\nEsther watched me struggle with my inner demons. She knew better than to speak as well. Her caring eyes held me in place and I knew she wasn't going to judge me for anything either.\n\nNo one else was paying any attention.\n\nThis was a safe place.\n\nI could open up.\n\n\"I don't know,\" I lied.\n\n\"Then I can't help you,\" Dr. Ancho said.\n\nHe started to push himself out of the chair.\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said, \"how to put what I'm feeling into words.\"\n\nHe settled back and gazed at me. \"I like to watch basketball,\" he said. \"I can't play the game, of course. Well, I could, but I'd have to use magic to win because while I may be able to run through the other players' legs, it would be too easy for them to block any ball I tried to throw toward the hoop. I still like to step onto the court at the Maybee Center every now and again. I like to dribble the ball, pass it around to students, give them their shot at the basket. Anyone can toss the ball around, dribble it up and down the court, pass it to another player. Let's do that here.\"\n\n\"I don't have a basketball,\" I said.\n\nHe smiled. \"Come with me.\"\n\nHe pushed himself out of the chair, dropped to his feet and moved down a hallway toward the restrooms.\n\nEsther floated after him, so I followed too.\n\nOnce we were out of sight of the main floor, Dr. Ancho reached up and his fingers glowed. He slid his fingers down through the air and peeled open a rift to a basketball court.\n\n\"Go on through,\" he said.\n\nEsther stepped through the rift. I stared down at Dr. Ancho. \"I wasn't saying we should get a basketball.\"\n\n\"I know. Step through.\"\n\nI had to bend down to get through the rift, but I did so. Dr. Ancho followed me through then closed the rift.\n\nWe stood at the edge of the basketball court. Several players moved on the boards at the far end, their sneakers squeaking when they cut and changed directions. They shot easy baskets, patted one another on the back and laughed. Easy practice.\n\nSeveral basketballs sat on the floor by the players' bench. Dr. Ancho raised a hand and made a slight motion. One of the balls rolled across the floor then took flight and sailed through the air at me.\n\nI caught the ball.\n\n\"Simple magic,\" I said.\n\nNone of the players paid us any attention, and they hadn't seen the ball fly.\n\n\"Bounce the ball,\" Dr. Ancho said.\n\nI bounced it, liking the high pitched noise it made when it struck the boards. I caught the ball again and started dribbling.\n\nDr. Ancho stepped onto the court and held up his hands to me.\n\nI bounced the basketball to him. He caught it, dribbled for a moment and tossed it to Esther. The ball passed through her and hit the floor, bounced a few times then rolled against the wall.\n\n\"You were supposed to catch it,\" he said.\n\nEsther shrugged. \"I've never touched a basketball.\"\n\n\"First time for everything,\" I said. I started to walk toward the ball.\n\n\"I've got it,\" Esther said and popped over to it. She solidified, lifted the ball then popped back to the court. The ball dropped to the floor by the wall where she'd been. \"Aw, horsefeathers,\" she said and popped back to it. This time, she carried it back to the court.\n\n\"Keep practicing, Esther,\" Dr. Ancho said. \"To grab something physical and take it with you is possible, though difficult because it takes a great force of will. It's easier if you have something of similar mass already in your hands when you go. Then you trade it for what you want to take with you.\"\n\nShe shook her head and tossed the basketball to me. I dribbled a few times, ready to pass to Dr. Ancho, but he dug in his pocket and took out a handful of change. He motioned for Esther to go over to him.\n\n\"Take a quarter,\" he said.\n\nShe picked a shiny quarter from his palm.\n\n\"Hold it tightly.\" He walked ten feet away and placed a penny on the ground. \"All right. Pop over here with the quarter, trade it for the penny and pop back to where you are now.\"\n\n\"All right,\" she said and popped over to the penny.\n\nThe quarter dropped to the floor where she'd been. She ignored it, lifted the penny and popped back, but the penny dropped to the ground by Dr. Ancho.\n\n\"Aw, applesauce,\" Esther said.\n\n\"You have to really want to carry it with you and to take the other item back.\"\n\n\"Shouldn't she try to trade a penny for a penny?\" I asked.\n\n\"The mass doesn't have to be equal. It can be close and the universe will allow it.\"\n\n\"I don't think I can do that,\" Esther said.\n\n\"You jumped over here and brought your clothing with you,\" he said. \"If you couldn't make the jump with anything, you'd arrive naked.\"\n\n\"The clothes are part of me. I've worn them forever.\"\n\n\"They go because you see them going with you.\"\n\n\"Stop beating your gums about me. Jonathan needs your help, not me.\"\n\n\"You keep working, Esther,\" Dr. Ancho said. He turned toward me. \"I'm open.\"\n\nI passed him the ball. He caught it, turned and launched it toward the basket. The ball hit the rim and bounced off. I ran over and caught the ball, did a hook shot toward the basket. The ball hit the backboard and bounced away. I caught the ball and tried a layup. The ball rolled around the rim then fell the wrong way.\n\n\"You used magic to stop that from going in,\" I said.\n\nHe grinned, feigning innocence and put a foot out to stop the ball from rolling past him. \"Why would I do such a thing?\" He lifted the ball and tossed it into the basket. He winked at me. \"Someone has to score some points.\"\n\nI retrieved the ball. \"Nice shot.\"\n\n\"And no magic.\"\n\n\"Magic retired.\"\n\nDr. Ancho laughed, knowing exactly what I meant. \"He came back for a season. Why do you think he did that?\"\n\n\"He wanted to play.\"\n\n\"You can retire, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"And do what?\"\n\n\"Anything you want.\"\n\nI dribbled the ball. \"That's not true.\"\n\n\"Why? What do you want?\"\n\nI considered that for a moment. \"I want to make things right,\" I said, and passed him the ball.\n\n\"What makes you think things aren't right?\"\n\n\"No offense, Dr. Ancho, but I don't buy into a grand plan for the universe designed by some imaginary friend for adults.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"That's a good one. I'll have to write that down.\" He set the ball on the floor and dug a small memo pad out of his pocket. From another pocket, he produced a pen. As he wrote on the first page, he spoke the words aloud. \"Imaginary friend for adults.\" He put the pad and pen away. \"I like that. It's right up there with 'invisible man in the sky.'\"\n\n\"George Carlin,\" I said.\n\nHe nodded. \"All jokes aside, if you don't buy into a grand plan for the universe, what do you have to make right?\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"It's a simple question. If there's no plan, there's nothing to set right. It's not like life is a game of basketball and we have to keep score on an intergalactic scoreboard.\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis have a plan.\"\n\n\"Most of the people on this planet have a plan too. They plan to lose weight. They plan to write a book. They plan to ask that lovely young woman on a date. They plan to save some money. They plan to get a new job. They plan to watch their favorite TV show on Friday night.\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis have killed thousands of people. Maybe millions.\"\n\n\"People die every single day, Jonathan. Some die from a heart attack. Some die from cancer. Some die in a robbery, a car accident, some in war, some in childbirth, some jump off a bridge, some are shot, stabbed, strangled, you name it. We're right back to the fact that everybody dies.\"\n\n\"I can't do anything about them,\" I said. \"But maybe I can do something about the Men of Anubis.\"\n\nHe nodded and tossed the basketball to me. \"Take a shot,\" he said.\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"Take a shot,\" he said again, raising his voice slightly.\n\n\"Fine,\" I said and turned to throw the ball toward the basket.\n\n\"Not from there,\" he said. \"Move to the free throw line.\"\n\nI walked over and put my foot behind the line.\n\n\"Esther, stand along the key.\"\n\n\"The key?\" she asked.\n\n\"The line right there,\" he said, pointing.\n\nShe stood where he said. He moved to the opposite key as though he and Esther were going to rebound my free throws should I miss.\n\n\"The game is on the line,\" Dr. Ancho said. \"Tie score. We're down to the final seconds. A basket will win the game. You were fouled and you have two free throws. Make one and you win the game.\"\n\nI took my shot.\n\nDr. Ancho motioned with one finger and the ball bounced off the rim and came back at me. I caught it, bounced it a few times as I repositioned myself at the line.\n\n\"Last chance. A basket wins the game.\"\n\n\"No magic,\" I said.\n\n\"I won't need magic,\" he said. \"You won't make the shot.\"\n\nI sent the ball up in a lazy arc. It hit the backboard, bounced on the rim and deflected off to the side.\n\n\"Did my imaginary friend make you miss?\" Dr. Ancho asked.\n\n\"You put doubt into my head saying I wouldn't make the shot.\"\n\n\"I can't work direct magic against you, Jonathan. The doubt was already there. You worry that you're not good enough. That somehow what the Men of Anubis do has some reflection on you.\"\n\n\"Thousands of people died because of me,\" I said.\n\n\"Did you kill them?\"\n\n\"I couldn't save them.\"\n\n\"Welcome to the real world when sometimes bad things happen and there's nothing you can do about it.\"\n\n\"They have to be stopped.\"\n\n\"And you think you can stop them?\"\n\n\"I have to try.\"\n\n\"Why? Because they killed thousands of people?\"\n\n\"Those people would not have died if not for me.\"\n\nHe sighed and made a motion with one hand to send the basketball back to the other side of the court where it belonged. Then he walked past me and said, \"You're not fighting for thousands of people.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"You tell me,\" he said and kept walking. \"But I have to get to class now.\"\n\nI raced to catch up to him. \"You think you know me?\"\n\nHe grinned. \"I know I do.\"\n\n\"Well, evidently, I don't know myself. Care to throw some light on the subject?\"\n\n\"Oh, now you want a spotlight?\"\n\nHe moved to open the door, but I blocked his path. Esther kept her distance.\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"I want to make amends.\"\n\n\"For?\"\n\n\"The people who've died because of me.\"\n\n\"All those thousands of people in New York back in 1927? You didn't know them, and you're not the one who killed them. They've been gone for almost ninety years.\"\n\n\"For Henry Winslow,\" I said. \"I failed him. For Brenda Slaughter, who would still be alive if not for my actions. For Naomi Miller. For Brand Easton. For Esther, who wouldn't have killed herself and come back as a ghost.\"\n\n\"That was a different you,\" Esther said. I hadn't realized she'd come over to us. \"And that was my choice.\"\n\n\"And for Kelly. My Kelly.\"\n\nI still had dreams of watching her get cut apart by cleavers. Her memory haunted me, and I'd been pushing it away so hard there were nights I couldn't sleep at all.\n\n\"So you want revenge.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"I want to do something right for a change.\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis can kill you with a touch.\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid to die.\"\n\n\"But you can't bring any of those people back.\"\n\n\"Some of us aren't even gone,\" Esther said. \"I've been carrying a torch for you for as long as I've known you. I can be physical now, and you don't even seem to notice the bank is open.\"\n\n\"I've noticed,\" I said. \"I just feel we have to deal with the problem at hand first.\" I knew it was a lame comment, and Esther shook her head then stared at the ceiling.\n\n\"It's not your problem,\" Dr. Ancho said.\n\n\"The Men of Anubis are looking for me.\"\n\n\"But they can't find you. Let them look.\"\n\n\"They need to be dispatched,\" I said. \"It's not right for them to go backward and forward in time killing people, changing things. And they will find me.\"\n\n\"What makes you think that?\"\n\n\"Because good things always die and the bad things always flourish. I can make a difference, or at least die trying.\"\n\n\"And take how many more with you?\"\n\nI gave a light humorless laugh. \"You don't get it, Dr. Ancho,\" I said. \"Everyone I've ever truly loved is already dead. The least I can do is try to fight the things that killed them. You know that old military sentiment of 'All gave some, and some gave all?'\"\n\nDr. Ancho nodded.\n\n\"My friends gave all. Esther here gave all. Even Brand, who in his own misguided way was probably trying to do the right thing, gave all. And Kelly.\"\n\nAnd that was the crux of the issue right there, though I didn't say it. Dr. Ancho knew. I could see it in his eyes. Somehow, he was able to read me and know just what was in my heart. Things I didn't want to say to anyone. Like the fact that every time I saw Kelly, I longed for a way to trade her for the Kelly I'd lost. The Kelly I loved, and who loved me back.\n\n\"That doesn't mean you have to give all,\" Dr. Ancho said.\n\n\"I don't care if I live or die,\" I said. \"I just want to take the Men of Anubis with me if I go. And quite frankly, hiding from the sons of bitches doesn't appeal to me at all. That means they win. That means Kelly died for nothing.\"\n\n\"Kelly died facing Henry Winslow,\" Esther said.\n\n\"And if not for the Men of Anubis and their actions, we never would have been tossed back in time.\"\n\n\"But Sharon and Chronos sent us back.\"\n\nI closed my eyes and thought about it. These were the same Men of Anubis I'd met in ancient Egypt. They got the Emerald Tablets of Thoth when Henry disappeared and shot forward in time. But Henry would not have been anywhere near Tutankhamun's funeral if not for me.\n\n\"I need to sit down,\" I said. I leaned against the wall and slid to a seated position.\n\nThe Men of Anubis had killed untold numbers of people. They had altered time in ways I couldn't imagine. The ramifications of their actions changed history, and they couldn't have done any of it if not for me. So all those deaths were on my hands.\n\nKelly's blood was on my hands.\n\n\"All of it is my fault,\" I said. \"If I'd killed Winslow when I first met him, the world would be a much different place.\"\n\n\"You don't know that from nothing,\" Esther said. \"Maybe you're just the fall guy here.\"\n\n\"I don't look anything like Lee Majors,\" I said, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work.\n\n\"You know what I mean. I wasn't with you in Egypt, but I think you've been framed. You were on the up and up in San Francisco. You've saved lives the whole time I've known you.\"\n\n\"And I'm the reason you killed yourself.\"\n\n\"Different you, but the you that you became is so much better than the one I knew. That rhymes.\" Esther tried to cheer me up by dancing and going into a little sing-song. \"The you I knew, you knew him too, and you know it's true, you're better than you know who.\"\n\n\"To keep the rhyme going,\" Dr. Ancho said, \"it's time for you to buy a clue.\"\n\n\"Stop,\" I said.\n\n\"I'll spell it out for you. The Men of Anubis couldn't send you back to create them. They're a byproduct of something else.\"\n\n\"They're one hell of a byproduct.\"\n\n\"When time is altered, there are always problems. I'm going to be late for my class, but the students won't mind. What are you hoping to accomplish?\"\n\n\"I want to put an end to the Men of Anubis. They're my fault, so they're my responsibility.\"\n\n\"And if you die facing them?\"\n\n\"At least I will have tried to make things right.\"\n\n\"Will you stick around in spirit to keep fighting?\"\n\n\"I sure hope not.\" I looked at Esther. \"No offense, Esther, but I can't imagine what you've been dealing with for all these years.\"\n\n\"You don't want to,\" she said.\n\n\"That's not true,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes it is. To you I'm just a dead girl. I get it. To me, you're my chance at life. And I don't think it's ever going to happen. Not ever.\"\n\n\"Can we deal with this later, Esther?\"\n\n\"Always later,\" she said and turned away.\n\n\"You were saying, Dr. Ancho?\"\n\nHe hesitated, and for a moment I thought he'd judged me and found me wanting, but he soldiered on and looked up at me. \"If you're simply severely injured, will you try to find a way to reset time?\" Dr. Ancho asked.\n\n\"How would I do that?\"\n\n\"If you don't know, I'm certainly not going to tell you.\"\n\n\"By taking the watch from Chronos?\"\n\n\"Trust me. You don't want that job.\"\n\n\"Truth be told, I've had more than enough time travel nonsense. It's one of those things that sounds like fun, but turns into a total nightmare.\"\n\n\"No one ever stops to consider the ramifications. Just keep your eyes open for the real villain of the piece.\"\n\n\"I will,\" I said, thinking I knew what he meant. \"Will you help us?\"\n\nHe took a deep breath and considered it. \"That depends on what you expect me to do. I won't fight with you or for you or even against you.\"\n\n\"I need to know what I'm up against, and I need some help getting my recruits together. I also need to find a good place to face the Men of Anubis. I promised Chronos not to face them in Denver, but I have to go there to get a few helpers.\"\n\nHe stared at me for a moment and I saw disappointment in his eyes. \"I can open a doorway to Denver for you, but I won't be able to keep it open, so you'll need to find your own way back.\"\n\nHe gave me a nod then reached up and pulled down the air, opening a rift. A gust of cool wind rippled through my shirt.\n\n\"Go. I have a class to teach.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said.\n\nHe gave me a strange look. \"Not sure you should be thanking me, but it's your life. Now go. I'm late.\"\n\nEsther and I ducked through the rift and stepped from the floor of the Maybee Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma to an alley off East Colfax in Denver, Colorado.\n\n# CHAPTER NINE\n\nThe temperature hovered in the high forties, but the wind made it feel colder. Esther couldn't feel the difference, but I found myself wishing I had a jacket.\n\n\"Dr. Ancho is good,\" I said as we exited the alley to the sidewalk on East Colfax. We'd stepped through right around the corner from a small parking lot with a strip mall of shops, one of which had a door that read, Colfax Self Defense. Someone had stuck a piece of white tape on the door between the Self and Defense to act as an impromptu hyphen, but that wasn't clear until we got closer.\n\nI hadn't seen that door in a lifetime, and I'd never seen the grammar Nazi correction before. My last memory of this place was from when a sorcerer named Blake Ravenwood blasted the entire city block out of existence, leaving a smoking hole in the wake of whatever magic he'd used. I got even with the son of a bitch and left him in the Underworld after kicking his ass. Naomi Miller, whose body he'd been using at the time, died to get him there, and I've never really forgiven myself for her death.\n\nLife has a way of tormenting me because I'd seen her die twice. As I reached for the door to the dojo, I thought about Kelly. I'd seen her die twice, too.\n\n\"What are you waiting for?\" Esther asked.\n\n\"This Kelly won't know you.\"\n\n\"I'll stay invisible until you introduce me, and I won't beat my gums.\"\n\n\"That'll be a first,\" I said.\n\nShe gave me a playful slap, then went translucent.\n\nI took a deep breath. The smell of pizza cooking down the street wafted past and made my stomach growl. Grunts sounded from inside the dojo as students punched air going through their routines. No time like the present, I thought, and opened the door.\n\nA black woman approached me with a big smile, moving with exaggerated stealth as she put a finger to her lips. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her. Had she been one of my Kelly's students too? Kelly taught mostly women because she liked to empower them to take control of their lives. You couldn't ask for a better role model.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" the woman whispered.\n\n\"I'm here to see Kelly Chan,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, she'll be back directly. She's at the airport saying goodbye to a friend.\"\n\nIn the studio, a young woman with dark red hair led ten other women through a routine where they blocked punches and kicks while advancing and retreating in unison. It didn't look very effective at first, but I realized this was more to get them used to the contact of blocking, and to the concept of moving backward to avoid a punch or kick and stepping around once the other person has committed. It looked to be a beginner's class. The women ranged from early twenties to late sixties.\n\nI drew a breath, thinking that Kelly had breathed this air. She wasn't my Kelly either, and I knew I needed to be prepared because she might not recognize me. I was a bit older than the last time she would have seen me, and my hair was different. And to her, I was dead, and had been for years. My heart pounded and I realized I hadn't responded to the woman's statement about Kelly being at the airport.\n\n\"Sorry,\" I said. \"Would it be all right if we waited?\"\n\n\"We?\" the woman asked.\n\n\"She can't see me,\" Esther said.\n\n\"I mean, would it be okay if I waited,\" I said. Wow, I was really off my game.\n\nThe woman sized me up, and suspicion showed in her narrowed eyes. \"What do you want with Kelly?\"\n\n\"I'm here to offer her a job,\" I said. \"If she wants it, of course.\"\n\n\"She's got a job.\"\n\n\"This is a different kind of job that would make use of her particular set of skills.\"\n\n\"Don't go all Liam Neeson on me, Mister...\" She hesitated so I'd give her my name, but I didn't want to do that. I don't know why.\n\n\"Not me,\" I said. \"Her. Look, I'll just sit here and read a magazine. Is that cool? If I disturb anyone, I'll leave if you ask, but I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just need Kelly's help.\"\n\n\"You know her?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"We've never met.\"\n\nShe looked me up and down again then frowned. \"I guess it's all right, but if you get rowdy, I'll throw you out of here myself.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"If you need me, my name is Monique.\"\n\n\"Got it. Thank you, Monique.\" I pointed to the plastic chairs in the little waiting area between the counter and the front of the building. \"Sitting down now.\"\n\n\"Mmm hmm.\"\n\nClass let out fifteen minutes later. After the women chatted for a few minutes, they filed out of the dojo.\n\nMonique glanced over at me as the last of the students left. Kelly's substitute teacher went off to the women's locker room without coming over to the door.\n\n\"We don't have another class until tonight,\" Monique said. \"Means you need to leave now.\"\n\n\"Can you call Kelly for me?\" I asked.\n\n\"And tell her what?\"\n\n\"Tell her that her old friend Jonathan needs to talk to her.\"\n\n\"And you said you didn't know her.\"\n\n\"It's complicated.\"\n\n\"Isn't it always?\"\n\n\"Help me out here. It's just a phone call.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it.\"\n\n\"In the meantime, can I use the restroom?\"\n\n\"It's in the back.\"\n\n\"I know where it is,\" I said.\n\nThe substitute teacher exited the women's room. Her red hair was even darker than I realized, but it was a dye job as I could see blonde hair at the roots. She wore blue jeans and a T-shirt with a big orange jack o'lantern on it. Halloween was over, so maybe she liked the shirt. She gave me a nod as she passed.\n\nAs I stepped into the men's room, I heard her ask Monique, \"Who's the cute guy?\"\n\nEsther remained invisible to them and listened to their conversation. If they said anything of value, she'd fill me in. I used the restroom, washed my hands, and returned to the front of the dojo. The floor was exactly as I remembered it, covered with training mats. I'd killed a Sekutar warrior in this very place. Well, in a different layer of time.\n\nMonique and the redhead stood by the office door, chatting. Esther gave me a shrug. Nothing to report.\n\n\"You going to help me out?\" I asked. \"Can you please call her?\"\n\n\"You ain't got the number?\" Monique asked.\n\n\"I used to,\" I said. \"I can get it again. I just don't want to talk to my sister. Please?\"\n\n\"Hold your horses,\" Monique said.\n\n\"No horses to hold.\"\n\nMonique went into the office, leaving me with the redhead.\n\n\"Hello again,\" I said. \"I'm Jonathan. And you're?\"\n\n\"Not.\"\n\n\"So I'm not even worthy of your name?\"\n\nShe grinned and gave me a wink. \"You never know what the future will bring.\"\n\n\"I used to know,\" I said.\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"Forgot to pay the bill to the psychic hotline. You'd think they'd have known to remind me.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"You're not that funny.\"\n\nMonique exited the office. \"I tried Kelly's phone, but it went to voice mail. Sorry, Mr. Jonathan. You gots to go. I need to lock up and meet my friend Jessica for coffee.\"\n\n\"It's all right, Monique,\" the redhead said. \"I'll lock up. I don't mind waiting with Jonathan for a while.\"\n\n\"You sure?\"\n\nShe nodded and winked. \"Oh, I'm definitely sure. He's cute, and I'm between boyfriends.\"\n\n\"Okay, Gillian. If you say so. Thanks again for covering the class.\"\n\n\"Any time. Kelly saved me, so it's the least I can do.\"\n\nMonique gave me another look, then pushed through the door and headed down the sidewalk.\n\n\"Thanks for hanging out with me, Gillian,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, now you know my name,\" she said and locked the door.\n\n\"I do have ears.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" she said.\n\n\"So Kelly saved you?\" I asked. I wanted to know more about who this Kelly was. For all I knew, after I died, she could have reverted back to being a killer for hire.\n\nGillian nodded and stepped closer. \"I was a nymphomaniac, and I made bad choices about which guys to sleep with. Some of them were violent, but I like the bad boys. Long story short, one was a little too bad. Kelly taught me how to defend myself.\"\n\nShe seemed a mite comfortable with the whole nympho thing, and the way she looked at me made me wonder if she wanted to put me on the menu. I wasn't ready for a fling. Brenda's death was too recent, but the way Gillian bit her lower lip as she stared at me was something of a giveaway.\n\n\"I'm glad,\" I said.\n\n\"So, Jonathan,\" she said, looking me over again. \"Your last name wouldn't be Shade, would it?\"\n\n\"Hate to disappoint you, but Jonathan Shade died years ago. We share a first name.\"\n\n\"That's a pity because Kelly still talks about him. I would love to meet him.\"\n\n\"Got a time machine?\" I asked.\n\nShe laughed. \"I wish. If I did, I'd make sure I never hooked up with Jack Munster.\"\n\n\"You slept with a guy named Munster? Did he look like Frankenstein's monster?\"\n\n\"No, but he smelled like the cheese.\"\n\nI laughed.\n\n\"I like your laugh, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"Something's wrong with this sheila,\" Esther said.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said, intending the response for both the live and dead girls. Esther didn't need to worry. I sensed something off about Gillian. And for Gillian the pleasantry was to have something to say. I sure wished Kelly would get back.\n\nGillian leaned close and sniffed me. \"You smell good.\" She let her lips brush my ear and whispered, \"I want you inside me.\"\n\nI blinked. Had I heard her correctly?\n\n\"I'm sorry?\"\n\nShe grabbed me and pushed me backward toward the women's locker room. \"Working out makes me horny, and you look like the kind of man who can scratch my itches in all the right places. I know you think something's wrong with me, but I've had all my shots and I always carry protection.\" She dug in her pants pocket, pulled out a wrapped condom and tossed it to me. The wrapper had a radio station logo and a caption that read, \"Wrap that rascal.\"\n\n\"Uh...\"\n\nShe pushed me back, peeled off her T-shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra and she was young and healthy. She threw her shirt at me. \"We're both adults,\" she said. \"We don't need clothes.\"\n\n\"I was just\u2014\"\n\nShe rushed to me and planted a kiss on my lips. She moved her mouth over mine and reached down to rub my crotch. She maneuvered me into the women's locker room, which consisted of a couple of rows of lockers with wooden benches between them, and a shower room with toilets at the back.\n\nEsther stood in the center of the dojo, shaking her head. \"And now I have to play fire extinguisher.\"\n\nGillian closed the door and stood proudly. \"Do you like what you see?\"\n\n\"Well...\"\n\n\"Do you want to see more?\"\n\n\"I was actually here to see Kelly.\"\n\n\"I'm a vibrant young athletic woman who wants to fuck your brains out. Are you really going to say no to me? Strip.\"\n\n\"You're a lovely woman.\"\n\n\"Are you gay?\"\n\n\"No, but\u2014\"\n\nShe grabbed my shirt and yanked it open, popping off buttons. They clattered to the tile floor. She pulled my shirt down, pinning my arms, then purred like a kitten as she moved her lips to mine. She kissed me down the chin, neck, and chest as she sank. Her hands ran down my arms, pulling my shirt down with them, and right as I expected her to move to my fly, she drove her head into my gut. Hard.\n\nI bent with the blow. She came up with her head, smacked me under the chin then threw a throat punch. I tried to block, but my arms wouldn't come up thanks to the damn shirt. I managed to twist enough that her punch hit me in the side of the neck. I fell over a bench by the lockers and crashed to the floor.\n\nGillian leaped over the bench and straddled me. The view was nice, but I knew I was in trouble when she touched her right earring and said, \"I've got him.\"\n\n\"Esther!\" I yelled.\n\nGillian punched me in the face, touched her earring again. \"Yes, sir,\" she said and tried to drive her fist through my face again. This time, I moved my head and her fist struck the floor. I bucked underneath her, and rolled over, smacking her against the wooden bench. I wrestled her until I was on top. She flailed at me, but I caught her arms, and pinned them with my knees.\n\nEsther walked through the wall and stared at me. \"This isn't a petting pantry,\" she said.\n\n\"Who were you talking to, Gillian?\" I asked. My lip felt a bit swollen from her blow.\n\n\"Who's Esther?Don't you want me?\" she asked, smiling. \"You can take me now. I'll writhe beneath you like a wildcat in heat.\"\n\nI sighed and looked at the ceiling.\n\n\"Want me to sock her lights out for you?\" Esther asked and materialized fully.\n\nGillian frowned. \"Looks like you have me at a disadvantage.\"\n\n\"Just pinch her carotid arteries closed,\" I said to Esther.\n\nEsther knelt and reached for Gillian's throat.\n\nGillian pulled her left arm free. \"Do over,\" she said and pressed a jewel on her left earring.\n\nI felt like I was falling into myself.\n\nEsther and I stepped through the rift from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Denver, Colorado.\n\nThe temperature hovered in the high forties, but the wind made it feel colder. Esther couldn't feel the difference, but I found myself wishing I had a jacket. My shirt was buttoned and intact, but my lip hurt and I felt slightly disoriented.\n\n\"Dr. Ancho is good,\" I said as we exited the alley to the sidewalk on East Colfax. \"Oh, shit,\" I said as the reality settled onto my shoulders.\n\n\"What?\" Esther asked.\n\n\"The Men of Anubis have found us.\"\n\n# CHAPTER TEN\n\nThere were two options. I could go through the time loop again, trying to make little changes or I could take a more direct approach. I knew Gillian had earrings that let her talk to the Men of Anubis, so she was one of their agents. She must have been their spy to keep tabs on the version of Kelly Chan from this layer of time. One earring, the right one, let her contact them or another of their agents. The left was a technological device to erase time for a chance to try again.\n\nI remembered everything that happened, but would Gillian know she'd gone back in time or would this play out for her like the first time. I had to assume she'd remember because otherwise she wouldn't know to try a different tactic.\n\nI explained this to Esther while we stood on East Colfax just a few yards from the parking lot of the strip mall where Kelly had her dojo.\n\n\"I remember everything that happened, too. So, play it out again or go in and attack?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"There's a third option,\" she said. \"Don't go in at all.\"\n\n\"They know we're here. They know we're trying to reach Kelly.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"They'll kill her.\"\n\n\"If they wanted her dead, they could have bumped her off already.\"\n\n\"We have another problem,\" I said.\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\n\"My lip still hurts from where she punched me, but my buttons aren't broken.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, Jonathan, I'm all balled up here. How is it that we went back, but still remember?\"\n\n\"I don't think this is a normal time loop because we're not connected to time.\"\n\n\"There's such a thing as a normal time loop?\"\n\nFour gunshots sounded not too far off.\n\n\"Was that from the dojo?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'll check.\" Esther popped away.\n\nShe popped back a moment later, her face lighter than normal.\n\n\"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"Gillian just shot and killed you in the dojo.\"\n\nSirens wailed in the distance and grew closer. Shit. We weren't connected to time so we got tossed out and back like silt clouding the river, but Gillian went back to what time was before, meaning for a short time there were two of me and two of Esther, and the second Esther had to still be in there.\n\n\"Pop back in there,\" I said, backing away toward the corner. \"See where Gillian is going. I'll catch her unawares.\"\n\n\"B-R-B,\" Esther said.\n\nTraffic was terrible on Colfax, but the drivers did their best to wheel to the side to let the police cars and ambulance through. We weren't far from Colorado Boulevard, so the ambulance was close. Police cars screeched into the parking lot. I watched them pile out of their cars and face the dojo, guns drawn. For all they knew, they were dealing with an active shooter.\n\nEsther popped back.\n\n\"She went up through Kelly's apartment to get to the roof.\"\n\nI nodded. \"Got it.\"\n\nEsther sailed along beside me as I ran around the building. \"I saw myself in there too, wailing over her dead Jonathan. Talk about strange!\"\n\n\"We can talk about that later. Get up there and stay invisible so you can keep tabs on Gillian.\"\n\nEsther nodded and popped away.\n\nIn the back alley, a fire escape led to Kelly's balcony. I raced back there, jumped up to catch the bottom rung and pulled the ladder down. I climbed to the balcony, hopped up onto the rail and jumped to the rooftop. I caught the gutter, and it groaned under my weight.\n\nPlease hold, I thought.\n\nIt bent, but did not break. I swung a leg to the roof and hauled myself up, rolling to my feet.\n\nI caught sight of Gillian's red hair as she jumped from the rooftop to a lower roof. I followed her. I ran to the edge of the second story roof and leaped outward. I hit the first floor hard, but did a quick roll to absorb the impact. Gillian heard me land, and spun around to face me.\n\n\"Impossible!\" she said. She pulled the gun from her pocket and raised it. I was too far away to do anything.\n\nEsther materialized beside Gillian, and punched her in the face with one hand, while shoving her gun hand to the side. The gun went off and missed. The gunshot might draw the cops, though. Then again, from up here, blending with the traffic noise from Colfax, it might be mistaken for a car backfiring.\n\n\"Thank you, Esther,\" I said.\n\nGillian recovered quickly and tried to punch Esther, but Esther dematerialized. Gillian threw herself off balance with the punch, and by then I'd crossed the distance. I pushed her hard in the direction she was moving and she fell down. The gun skittered off to the side, so I hurried over and stepped on it.\n\n\"Why'd you have to go and kill me?\" I asked.\n\n\"I put three bullets in your chest and one in your head. How are you still alive?\"\n\nI spread my arms to show no injuries. \"You missed,\" I said.\n\nI bent to pick up the revolver, a simple Smith and Wesson six-shooter.\n\n\"I saw you go down.\"\n\n\"Oh, baby, you were the one who wanted to go down on me.\"\n\nShe glared at me and reached for her ear.\n\n\"No you don't,\" I said and kicked her arm. I leaned in and yanked the left earring. It wasn't a clip-on, so she flinched at the pain as I tore it free. Blood dripped from her mangled earlobe. \"Esther, can you hold her arms for me?\"\n\nEsther popped over and grabbed Gillian's arms. I wasn't so violent removing the right earring. I didn't feel bad about the damage. She had shot another version of me, after all.\n\nI walked away from them and moved to the edge of the roof. I peered over to see if anyone was coming. The police had entered the building, and several stood guard outside, standing behind the open driver's doors of their police cars. No one looked up, so I was right about the noise from the gunshot. Sounds like that are ubiquitous on East Colfax. A single shot doesn't draw much attention if there are no witnesses and it's off in the distance.\n\nI walked back to Gillian and Esther. \"We're good,\" I said.\n\n\"How are you even alive?\" Gillian asked.\n\n\"Your little earring creates a mini-Mandela Effect,\" I said. \"I'm not tied to time the way you are, so when you hit the button, you went back in time, but I was tossed out to where I entered the area because I can't be in the same spot at the same time as my earlier self. At least, that's my hypothesis.\"\n\n\"I didn't understand a word of that,\" Esther said.\n\n\"And who the fuck are you, lady?\" Gillian asked, struggling to pull free.\n\n\"You could say that I'm the ghost with the most,\" Esther said.\n\n\"I thought that was Beetlejuice,\" I said.\n\n\"That's a movie; I'm real.\"\n\n\"Good enough,\" I said. \"At breakfast, she's the ghost with the toast.\"\n\n\"You think you're funny?\" Gillian asked.\n\n\"Yes, but I realize some people think I'm just an asshole.\"\n\n\"They know you're here.\"\n\n\"You're quite the stupid little bitch, aren't you?\" I said.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis will pop into the dojo, and they'll see my body with all the bullet holes and the lack of a pulse. And once again, they'll think I'm dead.\"\n\nEsther flinched.\n\n\"Something wrong, Esther?\" I asked.\n\n\"Tell you later,\" she said.\n\n\"Your ghost friend just felt her other self go bye-bye,\" Gillian said.\n\n\"Is that true?\" I asked.\n\nEsther nodded.\n\nThat meant the Men of Anubis were in the dojo. They couldn't have been more than thirty yards from where I now stood.\n\nI turned toward the dojo, thinking that maybe I should go face them now.\n\n\"They're down there, all right,\" she said. \"And now I'm going to call them up here.\" She opened her mouth to scream, but only the first part of the yell issued forth before Esther smacked her on the back of the head. \"Hey!\"\n\n\"You try to scream again,\" I said, \"and Esther will dematerialize her hand, push it inside your skull and rematerialize it, killing you instantly.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't dare.\"\n\n\"Try me, bitch,\" Esther said. \"I'd love to send you down the river. You killed Jonathan.\"\n\n\"One version of me, anyway,\" I said. \"Keep her here, Esther.\"\n\n\"Don't go down there, Jonathan,\" Esther said.\n\nI held up the earrings. \"I've got a do-over,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't waste it!\"\n\nGillian smiled. \"Go face them, timeless man.\"\n\n\"Jonathan, no!\"\n\nI liked the direct approach. It had served me well against Persephone and others. What if I could go down there and shoot one of those sons of bitches behind the ear before they knew I was even there? Maybe I could get both of them. Or maybe those jackal masks would deflect bullets. I checked the gun. One bullet remained. I sighed. If I had two bullets, I might have gone down there. With one, it wasn't worth the risk.\n\nI glanced back at Gillian. \"Got any more ammo?\"\n\n\"Not on me.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" I said. \"I find myself in need of a bedtime story, and you're just the lady who can spin that yarn for me. How and when did the Men of Anubis recruit you?\"\n\n\"Two years ago, and how is none of your business.\"\n\n\"That long ago?\" That was not only before I'd killed Khemet, it was before I'd returned from the 1920s. Of course, they'd want to keep someone on Kelly as a just-in-case precaution. Gillian was in place, but until I killed Khemet, they had no idea when or if I'd turn up. They probably had agents around Patrick O'Malley, and everyone else I knew back then, too.\n\n\"What are you going to do with me?\" Gillian asked.\n\n\"I haven't decided.\"\n\n\"You're going to have to kill me to keep me quiet.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to kill you,\" I said.\n\n\"The Men of Anubis will expect me to report in.\"\n\n\"Yeah, that's not going to happen.\"\n\n\"They'll find me if I don't contact them.\"\n\n\"They're here now,\" I said.\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"They're not going to try to trace you along your timeline. They can do that, of course, but I think it's more likely they'll just be at your house waiting when you get home.\"\n\n\"Apartment,\" she said. \"I rent.\"\n\n\"Then you should have struck a better bargain with them for being a spy.\"\n\n\"My son is alive because I agreed to help them. I wasn't about to try and up the ante.\"\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"Car accident,\" she said. \"I lived, he didn't. They offered me a chance to relive those last seconds to avoid the wreck, and said I might one day have to kill a stranger, but my son would be alive. No offense, but I'd kill a hundred men like you to keep Joey alive.\"\n\n\"No offense taken,\" I said. \"How old is your son?\"\n\n\"Fifteen last month.\"\n\n\"You don't look old enough to have a fifteen-year-old.\"\n\n\"I take care of myself.\"\n\n\"That you do. All right, cops will be searching for the shooter, so we should probably get out of here now.\"\n\n\"You're taking me with you?\"\n\nI laughed. \"Not a chance.\"\n\n\"I'll tell them about you.\"\n\nI winked at her. \"I'm counting on that.\"\n\n\"They'll find you.\"\n\n\"I'm counting on that, too. Esther, let her go.\"\n\nEsther did as I said.\n\nGillian didn't get up. She stared at me. \"You're just letting me go? I shot you dead.\"\n\n\"Well, I figure you're not armed now, so you're not going to do that again. I also figure you won't run back to the dojo because the Men of Anubis are probably gone now, and there are too many witnesses who can ID you as the shooter. There are probably cars on the way to your apartment now, so your best bet is to call your son, and have him meet you somewhere. You'll have to leave and start over someplace.\"\n\n\"You said the Men of Anubis would be at my apartment, so if I call my son...\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll follow him. They're not stupid. They can find you.\"\n\n\"And you want me to lie to them?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"You can tell them the truth. If you lie, they might kill you, and worse, they might kill Joey.\"\n\n\"I don't know what to say.\"\n\n\"Goodbye?\"\n\n# CHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nEsther and I relocated to the other side of Colfax. We loitered at the mouth of an alley. The sun dropped behind the mountains shooting brilliant orange light dancing across the clouds and throwing purple shadows through the sky.\n\n\"Think she drives the same truck?\" I asked Esther.\n\nEsther shrugged. I looked to passersby like a well-dressed homeless man talking to myself. Nobody paid me any attention. The homeless tend to be invisible no matter what kind of clothes they're wearing.\n\nThe detectives continued to work the crime scene at the dojo, and they would likely be there for many more hours. They had to photograph the scene, get video, collect evidence, try to lift fingerprints, and all the rest. In real life, it took a lot longer than what you see on TV. From where I watched, I could tell the detectives had already placed tent numbers to mark evidence, and they were taking still more photographs.\n\nA truck pulled into the lot, and my heart skipped as Kelly exited the vehicle. This Kelly had seen a version of me die already. How would she react to seeing another version of me dead on her dojo floor? She spent some time talking to detectives. She had her back to the truck.\n\n\"Let's take a chance,\" I said.\n\n\"You're the one taking a chance,\" Esther said. \"I'm all berries.\"\n\n\"It's not a big chance,\" I said. \"I'll keep my distance.\"\n\nI walked westward down Colfax and crossed at the corner. Kelly's dojo was on the south side of the street. On that corner, I leaned against a lamp post and pulled my shirt tighter. I rubbed my arms. The temperature wouldn't have bothered me if not for the damn wind.\n\nAfter a time, Kelly nodded to the officers then climbed back into her truck. She started the engine and flipped on the lights. I stepped away from the lamp post and waved my hands over my head then pointed South down the side street.\n\nI couldn't see her because of the lights, so I wasn't sure she'd check out the crazy guy at the end of the sidewalk, but she turned on Colfax and hung a left beside me.\n\nShe buzzed down her window. \"Who are you and what do you want?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'm King Arthur of Camelot, and I seek the Holy Grail,\" I said and approached the truck.\n\nShe stared at me. Her mouth dropped open.\n\n\"Jonathan?\"\n\n\"Me too,\" Esther said and materialized in front of her.\n\nKelly started. \"Who the hell are you?\"\n\n\"Esther, I couldn't see you until I died. This Kelly has never met you.\"\n\n\"Oh, horsefeathers. I forgot.\"\n\n\"Can I bum a ride?\" I asked. \"We have a lot to talk about.\"\n\n\"We may need to talk later,\" she said and pointed.\n\nSix men unfolded from the shadows and approached us.\n\n\"Would you care to do the honors?\" I asked. \"I only have one bullet.\"\n\nKelly smiled, shut off the engine and opened the truck door. She reached behind the seat and came out with a gleaming katana. She tossed the scabbard into the truck.\n\n\"Who dies first?\" she asked.\n\nThe men stopped. One of them touched his right ear and said, \"Jonathan Shade lives.\"\n\n\"Shit,\" I said. \"Don't let any of them touch their left ear.\"\n\nWe rushed them. Kelly lopped off the first guy's head. I ducked a punch and slammed my guy to the ground. I grabbed him by the hair and yanked an earring from his left ear. There wasn't a button on it. Maybe these guys didn't rate a time device.\n\nA man grabbed me from behind. I threw myself backward, slamming my head into his face. Stunned, his grip loosened, and I drove him backward against the wall. I elbowed him in the gut, spun and punched him to the ground.\n\nI turned around and the other men were all dead. Kelly wiped her blade on the last corpse's coat.\n\n\"That was fun,\" she said. \"I see you still know how to have a good time, but you only handled two of them.\"\n\n\"I'm out of practice.\"\n\nThe two I'd handled were still alive. Kelly stepped up to the first guy, who held his bleeding ear. \"Death or questions?\"\n\n\"Neither,\" I said. \"Let's just go.\"\n\n\"Still leaving enemies alive to haunt you later?\"\n\n\"These guys are just hired thugs.\"\n\n\"So what kind of shit have you stepped in now, and just how many of you are there?\"\n\n\"Just the one right now.\"\n\n\"And the dead Jonathan on my floor?\"\n\n\"Maybe we should go somewhere to talk.\"\n\nShe gestured to her truck. \"Hop in.\"\n\nShe returned to the driver's side, hit the switch to unlock the passenger door, then sheathed her sword and stuck it behind the seat.\n\nI climbed in beside her.\n\nShe stared at me a moment. \"Is it really you?\" she asked.\n\n\"I promise, I'll answer all your questions, but we need to get out of here before the Men of Anubis show up.\"\n\n\"That's all I need to know,\" she said and started the truck. She wheeled away from the curb and drove down the side street to 14th, and took that to Colorado Boulevard. \"Nobody's following us.\"\n\n\"Good,\" I said. \"You've heard of the Men of Anubis?\"\n\n\"Vampires are scared shitless by them. Bastards who mess with time, right?\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"I'll want to know more about them, of course, but first, I want to know about you.\"\n\nEsther appeared between us. \"And me?\" she asked.\n\nKelly raised a hand from the wheel, but stopped herself before smacking Esther. She placed her hand back on the steering wheel. \"Is she going to keep doing that? It weirds me out.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" Esther said. \"I don't want to be a fire extinguisher.\"\n\n\"It's okay, Esther,\" I said.\n\n\"Not if she keeps popping in out of nowhere like that,\" Kelly said. \"I almost killed her.\"\n\n\"She's already dead,\" I said.\n\n\"Hmm,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Want me to make myself scarce?\" Esther asked.\n\n\"Esther, please stay,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm a third wheel.\"\n\n\"No you're not.\"\n\nKelly stopped at a light and turned to stare at me. \"If you're done talking to the ghost girl, you owe me dinner.\"\n\nI gave her a confused look. \"Okay, I'd be happy to buy you dinner.\"\n\n\"No, you owe me dinner. Don't you remember?\"\n\n\"Kelly, I've lived a couple of lifetimes since I last saw any version of you that would have common memories.\"\n\n\"We made a bet.\"\n\nI struggled to remember.\n\n\"The day you died. That morning. Over breakfast.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I got nothing.\"\n\n\"Men,\" she said as the light changed.\n\n\"I said I'd buy you dinner,\" I said.\n\n\"But you don't remember the bet.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You bet me dinner that after Daredevil underperformed, and then Elektra flopped that we wouldn't see another live action Daredevil in our lifetimes.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"The Netflix series? My friend Amanda insisted I watch it with her, and I have to say it was very good.\"\n\n\"I don't know Amanda.\"\n\n\"Have you seen the Daredevil series?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You need to watch it.\"\n\n\"I don't have Netflix. Actually, I don't have a home. I managed to piss away a fortune a few months ago.\"\n\n\"Are you trying to get out of paying for dinner?\"\n\nI laughed. \"No,\" I said. \"Dinner is on me.\"\n\n\"Because you lost the bet.\"\n\n\"I don't remember the bet.\"\n\n\"You haven't changed.\"\n\n\"I'm still paying.\"\n\n\"Damn right you are.\"\n\nEsther shook her head. \"I should go check on the other Kelly.\"\n\n\"Stay here, Esther. We may need you.\"\n\n\"You may need me, but you sure as hell don't want me.\"\n\n\"Did she say other Kelly?\" Kelly asked.\n\n# CHAPTER TWELVE\n\nWe stopped at Old Chicago, and ordered a pizza to split. Esther sat beside me, invisible. It bothered me that she felt so rejected, so I promised myself to make it up to her later. It occurred to me that I was always having to make things up to her. She was stalwart and true, and I didn't appreciate her enough.\n\nWhile we waited for the pizza, I drank a beer, and Kelly sipped an iced tea. Esther didn't say anything. She just sat there watching us talk, but as she was invisible, Kelly couldn't see her, and I didn't pull her into the conversation because I was enraptured. The restaurant was busy, but we had a small booth and the talking from the various conversations was just white noise in the background. I stupidly let Esther fade into the background, too.\n\n\"Before I go into a long, drawn-out story,\" I said. \"What do you know about the Men of Anubis and all that surrounds them.\"\n\n\"Ancient Egyptian assholes. They move through time, and evidently know when certain magical artifacts are used. I also heard that you were alive and in New York, and that somehow I have a time twin.\"\n\n\"Yes, there's another Kelly Chan. You two lived different lives.\"\n\n\"The other Kelly your ghost mentioned. She's the Kelly you knew?\"\n\n\"Uh, no.\"\n\n\"Jesus, Jonathan. How many of me are there?\"\n\n\"Right now? Two.\"\n\n\"That's just weird.\" She shook her head and sipped her tea. \"What happened to the Kelly you knew?\"\n\n\"She died.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"In battle. A wizard sent sixty meat cleavers spinning at her all at once. For me, it was more than fifty years ago, but it still haunts me every night.\"\n\n\"I'm not touching the fifty years ago comment. Tell me this. Was it a good death?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Who can ask for more? Are you here to ask me to die in battle for you, too?\"\n\n\"I don't want you to die.\"\n\n\"We all die, Jonathan. Well, except for you, it seems. You're like a cat with nine lives or something.\"\n\n\"I'd sacrifice all of them to bring back the Kelly I knew,\" I said.\n\n\"That's not going to happen. So she died in the sixties?\"\n\n\"1877.\"\n\n\"You went back to the old west? There's a story there.\"\n\n\"I went back to ancient Egypt first. Look, this is a convoluted story, and I can tell you all about it another time. What matters is that I tricked the Men of Anubis. They thought I was dead, but evidently, they weren't completely convinced because they had agents watching you.\"\n\n\"If they can go through time, why not kill you before you went back?\"\n\n\"Too late. I'm not attached to any layer of time.\"\n\n\"I don't get it.\"\n\n\"Just accept it. I don't want to explain layered time right now. I promise, I'll explain all of it. Hell, I'll write it all down if you want. But for now, I need to recruit you and a few others to help fight the Men of Anubis.\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter. I'm in.\"\n\n\"You don't know what it entails.\"\n\n\"I don't care. Cho is safely off to Japan, and I'm free to do as I please. I'm in.\"\n\n\"Cho?\"\n\n\"Little girl. Werewolf for a father.\"\n\n\"I've never seen a werewolf.\"\n\n\"You don't want to.\"\n\n\"I'll take your word for it.\"\n\n\"As well you should,\" she said and leaned back as the waiter arrived to deliver our pizza.\n\nWhen he left, we each grabbed a slice. I set mine on my plate to cool a bit, but Kelly bit into hers. Not feeling pain was a useful byproduct of her magical engineering. She could eat piping hot pizza without a problem.\n\n\"You said the Men of Anubis can tell when particular magical artifacts are used?\" I asked.\n\nShe chewed and swallowed while nodding, then said, \"That's what I've been told.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\n\"A vampire named Victor Pavlenco.\"\n\nI nodded. \"I've met him. He's an ass.\"\n\n\"I can't stand the guy, but he has a cute ass.\"\n\n\"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Son of a bitch almost got me killed. So what did he tell you?\"\n\n\"He has something called the Ring of Aten. There are at least three of them, and if a vampire wears one, he or she can walk in daylight without burning.\"\n\n\"Handy trick.\"\n\n\"Not much use to us here, though, unless Victor is willing to help.\"\n\n\"No. If I ever see that bastard again, I'll drive a stake through his heart.\"\n\n\"Tell me how you really feel.\"\n\n\"Anything else?\"\n\n\"Not really. You've met the Men of Anubis. You tell me.\"\n\n\"They have technological devices. A crook and flail from ancient Egypt. Used to belong to Osiris.\"\n\n\"The Egyptian god?\"\n\n\"Big, blue, and dangerous. I hope I never see him again either.\"\n\n\"Are you name-dropping to try and impress me?\"\n\n\"No, I really did fight Osiris. And I met King Tut and his bride.\"\n\n\"Now you are name-dropping.\"\n\n\"Maybe a little.\"\n\nShe smiled. \"I like that you feel the need to impress me. The truth is that you impressed me by showing up here alive. You died in my arms, Jonathan. When I learned you were alive, I tried to find you. I had feelers out all over the place, but Victor lied to me, saying he couldn't locate you.\"\n\n\"I wanted to come see you, but it wasn't safe.\"\n\n\"Plus you already have a version of me. Speaking of her, where is she?\"\n\n\"Off with Thor somewhere, trying to recruit soldiers for the coming battle.\"\n\n\"With Thor?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"You have the whole name-dropping thing going again. It's like a disease.\"\n\n\"It's a disease, all right,\" Esther said, finally speaking up. \"And I can't take anymore.\"\n\nShe popped away.\n\nIt bothered me that she was upset, but Kelly couldn't see her, and I knew Esther would be fine, so I shrugged and took a bite of pizza. The rich tomato sauce and toppings made my taste buds tingle. The cheese stretched and curled when it broke.\n\n\"This is good,\" I said and waved my hand in front of my mouth. \"Still hot.\"\n\n\"Man up.\"\n\nI filled her in about how I dispatched Khemet to the void, and about the vajra weapon I had stashed away in a Tulsa hotel room. I told her about Rayna and the dragon. And I tried to explain Esther.\n\n\"Is she here?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"She left a little while ago.\"\n\n\"Oh, we probably should have included her more. Why didn't she speak up?\"\n\n\"You have to understand about Esther,\" I said. \"The version of you I knew adored Esther. She remembers you that way.\"\n\n\"What about the version of me in Tulsa or off gallivanting with Thor?\"\n\n\"She likes Esther, but it's just not the same.\"\n\n\"Nothing ever is.\"\n\n\"Will you do me a favor and try to be nice to her?\"\n\n\"She's a friend of yours, Jonathan. That's enough for me. I promise to extend the hand of friendship to her. I might not feel about her the way my original time twin... triplet?... did, but I will give it my best effort.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said. \"And don't refer to my Kelly as the original time twin. The Kelly out with Thor is technically the first and she might be sensitive about that. I just didn't meet her until 1926.\"\n\n\"See, it's shit like this that messes with my mind. You were born in 1979, but you talk about meeting someone born a year earlier, more than fifty years before her birth. My birth. Our birth?\"\n\n\"I thought you were born the same year as me.\"\n\n\"A woman never tells. Maybe I was born five years after you. I look younger than you.\"\n\nI laughed. \"Trust me, I'm way older than you now.\"\n\n\"You always were, but you never act like it.\"\n\n\"That's because I'm a guy.\"\n\nShe nodded and grabbed another slice of pizza. \"You say that like it's a good thing.\"\n\n\"Because it is.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Dream on.\"\n\nI laughed, and a part of my mind made a note of it because I knew it might be the last time I'd be able to just sit back and enjoy a meal with a friend for a long time. While no day is ever promised to us, we always look to the future. But that moment, looking at the Kelly Chan I'd just met less than an hour earlier, I knew it was probably the last time I'd get to enjoy her company. She might die tomorrow. I might die. Hell, we both might die. But tonight we were very much alive, and I laughed and enjoyed getting to know my old friend for the first time.\n\nWe all have nights like that. We should treasure them because they're rare and wonderful, and we too often take them for granted, the same way I'd been taking Esther for granted. I wished she could be here to enjoy this dinner too.\n\nI hoped that wherever she was at that moment, that she was happier than she'd been while sitting here watching me talk to another Kelly. And while I did wonder about her as Kelly and I enjoyed our meal, I confess I didn't think about her enough. Once more, I simply expected that she would always be there.\n\nThat's the thing about friends. They're always there for you.\n\nUntil they're not.\n\n# CHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nWe crashed for the night at a cheap hotel on Colfax. There were two beds, but it looked like the kind of place that rented by the hour. But hey, it was cheap, and they didn't have black lights so if the sheets were as spotty as my phone's internet connection, I couldn't tell. We didn't want to risk going back to Kelly's dojo/apartment, so we'd stopped at a Target store to get a few things: toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, a change of clothes for each of us.\n\nEsther didn't come back. She had freedom to roam, and I knew she'd show up sooner or later. Maybe she'd gone to spend time with the other Kelly and Thor. I tried calling Kelly, but it went to voicemail.\n\n\"Which bed do you want?\" I asked.\n\n\"The one farthest from the door.\"\n\n\"Extra time to react if someone attacks?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"Easier to ignore sounds in the hall.\"\n\n\"Thank you for agreeing to help.\"\n\nShe sat on the bed and stared at me. \"It feels so strange to see you. It's like I'm dreaming.\"\n\nShe was a lot nicer than the other Kelly. Of course, I wasn't the guy who killed her Jonathan, so that could have something to do with it. Either way, I felt much better about the odds of surviving the coming battle. I had two Kelly Chans on my side.\n\nKelly turned on the television, and a trailer for the new James Bond movie, Spectre was playing. \"I want to see that,\" I said.\n\n\"I want a date with Daniel Craig,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Easier to see the movie. It starts tomorrow.\"\n\nKelly shook her head and started to say something, but the news came on. Local stuff, but nothing about my murder at the dojo. When they switched to weather, she turned off the TV.\n\n\"So no double-oh seven,\" I said.\n\n\"You and your movies,\" she said, and grinned.\n\n\"They give me something to live for,\" I said.\n\n\"That's sad.\"\n\n\"I don't know. There's going to be a real Star Wars movie next month with Harrison Ford and the whole gang. There hasn't been a real Star Wars movie since Return of the Jedi, and that was only good until those stupid teddy bears showed up.\"\n\n\"There's more to life than movies.\"\n\n\"Says you,\" I said, and thought again about Esther.\n\n\"Where are you living these days?\"\n\n\"Here and there. Since I got back in June, I've spent some time in New York City, Florida, Mexico, Tajikistan, and Tulsa. Had a quick jaunt to Venice, Italy. That was nice.\"\n\n\"But you haven't put down roots anywhere?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"Can't do that with the Men of Anubis out there.\"\n\n\"So what will you do once they're dispatched?\"\n\nI shrugged.\n\n\"Seriously, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"I haven't thought about it.\"\n\n\"You could always come back to Denver.\"\n\n\"There's nothing here for me. All my friends think I'm dead.\"\n\n\"I'm here.\"\n\nThe way she said it made me think of my Kelly. I'd fallen in love with her, then watched her die. I couldn't face that again. I needed to keep both versions of Kelly alive, but distant. Neither of them was my Kelly, though this one at least seemed to care about me.\n\nI wanted to respond, but I took too long to formulate an answer to that, so her words hung in the air. I should have grabbed them and told her that was reason enough to come back here, set up shop, live life, help the people of Colorado. But truth be told, I hadn't even paid much attention to the Star Wars trailers. After all, I didn't expect to be alive to see the movie.\n\nKelly got up and moved toward the restroom. \"I'm going to take a shower,\" she said.\n\nAnd I realized my lack of response had hurt her.\n\nWhy do we always hurt those we care about?\n\nI didn't want this to be any more uncomfortable than it already was, so I crawled into bed and tried to sleep. I was still awake when Kelly finished her shower and slipped into her bed. And I was still awake two hours later. Too many things raged in my thoughts. I was worried about Esther. I wasn't sure who we could trust.\n\nWhen I finally drifted off to sleep, my dreams were haunted by images of the Men of Anubis killing both versions of Kelly\u2014the time twins, as I'd started to think of them. I sat up in bed, awake, and glanced over through the darkness at Kelly sleeping in the other bed. I knew she wasn't sleeping, but she maintained a steady rhythmic breathing. As soon as I sat up, her senses had to be alerted. She just didn't want to talk to me. I rubbed my face.\n\nEventually, I went to sleep, and morning came far too soon.\n\n\"Rise and shine,\" Kelly said. \"Big day. Things to do, gods to kill.\"\n\n\"We won't kill them until the 17th.\"\n\n\"Why wait?\"\n\n\"So we can plan?\"\n\n\"Why the 17th?\"\n\n\"Because that's what Chronos said.\"\n\n\"Chronos is the guy you told me about last night who sent you back in time?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"And he said the 17th... why?\"\n\n\"It was the last day he could see. His office goes to someone else that day.\"\n\n\"And you believe him?\"\n\n\"Shouldn't I?\"\n\n\"He wanted to cast you into the void.\"\n\n\"He wants to be free of the Men of Anubis too.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"After all the shit you've been through, you're still too trusting.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"You need to determine your own future. You decide the time, place, and date of the showdown. Not them. You have to make your own decisions if you want to live to see another day. When someone else makes your decisions for you, they're writing your story.\"\n\n\"We might not have a say in that.\"\n\n\"You'd damn well better try. I'm hungry. Let's eat.\"\n\nI rolled out of bed in my boxer briefs, and staggered to the dresser where the Target bag rested. I opened it and pulled out my fresh clothes. Kelly had already placed the toiletries on the sink in the bathroom. I considered just getting dressed, but gave my underarms a whiff. \"I need a shower first,\" I said.\n\n\"Knock yourself out.\"\n\nI yawned and stumbled into the bathroom to get cleaned up. While I showered, I gave some thought to our predicament. I thought about Gillian and the devices I'd taken from her. I needed to give those a thorough examination. What if they had trackers in them?\n\nI dried off, wrapped the towel around me, and brushed my teeth. Then I exited the bathroom trailed by a cloud of steam.\n\n\"Can you toss me my pants?\" I asked as I sorted through the new clothes from Target.\n\n\"The dirty ones?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"Yeah. I forgot to empty the pockets.\" I yanked open the package of underwear and dumped them on the bed.\n\nKelly found my pants on the floor, shook her head and threw them to me. I caught them with one hand and dropped them on the bed.\n\n\"I'm going to go over to Starbucks across the street,\" Kelly said. \"You want a cup of coffee?\"\n\n\"My usual,\" I said. \"Thanks.\"\n\nShe smiled because it was like old times. \"One venti caramel macchiato coming right up.\"\n\nIt really was like old times.\n\nWhen she left, I got dressed and transferred my billfold and keys from one pair of pants to the other. The new pants were cheap blue jeans, but at least they were clean. I had the earrings I'd taken from Gillian in separate pockets of my old pants so I'd know which was which. I removed them and went to the desk to examine them.\n\nThey were gold, though probably not real gold. Each had identical inset emerald jewels. One was a switch that moved up and down. I didn't mess with that one because I knew it would open a channel to the Men of Anubis. The other had a small button that depressed rather than moved. I didn't want to press it because I wasn't sure how it would work on me. I figured it would throw me back in the timeline by half an hour or so with full knowledge of what was going to happen so I could make changes, and it had to be partly technological because it worked on me. I certainly didn't want there to be two of me. I'd dealt with that before, and didn't want to play that game again.\n\nIt didn't seem prudent to test it. For all I knew it was a one-use item, though that seemed unlikely. The way the jewels were inset would go a long way toward preventing the accidental activation, but I still didn't want to risk keeping them in my pockets.\n\nKelly returned with our coffee.\n\n\"Here you go,\" she said and handed me my cup.\n\n\"And here you go,\" I said handing her the earrings. \"Don't say I never gave you anything.\"\n\nShe looked at them in the palm of her hand. \"These are ugly.\"\n\n\"They aren't that bad.\" I pointed to each in turn. \"This one opens a line to the Men of Anubis. And this one sends you back in time a bit.\"\n\n\"Define a bit.\"\n\n\"Thirty or forty minutes, I guess.\"\n\n\"So if I get that date with Daniel Craig, I can relive it?\"\n\n\"Or if we fuck up somewhere along the road, you can fix it.\"\n\nHer ears weren't pierced, but she didn't feel pain, so she just stabbed them through her earlobes as she said, \"I think I'd rather save it for Daniel.\"\n\n# CHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nAs I drank the coffee, I checked my phone for the date: Friday, November 6, 2015. I tried calling the other Kelly and got her voicemail again.Not good.Esther was still M.I.A.Really not good.\n\nAfter breakfast, Kelly drove me out to Boulder. I worried about Esther, but I had to stay focused on recruiting helpers. One such helper, in spite of not being able to trust her\u2014or perhaps because I couldn't trust her\u2014was Sharon. I just needed to get her to see that it was in her best interest to help. She hated the Men of Anubis, too, after all.\n\nShe worked, as I expected, in the special collections department of the library at CU Boulder. Kelly had much better luck than I ever did with parking, so we got a spot not too far from the Norlin building. The tan walls and tiled floors looked exactly as I remembered, though it had been a lifetime since I'd seen them. It felt like a half-remembered dream from childhood. I'd been here, but it didn't seem quite right. Was I going down the correct hallway? Was this just like every campus library, or was I remembering the specifics? The placement of that magazine rack with those tables and that arrangement of shelves seemed exactly right, but that row of computers seemed wrong. Of course, for all I knew, I was remembering correctly, but the computers had been replaced. I hadn't been here in more than fifty years, but this was only a few years difference to the world at large.\n\nNobody tried to stop us as Kelly and I walked down the hall to Sharon's office, and fortunately, I guessed correctly on the first try on how to get there. I would have felt silly if I'd guessed wrong.\n\nSharon's door was open, and I saw her before she saw me. She looked kinder than I remembered, in spite of the intense look she had with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a smart blue business suit, and glasses I knew she didn't require.\n\nI didn't bother to knock. Kelly and I just walked right in. Kelly took up a position at the door, which she closed as I sat in a chair across from Sharon's desk.\n\n\"You're looking well, Sharon,\" I said.\n\nShe looked over the top of her glasses at me. \"Do I know you?\"\n\n\"Don't play games. Time may change, but it changes around you, and I suspect you have memories of the way things used to be layered beneath the way things are right now.\"\n\nShe gave a derisive laugh. \"You should know better than to show up here, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"See, Kelly? She does remember me. For a second there, I was going to get one of my feelings hurt.\"\n\n\"If you want me to slit her throat, just give the word,\" Kelly said.\n\nOn the way over, I'd filled Kelly in on the way Sharon had betrayed us in another layer of time. Twice, actually. Once with Persephone, and once with Chronos and the Men of Anubis.\n\n\"You won't be able to get a blade through my skin,\" Sharon said.\n\n\"What makes you think I need a blade?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"Now, girls,\" I said, \"let's keep things civil.\"\n\nSharon removed her glasses and tossed them on the desk. \"Why are you here?\"\n\n\"I want to offer you a chance at redemption.\"\n\n\"Redemption?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, come on, Sharon. You've read a lot of books. It's a grand theme that runs through so many of them. Someone does something wrong and screws people over, but gets a chance to finally do the right thing to make up for their evil deeds, and save their soul at the end.\"\n\n\"Am I to presume that you think I've perpetrated evil deeds upon you?\"\n\n\"You did abandon me in my time of need at the Royal Gorge.\"\n\n\"You handled that just fine.\"\n\n\"You also tried to cast me into the void. Not exactly offering the hand of friendship if you know what I mean.\"\n\nShe smirked. \"Other than that, Mrs. Kennedy, how was the parade?\"\n\n\"It was delightful, actually. Nice little motorcade that left you in the grip of some clowns known as the Men of Anubis.\"\n\n\"You're the one on their naughty list.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but once I leave this building, I'm off their radar again, while you are still under their thumbs.\"\n\n\"What makes you think you'll be able to leave the building?\"\n\n\"I have a Sekutar warrior on my team, and it's in your best interest to help me defeat those time traveling fucktards.\"\n\n\"Such language.\"\n\n\"I figure if I use more respectable terminology, they might try to sue me, but I'm pretty safe calling them assholes and fucktards.\"\n\n\"I don't think they need lawyers, Jonathan. They have ancient weapons of power. They can just kill you.\"\n\n\"They have to catch me first.\"\n\n\"And by setting foot in here, they know where you are.\"\n\n\"All part of my plan. I just have to convince you to not take sides just yet. If I can do that, you can open a rift to another location, and Kelly and I can avoid having to kill anyone to leave the building.\"\n\n\"And if I refuse?\"\n\n\"Then Kelly gets the fun of killing some assholes.\"\n\n\"Starting with me?\"\n\n\"You're immortal, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Nearly.\"\n\n\"We're not here to try to kill you, Sharon. I'm not saying I wouldn't enjoy that, but I like the idea of you betraying me again and being a slave to the Men of Anubis for all eternity. Do you like buddying up on their dried-up old peckers?\"\n\n\"So you're really here to insult me.\"\n\nI laughed. \"Thought I'd take a few shots while I could,\" I admitted. \"But no. Here's the truth. I know you're on their team, but I also know that wasn't the case originally. And let's face it, if you don't like the taste they're leaving in your delicate little mouth, I'm your Obi Wan Kenobi.\"\n\n\"They're probably on their way here right now.\"\n\n\"Probably?\" I asked.\n\nShe shrugged.\n\nI smiled. \"You have warding spells all over this place, don't you?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Huh,\" I said. \"I didn't notice any of them.\"\n\n\"They're well hidden, and they wouldn't affect you anyway.\"\n\n\"Kelly got through.\"\n\n\"They aren't designed to keep anything out.\"\n\n\"You've got this place shielded from their view. Let me guess. You used a spell from the Forbidden Texts, which I suspect you have completely digitized by now.\"\n\n\"I got tired of going to the Stacks.\"\n\n\"So hook me up with a wee bit of information.\"\n\n\"After all your insults you're going to ask me for information?\"\n\nI nodded. \"Of course.\"\n\n\"It would be more fun to simply kill you.\"\n\n\"I know, but I think you enjoy the banter. And on top of that, I think you want to be your own woman or man or whatever you are.\"\n\n\"You don't have coins for payment.\" She meant special coins used to pay Charon for passage across the Acheron, or for other favors.\n\n\"As the information you provide could be your ticket to freedom, you should consider it an investment in your future.\"\n\nShe considered that right down to rubbing her chin thoughtfully. It was all an act, of course. I knew she was playing both sides of the fence. Giving me information wouldn't hurt her because the Men of Anubis would never know. Anything she'd provide would be from the Forbidden Texts, and as they would know she hadn't accessed the Stacks, she would be free from suspicion. And if I happened to win, she really would be free from them. I knew it and she knew it. To her credit, she didn't ponder for long.\n\n\"What do you need?\"\n\n\"First, I need to know the nature of their weapons. The crook is clearly capable of removing souls from bodies. I don't know about the flail.\"\n\n\"The flail is for punishment,\" Sharon said. \"A strike across the back leaves a wound that never heals. It causes intolerable agony, then fades until it feels normal, then the pain starts up again. You don't want to be struck by that.\"\n\n\"They work on me, so they're technological, right?\"\n\n\"They're a blend of magic and technology. Ancient technology from the men before the Egyptians.\"\n\n\"Before the Egyptians?\"\n\n\"The Egyptians inherited the pyramids, Jonathan. The Ancients left this plane of existence around 10,500 BCE. The pyramids weren't tombs. It was a source of power for their civilization. Most of the Ancients left, but a few remained behind. They spread out across the world trying to teach the other people of the world about civilization. The legends of the Viracocha we got from the Inca, the stories of Quetzalcoatl, Enki, Thoth, Vishnu, and on and on. Those were the last vestiges of the Ancients.\"\n\n\"So how do I beat these guys?\"\n\nShe laughed. \"You don't.\"\n\n\"I chucked one of them into the void. Can't I do the same with the other two?\"\n\n\"They have too much power. They can combine their energy using the sound of their voices in a hum that emanates from their bodies. As long as they can control the frequency of their voices and the level of humming, they can work their weapons together.\"\n\n\"And if I have an ancient weapon too?\"\n\n\"Which weapon?\"\n\n\"The vajra,\" I said. \"I got it from Indra.\"\n\nShe studied me for a moment. \"If anyone could use the vajra, it would be you. It's loaded with magic, but that won't bother you.\"\n\n\"So you think we have a chance?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Any advice?\"\n\n\"Run. You don't show up on their timeline, so they can't find you unless you do something stupid.\"\n\n\"Like trusting you?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"Exactly,\" Sharon said.\n\n\"I trust you to act in your own self-interest,\" I said. \"You gain nothing by sending them after me, but you can gain everything if I can defeat them.\"\n\n\"That's like expecting a teardrop to vanquish the sun.\"\n\n\"If they're that powerful, they won't need you to help them in the final battle.\"\n\n\"I'm not joining your ragtag little team.\"\n\n\"I didn't ask you to. Just let the Men of Anubis kill me themselves. That's all I'm asking of you.\"\n\n\"Other than the information.\"\n\n\"Yeah, other than that. Just don't lift a finger against us.\"\n\n\"I won't need to help them. They aren't likely to call me in to help anyway.\"\n\n\"They might. I beat Khemet. Is there anything else you can tell me about them?\"\n\n\"Nothing useful. I can tell you that Amenken is the father, and that Mahu and Khemet were his sons. I can tell you that they want you dead. And I can tell you that anyone you knew in your old life from Kelly here to that cop you used to associate with to those clowns with the remote viewing club are all being watched, so if you make contact, agents will try to kill you.\"\n\n\"Can I ask a question?\" Kelly said.\n\n\"You can ask,\" Sharon said. \"Doesn't mean I'll answer.\"\n\n\"If the Men of Anubis can move through time, why didn't they just kill Jonathan and my time twin when they first got back from 1929?\"\n\nSharon blinked and stared at Kelly. \"This is the second Kelly?\"\n\n\"Yes. The Kelly I was with when you tried to toss us into the void is working on adding a few more team members for the coming fight.\"\n\n\"Shit.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I thought she was the Kelly without ties to this time layer. The Men of Anubis can track this one.\"\n\n\"No worries. We already took out their agents.\"\n\n\"No, dumbass, they can trace her timeline backward and forward. They know you came here.\"\n\n\"Then why didn't they stop us?\"\n\n\"Maybe they're testing me.\"\n\n\"Or maybe they can't follow her because she's with me,\" I said.\n\n\"Regardless,\" Kelly said. \"If they can track other people, as soon as Jonathan made contact with his sister, Monica, a few months ago, they should have been there to kill him. They can't follow him, but if at any point in the future they learn he talked to her, they can track her. But they didn't.\"\n\n\"His direct path is hidden.\"\n\n\"But Monica's wasn't.\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nKelly grinned. \"But it does suggest they're not as all-powerful as you make them out to be.\"\n\n\"They don't advertise their weaknesses,\" Sharon said.\n\n\"No, but I think we jst figured out two of them.\"\n\n\"Two?\" Sharon asked.\n\nKelly nodded. \"Once Jonathan makes contact with someone, they have to be off the radar, so to speak.\"\n\n\"Meaning?\"\n\n\"Meaning that if he goes somewhere, from the moment he makes contact, they can't do anything to them before then because the people he contacts are set in time. Otherwise, he couldn't have gone there. In my case, however, they already had agents watching me, so I wasn't set until he made contact. Now they can't mess with my past.\"\n\n\"Makes sense,\" I said. What I left unsaid because I didn't want Sharon to know was that if the agents had one of those damned earrings, they could knock back along their own timeline to kill me, but that only meant I appeared elsewhere like I had with Gillian. If I mentioned that, she might wonder about them, and I didn't want her to know that I had one of those devices.\n\n\"Makes sense to you,\" Sharon said. \"Not to me.\"\n\n\"Are you familiar with Photoshop?\" I asked.\n\n\"The computer program? Not really.\"\n\nI frowned. \"How about making a collage? You take pictures, place them where you want, and until you glue them down, you can make changes, but once you've pasted them in place, the picture is set.\"\n\n\"If you say so.\"\n\n\"What it means now is that as long as I'm with Jonathan,\" Kelly said, \"the Men of Anubis can't find me because the collage has been laminated.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" Sharon said. \"You mentioned two weaknesses. What's the other?\"\n\n\"Emotions. The father is pissed about his son, and the other son is pissed about his brother. Emotions make people sloppy.\"\n\n\"True,\" Sharon said. \"But they also make people dangerous.\"\n\nI spotted a four-tiered clear plastic business card holder on Sharon's desk. I reached over, snagged one of her cards, and stuck it in my back pocket as I stood.\n\n\"Thanks for the info,\" I said. \"We'll be in touch.\"\n\n\"Not going to have me open a rift for you?\"\n\nI grinned. \"If your spell is as good as I think it is, and if we're right about those bastards not being able to track us if we're together, I don't have to trust you to open a rift. After all, you might try to dump me in the void again.\"\n\n\"Would I do a thing like that?\"\n\nI gave her a salute. \"Here's hoping I never see you again.\"\n\nShe gave me a nod. \"Right back at you,\" she said.\n\nKelly opened the door, and we slipped out of the office.\n\n\"She might call them,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"She might not.\"\n\n# CHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nNo one attacked us when we left the library. No one attacked us on the way to Kelly's truck. And, you guessed it, no one attacked us when we left the campus.\n\nI pulled out my phone. The battery was at fifty percent. I'd need a charger eventually, but it was fine for now. I hopped online and got the number for The Steam Room, which Rayna Noble owned and operated. A moment later, I was on the line with their front desk attendant.\n\n\"Thank you for calling the Steam Room, where you can gain without pain.\"\n\n\"I thought it was 'no pain, still gain.' Is my memory shot?\" I asked.\n\n\"On the billboards and TV, but we prefer the alteration for answering the phone. What can I do for you, sir?\"\n\n\"I'd like to speak with Rayna Noble,\" I said.\n\n\"Concerning?\"\n\n\"Just tell her Jonathan needs to talk to her. We're old friends.\"\n\n\"I've heard that one before, sir.\"\n\nRayna was a beautiful woman with long dark hair and a perfectly sculpted body who appeared on their television ads, so I knew I needed a bit more to get past this guy.\n\n\"Tell her Jonathan needs to talk to her about Clara.\"\n\n\"Who's Clara?\"\n\n\"Rayna will know. Just tell her that. I'll hold.\"\n\nMusic played in my ear: Chuck Mangione's \"Feels So Good.\"\n\nKelly drove off the campus, took a few side streets through residential areas, barely made a red light at a busy intersection then pulled into a Safeway parking lot and drove around as if searching for a space even though there were spots open. She took another exit, turned left onto another side street.\n\nI was still on hold.\n\n\"No one's following us,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Unless they put a tracker on your truck.\"\n\nKelly shook her head. \"Amanda cast a spell on my truck. Someone puts a foreign object on it, that object drops off. Means I don't need to go through a car wash very often.\"\n\n\"Must help with the bird shit, too.\"\n\n\"I hate birds,\" Kelly said. \"That's why I had her cast the spell.\"\n\nThe guy came on the line again. \"Ms. Noble is in a meeting right now, sir. She said to call her back in fifteen minutes. I'll put you right through to her then.\"\n\n\"Sounds good,\" I said. \"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Have a nice day, and don't forget to let off a little steam.\"\n\n\"Had to work in that last little bit, eh?\"\n\n\"Company policy, sir.\"\n\n\"Of course it is. Thanks.\" I hung up. \"I'll call her back in a few minutes. For now, let's get over there so we can meet up with her.\" I gave Kelly the address for the spa.\n\nWe found a spot behind the spa. Kelly parked by a Dumpster. I remembered fighting members of the Marshall Clan on the roof and around the building. There used to be a stack of pallets against the wall, but today that was not the case. I stared at the roll-up metal door that led to their receiving area. The door was closed. Nobody else was in the alley behind the building.\n\n\"I think I saw something on the news about this place a few years ago. The family who owned this business was murdered. Or am I thinking of another place?\"\n\n\"Same place. In my reality, we saved Rayna.\"\n\n\"So her counterpart died here?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So how did she explain coming back?\"\n\n\"No clue,\" I said. \"Want me to ask her?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't care. I was just curious.\"\n\n\"Has it been fifteen minutes?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm not your timekeeper.\"\n\n\"Close enough,\" I said and pressed the number to call again.\n\n\"Thank you for calling the Steam Room where you can gain without pain.\"\n\n\"Jonathan calling back for Rayna as per instructions.\"\n\n\"Please hold.\"\n\nThis time the music selection was \"Rise\" by Herb Alpert.\n\nRayna answered thirty seconds later. \"Hello, Jonathan, I always thought I'd hear from you again.\"\n\n\"I didn't know you were a seventies jazz fan.\"\n\n\"Sorry?\"\n\n\"The hold music,\" I said.\n\n\"That's from a service. I don't choose it. If I were choosing the music, you'd be hearing Celine Dion, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry.\"\n\n\"Because you kissed a girl and you liked it?\" I asked.\n\n\"I've got another business meeting in ten minutes. I'm not as enamored with your cute little lines these days. What do you want?\"\n\n\"For starters, I need to warn you that the Men of Anubis probably have agents watching you.\"\n\n\"Tell me something I don't know. I spotted three of them with ease. One is a regular customer, one is the assistant of one of the corporate types who does his workouts here, and the third is one of my employees. There may be others, but I doubt it. I'm not worth their time. What else?\"\n\n\"Right to the point,\" I said. \"You're still mad.\"\n\n\"I was never angry with you. I was hurt. There's a difference. Now I just don't care. You're running low on time because I need a few minutes to pull up a file before this meeting.\"\n\n\"Okay. I was wondering if I could borrow Clara for a few days.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because you might get her killed. Please don't ever call me again.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Goodbye, Jonathan,\" she said and hung up.\n\nI sighed. \"That went well.\"\n\nKelly shook her head. She held up her own phone and showed me an archived article from the Denver Post website with a click-bait headline: Millionaire Heiress Returns from the Dead.\n\n\"Says here she claimed to be in Europe when her family was slain, and she's now the sole owner of Noble Enterprises after taking over from her cousin, who was on the verge of selling the company. Details of how she took over the company aren't here, but she's worth millions. You should have married her.\"\n\n\"Woulda coulda shoulda,\" I said. \"She won't let us borrow Clara.\"\n\n\"So what do you suggest?\"\n\nI grinned and raised an eyebrow. \"How do you feel about stealing a dragon?\"\n\n# CHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nThe Steam Room closed at 9:00. We wandered through a hardware store and I picked up a few items that would work as makeshift lock picks. I got a variety of sizes because I wasn't sure what I'd need.\n\n\"Why don't you just get a power drill?\" Kelly asked.\n\n\"I don't want to leave a trace.\"\n\n\"Because your ex won't suspect you of stealing her dragon if you don't drill through her lock?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"This way is cheaper. And she won't have to replace her lock.\"\n\n\"So you're saving her a few bucks when she's a millionaire. How nice.\"\n\n\"I just want to do it this way, okay?\"\n\n\"You've been practicing your lock picking skills and you want to show off,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Whatever,\" she said. \"I'm just along for the ride.\"\n\nWe hit the drive through at Burger King to get some cheap food. Kelly and I ate our hamburgers and watched The Steam Room from across the street in a grocery store parking lot as the last employee closed up the spa and locked the doors at 10:37. By 11:05, we had crossed the street on foot and returned to the back alley.\n\n\"Are you sure you want to do this?\" Kelly whispered.\n\n\"We need a nice surprise for the Men of Anubis,\" I said. \"Something they won't expect.\"\n\n\"Nobody would expect a dragon,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Or the Spanish Inquisition.\"\n\nShe rolled her eyes. She'd gone on and on about the dragon over dinner and in the truck while we waited, so I was tired of talking about it. She couldn't wrap her head around the concept of a real live dragon. Gods from ancient Egypt were no problem, but a giant fire-breathing reptile was just going too far.\n\nWe stuck to the shadows, and tried to be quiet as we approached the rolling delivery door at the back of the spa.\n\nI went to work on the lock box beside the door. It took longer than it should have, but I wasn't a professional. She was right, though. I had been studying. Just not on this type of lock. It clicked, and I unlocked the door. \"You want to do the honors?\"\n\n\"This whole thing is your stupid idea. Why should I be the one who has to break and enter?\"\n\n\"Stealing is okay, but breaking and entering is beneath you?\"\n\n\"All of this is beneath me. Your ex-girlfriend will never forgive you for stealing her dragon.\"\n\n\"She's never going to forgive me for being an asshole either.\"\n\nI slowly lifted the door.\n\nNo alarms.\n\nGood.\n\nKelly and I slid inside. I used the flashlight on my phone to get the quick layout of the room.\n\nI'd been in The Steam Room many times, so I knew my way around. We were in the receiving area, and several workout machines stood along one wall. Four pallets of boxes sat along another wall. I swept the light over them, then aimed at the massive metal doors in the floor.\n\n\"Clara is down there,\" I said, keeping my voice low.\n\n\"What are the odds the dragon remembers you?\"\n\n\"It's from another dimension, so the odds are pretty good. Time will have shifted around her, but as the dragon wasn't born in our dimension, we should be okay.\"\n\n\"And if you're wrong?\"\n\n\"Then when we go down there, we'll be flame-broiled, like our dinner was. Dragons like their meals either raw or extra crispy.\"\n\n\"In that case, before we go down there, I should ask how long it takes to stoke its fire.\"\n\n\"I think it keeps it stoked, actually.\"\n\n\"So we won't have much warning?\"\n\n\"If it reels back and opens its mouth, we'll have maybe two seconds to know we're about to be cooked.\"\n\n\"I should go back to my truck for my sword.\"\n\n\"A sword won't do you any good. Don't worry. She'll remember me.\"\n\n\"So now it's a she? You've been saying 'it' up until now.\"\n\n\"The great Kelly Chan is nervous?\"\n\nShe glared at me. \"I don't fancy throwing my life away, but I'm not nervous. What are its weaknesses?\"\n\n\"It's a dragon,\" I said. \"It doesn't have weaknesses.\"\n\n\"And it's an it again.\"\n\n\"She,\" I said. \"Tell you what. You wait up here. I'll go down and talk to her. Get her warmed up, so to speak.\"\n\n\"How are we going to get her out of here?\"\n\n\"We'll ride her, of course.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nI crouched, dug my fingers between the large metal doors and lifted. The doors didn't budge.\n\n\"They must be electronic,\" I said. I moved the flashlight over the walls by the receiving desk. A switch box with two buttons was attached to the side of the desk. One button was green, the other red. I hoped it didn't require a key. \"Press the green button.\"\n\nKelly moved to the desk and pressed the button. We were in luck. The hydraulics kicked in and the doors opened up and out. I moved around to the front. A metal ladder led down into a basement. The sound of approaching footsteps in the darkness made me turn the flashlight downward.\n\n\"Hi, Clara,\" I said. \"Remember me?\"\n\nThe dragon's gold, green, and brown scales glittered in the light, and her golden eyes gazed up at me. She was bigger than I remembered, and when I'd seen her she was a good twenty feet tall. She rose onto her hind legs and sniffed the air.\n\nShe chuffed at me. Her breath was hot and smelled like roasted pork.\n\n\"It's good to see you, too,\" I said. \"How would you like to fly to Tulsa and burn up some bad guys?\"\n\nKelly tentatively moved over to look down at the dragon. \"Holy shit. It's real. Nice dragon,\" she said.\n\nClara's eyes shifted to look at Kelly. Again, she chuffed and Kelly's hair blew back a bit in the hot breeze.\n\nThe dragon was loose in the basement. While I couldn't see it from up top, I knew there was a huge swimming pool with an open shaft in the ceiling above it. Clara breathed fire on the water, turning it to steam, and evidently, there were chemicals in her fire that drifted up with that mist and eased the lactic acid in people's muscles. So the whole \"No pain, still gain,\" slogan was accurate.\n\n\"Come on up here, Clara,\" I said and stepped aside to make room.\n\nHer leg muscles bunched and she folded her wings down on her back. She jumped out of the basement. The bay doors stood open, and she tossed a look at me then padded outside, holding her tail off the ground as she went. She didn't swish the tail, so I followed her. Kelly walked behind me.\n\n\"I think she remembers me,\" I said.\n\n\"How nice for you.\"\n\n\"And you thought stealing a dragon would be difficult.\"\n\nWhen I stepped outside, Clara stood with her head low. A shadowy figure stroked her under the chin. The figure stepped away from the dragon into a soft pool of light. She had long dark hair, and an athletic body clad in tight sports bra and yoga pants.\n\n\"No means no, Jonathan,\" Rayna said. She glanced over at Kelly. \"Imagine that, his pet Sekutar crime companion extraordinaire taking orders without question again.\"\n\n\"Rayna, we need Clara for this. We have a chance to stop the Men of Anubis once and for all.\"\n\n\"Do it without my dragon.\"\n\n\"She wanted to come outside,\" I said.\n\n\"This is the time I normally take her out to relieve herself.\"\n\nAnd on that note, the dragon squatted and released a thick stream of steaming yellow fluid on the pavement. It smelled like rotten eggs.\n\nKelly and I retreated to avoid the splash back.\n\n\"See?\" Rayna said.\n\n\"Ask Clara what she wants,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't be stupid.\"\n\n\"You keep her locked up in the basement. She's little more than a slave to make you money. So rather than you forbidding me to borrow her, ask her if she wants to go on a fun adventure.\"\n\n\"Fun? You'll get her killed.\"\n\nClara chuffed, and lowered her head to my level. She nudged me with her nose, and blew out a soft breath. The wind was warm, but it was also gentle.\n\nI patted her on the snout. \"Clara,\" I said. \"I think you can understand what we're saying.\"\n\n\"She's just an animal,\" Rayna said. \"I love her, and I don't want to see her get hurt.\"\n\nClara swung her head around to Rayna and chuffed. Rayna put her arms around the dragon's neck as far as she could. Clara pulled away from her and looked at me again. She raised her head slightly.\n\n\"Can you understand me?\"\n\nClara nodded.\n\n\"Did you feel time change around you?\"\n\nShe just stared at me.\n\n\"Okay, maybe you don't understand the concept of time. How about this? Do you understand the idea of good people and bad people? People who treat others well are good. People who cause pain and hurt others are bad. Do you understand that?\"\n\nClara chuffed, only it sounded like laughter.\n\n\"There are some very bad men who need to be stopped. We can really use your help to stop them. Would you like to help?\"\n\nClara lowered her head and moved close to me. Her eyes gazed deeply into mine and I saw a deep intelligence in her. Granted, we all want to believe such things, and we'll anthropomorphize pets and animals, but when her head bumped gently against mine, a thought burst into my head.\n\nYou are Jonathan.\n\n\"And you are Clara,\" I said.\n\nThat's right.\n\n\"What are you saying?\" Kelly asked.\n\nRayna frowned. \"Clara is communicating with him.\"\n\nI felt the disruption, Clara told me. It has happened many times.\n\n\"The Men of Anubis are doing that. We can stop them.\"\n\nI will help you.\n\nI smiled and stroked her chin. \"Thank you.\"\n\nYou must give me three gifts.\n\n\"What kind of gifts?\"\n\nYou must let me fly. You must let me breathe my fire. You must keep Rayna out of harm's way. She will insist on going with us. You must not allow that. I do not wish to see her hurt.\n\n\"You've got yourself a deal, Clara.\"\n\n\"What did she say?\" Rayna asked.\n\n\"She agreed to help,\" I said. \"She wants to fly, to breathe fire, and she doesn't want you to come along.\"\n\n\"You're not taking her.\"\n\n\"It's her decision, Rayna.\"\n\n\"If she goes, I go.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"She doesn't want you to go.\"\n\nClara moved her head over to Rayna.\n\n\"No, Clara,\" Rayna said.\n\nShe was silent for a moment then nodded.\n\n\"I understand.\" More silence. \"I will abide by your wishes.\"\n\nClara rubbed against Rayna for a moment, pushing her back a step. Then the dragon rose up and stretched her wings.\n\nRayna walked over to me and glared. \"If anything happens to Clara, I'll kill you.\"\n\n\"If something happens to Clara, you won't have to kill me because I'll already be dead.\"\n\n\"I don't ever want to see you again,\" Rayna said. \"Get the hell out of here.\"\n\n# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nWhat's cooler than flying a dragon from Boulder to Denver? Flying a dragon from Boulder to Tulsa.\n\nBut I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we climbed aboard the Dragon Express, I placed a quick call to Kelly. The Kelly with Thor, that is, not the one scratching Clara behind the ears. This time it didn't go to voicemail and she answered on the second ring.\n\n\"Where are you?\" she asked.\n\n\"Boulder.\"\n\n\"What the hell are you doing in Colorado?\"\n\n\"Smoking weed, of course. It's legal here.\"\n\n\"You don't smoke.\"\n\n\"We're on our way back.\"\n\n\"We could have used Esther's help earlier.\"\n\n\"Esther isn't with you?\" I asked.\n\n\"I thought she was with you.\"\n\n\"She was, but yesterday she popped away, and I haven't seen her since then.\"\n\n\"We were in Asgard for part of the day, so there was no way she could have found us.\"\n\n\"Did you recruit anyone?\"\n\n\"This is where I get to tell you I told you so. Loki refused to help. Odin refused to help. A couple of warrior women were pissed because I was with Thor, and evidently the son of a bitch is still married to Sif, so it was a wasted trip.\"\n\n\"On a positive note, I got us a dragon, and your time twin.\"\n\n\"But you lost Esther.\"\n\n\"I didn't lose her,\" I said. \"She popped away. Maybe she's waiting at the hotel.\"\n\n\"That's where I am now. Thor is in the bar trying to pick up a waitress. Somehow, I don't think the fact that he's still married will come up in the conversation.\"\n\n\"I thought you didn't like him.\"\n\n\"He almost started to grow on me a bit when we fought a couple of giants, but that feeling faded fast when we got to Asgard.\"\n\n\"Okay. We have some more info about the Men of Anubis,\" I said, and filled her in about their weapons and shared what I'd learned at the meeting with Dr. Ancho.\n\n\"He mentioned the Center of the Universe?\"\n\n\"I think he was talking figuratively.\"\n\n\"No he wasn't. There's a place here in Tulsa called the Center of the Universe. It's an acoustically arranged area on a sidewalk near downtown where you can stand inside a circle and speak. It acts like a microphone and the sound is echoed back at you louder.\"\n\n\"Sounds like as good a place as any to die. Can you and Thor go check it out? That may be where we can face the Men of Anubis.\"\n\n\"We'll look into it. When will you be here?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Depends on the airspeed capabilities of an inter-dimensional dragon that didn't come from Africa or Europe.\"\n\nClara's route to Tulsa wasn't quite a straight line, and her speed varied from forty to fifty miles per hour. She stopped to eat a few sheep on a farm. All in all, the trip took fifteen hours and change. You'd think riding a dragon would be cool, and it is in both senses of the word. In fact, it was downright cold. I liked feeling the rhythmic flexing of the wings beneath me. Kelly and I held tight at first, but as the journey continued, we relaxed, and Clara made adjustments to try and keep us as comfortable as possible.\n\nThe most impressive parts for me were in the country beyond the city lights at night. The Milky Way spread out above us, and a dark ocean of grass and rock invisible beneath us. It was like flying in a dream. I'd never seen so many stars.\n\nI knew we were heading to a showdown that would likely cost me my life, so I appreciated the view that much more. I'd lived enough for two lifetimes, and I'd faced things few people would even believe. I'd known good times and bad, love and danger, despair and grief. But overall, I had to say I didn't have many complaints. I wish I'd been nicer to some people. I wish I'd taken the time to get to know others better. I wish I'd been smarter about how I went about things. Life can change on a dime, and you have to be ready to adjust to those changes.\n\nOne minute, things are fine. The next, the country is at war in a foreign land. One moment, you're driving along an open highway, the next someone falls asleep at the wheel and crosses the center line and you can't react in time to stop the head-on collision. One day your friends are all living their lives, the next someone is dead and you have an empty space that can never be filled.\n\nWe all face those changes. We all react differently to them. Some people curl up and try to hide from life. Others face it straight on and ready for battle. Others just roll with the tide and see where things carry them. Most of us do a little of everything. Some days, we're ready for the challenge, and others we just want to stay in bed, and still others we face with a sense of ennui.\n\nFifteen hours on the back of a dragon leaves you time to think. It wasn't easy to talk to Kelly because of the wind noise, so we tried to simply enjoy the ride, each lost in thought. I don't know what she thought about me. I wondered if she liked me. How did I compare to the Jonathan she'd known? I know I was more jaded because I'd seen so much more. I know I was less idealistic. And I also know that I was in a place where I didn't really care if I survived the coming fight. I'd been fighting for so long, and I was tired. I was ready and willing to lay down my life to save my friends. And part of me hoped it would come to that. As long as I could stop the Men of Anubis, and my friends were safe, I'd call it a win.\n\nIf anyone died in the coming battle, I would never forgive myself. All of it came back to one decision. I'd been sent back in time to kill a man named Henry Winslow, and because I no longer trusted the powers that be that sent me after him, I decided to talk to him and find out who he was and why he was doing what he was doing. I didn't trust him, but I didn't trust Chronos or Sharon either. I'd been betrayed by Sharon. I expected her to betray me again now. I fully expected Chronos to betray me, too. It wasn't in his best interest, but people get caught up in the way things are, and it's hard to make big changes.\n\nIf I'd followed directions, the Men of Anubis wouldn't exist. If I'd followed directions again in 1877, my Kelly would still be alive. And I would have faced the events in 1926 in a much different manner.\n\nOf course, if I'd trusted Sharon and Chronos, I'd be floating in a timeless void right now, so there's that.\n\nBut maybe that's what I deserved.\n\n\"Buildings,\" Kelly said, pointing.\n\nWe'd just flown over a lake, and could see the houses and shops spreading out to the sides of the Cimmaron Turnpike below us. \"I think that's Sand Springs,\" I said. \"We're coming up on Tulsa.\"\n\nAnd that meant we needed a good place to keep a dragon until it was time to face the Men of Anubis. Where do you keep a dragon in a city? The answer, of course, is anywhere it wants to stay.\n\n# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nWe arrived in Tulsa around one in the afternoon on Saturday. Clara landed gently on the roof of our hotel. Kelly and I slid down her side and stretched. We each stroked Clara's face and chin, thanking her. I wondered if anyone reported a dragon to the Tulsa Police Department, and if so, how long it took for the dispatcher to stop laughing. Yeah, I know, dispatchers are more professional than that, but don't go shattering my daydreams.\n\n\"I need some sleep,\" I said. \"Clara, feel free to go get some food, water, whatever in the countryside around the lake we passed earlier, but if you can be back here by nightfall, that would be great.\"\n\nClara gave me a nod and launched into the air, flapping her mighty wings. She wheeled around and pushed higher into the sky heading west.\n\n\"I don't need to sleep,\" Kelly said, \"but I wouldn't mind resting a bit.\"\n\n\"We'll meet up with the other Kelly and Thor first, then we can rest. But we do need to plan. My first stop, however, is my room because I need to piss like a Russian racehorse.\"\n\n\"As opposed to a shire?\"\n\n\"Shire horses are for hobbits,\" I said.\n\nKelly rolled her eyes and shook her head. \"In some ways you aren't any different from my Jonathan.\"\n\nI liked the sound of my Jonathan. \"That's a good thing. Right?\"\n\n\"I haven't decided.\"\n\n***\n\nWe met up with the other Kelly and Thor in the hotel bar. I was a little surprised he was still there since Kelly wasn't sleeping with him, but I wasn't going to complain about it. In the early afternoon, the bar itself wasn't open for business, but we could still seat ourselves around a table to talk. We stepped into the slightly darkened room. Thor sat with the other Kelly toward the back of the place. She had a plastic bottle of water in front of her on the table.\n\nThor did a double take when we stepped in. He slowly grinned and raised a single eyebrow. \"Time for a T-god sandwich tonight,\" he said.\"Write that down.\"\n\n\"Kelly Chan,\" I said, \"meet Kelly Chan.\"\n\nThey wore nearly identical black pants, boots, and shirts. They studied one another for a moment, then nodded.\n\n\"Let me clean off a place for you to sit down,\" Thor said as he ran a hand over his mustache and beard.\n\n\"I don't swing that way,\" I said and sat beside him so he wouldn't hit on my newest Kelly.\n\n\"I almost called you once,\" Kelly said to the new arrival.\n\n\"This is too much like looking in a mirror,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Tell me about it.\"\n\n\"Your hair is a little different.\"\n\n\"I think you're both gorgeous,\" Thor said, \"and I think we should plan a wild and crazy adventure in my bed tonight.\"\n\nBoth Kelly Chans looked at him. \"No,\" they said in unison. I realized I needed to think about them as Kelly One and Kelly Two. Kelly One was the Kelly I'd been with since coming back from the twenties, and Kelly Two was the Kelly I'd just met.\n\nI shook my head. \"Still no sign of Esther?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Kelly said. \"She does like to wander sometimes.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but she normally checks in.\"\n\n\"She's a ghost. It's not like she can be killed.\"\n\n\"I know, but I'm still worried about her,\" I said. \"I wish we had a way to contact her.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she's fine,\" Kelly said. \"Now, how are we going to handle the Men of Anubis?\"\n\n\"Did you check out the Center of the Universe?\"\n\n\"It's just a small area on a walkway not far from here.\" She pulled out her cell phone and showed me a couple of pictures. \"The sidewalk expands outward, and there's a concrete circle in the middle of a bigger brick circle. If you stand in the main circle and talk, the sound is a bit distorted to those outside it. If you're inside the circle, and you speak, your voice echoes back at you. Aside from giving us a bit of room to fight, it's not really suited for our purposes.\"\n\n\"I was hoping it would be a magical sound barrier, but it will have to do.\"\n\n\"How are you going to make that work?\"\n\n\"I could call my friend Amanda,\" Kelly Two said. \"She's a witch, and she could magically enhance the circle to block sound.\"\n\n\"Can she open a rift to get here quickly?\" I asked.\n\n\"No. She'd have to catch a plane unless one of the wizards at DGI could help her.\"\n\n\"I don't trust anyone who works for DGI,\" I said.\n\n\"Your sister works for them.\"\n\n\"As I said, I don't trust anyone who works for DGI.\"\n\n\"So what do you suggest?\"\n\n\"We'll find a way to keep one of the Men of Anubis in the circle so they can't communicate as well and if they try casting a verbal spell, it will bounce back at them. Then we'll kill them or have Chronos open a rift to the void and we'll cast them into it.\"\n\n\"Do they cast verbal spells?\" Thor asked.\n\n\"Sort of. They have a humming power with their voices and their weapons, but I don't know if we can alter the frequency enough to matter,\" I said. \"But what choice do we have?\"\n\n\"That's not much of a plan,\" Kelly One said. \"I thought you said these guys control time.\"\n\n\"To a degree, but they can't go over the places they've been, so I think we can do it.\"\n\n\"And if we can't?\" she asked.\n\n\"Then we die.\"\n\n\"Then you die,\" Thor said. \"Should things not go the way we like, I'll simply leave. I don't fancy being trapped in the void for all eternity.\"\n\n\"So you're a fair weather fighter?\" Kelly Two asked.\n\n\"I'll show you some fair weather.\"\n\n\"You show me anything, I'll cut it off,\" Kelly Two said.\n\n\"I like the way you think,\" Kelly One said.\n\n\"All I know is that I'm with Jonathan,\" Kelly Two said, and put a hand on my arm.\n\nKelly One stared at the touch for a moment, then turned to Thor. \"Can you go fetch Chronos?\"\n\n\"Now?\"\n\n\"Not right now,\" I said. \"I need some sleep.\"\n\n\"We'll need to coordinate with him.\"\n\nEsther popped into sight above the table. She was semi-translucent, and therefore visible to all of us.\n\n\"Esther!\" I said. \"Where have you been?\"\n\nShe pointed at a collar around her neck. It was a brown leather strip with glowing hieroglyphs. My stomach flipped.They'd gotten to her and it was my fault for making her feel unwelcome, for letting her go.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Jonathan,\" she said. \"They're going to bump me off if you don't bring them the vajra weapon and turn it over to them without a fight.\"\n\n\"They can't kill you,\" I said. \"You're already dead.\"\n\n\"Don't be a sap. This collar will destroy me.\"The lights on the collar flared brighter and Esther winced in pain.\n\nKelly Two reached out and tried to touch Esther, but her hand went right through her.\n\n\"The collar is a blend of magic and technology, isn't it?\" I asked.\n\nShe nodded. \"I'm scared, but don't give in to them.\"\n\n\"Tell them we'll meet them on the pedestrian bridge between West Archer Street and North Boston Avenue,\" Kelly One said.\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"Just tell them.\"\n\n\"We're on our way,\" I said. \"We're not going to let them hurt you.\"\n\n\"Too late,\" Esther said and popped away.\n\n\"So much for advance planning,\" Kelly One said. \"Where's the dragon?\"\n\n\"Clara flew off to get something to eat.\"\n\n\"So we go as soon as the dragon returns,\" Kelly One said.\n\n\"They'll destroy Esther,\" I said. I couldn't let that happen. I considered all that Esther had done for me. She deserved better.\n\n\"If we go now, they'll kill us all.\"\n\n\"If they wanted to kill you all, you'd be dead already,\" Thor said. \"They sent the ghost here, so they clearly know where you are. I wonder why they didn't just show up here to kill you. They'd have surprise on their side.\"\n\n\"They don't know where we are,\" I said. \"Esther can teleport directly to me no matter where I am, and that's why they're using her.\"\n\n\"We need the dragon,\" Kelly One said. \"It can burn them up from a distance, right? Magic fire? Maybe you could hold one of them while the dragon flames them, and the fire wouldn't harm you.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"Clara's fire isn't magical. I'd be burned alive. And even if I didn't die from that, the air around me would be heated up, and that would burn my lungs or keep me from breathing, so I doubt that's the issue. We're wasting time. I'll get the weapon, and I'll meet you in the lobby.\"\n\n\"I'll check the roof,\" Kelly Two said, \"on the off-chance Clara is already back.\"\n\n\"Cool.\"\n\nAs she stood, the light from the lobby reflected off her earrings, and I realized that maybe, the Men of Anubis had been tracking us. I didn't say anything about it because Kelly and Thor would tell me what a moron I was for keeping the jewelry. But I'd examined them and didn't find any kind of tracker. It didn't matter now. We had a mission, and by god, I was going to destroy those sons of bitches or die trying.\n\n\"Well,\" Kelly One said, \"at least we'll have honorable deaths.\"\n\n\"I believe I'll head to Club Eternity for a drink first,\" Thor said.\n\n\"Backing out on us?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"No. I'm going to fetch Chronos. I'll see you at the Center of the Universe.\" He twisted his bracelet and disappeared.\n\nWhen I returned to the lobby with the vajra, Kelly Two gave me a smile. \"Clara is back, so let's go kill us some gods.\"\n\n# CHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nThe Center of the Universe didn't impress me.\n\nIt was just a pedestrian bridge stretching over some railroad tracks. Off to one side, was a parking garage, and to the other were the buildings of downtown Tulsa. The BOK tower stood tall \u2013 well, comparatively speaking. It wasn't really a skyscraper. After spending some time in Manhattan, it was harder to be impressed.\n\nI carried the vajra weapon in my left hand. I had my Glock in my shoulder holster. The weather was warm, so I wore a light jacket simply to conceal the gun. I knew the gun was useless against the Men of Anubis, but I brought it along anyway. If I got chucked into the void, I could blow my brains out and end my suffering right then and there. I hoped it wouldn't come to that.\n\nThe sidewalk led to the central area where the walkway fanned out to knee-high planters that circled around the expanse. In the center was a concrete circle surrounded by a bricked circle. The planters were filled with bushes, flowers, and a few small trees. According to the internet, some folks claimed the echoing microphone effect of the Center of the Universe was caused by the sound waves bouncing back from those raised walls.\n\nI moved to the center of the concrete and said, \"Welcome to the show.\"\n\nMy voice came back at me amplified.\n\nKelly One and Two kept their distance. They each had swords tucked behind their backs, and they looked to be ready for action. Clara circled high overhead\n\nA soft wind gusted, rippling through my jacket and messing up my hair. I took a deep breath. A mother and her eight-year-old daughter wandered along the sidewalk. I stepped out of the circle so the kid could have a go at it. She whooped and hollered and laughed as her voice bounced back.\n\n\"Don't get carried away, Meghan,\" her mother said. \"There are other people here.\"\n\n\"It's all good,\" I said. \"Let her yell. She's having fun.\"\n\nShe smiled and nodded, but took her daughter's hand. \"We mustn't be late. Your father is waiting.\"\n\n\"But Mom,\" Meghan said.\n\n\"Don't 'but Mom' me,\" she said and dragged her along the sidewalk.\n\nI turned to Kelly Two. \"Call them, I said. \"Let's get this over with.\"\n\nWe'd discussed this on the way over, so she touched the earring and opened a channel. \"Olly olly oxen free,\" she said. Then she took the earring out, dropped it on the ground and stomped on it.\n\nThe wind gusted again. Traffic noise sounded in the distance.\n\n\"Jonathan,\" Kelly One said.\n\nI glanced over at her and she nodded toward the parking garage.\n\nTwo shirtless men in kilts stood on the edge of the roof of the garage. They wore jackal masks. Esther floated above them, unmoving. One of the men carried a crook, the other a flail. Both looked like they could have battled Arnold Schwarzenegger in a Conan movie.\n\nThey stepped off the building in unison and walked across the air down to where we waited, but they remained positioned in the air and out of reach.\n\nOne of the men said something, but it sounded like gibberish.\n\n\"A gerbil says what?\" I said.\n\nThe man touched the side of his jackal mask, nodded, then spoke again, this time in English. \"I am Amenken.\"\n\n\"Good for you,\" I said.\n\n\"This is my son, Mahu.\"\n\n\"Gesundheit,\" I said. \"Come on down here and take what you've got coming.\"\n\n\"Hand over the vajra weapon, and we shall release your ghost friend.\"\n\nI smiled at him, and adjusted my grip on the weapon. It hummed in my hand, spikes out, ready for deployment. \"What happens then?\" I asked.\n\nAmenken turned his jackal mask toward the two Kelly Chans. He pointed toward Kelly Two. \"I believe those belong to us,\" he said and made a come hither motion with his fingers. The time loop earrings popped out of Kelly's earlobes and shot through the air to Amenken's hand. \"Time is our domain, not yours.\"\n\n\"Can't blame a girl for trying,\" Kelly Two said.\n\n\"We do not blame you. In fact, we will allow you to leave here alive and return to your life.\"\n\n\"What about them?\" Kelly Two asked nodding to Kelly and then to me.\n\n\"They will come with us because they do not belong here.\"\n\n\"You tried to kill me once,\" I said.\n\nThe sound of dragon wings flapping drifted downward, but the Men of Anubis glanced up and saw nothing because she was above the clouds. They might have taken our chance for a do-over with the time loop earring, but we still had a dragon.\n\n\"We are impressed that you survived, Jonathan Shade. Your name is writ large in the Halls of Amenti.\"\n\n\"Does it say, 'For a good time call'?\"\n\nHead tilt from Amenken. \"I do not understand why you jest.\"\n\n\"Of course you don't. Are you cowards going to come down here and fight or are you only here to taunt us?\"\n\n\"We should kill him now, father,\" Mahu said.\n\n\"I want the vajra, and I want him to kneel before us.\"\n\nI grinned. \"Mahu. Sounds like a variety of fish to me. Let me clue you in on something, you ignorant piece of camel shit. You guys have already tried to kill me. Your brother, Kermit, tried to best me as well. Look where it got him.\"\n\n\"Khemet.\"\n\n\"Khemet, Kermit, same thing. He's dead as a frog in a blender now.\"\n\n\"Father?\"\n\nAmenken motioned for him to be quiet. \"No mortal has ever defied us the way you have, Jonathan Shade. No mortal has ever bested us either.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know,\" I said. \"I'm a pain in the ass. Come down here and face me, you cowardly prick. I'm tired of your bluster.\"\n\nAmenken shrugged. \"We have studied you. There's absolutely nothing you can do to harm us, and I want to crush your skull with my bare hands for what you did to my son.\"\n\nMy eyes swept the area behind them. Where the hell was Thor? He was supposed to bring Chronos. I wasn't sure how much longer I could stall.\n\n\"Maybe I should just blast you with the vajra.\"\n\n\"Feel free,\" Amenken said. \"The crook will protect me. One more thing you should note. At its current setting, the vajra blast will be wider than you think and you'll vaporize at least one of your allies before the crook absorbs the energy.\"\n\n\"Then we're at an impasse.\"\n\n\"Incorrect,\" Amenken said. \"Give us the weapon.\"\n\n\"You're welcome to try and take it from me,\" I said.\n\nAmenken laughed. \"Fool, I can destroy you from here.\" He aimed the crook at me.\n\n\"But before you waste your time trying that,\" I said with a smile and confidence I didn't really feel, \"let me tell you how this is going to go down.\"\n\nI moved sideways to stand in the center of the concrete circle.\n\n\"I'm listening,\" Amenken said. Lights danced around the hieroglyphs of his crook. He was ready, but he was also cautious. I'd survived their attempt to kill me before, and I'd bested his son in single combat. He wasn't taking any chances.\n\n\"First,\" I said, \"you're going to let Esther go. She's a ghost and can't influence anything here.\"\n\n\"She is not a mere ghost. She can attain physical form.\"\n\n\"But she can't change time.\"\n\n\"She does not belong here.\"\n\nI raised the vajra, but didn't aim it at Amenken just yet. I made a show of twisting it up a few more notches. The spikes at this level turned inward, which would give it a more focused beam. He didn't react, so I suspected the crook could absorb that power level too. \"None of us belong here, jackass. I don't, she doesn't, Kelly doesn't, and you and your steroid addicted son don't either.\"\n\n\"Let me slay him,\" Mahu said.\n\n\"Patience, my son,\" Amenken said. \"This one amuses me. He stalls for time, which is ironic as we are untouched by time. He believes he stands a chance against us when we have ruled across millennia. We are beyond their reach. It costs us nothing to let him play his game.\"\n\n\"Could cost you your life, buddy boy,\" I said.\n\nAmenken laughed.\n\n\"Kermit laughed, too,\" I said.\n\n\"Khemet.\"\n\nStill no sign of Thor. My heart hammered my chest, threatening to break free like an alien from John Hurt's chest. But I remained still and outwardly calm. \"Tomato, tomahto,\" I said.\n\n\"Enlighten me on your plan to slay us when we are immortal.\"\n\n\"I've killed gods before,\" I said, \"and I suspect I'll do so again. One thing you morons all have in common is that you believe your own press.\"\n\nA man and woman strolled along the sidewalk toward us. Kelly Two blocked their path, and I knew she was telling them to go around.\n\nAmenken finally lowered himself to the ground and planted the crook on the concrete. Blue lightning danced around the base of the staff and the hieroglyphs glowed brighter. \"Then slay me, Jonathan Shade.\"\n\nI raised the vajra weapon. With my left hand I pointed at Mahu. \"Now,\" I said loudly. My voice bounced back at me, amplified. I'd know soon enough whether or not the sound carried into the sky. \"Round one is between me and your father.\"\n\n\"Mahu will not interfere as long as your warriors don't,\" Amenken said.\n\nHe was right about that because Clara had heard my signal and as she swooped down, she saw my finger aimed at Mahu. She unleashed a fiery blast at Manu's back.\n\nMahu screamed and staggered forward, engulfed in flames.\n\nClara landed and skidded into him, she snatched him up in her mouth and chomped down hard, breaking the skin and crushing his bones in her powerful jaws. The screaming stopped.\n\n\"Dinner is served,\" I said as I switched the vajra to my left hand and yanked my Glock from its shoulder holster with my right.\n\nAmenken spun toward the dragon, raising the crook. Blue lightning swirled along the staff, and I could tell he was triggering something with his fingers. I knew that blast could kill Clara, but I aimed my gun and fired three quick shots.\n\nThe bullets struck the staff, shattering Amenken's thumb and fingers. While the bullets didn't hurt him, they did knock the crook from his hand. Now that he was within reach, both Kellys raced toward him, swords drawn. I fired three shots into Amenken's chest and mask, but they didn't have any effect. The crook hit the ground in a shower of blue sparks and slid across the concrete.\n\nAmenken spun around, saw the swords arcing toward him and he barked a command in ancient Egyptian.\n\nTime froze.\n\nClara halted in mid-chew, the blood hanging from her mouth like a frozen crimson fountain.\n\nI rushed up to Amenken before he could react, jammed the vajra to his head, and fired. It was a weapon forged for the gods, and the time-freeze didn't prevent it from going off.\n\nThe jackal mask exploded and the headless corpse of Amenken stood impossibly in one place as the blood and brains and skull fragments hung in the air and didn't drop.\n\nI was about to quote Arnold in Terminator 2, but that red and white cloud didn't go anywhere, and the body didn't fall, and nothing moved around me at all. I turned full circle.\n\nMahu was dead.\n\nAmenken was dead.\n\nTime remained frozen.\n\n\"Shit,\" I said.\n\nI looked at Kelly One and Kelly Two. Neither moved. I walked around them, then moved over to Clara. She remained still as well. The blood didn't drip from her jowls. A droplet of red held steady in the air beneath her head on its stalled journey to the pavement.\n\nEsther hovered motionless in the air with the glowing collar. There was no wind.\n\nLeaves didn't rustle.\n\nI had killed the Men of Anubis.\n\nBut I was stranded in a frozen moment of time. With Amenken dead, I thought time would restart. But unless a second could tick forward, the world wouldn't know he was dead, and the magic of the time-stopping spell would never end.\n\nMaybe I should have thought that through, but I didn't really think he'd be that easy to kill. Now what the hell was I supposed to do?\n\n\"Fuck me running,\" I said.\n\n# CHAPTER TWENTY\n\nI sat on the edge of one of the planters and sang \"Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall\" several times, then switched to \"Henry the Eighth\" until I was tired of it, then \"Wasted Time\" by the Eagles, and would have tried \"Wasted Time\" by Skid Row, but I couldn't remember the words, so I launched into \"No Time\" by the Guess Who.\n\nAnd in all of that time, no time actually passed.\n\nI sang \"Time\" by Pink Floyd, then \"Time\" by the Alan Parsons Project. I started \"Time is on My Side\" by the Stones, but it wasn't, so I considered switching to \"Time After Time\" by Cyndi Lauper, but I was sick of singing.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said. \"Thor will bring Chronos, and everything will be all right.\"\n\nExcept that Chronos would open his rift to whatever time it was when they arrived, which was clearly after the moment I was trapped inside, so I was stuck here for all eternity except that no time would ever fucking pass.\n\nI drew a breath, released it. On one level, that was cool because I could breathe. Must have had something to do with the magic that froze time, but didn't affect me.\n\nStill, there had to be something I could do. Esther hung in the air, and as I couldn't see through her, she had to be in physical form. I climbed on top of Clara and tried to reach Esther, but she was too far away.\n\nWell, I had time. I looked around. The parking garage wasn't going to be any use. Cars weren't moving, and the cars in the garage weren't running, and even if they were, they wouldn't drive. I needed some way to climb up to Esther. Maybe I could free her. And maybe as a ghost, she wouldn't be stuck in time. She wasn't moving, but that could have been due to the collar. Maybe if I freed her from the collar, she'd be able to help.\n\nIt was a long shot, and I knew it, but I had to try something.\n\nI walked to the bank a half block away. I was able to open the door, and when I let go of it, the door remained open. People stood motionless in a roped off line leading to the tellers in the bank. I wandered down the halls in search of a storage closet. There had to be a ladder somewhere.\n\nLong story short, I found a ladder in a janitor's closet, and carried it outside and back to the Center of the Universe. I opened the ladder, steadied it, and climbed up to Esther. I had to stand on the top of the ladder, balanced precariously while I reached up to her. The ladder held steady, and I managed to grab Esther's foot. I tugged her downward.\n\nA moment later, we were face to face. Her expression didn't change. She stared blankly downward, a look of concern frozen in place. I pulled her down to the ground, and she didn't float away. The collar around her neck wasn't fastened by anything. It was a solid strip of leather with no seams or buckles. I had no idea what the hieroglyphs said, but it was obviously some kind of magical spell. It was tight, but not too tight. I could dig a finger between the leather and Esther's flesh. I needed a knife.\n\nI walked over to Kelly Two. Kelly One would kill me if she thought I felt her up trying to find a knife. Kelly Two would forgive me. I didn't need to run my hands over anyplace inappropriate. Kelly had a knife tucked in her left boot. I snagged it and returned to Esther.\n\nThe blade sliced through the leather without any trouble, and I didn't even cut Esther in the process. Mission accomplished. I tossed the collar aside, and as soon as I let it go, it stopped moving and hung in the air.\n\nEsther didn't react when I turned her toward me.\n\n\"Can you hear me?\" I asked.\n\nNo response. She kept looking downward, concerned.\n\n\"Strike two thousand six hundred and forty,\" I said.\n\nI didn't want to leave Esther where she was because in physical form, she'd fall over or get smacked by Clara when time started again.\n\nIf time started again.\n\nI carried Esther to the opposite side of the planter and laid her down so she wouldn't fall.\n\nI tucked Kelly's knife back into her boot, then set out toward the hotel where Club Eternity was once aligned.\n\nDecima said she was going to realign it, but maybe she hadn't bothered. After all, I wasn't ever going back there. Right?\n\n\"Please still be there,\" I said.\n\nI walked to the hotel. I found the door that led to the basement bar. The alcove looked the same, and the glass door remained as it had been. I tugged it open. Inside was a normal bar with a single bartender drawing a glass of beer for a customer. I could stand there forever and that glass would never fill up.\n\nSo Club Eternity really had aligned itself elsewhere.\n\nNow what?\n\nOther than Chronos, who did I know who could operate between seconds?\n\nSharon? Or was she able to do so only with the help of Chronos?\n\nRegardless, Sharon was in Boulder, Colorado, and I was in Tulsa, Oklahoma. That was more than seven hundred miles away. Walking that distance at thirty miles per day would take more than three weeks. I couldn't drive a car because cars were frozen in time. But I could ride a bike. If I could ride seventy miles a day, I could get there in ten or eleven days.\n\nBut what if I got there and Sharon couldn't see me? What if she needed Chronos to freeze time for her in order to move between the moments?\n\nMaybe Chronos would still show up here.\n\nI'd seen a bicycle shop on North Boulder Avenue, so I walked over there. I entered the shop, found a nice brand new bicycle. I checked my stash of cash. I had a couple thousand dollars in my pocket and another sixty in my wallet. I tossed enough money on the counter to cover the price of the bike and a tire repair kit, then I rode back to the Center of the Universe.\n\nI waited there for hours and hours. Of course, the sun remained in the same spot in the sky. Nobody moved. No wind blew. Nothing changed. No sign of Chronos.\n\nI lost track of time.\n\nEasy to do when time doesn't move.\n\nWhat do you do when you have all the time in the world and no way to get anything done? For starters, you take care of bodily functions.\n\nYou want to see and feel something strange? Take a piss when time isn't moving. You shoot the liquid out, but the stream remains in the air when you zip up and walk away.\n\nI didn't want to ride all the way to Colorado. There had to be another way.\n\nDr. Ancho!\n\nHe was here in Tulsa. He could open rifts. He had some interesting abilities. Maybe he was able to move between moments of time. He had other gifts, that was for sure. He also had the added benefit of being maybe an hour away by bicycle. I hopped on the bike and pedaled toward ORU.\n\nI rode around motionless cars and trucks. Drivers with mouths open to sing with the radio, or lips flared back to yell at other drivers, or just sitting still with hands at ten and two.\n\nThere were only a few students in sight on the campus grounds as classes were in session, so I didn't have to dodge many of them on my way to Dr. Ancho's building. The hallway was empty, and when I pulled the door open, it remained open as I stepped inside.\n\nDr. Ancho stood still at the front of his classroom, pointing a piece of chalk toward his students, most of whom seemed focused. The exception was a guy at the back with his head tipped forward napping.\n\nAs he was clearly frozen in time, I knew I was screwed. I sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. \"Thanks, anyway,\" I said.\n\n\"\u2014elson Chapter Two for\u2014\"\n\nI jumped back and he stopped.\n\nWhat the hell?\n\nI stepped up to him again and reached down to touch his shoulder once more. He came to life again, only now he looked up at me. \"\u2014tomorrow, oh my goodness.\"\n\n\"Hello, Dr. Ancho.\"\n\nI moved to sit down at his desk, but as soon as my hand left his shoulder, he froze again.So I had to be touching him to converse.Okay.I could do that.\n\nI pulled a chair over to sit in front of him so our eyes would be at the same level, then I reached out and took his hand. \"I'm in a bit of a pickle,\" I said.\n\nHe started again. \"You don't say,\" he said then looked around at his frozen students. \"What did you do?\"\n\n\"I killed the Men of Anubis, but not before they stopped time.\"\n\nHis eyes held mine, and I saw empathy and disappointment and sadness in equal measure there. \"You didn't listen to me. Revenge is not the answer.\"\n\n\"Maybe not the right answer, but here I am.\"\n\n\"I can't restart time.\"\n\n\"Who can?\"\n\n\"Chronos.\"\n\n\"Can you take me to him?\"\n\nDr. Ancho shook his head.\n\n\"Can anyone else take me to him?\"\n\nHe hesitated, then nodded. \"Why didn't you listen to me?\"\n\n\"About?\"\n\n\"The Men of Anubis were not your enemies.\"\n\n\"They wanted to kill me.\"\n\n\"They would never have found you, Jonathan. Your real enemies are the ones you don't recognize as such. I would say more, but that would only make things worse.\"\n\n\"Worse than being trapped in time?\" I asked.\n\n\"You sought revenge.\"\n\n\"They took Esther captive.\"\n\n\"Because you went looking for them and found them.\"\n\n\"Well, yeah.\"\n\n\"And you put your friends in danger.\"\n\n\"They're used to that.\"\n\nDr. Ancho sighed. \"No one should be used to that, dear boy. We should endeavor to keep our friends out of danger, wouldn't you say?\"\n\n\"If possible.\"\n\n\"You went looking for it. Even after I warned you.\"\n\n\"So you're telling me straight-up now?\"\n\nHe gave me a sad smile. \"I can't very well make things much worse at this point.As I said before, Ahogado el ni\u00f1o, tapando el pozo. After the child drowns, they close the well.\"\n\n\"So what do I do?\"\n\n\"Any path you choose at this juncture will lead you to lose someone close to you, or perhaps even to lose everything.\"\n\n\"Dr. Ancho, if you can't make things worse, why don't you just shoot straight with me? Tell me what to do.\"\n\n\"I said I couldn't make things much worse, but if I say too much, your path will lead you to lose everything.\"\n\n\"I've already lost everything.\"\n\n\"Your friends will lose everything, too, Jonathan. I can't say much more without endangering all of them. I tried to warn you, and you were so fixated on hate and revenge that you missed the chance for love and happiness. That door is now closed to you. Do you understand that? I fear that I share some responsibility. I should not have let you go. I should have spoken more to your ghost friend. She adores you in spite of the pain you inflict upon her. My mistake was thinking she was dead and you were alive when the truth was the reverse on a spiritual plane.\"\n\n\"I know I've ignored Esther, but I'll make it up to her.\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"You can never make it up to her, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"Okay, I realize she's frozen in time right now.\"\n\nAgain, Dr. Ancho shook his head. \"You are the one frozen in time, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"Can you come with me and help me?\"\n\n\"No. And whatever you do, please don't move people around in your current state.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because the shock to their system could kill them.\"\n\n\"I moved Esther.\"\n\n\"She's a ghost. The harm you've done to her is not physical.\"\n\n\"Oh no, please don't tell me that by touching you, I'm killing you.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I'm standing in the same place I was, so I can mitigate the damage with magic. I suspect I'll be sore, but I'll survive. That holds true for any of us who are more in tune with the world, and have enough power to experience reality in this manner. Have you determined your true enemy yet?\"\n\nI nodded and jammed a thumb into my chest. \"Yeah, yeah, I'm my own worst enemy.\"\n\n\"That could be said for all of us, and it would be true, but that's not what I meant.\"\n\n\"So tell me.\"\n\n\"I can't do that. Too many people will die, and I refuse to have any more blood on my hands. Ponder this. Who set you on this path?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"For a reasonably intelligent man, you can be monumentally stupid.\"\n\n\"I'll figure it out. In the meantime, I need to reach Chronos so I can get back into real time. Thor was on an errand to fetch him, but they hadn't arrived when time froze. If I touch Sharon, will she come to life the way you have?\"\n\n\"She will. I would recommend a different course of action.\"\n\n\"I've gone over everyone I can think of and she's the only one I know who can take me to Chronos.\"\n\n\"There are at least three others here in the United States who would come alive at your touch. You have not met them, but all you have to do is find them. They appear to be human, but they are more than that, and as such, they can operate on this level if you touch them.\"\n\n\"Finding them would take forever.\"\n\n\"You have forever.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I know Sharon can take me. I also know not to trust her. Open a rift for me, Dr. Ancho. I've got this.\"\n\n\"Impatience in the face of forever,\" he said. \"I fear you're beyond my ability to save. But one thing I will not do is speed you on your course to destruction. I will not open a rift for you, Jonathan. You're on your own. This is my final attempt to give you the gift of knowledge. Please consider what I've said.\"\n\n\"Fortune cookie logic is not helpful, Dr. Ancho,\" I said. \"Thanks for nothing.\"\n\n# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nIt took what felt like an eternity to ride a bicycle from Tulsa to Boulder, but in reality not a second passed.I rode until I got tired, then I found a place to sleep for a while. Sometimes that was on the side of the road. Sometimes I broke into someone's house and slept on a sofa or in a bed. I couldn't take showers because the water wouldn't flow. But I could use a straw to drink water.I ate packaged foods because I couldn't cook anything. Sandwiches and such. At a few convenience stores, I could eat a hot dog or a slice of pizza because they were hot in the warmer. Once I ate them, my immunity to magic allowed me to digest them.\n\nI left dozens of piss sculptures hanging in the air between Oklahoma and Colorado, and I spent my time thinking about what Dr. Ancho said. It didn't help. I knew I'd disappointed him again, and while I certainly understood that I had forever, there was no way in hell I was going to go from person to person in the entire fucking country until I found one who would come to life at my touch. I already knew Sharon would work, so to take another course seemed like a waste of time and energy even though I had all the time in the world. Impatience is a virtue.\n\nI arrived at the library at CU Boulder, and I strolled down the hall to Sharon's office.\n\nI pushed into the room. She sat motionless at her desk, eyes on a computer screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard.\n\nMy first thought was that I'd wasted my time, energy, and money riding to her office. Of course, time was relative because I arrived at her office at the exact same time I'd left Tulsa.\n\nBut then I considered the fact that for her, time was frozen, but as a supernatural being, if I touched her, maybe she'd be able to see me.\n\nI stepped up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.\n\nShe nearly jumped out of her chair.\n\n\"What the hell?\" she said.\n\n\"Hello, Sharon.\"\n\n\"How did you get in here?\"\n\nI shrugged, but kept hold of her hand. \"I'm kinda stuck between seconds right now.\"\n\n\"Why are you holding my hand?\"\n\n\"So we can talk.\"\n\nShe looked me up and down. \"You look terrible.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I suspect I smell bad, too.\"\n\n\"My olfactory senses don't work when time is frozen. Where is Chronos and why didn't he warn me?\"\n\n\"This wasn't his doing.\" I explained what happened.\n\n\"So they're dead?\"\n\nI nodded. \"Turns out they were really just regular guys who found a way to stay alive. They had powers and such, of course, but they were no match for a dragon and Indra's weapon.\"\n\n\"So what do you want?\"\n\n\"I want you to pull me to the next second so I can rejoin time.\"\n\n\"I don't have that kind of power.\"\n\n\"So take me to Chronos.\"\n\n\"Why should I?\"\n\nI smiled at her and let go of her hand. She froze instantly.\n\nWhen I touched her again, I had the blade from a paper cutter pressed against her neck.\n\n\"Because if you don't, I'll cut off your head.\"\n\nShe stared at the blade. \"You broke the paper cutter?\"\n\n\"I can let go of you, and you'll freeze in place. I can then cut off your head. One thing I've learned is that decapitation will kill damn near anything. Including you.\"\n\n\"That blade won't penetrate my skin.\"\n\n\"Then I'll ride back to Tulsa, get the vajra weapon, ride back here, put it against your head and fire. That ought to do the trick, and if you don't think I'll do that, you don't know me.\"\n\n\"Point taken, but if you kill me, how will you find Chronos?\"\n\n\"I just need to find another magical being like you who can open a rift and take me to him. Your call.\"\n\n\"I'd rather like to keep my head, thank you.\"\n\n\"So open a rift and take me to Chronos.\"\n\n\"He's in Egypt.\"\n\n\"Then let's go.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nShe opened a rift in the air and pulled it apart. On the other side of the opening, an Egyptian temple stood in the desert. It was dark there, but lights shone on the temple pillars.\n\nKeeping hold of Sharon, I stepped through and started to pull her through with me. She yanked her hand away from me.\n\nI laughed because she instantly froze with the rift open. I reached through, grabbed her and pulled her through to the cool desert sand.\n\n\"Damn,\" she said. \"It was worth a try. Can't exactly see you swimming across the ocean to get back to me.\"\n\n\"I'd row a boat,\" I said. \"Except that I don't have to do that.\"\n\n\"All right,\" she said. \"I lied. Chronos isn't here. I was just going to dump you and go back to my life.\"\n\n\"Trustworthy as ever,\" I said. \"Here's the thing, Sharon. I'm trusting you to do what's in your best interest. Get me to Chronos so I can get back into time, and I won't bother you again.\"\n\n\"You killed the Men of Anubis,\" she said. \"That means you could kill me if I ever let my guard down.\"\n\n\"If you try to leave me stuck here, I will kill you. Or worse. And there's not a damn thing you can do to stop me.\"\n\nShe tried to throw a punch to my heart, no doubt intending to rip it from my body, but I simply let go of her and she froze. I stepped around her and touched her shoulder.\n\n\"Shit,\" she said.\n\n\"Do you have any idea what all I can do to you right now?\" I asked.\n\nHer eyes widened and I let that play around in her imagination. I had no intention of doing anything to her, but people who are willing to do horrible things to others automatically assume others are just as bad as they are. Her imagination was far better than anything I could have come up with, so I just smiled when she looked aghast.\n\n\"All right,\" she said. \"I'll take you to Chronos.\"\n\nShe opened a new rift and we stepped through to Club Eternity. The difference here was that a few people were moving. Time didn't operate here the way it did in the real world. Thor sat at the bar with Chronos downing a mug of beer. But off in the corner, a guy dressed like a jester had a glass of whiskey tipped to his lips, but wasn't getting anywhere with it.\n\nAs a test, I let go of Sharon for a moment. She froze. The rest of the room was frozen too, except for Chronos, Thor, and a fat Chinese guy at the end of the bar. I recognized him as the guy who once wanted me to rub his belly for luck. He winked at me.\n\nChronos and Thor turned to me.\n\n\"Jonathan,\" Thor said. \"How did you get here?\"\n\n\"Charon brought him,\" Chronos said. \"Sharon, whatever.\"\n\n\"Why doesn't she move?\" Thor asked.\n\nChronos smiled. \"I dare say, ol' chap, I believe you defeated the Men of Anubis.\"\n\n\"Indeed I did, but I'm in a bit of a predicament.\"\n\nChronos laughed. \"You most certainly are. How long have you been trapped in time?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"More than a week.\"\n\n\"I could simply leave you there and you'll never get a second older.\"\n\nI darted forward and grabbed him by the throat.\n\n\"Or I can help you get back to normal,\" he said.\n\nThor laughed. \"We were going to join you after another round of drinks, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"You going to try and stop me from strangling him?\" I asked.\n\nThor shook his head. \"Do as you will. I like men of action, and you can write that down.\"\n\nChronos glanced at Thor, who downed the rest of his beer. Chronos tried to pull my hands away from his throat, but I was too strong.\n\n\"All right, Chronos, let's make this simple. Help me get back to normal time, and I won't rip your head off your neck.\"\n\nChronos grinned. \"My dear boy, you're not that strong.\"\n\nI tightened my grip.\n\nHe patted my hands. \"Fine,\" he said. \"I'll set you back into proper time. But I want to make sure the Men of Anubis are well and truly dead first.\"\n\n\"Then let's get back to Tulsa.\"\n\nI let go of him. Chronos stood and walked toward the frozen Sharon. As he walked away from the bar, the Chinese guy froze. Thor hurried after Chronos so he wouldn't be outside the sphere of influence. As Chronos neared Sharon, she resumed movement.\n\n\"That's disconcerting,\" she said as she jerked back.\n\n\"Take my hand,\" Chronos said extending his arm.\n\nI gripped his hand and we stepped out of Club Eternity back to the moment I'd left so long ago where Esther lay on the concrete planter, two versions of Kelly held swords arcing around toward nothing, a sliced leather collar and a line of urine hung in the air, a dragon had a dead god in its jaws, and a broad-shouldered kilted man stood with no head on his neck, but a cloud of blood, brain, and bone fragments hovering over his body.\n\n\"You don't see that every day,\" Thor said. He turned and gave me a light punch on the shoulder. \"Nice work.\"\n\nThat light punch would no doubt leave a bruise.\n\nChronos pulled his hand from mine, took out his pocket watch and fiddled with it. \"Need to keep time frozen,\" he said. He walked around the scene, nodding.\n\n\"Set me back into the time stream,\" I said. \"Please.\"\n\nHe nodded and snapped the pocket watch closed.\n\nIn an instant, wind blew, swords swept around striking air, a dragon chomped and swallowed a dead god, a strap of leather and a line of urine dropped to the pavement, and another dead god crumpled to the ground with a splash of gore falling on top of the body.\n\n\"What the hell?\" both Kelly Chans said in unison.\n\n\"Mission accomplished,\" I said.\n\nEsther popped over to me. \"Jonathan!\" she said, throwing her arms around me. \"You saved me!\" She pulled back and grimaced. \"You can't be a sheik until you take a shower.\"\n\n\"You saying I stink?\" I asked.\n\nShe pinched her nose closed. \"And how.\"\n\nClara reared up and let out a shrieking howl.\n\n\"It's all right, Clara,\" I said, moving over and stroking her. \"We won.\"\n\nShe settled back to the ground and licked her mouth.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said.\n\nShe responded with a belch that smelled like burned copper.\n\n\"Only one thing left to do,\" Chronos said.\n\n\"What's that?\" I asked.\n\n\"It seems the dragon ate one of the timeless gods, but the other, while dead, needs to be cast into the void.\"\n\n\"Why not just feed him to Clara?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm not so concerned about the body,\" he said. \"If the dragon wants a feast, that's fine with me, but the crook and flail need to be out of our world. That blend of magic and technology is too great for any of us to wield. We should toss the vajra into the void as well.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think I'm keeping that,\" I said.\n\nChronos shook his head. \"Not a chance, Jonathan. It's an ancient weapon of mass destruction and it cannot remain here.\"\n\nI sighed. \"You're right, of course.\"\n\nChronos picked up the fallen crook. It was a bit mangled from the bullets, but lightning still danced along the shaft. The flail was on the ground beside Clara, so he walked over and grabbed that, too. \"Charon, open a rift to the void, please.\"\n\nSharon rubbed her hands together, and swept them down, then moved them apart opening a window into the vast nothingness. Chronos tossed the crook and flail into the void.\n\n\"And the body?\" he asked.\n\n\"Clara,\" I said, \"are you hungry?\"\n\nClara shook her head.\n\n\"Fine. I'll grab the legs, Thor, you grab the shoulders.\"\n\nThor and I moved over, lifted the remains of Amenken and we tossed him into the great emptiness.\n\n\"The vajra, too,\" Chronos said.\n\n\"You'll note that it's not the seventeenth of November,\" I said as I retrieved the weapon.\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"You said every way you looked at time, it ended there.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Oh, I lied about that. I just didn't want to be involved in the battle with the Men of Anubis.\"\n\n\"You're an asshole,\" I said.\n\n\"Quite true,\" he said with the grin.\n\nI walked over and threw the vajra into the void.\n\n\"Happy now?\" I asked.\n\n\"Almost,\" he said. \"Charon?\"\n\nBefore I could react, Sharon shoved me into the void. The last thing I heard was her laughter before the rift to Earth snapped shut. I fell, tumbling over and over into the great nothing.\n\n\"Fuck,\" I said.\n\n# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nYou know that old saying of fool me once, shame on you and fool me twice, shame on me. Well, shame the living hell out of me. I never trusted Sharon, but I let my guard down for one second and that bitch betrayed me again. Chronos and Sharon could suck the great dick of the devil himself, those traitorous losers.\n\nSo there I was, floating endlessly. A headless corpse did a slow turn not too far away from me, and several powerful weapons tumbled off to my other side, but I couldn't move toward them. I was weightless. I found that I could breathe, but that wasn't going to last because pretty soon, I'd die for lack of food and water. Or worse, I wouldn't, and I'd float forever in a timeless void or until I got depressed enough to pull my Glock and blow my brains out. Oh well, I'd had a good run. I'd lived a couple of lifetimes. I'd battled sorcerers, gods, dragons, ghosts, demons, vampires, zombies, witches, wizards, and assorted other things that shouldn't even exist. I'd loved and lost. I'd met King Tut and his wife. I'd done more and seen more than most.\n\nI didn't have many regrets.\n\nIt was time to accept my fate.\n\nAnd then Esther popped into view.\n\n\"Jonathan!\" she called.\n\n\"Go back, Esther!\"\n\n\"Not without you!\" She spotted me and popped over.\n\nShe wrapped her arms around me and smiled.\n\n\"Good to see you, Esther,\" I said.\n\n\"And how. Hang on,\" she said and popped away.\n\nI kept tumbling.\n\nShe popped back to me. \"Horsefeathers,\" she said. \"You're too big. I can't take you with me.\"\n\n\"It's all right, Esther. Thank you for everything you've ever done for me. Go back and tell both Kellys I love them. You might tell them to kill Sharon and Chronos while you're at it, though.\"\n\nMy words hurt her, and I realized I'd been a fool. \"I'm not telling them any of that nonsense,\" she said. \"You can tell them yourself.\"\n\n\"You know I love you too, right Esther?\"\n\n\"I know you like me, but love? Go chase yourself. Hold onto me.\"\n\n\"You can't take me back there. I'm too big.\"\n\nShe gave me a sad smile. \"Shut up and kiss me,\" she said.\n\nShe planted a kiss on my lips. She moved her lips over mine and her tongue shot into my mouth.\n\n\"Damn, girl!\"\n\nShe winked at me. \"If I had my way, I'd do some barneymugging with you for weeks on end. But fate hates me, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"Get back to the real world, Esther. Go live and love.\"\n\n\"You forget,\" she said. \"I'm already dead. I've carried a torch for you for more years than I ever lived, and you're the one who needs to keep breathing. I would give anything to be with you.\"\n\n\"So you're going to float out here in the void with me?\"\n\n\"No, you big palooka. Don't you remember what Dr. Ancho said about mass?\" She kissed me again. \"I love you, and you need to live.\"\n\n\"I love you, too,\" I said. \"But it's your turn for life.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"One more kiss,\" she said and this time, when she kissed me, I stayed kissed.\n\nShe popped.\n\nI popped.\n\nI appeared in the air over the Center of the Universe and fell to the ground hard. I rolled over to see Thor standing still in the distance beside the unmoving Clara, while two Kelly Chans faced Chronos and Sharon. Neither Kelly moved, but Chronos and Sharon did. The ghost of Esther Carmichael floated in the air above me.\n\nShe'd traded places with me. Her physical form now floated in the void, and rather than teleport her own body, she brought her spirit and my body.\n\n\"Oh, Esther,\" I said.\n\n\"How did he get back here?\" Chronos asked, as he took the sword from Kelly's hand.\n\nSharon grabbed a sword from the other Kelly. \"Doesn't matter. I'll just kill the fucker,\" she said and stalked toward me.\n\n\"I'll kill the two Kelly Chans,\" Chronos said.\n\n\"Save one for me,\" Sharon said. \"I hate those bitches.\"\n\nI didn't like the sound of that.\n\nI rolled to my feet, and Sharon raced toward me, sword ready. I pulled my Glock, but realized pulling the trigger wouldn't do me any good because time was frozen.I let go of it, and it hung suspended in the air. I did a shoulder roll to avoid the swinging sword, and charged at Chronos.\n\nHe didn't expect it, but he was my only chance. If I faced off with Sharon, he'd be able to kill both Kelly Chans before I could reach him, but by going after him first, I had a chance.I slammed into him before he could bring the sword around, and I kept driving, pushing him to the side of the pedestrian walkway.The planters stood between us and the drop to the railroad tracks, but I didn't care about falling. I drove Chronos right over the edge.\n\nTime didn't affect us, but gravity did.\n\nWe dropped to the tracks.It was a good twenty foot drop, but I landed on top of him. The impact dislodged the sword from his hand and it flew away to hang motionless in the air just out of reach of his hand.I rolled off of him, in pain, and tried to sit up.\n\nHe jumped to his feet, unharmed.\n\n\"Sharon will kill you,\" Chronos said.\n\n\"Sharon is outside your sphere of influence, jackass,\" I said and pushed myself to my feet.My ribs hurt, but they weren't broken.I wanted to kick him, but the coward took off running down the tracks.\n\nI chased after him.The first few steps hurt because even landing on top of Chronos didn't prevent the collision with the ground from beating the shit out of me. But as my legs churned, the pain didn't bother me.I tackled Chronos, and drove his face against the railroad tracks.I got up, grabbed hold of him and yanked him to his feet. He tried to hit me, but I blocked his punch and drove my fist into his face.\n\nHe sat down hard.\n\nI launched a snap kick at his face, driving him back to the ground.\n\n\"You should have checked your timeline after all,\" I said. \"Maybe you'd have seen this coming.\"I grabbed him and dragged him back toward the bridge.He struggled, pounded on my wrist and hand. I ignored the pain and kept pulling him. Kelly's sword hovered ten feet away.I let go of Chronos and grabbed the katana.\n\nHe got to his feet and tried to rush me, but I expected it. I spun and sliced upward with the blade, cutting into his stomach and chest, sweeping outward and sending blood trails flying. They froze in the air and hung there, caught in time. I stepped around and swung the blade again, this time with better aim, and I chopped the fucker's head off.\n\nThe body took a few steps, then crumpled to its knees and toppled forward. A flash of light shot out from the corpse as the magic left his body.\n\nI glanced up and saw the pocket watch floating in the air a few feet from the edge of the bridge. As long as it was open, time would be frozen. I rubbed my aching ribs, and climbed the embankment back to the pedestrian walkway.\n\nThe scene was unchanged except for Sharon who now stood motionless in mid-step, sword in her right hand. She once said that steel couldn't penetrate her skin. I stepped up to her and swung Kelly's sword in a grand arc. The blade cut right through Sharon's skin, and lodged in her neck bone. With a normal person, the blade would have hacked the head right off. Sharon was wrong about the steel not penetrating her skin, but as with Sekutar warriors, the magic inside her made her bones a lot stronger. I took a few whacks to cut through her neck bone.Her head remained on top of her neck, but it wouldn't remain there once time kicked back into motion.\n\nSpeaking of which, I needed to close the watch.\n\nI walked to the edge of the bridge, and the damn watch was just out of reach.\n\n\"This is going to hurt,\" I said. I set down the sword then jumped out, caught the watch, and dropped twenty feet to the hard ground.I bent my knees and went into a roll to try and absorb the impact. The pain stabbed through my feet, ankles, and legs, but nothing broke.And one more time, I climbed back up the damned embankment.\n\nIt was worth it, though.I snapped the watch closed and time kicked into gear.\n\nSharon took three steps before her head fell from her neck and bounced on the concrete.\n\nThe two Kellys swung empty hands toward a nonexistent foe then stared at their hands.\n\n\"What the hell?\" Kelly One said.\n\nI tucked the watch into my pocket. I wasn't taking over the job of Chronos, of course. The magic that would bind someone to the job can't affect me. I just didn't want anyone else messing about in history. Besides, you never know when something like a watch that can control time might come in handy.\n\n\"Hello, ladies,\" I said.I picked up their swords and handed them back.\n\n\"Thanks,\" Kelly Two said. \"What happened?\"\n\nI filled them in, as Esther drifted over.\n\n\"All of it was only possible because of Esther,\" I said.\n\n\"She's a peach,\" Kelly said. \"Where is she?\"\n\nI wasn't sure which Kelly said it because I was staring at the ghost who loved me. The ghost I kept taking for granted. She remained translucent.\n\n\"She's right here. Are you unable to make yourself seen?\"\n\n\"It's all berries, Jonathan.\" She made herself visible.\n\nI smiled. \"Excellent.\"\n\n\"But it's time for me to scram for good.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I asked.\n\nShe made herself invisible so her words would be for only me. \"I can't compete with yourKelly's memory, and I know you're never going to walk down the center aisle with me. I'll always carry a torch for you, Jonathan, but I can't stay with you when you don't even see me.\"\n\n\"I see you,\" I said.\n\nShe gave me a sad smile and placed a ghostly hand on my cheek. \"I wish that were true. But it's time for me to accept reality. I was a dumb Dora and while the torch will always burn, I can't stay with you anymore. It hurts me too much. Just know that I'll always love you.\"\n\nWith that, she popped away.\n\n\"Esther, no!\"\n\nBut it was too late. She was gone.\n\n\"We might want to get out of here before the cops show up and find the bodies,\" Kelly Two said.\n\n\"We can handle the cops,\" Kelly One said.\n\n\"I won't hurt the police,\" Kelly Two said.\n\n\"Not even a little?\" \"As long as the dragon is sitting here, I don't think anyone's going to dare approach us,\" Kelly Two said.\n\n\"Where's Thor?\" I asked.\n\n\"He went in search of an ATM while you were talking to Esther,\" Kelly said. \"He figured we should celebrate, but he was out of cash.\"\n\nSirens sounded in the distance. \"I suspect he made another withdrawal.\" I glanced at Kelly Two. \"Care to join us?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"I think I need to get Clara back to Boulder. I have classes to teach. My girls need me, and if I'm honest, I kinda need them too. Don't be a stranger, Jonathan. If you ever need me, you call me. Got it?\"\n\n\"You think I need more than one of you?\"\n\nShe gave me a wink. \"You couldn't handle either one of us.\" She embraced me, holding me tightly. She kissed my cheek. \"Stay well, my friend.\"\n\nShe turned to her time twin and gave her a nod of respect.\n\nKelly returned the nod.\n\nKelly Two climbed aboard the dragon. She gave me a salute. The dragon bowed her head and nudged me playfully.\n\nThank you for the wonderful meal, Clara told me. I love Mediterranean food. She then pulled back and launched herself into the air.\n\nThor walked down the path with a trail of twenty dollar bills floating behind him. \"We need to feast, we need to drink, and we need to fuck!\"\n\n\"I'm with you on the first two,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"Then I shall have to keep plying you with ale until you give in.\"\n\n\"That's not going to happen,\" Kelly said.\n\n\"We shall see. There are restaurants in this direction,\" Thor said, pointing. \"I shall lead the way.\"\n\nKelly and I followed him.\n\n\"I have to ask,\" I said. \"What did you think of your time twin?\"\n\nKelly pursed her lips for a moment. \"She's beautiful, of course. And she's a fast and furious fighter.\"\n\n\"Your equal in every way,\" I said.\n\nKelly shook her head. \"No she's not.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I asked.\n\nKelly frowned. \"She's too human.\"\n\nTwo police cars screeched to a halt in front of Thor. He bent down, picked up the front end of the first car and turned it ninety degrees then dropped it. \"Let us pass, mortals, we have slain gods this day, and by all measures that matter, we deserve to celebrate.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" one of the officers said. \"We have a report that you broke an ATM off the wall in a bar for the second time this week.\"\n\n\"They should not have attached it,\" Thor said.\n\n\"Sir, you're under arrest.\"\n\nThor turned, and raised his hammer high. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed in spite of the clear blue sky.\n\n\"Don't hurt them!\" I called.\n\n\"Very well,\" Thor said. \"I shall smash their vehicles.\"\n\n\"No!\" I yelled.\n\nThor frowned. He stepped up to the officers. \"Today is your lucky day,\" he said. \"My friend does not wish you harm, so I will spare you.\"\n\n\"You're under arrest,\" the closest cop said and reached for Thor's forearm, slapping handcuffs on him.\n\nThor snapped the cuffs and handed them to the officer. \"This will not end well for you, mortals.\"\n\nKelly stepped up behind the officers and quickly pinched their carotid arteries closed. They stiffened for a moment, then a few seconds later, they went limp and she draped them over the hood of the perpendicular cop car. She took their guns and tossed them in the front seat. They started coming around, but she took handcuffs from a cop's belt, cuffed them together and shoved them into the backseat of the car.\n\nShe closed the door, turned to me, and said, \"No lives lost, no property damage.\"\n\n\"Except for the handcuffs,\" I said.\n\n\"That was Thor,\" she said.\n\nI smiled, but my heart wasn't in it, and we walked off in search of food and drink.\n\nI thought back to what Dr. Ancho had said about how I'd lose someone if I stayed on my path. Esther was now gone, and I knew the empty space in my heart could never be filled by anyone else. We all carry ghosts with us, and we all have regrets. My biggest regret is that I had been so hung up on a ghost who wasn't there that I couldn't see the ghost who was. My life was diminished without Esther. There's always a price to pay in life, and my account was currently overdrawn. Maybe someday I'd find her again. Maybe then I could make it up to her.\n\nBut when you're holding out for someday, you're stuck existing between the seconds, and trust me, that's not a fun place to be.\n\nKelly's hand slipped into mine, startling me.She leaned her face toward mine and her breath tickled my ear.\n\n\"Don't get too excited,\" she whispered.\"I'm just trying to throw off Thor.\"\n\nI squeezed her hand anyway.\n\nThe thunder god looked at our clasped hands and huffed.\"She insults me yet again.Choosing a mere mortal over the pleasures of Gamanbjodr.\"\n\nKelly smirked up at Thor.\"You think too much of your hammer.\"\n\nI laughed.\"Yeah.Write that down.\"\n\nTHE END\nTo keep up with new releases, sign up for the Gary Jonas Preferred Readers List and get a FREE ebook copy of Gary's first novel, One-Way Ticket to Midnight.\n\nABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nGary Jonas grew up in a military family, so he moved a lot as a child. His original plan was to be a comic book artist, but in college things changed. He took a creative writing class for the easy A, and found that when he wrote stories, people were affected emotionally by them in ways they weren't by his artwork. He switched from art to writing without ever looking back. Well, he might have looked back a few times, but by then it was too late. He sold his first short story to Marion Zimmer Bradley for the anthology Sword and Sorceress VII. Many short story sales followed to various magazines and anthologies including Robert Bloch's Psychos, It Came from the Drive-In, 100 Vicious Little Vampire Stories, Prom Night, and many more.\n\nHis first novel, One-Way Ticket to Midnight, was published in 2002, It made the preliminary ballot for the Bram Stoker Award. While the novel was well-reviewed, it didn't sell diddly squat, so Gary turned to writing screenplays for a few years. A couple of Hollywood options led to nothing, and the notes from producers, while sometimes spot-on, were also sometimes way out in left field (if they were even in the ballpark). Gary returned to novel writing with Modern Sorcery. You can visit him online, and sign up for his mailing list on his rarely updated blog or on his website at www.garyjonasbooks.com\n\nBooks by Gary Jonas\n\nThe Jonathan Shade series:\n\nModern Sorcery\n\nAcheron Highway\n\nDragon Gate\n\nAnubis Nights\n\nSunset Specters\n\nWizard's Nocturne\n\nRazor Dreams\n\nVertigo Effect\n\nClub Eternity\n\nTimeless Gods\n\nSpirited Christmas (a Jonathan Shade holiday story)\n\nThe Kelly Chan series\n\nVampire Midnight\n\nWerewolf Samurai\n\nSubhuman Resources (w/Rebecca Hodgkins)\n\nZombie Rising (w/Rebecca Hodgkins)\n\nVendetta Blues (w/Rebecca Hodgkins)\n\nThe Half-Assed Wizard series\n\nThe Half-Assed Wizard\n\nThe Big-Ass Witch\n\nThe Dumbass Demon\n\nThe Lame-Assed Doppelganger\n\nThe UFO Conspiracy Files series:\n\nGuardians of the Sky\n\nStand-alone novels:\n\nOne-Way Ticket to Midnight\n\nPirates of the Outrigger Rift (w/Bill D. Allen)\n\nNovella:\n\nNight Marshal: A Tale of the Undead West\n\nalso available in Night Marshal Box Set (the first three Night Marshal tales in one bundle--includes Night Marshal by Gary Jonas, High Plains Moon by Glenn R. Sixbury, and This Dance, These Bones by Rebecca Hodgkins). The set kicks ass.\n\nCollection:\n\nQuick Shots\n\nCover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.\n\nwww.gobookcoverdesign.com\n\nedited by Rebecca Hodgkins\n\nThanks for reading! All authors need reviews, so if you enjoyed the book, please write a review to help guide other customers. Read on!\n\n# Don't miss out!\n\nClick the button below and you can sign up to receive emails whenever Gary Jonas publishes a new book. There's no charge and no obligation.\n\n<https://books2read.com/r/B-A-VVIB-HJVQ>\n\nConnecting independent readers to independent writers.\nAlso by Gary Jonas\n\nJonathan Shade\n\nModern Sorcery\n\nAcheron Highway\n\nDragon Gate\n\nAnubis Nights\n\nSunset Specters\n\nWizard's Nocturne\n\nRazor Dreams\n\nVertigo Effect\n\nClub Eternity\n\nTimeless Gods\n\nImmortal Ascendant\n\nSpirited Christmas\n\nThe Jonathan Shade Series: Books 1-3\n\nThe Jonathan Shade Series: Books 4-6\n\nKelly Chan\n\nVampire Midnight\n\nWerewolf Samurai\n\nSubhuman Resources\n\nZombie Rising\n\nVendetta Blues\n\nNight Marshal\n\nNight Marshal: A Tale of the Undead West\n\nNight Marshal Books 1-3 Box Set: Night Marshal/High Plains Moon/This Dance, These Bones\n\nThe Half-Assed Wizard\n\nThe Half-Assed Wizard\n\nThe Big-Ass Witch\n\nThe Dumbass Demon\n\nThe Lame-Assed Doppelganger\n\nUFO Conspiracy Files\n\nGuardians of the Sky\n\nStandalone\n\nOne-Way Ticket to Midnight\n\nQuick Shots: A Killer Collection\n\nShepherds on the Hills of Eternity\n\nDying to Live\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Faites vos aperitifs et vos liq - J"}, "text": "\n\n**\u00ab L'abus d'alcool est dangereux pour la sant\u00e9. Pour appr\u00e9cier : consommez avec mod\u00e9ration. \u00bb**\n\n## **Des ap\u00e9ritifs & des liqueurs personnalis\u00e9s...**\n\n_... c'est ce que ce petit livre vous propose de faire, ou plut\u00f4t de cr\u00e9er, car il s'agit v\u00e9ritablement de cr\u00e9ation. Gr\u00e2ce \u00e0 ce manuel vous allez pouvoir produire des ap\u00e9ritifs et des liqueurs d'un go\u00fbt nouveau, diff\u00e9rent de celui des boissons du commerce ou de celles que fabrique votre voisin, parce que vous utiliserez les ingr\u00e9dients que vous avez personnellement \u00e0 votre disposition (ou que vous pouvez vous procurer \u00e0 bon march\u00e9) et que vous doserez \u00ab \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt \u00bb le sucre, l'alcool, les ar\u00f4mes, etc._\n\n_\u00c0 la lecture de ces premi\u00e8res lignes, les amateurs de recettes toutes pr\u00eates sont peut-\u00eatre d\u00e9j\u00e0 un peu d\u00e9\u00e7us. Qu'ils se rassurent! Ce livre contient aussi quelques bonnes recettes d\u00e9crites avec pr\u00e9cision, choisies parce qu'elles ont fait l'unanimit\u00e9 par leurs hautes qualit\u00e9s gustatives. Mais qu'ils ne regrettent pas trop de ne pas en trouver davantage. Bien souvent, lorsqu'on applique \u00e0 la lettre ce type de recette, on obtient un r\u00e9sultat d\u00e9cevant: soit qu'il y avait une erreur dans les proportions indiqu\u00e9es, soit que la m\u00e9thode \u00e0 utiliser n'\u00e9tait pas suffisamment bien expliqu\u00e9e, soit que les composants qu'on avait \u00e0 sa disposition ne convenaient pas exactement (exemple : un alcool trop fort ou trop parfum\u00e9, des feuilles s\u00e9ch\u00e9es au Heu de feuilles fra\u00eeches...)._\n\n_Le but de cet ouvrage n'est certes pas de vous inciter \u00e0 boire davantage de boissons alcoolis\u00e9es, ni de vous faire r\u00e9aliser des \u00e9conomies substantielles. L'int\u00e9r\u00eat de faire soi-m\u00eame ses \u00ab boissons de prestige \u00bb est tout autre. D'abord, vous aurez un r\u00e9el plaisir \u00e0 \u00e9laborer un ap\u00e9ritif ou une liqueur pour la premi\u00e8re fois, \u00e0 d\u00e9couvrir et analyser le r\u00e9sultat obtenu (couleur, odeur, saveur), puis \u00e0 l'am\u00e9liorer si vous le souhaitez. Quel loisir passionnant! Ensuite vous serez fier de servir \u00e0 vos amis quelque chose de personnel et d'original. Et puis, soyez s\u00fbr qu'une bouteille de votre composition sera un cadeau toujours appr\u00e9ci\u00e9._\n\n_Savoir et comprendre ce que sont toutes ces vari\u00e9t\u00e9s de vermouths, quinquinas, mistelles, ratafias, cr\u00e8mes... fait aussi un peu partie de notre culture. Et la meilleure fa\u00e7on de conna\u00eetre, c'est encore d'exp\u00e9rimenter soi-m\u00eame. Alors devenez liquoriste amateur!_\n\n# **LES INGR\u00c9DIENTS**\n\nAp\u00e9ritifs et liqueurs ont la plupart de leurs composants en commun : alcool, sucre, plantes (fruits, feuilles, fleurs...). Ce sont surtout les proportions qui diff\u00e8rent. Toutefois beaucoup d'ap\u00e9ritifs faciles \u00e0 faire chez soi n\u00e9cessitent aussi du vin, ce qui est rarement le cas des liqueurs. Comment choisir ces divers \u00e9l\u00e9ments ?\n\n## **L'alcool**\n\nC'est un ingr\u00e9dient indispensable pour obtenir le type de boissons qui nous int\u00e9ressent, car celles-ci sont \u00ab alcoolis\u00e9es \u00bb, non par suite d'une fermentation (comme dans le cas du vin, du cidre, de la bi\u00e8re...), mais par addition d'alcool. Pour cette raison, on les appelle aussi des \u00ab spiritueux \u00bb.\n\nIl vous faut donc de l'alcool, ou plut\u00f4t un liquide qui en contient beaucoup (l'alcool \u00ab absolu \u00bb n'existe pratiquement pas). Mais attention, l'alcool contenu ne doit pas \u00eatre n'importe lequel! Il ne peut s'agir que de l'alcool \u00e9thylique ou \u00e9thanol, \u00e0 ne pas confondre avec d'autres alcools comme l'alcool m\u00e9thylique ou m\u00e9thanol, extr\u00eamement dangereux pour la sant\u00e9. Les alcools dits \u00ab \u00e0 br\u00fbler \u00bb ou \u00ab d\u00e9natur\u00e9s \u00bb sont bien s\u00fbr totalement proscrits.\n\n### **_L'alcool du pharmacien_**\n\nBeaucoup de recettes anciennes indiquaient de prendre, pour leur r\u00e9alisation, de l'alcool \u00e0 90% achet\u00e9 en pharmacie. Il s'agit d'alcool \u00e9thylique; il en existe aussi \u00e0 70%. Attention le pharmacien vend aussi de l'alcool \u00ab modifi\u00e9 \u00bb rendu impropre \u00e0 la consommation par l'addition d'une substance odorante (du camphre) et d'un colorant (la tartrazine).\n\nCependant, sachez qu'actuellement, la vente d'alcool \u00e0 90% en pharmacie est limit\u00e9e en volume \u00e0 250 ml (0,25 I) par achat et que cette limitation ayant \u00e9t\u00e9 institu\u00e9e pour lutter contre l'alcoolisme, l'utilisation de cet alcool pour fabriquer des boissons est interdite. Ce type d'alcool en raison de sa tr\u00e8s forte teneur en \u00e9thanol (90 %), permettrait pourtant de r\u00e9aliser des extraits v\u00e9g\u00e9taux tr\u00e8s rapides et tr\u00e8s efficaces. De plus, \u00e9tant pratiquement neutre, il ne masquerait pas comme le font certaines eaux-de-vie les ar\u00f4mes des autres composants.\n\n### **_L'alcool des magasins_**\n\nDans les grandes surfaces corn-me dans les petites \u00e9piceries, il est possible d'acheter divers alcools.\n\nLe plus simple et le moins cher (environ 60 F le litre) est vendu g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement sous le nom de \u00ab eau-de-vie sp\u00e9ciale fruits \u00bb (ou sous un nom voisin), car il est destin\u00e9 principalement \u00e0 l'\u00e9laboration de \u00ab fruits \u00e0 l'eau-de-vie \u00bb. C'est une eau-de-vie qui contient 40% vol. d'alcool (anciennement : 40\u00b0. Pour la commodit\u00e9 nous \u00e9crirons syst\u00e9matiquement le taux d'alcoolisation en %) dont le go\u00fbt peu marqu\u00e9 s'adapte bien \u00e0 la majorit\u00e9 des compositions.\n\nOn trouve \u00e9galement sans difficult\u00e9 des alcools vieillis dans des f\u00fbts (de ch\u00eane le plus souvent), reconnaissables \u00e0 leur couleur marron plus ou moins fonc\u00e9 : rhum (issu de la canne \u00e0 sucre), bourbon et whisky (alcool de grain), calvados (eau-de-vie de cidre), cognac et armagnac (eau-de-vie de vin), marc, brandy, etc. Diff\u00e9rentes eaux-de-vie blanches, incolores car n'ayant pas vieilli en f\u00fbt, sont aussi couramment commercialis\u00e9es : kirsch, vodka, rhum blanc, eau-de-vie de prune (mirabelle, quetsche), de poire (William), de framboise, etc.\n\nCes alcools, excellents de go\u00fbt, ont l'inconv\u00e9nient d'\u00eatre plus co\u00fbteux (sauf le rhum blanc, parfois tr\u00e8s bon march\u00e9). Ils ont souvent un parfum caract\u00e9ristique, et ne conviennent pas \u00e0 toute fabrication. C'est \u00e0 vous de bien choisir, de bien marier les ar\u00f4mes. Ainsi le rhum sera id\u00e9al pour r\u00e9aliser une liqueur de vanille, tandis que le kirsch fera merveille avec des cerises dont il renforcera le parfum. Le cognac va bien avec les oranges, alors que l'armagnac s'accorde parfaitement avec les pruneaux, etc.\n\n### **_L'alcool du r\u00e9coltant_**\n\nTout r\u00e9coltant poss\u00e9dant au moins un grand jardin avec suffisamment d'arbres fruitiers (se renseigner \u00e0 la mairie), peut faire distiller sa r\u00e9colte personnelle, en franchise de droits ou non (selon qu'il jouissait d\u00e9j\u00e0 ou non de ce privil\u00e8ge en 1960). Si vous \u00eates dans ce cas, il vous faut contacter un bouilleur professionnel, aller chercher en mairie un certificat de r\u00e9coltant, puis \u00e9tablir une demande aupr\u00e8s du Service des Alcools des Douanes.\n\nAvec la franchise (pour 101 d'alcool pur), le litre d'eau-de-vie revient \u00e0 moins de 25 F; sans franchise, c'est-\u00e0-dire en payant les taxes (environ 90 F par litre d'alcool pur), ce prix est tripl\u00e9.\n\nDans des conditions bien pr\u00e9cis\u00e9es par la loi, il est possible de faire distiller \u00ab des vins, cidres ou poir\u00e9s, marcs, lies, cerises, prunes et prunelles \u00bb, c'est-\u00e0-dire soit des boissons d\u00e9j\u00e0 pr\u00eates, soit des fruits ferment\u00e9s. Pour obtenir ces derniers, il faut mettre des fruits bien m\u00fbrs, plus ou moins \u00e9cras\u00e9s, dans un f\u00fbt, avec \u00e9ventuellement un peu d'eau. Certains r\u00e9coltants ajoutent aussi un peu de sucre (une addition de 17 g de sucre par litre donnera 1% d'alcool suppl\u00e9mentaire) mais la loi fran\u00e7aise l'interdit. Pendant la fermentation, les fruits doivent \u00eatre souvent remu\u00e9s. Quand celle-ci est termin\u00e9e le r\u00e9cipient doit \u00eatre bien bouch\u00e9 pour \u00e9viter l'entr\u00e9e des mouches et la transformation en vinaigre. Certains r\u00e9coltants ajoutent aussii, selon les saisons, les diff\u00e9rents fruits produits par leur verger ou leur jardin, et obtiennent donc, apr\u00e8s distillation (en atelier public), une eau-de-vie de fruits, qu'ils font ensuite vieillir ou non.\n\nCes alcools \u00ab naturels \u00bb conviennent g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement tr\u00e8s bien pour l'\u00e9laboration de la plupart des ap\u00e9ritifs et liqueurs. Ils ont l'avantage d'\u00eatre eux aussi des produits \u00ab maison \u00bb; ils peuvent communiquer \u00e0 vos fabrications une sorte de go\u00fbt de terroir bien sypathique, et donner ainsi \u00e0 votre production une certaine unit\u00e9. En raison de leur prix de revient, ils sont tout particuli\u00e8rement int\u00e9ressants pour les r\u00e9coltants ayant droit \u00e0 la franchise des taxes.\n\nEnfin, il faut rappeler que tout ce qui concerne la fabrication, le transport, la vente ou la d\u00e9tention d'eau-de-vie est strictement r\u00e9glement\u00e9 et les fraudes s\u00e9v\u00e8rement punies.\n\n## **Le vin**\n\nLes ap\u00e9ritifs ayant g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement un taux d'alcool inf\u00e9rieur \u00e0 celui des liqueurs, beaucoup d'entre eux ne n\u00e9cessitent pas une grande quantit\u00e9 d'eau-de-vie pour leur fabrication, mais s'\u00e9laborent principalement avec du vin (leur d\u00e9nomination l\u00e9gale est d'ailleurs \u00ab ap\u00e9ritifs \u00e0 base de vin \u00bb).\n\nDans quelques rares cas de recettes tr\u00e8s d\u00e9licates, du tr\u00e8s bon vin doit \u00eatre utilis\u00e9, mais la plupart du temps, vous pourrez vous servir de vin plut\u00f4t ordinaire, car les parfums des plantes et de l'alcool ajout\u00e9s domineront nettement. Cependant, il ne faudrait pas que ce soit du mauvais vin (avec une odeur de vinaigre par exemple). Il est souvent pr\u00e9f\u00e9rable d'employer un vin assez neutre, pas trop fort en go\u00fbt et pas trop acide.\n\nUtilisez \u00ab votre vin \u00bb, si vous en faites : vos ap\u00e9ritifs seront encore plus personnalis\u00e9s. \u00c9ventuellement, achetez le vin en cubitainers, chez un producteur (bio de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence) cela vous permettra de faire plusieurs litres d'ap\u00e9ritifs en m\u00eame temps et \u00e0 prix r\u00e9duit. Selon les recettes et votre go\u00fbt, prenez du vin rouge, du ros\u00e9 ou du blanc. S'il s'agit de vin sucr\u00e9 (blanc doux ou ros\u00e9 doux), il faudra en tenir compte lorsque vous sucrerez votre boisson. Essayez aussi de conna\u00eetre sa teneur en alcool, cela vous permettra de calculer la quantit\u00e9 d'eau-de-vie \u00e0 ajouter.\n\n## **Le sucre**\n\nLes liqueurs sont toujours sucr\u00e9es, parfois m\u00eame tr\u00e8s sucr\u00e9es. Les ap\u00e9ritifs que vous allez cr\u00e9er le seront aussi, mais g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement beaucoup moins.\n\nVous pouvez utiliser du _sucre blanc_ en morceaux, semoule ou cristallis\u00e9 : cela n'a pas d'importance. Cependant vous trouverez peut-\u00eatre plus pratique de compter des morceaux de sucre, plut\u00f4t que de peser du sucre en poudre avec une balance. Pour conna\u00eetre la masse d'une morceau, c'est facile, il suffit de diviser celle indiqu\u00e9e sur la bo\u00eete (g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement 1000 grammes) par le nombre de morceaux. Les paquets de cinq kilogrammes de sucre cristallis\u00e9 vendus pour faire des confitures sont bon march\u00e9 (mais faites attention de ne pas acheter du sucre additionn\u00e9 de substances pour faire prendre la confiture!).\n\nLes diff\u00e9rents _sucres roux_ du commerce pr\u00e9sentent un go\u00fbt particulier qui peut \u00eatre int\u00e9ressant s'il s'allie bien avec les autres ingr\u00e9dients (du sucre roux de canne avec du rhum, par exemple).\n\nLe _miel_ peut aussi servir \u00e0 sucrer. Si vous avez quelques ruches, n'h\u00e9sitez pas \u00e0 employer votre miel. Vos boissons auront vraiment un go\u00fbt \u00ab maison \u00bb. L\u00e0 encore, il faudra \u00eatre prudent et utiliser de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence des miels au go\u00fbt peu marqu\u00e9, ou s'accordant particuli\u00e8rement bien avec les autres ingr\u00e9dients.\n\n## **Les plantes**\n\nCe sont elles qui apporteront \u00e0 vos compositions leurs principaux ar\u00f4mes et caract\u00e8res gustatifs : la liqueur de framboise sentira la framboise, le vin de noix aura go\u00fbt de noix, etc.\n\nCertaines plantes pourront \u00eatre trouv\u00e9es en herboristerie, en pharmacie, au rayon \u00ab tisane \u00bb des grandes surfaces ou chez l'\u00e9picier, mais bien souvent elles proviendront de votre jardin, votre verger, ou encore de la campagne, de la for\u00eat, etc. o\u00f9 vous serez all\u00e9 faire la cueillette. Attention, certains v\u00e9g\u00e9taux sont toxiques! Ne r\u00e9coltez que des esp\u00e8ces que vous savez parfaitement reconna\u00eetre.\n\nToutes sortes de parties de plantes s'utilisent dans l'\u00e9laboration des spiritueux, de la racine aux fruits, en passant par les tiges, les feuilles, les fleurs, etc.\n\n### **_Les racines_**\n\nAssez peu de racines entrent dans la composition des boissons qui nous int\u00e9ressent. Quelques-unes cependant sont c\u00e9l\u00e8bres; en voici cinq qu'un amateur peut utiliser.\n\nLes racines torr\u00e9fi\u00e9es de _chicor\u00e9e,_ \u00ab un tr\u00e9sor de bienfaits \u00bb, se vendent dans toutes les alimentations (en paquet de 250 ou 500 grammes). Elles apportent unie couleur fonc\u00e9e et une certaine amertume.\n\nLes racines de _gentiane,_ s\u00e9ch\u00e9es, se trouvent facilement dans le commerce, mais si vous savez bien reconna\u00eetre la grande gentiane jaune (plante de montagne), vous pouvez aussi en utiliser des racines fra\u00eeches. Leur go\u00fbt amer est tr\u00e8s caract\u00e9ristique. Les racines d' _ang\u00e9lique_ peuvent provenir de votre jardin, si vous y avez plant\u00e9 un pied de cette plante, nomm\u00e9e \u00ab ang\u00e9lique vraie \u00bb.\n\nLe _gingembre_ n'est pas v\u00e9ritablement une racine, mais un rhizome (tige souterraine). Il est tr\u00e8s aromatique et de go\u00fbt tr\u00e8s \u00e9pic\u00e9. On l'emploie frais, coup\u00e9 en morceaux, mais on peut aussi utiliser celui qui est vendu comme aromate, en poudre.\n\nEnfin, vous pourrez aussi acheter des racines s\u00e9ch\u00e9es de _r\u00e9glisse._\n\n### **_Les tiges et les \u00e9corces_**\n\nQuelques tiges vertes, fra\u00eeches peuvent servir; les p\u00e9tioles, c'est-\u00e0-dire les queues des feuilles, s'utilisent de la m\u00eame mani\u00e8re, coup\u00e9s en morceaux. Ainsi r\u00e9coltez dans votre jardin les tiges et p\u00e9tioles d' _ang\u00e9lique_ (la m\u00eame que dans le paragraphe pr\u00e9c\u00e9dent), de _c\u00e9leri_ (en branches), ou de _fenouil._\n\nLes jeunes pousses de _prunellier_ (tiges feuill\u00e9es un peu rouge\u00e2tres) qui apparaissent au mois de mai, surtout apr\u00e8s une coupe hivernale de ces arbustes, permettent de r\u00e9aliser de tr\u00e8s bons ap\u00e9ritifs. Lorsqu'il s'agit de grosses tiges ligneuses, on n'utilise que l'\u00e9corce superficielle; exemples : l'\u00e9corce de _bouleau, aux_ propri\u00e9t\u00e9s m\u00e9dicinales, mais surtout le _quinquina_ et la _cannelle,_ qu'on ach\u00e8te s\u00e9ch\u00e9s, r\u00e9duits en poudre ou non, et qui entrent dans la composition de nombreuses recettes.\n\n### **_Les feuilles_**\n\nLes feuilles doivent \u00eatre cueillies le matin, dit-on, et si on les fait s\u00e9cher, il faut que ce soit \u00e0 l'ombre. Elles s'utilisent en effet fra\u00eeches ou s\u00e8ches. Certaines se trouvent dans les magasins, corn-me le _th\u00e9_ et les diverses plantes \u00e0 tisanes, mais la plupart peuvent aussi \u00eatre cueillies fra\u00eeches, ou s'acheter \u00e0 l'\u00e9tat frais, sur les march\u00e9s par exemple.\n\nUne premi\u00e8re cat\u00e9gorie est constitu\u00e9e de plantes condimentaires ou aromatiques, que vous pouvez cultiver dans votre jardin pour la plupart. Les catalogues des maisons sp\u00e9cialis\u00e9es les proposent \u00e0 peu pr\u00e8s toutes. Froiss\u00e9es, leurs feuilles d\u00e9gagent un ar\u00f4me souvent fort et tr\u00e8s caract\u00e9ristique. Voici les principales (dans l'ordre alphab\u00e9tique).\n\n\u2014 _L'absinthe_ : plante c\u00e9l\u00e8bre et tr\u00e8s aromatique; on peut la trouver facilement chez les p\u00e9pini\u00e9ristes, bien qu'il soit d\u00e9sormais interdit de l'utiliser pour faire des liqueurs, en raison de sa toxicit\u00e9.\n\n\u2014 _L'ang\u00e9lique_ (vraie) : encore elle!\n\n\u2014 _Le basilic_ : on l'obtient, par exemple, \u00e0 partir de graines.\n\n\u2014 _L'estragon_ : se multiplie ais\u00e9ment par division des touffes.\n\n\u2014 _L'hysope_ : s'obtient comme le pr\u00e9c\u00e9dent et les deux suivantes.\n\n\u2014 _La m\u00e9lisse_ : on l'appelle \u00e9galement _citronnelle,_ car ses feuilles exhalent une odeur de citron.\n\n\u2014 _La menthe_ : plusieurs esp\u00e8ces sauvages et cultiv\u00e9es existent, la plus connue et r\u00e9put\u00e9e est la menthe poivr\u00e9e.\n\n\u2014 _Le romarin_ : en r\u00e9gion m\u00e9diterran\u00e9enne, vous irez en chercher dans la garrigue; ailleurs il faudra le planter en bonne exposition; se multiplie facilement par bouturage.\n\n\u2014 _L\u00e0 sarriette_ : on l'obtient sans difficult\u00e9 \u00e0 partir de graines.\n\n\u2014 _La sauge_ (officinale) : \u00e0 planter en bonne exposition.\n\n\u2014 _La tanaisie_ : on la trouve souvent au bord des routes.\n\n\u2014 _Le thym_ : il en existe une vari\u00e9t\u00e9 \u00e0 odeur de citron.\n\n\u2014 _La verveine_ : sous ce nom, on cultive actuellement un petit arbuste qui ne r\u00e9ussit que dans les situations chaudes (r\u00e9gion m\u00e9diterran\u00e9enne ou paliss\u00e9 contr\u00e9 un mur).\n\nAux esp\u00e8ces pr\u00e9c\u00e9dentes, tr\u00e8s classiques pour les liqueurs, on peut ajouter quelques originalit\u00e9s : le _persil,_ le _cerfeuil,_ le _laurier-sauce..._ Vous pouvez vous procurer pratiquement toutes ces plantes par simple division (par \u00e9clat) d'une touffe du jardin de votre voisin ou d'un ami, ou encore en achetant un sachet de graines, car presque toutes les plantes aromatiques se vendent sous cette forme maintenant.\n\nLa deuxi\u00e8me cat\u00e9gorie de feuilles int\u00e9ressantes est encore plus facile \u00e0 trouver. Il s'agit de feuilles ou folioles (c'est-\u00e0-dire de parties de feuilles compos\u00e9es) d'arbres ou arbustes fruitiers :\n\n\u2014 _le cassis_ : ses feuilles sont tr\u00e8s odorantes (contrairement \u00e0 celles du groseillier);\n\n\u2014 _le cerisier_ , surtout celui qui donne des fruits acidul\u00e9s (cerises aigres, anglaises, de Montmorency...);\n\n\u2014 _le noyer_ : ses folioles donnent des pr\u00e9parations tr\u00e8s parfum\u00e9es;\n\n\u2014 _le p\u00eacher_ : tr\u00e8s utilis\u00e9es, ses feuilles mac\u00e9r\u00e9es dans le vin ou l'alcool produisent une odeur agr\u00e9able de noyau de cerise;\n\n\u2014 _le prunier_ : l'ar\u00f4me produit par ses feuilles est plus discret.\n\nTroisi\u00e8me cat\u00e9gorie : les feuilles \u00e0 ramasser dans la nature. L\u00e0, de bonnes connaissance en botanique sont n\u00e9cessaires, car il est aussi possible de s'empoisonner! Outre les v\u00e9g\u00e9taux d\u00e9j\u00e0 cit\u00e9s _(menthe, romarin, tanaisie, thym),_ il est possible de r\u00e9colter dans la nature les feuilles de certaines esp\u00e8ces sauvages : _asp\u00e9rule, origan, pervenche, serpolet..._ ainsi que le _g\u00e9n\u00e9pi_ (on utilise la plante enti\u00e8re), tr\u00e8s recherch\u00e9 dans les r\u00e9gions de haute montagne.\n\nDe nombreuses plantes m\u00e9dicinales peuvent aussi compl\u00e9ter vos r\u00e9coltes et vos recettes, vous joindrez ainsi l'utile \u00e0 l'agr\u00e9able. Mais attention aux quantit\u00e9s, car bon nombre d'esp\u00e8ces m\u00e9dicinales sont toxiques \u00e0 forte dose. N'agissez qu'en connaisseur!\n\n### **_Les fleurs_**\n\nElles se cueillent et se font s\u00e9cher comme les feuilles. Souvent les livres indiquent de r\u00e9colter les sommit\u00e9s fleuries, c'est-\u00e0-dire tout le sommet de la plante qui porte des fleurs : dans ce cas un peu de tige et quelques jeunes feuilles se trouvent m\u00eal\u00e9es aux fleurs.\n\nComme pour les feuilles pr\u00e9c\u00e9dentes, ce sont les fleurs odorantes qui peuvent servir. Voici les principales.\n\n\u2014 _L'acacia_ ou plus exactement le _robinier faux-acacia :_ on cueille les grappes de fleurs blanches.\n\n\u2014 _La camomille_ : on prend les \u00ab t\u00eates \u00bb (les capitules); existe aussi en sachet comme plante \u00e0 tisane.\n\n\u2014 _Le jasmin._\n\n\u2014 _Le magnolia_ : on utilise les p\u00e9tales de fleurs blanches.\n\n\u2014 _Les \u0153illets_ : on effeuille les p\u00e9tales d'\u0153illets rouges.\n\n\u2014 _L'oranger_ : l'ar\u00f4me de ses fleurs est c\u00e9l\u00e8bre; on en trouve aussi parmi les plantes \u00e0 tisane.\n\n\u2014 _Les roses_ : il faut des p\u00e9tales tr\u00e8s parfum\u00e9s.\n\n\u2014 _Le sureau noir_ : on coupe juste en dessous des grandes ombelles de fleurs blanches.\n\n\u2014 _Le tilleul_ : comme pour les tisanes, on r\u00e9colte fleurs et bract\u00e9es.\n\n\u2014 _Les violettes_ : il faut choisir des fleurs odorantes.\n\nPour les f\u00e9rus de botanique, on peut y ajouter les fleurs de _bouillon blanc,_ de _millepertuis,_ de _marube blanc_ , d' _arnica..._\n\nEnfin, signalons deux \u00e9pices classiques provenant de fleurs : le _clou de girofle_ (bouton floral du giroflier) et le _safran_ (stigmates d'une esp\u00e8ce de crocus, r\u00e9duits en poudre). On les ach\u00e8te en petits flacons, comme les autres \u00e9pices.\n\n### **_Les fruits charnus_**\n\nIl s'agit des fruits contenant une chair, la pulpe, renfermant elle-m\u00eame un jus sucr\u00e9 et parfum\u00e9, qu'il sera g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement inutile d'extraire.\n\nVous aurez l'embarras du choix. Vous pourrez d'abord utiliser les fruits de votre verger ou de votre jardin :\n\n\u2014 les _abricots;_\n\n\u2014 les _cassis,_ toujours tr\u00e8s odorants;\n\n\u2014 les _cerises,_ surtout les vari\u00e9t\u00e9s \u00e0 fruits aigres;\n\n\u2014 les _coings;_\n\n\u2014 les _fraises;_\n\n\u2014 les _framboises,_ \u00e0 condition qu'elles soient bien parfum\u00e9es, ce qui n'est pas toujours le cas;\n\n\u2014 les _groseilles_ \u00e0 grappes ou \u00e0 maquereau;\n\n\u2014 les _noix vertes_ : on les r\u00e9colte d\u00e9but juillet, lorsqu'elles sont encore tendres;\n\n\u2014 les _p\u00eaches;_\n\n\u2014 les _poires,_ en particulier celles de la vari\u00e9t\u00e9 Williams;\n\n\u2014 les _prunes,_ surtout si elles ont beaucoup d'ar\u00f4me (mirabelles, reines-claudes...);\n\n\u2014 le _raisin_ : du muscat par exemple.\n\nVous pourrez \u00e9galement aller r\u00e9colter dans la nature toutes sortes de petits fruits sauvages souvent d\u00e9licieux :\n\n\u2014 les _arbouses_ (en r\u00e9gion m\u00e9diterran\u00e9enne seulement);\n\n\u2014 les _fraises des bois;_\n\n\u2014 les _framboises sauvages;_\n\n\u2014 les baies de _geni\u00e8vre;_\n\n\u2014 les _merises;_\n\n\u2014 les _m\u00fbres,_ fruits de ronces;\n\n\u2014 les baies de _myrte_ (en r\u00e9gion m\u00e9diterran\u00e9enne seulement);\n\n\u2014 les _myrtilles;_\n\n\u2014 les _n\u00e8fles;_\n\n\u2014 les _prunelles._\n\nVous avez encore une autre possibilit\u00e9 : acheter des fruits. Outre les fruits cultiv\u00e9s cit\u00e9s ci-dessus, vous trouverez dans le commerce, partout en France, des fruits m\u00e9diterran\u00e9ens ou exotiques tr\u00e8s int\u00e9ressants : _ananas, bananes, c\u00e9drats, citrons, fruits de la passion, kiwis, litchis, mandarines, mangues, oranges, pamplemousses,_ etc.\n\nDans tous les cas, les fruits doivent \u00eatre sains, non trait\u00e9s (surtout si vous utilisez la peau) et m\u00fbrs \u00e0 point, exhalant agr\u00e9ablement leur odeur caract\u00e9ristique.\n\nPour certaines recettes, vous n'aurez besoin que de leur jus, ou que de leur \u00e9corce (zeste), ou encore que de leur noyau; pour les autres vous utiliserez les fruits entiers, coup\u00e9s en morceaux.\n\nPour d'autres, il vous faudra des fruits s\u00e8ches : _pruneaux, raisins secs, figues, dattes..._ Les gousses de _vanille,_ tr\u00e8s int\u00e9ressantes pour leur parfum incomparable, peuvent aussi \u00eatre rang\u00e9es dans cette cat\u00e9gorie (elles subissent, en plus du s\u00e9chage, une fermentation).\n\n### **_Les graines et les fruits secs_**\n\nLes plantes de la famille des _ombellif\u00e8res_ ont de petits fruits secs nomm\u00e9s \u00ab ak\u00e8nes \u00bb, plus connus sous le nom de \u00ab graines \u00bb. Voici les plus utilis\u00e9s : _ang\u00e9lique, anis vert, coriandre, cumin, fenouil._\n\n_L'anis \u00e9toil\u00e9,_ encore appel\u00e9e _badiane,_ est une plante toute diff\u00e9rente; on en trouve facilement dans les herboristeries.\n\nLes grains de _caf\u00e9_ sont des graines torr\u00e9fi\u00e9es. On peut \u00e9galement acheter des graines (ou f\u00e8ves) de _cacao_ trait\u00e9es de la m\u00eame mani\u00e8re.\n\nLes amandes des fruits \u00e0 noyau sont aussi des graines utilisables; mais attention, certaines (celles de p\u00eache en particulier) contiennent des substances toxiques.\n\nLa partie comestible des _noix_ et _noisettes_ entre \u00e9galement dans cette cat\u00e9gorie. Ajoutons enfin la _noix de coco_ dont la partie blanche, nomm\u00e9e \u00ab coprah \u00bb, est tr\u00e8s parfum\u00e9e.\n\n# **LES TECHNIQUES**\n\nVos ingr\u00e9dients (alcool, sucre, au moins une des plantes \u00e9num\u00e9r\u00e9es pr\u00e9c\u00e9demment, et \u00e9ventuellement vin) \u00e9tant r\u00e9unis, il ne vous reste plus qu'\u00e0 vous munir de quelques r\u00e9cipients et ustensiles de cuisine, et vous pouvez commencer.\n\n## **La r\u00e9alisation d'un extrait**\n\nC'est la premi\u00e8re op\u00e9ration.\n\nIl ne s'agit pas d'obtenir ce qu'on peut trouver chez le pharmacien sous le nom d'extrait, d'essence ou d'esprit (de rose, de romarin...); la plupart de ces liquides, tr\u00e8s concentr\u00e9s, proviennent d'une distillation.\n\nVous n'aurez g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement pas non plus \u00e0 utiliser la technique de l' _infusion_ (celle du th\u00e9 ou des tisanes) ni celle de la _d\u00e9coction_ (dans ce cas on laisse bouillir l'eau et la plante).\n\nVotre technique habituelle sera la _mac\u00e9ration \u00e0 froid_ de votre plante dans l'alcool. C'est tr\u00e8s simple \u00e0 r\u00e9aliser, puisqu'il suffit de mettre \u00e0 tremper les feuilles, fleurs, fruits... dans de l'eau-de-vie. Cependant plusieurs questions se posent.\n\n### **_Quel r\u00e9cipient utiliser ?_**\n\nAvant tout il faudra que ce r\u00e9cipient soit herm\u00e9tique, car il vaut mieux ne perdre ni ar\u00f4mes ni alcool au cours de cette mac\u00e9ration. Son ouverture devra le plus souvent \u00eatre tr\u00e8s grande, afin de pouvoir ais\u00e9ment y mettre \u2014 et surtout en retirer \u2014 des feuilles ou fruits encombrants. Il est pr\u00e9f\u00e9rable que ce r\u00e9cipient soit en verre, car ce mat\u00e9riau se nettoie facilement, ne communique jamais de go\u00fbt \u00e9tranger \u00e0 la pr\u00e9paration, et par sa transparence permet aux rayons du soleil d'\u00e9chauffer un peu le contenu et au fabricant de surveiller ce qui s'y passe. Enfin il doit \u00eatre nettement plus grand (une fois et demie ou plus) que la quantit\u00e9 de liquide que vous allez y verser; cela \u00e9vitera les risques de d\u00e9bordement et permettra un remuage plus facile et plus efficace.\n\nEn r\u00e9sum\u00e9, dans la plupart des cas, un grand bocal, de 1 \u00e0 3 litres, \u00e0 fermeture efficace (couvercle \u00e0 vis ou syst\u00e8me avec caoutchouc) convient parfaitement. Si les ingr\u00e9dients ne sont que poudres et liquides, vous pourrez vous servir aussi de bouteilles ou de petites bonbonnes (avec bouchon, bien entendu).\n\n### **_Comment le remplir ?_**\n\nL'ordre dans lequel vous y mettez vos ingr\u00e9dients n'a pas d'importance. La quantit\u00e9 de plantes que vous utilisez aura par contre une grande influence sur l'intensit\u00e9 du go\u00fbt obtenu. Si vous faites mac\u00e9rer beaucoup de feuilles, \u00e9vitez quand m\u00eame qu'elles ne d\u00e9passent trop du liquide.\n\nDeux m\u00e9thodes principales existent.\n\nLa premi\u00e8re, qui est la plus simple et la plus rapide, consiste \u00e0 mettre d'abord \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer les parties de plantes uniquement dans l'alcool. Plus cet alcool est fort, plus vite se fera la dissolution des substances de la plante qui sont solubles dans l'alcool \u00e9thylique et parmi lesquelles certaines sont responsables de la saveur et de l'odeur du v\u00e9g\u00e9tal. Vous r\u00e9aliserez ainsi un v\u00e9ritable _extrait._ Pour acc\u00e9l\u00e9rer encore cette dissolution, il suffit de couper la plante en tr\u00e8s petits morceaux. Vous pouvez ainsi r\u00e9duire en poudre certaines graines comme celles de fenouil, d'anis vert... avec votre moulin \u00e0 caf\u00e9 \u00e9lectrique. Les fruits peu juteux (coings, noix vertes...) peuvent \u00eatre pass\u00e9s \u00e0 la moulinette. Cependant, on n'y gagne pas toujours : des prunelles enti\u00e8res donnent un bien meilleur r\u00e9sultat qu'une fois \u00e9cras\u00e9es.\n\nLa seconde m\u00e9thode, c'est de mettre \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer ensemble, d\u00e8s le d\u00e9but, tous les composants, dans leurs justes proportions : alcool, plantes, sucre et \u00e9ventuellement vin. En plus de l'extraction de certaines substances des plantes par l'alcool pr\u00e9sent, le sucre ajout\u00e9 devra se dissoudre, et rendra le liquide plus \u00e9pais, moins favorable aux \u00e9changes. Cette mac\u00e9ration demandera donc plus de temps et n\u00e9cessitera de plus fr\u00e9quents remuages; sa clarification sera plus lente.\n\n### **_Comment conduire la mac\u00e9ration ?_**\n\nApr\u00e8s avoir opt\u00e9 pour l'une des deux m\u00e9thodes pr\u00e9c\u00e9dentes et rempli (pas compl\u00e8tement) votre bocal, qu'allez-vous faire ?\n\nIl faut le mettre dans de bonnes conditions de temp\u00e9rature, car la chaleur acc\u00e9l\u00e8re aussi la dissolution. Mais il ne faudrait pas qu'elle soit trop forte (plus de 40\u00b0C), car elle risquerait d'entra\u00eener des d\u00e9compositions et finalement une d\u00e9naturation du produit. On recommande g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement d'exposer les bocaux de plantes \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer au soleil, en les pla\u00e7ant sur le rebord d'une fen\u00eatre expos\u00e9e au sud, \u00e0 l'int\u00e9rieur de la pi\u00e8ce (qui doit \u00eatre chauff\u00e9e, si c'est en hiver). Toutefois, pour obtenir une belle couleur verte par mac\u00e9ration de feuilles dans de l'eau-de-vie blanche il est indispensable que le bocal ne voie pas la lumi\u00e8re (la couleur verte provient de la chlorophylle contenue dans les feuilles). Il suffit alors de recouvrir votre bocal de n'importe quel mat\u00e9riau opaque, ou de l'enfermer dans un placard.\n\nVous devez remuer un peu le bocal une ou deux fois par jour, surtout si vous y avez mis du sucre, pour une dissolution plus rapide. C'est l\u00e0 que vous appr\u00e9cierez de ne pas avoir trop rempli votre r\u00e9cipient.\n\nJe vous conseille vivement d'y go\u00fbter fr\u00e9quemment, c'est le meilleur moyen de vous rendre compte o\u00f9 en est la mac\u00e9ration. Jour apr\u00e8s jour vous percevrez le go\u00fbt de la plante de plus en plus fort; \u00e9ventuellement vous pourrez ainsi d\u00e9cider de l'arr\u00eat de la mac\u00e9ration.\n\n### **_Combien de temps doit-elle durer ?_**\n\nOn ne peut pas r\u00e9pondre simplement \u00e0 cette question, car l'efficacit\u00e9 de la mac\u00e9ration ne d\u00e9pend pas seulement de la dur\u00e9e de contact entre plante et alcool; de nombreux facteurs, d\u00e9j\u00e0 \u00e9voqu\u00e9s, interviennent :\n\n\u2014 la temp\u00e9rature; \u00e0 10\u00b0C dans une cave, la mac\u00e9ration est lente; dans un bocal expos\u00e9 au soleil, elle se fait beaucoup plus vite;\n\n\u2014 la fr\u00e9quence des remuages; l'agitation acc\u00e9l\u00e8re la mise eh solution des diff\u00e9rentes substances;\n\n\u2014 la teneur en alcool de l'eau-de-vie employ\u00e9e; plus elle est \u00e9lev\u00e9e, plus la mac\u00e9ration est rapide;\n\n\u2014 la pr\u00e9sence ou non de sucre, selon la m\u00e9thode utilis\u00e9e; avec du sucre, c'est plus long;\n\n\u2014 la surface de contact entre la plante et le liquide; plus les morceaux sont petits et nombreux, mieux la mac\u00e9ration se fera; les plantes \u00ab moulin\u00e9es \u00bb ou r\u00e9duites en poudre donneront donc des r\u00e9sultats plus prompts; les feuilles et p\u00e9tales, gr\u00e2ce \u00e0 leur minceur, permettent aussi une action rapide de l'alcool; par contre, des noyaux de prune devront rester tr\u00e8s longtemps dans l'eau-de-vie;\n\n\u2014 la quantit\u00e9 de plante par rapport au volume du liquide; il est \u00e9vident que plus vous mettrez de feuilles, fleurs, graines... plus vous obtiendrez rapidement le go\u00fbt recherch\u00e9;\n\n\u2014 la nature des plantes; elle joue un grand r\u00f4le; en effet, des plantes tr\u00e8s aromatiques comme la sauge ou la tanaisie parfument l'alcool en quelques heures, tandis que des feuilles de noyer ou de prunier demanderont au moins une ou deux semaines.\n\nLes dur\u00e9es de mac\u00e9ration indiqu\u00e9es dans les recettes \u00ab toutes faites \u00bb, parfois tr\u00e8s pr\u00e9cises (exemple 44 jours), n'ont donc gu\u00e8re de valeur. Ce ne sont que des indications. En voici d'autres, pour des conditions moyennes de temp\u00e9rature, de remuages, etc.\n\n\u2014 Plantes tr\u00e8s aromatiques : 1 journ\u00e9e.\n\n\u2014 Plantes aromatiques, finement divis\u00e9es : 2 ou 3 jours.\n\n\u2014 Feuilles d'arbres peu odorantes : 1 ou 2 semaines.\n\n\u2014 \u00c9corces \u00e9paisses, racines, noyaux, fruits entiers : 1 mois o\u00f9 plus.\n\nVous compl\u00e8terez vous-m\u00eames ces donn\u00e9es par votre exp\u00e9rience. Je vous rappelle que c'est encore en go\u00fbtant r\u00e9guli\u00e8rement que vous pourrez vous faire la meilleure id\u00e9e de l'\u00e9tat d'avancement de la mac\u00e9ration.\n\n### **_Comment l'arr\u00eater ?_**\n\nPour arr\u00eater la mac\u00e9ration il suffit de s\u00e9parer les plantes du liquide, g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement \u00e0 l'aide d'une passoire, en \u00e9vitant de remuer le m\u00e9lange juste avant l'op\u00e9ration. Au cas o\u00f9 les \u00e9l\u00e9ments v\u00e9g\u00e9taux auraient \u00e9t\u00e9 r\u00e9duits en poudre tr\u00e8s fine, il faudrait un filtre (voir _Comment s\u00e9parer le liquide clair du d\u00e9p\u00f4t_).\n\nLe liquide obtenu constitue votre extrait, \u00e0 partir duquel vous pouvez faire une liqueur plus ou moins sucr\u00e9e, plus ou moins forte en alcool, ou encore un vin ap\u00e9ritif blanc ou rouge.\n\n## **Le dosage et l'assemblage**\n\nSelon la m\u00e9thode utilis\u00e9e, l'extrait que vous venez de r\u00e9aliser peut \u00eatre une liqueur pratiquement termin\u00e9e, car vous aviez mis du sucre au d\u00e9part, ou au contraire une mati\u00e8re premi\u00e8re \u00e0 laquelle vous devez ajouter maintenant au moins du sucre, \u00e9ventuellement du vin, de l'eau, et peut-\u00eatre m\u00eame un ou plusieurs autres extraits. Comment faire le m\u00e9lange ? Comment doser les diff\u00e9rents ingr\u00e9dients afin d'obtenir un go\u00fbt \u00e9quilibr\u00e9 ? C'est l'objet des pages qui suivent.\n\n### **_Comment sucrer ?_**\n\nDeux questions se posent \u00e0 propos du sucre : quelle quantit\u00e9 faut-il mettre, et comment le dissoudre ?\n\nL'analyse des diff\u00e9rentes recettes connues de liqueurs et d'ap\u00e9ritifs montre que la teneur en sucre peut \u00eatre tr\u00e8s variable. Mais il y a quand m\u00eame quelques principes g\u00e9n\u00e9raux \u00e0 respecter. Une liqueur doit avoir un go\u00fbt franchement sucr\u00e9. De plus, une forte proportion de sucre \u00e9paissira le liquide et lui donnera une consistance sirupeuse : on parlera alors de \u00ab cr\u00e8me \u00bb. A vous de faire des essais diff\u00e9rents, en notant la quantit\u00e9 de sucre ajout\u00e9 par litre, et en comparant par d\u00e9gustation les r\u00e9sultats obtenus. Voici une valeur moyenne pour les liqueurs : 300 g de sucre pour un litre d'extrait. Cependant une liqueur de cerises sera, \u00e0 mon go\u00fbt, meilleure avec moiti\u00e9 moins de sucre; une cr\u00e8me de cassis doit en contenir 400 \u00e0 500 g. Les vins ap\u00e9ritifs sont g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement moins sucr\u00e9s : 150 g de sucre par litre me semblent constituer une bonne moyenne, mais l\u00e0 encore, c'est une affaire de go\u00fbt. En outre, selon la composition, une quantit\u00e9 de sucre plus importante ou plus faible sera peut-\u00eatre n\u00e9cessaire; le go\u00fbt sucr\u00e9 doit \u00e9quilibrer les saveurs am\u00e8res et acides.\n\nPour ajouter le sucre, il faut d'abord le peser. Vous pouvez utiliser une balance de cuisine ou un verre doseur, ou encore compter des morceaux de sucre apr\u00e8s avoir calcul\u00e9 la masse d'un morceau. Ajout\u00e9 tel quel, le sucre mettra du temps \u00e0 se dissoudre, et il sera n\u00e9cessaire d'agiter le liquide plusieurs fois pour obtenir la dissolution compl\u00e8te. Cette m\u00e9thode s'utilise surtout lorsqu'on r\u00e9alise directement un extrait sucr\u00e9.\n\nIl est bien pratique de faire d'abord un _sirop,_ en ajoutant de l'eau au sucre (en poudre, cristallis\u00e9 ou en morceaux) et en faisant bouillir quelques minutes. Il faut utiliser au moins 100 g d'eau (10 cl) pour 200 g de sucre, et laisser un peu refroidir avant de m\u00e9langer \u00e0 l'extrait. Si vous sucrez avec du miel, il vaut mieux le rendre liquide en le chauffant au bain-marie avant utilisation.\n\n### **_Comment obtenir le bon degr\u00e9 d'alcool ?_**\n\nLiqueurs et ap\u00e9ritifs se distinguent assez nettement par leur teneur en alcool : les ap\u00e9ritifs \u00e0 base de vin en contiennent le plus souvent de 16 et 20%, tandis que les liqueurs sont g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement plus riches en alcool et de degr\u00e9 fort variable : environ 25% pour les moins alcoolis\u00e9es, ou 30-35% pour beaucoup, voire 40 \u00e0 55% pour certaines liqueurs fortes.\n\n17% vol. est un minimum, au-dessous duquel il y a des risques de fermentation. En effet le sucre que vous ajoutez pourrait permettre \u00e0 des levures de vivre, en le transformant en alcool (c'est la fermentation alcoolique) et en dioxyde de carbone (ou gaz carbonique) qui rendrait le liquide gazeux, ce qu'il faut absolument \u00e9viter.\n\nPour une liqueur, le \u00ab bon degr\u00e9 d'alcool \u00bb est celui qui permettra \u00e0 la plante d'exhaler au mieux son ar\u00f4me, sans que celui-ci soit \u00e9cras\u00e9 par l'odeur de l'eau-de-vie. Les liqueurs de fruits (fraises, framboises, cassis...) sont meilleures si elles sont peu alcoolis\u00e9es (20 \u00e0 30%), tandis que les feuilles tr\u00e8s aromatiques (sauge, verveine, tanaisie, g\u00e9n\u00e9pi...) demandent plus une forte teneur en alcool (40 \u00e0 55%).\n\nC'est bien s\u00fbr avec l'exp\u00e9rience, et son go\u00fbt personnel, que chacun arrive \u00e0 choisir, pour une pr\u00e9paration donn\u00e9e, le taux d'alcool qui lui semble id\u00e9al. C'est d'ailleurs l\u00e0 une des difficult\u00e9s, mais aussi un des plaisirs, du travail du liquoriste.\n\nVoici deux techniques de d\u00e9termination du degr\u00e9 d'alcool de votre liquide.\n\n1. _Avec un alcoom\u00e8tre._\n\nSi vous poss\u00e9dez un tel appareil (vendu par les opticiens, pharmaciens...), vous pourrez conna\u00eetre tr\u00e8s pr\u00e9cis\u00e9ment le degr\u00e9 alcoolique de votre eau-de-vie, ainsi que de vos extraits, \u00e0 condition qu'ils ne contiennent pas de sucre. Lorsque vous ajouterez un sirop de sucre, il faudra faire un petit calcul, car le volume de l'ensemble augmentant, le pourcentage d'alcool diminuera l\u00e9g\u00e8rement. Mais si vous ajoutez de l'eau, ou m\u00eame un peu de vin (\u00e0 condition qu'il ne soit pas sucr\u00e9), \u00e0 une eau-de-vie dans laquelle ont seulement mac\u00e9r\u00e9 des plantes, vous pouvez encore vous servir de votre alcoom\u00e8tre.\n\n2. _Sans alcoom\u00e8tre._\n\nDans ce cas il vous faut conna\u00eetre le degr\u00e9 d'alcool ainsi que le volume de chacun de vos ingr\u00e9dients de d\u00e9part : eau-de-vie et vin, mesurer le volume total de vos produits fini, et vous livrer \u00e0 un petit calcul.\n\nPour conna\u00eetre le volume d'un liquide, c'est assez facile. Il suffit, par exemple, d'en remplir des bouteilles de capacit\u00e9 connue : 1 litre, 75 cl, 33 cl, 25 cl, pour les plus courantes. Vous pouvez ainsi vous constituer un jeu de flacons \u00ab jaug\u00e9s \u00bb. Il est bien pratique aussi d'utiliser un verre doseur, pr\u00e9vu pour la cuisine.\n\nPour calculer ensuite le volume total d'alcool pur contenu dans votre boisson, vous additionnez le volume d'alcool pur de l'eau-de-vie et celui du vin. C'est tout! Mais attention aux unit\u00e9s!\n\n### **Exemple**\n\n\u2022 Vous avez fait 0,7 litre d'une liqueur de graines de fenouil avec 1/2 litre d'eau-de-vie \u00e0 40\u00b0 (c'est-\u00e0-dire 40% en volume) et un sirop de sucre (compos\u00e9 d'eau et de sucre); il n'y a donc dans cette liqueur que :\n\n0,5 litre \u00d7 40% = 0,2 litre d'alcool pur.\n\nLe degr\u00e9 alcoolique de cette liqueur est donc \u00e9gal \u00e0 :\n\n(0,2 \u00f7 0,7) \u00d7 100 = 28,5%.\n\n\u2022 Admettons maintenant que vous vouliez ramener ce degr\u00e9 \u00e0 25, il faudra ajouter un peu d'eau, mais combien exactement ?\n\nPour obtenir une boisson \u00e0 25% contenant 0,2 litre d'alcool pur, il faut un volume total de :\n\n(0,2 \u00f7 25) \u00d7 100 = 0,8 litre.\n\nVous devez donc ajouter \u00e0 votre liqueur 0,8 - 0,7 = 0,1 litre d'eau.\n\n**Voici un exemple plus complexe**\n\n\u2022 Vous avez r\u00e9alis\u00e9 un vin ap\u00e9ritif par mac\u00e9ration de folioles de noyer dans 1 litre de vin rouge \u00e0 12% auquel vous avez ajout\u00e9 25 cl (une petite bouteille \u00e0 bi\u00e8re) d'eau-de-vie \u00e0 40%, et 150 g de sucre (sans eau). En consid\u00e9rant (car c'est, presque vrai) que la mac\u00e9ration des feuilles et l'addition de sucre n'ont pas chang\u00e9 notablement le volume du liquide, vous obtenez donc :\n\n(1 l = 100 cl)\n\n100 cl + 25 cl = 125 cl d'ap\u00e9ritif.\n\n\u2022 Quantit\u00e9 d'alcool pur contenu : (100 \u00d7 12%) + (25 \u00d7 40%) = 22 cl Degr\u00e9 alcoolique de cette boisson : (22 : 125) X 100 17,6 %. Ce degr\u00e9 est tr\u00e8s correct pour un tel ap\u00e9ritif, mais si vous vouliez le ramener \u00e0 16%, il faudrait utiliser le principe pr\u00e9c\u00e9dent pour calcu1er la quantit\u00e9 d'eau \u00e0 ajouter : pour obtenir un m\u00e9lange \u00e0 16% contenant 22 cl d'alcool pur, il faut un volume total de :\n\n(22 \u00f7 16) \u00d7 100 = 137,5 cl.\n\n\u2022 Il suffirait donc d'ajouter : 137,5 - 125 = 12,5 cl d'eau.\n\n**Remarque**\n\nIl est beaucoup plus simple de calculer comme ci-dessus un volume d'eau \u00e0 ajouter pour r\u00e9duire le degr\u00e9, qu'un volume d'eau-de-vie pour remonter la teneur en alcool. La raison en est simple : l'addition d'eau ne change que le volume total (pas le volume d'alcool pur contenu), tandis que l'ajout d'eau-de-vie modifie \u00e0 la fois le volume total et la quantit\u00e9 d'alcool pur. _Si vous n'\u00eates pas fort en math\u00e9matiques, mettez donc un peu trop d'alcool au d\u00e9part, plut\u00f4t qu'un peu moins_ ; la rectification sera plus facile.\n\n### **_Comment corriger, am\u00e9liorer, enrichir, colorer, etc. ?_**\n\nComme en cuisine, vous devez maintenant go\u00fbter, et si n\u00e9cessaire, \u00ab rectifier l'assaisonnement \u00bb. Il est encore temps d'ajouter du sucre, de l'eau et \u00e9ventuellement de l'alcool. En particulier, si vous trouvez le go\u00fbt v\u00e9g\u00e9tal beaucoup trop prononc\u00e9 (cela arrive parfois avec des feuilles tr\u00e8s aromatiques), vous pouvez toujours le diluer avec une composition semblable n'ayant pas contenu de plantes.\n\nMais surtout, vous allez pouvoir associer des parfums entre eux, de mani\u00e8re \u00e0 obtenir une liqueur ou un ap\u00e9ritif... \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt. Vous allez ainsi r\u00e9ellement cr\u00e9er un nouveau produit. Pour ce faire, le plus simple est de m\u00e9langer des compositions de m\u00eame degr\u00e9 alcoolique et de m\u00eame teneur en sucre.\n\n**Exemple** : comment obtenir une belle liqueur verte aux multiples parfums ?\n\nVous devez d'abord faire des extraits s\u00e9par\u00e9s par mac\u00e9ration de feuilles \u00e0 l'abri de la lumi\u00e8re (pour la couleur), de graines... puis les sucrer (\u00e0 300 g/l). Le degr\u00e9 alcoolique doit \u00eatre fort (50\u00b0 environ). A ce stade, c'est-\u00e0-dire avant clarification et vieillissement, vous pouvez vous livrer au grand art du liquoriste, en assemblant, dans des proportions que vous notez, ces extraits sucr\u00e9s de diverses plantes : feuilles de verveine, de menthe, de tanaisie, d'estragon, de m\u00e9lisse, de sauge..., graines d'anis, de fenouil, d'ang\u00e9lique... Le nombre des combinaisons possibles est pratiquement infini. Selon votre go\u00fbt, vous pouvez insister davantage sur les ar\u00f4mes anis\u00e9s, menthol\u00e9s ou citronn\u00e9s. La mise au point d'une recette est passionnante et demande de nombreux essais qu'il est pr\u00e9f\u00e9rable d'\u00e9taler sur plusieurs jours, car qui dit de nombreux essais dit de nombreuses d\u00e9gustations.\n\nDans un autre r\u00e9pertoire, vous pouvez rechercher une liqueur compos\u00e9e, \u00e0 base de divers petits fruits de votre jardin : framboises, cassis, groseilles, fraises... mac\u00e9r\u00e9s dans une eau-de-vie de fruit; ou une autre, \u00e0 base de fruits exotiques : oranges, bananes, ananas... avec vanille et rhum. Bien d'autres id\u00e9es vont vous venir. Vous trouverez plusieurs de ces recettes compos\u00e9es en fin de livre.\n\nPour les ap\u00e9ritifs, c'est la m\u00eame chose : un vin aromatis\u00e9 \u00e0 l'aide de feuilles de plusieurs arbres de votre verger (p\u00eacher, cerisier, prunier, noyer) constitue un excellent ap\u00e9ritif. A vous de mettre au point une recette qui vous pla\u00eet, en notant les proportions des diverses feuilles d'une fois sur l'autre et vous pourrez proposer \u00e0 vos amis cette recette personnelle. D'autres recettes compos\u00e9es de vins aromatis\u00e9s vous sont propos\u00e9es plus loin.\n\nUne derni\u00e8re touche de couleur peut rendre votre produit encore plus attrayant. Elle n'est g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement pas n\u00e9cessaire lorsqu'on utilise comme liquide de base du vin rouge ou de l'eau-de-vie vieillie dans un f\u00fbt, car ces substances ont elles-m\u00eames une belle couleur. Il en va de m\u00eame avec des fruits tr\u00e8s color\u00e9s : framboises, prunelles, myrtilles, etc.\n\nL'obtention de la couleur verte avec des feuilles fra\u00eeches a d\u00e9j\u00e0 \u00e9t\u00e9 expliqu\u00e9e ici : c'est la chlorophylle, pigment naturel des feuilles, qui en est responsable. Cependant toutes les feuilles ne donnent pas le m\u00eame r\u00e9sultat; la tanaisie surtout, ainsi que la verveine, sont les plantes les plus colorantes.\n\nPour faire une belle liqueur jaune, le safran est id\u00e9al; il suffit d'en ajouter un peu.\n\nPour foncer une liqueur ou un vin blanc aromatis\u00e9 trop p\u00e2le, vous avez le choix : caf\u00e9, chicor\u00e9e ou caramel que vous retirez du feu juste avant qu'il ne br\u00fble. Dans tous ces cas, vous pourrez marquer sur votre \u00e9tiquette : \u00ab colorants naturels \u00bb.\n\n## **La clarification et le vieillissement**\n\nVotre liqueur ou votre ap\u00e9ritif semble termin\u00e9. Ce n'est qu'une apparence, car avec le temps, des modifications de diverses natures vont se produire dans le liquide : il pourra changer d'aspect, mais aussi de go\u00fbt. Son \u00e9volution vous surprendra peut-\u00eatre : la plupart du temps, il se bonifiera et s'\u00e9claircira tout seul, mais ce n'est pas toujours aussi simple.\n\n### **_Combien de temps attendre avant de consommer ?_**\n\nLorsqu'il s'agit d'un liquide fonc\u00e9 (vin rouge aromatis\u00e9 ou liqueur de caf\u00e9 par exemple), un \u00e9ventuel trouble ou un d\u00e9p\u00f4t important ne sont gu\u00e8re g\u00eanants car on ne les voit pas. Ces boissons peuvent donc se consommer rapidement (mais elles gagneraient \u00e0 vieillir un peu, et \u00e0 \u00eatre clarifi\u00e9es). Par contre, pour un vin blanc aromatis\u00e9, une liqueur rose, jaune ou verte, une transparence parfaite ainsi qu'une absence de d\u00e9p\u00f4t sont n\u00e9cessaires. Il faudra donc attendre un moment avant de \u00ab livrer votre produit \u00e0 la consommation \u00bb.\n\nPendant cette attente, le liquide devra \u00eatre laiss\u00e9 au repos le plus complet. Une temp\u00e9rature basse est pr\u00e9f\u00e9rable; dans une cave fra\u00eeche, c'est l'id\u00e9al. La bouteille (ou bonbonne) devra \u00eatre plac\u00e9e debout. Vous devrez surveiller de temps en temps l'\u00e9volution de l'aspect du contenu. Pour cela, il est bien pratique d'\u00e9clairer \u00e0 travers le verre du r\u00e9cipient \u00e0 l'aide d'une lampe de poche, en cherchant \u00e0 appr\u00e9cier la limpidit\u00e9 et l'\u00e9paisseur du d\u00e9p\u00f4t. C'est par cette surveillance que vous vous rendrez compte un jour que cette p\u00e9riode de clarification naturelle est bien termin\u00e9e, et que vous pourrez donc faire la mise en bouteilles d\u00e9finitive. Cette _d\u00e9cantation_ peut demander quelques jours (cas fr\u00e9quent), quelques semaines, ou parfois plusieurs mois. Les liqueurs \u00e0 base de zestes (oranges, citrons, mandarines...) ou de certains fruits trop \u00e9cras\u00e9s (prunelles, geni\u00e8vre...) sont particuli\u00e8rement longues \u00e0 \u00e9claircir. Les vins auxquels on a ajout\u00e9 des substances riches en tanins (\u00e9corces de quinquina, noix, etc.) d\u00e9posent \u00e9galement tr\u00e8s longtemps.\n\n### **_Comment s\u00e9parer le liquide clair du d\u00e9p\u00f4t ?_**\n\nLa solution la plus simple consiste \u00e0 verser doucement le liquide bien d\u00e9cant\u00e9, dans un autre r\u00e9cipient, en s'arr\u00eatant juste lorsque le d\u00e9p\u00f4t se pr\u00e9sente (voir sch\u00e9ma 1, m\u00eame page).\n\nUne solution plus efficace n\u00e9cessite l'emploi d'un tuyau souple : c'est la m\u00e9thode du _soutirage_ se-Ion le principe du _siphon_ (sch\u00e9ma 2, m\u00eame page). Un tuyau en mati\u00e8re plastique transparente, comme on peut en acheter (au m\u00e8tre) chez divers commer\u00e7ants de pi\u00e8ces d\u00e9tach\u00e9es, fait tr\u00e8s bien l'affaire, \u00e0 condition qu'il ne soit pas trop gros (un diam\u00e8tre int\u00e9rieur de 3 \u00e0 5 mm est id\u00e9al). Vous pourrez acc\u00e9l\u00e9rer ou ralentir l'\u00e9coulement du liquide clair en abaissant ou \u00e9levant la bouteille qui le re\u00e7oit.\n\nLe liquide restant sera moins abondant avec cette m\u00e9thode qu'avec la pr\u00e9c\u00e9dente. Autre avantage : il arrive qu'il se forme en plus du d\u00e9p\u00f4t, une sorte d'\u00e9cume de surface provenant d'essences v\u00e9g\u00e9tales peu denses (c'est le cas avec les zestes); avec votre tuyau, il sera ais\u00e9 de soutirer le liquide limpide compris entre les deux zones d'impuret\u00e9s.\n\nPour ne pas perdre le liquide restant, contenant le d\u00e9p\u00f4t, vous pouvez le laisser d\u00e9canter \u00e0 nouveau, et recommencer la m\u00eame op\u00e9ration. Vous pouvez aussi tenter de le filtrer; le r\u00e9sultat n'est pas garanti, mais cela r\u00e9ussit assez souvent. Les filtres \u00e0 caf\u00e9, en papier, retiennent bien les impuret\u00e9s. Toutefois ces derni\u00e8res sont parfois si fines qu'elles bouchent rapidement tous les pores du filtre, ce qui emp\u00eache tout liquide de passer. Le m\u00eame probl\u00e8me se produit avec des liqueurs tr\u00e8s sucr\u00e9es. Un autre filtre, aux pores plus grands, peut alors \u00eatre utilis\u00e9 : un disque en coton pr\u00e9vu pour filtrer le lait (on en trouve dans toutes les coop\u00e9ratives agricoles des r\u00e9gions d'\u00e9levage laitier); il suffit de plier ce filtre de mani\u00e8re \u00e0 former un c\u00f4ne, qu'on place dans un entonnoir (sch\u00e9ma 3). Lorsque vous pratiquez de telles filtrations, ne soyez pas surpris de devoir laisser le liquide passer goutte \u00e0 goutte pendant une nuit.\n\n### **_Comment mettre en bouteilles et faire vieillir ?_**\n\nLa mise en bouteilles de liqueurs et d'ap\u00e9ritifs n'est pas d\u00e9licate comme celle du vin, car la teneur en alcool sup\u00e9rieure \u00e0 17% \u00e9vite tout risque de fermentation; c'est l'alcool qui prot\u00e8ge le liquide, en emp\u00eachant le d\u00e9veloppement intempestif des levures ou des bact\u00e9ries. Ces boissons ne craignent gu\u00e8re non plus la pr\u00e9sence d'oxyg\u00e8ne; pour les vins ap\u00e9ritifs, cette pr\u00e9sence peut m\u00eame parfois favoriser une bonne \u00e9volution.\n\nIl n'est pas indispensable d'enfoncer compl\u00e8tement les bouchons, ni de coucher les bouteilles. Une conservation au frais et \u00e0 l'abri de la lumi\u00e8re est souhaitable pour les liqueurs. Si vous aimez le go\u00fbt particulier que prennent les vieux vins doux naturels, vos vins aromatis\u00e9s pourront alors \u00eatre plac\u00e9s dans une pi\u00e8ce assez chaude (voire expos\u00e9s au soleil, comme on le fait pour certains banyuls).\n\nLa plupart de vos fabrications gagneront \u00e0 vieillir, mais les liqueurs de fruits (framboises, cassis, fraises...) perdent assez vite leurs parfums et sont meilleures jeunes.\n\nIl n'est pas impossible qu'apr\u00e8s une longue conservation en bouteilles vous constatiez la pr\u00e9sence d'un nouveau d\u00e9p\u00f4t et que vous soyez oblig\u00e9 de l'\u00e9liminer; mais ce n'est plus un probl\u00e8me pour vous : vous connaissez les techniques \u00e0 employer. Au cours du vieillissement, des r\u00e9actions se produisent en effet entre les diff\u00e9rentes substances contenues, ce qui peut entra\u00eener la formation de nouvelles impuret\u00e9s, mais qui va aussi progressivement modifier le go\u00fbt de la boisson. Pour un type donn\u00e9 de liqueur ou d'ap\u00e9ritif, l'exp\u00e9rience vous apprendra combien de temps le faire vieillir, dans vos conditions habituelles, pour qu'il soit parfaitement \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt.\n\nPensez enfin aux \u00e9tiquettes. Elles vous seront indispensables pour reconna\u00eetre vos diverses r\u00e9alisations. Elles devront comporter le nom du spiritueux contenu, et \u00e9ventuellement la date de fabrication, la composition pr\u00e9cise, vos nom et adresse, etc. Soignez l'esth\u00e9tique de vos \u00e9tiquettes, si vous d\u00e9sirez offrir quelques bouteilles \u00e0 vos amis. Vous pouvez m\u00eame faire un petit montage avec une photo de votre maison, que vous multipliez ensuite par photocopie; une telle \u00e9tiquette conviendra parfaitement pour vos produits \u00ab maison \u00bb.\n\n# **LES DIFF\u00c9RENTS AP\u00c9RITIFS**\n\nCe qu'on appelle ap\u00e9ritif actuellement, c'est une boisson que l'on prend juste avant le d\u00e9jeuner ou le d\u00eener, pour se \u00ab mettre en app\u00e9tit \u00bb. Tous les ap\u00e9ritifs n'ont cependant pas des vertus \u00ab ap\u00e9ritives \u00bb, selon le sens plus ancien du mot : qui stimule l'app\u00e9tit et facilite l'ingestion du repas. La tendance actuelle \u00e0 boire des alcools forts (whisky) en guise d'ap\u00e9ritif n'est sans doute pas l'id\u00e9al sur le plan physiologique.\n\n## **Les vins aromatis\u00e9s**\n\nCe sont les plus simples \u00e0 obtenir. On les appelle aussi _vermouths_ et _quinquinas,_ mais ces mots s'utilisent de moins en moins. Un _vermouth_ du commerce est un vin blanc (il doit y en avoir 80%) aromatis\u00e9 \u00e0 l'aide de plantes (dont des armoises), sucr\u00e9, alcoolis\u00e9 et \u00e9ventuellement color\u00e9 avec du caramel. Ex. : le Martini. Un _quinquina,_ c'est un peu la m\u00eame chose, avec de l'\u00e9corce de quinquina dans la liste des plantes, et des mistelles (voir _Les vins de liqueur_) en plus du vin. Ex. : le Saint-Rapha\u00ebl.\n\nLe but de ce livre n'est pas de chercher \u00e0 reproduire ou imiter ces ap\u00e9ritifs connus, mais plut\u00f4t de faire d'autres vins aromatis\u00e9s, avec les ingr\u00e9dients dont vous disposez, et qui seront tout aussi agr\u00e9ables \u00e0 boire en ap\u00e9ritifs.\n\nPour vos fabrications, je vous propose trois niveaux de complexit\u00e9 : les vins aromatis\u00e9s \u00e0 l'aide d'une seule plante (\u00ab recettes simples \u00bb), les m\u00eames auxquels vous ajoutez un ou plusieurs aromates en petites quantit\u00e9s, et enfin des associations de plusieurs plantes (\u00ab recettes compos\u00e9es \u00bb).\n\n### **_Les recettes simples_**\n\n_Recette g\u00e9n\u00e9rale_\n\n(voir aussi sch\u00e9ma)\n\nOn pratique une mac\u00e9ration de plantes soit directement dans du vin additionn\u00e9 d'alcool et de sucre, soit dans de l'alcool seul; dans ce dernier cas, on m\u00e9lange ensuite l'extrait obtenu \u00e0 du vin additionn\u00e9 de sucre. (Pour plus de renseignements g\u00e9n\u00e9raux sur ces m\u00e9thodes de mac\u00e9ration revoyez les techniques.) Le degr\u00e9 final d'alcool doit \u00eatre de l'ordre de 17%, la teneur en sucre, plus ou moins 150 g/l selon le go\u00fbt.\n\n_Recette-type_  \n**Vin aromatis\u00e9 aux feuilles de p\u00eacher**\n\nDans un grand bocal, mettez 80 feuilles de p\u00eacher cueillies le matin, un litre de vin rouge \u00e0 12%, 20 cl (environ un verre et demi) d'eau-de-vie \u00e0 40\u00b0 et 150 g de sucre. Laissez mac\u00e9rer une semaine pr\u00e8s d'une fen\u00eatre. Passez. Mettez en bouteilles. Si possible, attendez quelques semaines avant de consommer.\n\nDe la m\u00eame mani\u00e8re, et en suivant tous les conseils techniques des pages pr\u00e9c\u00e9dentes, vous pouvez r\u00e9aliser les recettes simples suivantes. Les aromates compl\u00e9mentaires sont facultatifs, et \u00e0 ajouter en petites quantit\u00e9, un peu comme un assaisonnement... selon votre go\u00fbt.\n\n#### **_Vins aromatis\u00e9s aux feuilles..._**\n\n**... d'absinthe**\n\nLa fabrication d'une liqueur aromatis\u00e9e avec cette plante \u00e9tant d\u00e9sormais interdite en France (pas en Espagne), ce vin doit l'\u00eatre \u00e9galement. Recette ancienne, \u00e0 consid\u00e9rer plut\u00f4t comme une curiosit\u00e9.\n\n**... d'asp\u00e9rule**\n\nSi vous connaissez l'asp\u00e9rule odorante qui pousse dans les h\u00eatraies, vous pouvez l'utiliser pour aromatiser agr\u00e9ablement du vin blanc.\n\n**... de basilic**\n\n**... de cassis**\n\nLe go\u00fbt rappelle celui des fruits du m\u00eame nom.\n\n**... de cerisier**\n\nChoisissez de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence un cerisier aigre, et comme alcool du kirsch.\n\n**... de m\u00e9lisse**\n\nCela donne un vin sp\u00e9cial, au go\u00fbt citronn\u00e9.\n\n**... de menthe**\n\nIl ne faut pas mettre trop de feuilles... et aimer la menthe.\n\n**... de noyer**\n\nTr\u00e8s bon ap\u00e9ritif, de couleur fonc\u00e9e (\u00e0 cause du tanin contenu dans les feuilles), et d'un parfum particulier, bien agr\u00e9able. De nombreuses versions de cette recette existent, avec addition d'aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : muscade, vanille, clou de girofle, zestes.\n\n**... de pervenche**\n\n**... de prunellier**\n\nUtilisez les jeunes tiges feuill\u00e9es (compl\u00e8tes), qui font 10 \u00e0 15 cm de longueur et qui poussent en mai. Il en faut beaucoup. Le go\u00fbt obtenu rappelle un peu le noyau de cerise. C'est une tr\u00e8s bonne recette.\n\n**... de prunier**\n\nAvec de l'eau-de-vie de prunes, si possible, et de jeunes feuilles.\n\n**... de romarin  \n... de sarriette  \n... de sauge**\n\nLes feuilles des arbres fruitiers ci-dessus sont le plus souvent mises \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer dans du vin rouge, celles des plantes aromatiques dans du vin blanc, mais vous pouvez aussi faire l'inverse, avec succ\u00e8s.\n\n#### **_Autres vins aromatis\u00e9s..._**\n\nOutre des feuilles, vous pouvez utiliser toutes sortes d'autres parties de plantes pour aromatiser des vins. Comme dans la recette-type pr\u00e9c\u00e9dente, de l'eau-de-vie et du sucre, dans les m\u00eames proportions, sont n\u00e9cessaires pour la conservation et l'\u00e9quilibre du go\u00fbt.\n\nLes recettes suivantes sont rang\u00e9es dans l'ordre alphab\u00e9tique des noms de plantes.\n\n**... aux tiges ou aux racines d'ang\u00e9lique**\n\n**... \u00e0 l'\u00e9corce de bouleau**\n\nAvec l'\u00e9corce de jeunes branches. C'est plut\u00f4t un vin m\u00e9dicinal diur\u00e9tique.\n\n**... aux fleurs de camomille**\n\nAromates compl\u00e9mentaires : vanille, gentiane, zestes d'orange ou de citron.\n\n**... aux baies de cassis**\n\nIl faut \u00e9craser les fruits, puis passer dans un torchon \u00e0 confiture apr\u00e8s mac\u00e9ration. Une filtration sera ensuite n\u00e9cessaire.\n\n**... aux racines torr\u00e9fi\u00e9es de chicor\u00e9e**\n\nAvec 3 ou 4 c \u00e0 s. de chicor\u00e9e. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : vanille, zeste d'orange ou de citron.\n\n**... aux graines de fenouil**\n\nUtilisez de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence du vin blanc. Il faut 150 g de graines \u00e9cras\u00e9es et 8 jours de mac\u00e9ration.\n\n**... aux framboises**\n\nAvec du vin blanc, c'est magnifique et d\u00e9licieux.\n\n**... aux baies de geni\u00e8vre**\n\n**... aux racines de gentiane**\n\nVoil\u00e0 un ap\u00e9ritif au go\u00fbt amer, pour ceux qui en recherchent.\n\n**... aux fleurs de marrube blanc**\n\n**... aux noix vertes**\n\nExcellent ap\u00e9ritif, \u00e0 r\u00e9aliser avec des noix cueillies d\u00e9but juillet, faciles \u00e0 couper en morceaux. Se-Ion les diff\u00e9rentes recettes connues, le nombre de noix \u00e0 utiliser varie de 4 \u00e0 25 par litre! Choisissez! Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : orange (avec le zeste), gentiane.\n\n**... aux \u00e9corces d'oranges**\n\nSe fait avec le zeste d'oranges ordinaires (non trait\u00e9es) ou celui d'oranges am\u00e8res, qu'on ach\u00e8te, sec, chez un pharmacien par exemple.\n\n**... au zeste de pamplemousse**\n\n**... aux pruneaux**\n\nIl en faut 200 \u00e0 250 g. Ap\u00e9ritif \u00e0 r\u00e9aliser de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence avec de l'armagnac.\n\n**... \u00e0 l'\u00e9corce de quinquina**\n\nAp\u00e9ritif tr\u00e8s amer (sauf si on met tr\u00e8s peu de quinquina) pouvant surtout servir \u00e0 ajouter de l'amertume \u00e0 d'autres boissons.\n\n**... aux fleurs de sureau noir**\n\nCette recette, faite avec du vin blanc, est g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement donn\u00e9e comme une bonne imitation de muscat (vin doux naturel).\n\nToutes les recettes cit\u00e9es ci-dessus sont bien connues, mais il n'est pas interdit d'en imaginer d'autres, en puisant dans la liste des plantes. Vous pouvez ainsi essayer un vin aromatis\u00e9 avec des feuilles de laurier, ou avec des fraises, ou encore avec de l'anis, etc.\n\n**Sch\u00e9ma g\u00e9n\u00e9ral de l'\u00e9laboration d'un vin aromatis\u00e9**\n\n### **_Les recettes compos\u00e9es_**\n\nIl s'agit cette fois d'assembler plusieurs plantes dans un m\u00eame vin. Cet assemblage peut se r\u00e9aliser de diverses fa\u00e7ons, soit en m\u00e9langeant des extraits dans l'alcool (comme expliqu\u00e9 ici), soit en m\u00ealant des vins finis, soit encore en mettant \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer ensemble les divers ingr\u00e9dients de la recette. Les deux premi\u00e8res m\u00e9thodes conviennent parfaitement pour la recherche d'une recette \u00e0 son go\u00fbt, la troisi\u00e8me s'applique plut\u00f4t aux recettes d\u00e9j\u00e0 bien \u00e9tablies.\n\nVoici quelques exemples classiques et quelques id\u00e9es in\u00e9dites.\n\n#### **Vin amer**\n\nDe nombreuses recettes existent. Elles sont toutes \u00e0 base de quinquina, de gentiane et d'\u00e9corces d'oranges am\u00e8res, en proportions variables. A vous de mettre au point la v\u00f4tre... \u00ab \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt \u00bb. Le vin obtenu pourra aussi vous servir \u00e0 l'\u00e9laboration de certains cocktails.\n\n#### **Vin aux \u00e9pices**\n\nPour un litre de vin, blanc ou rouge, additionn\u00e9 d'alcool (pour faire 17%) et de sucre (environ 100 g) : 15 g de muscade, 4 g de cannelle, quelques clous de girofle, 5 g de vanille. Ces quantit\u00e9s peuvent \u00eatre modifi\u00e9es, et d'autres \u00e9pices ajout\u00e9es.\n\n#### **Vin aux feuilles du verger**\n\nCueillez des feuilles de p\u00eacher, cerisier, noyer, prunier, cassis; ajoutez le sucre, l'eau-de-vie et le vin, et laissez mac\u00e9rer 8 jours. Selon vos pr\u00e9f\u00e9rences, vous pourrez obtenir un go\u00fbt dominant ou non, en faisant varier les proportions des diff\u00e9rentes feuilles.\n\n#### **Vin aux fruits exotiques**\n\nC'est presque une sangria. La diff\u00e9rence, c'est que vous enl\u00e8verez les morceaux de fruits pour la mise en bouteilles. Selon votre go\u00fbt, utilisez oranges, bananes, ananas, mangues, kiwis, litchis... Pour l'alcool, le rhum blanc ou le kirsch conviennent particuli\u00e8rement bien.\n\n#### **Vin aux fruits rouges**\n\nLorsque votre jardin regorge de fraises, cerises et groseilles, n'h\u00e9sitez pas \u00e0 r\u00e9aliser cet excellent ap\u00e9ritif maison. Vous pouvez y ajouter un peu de quinquina ou d'orange am\u00e8re.\n\n#### **Vin aux fruits secs**\n\nUn savant m\u00e9lange de figues, dattes, raisins secs, pruneaux, abricots secs... selon votre go\u00fbt et vos possibilit\u00e9s, vous donneront un ap\u00e9ritif original.\n\n## **Les alcools aromatis\u00e9s**\n\nLa base est une eau-de-vie blanche et forte. On y fait mac\u00e9rer des plantes, puis on sucre, et \u00e9ventuellement on ajoute de l'eau pour r\u00e9duire la teneur en alcool, \u00e0 moins que cette derni\u00e8re op\u00e9ration ne soit faite qu'au moment de servir, dans le verre. En voici quatre exemples bien connus.\n\n#### **Guignolet**\n\nC'est une liqueur de cerises (de guignes ou de griottes). Elle est obtenue apr\u00e8s plusieurs semaines de mac\u00e9ration des fruits l\u00e9g\u00e8rement \u00e9cras\u00e9s et encore pourvus de leur p\u00e9doncule (queue), dans de l'alcool neutre (ou mieux dans du kirsch). Elle est ramen\u00e9e \u00e0 16/18% avec de l'eau, et sucr\u00e9e comme un ap\u00e9ritif (100 \u00e0 150 g de sucre/litre).\n\n#### **Pastis**\n\nEn faisant mac\u00e9rer une bonne quantit\u00e9 d'anis \u00e9toil\u00e9 (ou badiane) et un peu de racine de r\u00e9glisse dans de l'alcool que vous ramenez ensuite \u00e0 45% environ et que vous sucrez un peu, vous obtenez une assez bonne imitation de pastis.\n\n#### **Liqueur de gentiane**\n\nLaissez mac\u00e9rer plusieurs semaines des morceaux de racines de grande gentiane dans de l'alcool fort; puis, pour imiter la Suze, ramenez \u00e0 16% avec de l'eau et dissolvez 200 g de sucre par litre. Remarque : la Suze contient en plus de l'esprit de gentiane et divers extraits aromatiques; ce que vous obtiendrez s'en rapprochera mais n'en aura pas exactement le go\u00fbt.\n\n#### **Bitter ou amer**\n\nOn donne ces noms \u00e0 des liqueurs de go\u00fbt tr\u00e8s amer, qu'on peut boire en ap\u00e9ritif, allong\u00e9es d'eau gazeuse, et qui entrent dans la composition de nombreux cocktails. La liqueur de gentiane propos\u00e9e ci-dessus est un exemple de bitter. Vous en obtiendrez \u00e9galement par mac\u00e9ration de zestes d'oranges, de citrons et surtout d'oranges am\u00e8res, ou encore en utilisant des \u00e9corces de quinquina. Vous pouvez d'ailleurs m\u00e9langer plusieurs de ces ingr\u00e9dients : un sachet de racines s\u00e9ch\u00e9es de gentiane, des \u00e9corces d'oranges am\u00e8res et un peu de quinquina dans un grand bocal d'eau-de-vie. Vous pourrez alors soutirer au fur et \u00e0 mesure de vos besoins et remplacer par le m\u00eame volume d'eau-de-vie. Pour consommer, il faudra r\u00e9duire le degr\u00e9 \u00e0 votre convenance, et sucrer l\u00e9g\u00e8rement.\n\n## **Les vins de liqueur**\n\nCe sont des ap\u00e9ritifs tr\u00e8s c\u00e9l\u00e8bres, obtenus par adjonction d'alcool au jus de raisin non ferment\u00e9 (exemple : pineau des Charentes), ou en cours (voire en fin) de fermentation (exemples : porto, mad\u00e8re, vins doux naturels...). Ils titrent, selon la loi fran\u00e7aise, entre 15 et 2%\u00b0 d'alcool.\n\n### **_Les mistelles_**\n\nC'est le nom donn\u00e9 aux vins de liqueur obtenus sans fermentation, en ajoutant de l'eau-de-vie \u00e0 du mo\u00fbt de raisin, c'est-\u00e0-dire du jus n'ayant pas encore commenc\u00e9 \u00e0 fermenter. C'est le sucre naturel du jus de raisin qui donne le go\u00fbt sucr\u00e9; l'alcool emp\u00eache le d\u00e9part de la fermentation (il doit donc y en avoir au moins 17% en volume).\n\nDans le commerce, outre le pineau des Charentes (\u00e9labor\u00e9 avec du cognac), on peut trouver deux autres mistelles : floc de Gascogne (avec de l'armagnac) et ratafia de Champagne. Traditionnellement dans les campagnes, on fait encore des mistelles; on les appelle \u00ab carthag\u00e8ne \u00bb dans le Midi, \u00ab riquiqui \u00bb en Bourgogne, etc.\n\nL'\u00e9laboration d'une mistelle est assez simple : on assemble du jus de raisin avec de l'eau-de-vie de vin d'un an (ou plus), de telle sorte que le m\u00e9lange titre 18 \u00e0 20\u00b0 d'alcool. Puis on laisse vieillir quelques ann\u00e9es en f\u00fbt de ch\u00eane. Pour un amateur, le vieillissement en f\u00fbt peut \u00eatre remplac\u00e9 par l'utilisation d'un alcool d\u00e9j\u00e0 vieilli en tonneau : cognac, armagnac... mais cela revient cher, car il faut presque autant de cognac... que de jus de raisin! Autre solution : faire vieillir dans une bonbonne contenant des copeaux de ch\u00eane (c'est efficace et tout \u00e0 fait naturel).\n\nM\u00eame avec une vieille eau-de-vie, il faut attendre au minimum deux ou trois mois que le m\u00e9lange s'\u00e9claircisse, pour pouvoir soutirer le liquide clarifi\u00e9, et commencer \u00e0 consommer.\n\nVoici deux exemples de recettes.\n\n#### **Pineau maison**\n\nDans un tonnelet (ou une bonbonne garnie de copeaux de ch\u00eane), versez 1/3 d'eau-de-vie de vin \u00e0 60%, et compl\u00e9tez avec du mo\u00fbt de raisin bien m\u00fbr (peu acide). Laissez vieillir. Vous pouvez commencer \u00e0 en prendre (en soutirant avec un tuyau) au bout de quelques mois, et laisser le reste se bonifier en vieillissant.\n\n#### **Carthag\u00e8ne**\n\nRemplissez un petit f\u00fbt avec de l'eau de vie la plus forte possibleet du mo\u00fbt de raisin tr\u00e8s sucr\u00e9 (grenache de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence) de telle sorte que le m\u00e9lange contienne au moins 16% d'alcool pur. Soutirez l'ann\u00e9e suivante.\n\nBien qu'il ne s'agisse pas d'une v\u00e9ritable mistelle, le _pommeau_ (commercialis\u00e9 en Normandie) trouve tout naturellement sa place ici. C'est en effet un excellent ap\u00e9ritif obtenu en assemblant de l'eau-de-vie de cidre (du calvados par exemple), et du jus de pomme bien sucr\u00e9, celui qui s'\u00e9coule en premier du pressoir lorsqu'on fait le cidre. Les principes \u00e0 respecter sont les m\u00eames que pr\u00e9c\u00e9demment :\n\n\u2014 utiliser de l'eau-de-vie d'au moins un an;\n\n\u2014 obtenir un m\u00e9lange \u00e0 18/20%;\n\n\u2014 laisser vieillir au contact du bois de ch\u00eane;\n\n\u2014 soutirer apr\u00e8s clarification.\n\nOn peut imaginer et r\u00e9aliser d'autres ap\u00e9ritifs en suivant ces m\u00eames principes, selon l'eau-de-vie disponible :\n\n\u2014 eau-de-vie de prune et jus de prunes bien m\u00fbres;\n\n\u2014 kirsch et jus de cerise;\n\n\u2014 eau-de-vie de poire et jus de poire, etc.\n\n### **_Les vins doux naturels_**\n\nIls sont difficiles \u00e0 obtenir pour un amateur, car il faut bien ma\u00eetriser les probl\u00e8mes de fermentation (voir le livre _Faites votre vin,_ dans lequel une technique est propos\u00e9e pour \u00e9laborer ce type de vin). Il est cependant possible et assez facile d'en faire de bonnes imitations.\n\nLa plupart des recettes permettant d'imiter ces vins sont en fait des recettes de vins aromatis\u00e9s (exemple : une poign\u00e9e de fleurs de sureau s\u00e9ch\u00e9es dans du vin blanc sucr\u00e9 et renforc\u00e9 \u00e0 l'alcool donne une imitation de muscat).\n\nLa technique suivante est beaucoup plus proche de l'\u00e9laboration de certains vins doux naturels, comme le banyuls. Dans une bonbonne de verre de 15 litres, vous mettez 9 litres de vin rouge \u00e0 12% ayant une faible acidit\u00e9 (du grenache serait l'id\u00e9al, mais c'est possible avec d'autres vins), vous ajoutez 900 grammes de sucre (ou un peu plus, ou un peu moins, selon votre go\u00fbt) et 1 l d'eau-de-vie de vin \u00e0 50\u00b0), ce qui vous donne un m\u00e9lange \u00e0 16%. Vous laissez cette bonbonne remplie aux 2/3 et bouch\u00e9e, dehors, expos\u00e9e au soleil et soumise aux variations de temp\u00e9rature. Au bout de quelques mois, d\u00e9bouchez et sentez : une forte et agr\u00e9able odeur de vin doux naturel se d\u00e9gage. Il ne vous restera plus qu'\u00e0 clarifier le liquide par deux ou trois soutirages alternant avec des p\u00e9riodes de repos en cave.\n\n# **LES DIVERSES LIQUEURS**\n\nDans ce chapitre, il ne sera question que des liqueurs prises habituellement en digestifs. Certaines peuvent aussi \u00eatre utilis\u00e9es en cuisine, pour parfumer des g\u00e2teaux par exemple, ou servir \u00e0 l'\u00e9laboration du cocktails. Il en existe deux cat\u00e9gories, selon leur mode de fabrication : par mac\u00e9ration de plantes dans l'alcool (on peut alors les appeler \u00ab ratafias \u00bb), et par assemblage d'extraits aromatiques obtenus par distillation. Ce dernier mode est le plus utilis\u00e9 par les professionnels; nous nous contenterons du premier, qui donne lui aussi d'excellents r\u00e9sultats.\n\nLe classement des liqueurs d\u00e9crites ici est bas\u00e9 sur la nature des parties de plantes utilis\u00e9es. Pour chaque exemple, la mani\u00e8re de se procurer les ingr\u00e9dients, et la fa\u00e7on exacte de proc\u00e9der ne sont pas r\u00e9p\u00e9t\u00e9es : reportez-vous aux deux premiers chapitres. N'h\u00e9sitez pas non plus \u00e0 vous servir de l'index : un m\u00eame nom de plante pourra vous renvoyer aux pages o\u00f9 vous apprendrez comment vous procurer la plante, comment l'employer pour \u00e9laborer un ap\u00e9ritif et une liqueur.\n\n## **Les liqueurs de fruits charnus**\n\nCe sont souvent celles des premiers essais, r\u00e9alis\u00e9es avec les exc\u00e9dents du jardin : framboises, fraises, cassis... Ces liqueurs ne posent gu\u00e8re de probl\u00e8mes particuliers et le r\u00e9sultat est la plupart du temps tr\u00e8s r\u00e9ussi. Toutefois il faut tenir compte du volume du jus des fruits, ainsi que de la quantit\u00e9 de sucre qu'ils apportent, pour obtenir le degr\u00e9 d'alcool et la teneur en sucre recherch\u00e9s, et ce n'est pas toujours tr\u00e8s simple. Mais rassurez-vous, m\u00eame sans calculs, et avec un peu d'exp\u00e9rience, vous confectionnerez avec ces fruits de d\u00e9licieuses liqueurs aux jolies couleurs.\n\n### **_Les recettes simples_**\n\nCe sont celles r\u00e9alis\u00e9es avec une seule vari\u00e9t\u00e9 de fruits charnus.\n\n_Recette g\u00e9n\u00e9rale_ (voir aussi sch\u00e9ma p. 35)\n\nLes fruits sont choisis bien m\u00fbrs, mais pas trop. La dur\u00e9e de la mac\u00e9ration doit \u00eatre importante : plusieurs semaines ou m\u00eame, quelques mois (si vous avez la patience d'attendre!). Le degr\u00e9 d'alcool final peut varier de 16\u00b0 \u00e0 35\u00b0. Le nom de \u00ab cr\u00e8me \u00bb d\u00e9signe une liqueur \u00e0 consistance sirupeuse en raison de sa forte teneur en sucre (400 \u00e0 500 g/l); la proportion en sucre des autres liqueurs de fruits est souvent de l'ordre de 250-300 g/l, mais vous pouvez aussi les pr\u00e9f\u00e9rer moins sucr\u00e9es.\n\n_Recette-type :_  \n**Liqueur de framboise**\n\nDans un bocal en verre, mettez 1 kg de framboises et 21 d'eau-de-vie. Laissez mac\u00e9rer (si possible au soleil) pendant un mois. Passez au tamis : un premier jus, bien clair, s'\u00e9coule. Pressez les framboises dans un torchon \u00e0 confiture et filtrez le jus obtenu avant de le m\u00e9langer au pr\u00e9c\u00e9dent. Sucrer \u00e0 l'aide d'un sirop compos\u00e9 de 500 g de sucre et d'1/4 l d'eau port\u00e9s quelques minutes \u00e0 \u00e9bullition. Filtrez l'ensemble au bout d'une semaine ou deux, et mettez en bouteilles. (Remarque : il existe bien d'autres recettes possibles de liqueur de framboise.)\n\n**Sch\u00e9ma g\u00e9n\u00e9ral de l'\u00e9laboration d'une liqueur**\n\nEn proc\u00e9dant de la m\u00eame fa\u00e7on, ou d'une mani\u00e8re un peu diff\u00e9rente (voir les diverses techniques possibles dans la deuxi\u00e8me partie), vous pouvez r\u00e9aliser, \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt (selon la nature et le degr\u00e9 de l'alcool utilis\u00e9, la quantit\u00e9 de sucre, etc.) les liqueurs suivantes. Elles sont rang\u00e9es par ordre alphab\u00e9tique des noms de fruits. Comme pour les vins aromatis\u00e9s, les aromates compl\u00e9mentaires sont facultatifs et \u00e0 ajouter \u00e0 la mani\u00e8re d'un assaisonnement.\n\n#### **Liqueur d'abricot**\n\nIl faut des abricots bien parfum\u00e9s. Ouvrez les fruits et laissez les noyaux. La mac\u00e9ration est assez longue (2 mois environ).\n\n#### **Liqueur d'ananas**\n\nAvec un ananas coup\u00e9 en petits morceaux. Aromate compl\u00e9mentaire : une gousse de vanille.\n\n#### **Liqueur de banane**\n\nConvient bien en cr\u00e8me \u00e0 30% environ.\n\n#### **Liqueur de cassis**\n\n\u00c9crasez d'abord un peu les baies de cassis. S'il s'agit d'une cr\u00e8me, remplacez une partie de l'eau-de-vie par du vin rouge, de telle sorte que votre liqueur ne contienne que 16 \u00e0 18% d'alcool et sucrez \u00e0 400 g/l. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : girofle, cannelle.\n\n#### **Liqueur de c\u00e9drat**\n\nAvec le jus et le zeste. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, coriandre.\n\n#### **Liqueur de cerise**\n\nTr\u00e8s bonne avec des griottes. Utilisez du kirsch, si vous pouvez.\n\n#### **Liqueur de coing**\n\nSe fait avec des coings r\u00e2p\u00e9s recouverts d'eau-de-vie, ou mieux avec du jus de coing (mais il faut un petit pressoir ou une centrifugeuse pour jus de fruits).\n\n#### **Liqueur de fraise**\n\nAvec les fraises du jardin ou des fraises des bois.\n\n#### **Liqueur de geni\u00e8vre**\n\nNe pas \u00e9craser les baies. Comptez une poign\u00e9e ou deux de fruits par litre.\n\n#### **Liqueur de kiwi, liqueur de m\u00fbre**\n\n#### **Liqueur de myrte**\n\n\u00c9crasez un peu 2 ou 3 poign\u00e9es de baies de myrte, pour 1 l d'eau-de-vie.\n\n#### **Liqueur de n\u00e8fle**\n\nLes n\u00e8fles doivent \u00eatre \u00e9cras\u00e9es. Laissez les noyaux.\n\n#### **Liqueur de noix verte**\n\nChoisissez des noix encore tendres (en juillet), et coupez-les en morceaux. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, coriandre, clous de girofle, citron... vous avez le choix!\n\n#### **Liqueur d'orange**\n\nIl faut 3 belles oranges pour 1 l d'eau-de-vie. Les couper en morceaux, sans enlever le zeste. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : vanille, clous de girofle, grains de caf\u00e9.\n\n#### **Liqueur de p\u00eache**\n\nUtilisez du jus de p\u00eache.\n\n#### **Liqueur de poire**\n\nAvec le jus de poires bien parfum\u00e9es, et de l'eau-de-vie de poire si possible. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, girofle.\n\n#### **Liqueur de prune**\n\nAvec de petites prunes de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence (mirabelles), ouvertes ou piqu\u00e9es \u00e0 l'aide d'une aiguille.\n\n#### **Liqueur de prunelle**\n\nIl est pr\u00e9f\u00e9rable de ne pas \u00e9craser les prunelles et de les laisser mac\u00e9rer longtemps (2 mois environ).\n\n#### **Liqueur de raisin**\n\n\u00c9crasez 1 kg de raisin tr\u00e8s parfum\u00e9 (muscat par exemple) et laissez mac\u00e9rer avec 1 l d'eau-de-vie de vin de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence.\n\n### **_Les recettes compos\u00e9es_**\n\nPlusieurs fruits diff\u00e9rents sont mis \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer ensemble, \u00e0 moins que vous ne pr\u00e9f\u00e9riez la technique de l'assemblage d'extraits (voir p. 20).\n\n#### **Liqueur de cassis et framboise**\n\nLe m\u00e9lange des deux fruits \u00e9cras\u00e9s et mis \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer ensemble donne de tr\u00e8s savoureuses liqueurs ou cr\u00e8mes.\n\n#### **Liqueur de fruits du verger**\n\nAvec vos cerises, prunes, p\u00eaches... Comme ces fruits ne m\u00fbrissent pas en m\u00eame temps, utilisez la technique donn\u00e9e ci-apr\u00e8s pour la liqueur de vieux gar\u00e7on.\n\n#### **Liqueur de fruits exotiques**\n\nFaites mac\u00e9rer ensemble, dans du rhum par exemple, des morceaux d'ananas, banane, kiwi, mangue, orange, etc. Parfumez avec une gousse de vanille.\n\n#### **Liqueur de fruits sauvages**\n\nAssociez des petits fruits r\u00e9colt\u00e9s dans la nature : m\u00fbres, prunelles, myrtilles, fraises des bois...\n\n#### **Liqueur des petits fruits du jardin**\n\nAvec vos fraises, groseilles, framboises, cassis...\n\n#### **Liqueur des 4 fruits rouges**\n\nAvec des cerises, fraises, framboises et groseilles.\n\n#### **Liqueur de vieux gar\u00e7on**\n\nDans un tr\u00e8s grand bocal, mettez d'abord quelques oranges et citrons coup\u00e9s en rondelles (avec leur zeste), ajoutez le m\u00eame poids de sucre et recouvrez d'eau-de-vie. Puis, du printemps \u00e0 l'automne, compl\u00e9tez votre bocal en renouvelant plusieurs fois l'op\u00e9ration avec les fruits de saison qui se pr\u00e9senteront : fraises, cerises, framboises, cassis, abricots, p\u00eaches, prunes, poires... S\u00e9parez les fruits (qui peuvent d'ailleurs \u00eatre consomm\u00e9s), filtrez et d\u00e9gustez \u00e0 No\u00ebl.\n\n## **Les liqueurs de fruits secs, graines, noyaux et zestes**\n\nPour ces liqueurs, les ingr\u00e9dients proviendront plus souvent des magasins (\u00e9piceries, herboristeries) que de votre jardin ou votre verger. Leur go\u00fbt est tr\u00e8s vari\u00e9, et souvent excellent : anis, caf\u00e9, mandarine...\n\n### **_Les recettes simples_**\n\n_Recette g\u00e9n\u00e9rale_\n\nL'ingr\u00e9dient choisi doit d'abord \u00eatre r\u00e9duit en petits morceaux, puis couvert largement d'eau-de-vie. La mac\u00e9ration dure quelques semaines (elle est souvent assez rapide). Il suffit ensuite de passer, d'ajouter le sirop de sucre et de r\u00e9gler le degr\u00e9 d'alcool (g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement \u00e9lev\u00e9). Une semaine plus tard, un soutirage et, si besoin est, une filtration pr\u00e9c\u00e8deront la mise en bouteilles.\n\n_Recette-type :_  \n**L'anisette**\n\nDans un litre d'alcool \u00e0 90\u00b0 faites mac\u00e9rer pendant un mois 30 \u00e0 40 grammes de graines d'anis vert (vous pouvez y ajouter des graines de coriandre et un peu de cannelle, mais ce n'est pas obligatoire). Passez et ajoutez un sirop compos\u00e9 de 500 g de sucre et d'un litre d'eau. Filtrez au bout de quelques jours. Mettez en bouteilles.\n\nVoici, toujours par ordre alphab\u00e9tique, d'autres liqueurs qui se font de la m\u00eame mani\u00e8re.\n\n#### **Liqueur de badiane**\n\nAnisette d'un go\u00fbt diff\u00e9rent.\n\n#### **Liqueur de cacao**\n\nAvec des f\u00e8ves de cacao torr\u00e9fi\u00e9es (ou qu'on fait griller \u00e0 la po\u00eale). Il en faut au moins 100 g pour 1 l d'alcool fort. Convient bien en cr\u00e8me.\n\n#### **Liqueur de caf\u00e9**\n\nAvec du caf\u00e9 moulu (choisissez de l'arabica), ou du caf\u00e9 (liquide) tr\u00e8s fort. Aromate compl\u00e9mentaire : vanille.\n\n#### **Liqueur de citron ou citronnette**\n\nAvec des zestes de citron. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, girofle. On peut colorer \u00e0 l'aide d'un caramel bien brun.\n\n#### **Liqueur de coriandre**\n\n#### **Liqueur de cumin**\n\nUne journ\u00e9e de mac\u00e9ration de graines de cumin dans l'alcool suffit.\n\n#### **Liqueur de fenouil ou fenouillette**\n\nComptez environ 50 g de graines de fenouil pour 1 l d'eau-de-vie.\n\n#### **Liqueur de mandarine**\n\nAvec les zestes. Comptez une dizaine de mandarines (ou cl\u00e9mentines) pour un litre d'eau-de-vie.\n\n#### **Liqueur de noisette ou noisettine**\n\nAvec des noisettes l\u00e9g\u00e8rement \u00e9cras\u00e9es. Convient bien en cr\u00e8me. Une variante : grillez d'abord vos noisettes \u00e0 la po\u00eale. Vous pouvez aussi ajouter un peu de vanille.\n\n#### **Liqueur de noix**\n\n\u00c9pluchez des noix et recouvrez-les d'eau-de-vie. La couleur et le go\u00fbt sont bien diff\u00e9rents de ceux de la liqueur de noix verte.\n\n#### **Liqueur de noix de coco**\n\n#### **Liqueur de noyau**\n\nPlusieurs mois de mac\u00e9ration sont n\u00e9cessaires pour \u00e9laborer ces liqueurs de noyaux (non cass\u00e9s) d'abricots, de cerises, de n\u00e8fles, de prunes ou de prunelles. Sucrez \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt.\n\n#### **Liqueur de vanille**\n\nIl faut 6 \u00e0 8 gousses de vanille pour 1 l de rhum blanc ou d'une autre eau-de-vie. Convient bien en cr\u00e8me.\n\n### **_Les recettes compos\u00e9es_**\n\n#### **Liqueur des deux anis**\n\nQuel anis pr\u00e9f\u00e9rez-vous, l'anis vert ou l'anis \u00e9toil\u00e9 (ou badiane) ? Si vous n'arrivez pas \u00e0 vous d\u00e9cider, faites une anisette avec les deux plantes.\n\n#### **Liqueur de diverses graines**\n\nChoisissez dans les exemples ci-dessus les graines dont le go\u00fbt vous pla\u00eet, et associez-les dans une m\u00eame liqueur, que vous pouvez baptiser par exemple \u00ab liqueur des cinq graines \u00bb (s'il y en a 5). Plusieurs essais sur de petites quantit\u00e9s sont n\u00e9cessaires. Le r\u00e9sultat est souvent tr\u00e8s bon.\n\nPlut\u00f4t que de mettre les graines \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer ensemble, vous pouvez aussi assembler des liqueurs d\u00e9j\u00e0 pr\u00eates, c'est plus facile de d\u00e9couvrir ainsi les bonnes associations.\n\n#### **Liqueur de divers noyaux**\n\nImmergez toutes sortes de noyaux (\u00e9vitez ceux de p\u00eaches) dans de l'eau-de-vie sucr\u00e9e. Patientez plusieurs mois.\n\n#### **Liqueur de divers zestes**\n\nM\u00e9langez des \u00e9corces de mandarine, de citron, de pamplemousse, d'orange douce ou am\u00e8re, etc.\n\n#### **Liqueur exotique**\n\nEncore une! Associez caf\u00e9, vanille et zestes de mandarine, c'est excellent.\n\n#### **Liqueur de vespetro**\n\nC'est une liqueur \u00e9labor\u00e9e \u00e0 partir de \u00ab graines \u00bb (ce sont en fait de petits fruits secs) de 3 ou 4 esp\u00e8ces d'ombellif\u00e8res : anis vert, ang\u00e9lique, coriandre, et \u00e9ventuellement fenouil. Plusieurs recettes existent, avec des proportions variables, et souvent un peu de zeste de citron; trouvez celle qui vous convient, en commen\u00e7ant, par exemple, par mettre 10 g de chaque dans 1 l d'alcool, pendant 2 semaines.\n\n#### **Mathusalem**\n\nLaissez mac\u00e9rer pendant 2 mois dans 1 l d'eau-de-vie 8 g de coriandre, 2g de graines d'anis vert, 2 g de cannelle, 2 clous de girofle et 1 gousse de vanille.\n\n## **Les liqueurs de feuilles, tiges, fleurs**\n\nCe sont des liqueurs de plantes, comme il en existe de c\u00e9l\u00e8bres : B\u00e9n\u00e9dictine, Chartreuse, Izarra, Verveine... qu'il n'est pas possible de reproduire exactement, car leur \u00e9laboration fait intervenir des op\u00e9rations de distillation, et la nature des nombreuses plantes (48 pour l'Izarra verte) qui les composent est g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement tenue secr\u00e8te. Il est toutefois possible de les imiter un peu, par simple mac\u00e9ration de feuilles assez faciles \u00e0 trouver. Ce sont les recettes compos\u00e9es qui s'en rapprocheront le plus; mais certaines recettes simples sont \u00e9galement excellentes.\n\n### **_Les recettes simples_**\n\n_Recette g\u00e9n\u00e9rale_\n\nIl suffit de mettre \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer les feuilles, tiges ou fleurs, fra\u00eeches ou s\u00e8ches, dans de l'alcool fort ou de l'eau-de-vie assez neutre, puis de sucrer \u00e0 sa convenance \u00e0 l'aide d'un sirop. La mac\u00e9ration sera tr\u00e8s courte (un jour ou deux) pour des feuilles fines et aromatiques, beaucoup plus longue pour des tiges \u00e9paisses (quelques semaines). Le degr\u00e9 d'alcool de ce type de liqueur est souvent tr\u00e8s \u00e9lev\u00e9 : environ 50% pour les liqueurs vertes, 40% pour les liqueurs jaunes; il est possible d'en faire de moins alcoolis\u00e9es (30 \u00e0 35%). La teneur en sucre est g\u00e9n\u00e9ralement de l'ordre de 300 g/l. Rappel : la couleur verte provient de la mac\u00e9ration de certaines feuilles (comme celles de la tanaisie ou de la verveine) \u00e0 l'obscurit\u00e9, tandis que la couleur jaune s'obtient en ajoutant du safran.\n\n_Recette-type :_  \n**La liqueur de tanaisie**\n\nLaissez mac\u00e9rer deux jours, \u00e0 l'abri de la lumi\u00e8re, une poign\u00e9e de feuilles de tanaisie dans de l'eau-de-vie blanche tr\u00e8s forte. Enlevez les feuilles. Ajoutez un sirop compos\u00e9 de 300 g de sucre et d'un grand verre d'eau (15 cl). Vous obtenez ainsi une liqueur d'une magnifique couleur verte, au parfum prononc\u00e9 de la plante (qu'on appelle d'ailleurs \u00ab chartreuse \u00bb dans certaines r\u00e9gions). Cette liqueur peut se boire pure, ou servir de base \u00e0 l'\u00e9laboration d'une liqueur verte compos\u00e9e de plusieurs plantes.\n\nVoici d'autres exemples de recettes simples.\n\n#### **_Liqueur de feuilles..._**\n\n#### **... d'absinthe**\n\nOn en trouve encore des recettes, mais sa fabrication est d\u00e9sormais interdite en France, en raison de la toxicit\u00e9 de certaines substances qu'elle contient (le thuyol en particulier). A \u00e9viter.\n\n#### **... d'ang\u00e9lique**\n\nLaissez mac\u00e9rer une semaine. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : vanille, girofle, zeste d'orange, brin de menthe. A laisser vieillir.\n\n#### **... de basilic**\n\nIl faut une grosse poign\u00e9e de feuilles pour 1 l d'alcool.\n\n#### **... de cassis**\n\nAvec une poign\u00e9e de jeunes feuilles fra\u00eeches. R\u00e9duire le degr\u00e9 (\u00e0 35%) avec du vin blanc.\n\n#### **... de citronnelle**\n\nAutre nom de la m\u00e9lisse (voir ce mot). On appelle encore citronnelle d'autres plantes, dont une est facile \u00e0 trouver, car elle est vendue s\u00e9ch\u00e9e comme plante \u00e0 tisane; vous pouvez aussi en faire une liqueur.\n\n#### **... d'estragon**\n\nIl faut environ 40 g de feuilles (par litre d'eau-de-vie), et laisser mac\u00e9rer longtemps (plusieurs semaines). Aromate compl\u00e9mentaire : vanille (vous pouvez par exemple ajouter un sachet de sucre vanill\u00e9). Cette liqueur doit vieillir, et ressemble alors (selon certains) \u00e0 la B\u00e9n\u00e9dictine.\n\n#### **... de g\u00e9n\u00e9pi**\n\n#### **... d'hysope**\n\n#### **... de laurier**\n\nAromates compl\u00e9mentaires : muscade, girofle.\n\n#### **... de m\u00e9lisse**\n\nLes feuilles (fra\u00eeches ou s\u00e8ches) de m\u00e9lisse (ou citronnelle) doivent mac\u00e9rer assez longtemps (environ 8 jours).\n\n#### **... de menthe**\n\nConvient bien en cr\u00e8me.\n\n#### **... de myrte**\n\n#### **... de p\u00eacher**\n\nSon go\u00fbt de noyau est tr\u00e8s appr\u00e9ci\u00e9. Cette liqueur peut ne contenir que 150 g de sucre par litre, elle n'en sera que meilleure.\n\n#### **... de persil**\n\nUne curiosit\u00e9 \u00e0 essayer.\n\n#### **... de romarin**\n\n#### **... de sauge**\n\nAvec des feuilles de sauge, fra\u00eeches si possible, auxquelles vous pouvez ajouter une pinc\u00e9e de feuilles de menthe.\n\n#### **... de th\u00e9**\n\nFaites mac\u00e9rer du th\u00e9 (feuilles s\u00e9ch\u00e9es) dans de l'eau-de-vie, mais n'en mettez pas trop (1 c. \u00e0 s. pour 1 l suffit).\n\n#### **... de verveine**\n\nAvec une centaine de feuilles par litre d'eau-de-vie et un ou deux mois de mac\u00e9ration. On peut remplacer une partie du sucre par du miel. Le r\u00e9sultat est une magnifique liqueur verte.\n\n#### **_Liqueurs de fleurs..._**\n\nPour ces liqueurs la mac\u00e9ration doit durer environ un mois.\n\n#### **... d'acacia**\n\nCompter 300 grappes de fleurs par litre d'eau-de-vie. Vous pouvez ajouter un peu de vanille.\n\n#### **... de bouillon blanc**\n\nIl faut beaucoup de fleurs.\n\n#### **... de camomille**\n\n#### **... de jasmin**\n\nCueillez 150 \u00e0 200 g de fleurs (pour 1 l). Certaines recettes conseillent de jeter les fleurs dans le sirop de sucre br\u00fblant, puis de laisser refroidir cette infusion avant d'ajouter l'alcool:\n\n#### **... de magnolia**\n\nAvec des p\u00e9tales de fleurs blanches coup\u00e9s en morceaux, et un peu de vanille.\n\n#### **... de millepertuis**\n\nUtilisez pour la mac\u00e9ration 10 g de fleurs s\u00e8ches et ajoutez un demi-citron.\n\n#### **... d'\u0153illet**\n\n\u00c9pluchez des \u0153illets rouges dits \u00ab \u0153illets \u00e0 ratafia \u00bb, et n'utilisez que les p\u00e9tales. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, girofle.\n\n#### **... d'oranger**\n\nAvec 150 g de p\u00e9tales pour 1 l d'eau-de-vie. Si vous avez moins de fleurs, compl\u00e9tez avec de l'eau de fleur d'oranger.\n\n#### **... de rose**\n\nCueillez 100 \u00e0 200 g de p\u00e9tales de rose bien parfum\u00e9s (pour 1 l). Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : coriandre, muscade, girofle.\n\n#### **... de thym**\n\nCouvrez d'eau-de-vie une grande quantit\u00e9 de fleurs de thym. Laissez mac\u00e9rer longtemps (2 \u00e0 3 mois). Sucrez abondamment (400 g/l). Et vous obtenez une liqueur connue sous le nom d'\u00ab \u00e9lixir de thym \u00bb.\n\n#### **... de tilleul**\n\nAvec des fleurs fra\u00eeches de pr\u00e9f\u00e9rence.\n\n#### **... de violette**\n\nPour 1 l d'eau-de-vie, il vous faut 250 g de p\u00e9tales frais de violette odorante. Huit jours de mac\u00e9ration suffisent. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, girofle.\n\n#### **_Liqueur de tiges..._**\n\n#### **... d'ang\u00e9lique**\n\nPr\u00e9voyez 50 \u00e0 150 g de tiges vertes pour 1 l d'eau-de-vie. Laissez mac\u00e9rer plusieurs semaines. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : cannelle, muscade, girofle, amandes am\u00e8res. Convient bien en cr\u00e8me. S'accorde bien avec le miel.\n\n#### **... de c\u00e9leri**\n\nOriginale. Avec 250 g de tiges (c\u00f4tes) et 1 l d'eau-de-vie. Aromates compl\u00e9mentaires : coriandre, anis vert, girofle.\n\n#### **... de fenouil**\n\nA essayer.\n\n### **_Recettes compos\u00e9es_**\n\nVoici des recettes connues et quelques id\u00e9es nouvelles.\n\n**Chartreuse jaune** (imitation)\n\nHachez des feuilles fra\u00eeches de m\u00e9lisse (6 g), d'hysope (6 g) et d'ang\u00e9lique (3 g), et mettez-les \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer 10 jours dans 1 l d'alcool avec un peu de cannelle (1,5 g) et de la coriandre (4 g). Colorez avec du safran. R\u00e9duisez le degr\u00e9 (\u00e0 40%) et sucrez \u00e0 300 g/l.\n\n**Chartreuse verte** (imitation)\n\nDans 1 l d'alcool m\u00ealez des feuilles fra\u00eeches de menthe, d'ang\u00e9lique, de sauge et de m\u00e9lisse (1 \u00e0 2 g de chaque). Laissez une journ\u00e9e, puis ajoutez des feuilles de tanaisie (10 g environ) et laissez mac\u00e9rer quelques heures seulement (5 \u00e0 10) \u00e0 l'obscurit\u00e9. R\u00e9duisez \u00e0 50\u00b0. Sucrez.\n\n#### **Liqueur de feuilles**\n\nPlut\u00f4t que de mettre \u00e0 mac\u00e9rer plusieurs sortes de feuilles ensemble (comme dans la recette pr\u00e9c\u00e9dente), sans savoir quel sera le go\u00fbt final, voici une autre technique pour r\u00e9aliser une belle liqueur verte \u00e0 base de feuilles aromatiques. Faites d'abord s\u00e9par\u00e9ment des liqueurs de tanaisie, menthe, sauge, m\u00e9lisse, verveine, ang\u00e9lique, romarin, etc. Prenez ensuite un r\u00e9cipient gradu\u00e9 (verre doseur par exemple), et sur de petites quantit\u00e9 (que vous notez) essayez diff\u00e9rentes associations. Vous en d\u00e9couvrirez de d\u00e9licieuses, et bien personnelles. Vous pourrez aussi ajouter un peu de vos liqueurs de graines (fenouil, anis...) ou de zestes (citron, mandarine) : tout est permis, seule la qualit\u00e9 du r\u00e9sultat compte.\n\n#### **Liqueur de g\u00e9n\u00e9pi des Alpes**\n\nPour 1 l d'alcool il vous faut des feuilles s\u00e9ch\u00e9es de g\u00e9n\u00e9pi (4 g) et de menthe poivr\u00e9e (2 g), auxquelles vous ajoutez des graines d'anis vert, d'ang\u00e9lique, de coriandre et de fenouil (1 g de chaque).\n\n#### **Liqueur de fleurs du jardin**\n\nFaites mac\u00e9rer ensemble des p\u00e9tales de rose, d'\u0153illet, des fleurs de jasmin, de violettes...\n\n## **Les liqueurs sp\u00e9ciales**\n\nCertaines liqueurs rentrent dificilement dans les cat\u00e9gories pr\u00e9c\u00e9dentes, en raison de l'originalit\u00e9 de leurs ingr\u00e9dients, de leur technique de fabrication ou de leur go\u00fbt bien \u00ab sp\u00e9cial \u00bb. En voici quelques-unes.\n\n#### **Chrysomel**\n\nParfumez d'abord 1 l d'eau-de-vie en y faisant mac\u00e9rer deux semaines une gousse de vanille. Faites bouillir 1 kg de miel dans 2 l d'eau, sans couvrir, jusqu'\u00e0 ce qu'il ne reste plus qu'environ 1 l de liquide. Laissez refroidir ce sirop et versez-y votre eau-de-vie aromatis\u00e9e. Attendez 15 j. Filtrez avant de mettre en bouteilles.\n\n#### **Liqueur aux \u0153ufs**\n\nDans un grand bocal versez le jus de 5 citrons. D\u00e9posez-y d\u00e9licatement 3 \u0153ufs tr\u00e8s frais dont vous aurez perc\u00e9 le gros bout (c\u00f4t\u00e9 \u00ab chambre \u00e0 air \u00bb) \u00e0 l'aide d'une aiguille. Deux jours plus tard, battez ce m\u00e9lange (en cassant les \u0153ufs), passez-le avec un torchon \u00e0 confiture, et ajoutez 1/4 l d'eau-de-vie et 125 g de sucre. Vous pouvez alors mettre en bouteille et d\u00e9guster cette cr\u00e8me citronn\u00e9e (\u00e0 conserver au r\u00e9frig\u00e9rateur).\n\n#### **Liqueur de lait ou opaline**\n\nM\u00ealez 3/4 l de lait et autant d'eau-de-vie; ajoutez 400 g de sucre, un citron coup\u00e9 en rondelles et une gousse de vanille. Laissez mac\u00e9rer 2 semaines en remuant tous les jours. Soutirez et filtrez sur papier, de mani\u00e8re \u00e0 obtenir une liqueur tr\u00e8s claire... et de go\u00fbt d\u00e9licieux.\n\n#### **Liqueur dor\u00e9e**\n\nLaissez mac\u00e9rer 8 jours dans 1 l d'eau-de-vie, 0,4 l de vin de Malaga, 3 g de quinquina, 3 g de cannelle, 3 g d'\u00e9corces d'oranges am\u00e8res, et un peu de safran pour la couleur. Ajoutez 250 g de sucre.\n\n#### **Liqueur de gingembre**\n\nAvec 50 g de racine (ou plut\u00f4t de rhizome) de gingembre pour 1 l d'alcool, vous obtenez (apr\u00e8s avoir sucr\u00e9 et r\u00e9duit le degr\u00e9) une liqueur tr\u00e8s \u00e9pic\u00e9e.\n\n#### **Liqueur du pendu**\n\nChoisissez une belle orange ou une belle poire Williams. Avec une ficelle de cuisine (et l'aide d'un passe-laine) suspendez-la dans un bocal au-dessus d'1/2 l d'eau-de-vie blanche aussi neutre que possible, \u00e0 laquelle vous avez ajout\u00e9 200 g de sucre. Le fruit ne doit pas toucher le liquide. Fermez herm\u00e9tiquement. Exposez au soleil. 2 ou 3 mois plus tard, jetez le fruit et d\u00e9gustez le liquide parfum\u00e9.\n\n#### **Liqueur stimulante**\n\nFaites mac\u00e9rer 3 j dans 1/2 l d'eau-de-vie 30 g d'anis vert, 20 g de badiane, 30 g de feuilles de menthe, 15 g de feuilles de menthe, 15 g de feuilles de sauge et 10 g de feuilles de thym. La teinture obtenue ne se boit pas pure, mais doit \u00eatre allong\u00e9e d'eau sucr\u00e9e ou de vin blanc doux.\n\nEnfin, voici une recette tr\u00e8s classique, qui vous donnera en plus d'une excellente liqueur quelque chose \u00e0 vous mettre sous la dent :\n\n#### **Fruits \u00e0 l'eau-de-vie**\n\nChoisissez de tr\u00e8s beaux fruits (avec de gros fruits tels que p\u00eaches et poires, c'est possible \u00e9galement, mais il faut d'abord les faire cuire dans un sirop), par exemple :\n\n\u2014 des framboises;\n\n\u2014 des cerises, dont vous coupez la moiti\u00e9 du p\u00e9doncule (queue);\n\n\u2014 des mirabelles, dont vous percez la peau en de nombreux points \u00e0 l'aide d'une aiguille, et auxquelles vous laissez une partie de la queue;\n\n\u2014 des grains de raisin que vous pr\u00e9levez avec une paire de ciseaux, de mani\u00e8re \u00e0 conserver un petit porceau de p\u00e9doncule.\n\nGarnissez-en un grand bocal par couches successives, s\u00e9par\u00e9es de quelques cuiller\u00e9es de sucre en poudre (on pourrait aussi ne sucrer qu'\u00e0 la fin avec un sirop). Couvrez d'eau-de-vie pour fruits. Laissez mac\u00e9rer au moins deux mois, avant de commencer \u00e0 d\u00e9guster, dans une coupe, de d\u00e9licieux fruits baignant dans une liqueur non moins savoureuse.\n\n_Votre avis nous int\u00e9resse !\n\nLaissez un commentaire sur le site de votre libraire en ligne et partagez vos coups de c\u0153ur sur les r\u00e9seaux sociaux !_\n\n## **Conclusion**\n\nVous aviez envie de fabriquer vous-m\u00eame des ap\u00e9ritifs et des liqueurs. Vous aviez sans doute d\u00e9j\u00e0 quelque exp\u00e9rience. Vous voil\u00e0 maintenant mieux arm\u00e9s pour r\u00e9ussir : des recettes, des id\u00e9es de recettes, mais surtout, je l'esp\u00e8re, une meilleure compr\u00e9hension de ces recettes, des m\u00e9thodes \u00e0 mettre en \u0153uvre pour parvenir \u00e0 \u00e9laborer une boisson pleinement r\u00e9ussie, m\u00eame avec les petits moyens dont dispose un amateur.\n\nCe petit livre peut aussi vous permettre, si vous le d\u00e9sirez, d'aller plus loin : de mettre au point vous-m\u00eame des recettes originales, nouvelles, avec des ingr\u00e9dients inhabituels (par exemple, en essayant les nouveaux fruits exotiques actuellement en vogue), ou en d\u00e9couvrant des associations particuli\u00e8rement exquises... : un vaste champ de recherche s'ouvre devant vous.\n\nM\u00eame sans voir si grand, l'\u00e9laboration en amateur de spiritueux est un loisir plein d'avantages qui ne peut qu'am\u00e9liorer la qualit\u00e9 de la vie de celui qui la pratique, ainsi que de son entourage. C'est en effet une activit\u00e9 tr\u00e8s int\u00e9ressante, autant manuelle qu'intellectuelle, qui d\u00e9veloppe les sens de l'odorat et du go\u00fbt. Elle permet des contacts agr\u00e9ables avec ses amis. De plus, elle d\u00e9bouche sur un produit naturel, de bonne qualit\u00e9, sans substances chimiques, sans risque pour la sant\u00e9... \u00e0 condition de n'en user qu'avec mod\u00e9ration.\n**ADRESSES UTILES**\n\n_fabricants et distributeurs de mat\u00e9riel_  \n**Tom Press,** ZA de la Condamine,  \n81540 SOREZE. T\u00e9l. 05 63 71 44 99.  \nFax 05 63 71 44 98  \n@: infos@tompress.com  \nSite : www.tompress.com\n\n**Duhall\u00e9,** la boutique du ma\u00eetre de chai\n\nZI du Bois Vert, 31120 Portet sur  \nGaronne. T\u00e9l. 05 62 11 73 01  \n**Sanbri,** l'atelier du vin, route de  \nChepoix, 60120 Breteuil.\n\n**BMS Wijndepot NV,** Brugsesteeweg  \n313-317, B-8520 Kuurne  \nT\u00e9l. 00 32 (0)56 71 46 65. Fax 00 32 (0)56 71 84 64\n\n@: bms-wijndepot@skynet.be  \nSite : www.bmswijndepot.com\n\n**Brouwland**\n\nKorspelsesteenweg, 86  \nB-3581 Beverlo  \nT\u00e9l. 00 32 11 40 14 08  \nFax 00 32 11 34 73 59  \nite : www.brouwland.com\n\n## **Index**\n\nAbricot -35\n\nAbsinthe -26-41\n\nAcacia -42\n\nAk\u00e8ne\n\nAlcool\n\nAlcoom\u00e8tre\n\nAmer\n\nAnanas -35\n\nAng\u00e9lique 8/9-12 -41-43\n\nAnis -38/39\n\nAnisette\n\nArbouse\n\nArmagnac\n\nArnica\n\nAsp\u00e9rule -26\n\nBadiane -38/39\n\nBanane -36\n\nBasilic -26-41\n\nBitter\n\nBouillon blanc\n\nBouleau -27\n\nBourbon\n\nCacao -38\n\nCaf\u00e9 -38\n\nCalvados\n\nCamomille -27\n\nCannelle\n\nCarthag\u00e8ne\n\nCassis -26-27 -37-41\n\nC\u00e9drat -35\n\nC\u00e9leri -43\n\nCerfeuil\n\nCerise -36-46\n\nCerisier  -26\n\nChartreuse\n\nChicor\u00e9e -28\n\nChrysomel\n\nCitron -38\n\nCitronnelle -41\n\nCitron nette\n\nClou de girofle\n\nCognac\n\nCoing -36\n\nCoprah\n\nCoriandre -38\n\nCr\u00e8me -35\n\nCumin -39\n\nDatte -30\n\nD\u00e9cantation\n\nD\u00e9coction\n\nEau-de-vie\n\nEstragon -41\n\n\u00c9thanol\n\n\u00c9tiquette\n\nExtrait\n\nFenouil -12-28 -43\n\nFenou illette\n\nFigue -30\n\nFiltre\n\nFraise -36\n\nFraise des bois -36\n\nFramboise 11/12 -35-37-46\n\nFruit de la passion\n\nG\u00e9n\u00e9pi -41-44\n\nGeni\u00e8vre -28\n\nGentiane -28-31\n\nGingembre -45\n\nGirofle\n\nGroseille -30\n\nGuignolet\n\nHysope -41\n\nInfusion\n\nJasmin -42\n\nKirsch\n\nKiwi -36\n\nLait\n\nLaurier -41\n\nLiqueur dor\u00e9e\n\nLiqueur exotique\n\nLiqueur stimulante\n\nLitchi\n\nMac\u00e9ration\n\nMagnolia -42\n\nMandarine -39\n\nMangue\n\nMarrube blanc\n\nMathusalem\n\nM\u00e9lisse -26-41\n\nMenthe -26-41\n\nMerise\n\nMethanol\n\nMiel\n\nMillepertuis -43\n\nMirabelle -36-46\n\nMistelle\n\nM\u00fbre -36\n\nMuscat -37\n\nMyrte -36-42\n\nMyrtille -36\n\nN\u00e8fle -36\n\nNoisette -39\n\nNoisettine\n\nNoix 11/12-28-36\n\nNoix de coco\n\nNoyau -40\n\nNoyer -27\n\n\u0152illet -43\n\n\u0152ufs\n\nOpaline\n\nOrange -28-36\n\nOranger -43\n\nOrigan\n\nPamplemousse -28\n\nPastis\n\nP\u00eache -13 -46\n\nP\u00eacher -26-42\n\nPendu\n\nPersil -42\n\nPervenche -27\n\nPineau\n\nPoire -36-46\n\nPommeau\n\nPrune -36\n\nPruneau -28\n\nPrunelle -37\n\nPrunellier -27\n\nPrunier -27\n\nQuetsche\n\nQuinquina -25\n\nRaisin 11/12-37\n\nRatafia -34\n\nRhum\n\nRiquiqui\n\nRobinier\n\nRomarin 9/10-27\n\nRose -43\n\nSafran\n\nSarriette -27\n\nSauge -27-42\n\nSerpolet\n\nSiphon\n\nSirop\n\nSoutirage\n\nSpiritueux\n\nSureau noir\n\nTanaisie 9/10 40/41\n\nTilleul -43\n\nTh\u00e9 -42\n\nThym 9/10-43\n\nVanille -39\n\nVermouth\n\nVerveine -42\n\nVespetro\n\nVieux gar\u00e7on\n\nViolette -43\n\nVodka -33\n\nWhisky\n\nWilliams -45\n\nZeste \n**Chez le m\u00eame \u00e9diteur en num\u00e9rique**\n\n**Polars \u00ab La part des anges \u00bb**\n\n_Pourriture noble et vendange tardive_ , Jean-Marc Carit\u00e9\n\n_Araign\u00e9e rouge et cigogne noire_ , Jean-Marc Carit\u00e9\n\n_La revanche du gringet_ , Jean-Marc Carit\u00e9\n\n_Atomes crochus_ , Jean-Marc Carit\u00e9\n\n**L'Encyclop\u00e9die d'Utovie**\n\n_Faites vos ap\u00e9ritifs et vos liqueurs... \u00e0 votre go\u00fbt_ , J-A. Chardon\n\n_Faites votre bi\u00e8re_ , J-A. Chardon\n\n_Faites votre serre facile et productive_ , Christophe Geoffrion\n\n_Vivre centenaire et bien portant_ , Dr Dominique Georget-Tessier\n\n**Henri Guillemin : l'histoire autrement**\n\n_1789-1792/1792-1794 : Les deux R\u00e9volutions fran\u00e7aises_ , Henri Guillemin\n\n_1789 : silence aux pauvres !_ , Henri Guillemin\n\n**Catalogue complet (avec achat s\u00e9curis\u00e9 en ligne) sur  \nwww.utovie.com**\n\n\u00a9 \u00c9ditions d'Utovie  \n402 route des Pyr\u00e9n\u00e9es  \n40320 Bats  \nutovie@wanadoo.fr  \nwww.utovie.com\n\ne-ISBN : 9782868194046\n\n\u00a9 2016, version num\u00e9rique Primento et \u00c9ditions d'Utovie\n\nCe livre a \u00e9t\u00e9 r\u00e9alis\u00e9 par _Primento_ , le partenaire num\u00e9rique des \u00e9diteurs\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Praying for Gil Hodges - Thomas Oliphant"}, "text": "Praise for _Praying for Gil Hodges_\n\n\"In _Praying for Gil Hodges,_ Tom Oliphant has created a small masterpiece\u2014a splendid re-creation of life in the 1950s, a poignant tribute to his parents, and a fabulous story about the central role the Brooklyn Dodgers played in the lives of his and countless other families. Moving effortlessly from an adults perspective to a child's recollection, shifting seamlessly between the present and the past, he captures the reader's interest at every step along the way. I found myself happily transported back in time, following a warm-hearted young boy as he comes of age in a memorable era.\"\n\n\u2014Doris Kearns Goodwin, author of the bestselling _Wait Till Next Year_\n\n\"A family saga that is universal in appeal, even for readers too young to recall the long-gone world of the 1950s.\"\n\n\u2014 _USA Today Sports Weekly_\n\n\"For the way it recaptures a special time and place, _Praying for Gil Hodges_ is worthwhile reading for summer's bittersweet last days.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Providence Journal_\n\n\"Oliphant has written a significant book that recalls nicely how the Dodgers at last became masters of all they surveyed.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Washington Times_\n\n\"The book is a trip to the time of Alan Freed's Rock 'n' Roll Show at the Brooklyn Paramount, Coney Island summers, and, of course, an enchanting team and its bandbox ballpark on Bedford Avenue. Top that for magic, Harry Potter.\"\n\n\u2014 _Newsday_ (Long Island, New York)\n\n\"Oliphant's timely and stylishly written memoir will warm the hearts and rekindle memories of those who were there. And for those who weren't, it offers a glimpse of America and a team from Brooklyn's history.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Hartford Courant_\n\n\"Oliphant has an endearing way of mixing history and biography and, especially for someone who grew up in Brooklyn and spent many Sundays in church hoping to spot number fourteen in a pew, this book is like going home.\"\n\n\u2014CBSNews.com, Beach Book Bag\n\n# Praying for  \nGil Hodges\n\n_A Memoir  \nof the 1955 World Series  \nand One Family's Love of  \nthe Brooklyn Dodgers_\n\n**Thomas Oliphant**\n\nTHOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.  \nAn imprint of St. Martin's Press.\n\nPRAYING FOR GIL HODGES. Copyright \u00a9 2005 by Thomas Oliphant. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.\n\n_Book design by Michael Collica_\n\nwww.stmartins.com\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nOliphant, Thomas.\n\nPraying for Gil Hodges: a memoir of the 1955 World Series and one family's love of the Brooklyn Dodgers / Thomas Oliphant.  \np. cm.  \nISBN-13: 978-0-312-31762-1  \nISBN-10: 0-312-31762-X (pbk)  \n1. Brooklyn Dodgers (Baseball team)\u2014History. 2. World Series (Baseball) (1955) 3. Baseball fans\u2014United States. I. Title.\n\nGV875.B7 055 2005  \n796.357'64'0974723\u2014dc22\n\n2005040941\n\nFirst St. Martin's Griffin Edition: July 2006\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n_In loving memory of Homer and Anna Oliphant,  \nwho knew that my wife, Susan, is the love of my life;  \nI dream of us all together drinking cream soda  \nin the bleachers at Ebbets Field._\n\n## Contents\n\nAcknowledgments\n\n1. A Bridge in Indiana\n\n2. Apartment 2503\n\n3. Scarlet\n\n4. Gil, Jackie, Pee Wee, and a Parable of Race\n\n5. Two Pitchers\n\n6. Getting By\n\n7. The Good (and Bad) Old Days\n\n8. One Run\n\n9. The Man from Fordham\n\n10. The Sad, Crazy Saga\n\n11. 1955\n\n12. The Longest Inning\n\n13. Nine Outs\n\n14. Glowing\n\n15. Afterward\n\nName Index\n\n## Acknowledgments\n\nAlmost by definition, _Praying for Gil Hodges_ was the kind of project that demanded at least an attempt at mixing apples, oranges, pears, peaches, and strawberries.\n\nFor most of my life, I have carried with me vivid memories of the seventh game of the 1955 World Series, but I always sensed that simply reconstructing one of the most exciting baseball games ever played would not do justice to those memories. Fortunately, I had a lot of help as I tried to puzzle through it all.\n\nMy wife, Susan Spencer; my best friend and longtime colleague, Curtis Wilkie; and my literary representative, Deborah Grosvenor, would not permit me to take refuge in a one-dimensional reconstruction of a famous baseball game fifty years after it was played. They insisted that I deal with the Brooklyn Dodgers of that long ago October afternoon in context to both explain the power of my own memories and their unusual resonance at the time and ever since in the country.\n\nThere was, of course, the game that dramatically ended a literary seesaw World Series. But there was also this unique team that represented part of a city, its wild and usually heartbreaking history, its hold on Americans for whom the underdog is a very easy metaphor, its roots in a special part of New York City that has deep and lasting ties to the rest of the country, its direct relevance to the story of my own family and of my early years, and its special role in helping end the grip racial segregation still had on post-World War II America.\n\nBefore I got started I also had the help of two special friends who happen to root for their home team, the Los Angeles Dodgers. Katherine Reback, a deft screenwriter by trade, helped me understand that drama needs pacing and that words can help make narrative almost visual. And Lynne Wasserman, with typical graciousness, helped open some of the first doors that made my research possible and then rewarding.\n\nBecause there was so much juggling of topics and narratives, the completion of my first stab at manuscript was just the beginning of my long journey. My editor at Thomas Dunne, Peter Wolverton, was a patient, exacting, and simply marvelous partner in helping shape the draft so that its many digressions had a chance of fitting together. Working at times on a daily basis with his assistant Kathleen Gilligan, was pure joy. I also enjoyed a father's special pleasure\u2014the assistance of one of my favorite writers, my daughter, Wendy, who both pruned much of my verbosity and helped shape the introduction. A final pleasure was the chance to spend a little time learning from two of my writing heroines, the historian Doris Kearns Goodwin and the novelist Marylouise Oates. Doris shared my love for the Dodgers, lived a story not dissimilar from my own, and wrote an inspirational memoir about that special time, _Wait Till Next Year._ Marylouise is both my dear friend and a superb get-to-the-point editor.\n\nAs an organization, the Dodgers have always been most careful to preserve and honor their past, including the team's heart-shattering move to the West Coast in 1958. My research spanned the period when their ownership changed from Rupert Murdochs Fox Entertainment Group to Frank and Jamie McCourt of Boston. Bob Graziano, then the team's president, could not have been kinder in helping me get started. And the McCourts were both gracious and generous. The link for me was a most remarkable person, Mark Langell, who keeps the Dodger flame burning with astonishing dedication and diligence. As the team's historian, he gave generously of his time helping me get in touch with people, recommending books and other research materials, some long out of print, and offering helpful suggestions.\n\nEvery writer delving into baseball's past, especially anything associated with the Brooklyn Dodgers, has two special treats in store. The first is the New York Public Library, a huge influence in my childhood and still a unique temple of learning. I spent two unforgettable weeks lost in its newspaper and periodical rooms, a delicious experience tempered only by sorrow that budget problems restrict the great place's hours. The second treat is the research wing of baseball's Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. Baseball lovers who visit are often surprised to discover that anyone can walk into it, ask for some bit of the game's past, and get lost in the joys of history. My days there, helped immeasurably by research associate Gabriel Schecter and his colleagues, were a delight.\n\nIt has often been noted that not many of the players who suited up on October 4, 1955, are still living. Just eleven of the Brooklyn Dodgers are still alive, and only a few of them played pivotal roles in the game. Because I was interested in the depth above all, it was vital to talk to the pitchers. The thrill of actually spending a day with the person who dominated Game Seven and gave me the happiest moment of my life up to the age of ten is indescribable. My gratitude to Johnny Podres knows no bounds. But an unexpected delight was another day spent with his opponent that day for the Yankees, Tommy Byrne. Witty and gracious, he was the perfect bookend for Podres.\n\nI am also grateful to players like George \"Shotgun\" Shuba, who played critical roles in the game's still unbelievable sixth inning, for sharing memories of their brief moments on that stage. It is also sometimes forgotten that some of the Dodgers wrote memoirs that included important facts about Game Seven. Manager Walter Alston wrote two, as did Roy Campanella. Gems are also available from works published by Jackie Robinson, Carl Erskine, and especially the marvelous memoir written by Duke Snider with Bill Gilbert. Above all, in my search for depth and perspective, I am eternally grateful to two icons of Dodger history who made time to help me understand the 1955 triumph in context. Vin Scully shared a morning with me before broadcasting a game from Chicago's Wrigley Field. And E. J. \"Buzzie\" Bavasi, a truly fascinating man with an institutional memory stretching back to the late 1930s, was kind to spend an afternoon regaling me with stories at his home in La Jolla, California.\n\nTo even attempt to understand Brooklyn required, I believe, the assistance of contemporaries who were there\u2014not just that one day, but throughout the Dodgers' tortuous but glorious journey after World War II. Hearing their personal stories as well as their baseball memories transported me back to those days that never really leave me. I cannot come close to adequately expressing my gratitude for the courtesy and generosity showed to me by Florence (Rubenstein) Hart, Jill Schuker, Carey Aminoff, Billy Delury, and Gary Hymel. A pal in politics for many years, I am also grateful beyond words to Hymel for providing what to me is the priceless souvenir of my research\u2014the scorecard he kept from the center-field bleachers in Yankee Stadium that unforgettable afternoon.\n\nEvery important American story is punctuated by race. In the case of the Dodgers, the enormous attention that accompanied Jackie Robinson's historic step onto Ebbets Field in 1947 tended to ebb as time passed, in part because the Dodgers were trying to make integration work and not simply to make headlines. In my view, the special impact the Dodgers had on post-war America is incomprehensible without an understanding of this vital element of their inspiring story. To help me put it in context, I was helped by a special person in my life\u2014Vernon Jordan, the civil-rights leader and Washington power broker. Jordan not only added delightful detail to his memories of a Dodger tour through his native Georgia when he was a child (told originally in his widely praised memoir, _Vernon Can Read_ ), he also helped me understand how huge the Dodgers' frontal challenge to segregation loomed nationally at a time when none of the other race news was good. As if that weren't enough, he also helped hook me up with his own mentor, still in Brooklyn\u2014Reverend Gardner Calvin Taylor. Now in his eighties, Reverend Taylor was kind enough to spend a few hours helping me understand what it was like to be in Brooklyn in the 1940s and '50s. He had not only helped the team take strides forward behind the scenes, he also spoke eloquently and in detail of what it was like to be African-American at that time in that town. He is both a theologian of worldwide repute and a person of deep faith and I am forever grateful for his assistance.\n\nEvery writer who has ever tackled a book project with a spouse in the house gets reminded daily why he remains head over heels in love. My Susan was with me long before the takeoff, and through every stage of the research and writing and editing (much of which was based on her famous preference for clarity as one of CBS News' best correspondents). In the face of unconditional love, one does not express gratitude so much as awe. I am also forever indebted to my three children\u2014Tom, Wendy, and Jeremy (along with his wife, Jennifer, who did some of the organizational work that helped me get started)\u2014for their understanding of an often distracted father.\n\nEvery writer also begins every project aware of his enormous dependence on others and then grateful in the extreme for the help he has received. In the end, however, I recognize the ultimate truth\u2014that each and every error, whether of conception or execution, is mine alone.\n**Praying for\n\nGil Hodges**\n\n## 1\n\n## A Bridge in Indiana\n\nIt happened right out of the blue.\n\nI had started early on my way through rural, southern Indiana to spend some time in the university town of Bloomington. After maybe thirty uneventful, placid miles on State Highway 57, I passed a sign announcing the nearby town of Princeton. It set off an indistinct bell in my head, one of those moments when you react to something before your memory tells you why.\n\nI had not quite resolved the question when the next sign several miles north answered it for me with jarring finality:\n\nThe Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge.\n\nI slammed on the brakes, skidding a bit on loose gravel and coming to a halt just on the far side.\n\nIt wasn't much, a simple, concrete structure spanning the not-mighty White River in an area where coal had once ruled. The bridge was puny compared to the other one named after Gil Hodges\u2014which connects the western chunk of New York's Rock-away peninsula to Brooklyn. His name was added to its more familiar Marine Parkway title in 1978, six years after he died of a heart attack on a Florida golf course, just shy of his forty-eighth birthday.\n\nBut this bridge _was_ Gil Hodges\u2014quiet, simple, strong, unadorned.\n\nIt was in the middle of nowhere\u2014a pine forest framed the two-lane road with no signs of nearby life beyond the birds. It was a crisp, clear, windy October day, not unlike another October day decades earlier that began coming back to me in a rush.\n\nIt had already been a lovely morning. State Highway 57 shoots straight north out of Evansville. It quickly clears what pass for the suburbs of the small city and then becomes this quiet road, guiding a traveler by fertile fields of soybeans and corn, thick woods, and little else.\n\nIt was the right road for someone on the wrong roads a bit too much, the perfect respite from the homogenized sameness of interstate-airport-hotel \"life.\" As a newspaper columnist with a yen for politics, this is familiar, favored territory because of its proximity to one of the most revealing stretches of real estate in America\u2014the land on either side of the Ohio River. From Pittsburgh to Cairo, Illinois, where it meets the Mississippi, the Ohio defines what is called Middle America; every two years, the six states that touch it provide many of my best clues to where the country is headed.\n\nI am a New Yorker by birth, childhood, and disposition still. Gil Hodges was my father's hero and he became my hero. At first, I assumed it was because he and my father were both from rural Indiana. Only later did I understand that my father\u2014and eventually I\u2014looked up to his enormous character, his abiding concern for others, his stoic response to adversity. It was very personal.\n\nGil Hodges was one of the stars on the Brooklyn Dodgers, a baseball team that after World War II personified the hard-luck struggler's lot; blazed amazing trails in race relations long before the rest of the country caught up; represented a huge chunk of New York with deep ties to the entire country; and then migrated west.\n\nIn addition to being one of the premier first basemen of his time, Hodges was also one of the stars on what for a great many years I had no difficulty identifying as the happiest day of my life\u2014October 4, 1955, the only day in the seventy-odd years of the fabled and cursed franchise when the Dodgers ruled the world. I don't have to close my eyes; I can still see the solid single he hit cleanly into Yankee Stadium's left field that drove in Roy Campanella with the first Dodger run of the afternoon.\n\nI can still see the long fly ball that he hit near the warning track in right-center field two innings later that for one thrilling instant looked like it might be a grand-slam home run. It was more than deep enough to drive in his pal and Ohio River valley neighbor, Pee Wee Reese, with the second and only other run of an excruciatingly tense game.\n\nI can still see this tall, broad-shouldered man with a big, expressive face reaching and then reaching some more to take two famous throws at first base from his Kentucky friend that day\u2014the first to complete an electrifying double play following a spectacular catch in the outfield that remains one of the memorable moments in one hundred years of World Series lore; the second to record the last out of the seventh game of the one Series Brooklyn won.\n\nI can still see the Dodgers sprinting from their dugout, led by a courageous black man of legendary intensity named Jackie Robinson, to converge around the most improbable hero of all\u2014a kid from upstate New York who had just turned twenty-three and had pitched a shutout at the New York Yankees with everything on the line, too young to understand or accept the long odds against him. For two hours and forty-four minutes, Johnny Podres had simply defied defeat.\n\nAnd I can still see something else a few hours later, sitting on the stoop of a brownstone just off Atlantic Avenue in the heart of Brooklyn, a couple of steps above my father and mother, who were laughing and necking like teenagers while a parade of happy people pranced before them on the street.\n\nThat day on the bridge near Princeton, I had a few doughnuts and a milk with me, so I left my car by the side of the road and sat on the bridge for a while.\n\nI have always associated my Dodgers with the World Series of 1955, and above all with the seventh and deciding game\u2014the moment when they finally won a World Championship, finally defeated the hated New York Yankees, finally gave those of us who adored them the one (and, it would turn out, the only) World Series they managed to win after decades of usually daffy, maddeningly frustrating existence.\n\nBut my memories of that glorious day are bittersweet as well as joyous, painful as much as happy, sober as much as triumphant, quietly proud as much as tickled to death. They go well beyond baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers.\n\nIn those days, baseball with its complicated but natural rhythms of pitch counts, innings, games, and seasons was such a shared experience across America that metaphors were not only common but also clear and unforced. Baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers were major ingredients in the glue that held my little family together through tough times and happy times, a metaphor for hope, disappointment, triumph, and tragedy. On that one day in 1955, just before my tenth birthday, I had my first vague insight into how they all fit together\u2014how effort is more important than result, why We is more important than I, and why the only things that truly matter are whether your word's any good and how you treat others.\n\nThe wise guy side of my journalistic persona always interrupts these reveries to remind me that romanticizing childhood memories, especially where a sporting event is involved, is just about the hokiest exercise in silly self-indulgence imaginable. In fact, there is nothing of my superficial memory that is special, much less unique. Where the Brooklyn Dodgers of 1955 are concerned, I was just one kid among roughly 3 million Dodger fans in New York City, an even tinier pebble in the ocean of people around the country in those days for whom the Dodgers were the epitome of deserving underdog-ism, just as the New York Yankees symbolized Roman Empire-like success and intimidating mastery.\n\nIn the twentieth century, sports on occasion reached legitimate, metaphorical heights\u2014when Jack Johnson and Joe Louis reigned and when Seabiscuit raced during the depression, and earlier when onetime caddy Francis Ouimet took on the snotty establishment of golf at the democratizing breakthrough that was the U.S. Open in 1913. The fact that Dodgers-Yankees was multidimensional only added to its grand character.\n\nOn the bridge that day, it occurred to me that at some point in my life I might try at last to puzzle through all this\u2014to see if my memory of that day and that astonishing seventh game stood up to examination, to understand the mixed emotions it evoked, and to see if the personal might find space in a larger picture of the Brooklyn Dodgers and their unique history. I have come, years later, to the conclusion that the Dodgers are well worth it and that my wise-guy side can go to hell.\n\nThat day and that game in 1955 turn out to be even more amazing and memorable than the snippets of memory that had remained with me. The game mocks the linear, shorthand summaries that have followed it for nearly fifty years\u2014a brilliant 2\u20130 shutout thrown at the Yankees by a kid southpaw, a tight game saved by a spectacular catch in the sixth inning by another kid, a black man from Cuba. In truth, the game was nearly three hours of unrelenting torture and suspense, a roller-coaster ride mostly evocative of all the past years of disappointment until literally the final pitch. Each team came to bat nine times that afternoon, and the game and the Series could have gone either way during fully seven of them, not counting the Yankees' last, excruciatingly drawn-out at-bat. It is no accident of New York media myopia that this World Series and that game are on all the short lists of the most memorable games, strictly as baseball.\n\nMy memories should resonate with anyone for whom the Brooklyn Dodgers stand as a decent metaphor for life's battles against the odds and hard facts of history; they resonate twice as loudly because the only major-league team named after a neighborhood represented a special place that meant and still means melting pot, working families, and a rash pride in a unifying struggle that is mostly hard; and they resonate three times as loudly with the unique leitmotif of Dodger history, the fact that this is the organization that first clawed successfully at the walls of racial segregation that besmirched baseball's self-identification as the national pastime, long before civil rights was a powerful national movement, and even before Harry Truman ordered the desegregation of the country's armed forces.\n\nAfter evolving in the 1880s, the Dodgers were down much more than they were up, a source of exasperation as much as love, and the inspiration for an annual defiant optimism immortalized by the cry after each disappointing season\u2014Wait'll Next Year. They played for World Championships in only two of their first four decades\u2014in 1916 and 1920\u2014and lost each time. Between 1941 and 1953, they lost the World Series to the Yankees five times; in 1946, 1950, and 1951, they lost the National League pennant on the final day of the season.\n\nThe Dodgers are inextricably linked, their California migration notwithstanding, to a huge, noisy, diverse agglomeration of acreage called Brooklyn\u2014two dozen sprawling neighborhoods of unique diversity. For more than three centuries, Brooklyn has been a destination as well as a gateway for tens of millions of Americans. The Dodgers make no sense without Brooklyn, and Brooklyn was their bridge to the rest of postwar America.\n\nThe famous chip on the shoulder remains an essential part of Brooklyn's character; true borough maniacs are proud to tell you that it was the place where the curveball, the seventh-inning stretch, and the box score all originated. Brooklyn's Dodgers complemented the borough's quirky personality. I still chuckle on my way there from La Guardia Airport when my car enters the borough via Williamsburg, where a sign at the border says: Welcome to Brooklyn. Believe the Hype!\n\nThere was so much more however, to the linkage between neighborhood and baseball team. Any one of the images conjured up just by saying the name Brooklyn Dodgers would not set it apart. This country is full of working family towns and neighborhoods, for which the local team is a rare source of unifying devotion and fun. The story of the hard-luck underdog is deeply etched in American myth and more than one American reality. The stories of diligent scrappers who overcome past failures and present odds to have a moment of pure joy at the expense of the direct source of so much of that woe is less common but hardly unique. And the long struggle to rid America of segregation and demonstrate that true integration can both work and inspire has its share of heroes.\n\nBut put them all together, one on top of the other, and the cumulative effect well beyond the boundaries of Brooklyn in 1955 was electric. It really was more than it seemed at the time, and even today it is a cut above a mere baseball story.\n\nThe Brooklyn Dodgers of 1955 are more complicated, but the impact of their trials and one triumph fit powerfully into the postwar period when America was already beginning to rush to suburbs and to move south and west. Several years ago, the superb writer Peter Golenbock compiled a fascinating survey of the Dodgers' three generations in Brooklyn via oral history interviews. One of them was with a man, Joel Oppenheimer, who grew up just above Manhattan in the tough town of Yonkers. He summarized most of it: \"Dodger fans got beaten down so often that there was an essential humility and an understanding that Yankee fans never had. Yankee fans don't understand that the world is not a very nice place to live, that more bad things happen to you than good things. When you understand this, you appreciate the good things that do happen, and you're more apt to take it easy on the other guy who's having a rough time of it.\"\n\nAdd to this poignant observation the immense power of race (in this case an unusually positive tale of what is possible when racism is confronted by good people), and the fact that the 1955 Series and, above all, that thrilling seventh game get better the more closely they are examined, and a remarkable mosaic emerges. For baseball, the New York Yankees ruled the 1950s; in the larger context of the country in the 1950s, the Brooklyn Dodgers were America's Team.\n\nIt still resonates across the decades and across the country, a slice of life that managed to transcend its spot in time.\n\nMy own family fit neatly, if not always happily, into this Dodger picture. My mom worked as a secretary. My dad was a freelance writer who had great difficulty working after World War II left him partially disabled from jungle diseases in the Pacific. We had a two-room rent-controlled apartment down by the East River and a rich, close life despite our hardships. I was aware from an early age that my parents were living through me, but it was encouragement far more than obsession. The reason I quickly latched onto their devotion to the Dodgers was that it was something we all shared that didn't have anything special to do with me.\n\nSorting all this out\u2014from the game itself to the special aura that surrounded Brooklyn and the Dodgers of that long-ago time\u2014is an exercise in both personal and larger history. I don't wish time had stopped forever at the moment the seventh game ended. I just wish the moment had lasted longer.\n\nIt amazes me how durable the memory is, and not just for me. It is equally amazing how durable the Dodgers have proved in our culture\u2014in the movies and on television. A few years ago I bumped into a richly evocative example from the 1970s. By then nearly twenty full years had passed since the 1955 World Series, when the ABC television network had a prime-time special, a series of one-act sketches titled _Happy Endings,_ coproduced by and starring the actor and comedian Alan King. The show featured the work of such well-known writers as Herb Gardner, of _A Thousand Clowns_ and _I'm Not Rappaport_ fame, and starred King and Art Carney, Dodger fans all.\n\nIn Gardner's sketch for the program, an elderly Jewish man, Samuel Margolis, is shown in a hospital bed wearing a baseball cap with Dodgers '55 printed on it, with several days' growth of beard on his face. He is hooked up to a heart-monitoring machine.\n\nSammy Margolis, his heart running out of gas, is trying to decide whether to have life-prolonging surgery or take a pass and let nature take its course. He has heard the urgent pleas of his physician respectfully but feels compelled to summarize the other side of the argument.\n\nFor emphasis, he gestures dismissively out the window, at contemporary life.\n\n\"Whatever they're doing I don't want to be party to it no more. The times, these times, ain't my time. They took too much away without a snappy notion what to put instead....\n\n\"You see the cap? Brooklyn Dodgers of '55. I do them honor. Nobody came to take their place. They took Ebbets Field away. You take the pyramids away from Egypt all you got is sand and rotten weather. Walter O'Malley, he sells them like shoes without ever discussing.\n\n\"What's left?\n\n\"Banks. You don't got teams now, MacDonald; you got Irving Trust plays Chemical Corn Exchange. The heart went with them and the city started to die. What's to root for? Without what to root the voice goes away.\n\n\"Duke Snider! He went away! A lifetime in the afternoon hollering 'I'm with ya, Duke; I'm with ya,' never dreaming for a moment he wasn't with me. Edwin Donald Snider, a person you _knew,_ went to California, which doesn't even exist.\n\n\"They all went. The names, just say the names, you could sing them: Amoros, Gilliam, Campanella, Furillo, Hodges, Podres, gone, even the sound is gone. What's left? A cap, I got a cap, Dodgers '55, and sometimes I hear in the summer, on the wind, Red Barber's voice.\"\n\nThere must have been people watching who had no idea what Sammy Margolis was talking about, but the correct assumption at ABC was that a great many people knew exactly what he was talking about. The Brooklyn Dodgers survive\u2014unlike, say, the St. Louis Browns or the Philadelphia Athletics\u2014because they evoke themes that fit America like a Rawlings glove.\n\nThe enduring resonance of the Dodgers has been analyzed before and probably will be forever, but I had never thought of one element of it until it was mentioned to me by their starting pitcher that long-ago October afternoon, Johnny Podres. He is in his seventies now\u2014a direct, interesting man. We had concluded a long talk about those days and that day in his home, still in upstate New York; I had run through the questions I had thought about ahead of time, but on an impulse I asked him why 1955 has lived on when other years and other events\u2014some just as dramatic, some perhaps more so\u2014have lived on solely as sports memories or not really survived at all. He smiled.\n\n\"One thing you have to keep in mind is what happened that day can never happen again. There will be other great seventh games, already have been. Someday someone will pitch another perfect game in the Series, someone will make another unassisted triple play, someone will hit another home run to win it all in extra innings. But the Brooklyn Dodgers will never win another championship. They are gone. The events of that day are frozen forever.\"\n\n## 2\n\n## Apartment 2503\n\nIt was a Tuesday. October 4, 1955, was a more than decent autumn day\u2014on the warm side, mostly sunny, breezy but not windy. The first thing I remember doing when I woke up that morning was looking out the window to check for the blue sky that meant the seventh game of the World Series was not yet threatened by the weather, just the Yankees.\n\nThe day's venue\u2014Yankee Stadium\u2014added to the element of threat. I used to go a few times a year, always with school friends whose parents had box seats. To my proudly prejudiced eyes it was a majestic palace that loomed forbiddingly as it came into view from the uptown subway. The images that stayed with me included the classical columns, the colossal upper deck in right field, and the immense expanse of center field stretching out to the faraway bleachers, decorated by the symbols of the team's perennial dominance\u2014the stone monuments (on the field in those days) to Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Miller Huggins. The only thing I truly liked about the Stadium was the fact that if you sat near the field at the end of the game you could walk through the manicured green outfield to the exits after the game.\n\nEbbets Field was the perfect ying to Yankee Stadium's yang. To a nine-year-old it seemed anything but small, but it felt more hospitable. It was also famously grubby. Getting off the subway for the short walk to the ballpark in Brooklyn, there was homey brick instead of majestic columns to greet a visitor. The bathrooms were fewer, more crowded, and they stank. The crowd was much, much more diverse. Each ballpark offered short distances down the foul lines, but in Ebbets Field there was a signature forty-foot wall and fence in right field and an equally signature huge scoreboard in right-center. Above all, it felt familiar; in my family's typical perch in the left field bleachers, we always saw people we recognized from previous outings.\n\nOn that climactic day, the image of Yankee Stadium was hardly reassuring. The Dodgers had played sixteen World Series games there to that point and had only won five of them.\n\nThe World Series followed a much different routine in the days before television completely changed it. Into the early 1970s, the games were all played during the daytime, while most of America was at work or at school. People who were interested did their best to keep up, stopping in front of an electronics store to catch half an inning through the window, having a radio and an obliging boss or teacher; indeed, part of the fun of the World Series for ordinary people involved the logistics of simply following the games.\n\nMy family was lucky in this regard. Each autumn, my private school in midtown placed a large television set on the front of the stage in the gymnasium. There were regular activities in the afternoon for those who wanted them, but for the rare play-off and the annual World Series the set in the gym always beckoned. Many of my most crushing Dodger memories had unfolded in that gym\u2014especially two bitter World Series defeats at the hands of the Yankees in 1952 and 1953.\n\nWorking at home when his health permitted, my father never missed a pitch, and my mother was fortunate to work at a baseball-friendly Wall Street law firm.\n\nThe family routine, however, began no differently than on any other school and work day. I was expecting another seventh game in the gymnasium amid a sea of little Yankee fans; I still remembered the lonely shame of the day in 1952 when a seventh game that was tied after five innings slowly slipped away.\n\nThe night before the seventh game in 1955 had been dominated by talk of a disastrous sixth game for the Dodgers, in which they were crushed, 6\u20132; their travails were still in my thoughts when I drifted off to sleep and still there when I got up at the usual time the next morning. My mother always woke me at 6:15, simply opening the door that connected the room where I slept to the living room so I could hear the noise from the radio that at that hour was always tuned to WNYC (the city-owned radio station) and its early-morning diet of the classics and the news. The open door meant I had fifteen minutes in the one-bathroom ballet of our family life to get cleaned up and mostly dressed for school before it was my mother's turn.\n\nWhen I emerged, there was always a small glass of orange juice waiting on the table, squeezed from the orange she picked up from a street vendor on her walk home from the Lexington Avenue subway after work. Much less pleasant, there was also always a teaspoon next to it, along with a small bottle of foul-tasting cod-liver oil\u2014one of the few consequences of my mother's Norwegian heritage that I loathed. In lieu of matins in our odd routine, we always recited in unison the hyperbolic station break on WNYC at the top of the hour: \"This is New York, the city of opportunity, where more than eight million people live in peace and harmony and enjoy the benefits of democracy.\"\n\nOnce the orange juice and cod-liver oil were downed, I was expected to turn off the radio, sit down at our piano (music was as big a part of my life then as school and baseball), and do finger exercises until my mother had dressed and made breakfast\u2014scales, arpeggios, chords, and selections from the technique books that have punctuated every young musician's training. In an effort to give the morning exercises a little more life, my father had encouraged me to finish with Bach; I could play his two- and three-part inventions by then, and in contrast to the finger exercises they were at least melodic.\n\nI don't remember it as drudgery, more just as part of my daily routine. I was dimly aware that I was pretty good at my music, and I applied myself diligently. There was no gun at my young head, no expectations of a career that I was ever aware of; my parents talked to me about my music a lot, and even at the age of nine I was comfortably aware of their point that the only way to see what you could do with a gift was to give it a decent chance to develop. It was pressure, but the right kind.\n\nOften as I practiced in the mornings, my father wouldn't stir from bed until breakfast. He would sleep in if he had stayed up late writing or, as was the case this morning, if he had been ill during the night. As I was finishing, however, I remember him padding toward the bathroom in his robe and then sitting at our new dining table, his chair just beyond the piano, waiting for my mother to serve him his hot drink\u2014a hideous concoction called Postum, which was all he could take in the morning, caffeinated coffee or tea being much too rough on his ulcer-battered stomach.\n\nThe precision of my morning routine reflected two major facts of my childhood life\u2014a lack of living space and a ridiculously but joyously crammed schedule. After World War II, very few working families enjoyed very much room while the housing shortage lasted. In my family's case, my father's illness and the financial straitjacket it produced meant that the tiny apartment was a fact of life. We lived in one of the many large buildings that were built in New York during the 1920s and which prospered nicely despite the allegedly onerous burden of rent control. Our neighborhood was called Tudor City, a collection of seven buildings off First Avenue between 41st and 43rd Streets, which were very desirable for families with children because 41st and 43rd Streets sloped up from Second Avenue and were linked by a bridge over 42nd Street, with small parks on each side. The result was that you could walk from 41st and Second all the way around to 43rd and Second without crossing a street; and the result of that, in a more innocent urban time, was that I could go outside to play by myself with my friends after my eighth birthday.\n\nMy mother had found the apartment while my father was away during the war, and after he came home they held on to it for dear life. It wasn't much, but after a basement studio in Greenwich Village and a walk-up in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn where they shared a bathroom with another family shortly after they married in 1935, it was more than tolerable. For me it was part sanctuary, part schoolroom, the place where we were a family.\n\nHome was on the twenty-fifth floor of Woodstock Tower and faced north, with a decent sliver of the East River visible to the right. On a clear day, not so common in an era when coal was still being burned all over town, you could just make out the George Washington Bridge; along the river, we watched as the United Nations was built and were constantly drawn to the sidewalk in front of the building to watch big shots being driven down 42nd Street to the majestic building that was just five hundred yards from our front door\u2014I remember a young Queen Elizabeth; Winston Churchill; and President Eisenhower, as well as the determined organizing work of my mother through the neighborhood Democratic Party club to make sure there were always a dozen or so people with unfriendly signs whenever they had word that Vice Pres. Richard Nixon would be at the UN. My mother and father differed politically only in degree: She was a Democrat; he was in the Liberal Party back when it was a real force in New York. She detested Nixon more than red-baiter Joe McCarthy, while my father reversed the order because he had so many blacklisted writer friends and sometimes fronted for them, turning in their articles and scripts as his own to the magazines and networks that refused to hire them. It was a matter of intense pride for both my parents that he never took the 10 percent cut people who fronted for others during that dark period usually did.\n\nMy mother could not stand Richard Nixon. It was part politics, part conviction that he was an opportunistic fraud, and eventually it became personal. Through someone at her Democratic clubhouse, she had volunteered as a part-time secretary for a well-known woman, Helen Gahagan Douglas, who had moved back east after getting crushed by a particularly vicious Nixon campaign for senator in California in 1950. All of Nixon's early campaigns after the war had sought to link liberalism with disloyalty as Cold War hysteria took hold; in 1950, Nixon had displayed some of Mrs. Douglas's political stands on cards that were colored pink to suggest how close she was to being communist Red. Mrs. Douglas was married to the actor Melvyn Douglas, and my mother did secretarial work for her on the occasional weeknight and weekend, sometimes bringing me along to the Douglas apartment, where the maid gave me cookies. One evening, my mother looked up from her work to see Eleanor Roosevelt standing in front of her; I could not have been seven, but I remember the two of them conversing and Mrs. Roosevelt asking me about school and patting me on the head.\n\nNeither of my parents was a native New Yorker. Each had taken interesting paths there from the rural Midwest, part of a mass migration to the cities that had been going on for more than a generation by the time they began their treks. My father's began in central Indiana in 1909. The small town he emerged from lies in corn country a bit north of Indianapolis. It was from Frankfort that he departed in almost desperate haste, two years after his own father, a country doctor who worked around the clock, died at the age of just forty-four. Baseball was how my fathers favorite Dodgers (Hoosiers Gil Hodges and Carl Erskine, along with Pee Wee Reese from the Kentucky side of the Ohio) made it to the big world beyond their towns. My father got out by his wits; the day he graduated from high school in 1926, he threw a dart blindfolded at his map of the United States, and he entered the University of New Mexico that fall. My mother emerged from as far north as you can go in Minnesota the following year, with a bit more purpose in her plans\u2014junior college and then a job in Washington, D.C. Her parents were immigrants who had carved a life for themselves in America, but it was not a life that Anna Serena Selvog wanted. Like my father's loss of his own father, my mothers life had been touched by a tragedy\u2014she lost the older sister she revered in a drowning accident\u2014that strengthened her determination to strike out on her own. One thing my parents shared was a love of reading and learning that informed their dreams of a different life.\n\n___________\n\nThe Midwest connection was part of what originally attracted my parents to the Dodgers. My mother was every bit as rabid as my father (and, eventually) I were. Reflecting her heritage, she was more reserved than my romantic, quixotic father, but her quiet personality barely masked a mordant wit and a fiercely independent character that kept our family afloat. She had been a wife who went to the ball games with her new husband in the 1930s, but she rediscovered the Dodgers as _her_ team hanging out at Ebbets Field during the war with girlfriends from work.\n\nThe Dodgers had been a part of my parents' offbeat life since before the war. The oddball character of the team during the 1930s, when they lost with amusing and zany originality, was a natural attraction for a young, slightly oddball couple, then living in an English basement on Bank Street in Greenwich Village during the depression. A game at Ebbets Field for them in the late 1930s was a big day out for not a lot of money.\n\nLife was a scramble, but they were madly in love with each other and with New York. While my mother kept working as a secretary, my father slowly began carving a name for himself as a freelance writer and kept up his music by writing songs. In 1941, he and a partner had a big-time sixteen-week hit, \"The Same Old Story\" (I still have the 78 RPM record, with Billie Holiday singing and Teddy Wilson on the piano).\n\nMy father had fallen in love with music (he was a solid violin player, classical and jazz) and with writing by the time he entered the university in Albuquerque. Almost immediately, however, he got in mortal trouble with the university authorities by publishing a delightful article in the campus literary magazine about one of the town's more interesting prostitutes. He spent the next eight years roaming the country\u2014often in the company of an equally free-spirited friend from Indiana who had a trust fund\u2014playing in jazz bands, writing, and teaching himself by reading and rereading the classics voraciously.\n\nMy mom was a first-generation Scandinavian out of the small city of Warroad, Minnesota, alongside the Lake of the Woods. One of its principal employers is a factory that makes specialty hockey sticks for goalies. In her early years, she was as proficient in Norwegian and Chippewa as she was in English. Determined to make her own way, she got out via junior college, and her successful determination to master English landed her a secretarial job in Washington as the 1930s began.\n\nThey met because of my father's uncle. Herman Oliphant was an icon in my family\u2014an Indiana boy who became a giant in the law and was named general counsel in Henry Morgenthau's Treasury Department as the New Deal began. He worked on the actual text of much of the decade's historic reform and economic security legislation and helped design much of the new regulatory framework before his death during Franklin Roosevelt's second term. He had become my father's second father, and one day in 1935 he played matchmaker with a young secretary he had taken a shine to\u2014my mother.\n\nMy parents were married at City Hall in New York just weeks later. Herman Oliphant had hoped my mother would be a positive influence on his still somewhat wild nephew. My father's violin-playing days had just ended (thanks to a left wrist broken during a fight); my mother had just turned twenty-five. The timing, in short, was perfect.\n\nThe Dodgers fit neatly into their life. They were hopelessly addicted by the time the team, in 1941, won its first National League pennant since a brief glory spell in 1916 and 1920.\n\nWhat followed the pennant in 1941 was a disaster that served as the perfect harbinger of what was to come\u2014a unique series of ten crushing defeats that were almost triumphs that the Dodgers dealt themselves and their fans over the next thirteen years. The World Series that year also produced a play\u2014catcher Mickey Owen's famous muff of a third strike pitch that would have been the final out of the fourth game\u2014that is not only still discussed today but also was itself a harbinger of the agonizing plays that contributed critically to all of those heartbreaking losses.\n\nYears later, my mother told me that listening to the Mickey Owen game on the radio at work that day in 1941 was her first memory of having cried in front of people who weren't family. The team, however, was reviving, and this was when the famous cry of the Dodger fan\u2014Wait'll Next Year\u2014actually rang true.\n\nPearl Harbor stopped their progress, as it did for millions of stunned and then angered Americans, my parents included. My father was thirty-two, but he enlisted immediately and with a group of writer friends somehow managed to get an idea past the War Department for a mass-circulation magazine to be published during the war for enlisted people. It was called _Yank Magazine,_ and its volumes contain as good a raw history of the war as exists anywhere.\n\nRather than sit behind a desk, editing in New York, my father had gone to the war in the Pacific by the summer of 1942. At home, my mother followed a partner she knew from the Wall Street law firm into the U.S. Attorney's Office in New York that would be the focal point for most of the legal and criminal matters associated with the war effort. She worked long hours during the day and often at night, and among my treasures is a newspaper photograph that shows her taking a deposition from a would-be Nazi saboteur.\n\nMy father made much of the long island-hopping journey north toward Tokyo. He started in threatened Australia and was with several first waves\u2014in New Guinea, the Solomons, Guadalcanal, the Philippines, Saipan, and Tinian. He came home with thousands of words of fabulous stories, a Bronze Star, and just about every jungle disease you could catch, the dreaded dengue fever included.\n\nThe tidal wave of creative energy that was unleashed after the war did not wash over the hundreds of thousands of young people disabled by it\u2014most far worse than my father. For them, despite the nation's gratitude, the war never really ended but was replaced by a largely private struggle inside each family. My father's health deteriorated rapidly, to the extreme detriment of the writing life he was trying to live.\n\nFrom the beginning, my life was a contradiction; the struggle my parents endured was omnipresent, but my childhood was also idyllic\u2014a scholarship to private school, a perfect neighborhood that was self-contained as well as safe and nurturing on the edge of the Lower East Side, sports in my bones, language and music in my veins. To grow up in New York City was for me like working and living in an ocean of opportunities and choices, all of it made possible, under very rough conditions, by my parents.\n\nTry as they did to mask them, the tensions involved in making ends meet out of a two-room apartment, where my father was often in great pain and rarely able to work, could still be sensed by a child. Not once can I recall feeling the slightest twinge of embarrassment at our condition, despite the daily contrasts with the world I saw up close around my private school. I loved being around my parents; there was a strongly perceived pressure to excel, but always at things I adored doing. If I had private wishes that didn't get articulated immediately, it was to help them, so that they would be happier.\n\nMore than anything, the stakes for us that Tuesday in 1955 were a chance, however improbable, to experience for however brief a time some moments of truly shared joy that were otherwise so elusive. As Dodger fans\u2014awaiting as well as dreading the seventh game of the 1955 World Series\u2014that hardly made us unique.\n\n## 3\n\n## Scarlet\n\nFor me, 1955 was a memorable year even before the Dodgers' miracle unfolded that October. In addition to school and neighborhood and family, I was blessed by music in my life\u2014singing and intense piano work. During the summer, I somehow got through the audition process at the Metropolitan Opera and was selected for the boys' chorus, a job I would hold until I was washed up with a useless baritone at thirteen. There are no words to describe the thrill of actually spending time on a stage with the likes of Maria Callas, Richard Tucker, and Rise Stevens; it was another world, where the most exacting kind of work mixed with the exhilaration of performance on a truly grand stage.\n\nMany children work hard to please their parents, but what I truly longed for was good times that were about us, not me. That is the real hole the Dodgers filled in my life. Like any Dodger family, my father and mother filled me with the long, losing lore, taught me to keep a box score, and helped me find the smaller joys with which to battle annual disappointments\u2014a metaphor I had no trouble grasping. So many of the genuine pleasures I saw them experience in those years involved the Dodgers, which only deepened the attraction.\n\nLife was always busy and usually exciting in its variety and bustle, but it was also defined and confined by the reality inside that little apartment.\n\nThere were ten units on our floor, comprising a rent-controlled mosaic of New York life\u2014including a young UN diplomat from Canada, a budding solo pianist, a war widow and secretary like my mother, another younger couple, and a music critic for _The New York Times,_ who had been traumatized by his experiences as a medic during the war and was often in our apartment to monitor my progress and talk through his wartime experiences with my father.\n\nOur apartment had an entrance hall maybe fifteen feet long, which I used for sliding practice by putting a pillow against the front door. The hall contained our one closet, which my mother had somehow divided into four compartments. It opened into a single room that faced north. To the left was what might charitably be called a kitchenette; it consisted of a small refrigerator of the size many people now keep in their offices. The counter had room for a sink and a two-burner hot plate on which all our cooking had to be done (meaning frying, boiling, pressure-cooking, but no baking and broiling, to my mother's intense frustration).\n\nAgainst one wall was our aging Steinway upright; jutting out from the corner next to it was our only other valuable possession, a 21-inch RCA television set, which had been there since the preceding Christmas and was called Scarlet by my mother\u2014a marvelous name that had nothing to do with color television, then in its commercial infancy, or with Ms. O'Hara from _Gone with the Wind._ In early December of 1954, I had come down with a slight case of scarlet fever that was quickly followed by double pneumonia, the only time in my life I was ever truly sick. In bed and bored out of mind, I was rescued within a few days by the arrival of a large box that turned out to be the television, sent by the father of one of my classmates who had me out regularly for companionship at the family's weekend home (to me it was more like a palace) at Port Washington on Long Island. The father was one of my first heroes I actually knew\u2014then the president of NBC, the famously innovative Sylvester L. \"Pat\" Weaver, father of the _Today_ and _Tonight_ shows, pusher of the programming envelope during television's Golden Age until the business powers stopped him. He was exceptionally kind and interested in my busy life, and his daughter was one of the first girls I actually liked (she was known as Susan then; today she is the actress Sigourney Weaver). When the holidays had ended and I had recovered enough to go back to school, my mother called Mr. Weaver's office to arrange for the set's return. She was told that either it would go to the Salvation Army or stay in the apartment; it stayed. In honor of my fortuitous illness, the set was quickly christened Scarlet.\n\nThe television was not the only big change that wonderful year. We also got rid of the apartment's major eyesore\u2014one of those old pullout Murphy beds that came out of the wall opposite the windows\u2014and in the process acquired our first real dining table for the vacated space. By coincidence, my parents had gone shopping in Greenwich Village two days before Game Seven and managed to find a secondhand relic they were able to fit into a Checker cab for the ride home. The result was not only a dining table (until then we ate on a card table that magically fit in that carefully stuffed closet) but also room above it for makeshift bookshelves for my father's most precious possessions, which had been arranged before that in stacks on the floor of the bedroom and on top of our two dressers. The place must have driven them to distraction, but I was too young and too small to notice. We talked about everything in that little apartment, with the glaring exception of the pain and frustration of my parents' struggle.\n\nI have no childhood memory of my father wailing at the moon over his illnesses or his inability to work steadily; I never heard my mother vent any feelings about the double duty she performed without complaint. And yet I could see they had it tough. My father's pain was inescapably obvious; often, in the evenings, I watched my mother nod off early while trying to read. This is why singing professionally meant so much to me, not merely for the glamour and excitement but also for the chance to hand my pay to my mother after a performance. I didn't know how to express myself, but I knew that was often the grocery money. (Before I left for college she had replaced every penny.)\n\nThis is partly why baseball and the Dodgers meant so much to me. When there was a game\u2014and especially when there was a World Series\u2014all the excitement and hope and concentration involved all three of us to the obliteration of our cares. We shared the Dodgers; they were a metaphor and an oasis.\n\nOn that morning of the second seventh game of my conscious life, the team suffused the atmosphere of our apartment, mercifully.\n\nThe first words out of my father's mouth after he had occupied his regular post in the chair next to the piano were jarring. He said I looked terrible and was I feeling ill. I remember both being puzzled and insisting I felt fine, but my father would not relent. Did I feel flushed? Had I been coughing? Did I sleep all right? Did I feel at all nauseous?\n\nBy then, my mother was in the room, and after a few more of these confusing diagnostic questions she began to laugh, all the while being gently disapproving.\n\nThen I got it. In typically overdramatic fashion, my wonderful father was encouraging me to feign illness. I was fully prepared to endure the inevitable seventh-game torture at school, but here was my father signaling that for this momentous, but frightening, final game of the World Series we could be together in the apartment, watching the action on Scarlet. It would be no less scary but a lot less lonely.\n\nI laughed, too, as my father gestured to my mother to be still while he reached for the telephone to call my school. He transmitted the details of my unfortunate illness with appropriate solemnity and then put the phone down and winked broadly. My mother was happily in on the conspiracy and began divulging her own plans to experience the game. There was always a television set in her law firm's conference room and she wanted to watch, but that meant being around all the firm's partners, which meant Yankee fans. Nearly all the secretaries she knew were Dodger or New York Giants fans, so she expected to eventually migrate to the room where they took their coffee breaks, and imagine the game via the radio.\n\nMy father was feeling better that morning, so when we had finished eating we escorted my mother up 42nd Street to her subway stop. On the way back we stopped at the newsstand where we always stopped to buy the papers my parents allowed into the apartment\u2014the _Times,_ the _Herald Tribune,_ and their favorite, the avowedly liberal _New York Post._ The guy selling papers, Tommy, was one of the neighborhood fixtures, a friendly guy in his twenties whose cousin was a fairly well-known and highly ranked lightweight boxer, Johnny Busso; he had once arranged seats for us at the old Madison Square Garden for one of his fights, much to my mother's horror.\n\nThe neighborhood was more a collection of these characters to me than a collection of buildings down by the East River. John Tomkins, who couldn't hear and couldn't speak, worked at the shoe store on 43rd Street and taught me sign language; Ray ran a candy store named after him around the corner on Third Avenue where kids like me bought bubblegum for a nickel in packages with five baseball cards and parents could get a bet down on the daily number; Huey Balboni jerked the sodas in the diner on 42nd and Second and then in the drugstore in Tudor City, always giving me two pumps of cherry syrup with my Coca-Cola; the day shift elevator operators in our building were actually named Tom and Jerry, the former formal and meticulous, the latter joyously loud and not always sober; and Louis Christopolous (he had lost a leg in Sicily) sold the fruit my mother bought on the way home from the subway never failing to compliment her appearance with elaborate charm. I got to play with friends in luxurious apartments on Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue, but I was convinced I lived in heaven. It was self-contained, protective, friendly, a little odd, safe, fun, and a delightful mixture of the rigorous education that I got in my apartment and the introduction to the delights of diversity I got on the street.\n\nMy deal with my father that day was that I would finish my piano and some schoolwork in the morning and then we would devour the sports pages, make some lunch, and get ready as best we could for a game neither of us expected to turn out well. The sixth game had been such a swift, convincing, and deflating defeat, accentuated by the shellacking of one of my mother's favorites (Karl Spooner) and a knee injury to the team's star center fielder, Duke Snider. The sports pages oozed Yankee inevitability; the bookies made them 7\u20135 favorites. I was happy to be home from school but dreading the game.\n\nBy 1955 I knew what to expect. It was normal for the Golden Era Dodgers to win a pennant; they were almost as dominant in the National League as the Yankees were in the American and had won five pennants in the nine years after Jackie Robinson joined them. The heart of the batting order (Snider, Hodges, Campanella, outfielder Carl Furillo, and Robinson) would hit its customary ton of home runs, Don Newcombe would win twenty games, Carl Erskine would win eleven, and the journeymen and newcomers of the year, backed by superb relief pitching from Clem Labine and Ed Roebuck, would get enough others to clinch the pennant early. Like any young baseball fan, I knew my team backward and forward\u2014from the left-handed hitting Snider's famous problems with left-handed pitchers, to the magical arm that made Furillo an outfielder base runners rarely tested, to the way Sandy Amoros wagged his bat just before swinging.\n\nThey were also accessible heroes. The Yankees' Mickey Mantle, even to his own fans, was distant glamour, almost a movie star. Even to me, the Dodgers weren't gods; they were people, easier to live and die with.\n\nAs it turned out, 1955 was the year I felt I almost lived at Ebbets Field. My father or my mother, or both, took me to at least a dozen games on their own, at which we always sat in the outfield bleachers. A special opportunity, though, came out of a rare break for my father. There was a man in our neighborhood, Saul Paul, whose brother, Gabe, was the general manager of the Cincinnati Reds\u2014just then emerging as a slugging powerhouse, which would finally win a pennant in 1961. My father and Mr. Paul were casual friends from watching me and my neighborhood friends' progress from the sandbox to the sandlots, and out of their acquaintance came a magazine assignment for a profile of Gabe Paul. The article was what we call in the news business a feature story, and he must have loved it, because he invited us to be his guests that season whenever the Reds were in town. In those days, when eight teams in the National League played 154 games against each other, that meant 9 or 10 more games for us.\n\nI had never sat in a box seat. For a nine-year-old to be so close to real major leaguers was beyond heaven, and these seats were in the first row behind the visitors' dugout on the third base side. The three of us made the pilgrimage to every game\u2014days, nights, and weekends, including doubleheaders. One night, I watched in awe as Jackie Robinson scored all the way from first on an extra base hit; this close, he seemed five times as fast, and I remember being briefly startled when he took a wide turn around third and appeared to be running right at me. I could hear him breathe.\n\nThe next inning was for my mother. Her favorite Dodger was Roy Campanella; she called him Roly Poly in her Midwest twang and considered him cute. Someone on the Reds hit a foul ball far into the night sky, and when it came down into Campanella's huge mitt, he could not have been standing ten feet from us. It was the first time I ever saw my mother blush.\n\nPart of the joy of life with the Dodgers was that it was intimate. In Ebbets Field, the feeling was akin to that on the sandlots; you were watching people you felt you knew very well, whose faults as well as skills were equally understood and appreciated. For most of the season in those years, the experience was almost blissful. To make it even more pleasurable in those years, the Dodgers were almost always either in the thick of the pennant race or way out in front.\n\nBeginning in September, however, you learned the meaning of dread with this team as the World Series approached; you came to anticipate it. From my first baseball consciousness in 1950, I was evolving into the typical Dodger fan who knew hope but also knew history. The dread also had a rational component. The Dodgers matched the Yankees in powder and speed; they were arguably even a little stronger. The Yankees, however, consistently had one or two more quality pitchers, usually the key in a short series, while the Dodgers were assumed to start out in trouble because their workhorse (Don Newcombe) was such a notorious autumnal disappointment after a spring and summer of overwork. As the World Series approached, the talk in our house and all over town was that the Dodgers needed a starter to win two of the games if their hitters were to be counted on to win two more for the championship. The problem was that none dared confidently predict who that pitcher might be.\n\nFor me, the World Series in 1955 began in my school's gymnasium. Somehow I had a scholarship at one of the city's fantastic private schools, Browning, the first true break in life for me after being born to parents who adored learning. In baseball terms, though, it was terrible, because the place was filled with kids from quite wealthy families who were nearly all Yankee fans. The only Dodger fan classmate I remember, and remember very fondly, was John Steinbeck's son\u2014also the only fellow political leftie. Together we endured taunts about the Dodgers as well as those about Adlai Stevenson.\n\nThe taunts were especially strong as the World Series of 1955 began with two boilerplate nightmares at Yankee Stadium. Newcombe was ineffective, and the Yankees had two skilled and crafty left-handed starters that year\u2014the famous Whitey Ford and the solid veteran Tommy Byrne, each of whom had been methodically masterful. Even a nine-year-old knew that fifty-two years into World Series history no team had yet come back to win after losing the first two games.\n\nThat made the Dodgers' victory, 8\u20133, in the first of three Ebbets Field games, in what was the sixth so-called Subway Series since the war, seem less significant. There had been a Dodger hitting eruption, to be sure, and this kid from upstate, Johnny Podres, had pitched a marvelous complete game on his twenty-third birthday. The timely hitting and clutch pitching carried over to the second victory in Brooklyn as well, a win made all the more satisfying because my parents and I enjoyed it together, with a family in the neighborhood; we laughed and yelled, so lost in the Dodger victory that no one remembered to keep score. The past, however, still hovered like a dark cloud over our happy Saturday.\n\nDread and history were forgotten, at least by me, for the final game in Brooklyn the next afternoon. It was the first World Series game I got to see in person. There was a nice lady who lived on our floor in 2509, a war widow who had no kids of her own and doted a bit on me. To this day, it grates on me that I cannot remember her name. We visited back and forth; my mother and she usually did their weekly shopping together and sometimes took in a movie. When my father was especially sick and my mother was with him in the hospital, this neighbor would often look after me in the evenings.\n\nBless her heart, she had two outfield bleacher seats to the fifth game from someone at work and asked my parents if she could take me. This was one subway ride I remember vividly. As always, we exited past one of the Ebbets Field environs' most colorful characters, a blind man who sold pencils. For years his routine had been to offer, for a nickel, to give the score before the game had even started; for thousands of the gullible, the answer never varied: \"Nothin' to nothin'.\" When we walked up the ramp into the grandstand, the sight of the red, white, and blue bunting draped over all the railings was majestic; the fact that all thirty-six-thousand-plus seats and standing places were occupied only added to the thrill.\n\nThe game was a fan's delight. In the 5\u20133 Dodger victory, Duke Snider hit two home runs and Sandy Amoros one. For the Yankees, home runs were hit by reserve outfielder Bob Cerv and the only catcher of those days in Campanella's league, Yogi Berra. Five home runs in one World Series game, with three innings of clutch relief from Clem Labine on top of the four-plus he had pitched the day before to get the win. My parents had listened to the game on the radio at a friend's apartment, so I was quizzed on every detail when I burst through the door and babbled on long past dinner.\n\nIt was a doubly special evening and included the christening of our new dining table. It seemed a fittingly formal setting for my rambling, self-indulgent discourse on the game.\n\nThe dread had only been postponed, however, and the sixth game the next day made my mother particularly heartsick. With some girlfriends from work she had witnessed at the end of the previous season the debut of one of the true legends in the annals of Dodger tragedy. His name was Karl Spooner and he was a natural. The left-handed pitcher not only shut out the Giants but also struck out fifteen of them, and ended the season by shutting out the Pirates while striking out twelve of them. Spooner, another upstate New Yorker, became the personification of Wait'll Next Year. My mother claimed he was clearly a better prospect than another left-hander who had been on the team for two years, Johnny Podres, and she insisted Spooner's control was much better than that of the third kid left-hander then on the roster. He was nineteen, a Brooklyn boy, and a so-called bonus baby signed for twenty thousand dollars out of the University of Cincinnati, which meant he had to stay on the active squad for two years, which also meant he mostly rode the bench. His name was Sandy Koufax.\n\nSpooner had a promising spring, but his arm and then his control started to go as 1955 wore on, and he only won eight games. Manager Walter Alston's decision to start Spooner in the sixth game was instantly second-guessed all over town, unanimously in my household. When Spooner proceeded to get shelled in the first inning, the I Told You Sos were deafening. What no one knew was that with his arm a wreck, he would never throw another pitch in the major leagues.\n\nThat evening, I mostly remember us grumbling about Alston's decision, a convenient means of avoiding the sinking feeling about the next day. What had already happened in five out of five World Series in just fourteen years seemed about to happen again.\n\nWhat I remember even more sharply is that my father got very sick after supper. His major ailment then was a collection of continually bleeding ulcers that sometimes required a few days in the hospital and more bills to juggle. It was a particularly unpleasant night. I was never ashamed or embarrassed by my father's rough life; I was fiercely proud of his service in the war and in awe of my mother's quiet strength in holding us just above water. What I hated was the sadness he couldn't always hide.\n\nOn the night before the seventh game of the 1955 World Series there was not a molecule of hope in our apartment. Life with the Dodgers was so often a painfully real metaphor.\n\nLittle did we know.\n\n## 4\n\n## Gil, Jackie, Pee Wee, and a Parable of Race\n\nThe game my father and I were getting ready to watch was not just another climactic seventh game.\n\nAs of that Tuesday morning, there had been twelve days in the previous fifty-two years when two teams had literally played for the World Series. Several of them had been marvelous melodramas, but by 1955 nothing held a candle to a Dodgers-Yankees seventh game because of the two teams' epic rivalry.\n\nThe Brooklyn Dodgers were as much a national team as the Yankees were; where the Yankees personified power and success, the Dodgers symbolized struggle, represented millions of dispersed Brooklyn \u00e9migr\u00e9s, and wore their unique status among African-Americans proudly.\n\nThe sports pages of the day, of course, hyped the game with customary superficial excess and clich\u00e9s. But after five Dodger-Yankee World Series\u2014with the same outcome\u2014traditional baseball banter could not do justice to what this almost annual, protean struggle between the two teams represented. Yankees-Dodgers had become a central element in a boisterous decade, with its racial undercurrent in a battle between an integrated team and a nearly all-white one, the contrast between power and heart, grand success and hard luck, optimism and reality. And it played out on a truly national stage. There were still only sixteen teams in the major leagues that year, not one south of Washington or west of St. Louis, so most of the country rooted avidly from a distance.\n\nSince the World Series was first played in 1903, there have been other unforgettable games and unforgettable Series in strictly sports terms. People will argue as long as baseball survives (insoluble quarrel being a central part of the game's appeal) which should be called \"the best.\" All involved dramatic seesaw tussles, as well as seventh games that put exclamation points after already magnificent struggles. Many saw the improbable triumphs of underdogs.\n\nThe war between the Ty Cobb Tigers and the Honus Wagner Pirates in 1909 comes to mind. So do the gritty St. Louis Cardinals of 1926 and 1946. So do the upstart Milwaukee Braves of 1957 and the Pittsburgh Pirates of 1960. So do the back-from-the-brink New York Yankees of 1958 and their younger successors four years later. So do the modern upstarts like the Pirates of 1971, the New York Mets of 1986, and the Minnesota Twins of 1987. So even do contemporary examples of the power of today's money to assemble teams almost overnight, like the Florida Marlins of 1997 and 2003 and the Arizona Diamondbacks of 2001. And so do victories that have the feel of justice, like the Red Sox sweep in 2004 after eighty-six years of frustration.\n\nThere have also been other moments of soaring drama, moments that have withstood time and television saturation: Willie Mays's over-the-shoulder catch a zillion miles from home plate in the Polo Grounds for the New York Giants in 1954; the one perfect game in Series history by Don Larsen against the Dodgers (who else?) in the fifth game of the 1956 Series; the seesaw sixth-game struggle between the Boston Red Sox and Cincinnati Reds won by the Red Sox on an extra-inning home run by Carlton Fisk in 1975; and the Mets' survival, an out away from elimination, on a fielding error by Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner eleven years later in another third unforgettable sixth game.\n\nThese are baseball stories. Until 1955, however, only one World Series deserved a place in a larger story, and that was not clear until after it had ended. The conspiracy by several members of the Chicago White Sox to fix the 1919 World Series remains a metaphor for modern America grappling with the loss of innocence. The excesses of the Gilded Age and Industrial Revolution, the realization that modern technology and cities produced gigantic problems as well as progress, the disillusionment as an international order collapsed into the unspeakable carnage of World War I\u2014all that, and then gangsters fixed the national game's showcase event. Whether or not the kid in Chicago ever said it, the heartbroken plea to the tragic hero \"Shoeless\" Joe Jackson, \"Say it ain't so, Joe,\" survives.\n\nThe 1955 Series also went beyond sports, because of Brooklyn and what it represented and because of the Dodgers themselves and what they represented.\n\nAbove all, there was Brooklyn, a teeming collection of distinct neighborhoods on a unique scale, at once a destination and a gateway, with long, strong ties to hearts all over the country. Every World Series was a national event, but by the 1950s nothing engaged the country like the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Yankees. Their rivalry may not have had the white-hot intensity it had within New York's borders, but it divided the nation in a way Indians\u2013Giants, Phillies\u2013Yankees, Cardinals\u2013Red Sox never could have.\n\nThe Dodgers also had a special collection of players\u2014stoics and fierce competitors who raged against defeat; black men, not just Jackie Robinson, who heroically confronted Americas original sin of racism; and quiet professionals whose consistent excellence raised the standards for performance on the team very high.\n\nThey had, for example, Gil Hodges.\n\nThere should not be a Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge, at least not yet anyway. He should be pushing eighty now, enjoying his grandchildren and looking back fondly on a career that included his time as one of the best first basemen of the post\u2013World War II era, the manager who helped the lowly Washington Senators in their second, 1960s incarnation to respectability, and then the guy in charge when the Miracle Mets won it all in 1969. Instead, he died way too young, just two days shy of his forty-eighth birthday in 1972, the first of several Dodgers from that team to die too soon.\n\nGil Hodges was a star shortstop in high school, improbably enough because he was one big guy\u2014an honest six feet, two inches tall, and weighing more than two hundred well-muscled pounds. It was the immensity of his hands that made a lasting impression on me the two times I actually met him, both during that amazing season of 1955. My nine-year-old hand disappeared entirely from view within his; it was said that when he spread his fingers, you could fit a ruler between his little finger and thumb. At Ebbets Field, I had managed through my father's connection with Gabe Paul to get on _Happy Felton's Knothole Gang,_ the Dodgers' pregame show when television was still young. The host was an enormous, as in corpulent, man\u2014part of the panoply of characters that dotted the team's history, including an oompahpah band and a clown dressed as the storied Brooklyn \"Bum.\" Felton introduced a few kids to a Dodger who played catch with them for a few minutes, offering pointers. Hodges tossed me a soft ground ball, which I fielded through my terror and threw back to him. He talked about stretching to the ball from first base instead of waiting for it and then put me in heaven by saying in his quiet voice, \"Nice throw, kid.\"\n\nGil Hodges was beloved in Brooklyn, the person parents wanted their kids to emulate. He was not just quiet and well mannered; he also worked ceaselessly, hustled like a rookie, and never complained. It was the era when private lives stayed out of the newspapers unless they made the police blotter, but it turned out that Hodges really was all he seemed. Hodges came up to the major leagues late in 1943 as a catcher but in his only game that year played third base. After three years in the marines and a year in the minors, he was back in 1947, still catching part-time even as he was being transformed into a first baseman.\n\nTwo years later, he developed into an almost annual All-Star whose absence from baseball's Hall of Fame remains absurd. He hit with consistent power, and he fielded magnificently. One astonishing night in 1950 he joined the tiny list of men to hit four home runs in a game; and the grand-slam home run, the ultimate clutch hit, was his trademark\u2014in his career, he hit fourteen, a National League record that stood until Willie McCovey broke it. In the field, his self-taught signature became a play that is called special for most but became routine for him\u2014a double play that begins with the first baseman fielding the ball, throwing it to second for the force out, and then hustling to the first base bag to take the return throw.\n\nFor all his talent and character, though, Hodges was also famous for fading in the late stages of big seasons and in World Series play. In the 1952 World Series, another heartbreaker the Dodgers lost to the Yankees in seven games, he came to bat twenty-one times with not so much as a single to show for the effort.\n\nThere were no boos from a chip-on-the-shoulder populace famous for them, no recriminations in the mercenary front office or from fellow players\u2014such was his reputation. Instead, Hodges's slump and how he might emerge from it were the talk of Brooklyn, all of it empathetic, almost tender. The next spring, however, after a winter of anguish, his slump continued through the first month of the season, and Hodges was actually benched.\n\nThe late Arthur Daley, who wrote the main sports column for _The New York Times_ in these years with Pulitzer Prize-winning grace, memorialized an event that May. On a steamy hot Sunday, the Reverend Herbert Redmond was celebrating mass at a church in Brooklyn, when he startled his congregation thus: \"It's far too hot for a sermon. Keep the Commandments and say a prayer for Gil Hodges.\" He started slugging again shortly thereafter.\n\nHarold Henry Reese is a second Dodger who was adored in my family. He said after the Game\u2014in which he was one of the critical fielding contributors, got a key hit, and scored the second run\u2014that just before the last out he was hoping fervently that Yankee rookie Elston Howard would not hit the ball to him. After more than a dozen late-season crushing disappointments, he said he did not want to be the person who made an error that began another descent into failure.\n\nIt is astonishing that this meticulous, professional man would have such a fear. He was thirty-seven that day, playing opposite another of the excellent shortstops of the era, Phil Rizzuto. Alone among the Dodgers of 1955, Reese had been on the field for every one of the horrid chapters of the team's modern lore. He was at shortstop when the nightmare began as catcher Mickey Owen let the third strike get by him in 1941; and he was at shortstop ten years later when Bobby Thomson of the New York Giants hit the three-run home run that ended a play-off and the Dodgers' most maddening collapse of all. In between and thereafter, Reese played in each of the other might-have-beens that ended tight pennant races or dashed World Series hopes.\n\nAs far as my memory and research can tell, Pee Wee Reese contributed not one miscue, not one blown opportunity, to the entire saga it was his misfortune to witness. He was the epitome of the reliable professional, the obvious choice year after year to be the Dodgers' official captain.\n\nThat was not, however, what made him special in my family. What made him special was his role in helping end segregation in baseball and in making integration work.\n\nThe story was first told to me by my father as a parable of character. I could not have been more than six at the time, but it stuck with me. Years later, I discovered that the story was really two stories, almost identical except for where each occurred, and that they were preceded by an equally courageous act.\n\nIn 1947 general manager Branch Rickey acted on his historic decision to challenge segregation in baseball and bring a black man, Jackie Robinson, into the major leagues. Pee Wee Reese, more than anyone else in Brooklyn or baseball, for that matter, was the person who made this stunning decision work as day-today reality in the historic season of 1947.\n\nMy parents' affection for the Dodgers, and therefore eventually my own, exploded with the arrival of Jackie Robinson in 1947\u2014a source of fierce pride, not just in Brooklyn but also among the politically liberal of the time, my parents being almost stereotypical. Jackie Robinson was an authentic American hero. He supplied the Dodgers with a unique glow\u2014internal pride on the team and in its neighborhood, and externally supplied by people all over the country, and by no means only African-Americans, who were inspired by the triumph over Hitler and fascism to imagine a more just society. Rickey's decision to select the former UCLA athlete and veteran as the \"first\" put a burden on Robinson's shoulders that is almost beyond imagination. He would have to compete at the major-league level, where only performance counts, and yet he would have to keep a pledge to Rickey that he would endure the inevitable slings and arrows of bigots for two years in silence.\n\nThe pressure on a man of his famously competitive spirit and pride was nearly unbearable. What is forgotten today is just how ugly it was after Robinson made his debut at first base (Gil Hodges caught that day) in a Brooklyn uniform at Ebbets Field on April 15, 1947, against the Boston Braves, before an official attendance of 26,623, more than half of them black.\n\nThe atmosphere in Brooklyn was warm, happy, and welcoming. But when the Dodgers hit the road the ugliness of racism was on display in all its disgusting elements\u2014death threats, boycotts, beanballs and high spikes, and a cascade of foul language from the stands and from opposing team dugouts. The Democratic Party's longtime leader in the House of Representatives, Dick Gephardt, told me once that his first exposure to extreme profanity and vulgarity was as a boy sitting uncomfortably in the old Sportsman's Park in his native St. Louis with his father as Cardinal fans hurled insults at Jackie Robinson.\n\nIndeed, before the season even began, Rickey had to quell a nascent rebellion among the Dodgers themselves. Led by one of their aging stars, popular outfielder Fred \"Dixie\" Walker, a petition was circulated opposing Robinson's elevation to Brooklyn. Rickey isolated the ringleaders and Walker was gone after the season, but the person whose quiet opposition stopped the rebellion's momentum was Reese.\n\nBefore he died in the year 2000, Reese always spoke self-deprecatingly about his leadership. He had come from a border state, he noted, but had gained neither experience nor knowledge from being around people of color and shared some of the stereotypes of the day. He might also have had selfish motivation to oppose Robinson, who was originally signed by Brooklyn out of the Negro Leagues as a star shortstop.\n\nReese always insisted that he simply wanted to play baseball, that he was desperate to finally be on a championship team, and that after three years away for the war he needed to make money. Those comments, however, don't do justice to the guts it took to stand up to teammates and some personal friends. As a team leader, he shunned the petition and shamed its organizers.\n\nBut what Reese did after Robinson made his debut is inspiring. As name-calling escalated beyond even the rough stuff ballplayers reserve for one another, as the pitches thrown at Robinson grew in number and spiking and near-spiking incidents multiplied, there was a real question that first month whether bigots could make Robinson's presence unsustainable.\n\nOn the Dodgers' first road trip of the season, they came to the Ohio River town of Cincinnati to play the Reds. Just across the water from Kentucky, Cincinnati has always had a mean, racist streak in addition to its virtues, and fans and players alike on this occasion were particularly abusive toward Robinson, while the papers contained stories of explicit death threats.\n\nEarly in the game, the Dodger rookie grounded out to end an inning and waited around first base as his teammates came back into the field. On his way to shortstop, Reese stopped at first base and spent a long moment talking with Robinson after handing him his glove. As the taunts from the Reds' bench and the stands increased, Reese simply put his arm around Jackie Robinson and held it there. The message was a combination of \"lay off\" and \"the team is with him.\" Some witnesses claimed a gasp from the crowd was audible; no matter, because the acceptance of Robinson (albeit with rough moments to come) is often dated from that simple, human gesture.\n\nAs if to prove it was no accident, it happened again, early the following season in Boston. With the Dodgers in town to play the Braves, the dugout and grandstand abuse this time had begun even during batting practice. Once again, Reese repeated the gesture, slowly walking to Robinson, putting his arm around him, and holding it there as they conversed. This is the incident Robinson himself recounts in his own autobiography.\n\nRobinson's impact on the country in the 1940s and 1950s is impossible to exaggerate, as it was on Brooklyn and New York and on the special reputation the Dodgers enjoyed because of him. In Congress shortly after the war, it was considered a breakthrough to have a debate on a proposed federal law against lynching by mobs. The breakdown of segregation in baseball not only preceded President Truman's executive order desegregating the armed forces by a year; but Robinson's rookie year of 1947 preceded by eight years Rosa Parks's famous refusal to give up her seat on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama, the same year the fully integrated Dodgers won the Series, preceded by seventeen years the outlawing of segregation in public accommodations, and preceded by eighteen years the federal statute finally protecting the right to vote.\n\nLike any important American story, the story of baseball is punctuated by race. In the case of the Dodgers, there was riveting national drama when Robinson made his debut in 1947, but the significance of race in understanding the significance of the Dodgers was not much noticed after that. In part this was because the Dodgers tended to downplay it, both for marketing reasons and because there was a judgment that the experiment was most likely to be successful in a low-key atmosphere. The truth, however, is that the team's special reputation is a principal reason they were an American, not merely local, phenomenon. Whites in the South largely despised them, but they were nationally respected for what they had done and in the case of African-Americans they were revered.\n\nDeprived by war and segregation of his youngest playing years, Robinson displayed an inspiring competitive ferocity and restless energy during his ten years in the major leagues that transformed the game as no other player did until Willie Mays exploded on the scene after military service in 1954. Robinson was Rookie of the Year amid all the pressure of 1947. He was the league's stolen base champion in 1947 and 1949, the batting champion in 1949, and the Most Valuable Player in 1949 as well.\n\nBut it was his presence on the field that will forever remain with me. Even after it had been accepted that he was on the team and he had become a Dodger icon, there was a perceptible awed reaction when he was introduced. In competition he was ferocious. I watched him respond to a catcher's pickoff throw to first by sliding into second, and I saw him perform the more difficult feat of stealing third several times. The biggest thrill when Jackie Robinson played, however, was his unique moves when he reached third base. On virtually every pitch he would suddenly dart for home, stopping on a dime halfway there and scampering back to the bag; it drove seasoned pitchers to distraction. The reason it was so disconcerting was that everyone knew he was one of the few players who was fast enough and smart enough to steal home; he did it nineteen times in his career, once in the World Series.\n\nThat World Series was in fact the 1955 classic, and the play late in the first game remains one of the most controversial in Series history. It happened with the game on the line in the eighth inning and the Yankees leading 6\u20134. One run had already been scored and there were two outs. Robinson was on third by an act of his indomitable will: he had scampered all the way to second when his ground ball went off third baseman Gil McDougald's leg into short left field, and then dashed to third on a fly ball hit in front of him to left fielder Irv Noren.\n\nWith the count one ball and no strikes on pinch-hitter Frank Kellert, Robinson stunned everyone and broke for home just as Whitey Ford went into his windup. From the first-base side of the field, it appeared that Yogi Berra had tagged him out; but I found a picture in the Hall of Fame library in New York from the third-base side showing Robinson's foot on the plate and Berra's tag a tad high on his leg. Home plate umpire Bill Summers called Robinson safe, Berra went delightfully berserk, and the rest is history. It was vintage Jackie Robinson, but also possibly unnecessary, because the next batter hit a bloop single that would have scored him anyway.\n\nFor all Robinson's greatness and courage, the fact that he was just the first large tip of an even larger iceberg is sometimes forgotten. More for company than performance, a black pitcher named Dan Bankhead was briefly on the squad in 1947, though he would win nine games with Brooklyn in 1950.\n\nIn the year following Robinson's debut, however, desegregation became true integration as the Dodgers promoted a parade of All-Star-quality African-Americans. The premier catcher of the era, Roy Campanella, came up in 1948; a future Most Valuable Player, pitcher Don Newcombe, emerged the year after that; in 1951 the Dodgers showed the diligence of their outreach efforts by signing one of the top stars in baseball-crazy, pre-Castro Cuba, a fleet-footed outfielder named Edmundo \"Sandy\" Amoros; in 1952, pitcher Joe Black was Rookie of the Year, as stylish infielder Jim Gilliam was in 1953.\n\nOne day in the middle of the 1955 season, manager Walter Alston started a team that included Newcombe pitching, Campanella catching, Gilliam at second, Robinson at third, and Amoros in left\u2014a majority. This happened at a time when three of the sixteen teams (the Philadelphia Phillies, Detroit Tigers and Boston Red Sox) were still segregated and the Yankees had only just succumbed by bringing up Elston Howard.\n\nAfrican-Americans may have been fixtures on the Brooklyn Dodgers, but their position in baseball was still marginal. The Boston Red Sox, the last organization to yield, would not desegregate for another four years.\n\nThe impact of Robinson and then the others on the national African-American community was almost as huge as the emergence of heavyweight champion Joe Louis in the 1930s. Many a time, the Dodger train would pull into a city late in the evening to find crowds of several hundred, nearly all black people, including scores of fathers with their sons, waiting for a glimpse of their hero.\n\nOthers went to great lengths, literally, to see him play. In 1955, Walter Riley was twenty-five and working for a hair-products company in Washington, D.C. Sensing that Robinson's career was nearly over, he and three friends were determined to get to New York.\n\nFor two months, they carefully accumulated some cash for gas money, tickets, and incidentals. Because one of them had a cousin with a house in Brooklyn they could avoid a hotel bill and splurge instead on four grandstand seats on the third-base side, closest to Robinson. They arrived at Ebbets Field early for batting practice before a Friday game, hoping but failing to get close enough to ask for an autograph. Fifty years later, and now running a car service, Riley fondly remembers betting his buddies five dollars that Robinson would steal a base. He did.\n\nThe Dodgers had a unique glow because they were the team that broke the color line; not only that, they had gone way beyond this to give a still-segregated and essentially racist society one of its few glimpses of equal opportunity itself. In the African-American community Jackie Robinson was beyond hero status; and in a growing part of white America that was embarrassed by overt racism a decade after World War II, Robinson's heroic achievement was a powerful symbol of hope that easily became affection for his integrated team. The hopes that were slowly kindled that afternoon in 1955 included the hope that the man who had inspired and helped change his country might have a World Series championship as part of his and his team's legacy.\n\nThe feelings were strong inside Robinson himself as he paced and yelled and kibitzed and fidgeted in the Dodger dugout before the game. It is sometimes forgotten, even by Dodger fanatics, that Robinson was unable to play in the seventh game in 1955. Already thirty-six years old and in his next-to-last season, he had badly injured an Achilles tendon while playing his heart out during the first six games. His skills might have been yielding to age, but not without a determined struggle on his part; he was the lion in winter that year.\n\nIn his revealing autobiography, _I Never Had It Made,_ he wrote with characteristic directness: \"It was one of the greatest thrills of my life to finally be on a World Series winner.\" Until the last out, however, he was a barely contained maniac in the dugout, his storied competitiveness forced into the unfamiliar channel of kibitzing.\n\nThe halting progress in professional sports and the military, however, was revolutionary compared to what was not happening in the rest of the country. That autumn saw the commencement of just the second school year under the Supreme Court's _Brown v. Board of Education_ decision abolishing segregated public schools, and it had yet to be implemented anywhere. The public bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, that ushered in the modern civil rights revolution after the arrest of Rosa Parks would not begin until two months almost to the day after the seventh game.\n\nThat week, the major news in the country was the uncertain nature of President Dwight D. Eisenhower's recovery in Denver from his heart attack and the widespread speculation that he might not be able to seek a second term the following year. However, the papers were also filled with stories in the immediate aftermath of the routine acquittals of two white men in Mississippi for the horrific murder and lynching of an African-American teenager, Emmett Till. It was considered progress that there was revulsion in some parts of the country to the continuing terrorism against people of color, but the violence remained routine.\n\nMost Americans were acceptingly indifferent to racism, and a great many all over the country were brought up to embrace it. I was so very lucky, born into a family of midwestern dreamers who signed petitions against segregation, marched in demonstrations, gave spare change to civil rights organizations, and raised me to dream their dream of confronting America's original sin. Through my music, I got to do choral work on the same stage with both Marian Anderson, a stunning woman with an unforgettably rich contralto voice (her long-delayed debut with the Metropolitan Opera at fifty-seven was the same year as mine at nine), and Paul Robeson (whose deep voice you could feel as well as hear, and whose formidable presence could be both intimidating and inspiring).\n\nThrough my father's music before the war I got to be in the presence of legends a few times in the years after the war. Billie Holiday and Teddy Wilson, among others, stopped by our apartment a few times to cheer him up when his health failed and to relive their recording of his hit song, which they always played when they visited. That inevitably meant I had to perform as well. A gentle man and a perfectionist, whose playing was both precise and lyrical, Mr. Wilson once approached quietly while I was butchering Bach and delicately put his index finger under my knuckles to lift my sagging bridge. In the decades that followed I have interviewed kings and presidents, but I can die happy just knowing I once sang \"Summertime\" in a two-room apartment with Billie Holiday to Teddy Wilson's lilting piano.\n\nBut I was a white kid living by the East River in Manhattan, largely isolated and ignorant of nonwhite culture, whose mind was only opened at first because my parents insisted on it. Jackie Robinson's story was a handy, inspirational allegory, and I was filled with its details, as well as the stories of the players who came after him.\n\nMy real education, though, was from John Tomkins. He must have been around thirty when I was five; he worked in a shoe repair shop on 43rd Street in my neighborhood and took the subway each evening home to Brooklyn. He could not hear and he could not speak; outside of teachers and my family's immediate circle he was the first grown-up I can remember who took an interest in me. And he taught me the basics of the baseball position I came to love the most\u2014catcher.\n\nThe first thing I can recall about this stocky man with flashing eyes is that I was instructed to call him Mr. Tomkins, as my parents did, while everyone else who came into the store called him John. My first direct lesson in race relations, from my mother, was that the Mr. conferred deference and respect and that people used first names to people of color to signal alleged superiority.\n\nThe second thing I can recall is that Mr. Tomkins taught me to sign\u2014a mixture back then of symbols and spelled-out words. I would sit where the people who were having their shoes shined sat and he would patiently drill me until I was reasonably proficient; I was so intent on learning that I barely noticed how relaxed and natural our relationship became. On many a Saturday and more than a few days after school in the neighborhood with my father, we would sit in those seats, hands and fingers flashing away, discussing the day's Dodger news and my progress in school.\n\nOn his lunch hours, Mr. Tomkins often ate in the parks where I played in pickup ball games or outside the store on 43rd Street where I learned stickball. He was a magician with the broom handles we played with and taught me how to swing at the tough pitches that came in low on one bounce, but my fondest memories are of him teaching me how to play catcher\u2014how to concentrate on the ball, not the batter or the bat, so you could catch the ball without blinking after a swing, and how to block low pitches that bounced.\n\nIt was such a relaxed introduction to an African-American that as the actual state of race relations began to dawn on me I remember being surprised before I was disgusted.\n\nMy parents followed a more interesting path. My mother told me once that she considered herself lucky as a young girl in extreme northern Minnesota that several of her first friends were Chippewa and that she was naturally at ease in diverse company before she was introduced to the institutionalized bigotry of formal society.\n\nThe part of Indiana into which my father was born was, in his formative years, one of the centers of Ku Klux Klan activity at a time when the Klan was at the apex of its sinister national power. His great fortune was to be the son of a country doctor who revered education and culture and detested the Klan. My father told me often that the combination of his consuming grief at losing his dad when he was just fifteen in 1924 with his revulsion at the horrid racism all around him (lynchings and other murders were not unheard of nearby) was what compelled him to leave the area the instant he was handed his high school diploma.\n\nAfter the war, Jackie Robinson thrilled both my parents and was responsible for the intensity of their love of the Dodgers, politically active as they were. I absorbed their passion in no time. Long before 1955, through conversation and the articles my father showed me when we visited the public library, I had learned the Robinson lore\u2014from Branch Rickey's earthquake announcement to Robinson's astonishing willingness to endure the taunts and the assaults in silence for his first two seasons.\n\nI also absorbed my father's pride in the baseball people who came, as he did, from the almost-South near the Ohio River and rose to the historic occasion. Even as a boy, I knew all about the former governor of Kentucky, A. B. \"Happy\" Chandler, who as baseball commissioner stared down the other fifteen club owners to permit Rickey's project to go forward, and the Dodgers from his part of the country\u2014Carl Erskine, Gil Hodges, and above all Pee Wee Reese, whose generous character overcame backgrounds that more frequently produced bigots.\n\nI especially remember one day when my father had prowled around the newspaper section while I was finishing a school project (I'm fairly certain it was in 1955) to assemble some articles about one of his favorite Dodgers, Fred \"Dixie\" Walker, the fabled \"People's Cherce\" in Brooklyn who was gone before I had achieved baseball consciousness. Walker had been one of the team's brightest stars, but he was a southerner (born in Georgia but by the time of his baseball career living in famously violent and virulent Birmingham, Alabama) deeply opposed to desegregation, and the organizer of the abortive clubhouse petition drive to keep Robinson off the team before the 1947 season started. Rather than accept Robinson's arrival, Walker asked to be traded and would have been gone early in the season had not Harold Patrick \"Pete\" Reiser had another of his collisions with an outfield wall, causing Branch Rickey to put his desire for winning the pennant ahead of his willingness to accommodate a conflicted ballplayer.\n\nThe articles painted a more nuanced picture of Walker than do most cursory accounts of his story. The articles told not only how Walker made the best of an awkward situation that year but also how Robinson himself appreciated his good manners as well as his lockerroom batting tips and he understood that much of Walker's public posture stemmed in large part from intense pressure back home that directly threatened his hardware and sporting goods store. To help his white teammate with appearances, Robinson was even careful not to shake his hand in baseball's routine ritual of congratulations if Walker hit a home run with Robinson on base or on deck.\n\nThe first Robinson-induced trade had occurred almost immediately after he made his debut with the Dodgers in 1947. It involved another solid performer and popular player, Kirby Higbe, a fastball pitcher from South Carolina, and brought both Al Gionfriddo (who would make the history books with one play later that year) and one hundred thousand dollars to the Dodgers. It turned out, however, that Higbe had also been subjected to intense pressure from home and was both conflicted and embarrassed by his response to it. Indeed, despite his posture of opposition to Robinson, it had been Higbe during spring training who told Dodger officials about the petition drive before it could gather momentum. In his relentless instruction and conversation, my father explained how these stories showed the complexities of white people's behavior and that it took some study of the details of momentous stories like Jackie Robinson's to understand how difficult it was to confront the system of segregation.\n\nIt was also at the library that my father introduced me to the black press, especially to writers such as Sam Lacy and Wendell Smith, whose indefatigable advocacy had played such an important role in laying the groundwork for baseball's desegregation. It was from the black press that I first learned Branch Rickey had not been the first owner to try to break the color line, that it had been Bill Veeck Jr., and that Rickey had studied and learned from the flamboyant owner's mistakes. A ceaseless promoter (when he owned the old St. Louis Browns, his team once fielded a midget pinch-hitter), Veeck sought in 1943 to purchase the Philadelphia Phillies and fill it with the best available players from the Negro Leagues. His disclosure of his intentions ahead of time, however, enabled the baseball establishment to have the National League take over the financially moribund team and sell it to a local lumber baron for half the price Veeck had offered. It was this chicanery that taught Rickey to keep his own plans to break the color line secret until the last minute.\n\nThe blocking of Veeck was stage-managed by baseball's dictatorial commissioner, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the judge who had been named the sport's only boss in the wake of the Black Sox scandal a generation earlier. It was implemented by the league president, Ford Frick (later Chandler's successor as commissioner). Landis's uncompromising attitude toward gambling was matched by his determined vigor in keeping the business's whites-only status inviolate. It was through accounts of Landis's racism in the black press that I first learned of the tortured lengths the white mind went to in order to justify the unjustifiable. Landis repeatedly denied that there was any ban on black players (how could the \"national pastime\" be officially racist?), and he, the owners, and white society in general and the establishment press in particular presented a patently absurd picture of custom and the same questions about talent and ambition that have dogged every effort to advance civil rights.\n\nIn my family the Landis name was dirt. I particularly remember my father arguing once that Shoeless Joe Jackson's sins in taking the criminals' money in 1919 but double-crossing them by playing hard anyway should have been forgiven eventually. My father said that Landis instead should have blocked the elevation to the Hall of Fame in the 1930s of one of its most famous hitting stars from before the turn of the century, Adrian Constantine \"Cap\" Anson. It was Anson who was more responsible than any other individual for the imposition of segregation. His actions took place at the same time reactionary forces were imposing brutal restrictions on black people throughout America, but especially in the South, as the hopeful developments after the Civil War were halted with the abrupt end to Reconstruction.\n\nA first baseman and manager for the old Chicago White Stockings of the original and all-white National League, Anson was from Iowa. He used his star power in an ugly campaign to exclude African-American players after he objected vehemently to having to play on the field against them in preseason games with teams from other leagues. It was largely as a result of his public and private agitation after the 1887 season that a \"gentlemen's agreement\" among owners erected the barrier. It would stand for the fifty-eight years that passed between the dropping of the last black player from the Newark team in the old International League (a catcher named Moses Fleetwood Walker) and the day Jackie Robinson took the field for the Dodgers' top farm team in Montreal in 1946.\n\nThe articles in the black press at the library were also the source of my first, primitive understanding of the gigantic impact Jackie Robinson had as a hero among black people. Poring over material my father found from Robinson's rookie season, I can remember newspapers filled with advertisements of welcome placed by black-owned businesses in National League cities. The papers were also filled with accounts of thousands of families who flocked to the ballpark, most in their Sunday best and many in tears, to see and applaud history even as white fans on the other side of ballparks were spitting out abuse. The papers also contained the stories, remarkably similar, of the hundreds of men who would show up at train stations to greet the Dodgers upon their arrival, often late in the evening, and usually with their young sons in tow\u2014just to get a glimpse.\n\n\"It was the dawn of a new day,\" a Washington pal, Vernon Jordan, explained to me decades later about his first impressions as a boy in Atlanta. \"We grew up in awe of the accomplishments of Jesse Owens in track and Joe Louis in boxing, but very few people had a chance to see them perform. This was spectacularly different, partly because it was baseball, the national sport at the time, and not an activity for one individual but one where you were part of a team\u2014at first a white team.\"\n\nVernon Jordan is both a major figure from the postsegregation civil rights movement of the late 1960s and 1970s and eventually a genuine pillar of the Washington legal, business, and political establishment. He followed the late Whitney Young into the presidency of the Urban League, endured a tortuous recovery from a would-be assassin's bullet in Indiana, and then rose to prominence as a power broker and business figure. He was twelve years old during Jackie Robinson's rookie season.\n\nTwo years later, Jordan witnessed history as the Dodgers broke spring training camp in Florida and headed north for the regular season\u2014stopping in Robinson's native Georgia to finally integrate professional baseball in the state. The inaugural game was in Macon against the Class B Peaches on April 7, whereupon the team moved on for three games in Atlanta against the premier franchise in the old Southern Association, the Crackers (that really was their name). There is a delightful account of what followed in Jordan's revealing autobiography, _Vernon Can Read!,_ but when we talked I begged him for more details.\n\nAs a reward for his children's attendance at church, Vernon Jordan Sr. had precious tickets for himself, his namesake, and his other son, Windsor. On what was Palm Sunday he met them at Atlanta's long-gone Ponce de Le\u00f3n Park after the two boys had been dispatched to Sunshine's Department Store to get khaki pants and white shirts so they would look their best on a historic day.\n\nAt the segregated stadium, they had to walk through a small gate down the first-base line under a sign that said: Colored Patrons. Robinson and Roy Campanella (Don Newcombe was not yet with the team for his rookie season) had stayed separately at the Royal Hotel, which catered to people of color, while the rest of the Dodger entourage enjoyed the comforts of the Henry Grady on famous Peachtree Street. Inside the stadium, segregation\u2014whites in the grandstand, blacks in the outfield bleachers\u2014was rigid.\n\nOn that day, more than twenty-five thousand people (including several busloads from Robinson's hometown, Cairo, in South Georgia) showed up to see the final game, nearly double the park's capacity and a substantial majority of them African-American\u2014this despite a week of ugly threats of violence from the Klan and its Georgia Grand Dragon, some fool doctor named Samuel Green. To accommodate the nonwhite throng and take their ticket money, Cracker owner Earl Mann had a rope stretched across the relatively deep part of the outfield grass (any ball that bounced beyond the rope was a ground-rule double). At least five thousand people were turned away even after that accommodation; there were large numbers of black fans on the railroad tracks that looked down on the field and still more on top of buildings behind them. Right behind the rope in left-center field stood the three thrilled Jordans.\n\n\"There was tremendous excitement because this was history,\" Jordan recalled for me, \"but there was a distinctly racial tinge to it. We cheered every time Jackie Robinson came to the plate, but you could also hear the loud boos and taunts coming from the grandstand. The first time he came up, white fans actually threw two black cats onto the field.\"\n\nRobinson made an out in his first appearance against George Diehl (who had played parts of two seasons during the war for the Boston Braves). The second time up, Jordan said, Robinson singled to left field, stole second, and scampered to third on a short fly to right. Once on third, he began his patented intimidation\u2014darting off the bag to take his lead, then pretending to sprint home as Diehl went into his windup, only to halt abruptly just before he threw. The Atlanta catcher that day was one of the most popular Crackers ever, Ralph \"Country\" Brown, a Georgia boy who never made it to the major leagues and normally played in the outfield. He must have relaxed as Robinson came to a halt, because without looking in his direction Brown casually tossed the ball back to the mound.\n\nAt precisely that instant, of course, Robinson stole home. Jordan remembers the brief delay while the crowd labored to figure out if what it had just seen had really happened, followed by a roar that he can still hear in his head.\n\n\"We blacks were cheering as if he had won something for us,\" Jordan wrote in his memoir. \"And, of course, he had.\"\n\nThe family's thrills on that historic day had not ended. The Dodgers' backup catcher, Bruce Edwards (who had lost his starting job to Campanella the year before), hit an automatic beyond-the-rope line double right at them. Jordan's father disappeared in the pile of bodies scrambling for the baseball and emerged holding it high. Windsor Jordan is the keeper of the family treasure to this day.\n\nFrom that time behind the rope line in the outfield as a boy witnessing history Jordan's journey took him to a favored place among the mourners at Jackie Robinson's achingly sad funeral at New York City's Riverside Church in 1972.\n\n\"It is literally impossible to overstate what he meant to me, to all of us, to the country,\" Jordan told me. \"It is as instructive and inspiring a story of courage as you can find. For the sake of perspective, it is possible to see how major-league baseball can be isolated from the rest of the country's social and economic problems that were hardly being addressed at all, because it was a sport.\n\n\"But what Jackie Robinson and the Brooklyn Dodgers did turned out to be one of the first clues\u2014and it was easily the most visible and powerful one\u2014that the system of segregation was beginning to come apart. His place in the story is crucial. He made us all Dodger fans; there was a special glow around them wherever they went because of what they represented and what he had done.\"\n\nTo better understand the New York of my childhood, the setting in which Jackie Robinson (and then all the other black ballplayers on this integrated team) played half their games, Jordon urged me to see his mentor in life and faith\u2014Rev. Gardner Calvin Taylor.\n\nReverend Taylor, in his eighties when we talked in his spacious home just off Eastern Parkway in Crown Heights, arrived in Brooklyn from his native South to minister shortly after Robinson arrived to play baseball. He remembers well the thrill and significance of the breakthrough.\n\n\"We were so starved for attentions and recognition,\" he said in a soft, reflective voice. \"This was almost another emancipation to see this amazing thing happen, especially to see it happen when it happened, when hardly anything else good was occurring. Jackie Robinson, to the entire country and not simply to those of us here in Brooklyn or those in baseball, was one of the very few glimpses there were then of black leadership and accomplishment in a white world.\"\n\nReverend Taylor\u2014theologian, civic leader, civil rights leader, prominent Kings County Democratic Party official\u2014quickly became part of the emerging leadership in New York that made change possible and then pushed it hard when doors started to open. After a lifetime of service, his Presidential Medal of Freedom (from President Clinton in 2000) hangs in his front hallway. Until his retirement in 1990, his base\u2014which he expanded exponentially\u2014was the Concord Baptist Church of Christ, where he hosted Martin Luther King Jr. (his family and Dr. King's in Georgia were acquainted) in the early days of his national leadership.\n\nTo his credit, Branch Rickey reached out to this evolving structure that Taylor helped lead for both help and advice as he labored to make sure Robinson succeeded and was welcome in Brooklyn and to expand on the first year's success. New York was not the Louisiana of Reverend Taylor's youth, but as I told him my own experiences and the importance of John Tomkins to my formative years, he smiled.\n\n\"At that time, the best word to describe the situation in New York was _ambiguous,\"_ he said. \"It was a time of great ferment as we began to plan for change. To most of us, there was no question we had escaped a much more rigid system in the South. There was mobility on the subway and the buses.\n\n\"It is also true, though, that there were many stores in New York where we were not welcome. Residence was strictly, and I mean strictly, segregated. And opportunity was severely restricted; apart from the professions within our community, only menial jobs were available with very, very few exceptions. At Ebbets Field, nearly all of us sat in the outfield bleachers. In government, there were as yet no opportunities at all. In the city system when I got to New York, the highest-ranking position was a make-work job created in the office of the Brooklyn borough president.\n\n\"And yet things were starting to happen, and Robinson's arrival was an enormous catalyst. It helped that Brooklyn itself was for that time the most tolerant and diverse place in America. The key, no question about it, was the large Jewish population, which operated throughout this period as our collective social conscience. It was such that it was not considered appropriate here to oppose the arrival of Robinson and the additional steps to integrate the Dodgers that were taken after 1947.\"\n\nBack then, the storied alliance for civil rights between the black and Jewish communities was on vivid display to anyone who visited Ebbets Field. The first Yiddish word I remember hearing was _Yonkel,_ shouted happily from grandstand and bleachers alike, which translated as \"Jakov\" in Hebrew, or \"Jack.\"\n\nIt is clear now, but wasn't back then, that each step the Dodgers took involved hard work by numerous individuals on the team and in the city and no step was taken without careful consideration and debate.\n\nAs Reverend Taylor put it, \"Each time someone was added, there was discussion of whether there would be a backlash, whether the Dodgers were moving too quickly ahead of their time. This was not entirely a matter of older leaders trying to restrain younger leaders; we all worried about this. Remember, we wanted this to work; we were not just seeking to make a statement. And yet, each time the issue of race arose, the consensus was that while there might be a need for care, there was certainly room on the team for one more black player.\"\n\nFew people were more intimately involved with these decisions than Emil J. \"Buzzie\" Bavasi, the young Dodger front-office man\u2014a Larry MacPhail hire in 1939\u2014whom Rickey used to check out Robinson before the final decision to bring him up to the Dodgers after the start of the 1947 season. Bavasi told Rickey that Robinson's reputation was rock-solid after observing the way the players' wives in Montreal deferred to his wife, Rachel. Bavasi was the general manager in 1955, five years into a job he would perform with great skill until Walter O'Malley fired him in 1968 to make room for his son, Peter. I visited Bavasi at his home in La Jolla, California, high up Soledad Mountain with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. Bavasi had gone on to develop the San Diego Padres franchise and retired as the part-owner he had tried to become with the Dodgers. Well into his eighties, his eyes twinkle with memories of slick deals and roguish maneuvers as well as brilliant coups. It was he who sprang the shocking trade of Robinson to the Giants after the 1956 season, a deal that fortunately never went through when Robinson retired. Bavasi built four World Series-winning Dodgers teams\u20141955, 1959, 1963, and 1965; under Peter O'Malley, they won two.\n\nBavasi's father came to this country at the age of seven from Marseilles, eventually becoming one of New York's most successful newspaper distributors. Buzzie grew up comfortably in the suburbs and graduated from DePauw University in Indiana, where he was the school catcher for three years. His baseball connection, helpful in landing his first job, was a friendship with Ford Frick's son. After paying his dues in the Dodgers' farm system in Georgia, Bavasi spent the war with the army which helped prepare him for the special role in baseball that was ahead of him.\n\n\"I was in the 350th Mountain Division,\" he told me. \"We fought from Naples up to the Austrian border and it was rough going. I particularly remember an occasion when a squad of black kids took a very bad beating one day; they must have lost fifteen out of twenty guys, and I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that they were treated in America the way they were when they were fighting and dying for their country just like everybody else.\"\n\nIn 1946, Branch Rickey gave Bavasi and another famous Dodger boss what turned out to be a critical job\u2014running the farm team in Nashua, New Hampshire, where Roy Campanella and Don Newcombe began their careers. Buzzie Bavisi was the team's overall boss, and Walter Alston was the manager. Both established stars in the Negro Leagues, Campanella and Newcombe were sent to New Hampshire (while Jackie Robinson went to Montreal) because it was the only team further down in the system that would accept them.\n\n\"I doubt there were ten black people in Nashua at the time, and I worried about it long and hard before the season, going around and meeting with local businesspeople, including the newspaper,\" Bavasi recalled. \"I shouldn't have bothered. Everyone up there was fantastic.\"\n\nSigned immediately after the barrier-breaking announcement of Robinson's contract at the end of 1945, the two players were being prepared for special roles\u2014Campanella playing a leadership position on the field as a catcher and Newcombe preparing to throw fastballs at white players with bats in their hands.\n\nJackie Robinson was born in tiny Cairo, Georgia, and came of age in Pasadena, just next to Los Angeles. The two superstars who followed him to the Dodgers were more traditional city kids. Newcombe was raised in tough neighborhoods of Newark, New Jersey. Campanella grew up in Philadelphia, and the racism they each confronted was especially virulent in the great catcher's case because he was born to a Sicilian father and an African-American mother.\n\nIf Bavasi was excited about being part of history, Alston was typically stoic. As he put it in his memoir, \"I recall that I took the pioneer assignment in stride. I take no particular credit for this acceptance of the new status quo. I was not being charitable or altruistic. I simply had a job to do and accepted it without question.\"\n\nTogether, Bavasi and Alston proved a successful team. One time when he was thrown out of a game by an umpire, Alston casually designated Campanella to take his place. On another occasion, after a particularly ugly day of racial epithets from another team (not surprisingly, the Red Sox farm team from Lynn, Massachusetts), the two young men appeared at the visiting teams bus after the game and challenged its manager and anyone else to fight. No one answered.\n\nIn Brooklyn, Bavasi agreed with Reverend Taylor from the team's perspective. Bavasi said the question of adding black players after the first few years was always carefully considered, if not always with the loftiest of motives. On at least three occasions, the Dodgers missed the chance to sign players who went on to have a major impact on the league.\n\nThe first was Sam Jethroe, a swift and solid-hitting outfielder for the Cleveland Buckeyes in the Negro Leagues. The Dodgers had signed him after Robinson's first season as a Dodger, and Jethroe went on to dominate the International League with Montreal in 1948 and 1949 (when he stole eighty-nine bases). That winter, however, Rickey sold Jethroe and another player to the Boston Braves for $255,000. He was Rookie of the Year the following season at the age of thirty-two. He could have filled the left field opening that plagued Brooklyn for years after the beloved Pete Reiser's injuries.\n\nRickey's famous parsimony also cost the team the chance to sign Monte Irvin, a famous slugger with the old Newark Eagles (the Negro Leagues team that began in Brooklyn in 1935 by taking the name of the local paper and was founded by a numbers racket boss, Abe Manley, and his wife, Effa, who ran the franchise where Don Newcombe first played). Effa Manley was angry and vocal about the major-league teams that raided her league, and insisted on compensation for players. Had Rickey been willing to part with five thousand dollars, he could have signed Irvin, who eventually came up with the Giants and is now in the Hall of Fame.\n\nThe most revealing story, however, involved a teenager from Puerto Rico with a rifle for an arm and a famously quick bat, who grew up listening to Dodger games on the radio and idolized Carl Furillo. Roberto Clemente was signed for ten thousand dollars in 1954 by Dodger scout Al Campanis (the man who signed Sandy Amoros, among others) and played that year in Montreal. As Clemente was what was known as an \"amateur free agent,\" with a bonus of more than four thousand dollars, the league rules required (in order to restrict big-spending owners) that either he be on the Dodger roster the following year or another team could draft him.\n\n\"O'Malley said flatly that winter he didn't want any more colored guys on the team,\" Bavasi told me. \"It was complicated, but it was a combination of what he thought the fans would accept, what he thought the team could handle, and the fact that he got heat from some of his partners who worried that the more integrated the Dodgers became, the more pressure they felt to hire blacks in their own businesses.\"\n\nBavasi said that Jackie Robinson himself expressed misgivings about Clemente. There had already been tension on the team when eroding skills and the arrival of Gilliam prompted the Dodgers to demote popular third baseman Billy Cox to part-time status while a gradually slowing Robinson moved over from second base to replace him. In the case of Clemente, Bavasi said Robinson was concerned that if the Dodgers activated him, he would take the roster position of George \"Shotgun\" Shuba\u2014a journeyman outfielder and pinch-hitter who was popular, white, and once Robinson's 1946 teammate on the Montreal Royals.\n\nBavasi said Branch Rickey\u2014by then at the end of his career running the Pittsburgh Pirates\u2014had been willing to let the Dodgers keep Clemente, but bad blood with O'Malley prevented a formal deal. Rickey drafted the future Hall of Fame player in the first round and Clemente was gone to the Pirates.\n\nFor all the intrigue, however, the fact was that the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1955 were a team with a national following based in no small part on the fact that not only had the team broken the segregation barrier, it had also shattered it.\n\nI was only nine, but all this history, including my own and my parents', was pounded into my bones as we completed our morning routines that long-ago Tuesday. Long before the first pitch, a huge national following as diverse as Brooklyn itself had begun to hope (again) for something that transcended victory in a baseball game.\n\n## 5\n\n## Two Pitchers\n\nI was on my own for the long morning after my father and I dropped my mother off at Grand Central Station for her subway ride to work. After my father bought the papers, we split up. He was headed farther downtown to the office of the agent who produced many of his magazine assignments. Miss Strassman was an elegantly dressed woman with jet-black hair who was loyally devoted to my father despite the fact that his failing health made him one of her least productive clients.\n\nAlone, I walked the rest of the way back down 42nd Street to our building. If this was a weekend I would have been in the park in a flash to play ball before the game started. Arrangements never had to made ahead of time; there were always enough kids around for a game. But this was a weekday, and it never occurred to me, \"sick\" or not, not to take the elevator upstairs to our apartment and finish practicing the piano and completing my school-work. I was in the fifth grade that year, and my teacher, William Kenney, was an exacting instructor who could be a warm, witty mentor unless you failed to do your work. He lived in Queens and was a die-hard Giant fan, which made us adversaries during the baseball season but allies in Yankee hatred every autumn.\n\nI have no memory of the late morning, except a mental picture of my father's return home\u2014the signal that it was time to make sandwiches and devour the sports pages, which we mostly did in silence. That day, they made much of the obvious classic clash between the Dodgers' very young left-hander, Johnny Podres, and the Yankees' veteran left-hander, Tommy Byrne, the kid who had dominated the Yankees and put the Dodgers back on track in Game Three and the experienced professional who had methodically shut them down in Game Two. Logic as well as atmospherics, not to mention the bookies' odds, dictated that the veteran was more likely to repeat than the kid.\n\nThe newspapers' preoccupation was both traditional and appropriate. Baseball is a team game comprised of individual actions, and no individual is more important on any given day than the pitcher. The Yankees and Dodgers may have been stocked with some of the best and best-known players of their day that day\u2014Mantle-Berra-Martin-Rizzuto versus Robinson-Snider-Hodges-Campanella\u2014but the nature of the game would be established by two of the lesser-knowns. It is a team game, but the pitcher on his own on his mound is one of its enduring symbols.\n\nAs it was, one of the oldest of melodramatic story lines\u2014talented youth versus talented experience\u2014was itself the product of two very human and equally hoary narratives, the gritty rise to success and the comeback from adversity. What is more, Podres and Byrne were in position to face each other because of the pivotal role played by the same man\u2014Podres's first Brooklyn manager, Charlie Dressen. It was Dressen who had first taught Podres as a minor leaguer three years before how to throw the pitch that made him an effective major leaguer\u2014the changeup. And it had been Dressen shortly after that, dismissed from the Dodgers and managing on the West Coast, who had spotted the comeback potential in Tommy Byrne after his career in the major leagues had seemed to come to a sad stop.\n\nIt made perfect sense that someone like Byrne was one of the starters in the seventh game. But although Johnny Podres was hardly the first kid to be in the spotlight at a climactic contest, he didn't quite fit for such an epic moment in an epic rivalry. He had finished his third season with the Dodgers, but he was not part of Dodger lore, not really known or appreciated. Hard-core Dodger fans, my family included, would have felt less uncomfortable on this terrifying day if Carl Erskine's arm had not gone sore on him. Podres's performance in Game Three was beside the point; this was it, but the Dodgers were going with a guy who'd been hurt much of the season and never made much of an impression.\n\nOnce again, little did we know. Above all, we didn't know Johnny Podres. Come to think of it, we didn't know Tommy Byrne, either.\n\nIt is an oft-noted fact that relatively few of the people who played that seventh game in 1955 are still alive. Fate, as it turns out, has been much kinder to the pitchers than to the hitters. Podres and Byrne, two very different people who arrived at their celebrated meeting by taking very different paths, are two of the exceptions\u2014alive, in fairly decent health, full of memories of interesting lives and of that day, which they have long since come to terms with as the inevitable public reference point of their careers. I sought them both out at their homes in New York and North Carolina on the assumption that they were the best narrators of their paths to Yankee Stadium on that October afternoon and that they would be the best people to set the stage for the Tommy Byrne curveball that opened the game. I was not disappointed.\n\nNearly fifty years later, standing in the parking area of a Mobil station just off Interstate 87 in the upstate New York town of Queensbury, I noticed the black car coming my way when it was about a quarter of a mile away. I don't know anything about cars, but this was a nice one, perhaps a bit out of place in a middle-class community like Queensbury, which lies north of Albany and just north of horse-racing heaven in Saratoga, just south of the working family vacation area around the southern shores of Lake George, in the foothills of the Adirondacks. It is also barely an hour's drive south of the small onetime mining town of Witherbee, where the hero of the 1955 Series was raised.\n\nThe car, a Cadillac DeVille, pulled into the parking area where I had been pacing earlier, and there was no doubt whose it was from the license plate\u2014MVP55. As it stopped in front of me, I saw a solidly built man behind the wheel, wearing a Philadelphia Phillies cap. When Johnny Podres turned to face me, smiled broadly, and stuck out his hand, what I recognized instantly was the eyes\u2014deep-set above a serious nose, not wide or sparkling, but dark and intense, eyes that could concentrate to the point of fixation.\n\nWhen we had talked on the phone after I had arrived in the area, he had insisted on meeting me at the gas station to guide me to his house. It was no more than two miles away, but there were enough turns to convince me I probably would have gotten lost on my own. Podres's gesture was typically considerate, made matter-of-factly: I would go to this gas station; he would meet me there; he would lead me from there. He was warm but to the point; there were no extra words.\n\nHis two-story white house is on the corner of a quiet street of well-kept family homes, not a gated community of McMansions, where today's professional ballplayers are likely to be found. On the day we talked, he was planning to meet his son later at Saratoga. Johnny Podres loved the ponies as a player, and he loves them in retirement. He and his boy own a pacer that Podres races at county and state fairs during the summer; he was fresh off a victory in Massachusetts.\n\nPodres's retirement is anything but lavish. He had a successful postplaying career as a pitching coach, working with the Minnesota Twin teams in the 1980s that won two World Series and then with the Phillies, where he helped develop a young pitcher named Curt Schilling and with whom he still consults. The day I met Podres was a few days before the annual induction ceremonies at baseball's Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, a couple of hours' drive to the west. He was planning to go over to one of the souvenir shops on the town's main street to, as he put it, make a few extra bucks signing autographs.\n\nHe ushered me into an ordered living room dominated by a long couch and a large leather lounging chair, where he sat, leaning back so the footrest came out. On the way into the room, the wall in the hallway is filled with his plaques, but until you look closely and see his award as the Most Valuable Player of the 1955 World Series, it could be the trophy wall of any modestly successful athlete.\n\nThe fact is, Johnny Podres came up the hard way. It was his grandfather who came to this country from Poland, settling in Schenectady. His dad, who died young, worked in the iron mines of upstate New York. He and Podres's mom (still vigorous in her nineties, dividing her time between friends and family in Witherbee and nearby Mineville in the summer and her son's home during the winter) had five children, Johnny Podres being the eldest.\n\nIt was a baseball family. Podres was taught the game from the age of four by his father, a pitcher who played what was known as town ball\u2014guys from a community who worked regular jobs all week and played on Sunday for the few dollars the team had left over after expenses. It was called semipro baseball, but even the _semi_ was an exaggeration. In addition to playing ball all the way through school, young Johnny Podres was playing town ball in the area by his sophomore year, often pitching against his dad.\n\nAs it happened, the principal at Podres's high school knew somebody who knew a major-league scout, who arranged two tryouts for Podres in the summer of 1950. The first, with the Phillies at the old Shibe Park in Philadelphia, brought him no offer. His second shot was at Ebbets Field, where he remembers throwing along the first-base line in front of the Dodger dugout for at most a half hour. Upstairs in the office, Podres also remembers the booming voice of Branch Rickey, then in the final weeks of his astonishing tenure. After the season, another aching Dodger disappointment that slipped away on the last day to a young Philadelphia Phillies team immortalized as the Whiz Kids, Rickey sold his 25 percent share of the team to master maneuverer Walter O'Malley and departed for his final gig with the Pittsburgh Pirates.\n\n\"Don't let that kid get away,\" the voice bellowed. Podres signed with the Dodgers for a $5,200 bonus and a minor-league contract paying $160 a month. In retrospect, he wishes he had negotiated for a somewhat smaller bonus and a somewhat larger salary. But it was more money than he had ever imagined existed, and he bought some new clothes and a blue Oldsmobile.\n\nAt spring training, he came face-to-face with the reality of trying to break into professional baseball\u2014more than five hundred fellow prospects vying for minor-league jobs. Podres got a good assignment\u2014Class B at Newport News, Virginia, under a former Chicago Cub pitcher and well-regarded teacher, Clay Bryant. He did not perform well, however, and after going 0\u20132 the first month of the season found himself further down the chain in Hazard, Kentucky.\n\nNot for the last time in his career, however, Podres responded to having his back against a wall. He won twenty-one games, two more in the league play-off, and won a shot with the Dodgers themselves the following spring.\n\n\"I was warming up one day, throwing the fastballs and curves I threw, when Charlie Dressen walked by and said, I can still hear him, 'Hey son, you got a changeup?' I didn't know what the hell a changeup was.\"\n\nNeither did I, so Podres picked up a baseball on the coffee table in front of me and held it in his left hand.\n\n\"Try to imagine that first joint on your fingers is like a lifeless stub, but squeeze the ball hard in your palm while you're throwing normally. It slows it down. I learned it quickly and Charlie Dressen fell in love with me. Before spring training was over he told me I had made the team.\"\n\nIn those early days of the Cold War, however, it wasn't as simple as that for a young player. There was nothing unusual about players being drafted into the armed services (Don Newcombe himself was away at the time), and Podres was classified 1A, ready to go. Baseball's rules were like those governing every employer, meaning that people who were drafted were entitled to their same job back when they got out of the service. For Podres, that meant that if he came all the way up to the Dodgers that spring, he might get drafted, go away for two years, and then try to keep his job in the major leagues after all that time away. It was second nature for a child of the depression to have job security firmly on his mind. The smarter move was to start the season with the Dodgers' AAA club in Montreal; if he was drafted, served, and then came back there, he would have a better chance to reacquire his skills and then move up to the parent team. The Dodger management agreed with Podres. In 1952, a promising rookie pitcher would have been a nice addition to the staff, but the team still enjoyed the productive services of a solid veteran and one of the most popular players in Brooklyn, Elwin Charles \"Preacher\" Roe.\n\nPodres had a solid year on the Royals (where the top pitcher that year was still another young left-hander named Tommy Lasorda), but playing pro ball was beginning to take a toll on his back and pitching shoulder. It wasn't career threatening, but it was enough to make him ineligible at that point for the military draft, always a weird bureaucratic maze that passed on more than a few young men who had conditions (like bad backs, flat feet, and marginally poor eyesight) that didn't affect their ability to do their jobs or, truth be told, to be in combat.\n\nThe next year, Podres made the Dodgers in spring training.\n\nAs in his debut in the minors at Newport News, Podres struggled at first and got little help from Dressen in his first two pitching assignments\u2014against Giant ace Sal Maglie and then against the Phillies' future Hall of Famer Robin Roberts. Podres was 0\u20132 before his first major-league victory, against the Phillies\u2014a game in which he was relieved at the end by Carl Erskine, who was normally a starter. The struggling continued, however, and by the early summer Podres was looking at the real possibility of a trip back to Montreal.\n\nIn the 1950s, one of the minor rites of the Dodgers\u2013Yankees rivalry was an exhibition game near the middle of the season, a charity affair known as the Mayor's Trophy Game. The teams didn't play their stars for the entire game and second-line pitchers were typically used, but fans paid attention and in 1953 so did Johnny Podres, the starting pitcher. Aware that his future might be on the line, he once again came through with a dominating performance, in which he struck out thirteen Yankee hitters.\n\nHis job was safe, but Podres's progression as a major-league pitcher was nonetheless slow, if steady His rookie season record on the pennant-winning team (in many respects a more intimidating group than the Dodgers of 1955) was 9\u20134, with a respectable 4.23 earned-run average. It was enough to earn him the starting assignment in the pivotal fifth game of the 1953 World Series at Ebbets Field, with the Series deadlocked at two games apiece.\n\nHe only made it through the second out of the third inning, after which the Yankees had six runs on the way to an 11\u20137 victory. As Podres delights in pointing out, however, the score doesn't tell the real story of a kid just barely twenty-one years old who gave a decent account of himself.\n\nIn the first inning, Podres had given up a home run to Yankee left fielder Gene Woodling, whose fly ball made it into the left field stands, a run the Dodgers got back in the second. In the third, Podres had gotten two outs with one man on when Yankee first baseman Joe Collins hit a ground ball off Gil Hodges's normally near-perfect glove for an error, scoring a run. Podres then hit right fielder Hank Bauer and walked Yogi Berra to load the bases, at which point Dressen yanked him in favor of Russ Meyer (a Whiz Kid with the pennant-winning Phillies three years before).\n\nWhat followed was a memorable event in World Series history\u2014a grand-slam home run by Mickey Mantle that landed in the left field stands' upper deck. If Hodges had fielded Collins's ground ball none of those runs would have scored.\n\nThe next year, Podres was an even more respectable 11\u20137, with more than 150 innings under his belt, but it was in the championship season of 1955 that he appeared to be on the way to stardom.\n\nAfter a spring training dominated by doubts about aging hitters and untested pitchers, an injured Roy Campanella, an aging Jackie Robinson, and a Don Newcombe still rusty from two years in the military, the Dodgers simply ran away with the pennant. They won their first ten games, breaking the modern (as in twentieth-century) record, and, after two losses to the Giants, proceeded to break the record again by reeling off eleven straight. The last one was a masterful performance by Newcombe, who pitched a one-hitter against the Cubs but thanks to a double play faced only twenty-seven hitters to get twenty-seven outs. The team in effect never looked back and ended up clinching the pennant against the second-place Milwaukee Braves on September 8, earlier than any National League pennant had ever been clinched, breaking the mark set by Brooklyn two years before.\n\nMost descriptions of Podres's 1955 performance completely miss the point, focusing on either his 9\u201310 record or his two bouts with injury. As Podres himself will tell all who inquire, he had won seven games by June, though two of his three losses just happened to be the ones that ended the two record-breaking winning streaks. The trouble started late that month, when he pitched into extra innings against the St. Louis Cardinals and felt a twinge in his pitching shoulder that became a pain so severe he often couldn't sleep; that cost him his effectiveness for the rest of the summer. Then, in early September, he was standing near home plate before a game, hitting fly balls to the outfielders as pitchers often do during warm-ups; behind him, the Dodgers' crew began pushing the large batting cage on wheels for its long journey to a gate in center field.\n\nThe crew didn't see Podres and he didn't see the crew. The result was that the side of the cage hit the pitcher squarely and painfully in the ribs. Two more weeks were lost. At the end of the season, when the Dodgers were making their final decision on who would make the roster for the World Series, Podres was given a relief assignment against the Pittsburgh Pirates. At the time, the choice for the final pitching spot had come down to Podres and still another promising left-hander in the Dodger system, Kenny Lehman, who was then with Montreal. Once again with his back to a wall, Podres responded by retiring all twelve batters he faced and his spot on the roster was secure.\n\nThe Dodgers' day-to-day chief executive at the time, Buzzie Bavasi, told me he remembers Podres in his office shortly before the decision was made, talking animatedly about the situation.\n\n\"He asked me if I wanted to win the World Series or not,\" Bavasi recalled. \"The kid was a real horse player and he had a burning desire to win. His dad had worked in the iron mines upstate and he never wanted to have to go back there.\"\n\nIn the sports pages before the World Series began, and even before he pitched in the third game, Podres was at most an afterthought in the listing of Dodger pitchers, usually with the adjective _sore-armed_ in front of his name.\n\n\"What I suppose people didn't realize, though I certainly did, was that I had a rested arm, a fresh arm,\" Podres told me.\n\nThe biggest day of his baseball life is mostly a blur to him now, not because his memory is the slightest bit dulled (at seventy-one he's as sharp as a tack) but because his concentration on simply throwing the ball to Roy Campanella's glove was so intense.\n\nPodres told me that his confidence stemmed from a conviction that his presumed disadvantage\u2014youth and inexperience\u2014was in fact his advantage. The Dodger veterans for the most part were famously preoccupied with the multitude of disappointments of the previous decade. Podres was not. His one World Series, though a disappointment, was anything but an obsession. He said he was excited and nervous before the game, but not scared. What he didn't say was what others have said for years: he was also brash.\n\nHe recalls nothing special about the morning of October 4 beyond visiting briefly with two of his uncles and his father, who had driven down from Witherbee for the proudest moment of his hard life. Before the game, he was warmed up by the Dodgers' bullpen catcher, Dixie Howell, who came out of the Louisville area like his teammate Pee Wee Reese. _Bullpen catcher_ was a fancy term for third-string catcher, behind Campanella's usual backup, Al (Rube) Walker, but Howell was a diligent contributor in the third of what would be eight years in the major leagues. He had only gotten into sixteen games in 1955, but the pitchers swore by him. A good bullpen catcher can make a huge difference in preparing a pitcher for a game, especially a young one. He eases the pitcher into top speed, varies his pitches so that each is ready for use in the game, spots the ones he is having trouble with, and nudges him back into command of them. Dixie Howell was very good at what he did.\n\nPodres has never had trouble remembering one moment, sitting on the bench next to Howell in the visitors' dugout after warming up, while the Yankees' mellifluous-voiced public-address man, Bob Shepherd, was announcing the starting lineups, and he recalled it for me as if to illustrate his mood.\n\n\"I knew Mickey Mantle was hurt bad and couldn't play the outfield and I knew Hank Bauer [the Yankees' right fielder] had a bum leg. As Shepherd went through the names, I just turned to Dixie and said, 'That lineup can't beat me today.'\"\n\nEarlier, on the team bus driving over to the Stadium from Brooklyn, Duke Snider remembers an excited Podres as among the last players to board the bus, circulating in the aisle, repeating over and over again, \"Just get me one run today. That's all I need. Just one.\"\n\nHe did it so often, the more relaxed veterans started kidding him by occasionally asking him with mock seriousness how many runs he needed. Podres didn't joke back; he just kept repeating\u2014one, just one.\n\nPodres has no memory of his manager, Walter Alston, a quiet, stoic man, circulating in the clubhouse, telling players as he had told them before the Dodgers began their comeback in the third game in Brooklyn that he thought they were the better team, trying to counter the pervasive sense of jinx that affected players and fans alike; there is, however, a rare picture of him doing just that right in front of a seated Podres. He has only slight memories of his pregame clubhouse chat alone with Roy Campanella but is quite clear about what the strong-willed catcher had established as the strategy for the game.\n\nAt Ebbets Field, Podres had varied the speed of his pitches the entire game, as befits a relatively tiny ballpark where mistakes tend to be called home runs. He told me he threw his changeup at least twenty times during the game and also varied the speed of his curve.\n\nAt Yankee Stadium, Campanella had something else in mind because of the way shadows slowly creep toward home plate there during a day game. In the early innings both pitcher and batter are bathed in sunlight, but by the middle of a game shadows gradually come between them, giving the pitcher an advantage as his ball travels from the bright to the darker light at roughly ninety miles an hour. One of the many aphorisms attributed to the Yankees' great catcher Yogi Berra, one that he really uttered, was his observation that in the Stadium \"it gets late here early.\"\n\nFor the seventh game, Campanella's idea was for Podres to show the Yankees his changeup early, to throw it just enough in the early innings to keep the hitters from sitting back and waiting for fast pitches, to hope that his control of the pitch was as sharp as it was during Game Three in Brooklyn to make it effective. Once the shadows arrived, however, Campanella wanted the hard stuff for as long as Podres's strength lasted.\n\nMore than his sketchy pregame memories or the details of his career and season to that point, what I got out of conversation with Podres\u2014even after all the intervening years\u2014was a clear sense of his intense determination. He had acquired a bit of a reputation as a young player as a rambunctious person who loved the horses and other aspects of the fast life, perhaps a bit much for his own good. What came through to me to round out his portrait was a will of the iron his dad used to mine. When we parted, his ability to pitch in crucial games\u2014where his career or his team's season was on the line\u2014was much less of a mystery.\n\nOn the other side of the field warming up that day was an experienced pitcher who is the perfect bookend for the kid Walter Alston started. Off his record that year, Tommy Byrne was as natural a choice by the legendary Casey Stengel to pitch the second game of the Series, which he won, as he was to pitch the seventh. Through the years, as descriptions of him declined toward shorthand, the common adjectives have been _veteran, stylish,_ and _crafty._\n\nI had heard as I began working on the game's story that Byrne was a much more interesting character and that getting him away from stick-figured caricature was as important to the actual drama as understanding more about Johnny Podres.\n\nThat was an understatement. The tall man who greeted me in his driveway was eighty-four years old, still spry despite heart trouble, with a firm handshake and a delightful wry wit. He lives near where he went to college in Wake Forest, North Carolina. After baseball, he had a very successful business career in real estate and development and was mayor of Wake Forest twice, and an active supporter of the public school system. His wife, Mary Sue, to whom he was devoted and who passed away late in 2002, was every bit as well-known locally as he was, having played a leadership role at the end of the 1960s in promoting the peaceful and successful desegregation of the area's schools. Byrne lives today in a house built next to a golf course he developed in the early 1960s and eventually sold. As we walked into the house, he stopped in the garage and pointed out a golf cart casually parked amid the clutter. It had a Rolls-Royce hood ornament in the front and was decorated all around in Yankee pinstripes. It took a while, but my eyes gradually strayed to the number 7 in the back. It had been Mickey Mantle's golf cart; Byrne had picked it up at a charity auction years before, and though his heart trouble has limited his golf time, the cart is still used. Eventually, Byrne said, he will give it to the Hall of Fame.\n\nAs he walked me around the memory-filled home, two pictures among the many on his walls caught my eye. One was a blown-up version of the traditional posed pregame photograph of the opposing pitchers that long-ago day, autographed by both men. Byrne never knew Podres well, he said, but they have crossed paths occasionally over the years, always on friendly terms; Byrne remains astonished at Podres's gutsy performance in both games in 1955 and was pleased after inquiring to hear that his long-ago opponent was enjoying life. The other picture was taken with Byrne's wife, sitting on a camel in front of the famous pyramids in Giza. Following the World Series in 1955, the Yankees had gone on what was then known as a goodwill tour of Japan, playing exhibitions against local and all-star teams; when the tour ended, Byrne took his wife the rest of the way around the world, a tiny reminder of what an enormous sum of money fifty-seven hundred dollars (the losers' share that year) was in 1955.\n\nLike Podres, Byrne came from next to nothing. Unlike Podres, Byrne made it to the mound for that climactic game after a remarkable comeback from a years-long wildness streak that typically ended careers.\n\nThomas Joseph Byrne is from Baltimore, the youngest of four boys, all raised by their mother after their parents separated. He came by his baseball inspiration early. At the age of five, he was taken by his mom to the old ballpark where the then-minor-league Baltimore Orioles played. She was the acquaintance of another Baltimorean who had made it to the major leagues\u2014Wilson Lloyd (Chick) Fewster, who was a reserve infielder with the post-World War I New York Yankees, who were in town that day for an exhibition.\n\nAt the ballpark, Fewster introduced the young Byrne to the most famous left-hander of them all, also the product of a broken home in Baltimore\u2014Babe Ruth. Ruth signed his name to a baseball and gave it to the awed boy; the handwriting has faded over the years, but the ball remains with Byrne's other mementos in his home. Byrne's first brush with greatness stayed with him as he learned baseball; at that time, every left-handed kid in Baltimore had visions of Babe Ruth dancing in his head. Much later, when Byrne had made it to the Yankees, he told the then-retired superstar about their long-ago encounter. After that, until cancer got him in 1948, Ruth always made it a point to use Tommy Byrne's glove\u2014he called it a pud\u2014whenever he appeared in one of the Old-Timers' Games the team put on each year.\n\nByrne was a star pitcher in a tough league, playing for Baltimore City College High School, with well over three thousand students; it was an environment well-known to professional and college recruiters. He could have signed out of high school in 1939 with the Detroit Tigers, but he wanted to go to college.\n\nThe offers weren't long in coming, primarily channeled through the owner of a local sporting goods operation that sold uniforms all over the country. In North Carolina, Duke offered a full scholarship that came with the small string of a job in the cafeteria; Wake Forest offered the scholarship without the cafeteria job, so Byrne went there to major in mathematics.\n\nIt was no small adjustment for a city kid, a devout Catholic, to head off to what was then a small Baptist college town. However, virtually adopted by his coach's family and warmly embraced by the area he would call home for the rest of his life, Byrne flowered.\n\nThe professional contract came after his junior year, a ten-thousand-dollar bonus from the Yankees that came with a job at their top farm team, in Newark. Byrne did not neglect his studies, though; taking classes over the next three winters, he earned his degree just before entering the navy and World War II in 1943.\n\nHe had made his debut with the Yankees earlier in the year, appearing in eleven games and winning two. He was fast, he was smart, but he was also wild from the start.\n\nIn the war, he was a gunnery officer on a destroyer (the USS _Ordronaux_ ) that saw action in both the Atlantic and Pacific Theaters (\"for that work my aim was much better\"). Byrne's ship was primarily an escort vessel, helping protect convoys from the constant danger of submarine attack. It was in on more than one kill and was part of the massive armada off the coast of France on D day. Byrne is especially proud of one mission, in the group of escort vessels guarding President Roosevelt as he steamed toward Yalta in the Crimea for his historic summit with Stalin and Churchill near the end of the war and of his life.\n\nByrne returned to the Yankees in time for the 1946 season. His moments in the sun were delayed, but they came as he was nearing his thirtieth birthday. He won eight games in 1948, fifteen in 1949 (a Yankee pennant year and the first of their still-astonishing five consecutive World Championship seasons), and fifteen more in 1950. Byrne was chosen to start the pivotal third game of the 1949 World Series at Ebbets Field against Ralph Branca; he lasted into the fourth inning, yielding a run on two hits, but loading the bases before he was pulled for Joe Page, one of the five-game Series's stars.\n\nIn addition to his pitching, Byrne was famous for his ability to hit, which few pitchers could do consistently (one of the more notable exceptions was the Dodgers' star, Don Newcombe, but Byrne was just as good). From high school through his time with Newark he was a high-average batter with power. Ultimately, he hit fourteen home runs as a major leaguer, including two grand slams hit with two outs in the ninth inning to win ball games as a pinch-hitter.\n\nHe also hit when it counted in the World Series. In 1949, he kept the first run-producing Yankee rally going in Game Three with a sharp single to center field that sent Yankee right fielder Cliff \"Tiger\" Mapes to third base. In the second game of the Series in 1955, Byrne did more than pitch a complete game victory. In the Yankee half of the fourth inning, with the Dodgers having scored first, he drove in what turned out to be the game's winning runs off Brooklyn starter Billy Loes. Coming up to bat with the bases loaded and two outs, Byrne sent another sharp single into center field to score both Elston Howard and Jerry Coleman\u2014runs 3 and 4 in a game the Yankees won 4\u20132.\n\nBack in 1949, however, Byrne's wildness became legendary and ultimately intolerable. In his time, he had the dubious distinction of leading the league in hit batters an astonishing five times. He walked a league-leading 179 hitters in 1949, a league-leading 160 more in 1950, and a league-leading 150 more in 1951, when the despairing Yankees traded him to the lowly St. Louis Browns for a journeyman pitcher (Frank \"Stubby\" Overmire) and tossed in twenty-five thousand dollars to sweeten the pot. That was the beginning of a three-year slide. The Browns then traded Byrne to the Chicago White Sox along with light-hitting shortstop Joseph \"Oats\" DeMaestri, for the answer to a trivia question, an equally light-hitting shortstop from Cuba named Willie Miranda, and journeyman outfielder Hank Edwards; the White Sox sold his contract for just twenty thousand dollars to the Washington Senators, who after the 1953 season sold him to a Pacific Coast League team, the Seattle Rainiers, which did not have an affiliation agreement with a major-league team.\n\nTommy Byrne, however, neither died nor faded away. He simply learned to pitch better.\n\n\"Pitching is God-given talent above all,\" he told me. \"If you have speed at the major-league level the ball moves so much when you throw it hard and probably eighty percent of your pitches are fastballs and hard curves. Control is something different; it's a frame of mind, a very different type of desire than just using your talent and throwing as hard as you can.\"\n\nAs a youngster, Byrne relied on his talent, and it took him to the New York Yankees and to the All-Star Game. As he got older, however, it wasn't enough; it never is. Making the transition from what is called a thrower to a pitcher is one of the keys to a long career in the major leagues, and not every pitcher can do it. Byrne told me he was still struggling with the transition, playing winter ball in Venezuela after the 1953 season, when he began working harder on his own changeup and learned the slider\u2014a vicious pitch so-called because, as he put it, the pitcher reduces the friction of his fingers on the ball as he throws, making it \"slide\" off them, as opposed to quickly releasing it. It can look like a perfectly normal and inviting pitch as it comes toward home plate, until the bottom falls out of it at the last moment. He recalls winning thirteen games that winter.\n\n\"I had gone as far as I could on my talent, throwing hard and trying for strikeouts,\" Byrne said. \"I figured it was time to change. I decided I was going to make the hitters hit the ball and let my fielders field it.\"\n\nHe had also acquired a reputation, in addition to his wildness, for being playfully mischievous in ways that distracted hitters. He was no longer relying on speed to get hitters out. He was living by his wits now, and he is a delightfully witty man.\n\nFrom the mound he began talking occasionally to the hitters he was facing. Usually he would playfully call out the next pitch he was going to throw, alerts that were sometimes true, sometimes false. This kind of behavior is quite common with catchers but genuinely rare in pitchers. Byrne also sometimes added an extra hitch to his fluid pitching motion, casually flipping the ball in the air and catching it in his pitching hand, just before drawing his arm back to throw the ball.\n\n\"I remember the first time I did it,\" Byrne said of his mound conversation with a wry smile more suited to his adopted North Carolina than to urban Baltimore. \"The Yankees had shipped me to St. Louis and I was ahead of them one day when Hank Bauer [New York's hard-hitting right fielder] came up. I yelled that a slider was coming. I did it a second time, and then a third, whereupon Hank hit a home run. I used to talk to hitters who tended to hit me well\u2014like Al Rosen [the Cleveland Indians' All-Star third baseman] and Ted Williams. It was fun, but I noticed that it sometimes unnerved them.\"\n\nIn Game Two of the 1955 Series, he shouted at Duke Snider at least twice, though the results were mixed; Snider, famous for his inability to hit left-handed pitching, actually knocked in one of the two Dodger runs.\n\nIn 1954, without a major-league deal, Byrne hooked on with Seattle. After four months, he had won twenty games, and his name began once again to circulate among major-league general managers\u2014George Weiss of the Yankees included. At the time, the Yankees were in a pitching transition not unlike the Dodgers'. The pitchers who had played central roles for the team in the 1940s and early '50s were retired\u2014Joe Page, Allie Reynolds, Vic Raschi, and Ed Lopat in particular. That year, the first after the famous five-Series streak that the team failed to win a pennant, the Yankees were bringing in kids, and the prospect of an experienced pitcher back on top of his game was obviously enticing.\n\nIn the West Coast league that year, 1954, Charlie Dressen was managing in Oakland after the Dodgers dropped him following the World Series disasters of 1952 and '53. After seeing Byrne pitch, Dressen told his buddy Casey Stengel on the telephone one day that the left-hander had come all the way back and that the Yankees were nuts if they didn't pick him up. Stengel immediately went to George Weiss, and Tommy Byrne was a Yankee again.\n\nAfter all that had happened four years before, the onetime wildest regular pitcher in the league could not be confident of his place on the team; he would have to prove himself all over again. He started the 1955 season without a clear role, but his big break came early when one of Stengel's promising young pitchers\u2014Bob Grim\u2014developed arm trouble and Byrne got a spot in the starting rotation that he never relinquished. He won one more game that year\u2014sixteen in all\u2014than he ever had before and was one of the mainstays of the staff, along with a hard-throwing right-handed rookie, Bob Turley, and the team's masterful left-handed starter, Whitey Ford.\n\nAgainst the Dodgers, Byrne was trying to do what Johnny Podres was trying to do\u2014keep the ball away from the most powerful hitters. Like Podres, Byrne was also trying to make use of the opportunities Yankee Stadium offered to a pitcher. Instead of the afternoon shadows between the pitcher's mound and home plate\u2014an advantage to someone with a good fastball\u2014Byrne was trying to take advantage of the famous ballpark's depth from left-center to right-center field and avoid giving hitters a chance to pull the ball down the Stadium's notoriously short foul lines\u2014in those days, 301 feet in left, 298 in a right field built to accommodate Babe Ruth.\n\nPodres was trying to show the Yankees his changeup just enough to keep the hitters off balance, to keep them from waiting for fastballs. Byrne, without the speed of his youth, had to vary speed and locations all the time, hoping for ground balls and flies hit toward the deep outfield. With Mickey Mantle hurt, Podres's greatest concern was putting men on base when the Yankees' dangerous catcher Yogi Berra was at bat. Byrne told me that it was Berra's counterpart, Roy Campanella, who was his greatest concern with men on base. One of the seventh game's ironies is that Berra had two chances that day to blow the game open with men on base and couldn't do it, while Campanella made his major contributions when the bases were empty and when he bunted.\n\nThat irony is not lost on Tommy Byrne, an educated man who survived a rough childhood as much by his wits as by his athletic ability. Fifty years later, what happened that one day lives on in the rounded perspective of a full life of accomplishment and happiness. The fact that the game day picture of Podres and Byrne is in his living room suggests he is aware that one day that game will dominate the single-element obituary that is regularly written about baseball players of long ago. His only regret is that he didn't get a chance to finish a game he pitched more than well enough to win. In his pleasant community in North Carolina, however, the place that nurtured a young college kid so many years before, The Game is but a blip, a piece of trivia.\n\nOn the day of the climactic game, the sports pages were full of kid versus veteran clich\u00e9s, as have been the accounts ever since. I was hoping for more depth. The event had been so enormous a moment of my childhood that I wanted the protagonists to be worthy of the ultimate drama they dominated. Were they ever.\n\n### THE TORTURE BEGINS\n\nI had begun to notice after my father came home from his trip downtown that he was unusually quiet. He neither engaged me in detailed pregame analysis nor inquired about my schoolwork or my piano as we ate our lunch and traded newspapers. For us, this was most unusual; normally we babbled incessantly about anything and everything. On this day, however, my father was quiet and therefore so was I. The first thing I remember him saying as one o'clock in the afternoon neared was that he thought it was time for me to \"wake up Scarlet.\"\n\nI trudged dutifully over to the television, pulled out the power button, and then engaged in the 1950s ritual of playing with the rabbit-eared antenna on top of the set until the picture was as clear as the blue sky over Yankee Stadium,\n\nBefore the seventh game, Johnny Podres and Tommy Byrne warmed up right on the field, throwing from makeshift mounds in foul territory close to the stands and not hiding in the walled-off bullpens of today\u2014Podres near the third-base line in front of the Dodger dugout, Byrne on the opposite side. During the season, if you got to a ballpark early, this was a chance for a kid with a ticket in the cheap seats to come down toward the field and get so close to a major-league pitcher he could hear the whir of the pitched ball and the thud when it hit the catcher's mitt. I had done it countless times.\n\nThe only time there was ceremony at a World Series in those simpler days was before the first game. The players were introduced and lined up along the baselines; there was a band, usually assembled in the outfield to play the national anthem while a flag was raised. After that, except for the bunting draped over the front railings and the packed houses, the games were essentially hoopla-free.\n\nAs the Yankees took the field, my father and I took our own positions. I was on the couch, which was called a davenport then, an early example of modern (and cheap) furniture with a sleek black Scandinavian design. It was wide and comfortable, with large foam rubber cushions. I had arranged one of our bright red pillows against the wooden armrest so I was lying on it with my legs straight out. I had never been superstitious about sports events or anything else until that moment. For some reason, as I stretched out, I left my legs separated; when the Yankees were at bat I crossed my ankles.\n\nMy father was seated at the new dining table, with an ashtray and his cigarettes in front of him. Like Franklin D. Roosevelt, he used a holder, one he had bought when he first got to Australia at the beginning of the war. I didn't notice right away, but as the game progressed, this equally nonsuperstitious man was smoking when the Dodgers were up and seated with his arms folded when they were in the field.\n\nOne of the absurd delights of superstition is the assumption that one individual's magic can suffice unchallenged by another's. As it turned out, the Dodgers themselves\u2014that season and that special day\u2014had a serious one going.\n\nSome time during the summer, a buttermilk cake arrived in the Dodger clubhouse from Frank Kellert's family in Oklahoma. After it was shared, the team went on a winning streak. Later in the season, during a Dodger slump, he asked his family for another one, after which the Dodgers caught fire again. For each game of the 1955 World Series, there were buttermilk cakes from the Kellert clan in the clubhouse. In his delightful memoir, Carl Erskine has preserved the recipe.\n\nWhile the umpires, Dodger captain Pee Wee Reese, and Yankee manager Casey Stengel were having the ritual meeting at home plate, my father pulled the phone from the freshly fashioned bookshelves in the wall next to the table and called my mother at work. I couldn't hear what he said as I concentrated on the television set, but their conversation could not have lasted more than a minute.\n\nIn addition to our unspoken reliance on superstition, something else was different that day. Ordinarily, when my little family watched or listened to a ball game, we took turns keeping score on one of the yellow legal-sized pads my father used when he worked. On this day, neither of us made a move to get out a pad and neither of us said anything about it.\n\nWe also didn't speak after the Yankees took the field, which was odd. My father was a chatterbox, but this day he was silent. Like most nine-year-old kids, I took my cues from my father, so I didn't say anything, either. He seemed serious, intent, so I did my best to follow suit. It felt perfect to be alone with him. I easily could have been with my schoolmates, screaming at the set in the gym; I could easily have been with a friend at his apartment. This was special.\n\nIn the room, the only sound was the baritone, Alabama-formed voice of Mel Allen, the Yankees' famous broadcaster who would be doing the play-by-play for the first half of the game. My parents favored the cooler, less-cluttered style of people who transmitted information as well as a clear sense of what was going on. In our household, Red Barber was God and the first voice that brought Dodger baseball to my ears, but by 1955 he was gone to the greener (as in money) pastures of the Yankees and our allegiance had passed to a young man from the Bronx whom Barber had trained in his inimitable fashion to be more informative and witty than melodramatic. His name was Vin Scully.\n\nIn those days, the World Series on television was only four years old as a national event. I didn't realize it at the time, but 1955 was the first World Series to be broadcast by NBC in color, a fact of nearly no significance to the still black-and-white country. The corporate sponsor was Gillette\u2014\"to look sharp every time you shave\"\u2014and the broadcasters were from the teams that were playing. The fact that Mel Allen was beginning the game meant Vin Scully would be with us on the television set starting in the last half of the fifth inning. I had mentioned this happy fact to my father while we were having lunch, only to be reminded that Scully had also been broadcasting at the end of another game that had ended the World Series, the depressing Game Six of the 1953 debacle.\n\nAfter the Yankees took the field and Byrne walked slowly to the pitcher's mound to make his final warm-up pitches, I have distinct memories of a quiet crowd and of staring at the Yankee pitcher who had been so dominant just days before. Tommy Byrne had a fluid pitching motion and, very much like his more famous left-handed pitching partner that year (Whitey Ford), never seemed to be very fast or overpowering. When he was doing well, he just seemed to methodically get people out.\n\nAs an experienced Dodger fan I knew to pay close attention whenever the top of their batting order was up. The opening trio of Jim (Junior) Gilliam, Reese, and Snider was notoriously run producing. The Dodgers had led the National League that year in runs scored by a huge margin\u2014more than a hundred runs\u2014and the combination of Gilliam as the leadoff man, Reese as the versatile second man, and Snider as the first power hitter to bat had scored more than a third of them. Reese and Snider were of course well-established stars, but it was Gilliam who had become a critical spark plug for the Dodgers and was, moreover, a vivid example of how deep the team's commitment to integration had become.\n\nJames William Gilliam, a slender, gifted athlete from Nashville, was twenty-seven years old that day. He was known as Junior back then, a residue of his status in the late 1940s as the youngest member of the Baltimore Elite Giants in the Negro National League. He had been mentored in infield play (second base was his original position) by one of the best shortstops of the 1940s, Thomas Butts, whose nickname, Pee Wee, was for Gilliam prophetic. He was fast, able to play in the infield as well as the outfield, and had come into the major leagues two years before as one of the last of the players to emerge from the Negro Leagues, which had begun to fade almost from the moment Jackie Robinson became a Dodger.\n\nThe team that Branch Rickey assembled after World War II was not merely designed to break the infamous \"color line\" that had imprisoned the sport like the rest of America in segregation. It was designed to obliterate it. Rickey's plan provides a vivid illustration of the important distinction between desegregation (ending the whites-only restriction) and integration (bringing African-Americans into the game as equals).\n\nAs with the rest of society, this required a measure of what was eventually called affirmative action to jump-start the process. Then, as now, the issue is not the phony concepts of qualification or reverse discrimination; what was involved was making a special effort to recruit nonwhite talent, because the traditional system was inherently incapable of producing it. In the early 1950s, the Dodgers were still buying players from the Negro Leagues, which in a desperate attempt to stay alive financially were selling them off. In the wake of Walter O'Malley's takeover of the team from Rickey, one of the executives who remained under the new regime was Lafayette Fresco Thompson, a legend who ran the team's productive farm system.\n\nThe year after Rickey left, Thompson was going after a top pitcher on the Elite Giants, Leroy Farrell, then in the military. The sale price was supposed to be ten thousand dollars, but in an effort to get a bargain for his penny-pinching boss, Thompson persuaded the Elite Giants to add two young players to the deal. As it turned out, Farrell never made the team.\n\nOne of the throw-in players was Joe Black, a pitcher with a wicked fastball, who developed quickly into the Rookie of the Year in 1952, a critical cog in the Dodgers' pennant-winning season.\n\nThe other was Junior Gilliam, who blossomed into the Rookie of the Year in 1953. (The National League's relatively more aggressive pursuit of African-Americans paid off quickly; five of the first six Rookies of the Year were African-Americans, including Robinson in 1947, Don Newcombe in '49, Sam Jethroe of the Boston Braves in 1950, and Willie Mays of the New York Giants in '51; only Alvin Dark, who won in 1948 with the Braves, was white.)\n\nBy 1955, Gilliam was firmly ensconced as the Dodgers' switch-hitting leadoff man, but his initial role as the team's second baseman had changed. That year he also played more than forty games in the outfield, usually in left field when the opponent was a lefthander, as he was that famous day. With Jackie Robinson usually playing third base by then, this gave the Dodgers an opportunity to use a solid young player\u2014Don Zimmer, then completing his first full year with the team\u2014as the backup second baseman.\n\nGilliam did nothing spectacularly but everything well. He had the patience at the plate to walk often, he hit decently, and on base he was a legitimate threat to steal or play run-and-hit with the batter behind him, Pee Wee Reese, who was also a talented bunter. That was why we were paying especially close attention as the game began; if Gilliam could get on base, dangerous hitters were coming up with a chance to bring him home.\n\nWe were not simply paying close attention, however. We were already in the early stages of Dodger agony, hoping to the point of prayer that this might be The Day, but without confidence. I had a habit by then that has always stayed with me of tensing my stomach muscles and pursing my lips in a moment of anticipation and tension. I was concentrating on Scarlet's black-and-white picture so much that I was aware of nothing else in the room as the game began. Mel Allen was obviously saying something on the air, but my memory is of no sound at all, just that big picture that included a thin man walking toward home plate with a bat.\n\nGilliam, hitting right-handed, dug in, and the smooth Byrne wind-up began. The pitch to Gilliam was a tantalizing slow curve-ball. It started high from the first-base side of the mound and then seemed to steadily break in and down to him. But Gilliam timed it well, swung hard, and the ball got past Byrne before he could even reach for it. I sat upright on the couch because my first sense of the ball was that it was headed straight up the middle into center field for a single.\n\nWithin a split second, however, it was clear the ball had gone almost dead as soon as it hit the ground and was bouncing slowly on the infield grass behind the mound. In an instant, Phil Rizzuto came running into the picture from shortstop. He fielded the ball cleanly after a perfect hop into his outstretched glove and threw Gilliam out at first by three steps. As quickly as I had tensed and sat up, I sank back into the couch cushion.\n\nThe next two outs came quickly: Pee Wee Reese on an easy fly ball to Bob Cerv in center field; Duke Snider on a routine ground ball to Billy Martin at second. Tommy Byrne, after shutting the Dodgers down in Game Two at the Stadium, looked just as dangerous as he walked back to the Yankee dugout.\n\nBecause Johnny Podres had pitched so magnificently in the pivotal third game at Ebbets Field, I don't recall feeling scared because he was the pitcher on this day, just disappointed that neither Erskine nor Newcombe was available. To a kid of nine, twenty-three did not seem young. After Karl Spooner's disastrous start the day before, what I remember is hoping that the Dodgers would keep the game close in the early innings, that the Yankees wouldn't score first or have a big first inning. I had no experience with triumph; I just wanted the Dodgers to keep having a chance.\n\nThe Yankees were difficult to follow during the World Series that year. With Mickey Mantle nursing a badly injured leg, Stengel shuffled his other outfielders in and out of games and shuffled his batting order repeatedly, with a different one for each of the first five games. After the sudden outburst of hitting in Game Six, however, he stood pat for the final game. The meant a professional every bit as seasoned as Pee Wee Reese, shortstop Phil Rizzuto, would lead off, followed by the hustling, intense second baseman, Billy Martin, and then another solid pro in third baseman Gil McDougald.\n\nPodres's pitching motion was more herky-jerky than Byrne's; he kicked high and reached way back with his pitching arm before he threw; he threw so hard that he sometimes stumbled off the mound. Rizzuto had difficulty getting around on Podres's fastball and sent a foul ball into the air near home plate. Campanella caught it easily. Billy Martin swung in front of a changeup and pulled it, but the ball went way up in the air down the third-base line; Gilliam dashed over from his left-field position and got under it easily, just in fair territory. Gil McDougald was clearly uncomfortable at the plate his first time up to face Podres's varying speeds; he took a called third strike to end the short inning.\n\nAt the outset, at least, Podres was following the Campanella plan methodically. He had already assuaged my wrorst fears before I had had much of an opportunity to experience them. I cannot remember anything about Johnny Podres of consequence before that World Series. I was aware of him, I was aware that he was good, I had seen him pitch, but on a team that season that had Don Newcombe and Carl Erskine, nothing had stuck with me. The first time I had truly concentrated on Podres was when he threw a heroic game at the Yankees in the Game Three across the river that the Dodgers had to win, but everything I had heard before the seventh game began was about how the pitching matchup favored the Yankees and Tommy Byrne. I was consumed at the outset of the game with the fear of a first-inning Yankee explosion, but the inning was so methodical, so routine, that I relaxed\u2014mistakenly.\n\nThe second inning was different, more tense, with more plays like Junior Gilliam's leadoff ground ball that made one stiffen and then relax as something that appeared one instant like a turning point turned routine in another. With one out in the Dodgers' half of the inning (a Campanella ground ball to Martin), the team's veteran right fielder, Carl Furillo, sent a shot out to left field. For another instant I was off the cushion, until it was clear that the ball was not hit quite far enough and the Yankees' first and only African-American player, rookie Elston Howard, caught it on the dirt track in front of the seats. Perhaps a bit ruffled by the close call, Byrne proceeded to walk my hero, Gil Hodges, in his first time at bat, but the inning ended quickly when Don Hoak (Jackie Robinson's replacement at third base in his second year with the team) grounded out, also to Martin. It was almost a serious threat, the first introduction to the agonizing reality of a low-scoring game with the World Series on the line.\n\nThe Yankees provided a second in their half of the inning. The first man up, Yogi Berra, made me flinch by sending a line drive into center field, but it was almost directly at Duke Snider. I had no sooner relaxed while Hank Bauer grounded out, however, than Podres threw a soft pitch on the outside part of the plate to Bill Skowron. The youngest of the three Yankee first basemen pounced on the pitch and hit it viciously on one bounce into the right field seats for a double. There was no time to react to the play: one instant the pitch was at the plate; the next it was in the seats.\n\nFor the first time in the game, there was someone on base in a position to score the first run on a single. Worse, the Yankee coming up was not merely Mickey Mantle's replacement in center field that day. He was Bob Cerv, a consistent hitter who had batted .341 in his part-time role that year and had hit a home run while I watched in horror and in person in Game Five.\n\nPodres's first pitch to him in this clutch situation was slightly outside and low, and Cerv made the mistake of swinging at it. The result was a delightfully easy ground ball to Reese at shortstop. Once again: sudden tension, sudden release. For the first time in the game I remember making eye contact with my father; he was looking intently at me, but he didn't speak, so neither did I. It was perhaps an unusual way to be experiencing the decisive game of a World Series, but looking back, I have always focused on its intimacy. It wasn't every young boy who got to play hooky that day and be alone with his father and the Brooklyn Dodgers.\n\nWhen Tommy Byrne and Whitey Ford were at their best, the pitches changed speed and locations with almost monotonous regularity and more often than not the batters hit ground balls or popped up. The balls they hit hard tended to go to the deepest parts of Yankee Stadium where outfielders could run them down. What was most maddening was that Ford and Byrne got into trouble so rarely that they mostly denied an opposing fan the opportunity to hope. They were understated performers, with smooth pitching mechanics that made their dominance seem routine, almost businesslike.\n\nIn Ford's case, however, businesslike doesn't quite do justice to his mastery in busting the rules about doctoring the baseball. He was never caught, but Dodger fans everywhere were pleased to learn eventually that all his catchers, as well as Ford himself, played with specially sharpened belt buckles; in addition, Ford had an edge sharpened on the back side of his wedding ring. So-called \"cut\" baseballs interfere with the air currents over them and break very sharply. Ford was also the developer of what was called a \"gunk\" ball\u2014which was wetted with a mixture of legal resin and illegal baby oil and turpentine from his cap.\n\nIn Game Seven, Byrne got through the first third of the contest without a serious scratch on him. In the third inning, we had barely settled down to watch the Dodgers hit when there were two quick outs: Gil McDougald threw out Don Zimmer, and Billy Martin threw out Johnny Podres, routine ground balls to third and second.\n\nThe only faint sign that Byrne was the least bit human came when he walked Gilliam with two outs. Gilliam was a swift and smart base runner (he had fifteen stolen bases that year), but among Byrne's many gifts was an excellent pickoff move to first base, so the Dodger left fielder played it safe and took only a short lead. There was another of those momentary surges of tension when Reese hit Byrne's third pitch on a hard, straight line toward center field, but the ball was right at Bob Cerv, and the inning was quickly over.\n\nJohnny Podres was pitching just as effectively. Except for his mistake to Bill Skowron the inning before, Podres had been dominant. As I crossed my ankles, the dominance continued. His pitching speed was unpredictable, the changeup had made several strategic appearances already, and he had his control above all.\n\nIn the Yankee half of the third inning, Elston Howard sent a lazy fly ball to Snider in center field to lead off, and Tommy Byrne looked at a third strike.\n\nWith two quick outs, I was one of those baseball fans who foolishly considered an inning like that basically over. It consistently amazed me when the Dodgers rallied with two men out, and it was especially demoralizing when the opposing team scored in that situation.\n\nThe Yankee threat developed quickly. Phil Rizzuto walked on four straight pitches; no exciting, full-count, pitcher-batter drama, just four quick balls and he was at first base. Billy Martin then went with an outside pitch (much as Skowron had the inning before) and sent a line drive into right field that was clearly going to be a single the instant it left his bat.\n\nDodger fans were conditioned not to panic at such moments. The team had baseball's best right fielder in Carl Furillo, a veteran (he was thirty-three at the time) from a small town near Reading, Pennsylvania. Known as Skoonj around Brooklyn (short for _scungilli,_ the snail from the ocean that is a special treat in marinara sauce), he was an intense ballplayer with a vicious streak whom the Brooklyn fans loved for his skill at playing the caroms off the wall in Ebbets Field and for a throwing arm that was awesome to behold. I can recall one game where he played shallow, fielded a sharply hit ball on one hop, and threw the batter out at first base. Martin's single came to the charging Furillo on the second hop in shallow right field, and there was no question that Rizzuto would dare try to run to third base and challenge Furillo's famous arm.\n\nHowever, the play meant that there were now two Yankees on base, with Gil McDougald coming to bat. A versatile, consistent professional, McDougald played third, second, and short during his ten-year career, and he was a dangerous hitter with men on base, as capable of a single as of a home run (he hit seven in eight World Series). Podres has no memory of getting especially tense at this point. What he remembers is being careful, following Campanella's signals to keep the ball just barely in the strike zone, never down the middle of the plate. Obviously, however, Podres was being a bit too careful, because in short order the count on McDougald was three balls and one strike.\n\nPodres was one pitch away from loading the bases for the most dangerous Yankee hitter other than Mantle\u2014Yogi Berra.\n\nFor the first time in the game, one of the managers came out of the dugout for one of baseball's rituals\u2014the slow walk to the pitcher's mound. Like most Dodger fans, my father could not stand Walter Alston, then in his second year as Charlie Dressen's replacement. My father could not stand Alston's nondescript blandness, for one thing. For another, he hated baseball owners in general and the Dodgers' owner, Walter O'Malley, with a purple passion exceeded only by his loathing for the Yankees' Del Webb. Anybody who presented himself as an owner's employee was a stooge to my father, and Alston's lack of a public persona\u2014his nickname was Smokey\u2014made him a natural target for abuse in a New York environment that rewarded flair. There was also the small matter that Alston's Dodgers had lost the pennant to the hated Giants in his rookie year, 1954.\n\nAs always, the truth turned out to be much more complicated and interesting. Alston's job was by definition nearly impossible\u2014pleasing a penny-pinching owner and managing a diverse collection of established superstars and kids on their way up. He was diligent and stolid, but he also had a keen baseball mind. Already his image was changing in this World Series; several of the Dodger players with whom he had tangled all year to establish his authority, notably Jackie Robinson, had praised his demeanor after the second loss in Yankee Stadium, when he told the team that he believed they could still win the Series because he believed they were the better team.\n\nPodres today has no memory of his manager's first visit to the mound. At the time, however, Podres and Campanella said that Alston's message simply reinforced Campanella's signs and targets: keep the ball down.\n\nThe next pitch to McDougald appeared to be in keeping with Campanella's instructions: no more than knee-high on the inside part of the plate and another of his changeups. McDougald appeared to time it well, however, and swung hard.\n\nMajor League Baseball and NBC, to their shame as the game's custodians, have not kept film or tape of the entire game. To refresh my memory, I was able to get my hands on perhaps forty minutes of the action, fortunately including all of the important plays. On this one, there was no question that McDougald had not hit the ball squarely but had grazed the top of it.\n\nSome subsequent descriptions of the crucial play say that the ball was \"chopped,\" but the film does not show any high bounces and the ball was not hammered into the ground near home plate. Instead, it could be described as a slow ground ball that bounced no more than three times before reaching the vicinity of third base. From the moment it hit the ground it had all the trappings of a bases-loading infield single.\n\nThe Dodgers' third baseman that day was Don Hoak, the substitute for injured Jackie Robinson, playing a position made famous in Brooklyn after World War II by a slick fielder with a rocket for an arm, Billy Cox. To the displeasure of many fans, and of an embittered Cox, he had been traded after the 1954 season for his final year in the major leagues with the Baltimore Orioles, along with another veteran and Dodger fans favorite, Preacher Roe, who never played again.\n\nHoak was also a slick fielder, but in just his second major-league season he had not yet become the solid player he would be for nine more years (he was the regular on the Pittsburgh Pirates team that beat the Yankees in 1960).\n\nPlaying at medium depth behind the third-base bag, Hoak was in position to charge the slow-bouncing ball, with more than a decent chance to nip McDougald at first. Hoak would, however, have had to react the instant the ball was hit.\n\nInstead, he barely moved. By the time he was almost even with the third-base bag, the most he could have done was fielded the ball. McDougald, who ran decently, was going to be safe at first for certain.\n\nFrom his position leading off second, Rizzuto did what every ballplayer is trained to do on base with two outs when someone hits the ball\u2014he ran. The film, however, shows him beginning his slide into third from well off the bag. It was a long, long slide.\n\nAnd then the most amazing thing happened.\n\nRizzuto's left foot was no more than two feet from third base when the ball bounced off his left thigh. I remember being confused for an instant, but there was nothing confused about the reaction of the third-base umpire, Lee Ballanfant. Trotting toward the bag and Rizzuto, he pointed his right index finger at the Yankee shortstop and then jerked his hand back, thumb outstretched\u2014out! Hoak darted into foul territory to retrieve the ball as the other Dodger players ran off the field.\n\nPhil Rizzuto simply remained seated on third base, stunned. It was unfairly ignominious. This was as classy a Yankee as there was, and he had just made the most humiliating out imaginable.\n\nIt would be wrong to second-guess the slide, however; in retrospect, and supported by the film, it was the correct move on his part. Normally, base runners will do anything to dodge a ball hit near them\u2014jump, contort themselves. In this case, however, Rizzuto's sliding took away the chance that Hoak might field the ball and step on third base for the force out that would end the inning.\n\nThe risk, of course, was that the ball would hit Rizzuto before he reached the base. Rizzuto\u2014who that day set a World Series record by playing in his fifty-second (and, as it turned out) final game\u2014almost made it. McDougald was awarded the third Yankee hit of the young game, but it was a meaningless, and only technical, single.\n\nFrom the dining table my father continued to say nothing. But when I looked over at him, his eyes were twinkling and his eyebrows were moving up and down in exaggerated enthusiasm. Within a second, the telephone rang for the first time that afternoon. My father listened, spoke quietly a couple of times, and then hung up.\n\nIt was my mother, he informed me. I wish I could re-create this conversation, but all I remember is words to the effect that it was about time we got a break against the Yankees. The only words I can recall him saying into the phone were, \"Hang in there.\"\n\nMy mother had slipped into her office\u2014a cubicle, really\u2014which adjoined her boss's cavernous playpen. He was a partner at Cahill, Gordon, Reindell and Ohl, specializing in the arcane minutiae of franchise law\u2014then a burgeoning business that was expanding from its origins in automobile dealerships to auto parts stores and, increasingly, to what we still thought of as hamburger joints but which would eventually be called fast-food restaurants. It was already very, very lucrative and her boss was something of a pioneer in the mechanics of putting these distribution deals together.\n\nHe was a very nice but wooden man (Princeton, I think), and my mother was proud of her ability to translate his memoranda and legal briefs into concise English. Whenever she took me to the office when she had to work on weekends or holidays, he was invariably kind to me, as well as to my mother.\n\nOnce a year, we would get on the Long Island Railroad train and visit his family in Garden City for dinner. He had two daughters about my age, and as I got older we used to laugh on the way back at how they treated me\u2014as a weird specimen from some dangerous jungle where fear lurked on every street corner and poor urchins like me scavenged for food. I was just as culturally confused by these communities that were becoming known as suburbs, wondering why anyone would live so far away from opera and baseball.\n\nAt this point in the game, my mother was still watching it on the television set in the firms conference room. I could imagine her trying to maintain her composure in the staid atmosphere among blue and gray suits and Yankee fans, stealing glances with her fellow secretaries and Dodger fans. The only thing missing in our apartment that unforgettable day was her.\n\n## 6\n\n## Getting By\n\nShe was pretty as a picture, with large expressive eyes and long curly dirty-blond hair that in those days reached her shoulders. Like my father, she wasn't tall; by 1955 I was well on my way to her five feet, four inches. Her voice was soft. I could hear the Midwest in it easily, but she had a singsong inflexion that gave away her Norwegian heritage as well. She was simple, unadorned, dressed conservatively, and maintained a reserve most of the time that made her high-pitched giggle when she laughed especially entertaining. Her direct manner came with immense inner strength and a highly developed sense of order. Life around her was often chaotic and never easy; she made it work with sheer willpower.\n\nOpposites attracted in my household. My father had black hair, combed back, constantly twinkling eyes, a relatively stocky build, and a deep baritone. He was emotional, florid in his language, and had no sense of order whatsoever. He misplaced his slippers, his notebooks, his wallet. His energy was almost entirely creative, rarely practical. Largely self-taught, he remains the most literate, best-read person I have ever met. My favorite memory that links the two of them involved his daily trips down the hall to the elevator before going out; my father bemoaned the fact that his mind was idle and that he was bored simply standing there waiting for the elevator to take him down twenty-five floors, so my mother typed out dozens of three-by-five cards containing morsels of Proust or Tolstoy or Voltaire so he could use the time better.\n\nMy first clear memories as a child paint the mixed, happy-tough picture of our lives. I was three when my father's efforts to work steadily as a freelance writer began to falter because of his health. He published articles regularly at first and had an agent who was a fixture in our apartment. My father's output began to diminish after a couple of years, however, as the ulcers left from his jungle infections began to bleed. He would feel better periodically and think he was recovering, only to fall ill again with increasing severity and pain. By 1949 one of his kidneys had begun to malfunction and then to fail, requiring what was then a very dangerous operation.\n\nMy very first memory is of me and my mother standing at the end of 43rd Street, looking down at First Avenue and the area that was slowly becoming the UN. My father was on the east side of the avenue, getting ready to board the bus that would take him uptown to New York Hospital for the operation that would remove his kidney. We are waving at him, he is waving back, and my mother is crying.\n\nMy second memory is about a month later. I am standing in the little hallway of our apartment with a woman on our floor who was watching me that day (the same lady who would magically produce the bleacher seats for Game Five in 1955). The door opens and my father returns from the hospital with my mother. I remember being shown the scar, a set of railroad tracks that went all the way across his lower back.\n\nThe other three memories are about my life, clearly reflecting my parents' hopes for me even as they struggled. These memories clashed with the first two\u2014then and always.\n\nThe first is of the kindergarten room at the private school on the Upper East Side to which my father had taken me to be interviewed and examined for possible admission to a rarefied world to which I had had no exposure at all to that point. I was not yet five. After I grew up, this process became better known as hyper-ambitious parents with money hired consultants, gave money, and performed unethical favors at work to manipulate the system on their children's behalf. All I remember is being uncomfortable. Somehow my parents had arranged for this examination and somehow there was a scholarship on the line (my parents could not have paid one week's tuition), though I was shielded from that fact until I had nearly finished grammar school.\n\nI am alone with a much older woman, who would that fall become my first teacher, Doris Allen. I have no memory of anything she said and no memory of anything I said. I just remember this dark room and my being alone in it with the forbidding figure of Miss Allen. She was administering a simple test orally, making statements to me that I was supposed to label true or false. All I remember is the one, the only one, I got wrong, I suppose reflecting my sense of high stakes. She told me that squirrels laid eggs, and unadulterated city kid that I was at that point, I remember pronouncing the statement true and being more surprised than disappointed to discover my error.\n\nThe second memory is of an incident shortly after my examination. My mother had gone back to work when I was about three after my father's illness made it impossible for him to support us anymore. During the day, I was left at a \"nursery school\" (the term _day care_ was still decades away from the language) run by a church on First Avenue. What I remember is coming down the stairs one day and encountering my father at the bottom, there to inform me of my admission to the Browning School for Boys. I don't remember at all how I felt, but I can still see the happiness on his face.\n\nThe third memory is my first of the role of music in my young life. It is this same period, and some couple is in our apartment to have supper. I am in the second room alone, while my father is at the piano. He is playing single notes, and from the bedroom I am calling out their identity\u2014A-sharp, B-flat, E. I hated being shown off in this fashion, but I was too far removed from the age of successful defiance to resist.\n\nThis scene, I was often reminded, was a reenactment of the moment when my father first realized that musical ability lurked inside me. He no longer played the violin, but he was at the piano constantly\u2014for jazz and for Bach. He had written no more songs after the war, but the piano was a haven for him, and while he was entirely self-taught, he was more than good. Just as he had taught me my letters at three, he had also sat me down at the piano to teach me the notes and to make stabs at them with my index finger at musically appropriate moments. One day, according to the family legend, he was playing a single note repeatedly out of concern that the piano needed tuning; playing idly in the other room, I supposedly identified it. Curious, my father played a few more, and my life changed.\n\nHe didn't push me, rule my life ruthlessly, or hover relentlessly. It was more like a gentle, loving nudge, always supplied in the interest of developing potential and having choices in life and, more important, always supplied with love and support. My mother never questioned any of this, but through her hard work she managed to make everything associated with a young boy's probably much too busy life go more smoothly.\n\nIn my childhood, there was only one moment of rebellion. I was not exactly the world's best baseball player, but I held my own in my neighborhood and at school, and behind the plate the fact that I had never blinked when a batter swung while I was catching opened the door to a position I loved to play because the entire game was in front of me. By the eighth grade, I was catching for the varsity team, because although I was not much more than a slap hitter, I could throw runners out stealing.\n\nWhen my father found out I was catching he was furious, telling me in the sharpest of terms that one foul ball off my throwing hand would make the piano impossible, perhaps reflecting what one stupid punch had done to his budding violin career. It was the only time when I got the direct sense he was thinking career for me, and I was equally furious and adamant that he had no right to tell me what position I couldn't play in baseball. It was hardly normal to be going to school, being a kid, playing the piano two hours a day, and working at the Metropolitan Opera. I was desperate to fit in and determined never to tell my coach and my friends that I couldn't catch because of my music.\n\nAt first, my father taught me piano himself. Since he had taught himself, he was aware of his limitations, especially in technique. After I started grammar school, he cajoled the music teacher there into taking me on more formally. My father's zeal didn't stop there; down the hall in our building lived a young concert pianist from British Columbia, Gordon Manley\u2014a very tall, thin man with wavy black hair and a deep, booming laugh that belied a touching sensitivity. He was struggling for a toehold in the competitive New York world, traveling occasionally for concerts in his native country and by then twice in Europe. He lived in a studio, half-filled by a nine-foot Steinway that he (and, eventually, I) almost always played with a cloth damper across the interior wires for the benefit of the neighbors, though nothing could rival the sound in the dark hallway when Mr. Manley let loose. He had no time for pupils, but he made time for me, and my mother cooked many a meal for him and ironed his shirts. He taught me, more than anything, how to perform, how to toss off inhibitions. I lived for my lessons with him once a week, and his presence just down the hall, and therefore the potential for disapproval, kept my practicing almost always serious.\n\nAs I tried to learn what being serious about something really meant, I found the atmosphere mostly exciting, if exacting. I felt surrounded by caring people, more nurtured than instructed.\n\nTo make life more complicated, it was also my fate to have just the right voice range and strength for a boy soprano. This was first noticed by the mother of one of my friends at our church\u2014Christ Church Methodist near my school on Park Avenue\u2014who worked at one of the city's largest talent agencies. Early on, I started singing in church choirs that paid money\u2014my first job was at the age of seven\u2014and soon thereafter was invited to the annual tryouts for the Metropolitan Opera's boys chorus. Once again, it was a nudge, not a push, from home\u2014the suggestion that it might be fun.\n\nIt was. Opera for me was not fancy audiences in glamorous settings, getting kissed by Renata Tebaldi or patted on the head by Maria Callas. It was an exhilarating combination of rigorous discipline in rehearsal followed by the unrestrained exuberance of performance. I couldn't get enough of it.\n\nIn those pre\u2013Lincoln Center days, the Metropolitan was in a huge barn of a building on Seventh Avenue a few blocks south of Times Square. We workers entered by a nondescript stage door, punched a time card as if it were a factory, and then walked through a maze of backstage pathways to the elevator that led to the practice and chorus dressing rooms we shared with the ballet dancers who had parts in many a performance or were used as extras.\n\nIt was not all work. The backstage routine, as at any theater, included serious stretches of inactivity; on occasion I did schoolwork, but mostly I joined one of backstage life's time-honored rituals\u2014poker games. With stagehands, some of the other boys, and extras, it was strictly penny ante, but the pennies tended to add up. The games were an odd thrill for me because they were my first excursion into secret activity my parents would have vehemently objected to. Before a performance, I was careful to remove from my piggy bank fifty pennies (never more), which I managed to get out of the apartment unnoticed for my entire career.\n\nThe chorus was rarely onstage for long stretches. There was a great deal of downtime, not all of it wasted learning poker. Backstage, the Metropolitan was a fascinating obstacle course of stored scenery and other clutter, and there were several ladders that led to catwalks and other perches high above the stage. I discovered that with my diminutive size it was easy to climb unnoticed and watch a performance from these spots; I spent many an evening enthralled as some of the most famous singers in the world performed below me and an occasional fellow stowaway. I had been in the opera and looked down on it long before I ever saw a performance from the audience.\n\nAs I became more conscious of my parents' struggles and my father's illness, my too-young mind had trouble with the mixture of my own accomplishments and their troubles. Nothing I did growing up could satisfy a yearning that things be normal, that they not have it so tough, that my father not be so sick all the time. All I ever wanted was for them to be happier, and to be able to help. The money I earned singing was only partial satisfaction of my yearning, but it gave me a large chunk of what I craved.\n\nSo did the Brooklyn Dodgers. When we went to a game, two of us or all three of us, we were a family; we were together. What I did in my bustling life was forgotten; what they did to get by was forgotten. We were just enjoying something we had in common. A trip across the river could be on a whim\u2014my favorite was an impromptu afternoon journey in 1955 to cheer me up after my parakeet, Jocko (after a National League umpire named Jocko Conlon), drowned in a glass of water that morning; it turned out to be the day Sandy Koufax made his major-league debut. It could also be carefully planned, like monthly excursions to the left-field bleachers for a Ladies Day game, at which my mother was always carefully dressed in skirt, blouse, and heels. It could be a simple evening in front of the radio or, beginning in 1955 the television, taking turns keeping careful score on the yellow pads; in our household, if my schoolwork was done, if there was no performance at the opera, I was always permitted to stay up until the game was over, even the \"late\" ones from Chicago, Milwaukee (where the Boston Braves had moved in 1953, starting a trend that would eventually involve the Dodgers), and St. Louis. For those precious hours the world outside mercifully withdrew while we shared something that brought enormous pleasure to each of us.\n\n## 7\n\n## The Good (and Bad) Old Days\n\nBefore me, the Dodgers had belonged to my parents. Their stories are not stereotypical journeys as Dodger families' stories go. My parents do, however, fit every decent metaphor ever coined about what it meant to pull for this unique baseball team. They had talent, brains, good looks; they had come from very little far away; they struggled, they sometimes succeeded, they often fell down; but they always got up, always worked hard, they were cheerfully perseverant, full of love, and they came to love their Brooklyn Dodgers.\n\nThey did not set out for New York with the Dodgers on their minds. They gently, almost accidentally, bumped into them in their search for an inexpensive diversion. It was, moreover, an acquired taste, not a natural one. My father was a typical Indiana boy in at least one major respect; he was a devout basketball fan in a state that worshipped the game even in its infancy in the early 1920s. The coach at his high school, a man well known to students of the game, was the young Everett Case, who thirty years later would lead North Carolina State to a national prominence. My father in his last two years in high school covered Case and his team for the local paper.\n\nIn the extreme north of Minnesota, my mother also had a sports passion, which she tried without much success to transplant into me at the old Madison Square Garden, to which she had a steady supply of ticket offers from her law firm superiors. It was hockey, whose fast, intricate skating patterns fascinated her and mostly confused me until much later in life.\n\nMy parents were participants in the huge migration that took place during the first half of the twentieth century from rural to urban life. It was in New York, as newlyweds, that they discovered baseball.\n\nMy father's birthplace was a tiny farming community called Forrest in central Indiana, east of Gil Hodges, north of Pee Wee Reese, south of Carl Erskine. His mom was from a farm in Wisconsin; his dad was a local boy and country doctor who had been in the Spanish-American War as a medic. They had met in Chicago, where he made extra money as a freshly trained physician treating hangovers and other guest ailments at the old Palmer House, where his bride-to-be worked on the switchboard.\n\nMy father's birth in 1909 ended my grandmother's childbearing career (he weighed more than twelve pounds and took too much out with him), but his memories of childhood were idyllic. His dad took him on many of his endless rounds with first a horse and cart and then a Model T; he got to hear the stories of Civil War veterans in the Old Soldiers' Home. He worshipped his father, as did a struggling community that could rarely afford his often-donated services.\n\nMy grandfather's death, after moving to the nearby town of Frankfort, devastated my teenage father; I don't think he ever recovered from the shock. His mom had gotten him started in music (she played the organ at the local funeral home and a local church), and he had written his first songs in high school. His dad had also sparked an interest in learning. Writing came easily to my father and, also in high school, he worked for the local paper, covering the Frankfort High School sports teams (called the Hot Dogs, of course). But he was inwardly miserable and sensed that his one chance was to leave, which is why he threw the dart at his map of the United States. New Mexico was the perfect choice\u2014utterly, magnificently different. He plunged into studies, fraternity life (Sigma Chi), music, and writing. With some pals, he started the university's first literary magazine.\n\nAnd then everything fell apart again. One of his best pieces in the magazine was a long profile about a young woman of more than a little education who worked as a prostitute in Albuquerque. It was not sensationalized but, with the romantic enthusiasm that always marked his work, described her life, her impressions of professors and students alike, and her hopes and dreams.\n\nThe shit, of course, hit the fan immediately. The administration expelled him on the spot for a grave offense against taste and morals, and only the publicized intercession of a new organization called the American Civil Liberties Union changed his expulsion into permission to withdraw. He was not yet twenty and adrift again.\n\nHis next opportunity came quickly\u2014via a casual acquaintance from Indiana who had inherited too much money from an inventor-manufacturer in Muncie. These two misfits (they argued forever about who was Don Quixote and who was Sancho Panza) then set off in search of whatever in Nevada and California. For my father, it turned out to be his music. His violin playing was becoming seriously proficient, and the money from playing sets with jazz bands was enough to keep him fed and in study with accomplished professionals first in San Francisco and then in Los Angeles.\n\nAnd then a stupid punch in a bar ended his dream; the damage to his left wrist was permanent. It was 1935 and he was once more adrift. The one remaining relative to whom he was devoted was his uncle, Herman, who had become a highly regarded law professor and then entered the New Deal as the general counsel to Franklin D. Roosevelt's Treasury secretary, Henry Morgenthau. Herman Oliphant was one of those round-the-clock New Dealers with a storied \"passion for anonymity\" who helped shape the historic administration's domestic policies. He was a true believer, once labeled by _The New York Times'_ conservative columnist Arthur Krock as one of the country's more dangerous individuals\u2014a badge of distinction in my family. Nor was he the only Oliphant to make it out of turn-of-the-century Indiana. A third member of the family, a cousin with the classically Indiana name of Elmer Q. Oliphant, was a college football giant, a famous All-American runner and dropkicker for Purdue and then Army just before the twenties. Uncle Elmer, however, soon gravitated toward the insurance business and, worse from my father's perspective, into the Republican Party. He finally wrote Elmer off completely when in 1952 he showed up on a committee self-titled Football Greats for Eisenhower-Nixon. But my father worshipped his uncle Herman, who in turn took a near-paternal interest in his welfare. When he visited Washington in the early autumn of '35, his uncle must have thought that settling down would be the wisest course for his brilliant but vagabond nephew, which is why he introduced him to one of the secretaries in his office\u2014my mother. They flipped for each other, this romantic who had never really fallen in love and this reserved product of a Scandinavian emigrant family whose imposing reserve never totally masked an adventuresome spirit and an engaging, understated wit. They were at the Foley Square courthouse in New York with a marriage license on November 1. For her, it was the culmination of a very long, also difficult journey.\n\nAnna Serena Selvog was raised in the community of Warroad, Minnesota, way, way north on the Lake of the Woods across from Canada, in a largely Lutheran culture that frowned severely on fun. She had four brothers and an older sister (Edla), whom she idolized. Years later, she said it was the unspeakable trauma of her sister's death in a drowning accident that nudged her into the dream of leaving to make her way in the cities she had only read about in school.\n\nHer way out was through the northern Minnesota city of Virginia after high school and secretarial training in what was at the time a junior college. Her English, back then and forever after, was meticulous, precise, and she loved to read. The city she focused on was Washington, D.C., where she arrived before she was twenty-one, finding work in the Navy and War Departments before landing at the Treasury and finding roommates for a sunny apartment on Sixteenth Street.\n\nWe don't get to choose our parents and we don't get to choose when we get conceived, but I've often wondered what would have happened if I had come along immediately after my mother and father got married. As they struggled to make their way, my presence would quite likely have precluded military service for my thirty-something father and would quite likely have precluded round-the-clock work for the Justice Department by my mother. There would probably have been another kid; my mother had already picked the name for a girl\u2014Christina, after her mother.\n\nAs things were, however, they got to be young and in love, first in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn (my mother often worshipped in a small Norwegian church there that was a magnet for sailors in the bustling port community) and then on Bank Street in Greenwich Village.\n\nFor struggling newlyweds in the 1930s, diversion was often a walk, the parks, a visit to a museum. There was no car, no vacation, no continual dining out, almost no theater or concerts. The ballpark was a more affordable diversion, and they soon began haunting Ebbets Field. My father told me that, compared to Yankee Stadium or the Polo Grounds, the atmosphere was more fun, the view from the cheap seats was better, and Brooklyn offered more variety, if not better baseball.\n\nIt was a different era. New York basically belonged in those days to the Giants under manager and former star first baseman Bill Terry and to the Yankees under Joe McCarthy. The Dodgers simply stank as they flirted almost annually with bankruptcy as well as the National League cellar. Their miserable condition, fortunately, was leavened by an entertaining, creative, often endearing approach to losing\u2014epitomized by a series of improbable misfortunes and daffy goofs that formed a unique lore, the source of their second nickname, always said with affection\u2014The Bums. These stories were passed on to me, as they were to all serious Dodger fans, at a very young age, and they became an indelible part of my baseball consciousness. They constituted part of the prism through which the seventh game in 1955 looked like an insurmountable challenge.\n\nAs I learned the history, the World Series of 1920 was crucial to the Dodgers' reputation and self-image. The team was actually quite good during the young century's second decade, winning the pennant in both 1916 and four years later under the leadership of a large, odd character named Wilbert Robinson (the team name famously changed often in those years and was the Robins under his tutelage, which lasted until the Dodgers became the name for good in 1932).\n\nTheir loss in the '16 series to the Boston Red Sox, who had an astonishingly good young pitcher who could also swing the bat (his name was Babe Ruth), is excused by the familiar reason that the better team won, four games to one. The Dodger team had a future Hall of Famer in outfielder Zack Wheat and a delightfully eccentric young outfielder from Missouri named Casey Stengel who would be running the Yankees thirty-nine years later and who managed the Dodgers in the 1930s when my parents became fans. But the Red Sox had Ruth, who in Game Two pitched one of the great games in World Series history, going fourteen innings to outlast Sherry Smith, 2\u20131.\n\nFour years later, however, the Dodgers had an excellent chance against a Cleveland Indians team that just barely won the American League pennant after eight Chicago White Sox players (the immortal Shoeless Joe Jackson among them) were suspended as the story of their having been paid to fix the 1919 Series broke the following September.\n\nCleveland, however, was the winner, greatly helped by three plays in Game Five that had never happened before, one of which has never happened again in a World Series. With the Series tied, Cleveland right fielder Elmer Smith hit the first grand slam in World Series history off Brooklyn spitballer Burleigh Grimes in the first inning, and three innings later Cleveland pitcher Jim Bagby hit the first home run ever by a pitcher, a three-run shot to deepest center field\u2014both feats all the more remarkable in an age of relatively few home runs.\n\nThe Dodgers, however, attempted a comeback, putting two runners, Pete Kilduff and Otto Miller, on base with no one out in the fifth. The next batter, relief pitcher Clarence Mitchell, hit a hard line drive toward right field that appeared to be beyond the reach of the second baseman, a twenty-six-year-old native of the Cleveland area, Bill Wambsganss.\n\nWith both runners on the move, however, Wambsganss went as high as his nearly six-foot body would take him into the air and somehow caught the ball. Within a Dodgers' breaking heartbeat, he then stepped on second to force the departed Kilduff and then tagged Miller as he approached him on the base path. More than eighty years later, there has never been another unassisted triple play in the World Series.\n\nAs if on cue, the disappointment of 1920 soon turned into a long downward slide, though the Dodgers were at least enjoyable losers. Casey Stengel was an important source of the antics, having once gone to bat with a small bird under his hat, which he tipped mischievously before standing in to hit, turning a chorus of boos into laughter. Tex Rickards, the beloved malapropist (called Ricketts in Brooklyn) who manned the public-address system all the way to the team's departure for Los Angeles, once told the customers who loved half-stripping and folding their garments over the box seat railings on hot days, \"Ladies and gentlemen, the umpires request that the fans in the left-field boxes will kindly remove their clothes\"; on another occasion, he announced that \"a little boy has been found lost.\"\n\nAmong a parade of pitchers with odd names none stood out more than Clyde \"Pea Ridge\" Day, who celebrated his occasional strikeout with the hog calls of his native Arkansas. Wilbert Robinson himself added to the legend. Shortly after setting up a Bone-head Club complete with five-dollar fines for stupid plays, he abandoned his campaign after he turned in his official lineup card to the umpires one day with Al Lopez listed as his catcher and then promptly made him ineligible by sending Ernie Lombardi out to play the position. Another time, Robinson had walked briskly to the home-plate conference and handed the umpire crew chief his dry-cleaning ticket.\n\nThe most lovable metaphor, however, was an outfielder from Buffalo, Floyd Caves \"Babe\" Herman, who could hit a ton (in his best season, 1930, he had thirty-five home runs and drove in 130 runs) but was a wretched fielder and an inattentive base runner. One of the famed team executives who helped build the powerhouses of the late thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties\u2014a former infielder from Alabama named Lafayette Fresco Thompson\u2014recalled how against the Giants one day at the Polo Grounds in the ninth inning, with one out, Herman caught a fly ball, put the ball in his pocket, and ran into the clubhouse while the tying runs scored, thinking there were three outs. He was also the start of perhaps the most famous Daffy Dodger play of them all in a game against the Boston Braves in 1926. With the bases loaded and one out, Herman hit a smash into right field that looked like a double at least.\n\nOne run scored. The man on second (Dazzy Vance) stopped at third, joined shortly by the runner from first (Chick Fewster, the same man who when he was a Yankee had introduced Tommy Byrne to Babe Ruth); they were in turn joined by an oblivious Babe Herman. For the record, the men tagged out after the Braves third baseman recovered from his shock in this unique and uniquely Dodger play were Fewster and Herman. Henceforth, the joke became that when someone told you the Dodgers had three men on base, you were supposed to ask, \"Which base?\"\n\nMy parents, like so many depression-era Dodger fans, made the best of those madcap years. Brooklyn was still the only urban neighborhood in the country with its own major-league team, and the Dodgers were beloved, if not always respected. By the latter half of the decade, though, the lack of success on the field was accompanied by a gusher of red ink and debt on the business side that was threatening to take the team under. In 1938, the telephones had been disconnected for nonpayment of the bill, and the Dodgers were drowning in unpaid obligations in excess of $ 1 million, at least half of which was owed to the venerable Brooklyn Trust Company, a debt that would eventually attract the full-time attention of a young lawyer for the bank, a native with an engineering background named Walter O'Malley.\n\nFirst, however, the Dodgers had to stabilize their organization, rent by feuding among the heirs of their original owner and builder, Charles Ebbets, and his business partners, Edward and Stephen McKeever. In 1937, the owners sought help from the then-National League president, and later baseball commissioner, Ford Frick. He in turn consulted the league's most dynamic boss, one Branch Rickey, who had built the successful St. Louis Cardinals of the Gashouse Gang years. Rickey immediately suggested a friend of twenty years named Leland Stanford (after the Gilded Age West Coast railroad king) MacPhail.\n\nLarry MacPhail, born to wealth, a mercurial and rarely sober genius, came to Brooklyn in 1937 having quit as general manager of the Cincinnati Reds after a fistfight with its owner, Powell Crosley, for whom the team's old ballpark was named. With the Reds, also on Rickey's recommendation, MacPhail had rebuilt the team, staged the first night baseball game, and hired a suave radioman from Mississippi named Walter \"Red\" Barber.\n\nIn Brooklyn, MacPhail spent money to make money. Ebbets Field got a facelift and better plumbing, the latter improvement persuading my mother to have one beer during the games because she at last felt comfortable going to the once-wretched bathrooms. Red Barber followed the physical improvements, and then came a network of scouts and then more money to sign better players. For a manager, MacPhail chose one of the spark plugs of the St. Louis team, none other than Leo Durocher. Five of his moves set the stage for the Dodgers who would dominate the league in the forties and fifties.\n\nTwo were in his management group\u2014Fresco Thompson and a young man fresh out of college, E. J. \"Buzzie\" Bavasi.\n\nThe other three were players. In 1939, MacPhail paid the then-enormous sum of seventy-five thousand dollars for a highly touted young shortstop playing in the minors in Louisville, near his home. Harold \"Pee Wee\" Reese made the team the following year.\n\nHarold Patrick Reiser appears to have cost MacPhail a great deal less than that to lure or (depending on your point of view) steal from the Cardinal organization. The lore is that Pete Reiser cost MacPhail a hundred dollars. If so, it was the greatest bargain of all time, because Pistol Pete was arguably the greatest talent to ever wear a Dodger uniform\u2014an outfielder who combined all of the magical skills that distinguished the three New York outfield stars of the 1950s: Duke Snider, Willie Mays, and Mickey Mantle.\n\nReiser could hit for average and hit for power; he was blazing fast and he fielded fearlessly in the outfield. In his first full season in 1941, at the age of twenty-two, he led the league in batting (an amazing .348 average), slugging percentage, doubles, triples, and runs batted in (117). Tragedy awaited him and a legion of Brooklyn fans, but I heard my father say many times that in that one season Pete Reiser was the most exciting, most complete baseball player he ever saw.\n\nThe Dodgers also nurtured another promising young outfielder who was playing near his hometown in Reading, Pennsylvania. Carl Furillo could also hit consistently with power, but what made him a precious asset was the slingshot he had for a right arm. His ability to throw was so impressive that he briefly experimented with pitching, discovering that he was incurably wild. His young manager in Reading, Fresco Thompson, persuaded him to stick to the outfield, and Furillo made the Dodgers' top minorleague squad in Montreal before going off to war.\n\nFor the short term, MacPhail was breathtaking in the speed of his acquisitions, picking up the nucleus of a contending team\u2014Billy Herman, Dixie Walker, Waite Hoyt, Hugh Casey, Joe Medwick, Kirby Higbe, and Dolph Camilli. One of MacPhail's last acquisitions, from Rickey's Cardinals for the princely sum of sixty thousand dollars in 1940, was a solid catcher respected for his defensive skills, Mickey Owen.\n\nTo me in the 1950s, these were names, statistics, and stories. To my parents, they were a winning team that finished third in 1939, second in 1940, and nipped the Cardinals by two games for the pennant in 1941, winning one hundred games. Lured by success, the renovated ballpark, and Red Barber's sweet voice, the crowds swelled. My parents started attending regularly. My mother's job was working out, and my father had his first true hit song, was selling arrangements to bands around town, and had begun writing magazine articles as well. They had struggled, but they were beginning to make it, and when they talked of the baseball, the nights out, the plans they had, the remembered happiness was poignant. They had begun to talk about having a kid.\n\nThat last autumn of America's innocence began with a perfect World Series pairing for the 1941 World Series. For the first time, the Dodgers' opponent was the Yankees, who had won one more game during the season. That was the year their young center fielder, Joe DiMaggio, hit safely in fifty-six straight games, while the young left fielder of the second-place Boston Red Sox, Ted Williams, was hitting .406 for the season\u2014performances that have never since been equaled.\n\nThere had been five previous Subway Series between the Yankees and Giants, and the expectations for the first one that would cross the East River were high. Games One and Two, moreover, lived up to them\u2014tight one-run affairs that the teams split.\n\nThe first taste of the fourteen years to come in the Dodger saga came in Game Three at Ebbets Field. For six innings there was an exciting pitching duel between Marius Russo of the Yankees and Dodger veteran Freddie Fitzsimmons, by then an aging, rotund starter with a devilish knuckleball. Shades of 1920 returned in the seventh inning, with the opposing pitcher delivering the key blow again. This time it was a line drive off Russo's bat that struck Fat Freddie flush on his left kneecap, shattering it, but arriving in Pee Wee Reese's glove on the fly for a truly weird out. Fitzsimmons, however, was out of the game, and in relief Hugh Casey couldn't keep the Yankees from scoring two runs in the eighth to win the game.\n\nThe more famous disaster happened the next day. Hugh Casey relieved again and did what he couldn't do the day before, hold a lead through eight innings and give the Dodgers a chance to even the Series by getting just three more outs. Casey got two of them quickly but went to a full count on the Yankees' dangerous right fielder, Tommy Henrich.\n\nThe 3\u20132 pitch broke sharply in on the left-handed hitter, who swung and missed for strike three and the ball game's apparent end. Unfortunately, the ball glanced off Mickey Owen's glove and rolled all the way to the barrier behind home plate. Sitting close by was a young Buzzie Bavasi, who told me more than sixty years later that he could have jumped on the field, picked up the ball and thrown it to Dolph Camilli at first base for the out. As it was, by the time Owen retrieved his passed ball error, Henrich was safe on first.\n\nCasey insisted until he went to his grave ten years later (upset over marital troubles, he killed himself) that the pitch was a curveball. Several Dodgers insisted just as vehemently over the years that it was a spitball that caught Owen by surprise. Casey's inning, at any rate, then disintegrated\u2014a single by DiMaggio, a double by Charlie Keller, a walk to Bill Dickey, another double by Joe Gordon, and the Yankees had four runs, the game, and, after an anticlimactic next day, the Series.\n\nMy father told me once that it was only in retrospect that the Dodgers' ensuing history of bitter disappointments in high-pressure situations could be said to have begun the moment Mickey Owen's glove failed to follow Casey's pitch. He remembered it as a bitter disappointment more in line with the wacky stuff that had endeared the Dodgers to him and my mother in the first place. There had been so many odd plays like that passed ball. It helped explain why people who had either experienced the Dodgers over time or knew all the stories could be so pleasantly surprised when Phil Rizzuto (like Reese, he played in his first World Series in 1941) slid into that ground ball at a crucial moment fourteen years later.\n\nThe frustrating conclusion to the 1941 World Series did not\n\nThe cover of the paper scorecard sold for a nickel on the street outside Yankee Stadium on the day of the seventh game of the World Series in 1955. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nThe box score kept that day by then-Army Lt. Gary Hymel, including the paid attendance he penciled in the upper right when announced during the seventh inning. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nThe infant daughter, Amy, of then-Army Lt. Gary Hymel, in uniform and about to lick the famous scorecard shortly after the Dodgers won the World Series. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nMy father, with his grandfather, near Frankfort, Indiana, in 1919. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nThe author's father, on the right, and a buddy flank Filipino war hero and diplomat Carlos P. Romulo shortly after Liberation Day in 1944. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nMy father, age five, in his baseball uniform next to his Indiana home. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nMy mother, Anna, in 1941, the first year the Dodgers lost to the Yankees. She joined the U.S. Attorney's Office in New York in time for World War II. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nMother and child on the terrace of the tiny Oliphant apartment near the East River in Manhattan, 1946. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nFather and son, on the same day in 1946, the year the Dodgers lost a playoff for the pennant to the St. Louis Cardinals. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nFather and son in the Tudor City park where baseball thrived, in the spring of the magical year of 1955. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nThe fifth-grade class at the Browning School for boys in the fall of 1955. The author is in the top row, second from the right. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nThe first edition of _Yank_ magazine, shortly after World War II began. It was pulled off the presses because of the unfortunate juxtaposition of the FDR headline and the picture of the author's father holding a fistful of cash. _(Photo courtesy of Thomas Oliphant)_\n\nFor fifty years, the same still newspaper and wire-service photographs of Game Seven have been shown over and over again. This book has digitized some of the remaining film clips of the game to show the players and the most important plays from different angles. It offers a more fresh, if grainier, perspective.\n\nManager Walter Alston (24) with the Dodgers just before Game Seven. Johnny Podres is seated in front with arm on leg, in front of Gil Hodges. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe protagonists, Tommy Byrne of the Yankees and Brooklyn's Johnny Podres, on the sidelines before warming up. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nJohnny Podres warms up, just before telling bull-pen catcher Dixie Howell that the Yankee lineup can't beat him and teammates that he just needed one run to win. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nTommy Byrne warms up\u2014in those days, right on the field. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nPhil Rizzuto, killing a rally, slides into Gil MacDougald's hit as Dodger Don Hoak prepares to field it. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe ball hits Phil Rizzuto's left leg, barely a foot from the third-base bag, in the third inning. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nUmpire Lee Ballanfant runs into view to call Phil Rizzuto out as ball goes past Don Hoak's right shoulder. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe play over, the rally killed, a stunned Rizzuto tarries on the bag. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe patented Tommy Byrne flip in full view, just before delivering a key pitch to Roy Campanella in the fourth inning. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nRoy Campanella's smooth swing that produced the most important double in Brooklyn Dodger history. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nGil Hodges's swing produces the most important single in Dodger history, driving in Roy Campanella with the first run. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe famous Duke Snider bunt in the sixth inning that created the second Dodger scoring threat. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe equally important Roy Campanella bunt, as the next batter, that put Dodgers on second and third with one out. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nGil Hodges starts for first, just after hitting a Bob Grim pitch for the most important sacrifice fly in Dodger history, driving in Pee Wee Reese with the second run. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nDodgers meeting on the mound: Walt Alston joining Johnny Podres and Roy Campanella, just before Yogi Berra came up in the Yankee's sixth with two men on and nobody out. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nYogi Berra punches at Johnny Podres's high, outside pitch to start the most famous double play in Dodger history. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nMoments after Yogi Berra connects, Sandy Amoros goes into full sprint toward the left-field corner. His dash began at least twenty-five yards further toward center field. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nThe Catch. Sandy Amoros's left leg is already in motion for his pivot to make perfect relay to Pee Wee Reese behind third base. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nAt the moment of the catch, Yankee Billy Martin is at left, stopped between second and third, but Gil MacDougald (arrow) has already rounded second from first\u2014trapped. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nGlove hand raised, Pee Wee Reese prepares to take Amoros's relay, in perfect position to make pivot and long throw across diamond to complete the double play. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nYankee Hank Bauer swings and misses on Johnny Podres's fastball, shown in Campanella's glove, striking out to end a serious Yankee threat in the bottom of the eighth inning. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nCompletely fooled, Elston Howard taps final-out ground ball to Pee Wee Reese at short. Howard's bat is shown way in front of his body on last change-up from Johnny Podres. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nChampions at last! Don Newcombe (in jacket) is first Dodger from bench to reach Don Hoak, Johnny Podres, and Roy Campanella after third out. Junior Gilliam is at right, as Jackie Robinson (arms extended) arrives from dugout. _(Major League Productions)_\n\nmerely end another baseball season. Two months later, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.\n\nWorld war interrupted my parents' ascent, as it did the life of the entire country, and there was nothing unusual about their response. They were central casting Greatest Generationists, never really thinking much about whether to respond after Pearl Harbor, but talking between themselves primarily about how to respond. My mother never hesitated in following one of her bosses at the law firm to his job as U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, one of the nerve centers of jurisprudential activity during the war, including famous espionage and sabotage cases. Hers was a white-collar Rosie the Riveter life, with volunteer work on the side and a husband overseas to fret about. Her boss, Matthew Correa, was a somewhat remote, formal man but was extremely solicitous toward my mother during their long stretch of service together. He made sure she was always invited to fancy receptions, where the food and drink were special and free, and was careful to inquire continually about the news from my father.\n\nAfter Pearl Harbor, my father and his buddies were plotting within days how to win War Department approval for their idea of a mass circulation magazine aimed at enlisted men. Within three months, he had been through basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey, at the age of nearly thirty-three, and by the summer of 1942 was an army staff sergeant on a troop ship bound for Australia, from which he began three years of island-hopping through hell. When he returned after joining the first waves ashore at Saipan and Tinian (the islands whose capture made the strategic bombing of Japan itself possible), my mother got pregnant almost at once, a statement about the future that would become collectively known as the Baby Boom. I know that I completed them; what they didn't know was how much I wished they could have enjoyed life more and been more comfortable.\n\nIn addition to the daily frustrations and the deeper disappointments of my father's ill health, my mother did not escape trouble, either. Shortly after my father lost his kidney, ovarian tumors necessitated a hysterectomy for my mother, ending her dreams of a daughter to name after her mother. What I remember most about my mothers illness is that there was a woman from her office or our building in our apartment every night for the two weeks she was in the hospital and the week she recovered at home, helping my father and me with supper and laundry. He tried his best and my mother was strong when she wasn't heroic, but for all the excitements of my own life, there was a heavy atmosphere around the apartment that never quite lifted.\n\nMy happiest moments were not at school or in the music world. They were at our weekly dinners at the Automat on Third Avenue, the occasional play or movie, and above all with the Dodgers. It was not difficult to identify with a baseball team that had enormous talent and a famously adoring following nationwide and that also struggled gamely through disappointment after disappointment. In fact, it was natural.\n\n## 8\n\n## One Run\n\nThose who followed baseball closely in the 1950s knew to pay special attention whenever Roy Campanella walked slowly up to bat, as he did in the fourth inning of Game Seven, swinging two Louisville Sluggers above his powerful shoulders as power hitters did in the years before weighted bat rings. Campanella waved the bats in the air as if they were made of balsa wood. His start in the major leagues had been delayed until he was twenty-seven years old because of segregation; he was thirty-four the day of The Game, but he was as dangerous as ever, still at the top of his remarkable ability, and coming off a Most Valuable Player season (his third).\n\nSitting in his living room nearly fifty years later, Tommy Byrne told me that Campanella was the Dodger hitter who most concerned him that day, especially leading off or with men on base. If you let him, Byrne said, the Dodger catcher would try to pull the ball down the short left-field lines in both Ebbets Field and Yankee Stadium, which meant that the best chance to get him out was to keep the ball low and away from his power. Better yet, it was important to get the people batting in front of him out.\n\nByrne met that test as the fourth inning began, striking out Duke Snider, a notoriously poor batter against left-handers. That brought Campanella to the plate for the second time. The previous season, 1954, had been his first nightmare as a Dodger. After years of taking direct hits from foul balls and the brunt of collisions with runners trying to score, the toll on his left hand became too great. He was in surgery once during the 1954 season to set a break and once more after the season ended. As the 1955 campaign began, Campanella was new manager Walter Alston's most significant question mark and there were even trade rumors in the newspapers.\n\nThe catcher's conditioning, his will, and his talent, however, were more than sufficient for another great year (as it turned out, his last as a superstar). Campanella ended up with thirty-two home runs, 107 runs batted in, and a full season expertly handling a pitching staff liberally sprinkled with kids and rookies. He was already one of the hitting stars through the first six games of the Series, with two home runs, three doubles, and four runs scored.\n\nAs Byrne knew, Campanella was an intelligent as well as opportunistic power hitter, and he was hot.\n\nFor this at-bat, Byrne went to one of his distracting tricks\u2014casually flipping the ball in the air and catching it just before delivering his pitch to the plate. The ball came in a bit high, slightly on the inside part of home plate. Campanella was not in the least distracted. Reacting to the unexpected opportunity, Campanella almost pounced on the ball; his swing was very hard, very fast, brutal.\n\nFrom my couch I can see Byrne throwing the ball, and the next instant the ball is on a sharp line toward the left-field corner; there was no time to wonder if it was fair or foul, no time to wonder if it would get past McDougald at third base. One instant the ball was in Byrne's hand; the next instant it was in the corner, fair\u2014a baseball moment remarkably similar to Bill Skowron's double in the second inning.\n\nThere was not a shadow of a doubt that the hit was going to be a double. Campanella did not hesitate as he rounded first base at full speed and headed toward second. There was also not a shadow of a doubt that he was going to be safe.\n\nIn left field, Yankee rookie Elston Howard made no mad dash toward the ball. It had landed on a line just in front of the dirt track that looped around the outfield in front of the wall, and then rolled along it. To add insult to the double's obvious injury, the ball took a little hop over Howard's glove and rolled between his legs, forcing him to turn around to pick it up.\n\nFor the first time in the game, the Dodgers were threatening. Carl Furillo was next at bat, the man who had flied deep to Howard in the second inning. Byrne was more careful this time. Furillo was fooled by an off-speed pitch and hit a ground ball toward Rizzuto at shortstop.\n\nBut because Furillo was fooled, he hit the ball off the end of his bat, making the ball travel very slowly to the left side of the infield. Campanella sensed the opportunity and took off immediately for third. Normally, baseball players are taught not to try to advance on a ground ball hit in front of them, but this one was hit so slowly, forcing Rizzuto to charge and field it on the grass, that he had no realistic play at third. Furillo was out by a mile, but Campanella was safe at third with two men out.\n\nJust as the Yankee threat in the third had brought Walter Alston to the mound, the Dodgers' response brought Casey Stengel out of the dugout. First base was open. One of the premier Dodger hitters and my personal idol, Gil Hodges, was coming up; the issue was whether to pitch to Hodges or walk him intentionally (Don Hoak, in the game for his glove, not his bat, was up next); and if the decision was to pitch to Hodges, the question was how.\n\nAccording to Byrne, there was no argument about Stengel's instinct to pitch to Hodges or Byrne's feeling that he had a good chance of tempting Hodges with off-speed pitches on his fists inside or away from his power and that if by being careful he walked the slugger, so what? Don Hoak would later have some solid hitting years in Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, but this was only his second season of half-time duty in the major leagues and he had barely hit .240.\n\nPitching to Hodges was a real risk. The quiet, solid Dodger was dogged by his past\u2014miserable in the '49 Series and then the nightmarish, 0 for 21 in '52\u2014but he had rebounded smartly in 1953 and already had six hits, a home run, and three runs batted in 1955. This was a big decision that reeked of rash. I recall nothing of the brief meeting at the mound and have no memory of being either pleased that Hodges would get a chance to hit or insulted that the Yankees were pitching to him because they thought they could get him out.\n\nWith my hero, I always had the same sensation whether he was making a play in the field or hitting\u2014a warm, relaxing, confident feeling. On the surface, Hodges was a rare athlete who combined grace and power. His build was large and muscled, but there was no swagger to his style, no flamboyance, just a quiet brilliance that was at once professional and inspiring. Gil Hodges was the Dodger parents told their kids to be like; my parents never had to tell me. To my young boy's eyes, he was the first grown-up I was aware of who exuded that force that is usually called character. It felt almost reassuring to realize that he would be at bat with Campanella on third base in a scoreless game.\n\nHodges took the first two pitches for called strikes. The next pitch by Byrne to Hodges was a virtual carbon copy of the pitch to Campanella. It was not quite as high, roughly around Hodges's Dodger letters, and a bit more toward the middle of the plate. Byrne remembers it as a changeup.\n\nFrom my couch the result was exactly the same as Campanella's double. Byrne had made a mistake in his pitch, and Hodges made him pay for it. Like Campanella before him, Hodges swung hard at the inviting offering and hit a bullet well over the vain leap of Phil Rizzuto into left field in front of Elston Howard. There was not an instant of doubt about the course of the ball from Hodges's bat to the outfield grass; it was as solid a single as a premier slugger could hit. On that hit, my father could have scored from third as easily as Campanella did; the ball was hit so hard, however, that it is highly unlikely he could have scored from second. To underline the now-second-guessed decision by Stengel, Hoak then proceeded to tap an easy ground ball to Rizzuto for the third out.\n\nThe phone rang before my father could make eye contact with me. Once again, there were some quiet words that I couldn't hear, clearly with my mother. When he hung up, my father didn't repeat any of their conversation. He simply stared warmly at me and I simply stared back. It never occurred to mc to blurt something out or to ask why we weren't speaking during the game. I don't remember feeling at all intimidated, merely happy to be looking to him for my cues. The silence increased my attention to the game. It also made it ten times as tense.\n\nOne run meant nothing. Worse, it was a prelude to even more dread of those fabled Yankee comebacks that made years of defeat all the more bitter. I had no earthly idea what to expect as the fourth inning concluded, but winning the World Series was definitely not in my young head.\n\nFor the first time that day, I began paying closer attention to Johnny Podres. He had survived the first three innings, but he did not seem overwhelming, and there had been two close calls already\u2014Bill Skowron's shot to right field could just as easily have made the seats on the fly, and but for the fluke with Phil Rizzuto, Yogi Berra could have come to bat in the third inning with the bases loaded. When one looks back over the batter-by-batter summary of the game, it is apparent that the Yankees had not been particularly aggressive to that point. They were mostly waiting for Podres to throw strikes before they swung. The changeup was definitely in his repertoire, but he was throwing it less frequently than he had the previous Thursday in Brooklyn. It had been effective, but there was something tentative about the first third of the game.\n\nTommy Byrne had seemed more in command. The Dodger run had happened suddenly, two line drives wrapped around a slow ground ball. For the most part, however, the Dodgers weren't hitting him and there was a methodical efficiency about his pitching that was itself intimidating.\n\nWith the Dodgers on the scoreboard first, the Yankees' at-bat in the bottom of the fourth inning was especially important, and the most dangerous hitters were due up to hit.\n\nHaving missed his chance to bat with the bases loaded, Yogi Berra lead off the half inning. Swinging a bit late on another off-speed pitch, he sent a very high pop-up into shallow left-center field. It was one of those plays where the first thing you notice is that two outfielders are converging on the ball and it isn't immediately apparent whether they are going to get to it in time or collide. In others words, the play was instantly nerve-racking.\n\nBerra's pop-up brought Junior Gilliam in from left field and Duke Snider in from center; it was just deep enough that Pee Wee Reese was in no position to make a play going backward from shortstop. It was gradually clear that getting to the ball would be no problem for the two Dodgers; the problem was going to be avoiding a collision. As the film shows, Gilliam and Snider charged toward the ball's landing spot in obvious disregard of each other. Neither was waving his arms or clearly yelling the hoary pop-up command\u2014\"I got it!\"\n\nAt almost the last instant, Gilliam finally reacted properly, acknowledging the center fielder's dominant role in these situations. He darted quickly to his right, leaving Snider alone with the rapidly descending ball. Snider, however, did not react at all, and, shades of the prewar Daffy Dodgers, it fell to the ground in front of him. Berra was by now standing on second base; it is listed as a double in history, but it was as legitimate a hit as McDougald's \"single\" that struck Rizzuto the previous inning.\n\nI have a vivid memory of the play. On any other occasion it would have produced a groan or an angry shout; in the odd circumstances of my living room that afternoon, I remember just pursing my lips. After the game, Snider said the bungled pop-up was entirely his fault, that he should never have stopped his charge to the ball. History can forgive as graceful and acrobatic an outfielder as ever played the game. The preceding day, Snider had stepped on a metal sprinkler in the outfield chasing a fly ball off the bat of Bill Skowron in the third inning, twisting his left knee. The injury was severe enough that manager Walter Alston used Don Zimmer to pinch-hit for him. There is a picture that survives of Snider after Game Six wearing a large bandage over the knee; he played the seventh game in pain and with limited mobility. But the injury, he later said, had nothing to do with the way he played Berra's fly ball.\n\nThe obviously ominous fact of Berra on second base with nobody out added still more tension to the atmosphere but appeared to have no effect whatsoever on Podres. Moving to his fastball in response to a shouted command from Campanella, who walked halfway to the mound and yelled at him to throw hard, he got a late swing and routine fly to Furillo in right field from Hank Bauer\u2014short enough to give Berra no chance to tag up and try for third base against Furillo's famous arm.\n\nContinuing to bear down under the pressure, Podres now faced Skowron. Again Campanella walked toward the mound, this time telling Podres to shake his head after the next sign as if he were rejecting it when, in fact, he was to throw the pitch for which Campanella had signaled. The Dodger catcher's purpose was to get Skowron thinking, trying to guess what Podres would throw to him. Podres told me Skowron was known as a \"guess hitter,\" the kind who made up his mind before the pitcher threw what kind of pitch was coming his way. In the continuous search by pitchers for even the slightest edge over the hitters they faced, it was gospel that the more the hitter thought about it, the better position the pitcher was in. Whatever Skowron was guessing he would throw, Podres got him swinging late on another fastball, producing a ground ball to Zimmer at second. As with Furillo's ground ball in the top half of the inning, it was hit slowly, and because it was behind him, Berra had no trouble moving over to third base as the second out was recorded.\n\nThe tension remained thick as Bob Cerv stepped in to hit. Campanella called for yet another fastball. Cerv's swing was timely, but he hit under the pitch, popping it up high in the air behind Reese. The shortstop backpedaled a few steps and caught the ball for the third out. The Yankees had missed their third genuine opportunity to score in four times at bat and had failed to respond to the Dodgers' first run. A game that could not have been more tense by definition was now established as tense in fact, and there was now a favorable trend to it.\n\nThe main reason it didn't feel significant, apart from the omnipresent danger that the Yankees could strike like a sudden summer storm, was Tommy Byrne's masterful pitching. He was no longer the hard\u2014and wild\u2014pure thrower he had been in his youth. Now thirty-five, he moved the ball around the plate continuously, varied his speeds, and used the pitch that had probably lengthened his career (his slider) to keep the Dodgers off balance.\n\nHe also appeared to be enjoying himself at times. In the fourth inning, just before Campanella exploded with his double, Byrne had toyed with Duke Snider before striking him out. This was the one occasion when there is a consensus that he was talking to a hitter from the mound. Byrne yelled at Snider that a slider was on its way just before throwing one and falsely advertised a fastball (it turned out to be a curve).\n\nAny hint, moreover, that the Dodger breakthrough in the fourth might be a sign the team was timing Byrne's pitches better and getting ready to hit him hard was quickly dispensed with by his performance in the fifth inning. Don Zimmer struck out swinging, Johnny Podres popped up in foul territory to Gil McDougald, and Jim Gilliam sent a weak ground ball to Billy Martin at second base, ending the first half of the game.\n\nThe torture that I was doing my best to endure was far from unique. Coming to grips with the possibility that the Dodgers might actually have a chance to win the game and the Series was now a fact of life in the diverse national circle of Dodger fans, but nowhere was the tension building the way it was building in their unique home across the East River. Brooklyn was beginning to stir, and other young people also were struggling to come to grips with what was unfolding over in the Bronx.\n\n### BROOKLYN, USA\n\nFlorence Rubenstein, like a million or so kids that day, had arrived home from her Brooklyn school (Montauk Junior High in Borough Park) during the second half of the game. She climbed the stairs to her apartment on Ocean Parkway and plopped down on the couch in the den where the television was of course on.\n\nShe asked her mother, who was ironing, whether there had been any more scoring. The reply did not surprise Florence. \"It won't matter,\" her mother said, reflecting the most emotionally safe way of enduring a Brooklyn Dodgers World Series game\u2014by preparing for defeat.\n\n\"The Yankees were always the winners,\" Florence recalled years later, \"and they always had this infuriating arrogance about it. I had cried every year after I would get my hopes up for the Dodgers only to see them lose again. I would get in bed, put my head under the pillow, and just cry.\"\n\nThe cycle never stopped, including the annual rekindling of hope that came with the spring. Her father was the optimist, a genuine Wait'll Next Year-er; her mother refused to indulge.\n\n\"I was a little of both,\" Florence said. \"Each time a World Series would start it would be like here we go again, and how unfair it all is. But I would hang in there. After all that time and the way we kept coming back, and tried so hard, we should win already.\"\n\nFlorence Rubenstein learned her baseball in Brooklyn sort of the way I did in Lower Manhattan\u2014very, very young and from her father.\n\nIn Prospect Park's sylvan and expansive splendor, she and her brother spent hours with him growing up, learning to catch, to throw, and to swing a bat. He was from Canarsie\u2014one of Brooklyn's scores of neighborhoods\u2014hadn't got very far in school, but had played a lot of ball as a kid. Scouts had looked at him; baseball, along with advanced education, was among his might-have-beens.\n\nAs it was, he and his brother owned a liquor store over in Bedford-Stuyvesant, one of the neighborhoods where African-Americans were an increasingly large presence, to which they had been migrating from the South since the turn of the century (Lena Home was born there in 1917). He and his family lived near the park.\n\nOcean Parkway is one of Brooklyn's boulevards of happy dreams, gorgeous testimony to the possibility of livable cities. It is superwide, tree lined, with both a bicycle path for young people and scores of park benches for the more sedentary. From north to south, it is for six miles or so a particularly pleasant route to Coney Island. Along the way, the old apartment buildings that frame it bring vividly to mind Berlin or Paris or Vienna.\n\nThat is exactly what two of the patron saints of the urban outdoors\u2014Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux\u2014had in mind when they laid it out in the 1870s. For a kid in the 1950s, Ocean Parkway made possible an almost seamless indoor-outdoor life that encompassed an open neighborhood, public school, Hebrew school, the park, and Ebbets Field. Via subway or the Rubenstein family's green 1948 Chevy, the arts in Manhattan as well as the Coney Island cottage of Florence's grandfather (who was in the hat trade) beckoned.\n\nIn an essay of typical insight and warmth a few years ago, the writer Pete Hamill said that the visual key to Brooklyn was the striking presence of sunlight and of the sky, a dramatic and special openness that gave the famed borough, until 1898 a city in its own right, its distinct feel.\n\nWoody Allen (n\u00e9e Allen Konigsberg in Flatbush) has written of the unique glow that the sun's light produces on the facades of Brooklyn's brownstones, even at midday.\n\nOther writers speak of a distinctive Brooklyn personality\u2014the descriptions regularly include decibel level, accent, chip-on-shoulder aggressiveness as well as defensiveness, fixation on the elemental turf of block and neighborhood, an absence of illusion, a presence of biting humor, and a passion for family.\n\nOne of my favorite Brooklyn sites on the Internet is lovingly and informatively maintained by a professor of Germanic languages (Yiddish especially) at Ohio State who was to the borough born\u2014David Neal Miller. He summarizes the place where he was born and brought up, left but obviously took with him: \"cradle of tough guys, Nobel Laureates, fourth largest city in the United States, proof of the power of marginality, and homeland of Americas most creative diasporic culture.\"\n\nIt is easy to romanticize all this to excess, another fabled Brooklyn trait. It is also easy to forget that what is celebrated so eloquently can be found in cities all over America. You can even recognize elements of the famous accent in port cities as far apart as San Francisco, Baltimore, and New Orleans.\n\nNew Yorkers, myself included, famously forget there's a world out there\u2014ironic, because the world out there is central to Brooklyn's nature and to its vast reputation. Brooklyn is uniquely connected to the rest of America, just as the rest of America is uniquely connected to Brooklyn.\n\nThe Dodgers have no national appeal without Brooklyn.\n\nBrooklyn was the essential, perfect, diverse place for Jackie Robinson's courageous destruction of many of the bigoted myths about race. And for many people, and more than a few even today, part of Brooklyn's essence was the Dodgers.\n\nAn outsider, even one who was raised just across the river in Lower Manhattan, knows to approach Brooklyn carefully, even fearfully. As a boy, however, I approached Brooklyn gleefully, and not just to visit Ebbets Field and my Dodgers. I played hundreds of innings of baseball on the spacious fields of Prospect Park. I learned to love cemeteries with my father, prowling the delightfully diverse headstones of Green-Wood (from both Currier and Ives, all four Brooks Brothers, and Samuel F. B. Morse to Albert Anastasia, \"Boss\" Tweed, and Frederick Augustus Otto (FAO Schwarz). I was desperate to attend classes at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, reluctantly settling on a day program at Julliard. I rode the Cyclone at Coney Island in the front seat with my first serious girlfriend. I was actually at one of Alan Freed's rock-and-roll shows at the old Brooklyn Paramount at Flatbush and DeKalb\u2014to my mother's horror and my father's bemusement.\n\nAnd especially after Barbara Cahill moved to Brooklyn I ached to move, too; I said so at home, though I didn't give the real reason. Barbara Cahill lived near my neighborhood and often played in our pickup games; she had light hair, a brash disposition, and mesmerized me. On my ninth birthday (she was a year or two older), I saw her running toward me and, acting my age, I sprinted the other way. She caught me after a hundred yards or so and, pinning me in place by the shoulders, kissed me on the mouth. The sensation was bewildering and exciting for something I expected to hate. And then she was gone\u2014to Brooklyn. I was miserable for weeks.\n\nThe place I always imagined living in is, first of all, gigantic. Its seventy to ninety square miles (depending on which agency is counting) dwarf Manhattan. Brooklyn is at least ten times the size of Washington, D.C., roughly the size of greater Boca Raton where many of its residents have retired, and of the entire island nation of Aruba.\n\nWith that kind of size there naturally come scores of quite different neighborhoods within a widely varied geography. You can see little bits from the Manhattan side of the East River (my childhood view), including the three imposing bridges\u2014the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg. To the right is historically ritzy Brooklyn Heights, and moving left the eye catches the indentation where the Brooklyn Navy Yard once ruled, and then not-so-ritzy Williamsburg and Greenpoint. That is just the tip of an immense iceberg that includes, toward the center, African-American neighborhoods (Brownsville and Bedford-Stuyvesant), residential neighborhoods toward the east (East New York and Canarsie), famous addresses near the water to the southwest (Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst), and real beach towns to the extreme south (Brighton and Coney Island).\n\nIn the heart of Brooklyn lies Prospect Park, every bit Central Park's equal and for me its superior because of its more open feel and sports opportunities. To the east of the park is my favorite neighborhood, Crown Heights, where you can sample both kosher delicacies and soul food in the streets off Eastern Parkway, another boulevard of European dimensions and beauty. Like the Dodgers, Brooklyn didn't simply happen. It evolved over the three hundred years from its founding by Dutch settlers to the year (1946) the Dodgers suffered their first play-off indignity against the St. Louis Cardinals, in response to the elemental forces of geography, economics, and migration. By the time the British colonial era was firmly established at the end of the seventeenth century, what had become Brooklyn was the seat of one of the six counties in the populous area that would eventually be termed metropolitan (New York itself, Richmond, Queens, Westchester, and Suffolk).\n\nIt was also an obvious target for the British as the Revolution began, not to put the first of many chips on Brooklyn's shoulder but because the British were occupying the major colonial cities and the town was the preferred route for an assault on New York itself. It was also a target because George Washington's greatly outnumbered army was ensconced there. The Americans fought bravely, but as their situation became hopeless, Washington managed a mass escape across the river, preserving his army for another day (shades of Wait'll Next Year). When I first began reading about the Revolution in the books I took out of the public library, I remember my father dutifully taking me a bit farther downtown from our building; Washington's forces landed in the neighborhood (Kip's Bay) just below mine and marched up Murray Hill on their way out of town to safety; I recall my father joking that they could have stopped for food at the Automat on Third Avenue.\n\nBrooklyn evolved differently from the bustling money center based on the long, narrow island across the river. Initially, its orientation was toward the east as the hub for another long island that became known as Long Island\u2014a land of farms and residences more than an urban hub of commerce. Its history is not merely a story of population explosion and settlement but also of the other favored route for American community expansion\u2014annexation. In the nineteenth century, Brooklyn gobbled up Bushwick, Gravesend, Flatbush, New Utrecht, Williamsburg, and New Lots. It formally changed from town to city in 1834, and by the year Abraham Lincoln was elected president only Philadelphia and that other place across the river contained more people.\n\nAmerica's industrialization\u2014spurring the three mass movements of people off the farm, up from the South, and out of Europe\u2014led to explosive urban growth. As often as not, the first stop for new arrivals who had nothing with them but dreams was a tenement on the Lower East Side; for many, their first decent place that had running water was in Brooklyn. With the construction of the bridges, above all the Williamsburg, the steady flow across the East River became a flood. There were factories and major businesses\u2014the Pfizer pharmaceutical empire began there before the Civil War; the navy yard (where the _Monitor_ was built) was established by then as well\u2014but Brooklyn was more residential than commercial, and to oversimplify, that is why its existence as a separate city from the monster just to the west was probably doomed.\n\nAs America became urban, there were no more powerful engines of change than money and water\u2014money to fund the immense infrastructure required for the housing and transportation of millions of people and reasonably safe water to sustain life. As the nineteenth century's end neared, it gradually became obvious that Brooklyn had reliable access to neither. In New York itself, Wall Street and the commercial banking giants that emerged in tandem meant access to a growing market in municipal bonds, the instruments that financed infrastructure, including the pipelines required to bring water down from the mountains to its north. By the end of the century, the major financial institution in Brooklyn was a thrift institution\u2014the Williamsburg Savings Bank\u2014that was built on the meager savings of working people hoping to accumulate enough to buy a house.\n\nAcross the river, primal forces were creating a unified, if not exactly united, New York City. The western part of the Bronx was annexed back in 1873, with the rest of that community incorporated twenty-two years later. The response in Queens was a split, with roughly a third of it joining New York in 1899 while the rest became Long Island's Nassau County. Brooklyn's turn, via a hard-fought referendum that pitted sentiment against reality (not for the first time), came the previous year. The pivotal issue was water. By then, the absence of access to an abundant, reliable supply had become obvious to both eye and nose. The newspapers of the time were filled with tales of a foul, dark liquid that mixed disease with hydrogen and oxygen. It was said to be so hideous that the traditional public health remedy\u2014boiling\u2014was not an option because it only spread the foul odor around.\n\nThe referendum vote was close for emotional reasons, but the annexation was inevitable in the remorseless context of finance and infrastructure. Everything that made Brooklyn a gigantic, largely residential community for working families also made independent existence all but impossible. The annexation is still treated with resentment in popular lore\u2014as if it were one more victory by the Yankees\u2014but Brooklyn was not so much gobbled up by a greedy neighbor as it was absorbed into a larger reality.\n\nSince before the turn of the twentieth century Brooklyn has been gigantic in population. When it was absorbed into New York City, Brooklyn was even then the fourth largest city in the country. At its peak, a little before the year the Dodgers won the World Series, some 2.7 million people lived there. Even after the exodus to the Sunbelt and suburbia, its 2.4 million residents today would still make it the country's fourth largest city.\n\nBrooklyn is also uniquely diverse, as in really diverse. For a hundred years it has been the ultimate home not to the oversimplified melting pot but to relatively recent arrivals to America and to the North. From Irish, Italian, and Eastern European Catholics, to Eastern European Jews, to black Americans crowding the trains leaving the segregated and largely agricultural South, Brooklyn was a destination city. It remains so.\n\nToday nearly 40 percent of Brooklyn's residents are foreign born, compared to barely 4 percent for the country as a whole. That is a lot different from the Brooklyn that was home to the Dodgers, but the difference has much more to do with country of origin than with the importance of immigration itself.\n\nBrooklyn remains a community with much less wealth and considerably more poverty than the rest of the country. Brooklyn's median household income (at thirty-two thousand dollars as the twentieth century ended) is also below New York City's. That is not a lot different from the Brooklyn that was home to the Dodgers. In modern times, Brooklyn has always been a residential community (overwhelmingly renters) for working families not much more than a few missed paychecks above catastrophe.\n\nThe change in the borough that was a city until 1898 has involved the pattern common to all major American cities after World War II\u2014white people moving on to what were at first openly segregated suburbs along with jobs, their places taken by nonwhites seeking better lives in much more restricted circumstances. The African-American percentage of Brooklyn's population was 36 percent in the 2000 census, more than double what it was after the war; and as much as 10 percent of the total is Latino, from Puerto Rico and Mexico to a slew of nations farther south. This trend was well under way in the mid-1950s.\n\nToday's majority-minority Brooklyn contrasts with the Brooklyn of midcentury that was still mostly white and largely Catholic. But what made Brooklyn special, and still does today, was its Jewish community.\n\nIt was enormous after World War II, after the better part of a half century of constant immigration. By then, more than a third of Brooklyn's population was Jewish, and the term doesn't begin to do justice to the variety of stripes of the faith that in fact thrived there.\n\nPeople came, basically, because others had before them. For people accustomed to bigotry and unspeakable violence, the reputation of safe haven meant everything. They did not just come to Brooklyn from Europe; they also came from Lower Manhattan. Having learned firsthand and with pain about hate, Jews made Brooklyn, for all its clannishness and parochialism, a borough with open arms and a visceral, street-level tolerance borne of necessity. Jews in the twentieth century in effect comprised Brooklyn's soul.\n\nJill Schuker was in school that day in 1955. In her fourth-grade classroom\u2014literally across East 40th Street in East Flatbush from her family's row house\u2014her teacher, Mrs. Bromberg, had placed a large radio on her desk in the afternoon. Jill and her classmates were eight years old, but they didn't move.\n\nJill Schuker's mother was the baseball nut in the family, which was not observant; organized religion, Jill said, took a dive in her family after a rabbi said that it cost you a year off your life if you didn't keep kosher.\n\nBut listen to the local social conscience through Jill: \"In our house, Richard Nixon was the devil and Adlai Stevenson walked on water. My mother really loved baseball, the radio with the games was always on, but she loved the Dodgers as much as she did because of Jackie Robinson. To us, the Dodgers had been on the side of the angels and had been an example to the whole world. The Yankees were not just the rich team that always won; they were the rich team that was prejudiced. She was filled with pride that it had been the Dodgers that did it, right in our own town. To us, Branch Rickey was as big a hero as Gil Hodges.\"\n\nIn school, it was natural for Jill to reach out and be a friend to a little boy who was known back then as a \"war refugee\" and would be called a Holocaust survivor today; she stopped by regularly at the first-floor classroom that was used by the CRMD kids, the impersonal, bureaucratic term of the times for children who were crippled, retarded, or mentally defective; and though there was discomfort in her parents, Jill brought a friend from summer camp in the Catskills, a black girl, into their home for visits.\n\nCarey Aminoff was on the trolley that afternoon in 1955, going for the religious instruction he received three days a week at the Brooklyn Jewish Center. He had just left public school for the day from Winthrop Junior High and could follow Game Seven as he went, excited as he was.\n\n\"In those days,\" he recalled, \"you could just be outside or traveling or walking down the street and you never had any trouble keeping up with a game because the games were on everywhere.\"\n\nCarey Aminoff's parents were determined, assimilating immigrants. His father was from Uzbekistan, his mother from northern Europe near the Baltic Sea, in an area where country names changed depending on who had won which war.\n\n\"They lived for my two brothers and me,\" he said. \"Absolutely nothing but English was spoken in our apartment. Education was everything. The intellectual content of our life, and of Brooklyn, was quite high, as were the expectations. It really typified the Brooklyn of those days.\"\n\nHis father, who was in the gem trade, and his mother were not avid baseball fans, but young Aminoff absorbed Brooklyn's pastime through osmosis and his peers. He was a catcher and right fielder in school and a Dodger fan who frequented Ebbets Field with his friends, who sat in the left-field bleachers together.\n\nHe grew up in Crown Heights, in a building at Utica and Montgomery, which meant that to get to Ebbets Field all he had to do was walk down the latter until he literally bumped into the ballpark.\n\n\"The Dodgers were not just a source of fun and torture,\" he said. \"They were also a source of the stability in Brooklyn, in part because of the continuity of so much of the team, in part also because they were an object of real influence, people that you could very easily look up to.\"\n\nThe central place of education and learning in Carey Aminoff's life was anything but unusual; it was commonplace, as it was throughout the urban world where first- and second-generation Americans lived. It was the way to get somewhere and make something of yourself. Education was also the way urban kids discovered there was a world out there, in effect guaranteeing their ultimate departure from a nurturing culture they loved fiercely; for girls, the impact was especially transforming.\n\nOver on Ocean Parkway, Florence Rubenstein's mother, a real blonde, had been a stocking model as a young woman (a jolting hint of an independent spirit, coming as she did from an ultra-Orthodox family on the Lower East Side). She had also been a legal stenographer, but after her first child was born there had been no question that she would stop working.\n\nIn East Flatbush, same story. Jill Schuker's mother also had not been to college. She had been a model (of sweaters), too, and then worked in a medical office. Her father, with a degree from Columbia, worked at the Abbott Laboratories operation in Queens, and after she came along her mother plunged into the local Girl Scouts and PTA at her two daughters' school. Jill recalls one time when her mother packed the auditorium for an evening appearance by Gil Hodges (whose wife, Joan, was a regular at the beauty parlor up the street on Albany Avenue); it was the best-attended PTA event anyone could remember, with the possible exception of the time all the fathers had shown up for a performance by a hula dancer from Hawaii.\n\nEducation opportunities that had been restricted by the depression, by the war, and by a culture that shoved women into dead ends were suddenly exploding. Even in the mid-1950s there was no question that many girls were not only going to have the chance to go to college and at least think about careers; they were also being actively encouraged by parents. For everyone, education was not only the key to a better life; it was also a means to a different life. In Brooklyn, this culture was not unique; but its size and variety were.\n\nFlorence Rubenstein made it all the way through Brooklyn College, living at home, and then was off to graduate school in Pennsylvania. At the train station her father's words to her\u2014more a moment of poignancy than rebuke\u2014were, \"You're not coming back, are you?\" She got her master's degree in social work at the University of Pennsylvania, which led to a career as a child therapist in addition to raising a family with her husband, publicopinion genius Peter Hart.\n\nEducation did not have to mean training beyond high school back then. Today it is the key difference between a chance at a middle-class life and an economically marginal existence. After World War II, high school had the same open-the-door meaning.\n\nBilly DeLury grew up near the enormous Brooklyn Navy Yard. His father drove a truck to support his wife and family, which included another son and daughter as well. The rules were that if you took school seriously, got used to working diligently, maybe benefited from a connection or two, you had a decent shot at a decent life.\n\nI met DeLury fifty-three years after he got out of high school, fifty-three years after he started by doing odd jobs in the Dodger front office. He is a thin man, with a full head of wavy hair and a million stories to tell, the embodiment of an institutional memory the team has always cultivated in California. There is virtually no job in the organization he hasn't done. Eventually, he became the person in charge of the complex task of moving the team around the country during the season and was in the process of overseeing a successor's training. We spent an afternoon chatting under the grandstand at Wrigley Field in Chicago while his Dodgers were playing the Cubs.\n\nEarly in elementary school, his parents decided on parochial school for him. He graduated in 1950 from St. Leonard's Academy on Clinton Avenue near his home, a source of many a Brooklyn diploma that was run by the Franciscans.\n\nHe did well in school and worked on the side as well, but when he graduated, as he put it succinctly, \"I didn't have even the slightest idea what I was suited for or what I wanted to do right away or with the rest of my life.\"\n\nThe one idea that had stuck in his mind was to go the seminary route to the priesthood, but when he consulted the priest who mentored him, the advice he got was that after years of rigorous Catholic school he should work for a while in the allegedly real world before making a commitment like that. In those days, there were numerous routes to a decent job, but one of the surest was through the church itself; the Propagation of the Faith Office in Brooklyn functioned in part as an employment agency, and it was there that DeLury first went for some referrals.\n\nWhen he arrived, a fresh listing had just been received from the Dodgers, who were looking for an office boy. He arrived at the team office at 215 Montague Street to find a half-dozen other kids sitting around waiting to be interviewed. The only question he remembers being asked by the Branch Rickey man filling the job (Spencer Harris) was whether he was a Yankee fan. He was told the office would call him in a couple of days, but when a week went by without a call he was on the verge of exploring an equally promising opportunity.\n\nBilly DeLury's uncle, John, was one of New York City's most important labor union leaders from midcentury on\u2014the president of the ten-thousand-member sanitation workers. More than once he battled mayors from Robert Wagner to Abe Beame to keep ordinary working people from having to suffer the most whenever there was a budget crisis. He had gone to jail once or twice during strikes and was a person of enormous respect in town. He would have a job for his nephew.\n\nThe Dodgers, however, called him first. Billy DeLury reported for work on September 1, 1950, just as Walter O'Malley's front office coup was unfolding. By the time of the 1955 World Series, Billy DeLury had run errands, delivered stuff, picked up stuff, helped arrange things, and worked on programs, concessions, and tickets.\n\nHe had also met the love of his life, Eleanor, the old-fashioned way\u2014in the neighborhood. He had been injured at the time, was resting up at home, hanging out on the stoop in front of his building when he noticed her. She lived directly across the street, but he had never noticed her before; she had gone to public school. He asked her sister to introduce them but ended up having to do the honor himself.\n\nOne of the Dodger officials who took a shine to Billy DeLury was Buzzy Bavasi, who kept after him to get engaged. Around the time DeLury proposed, Bavasi arranged a reservation at Mama Leone's in Manhattan and two tickets to a hit Broadway show, _No Time for Sergeants_ , starring a young actor from the South named Andy Griffith.\n\nDuring the World Series games at Ebbets Field, DeLury sat with the other front office workers in a section of the grandstand (number seven) between home plate and first base. At Yankee Stadium, the Dodger office workers were spread all over the ballpark with single tickets. During Game Seven, he just happened to be down the left-field line in front of the foul pole, staring straight at the Dodgers' left fielder, Sandy Amoros. Even with virtually his entire adult life ahead of him, Billy DeLury was living the American Dream.\n\nOn October 4, 1955, John Sexton must have thought he was living the American nightmare, but his story underlines the priority given to education even in the middle of the World Series. Sexton and his best friend and fellow Dodger nut, Bobby Douglas, had just turned thirteen and attended St. Francis de Sales Grammar School in Belle Harbor.\n\nThe nuns in the convent there had always been generous with their radio at World Series time, but there had been recent misbehavior at the school and the punishment forced the one hundred and two kids in their space-shortage-era class to sit through that school day with no access to the only thing on their minds. They endured the torture and then came bursting through the school doors about ninety minutes into Game Seven to learn that the Dodgers were ahead.\n\nThey then sprinted nearly thirty blocks to Sexton's home on Beach 136th street and scampered downstairs to his room in the basement where the radio was immediately turned on. From the windowsill, Sexton took down a small, metal crucifix; he and Douglas then knelt, each grasping a side of the crucifix, and prayed while they listened to the final innings.\n\nBelle Harbor is a lovely spot on the water. The homes on it and near it are occupied by people of consequence in New York, if not always of great wealth. Sexton's grandfather had been the tax commissioner under the famous and infamous Mayor Jimmy Walker\u2014a position of both opportunity and responsibility. His father was the leader of one of Brooklyn's most important political organizations, the Jefferson Democratic Club. The Sexton home, a legacy of his grandfather, was a two-family house on a forty-foot lot almost on the water, with ocean views from three sides. Ultimately, their view was blocked by the construction of a house occupied by Carmine DeSapio, the eternally controversial boss of Tammany Hall itself.\n\nBelle Harbor, of course, is in Queens. I identify with Sexton's story because living in that neighborhood meant having to deal with a great many Yankee fans. Some of the older ones\u2014Sexton calls them the guys in the black leather jackets\u2014regularly beat him and his friend up to force them into blasphemous utterances, such as praising Phil Rizzuto over Pee Wee Reese. He remained rabidly steadfast, however. Now the president of New York University, Sexton had one unusual request when he was invited to help design his academic robe\u2014he asked that one of its cuffs display the number 42, Jackie Robinson's number.\n\nIt was not necessary to be a native to be part of all this magical combination of tough struggle and delicious life. By the tens of thousands, people moved into and out of Brooklyn\u2014doctors and nurses, businesspeople, and those who were either in uniform or drawn to the civilian jobs at the still-huge navy yard.\n\nGary Hymel came from New Orleans in 1954, an army lieutenant blessed with an assignment to one of Brooklyn's miniature historical jewels\u2014Fort Hamilton, on the water at the East River narrows, with Bay Ridge its residential neighbor. We have known each other off and on since the late 1960s, long after he had moved on from his Brooklyn hitch to get into politics and government as one of Capitol Hill's most knowledgeable senior staff members\u2014serving both the late House Majority Leader Hale Boggs from Louisiana and Speaker Tip O'Neill.\n\nHymel came out of the ROTC program as an undergraduate at Loyola of New Orleans. Instead of Korea or Europe in this intense Cold War period, he drew Brooklyn and the smattering of activities run out of Fort Hamilton, an outpost that dates to the 1820s, when construction was begun on a facility to help guard the harbor area between Brooklyn and Staten Island. It was originally simply called the Narrows but was then named after Alexander Hamilton. In 1841 its engineer was a promising captain, Robert E. Lee, and its commander as the Civil War began was a fellow who made a couple of contributions to baseball, Abner Doubleday.\n\nHymel settled in Bay Ridge with his wife, Alexandria. One of their children, Amy, was born in August of 1955, the year not only of the Dodgers but also of Hurricanes Connie and Diane\u2014two particularly vicious Atlantic storms I remember well that hit just as the Dodgers were moving to clinch the pennant. The Hymels rented the back half of a row house on 65th Street from a Swedish woman, one of thousands of Scandinavians who flocked to the area in the early twentieth century. The Norwegian church that my mother had attended was literally next door to them.\n\nAs Hymel was a baseball fan already, Ladies Day at Ebbets Field became a staple of Hymel family entertainment on their tight budget. With him in uniform and a pregnant wife, the total cost of admission was one dime and the ushers were especially solicitous about seating. On the morning of Game Six, he had a day off (his assignments included MP duties and administering the band based at the fort) and went to Yankee Stadium in uniform on a lark.\n\nWorld Series games almost never sold out at Yankee Stadium ahead of time, and he had no trouble getting into the bleachers for five dollars. Delighted at the spectacle, he had asked for a second day from his colonel and was back in the bleachers for Game Seven, with a scorecard he has held on to ever since.\n\nHe and his family are the tip of an enormous demographic iceberg. Brooklyn may have the deserved reputation as an insular, parochial place, almost a world unto itself, with its own accent and purported personality. However, it is also a place that was both a major destination for the millions of new Americans who arrived there before and after World War I and in turn a gateway to the country as a whole for those who left after school and those who spent time there because of work. From census and other data, the well-known-around-town boast by Brooklyn borough president Marty Markowitz that \"Brooklyn is America's favorite hometown\" does not appear to be hyperbolic.\n\nThe estimates only differ in degree. According to the urban writers Grace Glueck and Paul Gardner, \"One out of every seven Americans was either born here, lived here once, had relatives here or got here by taking the wrong subway.\"\n\nOne of the country's preeminent urban historians, Yale's Kenneth T. Jackson, goes even further: \"As many as a quarter of all Americans can trace their ancestry to people who once lived in its eighty-one square miles.\" In numbers, that works out to an eye-popping 40 to 70 million people.\n\nOn reflection, it is more comprehensible. After the Revolution, roughly 80 percent of the entire country lived within fifty miles of the Atlantic Ocean; those settlers, including the people then farming in Brooklyn, have done a little moving and breeding since then. And for more than one hundred years, Brooklyn was either a primary destination or the second stop for the tens of millions of people who flocked to America's shores, a phenomenon that continues to this day.\n\nGary Hymel is one of those people with a claim on the place; so am I.\n\nHollywood for years has recognized this special connection, alert as it always is to demographics and the mass market. There are arguments about when it all started for real, but there is no question that the popularization of Brooklyn, including the general idea of Brooklyn, was given a huge shove by World War II. Within months of Pearl Harbor, hardly a war picture could be shot that didn't have a scrappy kid from Brooklyn in the starring platoon.\n\nThe catalyst appears to have been _Wake Island_ , made in 1942, about the Japanese assault on the tiny atoll early that year. It was vintage war propaganda but also a pretty good movie, winning several Academy Award nominations, including one for its star, William Bendix, the actor who first made the Brooklyn character famous and beloved.\n\nBendix was born near my neighborhood in a poor section of midtown Manhattan in the shadow of the old elevated train tracks along Third Avenue that were ripped down in 1956. He had been a batboy for the Babe Ruth\u2013era Yankees as well as the Giants (he would eventually play Ruth in the movies in 1948), but it was as a marine in the South Pacific that he became famous.\n\nThe character that made the country and the rest of Hollywood take notice was a courageous private facing the impossible odds\u2014Aloysius K. \"Smacksie\" Randall. To show it was no fluke, _Guadalcanal Diary_ was released the following year, an account of America's first big victory in a land campaign in the Pacific and where my father served and got his first bad case of jungle fever. This time, Bendix had been promoted to corporal\u2014Aloysius T. \"Taxi\" Potts, a fighter from Flatbush.\n\nThe country loved these guys and so they proliferated, even unto today. One of the soldiers whom Steven Spielberg enlisted to save Private Ryan was a Brooklyn kid, and the only baseball hats visible in the combat scenes from Jerry Bruckheimer's _Pearl Harbor_ have the big _B_ on the front. In Phil Alden Robinson's fantasy _Field of Dreams_ , the old-timers who came out of Ray Kinsella's cornfield after he built his diamond included \"Shoeless\" Joe Jackson, his banned teammates from the Black Sox, Mel Ott of the old Giants, and, gratuitously, Gil Hodges; the reclusive novelist who hits the road with Kinsella, Terence Mann, had shunned baseball ever since the Dodgers left Brooklyn; his Dodger disillusionment helps establish his character.\n\nThe mass appeal of Brooklyn, however idolized and even schmaltzy, is also apparent in dramas, musicals, and comedy. The popular film version of Betty Smith's hugely successful novel of immigrant life, _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ , came out right after the war and made Dorothy McGuire famous. Local boy Danny Kaye (born David Kaminsky in Brownsville, a runaway to show business at the age of thirteen) also had his first big hit that year (1946), as the tongue-tied milkman who becomes a prizefighter in _The Kid from Brooklyn_.\n\nMy favorite from this period\u2014 _It Happened in Brooklyn_ \u2014is a classic illustration of how Brooklyn and mass market were virtually synonymous. Released in 1947, it is a musical (Frank Sinatra, Jimmy Durante, Peter Lawford, and Kathryn Grayson) and was one of the year's major hits. The story involves the adventures of a Brooklyn kid overseas during the war who comes home to a tough restart in life, while he and his friends try to help a promising pianist get into the Brooklyn Academy of Music.\n\nThe songs include a Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn number, the score was by Johnny Green, and the piano playing was by a seventeen-year-old kid fresh out of Beverly Hills High School, Andre Previn. The school scenes were shot at New Utrecht High School in Bay Ridge.\n\nAs the television age dawned, the dependence on Brooklyn for characters and themes continued, in a sense celebrating both ends of America's ethnic journey. One of the first hits came off a radio program that dated from the war years\u2014 _The Life of Riley_ , about a father, wife, and two kids who have migrated to California, where Dad works in an aircraft plant. Chester Riley was William Bendix.\n\nIronically, the original star of the television program bombed in the ratings and was forced to look for a new vehicle. His name was Jackie Gleason.\n\nGleason was a Bushwick boy, born in the same year (1916) that Margaret Sanger opened the country's first birth-control clinic on Amboy Street and Nathan Handwerker began selling his famous hot dogs on Coney Island's Surf Avenue. In the 1950s, Gleason made a bus driver from Bensonhurst, Ralph Cramden, into one of the most recognized and beloved characters in the country. By the tens of millions, people tuned in each week to watch Ralph and Alice and Ed and Trixie do their best to cope with life at 328 Chauncey Street (the same address Gleason grew up at in Bushwick).\n\nThese characters could be foolish and buffoons, they were barely comfortable, they could be simple-minded and stubborn, but they were also hardworking, warm, and loving people. At that time, most of America did not carry briefcases and go to work in fancy surroundings. It was still a blue-collar country with a broadening middle class, still mostly urban, and not transfixed by luxuries. Brooklyn was the perfect setting, at least until about the time Johnny Podres was pitching in the seventh game of the World Series.\n\nWithin Brooklyn, there were many people who took offense at the television and movie portrayals, claiming to see insults where others saw humor, stereotyping where others saw compliments. The chip was never far removed from many a resident's shoulders. There was even a classic Rorshach test in the famous form of artist Willard Mullin's Bum. Some saw a slur; others saw a lovable, universally recognized character.\n\nIn 1941, a legend in the public relations trade, Sid Ascher, actually founded an organization called the Society for the Prevention of Disparaging Remarks Against Brooklyn. It eventually claimed anywhere from forty thousand to 1 million members (Ascher's preferred figure). Each year, it claimed a growing number of \"investigations\" of disparaging media references, the highest being three thousand in 1946.\n\nAscher was a Brooklyn boy and a PR genius. He developed the Miss Rheingold contest for the New York beer company, was one of the Boy Scouts' most active promoters, and wrote the famous speech in which Franklin D. Roosevelt solemnly defended the honor of \"my dog, Fala,\" against Republican attack. His organization is often used as a metaphor for Brooklyn's ethnic defensive-aggressiveness, but the fact is his tongue was often clearly visible in his cheek in this hype-filled endeavor.\n\nThe proof that Brooklyn's storied attitude was as much myth and shtick as genuine is to be found in one of its most recognized exports\u2014comedy. It ran the gamut from Mae West and Gleason to Phil Silvers and Zero Mostel, from Henny Youngman and Woody Allen to Joan Rivers and Buddy Hackett, from Phil Foster and Alan King to Sid Caesar and Joey Adams, and in more recent times from Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy to Andrew Dice Clay and Mary Tyler Moore. The Brooklyn theme is part self-mockery, part in-your-face, but always supremely confident and never ashamed.\n\nStill another Brooklyn Kaminsky, Melvin, dealt with the borough's alleged reputation as the butt of jokes with some deft wit of his own. Working as Mel Brooks, he noted that the three place names most likely to evoke a laugh\u2014Brooklyn, Burbank, and Podunk\u2014each contained the letter _k_ , and he argued that all such words are inherently funny. What makes the observation witty is that it is not clear if Brooks was being serious (he wasn't).\n\n## 9\n\n## The Man from Fordham\n\nFor millions of Dodger households that day, the last out of the Dodger half of the fifth inning of the seventh game in 1955 did not simply mean that the game\u2014barely an hour old\u2014was half over. It also meant that Mel Allen's southern accent and booming baritone was about to be replaced by the flatter, already beloved, Bronx accent of Vin Scully. My parents detested Mel Allen\u2014less because he was a notorious \"homer\" in his adulatory descriptions of Yankee games than because he was corny. I was used to his relentless hype and more amused than turned off by his folksy demeanor; most of my friends could recite his tobacco and beer spiels for White Owl cigars and Ballantine beer and ale (\"Make the three-ring sign and ask the man for Ballantine\").\n\nAllen had two trademark expressions when he did games. By accident early in his career (he had started doing Yankee and Giant home games in 1939), he had described a long fly ball he wasn't sure was going to be caught or, as it happened, end up a home run: \"Going, going... gone!\" And after a particularly sterling play, usually by a Yankee, he always exclaimed, \"How 'bout that!\" He seemed pleasant enough.\n\nBut Vin Scully was way beyond pleasant. Astonishingly, on that historic day he was only twenty-seven years old, Junior Gilliam's age, broadcasting his second World Series, having emerged almost immediately from the shadow of as hard an act to follow as a person could imagine\u2014Red Barber.\n\nDespite their different origins and accents, and very different ages, each was renowned for essentially the same reasons: economical use of language, absence of noisy hype, almost casual tone, and a continuous flow of detailed information communicated in clear English.\n\nBarber had been hired by Larry MacPhail in Cincinnati and went with him to Brooklyn. He achieved iconic status in the 1940s, a trailblazer in the difficult arts of wise understatement and wry wit that more sophisticated listeners in postwar America appreciated. By contrast, Vin Scully had barely had time to learn from the master as the very junior member of his broadcasting team when circumstances thrust him into the national limelight with virtually no warning.\n\n\"It was 1953,\" he told me when we talked in his booth at Wrigley Field in Chicago, where he had accompanied the Dodgers on a road trip fifty years later, still at the very top of his profession. \"Gillette was offering him two hundred dollars a game for the Series, and Red wanted more, and Gillette made it clear that they were not offering a penny more. Red was just not going to do the broadcasts for that amount of money.\"\n\nIn the Dodgers' booth that year, the second man at the microphone was another broadcaster with a rich resume, Connie Desmond. If Barber was a father figure to the young Vin Scully, Desmond (out of Toledo, Ohio) was the big brother. However, he also drank heavily, there had been an episode or two on the air, and NBC did not have confidence in him before a national audience for the World Series.\n\nEver the diplomat as well as the professional, Scully called his colleagues before formally agreeing to join Mel Allen in the booth. He sought the blessing of each and made it clear he was not in such a career hurry that he wanted to proceed without that blessing. Barber and Desmond each graciously told him to do the games; Dodger owner Walter O'Malley took Mel Allen aside before the Series and urged him to \"take care of my boy.\" Scully went out and drew raves.\n\nHe was a recently married man, very close to his parents and sister, and living in New Jersey. On the morning of Game One in 1953, he had a big breakfast, drove to Yankee Stadium, promptly threw up his breakfast, and entered the booth.\n\nScully is from Yankee territory, the Bronx, but he grew up closer to the Polo Grounds and was a Giants fan. When he was a boy his mom wheeled him around the nearby campus of Fordham University, where it was always hoped he would go to college. As it turned out, he attended Fordham Prep as well.\n\nA decent athlete in school, he developed his passion for broadcasting listening to games, especially college football games, on his family's large radio that perched atop a four-legged console. Lying on the floor underneath it, he was mesmerized by the sound of the fans. He first used his narrative gifts shouting summaries of what was transpiring to neighborhood kids playing in the alley five floors below his family's apartment.\n\nThe war interrupted his time at Fordham, but after navy service he returned, focused on being sports editor of the college paper and hanging out at a tiny FM radio station that had started up on campus.\n\nIn his senior year, he sent job application letters out by the dozen, but the only serious response came from the CBS affiliate in Washington, D.C., whose sports operation was presided over by one of the pioneers in the field, Arch McDonald, who did the Washington Senators' play-by-play and a daily sports show as well. It was in the evenings when McDonald was stuck at a game in Griffith Stadium that Scully got his opportunities to be on the air. The summer job led to an offer of a real one, but because it was not to begin until the spring of 1950, he was back in New York hoping for temporary work.\n\nHis big breaks came from Red Barber, who did CBS work during the college football season. Scully got two assignments, the 1949 Maryland\u2013Boston University and Harvard\u2013Yale games, which in turn led to his really big break. The junior man on the Brooklyn Dodgers' broadcasting crew was the legendary Ernie Harwell. He had not yet landed in the city that would make him famous, Detroit, but when he took a better offer from the New York Giants over that winter, the job opened up. Barber called Scully to arrange an interview with Branch Rickey, which produced the flimsiest of job offers\u2014spring training with the Dodgers on a month-to-month deal, renewable at the Dodgers' option. Scully was barely out of college, but he was blessed with a sharp mind and a rich voice and determined to apply the lessons he had first learned lying under the family radio.\n\n\"I loved to hear the roar of the crowd,\" he told me, \"and when I started broadcasting I loved to let the crowd roar without my interference.\"\n\nThis virtual silence at climactic moments when no words were really necessary has long since become a Scully trademark; that afternoon his trademark reticence would produce a famous concise sentence at the end of the game.\n\nHis sparse language and wry wit were always adorned either by a telling or merely delightful nugget of information. In our talk, Scully remembered Game Five of the '53 Series, a complete game 6\u20135 victory by the beloved Dodger pitcher Carl Erskine.\n\n\"It was Game Five, and the fifth anniversary for Carl and his wife, Betty,\" Scully recalled. \"The Yankees scored all five of their runs in the fifth inning, and I noticed that the game ended at five-oh-five in the afternoon of October 5. I was determined to get all of those fives into one sentence and somehow I did.\"\n\nFor the record: \"On Carl and Betty Erskine's fifth wedding anniversary, the Dodgers made it a game of fives, winning Game Five of the World Series on October 5 by a score of 6\u20135 in a game where the Yankees scored their five runs in the fifth inning before yielding to Brooklyn at five-oh-five in the afternoon of the fifth.\"\n\nThat, of course, was a head-scratching hint of still another Scully trademark. Whenever someone was at bat with two outs and the count on him ran to two balls and two strikes, the \"deuces\" were forever \"wild.\"\n\nScully also made marvelous use out of the encyclopedic compilations of numbers kept by a genius the Dodgers had also hired, in 1947, to be their \"statistician\"\u2014the amazing and pioneering Alan Roth. Data is of course only numbers until it is reported and analyzed in understandable fashion. The combination of Roth's information and Branch Rickey's leadership produced some important player decisions as the Dodgers evolved into a powerhouse.\n\nAfter Rickey departed for Pittsburgh, Roth brought his genius, as well as his trivia, to what would become a twenty-plus-year career in broadcasting. With Vin Scully, the combination of his data and the broadcaster's style and interpretation gave Dodger fans an insight into the game not previously available, even in print.\n\nScully and Mel Allen could not have been more different in their style and content, but it turned out that they shared an important career connection\u2014with Arch McDonald, whose folksy Arkansan approach to sports fit with the then-sleepy southern town of Washington. Allen had come north from Alabama as Melvin Israel after doing the university's and Auburn's football games on a lark after getting both his bachelors and a law degree. He literally walked into CBS in New York and got a job assisting the network's stars, Robert Trout in news and Ted Husing in sports. Allen could have gone in either direction, but two flukes\u2014nearly an hour ad-libbing through an auto race and then being junior man for the 1938 World Series\u2014sealed his fate.\n\nThe following year Allen was teamed with Arch McDonald for baseball, the first step in a plan to anchor the better-known McDonald in New York and send Allen to do the Senators in Washington. The idea was blocked when owner Clark Griffith exercised his local owner's prerogative to instead hire pitching immortal Walter Johnson for the job. That left McDonald in New York, which he hated and soon left to return to Washington, putting him in position to assist the young Vin Scully a decade later. Allen thus got the top job by this default; during the war years he was in turn assisted by none other than Connie Desmond.\n\nI was of course not even remotely aware of any of this broadcasting history during the seventh game in 1955. In our apartment, Scully's voice was already a familiar and welcome guest. As he began doing the game, he didn't reduce the tension level one bit; it simply felt better to have a friendly voice guiding me through the excitement, just as it felt better to look across the room and see my father.\n\nScully was hardly tested by the Yankee half of the fifth inning. Elston Howard's fly ball to Junior Gilliam in left field was routine. Despite his well-earned reputation as a dangerous-hitting pitcher, Tommy Byrne struck out for the second time that day. Phil Rizzuto's ground ball to third was a bit more than routine; it was hit sharply, backing Don Hoak up, but he fielded the ball cleanly and his long throw to Gil Hodges was perfect. Through five innings, the Dodgers had a 1\u20130 lead, as tentative and tenuous a lead as there is. The feel of the game, as well as its details, more than justified the observation of _The New York Times'_ Arthur Daley that \"the Brooks never had a firm hold on it.\"\n\nAt that point, they had but two hits, both solid, off Byrne, who had walked two and struck out two. Podres had walked just one Yankee, while striking out three. The four Yankee hits included the bouncer by McDougald that Rizzuto slid into and the bloop by Berra that had dropped in the Gilliam-Snider confusion. Neither team had a clear advantage.\n\nIt was also of absolutely no consequence to me that the Dodgers at the end of the fifth inning were flirting with something achieved only once before in the seventy-plus years of their franchise's tough history\u2014a lead in the deciding game of a World Series. In Game Seven in 1947, they had scored first at Yankee Stadium but had blown their lead in the third inning and fallen behind in the fourth. In their other seventh game, in 1952, they had tied the contest after five innings but fell behind in the sixth.\n\nThe true analogy at that point, unfortunately, was with Game Six in 1952, when the Dodgers could have won the Series in Brooklyn. The team took a one-run lead into the seventh inning only to lose it and the game under bizarre (even for the Dodgers) circumstances.\n\nVin Scully told me that the older players were acutely conscious of recent hideous, tragic Dodger history; it motivated them, but it also preyed on their minds. It did so for good reason; there had never been any recent history like it in sports. In the nine seasons after World War II ended, the Dodgers had lost the chance to win the National League pennant on the final day of the season three times and had come back from the World Series empty-handed four times. The other two years\u2014the Boston Braves' pennant-winning season in 1948 (the Dodgers finished third behind St. Louis, eight games back) and the Giants' World Championship season in 1954 (the Dodgers finished five games back in second) seemed as much emotional respites as off-years.\n\nI was steeped in this lore. My father had been as patient but persistent in my baseball education as he was with school and music. One thing\u2014playing catch, learning to swing a bat\u2014led to others, above all talking and reading. My parents doted on me, but what I remember most vividly is talking with them, not being a little kid around them. I had a cowboy outfit, complete with a cap pistol, and I had a shovel and pail for the sandbox, but I only have memories of playing in the parks of Tudor City with other little boys, not being indulged by my parents in our apartment; the only games we ever owned were checkers and chess, plus a deck of cards for Hearts. I have no memories of baby talk, only conversations in which I felt more part of the household than its junior member. Perhaps the fact that the roles in our household were scrambled by contemporary standards was part of it, but I grew up in an atmosphere where discussion and argument took precedence over obedience; I was encouraged to have no compunction about talking back as long as I understood that I then had to stand my ground against two people who used persuasion far more than power.\n\nBy the time I had started school, our family had a weekend ritual, interrupted only after I had started singing professionally and there was a Saturday matinee at the opera. Sundays were reserved for the laundry; my mother washed it in our bathtub, while my father and I squeezed out the water and hung clothes on a line strung across our postage stamp-sized balcony\u2014two people could barely stand on it. But Saturdays were special. While my mother grocery-shopped, my father and I took the crosstown bus on 42nd Street to the massive temple of my young life, the New York Public Library, on Fifth Avenue.\n\nMy reading had quickly become voracious. I would get a book to take home on my library card, and more often than not as a treat my father would lead me to the periodical rooms to read old baseball stories in the newspapers and magazines. He\u2014and my mother, too\u2014would embellish the stories with their memories, shared around the card table while we ate or on my cherished trips with them to Ebbets Field. Years later, my mother told me that we babbled among ourselves so incessantly that people sometimes looked at us funny in the stands, on the street, or in the subway. I never noticed; I was in heaven, because on those occasions we were sharing good times, the focus for a change wasn't just on me, and they never treated me like a kid except when I did stupid things.\n\nEven then, their disapproval was offbeat as well as corrective. For some reason, I recall developing the bad habit in a tiny living room of kicking off my slippers instead of taking them off in the morning. My father had gently reproached me for this without impact until one day I launched a slipper into a long, high arc; as if by black magic it descended right into the cup of Postum he was drinking. I have few memories of him yelling at me; this time, he looked at me with an exasperated disappointment that was ten times as reproving. Saying nothing, he produced his yellow pad, on which I was commanded to write a paragraph explaining why kicking off your slippers was wrong. I could not have been more than seven.\n\nSometimes the learning experience was in the opposite direction. One of my rare treats in those early years was a Sunday excursion to one of the grand ice-cream parlors of the day, Schrafft's, which had an outlet near Grand Central Station. A vanilla ice-cream soda was my usual, while my father favored milk shakes, the plasma of ulcer patients. Among my bad habits was a tendency to lean over the soda, sipping through my straw without holding the tall glass. One day, my father had just finished a lengthy declamation on the dangers of tipping the tall glass over this way when his elbow knocked his own glass into his lap. The waitress and I laughed until we cried\u2014with him.\n\nMy only resentment, nurtured in private, was that I detested being shown off in any way to my parents' friends. I loved learning, but I hated performing because it made me feel more like a freak than a person. The one exception involved my father more than me. Whenever he was able to work and completed a freelance piece, he would take me with him to a bar on Third Avenue a couple of blocks away from our building to celebrate and, I suspect, to show off. It was one of the writers' shrines of that era\u2014Tim Costello's. Tim and his brother, Joe, attracted newspapermen, authors, playwrights, poets. The walls were decorated with drawings by James Thurber. I don't remember, but the family legend was that before I was five I had had whiskey spilled on me by Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan.\n\nMy mother and father had hung out there before the war, when he was just beginning to establish himself. He knew both Costellos well, and there was always a ginger ale for me with a cocktail cherry in it after one of them hoisted me up on the long bar, where there was often another kid or two as well. My mother feigned disapproval, but all my memories of her in that famous joint include smiles and laughter (pride, I suspect) as she nursed her one manhattan; after my father got sick, even a shot of whiskey caused him intense pain, so we tended to share ginger ales. The noise was continuous as the writers shouted to one another about their \"stuff\" and these strange people they called editors. I don't recall any Yankee fans, but there was always plenty of Dodger talk, every word of which I soaked up like a sponge.\n\nThrough this somewhat unusual educational process, long before the 1955 season, I was an expert on everything from the evolution of the Dodgers from town teams after the Civil War, the maturation period under a onetime odd-jobs guy named Charles Ebbets and the construction of the cozy ballpark that bore his name, the disappointments of 1916 and 1920, the slow descent into the horrid but lovable Daffy Dodgers, and then the climb back to excellence followed by the amazing string of _Almosts_ after the war.\n\nThis mixture of possibility, bad breaks, perseverance, disappointment, the nobility of effort, was hardly unique, but it certainly fit my family history. The Dodgers were made for us, as they were for so many millions of working families in those days.\n\nAfter the fifth inning of the seventh game ended, I had no basis for believing what the scoreboard undeniably had recorded. Instead of the fact that the Dodgers were ahead 1\u20130 and Johnny Podres was pitching marvelously, the only thing that mattered to me was that the Yankees had come within an eyelash of scoring three of their first five times at bat. There was nothing beyond more of the same to look forward to\u2014the atmosphere in my apartment was not rah-rah; it was quiet and intense, as established by my father's example. What was unspoken between us was both the fear and the expectation of disaster.\n\nIt could not have been otherwise. It was not superstition or a vague sense of foreboding that produced our mood. It was historical fact or, more comprehensively, a string of historical facts. We sat in silence because based on everything we knew in excruciating detail about the Brooklyn Dodgers, the game on the television set was anomalous to that point; it made no sense at all. Each at-bat by each player was simply an opportunity for something to go horribly wrong\u2014again.\n\nIt is useless to say simply that the Dodgers lost real chances to win championships many times just before and for ten years after the war. The point is that each of those tales from 1941 through 1954 added bricks to the foundation of the team's unique lore and that the details of each (tragic, tragic-comic, maddening, infuriating, heartbreaking) are what gave the saga its meaning and its force. The Dodger fan's cry after every one of these _Almosts_ \u2014Wait'll Next Year\u2014was not a cheery, uplifting chant; it was a fist waved with cockeyed optimism and defiance at adversity itself. The Dodgers themselves kept coming back; so did my parents and the millions of people who didn't have to study metaphors to know in their bones what the team represented. Any one of the stories of their setbacks would be astonishing by itself; strung together over such a short period, the stories provide a sense of what it took to keep trying and excelling.\n\nThere were twenty years of experience with the Dodgers in that living room that afternoon in 1955; each of those years taught us that a 1\u20130 lead was not only inconsequential but also most likely a cruel hoax.\n\n## 10\n\n## The Sad, Crazy Saga\n\nThe Dodgers didn't become annual lovable losers in September and October via predestination. The famous reputation formed gradually, each year's late flop adding to the lore and legend of the previous one. To understand what Wait'll Next Year really means is to understand the individual Last Years that comprise this sad saga.\n\nThese were also my formative years. As I came to consciousness, I didn't then, and don't today, mark time by each of the Dodgers seasons, but the connection between them was obvious as I became a fully conscious fan during the worst of all their disasters\u2014the historic pennant race of 1951. For my parents\u2014at first pulsating with postwar optimism and pride in their war service, only to face the agony of my father's disability\u2014the unique life of a Brooklyn Dodger fan was not overpoweringly obvious at first.\n\nFor the Dodgers, the postwar era also began in an atmosphere of optimism. A strong team was back from the fighting with legitimately high hopes and the added glow from Branch Rickey's signing of Jackie Robinson at the end of 1945. Their history had not been very successful, but the record of no championships was not the same as a curse.\n\nThe saga did not start with the first two World Series in 1916 and 1920. Those were simply disappointing ends to successful seasons, the first pennants in the team's modern history.\n\nIt hadn't started with 1941, either. That was also a disappointing end to a successful season, the first Brooklyn National League pennant in twenty-one years, proof that the Larry MacPhail\u2013Leo Durocher era was synonymous with winning as well as prosperity. The Dodgers had performed before more than 1.2 million fans at Ebbets Field and drawn another million for their road games. Except for two weird plays\u2014the line drive by Marius Russo off Freddie Fitzsimmons's leg and the ball that got past Mickey Owen\u2014the Dodgers, not the Yankees, might have been in position to win the World Series.\n\nIt was the following year when the team's performance began to get frustrating, setting the stage for a repeat nonperformance four years later\u2014each against the St. Louis Cardinals. Recalling the 1942 season, my mother once told me that there were two occasions that year when she simply felt sick, just the way she would so many times through so many later seasons. It wasn't the same as disappointment, she said; it was like getting kicked in the stomach.\n\nMy mother was one tough woman, famously spare with her emotions and anything but a baseball hero-worshipping premodern groupie. Until 1942, she had only two idols\u2014Franklin Delano Roosevelt and my father. That year, however, she flipped for Pete Reiser, much to her astonishment. She said she was mesmerized by his baseball playing, at the graceful ease with which he fielded, ran, and hit. At Ebbets Field, she said, Reiser was the first ballplayer who drew her out of her shell and got her to yell during the games. In addition, like a lot of knowledgeable Dodger fans, she had developed a deep respect for all the moves Larry MacPhail had made to transform the team into a contender.\n\nMy father was already in basic training when the 1942 season opened, but my mother was in the stands at the Polo Grounds for the game against the Giants, courtesy of her boss. Baseball would be her hobby for the next forty months. She had a hard core of girlfriends at her law firm and then the U.S. Attorney's Office, all with husbands away in the war, who would go to ballgames together for the next fifteen years. During the war, she found it the perfect distraction from long days, and it reminded her of the good times with my father before Pearl Harbor. She described herself as lucky to have a job and even luckier to have one that usually demanded work on weekends and at night. She hated being alone with the unavoidable thoughts and worries about my father\u2014where he was in the Pacific, whether he was safe. She never got used to it and she never got over it.\n\nIf anything, the Dodgers were a stronger team in 1942 (the flood of ballplayers who eventually left for the war was but a trickle that season) than they were the previous year when they squeezed in front of the Cardinals by two games in the standing. In fact, the Dodgers ended up winning four more games. The Cardinals, however, won the pennant, finishing the season white-hot and overcoming a Dodger lead that had stretched to eight games with barely a month to go.\n\nTwo events put an exclamation point on the collapse. In July, in just his second full season as a Dodger, Pete Reiser chased a long fly ball hit over his head in center field by Enos \"Country\" Slaughter of the Cardinals. Fast and fearless, Reiser caught up to the ball just before he crashed, headfirst, into the wall near the exit gate. The ball fell out of Reiser's glove as he crumpled in a heap on the grass, unconscious, and Slaughter sped around the bases for a home run that figured prominently in the Cardinal victory that day. At St. John's Hospital, the diagnosis was severe concussion, and the recommendation of every doctor who looked at him was that he not play for the rest of the season. Larry MacPhail and Leo Durocher paid no heed, however, and Reiser was back playing before he had stopped having vision and equilibrium problems. He had been hitting close to .400 before he was hurt but finished the season barely hitting .300. His enormous promise remained, but he had been seriously damaged by Dodger decision making as well as by Ebbets Field's outfield wall.\n\nAnd then, just days before the season ended, Larry MacPhail was canned by the team's board of directors. He had repaired the team and repaired Ebbets Field, he had greatly reduced debt, and he had stitched together the beginnings of a lucrative broadcasting network. The profits, however, were puny in the board's stern view; the directors wanted fat, annual distributions, and MacPhail was viewed as not only mercurial but spendthrift. Once again, the directors consulted Ford Frick in the league office, and once again he consulted his friend Branch Rickey, the Cardinals' famous architect. This time, Rickey recommended himself. He and MacPhail were both baseball geniuses\u2014pioneers in the development of farm team systems for young prospects and in making deals for more established players\u2014but Rickey was both famously straitlaced and deeply religious as well as a legendary tightwad with salaries.\n\nMacPhail was ushered out. The cover story for his departure was a supply service job, at a lieutenant colonel's rank, in the army he had served in World War I. Meanwhile, a new ownership group had been assembled that would rule the team for the next eight years. The change was managed by an important figure in Brooklyn's modern business and political history\u2014George V. McLaughlin of the Brooklyn Trust Company, which was both the mortgage holder on Ebbets Field and the team's operating lender.\n\nMcLaughlin's bank was represented on the Dodgers by a Brooklyn lawyer\u2014a graduate of Fordham Law, with engineering credits as well from the University of Pennsylvania\u2014who had thrived during the depression representing failing companies in bankruptcy proceedings. In addition to handling mortgage foreclosures for the bank, he gradually assumed responsibility for the Dodgers' legal needs. His name was Walter O'Malley.\n\nIn the lore of John Sexton's family, this was no automatic elevation. His father had been both an attorney and a powerful figure in Broklyn's Democratic Party organization. He also had been close to Branch Rickey and the family legend is that Rickey had offered him the position of general counsel in the Dodger management. Sexton declined, and it is far from clear Rickey could have prevailed over the bank's power and O'Malley's ambition. However, there are never enough what-ifs in Dodger history, and this is another.\n\nRickey owned twenty-five percent of the team, as O'Malley eventually did. A third quarter share was held by another stalwart of the business establishment\u2014John Smith of the Pfizer Company, the drug giant that eventually sold penicillin and had been based in Brooklyn for nearly one hundred years. The final share was owned by the last link to the Charlie Ebbets era, the heirs of one of his partners, Steve McKeever.\n\nDuring the war, Rickey continued to build the nucleus of a Dodger future around young prospects whom he stockpiled in an elaborate farm team system that came to include more then five hundred players, financed in part by the strategic selling of the contracts of older Dodgers judged to be past their prime; Rickey became deservedly famous for his sales and his purchases, motivated strongly by the fact that his contract guaranteed him 20 percent of the profits on these transactions.\n\nRickey also launched his secret project to desegregate the sport; his cover story was that he was looking for black players with which to stock a new Negro League venture. The atmosphere around the Dodgers was very positive during the war years and as the global conflict drew to a close. There were reasons galore to expect that the Dodgers were about to become one of the sport's premier teams and no hints at all of the nine nightmarish seasons ahead.\n\n### A COIN TOSS\n\nIn 1946, the first full season after the war, the Dodgers and Cardinals were back at it again, battling all year long and down to the final games of the season. Pee Wee Reese was back, along with a MacPhail-era rookie, Carl Furillo, in center field; a scrappy second baseman in the Leo Durocher mold, Eddie Stanky, had replaced the thirty-seven-year-old Billy Herman at second; Reiser was still contributing solidly in the outfield, as was the Dodgers' most popular player, right fielder Fred \"Dixie\" Walker (known famously in Brooklynese as the People's Cherce).\n\nThe 1946 season was also my debut in Brooklyn. My father was getting regular magazine assignments through his agent and war buddies\u2014 _Harper's, Reader's Digest_ , and trade publications. He was making good, not great, money, but it was enough so that for the first time in her life, my mother didn't have to work. She kept house and spent every day when the weather was nice wheeling me around the parks in Tudor City, getting to know the other Baby Boom mothers. Just months old, I witnessed several games from the outfield bleachers at Ebbets Field, passed between my father and mother, and for one glorious inning was held by none other than Hilda Chester My parents had gotten to know possibly the most famous baseball fan ever during her heyday in the 1930s, A formidable woman with a foghorn for a voice and a delightfully coarse, occasionally vulgar wit, she had haunted Ebbets Field since the 1920s. Her life is truly the stuff of legend, much of it unverifiable. There is general consensus that she had worked bagging peanuts for sale at ballparks and that after a heart attack her doctor had told her to stop her trademark yells and harangues from her customary bleacher seat. She responded by developing two new trademarks\u2014a cast-iron frying pan that she banged with a ladle, and then a cowbell (the gift of some Dodger players) she rang while leading processions of her groupies through the stands. My father, a master at conversing with odd people as though they were senators, who engaged her before and after the war, told me that behind her raucous behavior was a tough, often sad, life, but that she was warm and decent under a very gruff exterior. Her favorite Dodger by a mile was manager Leo Durocher. She did not show up in Brooklyn much after he left for the Giants, but I remember seeing her famous sign in front of her seat (Hilda Is Here) on occasion as a boy, and her presence during the 1955 World Series is a matter of record.\n\nIn the final week of the season, however, there was a harbinger of the disaster to come\u2014another injury to poor Pete Reiser. Playing despite a bad leg and leading off first base, he tried to slide back to beat a pickoff attempt, caught his spikes in the dirt, and broke his ankle.\n\nOn the last day of the season, the Dodgers were shut out at home by journeyman Mort Cooper of the fourth-place Boston Braves, leaving the players in their dressing room and thousands of fans in the ballpark to wait for the result of the game between the Cardinals and Chicago Cubs that would determine whether the Dodgers were finished for the season or would be in a playoff. There is a picture of the throng, largely clustered on the outfield grass in front of the famous scoreboard in front of the right-field fence, between the signs then advertising Botany neckties and Gem shaving blades. Somewhere in the crowd is me, at the ripe age of nine months, with my parents.\n\nAs it turned out, the Cubs crunched the Cardinals at home, creating the first tie in league history and requiring a best-of-three-game play-off to determine the pennant winner. For reasons that old-timers still argue about, the Dodgers won a coin toss to determine where the first game would be played and elected to start on the road in St. Louis, requiring an immediate, long train trip. The game featured the Dodger future (twenty-year-old Ralph Branca) against the Cardinal present (twenty-game winner Howie Pollet).\n\nBranca was not effective, yielding three runs in less than three innings. Howie Pollet pitched a complete game for the win.\n\nThe second play-off game in league history was played in Ebbets Field, matching two pitchers coming off strong seasons\u2014Dodger left-hander Joe Hatten and Murry Dickson of the Cardinals. Hatten was even less effective than Branca had been, giving up five runs in less than three innings, including a run-scoring triple by Dickson.\n\nA powerful team being slowly assembled under Branch Rickey had been beaten by a St. Louis Cardinals team that Rickey had already helped build. Around Brooklyn, the talk was mostly about the decision to open the play-off on the road; it was assumed the Dodgers would be contenders the following year\u2014which they were.\n\n### LAVAGETTO, GIONFRIDDO, AND DEFEAT\n\nThe year 1947 belonged to Jackie Robinson, a season of struggle but of triumph as well. Hitting, fielding, running, he was the spark of a team that began to slowly pull away from the Cardinals. Toward the end of the season the team had a night for him at Ebbets Field, a fitting tribute to a man who was the runaway choice as Rookie of the Year while he was making much larger history as well. In the end the Dodgers won the pennant going away, finishing five games ahead of St. Louis. At this point in their development, Robinson was the one addition to Reese and Furillo among the Dodgers who would be on the field eight years later, playing first base at the time.\n\nUntil 1947, the famous term _Subway Series_ primarily meant the Yankees and the Giants, who had played memorable World Series against each other in the 1920s and '30s. The only exception had been in 1941. This was the year the great rivalry was joined in earnest between the Yankees and the Dodgers\u2014between the team of the borough where working families lived and a team based in the blue-collar Bronx but suffused with the glow of Manhattan and more than a generation of unparalleled success.\n\nEven before the season, bad blood had begun to flow. By this time, Larry MacPhail had resurfaced as one of three Yankee partners, forging an alliance with two men Dodger fans loved to hate: The first was Dan Topping, a trust fund child with movie star looks and gobs of money from the Anaconda copper fortune. Among his lesser distinctions, he was one of silent movie star Arline Judge's eight husbands. Topping had dabbled in professional football as well, including a team in Brooklyn. The second man was Del Webb, the boss of a real estate development empire that filled up the postwar West with tract houses sold with restrictive racial covenants forbidding sales to people of color. Webb also had been involved in the construction both of the internment camps where Japanese-Americans were confined during the war and of the Frontier casino in a spot of Nevada desert called Las Vegas, the postwar brainchild of mobster Bugsy Siegel.\n\nAfter the deal acquiring the Yankees from the estate of beer baron Jacob Ruppert (the modern team's as well as Yankee Stadium's builder), MacPhail resumed his madcap life that combined baseball wheeling and dealing with large-scale misbehavior and binge drinking. Like more than a few sports figures of the time, he also hung with people who were called colorful or gamblers in the popular press, euphemisms for gangsters. In 1947, however, it was not MacPhail who got in trouble for his escapades; it was Leo Durocher of the Dodgers.\n\nAmong their shared acquaintances were two legendary gambling figures who belonged in a Damon Runyon story\u2014Memphis Engleberg and Connie Immerman, the latter the operator of a casino in Havana and an \"associate\" (to use another euphemism) of mobster Charles \"Lucky\" Luciano. According to legend, the two had been part of the group that crime figure Arnold Roth-stein used to fix the 1919 World Series. Back then, baseball and gamblers were no strangers, and separating them was high on the agenda of the commissioner hired by the team owners in 1945: A. B. \"Happy\" Chandler (a former governor of Kentucky and the man who sanctioned the signing of Jackie Robinson).\n\nDurocher was a mere manager; MacPhail, however, was part of an ownership group. What is more, Durocher had lived a publicly notorious life for years, including a messy divorce involving assault charges in 1934 and an even more famous affair that turned into marriage with the actress Laraine Day. In the morality politics of the day, moreover, Durocher was a favorite whipping boy for the stern disciplinarians of the Catholic Church, who regularly inveighed against him for corrupting the young and in Brooklyn threatened to discourage parish kids from attending games.\n\nIn the end, MacPhail's behavior was officially ignored and Durocher\u2014by then a team and borough fixture for nearly a decade\u2014was suspended for the entire historic season. For the first two games, the fill-in manager was Clyde Sukeforth, the scout Branch Rickey had sent to look Jackie Robinson over and bring to Brooklyn; for the rest of the season, and for the following three years, Rickey hired a contemporary and friend, Burt Shot-ton, who had managed the Phillies twenty years before. A quiet, dignified man who dressed impeccably off the field, he was the anti-Durocher.\n\nAfter the manager melodrama and the debut of Jackie Robinson, the pennant-winning season was almost anticlimactic, with one tragic exception again involving Pete Reiser. Once again, the speedy star was playing a shallow center field against the Pittsburgh Pirates on June 4, when a long-forgotten outfielder named Cully Rikard hit a shot over his head to the deepest part of the ballpark. Once again with Reiser racing back with no thought of the rapidly approaching unpadded wall and forgetting that the fences had been moved in by more than ten yards, it was a virtual repeat of the disaster five years ago, except that this time he could have died. He hit the wall with his head at full speed, collapsing with the ball still in the webbing of his glove. He was virtually paralyzed for more than a week, eventually needed surgery to remove a blood clot from his head, suffered repeated episodes of double vision and grogginess, and never played the outfield consistently again. He could still hit (his average in 1947 was .309), but the full-time career of a man many baseball people considered the best natural all-around athlete in the game's history, with the possible exception of Shoeless Joe Jackson, was at an end.\n\nThere was nothing forbiddingly awesome about the Yankees in 1947. They won three more games than the Dodgers, but in a weaker league. They were anchored by Joe DiMaggio, but with a large collection of new players and a new manager (Bucky Harris had replaced a team legend, Joe McCarthy), there was no obvious favorite that fall.\n\nIn the first game, it was the Dodgers who broke on top for a run off the Yankees' Frank Joseph \"Spec\" Shea. In Yankees-Dodgers lore, pitching is central, and one of the dominant themes of the torture Brooklyn endured was the seemingly endless emergence of journeymen who had career moments against them in the World Series. Spec Shea, whom the newspapers also called the Naugatuck (as in Connecticut) Nugget, won fourteen of his fifty-six career victories that year. He also pitched two excellent games in that Series, winning both of them.\n\nThrough four innings, however, young Ralph Branca was magnificent, retiring all twelve of the batters he faced, five on strikeouts. In the fifth inning, he fell apart. The disaster began with a ground ball that DiMaggio hit toward left field, which Pee Wee Reese chased down too deep in the shortstop hole to have a chance of throwing him out. Unnerved, Branca walked a batter, hit another, gave up a two-run double, walked another hitter, and was in the process of walking a third when Shotton yanked him. Before the inning was over, the Yankees had batted around and scored five runs.\n\nThe Dodgers' pitching also collapsed in the second game, but after their hitters awoke to break open the third game at Ebbets Field, the stage was set for one of the weirdest games in World Series history. For eight innings plus two outs, still another journeyman pitcher\u2014Floyd (\"Bill\") Bevens, 7\u201313 for the season\u2014had held the Dodgers hitless. He had given up a run on two walks, a sacrifice, and a ground ball out, but no one had ever come that close to a no-hitter in the Series and the Yankees had scored two runs. The ninth inning was for the ages.\n\nThe Dodger catcher, Bruce Edwards, very nearly tied the game with a long fly ball that Joe DiMaggio caught in deepest center field. Carl Furillo then walked, and for speed Shotton sent in a small kid outfielder from Pennsylvania named Al Gionfriddo to run for him. After the Dodgers' third baseman, John \"Spider\" Jorgensen, fouled out, Shotton sent Pete Reiser up to bat for pitcher Hugh Casey. In a display of daring that would be almost unthinkable today, Gionfriddo took off for second with the count two balls and no strikes on Reiser. He dived at the base, just beating the throw, whereupon the Yankees intentionally threw the fourth ball to Reiser. This was a highly unusual move, putting the winning run on base, but Harris's thinking was that because Reiser had a bad ankle that month his famous speed was not in play. Harris's thinking backfired, however, when Shotton sent in utility infielder Eddie Miksis to run for Reiser.\n\nThe stage was thus set for Harry \"Cookie\" Lavagetto, a product of the MacPhail era in the late 1930s who lost his best years to the war. He might not have made the Dodgers after the fighting ended, except there was a special rule that permitted teams to keep three additional players on the roster if they were war veterans.\n\nLavagetto swung at Bevens's first pitch, a fastball that rode in on him, and missed it. The second fastball was over the plate; Lavagetto went with it and drove a hard line drive straight at the huge wall in right-center field.\n\nThere was never any doubt about the only hit the Dodgers got that day. When the ball bounced off the wall, hit Yankee right fielder Tommy Henrich in the chest, and rolled away from him, there was also no doubt that Gionfriddo and Miksis were going to score easily. One moment, the Dodgers were two strikes away from being no-hit and going down 3\u20131 in the Series; the next moment, they had won the game and tied the Series. My father always told me that the celebratory eruption that ensued was the most positive emotional moment surrounding the team that he experienced until that afternoon eight years later.\n\nThe Dodgers' hitters remained quiescent the following day when Spec Shea pitched a marvelous complete game victory\u2014a tense 2\u20131 win\u2014to send the Series back to the Bronx. This time, the Dodgers' bats woke up, taking an 8\u20135 lead into the sixth inning, when a second famous Series moment from that year occurred. For defensive purposes, Gionfriddo had been sent into the game to play left field in place of Miksis. Two men were on, there were two outs, Joe Hatten was pitching, and the most dangerous Yankee of them all was next. As Joe DiMaggio came up to bat, representing the tying run, Gionfriddo was moved even closer to the third-base line in the Dodger expectation that he would try to pull the ball. Instead, he hit it on a low, hard line toward the Yankee bullpen in left-center field.\n\nNot unlike another Dodger left fielder eight years later, Gionfriddo took off at the crack of DiMaggio's bat and ran, and ran and ran and ran. Miraculously, he got near it, just in front of the 415-foot sign, reached out in midstride with the glove on his right hand, snared the ball, twisted in the air so he bumped the fence with his rear end and came down on his feet. As with Sandy Amoros's play in 1955, the run was more spectacular than the catch. In the papers, Gionfriddo compared it to an end in football running under a long forward pass. On his way back to the Dodger dugout, he noticed a scene famously captured on film\u2014the normally controlled DiMaggio kicking the dirt around second base in disgust.\n\nThis set the stage for the first time in Dodger history that the team would play a game in which they could win the World Series. All the pitchers were tired from the grind of the previous six games, with the Yankees choosing to start Spec Shea again on two days' rest and the Dodgers going with journeyman Hal Gregg, who had pitched seven strong innings in the Game Four miracle against Bill Bevens. In Dodger lore, there is an amazing succession of small turning points that are as maddening as they were pivotal. In their first Game Seven, it was base running.\n\nIn the first inning, both Eddie Stanky and Pee Wee Reese were thrown out by Yankee catcher Aaron Robinson while trying to steal second base. These were not foolish attempts: Robinson's relatively weak throwing arm was well-known; this just happened to be his day. Then, in the second inning, Carl Furillo was thrown out trying to score on a ground ball to Phil Rizzuto at short. The Dodgers had five hits and a walk in those two innings but only two runs.\n\nThe Yankees, meanwhile, pecked away at the Dodgers' pitchers, getting one run in the second inning, two in the fourth, one in the sixth, and one in the seventh. After the fourth inning, the Dodgers got exactly one hit the rest of the way\u2014a two-out single in the ninth. The man who shut them down\u2014as he had for four innings in Game One before taking the loss in Game Six\u2014was one of the pioneers in the then-infant art of relief pitching, a tall specialist in the forkball (so-called because it is held between the first two fingers) named Joe Page. He had three marvelous seasons with the Yankees beginning that year and two productive World Series, both against the Dodgers. This time the disappointment was keen; the team had every opportunity to win, but losing late was becoming familiar. Three little-known ballplayers in that World Series performed feats that are still talked about today, but Bill Bevens, Cookie Lavagetto, and Al Gionfriddo would never play another inning of major-league baseball.\n\nThe 1947 World Series was not like 1941. It is was more than a disappointment after a successful season that made history and gave the Dodgers a national following with the arrival of one courageous player. This time, the first chorus of Woulda, Coulda, Shouldas, Mightas could be heard. They didn't just almost win; they probably should have.\n\n### CHAOS AT HOME AND ON THE FIELD\n\nIt was during 1948 that my parents' lives changed. Their happy, essentially carefree postwar life gradually unraveled as my father's health slowly but inexorably deteriorated.\n\nMy mother described my father upon his return from the war as thin as a rail, pale, and weak. He had been through malaria and dengue fever as well as countless other bouts with germs Western medicine had not yet named. He was never down for long and rarely in medical facilities that offered much more than a little rest and symptomatic relief, but the cumulative effect got him assigned back to New York after the invasions of Saipan and Tinian.\n\nWith no memories of anything but a bubbly, strong man before the war, my mother was alarmed at his appearance and general condition at first, but thousands of men came home from the Pacific in poor health and thousands more had been seriously wounded. At first, he seemed to recover, but within six months what he thought was a chronic stomachache turned out to be a bleeding ulcer. Unable to imagine that his health was deteriorating, he braved his way through a quick recovery, only to get knocked on his back a few months later.\n\nThe syndrome slowly became chronic. At first, my father had to pass on the occasional writing assignment; eventually, he was passing on most of them. He did not have access to fancy medical care to begin with, but what really drove him to distraction was his difficulty in finding someone who could tell him what was wrong beyond the fact that the linings of his organs were weak, his digestive system didn't work right, and he was in constant pain, sometimes agony. Eventually, he managed to get a firm diagnosis for one complaint and it was terrifying: a tumor on his right kidney that demanded surgery. Back then in the days before lasers and other modern marvels, surgery to remove a kidney was a huge deal; the scar went halfway around him.\n\nWhat had begun as a frustrating irritant rather quickly became a family crisis. Fat savings accounts were for rich people; in those days most everybody was just a few missed paydays from disaster. There was never any doubt or discussion about what to do; my mother simply went back to work. Her old law firm was healthy and expanding, and she had been a valued secretary and office manager; she was welcomed back enthusiastically, but she returned with a heavy heart and budding doubts that her dreams of a secure life and another kid were just around the corner.\n\nFor me, it meant nursery school, at a place run by a church up First Avenue from us. It would be called day care today, but it was most of my day for the next three years\u2014so that my father could work when he was feeling well and rest when he wasn't. He bore his burden stoically, but his continual illness was accompanied by a constant battle for the official attention of the heavily burdened Veterans Administration. Years later, he told me we would have had a much less difficult time if he had returned from the Pacific all shot up instead of infected.\n\nAnything courtesy of the Dodgers to distract him would have been embraced; it would have been the perfect time for the Dodgers to win. But alas, this was when they became the Dodgers of fable and lore.\n\nFollowing their second and thrilling World Series, the Dodgers and the Yankees spent 1948 rebuilding teams that had been veteran-heavy. They also spent the year in turmoil. After a display of drunken brawling astonishing even for him, Larry MacPhail's two partners, Topping and Webb, decided to get rid of him, bought him out for more than $2 million, and installed the highly respected George Weiss as their general manager. Headed toward a third-place finish just behind the Boston Red Sox and the eventual World Champion Cleveland Indians, the Yankees also decided that Bucky Harris was not their field manager of the future. They replaced him after the season with the man who would be running the team for more than a dozen years, including that day in 1955\u2014Casey Stengel, the stylish, mischievous Brooklyn outfielder on the 1916 pennant winner who had managed mostly unsuccessfully after his playing days with the Dodgers and Braves before rekindling his reputation at the Pacific Coast League's Oakland team.\n\nThe Dodgers' experience was much more traumatic. After leading the abortive petition drive against Jackie Robinson's promotion to the team, Dixie Walker had asked to be traded, and the Dodgers obliged him in one of the better steals of Branch Rickey's fabled career. Shortly after the World Series, Walker was shipped to the Pittsburgh Pirates along with pitchers Hal Gregg and Vic Lombardi. In return, the Dodgers got a solid left-handed pitcher whose best years were still ahead of him, a tall Arkansan named Elwin Charles \"Preacher\" Roe; a third baseman, Billy Cox, who was a decent hitter but, more important, may have been the best-fielding third baseman of his day; and for good measure a utility infielder (Gene Mauch) who eventually became a famous manager.\n\nBut 1948 was also the year Leo Durocher tried to come back from his suspension only to run into the implacable ill will of Walter O'Malley, then beginning to flex his muscles on the Dodgers' board. Unable to save Durocher's job as the team lurched toward last place in late June, Branch Rickey put him in touch with the owner of the Giants, Horace Stoneham, who was also looking to make a managerial change. Just as the Giants were beginning their own rebuilding process, Durocher skipped across town in midseason, replaced once again by Burt Shotton. The Dodgers made a run at the pennant, but an August injury to Ralph Branca probably doomed their chances and they skidded to third place, just a game in front of Pittsburgh, a game behind the Cardinals, and eight games behind the pennant-winning Braves.\n\nIn 1949, the modern Dodgers burst on the scene. The year before, Durocher had moved Gil Hodges from backup catcher to first base. After Eddie Stanky was traded to the Braves, Jackie Robinson was installed at second base. (Stanky was another signer of Dixie Walker's infamous petition.) From Compton near Los Angeles, a young Duke Snider was installed in center field as Furillo moved to right; and Roy Campanella had replaced Bruce Edwards as the catcher. Except for a hole in left field, it was almost instantly a powerful, fast, and superb defensive team. This was Jackie Robinson's Most Valuable Player season; he led the league with a .342 batting average, drove in 124 runs, got more than two hundred hits, and stole thirty-seven bases.\n\nThis was also the year that Don Newcombe arrived in the major leagues with a flourish, pitching a shutout in his debut in late May and winning seventeen games in his Rookie of the Year season; Preacher Roe, with a delightful assortment of pitches that included the occasional spitball, added another fifteen victories, to go with Ralph Branca's thirteen.\n\nThe Yankees were just as impressive, but both teams had to survive famous scares at the end of the season to slip into their third Subway Series by one-game margins. The Yankees, needing two victories against the Red Sox, got them; and the Dodgers had to beat the rapidly improving third-place Phillies to avoid another play-off with the Cardinals.\n\nThe World Series is typically described as a Dodger collapse, in part because that is precisely what it was as they lost in five games. Its place in Dodger mythology, however, is more interesting than that because the first three games were Series classics, nail-biters that could have gone either way, featuring fabulous pitching and enough what-ifs and might-have-beens to keep increasingly neurotic, truly knowledgeable Dodger fans talking for years.\n\nThe wild finish of the regular season disturbed the Dodger pitching rotation, with Preacher Roe needing an extra day of rest. In his place, Don Newcombe became only the second rookie to open a World Series (the first, Paul Derringer, had started the first game for Branch Rickey's Cardinals in 1931). Newcombe was opposed by Allie Reynolds, whom Larry MacPhail had obtained from Cleveland after the 1946 season for veteran second baseman Joe Gordon. Part Native American from Oklahoma, Reynolds was already one of the league's best pitchers, could relieve as well as start, and had won Game Two against the Dodgers in 1947.\n\nFor eight and a half innings, the two men pitched one of the best World Series games ever. Newcombe yielded four hits, Reynolds just two; Newcombe struck out eleven, Reynolds nine. If anything, the Dodgers had been slightly more threatening, getting three runners into scoring position at second base to the Yankees' two. It all came down to the bottom of the ninth inning at Yankee Stadium, with Tommy Henrich, the Yankee right fielder who had struck out on the ball Mickey Owen let past him eight years before, leading off.\n\nNewcombe fell behind Henrich, who took the first two pitches for balls. Behind the plate, Campanella signaled for a curveball, and said later that Newcombe obliged with his best pitch of the day. Henrich was ready for it and hit it hard into the right-field seats to end the game. This was as close as Newcombe, famously overworked during the regular season grinds that brought the Dodgers three of their pennants in his day, ever came to winning a World Series game (in all, he lost four).\n\nGame Two was just as exciting, another 1\u20130 pitching duel that matched Preacher Roe against another solid Yankee, Vic Raschi. This time, fortune was with Preacher Roe, who scattered six hits and walked nobody in a masterful performance. Raschi was almost as good over eight innings of six-hit pitching before giving way to a pinch-hitter and then Joe Page in the ninth. The difference in the game was a two-out single in the second inning by Gil Hodges that scored Jackie Robinson, who had doubled.\n\nIn Brooklyn, incredibly, the third game was tied 1\u20131 after eight innings. Ralph Branca battled first Tommy Byrne and then Joe Page for the Yankees and had two outs in the ninth inning around a walk to Yogi Berra when he once again collapsed. Three singles and a walk later, the Yankees had scored three runs, but with Page tiring after more than five innings in relief, the Dodgers rallied in their half of the inning. With one out, the answer to one of the better Dodger trivia questions hit a home run into the left-field bleachers. His name was Luis Olmo. He was Puerto Rican, had played regularly only during the war, and had only appeared in thirty-eight games that season. Two months later, he was gone to the Braves for the last two seasons of his career.\n\nWith two outs, it was Roy Campanella's turn to put one in the bleachers to bring the Dodgers within one tantalizing run, but Bruce Edwards (batting for relief pitcher Jack Banta) took a called third strike to end the maddening game. It was only then that the team truly fell apart, losing the next two games 6\u20134 and 10\u20136, with late rallies in both games shut down first by Allie Reynolds and then by Joe Page. It was the beginning of a historic winning streak for the Yankees and the beginning of a long nightmare for the Dodgers.\n\n### TRYING TO SCORE\n\nLooking back on his epic career, Duke Snider observed that exactly two innings kept the Dodgers from doing what the Yankees amazingly did beginning in 1949\u2014win five pennants in a row. With two more chances against them in the World Series and fielding what Dodger after Dodger from Buzzy Bavasi to Johnny Podres say were their strongest teams, it is possible that the Yankees might not have done what they also did that had no precedent\u2014win five World Series in a row. As it was those two innings were the exclamation points on a mind-boggling string of late-September and October catastrophes that set the stage for 1955.\n\nThose two innings Snider was referring to are among my first baseball memories as a child. In the fall of 1950, I was in my final year of nursery school at the church up First Avenue from our apartment building. I was home with my father every afternoon. When he was working, he arranged his life so that he wrote late at night and saw people in the morning. The afternoons were for me, and they were idyllic. I was given lunch at the church, after which my father would be waiting downstairs. We only took the bus down to 42nd Street when the weather was bad; the rest of the time, hot or cold, we walked. On afternoons when the Dodgers were playing, the radio was always on; the family lore was that I could recite the Dodgers' lineup that year, stumbling only over the name of the more-or-less regular left fielder, Gene Hermanski (the first few times, I'm told, it came out \"Waterski\"). This was the heyday of the Red Barber era, and if I close my eyes I can still hear that soft voice with the strange but pleasantly odd accent of his native Mississippi. Because Barber was free of the hype germ, my memory is more of a third person in the room, conversing. My father and I would sit at the card table in front of the Murphy bed where my father set up his typewriter; he took his notes on long, legal-size yellow pads that my mother brought home from work; it was on those pads on those afternoons that he taught me the odd art of keeping score.\n\nMy actual baseball education commenced in the parks of Tudor City, true fields of dreams. All we had to do was turn right out of our building and head up a flight of stairs that matched the layout on the other side of 42nd Street. On each side were two parks, a lower playground for older kids with a sandbox and an upper park that had gravel paths and benches along with swings for toddlers. At all the entrances, the city had a sign that said No Ball Playing, but it was never obeyed during my childhood; in fact, cops walking beats in the neighborhoods often joined in the pickup games that punctuated life between April and November.\n\nBaseball for me began in the sandbox. For what seemed like hours, my father and I played catch; he taught me to slide in the dirt; and with a kid's bat in my little hands he tossed soft underhand pitches to me that I gradually learned to hit. For a ball we used a New York icon, a pink rubber ball that the Spalding people made for the city's concrete handball courts and for stickball in the streets; it was known then and will always be known through the slightly nasal New York accent as a Spaldeen. This was the middle of the Baby Boom, so the parks were always filled in the afternoon with kids and their mothers. Naturally, the sight of a man playing ball with his son lured the curious and the jealous to us. In short order, my father was supervising the baseball education of a dozen children at a time, arranging and then supervising makeshift games. Through a child's eyes, he was the man who operated the Tudor City baseball clinic, not a writer who got sick regularly and couldn't work full-time.\n\nI remember the last day of the 1950 season, a Sunday, sitting in our apartment and hearing my mother and father shout, \"Shit,\" at the same time. I was so impressed that for weeks I, too, shouted it in moments of excitement until it was explained to me that either I would stop doing that or there would be no baseball in the park for an entire weekend. I was so pleased with my obedience that in a long-distance chat with my grandmother back in Indiana (a big and rare event in our household) I told her in response to the standard question about what I was doing, \"I've stopped saying 'shit,' Grandma.\"\n\nMy parents were reacting to one of the plays that looms huge in the Dodger saga, the failed attempt by Cal Abrams to score from second base on a single by Duke Snider in the bottom of the ninth inning against the Philadelphia Phillies. It left the game tied, but only until the Phillies won it convincingly in the following inning.\n\nThe Dodgers' predicament was slightly worse at the end of that season. The year before, they had to win their final game to get into the World Series; in 1950, they had to win their final three games to force a play-off with these same Phillies, an exciting team of mostly young players remembered as the Whiz Kids: a relentlessly consistent, winning pitcher named Robin Roberts; a durable second starter in Curt Simmons; one of baseball's first star relief pitchers, Jim Konstanty; a very fast center fielder, Richie Ashburn; and a collection of dangerous sluggers in outfielder Del Ennis, catcher Andy Seminick, and third baseman Willie \"Puddin' Head\" Jones. They had dominated the league all year, and the Dodgers had to climb back from as many as ten games behind on Labor Day to even have a chance to tie them. They won the first two games at Ebbets Field, setting quite a stage for the final one.\n\nThe game offered the ideal matchup\u2014Robin Roberts against Don Newcombe, who had won another nineteen games that year, as had Roberts. After eight and a half innings, the score was 1\u20131. In the Dodger half of the ninth, the first batter was one of the many outfielders who tried to catch on with Snider and Furillo in the outfield\u2014Cal Abrams\u2014but who rarely got a chance to show his skills despite excellent minor-league credentials; for Brooklyn, with a million and a half Jews anxious to cheer someone besides first-base coach Jake Pitler, he would have been perfect. He had played more than usual that year because he had been called up from the farm team in St. Paul, Minnesota, after an injury to Furillo.\n\nWith Roberts pitching a bit too carefully, Abrams worked him for a walk. The next batter, Pee Wee Reese, got a sign to bunt him over to second base but was unable to get one fair through two strikes. As can happen in baseball, his adversity was followed by a single that left two men on and nobody out.\n\nThat brought up Duke Snider, far from the greatest bunter in history but fresh from a learning experience earlier that year that caused him to pause\u2014when there was no signal for a sacrifice\u2014and walk over to the Dodger dugout to be certain. In the spring, Snider had failed in the same situation, popping his bunt up. After the play, he threw things in the dugout and yelled about the silliness of having a power hitter bunt. Manager Burt Shotton heard him, fined him fifty dollars on the spot, and gave him a lecture about team play after the game.\n\nAs Snider recalled, Shotton told him to swing away that Sunday. He did just that, hitting a clean single up the middle. Richie Ashburn, charging the ball from center field, had a relatively weak arm, but his throw this time went quickly through to catcher Stan Lopata as Abrams rounded third, was waved toward home by coach Milt Stock. He was tagged out by a mile.\n\nThe Dodgers were far from dead, Reese and Snider having advanced to third and second base respectively on the throw, Jackie Robinson having been walked intentionally to load the bases, and Carl Furillo coming up to hit. He failed, however, popping up to the right side of the infield. When Gil Hodges flied deep to left for the third out, the game was still tied, but the fans and the Dodgers had lost their spirit.\n\nIn the Phillies' tenth, Newcombe gave up two singles to Roberts and first baseman Eddie Waitkus, but got a crucial out when he fielded a sacrifice attempt by Ashburn and threw to Billy Cox at third, a split second before the sliding Roberts arrived. The next hitter was left fielder and left-handed hitter Dick Sisler, who already had three hits that day. Sisler's father was one of the game's most famous hitters, George Sisler, who after a Hall of Fame career with the St. Louis Browns had stayed in the game as a hitting instructor. One of his most satisfying projects had been a young rookie with the Dodgers, Duke Snider.\n\nNewcombe was ahead of Dick Sisler in the count, one ball and two strikes, when he swung late on a fastball and sliced a line drive into the left-field bleachers. When the Dodgers went down meekly to end the game, the first vigorous second-guessing of the long postwar Dodger nightmare began\u2014focusing almost entirely on the Abrams play instead of Newcombe's pitching in the final inning.\n\nA few years later, during one of our Saturday morning outings to the public library, my father and I for some reason began talking about that day. Ever alert to the chance to instruct me on some point, he went off to the magazine room while I busied myself with a school project. When he returned, he announced that I was about to learn why the things you hear about immediately following a major event are often not the whole truth or even the truth at all.\n\nIn the newspapers at the time, most fingers pointed at Milt Stock, the third-base coach. Within days he had been cruelly fired by the Dodgers, and he never worked in baseball again. It seemed like callous treatment of a man who had been in the game since 1913, played more than a decade as an everyday infielder, and finished up with the Dodgers in the mid-1920s. One reason for the intensity of the reaction to his having waved Abrams home was what happened after he was out. Had Stock held Abrams at third, the long fly ball Gil Hodges hit would have been the second out and Abrams would have scored the winning run on the play with ease.\n\nOther fingers pointed at Abrams, who according to several players had seemed to hesitate before running on Snider's single and had also taken a very wide turn as he rounded third base.\n\nAnd still other fingers pointed at Burt Shotton, who perhaps might have been expected to put in one of his faster players to run for Abrams. He, too, was gone after the season, though for other reasons.\n\nWhat was missed, my father said as he put two magazine articles in front of me to read, was what actually happened on the play. Several of the Phillies said much later that before Roberts's pitch, a sign had flashed from Stan Lopata calling for an attempt to pick Abrams off second base. Even before Roberts threw the ball, Ashburn was running in as a precaution in case the throw to second base was wild. Roberts, however, did not see Lopata's signal and threw to home plate. As a result, the charging Ashburn had the ball in his hand even as Abrams was rounding third. It is fair to argue Stock should have seen all this and held Abrams at third; it is equally fair to argue that with nobody out it was a decent gamble that he could score anyway if Ashburn made a typical throw. The argument has gone on for fifty years, but my father's point was that it was not resolvable. In terms any Dodger fan could understand, it was a fluke.\n\nMy father's other point was that the second-guessing missed the larger point that Newcombe had then proceeded to give up a single to the opposing pitcher and a home run to a man who hit only fifty-five in an eight-year career. Losing a pennant in the last inning of the season on a three-run home run was a bitter pill to swallow. Surely nothing like that could ever happen again to such a talented team.\n\nBut it did.\n\nIn addition to the arguments over the famous ninth inning, the off-season was also dominated by arguments over the boardroom maneuvers by Walter O'Malley that had sent Branch Rickey\u2014the team's architect and the man with the plan to fracture the so-called color line\u2014packing. Famously ambitious and single-minded, O'Malley was determined to take over the team, he had the controlling power (the catalytic event was the death that year of his partner, John Smith, following which O'Malley convinced his widow to allow him to run her business affairs), and he used it. His leverage came from the fact that over his opposition Rickey could not get another contract to run the Dodgers as president.\n\nIn order to get another job in baseball (the Pirates quickly beckoned), Rickey had to sell his interest in the Dodgers under league rules, and, believing he had him over a barrel, O'Malley tried to make him sell for no more than the few hundred thousand dollars he had paid years before. But when Rickey found a potential buyer\u2014real estate magnate William Zeckendorf\u2014O'Malley had to match his $1 million offer and was then forced to pay him an additional fifty thousand dollars as the disappointed suitor. That last requirement drove O'Malley to distraction, and his continuing feud with Rickey would eventually cost the Dodgers four years later when Rickey backed out at the last minute from a deal that would have brought the widely praised young outfielder to Brooklyn from Puerto Rico\u2014Roberto Clemente.\n\n### DISASTER\n\nThere is no one who followed baseball at midcentury who cannot recall where he was when a twenty-seven-year-old outfielder from Scotland named Bobby Thomson hit the home run for the New York Giants that became forever known as the Shot Heard 'round the World, the three-run blast off Ralph Branca that ended the Dodgers' next season; there is not a Dodger fan who doesn't still wince at the endless replays of that stab-in-the-heart moment when Giant broadcaster Russ Hodges began shrieking, \"The Giants win the pennant,\" over and over again.\n\nI was with Abe Slutsky in his station wagon.\n\nThat fall I had started school in Miss Allen's kindergarten class at the Browning School for Boys on 62nd Street, between Park and Madison Avenues. To this day, I have not the slightest idea how my father got the school to help us so I could go. I had been at least dimly aware of the stakes for both my parents, which must be why I remember sitting in Miss Allen's room taking the entrance test a few months before and hearing my father tell me at nursery school that I had been accepted. What they did to wangle a scholarship out of a place that, as near as I could tell in grammar school, didn't give them then remains a mystery.\n\nBrowning, which had opened in 1888, was in a small building with four classrooms on each floor and room for a cafeteria, a woodshop on the ground floor, and a gymnasium in the basement. It is little different today, except the school has acquired the building next door. Browning was rigorous and demanding on the fundamentals but culturally nurturing as well. We were drilled and drilled on grammar and arithmetic but encouraged in music and art; sports were in the afternoon. A jacket and tie were required even for Miss Allen's class, which met (all nine of us) around small tables in her room.\n\nI had not been conscious of much outside my own neighborhood to that point, except for Ebbets Field. This was a different world. All of my classmates either lived in huge apartments on Park or Fifth Avenue or in town houses on Upper East Side streets. By some miracle I was conscious of the difference but not obsessed with it. I was acutely aware that my parents were struggling and that my father was often sick and that my classmates lived in places that were palatial by my confined perspective, but for some reason I was not preoccupied by the difference. They were almost all Yankee fans and therefore much more severely disadvantaged.\n\nIn part, my attitude was conditioned by the fact that my parents had prepared me superbly for school. I was already reading voraciously by then, every argument or misbehavior episode at home ended with my having to write my way out of trouble, and my parents and I talked all the time. I had been taken through the fundamentals of music lovingly by my father and could already read and play simple pieces. I had my unique neighborhood, and I had the Dodgers. I thought I was fortunate. The only emotion I bottled up was my frustration that for all their loving attention to me, my parents were not happier. In school, I was not cocky, but I felt confident from the beginning, and except for sloppy penmanship and a chronic inability to draw, my preparation and habits helped me excel.\n\nAbe Slutsky worked in my neighborhood at one of the buildings in the amazing complex known as Tudor City. On the side, for not many extra bucks, he drove kids in the area to and from private and parochial school in Manhattan. He was an older man from Brooklyn, pleasant and warm to me once he discovered I was a Dodger nut, and fun to be around. New York was not a car town, so the idea of having a ride in a station wagon twice a day was more than a novelty at first. I remember that Mr. Slutsky's had red leather seats.\n\nIn the late summer and fall of 1951, the Dodgers were going through the same torture that the Phillies had endured the previous year, losing a huge lead in the pennant race and trying to hang on for dear life down the stretch. The torture was especially severe because the team gaining on them was the Giants. If the Dodgers-Yankees rivalry seemed grand, battling the Giants was more like a neighborhood grudge match. Before I was born, it was the Giants who had initially dominated baseball life in New York when legends like John McGraw and Christy Mathewson were around, and it was the Giants-Yankees rivalry in the 1920s and early '30s that captured the city's attention while the Dodgers wallowed in entertaining mediocrity. That all changed just before and after the war.\n\nI was of course too young to have any memory of Leo Durocher as the Dodgers' high-profile manager in the Branch Rickey period. By the time I came to baseball awareness in 1951, he was managing the Giants and therefore a figure who to a Dodger kid conjured up both fear and loathing. They had two other figures that inspired the same feelings: a hard-nosed shortstop, Alvin Dark, a mean-looking man who had been involved in some of the early harassment of Jackie Robinson while on the Boston Braves; and the meanest-looking man I remember as a child, a pitcher with a perpetual five o'clock shadow named Sal Maglie, who was known as the Barber for the pitches he threw close enough to a hitter's face to give him a shave. I was also aware, however, that like the Dodgers the Giants had not only been desegregated early; they were also integrated. That year, their regulars included a legitimate slugger, Monte Irvin, a solid third baseman, Hank Thompson, and a rookie from Alabama who could hit with as much power as Mickey Mantle, play center field acrobatically, and run like the wind\u2014Willie Mays. The contrast with the rigidly still-segregated Yankees was obvious.\n\nIn our apartment, the Dodgers were always on the radio\u2014a black Zenith box\u2014when they were playing, but when they were playing the Giants we really paid rapt attention. It was an exciting rivalry, central to baseball's most glorified decade when three marvelous teams fought in the same city, and for the most part it was an enjoyable one because the Dodgers usually won. Just not that year.\n\nAs I began to actually follow the Dodgers, there were four things about them in 1951 that were different. In June, my father got a chance to explain to me what a trade was because the whole city was buzzing about the one the Dodgers made to get what it was hoped would be (at last) a solid left fielder. He came from the Chicago Cubs and his name was Andy Pafko. To get him, along with a new backup catcher (Al \"Rube\" Walker) and two other players, the Dodgers sent four players west: their older backup catcher, Bruce Edwards, pitcher Joe Hatten, the swift infielder Eddie Miksis (whom the second-guessers thought Burt Shotton should have put in to run for Cal Abrams the year before), and Gene Hermanski. The trade, however, happened during a year when Pafko was struggling, and while he had an excellent 1952 he was gone in another trade to the Braves by 1953.\n\nThere were also two more pitchers whose major contributions to the team began that year. After getting burned in the World Series by the likes of Joe Page and Allie Reynolds, the Dodgers finally found a pitcher who could start or relieve\u2014Clem Labine. A right-hander from Rhode Island, he could throw an assortment of breaking and sinking balls to go with a fastball, and he excelled in his first full season. His best opportunities came in midseason after an injury to one of the stars of the first part of the year, Clyde King. The favorite in my family, however, was Carl Erskine, because like Gil Hodges he was from my father's Indiana (the small industrial city of Anderson in the north-central part of the state). Erskine was relatively small, under six feet tall and never weighing more than 170 pounds. He threw hard, however, with a smooth delivery, very high kick, and almost overhand throwing motion. A popular and religious family man in Bay Ridge, he was the famous \"Oisk\" in Brooklyn. But perhaps because he threw so hard for his size, he had shoulder problems for much of his career. He had first come up in 1948 but was down and up from the Montreal farm team more than once over the next three seasons and was often used in relief. In 1951, his hard work and talent paid off with sixteen victories to go with Preacher Roe's twenty-two (his best year ever) and Don Newcombe's twenty.\n\nIt was also the first year as manager for Charles Dressen\u2014a coach under Leo Durocher when Larry MacPhail was in Brooklyn who had followed MacPhail across town to coach for the Yankees. In addition to teaching Johnny Podres to throw the changeup, Charlie Dressen loved to talk baseball, to be quoted in the papers, and to gamble. He was the precise opposite of Burt Shotton's understated dignity in demeanor and quickly became a Brooklyn favorite again.\n\nWith banner seasons from the stable lineup of well-established hitters (1951 was Roy Campanella's first Most Valuable Player year), the Dodgers exploded from the start of the season. By August they were more than thirteen games ahead of the Giants, at which point just about everything started to go wrong. At first it was injuries to the pitching staff\u2014to Clyde King especially and then to Ralph Branca, who strained his pitching arm and, after winning more than ten games by the summer, finished up with only thirteen. To make matters worse, Pee Wee Reese and Duke Snider each endured horrific hitting slumps after July.\n\nThe Giants chipped away at the huge Dodger lead and then chipped away some more. In September, the Giants went on a tear (they were 38\u20137 over the last forty-five games) while the Dodgers were losing as much as they were winning, and actually tied them at the end. On the last day of the season, the Giants won first, over the Braves, and only heroic relief pitching by Newcombe and Clarence \"Bud\" Podbeilan and a home run by Jackie Robinson in the fourteenth inning got the team past the Phillies.\n\nAfter 1946, the last-day heroics in 1949, and the crushing disappointment in 1950, the Dodgers were headed into still another play-off. There was a coin toss again, won by Brooklyn, which elected to open at home this time, meaning games two and three (if necessary) would be in the Polo Grounds.\n\nWith pitchers on both sides tired from the crazed stretch drive and with the pitching rotations out of whack, the teams' best pitchers did not start the series. Leo Durocher opened with Jim Hearn, a decent pitcher over seven seasons with the Giants who won the most games of his career that season (seventeen); Dressen countered with Ralph Branca. It was a good, low-scoring, exciting game. Not for the first time, the Dodgers scored first\u2014a home run by Andy Pafko in the second inning.\n\nThe person who beat Branca that crucial day was none other than Bobby Thomson, who would play a role of some importance later in the series. It happened in the fourth inning. After breezing through the first third of the game, Branca started the fourth by hitting Monte Irvin. With two out, Thomson hit a fastball he later said was right down the middle of the plate, belt high, into the left-field bleachers. In the eighth, Monte Irvin hit another Branca mistake into the seats, and while the Dodgers largely slept at bat (five hits and four double plays), Jim Hearn had enough support to win. The second game was a 10\u20130 Dodger blowout: four home runs (another by Pafko and one by the other player in the Cubs trade, Rube Walker, who was playing for the injured Roy Campanella, who pulled a thigh muscle in the final game against the Phillies and aggravated it during the first play-off game at Ebbets Field). Clem Labine, asked to start for the depleted staff, responded with a six-hitter.\n\nThe final game of the fateful series begin with the perfect ingredients for a pitching duel (Newcombe versus Maglie) and that was precisely what happened. Through seven innings, the score was 1\u20131. The Dodgers (the script rarely seemed to change) scored first in the first inning\u2014two walks by Maglie and a single by Jackie Robinson. The Giants tied the game in their half of the seventh inning on a hit (hardly anyone remembers this fact) by Bobby Thomson.\n\nIt was in the top of the eighth inning that the Dodgers appeared to break the game open as Maglie tired\u2014he allowed three runs on a wild pitch and singles by Pafko and Billy Cox. Newcombe retired the Giants routinely in their half of the inning but had begun complaining in the dugout that after more than 270 innings of work that year he was running out of gas.\n\nThe inning that epitomized the postwar Dodger experience began just as I walked out of school and got into Abe Slutsky's car, his final pickup before the drive downtown. It started with what they call a bleeder in baseball, a ground ball by Alvin Dark that just made it through the hole between first and second base. With Gil Hodges holding Dark on first, the Giants' right fielder, Don Mueller, took advantage of the inviting gap on the right side by hitting a sharp single between Snider and Furillo in right-center field. By the time Furillo got to the ball, Dark was headed safely to third. A brief respite followed when Monte Irvin hit a pop fly that Hodges caught in foul territory, and then the roof fell in.\n\nBy now, I think Mr. Slutsky was across town and had turned onto Second Avenue. There were four other kids in the car besides me. Before the next Giant batter came up, I have a fairly clear memory of Mr. Slutsky pulling over to the right side of the street and stopping to listen.\n\nThe next Giant batter was a slender first baseman\u2014a good but not powerful hitter who had been playing with the Giants since he came up in 1945 at the age of nineteen. His name was Carroll Lockman, and he was called Whitey because of his light hair. A left-handed batter, Whitey Lockman sliced a line drive into left-center field that was far enough away from both Pafko and Snider that Dark could walk home and Lockman could easily reach second base with a double. On the play, Don Mueller also had an easy time making it to third base, but he slid very hard coming into the bag and broke his ankle\u2014forcing a pause in the game while he was being removed from the field and a pinch-runner was being inserted. For the historical record, his name was Clint Hartung, he was huge (nearly six feet, six inches), he was fast, and after four years as a mediocre pitcher he was in the first of two years as a reserve outfielder; he was from the small town of Hondo in Texas and in those days of nicknames he was called the Hondo Hurricane.\n\nWhile Clint Hartung was jogging to third base, Charlie Dressen was walking to the pitcher's mound. On the phone to his bullpen he had been told by coach Clyde Sukeforth that Ralph Branca had thrown decently while warming up, so Dressen took the ball from Don Newcombe and signaled for the man who wore the number 13 on his Brooklyn uniform. Bobby Thomson was due up, with Willie Mays on deck. With men on second and third and only one out, the historical consensus is that walking Thomson intentionally was not an option because that meant putting the potential winning run on base, but the situation also dictated that he not be given easy pitches to hit with first base open, even if that meant he ended up being walked anyway.\n\nAlso by historical consensus, Branca's first pitch was a huge mistake\u2014a fat fastball right down the middle of the plate, not unlike the pitch Thomson hit into the bleachers two days before. Fortunately, Thomson took it for a strike. The second pitch, all the participants agreed at the time, was supposed to be off the plate, inside. Instead it was also out over the plate.\n\nThe participants also agree that the line drive off Bobby Thomson's bat was hit very hard as it went over Billy Cox's head toward the left-field wall just three hundred feet away, but that it lost speed and height as it traveled farther. For a second or two, it was not clear whether it would make the stands, hit high off the wall, or fall into the glove of Andy Pafko, who stood with his back pressed against the barrier. It made the stands, just barely, falling in with its last gasps of kinetic energy.\n\nI will always remember Mr. Slutsky pounding his steering wheel with an open hand over and over again before turning off the radio and driving on; I can see the scene clearly but have no memory of saying anything, which is why I'm convinced that _shock_ is the right word for my young reaction. I also have no memory of arriving home after the tragic end of the first baseball season I followed. What I do remember is sitting at the card table in front of the Murphy bed, writing on one of my father's legal pads.\n\nIt was a letter to Ralph Branca. Apparently after solemn embraces that afternoon we had eaten supper in near silence (very, very unusual for my loquacious family). When conversation finally began it had been about \"poor\" Ralph Branca and how terrible he must feel about what had happened. Ever alert for a chance to use an event for its probative as well as sentimental value, the idea of writing a letter was my father's. I have no memory of what I wrote, but my mother mailed it the next day on her way to work. I never got an answer, but on a half-dozen other occasions in my childhood I wrote similar letters\u2014always to Dodger players who were having a tough time. There was no dearth of subject matter.\n\nThe reaction by my family to Ralph Branca's ordeal was not common. According to Duke Snider\u2014whose parents had come east in anticipation of seeing their famous son play in the World Series and whom he gallantly took out to dinner in Brooklyn after the game\u2014there were already effigies of a stuffed figure with the number 13 and a Dodger hat hanging from light poles as he drove home to Bay Ridge. After the disappointments that began in 1941 and continued through 1949, the reaction had been almost entirely pained sadness and frustration. It was after Cal Abrams was thrown out at home the year before that second-guessing became part of the ritual. After the Bobby Thomson home run it became epidemic. Through the years, three questions remain for eternal argument in addition to the obvious one that Branca threw two fat fastballs in a row over the plate to a power hitter who had homered off him earlier and had two hits already that day:\n\nFirst Charlie Dressen erred in not acceding to Campanella's intense desire to play. He could have either helped Newcombe through the final inning or issued a definitive opinion that he was too tired to continue. Campanella also would never have let Branca's first fat pitch pass without an angry comment to the pitcher.\n\nSecondly, Dressen erred in ordering that Erskine and Branca be the pitchers to warm up in the bullpen during the inning. There were three other pitchers who had performed regularly during the season and were available\u2014Preacher Roe, starter-reliever Erv Palica, and Bud Podbeilan. Roe was relatively rested and Podbeilan had a decent record against the Giants. According to Snider, Roe had tried to get loose before the ninth inning but couldn't. Also according to Snider, Clem Labine was not warming up because of his complete game shutout the previous day and because the Dodgers had not yet learned that Labine had a rare \"rubber\" arm and in his youth could routinely pitch with no rest; interestingly, however, Labine was up and throwing after Branca had walked in to pitch. Bud Podpeilan is the more credible, and unresolvable, might-have-been.\n\nAnd finally, Dressen erred in not making a public stink about cheating by the Giants at the Polo Grounds, specifically the stealing of signs by binoculars from a spot inside the center-field scoreboard and the flashing of them by walkie-talkie to the bench. _The Wall Street Journal_ published a long account of the affair in 2001, but it was not unknown at the time and was the subject of frequent discussions between Dodger coaches and Dressen. Sign stealing is to an extent part of the game, but a ruckus about the Giants' elaborate system would have disrupted it and disrupted them.\n\nInterestingly, none of these issues involved the bullpen coach, Clyde Sukeforth. When Dressen called him instants before making his decision, Sukeforth was an accurate reporter of the facts. Erskine, who was always observed closely because of his arm woes, had bounced at least one of his curveballs into the bullpen dirt, while Branca was throwing normally. Naturally, even more flagrantly than the previous year's case of Milt Stock, it was Sukeforth who got blamed in public by Dressen. The Dodgers offered Sukeforth a minor-league job during the off-season and after the team got criticism for such cruelty even offered him his old job, but sensing the withdrawal of support, Sukeforth moved on to Pittsburgh and back with the man (Branch Rickey) he had helped make history.\n\nRalph Branca hurt his back the following spring and never recovered his pre-Bobby Thomson form or spirit. One of the best young pitchers ever was inconsequential in 1952, gone to the Detroit Tigers in 1953 for cash, and gone from the major leagues after two farewell games with the Dodgers in 1956.\n\n### TWO MORE\n\nThe Cold War military got Don Newcombe for 1952 and 1953 at the comparatively advanced age of twenty-six. Despite the loss of an All-Star workhorse and the obvious aging of Preacher Roe, the team on balance improved. In each season they won the National League pennant going away, and in each season they had a better record in a tougher league than the Yankees. The Dodgers also lost the World Series twice more in succession to their nemesis, both times under exasperating circumstances.\n\nThis was the period when my devotion to the team flowered. My parents took me to at least a dozen games each season\u2014on the weekends and usually on Ladies Day, when my mother got in at a deep discount. She loved these family outings. Being a pure Scandinavian, my mother was famously reserved\u2014except at Ebbets Field, where she yelled and laughed and groaned and beamed. She never joined one of Hilda Chester's famous parades through the bleachers behind the famous woman with the clanging cowbells and borderline vulgarity, but my mother was a genuine, loud baseball fan. My mother always brought a paper bag with her on the subway to the games; in it were three sandwiches, three pieces of fruit, and three paper cups that she filled with water from the drinking fountains at the ballpark. During the games, she would get me an ice-cream sandwich from which she and my father always demanded one bite each.\n\nOur time in the bleachers was one of the infrequent occasions when I didn't see my mother as someone who dressed with meticulous care every morning to go downtown and be a secretary on Wall Street and then came home to make us supper in impossibly cramped circumstances. She taught by example that there was a place for neatness and order that complemented the chaos of my father's life and his effusive romanticism around me. In the bleachers, when she was laughing and yelling, I got a glimpse of the immigrant's daughter who fished and did farm chores, played with Indian kids, and walked to school through deep drifts in the bitter winter wearing snowshoes.\n\nFor those days in 1950s America, the reality in my household was radical; it didn't take me long to realize that my mother was the principal breadwinner and that she was the mortar in the family's foundation. Because that was our norm, it never struck me as odd. When my father was sick\u2014his problems came in waves a few weeks apart when the ulcers would bleed or his digestion would just stop working and he was either groaning in the bathroom (I hated the sound) or stuck in bed, exhausted, for days\u2014I can never recall feeling scared. My mother by this time gave me things to do in the apartment. I could wipe furniture and surfaces; I could even stand on a chair over the sink in the kitchenette and wash dishes; my little space in the second room was never cluttered because the apartment had no room for a kid's clutter. Sometimes, when my father would be asleep during the day on weekends when she had chores to do and I couldn't go down to the park by myself, she would take me on long walks. She talked to me the way my father did; in effect, we conversed. These were the occasions when I heard about Norway and Minnesota and learned rudimentary Norwegian, while we were folding clothes or putting dishes away. On the East Side and at school, I felt and acted like a kid\u2014but never at home.\n\nOn our floor\u2014an atmosphere where most of the doors were usually open and many of the dozen residents were in one another's apartments a lot of the time\u2014I was the only child and therefore a continual object of attention. My father had introduced me to the basics of reading music and playing the piano primitively, but it was in the tiny studio of a young, budding Canadian pianist from Vancouver that I first heard music that seemed to soar. His only possession of consequence was a concert grand that took up least a third of his space. Normally he played and practiced with a felt damper over the strings to mute the sound, but on the occasions when he took it off I would sit spellbound in the middle of the symphonic noise.\n\nDown the hall was another Canadian, from Quebec\u2014a young diplomat at the UN who shared an apartment with his artist sister. They spoke French and took it upon themselves to slowly introduce me to their language. The war widow in 2509 who often shopped with my mother and sometimes looked after me also worked at the UN, and it was through her that I escaped one childhood ritual, dressing up in costumes to go trick-or-treating on Halloween. Instead, beginning the year Don Newcombe went into the armed services, I would go around the building in the early evening, with my mother tactfully behind me, collecting money for the United Nations Children's Fund, for which she worked, known better as UNICEF. The money was usually accompanied by candy (a forbidden commodity in my apartment), which provided the incentive to keep going. I can't remember how much I collected, but I turned out to have had one of the largest hauls in the city that first outing. To my mother's shock, this produced an invitation to the giant Secretariat building on First Avenue, where there was a little ceremony in which a bunch of other kids and I got certificates from the secretary-general. For my mother, this moment was from heaven, because the secretary-general was a Norwegian, Trygve Lie. For the occasion, I practiced a few phrases over and over under her guidance so I could respond in Norwegian. I have no memory of the occasion beyond the sight of her talking in Norwegian to one of her heroes, who she had explained to me had helped lead his government into exile after the Germans invaded in 1940.\n\nThe twenty-fifth floor was also home to a dark-haired woman who was beautiful and spoke with an unusual accent that turned out to be Russian. She could cook stuff I had never heard of, strong-smelling stews and vegetables, and sweets I can still taste. Vera Brynner had a brother who the previous year had made it big on Broadway in a new Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, _The King and I_ , which, thanks to Vera, was the first Broadway show I remember attending. The film version, four years later, along with _The Ten Commandments_ and _Anastasia_ , would be Yul Brynner's breakthroughs to superstardom.\n\nHe visited his sister occasionally, including a few of the occasional evenings the people on our floor spent together when everyone contributed a supper dish. He was the first completely bald person I had ever met, a bit of a forbidding figure as I recall. On one occasion, my father decided that I was to perform on the piano for the famous man, the one aspect of his paternal behavior that I hated. I was marched down the hall to our place, where I was encouraged to play a simple melody I had learned by a well-known Russian \u00e9migr\u00e9 composer of this period, Alexander Gretchaninoff. Normally, I felt uncomfortable performing on command, but on this occasion before this mysterious man I recall being terrified. Somehow I got through the piece, at which point my mood was erased by the thrill of riding back down the hall on Yul Brynner's shoulders.\n\nOne consequence of this casual-seeming but in fact relentless instruction was that school at first was easy for me\u2014too easy. I was reading and writing by the time I started, my conversational French was decent, and I found Miss Hurt's first-grade class a breeze. Apparently, the school worried that I was becoming restless and a little bored in this atmosphere, and the first minicrisis I remember in my own life was the discussion about whether I should be put into Miss Lamont's second-grade room in the middle of the year. I remember liking it immediately because the work was harder and therefore more satisfying, but what I remember best was my introduction to the first teacher who deeply affected my life.\n\nMargaret MacMillan was the music teacher, and second grade meant an hour a day in her classroom, for basic instruction in reading music and singing\u2014back when the arts were considered part of elementary education. Mrs. MacMillan was widowed, a bit younger than my parents\u2014a striking woman who was completely comfortable with music and awkward in everything else. From my parents she knew I was already playing the piano, but on her own she decided that I had a boy soprano's voice that was worth trying to train, and she gradually cajoled me into stopping by her music room for lessons. My initial time with her was spent being taught how to breathe, to project, and (the great challenge for me) to jump octaves and sing arpeggios in key. I enjoyed it so much that my father began encouraging her to take me on in piano work as well.\n\nMrs. MacMillan was a professional, which meant long hours getting basic techniques and exercises under my belt. The real thrill, however, came because Mrs. MacMillan introduced me to expression. Her relentless instruction was that music expressed emotion, that it was a method of communicating, that it could be happy and sad, exciting and tragic, and that the reason to work on mechanics was to unlock emotion. Previously, I had learned via simple classics\u2014mostly early Bach and Mozart. Mrs. MacMillan threw Chopin at me. She was demanding and warm at the same time, and it was with her that I first realized there was a way to get at the confusing mix of feelings I had as a youngster without having to worry about finding the right words for them. Audiences never meant much to me because it was not approval I was looking for; for me, music was above all personal.\n\nMrs. MacMillan had one other serious pupil from the school. He was eight or nine years older than I, much more advanced on the piano\u2014a sensitive, warm, and friendly teenager who sometimes worked with me. His name was Arthur MacArthur, and he was the son of the most famous military man of the era\u2014much more of a public presence than Dwight D. Eisenhower, who was on his way that fall of 1952 to being elected president. Douglas MacArthur, his wife, Jean, and their son had settled in New York in the apartment tower of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue after MacArthur was dismissed by President Truman following his Korean War insubordination. My parents couldn't stand MacArthur's politics, but because of World War II my father revered his leadership in the Pacific.\n\nAt school assemblies, Arthur MacArthur and I often performed on the piano (once, we played a simple four-hand sonata together), with both our sets of parents in the audience. I never forgot after we were finished how cold, aloof, and remote General MacArthur seemed, in dramatic contrast to his warm, encouraging, and friendly wife. I was too young to know very much about family economics or the nature of fame, but I was more than old enough to sense his son's discomfort and to feel fortunate in my family's embrace. Years later, I smiled upon learning that Arthur had eventually changed his name and lived his own life, actively involved in the arts, down in Greenwich Village.\n\nMrs. MacMillan's voice instruction had more public consequences. In the congregation at the church we attended was a part-time talent scout for choral groups in the city. As my voice developed she suggested to my parents that I try out for some of them that paid their singers a few bucks a performance. Most of the work was in churches, and it was out of this activity that I was invited to audition for the opera. I did not have a stage mother or father, but their attitude was never discouraging. It was clear to me that they were always nudging me into a music world far beyond just taking lessons but it was always equally clear that they would never have done so over my adolescent resistance or discomfort. The real point was that I was the one pushing myself, for the same reason I couldn't wait to be able to stop playing primitive games with my bat and glove in the sandbox and start getting into the pickup games with older boys in the park itself. I have often compared growing up in these circumstances in postwar New York to hanging around a candy store with an unlimited allowance. There were all these choices and opportunities and just a limited number of hours every day.\n\nMy mother never had trouble getting me up in the morning. I was always eager to get going, and that spring I had a new ritual to start each day from April until October\u2014poring over the box scores of major-league baseball games I was learning to decipher.\n\nI had Brooklyn Dodger memories before the season of 1952\u2014images of the 1950 and 1951 heartbreaks\u2014but this was the first season I remember as a season, when I was aware of actually following the team, knowing about the players, listening constantly to the soft voice of Red Barber on the radio, looking at least at the pictures in the papers, and being in what my six-year-old brain considered the enormous, cavernous green beauty of (actually) tiny Ebbets Field.\n\nIt was a good year to begin. The Dodgers were an astonishing, stable powerhouse of hitters, all of them well-established figures in the game. They even had a solid, productive left fielder for a full season in Andy Pafko. What was different was the pitching, an interesting collection of younger players and a now-settled star (Carl Erskine), who more than made up for the victories lost by Newcombe's departure and Preacher Roe's decline and arm woes. The Dodgers won the same number of games they had in the regular season the year before, losing three fewer. What was different in the National League was that neither the Giants nor the Cardinals were as strong.\n\nThis was the second season of Carl Erskine's stardom. He anchored the starting rotation, winning fourteen games and providing my first happy baseball thrill that was attached to a Dodger story. It was the first of his two no-hitters in the majors (the second came in 1956), in the middle of June, just before the Dodgers began to pull away from the rest of the league (they had to survive a near collapse in September but won the pennant by five and a half games over the Giants).\n\nI can still remember the way the excitement built over the radio. It was an odd game (against the Chicago Cubs) because it was a rainy day and in the third inning the rain was coming down so hard that the umpires actually stopped play and sent the players to their dressing rooms. This produced another bit of Dodger lore. After most games, some of the players played bridge in the clubhouse, a game I didn't learn until I married into a bridge family years later, but which my mother played every day at work during her lunch break.\n\nOn this particular afternoon, the rain delay led immediately to a bridge game, with Erskine. According to Duke Snider, the pitcher had just finished making a four-hearts bid when an umpire reappeared to order the players back on the field. Erskine completed his masterpiece\u2014the final score was 3\u20130 and only one runner reached base, on a walk\u2014and the story of the bridge game made the papers. Shortly thereafter, the Dodgers got a call from Charles Goren, the reigning bridge authority, who had a syndicated column and wanted to reconstruct Erskine's hand. My mother saved the clipping for years, as amazed at Erskine's ability to make his bid as she was by his no-hitter. What she did not know, however, until Erskine revealed it years later was that in fact he had no memory at all of his bridge hand that day. Goren had simply made it all up for his column.\n\nThis was also the season when a succession of younger pitchers appeared as first Ralph Branca and then Preacher Roe went by the wayside. One of them was one of the few somewhat odd characters on the team. Billy Loes was a local guy, a native of Long Island City, brought up just over the Brooklyn border in Astoria. He won thirteen games that year, the first of a half-dozen consecutive years when he won more than ten.\n\nHe was fun to watch, but he marched to his own drummer. He was famously superstitious, always pitching in the same filthy uniform jersey. He also appeared to lack the competitive fire that characterized the decidedly blue-collar image that baseball in general and the Dodgers in particular projected in those days. Buzzie Bavisi confirmed one story to me that seemed too off-the-wall to believe. The following year, Loes had a clause in his contract guaranteeing a bonus if he won fourteen games. When he had done so by August, he demanded his money immediately and appeared to slack off on the mound, claiming that if he won twenty games the management would expect it of him every year. He was, however, one of the 1950s Dodgers' better pitchers.\n\nThe unexpected star that year and in fact the league Rookie of the Year was a twenty-eight-year-old African-American from New Jersey named Joe Black. He was almost as imposing a figure as Don Newcombe and could throw just as hard, and for that one magical season before his arm wore out he was magnificent. If there had not been segregation and he had arrived earlier instead of spending the first years of his career in the Negro Leagues, there is no telling what he might have accomplished. Charlie Dressen used him (some would say used him up) almost exclusively in relief in 1952; he appeared in more than a third of the team's games, starting just two of them, and pitched more than 140 innings. In the end, he won more games than any other pitcher on the team (fifteen), but the total understates his importance.\n\nThe Dodgers won one more game in 1952 than did the Yankees, who squeaked past the Cleveland Indians into the World Series. As had been the case in previous years, the Dodgers' late-season frustrations were famous, but there was no clear reason to consider them underdogs (especially since this was the first year the Yankees were without Joe DiMaggio) with the possible exception of their pitching. As it turned out, that very slight edge was pivotal in another, agonizing, seven-game Series.\n\nThis is the first year I can remember sitting in my school's gymnasium-auditorium, with the 21-inch television set perched on the edge of the stage. Amid a throng of noisy Yankee fans, there were just three of us sitting off to the side rooting quietly for the Dodgers: John Steinback's son, a second-grade classmate whose father was running the Bulova Watch Company at the time, and Mr. Kenrey, the fifth-grade teacher.\n\nFor the weekend games, we walked across the neighborhood to the apartment of a fellow writer whose son was a playmate of mine, because they had a television set (a Philco), which was our occasional visual entertainment in those pre-Scarlet days.\n\nAt Ebbets Field, the Dodgers won the first game. In a bit of inspired managing, Dressen started Joe Black, who pitched all nine innings of a 4\u20132 victory over Allie Reynolds, the very first in a World Series game for an African-American. All of the Dodger runs came on home runs by Reese, Robinson, and Snider. Snider's two-run blast was the first of four home runs he hit in the Series, something that only Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig had done to that point; when Snider did it again in 1955, he stood alone.\n\nGame Two, however, was a dispiriting 7\u20131 thrashing of Carl Erskine, who uncharacteristically walked six Yankees and lasted just three batters into a five-run sixth inning. There was more to it than a simple thrashing. Before the game, on a cloudy day, Erskine had stood on a stool in the dressing room to look out a window at the threatening sky. As he climbed down, his knee (tender from a high school injury) banged against a radiator. The pain was so intense, according to Snider, that Erskine actually fainted on the floor and had to be revived with smelling salts. Conscious, with a bandage over a cut on his chin from the fall, he went out to pitch in the World Series. The legions of second-guessers, my parents included, were certain that Dressen left Erskine in the game too long.\n\nThe third game, in the Bronx and won 5\u20133 by Preacher Roe, appeared to atone for Mickey Owen's infamous passed ball eleven years before. Going into the ninth inning with a lead of just 3\u20132, Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson each singled and then executed a very rare double steal of second and third. With Roy Campanella at bat, a pitch from reliever Tom Gorman got past the normally flawless Yogi Berra, and both Reese and Robinson raced home. The daring base running and Berra's passed ball proved decisive because Johnny Mize pinch-hit a home run for the Yankees in the bottom of the ninth.\n\nAfter Reynolds pitched a complete game shutout against Joe Black in the fourth game and Carl Erskine courageously went eleven innings to win Game Five (the contest with Vin Scully's famous fives), the Dodgers actually headed home needing but one victory to win the Series. They came maddeningly close.\n\nIn Game Six, behind Billy Loes, the Dodgers took a 1\u20130 lead, off the first of two Duke Snider home runs into the seventh inning. But Yogi Berra tied the game, with a lead-off home run, and after the Yankee left fielder, Gene Woodling, singled, everything fell apart.\n\nStanding on the pitching rubber and about to go into his stretch with Woodling on first, Billy Loes then inexplicably let the ball fall from his right hand onto the ground. That is called a balk under the rules, and Woodling was awarded second base.\n\nThe batter was the Yankees' reliable pitcher Vic Raschi, on his way to winning his second game of the Series but never known for his hitting. He sent a bouncing ball straight at Loes, who seemed to freeze as it hit his leg, and by the time it was retrieved, Woodling had scored what proved the winning run. In the papers, Loes claimed to have been blinded by sunlight on the play, a comment that drew derision at the time, but over the years several Dodgers have backed him up, explaining that there was a space between the upper and lower decks of Ebbets Field through which the sun hit the pitcher's mound in late afternoon. In simple English, the Dodgers lost their chance to win the Series that day because a pitcher lost a ground ball in the sun.\n\nGame Seven, the second time the Subway Series between these teams had gone the distance, was, if anything, more dispiriting. The seesaw game was tied, 2\u20132, after five innings, at which point the Yankees scored twice, first off starter Joe Black and then off reliever Preacher Roe, to go ahead 4\u20132 with the Dodgers coming up in their half of the seventh inning.\n\nThe tension built as Carl Furillo led off with a walk and with one out moved to second on a single to right field by Billy Cox. When Reese walked, the bases were loaded with but one out. At this point, the Yankees' pitching staff was exhausted, but Casey Stengel went to the mound to pull Vic Raschi from the game for one of those pitchers the Yankees always seemed to produce just for such moments.\n\nRobert LeRoy \"Sarge\" Kuzava, out of someplace in Michigan, had been in the league for six years at this point. He was on his fourth team and would be on three more before ending up his career with a total of forty-nine victories. To this point, after appearing in just twenty-eight games for the Yankees during the regular season, he had not been used in the World Series at all. On this one day, however, he was ideal for two innings and two batters.\n\nMost accounts of this Dodger disaster focus on the third out of the inning, but according to Duke Snider the second out (which he made) was just as important. It was a classic pitcher-batter duel; with the bases loaded, the count went full and Snider fouled off more than one pitch after that.\n\nIn the end, though, Kuzava threw him a fastball low and outside, which Snider more reached for than swung at, popping up to Gil McDougald at third. Two outs; Jackie Robinson coming up.\n\nThis time, Kuzava threw a fastball inside, and Robinson popped this one up, too. The ball was hit above a kind of no-man's-land between the pitcher's mound and first base. With Billy Martin playing deep at second, the ball was hit over an area where it wasn't clear who should come over to catch it. In fact, both Kuzava and the Yankee first baseman, Joe Collins, appeared frozen.\n\nEventually, the ever-hustling Martin began to run\u2014and run and run and run. He caught the ball near the mound no more than six inches off the ground, saving at least two runs and the game. Kuzava's next two innings were almost anticlimactic.\n\nTo make the experience even more dispiriting, this was the World Series when Gil Hodges famously didn't hit\u2014not once in twenty-one times at bat. Worse: except for Duke Snider, the entire heart of the Dodgers' batting order didn't hit. For the Series, Hodges, Robinson, Furillo, Campanella, and Pafko came up 116 times and got just fourteen hits.\n\nThe evening after the last game had ended, I sat down under my father's supervision and wrote the second fan letter of my life\u2014to Gil Hodges. My very dim memory of my first attempt at contact with the person who was already my idol is that it included a feeble attempt to make Hodges feel less exposed; I noted that I also made out nearly every time I batted.\n\nIf anything, 1953 was even more crushing because the expectations for the Dodgers had been even higher. Branch Rickey went to his grave (in 1965) insisting that his 1949 Dodgers were the best team of the postwar period; most of the Dodgers who stayed with Brooklyn insisted that it was the '53 team.\n\nNo matter. It was a season during which the only suspense was whether the Yankees would beat the Dodgers yet again to win their fifth consecutive championship\u2014an unimaginable accomplishment. The Dodgers won, for them, a record 105 games during the regular season, finishing 12 games ahead of the former Boston (now Milwaukee) Braves.\n\nStill without Don Newcombe, the team was led from the mound by Carl Erskine, who won twenty games that year. While Joe Black's famous rookie season was followed by his sudden decline, the blooming of Clem Labine as a starter-reliever occurred that year. With more than decent years by Billy Loes and Preacher Roe (his final Dodger season, at the age of thirty-eight), the arrival of young rookie Johnny Podres, and the acquisition of Russ Meyer (he had been on the 1950 Phillies), the team had a stable core of consistent pitchers.\n\nIn the field, this was the year of Junior Gilliam\u2014the Dodgers' fourth African-American Rookie of the Year out of the previous seven, following Robinson, Newcombe, and Black. The second throw-in player in the deal for Leroy Farrell at the end of Rickey's tenure, Gilliam was twenty-five in his rookie season; had baseball been fully integrated all along, this gifted athlete almost certainly would have been in the major leagues long before 1953. He was fast, he hit line drives (he led the league that year in triples, with seventeen), and he was a graceful infielder.\n\nGilliam's arrival meant a break for some of the Brooklyn veterans. An older Pee Wee Reese now could bat second behind him. With Gilliam at second, Jackie Robinson\u2014by now in his thirties\u2014could move to a position where he did not have to be so mobile; Dressen's choice was left field, after Andy Pafko was traded that winter, and sometimes third base. That was of course Billy Cox's position; he was still productive and enormously popular, but he was aging.\n\nThis was also the year when Duke Snider exploded into a superstar, as if the four home runs during the '52 Series had been a harbinger; in 1953, he hit forty-two (only Eddie Mathews of the Braves hit more).\n\nBut as fate would have it, the Yankees were also excellent, again with a slightly more experienced pitching staff. The team (led by Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra and benefiting from the first big year by their brilliant left-handed pitcher Whitey Ford) won the pennant by ten games over the Indians. Still, the Dodgers won six more games that year than they did; they were not underdogs.\n\nThrough the years, the 1953 World Series has been mostly described as an almost routine Yankee triumph because they won it in six games. I remember it as a series of close, seesaw games, at least two of which the Dodgers almost won. They were within one break of sending the Series to another seventh game; they just didn't get the break. It was a Series whose star was Billy Martin, who tied a record with twelve base hits and batted an astonishing .500; and it was a Series of relatively poor performances by nearly all the pitchers on both teams in four of the games. Mostly, it was an immense frustration after such an excellent season.\n\nCarl Erskine, the Dodgers' star that year, was the person on whom Charlie Dressen depended. Erskine was unable to come through in the first game at Yankee Stadium, giving up four runs in just one inning of work. What is usually forgotten is that the Dodgers had battled back to tie the game, 5\u20135, in their half of the seventh inning. It was the subsequent collapse of the bullpen that produced an 8\u20135 defeat.\n\nIt was worse the next day. Preacher Roe (no one knew he was making his last World Series appearance as a Dodger) pitched an excellent game into the late innings, and thanks to a Billy Cox double the Dodgers were ahead 2\u20131 going into the bottom half of the seventh inning. Roe tired; however, Dressen didn't pull him from the game, and home runs by Martin and Mickey Mantle cost the Dodgers a second game.\n\nIt was a risk taken by Dressen\u2014starting Erskine after just a day off\u2014that produced the Dodger highlight of the year. For nine innings, his high kick and overhand fastballs and curves kept the Yankees off balance. He yielded just two runs and was striking out batters with a frequency that gradually created a frenzy in Ebbets Field. When he fanned pinch-hitter Johnny Mize in the ninth inning, Erskine had set a new Series record of fourteen strikeouts. As it turned out he needed to be that good, because Yankee starter Vic Raschi had only given up three runs.\n\nThe next day, the Dodgers tied the Series in exceptionally uplifting fashion. Not only did they jump on Whitey Ford for three runs in the first inning; they also kept on scoring, piling up four more as the game progressed. Billy Loes, en route to the only World Series victory of his career, had yielded just two runs through eight innings.\n\nIn the ninth, however, he and the Dodgers flirted with disaster. Two singles\u2014by Woodling and Martin\u2014and a walk to Gil McDougald loaded the bases with nobody out, meaning the tying run would be at the plate from then on. For once, Dressen made a timely and correct pitching change; in came Clem Labine.\n\nIn baseball's ultimate tense situation, Labine began by striking out Phil Rizzuto. The next hitter, pinch-hitting again, was Johnny Mize, but his soft fly ball to Duke Snider in center field was much too shallow to even tempt Woodling to try to score on the play.\n\nMickey Mantle was next. Batting left-handed, the Yankee star sliced a line drive into left field for a single. Woodling scored easily, and Billy Martin came roaring around third, headed toward home plate as well. The left fielder, in the game that inning for his defensive ability (shades of things to come two years later), was a utility player named Don Thompson who had an excellent glove and arm but couldn't hit. Thompson fielded Mantle's hit cleanly and unleashed a strike to Roy Campanella. Billy Martin attempted to knock the ball out of the catcher's mitt, but the much smaller runner merely bounced off the stocky Campanella.\n\nI had been spending the weekend with a schoolmate whose family had a weekend home in Westchester County. We were watching the television in the lounge of a country club\u2014not one of my usual hangouts\u2014and I was again a tiny Dodger island in a sea of Yankee fans. I remember giving a little yelp at the third out, but I remember more the glares that my noise produced in the room.\n\nThe Dodger collapse that then ensued was primarily a collapse in the final game at Ebbets Field. This was the game Johnny Podres started and got yanked from after he loaded the bases in the third inning, following the critical and rare error by Gil Hodges. Not only did Podres's replacement, Russ Meyer, then yield the famous grand slam to Mantle, but the rest of the relievers failed to do their jobs as well. It was a crushing 11\u20137 defeat.\n\nGame Six, however, was exciting. The Yankees got to Carl Erskine early\u2014three runs by the fourth inning\u2014but then their hitting cooled off and the Dodgers began a comeback. They got one of the runs back on a classic bit of Jackie Robinson daring. With one out he doubled off Whitey Ford and then promptly stole third, coming home on a ground ball out by Campanella.\n\nThe ninth inning was at least thrilling. Allie Reynolds, pitching his final World Series inning after six years of brilliance and seven victories, walked Duke Snider with one out. The Dodgers were just two outs away from the end of their season when Carl Furillo lined an outside pitch into the right-field seats for the home run that tied the game. It was a remarkable feat by a determined baseball player who had been injured the final month of the season (Leo Durocher had stepped on Furillo's hand during a fight).\n\nIn the gymnasium with my little knot of Dodger fans, there was a sense that the team had momentum going into the bottom of the ninth\u2014if for no other reason than the fact that Clem Labine had been pitching effectively since the seventh.\n\nThis time, disaster began with a walk to Hank Bauer. After Yogi Berra hit a line drive right at Carl Furillo in right field, Mickey Mantle hit a strange high bouncing ball (called a Baltimore chop in baseball) that landed between Labine and Billy Cox at third. By the time Cox had picked the ball up, Mantle was on first and Bauer was on second.\n\nThat brought Billy Martin to the plate. His record-tying twelfth hit of the Series was a \"bleeder\"\u2014a ground ball that just barely got through the middle of the Dodger infield into center field. Hank Bauer scored the winning run less than ten minutes after Carl Furillo's home run\u2014after a walk and two scratch singles.\n\nThe next day, after reading in the papers that Clem Labine had cried after the game (I almost did myself), I wrote him the third fan letter of my life.\n\nI had actually experienced only the last few years of this long saga. From the library, from my parents and their Dodger fan friends, I had absorbed all of the rest. It was a rich, varied, interesting, exciting tableau of near misses and flops\u2014from Babe Ruth's pitching to Billy Wambsganss's triple play, from Mickey Owen's passed ball to Don Newcombes home-run pitch to Tommy Henrich, from Cal Abrams running around third base to Bobby Thomson's shot, from Billy Loes's balk to Billy Martin's seeing-eye ground ball.\n\nDuke Snider was correct. Only two agonizing innings separated the Dodgers from five consecutive National League pennants, but a variety of twists of fate had left them just short of victories when it counted for a dozen years of frustration.\n\nThat is why the seventh game of the 1955 World Series to any fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers anywhere was far more than just another thrilling game. With a 1\u20130 lead after five well-pitched innings, there was no context, no basis of any kind, for a belief that this was the game when it would finally happen. Off this kind of detailed, demoralizing experience, that was one more reason to dread the sixth inning.\n\n## 11\n\n## 1955\n\nThere was another. The 1955 World Series was different from the other clashes between the Dodgers and the Yankees\u2014in both how it looked ahead of time and how it actually unfolded. The professional gamblers knew what they were doing; the Dodgers were underdogs before the Series began, they were underdogs before each of the previous games in Yankee Stadium, and they were decided underdogs before Game Seven.\n\nGoing back to 1941, the two teams had seemed more evenly matched, both from their rosters of players and off their performances during the regular season. Part of what had made the five previous defeats so frustrating was the fact that the Dodgers had legitimate chances in each of them.\n\nThe 1955 season was different and so was the World Series until the seventh game. Following the loss two years before, Clem Labine may have shed tears, but Walter O'Malley did not. The pattern of second-guessing and scapegoating born from the last-day frustration against the Phillies continued, with the Dodger boss's ire focusing on Charlie Dressen.\n\nAfter the season, Dressen had the temerity to ask for a two-year contract, apparently because his long-ago Dodger boss and pal, Leo Durocher, had extracted one from Giants owner Horace Stoneham. To O'Malley this was heresy, and after pretending to negotiate with the popular manager, he let him go. The Walter Alston era that would last two decades was about to begin.\n\nTo press and fans alike, and both were famously vocal, O'Malley had replaced a legitimate baseball mind and familiar public personality with a faceless organization man with no discernible personality or ability. That was certainly the instant verdict in my household, though with each year that passed this was a position that became increasingly untenable off the evidence. O'Malley was already an unpopular figure in his own right because of the circumstances of his move against Branch Rickey, but it was as if many of the negative opinions about him were simply transferred onto Alston.\n\nMany of the Dodgers knew better than their fans. Alston had been a consistently successful molder and handler of young talent for the top farm team in Montreal, and Newcombe and Campanella had experienced his remarkable leadership in Nashua, New Hampshire, during their first Dodger organization seasons back in 1946.\n\nThe idea that Alston was simply an owner's stooge was also silly. As a large first baseman out of Miami University in his native Ohio he had been signed by Branch Rickey's brother for Branch Rickey's St. Louis Cardinals. He'd had exactly one at-bat with the Cardinals in 1936\u2014a lone appearance in the major leagues in which he'd struck out against Cubs pitcher and eventual National League umpire Lon Warneke. After that, Rickey had given Alston a player-manager job in Trenton and then assigned him to Nashua. Alston's general manager there and in Montreal had been Buzzie Bavasi, who recommended him for the Dodgers job and summoned him to Brooklyn, flying in under the alias of Matt Burns to deceive the press.\n\nAlston also appeared to have a personality\u2014a wry, almost mischievous grin should have been the clue. Years later, I picked up a copy of the first of his two revealing books about his career, which showed the self-deprecating barnyard wit of an Ohio farm boy. The volume was inscribed by him to some guy named Kurt and reads: \"I am sorry I left the pitcher in until we lost every fucking game. Retardingly, Walter 'Fart' Alston.\"\n\nHe had a hopeless job in 1954. Don Newcombe finally returned from the service but was ineffective in twenty-eight games. Roy Campanella suffered from hand injuries and had a severely disappointing part-time season.\n\nThis was also the year that Preacher Roe's skills declined sharply and Billy Cox lost his regular job at third base to a platoon arrangement with Jackie Robinson and rookie Don Hoak (after the season Cox and Roe were traded to the lowly Baltimore Orioles for three nobodies and some cash). Within baseball, two amazing pros were yielding to age, but in New York, Alston was defiling two icons of a glorious past. In the inevitable testing of a new manager's authority by established veterans\u2014a ritual of baseball life\u2014there was no way for the newcomer to avoid being painted as the heavy.\n\nDespite all this, the Dodgers finished the season thirty games above .500, due in large part to magnificent seasons by Hodges and Snider. The problem was that the Giants were five games better than that. Worse, they rubbed it in by sweeping the Cleveland Indians in the World Series\u2014the one where Willie Mays made an impossible catch over his shoulder in the deepest part of the Polo Grounds off a titanic blast by Vic Wertz.\n\nThe 1955 season had begun amid nothing but questions. There was no way to know whether Newcombe's arm would carry the team he hadn't carried since 1951, no way to know how much an aging Jackie Robinson had left, no way to know if Campanella's hands would recover, no way to know whether age was eroding Pee Wee Reese's skills, no way to know if any of the growing list of young pitchers would join Carl Erskine to comprise a consistent staff.\n\nThat only made the winning streaks and the earliest-ever clinching of a pennant sweeter. Amid the inevitable dissension that platooning can create, Alston juggled four players in and out of his regular lineup\u2014Robinson, Hoak, Zimmer, and Amoros.\n\nRobinson (his batting average plummeted to .256 on barely three hundred times at bat) and Hoak mostly shared third base. Zimmer played second mostly when Junior Gilliam was in left field.\n\nFor the first part of the season, Amoros was the pleasant surprise in his second full season with the team, batting well above .300 and fielding expertly. Edmundo Isasi Amoros had been a schoolboy star in pre-Castro Cuba, then a star on a provincial and then the national team. He had seen some action in the Negro Leagues and played at home during the winter, along with scores of players and coaches from the major and minor leagues. He was signed in 1952 by Fresco Thompson's chief scout at the time, Al Campanis.\n\nI took notice of Sandy Amoros almost immediately, because according to the information on his baseball card he was almost exactly the same size as my father\u2014about five feet, seven inches tall, weighing around 170 pounds. Both of them had large, in Amoros's case strong, legs, which helped him to accelerate quickly when he ran. I also took notice of his unusual batting stance. Just before the opposing pitcher started his windup, Amoros (who batted left-handed) would begin wiggling his bat. In the neighborhood parks, I quickly started wiggling my own bat\u2014without Amoros's results.\n\nIn addition to his emergence, the other noteworthy change in the Dodgers besides the addition of their highly publicized but rarely used \"bonus baby,\" Sandy Koufax, was the early summer arrival of two young pitchers from Montreal and St. Paul (their other Triple-A farm team)\u2014Roger Craig and Don Bessent. They promptly won both ends of a doubleheader against Cincinnati. They proceeded to combine for a 13\u20134 record the rest of the way, shoring up a pitching staff that gradually became hobbled with arm injuries and illness\u2014including Erskine, Podres, Loes, and Spooner.\n\nAmoros also began to wear down after he hurt his back seriously enough to have to play in a corset; his average dived into the mid-.200s. And, as if on cue after their early pennant clinching in September, the entire team seemed to slump.\n\nHere is how the _New York Post_ \u2014a favorite back then in my family for its liberal politics and bright sportswriting\u2014put it on the eve of the World Series: \"They talk about cold clubs going into the World Series. This Brooklyn team is probably the coldest on record. Duke Snider (he had forty-two for the year) and Roy Campanella (he hit thirty-two) haven't hit a homer since Labor Day, and Campanella hasn't hit one since late in August. Today's starter, Don Newcombe, won only two of his victories through August and September. Carl Erskine hasn't thrown a good curve since June and Johnny Podres has been knocked out of the box twelve straight times.\"\n\nTo further darken the atmosphere, the Dodgers had been taunted in public as perennial losers of big, late games. One insult was predictable and came from Joe DiMaggio on vacation abroad. But two were from closer to home\u2014from guest Series newspaper columnist, now-minor-league manager Charlie Dressen, and from a bitter Billy Cox, who had played his final season with the Orioles\u2014unlike Preacher Roe, who simply retired.\n\nThe Yankees, however, were not without major injury problems of their own. Mickey Mantle had pulled a thigh muscle late in the season running the bases against the Boston Red Sox. The injury left him barely able to walk, let alone run, as the Series approached. Hank Bauer was also hobbled by a bad leg.\n\nAmong the pitchers, the Yankees had won the pennant in large part behind excellent relief pitching from a home-grown talent, Tom Morgan, who appeared in forty games, and from one of those older stalwarts from other teams that the Yankees had a knack for acquiring: Jim Konstanty of the Whiz Kids Phillies, who had appeared in forty-five. Konstanty, however, was not on the World Series roster. The staff had pitched consistently well throughout the year and was not bothered by the late-season aches and pains that affected the Dodgers. This was the slight advantage that the Yankees had enjoyed previously; in 1955 it seemed more obvious ahead of time, which is why they were more clearly favored.\n\nBut by the time Game Seven began, the World Series had turned into a seesaw affair\u2014three wins for the Yankees at the Stadium, three for the Dodgers in Ebbets Field. In reality, it was more complicated than that, games within games, not a lot of hitting but a great deal of slugging; excellent pitching and ineffective pitching. The Dodgers scored first in each of the games except the sixth, the only one of them that wasn't close at least until the middle innings.\n\nBy now, I was studying the sports pages instead of merely looking at them. From the box scores, pictures, and headlines I had started reading the articles closely\u2014attracted by the material that went into the intricacies of games, repelled by the way the stories almost casually made players great heroes or dastardly goats from one day to the next.\n\nI was in the fifth grade, Mr. Kenney's class\u2014strict and fun. A younger man (he could throw a curveball), he organized his room into teams for the constant drilling in the fundamentals of grammar, spelling, punctuation, usage, and numbers on which the school based its elementary education. It was in his class also that I made my first stabs at expository writing, but this was in his American history lessons, and only after still more drilling in names, dates, places, and events.\n\nIt was in the arts that I had a chance to let go with feelings. On the piano, I preferred to take music apart and put it back together, a phrase or melody at a time; I tended to be technically proficient but flat in my playing. Mrs. MacMillan spent most of her time getting me to come out of my shell, to feel angry or excited or sad as appropriate.\n\nIt was on the stage where I found it more natural to lose myself in performance. This was the year when my parents' acquaintance at church suggested that they sign me up for the boys chorus auditions at the Metropolitan Opera. In those days, the opera was housed in an aging but magnificent structure at 39th Street and Broadway, an easy walk from the 42nd Street crosstown bus. The auditions were held in a large rehearsal room shared by ballet dancers as well as chorus members. On the day in question there were perhaps two hundred people in addition to my parents and me there\u2014probably half of them other parents, as well as a handful of quite stern-looking people from the opera and a pianist sitting at a beat-up Steinway upright very much like our own.\n\nMy parents never pushed me to do anything; they encouraged me. This was something I very much wanted to do. There was opera music all around me growing up, and I loved the way it took everything, from emotions to technical demands, to excess. I can't recall anything special about that morning or our bus trip across town, no elaborate preparations or sense of tension, just the audition itself. When my name was called, I went to the front of the big room, where each young singer had to belt out something slow (\"America the Beautiful\") and something fast (the title number from _Oklahoma_ ). I had never had lengthy instruction in voice, getting by on my fortunately natural sense of pitch, and I had always seemed to know that the trick to singing is to have absolutely no inhibitions of any kind, especially for choral work; you cannot hold anything back. I had not gotten much further than \"my honey, Lem and I\" in \"Oklahoma\" when the piano music suddenly stopped and a very large man\u2014the chorus boss, Kurt Adler, who eventually conducted during a distinguished career and turned out to be a kind teacher as well\u2014gruffly thanked me.\n\nI had auditioned before, but while I was used to the abrupt ending of my supreme efforts, I never quite knew how to feel when I was halted in midphrase. This was not one of those tryouts where they took your telephone number and said they would get back to you. After everyone had sung, the opera officials retired for what seemed like ten years before returning and reading a list of the names of boys who were asked to remain.\n\nWhen I heard my name, I remember glancing at my mother, who was in tears. I held one of her hands and my father held the other while the opera people passed out work permit forms my parents had to sign because of my age. They were then asked to leave, and within minutes, I and my new colleagues found ourselves standing on the stage where Enrico Caruso had worked, staring at a conductor's podium where Gustav Mahler had stood. The guy who was standing there was Dimitri Mitropolous, an austere tall man with not a hair on his head; he had conducted the New York Philharmonic, and now he was at the Met presiding over a walk-through of that year's production of _Tosca_. Maria Callas was standing on the stage next to one of the tenor stars of the day, Mario del Monaco, and I wasn't ten feet away. There was no rehearsing that day; the staff had simply wanted to give us a taste of what we had in store. I would have been more impressed, but I had no idea\u2014yet\u2014who these majestic people who carried themselves so regally were.\n\nI flew up Broadway to the crosstown bus. It was a different era in New York. Now that I was in the fifth grade, I was entitled to one of the bus passes the city issued through the schools, and at the ripe age of nine I could go by myself; the rules were no subways alone and never out after five. At the apartment I was clutched and quizzed on every detail of my first day and then walked up to Schrafft's for the special treat of supper out.\n\nMy own good fortune was in contrast to my father's declining health that year. After the war, he had at least managed to sell a half-dozen freelance articles in a decent year. In 1955, though, he was off his feet a lot and had to be hospitalized twice for internal bleeding. By then, I knew too much about bleeding ulcers for a nine-year-old, but now I started to hear about how gallbladders, colons, and livers worked\u2014or, in his case, didn't. Our apartment was so small that it made no sense to conceal any of this from me; it was all around me all the time. Instead of hiding it, my parents talked to me about it, trying to explain what was going on. It gave me a feeling of being involved, even if I didn't completely understand what they were talking about. By then I was as used to the routine as continually frustrated by it. With the pile of medical bills always high, it was my pay envelope that gave me a sense of meaningful participation in the family, however puny the proceeds actually were from perhaps ten performances and as many rehearsals a month.\n\nAfter malaria, the first disease my father had been attacked by, with more ferocity than any Japanese soldier went after him with, was dengue fever. It is a virus carried by a mosquito that produces a rather brutal flu, but which can also produce dangerous complications that involve internal damage as well. He also had several bouts with bacterial and viral enemies that at that time had no name in western medicine. None of the ailments knocked him out for more than a couple of weeks, but after the war his susceptibility to internal bleeding was the dominant medical fact of his life. Throughout my childhood his treatment was symptomatic, his surgeries essentially emergency; but neither the Veterans Administration nor any doctor who would see him could figure out how to \"cure\" him. To my parents, I think the endless pile of bills was especially onerous because it appeared to have no lasting purpose.\n\nMy life was now a delightful mess of varied activity, with that always present cloud of confusion and sadness, which only made the Dodgers more special to me\u2014as both refuge and cause. I can still remember the dread, though, with which the approaching World Series filled me. Don Newcombe and Carl Erskine were both tired and hurting from the long season; I could think about baseball now, not merely root, and I could not think of a way for them to win this time.\n\nI could, however, think of so many ways for them to lose. Their three defeats in Yankee Stadium that historic year were straight from the Dodgers-Yankees textbook of frustration\u2014a seesaw affair that inexorably slipped away and two overwhelmingly dominant pitching performances to support just enough runs in one case and a first-inning explosion in the other.\n\nWith hindsight and fifty years of contemplation, it was the Dodgers' three victories at Ebbets Field that were a bit unusual\u2014initially a refusal to quit, at the plate and on the mound, and then a two-game combination of timely slugging and clutch pitching.\n\nThe fact that it was the Dodgers who scored first off Whitey Ford in Game One meant absolutely nothing; I had seen all that before. It surprised me, however, that Ford did not appear his usual masterful self that day. In the second inning, Carl Furillo had no sooner stepped up to bat than he hit a line drive to the opposite field that made the right field seats in no time. With one out, Jackie Robinson then hit another wicked line drive, this one into the gap in left-center field, which for him was an easy triple. When Don Zimmer followed with a single, the Dodgers actually led 2\u20130.\n\nIt was a lead Newcombe could not hold. With one out in the same inning, first baseman Joe Collins walked and Elston Howard then pounced on a not-very-fast ball, sending it into the left-field seats to tie the game.\n\nThe torture continued the next inning, when Duke Snider led off with a tremendous home run that made it into the upper deck in right field. That happy blast was then wasted when Newcombe blew an easy out and walked Whitey Ford, who came around to score after two groundouts and a single by Hank Bauer.\n\nInevitably, or so it seemed to me, the Yankees went ahead in the third on a Joe Collins home run and chased Newcombe from the game when Collins hit another one in the sixth inning (his second Series hit and second Series home run in the first game turned out to be the only hits he would get). For decades, Newcombe has been unfairly maligned as a poor performer in World Series games. Because of his military service, this was in fact only the third Series game he had pitched since his more-than-decent outings in 1949; he would pitch but one more the following year. More than any other pitcher of the postwar period, Newcombe was the reason the Dodgers were in the World Series in the first place.\n\nAfter the Collins home run, Newcombe yielded a triple to Billy Martin on a line drive that went over Junior Gilliam's head in left field, and then turned the ball over to rookie Don Bessent. With Eddie Robinson pinch-hitting for Phil Rizzuto, Martin then took off in an attempt to steal home. The pictures taken from the right side near the Yankee dugout appear to show the sliding Martin sneaking the toe of his shoe across the plate before Campanella fell on him; from the left, they appear to show Campanella successfully blocking the plate. The view that counted was that of umpire Bill Summers, who called Martin out. As the two players jumped to their feet, the ever-aggressive Martin nearly elbowed Campanella in the head and then glared at him, but the Dodger catcher ignored the challenge and left the field.\n\nThe Dodgers got excellent relief pitching from Bessent and then Clem Labine but could not take advantage of subsequent opportunities to tie the game. It became a one-run affair in the eighth inning under dramatic circumstances. Carl Furillo, having singled and moved to third on an error by Gil McDougald on a ball hit by Robinson, scored on a sacrifice fly to Mickey Mantle's replacement, Irv Noren, by Don Zimmer (his second run batted in of the game).\n\nWith Jackie Robinson on third base and Frank Kellert (a throw-in in the Billy Cox-Preacher Roe deal with Baltimore) pinch-hitting for Bessent, Robinson executed his famous and controversial steal of home. Robinson said he attempted the steal (at the age of thirty-six) in an effort to ignite his teammates in what was now a close game.\n\nThe ignition almost happened in their last at-bat, with Bob Grim on to pitch the ninth inning for the Yankees. With one out, Duke Snider lined a fastball into right field for a single. Roy Campanella was next. Another fastball came from Grim, and this one Campanella almost punched toward right field, a fly ball that appeared to be drifting closer and closer to the seats. For an instant it looked like the go-ahead home run might have been hit, at least until the ball dropped into Hank Bauer's glove just in front of the stands\u2014a frustrating end to another frustrating game.\n\nGame Two was equally frustrating\u2014another lost opportunity for Billy Loes to win an important game, and a chance for Tommy Byrne to show that he was back in control. After three well-pitched innings by both men, it was once again the Dodgers who broke in front\u2014on a double by Reese and a single by Snider.\n\nLoes then proceeded to have a nightmare of an inning, as all nine Yankees came to bat, with four of them scoring on a walk, a hit batsman, and five singles. The Yankees then proceeded to do nothing for the rest of the game against Bessent, Labine, and especially Spooner, who gave up just one hit and struck out five in three innings of work that suggested to Walter Alston (fatefully) that he might be good for one starting assignment in the Series despite his long season of arm troubles.\n\nThe four runs, however, were all Tommy Byrne needed. He was a bit wild (five walks during the game), but the Dodgers grounded out and popped up when it counted. After a run in the fifth inning, their bats also fell silent.\n\nByrne's complete game victory was the first by a left-hander in the entire season against the Dodgers; in fact, no left-hander had done it since an exceptional performance by Joe Nuxhall of Cincinnati the year before. Their actual record against lefties was 5\u20136, but as that statistic shows, the Dodgers rarely faced them, so intimidating was their right-handed power, especially in hitter-friendly Ebbets Field.\n\nAs the Series moved across the East River, there was far more talk about the fact that no team in fifty-two years of postseason play had come back to win after losing the first two games than there was bravado about going back to Brooklyn.\n\nBefore the Series began, all the papers had stories saying that Carl Erskine would start the third game. He had not had a spectacular season, and the wear and tear of throwing hard with such a relatively small body had been unusually severe. It was a surprise, however, when Alston suddenly went on a hunch and announced that instead of Erskine, he would pitch Johnny Podres\u2014on his twenty-third birthday. The one good thing about the surprise was that it gave Podres little time to get scared. Before the game, the Ebbets Field announcer, Tex Rickard, announced to the crowd it was his birthday, and Gladys Gooding (the Larry MacPhail innovation who had become a New York sports institution) banged out \"Happy Birthday\" on the organ.\n\nAlston also did something else that was unusual for this normally taciturn, direct man. He called a meeting of the team before the game, simply to tell them that he thought they were just as good as the Yankees and that he had faith in their ability. According to Jackie Robinson, whose occasional clashes with the manager had been much-publicized, it was an unusual gesture both noted and appreciated.\n\nPodres aside, there was much more pregame attention paid to his opponent that last day of September.\n\nBob Turley, who had turned twenty-five just eleven days earlier, had come to the Yankees over the previous winter in a big trade with Baltimore, along with another young pitcher who would become famous the following year\u2014Don Larsen. To get them, the Yankees unloaded six players\u2014including an aging Gene Woodling and two promising catchers, Gus Triandos and Hal Smith (who would burn the Yankees severely with a home run as a Pirate in the 1960 World Series).\n\nTurley, a very large man, had been one of the mainstays of the pitching staff in 1955, winning seventeen games and leading the league in innings pitched. He threw very hard (his nickname on the sports pages was Bullet Bob), and he was an innovator. Instead of waving his arms down and up before throwing, he became a pioneer of what was called the no-windup delivery\u2014starting with his hands at his waist and simply rocking back and then forward as he threw.\n\nIn the first of two games that Brooklyn could not afford to lose, it was Turley who faltered first. Podres had no trouble getting the Yankees in order to open the game, but in the Dodger half of the inning, after a one-out walk to Reese and a Snider strikeout, Roy Campanella jumped on a very fat pitch (after the game he said it was a fastball that wasn't fast) and hit a line drive home run into the bleachers in left-center field.\n\nThere was too much history to allow for anything resembling confidence this early, and the point was promptly demonstrated in the Yankee half of the second inning, when Mickey Mantle jumped on a Podres fastball and sent it more than four hundred feet into the center-field bleachers. (Despite his horrible leg injury, Mantle gamely played this contest and the next one as well.)\n\nPerhaps unnerved, Podres repeated his mistake to Bill Skowron, who hit a sharp double down the left-field line. That brought Alston to the dugout telephone and Don Bessent up in the Dodger bullpen to throw. Podres kept Skowron on second base for two outs\u2014a ground ball to Jackie Robinson at third base by Elston Howard and a Billy Martin strikeout\u2014but with Phil Rizzuto due up, Alston took the slow walk to the mound.\n\nThe manager did not want to walk Rizzuto intentionally, even though Turley was up next, in hopes that the pitcher would be the first, nearly automatic out of the next inning. Alston told Podres not to make any more fat pitches.\n\nThe pitch to Rizzuto was low and inside, but the Yankee veteran nonetheless hit it cleanly into left field for a single. Skowron never hesitated as he rounded third base, but the left fielder\u2014Sandy Amoros in his World Series debut\u2014fielded the ball cleanly and let loose a perfect throw that Campanella caught well up the line from home plate as he braced for the coming collision.\n\nIt was less a collision between two big men than it was a perfectly placed collision between Skowron's left elbow and Campanella's mitt. The ball went flying toward the Dodger dugout as Skowron scored and the alert Rizzuto kept running around second base and into third.\n\nThe Dodgers then got a break. Instead of rolling around on the ground (backing up home plate, Podres couldn't see where it had gone), the ball landed in a special Series section next to the dugout that was constructed for the bulky television cameras of that primitive time. That made the play automatically over, and instead of scoring easily, Rizzuto had to go back to third base. With Turley coming up, the score was still tied.\n\nPodres's pitch to his counterpart was hit on the ground right back at him, but it bounced high and Podres had to reach for it. Had it gotten past him, Alston would have taken Podres out of the game and the history of 1955 might have been very different.\n\nThe inning persuaded Campanella to start calling for more changeups from his young charge. As Pee Wee Reese explained the strategy after the game, \"Speed alone won't beat the Yankees; you have to give them that soft stuff and mix it up.\"\n\nThe Dodgers did not permit the game to remain tied for long. In their half of the inning, Turley stumbled and then fell from Casey Stengel's grace, the Yankee manager deciding that he didn't have his best stuff that cloudy day. By now, Mickey Mantle's leg was hurting so badly that he moved to less demanding right field, sending Howard to left and Bob Cerv over to center field.\n\nThe Dodger eruption occurred with one out, and the catalyst, as he would be all day, was Jackie Robinson, who singled up the middle. His unnerving dance off first base upset Turley enough so that he hit Amoros in the leg. To make matters and Turley's composure worse, Johnny Podres (of all people) laid a bunt down toward third base that kept spinning toward the foul line as Turley lunged after it. Everyone was safe and the bases were loaded.\n\nAs ever, Robinson began his famous dance off third base, upsetting the young Yankee pitcher. Obviously bothered, Turley walked Junior Gilliam on five pitches, Robinson trotted home, and Turley left the game for Tom Morgan. Before the Yankee reliever could settle down and get out of the inning, he walked Reese to force in a second run.\n\nThat was all the Dodgers would need, but they kept pressing, getting two more runs in the fourth inning on a walk, two singles, and a sacrifice fly. Another two-run outburst occurred in the seventh, sparked once again by Jackie Robinson. With Tom Sturdivant now in the game (the fourth Yankee pitcher), he hit a line drive down the third-base line for an obvious double and then took advantage of a rookie mistake by Elston Howard to execute a classic Jackie Robinson maneuver. Often, when running the bases, he would take a deceptively wide turn, lure an outfielder into throwing behind him, and then take off for the next base.\n\nThat was exactly what happened to Howard, who had just made an excellent leaping catch that robbed Gil Hodges of at least extra bases, if not a home run. When Howard had chased the ball Robinson hit down, he noticed the Dodger star had gone several steps beyond second base, and quickly fired the ball there, hoping to throw him out before he could return to the bag. Instead, there was a cloud of dust at third base. Robinson then went into his patented dance and came home on a solid single to right field by Sandy Amoros.\n\nAs he put it with characteristically sharp wit after the game, \"I must admit I had a pretty good day for an old, gray fat man.\"\n\nJohnny Podres allowed but one Yankee run after the nearly disastrous second inning. In his living room all those years later, he told me that he normally threw his changeup four or five times in a game, as a way of setting up the curves and fastballs he used to get hitters out; on this occasion, he said, Campanella called for it more than twenty times.\n\nThe second time Mickey Mantle came to bat, after his prodigious home run, Podres threw him a low changeup, which Mantle grounded to Robinson at third. The third time, there were runners on first and second with no one out in the sixth inning when Mantle grounded the changeup right at Reese to begin a double play. The last time, in the eighth, there was another ground ball to Robinson. The final score was 8\u20133.\n\nBob Cerv, normally a decent hitter, struck out three times. As Billy Martin, who had nothing to show for four at-bats, put it later, \"I tried everything, including running up on him, but I couldn't do a thing with it.\"\n\nFor a change, it had been a pleasant afternoon in my school gym with my two friends and Mr. Kenney. I had absorbed and been taught the entire history of the team's struggles, but I had not learned that up to that point, after forty-five World Series games going all the way back to 1916, they had never won one by more than four runs.\n\nHaving seen his young, competitive pitcher at the top of his game, Alston told Podres in the dressing room afterward that if there was a seventh game, he would start it. The trick was getting to a seventh game.\n\nThe prospect of trying to tie the World Series in Brooklyn via the Game Four pitching matchup of Carl Erskine and Don Larsen was superficially comforting but factually disturbing. Erskine's wins had dipped to eleven that year, and the wear and tear on his relatively slight frame had been considerable. He had labored down the stretch, and he was hurting. He was also famously gutsy; he would give the start all he had, but the uncertainty surrounding his impending outing was considerable on the eve of another game the Dodgers simply had to win.\n\nBy contrast, Don Larsen was a relatively unknown commodity. The less-publicized part of the Bob Turley deal, Larsen had pitched decently for the Yankees, winning nine and losing just two in his third full season, with a low earned-run average (3.06) after nearly 130 innings of work. He was also a very big man (Erskine's head barely cleared Larsen's shoulders in the pregame posing) but he pitched with more guile than power.\n\nThis time, it was the Yankees who scored first. We were watching at the apartment of my father's writer-friend in the neighborhood\u2014children on the floor in front of the set, adults arrayed on a few folding chairs behind them. Television was not yet in nearly every American home. There was nothing unusual in an apartment or on a city block during a major event about an open door with friends and neighbors wandering in and out. My parents and I didn't move once.\n\nThe mobile antenna on top of the set had just been adjusted for the best reception when Gil McDougald jumped on a pitch and put it into the left-center field bleachers. It appeared from the beginning that Erskine was anything but overpowering that day; the third out of the dispiriting inning was a wicked line drive by Yogi Berra right at Duke Snider.\n\nThere was more trouble in the second inning. This time, Erskine walked Joe Collins. Elston Howard sacrificed him to second, and a ground ball out to second by Billy Martin moved Collins to third. He scored on a single by Rizzuto\u2014one of those agonizing ground balls that seemed to take forever to bounce just past the best efforts of Pee Wee Reese to get to it.\n\nThe Dodgers got one of the runs back in their half of the third inning on a delightful play that I remember. Sandy Amoros (playing left field again with a right-handed pitcher on the mound) walked. With one out, Alston decided to play run-and-hit, and with Amoros moving on Larsen's pitch, Junior Gilliam sent a sharply hit ball into the left-field corner. Amoros never slowed down, rounding second, rounding third, and sliding home well ahead of the throw to Berra. It was fun to watch Amoros run; he was built low to the ground and seemed to pick up speed as he ran.\n\nThe Yankees, however, quickly scored another, frustrating run. A single by Berra and a walk to Collins brought Alston to the mound and Don Bessent into the game to pitch. Erskine did not have any real power behind his pitches that day. Because of his record and reputation, the fabled Oisk never drew boos from the fans; it was, simply, sad. After the game, Erskine said in the papers that he was in no condition to pitch anymore that year.\n\nAt first, it appeared the Dodgers might keep the Yankees from scoring more runs. Howard bunted a Bessent pitch too sharply, enabling the pitcher to throw Berra out at third. However, Joe Collins noticed that the Dodgers were not paying enough attention to him as he led off second base and alertly stole third. Billy Martin then sliced a ball weakly into right field that Furillo could not reach before it dropped in for a run-scoring single that gave the Yankees back their two-run lead.\n\nIt didn't last long. Roy Campanella was the leadoff batter in the fourth inning, and he hit a line drive that reached the left-field seats in a split second, it was hit so hard. Furillo then hit a ground ball that bounced over Larsen's head and he was safe at first base before Rizzuto could pick it up. That set the stage for a very long home run by my hero, Gil Hodges, that soared above the large scoreboard in right-center field and for the first time gave the Dodgers the lead.\n\nThe Dodgers very nearly lost it in the fifth inning. A walk and two singles loaded the bases with two out and sent Alston out to the mound once again, to replace Bessent with Labine. Disaster was averted when Joe Collins hit a routine ground ball to second baseman Junior Gilliam's reliable glove.\n\nIt was at about this point in the game that one of my favorite foul balls ever was hit. I can't remember which Yankee hit it, but it was a very high pop-up that drifted near the Yankee dugout. As the television camera followed Roy Campanella's pursuit of it, it became clear the ball was going to land next to the Yankee dugout in box seats filled with big shots. It not only did; it came down right on owner Del Webb's head. My mother had a high-pitched giggle when she really let loose, and she really let loose at Webb's discomfort. She had the most infectious laugh, radiating delight.\n\nThe Dodgers' power erupted again in their half of the fifth inning. Gilliam led off by walking and then stealing second. Larsen then fell behind Reese, throwing two balls far out of the strike zone; that was enough for Casey Stengel, who replaced him with Johnny Kucks, a promising Yankee rookie that year. He got Reese to hit a ground ball, but it was wide of first and though Collins fielded it, Reese was safe, while Gilliam scampered to third.\n\nDuke Snider then hit his third home run of the Series to put the Dodgers ahead, 7\u20133. It was the kind of hit for which Snider was famous\u2014a beautiful arching fly ball that went far above the forty-foot wall with the screen on top of it in right field and on into Bedford Avenue beyond. In contrast to Willie Mays (an explosive ballplayer who specialized in spectacular plays in the field, at the plate, or running the bases) and Mickey Mantle (who exuded glamour as well as power), Duke Snider above all displayed grace as the complement to his skill. In the papers he could come off sometimes as brooding, even insecure, but the person on the field made the improbable seem almost easy.\n\nHe had come from very little in California. Snider was raised in a working-family section of Los Angeles called Boyle Heights, a kind of mini-Brooklyn. It is near downtown and he would have walked as a boy through the nearby hilly neighborhood that would eventually contain Dodger Stadium. Both he and his dad served in the Pacific during the war at the same time. Each niche along his career path was earned the hard way and life was tough for his parents. His father handled dangerous, white-hot equipment at a Goodyear rubber plant. His mom packed pieces of cardboard into his sneakers so they would last longer.\n\nSnider's development as an athlete (his role model was center fielder Jigger Statz of the minor-league Los Angeles Angels) began with his dad, who first called him Duke and forced his reluctant naturally right-handed kid to bat lefty so he would be a step closer to first base. At high school in Compton, where he played three sports, his reputation was enhanced by the glowing articles penned for the Long Beach paper by one of his classmates, a young man whose public relations talents eventually served another sport, professional football, with huge consequences for the country's culture\u2014Pete Rozelle. Eventually, Snider was one of the other rookies on the Dodgers in 1947, the year of Jackie Robinson.\n\nYears later, in his justly praised autobiography, Snider offered a compelling summary of what was going on in the country while he was hitting yet another titanic home run in the clutch of a key game in a special World Series:\n\n\"The Yankees were admired but the Dodgers were loved. The Yankees were the ultimate professionals\u2014they even wore pinstripes. We were the colorful, scrappy underdogs. Somebody said rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for General Motors, but the whole world had a great time rooting for the Dodgers. We sounded like an assortment of characters straight out of Damon Runyon and in many ways we were... The sports world has never again seen the likes of Brooklyn and its Dodgers in the 1940s and '50s.\"\n\nSnider's blast gave Clem Labine a soft cushion of a lead, but he let the Yankees back into contention with a rough sixth inning\u2014singles by Howard and pinch-hitter Eddie Robinson, and a long double that Billy Martin hit over Snider's head produced two more runs.\n\nThe Dodgers got one of them back in their half of the seventh inning on singles by Campanella, Furillo, and Hodges, and this proved to be all Labine needed to finish the game as the winning pitcher, the first World Series victory in an already important career, and especially sweet after the two games in which he was charged with losses in 1953. The Series was now tied.\n\nThe fifth game was played on Sunday, October 2. My father normally got the _Post_ and _Times_ on Sundays (he usually put on a long raincoat over his pajamas for the trudge to the stand on the corner of 42nd and Second), but on this day he picked up the _Daily Mirror_ as well because it usually contained far more pictures and we were hungry for pictures in the wake of the previous day's slugfest.\n\nIt seemed incredible to me that I was going to the game, but it was not completely clear whom I was going to see pitch. The general consensus was that the most rested Dodger pitcher was Roger Craig, who had won several important games in the latter part of the season as a rookie after so many of the other pitchers began to wear down. For the Yankees, the speculation seemed to center on Bob Grim, who had only pitched the final inning of Game One (a crucial outing in a one-run game), but until I saw them both warming up at Ebbets Field the issue was in doubt.\n\nOur neighbor came over for a late breakfast that morning. When she arrived I was already dressed, wearing one of the two sports jackets I had for school; given my mother's fastidiousness, I considered myself lucky not to have a tie on as well. For the game, she made us sandwiches and stuffed them into a shopping bag along with apples, cookies, and two paper cups for water.\n\nAs a clue to how excited I was, I can remember being on the subway with my wonderful benefactor for the trip across the East River to Brooklyn, and I can remember even more clearly walking into the bleachers and seeing the red, white, and blue bunting on all the railings. This may have been the first World Series broadcast in the fledgling technology of color, but I was unaware of that and, at any rate, had never seen the images on a color television. This was the first moment I experienced the pageantry of the World Series, and it was majestic.\n\nWe took our seats about twenty rows up in the bleachers behind left-center field. By then I was used to the view, which I liked because you could see the entire field.\n\nDown near the field, there was a brief, very Brooklyn, epilogue to the foul ball incident the previous day. In the Yankee box, Del Webb was presented with a business card by a local undertaker, Michael Smith, emblazoned with his title, Mike the Merry Mortician. On the way into the ballpark, I had also spotted Hilda Chester holding court. With so many famous and important people at the World Series, she was bellowing the news that she not only had dressed up a bit but also was wearing a special perfume\u2014Chanel Minus Five.\n\nI was much too excited to want to keep score that day, and I don't believe we had a program (not that I needed one), because my mother would have saved it. We waited for the game to begin.\n\nRoger Craig was twenty-five that season, a very tall, very skinny man who spoke with the accent of a Durham, North Carolinian. The previous season he had been pitching in the Piedmont League and was barely three months removed from the minor leagues in Montreal. He was not particularly fast but specialized in pitching low (he would later get credit for helping develop the split-fingered fastball); in ninety innings of work, he had compiled an excellent 2.78 earned-run average.\n\nGrim, more of a stocky man, was also twenty-five and more of a power pitcher. In his rookie season the year before, the native New Yorker had won twenty games, a most unusual feat. His arm troubles earlier that season, however, had created the opening for Tommy Byrne to have his remarkable comeback year.\n\nThe first thing I was conscious of as the game began was how much more vocal the crowd was. Ebbets Field was not a quiet place under normal circumstances, but in a World Series game people were reacting to every pitch. The tension in the air was palpable.\n\nAfter an uneventful first inning, it was the Yankees who threatened first as the second inning began. Craig walked Joe Collins (playing right field that day so Stengel could have an extra left-handed hitter in the lineup against a right-handed pitcher) and then first baseman Eddie Robinson. To make the threat greater, Billy Martin hit a little squib in front of home plate; by the time Craig picked it up and threw him out, both runners had advanced to second and third with only one out.\n\nThe threat quickly ended, though, when Rizzuto hit a pop-up to Gil Hodges and Grim grounded to Jackie Robinson.\n\nIn the Dodgers' half of the second, with one out, Hodges got their first hit\u2014a sharply hit single in front of us in left field. That brought Sandy Amoros to the plate. In the distance, I could see him in the stance I loved to mimic on the sandlots\u2014a slight crouch, bat in tight and wiggling as Grim made his pitch.\n\nThe ball was clearly going to be a home run the instant Amoros hit it; I had spent enough time in the bleachers to know that a ball that gets past the infield that high and that quickly is guaranteed to clear the high fence in right field. As it happened, there was a roar in Ebbets Field unlike any I had ever heard; you could almost feel the noise vibrations, which followed Amoros all around the bases.\n\nThe noise was even louder the next time the Dodgers came up. The leadoff hitter was Snider, who swung as if he been waiting specially for the fat fastball Grim threw him. The ball went almost exactly where Amoros had hit his\u2014to straightaway right field, way over the screen, and on into Bedford Avenue, where kids often waited with their gloves on in hopes of catching a home run ball. I was concentrating on the spectacle so fiercely that I don't remember much about being with our neighbor from 2509 in the bleachers. I do, however, remember her words as Snider circled the bases. \"Isn't it wonderful,\" she said, an exclamation a bit demure for bleacher fans like me.\n\nCraig was pitching well, but he was not overpowering; the Yankees were getting their chances, one of which produced a run in the fourth inning. Yogi Berra pulled a line drive off the scoreboard in right-center field, which would have been at least a double anywhere else, but with Furillo playing the carom and unleashing a typically hard throw back to the infield, Berra immediately stopped at first. With one out, Craig walked Robinson, whereupon the first Yankee run of the day scored on a single by Billy Martin.\n\nBack came the Dodgers the following inning. With one out this time, Snider did it again\u2014a towering blast that was hit more toward center field and easily cleared the scoreboard. This time the roar followed him all the way into the dugout. It was not just his second home run of the game; it was his fourth in five games of the Series, the second time he had accomplished this feat in a World Series, something no one had ever done; only Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig had hit four home runs in a single Series to that point.\n\nThe Yankees were not finished. Bob Cerv made it 4\u20132 in the top of the seventh, hitting a Craig fastball into the deck above us in the bleachers. When the next batter, Elston Howard, walked, Walter Alston removed his rookie, who had given him six solid innings, in favor (once again) of Clem Labine, whom the Dodgers were beginning to realize indeed had a \"rubber arm.\"\n\nHe was not, however, initially effective. When Yogi Berra poked a ball over the screen in right field to open the eighth inning, it had become a tense 4\u20133 ball game.\n\nThe so-called insurance run that the Dodgers then proceeded to manufacture was a thing of baseball beauty. With Bob Turley now pitching, Carl Furillo began the inning by hitting a sharp ground ball that bounced off Martin's glove at second for a single.\n\nThe proof that Alston was content to play for one run came when the next batter, the mighty Gil Hodges, followed orders and laid down a perfect sacrifice bunt in Turley's direction to move Furillo into scoring position at second. He scored when a Jackie Robinson ground ball just made it past a lunging Phil Rizzuto into left field for a single.\n\nI distinctly remember the tension as the ninth inning began, but it dissipated almost immediately as the Yankees went meekly in order. Normally, baseball etiquette calls for handshakes after any game short of the Series finale, but I can still see Labine doing a little jump near the mound after the third out (a Howard ground ball to Gilliam). To that moment, Labine had been every bit as important a pitcher as Podres, getting a win and a save in the final two Brooklyn games. The Dodgers still faced the jinx of trying to become the first team to win it all after losing the first two games, but they had just become the first team to win three straight after being in that hole.\n\nThe real obstacle to that final historically elusive victory, as always, was pitching. Neither Newcombe nor Erskine was available anymore, which meant that for Game Six Alston had a choice among Loes, Spooner, and Meyer for the unenviable task of opposing Whitey Ford. Alston's choice of Karl Spooner is still second-guessed, but the fact is that he pitched very well in relief during Game Two and had been reported to be throwing well by Dixie Howell as he warmed up for a call that never came during the second of the games in Brooklyn.\n\nThe first inning of Game Six is a famous disaster in Dodger lore. What is sometimes forgotten is how tantalizingly close the plays were that produced it.\n\nIt was certainly Spooner's fault that he began the bottom of the first inning by walking Rizzuto. But while he was striking Billy Martin out, Junior Gilliam was late covering second when the Yankee shortstop took off on a steal attempt; he caught the quick throw by Campanella in front of the bag (that could have been the second out). Spooner then made the mistake of walking Gil McDougald.\n\nThe next three hits that ended his afternoon each came on two-strike pitches. The first, a run-producing single by Berra, was especially painful; it appeared to have eyes, bouncing over Spooner's outstretched glove and just under Gilliam's on its way into center field (it was almost a double-play ball). The second was another run-producing single by Hank Bauer (playing despite his bad leg for the first time since Game Two).\n\nThe third hit was an excruciating three-run home run on an outside pitch by Bill Skowron. It was a line drive that just made the seats in short-right field. On came Russ Meyer, and Spooner tragically never pitched in the major leagues again. Meyer was nearly flawless for five-plus innings, as was Ed Roebuck over the last two, giving the second-guessers a field day. For the Yankees, Ford's magnificent four-hitter, his first complete game in the World Series, meant the entire rest of the Yankee staff would be fresh for the seventh game.\n\nFor the Dodgers and their fans, Game Six meant a return to their traditional deflated state. That was the other reason a 1\u20130 lead after five innings meant only that the torture was now beyond severe. None of us imagined that it was about to get much, much greater.\n\n## 12\n\n## The Longest Inning\n\nIn the official summary of the seventh game of the 1955 World Series, the time of the game is listed at two hours, forty-four minutes. It felt as if it took more like two years, but of those one hundred sixty-four minutes, at least forty of them were consumed by one of the oddest, most exciting, and most enervating baseball innings ever.\n\nWhen it had ended, the score hadn't changed much, but it could no longer be ignored. There was no longer any question that the Dodgers really were ahead. I remember feeling mostly exhausted by it but more than a little aware that however historically weird it looked, good things had actually been happening, however difficult it was to accept that.\n\nIn all, eleven men came to bat in the famous sixth, seven for the Dodgers. There were only two base hits, each of them on the cheap side. The hardest hit ball was an out. There was one very serious error that made possible the only run scored during the long inning. There were two critical substitutions that will keep discussions of the managers' strategy alive forever. There was one defensive play so spectacular that it is among the handful of old World Series highlights still being replayed for disbelieving audiences. And throughout it all, there was this twenty-three-year-old pitcher who maintained his composure and his concentration through a series of ultimate distractions to continue his domination of the game.\n\nNaturally, it all started with Pee Wee Reese, the Dodgers' captain, who to that point had the questionable distinction of being the only person in baseball history to have played through five World Series and been on the same, losing side each and every time through each and every inning\u2014each and every time to the same team.\n\nTommy Byrne, still pitching smoothly and just as effectively as Johnny Podres had been, threw Reese a challenging pitch, down low in the strike zone. He hit it on the ground. It bounced past the mound and then kept on bouncing past second base and into center field, past the converging lunges of Phil Rizzuto and Billy Martin.\n\nIt was only the third hit that Byrne had given up to that point, the other two having produced the lone Dodger run in the fourth inning. It was also the only occasion in the entire game when the Dodgers got their leadoff man on base. Duke Snider\u2014with forty-two home runs that season plus his record-setting four more in the Series\u2014was up next.\n\nFrom the Dodger dugout Walter Alston flashed the sign to his third-base coach, Billy Herman: sacrifice. Herman in turn flashed it to Snider, who touched his cap in acknowledgment. The years-earlier incident with Burt Shotton was still fresh in Snider's mind; the instruction to bunt also made perfect sense and had been used two days before in Brooklyn on a power hitter, when a bunt by Gil Hodges set up the Dodgers' insurance run in the pivotal fifth game. As Snider saw it very clearly, Alston was looking for one more run and was not interested in gambling on a big inning. If the Dodgers could get that run, it would take the option of one-run baseball away from the Yankees; instead of using the sacrifice to help get one run in, they would need to swing away with men on base, risking double plays.\n\nThe Dodger strategy was logical, but it remained an open question whether Snider could succeed in bunting the ball into fair territory, softly enough to get Reese safely to second base. We all have our weaknesses, even superstars, and Snider's were batting against left-handed pitchers and bunting, and now he was being instructed to bunt against a very good left-handed pitcher.\n\nAs Byrne went into his stretch to hold down Reese's lead off first, Snider prepared to bunt. In baseball language, they call it squaring away, which means directly facing the pitcher with the bat held out over the plate. Snider, however, was not so much squaring away as facing third base, the direction in which he intended to bunt the ball. As usually happens at the beginning of such a play, there is a ballet in the infield, as the third baseman (Gil McDougald) and first baseman (Bill Skowron) charge the plate, while the second baseman (Billy Martin) moves to cover first and the shortstop (Phil Rizzuto) runs over to cover second.\n\nSnider bunted the ball perfectly, to the third-base side of the pitcher's mound and softly. Byrne, an excellent fielding pitcher, got to the ball quickly. When he picked it up, the old film of the play shows him pausing very briefly to look at Reese running toward second, deciding in an instant that a throw there might be too late, and throwing the ball directly at first base. Seeing that Snider was totally committed to bunting in the other direction, Skowron had stopped his charge and was still moving back to the bag when Byrne's throw reached him.\n\nSkowron was perhaps one step in front of the bag when he caught the ball one-handed in his glove. With Snider almost upon him in the baseline, he made a sweeping motion to record the out by tagging the Dodger center fielder. Glove and ball touched Snider on his chest, and the motion more than any hard collision kept Skowron turning clockwise.\n\nTo the surprise of Snider, Skowron, and everyone watching the game, the ball then came flying out of his glove as he turned, and bounced back across the infield. After assuming Snider would be out, I remember being puzzled by Skowron's odd behavior as he looked around for the ball; that was the indication that Snider had in fact been safe. It was a ball Skowron definitely should have held on to, so the play was properly ruled an error by the first baseman.\n\nNow there were Dodgers on first and second, no one was out, and that is called a threat. Roy Campanella was coming up\u2014thirty-two home runs on the season and another two in the World Series\u2014but there was no doubt at all now that another sacrifice bunt was coming. With two men on base, this is a somewhat more difficult play to stop, because the third baseman must stay close to his bag for a possible throw, putting more of a burden on the pitcher to make the fielding play.\n\nAs Byrne delivered his pitch, Campanella was truly squared around to bunt, and he did so cleanly, a bit closer to the third-base line than Snider's bunt had been. Byrne fielded the ball cleanly; again, he looked at both runners but quickly made his decision and his throw\u2014to Billy Martin covering first base. The ball was caught this time and the first out of the inning recorded.\n\nNow, however, there were runners on second and third, with just the one out, and more power due up in the person of Carl Furillo. With Bob Grim warming up in the Yankee bullpen, the situation virtually dictated that Furillo be walked intentionally to create a possible force out at any base or a double play on a ground ball. Byrne got the signal from Berra and threw Furillo four outside pitches, at which point Casey Stengel made the slow trudge to the mound.\n\nByrne told me he wanted to remain in the game to pitch to the next batter, Gil Hodges. He still felt strong, had excellent control, and could thus be counted on to keep his throws low.\n\nThe other point of view is called playing the percentages in baseball. In those days especially, long before today's bewildering assortment of breaking and sinking pitches, it was a truism that right-handed hitters batted more effectively against left-handed pitchers (and vice versa) because the curveball breaks toward their swing. Stengel was a notorious, and successful, percentage player as the Yankee manager; he asked for the ball and made a slight flick of his right wrist, the signal to bring Grim in from the bullpen. A disappointed Byrne slowly walked back to the Yankee dugout, a frustrating end to a season of inspiring personal triumph.\n\nWhen Grim arrived at the mound, there was only one instruction from Stengel, an obvious one. Grim was to keep his pitches low to lessen the chances of a fly ball that could score a run. Vin Scully was reminding my father and me, and millions of other viewers, that Hodges had already driven in the first Dodger run. I don't recall believing or not believing that he would do it again, just realizing that the biggest moment in the game to that point had arrived.\n\nGil Hodges could hit, and hit with power, to all fields. Because he often went with outside pitches and hit them to right field he did not specialize in the home run quite the way sluggers like Snider and Mickey Mantle did. Hodges's real specialty was the run batted in. On the other hand, he was also famous for his record for hitting grand slams.\n\nThe pitch from Grim to Hodges was about waist high and toward the outside of the plate\u2014almost certainly a strike. Hodges stepped into it and swung hard. For me it was another one of those moments when I instantly sat up. What was clear at first was that the ball had shot out beyond the infield very fast; what wasn't clear was how far it was going on an arc into right-center field. In the outfield, Bob Cerv had been positioned in straightaway center, and the first glimpse of him shows a man sprinting at top speed. He was running in the direction of the sign on the wall in deepest right-center field that said 457, as in feet.\n\nGradually, it dawned on me that Cerv was going to get to the long fly ball. He ran under it not very many strides in front of the dirt warning track in front of the wall. There was no doubt at all that from such a distance it was impossible for him to even try to throw Reese out at home. The camera showed Reese jogging home, but I was wondering what happened to Snider. As it turned out, he, too, had tagged up and run to third base after the catch, while Furillo stayed at first.\n\nThe next batter was Don Hoak. With Jackie Robinson's injury, there was no option for the Dodgers to pinch-hit for Hoak, so he stepped into the batter's box. A .240 hitter on the year, he was the man to end the inning, and Grim bore down hard pitching to him, perhaps too hard, because his pitch sailed away from the plate. Yogi Berra couldn't block it, and the ball bounced away from him.\n\nIt was not far enough away from him to give Snider a realistic chance of scoring, and Grim alertly rushed to cover home plate. However, it was more than far enough away to permit Carl Furillo to get to second base. Once again, the Yankees were without the chance of a force out in the event of a ground ball. From the dugout the order came to walk Hoak intentionally and load the bases again.\n\nIn shorthand reconstructions of the game, the emphasis has always been placed on what Alston tried to do with the bases loaded for the second time. What has been forgotten is that it was Grim's wild pitch that created the situation\u2014which would have no offensive consequences but giant defensive ones that same inning.\n\nAccording to the late Dodger manager\u2014after the game and in two books he wrote\u2014the intentional walk to Hoak caused him to change his thinking and maximize the chances of an extra-base hit or home run. That meant as a practical matter sending a pinch-hitter up for the next man, right-handed batter Don Zimmer\u2014a .239 hitter on the year who had some power (fifteen home runs) and two hits that Series but could not be considered a consistent threat.\n\nAlston had two choices, both left-handed hitters. The one who usually gets forgotten is Sandy Amoros, who had been batting well over .300 for much of the season, until back troubles limited his effectiveness, but who was now healthy. To that point in the Series, he had collected four hits in twelve times at bat, including Sunday's long home run.\n\nAccording to Dodgers at the time and ever since, however, Alston never hesitated and George Shuba was seen in the dugout grabbing a bat. No one recalls even a discussion about the choice, much less an argument.\n\nGeorge Shuba's nickname was Shotgun because of his propensity for hitting hard line drives. He was thirty years old and had been on the Dodgers since 1948. A left fielder by trade, he was used sparingly as a regular; his most active year by far had been 1952, when he appeared in ninety-four games. He was very familiar with pinch-hitting in clutch situations, however, and had a World Series home run (in 1953) to his credit; on the other hand, he had not been in the Series at all to that moment. Shuba was also very popular with his teammates; in fact, the previous year several of the Dodgers, Jackie Robinson included, had urged Buzzie Bavasi not to sign the highly regarded young Puerto Rican outfielder, none other than Roberto Clemente, to a \"bonus\" contract because Shuba almost certainly would have been the player let go to make room for him.\n\nNow nearly eighty and still living in the Youngstown, Ohio, area near where he grew up, Shuba remembered his appearance well, in part because it turned out to be his last at-bat in the major leagues.\n\n\"Grim threw me a fast curveball,\" he told me. \"I swung hard and I hit it hard, but on the ground.\"\n\nBill Skowron fielded the ball cleanly well behind the first-base bag, flipped it to Grim covering the base, and the long half inning was over.\n\nAs a broadcaster would summarize it, the Dodgers had one run on one hit, there was one Yankee error, and three men were left on base; officially, the run was Byrne's responsibility but was not recorded as \"earned\" because of the error by Skowron, without which Reese would not have scored. Again, officially, because walks and sacrifices don't count, just two of the seven Dodgers who arrived in the batter's box during the sixth inning were recorded for statistical purposes as having actual at-bats.\n\nBecause of the wild pitch and the resulting decision to pinch-hit for Zimmer, Alston faced additional decisions as the Yankees ran off the field and the Dodgers prepared to resume their positions. First, he needed a new second baseman; that one was obvious\u2014Gilliam, his usual position.\n\nNow he needed a new left fielder to replace him. According to Alston, he considered Shuba, but only briefly. After all, precisely because of his defensive ability, Amoros had been used all season long in left field in this very circumstance late in a game. The arrival of Amoros the previous year had made the Dodgers a stronger, more versatile team. As with the decision to use Shuba as a pinch-hitter, Amoros was sent into left field by Alston without any discussion on the bench.\n\nThrough the years, Alston's actions have often been portrayed as somewhere between inspired and heroic. He did not see them that way, nor did any other Dodger at the time or since, from Podres on the mound to Bavasi in the front office. Instead, Alston was seen as having been wise all year to use Zimmer, Gilliam, and Amoros this way. Alston always considered himself \"lucky\" that things turned out as they did, but that would seem to apply more to using a pinch-hitter for Zimmer than sending Amoros to the outfield.\n\nVin Scully told me he is positive that he announced the defensive changes\u2014Amoros to left field, Gilliam to second base\u2014into his microphone as the Dodgers ran out onto the field. I cannot recall noticing; what I remember is feeling that the Dodgers had missed an opportunity to blow the game wide open. Instead of increasing my confidence that the Dodgers would win the game, this only caused my sense of foreboding to get stronger. In this context\u2014a 2\u20130 lead with four innings to go\u2014I had no experience with confidence, much less hope.\n\nThe productive middle of the Yankee lineup was due up.\n\nFor as long I could remember, my father had an almost visceral reaction when a Dodger pitcher walked an opposition batter\u2014a look of distaste on his face or some noise like a groan. It was such a waste, a gift of opportunity to the other team, summarized in the old, dirgelike baseball lament. \"Oh, those bases on balls.\"\n\nTo begin the Yankee half of the sixth inning, Johnny Podres walked Billy Martin on four pitches. It was the second and last base on balls Podres issued that day, the first since the two-out walk to Phil Rizzuto in the third inning. Podres told me he does not remember feeling any different on the mound after the Dodgers scored their second run and that he never felt that his arm was tiring at that point in the game.\n\nThe shadows had arrived at the mound by then, and this was when Campanella began calling exclusively for fast pitches, on the assumption that his changeup had done its job and it was time to bear down the rest of the way. Should Podres's arm get tired, there was a bullpen full of potential replacements for the final innings, led by Clem Labine.\n\nIt is possible that in making this transition Podres might have thrown a bit too hard to Martin. Tommy Byrne had learned through bitter experience that control was a function of his attitude as much as abilities or, as Yogi Berra put it in another possibly apocryphal aphorism, \"Ninety percent of this game is half-mental.\"\n\nA fan could feel disappointment or concern at a walk in a tense situation, but a professional pitcher trying to throw a ball into a small strike zone from sixty feet away at ninety miles an hour understood that sometimes you missed and that you concentrated on the hitter you were facing, not the last one or the next one.\n\nGil McDougald, who already had sort of a single that day (the ground ball in the third inning that Rizzuto slid into), did not go up to bat to sacrifice Martin to second base. McDougald did, however, notice that Don Hoak was playing behind the base at third, protecting against line drives headed down the left-field line. He decided to try to bunt for a base hit.\n\nOnly when Podres came out of his stretch to throw the ball did McDougald change his grip on the bat, sliding his right hand up the handle in preparation for his bunt. He dumped the ball expertly onto the ground, where it proceeded to roll toward third. By the time Podres scampered over, there was no question it was going to remain in fair territory and no question that McDougald was going to be safe at first base.\n\nNonetheless, Podres made a rare fielding mistake and after an instant's hesitation flung the ball off balance toward Hodges at first anyway. It is in such situations that players often make wild throws. Podres was fortunate that his afterthought of a throw, which had nothing on it and sailed toward Hodges, was caught by the first baseman near the bag.\n\nIn barely two minutes, the Dodgers had gone from the team that had taken a 2\u20130 lead to one in the distasteful position of facing the gravest threat to them of the game. It was the same threat they themselves had presented to the Yankees in the top half of the inning\u2014men on first and second with none out. For the Dodgers, the key play had been Skowron's error after Snider's bunt; for the Yankees, it had been the walk to Martin.\n\nI remember watching Walter Alston slowly walk to the mound. Campanella was already there, Pee Wee Reese was on his way in from shortstop, and Podres was in the familiar pitcher's position for such meetings\u2014head down, right foot kicking at the pitching rubber. Labine was throwing in the bullpen.\n\nPodres says he does not remember what was literally said during those moments, only that the result was that he was still in the game, still throwing fast pitches, still trying to throw them away from spots from which they could be hit with power.\n\nLater that day and until they died, Alston and Campanella had the same memory. The Dodger manager asked his catcher how Podres was doing before he reached the mound. The phrase he used, give or take a word, was, \"Has he still got it?\" Clearly, Campanella was trusted explicitly to make the judgment call. Campanella replied that Podres had lost none of his effectiveness. End of subject.\n\nThat left the matter of how to pitch to the most dangerous hitter imaginable to be coming up at a critical moment like this one\u2014Yogi Berra. The Yankee catcher was not merely an excellent hitter. He was one of the best-hitting catchers of all time, because he not only hit for average and power but also could hit for average and power to all parts of a ballpark. His normal tendency was to pull balls sharply that he could reach easily; however, he was also famous for his eagerness to chase pitches that were outside the strike zone. He swung an unusually long bat.\n\nAt the mound, Alston and Campanella assumed Berra would be swinging away, not bunting. They each stressed the vital importance of keeping the pitches away from him and preferably low. They were intent on avoiding what the Yankees most likely would be seeking\u2014a big inning. Alston slowly walked back to the dugout while Reese and Campanella returned to their positions.\n\nAt the plate, Berra was not content when he saw no bunt sign from the third-base coach, Frankie Crosetti. Berra walked toward the Yankee veteran. Crosetti was a regular on the championship teams of the 1930s and a fixture in the coaching box ever since who had been on the field for more World Series games than anyone, ever. They met halfway down the third-base line, where Crosetti told him the instruction was to hit away. Casey Stengel confirmed after the game that he never for a moment considered a sacrifice, that he wanted the big inning the Dodgers assumed he wanted.\n\nBehind the plate, Campanella called for a fastball that even Berra would not swing at\u2014above the shoulders and inside, to set up the outside pitches that would follow. Berra took the pitch for ball one.\n\nFor Podres's second pitch, Campanella called for a curveball low and outside and set himself and his target accordingly. As usual, Berra held his long bat high. In the field, the Dodgers played him to pull the ball; everyone was farther toward right field than normal. In the outfield, Sandy Amoros was not playing Berra all that deep\u2014about midway between the infield and the outfield wall. He was positioned way off the foul line in left-center field, roughly behind where Reese was at shortstop, which was shaded toward second base. From right after the game until he died in 1992, Amoros always insisted that before returning to the dugout Alston had motioned him a few more steps toward straightaway center field, which Amoros interpreted as meaning that Alston still worried that Podres might be tiring and was mostly concerned about Berra pulling the ball.\n\nIt made what was about to happen all the more improbable.\n\nAccording to my stopwatch, it took 11.97 seconds from the instant the ball left Johnny Podres's left hand until it arrived in Gil Hodges's glove to complete the play.\n\nThe pitch from Podres came in fast and slightly higher than Campanella's low target. Berra swung at it\u2014sort of. His swing was late, bordering on the tentative, the way a good hitter swings when he intends to foul off a pitch.\n\nAt the instant of contact, the frozen film frame shows the Yankee catcher with his weight back, almost facing third base, with his bat fully extended. Berra followed completely through with his swing, but the act supplied no additional power behind the ball. At that moment of contact, it was more as if he had punched at it. In a game often ruled by millimeters, he had also swung slightly under the pitch from Podres.\n\nIn the outfield, Sandy Amoros did what only ability and instinct formed by experience can produce in a baseball player. He shifted at the crack of Berra's bat to face the left-field foul line and exploded like a sprinter coming out of starting blocks.\n\nFrom the mound, Podres sensed an out and turned to pick up the white resin bag from the dirt behind him.\n\nFrom the plate, Berra had no idea beyond a sense that he hadn't hit the ball hard. This was long before the free-agent era, when zillionaires could afford to stand at home plate to admire the flight of balls they had hit. He turned, discarding his bat, and started running to first base.\n\nFrom behind the plate, Campanella discarded his mask as he stood up and began to mumble a prayer.\n\nFrom a box next to the Dodgers' dugout on the third-base side of the field, Buzzie Bavasi was the instantaneous pessimist. The Dodger executive, aware that the left-field seats were a mere 301 feet away, next to the foul pole, thought Berra had hit a home run.\n\nFrom the Yankee dugout on the first-base side, which afforded a clear view at field level, Tommy Byrne and the other players in the dugout thought: _Foul ball_. Berra had not truly sliced the ball, but it appeared to them on a gradual arc that would carry it well into the stands.\n\nDown the foul line, the young Dodger assistant in the front office, Billy DeLury, was sitting by himself at the game and looking directly at Sandy Amoros, who seemed to be headed right at him. From the trajectory, he was certain the ball was not hit far enough to be a home run. What he could not be certain about was whether the ball would land foul, land fair, or be caught. If it landed fair, he was almost certain it would bounce into the stands for a ground rule double\u2014scoring Martin and leaving Berra and McDougald on second and third, still with nobody out. The only way for a complete disaster to unfold would be if Amoros tried for a catch and dropped the ball.\n\nFrom second base, Billy Martin was uncertain. He trotted halfway to third base and stopped. From first base, Gil McDougald immediately decided, as he would say later, that there was no way Amoros could get to the ball before it hit the ground and began sprinting toward second base at full speed.\n\nNo one had a better view than the people in the press box, well behind and well above home plate. From this ideal perch, Vin Scully not only had the right view; he also was concentrating with special intensity because he had to describe to the television audience what was unfolding. Scully has a standard phrase that he uses for possible or actual home runs; \"cut on and belted.\" He told me he is certain he said nothing of the kind; instead he said he described a fly ball that was hit very high (in fact, very, very high) down the left-field line.\n\nBack on the pitcher's mound, Podres said his second thoughts began as he picked up the resin bag and noticed no one in left field was nestling under the fly ball he had assumed would be an out; he called it a banana ball that seemed to be gradually moving beyond Amoros's reach. With deep misgivings, Podres turned and began jogging into foul territory behind third base to be in position to back up any throw from the outfield. Next to the Dodger dugout, Buzzie Bavasi now realized the ball did not appear to have been hit far enough to reach the seats for a home run; beyond that, he had no idea what would happen.\n\nDown the line, DeLury stood up as he saw Sandy Amoros, looking larger with each sprinting step. DeLury saw the ball, too, and realized it was an open question which would get to it first\u2014the dirt just in fair territory or Amoros's glove.\n\nI remember the first camera shot that widened beyond the home plate\u2013centered view when Berra completed his swing. It showed the outfield, with Amoros coming into view at a point directly behind the normal shortstop's position. It was a moment of intense suspense in the race to the corner between the baseball and the outfielder. It was a hold-your-breath moment; the crowd was not yelling.\n\nAmoros did not stop sprinting. In a quotation after the game in some of the few English words he knew, Amoros said, \"I don't know I get it. I just run like hell and stick out my glove.\"\n\nPete Reiser's tragic heroics aside, it is not natural to run full speed directly at a walk. With about thirty yards to go, Amoros's stride changed\u2014from all-out sprint to choppy. Whether he was decelerating to survive a collision or already certain he could reach the ball is uncertain; what is certain is that he was decelerating.\n\nAbout three strides from the foul line and perhaps ten feet in front of the stands in fair territory, Amoros can be seen using his right heel as a brake, digging it into the ground. After another stride, he stuck the glove on his right hand straight out at about eye level, the inside of it facing him.\n\nOn television the ball was visible for the first time when it fell into the glove. Amoros's heel was planted in the dirt, but his left foot was at an anticipatory angle\u2014pointed at third base. The play was at most half-completed. At that instant, Podres, head down, was just jogging across the third-base line to his backup position.\n\nIn the Dodger infield, Pee Wee Reese was the player with the responsibility to be on the move. On a ball hit into left field with runners on base, he had gone onto the grass in short-left field after the ball was hit. As it seemed to carry toward the foul line, he kept moving over as well until he was almost directly behind third base. His job would be to take a throw from the outfield and send it on its way with fresh gas toward home plate or to some other base, which demanded an accurate sense of where the base runners were.\n\nWith Martin stopped halfway from second, he was close enough to have an excellent chance to make it back to the bag if the ball was caught; though Martin was the lead runner, Reese decided on the spot to ignore him. McDougald, however, had run so far so fast that he had already rounded second base; he could not have been more exposed.\n\nAs the ball was falling into Amoros's outstretched glove, Reese began screaming to get his attention. At the same time, Reese held his own glove high above his head and waved it frantically.\n\nAmoros heard him and saw the glove, he would say later. As he caught the ball, he pivoted, turning counterclockwise as his momentum from the long run took him into the left-field corner. In one motion he threw the ball straight at Reese's outstretched glove about sixty yards away.\n\nFrom the press box, Vin Scully said he could see out of the corner of his eye that McDougald had stumbled as he realized the fix he was in and had begun moving to retag the bag and start the long sprint back to first base.\n\nReese was backing up as Amoros's beautiful perfect throw came toward his glove. When he caught it, he was one full step onto the infield dirt behind third base. With a graceful counterclockwise move of his own, Reese turned as the ball reached his glove and threw an equally beautiful line drive directly across the infield at Gil Hodges.\n\nHodges stretched to the limits of his long frame\u2014left arm out stiff, right leg out stiff, left leg bent at the knee. He needn't have. The throw from Reese was in Hodges's glove while McDougald was still in the air before sliding.\n\nDouble play.\n\nPeople who were in the stadium said that at first there was no great noise, as if the crowd was pausing to be sure it had actually seen what appeared to have just happened. This was followed by what was typically described as an excited buzz, a kind of \"Did you see that?\" reaction. The buzz got louder, there were many Yankee fans applauding in tribute, but there was never any roar of the sort there is after a game-winning hit or home run, and the buzz continued even after Hank Bauer stepped into the batter's box with Billy Martin still on second base.\n\nSpent, I turned from the couch, half-wondering if the sphinx at the dining table would at last speak. I found him staring at me, eyes ablaze, lips pursed so tightly they seemed to disappear. I think I half-smiled at him, but he continued to look at me, even as we both heard Scully's voice in the background saying that Bauer had hit a routine ground ball at Reese, who cleanly fielded an in-between hop at shortstop and threw him out to finally end the inning\u2014eleven batters, two modest base hits, an error, a wild pitch, and a play that has survived for fifty years.\n\nIt is referred to as the Amoros Catch, but it really was a spectacular run, catch, and two picture-perfect relays\u2014all directly connected to the bizarre events in the Dodger half of the inning.\n\nEvery Dodger that day and in the decades since has always made the same analytical point about the play. Junior Gilliam could not have made it had he still been in left field. Running directly at the short wall and needing to reach for the ball while moving forward, he would have had to reach across his body as a right-handed fielder to catch the ball backhanded. Even in the highly improbable event he could have done that, he would have had to stop, set himself, and then throw. Even in the highly improbable event he could have done that smoothly, precious instants would have been lost. The point is unanimous and apparently inarguable.\n\nBy contrast, very little attention has been paid to a final factor that may have had a significant influence on the play\u2014the wind. It was a clear fall day, the wind was not strong and constant, but it blew hard in gusts. On a ball hit extremely high, there are informed eyewitness opinions that it played a role\u2014both in keeping the ball in the air and in keeping it over fair territory.\n\nThat was Sandy Amoros's strong opinion after the game as he described the ball he never took his eyes off as he raced toward the left-field corner. To him it seemed to be trying to slowly curve into the stands but never managed to do so. That was also the considered view of Johnny Podres, once his second thoughts about the ball he first assumed was an easy out began. What he called a banana ball should have kept curving into foul territory, especially given the likely spin on a ball hit to the opposite field by a left-handed hitter.\n\nReflecting the view from the Yankee dugout, that was also Tommy Byrne's judgement. He told me that on windy days a breeze was often much stronger on the field and swirled intensely\u2014especially in the left-field corner.\n\nIf the wind was in fact involved, it was a gift to the Dodgers that fate had rarely provided, helping keep a high fly ball aloft a little longer while Amoros ran toward it and helping keep it fair, which made possible the crucial double play. In the next day's _Daily News_ , homage was paid to the wind as \"a breeze that grew in the Bronx\"\u2014a nice play on Betty Smith's _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_.\n\nNonetheless, for all the unforgettable drama, the score was still only 2\u20130 with three full innings to go. After the excitement began to wear off, the emotional residue is best described as relief, as people resumed the long vigil.\n\nI have heard some people\u2014Buzzie Bavasi, for example\u2014say that from that moment on they had no doubt that the Dodgers were going to win the World Series. I have yet to meet a player who confessed to such supreme confidence. I know I didn't feel it; the burden of history was too heavy.\n\nStill, those who followed the Dodgers all over the country could sigh with a relief that was rare enough in their experience.\n\n## 13\n\n## Nine Outs\n\nAs the sixth inning came mercifully to a close, the Dodger players trotted off the field. The huge crowd\u201462,465, according to the notation on Lt. Gary Hymel's scorecard after the seventh-inning announcement on the public-address system\u2014continued to buzz from the shock of Sandy Amoros's breathtaking play in the outfield. Reaching the dugout parallel to the third-base line, they briefly forgot that their left fielder had been suffering serious back pains since the middle of the season; repeatedly, large hands smacked the grinning Cuban player on his tender back. Despite his enormous language handicap, Amoros was always happy to be on the integrated Brooklyn Dodgers, and his teammates, aware of the long-standing hole in the field he was helping to fill, as well as pleased at his affable, hustling approach to the game, made him feel welcome. For much of the season he lived on a boat Campanella owned.\n\nMost of these Dodgers had many years together. They were all children of the depression and of world war, astonished to be paid for playing a game, although their paychecks were meager by today's standards. Both as a team and as individuals, they were imbued with blue-collar, hardworking values. Many had been recruited and raised under Branch Rickey, whose baseball philosophy (beyond tightwad-ism) was that if you played hard as a team the individual accomplishments would follow. They had, over the years, been through hell together.\n\nTwenty years later, playing on a Boston Red Sox team packed with large egos and wallets as it played for a championship, right fielder Dwight Evans famously observed of the commuting habits of his fellow loners, \"Twenty-five players, twenty-five cabs.\" These Dodgers car-pooled from the ballpark.\n\nThe last player into the dugout, finishing his energy-conserving slow walk from the pitcher's mound, was Johnny Podres. He briefly joined the knot of players around Amoros, looked his teammate in the eye, and slugged him repeatedly on the back with both hands. Podres got a bat, walked to the plate, and promptly grounded out to second.\n\nThen, as he had done whenever the rest of the Dodgers were up at bat, Podres disappeared. He walked down the steps that led from the dugout to a dimly lit passageway that connected the field to the clubhouse.\n\nAnd there, a ballplayer in a different era, he lit a cigarette. From the dugout the Dodgers regularly heard a disembodied voice shout from the darkness that he was to be summoned when there were two outs. They left him alone.\n\nAs he told me about his between-innings routine, it was clear that Podres was relieved to be removed from the intense atmosphere on the bench. Players continuously paced, kibitzed, talked strategy; Podres was intent on simply hitting Campanella's target with the pitch he had called for. The atmosphere on the bench was electric; Jackie Robinson in particular seethed with slow-burning energy he was unable to use on the field. Avoiding this highly charged atmosphere was itself good strategy for the young pitcher who knew exactly what he was supposed to do in the late innings.\n\nFor an inning or so by now, the change-up had been shelved as the shadows gave the pitcher an advantage with fast pitches coming out of the bright light. Keeping it simple was the wise course, and if a quick cigarette served the purpose of today's yoga exercise and bag of sunflower seeds, then big deal.\n\nAcross the way, in the Yankees' dugout, Byrne described an atmosphere of determination salted with more than a little confidence. Winning really is habit-forming; most of these Yankees had made a habit out of beating the Dodgers. Fans in Brooklyn loved to compile lists of examples of storied \"Yankee Luck,\" but the truth was that they played superbly and hard year after year, filled with a powerfully motivating sense of tradition.\n\nThe frustration after the sixth inning was less about the big inning Sandy Amoros had taken them out of than it was about the run the Dodgers had scored in the top half of the sixth. Bob Grim, in getting the assignment to replace Byrne, had been given the task of not giving Gil Hodges a pitch he could hit for distance and had failed.\n\nTommy Byrne had not tired, had pitched at least as well as Podres, and had made no mistakes with the four Brooklyn batters he faced to start the miserable inning. He was a veteran, he had reacquired his control, and he knew how to pitch away from power. Grudgingly but forthrightly, Casey Stengel told Byrne after the game he had been wrong to take him out.\n\nIt was also beginning to dawn on Stengel that he had also erred in his strategy toward Johnny Podres. The assumption behind Stengel's instructions to avoid first-pitch swings and wait for fastballs in the strike zone was that the more pitches the lefthander had to throw, the sooner he would tire. The risk, and it was becoming clear that the risk was the reality, was that the Yankees would lose some of their fabled aggressiveness and that in fact Podres would not tire appreciably. Stengel often appeared to the public as a disheveled, absentminded older man (he was sixty-five that summer)\u2014hence the Old Professor moniker\u2014in fact, he was a wise baseball man, a fervent believer in the percentages, and a person who had hustled all his life and pushed his players to hustle.\n\nBy the late innings, it seemed as if Stengel began trying to will his team back into contention, to overcome what he was becoming certain had been his own mistaken strategy for the game. Whenever a Yankee hitter got ahead in the count or got on base, Stengel would appear with his left foot on the dugout's top step, on the left side closest to home plate, waving and shaking his fists at the action in front of him. Nine outs was a long way to go against the Yankees when a few swings could win the game.\n\nWith two runs instead of one to play with and their journey through the sixth inning a success, the Dodgers did not go to sleep or fall into the worst of all sports habits\u2014protecting a lead. At the plate, however, their record slugging of the previous six games continued to be missing.\n\nGrim found his poise and strength in the seventh inning. After Podres made out, however, Junior Gilliam went with an outside pitch and drove it into right field for a single. Grim, a right-hander, had nothing like Byrne's deceptive pickoff move, and Gilliam took off on an attempted steal of second base.\n\nYogi Berra nailed him\u2014a snap throw from behind the plate got to Phil Rizzuto covering, in time. Pee Wee Reese then struck out and the Yankees got their next chance to score.\n\nJohnny Podres would not oblige them. He continued to pitch with power, and the Yankees had trouble adjusting to the now-steady diet of fastballs and sharp-breaking curves, and the sudden absence of the changeups to which they had become accustomed. Neither Bill Skowron nor Bob Cerv got around well on Podres pitches, and each grounded to Reese at shortstop without incident.\n\nElston Howard did get around. His swing sent a fastball into left field that dropped in front of Amoros for a single. There was some stirring in the Yankee dugout as Mickey Mantle went to grab a bat and came up the steps to hit for Grim. Mantle walked very slowly, favoring a leg that was clearly hurt badly. To that point in the series, Mantle had one monumental home run in Ebbets Field and little else and had been unable to run effectively in the outfield. However, Stengel had noticed that Mantle had an easier time planting and shifting his weight when he was batting right-handed, while the most famous switch-hitter of his time could get nothing behind a left-handed swing.\n\nIn the box score, it shows up as an at-bat by a pinch-hitter with two outs and a man on first. In fact, it was as electric a moment as when Berra came to the plate the inning before. Mantle couldn't run, but he could hit right-handed and he could tie the game.\n\nSometimes, with so much on the line, hitters\u2014even the very best of them\u2014swing too hard, just as a pitcher can throw too hard. Mantle made a couple of basic errors in the seventh inning, both traceable to his intensity. First of all, he swung, as they say, for the fences\u2014too hard and with an upward motion instead of level. He also made contact a half inch below the middle of his bat.\n\nThe result was a pop-up for which the adjective _towering_ does not do justice. It went far into the afternoon sky but only a few yards out of the infield. Don Hoak alertly moved out of the way as Reese ran into position underneath the ball, behind third base. He could have recited the alphabet waiting for the thing to fall out of the sky; eventually, it did and the final out of the inning was recorded. But for an overswing that undercut the ball, that popup could easily have been something much different and more consequential.\n\nFor the Dodger halves of the eighth and ninth innings, Bob Turley got another chance to do his job, and this time he came through\u2014just one hit and a walk were yielded over the last two innings. For the third time in the game, the Dodgers went quietly and in order in the eighth (Snider, Campanella, and Furillo).\n\nAnd then, in the Yankee half of the inning, it happened all over again. The sixth inning is part of history because of what happened after Berra came up with two men on first and second and no one out. In the eighth it was no less nerve-racking a threat because two men were on first and third and there was one out. In fact, it was even more scary, with the first Yankee run just ninety feet away from home. Only Berra had been that close\u2014with two outs back in the fourth inning.\n\nOnce again for New York, it was the top of the order\u2014in the person of Phil Rizzuto, in his last World Series at-bat\u2014that produced the trouble. In Game Seven, six of the eight Yankee hits came from the first four men in the batting order; to the extent the team failed to come through offensively in the game, it was a case of the people put in the lineup to drive in runs who didn't drive in any runs. Rizzuto's last hit was a line drive into left-center field that put him on first base with a single.\n\nBilly Martin was next. Behind by two runs, the Yankees would not be wasting an out on a sacrifice, but to move Rizzuto along the smart move would be for Martin to try to hit a ball to the right side of the infield.\n\nHe did better than that. Martin slapped at a pitch that might have been slightly outside and sent toward right field a soft line drive that almost immediately began to sink (a dying quail, as it's known in baseball). Carl Furillo began to charge immediately, but for a split second it appeared the ball might hit the ground. It stayed up, however, just long enough for Furillo to grab it at full speed, slightly below his belt.\n\nThis was not a game that offered relief. The next batter, Gil McDougald, proceeded to get his third hit of the afternoon, a single. McDougald hit an extremely hard ground ball at Don Hoak, the third baseman. He was in position to field it (if he had it would have been an easy double play), but on its way at him the ball took a bad hop, changing direction just enough. Hoak did not react fast enough as he was backing up on McDougald's smash, and the ball glanced off his shoulder and rolled into left field.\n\nSeeing all this, Rizzuto reacted instantly, sprinting around second and sliding into third before Sandy Amoros was able to get to the ball.\n\nAs Yogi Berra walked toward the plate, Walter Alston made his last walk to the pitcher's mound of the day. This time there was no question from the manager about Podres's condition: the sixth inning had given Alston confidence in his pitcher; he was still throwing hard and with control.\n\nInstead, Alston wanted to reiterate his certainty that Berra would once again be looking for something to hit out of the ballpark and that Podres's job was to make sure he pitched away from Berra's power. Alston also kept the Dodger infield at its normal playing depth, rejecting any idea of moving them in closer to throw a possible ground ball home in time to get Rizzuto. Once again, a two-run lead, while small, offered a little breathing room and a chance of executing a double play on a normally hit ground ball.\n\nThe admonition to pitch to Berra carefully may have resulted in Podres pitching to him a bit too carefully. Three of Podres's first four pitches were balls. This at-bat I remember vividly, because it was every bit as tense and consequential as the one two innings earlier; this was the part of the game where every pitch was obviously crucial.\n\nThe fifth pitch to Berra was a curveball, on the inside of the plate. The Yankee catcher got around on it but appeared to make contact somewhere on the lower half of his bat near his hands. The fly ball was almost softly hit and appeared so at once. I did not tense up on the couch.\n\nCarl Furillo ran in from right field to get under the ball. He was in short-right field. With his famous arm, there was no chance at all that Rizzuto would try to score on the play. Now there were two outs, as Hank Bauer stepped into the batter's box.\n\nHank Bauer was a very good baseball player for fourteen seasons and a good manager after that (he had the Baltimore Orioles when they swept the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1966). He had decent power and a reputation for hitting well in the clutch (he had a four-home run World Series in 1958). He had fought in the war and some people would have been forgiven after reading years of sports page writing for thinking his full name was Ex-Marine Hank Bauer. He had pulled a hamstring muscle near the end of the season that remained tender, but he was still very dangerous.\n\nIt was a classic confrontation, the exclamation point for the famous game's late innings. Podres remembers all of it with justifiable pride. He told me he threw fastballs throughout\u2014a ball inside, a called strike, a foul tip straight back to the screen, and a second ball outside.\n\nThe fifth pitch\u2014as Vin Scully would have said, the deuces were wild: two on, two out, two-and-two on the batter\u2014was, in baseball patois, a high hard one. It was over the plate, up about at Bauer's New York letters. He had a beautiful swing at the ball\u2014hard, smooth, and straight\u2014but just a bit late and a bit below it.\n\nRoy Campanella caught the pitch cleanly, one-handed, in his upraised catcher's mitt.\n\n\"That was the moment when I understood what was at stake, that this was for real,\" Podres told me. \"As I was walking back to the dugout I realized I could not let this game get away, not after all this.\"\n\nThe meaning of the strikeout was clear enough: the Yankees would be batting in the ninth inning with a Dodger World Series championship on the line after all those years. In the continued silence of our apartment, what I remember is not feeling excited or even specifically aware of the stakes but instead taking my cues from my father and trying to concentrate even more on every pitch. For a kid of almost ten, following a baseball game all the way through took special effort; what I remember is feeling spent, almost exhausted.\n\nTurley narrowly averted trouble in the top of the ninth inning. After Gil Hodges fouled out to Bill Skowron, Turley gave Don Hoak a belt-high fastball toward the outside part of the plate that the third baseman stayed with and drilled into right-center field for a single. A patient Sandy Amoros then drew a walk to put two Dodgers on base.\n\nThis was 1955, long before one-inning relief pitchers had arrived to take over games in the final inning, regardless of how the starter was faring. Johnny Podres had pitched a marvelous game to that point, he was still strong, and that meant he would be on the mound in the bottom of the inning. That also meant he would take his turn at bat in the middle of a Dodger scoring threat. He succeeded in hitting the ball in the air, but it was a routine fly ball to Bob Cerv in center field for the second out.\n\nJunior Gilliam, a switch-hitter, batted left-handed against Turley. At his best, Gilliam was a line-drive hitter, and he jumped on an inside pitch to hit a ball that shot out of the infield, jerking me up off the cushion. It looked a lot like the double Skowron had hit in the first inning and the home run he had hit the day before as it went toward right field. Unfortunately, it went straight at Hank Bauer, who caught it very deep on the track in front of the right-field stands.\n\nThe Brooklyn Dodgers had never played a ninth inning ahead and thus in position to win the World Series. There was no frame of reference, especially for a young fan who now could not avoid realizing what was on the line and hoping against hope that this time they would finally win. There was only Johnny Podres and the next batter. Had I been with contemporaries, I would have been shrieking and jumping; with my father and his still-inexplicable silence, I was experiencing the game, living it. There was an intensity and intimacy about our afternoon that blocked everything else out.\n\nWhen Podres emerged from the dark tunnel off the dugout after one last cigarette, many Dodgers remember a torrent of last-inning \"advice\" pouring out at the determined pitcher\u2014inside, outside, up, down, curveball, fastball. It was what he had largely avoided by disappearing between innings, and now it was pouring out of his wired teammates.\n\nRoy Campanella almost immediately blew up at them as he finished strapping on his catcher's gear\u2014baseball's storied \"tools of ignorance.\" Above all else, a catcher who is also a leader protects his pitcher. Give or take a syllable, Campanella screamed: \"Leave the kid alone. He did fine by himself for eight innings, so shut the hell up and stop telling him how to pitch. That's my job.\"\n\nHe walked behind the plate, took Podres's warm-up pitches, started the game's final, ritual throw-around\u2014to Gilliam, to Reese, to Hoak, to Hodges, back to Hoak, and then a soft toss to the pitcher\u2014squatted down, and started calling for fastballs.\n\nBill Skowron had hit Johnny Podres hard in both games. Skowron was not all that tall, but he had the powerful build of a onetime Big Ten athlete at Purdue. Behind the plate, Campanella's signs did not vary\u2014fastball\u2014only the target moved.\n\nSkowron hit one right on the nose at the ground about ten feet in front of home. It was on Podres in an instant; the frozen frame of the film actually shows the ball almost to him while he was still standing, arms crossed after his follow-through. At the last moment, Podres reached up with his glove hand and snared the ball.\n\n\"I did not find that ball,\" he told me. \"The ball found me.\"\n\nIt went so deep and hard into the webbing of his glove that it took out a stitch or two on its way. As he turned and took a few steps toward Gil Hodges at first base, Podres said he quickly realized that the ball was stuck in the glove. He began jogging toward Hodges, all the time tugging at the ball with his left hand.\n\nPodres told me that if necessary he would have tossed the glove to Hodges with the ball still embedded in it. As it was, about two-thirds of the way there, his hand finally grasped the buried ball, which he flipped underhanded to the first baseman for the first out. Skowron missed a single by an inch or two.\n\nBob Cerv was next. He was just as big as Skowron but faster, so he played the outfield\u2014and well. He was twenty-nine that year. He fit well into Casey Stengel's platoon system and by then was getting into fifty-plus games a year. He did not hit for the power he showed later in his career with Kansas City, but he was developing into a high-average hitter.\n\nIn the World Series, however, Johnny Podres had owned him. Cerv struck out three times in Game Three and had already grounded out three times in the seventh game. The fastball Podres threw Cerv was in toward his fists, and while he got around on the pitch, the result was a lazy fly ball to left field for the second out. For a Dodger fan or Yankee hater it was a beautiful sight to see Sandy Amoros trot under it and catch it effortlessly.\n\nThat left Elston Howard, who in his rookie season breaking the Yankee's unforgivably long resistance to desegregation had shown all of the signs that eventually produced a dangerous, versatile hitter. He was twenty-six that year, still mostly an outfielder (catching and first base would come later), and already had a home run in the Series in addition to his seventh-inning, seventh-game single.\n\nAfter all the Dodgers and their fans had been through that Series, that decade, and that century, it was the most fitting of climaxes\u2014agonizing.\n\nThrowing nothing but fastballs, Podres and Howard had a seesaw duel through the first four\u2014two balls and two strikes, one swinging. The deuces were wild again.\n\nHoward then fouled a pitch straight back. He sliced another foul to the right. And another. And another. And another.\n\nAfter the fifth foul ball, Campanella briefly took off his mask to wipe the perspiration off his face.\n\nBack behind the plate, he signaled for another fastball. On the mound, Podres told me, he began to get a sense that Howard was starting to \"time\" his pitches better and that he was going to hit one hard eventually if this kept up. Podres decided he wanted to throw one last changeup.\n\nAt this point, memories diverge. Campanella, in his two books, said he signaled for another fastball, outside, for the tenth pitch and then noticed that Podres was shaking his head no, whereupon he signaled for a hard curveball, only to be shaken off again. Podres remembers only the first sign.\n\nIn any event, so complete was Podres's dependence on Campanella's wisdom and strength that this was the only occasion in the entire game when he shook off a sign. In a book he did in the third person with sportswriter Milton Shapiro more than forty years ago, the catcher's dilemma was explained thus: \"It was obvious to him that Podres wanted to throw the change-up again. The pitch had been his best weapon all through the game, but for that very reason Roy felt Howard would be looking for it. And it was important to try to fool the batter on the pitch. Suddenly, Roy realized that Podres was supremely confident in his change of pace. He knew that he had to signal for it. More important than anything was the fact that a catcher had to imbue the pitcher with confidence in his talent, not destroy it.\"\n\nFrom the silence in our apartment, my father finally spoke for the first time during the game\u2014one word.\n\n\"Changeup.\"\n\nAt the moment of contact between bat and changeup, Howard was a study in confusion. The frozen frame shows his bat way out in front of his body\u2014a hitting no-no. His weight is so far forward that he is almost down on his bent left knee. He was, in short, completely fooled. Howard did not so much swing as lunge at the ball.\n\nThe result was a ground ball that slowly rolled toward shortstop, so slowly that Pee Wee Reese charged it. I can see him fielding the ball cleanly, and then I remember a moment more of bewilderment than panic.\n\nReese had a very brief problem getting the ball out of his glove and then stopped to aim his throw across the infield to Gil Hodges\u2014a fielding no-no, often ironically a precursor of wild tosses.\n\nReese's throw was to Hodges's right and quite low. It was, however, well within range of the big man's famous stretch. He caught the ball perhaps six inches off the ground\u2014a step, maybe two, ahead of Howard's arrival at the bag.\n\nIt was over.\n\nThere was a pause, in the apartment and in Yankee Stadium\u2014similar to the pause after Sandy Amoros's catch and the relays that completed the double play\u2014before all hell broke loose. The television camera stayed with the Dodgers in the infield, but I remember hearing the roar.\n\nI had this feeling, very deep inside, that is like the welling up that happens just before you burst into tears. I then remember hearing, and memorizing on the spot, the words from Vin Scully that are part of broadcasting lore as well as Dodger history: \"Ladies and gentlemen, the Brooklyn Dodgers are the champions of the world.\"\n\nToday, at the entrance to the Dodgers' offices at Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles, those words are at the top of a wall that is covered with a giant picture of the joyous chaos on the field that was unfolding while he spoke them. Scully did not want to interfere with the dramatic scene with broadcaster babble, but he also told me he could not have spoken another word without his voice breaking.\n\nThat was when it really hit me, much, much more than when Hodges stretched to the low throw from Pee Wee Reese. I turned to look toward the dining table.\n\nMy father had stood up, tears streaming down his face, his arms outstretched.\n\nI took the cue as always and lost it myself. I sprang off the davenport and flew into his arms.\n\nI never saw another second of the television.\n\n## 14\n\n## Glowing\n\nMy father held me for the longest time\u2014a minute, maybe longer. He wasn't sobbing, neither was I, but I could feel moisture on the top of my head. He held me very tight, and as best I could, I squeezed back. Normally, very little went unsaid between us, but this was a moment whose broadest context didn't require any words. We were a comfortably demonstrative little family; we just held on.\n\nEventually, he spoke. He told me to put some shoes on and grab a jacket because we were going to go downtown to find my mother.\n\n\"Let's go to Brooklyn,\" he said.\n\nHe picked up the phone. The fact that he got through was a miracle; five minutes later and it probably would have been impossible. Shortly after the game ended, the phone system in New York went bonkers. In particular, it became next to impossible to get a call through into Brooklyn and Long Island from Manhattan, especially the East Side. The jammed area especially included the exchanges for our home phone (Murray Hill 5) and our apartment building phone (Lexington 2). Hundreds of thousands of calls were being placed, to no avail. The phone company said that despite all its improvements of the last decade, this jam-up was at least as bad as and probably worse than what had happened on V-J Day ten years before.\n\nI ran into the next room to find shoes and on my way down the short hallway grabbed a jacket out of the closet. Sometime during my absence, my father must have turned off Scarlet.\n\nThe celebratory scene in the locker room has never interested me all that much as an event. The fact that there was joyous bedlam could not surprise even a casual observer. The fact that this person whooped and hollered and another person hollered and whooped always struck me, to paraphrase George Bernard Shaw, as descriptions of the obvious enlivened only by a manufactured sense of discovery.\n\nThat night, and ever since, I have looked for telling details that hinted at human reactions as opposed to ritual hysteria. For example:\n\n  The locker-room drink of choice was Schaeffer beer, not champagne, and the suds also flowed at the official party tossed by the Dodger management at the old Bossert Hotel in Brooklyn.\n\n  For the second time after a gigantic game, Clem Labine sat down and cried.\n\n  Johnny Podres couldn't find his dad in the crush. His uncle had to fetch him from his car in the small parking lot, where he sat for a half hour after the game sobbing.\n\n  When Podres's dad finally arrived, the first of several Dodgers who went over to him was Russ Meyer, who said, \"Mr. Podres, you must be the proudest man in America. That kid of yours has more guts than the law allows.\"\n\n  Billy Loes stood alone in the chaos, his face lathered with shaving cream\u2014buck naked.\n\n  The Yankees who walked over to the dressing room to congratulate their opponents were Phil Rizzuto, Yogi Berra, and Casey Stengel (who made a beeline for Sandy Amoros).\n\nNone of these images, however, holds a candle to what happened over in Belle Harbor in John Sexton's basement room on Beach 136th St. He had been kneeling there in prayer with his best friend, Bobby Douglas, each with a hand on the small, metal crucifix between them. At the moment when Pee Wee Reese's last throw arrived in Gil Hodges's glove, they each leapt skyward. Douglas let go of the crucifix as he jumped up. Still gripping it, Sexton drove the tip into his mouth, chipping one of his front teeth.\n\nAs a badge of honor, John Sexton left that tooth unrepaired for more than forty years. A dentist finally prevailed on him to fix it around the time he became president of New York University.\n\nWe were out the door, down the elevator, and out on 42nd Street in no time. We walked up the wide street to get the subway at Grand Central for the ride downtown. I don't think we talked much. My father had his arm around me, and what I remember is periodically smiling and then, when our eyes met, just laughing out loud. It was shortly before the rush hour and there were always fewer people going downtown at that hour anyway, so we had no trouble getting a seat on the train.\n\nOn the subway, I asked him why he didn't say anything during the game. Socratic as ever, he asked me about my crossed and uncrossed ankles. Age aside, I could be a wise guy sometimes, so after I got his drift I asked him how come he didn't smoke when the Yankees were up. Now we were both laughing, partly because we were so indescribably happy, partly because neither of us had to come right out and say he had used superstition.\n\nWe got off at Wall Street, a mere half block from my mother's office building. When we got to the top of the stairs coming out of the station, I could see piles of paper pouring out of a few of the buildings. There was no order to it. A huge blizzard would come out of one window; a half minute later another pile would come out of a window across the street or down the block. The blizzard of ticker tape on Broadway during a parade for somebody famous would be steady, almost orderly. This was deliciously chaotic and improvised.\n\nMy mother must have seen us coming, because the first time I saw her she was running toward us in her heels, her long hair flowing behind her. She had a smile on her face like she'd just won the Irish Sweepstakes. When she reached us, she picked me up (she could still do that) and smeared lipstick all over my forehead; the three of us hugged one another, with her in the middle, laughing. I had never seen this expression of unrestrained joy on her face before; I thought she was pretty anyway, but her smile made her look gorgeous. I can't remember anybody saying anything.\n\nThere was a younger woman with her, a friend and Dodger fan from her office. Her name was Mary Alice and she lived somewhere in the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn. My father could never remember her name, so he called her Mary Alice Something out of her presence, which was frequently enough that I only remember her as that. She was single and had short red hair and wore black suits and dresses and black glasses, but on this afternoon she was a little mussed up and laughing; I didn't see her that often, but she, too, smeared lipstick on my forehead and picked me up. Some years later, when my mother and I were reconstructing that joyous afternoon and I remarked that she and Mary Alice Something had seemed so flushed and buoyant, my mother began giggling as I realized that the two of them had knocked down a couple of belts in a bar before we arrived.\n\nMy father gallantly suggested another subway ride, and off we went; he and my mother had their arms around each other as they walked; Mary Alice Something decided to hold my hand, and I let her.\n\nWe got off across the river at Atlantic Avenue. I am eternally grateful that no one suggested we head for the Hotel Bossert, where we would have stood behind police barricades looking for arriving Dodgers like we were at some movie premiere. Naturally, there was a huge crowd over there, but I have always thought the most interesting reaction was that tens of thousands of people\u2014like us\u2014simply poured out of their dwellings and hung around on the streets.\n\nThe first thing I noticed was the traffic; Brooklyn could get jammed, but almost never like midtown Manhattan except around the bridges at rush hour. This was like midtown at its worst; hardly anything on the avenue was moving. Unlike Manhattan at five o'clock, there was no sign that anyone cared, the police included. Being on foot was a huge advantage.\n\nThe second thing I noticed was the church bells. I knew the sound well, but this was different\u2014two or three church bells just ringing randomly, a phenomenon that was being repeated all over Brooklyn. The absence of melody or rhythm told me that it had all just happened.\n\nThe third thing I remember noticing was faces. Everybody looked like us, beaming and laughing, unrestrained. Every so often a car would inch by filled with obviously drunk young people screaming, but the overwhelmingly dominant impression was of mass joy, not bedlam.\n\nWe walked a few blocks down the avenue to where the crowds on the street thinned a bit. My father gestured at the stairs of some walk-up and led me, my mother, and Mary Alice Something halfway up the stairs, seated us as if we were at a caf\u00e9, and then went back down the stairs and down the block into a candy store. He emerged a minute or so later carrying a paper bag that turned out to contain four White Rock cream sodas and four large salty, doughy pretzels.\n\nI sat on the top step of the walk-up with Mary Alice Something while my mother and father were a few steps down. We drank, ate, and watched the impromptu parade of happy people. No one seemed to be simply walking home from work or going about some business. There was instead this continuous stream of Brooklyn's marvelous diversity, laughing and talking excitedly.\n\nIn particular I remember two fairly old ladies, in black dresses with black laced shoes, greeting each other and gushing on about the Dodgers while they casually held on to each other's forearms. They were almost dancing. The other sight I focused on was the continual encounters between little groups of people and other little groups of people walking toward each other; they would greet, begin talking about the Dodgers, and then you could monitor their rising decibel levels. Eventually Mary Alice Somebody and I started poking each other to watch this or look at that.\n\nAt length, she poked me in the ribs and pointed down. My mother and father were in midkiss\u2014a heavy, wet one. Mary Alice had her hand over her mouth in an expression of mock horror, still pointing down to where I could see my father's left hand inching down the back of my mother's skirt. Mary Alice and I both burst out laughing.\n\nWe were on the stoop for maybe ninety minutes. It was getting dark, and I didn't object to the suggestion that we start home. We walked back to the subway, saying good-bye to my mother's friend at a bus stop, which meant more lipstick on my forehead.\n\nBack in Manhattan, we got as far as Third Avenue from Grand Central when my mother made the sudden suggestion that we duck into my favorite restaurant, the Automat. I don't remember what we had, but it was always my enjoyable chore to put the coins in the famous window slots for desserts. The family favorite was rice pudding.\n\nSince my father and I had been together all day, we let my mother do the talking. We laughed as she told us how grumpy the law partners became after each inning as the Yankees fell behind. She said she and her girlfriend Dodger fans were rooting and screaming in the refreshment room around the radio, in dramatic contrast to the funereal atmosphere in the conference room. Normally, she was a relatively reserved person and a stickler for detail and order; I think a lot of the time she was also very tired. That night she was aglow and loud, and it wasn't just the postgame whiskey. She had another horse laugh when my father and I confessed our superstitious rituals to her.\n\nI also couldn't help notice how intimate my father was with her. Usually they made me the center of attention when we were together; on this evening, it was he who interrupted me to describe in detail Sandy Amoros's catch, which she had missed seeing when she changed rooms. I enjoyed watching them together.\n\nWhen we got home, it was well after nine o'clock, borderline late for a school night, but there was no pretending that the return to routine would start before tomorrow. At some point after the game or on the way home we had heard that Johnny Podres would be the guest on the fledgling _Tonight Show_ (then hosted by Steve Allen), and I didn't even have to ask permission to stay up for it. It was simply assumed I would.\n\nAfter we had freshened up and my mother had gotten out of her work suit, it must have been ten or so, because my father suddenly suggested with the Indiana cornball phony seriousness that he always telegraphed by calling me Son that I go to the corner and get every newspaper that had an account of the game in it. He knew that would be an additional thrill at that hour, so I collected a dollar bill from my mother, got my jacket again, and headed out the door, careful to leave it open a crack for my return.\n\nFortunately, Tommy was working late at the newsstand, so I didn't have to pretend that I belonged on the corner of 42nd and Second at ten o'clock in the evening. He saw me and my wide smile coming and waved. I was not the only customer; several people were lined up to grab papers for the same reason I was there in this snapshot of pre-instant replay America. Tommy shared my glee and set about arranging a stack of papers that had full accounts of the game in them.\n\nAs I walked back down the block, I had a sizable stack (from the favored _Post_ to an early or special edition of the _Times_ ) in both my arms. Back in the building, my burden was graciously relieved by the lone elevator man on duty at that hour, a recent arrival from Ireland named Charley Kerrigan.\n\nWhen there was no one else riding the elevator, Charley always let me operate it. Back then, push-button elevators were mostly in new buildings. This one ran with a large lever\u2014which you pushed left to go up, right to go down, and moved to the middle to stop. I was pretty good at it and hit our floor cleanly on the first try, without having to adjust up or down.\n\nI heard the noise right after I thanked Charley and stepped off into the hallway. It was a clarinet that got louder as I walked toward our door. We had no fancy high-fidelity set, just a portable player for our modest collection that was all 78s. I recognized the tune\u2014the 1930s standard \"So Rare.\"\n\nI nudged open the door and stepped lightly inside. My father and mother were dancing near the dining table, locked in a close clinch, barely moving as they swayed. I could hear my mother humming softly.\n\nI stood in the little hallway with my bundle of papers.\n\nAnd glowed.\n\n## 15\n\n## Afterward\n\nI sat on the Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge for maybe a half hour, munching my doughnuts and drinking my milk. No more than a half-dozen cars broke the rural Indiana peace on a sunny, breezy October morning not unlike the one I awoke to on October 4, 1955.\n\nEventually, I noticed that there was a plaque on the bridge as well as its identifying sign and I walked over to read it. It contained most of the basic facts of Hodges's baseball career and concluded thus: \"Above all, he was dedicated to God, family, country, and the game of baseball.\"\n\nThere is a large open space between the end of the tribute and the bottom of the simple monument. I eventually learned the gap was left to make room for Gil Hodges's plaque at the Baseball Hall of Fame in New York, a more-than-deserved honor that had still eluded the best first baseman of his era as the fiftieth anniversary year of the Dodgers' World Series victory began. It remains one of the Hall's enduring outrages of oversight. For the record, among the eighteen first basemen who had been elected as of 2005, Hodges is hardly outclassed.\n\nHe had a higher lifetime batting average (.273) than Harmon Killebrew and Willie McCovey. He had more hits (1,921) than Frank Chance, Hank Greenberg, and George Kelly. Among modern era players he had more home runs (370) than Greenberg and Johnny Mize and was just nine short of Orlando Cepeda and Tony Perez. Hodges's comparative weakness was runs batted in (1,274), but that was more than Chance had, and all this comes before recognition is given to his unmatched magnificence in the field, his character, and his role in leading the Amazing Mets to victory in 1969. Where Gil Hodges is concerned, Wait'll Next Year applies to the Hall of Fame.\n\nNear the bridge, there had been a sign indicating the way back to Princeton. On a lark, I followed its instructions and took Highway 64 into the town. It still has roughly the population of 8,000 people or so as it did when Hodges was raised there before he went to high school in the much smaller community of Petersburg to the northeast.\n\nBut Princeton has changed. Its economy was rescued from its traditional overdependence on coal by Toyota's decision to build a major factory nearby that continues to expand. Gil Hodges is still everywhere, however\u2014at the thriving public library and at the gorgeous baseball field and park that were named after him. The place has perspective, however, taking care to notice its other well-known baseball name, Dave Niehaus, the longtime voice of the Seattle Mariners, as well as its two links to fast-food culture\u2014Orville Reddenbacher and Dave Thomas of Wendy's.\n\nIt was impossible while walking on the outfield grass of Gil Hodges Field not to think of his family's determination that he get the tools in school and in sports not to have to be in the coal mines that shortened his father's life. Hodges came from a lovely place deeply rooted in American culture, but in an act just as deeply rooted in American culture he moved on.\n\nSo did my mother and father and so did the Dodgers.\n\nWe didn't leave New York until 1959, not quite two years after our team did, but 1955 was a turning point for us.\n\nIt had been a wretched year for my father\u2014two hospitalizations around a continuous string of setbacks effectively ended his professional career at the age of forty-six. That year, I finally got a chance to meet the oddball character (also from Indiana) who had roamed the West with him thirty years before. Still with family money, still a quixotic dreamer and schemer, and with his third wife and a bewildering assortment of delightful children from his various entanglements he had plans for a business venture. He wanted to set up shop in Southern California.\n\nWhat I didn't know at the time was that he offered to bring us all out there\u2014to a beach town on the northern fringe of San Diego called La Jolla\u2014to work in the venture, a company making printed circuit boards for a fledgling industry called electronics.\n\nMy parents demurred at first. The man's plans were at that point vague, but my parents' real reason was me\u2014a refusal to even consider moving while I was still in grammar school and working in the opera. The seed, however, was planted, and even more urgent circumstances three years later, combined with the end of my boy soprano career, induced them to say yes.\n\nI went berserk, my first true fury directed at my parents. I was fourteen; I had a girlfriend, a fantastic school, friends there and in my neighborhood, and no conceivable frame of reference for a place on the Pacific Ocean that had no subway system. My rage lasted about a month.\n\nI simply loved high school, I loved the ocean, I still had my piano, and while the business venture collapsed and my parents still faced some brutal years, I had my first stirring of an understanding that after all they had been through and still faced, they had the right to choose a better opportunity and an infinitely more pleasant setting.\n\nThey had a lovely little house on the ocean and after some hideous years, my father's health finally became tolerable after doctors figured out how to control the flow of digestive acids into his ulcerated organs. As it turned out, a brain tumor got him at the age of seventy-one. Another brain tumor got my hitherto healthy mother less than two years later. On the day she took her final turn for the worse she told me she had seen her beloved husband in a dream. He was beckoning to her.\n\nThe Dodgers' story is of course more complex, but California also first loomed on their horizon in 1955, if only behind the Byzantine scenes of New York politics.\n\nAfter all these years, the hatred that move spawned still burns, especially brightly in Brooklyn, against the Dodgers as a business and against Walter O'Malley in particular. It is said that one evening over dinner the two writers Jack Newfield and Pete Hamill decided to make independent lists of the most evil people in history. Their top three were identical\u2014Hitler, Stalin, and O'Malley.\n\nThis situation strikes me as long overdue for some peacemaking. The Dodgers, as much as any organization in baseball, have a strong devotion to all of their long history, symbolized by the huge picture of the post-Game Seven celebration, adorned with Vin Scully's famous quote, that frames the entrance to their Los Angeles offices.\n\nTheir new owner in 2004 was a real estate developer from Boston named Frank McCourt. He purchased them from Rupert Murdoch's News Corporation, which had bought out Walter O'Malley's son. McCourt made plans to observe the anniversary appropriately. But it struck me as sad that plans for a separate celebration in Brooklyn were also proceeding and that no effort to have the twains meet was even attempted. After all, the most recent members of that fabled Brooklyn diaspora that has existed for three hundred years make an effort to stay in touch with those who stayed behind. It would seem that enough time has passed for the wounds to be allowed to heal.\n\nHistory can help. Brooklyn is special but not unique; it was as susceptible to the winds of post-World War II urban change as any other city or major part of a city was. Most of the reasons that propelled the Braves out of Boston to Milwaukee, the Browns out of St. Louis to Baltimore, the Athletics out of Philadelphia to Kansas City and then to Oakland, and the Giants out of New York to San Francisco were at work in Brooklyn in the 1950s.\n\nAll these years later it is clear that a superhuman effort was undertaken to remain in Brooklyn, or at least the New York area, and that its failure was by no means solely Walter O'Malley's fault. The actual decision to depart was cruel and selfish, but those are not adjectives unheard in the cowboy capitalist world of baseball. The entire saga is tragic but, in context, comprehensible as something other than a mere immorality play.\n\nThe team's natural fan base was immense and still expanding almost to the first shots of World War II; from the World Series teams of 1916 and 1920 through the Daffy Dodgers era to the revival under Larry MacPhail, it had always been clear that the team was beloved in its roomy geographical home. As a franchise the Dodgers had seen decent as well as horrid times, but the team's inherent potential was always apparent. From Branch Rickey's arrival through Walter O'Malley's coup that potential was realized; the team made serious money and by 1955 had salted away millions for a project\u2014a new home\u2014that had been seen as essential ever since World War II.\n\nFrom almost the moment the war ended, it had become increasingly clear that something was wrong though the problems were slow to develop. In the first full season after the war ended, the Dodgers drew 1.8 million fans to Ebbets Field, leading the National League in attendance despite the ballpark's relatively small size, as they would do in 1947, 1949, 1951, and 1952. In 1947, Jackie Robinson's rookie year, their record draw at home was more than matched by another 1.8 million fans on the road, who turned out in large part to get a glimpse of history.\n\nThe Dodgers never matched either total again, however. From 1948 until they abandoned the town, the Dodgers drew more on the road than they did at home each year. In the year of their only championship, the attendance at Ebbets Field barely exceeded 1 million fans and was the occasion of much angry comment by the players as the season unfolded, including a famous tirade in print by Duke Snider. What was wrong was that people were moving from the city to the suburbs and from the Northeast to what would eventually be called the Sunbelt. To lure fans to an urban ballpark in the late 1950s would require more than just proximity to bus and subway lines; it would require parking space for cars from Long Island and New Jersey, which Ebbets Field famously lacked.\n\nFor some very obvious, indescribably painful reasons, the Dodgers cannot ignore their history of abandonment; it is at least somewhat to their credit that they don't hide it. The point was driven home to me in the fall of 2003, when I was in the state to watch the people get rid of their governor and select the movie actor Arnold Schwarzenegger to replace him. I took one morning off the campaign to swing by the ballpark to watch Walter O'Malley's son unveil an Internet site devoted to the team's full history and many of the late rascal and visionary's once-private papers.\n\nPeter O'Malley has his father's face but a more distinguished air. His family's placement of the historical record where anyone can see it was not entirely selfless. It is good politics to soften the image of the ruthless decision to leave Brooklyn against a background of the city's refusal to help O'Malley put together a large-enough land parcel near downtown Brooklyn for a larger ballpark and the parking spaces required to attract at least the populace of the suburban pieces of Brooklyn's diaspora. Back in Brooklyn, the most hardened of the left-behind argued that it was also part of a campaign to help Peter O'Malley's eventual election to the Hall of Fame.\n\nThe documents are revealing and helpful. They beg the ultimate question\u2014how business greed could have produced such a brutal abuse of the public trust as to pull up stakes and drive one of them through Brooklyn's heart, no matter the politicians' provocation\u2014but do show clearly how Los Angeles did not become a genuine option until it was clear that the city of New York would not take even minimal steps to help the Dodgers build a new home.\n\nThe very first document was written by Walter O'Malley in 1946 when he was still a bank lawyer on the board of what was then a Branch Rickey-run operation.\n\n\"Your fertile imagination should have some ideas about enlarging or replacing our present stadium,\" he cajoled in a note to Emil Praeger, the architect/engineer eventually of the ballpark at the Dodgers' spring training complex in Vero Beach, Florida, and of Dodger Stadium itself in Los Angeles.\n\nLess than a decade after MacPhail's improvements, Ebbets Field was already notoriously rickety, with equally notorious amenities like faulty plumbing. I never saw my mother at the ballpark without a small clump of toilet paper in her handbag, though in my childhood I can never recall being aware of anything wrong with the place. The real problem was not so much size (Ebbets Field could have been expanded by several thousand seats) as it was parking (there was space for only seven hundred cars).\n\nBy 1948, O'Malley had begun scouting possible sites and exploring designs including the ultimate innovation of a domed stadium, on which he consulted in depth with the likes of R. Buckminster Fuller and Eero Saarinen. From the beginning, it was clear that the principal obstacle was New York's legendary planner and builder, Robert Moses.\n\nThe archetype of the best and worst of the era of \"urban renewal\" and \"slum clearance,\" Moses's vision created affordable housing for poor, working families and retired people by the scores of thousands of units. His highways also destroyed neighborhoods and both made the suburbs reachable for commuters and hastened the economic decline of the city in which those commuters no longer lived. His beliefs in democracy and accountability frequently yielded to autocracy and ego. In my little progressive household I learned from my parents to detest four people in public life before I was fully aware why\u2014Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Carmine DeSapio (the last real boss of the decaying Tammany Hall political machine), and Robert Moses.\n\nOver a period of roughly ten years, the O'Malley-Moses correspondence reveals a clash between the Dodger boss's dream and the Moses political philosophy. On the surface, each was a dreamer, schemer, and builder. O'Malley had, from the moment of his appearance on the Dodger scene in the 1940s, always been part of the business and political support structure that helped get Moses's megaprojects completed. O'Malley believed that the Dodgers, in Brooklyn but housed in a new complex suitable for modern times, fit perfectly with Moses's vision of a late-twentieth-century city. Gradually, however, it became clear that Moses himself did not share that belief.\n\nAs chairman or commissioner of the various supergovernment agencies and authorities in New York that transformed the city as they were transforming other urban centers in the country, Moses's power derived from authority delegated to such public officials by the federal government. In the legislation that enshrined the nation's basic housing and urban policies after the war, it was the authority to clear land (and the people who inconveniently might live on it) designated as a \"slum,\" as long as the clearance and the construction that replaced it served a legitimate \"public purpose.\"\n\nO'Malley did not want direct financial help. The Dodgers, under both Rickey and O'Malley, made money and retained the team's earnings in accounts that swelled into the millions of dollars. The Dodger boss did not want to rent a publicly financed, new stadium; he wanted to own the land, the ballpark, and an adjacent parking lot outright. However, he needed Moses to use his condemnation authority to help him assemble property.\n\nMoses could be ruthless with his power, but their correspondence makes it clear he did not agree that the public purpose requirement of federal law could be stretched to accommodate a privately owned baseball team. At a minimum he wanted a stadium built on land put together with government help and muscle to have more than one purpose, as Shea Stadium would have a decade later. Moses was deeply involved in plans for a vibrant Brooklyn Civic Center in the heart of the borough, but the intriguing possibility of a ballpark site right next to it at the corner of Atlantic and Flatbush Avenues (occupied by a huge eye- and nose sore called the Fort Greene Meat Market), hard by the Brooklyn station for the Long Island Railroad, and convenient to major highways, could not induce him to offer help in assembling an affordable land package for O'Malley's dream.\n\nThe O'Malley-Moses correspondence, increasingly pointed and then angry, had been going for at least two years. Moses repeatedly suggested other sites but never budged from his contention that the \"public purpose\" requirement of federal law could not apply to condemning property simply for a new Dodger stadium. O'Malley never slammed his mind shut, but increasingly focused like a laser on Atlantic and Flatbush. The exquisite irony is that in early 2004, prominent developer Bruce Ratner purchased the New Jersey Nets basketball team to move them to a new auditorium on that very site in Brooklyn, which will use public power to assemble land for a mixed-use complex.\n\nThe machinations of urban big shots were not prominently on my mind, but I actually remember one episode in the O'Malley\u2013Moses battle that was very public during that championship season\u2014the announcement that during the following year the Dodgers would play seven games in the old minor-league park across the Hudson River in Jersey City that would otherwise have been played at Ebbets Field. The announcement came in mid-August, as the team coasted toward its earliest-ever clinching of a pennant, and it followed a particularly acerbic exchange of letters between the two headstrong men.\n\nThe full text disclosed that the New Jersey experiment would continue in 1957 and that the team \"will have to have a new stadium shortly thereafter.\" The public comments about moving the team were restricted at this time to Queens, New Jersey, and Long Island, but more than the immediate neighborhood was involved even then.\n\nThe very next sentence opened the door by implication: \"We will consider other locations only if we are finally unsuccessful in our ambition to build in Brooklyn. In that event we would want to [not have to] keep the franchise close to our fans.\"\n\nThe Dodgers' real estate problems had caught the attention during 1955 of some very sharp young politicians who were actively scheming to graft big-time sports and culture onto the exploding population and economy of Southern California. Even as the team was moving toward the one triumphant moment in its long history, the seed that would sprout two years later was being planted.\n\nUndeterred by a referendum defeat that June of a $4-million bond issue by Los Angeles County voters to pay for a new stadium fit for a major-league team, the city council in August voted with a public relations flourish to invite O'Malley west for an inspection tour and a chat. Early in September, O'Malley received a letter from Rosalind Wyman, a council member then all of twenty-four years old, who would become one of the modern city's leading figures and one of the Dodgers' most prominent suitors.\n\nWyman told O'Malley that she would be in New York for the World Series with a fellow council member (Edward Roybal, later a heavyweight congressman), staying at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, and that the two of them were authorized to start talking to any team that would listen (she sent a similar letter to owner Horace Stoneham of the New York Giants).\n\nO'Malley replied a week later that when he saw accounts of the city council vote in the newspapers he had assumed it was \"a publicity stunt,\" but while he essentially blew Wyman off, he left his door temptingly open a crack. He said he doubted there would be time to talk during the Series and said he would have no part in any public maneuvering that might complicate life for Los Angeles' two minor-league teams (the Angels and the Hollywood Stars). However, he added that \"at a later date perhaps there might be an occasion when a meeting would be appropriate.\"\n\nAnother exchange in that period shows that the Dodgers were already willing to consider this kind of contact appropriate. In Los Angeles, there was no bigger tub-thumper for a major-league franchise than Vincent X. Flaherty, a sports columnist for the Hearst paper the _Herald-Examiner._ In the old Hearst tradition, Flaherty was not above adding behind-the-scenes lobbying to his writing duties. That same month, he informed O'Malley by letter that he would be staying at the Plaza Hotel during the Series and was also looking for a meeting.\n\nO'Malley responded via the Dodgers' assistant general manager, A. F. \"Red\" Patterson, who was more than a little encouraging.\n\n\"Hope we can have a session during the World Series,\" Patterson replied. \"As you know, Walter will be only too glad to discuss the Los Angeles situation with you\u2014off the record\u2014but as you know we've got something started in Brooklyn which we plan to see right down to a conclusion.\"\n\nOn October 4, 1955, that something was the seventh game of the World Series as well as the ongoing struggle to arrange a new home without moving. The millions of Dodger fans who endured the tortures of hell that day were totally focused on the former; the stadium clock that had already begun ticking was completely inaudible to all but a few insiders.\n\nTick it did, however, until everyone involved ran out of time and viable options. It remains the only move by a sports team that has left such scars, produced such passionate, durable outrage.\n\nWhat happened later when the Dodgers left, however, has never come close to the durability of what happened in 1955, still the source of wonder and joy.\n\nThe memory of that World Series is in fact the only one given formal recognition at the Hall of Fame. It was sort of an accident\u2014an effort by a rich guy to give something to baseball's shrine that reflected his own memories and feelings. The people who run the place, though, had no difficulty considering the gift more than appropriate and worthy.\n\nI came upon it by accident taking a break from my research work in the Hall of Fame's remarkable library for a short stroll outside. Sort of between the building's wings, there is a small courtyard with a couple of benches in it, which I noticed from some distance away. As I walked into it, I saw that there were two statues on the small lawn\u2014one of a left-handed pitcher, the other of a catcher, with a bronzed home plate in front of him. They appeared to be separated from each other by the officially required distance of sixty feet, six inches.\n\nFrom a distance of no more than ten yards it suddenly dawned on me that the pitcher was Johnny Podres and the catcher was Roy Campanella. Podres was in his follow-through, left leg in the air; Campanella had his mitt extended, with his mask on top of his head so a visitor could see his face.\n\nOn home plate, there was an explanatory inscription. The sculptor was Stanley Bliefeld, a highly regarded artist who lives in Connecticut and Italy; the donor was the New York restaurant entrepreneur Sheldon Fireman\u2014Brooklyn boys both. It was presented in memory of 1955, but it was accepted in honor of all seventh games when everything is on the line.\n\nFor some silly reason, I stood where a right-handed hitter would stand, trying to mimic Elston Howard's lunge at Podres's last changeup. Eventually, as at that little bridge in Indiana, I simply let the memories and feelings flow again.\n\nJohnny Podres was right. It all really is frozen forever.\n\n## Name Index\n\nAaron, Hank,\n\nAbrams, Cal, , , , , , ,\n\nAdams, Joey,\n\nAdler, Kurt,\n\nAllen, Doris, ,\n\nAllen, Mel (Melvin Israel), , , , , ,\n\nAllen, Steve,\n\nAllen, Woody, ,\n\nAlston, Walter \"Smokey,\" , , , , , \u201372, \u201391, , , , , , \u2013217, , \u2013221, , , , , , , \u2013238, , , \u2013254\n\nAminoff, Carey, \u2013132\n\nAmoros, Edmundo Isasi \"Sandy,\" , , , , , , \u2013165, , \u2013209, , , , , , , \u2013238, , \u2013245, \u2013247, , , , , , , , , ,\n\n_Anastasia,_\n\nAnastasia, Albert,\n\nAnderson, Marian,\n\nAnson, Adrian Constantine \"Cap,\" \u201350\n\nAscher, Sid,\n\nAshburn, Richie, , , ,\n\nBach, Johann Sebastian, ,\n\nBagby, Jim,\n\nBalboni, Huey,\n\nBallanfant, Lee,\n\nBankhead, Dan,\n\nBanta, Jack,\n\nBarber, Walter \"Red,\" , , , , , , , ,\n\nBauer, Hank, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nBavasi, Emil J. \"Buzzie,\" \u201358, , \u201369, , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nBavasi, Rachel,\n\nBeame, Abe,\n\nBehan, Brendan,\n\nBendix, William, ,\n\nBerra, Yogi, , \u201342, , , , , , , , \u2013121, , , , , , , , \u2013228, , , , \u2013242, \u2013244, , , \u2013254,\n\nBessent, Don, , , , , ,\n\nBevens, Floyd \"Bill,\" , , ,\n\nBlack, Joe, , , , , , ,\n\nBliefeld, Stanley,\n\nBoggs, Hale,\n\nBranca, Ralph, , , \u2013163, , , , , \u2013182, , , , ,\n\nBromberg, Mrs.,\n\nBrooks Brothers,\n\nBrooks, Mel (Melvin),\n\nBrown, Ralph \"Country,\"\n\nBruckheimer, Jerry,\n\nBryant, Clay,\n\nBrynner, Vera,\n\nBrynner, Yul,\n\nBuckner, Bill,\n\nBurns, Matt,\n\nBusso, Johnny,\n\nButts, Thomas \"Pee Wee,\"\n\nByrne, Mary Sue, ,\n\nByrne, Tommy (Thomas Joseph), , , , , \u201379, , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013122, , , \u2013216, , , , , , , , ,\n\nCaesar, Sid,\n\nCahill, Barbara,\n\nCahill, Gordon, Reindell and Ohl,\n\nCahn, Sammy,\n\nCallas, Maria, , ,\n\nCamilli, Dolph, ,\n\nCampanella, Roy, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u201379, , , \u201391, \u2013116, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013225, , , \u2013242, , , , , , ,\n\nCampanis, Al, ,\n\nCarney, Art,\n\nCaruso, Enrico,\n\nCase, Everett,\n\nCasey Hugh, , \u2013112,\n\nCastro, Fidel,\n\nCepeda, Orlando,\n\nCerv, Bob, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nChance, Frank, ,\n\nChandler, A. B. \"Happy,\" , ,\n\nChester, Hilda, , ,\n\nChopin,\n\nChristopolous, Louis,\n\nChurchill, Winston, ,\n\nClay, Andrew Dice,\n\nClemente, Roberto, \u201359, ,\n\nClinton, Bill,\n\nCobb, Ty,\n\nColeman, Jerry,\n\nCollins, Joe, , , , , , , \u2013227\n\nConlon, Jocko,\n\nConnie (hurricane),\n\nCooper, Mort, \u2013159\n\nCorrea, Matthew,\n\nCostello, Joe,\n\nCostello, Tim,\n\nCox, Billy, , , , , , \u2013185, , , , , , ,\n\nCraig, Roger, , , \u2013228\n\nCramden, Alice,\n\nCramden, Ralph, \u2013141\n\nCrosetti, Frankie,\n\nCrosley, Powell,\n\nCurrier and Ives,\n\n_Daily Mirror,_\n\n_Daily News,_\n\nDaley, Arthur, ,\n\nDark, Alvin, , , ,\n\nDay, Clyde \"Pea Ridge,\"\n\nDay, Laraine,\n\ndel Monaco, Mario,\n\nDeLury, Billy, \u2013135, \u2013244\n\nDeLury, Eleanor,\n\nDeMaestri, Joseph \"Oats,\"\n\nDerringer, Paul,\n\nDeSapio, Carmine, ,\n\nDesmond, Connie, ,\n\nDiane (hurricane),\n\nDickey, Bill,\n\nDickson, Murry,\n\nDiehl, George,\n\nDiMaggio, Joe, , , , , , , ,\n\nDoubleday, Abner,\n\nDouglas, Bobby, \u2013136, \u2013263\n\nDouglas, Helen Gahagan, \u201316\n\nDouglas, Melvyn,\n\nDressen, Charlie, , , , \u201378, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nDurante, Jimmy,\n\nDurocher, Leo, , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nEbbets, Charles, , ,\n\nEdwards, Bruce, , , , ,\n\nEdwards, Hank,\n\nEisenhower, Dwight D., , , ,\n\nElizabeth, queen,\n\nEngleberg, Memphis,\n\nEnnis, Del,\n\nErskine, Betty,\n\nErskine, Carl, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013201, , , , , , , , ,\n\nEvans, Dwight,\n\nFarrell, Leroy, ,\n\nFelton,\n\nFewster, Wilson Lloyd \"Chick,\" ,\n\n_Field of Dreams,_\n\nFireman, Sheldon,\n\nFisk, Carlton,\n\nFitzsimmons, Freddie, ,\n\nFlaherty, Vincent X.,\n\nFord, Whitey, , , , , , , , , \u2013214, ,\n\nFoster, Phil,\n\nFreed, Alan,\n\nFrick, Ford, , , ,\n\nFuller, R. Buckminster,\n\nFurillo, Carl, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013203, , , , \u2013225, \u2013228, , , , , ,\n\nGardner, Herb,\n\nGardner, Paul,\n\nGehrig, Lou, , ,\n\nGephardt, Dick,\n\nGil Hodges Memorial Bridge, , , ,\n\nGilliam, James William \"Junior,\" , , , \u201383, , , \u201387, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nGionfriddo, Al, , , , ,\n\nGleason, Jackie, \u2013141,\n\nGlueck, Grace,\n\nGolenbock, Peter,\n\n_Gone With the Wind,_\n\nGooding, Gladys,\n\nGordon, Joe, ,\n\nGoren, Charles,\n\nGorman, Tom,\n\nGrayson, Kathryn,\n\nGreen, Johnny,\n\nGreen, Samuel,\n\nGreenberg, Hank,\n\nGregg, Hal, ,\n\nGretchaninoff, Alexander,\n\nGriffith, Andy,\n\nGriffith, Clark,\n\nGrim, Bob, , , , , \u2013236, , ,\n\nGrimes, Burleigh, \u2013107\n\n_Guadalcanal Diary,_\n\nHackett, Buddy,\n\nHamill, Pete, ,\n\nHamilton, Alexander,\n\nHandwerker, Nathan,\n\n_Happy Endings,_\n\n_Happy Felton's Knothole Gang,_\n\n_Harpers,_\n\nHarris, Bucky, , ,\n\nHarris, Spencer,\n\nHart, Peter,\n\nHartung, Clint \"Hondo Hurricane,\"\n\nHarwell, Ernie,\n\nHatten, Joe, , ,\n\nHearn, Jim,\n\nHenrich, Tommy, , , ,\n\n_Herald-Examiner,_\n\nHerman, Billy, , ,\n\nHerman, Floyd Caves \"Babe,\"\n\nHermanski, Gene,\n\nHigbe, Kirby, ,\n\nHitler, Adolf, ,\n\nHoak, Don, , \u201392, , , , \u2013208, , , , , , ,\n\nHodges, Gil, , \u20133, , , , \u201336, , , , , , , \u2013118, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013225, , , , , , \u2013240, , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nHodges, Joan,\n\nHodges, Russ,\n\nHoliday, Billie, ,\n\nHome, Lena,\n\nHoward, Elston, \u201337, , , , , \u2013117, , , , , \u2013220, , , , \u2013229, , \u2013259,\n\nHowell, Dixie, \u201370,\n\nHoyt, Waite,\n\nHuggins, Miller,\n\nHurt, Miss.,\n\nHusing, Ted,\n\nHymel, Alexandria,\n\nHymel, Amy,\n\nHymel, Lt. Gary, \u2013138,\n\n_I Never Had It Made_ (Robinson), \u201344\n\n_I'm Not Rappaport,_\n\nImmerman, Connie,\n\nIrvin, Monte, , , ,\n\n_It Happened in Brooklyn,_\n\nJackson, Kenneth T.,\n\nJackson, \"Shoeless\" Joe, , , , ,\n\nJethroe, Sam, ,\n\nJocko (parakeet),\n\nJohn (Billy DeLurys uncle),\n\nJohnson, Jack,\n\nJohnson, Walter,\n\nJones, Willie \"Puddin Head,\"\n\nJordan, Vernon, \u201351,\n\nJordan, Vernon, Sr., , ,\n\nJordan, Windsor, , ,\n\nJorgensen, John \"Spider,\"\n\nJudge, Arline,\n\nKaminsky, David. _See_ Kaye, Danny\n\nKaye, Danny (David Kaminsky),\n\nKeller, Charlie,\n\nKellert, Frank, , ,\n\nKelly, George,\n\nKenney, William, , ,\n\nKenrey, Mr,\n\nKerrigan, Charley,\n\n_The Kid from Brooklyn,_\n\nKilduff, Pete,\n\nKillebrew, Harmon,\n\nKing, Alan, ,\n\n_The King and I,_\n\nKing, Clyde,\n\nKing, Martin Luther, Jr.,\n\nKinsella, Ray,\n\nKonigsberg, Allen,\n\nKonstanty, Jim, ,\n\nKoufax, Sandy, , ,\n\nKrock, Arthur,\n\nKu Klux Klan, \u201347,\n\nKucks, Johnny,\n\nKurt, \u2013207\n\nKuzava, Robert LeRoy \"Sarge,\"\n\nLabine, Clem, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013229, , ,\n\nLacy, Sam,\n\nLamont, Miss.,\n\nLandis, Kenesaw Mountain,\n\nLarsen, Don, , , \u2013222\n\nLasorda, Tommy,\n\nLavagetto, Harry \"Cookie,\" \u2013164,\n\nLawford, Peter,\n\nLee, Robert E.,\n\nLehman, Kenny,\n\nLie, Trygve,\n\n_The Life of Riley,_\n\nLincoln, Abraham,\n\nLockman, Carroll \"Whitey,\"\n\nLoes, Billy, , \u2013195, , , , , , \u2013216, ,\n\nLombardi, Ernie,\n\nLombardi, Vic,\n\nLopat, Ed,\n\nLopata, Stan, ,\n\nLopez, Al,\n\nLouis, Joe, , ,\n\nLuciano, Charles \"Lucky,\"\n\nMacArthur, Arthur,\n\nMacArthur, Douglas,\n\nMacArthur, Jean,\n\nMacMillan, Margaret, \u2013193,\n\nMacPhail, Larry, , \u2013110, , , \u2013156, , \u2013161, , \u2013168, , , , ,\n\nMaglie, Sal, , ,\n\nMahler, Gustav,\n\nManley, Abe,\n\nManley, Effa,\n\nManley, Gordon,\n\nMann, Earl,\n\nMann, Terence,\n\nMantle, Mickey, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013218, , , , ,\n\nMapes, Cliff \"Tiger,\"\n\nMargolis, Samuel, \u20139\n\nMarkowitz, Marty,\n\nMartin, Billy, , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013215, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMary Alice Something, \u2013266\n\nMathews, Eddie,\n\nMathewson, Christy,\n\nMauch, Gene,\n\nMays, Willie, , , , , , , ,\n\nMcCarthy, Joe, , , ,\n\nMcCourt, Frank,\n\nMcCovey, Willie,\n\nMcDonald, Arch, ,\n\nMcDougald, Gil, , , , \u201390, \u201392, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMcGraw, John,\n\nMcGuire, Dorothy,\n\nMcKeever, Edward,\n\nMcKeever, Stephen, ,\n\nMcLaughlin, George V.,\n\nMedwick; Joe,\n\nMeyer, Russ, , , , \u2013230,\n\nMiksis, Eddie, , ,\n\nMiller, David Neal,\n\nMiller, Otto,\n\nMiranda, Willie,\n\nMitchell, Clarence,\n\nMitropolous, Dimitri,\n\nMize, Johnny, , ,\n\n_Monitor,_\n\nMoore, Mary Tyler,\n\nMorgan, Tom, ,\n\nMorgenthau, Henry, ,\n\nMorse, Samuel F. B.,\n\nMoses, Robert, , \u2013277\n\nMostel, Zero,\n\nMozart,\n\nMueller, Don, ,\n\nMullin, Willard,\n\nMurdoch, Rupert,\n\nMurphy, Eddie,\n\n_New York Post,_ , ,\n\n_The New York Times,_ , , , , ,\n\nNewcombe, Don, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013170, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nNewfield, Jack,\n\nNiehaus, Dave,\n\nNixon, Richard, \u201316, , ,\n\nNoren, Irv, ,\n\nNuxhall, Joe,\n\nO'Hara, Scarlet,\n\nOliphant, Anna (Anna Serena Selvog), , \u20138, , \u201315, \u201320, , , \u201326, \u201331, \u201382, , \u201395, \u2013105, , \u2013151, \u2013155, \u2013167, \u2013179, \u2013190, , \u2013211, , , \u2013267, ,\n\nOliphant, Elmer Q.,\n\nOliphant, Herman (uncle), , \u2013104\n\nOliphant, Homer, , , \u20138, , \u201320, \u201318, \u201320, , , \u201326, \u201331, \u201347, , , \u201361, \u201382, \u201393, \u2013105, \u201311496\u201397, \u2013119, \u2013151, \u2013167, \u2013173, \u2013179, \u2013190, , \u2013211, \u2013213, , , , , \u2013262, \u2013267, ,\n\nOlmo, Luis,\n\nOlmsted, Frederick Law,\n\nO'Malley, Peter, , , ,\n\nO'Malley, Walter, , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013206, , , , \u2013277\n\nO'Neill, Tip,\n\nOppenheimer, Joel,\n\nOtt, Mel,\n\nOtto, Frederick Augustus (FAO Schwarz),\n\nOuimet, Francis, \u20135\n\nOvermire, Frank \"Stubby,\"\n\nOwen, Mickey, \u201319, , , , , ,\n\nOwens, Jesse,\n\nPafko, Andy, , , , , , , ,\n\nPage, Joe, , , , , ,\n\nPalica, Erv,\n\nPanza, Sancho,\n\nParks, Rosa, ,\n\nPatterson, A. F. \"Red,\"\n\nPaul, Gabe, \u201327,\n\nPaul, Saul,\n\n_Pearl Harbor,_\n\nPerez, Tony, \u2013269\n\nPitler, Jake,\n\nPodbeilan, Clarence \"Bud,\" ,\n\nPodres, Johnny, , \u201310, , , , \u201371, \u201373, , , , , , , , \u201391, , \u2013121, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013221, , , \u2013244, , , , , \u2013254, , \u2013258, , ,\n\nPollet, Howie,\n\nPotts, Aloysius T. \"Taxi,\" __\n\nPraeger, Emil,\n\nPrevin, Andre,\n\nProust, Marcel,\n\nQuixote, Don,\n\nRandall, Aloysius K. \"Smacksie,\"\n\nRaschi, Vic, , , , ,\n\nRatner, Bruce,\n\nRay (candy store owner),\n\n_Reader's Digest,_\n\nReddenbacher, Orville,\n\nRedmond, Reverend Herbert,\n\nReese, Harold Henry \"Pee Wee,\" , , , \u201340, , , , \u201383, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013175, , , \u2013197, , , , , , , , , , \u2013233, , , \u2013241, \u2013245, , , , , , ,\n\nReilly, Walter,\n\nReiser, Harold Patrick \"Pistol Pete,\" , , , , , , , , ,\n\nReynolds, Allie, , , , , , ,\n\nRickards, Tex \"Ricketts,\" ,\n\nRickey, Branch, , , , \u201349, \u201356, , , , \u201384, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013200, , \u2013249, , ,\n\nRikard, Cully,\n\nRiley, Chester,\n\nRiley, Walter,\n\nRivers, Joan,\n\nRizzuto, Phil, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013239, , \u2013254,\n\nRoberts, Robin, , , , ,\n\nRobeson, Paul,\n\nRobinson, Aaron,\n\nRobinson, Eddie, , , ,\n\nRobinson, Jackie, , , , , \u201342, \u201344, , \u201348, , \u201352, \u201358, , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013160, , , , , , , , , \u2013197, , , , , \u2013208, , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nRobinson, Phil Alden,\n\nRobinson, Wilbert, , \u2013108\n\nRock, Chris,\n\nRodgers and Hammerstein,\n\nRoe, Elwin Charles \"Preacher,\" , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nRoebuck, Ed, ,\n\nRoosevelt, Eleanor,\n\nRoosevelt, Franklin D., , , , , ,\n\nRosen, Al,\n\nRoth, Alan, \u2013147\n\nRothstein, Arnold,\n\nRoybal, Edward, \u2013277\n\nRozelle, Pete,\n\nRubenstein, Florence, \u2013123, , ,\n\nRunyon, Damon, ,\n\nRuppert, Jacob,\n\nRusso, Marius, ,\n\nRuth, Babe, , , , , , , , ,\n\nSaarinen, Eero,\n\nSanger, Margaret,\n\nScarlet, , ,\n\nSchilling, Curt,\n\nSchuker, Jill, \u2013131,\n\nSchwarzenegger, Arnold,\n\nScully, Vin, , \u2013148, , , , , , , , , \u2013255, ,\n\nSeabiscuit,\n\nSelvog, Anna Serena. _See_ Oliphant, Anna\n\nSelvog, Edla,\n\nSeminick, Andy,\n\nSexton, John, \u2013136, , \u2013263\n\nShapiro, Milton,\n\nShaw, George Bernard,\n\nShea, Frank Joseph \"Spec,\" , ,\n\nShepherd, Bob,\n\nShotton, Burt, , , , , , , ,\n\nShuba, George \"Shotgun,\" , \u2013238\n\nSiegel, Bugsy,\n\nSilvers, Phil,\n\nSimmons, Curt,\n\nSinatra, Frank,\n\nSisler, Dick,\n\nSisler, George,\n\nSkowron, Bill, , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013256,\n\nSlaughter, Enos \"Country,\"\n\nSlutsky, Abe, , , ,\n\nSmith, Betty, ,\n\nSmith, Elmer,\n\nSmith, Hal,\n\nSmith, John, \u2013157,\n\nSmith, Michael (Mike the Merry Mortician),\n\nSmith, Sherry,\n\nSmith, Wendell,\n\nSnider, Edwin Donald \"Duke,\" , , , , , , \u201383, , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013175, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013224, , , , , , , , ,\n\n\"So Rare,\"\n\nSpielberg, Steven,\n\nSpooner, Karl, , , , , ,\n\nStalin, Joseph, ,\n\nStanford, Leland,\n\nStanky, Eddie, , ,\n\nSteinbeck, John, ,\n\nStengel, Casey, , , , \u201386, , , , , , , , , \u2013227, \u2013235, , \u2013251, ,\n\nStevens, Rise,\n\nStevenson, Adlai, ,\n\nStock, Milt, , \u2013176,\n\nStoneham, Horace, , ,\n\nStrassman, Miss.,\n\nSturdivant, Tom,\n\nStyne, Jule,\n\n_Subway Series,_ , ,\n\nSukeforth, Clyde, , ,\n\nSummers, Bill, ,\n\nTammany Hall, ,\n\nTaylor, Reverend Gardner Calvin, \u201355, \u201358\n\nTebaldi, Renata,\n\n_The Ten Commandments,_\n\nTerry, Bill,\n\nThomas, Dave,\n\nThomas, Dylan,\n\nThompson, Don,\n\nThompson, Hank,\n\nThompson, Lafayette Fresco, \u201384, , , ,\n\nThomson, Bobby, , , , \u2013185, , ,\n\n_A Thousand Clowns,_\n\nThurber, James,\n\nTill, Emmit,\n\n_Today_ show,\n\nTolstoy, Leo,\n\nTomkins, John, , \u201346,\n\nTommy (paper boy), ,\n\n_Tonight_ show, ,\n\nTopping, Dan, , \u2013168\n\n_A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,_ ,\n\nTriandos, Gus,\n\nTrout, Robert,\n\nTruman, Harry, , ,\n\nTucker, Richard,\n\nTurley, Bob \"Bullet Bob,\" , , , , , , ,\n\nTweed, \"Boss,\"\n\nUNICEF,\n\nVance, Dazzy,\n\nVaux, Calvert,\n\nVeeck, Bill, Jr., \u201349\n\n_Vernon Can Read!_ (Jordan),\n\nVoltaire,\n\nWagner, Honus,\n\nWagner, Robert,\n\nWaitkus, Eddie,\n\n_Wake Island,_\n\nWalker, Al \"Rube,\" , ,\n\nWalker, Fred \"Dixie,\" , \u201348, , , ,\n\nWalker, Jimmy,\n\nWalker, Moses Fleetwood,\n\n_The Wall Street Journal,_\n\nWambsganss, Bill, ,\n\nWarneke, Lon,\n\nWashington, George,\n\nWeaver, Sigourney,\n\nWeaver, Sylvester L. \"Pat,\" \u201323\n\nWebb, Del, , , \u2013168, ,\n\nWeiss, George, , ,\n\nWendy's,\n\nWertz, Vic,\n\nWest, Mae,\n\nWheat, Zack,\n\nWilliams, Ted, ,\n\nWilson, Teddy, ,\n\nWoodling, Gene, , , , ,\n\nWyman, Rosalind, \u2013277\n\n_Yank Magazine,_\n\nYoung, Whitney,\n\nYoungman, Henny,\n\nZeckendorf, William,\n\nZimmer, Don, , , , , , \u2013208, , , , , \n"}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "The Dore Gallery of Bible Illustrations Volume 8 by Gustave Dore", "publication_date": 1891, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8708"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n              THE DORE GALLERY OF BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n                  Illustrated by Gustave Dore\n\n                          Volume 8.\n\n\n\nJESUS AND THE WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY.\n\n\nJesus went unto the mount of Olives. And early in the morning he came\nagain into the temple, and all the people came unto him; and he sat down,\nand taught them.\n\nAnd the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery;\nand when they had set her in the midst, they say unto him, Master, this\nwoman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the law\ncommanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou? This they\nsaid, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him.\n\nBut Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as\nthough he heard them not.\n\nSo when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto\nthem, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at\nher.\n\nAnd again he stooped down, and wrote on the ground.\n\nAnd they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went\nout one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last; and Jesus\nwas left alone, and the woman standing in the midst. When Jesus had\nlifted up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said unto her, Woman\nwhere are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee? She said, No\nman, Lord.\n\nAnd Jesus said unto her, Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.\n--john viii, 1-11\n\n\n\n\nTHE RESURRECTION OF LAZARUS.\n\n\nNow Jesus was not yet come into the town, but was in that place where\nMartha met him. The Jews then which were with her in the house, and\ncomforted her, when they saw Mary, that she rose up hastily and went out,\nfollowed her, saying, She goeth unto the grave to weep there. Then when\nMary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet,\nsaying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.\n\nWhen Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which\ncame with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled, and said,\nWhere have ye laid him?\n\nThey said unto him, Lord, come and see.\n\nJesus wept.\n\nThen said the Jews, Behold how he loved him! And some of them said, Could\nnot this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even\nthis man should not have died?\n\nJesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave. It was a\ncave and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away the stone.\n\nMartha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this\ntime he stinketh for he hath been dead four days.\n\nJesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest\nbelieve, thou shouldest see the glory of God?\n\nThen they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid.\n\nAnd Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou\nhast heard me. And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the\npeople which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast\nsent me.\n\nAnd when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come\nforth.\n\nAnd he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes:\nand his face was bound about with a napkin.\n\nJesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.\n\nThen many of the Jews which came to Mary, and had seen the things which\nJesus did, believed on him.--John xi, 30-45\n\n\n\n\nMARY MAGDALENE.\n\n\nOf Mary \"called Magdalene\" (Luke viii, 2) but few particulars are\nrecorded in scripture. We first hear of her as having been delivered by\nJesus of seven devils (Luke viii, 1-3; Mark xvi, 9). Impelled, no doubt,\nby gratitude for her deliverance, she becomes one of his followers,\naccompanying him thenceforward in all his wanderings faithfully till his\ndeath. She was the first person to whom he appeared after his\nresurrection (Mark xvi, 9; John xx, 1, 11-18) The common belief that she\nwas a fallen woman is destitute of the slightest foundation. On the\ncontrary, the references to her as being in the company of such women as\nJoanna, the wife of Herod's steward, Salome, the mother of James and\nJohn, and Mary, the mother of Jesus (Luke viii, 3; Mark xvi, 40; John\nxix, 25), strongly discountenance such a supposition. The error, which\nhad no other source than ecclesiastical tradition, has been fostered and\nperpetuated by the stupid blunder of the translators of the authorized\nversion in identifying her with the \"sinner\" who is described in Luke\nvii, 37-50 as washing the feet of Jesus with her tears (see head-note to\nLuke vii).\n\nThe Roman Catholic notion that this \"sinner\" was Mary the sister of\nLazarus is almost equally groundless (see Douay Bible, head-note to\nMatthew xxvi, and the foot-note references to Luke vii, 37, found in most\nCatholic Bibles). The only reason for this identification is that the\nanointing by the \"sinner\" is described as taking place in the house of a\nPharisee named Simon (Luke vii, 36, 39-40 43-44); that the anointing by\nthe unnamed woman, as described in Matthew xxvi, 6-13 and Mark xiv, 3-9,\ntook place in the house of one \"Simon the leper,\" in Bethany; and that\nMary, the sister of Lazarus, is described in John xi, 2, and xii, 3-8, as\nanointing Jesus in a house (apparently that of Lazarus himself) in\nBethany, when a conversation ensues altogether different from that\nrecorded in Luke vii, but similar to that related in Matthew xxvi, and\nMark xiv, save that the objection to the anointing of Jesus is made, not\nby \"his disciples\" (Matthew xxvi, 8), not by \"some that had indignation\"\n(Mark xiv, 4), but by \"one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon's son\"\n(John xii, 4). The demeanor of Mary, the sister of Lazarus, is, however,\nby no means that of a fallen and sinful though penitent woman but that of\na pious and good one (see Luke x, 39, 42; John xi, 28-33; xii, 3).\n\nDore's illustration, which portrays Mary Magdalene as a heartbroken and\ndespairing sinner, shows that he has fallen into the common error.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST SUPPER.\n\n\nNow the first day of the feast of unleavened bread the disciples came to\nJesus, saying unto him, Where wilt thou that we prepare for thee to eat\nthe passover? And he said, Go into the city to such a man, and say unto\nhim, The Master saith, My time is at hand; I will keep the passover at\nthy house with my disciples. And the disciples did as Jesus had appointed\nthem; and they made ready the passover.\n\nNow when the even was come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did\neat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me.\n\nAnd they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say\nunto him, Lord, is it I?\n\nAnd he answered and said, He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish,\nthe same shall betray me. The Son of man goeth as it is written of him:\nbut woe unto that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed! it had been\ngood for that man if he had not been born. Then Judas, which betrayed\nhim, answered and said, Master, is it I? He said unto him, Thou hast\nsaid.\n\nAnd as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it,\nand gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat; this is my body. And\nhe took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye\nall of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for\nmany for the remission of sins. But I say unto you, I will not drink\nhenceforth of this fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink it new\nwith you in my Father's kingdom.\n\nAnd when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of\nOlives.--Matthew xxvi, 17-30.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AGONY IN THE GARDEN.\n\n\nAnd he came out, and went, as he was wont, to the mount of Olives; and\nhis disciples all followed him. And when he was at the place, he said\nunto them, Pray that ye enter not in temptation.\n\nAnd he was withdrawn from them about a stone's cast, and kneeled down,\nand prayed Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me:\nnevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.\n\nAnd there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.\n\nAnd being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it\nwere great drops, of blood falling down to the ground.\n\nAnd when he rose up from prayer, and was come to his disciples, he found\nthem sleeping for sorrow, and said unto them, Why sleep ye? rise and\npray, lest ye enter into temptation--Luke xxii, 39-46.\n\n\n\n\nPRAYER OF, JESUS IN THE GARDEN OF' OLIVES.\n\n\nThen cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith\nunto, the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder. And he took\nwith him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and\nvery heavy. Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even\nunto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me.\n\nAnd he went a little farther, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O\nmy Father, if be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as\nI will, but as thou wilt.\n\nAnd he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep, and saith unto\nPeter, What, could ye not watch with me one hour? Watch and pray, that ye\nenter not into temptation the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is\nweak.\n\nHe went away again the second time, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if\nthis cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.\n\nAnd he came and found them asleep again: for their eyes were heavy.\n\nAnd he left them, and went away again, and prayed the third time, saying\nthe same words.\n\nThen cometh he to his disciples, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and\ntake your rest behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of man is\nbetrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise let us be going: behold, he is\nat hand that doth betray me. Matthew xxvi, 36-46\n\n\n\n\nTHE BETRAYAL.\n\n\nAnd he cometh the third time, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and take\nyour rest it is enough, the hour is come; behold, the Son of man is\nbetrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise up, let us go; lo, he that\nbetrayeth me is at hand.\n\nAnd immediately, while he yet spake, cometh Judas, one of the twelve, and\nwith him great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests\nand the scribes and the elders. And he that betrayed him had given them a\ntoken, saying, Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he; take him, and\nlead him away safely. And as soon as he was come, he goeth straight way\nto him, and saith, Master, master; and kissed him.\n\nAnd they laid their hands on him, and took him. And one of them that\nstood by drew a sword, and smote a servant of the high priest, and cut\noff his ear. And Jesus answered and said unto them, Are ye come out, as\nagainst a thief, with swords and with staves to take me? I was daily with\nyou in the temple teaching, and ye took me not but the scriptures must be\nfulfilled.\n\nAnd they all forsook him, and fled.--Mark xiv, 41-50\n\n\n\n\nCHRIST FAINTING UNDER THE CROSS.\n\n\nThe incident depicted in this illustration seems to be as apocryphal as\nthat embodied in the artist's picture of Mary Magdalene. There is\nabsolutely no warrant in scripture for the notion that Christ fainted\nunder the burden of the cross. The only foundation for such an idea to\nfound in the Bible is contained in the head note to Mark xv, which is\nquite unwarranted by the text. According to the three synoptic gospels\nthe cross was borne not by Christ, but by Simon, a Cyrenian (see Matthew\nxxvii, 32; Mark xv, 2 1; Luke xxiii, 26). According to the fourth\nevangelist, Jesus bore the cross without assistance the whole distance to\nthe place crucifixion (John xix, 16-18). In not one of the four\nnarratives is there so much as a hint that he fainted under the burden.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLAGELLATION.\n\n\nThen released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he\ndeliver him to be crucified.--Matthew xxvii, 26.\n\nAnd so Pilate, willing to content the people, released Barabbas unto\nthem, and deliver Jesus, when he had scourged him, to be crucified.--Mark\nxv, 15.\n\nThen Pilate therefore took Jesus, and scourged him. John xix.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRUCIFIXION.\n\n\nAnd when they were come unto a place called Golgotha, that is to say, a\nplace of a skull they gave him vinegar to drink mingled with gall: and\nwhen he had tasted thereof, he would not drink. And they crucified him,\nand parted his garments, casting lots: that it might be fulfilled which\nwas spoken by the prophet, They parted my garments among them, and upon\nmy vesture did they cast lots. And sitting down they watched him there;\nand set up over his head his accusation written, THIS IS JESUS THE KING\nOF THE JEWS.\n\nThen were there two thieves crucified with him, one on the right hand,\nand another on the left.\n\nAnd they that passed by reviled him, wagging their heads, and saying,\nThou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save\nthyself. If thou be the Son of God come down from the cross.\n\nLikewise also the chief priests mocking him, with the scribes and elders,\nsaid, He saved others: himself he cannot save. If he be the King of\nIsrael, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him. He\ntrusted in God; let him deliver him now, if he will have him: for he\nsaid, I am the Son of God.\n\nThe thieves also, which were crucified with him, cast the same in his\nteeth.--Matthew xxvii, 33--44.\n\n\n\n\nCLOSE OF THE CRUCIFIXION.\n\n\nNow from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the\nninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice,\nsaying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why\nhast thou forsaken me?\n\nSome of them that stood there, when they heard that, said, This man\ncalleth for Elias. And straightway one of them ran, and took a sponge,\nand filled it with vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink.\nThe rest said, Let be, let us see whether Elias will come to save him.\n\nJesus, when he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost.\n\nAnd, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the\nbottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; and the graves were\nopened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, and came out of\nthe graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and\nappeared unto many.\n\nNow when the centurion, and they that were with him, watching Jesus, saw\nthe earthquake, and those things that were done, they feared greatly,\nsaying, Truly this was the Son of God.\n\nAnd many women were there beholding afar off, which followed Jesus from\nGalilee, ministering unto him: among which was Mary Magdalene, and Mary\nthe mother of James and Joses, and the mother of Zebedee's\nchildren.--Matthew xxvii, 45-56.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dore Gallery of Bible\nIllustrations, Volume 8, by Anonymous, Illustrated by Gustave Dore\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "Institutions and Democracy in Africa [RETAiL] - Nic Cheeseman"}, "text": "\nInstitutions and Democracy in Africa\n\nHistorically, African political institutions such as constitutions, legislatures and judiciaries have been seen as weak and vulnerable to manipulation, leading some to claim that the continent is 'institutionless'. However, recent developments including the consolidation of presidential term limits in a number of countries demonstrate that this depiction is no longer tenable. By drawing attention to how institutions can shape the practice of politics, this book demonstrates that electoral commissions, economic regulations, and systems of land tenure are vital to our understanding of contemporary Africa.\n\nA series of cutting-edge contributions from leading scholars explain how the rules of the game shape political developments across the continent, from Kenya to Nigeria and from Benin to South Africa. In chapters that cover bureaucracies, constitutions, elections, political parties, the police and more, the authors argue that a new research agenda is required if we are to better understand the process of democratisation.\n\nNic Cheeseman is Professor of Democracy at the University of Birmingham and was formerly Director of the African Studies Centre at Oxford University. He is the recipient of the GIGA award for the best article in Comparative Area Studies (2013) and the Frank Cass Award for the best article in Democratization (2015). He is also the author of Democracy in Africa: Successes, failures and the struggle for political reform (Cambridge University Press, 2015), the founding editor of the Oxford Encyclopaedia of African Politics, a former editor of the journal African Affairs, and an advisor to, and writer for, Kofi Annan's African Progress Panel.\nInstitutions and Democracy in Africa\n\nHow the Rules of the Game Shape Political Developments\n\nEdited by\n\nNic Cheeseman\n\nUniversity of Birmingham\n\nUniversity Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom\n\nOne Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10006, USA\n\n477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia\n\n314\u2013321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi \u2013 110025, India\n\n79 Anson Road, #06\u201304/06, Singapore 079906\n\nCambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge.\n\nIt furthers the University's mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence.\n\nwww.cambridge.org\n\nInformation on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107148246\n\nDOI: 10.1017/9781316562888\n\n\u00a9 Cambridge University Press 2018\n\nThis publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.\n\nFirst published 2018\n\nPrinted in the United Kingdom by Clays, St Ives plc\n\nA catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nNames: Cheeseman, Nicholas, 1979\u2013 editor.\n\nTitle: Institutions and democracy in Africa : how the rules of the game shape political developments / Edited by Nic Cheeseman.\n\nDescription: New York, NY : Cambridge University Press, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index.\n\nIdentifiers: LCCN 2017044887 | ISBN 9781107148246 (alk. paper)\n\nSubjects: LCSH: Africa \u2013 Politics and government \u2013 21st century. | Political culture \u2013 Africa. | Democracy \u2013 Africa.\n\nClassification: LCC JQ1875 .I55 2017 | DDC 320.96\u2013dc23\n\nLC record available at <https://lccn.loc.gov/2017044887>\n\nISBN 978-1-107-14824-6 Hardback\n\nISBN 978-1-316-60255-3 Paperback\n\nCambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.\nThis book is dedicated to Nigel Bowles, who was one of the first people to teach me about political institutions, and what it is to be an academic, and whose lessons guide me still.\n\nI would also like to thank Claire Elder, Senior Associate Editor for this project, whose dedication, intelligence and attention to detail were essential to both the quality and punctuality of this volume.\n\n# Contents\n\nList of Figures\n\nList of Tables\n\nList of Contributors\n\n1Introduction: Understanding African Politics: Bringing the State Back In\n\nNic Cheeseman\n\nPart IInstitutional Foundations\n\n2Institutional Legacies: Understanding Multiparty Politics in Historical Perspective\n\nRachel Beatty Riedl\n\n3Property and Land Institutions: Origins, Variations and Political Effects\n\nCatherine Boone\n\n4Financial Institutions: Economic Liberalisation, Credit and Opposition Party Successes\n\nLeonardo R. Arriola\n\nPart IILaw and Order\n\n5Constitutions: The Politics of Constitutional Reform\n\nMuna Ndulo\n\n6The Police: Laws, Prosecutions and Women's Rights in Liberia\n\nPeace A. Medie\n\n7The Bureaucracy: Policy Implementation and Reform\n\nM. Anne Pitcher and Manuel P. Teodoro\n\nPart IIIElections, Parties and Political Competition\n\n8Political Parties: Presidential Succession Crises and Internal Party Democracy\n\nIan Cooper\n\n9Elections: The Power of Elections in Multiparty Africa\n\nCarolien van Ham and Staffan I. Lindberg\n\n10Electoral Rules: The Relationship between Political Exclusion and Conflict\n\nBrian Klaas\n\n11Term Limits: Leadership, Political Competition and the Transfer of Power\n\nDaniel N. Posner and Daniel J. Young\n\nPart IVCountervailing Institutions\n\n12The Legislature: Institutional Strengthening in Dominant-Party States\n\nMichaela Collord\n\n13The Judiciary: Courts, Judges and the Rule of Law\n\nPeter VonDoepp\n\n14Decentralisation: Accountability in Local Government\n\nAlex Dyzenhaus\n\n15Conclusion: Political Institutions and Democracy in Africa: A Research Agenda\n\nNic Cheeseman\n\nIndex\n\n# Figures\n\n2.1Variation in party system institutionalisation by country in Africa\n\n3.1Gorowa Native Authority, 'Tribal and Ethnographic Map'\n\n3.2Paysannat de Muhero, Rwanda, 1970s\n\n4.1The impact of founding leader type on commercial banking\n\n4.2The impact of founding leader type on financial liberalisation\n\n4.3Higher credit provision encourages coalition formation\n\n7.1Selected 2014 World Bank World Governance Indicators by Region\n\n7.2Agency independence, regime type and reform outcomes\n\n7.3Authoritarian context, moderate agency independence: Privatisation in Uganda, 1990\u20132005\n\n7.4Authoritarian context, low agency independence: Privatisation in Nigeria, 1990\u20132005\n\n7.5Democratic context, high agency independence: Privatisation in Zambia, 1990\u20132005\n\n7.6Democratic context, low agency independence: Privatisation in South Africa, 1990\u20132005\n\n9.1Unpacking and temporalising 'democratisation-by-elections'\n\n9.2Level of civil liberties in 2012 by total number of elections held 1986\u20132012\n\n9.3aMarginal effect of successive elections on level of civil liberties\n\n9.3bPredicted values of civil liberties by repeating elections\n\n9.4Marginal effect of successive elections by election quality\n\n11.1How African leaders have left power, by decade\n\n11.2Popular support for term limits in Africa\n\n11.3When do presidents attempt to secure third terms?\n\n14.1Political decentralisation in Africa (2010)\n\n15.1A typology of informal institutions\n\n# Tables\n\n4.1Country by founding leader type\n\n4.2Financial system characteristics by founding leader type\n\n4.3Estimating the effective number of presidential candidates\n\n6.1Trust in the police\n\n6.2Incidence of police bribery\n\n7.1Legislative indicators of formal agency independence\n\n9.1Number of national multiparty elections held per country (1986\u20132012)\n\n9.2'Democratisation-by-elections' revisited\n\n9.3Formal and informal institutions: The role of quality of elections\n\n9.4Election sequencing and election quality\n\n10.1Electoral integrity in Africa\n\n10.2The 'Fraudster's Dilemma'\n\n10.3Levels of electoral inclusion, by regime type (1989\u20132010)\n\n10.4The impact of inclusive elections in sub-Saharan Africa\n\n11.1Presidential term limits in Africa (1990\u20132015)\n\n11.2Oil and third term attempts\n\n11.3Precedent and third term attempts\n\n12.1Parliamentary Powers Index (PPI) for selected African legislatures\n\n# Contributors\n\nLeonardo R. Arriola is Associate Professor of Political Science and Director of the Center for African Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. His research focuses on democratic politics and political violence in developing countries. He is the author of Multiethnic Coalitions in Africa: Business Financing of Opposition Election Campaigns (Cambridge University Press, 2012). His work has been published in journals such as the American Journal of Political Science, Comparative Political Studies and World Politics. He currently serves on the editorial boards of African Affairs, Comparative Politics and Comparative Political Studies.\n\nCatherine Boone is Professor of Comparative Politics at the London School of Economics and Political Science. Her research focuses on African political economy and state-building. She is the author of Property and Political Order in Africa: Land Rights and the Structure of Politics (Cambridge University Press, 2014), Political Topographies of the African State (Cambridge University Press, 2003) and Merchant Capital and the Roots of State Power in Senegal (Cambridge University Press, 1993). She chairs the Political Economy Section of the American Political Science Association (APSA), is a long-standing member of APSA's Africa Initiative and is past-president of the West African Research Association.\n\nNic Cheeseman is Professor of Democracy at the University of Birmingham and was formerly Director of the African Studies Centre at Oxford University. He is the recipient of the GIGA award for the best article in Comparative Area Studies (2013) and the Frank Cass Award for the best article in Democratization (2015). He is also the author of Democracy in Africa: Successes, failures and the struggle for political reform (Cambridge University Press, 2015), the founding editor of the Oxford Encyclopaedia of African Politics, a former editor of the journal African Affairs, and an advisor to, and writer for, Kofi Annan's African Progress Panel.\n\nMichaela Collord is a DPhil candidate at the University of Oxford. Her doctoral research examines dominant party politics and legislative institutional change with a primary focus on Uganda and Tanzania.\n\nIan Cooper is Teaching Associate in Comparative Politics at Cambridge University. His research focuses on democratisation and electoral politics in southern Africa, with a particular focus on party motivation, internal party democracy and ethnic mobilisation. He has published articles in Democratisation, Transformation and the Journal of Southern African Studies.\n\nAlex Dyzenhaus is a PhD candidate in Government at Cornell University, focusing on the politics of land and decentralisation in Sub-Saharan Africa. His past research has looked into issues of gender, accountability, land politics and ethnicity in Kenya's new county governments.\n\nBrian Klaas is a fellow in Comparative Politics at the London School of Economics, focusing on global democracy, elections and political violence. He is the author of The Despot's Accomplice: How the West Is Aiding & Abetting the Decline of Democracy (2016). Klaas has advised major international NGOs, including International Crisis Group and The Carter Center, and regularly writes for media outlets like Foreign Affairs, Foreign Policy, the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times and Newsweek. He received his DPhil in politics from the University of Oxford.\n\nStaffan I. Lindberg is Professor of Political Science, Director of the V-Dem Institute at University of Gothenburg, and one of four principal investigators for Varieties of Democracy (V-Dem). He is also a Wallenberg Academy Fellow, awardee of an ERC Consolidator Grant, selected member Young Academy of Sweden and a member of the Board of University of Gothenburg. He is the author of Democracy and Elections in Africa ('Outstanding Academic Title', Choice 2007) and editor of Democratisation by Elections: A New Mode of Transition? He has also published many articles on egalitarian democracy, sequence analysis methods, civil society, electoral fraud, corruption, women's representation, political clientelism, voting behaviour and turnovers, party and electoral systems, accountability, democratisation, popular attitudes, the Ghanaian legislature and executive-legislative relationships. With V-Dem, he was awarded the 'Lijphart/Przeworski/ Verba Data Set Award 2016' by the American Political Science Association, Comparative Politics Section.\n\nPeace A. Medie is a Research Fellow in the Legon Centre for International Affairs and Diplomacy at the University of Ghana. She is currently researching states' implementation of gender-based violence norms and civilian self-protection. Her work has appeared in African Affairs, International Studies Review and Politics & Gender, and she was awarded the 2012\u20132013 African Affairs African Author Prize.\n\nMuna Ndulo is Professor of Law, Elizabeth and Arthur Reich Director, Leo and Arvilla Berger International Legal Studies Program Cornell Law School, and Director of the Cornell University's Institute for African Development. He is Honorary Professor of Law, universities of Cape Town, Free State and Western Cape. He was formerly Professor of Law and Dean of the School of Law, University of Zambia. He served as Legal Officer in the International Trade Law Branch of the United Nations Commission on International Trade Law (UNCITRAL) from 1986 to 1995. He was Political and Legal Adviser with the United Nations Observer Mission in South Africa (UNOMSA) from 1992 to 1994, and he served in UN Missions in Kosovo (2000), Afghanistan (2003) and East Timor (1999). Professor Ndulo served as consultant to the constitution-making processes in Kenya, Somalia and Zimbabwe. He is the author/co-editor of several books including: Growing Democracy in Africa: Elections, Accountable Governance, and Political Economy (2016) and Comparative Constitutionalism and Good Governance in the Commonwealth: An Eastern and Southern African Perspective (Cambridge University Press, 2004). He is the founder of the Southern African Institute for Policy and Research (SAIPAR).\n\nM. Anne Pitcher is Professor of African Studies and Political Science at the University of Michigan and she is also President of the African Studies Association in the United States. She examines party competition, urban political economy, bureaucratic institutions and goods provision in Africa. Her publications include Politics in the Portuguese Empire (1993), Transforming Mozambique: The Politics of Privatization, 1975\u20132000 (Cambridge University Press, 2002) and many articles. Her most recent book, Party Politics and Economic Reform in Africa's Democracies (Cambridge University Press, 2012) won Honorable Mention for best book award from the African Politics Conference Group.\n\nDaniel N. Posner is the James S. Coleman Professor of International Development in the Department of Political Science at UCLA. His research focuses on ethnic politics, research design, distributive politics and the political economy of development in Africa. He is the author/co-author of a pair of prize-winning books, Institutions and Ethnic Politics in Africa (Cambridge University Press, 2005) and Coethnicity: Diversity and the Dilemmas of Collective Action (2009), as well as many articles in leading political science journals. He co-founded the Working Group in African Political Economy (WGAPE).\n\nRachel Beatty Riedl is Associate Professor of Political Science at Northwestern University and faculty associate at the Institute for Policy Research. She is the author of the award-winning Authoritarian Origins of Democratic Party Systems in Africa (Cambridge University Press, 2014), and studies institutional development in new democracies, local governance and decentralisation policy, authoritarian regime legacies, and religion and politics, with a regional focus in Sub-Saharan Africa. A former Kellogg Institute Visiting Fellow, Yale Program on Democracy Fellow and Faculty Fulbright Scholar, she is a member of the Council on Foreign Relations and has conducted policy analysis internationally on governance, elections, democratic representation and identity politics.\n\nManuel P. Teodoro is Associate Professor of Political Science at Texas A&M University. His research stands at the nexus of bureaucratic politics, public policy and public administration. Much of his work examines the ways in which human capital, management practices and political institutions condition the adoption and implementation of public policies. Dr Teodoro is the author of Bureaucratic Ambition (2011), and his findings have appeared in the American Journal of Political Science, Journal of Public Administration Research and Theory, Public Administration Review and Journal of Public Policy, among other outlets.\n\nCarolien van Ham is Lecturer in Comparative Politics at the University of New South Wales and an Australian Research Council DECRA award recipient (2015\u20132017). Her research focuses on democratisation, electoral integrity and legitimacy. She has published in the European Journal of Political Research, Government and Opposition, Democratisation, Post-Soviet Affairs, West European Politics and Electoral Studies, and book chapters in various edited volumes, and is editor of a forthcoming edited volume on democratic legitimacy in advanced industrial democracies (2017). Carolien is also a senior research fellow at the Electoral Integrity Project at Sydney University and a research associate at the Varieties of Democracy Institute at Gothenburg University, and co-edits the Elections, Democracy and Autocracy book series.\n\nPeter VonDoepp is Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Vermont. His research focuses on African politics, with specific attention to judicial development and state-media relations. He is the author of Judicial Politics in New Democracies: Cases from Southern Africa (2009) and co-editor of The Fate of Africa's Democratic Experiments: Elites and Institutions (2005). His other published work appears in a variety of outlets, including Comparative Political Studies, Journal of Politics and Comparative Politics. His work has been supported by the National Science Foundation, Pew Charitable Trusts, Fulbright-Hays program and Norwegian Research Council.\n\nDaniel J. Young is Assistant Professor of Social and Behavioral Science at Miami University of Ohio-Regionals, and affiliate Assistant Professor of Political Science at Miami University of Ohio-Oxford. His research focuses on comparative politics and development in sub-Saharan Africa. He has published articles in Democratisation, Electoral Studies, the Journal of Democracy, the Journal of Conflict Resolution, the Journal of Politics and Party Politics.\n\n# 1 Introduction\n\n## Understanding African Politics: Bringing the State Back In1\n\nNic Cheeseman\n\nThe question of whether formal political institutions such as the legislature, the electoral commission and the judiciary play a significant role in everyday political life is one of the most important debates in African studies. How we answer this question shapes not only our assessment of the prospects for democratic consolidation \u2013 which appear to be healthier if one thinks that political leaders are becoming ever more constrained by the rules of the game \u2013 but also how we understand and study the continent. If legislatures and judiciaries are largely irrelevant because they are powerless to check the authority of the executive, then Africanists do not need to devote much time to learning about them.\n\nTo date, a significant proportion of the literature has depicted a continent in which formal institutions do not perform as intended; rather, official rules are described as being weak and fragile, rendered vulnerable to executive manipulation by the salience of corrupt personal networks and ethnic politics. This line of argument reached its logical conclusion in Africa Works, the bestselling treatise by Patrick Chabal and Jean-Pascal Daloz, which effectively argues that the continent is 'institutionless' (1999). In making this argument they did not mean to imply that Africa lacks shared customs and norms that regulate behaviour in predictable ways. The strength of these kinds of informal institutions has been widely recognised in work on ethnicity, patronage and traditional authority. Rather, their argument is that formal rules such as constitutions and legal systems do little to shape political life, which is instead fashioned by social customs and \"traditional\" forms of political behaviour. In other words, Chabal and Daloz conclude that Africa lacks effective political organisations \u2013 that, to borrow Joel Migdal's well-known phrase (1988), it is a continent of 'strong societies and weak states'.\n\nOver the last twenty years, this position has become increasingly untenable. A number of Africanists have contributed to a body of work that documents processes of democratisation \u2013 cases in which elections and increasingly rule-bound politics lead to greater respect for civil liberties and political rights (Lindberg 2006), presidential term limits and transfers of power (Posner and Young 2007; Cheeseman 2010). At the same time, more historical work has demonstrated the way in which prior institutional factors \u2013 such as the strategies used by authoritarian leaders \u2013 have influenced the types of party systems that have emerged in Africa's new democracies (Riedl 2014). It is thus becoming increasingly clear that we need to stop thinking of the African state as a Hollywood movie set \u2013 an illusory fa\u00e7ade with little or no content \u2013 and start taking its core institutions more seriously. The aim of this volume is to demonstrate the different ways in which formal political institutions matter in the African context.2\n\nFollowing the work of Douglass North, we understand institutions to be 'humanly devised constraints that structure political, economic and social interactions' (1991: 97; see also 1990). It is important to note, in line with this understanding, that both formal organisations (legislatures and parties) and informal practices (established norms and customs) may count as institutions as long as they feature broadly understood rules that individuals cannot break without exposing themselves to some form of sanction (Helmke and Levitsky 2006: 5\u20136). In other words, what matters is not whether a particular rule is written down and codified, but whether it has a binding effect on group members. Both formal and informal rules can impose high economic and social costs on individuals who flout expectations. For example, the decision of a community to ostracise an individual who has transgressed communal norms by marrying an outsider (McNamara et al. 1999), or by refusing to contribute to a community development project (Ng'ethe 1977), can be every bit as effective in enforcing conformity as the decision of a judge to fine a motorist who has broken the law by failing to stop at a red light.\n\nWhat is at stake, therefore, is not whether Africa features institutions or not, but whether formal institutions are important for determining 'who gets what, when and how' (Lasswell 1950). Within African studies, the perceived significance of informal and formal institutions has oscillated over time. This introduction sets the scene for the chapters that follow by charting the rise and fall of formal institutions in the literature on African politics. In the late colonial era, researchers were fascinated by nationalist movements and the political parties that they gave rise to. Legislatures, judiciaries and constitutions were also common topics of discussion. But as hopes that Africa would evolve into a democratic and stable continent faded during the authoritarian backsliding and civil conflict of the 1970 and 1980s, scholarly attention naturally shifted away from institutions as a focus of study.\n\nFrom independence onwards, a number of influential scholars emphasised the weakness and fragility of formal institutions (Zolberg, 1960), and the centrality of personal networks (Lemarchand, 1972; M\u00e9dard, 1982). As constitutional rule collapsed into personal rule, this theme became ever more prevalent. In the 1980s, the dominant theoretical paradigm was neo-patrimonialism, which was widely understood to imply that the 'modern' state introduced under colonial rule had not taken root in Africa, and instead had been fundamentally undermined by pre-existing social norms and 'traditional' forms of authority (M\u00e9dard 1982). Thus, instead of focusing on the state and its institutions, scholarship increasingly concentrated on the role played by clientelism and ethnicity. It is out of this tradition that Chabal and Daloz's argument that Africa lacks meaningful formal political institutions emerged.\n\nAgainst this backdrop, the reintroduction of multiparty elections in the early 1990s inspired fresh optimism about the prospects for democratic consolidation and a new wave of research on formal institutions (Cheeseman et al. 2013). The contributions to this volume suggest three reasons to push back against the 'institutionless' school. First, researchers have begun to revisit and challenge the neo-patrimonial conceptualisation of African states that emerged in the 1980s (Pitcher et al. 2009). Erdmann and Engel, for example, argue that in many countries the interaction of 'traditional' forms of authority with 'modern' political structures did not result in formal rules being washed away like sandcastles built too close to the sea. Instead, they show that pockets of rule-bound behaviour persisted, and that 'official' and 'patrimonial' practices can operate side-by-side (2007).\n\nThis leads to a second point: formal institutions have not just co-existed with informal institutions, but have also shaped and in some cases strengthened them. Indeed, the very personal networks and traditional forms of authority that Chabal and Daloz highlight were themselves entrenched under colonial rule through the formal codification and demarcation of ethnic identities that enhanced the authority of 'Big Men' over their communities (Ranger 1983, 1993; Posner 2005). It is therefore important to stress the significance of formal institutions not only for understanding contemporary politics, but also for appreciating the historical development of informal institutions themselves.\n\nThe third reason to question the 'institutionless' approach is the growing evidence that formal institutions shape the decisions made by leaders in contemporary Africa. As a result, we need to understand variations in the design and influence of the official rules if we are to explain divergent processes of democratisation. To be clear, the research presented here does not claim that all formal institutions matter all of the time \u2013 far from it. The rules of the democratic game have become more institutionalised in some states, and less so in others; and where progress has been made it has rarely been uniform. While some political structures have become stronger, others have remained weak and vulnerable to executive manipulation. But what the chapters in this volume do demonstrate is that certain formal institutions are becoming increasingly important in certain countries.3 It is no longer possible \u2013 if ever it was \u2013 to understand Africa without factoring in the role played by constitutions, judiciaries, electoral systems and the like. Instead, we need to bring the state (and its organisational structures) back in.\n\n# The Rise and Fall of Formal Institutions in African Studies\n\nTime and space do not permit a thorough discussion of the myriad different strands of research that have addressed the role of institutions in Africa. However, it is possible to briefly sketch broad trends that have emerged over the last seventy years, as the study of formal political institutions has waxed and waned with the fortunes of African democracy: prominent in the 1960s, very much in the shadows in the 1970s and 1980s, only to experience a remarkable rebirth in the 1990s.\n\n## Independence and After\n\nThe dying days of colonial rule witnessed an intense period of constitutional draftsmanship that resulted in the evolution of political systems that consciously drew on European and North American experiences. Former British colonies emerged as parliamentary systems in the Westminster mould (de Smith 1961), with first-past-the-post elections held in single-member constituencies to decide the make-up of the legislature, and hence the government. Former French colonies tended to draw on a very different model, adopting the metropole's semi-presidential system, whereby a directly elected president shared executive power (in theory if not always in practice) with a prime minister nominated by a legislature that was itself chosen by proportional representation.\n\nThese developments were described in a series of studies by colonial administrators and commentators interested in understanding the strengths and weaknesses of different electoral and political systems, and the preparedness of African territories for independence. Many of these accounts were rather technical and focused on the workings of the colonial state and how it could be improved. For example, early issues of African Affairs included pieces on topics such as West African railways (Shelford 1902) and colonial legislation (Welsh 1903). The limitations of these works did not go unnoticed. In one of the first pieces on Africa to be published in the American Review of Political Science, James Smoot Coleman \u2013 the first Director of the African Studies Centre at the University of California at Los Angeles \u2013 bemoaned the jaundiced view of African politics in such colonial texts. More specifically, Coleman noted that the study of African political organisation 'has long been the preserve of the scientific linguist or of the social anthropologist; only recently have American sociologists, economists, and political scientists developed an active interest in its problems' and that as a result 'we have been placed in the uncomfortable position of having to formulate opinions and policy and to render judgments without sufficient knowledge' (1954: 1).\n\nOver the next decade, analysis of African institutions proliferated at universities both inside and outside of the continent, as researchers from a range of disciplines responded to Coleman's call to arms. Early issues of the Journal of Commonwealth Political Studies \u2013 launched in 1961 \u2013 featured standard discussions of the travails of colonial administrations, but also included a careful analysis of political parties and electoral trends in Nigeria by John P. Mackintosh (1962), then working at the University of Ibadan. This kind of more nuanced and African-centric scholarship flourished after independence through pioneers such as Joel Barkan, Robert Bates, Henry Bienen, Peter Ekeh, Cherry Gertzel, Thomas Hodgkin, Goran Hyden, Colin Leys, Ali Mazrui, David Mulford and Ruth Schachter-Morgenthau. These researchers were interested in how parties, legislatures, judiciaries and militaries operated in the African context, and how they would evolve. Although they approached the subject in different ways, and came to very different conclusions about Africa's likely advancement, their work shared one thing in common: a basic assumption that in some sense formal political institutions mattered.\n\nOne of the first avenues of institutionalist research focused on the nationalist movements that had emerged in the mid-late colonial period, and the political parties that they gave rise to. In his early work, Coleman argued that African nationalism was much more than a peasant revolt, and that the 'degree of overt nationalism' could be explained, at least in part, by variations in the system of land cultivation established under colonial rule and the penetration of Christian missionaries (1954: 416). Similarly, Thomas Hodgkin \u2013 the first Lecturer in the Government of the New States at the University of Oxford \u2013 placed just as much emphasis on the organisation of the struggle for uhuru, as on its rhetorical and symbolic expression (1957). This was because Hodgkin understood that in the absence of effective formal institutions, nationalist sentiment was unlikely to unsettle colonial rule.\n\nHodgkin was not alone. Robert Bates also recognised that the infrastructure of nationalism had the potential to affect political outcomes on the continent (1971). In a study that owed much to European preoccupations with the role of trade unions as agents of mass mobilisation, Bates' research revealed how the rise to prominence of the United National Independence Party (UNIP), which led Zambia to independence in 1964, was built on the back of the manpower and organisational capacity of trade unions on the Copperbelt. Similar studies continued after independence. Most notably, Ruth Schachter-Morgenthau sought to describe the different types of political parties in West Africa (1964), a task that was taken up in Uganda by Colin Leys (1967) and in Nigeria by Richard Sklar (1963).\n\nA second set of studies focused on the evolution of 'checks and balances' institutions. In the 1950s, the growing realisation that independence was inevitable rather than a possibility resulted in a greater focus on political representation and the process of policy formation. This shift in emphasis led, in turn, to renewed scholarly attention to recently established representative institutions such as Legislative Councils4 that were intended to advise \u2013 but not overrule \u2013 colonial governors (Wight 1947; Wheare 1950). Towards the end of the colonial period, pressure from African nationalists to open up the political system resulted in first, the appointment of individuals to represent African interests on these advisory bodies, and later to the direct election of these African representatives. As the balance between colonial officials, white settlers and African nationalists tilted in favour of the latter, governors began to lose control of both the debate and their territories. This generated an explosion of legislative studies including valuable work by Lee (1963), Gertzel (1966), Hakes and Helgerson (1973), Tordoff (1974, 1977) and Hopkins (1975).\n\nElectoral processes were another area of great interest. Some early academics tended to follow their colonial predecessors by focusing strongly on the technicalities of the process. Thus, W. J. M Mackenzie and Kenneth Robson's collection of five electoral studies in Kenya, Nigeria, Senegal and Sierra Leone revealed a comedy of errors that the editors put down to the 'doubly alien' nature of the new institution \u2013 a western model managed by Europeans in an African context (1960). Their approach to studying this process was a sort of history by analogy, in which the main focus was on explaining how African elections differed from the Western experience.\n\nOthers quickly came to see that it was more revealing to study African elections for what they were rather than for what they were not. Bennett and Rosberg's remarkably thorough analysis of The Kenyatta Election (1961) tracked the campaign constituency-by-constituency and set the scene for a series of extremely detailed electoral analyses in the first decade after independence. As this literature developed, researchers became increasingly interested in the different functions that elections could fulfil, from allowing for elite rotation and the maintenance of political stability (Throup 1993) to providing for civic and political education (Saul 1970).\n\nPerhaps the most comprehensive analysis of an African election ever published was conducted around this time by the Election Study Committee of the University of Dar es Salaam (1974). The Committee, which featured a mixture of leading African and European scholars, produced an incredibly detailed 464-page manuscript that, among other things, demonstrated the significance of electoral and party institutions for the outcome of the 1970 polls. Like Bates, Coleman and Gertzel, the authors were not operating under the illusion that formal institutions always worked according to their official rules, but nonetheless understood that it would be impossible to give a rounded understanding of the electoral process without first appreciating how political structures shaped what was, and was not, possible.\n\n## The Retreat of Democracy\n\nDespite this promising early literature, events on the continent quickly called into question the relevance of formal political institutions such as parties, legislatures and elections. In the first decade of independence most of the nationalist coalitions that had come together to defeat colonial rule fell apart. In some cases, disagreements arose over the direction of national policy, while in others political disputes resulted from personality clashes and a failure to agree on how power \u2013 and the resources that it brought with it \u2013 should be shared. For Ali Mazrui (1983: 279), one of the most influential African commentators on post-independence politics, these complications reflected two aspects of the continent's political development: first, the way in which strong ethnic ties and weak class cleavages had 'militated against genuine socialism', and second, the ongoing tension 'between single-party and multi-party solutions to political organisation', which so often led to the emergence of one-party states.\n\nHowever, single-party rule was only one of a number of trajectories followed by African states in the 1970s. As Chris Allen (1995) argued, the continent's post-colonial political 'crisis' typically played out in one of two ways. In the first, leaders were able to maintain and consolidate their hold on power by downgrading democratic institutions, strengthening the security forces, undermining checks and balances and centralising power. This was the pattern that emerged in countries that established fairly stable civilian one-party states, such as Kenya, Senegal, Tanzania and Zambia. However, where leaders lacked the necessary support base, resources or political shrewdness to maintain control, a very different pattern emerged whereby competition for power led to political instability, widespread unrest and what Allen calls 'spoils politics'. This took different forms across the continent, but typically involved failed attempts to establish an effective government followed by periods of civil conflict and episodes of military rule. Perhaps the most notorious examples of this process were the Nigerian civil war that lasted for three tortuous years between 1967 and 1970, and the 'Congo Crisis' \u2013 in what is now known as the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) \u2013 which began just days after Belgium had officially granted Congolese independence in 1960. In both cases, formal political institutions proved insufficiently rooted in society to manage and contain ethno-regional tensions, inter-elite mistrust and winner-takes-all political competition (Kirk-Greene 1975). The result was a level of prolonged bloodshed that called into question whether Africa was ready for democracy (Cheeseman 2015).\n\nEvents elsewhere served to reinforce this impression. In the first decade of independence alone, coups in Benin (1963), Congo-Brazzaville (1963), Togo (1963), Central African Republic (1966) and Ghana (1966) replaced civilian regimes with governments led by the armed forces. By 1980, more than two-thirds of sub-Saharan African states had experienced some form of military rule. This generated a number of institutionalist studies of African militaries led first by Samuel Decalo (1973, 1976), and subsequently by a group of left-wing scholars who hoped that the army might turn out to be the continent's best-organised trade union and hence an agent of economic and social modernisation (Pye 1961; Lefever 1970; see also Mazrui 1976).\n\nThe tendency of coup leaders such as Mathieu K\u00e9r\u00e9kou in Benin and Thomas Sankara in Burkina Faso to justify their actions on the basis that they were seeking to defend the rule of law and save democracy from itself initially gave credence to these optimistic analyses. However, as military governments became increasingly chaotic and venal, and coups were followed by counter-coups and in many cases internecine conflict within the military itself, it became increasingly clear that corruption and personal rule were just as present within the armed forces as they were in the societies in which they operated. Indeed, Decalo himself concluded that the best predictor of a military coup was not whether the ruling party had failed to deliver on its promises, but whether soldiers felt that their own personal interests were at risk, either as a result of restructuring the armed forces or reducing the terms and conditions of service (1976).\n\nThe rise of one-party states and military rule shifted the attention of Africanists, and the amount of work conducted on formal political institutions went into a steep decline. While some pockets of research on formal institutions continued, these became the exception rather than the rule. Perhaps most notably, Crawford Young produced seminal comparative work on the nature of the African state both in its colonial (1994) and post-colonial (1983) manifestations, influencing a generation of researchers in the process. At the same time, institutionalist case studies continued to be produced. In the parts of the continent in which more effective one-party states emerged, scholars continued to engage with party structures and elections. The study of Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM) in Tanzania, for example, endured through the decades, as did interest in the structure of the one-party states of Senegal and Zambia (Bratton 1980; Gertzel et al. 1984). Similarly, in Kenya the vibrant contestation around one-party elections meant that they continued to be important political events, and were deemed worthy of study in every decade (Barkan 1979; Throup 1993). There was also a large literature on state repression under systems of white minority rule in southern Africa. In apartheid South Africa, for example, the coercive capacity of the security forces was a frequent topic of scholarly attention (Frankel 1980; Coleman 1998).\n\nHowever, even in some of these cases scholars began to study institutions in a way that implied their value was predominantly unintended or symbolic. Goran Hyden and Colin Leys, for example, distinguished their study of one-party elections in Kenya and Tanzania from those carried out by the likes of John Saul on the basis that it attached 'less significance, in the end, to elections' in relation to the prospects for socialism, or 'any other issue in contemporary African politics' (Hyden and Leys 1972: 419). Instead, they suggested that what was significant about elections was the way in which they conferred legitimacy and enabled the regime to foster new links to the constituency level. Moreover, in those countries where political stability remained a distant ambition, the focus of analysis shifted to corruption and the prevalence of highly personalised and informal political practices.\n\n## The Emergence of the 'Institutionless' School\n\nIn many ways, the strong focus on informal politics was not a new development, but rather a crystallisation of trends that had been present since the colonial era. One consequence of the absence of political science work on Africa, so lamented by Coleman, was a strong anthropological influence on the study of African politics. After independence, some Africanists came to see this as a good thing on the basis that the continent's institutions could not be profitably compared to their western counterparts. For example, in the introduction to his revised monograph on one-party government in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, Aristide Zolberg argued that 'the major problem [of the African state] was not too much authority but too little... Although there are variations in the degree of political institutionalization achieved by African regimes the total range of variation is narrow and this group of countries as a whole must be placed very low on a universal scale' (Zolberg 1969; x). On this basis, Zolberg concluded that 'African regimes are much more like one another than any of them is like the relatively modernized countries from which available qualitative labels [democracy, totalitarianism] derived their contemporary meaning'.\n\nOne implication of this argument was that Africa could not be studied or understood on the basis of terms and frameworks derived from the western experience. Rather, 'we must derive appropriate criteria and labels in order to avoid utter confusion' (Zolberg 1969: x). This argument proved to be remarkably influential. Indeed, the central logic of Chabal and Daloz's Africa Works, published in 1999, is essentially the same. Comparing the African state against the Weberian ideal-type, they find it to be wanting on almost every front. Like Zolberg, they suggest that since all African states are at root the same, and no African state features formal political institutions of any note, we need to study them in a different way to states elsewhere in the world. Thus, like Zolberg, they propose that we can only understand African politics and political outcomes if we turn our attention to the informal realm.\n\nIn between these two manuscripts, which were written some thirty years apart, the argument that African politics is effectively institutionless went through a number of different phases, elements of which can still be found in the 'institutionless' school today. The first of these stages of evolution also derives from the research of Zolberg, in particular his influential book Creating Political Order (1966). In that work, he argued that political scientists working on Africa exaggerated the effectiveness of political institutions by imagining them to be geographically coterminous with the boundaries of the nation-state, when in fact their strength is unevenly geographically distributed. More specifically, Zolberg suggested that in most African territories state power was not manifest outside the capital city and major towns. In other words, African states featured large areas that are governed not by the state, but by traditional leaders or local big men \u2013 or, in some cases, by no one. The idea of a centre\u2013periphery divide has shaped African studies ever since. Most notably, it was one of the puzzles that animated Jeffrey Herbt's excellent States and Power in Africa (2000), which documents the difficulty African governments have had in broadcasting authority over their territories from the pre-colonial period to the present.\n\nZolberg also made a second, related argument that where political order existed it was not the product of formal political institutions, but of personal power exercised through traditional authority over ethnic groups. Without this, Africa would descend into chaos. In the early 1980s, Robert Jackson and Carl Rosberg made a similar 'institutionless' argument, providing evidence that 'Black Africa's forty-odd states are among the weakest in the world' (1982a: 2). However, in their version, Jackson and Rosberg went a step further than Zolberg, suggesting not only that African states were extremely fragile, but also that they did not really deserve to be considered states at all. Rather, they argued that almost all African countries failed to meet the criteria for 'empirical statehood' because they did not comprise stable communities, provide effective government or exercise effective control (1982a: 5\u20137). This left the tricky issue of how to explain the durability of African borders and territories. According to Jackson and Rosberg, the answer lay not in the effectiveness of any domestic political institutions, but in the way in which the international system had conferred 'juridical' statehood on African states. Thus, 'the survival of Africa's existing states is largely an international achievement' (1982a: 22).\n\nThis view became common within the discipline of international relations, leading researchers away from empirical studies of African states. For example, Carl Death begins his summary of the literature on African international relations by noting Han J. Morgenthau's claim that one of the reasons the great powers could expand their influence without risking war in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was because they could move 'into the political empty spaces of Africa and Asia' (Death 2015: 1).5 As Death notes, 'This striking image of political emptiness has continued to haunt some International Relations theorists who assume that international regimes, institutions, laws, norms and values originate in \"the West\" and thenceforth spread out to the periphery: the place of African politics is accordingly a marginal sideshow to the central business of international affairs' (Death 2015: 1). As a result, 'Africa is generally under-represented in the mainstream IR scholarship emanating from the North Atlantic world and is mostly left out of the theoretical debates that have animated this scholarship' (Cornelissen et al. 2012).6\n\nThe understanding that African states were effectively institutionless also shaped research on domestic politics, leading Jackson and Rosberg to embark on the systematic study of personal rule. This resulted in an influential monograph, Personal Rule in Black Africa (1982b), which argued that variations between African states are best explained by the personal governance style of the president, rather than by any institutional factor. On this basis, they proposed a four-part typology, classifying leaders as princes, autocrats, prophets or tyrants. Towards the end of the book, Jackson and Rosberg reflect on the prospects for a more institutionalised form of politics to emerge, and suggest that 'In most African countries there is little sign that the drama of personal rule will soon give way to more settled institutional forms of conducting the affairs of state' (1982b: 266). While they acknowledged that 'regimes of personal rule may become more organisationally and legally authoritarian as the ruler and his collaborators search for political security', they ultimately concluded that 'such a process of state building is not in itself sufficient to institutionalize a state' (1982b: 270).\n\nThe next forty years saw the evolution of two different literatures that both shared Jackson and Rosberg's preoccupation with the weakness of African formal institutions. The first was led by a group of scholars working within the neo-patrimonial theoretical framework. Taken literally, patrimonialism simply means 'of or from one's ancestors'. As Weber used the term, patrimonialism refers to a 'traditional system of domination' (1947: 341). In the African context, however, patrimonialism has taken on a different meaning, as a form of leadership or authority based on the customs of a specific ethnic or religious community, rather than merit or ability (Pitcher et al. 2009).\n\nAs Chabal and Daloz have written (1999: 9), the use of the term neo-patrimonial was intended to signify that 'the operation of [the African] political system is no longer entirely \"traditional\", because it had been changed by the imposition of the colonial \"modern\" state'. Thus, 'In the post-colonial context, political legitimacy derives from the creatively imprecise interaction between what might be termed \"ancestral\" norms and the logic of the \"modern\" state'. The upshot of this symbiotic reshaping of the old and the new was a set of political systems that had the outward appearance of modern states \u2013 legislature, judiciaries, a bureaucracy \u2013 but the internal dynamics of personal rule.\n\nOne of the earliest and most influential statements on neo-patrimonialism was made in 1982 by Jean-Fran\u00e7ois M\u00e9dard, who set out to investigate whether clientelism or neo-patrimonialism represented the best way to understand African politics. Although M\u00e9dard accepted that 'clientelism' in the form of patron\u2013client relationships and political patronage could be found almost everywhere on the continent (1982: 165), he went on to suggest that that the term was inadequate in describing the particular form of politics that was emerging in Africa. Instead, M\u00e9dard advanced the framework of neo-patrimonialism, not to replace the focus on clientelism, but to subsume it, arguing that neo-patrimonialism 'has the advantage of including political clientelism, while placing it in its general context' (1982: 185). For M\u00e9dard, the 'general context' was a highly personalised system of rule with no separation between the public resources of the state and the private resources of the leader, whereby ethno-regional affiliations determine the structure of political competition. One consequence of this general context was that formal rules and procedures were often undermined by the ability of leaders to wield power through informal means; checks and balances institutions might exist, but in practice they had no capacity to constrain presidents and prime ministers.\n\nThe concept of neo-patrimonialism set out by M\u00e9dard has exerted a remarkable hold over the imaginations of Africanist scholars over the last thirty-five years. Between 1982 and 2015 almost 10,000 books, articles and working papers written have included the words neo-patrimonialism and Africa, which works out at just under one a day.7 Not only is neo-patrimonialism now taught as part of core courses on African politics, but the term has also made its way into the everyday lexicon of donors, commentators and journalists. It has almost become a clich\u00e9 to say that the 'problem in Africa' is neo-patrimonialism, whether one is talking about democracy, conflict or development. As a result, the neo-patrimonial framework has had a profound impact on the way in which Africanists have understood the balance of power on the continent between formal and informal institutions. Although in M\u00e9dard's formulation both informal institutions (patrimonialism) and formal institutions (legislatures, constitutions) were important to political outcomes, as more researchers began to use the term his initial caution was quickly lost. Instead, neo-patrimonialism came to be a by-word for corrupt and weak states with little or no institutional capacity. Thus, during the 1980s and 1990s the dominant intellectual paradigm in African studies tended to take it for granted that where informal and formal institutions came into conflict, the latter would come off worse.\n\nThis is not to imply that there was consensus on the usefulness of the term, or continuity in its application over time. As I explain below, there is a growing critique of the tendency to overgeneralise the extent of neo-patrimonialism on the continent. However, efforts to improve on the concept tended to reach a wider audience when they made the case that neo-patrimonialism had not given too little weight to the influence of the \"modern\" colonial state, but too much. One of the most famous examples of such an argument appears in The State in Africa, published by Jean-Francois Bayart in 1993. Writing against the significance of colonial rule, Bayart focused on demonstrating the many continuities that connect African politics across the pre-colonial, colonial and post-colonial periods.\n\nOne of the central claims motivating Bayart's analysis was that the European state had been 'grafted on' to African societies without gaining significant purchase. Colonialism was simply a 'shuffling of cards' (Bayart 1993: 154), and the notion of dividing history neatly into pre-colonial, colonial and post-colonial eras was therefore fundamentally flawed. Bayart instead advocates following the example of Fernand Braude and tracing the historical evolution of African politics in the longue dur\u00e9e. This involves eschewing a focus on the state itself, as 'a pure waste of time' (1993: 211), not because state institutions disappeared after independence, but because the state itself is best understood as the expression of a set of attitudes towards power and politics that are deeply rooted in Africa's own historical experience. Thus, for Bayart, the state is not a formal actor capable of shaping society in its own image, and is instead reduced to being little more than the product of a historically rooted set of informal institutions.\n\nThe implications of Bayart's argument for how we should study Africa are profound. On his account, a classic political science approach has little to offer. Rather, what is required is a combination of sociology and history. This is clear from his use of the term 'rhizome state' to characterise African political systems, chosen because of the supposed metaphorical similarity between African states and a plant's subterranean root system. Applying this methodological focus to his own work took Bayart so far away from an analysis of formal political institutions that some reviewers commented that, despite its title, his book 'tells us almost nothing about the state' (Young 1999: 151).\n\nChabal and Daloz's Africa Works can be read as a continuation of this school of thought, which draws on Bayart's analysis but seeks to push the critique of the African state to its logical conclusion. As noted above, despite the reintroduction of multiparty politics in the early 1990s, they pursue an argument very similar to that made by Zolberg in the 1960s, suggesting that the state is 'weak and ineffectual' (1999: 14) and that 'the much trumpeted public sector is in reality appropriated by private interests. The consequence is double: on the one hand, public service remains personalised by way of clientelism and nepotism; on the other, access to the public institutions of the state is seen as the main means of personal enrichment' (1999: 9). This understanding informs the basis of their suggestion for how Africa should be studied. First, in line with Bayart's notion of the 'rhizome state', the compromised nature of the continent's formal institutions means that 'the visible institutional branches are less significant than the subterranean roots issued from the complex world of factional struggles and local rivalries' (1999: 10). Second, they imply that because no African states feature formal political institutions of any note, they can all be understood through the same analytical lens.\n\nCombining these two arguments, Chabal and Daloz propose that we approach Africa through a new paradigm that they term 'the political instrumentalization of disorder' (1999). The most productive way to study Africa, they suggest, is not to waste time on the legislatures and judiciaries that lack the capacity to regulate political activity, but instead to focus on 'the ways in which individuals, groups, and communities seek to instrumentalise the resources which they command within this general political economy of disorder' (1999: xix). A more thoroughgoing dismissal of the value of formal political institutions, and of political science methodology more broadly, it is hard to imagine.\n\n## The Legacy of the 'Institutionless' School\n\nAlthough the 'institutionless' approach has exerted a powerful hold over African studies, it has not gone uncontested. Many of the reviews of Bayart's The Politics of the Belly and Chabal and Daloz's Africa Works were critical of both their methodology and their conclusions. At the same time, research on formal political institutions continued in the 1980s and, as we shall see in the next section of this chapter, blossomed following the reintroduction of multipartyism in the early 1990s. Moreover, while the 'institutionless' school and the ideas that Bayart and Chabal and Daloz championed exerted a strong hold over research within the Francophone world \u2013 emerging out of a long tradition in French historiography, with French scholars playing a prominent role in its conceptualisation \u2013 the notion that the African state is empty and vacuous gained less traction in the UK, United States and Anglophone Africa.\n\nHowever, it is nevertheless important to critically engage with the 'institutionless' school because the works of Bayart and Chabal and Daloz have been widely read and disseminated even within more sceptical epistemic communities. The Politics of the Belly and Africa Works were academic best sellers and have been cited roughly 2,700 times each, making them two of the most widely referenced texts in the history of African studies.8 Moreover, the ideas that they have promoted have permeated much wider than this core readership: whether marking student essays or reviewing articles when I was the editor of African Affairs, I have regularly come across the claim that Africa is 'institutionless' in papers that do not directly cite any of the authors discussed above. The application of this concept has become so commonplace that it is perhaps unnecessary to document it, but it may be worth offering an example to demonstrate the way in which these ideas have spread.\n\nConsider Letitia Lawson's article on 'External democracy promotion in Africa', which was published in the Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics in 1999. In this piece, which makes many good points, Lawson does not cite any of the authors mentioned here but echoes their language to a tee. Arguing that all African states are prone to democratic failure and that those that have yet to experience backsliding 'may simply be lucky', Lawson suggests that the impact of leadership on democratisation is shaped 'by the institutional (or, perhaps more precisely, institutionless), environment' (1999: 21). Operating with this set of assumptions, Lawson reaches some particularly bleak predictions about the likely impact of external democracy promotion, most notably that it 'will put African countries back to where they started at independence, without improving their long-term prospects' in 'the best-case scenario' (1999: 24).\n\nSuch cynicism was understandable in the late 1990s, when the fate of democracy in much of the continent looked uncertain, but has since proved to be misplaced. One of the core examples that Lawson draws on in her paper is Frederick Chiluba, the highly corrupt leader of multiparty Zambia. However, despite his disdain for the rules of the democratic game, Chiluba failed to overturn constitutional term limits and was forced to relinquish power just two years later. A decade after that, Zambia experienced its second transfer of power, after the electoral commission declared that Michael Sata of the Patriotic Front had defeated Rupiah Banda of the ruling party in a close race. It turned out that Zambia was not so institutionless after all.\n\nI have singled out Lawson's article not because it is better or worse than others, but rather because it provides a useful demonstration of the way in which 'institutionless' assumptions have permeated the discipline and can lead us astray. Ignoring the role of formal political institutions can blind researchers to the potential for political stability to emerge out of disorder, and for periods of continuity to be disrupted by political change. It is therefore important to critically evaluate neo-patrimonialism, and the more radical interpretations of African politics that accompanied it, against the empirical evidence of the last twenty years.\n\n# Reconsidering the Importance of Formal Institutions\n\nThere can be no doubt that democracy and its associated institutions went into a period of rapid decline during the 1970s and 1980s. It is also clear that many African leaders have relied more on personal networks and their 'traditional' authority than on the formal structures of the state to retain control. Similarly, few would contest that African states \u2013 when compared on the basis of the number of roads or legislative strength \u2013 are less capable than those found in Europe. The weakness of the 'institutionless' school is therefore not that it misdiagnoses some of the most important challenges facing African governments. Indeed, the texts discussed here have added greatly to our knowledge of the continent, and have provided myriad important insights that have enriched our understanding of African politics. Rather, the problem lies in the conclusions that authors such as Chabal and Daloz reach regarding the extent to which formal institutions have been rendered impotent, and the implications they draw from this conceptualisation regarding the future direction of the continent.\n\nMore specifically, there are three main limitations to the understanding of Africa that started with Zolberg and culminated in Africa Works. The first is that such analyses overestimate and overgeneralise the prevalence of neo-patrimonial politics. In reality, there is considerable variation when it comes to patrimonial practices in Africa, both between different states and within individual countries over time. Second, treating the continent as if it is 'institutionless' ignores the important ways in which formal institutions have shaped their informal counterparts over the last hundred years, under governments both democratic and authoritarian, and in states that are both strong and weak. Third, a new tranche of research \u2013 a sample of which is included in this volume \u2013 has demonstrated how formal institutions shape the choices made by African leaders. It is not possible to explain some of the most interesting trends on the continent \u2013 such as the growing number of countries that have experienced a transfer of power \u2013 without taking into account constitutional provisions such as presidential term limits.\n\n## The Uses and Abuses of Neo-patrimonialism\n\nIn its initial formulation, neo-patrimonialism was a framework that implied that both formal and informal institutions played an important role in Africa. It is true that M\u00e9dard's classic article set out the ways in which pre-colonial forms of authority undermined the performance of the formal institutions of the colonial state. But there was also a clear recognition that the new political structures \u2013 whether they were state borders, national bureaucracies or legislative bodies \u2013 had the capacity to shape existing political norms and behaviours. Thus, neo-patrimonialism began life as a framework for understanding the impact of formal and informal structures on each other.\n\nIn other words, it is implicit in many of the early discussions of neo-patrimonialism that the kinds of states that emerged from this process would depend on the relative strength of formal and informal institutions, and that this could only be understood on a case-by-case basis. One obvious implication of this approach was that African states were not all equally patrimonial. As M\u00e9dard wrote, 'there is more than neo-patrimonialism to Africa. This concept should be used as an ideal type: in systematically checking, for each particular political system, the reality of the model, we can measure the distortions' (1982: 51). Over the next thirty years, M\u00e9dard's warning that there was more to Africa than patrimonialism was largely forgotten. On the one hand, the term 'neo-patrimonialism' has increasingly been used to refer to political systems in which formal rules are fatally undermined by informal practices. On the other, the claim that different African states can be more or less neo-patrimonial has given way to a more general claim that neo-patrimonialism, or a variant of it, is the default mode of all African politics. In Chabal and Daloz's work, for example, the only exception they allow to their conceptualisation of the African state is South Africa, which at the time they saw as being exceptional.\n\nTaken together, these two trends have served to generate a misleading model of African politics that has been applied across the continent. As Gero Erdmann and Ulf Engel have argued, the uncritical use of the term, and the tendency to ignore the role of institutions, has meant that 'neo-patrimonialism really is in danger of becoming a catch-all concept' (2007: 114). There are two obvious problems with this state of affairs. The first is conceptual. If all African countries are depicted as being equally neo-patrimonial, it is not possible to use the presence or absence of patrimonialism to explain political variations between countries. In other words, understood in this way, we can no more use the concept of neo-patrimonialism to explain the contrasting fates of democracy in Benin and Chad than we can use the concept of the European state to explain the different trajectories of Germany and France.\n\nWhat we are left with is an unhelpful image of a static and uniform continent, which fails to account for the very real differences in the ability of African states to maintain their borders, protect their populations, collect taxes and regulate political behaviour. This is the second main problem with the conceptual frameworks developed by the 'institutionless' school. While there are some countries that more obviously conform to Bayart's 'rhizome state' model, there is little value in subsuming the continent's stronger states into this category. In fact, African states exist on a broad spectrum, and formal political institutions are far from being 'vacuous and ineffective' in a number of countries. As Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan has put it, 'the suggestion that African countries exhibit a single type of real governance does not make good sense' (2008: 1).\n\nThe case of Kenya demonstrates this point well. The introduction of the Provincial Administration during the colonial era created an effective bureaucracy that allowed the Governor to shape developments across the country through a network of Provincial Commissioners, District Commissioners, District Officers and tightly managed chiefs. This system was both preserved and strengthened by Kenya's first president, Jomo Kenyatta, who recognised that a strong Provincial Administration could compensate for the weakness of the ruling party (Gertzel 1966; Cheeseman 2006). Over the next forty years, this Administration played an instrumental role in shaping political developments. During the short life of the opposition Kenya People's Union, Kenyatta relied on the Administration to limit its sphere of activity (Mueller 1984). The country's second president, Daniel arap Moi, adopted a very different political style, but came to rely on the Administration just as heavily, especially once his own popularity began to decline. Combined with the coercive control provided by the security forces (Tamarkin 1978), the efficiency of the Administration laid the foundations for a relatively robust one-party state that lasted from independence until the reintroduction of multiparty politics in the early 1990s. As a result, while the Kenyan state may be stronger in some areas than others, it has not experienced the same kind of centre\u2013periphery divide described by Zolberg and Herbst (Branch and Cheeseman 2006).\n\nAlthough most states did not enjoy such coercive capacity, some exhibited considerable variation along other dimensions of patrimonialism and statehood. The one-party states of Senegal and Tanzania, for example, exhibited many aspects of patrimonial rule, including the personalisation of power under the president. However, such political processes never became as personalised or as patrimonial as they did, say, during the reign of Mobutu Sese Seko in what is now known as the Democratic Republic of Congo. There are a number of indications of this. One is the willingness of both the Tanzanian President Julius Nyerere (1985) and the Senegalese President Leopold Senghor (1981) to resign their positions, resisting the urge to become 'presidents for life'. Another is the survival of their parties \u2013 which continued to govern for decades \u2013 after the departure of the 'founding fathers'. The subsequent decision of both parties to allow for the gradual political liberalisation of the political system in the relative absence of international pressure \u2013 Senegal in 1978 and Tanzania in 1992 \u2013 is a third.\n\nTo be clear, I am not arguing that Kenya was a 'modern' state, or that Senegal and Tanzania were rule-bound democracies. In Kenya, the infrastructural capacity provided by the Provincial Administration had its limitations, and was buttressed by widespread clientelism under both Kenyatta and Moi. In Senegal and Tanzania, the willingness of ruling parties to support political liberalisation was in part premised on their belief that they could manipulate the advantages of incumbency to control the pace of change. Rather, the point is that while these countries \u2013 and others like them \u2013 may not have fulfilled the criteria of an ideal-type Weberian state, they also differed in important respects from the 'institutionless' model of the African state. Documenting this variation is essential because, as we shall see, it has much to tell us about African politics and prospects for democratic consolidation.\n\n## The Impact of the Formal on the Informal\n\nWhile rejecting the homogenisation of the African experience, there is much to be gained from resurrecting the more sophisticated early discussions of neo-patrimonialism that gave greater weight to the transformative role of formal institutions. Contrary to the arguments of both Bayart and Chabal and Daloz that colonial rule had a negligible impact on the continent, the 'modern' state introduced in the first half of the twentieth century played a central role in shaping the evolution of informal authority structures. As J. P. Olivier de Sardan has written, 'Every time we have carried out empirical work on apparent survivals from pre-colonial times (such as the family, ethnicity or magico-religious practices) we have found them to be profoundly ambivalent, and out of line with the usual clich\u00e9s, having been significantly altered and transformed over more than a century, and sometimes even in part invented' (2008: 3).\n\nThe social transformations effected by colonial rule are widely recognised in African studies, but are rarely expressed in terms of the relationship between formal and informal institutions. For example, much of the literature in the first half of the twentieth century has focused on the ways in which colonial practices contributed to the politicisation of ethnicity and empowered chiefs to act as 'Big Men'. On the one hand, processes of mapping, counting and codifying ethnic groups tended to foster stronger communal identities. On the other hand, the power that colonial governments vested in chiefs, backed up through the use of force, enabled them to wield greater control over their people than was typically the case in the pre-colonial era. The combined impact of these two trends was to consolidate group identities and centralise and institutionalise existing patterns of traditional authority.\n\nThis argument was made most strongly and famously in Terence Ranger's 'The Invention of Tradition in Africa', which revealed the potential for new rules and ceremonies to quickly take on the form of long held traditions (1983). Although few of his contemporaries disputed the capacity of formal structures to shape social and cultural norms, Ranger's argument was controversial because it tended to identify colonial officials as the agents of change. Others preferred to place greater emphasis on the role of African 'cultural entrepreneurs' (Vail 1989). Over time, a synthesis of sorts emerged. Ranger revisited his original argument, conceding that he needed to make greater space for African agency and recognising that ethnic identities were created as much from below as they were from above (1993). As John Iliffe eloquently put it (1979: 323\u2013324), colonial officials may have assumed that Africans operated within a clearly defined 'tribal' identity, but it was Africans who breathed life into this assumption by forging stronger ethnic organisations in order to better take advantage of the opportunities that colonial rule had to offer.\n\nThe social transformations that resulted from the interactions of colonial structure and African agency have been the subject of a number of important studies over the last fifty years. Daniel Posner, for example, has documented the ways in which colonial institutions and policies shaped the evolution of ethno-linguistic groups in Zambia (2005). To take just one of these processes, the decision to translate school texts into only the four most popular languages \u2013 Bemba, Nyanja, Lozi and Tonga \u2013 encouraged Zambians to 'opt in' to these linguistic identities in order to access education. Over time, this promoted a remarkable process of cultural centralisation through which an extremely linguistically fragmented society gradually consolidated around four main language groups that have played an important role in structuring political competition ever since.\n\nThe historiography of most African states contains similar narratives regarding the hardening of ethnic identities during the colonial era. No credible account of the evolution of ethnic identity in Rwanda would leave out the impact of the introduction of identity cards under Belgian colonial rule, which recorded and hence codified ethnic identities that had previously been more fluid. Similarly, no discussion of the polarisation of communal identities in Nigeria would fail to mention the colonial regime's deployment of 'warrant chiefs' and institutionalisation of indirect rule in the eastern part of the country, in communities that had no history of centralising power under a 'Big Man'. Thus, the very informal institutions that tend to be reified by the 'institutionless' school were themselves shaped, and in many cases strengthened, by their engagement with formal political institutions.\n\nRecent research has also demonstrated the central role played by states in shaping a number of other factors that are often assumed to be exogenous to formal politics. Daron Acemoglu, Simon Johnson and James Robinson (2003) argue that low levels of ethnic diversity in Botswana \u2013 often said to have facilitated its democratic consolidation (Good 1992) \u2013 were in fact the product, not the cause, of state policies. The example of Botswana is an important one, because it reminds us that these issues are not only relevant for the continent's history, and that formal institutions continue to shape religious and political identities on the continent today.\n\nOne common feature of much of the work described in this section is that it demonstrates the symbiotic nature of the relationship between formal and informal institutions, which are engaged in an ongoing conversation that runs in both directions. There is no contradiction in the state structuring and restructuring political processes, which in turn influence the workings of the state itself. Indeed, this is the same dialectical relationship between culture and structure that characterises the development of many institutions, as demonstrated by classic work on organisational theory by the likes of Mary Douglas (1986) and Christopher Hood (1998). Yet despite the weight of evidence outlined above, the enduring capacity of formal institutions to shape cultural identities and personal networks has been consistently overlooked by the 'institutionless' school.\n\n## Institutional Impacts and Democracy in Africa\n\nOne of the most common critiques of Africa's formal political institutions over the last seventy years has been that because they are not deeply rooted within society they are powerless to constrain African leaders. This claim may ring true for authoritarian Africa, where some leaders appeared to be able to carry through their every whim. But in the era of multiparty elections this depiction of African politics is less persuasive. Over the last twenty years, important literatures have emerged which demonstrate that a number of formal institutions have a significant impact on everyday political attitudes and behaviour, from tax systems (Bodea and LeBas 2014) to the structure of decentralisation (Suberu 2009) and legislative quotas (Tripp and Kang 2008). For example, Aili Mari Tripp has shown how the introduction of rules requiring that a certain proportion of the parliament be women has boosted female political representation in a number of states (2017). As a result, the share of women in African legislatures has increased remarkably, from just 1.2 per cent in the 1960s to 21.3 per cent today, and has hit world-leading levels (63.8 per cent) in Rwanda (Tripp 2017).\n\nWhen it comes to explaining the patterns of democracy that we see today, this literature can be loosely grouped into three main categories. The first group features researchers who trace the impact of formal institutions over time, describing how previous political structures shape contemporary developments. By and large, these historical-institutionalist studies are less concerned with explaining the extent of democratic consolidation than with accounting for variation in party systems, constitutions and civil societies. A classic example is the work of Adrienne LeBas, who demonstrates how the fate of the political parties that emerged after multiparty politics was reintroduced in the early 1990s was 'a result of both context and choice' (2013: 245). More specifically, LeBas argues that authoritarian regimes which relied on alliances with corporate bodies such as trade unions inadvertently provided opposition groups with political structures that could later be used to mobilise cross-ethnic constituencies against the state. In this way, the formal institutions that came to the fore under the period of authoritarian rule played a critical role in shaping the unity and effectiveness of opposition parties, and hence the way in which democratic politics has evolved. In a similar vein, research by the likes of Anne Pitcher (2012) and Rachel Riedl (2014) \u2013 both contributors to this volume \u2013 has revealed strong institutional continuities in very different political systems, demonstrating the role that the past plays in shaping the present.9\n\nA second set of scholarship has stressed the importance of formal institutions in a different way, by documenting the impact of official rules on political, social and economic developments. These more sociological or rational-choice approaches highlight how institutional changes can re-shape the behaviour of political leaders and the way in which societies behave.10 For example, Benn Eifert, Edward Miguel and Daniel Posner have shown that by exposing citizens to political competition, multiparty elections increase the salience of ethnic identities, consistently re-energising social cleavages (2010). It is therefore unsurprising that a number of researchers have argued that the reintroduction of elections has led to heightened ethnic competition, and in some cases political violence, across the continent (Cheeseman 2015).\n\nOther scholars using a similar lens have identified different, more positive, impacts of elections. Staffan Lindberg (2006), in a much earlier version of an argument that appears in these pages, suggested that elections have a range of democratising effects including training voters in democratic arts, and that as a result the repeated holding of elections can drive the process of democratisation. In my own contribution to this debate I have suggested that although Lindberg's conclusion may initially appear to contradict that of Eifert et al., both may turn out to be correct because competitive polls have the potential to set in motion a number of different processes simultaneously (Cheeseman 2017). In other words, multi-party elections in Africa are 'contributing to both the emergence of stronger democratic norms and greater social tensions at one and the same time'. Thus, while the importance of formal institutions is clear, their impact is often complex and needs to be considered from a variety of perspectives.\n\nFinally, a third literature has focussed less on tracing institutional legacies and impacts, and more on assessing the extent of democratic consolidation by looking at the capacity of formal institutions to constrain the behaviour of political actors. These kinds of political-economy studies represent a natural response to the 1980s, when Africa was said to be authoritarian precisely because leaders could do as they wished. At the same time, they reflect classic political science and popular thinking about democracy, namely that it is most likely to endure when the power of individual leaders is kept within limits by a robust system of checks and balances as set out, say, in the constitution of the United States. Given the intellectual purchase of these ideas, it is unsurprising that much of the institutionalist literature on democratisation addresses the question of whether key political institutions can enforce the rule of law.\n\nOne of the most interesting debates on this topic occurred in the pages of the Journal of Democracy, where Daniel Posner and Daniel Young published an article in 2007 \u2013 a new version of which appears in this book \u2013 that found that formal institutions such as term limits were becoming increasingly important on the continent. However, although Posner and Young's analysis was extremely influential, it did not persuade everyone, and H. Kwasi Prempeh responded the following year with an article that stressed the capacity of presidents to manipulate the rules of the game for their own purposes. While the two papers offered very different visions of the state of African politics, it was telling that they approached the debate on the basis of a shared assumption: that democratic consolidation on the continent depends on the institutionalisation of the rule of law.\n\nThe range of different ideas and approaches that have motivated institutionalist research over the past two decades provide a good indication of the impressive breadth of work currently being undertaken. However, it is important to keep in mind that the boundaries between these groups are fluid and some work cuts across all three. Indeed, in one of the seminal texts written on 'Africa's democratic experiments', Michael Bratton and Nicolas van de Walle (1997) provided a sophisticated account of the different political trajectories on the continent that drew on and tested a wide range of different institutional theories, including both path dependency and the significance of legal frameworks.\n\nThe different contributions to this volume reflect this catholic spirit, and represent a diverse set of institutionalist approaches authored by some of the leading figures in the field. Carolien van Ham and Staffan Lindberg (Chapter 9) investigate the impact of elections in multiparty Africa, revisiting Lindberg's thesis that repeatedly holding elections increases the quality of civil liberties no matter how free and fair they are. Using new data, van Ham and Lindberg conclude that in actual fact the quality of elections does matter for democratic gains. However, they also find that once a fairly low minimum threshold has been met, holding elections continues to have a significant and positive impact on the overall quality of democracy. Thus, they argue that even in some less democratic contexts formal institutions have the capacity to promote political reform.\n\nIn a similar vein, Daniel Posner and Daniel Young (Chapter 11) update and extend their earlier analysis and find that on average presidential term limits are increasingly being respected on the continent despite the ability of leaders to remain in power indefinitely in countries such as Rwanda and Uganda. Moreover, they reveal that a strong precedent in favour of respecting presidential term limits has emerged in a number of countries, including some states with strong neo-patrimonial tendencies, such as Kenya and Nigeria. This is particularly significant, because the capacity of the official rules to remove incumbent leaders from power represents one of the sternest tests of the strength of formal institutions; the triumph of term limits in these cases is therefore the strongest evidence one could hope to find of the need to place greater emphasis on the state in the study of African politics.\n\nThe growing significance of the rules of the game is also a current that runs through Muna Ndulo's (Chapter 5) discussion of constitutional reform, and the resulting adoption of increasingly progressive legal frameworks in countries such as Kenya and South Africa that protect a wider array of human and socio-economic rights than ever before. While Ndulo recognises that constitutional provisions do not always protect citizen rights or provide a good guide for understanding how politics actually work in practice, it is nonetheless striking that many of the most significant reforms, such as the introduction of political decentralisation in Kenya in 2010, are fast becoming entrenched (Cheeseman et al. 2016). Indeed, as Alex Dyzenhaus demonstrates (Chapter 14), devolution has not only created an important new arena for political contestation, but has also generated new forms of vertical and horizontal accountability with the potential to check abuses of power.\n\nThis is not to say that 'checks and balances' institutions such as regional governments, judiciaries and legislatures are working effectively across the continent. The picture is decidedly patchy and one of the questions that the authors collected together in this volume seek to answer is when formal institutions come to the fore and when they do not. For example, Peter VonDoepp (Chapter 13) argues that judiciaries increasingly matter in Africa's democratic and semi-democratic regimes, but also that the courts are unlikely to play a more significant role unless senior judges are willing to take on the role of promoting institutionalisation. Similarly, Michaela Collord (Chapter 12) concludes that there is growing evidence that Africa's legislatures are not simply 'rubber stamp' bodies, but that the degree to which parliaments can hold the executive to account varies dramatically. More effective independent legislatures have emerged in places like Kenya and Uganda, but only when MPs' formal responsibility for holding the executive to account is buttressed by their ability to operate independently of party leaders. In turn, MPs are more likely to be able to go against the party line when they have their own powerbase, i.e. when they preside over informal ethnic and clientelist networks that empower them to operate as political patrons in their own right.\n\nIn this way, the analysis of political institutionalisation presented by Collord and VonDoepp makes an important point about the relationship between formal and informal institutions that is worth highlighting. One of the main limitations of the 'institutionless' school is that it tends to assume that formal and informal institutions are always in competition. This is not the case. As Collord's analysis of legislative strengthening demonstrates, under certain conditions informal norms can help to strengthen organisations such as legislatures and judiciaries. This point applies more generally: as Douglass North has argued (1991), no formal institution is truly consolidated until it is underpinned by a set of supportive informal norms and practices.\n\nA related theme emerges from Anne Pitcher and Manuel Teodoro's work on the bureaucracy (Chapter 7), an institution that is often said to be wholly undermined by corruption and patrimonial norms. While the continent's most notorious scandals are often perpetrated by politicians, they are typically coordinated by civil servants. Against this unpromising backdrop, Pitcher and Teodoro investigate whether it is possible to overcome these limitations by creating more independent and professional bureaucratic agencies in the hope that they will become 'islands of efficiency'. Focusing on the example of the bodies established to manage the process of privatisation in the 1990s, they find compelling evidence that where formally independent bureaucratic agencies were established they boosted investor confidence with positive economic consequences. However, they also find that the process is most successful when backed by broad public and political support, once again demonstrating the significance of informal factors to the development of more viable formal institutions.\n\nLest the discussion thus far sounds overly positive, it is salutary to read the chapters by Peace Medie (), Ian Cooper () and Brian Klaas (), who focus on the police, political parties and election rigging, respectively. All three authors highlight histories of weak capacity and poor professionalism. Klaas begins his analysis by reviewing the low quality of many African elections, which are among the worst in the world. Reflecting on the impact of constitutional and electoral reforms, he makes the important argument that effective rules do not always prevent illicit and repressive behaviours; instead, they may generate incentives for leaders to look for new ways to subvert democracy. For example, rulers who feel they can no longer stuff ballot boxes in full view of the media and the international community may switch to other forms of manipulation, such as gerrymandering and using legal rules to block rival candidates from standing. This is an important point, because it serves as a powerful reminder that while formal institutions matter, they often have unintended consequences that may re-shape politics in important ways.\n\nTurning our attention to the police force, Peace Medie's chapter also highlights a track record of institutional weakness, including widespread corruption, poor training and limited capacity. The low level of popular support for the police across the continent makes for depressing reading. However, like Collord and VonDoepp, Medie is nonetheless able to identify examples in which the police have begun to enforce the rule of law more effectively. This is especially significant given that she focuses on gender-based violence, an area where the police have historically performed particularly poorly. Although public confidence in the police remains low across the continent, Medie finds that in the case of Liberia a series of post-conflict initiatives including the strengthening of the rape law, the formulation of new gender policies and police reforms have transformed the way that law and order organisations respond to reports of rape. This is particularly significant, because it demonstrates the potential for predominantly institutional responses to improve the services received by millions of people.\n\nFor his part, Ian Cooper highlights political parties as one of the formal institutions making the least progress since the early 1990s. As Thomas Carothers (2006) has argued, all too often parties represent the 'weakest link' in the democratisation process. Across Africa, Cooper finds that parties lack effective internal party structures and participate in activities such as vote buying and organising electoral violence. These are worrying conclusions, because Cooper persuasively links parties' internal structures to their failure to manage the transition from one leader to another, which is a major source of political instability across the continent. However, even in such difficult contexts, it is misleading to speak of an 'institutionless' environment, and Cooper is able to identify the circumstances under which episodes of party strengthening are more likely to take place, as has occurred in Namibia.\n\nIn addition to the more short-term institutional effects discussed so far, there is considerable evidence that the constitutional and legal frameworks adopted by African countries have shaped broader political developments in the longue dur\u00e9e. For example, Catherine Boone (Chapter 3) demonstrates how land tenure institutions, i.e. the rules and regulations governing who owns land and how land can be transferred, have had a profound impact on areas of central concern to political scientists. Most notably, Boone argues that whether or not a country operates a 'neo-customary' land system (wherein each 'ethnic group' is expected to manage its own land under its own rules), or a 'statist' system (wherein access to land is centrally controlled), shapes both the dynamics of state building and the prospects for political violence. In making this case, Boone demonstrates the centrality of legal structures to everyday life, even in areas where the state has a less visible presence \u2013 such as rural locales far removed from the capital city.\n\nLeonardo Arriola's work (Chapter 4) also documents the powerful impact of formal economic institutions, but in relation to party politics. Starting from the insight that campaign finance is critical to prospects for effective political mobilisation, Arriola considers the relationship between the structure and regulation of the banking sector and the likelihood that opposition leaders will be able to form effective coalitions. Using an original continent-wide dataset, he is able to establish that when banking is liberalised, such that opposition leaders can secure loans to fund their campaigns, they are better placed to co-opt other leaders and parties, and hence to maintain stable alliances. Thus, the structure of the banking system shapes the structure of the party system. This is a particularly significant finding, as coalition building is often an essential first step to the formation of more effective and electorally competitive opposition parties.\n\nIf the existing literature has tended to underestimate the political significance of economic institutions, the same can be said about the historicity of formal political intuitions. This is problematic, because as Rachel Riedl (Chapter 2; see also 2014) points out, the formal institutions that emerged in the 1990s were not created in a vacuum. Rather, they are the product of previous formal and informal institutional arrangements. More specifically, Riedl highlights the extent to which the types of parties that emerged in the post-colonial era continue to shape the political landscape in contemporary Africa. Drawing on the cases of Ghana, Senegal and Uganda, she demonstrates how ruling parties that more effectively incorporated local elites were better placed to set democratic rules in their favour and retain power. By contrast, parties that failed to establish effective rural networks found it far more difficult to contain pressure to reform and so tended to be forced into making greater concessions during the transition to multi-party rule. In this way, historical institutional legacies shape the prospects for the defeat of old authoritarian regimes and hence the transformative potential of multiparty politics.\n\nIn addition to the evidence provided in the book's other chapters, the arguments of Boone, Arriola and Riedl represent a particularly strong evocation of the importance of formal political institutions in contemporary Africa, demonstrating that such structures do not just impact contemporary politics, but have long shaped the political, social and economic landscape.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nThe foregoing account of the state of African politics and of African studies should not be mistaken as a dismissal of all of the insights of the 'institutionless' school, or be taken to imply that formal institutions are now more important than their informal counterparts. There is no need to throw the baby out with the bathwater. I have argued that a tendency to underestimate the significance of formal political institutions in Africa has had negative consequences for our ability to explain political continuity and change. Contrary to much received wisdom, particularly that which makes it into policy circles and the media, formal institutions have shaped the evolution of informal norms and authority structures and are increasingly constraining the behaviour of African political leaders in a number of countries. However, this does not mean that the formal rules of the game always triumph, or that formal institutions matter equally across the continent. In many countries, the process of political institutionalisation is in its early stages, and it remains unclear how far it will proceed. In others, the process has not yet commenced, and leaders face relatively few constraints.\n\nIt is also important to recognise that even in those contexts where formal institutions are starting to take hold some institutions have proven more effective than others. For example, term limits have so far had a more pronounced impact on the continent than anti-corruption reforms. Our task is therefore not to simply document the way in which some formal institutions matter, but to explain which rules have begun to take root and why. In the case of term limits and corruption, the difference is largely explained by the fact that more political actors now benefit from corruption, and hence anti-corruption reforms face a greater number of opponents. Conversely, term limits have a higher profile, represent a more contained and specific issue around which people can mobilise, and are typically supported by broader domestic and international coalitions. Further research is required to fully understand this kind of institutional variation and the impact that it has on everyday politics. Such a research agenda will require moving beyond studying formal institutions in isolation in order to consider the ways in which formal and informal institutions interact.\n\nIt would therefore be unwise to turn our backs on the lessons of the 'institutionless' school and the many key insights generated through the analysis of personal networks, traditional authority and group identities. These literatures have much to teach us about the challenges faced by formal political institutions and how they may be overcome. As the chapters that follow demonstrate, norms may complement formal institutions, accommodate them or continue to compete with them, with profound consequences for the consolidation of democracy. Many of the important insights provided by Bayart and Chabal and Daloz will thus remain relevant well into the next decade and beyond. Indeed, the neo-patrimonial framework can still provide a useful lens through which to understand the symbiotic relationship between different forms of authority if it is understood as it was originally conceptualised by M\u00e9dard.\n\nTo move the debate forwards, we need to draw on existing scholarship to build new and improved theoretical frameworks through which to understand the relationship between formal and informal institutions and how this affects continuity and change in Africa. It is to this challenge that I turn in the conclusion to this volume. Drawing on the work of Helmke and Levitsky (2006), I argue that we need to develop a stronger conceptualisation of the diverse ways in which formal and informal institutions impact on one another. Given that the consolidation of formal institutions requires the evolution of a set of complementary norms and values that reinforce official rules and entrench them, such a conceptualisation will need to allow for the fact that informal institutions may both compete with and complement their formal counterparts. In turn, this suggests the need for a new research agenda dedicated to explaining the conditions under which informal and formal institutions do and do not cohere. Important work in this regard is already being done by the likes of Tom de Herdt and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan (2015), but I argue that much more is required if we are to truly understand processes of democratic consolidation on the continent. Readers interested in these theoretical and methodological issues may therefore wish to read the conclusion before turning to the empirical analysis that follows.\n\nThe thirteen chapters that make up the main body of this volume are each designed to address a different institution, so that this book can be read both for its novel theoretical arguments and as a primer for the study of the contemporary African state. Where reliable data exist, quantitative analysis and cross-national comparisons are employed to give readers a broad understanding of developments on the continent; where they do not, authors rely on in-depth case studies and focused comparisons to test their ideas and substantiate their arguments. The chapters are grouped under four main themes. The first section considers how underlying institutional foundations such as the system of land tenure and the structure of the economy shape contemporary struggles over power and resources. In line with this introduction, the authors demonstrate the great significance of formal institutions across both time and space.\n\nThe three sections that come next highlight the different roles that formal institutions are typically designed to play (whether or not they are able to live up to such expectations). Thus, the second set of chapters addresses the capacity of formal institutions \u2013 constitutions, the bureaucracy and the police \u2013 to enforce the law and, in the case of the article by Pitcher and Teodoro, to promote technocratic efficiency over neo-patrimonial politics. Following on from this, the third section turns our attention to how institutions regulate political competition \u2013 the growing significance of elections, term limits and internal party structures to everyday power struggles. As the four chapters show, leaders increasingly have to take formal rules into account, even if they are intent on breaking them. Finally, the last part of the book looks at the capacity of institutional reform to constrain the behaviour of political leaders by investigating three classic countervailing institutions: the legislature, the judiciary and the devolution of power. Although the track record of some of these bodies is patchy, all three chapters highlight examples of institutional strengthening. What is particularly noteworthy about these contributions is that the authors identify gains that have occurred not only in the continent's democracies, but also in a number of semi-authoritarian political systems with neo-patrimonial tendencies. These developments are especially significant, because they highlight the need for those working on a wide range of African countries to place formal political institutions at the heart of their analysis.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAcemoglu, Daron, Simon Johnson, and James A. Robinson. 2003. 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Institutions and ethnic politics in Africa, Cambridge University Press.\n\nPosner, Daniel N., and Daniel J. Young. 2007. 'The institutionalization of political power in Africa', Journal of Democracy 18, 3: 126\u2013140.\n\nPye, Lucian W. 1961. 'Armies in the process of political modernization', European Journal of Sociology 2, 1: 82\u201392.\n\nRanger, Terence. 1983. 'The invention of tradition in Colonial Africa', in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.), The invention of tradition, Cambridge University Press.\n\nRanger, Terence. 1993. 'The invention of tradition revisited: The case of colonial Africa' in Ruth Marshall, Terence Ranger and Olufemi Vaughan (eds.), Legitimacy and the state in twentieth-century Africa, London: Palgrave Macmillan.\n\nRiedl, Rachel Beatty. 2014. Authoritarian origins of democratic party systems in Africa, Cambridge University Press.\n\nSaul, John S. 1970. Background to the Tanzanian election, 1970, University of Dar es Salaam.\n\nSchachter-Morgenthau, Ruth. 1964. Political parties in French-speaking West Africa, Oxford: Clarendon Press.\n\nShelford, Fred. 1902. 'On West African railways', Journal of the Royal African Society 1, 3: 339\u2013354.\n\nSklar, Richard L. 2004 (original 1963). Nigerian political parties: Power in an emergent African nation, Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press.\n\nde Smith, S. A. 1961. 'Westminster's export models: The legal framework of responsible government', Journal of Commonwealth & Comparative Politics 1, 1: 2\u201316.\n\nSuberu, Rotimi. 2009. 'Federalism in Africa: The Nigerian experience in comparative perspective', Ethnopolitics 8, 1: 67\u201386.\n\nTamarkin, Mordechai. 1978. 'The roots of political stability in Kenya', African Affairs 77, 308: 297\u2013320.\n\nThroup, David. 1993. 'Elections and political legitimacy in Kenya', Africa 63, 3: 371\u2013396.\n\nTordoff, William (ed.). 1974. Politics in Zambia, Berkeleyand Los Angeles: University of California Press.\n\nTordoff, William. 1977. 'Residual legislatures: The cases of Tanzania and Zambia', Journal of Commonwealth & Comparative Politics 15, 3: 235\u2013249.\n\nTripp, Aili Mari. 'Women and politics in Africa' in Thomas Spear (ed.) The Oxford encyclopaedia of African history Oxford University Press, 2017.\n\nTripp, Aili Mari, and Alice Kang. 2008. 'The global impact of quotas: On the fast track to increased female legislative representation', Comparative Political Studies 41, 3: 338\u2013361.\n\nVail, Leroy (ed.). 1989. The creation of tribalism in Southern Africa, London and Berkeley: University of California Press.\n\nVan de Walle, Nicolas. 2003. 'Presidentialism and clientelism in Africa's emerging party systems', The Journal of Modern African Studies 41, 2: 297\u2013321.\n\nWeber, Max. 1947. The theory of social and economic organization, New York: Free Press.\n\nWeber, Max. 2015. Weber's rationalism and modern society: New translations on politics, bureaucracy, and social stratification, translated and edited by Tony Waters and Dagmar Waters, New York: Palgrave Macmillan.\n\nWelsh, Thomas. 1903. 'Contrasts in African legislation', Journal of the Royal African Society 2, 6: 195\u2013207.\n\nWheare, Joan. 1950. The Nigerian Legislative Council, London: Faber and Faber.\n\nWight, Martin. 1947. The Gold Coast Legislative Council, London: Faber and Faber.\n\nWorld Bank. 2011. World Development Report 2011, Washington D.C.\n\nYoung, Crawford. 1984. 'Za\u00efre: Is there a state?', Canadian Journal of African Studies 18, 1: 80\u201382.\n\nYoung, Crawford. 1994. The African colonial state in comparative perspective, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.\n\nYoung, Tom. 1999. 'Review article: The state and politics in Africa', Journal of Southern African Studies 25, 1: 149\u2013154.\n\nZolberg, Aristide R. 1966. Creating Political Order: The Party-states of West Africa, Chicago: Rand McNally.\n\nZolberg, Aristide R. 1969. One\u2013party Government in the Ivory Coast, Princeton University Press.\n\n1 This title reflects two intellectual debts. The first clause comes from Chris Allen (1995); the second from Evans et al. (1985).\n\n2 Following Weber, the state is here understood to refer to a compulsory political organisation with a centralised government that 'lays claim to the monopoly on the legitimate use of physical force' (2015: 136).\n\n3 Institutional strengthening, or political 'institutionalisation', is a complex process. When referring to democratic institutions, I understand it to have two core dimensions. The first is basic organisational capacity, in terms of the level of funding, manpower, expertise and so on. The second is the degree of independence from the executive. It is important to note that an institution might score high on one of these dimensions and low on the other, and that institutional strengthening may refer to progress on one or both of these scales.\n\n4 Or its equivalent in Francophone or Lusophone Africa.\n\n5 For the original quote see Morgenthau (1964): 356.\n\n6 As quoted in Death (2015): 1.\n\n7 Google Scholar search, 15 May 2015. The exact number per day is 0.83. It is important to note that Google Scholar counts citations in work that has not appeared in peer reviewed publications. A search of all articles on JSTOR for the terms 'neo-patrimonialism' and 'Africa' identified 1,400 journal articles.\n\n8 Based on a Google Scholar search conducted on 15 May 2015.\n\n9 For more an in depth discussion of this, see the Conclusion to this volume.\n\n10 For a full discussion of these terms, see the Conclusion.\n\n# Part I Institutional Foundations\n# 2 Institutional Legacies\n\n## Understanding Multiparty Politics in Historical Perspective\n\nRachel Beatty Riedl\n\nThe institutions of multiparty politics in Africa today have important causal implications for a variety of critical outcomes, such as the ability to build cross-ethnic coalitions; the stability or volatility, accountability and representativeness of elections; the extent and distribution of public services; the likelihood of authoritarian successor parties' return to power; the durability of democracy itself; and even the very existence and salience of particular social cleavages. These contemporary formal institutions have, in some cases, been crafted de nouveau from upheaval and transition moments, but in other cases have evolved gradually out of pre-existing authoritarian-era institutions. However, even where new institutions have been crafted in the recent past from scratch, this has not occurred in a vacuum. The legacies of past struggles \u2013 modes of organisation and distribution of power and resources \u2013 have a significant influence on the possibilities for the future.\n\nThis chapter demonstrates the significance of past institutional configurations \u2013 harking back to the era of supposed 'institutionless' politics in Africa, or the reign of the informal \u2013 in shaping contemporary multiparty politics. In doing so, it makes two corrections to existing interpretations of the political landscape. First, it is common to assert that African political parties are weak, with the assumption that parties do not structure the electoral playing field.1 This is an error that has serious consequences for understanding contemporary politics. Political parties across the continent vary dramatically not only in their strength, but also in the forms of territorial organisation, resources and strategies of mobilisation, internal rotation mechanisms and abilities to thrive beyond a single candidate or term in power. This variation is a global phenomenon, and understanding how parties structure the political playing field (and to what extent) is an empirical question relevant in Africa just as it is in Europe, Latin America, Asia and beyond.\n\nFirst, it is important to highlight the many robust political parties in Africa \u2013 including the Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM) in Tanzania, the African National Congress (ANC) in South Africa, the National Democratic Congress (NDC) and New Patriotic Party (NPP) in Ghana, and the Mozambique Liberation Front (Frelimo) in Mozambique. They have historically distinct roots \u2013 from nationalist parties fighting for independence to revolutionary, military or multiparty opposition parties. These divergent origins offer particular opportunities for citizen-linkage strategies and power contestation, and also constrain other opportunities for adaptation and regeneration in a changing environment.\n\nSecond, a historical approach to institutions corrects the perceived dichotomy between an era of weak formal institutions \u2013 ruled by the informal throughout the 1970s and 1980s \u2013 and an era of multiparty politics that has seen a 'resurgence' of formal politics. As Cheeseman (Chapter 15, this volume) usefully reviews, the interaction between formal and informal institutions is critical across historical periods. For example, while authoritarian leaders may not have been constrained by constitutions, they felt compelled to use their control over legislatures to make formal constitutional amendments; often they could neither ignore it nor completely control the reform process. This institutional process was built upon the primacy of neo-patrimonialism, but the channels of formal institutional change nonetheless created new opportunities for contestation and the further adaptation of both the formal and informal spheres. For example, by changing the constitution in Uganda to dissolve term limits, President Museveni was forced to make concessions and initiate multiparty competition in the process. As a consequence, opposition parties now engage in new electoral tactics that were previously not possible, and reformists and disgruntled politicians within the ruling party can break off and create new challenges for the status quo. In the run-up to the 2016 presidential elections, a key National Resistance Movement (NRM) ruling party insider opted to challenge Museveni's domination first within the party and then as an independent candidate.\n\nThis type of challenge is perhaps the most common route to dominant party defeat in sub-Saharan Africa because it simultaneously weakens the ruling party's support base, sparks renewed interest in the possibility for alternation among civil society and other political groups, motivates additional defections and highlights failures in the ruling party's reign (Cheeseman et al. 2015). Moreover, the Ugandan example demonstrates that even efforts to subvert institutional constraints \u2013 such as term limits \u2013 engage with the formal institutional landscape to create new focal points, opportunities and limits to political agency in the next phase. Authoritarian leaders' manipulation of the formal institutional realm to maintain power can have unintended consequences for their political futures, precisely because elites and masses alike respond to the altered institutional incentives with new possibilities for challenging the status quo.\n\nThis chapter examines the points of informal and formal institutional congruence and divergence. Whereas congruence generates lock-in and self-reinforcing dynamics for institutional stability, informal and formal institutional divergence generates opportunity for institutional transformation such as displacement, layering, drift and conversion (Mahoney and Thelen 2010). Only by considering both realms is it possible to understand how past institutional configurations are linked to contemporary outcomes. I draw upon a range of empirical examples from across the continent \u2013 including Ghana, Senegal and Uganda \u2013 to demonstrate how informal institutions of reciprocal exchange, traditional authority and local brokers, as well as indigenous notions of citizenship and political participation shape the construction and practice of formal institutions. Additionally, I discuss evidence of how formal institutions \u2013 such as the colonial state or the multiparty electoral system \u2013 transform informal institutions (Laitin 1986; MacClean 2010), which suggests the continually evolving nature of nominally stable institutions.\n\n# The Roots of Institutional Strength in Africa\n\nContrary to the many simplistic claims of weak parties in Africa, much recent work has demonstrated variation in party strength, institutionalisation and types of parties that exist across the continent (LeBas 2011; Arriola 2012; Pitcher 2012; Resnick 2012; Elischer 2013; Koter 2013; Riedl 2014; Weghorst and Bernhard 2014; Wahman 2015). Deploying Mainwaring and Scully's (1995) measure of party system institutionalisation across semi-established and full democracies in Africa demonstrates one dimension of this variation (Figure 2.1).\n\nFigure 2.1\n\nVariation in party system institutionalisation by country in Africa\n\n*Party System Institutionalisation (PSI) has a possible range of 0\u20136, with 0 indicating the lowest level of institutionalisation and 6 being the highest. The mean PSI of all African democracies is 3.3. These data form a composite measure of the period from the founding elections through 2011 in each country.\n\nSource: Riedl 2014.\n\nThese differences in contemporary party systems are fundamentally shaped by the origins of nationalist and authoritarian-era parties themselves. Prior consolidation through revolutionary struggles (Huntington 1968), past modes of incorporating support through local brokers (Riedl 2014) and leveraging the existing social structure to use local brokers and build multi-ethnic, nationalist parties (Koter 2013) have long-enduring consequences for the nature of the present multiparty institutional landscape. That nationalist and authoritarian-era parties were often built by mobilising traditional authority structures is readily apparent, but without a focus on both realms of formal and informal institutions during this period, their interaction and their long-term consequences for the contemporary multiparty system are obstructed.\n\nOne demonstration of the enduring effects of historic struggles and past institutional organisation for contemporary multiparty politics is evident in the specific legacy of revolutionary parties across sub-Saharan Africa. Levitsky and Way (2012) argue that the organisational structures, as well as the identities and norms forged during revolutionary struggles for liberation, created critical and durable sources of cohesion for the resulting nationalist parties. The violent and ideologically driven conflicts over national liberation created a uniquely durable reservoir of unity and discipline that maintains over time to forge stronger, more resilient \u2013 and indeed, more institutionalised \u2013 parties. These parties are not only less prone to defection due to their solidarity and ideological core, but they are also less reliant on material sources of loyalty production for elites and followers alike. FRELIMO in Mozambique, the ANC in South Africa and the Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) in Zimbabwe are all examples that highlight the importance of formative processes, and the cohesion and durability of the ideationally driven parties formed through conflict.\n\nIn particular, Levitsky and Way (2012) highlight how the party's origins enhance later intra-institutional cohesion and durability in several ways: (1) by creating enduring partisan identities; (2) by hardening partisan boundaries between competing groups; (3) by forcing parties to create militarised structures and establish high levels of internal discipline; and (4) by producing a generation of leaders with high legitimacy and authority, which can be used to unify the party and impose discipline. While these characteristics may well contribute to enduring competitive authoritarianism, they are not inherently anti-democratic elements. Instead, they contribute overall to the party's institutionalisation and durability, which can exist in a range of regime types over time.2\n\nThe cohesion and durability these parties sustain is likely to degrade over time in some dimensions and less so in others, as founding legacies are reproduced and adjusted to new contexts (Levitsky and Way 2015; Mahoney and Thelen 2015). Some founding legacies are bounded and will certainly diminish with time, such as the generation of leaders forged by conflict who enjoy high legitimacy and authority. The leaders, cadres and soldiers who participated in the revolutionary struggle and the seizure of power will eventually pass from the scene, and as they do, the cohesion that characterises these revolutionary regimes will tend to dissipate (Mahoney and Thelen 2015; see also Slater 2010). To take but one clear example, a future ZANU-PF without Robert Mugabe must adapt, and these points of transition are key tests for other dimensions of the party's institutionalisation. Presidents now elected in Senegal and Ghana, and elsewhere across the continent, were born after independence and are fundamentally driven by concerns well beyond the nationalist-era rallying cries. Other types of legacies are considered to be more static, such as the party organisation itself. Once constructed, politicians and party officials are recruited and have an interest in sustaining the institution. Therefore, investments in the party organisation become self-perpetuating (see also Brownlee 2007).\n\nIn addition to origins of ideological and violent conflict, historical patterns of power consolidation can also have enduring effects on multiparty politics in the contemporary period. Elsewhere, I have demonstrated how strategies of authoritarian rule throughout the 1970s and 1980s to build support and maintain power provided these authoritarian ruling parties with very different capabilities to manage the transition to multiparty competition that swept the continent in the early 1990s (Riedl 2014).\n\nIn most African authoritarian regimes, incumbents consolidated their power in one of two ways: either through broad-based incorporation of social and economic authorities at the local level, or through state substitution \u2013 attempting to neutralise local power brokers and replace them with state-sponsored organisations. Both strategies were useful for authoritarian control and its maintenance, but they provided unequal transferrable assets when unforeseen transitions to multiparty competition required that these incumbent parties win majorities in founding elections in order to stay in power. Incumbents shared a common goal \u2013 they wanted to win these founding elections, and in order to do so they attempted to control the terms of the transition, to determine which opposition parties would be allowed to compete and under which electoral rules.\n\nBut only those authoritarian incumbents who had previously practised broad-based incorporation had the capacity to carry out their agenda. Incumbents who had incorporated local elites were able to maintain their support, set the rules of democratic competition in their favour and retain power despite new multiparty competition. By contrast, those who had previously substituted state or party agents in an attempt to replace local power brokers found themselves lacking cooperation across the rural areas and unable to mobilise mass support for their new rules and transition agenda. Local brokers were suddenly presented with new options for affiliation in the multiparty era and defected rapidly to the opposition. In these cases, new opposition forces then pushed for more permissive electoral rules and weakened incumbent control.\n\nThese strategies of power accumulation \u2013 either through incorporation or state substitution \u2013 had long-lasting implications, shaping the nature of the transition to multiparty competition, the rules for party competition and organisational imperatives for interparty competition. Successful incorporation strategies required a significant investment in the rural hinterlands. As Waldner argues, rural incorporation facilitates the construction of robust cross-class (or in Africa, multi-ethnic) coalitions, which in turn facilitates the construction of mass integrative parties (Waldner 2004). In Africa, what we might call the 'rural incorporation strategy' creates multi-ethnic parties; once constructed, they shape the very structure of the politically relevant social cleavages (Riedl 2014, 2016). Parties not only capsulate social cleavages at a given point in time and project them into the future, but also potentially reshape relevant cleavages through the process of formation and contestation. For example, authoritarian parties that successfully navigate the transition to multipartyism and compete strongly in founding elections establish a regime/outsider cleavage. The prior authoritarian single party \u2013 such as the NDC in Ghana, the Parti Socialist in Senegal, FRELIMO in Mozambique, the CCM in Tanzania, among others \u2013 shape one pole of the electoral competition, which is often centered on voting for the party of stability (the incumbent).\n\nThe other side of the new electoral pole is a vote for democracy and change (the opposition). This new cleavage achieves saliency because of the formal institutional change to multiparty elections; in this new regime cleavage, existing social divides, such as class, religion or ethnicity, may be subsumed within elite coalitions and represented on both sides. Such regime cleavages are often based upon the ways in which informal institutions of traditional authority were, or were not, incorporated into the support base of the prior single party over the previous decades. Relatedly, when authoritarian parties relied on strategies of alliance with corporate actors, and organised urban labour in particular, they created an unstable base of support that unintentionally created the organisational, institutional foundations for a strong opposition party (LeBas 2011). LeBas demonstrates how these authoritarian-established and -supported labour unions provided structures and resources that could be transformed into oppositional challenges to the ruling party, and have long-term consequences for partisan alignment and multiparty organisation.\n\nFurthermore, once specific patterns of competition and electoral mobilisation are established, these patterns often persist over time. Early elections drive strategic adaptations; and effective approaches in an initial contest become dominant. For example, Koter (2013) demonstrates how independence-era politicians seeking to mobilise the electorate had to work within the parameters of the existing social structure. Where local brokers existed, such as the marabout leaders in Senegal, politicians could harness them as intermediaries and build cross-ethnic parties, and ultimately downplay the salience of ethnicity as a political cleavage in the entire political landscape. These forms of party organisation and electoral mobilisation persisted over time due to the congruence between informal institutions of authority \u2013 the local brokers \u2013 and the formal institutions of political party organisation and systemic competition. Thus, historical strategies can create a dominant narrative and an understanding of how politics works, how voters and politicians alike engage in the system, generating self-reinforcing mechanisms of further party investments in these strategies.\n\n# Congruence and Divergence: Institutional Continuity and Change\n\nGiven the overlapping importance of informal and formal institutions in the contemporary multiparty landscape (Chapter 15, this volume), analysing the interaction between these forces can contribute to our understanding of institutional stability and change. Where formal and informal institutions are symbiotic, or act in congruence, this contributes to stability through self-reinforcing mechanisms or lock-in.\n\nInstitutional stability occurs in many new multiparty systems across sub-Saharan Africa because the conditions of the transition to such systems established congruence between the informal institutions of power management (such as local broker interlocutors) and the formal rules established by the ruling party overseeing the transition itself. This congruence contributes to preserving the characteristics of previous systems through institutional isomorphism \u2013 a similarity of the processes and structures of one organisation to those of another through imitation or independent development under similar constraints (DiMaggio and Powell 1983). A simple example is how new political parties form in the shadow of well-established parties, and in their effort to be competitive in the same playing field, try to copy and imitate the strongest parties in the system. Formed by their own prior experiences within the dominant parties, and because the rules in place often reinforce the utility of the dominant parties' organisation and practices, new party elites try to reassure potential followers that they can go toe-to-toe with the existing parties. In new African democracies, party competition replicates the distribution of power in place at the system's founding, embedding institutional logics that continue to drive the degree of party system institutionalisation over repeated contests (Riedl 2014).\n\nWhereas previous work has suggested that volatile competition and incoherent party relations would increasingly institutionalise with the passage of time following the democratic transition (Converse 1969), party systems in Africa demonstrate that initial divergences across national party systems from the critical moment of democratic transition have exhibited 'lock-in'. Numerous rounds of competition certainly provide opportunities for increased coordination and learning, yet the party systems at both ends of the institutionalisation spectrum continue to operate in the same fashion as in the founding elections.3 This stasis suggests that the legacies of the distribution of power in the critical juncture of democratisation have far-reaching impact on democratic party systems. Certainly, future change can occur, and in sub-Saharan Africa it is often the potential for extra-institutional change (through conflict) that leads to new institutional outcomes. Witness C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, wherein the authoritarian single party successfully manoeuvred through the transition to multiparty competition, and the opposition formed according to a regime cleavage model. Yet, the death of founding President Houphouet-Boigny led to a series of institutional ruptures that were meant to reshape relevant social cleavages (and their anchoring in traditional authority structures) and rewrite the requirements of citizenship. This raw struggle for power was first implemented through changing formal institutions (namely through ethno-national laws to bar candidates and voters from electoral participation), which ultimately escalated into civil war. In the process, the conflict destroyed the institutional stability and organisational model the Parti D\u00e9mocratique de C\u00f4te d'Ivoire had provided as the former single party.\n\nYet, institutional continuities from the authoritarian period into the new multiparty system are frequently enduring. This relationship occurs through three mechanisms whereby continued dominance of authoritarian incumbents (or the lack thereof) shapes the emergent competitive party system: (1) eligibility rules; (2) organisational modelling; and (3) regime cleavages. Eligibility rules refer to laws and legislation surrounding candidate and party registration. Organisational modelling refers to the forms of imitation that new parties pursue to attempt to compete with the dominant, established players. And regime cleavages refers to the division of party competition and the electorate into pro-(prior authoritarian) incumbent versus pro-(nominally democratic) opposition. As explained below, these mechanisms of production and reproduction explain the persistence of varied party systems in the face of many forces that might have been expected to disrupt the patterns established in the transition period. Which rules are debated and contested versus maintained from previous periods, how identities are politicised and aggregated into party blocs and how resources from the state and private interests are distributed are all conditioned by the degree of power the incumbent retains over the transition.\n\nThese mechanisms of production enable authoritarian incumbents to sustain their authority into the new party system and to reproduce it over time through three mutually-reinforcing dynamics. First, rules of party registration established in the transition transmit existing power structures into the founding party system. Eligibility rules act as barriers to entry: difficult requirements limit party formation, and easy requirements facilitate party formation and proliferation. Authoritarian control over the transition provides the incumbent party with the opportunity to set the rules to reflect their initial preferences \u2013 often creating high barriers to entry for potential challengers in order to keep out popular competitors and limit threats to their continued dominance in the new system.4 The lack of a dominant party in the transition allows potential electoral contenders to prioritise low barriers to entry to ensure their own ability to compete. These rules impinge upon all competing parties and make future transformations more difficult, even while the rules may be subsequently changed. Electoral rules are also shaped by the victors in the transition process; those that have sufficient power craft the rules that they believe will benefit them with the intention of solidifying their grip (see also Magaloni 2006).\n\nSecond, parties face strategic decisions about optimal organisation for new democratic competition. The political uncertainty that is inherent in new multiparty competition creates incentives to either emulate the organisation of a nationally powerful incumbent party or offer an alternative where the incumbent was ousted. Thus, new parties attempt to either mimic the previously authoritarian incumbent party (where it remains powerful) or to differentiate themselves from it (where the authoritarian incumbent model is discredited by its own implosion or failure to mobilise support). Voters' expectations reinforce these competitive pressures for emulation or differentiation, determining which party models survive and thrive. For example, the rising opposition Parti D\u00e9mocratique S\u00e9n\u00e9galais (PDS) in Senegal throughout the 1980s and 1990s attempted to directly mirror the ruling party's organisational structures, to create an infrastructure in each constituency that could recruit followers at the grassroots level away from the incumbent.\n\nThird, as the party system forms during the democratisation process, the presence of a strong authoritarian incumbent creates a significant anti-incumbent regime cleavage. Even where opposition is weak, disorganised and lacking resources, the presence of a dominant incumbent encourages opposition coherence in a united campaign against the ruling party. This is generally the key political cleavage in the founding elections, and has enduring influence in structuring a consistent incumbent versus opposition rivalry. In contrast, where the authoritarian government is displaced or largely discredited prior to the founding elections, new parties form without a pre-determined regime cleavage and lack the incentive to aggregate to defeat the incumbent. In this environment, the structure of competition remains amorphous, with a plethora of nascent parties forming with no pre-determined relation to one another.5 The new parties all seek access to the state (via electoral victory), and are open to a range of shifting coalitions and alliances.\n\nOnce established, the structure of party competition persists, with the same mechanisms serving to reproduce the initial form of the party system, although often with unintended consequences for those who initially controlled the transition. Parties, candidates and voters alike continue to operate according to knowledge generated from past behaviour. For example, parties often conform to shared perceptions of 'successful' competitive electoral strategies in order to maximise their chances of victory and post-election benefits. Where the founding elections were structured around an anti-incumbent regime cleavage, this conception of strategic rivalry continues to shape the positions that new or existing parties can adopt. Where there is no such cleavage, parties may identify with a broader range of potential collaborators in an attempt to form a new government. Thus, the structure of party competition reflects the nature of the regime cleavage (the degree of competitive opposition or potential for alliance and partnership) and coherence (the degree to which all parties understand the competitive position of one party vis-\u00e0-vis any other given party in that system).\n\nParty organisations, once built according to a certain model, are likely to maintain either their national or particularistic form to reap the rewards of their strategic investment, and party leaders will have incentive to maintain their positions (Kitschelt and Kselman 2013). Electoral rules also have the possibility of contributing to party system endurance, as the winners of the past game will likely maintain the existing rules that advantaged them for the forthcoming elections. However, eligibility rules may well be changed by the ruling party in later contests, often in an attempt to splinter the opposition. While formal rules are constraints in any given election, and will likely contribute to the stability of the party system over the long term, they also contain the greatest possibility for change. The fact that electoral rules stay relatively stable over time (Nohlen 1984; Boix 2007) is evidence that coercive forces are at play in the system, ensuring institutional continuity.\n\nIn contrast to this congruence between informal and formal institutions, there are also significant instances of divergence in the multiparty landscape, wherein informal institutions governing political processes and the distribution of power are challenged by the ascension of new formal institutions pertaining to multiparty competition. A critical example is the emergence of increasingly independent and formalised electoral commissions across a range of countries. Where this occurs, it generates the potential for the growing autonomy of electoral commissions to replace the power that high-level patronage politics previously held in determining the conduct of elections. This divergence reflects an alternative pathway of gradual institutional change, or 'displacement' (Mahoney and Thelen 2010).\n\nFor example, displacement occurred in Ghana's management of elections as President Rawlings and his political party the NDC organised non-partisan local elections as a part of a decentralisation agenda in the 1980s. Under single party, authoritarian control, these elections were orchestrated through local brokers (district agents) that the party coordinated with, using the informal institutions of social authority to mobilise the population in support of the regime's maintenance. During this period, formal institutions of district elections \u2013 and the informal social authority structures that underpinned the system \u2013 were fully convergent. The formal realm was constructed specifically to conform to the social realities of the local powerbase of the ruling party. By 1992, the regime initiated a transition to multiparty politics in compliance with international and domestic calls. The 1992 elections were overseen by an electoral commissioner, although the independent and autonomous Electoral Commission of Ghana stipulated by the 1992 Constitution had not yet been established. Thus, the 1992 elections were carried out under conditions of extreme partisan control, with limitations on opposition party activities (NPP Report 1993), which led to a boycott of legislative elections following claims of fraud and malfeasance in the presidential contest. Since 1993, and the formation of the electoral commission, this independent institution has increasingly played a critical role in regulating election procedures, and in adjudicating the results (Gyimah Boadi 2008). In this way, authoritarian controls over election processes have been displaced, as informal institutions of local broker management have given way to the formal power of the Electoral Commission. This evolution has contributed to a larger institutional transformation from single party regime to competitive authoritarian regime, and finally to democracy in Ghana.\n\nAnother form of divergence between informal and formal institutions that contributes to gradual institutional change can occur through 'layering', when new rules are attached to existing ones, thereby changing the ways in which the original rules structure behaviour (Schickler 2001; Thelen 2003). Defenders of the status quo may be able to preserve the original rules and forms of informal and formal convergence, but be unable to prevent the introduction of new layers, or amendments. Indeed, often, they may actually promote new amendments with the belief that they will further embed the current system, but find that the reforms can be used by actors in unanticipated ways that create opportunities for change.\n\nThis was the case in Senegal, where the ruling Parti Socialiste's (PS) dominance was founded on formal institutional and informal convergence that was designed by the ruling party and long upheld the status quo. More specifically, the party had developed well-established brokers throughout the rural countryside (Villalon 2006; Beck 2008) and had created a multiparty system (with various limitations) that returned the dominant party to power from 1976 until 2000. However, 'layering' changes to the electoral system in 1992 created an opportunity for new divergences that ultimately led to the PS defeat. The PS \u2013 seeking short-term electoral advantages and responding to social pressures for reform and further political liberalisation \u2013 initiated an electoral code reform that authorised coalitions of parties to compete in elections, allowed independent candidates and also ushered in a host of reforms to increase the transparency and autonomy of the election process. This was a major 'layering' change to the existing electoral code, as it facilitated a vast proliferation of parties over the long term. The mixed electoral system required a unified front to defeat the ruling PS; therefore, legislating the possibility of electoral coalitions significantly changed the strategic value of creating a minority party. As a result, it encouraged opposition parties to maintain their individual leadership but coalesce temporarily to defeat the ruling party. Perhaps most significantly, it offered a new channel for disgruntled members of the ruling party to strike out on their own, bringing their own networks of followers with them. The realm of informal institutions and linkages between politician and brokers remained intact, but it now offered new possibilities in the shape of formal institutional party formation.\n\nThese reforms played out in 2000 as the PS was defeated by a coalition whose minority partners were key PS party elites who had splintered off in prior years to form rival parties. The PS ultimately lost out to an alliance between the main opposition party (the PDS) and two former members of the PS (who formed the Alliance des Forces pour le Progr\u00e8s and the Union pour le Renouveau D\u00e9mocratique). These two parties placed third and forth in the 2000 presidential elections, but by throwing their support behind the PDS in the second round they helped to determine the outcome of the polls. The alliance then presented a coalition list (Sopi, the Wolof word for 'Change') for the 2000 legislative elections, because the PDS was not able to win a majority of seats on its own. The PS had scheduled for the legislative election to follow the presidential election in order to increase the possibility for coattail voting for the newly elected coalition. Instead, the 1992 electoral reforms that allowed coalition lists facilitated the transfer of power and the transition of the PS from an authoritarian ruling party to an authoritarian successor party. The system thus transitioned from a competitive authoritarian regime under dominant PS rule to a newly democratic regime undergoing transition.\n\nTo this day, the political party system reflects this 'layering' reform, with the proliferation of parties and the gradual decreasing institutionalisation of the system as a whole. In the longer term, the 1992 electoral reform set the stage for increased party system volatility and decreased internal party coherence. Political leaders across the spectrum have less incentive to invest in territorial organisation, as they readily make temporary coalitions to cover all constituencies. The mixed electoral system's over-representation for the ruling party encourages coattail voting and damages opposition viability. For both the ruling party and the authoritarian successor party, it is now difficult to maintain the internal coherence of the elite core and preserve their affiliated clientelist networks.6 For the PS, the changes to electoral institutions decreased the utility of their authoritarian inheritance over time, as loyal local brokers have been torn between the party (as an organisation) and their particular party patron (in the event that one splits off to form a new grouping in the pursuit of power).\n\nAnother form of increasing divergence between informal and formal institutions is occurring as a result of the enormous structural changes occurring through urbanisation across sub-Saharan Africa.7 The now evident demographic shifts are creating an opportunity for institutional change through 'drift', which occurs when the 'rules remain formally the same but their impact changes as a result of important shifts in external conditions' (Mahoney and Thelen 2010). In this way, formal institutions such as electoral politics and informal institutions such as neo-patrimonialism may continue to combine, but such institutional convergence is likely to start to diverge in significant and poorly understood ways, as citizens are increasingly uprooted and disconnected from their rural, traditional authorities and social networks. For some, new allegiances are being formed in urban areas, particularly through evangelical or charismatic religious leaders that urge allegiance to God and dismiss traditional linkages (McCauley 2013; McClendon and Riedl 2015). For others, new social networks are formed in urban constituencies that make attachments to traditional Big Men less important overall, and render citizens more open to mobilisation through other forms of organisation and identity. This kind of drift has potentially massive ramifications for the nature of formal politics and mobilisation in sub-Saharan Africa as scholars have come to know it, but the demographic tide itself swells gradually and may also reshape informal institutions in its wake.8\n\nA final type of institutional change described as 'conversion' may also occur, as in the shift from patrimonialism to neo-patrimonialism in Africa, whereby traditional systems of authority \u2013 based on ethnic or religious hierarchy \u2013 have been transformed into a specific form of neo-patrimonialism shaped by the very practice of multiparty competition. That is, neo-patrimonialism \u2013 as it exists today across competitive authoritarian and democratic regimes alike \u2013 is infused by the necessity of mobilising voters. Therefore, the creation of clientelist linkages, the use of local brokers as authorities capable of generating a bloc vote among their followers and the deployment of the state resources to distribute patronage to loyalists, is fuelled by the dovetailing of patrimonial structures with multiparty politics in the contemporary era. At the same time, ethnic cleavages have been re-identified and re-formed by political entrepreneurs seeking to take advantage of specific institutional parameters of multiparty competition, generating new informal networks (Posner 2005).\n\nIn both cases, processes of formal and informal institutional adaptation have remained congruent with the informal institutional realm adapting to \u2013 and supporting \u2013 changes in the formal institutional realm. A compelling example of the formal realm generating this type of change, which is then reverberated throughout the informal realm, comes from comparing the evolution of matching villages across the border between Ghana and C\u00f4te d'Ivoire. Lauren MacLean (2010) explains how divergent histories of state formation and colonial practice, over time, shaped villager practices of reciprocity and definitions of citizenship. Before colonial rule, these Akan villages had very similar institutions, but the different construction of the state in each case fostered distinctive practices in terms of how communities work with each other, define citizenship and engage with the government. In this way, formal institutional change in Ghana and C\u00f4te d'Ivoire led, in some cases decades later, to informal institutional adaptation. Moreover, as informal institutions converged on the reformed formal landscape in each country, the two villages came to demonstrate significant variations in the way in which citizens engaged with the transition to multiparty competition.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nIn conclusion, this chapter demonstrates multiple channels of institutional transmission, and hence the importance of the relationship between informal and formal institutions to the development of modern African multiparty politics. Historical foundations condition what is possible today. Formal institutions are not built from a blank slate, and neither do they work in isolation. Multiparty politics are not 'institutionless', nor do they occur in an institutional void. Moreover, formal political institutions continue to matter today, and how they function is shaped by the interaction between historical institutional legacies and informal institutions. Their congruence and divergence create opportunities for various forms of institutional adaptation, with implications for the ascendancy of the formal or the informal in particular domains.\n\nWhile the reigning assumption of state and party weakness in Africa has often been used to dismiss the formal zone, state and party competition remain the locus of contestation, and the interaction between informal and formal is critical for understanding contemporary multiparty politics. Variation over space (by country and by party) and time (across regime periods and decades) is critical to our understanding of how past legacies of power contestation, social mobilisation and identity representation shape the possibility for future politics. The types of congruence between informal and formal institutions in one period (such as single party rule) transfer in different ways to new institutional contexts (such as competitive authoritarian or democratic regimes). What makes parties 'weak' or 'strong' in these contexts varies, as the party organisation may be undergirded by mobilisation capacity, state resources, coercive authority or ideological coherence. These traits have different resonance and will contribute to multiparty politics in diverse ways. The critical task for scholars is to identify the causal implications of each characteristic of the formal and informal institution at hand, and to understand its possible effects across different periods and contexts.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAbbink, Jan. 2010. 'Political culture in Ethiopia: A balance sheet of post-1991 ethnically-based federalism', Infosheet, Africa Studies Centre University of Leiden.\n\nArriola, Leonardo R. 2012. Multi-ethnic coalitions in Africa: Business financing of opposition election campaigns, Cambridge University Press.\n\nBeck, Linda J. 2008. Brokering democracy in Africa: The rise of clientelist democracy in Senegal, New York: Palgrave Macmillan.\n\nBogaards, Matthijs. 2008. 'Dominant party systems and electoral volatility in Africa: A comment on Mozaffar and Scarritt', Party Politics 14, 1: 113\u2013130.\n\nBoix, Charles. 2007. 'The emergence of parties and party systems' in The Oxford handbook of comparative politics, Oxford University Press, 499\u2013521.\n\nBrownlee, Jason. 2007. Authoritarianism in an age of democratisation, Cambridge University Press.\n\nBrubaker, Rogers. 2004. Ethnicity without groups, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.\n\nCarbone, Giovanni. 2007. 'Political parties and party systems in Africa: Themes and research perspectives', World Political Science Review 3, 3: 1\u201329.\n\nChatham House Report. 2012. 'Population Growth and Demographic Trends: Implications for African States and Regions'.\n\nCheeseman, Nic, Gabrielle Lynch and Justin Willis. 2015. 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'Modeling success, governance and institution-building in Africa: The case of Ghana's electoral commission', Accra: Center for Democratic Development.\n\nHuntington, Samuel. 1968. Political order in changing societies. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.\n\nHyden, Goran. 2006. African politics in comparative perspective, Cambridge University Press.\n\nKitschelt, Herbert and Daniel M. Kselman. 2013. 'Economic development, democratic experience, and political parties' linkage strategies', Comparative Political Studies 46, 11: 1453\u20131484.\n\nKoter, Dominika. 2013. 'King makers: Local leaders and ethnic politics in Africa', World Politics 65, 2: 187\u2013232.\n\nLaitin, David D. 1986. Hegemony and culture: Politics and change among the Yoruba, University of Chicago Press.\n\nLeBas, Adrienne. 2011. From protest to parties: party-building and democratisation in Africa, Oxford University Press.\n\nLevitsky, Steven R., and Lucan A. Way. 2012. 'Beyond patronage: Violent struggle, ruling party cohesion, and authoritarian durability', Perspectives on Politics 10, 04: 869\u2013889.\n\nLevitsky, Steven R., and Lucan A. Way. 2015. 'Not just what, but when (and how): Comparative-historical approaches to authoritarian durability' in J. Mahoney and K. Thelen (eds.), Advances in comparative-historical analysis, Cambridge University Press.\n\nLindberg, Staffan I., and Minion K. C. Morrison. 2005. 'Exploring voter alignments in Africa: Core and swing voters in Ghana', The Journal of Modern African Studies 43, 4: 565\u2013586.\n\nMacLean, Lauren M. 2010. Informal institutions and citizenship in Rural Africa: Risk and reciprocity in Ghana and C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, Cambridge University Press.\n\nMagaloni, Beatriz. 2006. Voting for autocracy: Hegemonic party survival and its demise in Mexico, Cambridge University Press.\n\nMahoney, James, and Kathleen A. Thelen (eds.). 2010. Explaining institutional change: ambiguity, agency, and power, Cambridge University Press.\n\nMahoney, James, and Kathleen A. Thelen (eds.). 2015. Advances in Comparative-Historical Analysis, Cambridge University Press.\n\nMainwaring, Scott, and Timothy Scully (eds.). 1995. Building democratic institutions: Party systems in Latin America, Stanford University Press.\n\nMcCauley, J. F. 2013. 'Africa's new big man rule? Pentecostalism and patronage in Ghana', African Affairs 112, 446: 1\u201321.\n\nMcClendon, Gwenyth H., and Rachel Beatty Riedl. 2015. 'Individualism and empowerment in pentecostal sermons: New evidence from Nairobi, Kenya', African Affairs 115, 458: 119\u2013144.\n\nMengisteab, Kidane. 2001. 'Ethiopia's ethnic-based federalism: 10 years after', African Issues 29, \u00bd: 20\u201325.\n\nMozaffar, Shaheen, James R. Scarritt, and Glen Galaich. 2003. 'Electoral institutions, ethnopolitical cleavages, and party systems in Africa's emerging democracies', American Political Science Review 97, 3: 379\u2013390.\n\nNohlen, D. 1984. 'Changes and choices in electoral systems', in A. Lijphart and B. Grofman (eds.) Choosing an electoral system: Issues and alternatives, New York: Praeger, 217\u2013224.\n\nNPP Report. 1993. The stolen verdict: Ghana, November 1992 presidential election: Report of the New Patriotic Party.\n\nPitcher, M. Anne. 2012. Party politics and economic reform in Africa's democracies, Cambridge University Press.\n\nPosner, Daniel N. 2005. Institutions and ethnic politics in Africa, Cambridge University Press.\n\nRandall, Vicky, and Lars Sv\u00e5sand. 2002. 'Party institutionalization in new democracies', Party Politics 8, 1: 5\u201329.\n\nResnick, Danielle. 2012. 'Opposition parties and the urban poor in African democracies', Comparative Political Studies 45, 11: 1351\u20131378.\n\nRiedl, Rachel B. 2014. Authoritarian origins of democratic party systems in Africa, Cambridge University Press.\n\nRiedl, Rachel B. 2016. 'Strong Parties, Weak Parties: Divergent Pathways to Democracy in Sub-Saharan Africa', In Nancy Bermeo and Deborah J. Yashar, eds. Parties, Movements, and Democracy in the Developing World, Cambridge University Press.\n\nSalih, M. A. Mohamed. 2003. African political parties: Evolution, institutionalism and governance, Ann Arbor, MI: Pluto Press.\n\nSchickler, Eric. 2001. Disjointed pluralism: Institutional innovation and the development of the US Congress, Princeton University Press.\n\nSlater, Dan. 2010. Ordering power: Contentious politics and authoritarian leviathans in Southeast Asia, Cambridge University Press.\n\nThelen, Kathleen. 2003. 'How institutions evolve: Insights from comparative historical analysis', in James Mahoney and Dietrich Rueschemeyer (eds.), Comparative historical analysis in the social sciences, Cambridge University Press, 208\u2013240.\n\nVan de Walle, Nicholas. 2003. 'Presidentialism and clientelism in Africa's emerging party systems', The Journal of Modern African Studies 41, 2: 297\u2013321.\n\nVillal\u00f3n, Leonardo A. 2006. Islamic society and state power in Senegal: Disciples and citizens in Fatick, Cambridge University Press.\n\nWahman, Michael. 2015. 'Nationalized incumbents and regional challengers: Opposition- and incumbent-party nationalization in Africa', Party Politics, 1\u201314.\n\nWaldner, David. 2004. 'Democracy and dictatorship in the post-colonial world', Prepared for delivery at the 2004 Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association.\n\nWeghorst, Keith R., and Michael Bernhard. 2014. 'From formlessness to structure? The institutionalization of competitive party systems in Africa', Comparative Political Studies 47, 12: 1707\u20131737.\n\n1 Scholars have previously characterised political parties in Africa in undifferentiated terms, as extremely weak, non-ideological or reflective of ethnic cleavages (Mozaffar, Scarritt and Galaich 2003). They are presumed to remain weakly institutionalised and volatile given obstacles to party building (Randall and Sv\u00e5sand 2002).\n\n2 Levitsky and Way (2015) also suggest other causal mechanisms that contribute to enduring authoritarianism, such as the ruling party's capacity to repress and to control the state's coercive apparatus with loyalists. Furthermore, how this conflict defines the opposition and hardens the boundaries between competitors for power could mean that the ruling party sees the opposition as a threat to the nation itself, and therefore could never accept their electoral victory, as in Ethiopia (Mengisteab 2001; Abbink 2010).\n\n3 Studies of electoral volatility in African democracies have shown no decrease in volatility over time (Lindberg and Morrison 2005; Bogaards 2008).\n\n4 While competitive authoritarian regimes can use alternative forms of restriction and coercion to limit potentially threatening opposition challengers, democratising incumbents are more reliant on legal eligibility rules to limit potential electoral threats, and particularly in the first round of highly uncertain multiparty competition. Following founding elections, incumbents of all types often relax stringent eligibility rules in an attempt to fragment the opposition. Furthermore, many weak authoritarian incumbents attempted to establish highly restrictive eligibility rules to limit particular challengers, but unable to control the rule-making process and opposition, pushed for the bar to be placed lower in order to ensure their own participation. This mechanism also highlights why it is essential to analyse authoritarian regimes separately, given their alternative means of restriction.\n\n5 This is particularly important given the non-ideological nature of competition in Africa, where winning access to the state is the driving force behind strategies for electoral victory (van de Walle 2003; Salih 2003; Hyden 2006; Carbone 2007; Chege, Nordlund and Rukambe 2007). Where policy cleavages are central, these could potentially trump the regime cleavage, with important impact on the nature of the party system.\n\n6 This has been evident in key splits from the new PDS ruling party (such as Idrissa Seck's Rewmi party and Macky Sall's Yaakaar), which increase the likelihood of future alternation, such as occurred in 2012 with the ascent of Macky Sall to the presidency and his coalition Benno Bokk Yaakaar victorious in the legislative elections.\n\n7 But note that the urbanisation trends are not unidirectional: weak urban economies and HIV/AIDS mortality rates significantly limit the demographic shift (Chatham House Report 2012).\n\n8 Certainly, competition for jobs and services in some urban areas has also increased ethnic tensions, heightening ethnic voting patterns, so the direction and forms of institutional adaptation is by no means predetermined. It is enough to suggest that the processes and strategies of constructing and living 'groupness' will be continually adjusted as demographic changes unfold (see also Brubaker 2004).\n\n# 3 Property and Land Institutions\n\n## Origins, Variations and Political Effects\n\nCatherine Boone\n\nThe idea of the state in sub-Saharan Africa as 'institutionless' underlies much contemporary theorising about African politics (Chapter 1, this volume). The term 'neo-patrimonialism' \u2013 widely employed in the comparative politics literature to describe African political systems \u2013 implies a lack of institutionalisation, and the centralisation of power in the hands of a supreme ruler and government through personalised, shifting networks. The counterpart of this idea is an 'institutionless' conceptualisation of society, and most importantly perhaps, of rural society, which accounts for 50\u201390 per cent of the total population of almost all African states. Once 'institutionless Africa' is accepted as descriptive of both state and society, both state and social structure fall out of the explanatory equation. Almost by definition, politics revolve around networks, identities, informalism, and trust and distrust.\n\nThis chapter reverses this image of structureless states and societies. It focuses on rural land tenure institutions and argues that they are the product of institution-building strategies of Africa's modern rulers, both colonial and postcolonial, extending the argument laid out in Boone (2014). Africa's rulers are seen here as strategic actors who have sought to impose political order in the countryside in order to govern, and to remain in power. As strategic actors, they have been subject to the disciplines of rule and revenue, power and resistance, and cost and benefit \u2013 both political and economic. Like all rulers, rulers in Africa have been constrained and incentivised to seek compliance from subjects and citizens, to build institutions to lower the costs of securing acquiescence, and to enhance the predictability of rule. They have pursued institution-building and state-building strategies that are shaped by the societies they seek to govern. Contemporary land tenure institutions are one outcome of this process.\n\nThe analysis of land institutions builds on strands of the New Institutional Economics (NIE) that have been influential in comparative politics since the 1990s.1 The first part of the chapter defines land tenure institutions as property institutions, arguing that they can be viewed in the abstract as outcomes of strategic interaction (asymmetrical bargaining) between rulers and rural societies. The second part uses this model to theorise about institutional origins, variations, and change in land tenure institutions in sub-Saharan Africa. The line of argument is consistent with revisionist colonial and postcolonial historiographies that see law and institutions as the products of conflict, negotiation and contract between central rulers, local elites and leaders, and ordinary people.2 The final part of the chapter turns to the question of institutional effects. It argues that land institutions shape state structure and process, patterns of political group formation and mobilisation, and land conflict in ways that bear directly on central concerns of political science.\n\n# Institutions, Land Institutions and Political Endogeneity\n\nInstitutions (or simply rules) can be understood as humanly designed constraints that shape interaction and behaviour (North 1990: 3), and thus as endogenous to politics \u2013 that is, they are products of social choice and competition. Because institutions structure repeated action among actors engaged in competitive and complementary interdependencies (i.e. social interaction), they can be modelled as strategic equilibria. They are stabilised not necessarily by the 'collective benefits' they produce, but rather by the balance of power among contending parties that seek to constrain the actions of others, and to gain advantage. Even in situations of great power asymmetry, weaker parties have some bargaining leverage: they can inflict costs on more powerful social actors by withholding acquiescence to a given norm or rule. By this definition, institutions persist in equilibrium \u2013 i.e. so long as social actors judge that abiding by the prevailing rule is their best choice, given prevailing power relations, resources and options. Questions of institutional origins, persistence and evolution (development) can all be treated as variants of the same analytic problem: why and when do certain institutions emerge (or not), persist, evolve and/or decay?\n\nThis chapter leverages this conceptualisation of institutions to analyse land tenure institutions in Africa. Land tenure institutions are property institutions that define the manner and terms by which rights in land are granted, held, enforced, contested and transferred. A land tenure regime is a system of intertwined institutions surrounding the classes of individuals or groups who have access to land rights \u2013 who can assign, transfer, enforce or adjudicate land rights \u2013 and the substance of the rights themselves.3 Land tenure institutions go far in defining both the evolution and character of states and societies, not only in Africa but everywhere, because of the nature of property itself.\n\nProperty as a concept and a political phenomenon lies at the confluence of political-legal and economic order. It is first and foremost a political relation: unlike possession per se, it cannot exist in a state of nature. Property is a recognised claim or entitlement that establishes a political relationship between the claimers of a property right, a third-party enforcer of that right and other members of an organised society who are (potential) users or claimants. It is also an economic institution and the cornerstone of relations of production: property rules govern access to and use of productive assets, and the distribution of the wealth so generated. This means that property is also a social relation: property structures relations among persons and groups concerning the access and use of things, the organisation of work and use of labour, and the appropriation of the fruits of human labour.\n\nIn African societies past and present, land tenure institutions are integrally linked to both state and social structure. They are endogenous not only to the extent of state capacity (high/low), but also to the character of 'stateness' in a given setting (bureaucratic, theocratic, monarchical, patrimonial or other). Intrinsic to land institutions are mechanisms of taxation, dispute adjudication, regulation of holdings and transactions, and recognition of users and user groups. In an organised state, these are necessarily embedded in larger legal, citizenship, regulatory regimes, and in larger structures of territorial administration, modes of labour mobilisation and surplus extraction (Boone 2007). At the same time, land and other property institutions obviously shape the distribution of power and resources in society, and thus affect both the forms of competition and their outcomes.\n\nProperty rights in land may be held under institution of private property in land (or, a private property land tenure regime, or system of 'freehold'), wherein rights are private, individual and freely transactable on legal and state-regulated markets. In most of the world and most of Africa, however, these institutions do not govern property rights in land. In 2014, USAID claimed that 70 per cent of the land in developing countries is unregistered \u2013 this means that it is neither titled nor taxed directly (USAID 2014). The figure for farmland and pastureland in sub-Saharan Africa is about 80\u201390 per cent. Absence of freehold does not imply the non-existence of state-recognised rights to occupy and use land, or the absence of structured relations around surplus production and appropriation, however. Property rights in land can come from a political grant or state-enforced entitlement that is not exclusive to an individual, and not legally transactable on the open market (as in Indian reservations in the United States and Canada). Government can grant and enforce collective rights/entitlements to land, give certain classes of users conditional rights to government land or recognise users' rights to permanently live upon and use land held under state trusteeship.\n\nMany scholars (Moore Jr. 1966; Anderson 1974; North 1981; Levi 1988; Ostrom 1990) have asked how land and property institutions emerge, evolve, vary and decay in different geographical-historical contexts, and this is our concern here. An endogenous theory of property institutions proposes that a ruler with the coercive power to claim sovereignty over territory may have good reason to concede, grant or offer property rights in land to subjects (or acknowledge and continue to enforce prior rights) if this will generate some benefit for rulers. Such a 'concession' or deal could reduce the costs (economic and political) of holding the land or territory directly, or exclude others from it. North (1981) and Levi (1988) conceptualised 'benefits to rulers' in the form of taxes that could be drawn from profits generated through productive land use (such as farming). Anderson linked the granting of feudal property rights to European monarchs' interest in securing the acquiescence of powerful rural warlords, the rural nobility's agreement to govern the peasantry, and their help in raising armies at the behest of the central rulers. The work of these scholars suggests that if institutions are political or 'bargained' outcomes in an abstract sense, then the content of these bargains or 'contacts' \u2013 including the specific character of land tenure and land institutions \u2013 would (1) reflect the relative bargaining power of the parties, and (2) be sensitive to change over time in bargaining power, interests or payoffs of the contracting parties. This logic offers an intuitive and powerful heuristic for generating hypotheses about origins, stability, variation and change in land institutions in Africa.\n\nConnections between property in land, state structure and social structure are the hinge-points of the macrosociological work of Moore (1966), North (1981, 1990), Engerman and Sokoloff (2003), and Acemoglu and Robinson (2006). Many in the NIE tradition have placed land institutions at the centre of work on the politics of economic change and the economics of political change. Within African studies, these lines of analysis are extended and deepened in the work of many scholars who have modelled state institutions in rural Africa, including land institutions, as cause and consequence of competition (or entente) between rulers and subjects with the capacity to constrain rulers' options. An 'entente' \u2013 that is, an equilibrium that emerges when parties realise the prevailing distribution of forces and interests \u2013 is modelled in the NIE literature as a contract, and this notion can be expanded to 'social contract' when we are talking about basic rules that structure relations between rulers and ruled in ways that help produce political order. A partial list of work on African land tenure institutions that employs such reasoning, coming from both NIE and macrosociological traditions embracing complementary logics, would include Bates (1983), Berman and Lonsdale (1992), Ensminger (1992), Munro (1998), Colin et al. (2007), Poteete (2009), Onoma (2010), Joireman (2000, 2011) and Boone (2014).\n\n# Contemporary Land Institutions: Origins and Variations\n\nIn the early 2000s, 60\u201370 per cent of sub-Saharan Africa's total population lived and worked in the rural areas, mostly as farmers, pastoralists and agro-pastoralists. Yet, only 2\u201310 per cent of all land in Africa was surveyed, registered and held under private title.4 If so much of the land is not held as private property, then how is access and use regulated and organised? What governs the organisation of work, the division of the social surplus and the use of coercion in these relationships?\n\nAbsence of familiar property institutions in rural Africa does not mean absence of institutions. By constitutional authority, states themselves are sovereign controllers of 90\u201398 per cent of the land in sub-Saharan Africa, and most constitutions also give governments direct powers to allocate and reallocate land to users. The lands worked by most African farmers (and pastoralists) are parts of 'national domains' that are legally controlled by political authorities who act in the name of the state. Coercive and legal power to give and take state land lies in the hands of African governments. Constitutions of several African countries literally vest the power to allocate land in the president. Land rights lawyers Liz Alden Wily and Patrick McAuslan wrote that from a legal standpoint, most peasant farmers are 'tenants at will' of the state.5 The state itself is their landlord, or more precisely, their overlord, in the sense that most smallholder farmers and pastoralists hold permissive occupancy rights granted by the state. These are generically referred to in the literature as 'customary rights,' but as the present analysis shows, the term 'customary' can be misleading. I propose instead a conceptualisation that draws a distinction between neo-customary and statist land tenure institutions, or land tenure regimes. Their origins, how they vary and the institutional apparatuses by and through which they are enforced and maintained are the subjects of this section.\n\nAn endogenous theory of the origins of contemporary land tenure institutions in Africa is one that seeks to examine the political, economic and social forces that structure the emergence and evolution of the institutions themselves. It can start with modern state formation, since property and the state are mutually constitutive.\n\nWith colonial conquest (incomplete in many parts of sub-Saharan Africa until the 1920s), colonial rulers in Africa confronted the challenge of creating governed space and eliciting compliance to foreign domination and exploitation. They had to demobilise and subordinate African populations, impose legibility on colonial subjects and find ways to draw resources and wealth out of colonies in ways that would not provoke insurrection, uprisings, anti-colonial mobilisation or far-reaching passive resistance. They were aware of African populations' capacity to raise the costs of governing above the colonisers' capacity to mobilise resources for repression.6 Rulers worried about tax revolts, tax boycotts, crop burnings and the destruction of transport infrastructure; the assassinations of chiefs, European colonial officials and policemen; and rural exodus and flight across borders to neighbouring colonies or to the cities. Cities presented a new set of challenges; they were (and have remained) even harder and costlier to govern. Colonial rulers were very strongly motivated to keep the vast majority of their African subjects not only 'in the countryside' but also fixed within legible territorial jurisdictions and under the authority of more-or-less reliable African agents of the colonial state.\n\nWith a historical sensibility that is even vaguely attuned to the dynamics of conquest, resistance and the insecurities of rule, one can see that once colonial conquest was achieved, pure coercion and extreme predation would have been too costly for European rulers to impose over most of the population most of the time. A NIE perspective suggests that the institution-building under colonial rule can be modelled as a kind of contracting in the shadow of violence between rulers and ruled, with both sides capable of inflicting costs upon (and making concessions to) the other. Obviously, there was heterogeneity of interests and capability, and cooperation and competition, on both sides. There were costly break-downs into pure predation, open resistance, extensive violence and disorder. There would be no theoretical justification for supposing that colonial institutions, including land institutions, were ever uncontested or stable in any absolute sense.\n\nAfrican societies' productive capacity \u2013 combined with their capacity to disrupt colonial administration and inflict heavy costs on rulers \u2013 gave colonial subjects their leverage or 'bargaining power' in strategic interaction with colonisers. In most parts of most colonies, rulers elicited African subjects' cooperation and acquiescence to colonial administration and taxation 'in exchange' for the Europeans' own commitment to restrain their demands and extractions. Colonisers delegated prerogative and privileges to local African intermediaries and agents, and recognised some land rights for most colonial subjects. These were the pillars of colonial indirect rule. Colonisers also organised the provision of some palpable goods and services, such as protection from armed raiding, roads and some Western education.\n\nEntentes that stabilised around rules and procedures can be modelled as 'social contracts'.7 Colonial subjects' acquiescence was tentatively exchanged in return for the colonisers' commitment to act with some predictability and some restraint. Institutions that emerged from this contracting were intentionally designed by European colonisers to impede African subjects' capacity for collective action and to blunt the rise of anti-colonial consciousness, and were only partially successful in these regards, even in rural areas. They also allowed Europeans to extract labour, agricultural commodities and forest products from the countryside, although success here was also limited.8\n\nLand tenure institutions \u2013 the subject of this chapter \u2013 are one of the important and decisive outcomes of this process. Across most of sub-Saharan Africa, the land institutions that govern most ordinary farmers' access to land take one of two generic forms, varying by district or region within each African colony or country. First are the neo-customary9 land tenure institutions, created under colonial indirect rule. They are less costly to impose and enforce, but give rulers less control over land use and are beset by principle-agent problems (giving African subjects relatively more autonomy). Second are the statist land institutions, which can be very costly to impose and enforce but give central rulers more (direct) control over land allocation and use. Under statist land institutions, land users are subject to the unmediated surveillance and repressive powers of the state. Postcolonial African governments largely maintained and reproduced the types of land institutions they inherited from the colonial states, modifying, extending and reproducing them in new ways.\n\n# Neo-customary Land Institutions\n\nAcross most of sub-Saharan Africa, European rulers recognised some of the ancestral or prior occupancy rights of their colonial subjects, and conceded new permissive occupancy and use rights to some. Colonial rulers recognised these as neo-customary land rights if and when their African subjects belonged to state-recognised rural collectivities (officially recognised 'tribes'), and agreed to live under the authority of state-recognised local authorities ('chiefs') within territories designated by the state as 'tribal homelands'. The land rights so granted or recognised were rights to occupy and use land, to pass it on to heirs, to not be subject to land tax and to claim some compensation (usually in kind) for land within the homelands that was expropriated by the state. They worked to fix rural populations on the land, and to organise them into governable collectivities within administrative-cum-territorial units. They also promoted peasantisation and the cultivation of food crops and taxable crops within the framework of colonial economies. For ordinary colonial subjects in the countryside, these arrangements produced a form of local political and economic order that induced most people to acquiesce to the status quo most of the time.\n\nNeo-customary tenure in colonial and postcolonial Africa often bears very tenuous connections to precolonial (e.g. pre-1885) customs, institutions and practices. Sara Berry's hedged statement on the matter provides a good way to think about precolonial legacies: 'Some of the organizing concepts of precolonial land tenure systems continued to influence evolving patterns of land control' (1988: 58). The extent of continuity needs to be taken as a variable, both across space (including subnationally) and time. Sometimes, continuity is hard to find. Michael Watts (1983: 75) wrote that the British 'literally invented communal land tenure' in northern Nigeria.\n\nThe ideological underpinning of neo-customary land institutions is the idea that 'each tribe' manages 'its land' (within its 'homeland') through its 'own rules' and under its 'own traditional authorities'. These arrangements consist of four interlocking sets of rules defining group membership, territorial jurisdiction, property and authority relations. Each is discussed in a separate sub-section below. In varying degrees and ways, contemporary African states have incorporated the four defining elements of neo-customary land tenure into their legal-administrative structures and practices.10 Although the term 'indirect rule' is not used in Africa today, the colonial terms 'homeland', 'chief', 'tribe' and 'customary' are. The isomorphism of neo-customary institutions across extremely heterogeneous socio-political, demographic, ecological and economic contexts is itself a tell-tale sign of the colonial template and its intrinsically modern, state-crafted character.\n\n## Neo-customary Territorial Jurisdictions\n\nIndirect rule transformed the vast and politically fluid or potentially oppositional spaces of conquered Africa into the governed spaces of colonial Africa (Watts 2004). Working from treaties, routes followed by colonial military columns, maps distinguishing pacified areas from hostile territory and new agreements with local African authorities, colonial authorities worked in the 1900s through the 1930s to zone each colony into ethnic homelands and state-controlled forests, reserves, municipal circumscriptions and territories assigned to European settlers and investors. Territorial jurisdictions under neo-customary authority were conceived of as ancestral homelands of the 'tribes' that colonial officials had reconfigured and formalised as state-recognised collectivities.\n\nBargaining in the shadow of violence, colonial rulers delimited jurisdictions that confirmed or expanded the geographic sphere of influence of some (trusted) customary authorities and reduced or eliminated the domains of distrusted local leaders or groups.11 These tribal homelands were the territorial containers for building neo-customary land institutions and colonial citizenship regimes.12 Their boundaries mapped onto sub-district and district (or circumscription or cercle) divisions in colonial administrative grids. Figure 3.1 offers a redrawn version of a 1956 map of tribal jurisdictions in northern Tanganyika as an example. Colonial territorial administration \u2013 constituted of a hierarchy of district officers, commandants de cercle, their lieutenants and chiefs \u2013 was organised within this template. Postcolonial states absorbed these administrative grids, as well as the ethnic homelands and land rights they institutionalised. Indeed, postcolonial governments have reproduced and elaborated the logic of segmenting territory (land) among different state-recognised ethnic groups. It is a dynamic propelled forward by the actions of both rulers and ruled, with units subdivided as the administrative grid tightens \u2013 'forgotten minorities', press rulers and their political patrons in the state for their own jurisdictions and land entitlements.\n\nFigure 3.1\n\nGorowa Native Authority, 'Tribal and Ethnographic Map', from Atlas of Tanganyika, 1956\n\nThere is nothing informal about the institutions that carve national space into political and administrative sub-divisions in African countries. They are as formal as the d\u00e9partements of France or state borders in the United States. Subnational boundaries in African countries are often not exactly the same as their counterparts in the countries just mentioned, however. They often define and divide the political collectivities that rulers are willing to recognise, impose indigene\u2013stranger hierarchies within ethnic territories and create hierarchy among groups (privileging settled agriculturalists over pastoralists, for example). These same rules restrain labour and class mobility, the functioning of markets, and national integration.\n\n## Neo-customary citizenship rules\n\nIf ethnic jurisdictions were territorial templates for indirect rule and neo-customary land institutions, then 'tribes' were the social groups that fit within these containers. Through aggregations or division of existing social and political groupings, colonial administrators endeavoured to forge the supposedly natural tribal communities that were ideologically framed as the authentic African social form. Chanock (1998:238) uses the term 'new tribes' to distinguish these groupings from territorial, social and political collectivities that existed in precolonial times.\n\nBy definition, neo-customary law varied across the ethnic groups within one colony. It governed land and civil affairs, and some criminal law. As a matter of routine government and administration, therefore, it was necessary to assign a state-recognised tribal identity to each person in order to know which customary court and which customary law would apply in the case of a land dispute or claim, inheritance matter, civil infraction or ordinary crime. Mobility restrictions \u2013 a fundamental monitoring and control technology of the colonial state \u2013 also required that individuals be assigned an ethnicity and a homeland.13 Judicial systems, territorial administration and property regimes literally could not function unless individuals were assigned a state-recognised ethnic status (TNA 1925:1).14\n\nFor colonial and postcolonial subjects, using a state-recognised ethnic status has conferred a right of residency in a homeland, a right to claim a neo-customary land entitlement, and diminution of the risk of land dispossession or displacement by ethnic outsiders (including Europeans). This means that many colonial subjects had good reason to accept such legal identities. Strategic interactions between state and subjects shaped the incorporation of subject populations into a new political order (Chauveau and Dozon 1987). Murdock's 'ethnic mappings' (1959, 1967) \u2013 used to construct the ethno-linguistic fractionalisation indices that are popular among today's social scientists \u2013 are actually products of the modern state-making process, rather than exogenous to politics and the modern state. Such rules institutionalised the political status of 'internal foreigner' \u2013 a subject of the colony (or now, citizen of a country) living outside her or his ethnic homeland. In Kenya, this would be a Kikuyu working in Kisii, or in Nigeria, a Yoruba living in the North. The salience of this distinction is high in agrarian settings, where the internal foreigner (or stranger, guest or 'in-migrant') would be excluded from claiming a land entitlement, land ownership and having full political voice in the local community.\n\nThese institutions are unfamiliar in Western countries where most national governments do not differentiate between different classes of citizens based on (non)membership in subnational political communities. Indeed, the existence of such distinctions conflicts with the idea of the unitary state and unified citizenship regime. Significantly, state-recognised ethnic status is not an informal institution (although other kinds of social and kinship-based communities may well be considered as institutions). Under colonialism it was officialised in census categories, ID cards, entitlements to claim land in ethnic homelands, and differentiated civil codes and courts. In much of contemporary Africa, these distinctions remain integral to the functioning of land institutions, and in structuring access to the political arena at the local level. In Soubr\u00e9 in western C\u00f4te d'Ivoire in 2006, the national government carefully registered each farmer as either an 'autochthonous owner' of land or as an ethnic stranger who, by writ of the state, could only enjoy permissive occupancy rights at the pleasure of an autochthonous host. In Vavoua in the same region, ethnic strangers (allog\u00eanes and allochtones, or foreigners and 'internal foreigners') were warned in August 2014 that choosing the sous-pr\u00e9fet's local interlocateur and the local land-rights adjudicator, the chef de village, was the privilege of the heads of indigenous lineages. 'Ethnic outsiders should stay out of it'.15\n\nMany political scientists have studied ethnic identity in Africa as an individual cognitive attribute or preference (or behaviour). They might reject the argument that ethnicity is a legal status or official institution. To sort out this debate, it is important to underscore that we are talking about two conceptually distinct phenomena. Those pinned with a yellow star in Nazi Germany (a state-imposed legal status) may or may not have self-identified as Jews, or seen themselves as all members of 'the same community'. This does not change the reality of the state's action or intention, and surely leaves open the possibility that state policy has a direct impact on individual identity, cognition, groupness and collective action. As this example suggests, these two kinds of ethnic identity may coincide, overlap, be nested or evolve together (or apart), and may do so in dynamic interaction over time. My key point is that state-created and state-imposed ethnic designations have a far greater impact on ethnic identities in Africa than most political science acknowledges, and a far more direct and on-going impact than models that take ethnicity as an 'independent variable' in political explanation can accommodate.\n\n## Neo-customary Authority Rules\n\nThe imperial powers did not have the means or the motive to govern colonial Africa directly, by obliterating local authority and social structures and building bureaucratic-authoritarian institutions from scratch. Indirect rule was the cost-effective solution in most places: it institutionalised a colonial form of power in the hands of chiefs who were appointed or confirmed in power by the European rulers. The ideological and indeed, the practical, justification for this was the colonisers' interest in taking advantage of and accentuating mechanisms of social cohesion and control that they either observed or imagined to be inherent in 'tribal society'. They hoped to harness the authority and legitimacy of Africans who already possessed these assets in the eyes of subject populations. The inherent fallacy and contradiction was, of course, that not only did such authority exist everywhere, but also such collaboration \u2013 with disruptive, sometimes violent and predatory colonial overlords \u2013 diminished legitimacy (or prevented it from developing). This is the root of the fundamental agency problems built into indirect rule: the more faithful and reliable the chief as an agent of his European over-rulers, the less authority he would have in the eyes of subjects, and the more he would have to rely on coercion (more costly and often counterproductive for the colonial state) to execute directives from above (Hechter 2008). Colonial rulers, recognising this and seeking to economise on monitoring, created wide gaps between principal and agent in land affairs, local civil matters and in allocating the local tax burden.\n\nIt is, therefore, an error to define chieftaincy as an informal institution. Official chiefly hierarchies were an explicit part of colonial administrative hierarchies, with chiefs appointed by ranked classes (chief class A, B, C) and placed on the government payroll. In C\u00f4te d'Ivoire in the 1930s and 1940s, the colonial administration kept a portfolio on each appointment chief that was much like a personnel file in the Human Resource department of a business or university. These documents were routinely updated and consulted when promotions, demotions, replacements and pay-rises were under consideration. Appointment and removal procedures were regulated by administrative decree. With the end of colonial rule, African leaders revised these systems but did not eliminate them. Paramount chieftaincy (regional-level) was done away with almost everywhere, as was the power of chiefs to requisition the labour of their subjects for agricultural work. Yet chieftaincy is built into the territorial administration and land administration institutions in most African countries today. Where chiefs are on the government payroll, this is unambiguous. In C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, for example, sous-pr\u00e9fets select village chiefs (based partly on assessments about who will be effective). Each appointment is officialised by decree of the Minister of the Interior.\n\nMuch of the power chiefs wielded over subjects on a day-to-day basis was and is derived from their land-related powers. Colonial indirect rule gave chiefs control over the allocation of unused land and the power to adjudicate land disputes within their jurisdictions \u2013 these were their primary instruments for gathering power and exercising social control. Chiefs also judged and ruled on civil matters (marriage, divorce, inheritance, all closely related to land matters) and distributed the burden of taxation (including forced labour) among villages and households in their jurisdictions.\n\nAmong others, Mamdani (1996) has stressed the paradox of chieftaincy under indirect rule: it institutionalised a form of authority over local subjects that was, in essence, arbitrary. If we regard colonial rulers as strategic institution builders, we can say that they did so for four reasons: to subsidise the costs of colonial rule through the legitimacy of their local agents; to grant discretion to their agents; to customise local authority to fit local situations; and to build in flexibility (for change over time).16 Personal rule, largely unrestrained by written code or law, was thus an intentional feature of institutional design. Postcolonial rules transferred some of the powers and prerogatives of the colonial chiefs to state agents and secular politicians. However, the grounding of chiefly power in land tenure institutions, and much of the inherently arbitrary character of local governance, has been actively reproduced across much of postcolonial Africa. As a result, authority relations rooted in neo-customary land institutions are highly salient in shaping local political economies. As Clark Gibson (1999: 127) wrote in a study of wildlife policy in Kenya, Zimbabwe and Zambia in the 1990s: 'Chiefs still possess considerable influence over social and economic institutions in the rural areas... Most of this authority results from the chiefs' control over access to land... Chiefs retain the right to allocate land... This prerogative is decisive... Control over access to land also allows chiefs to regulate access to employment opportunities... [and] to secure positions for themselves and their family, friends, and supporters'.\n\n## Neo-customary Property Rules\n\nNeo-customary land tenure institutionalised subjects' rights to untaxed, unregistered land in their 'ethnic homelands' via the authority of chiefs. These property rules, enforced by postcolonial states, have worked to bar legal transfer of land rights to women and non-members of the state-recognised community of land holders (i.e. the ethnic community). Colonial and postcolonial rulers capitalised on this as a mechanism for reproducing the cohesion of state-recognised ethnic communities. Neo-customary authorities had incentives to implement and enforce these rules because they sustain chiefly land powers and their own local authority (Ribot 1999, 2003). Those who benefit from these rules are also strongly incentivised to uphold them.\n\nUnder neo-customary property rules, the status of 'internal foreigner' or 'ethnic stranger' is highly salient. Ethnic outsiders or strangers are unable to access land directly (through purchase or otherwise) in their jurisdictions of residence; they do so as the guests or tenants of ethnic-insider hosts. As Stephano Boni (2005: 82) explained in an analysis of neo-customary land tenure institutions in western Ghana in the early 2000s, classifying each farmer's ethnic membership is necessary for the implementation of the tenurial and taxation regime. Neo-customary property rules thus define socio-economic hierarchy and social cleavage in many, probably most, farming regions. These territories, subject populations and chiefly hierarchies constituted the basic political-administrative units of the colonial states in Africa. Mamdani and Lentz call them the 'local states' or 'native states' of colonial Africa (Mamdani 1996: 20\u201321; Lentz 2005).\n\nNeo-customary land tenure exists in a wide variety of forms as a 'chosen institution' of postcolonial rulers. The fact that land institutions continue to evolve through the strategic interaction between governments and different (sometimes competing) classes of users drives home this point. Decapitation of many chieftaincy hierarchies (e.g. paramount chieftaincies) and the reining-in of the arbitrary powers of chiefs by a number of African states in the 1950s and 1970s (especially chiefs' ability to requisition labour to work their own fields) reflected governments' responses to grassroots resistance to neo-customary authority in its most predatory and opportunistic forms. Whether by constitutions, law, executive decree, administrative order or practice, most governments have confirmed the role of chiefs or other autorit\u00e9s traditionneles in allocating access to farmland and pasture and in adjudicating land-related disputes arising over land boundaries, inheritance and transactions (even if other chiefly prerogatives have been reduced). Postcolonial governments have not only reproduced old ethnicity-based land entitlements in ethnic homelands; they have also created new ones: new homelands give new entitlements to newly recognised ethnic groups.17 Herbst (2000) and others are thus incorrect in seeing neo-customary land regimes as informal, archaic or anti-state. They are not vestiges of precolonial Africa that subvert attempts by modern leaders to rule the countryside. The opposite is closer to the truth.\n\nMost African governments have sought to tap into the political potential inherent in neo-customary land tenure. They have relied on chiefs as vote brokers and reminded rural communities that central authorities are the ultimate arbiters and guarantors of neo-customary land entitlements. At the same time, members of state-recognised ethnic groups have maintained powerful stakes in neo-customary land tenure. We saw this in Kenya, for example, in the midst of raging debate over elite land grabbing in 2005. The populist Kenya Land Alliance (KLA) declared that the Kenyan customary concept of ownership of land still prevails: 'Since customarily no individual in a community owns land, land is owned by all collectively for the benefit of each and every member of the community... [C]ustomary lands are managed and controlled by the County Councils, which [are supposed to] hold them in trust for communities' (KLA 2005: 4).\n\nAs this example suggests, institutions that entitle community members to claim access to unsurveyed and untaxed rural land can also serve to restrain the state, land-hungry elites and the market. The fact that these constraints are not absolute and that their bindingness changes over time does not invalidate this point. Rights in the old democracies can also be trampled upon or eroded, but we do not consider them to be non-existent or politically irrelevant. In the Kenyan example, the existence of such a social contract around land is what ensures that the KLA claims are viewed as legitimate and potent within the Kenyan political arena.\n\n# The Statist Land Institutions\n\nColonial administrators' dominant strategy was the pursuit of rural governability, but in the context of the larger imperial projects, this goal was alloyed with others. Colonisers risked the wrath and backlash of subject populations when they asserted direct control over land and land-based resources to generate revenue, settle new populations on the land or create cities, mines, dams and industrial zones. Postcolonial rulers have been motivated by the same types of goals: to make land grants to the postcolonial elites (as in the case of Kenya's Rift Valley), to promote agribusiness in attempts to bolster agricultural production and productivity, to exploit mineral and forest resources, to create national parks, game preserves, gazetted forests, military camps and training zones, and demonstration farms that would be off limits to smallholders and pastoralists, and to construct cities, dams and reservoirs.\n\nWe can model this calculus by saying that rulers asserted direct control over land when the expected costs (in economic and political terms) were outweighed by the expected payoffs.18 The argument that this calculus reflects strategic interaction between rulers and ruled remains valid in these contexts. In many colonies and postcolonial settings (C\u00f4te d'Ivoire in the 1940s and 1950s, Tanganyika in the 1940s and 1950s, Kenya in the 1930s to 1960s, Senegal in the 1990s, Tanzania in the 2000s), ambitious colonial or postcolonial plans for land expropriation from rural smallholders have been shelved or scaled back by the spectre of rural political mobilisation against the state. Such constraints help to explain why rulers have asserted direct control over land allocation on a limited scale within carefully demarcated territorial jurisdictions. In these zones, rulers have expropriated established occupants and rights-holders, pushed them aside or expelled them, and proceeded to allocate land access directly, either arbitrarily or under statute. This is the process of institutionalising the statist land regimes. It has generally required the on-going application of considerable state violence and repression.\n\nEvery student of African history knows that in Kenya, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Namibia and Mozambique, colonial states alienated vast domains from African land users and allocated these lands to white settlers. Less recognised is the fact that many colonial and postcolonial governments created schemes for Africans to encourage migration and settle new peasantries on lands outside their ethnic homelands.19 Some of the best-known examples of postcolonial settlement schemes are found in Kenya, where the government resettled over 500,000 Kenyan families on Rift Valley farmland in the 1960s and 1970s. In C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, 75,000 Baoul\u00e9 displaced by construction of the Kossou Dam in 1970 were resettled by the government in the western forest zone of the country. In postcolonial Rwanda, settlement schemes placed tens of thousands of families on reclaimed marshlands, or pasturelands expropriated from the Tutsi in the Hutu Revolution. In Tanzania in the 1950s and 1960s, governments organised the settlement of migrants on 'new lands' opened up to smallholder farming tsetse eradication. Cases in point can be found in colonial and postcolonial South Africa, Rhodesia, Namibia, Kenya, Rwanda, Uganda, Tanzania, Nigeria, Ghana, Mali, Sudan, Ethiopia, Senegal, Belgian Congo/Zaire/DRC and others (Boone 2014).\n\nIn such areas, land authority is not devolved to state-recognised customary authorities. The central state itself is a direct allocator and manager of land access and use. We refer to this type of land control regime as 'statist' to underscore the directness of the state's role in allocating land \u2013 and, thus, to distinguish this mode of land governance from the indirect rule arrangements that define the so-called customary land tenure regimes in Africa.20\n\n## Statist Authority Rules\n\nStatist land institutions create authority structures that differ greatly from those prevailing under the neo-customary land tenure regimes. The in-migrants are beholden to the central state for land access. They do not seek or obtain land access from a neo-customary chief, local landlord or other indigenous host. Writing of settlers on Mali's Office du Niger irrigation scheme, for example, Robert Pringle (2006: 49) describes the position of the settlers vis-\u00e0-vis the state: 'Because the colons [peasant settlers] from what is now Burkina Faso had no traditional rights to the authority's [i.e. Office's] previously vacant lands, they \u2013 and their dependents \u2013 remained uniquely vulnerable to central control'. This dependency finds legal expression in the fact that farmers on peasant settlement schemes have rarely received private title to their land. Kenya's Rift Valley settlement schemes in the 1960s represent a (temporary) exception that proved this rule. Titles assigned in the mid-1960s were often not kept up to date as land passed from one generation to the next. Often, titles remained in the hands of the state agencies that partially financed the original land allotments. Rates of titling are very low on Rift Valley settlement schemes created in the 1980s and 1990s.\n\n## Statist Territorial Jurisdictions\n\nIf a boundary is an institution, then a state-imposed and -enforced territorial boundary that is the dividing-line between two different legal regimes is a formal institution par excellence. The municipal boundaries, forest reserves, game parks and settlement schemes are the delimited jurisdictions in which statist rules of land allocation and administration apply. Within their boundaries, ancestral and neo-customary rights are extinguished (or perhaps downgraded to residual status). In forests and reserves, such boundaries are often emphatically enforced through the action of armed officers, police, guards, wardens, scouts and patrols.\n\nThe political bite of these rules is evident in contemporary Africa's chronic struggles over the legal boundaries of game parks, gazetted forests, state-owned farms, foreign-leased plantations and cities. Over the last 100 years, rules delimiting zones of purely statist land tenure have provided legal and political justification for dispossession, expulsions and displacements (see Odgaard 2005; Hodgson 2011). They have turned farmers and pastoralists (claiming ancestral or neo-customary rights) into squatters, trespassers, poachers and common criminals in lands they have used for decades or more. Reciprocally, in places like much of southern C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, national rulers' ability to 'release' state forest land to loggers and, in their wake, small-scale farmers, has been a prime mechanism of both wealth accumulation (for the state, foreign interests and national elites) and political regulation of rural populations (by opening up new lands for settlement) since the 1960s.\n\nLegal, political, economic and guerrilla struggles between state and citizens over drawing boundaries, modifying them, enforcing them and legitimising state allocations within the borders of territorial jurisdictions under statist land institutions have often taken centre stage in postcolonial African politics. The release of the Ndungu Commission Report in Kenya in December 2004, for example, which documented pervasive corruption in the allocation of state lands to high-ranking members of the Kenya elite, contributed to the momentum for a new national constitution (including new national land policy), which was finally introduced in 2010.\n\n## Statist Citizenship Rules\n\nUnder statist land institutions, neither neo-customary nor ancestral rights are recognised by the state. This is clear in the major urban areas. Cities like Nairobi, Abidjan and Dakar are 'cosmopolitan zones' not only because of their large non-African or international populations, but also because national citizens of different ethnicities rub shoulders in a national space that is not recognised as a homeland to any one particular group.21 It is also true in rural zones under statist land institutions. Settlement schemes are home to African settlers who have no ancestral or neo-customary rights to the land they occupy; they are ethnic strangers, often receiving land allocations in ethnically mixed communities without regard to homeland of origin. Those claiming to be autochthonous to the area may well feel that they have been pushed aside or invaded \u2013 like 'involuntary hosts of uninvited guests'.22 Autochthons may believe that they have been expropriated outright by the state and the rulers' clients (i.e. settlers).\n\n## Statist Property Rules\n\nThe distinctive feature of statist property rules is that land is allocated directly by the state and its direct agents (such as uniformed sous-pr\u00e9fets or settlement scheme agents). Ancestral and ethnicity-based entitlements are not recognised. Figure 3.2 captures the bureaucratic rationality and high modernism of official settlement schemes in Rwanda in the 1970s and 1980s. Ancestral and neo-customary rights are not recognised. Private property (registered and titled freehold) is one kind of statist land tenure, since the state is the direct regulator, adjudicator and enforcer of private property, even if the transactions are negotiated on the market. However, in most territorial jurisdictions under statist land institutions in sub-Saharan Africa, users enjoy rights of permissive occupancy, rather than freehold, and governments have not promoted land markets. Titling and market-based property transactions entail high costs to government, both in terms of the costs of bureaucratisation and in terms of loss of political leverage over settlement schemes and settlers. Rulers have also been sensitive to the risks of accelerating rural class formation and the rise of landlessness. In Kenya in the 1980s, Moi pulled land mortgage bankruptcy cases out of the courts and empowered the provincial administration to manage this politically charged problem, thus holding back the development of land markets. This can be described as a kind of equilibrium-induced outcome in the sense that it was almost certainly supported by most of those who were in default. As history tells us, the rise of private property may be resisted by those trying to preserve their existing land rights.\n\nFigure 3.2\n\nPaysannat de Muhero, Rwanda, 1970s\n\nSource: Drawn by John V. Cotter from Prioul and Sirvin, 1981.\n\nJust as the customary land regimes are partly self-enforcing, so too are the statist land regimes. Rulers have sunk costs and a vested stake in the projects they have authored and the clients that they are defending. Migrant farmers (settlers) whose land rights have been granted directly by state authorities have not only a vested stake in the statist land institutions that govern the land that they occupy and use, but also a stake in the longevity of the rulers who guarantee and enforce their land rights. Preferences around national integration issues are also shaped by statist land institutions. Migrant farmers occupy and use land outside their ethnic homeland; they have a vested stake in the national principle that 'citizens have a right to live and hold land anywhere'. This represents a frontal challenge to neo-customary land tenure.\n\nIn general, the statist tenure regimes have been much more deeply contested, and thus more politically and economically costly for rulers to create and enforce over time, than the neo-customary property institutions. If the statist land institutions are modelled as equilibria, then these equilibria are highly vulnerable to upset. The political bond that holds together the parties to this 'social contract' may not outlive an incumbent ruler: especially (1) if it is contested openly by a rival constituency claiming prior claims to the land; and (2) if much of the rest of the national population is vested in, and wants to reaffirm, the validity of neo-customary land tenure.\n\n# Institutional Effects\n\nThese land tenure regimes represent the institutional frameworks within which colonial and postcolonial governments have promoted peasantisation of farmers, sedentarisation and incorporation of rural populations into the administrative-economic structures of the twentieth-century state. They have secured the acquiescence of agrarian societies in Africa in most places for most of the last fifty or sixty years. Where government has accommodated rural interests, rulers' legitimacy and electoral strength has derived largely from political bases in agrarian society, and from governing networks that run through neo-customary elites and local-level state agents whose power is rooted in part in authority over land.23\n\nThe prevailing land institutions have served as a check to more rapid and wholesale commodification of land rights and rural labour, enclosure and large-scale expropriation. They have constrained and slowed the rise of landlessness and full commodification of agricultural output. These effects have been fundamental in defining the character of rural societies, African agriculture, national class structure and national economies. Land tenure regimes of both neo-customary and statist character have also structured African states, societies and forms of political competition and conflict. The following discussion identifies what NIE theories could model as 'equilibrium effects' of the rural land tenure institutions that have prevailed throughout most of rural sub-Saharan Africa since political independence. Yet, NIE proposes that as political equilibria, institutions are only as stable as the underlying power balances, resource constraints and interests that gave rise to them in the first place. The chapter's conclusion shifts attention to forces of disequilibrium and change.\n\n## State-Building\n\nLand institutions tie rural populations to national governments, and into national political economies. Rulers have had an interest in sustaining the authority-based controls over land because these help them stay in power: the prevailing property regimes in land reduce the political autonomy of land users and rural communities, give rulers leverage over resources that can be used as patronage and underpin bargains with local strongmen who are tied to national rulers. Across much of the national territory of most countries, 'the rural masses' are tied to micro-territories, land entitlements and, to varying extents, neo-customary authorities as well.\n\nNested within larger ethnic territories or 'homelands', ethno-regional groupings bargain and compete for benefits that national rulers may provide. In jurisdictions under statist land tenure regimes, land users are tied to the state agents who grant them access to land controlled directly by the state (in settlement schemes or in degazetted forests, parks and so on).\n\nThe politics of subnational unit creation is driven mightily, on both the supply and demand side, by the drive to grant new land entitlements. There are highly charged redistributive implications both within the new units and across new and old units.\n\n## Defining Political Identities and Collectivities\n\nNeo-customary land tenure institutions impose and reproduce state-recognised ethnic identities and reproduce them through the workings of land relationships.24 They also incentivise individuals and families to claim and maintain ethnic identities that confer land rights in state-recognised homelands. By the same token, exit from these ethnic identities is costly if it involves forfeiture of the right to claim land. These same institutions also create incentives and political opportunity structures (ideologies, leadership, political channels for being heard by rulers and legitimate claims on the state) for groups to act collectively (i.e. as ethnic collectivities) to defend collective land entitlements, and to assert claims to other benefits and dispensations that state recognition entails. These effects are heightened where other forms of collective action and mobilisation are ignored or repressed.\n\nThose who access land via statist land institutions, by contrast, are incentivised to embrace national rather than ethnic identities (Boone and Nyeme 2015). The presence of this tension highlights the possibility that what political science codes as 'ethnic politics' in many African countries may in fact conceal an underlying tension between preferences for ethnic versus non-ethnic (or national integration) politics, and that these preferences many be unevenly distributed across ethnic groups. These tensions appear more or less clearly in politics around land in Kenya, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, Rwanda and South Africa, for example.\n\nHechter (2004) argued that under indirect rule, many critical political issues are embedded in highly localised social relations and forms of power. The adjudication fora and venues are capped at the local level, and the responsible authorities are local. Indirect rule thus shapes political process \u2013 in terms of political scale, substantive content of issues, procedural rules and forms of collective action. Direct rule produces different outcomes, according to Hechter. It changes the scale of politics, the target of political claims and grievances, and forms of collective action. It promotes the growth of translocal social movements and forms of political mobilisation. Hechter's general arguments are directly applicable to the substantive issues analysed here.\n\n## Shaping Forms of Land-Related Conflict\n\nLand institutions shape politics, producing effects that vary across space in predictable ways. Both neo-customary and statist land tenure institutions play a strong role in defining lines of socio-political cleavage (and alliance) in rural society, creating economic and political hierarchy, and distributing rights in the local political area. Tensions fuelled by rising competition for land are refracted through the different land regimes (Boone 2014, 2017). Under neo-customary land institutions, ethnic insiders almost always have a clear upper-hand, backed by national governments which 'choose' neo-customary institutions, have a stake in them and enforce them. Ethnic strangers are highly likely to be disadvantaged and discriminated against. The tables are turned under statist land tenure regimes when national rulers have vested interests in defending the migrants that they have encouraged to settle in zones outside of their ethnic homelands. As suggested above, these arrangements can be destabilised by regime change or a shift in the ruling coalition.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nOne of the main goals of this chapter has been to depict structure and variation in these institutional configurations in rural Africa. This has made it possible to connect the study of land institutions to broader, more institutionalist, understandings of regime type and political order, and also expose political dynamics in Africa that have so far escaped comparative and scaled-up analysis.\n\nMaking visible this part of the architecture underlying state-society relations (in these mostly agrarian societies) undercuts the following stereotypes or assumptions, all prevalent in the political science literature on Africa: (1) the notion that modern African states are disconnected from their rural hinterlands \u2013 such as Hyden's image of the state as 'suspended in mid-air' (1980); (2) the idea that the countryside and rural societies are both institutionless and beyond the 'reach of the state', composed of face-to-face self-governing communities (Herbst 2000); (3) the belief that rural property institutions are absent, constituted by pre-colonial African customs, uniform continent-wide (or always unique or varying randomly) or 'informal' as connoted by the common use of 'customary' or 'traditional' to describe land tenure arrangements in all of rural Africa; and (4) the latent idea, often present but unexamined, that impersonal markets govern access to rural farmland and pasture.\n\nNational political order anchored in the social contracts described above \u2013 wherein acquiescence is exchanged for the right to claim land in one's homeland \u2013 may be self-limiting, especially where populations grow, land is finite, agricultural technology is very slow-changing and off-farm livelihoods are hard to come by. In much of sub-Saharan Africa, land frontiers have closed or are closing. Pressure on the land widens cleavages in society that run along the lines of power relations, economic inequalities, ethnicity, generation and gender. Neoliberalism and fiscal austerity have done away with many of the old ways of targeting government spending on rural localities. At the same time, economic liberalisation also quickens markets and the incentives that motivate rulers to sell or lease land to investors. The return to multiparty elections has heightened competition over rural votes and thus increased some rural voters' bargaining power, but this comes at a time when many small-scale farmers are poorer and more economically insecure than they were a few decades ago, and when rulers may be devaluing smallholders' contribution, as food and export-crop producers, to the national economy.\n\nThis analysis brings some of the larger political stakes and strains of the transformation of rural property rights in Africa into focus. For governments, the stakes in agrarian transformation are double-edged. Governments are ambivalent or hesitant in the face of pressures to enforce and accelerate the full commodification of land. The prevailing land regimes anchor their power in the rural areas, structure rural constituencies and state control over them, and give rulers expansive powers over land management and land allocation. For farmers and populations in the rural areas, growing exclusivity and transactability of land rights is also double-edged. Full commodification of land erodes the communal solidarities, and exposes individuals and collectivities even more fully to the compulsions and risks of the market. Because of the redistributive implications of these changes, they divide communities and families.\n\nHigh visibility political debates over land institutions are now unfolding in many African countries, pitting defenders of neo-customary entitlements against those pushing for alternatives. In Kenya, there is a struggle over land institutions. Defenders of neo-customary land entitlements (such as the Kenya Land Alliance in 2005, mentioned in this chapter) are pitted against those who want to reinforce the state's direct powers over land without reference to neo-customary or ancestral entitlements (to allocate it to new users or to expand the scope of the market). Similarly, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire was torn by a decade of civil conflict. One social coalition defended autochthonous land rights and neo-customary entitlements; the other wanted government to back the rise of land markets that operate without regard to ethnic citizenship. In other countries, politics revolves around the restitution or reallocation of lands under statist land tenure regimes (Zimbabwe and Rwanda), the hardening of neo-customary entitlements (Nigeria) or creation of new 'ethnic homelands' to appease new demands (Uganda). In these countries as in many others in Africa, political struggle around land institutions frames stark questions about the terms of social contract \u2013 past, present and future \u2013 between African governments and rural populations.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAcemoglu, Daron, and James A. Robinson. 2006. Economic origins of dictatorship and democracy, Cambridge University Press.\n\nAlden Wily, Liz. 2001. 'Reconstructing the African commons, Africa Today 48, 1) 77\u201399.\n\nAmselle, Jean-Loup (ed.). 1976. Les migrations africaines, Paris: Maspero.\n\nAnderson, Perry. 1974. Lineages of the absolutist state, New Left Books.\n\nBadiey, Naseem. 2013. 'The strategic instrumentalization of land tenure in \"state-building\": The case of Juba, South Sudan', Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 83, 1: 78\u201399.\n\nBates, Robert. 1983. Essays on the political economy of rural Africa, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.\n\nBerman, Bruce, and John Lonsdale. 1992. Unhappy valley: Conflict in Kenya and Africa. Book one: State and class, Athens, OH: Ohio University Press.\n\nBerry, Sara. 1988. 'Concentration without privatization? Some consequences of changing patterns of rural land control in Africa', in R.E. Downs and S.P. Reyna (eds.), Land and society in contemporary Africa, University of New Hampshire and University Press of New England: 53\u201375.\n\nBoni, Stefano. 2005. Clearing the Ghanaian Forest: Theories and practices of acquisition, transfer, and utilisation of farming titles in the Sefwi-Akan area, Accra and Legon: University of Ghana Institute of African Studies.\n\nBoone, Catherine. 2007. 'Property and constitutional order: Land tenure reform and the future of the African state', African Affairs 106, 425: 557\u2013586.\n\nBoone, Catherine. 2014. Property and political order in Africa: Land rights and the structure of politics. New York: Cambridge University Press.\n\nBoone, Catherine. 2017. 'Sons of the Soil Conflict in Africa: Institutional Determinants of Ethnic Conflict over Land'. World Development, 96: 276\u2013293.\n\nBoone, Catherine, and Lydia Nyeme. 2015. 'Land regimes and the creation of ethnicity: Evidence from Tanzania', Comparative Politics 8, 1: 67\u201384.\n\nChanock, Martin. 1998 (first published in 1985). Law, custom, and social order: The colonial experience in Malawi and Zambia, Cambridge University Press.\n\nChauveau, Jean-Pierre, and Jean-Pierre Dozon. 1987. 'Au coeur des \u00e9thnies ivoiriennes... L'\u00e9tat', in Emmanuel Terray (ed.), l'etat contemporain en afrique, Paris: L'Harmattan: 221\u2013296.\n\nChimhowu, Admos, and Phil Woodhouse. 2006. 'Vernacular land markets in Sub-Saharan Africa', Journal of Agrarian Change 6, 3: 346\u2013371.\n\nColin, Jean-Philippe, Georges Kouam\u00e9, and D. D\u00e9b\u00e9gnoun Soro. 2007. 'Outside the autochthon-migrant configuration: access to land, land conflicts and inter-ethnic relationships in a former pioneer area of lower C\u00f4te d'Ivoire', The Journal of Modern African Studies 45: 33\u201359.\n\nDeininger, Klaus. 2003. 'Causes and consequences of civil strife: Micro-level evidence from Uganda', Oxford Economic Papers 55: 579\u2013606.\n\nEngerman, Stanley, and Kenneth L Sokoloff. 2003. 'Institutional and Non-Institutional Explanations of Economic Differences', NBER Working Paper 9989, National Bureau of Economic Research.\n\nEnsminger, Jean. 1992. Making a market: The institutional transformation of an African society, Cambridge University Press.\n\nForrest, Joshua. 2003. Lineages of State Fragility: Rural Civil Society in Guinea-Bissau, James Currey Ltd. and Ohio University Press.\n\nGibson, Clark. 1999. Politicians and poachers: The political economy of wildlife policy in Africa, Cambridge University Press.\n\nHall, Peter A., and David Soskice. 2001. Varieties of capitalism: The institutional foundations of comparative advantage, Oxford University Press.\n\nHechter, Michael. 2008. Containing nationalism, Oxford University Press.\n\nHechter, Michael. 2004. 'From class to culture', American Journal of Sociology 110, 2: 400\u2013445.\n\nHerbst, Jeffrey. 2000. States and power in Africa: Comparative lessons in authority and control, Princeton University Press.\n\nHodgson, Dorothy. 2011. Being Maasai, becoming indigenous: Postcolonial politics in a neoliberal world, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.\n\nHyden, Goran. 1980. Beyond Ujamaa in Tanzania, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.\n\nIssacman, Allen, and Richard Roberts (eds.). 1995. Cotton, colonialism and social history in Sub-Saharan Africa, Heinemann Press.\n\nJoireman, Sandra. 2000. Property rights and political development in Ethiopia and Eritrea: The state and land, 1941\u20131974, Athens, OH: Ohio University Press.\n\nJoireman, Sandra. 2011. Where there is no government: Enforcing property rights in Common Law Africa, Oxford University Press.\n\nKassanga, Kassim, and Nii Ashie Kotey. 2001. Land management in Ghana: Building on traditional authority, London: International Institute for Environment and Development (IIED), Land Tenure and Resource Access Series.\n\nKenya Land Alliance (KLA). 2005. 'The national land policy in Kenya: Addressing customary/ communal land issues', KLA Issues Paper 4, Nakuru: KLA.\n\nLentz, Carola. 2005. 'Contested boundaries: Decentralisation and land conflicts in northwestern Ghana', Le Bulletin de l'APAD, 22, Gouvernance fonci\u00e8re au quotidien en Afrique, [On line], First posted: 15 December 2005 accessed 7 September 2017. <http://apad.revues.org/document50.html>.\n\nLevi, Margaret. 1988. Of rule and revenue, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.\n\nMamdani, Mahmood. 1996a. Citizen and subject: Contemporary Africa and the legacy of late colonialism, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.\n\nMamdani, Mahmood. 2012. Define and rule: Native as political identity, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.\n\nMcAuslan, Patrick. 2013. Land law reform in Eastern Africa: Traditional or transformative? London: Routledge.\n\nMoore, Barrington Jr. 1966. Social origins of dictatorship and democracy, Beacon Press.\n\nMunro, William A. 1998. The moral economy of the state: Conservation, community development, and state making in Zimbabwe, Athens: OH: Ohio University Press.\n\nMurdock, George P. 1959. Africa: Its peoples and their cultural history, New York, NY: McGraw Hill.\n\nMurdock, George P. 1967. Ethnographic atlas, Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press.\n\nNorth, Douglass. 1981. Structure and change in economic history, New York, NY: W.W. Norton.\n\nNorth, Douglass. 1990. Institutions, institutional change and economic performance, Cambridge University Press.\n\nNugent, Paul. 2010. 'States and social contracts in Africa', New Left Review 63: 35\u201368.\n\nOdgaard, Rie. 2005. 'The struggle for land rights in the context of multiple normative orders in Tanzania' in Sandra Evers, Marja Spierenburg and Harry Wels (eds.), Competing jurisdictions: Settling land claims in Africa, Lieden and London: Brill: 243\u201364.\n\nOnoma, Ato Kwamena. 2010. The politics of property rights institutions in Africa, Cambridge University Press.\n\nOstrom, Elinor. 1990. Governing the commons: The evolution of institutions for collective action. Cambridge University Press.\n\nPost, Ken. 1972. '\"Peasantization\" and rural political movements in Western Africa', European Journal of Sociology 13, 2: 222\u2013254.\n\nPoteete, Amy. 2009. 'Defining political community and rights to natural resources in Botswana', Development and Change 40, 2: 281\u2013305.\n\nPringle, Robert. 2006. Democratization in Mali. United States Institute of Peace (USIP) Peaceworks Publication 58, Washington, D.C.: USIP.\n\nPrioul, Christian, and Pierre Sirven. 1981. Atlas du Rwanda, Kigali-Paris-Nantes: Association pour l'atlas des pays de la Loire (Imprim\u00e9rie Moderne Nantasie Coueron).\n\nRanger, Terence. 2012 (first published in 1983). 'The invention of tradition in colonial Africa' in E. Hobsbawm and T. Ranger (eds.), The invention of tradition, Cambridge University Press: 211\u2013262.\n\nRibot, Jesse C. 1999. 'Decentralization, participation, and accountability in Sahelian forestry: Legal instruments of political-administrative control', Africa 69, 1: 23\u201343.\n\nRibot, Jesse, and Nancy Peluso. 2003. 'A theory of access', Rural Sociology 68, 2: 153\u2013181.\n\nRigby, Peter. 1977. 'Local participation in national politics, Ugogo, Tanzania' in L. Cliffe, J.S. Coleman and M.R. Doornbos (eds.), Government and rural development in East Africa: Essays on political penetration, The Hague: Nijhoff: 81\u201398.\n\nShack, William A. and Elliott P. Skinner. 1979. Strangers in African Societies, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.\n\nSilberfein, Marilyn (ed.). 1988. Rural settlement structure and Africa development, Boulder, CO: Westview Press.\n\nSmith, Rogers M. 2006. 'Which comes first, the ideas or the institutions' in Ian Shapiro, Stephen Skowronek and Daniel Galvin (eds.), Rethinking political institutions: The art of the state, NYU Press: 91\u2013113.\n\nTanzania National Archives (TNA). 1926. 'Annual Report 1925', Senior Commissioner Arusha District, file no. 1733/1/36.\n\nUSAID Land Tenure and Property Rights Portal. 3 July 2014. 'Mobile solutions matter for landowners', accessed 10 January 2016. <http://usaidlandtenure.net>.\n\nWatts, Michael. 1983. 'Good try, Mr. Paul: Populism and the politics of African land use', African Studies Review 26, 2: 73\u201383.\n\nWatts, Michael. 2004. 'Resource curse? Governmentality, oil and power in the Niger Delta, Nigeria', Geopolitics 9, 1: 50\u201380.\n\nWeiss, Herbert F. 1967. Political protest in the Congo: The Parti Solidaire Africain during the independence struggle, Princeton University Press.\n\nWing, Susanna. 2012. 'Women's rights and family law reform in Francophone Africa', in Governing Africa's changing societies: Dynamics of reform, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers: 145\u2013176.\n\nWorld Bank. 2008. World Development Report 2008: Agriculture for development. Washington, D.C.: The World Bank.\n\n1 Following Ostrom 1990, for example, this tradition focuses squarely on power asymmetries, social conflict, and distributional effects. Its social conflict approach is situated within macro-structural contexts, in contrast to earlier, more economistic, rational choice work that assumed the absence of structured contexts. As Ostrom argues, the framework does not yield precise predictions but can be used to generate hypotheses and organise further research.\n\n2 See, for example, the 'invention of tradition' work on indirect rule (Ranger 2012) and the vast literature in African legal and social history that it inspired.\n\n3 See also Hall and Soskice (2001: 46) on regimes as interlocking systems of complementary institutions \u2013 social, economic, political \u2013 that can structure interactions at macro, regional and perhaps sectoral levels. This use of the term 'regime' is consistent with Ostrom's (1990: 50\u201351) notion of institutional order.\n\n4 In two of every three sub-Saharan African countries, over 60 per cent of the total population lives and works in the countryside (World Bank 2008). On land under private title, see Chimhowu and Woodhouse (2006: 346, citing Deininger 2003) and Boone (2014: 23).\n\n5 See Alden Wily 2001; McAuslan 2013.\n\n6 Obviously rural populations have not always succeeded in resisting dispossession. On rural protest, see Ken Post (1972: 272\u2013280) who inventories six forms. Herbert Weiss (1967) argues that rural radicalism and political mobilisation was a much larger part of the independence struggles than most scholars believe, focused as they have been on urbanisation and urban-based movements.\n\n7 See Nugent 2010.\n\n8 See Issacman and Roberts (1995), for example.\n\n9 The 'neo' in the term neo-customary underscores the extent to which contemporary land institutions have been shaped, formalised and codified by twentieth and twenty-first century governments.\n\n10 See Boone and Nyeme (2015) for the Tanzania exception.\n\n11 Jurisdiction size and shape were tailored in pursuit of political and bureaucratic expediency. The Gogo of Tanganyika, for example, were amalgamated into a new, hierarchical chiefdom in the 1920s because the British deemed existing political collectivities to be too small and too decentralised (Rigby 1977: 84).\n\n12 Those not certified as official ethnic groups or tribes thus did not get their own homeland, and thus, no neo-customary land entitlement, and were pressured to 'join recognized tribes'.\n\n13 These were relaxed after the Second World War.\n\n14 The urgency of these assignments for state-building is evident in the example of the Masai in Tanganyika. The British in Tanganyika created a 'Masailand', and in 1925 commanded, 'all Masai are to be moved into the Masai Reserve'. Those who refused to move were to 'give up their claims to be Masai'.\n\n15 La R\u00e9daction. 20 August 2014. 'C\u00f4te d'Ivoire \u2013 A Vavoua allog\u00e8nes et allochtones exhort\u00e9s \u00e0 ne plus se m\u00ealer des choix des chefs de village'. Posted by AIP, www.connectionivoirienne.net/102345/cotedivoire-vavoua-allogenes-allochtones-exhortes-se-meler-choix-chefs-village.\n\n16 Colonial administrative theory held that the neo-customary as they crafted it was authentically African, unique to each 'tribe', and that it was flexible and evolving over time. Chanock explains that until late in the colonial period, the European authorities resisted formal codifications of customary law for fear that this would freeze its 'natural development' (Chanock 1998).\n\n17 Ghana's 1992 constitution makes chiefs owners and managers of stool and skin lands, which are supposed to be held in trust for the members of the collectivity (Kassanga and Kotey 2001: 1). In Benin, 'customary laws were codified (accurately or not) in Le Coutumier du Dahomey of 1931... which was still used in the courts until 1996' (Wing 2012). Forrest (2003: 213) writes of the 'reestablishment of Mandjack kingships' in Guin\u00e9e-Bissau after 1987.\n\n18 The calculus often involves bargains or deals with displaced populations (i.e. the promise that displaces would be allocated 'new land' somewhere else). Imposition of statist land regimes is more likely where the aggrieved rural populations are politically weak (e.g. pastoralists).\n\n19 Amselle (1976: 24) refers to these as movements of rural African populations that were directed, oriented or planned by the state. See Silberfein (1988: 51).\n\n20 The analytic distinction between customary and statist land regimes can blur as, for example, when governments appoint new chiefs to rule over populations in government-created settlement schemes, or when state-recognised customary authorities are pressured by government to settle strangers on customary land. Joireman (2011) notes that in the urban slums of Nairobi (on state land), the government appoints chiefs as local political authorities.\n\n21 Groups claiming indigeneity to these jurisdictions \u2013 for example, Lebou in Dakar, Ga in Accra, Lagunaires in Abidjan \u2013 contest this and use their loss to extract concessions from rulers.\n\n22 Shack and Skinner (1979: 5).\n\n23 See Badiey (2013). Africa's newest country, South Sudan, provides fresh support for this claim: the new SPLM government, in the wake of its victory, sought the allegiance of local communities by promising formal state-recognition (institutionalisation) of their territory and land rights. This argument is developed in Boone (2014).\n\n24 Rogers Smith (2006: 93\u201394) makes a similar argument about US racial identities.\n\n# 4 Financial Institutions\n\n## Economic Liberalisation, Credit and Opposition Party Successes\n\nLeonardo R. Arriola\n\nThe paradigm of informal politics has fundamentally shaped the study of political power in sub-Saharan Africa over several decades. Writing in the early 1980s, as many countries were falling into crisis, Robert Jackson and Carl Rosberg argued that African countries were best understood by focusing on the personal rule of their leaders rather than on the functioning of their institutions. African leaders, in their view, were unconstrained by 'the assured mediation and regulation of effective political institutions' (Jackson and Rosberg 1982: 12). On the eve of the twenty-first century, Patrick Chabal and Jean-Pascal Daloz (1999: 16), reaffirming this view, contended that institutions across Africa remained 'a pseudo-Western fa\u00e7ade masking the realities of deeply personalised political relations', despite the political and economic transformations that followed the end of the Cold War. Countless studies have followed these foundational works in repeating their argument without amendment: the formal institutions of African countries, whether described as dysfunctional, incoherent or weak, have little to no impact on politics in the region (for a comprehensive discussion see Chapter 1).\n\nThis chapter challenges the conventional wisdom associated with the paradigm of informal politics by focusing on the role of financial institutions in systematically coordinating the political behaviour of African elites. Although the analysis of formal institutions often focuses explicitly on political organisations, such as parties or governmental administrative structures like bureaucracies, I examine the relationship between economic institutions and the political behaviour of entrepreneurs (e.g. businesspeople, merchants and traders). African leaders have long perceived entrepreneurs as a political threat, fearing that their financial capital could be transformed into political influence. My argument is that leaders have sought to contend with this threat by relying on the commercial banking sector \u2013 banks are the principal institutions of finance in African countries \u2013 to regulate capital accumulation among entrepreneurs and thereby constrain their potential support for regime opponents.1 I advance two specific claims in this regard.\n\nMy first claim is that Africa's first post-independence leaders created financial reprisal regimes to control the business community in their countries. Financial reprisal regimes comprise a set of institutions and regulations \u2013 such as maintaining state ownership of banking, channelling credit to privileged sectors and restricting access to foreign exchange \u2013 that enables leaders to exercise political discretion in determining who can access capital. In structuring financial systems to maximise political control rather than economic development, founding leaders employed distinct strategies in relation to the perceived threat posed by a country's incipient business class. Those founding leaders from exporter, mainly cash crop-growing, constituencies perceived little threat in accumulating capital.2 Since they expected to derive political benefits from the accumulation of capital among their own co-ethnics, these founding leaders had an incentive to establish relatively open financial systems that would serve their constituents. By contrast, founding leaders who were not from ethnic groups associated with cash crop-exporting sought to restrict the extension of financial services. These leaders feared that entrepreneurs from exporter constituencies could use their wealth to support their rivals, and sought to restrict their access to capital accordingly. The development of such distinct financial system trajectories among African countries has had important long-term consequences for both economics and politics.\n\nMy second claim is that electoral coordination in African countries is constrained by the extent to which finance remains politically mediated. Entrepreneurs who must confront political controls in accessing finance are unlikely to take actions that might trigger punishment by the incumbent leader, namely, having their credit lines cut off or loans called in. This is the genius of the financial reprisal regime: it enables African leaders to induce the allegiance of the business community without having to target any particular individual. Instead, leaders can employ formal mechanisms such as credit controls, capital account restrictions and foreign exchange quotas to reinforce the dependence of entrepreneurs on government for their business survival. Entrepreneurs are thus induced into remaining politically aligned to the regime without having to be explicitly told to be loyal; their economic self-interest silently guides their political behaviour. Under such conditions, entrepreneurs are only likely to support the formation of mass opposition parties when liberalising financial reforms remove an incumbent's ability to regulate access to capital.\n\nI proceed in this chapter by first discussing how the logic of financial reprisal regimes structures the relationship between leaders and entrepreneurs. I then examine how the political incentives of Africa's founding leaders shaped the historical development of financial systems and commercial banking in particular. I specifically show how access to capital has remained consistently more open in countries with founding leaders from cash crop-growing communities. I then extend the analysis to demonstrate how financial liberalisation affects electoral coordination among opposition politicians.\n\n# Financial Reprisal Regimes\n\nThe scholarship on democracy and parties has long shown that economic resources are vital for meaningful political competition across a broad range of national contexts and time periods (Moore 1966; Dahl 1971; Riker 1982). Securing access to resources is a first-order problem for politicians seeking office, particularly in countries with no tradition of public financing of elections. Without sufficient funding, politicians cannot afford to pay for basic campaign costs, like advertising and staff, or cover more demanding electoral expenses associated with turning out voters on election day (Ban\u00e9gas 1998) or securing the endorsements from other politicians (Arriola 2012). In this context, I present a framework for understanding why and how African leaders have used financial institutions to assert their control over entrepreneurs \u2013 the actors most likely to fund the campaigns of individual candidates, as well as the formation of mass parties.\n\nFinancial reprisal regimes emerged in African countries because entrepreneurs became pivotal political actors even before independence. Under colonialism, they were subjected to a broad array of discriminatory economic controls in finance, labour, licensing and taxation that usually exempted European trading firms and settlers (Nwabughuogu 1982; Iliffe 1983; Kennedy 1988). In finance, in particular, colonial regulations were not only used to limit African access to formal credit through European-owned banks, but they also served to prevent entrepreneurs from establishing their own banking facilities (Fry 1976; Stockwell 2000; Austin and Uche 2007). It was under such conditions that entrepreneurs began to seek a political alternative to colonial governments that were unwilling to accommodate their demands for equal treatment in finance and other economic domains. After the Second World War, indigenous entrepreneurs allied with nationalist politicians who took up their economic grievances and turned them into the policy positions of their nascent parties (Kilson 1958; Wallerstein 1970). For example, in the Gold Coast, today's Ghana, both the United Gold Coast Convention (UGCC) and their more radical counterpart, Kwame Nkrumah's Convention People's Party (CPP), promised to create banking and credit facilities for the indigenous business community once they took power (Austin 1964; Rathbone 1973). As a result, entrepreneurs became a core constituency of the nationalist parties that eventually took power across the continent (Coleman 1954; Hodgkin 1961; Sklar 1963).\n\nThrough the transition from colonialism to independence, African entrepreneurs proved to be critical institution builders. Uniquely among socioeconomic actors, they could leverage their commercial networks across vast territories to enable nationalist politicians to extend their movements beyond urban centres where most nationalist parties were based. In C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, F\u00e9lix Houphou\u00ebt-Boigny had to rely on Dioula traders as intermediaries who could build support for the Parti D\u00e9mocratique de C\u00f4te d'Ivoire in rural areas beyond his ethnic constituency (Zolberg 1966). Moreover, once colonial officials began to organise elections in the move towards self-government, entrepreneurs provided the money politicians needed to compete for office. To fund their electoral campaigns, nationalist politicians from Mali (Morgenthau 1964) to Tanganyika (Bienen 1970) depended on funding from merchants and traders rather than on party membership subscriptions from workers.\n\nBut once independence had been achieved, the relationship between politicians and entrepreneurs fundamentally changed. The leaders of Africa's newly independent countries increasingly viewed the capacity of entrepreneurs to deploy organisational and financial resources in support of political movements as a threat. Fearing that those same entrepreneurial resources would now be turned against them, independent governments adapted financial institutions to shore up their nascent regimes. The establishment of financial institutions such as state-owned banks, capital controls, foreign exchange quotas and subsidised credit programmes were justified by governments on an economic basis \u2013 that is, to accelerate development \u2013 but these same mechanisms also helped to politicise financial capital. Taken together, these mechanisms constituted a financial reprisal regime: access to capital became a privilege that could be extended or withdrawn at a leader's discretion.\n\nAfrican leaders have turned to financial reprisal regimes to neutralise business politically, as institutions like commercial banks afford distinct advantages as executive instruments of control. In contrast to fiscal policies that often require action from, or bargaining with, other political actors (such as the legislature), banking policies are often dealt with as technical matters under the authority of the ministry of finance (Zysman 1983; Mehran et al. 1998). A leader's preferences are thus more likely to be implemented without amendment or negotiation. Furthermore, in contrast to taxation, which can require an elaborate administrative infrastructure to be effective, the control afforded by financial institutions is more effective because it is exacted ex ante (e.g. denying access to credit) rather than ex post (e.g. collecting on a tax bill).\n\nWhile nearly all African founding leaders established financial reprisal regimes to constrain the economic, and therefore political, autonomy of business, the severity of those regimes varied depending on which constituencies were expected to benefit from capital accumulation. Founding leaders from constituencies expected to profit from increased access to capital \u2013 i.e. ethnic groups engaged in cultivating cash crops for export \u2013 were more likely to adopt policies permitting relatively open access to banking and credit.3 Cash crop farmers and associated traders could use their surplus from the export of lucrative commodities to secure the credit needed to enter other sectors of the economy. By contrast, founding leaders whose own ethnic groups could not expect to directly benefit from increased access to capital \u2013 i.e. ethnic groups engaged in subsistence agriculture or pastoralism \u2013 had a greater incentive to impose tighter controls on commercial banking as well as stricter limits on credit provision to the private sector. Thus, founding leaders from non-exporter constituencies, anticipating that entrepreneurs from other groups might use their wealth to support their political rivals, actively sought to use financial constraints to determine who could access capital and on what terms.\n\nTable 4.1 lists African countries that achieved independence before 1970 based on the constituency of their founding leaders. The constituencies of founding leaders are classified as exporters or non-exporters based on whether their ethnic groups produced one of the largest commodity exports in a country at independence.4 Leaders whose groups produced such commodities are coded as having an exporter constituency.5 For example, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire is classified as having an exporter founding leader because F\u00e9lix Houphou\u00ebt-Boigny's co-ethnic Baule constituted the country's main coffee growers (Woods 2003). Leaders whose co-ethnics did not participate in the production of such crops are coded as having a non-exporter constituency.\n\nTable 4.1 Country by founding leader type\n\nExporter | Non-Exporter   \n---|---  \nBotswana| Benin  \nBurundi| Burkina Faso  \nChad| Cameroon  \nC\u00f4te d'Ivoire| Central African Republic  \nGabon| Congo, Republic  \nGambia| Ghana  \nKenya| Guinea  \nMauritius| Madagascar  \nNigeria| Malawi  \nRwanda| Mali  \nSenegal| Niger  \nTogo| Sierra Leone  \n| Tanzania  \n| Uganda  \n| Zambia\n\nEntrepreneurs, for their part, responded with political acquiescence to the incentives created by financial reprisal regimes. With limited options for securing finance capital outside of commercial banking \u2013 only a handful of African countries have had stock markets \u2013 entrepreneurs had to rely on state-owned banks or other forms of politically mediated finance. As a result, they perfectly understood that their economic survival depended on cooperating with, rather than challenging, whoever has been in power. The ethnic Bamileke business community in Cameroon exemplifies this dynamic. Once Cameroon became independent in 1960, President Ahmadou Ahidjo, an ethnic Fulbe, sought to contain the influence of Bamileke entrepreneurs, several of whom had become rich cocoa and coffee planters and had later expanded to dominate the country's construction, retail and transport sectors (Warnier 1993). To prevent the Bamileke from using their wealth to challenge his regime, Ahidjo adopted a range of financial measures, including limiting the private ownership of banks. The governments of Ahijdo and his successor, Paul Biya, an ethnic Beti, rejected Bamileke efforts to establish their own privately owned commercial banks in order to address growing credit constraints (Dongmo 1981). Such a bank was not chartered until the mid-1990s, over 25 years after independence. Nevertheless, the country's most prominent Bamileke businesspeople remained allied to the country's ruling party throughout the one-party era and well after transitioning to multiparty politics. This was precisely the outcome that Cameroon's financial reprisal regime was intended to produce.\n\n# Politicised Financial Development\n\nBeginning in the 1960s, African governments sought to build financial systems according to the statist policy prescriptions associated with import substitution industrialisation, the then-dominant development model. During this period, African governments were encouraged to take a leading role in finance to accelerate the modernisation process (Sender and Smith 1986; Kennedy 1988). As a result, by the end of the 1970s, African governments had become the principal owners and investors of financial capital with a majority interest in over half of the banking sector (Popiel 1994). Yet, despite drawing their policies from a common development model, African financial systems have followed distinct trajectories that cannot be explained away by their legal traditions (La Porta et al. 1998) or their colonial experience (Acemoglu et al. 2001).\n\nI argue that the financial reprisal regimes implanted by Africa's founding leaders set their countries on distinct trajectories of financial system development. Leaders specifically transformed commercial banks into political instruments of regime maintenance. In this respect, as noted in the previous section, the extent to which leaders sought to control capital accumulation among entrepreneurs depended on whether their own constituencies, exporting or non-exporting, would profit from the expansion of banking. Once in place, the nature of the banking system produced considerable path dependence; successive leaders found that regulating finance according to the terms set by their predecessors provided a ready-made mechanism for ensuring the political acquiescence of entrepreneurs. In countries with founding leaders from exporting constituencies, successive leaders tended to retain the liberal stance towards banking of their predecessors. They typically sought to maintain levels of credit provision that underpinned the support of a business community already accustomed to relatively easy access to capital. Similarly, the successors in countries with founding leaders from non-exporting constituencies had little need to change the restrictive policies of their predecessors. Limiting entry into, and access to, the banking sector enabled them to determine which entrepreneurs could accumulate capital and under what conditions; that was a power too great to relinquish.\n\nThe political incentives of African leaders have had a profound impact on the development of the commercial banking sector over time. The expectations associated with exporter versus non-exporter founding leaders are clearly evident in Figure 4.1, which shows the average number of commercial banks across African countries over time by type of founding leader.6 The trend lines demonstrate that there is virtually no difference in the average between the two types of systems prior to independence in 1960. From the end of the Second World War in 1945 up to 1960, banking decisions were largely shaped by the economic interests of European firms and the political needs of European governments.\n\nFigure 4.1\n\nThe impact of founding leader type on commercial banking\n\nThe divergence in the trend lines begins only after independence in the 1960s, as banking decisions are increasingly shaped by the political demands of African founding leaders. Figure 4.1 shows the average number of commercial banks increasing progressively from 1960 to 2000, but only in countries where the original founding leaders had little to fear from their exporter constituencies accumulating capital. By contrast, in countries with founding leaders from non-exporter constituencies, the average number of commercial banks remained unchanged during the first two decades after independence: they had 3.8 banks in 1960 and 3.7 banks in 1980. Yet, by 2000, the difference in averages between the two types of countries was sizable: countries with exporter founders had an average of 11.9 banks, while countries with non-exporter founders had only an average of 7.4 banks.\n\nBeyond restricting the size of the commercial banking sector, African countries with non-exporter founding leaders moved aggressively to take control of banking through direct ownership. Since founding leaders from non-exporter constituencies were threatened by the accumulation of wealth among other groups, they also sought to have the state acquire a sufficiently large share of bank ownership to influence, if not dictate, lending practices. This expectation is borne out in the disparate rates of state ownership associated with countries with exporter and non-exporter founders. By 1985, the governments of countries founded by non-exporter leaders had acquired shares in over two-thirds of banks, while countries with exporter founders accepted a smaller state presence in banking, taking up shares only in about one-quarter of banks.\n\nThe politically driven differences among African financial systems persisted as governments began, in the 1980s, to negotiate with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and World Bank over the disbursement of aid in exchange for the implementation of liberalising reforms (van de Walle 2001). Reforming the financial sector became a priority for international financial institutions convinced that the elimination of administrative credit mechanisms, the privatisation of commercial banks and the liberalisation of capital controls would reinvigorate the region's anaemic economic development. The emphasis on financial liberalisation is evident in the fact that nearly two-thirds of World Bank structural adjustment loans issued to African governments between 1980 and 1995 included conditions related to financial policy.7 Although some thirty African countries agreed to implement such reforms, the extent of such implementation varied widely across the region (Mehran et al. 1998; Gulde et al. 2006; Honohan and Beck 2007).\n\nThe introduction of liberalising reforms \u2013 allowing the market to determine interest rates, lending rates and exchange rates \u2013 was shaped by financial reprisal regimes. Countries with exporter founding leaders were more likely to comply with donor-driven demands for reform. For them, relinquishing financial controls entailed relatively low costs because they already exerted minimal effort in policing capital accumulation among entrepreneurs. But countries with non-exporter founding leaders were less likely to comply with external demands for financial liberalisation. Doing so would eliminate the mechanisms that underpinned a business\u2013state relationship premised on restricted access to capital.\n\nFigure 4.2 illustrates the extent to which compliance with financial liberalisation has varied according to a country's prevailing financial reprisal regime. The figure presents the average financial openness index scores for countries with exporter versus non-exporter founding leaders. Higher scores indicate greater openness. The financial openness index is based on information found in the IMF's Annual Report on Exchange Arrangements and Exchange Restrictions (AREAER), including regulatory restrictions on current account transactions and capital account transactions (Chinn and Ito 2008). As such, the index is a proxy for de jure policy change. Figure 4.2 indicates that African countries have been more likely to pursue financial liberalisation if a founding leader emerged from an exporter constituency. There is little evidence of movement towards greater financial openness among countries with non-exporter founding leaders.\n\nFigure 4.2\n\nThe impact of founding leader type on financial liberalisation\n\nDespite the onset of liberalisation, African financial systems have continued to reflect the political preferences of founding leaders for managing business\u2013state relationships. The measures of financial market structure and performance shown in Table 4.2 demonstrate the extent to which financial systems of countries with exporter founding leaders have continued to diverge from their non-exporter counterparts since 2000.8 Having been more likely to undertake reforms in the 1980s and 1990s, countries with exporter founding leaders have developed financial systems with greater depth and fewer barriers to capital. As measured by the ratio of broad money (M2) to GDP, a conventional indicator of the financial system's monetisation, these countries today have significantly larger financial sectors. The ratio of bank credit to GDP, an indicator of financial intermediation, also suggests that financial institutions play a greater role in extending credit to the private sector in countries that had exporter founding leaders.\n\nTable 4.2 Financial system characteristics by founding leader type\n\n| Exporter | Non-Exporter | Difference of Means   \n---|---|---|---  \nM2 (% GDP)| 35.15| 23.31| 11.84  \n(1.97, N=136)| (0.51, N=194)| (1.76, p=0.0000)  \nBank credit (% GDP)| 20.57| 11.00| 9.57  \n(1.57, N=126)| (0.42, N=166)| (1.45, p=0.0000)  \nBank asset concentration| 82.08| 88.19| -6.11  \n(1.97, N=70)| (0.99, N=118)| (1.99, p=0.0024)  \nBank lending-deposit spread (%)| 9.85| 15.17| 5.32  \n(0.41, N=86)| (0.70, N=89)| (0.81, p=0.0000)\n\nNote: The first two columns show country-year means since 2000 with standard errors and sample sizes in parentheses. The third column reports the two-tailed difference-of-means test.\n\nAs liberalising reforms have permitted greater entry into the banking sector, banking has become less concentrated in countries with exporter, as compared to non-exporter, founders. Privately owned domestic banks now operate alongside foreign-owned and state-owned banks in nearly all African countries, but a few large banks continue to dominate in most of the region's small financial markets and the concentration of the banking system is especially pronounced in countries with non-exporter founders. In these states, the average market share of the five largest banks is appreciably larger, exaggerating their economic influence. One manifestation of the market power that such dominant banks have is reflected in the interest rate spread between lending and deposit rates. As shown in Table 4.2, the average interest rate in countries with exporter founders is about one-third lower than in countries with non-exporter founders. The persistently higher interest rate in this latter set of countries reflects the extent to which governments continue to structurally constrain access to capital. Their higher costs for financial intermediation effectively exclude a larger number of entrepreneurs from financial markets.\n\n# Financial Liberalisation and Multiparty Competition\n\nVariation in financial system development across African countries has been politically consequential. The dismantling of financial reprisal regimes in some countries through liberalising reforms has approximated the dispersal of economic power that democratic theorists associate with the emergence of meaningful contestation. In those countries, reforms such as the privatisation of state-owned banks and the elimination of credit controls effectively meant that the state ceased to serve as a gatekeeper for capital. Entrepreneurs would no longer have to fear that state-owned banks might call in their loans or cut off credit lines. This has resulted in greater economic autonomy, and therefore political independence, for entrepreneurs.\n\nIn this way, the dismantling of financial reprisal regimes in many African countries has allowed entrepreneurs to reconsider their political role. Given historically high levels of state interventionism in the economy, entrepreneurs have a vested interest in seeking changes to policies and institutions that affect the rate at which they can make profits or expand their commercial activities. The most direct way for them to secure those changes in democratic polities is by helping to elect politicians and parties amenable to implementing them. Entrepreneurs are most free to do that in African countries where access to capital has ceased to be a politically negotiated privilege, so that they can support opposition politicians without fear of reprisals. In this respect, financial liberalisation has allowed entrepreneurs to reclaim the pivotal role that they had played in building nationalist movements in the run-up to independence. In the context of democratisation, entrepreneurs have been able to fund the emergence of opposition parties as viable political organisations.\n\nThe emergence of entrepreneurs as campaign financiers in African elections has reshaped the strategic context of political competition. The return of multiparty elections to most African countries in the 1990s underscored asymmetry in the capacities of presidential incumbents and their opposition candidates. Incumbents have enjoyed a special advantage because they have typically been able to exploit their control of state coffers to fund their re-election campaigns, distributing state resources to politicians and voters alike. Opposition politicians face a distinct problem in this respect. They lack the funding needed to build up the organisational capacities of their parties, compensate other politicians for endorsements, or provide inducements to increase voter turnout on election day. It is this resource asymmetry between incumbent and opposition that entrepreneurs, as campaign financiers, have been able to recalibrate through greater financial liberalisation.\n\nOpposition politicians in African countries rely in particular on campaign funding from business entrepreneurs, lacking alternative options that have facilitated electoral coordination in other contexts. Neither labour unions nor civil society organisations are strong enough to provide a platform for building parties in most African states. And most voters are simply too poor to pay for party memberships that might otherwise provide a campaign war chest. Under such conditions, entrepreneurs are the only members of society with the wherewithal to serve as financiers for opposition campaigns. Wherever progressive financial reforms have enabled entrepreneurs to reconsider their political alliances, they can provide opposition parties with the resources needed to mount nationwide election campaigns.\n\nThe argument made here suggests that the electoral behaviour of opposition politicians can be traced back to differences in levels of financial liberalisation. If the availability of entrepreneurial resources can increase the coherence of opposition in African elections, then we should expect to find evidence of stronger opposition emerging in countries with greater access to finance capital. Figure 4.3 provides a test of this expectation with data on bank credit to the private sector as a percentage of GDP since 1990. Bank credit to the private sector, which usually reflects the degree of financial liberalisation in a country (Honohan and Beck 2007), can serve as an indicator of the extent to which the state acts as a financial gatekeeper. The figure shows the average level of credit provision for two samples of African elections defined by whether an opposition coalition formed at least once for elections held since 1990.9 The formation of such coalitions has been critical to Africa's democratisation because presidential alternation in the region has often been achieved when opposition parties work together to unseat entrenched incumbents, as occurred in Malawi in 1994, in Senegal in 2000 and in Kenya in 2002.\n\nFigure 4.3\n\nHigher credit provision encourages coalition formation\n\nFigure 4.3 unambiguously shows that such coalitions tend to emerge in countries with persistently higher average levels of credit provision. In 2010, the average level of credit to the private sector in these countries was 25.7 per cent. Meanwhile, the countries where no coalitions have been formed feature significantly lower average levels of credit provision \u2013 just 14.1 per cent in 2010. In this latter set of cases, opposition politicians appear to be constrained by the financing constraints that entrepreneurs themselves face. Indeed, the 2010 average level of credit provision in countries with no coalition formation was still lower than what had been achieved twenty years earlier in countries where coalitions have been formed (16.7 per cent in 1990).\n\nThe argument developed thus far suggests that greater financial autonomy for entrepreneurs should be associated with the emergence of stronger, more coherent opposition. To assess this proposition systematically, I use a sample of 107 presidential elections held in 29 African countries between 1990 and 2012. I include all presidential elections held in this time period, regardless of level of democracy, in which multiple candidates were permitted to contest. The data is analysed through standard ordinary least squares (OLS) regression.\n\nIf resources enable opposition politicians to mount more united national campaigns against incumbent presidents, we should expect to find fewer presidential candidates competing in African elections. The region's incumbent presidents manage to routinely win re-election because their numerous opponents often end up dividing the vote. But if some opposition politicians were able to secure the funding required to build national parties or forge multiparty alliances, other members of the opposition might be induced to join them, thereby increasing the odds of creating a winning coalition, rather than an opposition that competes in an uncoordinated manner. To gauge whether the availability of finance might influence such a dynamic, I use the effective number of presidential candidates as the dependent variable for this analysis. This measure is calculated as the inverse of the sum of vote shares received by each presidential candidate (Laakso and Taagepera 1979).10 The average effective number of presidential candidates for this sample is 2.6 and ranges from a minimum of 1.1 to a maximum of 6.6.\n\nThe main explanatory variable of interest is bank credit to the private sector as a share of GDP. This is a reasonable proxy for the financial autonomy of entrepreneurs for two reasons. First, as noted in the previous section, countries with liberalised financial systems tend to have higher levels of private credit provision. Second, private credit provision represents a measure of the extent to which financial intermediaries channel savings to investors (Beck et al. 1999), who are largely business entrepreneurs in African countries. Given the logic outlined here, higher levels of private credit provision are therefore expected to be associated with a smaller effective number of presidential candidates.\n\nTable 4.3 reports the estimated effects of credit provision on the effective number of presidential candidates. The results support the argument developed throughout this chapter: higher levels of financial autonomy, as proxied by credit provision, are associated with a smaller effective number of presidential candidates. The coefficient of this variable attains its expected negative sign and is statistically significant at conventional levels. Its substantive impact is similarly significant. For example, if the level of credit provision was increased from the 5th to 95th percentile \u2013 from 3.8 per cent to 26.1 per cent \u2013 the effective number of presidential candidates would be expected to fall by 0.5, holding all else constant. This is a substantively large effect when considering that the average effective number of presidential candidates in this sample of African elections is 2.6 candidates. A change of 0.5 could mean a tight race between 2 candidates (incumbent and opposition) or a less competitive race among 3 candidates that is likely to be won by the incumbent. This result thus suggests that incumbent presidents face more unified opposition challengers in countries with the most liberalised financial systems.\n\nTable 4.3 Estimating the effective number of presidential candidates\n\nPrivate credit from banks (% GDP), lagged| -0.023**  \n---|---  \n| (0.010)  \nRunoff electoral system| 1.956***  \n| (0.416)  \nPolitically relevant ethnic groups (PREG)| 2.270***  \n| (0.517)  \nRunoff electoral system \u00d7 PREG| -3.150***  \n| (0.882)  \nIncumbent running for re-election| -0.795**  \n| (0.310)  \nIncumbent years in office, lagged| -0.015  \n| (0.010)  \nOpposition boycott of election| -0.918***  \n| (0.222)  \nPolity index, lag| 0.020  \n| (0.019)  \nConstant| 2.149***  \n| (0.305)  \nNumber of elections| 107  \nR2| 0.333\n\nNote: The dependent variable is the effective number of presidential candidates.\n\nRobust standard errors, clustered by country, in parentheses.\n\n*** p<0.01, ** p<0.05, * p<0.10\n\nThe analysis presented in Table 4.3 examines the impact of credit provision alongside standard explanatory variables from the political party system literature (Cox 1997). The model includes a dichotomous variable for countries that employ a runoff system for presidential elections (Nohlen et al. 1999), the politically relevant ethnic groups (PREG) measure for ethnic fractionalisation (Posner 2004) and the interaction between the runoff system and ethnic fractionalisation. The model also includes dichotomous controls for whether the incumbent is personally running for re-election and whether the opposition has boycotted the election. The number of years the incumbent has been in office is added as a measure of regime stability, while the Polity index score is added as a measure for the level of democracy (Marshall and Jaggers 2009).\n\nIn Table 4.3, the runoff system, PREG ethnic fractionalisation and their interaction attain statistical significance at conventional levels.11 Their combined coefficients suggest that the interaction between the runoff system and ethnic fractionalisation has a reductive effect on the effective number of presidential candidates: the number of candidates decreases with greater diversity under the runoff system, while the number of candidates increases with greater diversity under the simple plurality or first-past-the-post system. But these results run counter to expectations. The party systems literature suggests that both runoff systems and ethnic diversity should weaken the incentives for politicians to coalesce in elections. A larger effective number of presidential candidates is expected to emerge in more ethnically diverse countries with runoff rules because politicians from different ethnic groups each believe they might win sufficient votes to qualify for the second round. Yet, in this respect, the contrary results in Table 4.3 highlight our limited understanding of how institutions are evolving in the African context to shape the political behaviour of elites and voters.\n\nThe results in Table 4.3 further show that other electoral factors can affect competitive conditions. The very composition of the presidential field significantly affects the effective number of candidates. An incumbent who runs for re-election may lower the effective number by attracting a larger share of votes through whatever means available. Opposition boycotts can also reduce the effective number because the votes that are cast end up going nearly entirely to the incumbent or the designated successor. Neither the incumbent's tenure in office nor the Polity score appears to systematically affect the effective number of candidates.\n\nTaken together, the results from the cross-national analysis show that the competitiveness of African elections is not solely conditioned by electoral rules and ethnic diversity. The financial autonomy of entrepreneurs \u2013 as proxied by the level of private credit provision \u2013 plays an important role in allowing opposition politicians to secure the funds needed to build national political organisations in otherwise inchoate party systems. Notably, in Table 4.3, private credit provision is the only policy-relevant variable that facilitates the coalescence or coordination of the opposition. The other variables either cannot be manipulated (e.g. ethnic diversity) or have unexpected effects (e.g. electoral rules). These findings should prompt us to reconsider reforms promoted as part of democracy assistance that aims to limit sources of campaign funding in many developing countries. The reality is that much remains unknown about the impact of such reforms or how they might interact with existing formal institutions (like electoral systems), or informal practices (like clientelism). By restricting where and how politicians can raise funds for their campaigns, such reforms may well exacerbate the asymmetric resource capacities of incumbent and opposition parties.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nIn this chapter, I have explored the long-standing claim of democratic theorists \u2013 that economic freedom is a necessary condition for imposing limits on the exercise of power. In the context of Africa's democratising countries, I provide a political economy explanation that attributes the emergence of greater electoral competition \u2013 through stronger, more coherent opposition \u2013 to the relative autonomy of business entrepreneurs from state-controlled capital. The analysis of financial system and electoral data indicates that liberalising financial reforms, by enabling entrepreneurs to reclaim their role as pivotal political actors, have allowed opposition politicians to access the resources needed to build broad-based electoral coalitions.\n\nThe findings from this chapter suggest that a focus on formal institutions, and economic institutions in particular, enables us to better identify and interpret patterns of political action, not fully explained by the paradigm of informal politics. In this respect, the argument presented here has implications that would benefit from greater inquiry from students of African politics.\n\nOne implication of this chapter's argument is the need to renew the study of economic institutions. While claims about the importance of informal politics in shaping political outcomes across Africa are often made with implicit reference to the supposed weakness of political institutions, far less attention has focused on economic institutions, namely, the formal rules governing commerce, investment and trade, and how they might interact with politics. There is greater cross-national variation in economic policies among African countries today than at any other time since independence. Some countries have pursued policies that promote the entry of entrepreneurs into markets, while others have refused to reform policies hostile to private enterprise. Despite this, there has been no comparable updating of the scholarship that examined such questions in prior decades (for example, see Sandbrook 1993; van de Walle 2001). The argument advanced in this chapter suggests that cross-national differences in economic institutions will ultimately have political implications. We need to understand how emerging interests tied to those economic changes will affect the construction and maintenance of political coalitions.\n\nAnother implication of this research is the need to renew the study of elites in African politics. The paradigm of informal politics often underscores the apparent failure of formal institutions by referencing instances where mass behaviour appears to be inconsistent with the expectations of those institutions (see Chapter 15). Scholars, aided by survey and experimental techniques, have therefore increasingly focused their attention on understanding how voters respond to clientelistic incentives. Nevertheless, some of the most consequential political outcomes affecting democracy in Africa are determined by elite decisions that structure mass-level responses. The stability of the party system, for example, begins with decisions made by politicians to work together across social cleavages and with the entrepreneurs who bankroll those campaigns. We need to understand the factors influencing why and how elite actors are induced to invest in such institution building.\n\n# Works cited\n\nAcemoglu, Daron, Simon Johnson, and James A. Robinson. 2001. 'The colonial origins of comparative development: An empirical investigation', American Economic Review 91, 5: 1369\u20131401.\n\nArriola, Leonardo R. 2012. Multiethnic coalitions in Africa: Business financing of opposition election campaigns, Cambridge University Press.\n\nAustin, Dennis. 1964. Politics in Ghana, 1946\u20131960, Oxford University Press.\n\nAustin, Gareth, and Chibuike Ugochukwu Uche. 2007. 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Bankers in West Africa: The story of the Bank of British West Africa Limited, London: Hutchinson Benham.\n\nGulde, Anne-Marie, Catherine Patillo, Jakob Christensen, Kevin Carey, and Smita Wagh. 2006. Sub-Saharan Africa financial sector challenges, Washington, D.C.: International Monetary Fund.\n\nHodgkin, Thomas. 1961. African political parties, London: Penguin.\n\nHonohan, Patrick, and Thorsten Beck. 2007. Making finance work for Africa, Washington, D.C.: World Bank.\n\nIliffe, John. 1983. The emergence of African capitalism, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.\n\nJackson, Robert H., and Carl G. Rosberg. 1982. Personal rule in Black Africa, Berkeley: University of California Press.\n\nJackson, R.T. 1971. 'Agricultural development in the Malagasy Republic', East African Geographical Review 9: 69\u201378.\n\nKilson, Martin L. 1958. 'Nationalism and social classes in British West Africa.' Journal of Politics 20, 2: 368\u2013387.\n\nKennedy, Paul. 1988. African capitalism: The struggle for ascendency, Cambridge University Press.\n\nLaakso Markku, and Rein Taagepera. 1979. 'Effective number of parties: A measure with application to Western Europe'. Comparative Political Studies 12: 3\u201327.\n\nLa Porta, Rafael, Florencio Lopez-de-Silanes, Andrei Shleifer, and Robert W. Vishny. 1998. 'Law and finance'. Journal of Political Economy 106, 6: 1113\u20131155.\n\nLombard, C. Stephen, and Alex H.C. Tweedie. 1974. Agriculture in Zambia since independence, Institute for African Studies, University of Zambia.\n\nMarshall, Monty G., and Keith Jaggers. 2009. 'Polity IV Project.' College Park, MA: University of Maryland.\n\nMehran, Hassanali, Piero Ugolini, Jean Philippe Briffaux, George Iden, Tonny Lybek, Stephen Swaray, and Peter Hayward. 1998. Financial sector development in Sub-Saharan African countries, Washington, D.C.: International Monetary Fund.\n\nMoore, Barrington. 1966. Social origins of dictatorship and democracy, Boston: Beacon Press.\n\nMorgenthau, Ruth Schachter. 1964. Political parties in French-speaking West Africa, Oxford University Press.\n\nNohlen, Dieter, Michael Krennerich, and Bernhard Thibaut (eds.). 1999. Elections in Africa: A data handbook, Oxford University Press.\n\nNwabughuogu, Anthony I. 1982. 'From wealthy entrepreneurs to petty traders: The decline of African middlemen in Eastern Nigeria, 1900\u20131950.' Journal of African History 23, 3: 365\u2013379.\n\nPopiel, Paul A. 1994. 'Financial systems in Sub-Saharan Africa: A comparative study'. World Bank Discussion Paper No. 260, Washington, D.C.: World Bank.\n\nPosner, Daniel N. 2004. 'Measuring ethnic fractionalization in Africa'. American Journal of Political Science 48, 4: 849\u2013863.\n\nRand McNally and Company. 1945\u20131965. Rand McNally International Bankers Directory.\n\nRathbone, Richard. 1973. 'Business in politics: Party struggle in Ghana, 1949\u201357'. Journal of Development Studies 9, 3: 391\u2013401.\n\nRiker, William H. 1982. Liberalism against populism: A confrontation between the theory of democracy and the theory of social choice, Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press.\n\nSandbrook, Richard. 1993. The politics of Africa's economic recovery, Cambridge University Press.\n\nSender, John, and Sheila Smith. 1986. The development of capitalism in Africa, London: Methuen.\n\nSklar, Richard L. 1963. Nigerian political parties: Power in an emergent African nation, Princeton University Press.\n\nStockwell, Sarah. 2000. The business of decolonization: British business strategies in the Gold Coast, Oxford University Press.\n\nvan de Walle, Nicolas. 2001. African economies and the politics of permanent crisis, 1979\u20131999, Cambridge University Press.\n\nWallerstein, Immanuel. 1970. 'The colonial era in Africa: Changes in the social structure', in L.H. Gann and P. Duignan (eds.), Colonialism in Africa, 1870\u20131960, Cambridge University Press.\n\nWarnier, Jean-Pierre. 1993. l'esprit d'entreprise au Cameroun, Paris: Karthala.\n\nWoods, Dwayne. 2003. 'The tragedy of the cocoa pod: Rent-seeking, land and ethnic conflict in Ivory Coast.' Journal of Modern African Studies 41, 4: 641\u2013655.\n\nZolberg, Aristide. 1966. Creating political order: The party-states of West Africa, Chicago: Rand McNally.\n\nZysman, John. 1983. Governments, markets, and growth: Financial systems and the politics of industrial change, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.\n\n1 This chapter draws on and expands arguments made in Arriola (2012).\n\n2 Founding leaders are identified as emerging from exporter constituencies if, at the time of independence, their co-ethnics were engaged in producing one of a country's two largest commodity exports such as cocoa, coffee, cotton, groundnuts or tea. Founding leaders are identified as being from non-exporter constituencies if their co-ethnics were not associated with such production.\n\n3 The relationship between banking and commodity production was reinforced after the Second World War, as commercial banks expanded their branch networks into cash crop-growing areas (Engberg and Hance 1969).\n\n4 A country's two largest commodity exports, in dollar terms, were identified through data from the Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO) (<http://faostat.fao.org/>). Commodity figures are for the years 1961 to 1965.\n\n5 Country-specific studies were used to identify and corroborate the ethnic groups associated with commodity production in each case. For example, to know which groups were associated with the cultivation of coffee and vanilla in Madagascar, I relied on Jackson's (1971) study of agricultural development in that country. Similarly, to confirm the groups involved in Zambia's tobacco production, I turned to Lombard and Tweedie's (1974) study of agriculture in that country.\n\n6 Bank averages are for countries listed in Table 4.1. Bank numbers are estimated at five-year intervals based on volumes of Rand McNally International Bankers Directory and Africa South of the Sahara.\n\n7 This figure is calculated from the Dollar and Svensson (2000) cross-national dataset of internal evaluations made by the World Bank's Operations Evaluation Department (OED).\n\n8 Data on financial system characteristics are from the World Bank's World Development Indicators.\n\n9 An opposition coalition is defined as an electoral alliance in which opposition politicians from different ethnic groups publicly endorse a single candidate for executive office.\n\n10 Electoral data were compiled from print sources like Nohlen et al. (1999), media sources such as Agence France Presse and online sources like the African Elections Database (<http://africanelections.tripod.com/>).\n\n11 In countries with runoff systems, the effective number of presidential candidates is calculated based on data from first-round elections.\n\n# Part II Law and Order\n# 5 Constitutions\n\n## The Politics of Constitutional Reform\n\nMuna Ndulo\n\nIt has been almost three decades since popular mobilisations, demanding better governance, drove the onset of democratisation in Africa. Although the consolidation of democracy \u2013 the building of democratic institutions and state capacity to manage the political and economic policies of society for development \u2013 remains a challenge, the number of current 'democracies' represents an improvement since the pre-1990s. A large majority of countries now conduct regular elections at national and local levels, enabling populations to choose their political leaders and ensuring the legitimacy of elected government officials. According to the 2015 Mo Ibrahim Index, democracy consolidation in Africa grew between 2000 and 2008, although it has stagnated since (Mo Index 2015).\n\nDespite progress in the early 2000s, such stagnation indicates that the continent continues to be beset by a number of challenges. The first is the crisis of national identity that faces a number of states and is rooted in the formation of pluralistic states, characterised by differences in language, culture and religion among component groups. The challenge is how to manage this diversity and harness it for national development. The second is the worrying trend of leaders prolonging their power by amending constitutions, as has happened in Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda. The third is social exclusion, income inequality, and vulnerability to economic and environmental risks that face large segments of the populations. As Francis Deng has observed, often the state gets captured by a dominant group or groups that then define the national identity framework on their terms and give themselves the preeminent status as favoured citizens who enjoy all the rights and dignity of citizenship (2010). Other groups become discriminated against, marginalised, excluded and denied their full citizenship rights (see Klaas, Chapter 10, this volume).\n\nSome of this can be explained by colonial rule, which subsumed distinct racial or ethnic groups under a unitary state framework, although many groups would have likely preferred nationhood (Rotberg 1965). All colonial systems were authoritarian and, therefore, all the new nations of Africa inherited a legacy of authoritarian political structures. The colonial rulers' divide-and-rule strategy (in their political and economic policies) correlated diversity with disparities in the shaping and sharing of power, national wealth, social services and development opportunities. In the period following independence many countries failed to address these disparities, and instead, passed amendments to further entrench the position of the executive in the constitutional models bequeathed to them by their colonisers (Ndulo 2010).\n\nThus, governments centralised power and imposed monolithic concepts of unity that suppressed diversity and participation in governance, leaving many citizens disempowered, marginalised and disenfranchised (Mwanakatwe 1994). The emphasis during this period was on the creation of new sovereign states and the dominant concern was to aggregate power under a centralised authority. As Nwabueze has observed with respect to the 1979 Nigerian constitution (that superseded the 1960 and 1963 constitutions, and entrenched the present unitary system in Nigeria): 'The feeling that people had was that unity was overriding and that you could achieve it by putting so much power in the center. We were misguided that is the truth. It turned out that putting too much power at the center was an invitation to disunity. The struggle for control of the center with all that power led to disunity' (Nwabueze 2014).\n\nThe legacy of this institutional inheritance has been problematic in a number of ways. The colonial system involved the superimposition of a new political order without taking into account local conditions. Indigenous political systems that existed before colonial rule were either destroyed or radically modified. This resulted in the general disengagement of the majority of the population from participation in the governance structures. Even where, as in former British protectorates, indigenous political authorities and organisations were used in a system of indirect rule, the roles were significantly changed to the detriment of ordinary citizens (Rotberg 1965). Chiefs and their councils were subject to the authority and discretion of district commissioners or other colonial agents, rather than to the will of their people. Perhaps one of the worst legacies of colonial rule is entrenched popular inertia towards politics. Without the active participation of the people in the governance of the country, it is impossible to carry out the required tasks of nation-building and development. Yet, this is what post-colonial Africa inherited from colonial rule: administrative and institutional structures that stymied participation and promoted the effective exercise of authority by the state (Ndulo 2010).\n\nA number of African countries, such as Tanzania and Zambia, are today under pressure to revisit and rewrite the inherited constitutions with the objective of transforming the colonial state into a constitutional order that is responsive to the needs of the people (Ndulo 2010). This wave of constitution-making is associated with deepening democracy. The processes seek to address fundamental institutional crisis as well as establish democratic state structures. The new constitutions in Africa, such as the 2010 Kenyan constitution, marked a departure from the colonial legacy. They seek to enhance participation and accountability, manage diversity constructively, and promote peace, justice, human rights, human dignity, inclusivity and democratic governance. They typically also establish the office of 'public protector' to promote accountability, transparency and service delivery. Additionally, they encourage decentralised systems to bring power and decision-making closer to local communities, while establishing institutional arrangements to support democracy such as human rights and gender commissions.\n\nThis represents a significant shift in the form and quality of legal frameworks that govern politics on the continent. In terms of rights, many of the new constitutions go beyond the traditional concepts of focusing on organs of government, separation of powers and the protection of political and civil rights to include social and economic rights. This trend reflects a growing realisation that the state has a vital role to play in the provision of basic services, either by direct action or by properly regulating the way services are provided via the private sector, especially in the areas of health, education and basic necessities like water. This realisation is reflected in the growing number of provisions for social and economic rights and social goods, the realisation of social justice and the preservation of the environment in national constitutions in Kenya, South Africa and Zimbabwe.\n\nMaking a constitution in any country is a major exercise. Since the revolutions in France and the United States, constitutionalism has played an ever-increasing role in nation-building and in the establishment of the rule of law. The fight for new constitutions in multiparty politics in Africa attests to the significance civil society and the general population attach to constitution-making, as a constitutive part of national reconciliation and political development. In so far as the constitution articulates the vision of a new society, defines the fundamental principles by which the country is to be organised and redistributes power within the country, it can play an important role in the consolidation of peace and promotion of development.\n\nHowever, getting constitutions right is no easy task; and the way in which a constitution is drafted is important. Indeed, it is important to recognise that the process of developing a constitution is as important as its substance. Although constitution-making processes are always context driven, lessons from Namibia, South Africa and Kenya suggest that certain cross-cutting factors \u2013 such as effective public participation, transparency and inclusiveness \u2013 are crucial to the creation of a constitution that is durable, legitimate and accepted by all. The process must also be governed by a clear legal framework that entrenches these values. The following pages examine the best practices in constitution-making in Africa. This chapter draws, to a large extent, on the 1996 South African constitution and to a lesser extent on the 2010 Kenyan constitution as two model constitutions that have addressed questions of accountability, power distribution and inclusivity in governance, and thus have created institutions that may offer the best chance of successfully reforming post-colonial governance structures.\n\n# Best Practices: Constitutions, Diversity and Inclusiveness\n\nConcern about executive power is a common theme in most constitutional conversations in Africa today (see, for example, Tanzania, Zambia and Zimbabwe). The most striking feature of the presidency in African states is its extensive powers and consequent dominance of the national political system. A serious search for constitutional arrangements that deepen democracy must respond to the need to decentralise power to some national levels of government and local communities. In addition to bringing governance closer to the people devolution can, if appropriately structured, operate as a check on the concentration of power at the centre. In recent years, a number of African states have adopted constitutional arrangements providing for devolution; Ethiopia and Kenya are examples (see Dyzenhaus, this volume). In addition to solving political conflict by providing political accommodation for the different factions and ethnic groups in multi-ethnic countries, devolution is also an attempt to address the unequal distribution of wealth and development opportunities in over-centralised state structures. However, it must be observed that the enhancement of political participation and accountability structures requires truly independent government institutions that are able to make distinct regional political choices.\n\nThere is also the need to determine the role of traditional authority in African governance structures. While there is consensus among Africans that traditional leaders such as chiefs should have a place in the political system (Nhlapo 1995), the nature of this role is contested, and in many contexts remains largely undefined. While accommodating traditional structures in modern political systems, one should not ignore the fact that these institutions (with varying degrees of legitimacy, distorted at least by colonial rule) at times can be oppressive, exploitative, discriminatory and intolerant, especially with regard to women. Since the goal is to deepen democracy and improve inclusivity, the need to give a role to traditional authorities must go hand-in-hand with the need to democratise them. Given the economic and institutional challenges in a typical African country, beyond the essential ingredients of a democracy, a democratic constitution for an African country should be a liberating document. It should not only limit the powers of the state and its institutions, but also guarantee the kinds of liberties and freedoms that will make the pursuit of happiness, prosperity and self-fulfilment a reality for all citizens in a national state. It should empower and liberate women, minorities and other underprivileged groups. It should guarantee equality of opportunity for all citizens irrespective of ethnicity, gender, race, religion, ethnic background or physical condition. The subsequent sections examine the extent to which the 1996 South African and 2010 Kenyan constitutional arrangements implement the constitutional values espoused in this section.\n\n## The Rule of Law\n\nA key component of any democratic constitution is the promotion of the respect of the rule of law. Although implementation is often problematic, the supremacy of the constitution over all institutions defines the commitment of the South African (Constitution Section 1(d)) and Kenyan (Constitution Section 2(1)) peoples to the principle of the rule of law. In order to strengthen and consolidate constitutional democracy, the rule of law and a culture of accountability, both the Kenyan and South African constitutions provide for a number of independent state institutions, including human rights commissions; commissions for gender equality; commissions for the protection of the rights of cultural, religious and linguistic communities; and a public protector. If they function as intended, these organisations will operate as further checks on the state's conduct towards its citizen. This is especially important because majoritarian democracies, even without any formal usurpation of power, tend to oppress other groups that may hold unpopular political beliefs or belong to racial or ethnic minorities.\n\n## The Protection of Civil and Political Rights\n\nBoth the Kenyan and South African constitutions contain a comprehensive Bill of Rights, which applies to all and binds the legislature, the executive, the judiciary and all organs of state, and guarantees without qualifications the right to equality before the law, human dignity and inviolability. The rights and liberties enshrined in the Bill of Rights may be limited only in terms of law of general application \u2013 i.e. that the limitation is reasonable and justifiable in an open and democratic society, taking into account all relevant factors including: (1) the nature of the right; (2) the importance of the purpose of the limitation; (3) the relation between the limitation and its purpose; and, (4) whether less restrictive means exist to achieve the purpose. The responsibility for protecting these rights is vested in courts and watchdog institutions, which are given the power to mediate competing claims of rights by individuals and the state, as well as the power to evaluate the constitutionality of government policies and practices.\n\nIn South Africa, the right to form and join trade unions is specifically mentioned in the constitution. Every citizen is guaranteed the right to participate in government, directly or indirectly through freely chosen representatives. The Bill of Rights also guarantees freedom of religion and assembly, and equal access to public services and social services. Discrimination on the grounds of race, religion, conscience, belief, culture, language, birth, sex, gender, pregnancy, social origin, sexual orientation or age is prohibited. The deprivation of life, liberty or property without due process of law is also banned.\n\nIn a departure from the independence constitution models, the 2010 Kenyan and 1996 South African constitutions go further, and include in the Bill of Rights justiciable socio-economic rights in addition to political rights. Some examples include: access to land; housing; healthcare services; education, food and water; the right to social security benefits; and children's rights to these same benefits. Although the inclusion of such rights is relatively new, it is a trend that is being followed by other constitutions in places such as Zimbabwe. The inclusion of socio-economic rights, as justiciable rights, is an attempt to introduce a substantive element to these rights, not merely a procedural one. The government is constitutionally obliged to ensure the progressive realisation of these rights, as a recent South African case involving the right to housing held (Grootboom v. State 2000).\n\nHowever, governments are not always willing, or able, to satisfy citizens' rights to a certain quality of living, which can create a strain in the relationship between the courts, the government and the constitution. Moreover, the effectiveness of such protections depends to a large extent on the ability of citizens to enforce the rights, and access the courts and other forums that are charged with the responsibility to enforce rights.\n\nOne important element of best practice present in both the South African and Kenyan constitution is therefore the incorporation of inclusive provisions relating to who has standing to bring an enforcement claim alleging a violation of the constitution before the courts. Article 22 of the Kenyan Constitution and Article 38 of the South African Constitution provide that every person has the right to institute court proceedings claiming that a right in the Bill of Rights has been denied, violated or infringed, or is threatened. Additionally, the constitution allows a person \u2013 whether acting on behalf of another person who cannot act in their own name, acting as a member of (or in the interest of) a group or class of persons, or acting in the public interest, and an association acting in the interest of one or more of its members \u2013 to have standing to bring an enforcement claim before the courts. This significantly increases the chances that, where violations do occur, cases will be brought to court, and rights will be protected in accordance with the constitution.\n\n## Celebrating Diversity\n\nBoth Kenya and South Africa are heterogeneous \u2013 with great diversity in race, ethnicity and religion. Rather than deny or gloss over the existence of diversity, both the 1996 South African constitution and 2010 Kenyan constitution proudly acknowledge their ethnic, racial and cultural diversity, and adopt strategies for responding to and accommodating such differences. As well as constitutional arrangements that protect diversity and minority rights and promote political tolerance of ethnic and racial differences, political inclusivity has become a key strategy of building effective and legitimate state institutions. At the same time, they recognise that the enjoyment of these rights has to be balanced with the need to ensure that it does not lead to the erosion of the notion of common citizenship and to isolationism.\n\nSouth Africa in the apartheid era and Kenya prior to the 2010 constitution lacked institutional arrangements that promoted inclusiveness and legitimate accountability. Mindful of their past, recent constitutions in both countries provide that the constitutional order is founded on the values of: (1) human dignity; (2) the achievement of equality; (3) non-racialism and non-sexism; and, (4) supremacy of the constitution and the rule of law over all institutions and laws (Kenya 2010; South Africa 1996). They also commit themselves to establishing an open society based on democratic values, social justice and fundamental human rights, as well as proclaiming that the country belongs to all who live in it, united in diversity. This is then protected by the constitutional entrenchment of such notions as the rule of law, equality of citizens, equality before the law and the protection of civil and political rights.\n\n## Decentralisation\n\nBoth the Kenyan and South African constitutions provide for devolution, demarcating national and local spheres of government that are distinctive, but also interdependent and inter-related. The devolved character of governance in both constitutions decentralises power and empowers subnational governments, but can also be used to accommodate diversity and diffuse hostile relations between various ethnic or religious groups (building trust between communities, as well as trust in government). As Nwabueze has pointed out, the tragedy of tribal or cultural differences, unlike ideological ones, is that the feelings which they arouse are not amenable to rational argument and persuasion (Nwabueze 1993). Further, as Cachalia (2001) has stated, in addition to putting procedural constraints on majoritarian decision-making, these arrangements encourage compromise and deliberative decision-making by requiring that decisions at the central level take the interests of opponents and local communities into account.\n\nSuch devolution ensures a measure of autonomy for the various provinces in the country (regions, counties, states and so on) that allows local communities to manage a substantial degree of their own affairs, thereby ensuring the accommodation of local communities and fostering a feeling of inclusivity. Except in areas reserved as core competencies of the national government, parliament has no legislative competence over matters within the exclusive functional areas of the subnational governments. In an 'ideal type' federal structure, the national parliament is only allowed to legislate in matters under the subnational structures, where it is necessary for national security, economic unity (maintaining essential national standards, and establishing minimum standards for the rendering of services) or for preventing unreasonable action taken by a province which is prejudicial to other provinces or the country as a whole. The Kenyan and South African examples are not quite 'ideal types', but they nonetheless reserve a clear autonomous sphere for subnational governments.\n\nThe trend towards devolving power to subnational structures and local communities in African constitutions has been strongly encouraged by international donors and development agencies and reflects a growing consensus in favour of more inclusive and participatory forms of government that seek to improve the responsiveness and accountability of political leaders to their communities. It is premised on the fundamental belief that human beings can govern themselves in peace and dignity in pursuit of their collective wellbeing once they are entrusted with control of their own destiny through the medium of popular local democratic institutions. Indeed, if done well, devolution can deliver a number of benefits. In economic terms, it permits governments to match the provision of local public goods and services with the preferences of recipients. In political terms, devolution provides local minorities with greater opportunities to preserve their distinctive cultural and linguistic identities within the framework of a stable, central authority, which may also promote tolerance \u2013 a core value in democratic governance that not only keeps the social structure together but also enables it to function smoothly. At the same time, effective devolution provides channels for the expression of regional sentiments, which in turn allows national policies to become more sensitive to regional and local variations within the nation state. This may include creating a greater political profile for minority parties, who might otherwise be totally excluded from power.\n\nThere are, however, political dangers in the devolution of power to subregional units (Dyzenhaus, Chapter 14, this volume). Wrongly structured subnational entities can worsen ethnic and racial tensions in a state. They can provide an opportunity for political mobilisation on the divisive basis of ethnicity, with potential consequences for political oppression, intolerance and, at the extreme, secessionist movements. A related danger is that a regional system might frustrate the task of 'nation-building' when territorial claims are tied to ethnic or ideological affiliations, and that the creation of exclusive ethnically homogeneous units may emphasise ethnic divisions and undermine the unity and cohesiveness of a state. For instance, a study on Uganda showed that the power of the districts to employ staff led to a tendency to retain people regarded as 'indigenous' to the area. In Uganda, the notion of territoriality and homogeneity embedded within the logic of decentralisation has tended to create an unending chain of marginalisation and quest for autonomy. Sentiments such as these find expression in the craving for new districts (Ahikire 2002). This is well illustrated by the case of Nigeria, which in 1960 had three regions and today has thirty-six states. Yet, the creation of more districts also results in new demands from local communities who feel marginalised.\n\n# The Rule of Law, Constitutionalism and Governance\n\nConstitutions are only as good as their implementation. Beyond the development of constitutional norms, citizens in many African countries are demanding that governments live up to the constitutional norms contained in the new constitutions. Whether in the debate on the changing of presidential term limits (Posner and Young, Chapter 11, this volume) or the holding of free and fair elections, there is a growing insistence on the rule of law. As Okoth-Ogendo has put it, Africans no longer want constitutions without 'constitutionalism' (1988).\n\nThe forgoing analysis has already made the case that one of the most important political and legal concepts in democratic governance is the concept of the rule of law. However, this concept itself faces a lack of clarity in a number of areas including conception, operation and evaluation. There is uncertainty about what the essence of the rule of law actually is, whether it primarily resides in certain institutional configurations or in more diffuse normative structures. There is also the question as to how the rule of law can assist in nation-building, promote good governance and protect human rights. It is therefore worth clarifying the relationship between constitutional design and the rule of law.\n\nThe concept of the rule of law implies that all state power ought to be exercised under the authority of law, and that there should be rules of law governing the election and appointment of those who make and execute policy, as well as the manner in which such policies are made in order to ensure rationality, fairness and compliance with constitutional provisions in the decision-making process. This state of affairs is juxtaposed with a regime characterised by caprice or arbitrariness, in which acts or omissions are traceable to the whims of the particular man or woman in power at a given time.\n\nIn a democratic context, the rule of law also connotes that state power should only be used through legal rules for establishing the economic and social system popularly agreed upon through constitutionally sanctioned representative institutions or other acceptable surrogates. Typically, the division and regulation of state power is established through the national constitution. A key element of the rule of law is that it provides an assurance of some sort of predictability in the conduct of state officials by the prior existence of a basic law covering the subject matter that falls within their fields of operation. However, if this is to happen, the roles and status of such public officials by law must be clearly and thoroughly defined.\n\nIn addition to constructing legal barriers to government arbitrariness, defined as the absence of legal authority for acts done, and the demand for procedural safeguards (Paul 1999), the rule of law legitimises state power. Authority is legitimate if there is an established legal and institutional framework, and if decisions are taken in accordance with accepted institutional criteria, processes and procedures. Any truly enlightened and fair social order must be firmly based on the rule of law and respect for human rights. The very idea of a constitutional democratic government, or constitutionalism, connotes a government defined, regulated and limited by the commonly agreed rules of the game (Nwabueze 1993).\n\nThus, constitutional democracy is founded upon the notion of checks and balances, namely that different institutions \u2013 the legislature, the judiciary and the executive \u2013 act as a check and balance on each other, while operating independently of one another. Because all three institutions are duty-bound to uphold the rule of law, it is necessary to precisely define the roles of each institution and that of public officials. It is not enough to assure predictability, and control devices designed to curb bureaucratic excesses are also necessary. If a government bound by a written constitution can have only such powers as are granted by its constituent instrument, then we must accept as a practical consequence that the constitution, in granting powers, can also, and must by necessary implication, limit them. As Lord Acton famously said: 'power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely' (Creighton 1887).\n\nThe mark of good governance consists above all else in its effect on nurturing and promoting the best qualities in the people and habits of obedience to government as the constituted authority; its interposition in the settlement of disputes and the redress of grievances; its tolerance of political, ethnic and other differences; its habits of integrity, probity, fairness, self-restraint and discipline in the conduct of social relations and public affairs; its spirit of enterprise, hard work, self-reliance and inventiveness in the pursuits and activities of life; and its quality of public-spiritedness and patriotism in matters affecting the interests of the community (Nwabueze 1993).\n\nSimilarly, the best form of government is that which fosters such qualities in the people as initiative and inventiveness, and which promotes further improvement in their overall intellectual and moral qualities. The success of government in part depends upon such qualities, especially in terms of maintaining and promoting economic development and the wellbeing of society. It is the good qualities of the people that supply the motivating force that works the machinery of the government. Judged by this criterion, a government of absolute or unlimited power is intrinsically 'bad'. Its inherent effect will be to create indifference, apathy and passivity in its people. These negative qualities are 'implied in the very idea of absolute power' (Nissanke & Ndulo 2017) and result inevitably from the lack of public participation in the government. An absolutist government creates other far worse traits in, and propensities among, the people. In this sense, formal political institutions are of the greatest importance.\n\nThe rule of law must therefore ensure: (1) regulation and limitation of the powers of government and the provision of mechanisms to ensure the efficacy of such limitations; (2) the provision of measures that ensure the political accountability of political leaders on the basis of openness, probity and honesty; (3) the full protection of the fundamental rights of the people; (4) that disputes, including those concerning the constitutionality of legislation and government acts, are adjudicated impartially by regular, ordinary courts that are independent of the protagonists; (5) that ordinary laws applied in the execution of governance and adjudication of disputes are made in conformity with the provisions of the constitution and in accordance with the procedure for law-making prescribed therein; (6) clearly formulated and transparent processes through which political leaders and government officials are held accountable for their actions to the people; (7) the safety and security of citizens and the rule of law such that contracts can be fairly enforced, both between the public and private operators and between private operators and the state; (8) that public agencies are responsive to the needs of the public and promote social and economic development for the benefit of all citizens in an equitable manner; and, (9) the provision of information that promotes the achievement of accountability, the careful application of laws, functioning of markets, and the creativity and innovation of the people.\n\nThe rule of law and democratic governance therefore entails, first and foremost, a government that lives up to its responsibilities by ensuring the effective delivery of public goods and services, the maintenance of law and order, and the administration of justice. Governments are organised around institutions that engage in the delivery of goods and services and ensure government accountability to its citizens. In turn, institutional effectiveness and accountability are central to good governance and the rule of law (Stevenson 2003). However, well-designed institutions cannot do the job on their own \u2013 they must be undergirded by behavioural norms that guide the actions of decision makers. If political elites are not committed to playing by the rules of the game, key constitutional provisions may be overlooked or ignored. Thus, in the terms set out in the Chapter 15, informal and formal institutions must complement each other rather than compete.\n\nUnfortunately, such supportive norms are often lacking. As a result, the continent has suffered more than its fair share of weak, unproductive and unaccountable public institutions, which have arguably been largely responsible for the failure of governance and general economic decline in much of Africa (Beutz 1989). Examples of these kinds of problems can be found elsewhere in this volume, particularly in the chapters by Klaas (10), Medie (6) and VonDoepp (13). This raises the question of how to strengthen democratic and constitutional norms, and increase the chances that the official rules will be respected.\n\n## Watchdog Institutions and Respecting the Constitution\n\nThe promotion of good governance and the implementation and enforcement of human rights and the rule of law cannot be left to the courts alone. The public must also play a watchdog role. In this regard, it is important to remember that transparency is an in-built 'modus operandi' in the conception of democracy; it relies on the free flow of information processes and access to institutions. For there to be effective transparency, institutions and information have to be accessible to those concerned with them, and enough information has to be provided to enable the citizens to understand and monitor them.\n\nSignificantly, the new African constitutions provide for an additional layer of enforcement institutions in order to more fully translate constitutional principles into national government practices. One element of this in Kenya and South Africa has been the creation of institutionalised watchdog bodies, including public protectors, anti-corruption commissions, gender commissions, and human rights and integrity commissions. This trend coincides with the increasing focus within the international community on the importance of watchdog institutions such as national human rights organisations. A 1991 UN International Workshop on National Institutions for the Promotion and Protection of Human Rights resulted in the drafting of guiding principles that were adopted by the UN Commission on Human Rights in Resolution 1992/54 in 1992. These principles, known as the 'Principles Relating to the Status of National Institutions', or the 'Paris Principles', were endorsed by the General Assembly in its Resolution 48/134 in 1993, which states that 'The principles affirmed that national institutions are to be vested with competence to promote and protect human rights and given as broad a mandate as possible, set forth clearly in a constitutional or legislative text'. Similarly, the Vienna Declaration and Program of Action, adopted by the World Conference on Human Rights in Vienna on 25 June 1993 recognised that national human rights institutions play an important role in promoting and protecting human rights, disseminating human rights information and providing human rights education.\n\nIn a developing democracy, watchdog institutions are likely to play a particularly important role, as they provide a viable forum for the investigation and resolution of human rights complaints in cases where the judicial system is weak, slow or inaccessible to ordinary citizens. National human rights institutions may also address problems that are not justiciable in ordinary courts such as maladministration and inefficiency in the provision of services. They can improve the legality and fairness of governance administration, thereby increasing government accountability. A key strategy, therefore, in the process of promoting the rule of law, good governance and inclusiveness is the development of effective and truly independent watchdog institutions that improve indigenous institutional capacities to promote and protect sustained democratic gains.\n\n# The Effectiveness and Enforcement of the Rule of Law\n\nIn terms of institutions, rules and regulations, and formalism, an increasing number of African countries would qualify as countries that embrace democratic governance and the rule of law. In Kenya, South Africa and Zimbabwe, the new constitutions that have been introduced detail provisions on civil and political rights of citizens and have in place mechanisms for their monitoring, promotion and enforcement. The normative base of governance is specifically stipulated by these countries' constitutions as 'democracy and social justice'. But respect for the rule of law can be more properly gleaned from the extent to which civil and political rights are respected by law enforcement agencies and other government officials. It is also reflected in citizens' confidence in the ability of law enforcement organs to protect them from crime and violations of human rights. When measured in this way, progress has been more modest.\n\nThe general impression within the media and recent academic scholarship (Cheeseman, Chapter 1, this volume) is that African governments do not respect the rule of law, especially in their behaviour towards opposition parties and when confronted with public protest in difficult political and economic situations (Klaas, Chapter 10, this volume). The security forces and the police tend to be the major culprits of human rights violations (Medie, Chapter 6, this volume). The poor observance of human rights by security forces is generally attributed to poor training, minimal exposure to human rights norms, political interference and capacity constraints. Inadequate funding and other types of resource deprivation have undermined the effectiveness of most governance agencies including constitutionally independent ones. The result is that the very institutions charged with protecting human rights and promoting good governance fail to live up to citizens' expectations. This has clearly been the case in both Kenya and Zimbabwe, where new constitutions have done little to increase the efficacy of the police.\n\nThe public therefore loses confidence in these institutions and the credibility and integrity of the institutions is, in turn, eroded. Civil society and the media are broadly perceived as doing a better job than official agencies in promoting accountability and good governance in African countries. Nonetheless, inadequate information gathering, weak analytical capacities and scarce resources hamper the effective development of civil society; the fragmentation of civil society in many countries \u2013 along ethnic, partisan or personal lines \u2013 also inhibits the sharing of expertise and information.\n\nGiven this, it is problematic that national institutions with an express human rights mandate struggle to be effective in many African jurisdictions. In general, the executive remains too powerful in relation to all other state agencies, and the independence of such institutions vis-\u00e0-vis the executive is not always clear (Ndulo 2014). There exists a high degree of dependency of such institutions on the executive branch, which makes their findings of overall government performance not always impartial. Watchdog institutions may also prove ineffective because the executive often ignores their recommendations. They also often suffer from a crisis of leadership that is explained, at least in part, by the appointment of officials not based on merit but patronage, whereby ethnicity and loyalty to the ruling party are often given priority.\n\nIt is also important to recognise that watchdog institutions cannot fulfil their functions effectively in states that do not have some minimum level of democratic governance. Even when they operate in a democratic context, their work may be undermined by both law enforcement officers and victims due to an ignorance of human rights rules and procedures. This represents a critical challenge, because implementing the constitution involves developing a culture of understanding of, and receptiveness for, human rights concerns that extends to people at work and at school, government officials, parliamentarians and members of the security forces. In turn, this suggests a great need to strengthen public awareness of human rights and the role of watchdog institutions in society.\n\nAccountability to the public can also be enhanced by ensuring that annual and special reports are distributed widely and that there is a regular flow of communication between the institution and the complainant during an investigation. It is extremely important to appoint an individual (or individuals) to head a watchdog institution that has expertise, integrity and credibility in the eyes of both the government and the populace. The strength of character and the courage needed to operate effective watchdog institutions should not be underestimated (Economic Freedom Fighters and Others v. Speaker of the National Assembly, Zuma and Others 2016). Given this, political and governmental support must be given to institutions, their work and their recommendations. Improving accessibility to these organisations is also important, and requires such agencies to be open to the population they are designed to protect, addressing such issues as public knowledge of the institution's physical location, as well as ensuring diversity in the leadership composition of such institutions.\n\nMany of these challenges are likely to be easier to meet if institutions are decentralised so that they can easily be accessed by the population. A good example is the Human Rights Commission in Ghana, which is decentralised to the regional level. Such institutions must also be representative, especially with respect to gender. They must also develop effective service delivery mechanisms for the poor. While it is generally agreed that courts have a critical role to play in the enforcement of human rights and constitutionalism, they are often expensive and difficult to access. It is also widely acknowledged that the performance of the judiciary is hampered by the shortage of both human and operational resources availability. In most jurisdictions, courts are congested and are perceived as slow in their disposal of cases that are brought before them (VonDoepp, Chapter 13, this volume). These difficulties tend to undermine the public's confidence in the ability and suitability of the courts as forums for the protection of human rights and the advancement of the rule of law.\n\nFinally, increasing the independence of watchdog bodies from government will be important for improving their effectiveness. Independence requires that the heads of national institutions are appointed in a manner that gives them independence from the influence of the government institution that they intend to investigate (whether it be the executive or administrative branch). Institutional independence is enhanced by providing the head of the institution security of tenure and freedoms in matters such as the investigations and reporting process, the budget and the hiring of personnel. Independence is also important because it increases the prospects that the work and recommendations of the institution will not be ignored by the government \u2013 which has been one of the main weaknesses of many of the watchdog bodies created in Africa to date.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nIn a democratic state, the constitution establishes the parameters of state power and the scope of citizens' rights and responsibilities. It is the supreme law against which state conduct may be measured or declared unlawful. It establishes the terms of exercising public power, and gives citizens the right to be treated equally under the law. At the epicentre of a democratic political environment, therefore, are the overriding constitutional rules that govern state conduct and power. While the overarching message in the 2015 Ibrahim Index of African Governance is that overall governance progress in Africa has stalled since 2011, it should be noted that significant progress has been made in constitutionalism and participation in government since the 1990s.\n\nLong gone are the days when the one-party system of government was the norm. In particular, this has been reflected in improvements in the quality of constitutional texts, political institutions, administration of elections, in addition to the greater frequency of presidential turnovers and a growing acceptance of political and social pluralism. It can also be seen in the increased role of the courts in promoting accountability of governments (Ndulo and Gazibo 2016; VonDoepp, Chapter 13, this volume). Today, the majority of Africa's fifty-four states hold elections and subscribe to multiparty politics (van Ham and Lindberg, Chapter 9, this volume). The quality of democracy in Africa has improved due to two complementary types of pressure: one arising from international, continental and regional institutions and interventions, and the other from growth in civic engagement.\n\nDeepening democracy and constitutionalism will require continued promotion of structural improvements to the institutions that promote accountability, participation and transformation of governance in Africa. Democratic governance depends on societies adopting and respecting constitutional arrangements that foster good governance. In line with this, there is a critical need to strengthen the human and institutional capacity of the courts and the watchdog institutions to improve their operational effectiveness. It is imperative that there is broader promotion and popular dissemination of information about the rule of law, government accountability, human rights and the mechanisms available for their protection. There must be real and effective access to the courts, and watchdog institutions. While these constitutional protections ensure that every citizen enjoys equally their civil and political rights under the law, such protections depend to a large extent on the ability of citizens to assert the use of these rights. Empowering citizens to participate in government and exercise their civil and political rights must therefore be understood as the government's responsibility (in addition to its duties to tackle poverty, create sustainable livelihoods and promote civic education).\n\nHowever, as Nwabueze (1993) reminds us, the way to inter-group understanding and accommodation cannot be secured by constitutional provisions alone, as it lies principally in the minds and hearts of the people. The success of the project to promote inclusiveness, accountability and participation in governance is therefore inextricably linked to the eradication of poverty, which undermines the capacity of institutions and citizens to promote good governance. Thus, the transformation of African governance practices into inclusive and democratic governance cannot be sustained unless the economic conditions in African countries improve to a level where countries have the capacity to sustain the institutions necessary for good governance, the protection of human rights and the rule of law.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAhikire, Josephine. 2002. Decentralization in Uganda today: Institutions and possible outcomes in the context of human rights, International Council on Human Rights Policy Decentralization, Local Government and Human Rights Project, 116-Stage One: Survey of the Issues.\n\nBeutz, Molly. 2003. 'Functional democracy: Responding to failures of accountability', Harvard International Law Journal 44: 387.\n\nCachalia, F. 2001. 'Constitutionalism and belonging' in P. Andrews and S. Ellman, The post-apartheid constitution perspectives on South Africa's basic law, Johannesburg University Press.\n\nCarothers, Thomas. 2003. 'Promoting the rule of law project', Carnegie Endowment Working Papers, No. 34.\n\nDeng, Francis. 2010. Self-determination and national unity: A challenge for Africa, Africa World Press. Trenton, NJ.\n\nEconomic Freedom Fighters and Others v. Speaker of the National Assembly, Zuma and Others; Democratic Alliance v Speaker of the National Assembly and Others (CCT 143/15; CCT 171/15) [2016] ZACC 11, Constitutional Court of South Africa, 31 March 2016.\n\nFallon, Jr., Richard. 1993. '\"The rule of law\" as a concept in constitutional discourse', Columbia Law Review 97: 1.\n\nHatchard, John. 2006. 'Legal techniques and agencies of accountability, human rights commissions in Commonwealth Africa' in Muna Ndulo (ed.), Democratic Reform in Africa: Its impact on governance and poverty alleviation, James Currey (Rochester, NY) and Ohio University Press (Athens, OH).\n\nHuman Rights Watch. 2001. 'Protectors or Pretenders? Government Human Rights Commissions in Africa', www.hrw.org/legacy/reports/2001/africa/. (Accessed July 2017)\n\nMeka, Annie. 8 October 2015. 'Police reform in Kenya: Challenges and opportunities', Centre for Security Sector Governance Blog, www.ssrresourcecentre.org/2015/10/09/police-reform-in-kenya-challenges-and-opportunities/. (Accessed June 8, 2017)\n\nMwanakatwe, John. 1994. The End of Kaunda Era, Multimedia Publications Zambia. Lusaka.\n\nNissanke, Machiko, and Ndulo, Muna. 2017. Poverty Reduction in the Course of African Development, Oxford University Press.\n\nNdulo, Muna. 2010. 'Zimbabwe's unfulfilled struggle for a legitimate constitutional order' in L.E. Miller (ed.), Framing the state in times of transition: Case studies in constitution making, U. S. Institute of Peace Press. Washington, DC.\n\nNdulo, Muna. 2003. 'The democratisation process and structural adjustment in Africa', Indiana Journal of Global Legal Studies 10: 1.\n\nNdulo, Muna. 2014. 'Democratic governance and constitutional restraint, of presidential and executive power: The challenges in Africa' in Tiyanjana Maluwa (ed.), Law, politics and rights: Essays in memory of Kader Asmal, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Leiden.\n\nNdulo, Muna, and Mamoudou Gazibo. 2016. 'Growing democracy in Africa: Elections, accountable governance, and political economy', Cornell Institute for African Development Series, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, Newcastle upon Tyne.\n\nNhlapo, N. 1995 Accommodating Traditional Form of Governance in a Constitutional Democracy: A Motivation'. Paper presented at the International Roundtable on Democratic Constitutional Development, Petoria, South Africa. 17\u201320 July 1995.\n\nNwabueze, B.O. 1993. 'The danger of absolute power and total power' in Ideas and facts in constitution making, The Morohundiya Lectures. University of Ibadan\n\nNwubueze, Ben. The Mistakes Rotini William and I Made about Nigeria's constitution. Iterview by Gbenga Oke. AllAfrica.com stories/201303220300.html (Accessed 14 September 2017).\n\nOcran, M. 1984. 'The rule of law as the quest for legitimacy', in Muna Ndulo (ed.), Law in Zambia, East African Publishing House Nairobi.\n\nOkoth-Ogendo, H.W. 1988. Constitutions without constitutionalism: Reflections on an African paradox, American Council of Learned Societies. New York.\n\nPaul, James C.N. 1999. 'Putting the governance of African security forces under rule of law', Third World Legal Studies 5: 3.\n\nRotberg, Robert I. 1965. The rise of nationalism in Central Africa: The making of Malawi and Zambia, 1873 to 1964. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.\n\nStevenson, Dru. 2003. 'To whom should the law be addressed', Yale Law & Policy Review 21, 1: 105\u2013167.\n\nUN General Assembly. 1993. 'National Institutions for the Protection and Promotion of Human Rights', 84th Plenary Meeting (A/Res/48/134).\n\nWorld Bank. 1989. 'From crisis to sustainable growth \u2013 sub-Saharan Africa: a long term perspective study', World Bank Report, <http://documents.worldbank.org/curated/en/1989/11/439705/crisis-sustainable-growth-sub-saharan-africa-long-term-perspective-study>. (Accessed 16 May 2017).\n\n2015 Ibrahim Index of African Governance. 2015. <http://mo.ibrahim.foundation/> (Accessed 13 September 2017).\n\n# 6 The Police\n\n## Laws, Prosecutions and Women's Rights in Liberia\n\nPeace A. Medie\n\nOf all the formal institutions that make up a state, the rule of law and the police designated to enforce it are two of the most important (Stromseth 2008). The rule of law matters for the capacity of the state to ensure security and order, but also for maintaining a sense of equality among citizens. After all, it is by receiving legal privileges or punishments that many individuals get ahead or fall behind in life; the African elite has been formed, in part, through the selective implementation of rules and laws by the judiciary and police. Indeed, despite the central importance of the system of law and the police, public perception of the police and judiciary is mostly negative (Armah-Attoh et al. 2007). Underfunded and poorly trained, the police are often viewed as part of the problem rather than as a solution (Richmond and Alpin 2013). Thus, if any part of the African state conforms to the 'institutionless' school described in Chapter 1, it would be the police. This chapter considers the implementation of the rule of law in Africa with respect to one of the areas in which citizens' formal rights are most often overlooked \u2013 sexual violence in post-conflict countries. In doing so, it highlights the many ways in which the police fail vulnerable girls and women, but also demonstrates that even in the most unlikely of contexts the formal institutions of the state can be made to work in order to deliver better outcomes for marginalised groups.\n\nSexual violence, and other forms of violence against women (VAW), occurs before and during conflict and does not cease in its aftermath.1 Instead, women continue to be victimised after wars have ended. The United Nations (UN), which has spearheaded the post-conflict peacebuilding effort in several African countries, has underscored the role of police in preventing this violence and in enforcing the relevant laws to ensure the prosecution of offenders (United Nations Women 2011). Prevention and enforcement are important for women's security and their wellbeing as sexual violence has physical, psychological, social and economic effects on the lives of victims. Police enforcement of rape and other sexual violence laws also indicates a strengthening of the rule of law and a strong rule of law is critical for building sustainable peace in the aftermath of conflict (Stromseth 2008).\n\nHowever, the police response to rape in post-conflict and in other African states is highly inadequate (United Nations Women 2011). Certain police practices discourage victims from reporting rape, while also directly impeding investigation and the arrest and prosecution of offenders. One of these practices is the withdrawal of rape cases after they have been reported. Police have been found to withdraw cases for reasons that include collusion with suspects, while victims seek withdrawal due to pressure from relatives, fear of retaliation and dissatisfaction with police handling of proceedings (Medie 2017). The withdrawal of cases eliminates the possibility of prosecution and reinforces impunity for rape. Consequently, despite the passage of progressive anti-rape laws in many African countries, formal justice remains inaccessible to many women, particularly evident for the poor and marginalised.\n\nThe deficiencies in police performance with respect to rape reflect the wider failings of law enforcement on the continent. The literature on the police in Africa has described police forces in most countries as corrupt, inefficient, under-trained and lacking in respect for human rights and principles of democratic policing (Tankebe 2008, 2013; Alemika 2009; Mayamba 2013; Ivkovi\u0107 and Sauerman 2015). Scholars argue that these deficiencies prevent the police from investigating crimes, effecting arrests and forwarding cases for prosecution. The police, therefore, fail to provide security for the public and enforce the laws as mandated. Furthermore, these deficiencies often persist despite the implementation of police reform programmes. This evidence therefore suggests that the police are both unable and unwilling to solve crimes, and often act in an excessive or extrajudicial manner.\n\nIn this chapter, I use police officers' responses to rape in Liberia as a lens through which to generate insights about the state of policing in Africa more generally. Drawing on interviews with police officers and staff of international organisations, key government ministries and local women's nongovernmental organisations (NGOs), I demonstrate the factors that shape whether or not police officers decide to refer rape cases to court. Significantly, I show that although there are many barriers to the successful prosecution of cases in Liberia, a series of changes to the formal institutions governing sexual violence resulted in a lower rate of withdrawal of rape cases. More specifically, I argue that the positive change in police attitudes resulted from three sets of post-conflict initiatives: (1) the strengthening of the rape law and the formulation of several gender policies, (2) the creation of new institutions and the reforming of existing ones, and (3) the training of police officers.\n\nThese reforms were mostly conceptualised, developed and implemented by a coalition consisting of international organisations (with the UN at the forefront), key government ministries and women's NGOs. I argue that while these post-conflict initiatives have not eliminated broader problems that plague the police in Liberia, they have improved police response to rape and demonstrate the potential for a coalition of international organisations, facilitative political leaders and civil society to reform formal institutions, and for the reform of these institutions to, in turn, improve outcomes in the policing sector, even in some of the most challenging areas. Furthermore, the reforms in Liberia reflect broader developments in policing in Africa. In particular, several states, including Sierra Leone, Rwanda, Uganda, Namibia and Ghana have developed various models of specialised policing in the area of VAW. Although these initiatives do not guarantee that policing is free of corruption or respects the principles of democratic policing, the case of Liberia demonstrates that under certain conditions, they can lead to modest improvements in this direction.\n\n# Policing Africa\n\nIt is the duty of the police to enforce the laws of the state. Police reform programmes in Africa, sponsored and executed mainly by the United States, other donor governments and agencies such as the UN and the Department for International Development (DFID), have promoted the adoption of the norms of democratic policing. Democratic policing entails police accountability to the rule of law rather than to the government, their protection of human rights, transparency in law enforcement and the prioritisation of citizens' needs (Bayley 2001). However, scholars who have studied police in Africa have concluded that police forces across the continent, which are male-dominated, are largely unable and unwilling to enforce laws and to provide security for the public (Marenin 2009; Tankebe 2011; Osse 2014). Police sometimes choose not to record crimes that are reported to them and often fail to investigate reported crimes, apprehend suspects, and prepare and present cases for prosecution (Amnesty International 2010; United Nations Women 2011). Furthermore, their approach to policing largely falls below the standard of democratic policing (Hills 2008, 2012; Ruteere 2011).\n\nPolice failure to provide security for the civilian population of African states is in sharp contrast to their protection of governments in these same states, in part as they are usually accountable to presidents rather than civilian authorities (Hills 2007). Since independence, political leaders and elites have tried and often succeeded in using the police to protect their interests and to maintain a hold on power (Alemika 2009). Presidential appointment of members to police councils, and police commissioners, is one way leaders have maintained control. An example is Zimbabwe, where the police commissioner, appointed by President Robert Mugabe, ordered his subordinates to vote for the president's party in senate elections (Hills 2007). This politicisation often requires diversion of police resources away from activities that support the protection of the civilian population, and that instead benefit the government in power. It has also usually entailed the deployment of the police to monitor and silence opposition to the government, sometimes through the use of force.\n\nThis undemocratic \u2013 and often illegal \u2013 use of the police in Africa can be traced to the colonial era. Under colonial rule, police forces were created to protect the colonial enterprise from the indigenous population (Alemika 2009; Tankebe 2013). After independence, most African leaders changed the names of their country's police forces but maintained the practices that had prevailed under colonial rule (Andersen and Killingray 1991). The leadership of police forces were appointed based on political affiliation rather than on qualifications or merit, and politics determined most aspects of policing. Consequently, the police force has largely remained a tool for regime protection and for the control and, when necessary, the repression of the public.\n\nThis politicisation of the police and its use as a tool of repression has contributed to the high level of distrust in the police in most African states. Table 6.1 captures the extent of such lack of trust. In five countries (Ghana, Ivory Coast, Kenya, Liberia and Nigeria) the majority of inhabitants do not trust the police, and in only three countries (Botswana, Senegal and Tanzania) do over 60 per cent of the population have confidence in the force. This lack of trust in the police stems from their perceived inability and unwillingness to effectively and transparently enforce the law and the culture of corruption in the institution (Armah-Attoh et al. 2007; Marenin 2009). In countries such as Ghana, Liberia, Nigeria and Uganda, almost a quarter of survey respondents report often having to pay a bribe to receive service from the police (Table 6.2). Indeed, the police in Africa have been described as corrupt, unprofessional, ineffective, repressive and lacking respect for human rights and democratic principles (Tankebe 2008, 2013; Alemika 2009; Mayamba 2013; Ivkovi\u0107 and Sauerman 2015).\n\nTable 6.1 Trust in the police,%2\n\n| Botswana | Benin | Ghana | Ivory Coast | Kenya | Liberia | Nigeria | Senegal | Tanzania | Uganda | Zambia | Zimbabwe   \n---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  \nDon't Trust| 40| 47| 64| 58| 64| 77| 78| 27| 39| 43| 51| 49  \n(N)| 1194| 1192| 2340| 1197| 2379| 1188| 2375| 1170| 2358| 2352| 1182| 2381\n\nTable 6.2 Incidence of police bribery,%3\n\n| Botswana | Benin | Ghana | Ivory Coast | Kenya | Liberia | Nigeria | Senegal | South Africa | Tanzania | Uganda | Zimbabwe   \n---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  \nNever| 99| 90| 77| 88| 86| 64| 72| 98| 96| 86| 81| 91  \nOften| 1| 10| 23| 12| 14| 36| 28| 2| 4| 14| 19| 9  \n(N)| 546| 135| 263| 107| 690| 698| 994| 147| 1722| 423| 758| 563\n\nAmong other things, studies have revealed that not only do police demand and accept bribes from suspects to conceal evidence and drop charges, but they also charge complainants unapproved fees to record complaints, conduct investigations, arrest suspects and present cases for prosecution (Baker 2009; Human Rights Watch 2013). They have also been accused of either not responding to calls for help or responding too slowly (Human Rights Watch 2013). There is also extensive evidence of police using violence against civilians and condoning violence in the communities they are tasked with serving (Tankebe 2011; Beek and Gopfert 2012).\n\nThese deficiencies in policing across Africa can be attributed to four main factors: the politicisation of the force, the lack of capacity of policewomen and men, the lack of resources at their disposal and the organisational norms. Due to politicisation, the protection of the public is not a priority, and civilians often have few means of holding the police accountable. It has been previously noted that the police in most African countries are inadequately trained, and thus lack the knowledge to efficiently and effectively conduct police work (Hills 2008). Inadequate training, low pay and weak oversight contribute to unprofessionalism and often excessive use of force when handling crimes. The low pay that most policemen and women receive also causes them to be unmotivated and contributes to their poor performance (Mayamba 2013).\n\nStudies have also underscored the lack of resources \u2013 uniforms, protective gear, vehicles, fuel for vehicles, radios, telephones and even paper and pen with which to record complaints \u2013 as a cause of police lack of capacity and unwillingness to enforce the law (Hills 2008; Mayamba 2013; Medie 2015). This lack of resources limits the degree to which they can perform their duties in accordance with police guidelines and principles of human rights. Finally, the literature has also emphasised the extent to which norms (emerging around issues such as corruption) have eroded formal rules (Tankebe 2010; Mayamba 2013). In the terms set out in the Conclusion to this volume, such norms represent a competitive informal institution. In cases of rape, domestic violence and other forms of VAW, patriarchal norms that justify and trivialise this form of violence also affect police willingness to record and investigate complaints, arrest suspects and refer cases to the courts for prosecution (United Nations Women 2011).\n\nOverall, the literature has shown that the police in most African states have generally failed to provide security for the majority of the population and to enforce the rule of law. With only a few exceptions, scholars have not studied instances where the police have succeeded in providing protection and in enforcing the laws. I argue that despite the paucity of these instances and perhaps their failure to meet all of the standards of good policing, they still deserve attention. Indeed, it is only by considering cases in which policing works that we can get a better handle on how to strengthen policing institutions in Africa.\n\n# Police Responses to Rape in Liberia\n\nLiberia has not been immune to the negative practices identified and described in the literature on the police in Africa, and the reputation of the Liberian police is similar to that of police in other African countries. (Baker 2009; Isser, Lubkemann, and N'Tow 2009; Human Rights Watch 2013). Nonetheless, there are exceptions (with police following the official guidelines), and I examine these exceptions in this chapter (Medie 2013, 2015). This chapter is based on interviews with police officers and staff of the Ministry of Gender and Development (MoGD), Ministry of Justice (MoJ), women's organisations, the UN and other international organisations conducted in 2010 and 2011 in Monrovia and Gbarnga in Liberia. In this section, I highlight the actions and strategies of the Liberia National Police (LNP) force in dealing with the crime of rape.\n\nThe Liberian Frontier Force (LFF), the first law enforcement body in the country, was established in 1908, during the presidency of Arthur Barclay. Barclay, and every president before him, was an Americo-Liberian, a group of manumitted slaves and other free blacks resettled on the Guinea Coast by the American Colonization Society beginning in 1822. The LFF, tasked with maintaining order, soon became known as an abusive and corrupt force that preyed on the population (Akpan 1973). The LFF continued to exploit the indigenous peoples until it was replaced by the Armed Force of Liberia, which was established by the Defense Act of 1956. The Liberian National Police (LNP) was then established on 6 June 1975 by an Act of Legislature. The force soon earned a reputation comparable to the LFF's, as successive presidents used it to control the civilian population and silence oppositional voices (Aboagye and Rupiya 2005). The LNP also gained a reputation for ineffectiveness during this period.\n\nFrom its establishment, the LNP was not a force that most Liberians depended on for protection or for justice. Partly because of the repressive practices of the LNP, the majority of Liberians preferred customary forms of dispute resolution during this period. Consequently, only a few rapes cases were reported to the police, and reported cases rarely ended in prosecution (Medie 2012). According to Dedeh Kwekwe, coordinator of the MoGD's gender-based violence (GBV) unit, 'The police didn't know how to handle sexual and gender-based violence. If someone came to report domestic violence, the police would say, \"It's your fault you were beaten\". If a woman reported rape, the police would suggest she had caused it. They would make it worse, and women would be traumatized' (quoted in Bacon 2012: 3).\n\nThe Liberian civil war, which lasted from 1989 until 2003, made rape more visible to the Liberian people. The war was characterised by indiscriminate violence against non-combatants, including girls and women, and there was widespread impunity for this violence. All warring factions, including the police and the army, indiscriminately attacked civilians. It is estimated that 150,000 people died during the war and women experienced both physical and sexual violence.4 In a survey of 205 girls and women in Montserrado County, 49 per cent of respondents said that they had experienced at least one act of physical or sexual violence at the hands of combatants between 1989 and 1994 (Swiss et al. 1998).\n\nIn 2003, warring factions signed the Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA), signalling the official end of the war. The international community, led by ECOWAS, had spearheaded the peace negotiations, and local women's organisations, many formed during the war, had also mobilised across ethnic and religious lines to demand an end to the conflict (African Women and Peace Support Group 2004). The CPA (2003) called on the international community and the United Nations to reform Liberia's security sector, including its police force. This reform began in 2004 \u2013 led by the UN in collaboration with the National Transitional Government of Liberia (NTGL) \u2013 with the UN Police's (UNPOL) recruitment and vetting of police officers and continued with the implementation of programmes to recruit women into the force. Reformers in the LNP and UNMIL sought to increase the number of women from 2 per cent in 2005 to 20 per cent by 2014 (Bacon 2012). They also provided equipment, as well as training, that emphasised the principles of democratic policing. The UN and donors also built and rehabilitated police stations across the country.\n\nThese reforms generally improved the performance of the LNP but have been subject to several criticisms. First, the LNP remains heavily politicised and headed by political appointees (Baker 2009). Second, the force is severely under-resourced and most units still lack the needed equipment and infrastructure. Third, the very low salaries fail to motivate officers and make the LNP an unattractive career choice for qualified women and men (Bacon 2012).5 Finally, the corruption, ineffectiveness, unprofessionalism and lack of respect for human rights that characterised police practice before and during the civil war remain problems (Human Rights Watch 2013).\n\n# Combatting Violence against Women\n\nIn addition to the general reforms that have been implemented since the end of the war, there have also been reforms in the criminal justice sector that aim specifically at addressing the problem of VAW, and rape in particular. The UN has collaborated with the government and women's NGOs in developing and implementing many of these reforms although funding has come primarily from the UN and donors. The goals of these interventions have been to prevent rape and to ensure the arrest and prosecution of offenders. The interventions fall into three categories: amending the rape law and adopting new gender policies; establishing new and reforming pre-existing institutions; and training the police.\n\n## Law and Policies\n\nThere have been several policy developments in the area of VAW since the end of the civil war. One of these developments, the amendment of the rape law in 2005, was precipitated by continued reports of sexual violence against women and children after the war had ended. The Association of Female Lawyers of Liberia (AFELL) worked with the MoJ, UNICEF, Doctors Without Borders and other local and international organisations to advocate and lobby for the amendment of the law. Lawmakers supported the amendment but raised concerns about clauses that mandated the death penalty for some forms of rape and criminalised marital rape. The amendment, when it was passed, significantly strengthened the pre-existing penal statute on rape. It extended the definition of intercourse to include orifices other than the vagina and made the terms of consent more stringent. It also included gang rape in the definition of rape and revised the maximum sentence from ten years to life imprisonment. Furthermore, it made the granting of bail non-applicable for first degree rape. The amendment was followed by the formulation of several national gender policies that focused on VAW broadly and on rape in particular. These policies include the National GBV Plan of Action (2006) \u2013 crafted by members of the anti-GBV coalition (key government ministries, local NGOs and international organisations) \u2013 that aimed to reduce GBV by 30 per cent by 2011 (MoGD 2006). In her discussion of the plan of action, President Johnson Sirleaf said that:\n\nMy Administration is convinced that the implementation of this multisectoral Plan of Action will move us closer towards being a country where women and girls can live free from fear and violence and enjoy mutual respect and confidence. We are determined to combat violence against women and girls and to protect the human rights of all peoples in our society. We will furthermore enforce the Rape Law \u2013 which came into effect the day after my inauguration \u2013 without fear or favor (Johnson Sirleaf 2006: 1).\n\nEach of these policies included the LNP as an implementing partner. At the same time, the policies provide guidelines for how implementers (such as the police) should respond to rape and other forms of VAW. Among the changes to the formal institutions governing rape, the amendment is particularly important because it clearly defines rape, removing any ambiguity that would give officers reason to use their discretion when handling cases. Overall, these legal and policy changes have signified that rape is a crime that should be prosecuted by the state. The president's support of these policies, and the attendant creation of new institutions and reforms of existing ones, have signalled the importance placed by the government on combating rape and other forms of VAW.\n\n## Institutions\n\nInternational organisations have also collaborated with the government and women's NGOs to establish several new GBV-focused institutions in the criminal justice sector and to reform existing ones. The MoGD's GBV Secretariat coordinates all anti-GBV activity in the country and implements some programmes. The secretariat 'collects and analyses data, shares information, coordinates interventions and directs policy interventions relating to the implementation of the GBV Plan of Action' (UMMIL 2007: 2). A group of international organisations, NGOs and the government established the secretariat's GBV Taskforce in 2006. The taskforce is chaired by the MoGD and has been set up in each of Liberia's fifteen counties. Members are supposed to meet monthly to 'strategize on plans of action, develop policies, evaluate existing programs, and report on the successes and the difficulties that members experience in their day-to-day operations' (Medie 2012: 176).\n\nThe members of the taskforce \u2013 including representatives of the LNP \u2013 monitor and report on each other's activities to ensure that the concerned organisations change their practices when needed. For example, a member of staff of the MoGD in Gbarnga described how members of the taskforce confronted a policewoman who had been accused of demanding a bribe from a rape victim who lodged a complaint at the police station.6 According to her, members of the taskforce reported all incidents of police collusion with suspects or the payment of bribes, to the local LNP commander. These complaints sometimes led to improved police conduct in the enforcement of rape laws (Medie 2012). The taskforce has, therefore, played a key role in shaping how the LNP responds to rape.\n\nMembers of the taskforce also work closely with the Women and Children Protection Section (WACPS) of the LNP. The section \u2013 which was established in 2005, and created with the support of UNICEF \u2013 was modelled after Sierra Leone's Family Support Unit and Ghana's Women and Juvenile Unit. As of 2011, officers of the unit underwent a four-week specialised training course in the 'professional handling and management of sexual violence, exploitation and abuse cases involving women and children' (WACPS 2011). The UN and donors have funded the construction of WACPS units across the country and the provision of equipment and training for officers. Local women's NGOs and individual women's rights advocates have also participated in developing and delivering training to the women and men of the section, while AFELL participated in the formulation of the MoJ's 2009 'Sexual Assault and Police Abuse Handbook'.\n\nInstitutional changes in the criminal justice sector have not been limited to the police. AFELL also collaborated with several international organisations to lobby for the passage of an act to establish Criminal Court E, a court with exclusive jurisdiction over sexual violence offenses. The court became operational in Monrovia in 2009 with funding from donors such as the Danish International Development Agency (DANIDA).7 The MoJ \u2013 with support from organisations such as AFELL, UNHCR and the Carter Center \u2013 also created the Sexual and Gender-Based Violence (SGBV) Crimes Unit in Monrovia in 2009. In addition to assisting victims in navigating the criminal justice system, staff of the unit work closely with WACPS officers in investigating and prosecuting rape (supporting police investigations with legal and technical expertise and equipment such as vehicles and cameras). The regional Justice and Security Hub, which was funded by the UN Peacebuilding Support Office and launched in Gbarnga in 2013, also houses an SGBV Crimes Unit.\n\nThese developments represent significant improvements in police response to incidents of SBGV. Not only was rape not on the agenda of the government immediately prior to the war, but there were also no institutions or programmes dedicated to the problem in the public sector. However, these new and reformed institutions face several challenges \u2013 including limited resources and government meddling. NGO representatives \u2013 members of the SGBV taskforce \u2013 have accused MoGD of trying to control their activities and of favouring some organisations over others. This has led some members to either stop participating all together or participating less regularly in taskforce activities. The WACPS also faces severe resource constraints, with most units lacking the most basic infrastructure and resources needed to enforce the law. The presence of only one judge and one courtroom in Criminal Court E slowed prosecutions in Monrovia and created a large backlog of cases.8 Furthermore, other counties do not have a specialised court, while Gbarnga hosts the sole prosecution unit outside of Monrovia. Nonetheless, the development of these institutions has enhanced the structures in place to combat rape.\n\n## Training\n\nThere has been training on the problem of rape since the end of the war. The UN has worked with the LNP to offer specialised training \u2013 at the National Police Training Academy and through officer development workshops \u2013 in the handling of rape and other forms of VAW. Staff members from various women's NGOs lead training and workshops. In this training, rape is framed as a criminal offence to be prosecuted by the state. Police officers and the public are also exposed to awareness-raising campaigns mounted by international organisations, government agencies and women's organisations. These campaigns include the 2005 National Sexual Exploitation and Abuse Campaign and the 2007 Anti-Rape Campaign. UN Radio and Liberia Democracy Radio broadcast programmes that raise awareness of rape and other forms of VAW, erecting billboards and disseminating flyers in Liberia to inform the public about rape and the legal codes. In interviews, police officers have indicated that the framing of rape has influenced how they enforce the law. Thus, programmes pushed through formal institutional frameworks have begun to re-shape the problematic informal norms that have tended to undermine the performance of the police on issues of sexual violence.\n\n# Police Enforcement of the Rape Law\n\nPolice withdrawal of cases is a major challenge to law enforcement in Liberia and in other African states. Although the referral of a case to court does not automatically lead to prosecution, it is an important first step in ensuring that victims receive justice \u2013 and the withdrawal of cases, particularly when engineered by the police, signifies continuing impunity for sexual violence. Given this, I interviewed forty eight police officers (nineteen women and twenty-nine men) of the WACPS in 2010 and 2011 to understand how they respond to cases of rape.9 I also interviewed two officers who had served on the police force before the war. Serving officers were stationed in thirteen WACPS units in Monrovia, Montserrado County, and one unit in Gbarnga, Bong County.10 At each police station visited, I interviewed all officers who were available and willing to speak with me. The interviews revealed the extent to which legal and policy changes, institutional changes and training introduced by the UN and other IOs, the Liberian government and women's NGOs have led to the increased referral of rape cases to court, in comparison to the pre-war period and the immediate post-war period.\n\nBetween January and December 2009, according to findings, police referred 40 per cent of rape cases to court, withdrew 4 per cent, transferred 3 per cent to other agencies, and left 53 percent pending. Meanwhile, forty-eight police personnel who discussed their response to rape said that they always referred rape cases to court. These figures are far higher than the available data for previous periods. For example, there were only two cases of rape on record in the courts in 1972 and four in 1977. The police personnel that I talked to based their decision on two main factors: their perception of rape as a crime that cannot and should not be settled by the police, and the WACPS policy which forbids the independent withdrawal of rape cases.11 Officers' perceptions and the WACPS' non-withdrawal policy have both been shaped by the training provided, institutions built and policies introduced by the UN and other international organisations, the government and women's NGOs.\n\n## The Importance of the Rape Law and Gender Policies\n\nIn addition to defining the offense and the role of the police in the fight against rape, the new rape law and gender policies have signalled to police that rape is a serious offense that should always be prosecuted. Interviewees used words such as 'heinous', 'grievous' and 'above the police' to describe rape, and explained that rape cases should not be withdrawn because the offense is a felony, unbailable and a crime against the state.\n\nOfficer No. 4, a policewoman stationed in Monrovia, underscored the importance of the law: 'Rape cases, they come in talking about withdrawal but there is nothing like withdrawal in rape cases... Because, it's a first degree felony in Liberia, it is viewed just as murder cases are viewed, so for withdrawal, no'.12 Although some forms of rape were classified as first degree felonies in Liberia's 1976 Penal Laws, the 2005 amendment categorised more sexual offences, including gang rape, as first degree felonies. This has sent a strong message about the gravity of the crime, and reduced the space for discretionary decision-making.\n\nThe framing of the rape law and the adoption of several gender policies \u2013 all of which emphasise the prosecution of offenders \u2013 have also indirectly influenced police officers. This is because the WACPS non-withdrawal policy is a product of these documents. This link between national and WACPS policies exists partly because several of the organisations and agencies that participated in crafting the rape law and related policies have also played key roles in establishing the WACPS and in drafting its operational procedures. Senior officers who enforce the section's policies have, therefore, come to understand that rape is an offense that cannot be adjudicated by the police. These officers also underscored the importance of institutions in shaping the section's policies.\n\n## The Importance of Institutions and Programmes\n\nSeveral anti-rape institutions, including the WACPS, were created with the aim of ensuring the prosecution of offenders. Discussing the section's response to rape, Officer No. 10, stated:\n\n[W]hen I say most important, it is the issue of focus, rape damages the image of human beings, of women. It is a grave offence, it is a very grave offence, so we take it very serious, we put in all our time and effort in the issue of rape... Because this section came into being because of the high level of sexual violation, if you look at the establishment of this section, the focus point of the establishment of this section is to combat rape in this country.13\n\nInstitutions have shaped policy as well as practice. Officer No. 46, a policeman stationed in Monrovia, while discussing the section's non-withdrawal policy stated:\n\n[S]o when you are caught in the process [withdrawing a case], sometimes you can be suspended sometimes indefinitely or you can be forwarded to court to justify your actions why you compromised the case.14\n\nAlthough I was not able to assess the extent to which officers were sanctioned for withdrawing cases, interview responses indicated that the section's non-withdrawal policy (as well as the SGBV Crimes Unit) has affected police behaviour. First, the unit provided guidance on how to conduct effective police work and supported the police in doing so. Officer No. 29, a senior policeman stationed in Monrovia, described this relationship thus: ' we have some constructive partners that we work with, that help us in the process, like SGBV unit, they help us a lot, they give us legal advice and legal technical know-how on how to handle these cases so we do not contaminate the crime scene and destroy evidence'.15 Officer No. 15, a senior officer explained the extent to which the crimes unit served as a check on the behaviour of police officers: 'for everything we do we must consult the chief prosecutor [SGBV Crimes Unit], we liaise with them and let them know what's happening because they inform us of the type of evidence they would need for successful prosecution'.16 By working closely with the WACPS through all steps of the investigative process, the SGBV Crimes Unit made it more difficult for the police to independently withdraw cases.\n\nOther organisations also provided monitoring for WACPS. UNPOL officers visited police stations daily to review log books and to discuss the status of cases with investigating officers. When necessary, they provided transportation and telephone airtime for police officers to follow up on cases. Women's NGOs (working independently and through the GBV taskforce) also held the police accountable by accompanying victims to the police stations and following up on cases. Together, these actors have shaped WACPS policy and placed pressure on the police to refer cases to court.\n\n## Training\n\nThe training stresses the seriousness of rape, and both the old and new police training manuals emphasise that rape is a criminal offense that cannot be adjudicated by the police, presenting prosecution as the only response to rape. Officers learn that the decisions in rape cases should be made in consultation with the WACPS Legal Affairs Office and the SGBV Crimes Unit. Officer No. 46 highlighted the importance of training:\n\n[T]he initial training that we inherited from the academy, the Liberian government alone, UNHCR, we were fully told that rape is not compromisible, avoid it altogether, so it is part of the training initially. Even when you go for [a] criminal investigation course, advanced women and child training, we are always told that rape is not compromisible... the knowledge is imparted in everybody, it is a full weapon to be at the back of your brain, that it is not compromisible.17\n\nThe training also teaches that the victim is not to blame, and overturns rape myths that have traditionally affected police treatment of rape victims. The impact of this training is evident in the gap between police and public attitudes towards rape. For example, in contrast to a report that indicates that many Liberians blame victims for their victimisation (United Nations Mission in Liberia 2008), the officers whom I interviewed did not express this view. Instead, my interviews with police officers indicate that the anti-rape initiatives introduced in Liberia after the civil war have had a positive effect on police attitudes and behaviours towards rape. Among other things, these initiatives have deterred police withdrawal of rape cases and promoted their referral to court. Although numerous weaknesses exist in the LNP, it is important to understand the improvements and the routes to such improvements.\n\n# Conclusion: Explaining Police Reform in Africa\n\nMost survivors of rape and other forms of VAW face major hurdles in accessing formal justice in Liberia and elsewhere in Africa. Incidents of rape are rarely reported and most reported cases are never prosecuted. However, for the first time in Liberia, notable progress is being made \u2013 the police are referring a significant number of cases to court and withdrawing only a small number. This is because of policy and institutional changes, as well as training provided to police officers. Three factors at the international and domestic levels made it possible for the members of the anti-GBV coalition to affect policy, institutions and knowledge in Liberia.\n\nFirst, by the time Liberia's civil war ended, the issue of sexual violence was high on the agenda of the UN and other international organisations and donors (in large part due to the systematic use of sexual violence in the Bosnian war and the Rwandan genocide and transnational advocacy by women's movements). These agencies, therefore, devoted political and material resources to addressing rape, as did other international organisations and donor agencies.18 Second, Liberian governments were willing to work with the UN and allowed women's NGOs to assist in crafting the state's response to rape. President Johnson Sirleaf's rhetoric conveyed a commitment to combating rape, but the state depended heavily on the UN and other international organisations for technical and financial assistance, making it easier for these international actors to shape the state's response to rape. Third, Liberian women, after mobilising for peace and for the election of President Johnson Sirleaf, remained organised, politically active and largely committed to advancing women's rights. Moreover, along with the government and international bodies, women's NGOs were particularly concerned about rape reports in Liberia, partly because of the prevalence and brutality of the act during the civil war. These conditions made it possible for this coalition of actors to implement their programmes and positively affect police response to rape.\n\nWhile these conditions do not coexist in most contexts, the training of law enforcement officers on how to handle VAW and the establishment of police entities that perform specialised functions in several countries (including Sierra Leone, Rwanda, Uganda, Namibia and Ghana) demonstrate that there is a growing recognition of the need for better policing in the area of violence against women in Africa. Women's activism and donor pressure and funding have contributed to the introduction of most of these initiatives. There are still certain obstacles. The level of international and NGO engagement varies across countries, as does the political will towards enhancing policing response. Furthermore, these specialised units are hampered by many of the problems that affect the regular police units (Seelinger 2015) and can lead to the side-lining of VAW in the criminal justice sector.\n\nYet, positive examples exist. For instance, Rwanda's Isange One-Stop Centers \u2013 created by the Rwanda National Police with UN support, and first opened in 2009 in the police hospital \u2013 provide free medical and psychosocial care to victims of GBV, who are assigned police officers to investigate cases and refer them to the prosecutor's office.19 The centre won a UN Public Service Award in 2012 and has been lauded by INTERPOL 'as an example of best practice for preventing and responding to gender-based violence and child domestic abuse' and is being adopted by other African countries.20 These new models of policing, although unevenly implemented and subject to many challenges, are an important first step to ensuring that survivors of GBV receive better treatment and service from the police.\n\nThe case of Liberia, however, shows that even with some political will and UN and NGO engagement, many deficiencies in the police force persist. Survivors, women's rights advocates and staff of international organisations have accused WACPS personnel of accepting bribes from suspects and of engaging in other unethical practices (Medie 2012). As recently as April 2015, the police director 'threatened to take drastic action against any police officer caught compromising on rape cases'.21 While the unapproved withdrawal of cases is a continuing practice in the WACPS, findings indicate that the frequency of such practices has greatly reduced with withdrawal more difficult. This means that police officers are less likely to independently decide on how to proceed with rape cases.\n\nThere is a need to probe individual cases further in order to understand the conditions under which some are referred and others withdrawn. The large number of 'pending' cases raises a red flag. Are cases being listed as 'pending' when in actuality they have been unofficially withdrawn without the knowledge of the SGBV Crimes Unit? Also, given that UN agencies and UNMIL have led the campaign against rape by providing technical assistance, funding, manpower and infrastructure, the government of Liberia may not be capable of taking over this responsibility once UN assistance is reduced. It is, therefore, necessary to evaluate the durability of such gains, and ask how the new models of policing introduced in other countries are affecting police performance. These and other questions can best be answered through nuanced studies that seek to understand police behaviour in Africa.\n\nThe Liberian story is an important one as it sheds light on how institutional reforms have affected police behaviour. Literature on the police in Africa demonstrates that they largely fail to protect the public and enforce laws, and that programmes to reform the police have mostly failed to produce the desired results due to political, social and economic contexts (Marenin 2009; Hills 2014). 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'Fighting gender-based violence: The Women's Movement and the enforcement of rape law in Liberia', African Affairs 112, 448: 377\u2013397.\n\nMedie, Peace A. 2012. Police behavior in post-conflict states: Explaining variation in police responses to domestic violence, internal human trafficking, and rape, University of Pittsburgh (Unpublished dissertation).\n\nMedie, Peace A. 2017. 'Rape Reporting in Post-Conflict C\u00f4te d'Ivoire: Accessing Justice and Ending Impunity', African Affairs (Online first) DOI: <https://doi.org/10.1093/afraf/adx008>.\n\nMedie, Peace A. 2015. 'Women and postconflict security: A study of police response to domestic violence in Liberia', Politics & Gender 11, 3: 478\u2013498.\n\nOsse, Anneke. 2014. 'Police reform in Kenya: A process of \"meddling through\"', Policing and Society: An International: Journal of Research and Policy, DOI: 10.1080/10439463.2014.993631.\n\nRichmond, Samantha and Carmen Alpin. 2013. 'Governments falter in fight to curb corruption: The people give most a failing grade', Afrobarometer, accessed 5 September 2017. <http://allafrica.com/download/resource/main/main/idatcs/00071695:1c3980da77919c41b6398cf281ac948b.pdf>.\n\nRuteere, Mutuma. 2011. 'More than political tools', African Security Review 20, 4: 11\u201320.\n\nSeelinger, Kim Thuy. 2015. 'Domestic accountability for sexual violence: The potential of specialized units in Kenya, Liberia, Sierra Leone and Uganda', International Review of the Red Cross 894: 1\u201326.\n\nStromseth, Jane. 2008. 'Post-conflict rule of law building: The need for a multi-layered, synergistic approach', William & Mary Law Review 49, 4: 1443\u20131471.\n\nSwiss, Shana et al. 1998. 'Violence against women during the Liberian Civil Conflict', Journal of the American Medical Association 279, 8: 625\u2013629.\n\nTankebe, Justice. 2008. 'Colonialism, legitimation and policing in Ghana', International Journal of Law, Crime & Justice 36, 1: 67\u201384.\n\nTankebe, Justice. 2011. 'Explaining police support for the use of force and vigilante violence in Ghana', Policing and Society: An International Journal of Research and Policy 21, 2: 129\u2013149.\n\nTankebe, Justice. 2013. 'In search of moral recognition? Policing and eudemonic legitimacy in Ghana', Law & Social Enquiry 38, 3: 576\u2013597.\n\nTankebe, Justice. 2010. 'Public confidence in the police: Testing the effects of public experiences of police corruption in Ghana', British Journal of Criminology 50, 2: 296\u2013319.\n\nUnited Nations Mission in Liberia. 2007. Office of the gender adviser UNMIL: Contribution to the secretary general's report on UNSCR 1820, accessed 28 April 2012. <http://ctrl.dreamhosters.com/SST/Reseacrh/UNMIL/InputtoSGReportonUNSCR1820.pdf>.\n\nUnited Nations Mission in Liberia. 2008. 'Research on prevalence and attitudes to rape in Liberia September to October 2008', UNMIL Legal and Judicial Support Division.\n\nUnited Nations Women. 2011. 'Progress of the World's Women: In Pursuit of Justice', accessed 5 September 2017. <http://progress.unwomen.org/en/2015/pdf/UNW_progressreport.pdf>.\n\nVetten, Lisa. 2008. Tracking justice: The attrition of rape cases through the criminal justice system in Gauteng, Tshwaranang Legal Advocacy Centre, the South African Medical Research Council and the Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, accessed 5 September 2017. www.csvr.org.za/docs/tracking_justice.pdf.\n\nWomen and Children Protection Section. 2011. Liberia National Police: Background. Unpublished, copy in possession of author.\n\nWomen and Children Protection Unit. Undated. Training manual: Investigation of sexual abuse and exploitation in Liberia. Unpublished, copy in possession of author.\n\n1 The UN defines violence against women as 'any act of gender-based violence that results in or is likely to result in physical, sexual or psychological harm or suffering to women, including threats of such acts, coercion or arbitrary deprivation of liberty whether occurring in public or private life', accessed 17 April 2017. www.un.org/documents/ga/res/48/a48r104.htm.\n\n2 Results from 2014/2015 Afrobarometer Survey. Responses to the question: 'How much do you trust [the police], or haven't you heard enough about them to say?'.\n\n3 Results from 2014/2015 Afrobarometer Survey. Responses to the question (taking out respondents that reported no contact): 'In the past 12 months have you requested assistance from the police? And how often, if ever, did you have to pay a bribe, give a gift, or do a favour for a police officer in order to get the assistance you needed, or to avoid a problem like passing a checkpoint or avoiding a fine or arrest?'.\n\n4 United Nations Mission in Liberia. 'UNMIL Background', www.un.org/en/peacekeeping/missions/unmil/background.shtml.\n\n5 Bacon (2012) reports that from 2005 to 2011 the starting monthly salary for recruits was between US$92 and US$100.\n\n6 Interview, MoGD staff member, 25 May 2011, Gbarnga.\n\n7 A lack of funding has prevented the establishment of Criminal Court E in other counties.\n\n8 A second judge was appointed in 2015.\n\n9 There were 123 WACPS officers (seventy-five males and twenty-eight females) stationed in Montserrado County as of January 2011.\n\n10 As of January 2011 there were twenty-three WACPS units in Montserrado County.\n\n11 According to the WACPS directive, the decision to withdraw a rape case had to be made in consultation with the prosecutor.\n\n12 Interview, Policewoman, 29 September 2010, Monrovia.\n\n13 Interview, Senior policeman, 12 July 2010, Monrovia.\n\n14 Interview, 7 October 2010, Monrovia.\n\n15 Interview, 12 July 2010, Monrovia.\n\n16 Interview, Policeman, 12 July 2010, Monrovia.\n\n17 Interview, Policeman, 7 October 2010, Monrovia.\n\n18 Other forms of VAW have not received the same level of attention, affecting the way in which the police respond to them (Medie 2012). And despite the resources devoted to the problem, the WACPS is severely underfunded and underequipped.\n\n19 United Nations Public Service Awards. 'Isange One-Stop Center: Rwanda National Police', https://publicadministration.un.org/unpsa/Public_NominationProfile.aspx?id=1602.\n\n20 allAfrica. November 2015. 'Rwanda: Interpol Secretary General J\u00fcrgen Stock Commend Isange One Stop Centre', <http://allafrica.com/stories/201511050287.html>.\n\n21 allAfrica. April 2015. 'Liberia: Dir. Massaquoi Threatens Drastic Action against LNP Officers', <http://allafrica.com/stories/201504081734.html>.\n\n# 7 The Bureaucracy\n\n## Policy Implementation and Reform\n\nM. Anne Pitcher and Manuel P. Teodoro\n\nNew bureaucratic agencies \u2013 most commonly central banks, privatisation agencies and regulatory commissions \u2013 multiplied across Africa following the adoption of neoliberal reforms in the mid-1980s and 1990s. The theoretical inspiration behind the creation of these agencies was that economic reforms would be more successful if those who implemented them were professionally trained 'technocrats' institutionally insulated from the push and pull of everyday politics (Williamson 1993; White and Bhatia 1998). Concerns about bureaucratic independence have been particularly acute in Africa because bureaucratic institutions are perennially perceived as corrupt and inefficient. For example, the World Bank's 2014 World Governance Indicators (a largely perceptual metric), put sub-Saharan Africa last among all regions in 'government effectiveness', 'regulatory quality' and 'control of corruption' (see Figure 7.1) \u2013 aspects of governance associated with the quality of bureaucratic institutions.\n\nFigure 7.1\n\nSelected 2014 World Bank World Governance Indicators by Region\n\nFigure 1 reports regional average 2014 Worldwide Governance Indicators, scored as percentile values from 0 to 100.\n\n(Kaufmann and Kraay 2014)\n\nDespite their widespread proliferation, we know little about where and why independent bureaucratic agencies were created; how independent or insulated the bureaucrats who staffed them were; and how effective the agencies were at accomplishing the tasks for which they were designed. This chapter explores the myriad dimensions of bureaucratic politics and technocratic practice through an examination of privatisation agencies.\n\nArguments about the value of technically competent, independent bureaucrats have a long lineage in political science. Theorists from Friedrich Hegel to Max Weber to Woodrow Wilson have advocated for a bureaucracy with specialised knowledge and the legitimate authority to administer policy free from interference by politicians (Wilson 1887; Weber 1978). During the 1980s and 1990s, supporters of neoliberalism seized on this notion to advocate for the creation of formally independent agencies to handle sales of state-owned enterprises in Africa. Their justification rested on several claims. First, the process of economic liberalisation is complex and requires a high degree of technical acumen. The formation of an agency staffed by technocrats was expected to increase the likelihood that liberalisation would proceed quickly and successfully (White and Bhatia 1998; Kayizzi-Mugerwa 2003).\n\nSecond, independent bureaucracies guard against coalitional drift. In the event of a turnover of the party in power, the presence of an agency increases the possibility that economic reforms will continue (Shepsle 1992). Third, formally independent bureaucratic agencies are a signal to investors that a government has credibly committed to reform (Brune et al. 2004). Fourth, insulating technocrats in an independent agency likely protects the policy implementation process from rent-seeking politicians and distributional pressures exerted by reform's domestic losers (Waterbury 1992). In short, the creation of more or less independent privatisation agencies followed from an implicit \u2013 and often explicit \u2013 belief that formal bureaucratic institutions would affect policy outcomes in predictable ways.\n\nThe proliferation of new bureaucratic agencies, often operating in fluid institutional and political contexts, presents interesting theoretical and empirical puzzles for scholars of institutions in Africa. Do formally independent agencies conform to the theoretical models on which they are based? How effective are technocratic agencies in countries that are authoritarian, politically unstable or in the process of democratic transition?\n\nBuilding on four cases from Africa that vary by degree of formal agency independence and regime type, we examine the sales of state-owned enterprises in the 1990s and early 2000s. Through an analysis of formal legislation and government policy across cases, we observe considerable variation in the degree of formal independence granted by governments to agencies, and hence in the extent to which they were able to function as intended. Moreover, the domestic context in which these agencies operated \u2013 replete with informal institutions of varying strength \u2013 shaped their abilities to carry out their mandates: the privatisation of parastatals. The cases show how different African countries established privatisation agencies of varying formal independence and how that variation affected the outcomes they achieved.\n\nOur findings show that greater formal agency independence is associated with greater sales of SOEs, most likely because it signals to investors that the state's commitment to privatisation is credible. This signal is particularly potent under authoritarian conditions, as the Uganda example illustrates. In that case, the creation of an agency offered investors sufficient evidence that the commitment to privatise was credible and the agency was able to realise its mandate. Thus, the creation of viable formal institutions can play a significant role in shaping political and economic outcomes.\n\nBut the creation of an agency also sends a similarly credible signal to potential opponents of reform. Under authoritarian conditions, governments tend to stifle such opposition, and so reforms proceed as intended. Under more democratic conditions, however, we claim that the visibility of formally independent, professional privatisation agencies can provoke a political backlash against privatisation by opponents of reform. Taking advantage of the openness afforded by the democratic context, opponents act to derail or disrupt sales of firms, thus thwarting the privatisation efforts of agency officials. This interpretation offers a more nuanced, contextual understanding of how formal bureaucratic independence operates in transitional African economies and democracies.\n\nWe begin by tracing the emergence of independent bureaucratic agencies as mechanisms of economic liberalisation in Africa while reviewing the literature on agency independence and privatisation. We then study the process and outcomes of privatisation initiatives in Uganda, Nigeria, Zambia and South Africa from 1990 to 2007, a period of significant economic change and substantial political volatility. A theory on the interaction of agency independence and political context, and its effects on reform outcomes, emerges from the examination of existing theory and empirical study of the cases. We conclude by discussing the implications of our findings with respect to the role and significance of formal bureaucratic institutions in Africa.\n\n# Formally Independent Agencies and Economic Liberalisation\n\nMany developing countries adopted policies of economic liberalisation in the 1980s. Broadly reflecting the predominant sensibilities of economists and international development organisations (the 'Washington Consensus'), reforms included fiscal discipline, protection of private property rights, marginal tax reductions, international trade liberalisation, increased foreign direct investment, deregulation and privatisation of SOEs (Williamson 1990). Because a number of neoliberal reforms were technically complex and politically contentious, theorists and policymakers advocated formally independent agencies or 'technocratic change teams' with the authority to pursue reforms (Waterbury 1992; White and Bhatia 1998; Kayizzi-Mugerwa 2003).\n\nFormal agency independence refers to the degree to which a government legally grants sufficient discretion to a non-majoritarian organisation to carry out decisions without interference from another government body (Thatcher and Stone Sweet 2002; Elgie 2006). Regarding privatisation, support for such agencies rests on claims that situating professional bureaucrats in independent agencies with clear policy mandates offers at least four advantages to governments pursuing economic reforms. Technocratic independence provides: (1) administrative capacity; (2) a guard against drift; (3) a signal of credible commitment; and (4) protection against domestic pressures.\n\n## Administrative Capacity\n\nFollowing in the traditions of Weber (1978) and Wilson (1887), proponents of independent technocratic agencies argue that bureaucrats, insulated from political interference, will implement policy changes efficiently and effectively. Similar to the theory on central bank institutions and regulatory agencies, this position claims that relying on technocrats lowers transaction costs by delegating authority to those with the expertise to implement a particular policy (Pollack 2003; Elgie 2006).\n\n## A Guard against Drift\n\nIndependent bureaucratic agencies also guard against coalitional drift (Shepsle 1992; Epstein and O'Halloran 1994), especially in cases where a party in power expects to lose a future election (McCubbins et al. 1987; Moe 1990). Governments attempting to liberalise their economies may fear a future electoral loss, and so seek to 'hard wire' their privatisation programme by locating it in a highly independent technocratic agency. As Boylan argues, 'by freezing their preferences in institutional structures before they leave office, the authoritarians attempt to maintain de facto influence \u2013 if not control \u2013 over certain spheres of policy once they are gone' (Boylan 2001: 45).\n\n## Credible Commitment\n\nA third potential advantage of independent agencies follows from the first two: because technocrats situated in independent agencies are expected to act efficiently and sustain a pro-reform coalition, investors perceive the creation of such agencies as a sign of a government's commitment to reform. Research on independent central banks has argued that when governments empower them to manage monetary policy, investors regard these governments as 'credibly committed' to controlling inflation and thereby to protecting capital investments (Keefer and Stasavage 2002; Stasavage 2003). Buoyed by their confidence in a country's commitment, investors and international lending institutions are willing to invest more of their resources in that country (Brune, Garrett, and Kogut 2004).\n\n## Domestic Pressures\n\nAlthough signals of credible commitment to privatisation are aimed at investors and international organisations, the logic underlying privatisation agency independence is inexorably tied to domestic politics. The creation of independent technocratic change teams, insulated from electoral politics, is thought to minimise distributional conflicts (with labour or parastatal managers) typically associated with the sale of SOEs (Waterbury 1992).\n\n# Research Design and Case Selection\n\nWe rely on evidence from Uganda, Nigeria, Zambia and South Africa to explore whether these theoretical claims regarding the value of privatisation agencies apply across the volatile political contexts of Africa after 1990. In each case, we explore how variation in formal agency independence and regime type affected the outcome of privatisation. Our argument can be briefly summarised as follows. Governments establish agencies of varying formal independence. The presence of more independent agencies builds administrative capacity for carrying out the sale of SOEs and reduces coalitional drift, even when governments encounter resistance or face an election. Moreover, governments that establish more independent privatisation agencies signal their commitment to investors and domestic political audiences alike.\n\nThe responses of these two groups to agency independence often diverge, but the effect of such divergence depends on whether the political context is democratic or authoritarian. If investors and creditors regard the signal as credible, they respond by investing in former SOEs, as previous research suggests they might. Contrary to received wisdom, however, if domestic opponents in more democratic contexts also regard the signal as credible, a political backlash may ensue. This is because losers, recently empowered by democratic institutions, may act to resist the implementation of policy by an insulated bureaucracy. Such a backlash may slow down privatisation or destabilise the regime. To avoid such an outcome, some democratic governments establish less independent agencies, and opt to commercialise rather than privatise.\n\nOur cases share a common British legal tradition dating back to the colonial period, and also confronted similar challenges in promoting indigenous private capital. However, they vary with respect to regime type and degree of privatisation agency independence. Uganda and Nigeria were more authoritarian during the period of our analysis. The former established a more independent privatisation agency while the latter created a more circumscribed agency (before granting it greater independence later). South Africa and Zambia were more democratic during the period of study but only Zambia created a more independent agency and sold off significant portions of its state sector. Although South Africa commercialised and restructured its parastatals, it never created a formal agency owing to widespread opposition to privatisation. In each of our four cases, then, agencies were accorded different degrees of autonomy and operated in different and, at times, volatile political contexts. This variation allows us to evaluate the causal processes at work in sales of parastatals.\n\nFor heuristic purposes, we identify four patterns of privatisation in Figure 7.2. Both regime type and agency independence are continuously distributed variables, which our two-by-two figure unfortunately forces into dichotomies. But this depiction allows us to characterise our cases in an intuitively useful way. We consulted national legislation mandating the creation of each agency to assess the extent to which technocrats were formally independent from political interference. Our assessment of agency independence draws on a larger, fine-grained dataset that coded privatisation laws passed in twenty-nine African countries (Teodoro and Pitcher 2016). As presented in Table 7.1 below, we identified legal provisions that provided agency staff more or less discretion, or gave elected officials more or less influence over the agency's work. Legislative provisions that accorded an agency more discretion over its own operations or explicitly limited the formal influence of politicians over the agency were classified as increasing agency independence; provisions that limited agency discretion or created formal channels for politicians to influence the agency's work were classified as reducing independence.\n\n|  | Regime type  \n---|---|---  \nFormal Agency Independence|  | More Authoritarian| More Democratic  \nMore independent| Uganda| Zambia  \nextensive privatisation| extensive privatisation, but contentious when more democratic  \nLess independent| Nigeria| South Africa  \nerratic and limited privatisation| limited privatisation, commercialisation preferred\n\nFigure 7.2\n\nAgency independence, regime type and reform outcomes\n\nTable 7.1 Legislative indicators of formal agency independence\n\nProvisions that increase agency independence  \n---  \nLegal status| Personnel  \nHas a corporate charter| Selects own agency head  \nCan sue or be sued| Agency head qualifications specified  \nStatutorily independent| Agency head serves fixed term  \nPrivatisation defined as agency's main purpose| Agency head may be re-appointed  \nEstablished as separate ministry| Technical unit for privatisation specified  \n| Technical unit personnel expertise specified  \n| Bureaucrats selected by agency  \nOperations|   \nAgency sets own budget| Agency evaluates offers  \nAgency identifies SOEs for privatisation| Agency chooses bidder  \nAgency identifies method of privatisation| Agency implements privatisation process  \nAgency performs valuation of SOEs| Agency receives proceeds from SOE sales  \nAgency advertises SOE sales| Sales proceeds go to dedicated fund  \nProvisions that reduce agency independence  \nOversight| Personnel  \nAgency is part of existing ministry| Agency head appointed by president / PM  \nAgency governing board includes political appointees| Agency head appointed by cabinet minister  \nAgency governing board includes government members| Bureaucrats selected by president / PM  \nAgency governing board includes civil society| Bureaucrats selected by cabinet minister  \nGovernment members dominate agency governing board| Government members can chair agency  \nOperations|   \nLegislation specifies SOEs for privatisation| Domestic sales required  \nLegislation specifies method of privatisation| Periodic reporting required\n\nSource: Authors' coding. See Teodoro and Pitcher (2016).\n\nTo classify regime types, we use average and year-on-year Polity IV scores over the time period from 1990 to 2005 (Polity 2010). Polity scores capture the mixture of autocratic and democratic authority in government institutions, ranging from -10 for autocracies to +10 for fully institutionalised democracies. With average Polity scores of -1 and -4, respectively, Nigeria and Uganda were more authoritarian (or 'closed anocracies' in Polity IV's terminology), meaning that there were few constraints on executive power and that political competition was limited. Zambia and South Africa are democratic cases. With an average score of 3, Zambia was considered an 'open anocracy', a mixed regime with democratic features such as regular elections and checks on executive power by the judiciary and the legislature, but where the executive also subverted the constitution and centralised power to some extent. South Africa's average score of 8 reflects its regular elections, checks and balances, and extensive means for political participation (Polity IV Project 2010).\n\nNigeria, Uganda and Zambia exhibited considerable volatility in their Polity scores over the period of analysis. We rely on careful process tracing to gauge the interaction of privatisation agencies with political context and its impact on privatisation outcomes. Drawing on existing theory, we develop 'analytic narratives' (Bates et al. 1998) for each country that explain why a formally independent privatisation agency was created, the political context in which privatisation occurred and the outcome of the privatisation process. The narratives draw on interviews with policymakers, technocrats, trade union officials and representatives of international financial institutions in Uganda, Zambia and South Africa. We also cite legislation, government reports and newspaper articles on privatisation.\n\nTo evaluate whether independent agencies (1) enhance capacity; (2) prevent drift; (3) bring credibility; and, (4) protect against domestic pressures, we examine several closely related features of privatisation: the extent of sales, the value of sales, whether sales were accompanied by rent seeking or resistance, and the policy process itself. Because the size of the state-owned sector varied widely across Africa and across our four cases, we assess sales as a percentage of the total size of the state sector for each country just before privatisation began. In order to determine the credibility of the process, we evaluate large firms that were sold or restructured. Following Brune et al. (2004), we also determine revenues from sales expressed as a percentage of 1985 GDP because that was before most countries began to privatise. It therefore serves as a base year for determining the revenue from sales. Finally, we explore debates and challenges in the policy process to assess the extent to which privatisation was beholden to domestic political interests.\n\n# Authoritarian Context, More Independent Agency: Uganda\n\nIn Uganda, the National Resistance Army under Yoweri Museveni toppled the short-lived Okello regime in late 1985. The government established a 'no party democracy' that included regular elections and a robust parliamentary system but prohibited the participation of other parties on the grounds that they were divisive (Kasfir 1998).1 Museveni's government formulated a privatisation policy in 1991 with financial and administrative support from the World Bank. Few sales occurred under the initial policy owing to the lack of an agency mandated to undertake sales and the lack of clarity regarding the privatisation process (Uganda 1993; Opagi 2001).\n\nIn response to these concerns, the government made substantial efforts to clarify the process of privatisation and give greater independence to technocrats responsible for it. The Public Enterprise Restructuring and Divestiture statute in 1993 created a cabinet sub-committee that identified which enterprises would be privatised. Chaired by the Minister of Finance, the Divestiture and Reform Implementation Committee (DRIC) encompassed different, potentially conflicting interests affected by privatisation. The committee included the chairperson of the Uganda Investment Authority, the Attorney General, ministers from the sector whose parastatals were under consideration for privatisation, two members of parliamentary committees on the economy and SOEs, respectively, and three 'eminent' Ugandans appointed by the Prime Minister on advice from the Cabinet. In 1995, a Presidential directive further stressed DRIC's importance by appointing a cabinet-level Minister of State for Finance for Privatisation. On the recommendation of Parliament, MPs were dropped from DRIC in 2000 owing to a perceived conflict of interest.\n\nDRIC was essentially the political body in charge of privatisation. Technical responsibility for privatisation belonged to a divestiture secretariat, but it was a cumbersome body of three overlapping units responsible for particular sectors or modes of reform. In 1995, the government abolished the secretariat and created two units housed in the Ministry of Finance, Planning and Economic Development: a Parastatal Monitoring Unit that managed the revenues and expenses of existing SOEs and a Privatisation Unit (PU). The main responsibility of the PU was technocratic. Headed by a director with professional qualifications, it handled the logistical and technical aspects of divestiture from the valuation of companies to their final sale. The PU was located administratively under the Secretary to the Treasury, worked closely with the privatisation minister and DRIC, and had 'extensive operational autonomy' (Opagi 2001; Nyirinkindi and Opagi 2010: 364). In short, the PU was formally a highly independent agency operating in a relatively authoritarian political context.\n\nFigure 7.3 shows annual and cumulative SOE privatisations in Uganda from 1990 through 2005, as well as Uganda's average Polity scores. Between 1992 and 2007, Uganda privatised approximately 90 of its 159 SOEs and liquidated approximately 30 other companies, thus divesting about 75 per cent of its state sector over a 15-year period (White and Bhatia 1998; Nyrinkindi and Opagi 2010). Private investment increased from 5.4 per cent of GDP in 1986\u20131987 to 13 per cent in 1998\u20131999, indicating that investors responded positively to signals of commitment to private sector development by the government (Tumusiime-Mutebile 2000).\n\nFigure 7.3\n\nAuthoritarian context, moderate agency independence: Privatisation in Uganda, 1990\u20132005\n\nThe creation and strengthening of a privatisation agency were critical to increasing sales of parastatals and avoiding coalitional drift. Privatisation of Ugandan SOEs began after the passage of the initial policy in 1991, increased following the creation of the DRIC and the secretariat in 1993, and spiked in 1995 when the government established a ministerial post for privatisation and clarified the role of the PU. Yet, features such as parliamentary oversight and media scrutiny found more often in democratic countries likely affected the timing and the quality of SOE sales in Uganda. For instance, parliament questioned the legality of several high profile divestitures, including the sale of Uganda Commercial Bank, Hima Cement and Uganda Airlines, and also questioned the authority of DRIC to identify companies for privatisation (Nyirinkindi and Opagi 2010).\n\nParliamentary intervention resulted in more transparent and formal implementation guidelines, especially in 1995 and 1997, which increased the credibility of the process. Moreover, according to reports from the PU director, supporters of privatisation appealed to Parliament and the Cabinet to challenge entrenched elites within SOEs who were thwarting privatisation efforts. Such appeals resulted in additional legislation targeting the privatisation of particular companies and sped up sales (Opagi 2001). These accounts suggest that the greater visibility that accompanied formal agency independence did not insulate it from domestic pressures as the literature predicts, but rather encouraged domestic interests to hold it more accountable to SOE-related interest groups, especially when Uganda's political environment was more democratic.\n\nAlthough formal agency independence did not prevent informal political interference and the sale of firms to cronies of the regime (see Mugirya 2000; Tangri and Mwenda 2001), the greater visibility of the agency reduced policy drift by making it harder to hide corruption. According to a representative of the World Bank, when privatisation was subject to greater parliamentary oversight in the late 1990s, the bureaucrats who carried out the privatisation process followed the guidelines more closely and transactions were more transparent (Saravia 2000). Improvements were reflected particularly in the sale of 51 per cent of Uganda telecommunications (UTL), which the government had twice previously tried and failed to dispose of. After liberalising the telecommunications sector and allowing for a more open and competitive bidding process, UTL's sale price of US$33 million was one of the most highly valued asset sales in Uganda. Although many assets were divested fully, the government mostly favoured joint ventures or concessions for utilities such as water, electricity and telecommunications, especially after 2000 when the process was subject to greater parliamentary scrutiny (Nyirinkindi and Opagi 2010).\n\nThe Ugandan case demonstrates that, in a more authoritarian context, the formal creation of a highly independent agency resulted in the privatisation of the majority of SOEs. The high number of sales indicates that the agency minimised coalitional drift and offered a sufficiently credible signal to investors who then bought parastatals, even high value parastatals such as UTL and Kinyara Sugar. Moreover, although formal agency independence did not prevent sales to regime cronies, the agency's greater visibility invited scrutiny. The Ugandan parliament intervened to increase the accountability and transparency of the agency rather than to stop the process of privatisation, especially as democratic conditions improved generally (Saravia 2000; Nyirinkindi and Opagi 2010).\n\n# Authoritarian Context, Less Independent Agency: Nigeria\n\nExcept for several brief interludes of civilian rule, successive military regimes governed Nigeria for nearly forty years after it gained independence in 1960. In 1993, the Nigerian military aborted an attempt at democratisation, ushering in a highly repressive period of authoritarianism that lasted until democratisation efforts revived in 1999. Although Nigeria did not participate in the wave of democratisation that swept many other African countries, it did adopt measures of economic liberalisation. These continued in fits and starts during the 1990s following the military coup.\n\nLike Uganda, Nigeria established a sizeable state sector following independence but did not eliminate the private sector. At the height of the period of state intervention, the federal government operated approximately 485 SOEs, while state and local governments controlled around 1,500 parastatals (White and Bhatia 1998; Obadan 2000: 46). Nigeria's state sector accounted for 50 per cent of GDP and provided 66 per cent of formal sector employment in the mid-1990s (Jerome 2008).\n\nEconomic crisis in the 1980s motivated the government to adopt a package of reforms prescribed by the World Bank and IMF, including privatisation (Adeyemo and Salami 2008: 409). The political environment in which privatisation was implemented was both authoritarian and unstable, as Polity IV scores indicate (see Figure 7.4). The Nigerian privatisation agency's mandate changed with each change in regime, but its independence was not expanded. Rather, vague mandates facilitated politicians' involvement in the agency's work, which stymied both the speed and quality of privatisation.\n\nFigure 7.4\n\nAuthoritarian context, low agency independence: Privatisation in Nigeria, 1990\u20132005\n\nThe government announced its intention to privatise SOEs in 1986, but only issued a formal decree after 'two years of dilly-dallying', as one critic put it (Jerome 2008: 6). In comparison with Uganda's PU, the Technical Committee on Privatisation and Commercialisation (TCPC) had little formal independence and its mandate was unclear: it was responsible either for selling state enterprises or restructuring them to operate more profitably. Analysts suggest that ministries with control over parastatals thwarted efforts to create an independent agency, fearing a loss of power if they did so (Adeyemo and Salami 2008: 413). Furthermore, criteria for membership on the eleven-person TCPC was vague (Oloruntimehin 2002: 21\u201322), and the TCPC was highly dependent on politicians for identifying companies for sale, valuing them, choosing a privatisation method and setting a timetable for sales (Obadan 2000).\n\nIn 1993, the Bureau of Public Enterprises (BPE) replaced the TCPC, but the agency was weak and could not prevent the coalitional drift that occurred following a military coup. The new government under Sani Abacha shifted its preference from divestitures to the commercialisation of SOEs, and no significant privatisation occurred for the rest of the decade. Commercialisation was meant to align operations of SOEs with market principles without transferring ownership to the private sector (Obadan 2000). Following flawed elections in 1999, the government of Olusegun Obasanjo resuscitated the privatisation process. As other governments had done, it created a National Council on Privatisation (NCP) to set objectives, establish guidelines for the privatisation process, oversee the appointment of consultants and approve prices for sales of shares or assets, but it did not grant autonomy to the BPE to handle the technical aspects of the process (Nigeria 1999: II). In spite of the designation of the BPE as a 'body corporate with perpetual succession' it was highly dependent on the NCP to carry out its functions (Nigeria 1999: III, 12, 2). The politician-dominated NCP made most of the critical decisions regarding the privatisation process, while the BPE was legally restricted to an advisory role. Moreover, BPE's director general was not required to possess any particular expertise other than to be at or above the rank of a Permanent Secretary in the civil service (Nigeria 1999: III). A lack of funding also hobbled privatisation efforts: the NCP and BPE received less than half of their requested funding in 2001 and 2002 (Adeyemi and Salami 2008). Simply put, Nigeria's privatisation agency enjoyed little formal independence.\n\nNigeria's unstable political environment and unclear mandate for privatisation contributed to coalitional drift. As Figure 7.4 shows, SOE sales are higher when Nigeria's Polity scores improve and legislation on a privatisation agency is passed or revised; sales drop when democracy declines and legislation is revamped. These episodes occurred when new military leaders reneged on the previous regime's policies and opted to keep SOEs in government hands. Political instability also deterred investors from purchasing companies. By 2005, the Nigerian government had sold approximately 23 per cent of the SOEs previously under direct federal government control in 1990 (World Bank 1999, 2008), prompting one evaluation of the process to conclude that 'The transformation process continues at a snail's pace' (Bertelsmann Transformation Index 2006: 16). The government sold some companies in the financial, manufacturing and energy sectors to foreign investors or listed them on the Nigerian stock exchange. In 2001, Nigeria opened up the mobile phone market to private investors and privatised the fixed line telephone operator in 2006. Still, the government retained majority control over strategic assets, such as oil, electricity and water, and commercialised other assets such as the railways. Cumulative revenues from privatisation were only 4.4 per cent of 1985 GDP by 2004 (Brune et al. 2004: 216), suggesting either that few large companies were privatised or that cronies of the regime largely benefitted from 'sales'.\n\nContradictory domestic pressures explain the slow pace and the poor quality of privatisation in Nigeria (Jerome 2008). Those well-connected to key politicians often derailed or corrupted the privatisation process to serve their own purposes. A former legal advisor to the BPE lamented the repeated interference of specially created 'Presidential Committees' in the sales process of the most attractive companies (Adoga 2008: 3). Moreover, an independent report asserted that 'privatisation serves largely as a money laundering instrument for legalizing illegally accumulated wealth and income from international drug trafficking' (BTI 2006: 9). In this way, informal institutions contravened whatever formal independence the privatisation agency was granted.\n\nAt the same time, popular forces such as trade unions took advantage of improved democratic conditions after 1999 to criticise the lack of transparency and inadequate regulations associated with privatisation. In doing so, they slowed the pace of privatisation (Jerome 2008: 9; see also Adoga 2008), but the low quality of democracy was insufficient to prevent rent-seeking by politicians or sustained efforts by SOE managers to block both sales and commercialisation (Adeyemi and Salami 2008: 413).\n\nNigeria is thus a case of a politically unstable, largely authoritarian regime creating institutions with little formal independence. Nigeria's struggling privatisation agencies in the 1990s are consistent with Haggard and Kaufman's claim that 'technocrats are marginalized' in unstable regimes with fragile formal institutions (1989: 59). Under Nigeria's volatile political conditions, the mandate to privatise was inconsistent and vague, informal rules were allowed to prevail and the response by investors was thus poor.\n\n# Democratic Context, More Independent Agency: Zambia\n\nZambia demonstrates both greater formal agency independence and higher levels of democracy than the previous two cases. In 1991, the one party state under Kenneth Kaunda bowed to popular pressures arising from a sustained economic crisis and held democratic elections. These elections brought a new party to power, the Movement for Multiparty Democracy (MMD), whose manifesto promised structural adjustment and privatisation. The new government established the Zambia Privatisation Agency (ZPA) in 1992 and granted it much greater formal authority to privatise SOEs than agencies in other African countries (Zambia 2005; Cruickshank 2005). The agency's board was broad-based and non-government representatives outnumbered government officials: besides three government officials, nine members of the board were from the business community, the trade unions, universities and churches (Zambia 1992).\n\nImportantly, since voting members of the board only met once every two months, a professionally trained staff conducted the day-to-day affairs of the agency, and this staff was given discretion on most technical decisions regarding privatisation. At least three of ZPA's directors between 1992 and 2006 had degrees in economics or backgrounds in business and finance. Following the Cabinet's authorisation of eligible SOEs, ZPA staff were free to undertake privatisation without further interference (Cruickshank 2005).\n\nAfter the agency's creation, ZPA officials moved systematically (and voluntarily, without threat or pressure) to dispose of SOEs. ZPA's technocrats were not simply responding to World Bank conditionality, but were ideologically committed to the process. The ZPA tried to conduct privatisation 'by the book': 'We wanted to follow the rules and be professional', said former Chief Executive James Matale (cited in Pitcher 2012: 111). With technical expertise and advice provided by UNDP, the World Bank, USAID, Danida, and other donors, ZPA personnel valued assets, advertised companies for sale, selected negotiating teams for each sale and published quarterly status reports detailing particular transactions (Fundanga and Mwaba 1997).\n\nThe high degree of agency independence coupled with the country's democratic environment affected not only the sales of SOEs, but also the pace of the process and the quality of divestitures.\n\nFigure 7.5 shows Zambia's annual and cumulative SOE sales from 1990 through 2005, as well as its average annual Polity IV scores. In sheer volume of transactions, ZPA's privatisation efforts evidence little coalitional drift and demonstrate a high degree of technical capacity. By 1999, Zambia's average revenues as a percentage of 1985 GDP were twice those of Uganda and Nigeria, and Zambia had sold a much higher percentage of SOEs than either Uganda or Nigeria by 2005, suggesting that they sold more valuable companies to legitimate buyers who made their payments (Brune et al. 2004; Zambia 2005). The ZPA divested around 261 of the 282 eligible companies in its portfolio,2 including businesses in almost every sector (Zambia 2005). Not surprisingly, the World Bank lauded Zambia for having the most successful privatisation programme in Africa (White and Bhatia, 1998: 4).\n\nFigure 7.5\n\nDemocratic context, high agency independence: Privatisation in Zambia, 1990\u20132005\n\nThese outcomes reinforce conventional arguments that a formally independent, insulated change team is effective in privatisation. However, changing political dynamics can still cause agency independence to drive unexpected outcomes, as Zambian privatisation in the mid-1990s illustrates. In 1996, the ruling MMD party disqualified the presidential candidate of the opposition party prior to the national elections and the opposition party, in response, boycotted the elections. Accordingly, Polity IV scores declined from 6 to 1 that year and remained at 1 until the completion of elections in 2001.\n\nAs political conditions deteriorated, so did the quality of parastatal divestitures (Tordoff and Young 2005). Emboldened by his re-election victory in 1996, the President began to override the ZPA's privatisation authority. Privatisation of all or part of some parastatals were subsequently completed 'off the books' through special committees and irregular procedures (Cruickshank 2005; Matale 2008). The President removed the privatisation of Zambia's most valuable SOEs (the copper mines) from the ZPA and handed it to a specially created Privatisation Negotiating Team (PNT). During the negotiating process, the PNT did not consult with the ZPA on the methods of sale, the bids received or the awarding of contracts. In some cases, contracts were awarded to personal colleagues of the head of the PNT and/or the President of the country (Cruickshank 2005; Larmer 2005).\n\nWhen the democratic environment strengthened following the 2001 elections, the ZPA resumed its work, but this time popular opposition and enhanced legislative oversight acted to stall the privatisation process. Prior to the elections, opposition politicians and parties attracted support by campaigning against foreign purchases of SOEs (Larmer and Fraser 2007). After 2001, unions joined with churches and anti-poverty groups to challenge government over privatisation, and more civic issues such as the constitution, press freedom and democracy (Akwetey and Kraus 2007). MPs demanded accountability from Ministers and highlighted abuses in the privatisation process (Zambia 2007). Although the ZPA still had important assets to sell, including Zamtel and the Zambia National Commercial Bank, increased legislative and public oversight slowed the pace of privatisation.\n\nIn fifteen years, the Zambian government sold 93 per cent of its assets and received nearly one billion USD in revenue. Such results indicate that the creation of a highly independent agency guards against coalitional drift and sends a credible signal to investors that a government is serious about privatisation. But this case also shows that when the democratic environment worsens, the quality of privatisation wrought by formally independent bureaucratic agencies may deteriorate if politicians interfere in the process using informal mechanisms. When the political context is more democratic, rather than new \u2013 as Haggard and Kaufman (1989) claim \u2013 the quality of privatisation improves but the pace slows because democratic regimes are more accountable to popular demands.\n\n# Democratic Context, Less Agency Independence: South Africa\n\nIn South Africa, a less formally independent agency combined with higher levels of democracy to create a privatisation process marked by policy ambiguity and political compromise. Although South Africa's transition to democracy in 1994 coincided with the height of global neoliberalism, the democratic context allowed well-organised interests to mobilise both for and against privatisation in advance of agency creation. The ruling African National Congress' (ANC) base consisted of many who had been historically disadvantaged by apartheid, such as black workers, managers and business owners, and they favoured using the state to redress past discrimination against the black majority. Yet, unlike other African countries, a large private sector was already well-established in South Africa when elections brought the ANC to power. The established, and largely white, private sector supported greater liberalisation (Handley 2008).\n\nAs a resistance movement, the ANC had supported the nationalisation of industry and commerce, but on gaining power, it adopted policies to liberalise and privatise the economy. Just two years after its first multiparty elections, South Africa passed the Growth, Employment and Redistribution Act (GEAR), an economic strategy aimed at balancing the budget, reducing state expenditures, liberalising trade and attracting foreign and domestic investment. Although GEAR announced the state's intention to reform public enterprises, it avoided using the word 'privatisation'; instead, it referred to the 'restructuring' of SOEs (South Africa 1996). Restructuring was to consist of several options \u2013 including outright sale, the inclusion of a strategic equity partner or a public private partnership (PPPs) with the government retaining a majority interest. GEAR supported the use of cost recovery approaches in public services through the adoption of PPPs. The only SOEs that GEAR specifically mentioned as candidates for privatisation were six South African Broadcasting Company stations and Telkom, South Africa's fixed line telecommunications company (South Africa 1996).\n\nJust as GEAR's mandate was vague, so were the roles and responsibilities of the bureaucratic agencies linked to SOE reform. South Africa never established an independent agency dedicated to privatisation. Instead, responsibility for SOE privatisation and reform was given to the Office of Public Enterprises (OPE), created in 1994. In 1999, it was upgraded to a department (DPE) headed by a cabinet-level Minister and staffed by civil servants or officials with expertise in business and economics. Neither the OPE nor the later DPE had an explicit mandate to privatise. Indeed, DPE's formal roles were contradictory in important ways and subject to the vicissitudes of the party. On the one hand, it had the responsibility to manage South Africa's nine largest SOEs, including those in defence, railways, telecommunications and electricity. On the other hand, while DPE was formally charged with developing strategies for the state sector through privatisation, restructuring or regulation (South Africa 2000: 19), its enabling legislation restricted its autonomy to do so.\n\nAs Figure 7.6 illustrates, in 2005 \u2013 ten years after GEAR's passage \u2013 less than 10 per cent of South African SOEs were sold, suggesting that coalitional drift was substantial (World Bank 1999, 2008; Jerome 2004). SOEs still comprised 44 per cent of South Africa's fixed capital assets and contributed 14 per cent to the GDP (Rumney 2004). Revenues from privatisation amounted to only 3.4 per cent of 1985 GDP. Some major divestitures did occur \u2013 the 1997 sale of Telkom was one of the largest privatisation deals on the continent (Horwitz and Currie 2007) \u2013 but significantly, the government retained all or most of the shares in capital and labour intensive industries, such as electricity supply, defence, telecommunications and transportation. Rather than sell these enterprises, DPE reconfigured them in pursuit of greater efficiency and profitability (South Africa 2008).\n\nFigure 7.6\n\nDemocratic context, low agency independence: Privatisation in South Africa, 1990\u20132005\n\nTwo factors explain the tepid pace of privatisation and coalitional drift in a case where agency independence was low and democracy was robust (see Figure 7.6). First, opponents took advantage of the opportunities afforded by democracy to challenge privatisation generally and the privatisation of SOEs such as Transnet (the railways parastatal) and Eskom (the electricity parastatal) in particular. These latter two SOEs were large employers of unionised labour and supplied services to millions of consumers (Pitcher 2012: 216\u2013223).\n\nSecond, DPE's ambiguous role and contradictory missions, combined with the government's ambivalence towards divestitures, reduced the credibility of its commitment to privatisation in the eyes of investors (BusinessMap Foundation 2004: i\u2013ii). Ambiguity gave the DPE flexibility to modify the privatisation process in the face of domestic opposition to outright sales. As its mixed mandate indicated, DPE had a responsibility to privatise and act in the best interests of the SOEs' employees. These factors contributed to a pattern of extensive bargaining and compromise between DPE officials, SOE managers and trade unions. After 2000, the Minister of the DPE continued to stress the goal of greater efficiency, but added more clearly defined social imperatives to its protocols (South Africa 2000). Privatisation slowed considerably, but restructuring SOEs to make them more competitive continued (South Africa 2008). Restructuring was accompanied by public works projects to reduce unemployment and programmes for black managers aimed at creating a more representative workplace.\n\n# A Theory of Technocracy in Transitional Democracy\n\nPrivatisation is a technically complex process, and so it is hardly surprising that agencies with technical expertise facilitated privatisation in all four of our cases. In each case, however, the success of privatisation efforts was contingent on the agency's degree of independence and its political context. In authoritarian Uganda, an independent agency accelerated the sales of SOEs, demonstrating that administrative capacity had improved, and offered a credible signal to investors that the government was committed to privatisation. Moreover, sales were sustained over time, indicating that coalitional drift arising from changes in politicians' preferences was contained. But agency independence did not prevent government interference in the sales process in the ways that conventional logic would predict, owing to Uganda's highly authoritarian political context. In this climate, 'policy demanders' included many cronies of the regime, who benefitted from sales of SOEs and relied on informal institutions to do so. Looking to other cases, Mozambique shows a similar pattern to that of Uganda. The designation of an agency responsible for privatisation enhanced credibility of the process and attracted investors, but a more authoritarian political context reduced accountability and facilitated informal political interference in sales of parastatals (Pitcher 2012).\n\nThe Nigerian case demonstrates that the privatisation process is erratic and unpredictable when fragmented authoritarian governments send mixed signals about their intentions. Nigeria's privatisation agency enjoyed some initial successes, but its administrative capacity was highly circumscribed and subject to interference by politicians. The agency's limited independence sent a weak signal to investors, and even its restricted mandate was subject to the changing positions of the ruling party on the desirability of privatisation (Bienen and Herbst 1996). Coalitional drift was considerable, and privatisation rose and fell with each change of regime suggesting that political reliance on informal mechanisms rivalled reliance on formally created institutions.\n\nThe degree of technocratic independence had markedly different effects in more democratic Zambia and South Africa. In Zambia, a new government's highly independent and professional privatisation agency was initially effective at valuing and selling SOEs, suggesting that it possessed technocratic capacity and that investors believed the government had made a credible commitment to privatisation. The creation of a highly independent agency largely contained coalitional drift. However, different sets of 'policy suppliers' and 'policy demanders' (Dargent 2011) influenced the pace and quality of sales, depending on democratic conditions. When democratic quality declined between 1996 and 2001, greater interference from politicians (policy suppliers) undermined the sale of Zambia's greatest asset, copper. When the quality of democracy improved, the agency became the focal point for protest by opponents or policy demanders who delayed the privatisation process, especially after 2001.\n\nFinally, although South Africa's civil service was better trained than those of other African countries, the technocratic authority to privatise was circumscribed and diffuse. The ANC refrained from establishing a highly insulated, technocratic agency in part because it anticipated that announcing a privatisation programme would be a red flag to a bull. The government did not entirely avoid political resistance to privatisation, but agency flexibility allowed it to sustain its liberalisation programme within a highly democratic political climate throughout the 1990s. Interestingly, South Africa is not the only case of a more democratic country in Africa hesitating to create an independent standalone agency and eventually drifting away from outright privatisation. Despite liberalising their economies, Mauritius and Namibia did not create privatisation agencies and privatised few SOEs.\n\nOur findings suggest that governments seeking to privatise SOEs are engaged in a 'two-level game' (Putnam 1988): they must bargain not only with external financial institutions like the IMF and the World Bank or foreign investors to establish their credibility, but also with domestic interests. The creation of an insulated agency sends signals to both constituencies, and under more democratic conditions, opponents can thwart the creation or the activities of independent technocratic agencies.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nDoes formal bureaucratic agency independence 'matter' in Africa? Our cases offer strong evidence that it does, but that the effects of formal bureaucratic institutions depend significantly upon their political context. The salutary effects of technocratic agencies for privatisation were a pillar of faith in the international development community's push towards liberalisation in the 1990s and 2000s, but as so often happens, the reality is far more complicated.\n\nOur findings reinforce claims that the creation of an independent technocratic agency sends a signal to interested parties that a government is committed to a particular strategy and is willing to tie its own hands to bring it about. Our important theoretical contribution is that the creation of an agency sends a similarly potent signal to opponents of privatisation, who may block sales under more democratic conditions. A practical implication of our finding is that, when pursuing far-reaching economic reforms like privatisation, policymakers in emerging democracies should not try to insulate technocrats from popular influences. Technocrats with circumscribed authority in a democratic political environment cannot privatise by force or fiat, and so must build support for privatisation by accommodating potential 'losers' and engaging in the painstaking task of explaining to voters why reform is important. Democratic political leaders should charge technocrats not only with carrying out reforms, but also with winning public trust in the merits of reform, and, when necessary, accommodating its opponents.\n\nWe hope that the present research will contribute to a reconsideration of the value of technocratic independence in Africa and encourage further comparative study of bureaucrats occupying different layers of public administration \u2013 from 'street level bureaucrats' to those directing central banks. Although the heyday of privatisation in Africa has passed, many governments have created, or are in the process of creating, independent regulatory commissions to govern the distribution of water, electricity and telecommunications. As with the privatisation agencies that preceded them, the independence of these commissions varies considerably and as such, the importance and effectiveness of these agencies likely differ depending on the political and economic contexts in which they operate. Yet, to date there are few studies that explore how such regulatory commissions function.\n\nLastly, even more so than the staff of privatisation agencies, 'street level bureaucrats' often interact closely with the public around the supply of essential public goods such as water or electricity, health or education. Justesen and Bj\u00f8rnskov (2014) suggest that as wealthier residents increasingly forego public service provision in order to take advantage of the availability of private services, poorer and more vulnerable sectors of society are increasingly exposed to demands for bribes from corrupt bureaucrats. These micro-level findings on who gets targeted by bureaucrats and the conditions under which informal institutions are likely to trump the duties and responsibilities expressed in formal mandates promise new avenues of research on bureaucrats in Africa that will complement our own findings.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAdeyemo, D.O. and Adeleke Salami. 2008. 'A Review of private enterprises reform in Nigeria', Contemporary Management Research 4, 4: 401\u2013418.\n\nAdoga, Onjefu. 2008. 'A Critical Appraisal of Privatisation in Nigeria', Hg.org Legal Directories (October 8), accessed 14 October 2011. www.hg.org/article.asp?id=5491.\n\nAkwetey, Emmanuel, and Jon Kraus. 2007. 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Most of the fifty companies were liquidations or companies returned to their former owners.\n\n# Part III Elections, Parties and Political Competition\n# 8 Political Parties\n\n## Presidential Succession Crises and Internal Party Democracy\n\nIan Cooper\n\n'Modern democracy' \u2013 Schattschneider (1942: 1) wrote \u2013 'is unthinkable save in terms of political parties'. By contesting elections, participating in parliament and taking grievances to court rather than to the streets, parties encourage citizens to regard democratic politics as morally and procedurally legitimate. By representing constituents in the corridors of power, they render public policymaking accountable and expose instances of official malfeasance. By recruiting, training and socialising political actors, they bring fresh talent into the system and ensure that democratic ideals are imbibed at the highest levels of society. And by creating, nurturing and reproducing societal coalitions \u2013 with the capacity to secure an electoral majority \u2013 they bring together groups with conflicting interests and so facilitate social cohesion. A representative democracy without effective political parties, in other words, is akin to an engine without moving parts.\n\nAfrican parties, however, have a bad reputation. Far from exercising power for the common good, ruling parties are said to intimidate opponents, politicise security forces and erode the boundaries between party, government and state. Far from recruiting fresh talent, they affect an endless circulation of elites, with the discredited autocrats of yesteryear moving from party to party without ever relinquishing power. Far from building broad-based alliances capable of reconciling interests and managing conflict, they seek short-term electoral advantage by fanning the flames of ethnic hatred. And far from establishing acceptable norms of political behaviour, opposition parties attack rivals, denigrate judiciaries and cry foul over electoral defeat even when the popular will has been unambiguously expressed. Little wonder, then, that African parties are often regarded as the 'weak link in the chain of elements that together make for a democratic state' (Randall and Sv\u00e5sand 2002: 31).\n\nMost African parties, of course, have a constitution intended to define objectives, guarantee rights and responsibilities, establish institutions and place limits on the exercise of political power. These rules, however, tend to exist only on paper. Indeed, few African parties have a grassroots membership capable of effecting vertical accountability or influencing policy, in part because internal party organisation is sustained by the personal fortunes of 'big men'. Fewer still have a professional bureaucracy capable of applying party statute, conducting policy research and creating checks on presidential power. One of the most important consequences of this weakness is that political succession \u2013 i.e. the process through which an incumbent president retires and a successor is chosen \u2013 frequently degenerates into internecine conflict. Indeed, political fragmentation stemming from mismanaged succession crises has actually contributed to changes of government in Kenya, Senegal, Zambia and Lesotho (Cooper 2015b). My chapter consequently examines variation in the quality and depth of internal party democracy, exploring the case of Namibia's South West Africa People's Organisation (SWAPO), whilst drawing comparisons with a number of other ruling parties.\n\nLike all ruling parties, SWAPO has a number of distinctive features. Its history as an armed guerrilla movement, hegemonic self-perception and organisational longevity are replicated by governing parties in Angola, Ethiopia, Mozambique, Rwanda, Uganda and Zimbabwe, but are otherwise fairly atypical in the African context (van de Walle 2003: 314). Two other factors do, however, make SWAPO an instructive case through which to understand processes of party institutionalisation. First, SWAPO's internal processes have tended to exhibit a combination of coercion, clientelism and personal rule that is common to many other parties in African states. Former President Sam Nujoma cast a long shadow over almost all aspects of internal governance during his forty-seven years at the helm, choosing thirty of the party's fifty-odd members of parliament, reshuffling cabinet ministers every two to three years, side-lining critics and riding roughshod over the few formal checks to his power. Second, however, Nujoma's eventual retirement heralded a period of party-building during which formal institutions came to play a greater role in matters of political succession, parliamentary candidate selection, internal party discipline and policy research. These measures were intended to enhance internal party cohesion, but would also have the unforeseen effect of empowering those grassroots structures dedicated to achieving increased female representation in parliament. Thus, SWAPO's combination of one-time structural weakness and latter-day reform presents an opportunity for drawing lessons of wider relevance.\n\nThus, the first lesson, which is perhaps the most obvious but is also the most important, is that \u2013 contrary to widespread expectation \u2013 African parties are capable of shifting from charismatic to legal-bureaucratic forms of authority. In short, they are not all doomed to obscurity or subservience. Internal party democracy can be deepened, presidential autonomy circumscribed and internal decision-making processes regularised. Second, party presidents can be induced to accept a diminution of their autonomy when political fragmentation is regarded not as an inevitable fact of political life, but as a personal and collective disaster. Thus, President Pohamba's willingness to accept \u2013 indeed, to champion \u2013 institutional reform can be traced to the acute horror with which his party regarded an earlier split in its ranks.\n\nA third lesson, however, is that party-building activity \u2013 like all human endeavours \u2013 can succeed only when motivation and opportunity are aligned. In other words, SWAPO's reform programme would have been stillborn without: (1) an extant bureaucracy upon which to build; and (2) a position of electoral dominance from which to shower public resources on to centres of potential dissent. Finally, SWAPO's inability or unwillingness to complete its migration from charismatic to legal-bureaucratic modes of internal governance has demonstrated that \u2013 as Cheeseman suggests (Chapter 15) \u2013 formal and informal institutions may conflict within a single political space. Whether formal rules achieve ascendancy will therefore depend as much on elite goodwill as on grassroots activism.\n\nThe chapter is arranged into three sections. First, it describes the extant literature and provides an assessment of what we do and do not know about African political parties, before exploring the way in which party 'weakness' can be defined and explained. Second, it presents empirical evidence that demonstrates that SWAPO has shifted in the direction of legal-bureaucratic authority. Finally, it draws on additional cases \u2013 including Botswana, Mozambique, Nigeria and Ghana \u2013 to conclude that episodes of political party fragmentation create an impetus for party-building activity.\n\n# African Parties in Comparative Perspective\n\nSince 1989, with third wave democratisation (Huntington 1991) taking root, the number of countries holding regular, de jure multiparty elections in sub-Saharan Africa has increased twelvefold. This remarkable transformation from dictatorship to pluralism has allowed political parties not only to proliferate, but also to claim a pivotal role in political processes \u2013 the ways in which public policymaking is conducted, governments are formed, state resources are distributed, conflicts are managed and horizontal accountability is achieved. African democracy, if not African politics more broadly, is indeed 'unthinkable save in terms of African parties' (Schattschneider 1942: 1).\n\nTo the extent that African parties have attracted scholarly attention, two strands of literature can be discerned. First, a small but growing body of research has tried to describe the 'modal' African party system, using quantitative methods to determine whether legislative representation is concentrated or dispersed, whether voting patterns are stable or volatile, and whether incumbent rulers are vulnerable or entrenched. Thus, Bogaards (2004: 182) employs a statistical dataset \u2013 fifty-nine legislative polls conducted in all eighteen countries to have held at least three consecutive multi-party elections by the end of 2002 \u2013 and argues that eight of these polities (Botswana, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, Gabon, Lesotho, Mauritania, Namibia and Zimbabwe) should be classified as single-party dominant.1 Kuenzi and Lambright (2005: 430\u2013431), though primarily concerned with exploring a hypothesised relationship between party system type and political freedom, note that fourteen of the thirty-three countries included in their sample exhibited dominant partyism. Mozaffar and Scarritt (2005) purport to show that single-party dominance, low levels of electoral competition and electoral volatility constitute key features of a 'typical' African polity. Van de Walle (2003: 302\u2013303) concludes, after assessing all eighty-seven legislatures for which election results were available, that 'the modal party system... [comprises] a large dominant party surrounded by a bevy of small, highly volatile parties'.\n\nA second strand of literature, therefore, seeks to explain how and why dominant partyism has become the prevalent form of rule in Africa (Bogaards 2000). On the one hand, structuralists tend to suggest that cleavage structures represent the principal explanatory variable. Thus, Erdmann and Basedau (2007: 18) argue that Africa's unusually large number of dominant parties can be traced to high levels of ethnic fragmentation, which oblige any political operator seeking executive power to construct a 'maximum winning coalition' capable of uniting communities around a single leader. Institutionalists, on the other hand, regard dominant-partyism as derived from legal, regulatory or political frameworks rather than social phenomena. Randall and Sv\u00e5sand (2002: 36), for example, note how incumbent advantage can often be employed for the purpose of achieving electoral dominance, since ruling parties typically exploit state resources 'to the full. This enables them to outcompete newer parties that lack a national organisational network, and have limited access to newspaper, other media resources, and party finance'. Political incentives, in other words, flow from the manipulation of institutional frameworks rather than from societal structures.\n\nAfrica's emerging party systems have, therefore, attracted a modicum of academic interest, even though most of the resulting studies tend to be less concerned with the motives underpinning political behaviour. The literature on African political parties is best described as embryonic. As Basedau et al. (2005: 11) note, 'sweeping generalisations derived from rather cursory observations (obtained in the course of the other research) characterise our knowledge about the several hundred parties in the forty-eight countries of Africa south of the Sahara'. Appropriately enough, their own volume represents an important contribution to the literature on neo-patrimonialism, interest representation and election violence. Another valuable contribution is Randall and Sv\u00e5sand's study (2002) of the relationship between political party behaviour and democratic consolidation, which offers an exploratory scheme for recognising and diagnosing party weakness (Randall and Sv\u00e5sand 2002: 38\u201346). Meanwhile, Elischer (2012) uses the schema developed by the Manifesto Research Group (MRG) to demonstrate how programmatic, as opposed to clientelistic, differentiation has been attempted in Ghana, Namibia and Kenya.\n\nTaking a different approach based on insights gained from the Indian party literature, Mac Giollabhu\u00ec (2014) hypothesises that 'inclusive' parliamentary candidate selection processes serve to promote political party cohesion by providing unsuccessful nominees with an opportunity for personal rehabilitation. This argument is confirmed, in the author's view, by comparative analysis of the Tripartite Alliance in South Africa and SWAPO in Namibia. By contrast, LeBas (2011) explores the question of opposition efficacy, using a comparative study of Zimbabwe, Zambia and Kenya to argue, first, that state-sponsored trade unions can become a Trojan horse for political opposition, and second, that internal party cohesion can be enhanced by political polarisation.\n\nAlthough these contributions have advanced our understanding of political parties, few of these studies seek to engage with each other or to map out the terms of the debate. Fewer still grapple with the vexed questions of party-building, internal party democracy or intra-party factionalism. However, one significant point of consensus has emerged. Africa's political parties, it is argued, are characterised by informal rather than formal structures of authority. Thus, Gyimah-Boadi (2007: 27) asserts that:\n\nAfrican political parties share several common features. They tend to have weak bureaucratic and other organisational structures... and [to] lack organised membership rosters and regular mechanisms for collecting membership contributions... Internal democracy tends to be poorly developed and there is an over-emphasis on loyalty to the party and especially loyalty to the party leader. Indeed, African parties tend to be dominated by personalities (as in Chiluba's MMD, Rawlings' NDC, or Nujoma's SWAPO) [emphasis added].\n\nRandall and Sv\u00e5sand (2002: 42) similarly portray African parties as under-bureaucratised, personalised and lacking in internal democracy, while Manning (2005: 716) notes that parties tend to be rooted in clientelistic networks rather than in 'liberal, pluralistic' interest groups. Similarly, van de Walle and Smiddy Butler (1999: 15) argue that most African parties are 'plagued by weak organisations, low levels of institutionalization, and weak links to the society that they are supposed to represent', and Fomunyoh (2001: 48) notes that, in francophone Africa, 'party structures remain extremely hierarchical, and charismatic leadership rather than party platform often drives party loyalty'. African parties, in other words, are characterised by personalised leadership, under-bureaucratisation and low levels of internal democracy.\n\nOne implication of many of these arguments is that Africa's strong parties are so few in number as to be unworthy of scholarly attention. Yet, strong parties are by no means absent in the African context (as also supported by Riedl's work in this volume). In South Africa, the African National Congress (ANC) claims to have 1.2 million members arrayed into nine provincial structures, fifty-three regional structures and 4,872 branches; in 2008 its national executive committee actually ousted an incumbent head of state. In Tanzania, Chama cha Mapinduzi (CCM) has a 2,100-member national congress responsible, inter alia, for electing the party's presidential candidate; in 2005 it selected Jakaya Kikwete from amongst eleven nominees (Tanzanian Affairs, 1 March 2005). In Uganda, National Resistance Movement (NRM) legislators reportedly defied President Museveni to elect an opposition politician, Betty Amongi, as chairperson of the Uganda Women's Parliamentary Association (The Observer, 21 July 2011). And in Ghana, both major parties \u2013 the National Democratic Congress (NDC) and the New Patriotic Party (NPP) \u2013 have become sufficiently rooted in the country's social fabric to survive two electoral defeats and several changes of leadership. Strong parties, therefore, represent a small but important minority in some countries.\n\nA second assumption implicit in the literature is that African parties \u2013 like many other organisations noted in the introduction to this volume \u2013 are incapable of shifting from informal to formal structures of authority. Such perspectives are perhaps not unreasonable when judged against the frequency with which African parties are formed, looted and disbanded by predatory leaders seeking to leverage political office. But they also raise the question of how, when and why party-building \u2013 the process by which formal institutions are strengthened \u2013 is achieved. Unpacking this puzzle requires, in turn, a conceptual understanding of party strength.\n\nRandall and Sv\u00e5sand (2002: 37\u201338) identify four indicators of institutional capacity. First, they argue that weak parties are characterised by a limited degree of territorial penetration, while strong parties maintain organisational structures throughout national space. Second, given that most electors are too impoverished to pay subscriptions, weak parties are 'continuously short of resources' (Randall and Sv\u00e5sand 2002: 37). Third, weak parties are ephemeral in nature, bursting into life only during campaign periods, whilst strong parties are active throughout the electoral cycle. And finally, weak parties tend to be 'underdeveloped in terms of the more formal aspects of organisation' (Randall and Sv\u00e5sand 2002: 38). This latter point is not developed in detail, but given its importance to the study of party-building, must be briefly addressed here.\n\nMy own criteria for diagnosing organisational weakness are five-fold. First, party statutes are insufficiently comprehensive in covering the full range of activities in which the organisation is involved. For example, a party leader's prerogatives are only vaguely defined, disciplinary procedures are inadequately prescribed, and candidate selection rules fail to offer enough guidance on how nominees should be selected. Second, where party statutes exist, they are frequently ignored. Thus, party conferences are convened at irregular intervals, packed with appointees and/or bullied into accepting the leader's preferences, while disciplinary procedures are manipulated to destroy pockets of internal resistance. Third, presidential succession crises are destabilising, with open conflict over matters of procedural integrity, candidate selection and eligibility, campaigning technique and so forth. These squabbles often act as a catalyst to political party fragmentation (Cooper 2015b). Fourth, bureaucratic structures are small in size, inadequately resourced and unable to influence the decision-making process. Fifth, weak bureaucracies typically fail to collect, analyse and use political information: opinion polling is not undertaken, discussion documents are not circulated and policy alternatives are not developed. Instead, party leaders exercise a monopoly over the formulation and implementation of policy.\n\nParty-building, therefore, represents the process through which party statutes are expanded, rules are legitimated, political succession is more systematically managed, bureaucratic structures are enlarged and political information is more widely sought. Each of these developments implies a shift towards a legal-bureaucratic authority with formal institutions exercising an increased influence over strategic policy-making and disciplinary decision-making, and imposing at least some constraints on the party leader's autonomy. In the following section, I argue that President Hifikepunye Pohamba's tenure as SWAPO leader was characterised by at least some progress, as measured against these criteria.\n\n# Namibia: The Politics of Charismatic Authority\n\nSWAPO was established in 1960, a product of long-simmering nationalist mobilisation against South African rule. Most of its leadership moved into exile shortly afterwards, establishing offices in Lusaka, Dar es-Salaam, London, New York and, later, in Lusophone Africa. From these and other centres, party leader Sam Nujoma and his colleagues devised a two-pronged strategy for achieving national liberation. On the one hand, SWAPO diplomats tried to capture international attention by isolating South Africa from world finance, jurisprudence and sport. On the other hand, SWAPO guerrillas launched an armed struggle intended to bolster the party's revolutionary credentials and weaken South Africa's position on the world stage (Dobell 1998). By 1980, SWAPO had achieved international recognition as the 'sole, legitimate and authentic representative of the Namibian people', whilst thousands of colonial troops and police waged a grim struggle against SWAPO forces in north-central Namibia (Brown 1995).\n\nAs Melber (2007: 74\u201375) has suggested, however, SWAPO's commitment to national liberation did not imply a flourishing of democratic practices within its own ranks. Indeed, by the early 1970s, Nujoma's demand to be treated with the deference accorded to other heads of state, combined with espionage paranoia, produced an authoritarian political culture that equated expressions of dissent with treachery (Saul and Leys 1995: 43). Three purges were to follow: the 'Shipanga Rebellion' of 1975\u20131976 (when 1,600 party members were arrested over demands for a leadership election); the 'CANU Crisis' of 1979 (when SWAPO's Caprivian leaders were imprisoned for complaining about ethnic discrimination), and the 'Spy Drama' of 1981\u20131989, when hundreds of SWAPO members were detained, tortured and killed on suspicion of spying for South Africa (Saul and Leys 1995: 55\u201356). These events tended to strengthen Nujoma's position within the nationalist movement, not least because SWAPO's much-feared security apparatus reported exclusively to him (Saul and Leys 1995: 56).\n\nBy 1988, South Africa had finally decided \u2013 under pressure at home and in diplomatic circles \u2013 to grant independence to Namibia in exchange for a withdrawal of Cuban forces from Angola. SWAPO's leadership returned from exile a year later, triumphantly proclaiming its role in achieving national liberation, and declaring that only a SWAPO government could deliver peace (Cliffe et al. 1994: 256). This message helped to deliver a SWAPO majority in Namibia's independence election, after which a SWAPO-led Constituent Assembly elected Nujoma as the country's first head of state. Independence was to follow on 21 March 1990.\n\nNot surprisingly, these events represented a personal triumph for Nujoma, whose long years of struggle and sacrifice appeared finally to have been vindicated. As 'father of the Namibian nation', a liberation icon willing (in his own words) to stand firm where others had wavered, he rapidly assumed an unassailable position not only within the corridors of power, where criticism came to be regarded as unpatriotic, but also within public discourse (Melber 2007: 67). When, in 1994, Namibia entered its first post-apartheid election, Nujoma was permitted to choose the first thirty names on SWAPO's seventy-two-member parliamentary list, as well as the ten non-voting legislators allotted to him by the country's constitution. Four years later he persuaded this legislature, almost half of its members whom he had appointed, to enact a constitutional amendment allowing him to seek a third term in office. Later that same year he committed troops to military conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) without so much as consulting the Cabinet, let alone parliament or the party (Melber 2007: 67). And when Ben Ulenga, a former high commissioner to the UK, resigned in protest at these actions, Nujoma bullied SWAPO's central committee into suspending him from the party (The Namibian, 26 March 1999). An account of that meeting (The Namibian, 26 March 1999) was carried in the press and is worth quoting at length:\n\nSome people proposed that the Central Committee should find a means to try Ulenga for flouting the principles of the party. Others argued it would be unprocedural for the meeting to deliberate on Ulenga. [Youth League secretary Ignatius] Shixwameni reportedly pointed out that if proper procedures where [sic] not followed the Central Committee would end up looking like a kangaroo court. When President Nujoma returned [to the meeting] and resumed the chair, he apparently pronounced that Ulenga was henceforth suspended. Nobody among the 40-odd in attendance objected... Nujoma went on to ask Shixwameni to apologise for saying the Central Committee was a kangaroo court. Shixwameni... asked for an opportunity to explain himself because he felt that what he had said had been wrongly conveyed to the President... But Nujoma reportedly interrupted, lecturing him about the importance of the body and its honourable history... In the end the youth leader... agreed to withdraw the statement.\n\nIn 1999, therefore, SWAPO closely resembled the stereotype of a weak African party. Indeed, this fragility was demonstrated once again when, in 2004, Nujoma announced that he would not seek a fourth term in office. SWAPO's Politburo decided to convene an extraordinary congress for three candidates to contest the succession: land minister, Hifikepunye Pohamba (who enjoyed Nujoma's support); foreign minister, Hidipo Hamutenya; and education minister, Nahas Angula. From the outset, it became clear that Nujoma had no intention of facilitating a free election. Senior officials were summoned to State House, favours were called in, rewards promised,2 and four days before the congress convened, Hamutenya was sacked as foreign minister (Sherbourne 2004: 4). Not surprisingly, Pohamba subsequently emerged as the winning candidate, taking 67 per cent of the vote to Hamutenya's 33 per cent.\n\nNujoma, however, had not given up in his efforts to destroy the Hamutenya faction. While now only responsible for selecting the first ten names on SWAPO's parliamentary list, plus ten non-voting presidential appointees (with an electoral college comprising youth, women's groups, union and branch representatives selecting the remaining sixty-two names), by circulating unsigned 'blacklists' and spreading rumours about Hamutenya's alleged tribalism, Nujoma managed to cajole these delegates into endorsing his preferred candidates (Windhoek Observer 10 July 2009). Consequently, Hamutenya's faction lost most of its parliamentary representation, all of its Cabinet ministers and many of its public servants, as Nujoma loyalists proceeded to purge the executive, parastatals, unions and party bureaucracy. As Sherbourne (2004: 3) noted, 'in the end it was Nujoma who emerged victorious, proving once again that no one knows his party or using power to its limits better than he'.\n\nBy 2004, therefore, SWAPO clearly met each of the five diagnostics for political party weakness. Its presidential succession process was so ill-defined that Nujoma had been able to retain the party leadership even after retiring as state president, a gambit which greatly aided his attempt to influence the congress vote. SWAPO's disciplinary procedures were routinely flouted, as Nujoma bullied the Politburo and Central Committee into accepting his view. Its bureaucratic infrastructure had atrophied as the distinctions between party, government and state blurred (Bauer 2001: 45), and its structures lacked the capacity to gather information independent of the executive. Not surprisingly, one study written in 1999 concluded that 'SWAPO is still tied to the career of Sam Nujoma, as is ZANU-PF to that of Robert Mugabe' (Du Toit 1999: 214).\n\nNujoma's victory over the Hamutenya faction, however, was to prove pyrrhic in nature. In 2007, SWAPO suffered its most significant rupture since independence, losing two former cabinet ministers, two deputy ministers, the National Council chairperson, the Electoral Commission chairperson and numerous other party functionaries to a splinter group led by Hamutenya. This breakaway party \u2013 the Rally for Democracy and Progress (RDP) \u2013 tried over the following months to loosen SWAPO's electoral stranglehold on the all-important 'Four O' regions of north-central Namibia, where Hamutenya's local origins created hope of an electoral breakthrough.3 SWAPO's nationalist rhetoric, abuse of state resources and intimidation of RDP activists served largely to thwart these efforts in 2009, when the RDP secured 11 per cent of the vote mainly by drawing support away from other opposition parties (Cooper 2010: 531). But SWAPO's willingness to take such drastic measures illustrated its deep-seated hostility towards the RDP project.\n\nIndeed, many SWAPO leaders regarded Hamutenya's departure as a traumatic experience.4 For almost half a century, the party had exhibited \u2013 notwithstanding the 'Shipanga Rebellion' in 1976 and Ben Ulenga's defection in 1999 \u2013 an extremely high level of internal cohesion. Many party leaders had spent thirty years in exile, living and working together in Dar es-Salaam, New York and elsewhere. Some had formed bonds not merely of friendship, but also of marriage; Hamutenya, for example, is cousin to Pohamba's wife.5 Dense relationship networks therefore created an elite esprit de corps of remarkable magnitude, endurance and longevity.\n\nThis camaraderie was strengthened by a perception that internal unity, or at least the appearance thereof, represented a prerequisite of political efficacy. As a nationalist movement struggling to free Namibia from colonial rule, SWAPO had been well aware that enemy forces would use agents provocateurs to sow discord within its own ranks. In 1978, South Africa went so far as to sponsor an 'internal settlement' that saw SWAPO defectors (including Andreas Shipanga) joining hands with traditional leaders, white moderates and other ethnic entrepreneurs to forge a multi-racial government opposed to the African nationalist project (Katjavivi 1988: 94\u2013102). As in other 'struggle states', therefore, disunity was perceived to be a counter-revolutionary tool for sabotaging SWAPO's agenda. It remains anathema to the many SWAPO leaders schooled in the language and assumptions of guerrilla insurgency.\n\n# Towards Formalisation\n\nIt might be suggested \u2013 so far, so predictable. The 'institutionless' school of thought, as described in Chapter 1, has long argued that patronage, not statute, represents the core framework around which African political interaction is structured. Chabal and Daloz (1999) regard formal institutions as little more than a fa\u00e7ade behind which African rulers exercise informal control, whilst Jackson and Rosberg (1982) warn that political succession represents a potentially dangerous moment in the life of any personal regime. More recently, this outlook has been challenged in Posner and Young's research (2007; also this volume, Chapter 11) on political institutionalisation in Africa. Presidential succession crises, they argue, are no longer characterised by the violence, fragmentation and military interventionism so often described in the 'institutionless' literature. Instead, formal institutions \u2013 constitutional rules, term limits and so on \u2013 now play a prominent role in determining when power is transferred, how it is transferred and how the successor is selected.\n\nBy 2007, SWAPO's leadership had indeed identified a correlation between charismatic authority and the greatest of all perceived calamities: political fragmentation. Its response to this epiphany involved, in part at least, a shift towards formalisation. As one journalist commented, party officials had concluded that:\n\nIf they level the playing field, if they fight fairly, no-one should go away feeling hard-done by. That is why after 2007 they started to put in place some measures to steer any succession debates so they are not too open-ended. I am talking about the guidelines that SWAPO eventually approved, last year, by which they had set rules about when to campaign, how nominations should be done, that the nominations must come from the Politburo as well as the Central Committee... If the processes are so rigged that they can prove it, the losing candidates can... appeal.6\n\nIn other words, by stipulating that any SWAPO leader unable to seek an additional term as state president would yield the nomination to his or her deputy, the party could hope to limit the extent of internal contestation and, more importantly, neutralise any pressure for an extraordinary congress of the kind held in 2004. By declaring that any parliamentary candidate must have been a paid-up member for at least the previous ten years, it could reduce the potential for procedural disputes and pre-empt any complaints about former RDP members (some of whom began returning to the ruling party after 2009, and were receiving plum jobs at the expense of party loyalists).7 And by creating a disciplinary committee and a code of acceptable conduct, it could moderate behaviour, provide opportunities for redress, legitimise outcomes and thereby mitigate the possibility that allegations of impropriety would be used to mobilise support for a breakaway party.\n\nThese measures were to be tested when, in 2012, SWAPO's fourth ordinary congress met for the purpose of electing a deputy leader. Given President Pohamba's impending retirement from office, the successful candidate would receive SWAPO's presidential nomination in 2014 and, barring any electoral upset, succeed to the presidency a year later. Three candidates contested the election: trade minister Hage Geingob, regional government minister Jerry Ekandjo and justice minister Pendukeni Iivula-Ithana. All campaigned openly \u2013 holding public rallies, conducting press interviews and attracting ministerial endorsements \u2013 and none made any suggestion that procedural irregularities were occurring or would affect the outcome. When Geingob won the election, taking 52 per cent of the vote to Ekandjo's 37 per cent and Iivula-Ithana's 11 per cent, former President Nujoma hosted a luncheon at which all three candidates were reminded of the need for unity (The Namibian, 4 December 2012). He need not have worried; neither Ekandjo nor Iivula-Ithana (nor any of their respective supporters) subsequently broke away from the ruling party, which emerged from the succession battle substantially intact.\n\nParty-building did not, however, cease with measures designed to prevent a repetition of the Hamutenya debacle. Indeed, SWAPO's 'Prague Spring' encouraged its women's movement to demand a radically reformed and highly formalised candidate selection procedure. In 1997, President Nujoma had suggested to SWAPO's congress that candidates for local government office be selected in accordance with a fifty-fifty gender quota. Delegates chose not only to ignore this idea, but also to elect seventy-three men to the party's eighty-three-member Central Committee (Akawa and Gawanas 2014: 184). Four years later, the SWAPO Party Women's Council (SPWC) declared its support for equal representation across all party structures, but declined to endorse a cross-party campaign demanding that 'zebra-style' party lists should be introduced in all elections. A breakthrough appeared to have been achieved in 2002, when SWAPO's third ordinary congress resolved that female representation should be equal across all party structures, but congressional delegates quickly rejected a suggestion that Nujoma nominate twenty-one women to the Central Committee (The Namibian, 27 August 2002). Two years later, as Nujoma struggled to assert his supremacy over Hamutenya, SWAPO's Electoral College selected only sixteen women for safe positions on the seventy-two-member party list.\n\nAgainst this background, the party's decision in 2012 to implement a 'zebra-style' gender quota appears all the more remarkable. Its motivation was probably twofold. As a national liberation movement claiming to occupy the centre-left of Namibian political life, SWAPO has long encouraged expectations of progress towards female emancipation. Many leading members of the party \u2013 including Nujoma and his successor, Pohamba \u2013 were sincerely committed at least to the notion of gender equality, even if other objectives had tended to take precedence. On the other hand, by 2012, SWAPO leaders seem to have concluded that party structures would no longer tolerate their failure to enact conference resolutions on gender equality. As Pohamba said at the launch of SWAPO's newly amended constitution, women had played an important role in the struggle against colonialism: consequently, he remarked, 'we can no longer turn a blind eye on the issue of 50/50 representation in the structures of the party' [emphasis added] (The Namibian, 28 August 2013). As a civil society activist, more blunt in his assessment of Pohamba's motives, stated \u2013 'the move towards gender balance has featured as a resolution at several SWAPO congresses and it was getting more difficult to tell the SPWC and others that it should always be put off'.8 Once party-building begins, in other words, it tends to develop a momentum of its own.\n\nPerhaps surprisingly, SWAPO's predominantly male leadership had not anticipated that its pursuit of gender equalisation meant a substantial turnover in personnel.9 In Namibia, as elsewhere, legislative office represents an important source of status, wealth and opportunity. Backbench parliamentarians receive a US$60,000 remuneration package, a pension entitlement, social acclamation (as indicated by the much-used designation 'Honourable') and opportunities for travel (The Namibian, 19 May 2014). For SWAPO members, moreover, parliamentary office also carries the prospect of promotion. Ministers and deputy ministers belong to a narrow state-bureaucratic elite with living standards far above the Namibian average; indeed, the days when SWAPO leaders commuted from Katutura, an impoverished township outside Windhoek, have long gone. This privilege is derived partly from the trappings of office: in a country where 62.2 per cent of people live on US$2 or less per day (World Bank 2009: 2), ministers receive a US$77,500 salary, a government car, and housing, entertainment and utility allowances (The Namibian, 19 May 2014). Yet, executive power also offers an opportunity to abuse state resources for personal gain. Thus, ministers and deputy ministers channel public contracts to companies in which they have a stake (Hopwood 2008: 174), fence off communal farmland (The Namibian, 10 March 2015) and use official transportation for personal and electoral purposes (Lodge 2000: 203). In 2009, higher education bursaries intended for low-income students hoping to study in China were awarded to the children of Cabinet ministers, deputy ministers, the inspector-general of police and even President Pohamba himself (Informant\u00e9, 12 November 2009). Elected office, in other words, represents a very valuable prize.\n\nWhen SWAPO's male-dominated leadership belatedly recognised that a gender quota might threaten its privilege, the backlash was both sudden and fierce. Media reports circulating in March 2014 indicated that, 'some men in SWAPO, especially those without strong influence and support, are now clinging to slim hopes that the party would realise the mistake it made in enforcing the gender quota and that an extraordinary congress would be convened to discard that decision' (Namibian Sun, 11 March 2014). A month later some senior figures reportedly argued at a Central Committee meeting that reform would banish many struggle stalwarts to the margins of political life and should therefore be abandoned (Namibian Sun, 27 April 2014). To his credit, President Pohamba belied his cautious image by rebuffing these objections in clear and unambiguous terms. Critics, he said, could 'forget about' a repeal of the controversial gender policy (Namibian Sun, 27 April 2014). Ever the conciliator, however, he also recognised that some form of reassurance was needed to persuade dissenters of their continued place in the sun.\n\nConsequently, in August 2014, Minister of Presidential Affairs Albert Kawana brought the Third Constitutional Amendment Bill before parliament. Its provisions included the creation of a Deputy Presidency, Deputy Chief Justice and Magistrates Commission, but its centrepiece was a proposal to expand the National Assembly from seventy-two to ninety-six members (Republic of Namibia, clause 10a). Kawana and his associates justified this expansion on the grounds that quorum could more easily be reached if the ratio of ministers and deputy ministers to backbenchers was reduced (Windhoek Observer, 1 August 2014). Most critics, however, detected an attempt to appease SWAPO parliamentarians worried about the implications of 'zebra-style' affirmative action. Thus, RDP spokesperson Jeremiah Nambinga referred to 'an open secret that the Bill was created to accommodate some of the SWAPO cadres who would not make it because of the fifty-fifty gender quota' (Namibian Sun, 29 August 2014). This view was echoed by a local commentator who regarded the 'main motivation... to have been to make the tent bigger so that Hage Geingob backers and the old guard who were refusing to retire would still have seats in parliament' (Personal communication, 19 June 2015). Given SWAPO's overwhelming majority in parliament, and its need to accommodate internal critics, the Third Constitutional Amendment Bill was enacted just four weeks after Kawana's motivation in parliament (The Namibian, 28 August 2014).\n\nThus, SWAPO's adoption of a 'zebra-style' gender policy was facilitated by its electoral dominance. Dissenting voices were reassured by a constitutional amendment, so transparent in its objective that passage would have been inconceivable without a super-majority in parliament. Ironically, however, even this act of constitutional gerrymandering was unable to save SWAPO's struggle generation, or at least significant parts of it, from disaster. At the Electoral College held two days after the amendment bill was passed, factional infighting \u2013 apparently orchestrated by junior officials acting on their own initiative \u2013 prevented numerous party stalwarts from securing a safe positions on SWAPO's ninety-six-member parliamentary list (The Namibian, 30 August 2014). Six months later Namibia's newly inaugurated president, Hage Geingob, responded by appointing several of his former rivals \u2013 including Ekandjo and Iivula-Ithana \u2013 to parliament and thence to the cabinet. Electoral dominance had created a further opportunity to defuse internal opposition, thereby acting as a midwife to institutional strengthening.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nFour lessons can therefore be derived from SWAPO's success in migrating from informal to formal institutions of authority. First, and most importantly, scholars have been too precipitous in assuming that African parties cannot make this particular journey. By formalising some of its succession, candidate selection and disciplinary processes, SWAPO has indeed shown that party machines can push back against the clientelistic modalities so characteristic of political life in many parts of the continent. Its achievement in transcending a cult of personality has been replicated, to a greater or lesser extent, elsewhere. In Tanzania, for example, CCM dominance has long outlived President Julius Nyerere, the revered mwalimu ('teacher') and ascetic, whose nationalist vision represented a defining feature of the single-party era. In Ethiopia, the Ethiopian People's Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF) survived Prime Minister Meles Zenawi's death, remaining united and winning all 500 legislative seats in a disputed election held three years later. And in Ghana, the National Democratic Congress (NDC) actually rebuffed Nana Konadu Agyeman-Rawlings' attempt to secure its presidential nomination, even though her candidacy was supported by party founder Jerry Rawlings (BBC 2011). Some African parties, therefore, are capable of transcending their reliance on strongmen and consequently of establishing a basis for longevity.\n\nA second lesson to be drawn from SWAPO's experience is that party presidents may accept, or even promote, institutional reform when political fragmentation is regarded not as an inevitable fact of political life, but as a collective tragedy. Elite norms, in other words, can serve to motivate party-building activity. SWAPO's own 'preoccupation with the outward appearance of unity' (Soiri 1998: 205) is rooted in the combination of solidarity, camaraderie and paranoia familiar to many of the former rebel movements now holding power in southern and eastern Africa. Thus, Mozambique Liberation Front (FRELIMO) President Armando Guebuza claimed in 2014 that his successor, Defence Minister Filipe Nyusi, had been selected during a heated but comradely discussion 'impregnated with the responsibility that we have and we feel for the destiny of our... motherland' (Mozambique News Agency 2014). The resulting unity, he added, provided a means with which to 'close our ranks against all the forces plotting to sow suspicions [sic], confusion and misunderstandings amongst us' (Mozambique News Agency 2014). Later that year Angolan President Jose Eduardo dos Santos opened a party congress at which internal unity represented the principal topic of concern (Ag\u00eancia Angola Press 2014). Similarly, Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni convened a National Resistance Movement (NRM) retreat in 2012 at which 'party-building and managing internal party dynamics and strengthening political unity within the NRM party caucus' represented the key points of debate' (New Vision 2012). All of these former rebel movements seem to share SWAPO's sense of political entitlement, its perception of external threat and its desire to prevent the externalisation of factional conflict, even if their attempts to promote internal cohesion \u2013 most notably in the Ugandan case \u2013 do not always involve a diminution of presidential autonomy.\n\nThe third lesson to be drawn from SWAPO's experience is that successful reform embodies a combination of motivation and opportunity. SWAPO's desire to move away from charismatic modes of political authority might well have been frustrated without: (1) at least some extant infrastructure upon which to build; and (2) a position of electoral dominance from which to shower state resources and political patronage onto sources of perceived opposition. Still, a note of caution is required here. Neither extant infrastructure nor single-party dominance is inherently linked to party-building activity; indeed, there are many dominant parties in Africa that exhibit personalised forms of leadership, and some non-dominant parties that feature a highly developed institutional architecture. An example of the former phenomenon is provided by the People's Democratic Party (PDP) of Nigeria whose President Goodluck Jonathan unilaterally abrogated an informal understanding that party leadership should alternate between the country's Muslim-dominated north and the Christian-dominated south in 2013 (The Observer 2015). Conversely, Ghana's non-dominant New Patriotic Party (NPP) \u2013 which won the 2004 presidential election by 7.8 per cent and lost the 2008 election by a mere 0.5 per cent \u2013 boasts finance, constitution, disciplinary, research and vetting committees, as well as branch committees at home and abroad (New Patriotic Party 2015). Here, at least, party bureaucratisation can perhaps be traced to the intensity of electoral competition and to the comparatively limited development of neo-patrimonial politics. Extant infrastructure and single-party dominance do not, therefore, represent failsafe predictors of party-building activity. But they did assist SWAPO's leadership in legitimating and implementing its reform programme, as well as in reconciling party stalwarts opposed to gender equality.\n\nA fourth and final lesson to be drawn from SWAPO's experience, however, is that the strengthening and entrenching of formal institutions is heavily shaped by informal institutions such as intra-elite norms. SWAPO's transition from charismatic to legal-bureaucratic internal governance is not yet complete partly because these norms are still evolving: its succession machinery has been strengthened but only partially codified, its policy research unit remains relatively weak and its disciplinary committee has struggled to negotiate the minefield of internal party factionalism.10\n\nSuch outcomes are perhaps only to be expected. In South Africa, the ANC has since 2005 recruited half a million new members, expanded its formal infrastructure and jettisoned a long-standing informal convention that party leaders should be elected unopposed. Yet, it has also experienced an upsurge in electoral fraud, vote-buying, corruption and intimidation (Cooper 2015a). In Botswana, the ruling Botswana Democratic Party (BDP) has introduced a highly formalised succession procedure (according to which an outgoing head of state is forced to retire simultaneously as party leader) without curtailing the president's remarkably wide-ranging powers of patronage (Good 2008). And in Uganda, the NRM's increasingly assertive parliamentary caucus was unwilling to oppose President Yoweri Museveni's demand for a constitutional amendment legitimising his third term in office (Nakamura and Johnson 2003). These examples suggest that, as party machines grow and develop, their workings continue to be influenced by patronage-rich heads of state seeking to consolidate informal patterns of control. Whether formal rules achieve ascendancy will depend, inter alia, on the president's willingness to tolerate dissent, the extent to which grassroots activism has been mobilised and the degree to which state power is centralised.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAg\u00eancia Angola Press. 2014. 'MPLA Congress Reinforces Unity within Party', accessed 5 September 2017. www.portalangop.co.ao/angola/en_us/noticias/politica/2014/11/49/Angola-MPLA-Congress-reinforces-unity-within-party,540b12a2-cb83-47ad-b330-6ccc40d51112.html.\n\nAkawa, Martha, and Bience Gawanas. 2014. The gender politics of the Namibian liberation struggle, Basel: Carl Schlettwein Stiftung.\n\nBasedau, Matthias, Gero Erdmann and Andreas Mehler (eds.). 2007. Votes, money and violence: Parties and elections in sub-Saharan Africa, Uppsala: Nordic Africa Institute.\n\nBauer, Gretchen. 2001. 'Namibia in the first decade of independence: How democratic?', Journal of Southern African Studies 27, 1: 33\u201355.\n\nBogaards, Matthijs. 2000. 'Crafting competitive party systems: Electoral laws and the opposition in Africa', Democratisation 7, 4: 163\u2013190.\n\nBogaards, Matthijs. 2004. 'Counting parties and identifying dominant party systems in Africa', European Journal of Political Research 43, 2: 173\u2013197.\n\nBrown, Susan. 1995. 'Diplomacy by other means \u2013 SWAPO's liberation war' in Colin Leys and John S. Saul (eds.), Namibia's liberation struggle: The two-edged sword, Oxford: James Currey and Ohio University Press.\n\nChabal, Patrick, and Jean-Pascal Daloz. 1999. Africa works: The Political instrumentalization of disorder, Oxford: James Currey and Indiana University Press.\n\nCheeseman, Nic. 2010. 'African elections as vehicles for change', Journal of Democracy 21, 4: 139\u2013153.\n\nCliffe, Lionel, Ray Bush, Jenny Lindsay, Brian Mokopakgosi, Donna Pankhurst, and Balefi Tsie. 1994. The transition to independence in Namibia, Boulder, CO and London: Lynne Rienner.\n\nCooper, Ian. 2010. 'The Namibian elections of 2009', Electoral Studies 29: 529\u2013533.\n\nCooper, Ian. 2015a. 'Zuma, Malema and the provinces: Factional conflict within the African National Congress', Transformation 87: 151\u2013174.\n\nCooper, Ian. 2015b. 'Dominant party cohesion in comparative perspective: Evidence from South Africa and Namibia', Democratisation [published online].\n\nDobell, Lauren. 1998. SWAPO's struggle for Namibia, 1960\u20131991: War by other means, Basel: Schlettwein.\n\nDu Toit, Pierre. 1999. 'Bridge or bridgehead? Comparing the party systems of Botswana, Namibia, Zimbabwe, Zambia and Malawi' in Hermann Giliomee and Charles Simkins (eds.), The Awkward Embrace: One Party Domination and Democracy, Cape Town: Tafelberg.\n\nElischer, Sebastian. 2012. 'Measuring and comparing party ideology in nonindustrialized societies: Taking party manifesto research to Africa', Democratisation 19, 4: 642\u2013667.\n\nErdmann, Gero, and Matthias Basedau. 2007. Problems of categorising and explaining party systems in Africa, Hamburg: German Institute for Global and Area Studies.\n\nFomunyoh, Christopher. 2001. 'Democratisation in fits and starts', Journal of Democracy 12, 3: 37\u201350.\n\nGood, K. 2008. Diamonds, dispossession and democracy in Botswana, Oxford: Woodbridge and James Currey.\n\nGunther, Richard, and Larry Diamond. 2003. 'Species of political parties: a New typology', Party Politics 9, 2: 167\u2013199.\n\nGyimah-Boadi, Emmanuel. 2007. 'Political parties, elections and patronage: Random thoughts on neo-patrimonialism and African democratisation' in Matthias Basedau, Gero Erdmann and Andreas Mehler (eds.), Votes, money and violence: Parties and elections in sub-Saharan Africa, Uppsala: Nordic Africa Institute.\n\nHopwood, Graham. 2008. Guide to Namibian politics, Windhoek: Namibian Institute for Democracy.\n\nHuntington, Samuel. 1991. The third wave: Democratisation in the late twentieth century, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.\n\nInformant\u00e9. 12 November 2009. Education Splashes Tax-Payers' Money Defending Chinese Scholarships.\n\nInter-Parliamentary Union. 2015. Women in National Parliaments, accessed 5 September 2017. www.ipu.org/wmn-e/classif.htm.].\n\nJackson, Robert H., and Carl Gustav Rosberg. 1982. Personal rule in Black Africa: Prince, autocrat, prophet, tyrant, Berkeley: University of California Press.\n\nKatjavivi, Peter. 1988. A history of resistance in Namibia, Oxford: UNESCO and James Currey.\n\nKuenzi, Michelle, and Gina Lambright. 2005. 'Party systems and democratic consolidation in Africa's electoral regimes', Party Politics 11, 4: 423\u2013446.\n\nLeBas, Adrienne. 2011. From protest to parties: Party-building and democratisation in Africa, Oxford University Press.\n\nLodge, Tom. 2000. 'The Namibian elections of 1999', Democratisation 8, 2: 191\u2013230.\n\nMac Giollabhu\u00ec, Shane. 2014. 'How things fall apart: Candidate selection and the cohesion of dominant parties in South Africa and Namibia', Party Politics 19, 4: 577\u2013600.\n\nManning, Carrie. 2005. 'Assessing Africa's party systems after the Third Wave', Party Politics 11, 6: 707\u2013727.\n\nMelber, Henning. 2007. '\"Swapo is the nation, and the nation is Swapo\": Government and opposition in a dominant party state. The case of Namibia' in Henning Melber (ed.), Political opposition in African countries: The cases of Kenya, Namibia, Zambia and Zimbabwe, Uppsala: Nordic Africa Institute.\n\nMozaffar, Shaheen, and James R. Scarritt. 2005. 'The puzzle of African party systems', Party Politics 11, 4: 399\u2013421.\n\nMozambique News Agency. 2014. 'FRELIMO will unite around Nyussi \u2013 Guebuza', accessed 5 September 2017. <http://allafrica.com/stories/201403040081.html>.\n\nNakamura, Robert and John Johnson. 2003. 'Rising legislative assertiveness in Uganda and Kenya, 1996 to 2002', International Political Science Association Congress, accessed 5 September 2017. www.cid.suny.edu/publications1/Nakamura-Johnson%20Rising%20Legislative%20Assertiveness%20in%20Uganda%20and%20Kenya.pdf.\n\nNamibian Sun, 19 November 2012. 'Hage gets campaign wings'.\n\nNamibian Sun, 27 April 2014. 'Pohamba unrepentant on gender quota'.\n\nNamibian Sun, 29 August 2013. 'RDP would remove Nujoma statues\u2014Nyamu'.\n\nNamibian Sun, 29 August 2014. 'SWAPO old guard saved by the bill'.\n\nNamibian Sun, 11 March 2014. 'SWAPO rules out 50/50 gender quota reversal'.\n\nNew Patriotic Party. 'Organisational structure', accessed 5 September 2017. www.newpatrioticparty.org/index.php/who-we-are/wings/npp-abroad.\n\nNew Vision, 11 January 2012. 'NRM retreat to resolve internal rifts'.\n\nPosner, Daniel N., and Daniel J. Young. 2007. 'The institutionalization of political power in Africa', Journal of Democracy 18, 3: 126\u2013140.\n\nRandall, Vicky, and Lars Sv\u00e5sand. 2002. 'Political parties and democratic consolidation in Africa', Democratisation 9, 3: 30\u201352.\n\nRepublic of Namibia. 2014. Third Constitutional Amendment Bill.\n\nSartori, Giovanni. 2005. Parties and party systems: A Framework for analysis, Colchester: ECPR.\n\nSaul, John S., and Colin Leys. 1995. 'Swapo: The politics of exile' in Colin Leys and John S. Saul (eds.), Namibia's liberation struggle: The two-edged sword, Oxford: James Currey and Ohio University Press.\n\nSchattschneider, Elmer E. 1942. Party government, New York: Rinehart and Company.\n\nSherbourne, Robin. 2004. 'After the dust has settled: Continuity or stagnation?' Institute for Public Policy Research, Windhoek, accessed 5 September 2017. www.ippr.org.na/sites/default/files/IPPR%20Opinion%20No%2016%20Continuity%20or%20Stagnation.pdf.\n\nSoiri, Ilina. 1998. 'SWAPO wins, apathy rules: The Namibian 1998 local authority elections' in Michael Cowen and Liisa Laakso (eds.), Multi-party elections in Africa, Basingstoke: Palgrave.\n\nSWAPO Party. 2012. '\"I'm in\", says Ekandjo, \"Let the Congress Decide\"', accessed 5 September 2017. www.swapoparty.org/im_in_says_ekandjo.html.\n\nTanzanian Affairs. 'Eleven CCM candidates fight for presidency', 1 March 2005, accessed 2 July 2015. www.tzaffairs.org/2005/05/eleven-ccm-candidates-fight-for-presidency/.\n\nThe Guardian. 8 July 2014. 'Namibia's \"Zebra Politics\" could make it Stand Out from the Global Herd'.\n\nThe Namibian. 30 March 2009. 'All steamed up about \"hibernators\"'.\n\nThe Namibian. 28 August 2014. 'Constitutional amendments passed'.\n\nThe Namibian. 10 March 2015. 'Ndeitunga, Namoloh in land row'.\n\nThe Namibian. 27 August 2002. President forced to drop women's quota.\n\nThe Namibian. 19 May 2014. 'Salary rise to politicians'.\n\nThe Namibian. 30 August 2014. 'Shock and awe at SWAPO pot elections'.\n\nThe Namibian. 28 August 2013. 'SWAPO's pro-women constitution launched'.\n\nThe Namibian. 26 March 1999. 'Ulenga suspension was never debated'.\n\nThe Observer (Kampala). 21 July 2011. 'Why NRM MPs defied Museveni to elect Amongi', accessed 2 July 2015. Available at: www.observer.ug/news-headlines/14374-why-nrm-mps-defied-museveni-to-elect-amongi.\n\nThe Observer (London). 18 January 2015. 'Goodluck Jonathan: from poor boy to accidental president'.\n\nVan de Walle, Nicolas. 2003. 'Presidentialism and clientelism in Africa's emerging party systems', Journal of Modern African Studies 41, 2: 297\u2013321.\n\nVan de Walle, Nicolas, and Kimberley Smiddy Butler. 1999. 'Political parties and party systems in Africa's illiberal democracies', Cambridge Journal of International Affairs 13, 1: 14\u201328.\n\nWindhoek Observer, 23 June 2013. 'Ngurare has Learnt his Lesson',\n\nWindhoek Observer, 1 August 2014. 'Controversial bill tabled'.\n\nWorld Bank. 2009. Namibia: Country brief, Washington, D.C.: International Bank for Reconstruction and Development/World Bank.\n\n1 Bogaards employs Sartori's definition (2005) such that a party is considered dominant after achieving three consecutive legislative majorities.\n\n2 Jeremiah Nambinga. 4 June 2009. Interview, Windhoek.\n\n3 RDP official. 11 May 2009. Interview, Windhoek.\n\n4 Civil society activist Telephone Interview, 25 July 2013.\n\n5 Hidipo Hamutenya. 11 May 2009. Interview, Windhoek.\n\n6 Journalist, Telephone Interview, 18 July 2013.\n\n7 Civil society activist, Telephone Interview, 20 June 2015.\n\n8 Civil society activist. 19 June 2015. Personal communication, Windhoek.\n\n9 Ibid.\n\n10 See, for example, the Central Committee's summary expulsion of SPYL secretary Elijah Ngurare and three other Geingob critics in 2015.\n\n# 9 Elections\n\n## The Power of Elections in Multiparty Africa\n\nCarolien van Ham and Staffan I. Lindberg1\n\nMultiparty elections are not only the sine qua non of modern representative democracy, they also constitute perhaps the most notable set of formal institutions on the continent today. At the same time, electoral institutions in Africa are often accompanied by the kind of competitive informal institutions described in Chapter 15. This has led to a fierce debate about the quality and impact of elections in Africa.\n\nElections in sub-Saharan Africa (hereafter referred to as Africa) are more common than ever in the continent's history: multiparty elections have spread to almost every country. This is all the more remarkable given Africa's relatively brief experience with elections. While multiparty elections were held on the continent before 1989, the real upsurge came only after the end of the Cold War.\n\nUnder colonialism, colonial subjects in the French territories voted in elections both to assemblies in France and to local government councils, and elections were also held for councils with limited legislative power in some of the English colonies. In conjunction with decolonisation, many countries also held multiparty elections, bringing leaders such as Kwame Nkrumah, Kenneth Kaunda, Leopold Senghor and Jomo Kenyatta to power.\n\nYet, after independence, about half of all African countries reverted to military regimes, starting with the 1960 coup in the then Zaire, today Democratic Republic of Congo. More than twenty other countries fashioned one-party regimes (often with a nominal socialist ideology) holding non-competitive elections. The justification for doing so was that legal processes had been followed \u2013 such as constitutional review commissions and referenda \u2013 and that these changes were necessary to forge national unity in the interest of rapid economic development.2 Consequently, by the mid-1980s, forty-two out of forty-seven countries in Africa could be categorised as either military or single-party regimes. Only Botswana, Gambia and Mauritius continued with multiparty elections from independence.3\n\nThe end of the Cold War marked the start of a rapid transformation. In just a few years, almost all the previously autocratic regimes started holding multiparty elections (Bratton and van de Walle 1997; Lindberg 2006). The proportion of countries holding multiparty polls jumped from just 25 per cent in 1988 to 84 per cent in 1994 (van Ham and Lindberg 2015). At present, forty-six of forty-nine countries on the continent (94 per cent) hold multiparty elections for national offices.4 As a result, elections have become one of the most significant formal political institutions on the continent.\n\nYet, they are also one of the most controversial. Elections in Africa vary widely in terms of their de facto quality, ranging from elections that are relatively free and fair, to elections that are severely marred by fraud, violence and other irregularities (Groemping and Martinez i Coma 2015; van Ham and Lindberg 2015). When elections are manipulated, the consequences are not just inefficiencies and delays in the announcement of results, but also potential distortion of results and de-legitimation of the political system. In the worst cases, such as Kenya in 2007 or C\u00f4te d'Ivoire in 2010, disputed elections may even lead to ethnic clashes and civil war.\n\nRegarding the impact of elections, Lindberg (2006; 2009) found that formal electoral institutions generated broader processes of democratisation. In an empirical study of elections held on the continent after 1986, he demonstrated how holding successive elections led to learning and socialisation of elites and citizens with the practices of democracy, causing subsequent increases in civil liberties, and thus improving the overall quality of democracy.5\n\nDespite this overall trend, Africa's democratisation record continues to be mixed, with some countries moving ahead and becoming democratic (for example, Ghana and Kenya) while others drag their feet (Angola and Mozambique) or regress (Madagascar and Zimbabwe). Lindberg's results (2013) have also been challenged (Bogaards 2013). In any case, it now seems to be an empirical fact that 'democratisation-by-elections' may have occurred in some regimes but not in others. This leads to the question: under what conditions do formal electoral institutions promote broader processes of democratisation? In this chapter we argue that the answer to this question is to be found in the presence of formal electoral institutions (de jure multiparty elections) and the quality of the electoral process (the way that elections operate in practice).\n\nIn the next section we develop a theoretical framework to explain the conditions under which 'democratisation-by-elections' has and has not occurred in Africa. In contrast to Lindberg (2013), our theory predicts that the combination of repeated elections and the quality of those elections shapes the democratising power of elections.\n\n# 'Democratisation-by-elections' Revisited?\n\nLindberg's initial argument (2013) was that repeating de jure multiparty elections would create opportunities for citizens and elites to experience democracy, allowing them to learn about democratic practices and become socialised into democratic norms, consequences that would remain even after the elections were over. Building on this, we argue that the quality of the elections should affect the degree to which these effects occur: when citizens and elites experience flawed elections, learning about democratic practices and socialisation into democratic norms is unlikely to occur, and hence we would not expect a strong democratising effect of elections in this case. We thus expect both the number and the quality of elections to condition the democratising power of elections. We argue that in order to understand the conditions under which elections have democratising power it is necessary to revisit the original 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis by: (1) unpacking the causal mechanism connecting elections and democratisation (and distinguishing between formal rules and informal practices); and (2) temporalising the connection between elections and democratisation (evaluating the role of path-dependency and institutional reproduction). Figure 9.1 illustrates the revised model.\n\nFigure 9.1\n\nUnpacking and temporalising 'democratisation-by-elections'\n\nAs shown in Figure 9.1, the original 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis posited that holding repeated multiparty elections increased the quality of other, non-electoral, 'partial regimes' that are crucial elements of democracy, such as civil liberties, rule of law and institutions of horizontal accountability.6 Elections were thus envisioned as a necessary but not sufficient institution for democracy, which could have positive spill-over effects on other aspects of democracy, thereby improving the quality of the overall regime.7 Originally, Lindberg (2006) emphasised elections as formal institutions, arguing that what really mattered was that elections formally allowed for multiple parties and candidates, and that they were repeated. According to this account, the de facto quality of elections \u2013 or whether elections were free and fair \u2013 did not affect their democratising power.8 Instead, what counted were the socialising and experiential learning effects of being exposed to repeated interactions with the formal institutions (Lindberg 2006: 111\u2013116).\n\nYet, in Africa today, there is near homogeneity in terms of the formal rules: most elections in Africa are now de jure multiparty, legally allowing for competition between multiple candidates and political parties, with national executives and legislatures being (directly or indirectly) popularly elected at predictable intervals in time.9 This calls into question the capacity of formal rules \u2013 by themselves \u2013 to explain the widely different democratisation trajectories observed on the continent.\n\nAt the same time, the quality of elections in Africa varies widely, ranging from polls plagued by violence and fraud \u2013 like the 2012 elections in Congo Brazzaville or the 2014 elections in Mozambique \u2013 to elections that were relatively free and fair \u2013 such as the 2012 elections in Ghana or the 2014 elections in South Africa (Groemping and Coma 2015; van Ham and Lindberg 2015). Moreover, the literature on electoral authoritarianism and election integrity has shown how effective electoral manipulation is in undermining the democratising power of elections and sustaining electoral authoritarian regimes (Schedler 2002, 2006, 2013; Levitsky and Way 2010; Birch 2011; Norris 2014).10\n\nWe therefore argue that a first step to understanding under what conditions 'democratisation-by-elections' occurs is to investigate to what extent the de facto quality of the election makes a difference for the democratising power of elections (as shown in Figure 9.1b). In our empirical analyses in this section, we first replicate the original 'democratisation-by-elections' test by Lindberg (2006) using updated data until 2012, and subsequently analyse the extent to which election quality affects the power of elections to generate democratisation.\n\nA second reason why we should expect democratisation trajectories to differ in Africa despite the near-universal spread of multiparty elections, is that institutional reproduction 'locks-in' regimes that started off holding elections of low de facto quality and vice versa. Van Ham (2012) has found substantial institutional 'stickiness' in her time-series-cross-sectional analyses of election quality in ninety-seven third wave regimes from 1974 to 2009 (i.e. low quality elections tend to be followed by subsequent low quality elections, and vice versa). Hence, early elections that were of low (or high) de facto quality could lock regimes into low quality or high quality equilibria, or 'vicious' and 'virtuous' cycles, that allow for less or more 'democratisation-by-elections'.\n\nThe tendency for informal institutions to reproduce over time is illustrated in Figure 9.1c, which shows that flawed elections tend to have limited effects on democratisation after the elections, and limited democratisation in turn tends to shape the quality of the subsequent elections, and so on. Note that Lindberg's original argument was also essentially a temporal argument about changes over time, but one that theorised only a causal connection from elections to democratisation. In the empirical analyses here, we trace the development of both election quality and democratisation over time, as schematically presented in Figure 9.1c, to evaluate to what extent institutional reproduction plays a role in explaining differences in 'democratisation-by-elections'.\n\nFinally, the context in which elections take place may affect their democratising potential. Structural conditions such as poverty, ethnic heterogeneity, a history of civil war and resource dependency are known predictors of democratisation. Thus, in the empirical analyses, we control for structural factors, and focus on exploring the explanatory mechanisms shown in Figures 9.1b and 9.1c.\n\n# Elections and Democratisation in Africa 1986\u20132012\n\nSince very few de jure multiparty elections were held in Africa before 1986, we limit our empirical analyses to 1986 onwards. Of the fifty countries in Africa, forty-six had held de jure multiparty elections by 2012. Table 9.1 shows the variation across the continent in the number of elections held in each country between 1986 and 2012.11\n\nTable 9.1 Number of national multiparty elections held per country (1986\u20132012)\n\nElections held (N) | Countries (N) | Per cent of countries   \n---|---|---  \n0| 4| 8.2  \n2| 1| 2.0  \n3| 5| 10.2  \n4| 5| 10.2  \n5| 7| 14.3  \n6| 9| 18.4  \n7| 5| 10.2  \n8| 6| 12.2  \n9| 3| 6.1  \n10| 3| 6.1  \n11| 1| 2.0  \nTotal| 49| 100\n\nSource: Coppedge et al. (2015a, b) and V-Dem Database (v4.4.2). National elections include direct elections for the national legislature and executive. Since V-Dem data for all sub-Saharan African countries in v4 runs until 2012, South Sudan is still counted as having had '0' elections here. Note that Equatorial Guinea is not included in the V-Dem dataset, and hence the total N reported in this table is 49. Equatorial Guinea has held de jure multiparty elections since 1993 but is one of the most autocratic regimes on the continent.\n\nThe spread of elections on the continent varies greatly from countries that have held no de jure multiparty elections yet, to countries that have held ten or more elections, with a mean of six elections.12 To what extent is the number of elections held in each regime related to its a posteriori level of democracy?\n\nFigure 9.2 gives a descriptive answer to this question, showing the level of respect for civil liberties in each country in 2012 as scored by Freedom House (y-axis) by the number of successive elections held in each country (x-axis). The civil liberties data were recoded so that higher scores indicate higher levels of civil liberties (from 1 to 7). There appears to be a relation between the number of elections held in a country since 1986 and the level of civil liberties in 2012, and the relationship is slightly stronger if we take into account interruptions in electoral regimes such as a coup d'etat or civil war.\n\nFigure 9.2\n\nLevel of civil liberties in 2012 by total number of elections held 1986\u20132012\n\nSource: Coppedge et al. (2015a, b) and V-Dem Database (version 4.4.2).\n\nYet, Figure 9.2 also indicates that the relationship is far from perfect. A number of regimes, such as Gambia or Zimbabwe, have held quite a substantial number of elections and yet record low levels of civil liberties. Other regimes display high levels of civil liberties despite few elections on the books, such as Cape Verde and South Africa. Evidently, the relationship is not deterministic, demonstrating the need to investigate under which conditions 'democratisation-by-elections' occurs.\n\n# Data and Design\n\nWe start our empirical analyses by testing the original 'democratisation-by-elections' hypothesis, replicating Lindberg's (2006: 139) analyses for Africa for a larger sample of elections until 2012. The original 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis proposed that an uninterrupted sequence of successive elections should lead to improvements in other partial regimes of democracy over time. This means that some countries will appear with more than one series of elections in the data, since several countries started holding successive elections but then had a breakdown (typically due to a coup d'etat or civil war) interrupting the electoral regime.13\n\nWe test our hypotheses using new 'Varieties of Democracy' data, analysing 277 de jure multiparty elections held between 1986 and 2012 in 45 African regimes.14 Our main variable of interest is the variable 'election sequence number', which indicates whether this was the first, second, third, etc. de jure multiparty election held in an uninterrupted sequence. This variable was constructed using data on electoral interruptions from the 'electoral regime index' that was designed and coded for V-Dem by Amanda Edgell and Valeriya Mechkova.15 Data on the quality of the elections come from the expert-rated variable 'election free and fair'.16 For our descriptive analysis of institutional reproduction in election quality we categorised the quality of elections into three categories of flawed, ambiguous and clean elections using the 'election free and fair' variable and the cut-off points of the measurement model.17 Finally, we use the level of civil liberties as measured by Freedom House in the year after the elections as our dependent variable but recoded it so that higher values indicate more respect for civil liberties.18\n\nIn addition to our main variables of interest, we include as control variables structural factors that have been shown to be important predictors of democratisation in Lindberg's study and others (Hadenius 1992; Linz and Stepan 1996; Lindberg 2006; Teorell 2010). These include data measuring the resource curse (total natural resources rents as a proportion of GDP, logged); international influence (measured by development aid received \u2013 net official development assistance and official aid received in 2012 in USD, logged), modernisation (measured by level of economic development \u2013 GDP per capita, PPP constant international USD, logged), regime performance (measured by economic growth \u2013 GDP per capita growth, annual per cent), religious and ethnic heterogeneity (measured by religious fractionalisation and ethnic fractionalisation \u2013 'fractionalisation index') and civil war (measured by a dummy variable indicating whether the country was engaged in a civil war in the year of the election).19 Data for the control variables were derived from the Quality of Government dataset (Teorell et al. 2015), the World Development Indicators and the UCDP/PRIO Armed Conflict Dataset (version 4\u20132015) (Gleditsch et al. 2002; Pettersson and Wallensteen 2015).\n\nWe use time-series cross-sectional analyses to analyse the data. Since Lindberg's original model included time-invariant control variables, we first run a model using random effects, enabling us to test the impact of all control variables. We then proceed to analyse the data using fixed effects, as the arguments regarding 'democratisation-by-elections' refer to changes over time within countries, and hence are more reliably tested this way. Table 9.2 shows the results of analyses testing the original 'democratisation-by-elections' hypothesis. Model 1 shows the results using random effects, Model 2 shows the results with fixed effects and Model 3 shows the results when the effect of successive elections is modelled as having diminishing returns. This specification is included because Lindberg (2006) and more recent analyses (Edgell et al. forthcoming 2017) suggest that democratising effects should be strongest for early elections. The intuition underpinning this argument is that the learning and socialisation curve for norms and practices of democracy among citizens and other actors is likely to be steepest when they have just been introduced.\n\nTable 9.2 'Democratisation-by-elections' revisited\n\n| Model 1 Replicating Lindberg (2006) \u2013 random effects | Model 2 Replicating Lindberg (2006) \u2013 fixed effects | Model 3 Replicating Lindberg (2006) \u2013 diminishing returns   \n---|---|---|---  \nElection sequence number| 0.063**| 0.044+| 0.150*  \n| (0.023)| (0.026)| (0.067)  \nElection sequence number squared|  |  | \u22120.011+  \n|  |  | (0.006)  \nResource curse: Natural resources % GDP logged| \u22120.279**| \u22120.133| \u22120.147  \n| (0.104)| (0.155)| (0.154)  \nInternational influence: Aid % GDP logged| 0.075| 0.047| 0.055  \n| (0.087)| (0.113)| (0.112)  \nModernisation: GDP per capita, logged| 0.336*| 0.530| 0.473  \n| (0.144)| (0.336)| (0.336)  \nRegime performance: GDP growth per capita| 0.011| 0.005| 0.003  \n| (0.008)| (0.012)| (0.012)  \nReligion: religious fractionalisation index| 0.594|  |   \n| (0.555)|  |   \nEthnicity: ethnic fractionalisation index| \u22120.044|  |   \n| (0.670)|  |   \nCivil war (0\u20131)| \u22120.518**| \u22120.369+| \u22120.385*  \n| (0.174)| (0.192)| (0.191)  \nConstant| 0.040| \u22120.776| \u22120.658  \n| (2.060)| (2.745)| (2.732)  \nN level 1 (elections)| 254| 254| 254  \nN level 2 (electoral regimes)| 62| 62| 62  \nR-squared overall| 0.24| 0.16| 0.19  \nR-squared within| 0.07| 0.07| 0.09\n\nTime series cross-section analyses. Model 1 random effects, Model 2 and 3 fixed effects.\n\nP-values: + 0.1, * 0.05, ** 0.01, *** 0.001 (two-sided). Note that forty-three countries are included in these analyses, but the number of electoral regimes is sixty-two due to interruptions of successive elections by regime breakdowns.\n\n# 'Democratisation-by-elections', election quality and institutional reproduction\n\nTable 9.2 shows that the original 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis is corroborated for elections in Africa between 1986 and 2012: the more elections are held, the higher the level of civil liberties in the year after the elections. This holds regardless of whether we use random effects or fixed effects, and still holds when we include the control variables.\n\nThe coefficient for the number of successive elections (first row: 'Election sequence number') is positive and statistically significant in all three models. When modelling the impact of successive elections as a linear effect, as in Models 1 and 2, on average a shift from having held one election to having held ten elections is associated with an increase in the level of civil liberties of about 9 per cent.20 Model 3 also corroborates that elections have diminishing returns; hence, the effect is likely to be larger in early elections and smaller in later elections. Analyses of the marginal effects of successive elections, shown in Figure 9.3a, demonstrates that the effect of the first election on civil liberties is about 0.13 while the effect of the fifth election is about 0.04. After the fifth election, the effect of successive elections is no longer significant. Thus, it is only the first five elections that have democratising effects.\n\nFigure 9.3a\n\nMarginal effect of successive elections on level of civil liberties\n\nConfidence intervals 90 per cent, all other variables set at their means. Results from Model 3, Table 9.2.\n\nFigure 9.3b displays the predicted level of civil liberties in the year after elections by the number of elections held. The results illustrate the finding that after about the fifth election, the impact of holding additional elections on civil liberties levels off.\n\nFigure 9.3b\n\nPredicted values of civil liberties by repeating elections\n\nConfidence interval at 90 per cent, with all other variables set at their means. Results from Model 3, Table 9.2.\n\nAs regards the control variables, religious and ethnic fractionalisation do not appear to affect the level of civil liberties significantly, nor does the proportion of aid received. Model 1 shows that natural resources and economic development are important explanatory factors in a random effects model, associated with lower and higher levels of civil liberties respectively, but the fixed effects Models 2 and 3 demonstrate that economic development and resources are better able to explain differences between countries than they are changes over time within countries. The control variable that remains significant in both models is civil war, which substantially lowers the level of civil liberties after elections regardless of how often elections are repeated.\n\n## The Quality of Elections Matters\n\nDoes accounting for the quality of elections change these findings? Table 9.3 shows the results of models that account for the quality of elections. Model 1 testifies that accounting for election quality improves the model fit substantially, almost doubling the explained variance of the model from 24 to 42 per cent. Thus, election quality has a strong and significant effect on the level of civil liberties in the year after the elections. A shift from the lowest to the highest election quality is associated with an increase of civil liberties by about 27 per cent. Yet, despite the strong effect of the quality of elections on democratisation, the effect of the number of elections held remains close to statistically significant in Model 1, even if the strength of the effect is somewhat diminished. Model 2 demonstrates that when the effect of election sequence is modelled including a curvilinear effect to account for diminishing returns, the results remain virtually identical (compared to results presented in Table 9.2, Model 3). In other words, repeatedly holding elections has a significant positive effect on the level of civil liberties, even when the quality of elections is taken into account, corroborating Lindberg's earlier intuition. The democratising power of elections is thus enhanced both by higher quality elections (the de facto, informal institution) and by repeating elections (the de jure, formal institution).\n\nTable 9.3 Formal and informal institutions: The role of quality of elections\n\n| Model 1 Election quality | Model 2 Election quality & diminishing returns | Model 3 Election quality interact with election sequence?   \n---|---|---|---  \nElection sequence number (1\u201311)| 0.037| 0.136*| \u22120.140+  \n| (0.025)| (0.064)| (0.075)  \nElection sequence number squared|  | \u22120.010+|   \n|  | (0.006)|   \nElection quality: Free and fair?| 0.475***| 0.471***| 0.214  \n| (0.101)| (0.101)| (0.145)  \nElection sequence number * Election quality|  |  | 0.068*  \n|  |  | (0.027)  \nResource curse: Natural resources % GDP logged| \u22120.202| \u22120.215| \u22120.146  \n| (0.148)| (0.147)| (0.147)  \nInternational influence: Aid % GDP logged| 0.074| 0.082| 0.046  \n| (0.107)| (0.107)| (0.106)  \nModernisation: GDP per capita, logged| 0.569+| 0.515| 0.366  \n| (0.319)| (0.319)| (0.325)  \nRegime performance: GDP growth per capita| 0.001| \u22120.001| 0.003  \n| (0.011)| (0.011)| (0.011)  \nCivil war (0\u20131)| \u22120.470*| \u22120.484**| \u22120.491**  \n| (0.184)| (0.183)| (0.181)  \nConstant| \u22122.706| \u22122.579| \u22120.104  \n| (2.635)| (2.623)| (2.799)  \nN level 1 (elections)| 254| 254| 254  \nN level 2 (electoral regimes)| 62| 62| 62  \nR-squared overall| 0.42| 0.45| 0.47  \nR-squared within| 0.17| 0.18| 0.20\n\nTime-series cross-section analyses, fixed effects. P-values: + 0.1, * 0.05, ** 0.01, *** 0.001 (two-sided). Note that forty-three countries are included in these analyses, but the number of electoral regimes is sixty-two due to interruptions of successive elections by regime breakdowns.\n\nModel 3 shows how repeat elections and election quality interact: if election quality is higher, holding successive elections has a larger positive effect on the level of civil liberties. To visualise the effect of holding repeated elections at different levels of election quality, Figure 9.4 displays the marginal effect of holding successive elections at different levels of election quality.\n\nFigure 9.4\n\nMarginal effect of successive elections by election quality\n\nConfidence intervals 90 per cent. Higher scores = more free and fair elections. For a discussion of how the quality of elections is measured and what different scores on this scale mean, see Footnote 16.\n\nThe marginal effects should be interpreted as such: that there is only a real effect when the confidence bounds do not cross the zero-line on the y-axis. Repeating elections thus only starts having an effect on democratisation at a certain level of election quality. In other words, and in contrast to Lindberg's findings (2006, 2009), if elections are a sham, simply repeating elections will not lead to significant improvements in civil liberties after elections.21\n\nThat does not mean elections have to be completely clean to have democratising effects. At about 2.6 on the election quality scale (which ranges from 0 to 4) the effect becomes positive and significant. This point is almost exactly in the middle between pure sham elections and perfectly clean elections and corresponds to elections that were scored as 'ambiguous' (i.e. elections with 'substantial competition and freedom of participation but also significant irregularities') (Coppedge et al. 2015b). The cleaner the elections are, the stronger the impact of repeating them on democratisation, but even elections of substantially lesser quality tend to have democratising effects. Election quality, thus, seems to condition the democratising power of elections.\n\nIn sum, the first five elections have democratising effects, but only if they are not complete shams or seriously compromised. The implication is that regimes with low quality elections during their first few electoral cycles have not reaped the democratising benefits of elections.\n\n## The Temporal Dimension\n\nTo investigate the temporal dimension further, Table 9.4 shows the election quality for the first elections of all electoral regimes in Africa, followed by the election quality of the second, and subsequently by the quality of the third elections. To ease interpretation, we break down this analysis according to the quality of elections on the basis of a three-fold classification of polls (flawed, ambiguous or clean). When electoral regimes break down due to a coup d'etat or civil war, this is noted in the table, as well as when electoral regimes have only held one or two elections.\n\nTable 9.4 Election sequencing and election quality\n\n1st Elections | 2nd Elections | 3rd Elections   \n---|---|---  \nElection quality | % (N) | Election quality | % (N) | Election quality | % (N)   \nFlawed| 100% (16)| Flawed| 77% (10)| Flawed| 73% (8)  \n|  |  |  | Ambiguous| 9% (1)  \n|  | Ambiguous| 15% (2)| Flawed| 9% (1)  \n|  | Clean| 8% (1)| Clean| 9% (1)  \nTotal N| 100% (16)|  | 100% (13)|  | 100% (11)  \nBreakdown after 1st| 19% (3)| Breakdown after 2nd| 15% (2)| Breakdown after 3rd| 0% (0)\n\n* * *\n\nAmbiguous| 100% (16)| Flawed| 14% (2)| Flawed| 17% (2)  \n|  | Ambiguous| 57% (8)|  |   \n|  |  |  | Ambiguous| 42% (5)  \n|  |  |  | Clean| 8% (1)  \n|  | Clean| 29% (4)| Clean| 33% (4)  \nTotal N| 100% (16)|  | 100% (14)|  | 100% (12)  \n|  | Only 2 elections held yet| 14% (2)|  |   \nBreakdown after 1st| 12% (2)| Breakdown after 2nd| 0% (0)| Breakdown after 3rd| 8% (1)\n\n* * *\n\nClean| 100% (32)| Flawed| 4% (1)|  |   \n|  | Ambiguous| 21% (5)| Flawed| 6% (1)  \n|  |  |  | Ambiguous| 6% (1)  \n|  |  |  | Clean| 11% (2)  \n|  | Clean| 75% (18)| Ambiguous| 6% (1)  \n|  |  |  | Clean| 72% (13)  \nTotal| 100% (32)|  | 100% (24)|  | 100% (18)  \nOnly 1 election held yet| 6% (2)| Only 2 elections held yet| 17% (4)|  |   \nBreakdown after 1st| 19% (6)| Breakdown after 2nd| 8% (2)| Breakdown after 3rd| 0% (0)  \n|  |  |  |  |   \nElectoral Regimes Total N| 64|  | 51|  | 41\n\nNote: The first three elections held in Botswana, Gambia and Mauritius are included in this table, though they were held well before 1986.\n\nThere are a total of sixty-four electoral regimes, indicating that a number of countries experienced regime breakdown, after which a new electoral regime started. Indeed, 17 per cent of electoral regimes broke down after the first elections and another 6 per cent broke down after two elections, indicating regime interruptions are still rather common in Africa. Moreover, 13 per cent of electoral regimes experienced only one or two successive elections. In total, 36 per cent of electoral regimes did not complete a cycle of at least three successive elections.\n\nOf the forty-one electoral regimes that did hold three successive elections, Table 9.4 shows the quality of the first, second and third elections, respectively. The most remarkable pattern in the descriptive data presented in Table 9.4 is the pattern of institutional reproduction. We have marked the dominant categories in bold. One should read the table horizontally. Countries that held flawed first elections subsequently held second elections that were also flawed (in almost two-thirds of the cases), and in countries that went on to hold third elections, an even higher proportion were flawed. A similar pattern can be observed for clean elections. Of the countries that started off with clean first elections, more than half experienced clean second elections and more than a third of those stayed clean in the third elections.\n\nIn other words, in the majority of cases, the classification of the quality of the second and third elections (flawed, ambiguous or clean) was the same as for the first. This suggests that the past exerts a significant influence on the present. Among regimes that did not break down, elections that started off flawed were still flawed in 73 per cent of cases (eight out of eleven) after third elections, and in regimes where elections started off clean, they were still clean in 72 per cent of cases (thirteen out of eighteen). Of the forty-one regimes that held three or more elections, 63 per cent were 'locked-in' in terms of their election quality in either positive, ambiguous or negative cycles from the first elections by the time of their third election. Considering that these early periods of transition are often thought of as highly unstable contexts that are strongly influenced by contingent factors and can change quickly, finding such clear patterns of institutional reproduction in almost two-thirds of our sample is notable. It is also in line with findings on a global sample of third wave regimes (van Ham 2012).\n\nAs might be expected, institutional reproduction is less pronounced for those countries whose first elections were classified as ambiguous. While ambiguous quality remains the dominant category for these states' second and third elections, a significant proportion of these regimes manage to hold clean elections either by the second election (29 per cent) or by the third (33 per cent).22 This is therefore the category of regimes where 'democratisation-by-elections' seems to be the most pronounced.\n\nTaken together, the evidence provided in this section suggests that electoral practices are often reproduced over time, 'locking' regimes into high quality or low quality cycles, thereby strengthening or weakening the democratising power of elections. Election quality can and does change over successive election cycles in some regimes, sometimes in a positive direction, and sometimes in a negative direction. In particular, regimes with ambiguous election quality in early elections are the ones most open to positive developments along the lines suggested by the 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis. The question \u2013under which structural conditions change is more likely, and what the role of political and societal actors is in generating reform \u2013 is an important question to be investigated in future work.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nThis chapter has extended and reflected on previous work by Lindberg (2006, 2009) and van Ham (2012). Lindberg's (2006) panel-based analyses demonstrated that improvements in civil liberties tend to be driven by the holding of elections and occur soon afterwards, rather than in periods before or between elections. We find similar patterns in the extended data presented here. We also corroborate the finding that most breakdowns occur after first elections, or more rarely, after second elections. Regimes that make it to third elections almost never break down. However, Lindberg's earlier claim that the quality of elections does not matter for the democratising effect of elections is not supported by our analysis. To the contrary, we find that flawed elections rarely have positive effects on civil liberties. Countries starting off with sham elections often continue holding sham elections, while countries managing to start an electoral regime with decent elections often manage to stay and improve on that path. Why would this be the case?\n\nWe argue that this is due to the impact of informal institutions on actors' expectations and behaviour, as well as the division of power between incumbents and opposition. First of all, if the first multiparty elections that a country holds are clean, this sets the expectations of citizens and political actors for future electoral contests. Clean elections likely generate trust among the losers of the elections, who have greater reason to believe that if the elections continue to be fair, they will have a shot in the next elections. At the other end, free and fair elections bring in a cadre of winners \u2013 parliamentarians, ministers and holders of various offices in parties who became winners because of the due process. They now have a vested interest in maintaining these processes even if, say, the party leader wishes to turn back the clock. Vice versa, flawed first elections signal to political actors and citizens that 'all bets are off' and that electoral manipulation is an acceptable way of competing in electoral contests. Hence, a flawed first election generates losers who may not accept the results, and winners who will be motivated to undermine election quality at the next elections.\n\nSecond, in severely flawed elections opposition parties and leaders may be excluded, as political exclusion is commonly used as a tool of electoral manipulation in Africa (see Klaas, Chapter 10) to undermine election quality. In such cases, incumbents often enjoy inflated majorities, and hence are given more space to undermine institutions that could monitor electoral conduct, such as electoral management bodies, the judiciary and the media, enabling them to rig subsequent elections more easily as well. Conversely, in clean elections the opposition is likely to be included and win legislative representation as well, increasing the chances that checks and balances in the political system more generally \u2013 and checks on electoral conduct more specifically \u2013 will be further strengthened. In turn, this contributes to the maintenance of high election quality in subsequent polls.23\n\nBy contrast, an election that sits in the middle category (between being outright flawed and evidently clean) does not give such clear signals to political actors and citizens, nor does it generate such a clear division or concentration of power as clean and flawed elections do. Perhaps poor election quality was due to administrative problems, and if so, political actors and citizens may not take their electoral experience to mean that subsequent elections will be problematic too. Also, if the elections were problematic but not clearly flawed, opposition actors are likely to win at least some representation, and the quality of subsequent elections will depend on the outcome of power struggles between incumbents and opposition after the first elections. Hence, it is not surprising that change is most likely to occur in regimes that start off by holding ambiguous elections.\n\nIn essence, this is an institutional thesis buttressed by the intuition that formal political institutions can both restrict actors' available alternatives (Bates 1989; Moe 1990; North 1990) and magnify individual choice (Ostrom et al. 1993). This does not always occur, but when formal electoral institutions achieve a certain degree of transparency and efficacy (i.e. when informal electoral institutions become complementary rather than competitive) they can have a significant impact on African political life. One can think of this as a repetitive game played under a constant set of rules (de jure multiparty elections), which shapes the reckoning and strategies of various actors in a way that is profoundly different from what would occur under a one-shot game. In other words, the effect of elections and their quality hinge on political leaders' and citizens' thinking about their involvement in both current elections and the elections to come. Once enough actors expect elections to continue, they begin to care not only about winning the current election, but also about how to increase their prospects for winning in the future. In turn, this emboldens the opposition to both strategise about how to mobilise greater support in the longer term and to campaign for more effective and independent electoral institutions that will increase their chances in the future. In this way, the stability of the rules of the game \u2013 perceived or real \u2013 is critical to the process of 'democratisation-by-elections'.\n\nIn this sense, our findings also speak to Rustow's argument (1970: 345) that by establishing the institutions of democracy it is possible to trick, lure or cajole non-democrats into democratic behaviour that eventually becomes informally institutionalised. But this chapter also shows that there is a flip side to this particular coin. Holding elections can serve to legitimate authoritarian leaders without creating any such positive trends. Instead, politically dominant and shrewd players can tilt the field to their favour and learn how to institutionalise a non-democratic electoral game, and thus stabilise their autocratic regimes. In this sense, the findings here reconcile the debate between more optimistic accounts like Howard and Roessler (2006), Lindberg (2006, 2009) and Tucker (2007), with the more pessimistic views on elections under authoritarianism espoused by authors such as Gandhi and Przeworski (2007), Magaloni (2008), Lust-Oskar (2009), who have argued that elections can help sustain and stabilise autocratic rulers' hold on power. The implication of the analysis presented here is that both sets of analyses are valid. Institutional reproduction is to a large extent dependent on the outcome of the initial game, the first elections. In that sense, we find evidence of 'democratisation-by-elections', as well as stabilisation by autocracy.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nBates, Robert H. 1989. 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Steven Fish, Adam Glynn, Allen Hicken, Carl Henrik Knutsen, Kelly McMann, Daniel Pemstein, Megan Reif, Svend-Erik Skaaning, Jeffrey Staton, Eitan Tzelgov, Yi-ting Wang, and Brigitte Zimmerman. 2015a. 'Varieties of Democracy: Dataset v4', Varieties of Democracy (V-Dem) Project.\n\nCoppedge, Michael, John Gerring, Staffan I. Lindberg, Jan Teorell, David Altman, Michael Bernhard, M. Steven Fish, Adam Glynn, Allen Hicken, Carl Henrik Knutsen, Kelly McMann, Daniel Pemstein, Megan Reif, Svend-Erik Skaaning, Jeffrey Staton, Eitan Tzelgov, Yi-ting Wang, and Brigitte Zimmerman. 2015b. 'Varieties of Democracy: Codebook v4.' Varieties of Democracy (V-Dem) Project.\n\nCoppedge, Michael, John Gerring, Staffan I. Lindberg, Jan Teorell, David Altman, Michael Bernhard, M. Steven Fish, Adam Glynn, Allen Hicken, Carl Henrik Knutsen, Kelly McMann, Daniel Pemstein, Megan Reif, Svend-Erik Skaaning, Jeffrey Staton, Eitan Tzelgov, Yi-ting Wang, and Brigitte Zimmerman. 2015c. 'Varieties of Democracy: Methodology v4'. Varieties of Democracy (V-Dem) Project.\n\nEdgell, Mechkova, Altman, Bernhard, and Lindberg. Forthcoming 2017. \"When and where do elections matter? A global test of the democratization by elections hypothesis, 1900-2010\", Democratization 24.\n\nElklit, Joergen, and Andrew Reynolds. 2005. 'A framework for the systematic study of election quality', Democratisation 12, 2: 147\u2013162.\n\nElklit, Joergen, and Palle Svensson. 1997. 'What makes elections free and fair?' Journal of Democracy 8, 3: 32\u201346.\n\nGandhi, Jennifer, and Adam Przeworski. 2007. 'Authoritarian institutions and the survival of autocrats', Comparative Political Studies 40, 11: 1279\u20131301.\n\nGleditsch, Nils Petter, Peter Wallensteen, Mikael Eriksson, Margareta Sollenberg, and H\u00e5vard Strand. 2002. 'Armed conflict 1946\u20132001: A new dataset', Journal of Peace Research 39, 5: 615\u2013637.\n\nGroemping, Max, and Ferran Martinez i Coma. 2015. Electoral integrity in Africa, Munich: Electoral Integrity Project/Hanns Seidel Foundation.\n\nHadenius, Axel. 1992. Democracy and development, Cambridge University Press.\n\nHayward, Fred (ed.). 1987. Elections in independent Africa, Boulder, CO: Westview Press.\n\nHoward, Marc M., and Philip G. Roessler. 2006. 'Liberalizing electoral outcomes in competitive authoritarian regimes', American Journal of Political Science 50, 2: 365\u2013381.\n\nHyden, Goran, and Colin Leys. 1972. 'Elections and politics in single-party systems: The case of Kenya and Tanzania', British Journal of Political Science 2, 4: 389\u2013420.\n\nKaya, Ruchan, and Michael Bernhard. 2013. 'Are elections mechanisms of authoritarian stability or democratisation? Evidence from postcommunist Eurasia', Perspectives on Politics 11, 3: 734\u2013752.\n\nLehoucq, Fabrice. 2003. 'Electoral fraud: Causes, types, and consequences', Annual Review of Political Science 6: 233\u2013256.\n\nLevitsky, Steve, and Lucas Way. 2010. Competitive authoritarianism. Hybrid regimes after the Cold War, Cambridge University Press.\n\nLindberg, Staffan I. 2006. Democracy and elections in Africa, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press.\n\nLindberg, Staffan I. 2009. 'The power of elections revisited' in Staffan I. Lindberg (ed.), Democratisation by elections: A new mode of transitions, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press: 25\u201346.\n\nLindberg, Staffan I. 2013. 'Confusing categories, shifting targets', Journal of Democracy 24, 4: 161\u2013167.\n\nLindberg, Staffan I., Michael Coppedge, John Gerring, and Jan Teorell. 2014. 'V-Dem: A new way to measure democracy', Journal of Democracy 25, 3: 159\u2013169.\n\nLinz, Juan J., and Alfred Stepan. 1996. Problems of democratic transition and consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and post-communist Europe, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press.\n\nLust-Okar, Ellen. 2009. 'legislative elections in hegemonic authoritarian regimes: Competitive clientelism and resistance to democracy' in Staffan I. Lindberg (ed.), Democratisation by Elections: A New Mode of Transitions, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press: 226\u2013245.\n\nMacKenzie, William. J. M., and Kenneth Robinson. 1960. Five elections in Africa, Oxford: Clarendon.\n\nMagaloni, Beatrice. 2008. 'Credible power-sharing and longevity of authoritarian rule', Comparative Political Studies 41, 4\u20135: 715\u2013741.\n\nMcCoy, Jennifer and Jonathan Hartlyn. 2009. 'The relative powerlessness of elections in Latin America' in Staffan I. Lindberg (ed.), Democratisation by elections: A new mode of transitions, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press: 47\u201376.\n\nMoe, Ronald C. 1990. 'Traditional organisational principles and the managerial presidency: From phoenix to ashes', Public Administration Review 50, 2: 129\u2013140.\n\nMorgenthau, Ruth S. 1964. Political parties in French-speaking West Africa. Oxford: Clarendon Press.\n\nNorris, Pippa. 2014. Why electoral integrity matters, Cambridge University Press.\n\nNorth, Douglass C. 1990. Institutions, institutional change and development, Cambridge University Press.\n\nOstrom, Ellinor, Larry Scroeder, and Susanne Wynne. 1993. Institutional incentives and sustainable development: Infrastructure policies in perspective, Boulder, CO: Westview Press.\n\nPemstein, Daniel, Eitan Tzelgov, and Yi-Ting Wang. 2015. 'Evaluating and improving item response theory models for cross-national expert surveys', University of Gothenburg: Varieties of Democracy Institute: Working Paper Series No. 1.\n\nPettersson, Ther\u00e9se, and Peter Wallensteen. 2015. 'Armed conflict, 1946-2014', Journal of Peace Research 52, 4: 536\u2013550.\n\nPrice, Joseph. H. 1967. Political institutions of West Africa. London: Hutchinson.\n\nRustow, Dankwart. 1970. 'Transitions to democracy: Toward a dynamic model', Comparative Politics 2: 337\u2013363.\n\nSchedler, Andreas. 2002. 'The menu of manipulation', Journal of Democracy 13, 2: 36\u201350.\n\nSchedler, Andreas (ed.). 2006. Electoral authoritarianism. The dynamics of unfree competition, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers.\n\nSchedler, Andreas. 2013. The politics of uncertainty. Sustaining and subverting electoral authoritarianism, Oxford University Press.\n\nTeorell, Jan. 2010. Determinants of democratisation. Explaining regime change in the world, 1972\u20132006, Cambridge University Press.\n\nTeorell, Jan, Stefan Dahlberg, S\u00f6ren Holmberg, Bo Rothstein, Felix Hartmann, and Richard Svensson. 1 January 2015. 'The quality of government standard dataset', University of Gothenburg: The Quality of Government Institute.\n\nTeorell, Jan, and Hadenius, Axel. 2009. 'Post-Cold War political regimes: when do elections matter?' in Staffan I. Lindberg (ed.), Democratisation by elections: A new mode of transitions, Baltimore, MA: Johns Hopkins University Press: 77\u2013100.\n\nTucker, Joshua. 2007. 'Enough! Electoral fraud, collective action problems, and post-communist colored revolutions', Perspectives on Politics 5, 3: 537\u2013553.\n\nVan Ham, Carolien. 2012. 'Beyond electoralism? Electoral fraud in third wave regimes 1974-2009'. PhD dissertation. Florence: European University Institute.\n\nVan Ham, Carolien. 2014. 'Getting elections right? Measuring electoral integrity', Democratisation 22, 4: 714\u2013737.\n\nVan Ham, Carolien, and Staffan I. Lindberg. 2015. 'From sticks to carrots: Electoral manipulation in Africa, 1986\u20132012', Government and Opposition 50, 3: 521\u2013548.\n\n1 This research project was supported by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond, Grant M13-0559:1, PI: Staffan I. Lindberg, V-Dem Institute, University of Gothenburg, Sweden; by Swedish Research Council, PI: Staffan I. Lindberg, V-Dem Institute, University of Gothenburg, Sweden and Jan Teorell, Department of Political Science, Lund University, Sweden; by Knut & Alice Wallenberg Foundation to Wallenberg Academy Fellow Staffan I. Lindberg, V-Dem Institute, University of Gothenburg, Sweden; and by the Australian Research Council DECRA funding scheme to Dr Carolien van Ham, project number RG142911, project name DE150101692.\n\n2 A series of countries allowed within-party competition at the constituency level, and by existing accounts these elections presented meaningful choices to voters (e.g. Hyden and Leys 1972; Hayward 1987). Uganda was the only country where a civilian regime suspended elections altogether.\n\n3 This paragraph draws on a number of important sources (MacKenzie and Robinson 1960; Morgenthau 1964; Cliffe 1967; Price 1967; Hyden and Leys 1972; Collier 1982; Hayward 1987).\n\n4 There are three countries that do not hold de jure multiparty elections yet: Eritrea, Somalia and Swaziland. Eritrea and Somalia have experienced long periods of civil war which have prevented elections from taking place. Swaziland has held direct elections for (part of) its legislature since 1993, but executive power still lies with the unelected monarch. Note that in our empirical analyses we also exclude Southern Sudan due to its short history of elections.\n\n5 The 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis was subsequently confirmed in a global sample (Teorell and Hadenius 2009). Yet, empirical studies focusing on regions other than Africa have found little empirical support for the democratising power of elections in Latin America (McCoy and Hartlyn 2009), or in the former communist countries in Central and Eastern Europe (Kaya and Bernhard 2013), and in the Middle East and North Africa (Lust-Okar 2009). A recent re-evaluation of the 'democratisation-by-elections' thesis using a global sample that analyses regional and period differences suggests that 'democratisation-by-elections' occurred mainly in the third wave, and mainly in Africa and post-communist Europe, finding weaker or no effects in other regions and time periods (Edgell, Mechkova, Altman, Bernhard, and Lindberg 2017 [forthcoming]).\n\n6 Note that the specific set of partial regimes that scholars consider necessary to define democracy differs, as democracy has different normative meanings and different empirical varieties (Collier and Levitsky 1997; Lindberg et al. 2014).\n\n7 Note that we define 'democratisation' as occurring when the quality of the overall regime (i.e. the composite of various political components) improves over time (van Ham and Lindberg 2015). However, in order to analyse the causal effect of elections on other parts of the regime, when it comes to our empirical analyses, we use only changes in the quality of non-electoral elements of the regime as our dependent variable.\n\n8 One of the main conclusions of the book was: 'no matter what their quality, the longer the series of elections, the higher the level of democracy in a society' (Lindberg 2006: 137\u2013138).\n\n9 Of course, there is still considerable variation in terms of formal rules as regards electoral systems, the structure and power of election management bodies, and broader electoral legislation.\n\n10 Note that the burgeoning literature uses many different terms to refer to de facto election quality or lack thereof, ranging from election quality (Elklit and Reynolds 2005), election integrity (Norris 2014) and 'free and fair' elections (Elklit and Svensson 1997) to electoral manipulation (Schedler 2002), electoral malpractice (Birch 2011) and electoral fraud (Lehoucq 2003). For an overview and discussion of different conceptualisations see van Ham (2014). We use the terms interchangeably in this chapter.\n\n11 Note that elections that took place in the same year are counted together, so if two legislative elections occurred within the same year they are scored as one election, and if presidential and legislative elections occurred in the same year they are scored as concurrent elections.\n\n12 This is without taking into account interruptions in the electoral regime such as coup d'etat or civil war. When we do take such interruptions into account, the mean number of elections held drops to five.\n\n13 The analyses reported here use this election sequence variable that re-sets after every electoral interruption, coding elections after a coup d'etat or civil war as 'first elections' again (see also Footnote 16). In the online Appendix (available on the authors' website) we report results using a continuous election sequence variable, and confirm the results reported here, although the interaction-effect of election sequence and election quality is somewhat weaker.\n\n14 The V-Dem dataset is a new comprehensive dataset on democracy that collects data on almost 400 indicators of democracy in 173 countries around the world from 1900 until 2012 (Coppedge et al. 2015a, b). Multiple country-expert ratings are corrected for measurement error and converted to quasi-continuous variables with point estimates using a Bayesian ordinal item response theory-model designed specifically for the project (Pemstein et al. 2015; Coppedge et al. 2015c). We use these error-corrected continuous variables in our models. Note that we only include elections that were at least de jure multiparty, hence we exclude elections in which the electoral law allowed for no political parties or only government parties to participate in elections.\n\n15 The electoral regime index codes whether in the measurement year 'regularly scheduled national elections were on course, as stipulated by election law or well-established precedent', and 'A country is coded 0 until the first election, at which point it is coded 1 until there is an electoral interruption'. An electoral interruption is (1) an event that dissolves, replaces, or otherwise terminates an elected body (executive or parliament) or (2) an event that implies that the elected body, while still intact, will not be subject to election in the future. Typically, an interruption is the product of a coup, declared state of emergency or military defeat. After an interruption, a coding of 0 continues until another election occurs. Full question and answer wording can be found in the codebook version 4 (Coppedge et al. 2015b) downloadable from <https://v-dem.net>.\n\n16 Country experts were asked to evaluate for each election in their country: 'Taking all aspects of the pre-election period, election day, and the post-election process into account, would you consider this national election to be free and fair?' Responses varied on a five-point ordinal scale, ranging from '\"0 = No, not at all\" (The elections were fundamentally flawed and the official results had little if anything to do with the \"will of the people\") to \"4 = Yes\"'. There was some amount of human error and logistical restrictions but these were largely unintentional and without significant consequences. We use the error-corrected continuous variable in our models (see Footnote 14).\n\n17 Using the error-corrected continuous variable on freedom and fairness of the election, we code elections as flawed if they have a score lower than the cut-off point for elections that were 'not really' and 'not at all' free and fair. Elections are scored as clean if they have a score higher than the cut-off point for elections that were 'somewhat' and 'yes' free and fair, and elections in between are scored as ambiguous. The replication dataset and do-file are available upon request from the authors.\n\n18 We also tested all models using the level of civil liberties two years after the election as the dependent variable. Results remain substantively the same, although the interaction effect of election quality and election sequence is somewhat weaker in these models. Results are available in the online Appendix on: [www.democracyinafrica.org].\n\n19 The only other control variable that Lindberg (2006) includes, in addition to these variables, is 'popular mobilisation'. However, as this variable is only available for a limited number of cases and it did not turn out to be significant in Lindberg's original analyses, we do not include it in the analyses presented here.\n\n20 To calculate this, one takes the coefficient for election sequence reported for example in Model 1: 0.063. If one election is held, the effect on the level of civil liberties is 1 times 0.063, or 0.063. If ten elections are held, the effect on the level of civil liberties is 10 times 0.063, or 0.63, so shifting from one election to ten elections leads to an increase in the level of civil liberties by 0.56 (0.63 minus 0.063). The civil liberties scale varies from 1 to 7, and hence this shift represents a 9.4 per cent ((0.56 divided by 6) times 100) shift in the level of civil liberties. Yet, these are linear effects, and as we show in Model 3, the effect of election sequence is best modeled as a curvilinear effect reflecting diminishing returns.\n\n21 Note that this finding is not driven by a correlation between the number of elections and the quality of elections, and, in fact, in the current sample election sequence and election free and fairness are hardly correlated.\n\n22 Note, however, that there are relatively few elections in these categories. Of the electoral regimes that started off with elections of low quality, and then held clean second elections, 100 per cent were still clean in the third election (n = 5). However, those regimes that started off with clean elections, and then held flawed and/or ambiguous second elections, do not appear to be locked in to the same extent in the third election (n = 6).\n\n23 Of course, it is important to note that first elections do not take place in a vacuum, but are themselves shaped by prior circumstances. It may very well be that flawed or clean first elections are shaped by the type of transition and power balance in particular regimes at the time they start to hold multiparty elections, and that the presence of prior institutional checks and balances, as well as the level of antagonism between contenders in the electoral race, may shape whether first elections are of high or low quality.\n\n# 10 Electoral Rules\n\n## The Relationship between Political Exclusion and Conflict\n\nBrian Klaas\n\nIn Liberia's 1927 election, C.D.B. King, the candidate of the True Whig Party, faced T.J.R. Faulkner, the opposition leader of the People's Party. It was a lopsided victory for the incumbent True Whigs, as their candidate won an official tally of 243,000 votes, compared to just 9,000 for the People's Party. There was just one problem. Formal rules on voter eligibility were so strict that only 15,000 people were legally allowed to cast ballots in Liberia by 1927 (Kieh Jr. 2003: 202). The election was certainly rigged. Either each eligible voter had cast an average of seventeen ballots apiece (and most of them in favour of the True Whigs), or hundreds of thousands of ineligible voters were allowed to vote.\n\nIt is no surprise that African elections in 1927 were arenas of competition that had little regard for formal rules. Such events are rare today. Increased importance has been given to formal electoral laws, although official regulations are certainly not ironclad guarantors of electoral behaviour. Degrees of electoral manipulation were commonplace in the intervening decades \u2013 throughout the era of paternalistic colonialism, 'Big Men' and one-party states, and finally the third wave of democracy that swept across the continent in the 1990s (Huntington 1991). There are endless examples of African elites contravening electoral institutions in order to illegitimately gain an upper hand (Chaturvedi 2005; Calingaert 2006; Aalen and Tronvoll 2009; Beaulieu and Hyde 2009; Collier and Vincente 2012; Cheeseman 2015). However, the interaction between formal and informal rules is markedly different than it was when the True Whigs blatantly stole an election with an obviously implausible vote tally. Today, only amateurs steal elections by brazenly breaking the law.\n\nIn this chapter, I aim to demonstrate how African electoral manipulation has shifted into a new realm of 'strategic rigging', whereby incumbents may bend, re-interpret or change election laws, but always with a critical focus on being perceived as democratic, and in accordance with codified institutions. Elite behaviour in response to institutional change provides an important insight into the role of formal political institutions in Africa: institutions constrain elite action, but may also incentivise new forms of rule-bending or -breaking, in pursuit of the same goals \u2013 such as new, but no less insidious, forms of manipulation. Indeed, innovative, strategic rigging has given rise to a series of what I call 'counterfeit democracies' across the continent, which are typically 'competitive authoritarian' (Way and Levitsky 2002) states seeking to masquerade as fully fledged democracies. In such states, formal institutions may not always be followed but they nonetheless condition elite behaviour. Scholars such as Chabal and Daloz (1999), therefore, perhaps dismiss the importance of such institutions too readily. Instead, one of the fiercest arenas of political competition in Africa in contemporary politics revolves around the writing and re-writing of the rules of the electoral game. As Staffan Lindberg points out: 'when elections are institutionalized, new actors are created and power is distributed in new ways, which goes a long way towards explaining the contentiousness of electoral rules negotiations in many places in Africa' (2006: 7).\n\nIn other words, institutions matter \u2013 even when they are not fully respected. With regard to electoral malfeasance, institutions shape what leaders think they can and cannot get away with. African elites are now more constrained than before (Posner and Young, Chapter 11), but it is important to recognise that as new institutions close off some possibilities they open up others. In this sense, institutions are also productive: they create new forms of rule-breaking that may have not been attractive before, shifting dubious electoral practices rather than ending them. Which strategies elites pursue depends, in part, on what activities are deemed to be less risky in attracting unwanted attention from international actors, such as election monitors. When blind spots exist, where African elites can receive an international stamp of approval even after a 'fixed' election, this creates incentives for domestic leaders to pursue these tactics in the future.\n\nThe quality of regulations, and the extent to which incumbents feel compelled to follow them, is therefore of critical importance. The research presented in this chapter also suggests that this extends not only to processes of democratic consolidation, but also to the prospects for managing political conflict. I focus on one type of formal electoral institution \u2013 the rules surrounding the inclusion or exclusion of candidates \u2013 and draw on qualitative and quantitative research from several examples across the continent to demonstrate how respect for well-written rules that promote electoral inclusion can be a stabilising force in a continent often known for volatility and violence. When the rules are respected there are high barriers to the exclusion of opposition figures, and elections are far less likely to trigger coups d'\u00e9tat and civil wars. In turn, such rule following is most likely to occur when effective institutional design at the domestic level is reinforced by international norms (including African-led norms), creating strong disincentives for elites to pursue electoral manipulation. Although most African elections are now formally inclusive, ambiguous legislation and the lower standards that international election monitors apply to elections across the continent mean that many such contests continue to involve political exclusion.\n\nThis is well demonstrated by the quality of recent legislative and presidential elections in Africa. Table 10.1 provides the ranking of the most recent African contests within the NELDA dataset of 180 global elections held between 2012 and 2015. Higher scores indicate a better global ranking. Of the entire African sample, only two (Benin 2015 and Burkina Faso 2015) are represented in the top fifty. Of the five worst elections globally, all were in Sub-Saharan Africa, and African polls comprised eleven of the twenty worst elections held during this period.\n\nTable 10.1 Electoral integrity in Africa1\n\nCountry | Year | Type of election | Ranking (out of 180)   \n---|---|---|---  \nBenin| 2015| Legislative| 38  \nBurkina Faso| 2015| Presidential| 49  \nMauritius| 2014| Legislative| 54  \nRwanda| 2013| Legislative| 55  \nSouth Africa| 2014| Legislative| 57  \nLesotho| 2015| Legislative| 60  \nNamibia| 2014| Presidential| 71  \nC\u00f4te d'Ivoire| 2015| Presidential| 78  \nBotswana| 2014| Legislative| 82  \nGhana| 2012| Presidential| 84  \nGuinea-Bissau| 2014| Presidential| 93  \nNigeria| 2015| Presidential| 106  \nMali| 2013| Presidential| 111  \nMalawi| 2014| Presidential| 126  \nCameroon| 2013| Legislative| 129  \nMauritania| 2014| Presidential| 130  \nSwaziland| 2013| Legislative| 132  \nZambia| 2015| Presidential| 138  \nTanzania| 2015| Presidential| 139  \nGuinea| 2013| Legislative| 140  \nSudan| 2015| Presidential| 141  \nGuinea| 2015| Presidential| 148  \nBurkina Faso| 2012| Legislative| 149  \nKenya| 2013| Presidential| 150  \nMadagascar| 2013| Presidential| 156  \nTogo| 2013| Legislative| 161  \nTogo| 2015| Presidential| 162  \nZimbabwe| 2013| Legislative| 166  \nAngola| 2012| Legislative| 167  \nMozambique| 2014| Presidential| 168  \nRepublic of Congo| 2012| Legislative| 172  \nBurundi| 2015| Legislative| 176  \nDjibouti| 2013| Legislative| 177  \nEquatorial Guinea| 2013| Legislative| 178  \nEthiopia| 2015| Legislative| 179  \nBurundi| 2015| Presidential| 180\n\n# The Rules of the Game\n\nElectoral rules vary across the continent, and much of that variation can be traced back to the third wave of democratisation in the late 1980s and early 1990s, which ushered in multi-party elections to most African nations. There were several critical factors at play during this pivotal time \u2013 namely, the extent of international pressure \u2013 that continue to shape modern African politics. In some countries, such as Ghana, Benin and Malawi, international pressure was staunchly in support of a robust democratisation process because the West had few competing geostrategic interests at stake. In other countries, such as Nigeria, that played a more central role in the geostrategic interests of Western countries (most notably the United States) international pressure to democratise was more convoluted (Cheeseman 2015). Greater pressure often produced stronger democratic reform and more stringent rules, particularly when combined with strong pressures from below brought by opposition and civil society groups.\n\nSecond, the interplay between opposition groups and the ruling party often dictated the terms of reform (Riedl, Chapter 2). A stronger, united opposition was often able to force more institutional constraints than a weak, divided opposition. Third, there was a divergent trajectory in many African states linked to their colonial heritage. Former French colonies tended to incorporate more robust constitutional reform into their democratic transitions, while a majority of former British colonies democratised more superficially by simply legalising opposition parties (see Mbaku 1996, 1998). Fourth, while the formation of electoral commissions became commonplace, they prove more independent in some countries, such as Ghana, while in others they continue to serve at the bequest of the president. In the latter case, the commission often provides an institutionalised 'cover' for state manipulation of elections.\n\n## Shrewd Incumbents, Desperate Incumbents: Bending the Law or Breaking the Law?\n\nWhen incumbents enter electoral competition (as most in sub-Saharan Africa do to some extent), they face three main types of choices. First, they can do nothing to influence the outcome of the election. This is rare, although there have been some bright spots of incumbents losing power peacefully in purported 'clean' elections in countries such as Benin and Ghana. Some governments face less pressure to interfere with electoral processes because they enjoy dominant positions, such as South Africa's African National Congress (ANC) or the Botswana Democratic Party (BDP). However, most incumbents that could plausibly lose a clean election do not decide to roll the dice and gamble with their presidencies.\n\nThis is significant, because most regimes in sub-Saharan Africa do not have the luxury of an easy, and relatively clean, victory. Dominant parties may hold sway in states such as Angola and Uganda, but their survival has been based in part on an unfair playing field. Incumbents that could conceivably lose an election face the so-called Fraudster's Dilemma: incumbents that rig an election 'too much' will likely win but run the risk of international condemnation and isolation, while incumbents that do not rig 'enough' may actually fall from power (Birch 2011: 56). This dilemma has become even more daunting as international pressures for legitimately elected governments has become more intense in the post-Cold War era. The cost of illegitimacy is now higher, as donors often condition future aid, trade deals and investment on the verdicts of international election observation reports (Kelley 2009). As a result, African incumbents typically prefer forms of election manipulation that guarantee victory but have a comparatively low risk of 'being caught' and condemned by international election monitors and the donor community (Calingaert 2006).\n\nThis presents leaders determined to stay in power with a difficult choice between two further options. In addition to (1) doing nothing to illegitimately influence the outcome of the election, they may also (2) rely on older and riskier forms of blatant electoral fraud, such as ballot box stuffing, or (3) turn to 'strategic rigging' such as gerrymandering \u2013 the manipulation of constituency boundaries to benefit one party over another \u2013 and the legal but illegitimate exclusion of opposition figures. Which of these options appears to be the most attractive has, like the focus on electoral laws, shifted over time. Today, incumbents worry considerably more about how elections look to outsiders than they did in the past (Birch 2011; Hyde 2011). It is therefore worth considering the relative advantages and disadvantages of the second and third strategies.\n\nOn the one hand, blatant manipulation guarantees victory, because incumbents can stuff the number of ballots \u2013 or add the number of votes \u2013 that they require to win. However, the downside of such strategies is that they are more visible and likely to be identified by election monitors and opposition parties as they occur while the election takes place (Table 10.2). On the other hand, more strategic forms of rigging, such as gerrymandering, can be carried out well in advance of the election, and are therefore less likely to attract the attention of the international community. However, they also give incumbents less certainty, because leaders do not always know how much of an additional advantage they require to secure power and so may fall short. Such strategies are therefore less costly, but riskier.\n\nTable 10.2 The 'Fraudster's Dilemma'\n\nStrategy type | Rigging impact | Risk of detection | Likely victory? | International legitimacy?   \n---|---|---|---|---  \nNo manipulation| None| None| Unclear| Yes  \nBlatant Manipulation| High| High| Yes| Unlikely  \nStrategic Manipulation| High| Low| Probable| Likely\n\nWhich of these routes leaders choose is shaped by a number of factors: their fear of defeat, the strength of the electoral challenge they face, the extent of their personal commitment to plural politics and so on. In this sense, each decision needs to be understood in its local context. However, it is also possible to sketch some broader trends that have shaped the attractiveness of these options for African political leaders over the last twenty years. In the early 1990s, blatant electoral malfeasance was the most commonly deployed tool in the African 'menu of manipulation' (Schedler 2002). Such forms of electoral rigging, as Bratton suggests, included 'vote-buying and political intimidation' (1998: 63). However, the growing norm in favour of credible polls both internationally and within Africa has increased the costs of such explicit strategies, encouraging incumbents to swap into more strategic forms of rigging instead. Thus, as Nic Cheeseman aptly points out, 'the high profile nature of coercion and electoral fraud, and their tendency to delegitimate a government both at home and abroad, ensured that these strategies were usually employed either by desperate governments that had run out of options, or by incumbents empowered to ignore domestic and international protests' (2015: 149).\n\nOf course, these trends did not occur evenly across the continent. In cases of resource wealth or geostrategic importance \u2013 as in Angola and Uganda, as Cheeseman highlights, such electoral-authoritarian regimes can be shielded from international pressure to hold clean elections. I would add the Sahel region, as a critical ally in the fight against the growing threat of African Islamist terrorism, has appreciated similar concessions (Keenan 2009; Zoubir 2009). Partly as a result of such international laxity, despite the third wave of democratisation, the vast majority of the continent's oil producers have political systems rated 'unfree' by Freedom House.2 Even in the majority of Africa (including Benin, Malawi, and Zambia) \u2013 that is non-resource rich and, thus, less insulated from international pressures \u2013 international opinions regarding the quality of their elections still matter, as flawed elections can stem foreign aid flows overnight (Hyde 2011; Savun and Tirone 2011; Kelley 2012). For the leaders of such countries, the strengthening of anti-rigging norms creates new imperatives that guarantee electoral victory, but do so in a way that deflects scorn (or the potential loss of aid and diplomatic recognition) from international partners. Savvy incumbents faced with this challenge quickly learned that it was better to bend, reinterpret or change election laws than to break them.\n\n## Inclusion, Exclusion and Strategic Rigging\n\nInternational and domestic election monitors face a difficult job. In many cases, manipulation is conducted behind closed doors and away from the eyes of civil society and the media. As a result, criticism of rigging often centres on activities that can be easily verified and demonstrated, such as the flagrant breaking of an existing electoral law. It is for this reason that struggles over securing term limits have become more widespread in recent years. As Posner and Young note (Chapter 11), growing criticism of electoral malpractice has generated strong incentives for governments to pursue legislative channels, either manipulating ambiguities in existing legislation or rewriting the rule book.\n\nOne of the most significant consequences of this process of political 'learning' has been a surge in what I term 'electoral exclusion': the illegitimate (but often legal) banning of specific opposition candidates from an election for the purpose of securing an incumbent victory. For example, and as highlighted in the introduction, in Zambia's 1996 elections, the long-term president, Kenneth Kaunda, was declared ineligible as a candidate after questions about his parentage proved he was not a Zambian citizen (Rakner 2001). In Madagascar's 2006 election, dairy kingpin turned President Marc Ravalomanana successfully excluded his main rival, Pierrot Rajaonarivelo, by selectively applying an obscure electoral law that required presidential aspirants to sign their registration paperwork in person at the registration office in Antananarivo, the capital city. Forced into a prolonged exile as a result of the election-related crisis of 2001/2002 in Madagascar, this proved impossible for Rajaonarivelo. When Rajaonarivelo tried to return (on multiple occasions), President Ravalomanana unilaterally closed all of the country's airports, forcing flights to turn around (Klaas 2016). Likewise, in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire's 1995 and 2000 elections, the current president, Alassane Ouattara, was excluded from the contest due to the enforcement of an election law that was specifically tailored to ensure that he would be deemed ineligible.\n\nEach of these instances is indicative of 'strategic rigging', as it was done openly, legally and directly under the gaze of international election monitors. While one might think that such exclusion would be easily picked up and condemned by the international community, since such exclusion is often given a degree of legal legitimacy via the invocation of existing regulations, this is rarely the case. The NELDA dataset compiled by Susan Hyde and Nikolay Marinov (2012) allows us to analyse how often incumbents manipulated electoral institutions by changing, bending or making new election laws to exclude their opponents, and how frequently such rigging was condemned by international election monitors. During the 1990s, 87 per cent of elections in sub-Saharan Africa were 'inclusive' insofar as the incumbent did not actively seek to illegitimately exclude a major rival candidate (Hyde and Marinov 2012).3 This, of course, does not mean that 87 per cent of elections were 'free and fair', or that all of those 'inclusive' elections were fully inclusive on other measures, such as voter registration.\n\nSince the 1990s, there has been a remarkable rise in the use of electoral exclusion across the continent. In the 2000s, only 83 per cent of elections were 'inclusive', meaning that the use of exclusion rose from 13 per cent to 17 per cent (Hyde and Marinov 2012). Significantly, this trend has spiked in recent years. From 2008 to 2010, 26 per cent of elections were exclusionary \u2013 meaning that incumbents in more than one out of every four African elections actively intervened to illegitimately exclude one or more major rivals from the contest as a means of securing a victory. These figures are markedly higher than elsewhere in the world. Outside of sub-Saharan Africa, roughly 11 per cent of elections feature the illegitimate exclusion of a major opposition candidate.\n\nThe increasing popularity of this form of electoral manipulation in Africa is related to the fact that it is rarely punished. As shown in the NELDA dataset, when exclusion did occur monitors only condemned the overall conduct of the election 39 per cent of the time. In other words, in the vast majority of elections wherein a major opposition figure was excluded from contestation \u2013 including elections held in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire (1995), Madagascar (2006), Mauritania (2001), Niger (1996), Togo (2005), Zambia (1996) and several others \u2013 the elections were still approved by election monitors. In part, this may occur because monitors tend to discount the significance of pre-election manipulation and to pull their punches when leaders win by large margins \u2013 which is precisely what candidate exclusion is designed to achieve. It works, too. Since 1989, the average margin of victory in Africa's exclusionary presidential elections has been 44.4 per cent above the nearest challenger. By contrast, the average margin of victory for fully inclusive elections is markedly lower (but still high) at 27.9 per cent.\n\nHowever, international responses to such practices of exclusion are markedly different in Africa compared to the rest of the world. When looking at the data on incumbent exclusion of opponents outside sub-Saharan Africa, election monitors condemned the overall conduct of the election 64 per cent of the time. This suggests that monitors are motivated by a range of factors \u2013 including lower expectations of elections in Africa \u2013 but perhaps also emphasises international hesitancy and greater concerns about civil conflict if elections are declared to have been rigged. While such lower standards for rejecting election results in Africa are troubling, especially given minimal prospects for contests being 'free and fair' when a major challenger is denied the chance to contest, incumbents have been able to sustain a degree of 'legal legitimacy' by pursuing a form of strategic rigging that is conducted by bending existing laws, changing laws or exploiting legal loopholes.\n\nSuch strategies have proved successful. According to the NELDA data, since the end of the Cold War, the only election wherein an incumbent party in sub-Saharan Africa was defeated even after employing such exclusion practices was the 2000 elections in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire. This case is also an unusual outlier, because the snap election was held soon after General Robert Gu\u00e9\u00ef took power, at which point he had been unable to consolidate his regime's authority.\n\n## Exclusion and Regime Time\n\nAs one might expect, some types of regimes are more inclusive than others during elections. This is intuitive, as inclusive elections are a key feature of democratic quality. However, inclusivity is not the only measure of democracy \u2013 indeed, many of the main democracy indices do not systematically include data on electoral exclusion. It is therefore important to see how a country's overall democratic quality conditions the propensity of electoral institutions to be consistently inclusive. Using Polity IV data (which ranges from pure authoritarianism at \u221210 to fully consolidated democracy at +10), Table 10.3 tells the story that we would expect: inclusive elections are least common in authoritarian African states (\u221210 to \u22126) and most common in democracies (+6 to +10). The regimes falling in the middle of the spectrum I call 'counterfeit democracies' as they aspire to be democracies but do not fulfil key requirements, and instead are four times less likely to have inclusionary elections than genuine democracies.\n\nTable 10.3 Levels of electoral inclusion, by regime type (1989\u20132010)\n\nRegime Type | Percentage of elections deemed 'inclusive'  \n---|---  \nConsolidated democracy| 97.0%  \nCounterfeit democracy| 88.3%  \nAuthoritarian regimes| 45.0%\n\nTable 10.3 suggests that the patterns identified by van Ham and Lindberg, and Posner and Young (Chapters 9 and , respectively) are correct. Across the continent's democracies, leaders are overwhelmingly following both the formal rules of the game and the spirit of those rules when it comes to electoral inclusion. However, in a set of recalcitrant authoritarian systems, the majority of elections still feature the exclusion of a significant candidate. In this sense, we are seeing an increasing divergence on the continent between those countries where free and fair elections are becoming increasingly entrenched, and those where 'exclusion norms' have come to the fore.\n\nWhat does this mean for the significance of political institutions in Africa? Clearly, electoral institutions matter. If that were not the case, incumbents would not invest so much effort in changing them to their advantage. But they do not always matter in the way that one might expect. The strengthening of some electoral rules \u2013 such as the need to hold multiparty contests and the growing capacity of electoral commissions in some countries \u2013 has supported freer and fairer electoral contests in many countries, leading to transfers of power in places such as Ghana, Kenya and Nigeria (Lindberg and van Ham, Chapter 9). However, in countries where leaders face fewer constraints and are more determined to retain power, stronger electoral regulations have not resulted in high quality elections. Instead, they have encouraged incumbents to switch out blatant forms of manipulation for subtler strategies. This may be a minority trend \u2013 after all, more than three-quarters of elections still remain 'inclusive' \u2013 but it nonetheless demonstrates the limited capacity of formal rules in delivering fairer outcomes in a significant number of states.\n\n# The Impact of Exclusion\n\nElections are important for a number of reasons, but one of the most significant is that they offer a glimmer of hope to opposition candidates across the continent. While it is true that Africa has often been a region where incumbents more often than not easily defeat their challengers, election day is still a pivotal moment because 'only the ballot box provides regular opportunities for the public to select representatives, to hold governments to account and to \"kick the rascals out\" where necessary' (Norris 2004: 3). Elections also serve as safety valves for releasing political pressure; opposition groups that have been shut out from state power can often look forward to a pending election date as another chance to remove the incumbent and have 'their turn to eat' (Branch et al. 2010). This is particularly true if electoral institutions are inclusive, clean and offer ample and robust mechanisms for credible contestation and certification of an electoral outcome once the votes have been counted. When those institutions are functioning properly, opposition candidates across Africa face much stronger incentives to remain within the realm of legitimate opposition \u2013 for instance, challenging the regime within parliament.\n\nThere are few, if any, downsides to securing power by winning an election, and African opposition groups would in most cases prefer to topple the incumbent in the legitimate sphere, taking power by the ballot rather than by bullets. Democratic victories are usually rewarded by international recognition, a continuation of foreign aid and a mandate of perceived legitimacy. By contrast, violent victories receive none of those benefits and come with substantial risks \u2013 failed rebellions and coup plots usually do not end well for the perpetrators, particularly under (usually) unforgiving African regimes. Imprisonment, torture and even death are realistic consequences for those who plot failed attempts to seize the state violently (Humphreys and Weinstein 2008). As a result, in cases where the opposition deems electoral victory within reach, political violence would be less likely; even if the opposition loses a given election, it will at least have reason to feel invested in the legitimate system and maintain its credibility for future electoral contests.\n\nHowever, when incumbents bend, re-interpret or change the electoral rules in order to illegitimately exclude challengers, the opposition loses the possibility of a fairly won victory. By eliminating the legitimate pathway to power, electoral exclusion forces the opposition to change tactics \u2013 to either accept the results (possibly with a boycott, court challenge or other strategies aimed at imposing reputational costs on the incumbent regime), hope for a fairer shot in several years or seek power by an alternative pathway.4 One alternative strategy is to try to take power through force, for example by engineering a coup d'\u00e9tat or launching a civil war. The increased pressures placed on the opposition give rise to my primary hypothesis: that inclusive elections in Africa reduce the overall risk of political conflict.\n\nIn order to test this hypothesis, I adopt a mixed method approach, drawing on an original large-N continent-wide dataset that builds on the NELDA dataset introduced in this chapter and 113 elite-level interviews that I conducted in Madagascar and C\u00f4te d'Ivoire. Using both methods, I examine the same independent variable (inclusive elections) and the same dependent variable \u2013 whether a coup or civil war broke out within two years of the election taking place.5 In building this dataset, I paid particular attention to previous explanations for conflict in the literature, to be certain that any statistical relationship between exclusion and conflict reflects a plausible causal relationship and does not capture the effects of other salient variables. As a result, the dataset includes a multitude of control variables6 drawn from prior scholarly explanations of coup and civil war onset. The main independent variable \u2013 whether the elections were inclusive or not \u2013 is also derived from the NELDA dataset, though I also conducted my own independent coding of all elections between 2005 and 2010, and found that I agreed with 99 per cent of coding decisions \u2013 offering another layer of robustness to the variable.\n\nTo test the proposition that inclusive elections are likely to be more peaceful as they provide losing parties with a reason to keep faith in the electoral process, I run a probit regression. The dependent variable is peace, measured in terms of whether or not a civil war or coup broke out within two years of the election.7 The results, which are presented in Table 10.4, suggest that inclusive elections do indeed act as a safety valve, mitigating risk of both coups and civil wars in Africa.\n\nTable 10.4 The impact of inclusive elections in sub-Saharan Africa\n\nDependent variable = two years of no coup or civil war   \n---  \nInclusive elections| 0.898 (0.254)***  \nBoycotts| \u22120.062 (0.216)  \nPrior coup activity (within 2 years)| \u22120.561 (0.201)**  \nElection type| 0.209 (0.172)  \nPolity IV| \u22120.028 (0.018)  \nPopulation (ln)| 0.025 (0.097)  \nGDP per capita (ln)| 0.055 (0.096)  \nLand area (ln)| \u22120.047 (0.078)  \nEthnic fractionalisation| 0.448 (0.434)  \nNumber of excluded groups| \u22120.188 (0.044)***  \nFounding election| \u22120.250 (0.253)  \nAid per capita| \u22120.003 (0.002)  \nConstant| \u22120.154 (1.035)  \nN=371| Pseudo R2: 0.147\n\nP values: *p<0.05; **p<0.01; ***p<0.001\n\nThe regression indicates that in addition to inclusive elections, two other factors \u2013 namely a prior history of coups d'\u00e9tat and a high number of marginalised groups in society \u2013 decrease the likelihood that the post-election period will be peaceful. This is not terribly surprising. After all, there is a robust literature on destabilising 'coup traps' (Londregan and Poole 1990; Harkness 2014) and an equally robust power-sharing literature on how African power-sharing agreements, by limiting the number of excluded groups in society, can be an antidote to conflict (Cheeseman 2011; Hartzell and Hoddie 2015).\n\nHowever, the effect of these variables is significantly weaker than the impact of inclusive elections. Using predicted probabilities, the model suggests that \u2013 all things being equal \u2013 the two years after an inclusive election will be peaceful 82 per cent of the time, compared to just 50 per cent of the time when election institutions are manipulated to exclude a major opposition candidate from contesting the election, a difference of some 32 per cent. Put differently, when incumbents in sub-Saharan Africa seek to win an election by removing their opponent(s) from the ballot, they dramatically increase the prospects that their country will succumb to a civil war, a coup d'\u00e9tat attempt or a successful coup d'\u00e9tat.8 This analysis raises a number of important questions. Can we be sure that it is exclusive elections that drive conflict? What factors may mediate the relationship between exclusion, coups and civil wars? In what ways should electoral institutions be formed to ensure inclusivity rather than exclusionary manipulation? These questions represent the foundations for case study research of C\u00f4te d'Ivoire (1995 and 2000) and Madagascar (2006) that allow us to trace the relationship between exclusion and political violence in greater depth.\n\n## C\u00f4te d'Ivoire: The Allure of 'Ivoirit\u00e9' and the Destabilising Politics of Exclusion\n\nOver five years, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire experienced two non-inclusive elections \u2013 one in 1995 and the other in 2000. When electoral institutions were manipulated in 1995 to exclude one of the main candidates, Alasaine Ouattara, peace continued for several years following the rigged contest. However, when the same tactic was repeated in 2000, a civil war broke out. As a result, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire provides an excellent internal control case; the main actors and tactics were largely the same but only the second act of electoral exclusion led to conflict.\n\nInterestingly, between 1995 and 2000, the regime changed hands but the tactic used to manipulate electoral institutions remained the same. The incentives that drew President Henri Konan Bedi\u00e9 to use exclusion in 1995 were the same that led his successor, Robert Gu\u00e9\u00ef, down a similar path five years later. Both incumbents were primarily motivated by a desire to retain power and both faced the same threat: the northern half of the country, unified by a loosely shared Muslim identity, had sufficient numbers and support to win a free and fair contest (as compared to their support base, the largely Christian south) (McGovern 2011). They also both faced the challenge of mobilising support in the context of economic decline as a result of falling cocoa prices (Daddieh 2001).\n\nOuattara ran as an opposition candidate in both elections under the banner of the Rally of the Republicans (RDR). Given his strong networks in the north, he came to be the candidate that President Bedi\u00e9 'was most afraid of' in 1995 and that Gu\u00e9\u00ef equally feared in 2000.9 It was Bedi\u00e9 that first realised he could re-interpret or change election laws to neutralise Ouattara. He also realised that doing so would be doubly expedient if he based that institutional manipulation on the premise that Ouattara was a 'foreigner' trying to infiltrate the nation. It would allow Bedi\u00e9 to scapegoat migrants (of which C\u00f4te d'Ivoire had many) for the country's economic woes while also neutralising the primary electoral threat (Klaas 2008; McGovern 2011). As a result, Bedi\u00e9 began to fixate on the notion of ivoirit\u00e9, the quality of being 'truly' Ivoirian, which challenged Ouattara's eligibility to be president (even though Ouattara had already served as Prime Minister). By changing the electoral regulations to reflect this \u2013 the 'crowning act was made by a law adopted by the PDCI-RDA the 23rd of November 1994, with a new law affecting the electoral code' \u2013 he successfully pressured the government to exclude Ouattara from the 1995 vote.10\n\nThere were three resulting changes, each aimed squarely at Ouattara. Candidates had to prove that both parents were native Ivoirians; candidates could not have dual nationalities; and, candidates were required to have lived for the previous five years in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire. Ouattara was therefore excluded from the 1995 contest on the basis of his allegedly dubious citizenship and interrupted residency.11 In this way, legal changes that remained within the parameters of the constitution generated the clearly illegitimate exclusion of one of the main election candidates. In line with the pattern highlighted above, Bedi\u00e9 won the subsequent election with 96 per cent of the vote. The opposition considered contesting the results outside of official channels but ultimately decided against this course of action, in part because it was deemed unfeasible. As Affoussy Bamba, the former spokeswoman for the Forces Nouvelles rebel group aligned to Ouattara explained: 'Ouattara, having spent most of his formative professional life outside the country, did not have a machine of comparable depth to challenge really in 1995 \u2013 the northerners were not yet in a position to challenge directly.'12 However, just five years later, Ouattara proved to be of equal or increasing threat, and the president embarked on a long campaign to discredit Ouattara as part of the 'foreigner problem' and legitimate his continued exclusion from electoral competition.\n\nIn the process of this campaign, the manipulation of electoral institutions to destroy his political ambitions in 1995 morphed into a more widespread form of political exclusion and harassment of entire communities in 2000. Lifelong residents of C\u00f4te d'Ivoire were given 'foreign residence permits', northerners were shaken down for bribes to avoid being deported or arrested and police routinely tore up the national residency cards of northerners \u2013 making it impossible for them to vote (McGovern 2011).13 Here again, formal rules were contorted to serve self-serving interests. The regime accepted the international norm for voter identification and candidate registration as important institutional controls, but then used those institutional constraints to push through certain political agendas. This behaviour was possible as a result of the weakness of electoral institutions at the domestic level \u2013 including a deeply compromised electoral commission and court system \u2013 as well as the lack of international pressures from observers and donors.\n\nThe consequences of this unchecked exclusion were severe. Shortly before the election, a coup d'\u00e9tat executed by General Robert Gu\u00e9\u00ef and elements within the Ivoirian military reflected growing public discontent while not connected directly to Ouattara. Once in power, Gu\u00e9\u00ef followed Bedi\u00e9's exclusionary strategy and manipulated electoral institutions to prevent Ouattara from standing in the 2000 polls (McGovern 2011). Yet, instead of giving Gu\u00e9\u00ef the landslide victory he craved, another candidate that he had allowed to stand \u2013 Laurent Gbagbo \u2013 won a narrow victory. Like Gu\u00e9\u00ef, Gbagbo continued with the policy of excluding Ouattara and demonising the north, which made it clear that inclusive polls were unlikely to occur in the near future.\n\nOuattara's continued exclusion had become a symbol of a broader movement to exclude northerners from Ivoirian society that also blamed them for the country's ailing economy. In this way, Ouattara's exclusion was a lightning rod for a much broader set of concerns felt by marginalised groups. Tensions boiled over less than two years after Gbagbo took office, on 19 September 2002, when the Forces Nouvelles launched a rebellion that split the country in half and led to a decade of chronic political instability. Thus, although the C\u00f4te d'Ivoire experience is complicated by a number of different twists and turns, many of which were driven by other factors, it demonstrates how the manipulation of formal electoral rules to marginalise the opposition can push a country to the brink of civil war.\n\n## Madagascar: Playing Games with Electoral Institutions\n\nFollowing his victory in 2002, President Ravalomanana presided over a growing economy with a relatively stable political system. That stability was partly forged by the fact that Ravalomanana had forced many of his major rivals \u2013 including former President Didier Ratsiraka and Pierrot Rajaonarivelo \u2013 into exile (Marcus 2016). The announced intention of Rajaonarivelo to contest the 2006 elections against the incumbent led to a new era of formalised exclusion through electoral laws. Although Rajaonarivelo was 'widely believed to be the most serious challenger to President Ravalomanana' (Marcus 2016, one other candidate also posed a major threat, General Andrianafidisoa (known locally as General Fidy).\n\nPresident Ravalomanana thus faced the choice of doing nothing and allowing inclusive polls, or pursuing blatant or strategic rigging. Like an increasing number of incumbents, he chose the latter, aiming to remove both General Fidy and Rajaonarivelo from the ballot by using electoral mandates. For General Fidy, who was already in the country, Ravalomanana moved to bar him from the contest through a procedural denial of his paperwork \u2013 claiming that the General had not paid the MGA 25 million registration fee (roughly $11,400 in 2006) before the registration deadline (Iloniaina 2006). General Fidy appealed, insisting he had paid the fee, and claimed that the ruling was politically motivated. His appeal was rejected and the High Constitutional Court nullified his candidacy on 16 October 2006 \u2013 less than two months before the December election (Marcus 2016). It is impossible to be sure that Fidy paid his fee, but given some of his wealthy allies it seems unlikely that the sum was beyond him \u2013 especially given the value of the position which he sought to contest. However, the ambiguity generated by the government's claims sufficiently discredited the candidate from standing.\n\nThe exclusion of Rajaonarivelo was less subtle. Candidates are required by Malagasy law to sign their paperwork at the election registration office in Madagascar; it cannot be done in absentia. When the former Deputy Prime Minister attempted to return to his party's coastal stronghold of Toamasina on a commercial Air Austral flight from Paris via the neighbouring island of R\u00e9union on 7 October 2006, Ravalomanana issued an order closing the airport of Toamasina for a period of three months.14 The order provoked unrest; police had to use teargas to disperse 'the thousands of protestors that had come to welcome the opposition leader to the airport'.15 If Rajaonarivelo did not arrive by 14 October, he risked being disqualified from the contest. Every time Rajaonarivelo attempted to return \u2013 which he did four times in total \u2013 the President closed the airports. It was an example of using electoral laws as a political weapon at its most cynical.\n\nThe case of Madagascar is instructive, as it reminds us that even when electoral commissions are more independent, they are restricted by their role in determining whether legal requirements have been met, not taking into consideration legal loopholes or the broader institutional context that may allow for executive abuses. In the absence of stronger regulations, or checks and balances, exclusion may undermine confidence in the elections and encourage losing parties to seek power through force. In March 2009, two and a half years after his exclusion from the election, Rajaonarivelo was involved in plotting the coup d'\u00e9tat that overthrew Ravalomanana (by the former radio disc jockey turned Mayor of Antananarivo, Andry Rajoelina). The day after the coup, Rajaonarivelo admitted: 'I'm with Rajoelina; we've met. We have a sort of deal and I'm among the people behind him...'.16 Subsequent events supported this statement, as he returned to the island as Madagascar's Minister of Economy and Industry in March 2011 before being named the Minister of Foreign Affairs six months later. For Rajaonarivelo, much as for Ouattara in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, electoral exclusion had led to the pursuit of power through force. In this way, Ravalomanana's strategy of manipulation undermined not only his own position, but led to a further deterioration in the political stability of the country.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nGiven that electoral exclusion undermines the quality of elections and increases the prospects of political conflict, what can be done to foster inclusive contests? To answer this question, we have to acknowledge two lessons from the past twenty-five years of African politics. First, electoral institutions are not meaningless. Around three-quarters of African elections are inclusive, a significant change from the 1980s. This is particularly common in countries that are already more democratic, where governments are not insulated from international pressure by resource wealth or their geo-strategic importance. Moreover, even when formal institutions are not respected, their presence shapes the behaviour of incumbent leaders, and this may encourage them to pursue alternative, more ambiguous, strategies of electoral manipulation. We therefore need to be aware of both the intended and unintended impacts of formal institutions.\n\nSecond, and relatedly, in cases where more authoritarian leaders are determined to stay in power, stronger institutional checks on electoral manipulation may not lead to cleaner polls, but rather prompt leaders to find new ways to gain an unfair advantage. The rise of 'strategic rigging' under the noses of international election monitors has allowed savvy incumbents to transform election laws from instruments that constrain the regime into weapons that can be yielded against the opposition, with the approval \u2013 or at least acquiescence \u2013 of international forces. In this regard, it is important to note that while improving the clarity of legislation would help reduce the legal leeway that government's enjoy, even well-specified clauses can be distorted by executive discretion.\n\nWith these lessons in mind, several changes could help mitigate the risk that electoral fraud will lead to exclusive elections in some parts of Africa. First, changes need to occur in tandem at the domestic and international level. Domestically, more independent electoral commissions, judiciaries and legislatures need clear regulations for preventing leaders from interpreting the laws in a biased and self-serving manner. Internationally, Western governments engaged in election monitoring need to use carrots (such as the possibility of expanded aid for genuinely clean elections) and sticks (such as condemnation of illegitimate elections) more explicitly to change the incentives facing incumbent leaders. While this already occurs to an extent, monitors tend to overlook the legal loopholes manipulated by sitting presidents; democracy promoters must pay more attention to less obvious forms of rigging, with awareness that strategies of manipulation are not static but evolve over time.\n\nThese changes have implications not only for the quality of democracy, but also for conflict management. As the data shows, electoral exclusion can increase the prospects for coups and civil wars, especially in countries that are already unstable. There is more research that needs to be conducted on assessing the correlation between electoral exclusion and conflict outbreak, but the overall evidence is clear: electoral institutions matter in a variety of ways, and developing a better understanding of exactly how and why is critical to the prospects for democratic consolidation in Africa.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAalen, Lovise, and Kjetil Tronvoll. 2009. 'The end of democracy? Curtailing political and civil rights in Ethiopia', Review of African Political Economy 36, 120: 193\u2013207.\n\nBeaulieu, Emily, and Susan D. Hyde. 2009. 'In the shadow of democracy promotion: Strategic manipulation, international observers, and election boycotts', Comparative Political Studies 42, 3: 392\u2013415.\n\nBirch, Susan. 2011. Electoral malpractice, Oxford University Press.\n\nBratton, Michael. 1998. 'Second elections in Africa', Journal of Democracy 9, 3: 51\u201366.\n\nBranch, Daniel, Cheeseman, Nic, and Leigh Gardner. 2010. Our turn to eat: Politics in Kenya since 1950, Berlin: LIT Verlag Publishing.\n\nCalingaert, Daniel. 2006. 'Election rigging and how to fight it', Journal of Democracy 17, 3: 138\u2013151.\n\nChabal, Patrick, and Jean-Pascal Daloz. 1999. Africa works: Disorder as political instrument, Oxford: James Currey Publishers.\n\nChaturvedi, Ashish. 2005. 'Rigging elections with violence', Public Choice 125, 1: 189\u2013202.\n\nCheeseman, Nic. 2015. Democracy in Africa: Successes, failures, and the struggle for political reform, Cambridge University Press.\n\nCheeseman, Nic. 2011. 'The internal dynamics of power-sharing in Africa', Democratisation 18, 2: 336\u2013365.\n\nCollier, Paul, and Anke Hoeffler. 2004. 'Greed and grievance in civil war', Oxford Economic Papers 56, 4: 563\u2013595.\n\nCollier, Paul, and Pedro C. Vicente. 2012. 'Violence, bribery, and fraud: The political economy of elections in Sub-Saharan Africa', Public Choice 153, 1\u20132: 117\u2013147.\n\nDaddieh, Cyril. 2001. 'Elections and ethnic violence in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire: The unfinished business of succession and democratic transition', African Issues 29, 2: 14\u201319.\n\nHarkness, Kristen. 2014. 'The ethnic army and the state: Explaining coup traps and the difficulties of democratisation in Africa', Journal of Conflict Resolution: 1\u201330.\n\nHartzell, Caroline, and Matthew Hoddie. 2015. 'The art of the possible: Power sharing and post-civil war democracy', World Politics 67, 1: 37\u201371.\n\nHumphreys, Macartan, and Jeremy Weinstein. 2008. 'Who fights? The determinants of participation in civil war', American Journal of Political Science 52, 2: 436\u2013455.\n\nHuntington, Samuel. 1991. 'Democracy's third wave', Journal of Democracy, 2, 2: 12\u201334.\n\nHyde, Susan. 2011. 'Catch us if you can: Election monitoring and international norm diffusion', American Journal of Political Science, 55, 2: 356\u2013369.\n\nHyde, Susan, and Nikolay Marinov. 2012. 'Which elections can be lost?' Political Analysis 20, 2: 191\u2013210.\n\nIloniaina, Alain, 'Madagascar captures renegade general \"Fidy\"', Reuters, December 13, 2006.\n\nKeenan, Jeremy. 2009. The dark Sahara: America's war on terror in Africa, London: Pluto Press.\n\nKelley, Judith. 2009. 'D-minus elections: The politics and norms of international election observation', International Organisation 63, 4: 765\u2013787.\n\nKelley, Judith. 2012. 'International Influences on Elections in New Multiparty States', Annual Review of Political Science 15: 203\u2013220.\n\nKelley, Judith. 2012. Monitoring democracy: When international election observation works, and why it often fails, Princeton University Press.\n\nKieh Jr., George. 2003. 'Unsteady steps and uncertain politics: Political democratisation' in Julius Omozuanvbo Ihonvbere and John Mukum Mbaku (eds.), Political liberalization and democratisation in Africa: Lessons from country experiences, Westport, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group.\n\nKlaas, Brian. 2016. The despot's accomplice: How the West is aiding & abetting the decline of democracy, London: Hurst & Co. Publishers.\n\nKlaas, Brian. 2008. 'From miracle to nightmare: An institutional analysis of development failures in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire', Africa Today 55, 1: 109\u2013126.\n\nLindberg, Staffan. 2006. Democracy and elections in Africa. Baltimore, MD: JHU Press.\n\nLondregan, John, and Keith Poole. 1990. 'Poverty, the coup trap, and the seizure of executive power', World Politics 42, 2: 151\u2013183.\n\nMarcus, Richard. 2010. 'Marc the Medici? The failure of a new form of Neopatrimonial Rule in Madagascar', Political Science Quarterly 125, 1: 111\u2013131.\n\nMarcus, Richard. 2016. The politics of institutional failure in Madagascar's third republic. London: Rowman and Littlefield.\n\nMbaku, John Mukum. 1996. 'Bureaucratic corruption in Africa: The futility of cleanups', Cato Journal 16, 1: 99\u2013118.\n\nMbaku, John Mukum. 1998. Corruption and the crisis of institutional reforms in Africa, Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press.\n\nMcGovern, Mike. 2011. Making war in C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, London: Hurst & Co.\n\nNorris, Pippa. 2004. Electoral engineering: Voting rules and political behavior, Cambridge University Press.\n\nNorris, Pippa and research teams. 2015. 'The Expert Survey of Perceptions of Electoral Integrity,' PEI 4.0, accessed 15 September 2017. www.electoralintegrityproject.com.\n\nRakner, Lise. 2001. Political and economic liberalisation in Zambia, 1991\u20132001, Nordic Africa Institute Press.\n\nSavun, Burcu, and Daniel C. Tirone. 2011. 'Foreign aid, democratisation, and civil conflict: How does democracy aid affect civil conflict?' American Journal of Political Science 55, 2: 233\u2013246.\n\nSchedler, Andreas. 2002. 'The menu of manipulation', Journal of Democracy 13, 2: 36\u201350.\n\nWay, Lucan, and Steven Levitsky. 2002. 'The rise of competitive authoritarianism', Journal of Democracy 13, 2: 51\u201365.\n\nZoubir, Yahia. 2009. 'The United States and Maghreb-Sahel security', International Affairs 85, 5: 977\u2013995.\n\n1 Data from Perceptions of Electoral Integrity database (2015), available at www.electoralintegrityproject.com (15 April 2015).\n\n2 Freedom House. www.freedomhouse.org (2 March 2016).\n\n3 These figures are drawn from the NELDA dataset (Hyde and Marinov 2012), which codes elections on whether or not opposition leaders were prevented from running in the election as a result of regime intervention. The codebook guideline states: 'Coded yes if any specific opposition candidates are explicitly prevented from running.'\n\n4 This is similar to Robert Merton's 1949 concept of 'anomie', which suggests that illegitimate behaviours become more appealing when individuals are less likely to succeed in legitimate behaviours. The concept is one of the most influential ideas in sociology literature, used primarily to explain deviant behaviour. However, it is equally useful to think of opposition elites operating in a similar way: when they cannot win an election, alternatives become comparatively more appealing.\n\n5 The original dataset takes election-related variables from NELDA but also includes whether civil wars or coups began after election dates (with one year and two-year cut-off thresholds). The dataset is composed of 385 national-level elections in sub-Saharan Africa (each individual cases) that were held between 1989 and 2010 \u2013 with the start date chosen to reflect continent-wide variation on the independent variable (inclusive versus exclusionary elections).\n\n6 These include: election date, election type (parliamentary or presidential), boycotts, whether the election is considered a 'founding' election, whether there were riots and protests surrounding the elections (Hyde and Marinov 2012), democratic quality (Polity IV), population size (logged; World Bank), economic prosperity (logged GDP per capita; World Bank), prior coup activity within one or two years of the election (compiled based on data from the Center for Systemic Peace, 'Coups d'\u00c9tat, 1946-2013'), ethnic fractionalisation (Ethnic Power Relations dataset), total number of excluded ethnic groups (EPR dataset), land area (logged; World Bank and CIA World Factbook 2013), percentage of country that is mountainous (Collier and Hoeffler 2004) and aid dependence (defined as aid dollars per capita; World Bank).\n\n7 Of course, this is a crude measure of peace, and in some ways is better thought of as the absence of high levels of political conflict, as it is compatible with episodes of low-level violence. The coup data is drawn from the Center for Systemic Peace and the civil war onset data is drawn from a variety of sources (including ACLED, PRIO Armed Conflict Battle Deaths data, along with newspaper reports and encyclopaedic entries to determine dates of deaths). If either a coup or civil war broke out within two years of voting, the 'peace' variable was coded as a '0'; if there were no attempts at a coup or civil war, 'peace' was coded as a '1'. I tested an array of other variables (most of which are included in the regression below, but some variables that were not statistically significant have been removed for the sake of parsimony).\n\n8 Types of political violence are not equal; for example, a successful coup is more damaging than a failed coup attempt. However, any of these three types of violence (civil war, failed coup attempt, successful coup attempt) can devastate a country for years, if not decades.\n\n9 Interview, Venance Konan (General Director of Fraternit\u00e9 Matin), Abidjan, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, 19 July 2012.\n\n10 Interview, Kokhav Kon\u00e9 Abou Bakary Sidic, Historian and public intellectual, Abidjan, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, 25 July 2012.\n\n11 Interview, Alain Lobognon, former Forces Nouvelles spokesperson and current Ivoirian Minister of Youth, Sports, and Culture, Abidjan, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, 17 July 2012.\n\n12 Interview, Abidjan, C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, 24 July 2012.\n\n13 Interview, Bamba, 24 July 20.\n\n14 Liberation. 2006. 'Pierrot Rajaonarivelo, interdit de retour \u00e0 Madagascar.'\n\n15 Ibid. October 2006. 'La police a dispers\u00e9, \u00e0 coups de gaz lacrymog\u00e8ne, le millier de manifestants venus accueillir l'opposant \u00e0 l'a\u00e9roport.'\n\n16 James Mackenzie. 2009. 'Exiled Madagascar Politician Urges New Elections', Reuters.\n\n# 11 Term Limits\n\n## Leadership, Political Competition and the Transfer of Power\n\nDaniel N. Posner and Daniel J. Young\n\nIf institutions are rules that restrain political actors, then the most important institutions that constrain the most important political actors are the rules that tell presidents how and when they must relinquish power. The most significant of these are the constitutional provisions that restrict presidents to two terms in office. Since 1990, such term limits have been put in place in all but seven of the forty-seven countries in sub-Saharan Africa that have non-ceremonial heads of state. This chapter explores how African leaders have responded to these limits. Our findings suggest that these constitutional checks on presidential power are real and that they have come to constrain African leaders in ways that were almost unimaginable in earlier eras.1\n\nIn the first decades after independence from European colonial rule, African leaders were rightly depicted as 'big men', unconstrained by the rules that formally limited their power (Jackson and Rosberg 1982; Chabal and Daloz 1999; Hyden 2006). Authority in this era stemmed from a combination of military might, intimidation and the command of informal networks. Leaders entered and exited office not through elections or other regular means but primarily through the barrel of a gun. In this era, it was almost unthinkable that a head of state would relinquish power simply because a clause in the constitution said that he must. Much more likely, he would ignore the provision and simply declare himself (or have the legislature he controlled declare him) 'President for Life' \u2013 as Kwame Nkrumah did in 1964, Hastings Banda did in 1970, Jean-B\u00e9del Bokassa and Francisco Mac\u00edas Nguema did in 1972 and Idi Amin did in 1976. Many other African leaders effectively did the same, even if they never adopted the formal title.\n\nBut by the 1990s, things began to change. The modal means by which African leaders surrendered power shifted from coup d'\u00e9tat to voluntary resignation, either due to term limits or following a defeat in a relatively free and fair election. Political power also became much more institutionalised during the intervals between elections. Although not every African country during this period moved towards greater constraints on executive authority, the overall shift in this direction was discernible. Across the continent, the unfettered 'personal rule' that had previously characterised the politics of the region began to be displaced by a more rule-bound, institutionalised political order. Today, although pockets of old-style authoritarianism remain, nearly all African leaders seek to achieve their goals through formal institutional channels rather than extra-constitutional means. This represents a major change in how power is exercised and, we believe, constitutes the most important development in the last two and a half decades of African politics.\n\nThe displacement of violence by formal rules is clearly illustrated by tracing changes over time in how leaders leave office. We therefore begin our discussion by presenting evidence on this issue. We then turn to an analysis of how leaders, faced with two-term limits, have responded to this significant limitation on their power. If we assume \u2013 as we think is reasonable \u2013 that nearly all leaders would prefer to stay in office rather than step down, then studying how they react to a constitutional provision that forces them to relinquish power provides a fundamental test of the ability of formal institutional rules to constrain leaders' behaviour. We show that of the thirty-six heads of state that faced a two-term limit between 1990 and 2015, twenty accepted the limit and voluntarily retired, while sixteen either ignored the provision or attempted to amend the constitution to permit the continuation of their rule. Of these sixteen, eleven were successful and five were rebuffed in their efforts. The record therefore indicates that the majority of African leaders respected the constitutional limits on their tenure.\n\nEqually important, nearly every leader who was unwilling to accept the two-term limit sought to prolong his rule not by ignoring the constitution but by seeking to change it to better align it with his preferences. The decision in nearly every case was to operate through rather than around the constitution. This represents a major and telling shift in how presidents exercise their power. Of course, many African presidents in earlier eras also sought to legitimate the perpetuation of their rule by pushing constitutional amendments through parliament. But such moves were almost always taken in contexts where the president's dominance was so overwhelming that working through the formal rules offered little risk. For today's leaders, choosing to change the constitution by working through its codified procedures is selecting a path that entails significant costs and (as the cases of Zambia, Malawi and Nigeria demonstrate) real prospects for failure.\n\nAlso significant is the fact that in the two cases in which presidents tried to extend their rule without legally changing the constitution (Burkina Faso and Niger) the military \u2013 historically Africa's quintessential anti-constitutional actor \u2013 intervened in opposition to the attempt. This rejection of extra-constitutional means by African militaries is mirrored in \u2013 and no doubt also in part caused by \u2013 high levels of support for presidential term limits by regular citizens, a point we return to later in the chapter. The denunciation of attempts by African leaders to circumvent their constitutions by international actors such as the African Union also plays a key role. This all points to the emergence of a new equilibrium whereby actors \u2013 presidents, the military, citizens and the international community \u2013 locate the source of political authority in the constitution rather than in a monopoly on the use of violence.\n\nIt bears underscoring, however, that not every leader has voluntarily resigned when facing a two-term limit. The variation in leaders' willingness to push back against term limits demands explanation. In the penultimate section of the chapter we therefore seek to account for why some leaders acquiesced in the two-term limits they faced while others sought to overturn them. We present suggestive evidence that African presidents who were older, received less political support in the previous election and ruled countries that were more aid-dependent (often because they did not have significant oil reserves) were more likely to relinquish power when facing a two-term limit. We also find, however, that one of the strongest predictors of a leader's decision about whether or not to try for a third term is whether his predecessor(s) voluntarily gave up power when they faced term limits of their own. In the ten instances where a predecessor had stepped down in the face of a two-term limit, every single president who followed chose not to push for a third term. This finding suggests that, while still not universal, the progress towards institutionalising political power in Africa is not likely to be reversed where it has already occurred.\n\n# How Presidents Leave Power\n\nBenin, perhaps more than any other country, epitomises the change that has taken place in how leaders exit power. During its first decade after independence in 1960, Benin had twelve different heads of state, all of whom were overthrown by coup d'\u00e9tats. This striking record of serial leadership change by force stands in complete contrast to Benin's record since 1990. From 1990 to 2006, Mathieu K\u00e9r\u00e9kou and Nic\u00e9phore Soglo alternated as president following wins and losses in national elections. Facing restrictions due to term limits and age, both stood down in 2006, paving the way for the election of a new president, Thomas Yayi Boni, who was then re-elected in 2011. When Yayi's second term expired in 2016, he too stepped aside, and watched from the sidelines as his handpicked successor was defeated by a political outsider. While Benin provides perhaps the most dramatic example of the change that has taken place in how leaders leave power in Africa, it is nonetheless indicative of a broader trend.\n\nTo document this trend, we present data on how every African head of state exited power between independence and the end of 2015. Our sample includes some 286 leaders from 45 African countries. We code each leader's means of exit from office into two broad categories: leaders who left power through regular means (natural death, voluntary resignation or losing an election) and those who were removed by irregular means (coup, violent overthrow or assassination). Figure 11.1 presents the decade-by-decade averages.\n\nFigure 11.1\n\nHow African leaders have left power, by decade\n\nAs the figure demonstrates, nearly three-quarters of African leaders who left power in the 1960s and 1970s did so through a coup, a violent overthrow or an assassination. In the 1980s, this dropped to just below 70 per cent. By the 1990s, the share of those who left power through natural death, voluntary resignation or electoral defeat surpassed the number removed from office by irregular means. In the 2000s, the share of leaders leaving power through irregular means dropped to just 15 per cent. Although it crept up to 19 per cent between 2010 and 2015, the numbers are still near historic post-independence lows. The upshot is that, while African heads of state used to leave office only by coup, violent overthrow or assassination, it is now by voluntary resignation, which is in most cases triggered by constitutional term limits.2 These trends point to the increasing institutionalisation of political power in Africa. Whereas political power used to change hands principally through violence \u2013 usually at a time and in a manner chosen by coup plotters \u2013 it now changes hands principally in accord with institutional rules.\n\nOf course, the manner in which executives leave office is only one indicator of how beholden they are to formal constraints on their exercise of power. It says nothing, for example, about the extent to which they adhere to objective procedures when they allocate jobs, award contracts, enforce regulations or exercise other prerogatives of office. Nor does it say anything directly about how the behaviour of other important actors \u2013 legislators, the police, bureaucrats, judges or local government officials \u2013 is affected by institutional limits. Eschewing violence also does not guarantee that presidents will not take other sorts of unsavoury measures to extend their rule or to accomplish other objectives.3 Nonetheless, whether a leader departs (and expects to depart) office via regular or irregular means is critical. A regular departure means that there is an understood set of basic limits on how long a head of state may stay in power, as well as on how his opponents may seek to replace him, and therefore marks a fundamental indicator of the institutionalisation of political authority.\n\n# Term Limits\n\nA similarly important indicator of the strength of formal institutions \u2013 and the focus of this chapter \u2013 is how leaders respond to constitutional provisions that limit them to two terms in office. To explore this issue, we sort Africa's countries into five categories based on: (1) whether or not their post-1990 constitution puts a two-term limit on the presidency; (2) whether at any point between 1990 and 2015 that term limit had been reached; (3) whether, if reached, the term limit was ignored or an attempt was made to amend the constitution to overturn it; and (4) whether that attempt succeeded.4 The results are summarised in Table 11.1, which provides a separate account of each president for each country in which a term limit was reached.\n\nTable 11.1 Presidential term limits in Africa (1990\u20132015)\n\nConstitution does not contain a two-term limit on the presidency | Constitution contains a two-term limit on the presidency   \n---|---  \nTwo-term limit not reached by 2015 | Two-term limit was reached by 2015 (year limit was reached; leader)   \nLimit accepted; no attempt made to amend constitution | Limit ignored or attempt made to amend constitution   \nAttempt was successful | Attempt was not successful   \nC\u00f4te d'Ivoire| Angola| Benin (2006; Kerekou)| Burundi (2015; Nkurunziza)| Burkina Faso (2015; Campaor\u00e9)  \nGambia| Central African Republic| Botswana (2008; Moage)| Cameroon (2011; Biya)| Malawi (2004; Muluzi)  \nGuinea-Bissau| Democratic Republic of Congo| Cape Verde (2001; Monteiro)| Chad (2006; Deby)| Niger (2009; Tandja)  \nLesotho| Equatorial Guinea| Cape Verde (2011; Pires)| Congo-B (2016; Sassou-Nguessou)**| Nigeria (2007; Obasanjo)  \nSomalia| Ethiopia| Ghana (2000; Rawlings)| Djibouti (2011; Guelleh)| Zambia (2001; Chiluba)  \nSouth Sudan| Liberia| Ghana (2008; Kufuor)| Gabon (2005; Bongo)  \nMadagascar| Kenya (2002; Moi)| Guinea (2003; Cont\u00e9)  \nMauritania| Kenya (2012; Kibaki)| Namibia (1999; Nujoma)  \nRwanda| Mali (2002; Konar\u00e9)| Sudan (2005; Bashir)  \nSenegal| Mali (2012; Tour\u00e9)| Togo (2003; Eyadema)  \nSeychelles*| Mozambique (2004; Chissano)| Uganda (2006; Museveni)  \nSouth Africa| Mozambique (2014; Guebuza)  \nZimbabwe| Namibia (2004; Nujoma)  \nNamibia (2014; Pohamba)  \nSao Tome (2001; Trovoada)  \nSao Tome (2011; Menezes)  \nSierra Leone (2007; Kabbah)  \nTanzania (1995; Mwinyi)  \nTanzania (2005; Mkapa)  \nTanzania (2015; Kikwete)\n\n*Seychelles has a three-term limit, **Sassou-Nguesso's term did not end until 2016 but a referendum to permit him to run for a third term took place in 2015.\n\nAs Table 11.1 shows, six countries do not have constitutions that contain two-term limits and another thirteen have term limits that had not yet been reached by 2015.5 In the remaining twenty-seven countries, there were thirty-six instances in which presidents found themselves in the position of having completed two terms and being constitutionally barred from seeking a third (in several cases, this occurred multiple times in a single country). In nearly every case, these leaders heard strong calls from their supporters to find a way to stay in power. Facing this pressure \u2013 and no doubt often also wanting to remain in office for their own personal reasons \u2013 these incumbents had three options: (1) they could abide by the constitutional term limits and step down; (2) they could attempt to change the constitution to permit a third term; or (3) they could scrap the constitution altogether and prolong their tenure through extra-constitutional means. Twenty leaders chose the first option, fourteen chose the second and just two (Omar al-Bashir of Sudan and Pierre Nkurunziza of Burundi) pursued the third. The fact that so few African leaders chose to take this third path \u2013 and that one of the two only took this route after unsuccessfully trying the second route \u2013 indicates just how important it has become to not be seen as overtly flouting the rules set out in the constitution.\n\nThese trends are striking, but they only tell us so much. A deeper appreciation of the depth of the changes that have taken place comes from a discussion of several key examples. Take the case of Burundi. Having already served two terms, and with a two-term limit in place that barred him from running for re-election in 2015, President Pierre Nkurunziza decided to seek a third term. His first move was to try to amend the constitution, but he fell one vote short of the 80 per cent parliamentary majority he needed. His next move was to seek a ruling from the Constitutional Court that would permit the third term on the grounds that his first election in 2005 should not count towards the two-term limit because the election had been by the national assembly rather than directly by the people. Although the court did rule in his favour, the decision was by all accounts coerced. In any case, Nkurunziza took the court's ruling as justification for proceeding with the third term bid. When protestors took to the streets in large numbers to oppose the president's attempt, police responded harshly and several demonstrators were killed. As protests continued, officers associated with General Godefroid Niyombareh attempted a coup, but it was put down. At least 100 people were killed and more than 20,000 fled the country during the ensuing crackdown. The end result was that the election went forward and Nkurunziza was re-elected in a contest marred by an opposition boycott and low turnout.6\n\nWhile the Burundi case provides an example of a leader who pursued both constitutional and extra-constitutional strategies to extend his rule, Uganda represents a more typical case of a president seeking a third term within institutional channels \u2013 albeit not by particularly open or fair means. Yoweri Museveni had come to power in 1986 as the leader of an armed rebellion, was first democratically elected in 1996 and then re-elected in 2001. Faced with a two-term limit in 2006, Museveni undertook a campaign to convince the national assembly to amend the constitution to legalise a third term bid. Several accounts report that this campaign involved corrupt tactics \u2013 in particular, bribing some select MPs to sway them to a 'yes' vote, as well as MPs who publicly supported a third term (Tangiri 2005). But, viewed alongside the history of how African presidents perpetuated their rule in earlier eras, Museveni went to the trouble of lobbying parliamentarians (and engaging in outright bribery) for a vote to change the constitution because he faced considerable opposition.\n\nThis pattern of securing the desired outcome by working through the existing set of formal institutions rather than around them was repeated in Cameroon, Djibouti, Gabon, Namibia and Togo (and, as we saw, at least initially in Burundi). In these cases, legislative action led to constitutional amendments that permitted the president to run for re-election, and in Congo Brazzaville, Chad and Guinea, the same result was achieved via a national referendum. As in Uganda, the means by which these legislative and popular votes were won was often shady, but the leaders clearly felt that simply ignoring the constitution was not an option, which marks a critical departure from the historical pattern.\n\nIn another group of cases, sitting presidents were rebuffed in their attempts to secure third terms. These cases come in two types. In the first (Zambia, Malawi and Nigeria), members of parliament either persuaded the incumbent to give up the third term bid or voted down the amendment that would have permitted the attempt to go forward. In the second (Niger and Burkina Faso), the opposition came from a historically much less likely source: the military.7\n\nFacing the end of his second term in Niger, Mamadou Tandja announced in 2009 that he would call a referendum on a new constitution to drop any limitation on the number of terms that a president could serve. When the Constitutional Court ruled that this was illegal, Tandja responded by declaring that he would suspend the government and rule by decree. Strikes and protests ensued, and the military ultimately intervened to remove Tandja from power. The military then went on to hold competitive elections (not involving Tandja) the following year.8\n\nIn Burkina Faso, Blaise Compaor\u00e9 similarly attempted to change the constitution by asking parliament to consider an amendment that would permit him to prolong his tenure. But when thousands of Burkinab\u00e8 stormed the National Assembly during the debate on the question, the military intervened to remove Compaor\u00e9 from office. After an interval, the military leader gave way to a civilian one at the behest of the public.9\n\nThese five cases demonstrate that the public, legislatures, courts and even the military now serve as agents who will defend the constitution. This provides insight into both why many presidents do not seek to circumvent term limits and why, when they do, they are sometimes unsuccessful.\n\nThus far we have focused on cases where presidents tried to change the rules to permit a third term. In the majority of cases, however \u2013 in twenty of the thirty-six instances in which presidents faced term limits \u2013 the incumbent presidents simply stepped down in accordance with the constitution. John Kufuor, the second consecutive Ghanaian president to abide by his country's two-term limit, summed up the rationale for this course of action well when, in response to a journalist's question, he said: 'These days it has become fashionable that you do only two terms because people have come to believe that no matter how good you are, exposure to two terms for a leader is enough' (Daily Monitor 2013).\n\nKufuor's description of 'what people have come to believe' accords with what public opinion surveys tell us about African citizens' views on term limits. Figure 11.2, borrowed from Dulani (2015), reports the results of an Afrobarometer question that asked respondents in twenty-six countries between 2011 and 2013 whether they agreed that the constitution should limit the president to serving a maximum of two terms in office. As the figure makes clear, most Africans \u2013 three out of four in the sample overall \u2013 support a two-term limit on the presidency.\n\nFigure 11.2\n\nPopular support for term limits in Africa\n\nSource: Dulani (2015)\n\nThese strong levels of popular support for term limits do not always lead to the rejection of leaders who run for third terms, however. In Togo, Afrobarometer surveys in 2012 and 2014 found that more than 80 per cent of respondents favoured limiting the presidency to two terms. Yet, President Faure Gnassingb\u00e9 won 59 per cent of the vote when he ran for his third term in 2015 (Ahlin, Dionne and Roberts 2015).10 Even so, the overwhelming popular embrace of term limits cannot but shape the calculations of African leaders (and the militaries on whose support they depend) as they contemplate altering their constitutions to prolong their tenure. The fact that support for term limits in Burundi rose from just 51 per cent in 2012 to 62 per cent in 2015 almost certainly affected the military's response to Nkurunziza's third term bid, even if it did not alter the president's own thinking.\n\n# Under What Conditions Do Presidents Attempt to Secure Third Terms?\n\nAlthough the majority of African presidents who faced term limits since 1990 accepted them and stepped aside, nearly 45 per cent attempted to extend their rule to a third term. This variation requires explanation.\n\nOne factor that might account for why presidents may choose to go for a third term is age. Older presidents may be more willing than younger presidents to step down when their constitutionally determined term of office is complete \u2013 for reasons of declining health, the recognition that the number of years they have left to rule (or during which they could be prosecuted for past abuses) are fewer or the availability of a son who can carry on the family name. Of course, there will be leaders who will stay in power into their 80s or even 90s (Zimbabwe's Robert Mugabe is 93, for instance). But, on average, older presidents may be more likely to step down at the end of their second term than younger presidents.\n\nA second factor is the president's popularity. Incumbents may not bother trying to alter the constitution to permit a run for a third term if they do not believe they can win the ensuing election. Those presidents who enjoy higher levels of popular support may therefore be more likely to try for a third term than those whose popularity is lower \u2013 in part because it will allow them to argue (as many do) that amending the constitution to permit another term is what the people want. In the absence of up-to-date public opinion polls, one way of gauging that popularity is by looking at the incumbent's vote share (or margin of victory) in the previous election. All else equal, presidents elected to their second terms with higher vote shares (or by larger margins) may see themselves as having bigger mandates, and thus be more inclined to try to circumvent the constitutional ban on seeking a third term.11\n\nA third factor is aid dependence. Countries that are dependent on foreign aid are more beholden to the donors that supply it. To the extent that donors value the rule of law and are willing to apply pressure on African governments to adhere to it, presidents whose countries receive higher levels of official development assistance (ODA) may be more vulnerable to outside pressure to relinquish power in the face of constitutional limits. By contrast (and by the same logic), in instances where levels of aid dependence are not just low but reversed \u2013 for example, in cases where an African country supplies rich countries with oil \u2013 presidents may have particular leeway in ignoring calls to step down at the end of their constitutionally mandated terms.\n\nWe examine the impact of these factors on presidents' decisions about whether or not to pursue a third term in Figure 11.3. The figure presents box-plots of the distributions of each variable of interest \u2013 age, vote share/vote margin in the prior election and aid as a share of Gross National Income (GNI) \u2013 for the sixteen countries in which presidents attempted to secure third terms (on the left) and the twenty countries in which presidents voluntarily stepped down (on the right) by 2015.12\n\nFigure 11.3\n\nWhen do presidents attempt to secure third terms?\n\nAlthough the differences between each set of cases are not statistically significant for any of the variables of interest, the general pattern is in keeping with the expectations sketched in this section. Presidents who attempted to secure third terms were on average younger (65 years old, SD=7) than those who stood down (69 years old, SD=8). Presidents who tried to overturn the two-term limit were more popular (before doing so), as reflected in both the average margin by which they had been elected \u2013 45 points (SD=22) versus 34 points (SD=28) \u2013 and the average vote share they received \u2013 66 per cent (SD=13) versus 62 percent (SD=15) \u2013 than presidents who accepted the term limit. And presidents from countries that were less dependent on foreign aid were slightly more likely to attempt to secure a third term. Among presidents who tried to extend their tenure, average levels of ODA as a share of GNI were 9.3 per cent (SD=7.3), and among presidents who voluntarily stepped aside, average levels were 14.1 per cent (SD=11.8).\n\nAs noted above, for the same reasons that high dependence on foreign aid might constrain a president's ability to go for a third term, significant oil wealth might enhance it. Table 11.2 shows that this is indeed the case. Among the eight oil producers in our sample (Cameroon, Chad, Congo Brazzaville, Gabon, Sudan, Nigeria and Cape Verde in 2011), presidents facing term limits attempted to secure a third term six times (75 per cent of the time) \u2013 and were successful in every case but one. Among the twenty-eight non-oil producers, just ten presidents (36 per cent) tried to circumvent their country's term limits. The cases are too few to draw definitive conclusions, but the pattern is highly suggestive of the impact of outside leverage on leaders' decision-making with respect to this key issue.\n\nTable 11.2 Oil and third term attempts (1990\u20132015)\n\n| Did the President attempt to secure a third term?   \n---|---  \nYes | No   \nWas the country an oil producer?| Yes| 6| 2  \nNo| 10| 18\n\nA final issue to consider is the impact of precedent: that is, the effect on the current president's decision of what his predecessor did. Of course, it is tricky to disentangle the effects of precedent from the effects of country-level factors that might explain a president's decision about whether or not to seek a third term, irrespective of what his predecessor(s) may have done. For example, in settings where the rule of law is weak, or where the president's political party is expected to continue dominating the country's politics, a leader who relinquishes power could be confident that he would not be prosecuted for past crimes. Countries that offer generous retirement benefits to former leaders are also more likely to have presidents who agree to step down when their second term is up. Such conditions could lead to correlated outcomes across presidents facing term limits without there being any causal effect of precedent. But it is nonetheless worth inquiring whether leaders whose predecessor(s) stepped down in the face of a two-term limit were more likely to do so themselves. The answer, as Table 11.3 shows, is unambiguous that they were.\n\nTable 11.3 Precedent and third term attempts (1990\u20132015)\n\n| Did the President attempt to secure a third term?   \n---|---  \nYes | No   \nWas there a precedent of abiding by term limits?| Yes| 0| 10  \nNo| 16| 10\n\nIn the twenty-six instances in which there was no precedent of abiding by term limits, sitting presidents sought a third term sixteen times (62 per cent of the time). By contrast, in the ten occasions where a precedent existed, not a single president tried to alter or abrogate the constitution to extend his tenure. While our simple analysis cannot establish a causal linkage, the strength of this association suggests that term limits, once adhered to, are difficult to break.\n\nDoes the effect of precedent also operate across national borders? Leaders who are grappling with the question of whether or not to seek a third term and who lack an example from their own country might be affected by what they observe in neighbouring countries. In the twenty-six instances where presidents facing third term decisions lacked a local precedent, leaders who looked to their immediate neighbours and could find at least one example of a president who voluntarily stepped down in the face of a two-term limit were actually more likely to try to secure a third term: eight tried, and just two voluntarily stepped aside. Meanwhile, leaders who could find no such example among their immediate neighbours (either because a two-term limit had been circumvented or because it had not yet been reached) were almost equally likely to try for a third term themselves (in seven cases) as they were to stand down (in eight cases). So to the extent that precedent matters, it would appear to be limited to the norms in one's own country.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nTerm limits are the most important check on the power of the individuals who hold the most important political office. As such, the extent to which they are respected offers a critical indicator of the degree to which political power is institutionalised. Our analysis of term limits in Africa between 1990 and 2015 generates two main findings. First, the majority of African leaders who faced two-term limits during this period stepped down when their second term was complete. Second, those who chose to seek third terms attempted to do so by working through constitutional channels rather than around them. With very few exceptions, they went to the trouble of either holding a national referendum, or whipping votes in the national assembly to pass legislation that would legalise their bid to extend their tenure. Sometimes these efforts failed, but this pattern marks a significant departure from how power was maintained in the past.\n\nBeyond their role as bellwethers for institutionalisation, term limits are valuable for a number of additional reasons. Maltz (2007) underscores the extent to which term limits generate alternations in governing political parties, which can build trust in the democratic process and aid in democratic consolidation.13 Cheeseman (2010) points out that term limits generate open-seat polls, which tend to be more transparent and fair than elections in which an incumbent is contesting. He also notes that open-seat polls tend to generate fissures in monolithic ruling parties, which makes them more vulnerable, opening space for opposition groups.\n\nEven before the elections they generate, term limits provide an issue around which opposition parties, civil society groups and international actors can coalesce. The fact that term limits are high profile and easy to track makes their impact particularly significant: it is much easier for domestic and international audiences concerned with democracy promotion to observe whether or not a president seeks a third term than it is to track whether he violates other aspects of democratic practice \u2013 whether by buying votes, engaging in corrupt contracting or nepotism, and so forth. Opposition parties can anticipate an opportunity to gain power, and this can facilitate coordination and reinvigorate political energy. Furthermore, term limits can create opportunities for unity among ordinary citizens to rally around a commitment to the constitution, further deepening and entrenching democracy (Riedl 2015).\n\nWe began this chapter by stressing the sea change that has occurred in how power is institutionalised in Africa and the role that term limits play. But what is the trend in adhering to term limits? Are leaders today more likely to abide by them than they were when term limits first came into force in the late 1990s? The simple answer is no: the share of leaders facing term limits that have sought to extend their rule has not changed very much over time. Forty-four per cent sought third terms in the years prior to 2005; and 45 per cent have done so since. For every Jakaya Kikwete or Mwai Kibaki who voluntarily stepped down at the end of his second term there was a Blaise Campaor\u00e9 or a Denis Sassou-Nguesso who tried to extend his rule. Yet, hidden within this seeming balance is a systematic pattern: since 2005, every single president who sought to run for a third term (eleven cases) was located in a country where there was no precedent for abiding by term limits. By contrast, nine of the twelve presidents who voluntarily stepped aside were in countries where previous presidents had respected the constitutional limits on their tenure.\n\nThe implication is that we may be seeing the bifurcation of African countries into two types: those where term limits have been respected in the past, and where they will in all likelihood continue to be respected in the future, and those where there is no history of abiding by term limits and where the prospects for initiating such a history are poor. As we look beyond 2015 to the countries where term limits were reached in the next few years, this observation proved prescient. In the two countries where previous leaders had voluntarily stepped down at the end of their second terms (Benin and Sierra Leone), Presidents Yayi and Ernest Koroma flirted with running for third terms but both ultimately agreed to step aside. In the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda, however, no such precedent existed and both Presidents Joseph Kabila and Paul Kagame moved to extend their rule \u2013 the former by employing political manoeuvres to delay the electoral calendar, and the latter by holding a referendum to change the constitution. Nonetheless, the fact that both leaders circumvented term limits by working through the existing institutional framework is a critical \u2013 and in the broad context of African post-colonial history, novel \u2013 development.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAhlin, Ekoutiam\u00e9, Kim Yi Dionne, and Tyson Roberts. 2015. 'Most Togolese support term limits. But they just re-elected their president for a third term', The Monkey Cage, 4 May.\n\nBan\u00e9gas, Richard. 2014. 'Benin: Challenges for democracy', African Affairs 113, 452: 449\u2013459.\n\nBaudais, Virginie, and Gregory Chauzal. 2011. 'The 2010 coup d'etat in Niger: A praetorian regulation of politics?' African Affairs 110, 439: 295\u2013304.\n\nChabal, Patrick and Jean-Pascal Daloz. 1999. Africa Works: Disorder as Political Instrument, London: James Currey.\n\nCheeseman, Nic. 2010. 'African elections as vehicles for change', Journal of Democracy 21, 4: 139\u2013153.\n\nCheeseman, Nic. Nd. 'Should I Stay or Should I Go: Term-limits, Elections and Political Stability in Africa.' Unpublished paper.\n\nDaily Monitor. 2013. 'Ghana's Kufuor says two terms are enough', 3 August.\n\nDulani, Boniface. 2015. 'African publics strongly support term limits, resist leaders' efforts to extend their tenure', Afrobarometer, Dispatch No. 30.\n\nFr\u00e8re, Marie-Soleil, and Pierre Englebert. 2015. 'Briefing: Burkina Faso \u2013 The fall of Blaise Compaor\u00e9', African Affairs 114, 455: 295\u2013307.\n\nGuriev, Sergei, and Daniel Treisman. 2015. 'The new dictators rule by velvet fist', New York Times, 25 May.\n\nHuntington, Samuel P. 1991. The third wave: Democratisation in the late twentieth century, Norman, OK; University of Oklahoma Press.\n\nHyden, Goran. 2006. African politics in comparative perspective, Cambridge University Press.\n\nJackson, Robert H., and Carl G. Rosberg. 1982. Personal rule in Black Africa, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.\n\nKramon, Eric, and Daniel N. Posner. 2011. 'Kenya's new constitution', Journal of Democracy 22, 2: 89\u2013103.\n\nMaltz, Gideon. 2007. 'The case for presidential term limits', Journal of Democracy 18, 1: 128\u2013142.\n\nMoehler, Devra C., and Staffan I. Lindberg. 2009. 'Narrowing the turnover gap: Turnovers as a cause of democratic consolidation', Journal of Politics 71, 4: 1448\u20131466.\n\nPosner, Daniel N., and Daniel J. Young. 2007. 'The institutionalization of political power in Africa', Journal of Democracy 18, 3: 126\u2013140.\n\nRiedl, Rachel Beatty. 2015. 'The Advantages \u2013 and drawbacks \u2013 of presidential term limits as a tool for building democracy in Africa', Scholars Strategy Network: Key Findings, March.\n\nTangiri, Roger. 2005. 'Politics and presidential term limits in Uganda', In Roger Southall and Henning Melber, eds. Legacies of power, Pretoria: HSRC Press.\n\nVandeginste, Stef. 2015. 'Burundi's electoral crisis \u2013 Back to power-sharing politics as usual?' African Affairs 114, 457: 624\u2013636.\n\n1 This chapter builds upon and updates prior research presented in Posner and Young (2007) and Kramon and Posner (2011).\n\n2 Between 1990 and 2015, seventy-eight African leaders have left office. Of these, nine died of natural causes, forty-five voluntarily resigned and eleven lost an election. The remaining thirteen were ousted by violent means.\n\n3 Indeed, authoritarian leaders in many settings are increasingly embracing techniques of 'soft dictatorship', in which they stifle opposition, concentrate power and eliminate checks and balances without using violence (Guriev and Treisman 2015).\n\n4 We exclude Comoros (because of its rotating presidency), Eritrea (because its constitution, ratified by a constituent assembly in 1997, never came into force), Mauritius (because its president is only ceremonial) and Swaziland (because it is a kingdom). Complete notes describing how we coded our cases are available at [www.democracyinafrica.org].\n\n5 Although term limits in Congo-Brazzaville technically would not be reached until 2016, we code this as a case where term limits have already been reached because President Denis Sassou-Nguesso had already had the constitution changed to permit him to run for a third term prior to 2015.\n\n6 See Vandeginste (2015) for an excellent summary of these events.\n\n7 As we have seen, the military also intervened against Nkurunziza's third term bid in Burundi \u2013 albeit unsuccessfully.\n\n8 For a useful account of the 2010 coup in Niger, see Baudais and Chauzal (2011).\n\n9 For a fuller account of Compaor\u00e9's fall, see Fr\u00e8re and Englebert (2015).\n\n10 Although Faure's run for a third term was not supported by most Togolese citizens, it was not in breach of the constitution, since term limits had been scrapped in 2002 by his father, Eyad\u00e9ma Gnassingb\u00e9.\n\n11 The behaviour of Benin's president Yayi, who flirted with seeking a third term until his party lost seats in the April 2015 parliamentary election, is consistent with the argument that levels of popular support are relevant for presidents' decisions. For more on Yayi's contemplation of a third term, see Ban\u00e9gas (2014).\n\n12 We lag our measure of aid as a share of GNI by one year to ensure that our measure reflects the level of development assistance being received at the time the president was weighing what to do.\n\n13 Moehler and Lindberg (2009) looked at African citizens' perceptions of the legitimacy of governing institutions. They found that the gap in perceived legitimacy between those who support the winning party and those that support the losing party narrows after an alternation in power, furthering democratic consolidation. Huntington (1991) also stresses the link between alternations in political power and democratic consolidation.\n\n# Part IV Countervailing Institutions\n# 12 The Legislature\n\n## Institutional Strengthening in Dominant-Party States\n\nMichaela Collord\n\nAfrican legislatures are typically viewed as pliant and docile bodies, the quintessential 'rubber stamp' institution. They have, consequently, been largely neglected in the study of African politics while the executive has remained the primary preoccupation of researchers. This trend reflects the enduring legacy of neo-patrimonial theory, with its emphasis on presidential patronage politics, as the lens through which much of the literature views the continent (Chapter 1). Even after the 'third wave' of democratisation brought new political openings, scholars gravitated towards the study of elections \u2013 deemed critical in securing democratic gains \u2013 while largely ignoring parliament, a mere 'sideshow' according to some (van de Walle 2003).\n\nYet, the stereotype of the irrelevant 'rubber stamp' legislature appears increasingly divorced from the various instances of legislative activism recurring across the continent. In this vein, the Ugandan legislature threatened a government shutdown over an unsatisfactory health budget; the Tanzania parliament forced seven Cabinet reshuffles over the space of two presidential terms; and South African MPs from the Economic Freedom Fighters party captivated TV audiences nationwide by repeatedly calling President Jacob Zuma a thief in response to allegations of corruption. This legislative assertiveness has brought fresh scholarly interest in African parliaments. This is also being driven by normative concerns, as scholars take note of the broader comparative literature, which contends that robust parliaments promote both stronger democracies (Fish 2006) and improved development outcomes through greater executive accountability (Santiso 2005). Out of this growing interest, a new research agenda is beginning to materialise, namely to explain variation in legislative institutional development across African states, its causes and consequences.\n\nThe emerging literature has not advanced very far. While it has improved our empirical knowledge of how African parliaments operate, theoretical advances remain minimal. A key issue is the tendency to focus on individual factors that influence institutional development across a range of disparate case studies. There is little sense of how these various factors and case studies relate, or what they contribute to our cumulative understanding of legislative strengthening. The most influential contribution to date, Joel Barkan's edited volume from 2009, presents itself as the 'first comparative effort at theorizing about the process of legislative development on the continent' (Barkan 2009: 5\u20136). The book offers many valuable insights; yet, even so, the analysis remains focused on the proximate triggers of legislative development and says less about underlying structural causes.\n\nThis chapter argues that a key shortcoming in this recent literature is its failure to consider in sufficient depth the complex \u2013 and often contradictory \u2013 ways by which the informal institution of clientelism shapes the incentives of individual legislators, and ultimately the prospects for legislative institutional strengthening across African states. In keeping with the 'institutionless school' (Chapter 1), scholars present clientelism \u2013 or 'neo-patrimonialism'\u2013 as a uniform constraint. According to this view, African legislatures in the 'neo-patrimonial past' were all similarly weak while post-transition, multiparty parliaments are emerging as strong, autonomous institutions only in so far as legislators manage to insulate themselves from the perverse incentives fostered by executive-led patronage politics (Barkan 2009: 16\u201317; Barkan 2013: 254\u2013255). Although it explains part of the picture, this characterisation is a problematic simplification of the way formal and informal institutions interact. The nature of clientelist institutions varies across space and time, and as a result has differing effects on legislators' incentives; these sometimes discourage but at other times encourage legislative institutional strengthening. To use Helmke and Levitsky's typology (Chapter 1), clientelism can be either a 'competing' or a 'substitutive' informal institution vis-\u00e0-vis the formal institution of the legislature.\n\nThis chapter investigates when and how clientelist pressures can, in fact, increase the potential for legislative strengthening. Clientelism is a pervasive feature of politics across many African states and developing economies in general (Khan 2010; Whitfield 2015). The central concern is whether the specific configuration of patron-client networks and the institutional norms they engender in a given country case empower individual legislators as patrons in their own right. In some African states, legislators play the role of 'linkers', connecting the centre to the periphery and gaining the opportunity to cultivate a supportive clientele in their constituency. In other states, legislators are largely bypassed in the process of patronage distribution; they do not play a prominent role as 'linkers' and, as a result, do not have the same political clout. The argument here is that, where prevailing patterns of clientelist redistribution create the opportunity for legislators to cultivate a prominent role as patrons, they tend to be more autonomous from their political party and the executive. The incidence of intra-elite contestation is also higher where a greater number of powerful local patrons pursue their own, at times conflicting, material and ideological interests. Where there are more autonomous legislators-cum-patrons, this helps transform the legislature into a lively arena of intra-elite bargaining, and ultimately increases the chances of legislative assertiveness and institutional strengthening.\n\nThe objective of this chapter is to draw on the experience of one-party rule and multiparty politics to develop the above analysis of legislative strengthening in Africa. This historical approach offers a better opportunity to assess variation in clientelist institutions, what factors explain this variation, and its implications for legislative strengthening over time. A historical focus also serves to counter the widespread assumption that the one-party era is somehow irrelevant when considering the variable strength of African legislatures today. Drawing on a mix of original fieldwork and secondary sources, the chapter reflects on the case of Tanzania with comparative reference to Kenya.\n\nUnder one-party rule in Tanzania, MPs' patronage role was limited while Kenyan MPs emerged as strong 'linkers'. Accordingly, while the Kenyan legislature was relatively assertive and underwent notable institutional reform during both the authoritarian period and after the democratic transition, Tanzania's legislative development has occurred more recently. These formal institutional changes in Tanzania have come on the back of a parallel intensification of legislators' patronage role. Indeed, MPs' prominence as local patrons has grown since the 1980s, notably due to economic liberalisation and an attendant increase in the availability of political finance from private actors. In recent years the effects of these politico-economic changes have contributed to a process whereby the historically 'weak' Tanzanian legislature, or Bunge, has started to acquire some of the bite of its Kenyan counterpart. The combination of cross-case and within-case comparison thus provides strong evidence that legislative strengthening is more likely to occur when formal and informal institutions converge (Riedl, Chapter 2), such as when MPs' formal role in holding the executive to account is bolstered by their informal status as (semi) autonomous patrons.\n\n# The Return of the Legislature: Strengths and Weaknesses in the Recent Literature\n\nIn the immediate post-independence years, researchers showed a strong interest in African legislatures, but this interest waned as parliaments appeared to wither under one-party rule or were abolished entirely due to military coups and conflict. After a long hiatus, scholars in the mid-2000s turned their attention back to the study of the legislature in African states. This renewed interest was a response to the advent of potentially game-changing institutional reforms in a number of African parliaments, as well as a fresh perception that a strong parliament could further the process of democratic consolidation in Africa's multiparty states.\n\nA first edited volume on African legislatures appeared in 2005 (Salih 2005). It outlines the historical emergence of legislatures but does not offer a theory to explain variation in legislative development. The real watershed came with the publication of Joel Barkan's (2009) influential volume, Legislative Power in Emerging African Democracies. Barkan draws on six country case studies to formulate an initial explanation as to why legislatures in some countries have strengthened institutionally since the 'third wave' of democratisation while others have stagnated. He further articulates a clear normative ambition: to understand how legislatures can emerge as a more effective check on executive power, thereby furthering democratisation across Africa.\n\nBarkan's book served as a springboard for the ambitious African Legislatures Project whose purpose, as stated on its website, is to 'learn everything there is to know about how African legislatures function'.1 The project brings together academic institutions and donor agencies in an effort to gather data and provide analyses for seventeen parliaments across the continent. More journal articles have also appeared in recent years, some of which share Barkan's overall research agenda (Nijzink et al. 2006; Brierley 2012) while others present the significance of parliament in a different light. For instance, Martin van Vliet (2013) argues that a weak parliament helped enable government collapse and conflict in Mali, thereby positioning the legislature as critical to state-building and national integration.\n\nTaken together, recent studies point to a high level of institutional diversity across African parliaments. Some scholars attempt to capture this diversity through a numerical account of institutional differences. Fish and Kroenig's (2009) Parliamentary Powers Index (PPI) attempts to assign 'scores' to legislatures based on their formal institutional capacity. The PPI score is calculated using thirty-two items grouped into four categories, namely, influence of the executive, institutional autonomy, special powers and institutional capacity. Each item is an unweighted dichotomous variable with 1 indicating its presence and 0 its absence. The overall score is calculated by dividing the sum of all affirmative answers by the total number of items in the survey, which creates a range from 0 (the lowest score) to 1 (the highest).\n\nTable 12.1 shows the results for a sample of African legislatures, including their overall amalgamated score as well as the rating for a sample of the formal powers that parliaments may enjoy. The table helps confirm the institutional variation and contrast in formal powers observed across African parliaments. Beyond signalling this diversity, however, the value of the PPI score is limited. For one, it is misleading as it weights each of the formal powers of legislatures equally, while some are clearly more important than others. It also captures formal powers rather than everyday reality, and we know that in some legislatures certain formal rules are enforced while others are not. As a result, the numbers do not align with the conclusions presented in more qualitative assessments of legislatures in question. For instance, South Africa and Benin receive high scores but in practice are often seen to be subservient to the executive; Uganda, meanwhile, receives a lower score but as we shall see below, has been cited as having one of the most independent legislatures in the region.\n\nTable 12.1 Parliamentary Powers Index (PPI) for selected African legislatures\n\nCountry | Power to impeach | Independent investigation capacity | Oversight of security agencies | Can appoint Ministers | No confidence vote | PPI score   \n---|---|---|---|---|---|---  \nBenin| 0| 1| 0| 0| 0| 0.56  \nDRC| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0.25  \nGhana| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 0.47  \nNigeria| 0| 1| 0| 1| 0| 0.47  \nSenegal| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0.44  \nSouth Africa| 1| 1| 1| 0| 1| 0.63  \nTanzania| 0| 1| 0| 0| 1| 0.31  \nUganda| 0| 0| 0| 1| 0| 0.44  \nZambia| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0| 0.28\n\nTo move beyond the limitation of the PPI scoring method requires acknowledging the effect of political context on MPs' behaviour and thus parliamentary performance. Existing research on African legislatures has identified a range of these environmental factors that appear to influence legislative strengthening and performance across the continent.2 The level of party discipline is clearly critical. Highly cohesive and disciplined parties discourage their members from adopting an independent stand in the house, or from challenging the executive by pushing for institutional reforms. Similarly, the type of electoral system is important, with first-past-the-post affording MPs more individual autonomy than proportional representation, which exposes them directly to parties' powers in candidate selection.3 Additionally, some scholars have stressed the importance of a new generation of MPs with attitudes and values better suited to an autonomous legislature (see contributions to Salih 2005; Barkan 2009).\n\nEven this more contextually sensitive analysis, however, has its shortcomings. It neither builds significantly on insights already outlined in the wider comparative literature, nor integrates the study of such individual factors and their effects into a more cohesive theory of institutional change. What work has pursued a more ambitious theoretical analysis again is indebted to Barkan (2009), who outlines the most influential explanation to date regarding the actual mechanism behind legislative strengthening in African states. He argues that in order to launch the institutional reform process, a 'coalition for change' must emerge from within parliament itself. He defines this coalition as a cross-party alliance propelled by genuine 'reformers', a vanguard of MPs who desire a stronger parliament for its own sake. These 'reformers' are then joined by 'opportunists', MPs who are along for the ride in so much as they can benefit personally. The more self-interested focus of the 'opportunists' influences what kind of reforms are most likely to occur first. These include improvements to MPs' own professional opportunities and emoluments, as well as the resources available within parliament to ensure effective work. Referring to the Kenyan case, Barkan notes how such a coalition came together in the late 1990s and early 2000s to push for independent control over parliament's budget and, notably, over MPs' salaries.4 He stresses the added importance of raised salaries in the African context as a means of liberating legislators from their historic dependence on executive patronage.\n\nBarkan's 'coalitions for change' are a reoccurring phenomenon across African legislatures that have undergone a reform process (see also Kasfir and Twebaze 2009; Tsubura, 2014). The nature and sequencing of reforms also fits Barkan's model. However, when accounting for the emergence of a reformist coalition, Barkan himself acknowledges there is a need for further investigation. The various contributors to his volume identify a number of factors that appear to increase the probability of a coalition forming. In Kenya, for instance, Barkan focuses in particular on the role of civil society, understood as a collection of Nairobi-based, donor-funded organisations with the research and lobbying expertise to push a reform agenda (Barkan and Matiangi 2009). However, contributors to Barkan's volume identify many more factors than there are cases explored, and it is not always clear how these various factors relate across cases or which prove to be the most significant.\n\nThis result is to some extent understandable in a volume that is essentially laying the groundwork for further study. There is, nevertheless, a sense that Barkan misses an opportunity to probe the deeper, structural factors that may influence variation in legislative development across African states. A notable limitation of Barkan's volume \u2013 and the recent literature on African legislatures more broadly \u2013 is its oversimplified analysis of how 'neo-patrimonial' politics affect legislative growth. Barkan presents patron-client ties as '[impeding] the development and performance of the legislature' (Barkan 2009: 6). On one level, he is correct. The time spent by African legislators responding to constituency pressures and performing their role as local patron certainly distracts from their other, more specifically parliamentary roles legislating and exercising executive oversight. The pressures of satisfying the expectations of a constituency clientele also make legislators more vulnerable to executive co-optation; a powerful President can simply buy off financially vulnerable MPs to discourage them from acting more independently in parliament.\n\nHowever, in stark contrast to his earlier scholarship \u2013 discussed later in this chapter \u2013 Barkan's most recent publications fail to consider how patterns of 'neo-patrimonial' politics vary both between states and over time, and how this variation, in turn, leads to more diverse legislative development outcomes. Instead, drawing heavily on the work of scholars associated with the 'institutionless school', Barkan's analysis reproduces some of the same analytical shortcomings (Chapter 1). Referring to the period from the late 1960s to the late 1980s as the 'era of neo-patrimonial rule', he maintains that 'African regimes were relatively homogeneous' and that 'the legislature [was] a rubber stamp or ceased to exist' (Barkan 2009: 16\u201317). He then suggests that diverging trajectories in African politics, and in the fortunes of African legislatures, only began to emerge after the return of multiparty elections in the early 1990s as certain parliaments began to shield themselves against the perverse influence of 'neo-patrimonial' politics (Barkan 2009: 16\u201317; see also Barkan 2013: 252). Barkan thus portrays 'neo-patrimonialism' as implying a kind of bland uniformity across Africa's one-party regimes, and presents a clear trade-off between patronage politics and the growth of formal institutions such as parliament.\n\nThis chapter, by contrast, argues that neo-patrimonial or clientelist politics evolved in very different ways under both one-party regimes and multi-party states and that these different forms of clientelism have had contrasting effects on legislative development, both before and after the so-called third wave of democratisation. As noted at the start, clientelism is a major feature of politics in almost all developing economies (Khan 2010), but the nature of patron-client networks and, notably, the prominence of MPs as local patrons are by no means uniform. Where MPs are able to consolidate their position as local patrons, they can adopt a more assertive posture vis-\u00e0-vis the executive; they elevate the legislature as an arena of intra-elite bargaining and thereby catalyse its institutional development. The next section illustrates this argument through a cross-country comparison of clientelist politics and legislative strengthening in Tanzania and Kenya during the one-party era. The chapter then explores how changes in the patronage role of Tanzanian legislators since the 1980s underpin the more assertive stance and reformist drive of Tanzania's historically weak legislature in recent years.\n\nUltimately, this analysis pushes back against the view that informal clientelist institutions or 'neo-patrimonialism' are diametrically opposed to any form of legislative strengthening; rather, there is a complex interplay between informal and formal institutional growth. Depending on the specific nature of prevailing clientelist institutions, they may discourage or encourage legislative strengthening. What is more, while the democratic transition has certainly proved crucial in a number of countries, it alone is not enough to explain continuities and discontinuities between the one-party and multiparty eras.5 Again, in order to probe the underlying structural factors informing the balance of power between the legislature and executive, an understanding of variation in the patronage role of MPs is key.\n\n# Legislators as 'Linkers': Tanzania and Kenya in Historical Perspective\n\nClientelism \u2013 at a very basic level \u2013 refers to an informal institutional arrangement whereby clients and patrons are engaged in a mutually beneficial yet unequal exchange relationship (Lemarchand 1981). In the electoral arena, politicians are the patrons exchanging material rewards \u2013 either individual benefits such as jobs or locally distributed public goods \u2013 in exchange for votes from their clients. As politicians seeking votes, legislators in developing economies are no exception. They routinely adopt the mantle of patron in order to secure local support; however, whether referring to Latin America, Southeast Asia or East Africa, scholars underscore variation in the kinds of informal clientelist institutions that come to define legislators' patronage role (see for example Barkan 1984; Hyden and Leys 1971; Scott 1972; Taylor-Robinson 2006).\n\nThis variation exists between states, within states \u2013 for instance between urban and rural areas \u2013 and over time as changing conditions reshape the structure and significance of patron-client networks. One way the structure of these networks varies is with regards to the position legislators occupy within the larger chain of patron-client exchange. Parliamentarians may play a prominent role as 'linkers', channelling state resources to their constituencies to provide a range of public goods (Barkan 1979; Taylor-Robinson 2006). They may also strengthen their position as local patrons still further where they can access additional, private sources of political finance. Alternatively, legislators' patronage role may be far less pronounced as state resources are distributed through other channels \u2013 for instance, through administrative or party structures \u2013 while access to private political finance is scarce. Legislators and constituents may still maintain a patron-client relationship, but the extent of clientelist exchange will be relatively limited, as will be the stature of the legislator as patron.\n\nThe aim here is to indicate how the nature of legislators' patronage role affects their independence and ultimately the likelihood of legislative strengthening. The principal claim is that, in a developing country context where legislators play a more central role as patrons, there is a greater likelihood of legislative assertiveness and institutional strengthening. This is for two reasons. First, legislators have more opportunities to develop an independent support base, which gives them more leverage relative to their party and a dominant president. Second, where MPs have this individual power as local patrons, the potential for intra-elite contestation is greater as powerful politicians clash over diverging material and ideological interests. Ultimately, the combined effect of more autonomous legislators and greater contestation is to transform the legislature into a forum for intra-elite bargaining, thereby increasing the likelihood of more legislative assertiveness and institutional development.\n\nA comparison of Tanzanian and Kenyan clientelist politics during the one-party period provides an initial indication of how this dynamic plays out in practice, leading to variation in legislative autonomy and institutional strength even under authoritarian rule. The immediate post-independence scholarship offers an especially rich literature on the legislature in both countries, which provides the basis for the forthcoming comparison. While neither institution was exactly strong \u2013 certainly neither was 'supreme' \u2013 scholars nevertheless noted important differences in their overall performance. By the end of the 1960s, the Tanzanian Bunge appeared to be one of the weakest in East Africa, failing to challenge government on fundamental policy issues (Kjekshus 1974; Tordoff 1977). The Kenyan parliament, by contrast, seemed by far the strongest in the region. Through her close study of Kenyan politics in the 1960s, Cherry Gertzel (1970) paints a picture of the legislature as a 'lively' arena in which members made full use of private motions, intervened vigorously in budget debates and subjected government bills to careful scrutiny.\n\nIn accounting for these differences, scholars suggest that contrasting strategies of regime consolidation, and in particular the extent to which post-independence rulers relied on a strong ruling party, produced varying legislative outcomes (Tordoff 1977; Cheeseman 2006; Opalo 2015). For instance, Tanzania's parliament was first handicapped as a result of the executive's successful effort to subordinate Bunge to the ruling TANU party. In 1968, following repeated executive-legislative clashes, the party expelled seven MPs, which ensured the loss of their parliamentary seats. These expulsions marked a critical turning point as any notion of parliamentary 'supremacy' was de facto discarded (Kjekshus 1974:32; Tordoff 1977; Van Velzen and Sterkenburg 1972). The TANU National Executive Committee emerged as a parliament-within-the party, vetting policies and legislation before it reached the House (Martin 1988). Moreover, in 1975, reforms enshrined the principle of party supremacy in Tanzania's constitution.\n\nThe elite disciplinary efforts may not have succeeded, though, if it were not for simultaneous efforts by the TANU leadership to systematically deprive legislators of an opportunity to cultivate a prominent role as local patrons. Regarding elections under the one-party regime, nominations were closely controlled by TANU, with the top leadership vetting all aspirants before narrowing the field to two. The election campaigns for the two TANU nominees were then carefully stage-managed by the party, offering minimal opportunities for candidates to project an image of themselves as a viable local patron (Hyden and Leys 1972; Kjekshus 1974; Barkan 1984). At the same time, the kind of financial support needed to help legislators play the role of patron was not readily available. A strict leadership code adopted in 1967 barred individual politicians from drawing two salaries or from engaging in a wide range of business activities. Alternative private sources of campaign funding were also scarce. Finally, there was limited opportunity for legislators lobbying the government administration to redirect state funds towards their local area. Tanzania's socialist commitment to central planning militated against this more piecemeal distribution of state resources. Civil servants also tended to jealously guard their own patronage power, keeping it out of the hands of politicians (Kjeshus 1974; Holmquist 1984). Despite Tanzanian MPs' claims that catering to constituency needs featured among their chief responsibilities (Hopkins 1970), these combined obstacles barred them from acting as strong local patrons and curtailed the consolidation of a clientelist relationship between legislators and their voters.\n\nUltimately, the effects of TANU's two-pronged intervention proved debilitating for legislative autonomy and institutional strengthening. Strong party discipline in parliament and extra-parliamentary management of legislators' financial autonomy and their local patronage role effectively reduced parliament to a rubber stamp. This situation led some observers to opine that the very survival of the Tanzanian Bunge would be a mystery were it not for the role elections played in elite recruitment and regime legitimation (Kjekshus 1974).\n\nThe situation in neighbouring Kenya was altogether different. The ruling KANU party was relatively weak, and President Jomo Kenyatta struggled to assert party discipline in parliament. Gertzel writes that by the mid-1960s, legislators had emerged as the 'most vigorous and critical group within the party; and indeed the only group that had a definite forum and opportunity for debate' (Gertzel 1970: 41). KANU backbenchers used their position to criticise government policy in key areas, often along clearly ideological lines. The formation of the breakaway Kenya People's Union (KPU) party in 1966 and its subsequent banning in 1969 did dampen parliamentary opposition; however, the relative autonomy of Kenya's MPs endured. Crucially, this independence was largely due to the position MPs acquired as strong patrons in their respective constituencies. Weak party control over candidate selection ahead of elections plus the greater availability of private campaign finances led to the proliferation of personalised, patron-client networks centred on elite politico-business ties. Hyden and Leys (1972) illustrate this dynamic through their discussion of Kenya's 1969 'quasi general election' during which KANU held party primaries in the absence of any registered opposition parties. The resulting tussle featured high levels of intra-elite competition channelled through rival 'political machines' battling for supremacy in different constituencies across the country, although most especially in the relatively affluent Kikuyu-dominated Central Region. After first making a name for themselves through their campaigns, elected MPs had ample opportunity to further develop their role as local patrons. Indeed, in stark contrast to government policy in Tanzania, President Kenyatta decided in the early 1970s to promote an ideology of 'self-help' through partially state-funded community development projects, which MPs played a prominent role in overseeing. As such, legislators were encouraged to compete as 'linkers', funnelling resources from the centre to their constituencies (Barkan 1979; Holmquist 1984).\n\nThe linkage role of Kenyan MPs, on top of their personal investments as local patrons, ensured they retained a degree of autonomy and strategic political importance to the regime. The sorts of intra-elite rivalries generated \u2013 notably through the election process \u2013 also helped further animate legislators' horse-trading within parliament, fuelling particularly intense bargaining over the budget. As Opalo (2015) illustrates in more depth, the relative vitality of legislative activity throughout the one-party period contributed to a process of incremental legislative reform, and also helped normalise instances of executive-legislative confrontation. In terms of actual performance, Opalo provides an empirical indicator of legislative strength, measured as a function of the proportion of government bills passed by parliament. When contrasted with the Zambian one-party legislature \u2013 generally considered somewhat stronger than the Tanzanian parliament \u2013 Kenya performs considerably better.\n\nThese two brief reviews offer an initial indication of how the contrasting patronage roles assumed by legislators in Tanzania and Kenya contributed to very different institutional outcomes under one-party rule. Kenyan MPs' more prominent patronage role enhanced their individual autonomy, which in turn, encouraged a process of long-term legislative strengthening. Clearly the differences in both clientelist practices and legislative outcomes in Tanzania and Kenya also depended on the varying levels of institutional strength and cohesion in the ruling party, a point further developed by Cheeseman (2006).\n\nIt is worth noting, however, that both MPs' patronage role and, with it, the cohesion of the ruling party, may change over time, thereby enabling a shift in the legislature's institutional trajectory. Such an evolution recently took hold in Tanzania, a phenomenon explored in the next section.\n\n# 'A Bunge with Teeth:' Patronage and Intra-Elite Contestation in Tanzania\n\nTanzania returned to multiparty politics in 1992 and held its first multiparty general election in 1995 following a top-down initiative orchestrated by the leadership of the ruling party (Hyden 1999; Nyirabu 2002). Little changed in Tanzania's weak legislature in the decade following the 1995 elections (Killian 2004); however, starting in 2005, parliament began to push through a series of institutional reforms, exposing the executive to bruising corruption scandals and turning the annual budget session into an embarrassing referendum on the government's economic stewardship. This section sets out to explain the increased legislative assertiveness and institutional strengthening of Tanzania's parliament between 2005 and 2015.\n\nAs previously noted, recent scholarship on African parliaments has tended to present such cases of post-transition legislative strengthening as closely linked to democratic transition. According to this view, legislatures are now reaping the benefits of having opposition parties within parliament capable of galvanising a 'coalition for change.' The opposition in Tanzania has certainly played a catalytic role, and evolving attitudes within the ruling party regarding the legitimacy of legislative independence have also helped bring about institutional change. One obvious problem with an explanatory emphasis on the multi-party transition, though, is that the Tanzanian legislature started to adopt a more assertive stance before the opposition posed any serious electoral threat. Statistics on the Parliament seat share of the ruling party \u2013 which changed its name from TANU to Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM) in 19776 \u2013 illustrate the electoral weakness of the opposition. The percentage of CCM members in parliament varied from 79.6 per cent in 1995 to a high of 90.7 per cent in 2000 before falling to 86.0 per cent in 2005 and then reaching a low of 74.2 per cent in 2010 (Weghorst, 2015). These numbers indicate that the opposition had not made any significant inroads by 2005, which marked the start of Tanzania's reformist ninth parliament (2005\u20132010). What's more, competition within CCM during this period was far more intense than between ruling party candidates and their opposition rivals. Of the CCM parliamentarians who entered parliament in 1995, 2000 or 2005 and have since left, 57.2 percent did not return because they lost their party primaries, 31.4 per cent because they chose not to contest, and only 11.4 per cent because they lost the election to an opposition candidate (Weghorst 2015). The alternative argument outline here, then, is that the key factor underlying Tanzania's heightened parliamentary assertiveness is the altered nature of patronage politics within the ruling party, brought on more as a result of economic change than political transition. From being largely side-lined, Tanzanian MPs have come to play a more prominent role in patronage distribution. Due to changing politico-economic conditions, they rely more on their personal appeal and resources to fend off rivals from within the ruling party and to capture a local base. The results include more autonomous MPs and rising intra-party tensions, which have spilled over into the legislature and contributed both to the push for institutional reform and to the growing incidence of executive\u2013legislative confrontation.\n\nAs indicated above, Tanzania's ruling party largely succeeded in centralising patronage flows within the government administration as well as the party structures throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Economic decline and liberalisation in the late 1970s and 1980s, however, altered this distribution of power and resources. CCM could no longer sustain the same levels of patronage distribution through the party and state bureaucracy (Tripp 1997; Kelsall 2003). Salaries failed to cover living expenses and many civil servants were retrenched. Liberalising reforms, meanwhile, created new opportunities for wealth accumulation in the private sector through both legitimate and corrupt means. Import-export trade was especially appealing for many, although land-grabbing, real estate and tax loopholes lined the pockets of still more. The privatisation of parastatals was another invitation to engage in spoils politics as politicians positioned themselves to get kickbacks or became shareholders of newly privatised companies (Kelsall 2003; Gray 2015).\n\nThe shock of these changes to the somewhat sleepy way of doing politics within CCM could hardly have been greater. Now that a bureaucratic position did not have the same material attraction, competition to reach elective office through the party intensified. This, in turn, empowered local level elites who could help mobilise support for a national political aspirant during party nominations. The race to capture the support of these local kingmakers led political elites at the national level \u2013 notably incumbent or aspiring legislators \u2013 to seek closer ties with private sector financiers, thereby multiplying the number of personalised patron-client networks and driving up the cost of elections in Tanzania (Mmuya 1998; Gray 2015). The recent concern over a rise in Tanzania's historically low levels of election spending testifies to the effects of this new combination of heightened intra-party contestation and a more decentralised, inflationary form of patronage politics. In contrast to past experience, parliamentary candidates have developed new strategies to appeal to voters, notably by dispensing 'takrima' or traditional 'hospitality' in the form of individual handouts to prospective voters. Concern over voter 'bribery' led to the introduction of new campaign spending regulations in 2009, although these have yet to be effectively implemented (Babeiya, 2011).\n\nFinally, the increased prevalence of 'grand corruption' in Tanzania also attests to the more decentralised nature of patronage-client networks within CCM, as well as the intra-party tensions it fosters. Cooksey (2011) notes that 'the use of rent-seeking of all types to advance the interest of groups of rentiers intent on taking control of the party has also heightened pressures to loot the public purse and natural resources' (73). Meanwhile, Gray (2015) highlights how the balance of power between these party factions undermined CCM's ability to control rent-seeking activities. Despite the party's strong formal political institutions and appearance of centralised authority, 'neither the president nor any one particular faction could enforce its particular agenda within the ruling party' (396). These groups remain 'weak vis-\u00e0-vis each other' (Ibid.), unable to police or channel their competitors' rent-seeking ambitions.\n\nTaken together, increased electoral pressures and a changing patronage system within CCM suggest that something akin to the KANU-style politics has started to emerge in Tanzania, fuelled notably by the effects of economic liberalisation on opportunities for private wealth accumulation. The new status of MPs as prominent patrons, and the intra-party contestation this has engendered, have had a direct impact on legislative reform and performance. The ninth Parliament (2005\u20132010) constituted a watershed for legislative reform while the tenth Parliament (2010\u20132015) continued on the same trajectory. From the start, the growing reform momentum was encouraged \u2013 and further abetted \u2013 by intra-party disputes over political ambitions and access to patronage.7 Shortly after Kikwete was elected President, a major cleavage surfaced between two key members of his campaign team, Samuel Sitta and Edward Lowassa. Both allegedly wanted to be Prime Minister, and in the end Lowassa scooped the position while Sitta became Speaker of Parliament. This was significant, because Sitta later oversaw some of the most ambitious legislative reforms to date while also championing Parliament as an anti-corruption check. His genuine commitment to legislative strengthening aside, close observers and colleagues argue his reformist zeal enabled him to raise his profile ahead of a planned presidential bid while also satisfying a personal vendetta against Lowassa.\n\nConcerning institutional reforms, Sitta oversaw the amendment of the parliamentary Standing Orders in 2007 as well as the enactment of the National Assembly Administration Act (NAAA) in 2008. The new standing orders strengthened the powers of parliamentary committees, notably the oversight committees, while also granting the legislature fresh powers to convene ad hoc committees of inquiry. The NAAA, meanwhile, started as a private member's bill and was later adopted by the government in an effort to take ownership of the parliamentary initiative. As Speaker, Sitta soon ensured that the new standing orders were put to good use. In 2007, allegations surfaced that the government had, in 2005, awarded a lucrative emergency power supply contract at a highly inflated price to Richmond LLC, supposedly a shell company (Gray 2015). While Sitta could easily have buried the scandal in parliament, he instead used the legislature's newly acquired powers to convene a parliamentary investigative committee, which later issued a report implicating Prime Minister Lowassa. Efforts led by Lowassa and the then CCM Secretary General to convene the CCM parliamentary caucus before the scheduled tabling of the report failed amidst protests from MPs that the party was attempting to deny them their independence as legislators. Driven into a corner, Lowassa announced his resignation on the floor of Parliament. He did so defensively, however, alleging that the Richmond investigations were nothing more than a witch hunt and that his premiership was the main prize.\n\nThe fallout from Richmond led to the emergence of two loose CCM factions with Sitta and Lowassa as their unofficial leaders. President Kikwete endeavoured to distance himself from both camps, but the fallout with Prime Minister Lowassa was clear after Kikwete had failed to defend him in the heat of the Richmond scandal. The two sides, which later earned the titles CCM-safi and CMM-mafisadi (safi meaning 'clean' and mafisadi meaning 'the corrupt'), only ever counted a small minority of CCM MPs among their ranks; however, much of the subsequent parliamentary activity as well as party business centred on tensions between the two factions as CCM-safi continued its anti-corruption efforts. In that sense, the Richmond scandal set a precedent. Even after Sitta lost his speakership following a challenge from a CCM-mafisadi candidate in 2010, the trend remained the same. The newly empowered parliamentary oversight committees took the lead, while a majority of CCM MPs rallied behind them. The resultant clash between the legislature and executive was profound. During his two terms as President, Kikwete was forced to reshuffle his cabinet no less than seven times, removing over sixty ministers as a result of pressure from parliament.\n\nWithin CCM, the factional rivalries spilled over into a debate over the proper relationship between the party and parliament. In 2009, individuals associated with CCM-mafisadi attempted to push a motion through a National Executive Committee (NEC) meeting that would have stripped Sitta of his party membership and triggered his expulsion from parliament. Supporters of the motion argued that Sitta was working against the interests of the party both through his reform agenda and through his support for controversial corruption probes. Former Speaker and CCM Vice Chairman Pius Msekwa offered a particularly blunt critique, accusing Sitta of attempting to 'arm Parliament with teeth so as to bite CCM' (Msekwa 2012: 123). Although NEC stopped short of expelling Sitta, it did censure a number of CCM MPs for failing to make use of parliamentary caucus meetings as a forum for building consensus.\n\nWhile this public dressing down might have had a powerful effect on CCM MPs in the past, its impact this time was minimal. This assertiveness stems from the way party factionalism and the emergence of privately financed political networks have empowered individual legislators. In the ninth Parliament, the core group of MPs in the CCM-safi group formed their own political 'family', as one former member put it, assisting each other in constituency work and collectively benefiting from private sponsorship. Some members did lose their re-nomination bid ahead of the 2010 elections, in one case seemingly due to opposition from top party organs, which are chaired by the President. Nevertheless, they were replaced by a new generation of vocal CCM legislators.\n\nFollowing the 2010 polls, the party leadership also appeared to change its attitude towards more assertive CCM MPs as, finally, opposition parties succeeded in attracting more electoral support. Where CCM leaders were no longer confident of the vote-winning ability of the party brand, the personal political capital of individual legislators becomes more valuable. In this vein, the leadership did not reject the re-nomination of veteran dissidents as parliamentary candidates in the 2015 elections. What's more, being singled out as a vocal MP came with its own added advantage. Under Kikwete, MPs noted that a sharp tongue was an effective means for a legislator to extract favours from government ministries in exchange for a promise to keep mum during budget debates and the like. CCM Secretary General Abdulrahman Kinana also hinted at the need to reform the relationship between the party and its MPs, recommending that the CCM parliamentary caucus be granted more independence by removing the prime minister as caucus chairperson.\n\nThe extent of CCM legislators' relative autonomy in recent years should, nevertheless, not be exaggerated. Old habits die hard and meetings of the CCM parliamentary caucus were still notorious for killing a hot debate under President Kikwete. What's more, his successor, John Pombe Magufuli, has taken a far stricter line in trying to discipline both legislators and CCM members more generally. Interestingly, these efforts have focused notably on reigning in what Magufuli identified as the dangerous and corrupting ties between private business, on the one hand, and politicians and party officials, on the other. In addition to sweeping party constitutional reforms and an ongoing anti-corruption campaign, Magufuli has promised stricter regulation of political finance alongside a commitment to use CCM's own revenue-generating capacity \u2013 for instance, rents from various party-owned properties \u2013 to bankroll routine party activities and political campaigns. Despite this renewed executive offensive, it remains unclear the extent to which Magufuli can reverse-engineer the profound politico-economic changes that have come about in Tanzania since the 1980s, recentralising control over patronage distribution and, consequently, reinforcing his own authority over a fractious party and oppositional parliament.\n\nWithout indulging in speculation regarding Tanzania's current trajectory under Magufuli, it is safe to say that, under Kikwete, the decentralisation of patronage networks within CCM led to a more prominent patronage role for MPs while also fuelling intra-party factionalism. Vocal opposition party legislators helped galvanise parliamentary debate; however, given their meagre numbers, opposition MPs could not have achieved much on their own. As such, the Tanzanian case is particularly helpful for highlighting the significance of changes in MPs' status as patrons, which can substantially alter politics within the ruling party and create a new window for legislative development.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nThe legislature in African states can no longer be dismissed as an inconsequential rubber stamp, if indeed it ever could. New scholarship has tried to make sense of apparent variation in legislative development across the continent, and the extent to which such variation affects the quality of democracy in different states. This chapter argues that, while recent studies offer some important insights to help us make sense of legislative strengthening, they fail to examine the deeper, structural factors that may account for contrasting legislative outcomes. The treatment of 'neo-patrimonial' politics as a uniform constraint is particularly problematic, as is the sharp distinction between a 'homogeneous' neo-patrimonial era and a democratic period of renewed legislative growth. Indeed, the argument here is that it is differences in the configuration of patronage networks across states that account for varying patterns of legislative development, both under one-party rule and after a multi-party transition.\n\nSpecifically, the extent to which legislators assume a prominent patronage role within their constituencies is crucial. Where MPs have greater access to patronage resources, they gain a degree of political autonomy through the cultivation of a local support base. Intra-elite competition over parliamentary seats is also likely to be more pronounced. Together, the relative autonomy of individual MPs and the prevalence of intra-elite contestation encourage more legislative assertiveness and institutional strengthening.\n\nThe comparative study of the Tanzanian and Kenyan parliaments provides an initial illustration of how these dynamics unfold. The Kenyan parliament has remained among the strongest in the region both before and after the return to multiparty politics, and this notably because of the important patronage role MPs play in their constituencies and the challenges of enforcing party discipline to control their legislative behaviour. The Tanzanian parliament, by contrast, was relatively weak under one-party rule but gained strength in recent years as ruling party MPs invested more in their role as local patrons and as intra-elite tensions began to erode party unity in parliament.\n\nThis analysis should not be taken as a normative endorsement of MPs' informal patronage role. The point is solely that where this more pronounced patronage politics exists, MPs are likely to enjoy greater autonomy vis-\u00e0-vis their party and President, which in turn allows for greater legislative independence as well as institutional strengthening. These seemingly desirable outcomes aside, MPs' status as prominent local patrons \u2013 coupled with enhanced competition over legislative seats \u2013 has problematic implications as well. These include a trend towards inflationary patronage and diminished accountability as a result of the distorting influence of campaign finance (Scott 1972; Barkan 1979; Barkan 2009). Rising corruption in Tanzania, linked to enhanced factionalism amidst competing patron-client networks, is also clearly not something to celebrate. Building on this, we can question parliament's own much-publicised efforts to check corruption as intra-elite competition threatens to obstruct the objective review of alleged cases of executive malfeasance. Confronted with this ambiguity, popular frustration with parliament and MPs has, if anything, risen in recent years. Activists in both Kenya and Uganda, for instance, released piglets around the parliament buildings in protest over the supposed greed and corruption of so-called MPigs.\n\nSo what does this suggest about the significance of a stronger legislature, and particularly, the presumed link between legislative strengthening and democratisation? On a positive note, African parliaments continue to publicise instances of government corruption or else challenge executive spending priorities in the annual budget, demanding more money for key social services. At the same time, though, stronger parliaments can fall afoul of the very intra-elite contestation that helps ensure their rise. The legislature becomes an arena for settling political scores and, in the process, becomes enmeshed in the very corruption scandals it is meant to check. Stronger parliaments do appear to encourage stronger democracy as conventional wisdom would have it. But we should also understand that these gains may come through a process of political manoeuvring and intra-elite contestation that at times seems far removed from the end goal of more accountable and representative government.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nBabeiya, Edwin. 2011. 'Electoral corruption and the politics of elections financing in Tanzania', Journal of Politics and Law 4, 2: 91\u2013103.\n\nBarkan, Joel. 1979. 'Bringing home the pork: Legislator behavior, rural development, and political change in East Africa' in Joel Smith and Lloyd Musolf (eds.), Legislatures in development, Durham, NC: Duke University Press: 265\u2013288.\n\nBarkan, Joel. 2013. 'Emerging legislatures' in Nic Cheeseman, Dave Anderson and Andrea Scheibler (eds.), Routledge handbook of African politics, London: Routledge: 252\u2013264.\n\nBarkan, Joel. 2009. 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'The rise and ebb of Uganda's no-party parliament' in Joel Barkan (ed.), Legislative power in emerging African democracies, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner: 73\u2013108.\n\nKelsall, Tim. 2003. 'Governance, democracy and recent political struggles in mainland Tanzania', Commonwealth & Comparative Politics 41, 2: 55\u201382.\n\nKelsall, Tim. 2002.'Shop windows and smoke-filled rooms: Governance and the re-politicisation of Tanzania', The Journal of Modern African Studies 40, 4: 597\u2013619.\n\nKhan, Mushtaq. 2010.'Political settlements and the governance of growth-enhancing institutions', SOAS Research [Online].\n\nKillian, Bernadeta. 2004. 'Comparing performances: The 1990\u20131995 single-party parliament and the 1995\u2013200 multi-party parliament', in R.S. Mukandala, S.S. Mushi and C. Rubagumya, People's representatives: Theory and practice of parliamentary democracy in Tanzania, Kampala: Fountain Publishers Ltd., 183\u2013200.\n\nKjekshus, Helge. 1974. 'Parliament in a one-party state \u2013 the Bunge of Tanzania, 1965\u20131970', The Journal of Modern African Studies 12, 1: 19\u201343.\n\nLindberg, Staffan. 2009. 'Member of the Parliament of Ghana: A Hybrid Institution with Mixed Effects', Africa Power and Politics Programme No. 2.\n\nLindberg, S., and Y. Zhou. 2009.'Co-optation despite democratisation in Ghana', in Joel Barkan (ed.), Legislative power in emerging African democracies, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers: 147\u2013175.\n\nMartin, Denis-Constant. 1988. Tanzanie: L'Invention d'une culture politique, Paris: Karthala Editions.\n\nMmuya, Maximilian. 1998. Tanzania: Political reform in eclipse: Crisis and cleavage in political parties, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania: Friedrich Ebert Stiftung.\n\nMorgenstern, Scott, and Benito Nacif. 2002. Legislative politics in Latin America, Cambridge University Press.\n\nMsekwa, Pius. 2012. The story of the Tanzania parliament, self-published.\n\nNijzink, Lia, Shaheen Mozaffar, and Elisabete Azevedo. 2006. 'Parliaments and the enhancement of democracy on the African continent: An analysis of institutional capacity and public perception', The Journal of Legislative Studies 12, 3\u20134: 311\u2013335.\n\nNyirabu, Mohabe. 2002. 'The multiparty reform process in Tanzania: The dominance of the ruling party', The African Journal of Political Science 7, 2: 99\u2013112.\n\nOpalo, Kennedy. 2015. 'Institutions and Political Change: The Case of African Legislatures', Stanford University.\n\nSalih, Mohamed. 2005. African parliaments: Between Governance and Government, New York: Palgrave Macmillan.\n\nSantiso, Carlos. 2005. 'Budget Institutions and Fiscal Responsibility: Parliaments and the Political Economy of the Budget Process in Latin America', World Bank Institute.\n\nScott, James. 1972. 'Patron-client politics and political change in Southeast Asia', The American Political Science Review 66, 1: 91\u2013113.\n\nSquire, Peverill. 1992. 'The theory of legislative institutionalization and the California Assembly', The Journal of Politics 54, 4: 1026\u20131054.\n\nTaylor-Robinson, Michelle. 2006. 'The Difficult Road from Caudillismo to Democracy: The Impact of Clientelism in Honduras' in Gretchen Helmke and Steven Levitsky (eds.), Informal Institutions and Democracy: Lessons from Latin America, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press: 106\u2013124.\n\nTordoff, William. 1977. 'Residual legislatures: The cases of Tanzania and Zambia', Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics 15, 3: 235\u2013249.\n\nTripp, Aili Mari. 1997. Changing the rules: the politics of liberalization and the urban informal economy in Tanzania, Berkeley: University of California Press.\n\nTsubura, Machiko. 2014. 'Accountability and clientelism in dominant party politics: The case of a constituency development fund in Tanzania', University of Sussex.\n\nvan de Walle, Nicholas. 2003. 'Presidentialism and clientelism in Africa's emerging party systems', The Journal of Modern African Studies 41, 2: 297\u2013321.\n\nVan Velzen, H.U.E., and J.J. Sterkenburg. 1972. 'The Party Supreme' in Lionel Cliffe and John Saul (eds.), Socialism in Tanzania, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania: East African Publishing House: 257\u2013264.\n\nVan Vliet, Martin. 2014. 'Weak legislatures, failing mps, and the collapse of democracy in Mali', African Affairs 113, 450: 45\u201366.\n\nWeghorst, Keith. 2015. 'Legislative candidacy in electoral authoritarian regimes: Evidence from Tanzania', Chr. Micheleson Institute[Online].\n\nWhitfield, Lindsay, Ole Therkildsen, Lars Burr, and Anne Mette Kjaer. 2015. The politics of African industrial policy: A comparative perspective, New York: Cambridge University Press.\n\n1 African Legislatures Project, 'Project Website', www.cssr.uct.ac.za/alp (accessed 24 March 2016).\n\n2 These findings echo research from legislative studies in other regions, such as Latin America (Morgenstern and Benito 2002). Efforts at direct, cross-regional comparison are, however, lacking.\n\n3 A minority of African states use closed-list proportional representation. These include South Africa, Namibia, Mozambique, Rwanda and Sao Tome and Principe.\n\n4 This line of argument is broadly in keeping with Squire's (1992) theory of legislative institutional strengthening through 'professionalization'. According to this theory, individual legislators' self-serving efforts to improve their own professional rewards and long-term career prospects ultimately strengthen the legislature as a whole. Legislators push for increasingly ambitious reforms aimed at improving their own efficacy and power, and thus the likelihood of being re-elected and of achieving additional professional and political goals through their legislative work. The cumulative effect is that turnover rates go down and the experience and efficacy of legislators improves, thereby transforming the legislature into a more vibrant, assertive body.\n\n5 Some recent doctoral work also emphasises the significance of MPs' patronage ties, party cohesion and legislative institutional change. See: Cheeseman, 2006; Opalo, 2015.\n\n6 This change followed a merger with Zanzibar's Afro-Shirazi Party to create the 'party of the revolution'.\n\n7 The foregoing discussion draws on a series of interviews with MPs, party officials, observers, as well as media coverage.\n\n# 13 The Judiciary\n\n## Courts, Judges and the Rule of Law\n\nPeter VonDoepp\n\nAlthough somewhat less visible than Africa's turn to more democratic forms of rule in the early 1990s, the rise of 'constitutionalism' stands as an equally important development. This rise has been reflected, at the level of discourse, in the increasing attention that constitutions have received among scholars concerned with Africa, and with governance activists on the ground (VonDoepp 2013; Ndulo, Chapter 5). At the level of practice, it has been witnessed in the turn to rule-governed politics, as described by Posner and Young in their path-breaking 2007 article, which they revisit in this volume (Chapter 11).\n\nAs constitutions and rules now matter, it comes as little surprise that judiciaries are playing a far more visible and consequential role in Africa's democratic and hybrid regimes. As Kenyan Justice Jackton Ojwang describes, '[J]udicialism has become the handmaiden of constitutionalism; and it follows that, of the three conventional arms of government the one which has distinctly benefitted from the changing political philosophy is the Judiciary' (2013: 40). Constitutionalism has empowered judiciaries; so much so, that Prempeh, writing in 2006, could suggest that 'Marbury's legacy' was enjoying a quiet resurgence in Africa (2006: 3).\n\nIn this chapter, I examine the rising role of judiciaries in Africa's democratic and hybrid regimes. My objectives are both descriptive and analytical. With respect to the former, I seek to detail and highlight the visible and consequential roles played by judiciaries on Africa's political landscape. From there, I turn to the analytical task of conceptualising the role of judiciaries and exploring why some might be more inclined to positively contribute to governance than others. In undertaking the latter, I develop a framework that engages with and draws from the broader comparative literature on judicial politics, and then offer an in-depth case analysis of recent judicial developments in Zambia to help illustrate central elements of my general scaffolding.\n\nOne of the central themes that I seek to illuminate concerns the importance of both structure and agency in the development and performance of judiciaries. While the former refers to institutional and contextual forces that shape the judiciary, the latter refers to the central role played by judicial actors themselves. Scholarship on judicial politics tends to give varying levels of emphasis to these. My analysis of the Zambian case, and the contrast between developments in Zambia and Malawi, highlights the importance of considering both elements in order to understand the challenges that the courts have faced with respect to the level of authority they enjoy in society. In this regard, the central point of the chapter broadly recalls themes raised in the volume's Conclusion about the importance of the interaction between more 'formal' (institutional) and 'informal' (the strategies and practices of individual actors) factors in shaping the status of key institutions.\n\n# The Relevance of Judiciaries in Africa's Democratic and Hybrid Regimes\n\nAs I have indicated, judiciaries have emerged as more visible actors in Africa's politics. In the abstract, one would expect that this would translate into gains for democracy and good governance. Empirically, this appears to be the case. In at least three important respects, judiciaries have positively shaped the governance climate of Africa's hybrid and democratic regimes.\n\nFirst, judiciaries have been vital to the exercise and consolidation of basic civil and political liberties. Press freedom stands as one clear example. Recent research (VonDoepp and Young 2016) indicates that governments are more likely to respect media freedoms in environments with higher rule of law indices. One central reason for this has to do with the role of judiciaries in helping to preserve and advance media freedoms. In the 1990s, for instance, the Zambian judiciary prevented the government from establishing a body to regulate journalists' conduct (Makungu 2004; Matibini 2006). In the following decade, they halted the government from deporting a journalist who had offended government with a satirical column. In Uganda, the Supreme Court in 2004 decriminalised the publication of false news (Twinomugisha 2009), and in 2010, declared unconstitutional a sedition law that had been used against journalists and media outlets.1 Likewise, respect for rights of association and organisation have been supported by the courts. Within a few years of each other in the mid-1990s, both Zambia's and Ghana's Supreme Courts issued rulings that upheld the rights of individuals to organise and demonstrate without first obtaining police permission (VonDoepp 2009).2 In the early 2000s, courts in both Zambia and Malawi also upheld rights to demonstrate against government, and in Malawi, found officials who ignored this right in contempt of court.\n\nSecond, courts have played central roles in thwarting efforts by executives to extend their hold on power, or to exercise their power beyond the legal scope of authority. As I have discussed elsewhere, in the early 2000s, Malawi's courts issued decisions that kept intact a fragile parliamentary balance of power that ultimately helped to undermine the efforts by the ruling party and its allies to extend former president Bakili Muluzi's term in office (VonDoepp 2005). After Muluzi left power, the courts blocked his successor's efforts to fire his own vice president (Gloppen et al. 2010). More recently, Kenya's courts undermined the effort by former president Mwai Kibaki to appoint a new chief justice in a manner that contradicted the stipulations of the 2010 constitution (Sibalukhulu 2012).\n\nFinally, judiciaries have helped to mediate contentious disputes concerning elections, enhancing the credibility of the contests and helping to stabilise tense periods. Malawi affords striking examples. Gloppen et al. (2010) describes the positive role of the courts in the 1999 electoral processes as follows:\n\n[T]he Malawian judiciary ruled that presidential candidates were allowed to contest with a vice-presidential candidate from another party, it ordered the Electoral Commission to register prisoners as voters... and ordered the date of polling to be set in accordance with the constitution... This enhanced voter participation and promoted constitutionalism.\n\nIn the 2004 contests, the courts even postponed polling day to allow a further inspection of the voter registry, while in 2014 they undermined efforts by the incumbent to nullify the election. Positive judicial mediation in electoral processes has also been witnessed in Ghana, Nigeria and Tanzania (see Gloppen et al. 2010; Kwaku Asare 2007).\n\nOn the other hand, courts have also mediated disputes concerning electoral outcomes. For instance, in the aftermath of Ghana's 2012 elections, the declared loser of the electoral contests Nana Akufo Addo took the electoral commission to court, challenging the win of the incumbent, John Mahama (where it was also clear party activists were preparing to undertake civil disobedience). In this instance, the authority and credibility of the courts provided opposition elites an avenue for challenging the election results without undermining political stability. Moreover, by threatening to hold in contempt those who engaged in aggressive and hostile rhetoric regarding the court's decision, the Supreme Court served to 'tame political extremism' (Kwarteng 2014; see also Azu 2013). A similar course of events took place in Malawi after the 1999 elections (see VonDoepp 2005).\n\nYet, some cautionary notes are needed. As Ellett has pointed out, the 'judicialization' of politics is not necessarily evidence of an empowered or independent judiciary (Ellett 2015); 'judicialization' is actually one proximate cause of government efforts to interfere with the courts (VonDoepp and Ellett 2011). In addition, while the courts have upheld civil liberties and rights in some contexts, in others they have facilitated and sanctioned abuses of those rights. Ghana's courts, for example, have awarded considerable sums in damages in defamation cases against newspapers, a practice described by one observer as the 'judicial suffocation of the media' (Kwaku Asare 2007: 18). Likewise, courts have enabled governments to increase executive powers. In Zambia in 2007, the Supreme Court nullified a lower court decision opposing appointments to the national broadcasting company and broadcasting authority, the effect of which was to sharply reduce the role of civil society in those appointments. Subsequently, in 2013, the court issued a ruling that allowed the president's formation of a special tribunal to try three judges that the government sought to remove from office, despite legitimate questions as to whether the president followed proper, legal course of action.\n\nFinally, while the courts have helped to generate stability in some contexts, in others they have failed in this respect. For example, in the aftermath of the disputed 2007 Kenya presidential elections, the courts \u2013 packed by a series of last-minute appointments by President Kibaki \u2013 failed to offer the declared losers of the contests a viable arena through which to pursue their grievances (Ouma Oseko 2011). The court's lack of impartiality was, in turn, detailed by the Waki commission, established to investigate the post-election violence. This lack of impartiality 'increased the tendency to violence among members of public' (Ouma Oseko 2011: 6).\n\n# Thinking about the Dependent Variable: Judicial Assertiveness, Autonomy and Authority\n\nIn the above overview, I have indicated that judiciaries have played various roles in regard to democratisation. Yet, raising this issue requires some attention to how we conceptualise the role of judiciaries in political systems. That is, if we are concerned with the role and performance of judiciaries, especially in terms of enhancing the rule of law and good governance, what are the specific 'dependent variables' we should focus on? The literature suggests three possible directions.\n\nOn one level, various judicial roles can be understood with attention to their level of assertiveness vis-\u00e0-vis governments. In this regard, the focus is on what others have called 'positive' judicial independence \u2013 courts challenging 'powerful actors in their rulings; that is, deciding cases in ways that seek to nullify, restrict, or change the behaviour of those actors'.3 Such assertiveness is central to courts serving as instruments of accountability (Gloppen et al. 2010). For those concerned with African politics this is critically important as 'untamed executives' have represented a central governance problem in many societies (Prempeh 2008).\n\nYet, it is also important to note that judicial assertiveness in the form of anti-government decisions may not reflect the independence of institutions, and may not serve governance-enhancing functions. Courts can be captured by other interests \u2013 opposition politicians, business elites or criminal networks, and judicial power asserted in the service of these interests may restrict and frustrate an executive in ways that actually undermine good governance. Thus, we need to exercise some caution in drawing too close a connection between assertive judicial behaviour and good judicial practices or impartiality. Moreover, attention to court behaviour may fail to capture important dimensions of judicial influence on the political system. Consider the role of courts in mediating disputes about electoral outcomes. In the cases of Malawi and Ghana, it was the stature and credibility of the courts that contributed to the stability of those countries in the aftermaths of their respective electoral contests in 1999 and 2012. In this regard, it was not the behaviour of the judiciaries per se that mattered, but the respect and authority that they enjoyed. Indeed, in the end, the court did not assert itself against sitting governments by overturning incumbent electoral victories in either case.\n\nOn another level, the role and status of the courts can be understood with reference to the level of autonomy they enjoy (VonDoepp 2009; VonDoepp and Ellett 2011). In this regard, the focus is on the extent to which the courts are variously respected and/or undermined by political forces. The concept of 'negative' judicial independence is closely aligned with this idea, especially as it refers to the extent to which courts are free from interference.4 In analytical terms, the spotlight shifts to the behaviour and actions of other actors within the political system \u2013 especially executives \u2013 vis-\u00e0-vis the courts. Do they allow the judiciary to function without fear of retribution for their decisions and respect their decisions? Do they interfere with and manipulate the judiciary through appointments, threats to remove judges, public badgering or 'informal' exchanges? To the extent that they do the latter they likely reduce the odds of the judiciaries engaging in assertive behaviour and can also undermine the credibility of the courts. At the same time, because the focus is on how other actors treat the courts, and not on the courts per se, one can lose some perspective on how relevant the courts are in the political system and the extent to which they are positively contributing to the governance climate.\n\nOn a final level, it makes some sense to consider and evaluate the authority that the courts enjoy as instruments of accountability. In some sense this captures elements of both assertiveness and autonomy, but it extends beyond that. The concern here is with the extent to which the courts can effectively assert their power in support of the rule of law and democratic governance. This is revealed partly by the nature of court judgments in key political cases, especially those concerning limits on executive power and respect for key civil and political liberties (Gloppen et al. 2010; Ellett 2013). But it is also witnessed in the extent to which courts enjoy respect from government, as well as key actors in politics and civil society. Clearly, the authority of the courts is limited when governments refuse to comply with court decisions and suffer few consequences as a result. Moreover, indications that the courts are no longer viewed as legitimate arbiters of disputes, as appeared to be the case in Kenya prior to 2007, bespeak a lack of authority on the part of the courts.\n\nAll three of these concepts \u2013 assertiveness, autonomy and authority \u2013 are valuable when considering the role and relevance of courts in Africa's hybrid and democratic societies. Each of them captures, imperfectly, the potential for courts to positively contribute to governance and democratic consolidation, and all three of them are interrelated. Assertiveness can reflect and increase the authority of the courts, but it can also generate incentives for governments to undermine their autonomy. High levels of authority, especially respect from key elements of political and civil society, can buffer the courts from infringements on their autonomy. Finally, a lack of autonomy can lead to a lack of both assertiveness and authority.\n\nWith this in mind, in the brief analysis of developments in Zambia that follows, I focus on the issue of judicial authority, accepting that this is intimately connected with both assertiveness and autonomy. My specific focus is on why the judiciary has faced challenges to its relative standing and apparent capacity to exercise authority. While this helps to illuminate concepts described earlier, it more fundamentally leads us to consider how courts are shaped by both broader structural and contextual circumstances, as well as by the actions of individuals occupying positions of power within the institution. In the next section I address this issue in theoretical terms.\n\n# Thinking Theoretically about Judicial Development and Performance\n\nHow do we understand variance in the roles that judiciaries have performed in Africa's societies? Specifically, why have they emerged as authoritative and assertive institutions in some contexts and not in others? While a variety of themes emerge in the literature, one important distinction lies in the different levels of emphasis assigned to structural or contextual factors, as opposed to the agency of individuals involved with the courts. Scholars emphasising the former prioritise attention to the political context in which the courts are situated and the institutional environment that informs their operation. Those highlighting the latter stress the ways in which judicial actors shape judicial process and development.\n\nThe comparative literature on judicial assertiveness brings this divide between structuralist and agent-centred approaches into focus. Perhaps the most classic 'structuralist' perspective on the judiciary highlights the extent to which institutional structures allow governments to, among other things, wholly determine the composition of the bench (or the institution as a whole) and punish and/or reward judges. Many analysts of African courts have emphasised such issues when accounting for the relatively weak performance of judiciaries in certain contexts. For example, Ghanaian scholars have singled out rules regarding the size of the Supreme Court, the appointment process for the chief justice, and the discretion of the chief justice to empanel the court to hear constitutional cases as potential threats to judicial independence (Kwaku Asare 2007; Center for Democracy and Development/Friedrich Naumann Stiftung 2000; Owusu-Dapaa 2011).5\n\nObviously, these kinds of considerations have informed constitutional designers for centuries, and continue to be the focus of constitutional reform programmes in Africa. For example, Kenya's constitutional reforms in 2010 included a number of changes specifically designed to increase judicial independence. These included the addition of specific language stipulating such independence, and substantial changes to the rules regarding appointments to the bench and procedures for removing judges from the bench (in both cases decreasing the power of the executive) (Ouma Oseko 2011).\n\nYet, others have questioned the relative importance of institutional conditions, and instead, focused on a different structural factor shaping judicial assertiveness: the political context in which judges are situated. In effect, the political setting is viewed to be as, if not more, consequential for judicial assertiveness as the 'parchment' barriers protecting judicial independence. In this perspective, judges are viewed as strategic actors who read signals from the political environment about when it is safe or even prudent to decide cases against governments. Anti-government rulings can be expected to increase during periods of government division, or when it appears that an incumbent will exit power, as research on courts in Latin America and Africa has confirmed (Helmke 2002; Iaryczower, Spiller and Tommasi 2002; VonDoepp 2006).\n\nThe emphases on broader structural (whether institutional or political) determinants of judicial assertiveness have been challenged by those who embrace more agent-based understandings of judicial behaviour. In this regard, scholars have sought to understand behaviour with reference to the norms, values and role orientations of judges themselves. For example, Lisa Hilbink (2012) explores the emergence of positive judicial independence in contexts such as authoritarian Spain and Chile. As she writes, '(s)incere attitudes... are themselves crucial to explaining judges' proclivity to assert authority against powerful actors' (2012: 589). An appreciation of the 'professional role conceptions' that inform the actions and choices of judges is of particular importance, and is also found in the African context. Gloppen et al. (2010) consider the role of attitudes and legal cultures when investigating the accountability functioning of the courts. Others have focused on the importance of the 'jurisprudential frameworks' that inform judicial decision-making. Prempeh (2006) and Kwaku Asare (2007) have criticised Ghanaian jurisprudence for its relatively weak emphasis on rights and liberal democratic constitutionalism.6 Indeed, Prempeh (1999) calls for a wholesale refashioning of jurisprudence in Africa in order to reposition judicial action in support of democracy and the rule of law.\n\nStructural or contextual approaches have tended to also dominate the literature on the development of judicial autonomy and authority, sometimes bringing attention to the same factors that presumably abet the exercise of judicial assertiveness. Some suggest that political competition and fragmentation can facilitate government respect for judiciaries (Ramseyer 1994; Bill Chavez 2003; Ginsburg 2003; Stephenson 2003). Where power is fragmented and electoral uncertainty high, political officials will have incentives to invest in, or at least respect, autonomous judiciaries, and have limited ability to unilaterally undermine judicial independence. Others have focused on the power of 'protective constituencies' such as the media or popular support for judicial independence. These are assumed to have the capacity to raise the costs for governments wishing to interfere with judiciaries, and, as such, dissuade such behaviour (Vanberg 2000; Gloppen et al. 2010; Helmke 2010).\n\nIn contrast, others have adopted more 'agent-centered' accounts of judicial development, placing judicial actors at the centre of analysis. Focusing on different contexts, scholars have highlighted the ways that leading justices have acted to build the authority and autonomy of judicial institutions. Scheppele argues that the development of court power in Russia and, especially, Hungary was tied to the important roles and actions undertaken by the individuals who held top judicial offices after these countries transitioned from communist rule (2006: 1848). Likewise, Crowe's discussion of the American context highlights the ways that Chief Justice William Howard Taft contributed to the development of judicial autonomy. Taft enhanced the reputation of the courts through his own stature, as well as through measures to improve court efficiency and by currying favour with the media and bar association in order to build support for the judiciary. Likewise, in the African context, Widner (1999; 2001) highlights the importance of chief justices in cultivating support among key constituencies and the public when discussing court successes in sub-Saharan Africa. Echoing several of these themes, Rachel Ellett highlights different ways that judicial leadership can contribute to the empowerment of the judiciary. These include helping to develop a courageous judicial culture or forming alliances with key actors, international and domestic, who can support the courts (VonDoepp 2009; Leakey 2012; Ellett 2013: 206\u2013209).\n\nTo be sure, many scholars, notably Ellett (2013), Leakey (2012) and Gloppen et al. (2010), emphasise that both structures and agents \u2013 interactions between, and variation within, these two aspects \u2013 need to be considered fully in order to account for varying patterns in the roles that judiciaries have played in African societies, and understand the performance and development of judiciaries over time. In the section that follows, I offer a brief case study that attempts to shed further light on the factors shaping the roles and performances of judiciaries in African societies. My specific focus is on the apparent authority Zambia's judiciary has enjoyed.\n\n# The Trajectory of the Zambian judiciary: Authority Compromised (and Regained?)\n\nIn February 2015, Irene Mambilima, a Supreme Court justice and chairperson of Zambia's electoral commission, was unanimously ratified as chief justice by Zambia's parliament. Her appointment garnered widespread applause. Mambilima, who carries the nickname 'Iron Lady', is reputed to be a person of high integrity and independence. Observers hoped that these same personal attributes would come to characterise the judiciary. The enthusiasm for Mambilima, and hope for her success, needs to be understood partly in the context of the recent history of Zambia's judiciary, reflective of a particular hope that Mambilima could transform the judiciary and fundamentally affect its trajectory. During the five to seven years preceding her appointment, the judiciary had reached a low point in terms of its ability to effectively project authority. Close observers described the judiciary as 'in crisis' and 'lacking the confidence' of the public.7 Leading political figures questioned the integrity and impartiality of the courts, and civil society called for the removal of judges, including two chief justices, from office. The courts were also the target of a 'reform' programme that could undermine their independence and credibility.\n\nIt is this assumption \u2013 that an individual can shape the status of a formal institution \u2013 that I consider here, focused on the period preceding Mambilima's tenure in office. If we examine the relative crisis that the courts faced from 2009\u20132014, to what extent did individuals, as opposed to institutional or political dynamics, shape the fate of the judiciary? As will become apparent, both help to explain the decline of the courts.\n\nIn terms of background, although the courts sometimes played an important and assertive role during the first ten years of democratic rule (1991\u20132001), they also came under considerable criticism owing to perceptions and open suggestions that leading figures on the Supreme Court had been co-opted by the executive, particularly by means of informal practices linking the personal interest of judges to the political interest of power-holders. Some of these concerns were confirmed after President Frederick Chiluba left power in 2001, when it was revealed that the chief justice (Matthew Ngulube) had received money from a clandestine government account controlled by Chiluba's allies. During the subsequent administration of Levy Mwanawasa (2002\u20132008), the courts witnessed less apparent interference from the administration and less open criticism in leading media outlets. Still, while the High Court issued rulings against the government, the Supreme Court remained largely deferential \u2013 that is, wholly non-assertive \u2013 vis-\u00e0-vis the executive (VonDoepp 2009).\n\nThe discernible deterioration in the authority of the courts took place most clearly in the aftermath of Rupiah Banda's ascension to the presidency in late 2008 as the judiciary came to be associated with the corrupt and heavy-handed practices of his administration. Part of this had to do with key rulings rendered by the courts from 2009 onwards. These included decisions that supported and even cleared presidential allies facing corruption, and served charges and decisions against government critics in civil society, the media sector and political society. Yet, it also had to do with a growing perception that certain judges, including the chief justice, were allied to or controlled by Rupiah Banda and willing to do his bidding in the courts.\n\nPartly as a result, the judiciary came to be a frequent target of attack from, and appeared to lose the support of, key constituencies in political and civil society. Already in late 2009, opposition media groups raised questions about the behaviour of the judiciary, openly suggesting that respect for the courts was waning in the face of problematic decisions.8 Several lawyers attempted to remove the chief justice from his position, claiming that he had exceeded the mandatory retirement age and was serving on an executive-issued contract. Opposition politicians claimed that the courts were in collusion with the executive or that the judiciary was 'destroying democracy'.9 While attacks on the courts were not unprecedented, the level and extent of criticism through 2010 and 2011 did represent a unique development. Elements of civil society, including the Catholic Archbishop, spokespersons for Zambia Council of Churches, and traditional leaders, complained about the courts.10 The leading opposition newspaper, The Post (one of the key voices leading the campaign) indicated in an editorial, 'We do not think that our judiciary has ever been so diminished in its standing, in the 46 years of our independence, as it is now.'11\n\nThe narrative of a compromised judiciary was firmly entrenched by the elections of late 2011, when incumbent Rupiah Banda was defeated by Michael Sata, a vociferous critic of the courts. Indeed, Sata had been involved in a very public row with Chief Justice Ernest Sakala when the latter refused to shake hands with him at a public event in 2010. Given this, the conditions seemed ripe for conflict between the new president and the judiciary, itself weakened by its limited support among key sectors of civil society. Moreover, within months of Sata's election, many voices in society, some of them highly respected, began calling for reforms to the judiciary12 and the resignation or removal of the chief justice.13\n\nThis context provided the pretext for the administration to take measures against the judiciary in the name of restoring the integrity of the institution. While Sata and others in his administration may have had sincere intentions to positively reform the courts, it is also clear that they stood to benefit tremendously from having a judiciary closely aligned to their interests. Sata's first major move vis-\u00e0-vis the judiciary was an April 2012 attempt to suspend and dismiss three judges, all of whom were seen to be allied to the previous administration. After the High Court rendered a judgment challenging Sata's move, government ministers openly questioned and criticised the judge on the case and even threatened to 'dissolve' the judiciary if reforms were resisted.14 While key opposition figures and media outlets rose to challenge such voices, other elements of civil society continued to demand reforms of the judiciary, including the removal of senior judges.15 Soon thereafter, in June of 2012, both the chief justice and deputy chief justice announced their intentions to retire and went on leave. While the decision was applauded, the appointment of a new acting chief justice, Lombe Chibesakunda, an alleged relative of Sata, did not restore great confidence in the bench, as she was already beyond the mandatory retirement age, which raised questions as to whether her appointment could legally be ratified by parliament.\n\nWhile many remained concerned about continued disrespect for the courts by the Sata administration,16 as time went on the more acute issue lay in perceptions of collusion between the top bench and the executive. A focal point for this concerned questions about the legality of Chibesakunda's appointment and her continued presence as acting chief justice, presiding over cases and rendering decisions of substantial political importance. At the start of 2013, the president sought to have her formally ratified as chief justice; yet, a parliamentary committee rejected this, apparently on the grounds that she had already passed the retirement age and was serving on a contract, conditions that disqualified her from taking the position of chief justice. This view was supported by the Law Association of Zambia.17\n\nThe issue gained momentum over the next few months, with the Law Association going so far as to state that Chibesakunda was 'illegally occupying and performing the functions of the office of judges of the Supreme Court'.18 Criticism increased following actions by the Supreme Court that raised questions about its integrity and independence. A number of high profile cases relating to election petitions went against opposition members, providing fodder for government opponents calling for the ouster of Chibesakunda. Then, in August of 2013, the Supreme Court issued a controversial 'irregular' ruling on the eligibility of some opposition members to contest by-elections \u2013 a 'ruling' that was not based on questions formally before the Supreme Court, but which had been issued as a press release. By September 2013, the Law Association sued the government over Chibesakunda's continued stay at the head of the judiciary, while others questioned the validity of whether any decision taken while she was in the role of acting or permanent chief justice.19\n\nBy 2014, the authority of the courts remained in crisis \u2013 with top officials and judges seen as closely aligned with government, or captured by other interests. In interviews, observers suggested that judges were acting as 'brokers' for the powerful political and business 'cartels' operating beneath the surface of the Zambian political scene20 \u2013 a reminder of the ways that 'informal' practices can undermine the authority of formal institutions. Although the government initiated a commission to consider judicial reforms in early 2014, this did little to remedy the situation, and the ability of the institution to authoritatively issue legitimate decisions was openly questioned. About three months later, following President Michael Sata's death in late October 2014, Lombe Chibesakunda's 'acting' appointment expired, and Mambilima was appointed to serve as chief justice.\n\n# Structure and Agency in the Demise of Zambian Judicial Authority\n\nThe decline of court authority in Zambia held real potential to shape the trajectory of the country, opening the door to the expansion of executive power (enhancing the prospects for government interference) and increasing the prospects for political instability (recall the Kenyan case discussed earlier in the chapter), while alienating key allies in civil society. How do we make sense of this situation? In addressing this question, I consider first the extent to which Zambia's judiciary was the victim of broader structural circumstances, and then consider the actions of individuals in positions of power on the bench. In so doing, I also draw on the situation and judicial experience in neighbouring Malawi, which has avoided the kind of authority crisis that has afflicted Zambia, in order to offer a deeper perspective on the sources of declining judicial authority in Zambia.\n\nIn terms of structural conditions, both institutional and political dynamics deserve consideration. The Zambian case suggests that institutional arrangements can indeed facilitate the undermining of the judiciary, especially in so far as they allow executives excessive influence in financial and administrative matters over the courts and judges (Ndulo 2013, and Chapter 5). Yet with respect to developments from 2009, a more fundamental issue appears to have been executive control over who gets to sit on the bench. Zambian presidents have the authority to extend the tenure of judges who have reached retirement age through the use of contracts. Since the start of the democratic era in 1991, all of Zambia's presidents have used this power. This has created the impression that judges have been wedded to executive interests.\n\nIndeed, the issue of 'contracts' has been a central concern of court observers and constituents over the past decade. In interviews conducted by the author in 2006, several judicial insiders indicated that the system of 'contracts' provided judges with incentives to bow to executive interests, and the legality of such appointments (or contracts) has been drawn into question, as indicated above in the prominent court case in 2009 of the chief justice and another Supreme Court justice. After Sata's election, the Law Association specifically highlighted the issue of contracts as an area in need of reform. Yet, President Sata proceeded to elevate another judge (his ally) on contract to serve as acting chief justice. In this regard, the use of this power by executives has served to undermine the integrity of the courts in the eye of the public and important constituents. An internet post in 2013 captured the concern about this when describing the outcome of an important political case:\n\n(F)our of the majority judges in the case of Mutuna are all on contract. The three judges, Muyovwe, Mwanamwambwa & Chibomba, who dissented are not on contract and are below the retirement age. Could the Supreme Court have ruled any differently had those judges not been on contract? Did the contracts play a role in making Wanki, Mumba, Chibesakunda, and Phiri rule for the State?21\n\nNotably, this use of 'contracts' has occurred in an environment where observers and constituents of the courts have perceived close informal and even surreptitious linkages between the judiciary and the executive branch.22 The importance of this factor becomes even clearer when we compare this situation to that in Malawi. There, judges must retire at sixty-five and are allowed to remain on the bench only to finish cases that they have already begun. In at least one instance, this appears to have helped preserve the reputation of the courts' impartiality. In 2002, Chief Justice Richard Banda, an individual suspected of sympathies and informal linkages to then-president Muluzi was forced to retire (VonDoepp 2009). Had he been allowed to stay on, especially on the basis of a contract granted by the executive, this might have undermined the reputation of the judiciary.\n\nThe political context also figures importantly. The key issue in the Zambian case concerns the role of certain 'constituencies' \u2013 like the media \u2013 that scholars have singled out as central to the health of the courts. The role of the media is central, because the declining authority of the judiciary was linked to perceptions, propagated by the media, that the institution was corrupt and captured by elite interests. Yet, it is also the case that key media elements have been aligned with elite interests competing in the political sphere. In this context, rather than 'support' the courts, media outlets may have, for their own reasons, abetted the undermining of their authority.\n\nThis issue is especially relevant when one considers the role of Zambia's largest independent newspaper, The Post. The newspaper and its publisher were deeply embedded in the political fight between Rupiah Banda and Michael Sata, holding strong allegiance, and, by some allegations, financial connections to the latter. While Banda was president from 2008 to 2011, The Post was one of his fiercest critics. In this context, its publisher became the target of a legal investigation and court case concerning his investments and financial dealings. Some suspected that the case was politically motivated.23 As perceptions of ties between President Banda and the chief justice hardened, and as the courts appeared increasingly willing to support Rupiah Banda's efforts against his opponents, The Post and its publisher had a major incentive to discredit the courts. The news and editorial pages were the vehicle they used, quite forcefully, to do so, claiming that the judiciary was compromised and operating in collusion with the executive. Thus, while the narrative of a compromised judiciary may have had some legitimate basis, one of the chief proponents of that narrative had very powerful instrumental reasons to propagate it.\n\nIn the aftermath of Banda's defeat and Sata's ascension to the presidency, it is likely that The Post's publisher continued to view Chief Justice Sakala as a threat. The newspaper's support for reform and 'cleansing' of the judiciary can partly be understood in this light. Moreover, it is notable that all three of the judges that Michael Sata targeted for removal had been involved in the financial case against The Post's publisher and his allies. Some close observers indicated that it was under their encouragement, if not direction, that Sata targeted the three judges.24 Thus in Zambia, the media appear to have facilitated, if not orchestrated, attacks on the courts.\n\nMalawi again provides a contrast. Especially in the late 1990s, during the term of Bakili Muluzi (1994\u20132004), as evidence surfaced that certain judges were aligned to and perhaps compromised by the executive, some voices within the opposition press raised questions about the integrity of individual judges and surreptitious linkages to the president. However, these questions were less about the judiciary than about individual judges (VonDoepp 2009). These claims became even less frequent under the Mutharika administration (2004\u20132012). Indeed, although Mutharika and his allies claimed that the courts were compromised by his opponents, this narrative did not resonate with the independent press and media outlets. In turn, as Mutharika's rule became increasingly authoritarian during his second term, important players continued to see the courts as a potential locus of resistance. When public protests emerged to challenge Mutharika in July 2011, one of the demands was to reverse measures that had eroded the authority of the courts and respect for the rule of law.\n\nFinally, what of the actors within the institution; did they themselves contribute to the fate of the courts? The literature that highlights the central role of such agents in judicial development is instructive, especially in offering guidelines for what judges should do in efforts to build the authority of their institution. In the discussion that follows, I extract two of these guidelines and then consider the behaviour of Zambia's judges in light of them.\n\nOne of the more central themes, presented especially by Scheppele (2006), concerns the extent to which the courts are well served when judges are willing to engage in the 'contact sport' of inter-branch politics. This 'strategic deployment of aggression' involves more than rendering decisions that challenge other branches, and comprises what Trochev and Ellett (2014) describe as 'off-bench' politics. In the cases discussed by Scheppele (2006), this includes making public statements and arguments through the media when the courts or constitutionalism were under attack, and sometimes executives were openly questioned.\n\nMalawi affords examples of such inter-branch sparring, particularly during the Mutharika administration. Despite aggressive rhetoric against the courts and actions against individual judges during the latter part of his first term (2004\u20132009), judges refused to simply kowtow to the government. Indeed, as relations deteriorated, judges continued to demand that government implement pay increases, and even stood by quietly while the Law Society of Malawi filed suit against the government on their behalf. They also quietly refused to attend Independence Day celebrations in July 2007, in apparent protest of rhetorical attacks and insults from the president and his allies against senior judges. Although the chief justice, Leonard Unyolo, resigned in the context of these disputes, his doing so just after the Supreme Court's rendering of a major decision against the government, was seen less as a retreat than a noble exit. And even in the worst days of Mutharika's second term, judges joined in solidarity with judicial workers who were striking over conditions of service.\n\nThere are few analogues to these kinds of actions on the Zambian side. For one, while the High Court rendered some decisions against government, during the Banda and Sata administrations, the Supreme Court was deferential to the government in its decisions. By the author's count, no 'high interest' cases were decided against the government during the period from 2001 to 2014. Judges also did little to assert their authority via 'off-bench' activities. Indeed, when judges, especially those at the senior level, might have challenged the executive in defence of the judiciary, they remained passive and perhaps complicit in the undermining of their institution. For example, in 2003, President Levy Mwanawasa publicly berated a judge for rendering a decision against him, and then called on the judges to avoid issues which may bring the judiciary in conflict with the executive again. Yet senior members of the judiciary kept silent (VonDoepp 2009). In other incidents, under Presidents Mwanawasa and Banda, senior judges allegedly communicated the president's displeasure and tacitly threatened High Court judges who had rendered decisions against the executive.25 The circulation of these stories augmented perceptions that top judges, and thus the institution, were captured by political interests.\n\nA second theme concerns the reputations that judges develop for themselves, and by extension, for their institutions. Crowe (2007), for instance, demonstrates how William Howard Taft was able to build the power and autonomy of the judiciary in the United States by virtue of the respect that he generated by building the administrative efficacy of the courts. Scheppele (2006) suggests that senior judges in Hungary and Russia built images of themselves as intellectual authorities and guardians of constitutionalism. This shaped the respect that their institution enjoyed. An additional component of this, drawing loosely from Widner (1999), is the extent to which senior judges are able to present images of impartiality.\n\nIn the Zambian context, senior judges have been less effective in developing reputations that contribute to the authority of the courts. The primary issue has been perceived proximity to executives and their interests. Chief Justice Ernest Sakala, for instance, came to be seen as allied first to Levy Mwanawasa and then to Rupiah Banda. Much of this was of course based in rumour and perception; yet, Sakala's refusal to shake hands with then-opposition politician Michael Sata in 2010 solidified perceptions that he was tied to President Banda. Indeed, interviews conducted in 2014 with close observers of the judiciary indicated that this perception of closeness undermined his own stature within the institution. In the words of one observer, 'Sakala's problem is that he had been too partial... He had shown his hand as a Rupiah Banda supporter' and, 'had been overbearing with other judges'. Another insider indicated, '(U)nder Rupiah Banda, the apparent closeness with Sakala was a problem'.26 The former chief justice was also perceived as advancing ethno-regional interests in appointments. Given that President Banda came from the same region, this likely further undermined the perceived impartiality of the institution.\n\nThese kinds of perceptions continued after Lombe Chibesakunda, an alleged relative of Michael Sata, was appointed as acting chief justice. Members of her own family also served in official roles in his administration and had claims on traditional leadership positions.27 Moreover, after accepting the controversial appointment on contract, she remained in office even after a parliamentary committee refused to support her and the Law Association of Zambia unanimously declared that she was not qualified to hold office.28 On top of this, certain court actions, such as issuing a controversial ruling through a press release, eroded support from the legal community and civil society.\n\nIn short then, the demise of the court's authority in Zambia reflected both peculiar institutional and political factors, as well as problems with roles and behaviours of the top judicial leadership. The erstwhile lesson for Zambia appears to be that the new chief justice may indeed help to restore the effectiveness of the institution. However, she will not enjoy sole authorship over the course of institutional development. At a broader level, the case helps to illuminate the ways that structure and agency interact to shape the emerging roles of judiciaries, in Africa and elsewhere.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nOver the last few decades, judiciaries have clearly mattered for Africa's democratic and hybrid regimes \u2013 in certain cases, helping to enable the exercise of civil and political liberties, delimit the scope of executive power, and legitimate and stabilise electoral competition. Yet, as we have seen, the development of judiciaries is very much shaped by political and institutional factors, and accepting that their role and performance have varied across contexts, there is pressing need to consider and explore how these factors shape their development as governance-enhancing institutions. Much of this chapter has been devoted to that project. While political factors are often difficult to change, the institutions can be refashioned.\n\nWe have also seen that individuals significantly affect the role and authority of the courts, and shape how judiciaries develop as institutions. Governance activists and policy-makers seeking to enhance the functioning of judiciaries thus do well to target these aspects in reform efforts. Acknowledging the agency of judges, we can appreciate the opportunities for these key agents to purposively shape the governance climates in their societies.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAzu, Miriam. 2013. The role of the judiciary in strengthening democratic governance in Africa: An examination of the resolution of recent presidential election disputes in Ghana and Kenya. Dissertation submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of LLM. Faculty of Law. Addis Ababa University, Ethiopia.\n\nBill Chavez, Rebecca. 2003. 'The construction of the rule of law: A tale of two provinces', Comparative Politics 35, 4: 417\u2013437.\n\nCenter for Democracy and Development/Friedrich Naumann Stiftung. 2000. The judiciary and democratic governance in Ghana's Fourth Republic, Center for Democratic Development \u2013 Ghana.\n\nCrowe, Justin. 2007. 'The forging of judicial autonomy: Political entrepreneurship and the reforms of William Howard Taft', Journal of Politics 69, 1: 73\u201387.\n\nEllett, Rachel. 2015. Judicial independence under the APRM: From rhetoric to reality. Occasional Paper 212: Governance and APRM Programme. Johannesburg, South Africa: South African Institute of International Affairs.\n\nEllett, Rachel. 2013. Pathways to judicial power in transitional states, New York: Routledge.\n\nEllett, Rachel. 2012. Politics of judicial independence in Lesotho. Johannesburg, South Africa: Freedom House Southern Africa.\n\nGinsburg, Tom. 2003. 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'Judicial independence in unstable environments, Argentina 1935\u20131998', American Journal of Political Science 46, 4: 699\u2013716.\n\nKwaku Asare, Stephen. 2007. Accounting for judiciary performance in an emerging democracy: Lessons from Ghana, Center for Democratic Development \u2013 Ghana.\n\nKwarteng, Charles. 2014. 'Swords into ploughshares: The judicial challenge of Ghana's 2012 election results', The Round Table: The Commonwealth Journal of International Affairs 103, 1: 83\u201393.\n\nLarkins, Christopher. 1998. 'The judiciary and delegative democracy in Argentina', Comparative Politics 30, 4: 423\u2013443.\n\nLeakey, Kyela. 2012. The role of the chief justice in Commonwealth Africa: A comparative study of South Africa, Ghana and Kenya. Dissertation submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, University of London.\n\nMakungu, Kenny. 2004. The state of the media in Zambia: From the colonial era to december 2003, Lusaka, Zambia: Media Institute of Southern Africa.\n\nMatibini, Patrick. 2006. The struggle for media law reforms in Zambia, Lusaka, Zambia: Media Institute of Southern Africa.\n\nMutua, Makau. 2001. 'Justice under siege: the rule of law and judicial subservience in Kenya', Human Rights Quarterly 23, 1: 96\u2013118.\n\nNdulo, Muna. 2013. 'Judicial reform, constitutionalism and the rule of law in Zambia: From a justice system to a just system,' Zambia Social Science Journal 2, 1: 1\u201326.\n\nNgongola, Clement. 2002. 'Judicial mediation in electoral politics in Malawi', in Harri Englund (ed.), A democracy of chameleons: Politics and culture in the new Malawi, Nordiska AfrikaInstitutet: 62\u201386.\n\nOjwang, Jackton. 2013. Ascendant judiciary in East Africa: Reconfiguring the balance of power in a democratizing political order, Nairobi, Kenya: Strathmore University Press.\n\nOuma Oseko, Julie. 2011. Judicial independence in Kenya: Constitutional challenges and opportunities for reform. Thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, University of Leicester.\n\nOwusu-Dapaa, Ernest. 2011. 'An exposition and critique of judicial independence under Ghana's 1992 constitution', Commonwealth Law Bulletin 37, 3: 531\u2013560.\n\nPrempeh, Kwasi. 1999. 'A new jurisprudence for Africa', Journal of Democracy 10, 3: 135\u2013149.\n\nPrempeh, Kwasi. 2006. 'Marbury in Africa: Judicial review and the challenge of constitutionalism in contemporary Africa', Tulane Law Review 80, 4: 1239\u20131324.\n\nPrempeh, Kwasi. 2008. 'Presidents untamed', Journal of Democracy 19, 2: 109\u2013123.\n\nRamseyer, Mark J. 1994. 'The puzzling (in)dependence of the courts: A comparative approach', Journal of Legal Studies 23, 2: 721\u2013748.\n\nScheppele, Kim Lane. 2006. 'Guardians of the constitution: Constitutional court presidents and the struggle for the rule of law in Post-Soviet Europe', University of Pennsylvania Law Review 154, 6: 1757\u20131851.\n\nSibalukhulu, Nompumelelo. 2012. The judicial appointment process in Kenya and its implications for judicial independence. Thesis submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements of MPhil in the Faculty of Law, University of Pretoria.\n\nStephenson, Matthew. 2003. 'When the devil turns... .: The political foundations of independent judicial review', Journal of Legal Studies 32: 59\u201389.\n\nTate, C. Neal. 1993. 'Courts and crisis regimes: A theory sketch with Asian case studies', Political Research Quarterly 46, 2: 311\u2013338.\n\nTrochev, Alexei, and Rachel Ellett. 2014. 'Judges and their allies: Re-thinking judicial autonomy through the prism of off-bench resistance', Journal of Law and Courts 2, 1: 67\u201391.\n\nTwinomugisha, Ben Kiromba. 2009. 'The role of the judiciary in the promotion of democracy in Uganda', African Human Rights Journal 9: 1\u201322.\n\nVanberg, Georg. 2000. 'Establishing judicial independence in West Germany: The impact of opinion leadership and the separation of powers', Comparative Politics 32, 3: 333\u2013353.\n\nVonDoepp, Peter. 2005. 'Institutions, resources and elite strategies: Making sense of Malawi's democratic trajectory', in Leonardo Villalon and Peter VonDoepp (eds.), The fate of Africa's democratic experiments: Elites and institutions, Bloomington: Indiana University Press: 175\u2013198.\n\nVonDoepp, Peter. 2009. Judicial Politics in New Democracies: Cases from Southern Africa, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner.\n\nVonDoepp, Peter. 2006. 'Politics and judicial assertiveness in emerging democracies: High court behavior in Malawi and Zambia', Political Research Quarterly 59, 3: 389\u2013399.\n\nVonDoepp, Peter. 2013. 'The rule of law and the courts', in Nic Cheeseman, David Anderson and Andrea Scheibler (eds.), Routledge handbook of African politics, New York: Routledge.\n\nVonDoepp, Peter and Rachel Ellett. 2011. 'Reworking strategic models of executive-judicial relations: Insights from new African democracies', Comparative Politics 43, 2: 147\u2013165.\n\nVonDoepp, Peter and Daniel Young. 2016. 'Holding the state at bay: Understanding media freedoms in Africa', Democratization 23, 7: 1101\u20131121.\n\nWidner, Jennifer, 1999. 'Building Judicial Independence in Common Law Africa', in Andreas Schedler, Larry Diamond and Mark Plattner (eds.), The self-restraining state: Power and accountability in new democracies. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 177\u2013194.\n\nWidner, Jennifer, 2001. Building the rule of law: Francis Nyalali and the road to judicial independence in Africa. New York: W.W. Norton.\n\n1 Media Legal Defense Initiative. 30 August 2010. 'Uganda: using the law to fight for media freedom', www.mediadefence.org/article/uganda-using-law-fight-media-freedom.\n\n2 For more discussion also see Center for Democracy and Development/Friedrich Naumann Stiftung (2000).\n\n3 See Kapiszewski (2007: 18), cited in Hilbink (2012: 588).\n\n4 See Rios Figueroa (2006), cited in Ellett (2013): 27.\n\n5 See also Mutua (2001) on the Kenyan case prior to 2010, or Ellett (2012) on Lesotho.\n\n6 See also Ngongola (2002) on Malawi.\n\n7 Author interviews and correspondence 2014 and 2015.\n\n8 See, for example, Times of Zambia. 19 December 2009. 'An erosion of confidence in the judiciary', <http://allafrica.com/stories/200912211023.html>.\n\n9 George Chellah, 'There's collusion between Chief Justice, Rupiah \u2013HH', The Post, 19 November 2009; George Chellah, 'Parliament, judiciary have destroyed democracy by protecting rebel MPs \u2013 Sata', The Post, 23 November 2009.\n\n10 Ernest Chanda, 'Archbishop defends criticism of Judiciary', The Post, 29 September 2010; Salim Dawood, 'Selective application of justice worries CCZ', The Post, 7 November 2010; 'Zambia's judiciary needs redemption \u2013 Nalubamba', The Post, 19 August 2010.\n\n11 The Post. 29 September 2010. 'A disgraced judiciary', <http://maravi.blogspot.co.uk/2010/09/disgraced-judiciary.html>.\n\n12 Such calls came from The Post, the Law Association of Zambia and the Zambian chapter of Transparency International.\n\n13 See Arthur Simuchomba. 29 January 2012. 'Chief Justice under Fire', Sunday Times (South Africa), www.timeslive.co.za/africa/2012/01/29/chief-justice-under-fire.\n\n14 Kombe Chimpinde and Mwala Kalaluka. 26 May 2012. 'Judge Chisanga Personal \u2013 Zulu', The Post, <http://maravi.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/judge-chisanga-personal-zulu.html>; Zambia Reports. 1 June 2012. 'Zulu threatens to dissolve Zambia's judiciary', <http://zambiareports.com/2012/06/01/zulu-threatens-to-dissolve-zambias-judiciary/>.\n\n15 Nse Udoh. 1 June 2012. 'Council of churches joins PF attack on judiciary', Zambia Reports, <http://zambiareports.com/2012/06/01/council-of-churches-joins-pf-attack-on-judiciary/>.\n\n16 Sata's administration remained openly hostile to the courts. On one occasion, police violated a court order allowing an opposition party to hold a rally. Sata also suspended two more judges in May of 2013.\n\n17 Lusaka Times. 26 July 2012. 'Select Committee rejection of Justice Lombe Chibesakunda is final, she can't be chief justice-LAZ', www.lusakatimes.com/2013/07/26/select-committee-rejection-of-justice-lombe-chibesakunda-is-final-she-cant-be-chief-justice-laz/.\n\n18 Mail and Guardian (South Africa). 31 May 2013. 'Zambia's Sata defies calls to oust \"biased\" chief justice', http://mg.co.za/article/2013\u201305-31-zambias-sata-defies-call-to-oust-biased-chief-justice.\n\n19 Lusaka Times. 24 September 2013. 'LAZ in court to have Chief Justice Lombe Chibesakunda Removed', www.lusakatimes.com/2013/09/24/laz-in-court-to-have-chief-justice-lombe-chibesakunda-removed/.\n\n20 Zambian civil society leaders. August 2014. Interviews, Lusaka.\n\n21 Elias Munshya. 23 October 2013. 'Justice on contract: Judges, the President & the future of our democracy', <https://eliasmunshya.org/2013/09/23/justice-on-contract-judges-the-president-the-future-of-our-democracy/>.\n\n22 'A captive chief justice or a victim of a vicious criminal cartel', originally published in the Times of Zambia, www.facebook.com/barbrah.chama.942/posts/1532473216998602.\n\n23 See 'GRZ Turning the Screws on Zambian Airways', confidential cable authored by US Ambassador Donald Booth, 9 April 2009, <https://wikileaks.org/plusd/cables/09LUSAKA246_a.html>.\n\n24 Civil society activists. August 2014. Interviews, Lusaka.\n\n25 Judicial and legal officials. 2009 and 2014. Interviews, Lusaka.\n\n26 Civil society activists. 2014. Interviews, Lusaka.\n\n27 Zambian Watchdog. 13 November 2013. 'Sata sends police to arrest Chitimukulu for impersonation', www.zambiawatchdog.com/sata-sends-police-to-arrest-chitimukulu-for-impersonation/.\n\n28 Lusaka Times. 24 August 2013. 'LAZ maintains Justice Chibesakunda is not qualified, want a new chief justice within a Month', www.lusakatimes.com/2013/08/24/laz-maintains-justice-chibesakunda-is-not-qualified-want-a-new-chief-justice-within-a-month/.\n\n# 14 Decentralisation\n\n## Accountability in Local Government\n\nAlex Dyzenhaus\n\nAfrican presidents have historically controlled politics on the continent through highly centralised states, a situation that is enshrined in around 80 per cent of African constitutions (Kuperman 2015). But in the past several decades, various reforms have sought to decentralise African states and transfer both power and resources from central governments to subnational ones. Some policymakers, development agencies, civil society organisations and academics advocate for such reforms in the hope that they will realise a number of benefits, including reducing local and national conflict, alleviating poverty, creating greater efficiency in service delivery, enhancing public participation and more generally deepening democracy (Crawford and Hartmann 2008; Dickovick and Riedl 2010).\n\nBut scholars of decentralised political institutions in Africa and the broader developing world are divided about whether such institutions in the majority of cases work as intended or, indeed, work against these goals. In the ideal case, decentralised governments are more responsive to their citizens, more aware of their needs, better at delivering services and more capable of collecting taxes. However, there are a number of barriers to decentralisation that can impede these gains or even exacerbate the problems that decentralisation sought to resolve (Crawford and Hartmann 2008).\n\nThis chapter focuses on the question of when, and why, decentralisation fulfils its promise to enhance local accountability. In some cases, decentralisation may increase accountability, but in others it can lead to minimal change or simply the transfer of corrupt practices from national to local governments (Crawford and Hartmann 2008). The existing literature highlights a number of factors that shape the quality of accountability in devolved systems, such as the strength of citizens and civil society (Sisk 2001), and the extent of local elite and political usurpation of newly decentralised institutions (Wunsch 2001, 2014). This process of capture is said to impede accountability, by directing the efforts of decentralised institutions away from the local interests towards the interests of national or local elites. Thus, informal practices of patronage undermine the process of strengthening formal institutions.\n\nWhile acknowledging these factors, drawing on the experience of Kenya I demonstrate the potential of decentralisation for strengthening ties of local accountability. Following the introduction of the 2010 constitution, and the subsequent election of forty-seven new county governments in 2013, Kenya presents an important case for exploring how devolution can be used to enhance accountability in the African context. To date, much of the discussion on devolution in Kenya has focused on the spread of corruption and mismanagement that has characterised county-level governments. Following Helmke and Levitsky (2006) \u2013 and their interest in understanding how informal and formal institutions may not always act in competition but may complement each other \u2013 I demonstrate the ways in which county leaders have promoted a system of horizontal accountability between different figures at the county level. This kind of often opportunistic defence of the rules of the game echoes the parliamentary marriages of convenience documented by Joel Barkan (2009). He argues that these arrangements have the potential to evolve into effective 'coalitions for change', supporting processes of legislative strengthening (for a full discussion, see Collord, Chapter 12). One might even argue that giving power and resources to local legislators could increase local vertical accountability by reinforcing an institution that is more accessible to the average voter and provides more widely shared development resources. However, such an argument is beyond the scope of this chapter.\n\nTo illustrate this argument on horizontal accountability, I draw on the experiences of two Kenyan counties: Embu and Kericho. The governors of both counties faced (ultimately unsuccessful) impeachment motions from their county assemblies, and therefore provide interesting case studies for exploring inter-institutional conflict in the context of decentralisation. Many commentators argue that these impeachments demonstrated attempted power grabs by various local and national elites (Shilaho 2015). While these accounts contain a great deal of truth, they also overlook efforts by assembly members to increase accountability, whatever their motives. The governors of both Embu and Kericho were reluctant to work with other county officials, and much of the reason for their impeachments was to bring them into the formal institutional fold at the county level. Using a variety of newspaper sources as well as over thirty interviews1, conducted in Kenya in the summer of 2014 and January 2015, I show how these attempted impeachments were triggered by a mix of motives that involved both self-interest and commitment to institutional accountability \u2013 such motives are not mutually exclusive, but indeed, appear to have been mutually reinforcing.\n\nKenya is one of a number of countries that have introduced decentralised systems of governance, but the Kenyan experience will not necessarily be repeated elsewhere. For one thing, significantly more power has been devolved in Kenya than has usually been the case in other parts of Africa. After the election of local governments in 2013, national authorities tried to prevent the county governments from assuming various responsibilities (Ghai 2015: 137; Shilaho 2015: 148), but early evidence suggests that the counties have seized the power afforded to them by the constitution and consolidated it against national interests (Cheeseman et al. 2016). While the fate of decentralisation in other countries has been less impressive, the Kenyan case provides an interesting opportunity for analysing how local dynamics play out in a strongly decentralised context, in ways that may not always advantage national elites \u2013 where formal institutions seem to interact with the informal practices and behaviours of local elites in an unexpected way.\n\nMy cases challenge the commonly held conception \u2013 explored in detail in the following section \u2013 that corruption and patronage always work against accountability and thus undermine local government. I find that when local governments have genuine and tangible powers, the pursuit of patronage resources may go hand-in-hand with pushing for accountability. In other words, informal practices and networks can work towards the strengthening and consolidation of institutions rather than their subversion, and can create more accountable local governments.\n\n# Decentralisation in Africa: Impeding Accountability\n\nIn the 1980s, international financial institutions like the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank and other donor agencies saw decentralisation as a means to shrink the powers of African states (Ndegwa 2002). In their eyes, African governments were oversized and predatory, and to make the state more efficient one had to take its power away through decentralisation and privatisation. There are two major ways in which these reforms have played out: through devolution and deconcentration.2 Devolution (also known as political or democratic decentralisation) is perhaps the strongest form of decentralisation, and it involves a transfer of powers and resources from the central government to an independent and elected local authority. Deconcentration (or administrative decentralisation) is much less substantial and usually consists of a transfer of powers from the central government to local branches and unelected representatives of the central government \u2013 which in many cases enhances, rather than weakens, the control of central government. On the whole, African leaders proved able to manipulate the proposed reforms in order to protect their own power (van de Walle 2001), ensuring deconcentration rather than devolution.\n\nPartly as a result, the late 1980s and 1990s saw a change in the goals of decentralisation. In this phase, decentralisation became less about promoting efficiency and more about creating local democracy and giving communities ownership of, and power over, political processes and development around them (Kauzya 2007: 90). However, this second iteration of the decentralisation agenda also met with limited success. In a fairly comprehensive survey of African states conducted in 2002, Stephen Ndegwa found that of thirty states with available data, all had a semblance of local government institutions, but only two had decentralised to a high degree; eleven had moderately decentralised; thirteen had a low degree of decentralisation; and a final four (as well as probably many of the countries with insufficient data) had nominal or no decentralisation at all. While nearly all countries had some semblance of political decentralisation, only half had moderate or high levels of decentralisation according to Ndegwa's index.\n\nA more recent survey by Anwar Shah and Maksym Ivanyna (2014) deployed indicators from 2005 to measure decentralisation worldwide. It found that African states were poorly decentralised compared to their counterparts in Europe, Asia and Latin America when measured by political, fiscal and administrative indicators. Only ten African states are located in the top hundred on this indicator, and the highest ranked was Ethiopia at 37 (others included South Africa, Uganda, Nigeria, Tanzania, Sudan, Ghana, Senegal, Morocco and Kenya). Ivanyna and Shah also created a binary variable to reflect the level of political decentralisation, rating countries on a 0\u20131 scale based on whether local governments have a directly elected legislature and executive, as well as the degree to which public participation is enshrined in the procedure of local politics. Using this as a proxy for understanding political decentralisation is interesting, because it ranks African countries in a much more favourable light relative to the rest of the world, with eighteen states appearing in the top 100, and Uganda ranking twenty-third overall. The index for African states with a ranking of 0.25 or higher is outlined in Figure 14.1.3\n\nFigure 14.1\n\nPolitical decentralisation in Africa (2010)\n\nIn recent years, decentralisation reforms have been introduced or mooted in countries as diverse as Kenya, Liberia and Zambia. This chapter addresses this more recent trend in devolution and political decentralisation that sees an increase in the number of countries over the last two decades committing \u2013 rhetorically at least \u2013 to some form of decentralisation, with many states either adopting subnational elected bodies or deepening the power of existing subnational governments (Dickovick and Riedl 2010). For example, the Ugandan Local Governments Act of 1997 changed the local government structure from one that had directly elected village committees appoint the superior tier of local government (which would, in turn, appoint the next superior tier, and so on), to one where people directly-elected each tier of local government (Steiner 2008). But the creation of so many new subnationally elected governments across the continent does not necessarily imply that the quality of accountability has improved. Rather, one must carefully investigate these cases to work out how local government respond and interact with local citizens, the central government or other local government bodies.\n\nBefore developing answers to these questions, it is important to say a word about terminology. Only three African countries (Nigeria, Ethiopia and South Africa) have instituted fully fledged federalism, whereby decentralised units are constitutionally recognised as having sovereign powers at the local level and a veto on national decisions that affect them. Federalism is typically viewed as a particularly strong set of arrangements in the sense that it creates constitutionally independent subnational units. While this is true, subnational governments in more centralised states may still have a significant impact on the distribution of power. In Kenya, for example, the system of decentralisation established in 2010 is very similar to a federal model, with provisions for the direct election of county level leaders enshrined in the constitution (Cheeseman et al. 2016).\n\nIn each of these counties, subnational governments have been organised in very different ways: around boards, assemblies, executives or councils at the district, state, county or municipal level. Some, like the Nigerian states, reflect the national governance structure, with a governor taking the place of a president and a state assembly taking the place of a national one. The Ugandan system is multi-layered, with five tiers of local councils that see districts and cities taking on the largest role, while villages are the smallest and least powerful unit. These smaller councils receive fewer funds than the larger federal Nigerian states. Alongside its subnational provincial governments, South Africa also has tried to merge local traditional governance structures with more formal subnational government in rural areas (Ntsebeza 2005). But even with the existence of such varied institutional configurations, a similar question arises: does decentralisation increase the accountability of government, or does it do little to change accountability or, in fact, further empower established political leaders?\n\n## Theories of Decentralisation and Accountability\n\nBy bringing democracy closer to communities, decentralisation is meant to increase public control of government and public policy, creating a more accountable and responsive political system (Sisk 2001: 24). Accountability largely operates in three ways in the ideal-type decentralised government. Local governments are vertically accountable to the people below them (downward accountability) and the national government institutions above them (upward accountability), while they are also horizontally accountable to other local institutions that surround them (Agrawal and Ribot 1999; Wunsch 2014). In an ideal three-pronged system of accountability, 'central officials must support and monitor decentralisation in a controlled way', 'local officials must learn to work with elected representatives and other actors' and 'perhaps, most critically, local people must learn to hold local officials responsible' (Smoke 2003: 14).\n\nHowever, accountability does not necessarily follow from the creation of subnational units, and local governments \u2013 fairly unaccountable to their constituencies \u2013 often answer only to the central government and local elites. A USAID-based study managed by J. Tyler Dickovick and Rachel Beatty Riedl (2010) conducted in-depth case studies of ten African states with a relatively high level of political decentralisation. The resulting analysis revealed severe obstacles for accountable and responsive subnational governments, even in cases that already showed high levels of political decentralisation. In particular, the literature to date has identified three main barriers. First, national governments can look to control local institutions in the name of vertical accountability, but their real motive may have less to do with accountability and more to do with regaining control over local politics and resources (Dickovick and Riedl 2010; Wunsch 2014; Cheeseman et al. 2016). Second, local elites can capture decentralised institutions, circumventing downward accountability to the residents (Wunsch 2001, 2014). Finally, the weakness of local legislative bodies as compared to the local civil service or executive means that horizontal accountability can be ineffective (Steiner 2008).\n\nThe first of these barriers results from the actions of national governments. Their legacy of a strong central authority goes back to the colonial era, but the trend crystallised during the post-independence authoritarian era in the 1960s and 1970s and was somewhat counterintuitively entrenched during the era of structural adjustment, despite the pressure to reduce the size of the government (van de Walle 2001). In part, this is because national leaders in Africa have often been able to co-opt and dominate subnational leaders via patron-client ties and other forms of personal persuasion. Thus, in the terms set out in Chapter 15, the formal institution of decentralisation is often seen as being undermined by the presence of a strong set of competing informal institutions.\n\nIn Africa, powerful central authorities often seek to undo attempts at decentralisation by attacking the new local institutions, assuming their responsibility or co-opting them to serve the interests of the centre (Wunsch 2001; Boone 2003). A good example of this practice can be found in Kenya's attempt at decentralisation in the 1980s through the District Focus for Rural Development (DfRD) programme. On its surface, the DfRD aimed to decentralise development capabilities to local authorities through deconcentration. But Daniel Arap Moi, Kenya's then president, also used it to undermine the power structures left by his predecessor, Jomo Kenyatta (Barkan and Chege 1989; Lynch 2011). By going straight to the districts, Moi was able to circumvent the powerful provincial administrations and establish his own network of loyal administrators who could service his own constituencies ahead of Kenyatta's. Yoweri Museveni's decentralisation reforms in Uganda were similarly useful in undermining his predecessors and opponents (Lewis 2014) and spreading support for his own party (Kauzya 2007).\n\nThe local accountability and responsiveness of decentralised institutions is not only threatened by national elites; subnational political institutions are also prone to elite capture by local elites and pre-existing informal networks of patronage. Thus, rather than delivering more accountable local government, subnational institutions may turn out to be even more corrupt than their national counterparts, a decentralising of corruption from the national level to the local one (Watt et al. 1999: 48). Thus, new subnational institutions may become vulnerable to the same kinds of neo-patrimonial networks that run through other political institutions, with the consequence that decentralisation simply adds another layer of interest to the already corrupt and complex system of local politics (Olivier de Sardan 1999; Bierschenk and Olivier de Sardan 2003: 166\u2013167). According to Susan Steiner, elite capture is feasible because 'those with vested interests are capable of turning the institutions and opportunities created by decentralisation to their own advantage' (2008: 58). The common theme running through this literature is that when elite capture occurs, 'there is no reason to expect that [decentralised] institutions will work for the benefit of anyone but [elites]', thereby making local government unaccountable (Wunsch 2014: 8).\n\nFinally, local institutional incapacity may undermine prospects for horizontal accountability, irrespective of the actions of national elites. In his analysis of decentralisation in Africa and Asia, Paul Smoke points out how decentralised local institutions should aim to create a new degree of independence from national elites, and warns that if this lack of accountability 'is not replaced by a degree of accountability to local people, local officials may become primarily accountable to themselves and influential local elites' (2003: 11). Yet, local legislatures meant to serve as a check against local executive representatives, and draft local legislation, are often staffed with poorly trained and educated people, unable to understand their roles and therefore act outside their formal responsibilities (Steiner 2008: 52). This makes horizontal accountability ineffective, especially against better-staffed local executives. Given the general depiction of untrained local officials acting in an unclear local institutional framework (Chinsinga 2008), it is not surprising that competition between local governmental institutions (the legislature, the executive and the public service) is usually viewed as a scramble for patronage funds, rather than an attempt to secure better policy.\n\nThe danger of national manipulation and subnational dysfunctionality implies that the task of holding local governments to account will often fall largely on local voters themselves. Indeed, some scholars (Sisk 2001) do not even address horizontal accountability, and instead focus their analysis on the question of whether a supportive national elite exists, and whether local governments establish accountable relationships with their electorates. For example, Agrawal and Ribot explicitly state that achieving horizontal accountability in decentralised institutions is less important, and that 'downward accountability... is the primary dimension of decentralisation since it can broaden the participation of local populations and enhances the responsiveness of empowered actors' (Agrawal and Ribot 1999: 479, emphasis added). However, the case of decentralisation in Kenya suggests that it would be unwise to throw the baby out with the bathwater.\n\n# The Kenyan Case in Comparative Perspective\n\nOne seemingly obvious but important finding from Susan Steiner's study in Uganda is that decentralisation does not increase accountability unless it is accompanied by 'the establishment and enforcement of accountability mechanisms, such as competitive elections, auditing and evaluation, public hearing, third-party monitoring... and procedures for recall' (Steiner 2008: 38). In the case of Uganda, Steiner found that since councils had to rely on conditional transfers from the national government, autonomy from the central state was difficult to establish with decreased capacity and perceptions of increased corruption as one proceeded down the five tiers of local councils in Uganda. Without accessible mechanisms for accountability at the local level, there was little hope for decentralisation having a positive effect on government accountability.\n\nOne such mechanism for improving accountability in many local governments is the ability to recall or indict corrupt elected or appointed officials. The impeachments of Nigeria's state governors and their assemblies provide a case for such recall. However, these processes have also been subject to much criticism in devolution's ability to increase accountability. Joseph Fashagba (2015) and Yayaya Baba (2015) find that when impeachments happen in Nigeria's states, they often originate when the national government attempts to remove governors who were in a party opposing the president's party at the national level. Otherwise, 'state legislatures largely function as mere appendages of the governors' and therefore are too weak to make any sincere attempts at holding the executive to account (Baba 2015: 139).\n\nHowever, such concerns of central domination of decentralised institutions have been less prevalent in the Kenyan case, where the new county assemblies have been granted similar impeachment powers. This is because sufficient local pressures on subnational leaders to satisfy the demands of vocal local electorates have made it dangerous to simply 'sell out' to national elites (Cheeseman et al. 2016). As a result, in Kenya, the way that devolution has played out has been strongly shaped by local, rather than national, issues. In the analysis that follows, by comparing the varied outcomes of local impeachment processes in two subnational authorities, I argue that informal institutions such as neo-patrimonialism (and attendant local competition over authority and state resources) may actually play a role in promoting accountability in new political institutions, and serving as a motivating force for horizontal accountability.\n\n## Devolution in Kenya\n\nKenya devolved power to forty-seven new counties following the March 2013 elections, as directed by the 2010 Constitution. The county governments are much more powerful than the previous districts were under Moi, and they receive 15 per cent of national government revenue, which is then allocated to individual counties by a formula that takes into account factors like size, population, degree of economic marginalisation and capacity of counties to raise revenue through limited taxes, including property taxes. While the districts were mere branches of the national government administration, county governments have almost unimpeded control over how they spend that money in a number of devolved sectors. The formal responsibilities of the county governments encompass infrastructure projects like public works (such as water infrastructure and roads), early childhood education, some agricultural sectors and, perhaps most importantly, healthcare.\n\nAdditionally, such power over resources is subsumed under a democratic mandate. In the pre-devolution era, decentralised administrators controlled development resources while elected local councillors had few resources at their disposal. The new county system is very much a politically, fiscally, administratively and democratically decentralised one. By contrast to many other subnational governments in Africa, which struggle to prise resources away from the national government, in Kenya elected county officials control the allocation of vast development resources (Dickovick and Riedl 2010).\n\nThe constitution outlines a number of formal roles for county officials. The governor, who is elected by all voters within the county, heads the executive, while the assembly acts as both a legislative body and a check against the governor's executive power. The assembly is populated by members of county assembly (MCAs), two-thirds of whom are elected in wards by a first-past-the-post-system, while parties appoint the final third to ensure the assembly represents minority and marginalised groups. This gives the local electorate considerable control over the composition of the assembly, in contrast to many other systems with higher rates of appointments. For example, in Ghana's local governments, the president directly appoints 30 per cent of local authority members, and these appointees are often more loyal to the president and ruling party than they are concerned with local interests (Ayee and Dickovick 2010). Having the local parties control nominations in Kenya circumvents this national control to some degree, especially as the distribution of appointment members reflects parties' local popularity. Finally, each county elects a senator to serve in the Kenyan senate, a newly created second chamber, envisioned as the guardian of the devolution process.\n\nThe focus of this chapter is the county assembly's significant capacity to hold the executive accountable horizontally through the approval or dismal of governor's appointments (for example, to the county executive committee), as well as oversight over the county budget. These formal powers of local scrutiny over executive actions, underpinned by the assemblies' ability to impeach the governor by a two-thirds majority vote (Republic of Kenya 2012: S.33), enable MCAs to hold governors to account, setting the scene for a series of prolonged power struggles within Kenya's counties.\n\nWhile the County Governments Act (CGA) confusingly does not outline specific charges that constitute a minimum benchmark for impeachment proceedings for governors, roles of impeachment for the president provide some guidelines, and a governor can be impeached for having acted illegally, unconstitutionally or improperly in such a way as to constitute 'gross misconduct' (Republic of Kenya 2010: S.145.1.c). The CGA does state that any impeachment motion is to be referred to the senate, where a committee will decide whether the claims are legitimate (Republic of Kenya 2012: S.33). If the committee upholds the impeachment, then a majority vote within the senate will impeach a governor, and the governor will be replaced by his or her deputy governor. If not, then the governor remains in office to finish out his or her term.\n\nImpeachments in Kenya are thus more local affairs than in a country like Ghana, where the president can use the 30 per cent of assembly members appointed to control the impeachment of the local 'Chief Executive' (Ayee and Dickovick 2010). In the initial two years of the devolved era, much of the local political competition in Kenya has revolved around executive and legislative struggles over who controls development resources (Ghai 2015: 133). Most notably, Kenya experienced several impeachment bids in 2014, starting in Embu and Kericho counties. More recently, the Makueni county assembly voted to impeach its governor, and many other county assemblies such as Nakuru4 have come close to impeaching their governors. In analysing these impeachment processes, I seek to trace the role played by formal and informal institutions in shaping local struggles over resources and executive accountability.\n\n## Embu and Kericho Counties\n\nEmbu and Kericho are two of Kenya's smaller counties. They are largely agricultural and moderately resource-rich. Embu, located in the Mt Kenya East region, is home to just over 500,000 people and is one of Kenya's more multi-ethnic counties with over half of its population hailing from the Embu community, a third from Mbeere and the rest from the Kamba or Kikuyu communities. Ahead of the county government elections in 2013, Embu elites forged a power-sharing agreement that stipulated that the governor would come from the Embu ethnicity, while the deputy governor and senator would be Mbeere.5 Following this agreement, appointments in both the assembly and governor's executive were made to reflect the ethnic breakdown of the county. The county assembly contains thirty-three MCAs (twenty of whom have been elected and thirteen appointed). The various county positions are shared predominately between two parties, The National Alliance (TNA) and the Alliance Party of Kenya (APK).\n\nKericho, which can be found in the South Rift Valley is much more ethnically homogenous. Nearly 90 per cent of the county's 750,000 strong population are Kalenjin, mostly from the Kipsigis sub-group. The governor, senator, MPs, executive and all but one of the forty-seven MCAs are Kipsigis (thirty were elected and seventeen appointed), and all MCAs (except one) are from the United Republican Party (URP). The county has been the site of several instances of electoral violence, where the Kipsigis have instigated attacks against the minority Kikuyu, Luo, Luhya and Kisii populations, who have at times retaliated with violence of their own (Akiwumi 1999; Throup and Hornsby 1998). While the 2013 elections were marked by the absence of overt violence, there is effectively no representation of these minorities in the county government (Dyzenhaus 2015).6\n\nEmbu and Kericho are unlike each other in most aspects. Indeed, the only clear similarity is that the three parties represented in both counties are allies of the current ruling Jubilee Alliance at the national level. Despite this, their experiences under devolution reveal some interesting parallels: these two counties were the first two cases of gubernatorial impeachment in Kenya, and the governors in both cases emerged from their impeachment difficulties with their positions intact, but their powers greatly diluted. This similar experience, in counties that are otherwise very different, demonstrates the potential for devolution to generate horizontal accountability.\n\n# Impeachments: Background and Motives\n\nEmbu's county politics have continued to be rocky and unpredictable. The runner-up challenged the governor elect, Martin Wambora, and appealed his vote, keeping him out of office for three months in early 2013.7 Eventually sworn in as the governor of Embu County, Wambora began his work as an already suspect county executive in a county that had begun to attempt to work without the executive branch for months.8 Partly as a result, Wambora viewed with suspicion key actors in the county government, like the senator and the county assembly speaker.9 For example, Wambora refused to sit on a county stakeholder committee organised by the senator, Lenny Kivuti, because the committee had been active in his absence.10\n\nAt the end of January 2014, the county assembly had impeached Wambora, with twenty-two of the thirty-three MCAs voting for the motion, and the senate upheld the impeachment several weeks later. They alleged that Wambora had spent more than five times what he had allocated on redeveloping the stadium in Embu Town, spent 35 million Kenyan Shillings (KSh) on maize seeds for farmers that did not germinate and that he had acted improperly in the tendering of both contracts.11 Wambora challenged his impeachment in the Embu High Court, which, in April, ruled in his favour.12 But later that month, twenty-three MCAs voted to impeach Wambora again, and again the senate voted in favour of the impeachment.13 Wambora's appeals continued into 2015, with various court rulings declaring him free to govern, while senate and assembly rulings as well as other court decisions determined he was legally impeached.14 It was only in December 2015, nearly two years after the first impeachment motion, that an appeal court absolved Wambora of the impeachment charges.15\n\nKericho's impeachment process was comparatively short-lived. Paul Chepkwony, Kericho's URP and Kipsigis governor, had won his position with over 70 per cent of the vote, maintaining a large degree of popularity with his Kipsigis supporters for promising to address the issue of the colonial acquisition and foreign ownership of the area's large tea estates.16 However, while Chepkwony may have enjoyed a stronger local support base, he also ran into trouble with his county assembly quite early on. First erring with the appointment of a number of civil servants (including CECs), without following the official hiring process; he subsequently prevented MCAs from using county money to travel abroad.17 This led to the tabling of a unanimously supported impeachment motion in the county assembly in May 2013, although local Kipsigis elders stepped in and brokered a truce between the executive and legislature.18 Despite the elders' intervention, Chepkwony's relations with his assembly continued to worsen, with the assembly stalling many of Chepkwony's projects. Frustrated by the intransigence of the MCAs, Chepkwony tried to subcontract ambulance services to the Kenya Red Cross and sign a deal with a firm to begin a solar power project without the assembly's consent.19\n\nWhen tensions rose even further, Chepkwony took the issue to the Kericho High Court to clarify the role of the executive and assembly. This prompted thirty-two MCAs to vote to impeach him again in May 2014, this time on the basis of his alleged violation of several acts surrounding public-private partnerships and the distribution of government contracts. This time his rivals \u2013 which included national level figures such the Deputy President William Ruto and the county's senator \u2013 mobilised to send the issue straight to the senate.20\n\nIn contrast to Wambora's drawn-out battle with the senate, a senate committee ruled Chepkwony's errors to be insufficient grounds for impeachment within a month; and, thus, Chepkwony continued to rule as governor.21 Some have even alleged that the accusations against him were accurate, but that the senate chose to let Chepkwony return to office fearing a second impeachment might lead to a nationwide impeachment crisis, setting precedent for other assemblies.22 Chepkwony was also helped by his local popularity; elders mediated in favour of Chepkwony and thousands of residents signed a petition against the impeachment, denouncing the deputy president.23 The ability of Chepkwony to withstand a national move against him by the deputy president reflected his popular support, but also stands as testimony to the independence of Kenya's county governments.\n\n## Elite Capture and the Impeachment Process\n\nHow can we explain the rise of impeachment at the county level in Kenya? According to some scholars, it may represent the devolution of corruption as assembly members \u2013 and the communities they represent \u2013 demand 'their turn to eat' (D'Arcy and Cornell 2014). Following from this interpretation, decentralisation creates the conditions for local competition over resources and the extortion of the executive by the assembly, and such legislators are primarily motivated not by a desire to strengthen subnational institutions, but by a shortage of resources for securing re-election (Cheeseman et al. 2016).24 These accounts are accurate up to a point.\n\nIt is true that many MCAs in both Embu and Kericho desired to control county development resources. As one civil society activist in Embu explained:\n\nWhen the governor does just a little thing without involving the MCAs, that arises to be an issue. And instead of them solving it amicably... the MCAs see an opportunity to impeach a governor so that they can get that position and be the head of the county governments.25\n\nIndeed, Embu's MCAs proved able to assert a huge amount of authority over the development resources in the county. In the 2013/2014 budget, the MCAs tried to push through funding for ward projects for each of the twenty elected MCAs that would start out at 16.2 million KSh per ward, increasing to 20 million in 2014/2015.26 One audacious attempt saw Embu's MCAs ask for monthly salaries for their 'lonely' spouses.27 A bill passed in the county assembly in January 2015 \u2013 while the impeachment proceedings were still ongoing \u2013 confirmed that 10 per cent of the county's money would go towards a Ward Development Fund for Embu's MCAs.28 In his bid to evade impeachment proceedings, Wambora had to tame his mutinying MCAs by awarding them with contracts and tenders, eventually carving out a loyal faction in the assembly to stop further impeachments.29 This shows how MCAs in Embu were able to use leverage they gained through the impeachment process to capture devolved resources outside their formal constitutional role as local legislators.\n\nIn Kericho, the elected MCAs have made similar gains; 'the powers of the governor and the executive have been significantly diluted'.30 MCAs can influence the appointments of the county executive's ward administrators (who control development at the ward level), providing them with greater control over development expenditure in their wards.31 Yet, while Kericho's MCAs have a tighter grip on tenders and contracts and often award them to friends, family and supporters since the impeachment process, it is worth noting that there was never a serious bid to give Kericho's MCAs direct control over resources in the form of 'projects' or 'funds' for their wards,32 as there was in Embu.33 In large part, this reflects Chepkwony's stronger position within the county, which ensured that he never became as desperate as Wambora.\n\nWhat is evident from the above analysis is a clear desire by local legislators in both counties to capture decentralised development resources in order to sustain their informal patronage networks in ways that moved well beyond the formal role of MCAs set out in the constitution. In Embu, MCAs exerted a stronger and more direct grip on development funds through Ward Development Funds, while the MCAs in Kericho controlled some tenders or contracts and indirectly managed county funds through their relationships with ward administrators. However, the impeachment proceedings in these counties cannot simply be reduced to a scramble for resources. It would be unfair to argue that MCAs impeached the governor just to receive the Ward Development Fund and salaries for their spouses. Both Kericho and Embu also had a degree of national-level elite involvement in the impeachment process. For instance, in Embu, both the senator, Kivuti, and the MP who had initially coaxed Wambora to join TNA were said to have stoked the flames of impeachment.34\n\n## Accountability as a Motive for Impeachment\n\nRather, in examining the underlying reasons for Embu's impeachment motion, one can see how it was, to some extent, a bid to establish executive accountability in the county. Instead of trusting other branches of government, given his delayed arrival in county politics, Wambora concentrated power with his county secretary, Margaret Kariuki.35 Kariuki controlled executive spending, was unwilling to make political compromises or concede resources or control to Wambora's perceived rivals, like the senator and the assembly.36 The county secretary had sourced maize seeds that failed to germinate,37 and the MCAs used this as an opportunity to demand that Wambora replace her with someone more neutral. He even ignored the demands of local MP Cecily Mbarire, Wambora's powerful sponsor within his party, to change his county secretary, which lost him the support of his own political party.38 Altogether, these actions added to a perception that Wambora's administration favoured the section of Embu from which both Wambora and Kariuki hailed.39\n\nWambora's impeachment was a sign of his isolation from county politics, and instead of negotiating with the assembly Wambora took the issue to the courts. Had he made minor concessions such as reshuffling his county executive committee, he may have avoided an impeachment debacle that dragged on for twenty-three months.40 MCAs' determination to impeach the governor reflected their need for patronage resources, but also a growing sense of frustration with a governor unwilling to compromise and make concessions to improve the functioning of the county. It was only in January of 2015 that Wambora finally bowed to pressure and appointed a county secretary who could better manage the assembly through strategic political concessions.41\n\nIn Kericho, Chepkwony behaved in a similar fashion, working around the many opposition leaders in the county assembly, which led him to break several laws (in trying to make appointments and initiate projects without approval of his legislature) and rely on the court to adjudicate rather than make a political compromise. When the impeachment bid emerged out of this dissatisfaction, Chepkwony accused the deputy president, Kericho's senator and the MCAs of corruption and pursuing political interests.42 While there was an element of truth in his complaint, county legislators were also responding to Chepkwony's failure to adopt a more inclusive form of governance.\n\nEmbu and Kericho are extreme cases, but they are representative of a more general trend. Since their election in 2013, Kenya's governors have acted with a great deal of aloofness, showiness and authority that has benefited them in the face of national-level challenges (Shilaho 2015; Cheeseman, Lynch and Willis 2016), but has also rendered them less accountable to local institutions, and subject to inter-institutional conflict at the county level. Successful governors, like Isaac Ruto in Bomet and Alfred Mutua in Machakos, have managed national and local pressures, coming to mutually acceptable arrangements with other local branches of government (Cheeseman et al. 2016).43 In contrast, many political newcomers \u2013 like Chepkwony and Wambora \u2013 that have little political experience (D'Arcy and Cornell 2014), have faced numerous obstacles since taking office.\n\nIf these political greenhorns are to enjoy successful periods in office \u2013 however defined \u2013 they will need to learn how to manage and accommodate other actors, recognise the potential strength of the institutions under the country's new constitution and the importance of establishing horizontal accountability. In this sense, while the impeachment proceedings in these counties manifested themselves as struggles over resources, they reflect deeper battles over the control of subnational political institutions and how political power should be exercised and distributed. One of the goals of MCAs in both counties was to clip the wings of executives who appeared to think they were above the law, and above the county-level political system. A combination of motives \u2013 of self-interest, informal imperatives and a concern to defend formal institutions \u2013 generated a powerful impulse to check the abuse of power by the executive, even by assembly members that were abusing their own positions. As one civil society activist put it, the MCAs have used impeachments to push for a more supervisory and consultative role: 'When the governor was elected, some thought that now... they could do things without consulting others and the MCAs now feel that they are the ones who supervise the functions of the governors.'44\n\n# Conclusion\n\nMuch of the literature on devolved systems of government in Africa is bleak on the prospect for decentralised systems to deliver effective horizontal accountability, with national elites often undermining new local institutions in order to regain power and local elites capturing local institutions to pursue self-interest and sustain their own local patronage networks. However, as the cases of Embu and Kericho demonstrate, in some cases formal and informal norms may converge to hold the executive to account, reinforcing mechanisms of horizontal accountability. Combined with the relative strength of Kenya's county governments within the wider political system, which is underpinned by counties' control of significant resources, direct elections and the incentives for governors to resist central co-optation, this has led to the emergence of a system of devolution that is more vibrant and appears to be more robust than similar systems in Ghana and Uganda.\n\nThis conclusion is not meant to downplay the very real problem of corruption at the local and national level in Kenya (D'Arcy and Cornell 2014). Neither do I wish to imply that county assemblies should be viewed as democratic or reform-minded bodies. Rather, I have sought to demonstrate the efforts of some county legislators in checking abuses of legislative and executive power and the strong incentives in place (while not always unproblematic) for MCAs to hold the executive to account. In this way, developments at the subnational level thus mirror (to an extent) the national trends identified \u2013 by Joel Barkan in his work on the Kenyan National Assembly (2009) \u2013 of a cross-party coalition of reformers and opportunists coming together to push for greater legislative autonomy. This did not end corruption or necessarily improve the performance of the National Assembly in terms of public policy, but it did make it harder for the executive to dominate the legislature in the way that it had done in the past (Collord, Chapter 12). Thus, when informal institutions motivate actors to invest in formal rules, even fleetingly, it can advance the slow and uneven process of institutionalisation.\n\nBut how generalisable is this finding? As discussed in this chapter, decentralised institutions in Africa are relatively weak. Many such decentralised political institutions in Africa emerged with limited powers (Ghana), others have few independent financial resources (Uganda) and more have fallen prey to recentralising forces and, therefore, have lost some of their independence (Nigeria). In cases where the formal institutional framework for subnational government is weaker, the kind of inter-institutional bargaining documented here may prove inconsequential in the face of scarce resources and national interference. But even in these cases, the introduction of new political institutions may have profound effects. Consider the ways in which federalism has decentralised conflict in Nigeria from the national to the subnational level (Suberu 2010), or the ways in which the opposition used their control of states such as Lagos to secure their national electoral victory in 2015. These, too, were important consequences of the introduction of subnational government, and suggest that the promotion of decentralisation in countries like Liberia and Zambia will refashion politics in new and important ways \u2013 even if they do not perform as intended.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAgrawal, Arun, and Jesse Ribot. 1999. 'Accountability in decentralization: A framework with South Asian and West African cases', The Journal of Developing Areas 33, 4: 473\u2013502.\n\nAkiwumi, A.M. 2009. <https://searchworks.stanford.edu/view/5080176>.\n\nArriola, Leonardo R. 2009. 'Patronage and political stability in Africa', Comparative Political Studies 42, 10: 1339\u20131362.\n\nAyee, Joseph, and J. Tyler Dickovick. 2010. Ghana desk study, Comparative Assessment of Decentralization, USAID.\n\nBaba, Yahaya. 2015. 'Executive dominance, party control, and state legislatures in Nigeria: Evidence from three states in the Northwest Geopolitical Zone' in Carl LeVan (ed.), African state governance: Subnational politics and national power, London: Palgrave Macmillan: 121\u2013144.\n\nBarkan, Joel. 1984. 'Legislators, elections, and political linkage' in Joel Barkan (ed.), Politics and public policy in Kenya and Tanzania, Westport, CT: Praeger: 71\u2013102.\n\nBarkan, Joel. 2009, accessed 15 September 2017. www.rienner.com/uploads/4a8db50e9cdfb.pdf?q=stronger-legislatures-stronger-democracies.\n\nBarkan, Joel D., and Michael Chege. 1989. 'Decentralising the state: District focus and the politics of reallocation in Kenya', The Journal of Modern African Studies 27, 3: 431\u2013453.\n\nBierschenk, Thomas, and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan. 2003. 'Powers in the village: Rural Benin between democratisation and decentralisation', Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 73, 2: 145\u2013173.\n\nBlair, Harry. 2000. 'Participation and accountability at the periphery: Democratic local governance in six countries' World Development 28, 1: 21\u201339.\n\nBoone, Catherine. 2003. Political topographies of the African state: Territorial authority and institutional choice, Cambridge University Press.\n\nCheeseman, Nic, Gabrielle Lynch, and Justin Willis. 2016. 'Decentralization in Kenya: The governance of governors', Journal of Modern African Studies 54, 1: 1\u201335.\n\nChinsinga, Blessings. 2008. 'Decentralisation and poverty reduction in Malawi: A critical appraisal' in Gordon Crawford and Christof Hartmann (eds.), Decentralisation in Africa: A pathway out of poverty and conflict?, Amsterdam University Press: 73\u2013106.\n\nCornell, Agnes, and Michelle D'Arcy. 2015. 'Plus \u00e7a change? County-level politics in Kenya after devolution', Journal of Eastern African Studies 8, 1: 173\u2013191.\n\nCrawford, Gordan, and Christof Hartmann, 2008. 'Introduction' in Gordon Crawford and Christof Hartmann (eds.), Decentralisation in Africa: A pathway out of poverty and conflict?, Amsterdam University Press: 7\u201332.\n\nD'Arcy, Michelle, and Agnes Cornell. 2014. 'Devolution and corruption in Kenya: Everyone's turn to eat?', African Affairs, accessed 15 September 2017. <http://afraf.oxfordjournals.org/content/early/2016/03/22/afraf.adw002.abstract>.\n\nDickovick, J. Tyler, and Rachel Beatty Riedl. 2010. Final Report and Summary of Findings, Comparative Assessment of Decentralization, USAID.\n\nDyzenhaus, Alex. 2015. 'Land, local government and minority representation: The experience of decentralisation in Kenya', Unpublished MPhil Thesis, University of Oxford.\n\nFashagba, Joseph Olayinka. 2015. 'Subnational legislatures and national governing institutions in Nigeria, 1999\u20132013' in Carl LeVan (ed.), African state governance: Subnational politics and national power, London: Palgrave Macmillan: 93\u2013120.\n\nGhai, Yash. 2015. 'Constitutions and constitutionalism: The fate of the 2010 constitution' in Godwin Murunga, Duncan Okello and Anders Sj\u00f6rgen (eds.), Kenya: The struggle for a new constitutional order, London: Zed Books: 119\u2013143.\n\nHelmke, Gretchen, and Steven Levitsky. 2006. 'Introduction' in Gretchen Helmke and Steven Levitsky (eds.), Informal institutions and democracy: Lessons from Latin America, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press: 1\u201330.\n\nKauzya, John-Mary. 2007. 'Political decentralization in Africa: Experiences of Uganda, Rwanda and South Africa' in Cheema Shabbir and Dennis Rondinelli (eds.), Decentralizing governance: Emerging concepts and practices, Washington, D.C.: Ash Institute for Democratic Governance and Innovation: 75\u201391.\n\nKuperman, Alan J. 2015. 'Designing constitutions to reduce domestic conflict' in Alan J. Kuperman (ed.), Constitutions and conflict management in Africa: Preventing civil war through institutional design, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press: 1\u201326.\n\nLewis, Janet I. 2014. 'When decentralization leads to recentralization: Subnational state transformation in Uganda', Regional & Federal Studies 24, 5: 571\u2013588.\n\nLynch, Gabrielle. 2011. I say to you: Ethnic politics and the Kalenjin in Kenya, University of Chicago Press.\n\nNdegwa, Stephen N. 2002. Decentralization in Africa: A stocktaking survey, Washington, D.C.: World Bank.\n\nNtsebeza, Lungisile. 2005. Democracy compromised: Chiefs and the politics of the land in South Africa, Leiden, Netherlands: Brill.\n\nRepublic of Kenya. 2010. The Constitution of Kenya.\n\nRepublic of Kenya. 2012. County Governments Act.\n\nde Sardan, J. P. Olivier. 1999. 'A moral economy of corruption in Africa?', The Journal of Modern African Studies 37, 1: 25\u201352.\n\nSchelnberger, Anna. 2008. 'Decentralisation and conflict in Kibaale, Uganda' in Gordon Crawford and Christof Hartmann (eds.), Decentralisation in Africa: A pathway out of poverty and conflict?, Amsterdam University Press.\n\nShah, Anwar, and Maksym Ivanyna. 2014. 'How close is your government to its people? Worldwide indicators on localization and decentralization', Economics: 1\u201361.\n\nShilaho, Westen. 2015. 'Third time lucky? Devolution and state restructure under Kenya's 2010 constitutional dispensation' in Carl LeVan (ed.), African state governance: Subnational politics and national power, London: Palgrave Macmillan: 147\u2013178.\n\nSisk, Timothy D. 2001. Democracy at the local level: The international IDEA handbook on participation, representation, conflict management, and governance, Stockholm: International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance.\n\nSmoke, Paul. 2003 'Decentralisation in Africa: Goals, dimensions, myths and challenges', Public Administration and Development 23, 1: 7\u201316.\n\nSteiner, Susan. 2008. 'Constraints on the implementation of decentralisation and implications for poverty reduction \u2013 the case of Uganda' in Gordon Crawford and Christof Hartmann (eds.), Decentralisation in Africa: A pathway out of poverty and conflict?, Amsterdam University Press: 33\u201372.\n\nSuberu, Rotimi. 2010. 'The Nigerian federal system: Performance, problems and prospects', Journal of Contemporary African Studies 28, 4: 459\u2013477.\n\nThroup, David, and Charles Hornsby. 1998. www.amazon.com/Multi-Party-Politics-Kenya-Kenyatta-Election/dp/082141206X.\n\nvan de Walle, Nicolas. 2001. African economies and the politics of permanent crisis, 1979\u20131999, Cambridge University Press.\n\nWatt, David, Rachel Flanary, and Robin Theobald. 1999. 'Democratisation or the democratisation of corruption? The case of Uganda', Commonwealth & Comparative Politics 37, 3: 37\u201364.\n\nWunsch, James S. 2001. 'Decentralization, local governance and 'recentralization' in Africa', Public Administration and Development 21, 4: 277\u2013288.\n\nWunsch, James S. 2014. 'Decentralization: Theoretical, conceptual, and analytical issues' in James S. Wunsch and J. Tyler Dickovick (eds.), Decentralization in Africa: The paradox of state strength, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers: 1\u201322.\n\n1 Due to the politically sensitive nature of my interviews, I have kept all of my interviewees anonymous.\n\n2 Others will contest that there is a third type of decentralisation in the form of fiscal decentralisation (Crawford and Hartmann 2008) or delegation (Wunsch 2001). Many see it as a middle ground between decentralisation and deconcentration. Still others will point to privatisation of state functions as another form of decentralisation.\n\n3 This leaves out the fourteen African states that have little to no political decentralisation.\n\n4 Civil Society Activist. 25 January 2015. Interview, Nakuru, Kenya.\n\n5 Elder. 12 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n6 Youth Activists. 22 January 2015. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n7 Civil Society Activists. 4 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n8 Businessman. 8 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n9 Political Advisor. 25 September 2014. Interview, Nairobi, Kenya.\n\n10 Political Advisor. 25 September 2014. Interview, Nairobi, Kenya.\n\n11 MCA. 7 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n12 Journalist. 22 August. Interview, Nairobi, Kenya. Also, see Julian Kamau. 15 February 2014. 'Embu Governor Wambora becomes the first governor to be impeached', Standard Digital, www.standardmedia.co.ke/article/2000104675/embu-governor-wambora-becomes-the-first-governor-to-be-impeached.\n\n13 Journalist. 22 August. Interview, Nairobi, Kenya.\n\n14 Political Advisor. 30 January 2015. Interview, Nairobi, Kenya.\n\n15 Makana, Fred. 11 December 2015. 'Appeal court nullifies Martin Wambora's impeachment', Standard Digital, www.standardmedia.co.ke/article/2000185119/appeal-court-nullifies-martin-wambora-s-impeachment.\n\n16 Civil Society Activists. 11 August 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n17 Political Organiser. 30 July 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n18 Journalist. 26 July 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n19 Journalist. 26 July 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n20 Kemei, Timothy. 15 May 2014. 'Governor kicked out', Daily Nation, www.nation.co.ke/counties/MCAs-Kericho-Governor-Paul-Chepkwony/-/1107872/2315992/-/u8w27lz/-/index.html.\n\n21 Kiplang'at, Jeremiah. 3 June 2014. 'Kericho governor survives impeachment', Daily Nation, www.nation.co.ke/news/politics/Kericho-governor-survives-impeachment/-/1064/2336266/-/r75uyv/-/index.html.\n\n22 Journalist. 26 July 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n23 Kipsigis Activist. 20 January 2015. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n24 Kwayera, Juma. 4 July 2015. 'Why impeachment stalks some governors as politically savvy survive', Standard Digital, www.standardmedia.co.ke/article/2000167942/whyimpeachment-stalks-some-governors-as-politically-savvy-survive?articleID=2000167942&story_title=why-impeachment-stalks-some-governors-as-politically-savvy-survive&pageNo=1.\n\n25 Community Activist. 3 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n26 MCA. 7 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n27 Wanyoro, Charles. 28 August 2014. 'Give our lonely wives allowances, say MCAs', Daily Nation, <http://mobile.nation.co.ke/counties/County-first-ladies-forum-launched/-/1950480/2433248/-/format/xhtml/-/qcw0saz/-/index.html>.\n\n28 Wanyoro, Charles, 'Embu assembly passes ward fund Bill', Daily Nation.\n\n29 Peace Activist. 14 January 2015. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n30 Civil Society Activist. 19 January 2015. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n31 Journalist. 19 August 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n32 Youth Activists. 11 August 2014. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n33 Civil Society Activist. 19 January 2015. Interview, Kericho, Kenya.\n\n34 Representative of the Governor. 13 January 2015. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n35 The county secretary is the chief administrator of the county.\n\n36 Government Planner. 4 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n37 Capital FM. 28 January 2014. 'Embu Governor, Deputy first to face impeachment', www.capitalfm.co.ke/news/2014/01/embu-governor-deputy-first-to-face-impeachment/.\n\n38 Political Advisor. 25 September 2014. Interview, Nairobi, Kenya.\n\n39 Urban Activist. 1 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya. Civil Society Activists. 4 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n40 Urban Activist. 1 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n41 Peace Activist. 14 January 2015. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n42 Wanga, Justus. 17 May 2014. 'MCAs demanded Sh30m to save my job', Daily Nation, <http://mobile.nation.co.ke/news/MCAs-demanded-Sh30m-to-save-my-job-says-Chepkwony/-/1950946/2318566/-/format/xhtml/-/9r5hrlz/-/index.html>.\n\n43 Cheeseman, Lynch and Willis formulate governors' action as a two-level game whereby the governors must balance the demands of those above and those around them. See also www.standardmedia.co.ke/article/2000167942/why-impeachment-stalks-some-governors-as-politically-savvy-survive?articleID=2000167942&story_title=why-impeachment-stalks-some-governors-as-politically-savvy-survive&pageNo=1.\n\n44 Community Activist. 3 September 2014. Interview, Embu, Kenya.\n\n# 15 Conclusion\n\n## Political Institutions and Democracy in Africa: A Research Agenda\n\nNic Cheeseman\n\nThe thirteen chapters that make up this book have demonstrated the significance of formal political institutions for democracy and development in Africa. However, it is important not to exaggerate the extent to which African politics has changed. The reintroduction of multiparty politics did not represent a clean break from the authoritarian era any more than the first decade of independence represented a clean break from the colonial period. During both transitions much changed, but much also remained the same. The survival of old political logics \u2013 winner-takes-all politics, neo-patrimonialism and so on \u2013 meant that in many countries the official rules of the game continued to be compromised in important ways in the 1990s. As a result, significant variations have emerged in the degree of political institutionalisation on the continent, which makes it impossible to speak of a common 'African experience'.\n\nHowever, while countries with more dysfunctional institutional arrangements typically dominate the headlines, their experience should not blind us to the fact that there is strong evidence of institutional strengthening in a number of states \u2013 including some of those in which the barriers to democratisation initially appeared to be greatest. For example, term limits have become entrenched in Kenya and Nigeria, two bastions of Big Man politics, while both coup-prone Ghana and conflict-prone Sierra Leone have experienced peaceful transfers of power. These findings raise important questions: under what conditions are we most likely to see the strengthening of formal institutions in Africa? How much variation exists? What kind of theoretical framework can best capture this?\n\nMany different kinds of institutional analysis have been pursued within comparative politics, which makes providing a comprehensive overview here impossible. However, it is worth sketching out how the literature has developed over the years, because doing so highlights how it can be used to illuminate the role of political institutions in Africa. The early analysis of institutions that occurred towards the end of the nineteenth century tended to focus on how organisations such as bureaucracies should be designed (Koelble 1995). Partly as a result, it typically concentrated on the normative role of such bodies and often overlooked issues such as the empirical impact of institutions, how individuals operate within organisational structures and how they evolve over time. A subsequent literature that emerged in the 1950s and 1960s sought to overcome these limitations by studying the 'observable behaviour of men' (Truman 1971) and, where possible, employing quantitative analysis to empirically test rigorous hypotheses. However, this behaviouralist turn was itself critiqued for taking the statements and actions of individuals at face value, and for ignoring the question of why and how people come to believe that some situations benefit them while others do not.\n\nFrustrated with what they saw as the static analysis of old institutionalism and the over-reliance of the behaviouralist school on observable human actions, subsequent generations of social scientists have experimented with a number of different ways of conceptualising and studying formal political structures, which are often referred to by the umbrella term new institutionalism (March and Olsen 1983). For example, rational choice institutionalists such as Kenneth Shepsle (1989) have looked at the ways in which institutions shape the pay-offs available to the individuals that operate within them, and hence change how they behave. Seen in this way, the significance of formal structures lies in their capacity to shape possible outcomes and so incentivise individuals to adopt different courses of action.\n\nBy contrast, historical institutionalists have critiqued rational choice theorists for assuming that the individual is always the relevant unit of analysis and ignoring the fact that institutions are historically rooted (Thelen 1999). Seeking a more contextualised approach, scholars such as Theda Skocpol (1995) have emphasised how the behaviour of individuals is shaped not just by rational self-interest but also by previous experience, societal expectations and historical trends. On this account, political processes are 'structured by constitutions and political institutions, state structures, state-interest group relations, policy networks, [and] contingencies of timing' (Immergut 1998: 19). Significantly, although historical institutionalism recognises the importance of tradition, it is also open to the possibility that tradition itself can be re-invented and that historical processes may be interrupted by contingencies and the 'role played by chance' (1998: 19). As a result, while historical institutionalists pay great attention to institutional constraints and legacies, this approach should not be interpreted to imply a kind of historical determinacy (Hay and Wincott 1998).\n\nAfricanists have been particularly sympathetic to historical institutionalist approaches, in part because they are often reminded of the ways in which the past shapes the present (Cooper 2002). In recent years, Adrienne LeBas has embraced this kind of framework to explain the development of political parties in Kenya, Zambia and Zimbabwe (LeBas 2013), while Rachel Riedl has argued for 'the significance of past institutional configurations' in 'shaping contemporary multiparty politics' (Chapter 2).\n\nBuilding on many of the insights of the historical institutionalist school, other strands of new institutionalism look at how, in addition to shaping what is possible and socially acceptable, institutions can frame what is conceivable. Most notably, a more sociological approach to the study of institutions \u2013 what Immergut calls 'organisation theory' (1998: 5) \u2013 highlights the fact that institutions not only represent physical frameworks within which human beings operate, but are also social constructions made up of informal norms and practices. Thus, 'current accounts of the new institutionalism in organisation theory... stress the importance of symbolic codes and the role of institutions in generating meaning', demonstrating how the concepts of 'roles and hierarchy influence perception and, therefore, behaviour' (1998: 15).\n\nA related school of thought pushes this insight even further, arguing that just as social norms and values shape how institutions function, institutions can also shape outcomes by socialising individuals into certain patterns of behaviour. For scholars such as Mary Douglas, individuals do not act a certain way just because they feel forced or obliged to, but because they have come to believe in and accept a set of norms of behaviour to the extent that to act otherwise would be inconceivable. Put another way,\n\nmost established institutions, if challenged, are able to rest their claims to legitimacy on their fit with the universe. A convention is institutionalised when, in reply to the question, \"Why do you do it like this?\" although the first answer may be framed in terms of mutual convenience, in response to further questioning the final answer refers to the way the planets are fixed in the sky or the way that plants or humans or animals naturally behave (Douglas 1986: 47).\n\nAlthough there are clear tensions between these different approaches \u2013 and some of their protagonists imply that they are incompatible \u2013 there are also 'border crossers' who 'have resisted the tendencies toward cordoning these schools off from each other and who borrow liberally (and often fruitfully) where they can' (Thelen 1999: 270). Given this, it is not surprising that the chapters included in this volume demonstrate that all of these approaches have valuable insights to offer into the process of institutional continuity and change in Africa. In other words, there is no 'one size fits all' approach to studying political institutions that is equally effective at explaining every aspect of every organisation. Instead, different questions and different institutions at varying stages of evolution are likely to require different analytical tools. It therefore makes sense to avoid simply choosing one method over another and instead to draw on the framework(s) that are best placed to illuminate a particular issue.\n\nA more rational choice approach, for example, can help us to see how structures shape individuals' decisions and thus how the introduction of new formal institutions can change the way in which presidents, legislators and judges operate \u2013 often with unintended consequences. However, it is also important to consider the way in which the evolution of codes of practice and the routinisation of everyday tasks condition the behaviour of individuals over time. Notably, when institutions have developed a distinctive internal culture, and generations of people have passed through them, the emergence of powerful social expectations and norms means that developing a comprehensive analysis of how an organisation operates requires us to engage with historical and sociological approaches. After all, true democratic consolidation occurs not when authoritarian leaders feel trapped into pretending to be democrats by institutional constraints, but when they feel such a deep personal commitment to democracy that they do not even entertain the idea of breaking the rules.\n\nIn light of this, it is unsurprising that many of the chapters in this volume document how the performance of formal codified institutions, such as constitutions and electoral commissions, have either been strengthened or undermined by the presence of informal institutions, such as popular norms and patterns of behaviour (for full definitions, see Chapter 1). In some cases, unsupportive norms of personalised and patrimonial politics have weakened the independence and capacity of key democratic institutions such as political parties and legislatures. In others, emerging norms that promote respect for the rules of the game appear to have exerted a binding effect on political leaders, as in the case of the holding of elections, and \u2013 in many countries \u2013 presidential term limits. In others cases still, norms that are deeply problematic in some ways are also found to have unanticipated side-effects, strengthening formal institutions in other areas.\n\nThis means that while it is useful to conceptually distinguish between formal and informal institutions, we need to analyse them simultaneously. As Douglass North has argued (1991), formal institutions get their strength from supportive informal underpinnings and vice versa. It therefore makes little sense to try and understand one without the other. The study of African politics must therefore take seriously both the significance of formal institutions and the complex ways in which formal and informal institutions interact. The fact that some African countries have made impressive progress towards democratic consolidation cannot be explained simply by the victory of the rules of the game over pernicious patrimonialism; the emergence of norms and values that are more conducive to democratic government must also be accounted for. Meeting this challenge requires us to think through new institutionalist approaches to political change, but also to more clearly theorise the relationship between the formal and the informal. Fortunately, some of the foundational work in this area has already been undertaken by Latin Americanists such as Gretchen Helmke and Steven Levitsky (2004), who have been grappling with similar theoretical and empirical challenges for many years.\n\nThis chapter begins by setting out some of the main institutionalist approaches in greater detail and demonstrating how they can help to explain important political changes in Africa over the last sixty years. It then proceeds to introduce the typology of informal institutions developed by Helmke and Levitsky, arguing that it is particularly useful for our purposes because it recognises that while informal institutions may compete with their formal counterparts, they may also be complementary, accommodating or substitutive. This reflects one of the central findings of this volume, namely that while democratic practices may be weakened by the presence of norms that contradict them, complementary informal institutions \u2013 such as norms of inclusive government or responsive leadership \u2013 may actually serve to promote democratic consolidation. The final part of the conclusion makes the case that all four combinations of the informal and formal institutions identified by Helmke and Levitsky are present and significant in Africa. On this basis, I argue for a new research agenda to investigate the conditions under which competing, complementary, accommodating and substitutive informal institutions emerge, and their consequences for the process of democratisation.\n\nAs in the introduction to this volume, my aim here is not to argue that formal institutions are becoming more important than their informal counterparts. Such a project would not make sense, because the consolidation of formal rules requires the emergence of supportive informal norms. Rather, I am suggesting that Africanists need to give greater weight to the ways in which contemporary political outcomes are produced through the continual interplay between informal and formal institutions.\n\n# Institutional Approaches to Continuity and Change\n\nHow, if institutions are powerful and shape political outcomes, are we to explain why some institutions collapse, or are reformed so that they generate different outcomes? The answer, according to a group of researchers that emerged in the 1980s, was that such processes could be understood through the metaphor of 'punctuated equilibria' (Mahoney 2000). This term was first used in evolutionary biology to explain processes of evolution characterised by long periods of stability in the morphology (form and structure) of organisms followed by relatively rare episodes of rapid change.1 Biologists working within this framework explain accelerated processes of evolutionary change on the basis of environmental shocks that change the conditions that a given organism must overcome in order to survive. For example, adverse weather conditions or the introduction of a new predator may lead to less well-adapted members of the community dying at higher rates, thus making it more likely that advantageous features get passed on to future generations.\n\nIt is easy to see why the idea of 'punctuated equilibria' appealed to political and social theorists seeking to explain rare and often unheralded moments of institutional and societal change. Like evolutionary biologists, they were hoping to account for the ways in which apparently stable and entrenched political systems could be jolted on to new pathways of evolution by a revolutionary event. Punctuated equilibria was attractive because it provided a framework for understanding how one could combine path dependency \u2013 the idea that past events shape what is possible in the future \u2013 with the lived reality that political systems change over time (Romanelli and Tushman 1994). In the contemporary political science literature, such moments of rupture that have the capacity to recast the political landscape are often described as 'critical junctures', which 'close off alternative options and lead to the establishment of institutions that generate self-reinforcing path dependent processes' (Capoccia and Kelemen 2007: 341). Unsurprisingly, theories of punctuated equilibria, or critical junctures, have been particularly popular \u2013 although not uncontroversial \u2013 within the historical institutionalist school.\n\nOf course, there is also a degree of tension between the application of a critical junctures approach and the idea of path dependency, which is a key element of many historical institutionalist analyses. On the one hand, path-dependent arguments typically posit that processes of institutional evolution are historically constrained. On the other hand, the critical junctures framework suggests that the past may lose its hold over the present to the extent that old pathways lose their purchase, and institutions can be pushed in new directions. This tension raises an obvious question: under what conditions does the past release its grip, and exactly what is the scope for individuals \u2013 politicians, activists, citizens \u2013 to fashion new futures?\n\nIn order to answer these questions, it is important to first recognise that \u2013 at least in its more sophisticated form \u2013 historical institutionalist applications of the critical junctures framework do not understand path dependency in a way that implies a strict causal relationship between a set of factors and a given outcome. Rather, the idea is that certain choices made today make certain pathways much more or much less likely (Immergut 1998). In other words, this approach deals in probabilities rather than certainties. For example, it is not impossible that an African country with Belgian or French colonial heritage will seek to pursue a more Anglophone political system and culture, but the weight of the inheritance \u2013 institutional, linguistic, economic \u2013 means that it is very unlikely. The example of Rwanda, which changed the medium of education from French to English in 2008 and officially joined the British Commonwealth in 2009, shows that such an outcome is possible. But the fact that Rwanda is an isolated example, the government's decision was triggered by French complicity in the 1994 genocide (Wallis 2014), and the majority of former British and French colonies continue to have stronger economic and cultural ties to their former metropole demonstrates that when it comes to this aspect of the colonial inheritance continuity is more common than change.\n\nIn this sense, the punctuated equilibrium approach is not unlike the 'typological' framework proposed by Alexander George and Andrew Bennett (2005). For George and Bennett, the aim of a typological theory is to categorise cases in terms of their key characteristics in order to explain why certain types of cases tend to experience different trajectories to others. The predictive power of such a theory is limited to the claim that given a certain set of starting positions and constraints some outcomes are more likely than others, and hence should be more common. A good example of such an argument is the idea that the prospects for democratic consolidation in Africa are shaped by the quality and quantity of natural resources that a country possesses. Researchers such as John C. Anyanwu and Andrew E. O. Erhijakpor (2014) have suggested that access to oil reserves enables governments to ignore domestic and international pressure to reform. However, this general rule is not without exceptions: although the vast majority of African petro-states are authoritarian, this is not true of Ghana; and Nigeria, one of the continent's oil giants, recently experienced its first democratic transfer of power. Such counter-examples nicely illustrate one of the main advantages of typological theory, namely that it represents a happy middle ground between in-depth individual case studies, from which it is hard to generalise, and more general explanations that seek to identify strict causal laws but which often struggle to cope with the diverse outcomes that we see in reality.\n\nWhile this more nuanced understanding of path dependency is particularly useful for analysing institutional continuity and change, it is important to recognise that it is a methodological approach and not a theoretical argument. In other words, simply adopting this kind of analytical framework does not explain what makes a critical juncture possible. We still need to specify the kinds of developments that must coincide to weaken the hold of old pathways and so facilitate institutional change. This is an issue on which the response of historical institutionalists has not always been sufficiently clear. Indeed, social science applications of the punctuated equilibria model have often been critiqued for not paying sufficient attention to some of the main tenets of the evolutionary literature from which the concept is borrowed. As noted above, biological applications of the term usually involve precise arguments that locate explanations of rapid evolutionary change in specific geographical and environmental shifts that change the conditions under which a particular species, or some portion of it, must survive. Explanations of shifts in the way that political institutions work have not always been accompanied by such precise and testable propositions (Krasner 1988).\n\nTo date, the literature has identified three main sets of processes or events that are more conducive to facilitating critical junctures. The first relates to 'foundational' moments whereby rules and regulations are established in an area for the first time. This might be the initial establishment of a legal framework or constitution, or the creation of a new political party. Under these conditions, the lack of prior rules and structures that would normally act as a physical, social and mental constraint facilitates innovation. The second set of conditions that have been linked to institutional change are processes of elite 'negotiation' in which a small number of actors are able to gain disproportionate influence over the design of key political institutions. Dankwart Rustow has suggested that this is the case in moments of political transition, when the collapse of previous political institutions necessitates a process of bargaining between different political elites in what he calls the 'decision phase' (1970: 355). Rustow points out that while political leaders do not make decisions under conditions of their own choosing, in the context of secretive negotiations held behind closed doors, they may be able to re-cast the political system in ways that would not normally be possible. Thus, 'a small circle of leaders is likely to play a disproportionate role' (356).\n\nThese explanations of institutional change raise a new question: under what circumstances are such elite negotiations most likely to take place? In turn, answering this query brings us to the third main type of explanation commonly found in existing studies: the occurrence of an external shock that destabilises the political system. Such shocks \u2013 whether an episode of conflict, economic crisis or a political scandal \u2013 have the potential to trigger processes of social or political upheaval by either weakening the hold of existing structures and vested interests, or by generating a new consensus on the need for far-reaching reform. By focussing on the way in which rapid changes in the broader political and economic environment can trigger institutional evolution, such arguments come closest to the way in which punctuated equilibria theories are applied in evolutionary biology.\n\nExamples of critical junctures that are amenable to these kinds of explanations can be found in many of the chapters included in this volume. The most obvious is perhaps the onset of colonial rule \u2013 a major external political shock that led to the formation of new legal and institutional frameworks. Of course, the systems of economic management and political organisation that were established during the colonial period were not simply the product of colonial 'invention'. Rather, they resulted from the complex interaction between the policies of the colonial power, the conditions on the ground and the responses of African peoples and elites. However, it is nonetheless clear that these new arrangements would not have been introduced in the absence of colonial intervention, and that their imposition influenced future developments in important ways. As Catherine Boone demonstrates (Chapter 3), the type of land tenure system that was codified into law during the colonial era shaped a number of important political processes. More specifically, Boone shows that whether or not a country introduced a 'neo-customary' land system, in which each 'tribe' was expected to manage its own land under its own rules, or a 'statist' system, in which access to land was centrally controlled, had a profound impact on both the dynamics of state-building and the prospects for political violence. As a result, the past continues to exert a considerable influence on the present through an inherited institutional legacy.\n\nSimilarly, in Chapter 4 Leonardo Arriola documents how colonial governance structures shaped the degree of economic centralisation and the way in which post-colonial political elites thought about economic regulation. Taking off from this insight, he argues that there is a clear link between a country's colonial economic inheritance and the extent to which banking sectors became liberalised after independence. In turn, this had important consequences for the ability of politicians to raise election funds. Arriola argues that in Anglophone systems, lower levels of centralisation facilitated greater liberalisation, which made it easier for opposition leaders to secure the resources needed to build meaningful coalitions. By contrast, in Francophone states the centralisation of control over credit has undermined the potential for alliance formation. In both cases, institutional variations stemming from the colonial critical juncture continue to play a role in facilitating \u2013 or stymying \u2013 political change.\n\nThere is considerable evidence that the early 1990s represented another critical juncture, as domestic pressure for reform was galvanised by a series of external shocks that included deteriorating economic terms of trade, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the decision of some Western governments to push for democratisation (Cheeseman 2015). This constellation of factors weakened the hand of authoritarian leaders, creating the opportunity for radical political change that, just a decade earlier, had seemed highly improbable. The subsequent reintroduction of multiparty elections in almost all sub-Saharan African states triggered a number of new processes of considerable importance. Although the quality and quantity of elections has varied markedly across the continent, in many countries the introduction of multiparty politics gave rise to new institutional arrangements that had important institutional and social consequences. For example, Van Ham and Lindberg (Chapter 9) find that repeatedly holding elections promotes democratic consolidation over time, so long as they meet a minimum quality threshold.\n\nThe work of Anne Pitcher and Manuel Teodoro (Chapter 7) suggests that in some cases the 1990s also represented a critical juncture for the development of African bureaucracies. More specifically, they argue that the push for neo-liberal reforms, which was in part driven by international financial institutions, led to a greater focus on the independence and efficiency of the civil service. While African leaders could afford to ignore such critiques in the 1970s, by the mid-1980s mounting political challenges and economic difficulties left them increasingly vulnerable to domestic and international pressure. As a result, the next two decades were marked by the introduction of new bureaucratic agencies to govern key processes such as privatisation. In a similar vein to Lindberg and Van Ham, Pitcher and Teodoro find that where such agencies were allowed to operate according to the official rules of the game \u2013 i.e. more independently from the government \u2013 this lent credibility to the privatisation process and resulted in greater sales and foreign investment.\n\nHowever, while the critical junctures lens often provides an important framework for understanding institutional change in Africa, it is important to keep in mind that the existence of a critical juncture does not explain how new political dynamics will play out. Most obviously, it is clear that when it comes to both democratisation and privatisation the 1990s saw far more significant change in some countries than others. While some governments held good quality elections, others ran sham polls that did not meet Van Ham and Lindberg's threshold, and so have not contributed to an improvement in civil liberties. Similarly, although privatisation can be shown to have productive economic consequences when it was fully implemented, this did not occur in many countries, and so the process did little to generate new patterns of economic activity. It is therefore not enough to simply identify an external shock; we must also be able to explain the different pathways that such shocks set in motion. Why is it that high quality elections were held in some states while low quality ones were held in others? Why is it that some governments were prepared to establish genuinely independent bureaucratic agencies, while others were not?\n\nPart of the answer to these questions is that the external shocks described in this chapter were not felt equally across all cases (Cheeseman 2015). In Africa, governments with oil reserves were insulated from some of the consequences of economic downturn, while states that enjoyed greater geo-strategic importance were often able to leverage this to withstand international pressure to reform. But this is only part of the story, because the experience of the last twenty years also demonstrates that the impact of elections and new bureaucratic agencies has varied even across states with fairly similar economic and political pre-conditions. To understand why this is the case, we need to go further and look at how a range of other factors \u2013 such as the interaction of formal and informal institutions and the strategies employed by political leaders \u2013 mediated the outcome of external shocks.\n\nDeveloping a more rounded explanation of the different kinds of outcomes that follow a critical juncture requires the use of alternative theoretical frameworks that are better placed to explain the micro-dynamics of intricate political processes. As Thelen notes, knowing why an institution was formed or changed tells us a lot about how it is likely to evolve, but it does not on its own explain whether it is likely to prove durable. She suggests two ways to overcome this problem. The first is to better connect the literature on critical junctures, or how institutions are formed, with what she calls the 'feedback literature', which offers tools for understanding 'who, exactly, is invested in particular institutions, and what sustains these institutional dynamic over time' (1999: 400). In turn, Thelen argues that this kind of integrated approach can be further strengthened by working at the intersection of the different schools of institutionalism, thus benefitting from the insights of different approaches (1999: 370).\n\nThe rewards of such a catholic approach are demonstrated by the range of explanations of institutional change and continuity contained within this volume. For example, Brian Klaas (Chapter 10) adopts a more rational choice perspective to illuminate the ways in which leaders have responded to changes in the formal rules of the game. According to Klaas, presidents who were determined to protect their position by finding ways to work around new formal rules often responded to the pressure to democratise by identifying new institutional loop-holes, or by using informal strategies to undermine formal reforms. Worryingly, the auxiliary tactics employed by leaders resulted in worse outcomes \u2013 in terms of both political violence and respect for the constitution \u2013 than had occurred prior to the introduction of multiparty politics. In this way, Klaas' chapter demonstrates the potential for well-intentioned reforms to generate unintended consequences when self-interested leaders decide to retain power at all costs. In such cases, what may appear to be a critical juncture on the surface may actually lead to more continuity than change.\n\nMoreover, while the notion of critical junctures is very helpful for thinking through the ways in which periods of relative continuity can give rise to major political, social and economics shifts, it is less helpful when it comes to explaining more gradual processes of reform. Significantly, not all institutional change takes the form of a political 'big bang'. As Thelen suggests, processes of organisation strengthening and weakening often occur slowly over a long period of time, gradually transforming what counts as 'normal' political practice. Given this, there is a limit to how far the metaphor of punctuated equilibria can take us \u2013 and there is a danger that if we focus too heavily on occasional moments of rupture we will overlook less high-profile processes of political change.\n\nThese points are well illustrated by Posner and Young's (Chapter 11) research on presidential term limits. In most countries, the reintroduction of multipartyism was accompanied by new rules preventing presidents from serving more than two (occasionally three) terms in office. In some cases, these limits have been respected, but in others presidents have broken or changed the law to remain in State House. In line with the discussion above, there are certain key factors that appear to shape how the introduction of new formal rules affects political change. Most obviously, the more valuable the natural resources available to the government, and the lower the quality of democracy at the time of the transition to multipartyism, the more likely it is that leaders will try to extend their time in power.\n\nHowever, it is also clear that these kinds of structural factors cannot provide a full explanation of the variation that Posner and Young observe. For example, there are petro-states in which term limits have yet to be broken2 and flawed democracies in which they have never been contested. In Kenya, for example, respect for civil liberties remained low in the 1990s, but President Daniel arap Moi did not seek to publicly challenge term limits when he was due to step down in 2002. Events unfolded somewhat differently in oil-rich Nigeria, where President Olesegun Obasanjo attempted to secure a third term, but the outcome was the same, as he was defeated by a coalition of opposition parties, disgruntled ruling party legislators, civil society actors and international donors. How can we explain why term limits were ultimately upheld in two such unpromising contexts?\n\nWhile there are certain factors that clearly strengthen the hand of pro-term limit coalitions, such as effective opposition parties, it is also clear that the outcomes witnessed in Kenya and Nigeria were at least in part contingent on factors that are very difficult to model across cases, such as individual personalities. In Nigeria, Obasanjo's willingness to ultimately stand down reflected his own commitment to the transition from military to civilian rule. His more authoritarian predecessors such as Presidents Ibrahim Babangida and Sanni Abacha \u2013 who consistently reneged on promises to democratise during their time in power \u2013 may not have made the same decision.\n\nThe outcomes of these contingent processes are important, because Posner and Young find that in every case where a president has respected term limits, their successor followed suit. By contrast, in those countries where a president secured an additional term in office, a majority of subsequent executives (sixteen out of twenty-six) also pursued an additional term. Of course, we would expect to see a certain degree of consistency over time as successive presidents in the same country are likely to be operating in similar environments, and thus to face similar opportunities and incentives. However, part of the explanation for this finding is also that when formal rules are respected new political norms begin to emerge in favour of rule-following behaviour, which has the potential to constrain the options available to future presidents.\n\nOne way to model the setting of a political precedent would be to understand it as a critical juncture in its own right. We could, for example, posit that the decision of the first president to respect term limits (or not) represents a second critical juncture that is just as important to the fate of this formal rule as the first (the initial introduction of term limits). There is some merit to such an approach, but it is also important to recognise that processes of institutional strengthening are rarely as clear-cut as the pattern identified by Posner and Young. Indeed, narratives of organisational evolution are often rather messy, and rarely conform to a model in which the flicking of a switch diverts all institutions on to (or away from) a trajectory of consolidation. Instead, they typically reflect complex and uneven processes that involve two steps forwards, followed by one step back.\n\nMoreover, while a focus on the adherence of leaders to official rules is an essential component of any study of institutionalisation, on its own it may tell us little about the depth of commitment of key players to formal structures. This is significant because true democratic consolidation occurs not when leaders want to break the rules and decide not to for fear of getting caught, but rather when they respect the constitution because they believe in it. In the consolidated democracies of the world, the willingness of presidents not to seek a third term is only partly explained by the political barriers to this course of action; in most cases it also reflects a belief in the value of the rule of law itself. Given this, the evolution of new norms in favour of rule-following is unlikely to be set in stone by the actions of a first mover \u2013 in this case, the first president to either oppose or accept term limits. Instead, any leader who refuses to follow suit risks fatally undermining emerging norms and attitudes, even if their actions come twenty years after the introduction of a new constitution.\n\nIn order to understand these subtler and more uneven processes, we need to think about how certain ideas and patterns of behaviour take hold, and are challenged. In turn, this requires us to engage with the kinds of 'feedback' loops that Thelen emphasises, and to embrace some of the ideas that have come out of the sociological and anthropological literatures on institutional change. Over the last thirty years, these approaches have provided a number of different ways to think about how institutions can shape what individuals believe and how they behave.\n\nFor example, in his seminal text The Art of the State, Christopher Hood argued that different types of organisation \u2013 Armies, NGOs, government ministries \u2013 are set up in different ways that tend to inculcate specific ways of viewing the world. Hood goes on to suggest that this helps to explain some of their strengths and weaknesses. Take the case of military organisations that prize hierarchy and order, and drill this into their members at every opportunity. The focus on streamlined top-down systems of communication can make military structures highly efficient, but also saddles them with a particular weakness, or 'Achilles' heel'. As Hood elucidates, people who work in military organisations are prone to interpreting organisational limitations as resulting from too little hierarchy rather than too much \u2013 even when this is not the case. As a result, militaries tend to respond to evidence of institutional weakness by introducing reforms designed to enhance centralisation, with the result that the knowledge and experience of those working further down the organisation are lost, and innovation becomes less likely. In turn, this exaggerates both the strengths and weaknesses of military bodies, making them prone to certain kinds of failure.\n\nHood's analysis is important because it reveals the ways in which the structures and cultures of an organisation can influence how its members evaluate success, the things they perceive to be problems and the kinds of solutions that they are likely to pursue. In doing so, his work demonstrates that we need to pay greater attention to the kinds of assumptions and values that institutions can inculcate \u2013 to consider how, in the famous words of Mary Douglas, 'institutions think'. In order to meet this challenge, we will need to develop a more systematic understanding of the way in which different kinds of institutions interact, paying close attention to 'the points of informal and formal institutional congruence and divergence' (Riedl, Chapter 2).\n\n# Formal and Informal Institutions in Africa: Competitive or Complementary?\n\nTo date, the different relationships that exist between informal and formal institutions have rarely been systematically set out in the African context. In part, this reflects the legacy of the 'institutionless' school. The 'institutionless' narrative, as set out in the introduction to this volume, not only underestimates the significance of formal institutions by giving a dominant role to their informal counterparts, but also obscures the very different relationships between formal and informal institutions that have evolved in Africa. In other words, the tendency of African studies to focus on how clientelism and patronage undermine official checks and balances on the abuse of power creates a misleading impression that informal practices are constantly in conflict with the formal rules of the game. In turn, this has obscured the fact that informal and formal institutions are not always in competition and may in fact reinforce one another.\n\nThe possible set of relationships between informal and formal institutions becomes more readily apparent if we turn to the comparative literature on this topic. Most notably, drawing on Latin American experiences of democratic consolidation (and backsliding), Helmke and Levitsky detail a number of informal institutions that strengthen formal processes either by complementing and accommodating effective formal institutions, or by substituting for ineffective formal institutions (2006: 13\u201315). Their findings serve as an important reminder that institutional consolidation requires the evolution of a set of complementary norms and values that reinforce official rules, thus entrenching them (North 1991: 11). The relationship between the formal and informal spheres is therefore as significant in successful democracies as it is in cases of authoritarian decline \u2013 it is just harder to observe.\n\nBased on evidence from Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Honduras and Mexico, Helmke and Levitsky formalise their insights into a typology of the ways in which informal institutions interact with their formal counterparts (Figure 15.1). They begin by separating formal institutions into two sub-categories: effective and ineffective institutions, in terms of whether official rules are routinely enforced. They then categorise the relationship between formal and informal institutions as being either convergent, when the same outcome would be achieved whether one followed formal or informal rules, or divergent, when formal and informal rules produce different outcomes.\n\n| Effectiveness  \n---|---  \nEffective formal institution | Ineffective formal institution  \nOutcome| Convergent| Complementary| Substitutive  \nDivergent| Accommodating| Competitive\n\nSource: Helmke and Levitsky (2006: 14)\n\nFigure 15.1\n\nA typology of informal institutions\n\nThis creates a typology with four possibilities. Where formal institutions are ineffective and informal and formal norms are divergent (bottom right-hand corner), 'Competing informal institutions trump their formal counterparts, generating outcomes that diverge from what is expected from the formal rules' (2006: 15). The standard treatment of neo-patrimonialism in the literature on Africa depicts it as precisely this kind of 'competitive' informal institution. Official rules, whether codified in the constitution or legislation, are effectively undermined by the presence of neo-patrimonial networks that operate on the basis of a very different logic. There are a number of examples of this kind of relationship in the chapters that make up this book. Perhaps most notably, Cooper's analysis of parties (Chapter 8), Collord's discussion of the role of the legislature (Chapter 12) and Medie's exposition of the police (Chapter 7) all highlight formal processes or regulations that are routinely disregarded because they do not fit with established patterns of behaviour. A classic example is the practice of extorting bribes by transport officials across the continent. This is formally prohibited, but continues because of the persistence of informal norms within the institution that bribe-taking is a legitimate way to supplement low salaries, and that such rule-breaking will not be punished.\n\nHowever, while 'competition' between formal and informal institutions is the most prevalent type of interaction discussed in the literature on Africa, it is only one of four possible outcomes. When formal institutions are ineffective but formal and informal norms pull in the same direction (top right-hand corner), the result is a substitutive informal institution that can deliver 'what formal institutions were designed, but failed, to achieve' (Helmke and Levitsky 2006: 16). An excellent example of this in the African context is the practice of 'zoning' in Nigeria, an informal norm between political elites that power should be rotated between different parts of the country over time. Although it is a fragile informal institution, zoning has played an important role in stabilising the Nigerian political system and thus making possible incremental \u2013 if inconsistent \u2013 processes of democratic reform, such as the peaceful transfer of power in 2015.\n\nTo understand why the emergence of informal norms in this area has been so critical, it is important to recognise that the preponderance of winner-takes-all politics, driven by the lack of checks and balances on the president, has at times threatened to undermine the unity of the Nigerian state. As Frederick Cooper (2002) has argued, the fear of being excluded from state resources, combined with the presence of vast oil wealth, has increased the stakes of political competition, making it more likely that political competition will spill over into political violence. Something like this happened shortly after independence, when the attempted secession of the Eastern Region as the Republic of Biafra led to a civil war that led to the loss of between 600,000 and 2 million lives between 1967\u20131970. Thereafter, maintaining national unity has been one of the main concerns of both political leaders and ordinary citizens.\n\nIn this context, the reintroduction of multiparty politics in 1999 represented a major challenge. Apart from a system of federalism that allows elites at a number of levels to take up a position within the political system (Suberu 2009), and hence gives them a stake in it, the Nigerian constitution lacks the kind of power-sharing provisions that might serve to prevent intense political competition from exacerbating ethnic tensions (Cheeseman 2016). These dangers are particularly acute in Nigeria, where a number of democratic institutions have failed to perform as intended, including the electoral commission and the judiciary. As a result, losing parties and candidates have not always had reason to believe that they will be allowed to compete on a level playing-field in the future (Omotola 2010), and hence to feel that it is in their interests to continue to play by the rules of the game.\n\nThe practice of zoning is important precisely because it has integrated an element of power sharing into weak formal structures, and so 'substituted' for their deficiencies. The development of a norm that the presidency should rotate between the north and the south of the country minimises the damage done by fragile countervailing formal institutions by ensuring that patronage opportunities are not monopolised by a particular region (or \"zone\"), preventing any one group from becoming permanently excluded. At the same time, a similar norm that political parties should divide prominent positions such as the presidential candidate and their running mate between leaders from the different geo-political 'zones' of the country ensures that whichever party wins the presidency features a degree of inclusivity, if only in terms of the highest profile jobs (Awopeju et al. 2012). Some of these informal practices have become formally institutionalised in the constitutions of political parties, but the most important norm concerning the rotation of power between north and south is not codified in the country's constitution. Despite this, it has done as much as any formal institution in Nigeria to persuade rival leaders to keep faith with multiparty politics.\n\nTwo other types of relationship between formal and informal institutions are also possible. The first is when effective formal institutions face convergent informal institutions (top left-hand corner). In such cases, informal institutions complement their formal counterparts. As Helmke and Levitsky note, these kinds of informal institutions are often overlooked, but serve 'as the underlying foundation for formal institutions' (2016:14). Such norms are particularly important, because they 'create incentives to comply with formal rules that might otherwise exist merely as pieces of parchment' (2016:14). A good example of this is the gradual evolution of norms in favour of free and fair elections in countries such as Ghana, which have strengthened the hand of the electoral commission and supported a process of gradual democratisation (Lindberg, 2006). As van Ham and Lindberg argue (Chapter 9), once elections reach a certain threshold of quality, repeatedly holding polls fosters a range of formal and informal processes that have contributed to democratic consolidation and hence strengthened electoral institutions. In this way, the process has become self-reinforcing.\n\nThe growing norm in favour of presidential term limits in many African countries that was discussed earlier in this chapter represents another example of a complementary informal institution. As with any formal rule, regulations governing presidential term limits are most effective when political actors accept them without question. Of course, formal presidential term limits may survive even if informal institutions are competitive, as is the case when a leader's efforts to secure a third-term are defeated by a coalition of civil society groups and opposition parties. But this leaves open the risk that at some point the formal rule will be overturned. The emergence of supportive informal norms is therefore critical. Seen in this light, Posner and Young's argument that the first president to accept presidential term limits sets a precedent that others tend to follow is particularly significant, because it suggests that an informal institution may be being consolidated before our very eyes. Exactly how and why this is happening requires additional empirical research of the kind that is rarely done because it is difficult and time-consuming, such as elite interviews that are hard to secure and often fail to illuminate the true feelings and beliefs of political leaders. However, only by investing in this kind of fieldwork can we hope to develop a better understanding of when, where and why complementary informal institutions evolve.\n\nThe final type of relationship between formal and informal institutions occurs when effective formal institutions meet with divergent informal institutions and both continue to survive despite the apparent tension (bottom left-hand corner of Figure 15.1). In this case, 'informal institutions create incentives to behave in ways that alter the substantive effects of formal rules' but without always directly violating them (Helmke and Levitsky 2006: 15). The possible co-existence of contradictory formal and informal institutions is something that has often been overlooked by the 'institutionless' school, which tends to focus on how 'traditional' forms of authority erode 'modern' states. Partly as a result, the potential for informal and formal rules to accommodate one another has often been downplayed. This is unfortunate, because there are many institutions that blend patrimonial and rational-legal rationalities. Perhaps the most obvious and high profile example of this kind of relationship in the African context is the way in which contemporary democratic constitutions have accommodated forms of traditional leadership.\n\nElected leaders and traditional leaders are usually selected in very different ways and on the basis of different logics: while chiefs may be appointed on the basis of lineage and custom, presidents and members of parliament are elected \u2013 at least in principle \u2013 on the basis of merit. Although both structures can be considered to be formal institutions in that they are typically regulated through legislation and derive their authority from their relationship to the state (Boone, Chapter 3), the tension between them has led some scholars to conclude that the informal practices that are ingrained within traditional leadership run counter to the ethos of democratic government. Lungisile Ntsebeza (2005), for example, has argued that the incorporation of traditional leadership in South Africa has compromised democracy, and threatens to make rural residents the 'subjects' of the arbitrary chiefly power instead of the 'citizens' of an accountable state. However, while such tensions exist, it is also clear that in many cases democratic governments and traditional leaders have accommodated one another, and continue to operate side by side despite their divergent rationales. Indeed, the work of Carolyn Logan (2013) suggests that in some countries the existence of traditional leaders has served to legitimate the broader political systems due to the popularity of the institution, and thus could even be seen to play a substitutive role where democracy is weak.\n\nTo an extent, Peter VonDoepp's comparison of the role of judiciaries in Malawi and Zambia (Chapter 13) also describes the accommodation of contradictory practices within a particular state arena. In the case of the judiciary, VonDoepp highlights how certain formal rules \u2013 such as judicial independence from the executive \u2013 were strengthened as a result of the efforts of senior judges, while problematic informal norms \u2013 such as the need to pay bribes to receive justice in a timely manner in run of the mill cases \u2013 continued to flourish.\n\nTo some extent, a similar story is true of most political institutions in new democracies. All of the chapters in this book identify formal structures or rules that have been strengthened while divergent informal norms continue to operate. However, more work is needed to explain why divergent norms become competitive in some cases, and so threaten the process of institutionalisation, while in others they become accommodative, and so more easily managed. In turn, this requires close-range studies of the inner functioning of African states that brings political science and anthropology into conversation. Thankfully, research on the everyday reality of political institutions is currently being pursued by a number of scholars led by J. P. Olivier de Sardan and Tom de Herdt. According to de Herdt and Olivier de Sardan, it is only when we understand the complex 'patchwork' of formal and informal practices that we can make sense of 'the landscape of African governance' and understand why some states perform differently to others (2015: 4\u20136). In other words, 'neither the dominant (neo-) Weberian account of the ideal-typical well-functioning bureaucracy nor an account in terms of African traditionalism culturalism can grasp the plurality of norms constituting the practices constituting real governance' (12).\n\nInstead, they propose the deployment of a new concept, 'practical norms', which are essentially the kinds of informal institutions described here. Thus, practical norms 'cover the gap between formal rules and practices', and 'account for the numerous and diverse latent regulations which are embedded in civil servants' practices while not complying with official (explicit) norms' (3). This focus on how things actually work, and recognition that institutional 'hybridity' \u2013 a position on the spectrum between full formalisation and full informalisation \u2013 may not be a transitory phase and instead may turn out to be a permanent condition, is extremely valuable. Most obviously, research conducted with this focus in mind has the potential to reveal new insights into how formal and informal institutions are eroded or reproduced.\n\nSo far, the gauntlet thrown down by Olivier de Sardan (2013) and de Herdt and Olivier de Sardan (2015) has been taken up by researchers looking at a number of important processes and institutions, from healthcare in Niger to medical wards in South Africa. However, this work has typically focused on public service bureaucracies and is yet to engage with prominent checks and balances institutions. In order to connect the insights of the 'practical norms' literature to the study of democratisation, it will be important to also apply this approach to core political institutions such as electoral systems, constitutional courts, legislatures and term limits \u2013 and to do so in a way that engages with the full range of combinations set out in Helmke and Levitsky's typology. Only when this is done will we be able to fully assess the implications of the kinds of practical norms described by de Herdt and Olivier de Sardan for the broader prospects for democratic consolidation on the continent.\n\n# Conclusion\n\nThe chapters included in this volume have all demonstrated the significance of formal political institutions to African politics. Contrary to the 'institutionless' school, which emphasises the weakness of official structures, the research presented in this volume demonstrates how formal institutions matter for political outcomes on the continent. As a result, the neo-patrimonial framework \u2013 which has been dominant within African studies for so long (Chapter 1) \u2013 is likely to generate a misleading picture of African politics unless it is deployed in a way that fully recognises the capacity of formal institutions to shape informal patrimonial norms and vice versa. This conclusion does not imply that formal institutions always matter, that in all cases they matter more than they used to or that they matter equally across different countries. The picture is clearly far more complicated than that. What it does mean, however, is that there is a need to bring the state back in to the study of African politics as an object of careful empirical research, and that we need to think more deeply about how we theorise episodes of institutional change and continuity.\n\nI have argued that we will be better placed to pursue such a research agenda if we take a flexible approach to the study of political institutions that draws on different schools of institutional analysis. There are many different ways to frame institutional consolidation and decay, and it is important that we pick those that offer the greatest traction for the type of change that we wish to explore. In recent years, it has become fairly common to apply a critical junctures framework within African studies, but at times without due care and attention to key questions such as what factors generate a critical juncture, and how we can explain the new trajectories that such episodes can set in motion. Building a more persuasive and nuanced institutionalist account will require us to revisit these questions. There is also a pressing need to marry explanations that come out of the 'punctuated equilibria' tradition with a greater focus on how we can make sense of more gradual and inconsistent processes of institutional development. I have suggested that doing so will require us to work towards a deeper understanding of the relationship between formal and informal institutions, integrating what are currently two different spheres of scholarly enquiry. This can be achieved by combining the institutionalist approaches common within the literature on comparative politics with some of the core insights of Latin American research on the impact of informal institutions and the new research being conducted in Africa on 'practical norms'.\n\nBringing these bodies of work together will enable us to build a clearer conceptual framework for understanding whether formal and informal institutions are competing or complementary, and the likely impact of this interaction on the performance of the institution and the democratisation process more generally. One of the less intuitive findings to come out of the application of this framework to the development of political institutions in Africa is that informal institutions that are problematic in one area may support processes of institutional strengthening in another. For example, patron-client ties that facilitate corruption may also underpin stronger horizontal and vertical accountability. This conclusion highlights the need to pay careful attention to the great variety of relationships that exist between the formal and the informal realm on the continent. Efforts to understand political institutions and democratisation in Africa will be dangerously incomplete unless they address the informal foundations of formal structures, and the ways in which the official rules of the game shape informal processes.\n\n# Works Cited\n\nAnyanwu, John C., and Andrew E.O. Erhijakpor. 2014. 'Does oil wealth affect democracy in Africa?', African Development Review 26, 1: 15\u201337.\n\nAwopeju, Ayo, Olufemi Adelusi, and Ajinde Oluwashakin. 2012. 'Zoning formula and the party politics in Nigerian democracy: A crossroad for PDP in 2015 presidential election', Research on Humanities and Social Sciences 2, 4: 11\u201319.\n\nBierschenk, Thomas, and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan (eds.). 2014. States at work: Dynamics of African bureaucracies. Leiden: Brill.\n\nCapoccia, Giovanni, and Dan Kelemen. 2007. 'The study of critical junctures: Theory, narrative, and counterfactuals in historical institutionalism', World Politics 59, 03: 341\u2013369.\n\nCheeseman, Nic. 2016. 'Accommodation works better for reducing conflict', Ethnopolitics, 15, 5: 538\u2013545.\n\nCapoccia, Giovanni, and Dan Kelemen. 2015. Democracy in Africa: Successes, failures, and the struggle for political reform, Cambridge University Press.\n\nCooper, Frederick. 2002. Africa since 1940: The past of the present, Cambridge University Press.\n\nDouglas, Mary. 1986. How institutions think, Syracuse University Press.\n\nEldredge, Niles, and Stephen-Jay Gould. 2014. 'Punctuated equilibria: An alternative to phyletic gradualism' in Francisco Ayala and John Avise (eds.), Essential readings in evolutionary biology, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins Press: 82\u2013115.\n\nGeorge, Alexander L., and Andrew Bennett. 2005. Case studies and theory development in the social sciences, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.\n\nHall, Peter A., and Rosemary C.R. Taylor. 1996. 'Political science and the three new institutionalisms', Political Studies 44, 5: 936\u2013957.\n\nHay, Colin, and Daniel Wincott. 1998. 'Structure, agency and historical institutionalism', Political Studies 46, 5: 951\u2013957.\n\nHelmke, Gretchen, and Steven Levitsky. 2004. 'Informal institutions and comparative politics: A research agenda', Perspectives on Politics 2, 04: 725\u2013740.\n\nHelmke, Gretchen, and Steven Levitsky. 2006. Informal institutions and democracy: Lessons from Latin America. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press.\n\nde Herdt, Tom, and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan. 2015. 'Introduction: The game of the rules' in Tom de Herdt and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan (eds.), Real governance and practical norms in sub-Saharan Africa: The game of the rules, New York: Routledge.\n\nHood, Christopher. 2002. The art of the state: Culture, rhetoric, and public management, Oxford University Press.\n\nImmergut, Ellen M. 1998. 'The theoretical core of the new institutionalism', Politics & Society, 26, 1: 5\u201334.\n\nKoelble, Thomas. A., 1995. 'The new institutionalism in political science and sociology', Comparative Politics 27, 2: 231\u2013243.\n\nKrasner, Stephen D. 1988. 'Sovereignty an institutional perspective', Comparative Political Studies 21, 1: 66\u201394.\n\nLeBas, Adrienne. 2013. From protest to parties: Party-building and democratisation in Africa, Oxford University Press.\n\nLindberg, Staffan I. 2006. Democracy and elections in Africa. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.\n\nLogan, Carolyn. 2013. 'The roots of resilience: Exploring popular support for African traditional authorities', African Affairs 112, 448: 353\u2013376.\n\nMahoney, James. 2000. 'Path dependence in historical sociology', Theory and Society 29, 4: 507\u2013548.\n\nMarch, James G., and Johan P. Olsen. 1983. 'The new institutionalism: Organisational factors in political life', American Political Science Review 78, 03: 734\u2013749.\n\nNorth, Douglas. 1991. 'Institutions', Journal of Economic Perspectives 5, 1: 640\u2013655.\n\nNtsebeza, Lungisile. 2005. Democracy compromised: Chiefs and the politics of land in South Africa, Leiden and Boston: Brill.\n\nOlivier de Sardan, Jean-Pierre. 2013. 'The bureaucratic mode of governance and practical norms in West Africa and beyond' in Malika Bouziane, Cilja Harders and Anja Hoffmann (eds.), Local politics and contemporary transformations in the Arab world, London: Palgrave Macmillan: 43\u201364.\n\nOmotola, J. Shola. 2010. 'Elections and democratic transition in Nigeria under the Fourth Republic', African Affairs 109, 437: 535\u2013553.\n\nRomanelli, Elaine, and Michael L. Tushman. 1994. 'Organisational transformation as punctuated equilibrium: An empirical test', Academy of Management journal 37, 5: 1141\u20131166.\n\nRustow, Dankwart. 1970. 'Transitions to democracy: Toward a dynamic model', Comparative Politics, 2, 3: 337\u2013363.\n\nSkocpol, Theda. 1995. 'Why I am an historical institutionalist', Polity 28, 1: 103\u2013106.\n\nShepsle, Kenneth. A., 1989. 'Studying institutions: Some lessons from the rational choice approach', Journal of Theoretical Politics 1, 2: 131\u2013147.\n\nSuberu, Rotimi. 2009. 'Federalism in Africa: The Nigerian experience in comparative perspective', Ethnopolitics 8, 1: 67\u201386.\n\nThelen, Kathleen. 1999. 'Historical institutionalism in comparative politics', Annual Review of Political Science 2, 1: 369\u2013404.\n\nThelen, Kathleen. 2002. 'The explanatory power of historical institutionalism' in Renate Mayntz (ed.), Akteure \u2013 mechanismen \u2013 modelle: Zur theorief\u00e4higkeit makro-sozialer analysen, Frankfurt and New York: Campus Verlag: 91\u2013107.\n\nTiteca, Kristof, and Tom De Herdt. 2010. 'Regulation, cross-border trade and practical norms in West Nile, North-western Uganda', Africa 80, 04: 573\u2013594.\n\nTruman, David Bicknell. 1971. The governmental process, New York: Alfred A. Knopf.\n\nWallis, Andrew. 2014. Silent accomplice: The untold story of France's role in the Rwandan genocide, London: IB Tauris.\n\n1 The idea can be traced back to the 1950s, but a paper by Niles Eldredge and Stephen Jay Gould (2014), originally published in 1972, is often cited as the first authoritative statement of this idea.\n\n2 Although term limits have formally been respected, the situation is more complicated than this implies in reality, as President Goodluck Jonathan took office midway through the term of his predecessor, President Umaru Yar 'Adua, after the latter's untimely death in office. Jonathan won the subsequent presidential election in 2011, which meant that when he contested for the 2015 election he was effectively seeking to be in office for two and a half terms. However, as the constitution does not cover the issue of whether the leader succeeding a president who dies in office should be counted as having served a term or not, Jonathan's actions did not transgress the formal rules \u2013 whether or not they complied with the spirit of them.\n\n# Index\n\nAbacha, Sani,\n\nAfrican National Congress (ANC), , See South Africa: Africa National Congress (ANC)\n\nAfrican Union,\n\nAmnesty International,\n\nAndrianafidisoa, General,\n\nAngola, , ,\n\nAuthoritarian Rule, , , , See also One-Party States\n\nBanda, Rupiah, , ,\n\nBarclay, Arthur,\n\nBarkan, Joel, , ,\n\nBayart, Jean-Francois, , ,\n\nBedi\u00e9, Henri Konan, ,\n\nBenin, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nK\u00e9r\u00e9kou, Mathieu,\n\nSoglo, Nic\u00e9phore,\n\nBig Man rule, , , , , , , ,\n\nBotswana, , , ,\n\nBotswana Democratic Party (BDP), ,\n\nEthnic diversity,\n\nBurkina Faso, , , , , ,\n\nBurkinab\u00e8 ethnicity,\n\nBurundi, , , , , , ,\n\nBusiness-State Relationships, ,\n\nCameroon, , , , , ,\n\nAhidjo, President Ahmadou,\n\nBamileke,\n\nCape Verde, , ,\n\nCarter Center, xii,\n\nChad, , ,\n\nChepkwony, Paul, \u2013, ,\n\nChibesakunda, Lombe, , , , ,\n\nChieftaincy, ,\n\nChiluba, Frederick, ,\n\nChristianity, ,\n\nCatholic Church,\n\nCivic Education,\n\nCivil Society, xii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nCold War, , , , , ,\n\nColeman, James Smoot,\n\nColonial rule, , , , , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , , , ,\n\nBelgian, ,\n\nBritish, , , , , ,\n\nFrench, , , , ,\n\nCompaor\u00e9, Blaise,\n\nCompetitive Authoritarianism, , , , , ,\n\nCongo Brazzaville, , ,\n\nCongo, Democratic Republic of, ,\n\nConstitutional Arrangements, , , ,\n\nConstitutional Democracy,\n\nCorruption, xii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nC\u00f4te d'Ivoire, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nEthnicity,\n\nParti D\u00e9mocratique de C\u00f4te d'Ivoire, ,\n\nRally of the Republicans (RDR),\n\nCoups, ,\n\nBenin,\n\nBurundi,\n\nCentral African Republic,\n\nCongo-Brazzaville,\n\nGhana, ,\n\nTogo,\n\nCritical Junctures, , , , , , ,\n\nDanish International Development Agency (DANIDA), ,\n\nDatasets\n\n'Varieties of Democracy',\n\nBertelsmann Transformation Index,\n\nEthnic Power Relations,\n\nFreedom House,\n\nMo Ibrahim Index,\n\nNELDA, , ,\n\nPolity IV, , , , , ,\n\nQuality of Government,\n\nWorld Development Indicators,\n\nDecentralisation, xii, , , , , , \u2013, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nDemocracy, viii, xii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\n'Democratisation-by-Elections', , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nConstitutional Democracy,\n\nDemocracy Promotion, , ,\n\nDemocratic Consolidation, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nDemocratic Transitions, , , ,\n\nInternal Party, ,\n\nJudicial Mediation, ,\n\nLegislative Strengthening, , , ,\n\nPolitical Systems,\n\nQuality of, , , , , , , , ,\n\nRepresentative Democracy, ,\n\nThird Wave Democratisation, , , , , ,\n\nThird Wave of Democratisation,\n\nDemocratic Republic of Congo, , , ,\n\nDirect rule,\n\nDjibouti, , ,\n\nDoctors Without Borders,\n\ndos Santos, Jose Eduardo,\n\nEconomic Community of Western Africa,\n\nEconomic Decline, ,\n\nElections,\n\n'Fraudster's Dilemma',\n\nCampaign Funding, , , , , , ,\n\nCompetitive Elections, , ,\n\nElectoral 'Zoning', ,\n\nElectoral Commissions, , , , , , , , ,\n\nElectoral Competitiveness,\n\nElectoral Fraud, , , , ,\n\nElectoral Rules, , , , , ,\n\nElectoral System,\n\nElectoral Systems, xii, , ,\n\nElectoral Systems (Impact of), , ,\n\nElectoral-authoritarianism,\n\nGerrymandering, , , , , , ,\n\nImpact of, , , ,\n\nQuality of, , , , , ,\n\nElite Capture,\n\nEthiopia, , , , , , , , ,\n\nFederalism,\n\nPeople's Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF),\n\nEthnicity, xii, , , , , , , , ,\n\n'Ethnic mappings',\n\nCross-Ethnic Coalitions, , ,\n\nEthnic Designations, ,\n\nEthnic Fractionalisation, , ,\n\nEthnic Fractionialisation,\n\nFinancial reprisal regimes, , , , , ,\n\nFood and Agriculture Organisation (FAO),\n\nForeign Aid, , , ,\n\nGabon, , , , ,\n\nGambia, ,\n\nGender, xii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nWomen's Movements, , , , , , ,\n\nGhana, xiii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nConvention People's Party (CPP),\n\nDemocratisation,\n\nElectoral Commission, ,\n\nHuman Rights Commission,\n\nLocal Government,\n\nNational Democratic Congress, , , , ,\n\nSupreme Court,\n\nTerm Limits,\n\nUnited Gold Coast Convention (UGCC),\n\nWomen and Juvenile Unit,\n\nGnassingb\u00e9, Faure,\n\nGu\u00e9\u00ef, Robert, , , ,\n\nHegel, Freidrich,\n\nHelmke and Levitsky Typology, , , , , , , ,\n\nHistorical Institutionalism, ,\n\nHouphou\u00ebt-Boigny, F\u00e9lix, , ,\n\nHuman Rights, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nHybrid Regimes, , ,\n\nIndirect rule, , , , , , , , See Colonial rule\n\nInstitutionless Approach, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nInternational Crime Police Organisation (INTERPOL),\n\nInternational Monetary Fund (IMF), , , ,\n\nInternational Relations theory,\n\nIslam, , ,\n\nJonathan, President Goodluck,\n\nKabila, Joseph,\n\nKagame, Paul,\n\nKariuki, Margaret,\n\nKaunda, Kenneth, , ,\n\nKenya, xi, xii, xiii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nAlliance Party of Kenya (APK),\n\nConstitution-making, , , , , ,\n\nCounty Governments Act (CGA),\n\nCounty Politics,\n\nDevolution, , , , ,\n\nDistrict Focus for Rural Development,\n\nEthnicity,\n\nKenya African National Union (KANU), , ,\n\nKenya Land Alliance,\n\nKenya Land Alliance (KLA), ,\n\nKenya National Assembly,\n\nKenya People's Union (KPU),\n\nmembers of county assembly (MCAs), , , , , , , ,\n\nNdungu Commission Report,\n\nParliaments, , ,\n\nProvincial Administration,\n\nSettlement Schemes, ,\n\nThe National Alliance (TNA),\n\nUnited Republican Party (URP), ,\n\nWard Development Funds,\n\nKenyatta, Jomo, ,\n\nK\u00e9r\u00e9kou, Mathieu,\n\nKibaki, Mwai, , ,\n\nKikwete, Jakaya, , , , , , ,\n\nKinana, Abdulrahman,\n\nKivuti, Lenny, ,\n\nKoroma, Ernest,\n\nKufuor, John,\n\nLabour Unions, ,\n\nLand tenure regimes, , , ,\n\nLegislative Strengthening,\n\nLegislatures. See Parliaments\n\nLiberia, , ,\n\nCivil War,\n\nComprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA),\n\nLiberia National Police (LNP),\n\nLiberian Frontier Force (LFF),\n\nMinistry of Gender and Development (MoGD),\n\nMinistry of Justice (MoJ), ,\n\nTrue Whig Party,\n\nLowassa, Edward, ,\n\nMackintosh, John P.,\n\nMadagascar, , , , , , , , , ,\n\nHigh Constitutional Court,\n\nMagufuli, John Pombe,\n\nMalawi, , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMali, , , ,\n\nMambilima, Irene,\n\nMamdani, Mahmood., ,\n\nManifesto Research Group (MRG),\n\nMauritania, , , ,\n\nMauritius, ,\n\nMbarire, Cecily,\n\nMedia, xii, xv, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMo Ibrahim Index,\n\nMoi, Daniel arap, , , , , ,\n\nMozambique, xiii, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMozambique Liberation Front (FRELIMO), , , ,\n\nMugabe, Robert., , , ,\n\nmultiparty politics, vii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMuluzi, Bakili,\n\nMutharika, Peter,\n\nNamibia, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nCANU Crisis,\n\nConstitution-making,\n\nRally for Democracy and Progress (RDP), , ,\n\nShipanga Rebellion,\n\nSpy Drama,\n\nNational Democratic Congress (NDC), , , , See Ghana:National Democratic Congress\n\nNationalism\n\nIndependence Parties, , , , , , ,\n\nNational Reconciliation,\n\nNationalist Movements, , ,\n\nNdegwa, Stephen,\n\nNeocustomary Land Rights, , , , ,\n\nNeocustomary Law,\n\nNeo-patrimonialism, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nNew Institutional Economics (NIE), , , ,\n\nNew Patriotic Party (NPP), , , See Ghana:New Patriotic Party\n\nNiger, , , , , ,\n\nNigeria, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nBiafra Civil War,\n\nBureau of Public Enterprises (BPE),\n\nCivil War,\n\nCoalitional Drift, ,\n\nConstitution-making,\n\nElectoral trends,\n\nFederalism, , ,\n\nNational Council on Privatisation (NCP),\n\nParastatals, \u2013\n\nPeople's Democratic Party (PDP),\n\nNkrumah, Kwame, , ,\n\nNkurunziza, Pierre,\n\nNon-Governmental Organisations,\n\nNorth, Douglass, , ,\n\nNujoma, Sam, , ,\n\nNyerere, Julius,\n\nObasanjo, Olusegun,\n\nOfficial Development Assistance (ODA),\n\nOil, , , ,\n\nImpact on democracy, , , , , ,\n\nOkello, Tito,\n\nOne-party states, , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nSenegal, , ,\n\nTanzania, , ,\n\nZambia, ,\n\nOuattara, Alassane, , ,\n\nParastatals, , , , , , , , , ,\n\nParliaments, , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nPath Dependency, , , , , , , , ,\n\nPohamba, Hifikepunye, , , , , , , ,\n\nPolitical Entrepreneurs,\n\nPower-Sharing Agreements, ,\n\nPractical Norms, , ,\n\nRajaonarivelo, Pierrot, , ,\n\nRational Choice Approach, , , ,\n\nRavalomanana, Marc, , , ,\n\nRawlings, Jerry, ,\n\nResource Curse,\n\nRuto, Isaac,\n\nRuto, William,\n\nRwanda, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nBritish Commonwealth,\n\nRwanda National Police,\n\nSettlement Schemes, ,\n\nSankara, Thomas,\n\nSassou-Nguesso, Denis,\n\nSata, Michael, , ,\n\nSenegal, xi, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nMarabout,\n\nParti D\u00e9mocratique S\u00e9n\u00e9galais (PDS), , ,\n\nParti Socialiste (PS), ,\n\nSese Seko, Mobuto,\n\nSierra Leone, , ,\n\nSitta, Samuel, , ,\n\nSouth Africa, xiii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nAfrica National Congress, , , , , , ,\n\nConstitution-making, , ,\n\nEconomic Freedom Fighters,\n\nFederalism,\n\nGrowth, Employment and Redistribution Act (GEAR),\n\nParastatals,\n\nParliament,\n\nSouth Sudan, , ,\n\nState-Owned Enterprises (SOEs), , , , , , , \u2013,\n\nSudan, , , , , , , ,\n\nTaft, William Howard, ,\n\nTandja, Mamadou,\n\nTanganyika African National Union (TANU), \u2013, See Tanzania:Tanganyika\n\nTanzania, , , , , ,\n\nBunge, , , \u2013\n\nCCM,\n\nChama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM), , , , , , , , , ,\n\nConstitutional Reform,\n\nNational Assembly Administration Act (NAAA),\n\nParliaments, ,\n\nSettlement schemes,\n\nTanganyika, , , ,\n\nTaxation, , , , , ,\n\nTechnical Committee on Privatisation and Commercialisation (TCPC). See Nigeria:Technical Committee on Privatisation and Commercialisation (TCPC)\n\nTerm Limits (Presidential), , , , \u2013, , , , ,\n\nRwanda,\n\nUganda, ,\n\nTerrorism,\n\nThe Art of the State,\n\nThe State in Africa,\n\nTogo, , , , , ,\n\nTrade unions, , , , , , ,\n\nUganda, xii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nAuthoritarian rule,\n\nDivestiture and Reform Implementation Committee (DRIC), ,\n\nLegislature,\n\nMuseveni, Yoweri, , , , , , , ,\n\nNational Resistance Army,\n\nNational Resistance Movement (NRM), , , , , ,\n\nParastatals,\n\nTelecommunications,\n\nUganda Local Government,\n\nUganda Women's Parliamentary Association,\n\nUnited Kingdom,\n\nDepartment for International Development (DFID),\n\nUnited Nations (UN), , ,\n\nCommission on Human Rights,\n\nParis Principles,\n\nUnited Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF), ,\n\nUnited Nations Development Programme (UNDP),\n\nUnited Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, ,\n\nUnited Nations Mission in Liberia (UNMIL), , ,\n\nUnited Nations Peacebuilding Support Office,\n\nUnited Nations Police (UNP),\n\nUnited Nations Population Fund,\n\nUnited Nations Radio,\n\nUnited Nations Women,\n\nUnited Nations Women (UNW), , ,\n\nVienna Declaration,\n\nUnited States, xiii, , , ,\n\nUnited States Agency for International Development (USAID), , ,\n\nUrbanisation,\n\nViolence\n\nPolitical Violence, xi, xii, , , , , , ,\n\nRepression, , , ,\n\nSexual, , , , , , , ,\n\nSexual Violence, \u2013\n\nWaki Commission,\n\nWambora, Martin, \u2013, ,\n\nWashington Consensus,\n\nWatchdog Institutions,\n\nWeber, Max, ,\n\nWest African Center for Peace Studies, , , , , , , ,\n\nWilson, Woodrow,\n\nWorld Bank, , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nOperations Evaluation Department,\n\nWorld Governance Indicators, \u2013\n\nZambia, xiii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nJudicial processes, \u2013\n\nMovement for Multiparty Democracy (MMD), ,\n\nMwanawasa, Levy,\n\nParliament,\n\nPolitical Transitions,\n\nUnited National Independence Party (UNIP),\n\nZambia National Commercial Bank,\n\nZambia Privatisation Agency (ZPA), ,\n\nZANU-PF. See Zimbabwe:ZANU-PF\n\nZimbabwe, xiii, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,\n\nPolitical Transition,\n\nZimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF), ,\n\nZuma, Jacob, \n\n# Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Half title\n  3. Title page\n  4. Imprints page\n  5. Dedication\n  6. Contents\n  7. Figures\n  8. Tables\n  9. Contributors\n  10. 1 Introduction\n    1. The Rise and Fall of Formal Institutions in African Studies\n      1. Independence and After\n      2. The Retreat of Democracy\n      3. The Emergence of the 'Institutionless' School\n      4. The Legacy of the 'Institutionless' School\n    2. Reconsidering the Importance of Formal Institutions\n      1. The Uses and Abuses of Neo-patrimonialism\n      2. The Impact of the Formal on the Informal\n      3. Institutional Impacts and Democracy in Africa\n    3. Conclusion\n    4. Works Cited\n  11. Part I Institutional Foundations\n    1. 2 Institutional Legacies\n      1. The Roots of Institutional Strength in Africa\n      2. Congruence and Divergence: Institutional Continuity and Change\n      3. Conclusion\n      4. Works Cited\n    2. 3 Property and Land Institutions\n      1. Institutions, Land Institutions and Political Endogeneity\n      2. Contemporary Land Institutions: Origins and Variations\n      3. Neo-customary Land Institutions\n        1. Neo-customary Territorial Jurisdictions\n        2. Neo-customary citizenship rules\n        3. Neo-customary Authority Rules\n        4. Neo-customary Property Rules\n      4. The Statist Land Institutions\n        1. Statist Authority Rules\n        2. Statist Territorial Jurisdictions\n        3. Statist Citizenship Rules\n        4. Statist Property Rules\n      5. Institutional Effects\n        1. State-Building\n        2. Defining Political Identities and Collectivities\n        3. Shaping Forms of Land-Related Conflict\n      6. Conclusion\n      7. Works Cited\n    3. 4 Financial Institutions\n      1. Financial Reprisal Regimes\n      2. Politicised Financial Development\n      3. Financial Liberalisation and Multiparty Competition\n      4. Conclusion\n      5. Works cited\n  12. Part II Law and Order\n    1. 5 Constitutions\n      1. Best Practices: Constitutions, Diversity and Inclusiveness\n        1. The Rule of Law\n        2. The Protection of Civil and Political Rights\n        3. Celebrating Diversity\n        4. Decentralisation\n      2. The Rule of Law, Constitutionalism and Governance\n        1. Watchdog Institutions and Respecting the Constitution\n      3. The Effectiveness and Enforcement of the Rule of Law\n      4. Conclusion\n      5. Works Cited\n    2. 6 The Police\n      1. Policing Africa\n      2. Police Responses to Rape in Liberia\n      3. Combatting Violence against Women\n        1. Law and Policies\n        2. Institutions\n        3. Training\n      4. Police Enforcement of the Rape Law\n        1. The Importance of the Rape Law and Gender Policies\n        2. The Importance of Institutions and Programmes\n        3. Training\n      5. Conclusion: Explaining Police Reform in Africa\n      6. Works Cited\n    3. 7 The Bureaucracy\n      1. Formally Independent Agencies and Economic Liberalisation\n        1. Administrative Capacity\n        2. A Guard against Drift\n        3. Credible Commitment\n        4. Domestic Pressures\n      2. Research Design and Case Selection\n      3. Authoritarian Context, More Independent Agency: Uganda\n      4. Authoritarian Context, Less Independent Agency: Nigeria\n      5. Democratic Context, More Independent Agency: Zambia\n      6. Democratic Context, Less Agency Independence: South Africa\n      7. A Theory of Technocracy in Transitional Democracy\n      8. Conclusion\n      9. Works Cited\n  13. Part III Elections, Parties and Political Competition\n    1. 8 Political Parties\n      1. African Parties in Comparative Perspective\n      2. Namibia: The Politics of Charismatic Authority\n      3. Towards Formalisation\n      4. Conclusion\n      5. Works Cited\n    2. 9 Elections\n      1. 'Democratisation-by-elections' Revisited?\n      2. Elections and Democratisation in Africa 1986\u20132012\n      3. Data and Design\n      4. 'Democratisation-by-elections', election quality and institutional reproduction\n        1. The Quality of Elections Matters\n        2. The Temporal Dimension\n      5. Conclusion\n      6. Works Cited\n    3. 10 Electoral Rules\n      1. The Rules of the Game\n        1. Shrewd Incumbents, Desperate Incumbents: Bending the Law or Breaking the Law?\n        2. Inclusion, Exclusion and Strategic Rigging\n        3. Exclusion and Regime Time\n      2. The Impact of Exclusion\n        1. C\u00f4te d'Ivoire: The Allure of 'Ivoirit\u00e9' and the Destabilising Politics of Exclusion\n        2. Madagascar: Playing Games with Electoral Institutions\n      3. Conclusion\n      4. Works Cited\n    4. 11 Term Limits\n      1. How Presidents Leave Power\n      2. Term Limits\n      3. Under What Conditions Do Presidents Attempt to Secure Third Terms?\n      4. Conclusion\n      5. Works Cited\n  14. Part IV Countervailing Institutions\n    1. 12 The Legislature\n      1. The Return of the Legislature: Strengths and Weaknesses in the Recent Literature\n      2. Legislators as 'Linkers': Tanzania and Kenya in Historical Perspective\n      3. 'A Bunge with Teeth:' Patronage and Intra-Elite Contestation in Tanzania\n      4. Conclusion\n      5. Works Cited\n    2. 13 The Judiciary\n      1. The Relevance of Judiciaries in Africa's Democratic and Hybrid Regimes\n      2. Thinking about the Dependent Variable: Judicial Assertiveness, Autonomy and Authority\n      3. Thinking Theoretically about Judicial Development and Performance\n      4. The Trajectory of the Zambian judiciary: Authority Compromised (and Regained?)\n      5. Structure and Agency in the Demise of Zambian Judicial Authority\n      6. Conclusion\n      7. Works Cited\n    3. 14 Decentralisation\n      1. Decentralisation in Africa: Impeding Accountability\n        1. Theories of Decentralisation and Accountability\n      2. The Kenyan Case in Comparative Perspective\n        1. Devolution in Kenya\n        2. Embu and Kericho Counties\n      3. Impeachments: Background and Motives\n        1. Elite Capture and the Impeachment Process\n        2. Accountability as a Motive for Impeachment\n      4. Conclusion\n      5. Works Cited\n    4. 15 Conclusion\n      1. Institutional Approaches to Continuity and Change\n      2. Formal and Informal Institutions in Africa: Competitive or Complementary?\n      3. Conclusion\n      4. Works Cited\n  15. Index\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Contents\n  3. Index\n\n  1. i\n  2. ii\n  3. iii\n  4. iv\n  5. v\n  6. vi\n  7. vii\n  8. viii\n  9. ix\n  10. x\n  11. xi\n  12. xii\n  13. xiii\n  14. xiv\n  15. xv\n  16. xvi\n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51. \n  52. \n  53. \n  54. \n  55. \n  56. \n  57. \n  58. \n  59. \n  60. \n  61. \n  62. \n  63. \n  64. \n  65. \n  66. \n  67. \n  68. \n  69. \n  70. \n  71. \n  72. \n  73. \n  74. \n  75. \n  76. \n  77. \n  78. \n  79. \n  80. \n  81. \n  82. \n  83. \n  84. \n  85. \n  86. \n  87. \n  88. \n  89. \n  90. \n  91. \n  92. \n  93. \n  94. \n  95. \n  96. \n  97. \n  98. \n  99. \n  100. \n  101. \n  102. \n  103. \n  104. \n  105. \n  106. \n  107. \n  108. \n  109. \n  110. \n  111. \n  112. \n  113. \n  114. \n  115. \n  116. \n  117. \n  118. \n  119. \n  120. \n  121. \n  122. \n  123. \n  124. \n  125. \n  126. \n  127. \n  128. \n  129. \n  130. \n  131. \n  132. \n  133. \n  134. \n  135. \n  136. \n  137. \n  138. \n  139. \n  140. \n  141. \n  142. \n  143. \n  144. \n  145. \n  146. \n  147. \n  148. \n  149. \n  150. \n  151. \n  152. \n  153. \n  154. \n  155. \n  156. \n  157. \n  158. \n  159. \n  160. \n  161. \n  162. \n  163. \n  164. \n  165. \n  166. \n  167. \n  168. \n  169. \n  170. \n  171. \n  172. \n  173. \n  174. \n  175. \n  176. \n  177. \n  178. \n  179. \n  180. \n  181. \n  182. \n  183. \n  184. \n  185. \n  186. \n  187. \n  188. \n  189. \n  190. \n  191. \n  192. \n  193. \n  194. \n  195. \n  196. \n  197. \n  198. \n  199. \n  200. \n  201. \n  202. \n  203. \n  204. \n  205. \n  206. \n  207. \n  208. \n  209. \n  210. \n  211. \n  212. \n  213. \n  214. \n  215. \n  216. \n  217. \n  218. \n  219. \n  220. \n  221. \n  222. \n  223. \n  224. \n  225. \n  226. \n  227. \n  228. \n  229. \n  230. \n  231. \n  232. \n  233. \n  234. \n  235. \n  236. \n  237. \n  238. \n  239. \n  240. \n  241. \n  242. \n  243. \n  244. \n  245. \n  246. \n  247. \n  248. \n  249. \n  250. \n  251. \n  252. \n  253. \n  254. \n  255. \n  256. \n  257. \n  258. \n  259. \n  260. \n  261. \n  262. \n  263. \n  264. \n  265. \n  266. \n  267. \n  268. \n  269. \n  270. \n  271. \n  272. \n  273. \n  274. \n  275. \n  276. \n  277. \n  278. \n  279. \n  280. \n  281. \n  282. \n  283. \n  284. \n  285. \n  286. \n  287. \n  288. \n  289. \n  290. \n  291. \n  292. \n  293. \n  294. \n  295. \n  296. \n  297. \n  298. \n  299. \n  300. \n  301. \n  302. \n  303. \n  304. \n  305. \n  306. \n  307. \n  308. \n  309. \n  310. \n  311. \n  312. \n  313. \n  314. \n  315. \n  316. \n  317. \n  318. \n  319. \n  320. \n  321. \n  322. \n  323. \n  324. \n  325. \n  326. \n  327. \n  328. \n  329. \n  330. \n  331. \n  332. \n  333. \n  334. \n  335. \n  336. \n  337. \n  338. \n  339. \n  340. \n  341. \n  342. \n  343. \n  344. \n  345. \n  346. \n  347. \n  348. \n  349. \n  350. \n  351. \n  352. \n  353. \n  354. \n  355. \n  356. \n  357. \n  358. \n  359. \n  360. \n  361. \n  362. \n  363. \n  364. \n  365. \n  366. \n  367. \n  368. \n  369. \n  370. \n  371. \n  372. \n  373. \n  374. \n  375. \n  376. \n  377. \n  378. \n  379. \n  380.\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Voysey Inheritance, The - David Mamet"}, "text": " \n# THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE\n\nHARLEY GRANVILLE-BARKER\n\nHarley Granville-Barker was born in London in 1877. An actor, producer, director, critic, and playwright, he staged important productions of the plays of George Bernard Shaw, and he revolutionized the performance of Shakespeare with his emphasis on naturally spoken dialogue. In addition to _The Voysey Inheritance,_ his own plays include _Prunella, Waste,_ and _The Madras House._ He also wrote a series of five _Prefaces to Shakespeare,_ landmark interpretations that consider the plays from the practical perspective of the producer. Granville-Barker died in Paris in 1946.\n\nDAVID MAMET\n\nDavid Mamet was born in Chicago in 1947. He studied at Goddard College in Vermont and at the Neighborhood Playhouse School of Theater in New York. He has taught at Goddard College, the Yale School of Drama, and New York University, and lectures at the Atlantic Theater Company, of which he is a founding member. He is the author of the plays _The Cryptogram, Oleanna, Speed-the-Plow, Glengarry Glen Ross, American Buffalo,_ and _Sexual Perversity in Chicago._ He has also written screenplays for such films as _House of Games_ and the Oscar-nominated _The Verdict,_ as well as _The Spanish Prisoner, The Winslow Boy,_ and _Wag the Dog._ His plays have won the Pulitzer Prize and the Obie Award.\n\n# ALSO BY DAVID MAMET\n\nPLAYS  \n _Romance_  \n _Faustus_  \n _Boston Marriage_  \n _The Old Neighborhood_  \n _The Cryptogram_  \n _Oleanna_  \n _Speed-the-Plow_  \n _Bobby Gould in Hell_  \n _The Woods_  \n _The Shawl_ and _Prairie du Chien_  \n _Reunion_ and _Dark Pony_ and _The Sanctity of Marriage_  \n _The Poet and the Rent_  \n _Lakeboat_  \n _Goldberg Street_  \n _Glengarry Glen Ross_  \n _The Frog Prince_  \n _The Water Engine_ and _Mr. Happiness_  \n _Edmond_  \n _American Buffalo_  \n _A Life in the Theater_  \n _Sexual Perversity in Chicago_ and _The Duck Variations_\n\nFICTION  \n _Passover_  \n _The Village_  \n _The Old Religion_  \n _Wilson_\n\nNONFICTION  \n _Jafsie and John Henry_  \n _True and False_  \n _The Cabin_  \n _On Directing Film_  \n _Some Freaks_  \n _Make-Believe Town_  \n _Writing in Restaurants_  \n _Three Uses of the Knife_  \n _South of the Northeast Kingdom_  \n _Five Cities of Refuge_ (with Rabbi Lawrence Kushner)\n\nSCREENPLAYS  \n _Oleanna_  \n _Glengarry Glen Ross_  \n _We're No Angels_  \n _Things Change_ (with Shel Silverstein)  \n _Hoffa_  \n _The Untouchables_  \n _The Postman Always Rings Twice_  \n _The Verdict_  \n _House of Games_  \n _Homicide_  \n _Wag the Dog_  \n _The Edge_  \n _The Spanish Prisoner_  \n _The Winslow Boy_  \n _State and Main_  \n _Heist_  \n _Spartan_\n\n# PRODUCTION NOTES\n\n_The Voysey Inheritance_ was originally commissioned and produced by American Conservatory Theater, San Francisco (Carey Perloff, Artistic Director; Heather Kitchen, Executive Director) and Kansas City Repertory Theatre (Peter Altman, Producing Artistic Director; William Prenevost, Managing Director). It received its world premiere on March 23, 2005, at the American Conservatory Theater's Geary Theater and opened in Kansas City on April 29, 2005, at the Spencer Theatre, University of Missouri\u2013Kansas City.\n\nMR. VOYSEY | Ken Ruta  \n---|---  \nMRS. VOYSEY | Barbara Marsh Oliver\n\n_Their Children_ |   \nTRENCHARD VOYSEY | Mark Robbins  \nHONOR VOYSEY | Cheryl Weaver  \nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY | Andy Murray  \nEDWARD VOYSEY | Anthony Fusco  \nHUGH VOYSEY | Stephen Caffrey  \nETHEL VOYSEY\n\n| Lauren Grace\n\nALICE MAITLAND | Ren\u00e9 Augesen  \nPEACEY | Mark Robbins  \nMR. GEORGE BOOTH | Gary Neal Johnson  \nREVEREND EVAN COLPUS | Julian L\u00f3pez-Morillas\n\n_Director_ | Carey Perloff  \n_Set Designer_ | Ralph Funicello  \n_Lighting Designer_ | Russell H. Champa  \n_Costume Designer_ | Deborah Dryden  \n_Sound Designer_ | Garth Hemphill  \n_Casting Director_ | Meryl Lind Shaw  \n_Dramaturg_ | Paul Walsh  \n_Production Stage Manager_ | Mary R. Honour  \n_Assistant Stage Manager_ | Melissa Cihia Meyer\n\n# ONE\n\n#\n\n_Library of the Voysey estate._\n\nEDWARD, _in evening dress, enters the room, followed by_ ALICE, _two young people perhaps in their thirties._\n\nALICE: You didn't say a word at dinner.\n\nEDWARD: Did I not?\n\nALICE: A more engag\u00e9e response might be, \"My dear cousin, forgive me... business matters,\" and so on.\n\nEDWARD: I beg your pardon.\n\nALICE:... Yes, or, perhaps, \"My dear. You've found me out again. The press of work, so on... banishes e'en the thought of you from my mercantile soul.\"\n\nEDWARD: Forgive me.\n\nALICE: Why?\n\nEDWARD: Father's still at the table.\n\nALICE: And you were late.\n\nEDWARD: I beg your pardon, Alice.\n\nALICE: Thank you, from which must one not conclude that you are working much too hard; or, if observant, that you have lost all interest in me?\n\n( _Enter_ MRS. VOYSEY _a woman of a certain age._ )\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: He has what, my dear?\n\nALICE: I say, your son has lost all interest in me.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: We have lost interest? What is she saying, Edward? Why are you speaking of business; haven't we spoken enough of business?\n\nEDWARD: She isn't speaking of business, Mother.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: If not, then she will be unique among our family. Edward. I take my oath. Have you seen my \"work\"?\n\nALICE: I believe I saw it in the blue room.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: What?\n\nALICE: I believe, I saw it in the...\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: In the blue room.\n\n(GEORGE BOOTH, _an older gentleman, enters_ )\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: ( _Exiting_ ) What is this interest that they say we've lost?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: On my word, I've no idea. Edward: is there something I should know?\n\nALICE: I said he's lost interest in me...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Oh, good. Then we needn't tighten our belts, eh.\n\nALICE: That's right.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Lost interest in Alice, Edward.\n\nALICE: Yes, and the shame of it all, after these long years of protestations.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: You staying up this weekend, Alice, or you going back to town?\n\nALICE: No, Mr. Booth, I am to stay here, pining, pining...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Over what? Our, our universal understanding is that it's you have been the long-sought quarry... Hugh coming up, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: I beg your pardon.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I say: Is Hugh coming up?\n\nEDWARD: I believe he is.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I wanted to tell him something. What did I want to tell him?\n\n(MR. VOYSEY, _the paterfamilias, enters._ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Ah, ah, may we, now the cloth is drawn, proceed to business?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: At dinner, George, at dinner?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Uh, no, we're on to the port\u2014we're on to the port, eh?\n\n( _Enter_ PEACEY, _a middle-aged man in business attire, carrying his overcoat and hat._ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: ( _Of_ PEACEY) And what is this, then?\n\nPEACEY: Evening, Mr. Booth.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Good evening, Peacey, what news?\n\nPEACEY: No news, such as is news, Mr. Booth, just these indents to sign... ( _He passes papers to_ MR. VOYSEY, _from the briefcase which he carries._ ) And I beg your pardon, to disturb your evening.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: What of our Australian bonds, Mr. Peacey?\n\nPEACEY: The bonds? Sound as a nut, sir.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: There's no worry, then? No need for drastic measure, fear of want, and so on. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: He's joking with you, Peacey.\n\nPEACEY: Well, I know it, sir. ( _Noticing_ EDWARD) Ah. Mr. Edward. Evening, sir... And Miss Alice.\n\nALICE: Good evening, Peacey...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: How's my boy doing, Peacey?\n\nPEACEY: Like his father and his grandfather before him, sir, all business, through and through.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: High praise indeed. ( _He finishes with the forms._ )\n\nPEACEY: And in the office, working double tides all weekend.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: In the office on the weekend, was he, Peacey?\n\nPEACEY: Yes, sir.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Ah ha.\n\nPEACEY: Like father like son, if I may.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Yes. I understand.\n\nPEACEY: I'm sorry to disturb your evening, sir.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: No, it's good you came. Good you came.\n\n( _The party enters from the dining room._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: ( _To_ PEACEY) Tell Simmons that if he satisfies you on the details of the lease it'll be all right. Make a note for me of Mr. Garinger's address at Mentone, ( _Pause_ ) and I'll take care of the Atkinson letter first thing Monday morning.\n\nPEACEY: Very good, sir.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Peacey...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: ( _A strapping fellow in middle-age, entering_ ) Of course I'm hot and strong for conscription.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: ( _To_ PEACEY) Nothing urgent, eh? Eh?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Get 'em out there, get their knees brown.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: My dear boy, the country'll never stand for it.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: If we, if the Army, no, you're quite wrong George, if we lay the hand to the heart, the Army mind you, and say, to the country, on our honor, conscription is essential for your safety.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Thank you, Peacey...\n\nPEACEY: ( _Taking his leave_ ) Sir... good evening, gentlemen.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Then, what answer, eh?\n\nPEACEY: Miss Alice.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What answer has the country? Eh?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, you ask the country.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall. Perhaps I'll chuck the service, and go into the House.\n\n(MR. VOYSEY _goes after_ PEACEY.)\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Ah, Peacey, the one more thing... ( _He exits_ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: A life of service? I'm not a conceited man, but I believe, were I to speak out, on a subject, which I understand, Edward, eh? Eh?\n\nEDWARD: Mmm?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: And only on that subject, then, the House will listen. Have to listen.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Do you think the gentlemen of England will allow themselves to be herded with a lot of shopkeepers and ploughmen, and be forced to carry guns?\n\nALICE: Yes, Major, what'd you say to that... ?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: One moment: have you thought, have you thought of the great physical improvement which conscription would bring in the manhood of the country?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I thought of it, dear boy, when you brought it up those many\u2014several times during dinner.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Yes, but Edward wasn't there, and I'd like his opinion. Where were you, boy, by the way?\n\nALICE: I believe he has a mistress. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Ah, no, he doesn't have a mistress. You don't have a mistress, do you? Then, where were you, boy?\n\nEDWARD: I was at work.\n\nALICE: A mistress might be a sign of passion.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Quite right. Then, let me ask you, to think, of the moral and physical improvement which conscription would bring in the manhood of this country, Edward... S'what this country needs.\n\nALICE: What is that, Major?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Chest. Chest and discipline. These are the fundaments of honor.\n\n(MR. VOYSEY _reenters._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Ah, yes, son, back upon conscription?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Edward didn't hear it.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: No, we must all hear it. Mustn't we?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: You've taught us to speak out, haven't you, sir?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: It seems I have. ( _To_ COLPUS, _a clerical man, as he enters_ ) Ah, Vicar...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: By the by, what was Peacey doing here?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: ( _To_ COLPUS) You were at Lady Mary's t'other evening, weren't you... ?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Nothing wrong at the shop, eh?\n\nCOLPUS: Yes, I was.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: She giving us anything toward our chapel window?\n\nCOLPUS: Five pounds more. She's promised me five pounds.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Then how will the debt stand?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY:... Nothin' wrong at the shop... ?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Oh, please...\n\nCOLPUS: The debt will be, it will be thirty-three, no, I tell a lie, thirty-five pounds.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Still...\n\nCOLPUS: Oh, yes.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We're a long time, clearing it off.\n\nCOLPUS: Well, now that the window's up, people don't seem quite so willing to contribute.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: We must mention that to Hugh.\n\nCOLPUS: Not that Hugh's work ain't universally admired. I have heard Hugh's work praised by the most competent of judges.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: As it should be.\n\nCOLPUS: And Trenchard has subscribed two pounds.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: When is Hugh coming?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: When is Hugh coming? I saw the window\u2014that's what I wanted to tell him.\n\nCOLPUS: But perhaps...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH:... And I admired it.\n\nCOPLUS: Perhaps it would have been wise to delay the unveiling until the debt had been cleared.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, it was my wish that my son should do the design. I suppose, in the end, I'll have to send a check. What do you say Edward?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I saw his design for the window and I thought it was quite pleasant.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Edward?\n\nEDWARD: Father?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Are you sleeping, boy? You didn't eat enough to get you groggy...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Perhaps he's in love.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: He's been in love for years, why should it break out now?\n\nALICE: Why indeed.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: He been neglecting you? Say the word, and I'll take him out and cane him.\n\nALICE: Thank you, sir.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: See if I don't. Girl like that. What's wrong with you, boy, you lack \"initiative.\"\n\n(ETHEL, _a beautiful girl in her thirties, enters._ )\n\nETHEL: Father. You men have been in here too long.\n\nALICE: Thank you, Ethel.\n\nETHEL: Oh, you know... And Mother asks: have you taken your pill?\n\n(HONOR, the older sister, follows ETHEL _into the library._ )\n\nETHEL: And you're to come back.\n\nHONOR: ( _Prompting_ ETHEL) \"Has he taken his pill?\"\n\nETHEL: And you're to come back.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: And, why, why does she want us back? Honor?\n\nHONOR: It's not Mother wants us back.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Who is it, then?\n\nHONOR: Ethel wants to convene a free and frank discussion of her wedding present.\n\nETHEL: That's not true. Well, it is true, but it's not pleasant.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Why not, darling?\n\nETHEL: It's not pleasant to be tagged as avaricious, really, Honor.\n\nEDWARD: Really, Honor.\n\nHONOR: Yes, yes...\n\nETHEL: And, in fact, in fact, if you will, I have decided, Dennis and I have decided that we want no wedding present.\n\nEDWARD: What do you want, a check?\n\nETHEL: That's right. We want a check.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Well, that's blunt, that's awfully blunt, innit?\n\nETHEL: ( _To_ MR. VOYSEY) We feel a check will give greater scope to your generosity. Of course, if you, in your benevolence, decide to add some \"trimmin's,\" in the shape of a piano, or a turkey carpet, well. But, all in all, Dennis and I would be over the moon for a check.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: You're a minx.\n\nETHEL: What's the use of having money, if you don't spend it on me?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: What am I going to do with you?\n\nETHEL: Come to the billiard room, I want to play billiards.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Now she wants us to play billiards, why?\n\nETHEL: To display my innate superiority\n\nMR. VOYSEY: To hear is to obey...\n\n( _He rises, and all except_ EDWARD _begin to follow him._ )\n\nETHEL: And Mother asks have you taken your pill.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I've had my pill.\n\nETHEL: Scout's honor. Seriously.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Yes. I have.\n\nETHEL: Come on, then.\n\n(EDWARD _remains seated._ )\n\nETHEL: Edward, you, too.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, I'll be right along. Father...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Eh? And the bonds. What of the Australian bonds?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: No, no business...\n\nEDWARD: Father...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: No more business tonight... And where are my Havanas? Honor?\n\nHONOR: In the billiard room.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: They're in the billiard room, well, then...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: ( _Exiting_ ) You coming, Edward... ?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Stick with the bonds, eh? Should I stick with the bonds?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, I'll ask _you:_ why stick with 'em?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: The high interest.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Question, then, what do you want with it, you never spend half your income.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Forty-two percent is pleasing.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: That's what it is: you're a buccaneer.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: As long as I have you to advise me.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: The man who don't know must trust in the man who does.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Oh, my Lord, what shall I do when you're gone...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, there's Edward...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Well, Edward, yes... ( _To_ EDWARD) No offense... No offense, Edward, I meant no offense.\n\nEDWARD: I'm sure you did not, sir...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: ( _To_ HONOR) But, he's not his father, is he... ?\n\n( _He exits._ )\n\nHONOR: Now, he knows the Havanas live in the billiard room. Wherever else would they be?\n\nALICE: Where, indeed.\n\nHONOR: What a difficult, difficult family, Alice. All except Edward.\n\nEDWARD: Why me?\n\nALICE: Yes, I shall save the city, should you find me just the one honorable man.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: ( _Calling, offstage_ ) Honor.\n\nHONOR: Yes, Father... ( _Leading_ EDWARD and ALICE)\n\nALICE: ( _Pause_ ) The Pettifers asked after you.\n\nEDWARD: Were they here?\n\nALICE: Yes. They left early...\n\nEDWARD: Ah.\n\nALICE: I spent August with them, you know. ( _Pause_ ) Did you know that?\n\nEDWARD: Yes, I knew.\n\nALICE: May I suppose you missed me? ( _Pause_ ) What is it, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: No, it's nothing.\n\nALICE: You haven't, you haven't even proposed to me, since I've got back.\n\nEDWARD: And?\n\nALICE: I miss it. My word, how you've become disagreeable.\n\n(MR. VOYSEY _sticks his head back into the library._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Are you coming, Edward?\n\nALICE: Your son's turned cold, Mr. Voysey.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Cold toward you? Then that's cold, indeed. What's wrong with the boy?\n\nALICE: I fear he has found someone else. ( _Pause_ ) And I had so looked forward to his arrival. ( _She exits._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: ( _Pause_ ) S'all right between you and her, is it? ( _Pause_ ) You should have seen her primping all this afternoon, eh, in respect of your arrival. ( _Pause_ ) Good girl. ( _Pause_ ) Come on, then, join the party\n\nEDWARD: Father.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: What is it? ( _Pause_ ) What is it? ( _He goes to the door and closes it._ ) Mmm?\n\nEDWARD: I, uh...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: All right, whatever it is. Whatever the mess is: you won't have been the first. And you won't be the first to get clear of it. Now, you tell me: what is it? It's some girl, eh?\n\nEDWARD: Father.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: ( _Pause_ ) It wouldn't be the first time in life. If that's what it is\u2014it can be dealt with, but it must be faced.\n\n(ETHEL _comes into the library._ )\n\nETHEL: Mother says come now, the both of you, or it'll be the worse for you.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We'll be right there.\n\nETHEL: No, I'm to fetch you.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Thank you, dear, we'll be right along.\n\nETHEL: Having a heart-to-heart, are we?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Just a chat.\n\nETHEL: Don't turn lugubrious, I've told you, now, that you're wanted.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I've known few things, in my life, couldn't be threshed out in a quarter-hour.\n\nETHEL: I'm going to hold you to it. ( _She exits._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Now: You didn't come down Saturday, you come home tonight, two hours late. Where have you been and what is it?\n\nEDWARD: I've been at the office.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Then tell me what is the damned gallows look? Whatever it is, we'll work it out.\n\nEDWARD: You've bankrupted the firm. The firm is bankrupt. ( _Pause_ ) What have you done with the money? What have you done with the money?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Let's begin again, shall we?\n\nEDWARD: I went through all the papers twice. ( _He produces a sheaf of papers._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Now, wait wait, when did this begin?\n\nEDWARD: Oh, Father.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: When did this begin?\n\nEDWARD: I've been down there all weekend, I... ( _Pause_ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I can't hear you.\n\nEDWARD: I was going through Mrs. Murberry's account. Friday, Friday night...\n\nMR. VOYSEY:... Why didn't you come to me?\n\nEDWARD: I wanted to make sure.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Sure of what?... Sure of what?\n\nEDWARD: I went through all of them twice, Father.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Pull yourself together. Do you hear me? Now, it seems you've giv'n yourself a bad forty-eight hours. I wish you had come to me, but let's thresh this thing out now. It's all right. You went through Mrs. Murberry's account.\n\nEDWARD: I...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I can't hear you.\n\nEDWARD: Yes. I did.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: And you found?\n\nEDWARD: Is this a test? Is it a test?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Of what?\n\nEDWARD: Are you testing me?\n\n(ETHEL _throws open the doors._ )\n\nETHEL: Are you coming in, or must we send a constable?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We'll be right in.\n\nETHEL: Because I'm getting cross.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We have a little business.\n\nETHEL: Why can't you leave it at the office? Edward. Have you learned nothing? Truly. Are you a shopkeeper ruining our evening? Sunday evening, Edward. We expected you on Friday night.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We'll be right in.\n\nETHEL: Well, I say it's too bad. Sitting in here with a briefcase. ( _To_ EDWARD) D'you hear me? Why do you act like this? Father's not a well man. He's worked like a slave all week. You've disappointed him, now must you dog him, too? ( _Pause_ ) Must we... ? ( _Exits_ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Shall we table this? ( _Rises_ )\n\nEDWARD: Mrs. Murberry's account is empty. It shows no balance. She has no money in her account.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We have her money in the bank.\n\nEDWARD: No... we've got the lease of her present house, several agreements... and here's her will. Here's also a sometime-expired power of attorney, over her securities and her properties generally... it was for six months...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: She was in South Africa...\n\nEDWARD:... the power of attorney, now expired, twelve years ago. Here is the Sheffield mortgage.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Her money's in the bank.\n\nEDWARD: And the Henry Smith mortgage, with banker's receipts... hers to us for the interest up to date. Four and a half and five percent. Here's a list of her bonds. And a memorandum in your writing that they are at the bank.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: As I said.\n\nEDWARD: But you neglect to say which bank.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: It's my own... Stukeley's...\n\nEDWARD: Your own. I marked that with a query. There's eight thousand five hundred in three and a half India stock. And there are her banker's receipts for checks on account of those dividends. I presume for those dividends.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Of course they are\u2014why not?\n\nEDWARD: ( _Gravely_ ) Because then, Father, there are banker's half yearly receipts amounting to an average of four hundred and twenty pounds a year. But I find no record of any capital to produce this sum. ( _Pause_ ) Till about three years back there seems to have been eleven thousand in Queensland which would produce\u2014did produce exactly the same sum. But after January of that year I find no record of these bonds.\n\nMR. VOYSEY:... I must rest.\n\nEDWARD: There is no record of the Queensland bonds.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: In fact, the bonds\u2014you say the bonds are missing.\n\nEDWARD: They are missing.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: From which you conclude?\n\nEDWARD: I concluded at first that you had not handed me all the papers connected with\u2014\n\nMR. VOYSEY: You said there were two cases.\n\nEDWARD: Yes. The Hatherley trust.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Quite so.\n\nEDWARD: ( _With one accusing glance_ ) Trust.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Go on.\n\nEDWARD: Oh, Father...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I know, my dear boy. I shall have much to say to you. But let's get quietly through with these details first.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, this is simple enough. We're young Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of age in about five years' time. The property was eighteen thousand invested in Consol's. Certain sums were to be allowed for his education; these have been and are still being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: None?\n\nEDWARD: Yes... I beg your pardon, sir. There's a memorandum to refer to the Bletchley land scheme.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: That must be ten years ago. But he's credited with the interest on his capital?\n\nEDWARD: On paper, sir. The balance was to be reinvested. There's a partial account in your handwriting. He's credited with the Consol interest.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Yes?\n\nEDWARD: I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley scheme paid seven and a half.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: At one time. Have you taken the trouble to calculate what will be due from us to the lad?\n\nEDWARD: Capital and compound interest... about twenty-six thousand pounds.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time?\n\nEDWARD: When he comes of age.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, that gives us, say four years and six months in which to consider it. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: I don't understand.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Don't you?\n\nEDWARD: There are no funds in these accounts. In the accounts we manage. ( _Pause_ ) There are no funds. ( _Pause_ ) How long has it been going on?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I'm sorry to involve you in it.\n\nEDWARD: Involve me? I'm your partner. I'm responsible too... You, we have defrauded everyone who has trusted us. How can you simply sit there? Father. What is the extent of the, the... What made you begin it?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I didn't begin it.\n\nEDWARD: You didn't. Who, then?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: My father before me. (EDWARD _stares._ )\n\nEDWARD: But I...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: It's my inheritance.\n\nEDWARD: My dear father?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I'd hoped it wasn't to be yours.\n\nEDWARD: D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing has been going on for years? For more than thirty years!\n\nMR. VOYSEY: We do what we must in this world, Edward. I have done what I had to do.\n\nEDWARD: Go on.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Shall I... ? ( _Pause_ ) Yes, I suppose I must. You know that I'm heavily into Northern Electrics.\n\nEDWARD: Yes.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: But you don't know how heavily. When I discovered the municipalities were organizing the purchase, I thought, of course, the stock'd be up a hundred and forty\u2014a hundred and fifty in no time. Now Leeds won't make up their quarrel with the other firm... there'll be no bill brought in now for ten years. I bought at ninety-five. What are they now?\n\nEDWARD: Eighty-eight.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Eighty-seven and a half. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: With whose money are you so heavily into Northern Electrics?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: The firm's.\n\nEDWARD: Clients' money?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Yes.\n\nEDWARD:... I'm waiting for your explanation.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Children always think the worst of their parents. I did of mine. It's a pity\n\nEDWARD: Go on, sir. Let me know the worst.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: There's no immediate danger. I should think anyone could see that from the state of these accounts. In truth, there's no actual danger at all.\n\nEDWARD: Is that the worst?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Have you studied these two accounts, or have you not?\n\nEDWARD: I have, sir.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, here's the deficiency in Mrs. Murberry's income... has she ever gone without a shilling? What has young Hatherley lost?\n\nEDWARD: He stands to lose\u2014\n\nMR. VOYSEY: He stands to lose nothing if I'm spared for a time, and you will only bring a little common sense to bear, and try to understand the difficulties of my position.\n\nEDWARD: Father, I'm not thinking ill of you... that is, I'm trying not to. But won't you explain how you're justified\u2014?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: In putting our affairs in order?\n\nEDWARD: And are you doing that?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Your grandfather, Edward, made a grave misjudgment. Then the money went, and what was he to do? He'd no capital, no credit, and was in terror of his life. My dear Edward, if I hadn't found it out he'd have confessed to the first man who came and asked for a balance sheet.\n\nEDWARD: Well, what exact sum was he to the bad then?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I forget. Several thousands.\n\nEDWARD: But surely it has not taken all these years to pay off\u2014\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Oh, hasn't it!\n\nEDWARD: ( _Making his point_ ) But how does it happen, sir, that such a comparatively recent trust as a young Hatherley's has been broken into?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, what could be safer than to use that money? There's a Consol investment, and not a sight wanted of either capital or interest for five years.\n\nEDWARD: Father, are you mad?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: My practice is to reinvest my clients' money when it is entirely under my control. The difference between the income this money has to bring to them and the income it is actually bringing to me I utilize in my endeavor to fill up the deficit in the firm's accounts... in fact, to try and put things straight. Doesn't it follow that the more low-interest-bearing capital I can use, the better... the less risky things I have to put it into. Most of young Hatherley's Consol capital is out on mortgage at four and a half and five... safe as safe can be.\n\nEDWARD: But he should have the benefit.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: He has the amount of the interest.\n\nEDWARD: Are the mortgages in his name?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Some of them... some of them. That's a technical matter. With regard to Mrs. Murberry... those Fretworthy bonds at my bank... I've raised five thousand on them. I can release her bonds tomorrow if she wants them.\n\nEDWARD: Where's the five thousand?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I don't know... It was paid into my private account. Yes, I do remember. Some of it went to complete a purchase... that and two thousand more out of the Skipworth fund. I... Get me a drink, will you?\n\nEDWARD: How, how have you kept it from Peacey?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Peacey knows\u2014\n\nEDWARD: Peacey knows? Of the theft? Has he always known?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Of the \"theft\"?\n\nEDWARD: Yes. It is theft, is it not?\n\n(MR. VOYSEY _considers his son for a moment._ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Oh... why is it so hard for a man to see beyond the letter of the law. Will you consider a moment, Edward, the position in which I found myself? Was I to see my father ruined and disgraced without lifting a hand to help him?... not to mention the interest of the clients. I paid back to the man who would have lost most by my father's mistakes every penny of his money. He never knew the danger he'd been in... never passed an uneasy moment about it. It was I who lay awake. I have now somewhere a letter from that man to my father thanking him effusively for the way in which he had conducted business. It comforted my poor father. Well, Edward, I stepped outside the letter of the law to do that. Was that right or wrong?\n\nEDWARD: I cannot say, sir. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMR. VOYSEY: What would allow you to say? ( _Pause_ ) All right, judge by the result. I took the risk of failure... I should have suffered. I could have kept clear of the danger if I'd liked. ( _Pause_ ) Do you see that?\n\nEDWARD: But that's all past. The thing that concerns me is what must we do now.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: But do you see that?\n\nEDWARD: What must we do now?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: My boy, you must trust me. It's all very well for you to come in at the end of the day and criticize. But I, who have done the day's work, know how that work had to be done. And here's our firm, prosperous, respected, and without a stain on its honor. That's the main point, isn't it? And I think that achievement should earn me the right to be trusted a little... shouldn't it?\n\nEDWARD: Look here, sir, I'm dismissing from my mind all prejudice about speaking the truth... acting upon one's instructions, behaving as any honest firm of solicitors must behave...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: You need not. I tell no unnecessary lies. If a man of any business ability gives me definite instructions about his property, I follow them.\n\nEDWARD: Father, please stop.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, my friend, go and tell Mrs. Murberry that four hundred and twenty pounds of her income hasn't for the last eight years come from the place she thinks it's come from, and see if she'd like me to stop.\n\nEDWARD: But is that four hundred and twenty a year as safe to come to her as it was before you meddled with the capital?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: I see no reason why\u2014\n\nEDWARD: What's the security?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: My financial ability.\n\nEDWARD: Do you not realize it's theft?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Edward, I give all I have to the firm's work... my brain... my energies... my whole life. I can't turn my abilities into hard cash at par... I wish I could. Do you suppose that if I could establish every one of these people with a separate and consistent bank balance tomorrow that I shouldn't do it? Do you suppose that it's a pleasure... that it's relaxation to have these matters continually on one's mind? Do you suppose\u2014?\n\nEDWARD: I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course... that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock, this hasn't been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce your own income... to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage... my own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would've put things right.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: No, it would not.\n\nEDWARD: No, there must have been opportunities.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Must there?\n\nEDWARD: In thirty years? There must have been times.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Well, if you're so sure, I hope that when I'm gone you may discover them.\n\nEDWARD: I?\n\nMR. VOYSEY: When the burden's yours.\n\nEDWARD: I? God forbid.\n\nMR. VOYSEY: You're my partner, and my son. And you'll inherit the business.\n\nEDWARD: Oh, no, Father...\n\nMR. VOYSEY: Why else have I told you?\n\n_End of One._\n\n# TWO\n\n#\n\n_The library, draped in mourning._ EDWARD _and_ ETHEL.\n\n_All characters wear mourning._\n\nGEORGE BOOTH _enters with_ MRS. VOYSEY.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Edward. ( _To_ MRS. VOYSEY) Will you come in here?\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Thank you.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I thought it was well done.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Yes. ( _Pause_ ) Yes...\n\nETHEL: Will you excuse me... ? (ETHEL _exits._ )\n\n( _With great solicitude he puts_ MRS. VOYSEY _in a chair; then takes her hand_ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Now I'll intrude no longer.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: You'll take some lunch?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: No.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Not a glass of wine?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: If there's anything I can do just send 'round.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Thank you.\n\n( _He reaches for the door, only to be met by_ MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY)\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I think it all went off as he would have wished.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Great credit... great credit.\n\n(TRENCHARD VOYSEY _enters._ )\n\nTRENCHARD: Have you the right time?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I think so... I make it fourteen minutes to one. Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't mind me saying how glad I was that you were present today. Death closes all. Indeed... it must be a great regret to you that you did not see him before... before...\n\nTRENCHARD: I don't think he asked for me.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: No? No? Well... I... I...\n\n(HUGH VOYSEY _enters._ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: My dear Hugh... I won't intrude.\n\nTRENCHARD: Well, Hugh.\n\nHUGH: Yes. Well.\n\nTRENCHARD: Beatrice didn't come down.\n\nHUGH: No...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH:... Well... ( _He exits. Pause._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: A glass of wine, Mother. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: What?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Have a glass of wine?\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Sherry, please. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: No, I thought that was well done. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: What?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I thought it was well done.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Yes.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Wine, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: No, thank you.\n\n(ALICE _comes in._ )\n\nALICE: Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want to take her some food and make her eat it. She's very upset.\n\nEDWARD: Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is necessary she should come down here. And d'you mind not coming back yourself, Alice? ( _Pause_ )\n\nALICE: Oh. ( _Pause_ ) Certainly, cousin.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What's this? What's this?\n\n(ALICE _exits._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What is this, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: I have something to say to you all.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What?\n\nEDWARD: Well, Booth, you'll hear it when I say it.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Is it business?... Because I think this is scarcely the time for business.\n\nEDWARD: Why?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Do you find it easy and reverent to descend on the instant from your natural grief to the consideration of money... ? I do not. ( _He finds_ TRENCHARD _at his elbow._ ) I hope you are getting some lunch, Trenchard.\n\nEDWARD: This is business, and more than business, Booth. I choose now, because it is something I wish to say to the family, not write to each individually... and it will be difficult to get us all together again.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Well, then, as Edward is in the position of trustee... as he is executor... I don't know your terms... I suppose there's nothing more to be said.\n\nTRENCHARD: I don't see what your objection is.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Don't you? I should not have called myself a sentimental man, but...\n\nHUGH: No. I suppose I'm the sentimental one. I think that's what I am...\n\n(HONOR _enters._ )\n\nHONOR: What's wrong with Alice?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I say, must we do this now?\n\nEDWARD: Yes. My dear Honor. I am sorry to be so\u2014\n\nHONOR: What is it, please?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: He's talking business.\n\nHONOR: Now? Now, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: Yes, now.\n\nHONOR: Why have you banished Alice? Is this why? She's weeping on the stairs. You've thrown her out. Why?\n\nEDWARD: Mother? Mother.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Yes, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: Mother, we're going to have a little talk. It's over money matters. It is necessary now, because... because it's most convenient, and it must be done. Will you sit down? Hugh, would you mind attending?\n\nHUGH: What is it?\n\nEDWARD: There's a chair. ( _Pause_ )\n\n(HUGH _takes it._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Well, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: I'll come straight to the point which concerns you. Our father's will gives certain sums to you all... the gross amount something over a hundred thousand pounds. There will be no money.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: I didn't hear. ( _Pause_ )\n\nHUGH: ( _In his mother's ear_ ) Edward says there's no money.\n\nTRENCHARD: I think you said... \"will be.\"\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Why will there be no money?\n\nEDWARD: Because every penny by right belongs to those clients whom our father spent his life in defrauding. When I say defrauding, I mean it in its worst sense... swindling... thieving. I have been in the swim of it for the past year endeavoring to... and I mean to collect every penny I can; put the firm into bankruptcy; and reimburse these people what we can. I'll stand my trial... it'll come to that with me... and as soon as possible. ( _Pause_ ) Are none of you going to speak? Quite right, what is there to be said! I'm sorry to hurt you, Mother.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: I can't hear quite all you say, but I guess what it is. You don't hurt me, Edward... I have known of this for a long time.\n\nEDWARD: Oh, Mother, did he know you knew?\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: What do you say?\n\nTRENCHARD: I may as well tell you, Edward, I suspected everything wasn't right about the time of my last quarrel with my father. Of course, I took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was Father aware that you knew, Mother?\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: We never discussed it. There was once a great danger... when you were all younger... of his being found out. But we never discussed it.\n\nEDWARD: I'm glad it isn't such a shock to you all.\n\nHUGH: My God... before the earth has settled on his grave!\n\nEDWARD: I thought it wrong to postpone telling you.\n\nHONOR: Oh, poor papa!... Poor papa!\n\nEDWARD: Honor, we shall want your help and advice.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I have said nothing as yet, Edward, I am thinking.\n\nTRENCHARD: That's the worst of these family practices... a lot of money knocking around and no audit ever required. The wonder to me is to find an honest solicitor at all.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Really Trenchard!\n\nTRENCHARD: Well, the more able a man is the less the word \"honesty\" bothers him... and Father was an able man.\n\nEDWARD: I thought that a year ago.\n\nTRENCHARD: Yes...\n\nEDWARD: I thought that at the worst he was a gifted criminal.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Really... really, Edward!\n\nEDWARD: And everything was to come right in the end... we were all to be in reality as wealthy and as prosperous as we have seemed to be all these years. But when he fell ill... towards the last... the facts came out.\n\nTRENCHARD: And these facts are?\n\nEDWARD: Laughable. You wouldn't believe there were such fools in the world as some of these wretched clients have been. The firm's funds were just a lucky bag into which he dipped. Now sometimes their money doesn't even exist.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Where's it gone?\n\nEDWARD: You've been living on it.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Good God!\n\nTRENCHARD: What can you pay in the pound?\n\nEDWARD: Without help?... six or seven shillings, I daresay. But we must do better than that.\n\n( _To which there is no response._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: All this is very dreadful. Does it mean beggary for the whole family?\n\nEDWARD: It should.\n\nTRENCHARD: Nonsense!\n\nEDWARD: What right have we to a thing we possess?\n\nTRENCHARD: He didn't make you an allowance, Booth... your capital's your own, isn't it?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Really... I... I suppose so.\n\nTRENCHARD: Then you're all right.\n\nEDWARD: It's stolen money.\n\nTRENCHARD: I didn't know that.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I should hope not.\n\nEDWARD: It's stolen money.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I say, what ought I to do?\n\nTRENCHARD: Do... my dear Booth? Nothing.\n\nEDWARD: Trenchard, we owe reparation\u2014\n\nTRENCHARD: To whom? From which account was Booth's money taken?\n\nEDWARD: I don't know... I daresay from none directly.\n\nTRENCHARD: Very well, then.\n\nEDWARD: You argue as he did\u2014\n\nTRENCHARD: Nonsense, my dear Edward. The law will take anything it has a right to, and all it can get; you needn't be afraid. There's no obligation, legal or moral, for us to throw our pounds into the wreck, that they may become pence.\n\nEDWARD: I can hear my father...\n\nTRENCHARD: But what about your own position... can we get you clear?\n\nEDWARD: That doesn't matter.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: But I say, you know, this is awful! Will this have to be made public?\n\nTRENCHARD: What help is there for it?\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: What is all this?\n\nTRENCHARD: Edward wishes us to completely beggar ourselves in order to pay back to every client to whom Father owed a pound perhaps ten shillings instead of seven.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: He will find that my estate has been kept quite separate.\n\nTRENCHARD: I'm very glad to hear it, Mother.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: ( _Pause_ ) When Mr. Barnes died, your father agreed to appointing another trustee. I think I'll go to my room. I can't hear what any of you are saying. Edward, you will tell me afterwards.\n\nEDWARD: Would you like to go, too, Honor?\n\nHONOR: Yes, please, I would.\n\n( _They exit._ )\n\nTRENCHARD: How long have things been wrong?\n\nEDWARD: He told me the trouble began in his father's time, and that he'd been battling with it ever since.\n\nTRENCHARD: And is that possible?\n\nEDWARD: Yes. I believed him. Now I look through his papers, I can find only one irregularity that's more than ten years old, and that's only to do with old George Booth's business.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: But Father never touched his money... why, he was a personal friend.\n\nTRENCHARD: Very curious his evolving that fiction about his father... I wonder why. I remember the old man. He was as honest as the day.\n\nEDWARD: To gain sympathy, I suppose.\n\nTRENCHARD: What position did you take upon the matter when he told you?\n\nEDWARD: You know what he was as well as I.\n\nTRENCHARD: Well... what did you attempt to do?\n\nEDWARD: I urged him to start by making some of the smaller accounts right. He said... he said that would be pennywise and pound-foolish. So I did what I could myself.\n\nTRENCHARD: With your own money?\n\nEDWARD: The little I had.\n\nTRENCHARD: Can you prove that you did that?\n\nEDWARD: I suppose I could.\n\nTRENCHARD: It's a good point.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Yes, I must say\u2014\n\nTRENCHARD: You ought to have written him a letter, and left the firm the moment you found out. Even then, legally... ! But as he was your father. What was his object in telling you?\n\nEDWARD: I thought, at the time, it was remorse.\n\nTRENCHARD: And now?\n\nEDWARD: Now I really believe it was that he might have someone to boast to of his financial exploits.\n\nTRENCHARD: I daresay.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Scarcely matters to boast of.\n\nTRENCHARD: No? You try playing the fool with other people's money, and keeping your neck out of the noose for twelve years. Quite a performance.\n\nEDWARD: Then, of course, he always protested that things would come right... that he'd clear the firm and have a fortune to the good. Or that if he were not spared I might do it. But he must have known that was impossible.\n\nTRENCHARD: But there's the gambler all over. \"It'll all come right.\"\n\nEDWARD: Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up this will!\n\nTRENCHARD: That was childish.\n\nEDWARD: And I'm the sole executor.\n\nTRENCHARD: So I should think... was I down for anything?\n\nEDWARD: No.\n\nTRENCHARD: How he did hate me!\n\nEDWARD: You're safe from the results of his affection, anyway.\n\nTRENCHARD: What on earth made you stay in the firm, once you knew?\n\nEDWARD: Inertia.\n\nTRENCHARD: No, tell me truly. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: I thought I might prevent things from getting any worse. I think I did... well, I should have done that if he'd lived.\n\nTRENCHARD: You knew the risk you were running?\n\nEDWARD: Yes. ( _Pause_ )\n\nTRENCHARD: I must be off. Business waiting... close-of-play, you know.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Shall I walk to the station with you?\n\nTRENCHARD: I'll spend a few minutes with Mother. You'll count on my professional assistance, please, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: ( _Simply_ ) Thank you, Trenchard.\n\n(TRENCHARD _goes._ )\n\nHUGH: The more I think this out, the more devilishly humorous it gets. Old Booth breaking down by the grave... Colpus intoning the service...\n\nEDWARD: Yes, the vicar will be badly hit.\n\nHUGH: Oh, yes, Father managed his business for years.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Good God... how shall we ever look old Booth in the face again?\n\nEDWARD: I don't worry about him. He can die quite comfortably enough on six shillings in the pound. It's the smaller fry who'll suffer.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Now, just explain to me... I didn't interrupt while Trenchard was talking... of what exactly did this defrauding consist?\n\nEDWARD: Speculating with a client's capital... pocketing the gains, cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the client his ordinary income.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: So the client's kept in the dark.\n\nEDWARD: Quite so.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: In point of fact, then, the client doesn't suffer?\n\nEDWARD: He doesn't suffer till he finds out.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: And all that's wrong now is that some of their capital is missing.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, that's all that's wrong.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What is the ah... deficit?\n\nEDWARD: Anything between two and three hundred thousand pounds.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Dear me...\n\nHUGH:... Quite apart from the rights and wrongs of this, only a very able man could have kept a straight face to the world all these years, as Father did.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I suppose he sometimes made money by these speculations.\n\nEDWARD: Very often. His own expenditure was heavy, as you know.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: He was a generous man.\n\nHUGH: I, I thought that I was the artist. But it would seem it was _he._\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: That's uncalled for, Hugh.\n\nHUGH: Oh? _Edward._\n\nEDWARD: Yes.\n\nHUGH: Did no one ever suspect him?\n\nEDWARD: When there was any danger... when a trust had to be wound up... he'd make the great effort, and put the accounts straight.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Then he did put some accounts straight?\n\nEDWARD: Yes, when he couldn't help himself.\n\nHUGH: ( _To himself)..._ Yes. It seems he was the artist...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Be quiet. Now look here, Edward. You told us that he told you that it was the object of his life to put these accounts in order. Then you laughed at that. Now you tell me that he _did_ put some accounts right.\n\nEDWARD: My dear Booth, you don't understand.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Well, let me understand. I am anxious to understand.\n\nEDWARD: We can't pay ten shillings in the pound.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: That's very dreadful. But do you know that there wasn't a time when we couldn't have paid five? ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: I don't know.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Very well, then! If what he said was true about his father and all that... and why shouldn't we believe him if we can?... and if he _did_ effect an improvement, that's all to his credit. Let us at least be just, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: I am very sorry to appear unjust. He has left me in a rather unfortunate position.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Yes, his death was a tragedy. It seems to me that if he had been spared he might have succeeded at length in this tremendous task, and restored to us our family honor.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, Booth, he spoke very feelingly of that.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I can well believe it. And I can tell you that now... I may be right or I may be wrong... I am feeling far less concerned about the clients' money than I am at the terrible blow to the family which this exposure will strike. Money, after all, can to a certain extent be done without... but honor\u2014\n\nEDWARD: Our honor! Does one of you mean to give me a single penny towards undoing all the wrong that has been done?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I take Trenchard's word for it that that would be illegal.\n\nEDWARD: Well, then, don't talk to me of honor.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I am speaking of public exposure. Edward, can't that be prevented?\n\nEDWARD: How?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Well... how was it being prevented before he died\u2014before we knew anything about it?... Do you see? ( _Pause_ ) I am beginning to think that you have worked yourself into rather an hysterical state over this unhappy business.\n\nEDWARD: Perhaps you'd have been glad... glad if I'd held my tongue and gone on lying and cheating... and married and begotten a son to go on lying and cheating after me... and to pay your interest... your interest in the crime.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Look here, Edward, this rhetoric is exceedingly out of place. The simple question before us is... What is the best course to pursue?\n\nEDWARD: There is no question before us. There's only one course to pursue.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: That is not so. Let me speak, please. Insofar as our poor father was dishonest to his clients, I pray that he may be forgiven. Insofar as he spent his life honestly endeavoring to right a wrong which he had found already committed... I forgive him. And I admire him, Edward. And I feel it my duty to\u2014er\u2014reprobate most strongly the\u2014er\u2014gusto with which you have been holding him up in memory to us... ten minutes after we have stood around his grave... as a monster of wickedness. I think I may say I knew him as well as you... better. And... thank God!... there was not between him and me this\u2014this unhappy business to warp my judgment of him. Did you ever know a more charitable man... a larger-hearted? He was a faithful husband... and what a father to all of us, putting us out into the world and fully intending to leave us comfortably settled there. Further... as I see this matter, Edward... when as a young man he was told this terrible secret, and entrusted with such a frightful task... did he turn his back on it like a coward? No. He went through it heroically to the end of his life. And as he died I imagine there was no more torturing thought than that he had left his work unfinished. And now if all these clients can be kept receiving their natural income, and if Father's plan could be carried out of gradually replacing the capital\u2014\n\nEDWARD: You're appealing to me to carry on this crime?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Haven't you been doing so? ( _Pause_ ) This last year? Since he told you?\n\nEDWARD: Why do you press me?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I press you to come to a reasonable position.\n\nEDWARD: Do you want your legacy? Is that it? Shall that count as \"reasonable\"?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: In one moment, Edward, I shall become angry. Here I am doing my best to help you, and your clients, and you sit there imputing to me the most sordid motives. Do you suppose I should touch or allow to be touched the money which Father has left us, before every client's claim was satisfied?\n\nEDWARD: My dear Booth, I'm sure you mean well, but...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: And I'll come down to your office and work with you there. I'll help you.\n\nEDWARD: My dear Booth.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I, I, I'm not sure what can be done, but whatever can be done, I will be there to help you.\n\nTRENCHARD: ( _Offstage_ ) Are you coming Booth?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Yes, I am. ( _To_ EDWARD) You do nothing rash. I've no doubt we can devise something which will obviate, Edward, which will obviate the necessity... and then I'm sure I shall convince you. ( _Exits with_ TRENCHARD.)\n\nEDWARD: It's strange the number of people who believe you can do right by means which they know to be wrong.\n\nHUGH: Let's say legal and illegal. You're so down on the Governor because he has trespassed against the etiquette of your own profession. But now he's dead... and if there weren't the disgrace to think of... it's no use the rest of us pretending to feel him a criminal, because we don't. Edward??\n\nEDWARD: Yes?\n\nHUGH: \"Don't do anything rash.\"\n\n(ALICE _enters quietly._ )\n\nEDWARD: How are you, Hugh?\n\nHUGH: I'm as you see me. ( _At this point he becomes conscious that_ ALICE _is standing behind him._ ) Hullo, Alice.\n\nALICE: Hullo, Hugh. ( _Pause_ )\n\nHUGH: D'you want to speak to Edward?\n\nALICE: Please, Hugh.\n\nHUGH: I'll go. ( _Exits._ )\n\nALICE: They have told me.\n\nEDWARD: He was fond of you.\n\nALICE: Your father.\n\nEDWARD: Mmm.\n\nALICE: Yes. He was.\n\nEDWARD: Don't think worse of him than you can help.\n\nALICE: I'm not thinking of him.\n\nEDWARD: No?\n\nALICE: I'm thinking of you.\n\nEDWARD: I may just escape.\n\nALICE: So Trenchard says.\n\nEDWARD: My hands are clean, Alice.\n\nALICE: I know that. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: Mother's not very upset.\n\nALICE: She had expected the smash in his lifetime, it seems.\n\nEDWARD: I'm glad that didn't happen.\n\nALICE: Yes... as the fault was his it won't hurt you so much to stand up to the blame. ( _Pause_ ) Do you know it was a mercy to tell Honor just at this time. She can grieve for his death and his disgrace at the same time... and the one grief lessens the other perhaps.\n\nEDWARD: Oh, they're all shocked enough at the disgrace... but will they open their purses to mitigate it?\n\nALICE: Will it seem less disgraceful to have stolen ten thousand pounds than twenty?\n\nEDWARD: I should think so.\n\nALICE: I should think so, too\u2014but I wonder if that's the law. If it isn't, Trenchard wouldn't consider the point. I'm sure public opinion doesn't say so... and that's what Booth is considering.\n\nEDWARD: Yes. He would.\n\nALICE: Well, he's in the army... he's almost in society... and he has to get on in both; one mustn't blame him. Of course, if the money could have been given up with a flourish of trumpets... ! But even then I doubt whether the advertisement would bring in what it cost.\n\nEDWARD: But when one thinks how the money was obtained!\n\nALICE:... When one thinks how the money is obtained...\n\nEDWARD: They've not earned it.\n\nALICE: If they had, they might have given it you and earned more. Did I ever tell you what my guardian said to me when I came of age?\n\nEDWARD: I'm thankful your money's not been in danger.\n\nALICE: It might have been, but I was made to look after it myself... much against my will. My guardian was a person of great character and no principles, the best and most lovable man I've ever met... I'm sorry you never knew him, Edward... and he said once to me... You've no right to your money. You've not earned it or deserved it in any way. Therefore, don't be surprised or annoyed if any enterprising person tries to get it from you. He has at least as much right to it as you have. If he can use it better, he has more right. Shocking sentiments, aren't they? No respectable man of business could own to them. ( _Pause_ ) I'm not so sorry for some of these clients as you are, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: You surprise me, Alice.\n\nALICE: I'm pleased that I still have that capacity ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD:... One or two of the clients will be beggared.\n\nALICE: Yes, that is serious. What's to be done?\n\nEDWARD: There's old Nurse... with her poor little savings gone!\n\nALICE: Surely those can be spared her?\n\nEDWARD: The law's no respecter of persons... that's its boast. Old Booth, with more than he wants, will keep enough. My old nurse, with just enough, may starve. But it'll be a relief to clear out this nest of lies, even though one suffers oneself. I've been ashamed to walk into that office, Alice... I'll hold my head high in prison, though.\n\nALICE: Edward, I'm afraid you're feeling heroic.\n\nEDWARD: I? Heroic?\n\nALICE: Don't be so proud of your misfortune. You looked quite like Booth for the moment. It will be very stupid to send you to prison, and you must do your best to keep out. We were discussing if anything could be done for these one or two people who'll be beggared.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, Alice. I'm sorry nothing can be done for them.\n\nALICE: It's a pity.\n\nEDWARD: I suppose I was feeling heroic. I didn't mean to.\n\nALICE: That's the worst of acting on principle... one begins thinking of one's attitude instead of the import of one's actions.\n\nEDWARD: I'm exposing this fraud on principle.\n\nALICE: Are you?\n\nEDWARD: Yes\u2014indeed. I am.\n\nALICE: Perhaps that's what's wrong.\n\nEDWARD: Wrong?\n\nALICE: My dear Edward, if people are to be ruined...\n\nEDWARD: But what else is there to be done?\n\nALICE: Well... have you thought?\n\nEDWARD: There's nothing else to be done.\n\nALICE: On principle? No? Nothing? ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: It had occurred to Booth...\n\nALICE: Oh, anything may occur to Booth.\n\nEDWARD:... in his grave concern for the family honor that I might quietly cheat the firm back into credit again.\n\nALICE: How stupid of Booth.\n\nEDWARD: Well... like my father... Booth believes in the sanctity of the status quo.\n\nALICE: Does he indeed?\n\nEDWARD: But don't think I've any talents that way, principles or no. What have I done so far? Sat in the shame of it for a year. I did take a hand... if you knew what it felt like... I managed to stop one affair going from bad to worse.\n\nALICE: If that was the best you could do wasn't it worth doing?\n\nEDWARD: And that may cost me... at the best I'll be struck off... one's livelihood gone.\n\nALICE: The cost is of course your own affair.\n\nEDWARD: ( _Pause_ ) My affair alone?\n\nALICE: Is it not?\n\nEDWARD: ( _Interrupting)..._ I'll tell you what I _could_ do.\n\nALICE: Yes?\n\nEDWARD: It's just as irregular.\n\nALICE: That doesn't shock me... I'm lawless by birthright, being a woman.\n\nEDWARD: There are four or five accounts I believe I could get quite square. Mrs. Travers... well, she'd never starve, but I'd like to see those young Lyndhursts safe. There's money to play with, Heaven knows. It'd take a while to get it right and cover the tracks. Cover the tracks... sounds well, doesn't it?\n\nALICE: And then you'd give yourself up as you'd meant to do now?\n\nEDWARD: Yes.\n\nALICE: And?\n\nEDWARD: Go bankrupt.\n\nALICE: It'd be worse for you at the trial.\n\nEDWARD: You said that was my affair.\n\nALICE: Oh, Edward!\n\nEDWARD: Shall I do it?\n\nALICE: Why must you ask me?\n\nEDWARD: Do you know what I like about you, Alice?\n\nALICE: Yes. I think I do.\n\n_End of Two._\n\n# THREE\n\n#\n\n_The library. The signs of mourning are gone. Some Christmas decorations are to be found._ EDWARD, _dressed in traveling clothes, is putting some papers into a briefcase._ PEACEY _enters._\n\nPEACEY: Good morning, sir.\n\nEDWARD: Good morning, Peacey, good of you to come in on the holiday.\n\nPEACEY: Well, sir, the work must be done...\n\n(EDWARD _holds out his hand and_ PEACEY _puts some papers into it._ )\n\nPEACEY: And of course, I always did it, in your father's day, sir.\n\nEDWARD: ( _Examining the papers_ ) I'm sorry, what? You always did what in my father's day?\n\nPEACEY: Whatever needed to be done.\n\nEDWARD: Of course.\n\nPEACEY: And I've arranged your travel, sir.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, thank you. Please see that a dozen roses are sent to my mother\u2014New Year's Day. Here's the card.\n\nPEACEY: Very good, sir.\n\nEDWARD: If Bullen calls, over the holiday, he shouldn't but, in the event, I'll deal with him on the second. Write to Metcalf. Tell him I interviewed Vickery myself, on Friday. Let me see that letter again. (PEACEY _hands_ EDWARD _a letter_ EDWARD _has just signed and handed him._ ) Yes, that's fine. (EDWARD _hands the letter back._ )\n\nPEACEY: Very good, sir.\n\nEDWARD: That will be all. ( _Pause_ )\n\nPEACEY: May I speak to you a moment, sir?\n\nEDWARD: Can't it wait till I return?\n\nPEACEY: Just a moment, if I may.\n\nEDWARD: Very well. Very well, certainly. ( _Pause_ )... Yes?\n\nPEACEY: Bills are beginning to come in upon me as is usual at this season, sir. My son's allowance at Cambridge is now rather a heavy item of my expenditure. I hope that the custom of the firm isn't to be neglected now that you are the head of it, Mr. Edward. Two hundred your father always made it at Christmas... in notes, if you please.\n\nEDWARD: In notes. To be sure... your hush money.\n\nPEACEY: That's not a very pleasant word, sir.\n\nEDWARD: This is not a pleasant subject.\n\nPEACEY: I'm sure it isn't my wish to bring out in cold conversation what I know of the firm's position. ( _Pause_ ) Your father always gave me notes in an envelope when he shook hands with me at Christmas.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, I, I rather knew.\n\nPEACEY: You did, sir... ?\n\nEDWARD: And I've been waiting for you to ask me.\n\nPEACEY: Well, then, we'll say no more about it. There's always a bit of friction in coming to an understanding about anything, isn't there, sir?\n\nEDWARD: Why didn't you speak to me about this last Christmas?\n\nPEACEY: I knew you were upset at your father's death.\n\nEDWARD: Father died the August before that.\n\nPEACEY: Well... truthfully Mr. Edward?\n\nEDWARD: As truthfully as you think suitable.\n\nPEACEY: Well, I couldn't make you out last Christmas. I'd always thought there must be a smash when your father died... but it didn't come. But then again last Christmas you seemed all on edge, and I didn't know what might happen. So I thought I'd better keep quiet and say nothing.\n\nEDWARD: I see. This little pull of yours over the firm is an inheritance from _your_ father, isn't it?\n\nPEACEY: When he retired, sir, he said to me... \"I've told the Governor you know what I know.\" And Mr. Voysey said to me... \"I treat you as I did your father, Peacey.\" I never had another word on the subject with him.\n\nEDWARD: A very decent arrangement. Your son's at Cambridge, you say, Peacey?\n\nPEACEY: Yes.\n\nEDWARD: I wonder you didn't bring him into the firm.\n\nPEACEY: Thank you, sir... I thought of it. But then I thought that two generations in this sort of thing was enough.\n\nEDWARD: A fine point of taste.\n\nPEACEY: And then, sir... I don't want to hurt your feelings, but things simply cannot go on forever. The marvel to me is that the game has been kept up as it has. So now, if he does well at Cambridge, I hope he'll go to the bar. He has a distinct talent for patiently applying himself to the details of a thing.\n\nEDWARD: Well, then, I'm sure he'll do well. I'm glad to have had this talk with you, Peacey. I'm sorry you can't have the money you want.\n\nPEACEY: Oh, no, any time will do, sir.\n\nEDWARD: You can't have the money at all.\n\nPEACEY: Can't I?\n\nEDWARD: Since my father's death the trust business of the firm has not been conducted as formerly. We no longer make illicit profits out of our clients. There are none for you to share.\n\nPEACEY: Look here, Mr. Edward, I'm sorry I began this discussion. You'll give me my two hundred as usual, please, and we'll drop the subject.\n\nEDWARD: By all means drop the subject.\n\nPEACEY: I want the money. I think it is not gentlemanly in you, Mr. Edward, to make these excuses to try to get out of paying it me. Your father would never have made such an excuse.\n\nEDWARD: Do you think I'm lying to you?\n\nPEACEY: I don't wish to criticize your statements or your actions at all, sir. It was no concern of mine how your father treated his clients.\n\nEDWARD: Indeed.\n\nPEACEY: Indeed, sir\u2014I am an _employee._ I was paid to execute your father's wishes\u2014as a _clerk,_ sir\u2014his professional...\n\nEDWARD:... manipulations?\n\nPEACEY: Were beyond me and were no concern of mine.\n\nEDWARD: Nicely put. And now it's no concern of yours how honest _I_ am.\n\nPEACEY: Well, don't be sarcastic... a man does get used to a state of affairs whatever it may be, as you have, sir, if I may, _as your_ family has, these many years.\n\nEDWARD: My friend, in one moment I shall have to tell you very candidly what I think of you.\n\nPEACEY: That I'm a thief because I've taken money from a thief?\n\nEDWARD: You're worse than a thief. You're content that others should steal for you.\n\nPEACEY: As who isn't? ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: Ah, Peacey I perceive that you study sociology. Well, that's too big a question to enter into now. The application of the present portion of it is that I have for the moment, at some inconvenience to myself, ceased to receive stolen goods and therefore am in a position to throw a stone at you. I have thrown it.\n\nPEACEY: And now I'm to leave the firm, I suppose?\n\nEDWARD: Not unless you wish.\n\nPEACEY: I happen to think the secret's worth its price.\n\nEDWARD: Perhaps someone will pay it you.\n\nPEACEY: You're presuming upon its not being worth my while to make use of what I know.\n\nEDWARD: My good Peacey, it happens to be the truth I told you just now. How on earth do you suppose you can successfully blackmail a man, who has so much to gain by exposure and so little to lose?\n\nPEACEY: I don't want to ruin you, sir, and I have a great regard for the firm... but you must see that I can't have my income reduced in this way without objection.\n\nEDWARD: Peacey... Peacey. I have, as I believe you're aware, struggled, to return the firm to what you will forgive me if I characterize as a \"moral footing.\" You are not unaware of these efforts. I am near succeeding, as, again, you know. You see all of our incomes reduced. And yet you come to me. Why?\n\nPEACEY: For one thing, sir, I don't think it fair dealing on your part to dock the money suddenly. I have been counting on it most of the year, and I have been led into heavy expenses. Now, couldn't you have warned me?\n\nEDWARD: That's true, Peacey, it was stupid of me. I apologize for the mistake.\n\nPEACEY: Perhaps things may be easier for you by next Christmas.\n\nEDWARD: I hope so.\n\nPEACEY: Then... perhaps you won't be so particular.\n\nEDWARD: So you don't believe what I told you?\n\nPEACEY: Yes, I do.\n\nEDWARD: Then you think that the fascination of bilking one's clients will ultimately prove irresistible?\n\nPEACEY: It's what happened to your father. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: Go on.\n\nPEACEY: He got things right as rain once, Mr. Edward. I should be very glad to know that the firm was solvent and going straight. There have been times when I have sincerely regretted my connection with it. If you'll let me say so, I think it's very noble of you to have undertaken the work you have. And Mr. Edward, if you'll give me enough to cover this year's expense I think I may promise you that I shan't expect money again. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: No.\n\nPEACEY: You hesitated, sir.\n\nEDWARD: Then call me a hypocrite. But I am not a thief.\n\nPEACEY: Well, sir, you make things very difficult for me.\n\nEDWARD: As long as you're here, here's a letter from Mr. Cartright which you might attend to. If he wants an appointment with me, don't make one till the New Year. His case can't come on before February.\n\nPEACEY: I am aware of your plans, for your vacation.\n\nEDWARD: I don't understand.\n\nPEACEY: And, I am anxious to meet you in every way\u2014( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: ( _Holding a file_ ) \"Perceval Building Estate\"... You may file that, too.\n\nPEACEY:... but I refuse to be ignored. I must consider my whole position. I hope I may not be tempted to make use of the power I possess. But if I am driven to proceed to extremities...\n\nEDWARD: My dear Peacey, don't talk nonsense... you couldn't proceed to an extremity to save your life. You've taken this money irresponsibly for all these years. You'll find you're no longer capable of concerted moral action. ( _Pause_ )\n\nPEACEY: Is that what you think, of me, sir? ( _Pause_ ) Which would induce you to descend to personalities?\n\nEDWARD: I'm sorry, Peacey.\n\nPEACEY: Is that what you think, that if it happens at the club, it's business, but, backstairs it's theft?\n\nEDWARD: I said I'm sorry.\n\nPEACEY: Yes, sir, yes, indeed you did, as you go off on vacation. And what is paying, if I may, sir, for your fine vacation? Mr. Voysey? And for your servants? And for the food you eat? Sir?\n\n(HUGH _enters._ )\n\nHUGH: Good morning, Peacey\n\nPEACEY: I'll take your answer, sir, another day.\n\nEDWARD: That will be all.\n\nPEACEY: Good morning, Mr. Hugh. Good morning, Mr. Edward.\n\nEDWARD: Peacey.\n\n(PEACEY _exits._ )\n\n(HUGH _looks out the window._ EDWARD _finishes packing his briefcase._ )\n\nEDWARD: What brings you down?\n\nHUGH: Eh?\n\nEDWARD: What'd you want?\n\nHUGH: I want a maxim gun planted in Regent Street... and one in the Haymarket xs... and one in Leicester Square and one in the Strand... and a dozen in the city. An earthquake would be simpler. Or a nice clean tidal wave? It's no good preaching and patching up any longer, Edward. We must begin, afresh. Don't you feel, even in your calmer moments, that this whole country is simply hideous? The other nations must look after themselves. I'm patriotic... I only ask that we should be destroyed.\n\nEDWARD: Perhaps it shall come about.\n\nHUGH: I'm sick of waiting. ( _Then as_ EDWARD _says nothing_ ) You say this is the cry of the weak man in despair! I wouldn't be anything but a weak man in this world. I wouldn't be a king, I wouldn't be rich... I wouldn't be a Borough Councillor... I should be so ashamed. I've walked here this morning from Hampstead. I started to curse because the streets were dirty. You'd think that an empire could keep its streets clean! But then I saw that the children were dirty, too.\n\nEDWARD: That's because of the streets.\n\nHUGH: Yes, it's holiday time. Those that can cross a road safely are doing some work now... earning some money. You'd think a governing race, professing responsibilities, might care for its children.\n\nEDWARD: Come, we educate them now. And I don't think many work in holiday time.\n\nHUGH: ( _Encouraged by contradiction_ ) We teach them all that we're not ashamed of... and much that we ought to be... and the rest they find out for themselves. Oh, every man and woman I met was muddy-eyed! They'd joined the great conspiracy which we call our civilization. They've been educated! They believe in the laws and the money market. ( _Pause_ ) Well, at least they suffer for their beliefs. But I'm glad I don't make the laws... and that I haven't any money... and that I hate respectability... or I should be so ashamed. By the by, that's what I've come for.\n\nEDWARD: What? I thought you'd come to see me off.\n\nHUGH: You must take that money of mine for your clients. Of course you ought to have had it when you asked for it. It has never belonged to me. Well... it has never done me any good. I have never made any use of it, and so it has been just a drag on my life.\n\nEDWARD: My dear Hugh... this is very generous of you.\n\nHUGH: Not a bit. I only want to start fresh and free.\n\nEDWARD: Hugh, do you really think that money has carried a curse with it?\n\nHUGH: I know it. I'm the proof of it, look at me. When I announced I'd be an artist the Governor gave me a hundred and fifty a year... the rent of a studio and the price of a velvet coat he thought it; that was all he knew about art. Then my respectable training got me engaged and married. Marriage in a studio puzzled the Governor, so he guessed it at two hundred and fifty a year... What had I to do with art? Nothing I've done yet but reflects our drawing room.\n\nEDWARD: What does your art earn in a year? I doubt if you can afford to give this up.\n\nHUGH: Oh Edward... you clank the chain with the best of them. That word \"afford\"! I want to be free from my advantages. Don't you see I must find out what I'm worth in myself... whether I even exist or not? Perhaps I'm only a pretense of a man animated by an income.\n\nEDWARD: But you can't return to nature on the London pavements.\n\nHUGH: No. Nor in England at all... it's nothing but a big back garden. ( _Pause_ ) But if there's no place on earth where a man can prove his right to live by some other means than robbing his neighbor... I'd better go and request the next horse I meet to ride me... to the nearest lunatic asylum.\n\nEDWARD: And what does Beatrice say to your emigrating to the backwoods... if that is exactly what you mean?\n\nHUGH: We're separating\u2014\n\nEDWARD: What?\n\nHUGH: We mean to separate.\n\nEDWARD: This is the first I've heard of it.\n\nHUGH: Beatrice is making some money by her books, so it has become possible.\n\nEDWARD: Have you told anyone yet?\n\nHUGH: We mean to now. I think a thing comes to pass quicker in public. ( _Pause_ ) Good this other scandal, eh? Don't you think, Edward... ?\n\nEDWARD: Say nothing at home, would you, until after Christmas?\n\nHUGH: Yes, you're right.\n\nEDWARD: I shan't accept this money from you... there's no need. All the good has been done that I wanted to do. No one will be beggared now. So why should you be?\n\nHUGH: I was beggared before. Take the blasted money. It ain't mine. It never was.\n\nEDWARD: Consider.\n\nHUGH: I have\u2014anything past this is just cowardice\u2014( _Pause_ ) Take it. ( _Pause_ ) And you\u2014when will you be quit of the beastly business?\n\nEDWARD: I'm in no hurry.\n\nHUGH: What do you gain by hanging on now?\n\nEDWARD: Occupation.\n\nHUGH: But, Edward, it must be an awfully wearying state of things. I suppose any moment a policeman may knock at the door... so to speak?\n\nEDWARD: Any moment. I take no precautions. I suppose that's why he doesn't come. At first I listened for him, day by day. Then I said to myself... next week. But a year has gone by and more. I've ceased expecting to hear the knock at all. I've... I've decided that \"decision\" is the thing, and I've decided to get on with my life.\n\nHUGH: But look here... is all this worthwhile?\n\nEDWARD: My dear Hugh, what a question!\n\nHUGH: Why should your real happiness be sacrificed to the sham happiness which I believe is called \"money\"\u2014which people have invested in the firm?\n\nEDWARD: I suppose their money means such happiness to them as they understand.\n\nHUGH: Then we want another currency. I never believed that money was valuable. I once gave a crossing sweeper a sovereign. The sovereign was nothing. But the sensation I gave him was to me a valuable thing.\n\nEDWARD: He could buy other sensations with the sovereign.\n\nHUGH: But none as great as mine. So, yes, we're slaves! Beatrice won't let me go until we're each certain of two hundred a year. And she's quite right... I should only go into debt. You know that two fifty a year of mine is a hundred and eighty now.\n\nEDWARD: A hundred eighty, but secure. Finally secure. Thank God. ( _Pause_ ) And made it right. Nearly right.\n\nHUGH: What?\n\nEDWARD: I got it to come nearly right. You needn't give it up. I've nearly balanced the books.\n\nHUGH: But: that is my question, Edward, that is my question.\n\nEDWARD: N'your question is?\n\nHUGH: Is it right? Should we have any of it? ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: It says, \"The poor are always with us...\"\n\nHUGH: Yes, but does it follow that the world must bear with the rich?\n\nEDWARD: I'm getting it clear. I've near put it right, God willing I will put it right, and put questions of rich and poor, wrong and right behind me, and let us \"be cautioned,\" and go live a decent life.\n\n(GEORGE BOOTH _enters._ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Hello, Hugh. Hello Edward, I'm glad that I've caught you.\n\nEDWARD: Good morning, Mr. Booth.\n\nHUGH: Well... Beatrice and I go down to town tomorrow. I say... d'you know that old Nursie is furious with you about something?\n\nEDWARD: Yes, I know. Good-bye.\n\nHUGH: Good-bye. ( _Exits._ )\n\nEDWARD: Will you come here... or will you sit by the fire?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: This'll do. I shan't detain you long.\n\nEDWARD: Are you feeling all right now?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: A bit dyspeptic. How are you?\n\nEDWARD: Quite well, thanks.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I'm glad... I'm glad. ( _Pause_ ) I'm afraid this isn't very pleasant business I've come upon.\n\nEDWARD: D'you want to go to law with anyone?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: No... oh, no. I'm getting too old to quarrel.\n\nEDWARD: A pleasant symptom.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I mean to withdraw my securities from the custody of your firm... with the usual notice, of course.\n\nEDWARD:... May one ask why?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Certainly... certainly. My reason is straightforward and simple and well considered. ( _Pause_ ) I think you must know, Edward, I have never been able to feel that implicit confidence in your ability which I had in your father's. Well, it is hardly to be expected, is it? ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: No.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I can say that without unduly depreciating you. Men like your father are few and far between. As far as I know, things proceed at this office as they have always done, but... since his death I have not been happy about my affairs.\n\nEDWARD: I think you need be under no apprehension...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I daresay not. But that isn't the point. Now, for the first time in my long life, I am worried about money affairs; and I don't enjoy the feeling. The possession of money has always been a pleasure to me... and for what are perhaps my last years I don't wish that to be otherwise. You must remember you have practically my entire property unreservedly in your control.\n\nEDWARD: Perhaps we can arrange to hand you over the reins to an extent which will ease your mind, and at the same time not...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I thought of that. Believe me, I have every wish not to slight unduly your father's son. I have not moved in the matter for eighteen months. I have not been able to make up my mind to. Really, one feels a little helpless... and the transaction of business requires more energy than... But I saw my doctor yesterday, Edward, and he told me... well, it was a warning. And so I felt it my duty at once to... especially as I made up my mind to it some time ago. In point of fact, Edward, more than a year before your father died I had quite decided that my affairs could never be with you as they were with him.\n\nEDWARD: Did he know that?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I think I never said it in so many words. But he may easily have guessed. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD:... I hope you won't do this, Mr. Booth.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I have quite made up my mind.\n\nEDWARD: You must let me persuade you\u2014\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I shall make a point of informing your family that you are in no way to blame in the matter. And in the event of any personal legal difficulties I shall always be delighted to come to you. My idea is for the future to employ merely a financial agent\u2014\n\nEDWARD: If you had made up your mind before my father died to do this, you ought to have told him.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Please allow me to know my own business best. I did not choose to distress him.\n\nEDWARD: Mr. Booth...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: You're making a fearful fuss about a very simple matter, Edward. The loss of one client, however important he may be... Why, this is one of the best family practices in London. I am surprised at your lack of dignity\n\nEDWARD: Yes. Yes. Should you like a statement now, of your position.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Is it necessary? I'll have the papers sent for, after the New Year.\n\nEDWARD: No, I should like to explain some matters to you.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: And can you do that, absent the documents?\n\nEDWARD: I believe I can.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Then, if it's important to you.\n\nEDWARD: Yes, Mr. Booth.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Go ahead.\n\nEDWARD: How much do you think you're worth?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I couldn't say offhand.\n\nEDWARD: But you've a rough idea?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: To be sure.\n\nEDWARD: You'll get not quite half that out of us.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I think I said I had made up my mind to withdraw the whole amount.\n\nEDWARD: You should have made up your mind sooner.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I don't in the least understand you, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: A great part of your capital doesn't exist.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: You mean that it won't be prudent to realize? You can hand over the securities. I don't want to reinvest simply because\u2014\n\nEDWARD: I can't hand over what I haven't got.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Is anything... wrong?\n\nEDWARD: We have robbed you of nearly half your property.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Say that again.\n\nEDWARD: It's quite true.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: My money... gone?\n\nEDWARD: Yes.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: You've been the thief... you... you... ?\n\nEDWARD: No.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Who, then?\n\nEDWARD: My father.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: How dare you say that?\n\nEDWARD: It's true.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Slandering your dead father... and lying to me, revenging yourself by frightening me... because I've insulted you.\n\nEDWARD: I...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: _Prove_ this... prove it to me! I'm not to be frightened so easily. One can't lose half of all one has and then be told of it in two minutes...\n\nEDWARD: If my father had told you this in plain words you'd have believed him.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Yes. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: Oh, and I was so close. What on earth did you want to withdraw your account for? You need never have known... you could have died happy. Settling with all those charities in your will would certainly have smashed us up. But proving your will is many years off yet, we'll hope.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I don't understand. No, I don't understand... because your father... But I must understand, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: Don't shock yourself trying to understand my father, for you never will. Pull yourself together, Mr. Booth. After all, this isn't a vital matter to you. It's not even as if you had a family to consider... like some of the others.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: What others?\n\nEDWARD: Don't imagine your money has been specially selected for pilfering.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: You mean, you mean _all_ of the accounts have been looted? ( _Pause_ ) One has read of this sort of thing, but... I thought people always got found out.\n\nEDWARD: Well... we are found out. You've found us out.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Oh... I've been foully cheated!\n\nEDWARD: That's correct.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: But by you, Edward... say it's by you.\n\nEDWARD: I've neither the ability nor the personality for such work, Mr. Booth... nothing but principles, which forbid me to lie to you.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I think your father is in Hell... I'd have gone there myself to save him from it. I loved him very truly. How he could have had the heart! We were friends for nearly fifty years. Am I to think now he only cared for me to cheat me? ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: Well, you're master of the situation now. What do you intend to do?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: To get my money back.\n\nEDWARD: No, that's gone.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Then give me what's left, and\u2014\n\nEDWARD: Are you going to prosecute?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Oh, dear... is that necessary? Can't somebody else do that? I thought the law\u2014\n\nEDWARD: You need not prosecute, you know.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: What'll happen if I don't?\n\nEDWARD: What do you suppose I'm doing here now?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I don't know.\n\nEDWARD: I'm trying to straighten things. I'm trying to undo what my father did... to do again what he undid. It's a poor, dull sort of work now... throwing penny after slaved-for penny into the pit of our deficit. But I've been doing that for what it's worth, in the time that was left to me... till this should happen. I can continue to do that, if you choose... until the next smash comes. I'm pleased to call this my duty. It can't hurt you to believe it.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: You must admit, Edward, it isn't easy to believe anything. Just for the moment.\n\nEDWARD: I can prove it to you. I'll take you through the books... you won't understand them... but I could prove it.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I think I'd rather not. D'you think I ought to hold any further communication with you at all?\n\nEDWARD: Certainly not. Prosecute. Prosecute!\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Don't lose your temper. You know it's my place to be angry with you.\n\nEDWARD: I beg your pardon. ( _Pause_ ) I shall be grateful if you'll prosecute.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: There's something in this I don't understand.\n\nEDWARD: Think it over.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: But surely I oughtn't to have to make up my mind! There must be a right or wrong thing to do. Edward, can't you tell me?\n\nEDWARD: I'm prejudiced.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: What do you mean by placing me in a dilemma? I believe you're simply trying to practice upon my goodness of heart. Certainly I ought to prosecute at once... oughtn't I? Can't I consult another solicitor?\n\nEDWARD: Write to _The Times_ about it.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Edward, how can you be so cool and heartless?\n\nEDWARD: To you?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Yes, to me, Edward. To me. If I have the power to save you. To me. You hard man. Edward: are you your father's son?\n\nEDWARD: Indeed I am.\n\n_End of Three._\n\n# FOUR\n\n#\n\n_The library, now fully decorated for Christmas._ ALICE _and_ HONOR, _in evening dresses, are arranging little gift baskets._\n\nHONOR: This is for Mrs. Vickery.\n\nALICE: Did we remember to include the comforter for the boy?\n\nHONOR: Yes, we did. And you have Mrs. Saunders, over there?\n\nALICE: I do.\n\nHONOR: I'm glad that Edward stayed on the extra day.\n\nALICE: Well, I'm sure I am, too.\n\nHONOR: Why is he going off?\n\nALICE: The pressure of work, I believe, is his foul excuse.\n\nHONOR: Well, I'm glad he stayed. And I'm glad _you_ could join us.\n\nALICE: You don't mind the last-minute acceptance?\n\nHONOR: Do you have my scissors?\n\nALICE: I believe I do.\n\n( _She passes the scissors._ )\n\nHONOR: The yellow ribbon, please.\n\nALICE: I believe Ethel has it.\n\nHONOR: Well, she oughtn't to take what is not rightly hers.\n\n(EDWARD _enters in a dinner jacket_ )\n\nHONOR: Do you not agree, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: Good evening, Honor, Alice.\n\nHONOR: And we were just saying how very glad we are you had decided to stay.\n\nALICE: How very glad, indeed.\n\nHONOR: For, why you'd need to rest, from work, yes, yes, but, from your family?\n\n(ETHEL _enters._ )\n\nHONOR: V'you got my yellow ribbon?\n\nETHEL: I was wrapping baskets.\n\nHONOR: Quite, but you said you'd give it right back.\n\nETHEL: I thought I had returned it. Hello, Edward. I wanted to talk to you.\n\nEDWARD: About?\n\nETHEL: I'd rather not do it here.\n\nEDWARD: About the marriage settlement, again?\n\nETHEL: I'd rather not do it here.\n\n(HUGH _enters._ )\n\nETHEL: And what has your wife been telling me?\n\nHUGH: Am I her keeper?\n\nETHEL: Legally, and morally, yes, I believe, that is the...\n\nHONOR: What has she been telling you?\n\nETHEL:... conventional understanding of the marriage contract.\n\nHUGH: And what has she been telling you?\n\nETHEL: That you mean to separate.\n\n(MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY _enters._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: ( _To_ HUGH) There you are. Get your wife.\n\nHUGH: I beg your pardon.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What is this we hear?\n\nHUGH: Must you shout?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: I use the voice nature has gifted me with.\n\nHUGH: And did she not gift you with discretion?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: This is a family matter, else I should not feel it my duty to interfere. And any member of the family is free to express an opinion. (MRS. VOYSEY _enters._ ) Mother:\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Yes?\n\nHUGH: No one was to be told until after Christmas.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: What? Told what?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Beatrice and Hugh are separating.\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: Separating.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: And I want to know why.\n\nHUGH: Look here, Booth... I will not have you interfering with my private affairs. Is one never to be free from your bullying?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: You ought to be grateful.\n\nHUGH: Well, I'm not.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: This is a family affair.\n\nHUGH: It is not!\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: If all you can do is contradict me, you'd better listen to what I've got to say... quietly.\n\nALICE: I believe I should go...\n\n( _She moves toward the door, but_ MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY, _standing in the door, does not acknowledge her._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Why do you wish to separate?\n\nHUGH: We do not get on well together.\n\nALICE: ( _Starting to leave the room_ ) May I pass, please?\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Have you thought what this does to the family? To the family, Hugh.\n\nALICE: May I...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Please. In words of one syllable.\n\nALICE: As a maiden lady, Booth, perhaps I might be ex...\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Please. Sit down. Now, why?\n\nHUGH: You don't understand.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Well, I surely won't unless you explain yourself.\n\nETHEL: She's crying upstairs, your wife.\n\nALICE: ( _Pushing past_ ) You must excuse me. ( _She exits._ )\n\nETHEL: Your wife is crying. Why?\n\nHUGH: She wants more money. ( _Pause_ ) Alpha and omega.\n\nETHEL: She wants more money.\n\nHUGH: She is angry with me, because I won't dilute my art for money.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: \"Dilute your art\"...\n\nETHEL: Why shouldn't she have more money?\n\nHUGH: _I_ don't want it.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: You don't want it. You don't want it. What about your wife?\n\nEDWARD: Might you leave him alone?\n\nMRS. VOYSEY: ( _Exiting_ ) I must say it's beyond me... Honor... ?\n\nHONOR: ( _Rising, and accompanying her_ ) Yes, Mother. ( _Pause_ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: ( _Pause_ ) You know, I never considered art a very good profession for you, Hugh. And you don't even stick to one department of it. Couldn't you take up something else? In your \"spare time\"?\n\nEDWARD: Leave him alone.\n\nETHEL:... And while there are folks who want to marry...\n\nEDWARD: What's stopping you?\n\nETHEL: You know very well what's stopping me is money.\n\nEDWARD: Money.\n\nETHEL:... is my marriage settlement, is... Yes, as if you ever thought about anything else. Anything else, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: Is that so?\n\nETHEL: Do you know what you've done, Edward? You've taken yourself out of the family.\n\nHUGH: I wish I might be able to.\n\nETHEL: It's as if, since Father died, you are become another person.\n\nEDWARD: What person is that, Ethel?\n\nETHEL: Secretive, standoffish, removed from, from our life, from convention, nothing appeals to you but work; it's wrong, it's underbred, and you may keep your knowing smile, and if this family isn't quite the thing for you, why don't you get out of it... ? ( _She exits._ )\n\nHUGH: The happy English home.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: That's enough, I think. That's quite enough. ( _Exits._ )\n\nHUGH: What would I not give to escape from it?\n\n(GEORGE BOOTH _enters._ )\n\nHUGH: Good evening.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Good evening. Hugh. Edward.\n\nEDWARD: Good evening.\n\nHUGH: We missed you at dinner, sir.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Yes, I...\n\nEDWARD: Would you excuse us, Hugh?\n\nHUGH: I would. Good evening, sir. ( _He exits._ )\n\nEDWARD: Well?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I hope my excuse for not coming to dinner was acceptable. I did have... I have a very bad headache.\n\nEDWARD: I daresay they accepted it.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I have come immediately to tell you of my decision... perhaps this trouble will then be a little more off my mind.\n\nEDWARD: What is it?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I couldn't think the matter out alone. I went this afternoon to talk it all over with my old friend Colpus. What a terrible shock to him!\n\nEDWARD: Oh, nearly three of his four thousand pounds are quite safe.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: That you and your father... you, whom he baptized... should have robbed him! I never saw a man so utterly prostrate with grief. That it should have been your father! And his poor wife!... Though she never got on with your father.\n\nEDWARD: Oh, Mrs. Colpus knows, too, does she? The \"keeper of the neighborhood's secrets\"... ?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Of course he told Mrs. Colpus. This is an unfortunate time for the storm to break on him. What with Christmas Day and Sunday following so close, they're as busy as can be. He has resolved that during this season of peace and goodwill he must put the matter from him if he can. But once Christmas is over...\n\nEDWARD: So I conclude you mean to prosecute. For if you don't, you've given the Colpuses a lot of unnecessary pain... and inflicted a certain amount of loss by telling them.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I never thought of that. No, Edward, I have decided not to prosecute. I think I could not bear to see the family I have loved brought to such disgrace.\n\nEDWARD: So you'll compound my felony?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: And I want to ask your pardon, Edward, for some of the hard thoughts I have had of you. I consider this effort of yours to restore to the firm the credit which your father lost a very striking one. What improvements have you effected so far?\n\nEDWARD: With the money that my father left...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH:... and I suppose you take the ordinary profits of the firm?\n\nEDWARD: A fraction of them. It costs me very little to live.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: And, let me ask you, do you restore to the clients all 'round, in proportion to the amount they have lost?\n\nEDWARD: That's the law. ( _Pause_ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: D'you think that's quite fair?\n\nEDWARD: No, I don't.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: No, I consider the treachery to have been blacker in some cases than in others.\n\nEDWARD: As do I.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Yes, I am glad to hear it, and this is my proposal. Considering how absolutely I trusted your father, and believed in him, I think you should at once return me the balance of my capital, whatever balance there is, which remains.\n\nEDWARD: That is being done.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Good. I suggest that you should continue to pay me a fair interest upon the rest of that capital, which ought to exist and does not. And that you should, year by year, pay me back by degrees out of the earnings of the firm as much of that capital as you can afford. We will agree upon the sum... say a thousand a year. I doubt if you can ever restore me all that I have lost, but do your best, and I shan't complain. There... I think that is fair dealing.\n\nEDWARD: Fair dealing.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: It may be more, I don't ask you to thank me. ( _Pause_ )\n\nEDWARD: How funny! How very funny!\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Edward.\n\nEDWARD: I never heard anything quite so funny!\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Edward...\n\nEDWARD: What will Colpus... what will all the other Christian gentlemen demand? Pounds of flesh?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Don't be hysterical. I demand but what is mine... in such quantities as you can afford.\n\nEDWARD: I'm giving my soul and body to restoring you and the rest of you to your precious money bags... and you'll wring me dry. Won't you? Won't you?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Now, be reasonable.\n\nEDWARD: You'd impoverish the smaller investors, in return for your silence.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: How dare you put it that way?\n\nEDWARD: What other way is there to put it?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: I demand what is mine.\n\nEDWARD: I DIDN'T TAKE IT. I. Did. Not. Take. It. I am trying to restore it, to you, and to those who were similarly defrauded.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: AND I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU.\n\nEDWARD: At the price that we pay you first.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: What world do you suppose you live on?\n\nEDWARD: I...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Tell me that, boy. Tell me that. With your principles.\n\nEDWARD: What do you know of my principles?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Your father would never have acted in this way.\n\nEDWARD: My father was a thief.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: And what are you? What are you, boy? Living, still, as we do all, as have we, from the profits.\n\n(ALICE _enters, with_ COLPUS, in the midst of GEORGE BOOTH'S _speech._ )\n\nALICE:... I beg your pardon.\n\nEDWARD: Mr. Colpus...\n\nCOLPUS:... Did you tell him our offer... ?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: What in the world do you think you are? To pass judgment on us, who trusted you...\n\nALICE: I must go.\n\nCOLPUS: George Booth has told me of his offer. On his behalf, and on mine... on mine. I urge you Edward, and, should you like, I will addend precedent, for accepting our...\n\nEDWARD: \"Precedent\"?\n\nCOLPUS: For accepting his kind offer. ( _Pause_ ) Yes.\n\nEDWARD: \"Precedent.\" Do you mean \"scripture\"?\n\nALICE: Excuse me...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: No, stay, stay, for I want you to hear this...\n\nEDWARD:... Can you mean _\"scripture\"?_\n\nCOLPUS: Scripture, yes, scripture, yes. George Booth, George Booth has offered you the chance to make amends, to those who have been wronged by your malfeasance.\n\nEDWARD: My malfeasance... ?\n\nCOLPUS: And I _quote_ you scripture, Edward\u2014and I quote you: \"Do not side with the rich against the powerless neither...\"\n\nEDWARD: ( _Starting to exit)..._ excuse me.\n\nCOLPUS: \"Neither, _neither_ fault the poor, but do _justice..._ \"\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Edward? I've offered you salvation. _Salvation._\n\nEDWARD:... I thought we were talking about \"money.\"\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: And you spit on me, for my Christian impulses.\n\nEDWARD: How dare you, talk to me about Christian impulses...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: And how dare you. ( _To_ ALICE) Would you excuse us?\n\nALICE: I will not.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Then I must speak. ( _To_ COLPUS) Yes?\n\nCOLPUS: Edward, I beg you to reconsider Mr. George Booth's offer.\n\nEDWARD: I find it shameful. ( _Pause_ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Take back the word. Beg my pardon. ( _Pause_ ) Beg my pardon, and I will leave you free.\n\nCOLPUS: Consider what he's said, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: I've heard what he's said.\n\nCOLPUS: I do not think you have. I have stood here, and heard you speak intemperately to an older man, an upright man, and a friend of your family. Mr. Booth, who has it in his power, has offered, in charity, to leave you free. Now!\n\nEDWARD: I do not believe he spoke in charity.\n\nCOLPUS: Then, however you believe he spoke, Edward, I call on _you_ to act with charity. Towards Mr. Booth, and towards his motives. To ascribe the higher motive to him, and accept his offer.\n\nEDWARD: His offer is shameful, and cannot be accepted.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: How dare you, sir, speak to me of shame? ( _To_ ALICE) Do you know...\n\nCOLPUS: No, please...\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: To the contrary... ( _To_ ALICE) Do you know, do you know why he was leaving his family? Do you know where he was off to? For the holidays?\n\nALICE: Should I know?\n\nCOLPUS: Mr. Booth... please.\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: ( _To_ EDWARD) I ask you one last time.\n\nEDWARD: Do you threaten me?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: (T _o_ ALICE) Your upright, worthy lover... your, your paragon, your fianc\u00e9... was off to Europe. To France. To meet a woman. Peacey told me. He arranged it to go with a woman. After... after all... these years of your connection which is how he's treated you. And how he's treated _all_ of us. ( _To_ EDWARD) And now see how you enjoy having _your_ life ruined. You treat us all alike. With contempt. With falsehood, with hatred, hatred. And I don't understand. What have you taken from your father... and now to force me to besmirch his name. God damn you. God damn you for what you have done. I swear before God, I'll see you in jail. I'll see you branded as a thief...\n\n(HONOR _enters._ GEORGE BOOTH _starts to exit with_ COLPUS _._ COLPUS _exits._ GEORGE BOOTH _lingers to take his leave of_ HONOR.)\n\nHONOR: Oh, are you talking business?\n\nEDWARD: We're quite done.\n\nHONOR: I thought, dear Mr. Booth, perhaps you wouldn't mind carrying 'round this basket of things yourself. It's so very damp underfoot that I don't want to send one of the maids out tonight if I can possibly avoid it... and if one doesn't get Christmas presents the very first thing on Christmas morning quite half the pleasure in them is lost, don't you think?\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Yes... yes.\n\nHONOR: ( _Fishing out the parcels one by one_ ) This is a bell for Mrs. Williams... something she said she wanted so you can ring that for her, which saves the maids. Cap and apron for Mary. Cap and apron for Ellen. Shawl for Davis, when she goes out to the larder. All useful presents. And that's something for you, but you're not to look at it till the morning. ( _Pause_ )\n\nGEORGE BOOTH: Thank you. Good-bye. ( _Pause_ )\n\nALICE: Ethel has left.\n\nEDWARD: Has she?\n\nHONOR: In a rage. Hugh has left. His wife's left separately... What a Christmas for departures. And Edward has plans to spend the holidays in France... What has become of the family? Why France? Why France at Christmas? All alone...\n\nALICE: No, he was not to be alone.\n\nHONOR: Not alone?\n\nALICE: No. He was going, we are told, to join a woman.\n\nHONOR:... To join a woman... oh.\n\nALICE: ( _Pause_ ) I was to join him there.\n\nHONOR: You.\n\nALICE: We were to be married. ( _Pause_ )\n\nHONOR: I... Well, then I suppose one may, with propriety, leave you alone together.\n\nALICE: Yes. I would say.\n\nHONOR: ( _Pause_ ) How odd you are, Edward.\n\nEDWARD: Am I?\n\nHONOR: Quite the most secretive, where do you get it from?\n\nEDWARD: The smash has come.\n\nHONOR: Yes?\n\nEDWARD: It's Mr. Booth. And Colpus.\n\nHONOR: Yes, I see. ( _Pause_ ) I'm sorry.\n\nEDWARD: No, I'm quite happy for it.\n\nHONOR: Why, Edward?\n\nEDWARD: ( _Pause_ ) Because it's right.\n\nHONOR: Does it mean prison?\n\nEDWARD: I believe it does.\n\nHONOR: He gave you no choice?\n\nEDWARD: None. ( _Pause_ )\n\nHONOR: Poor Ethel.\n\nEDWARD: And not poor you?\n\nHONOR: Oh, nothing will change for me. I've never, actually, had anything.\n\nEDWARD: But the disgrace.\n\nHONOR: Oh, no. I lived through that when father died. Well.\n\nEDWARD: God bless you, love.\n\nHONOR: I don't know what you've done, Edward, but I'm sure you've done the right thing. ( _She kisses him._ ) Oh, here's the ribbon... ( _She picks up a spool of yellow ribbon and makesher departure._) Oh, Alice... ( _She turns back and kisses_ ALICE. _She exits._ )\n\nALICE: Will it mean prison?\n\nEDWARD: Yes, it will.\n\nALICE: How long?\n\nEDWARD: Several years. ( _Pause_ ) I won't ask you to wait for me. To marry. No, I...\n\nALICE: Thank you.\n\nEDWARD: Of course.\n\nALICE: ( _Pause_ ) No, Edward, I couldn't wait for you.\n\nEDWARD: No... of course. ( _Pause_ )\n\n(MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY _enters._ )\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: What have you done to your family? Edward, I'm speaking to you... Alice, will you wait outside?\n\nALICE: I was just going.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Lucky girl, lucky girl, to be shut of him. And what he's done to his family. Edward...\n\nALICE: No, Edward's coming with me.\n\nMAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY: Coming with you? Where?\n\nALICE: ( _Pause_ ) To France, to be married.\n\n_End._\nA VINTAGE ORIGINAL, OCTOBER 2005\n\n_Copyright \u00a9 2005 by David Mamet_\n\nAll rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.\n\nVintage and colophon are registered  \ntrademarks of Random House, Inc.\n\nThis work is adapted from _The Voysey Inheritance_ by Harley Granville-Barker, first published in 1905.\n\n_CAUTION_ : This play is protected in whole, in part, or in any form under the Copyright Laws of the United States of America, the British Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and all other countries of the Copyright Union, and is subject to royalty. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, recitation, radio, television, and public reading, are strictly reserved. All inquiries concerning performance rights should be addressed to the author's agent: Howard Rosenstone, Rosenstone/Wender, 38 East 29th Street, New York, NY 10016.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data  \nMamet, David.  \nThe Voysey inheritance : a play / Harley Granville-Barker ; adapted  \nby David Mamet.  \np. cm.  \n\"A Vintage original\"\u2014T.p. verso.  \n1. Fathers and sons\u2014Drama. 2. Embezzlement\u2014Drama.  \nI. Granville-Barker, Harley, 1877\u20131946. Voysey inheritance. II. Title.  \nPS3563.A4345 V695 2005  \n812\u2032.54\u2014dc22  \n2005048459\n\n**eISBN: 978-0-307-49292-0**\n\nwww.vintagebooks.com\n\nv3.0\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Nicholas B"}, "text": "\nRiemann   \nZeta:\n\nZero Sum\n\nNicholas B. Beeson\n\niUniverse, Inc.\n\nBloomington\nRiemann Zeta\n\nZero Sum\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2011 by Nicholas B. Beeson\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.\n\nThis is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.\n\niUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:\n\niUniverse\n\n1663 Liberty Drive\n\nBloomington, IN 47403\n\nwww.iuniverse.com\n\n1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)\n\nBecause of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.\n\nAny people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.\n\nCertain stock imagery \u00a9 Thinkstock.\n\nISBN: 978-1-4620-6034-4 (sc)\n\nISBN: 978-1-4620-6036-8 (e)\n\nISBN: 978-1-4620-6035-1 (dj)\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2011918456\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\niUniverse rev. date: 11/29/2011\nContents\n\nIntroduction:\nThanks to:\n\nBecky Carlton, who put up with my craziness; she is an amazing person and friend.\n\nHarrison, whose light heart helped me find a way to keep going when I was stuck. (\"You want to know what is going on in my head?\" Well yeah! \"You're an idiot.\")\n\nMy parents, who always saw me as better than I saw myself to be. (Mom, thank you for taking the phone calls and saving me from my dumb mistake. Dad, you made my work even better and made me even better.)\n\nVanessa Brenard, who came into my life just in time to give me such a beautiful cover. (Thank you, Blaise, for finding her.)\n\nDoug and Victoria, for being supportive siblings, even when I am a pain.\n\nAmy Chapin, for being a great teacher, mentor, and friend.\n\nAmy Sigler, Jamie Collyer, Stephen Block, and all of my other friends who have been supportive and helpful throughout this process.\nIntroduction:\n\nIn Riemann Zeta: Zero Sum, the pronouns they, them, and their are used as singular pronouns for the two main characters. The obscuration of their sex is intentional. This element of design encourages the reader to imprint his or her own experiences upon the characters and to connect to the story.\nThe first rays of a sudden desert dawn shatter the crisp, chill air of the pervasive night. As the sun heats up the arid road, a lone vehicle pushes on in much haste.\n\nThe driver travels with nothing but a few articles of clothing in the trunk and with orders for the new job, in a new city\u2014to start anew.\n\nThe driver wishes for something to listen to other than the hum of the overworked engine. That would be a godsend. Absently, the driver tries the radio and still gets nothing but static.\n\nThe vehicle's computer system suddenly picks up a service station announcement and interrupts the mundane drone of the engine. \"Stop and be refreshed at our station! Get coffee! Use the bathroom! Or just get out and stretch! This is the last station for the next three hundred miles, so you may wish to stop!\"\n\nThe annoying musical accompaniment, sounding more like breaking glass than music, belies the truth of the announcement. Recognizing the accuracy of the distance, the driver slows down to stop.\n\nUpon opening the door, the recorded voice that was used for the announcement declares, \"Welcome to our store! Thank you for stopping here!\"\n\nVision adjusting to the white fuzzy light in the store, the driver squints and focuses on the restroom, hesitating only to check out what the clerk is doing. The young man is barely into his early twenties; his hair is a blond mop of good length, and his clothing looks slept in. No more than a day, maybe two, notes the driver about the clothing, expertly judging the depth of the wrinkles and the number of food smears decorating the outfit. The clerk is making lines of cocaine on the glass part of the counter. Unimpressed, the driver continues on to the restrooms.\n\nOpening the door to the restroom releases a vile stench that immediately stings the eyes and instantly makes anyone feel dirty. To call this a restroom would be a farce. Animals don't even leave a mess like this. With breath held, the driver moves quickly, closing the door to get out of the shit hole and away from this horrible room.\n\nEyes stinging, the driver hears the clerk call out, \"Are you okay?\" Tossing the driver some wet wipes, the clerk continues without much concern, \"Here, clean up with these.\" Beyond the watery eyes, the driver notices that this young man is missing his left ring finger at its base.\n\n\"Sorry for the mess; the scrubbers aren't working,\" the clerk apologizes, as someone else behind the counter joins him.\n\nA good six inches taller, this other male is a contradiction in style to the first clerk. The most notable thing about the new associate is his black hair, styled in a complicated and time-consuming way. Starting as short-trimmed hair at the point of his chin and moving up the left side of his face into his hairline, his hair then continues around the back and upper parts of his head and ends at the right upper area of the forehead. The other parts of his head are shaved clean, even his left eyebrow. This swirl of hair grows ever longer the closer it gets to his forehead. His clothing is similar to the other clerk's, minus the creases and the stains.\n\nProbably the first time he has ever worn them, the driver guesses. The driver makes a move to the refrigerator cases to get something cold to drink. On the way to the counter, the driver reads \"Rick\"\u2014just Rick\u2014on the first clerk's shirt.\n\nHis second confirms this: \"Rick, do you have something to hit this with?\" He points to the nowhere-near-straight lines of cocaine on the glass.\n\nRick reaches into his shirt pocket, fumbles around trying to pull out a fake cash bill, and says, \"Yeah, Jeff; hold on. I just roll this and we'll hit it... heh, it's my way of shirking it to the old order.\"\n\nThe driver stands awaiting service and counts twelve lines of coke. Each one is about a foot long. Rick takes a line, and Jeff takes one, too. Only after indulging does Rick look up and ask as well as he can, \"Is that all?\"\n\n\"Would you like some?\" asks Jeff.\n\nSaying nothing, the driver pulls out an M.E. (monetary electronic) card and flashes a badge in response to the offer.\n\nRick asks nonchalantly, \"You going in or coming out?\"\n\nSwiping the M.E. card and grabbing the drink with one fluid motion, the driver walks out.\n\n\"Must be going in,\" Jeff says to no one in particular, but he assumes Rick is paying attention. Rick, already in an altered state, is only able to manage a nod.\n\nThe driver gets back into the vehicle and starts it. There is a \"Thank You!\" announcement in the same recorded voice as the vehicle leaves the service station, heading for a destination beyond the horizon.\n\nI know every generation over time thinks how the new generation is full of losers or is wasting away the gift of youth. Like Jeff and Rick back there, getting messed up at work, 'cause it doesn't matter what they do, working in the middle of nowhere. Just as I have no idea what it is like to be waiting for something else to do with my time. This new job has the possibility to be full of moments like that. Hopefully the lax laws of the City will not leave me bored\u2014just looking into who has stolen the paperclips from the office. Ha-ha. Paperclips.\n\nThe driver notices the emptiness of the road and accelerates. Passing low scrub and slowly waking desert creatures, the driver feels the hum of the vehicle becoming hypnotic. Outside the window, wisps of what look like dancing veils spin and twirl as the vehicle flashes by. The sun is high by now, but the cold of night is not yet willing to let go of the earth.\n\nCheck into new job.\n\nCheck into apartment.\n\nFind closest node and set it up as primary. Hopefully there is access from my apartment building.\n\nI hope I am not assigned a partner. That would only complicate things.\n\nWhat will I do then? Still check into the new job and apartment\u2014but setting up the closest node might not happen for a couple of days. That should be all right. The system should allow for a couple of days before I need to set it up. No more than a week.\n\nAfter pressing on for some time, the vehicle notifies the driver of a radio station. Not too long after that, the city information guide comes on, asking, \"Do you have a destination in mind?\" The driver grabs the orders off the passenger seat and reads the name and address. The city guide then asks if the driver wishes for an autopilot or vocal and visual directions. The driver opts for the vocal and visual directions. The directions start when the driver reaches the City.\n\nThe City doesn't start with the small houses and low towers of old. The City just starts. The first two towers that the driver passes are the smallest anywhere in the City, only eighty-three stories above ground. The shapes and colors of this city's architecture are as varied as random spasms, from dark and brooding twisted knurls to expansive pastels and flamboyant neons. The variety is evidence of the City's collective creative minds.\n\nAs the buildings start, so does the traffic.\n\nTraffic seems to be a problem that spans space and time. Which also happen to be the cause of traffic: space and time. This thought rolls around the driver's head while navigating in and out, up and down through the traffic.\n\nThe driver arrives at the intended destination, which happens to be near the center of the City. Taking the orders from the vehicle's audio directions, they enter the formidable building labeled Civil Central Command. The emptiness of the lobby greets the driver upon entering. There is nothing in this lobby. The floor is the only thing that isn't plain, with its large City crest inlaid in the middle. Contrary to perception, this space is extremely quiet, almost muffled. Even the greeter, the sole person in the lobby, is plain. Nothing about her seems exciting. The room and this woman seem to be in competition to be the most unremarkable. She suits the room.\n\nAs the driver moves across the lobby toward her, she moves forward in turn. They meet in the middle, on the City crest.\n\n\"Good day to you,\" she says with zest. From this central point the entire room can be observed. The odd part of this lobby is that there is nothing to break the blandness\u2014no windows, doors, stairs, nothing\u2014not even a place to sit.\n\n\"May I assist you on this fine day?\" she asks. Her enthusiasm contradicts the blandness of her position.\n\nThe driver shows her the orders and points to the office listed on the top while continuing to scrutinize this environment.\n\nPerusing the information, she says, \"So, you are the one? I was told that you were to be arriving in another day or so.\"\n\nWithout waiting for a response, she motions for them to move to the back wall. Placing her hand on a seemingly random place on the wall, she activates lights behind the walls to shine through. At this point, the secrets cloaked by the plain room's drab fa\u00e7ade are exposed.\n\nBehind the walls, to the left and right of the door, are military grade weapons, all of them automated and trained on only the driver. She turns and looks up at the ceiling. The driver's eyes follow. The illusion of the flat ceiling is gone. In reality, the ceiling is a dome, with a man sitting in a turret controlling the weapons. Without either one saying a word to the other, the greeter and the turret operator exchange significant looks as part of security protocol. A doorway opens behind the greeter.\n\nShe hands back the orders and says kindly, \"Take this to the end of the hall and make a left. Then go to the twenty-third floor. The second door on your right is where you need to go. Ben should be there to meet you. All right?\"\n\nShe smiles and steps back, away from the door, allowing it to close between them. As the door locks back into place, the lobby returns to its plain, dull state. The driver watches her for a moment, as she still faces the door, smiling. She finally turns away from the door once the driver moves down the hall.\n\nAt the far end of the hall, people can be seen passing by. The driver makes a left at the end and finds that the hall goes on for some time. There are very few doors in the hall, and every so often someone enters the hall from these doors; all give some form of greeting to the driver. Making it to the lift, the driver gets on alone.\n\nThe smooth, quiet ride to the twenty-third floor seems to take no time at all. Exiting, the driver finds that there are only four doors in this hall. Walking in the second door, the driver expects to be met by Ben but finds no one. The room beyond the door is a small waiting room decorated in an old-fashioned Art Deco style. The driver muses that the decorator's intent was something from the twentieth century. The anteroom is lit with harsh fluorescent lighting; the floors are covered with bad carpeting, nondescript but ugly. The magazine rack has genuine antique magazines or possibly really good knockoffs; it is hard to tell with a cursory scan. The bell sitting on the counter completes the look.\n\nA sharp ring of the bell accomplishes its job; a man comes flying out of the back room.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" he rebukes the driver. \"The bell is only for show; you can break it by hitting it that hard!\"\n\nThis must be Ben, assumes the driver, at the same time doubting Ben's claims that the bell was abused.\n\nBen is a young man, about average height, with a solid look about him. He has brown hair and lightly tanned skin, but his eyes are something to behold\u2014green, but more. Most eyes reflect light, but these seem to emit it. The green is so brilliant that the driver wonders if they have been altered.\n\nBen quickly recovers from his swift accusation. \"I'm sorry about that. It's just that I have worked so hard to save up and get this,\" he says while holding the bell and carefully polishing off the fingerprints. Returning it to its rightful place on the counter, he finally declares, \"I'm Ben; may I assist you?\"\n\nSilently, the driver hands him the orders, which Ben takes and starts to look over. Ben pauses, looks up, and is about to ask a question but decides against it. After reading the orders, he loads the information he needs into the mainframe.\n\n\"All right. Come with me, and we'll see the Cap,\" Ben says, leading the way to the back door.\n\nThe journey takes them down a couple of steps, into a pit area filled with a maze of desks, and then back up a couple of steps to a set of large double doors. The doors have the City crest on them but have no handles. The two stop a few paces away from the door. A second later the doors silently open inward.\n\nBen nods toward the entryway and points out matter-of-factly, \"He's a nice guy; just don't piss him off.\"\n\nStepping forward into the office proper, the driver immediately starts cataloguing and making mental notes of its layout and contents. The office is a profound contrast to the last place the driver saw the City crest. This room has places to sit, a bookshelf with some antique books, two other doors in addition to the main door, a desk, and plants. Off to the right is a couch that has a small table in front of it and to the left is another bookshelf. It has six shelves and is about six feet long. Only the fourth shelf from the bottom has books on it; the other shelves have plants or personal things, such as awards and medals. The driver examines the plants, observing that two of the plants are native to desert environments: one is a desert rose in bloom, a white flower with a pinkish-red along the outside of each petal; and the other is a bird of paradise flower. There is also one polystichum fern and a bonsai plant. The final plant is unknown to the driver. It has smooth green leaves and a flower that crosses over itself. The flower to this unknown plant is red and looks like it is a fire sword. One of the other doors is to the right of the couch, and one is in the back left corner of the office. The desk is positioned in the center and toward the back. Standing behind it is a tall, silver-haired man.\n\n\"Come in,\" he says, his voice booming. His voice is not only deep, it's also a bit gravelly, which is unexpected from a man of his thin, fit stature. Using his hands as he speaks, he directs the driver to come toward the desk. The driver stops two paces behind a seat in front of the desk. As the driver approaches, the silver-haired man sits down and starts looking over a file from the copy that is now in the mainframe.\n\n\"I see here that you passed the driver test. You know that this is not a restricted city?\" The Cap looks up only with his eyes at the driver, \"You've never driven in anything like this before. Therefore, I've decided that you will have a partner, and I'm going to disregard this request for a solo assignment for the time being.\" The Cap leans back in his chair, running both his hands through his hair and locking his fingers behind his head. \"I don't know if you requested that... or if it was the Council trying to meddle.\" Cap says the last comment to himself. \"Either way, I don't care; I'm turning it down.\"\n\nThe Cap pauses and looks the driver up and down to ascertain any reaction to his authority. He interprets the nearly imperceptible response as confusion. This is acceptable to the Cap, and so he starts his \"new blood\" speech by clearing his throat. It isn't a very long speech, not nearly long enough to cover all of the things that someone who just moved in should know, but it is enough for newcomers to get started working here. The oratory intends to instill a healthy level of respect in those working in the unrestricted city.\n\nThe Cap ends his briefing by asking if the driver has any questions. The driver shakes their head no, and the Cap then shows the driver out to where Ben is waiting. He instructs Ben to get the driver in-processed and set up with appropriate accommodations. Punctuating this order and expressing his confidence in Ben, the Cap pats Ben's arm just below the shoulder. Ben nods briskly in acknowledgment and begins the grueling task of in-processing.\n\nThe in-processing takes the better part of four hours. Bureaucracy's reliable contribution to the simplest of tasks, the driver thinks so often throughout the rest of the day that it becomes more of a mantra than an observation.\n\nFinally, Ben gives the driver an address of a place to stay and says, \"I don't understand it, but your orders have you staying on the low end of town. Most of the time I can change that, but I can't change yours. Sorry. Your partner will meet you at your place at 0800. Have a good night.\" By this time, the driver isn't paying much attention anymore, and they both wave good-bye as they head off in different directions to make their ways home.\n\nWith the day wasted, darkness has fallen by the time the driver finally makes it to the address Ben provided. Not surprisingly, it takes less to get into the apartment than it did to in-process at the Civil Central Command. Without looking at the accommodations, the driver lies down on the bed and falls asleep instantly as head meets pillow.\n\nThe moonlight accentuates the well-toned muscles of a figure on the cliffs rimming the desert. Each movement this figure makes up the cliff is quick and done with ease. Soon the figure is standing on the top of the cliffs, with a city's glow ahead and the cold, dark desert behind.\n\nIn the desert surrounding the city, all creatures, seen and unseen, are preparing for the building storm. As a sense of uneasiness vibrates across the desert floor, the moon, unfazed by the pending wrath of nature, continues to shine brilliantly.\n\nThe thunderclouds roll over the defiant moon, and the figure is washed in darkness. The darkness is welcomed as the rain comes down upon the dark figure. The rain drenches the dark figure's long black hair, which quickly turns even darker as the rain is absorbed. So, too, does the rain absorb into the clothing\u2014or what used to be clothing. The dark figure takes a moment to embrace the rain with arms outstretched and enjoys the coolness as rivers run across their body.\n\nAfter embracing the rain, the dark figure starts walking toward the light of the distant city. Some pieces of the tattered, threadbare clothing start to disintegrate under the weight of the rainwater as they move and essentially melt away one thread at a time. Removing the remnants that can't be saved, leaving just the bare essentials, the dark figure walks at a brisk pace.\n\nThe City quickly morphs from just a glowing light into a figure itself. Long, slender columns of light reach high into the night sky, almost able to touch the low-hanging storm clouds that are passing over. A large smile spreads across the dark figure's face\u2014a smile that matches the well-toned, perfect body but is corrupted and menacing when coupled with the intensity and malice emanating from the dark figure.\n\nIn even less time than it took to reach the City from the cliffs, the dark figure enters the City and locates an apartment building. Walking in as if owning the building, the dark figure moves to the thirteenth floor and finds the corner apartment. One blow from the heel of the dark figure's right foot breaks the handle clean off with very little noise. A left pinky is all that is needed for the dark figure to bypass all of the security and unlatch the door. With no alarms, the dark figure slips in, unknown to all.\n\nWilliam Springer is a low-level chemist, and is not very good at his job. In spite of this, he thinks that he is getting somewhere in the company, since he is working on a prestigious project. He feels he'll get a promotion soon. He's even convincing himself that his beloved Dana will return. As he starts to fall asleep, he says aloud, \"Then Dana will come back.\"\n\nDana has left William, because they wanted to start a family, and William failed to tell Dana of his involvement in a major chemical spill that effectively rendered him sterile. On the outside chance that he did father a child, the malignant chromosomal cocktail he would donate to any offspring would ensure his parenting opportunity would be short-lived. Multiple birth defects would doom any child he fathered within a year.\n\nKnowledge comes in many forms, and for Dana it came eight months after the incident, in the form of a lunch with her friend Sara, who was the wife of the medical examiner. During this lunch, they started to talk about the challenges of raising a family in the City. The wandering conversation led Sara to tell Dana about a tragic incident, a chemical spill that had left a poor man who was trying to become a father effectively sterile. Sara was obviously unaware that Dana was the unfortunate woman married to William Springer. Dana calculated very quickly that she was married to the \"poor man\" and that she would never have a family if she stayed with him.\n\nWilliam had neglected to inform Dana of anything related to the spill. He said nothing of the danger to her health, particularly that the chemicals would remain in his body for almost a week and could hurt her if passed to her by the exchange of bodily fluids. This could render her sterile, or worse yet, dead. Before the nefarious chemicals cleared his system, the couple went on a romantic trip coinciding with the time they were trying to start their family. After Dana confirmed her fears and William's lies by omission, she left him.\n\nEvery night since she left, William has replayed this pageant in his head, searching for remedies. This night is no exception, and as these recollections roll through his head like waves intertwined with the darkness of sleep, William distinctly hears himself say out loud, \"Dana will come back...\" His voice trails off as sleep overcomes him, pursuing thoughts known only to him.\n\nJust over two months after Dana walked out, William awakens to hear the shower in his flat running. Half awake, he stumbles into the hallway toward the bathroom. As he starts to open the bathroom door, he becomes filled with joy when he inhales Dana's perfume wafting through the air. \"Dana, you've come back!\" William cries out enthusiastically. There is no response; he hesitantly steps into the steam-filled room. Stopping in front of the running shower, trying to see through the steam, and with sorrow in his voice, William attempts to lay bare his soul. \"I am so sorry, dear\u2014\"\n\nHis words are cut short, not by choice\u2014there is a lot more to say; after all, Dana has returned. William's brain tries to interpret all the data in front of him, but one fact keeps drawing his attention. Red.\n\nRed? he thinks. It's not her favorite color, and it doesn't match this room. None of this makes any sense to William, and finally all he sees is red. His blood shoots out from the lacerated artery in his neck and covers everything in front of him.\n\nWilliam stands with his arms at his sides for a second more and then collapses, as all of the strength of his being spatters the room. Standing right behind William, holding a long, broken piece of glass that smells of Dana's perfume and drips blood off one edge, is the dark figure. Blood runs down the broken glass as if it is bleeding. Letting the glass fall to the floor and shatter, the dark figure steps into the running water to clean the wound from the shard and remove any residual of the one once known as William Springer.\n\nThe driver wakes up in a cold sweat from the dream when the intercom to the apartment buzzes. Simultaneously, the pager from Civil Central Command goes off. Unknown to the driver, both nuisances are from the driver's new partner. Neither seems to be a welcome addition to the driver's routine.\n\nRising out of bed and quickly preparing for the arrival of their impromptu guest, the driver takes quick stock of their new domicile. The first room entered and put to use is a bathroom attached to the bedroom. It's just large enough to comfortably fit the standard necessities. Emerging from the bathroom, the driver assesses and appreciates the size and configuration of the bedroom. The short hallway out of the room has closed doors on either side before it opens up into a casual living room that features a half wall separating the kitchen into its own space. Across the living room from the hall is the main doorway. The driver opens the door.\n\nStanding in the doorway is a person facing the other way. The person is a few inches shorter than the driver and has long, black hair. The driver assumes that it is a woman because of the sound of her voice and her very nice hourglass figure. She is talking to someone, but no one is in front of her in the hall.\n\n\"No, Ben, I will not be there.\"\n\nAs the door opens to its fullest, she turns around quickly. As she turns, her hair glints its true color, which is a deep purple.\n\n\"Ben! I have to go now. Yes, I will pass along the information about the appointment and the other thing. Don't worry.\" Ben's insistence can be felt in her curt responses to his unheard interrogation. With a deep, audible sigh, she ends the call and bends down to grab a bag that has sweet smells emanating from it. She holds it up and says cheerfully, \"I brought some breakfast.\"\n\nThe driver steps aside to invite her in. She walks in and starts straightaway to the kitchen.\n\n\"I didn't know what you like, so I got a little bit of everything.\"\n\n\"Thanks?! I don't know when the last time I ate was,\" the driver answers back, mostly to themself. Still standing in the doorway, slightly stunned by the smooth aggression of this visitor, the driver is trying to calculate why they aren't more alarmed. Maybe it is the lack of sleep, or maybe it is the speed and calmness of this intruder. The driver feels no imminent threat. Finally, collecting enough sense, the driver follows her into the kitchen, where she has laid out most of the food.\n\nShe stops and extends her hand, saying, \"By the way, I'm Remmington, your partner, but you can just call me Remmie.\"\n\nThe driver takes her hand and shakes it.\n\n\"Can I give you some advice? You didn't know who I was\u2014you shouldn't have let me in.\"\n\nThe driver offers a reply by silently removing a pistol and harness from under the back of their shirt and placing the items on an empty bookcase at the side of the room.\n\nChuckling, Remmington replies, \"You might just make it in the City. I am going to guess that either you have been here before or someone told you about how the City is.\"\n\n\"Not exactly. I've never been here, and no one had to tell me about the City.\" The driver stretches out the fatigue from the previous day and considers that this is not the whole truth before continuing on with common knowledge about the City. \"I understand that the City has the least amount of regulations in order to develop the best in technological advancements. This lack of regulation can lead to a rise in some types of crime.\"\n\n\"That's a nice way of putting it. 'Some types' is right on. One week, some of these people are on top of the world, with the latest and greatest idea. The week after that, they are no one and have nothing. Take, for instance, what happened just last month to the CEO of Red Inc., which is the company that just made the new bio-eyes that the military was looking at for the shock troops. Well, just two weeks after Red Inc. got the contract, one of the smaller drug companies came out with a new recreational drug.\" She continues extracting breakfast, taking coffee rolls out of the bag and setting them on a plate. \"At the release party, the Red Inc. CEO was one of the .005% of people 'who may become dependent' and as a result disappeared that night. For six weeks no one knew where he was. They only located him by locking out all of his M.E. cards. They found him stealing other peoples' cards.\n\nWithout as much as a gulp of air, she continues, \"Well, the military backed out of the deal immediately when the CEO first went missing. Now, to try and save itself, Red Inc. is marketing this product line to law enforcement. That thing was 90% of their projected annual revenue and critical for fueling other product lines.\" She takes a sip of coffee; the driver mirrors her movement unwittingly. This conversation doesn't seem to be boring the driver, so Remmington continues, \"Some of the force are considering it. I know some have had it done, but it is hard to tell, because unlike the old bio-eyes, these look like real eyes. Red Inc. says they work just great, but if you read the fine print, sometimes the lights have gone out\u2014there is a .0002% failure rate\u2014leaving you totally blind.\"\n\n\"Have the lights gone out for anyone on the force?\" asks the driver.\n\n\"No, not yet. But that would definitely be a career-ending moment. Okay, a couple of business things, and then I want to know more about you. First, at some point today, we have to go get our vehicle. Second, you have to see a medical examiner before next week\u2014can't afford to have any 'defectives' working around here. Finally\u2014now tell me about yourself, because I couldn't get any information from your file.\"\n\n\"You read my file?\" The driver wouldn't have been surprised if the answer were yes; after all, This is a curious one.\n\n\"No, the Cap wouldn't let me, and I couldn't hack my way into reading it,\" Remmington says with obvious disappointment in her voice. \"They've increased a lot of security. I guess I've done that too much, so they had to.\" She smiles with some sense of pride.\n\n\"Well, if you had read my file, it wouldn't have told you much anyways, because there isn't much to tell.\"\n\nRemmington interrupts, \"So, dish! What is to tell?\" She leans forward toward the driver as if in anticipation of being told the secrets of life.\n\nThe driver continues as though they hadn't noticed the outburst, \"I have done a couple years here and there.\"\n\n\"Okay, do these 'here and there' have names? Where did you work last?\"\n\nMisleading my new partner is no way to start off our partnership, but if I tell her the truth it could get her killed, which is no way to start off the partnership, either. The driver thinks that this is funny and smiles mildly to themself.\n\n\"I was working in Tixe Tower City. The jungle around the city is amazingly beautiful and incredibly dangerous.\" The driver watches Remmington's eyes grow large with intensity, waiting for the story to unravel.\n\n\"Between people falling off the city and the dangers from the jungle, there really wasn't much work there,\" the driver explains vaguely, twisting the truth. The people there learn how to be as dangerous as the jungle.\n\n\"You might have moved to the desert, but you haven't left the jungle,\" Remmington interjects. \"I myself have never been to Tixe Tower City, but I did grow up in the wild. Which I hear compares to the jungles of Tixe Tower City. You see, I was an unauthorized birth, so when my parents couldn't make it to the City to have me, I was born and lived the first eight years of my life in the wild.\" She lowers her tone, as if ashamed of her past. Moving the conversation forward, she asks, \"Where did you grow up? Was your family able to get a licensing for you?\"\n\nTrying to expedite the bond needed for this partnership, the driver tells a perverted view of the truth, \"So, I guess that means we both had a role in the regulations on birthing being so strictly enforced now. Yeah? I wasn't born in the jungle; it was more like the growing plains area. The Council keeps the growing plains pretty primitive.\" Unlike your role, my role has nothing to do with where I was born. The driver turns to get a drink of water, feeling confident that this story will suffice.\n\n\"Well if that's the case, do you have any siblings?\" Remmington beams with the prospect of having commonality with her new partner. She pushes the subject by adding, \"My parents tried to get a license for my brother, but by the time it was granted, my mom had lost him to a fever. We left the jungle for good after that and moved here. My parents are still here.\"\n\n\"I'm fairly sure that my parents have passed away at this point. I'm not sure, but I think I have a sister. I was discovered as being unauthorized,\" the driver then lowers their voice for emphasis, \"before the magic age of seven. My parents had to pay the fines for my birth, which left them no choice but for me to be raised by the Order. Now I'm a civil servant, working on paying back the rest of the debt owed.\" That one isn't so bad; the only part that isn't true is the age at which I was folded into the Order.\n\n\"How can you not know if you have a sister?\" There is intensity in that question, but she is distracted, too. \"Wait\u2014can we talk about this on the way in to work? And do you mind if I stop by my desk real quick before we go get the vehicle set up?\" queries Remmington as she bites into her bagel.\n\n\"Yes, that should work. Did it rain last night, or did I just dream that?\"\n\nMoving the food around in her mouth to answer, Remmington replies, \"Nope. It's the desert. It doesn't rain often.\" She begins toward the door and motions for the driver to follow.\n\n\"Mickey,\" a low, whispery voice calls out from the shadows.\n\nMickey's eyes snap open; even in a whisper, Mickey is well aware of who it is. He is alert but paralyzed with fear. He instantly breaks out in a sweat. The dealer reaches for the firearm under his pillow, not the recommended place to keep it, but it comes in handy at moments like these.\n\n\"Mickey,\" the voice says again, but this time, it is as if the voice is whispering into Mickey's ear. The dealer jerks his massive frame upright and fires two shots toward the foot of the bed\u2014one to each corner of the room. The flares of the weapon illuminate only parts of the room, and with each flash, only half of the dark figure's twisted smile appears, revealing pleasure at seeing Mickey\u2014a man who is a master of his occupation\u2014unhinged and firing wildly into the dark. Mickey pants, stunned to see the dark figure.\n\nFootsteps can be heard coming from down the hall. Mickey starts yelling, \"No, stop! Don't come in here!\"\n\n\"Boss, is everything okay?\" the guard calls out as he opens the door. Crossing the threshold, he catches a glimpse of the dark figure looming over the bed. \"What the fu\u2014\"\n\nIn a fluid, lightning-fast motion, the dark figure backhands the gun out of Mickey's hand and fires one round into the sentry's head. The body falls back into the hallway with that twisted smile still pointing at Mickey and the gun pointing at the doorway.\n\n\"Stop! Stop! Everybody stop!\" Mickey orders.\n\nThe rest of the sentries stop outside the door, where the blood is beginning to pool. They stand clear of the open door so as to avoid becoming the next donors to the creeping red.\n\nMickey tells the remaining guards as calmly as he can, \"I'm fine. Now, go back down the hall. I'll call you if I need ya.\" With no argument, the guards go back to their posts, making almost as much noise as when they were rushing to assist their boss.\n\n\"Nice to see y-you again,\" Mickey stammers.\n\n\"I need some equipment.\"\n\n\"Of course. What kind?\"\n\n\"The typical things.\" It is clear they've done this dance before. \"How fast can you arrange them?\"\n\nTrying to gather his wits, Mickey answers, \"One, two days tops.\"\n\n\"Which is it: one or two days?\" the dark figure responds with irritation in their voice, seizing Mickey's lungs once again.\n\n\"Two\u2014two days,\" Mickey quickly spits out.\n\n\"All right, then,\" the dark figure replies, all irritation instantly vanishing. Within milliseconds, the riled atmosphere seems to have dissipated. \"Oh, Mickey?\" The dark figure kneels down so that they are at eye level. \"I need a vehicle, Mickey. Can I have one?\" It's a mocking pout, but Mickey isn't in the mood to grin.\n\nMickey looks at the dark figure and then leans over to one side to see the body of his dead guard. The blood is beginning to congeal. He looks to the dark figure and deadpans, \"Take Simon's. He ain't gonna use it anymore.\"\n\n\"How many more must litter the floor?\" the dark figure rhymes quietly as they move toward Simon's body. Mickey, hearing the playful question, starts to scramble and fumble out of bed, losing sight of the dark figure.\n\n\"Let 'em through!\" Mickey screams. Mickey looks at the body of his guard. The dark figure has vanished at this point.\n\n\"Someone get this shit cleaned up!\" he barks. The remaining guards scramble down the hall, surveying for any signs of the deadly intruder. The massive man gets out of bed and heads to his shower. There is more than one pile of shit to clean up.\n\nMickey steps into the stream of water contemplating how he warranted this relationship. Shit... why the hell do they still call me \"Mickey\"? Not like I've changed it in the twenty years since we met. Not like it's hard to say. Jos\u00e9 fucking Palmer. It's been that my whole life. Shit... what a fucking day. A special-order shipment was late, and one of my customers tried to weasel out of a deal. Dumb fuck.\n\nMickey soaps up his head. Well maybe that wasn't so bad. Actually, that was lots of fun, since I got to try out my new toy to make the deal go my way.\n\nFu-u-uck. Even in his head, the word seems to have a lot more syllables than it actually does. I wonder what the body count is gonna be this time. Are they ever gonna call me by my real name? The arms dealer sighs as he lets the cleansing water wash over his sizable body. Life wasn't always this messy, he recalls.\n\nThe lift door slides open to the twenty-third floor, and Ben stands directly in front of the doors in anticipation, waiting for Remmington and her new partner. He looks like an anxious puppy craving attention.\n\n\"Hey, Ben...!?\" Remmington challenges, raising an eyebrow to indicate her dissatisfaction with his demeanor and location. \"Should we get off on a different floor?\"\n\nBen pauses, realizing he is crowding the lift's opening, and he quickly steps aside, granting them access to the floor. \"Did you ask yet?\" he pants nervously, his eyes twitching back and forth between the two, as though trying to read a document in low light. The driver finally steps off the elevator and joins the other two.\n\n\"Yeah, we began talking about it on our way here, but... we kind of got caught up in introductions, and I knew we were coming into the office, so\u2014\" Remmington answers, but Ben cuts her off.\n\n\"Oh, that's just fine!\" Ben blurts, excitement shining in his bio-mechanical eyes, his voice reaching octaves he hadn't intended. \"Don't worry about it; I'll just ask now.\"\n\nRemmington smiles while patting him on the arm. \"Okay, let me go to my desk. I have to grab something real quick.\"\n\n\"Okay, we can walk and talk at the same time,\" Ben replies, with less fervor.\n\nBen directs his attention to the driver, as Remmington leads the way with the two of them following behind. \"I need to ask a favor of you,\" he begins. It is obvious he is quite nervous asking favors from complete strangers. There is no point in making him any more self-conscious, so the driver patiently nods. \"I've already asked the Captain not to put you on anything two months from today. I've done this because I want to ask you to escort my sister to a gala.\" Ben takes a gulp of air and seems to be pleased that he got that far without fainting.\n\nWith a puzzled look, the driver says, \"Go on.\"\n\nBen continues, becoming more tense, \"It's a\u2014it's a big event, and I intended to ask Remmie, but\u2014but she's on security there, a-and I'm on exhibition, and\u2014and\u2014and\u2014quite frankly, there's no one else available on the force that night.\" He blurts out, \"So, what I'm gonna ask you\u2014\"\n\n\"He wants you to be his sister's bodyguard, or escort, or whatever he wants to call it,\" Remmington mercifully interrupts with an audible huff, from under her desk, where she is searching for whatever she is \"just grabbing.\"\n\n\"Yes! That's exactly what I'm asking for!\" Ben nods enthusiastically.\n\nThe driver continues to look puzzled. \"Okay, but if the whole force is going to be there, then why does she need extra protection?\"\n\n\"It's really for our parents' peace of mind,\" Ben answers, glancing down at Remmington under the desk. His gaze drifts back to the driver, as he continues with the question, \"Have you heard of the artist Utionary?\" Inhaling deeply, he declares without waiting for a response, \"That's my sister.\" He pauses, trying to assess the driver's acuity on the subject. \"I don't know how much you follow the music industry\u2014do you understand how the music regulations work?\" Ben calms down enough to finally wait for a reply. It seems important that the driver understand the nuances of the music industry.\n\n\"Aren't there two ways to pay an artist?\" the driver begins. \"Like one credit for or one credit against? I don't know; I don't buy new music.\" Figuring Ben knows this subject much better, the driver lets their voice trail off in an attempt to emphasize a true lack of knowledge on the subject.\n\n\"Kind of,\" Ben responds. \"An artist receives a license from the government that's good for five years. The artist has those five years to make a net value of either a positive million credits or negative million credits. If they make a positive net million, then they can renew their license indefinitely. Those who don't make a positive or negative million cannot renew their license ever. But those who have a negative net million must cease being an artist, and they are compensated for it, depending on how poorly they did.\"\n\n\"Mostly 'cause no one will give them a job after they sucked so bad,\" Remmington cuts in.\n\n\"That's probably true,\" Ben admits, not minding the explanatory assist.\n\n\"So, what does this have to do with your sister again?\" the driver asks, to refocus the conversation.\n\n\"Well, as I said, she's the artist Utionary,\" Ben says. \"She has the record for getting to the negative million credits the quickest. She actually has earned over a billion negative credits.\" He continues proudly, \"Which makes her a celebrity,\" adding soberly, \"which also makes our parents nervous when she's invited to big parties like this.\"\n\n\"So, what exactly do I have to do?\" the driver inquires, trying not to sound put out.\n\nBefore Ben can answer, the Cap's voice booms. \"Remmington!\" There is no mistake in his timbre; Cap is either very angry with her or he has a job for her to do.\n\nEither way, Remmington is startled by the sharpness of his voice, which causes her to hop up and face toward his office. \"Yes, sir!\" she responds crisply.\n\nThe Cap walks over to them. \"I need you two to go and investigate a crash,\" he gruffly hands her a report tablet; she instantly starts to examine it. \"There are five people dead and two injured,\" he continues. \"A couple witnesses are still alive, but you need to get there right away.\" Speaking in general terms to everyone present, he offers thoughtfully, \"No one's sure how long they'll last.\"\n\n\"G2!\" Remmington swears under her breath.\n\nShe closes the open drawers to her desk, hands the report tablet to Ben, and asks, \"Will you please call in a transport vehicle and find out what support is there already? I would do it, but we still haven't been to set up our vehicle yet.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I can do that for you,\" Ben replies, moving back to his work area, dissatisfied with the lack of a definitive solution to his personal dilemma.\n\nThe driver and Remmington bypass the locker rooms, since changing into a full uniform would take too long, and the information on the report is grave for the two injured witnesses. Remmington explains this to the driver on the quick trip to the vehicle launch center. This is a massive room with only a couple of vehicles in it. The front ends of all of them are pointing toward the center of the room. All of the vehicles are black, with rounded, wide front ends that dramatically taper to the aft of the vehicle.\n\nMaking a starburst, the driver thinks, but it would have to be a black star.\n\nRemmington asks, \"Which one?\" to no one in particular.\n\nLooking at them quickly, without any distinctive difference, the driver starts to walk over to them. The vehicle to the driver's right opens up, startling both of them. Remmington relaxes when she sees a silver leg come out of the opening. The sight of the leg has the opposite effect on the driver, who takes a defensive stance.\n\nA tall man of African and Asiatic heritage emerges from the vehicle. He is in his late twenties, and both his left leg and right arm are a brilliant metallic silver. The uniform he wears is all black, making the man's head seem out of place, with his soft almond eyes and round cheeks. The end of his nose is twisted down and to the left. He has a small square patch of hair on his chin, but the rest of his head is completely hairless, with not even eyebrows. This unnerves the driver a little.\n\nAs this visually stunning man steps out of his vehicle, he greets Remmington with a wave and calls out, \"Yo, Rem. Yours is that one,\" pointing to a vehicle that is two to his right.\n\n\"Thank you, Cass. I could never tell them apart.\" She smiles and waves. She gives the driver a nudge toward the vehicle indicated.\n\nAs they near the vehicle it opens up, giving the driver the ability to see inside. Looking inside, the driver can see that the seats are laid all the way back. The two partners climb in on opposite sides. As they lie down in them, the seats start to adjust to their bodies. The vehicle calls out as adjustments are completed.\n\n\"Back angle\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Seat angle\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Seat height\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Lumbar support\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Lateral neck support\u2014Completed.\"\n\n\"This will only take a minute, but then we won't have to do this again,\" Remmington volunteers. \"As long as you don't wreck the vehicle,\" she adds with a smile.\n\n\"How did you know that was my evil plan?\" the driver jokes back at her.\n\nTo pass the time, the driver ventures an inquiry, \"So, is Cass a driver as well?\"\n\nRemmington rolls her head to make eye contact. She screws up her whole face before answering, calculating whether she should give the long or short version. \"His name is Cassius Dorian, and he is the only one who is a solo driver at this point in time. We were partners when I first started and I was a driver, but that was before his accident.\" She takes a deep breath and goes back to staring straight ahead. \"I had a medical issue that laid me up for a little while, and the powers that be set him up with a new partner. They then grounded me after I came back to work. He and his new partner stayed together.\" She stops talking, turning her head toward her window, and looks to be deep in thought.\n\n\"How did he end up like that?\" the driver asks gently. \"You don't have to tell me.\"\n\n\"No, it's okay; he doesn't mind other people knowing what happened,\" she replies, turning to the computer's keyboard. \"It's better to explain with visuals.\" She enters the pertinent data as the adjustments drone on:\n\n\"Pressure points\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Leg length\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Foot width\u2014Completed.\n\n\"Ankle rotation limiter\u2014Completed.\"\n\nLight flashes over the front window, and a light green side view of two vehicles appears; there is a distance meter between them. Remmington begins the narration in her official tone, \"Cassius and his partner were responding to a corporate theft. The perpetrators' vehicle didn't respond to the disruptor shots.\" As she says this, two balls of blue light leave the front of the pursuing vehicle and hit the lead vehicle. \"This is thought to be what provoked the perpetrators, or they could have just then discovered how to work the property they had stolen. It is unclear. They fired one Spydertech Plura or 'spider' missile at Cassius.\" A short red line leaves the lead vehicle and moves toward the trailing vehicle. As it crosses the distance, it splits into eight smaller red lines that spread out and then angle toward Cassius's vehicle.\n\nRemmington continues the narrative, \"Cassius tried to maneuver the vehicle out of the way of the missiles and could only slide his side of the vehicle toward the missiles in an attempt to protect his partner when it was clear his evasive maneuver had failed.\" Her voice loses a bit of its authoritarian bravado, \"Unfortunately, with the angle that the missiles hit, they all struck the far side of the vehicle, killing Cassius's partner and riddling Cassius's body with shrapnel and leaving him with burns covering 64% of his body. The review of this event has shown that there was a 98% chance of this outcome being unavoidable and only a 0.5% chance of completely avoiding any of the missiles. An overwhelming majority of the outcomes showed that both of them should have been killed.\"\n\nAs she finishes the report, the adjustments to their seats also complete, and the vehicle comes alive.\n\nThe driver asks, \"Were the perpetrators apprehended?\"\n\n\"To this day they're still at large, and the stockpile of spider missiles is unaccounted for. Some think they could have been shipped off-planet or to the Green Glass region. But none have been used here again. Also, the company that makes spider missiles won't give us an accounting letting us know how many were stolen,\" Remmington has lost her official tone and now sounds more irritated than anything, \"Or even the basic information about this weapon system, because they're protected by the corporate laws. We do know that they haven't sold many of this type of missile system,\" Remmington finishes.\n\nAs soon as the driver takes the controls, the vehicle launches.\n\nThick dust clouds fill the air as their vehicle approaches the crash site. The caf\u00e9 where the crash took place is on the twenty-eighth floor of the Nolispe Tri Towers Number 1. The driver sets the vehicle on the twenty-seventh-floor outdoor parking area.\n\nAs they walk up the outdoor pathway, a building security guard stops them, announcing, \"Sorry, no one can go this way. Please find an alternate route around the caf\u00e9.\" The young man is clean-shaven.\n\n\"We are here to investigate the crash,\" the driver responds as Remmington flashes her ID.\n\n\"I see. Well, be careful\u2014there's debris all the way up the walkway,\" the guard says as he steps aside.\n\n\"Thank you. Has anyone else tried to go this way?\" Remmington asks as she passes.\n\n\"No, I think most people are up in the hallway. They're watching through the interior doors to the caf\u00e9,\" the guard responds with confidence.\n\nWalking up doesn't take very long using the outdoor switchback ramps, but the guard was accurate with his warning about the debris. Parts of chairs and tables litter the walkway, with chunks of the building mixed in, as well. The amount and size of building rubble increases exponentially as they reach the twenty-eighth floor.\n\nThey both stop at the top of the ramp to make an assessment of the crash site before moving onto the outdoor patio. The caf\u00e9's seating is divided. A curved, forty-foot-long glass wall was twenty feet tall in the middle and tapered down to twelve feet on the sides. Large sections of the glass wall contribute to the carnage. Their discerning eyes identify two types of tables in the wreckage and a few surviving tables near the perimeter. There are small round tables for two people and square tables that could comfortably seat up to four people at a time. Some of the square outdoor tables have spiral covers that operate in the same fashion as Japanese folding fans for blocking out the sun or light rain. On this day, the spirals are reversed and the cover folded on itself into a two-inch-wide arm. From where the driver and Remmington stand, the interior door is to their right as they view it through the glass wall, and it makes up one third of the back wall of the caf\u00e9. The other two thirds is counter space and display areas for the caf\u00e9.\n\nIt is a mess, but unlike a bomb explosion, where there is a center to the destruction and usually nothing remains in that area, there is destruction in many different directions; only a few apparently random things are untouched by the catastrophe. A luxury vehicle rests upright, partly sticking out of the inside of the caf\u00e9's indoor seating area.\n\nIn the middle of the chaos, a lone woman stands with her back to them. She is fixated on her task of setting up some kind of equipment, unaware that they have arrived on scene. She is tall and thin, with a small build. She has long light-brown hair in a single tight braid. Her gray-tan jumpsuit accentuates the auburn strands in her hair.\n\nEven from behind, Remmington recognizes her and calls out, \"Can we come onto the scene yet, Aly?\"\n\nAly quickly spins around to face them, whipping her braid so that it lands over her shoulder on her front left side. She smiles and calls back, \"Hey, Remmie! I just finished setting up for the scan. Come on over, and I can try to make sense of all this. Is this your new partner? Did the Cap give you the 'new blood' speech?\"\n\n\"I don't think the speech covered this sort of thing for my first day,\" the driver answers, as they walk over to Aly, trying not to disturb too much. The dust still in the air causes Aly to have a little sneezing fit just as the driver and Remmington come closer.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Remmington asks as the driver sneezes as well.\n\n\"Not you, too!\" Aly jokes. \"One second, and we can start the scans of the site and search of the vehicle.\"\n\nFrom this vantage point, they can see the entire caf\u00e9 and all of the entrances and exits, as well. There is an employee doorway to a back work area, the pathway up to the patio that the driver and Remmington came from, and a path that descends from the higher floors. The main internal entrance is mostly a glass wall with large glass doors. Two guards are standing at the closed door, controlling who comes in or goes out. A sizable crowd of onlookers has assembled outside the caf\u00e9; there is a face gawking at the destruction from almost every open space of window.\n\nDestruction is like flames to a moth, the driver ponders inwardly, scanning the crowd, wondering if the creator of this mess is standing out in the horde of moths admiring his or her work.\n\nJust then, the driver recognizes an odd, dark hairstyle. Next to the unusual hair, and bobbing up and down in the crowd, is a head of moppy blond hair. The driver had seen these two geniuses before; they are Rick and Jeff, the station attendants from the isolation zone. The driver turns to point them out to Remmington, and in the second that the driver's eyes are off the two, they have melted into the crowd and sea of faces.\n\nThe egg-shaped pieces of equipment Aly had set up hover and cross over each other's paths, dancing over all the destruction. Aly studies the tablet she is holding, making adjustments to the paths that some of the scanners are traveling in order to expedite the scan. When Aly finishes, she looks up and smiles at both of them, as most of the scanners return to their carrying post, which is a meter and a half tall and has holes in it that perfectly accommodate the scanners. The post will assume the look of an ordinary cylinder if all the scanners have returned.\n\nAly leads the way over to the vehicle, with four scanners in tow. \"The back passenger, here, is the only door that can be opened, because the rest have been damaged too much,\" she informs them as she opens that door to let the scanners in. Almost as quickly as they enter the vehicle, all the scanners leave. Two glide to the carrying post, while the other two hover around, scanning and waiting for more instructions.\n\nAly reviews the scans on her tablet, and Remmington reads over her shoulder, as the driver enters the vehicle to see with their own eyes. The scans tell Aly and Remmington the same thing that the driver discovers. There was no one in the vehicle when the crash occurred, evident by the complete lack of any blood or interior damage caused by a body to the vehicle. Additionally, there is an unusual hole in the center dash that is not connected to damage caused by the crash. The driver crawls into the front to get a better look at this hole.\n\nRemmington asks, \"What would've caused that?\" as she points to the tablet's report that highlighted the dash damage.\n\nAly replies, \"I'm not sure, but I think it's pre-crash.\"\n\n\"I think it caused the crash to be possible,\" the driver calls out. With this, both Remmington and Aly stick their heads into the back seat to see what the driver is up to. The driver has an arm in the hole up to at least the elbow. \"There is nothing there,\" the driver says, confirming the obvious with a puzzled tone.\n\n\"That is about where the ACC is on this type of vehicle,\" Remmington says.\n\nAly gives her a puzzled look.\n\nThe driver clarifies for Aly's benefit, \"Anticrash computer. It's an independent system to give the vehicle another level of protection from failure.\"\n\n\"So, someone removed it?\" Aly asks.\n\n\"It must have been done while driving. They broke the dash to get at it,\" Remmington theorizes as she points to the surrounding damage on the dash.\n\nThe driver and Aly nod their heads in agreement.\n\n\"Would you hit the release of the front and back hatches, so I can finish the scans?\" Aly asks as she removes her head from the vehicle.\n\nThe driver searches and quickly finds both releases and then goes back to examining the hole in the dash.\n\nAly calls out, \"All the scans are done. Ready for playback.\" She signals that Remmington and the driver should come join her.\n\nThey both exit the vehicle and wait with Aly for the playback to start. All of the scanners leave the carrying post and move to different areas. To the driver and Remmington, there is no discernible pattern.\n\n\"Okay, ready?\" Aly asks.\n\nWithout waiting for a response, the scanners start to project what the scene looked like before the crash. Everything, from the walls and tables to the people, is displayed to look as if nothing had happened there. The projection even makes the vehicle less noticeable, although it remains less than fifteen feet away from them.\n\nThe scene starts to play out the recreated events, showing people moving, and off in the distance the vehicle can be seen coming into the outdoor patio area. It bounces off the patio twice before crashing into the glass windows and into two women talking at the table closest to the windows, killing them instantly. The vehicle continues and crashes into part of the back counter, hitting a caf\u00e9 worker and bouncing off the back wall. Sliding along a different path back toward the windows, the ricocheting vehicle clips another customer, killing him, after which it finally stops in its current position.\n\n\"The replay was at one-third real time,\" Aly informs them as she makes adjustments on her tablet.\n\n\"Where did the fifth person die?\" asks the driver. \"I didn't see it.\"\n\n\"Let me see,\" Aly muses, dragging out the words as if asking a question as well. She looks over the tablet again, restarting the replay from the part where the vehicle crashes into the window and stopping it before the vehicle crashes into the counter.\n\n\"There!\" she exclaims with satisfaction, pointing and following the action with her finger. \"It hits and shatters a couple of chairs. That sends parts of the chairs into this group of people along the side of the caf\u00e9, where the larger parts impale this worker, here,\" Aly explains as she highlights the worker and his injuries.\n\n\"Where are the two that survived?\" Remmington asks Aly.\n\nLooking over her tablet, Aly responds, \"They are both at the same medical center, in critical condition and nonresponsive.\" She confirms, \"At the Lazarus Center, downtown.\"\n\n\"We may not have the operator of the vehicle, but we do have the registration for the vehicle,\" Aly adds as both the driver and Remmington move to leave. \"One Simon O. Larsen is listed on the registration, but that is all I can tell you from here. You will have to wait for me to get back, before I can file a full report with the scans; they should tell us who was really driving at the time of the crash.\"\n\n\"Thanks. Are you done with everything we will need, so we can let the cleanup group in?\" Remmington asks.\n\n\"Just packing up now. Here, give this to Ben to load, and that should get you the full report sooner,\" Aly suggests as she hands her tablet over to the driver.\n\nThe twenty-third floor of the Civil Central Command is bustling with people moving between the only four doors on the floor as the lift opens\u2014contrary to when the driver first arrived. Ben is behind the counter when they walk into the waiting area. His manner is nothing like it was only a few hours ago, when he asked the driver for help. Now Ben looks to be down to business, with a strange intensity about the task at hand. The task at hand commences when Remmington hands him Aly's tablet without a word. Remmington leads the driver back to Cap's office, where they find the Cap sitting on the couch reading a book. He places it on the table as they walk in. The driver reads the title on the spine of the book: Seeds. The cover is a blank hardbound surface with a stylized emblem unfamiliar to the driver. Strange topic for the Cap. The driver amuses themself with visions of the Cap out in the garden with a sunbonnet on, knowing full well the subject of the book is other than it seems.\n\n\"How bad was it?\" asks the Cap as he gestures for them to have a seat.\n\nRemmington answers, \"Ben is loading the data into the system now.\" She sits down in a chair to the left of the driver. \"So, hopefully we will get more information on Simon O. Larsen.\" She finishes the thought, \"The name on the vehicle's registration.\"\n\nCap interjects, \"But who was operating the vehicle?\"\n\n\"We could find no one,\" the driver offers. \"The on-scene data scans and physical evidence leave us with a blank as to who the operator was.\"\n\nRemmington continues, \"With what we saw, Aly's equipment indicates there was no operator of the vehicle at the time of the crash. We theorize,\" looking to the driver for affirmative support and then back to the Cap, \"that the crash was possible because the ACC was removed sometime before the crash, while the vehicle was in motion.\"\n\nRemmington looks intently at the Cap, waiting for his perspective on the situation. The Cap, having been sitting with his arms folded, listening to Remmington, now unfolds his arms and twists the dark gray band on his left ring finger as he looks up in thought, trying to see in his mind's eye how that would be possible. After a few moments, he leans forward, slaps the tops of his knees and pushes himself up to a standing position. \"Well! Let's go see what Ben has discovered,\" he says matter-of-factly. \"Maybe he can tell us how long it'll be until he's done,\" the Cap suggests as he moves to the door with Remmington and the driver in tow.\n\nThe three of them find Ben in an evidence-processing lab. Each processing lab is a rectangle with three workstations. The station at the end of the room is off-center to the right, with a door on the left and a glass wall behind the station for viewing the adjacent multipurpose room, where physical evidence is examined and scanned and interrogations are conducted. Ben is sitting in the center of the bank of screens at the end of the room, with his back to the door. Data is streaming across the screens as he rapidly scans back and forth, trying to understand what is passing by him. The speed at which the information is passing is far beyond a normal human's visual capacity, but this does not deter Ben from trying.\n\nWithout turning around at the sound of his visitors, he waves a hand in acknowledgement. As they approach Ben's position, all the screens blink off and then flash back on again. This is rapidly followed by a weak flicker and everything shutting off, including the lights in the hallway. After being unexpectedly cast into darkness, the three of them remain still; it is almost painfully dark for them. As they stand frozen, they can hear Ben moving around on the other side of the room.\n\n\"Does this happen often here in the City?\" the driver inquires.\n\n\"Oh, you're funny,\" Remmington says. Then, \"Ben?... Ben? Where are you?\"\n\nThere is a rustling sound and the sound of a small metal door opening. \"Well, I'm checking the electrical panel for the room,\" Ben calls out in as comforting a tone as he can muster. With a bit of confusion evident in his tone, he continues, \"From what I can tell, there seems to be nothing wrong here.\" Ben can now be heard opening the drawers of the desk, clearly looking for something. \"Hold on! I'll get some lights,\" he says in a quieter voice so as not to startle them as he passes by on his way to the door. Because the power is out, the doors will not open automatically. Ben has to manually crank them open with a handle he retrieves from the drawer. It is obvious that he's done this before. Ben concludes the procedure and continues down the hall.\n\nThe three colleagues Ben has left in the dark stand perfectly still so as not to fall into anything. Conversation is curtailed as they hear a thunk and a soft \"G2\" from someone in the hall stubbing a toe in the pitch-black environment, searching for an exit from the building. The lab is situated in the center of the building, so there are no exterior windows to allow in natural light, making navigation virtually impossible.\n\nBen, however, moves like a cat through this ebony soup, and in less than a minute, he returns with two old-style Surefire flashlights and one standard issue Nova Beam lantern. Ben's face is illuminated by the Nova Beam as he reenters the lab. Obviously, he is pleased with himself as he offers the Cap his choice of the three lights. He then turns to Remmington and the driver, handing them each one of the remaining light sources.\n\n\"See? Two months' salary is finally paying off,\" Ben says to Remmington with a proud gesture toward the Surefire flashlights.\n\n\"Ben, can you show me what you were looking at over here?\" Cap calls over from the electrical panel, completely oblivious to the conversation going on behind him.\n\nThe driver leans toward Remmington and whispers, \"Two months of salary for what? Both flashlights?\" The issue seems to lack merit, considering the current situation.\n\n\"No! Each one was two months' salary, and I've been giving him shit for buying the second one,\" Remmington shares in a whisper to answer the driver's questions. She giggles; it seems appropriate to her to torment Ben whenever possible when it comes to his eccentric purchases.\n\n\"Well, not much we can gain here. Let's go find out where there is power and see how much is affected,\" the Cap suggests after a couple more moments looking over the panel in the dark.\n\nThey move back to the main area of the twenty-third floor by the lift to find most of the personnel who work on the floor standing around in the dark, with the lifts inoperable. Over the next ten minutes, as more people get lanterns and communicate with people on other floors, it becomes clear that power has been knocked out in the entire Civil Central Command, starting with the twenty-third floor. Crews scurry up and down the stairwells, trying to determine the cause of the outage. There seems to be safety in numbers and with all this activity about, surely a solution will be found. But none of the connections are damaged. None of the backup power systems are performing correctly, and everything looks as if it should be working, yet no one can determine the reason why there is no power of any kind in the Civil Central Command.\n\nAs quickly as the power went out, and for still-unknown reasons, the power comes back on forty-two minutes later, as if by design. The crowd disperses as a search is initiated to find out how any of this is possible and whether it might happen again. Ben is placed in charge of the team that will investigate the twentieth through the twenty-eighth floors.\n\nAly is delayed by the blackout when she returns from the scene, and she is heading to take over Ben's analysis of the scans. She arrives on the twenty-third floor just as Ben is leaving to start his investigation. Aly covertly guides Ben by his left arm off to the side before he can leave, smiling at him as she does so.\n\n\"Wha\u2014? Are you all right?\" Ben asks in a whisper, somewhat bewildered, as he realizes who has just moved him.\n\nStill smiling, Aly says, \"Yeah. I'm not afraid of the dark.\" She continues, in hushed tones, \"Do you know what happened yet?\"\n\n\"No!\" Ben replies. \"We're just getting underway with our investigation. I was on my way out to investigate all of the junction points on the twentieth to the twenty-eighth floors.\"\n\n\"So\u2014how did your sight work out?\" Aly presses with some excitement.\n\n\"I was the only one who could see for the first couple of minutes,\" Ben confides. \"It was really cool, because everything just looked a little darker in shade. I mean, it was like when I tested them when I got them, but way cooler, since I didn't expect it,\" Ben answers with a happy, nervous smile.\n\n\"G-squared! That's just how they said they would work,\" says Aly, her enthusiasm radiating from her. She holds both of his forearms and squeezes. They continue moving past each other, rotating around, almost as if in a dance.\n\nRemmington is standing on the other side of the room, smiling at Aly. Aly makes her way over to her and asks, \"What is that smile about?\"\n\n\"Smile? Me? What are you talking about?\" Remmington playfully mocks.\n\nAly frowns, \"Remmie, you know better. I was just asking how far he got before the power went out. That's all.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the swearing was because of how little he got done, right?\" Remmington quizzes; her laugh removes any seriousness in her accusation.\n\n\"That was not mad swearing, and you know it! And we will just have to see how much was done\u2014you know how Ben can be sometimes. He is a little anxious sometimes,\" Aly says in hopes of ending the conversation there as she moves past Remmington.\n\nLetting Aly pass and lead the way, Remington points out in a long, drawn-out breath, \"You know, Ben was anything but anxious since we returned with your tablet.\" She lets that hang in the air for a while before she follows up with, \"In fact, I would say he focuses more when things involve you.\"\n\nThis is not where Aly wants this conversation to go right now, and she hopes being a few steps ahead of Remmington is enough to hinder Remmington's view of the red flush growing across her face. The two of them walk in this manner all the way to the evidence-processing lab, where the Cap and the driver are waiting, still discussing the possible causes of the outage.\n\nTurning at the sound of their entrance, the Cap is surprised to see Aly's condition and inquires, \"Aly, did you run here? You are all red in the face.\" He seems truly concerned.\n\nRemmington smiles and answers, \"I caught her just as she got here. She sure looked like she was in a rush for something.\" Aly glares back at Remmington, not knowing if she is being sarcastic or helpful, but Remmington's quiet smile tells her where they stand, and Aly recovers with a warm smile.\n\n\"I appreciate your hustle and enthusiasm,\" the Cap says with a light pat on Aly's back. \"Let's get back to it, then,\" he concludes as he gestures toward the now-powered-up bank of screens.\n\nAly takes the seat Ben had occupied, as the other three grab chairs in the room and gather around her. While the three of them sit quietly, Aly starts to mutter to herself.\n\nThe driver asks, \"Is everything all right?\"\n\n\"No. I don't get it,\" Aly answers and starts to mutter to herself once again.\n\nRemmington jokes, \"What did Ben mess\u2014\"\n\nShe is cut off by the Cap's interruption, \"Aly, what don't you understand?\" His intonation makes it clear he is putting an end to all joking.\n\n\"Well, sir, I have started a search for the files that Ben had loaded from the tablet. There are none. So I started searching the tablet to see if he had uploaded the data yet.\" Her frustration grows, and she sits back a little in her chair. \"The tablet is blank. The tablet has been reset back to the factory setting,\" Aly reports in a definitive yet bewildered, tone. She sits back all the way, almost slumping.\n\n\"Have you been able to check the scanners' memory to see if they have any data?\" Remmington asks, hoping to jar her friend's mind into action. She moves to the station on the right side of the room, selecting the seat closest to Aly's station and starting a search of her own. The bank of monitors pops to life.\n\n\"I have that search running right now, and I'm waiting for it to finish up,\" Aly responds, regaining some composure. \"But there is something else going on that I don't understand,\" she confides as she leans into the screen with intensity.\n\nThe Cap stands up and positions himself between Aly and Remmington, so he can observe both work stations at the same time. Looking back and forth between them, he asks Remmington to place a report on hold and then asks Aly to do the same thing for a couple of different items on her screens.\n\nBen shows up in the middle of this, as part of his investigation. Aly and Remmington spin out of their seats and start toward Ben. Cap halts their forward progress by calling Ben over to Aly's bank of screens and ordering him to sit down.\n\n\"Cap, I'm not done with my investigation,\" Ben explains, holding the back of the seat that he was ordered into, not quite ready to succumb to his leader's wishes. \"I still have two floors to hear the report on,\" Ben weakly protests. Without looking away from the screens, the Cap points to the seat with an open hand.\n\nBen takes the seat, and Cap asks, \"Show me where you loaded the tablet, please.\" With a bewildered look, Ben searches for the files he loaded earlier.\n\n\"Where did they go?\" Ben asks. \"I have found some empty shells that should have the raw data in them, but there is nothing\u2014not even a time stamp for when I created them.\" His confusion is mixed with real frustration.\n\n\"That's what we've been trying to figure out,\" the Cap retorts as he looks at Remington's screens.\n\n\"Cap, what are you seeing?\" the driver asks, noticing the Cap is zeroing in on something.\n\nThe Cap moves to Ben's screens and starts to explain, \"Well, here...\" He then returns to Remmington's screens and points out some of his findings, \"Here! This report was logged in this morning at the start of Ben's shift and is just fine.\" The Cap points to a different screen. \"This is when you and Remmie logged into and adjusted your vehicle. Here...\" walking over to the other bank of screens, \"this is the last report that they have found that is correct\u2014it's the report tablet I handed Remmie about the crash. Yet everything else is corrupted or not there.\" The captain steps back from the group, as if to make an announcement. With his arms outstretched, he exclaims, \"I personally know that there are at least thirty reports from this department that should have been generated for this type of incident.\"\n\nBen starts typing and asks, \"What about the reports from the other departments?\"\n\nAly is quicker, \"There is nothing. In fact, there are no reports or logs of any kind for what looks like thirty minutes before the blackout. If anything was entered during that time, it is apparently lost.\"\n\nWarehouse Sixteen has been empty for the better portion of three decades. In the history of this derelict building, there have been various dealings\u2014some good, some bad. For a short time it was used as a nightclub, and now Jos\u00e9 is toying with the idea of reopening it as one called Silver Bullet. But today is not the day to daydream about such things, for if today doesn't go well, that idea would be moot.\n\nJos\u00e9 signals a guard to join him. Matt Levingston is the man Jos\u00e9 has put in charge of the security for this deal. Immediately Matt rushes to his boss's side.\n\n\"You made sure this place was completely locked down? We can't have anyone other than them\u2014I mean, our guest\u2014getting in, right?\" Jos\u00e9 asks, wiping the sweat from his brow. The waiting is more nerve-racking then anything else. The guard nods affirmatively and takes up a parade rest while waiting for business to be conducted.\n\nMatt Levingston is competent in the eyes of Jos\u00e9. Part of this is related to Matt being seven years Jos\u00e9's senior. Matt is just short of being average height and is beginning to show the spread of middle age. His thin, light-brown hair is thinning and is brushed straight back; there is no hint of gray. Matt's mustache is always kept impeccably groomed at a medium length. Somehow, this helps maintain his tough-guy look when he is mad about something and the hair on his head gets messed up. It's the kind of look wanted for security personnel. But his real asset to Jos\u00e9 is his experience and discretion pertaining to the Green Glass Zone.\n\nJos\u00e9 is not normally a nervous fellow, but with today's pressure, he is sweating more than usual. Hopefully this is gonna end on a good note, Jos\u00e9 thinks as he pats Matt on the shoulder and starts to pace again.\n\n\"Sir, I have my best men on this operation. Nothing to worry about,\" Matt replies to Jos\u00e9's nervous behavior.\n\nJos\u00e9 lets out a brief sigh and moves to pace around a couple of tables. He tries to screw up his courage. Okay, keep it cool. Everything will be fine. They haven't killed you before, so why now? Jos\u00e9 lets out a small chuckle.\n\nWhile pacing and waiting for the dark figure, the boss spins around on his heels; he has his hand to his face, brushing his knuckles against his lower lip. The other hand reaches across his girth to support his elbow. Deep in contemplation, he fails to notice Matt moving to the other side of the room and resuming his parade-rest stance, with his hands behind his back.\n\nMind whirling with ghosts of the past, Jos\u00e9 remembers when he was only a grunt. If only I had stayed in my house and skipped that meeting twenty years ago, he muses.\n\nJos\u00e9 grew up in one of the tougher areas of the City. In order to survive, he got involved in illegal weapons deals by being a runner for Rachenov, an extraordinarily insidious character who was the most ruthless individual Jos\u00e9 had ever seen. No one with even half a working brain cell would dare to cross Rachenov. Everyone, from City officials to street toughs, would speak of him in hushed tones, fearful of talking with one of Rachenov's minions or being overheard by one. However, that was before that day.\n\nThat day started off with Jos\u00e9 being summoned by Rachenov to meet at the warehouse, where he would routinely get more information about his next errand.\n\nBeing the top dealer meant that you were always finely dressed, and Rachenov was that. However, the clothes did not correspond with the man's personality. His whole body was skeletal. Dried by the desert winds, his pale skin was that of a lizard, interrupted with patches of mottled gray and brown. His eyes, the whites of which were a crusty brown, could keep track of all the movements in the room. His hair was rapidly getting thinner. The teeth of the man were a darkish yellow and seemed to have been unnaturally filed to points. His appearance was definitely unnerving, but when it came to business, Rachenov was barbaric. He was no better with basic manners, either. Truly, Rachenov was one of the world's most gruesome characters.\n\nOn this particular day, Rachenov was, by all accounts, in a \"good mood\" when Jos\u00e9 entered the warehouse and addressed his boss, \"What is the package, sir?\"\n\n\"We'll get to that,\" Rachenov said, licking his chapped lips and motioning Jos\u00e9 closer. \"What I want to know is, where's the rest of my money from the last deal?\"\n\nJos\u00e9 felt faint. He knew this could turn into his execution. He could feel his skin begin to burn while the boss stared at him. Rachenov made no sound and was poised as if ready to pounce.\n\n\"I turned in all that was given to me for that delivery, sir,\" Jos\u00e9 replied, gulping. It was a dry gulp that could be heard clear across the warehouse. Guards turned to watch the encounter; they were pleased it wasn't them.\n\nRachenov scowled. \"No you didn't, you little snot!\" He stuck his finger far up his nostril and dug out... something and flicked it at Jos\u00e9. \"There's five hundred missing!\" He was interrupted by his abettor.\n\n\"Sir, your next appointment's here,\" he said.\n\n\"Okay, good,\" Rachenov replied. He faced Jos\u00e9. \"Don't move!\" he glared and turned away. Jos\u00e9 appreciated the reprieve and was scrambling to figure out how not to get himself killed, when he was distracted by the dark figure walking into view.\n\nThe \"next appointment\" wore regal clothes. They exuded power and prestige. This person obviously deserved the attention of the top man. Jos\u00e9 wondered who this person was. Whoever they were, they were important enough to stop one of Rachenov's rants and give Jos\u00e9 a stay of execution.\n\nThe dark figure's black hair was shoulder length and tied back to keep it in order. Those eyes could pierce your very soul and leave you shattered when they released your gaze. These were eyes that Death could use to obliterate one's life.\n\n\"So, my friend, what business can I help you with today?\" Rachenov asked in his raspy tone.\n\nThe dark figure remained silent.\n\n\"What?\" Rachenov chided. \"Need another shipment filled?\" the dealer asked in mocking tones. Jos\u00e9 knew that tone and knew damn well that Rachenov would not satisfy any order placed.\n\nThe dark figure then looked at Rachenov with a blazing glare. With lightning speed and machine precision, the dark figure launched a knife that appeared out of nowhere. The dart pierced Rachenov's throat, causing blood to spurt all over the ground. Rachenov's wild eyes widened beyond their capabilities as he grappled with the reality of his miscalculation and struggled for a few seconds, unable to breathe. Rachenov collapsed, twitching involuntarily, and was no more.\n\nThe other advisors were taken aback, horrified that their boss, a pillar in the underworld, had been callously murdered before their very eyes. What really threw Rachenov's men off-course was the fact that they were left to deal with this nightmare. This Green Glass religious radical, who had no name, had murdered their crime boss in a room with thirteen others surrounding them. And the fact that the dark figure had done it so quickly, without hesitation, was even more unnerving.\n\nClearly, this was a person with a death wish, and the advisors were more than willing to fulfill that order for the dark figure. They finally shifted into action and began to draw weapons from underneath their coats.\n\nThe dark figure smiled.\n\nAnother knife flashed into existence, a weapon of medium length, about eighteen to twenty inches long, with a slight curve. There was a killing edge on both sides, giving it the maximum effectiveness for forward and reverse thrusts. The metal of the blade was a dark black, yet it had a sheen of silver as it glinted in the warehouse light.\n\nThe dark figure danced around the room, slicing through throats, chests, arms, anything their knife desired. Jos\u00e9 stood, paralyzed, in the midst of the chaos unfolding before him. Blood glistened like rubies travelling through the air before splattering against the walls. Screams of hardened men echoed in his ears as he stood watching his taskmasters topple. Shots were fired and lit the room. The copper smell of blood was thick in the air. Jos\u00e9 felt the blood decorate his face, as well. And all he could do was stare straight ahead.\n\nAfter an eternal three minutes, the screams stopped, the bullets stopped, the sound of the knife cutting through flesh stopped\u2014everything except for the pounding of his own heart. It was no longer a beat; it was a roar. The pressure in Jos\u00e9's chest was so high that his vision had collapsed to a small tunnel. He scanned the room, assessing the bodies of his former slave drivers around his feet. His vision settled on the dark figure standing hunched in the middle of their handiwork, hair completely tousled. Those immaculate clothes of earlier were slightly shifted and twisted but bore surprisingly little blood. In fact, Jos\u00e9 had more gore on his face than the dark figure did on their whole body. The dark figure licked the few drops of ichor from their lips.\n\n\"Looks like you've been promoted, Mickey,\" the dark figure's lips said wickedly.\n\n\"W-what?\" Jos\u00e9 stammered, in shock that he was still standing, knees locked to the point of pain. Silently, the dark figure moved, looking Jos\u00e9 up and down. All this time, the dark figure was toying with the knife. After about a minute of this examination, the stranger tilted their head to the left and gave a wide, predatory grin. Jos\u00e9 was even more unnerved.\n\n\"I like you,\" the dark figure said in a soft whisper up against the back of Jos\u00e9's neck, putting the knife in their back left pocket. \"Oh yes, I think you'll do just fine.\" The young runner shuddered as the dark figure placed a hand on his shoulder. \"Oh yes,\" the stranger repeated. The dark figure turned away as if speaking to all the dead that were present, \"You and I are going to be good friends, Mickey.\"\n\nThere it is again, Jos\u00e9 thought. He blinked. \"What did you call me?\"\n\nThe dark figure grinned again, ignored Jos\u00e9's question, and continued. \"You're going to complete the deal that this nihilist\u2014\" they said, kicking Rachenov's corpse, \"refused to finish. Understood?\"\n\nJos\u00e9 nodded his head. The stranger grinned wide once more. \"Good,\" they said. The dark figure turned to leave. \"Be seeing you, Mickey,\" the dark figure said and disappeared.\n\n\"Mickey.\" For a brief second, Jos\u00e9's recollections seem to have become an auditory hallucination. But the cold voice that the dealer knows all too well is very real and snaps Jos\u00e9 back to the present as it calls out, \"Mickey.\" The name wafts out across the warehouse, sending a cold chill down Jos\u00e9's spine; he spins and sees the dark figure standing before him. In their hand is the leg of a corpse they are dragging behind them with the same nonchalance one might walk a pet.\n\n\"G2. You scared me shitless!\" the arms dealer exclaims. The dark figure gives Jos\u00e9 what is, for them, a warm smile.\n\n\"Funny. I thought you looked like you would shit at the sight of a mouse right about now,\" the dark figure replies.\n\nJos\u00e9 looks at the dead body. \"What the fuck! Your best men?\" Jos\u00e9 yells to the lead security guard, pointing toward the body. Matt dashes across the warehouse and slides up next to Jos\u00e9 to see the corpse.\n\n\"Ah, fuckin' A, man!\" he groans. \"Sorry, boss, that was the only new recruit here,\" he explains. \"She wasn't even with us for a month yet.\" Matt throws this in as an afterthought. Jos\u00e9 and the dark figure give him a confused look.\n\n\"She was startled by my arrival and tried to strike me with her firearm... as if it were possible. That is none of my concern. She was a nihilist,\" the dark figure announces. \"Now, I believe you have some things for me to look at.\"\n\n\"Yes. Right over here; please come this way!\" the nervous dealer stammers. \"Oh, you can leave that thing there. He will get it,\" Jos\u00e9 gestures to the corpse and to the lead security guard.\n\nThe dark figure drops the leg of their \"new friend,\" and Matt lays the dead guard on an empty table.\n\nNear the vehicles that had ferried the equipment to the deal are several tables covered in pure white drop cloths that conceal the merchandise. As Jos\u00e9 approaches, one of his men pulls off a couple of the drop cloths, revealing various small arm weapons.\n\nThe dealer gestures to the panoply of items and picks up one small device. \"This is a Transtech Needle Slicer,\" he explains, his spirits now picking up as he talks about things he knows best. After all, this is Jos\u00e9's true profession. \"You throw it toward an opponent, and when the timer reaches zero, needles sprout and pin the fucker.\"\n\nThe dark figure remains silent, although intrigue shows in their eyes.\n\nJos\u00e9 scans the table looking for something he thinks might trigger a response from his audience. He moves on and pulls up one of the pistols, \"Now, this bad boy is a Walther Assassin .22-cal. The pistol has a decompression mechanism that suppresses the sound. However, it travels at high velocity, so it can traverse through an object and then still pierce the target in near pristine shape. Real good for offin' someone at the theatre, or anywhere in a crowd, at close range.\"\n\n\"This is good,\" the dark figure says, examining it. \"It feels... very good.\" The contour of the grip fits in their hand perfectly. \"What else?\" Not trying to sound put off, the dark figure acknowledges that there is a lot more to see.\n\n\"Aha, I wanted to show you this badass!\" Jos\u00e9 says gleefully. The resonance in his voice announces his fondness for this next piece of hardware, as he rips off another drop cloth and picks up a gun that is rather large even when compared to his substantial bulk. \"This is the improved S.Hi.T. rifle, with all of the bells and whistles. Single shot, four shot, and full auto, with belt-feed conversion. This one has a casing collector\u2014reduces your footprint\u2014adjustable bipod stands, and the latest distance meter/night and day scope made by Red Inc.\" Jos\u00e9 strokes the scope with affection. \"It can data link to interface with a computer, giving you the ability to do such things as face recognition mapping, or you may want to robotically control this sucker\u2014the possibilities are endless.\"\n\nJos\u00e9 takes another break to calibrate his approach and tries to gauge his impact. While removing the dead security guard, his men bang the doors of the warehouse and distract the dark figure. Jos\u00e9 feels as if he is losing momentum, and he snaps back into his pitch with what he considers the most impressive feature of this weapon system. \"The fact is,\" he declares loudly, trying to regain the dark figure's attention, \"that this weapon system has had other companies trying to copy it. But the real beauty of this thing is the thirty-one different types of specialty rounds that can be used.\" Jos\u00e9 finishes with a big smile, gesturing to a stack of ammo boxes sitting on the floor next to the table. \"And we've got 'em all!\n\n\"Here, let me show you some of what this baby can do,\" Jos\u00e9 says as he picks up a clip and moves to a shooting area that his men have set up earlier. \"I loaded this clip with a couple of different types of rounds and we have\u2014\" Jos\u00e9 is struck by a brilliant idea as he loads up the weapon. \"Hey!\" he shouts out to his men fumbling around with the corpse, \"Put up that body, over here. It'll show how these rounds work better than the plastic barrel will.\"\n\nJos\u00e9's men prop the body of the dead girl on the top of target barrel, as Jos\u00e9 sets the weapon on a far table and loads the clip.\n\n\"First round is a normal jacketed round. I am going to aim for the left arm, just below the shoulder,\" Jos\u00e9 says as he lines up the shot. The distance is clearly too close for the size of the weapon; at most it is only sixty-five yards, while the gun has an accuracy distance of three miles. As he shoots, a whoosh sound and a compression of air that presses against everyone in the vicinity are all the physical signs to evidence that Jos\u00e9 has fired the weapon. Almost simultaneously, the right arm of the body blows apart just below the shoulder, and the forearm and hand fall to the ground. Laughter breaks out, as the arm makes a squishy slap on the floor.\n\n\"I don't think that Red Inc. has made the best scope\u2014or are you really that bad of a shot?\" the dark figure jokes, nudging Jos\u00e9 in the side. His men stand around, keeping their comments to themselves, but they snicker their agreement.\n\nJos\u00e9 steps back from the weapon, feeling a bit sheepish. \"The scope and rifle work just fine,\" he declares. He is not in the mood for this embarrassment, \"and you know I shoot just fine. I was just talking about my left,\" he states emphatically.\n\n\"Sure, sure. Now let me see what the other types of rounds can do,\" the dark figure says as they move in to take control of the weapon. With a quick lineup and adjustment of the scope, the dark figure fires two single shots downrange, striking the corpse in the center of mass.\n\nJos\u00e9 explains these rounds with ease. \"The first one was a tracer with a memory tag, and the second was an anti-armor 'tunneler' round. If you send that tracer in first, you can program all the other shots to follow. No matter which way the barrel is pointing.\" During this whole explanation, Jos\u00e9 is gesturing with his hands for emphasis. \"And that 'tunneler' sucker\u2014that thing can penetrate one-inch plate armor, burrow twenty more feet, and eliminate everything in a twenty-foot radius.\" He takes a deep breath. \"That thing kicks ass.\"\n\nThe dark figure quickly squeezes off a four-round burst. Jos\u00e9 quickly tries to explain what each round of the burst is doing to the body. This becomes difficult, because there is not much left to the body after the acid and base rounds have transformed most of it into unrecognizable sludge. In the wake of this desecration, all that is identifiable is the left leg and the part of the right arm that had separated with Jos\u00e9's first shot.\n\nLeaving the S.Hi.T. rifle where it is, they all move back to the remaining tables to see what else is under the drop cloths. The last couple of tables do not have as much as the first tables, but they contain much larger equipment. The last item interests the dark figure, as Jos\u00e9 explains what the true function of it is\u2014as well as its down side.\n\n\"Both of these are of equal power for thrust, but neither one has a warhead of any kind. I was not sure if they would be useful to you in this condition.\" Jos\u00e9 picks up the device and slowly spins it around, looking at it from all angles. He goes on, trying to entice his patron, \"But seeing how there haven't been any more spider missiles on the market since that one group was stolen\u2014I heard how effectively you had used them in the fighting around the Green Glass Zone\u2014\" Jos\u00e9 peers over toward the dark figure to hammer home the deal, \"I thought I'd at least offer these to you,\" Jos\u00e9 says, finishing his presentation.\n\nThe dark figure looks over all of the tables, walking around each one, picking up some items and then placing them back down. Suddenly, the dark figure spins and asks, \"How much? And what form of payment do you want?\"\n\n\"The same form is always good. Five pounds uncut is more than enough\u2014and rather fair, I think,\" Jos\u00e9 says with confidence.\n\nThe dark figure points to different items and says, \"I will keep these items here in the City. The rest you will ship to the cause, and there you will be compensated with eight pounds uncut green glass. That should cover the complication of delivering them.\" Turning to Jos\u00e9, the dark figure says gently, \"Don't you agree?\"\n\nJos\u00e9 smiles wide and shakes hands with the dark figure, finalizing the deal.\n\nThe spring wind blew in the fields, picking up the scents of the freshly cut winter wheat, budding flowers, weeds, and just good old fresh air, bringing these to the face of the driver. With only an occasional light cloud casting partial shadows in the fields, the sun shone brilliantly, causing shimmers in the road ahead. Freshly waxed red paint of the old SUV reflected the warmth of a spring sun back into the face of the driver. As local fence posts zipped by, the chortle of a few notes from a resting songbird could be discerned beyond the roar of the engine, and occasionally, an image of a red-winged blackbird blinked past. Reacting to the enthusiasm and thrill of the drive, the driver pressed harder on the gas, compelling the SUV to travel even faster downhill into the rightward curve, so that more air flowed in through the four open windows. The SUV kicked up dust along the road, which then danced in swirling vortices in the rearview mirror. Traveling ever faster over the hills, the driver maintained impeccable control, even when traveling at speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour.\n\nBang! Lighting is in the driver's eyes. Gone are the warm breezes and soothing aromas of the earth; the driver is no longer looking out of the SUV at times past. Now they are racing through the City, avoiding the traffic, chasing someone up ahead. Caught halfway between the heady memory and the present pursuit, the driver is unable to hear this world, except for the sounds of their own breathing reverberating through their body. The sounds of Remmington's yells are mute. The exact words she uses are a mystery, but the idea that attention must be paid to the other vehicle, which is getting away, is made clear with the look of panic on her face and by her hand gestures.\n\nWith a shake of their head, the driver refocuses on the perpetrators' vehicle and quickly skirts three vehicles that are crossing their path. Picking up speed, the driver can see that the end of the City is fast approaching and that the perpetrators are going to reach the end of the City in no time. Getting ever closer and still avoiding all the obstacles thrown in front of them, the driver is merely one block away, with a clear path between them and the perpetrators' vehicle, when the perpetrators reach the end of the City.\n\nThe perpetrators' vehicle speeds past the last buildings and plunges as if it were going off a cliff. Seconds later, the driver and Remmington are falling as well. Remmington's panic increases, and she braces herself, arms and legs stiff against anything she can reach, as both vehicles fall faster than rocks. Remington is still screaming something, but silence occupies the driver's head. With time and space running out, the perpetrators' vehicle pulls out hard from the dive and kisses the ground, leaving a puff of sand, as they continue to race away from the City. The driver does the same, minus the kiss on the ground. The expert timing of this maneuver closes the gap between the two vehicles.\n\nNow in the open, the pursuers can gain ground and close in even more. The accelerated speed pushes them back in their seats; Remington readjusts herself and regains composure. She pulls her targeting controls in front of her and prepares to disable the fleeing vehicle. This is complicated by the need to avoid not other vehicles but the occasional large saguaro cactus, craggy pinyon pines, and the multitude of different rock formations protruding from the ground. The purveyors of mayhem are trying to cross this inhospitable place, likely to seek refuge in the cliffs that lie beyond the desert.\n\nRemmington's first disruptor shot is only a glancing blow and has no effect. After being hit, the perpetrators retaliate with small missiles from the back, giving the driver even more to avoid and thus providing the opportunity to prove why they are the driver. The new complications cause the second shot by Remmington to go wide to the left. On a straight run between some rock groupings, she lands a perfect hit.\n\nIt does nothing.\n\n\"Their systems are shielded. Get the Council to approve lethal force!\" the driver instructs as they do a hop move over the latest salvo of missiles shooting at them.\n\nRemmington wastes no time and is working on getting what the driver has requested, when the lights of the interior of their vehicle turn red and a warning message displays on the front window: warning! this vehicle will not operate outside of the city limits. turn back now, or the vehicle's operations will shut down!\n\nThis message flashes five times and then turns into a graphical display of a curved red line that stretches from one side of the front window to the other side, with a model green vehicle heading toward the line. As distances slip past under the vehicle, the green icon ticks ever closer to the red line. With one hand, the driver rotates the console Remmington is working at and starts working on something other than just getting approval from the Council. Remmington sits agape, with nothing to do but watch events unfold.\n\nThe green model moves closer and closer to the red line. Finally, the driver's controls in the vehicle start to change. The top slips apart and seems to melt back into itself, as it retracts to reveal the lethal firing controls. With a couple more taps into the console from the driver, the vehicle's transformation can be felt, along with a loss of speed, as some of the aerodynamics of the vehicle are disrupted by the deployment of the severe offensive weapons package. It is an array of various warheads and delivery systems designed for defensive and offensive engagements. Any remnants of panic emanating from Remmington's face are now replaced with shock, as she notes the readying of the lethal battery\u2014even though the Council still has not replied to her request for lethal force approval. The array has positioned itself and is in the process of entering launch data for each device; the final authorization to send a weapon down range will come from the driver.\n\nBranches scrape along the side of the vehicle as the driver maneuvers to avoid another volley of missiles from the offenders. I'm getting real tired of this game, the driver thinks as they line up a lethal shot.\n\nThe driver looses a battery of four missiles in rapid succession and two seconds later a second grouping of four missiles, so that all eight hit the other vehicle simultaneously. The maneuver of launching all eight missiles takes seven seconds. Five seconds after impact, the damaged vehicle is unrelenting and still racing toward the boundary line. As the pursued vehicle becomes unobtainable, the driver fires a third and fourth battery of missiles in the same way as the first two. This results in the perpetrators' vehicle becoming nothing more than a fireball, as it crashes into the ground, killing all the occupants and destroying the contents of the vehicle.\n\nQuickly turning the vehicle to the right to remain in the operational zone, the driver runs along the City limits. Being right on the line causes power fluctuations in the lights and instruments until the completion of the turn away from the boundary. Slowing down, they make a long, sweeping arc back to the border to check the scene and confirm the destruction of the perpetrators and their cargo. After a quick scan allowing them to see the extent of the fire, the driver and Remmington return to Civil Central Command.\n\n\"Well, how are we going to fill out the order for the replacement of sixteen missiles when the Council never approved their use?\" Remmington presses.\n\n\"Why, whatever do you mean? Approval?\" the driver jokingly mocks as they exit the vehicle and head toward the lift. \"Of course we must have had approval! How else could I've...\" The driver makes an encouraging hand gesture for her to continue.\n\nRemmington ignores the mockery. \"Furthermore, how were we able to get fire control without their approval?\" she asks in tones of anger, surprise, and awe.\n\nThe driver responds flatly, \"The answer to both questions is the same.\"\n\nCatching up to the driver in the lift, Remmington asks, \"What, you hacked the system?\"\n\nThe driver smiles coolly and asks rhetorically, \"Did you think you are the only one who could hack the system?\" They step off on the twenty-third floor. \"We must have gotten the Council's approval. Or we will just have to change our reports as to how the perpetrators ended up as a bonfire on the edge of the City limits. Yes?\"\n\nGrabbing the driver's arm before they walk out of the front lobby, Remmington agrees, \"Sure. Now what the hell was that at the beginning of the pursuit? You almost crashed. Where was your head?\"\n\n\"My head was in driving,\" the driver answers in a very loose truth accompanied by a half smile.\n\n\"If you daydream like that again, you'll get us killed. I'm not one for dying just yet,\" Remmington says, teeth clenched, ending the conversation as she walks past the driver.\n\n\"Ben, what have you been able to recover?\" the driver asks as the two of them wait for Remmington to return from her meeting with Cap and the Council.\n\nLooking as nervous as ever, Ben answers, \"After going over everything twice, I've found nothing.\" He shakes his head, \"I'm surprised that it took the Council so long to start this investigation of the blackout, yet at the same time, now that they have, I'm afraid for my job, because it looks as if I'm going to be the scapegoat for this whole thing.\"\n\nThe driver soothes Ben's worries, \"You heard the Cap. He's going to do his best to keep this off you, and with how bad this mess-up is, I can't see how they'll be able to pin it on you.\" They both turn toward the sound of an opening door.\n\nRemmington comes in and joins the two of them, trying not to make eye contact with Ben until she takes a seat. She sits for a couple of seconds, with a worried look on her face, just staring into Ben's face and watching the sweat build on his brow. Ben is holding his breath and staring back at Remmington, nearly ready to pop.\n\n\"You're fine,\" Remmington finally says, cracking a smile. \"This thing was way too big for any of the techs to say that you did it. So it's back to business,\" she exclaims and turns to the driver. \"Now, you and I might have some trouble.\"\n\n\"Remmie, are you talking about the missile thing?\" Ben asks.\n\nBoth the driver and Remmington shoot Ben a dirty look in an appeal to keep his mouth shut. Remmington tells the driver, \"For now they don't seem to care, but one Council member did ask me about the miscount of missiles in the inventory.\"\n\nThe driver says, \"They asked me that, as well. Come on, Remmie! You know how this works. They'll have to zero the balance sheets to cover up the discrepancy.\"\n\n\"So?\" Remmington ventures.\n\n\"So the missing inventory will just disappear,\" the driver adds.\n\n\"That wouldn't happen,\" Ben interjects. \"How would they account for the discrepancy in the credit transfers?\"\n\n\"Look, they'll have well-placed bean counters just go back and\u2014\"\n\n\"Change the credits for each unit remaining,\" she finishes in a tone of awe. It is a lightbulb moment for Remmington as she utters these words out loud.\n\n\"I was going to say 'cook the books,' but that works, too,\" the driver comments.\n\n\"How do you know they'll do that?\" Ben asks incredulously.\n\n\"Do you really think the system can get everything right\u2014all the time?\" the driver retorts. \"Look, Ben, this is a bureaucracy we're talking about. Its existence depends on this sort of stuff.\" The driver turns toward Remmington, going back to the start of this tangent, \"You know what, Remmie? I think they are asking all vehicle units about the miscount. Well, we can ask Cass; he sent me a message earlier saying he is coming up to talk to you.\"\n\n\"Cac, I forgot to turn my pager back on,\" Remmington swears as she pulls out her pager and turns it on. \"I can't remember the last time he came up to the twenty-third floor. It must be something.\"\n\nThe driver props a leg on a lower drawer that is pulled out. Remmington pulls up something on her computer to read, and Ben pulls over a chair as they wait for Cassius Dorian to show up.\n\nThe rhythmic tink of metal against stone is apparent from as far away as the lifts. The distinctive sound of his metallic anatomy increases in volume as he enters the room.\n\n\"H-hello, Cassius,\" Ben stammers.\n\nCassius stops and looks at the young man. He strokes his soul patch for a moment with his natural arm. His eyes light up as he recalls his history with Ben. After his accident, Cassius was assigned office work, cold-case review, and he also helped with Ben's training. Ben tagged along and worked with Cassius on one case in particular, the case of a serial murderer. They did not solve the case but were able to determine that the murderer should be dead from old age at that point in the review.\n\n\"Aw, no way! Benny, it's been a while,\" Cassius says and shakes Ben's hand. He also gives Remmington a sly wink.\n\n\"Uh, so, Cass, what brings you up? You rarely come up here,\" Remmington asks.\n\n\"I actually just got back from a case. A man was found in a public restroom stall, dead, sitting on the toilet,\" he replies. \"Two wounds were found in his legs. There was barely any blood at the scene. Weird, right?\"\n\n\"Like Elvis?\" the driver queries.\n\nCassius and Remmington turn and face the driver, bewildered.\n\n\"Who?\" Remmington asks.\n\nBen fields the question. \"Elvis was a singer in the ancient times,\" he explains. \"Apparently, he was adored by millions.\"\n\n\"So, what, he had, like, a billion positive credits or something?\" Cassius asks.\n\nBen gives him an incredulous look. \"No, they didn't have credits in the ancient times,\" he says. \"And he thinks he knows everything...\" he mutters as he rolls his eyes.\n\n\"So, wait. What does this Elvis guy have to do with the case?\" Remmington asks the driver.\n\n\"Both Elvis and this guy died on the toilet. It's just a similarity,\" the driver says dismissively. \"See, Elvis died of a drug overdose, and this guy was shot in the legs. The deaths aren't exactly the same, but the locations are,\" the driver finishes the random history lesson.\n\nBen tries to help out, \"Well, if you think about it, it's kinda... well, it's...\"\n\nThe bewildered looks of Remmington and Cassius transform into looks of astonishment, as both turn their gaze from the driver to Ben and then back to the driver, as Ben trails off.\n\n\"Never mind,\" the driver says, pushing past the awkward moment, and continues, \"So, you say you found this guy in a toilet, but there was no blood? How's that possible? Didn't the blood spill out?\"\n\n\"Nah, and that's the weird part,\" Cassius replies. \"Apparently, all of the blood drained into the bowl. Processors are still looking it over, but that's what they came up with so far. These gunshots were measured perfectly for this sucker's legs. Damn near surgical precision, too\u2014those two shots ripped through his femoral arteries, and while they were at it, broke the bones in his legs and stopped there. Poor govniuk couldn't get up, and it probably took all of five minutes for him to just bleed out.\"\n\nBen and Remmington simultaneously respond, \"Seriously?\"\n\n\"The screaming must have been horrendous,\" Ben observes.\n\n\"That's gotta be embarrassing! So, the victim is looking forward to a peaceful evacuation, sees this measuring rod, and then the next second, bam! He's hit and dying and stuck? That's crappy,\" Remmington finishes in almost a whisper.\n\nThey all have a little laugh at picturing how shitty a way this was to die. After a moment, Ben asks, \"So, do we know who the victim is?\"\n\nCassius explains, \"Name's Gerry Colin. Occupation as a private security agent. Last time he was at work was four days ago. No one reported him missing 'til yesterday. Hell, the only reason we even found him was 'cause someone called in about the smell.\" He rubs his eye as if remembering the stench. \"He was found in the SDN transport station bathroom, which isn't the best smelling as it is, so this must have been really rank. Anyway, the guy must've used it on his way home, 'cause no one would've been around to hear the shots or his screams, an' that station is usually packed. Colin got off his shift at 02:30, and according to his decomp, he's been there ever since.\"\n\nRemington asks, \"Any witnesses? Surveillance?\"\n\nCassius continues, \"Since a fuckton of people use that station, and since it's such a shithole to begin with, the scans will be completely useless to tell us who went in there. To top it off, SDN's security cams are all broken\u2014have been for months.\"\n\n\"All of them? Why don't they fix 'em?\" Ben inquires.\n\n\"S'pose some business uses the station as a place for backdoor deals, and they've been paying to keep it that way,\" Cassius directs his response to Ben before turning to the others to add, \"And, get this: 'cause the stall was locked from the inside, the only lead we might have right now would be the rounds. They didn't even leave casings behind.\"\n\n\"So you have nothing to go off of, then?\" the driver asks.\n\n\"As of right now, I can't see what they're going to come up with. I guess I'll start to try and run down the history of Gerry Colin and see where that leads me,\" Cassius answers.\n\nRemmington wonders aloud, \"Which security company did he work for?\"\n\nQuickly pulling up Gerry Colin's information on the computer, Ben speaks up first, \"That's hard to say. Here, I have pulled up the pay transactions for one Gerry Colin, and there are four different accounts that have paid him in the past month.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Colin was a true merc. That's why I came to see ya, Remmie. Think you can get around the protection? See who was payin' him?\" Cassius asks.\n\nRemmington looks over Ben's shoulder to see the transactions. \"Well, the third transaction on the list is not a security company. It's Red Inc.,\" Remmington says as she taps Ben on the upper back to get him to look at what she is indicating.\n\n\"Well, I'll... G-squared! They are the only company that would pay such an odd amount.\" Ben pauses and then explains, \"They're cheap. They use fractionals. See for yourselves,\" Ben says as he pulls back from the screen to allow the others to look.\n\nCassius gives Ben a curious look and asks, \"How do you two know the pay rate of Red Inc.?\"\n\nBen looks right back into Cassius's face and blinks purposefully twice.\n\nEven the driver gets the hint and asks, \"So how can we find out about the other three?\"\n\nCassius smiles real big and, lacing his words with sarcasm, says, \"Well, since we got this one down, think you two can do the follow-up for me? I mean, you are pretty tight with the company. I can check the other ones. Later.\"\n\nCassius gets up and gives Ben an affectionate rub on the head. Ben tries to whip his head out from under Cassius's hand like an offended child, but they are both smiling. Anyone can tell they are playing with each other. Cassius gives the driver a nod and extends his hand to Remington on his way out, saying, \"Thanks again.\"\n\nAfter Cassius walks out, Ben asks the other two, \"So, he really didn't need our help?\"\n\n\"Nope, totally screwing with us,\" Remmington quips. \"Besides, everyone in the building knows your connections to Red Inc., Ben.\" Raising her eyebrows, Remmington prods, \"That being the case, how about you take point on this for him\u2014and because you took that shot at him when you were muttering something.\" She smiles.\n\nSmiling at the ribbing from Remmington, Ben answers, \"That's fine, but only because you two have so much other unfinished work.\" Ben needles them a bit, too. \"You still haven't found anything related to the caf\u00e9 crash, other than the name of Simon O. Larsen.\" It's clear by her body language that Ben is starting to get to Remmington. \"And you still haven't identified what the cargo was in the chase that ended just outside of the City limits.\"\n\nThe driver decides to try to slow down Ben, who seems to be having too much fun, saying, \"Well, that isn't totally truthful. If it had ended outside, we couldn't have returned without a tow from a transport vehicle.\" Taking the conversation in another direction, the driver continues, \"Also, while you two had to go talk to the Cap and the Council, I finally got something on Simon O. Larsen.\"\n\nBen enthusiastically asks, \"Why didn't you say something sooner? What did you find?\"\n\n\"Yeah, what did you find?\" Remmington queries, seemingly annoyed about being kept in the dark.\n\nThe driver answers casually, still having one leg resting on the open drawer, \"I didn't want to repeat myself.\"\n\n\"Well, we are here now, so what did you find?\" Remington repeats with some urgency.\n\n\"We were looking for someone whose vehicle would have been stolen or something, when we should have looked at the other detention centers' records, 'cause Simon has been in a couple of them. Never ours, and he has moved into different criminal outfits. The last detention center said to look into this arms dealer now, Jos\u00e9 Palmer,\" the driver finally shares the new information.\n\nRemmington asks, \"Why Jos\u00e9? Is Simon that big of a criminal? 'Cause Jos\u00e9 is the biggest arms dealer at this point. The desert is probably fertile from all of the bodies Jos\u00e9 has put into the ground.\"\n\n\"So, if Jos\u00e9 is that bad of a guy, why is he still free?\" the driver inquires.\n\nBen responds, \"He knows the system.\" Remington nods in agreement. Ben continues, \"For some reason, the evidence never puts him at the crimes. On top of these facts, witnesses won't speak up\u2014or they end up dead.\"\n\n\"You're missing the part where some companies are paying to help protect him, 'cause he does a service for them.\" Remmington adds, \"We just haven't figured out what. Yet.\"\n\n\"Remmie, are you still on about that case from three years ago that was thrown out?\" Ben rebukes.\n\n\"I'm not 'still on.' Just pointing out that the Council member looking over the case was going to throw the book at him as her last act as a Council member\u2014\"\n\n\"Yeah, but\u2014\" Ben tries to interrupt, but Remington continues on without acknowledging him.\n\n\"Because she knew she had no way of winning her seat again. Then, two days after her amazing win, she dropped everything that was related to Jos\u00e9's arms dealings,\" Remmington points out.\n\nBen sighs, clearly worn out with this part of the topic, and moves back to the matter at hand. \"Why did they think Simon was working with Jos\u00e9?\"\n\n\"One of Jos\u00e9's legitimate companies gave Simon a job, allowing for his early release from detention in the western jungle, the one close to Tixe Tower City,\" the driver tells them.\n\nRemmington asks, \"Did they give you a better address to try and locate him?\"\n\n\"It was the same address that's in the system. The company that gave him the job is moving from one building to another, but they didn't say where to or even where from,\" the driver adds.\n\n\"Hey... um... you guys forgot to ask Cass about the missiles,\" Ben comments as he starts to go back to his desk.\n\nRemmington grabs the closest thing at hand and throws it at Ben, hitting him with it. \"Jerk!\" she snorts under her breath. Laughing the rest of the way back to his desk, Ben ignores being hit with her pager.\n\n\"Come on, Remmie. Leave the kid alone. We've got work to do,\" the driver says flatly as they exit the office.\n\nThe Imp Club has lines of people outside waiting for a chance to get in. The three stories that the club takes up are only half of the floors that Jos\u00e9 Palmer owns in the Nolispe Tri Towers Number 3. They happen to be the only floors that Civil Central Command doesn't know he owns in this tower.\n\nThe bottom floor has a very open design; it is mostly used as a dance floor. Also on the first floor are one main crescent-shaped bar and two small bars in the far corners, opposite from the main bar. The second and third floors are open-air balconies overlooking the main dance floor. The second floor covers only three walls of the club. Over the crescent bar area is a stage that is not as high as the second floor but well above the first floor. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for the crowd to get on the stage from below. The third floor is reserved for private parties only. It has a perimeter of balconies with cross-walkways that lead to a circular dance floor over the very middle of the space below. The walkways jut from the corners of the balcony area, creating an X with a circle in the middle. The lighting effects play off the many different pieces of polished green glass, an opulence rarely seen. There is even a replica of an ancient disco ball, made out of green glass and suspended over the center of the dance floor of the private party level. The success of the Imp Club is in large part due to the pieces of green glass that adorn it throughout. This is a point not lost on Jos\u00e9.\n\nJos\u00e9 sits down, wiping his brow and waving his hand for someone to get him a drink. Dumb shit thinks the glass is here for him to take, Jos\u00e9 thinks to himself as he reaches out for the drink. Looking at the limp body on the floor eight feet from him, Jos\u00e9 takes a sip of his drink and sets it on the table nearby. I oughta fuckin' kill 'im. He considers it for a moment. The breathing lump has been brought up to Jos\u00e9 by his security team, because the man was trying to chip a piece of green glass out of a door in one of the halls. To send a clear message, Jos\u00e9 broke the guy's jaw and nose before he passed out from the pain.\n\n\"All right, Matt! Remove him from my party. Go get him fixed up, and make sure the bills are paid for. Got it?\" Jos\u00e9 barks at his security. \"And get my guests back up here! We're celebrating a great pay day,\" he takes a gulp of his drink, which incorporates a piece of ice, \"and the loss of Simon and what's-her-name.\" There is no real sadness in his tone as he mumbles their names around the ice in his mouth. \"And may they be the last I lose to the cause this time,\" Jos\u00e9 adds as he lifts his drink and then drains his glass.\n\nJos\u00e9's guests return with smiles and with no fear of Jos\u00e9, even after witnessing the object of his retribution being dragged out. They have seen this vignette played out many times before. Some of them have had the initial misfortune of assuming the same starring role as the breathing lump. In their eyes, the man is better off this way. Some guests know that after Jos\u00e9 gets the man fixed up, he will be offered a job, so that he will not ever think or need to steal from Jos\u00e9 or anyone\u2014at least, not anyone that is aligned with Jos\u00e9.\n\nThis is how Jos\u00e9 built his power and has been able to maintain it. His power is not just attributable to the dark figure killing his old boss, Rachenov, promoting him. Nor is it because the dark figure only buys wares from Jos\u00e9, giving Jos\u00e9 the most direct line to the expensive item, green glass. Jos\u00e9 hated Rachenov, but he knew that there were some of Rachenov's people who were very dangerous and would challenge his takeover. So he had to kill some of them because of how devoted they were to the horrible Rachenov. Yet, most acted like a pack of dogs, and after Jos\u00e9 beat them down, they fell into line. These many years later, only three of Rachenov's men still lived, and all three worked for Jos\u00e9 in some capacity.\n\nWell after the disturbance to his party, Jos\u00e9 is in as deep a conversation as one can get with three women at one time. It finally slips into his conscious mind: the crowd is singing along with the song being played. Cold sweat comes at once, as the crowd sings: \"Bow down before the one you serve! You're going to get what you deserve! Bow down before the one you serve! You're going to get what you deserve!\"\n\nJos\u00e9 sits straight up and yells to one of his employees, \"I said never play Nin!\"\n\n\"God knows, money's not looking for the cure. God money's not concerned about the sick among the pure. God money let's go dancing on the backs of the bruised,\" the dark figure sings in perfect tune from a side table by themself.\n\nThat single voice with perfect pitch is the only one that pierces the noise of the club and paralyzes Jos\u00e9. He is frozen in place as the rest of his guests then join in singing with the crowd, despite his objection. The dark figure stands up and joins Jos\u00e9 on the empty couch at the side of his sitting area.\n\nSmiling, the dark figure says to Jos\u00e9, \"Mickey, it is surely all right if I play Nine Inch Nails?\" Looking around the room at everyone who is singing, the dark figure remarks, \"It makes me so happy to see how many followers you have with you these days, Mickey.\"\n\nJos\u00e9 swallows hard, \"What did you call this?\" Jos\u00e9 points his fat finger in the air, referring to the music.\n\n\"Oh. I said, it's surely all right if I play NIN?\" the dark figure asks again. \"You see, the true name of this ancient musical group is Nine Inch Nails. The archive data system was corrupted and shortened it to NIN, but no one knows the truth like your God. Now, isn't that right, Mickey?\"\n\nWith the third occurrence of Jos\u00e9 being called \"Mickey\" by this stranger, some of Jos\u00e9's guests stop singing. They look kind of crossly at the dark figure and then at Jos\u00e9 for not correcting this stranger. The look is all that any of them can muster, out of fear for what Jos\u00e9 might do for interrupting or correcting a guest of his, never mind what this unknown person might do.\n\nAs the song ends, Jos\u00e9 hoists his large frame off the couch, helps up the girls he's entertaining, and sends them to go somewhere else, giving the last one a kiss on the cheek as she gives his butt cheek a squeeze. After the girls have gone, Jos\u00e9 turns to find the dark figure standing right behind him with their arms open wide to give him an embrace. Although at first afraid of how close the dark figure is, Jos\u00e9 finally returns the embrace.\n\n\"Mickey, I know you have given up some people for me in the past, and once again at this time, but I am touched that you are finally seeing the value of the cause. I heard you tell Matt what this party was for,\" the dark figure whispers in Jos\u00e9's ear as they embrace each other in this dangerous hug.\n\nStepping back and gesturing for the dark figure to sit again, Jos\u00e9 says, \"I'm a little insulted. After twenty years of working with you, how could you think I wouldn't see the value of the cause?\" The truth is, the fact that you haven't changed in twenty years, and I don't want you to kill me as you did Rachenov, Jos\u00e9 adds in his thoughts.\n\nThe dark figure rests back on the cushion of the couch and expresses, with some delight, \"Mickey, I do believe that is the first time you have protested my actions... What a good reason.\" They add in all seriousness, \"Let's not make it a habit.\"\n\nJos\u00e9 starts to sweat again and asks, \"Is there a problem? I heard where Simon's vehicle ended up.\"\n\n\"Things are going well. What you haven't heard about is the death of one Gerry Colin. That is mostly because I killed that infidel right before I came here,\" the dark figure grins triumphantly.\n\nJos\u00e9 responds with a slight shake of his head and a confused look, \"Should I know who that is?\" He searches the adjoining table for his drink, feigning nonchalance.\n\n\"A means to an end,\" the dark figure answers and then adds, \"He lives by himself, and no one will report him missing for days. In that time, I need you to get someone to take over one of his security positions to steal a key card, so I can get into some labs.\" The dark figure leans closer to make sure Jos\u00e9 doesn't miss what is coming, \"I think this is a fine way for some of your people to make up for the botched robbery, and I don't have the time to do it all.\"\n\n\"Which robbery are you talking about?\" Jos\u00e9 asks apprehensively, fearful it was one he had nothing to do with the other day.\n\nThe dark figure looks upset by this ignorance and, with a wrinkled brow, says, \"The one that ended just outside of the City limits. The one that headed straight for the ancient ruins, Mickey.\"\n\nJos\u00e9's fears are confirmed and he concludes, Yep, has to be one that I had nothing to do with.\n\nAs if reading Jos\u00e9's mind, the dark figure says, \"I know you think that you had nothing to do with it. Don't even try to protest; it is all over your face.\" The dark figure leans back on one elbow, speaking patiently, \"See, you need to look into the report again. It was the same group; I think they are called the Desert Fox or something. Weren't they the ones that stole the Spydertech Plura system for you and me all those years ago?\" The dark figure wears a sly smile.\n\nJos\u00e9's face turns red with anger, not at the purveyor of the information, but because he now understands why his attempts to contact the Desert Fox crew had failed. Jos\u00e9 had hired them to deliver the balance of the equipment that the dark figure had requested be shipped out of the City. He now understands why he hasn't been able to get hold of them. Shit, they had half of the delivery with them, Jos\u00e9 thinks.\n\nStanding up, the dark figure says in parting, \"Mickey, don't worry, I will give you more time to deliver my goods, 'cause I know you will deliver, and I'll still pay our agreed price.\"\n\nJos\u00e9 is thankful for at least that good news, as he watches the dark figure walk away. I don't know how many times I have seen them actually leave the room. What, three times in twenty years? Jos\u00e9 thinks to himself. Even before a signal can be given, Matt comes over with another drink for Jos\u00e9.\n\n\"Matt, we need to find out what Gerry Colin looks like, immediately!\" Jos\u00e9 growls, tipping the glass to his lips. \"We need to know who we have that looks like him. Tonight!\" He barks at Matt as he slams the rest of the drink.\n\nMatt answers, \"I will personally look into it.\" He takes the empty glass from Jos\u00e9's hand. \"At least no one's dead tonight.\"\n\n\"Why do you think you have to look up Mr. Colin?\" Jos\u00e9 says, not interested in a response. He adds, \"Find out what equipment we had packaged for delivery by the Desert Fox gang, and set it up to procure it all again, as fast as possible. Price is not an issue\u2014just get it done fast! One more thing,\" Jos\u00e9 lowers his voice, requiring Matt to lower his head closer, \"tell the bar to start watering down my guests' drinks.\"\n\nThe three of them stand outside Gerry Colin's rust-covered front door, waiting for the building's management company representative to show up with the different key cards to grant them entrance. This building is one of the latest attempts at government public housing. It was opened up to the public less than six years ago, and one third of the lights in the hallways have been damaged by the occupants and are still unrepaired. Any and all carpeting was removed from the public areas only two years after the opening.\n\nThis hallway only needs some dripping water, or water running down the walls, and this could be the set for a horror film, the driver thinks while listening to the pounding music emanating from the walls of Mr. Colin's place.\n\n\"How long did they say it was going to take to get someone here?\" Remmington asks Cassius.\n\n\"This mother lode coming at you all three D's...\" The screaming vocals of the song are quite intelligible through the concrete walls.\n\nCassius shifts his weight and answers, \"This is why I wasn't in a rush to get here. The management is damn near always slow to get on the scene with these kinds of places. Someone just had to be a speed demon, eh?\" Cassius directs the last part at the driver.\n\n\"We got big news...\"\n\n\"Well, that wasn't all my doing. By the way, do you have my M.E. card, Remmie?\" the driver asks her as she turns her back to them both.\n\n\"The band is kicking...\" The unrelenting music punctuates their conversations.\n\nCassius asks, \"Remmie, did you place a bet on who would get here first?\"\n\n\"and I see lots of beers...\" the song wails on as Remington swivels to look Cassius in the face.\n\n\"Yes to both of you. Here,\" Remmington says as she hands over an M.E. card to the driver. \"And here we go,\" Remmington exclaims, pointing with a nod of her head at the short, skinny, long-haired old man walking down the hallway toward them, limping on his left leg.\n\n\"Sorry it took me so long, but we had to relocate all the neighbors of this unit because of noise complaints. The music has been playing like this for days, but since you say he's dead,\" his voice cracks, \"he's not doing business here anymore, and I can let you into his property.\" Clearing his throat, the little old man continues, \"I'd appreciate it if you'd take care of the music, now that I'm not breaking business laws by entering or letting you folks in. Oh yeah!\" He starts to pull out seven key cards.\n\n\"Thank you for coming, Mr. Edgar. How are the knees?\" Cassius asks, while taking some of the key cards to begin working on opening the door.\n\nMr. Edgar answers once he has handed over the last key card, \"I have good days and bad ones.\" He pauses to consider the day, \"Today is one of the bad ones. Well, I'm going to go. Drop the cards off when you're done. Thanks\u2014and have fun with the music,\" Mr. Edgar says sarcastically before trailing off, mumbling something.\n\nCassius cracks the door and closes it again quickly. The heavy metal music's volume increases twofold when he breaks the seal of the door. Cassius says, \"Okay, when I open the door, we got to shut that crap off, or we're gonna go deaf. Agreed?\"\n\nThe others all nod their heads in agreement, and as soon as there is a break between songs, they race in to try to turn it off. Remmington finds the music computer first, sitting halfway into the room on a very messy desk. She tries to get around the locked screen, but is having no luck when the next song starts to play. She starts to yell something, but nobody can hear her over the excessive decibels filling the room.\n\nCassius is looking unsuccessfully at the utility panel across the room from the main door, trying to deduce which circuit would cut the power. Meanwhile, the driver walks to the oversized speakers and unplugs all of the cables from the back, one at a time. The last of the vibrations are still washing over the room as the cables dangle from the driver's triumphantly raised left hand.\n\n\"That's one way of doing it,\" Cassius drawls.\n\nRemmington adds, \"Yeah, it is, and now we know there's no damage to any of the evidence.\"\n\nWith the threat of hearing damage negated, the three of them start sifting through Mr. Colin's place. Remmington continues working on the pass code to look at the files on the deceased's computer. The other two move off into other rooms. Cassius peers into the closet next to the utility panel. The driver walks to the back of the place and tries one of the other four doors along the back wall.\n\nThe driver finds a basic restroom with a shower, a sink, and a toilet. The towel rack is halfway ripped out of the wall and has a medium-sized towel clinging to it for dear life. The floor is brown with grime or possibly a m\u00e9lange of dried bodily fluids. The light for the room flickers on as the slow sensor takes stock of the driver's entrance.\n\nAt least this time it doesn't smell, the driver thinks thankfully.\n\nCassius finds mostly clothing in the closet, two locked briefcases, and a mix of plastic and steel storage boxes. He pulls everything from the closet and lays it all out to inventory the items. It becomes clear that the clothing is an array of different uniforms of various security groups or tactical undergarments. So there's a lot of black.\n\nCassius picks the lock of one of the briefcases to reveal three firearms: two pistols and one rifle, broken down into easily assembled pieces. Two clips for each weapon, fully loaded, are strapped onto the lid of the briefcase. Under the weapons' supportive material are the holster for the pistols and a strap for the rifle.\n\nThe second briefcase is full of M.E. cards and some credit-loading equipment. Cassius calls out, \"Shit\u2014if Colin's got all this, then why all the odd jobs?\" He sits back with a sweep of his metallic arm, presenting his finds to the others. \"I mean, even if these cards are only half-loaded, he could still afford a better hole than this.\"\n\n\"Maybe he didn't know what he had,\" Remmington speculates. \"I just got into his computer, and it looks like some of the stuff he has listed here is unknown content.\" She scrolls further down the list, \"And others have listings, like the weapons. Hey! Are there any numbers on those cases?\"\n\nAs he searches the outsides of the cases, Cassius says, \"No, but this looks like a bar code on the handle.\"\n\n\"Well, he has lists of personal and business holdings, with some numbering system for each,\" Remmington tells them.\n\nThe driver comments, \"If the files aren't clear, it's going to take a while to catalogue all of this.\"\n\nThe lights that illuminate the gala are brighter than any in the night sky. They shine through the City so intensely that the driver's apartment glows even with its shades drawn. The driver waits anxiously for Remmington to show up at their doorstep. While looking in the fridge for the fifth time, deciding what to snack on, the driver hears the apartment's pager system go off. Engaging the intercom, the driver discovers that it is Ben who is at the other end.\n\n\"Hey! The Company lent me a luxury vehicle to ride to the event. I'm here to get you.\" Ben is quite energized.\n\n\"What about Remmie?\" the driver asks over the intercom.\n\n\"She's leaving from the office, because she's working the event and needs to put on her uniform before she gets there,\" Ben replies.\n\n\"Be right out,\" the driver says, grabbing a pistol and heading out the door while securing the firearm on their person. In the parking area, two floors up from the driver's floor, sits an incredibly elongated vehicle. A massive Red Inc. insignia is splayed across the side panels. A nervous Ben is scanning the area. He is obviously in overprotective brother mode.\n\nSliding into the vehicle, the driver notices that a few other people are wearing the same attire as Ben. They all wear light-colored manila slacks and matching shirts that have short, straight collars and button up along the left side of the wearer. The sleeves have the Red Inc. insignia where buttons should be. The driver notices there are no pockets of any kind, either in the pants or on the shirt.\n\nSitting between these corresponding outfits is a gorgeous woman who absolutely stands out, and not just because of the uniformed look of the others. Her royal-blue evening gown wraps around her toned, tanned body, and a pear-shaped red diamond pendant accentuates her swan neck. She flashes a smile, revealing brilliant white teeth and dimples on either side of her petite nose. Ben takes his seat next to her and conducts his introductions while the vehicle begins its journey to the event.\n\n\"Well,\" Ben says, nearly stammering, \"these four and myself all have received treatments.\" He indicates his compatriots by sweeping his open hand through the air.\n\nThe driver looks around, following Ben's hand, and notices that their eyes are distinguishable from normal humans'. The first subject to Ben's right has normal-looking eyes. The second subject, the only female, has violet eyes. Ben has those brilliant green ones. The fourth has red eyes. It looks like the Red Inc. insignia for the irises, the driver thinks. The fifth person has eyes with no pigment. It is almost as if they have a mirrored, polished look to them.\n\n\"Ahem,\" Ben clears his throat, \"and this lady here is my sister, the artist Utionary.\"\n\nThe former \"star\" turns to her brother with a scowl, her auburn hair swinging around her face. \"Please refrain from calling me that,\" she corrects. \"You know I'm retired. Just call me Alice, Ben.\" Alice then turns to the driver and extends a hand in greeting.\n\n\"Just to let you know, folks, we'll be arriving shortly,\" informs the vehicle operator. The five then don sunglasses as the finishing touch to their outfits, for they are to be on exhibit.\n\n\"Can you actually see in those things?\" the driver queries.\n\n\"You'll understand more when we get inside and begin our presentation,\" one of the men replies.\n\nThe driver is looking out the window at the crowd and can't tell which one of the passengers said this but thinks it was most likely the red-eyed one. The vehicle pulls into a procession and waits to unload its passengers.\n\nWhen the vehicle finally reaches the destination, the driver exits the vehicle and scans the area for possible threats. They then motion for Alice to come out. Alice gives her brother a hug and a peck on the cheek, wishes him luck, and steps out of the vehicle. The crowd held at bay cheers as she fully unfolds from the vehicle. Ben stays inside with the rest, as they are to be deposited at an employee entrance. The driver steps back and gives the former artist space, as she welcomes the mixed responses of screams and boos. It could be compared to a sports team arriving on the field, with cheers and jeers filling the air. This din only heightens the driver's sense of awareness.\n\nA large, crazed fan, or possibly a fanatic, tries to push his way through the crowd. The security detail is on him like a bolt of lightning. By the time the driver becomes aware of this man rushing toward their escort, the fan has already been tackled and hog-tied.\n\nBen didn't need me or anyone else to escort his sister, the driver thinks while moving Alice toward the building's lobby and greeting area.\n\nWalking up the stairs to the door, the driver sees one of the vehicles from the Civil Central Command making another pass around the event. At the door, Alice presents the pass for herself and the driver. Once inside, they see seven different lines of guests waiting to be scanned. Working the line second to the right end is Aly. The driver guides Alice toward Aly's line, because it happens to be the shortest at that moment.\n\n\"So does this mean that Ben is here?\" Aly asks the driver.\n\nAlice responds with her own question, \"You must be Aly? Hello, I'm Benjamin's sister, Alice.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. It's nice to finally meet you. I really hate your music. I gave you thirty credits,\" Aly concludes succinctly with a twinkle in her eye and an unmistakably warm, truly friendly smile.\n\nAlice looks pleased with this and says, while taking Aly's hand and shaking it, \"Thank you so much. Do you want any of that back? 'Cause I think I have an M.E. card in my handbag, here.\" Alice opens her bag up and starts to pull out an M.E. card.\n\nLifting her hands up, palms facing forward, and shaking her head, Aly interrupts. \"No, no. You earned it. Besides, I have gotten more than that out of Ben,\" she giggles, \"with the dinners he's bought me.\" Aly smiles and winks at Alice knowingly, causing the two of them to laugh at a secret known only to them.\n\nAfter their laughter dies down, Aly scans Alice first, getting a green light to enter. While she is scanning the driver, the alarm goes off, giving them a red light because of their sidearm. Aly quickly enters a code into the scanner, and the driver's reading turns from red to green. The driver nods thankfully to Aly; there are whispers about what just transpired as they move to join Alice again.\n\n\"So, did Ben ask you to take this so seriously, or do you always travel with a weapon?\" Alice asks. The back of her left hand is on her hip, holding her handbag, while her right removes a flute of some bubbling drink from a passing server's tray.\n\nThe driver picks up a glass as well but doesn't drink out of it and says, \"Ben asked me to keep you safe, and seeing as I would've been working security no matter what, I might as well be prepared.\"\n\n\"I see. Well, let's go mingle. I'm sure there'll be something interesting to see.\" Alice takes a sip of her drink. \"There are three different companies displaying products here tonight,\" Alice says, turning and waiting for the driver to walk next to her. \"This should be fun.\" She laughs as they move into the main mass of people.\n\nQuickly the driver observes how fame is an encumbrance and that Alice has to deal with its burden\u2014more so because of her beauty. The two of them never take more than one step before someone stops them to talk with Alice. Some people give the same kind of comments that Aly had about hating Alice's music, while still being very polite and excited to meet her. Others ask if she would be willing to do appearances for them. She's definitely a celebrity, the driver thinks. Most of the people pay no mind to the driver. Only the Council members engage the driver, yet they engage everyone, so as not to offend the host companies.\n\nPoliticians are always trying to kiss the babies, the driver ruminates as they stand by Alice, trying not to look too bored.\n\nForty-seven minutes into the event, people are still arriving, and the expositions aren't scheduled to start for another thirty minutes. The people in the crowd settle into comfortable conversations and act as if they could care less for anything more to happen. Alice and the driver find a spot to stand and let the crowd rotate around them, as they talk to a Dr. Logan Rea.\n\nDr. Logan Rea is not the tallest man, but by no means is he a short man. His light-brown, very well-groomed, medium-length full hair; his impressive brown eyes; and his solid body provide Dr. Rea with the raw material to hold the eye of any woman at the gala.\n\nDr. Rea had stopped working for Red Inc. just after Ben started the negotiations for his eyes. So Alice and Dr. Rea had met back then and are now talking about what they have been up to in the interim. This leaves the driver with limited opportunities to contribute to their conversation. Fortunately, Remmington finds them.\n\n\"Alice. You look amazing,\" Remmington says as they hug in greeting.\n\nSmiling, Alice says, \"Well, you're looking really good yourself. I could never look that good in that uniform, whereas you could totally pull off this dress,\" Alice laughs, making a sweeping motion with her hands across her own gown for emphasis. She continues, \"Remmie, this is Dr. Logan Rea. For a short time he was one of Ben's doctors, before he moved on to start working on\u2014genome mapping\u2014or DNA\u2014I'm sorry. I missed what you said you were doing with the DNA.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, that is because I never said what I was doing with it,\" Dr. Rea says with a little laugh.\n\nAlice scolds him with a girlish pout, \"Well, Logan, that's not fair! Withholding things and then leaving me to stand here drowning like that.\" The two of them laugh at some private joke that is laced into Alice's playful response. Remmington and the driver are both lost as to what the joke could have been.\n\n\"How is your day going?\" the driver turns to Remmington and asks, freeing Alice and Dr. Rea to continue their private joke without explanation.\n\n\"Well, I was late, and the Cap wasn't happy about that, because he gave me a ride,\" Remmington answers. \"But it turns out it was good we were late, 'cause as soon as we showed up, some crazed fan tried running for Alice,\" Remmington adds, gesturing toward the famed musician.\n\nThe driver asks, \"So you saw that? Was it you who took the guy down?\"\n\nLooking a bit disappointed and surprised, Remmington answers, \"No, the Cap totally took that guy down all by himself. I helped haul the guy away, but the Cap did it on his own. All I said was there! and he was on the guy in a blink of an eye. It's those long legs of his.\"\n\n\"Well, I wasn't always in charge, Remmie,\" the Cap's voice booms as he approaches the two of them from the side.\n\nRemmington leans into the driver and whispers, \"It's the damnedest thing! He's old, but he hears everything.\" The driver smiles knowingly.\n\n\"I did hold your position a long time ago,\" the Cap grins at Remmington. \"Alice, you look beautiful tonight. And Dr. Rea, I hope your presentation is as entertaining as the last one I saw of yours.\" He shakes the doctor's hand vigorously.\n\n\"I don't know about that; which presentation was it that you saw?\" Dr. Rea asks as the two men turn and continue their talk.\n\nThis leaves Alice to join the conversation with the driver and Remmington. The small talk continues until both the Cap and Remmington simultaneously stop talking in midsentence.\n\nThe gala's opulent dome is easy to see from the perch where the dark figure set up the S.Hi.T. rifle. The dark figure has one clip loaded and one ammo box full of belted rounds immersed in an oil. Setting up the angle took less time than the dark figure had allotted. Well, if the fool wishes to stand in the same place the whole night, who am I to fight my will? the dark figure pontificates as they load the clip into the rifle.\n\nThe dark figure fires the first round, just as it happened in the warehouse. The round\u2014the special round\u2014hits the window between the dark figure and their target, without breaking the pane. Instead, the round breaks apart when it hits and oozes its core contents onto the barrier. The encapsulated cargo transforms the window pane, essentially dissolving it into dust. Pleased with the alignment of the shot, the dark figure unloads the clip onto the same pane, hitting near the top so gravity will spread the core ooze. With the clip spent, the dark figure removes it and adjusts the receiver of the rifle to uptake the belted rounds.\n\n\"Remmie, I'll look into it. Someone may have opened a vent in the dome to prevent it from getting stuffy in here,\" Cap says, then turns and leaves to investigate the radio report that interrupted both of them in midsentence.\n\nAlice starts grilling Remmington, \"Remmie, what message did you just get?\"\n\nDoing her best to diffuse the stress in Alice's voice and the look on Dr. Rea's face, Remmington says with confidence, \"It's just as the Cap said. Someone opened a vent to let out some of this heat.\" She turns away quickly to hide her own doubts and begins scanning for discrepancies.\n\nThe adjustments finished, the dark figure looks right at the target through the scope, the glass eaten away by the acid-ooze rounds. While still sighting the target in the scope, they open the ammo box but stop before pulling the end of the belt out, in order to make one final adjustment to the scope. Still vigilantly keeping their target in the scope, the dark figure loads the belt with well-rehearsed actions.\n\nNot relieved by Remmington's reassurance, the four of them scan the perimeter walls to see if they can locate the vent controls. Distracted, they pay little attention to the Council member who has returned to hobnob with Alice again\u2014when Dr. Rea falls to the ground with a grunt and grabs at his abdomen.\n\nRemmington tackles the Council member, shielding his body with hers, and pulls her weapon once she has the Council member protected. Driver does the same with Alice. Dr. Rea screams with pain, but there is no blood on the ground and only a small discoloration on his shirt, which is making it difficult to tell whether he really has been shot. Everyone else starts to panic and move away, since there are five people on the floor for unknown reasons. While covering the Council member and Alice, Remmington and driver share looks of confusion.\n\nLooking at Remmington, then at Dr. Rea, who is screaming even louder, and back at Remmington, driver says, \"Is he hit? Either way, we need to get these two out of here!\" Driver scans the room, trying to determine the direction of the potential threat.\n\n\"I don't know. You get them out of here. I will che\u2014\" Remmington stops in midword, watching the doctor's clothing jump, as more rounds slam into his body. The subsequent rapid ballooning of Dr. Rea's body is unmistakable to driver.\n\n\"He's going to explode! Get back! move!\" driver shouts.\n\nScrambling away from Dr. Logan Rea, the four of them only get a few steps before he violently erupts, dispensing pieces of himself up to twenty feet into the crowd. Pieces of rib bone hit the people still within eight feet. The nearly silent explosion cannot be heard over the sounds of the fleeing crowd, and the people farthest away are calmed. All they can ascertain is that someone's screaming has ended. Hysteria ripples out from the epicenter as the crowd becomes aware of the gore that has spread from what used to be a person.\n\nRemmington and driver quickly check the Council member and Alice to find they are unhurt and relatively clean, because both of them were shielded by the two civil servants at the time of the bombardment. Remmington and driver are not as unscathed by the doctor's remnants.\n\n\"You have a bit...\" Alice gags a little. \"There's a bone in your pant leg, Remmie.\" She points at the bone fragment.\n\n\"No, that's actually in my leg. And you're bleeding from your neck,\" Remmington says to driver as she grabs a napkin to cover the cut in the back of driver's neck. Then Remmington seems to talk to herself, \"Tell Ben his sister is fine. We need to get everyone out of here before more shooting continues. So far, no one else has been shot. The collateral damage seems minimal; body parts from the victim have injured some of the guests.\"\n\nDriver guides the Council member and Alice towards a side wall and says, \"Let's make sure we are out of the line of fire.\"\n\nLimping along, Remmington asks, \"Are you sure this is the way the shots came from?\"\n\n\"What? We are going toward the shooter?!\" the Council member says in a panic and begins to struggle, attempting to travel in a different direction.\n\n\"No. We are not going in the wrong direction,\" driver responds to the Council member and then to Remmington, \"And, yes, this is the direction I determined from how the doctor's clothing was jumping.\" And if I was wrong, we would still be getting shot at.\n\nAlice grabs the other arm of the Council member to assist driver in keeping the group moving to safety.\n\nDriver reassures everyone as they reach the outside wall, \"The wall here will cut down on the angle of their shots and give us cover.\"\n\nTalking to herself again, Remmington says, \"Cass, do you have eyes on where the shots came from?... Cap, do we know which vent was opened?... Cass, try focusing on the west side; I repeat, west side.\"\n\n\"Was I right?\" driver asks over the pandemonium of the crowd.\n\n\"I have no idea. None of the vents are open. It's a better hunch than nothing,\" Remmington answers as she and driver stand guard over their charges.\n\nThe rifle jumps for the last time as the belt is fully spent; dark figure doesn't even check to see if the good doctor is going to expire or not. Instead, dark figure efficiently sanitizes the shooting area and is on the move by the time Cassius makes his first pass. Unlike at the caf\u00e9, dark figure leaves no personal physical evidence.\n\nNo need for them to start to see more of a pattern, dark figure surmises.\n\nRemmington, Ben, and driver sit in the Cap's office, waiting. All three of them wear heavy protection suits, with the protective face guards and helmets off. These black uniforms are made of overlapping scale-shaped plates of ballistic-resistant material that shine like the vehicles down in the launch center. The overlapping design of the suits gives protection from not only firearms but also stabbing and slashing weapons. The padding of these uniforms helps protect against concussive blasts. A down side to these uniforms is that the bulk makes the wearer less agile, and the padding can cause the occupant to overheat.\n\nFrom the side door next to the couch, the Cap walks in, waving them to remain seated as they start to stand, according to protocol.\n\nCap jumps right into it and preempts any questions by announcing, \"The Council is not pleased with this assassination.\" Cap rubs the back of his neck, \"But thank God you two were there to protect the one Council member and the high-value guest, your sister, Ben. If anyone else had been critically hurt or killed, I don't think I would still be standing here.\" He begins to pace slowly.\n\n\"Red Inc. is not calling for my removal or termination,\" Cap continues, \"but Dr. Rea's new employer is, and the third company at the gala is currently abstaining from any such request.\" He stops and faces the three squarely, \"As long as they withhold their option to remove me, I'll be here. Now it will be up to us to keep me here. 'Cause, let's face facts, if they walk me out, you guys could be out with me. To add more to this mound of shit, the Council has called into question the security preparations for the upcoming holiday. M.P. Day is the most important holiday to the Council; since this is the basis for their seat of power, they like everyone to embrace it fully. So, tell me what you have.\"\n\nDriver stands up, \"We should move to a conference room, so I can display some information and add in Cass and maybe Aly, too.\"\n\n\"Lead the way,\" Remmington says.\n\nAs they are all walking out, Ben asks, breathing a little hard and sweating, \"Cap, can we take off the heavy uniforms?\"\n\n\"Not until this assassin is taken down. My order for these uniforms stands,\" Cap barks at Ben's whining.\n\nThe conference room is an oval room with the ends cut off. There is a door in the middle of each of the two curved walls. The walls have maps and other graphics projected onto them, everywhere except where the doors are. The table in the middle of the room is an elongated trapezoid shape that seats eleven, so whoever presents can see every face with ease as they stand at the wider end.\n\nDriver takes this space as everyone enters the room. The Cap takes the far end of the table, sitting on the narrow end of the trapezoid, which is just wide enough for one person. Remmington walks around the table, while Ben sits at the closest seat and immediately starts to work on the tablet at that location, trying to lower the room temperature.\n\nDriver turns off all the existing graphics projected on the long walls and starts to bring up different graphics, then establishes a video conference link with Cassius and pulls up a blank video conference screen that is intended for Aly.\n\n\"We have learned who all of the five victims of the caf\u00e9 crash were. The two that the vehicle hit first and instantaneously killed worked directly with Dr. Logan Rea.\" The wall space behind driver has lists of events and names. As driver talks, each item shows up, and lines appear between names and events.\nEvents: Victims:\n\nCaf\u00e9 Crash Five people killed\n\nSDN Station Murder Gerry Colin\n\nGala Assassination Dr. Logan Rea\n\n\"This is possibly why their company is looking to have you removed, sir, since employees have been dropping, and they don't see all we're doing. Other than this fact, these deaths have no clear relations. Cassius has a theory for some other connections. Cass?\"\n\nCassius's screen switches places with the graphic of lists as he begins talking. \"It's possible Gerry Colin was killed 'cause one of the companies he worked for had consulted for the gala. Colin wasn't on the roster for security, but it's possible that he had access to a guest list as well as information on which areas were covered by specific security details.\"\n\nThe Cap interrupts, \"Are you all saying that there is no such thing as coincidences?\" They all turn their attention toward Cap. \"Do we have a killer with some kind of grudge or vendetta with this one company on our hands?\"\n\nRemmington takes over at this point. \"We have a number of different victims and only one lead on the aggressor in any of these cases: Simon O. Larsen. With the blackout and computer error, we are just now learning where Mr. Larsen was working. He worked as a janitor in a building that is being remodeled by one of Jos\u00e9 Palmer's construction companies. There hasn't been anyone at this building working on it for weeks, and the reasoning behind this absence is unclear. Council just gave us approval to search this building to see what evidence we can find.\"\n\nRemmington pauses as Aly appears in her screen. \"Hello, everyone. Sorry for being late,\" Aly hails.\n\n\"You've got perfect timing. I just finished. What've you got?\" Remmington responds.\n\nAly's screen is transferred to the main display, and she begins her report. \"I just found and finished processing what I believe is the shooting nest for the gala assassination. The scans put this spot at a 99.89% probability for being the place, based on the angle between Dr. Rea's body and the window. The only issue is that there is nothing here that can really prove that a S.Hi.T. rifle was used or who the shooter was.\"\n\n\"Who said anything about a S.Hi.T. rifle?\" the Cap asks with concern and interest in his voice.\n\nRemmington speaks up again, \"I was going to make that link. The connection comes from the evidence on Dr. Rea's body and the missing pane in the dome. Aly, would you please fill in what you found from these two areas for this scene?\"\n\n\"Sorry for jumping the gun, Remmie. There weren't any pieces from the missing window found, but in the scans of the gala floor, there were irregular levels of\u2014\"\n\nCap inquires for clarification, \"Back up. If the window is missing, how can there be no broken pieces? And why would the assassin need to remove the window pane before taking the shot? It seems to me that this was an excessively complicated murder.\"\n\nAly attempts to answer, \"It is probable that the window was eaten away to give the assassin a clear shot at Dr. Rea. After it was silently removed, the shooter would have ample time to change the type of ammunition used for the actual assassination. Collecting the remaining pieces of Dr. Rea and searching for nonbiological items showed an abnormal amount of a special type of oil. This oil is only used in a couple of places, and unless Dr. Rea had been drinking it, the oil had to be introduced into his body from the rounds that hit him. Rounds containing sodium would be stored in special oil so that they would not interact with the water in the air. Sodium is what caused Dr. Rea to expand and ultimately explode. In order to introduce that much sodium rapidly into a person, the rounds must have been belted.\n\n\"These two pieces of evidence, combined with the limited space constraints in the probable shooting nest, has led me to theorize that the weapon had to be a S.Hi.T. rifle. It's the only rifle that could shoot both a round to render the window pane ineffective and then rather quickly shoot belt-fed sodium rounds in such a confined space.\n\n\"Now, Jos\u00e9 Palmer is suspected of having a cache of the older model rifles, and with Remmington's input, I do believe he now has the improved S.Hi.T. rifle\u2014the older model couldn't handle belt feeding,\" Aly says to complete her report. She switches her screen with the first graphic screen again.\n\nDriver and Remmington sit down and look to Cap. Throughout the briefing he has been twisting the dark-gray band on his finger and is now in deep thought, still doing this as everyone waits for his thoughts and orders. A couple of times he removes the band, flips it over, and puts it back on again.\n\nFlipping the band and giving it a twist, the Cap says, \"Cass, have you tracked down all of the companies Mr. Colin worked for yet? We need to see if Jos\u00e9 has any more ties to his murder, 'cause what you have here is too weak to link Jos\u00e9 or his outfit to the Colin murder.\n\n\"Aly, I want you to find out everything you can about that oil. Who makes it, who uses it, and if there was any other way of it getting into Dr. Rea's body. And triple-check to make sure this oil was really part of his remains and not part of the scene or a contaminant or something like that.\n\n\"Ben, the Council has determined that you had nothing to do with the blackout. We would like you to start looking into rebuilding the graphics of the crash from the witnesses' reports. Seeing how the cleanup crew cleaned up the caf\u00e9 and vehicle before we could get back to redo the scans, you will have nothing else to go off of\u2014sorry. Aly, give him any help he might need with this, please. Ben, please try to focus on where the ACC was removed and where the operator of the vehicle got out.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Ben and Aly respond in unison.\n\nCap continues, \"As for you two, you have your orders from the Council to look into the life of Simon O. Larsen. I want to know everything about him ever since he got here and why we haven't gotten any flags for a missing person from his work yet. I don't care whose arms you have to twist\u2014just get it done. We're behind on whatever is going on here, and we are running out of time. This trail is getting cold.\"\n\nAs they pull their vehicle into the ground-level lot, driver and Remmington notice that Gamma Pharmaceutics' new sign is almost completely mounted on the side of the building\u2014except for a few missing letters. Many floors of the building are open to the outside environment, because they are still under construction. The lot is barren of any workers or vehicles. Other than a couple of construction lifts that look like they have not been moved in some time, there is nothing in the lot. The light of the noonday sun glints off the exposed steel and glass of the structure, almost blinding the two as they approach.\n\n\"Doesn't look like there are any arms here for us to twist,\" Remmington says with a smile.\n\nDriver smirks. \"Yeah, right.\"\n\n\"And you know what? No people means no trash to take out\u2014Simon must've had an easy time janitoring here,\" Remmington rolls her eyes as she says this.\n\nThe lowest level is enclosed, but none of the doors are locked. The two of them walk right in to see the information and front security desk without occupants behind it. Looking over the top of the desk, Remmington can see that the computers are on and unlocked.\n\n\"Weird,\" driver says as Remmington points to the screens and moves around the desk to get a better angle to read them.\n\n\"Gotta love the hired help,\" Remmington says playfully to driver.\n\nDriver walks away, calling over their shoulder, \"I'm going to check and see if anyone is in the restroom.\"\n\nRemmington answers back as she starts to work on the computer, \"Good idea. Don't forget to check them both.\"\n\nDriver checks not only the restrooms but also every door and pathway that is accessible without brute force. After picking a lock to a gate, driver gains access to a path to get back to Remmington without backtracking. Walking up behind Remmington unnoticed, they give her a bit of a scare. Remmington spins around, her weapon drawn and trained on driver.\n\n\"G2. How did you come from that way?\" She quickly points her weapon to the floor. \"I saw you on the monitors, but the computer says that gate is locked,\" Remmington huffs as she puts away her weapon.\n\nDriver gives her a bemused smile and says, \"I picked it so I didn't have to double back. What has you so jumpy? What if I was the guard to this place, or something?\" Driver's comments fall on deaf ears.\n\nRemmington refocuses her attention on the screens in front of her for a moment, before saying, \"Not all of the systems are up and running in this building.\" The screen has a graphic of what looks to be floor plans, but in a three-dimensional layout, with layers of floors transparent through other floors. As she touches the screen with her finger, she can move the view from layer to layer, in any direction, on any axis. She scrolls through the building and continues to explain her findings, \"The one system that is online is the body system\u2014the one used in case of a fire to see if someone is still alive. Well, the system shows there are some things in the building.\" Her emphasis on the word things is enough to pique driver's interest.\n\n\"Please clarify what you mean by 'some things'?\" driver asks suspiciously.\n\nRemmington taps on the screen to direct driver's attention to the red lights. Not being made any wiser by Remmington's gesture, driver looks at the screen, puzzled, and then back at Remington, as she turns quickly and walks to the lifts.\n\n\"I have no idea,\" she calls back and checks that her weapon is clear. \"The system lists them as organic heat signatures, and the video feed for the building isn't available.\" Driver moves quickly to catch up with her. She is still several paces ahead as she continues, \"I also found a shipping invoice for a bunch of weird stuff. I don't really know what it was, and I don't want to.\"\n\nThey continue their way to the lift; driver also checks that their weapon is clear. Remmington pushes the button to go up. A few moments pass by as they wait for the lift, before driver inquires, \"Which floor are we going to?\"\n\n\"The CEO's office. Mr. Carwrite is on the seventeenth floor, according to the building's manifest. Maybe we can find some more information there,\" Remmington replies as the lift doors open.\n\nStepping off the lift, driver begins to think of the different crime scenes. Why nurses? What could they have done to\u2014\n\nThis line of thinking is cut off as driver falls and plunges into deep darkness. The deadened thud of a corpse and the accompanying groan can be heard through the darkness. Driver lands on their back with a brief jolt of pain, staring at the hole they came through. Groaning from the hard landing, driver gets up and tries to make sense of what happened.\n\n\"Oy! You okay?\" Remmington asks from way above.\n\nDriver looks up to see Remmington peering over the open hole. \"Yeah, I broke my own fall,\" driver jokes back, while still trying to work out the stinging pain.\n\n\"What's down there? How did you do that?\" Remmington calls down. Driver can tell she is finding the event funny. \"Do I need to get some rope or come down there to help you?\" Remmington asks as she rustles through some stuff on the floor above.\n\nLooking around, driver responds, \"Dunno what is down here. I can't see much. There are no lights, but I should be able to find my way out of here. Maybe take some stairs if I can find 'em.\"\n\nStill trying to let their eyes adjust to the darkness, driver hears a snarling sound, somewhere in the blackness to the left. Driver spins in the darkness, pistol already drawn. Another growl joins the snarl.\n\nChrist, driver curses in their head. What a ruddy beautiful day\u2014\n\nThis thought is interrupted as one of the snarling things slams into them and passes back into the darkness. The body knocks driver far back from the hole and to the ground. As driver falls and hits the ground, their weapon discharges, sparking an explosion of pressurized gas tanks that blows out part of the outside wall. Fire ignites one of the creatures and some of the surrounding construction material. The hole in the exterior wall and the small flames illuminate the area around the now-burning, snarling thing.\n\n\"Remmie! Classification of 'things' is correct! Good job\u2014\" driver shares. G2!\n\nThe creature stands on four legs and is three feet tall at the front shoulders. The front shoulders are oversized and bulging with well-defined muscle. It has short, dark-brown to black fur and no real tail of any length. As it turns, driver notices that its face has a snub nose and plenty of mean-looking teeth. Definitely made for ripping and tearing flesh. It growls in obvious anger and pain at driver.\n\nDriver lifts their weapon and shoots the beast right before it charges at them, hitting it twice and dropping it dead.\n\n\"What the hell is going on down there?!\" Remmington yells in a concerned voice.\n\nBefore driver can answer or find the other creature, it slams into them again. This time the beast not only knocks driver to the ground but almost out of the hole from the explosion. If the beast hadn't landed on top of driver, they would have gone sailing sixteen floors to the ground. Instead, the concussive force of the beast landing on top of driver causes their weapon to take the sailing trip.\n\n\"Remmington!\" driver yells, trying to hold the beast's head away from biting theirs, thinking, This is one ugly giant pug dog!\n\nRemington hears driver's struggle outside the building and opens a nearby window to look down the side of the building.\n\n\"What the hell is that?\" Remmington exclaims as she looks down at the back of the giant pug's head.\n\n\"Does that really matter right now? It has me pinned, and I killed its friend.\" Driver struggles to stay out of its snapping jaws. The thrashing of the animal makes it hard to explain everything. \"I need your weapon. Aaaaa!\" driver yells in pain, as the animal starts to rake its hind legs across driver's body, ripping some of the protective scales off.\n\nDispensing with further questioning, Remmington pulls out her weapon and tries to line up the drop to the one free hand driver has. With no count, Remmington just says, \"Here,\" as she drops it to her partner. The weapon spins in the air, and the rotation of the spin causes it to pass driver's fingertips without touching. As the weapon passes into memory, both partners utter an audible groan.\n\n\"Remmie!\" driver screams up in frustration and desperation as the giant pug dog snarls and snaps ever closer and rips another scale off. Remmington quickly has her backup weapon in hand and drops it so it doesn't spin as it falls. As it lands solidly in the palm of driver's hand, they wrap their fingers around the grip. Just as the animal removes another scale and makes a large enough hole in the uniform to expose driver to an open attack, driver places the weapon up against the giant dog's head and pulls the trigger. From the force of the weapon being pushed up against its head and the following shot, it rolls dead off driver.\n\nContinuing with the recoil from the weapon, driver rolls in the opposite direction, ending up on all fours, looking out of the hole in the wall toward the ground. Breathing heavily, driver calls out, \"Nice drop. Thank you. We should go find our weapons before something else happens.\"\n\n\"Yeah, good idea. I'll meet you at the lift\u2014hey! Who's down there by the vehicle?\" Remmington asks as she looks past driver toward the ground. Driver also focuses on the movement below. Without another word, they both disappear into their respective openings and scramble to get back down to the ground level.\n\nEmerging from the lift, driver and Remmington can see the front of their vehicle and someone running away. The distance and speed of this individual make it difficult to discern any identifiers as to whom they are. The suspicious character then jumps into a different vehicle and takes off. Their vehicle's doors open as Remmington and driver run up to it and dive in. The other vehicle's lead is significant, but with the skill of driver and the power of their vehicle, they quickly start to close in on the suspect.\n\n\"Just give me a clean shot, and I'll have him,\" Remmington says as she starts to power up the disruptor.\n\nDriver glances at Remmington out of the corner of their eye and says, \"Don't worry, I'll get you close so you can hit her.\"\n\nRemmington pauses what she's doing with the disruptor to look at driver. She's about to debate the gender contradiction, when a warning message displays across the front window.\n\nwarning: foreign object detected. accelerant detected. vacate for safety.\n\nThe automated voice system calls out the warning to gain the occupants' attention. After flashing the warning twice, a schematic of the side profile of the vehicle appears, with the lower back highlighted red to indicate where the foreign objects are located.\n\n\"Remmie, just tag them! We don't have time,\" driver says, just as a rumbling sound is heard behind them.\n\nRemmington switches the controls to a tracking dart and as she shoots to tag the vehicle, the world flips end over end. Rockets with no warheads continue until their fuel is depleted. Luckily, driver is able to send their vehicle down a straight path between the buildings. After the third flip, the vehicle they are chasing is lost in the mess of traffic.\n\n\"He is in a foul mood.\"\n\n\"The CEO is up his ass about the other programs.\"\n\n\"Well, I hardly see why that is our fault. So many people have died working on that program.\"\n\n\"Killed. They were killed!\"\n\n\"Still, not our program. We are doing some good work here, and he just tried to rip my head off. He is such an asshole.\" The couple steps out of the small room. She buttons the last button on her yellow blouse, turns to him, and says, \"I will have to go back to his office now with my report. The one you're stepping on.\"\n\n\"Carol, it'll be all right. Here,\" he reassures her while picking up her report tablet and handing it to her.\n\nAs she takes the report, she puts her arms around his neck, giving him a quick kiss, and says, \"Will it be all right? I think it is all right now.\" She teases him with another quick kiss.\n\nThey quickly break apart, startled, as they hear another door down the hallway open up. They see one of the interns step out, pushing a closed, locked cart.\n\n\"Hello, Zenas,\" Carol calls out. Zenas is one of the three interns, easily identified by his rare platinum-blond hair. The status as an intern is made clear by the white lab coat and his young age.\n\nZenas ensures the door is closed behind him and turns to answer her greeting, \"Hello, Miss Tuttle and Mr. Risk. I will have the lab locked down before the end of the day, and it looks like everything is accounted for, so far.\"\n\nMr. Risk asks suspiciously, \"What are you talking about? Why is that lab being locked down?\"\n\nCarol ignores his questions and asks Zenas her own instead. \"Are you doing the lockdown by yourself? Where are the other two? I thought he gave all three of you the task of locking down that lab until they find out what happened this weekend with the break-in.\"\n\nStanding behind his cart, Zenas looks down at it and answers, sounding slightly hurt, \"Well, with the murder of Dr. Rea... Beth was involved with him and was very upset to be here. Nic took her out to try\u2014\" Zenas cuts off his own words.\n\n\"Dr. Rea was sleeping with her, as well?\" Carol remarks with shock and maybe a bit of jealousy.\n\nMr. Risk raises an eyebrow to Carol and says to Zenas, \"So, how does a weasel like Nic get a girl like that to agree to go out with him?\"\n\nZenas says, choking on his words, \"Nic... he's a nice guy.\"\n\nFinally collecting herself, Carol says, \"That's shit. Zenas, you're way better than Nic. He is a weasel\u2014he's such a smartass. I want to smack the crap out of him half the time.\"\n\n\"That's neither here nor there,\" Zenas responds in a monotone, his eyes cast downward. \"They're out, and I will have this done before I go home tonight. If you would please excuse me, I have a lot to do before I can start the lockdown. Thank you,\" Zenas says as he pushes the cart down the hall and around a corner.\n\n\"Poor guy has been trying to catch her eye from the day he got here, only to have the great doctor steal it. And now to have Nic get there to pick her up in her broken state,\" Mr. Risk comments as the two of them start walking down the hall together, away from Zenas.\n\n\"You know that I haven't been with Logan for years. It ended months before we started to see each other,\" Carol starts to explain in a panic.\n\nMr. Risk puts one finger on her lips and whispers, \"His loss has always been my gain.\" He kisses her and begins to lead her down the hallway again. \"So they are shutting down that lab? Are they shutting down that program, too? I thought the CEO would close down everything else other than that one. It's not like he has much time left to make his mark on this planet,\" Mr. Risk continues as if he's having a conversation with himself.\n\n\"Have you seen him lately? The last person I talked with who had seen him said he finally looked sick\u2014but that was months ago. It was just around the time he made the announcement to the company about the creation of this new project and told us how every asset was to be available to the new venture.\" Pausing for a moment to consider the timeline, Carol continues, \"Well, it wasn't really the creation of the project; it was just impossible for it to be kept secret any longer.\"\n\nMr. Risk slows to a stop, saying softly and with a far-off look, \"I wonder if I can get on it now...\"\n\n\"Why would you want to do something like that? That is just asking for something bad to happen to you,\" Carol scolds, extremely concerned.\n\nHe starts walking again and responds, \"They have been working on this program for a while, and no one knows what they are really doing. Do you? No, you are in charge of accounting, and they won't tell you anything.\" He concludes dismissively, \"Besides, who says that something bad would happen?\"\n\n\"Well...\" She begins by drawing a long breath. \"First, there were just the lab accidents that happened with the 'chemical spills.' Did you hear that William's wife left him because of what happened to him? And two others died from exposure, and then there were a couple of others hurt in some kind of construction incident. Now two nurses and Dr. Rea have been murdered. The project is as cursed as the holy land of Green Glass,\" she says, with a seriousness bordering on fearful reverence.\n\n\"I forgot about the others,\" Mr. Risk pushes past the negative, \"but I just want to do something more, and this could be an opportunity. I have been trying to get on this project from the start, but Logan blocked me. I almost quit the Green Sun Candy Company before they started this project.\"\n\n\"Well, it is a big company. You could have done something different, maybe something to get out from under Dr. Rea's influence.\" She fishes around for possibilities, \"I know he had nothing to do with the candy arm of this company. I mean, he came from Red Inc. What would he know about candy?\" Carol finds this conversation is becoming vexing, as she tries to improve her lover's darkening mood.\n\n\"Candy? Yes, because creating new, tantalizing flavors of candy is going to be a satisfactory use of my absurd skills,\" Mr. Risk answers sarcastically.\n\nCarol looks at him sternly. \"I'm serious, Carl,\" she says. \"You can be such an ass sometimes.\" She then quickens her pace until she is half a step ahead of him.\n\nAs she rounds the corner, Carl says, \"Oh, don't walk away mad!\"\n\nAlmost to the door of the manager's office, she turns to him again and says, \"I am not mad. We'll talk about this later; I've got to turn this report in.\"\n\n\"Carol, get your fucking ass in here!\" booms a voice from the office.\n\n\"Shit!\" she says under her breath.\n\n\"Wait!\" Carl cries, attempting to detain her. Suddenly, the door of the manager's office cracks open. The manager himself appears. He is a towering man, with a girth that nearly matches his gigantic height. His cheeks are normally puffy red, but when he is angry, his whole skull turns cherry.\n\n\"You can play doctor with Mr. Risk later! Now, get in here!\" he roars. Carol hurries into the office, leaving Carl with an apologetic glance. The manager follows, slamming the door shut and muttering loudly of Carol's uselessness. The massive blob of humanity then moves his way to his chair and throws himself onto it. A spike, triggered by the force of his mass, launches up through his corpulent ass and protrudes slightly from his colossal stomach. Blood splatters across the desk and Carol's face.\n\n\"Nyaaaaaaaaaa!\" she shrieks in the most ear-splitting pitch possible. But, as the manager was already dead, it didn't really matter.\n\nCarl, on the other hand, comes bursting through the door.\n\nAly is examining the chair on all fours. Remmington would have bent down next to her, but she is still wearing the heavy uniform. Instead, she gives the crime scene technician a soft kick in the butt, and says \"Bang.\"\n\nAly jumps. Remmington chuckles for a minute before getting down to business.\n\n\"Glad you could finally join the party,\" Aly says, flustered.\n\n\"You have any idea how hard it is to go to the bathroom in these damn things?\" Remmington counters. \"Now, what've we got?\"\n\nAly rocks back and kneels. \"Well, we have a pressure-triggered projectile,\" Aly begins, \"He's stuck to the chair\u2014I think. Ms. Tuttle already gave me her account.\" She then points to the doorway, where Carol, Carl, and driver are engaged in conversation regarding the crime scene. It is clear that all three can understand what Aly and Remmington are discussing, since Carol has stopped talking and is looking at them. \"I believe the trigger mechanism for this weapon required great force, achieved when the victim threw himself into the chair. The spike is four centimeters in diameter and forty-five centimeters in length.\"\n\n\"What about the entry wound?\" Remmington asks.\n\n\"The spike is lodged through the victim near the anus and is clearly protruding from there,\" Aly replies, making a gesture to the dead manager as if to say, \"See for yourself.\"\n\n\"Did I hear you right? The asshole now has two assholes?\" Carl calls out.\n\nThe corner office is bathed in red sunlight, subdued by the dark blue wall that seals off the office. The blue wallpaper meets the corners of the glass windows, which form the other two walls of the triangular room. Matching cabinets meet these corners with the blue wall. All along this singular enclosure of blue are scattered photos of Dr. Rea's accomplishments, events, and travels. In truth, the seemingly random placement of the photos correlates to notes from a symphony that Logan played as a child.\n\nAt the ninety-degree turn of the room sits a crescent-shaped desk, recently disturbed. In front of this desk sits a pair of ivory chairs; they are odd looking and oddly comfortable despite being made of an alloy. This comfort is derived from the fact that the chairs adjust to their occupants. However, Dr. Rea's black, synthetic leather chair, which normally sits behind the desk, is cavalierly tossed on its side.\n\n\"No wonder there aren't any clocks in the office,\" Nic mutters to himself as he opens the third drawer, which is filled with boxes of watches. Most of these are broken, as opposed to those in the first two drawers. They are not of the same quality as those he found in the first drawer. He continues his plundering, searching for M.E. cards or other valuables to take Beth out and, of course, the mythical key that he believes Rea had. After having worked on the project with the good doctor, Nic hypothesizes that Rea has interactive models stashed away somewhere, and that finding them in the absence of the doctor will give him a leg up in the company.\n\nIn the middle of his great hunt, the door to the office opens, and Zenas comes in. He sees his fellow intern rummaging through his late supervisor's desk. \"What are you doing, Nic?\" Zenas asks, full of suspicion.\n\nLike a prairie dog, Nic stands straight up. He flattens his multicolored tie and smoothes out his lab coat. He gestures to the disarray on the desk, and replies, \"I was just taking care of a few of the doctor's things. I was asked to retrieve them by... um...\" he fumbles his words, unsure of what to say next. He feels Zenas's gaze upon him. Nic moves around the desk and leans on the edge of it, trying to buy some time. \"By Beth,\" he says finally. \"Beth left a few things in here, when she and Rea were... you know,\" he says, making a lewd gesture with his hands. Zenas masks a look. Nic puts his hands down. \"Anyways, man, she asked me to collect 'em for her, and now I've finished.\"\n\n\"Good. Then we\u2014can get started on the lockdown,\" Zenas replies. He doesn't like hearing about Beth like that. In fact, he wants to take Nic's head, bash it into the desk, and tell him he's a fuckface. But not wanting Beth to hear about such an act, he refrains from expressing his inner thoughts. \"I hope you're ready to start,\" he chooses to say instead.\n\n\"Ah, yeah... About that,\" Nic replies, giving a small sigh, mostly of hidden joy and perverted pleasure. \"Look, Beth kinda wants her things ASAP, you know what I'm saying?\" Nic dances around an ivory chair and moves toward the door. \"And she's leaving early today, because she needs some time off.\"\n\n\"Oh... well, aren't you coming back?\" Zenas presses.\n\n\"Sadly, no. She wanted me to... well, she wants to go out with me tonight,\" Nic says. Zenas stiffens, and Nic takes secret delight in seeing it. He maintains his apologetic stance. \"I really dunno what to say, Zen. But, I guess... I guess she really looks to me as a good friend, right? I mean, I know she looks to you as one!\" Nic can't help himself; he feels he was born to torment people like this.\n\nZenas's look is pure envy and hatred, all rolled up into his frosty green eyes.\n\nNic continues his emotional sadism, \"But I s'pose... I s'pose she wanted me to comfort her this time, you know?\" And you gotta stay here while I make that girl cry for a new daddy! Nic thinks as Zenas's gaze shifts to the floor. The two of them stand silent for a moment. \"Zen?\" Nic asks. He can't tell if his colleague is going to hit him or do nothing.\n\nZenas's anger grows. Thoughts of Beth are the only things keeping him from lashing out. Soon, those thoughts have Nic involved in them, and he almost loses his control.\n\n\"Zenas?\" Nic asks a second time.\n\nZenas finally looks up. The anger has been controlled, and now he looks at his colleague with tired eyes. \"Y-yes,\" he stammers. \"Sorry. I was just thinking to myself. Um, I'm sorry\u2014what did you ask?\"\n\n\"I was wondering if you were...\"\n\n\"Yes, the lockdown. Well, it's against policy, but I suppose the higher-ups can let this one be overlooked. I'll\u2014take care of things,\" Zenas says, his heart breaking.\n\n\"You sure, man?\" Nic asks; inside he is rolling with laughter. Dumbass! Didn't you ever hear of nice guys finishing last?\n\nZenas looks at his colleague. \"Yes, Nic. It'll be all right. I can handle this,\" he replies, meaning more than just the current situation. It will be all right. Beth will soon see how silly it is to get involved with this fool. She must see this! Zenas attempts to console himself.\n\n\"Well, okay... G2, it's\u2014\" Nic says abruptly, looking at one of the watches swiped from Rea's desk, which reads 5:30. \"Shit, brother, I gotta run. Beth's clocking out now, and she needs to leave right away. You sure that you...?\"\n\n\"Don't worry, Nic. I have this,\" Zenas replies, a tad more gruffly than he expected. Nic recoils a little from the harsh tone, but regains his composure.\n\n\"Well, have a good time,\" Zenas says out loud, his tone icy.\n\n\"Yeah. Be seeing you, Zen,\" Nic replies, giving a half smile. As he steps out of the room, he thinks smugly, Sorry, fucker; this chick's mine!\n\nI hate you, Zenas thinks.\n\nZenas stands for a moment facing the setting sunlight. The cool purple of the passing clouds reinforces his emotional state, and the solitude of the abandoned office allows him to break down.\n\nNic and Beth find a seat in the red-walled restaurant, a small booth. He studies her features: curly brown hair, soft peach-colored lips, small nose, and gorgeous hazel eyes, with a hint of sadness in them. He continues scanning downward until his eyes reach her chest. Damn, girl\u2014you are something else, he thinks.\n\nWith a small smile on her face, Beth looks up at him from the napkin in her lap that she is absentmindedly folding and unfolding. Nic grins; his appearance is that of a hyena.\n\nThe atmosphere of the room is soothing; the lights are dimmed. Nic knows this girl needs the warm, comforting ambiance, if he is going to get anywhere with her. Most of the seats are high-backed, soft black booths, with tables and chairs covering most of the mahogany wood floors in the center of the room. The two of them scan the menu.\n\n\"See anything you like?\" he asks.\n\nBeth is silent for a moment. She glances through the menu again and then closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath.\n\n\"Well,\" she begins cautiously, and Nic gives her a look. \"I mean, it all looks good. But, Nic, how can you really afford any of this?\" she questions as she lays her menu on the table and withdraws her hands back into her lap.\n\nHe feigns looking hurt. Cut me some slack, honey. Your pal Rea is payin' for most of this. \"What? You think you're not worth a filet mignon?\" he jokes.\n\nBeth giggles a little, and replies, \"No, it's not that. It's just, the Company isn't really paying us much. You know, since Logan...\" She trails off, her eyes settling down to the tablecloth.\n\nShit, can't let this get away from me, Nic thinks as he takes her hand and squeezes it gently. She looks at him, her hazel eyes beginning to water.\n\n\"I know it's been tough,\" he says, trying to pacify her. \"Doc Rea was something else.\" And by something else, I mean he was the biggest putz I've ever known! Well, then again, there is Zenas... He refocuses on his prey and continues trying to cheer her up, \"But we've got to try and find some sort of peace, right? I think Doc R\u2014Logan\u2014would have wanted us to try to be positive, you know, like that one time that bacterium almost escaped?\"\n\nBeth giggles. \"You had some of its feces on your face!\" she says, referring to a ludicrous inside joke among the lab members. She begins to erupt in laughter, pure and sweet in tone. Nic now wears an abashed face, yet he is secretly pleased. It's a good ploy to use this story to distract her from Rea's lingering memory. So long as she isn't crying. Can't stand that shit.\n\n\"Yes, thanks for reminding me,\" he smiles playfully. They are both laughing now. After a moment they become quiet, and she is looking at him with a warm gaze. This is a good sign.\n\n\"Want some wine?\" he asks. She nods, and Nic orders a 200-year-old bottle, keeping its age hidden from his date. He assures his date's glass that it will never be half empty.\n\nG-squared! Extra strong, that'll do.\n\nThey leave the restaurant after three hours. It was incredibly expensive, almost unheard of, but with the M.E. cards Nic found in the deceased doctor's office, he was able to pay for most of it; the rest he left unpaid. Of course, by the time the restaurant found out, they were gone.\n\n\"Did you enjoy it? The meal, I mean,\" Nic asks as they stroll away.\n\nShe looks at Nic with semi-glazed orbs, \"Oh yeah! That was... good stuff. I'm warm. Nic, am I hot?\" she slurs as she puts the back of her hand up against her head.\n\nClearly, she is unable to coherently form a proper sentence without serious concentration. Nic panics a little, thinking he has overdone it on the liquid lubrication. He quickly formulates a plan for what he should do next, so as to keep her at a proper balance of inebriation. Like a python, he takes his arms and wraps her in close.\n\n\"I've got a brilliant idea,\" he says in a seductive tone. \"Why don't we go to a place that can match your hotness?\"\n\nBeth lets out a flattered giggle and nods her head in agreement.\n\nThe line at the Imp Club is its usual length, which works perfectly for Nic's plan. As soon as they get through the door, he is able to have a drink in hand. To try and converse in the club is nearly impossible, due to the owner wanting the volume cranked that night. The sweating, writhing mass of humanity seems to twitch like corpses being given electrical shocks at each pounding beat. Nic sees this opportunity and takes it, keeping Beth on the dance floor, and utilizing the sexual-bending dance style.\n\nWhile performing an advanced sexual-bending technique, Nic observes that the good doctor's watch is capable of glowing in the dark, and he is able to see what time it is. Realizing he doesn't want Beth to expire before he has conquered her, he figures now is the best time to escort her home. He leads her off the dance floor and walks her to the interns' floor of the Green Sun Candy Company apartments and straight to her domicile.\n\nBeth, intoxicated by both alcohol and promiscuous dancing, invites Nic forcefully into her bedroom.\n\nI am a god! Nic thinks.\n\nAs their throes of passion end, Nic dismounts and flops over to lie next to Beth. Their chests are heaving from the exertion.\n\nFrom above them in the darkness, a singsong voice says, \"Young love.\"\n\nDark figure drops down from the ceiling, wielding two daggers, driving them through the two lovers' abdomens and pinning them to their sex altar. Nic, in pure shock and panic, swings at dark figure, who quickly grasps his arm and spins a blade up into Nic's hand, securing it to the bed.\n\nThrough pain and fear, Beth cries, \"What do you want?\"\n\nDark figure leans in close, grasping the hilts of the blades piercing their stomachs. As dark figure twists and shatters the green blades into thousands of shards, a single word is uttered in response: \"Scream.\"\n\nAs dark figure departs, the two lovers oblige. Beth lasts only a little longer than Nic. Dark figure opens the front door, to be greeted by an open hand rushing toward the apartment.\n\n\"Beth!\" Zenas exclaims, surprised and hopeful to see the opening door.\n\nDark figure intercepts Zenas's left wrist with their right arm and snaps it with ease. Dark figure holds the wrist and steps in and smashes the left ankle with their right heel. Zenas's cries of resistance are not of pain\u2014that message hasn't reached his brain yet\u2014they are from the exertion of his attempts to reach Beth. Continuing the counterstrike, dark figure is able to dislocate the right knee by bringing up their leg. Now the pain arrives, and Zenas opens his mouth with a scream. Dark figure then catches Zenas as he crumples, grasping him by his jaw, and holds him up to examine his features. Gently they push Zenas, letting him fall on his back with a dull thud.\n\nImmediately, dark figure leaps up, pressing their back upon the ceiling, using it as a platform to increase their velocity, as they drive both of their knees into Zenas's exposed chest, delivering a blow severe enough to result in a flailed chest. Dark figure slides their legs into a straddle position, as they look into Zenas's panic-stricken face. Zenas struggles unsuccessfully to take in a breath. Dark figure can see him mouthing the name of the one he loves. They bring their face within an inch of Zenas's ear.\n\n\"Zenas, you'll be with her soon enough,\" they say in a placid tone.\n\nOn the thirty-ninth floor of a shared corporate residence building, Cassius towers over the big man who sits uneasily upright, as a med-tech examines and treats him for the injuries sustained in the attack. The man keeps holding the sides of his head, which delays the med-tech's progress in the examination.\n\nImpatiently, Cassius prods the med-tech, \"How much longer is this going to be? I need to ask him some questions.\"\n\nThe injured man answers, \"Go ahead and ask; I will do my best to answer. My head is still a little fuzzy.\" The man continues to hold his head. The med-tech just nods with approval as he continues to treat the man.\n\n\"Sir, what is your name and your relation to the victim?\" Cassius asks.\n\nTears well up in the man's eyes, as he answers, \"My name is Pallaton, Pallaton Klen. That is my wife in the other room and my daughter in the room down at the end of the hall.\"\n\n\"Your daughter? What daughter?\" Cassius asks, looking around for whoever failed to give him this information when he arrived.\n\nPallaton looks up at Cassius, \"Her room is the door on the left.\"\n\nThe med-tech speaks up, correcting the briefing he gave Cassius earlier, \"Sorry, sir. She appeared to be physically fit, so we removed her from the building, along with others that could be transported immediately.\"\n\nPallaton tries to stand up on shaky legs. \"My daughter is alive?\"\n\nCassius reaches out to support the big man and says, \"It would appear that she is, and you will be joined with her as soon as possible. But for right now, I need to ask you some more questions, and he needs to finish addressing your head wounds.\"\n\nSubmissively, yet very happily, Pallaton allows them to help him back to a sitting position and awaits the next question.\n\nMoving forward, Cassius asks, \"Mr. Klen, can you tell me what happened here?\"\n\nPallaton looks Cassius straight in the eye. \"I was coming home from the site. I'm a construction worker, see?\" he begins. \"I normally get home about this time of night, but we had finished about two hours early and couldn't do anymore work tonight. So they sent everyone home. I was expecting the lights to be off when I walked in, but the set of lights over the fireplace were dimly turned on,\" Pallaton gestures feebly and reaches back to soothe the growing pain in his head.\n\n\"Mr. Klen, where are the controls for those lights?\" Cassius asks, looking over at the fireplace and the mantel.\n\nPointing to two different switches on opposite sides of the room, \"There and there,\" Pallaton continues. \"The lights can be controlled from either one. As I said, the lights were on, which I thought was odd, until I heard a door close.\" The injured man casts his eyes to the floor in recollection, \"I thought it was my wife coming down the hall. So I sat right there,\" he points to a high-backed lounge chair, \"and I started to remove my work boots.\" He points to his left foot, still booted, and then to the right boot haphazardly flung in a corner. Looking at the knocked-over lounge chair and broken table, Pallaton is quiet.\n\n\"Please continue, sir,\" Cassius encourages.\n\nWith water welling in his eyes again, Pallaton looks Cassius in the face, \"The next part happened so fast I am not sure if I remember it correctly.\" He takes a deep breath, and his eyes quickly dart past Cassius and peer down the hall. \"I was taking off my boot, listening to the person coming down the hall, when it hit me that it was not my wife or my daughter. They had a different way of walking about them. When I realized this, I stood up, and I was trying to look into the dark hallway, but my night sight was messed up by the lights over the fireplace. They came at me so fast\u2014I never got a good look at them. They must have grabbed that floor lamp as they came out of the darkness. They spun and cracked me upside the head, knocking me out.\"\n\n\"That would be consistent with this injury on your head here,\" the med-tech comments.\n\nCassius interrupts before Pallaton can finish his account, \"Please hold on one second, Mr. Klen.\" Cassius turns away from Pallaton and the med-tech to focus on the radio.\n\nOn the other end of the radio is driver, saying, \"Cassius, what is the situation there? Remmie and I are still about ten minutes out.\"\n\n\"There aren't many interviews to conduct. It's looking like this place was hit hard. Most of the victims come from the thirty-seventh floor. They are still trying to figure out how to remove the toxin in the air without causing more deaths. Aly was lucky that when the elevator stopped and the doors opened they didn't rip a hole in the protective membrane used to contain the toxin to the thirty-seventh floor. We're lucky it was Aly, 'cause she knew better than to try and go past it without testing. She found a stairwell entrance with another membrane protecting the outside world, and she was able to discover the poison,\" Cassius quickly informs them.\n\n\"So, how many interviews are there to conduct?\" Remmington asks.\n\nCassius turns to look at Pallaton. \"As of right now, just the one I am in the middle of. You can listen in if you like.\"\n\n\"That might speed things up; we'll listen in until we get there,\" driver agrees.\n\n\"I am sorry for the interruption, Mr. Klen. I know you want to be done with this, so you can be reunited with your daughter. Where were you in your accounting\u2014the floor lamp, was it?\" Cassius prompts.\n\nPallaton nods his head and continues, \"Yes, that is right. They came out, grabbed the floor lamp, and spun around, hitting me in the head. That sent me into the chair, toppling it back to break the table here.\" He moves his hands slowly through the actions of the event. \"The next thing I can recall for sure is the med-tech here trying to wake me up.\" Turning to the med-tech, Pallaton asks, \"How did my wife die? Was it painful? Did she suffer?\" His inquiry comes almost as a whisper as he chokes back tears.\n\nThe med-tech screws his face up, unsure how to answer or even if he should. The med-tech is saved from answering when Aly enters the apartment and answers Pallaton's question in a matter-of-fact way, \"No, it doesn't appear your wife suffered at all. She was found lying in bed with no sign of a struggle.\"\n\n\"So was she killed like the people on thirty-seven?\" Pallaton asks the faces before him, still searching for clarity.\n\nAly continues, assuming the other two in the room don't know as much as she does at this point, \"The people who died on thirty-seven died a most painful death. To be honest, I am surprised that your wife is in the condition that she is in.\"\n\n\"Aly,\" Cassius cuts in, \"what are you doing here right now?\" His stern facial expression snaps her back to reality.\n\n\"I'm sorry. I need to collect... um, the evidence,\" Aly answers in realization that she may have said more than she should have.\n\nNot being fooled by the investigator's dodgy linguistics, Pallaton asks in a cold, dead tone, \"You are talking about my wife's body, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Um... there is also the object the killer left behind, and I have to sweep for anything the\u2014they\u2014may have touched,\" Aly stammers. She quickly turns to extricate herself from the awkwardness and to avoid any more of Pallaton's questions.\n\n\"What object was left behind?\" Remmington's voice asks from Cassius's headset.\n\n\"Good point. Aly, what object?\" Cassius asks.\n\nAly turns in a daze, still embarrassed by her faux pas. \"What did you just say?\" she manages to ask.\n\n\"What object, Aly?\" Cassius repeats, even slower than before.\n\n\"Well, the murderer had to touch the doors, um, possibly some of the bedding... well, um, her clothing and jewelry\u2014\" Aly begins, speaking somewhat sluggishly.\n\n\"Aly! What did the scumbag leave behind?\" Cassius says, now gently cupping her chin with his nonmetallic hand. This has the effect of calming Aly.\n\n\"Oh. Well, they left behind a unique dagger,\" she says lucidly. Cassius then lets go of her chin, and she continues. \"The blade is made completely out of green glass, with a very ornate handle, and it has religious symbols on it.\"\n\nPallaton speaks up, \"Was my wife killed with this dagger?\"\n\n\"No, it appears the dagger was just placed next to her body,\" Aly replies, \"with no blood on it. In fact, it was placed next to her in a fashion that made it look as if it were being...\" she pauses for a moment, \"presented to her.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, 'presented'?\" Cassius asks.\n\n\"I\u2014I don't know. It just looks that way when you look at the scans of the room,\" Aly responds, somewhat confused. \"Do you know how much that amount of unbroken green glass is worth?\"\n\n\"I\u2014I don't care about that! Look, I know you've got to take my wife's stuff from our room, but\u2014\" Pallaton vocalizes. \"Do\u2014do you think I can have my wife's necklace? For my daughter? It's an old family heirloom of hers.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, I need to\u2014\" Aly begins, but Cassius cuts her off.\n\n\"Aly, it's for his daughter! What's the big deal?\" he demands.\n\n\"Well, if anything, I suspect it was the one thing that the killer touched,\" Aly fires back.\n\n\"Why is that?\" both driver and Remmington shout in unison in Cassius's ear. The big man shakes his head with a bit of pain and a lot of annoyance. He repeats the question to Aly.\n\n\"That's because the necklace has the same religious markings as the knife,\" she replies. \"But I promise, sir, we'll get it back to you as soon as we've finished examining it. I'm sorry that I can't be of more help.\"\n\nThrough the radio, Remmington has Cassius ask, \"Sir, can you just tell us a little about your wife?\"\n\n\"She didn't practice the religion, if that's what you're asking,\" Pallaton responds. \"The necklace came from her great-great-grandparents.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, could you just tell us about your wife, not just her religious life? Start with\u2014I don't know\u2014who'd she work for? What'd she do?\" Cassius asks of his own volition.\n\nPallaton looks directly at him, and his eyes fill with a tired look. \"She was a security access manager. She made the badges for staff members at the Green Sun Candy Company,\" he says to Cassius.\n\n\"Did he just say 'Green Sun'?\" driver's voice asks.\n\nThe security guards walk into their changing room for shift change and begin to disperse to their private lockers.\n\n\"Hey, anyone seen the new guy? I thought he had finished his round and was going to be the first down here,\" the new guy's trainer, James, asks the general populace of guards.\n\n\"Did you lose another one again?\" the former new guy, Marco, ribs.\n\nJames answers, \"Hey, I didn't lose you. I ditched your ass. You smelled.\" James throws his used undershirt at Marco, hitting him in the back of the head.\n\nTemper sparked, Marco aggressively returns the sweat-covered undershirt and tries to smother the much larger James. Holding Marco's arm back at the wrist that held the undershirt and fighting for control over the remaining arm, James takes a step into Marco and forces Marco's center of balance out of line, knocking him into a fall. James holds Marco's one wrist, and, while plucking the undershirt from the wrist, he says, \"Now remember, little man!\" James leaves it at that, clearly protecting some private conversation he has shared with Marco.\n\nThis doesn't have a calming effect, and Marco begins to scramble to his feet, as one of the other guards yells out, \"Oy! Who the hell blocked the shower-room door? I can't get it open.\"\n\nJames flicks a non-existent left ring finger in Marco's face, as if to say \"don't mess with me,\" and then turns to join the rest of the guards, who are making their way over to the shower room. Message received by Marco, he remains seated on the floor. The frosted window is darkened, making it impossible to see what is preventing the door from opening. The guard in front is pushing on the door, unable to knock free the obstruction.\n\nJames places a hand on the man. \"Hold on. I think the showers are running. Maybe the new guy is just playing a joke. Here.\" James begins knocking on the door. There is no answer or response of any kind, just the sound of water running. James then puts his ear to the door and listens, trying to find out who is inside and whether they are coming to open the door.\n\n\"That is weird; the showers don't sound right,\" James says aloud to no one in particular.\n\nBack on the floor still, Marco calls out, \"What does that mean? Get a light, you ogre, and see if you can tell what's in front of the door.\"\n\n\"Good idea, troll. Someone get me\u2014thanks.\" James points the light into the shower room, revealing no more than a shadow or a line of something along the top of the window. Pointing the light at the bottom corner of door and door frame, James crouches to look for the blockage.\n\n\"What was that?\" the first guard to the shower asks.\n\nJames stands up and looks into the shower room to see a human figure now outlined clearly on the other side of the door. The shadow drifts out of the doorway. James starts to pound on the door and door frame with both his hands in fists. When there is no response, he begins to become enraged and hits the door harder.\n\n\"James!\" Marco suddenly yelps out but is silenced. James hits the door once more, causing the window to crack and a slow, undulating river of water to snake out from the crack. James turns to see what Marco wants, only to be met with the incongruity of seeing the front of Marco's bare chest, but the back of his head. Marco's head is turned completely in the wrong direction.\n\nThe water pressure turns the crack into a leak, spraying the back of James. He is unable to turn back to the door, as the window gives way to the water. When it shatters, the glass is followed by hundreds of gallons of water, forcing the big man to fall to his knees under the weight. The other guards are unable to stand as the water rushes past, taking them out at the ankles and causing most to fall flat on their faces.\n\nJames braces himself on all fours, until the body of the new guy flowing out of the window opening pushes him all the way to the floor. The water drains until the water line is equal to the bottom of the window line.\n\nHalf of James's face is submerged in the red-tinted water, as he starts to push the body off himself. Still running in the shower room, the water continues to flow, maintaining the window line level. The floor is slick, making it difficult to stand.\n\nRecovering to all fours, James can hear splashing, and thinks, What the hell? Get on your feet, guys. Quit splashing like a bunch of fish. The splashing subsides, and the water becomes redder and redder. Looking up, James sees that all of his fellow security guards are bleeding out from critical cuts of the major arteries and veins.\n\nConfused and shocked, James gets to his feet and realizes that all of them have expired. Still sitting upright with his head on backward is Marco. Standing on the bench behind Marco is dark figure, brandishing a curved blade in their left hand and staring into Marco's face. The point of the blade curves toward the ceiling so that the blood runs smoothly away from the point and pools at the hilt.\n\nJames doesn't move while looking at the bodies for a weapon. A couple of them have not changed, so they still have their sidearms. But all of the armed bodies are too far away to get to without alarming dark figure. James looks back at dark figure to see that they are still staring into Marco's face. Now they are flipping the blade, perhaps as a display to show how the weapon is well balanced, even though it is curved.\n\n\"I wouldn't,\" dark figure says in warning, without breaking their gaze.\n\nThis crazy fucker is trying to win a staring contest with a dead body, James thinks as he looks again at the closest weapon, which rests halfway out of its holster. That'll increase my chance of getting the weapon out and getting a shot off before this fucker can react, James strategizes.\n\nThe half-naked James dives for the weapon, acquiring it successfully, and pulls the trigger to hear a click. There is no round in the chamber. James does not panic; he efficiently chambers and fires a round at dark figure.\n\nHearing the click, dark figure remains motionless until the round is chambered. In a flurry of efficient motion, dark figure picks up Marco, using his body as a shield, and then, spinning off the bench, launches Marco headlong into James.\n\nJames fires three more rounds into Marco before they crash into each other. James drops the weapon and catches the force of Marco's body in order to stay upright. James holds Marco by one shoulder with his right hand and by a couple of ribs through a hole that the shots had made with his left hand.\n\nDark figure charges. James uses what he has as a shield. James lets go of Marco's shoulder and takes a well-placed swing, hitting dark figure in their left side. The blow does not faze dark figure, and in response, they cut into the Marco shield, whittling its mass down. James takes another swing, perceiving an opening, only to find empty space and receive a light cut across the back of his forearm.\n\nSwearing at the sting and at himself, James uses the awkward meat shield as a club. Dark figure parries the club with their blade. James smiles as the blade slides between the ribs up to the hilt. James violently twists Marco's whole body, wrenching the blade free from dark figure's hand.\n\nSurprised at James's strength, dark figure rounds a kick across James's open backside, pushing him up against the shower room door. James receives minor cuts from the leftover glass in the window frame. Then he quickly drops and rolls to his right, avoiding the following strike from dark figure.\n\nJames recovers from his roll, and now neither have weapons in their hands. Dark figure presses the attack with a left jab. James blocks the jab with his cut forearm, ignoring the extra pain that comes from having the cut struck. He dodges and blocks, retreating back and trying to find some dry ground. Dark figure doesn't tire as they continue to press James across the locker room expanse.\n\nFinally, James finds himself running out of space to retreat. The ground isn't dry here but is far better than in front of the shower room.\n\nJames makes his stand. Deflecting dark figure's swing of the left arm, pushing it far enough to make an opening, James strikes dark figure in the same spot where he had hit them before. James tries to hit the same spot but finds nothing but air again.\n\nThe two circle each other, sizing each other up, looking for an opening. James feints and drops his guard with his right arm, creating an enticing opening for dark figure to strike. Dark figure takes the bait and swings with their left fist. James catches the punch and sticks dark figure in the side of the face. Dark figure reverses the grapple of the captured arm. Dark figure lifts James's arm, exposing his armpit, and plants their foot deep into James's ribcage just below the shoulder. The force of this kick, in addition to the pulling on the arm, causes a sickening, sucking pop as James's arm is dislocated. Adding to the injury, dark figure swings the limp arm like a tetherball around James's body.\n\nJames grunts from the pain and brings his good arm up to try to block whatever attack is next. The next attack doesn't come. Dark figure takes a couple steps back. James takes the opportunity and risks moving closer to the exit, keeping an eye on dark figure, especially to see if they are going for a weapon. Dark figure does not move to stop James, nor do they move to get a weapon to make it easier to finish James off quickly. Dark figure just moves in a line parallel to James.\n\nThe two stand staring at one another. Then, in an explosion of power dark figure charges. James is ready for this, and even with only one arm, he feels he can handle the onslaught. The world slows in James's vision as he readies for the impact. He takes note of the water splashing up and how dark figure is preparing for a left swing or a tackling charge, and he makes plans for both attacks. The moment before the collision occurs, dark figure dives feet first between James's legs, sliding on their back. They grab James's ankles, pulling him down. Dark figure lets go of James's right ankle and uses the left ankle to pull themself around, twisting his ankle until it snaps, as they stand up. From here dark figure steps on either side of James's left knee. They lock their legs around his, twisting and falling back down until James's knee and hip pop.\n\nJames's face is submerged, and the shallow water mutes his screams. He turns his head to the side and is able to take a breath of half water and half air. Dark figure is no longer entangled with him, and James doesn't know where dark figure has gone until a hand grabs his head.\n\n\"Go ahead and do it already!\" James yells defiantly.\n\n\"I could have killed you at any point. You see this now. You fought well, and the fact that you are a Child of Pain makes me hesitant to kill you. That cult took your finger, and because they challenged me as God, I took your parents. It isn't your fault they fought God, so I bear no ill to you. In fact, many of your Brothers and Sisters of Pain have converted to my followers. I am tempted to offer you the same. So, what am I to do?\" dark figure preaches.\n\nJames is in so much shock he has trouble understanding what is being offered to him. The water is now reaching James's lower lip. James says nothing as he coughs on the bloody water.\n\nDark figure flips James onto his back, bringing a fresh tsunami of pain, and then towers over him, saying, \"I have to go finish something. You lie there, and if you are still alive when I get back, you can give me your answer.\"\n\nRetrieving their blade and a uniform, dark figure walks out of the locker room, shutting off the lights as they leave. James lies shattered in the dark, feeling the water level rise.\n\nDark figure puts on the uniform and walks into the lobby to find only two guards sitting behind the desk. Nice, no alarms yet. Well, let's see if we can change that, they think to themself as they begin to move into position behind the first guard, who stands up.\n\n\"Crap!\" the second guard exclaims, startled by dark figure looming over her companion's shoulder, just out of the first guard's reach.\n\nThe first guard spins around and says in surprise, \"G2!\" He is obviously unnerved by the encounter. \"What are you doing here? The CEO has requested all security to his floor. Something has happened at the company residence.\"\n\n\"I know. Additionally, the guards from the last shift are dead in the locker room.\" Dark figure looks them both over and smiles beatifically. \"All sorts of shit is fucked up now; you're kind of screwed,\" dark figure tells them.\n\n\"Wait\u2014what? Who are you?\" the first guard asks, as dark figure moves close between the two without elaboration. Their blade comes up under the protective plates of the standing guard, spilling his insides out. The female guard tries to pull her weapon and receives a backhand from dark figure, spinning her in her chair. She hits the alarm as she stops herself on the desk. Her partner has crumpled to the floor like a pile of dirty laundry.\n\n\"Thank you; that is what I wanted,\" dark figure says as they pull back the guard's head and slice her throat with the inside of the curved blade.\n\nThe silence of the lobby belies the terror that has just been unleashed. A single blinking light on the desk is the only indication that an alarm is screaming somewhere in the building. The only sounds around dark figure are droplets of blood falling on the desk and floor as the expired guard slumps in her chair.\n\nA panicked voice comes over the deceased guards' radios: \"All security personnel report to the CEO's floor immediately! This is not a drill!\"\n\nDark figure runs for the lifts to see five guards piling into one of them. Increasing their speed, dark figure reaches the lift just as the doors are closing. Flicking their wrist, dark figure slips a curved blade past the closing doors into the guard in the middle of the group.\n\nThe doors close and the lift starts. As the lift rises, dark figure forces the safety doors open with their bare hands and jumps up to the underside of the lift. Dangling from the bottom, dark figure moves to a corner. Hanging with just their right arm, they pull out a straight blade and drive it upward into the floor of the lift. The blade strikes true, as is proven by the feel of the blade hitting more than just the flooring.\n\nThe guards stop the lift and begin to perforate the area around the blade in the floor. After a few seconds they stop; none of the guards makes a sound, waiting to see or hear whether the target is hit.\n\nOver the radio comes, \"What is going on in there? What are you shooting at?\"\n\n\"Sir, we are under attack. One man is down and another is injured,\" a guard answers.\n\nThe voice on the radio answers back, \"I can see that. How many are attacking?\"\n\n\"Unclear, sir. I think we've taken care of this one,\" the guard reports with some trepidation.\n\n\"If they are taken out, then get up here and protect me,\" orders the CEO on the radio. \"The guards in the lobby are already gone, and I can't reach anyone from the last shift to back you up.\"\n\nThe guard starts the lift again. As soon as the lift moves, the lights in the lift go out, but the lift still rises. Dark figure silently opens the top hatch to the lift, dropping down onto the dead body of the first guard. Dark figure grabs the weapon hands of two of the guards in opposite corners, pressing the firearms against the other two guards and dropping those two guards as soon as the shots enter their bodies. Pulling the arms toward the middle, dark figure aligns the firearms with the face of each remaining guard. Only one guard fires, shooting their counterpart in the face. Dark figure lets go of this fallen guard's arm. They then force the remaining guard's weapon back into his face, helping him pull the trigger as the weapon kisses the front of his neck, right above the sternum.\n\nWith the lights out in the lift, the CEO can't see who is alive or dead on the security feed. The CEO orders, \"Open fire as soon as the lift stops.\"\n\nFrom the darkness of the lift comes the chilly, sarcastic voice, \"Because shooting God is a winning plan, you nihilist.\"\n\n\"Ignore them and fire!\" the CEO barks in panic.\n\nDark figure taunts, \"You fool\u2014you don't belong and never will. I will cut you down to size, little man.\"\n\nThe lift stops, and before the doors open the remaining guards open fire. They fire until their weapons are empty. As the doors open, the air becomes heavy with the smell of copper and a mist of red from the bodies of the dead guards. Slowly the guards move closer to see if the attacker is finished.\n\nTwo guards wade into the soup of bodies. \"I only count five bodies here. Whee\u2014\" is all one reports back, as the lift suddenly drops in a free fall. Hanging from the lift cable, dark figure shoots all the guards within the opening. The remaining guards down the hall return fire, ensuring their comrades in the opening do not survive.\n\nThe quick firefight ends as the guards once again have emptied their weapons. Slowly, the remaining guards move closer to investigate, reloading as they go. They open fire in the open space as they reach the killing zone where the first guards lie dead.\n\nAs the guards try to reload, dark figure opens another lift door to the guards' right and proceeds to open fire on the naked group of guards. Not a one is able to finish reloading before dark figure puts them down like rabid dogs.\n\n\"Do you see! Who do you think you are to challenge me?!\" dark figure bellows in rhyme, down the hall toward the CEO's office.\n\n\"What do you want? I have money, weapons, drugs\u2014anything. Just stop. I just want to live,\" the CEO pleads over the radio.\n\n\"I want none of those things, and you aren't looking just to live\u2014you are looking to be more. Like a God, perhaps?\" dark figure replies.\n\n\"More? What are you talking about?\" the CEO asks incredulously, still panicked and puzzled.\n\nDark figure stalks down the long hallway and kicks in the office door as they riddle the CEO, \"You don't know what it is to be me\u2014the drug that I am, the drug I will be, the pure ecstasy. Here, let me cook up some of me!\"\n\nDark figure kicks in the door. A shower of tempered glass greets them, as Driver crashes their vehicle backward into the office. Dark figure takes cover as Remmington jumps out and opens fire. Driver grabs the frantic CEO, who starts to struggle against this abduction. Remmington prevents dark figure from reentering the office, but driver knows that will not mean much if they don't get the CEO out quickly. Driver opens the back holding pods, and Remmington pauses her suppression fire to club the CEO with the butt of her weapon, knocking him out. Driver loads the body in the pod, pulls their sidearm, and adds to Remmington's fire. The two of them jump back into their vehicle and take off just as quickly as they had arrived.\n\nDark figure calmly stands up and walks into the office, watching their prize be whisked away. Losing sight of the vehicle, dark figure returns to the interior of the building.\n\n\"Sir, are you planning on doing 'business' on your busiest night?\" Matt Levingston asks.\n\nJos\u00e9 leans against the rail, watching the news report flash across the screen in the silent Imp Club. He runs his knuckles over the scruff on his neck. \"Yeah. I need to shave. How big's the crowd?\" he asks.\n\n\"Twice as big as last year is what we guess,\" Matt answers.\n\n\"Well, isn't that a problem...?\" Jos\u00e9 speaks slowly, struggling to convey his thoughts to his security, unsure of how to explain what he feels. \"Matt, we're going to have company tonight.\" He strides over to a chair, snaps his fingers, and beckons someone for a shave.\n\nBewildered, Matt says, \"Isn't that the point of opening up tonight?\"\n\n\"Well, Captain Obvious, it is, but those masses aren't who I'm talking about.\" Jos\u00e9's sarcasm is not lost on Matt. \"My friend will be showing up. I was hoping they'd have come before we open our doors. But, as you pointed out, we can't wait any longer.\" Jos\u00e9 leans back in his chair, awaiting his procedure.\n\nMatt calls into his radio, requesting the security detail to report in.\n\n\"You know, Matt, this is my favorite holiday,\" Jos\u00e9 says to the guard, as he closes his eyes while he gets his shave. \"You know why?\" He doesn't wait for a response. \"'Cause it's a joke! M.P. Day\u2014we celebrate a guy who unifies everyone, so that people like me shouldn't be in business. Yet here we are, sitting in my club, with more Green Glass than anyone would want or need. And why? 'Cause I sell weapons!\n\n\"Music!\" Jos\u00e9 calls out.\n\n\"Excuse me?\" Matt says.\n\n\"Well, this is a club. We do have music, right? I think we should be greeting our guests with something that seems fitting for the hypocrisy of the holiday.\"\n\n\"Oh. Do you have something in mind, sir?\" Matt inquires.\n\n\"Nah. Lemme see the playlist.\"\n\nHanding Jos\u00e9 the playlist tablet, Matt asks, \"Sir, do you have any instructions as to what we should do if your 'company' should show up in the middle of the party?\"\n\nJos\u00e9 cocks his head to the side, looking at the guard. \"Well, do you want to be burying bodies out in the desert tonight again?\" The stunned look on Matt's face pleases Jos\u00e9's sadistic side. \"Then shut the fuck UP and stay out of the way! Let them go where they want. And before you ask, they are coming tonight. Just let everyone know,\" he orders.\n\n\"Sir, do you want to revise your private guest list for up here, since your\u2014your friend is coming?\" Matt asks nervously, reflecting on the response to his last inquiry.\n\nJos\u00e9 ignores the question and wonders aloud, \"I wonder if they'll have my payment.\" Pondering, Jos\u00e9 then redirects the question to Matt, who is distracted by his earpiece. Annoyed by not having a response, Jos\u00e9 snaps, \"Matt!\"\n\n\"Sorry, Jos\u00e9. The Residency just radioed in. Someone just showed up, asking where you were at and leaving you a very large package,\" Matt says.\n\n\"Ask, and receive! Payment is here, boys! Let's party!\" Jos\u00e9 replies, raising his hands in the air with joy.\n\nThe crowd is thick as soon as Jos\u00e9 allows the club to open. The club is hot from the people on this unusually warm night, and Jos\u00e9 can no longer restrain himself from partaking in libation on his favorite holiday.\n\nUpon ordering and receiving his third drink, Jos\u00e9 is surprised, not at seeing dark figure but at seeing dark figure serving him his drink. Jos\u00e9 accepts his glass and bows his head. \"You want something to drink?\" he asks dark figure.\n\n\"No, Mickey my boy, I think you know I'm here for other reasons beyond celebrating Mr. Parks's holiday,\" they reply.\n\nThe guests that Jos\u00e9 has been talking to stare dumbly at dark figure, confused by their words. \"Who are you talking about?\" one of the women asks Jos\u00e9.\n\nJos\u00e9 ignores his guest's question and stands, waiting for dark figure to make their instructions known.\n\n\"Mickey, how rude! You have a young lady who is ignorant of this holiday's origin and its significance,\" dark figure says. Still baffled, Jos\u00e9 stands there, silent, mouth slightly agape, as he watches dark figure continue to engage the guests. \"So, you don't know who Mr. Mark Parks is?\" The young girl seems mystified by this peculiar person addressing her. They continue, \"After all, it is M.P. Day, the day that celebrates the formation of the Global Council! But I would imagine it to be difficult for you to know Mr. Parks\u2014or, as some of his friends, as well as his enemies, call him, 'Architect.'\" Dark figure takes a sip of Jos\u00e9's drink as if it is their own; Jos\u00e9 does not react.\n\n\"Architect?\" the female guest asks.\n\n\"Yes, the great designer of your society,\" dark figure responds. \"The birthplace and truth of all modern conspiracy theories.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, I think you misunderstood me. I was asking, who is Mickey?\" the girl says apologetically.\n\nUpon hearing this, Jos\u00e9 snaps out of his stupor, \"It's just a nickname that my friend here calls me by, and no one else.\" He is gruff and dismissive in his tone. \"Now, if you'll excuse us, we have some business.\" He then steps between the girl and dark figure, motioning dark figure to lead the way to a seating area elsewhere on the third floor. As they sit down, the two of them order drinks.\n\nDark figure jumps right into business. \"Your payment has been delivered, with a little extra for what I'm going to require you to do for me personally,\" they say. The hairs on the back of Jos\u00e9's neck stand. The dealer has physically done tasks for dark figure before, but never at their behest. Dark figure continues, \"You know that I am here on a task. But to complete that task, I need to have some obstacles cleared out of my way. To do this, I will require you to 'betray' me.\"\n\nThe blood drains from Jos\u00e9's face, and he drops his glass. He stands. Jos\u00e9 opens his mouth to protest, but dark figure quickly cuts him off. \"Mickey, you won't really be betraying me,\" dark figure says soothingly. \"It'll just look like you are to the rest of the world. Especially to the nonbelievers. Now sit down, order yourself another drink, and I will instruct you, so that you may deliver what I desire.\"\n\nJos\u00e9 complies with their demands, ordering two new drinks for himself.\n\n\"If you have not seen it on the news, Mickey, there has been an attempt on the life of the CEO at the Green Sun Candy Company.\" Dark figure smiles. \"Now, while I may have missed the opportunity, my trip was not futile. You see, I was able to destroy those heretics' laboratories.\" The smile fades and sternness washes over the conversation.\n\n\"What I require from you now is to go tell the ones\u2014who snaked the last thing I desire before I leave this city\u2014where to find me. By this point, you are a person of interest to them, and it's only a matter of time before they drag you in and start questioning you about me. And you don't want that, do you? How would you explain the five-foot piece of Green Glass you have sitting in your front foyer?\" Dark figure presents a smiling demeanor as they pause for this to sink in. \"No, I think it's best that you go to them. Tell them I forced you to steal those things for the time I've spent here. Also, tell them that you are fearful that I will now be coming after you.\n\n\"You don't have to tell them much. All you have to do, Mickey, is tell them where I am,\" dark figure finishes.\n\n\"W-what if they don't believe me?\" Jos\u00e9 stammers as he takes another drink.\n\n\"We'll get to that in a minute, Mickey. For now, you need to know where to send them,\" dark figure replies calmly. \"I'll be at the abandoned warehouse of that company that was shut down for poisoning the CEO of Red Inc. What was its name again?\" Jos\u00e9 begins to answer, but dark figure cuts him off abruptly, \"Not important. That's where I'll be. Do you know where that place is, Mickey?\" Jos\u00e9 nods his head, confident that even if he had forgotten the location of the place, he would make sure to find it. \"Did you enjoy your evening, Mickey?\" dark figure asks.\n\nAbsentmindedly, Jos\u00e9 replies, \"Yes, this is my favorite holiday.\"\n\n\"Well then, you should call Matt over,\" dark figure replies while driving a green blade into Jos\u00e9's side, missing all critical organs and breaking the blade off cleanly.\n\n\"There!\" dark figure says with pleasure, as Jos\u00e9 looks up, grunting in pain. \"That should be their proof that I will kill you. Matt!\" they call for the guard, gesturing to the panic-stricken Jos\u00e9 with open palm. \"You best get Mickey, my friend, to where he needs to be\u2014and if he should die, I'm coming to kill you.\"\n\nThe whole way over to Civil Central Command, Jos\u00e9 and Matt argue whether they should be traveling there or to a medical center. They continue to squabble as they enter the Plain Room of the Command complex.\n\n\"I got this, Matt!\" Jos\u00e9 yells, irritated. \"I gotta do this! This has to be done first! It's not that bad, it's\u2014aw, crap!\" he complains as the blood gushes around his hand, which is holding his knife wound.\n\nA different, but equally plain, greeter activates the security defense grid as the two men approach her. The now-transparent walls and ceiling reveal the hardware trained on them. The receptionist calls out the obligatory warning, \"Do not move! State your business.\" Both men halt.\n\n\"My business is information, so that I can get this\u2014\" Jos\u00e9 begins, and lifts his hand off his wound, causing blood to splatter across his hand and onto the floor\u2014\"taken care of.\"\n\nThe man in the gunner turret calls out to them over the intercom, \"There's someone on their way down to pick you up, Mr. Palmer.\" The room then fades back to its plain fa\u00e7ade.\n\n\"Can we move now?\" Matt asks loudly. The greeter waves them forward and stands there quietly, as Jos\u00e9's bleeding lessens. The door behind the greeter soon opens and reveals a very tall man. The Cap lets out a sigh.\n\n\"Mr. Palmer, why are you bleeding all over this nice woman's floor?\" he asks. \"You know what? Doesn't matter.\" Waving off his question, he approaches the bleeding and distressed Jos\u00e9. \"I've been looking to talk to you anyways. Have you scanned them, my dear?\" He shifts his attention to the young woman. She looks up at the plain ceiling, waiting for her partner in the gunner seat to report the information to her.\n\n\"Sir, they are clean,\" she finally confirms.\n\n\"And it's a good thing you are!\" Cap says. \"Otherwise, I would've had them shoot you. This way, gentlemen.\" The Cap wastes no time starting the interrogation as they traverse through the building. \"So why are you here, Jos\u00e9?\"\n\n\"I've information about the mass murders,\" Jos\u00e9 replies.\n\n\"You do?\" the Cap asks mockingly. \"What kind of information?\"\n\n\"The kind that can get you killed!\" Jos\u00e9 declares vehemently.\n\n\"Then you better get it out quickly, before you bleed to death,\" Cap responds, unimpressed with the theatrics. They reach a lift and the Cap stands back, holding the door for his two guests. He escorts them to the forty-fourth floor, the medical sector.\n\nCassius hits the door twice, with a force that bends the steel core far enough to shatter the wood covering and expose itself. Following the second strike, Cassius takes two steps past the doorway before Remmington enters next, to cover the right, and driver follows to cover the left. These two steps are needed for both of them to get in through the door fast enough, so that a second later they can call their quadrants clear one by one. After it is clear, they move two more steps, giving Ben enough space to come in and back them up. They move together as a unit, without saying anything other than the word \"clear\" each time a new pathway opens up and nothing is found.\n\nThey have not moved far into the building, when Cassius stops moving forward. His silver arm unexpectedly drops to his side, releasing his weapon and slamming into his normal leg, giving him a charley horse. He doesn't make a sound but he winces in fear as he tries to take a step with his silver leg, which stubbornly remains still. He is trying to move his normal leg when very soft whimpering starts behind him. All of them have stopped moving at this point. Driver and Remmington have been spreading out to cover their quadrants, and they now turn toward Cassius and Ben to see why they have stopped. They also investigate whether a shot caused Cassius to drop his weapon on the ground when his arm fell. It is now apparent that Ben is the one crying softly. He isn't looking at anyone in particular; it is as if he isn't looking at all. Driver signs to Remmington to fall in, so that they can find out what is going on. Remmington acknowledges with a sign of \"okay,\" and they both fall back to center around Cassius and Ben, covering their own backs. They reach Cassius at the same time, keeping their backs to him in order to cover him.\n\nRemmington is anxious and asks in a stressed tone, \"What's going on?\"\n\n\"Dammit! My limbs\u2014they aren't movin',\" he replies with frustration in his voice.\n\n\"Okay, okay; do you think we could get you to some cover?\" driver questions, scanning the perimeter for a defensible position to retreat.\n\nCassius jokes, \"Dunno\u2014without juice in these things, I weigh a ton.\"\n\nRemmington tries to call out on her radio to get some backup, but she gets nothing at all\u2014not even static. Her radio acts as if it has no power in its battery. Ben clears his throat. So driver falls back to a position between Ben and Cassius, in order to talk with Ben and yet still cover the left flank.\n\nDriver asks, \"Ben, are you all right?\"\n\n\"If my lights going out is all right, then I couldn't be better,\" Ben carps in response. At this time, Remmington falls back to driver's position, still covering the right side.\n\n\"Maybe the three of us can drag Cassius back to the door. It's not that far,\" Remmington says optimistically.\n\n\"Lights out!\" Ben responds in a little bit of a panic.\n\nDriver responds by placing Ben's left arm on their right shoulder, guiding Ben closer to Cassius, and reassures him, \"All you have to do is walk straight back, and all of us can help guide you out.\"\n\n\"All right, we have a plan!\" Cassius says.\n\nRemmington moves around to the front and slings Cassius's dropped weapon across her torso, giving him her secondary weapon, a hand pistol, as a replacement. Driver and Ben are standing behind Cassius, at the ready to help move him back toward the door. Ben is still holding driver's right shoulder, when a crack and flash of light from an elevated place in front of them hits Cassius in his silver arm, shredding it almost all the way off just below the shoulder. Remmington spins and opens fire before the second shot hits Cassius's silver leg, leaving nothing below the mid-thigh. Simultaneously, driver and Ben dive out of the way of the flying metal parts. Ben flattens himself as close to the floor as possible, as driver rolls into shooting position and returns fire. Cassius has fallen backward and lands in a sitting position, giving him the ability to open fire as well. Cassius has no pain, because his flesh is unscathed by the two shots. He is lighter, and this inspires him to think that as long as he isn't hit with another shot, he might cheat death again.\n\nWith the volley of shots from three weapons aimed at them, dark figure leaves the rifle where it lies and crawls back onto the catwalk. Dark figure is pleasantly surprised with how quickly and accurately this group responds to their aggressive help. Dark figure smiles, while rounding a corner that gives enough cover so they can stand up and make their exit.\n\nRemmington sees that once the shooter gains cover there will be no telling where they go, so she bolts after them, yelling back to the other three, \"Get out now, while you can!\" With Ben still grasping driver, the two of them are behind Cassius before Remmington is done giving the order.\n\n\"Go back her up,\" Cassius pleads to driver. \"With my leg and arm gone, Ben should be able to get me out, and I've got the eyes for him,\" he urges.\n\n\"She will need the help more than we will. go!\" Ben agrees, placing his right hand on Cassius and helping him up.\n\nDriver takes the spent weapon from Cassius and trades it for their own. Running after Remmington, driver reloads the weapon.\n\nDark figure assumes that they will not split up to come after them. No, they will help their wounded first and then come after me. That is their way.\n\nHowever, dark figure underestimates the group's dedication to their mission as a bullet whizzes past their head and ricochets off a few pipes. They turn to see Remmington, running with her arm straight out and firing her last few rounds. The shots barely miss, but only because she is running, and in response, dark figure dives through the nearest doorway.\n\nQuickly springing to their feet, dark figure finds an ambush site and coils into position.\n\nIt is a very short wait.\n\nRemmington breaches the room. Dark figure springs across the doorway and belts her across the face. Remmington spins as she is hit, and she collides with the floor. She lands sprawled on her back, with Cassius's rifle underneath her, propping her shoulders off the floor. Continuing their momentum, dark figure runs up the wall, flips, and lands with precision on Remmington's shoulders. A gut-wrenching crack fills the room, followed by murderous screams of pain, and then silence.\n\nA wicked grin pierces dark figure's face as they have a private thought and then walk off.\n\nBefore dark figure can exit the area, driver enters to find Remmington on the floor. Seeing dark figure, driver raises their pistol to open fire, only to have it jam. They drop the pistol and pull out their secondary, loaded with a single tracking round and nothing more. Driver fires the round, and it finds its target in dark figure's arm. Driver starts to give pursuit, when they hear labored breathing coming from Remmington. Driver stays, giving up the chase for the moment, knowing that it can wait, and gives medical attention until medics arrive.\n\nAfter they are found and Remmington is being cared for by professionals, driver makes their way back to the front, where Aly is already processing the scene.\n\n\"Come with me,\" she says, pulling driver by the arm.\n\n\"I need to go with my partner,\" driver protests.\n\n\"No! You need to see this,\" Aly responds and tugs them back into the building. Aly leads the way to a catwalk, where a S.Hi.T rifle and a tablet sit.\n\nAnnoyed, driver asks, \"What do I need to see here?\"\n\n\"This!\" Aly says enthusiastically as she picks up the tablet, which displays two recordings simultaneously. On the left, the display shows the backs of driver, Cassius, and Remmington before they enter the building, while on the right is the view from the scope of the rifle. As the recordings play, it becomes apparent that the left side is what Ben has seen.\n\n\"This is the weird part,\" Aly says, pointing to the right screen. It shows that the rifle was perfectly trained on Cassius's silver limbs each time it was fired.\" A bewildered expression flashes across driver's face as they turn to Aly.\n\n\"This is why you needed to see this. There was no attempt to target soft tissue,\" she explains as she draws driver's attention to the weapon itself. \"The rifle's fully loaded, which could've taken all of you out with ease.\"\n\nThe tomb-like darkness is interrupted by the faint glow of a small monitor lighting up the tiny room and the clicking of the ancient keyboard. Well below the bowels of the City, driver works at a backdoor node of the mainframe network of all computer systems, which gives them access to each and every computer linked into the mainframe. Even computers protected by the most robust levels of security, firewalls, and encryptions are laid bare to driver.\n\nDriver's review of Green Sun Candy Company personnel files expands into scouring the private trade and inventory reports of a variety of companies and compiling different news articles about technologies related to the trades. Strange events begin linking together, forming a complex web in driver's mind, when the tracing beacon embedded into the perpetrator comes back online with a single beep.\n\nDriver stops researching and holds their breath, waiting to see if what they heard is real or a phantom of exhaustion. After ten seconds, the beacon beeps again. They pick up the tracing indication interface and bolt for the surface and toward the City. With every meter closer to the surface and the waning light of the sun, the signal becomes stronger. By the time driver reaches the vehicle, the attenuation of the signal from all the material between driver and the surface has been eliminated, and the signal is strong enough to give them a direction of southeast to travel and an estimate of the distance. The beacon is well outside of the City operational boundary.\n\nThe signal was masked and only now shows up. They kicked the crap out of me and out of my team. Yep\u2014it's a trap.\n\nClimbing into the vehicle, driver loads the tracing indication interface into the vehicle's computer system. Heading toward the signal, they simultaneously work on removing the kill switch control so that they can travel outside of the operational boundary. By the time the boundary warning shows up on the front screen\u2014warning! this vehicle will not operate outside of the city limits. turn back now, or the vehicle's operations will shut down!\u2014driver has removed all outside influence on the vehicle, giving them full control of weapons systems and the freedom to travel outside of the boundary. They increase their speed as they cross the boundary. The recently vacant front screen now displays an ominous warning: unknown threat, which quickly reclassifies unknown as missile.\n\n\"G2,\" driver curses, attempting to jockey the vehicle out of a collision course. They are almost successful in this maneuver, but the lethality of the missile is discovered when it splits apart, revealing it to be a Spydertech missile.\n\n\"G2!\" driver curses aloud once more.\n\nRealization hits driver like a sledgehammer; they know that, at this range, escape is nigh impossible, and their demise is at hand. Yet, in this dark situation, a beacon of sunlight reflects off the fuselage of a missile failing to maintain the synergy of lethality. Driver observes this with some relief, as the missile vacates the upper left quadrant. They know this is the only chance of an escape. They take this chance and direct the vehicle through the opening. A wave of relief begins to pass over them, when a new volley of missiles appears, causing relief to turn back to dread. This time the missiles come from the rear and below. The onslaught forces driver to take the vehicle to a higher velocity and altitude with the intent to outrun.\n\nAs each missile runs out of propellant and self-detonates, driver only feels one of the concussive blasts. A small rain of shrapnel rakes the vehicle. With a deep breath, driver takes stock of the tracking beacon. Noting both the deviation from the required course and the lack of new missile threats, driver redirects the vehicle southward to intercept the beacon.\n\nFrustrated by these attempts on their life, driver pushes the vehicle to its limits, which, according to the vehicle manual, is ill-advised. To add to their vexation, another Spydertech materializes. This third assault is from the front, only slightly to the right of driver's vehicle.\n\nAs the missile deploys into multiple warheads and draws near\u2014far too close for driver's comfort\u2014another one of the warheads strays off course. An opening to the left forms after this errant missile veers and detonates, taking out another projectile. Driver makes a hard left and steers the vehicle through this hole, just barely clearing the wave of missiles. Off-course again, driver arcs the vehicle in a roll to the right, correcting the bearings. This maneuver orients the vehicle to the west. Driver throttles back and begins decreasing altitude in a long, smooth glide.\n\nClose to the horizon, the sun blazes brilliantly, obscuring driver's vision. While their sight contains dancing orange orbs, the missile warning comes on again. Unable to determine the display before them, due to the sun's brilliance, driver is dragooned into crashing the vehicle, threading between all of the missiles.\n\nThe vehicle inflicts more damage to the ancient pathway, shadowed by the skeletons of timeworn towers, than it sustains. As the dust settles, assisted by the breeze whistling through the rusted metal bones, driver can make out the darkened silhouette of the figure standing on top of these fallen bones.\n\n\"Like these buildings, which have not stood as long as me, so you shall crumble and be washed away,\" the figure calls down in a calm, confident, and condescending tone. Turning on their heels, they walk down the back of the building they are standing on, out of driver's sight. Over the ridge of the building, driver hears the figure's inflammatory echo, \"When this is all done, I will donate your shoulder blades to your partner.\"\n\nThe mere mention of their hospitalized partner, as well as being shot at multiple times with missiles, pushes driver to their breaking point. They rush up to the apex of the decrepit building, hoping to catch the figure. Suddenly, driver halts short of the peak. Despite being overcome with rage, driver has the clarity to discern that they have no idea what awaits them on the other side. Driver reaches into the belt of their heavy armor and pulls out a flash grenade. Pulling the pin, they throw it in the direction in which the figure disappeared. A bright flare ignites, and when it has settled, driver pulls their service pistol and rushes over.\n\nThe figure marches right back up the side after driver has thrown the flash grenade, surprising driver as they both reach the top at the same time. The figure, faster than driver and easily able to sight them, grapples with driver's weapon arm. The figure steps into driver and flips them over, away from their crashed vehicle and toward the figure's original direction of travel.\n\nDriver lands on their back, cushioned by the sand and rusty flakes that have accumulated over time. It is all around them, but it does not hold them where they fell. Driver slides down the back side of the building, picking up speed due to the near frictionless surface of their armor. Sliding feet-first down the embankment, driver digs their right heel into the loose sand, anchoring themself enough to spin around quickly. As they are about to open fire on the figure, driver crashes into a wall and slides down a sandy stairwell, losing their weapon in the process.\n\nDriver can see the opening they came through shrink in size and is only slowed twice by the landings in the stairs on the way down. Once at the bottom of the stairwell, driver slides another forty feet before coming to a stop.\n\nIn the dark, driver lies on their back, cursing to themself about what just happened and trying to figure out where they are. There is only enough light to see the openings like the one they just came down. With the distances between the lights, driver estimates that there could be almost a block between openings. Driver kicks their legs over their head and does a backward somersault to come upright with one knee on the ground still.\n\nYep, a subway. Well, at least it doesn't smell like one, driver thinks as they look around for the figure. In the dark subway, driver's eyes slowly adjust until they can make out where the tracks are. Driver realizes they had almost rolled over backward into the track pit. The pit is inky black, so dark that the bottom cannot be seen. The drop should have been only three feet or so, but driver is unsure.\n\nAs driver moves away from the edge and back toward the light from the nearby stairwell, there is a loud crash to the driver's right. Preparing for an attack, driver turns toward the sound and sees light emanating from the floor.\n\nCautious, driver walks over to the edge of a hole three meters in diameter. Dust obscures the view through the hole, but it is clear that something is moving at the bottom. Something about the size of a person.\n\nA piece of rebar launches up from the bottom of the hole and just misses driver's face; it harmlessly embeds into the ceiling of the subway. Driver reaches for their last two stun grenades and finds one missing. One is better than none, driver thinks as they pull the pin and drop it down the hole. The concussion from the blast causes the hole to crumble and widen, forcing driver to back up and lose sight of the figure, as more dust fills the air between them.\n\nDriver searches for a stairway that will bring them down to the unknown level that the figure had fallen to in the middle of their failed charge. At the end of the platform, driver finds a set of stairs that plunges into unknown labyrinthine tunnels. The evidence of steel gates has almost completely rusted away. Only two bars on one side and three on the other side of the double doorway are left. Driver slides through without contact, yet the two bars on the one side fall to the ground, landing with a soft clanging as a dust cloud of rust erupts.\n\nThe descent is nineteen stairs, and somehow it is even darker at the bottom. Driver is able to place their fingertips on each wall while standing in the middle of the passageway. The walls have breaks in the smooth surface about every fourteen inches, at irregular intervals when comparing one hand to the other. It isn't long before driver finds another passageway. Driver's fingers fall away from the walls as they stop in the crossing of two paths. The new passageway runs perpendicular to the current path. Driver reaches out in front of them to see if the current path continues. Their hands smack into a door that nearly falls off its hinges when they touch it.\n\nDriver steps forward and stumbles through the doorway, as they miss the first step down in the black. The handrail maintains its tenuous hold on the wall long enough for driver to regain their stance across two different steps, facing back up the way they had come. Driver hugs the wall to their left and turns around to face down the stairs. Situated, driver reaches out for the opposing wall and finds their hand touches nothing. Moving their arm around, driver realizes that they have found a hole in the wall. Driver submerges the arm deeper in the hole to find it is shallow and that there is something inside. The object is loose and is easily removed from the hole. Running their fingers over it, Driver receives a blinding light to the face as their thumb inadvertently presses the switch to the Nova Beam flashlight.\n\nTorch in hand and pointing the right direction, driver is able to move much quicker. These stairs and this passageway are much smaller than the first set but longer. At the bottom, driver finds themself in the middle of a crossroads, with seven ways to travel. Eight, counting the stairs. The paths are not of the same size nor are the walls down the paths made from the same material. About half look as if they have been cut by hand; they also look newer. On the floor, driver can see a random letter in front of each path, including the stairs, where they stand on top of the letter L. The letters are definitely the last thing added to this place. Each is cut away and stenciled in a different font.\n\n\"D, I, L, M, N, O, S, and T. Which way to go?\" driver says aloud. Cave-ins make it easy to eliminate the paths marked M, T, and I. None of the three paths goes more than twenty feet before the cave-ins are reached. Path D is missing its floor and has no visible way around or down. Turning around, driver tries the pathway marked N.\n\nThe N path is not a straight path. It meanders, with a slight downward slope to it. Driver notes that there is a bundle of cables running along the ceiling and recalls seeing similar bundling before in the other tunnels and one other type of place. Traveling down the path for a bit, driver estimates they have reached somewhere near the depth that the figure had fallen to. Turning a sharp corner, driver can see light around the next corner. Extinguishing the torch, driver moves as quickly and quietly as they can in the heavy armored uniform. The closer driver gets to the opening, the more information their senses can tell them about what lies beyond in the light. First there are the sounds of electricity humming and moving metal parts. Then the smell and heat. The smell is a mix of different chemicals and has a tangy taste.\n\nThe makeshift path does not open up into a huge factory or large open area, but into a well-lit and -kept hallway, with white walls and fluorescent lighting. Not at all what I expected. To the right, the hallway continues down for a while to other passages, and a door can be seen at the end. Immediately to the left is a pair of double doors with broken-out windows, from which the smells, heat, and noise emanate to assault driver's senses.\n\nOn the floor in front of the doors lies the broken glass from the windows; it's mixed with tacky blood. There is a trail of splatter that is easy to see against the white hallway. This is quite the obvious trail of bread crumbs. I wonder where the neon \"trap\" sign is. In intersections there is more blood, making it clear which way to go, and during long stretches there is no blood until another intersection is reached.\n\nThe path that driver follows twists and turns at every intersection, until the path comes to a doorway that looks strangely familiar, like one of the many doors driver has to pass through to get to their node beneath the bowels of the City. This door looks to be of heavy steel, with the section of wall around the door being steel, as well. In the top steel sill of the door, \"dnimtsol\" is gouged into the steel. Bloody handprints on the door handle encourage driver to pry the door open enough to fit through.\n\nDriver crosses the threshold of the door. Lying in wait, the figure throws a reverse roundhouse kick to driver's left side. Prepared for the ambush, driver catches the kick and redirects the power and momentum to slam the figure's backside into the steel door casing.\n\nThe impact causes driver to let go of the figure's leg. Driver presses their counterattack with a right jab, connecting with the figure's left chest. Then driver throws a left hook. The figure dodges by falling into a roll to their right side.\n\nThe roll places the figure up against the wall. Kicking off the wall, the figure shoots back and tackles driver in the abdomen. Rolling over the top of driver, the figure removes two pieces of the protective armor. One piece is the right under side, and the other is the left shoulder. Continuing, the figure uses their momentum to stop in a standing position.\n\nThe figure stomps at the center of driver's chest, but driver rolls clear before the heel of the figure can connect with anything other than the ground. Driver rolls four times to try to create enough space to get up. Driver is able to push themself onto all fours, when the figure charges, kicking driver in the side. The body armor absorbs most of the impact.\n\nDriver uses the force of the kick and pushes themself to their feet. Standing ready, the two face off. They begin to rotate in a clockwise direction, looking for an opening in each other's guard. Driver has their hands up by their face in fists, while the figure has their hands open and covering about mid-chest height.\n\nDriver swings with their left and then right. The figure dodges the first swing and redirects the second to go harmlessly wide. Driver is able to bring the first arm back in time to cover, leaving no opening for the figure to counter.\n\nDown the path the two continue, once again looking for the opening in the other's guard. The figure swings a couple of test jabs. Driver pulls back to dodge them. Driver aims a roundhouse kick low to the figure's right knee. The figure lifts their leg, taking the kick in the shin. As the figure steps down, they reach out and grab the left underside plate, pulling driver's unprotected right side into the figure's left knee while removing the armor plate.\n\nDriver gasps, winded, but they remain standing and back away. The figure throws down the armor plate they have retrieved and steps closer to deliver a side kick. Driver reacts instinctively and grabs the figure's foot with both hands. Driver holds the figure's foot and then pushes back in the opposite direction with their full force. With only the one leg beneath them, the figure falls backward and lands prone.\n\nNot recovered fully yet, driver backs up more instead of continuing. The figure kicks up on to their feet to see driver more than twenty feet away and moving back even farther. Sprinting to close the distance, the figure takes two steps on the wall, transitioning into a flying kick. Driver dives into a somersault headfirst toward the figure, kicking their right leg up and catching the figure in midflight with the backside of driver's leg and heel. This not only forces the figure to stop their direction of travel but reverses the figure's trajectory. Finishing the forward roll, driver slams their right leg down, with the figure attached.\n\nThe force of the figure hitting the floor creates a spiderweb of cracks. Driver sits up and folds their legs, ending up sitting on their knees on top of the figure. With a left-right combo, driver starts to knock the figure's head back and forth. The figure twists their head just enough to dodge the second swing from the left hand, causing driver to strike the ground. The pain from this missed strike is clear on driver's face, as they grab the figure by the hair with their left hand. Driver lifts the figure's head up to line it up for punches from their right arm.\n\nCrack. The figure slams their left knee into driver's back, breaking a smaller back armor plate and sending driver tumbling over the figure's head.\n\nThe two rise slowly, each obviously in pain and tired from battle, facing each other once again. The figure spits out a mouthful of blood and pulls their hair out of their face, while driver reaches back and removes the broken armor plate that is stabbing them in the back.\n\nBoth fully recover; they try to assess how much fight is left in their opponent. Their eyes meet. Controlled fury in driver's eyes meets the cold, calculating darkness in dark figure's eyes\u2014eyes that can pierce the soul and that will leave a person shattered. They are Death's eyes.\n\nSuddenly, dark figure drops their stance and stands upright, quiet for a moment. Driver almost lets their guard down, letting their arms drop a fraction of an inch, but then brings them right back up. Dark figure stands silent and lets a sadistic grin appear on their lips. They turn on their heels and walk a little way down the hall into another room to their right.\n\nThe door is unlike the other doors in this hallway. It has a resemblance to the crossways with the lettering on the floor. It is not part of the original layout of the facility. Driver cautiously looks and assesses that it is a circular, empty room. The walls are covered with mismatched steel panels; they have pipes of a similar style as the panels running in every direction along the walls.\n\nDriver rolls their head, cracking their neck, and gets ready for the ambush that they are sure is to come as soon as they cross into the room. Not a neon sign, but close enough. Driver walks willingly into the trap. Nothing happens. The room is not just a circle with about a fifty-foot diameter but a cylinder that rises all the way to the surface, nearly two hundred feet. For some inexplicable reason, it has been remodeled, but driver can tell that this was once a missile silo.\n\nThere is an echo of metal grinding against metal. Driver spins to find dark figure hanging from a pipe right above the door, about twenty feet off the ground. Dark figure still holds the same smile as before they walked away. The pipe dark figure hangs by slides an inch and echoes once more. Dark figure does a pull-up and drops their weight on the pipe again, but still hangs in the air. After the second time, the pipe comes free, and dark figure lands on the ground, with a good-size pipe about the size of a bo staff. Dark figure looks back at the doorway and, for the first time, looks disappointed and frustrated.\n\nDriver quickly follows the line of pipe that had not broken off. It connects to a makeshift portcullis that failed to lower. Dark figure intends to trap the two of them in this room.\n\nDispleased with this prospect, driver does the only thing they can do and charges the now-armed dark figure. The charge surprises dark figure, and they are slow to stop driver from grabbing the end of the pipe. They nearly break the pipe with the opposing forces applied; it is sent spinning out of both of their hands. Driver throws a right hook but is forced to block dark figure's double-sided attack toward driver's head. Driver blocks both arms at dark figure's wrists, keeping their arms wide. Dark figure drops their head and slams a headbutt into driver's upper sternum. Driver stumbles back three steps.\n\nDark figure closes the distance and throws a right hook. Driver blocks with their left arm and counterstrikes with the heel of an open right palm into dark figure's throat, nearly crushing dark figure's windpipe. In the same counterstrike, driver slips their right leg behind dark figure's leg and presses even harder, forcing them to fall to the ground.\n\nDriver continues to the doorway and turns to see dark figure holding themself up with the pipe they were once hanging from. Wheezing, dark figure stands upright and hurls the pipe at driver, missing by a hair. The pipe embeds in the wall, piercing a bundle of wires. Driver pulls the pipe from the wall.\n\nRed lights start flashing and horns blare. A soothing female voice broadcasts throughout: \"Perimeter breach. Facility destruction immanent. Four kilometers is the minimal distance required to be free of the blast.\"\n\n\"More like fourteen,\" dark figure laughs with a raspy voice. Driver uses the pipe to trip the gate mechanism to close it, as they turn and run back out into the hallway, trapping dark figure who had planned this for them both. Driver only looks back to see that the gate has closed fully and then runs as fast as they can back to the surface.\n\nThe disembodied voice continues to call out her warning without emotion. Driver knows there is not much time and they have a long way to go.\n\nOn reaching the intersection with the letters, driver hears the same female voice start a countdown: \"Two minutes.\" Impeded by nothing, driver makes it to their vehicle with twenty-one seconds left on the countdown. The takeoff is rough. Driver counts in their head, ten, nine, eight, seven... Driver's countdown is interrupted as the ground explodes and the fireball engulfs the vehicle. In less than two seconds, driver finally escapes the fireball and reaches a truly safe distance.\n\nMissiles, crashes, fire, and explosions have taken a toll on the vehicle, forcing driver to stop. Driver gets out to see the vehicle smoking but not on fire. Shaking their head in amazement, they turn to see the old city ablaze. Driver takes a deep breath, only to choke on the smell of burned flesh. Driver checks themself to see if they have been burned. The smell comes from the back of the vehicle. Driver peels away the body part that the heat melted there. The orientation of the hand and the thumb clearly identify the arm as the right. Driver examines the severed arm and notices that the underside of the arm near where the shoulder should be, which laid up against the vehicle, is unburned.\n\nDriver looks closely at the undamaged flesh and drops the arm in shock as they see the light-blue numbers tattooed there.\n\nRemmington's vision is blurry, and she is not sure at first who is standing at the foot of her bed. Bed? This isn't my bed, nor my place, Remmington thinks to herself. \"That's right, my arms,\" she groans in whispers, as some dull pain makes it past the drugs and she tries to adjust herself so she can see who is there.\n\nThe windows are covered and the door is closed, so the person by her bedside is a darkened form. Only a little light from outside of the room, mostly from the outside city lighting, makes its way in.\n\nIt becomes clear that it is her partner, as they begin to speak while they replace her medical tablet. \"I'm sorry this happened to you,\" gesturing to her broken shoulders, \"and I am sorry even more for what still must happen to you.\" The voice is familiar but cold. \"But before that, you will be rewarded for your pain and suffering with knowledge unlike any.\"\n\nIt will soon be finished, driver thinks to themself. The large lobby with the dome roof is an impressive place, inlaid with the company logo of the Green Sun Candy Company. Driver is the only non-security personnel in the lobby as they wait.\n\nThe contrast\u2014from the abundant surface light to the darkness, where their eyes strain in the faint emanations from the backdoor network node monitor\u2014is uncomfortable to driver. The irony to them is that the light of knowledge is gained here, in this dark place.\n\nThese words of apology kindle a small panic in Remmington, tempered only by the pain returning in her arms as she tries unsuccessfully to rub her eyes to help them focus more. A squeak of a word escapes her, \"What?\"\n\n\"Here,\" driver says, as they help her with a drink of water. Standing closer, they are no longer blurry. Remmington can see the damage and some of the pain that her partner has endured, but she is unsure of when or how. Remmington wonders, Did this happen at the warehouse? Maybe sometime after I passed out. Her private pondering is clear on her face.\n\n\"This didn't happen at the warehouse. I found them, and I have put an end to it all.\" Driver pauses, giving this time to sink in. \"There is a lot more than you know, and I want to tell you. Please don't interrupt me,\" driver gently pats Remington's hand, \"because you might hurt yourself, and I must tell you everything quickly.\"\n\nQuickly\u2014why quickly? Remington thinks. Her involuntary groans indicate she is in no mood for dialog anyway; she is perfectly content to just listen. I do hurt, so it's not like I want to say much anyway.\n\n\"I know why they attacked and killed so many of the employees of the Green Sun Candy Company. They had a goal, and they almost completed it,\" driver tells her while offering another little drink of water.\n\n\"Damn you, Architect! G2\u2014I hope you are rotting, wherever you are!\" driver curses, pushing themself back from the screen and dropping their head into their hands. Frustration is mounting, as driver searches for the key to understand how any of this is possible, let alone why they had been left in the dark about this revelation.\n\nSitting up abruptly, driver resolves to redouble their efforts\u2014when they pause to reflect on something they saw.\n\nThe lift chimes as it reaches the lobby. Three guards, armed to the teeth, step out. They block the line of sight of driver, but driver knows who is behind them. It is the person they wait for and the same person a few people outside are waiting for, as well.\n\nThe unit of three men has two more fall in to cover the flank of their package. The group walks to the middle of the lobby where they meet with driver.\n\n\"Oh, how nice it is to see you again. Can you help me out of this mess?\" the CEO asks with a warm smile from in between the guards standing in front of him. \"Am I in danger again from the person who attacked me in my office?\" the CEO quickly asks as the smile disappears from his face with the thought of that attack.\n\nDriver looks around the lobby, notes the spacing of the other security personnel, and asks cordially, \"Can these men move away so that we may talk privately?\"\n\n\"Their goal is not really understandable without knowing some history,\" driver tells Remmington as they start their narrative. \"Now, this history goes back to before the formation of the Global Union, the tragic event of Green Glass and the religious group linked to that event; it goes back to when antiques were nothing more than new items for sale. The time before year one E.E.\"\n\n\"Okay, go and check to see if we are clear for my vehicle to come pick us up,\" the CEO barks at his guards. He then informs driver, \"You have until then to say what you came here to say.\" As he finishes, he pulls a small inhaler out and takes three quick hits, looking dejectedly at driver.\n\nDriver takes a second to assess what causes the quick change in the CEO's demeanor. Not wholly confident of the reason, driver asks an easy question. \"How long do you have until your sickness fully consumes you?\"\n\nThe CEO's mood changes again when he displays an arrogant smile. \"Recently there have been some tragic setbacks, but I think I will be the first one in my bloodline to beat my sickness.\"\n\n\"So, why do you think these setbacks occurred?\" driver asks, confident of the answer.\n\n\"The setbacks? You are asking me the cause of the setbacks? You know the cause,\" the CEO responds exactly as driver has anticipated. \"A complete lack of protection by you and your department, and failure of leadership by your superior.\" The executive points his finger literally at driver, \"That is the cause of the setbacks. I've been searching my employee records, trying to find others that can replace the ones that you have failed to protect. As soon as this mess outside is resolved, they will be briefed into the project, and then they can complete it.\"\n\nThe callousness and quick reaction that the CEO takes to the mass murders of his employees is not completely surprising to driver. Driver asks, \"What do you think is the cause of the disturbance outside right now?\"\n\n\"It was the end of the era A.D., and the planet population was moving exponentially toward fifteen billion people. I know schools teach that this is just a theory, but it's a fact. There were many different governments: a couple of good ones, but most were terrible. None were perfect. The failings of the different governments aren't really important for you to understand what's happening here in this time. What is important is that these governments fought a lot with one another, in many different ways. Sometimes it was financially or politically, and sometimes there were physical wars. The latter caused them to focus on the surface of the planet and not the real danger to their government and their lives,\" driver tells Remmington as she sits quietly, looking puzzled and trying to understand why this history lesson is related to her being in this bed. Her eyelids flutter as a wave of pain stabs through her.\n\nDriver logs out of the node and waits for the sign-in screen to refresh itself. Taking a deep breath, driver thinks, I hope I'm not making a mistake by doing this. The node only asks for a log-in. Driver types D, N, I, M, T, S, O, L. The screen becomes dark, snuffing out the only light in the dark room.\n\n\"Crap,\" driver says.\n\nAfter a loud series of metal-on-metal clanging of doors locking, the screen comes back alive.\n\nThis is not an authorized node for you, Lost Mind. Are you Lost Mind? These words light the room from the monitor.\n\nConfident that lying at this point would be a bad idea, driver answers by typing \"no.\"\n\nSeeing how you are not this log-in, you will be asked some questions. Failure to answer satisfactorily will result in your demise. Do you understand?\n\nDriver enters, \"Yes.\"\n\nAre you an operative?\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Those few people outside are upset because the stock for Green Sun Candy Company is falling, which is acceptable right now because of the panic caused by the murders in the apartments. This drop is not a representation of the strength of the company,\" the CEO declares. \"People think this company is going to be left with no workers and have no future if we have to replace all of the talent lost with inexperienced personnel. So I've started a campaign to purchase back stock. This way, once the project is resumed and then completed, the Green Sun Candy Company will be the richest company and possibly the most powerful.\" A tight smile flickers across his face. \"Just a little inside knowledge for you to maybe... increase your position,\" the CEO shares, acting as if he has just given driver a great gift.\n\nDriver smiles politely, \"And what if the Green Sun Candy Company doesn't finish this project before your sickness finishes you?\"\n\nDisturbed by driver's continued questioning, the CEO's tone becomes edgy. \"As I told you before, I will be the first of my family to beat this sickness. I don't understand why you are taking such an interest in this project.\"\n\n\"Because this project is tied to things you don't understand,\" driver responds with the first hint of force.\n\nRemmington's thoughts drift back to the first part of what her partner has said, about rewarding her with knowledge. She hopes the puzzling history lesson isn't the reward for her pain, as it shoots across her shoulders again for no reason. She winces with the pain, fearing that moving or even breathing will cause it to increase in severity. While distracted by the pain, she misses part of whatever driver is explaining.\n\nSomething about superpower countries, I think? Whatever they are. I hope I didn't need to know that, she humors herself after the pain subsides again.\n\n\"Well, once a few of the superpowers had discovered this imminent global disaster, they embarked on some pretty strange and erratic behaviors, which drew attention from other nations. These lesser governments tried to understand the strange behaviors the superpowers were displaying. The tipping point was the mind-blowing amount spent in purchasing raw equipment and the huge amounts of land that these countries were putting aside. They even took steps to protect the secret from being discovered\u2014breaking treaties and destroying satellites that could have spied over the areas that were under very strict quarantines. Another clue was that the superpowers no long tried to stop world hunger or world atrocities, like genocide. It took some time, but all of the large and powerful countries eventually learned why the superpowers were acting so irresponsibly to their populations and to smaller allies. By this point, many countries had taken over land to procure the raw material they needed. Some had switched from democracies or republics to police states, in an attempt to make it easier to control the population. It didn't really matter; the planet had less than six months,\" driver states in a tone of indifference.\n\nDriver's tone has the desired effect, and the CEO takes a step back and starts to look for his closest protection detail.\n\nDriver takes a nonthreatening half step back from the CEO, inviting him, with palms out, to come back to the middle of the lobby floor. \"You are about to run out of friends. I will be the very last one you have.\" Driver folds their hands in front of themself, like a patient parent waiting for an unruly child to calm down. \"So please, come back over here,\" driver says, gesturing to the ground in front of them.\n\nCautiously, the CEO recovers the ground he just retreated from. \"So, why are you my last friend? That doesn't matter much anyway\u2014I will just buy friends once we complete the project,\" he says. Driver raises an eyebrow at the CEO and then looks back at the dark mass of a mob that has now gathered outside the lobby.\n\nPlease identify yourself, operative, the screen asks.\n\n\"the hated,\" driver enters in.\n\nOperative the hated, do you know the whereabouts of operative Lost Mind?\n\nThis is the line of questioning driver has feared. Driver hopes that identifying themself will unlock the system and doors. Driver knows that the nodes are protected from people trying to use the system, and now with the doors locked by the system, they understand why human skeletons are occasionally found at some nodes. The system locks anyone in for answering questions incorrectly. Incorrect answers are predetermined by the software program developed by Architect.\n\n\"Yes,\" driver answers. Driver hopes that this is satisfactory to the software, and by extension, to the designer, Architect.\n\nWere you given the operative's identity by freewill or torture?\n\nDriver knows why Architect asks this question; in fact, this question is a direct response to when driver gained the new operative name \"the hated\" and their current mission. Driver at one point had skillfully obtained the identities of different operatives and used them as they saw fit. Clearly this was before Architect had implemented this version of the program.\n\nExtrapolating the time frame for when this program was developed, driver confidently answers, \"Neither.\"\n\nYou have just given a response that must be explained further. Explain.\n\n\"Lost Mind failed to protect a node that they were assigned to,\" driver types in, sitting back and holding their breath, with the hope that they had not given Architect too much credit in programming the system to understand such an answer.\n\nTurning back to the CEO, driver answers, \"As strange as this might seem to you, I am less confident that you will have as much success buying friends as you are leading yourself to believe.\"\n\n\"Well, unless you are going to tell me that my attacker is going to kill me, I have no reason to believe that my confidence is false,\" the CEO says smugly.\n\nDriver says, \"No, I have already taken care of the attacker and have seen to the loose ends myself.\"\n\nTo the best of your knowledge/understanding, where is Lost Mind at this moment in time?\n\nHoping that the truth will be acceptable, driver enters, \"Most likely dead.\"\n\nWhat proof do you have that they are deceased?\n\n\"I have their right arm. It was removed from them by the force of an explosion.\"\n\nWere any other body parts recovered?\n\n\"No.\"\n\nAt what coordinates or location did this explosion occur?\n\n\"Southeast of this node, within five hundred kilometers.\" Driver absently adds, \"Just over the node that Lost Mind failed to protect.\"\n\nAfter typing this in, driver exclaims to themself, \"Crap, I might have just screwed myself!\"\n\nThere is no response or new question for a couple of minutes, leaving driver in the dark, literally. Eventually the screen posts: Your answers to the next questions are vital to your survival. Was Lost Mind's latest mission completed to satisfaction before the destruction of that node?\n\nDriver cannot fathom all the details of dark figure's mission, and with no other choice but to give some answer, driver gambles, \"Unable to answer.\"\n\nUnable for fear or for other reasons?\n\nThinking, Yep, this was definitely written by Architect, that bastard, driver types in: \"Reason of unknown parameters of Lost Mind's mission.\"\n\nThe screen goes black.\n\n\"The technology was severely lacking for what was needed to save everyone. So the only solution was to try to save the human race as a species, not in totality. Seeing that the planet wasn't going to be viable, spaceships were built,\" driver explains.\n\nRemmington coughs upon hearing this and thinks, Okay, I did miss something important.\n\nDriver looks her over and can see that the ramifications of what they are saying are finally sinking in. \"Remmie, are you okay? Do you need any more water?\" driver asks.\n\nRemmington gently shakes her head no.\n\n\"Okay, I will continue, then. The problem wasn't building ships big enough to house people and resources for long periods of time. The problem was that the ships couldn't travel fast enough to get to another planet that was suitable for sustaining life,\" driver explains dispassionately.\n\nUnsure of how much she's missed, Remmington finally speaks again. \"Wait, why did they have to leave? But we are still on the earth.\" These must be really good drugs.\n\n\"What loose ends?\" the CEO asks incredulously.\n\nDriver answers factually and without emotion, \"You don't belong. Your company went about buying a number of failed companies that were destroyed by massive numbers of deaths, and usually fire,\u2014collecting them in order to start this project that you think will save you. But as I said, you don't belong.\"\n\nA chill runs down the back of the CEO's neck when driver says this again. As he peers into driver's eyes for a long second, recognition and hope dawn in the CEO's eyes. Leaning in, the CEO asks, \"So it can be done, then? You have seen it work?\"\n\nDriver nods, adding, \"It has been done, but it can never be allowed to be repeated.\" Driver checks the growing crowd outside. \"This is why your employees were murdered and why all of those companies you bought were decimated and had to shut down.\" Looking back at the CEO, driver continues, \"If you hadn't been so focused on the possible life-saving properties of the treatment, you would have seen the pattern in the downfall of the remnants of the companies you were gobbling up.\"\n\n\"Pattern? You really think I didn't see the pattern? I just thought, since the last company was destroyed so long ago, nothing would be in my way, and I would have a shot at saving my life.\" He feels justified in his logic. \"And if what you're telling me is true, that the attacker or murderer has been taken care of, I will be able to save my life. That's all the loose ends, right?... Unless you are going to kill me now,\" the CEO adds, once again nervous about the possible danger that could come from driver.\n\n\"I don't want to kill you, nor do I need to kill you. Your sickness will do that. Well, that is, if the mob doesn't get in here first,\" driver says, pointing over their left shoulder to the growing masses outside the windows.\n\nDriver moves closer to Remmington, looking over her IV drip and making sure it is working correctly. \"It looks like you are getting the right amount of medicine.\" Remmington smiles faintly.\n\n\"The earth was going to get hit by a true planet-killing asteroid.\" Driver returns to the narrative. \"This wouldn't just wipe out life on the planet, it would split the planet into pieces. The superpowers tried to destroy it or break it apart, with plans akin to the stuff of movies. Mostly what they accomplished was to fire hundreds of nuclear warheads at it before they realized they couldn't break it apart or move it far enough out of the collision course.\"\n\nAstonished, Remmington no longer registers the pain from her arms. She is about to ask driver something when they continue, \"Remmie, I will tell you how the planet survived as best I can. But I don't fully understand all of the science behind how we are still standing on this rock. The key things to know are: we are still standing, and what happened all that time ago is why the world is the way it is now.\" This all seems cryptic to Remington, so she lies quietly and tries to stay focused on the major points of this saga unfolding before her.\n\n\"So the planet was going to be destroyed, and no other home planet was reachable within one lifetime for the spaceships that were being built. Secretly and quietly, the superpowers started to launch ships into space, first trying to set up bases on the moons of this solar system or the planet Mars. This effort was limited and was not a long-term solution, and it was agreed that this would still be the extinction of the human race. But humans are stubborn creatures. They had tried to set up five of these colonies before they had finished the first long-distance space traveling ship. They hoped these ships would be large enough to carry enough people and supplies for a few generations, so that humanity could make it to planets that they hoped would be new earths. The first two ships left on the same day and were sent in opposite directions for their long journeys. Amazingly, the superpowers were still able to keep these launches quiet somehow. Before they were ready to launch the next ships, one of the superpowers found a man with the solution that would allow people to live long enough so that there would be only one new generation or perhaps the original generation making it to the new earths.\"\n\nSitting in the dark, driver contemplates if there may be another way out of this tiny room. They start to move on their hands and knees, looking for some kind of opening to escape through. No, I can't get out of this vent\u2014it is just a three-inch pipe. I don't even know if this is a vent. I don't feel any air flowing from it. As with most thought processes, these are riddled with both enlightenment and doubt. It is too high on the wall to be a drain pipe; besides, that is under the chair. And nope, that is no bigger. I wonder if this is how the other bodies died down here\u2014by attrition. The density of the darkness weighs heavily on their eyes, almost to the point of being painful, as the eyes try to acquire light\u2014any light.\n\nFeeling the edge of the one and only door in the dark, driver all of a sudden sees that the room is once again lit by the green glow from the node.\n\nOn the screen is: Please stop crawling all over the floor. You will now be briefed on Lost Mind's mission, and then you will take over and complete their mission to satisfaction. Do you understand?\n\n\"Yes,\" driver enters as they sit back in the chair.\n\nLost Mind was given free range to do as they pleased, as long as they fulfilled one constant mission. Their mission directive: the Methuselah treatment must never be allowed to be repeated.\n\nDriver asks, \"What kind of free range?\"\n\nLost Mind operated and moved without fear of ever being cataloged by any computer system. Their DNA, fingerprints, and face, if ever captured, cause a specialty program hidden deep within the network to run, which scrubs the system that makes the identification. This is possible because all government and private computer systems are linked. Records show that Lost Mind was flagged not too long ago and required a blackout to cover up the scrubbing.\n\nThe current target is the Green Sun Candy Company. Lost Mind believed the CEO of the company is dying from a genetic disorder. Last report filed by Lost Mind states all employees and physical evidence of the Green Sun Candy Company's work on their new version of the Methuselah treatment has been purged.\n\nSpecial operational note states they believed they had to remove the local law enforcement due to their dedication to protect. Lost Mind was given authority to use extreme prejudice if needed to remove the obstacle of the law enforcement. Lost Mind ended the note with an addendum saying that was not necessary.\n\nAt this time, the only mission threat is the CEO of the Green Sun Candy Company. The hated, you will finish Lost Mind's mission and take it over from now on.\n\n\"Will I be given the same freedom as Lost Mind, or will I be contained still?\"\n\nContainment has been lifted, and your current mission is ended, as well.\n\nThe sounds of deadbolts drawing back echo through the darkness.\n\nYou will also no longer be the operative 'the hated'; your new operative ID will be Balance.\n\nThe mob outside, as if on cue, starts to beat on the windows, causing a crack to form, as driver drops their arm after pointing them out to the CEO. The security guards don't move and are focusing on the words coming through their earpieces.\n\n\"What is going on?\" the CEO asks, panic rising in his voice.\n\nDriver calmly answers, \"Remember, I am your only friend right now. You no longer have any money or even a company to run. The Green Sun Candy Company has just fired everyone, and all of its assets are gone\u2014due to a 'computer error.'\" Driver walks behind the executive while continuing to explain. \"Those people out there have lost everything, and your name is attached to the reason they have nothing.\" Driver leans into the man's ear from behind, just to make sure he attends to the words, and continues, with a hint of amusement in their voice, \"I think they want your blood.\" The CEO stiffens. Driver continues to walk around the CEO until they are in front of him, facing the crowd outside. \"This 'computer error' first transferred all the employees' personal assets to you, and then you lost all the assets, but they don't know that part. They just know you have all of their credits.\" Driver turns to face the CEO. \"Oh, and just to make it interesting, you have sent a letter to them all stating that you don't think very much of them.\"\n\nWide-eyed and with dropped jaw, the CEO looks at driver. \"How could this be done?\"\n\n\"I did this to your company, so that your project will never be completed and to ensure you'll have no credibility to ever restart it,\" driver answers in a cold, level tone. Folding their hands together, they wait for a reaction from the CEO.\n\n\"You? How are you my friend, if you've done this to me?\" the CEO demands, outraged, looking very nervously around the room and noting the security guards' growing confusion.\n\nDriver takes a deep breath and suggests, \"Simple: you might be able to get away if you walk out that side door,\" driver looks toward the door but does not point, so as not to alert the guards or the howling mob to the proffered avenue of escape. \"Get into the vehicle that's waiting for you, and drive yourself to another city before that glass breaks.\" Driver looks back at the pressing crowd again.\n\nStill dumbfounded, the CEO stands there, looking back and forth from driver to the side door and then at the glass and back to driver. Crash! The massive glass windows of the lobby explode inward as the mob presses forward to achieve its desire. The CEO starts to run for the side door, yelling once again at driver, \"How are you my friend?\"\n\nAs the CEO reaches the side door, driver calls out loud enough to be audible over the mob, \"I didn't just kill you.\"\n\nThe mob, with murder in its eyes, rushes past driver and the guards, who make no effort to intervene.\n\n\"The treatment was given to all the people who were selected to go on the remaining ships.\" Driver walks to the window. They look out at the city, at the lights pushing back the oppressive, dark night. Finding comfort in the darkness, driver feels that it is a good setting to share secrets, so they continue. \"The treatment has had a couple of different names, but the effect is still the same. Those who were treated no longer aged or, well, didn't age as fast, depending on how well the treatment took.\" Driver stretches to release some of the fatigue of the recent battle. As they mindlessly watch others outside the room, an old phrase pops into their head: \"Ignorance is bliss.\"\n\n\"At this point, we call ourselves Methuselahs.\" Driver turns to Remmington and waits for it to register.\n\nRemmington fires off in rapid succession, \"You have had this treatment? You are a Methuselah? How old are you?\"\n\nDriver smiles, \"I told you that you would be rewarded with knowledge.\" Driver avoids a direct answer and decides to give Remington more information first. \"The last ship that was going to leave before the planet was destroyed was compromised. The general public found out and destroyed the ship before we could board and launch.\" Driver walks back to Remington's bedside. \"Consequently, a population of Methuselahs was stranded here on the planet for what was going to be the end.\"\n\nRemmington interrupts with one burning question: \"How old are you really?\"\n\nDriver looks away, avoiding eye contact, while trying to think of an answer that won't terrify her. \"Older than I'd ever intended. And yet,\" driver begins, \"not old enough to do all the things I thought I'd do...\" Their voice trails off as they inwardly contemplate this revelation. \"Remmie, I could try to explain what my age is, but the significance of it will not be clear unless I share more of the hidden history with you first. Understand?\"\n\nRemington nods without a sound.\n\n\"The planet didn't end, because all of the nukes did more than anyone had known. The small trajectory deflection from the nukes positioned the two objects to ricochet like two pool balls that just barely touch one another, moving the earth's orbit and changing the length of a year. Not by much, mind you, but enough to make it look as if the planet were gone when the ships that had left tried to look back and see what had happened to their home. To add to this illusion of complete annihilation, the radiation from the nukes energized the higher atmosphere, so radio signals failed to permeate out from the surface or penetrate down from space. If the ships did discover it, the earth would have looked like a giant dead rock. The radiation was not enough to cause harm to the life that was able to survive the impact; there wasn't that much life, but it was enough to rebuild.\"\n\nThe two of them sit quietly until Remmington starts to ask her question again. Driver preemptively answers, \"I don't know how to tell you how old I am.\" Driver laughs. They know Remmington is not going to give up. \"I can tell you I'm over seven hundred years old at this time.\" Remmington's mouth hangs agape in astonishment. \"There were years\u2014possibly decades\u2014before people attempted to form a civilized society. As new governments were formed, the survivors inevitably tried to model the old ones. The quickest groups to gain power were religions.\" Driver begins to pace the room. \"Confusingly, it was a group of secularists and atheists who collected leftover nuclear warheads and set them off in the holy lands of major religions. The intense heat from the warheads over the sand created the Green Glass Zone.\" Driver flings their arm toward the window to indicate someplace beyond the room. \"The fanatical fear and hate of these secularists and atheists almost ended life on the planet for a second time.\" Driver looks down, away from Remmington, their thoughts recalling many things never to be shared with her. \"Ironically, this also caused the formation of two more religions.\" Driver looks up. \"One religion is the faith of Green Glass. The other religion, Pain, is faltering at this point, and the only remnants left in this society seem to be their children, or rather, the Children of Pain. The perpetrator we've been chasing was the leader and founder of the Green Glass religion; this lunatic survived hell on earth and walked out of the Zone after the attack, believing themselves to be a god.\"\n\n\"They are a Methuselah, too?\" Remmington asks weakly.\n\n\"Unknown to me until just recently, yes. But they\u2014we\u2014all of us are not just Methuselahs. Seeing the pain from all the wars, we started to outlast governments and then started to run some governments ourselves, which only became an issue when the ruler didn't age. So this is how the current government was born. The remaining Methuselahs eventually became the keepers of balance and followed the one who developed the treatment. He was a very smart man, whom everyone knows and celebrates to this day,\" driver explains, testing to see if Remmington is still paying attention.\n\n\"Who? How?\" Remmington whispers, becoming hoarse.\n\nDriver smiles and offers Remmington more water. \"M.P. Day is his work. He has held the highest office on the planet four times now, by changing his face each time. Then, after a while, he'd kill off that persona.\" Driver appears to be absently checking Remmington's IV drip. \"The Council knows nothing about Methuselahs and believes themselves to be the ruling force of this government.\" Remmington struggles to keep her eyes open and remain conscious. \"Leaving the Council to run the government, until it was needed for him to take over and readjust the system, is found to be the best way to maintain control. Maintaining control is why there are laws for almost everything, such as the birthing laws I helped write. The Council is like an autopilot for the government. Its existence allows us to move in and out of power without much notice. People don't realize it's the same person that becomes leader of the government time after time. They think they're getting someone new, but they're not. This is why there is sometimes no leader over the Council, like right now.\n\n\"I believe Mark Parks died while having his last face change. He was much older when he got the Methuselah treatment, and his body couldn't take any more abuse.\n\n\"As for abuse, your body has taken a fair share,\" driver continues. \"For what I must do next, you shall not be conscious.\" Driver leans in close to her face and whispers, \"This is the part for which I am truly sorry. I have changed your dosage, which will cause you to fall into a medically induced coma.\" Her pain is being pushed back into the darkness, and her mind follows. \"You probably won't remember much of this,\" driver takes her hand and gently pats it, \"but it's better that you don't get questioned about this\u2014questions regarding what I'm about to do and the fact that I'm about to disappear.\n\n\"People will think that the history lesson I gave you is just a dream, which should keep you safe.\"\n\nRemmington's eyes grow heavy, as she fights to stay awake, and she closes them for the last time. She tries to talk, but she is too weak and is slipping out of consciousness.\n\n\"I do hope you survive.\"\n\n... Is the last thing she hears.\n\nDriver explores what it truly means to have freedom in the network. From the node, they learn how each of their lives was generated and how the timing-clock program was set up to transmit new orders and a new life and identity to them at random intervals.\n\nRelieved that their mission is over, driver thinks, I alone can choose what I do with my life again. No more waiting for a new life to start and losing my connection to those I meet\u2014the punishment is over.\n\nThe last new thing driver finds with their freedom in the network is the flight roster for the ship they were supposed to be on before it was destroyed.\n\nInside the file is a list of serial numbers that coincide with the tattoos on their inner right arms. Driver recognizes their own immediately and then picks up the mutilated limb of dark figure and finds the matching number. Across from the serial numbers is a description, either active, deactive, or unknown. There is one listed as unknown. Driver assumes this one is Architect, since they are unable to change its status. For the rest, all but three are listed as deactive. Driver engages the corresponding numbers from the severed arm and changes dark figure's status to deactive, leaving only two active members\n\nThe driver and one other.\n\nAbout the Author\n\nNicholas B. Beeson considers himself a storyteller, not a writer. Nicholas enjoys people's interactions and reactions to challenges; he draws on his degree in psychology and his experiences. After traveling the country during military service, he lives in Wisconsin with his cat. This debut novel comes from a decade-long dream.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "The Lyrics of Leonard Cohen"}, "text": "\n\n**For Leonard**\n\n**May his memory be bound with the spirit of the living  \nwho love him the world over.**\n\n_I greet you from the other side_\n\n_Of sorrow and despair_\n\n_With a love so vast and shattered_\n\n_It will reach you everywhere_\n\n'Heart With No Companion'\n\n\"I don't think of myself as a writer, a singer or whatever.  \nThe occupation of being a man is so much more.\"\n\nLeonard Cohen\n\n_Here I stand_\n\n_I'm your man_\n\n'I'm Your Man'\n**Contents**\n\n* * *\n\nMy Leonard Cohen\n\nIn The Shed\n\nAt The House\n\nAt Rehearsals\n\nIn Leonard's Study\n\n_Songs Of Leonard Cohen_\n\n_Songs From A Room_\n\n_Songs Of Love And Hate_\n\n_Live Songs_\n\n_New Skin For The Old Ceremony_\n\n_Do I Have To Dance All Night_\n\n_Death Of A Ladies' Man_\n\n_Recent Songs_\n\n_Various Positions_\n\n_I'm Your Man_\n\n_The Future_\n\n_More Best Of Leonard Cohen_\n\n_Ten New Songs_\n\n_Dear Heather_\n\n_Live In London_\n\n_Old Ideas_\n\n_Popular Problems_\n\n_Can't Forget: A Souvenir Of The Grand Tour_\n\n_You Want It Darker_\n\nOther Songs\n\nRecommend to a Friend\n\nAlso Available...\n\nIndex\n\nSong Credits\n\nAcknowledgements\n\n* * *\n\nLyrics to songs that Leonard Cohen recorded more than once are not repeated throughout the book. Lyrics by other writers are not here included. This book is not intended to be a discography.\n**Digital Timeline**\n\nClick below for an interactive Digital Timeline of Leonard Cohen's life; experience the beauty of his art with video footage of live performances and interviews...\n\nClick here\n**My Leonard Cohen**\n\n* * *\n\n**HE LED ME** to his garden. I followed him to his shed. He looked more handsome than in any of his photos. So attractive, in fact, that with my first glance at him my face burned as if I were an overawed adolescent groupie. \"Make yourself comfortable,\" he said once we entered. His speaking voice was way more seductive in person than his singing voice, and so captivating it left me with no mind to notice if I made myself comfortable on a chair or a bench or the coffee table. But I do remember the fragrant candles that scented the air, their flames dancing in the gentle summer breeze.\n\nTo regain my composure and some professional distance, I clamped on my headphones and started to conduct the sound check. The microphone picked up the whimpering of an infant \u2013 Adam, his firstborn \u2013 from somewhere inside the modest two-storey house. Tucked in an immigrants' working class Montreal neighbourhood, the house was sparsely decorated in a sort of monastic minimalistic style. He lived there with Suzanne in that summer of 1974 \u2013 not the Suzanne of the song, but the mother of his children. (She was pregnant then with their daughter, Lorca. Once the interview was underway, whenever Adam's cries punctuated our conversation, Leonard Cohen would sing in a whisper, almost as if to himself, lines from 'I Tried To Leave You': \" _The years go by, you lose your pride./ The baby's crying, so you do not go outside,/ and all your work it's right before your eyes_.\"\n\nI assumed he had granted me the interview to promote his new album, _New Skin For The Old Ceremony_ , as well as his upcoming tour to Canada, the USA and Europe, and I was more than glad to give it a huge plug on one of the most popular CBC radio programs broadcast across Canada. But I wanted the interview to do more, to offer an insight into the man beyond the irony, the artist beyond the ambiguities, and the mystery of his \"knife-edged paradox\", as Jon Pareles put it in the _New York Times_ , \"the finely balanced lyrics that can be deliberately heard (and read) incontradictory ways: reverence or blasphemy, affection or animosity, reportage or mockery, tragedy or comedy.\"\n\nOur cross purposes combined with, as Leonard would put it, the \"war between the man and the woman\", sparked a lighthearted jousting in some parts of the interview and a lot of laughs. To my delight, he pulled back the curtains on Leonard Cohen, the man, as well as on his creative processes, which he liked to describe as a spiritual channel to the miraculous.\n\nBut at a certain point, his hand shot under the wide hem of my skirt and up my thighs \u2013 to regain his energy that was drained by my barrage of questions. Or so he maintained. He was approaching age 40 that August and his shirt was unbuttoned low enough to suggest virility. I was only a few years younger than him and quite experienced in most facets of the highs and lows of the artistic life, but this was the last thing I expected from anyone I interviewed, let alone Leonard Cohen. Caught off-guard I blushed and giggled nervously like a startled maiden: \"Oh my God, Leonard! No! What's with you!\" as I squirmed my thighs free of his invading hand.\n\nLater in the interview, Leonard tried a different strategy to avoid my questions: he opened a child's homework notebook in which poems or drafts of poems were penned. His face lit up as he flipped though a few pages; then, barely able to keep the corners of his lips from curling in an amused, mischievous smile, he challenged me: \"Ask me any question, any questions... and you'll see that all the answers are here, all the answers are here... isn't it wonderful...\"\n\nI instinctively picked up his challenge, and to his delight and my amazement the more mundane my questions, the more sublime his poem/answers.\n\nThe interview was conducted over the course of three days. Parts were recorded at Leonard's home and garden shed/workspace in Montreal, and others at a lodge in the wooded countryside not far from Montreal where the band rehearsed for the upcoming tour, and where I interviewed the back-up singers, and John Lissauer, who produced and arranged Leonard's _New Skin For The Old Ceremony_. He defined Leonard as \"a man of opposites and conflicts and ambiguities... just vague enough to make the person he's with be very alive.\"\n\nHe was so alive and provocative in the following interview that soon after it was aired it triggered a debate in the Canadian Parliament about whether tax dollars should fund such salacious work, (as they had deemed it to be).\n\nDespite Leonard's evasions during the interview, in an email he later called it \"one of the... [only] conversations I ever really enjoyed\". I treasured our interview from day one. So much so that, right after it was recorded I kept all the material in a bank safe. After a while I forgot that I had placed it there. Then one day I got a phone call from a friend who informed me that Leonard was depressed as hell because some of his notebooks containing the only drafts of his poems had been stolen from his car, or with his car, when he left the vehicle for a moment to buy a pack of cigarettes. As soon as I heard this, I remembered, contacted Leonard and told him I'd preserved some of these \"lost\" poems in a safe at my bank.\n\n\"Where would you like me to courier the cassettes containing the poems?\" I asked him.\n\nHe lived in California at that time. He told me it must be my karma to preserve those poems, therefore he wished me to keep them. Every few months I'd remind him that I was still keeping his poems in my bank safe \u2013 and he'd say it was still my karma to keep them safe. The day he asked me to forward them to him I couriered them express. He included them on his album _Death Of A Ladies' Man_.\n\nA friendship developed between us after the interview was completed. Well, actually, our feeling of kinship was ignited on the night that he and I and the back-up singers riffed on his newly recorded song, 'Lover Lover Lover', around his kitchen table. And it continued for over 40 years.\n\n**BUT I FELL** in love with Leonard Cohen long before I dreamed that I'd ever meet him in person to interview him \u2013 let alone call him a friend. It was only a few years after a Canadian \"carried me off to his country for marriage too soon,\" as Joni Mitchell put it. A teenage bride, flying for the first time away from the sensual heat of my hometown Tel Aviv, I landed in Canada in the dead of winter of all times. I had no idea how cold cold was until I deplaned in Montreal. My teeth clanked in shock as the cold froze every particle of moisture in my exposed skin, even the mucous in my nose, so it felt like the skin of my face would keep shrinking till it snapped apart. My tearful eyes misled me, I thought, when for the first time in my life I saw snow. It was not at all like the pristine white, feathery light loveliness I knew from the movies and books. In my first real-life encounter with snow it was a brown slush that ruined my brand new specially-purchased-to-impress-my-new-Canadian-family elegant high heel suede pumps that my parents could ill afford, and which turned my toes to icicles.\n\nBut what iced the heart was exile. Nothing prepared me for that. Yes, exiling Jews has been practised by world rulers \u2013 and even by God \u2013 for more than 2000 years. And it was a major topic of study in my school, teacher's college, the youth movement and at home as well. But in all these spheres it was imparted and illuminated by the sublime poetry of the biblical prophets, the great 14th century poets like Yehuda Ha'levi, and in the 20th century by the likes of our national poet Haim Nachman Bialik. And by the unique art of Chagall and Verdi's _Nabucco_ as well. All had lent Exile an element of divine beauty.\n\nWith Malka Marom in Montreal, 1974. Malka Marom\n\nIt was a hell of a trauma to be catapulted into an exile devoid of any semblance of any redeeming element, an exile in which I existed in a sort of whiteout that obliterated all landmarks of home and identity, gagged my voice and emptied meaning from words. In Hebrew a single word could press a thousand buttons, but in English \u2013 how could a word press any buttons for me who had studied English classics like _Hamlet_ not in the English original, but in the Hebrew translation?\n\nThe crack in the whiteout happened late in December 1961. Terribly homesick I went to the only place in Toronto that reminded me somewhat of home. Britnell's bookstore, like the Bialik Library in Tel Aviv, was beautifully appointed with floor-to-ceiling books encased in rich wood, and even had an elegant sliding ladder. As I walked in I noticed a rather slim book titled _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ and right away I could almost smell the fragrance of cloves and myrtle twigs inside the ornate spice box that my father used in the Havdalah, the ritual that defines the boundaries between the holy Shabbat and the everyday. It was the only time in my life that I purchased a book not for \"what's between the covers\", and not even for the cover or its author, but for its title. Only after I opened the book and read a few poems did my eyes run over to the poet's name. They popped wide in astonishment when they found that its author, Leonard Cohen, was a Canadian poet.\n\nA Canadian?!\n\nCanada must be a much better place than I knew it to be if Leonard Cohen was born and raised in it, writing there such brilliant poems, courting God-Woman, enticing Him-Her to a dialogue with the seer-poet.\n\n_As the mist leaves no scar/ On the dark green hill,/ So my body leaves no scar/ On you, nor ever will_.\n\n**SLOWLY, SLOWLY, I** savoured every verse of every poem, like a drought-plagued desert nomad savours first drops of water. Slowly, slowly, in awe and wonder I read and re-read each verse \u2013 kept that book on my night table even after the covers frayed. It didn't surprise me to find out that Leonard Cohen was celebrated in the Canadian media as the best young poet in English Canada. Some literary critics likened him to the Romantic poet Lord Byron. But to me he was more like the wise biblical poet King Solomon: his _Spice-Box Of Earth_ was a modern _Song Of Songs_. As in King Solomon's _Song Of Songs_ , in _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ love is divine, ugliness is transformed into beauty, religion encompasses the sacred and the profane, the amorous and the social, the celestial sphere as well as physical nature and the poetic spheres. All conveyed in a tone that contains an element of bat kol, divine voice. And so to me those poems were like prayers \u2013 and prayers answered.\n\nThey inspired me to sing the modern Hebrew songs that were composed with verses from the biblical _Song Of Songs_ , as well as all the other songs I had loved back home. I'd sing only when I was alone, only a verse or two of one song, then I'd try a verse of another song, and yet another, hoping that in the next song, the next try, my voice would return to life. It died imperceptibly while in exile, demeaned for being different, foreign, a \"Greenie\" speaking English in a foreign accent. My voice wouldn't come to life until I met a fellow Israeli, the great guitarist Eli Kassner. I'd sing to his accompaniment at his basement studio week after week, month after month for nearly two years. And then one night we went out to a hole in a Yorkville basement where immigrants gathered after hours to sing and play their native music; among them a wonderful classically trained singer from Croatia, Joso Spralja.\n\nI believed it was due to the inspiration sparked by Leonard Cohen's poems that we were able to form the singing duo Malka & Joso. And in years to come we would be regarded as a major force in changing the perception of immigrants to Canada, illustrating that we were not aliens but importers of vitality, hope, daring, ancient and avant-garde sophistication, humour and culture.\n\nBy 1966 \u2013 a year before the first of Leonard Cohen's albums, _Songs Of Leonard Cohen_ , came out \u2013 Malka & Joso, singing in 14 languages, had recorded three bestselling LPs under the Capitol Canada label. Our national and international success lasted only for the proverbial 15 minutes. Still, at the time it was a very big deal when the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, the official face and voice of English Canada, programmed a new weekly show: _A World Of Music_ , starring Malka & Joso, which aired coast-to-coast in the dream broadcasting slot \u2013 following the hockey game on Saturday night. It was the first time that world music (\"ethnic music\" it was called, then) was accorded such prominent recognition in English Canada after years, decades really, of being relegated to basements, as if there were something subversive about it.\n\nWhen Joso and I dissolved our singing partnership, I continued as a soloist performing on stage, TV and radio around the world, and when circumstances of life demanded I stay close to home, I sang mostly in Toronto and started to work as a broadcast journalist on the lowest rung \u2013 a gofer.\n\nIn 1974, thirteen years after Leonard's _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ inspired me to recover my voice, to speak and sing out for the voiceless, I'd climbed a few rungs as a broadcast journalist and I gathered the courage to phone Leonard Cohen and request an interview to be broadcast on the CBC. Graciously, he complimented my interview with Joni Mitchell, which he'd heard earlier that year on that same CBC Radio program, then he invited me to conduct the interview at his home in Montreal. When he welcomed me at his front door, I was so awed and overwhelmed by his presence, my mind couldn't articulate what my heart was dying to convey to him: that I owed my career to him, and that, like all in my native land, I'll forever be grateful to him and admire his extraordinary heroic service to my native Israel the year before.\n\nThat service was recognised and highly lauded in Israel, especially by those who had witnessed it in person \u2013 two of my close friends among them. Yet strangely it was one of the best kept secrets about Leonard Cohen in Canada. His suntan, however, betrayed it when he greeted me. The sun had been baked so deep that it looked as though it had been just a week ago, and not nearly a year, since he had been exposed to the broiling sun of the Sinai desert and the bloody horror of the Yom Kippur war. So many were killed in the '73 war, you couldn't see the water in the Suez Canal for the bodies floating there. But it's impossible to appreciate the full measure of Leonard Cohen's part without putting it in context. Briefly: In 1973, on the Day Of Atonement, Yom Kippur, the holiest of the Jewish holy days and the only day of the year when nearly all the Jews in the country are praying in their respective synagogues, the combined armies and air forces of Egypt and Syria launched a surprise, powerful blitz attack on Israel. By the time the Israeli Jews rushed out of the prayer houses to take defensive action, the Arab armed forces had devastated most of Israel's air force and ground defence positions, as well as vital supply routes to civilians and the military alike. The Jewish State was on the verge of annihilation, yet now, of all times, as if determined to hammer the last nail into Israel's coffin, all the countries of the world bar none denied assistance to Israel in any form, not even the right to fly over their air space to ferry vital medical supplies.\n\nIt was at that moment, when echoes of the Holocaust reverberated all too loudly, that Leonard Cohen left his family and his work to lend a helping hand in Israel by working in a kibbutz, an agricultural commune. On his way he was recognised by an Israeli singer, who tried to persuade Leonard Cohen to join him and a few other musicians about to perform at an air force base.\n\n\"Listen, my songs are sad,\" Leonard said in response.\n\n\"It's going to be okay,\" the Israeli singer assured him, and so Cohen agreed.\n\nTo introduce him, they simply announced, \"We have a very special guest: Leonard Cohen.\"\n\nFrom that night Leonard Cohen continued to attach himself to that small air force entertainment group and as Oshik Levi, one of his fellow singers, recounted, \"In the morning we'd perform to paratroopers who afterwards boarded the planes heading towards Suez... At evening time they would return wounded or dead. There were not enough stretchers to carry the wounded when we performed in a hospital in Port Said.\"\n\nAfter they were flown to the Sinai desert, the musicians and singers in that small group were dropped \"into little places,\" Leonard told _Zig Zag UK_ , \"like a rocket site manned by six or eight men, and they would shine their flashlights at the musicians, and they would sing a few songs. Or some officer would give us a jeep, and we would go down the road towards the front and whenever we saw a few soldiers waiting for a helicopter or something we would sing a few songs.\"\n\n1974. Getty\n\nAnd according to Levi, \"Leonard Cohen proceeded with us for three months, day after day, four to five and sometimes eight or ten performances a day in very difficult and dangerous condtions. It was physically and emotionally exhausting. We would sleep in sleeping bags on the ground, and Leonard, who didn't want to feel like a star, refused when I tried to arrange a place for him in the [communal] culture room.\" \"I didn't suffer enough. I didn't lose anyone I knew,\" Leonard Cohen told Robin Pike, knowing that there was hardly an Israeli Jew who didn't suffer the loss of someone he or she knew and loved during that war.\n\nBut the fact that Cohen, unlike almost everyone in the world outside Israel, risked his life to lend his support to the beleaguered Jewish State told so much of Leonard Cohen the man \u2013 especially to Israelis of my generation. I doubt there are people on this earth who love Leonard Cohen more than Israelis of all ages do \u2013 and not only because of his visible support during the war of '73, of course.\n\nOn the first album he recorded after that Yom Kippur war, _New Skin For The Old Ceremony_ , Leonard Cohen included the song 'Who By Fire', which echoes the words and melody of the Yom Kippur prayer Unetanneh Tokef; the song itself, in turn, became a prayer. This album also included 'Lover Lover Lover', which he composed during the Yom Kippur war.\n\n_And who by fire, who by water_ ,\n\n_Who in the sunshine, who in the night time_ ,\n\n_Who by high ordeal, who by common trial_ ,\n\n_Who in your merry merry month of May_ ,\n\n_Who by very slow decay_ ,\n\n_And who shall I say is calling?_\n\n_And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate_ ,\n\n_Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt_ ,\n\n_And who by avalanche, who by powder_ ,\n\n_Who for his greed, who for his hunger_ ,\n\n_And who shall I say is calling?_\n\n_And who by brave assent, who by accident_ ,\n\n_Who in solitude, who in this mirror_ ,\n\n_Who by his lady's command, who by his own hand_ ,\n\n_Who in mortal chains, who in power_ ,\n\n_And who shall I say is calling?_\n\n'Who By Fire'\n\n**THE NEXT TIME** I found myself at his door, I was no longer a stranger to Leonard, but a friend invited for dinner at his home in Montreal. The same modest house where I interviewed him in the summer of 1974 stood in such a nondescript street, the cab also got lost this time trying to locate the address. Instead of Suzanne, I saw an amazing looking elderly fellow, sitting cross-legged on his chair by the small wooden table, as if a halo was glowing around him.\n\n\"Wow, how radiant this elder,\" I whispered to Leonard.\n\n\"He's my teacher, Roshi,\" Leonard said.\n\nSo I turned to Roshi: \"Pleased to meet you, how fortunate you are to have Leonard for a student, and Leonard to have you...\"\n\nLeonard interrupted with that grin of his that I love. \"Roshi doesn't understand a word of English.\"\n\n\"Well, he's so luminous, I guess he somehow radiates his teachings to you.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but you know, he can't get it up. Would you get it up for him, would you?\" Leonard asked me, only half in jest, or so it seemed.\n\nSo I half laughed, then said, \"Don't tell me it's part of your homework to pimp for your teacher; besides, why would you choose a teacher who can't get it up?\"\n\n\"I have one teacher who can't get it down, and this one who can't get it up,\" Leonard replied, cracking us both up. No one, except for Leonard, perhaps, was reputed to be \"the womaniser\" in Canada's artistic community more than Leonard's teacher, the poet Irving Layton.\n\nA fiery charismatic personality and a celebrity in Canada, Irving Layton was Leonard's mentor, as well as teacher and father figure. According to the many poets I interviewed for a profile I prepared of Irving Layton and his poetry, Layton inspired Canadian poets \u2013 especially of Leonard's generation \u2013 to venture outside the box, to soar free of all constraints. But, yes, Irving Layton's reputation of being a womaniser was well earned, I discovered in the late '70s. Recently separated from his common-law wife Aviva, Irving, my neighbour at that time, asked me if he could stay at my house for a couple of nights until he found an apartment to rent.\n\nHe stayed for three months \u2013 almost like _The Man Who Came To Dinner_. Every morning he'd come down to the kitchen and boast that overnight he had composed the greatest poem written since the \"Great William Shakespeare\". And every afternoon and evening a different woman, young enough to be his granddaughter, would skip up the stairs leading to \"his room\", as I came to refer to it. (He married one of those women in 1980 and had a daughter with her.)\n\nLeonard came over to my house during Irving Layton's stay at my home. He was anxious to hear Irving's opinion of his brand new, yet-to-be-released, _Recent Songs_. I placed Leonard's demo-record on my turntable and jacked the volume to high, knowing Irving was hard of hearing. Leonard sat cross-legged on the floor, literally at Irving's feet, his eyes closed. Fortunately, I took my place on the sofa by Irving's side and so, whenever Irving would nod off, I'd jab him gently to stop him from snoring. Leonard seemed to be unaware of it. As the record came to an end I elbowed Irving \u2013 not so gently this time. It startled him but he woke up and when he saw Leonard, still sitting at his feet and turning an inquiring look at him, he expounded at length in his unique magnificent eloquence on this new album \u2013 as if he hadn't slept through it. Starting with something like: \"Bravo, Leonard! How masterfully you led us from Sinai to Auschwitz in this brilliant album...\"\n\n\"Yeah? Yeah?\" Leonard's eyes would pop wide with surprise and delight after each of Irving's pronouncements and accolades, like a child eager for his father's praise. It was a very beautiful moment, loving, intimate, and without a trace of irony for once.\n\nI wonder if Irving's \"Sinai to Auschwitz\" remark inspired Leonard to compose his song, 'Dance Me To The End Of Love', which was inspired by the string quartets forced to perform while the crematoria did their deadly work and the musicians themselves awaited their own terrible fates.\n\nYears later, when Irving suffered the slow devastating deterioration caused by dementia or Alzheimer's, Leonard paid the cost of his care till the day he died \u2013 as he did for Roshi's care. He also donated large sums to promote Roshi's teaching. (Sums much too large, Suzanne told me in 1977 \u2013 they chewed too much out of the family's budget. Roshi was taking advantage of Leonard's generosity, she maintained.)\n\nBut Leonard's devotion to his teachers, like his writing, was deeply rooted in his parents' and grandparents' culture, I believe. Learning is a worshipping of God; in the Jewish tradition learning also leads to humility, to understanding that you don't know it all. And though Leonard was not the Talmudic scholar his grandparents were, he did read parts of the Talmud and so he was bound to know that even the greatest of the sages are referred to quite often as students. And that, according to the Mishna, one's father prepares you for this world, whereas your teacher prepares you for the next one; the honour you accord your teacher is higher than to your parents. And the greatest teacher of all is God.\n\n_Oh teachers are my lessons done?_\n\n_I cannot do another one_.\n\n_They laughed and laughed and said_ ,\n\n_Well child, are your lessons done?_\n\n_Are your lessons done?_\n\n'To A Teacher'\n\n**WAS IT LEONARD'S** urge for learning that led him to Phil Spector? During the time that Leonard was recording a few songs with Spector as producer I happened to be in Los Angeles. And so, I accepted Leonard's invitation to attend their next recording session, no questions asked. The only thing I knew about Phil Spector at the time was that he invented a \"wall of sound\". Just that term made me worry that a wall of sound would entomb the soul of Leonard's lyrics. But trusting that Leonard cared for his lyrics more than I did, I made my way to the control room. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, I was horrified to see a crazy-looking guy sitting at a consul that dwarfed him, downing one bottle after another of Manishewitz wine while yelling, \"Take it again!\" and twirling a .45 pistol in Leonard's direction, mine, the musicians', the singers', the engineer's... And just as appalling, if not as frightening, was the sight of that inebriated, trigger-happy lunatic treating Leonard like shit but treating Bob Dylan (who had been invited to sing back-up that night) like a king. Both Dylan and Leonard, however, treated this dangerous madman as if he were a sort of deity.\n\nI was shocked to find, when Leonard introduced us, that this tyrannical, pistol-wielding, deranged drunk was Phil Spector.\n\nAfter that recording session Leonard asked me to attend the next, explaining that Phil Spector was afraid of me because he thought I was an Israeli soldier. I put on a brave face, but I doubt there's an Israeli soldier who was ever as fearful as I was during those recording sessions.\n\n\"Why are you subjecting yourself to this vile, dangerous producer?\" I asked Leonard.\n\n\"Isn't evil fascinating?\" he replied.\n\nDespite his glib reply, I think Leonard hoped Phil Spector would expand the audience for his songs. In those pre-'Hallelujah' fame years, it disturbed him that the audience for his songs was not as large as he would have liked it to be, especially in the US. He bemoaned the relatively small size of his audience in our 1974 interview \u2013 \"compared to the Rolling Stones,\" he said. That's how huge an audience he wished his songs had. \"I've been trying to interest the masses in my vision for a long time,\" he told me in our interview. I don't know if he consulted any of the Rolling Stones on how to increase his audience to \"masses\" proportion, but I do know that he reached Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan for advice on it.\n\nDylan was one of the few who considered Leonard's music to be as genius as his lyrics. He certainly considered Leonard to be a better musician than Leonard believed himself to be. Even so, Leonard and Dylan couldn't talk whenever the two of them were alone, Leonard told me \u2013 when he asked me to invite him and Dylan to dinner at the A-Frame I was staying in during that visit to California. I invited them for a Friday night dinner. In keeping with the tradition of my family, I prettied up the A-Frame for Shabbat. Not that it needed much, as it had been decorated beautifully in that simple yet very expensive vintage '60s country-style furniture with Native American pottery, baskets, wall hangings and carpets. It just needed fresh flowers, candles, candlesticks and a white Shabbat tablecloth to cover the harvest-style wooden table and chairs, which took up most of the space downstairs. Once I'd said the blessing and served the food, they were too busy \u2013 talking, laughing, gossiping, drinking and smoking \u2013 to eat. They clearly enjoyed each other's company and respected each other immensely.\n\nAfter Dylan left the dinner table \u2013 to work on editing his movie _Renaldo And Clara_ \u2013 Leonard told me that Dylan wouldn't be able to write anymore if he continued to live at his huge mansion. (The living-room alone at that mansion was so large a horse could, and did, trot through it.)\n\nLooking back on it with the distance of years, I wonder if Leonard chose to live in modest abodes through most of his working life because he believed it was good for his writing to live humbly. Was it this distrust of wealth that caused him, subconsciously perhaps, to be \"taken by charlatans\" as he put it in my interview with him?\n\nHe certainly preferred a bare room to a cluttered room (but, as Dolly Parton likes to joke, \"it costs a lot of money to look this cheap\"). He was seeking truth before comfort. A troubadour of privation, he seemed to have gone out of his way to make his life difficult, whether choosing to live in physically punishing conditions or emotionally entangling himself in one destructive relationship after another. Striving for abnegation became a sort of a defining trademark \u2013 almost as if to nail his lofty intellectual gifts to the most dire human conditions, thus inspiring in his readers and listeners universal love and compassion.\n\n_Well, you know I have my songs and I have my poems_.\n\n_I have my books... and sometimes I have your applause_.\n\n_I make some money, but you know what my friends_\n\n_I'm still out there on the corner_.\n\n_I'm with the freaks_ ,\n\n_I'm with the hunted_ ,\n\n_I'm with the maimed_ ,\n\n_Yes, I'm with the torn_ ,\n\n_I'm with the down_ ,\n\n_I'm with the poor_.\n\n'Please Don't Pass Me By'\n\n**ONCE, WHEN I** was with the hunted and in dire need of shelter, I experienced that compassion. It was early dawn and the sun had yet to lift the sky when I phoned Leonard for help.\n\nAs soon as Leonard heard me out, he invited me to stay at the house that he and Suzanne rented in Los Angeles at that time. It was not in the parts of the city inhabited by music or movie stars, or an 'in' place like Laurel Canyon. And unlike his Montreal house, this one was not in a working-class part of the city, but in a lower middle-class pocket of an upper middle-class neighbourhood \u2013 and decorated in California pastels, pastel flowers even blooming on the sofa. It was strange to see Leonard in that rented house, almost as strange as seeing him perform on stage wearing a pink pastel suit instead of his preferred black. Here, like in Montreal, there were no security guards, no bodyguards, no paparazzi, no trappings of fame.\n\nLeonard and Suzanne's children were little then \u2013 Adam was four and Lorca three \u2013 and, although they had a live-in nanny, when Suzanne flew to India Leonard stayed to look after them. He was an exceptionally devoted father, really wonderful with his children. (Years later, when son Adam got injured quite badly in a motorcycle accident, Leonard flew to be by his side during months of convalescence at a rehabilitation hospital in Toronto.) I never heard him complain about or castigate his little ones for disturbing him at work, as they did quite often. And he always addressed them in his normal adult voice, not in that high-pitched baby-talking voice, which many of us employ when talking to little ones.\n\nAfter they fell asleep, he'd work for hours. Composing poems or lyrics was sacred work to him. He'd write and rewrite a poem a thousand times, if not more, \"because I don't have a sense of a compelling inner vision I can locate... I have to go beneath my opinions,\" Leonard said to the _Globe_ and _Mail_. His opinions were predictable, as were his beliefs, Leonard added, \"So I need to write a lot to avoid the opinion, the belief, or the slogan, and to come up with the freshness that determines the living quality of a piece of work.\"\n\n\"Leonard writes songs from moments of inspiration... He's very, very sensitive and he also is very careful to keep things contained, and to keep them on a poetic level,\" John Lissauer told me, during a break in rehearsals for Leonard's promotional tour of his album _New Skin For The Old Ceremony_.\n\nBut Leonard wrote even letters and emails in moments of inspiration, judging by the many he sent me over the decades \u2013 each one was sort of like a haiku: brief, wise and witty. There was a celebration in my heart when I'd read it and for days after. \"May the world limp toward a healing, dear Malka,\" he wrote one New Year's Eve. \"Love and blessings, Eliezer.\" He often signed in his Hebrew name and added the Cohen \u2013 high priest \u2013 blessing in Hebrew.\n\nIn person, his words sparkled like little gems when you least expected them. For example, imagine my surprise when I walked onto an airplane in Paris and found Leonard on the same flight heading to Canada.\n\n\"How are you?\" he asked me.\n\n\"My heart is broken,\" I replied.\n\n\"Everyone on this flight has a broken heart,\" Leonard responded. And with his words I could almost see a light coming through the cracks.\n\nLeonard was obsessed with the notion of brokenness \u2013 and its redemption. \" _There is a crack, a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in_ ,\" he sings in his song 'Anthem', and in 'Hallelujah', \" _There's a blaze of light/ In every word/ It doesn't matter which you heard/ the holy or the broken Hallelujah_\". He had the courage to see God's broken world, and still had it in his heart to praise both it and its creator.\n\nAmsterdam, 1972. Gjisbert Hanekroot / Getty\n\nAnd the courage to keep an eye open for the righteous ones who were destined to make whole the shattered slivers of the Shechina \u2013 the Divine spirit, and God's world as well. Or so it seemed when, yet again, Leonard left everyone and everything to be in Israel during yet another war, the Lebanon war, or the Second Lebanon war, as it was called. When he met my mother in Tel Aviv he believed her to be one of the Lamed Vav, the 36 humble righteous people whose role in life is to make whole the shattered Shechina and God's world and to justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of God. None of the Lamed Vav know that they are of the 36.\n\nI didn't expect to hear it from Leonard, even though we, in our immediate family, nicknamed my mother Tzedekes \u2013 a righteous one \u2013 for decades before Leonard met her. I hadn't mentioned this to him before he met my mother.\n\nFrankly I was hesitant to invite him to my parents' apartment. It was a huge upgrade from my childhood home, but you could spin dizzy from the pattern of the wallpaper that covered every wall in that apartment, not to mention the clashing patterns of the equally lively upholstered sofas and chairs. Leonard preferred sparse, simple, almost monastic interior spaces, I knew. He was too sensitive for such lively stuff, I thought; he'd get a headache in that apartment even if he wore sunglasses indoors. Still, I thought he'd like to meet my parents, a pair of fiery idealists of the generation that devoted their very being to the creation of the modern State of Israel and who were dying off all too fast now. Besides, I was staying at their place at that time; so I invited him over for a glass of wine.\n\nTo my surprise he didn't seem to notice the blinding wallpaper, or upholstery, or anything in that apartment, he was so taken by my mother from the moment he met her.\n\nShe was in her 80s then, her knees worn out, and didn't speak English and Leonard didn't speak Hebrew or Yiddish, or Polish or German.\n\n\"Meet Leonard Cohen, one of the greatest poets of our era, the Leonard Cohen who sang for our beleaguered troops in the Yom Kippur war,\" I said to my mother in Hebrew.\n\n\"Shalom, Shalom,\" she muttered, \"Kol ha'kavod \u2013 all honour to you.\" Seeing him through her eyes I could barely stop myself from cracking up. She perceived him as she did the emaciated homeless refugees she sort of adopted when I was a child. With a slight motion of her hand she urged him to follow her to her kitchen, a tiny space, in which you had to walk sideways to get past the narrow table. From under that table she pulled out one of the rickety small stools. \"Sit, sit,\" she told Leonard in Hebrew, then she proceeded to heap on that narrowest of tables, her sumptuous eggplant dish, stuffed zucchini, Gefilte fish, fricassee chicken, Kasha, honey cake and tea \u2013 all of which he tasted, even downing a glass of the lethal 777 brandy that she served him. \"Drink it up... Eat, eat,\" she demanded. Not unlike him whenever he invited me to his place for dinner: he'd empty his fridge and pantry to heap all he had onto his dinner table.\n\n\"Thank you, but this is too much,\" Leonard protested in English.\n\n\"He's not a big eater,\" I whispered to her in Hebrew.\n\n\"You've got to eat,\" she told him in Hebrew, \"you must eat, your body is too thin, you've been starved, your stomach shrank...\" She pulled out another stool for herself, sat by his side and just stared at him.\n\nHe stared back at her.\n\nThey laughed.\n\nShe nodded her head in approval when he started to eat. \"Good, very good,\" she muttered, then left the apartment to take a bite to the prostitutes who stationed themselves regularly on the sidewalk below her apartment building on Ben Yehuda Street, just north of Nordau Boulevard.\n\nThe next day he came over and again wouldn't take his eyes off my mother.\n\nThey laughed almost like lovers who shared a secret. \"Eat eat,\" she'd urge him. After a few days of the same, nothing more, Leonard told me, \"I believe your mother is of the Lamed Vav.\" And for once his mouth didn't curl in that ironic twist I loved.\n\nWhat led him to perceive my mother in such a hallowed light, I asked him?\n\n\"She's of the Lamed Vav,\" he replied.\n\nOver the years I came to see a sacred core in Leonard, not only pertaining to his writing, but to the man himself, his heart, his soul. I asked him to pray for my sister Yehudit when she was diagnosed with cancer so pervasive her doctors advised her that statistically she had only four months to live, at best, when she was only 55 years old. She was granted the gift of life for four additional good months \u2013 due in part to Leonard's prayers, I'm sure.\n\nEver since I first encountered his work in _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ , Leonard's songs and poems have always been, and will always be, prayers to me. 'If It Be Your Will' should be included in future prayer books of all religions, I believe. Already his 'Hallelujah' is sung in synagogues the world over. It's not a coincidence, I'm certain, that in his younger years Leonard composed _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ \u2013 a contemporary take on the young King Solomon's _Song Of Songs_ , and that in his later mature years he wrote _Book Of Mercy_ \u2013 a modern version of the mature King David's _Psalms_.\n\n**TWO YEARS EXACTLY** before the day he died, Leonard sent me an email saying, \"The old vehicle has sprung a few leaks. In and out of the shop these days.\" I knew he meant in and out of the hospital, but he'd get well sooner rather than later, I believed.\n\nYet another warning came in an email from him on July 22, 2015, hinting at personal and medical emergencies. But still he made it to his keyboard; still he fought for beauty. \"Full battle dress for now,\" he wrote.\n\nLeonard attached a photo in which it seemed he was receiving the same treatment as my sister Yehudit had received in the last months of her life, so it gave me a hell of a jolt. And yet Leonard looked so dapper and elegant in that photo, even sporting a perfectly trimmed goatee and a jauntily angled hat. When you added his dark sunglasses, he looked like the super-famous pop star out on the town.\n\nAs I mentioned before, Leonard often signed his emails to me by his Hebrew name: Eliezer, which translated literally means \"my God provides help\". I hoped that this would prove true. And I clung to his promise that when this was over \"we'll have that drink\".\n\nBut when I turned on his last record and heard him sing, \"Hineni\" \u2013 here I am \u2013 accompanied by the cantorial choir of the synagogue that his ancestors had founded in Montreal, I knew he was declaring, \"Hineni, hinenie\": I'm ready, my Lord.\n\nEven now that he is gone, Leonard is still \u2013 and always will be \u2013 a vibrant presence in my life. Even after his many beautiful parting songs, the notion that he would take his leave for real, and forever, from this earthly world at least, remains unthinkable.\n\nThe whole world grieved over him and eulogised him effusively. Scholars and non-scholars alike are sure to examine every word, comma, verse and note of Leonard's compositions and attest to Leonard's sublime greatness in countless books. But to me \u2013 even though his writing changed my life, his poems and songs inspired and enriched my being \u2013 he was a most beloved friend of more than 40 years. A friend who, in our younger years, would invite me to have dinner with him in New York and, after a quick flight from Toronto, we'd be sipping wine together, laughing and laughing. A friend who offered me shelter at a most bizarre time of our lives. A friend who I believe was one of the 36 humble, righteous people whose role in life is to collect the broken shattered slivers of our world and justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of God.\n\nThank you, beloved Leonard, for illuminating the glint of hope in everything.\n\nI'll forever be grateful to destiny for bringing Leonard Cohen into my life. And for according me the privilege of sharing with you, dear readers, his sublime lyrics in this book.\n\nLeonard Cohen, the flesh and blood man, the most beautiful of humans, is lost to us now, but his wisdom and wonder, his questions and answers live on in his poems and songs \u2013 these prayers for us mortals to taste the divine.\n\n_Like a bird on the wire_ ,\n\n_Like a drunk in a midnight choir_\n\n_I have tried in my way to be free_.\n\n'Bird On The Wire'\n\nMALKA MAROM, 2017\n\nHamburg, 1974. Hans-Jurgen Dibbert / Getty\n**In The Shed**\n\n* * *\n\n\"CONSPIRACY AGAINST LOVERS\"\n\n**MALKA MAROM:** Now that you're almost forty years old, would you write a graffiti like the one you wrote when you were nearly thirty: \" _Marita/ Please find me/ I am almost thirty_ \"?\n\n**LEONARD COHEN:** That's a good question. No, I'm not involved anymore in prayerful worship, I mean I don't pray that way any longer.\n\n**MM:** Was this a prayer?\n\n**LC:** Well, it was an expression of longing.\n\n_Myself I long for love and light_ ,\n\n_But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?_\n\n'Joan Of Arc'\n\n**MM:** You started as a poet, very successful and highly acclaimed from the start. When your first book of poems, _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ came out, a major critic deemed you \"the best young poet in English Canada\". Why did you switch from poetry to music, to singing?\n\n**LC:** Why did I start singing professionally, or why did I lift up my voice one day?\n\n**MM:** Both.\n\n**LC:** Well, I never thought of why. I thought there were a number of things I knew how to do in the world. And one of them was I played guitar and sang, so I thought I'd look into that.\n\n**MM:** When was that?\n\n**LC:** The first time, I guess, I was on the stage as a professional musician or a singer, it was 1954. I was part of a group called the Buckskin Boys. It was a barn dance group. We went around the outskirts of Montreal and played barn dances for small communities and high schools. There were three of us. And then the years went by and I thought I was a writer for a long time, so I wrote a few books. And during the last book, I used to listen to the radio a lot and I had started listening very carefully to singers on records and on the radio, just listening to their voices, and I thought that was an interesting kind of effort, which was very close to the writing effort. They always talked about a person's voice in poetry, and the music of prose or verse. And it was a short step to actually be concerned with the voice and with the music. And so I made the transition very painlessly.\n\n**MM:** Did you study music?\n\n**LC:** Yes. I took piano lessons from Miss McDougall when I was six or seven.\n\n**MM:** And you continued...\n\n**LC:** Yes. Well, not with Miss McDougall.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] You used to listen to the radio quite a lot, you said; did it influence your music in any way? Or perhaps I should ask: in what way did it influence your music?\n\n**LC:** I have the impression that everything I've ever heard is an influence. Everything I've ever hated is an influence. Everything I've ever embraced is an influence. And I hear all those things in the work and it sometimes does drive me up the wall to hear them in my own work.\n\n**MM:** I could hear, for instance, Jacques Brel in some of your songs.\n\n**LC:** Well, I definitely owe something to Jacques Brel if I haven't actually stolen the entire melody line from him. I'm not sure. I'm sure I'm going to put on one of his records one day and find that the exact same song is there and that I've just lifted it line by line. Of course, one is unaware of these things when you're actually writing the song.\n\nI remember the first song I ever wrote, I wrote in collaboration with a boy named Jack Boyko. We were counsellors together at a children's camp about twenty years ago. And we used to drink together in the evenings at this little caf\u00e9 in St. Margaret where there was a jukebox. And we were working on this song and we worked on it for a couple of weeks and we were very, very proud of it. We were singing it to each other and we were thinking of fame and fortune and sending it to publishers and getting people to record it. We were sitting in this little caf\u00e9 one night and somebody put a dime in the jukebox and this entire song came out. It was exactly the same song that we had written. Of course, we'd been listening to it over and over.\n\nAnd I remember once when I was down in Nashville and Kris Kristofferson said to me that he loved 'Bird On The Wire' and, as a matter of fact, he said that he wants to use that as his epitaph, the first four or five lines of 'Bird On The Wire'. He said he met a guy, a songwriter in Nashville, who was really angry at me. He said that I lifted the first few phrases melodically from a song that he wrote. And he said, \"Of course you wouldn't know this song. It's a country and western song, you don't know that tradition.\" And he said it's this song [sings] _da da da da da_ \u2013 \"for my mommy and daddy are callin'\". And, of course, it's one of my favourite country and western songs. It's one that I've known my whole life and I probably did lift the whole thing from it, so...\n\nI know that there's a moment or two in my reading of a song called 'Is This What You Wanted' where I hear almost every singer that I've ever heard. I hear just moments, you know, of things that I've just lifted right from their vocabulary.\n\n_And is this what you wanted_\n\n_To live in a house that is haunted_\n\n_By the ghost of you and me?_\n\n_You got old and wrinkled_\n\n_I stayed seventeen_\n\n_You lusted after so many_\n\n_I lay here with one_\n\n_You defied your solitude_\n\n_I came through alone_\n\n_You said you could never love me_\n\n_I undid your gown_\n\n_And is this what you wanted..._\n\n'Is This What You Wanted'\n\n**MM:** The transition from writing poetry and prose to writing songs and singing was \"very painless\" you said, still, didn't you find it strange? I mean, writing is solitary; music is communal.\n\n**LC:** I don't remember what it was like to be a writer, I mean, to be a novelist because I haven't written... yes, of course, I did last winter. I do remember locking myself [away] for three to four hours every day. But to tell you the truth, so many voices crowded in my head and I feel I live so close to people that even if I do happen to lock myself in a room for three or four hours a day to write prose, I never get a feeling that it's solitary, that I lost anything. And, similarly, even if I am with a band playing with a lot of musicians, and two girls beside me, and four men with instruments behind me, I never really get the feeling that I've lost anything solitary or individual. It seems to be about the same whatever you do.\n\n**MM:** What are those \"many voices crowded\" in your head?\n\n**LC:** The voices in my head, they don't care what I do. They just want to argue the matter through and through.\n\n**MM:** Oh, that's too good. [Laughs] Did you imagine yourself a poet or a singer when you were a child, let's say, six years old?\n\n**LC:** Six years old, no. I don't think I cared one way or another. I think I probably feel somewhat the way I do now as I did then. I don't think about those things very much, just in terms of what I'll be that way. It's more like the quality of the interior activity of the job you happen to be doing.\n\nI didn't think about it when I was six. I don't think about it now, but between thirteen and thirty I thought a lot about it.\n\n_Because of a few songs_\n\n_Wherein I spoke of their mystery_ ,\n\n_Women have been_\n\n_Exceptionally kind..._\n\n'Because Of'\n\n**MM:** Was it to get laid? Or? What led you, or influenced you, to become a poet?\n\n**LC:** I remember my friend and teacher, Irving Layton, saying there were two qualities that are essential for a young writer. Those two qualities are arrogance and inexperience. And I possess both those qualities in abundance.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Poets are born out of poverty and impoverishment. Or so it's been portrayed through the ages.\n\n**LC:** It's true. But we also know that sense of poverty has nothing to do with the material conditions of a man's life. You know, I hate these uncharitable attitudes toward the middle-class from which I have emerged. And I think it's time the middle-class stopped indulging in this orgy of self-criticism and self-hatred. Most of us come from the middle-classes. All classes today try to emulate the middle-classes. And the middle-classes are capable of producing all kinds of excellence and nobility, along with all the other products. And... that's all I have to say.\n\n**MM:** That's a strange sort of a full stop. [Laughs] Did you read the book _Portnoy's Complaint_?\n\n**LC:** No, I find that kind of writing extremely distasteful.\n\n**MM:** How do you know it's \"extremely distasteful\" if you didn't read it?\n\n**LC:** I can tell. The book exudes a certain quality that I can sense, that I can taste. I find it vulgar and middle class.\n\n**MM:** You just said there's nothing wrong in middle class. [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** No. I take it all back. That embodies the worst... No, I don't like that kind of writing. I've read snatches of that sort of thing and I've read snatches of his work.\n\nI'm not interested in publicly condemning John Updike... not John Updike, but Philip Roth. But I find that kind of writing very uninteresting.\n\n**MM:** Well, I brought it up simply because\u2013\n\n**LC:** Besides from what I can read of it, there are certain stylistic devices that were stolen from [my novel] _Beautiful Losers_. I remember that bothered me quite a bit too. Of course, nobody would understand this unless they had written _Beautiful Losers_. But I mean, I know when an idea passes to another writer because I've stolen a lot myself. And I feel that there's a certain tone, a certain energy, a certain channel of energy that he lifted out of _Beautiful Losers_ and I resent the book for that. There should have been at least a thank you.\n\n**MM:** And you steal from yourself also sometimes, it seems, like how your 'Master Song' explores the theme of your novel _Beautiful Losers_.\n\n_I believe that you heard your master sing_\n\n_When I was sick in bed_.\n\n_I suppose that he told you everything_\n\n_That I keep locked away in my head_.\n\n_Your master took you traveling_ ,\n\n_Well at least that's what you said_.\n\n_And now do you come back to bring_\n\n_Your prisoner wine and bread?_\n\n_You met him at some temple, where_\n\n_They take your clothes at the door_.\n\n_He was just a numberless man in a chair_\n\n_Who'd just come back from the war_.\n\n_And you wrap up his tired face in your hair_\n\n_And he hands you the apple core_.\n\n_Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare_\n\n_Of all the kisses we put on some time before_.\n\n_And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk_\n\n_With a collar of leather and nails_ ,\n\n_And he never once made you explain or talk_\n\n_About all of the little details_ ,\n\n_Such as who had a word and who had a rock_ ,\n\n_And who had you through the mails_.\n\n_Now your love is a secret all over the block_ ,\n\n_And it never stops not even when your master fails_.\n\n_And he took you up in his aeroplane_ ,\n\n_Which he flew without any hands_ ,\n\n_And you cruised above the ribbons of rain_\n\n_That drove the crowd from the stands_.\n\n_Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane_\n\n_And, an ape with angel glands_ ,\n\n_Erased the final wisps of pain_\n\n_With the music of rubber bands_.\n\n_And now I hear your master sing_ ,\n\n_You kneel for him to come_.\n\n_His body is a golden string_\n\n_That your body is hanging from_.\n\n_His body is a golden string_ ,\n\n_My body has grown numb_.\n\n_Oh now you hear your master sing_ ,\n\n_Your shirt is all undone_.\n\n_And will you kneel beside this bed_\n\n_That we polished so long ago_ ,\n\n_Before your master chose instead_\n\n_To make my bed of snow?_\n\n_Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red_\n\n_And you're speaking far too low_.\n\n_No I can't make out what your master said_\n\n_Before he made you go_.\n\n_Then I think you're playing far too rough_\n\n_For a lady who's been to the moon;_\n\n_I've lain by this window long enough_\n\n_To get used to an empty room_.\n\n_And your love is some dust in an old man's cough_\n\n_Who is tapping his foot to a tune_ ,\n\n_And your thighs are a ruin, you want too much_ ,\n\n_Let's say you came back some time too soon_.\n\n_I loved your master perfectly_\n\n_I taught him all that he knew_.\n\n_He was starving in some deep mystery_\n\n_Like a man who is sure what is true_.\n\n_And I sent you to him with my guarantee_\n\n_I could teach him something new_ ,\n\n_And I taught him how you would long for me_\n\n_No matter what he said, no matter what you'd do_.\n\n_I believe that you heard your master sing_\n\n_While I was sick in bed_ ,\n\n_I'm sure that he told you everything_\n\n_I must keep locked away in my head_.\n\n_Your master took you traveling_ ,\n\n_Well at least that's what you said_ ,\n\n_And now do you come back to bring_\n\n_Your prisoner wine and bread?_\n\n'Master Song'\n\n**MM:** Do you think the fact that both you and Philip Roth grew up in a minority environment\u2013\n\n**LC:** No, I didn't have at all the same kind of background as Philip Roth, from what I can gather. You know, he came of a certain kind of Jewish environment that I didn't come from at all. The Jewish environment that I came from was very, very different. First of all, it's Canadian and it's Montreal and my family wasn't at all like the average Jewish family that I find in literature. And if anybody's interested, they can find out what kind of Jewish family that was in a book I wrote called _The Favourite Game_. It's a different vision. It's not American.\n\n**MM:** Do you think there is a big difference between Canada and the United States?\n\n**LC:** I don't know whether there is or not. I think there probably is. People tell me there is. But... the part in my mind that examines these questions is about the kind of part of my mind that I devote to mosquitoes. You know, I think about it from time to time when they're around. I try to keep them off, but I don't really think about them when they're not around. It's only when people ask me these questions that I'm ever forced to think about the differences between America and Canada. I don't really think about those things.\n\n**MM:** Some of the best Canadian writers today, Mordecai Richler, Irving Layton and Leonard Cohen are all from Montreal, Jewish background. Do you think it's a coincidence?\n\n**LC:** Well, there are other fine writers from here, too, who aren't Jewish. There's Hugh MacLennan and there's Frank Scott...\n\nYou know, you can make a point about this sort of thing. I don't think it really serves any notion of accuracy to make too strong a point about it. There was a Jewish community here and it did produce some writers. Some of them are pretty good, some of them are average.\n\n**MM:** I'd like to turn to something that you and I share in common: giving free concerts in mental wards from time to time. Is there a particular reason you chose the mental wards?\n\n**LC:** Oh, I don't know. It satisfied my notion of virtue. I think the news will get around that I'm a virtuous sort of person.\n\n**MM:** Why the mental wards, and not the old folks' homes, for example?\n\n**LC:** I should really extend my virtuous activity. I hardly give these concerts any longer.\n\n**MM:** \"They were the only people who could understand my landscape,\" you said at one time.\n\n**LC:** I gave all sorts of reasons for those kinds of activities. I was infected with the general notion of self-improvement, and I thought that just giving concerts for money was inconsistent with my own version of self-virtue, so I thought I would extend my charitable activities and I thought that this would be the most appropriate place to extend those activities.\n\n**MM:** You are saying this in the past tense.\n\n**LC:** Oh, yeah, I'm not going to do any more of that stuff. [Laughs]\n\n**MM:** Why not?\n\n**LC:** I don't know. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I will.\n\n**MM:** You still didn't answer my question.\n\n**LC:** What was the question?\n\n**MM:** What put a stop to the preoccupation with expressing your virtues?\n\n**LC:** Well, I am not attached to my virtues at this particular moment. I think after a couple of children and a few wives and general experience in the marketplace, you arrive at a more realistic vision of yourself and I don't think that these charitable activities are consistent now with my own version of myself. I'm much nastier than that, you see. I was lying when I was performing those virtuous activities. I don't feel like lying now. Really, I'm going on tour now for very professional and specific reasons. I really want to play this music for people and get paid for it.\n\n**MM:** And yet I heard you say that you would like to cover Canada in the north because it was important for you and for the people.\n\n**LC:** Yes, well, occasionally I lapse... I lapse into other frames of mind.\n\n_I practiced all my sainthood_\n\n_I gave to one and all_\n\n_But the rumors of my virtue_\n\n_They moved her not at all_\n\n_I changed my style to silver_\n\n_I changed my clothes to black_\n\n_And where I would surrender_\n\n_Now I would attack_\n\n_I stormed the old casino_\n\n_For the money and the flesh_\n\n_And I myself decided_\n\n_What was rotten and what was fresh_\n\n'Came So Far For Beauty'\n\n**LC:** Would you blow smoke at me, I've given up smoking...\n\n**MM:** That's so difficult, terribly difficult for me to quit smoking, I tried countless times, only to fail countless times. I wonder, if it's not too intrusive, too personal, what prompted you to quit?\n\n**LC:** It's part of this interminable interest in self-improvement. I think I will be more acceptable to myself if I give up smoking. [Inhales the smoke] Mmmm... thank you. Thank you very much.\n\n**MM:** Is it also \"part of this interminable interest in self-improvement\" that you go to a monastery from time to time, delved in Scientology and astrology, and now you're studying Zen? May I ask, what are you looking for?\n\n**LC:** Good company. I like fringe groups, and I like the kind of people that are attracted to somewhat dubious enterprises and activities, and adventures. It's recreation.\n\n**MM:** Recreation? Most of these groups are also religious.\n\n**LC:** Yes, religious fanatics I find are very good company.\n\n**MM:** In what way?\n\n**LC:** It's nothing I can go into very deeply. It's just... they seem to have very specific views, and they seem to be in a state of attractive nervousness all the time. And they are thin... A lot of them are very thin.\n\n**MM:** Thin?\n\n**LC:** They are highly strung.\n\n**MM:** So are people who live in the bush.\n\n**LC:** Yes, they are good too.\n\n**MM:** So why do you choose the monastery, and not the bush in the far north?\n\n**LC:** Well, I don't feel exclusive about the monastery. I'd like to get to the bush. Could you bring me up to the bush?\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Do you study Zen, Scientology or the Christian beliefs of the monastery you attend as religion or philosophy?\n\n**LC:** No, entertainment.\n\n**MM:** The Kabbalah also as entertainment?\n\n**LC:** The Kabbalah... I don't feel like much of a student these days. I think I've let my studies slip a bit.\n\n**MM:** So, did you go there as a voyeur?\n\n**LC:** Yes, exactly... What do you mean \"as a voyeur\"?\n\n**MM:** Well, if you don't go to study, do you go to experience it, or are you going as an onlooker?\n\n**LC:** I don't have any high purpose in my activities. I'm just going, so that I don't have to keep still.\n\n**MM:** One goes to a monastery to keep still, I thought. But... When you go to the monastery, do you feel any conflict with your being Jewish?\n\n**LC:** No, I don't. I have no sense of conflict. My Jewish background is extremely hospitable to all kinds of investigation.\n\n**M:** So you go there to investigate...\n\n**LC:** Well, you are determined to picture me as some sort of seeker, so I'll have to get to that sort of frame of mind.\n\n**MM:** But it was you who used the word \"investigation\". I'm just following up, certainly not determined to picture you as\u2014\n\n**LC:** No, but I feel as the evidence builds up, a certain kind of serious responsible seeker is being described and that isn't the way I am at all.\n\nI just look into things here and there. If I described some of the other things I've looked into, you'd have to describe another name for [me]. But these things are easy to put your finger on.\n\nIt's like the famous story.\n\nThis man was complaining.\n\nHe said, \"I built a thousand bridges, but do they call me a bridge builder? No.\"\n\nHe said, \"I've written papers, do they call me a scholar? No.\"\n\nHe said, \"I've gone through the woods, but do they call me a path finder? No.\"\n\nHe said, \"But you suck one cock... and they call you...\"\n\n**MM:** [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I mean, there is a great deal of interest in self-improvement, and the whole spiritual seeking and adventuring seems to have a great deal of publicity these days, so that if you do one or two things on that scale, people want to characterise you as a spiritual kind of person.\n\n**MM:** What are the other interests that you have pursued \u2013 [are] pursuing?\n\n**LC:** I'm also very interested in food. I like cooking. And there are a whole range of interests that don't have the kind of prestige that spiritual enterprises have today. So interviews have tended to overemphasize the spiritual aspect of my nature, which I'm hardly aware of. I've just looked into a few things, but without any special emphasis on religion.\n\n**MM:** Maybe it's because quite a few of your poems and songs are so spiritual, almost prayers \u2013 well, prayers, really, I think \u2013 and quite a lot use religious images.\n\n**LC:** Yes, that's just because the only mythology I was presented with as I grew up was a religious mythology. But you know, we talk of the flood and we speak of the ark, and Noah and the dove \u2013 all those are symbols and allegories that have entered our consciousness and language through religious channels, but they don't necessarily extend for religious experience today. They stand for an experience that includes religion, but does not exclude other kinds of experience. That was the mythology that I inherited so I use it for all experiences, not specifically for religious [ones].\n\n_I came upon a wedding that old families had contrived;_\n\n_Bethlehem the bridegroom_ ,\n\n_Babylon the bride_.\n\n_Great Babylon was naked, oh she stood there trembling for me_ ,\n\n_And Bethlehem inflamed us both_\n\n_Like the shy one at some orgy_.\n\n_And when we fell together all our flesh was like a veil_\n\n_That I had to draw aside to see_\n\n_The serpent eat its tail_.\n\n_Some women wait for Jesus, and some women wait for Cain_\n\n_So I hang upon my altar_\n\n_And I hoist my axe again_.\n\n_And I take the one who finds me back to where it all began_\n\n_When Jesus was the honeymoon_\n\n_And Cain was just the man_.\n\n_And we read from pleasant Bibles that are bound in blood and skin_\n\n_That the wilderness is gathering_\n\n_All its children back again_.\n\n'Last Year's Man'\n\n_You who build these altars now_\n\n_To sacrifice these children_ ,\n\n_You must not do it anymore_.\n\n_A scheme is not a vision_\n\n_And you never have been tempted_\n\n_By a demon or a god_.\n\n_You who stand above them now_ ,\n\n_Your hatchets blunt and bloody_ ,\n\n_You were not there before_ ,\n\n_When I lay upon a mountain_\n\n_And my father's hand was trembling_\n\n_With the beauty of the word_.\n\n'Story Of Isaac'\n\n**MM:** When I first read _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ and I came to such verses: \" _As the mist leaves no scar/ on the dark green hill/ so my body leaves no scar/ on you and never will_ \", I thought, still do, that you were a modern day King Solomon, the king Solomon who wrote _The Song Of Songs_. Like him you employ the association of the feminine/woman with God. That's what leads me to ask: Are you a religious person?\n\n**LC:** Not at all. Yes, of course, I'm religious.\n\n**MM:** You said yes and no in one breath.\n\n**LC:** I'd say it at the same time if I knew how.\n\n**MM:** Why?\n\n**LC:** Because there's no point in my describing myself as a religious person or not. It doesn't serve anything or anybody for me to describe myself one way or another. It doesn't serve me to answer it. In other words, we won't make ourselves stronger by examining that proposition.\n\n**MM:** By examining what proposition would we make ourselves stronger?\n\n**LC:** Well, we just have to play that by ear and see what confers energy or interests upon us.\n\n**MM:** Okay... Allow me to quote you: \"We have to rediscover the crucifixion because that's where man is at, on the cross\".\n\n**LC:** I could make a case for that, but... I think it's hard to speak of those things unless you're really impelled or inspired to do so. And certainly the person who has a casual conversation in a shed, as we're doing now, is not the same person who feels deeply about the position of western man, vis a vis the crucifixion. So it's very hard to cast myself back to that somewhat pretentious frame of mind, and discuss with you the predicament that we find ourselves in.\n\nIt's just that crystal logical symbolism was very appropriate to me, to use at a certain time and it just doesn't lie so well on the tongue these days so I can't really... I would really not prefer to describe our predicament in terms of the crucifixion at this very moment.\n\n**MM:** All right.\n\n**LC:** I really do not think it's good to talk about religion. I mean that it's not really good to talk about the things that are really important to you, except in their proper context.\n\nThat is, just to use an analogy from the past, it was obvious that anybody could kill an animal at any particular time, when anybody wanted, but there were certain rituals and certain prescriptions and certain injunctions concerning the slaughter of animals to make the event significant. And so it is with conversation, speech, language.\n\nThere are certain occasions and certain forms which make the language significant and true. And just as in ancient times, it was important to separate the clean from the unclean \u2013 neither of those ideas have a pejorative sense. When I say \"unclean\", I don't mean that it's dirty. I mean that it's not clean in the significant sense that it has a special power. So it is with conversation. I think that there are certain occasions when a person can speak of those things that are closest to them. I think the occasion for that kind of speech is what we call poetry, song or work or... I think you understand what I mean.\n\nAnd then there's another kind of occasion, which is nothing to repudiate, nothing to avoid, which is casual conversation, casual speech, casual language, which has its place naturally. We're not supposed to go around and speak solemnly of things at all times. On the other hand, I think that the really important and secret events of the heart are best not disclosed casually, and not disclosed at moments like this.\n\n**MM:** Are you saying that here, in this shed, only small talk, or casual conversation, is appropriate? \"I came a long way for beauty,\" to quote you.\n\n**LC:** It's not a matter of small talk. It's just that everybody understands that the most important things are the genesis of your work, and the engine of your energy will not be disclosed at moments like this. It doesn't serve anyone. It just defeats the engine.\n\n**MM:** Well, let me ask you a question that might be more suited, perhaps, to this shed.\n\nIn _The Energy Of Slaves_ you say that now you have the fifteen-year-old girls you wanted when you were fifteen \u2013 it's very pleasant and it's never too late, you add \u2013 then you imply that all you need to do to be so pleasantly rewarded is to become rich and famous. Is it really so pleasant and rewarding to be rich and famous?\n\n**LC:** You see, anybody that is interested in constructing a large body of work is going to have to treat all sorts of versions of himself and the reality as he sees it.\n\nI completely refused to be burdened by any of my past work. I don't mean it as definitive and I don't mean it as a guide to behaviour. Anybody who puts down everything he's doing and decides to become rich and famous as a way out, well, he'll have his own risks to take in that matter.\n\nThat was written with a sense of irony and it only has meaning within the context of a large body of work that I'm in the midst of making. So, of course, there's nothing I can say about that.\n\nThere's nothing I can say about my interest in fifteen-year-old girls, my interests in renown and my interest in money.\n\nI have the same kind of normal appetites as anyone else, and anyone could examine those appetites within himself. I just gave articulation to a moment of irony and greed.\n\n**MM:** Irony and greed aside, what was it like to become famous after you put out sublime artistic work yet you were known to a few people, admired \u2013 even worshipped \u2013 by a few people, but not on such a large scale as after you started singing. What was it like?\n\n**LC:** The actual experience... I certainly haven't sorted out. And I haven't even sorted that particular experience out from the ordinary rather overwhelming experience of just growing older. I don't know which is which or what is the more shattering. I certainly do feel my mind a bit of a muddle and I certainly have experienced the collapse of a lot of interior structures that I was once more certain of. I don't know whether that has to do with the particular experience that I've undergone or just a normal process of aging and destruction and recreation, which we always go through.\n\nThe experience of the Sixties, you know, was an extremely rigorous experience for a lot of people, whether they were in the public eye or not. The challenges and the revisions and transvaluations that went on, were so severe and rigorous that many people were overwhelmed. There were a lot of casualties of that time.\n\nI can't really sort out, or I never will know what I could attribute to fame, or what I could attribute to just the experience of the age.\n\n**MM:** You've just said \"getting old\" and \"aging\" as if you were a hundred years old when in fact you're only forty years old, or more correctly, just approaching forty. But since you raised it, I wonder if anything happened to you personally that could have caused you to describe aging as \"overwhelming\" and \"shattering\"?\n\n**LC:** Oh Christ, mus' we? Mus' we... I don't say Ts anymore, you know. I don't say Ts, Ds, or Ss anymore. That's because of... Well, I think it's the southern and black influence in song, which has destroyed my diction and syntax. I never pronounce the final consonant in any word I say now.\n\n**MM:** Returning to my question, I'm surprised that you described aging as \"overwhelming\" and \"shattering\", because personally I find that as I grow older I lose certain illusions and that the most difficult part of aging is that I meet my limitations.\n\n**LC:** You meet your limitations?\n\n**MM:** Quite often.\n\n**LC:** In what respect?\n\n**MM:** For instance, when I was younger...\n\n**LC:** Yes.\n\n**MM:** You realise of course that you're interviewing me now, but that's alright.\n\n**LC:** [Laughs]\n\n**MM:** When I was younger, if I would see a beautiful piece of work in literature, in music, or read about a fascinating country, I'd say, \"Well, when I grow up I will be able to do this, or visit there.\"\n\n**LC:** And live there and have a whole life somewhere else.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] But now, as the years go by I see that I cannot do this and that. Or, I think that I can't. And with each passing year I find that I have a year less to say, \"Well, when I grow up, I'll be able to do this and that, or I will be able to be good at this and that.\"\n\n**LC:** I know what you mean.\n\n**MM:** You mean you have this feeling also?\n\n**LC:** No, I just know what you mean.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] In reality you don't really feel the passing of years?\n\n**LC:** No, I don't feel that I am... Of course, one is aware of the passing of the years. [Sings]\n\n_The years go by, you lose your pride/ The baby's crying, so you do not go outside_.\n\nI'm aware of the passing of years, but I find that the passing of the years creates a kind of desperation, which gives you the energy to do a lot of things that you never would have done when you were younger.\n\n**MM:** Like what?\n\n**LC:** Just a certain quality of... a boldness.\n\n**MM:** You mean there are not so many tomorrows so you might as well go for it today?\n\n**LC:** Well, I think you stop caring about the consequences of a number of things. Or, let's say that you are somewhat more apprised of the consequences of certain activities. Experience confers this. I suppose, in some cases, it limits you and makes you more frightened, but in other cases, it just makes you more desperate and more willing to take a chance. I think when you do feel the time seeping away, you are willing to leap, take that leap here and there. I think you're a lot less worried about what people think of you, also. I think that's a great relief from inhibition.\n\n_Well my friends are gone and my hair is gray_\n\n_I ache in the places where I used to play_\n\n_And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on_\n\n_I'm just paying my rent every day_\n\n_Oh in the Tower of Song_\n\n'Tower Of Song'\n\n**MM:** Once you became famous you were taken \u2013 taken by charlatans, you told me before my record button was pressed properly.\n\n**LC:** Well, you know, any fool with money in his pocket is going to attract hustlers, charlatans, sharks, double-dealers of every kind and it's only when you do have money, or when you represent the possibility of money to others, that you begin to have experiences in the marketplace that you never have had, or never even dreamed of.\n\nI never knew there were dishonest people. It was a revelation to me. I don't know why. I grew up in a very honorable family where there wasn't such a thing as cheating or dishonesty in commerce. And I assumed that that was the rule of business practice throughout the world. This sounds terribly na\u00efve but it's true.\n\nI thought that all businessmen were gentlemen and that if a word was given, that it stood for something.\n\nThis is really... As I look back even on these words, as I look back on my experience, even these words that I'm saying now seem so totally uninformed.\n\nAfter I've been, now, in the marketplace for a few years, I really see how innocent I was when I came into it. So that was an education I would never have gained, you know. I only knew that there were bad people and dishonest people from literature. I never encountered anybody that I knew to be dishonest.\n\nIt was only in so-called business affairs that I first discovered that there was dishonesty in the world. You know, patent, overt dishonesty. That people would actually try to cheat you and take away things that were yours. I never knew that existed.\n\n**MM:** It must have been a painful awakening.\n\n**LC:** Yeah, it was painful. It is painful to lose something that you think is rightfully yours, but on the other hand, it's such a gossamer thing to make money out of a song. It's such a strange consequence, that losing part of it doesn't really seem so terrible because there's an aspect of unreality to the whole thing. It's so strange, especially at the beginning, to write a love song and to suddenly have it bring you cash and credit cards and airplane flights and create a whole material world that you never experienced and never really had hoped [for] or wanted or greatly desired.\n\nI had known what a comfortable life was. I came from a comfortable life. I tasted the other stuff too. But it was never something that I dreamed of. It was never something that I wanted. I suddenly had access to material possibilities that I hadn't had before. So when I found out that somebody had taken away some of that access, and had gnawed at it for their own reasons, I was hurt more from the personal point of view that someone would actually want to cheat me. I thought there was nobody who really would want to cheat me. I was too nice.\n\nSo that was the part that hurt more than the actual loss of money, because the things that money bought seemed so unreal at the time anyways and not particularly important.\n\nBut now I feel differently. Now I consider it an assault. Now I consider that an act of hostility.\n\nIn the early days I was hurt because [when] someone would cheat me, my own self-image was impaired. But now I see that the world is... there is a war in the marketplace. And that is a war. It was never anything else.\n\nIn a few remote provincial areas, like my part of Montreal, business was conducted honourably, but by and large now in the world as I see it, business is not conducted particularly honourably. And that, you know, a man must be aware of what the real situation is.\n\n**MM:** If \"business is not conducted particularly honourably by and large\", as you say, why do you continue to be in show business, to sing in the marketplace?\n\n**LC:** Well, I think that that's a very interesting place to be. Certainly it was an education for me, you know, that I would never have been able to get anywhere else.\n\nI think money, love and war, are areas in which you find things out about other people and about yourself that no other situations can disclose.\n\n**MM:** In the Talmud it says that you can tell the true mettle of a person by \"kiso koso v'kaaso\" \u2013 his money, drinking, and anger.\n\nAtlanta, 1974. Tom Hill / Getty\n\n**LC:** I agree.\n\n**MM:** What about the benefits you gain through fame?\n\n**LC:** Well, I found that my standard of living went down very sharply after I started to make money and become known.\n\nBefore I had money I lived in a lovely white house on a Greek island. I had credit with all the store owners, you know, the grocer. And I never thought about money at all, and I swam every day and I had a good suntan and everything was very light and very easy.\n\nWith the advent of money, I found myself spending more and more time in New York City, more and more time in taxis, airplanes and other unpleasant circumstances, living in air-conditioned rooms and sitting around tables discussing contracts or leading that mole-like existence you do when you're mixing a record, when you just never see the sunlight. All you see is the control board of a record studio... So that the quality of life certainly has deteriorated considerably since I have had the opportunity to move.\n\nA real luxury today is to be someplace beautiful where the air is clean and you can swim.\n\n**MM:** So why do you continue to record, sing, and write, instead of stopping to enjoy this luxury?\n\n**LC:** What luxury?\n\n**MM:** The one you mentioned just now: \"To be someplace beautiful where the air is clean and you can swim\". What motivates you to work, live this \"mole-like existence\" in recording studios, rather than enjoy the luxuries you mentioned?\n\n**LC:** Well, one thing is that I have to make a living now and since I've concluded all these contracts with people, born and unborn, I have to make money like everyone else to take care of my responsibilities. So that's one reason.\n\nThe other reason is that it becomes a challenge in itself, the making of a record, like the making of a book, or the construction of a poem. It has its laws and its own series of dynamics which are there to be mastered if you can. And it becomes a point of interest and a point of honour to master those dynamics.\n\n_The women in your scrapbook_\n\n_Whom you still praise and blame_ ,\n\n_You say they chained you to your fingernails_\n\n_And you climb the halls of fame_.\n\n_Oh but here, right here_ ,\n\n_Between the peanuts and the cage_ ,\n\n_Between the darkness and the stage_ ,\n\n_Between the hour and the age_ ,\n\n_Once again, once again_ ,\n\n_Love calls you by your name_.\n\n'Love Calls You By Your Name'\n\n**MM:** Let's move to your ladies. You said at one time: \"I will try to have something to do with every woman I meet\".\n\n**LC:** I remember I said that in Toronto; you have to be excused for things you say under duress.\n\n**MM:** Under duress?\n\n**LC:** That remark? It's the truth, but I don't want to make too much of it. I mean, you say a thing or two here and there and it gets around and you are asked about it, and you start composing footnotes to casual observations that you make in a moment of irresponsible sympathy with an interviewer and before you know it, it's an official description that you continually have to elaborate and magnify. But I think it's true that we are all rather obsessed with each other these days. And one does like to make contact.\n\n**MM:** What about the ethics?\n\n**LC:** Of what?\n\n**MM:** Monogamy.\n\n**LC:** The ethics of monogamy... I think marriage is for very, very high-minded people, and it's a discipline of extreme security. I would say that marriage today is a much more difficult, gruelling and severe discipline than any monastic order could impose upon its members. Marriage today is the monastery. The monastery today is freedom.\n\nIt just depends if you have a monastic nature. Because that's what monogamous marriage requires. And like other monks, in other kinds of situations, there are backsliding monks and there are enthusiastic monks and there are monks in all states of accomplishments and achievements, so that, as rare as the great monks were, so are the great married couples. But it's a high discipline requiring high minds and great effort. That's monogamous marriage. Most people conduct their marriages in the slipshod sort of way that they conduct their other affairs. I am more or less one of those.\n\n**MM:** Why do you think it's different these days?\n\n**LC:** Well, I think the choices, the alternatives, what we call \"freedom\" is a tremendous burden to the imagination, and when the imagination is provoked and excited, titillated, irritated in so many corners today that... There's a real form of oppression, a real form of discipline to confront those invitations without making it oppression. To transcend it, and really make a choice and to really turn your back on all the other possibilities and all the other experiences of passion, all the other possibilities of ecstasy, and to determine and find it within one embrace, is a high and rigorous notion only compatible with the strongest kind of will and the most gifted individuals.\n\n**MM:** You also said that you have a sort of an ideal of love, but haven't been able to attain it.\n\n**LC:** I don't know when I said these things or how you found out about them.\n\n**MM:** I did some research. [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I have a song, the last verse goes:\n\n_I'd like to take you to the ceremony_\n\n_Well, that is if I remember the way_.\n\n_You see Jack and Jill, they are going to join their misery_ ,\n\n_I'm afraid it's time for everyone to pray_.\n\n_You can see they've finally taken cover_ ,\n\n_You can see they're willing to obey_.\n\n_Their views are difficult, they are for each other_ ,\n\n_So let nobody put a loophole in their way_.\n\nThat's a song that investigates these ideas that we are talking about.\n\n_Why don't you try to do without him?_\n\n_Why don't you try to live alone?_\n\n_Do you really need his hands for your passion?_\n\n_Do you really need his heart for your throne?_\n\n_Do you need his labour for your baby?_\n\n_Do you need his beast for the bone?_\n\n_Do you need to hold a leash to be a lady?_\n\n_I know that you can make it, make it on your own_\n\n_Why don't you try to forget him?_\n\n_Just open up your dainty little hand_.\n\n_You know this life is filled with many sweet companions_\n\n_Many satisfying one-night stands_\n\n_Do you want to be the ditch around a tower?_\n\n_Do you want to be the moonlight in his cave?_\n\n_Do you want to give your blessing to his power_\n\n_As he goes whistling past his daddy_ ,\n\n_Past his daddy's grave?_\n\n'Why Don't You Try'\n\n**LC:** Let me give you a cigarette.\n\n**MM:** Okay.\n\n**LC:** Do you have matches?\n\n**MM:** Yes. [Lights up]\n\n**LC:** Do you have an ashtray?\n\n**MM:** Yeah.\n\n**LC:** Okay.\n\n**MM:** May I ask you another personal question?\n\n**LC:** Yes.\n\n**MM:** What do you fear? What is your fear? Your fears?\n\n**LC:** My fear is that I won't get out of the particular situation that I find myself in at any particular time.\n\n**MM:** Could you be more specific?\n\n**LC:** Well, for instance, I was living with a woman and a child, and I said to myself, \"God, it would be terrible if I had to live with this woman and this child all the time.\" So I struggled and I strained and I pulled at my chains and I tugged at my ropes and I got free of this situation, only to find myself in exactly the same situation \u2013 a different woman and a different child, but with the same rope still intact.\n\n**MM:** You know, the great pantomimic Marcel Marceau had a skit about this same thing.\n\n**LC:** Yes?\n\n**MM:** Yes. He invests tremendous energy, imagination and creativity to extricate himself out of the blocks that have imprisoned him and he feels very happy, free and tall. But no sooner does he feel liberated and stands tall than he builds himself another prison.\n\n**LC:** Yeah, that's what I do, but I don't even care anymore. My life is a mess. It's completely a mess. I can't go on with it.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Forgive me. You look pretty good for a man whose life is a mess.\n\n**LC:** No, it's a complete mess.\n\n**MM:** In what way?\n\n**LC:** In all ways, in all possible ways. It's shabby. My life is shabby. It's one of the shabbiest lives I've ever come across. It's untidy. It's not neat.\n\n**MM:** You mean it ironically, right?\n\n**LC:** I'll tell you what I mean. My friend Irving Layton's son, I think his son was three or four at the time when this happened. His son happened to come across Irving Layton naked, and he looked at him very carefully, looked at his private parts very carefully, and he said to him, \"Daddy, you're so shabby\". That's what I mean. Just shabby. You know what I mean by shabby. It's something that's old and frayed and worn and... It just suffered through the years and shows it.\n\n_Do you remember all of those pledges_\n\n_That we pledged in the passionate night_\n\n_Ah they're soiled now, they're torn at the edges_\n\n_Like moths on a still yellow light_\n\n_No penance serves to renew them_\n\n_No massive transfusions of trust_\n\n_Why not even revenge can undo them_\n\n_So twisted these vows and so crushed_\n\n_And you say you've been humbled in love_\n\n_Cut down in your love_\n\n_Forced to kneel in the mud next to me_\n\n_Ah but why so bitterly turn from the one_\n\n_Who kneels there as deeply as thee_\n\n'Humbled In Love'\n\n**MM:** Please don't laugh... A seemingly lazy question, yet, strangely, in previous interviews it elicited surprising, even stunning replies. So, are you ready?\n\nWhat would you say was the most frustrating experience in your life? And the most rewarding?\n\n**LC:** The most frustrating... Suzanne is definitely the most frustrating experience in my life.\n\n**MM:** Which Suzanne?\n\n**LC:** Oh, all of them.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] And the most rewarding?\n\n**LC:** The most rewarding is the girl I met for half an hour once. We made love in the cloakroom of a hotel in Connecticut.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs]\n\n_I'm turning tricks, I'm getting fixed_ ,\n\n_I'm back on Boogie Street_.\n\n_You lose your grip, and then you slip_\n\n_Into the Masterpiece_.\n\n_And maybe I had miles to drive_ ,\n\n_And promises to keep:_\n\n_You ditch it all to stay alive_ ,\n\n_A Thousand Kisses Deep_.\n\n_And sometimes when the night is slow_ ,\n\n_The wretched and the meek_ ,\n\n_We gather up our hearts and go_ ,\n\n_A Thousand Kisses Deep_.\n\n_Confined to sex, we pressed against_\n\n_The limits of the sea:_\n\n_I saw there were no oceans left_\n\n_For scavengers like me_.\n\n_I made it to the forward deck_.\n\n_I blessed our remnant fleet_\n\n_And then consented to be wrecked_ ,\n\n_A Thousand Kisses Deep_.\n\n'A Thousand Kisses Deep'\n\n**MM:** Returning to what's the most rewarding and frustrating experience, you mentioned Suzanne, but seriously now, I wonder if\u2014\n\n**LC:** That's just one of the aspects of the frustration. See, I have to care about things now, you know? I don't want to care about things. I don't want to care about anything. I'm tired of caring about anything. Caring about anything just inhibits you. I have things that I have written that I am reluctant to publish because it will hurt people, you know, and there are all kind of things like that, that are extremely annoying.\n\n**MM:** Do you think an artist should be selfish?\n\n**LC:** I think he has to be selfish or he doesn't remain an artist. Just as there's a conspiracy against lovers, you know. There's not some deliberate conspiracy \u2013 people don't sit up in little rooms plotting against lovers \u2013 but there's a general conspiracy against lovers, because people really don't like to see other people happy, and the experience of ecstasy is extremely distasteful for those that are not within it.\n\nSo it is with artists. People really would prefer to have their artist crippled or dead. This is a platitude but it's true. I feel it in myself. When I come across someone who's writing too well, who's producing too much, who is in touch with that creative centre, who is swept along by that flood, all the time, really, I feel somewhat resentful and I often think of killing him.\n\n**MM:** You're jealous?\n\n**LC:** It's more than jealousy. It's a profound resentment. It's much, much more. Jealousy leads to inner gnawing and inner pain. But this emotion that is produced that I have remarked in myself and in others in relation to myself, this is a much more aggressive and outward kind of emotion and the people really do try to silence a singer.\n\nNow, this is a subtle thing and people may accuse me of paranoia, but if you really examine yourself, and you are a singer and I think you might understand this process... It's not jealousy. We really do resent someone being touched by the angels too often. And there are Greek myths about this sort of thing. If someone is too beautiful, if someone's gift is too bright, and someone's being is too luminous, there is a natural movement on the part of those around this individual to suffocate and extinguish this being.\n\n**MM:** Do you feel it's being done to you?\n\n**LC:** Well, I don't know if I'm quite luminous or bright enough to really provoke that activity in any intense form but I have felt it. And I have seen it done to others brighter and more luminous than myself. And I've seen them die.\n\n_When I am on a pedestal_ ,\n\n_You did not raise me there_.\n\n_Your laws do not compel me_\n\n_To kneel grotesque and bare_.\n\n_I myself am the pedestal_\n\n_For this ugly hump at which you stare_.\n\n_You who wish to conquer pain_ ,\n\n_You must learn what makes me kind;_\n\n_The crumbs of love that you offer me_ ,\n\n_The crumbs I've left behind_.\n\n_Your pain is no credential here_ ,\n\n_It's just the shadow, shadow of my wound_.\n\n'Avalanche'\n\n**MM:** I'd like to turn to your music now. How do you feel when you read or hear people say that your music has not always reached the superb unique level of your poetry and lyrics?\n\n**LC:** I can understand that appreciation of the work. I have another kind of idea about music. I think the quiet movement of music and the subtle movement of music is the important part.\n\nI myself have a kind of appreciation for a guy who can rub his thumb right down the piano from one end to the other and create cascades and waterfalls of sound, and that sort of thing. That's a kind of music. But I tried to make another kind of music, and I work at it as hard as I work at anything else, and I try to design the music to create the total effect.\n\nI try to design the words to go with the music and the music to go with the words. If I felt that a particular melody needed more variation to create its effect, you know, I could probably insert a few chords or changes, rises and falls, to do so, but I try to use the minimum movement of the melody line that I can. And sometimes when I'm confronted with this kind of question, I say, \"Yes, it's true. My music is dull and over simple. And the reason it is all in one area, is because I can't sing very high or very low and I design the music to go with my voice.\" That's partially true, but to speak seriously, and because I've been confronted with this criticism for so long that it is becoming tedious, I can say that I do work at the music, and I do feel that the melodic line is what is necessary and what is needed to create the song.\n\n**MM:** Do you ever find that you repeat yourself?\n\n**LC:** Well I think that you repeat yourself continually. I think it was Scott Fitzgerald that observed that a writer only has one or two stories. If he has three stories, he's a major writer. Most writers have one or two stories that they tell over and over again. And most songwriters have one or two songs that they sing over and over again. I think occasionally a genius comes along that actually has four or five melodies, four or five songs. But most of us only have one or two songs.\n\n**MM:** Well, I think you have more, many more than four or five songs and poems, let alone two... Is it different for you to perform a song than to record it?\n\n**LC:** It's different in the sense that in the studio you can always do another take. But on the stage you cannot erase your humiliations or mistakes.\n\n**MM:** You mean you sort of go for broke at stage performances?\n\n**LC:** On the stage... [Sound of a baby crying from inside the house. Sings]\n\n_The baby's crying_\n\n_So you do not go outside_.\n\n_On the stage..._\n\n_The years go by_ ,\n\n_You lose your pride_.\n\nYes, you go for broke. Anyhow, you're involved with a great number of people and they have to adjust themselves to you and you have to adjust yourself to them and it's another kind of experience altogether.\n\nIf the crowd gets big enough, it gets solitary. It gets like the studio. In other words, you're just playing for yourself. If the crowd is very, very big, you're playing for yourself, yeah. But if it's a normal-sized hall, then there is a conversation going on.\n\n**MM:** Do you prefer that?\n\n**LC:** No, I don't prefer it either. I'd like to get along without both.\n\n**MM:** Without both?\n\n**LC:** Yeah.\n\n**MM:** So why do you do it?\n\n**LC:** I do it for the money.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Right, \"for the money,\" says he, irony stamped all over his face... But, OK, let me roll with that: what about recording. Do you record also for the money?\n\n**LC:** I do everything for the money now.\n\n**MM:** No, really, Leonard. [Laughs] \"Do not dress in those rags for me, I know you are not poor...\" I'm quoting you.\n\n**LC:** I'm serious. I'm serious. I had this notion that I'm bankrupt and every time I turn around there's another child, another mouth to feed. And it caused me to panic, and to start examining my contracts very carefully.\n\n**MM:** And yet you seem to take such great care about recording.\n\n**LC:** Yes, I take a lot of care.\n\n**MM:** You take a lot of care that it will be a commercial record or, rather, an expression of what you want it to be?\n\n**LC:** If I knew how to make a commercial record, I would make one. I've been trying to sell out for...ever, since I started this art racket. But I don't know how to sell out. I don't know how to make a commercial record. I don't know how to write a commercial poem. I don't know how to write a commercial novel. I've tried. I never tried to be obscure. I never tried to make my work for a limited audience, you know, I've been trying to interest the masses in my vision for a long time.\n\n**MM:** And is that the attitude that you're going to a studio with?\n\n**LC:** I certainly don't go into a studio with the idea of eliminating any part of the audience from access to my work. No, I would like it to appeal to as many people as possible. I would like it to be very popular. I felt that way about all my work. I've never felt that it belonged among a certain people, or a certain kind of person.\n\n**MM:** But you are a major artist recognised and adored by many all over the world.\n\n**LC:** Well, I don't speak to the masses, by any means. I have a very limited audience. I think I have an audience of a very high quality.\n\n**MM:** But your songs are sung by many and are covered by many, many singers the world over.\n\n**LC:** Yeah, but I mean I have no illusions of the fact that I'm a major artist. I know that I have an audience, but I'm not... I don't have the access to the world audience that other artists have.\n\n**MM:** Would you like to?\n\n**LC:** Well, it's not something I dream about. As I say, I would like the work to reach as many people as it possibly can.\n\nThe work... Any work has a kind of organic boundary. And I think that the nature of a work will bring it to the right amount of people that it really is designed for.\n\nI have designed my work for as many people as possible but my vision itself may be limited. It may have its own natural boundaries, its own natural limitations and perhaps it will never be what you would call a \"worldwide\" vision, a vision that is accessible to the masses and played on every jukebox, on every corner.\n\n**MM:** How can you say it when your song 'Suzanne', for one, is known all over the world.\n\n**LC:** It is in some parts, but... It's moved slowly, and it has a kind of slow vertical movement. You know, moving through the years from one year to another, but it never, at any particular point, was widely exposed. You know, it's been around for a long time and people remember it now and then, so that it keeps interesting new generations of listeners. But it never had a worldwide impact, like, let's say the songs of The Beatles or The Stones would have. As soon as a record is put out, it's instantaneously known by millions of people throughout the world. My work has another kind of movement.\n\n**MM:** But you do have recognition and celebrity. We cannot argue about that.\n\n**LC:** Only in some areas. Down this street, the street where I live, nobody knows or cares about that aspect of my life.\n\n**MM:** Is this why you chose it?\n\n**LC:** No. It's not why I chose it.\n\n**MM:** Does celebrity affect Leonard Cohen the poet?\n\n**LC:** Well, I don't know exactly to whom you're referring when you say that. [A baby cries in the background. LC sings] _The baby's crying_...\n\nEverything that happens. Anything that happens to a man obviously affects him in all his enterprises. And there are enough forces in the world to destroy a poet and artist or a man of any kind. And whatever comes your way is just something you have to deal with. It's not the particular thing in itself.\n\nAny man knows that when he becomes proficient at anything, that he automatically creates hazards for himself. And it's the value of his strength and of his excellence and proficiency in that area in which he's developed himself, as to how he deals with those hazards.\n\nThe hazard of celebrity is just one of the hazards that go with becoming a strong writer. Now it can defeat some men who are not strong enough to deal with it.\n\nOn the other hand, the poverty and rejection and oblivion are other kinds of hazards that can destroy a writer. So that every man, whatever his situation is going to have enemies and trials and ordeals. And that's how he strengthens himself, and that's how he survives or goes under. All that of course is a platitude.\n\n**MM:** There are many singers who sing your songs \u2013 do you enjoy to hear your songs sung by others?\n\n**LC:** I love to hear other singers do my songs. In fact, it is really one of the great pleasures I've had in my whole working life to hear somebody sing a song of mine. And not just people recording, I mean, professional musicians... To hear anybody sing one of my songs always gives me a special kind of feeling. I've never gotten sophisticated about that. If I just pass a bunch of kids and somebody's taken up a guitar and starts to sing 'Bird On The Wire' or 'Suzanne', I'm still very touched by it.\n\n**MM:** Would you like to sing other people's songs?\n\n**LC:** I would like to sing other people's songs, but I find that when I listen to them, when I listen to the version that I've laid down, that it doesn't please me. I think there are some people's songs I could sing, but to be a singer of people's songs, like you are, I think you have to have a special kind of spirit, and also a special musical quality to the voice, that I don't have.\n\n**MM:** Which songs would you like to sing, for instance?\n\n**LC:** Well, I would love to sing 'Eres Tu'. That's the kind of song I would love to sing. That's the song I don't think I could sing. That's the song that you can sing.\n\n**MM:** I did sing it \u2013 not as well as I'd have liked to, alas.\n\nYou know, of all the places in the world, I find it particularly difficult to sing in two places\u2014\n\n**LC:** At once.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] In my native land and in my adapted homeland, I mean, both are really my hometowns. Is it the same for you?\n\n**LC:** It is difficult to play your hometown. No question about it.\n\n**MM:** Why do you think it is?\n\n**LC:** First of all, the audiences you attract are very different than the audiences that usually come to a concert. They are people who ordinarily wouldn't go to that kind of event, who are coming merely to see you, and if you've lived in one place for a long time as I have and your family's been here for some time, it means that a sizeable proportion of the audience is going to be composed of friends and relatives and acquaintances who have no interest in the material other than the fact that someone they know or someone's son or nephew that they know has written it. So you find that the quality of the audience is very, very different. Now, it could possibly be enjoyable and interesting and satisfactory but it generally isn't.\n\nI had the same experience when I published my first book of poems. Suddenly people who had never bought a book of poems ever, and had never read any poetry, were offering me their opinion on this particular book without any understanding of the tradition that it comes out of. In other words, you get a lot of uninformed opinions and a lot of uninformed reactions. Now this could be enjoyable on certain levels, but generally it isn't.\n\n**MM:** Which is your favorite place to perform? Or you don't have any? I, for instance, I love to perform in the States because I get a tremendous boost of energy from the audience there.\n\n**LC:** It's hard to say beforehand. I can always tell you afterwards. I think it's just a matter of how you feel you've been loved. And like love everywhere else, it's often a surprise.\n\nLondon, 1974. Michael Putland / Getty\n**At The House**\n\n* * *\n\n\"WAR BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN\"\n\n**MM:** You're preparing to go on tour now \"for very professional reasons,\" you said in the shed. How do you feel about going on the road for these \"very professional reasons\"?\n\n**LC:** I'm looking forward to it. Something may happen.\n\n**MM:** Like what?\n\n**LC:** Just anything to interrupt monotonous flow of days. [A baby is crying in the background]\n\n_The baby crying, the missus is ill, the bills, the whole dreary escapade_.\n\n_The ship of poetry has wrecked against the rocks of daily life_.\n\n**MM:** What about the monotony of touring?\n\n**LC:** The monotony of touring \u2013 will be interrupted by the adventure of daily life.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] One of the things that I find difficult about going on tour is repeating the same songs for two or three weeks, even longer, without singing them sort of on automatic pilot. But in my case, I go on tour with few musicians, so I can switch song spontaneously, whereas you, when you work with many musicians and backup singers, it's more of a challenge, no?\n\n**LC:** I think that this is something that everybody experiences, but I think if you repeat yourself for a short period of time, it can become tedious, but when you know that you're going to be repeating yourself over and over and over, maybe for thirty or forty or fifty nights in a row, then the repetition takes on another quality and it becomes interesting, and you start devoting yourself to the repetition and seeing it as empty, seeing it as pure form, and seeing it as a challenge each time.\n\nSo you don't say to yourself, \"Oh Christ, I've got to sing 'Suzanne' again\". You say, \"Ah, here it comes again, now it's empty. I've got to pour something into it. I've got to recreate it.\" And if the ordeal has really become intense and really become accentuated, then you can devote yourself to the ordeal and meet it in a certain way that makes it interesting.\n\n**MM:** What about the showbiz part of touring... the sort of idolatry, let me have a piece of your suit, a lock of your hair, things like that? And the glamour?\n\n**LC:** Well, that's very enjoyable. Certainly it's something that has a pleasant taste to it and a sweet taste to it. There are parts of it that have a bitter taste to it. There are times when you feel that it's not doing your character any good. And, again, like a song that has to be repeated over and over again, when you find very receptive audiences over and over again, after a while you stop thinking that it has anything to do with you particularly, that it has anything to do with your virtue, or that in any way validates some aspect of excellence that you think you possess, and it just becomes something to deal with. And it becomes a test of character as to how you are going to deal with it. Are you going to sell out to it? Are you going to believe it? Or, are you going to meet it dispassionately? There are lots of possibilities and alternatives in how you're going to greet this phenomenon.\n\n**MM:** What is it like for you to perform on the stage, if you indeed consider it performing?\n\n**LC:** What do you mean by that? [Laughs] \"If indeed I consider it performing.\" What do you think I consider it? [Laughs louder]\n\n**MM:** I think many, if not most, of the audience in your concerts would consider it an experience.\n\n**LC:** An experience?\n\n**MM:** Yes.\n\n**LC:** You know, you're always asking me questions about the past and the future. I've noticed that about you. What did I mean when I said something and what will I mean when I do something. [Laughing]\n\n**MM:** Does it bother you when I ask you about the past and the future?\n\n**LC:** Not as long as you keep your head on my waist? Are you comfortable?\n\n**MM:** Oh I'm sorry, this recording machine can take only one mic. Would you hold the mic? So that I won't have to hold it and sit so close. Am I sitting too close to you?\n\n**LC:** Not at all.\n\n**MM:** Since my reference to the past seemed to annoy you, let me ask you something about the present. You're awaiting, now, the birth of your second child...\n\n**LC:** That's right. But I don't like to speak about these things in public.\n\n**MM:** What things? You don't know what I'm about to ask.\n\n**LC:** Well, you've already said too much. I consider it extremely indiscreet that you mention the fact that I have children.\n\n**MM:** But you mentioned that you have children.\n\n**LC:** When did I say that? In our previous discussions?\n\n**MM:** Yes, you mentioned it a few times: \" _the baby's crying..._ \" And also in your poetry and songs... \" _I live here with a woman and a child/ The situation makes me kind of nervous/ Yes, I rise up from her arms, she says,/ 'I guess you call this love', I call it service_.\" I'm quoting from your song 'There Is A War'.\n\n**LC:** Ahhh, yes. But we have no reason to assume that everything in my poems and songs reflects accurate events. I mean that actually happened in this world. I don't like to bring my family into the public realm at all. I like to keep it a sanctuary.\n\n**MM:** Okay. I respect that.\n\n**LC:** You know, it's bad enough that people know that my name is Leonard Cohen and that I'm forty years old and I've done this and done that. But if the entire family and friends are summoned, then I think it really does impede my strength.\n\n**MM:** Duly noted and respected.\n\n**LC:** See, I'm not even sure whether the voice of the woman I live with should be heard. It's not a matter of what she says or doesn't say. It's the fact that a certain intimate connection of mine is publicised.\n\n**MM:** Well, in that case, I won't use my interview with Suzanne, I'm sorry, I didn't think it would be an issue when I recorded it.\n\n**LC:** I've got to think about it. Now that I think about it, I think it's not a good idea. I think that it is a weakening force rather than a strengthening force, and you're not interested in weakening me.\n\n**MM:** No.\n\n**LC:** Right.\n\n**MM:** The reason that I interviewed Suzanne is... In my interview with Pablo Casals, I talked with Marta Casals and I found that it strengthened him.\n\n**LC:** In that case, you're already dealing with a man who had made himself strong and at the end of his life, it's very different. I'm not at the same... It's like going from the sublime to the ridiculous. I'm not at the same point. I probably never will be. But Casals is... It's a different kind of life, and he's also dealing with another kind of material. And in that case you're strengthening him because you're talking to a young woman who has devoted herself to an older man and there's an implication of his energy and his strength and his vitality. In my case, it would only be a revelation of intimacy, which is not necessarily salutary.\n\nHamburg, 1970. Gunter Zint / Getty\n\n**MM:** Okay, I respect it, of course, even though I don't agree with you.\n\n**LC:** Very well said, too.\n\n**MM:** Can I leave this part on?\n\n**LC:** Put the explanation on. That's very good.\n\n**MM:** But, you know, I wonder if you are putting a lid on voices of female family members to keep an aura of mystique about you.\n\n**LC:** No, I haven't paid too much attention to that, otherwise it would be a much better myth and a much better aura. If that had really been my intention, to create a very compelling mystery or aura about myself, you know, I wouldn't have used my own name, and I wouldn't have been giving the statistics of my life so freely to anyone who asks.\n\nAmsterdam, 1972. Gijsbert Hanekroot / Getty\n\n**MM:** Since you mentioned your name... You have one of the most aristocratic names in the Jewish culture. Cohen \u2013 a high priest. However, troubadours on this continent especially tend to change their names. And in one of your songs you say, \" _Father change my name_ \". Were you tempted to do it in \"real life\"?\n\n**LC:** No. I was never tempted to change my name. Now sometimes I wish I had, because, in a way, one would like to be just a voice out of nowhere. I understand the power of that kind of lack of information.\n\n**MM:** You mean it in the context of Castaneda's claim that it is best not to have a personal history?\n\n**LC:** Oh, I think there is a lot of strength that is gained from that. Also, just in terms of one's own work, when the history of the individual, the writer is known, it often comes between the listener or between the reader and the work. One is continually interpreting the work through the history of the author, which often gives it a slant that detracts and is quite irrelevant.\n\n**MM:** You mean, people compare and contrast the \"truth\" of your life and how it is manifested in your work?\n\n**LC:** When someone hears a name associated with a kind of background, with a kind of upbringing, with a kind of education, with a kind of experience \u2013 they funnel the song or the work through that information. Now, often their estimation of that background, upbringing, education and experience is totally inaccurate and, to my way of thinking, it interferes with the appreciation of the material.\n\n**MM:** But you do have a personal history.\n\n**LC:** Well, I've never bothered to create an image that would serve the material specifically. That's just because my work happened to grow slowly from quite an early age and it never occurred to me, you know, to go to the trouble to establish anonymity. I started writing and I showed it to friends and they knew who I was and the thing grew so slowly that there was never any point or time to suddenly obscure the origins of the material.\n\n_I asked my father_ ,\n\n_I said, \"Father change my name.\"_\n\n_The one I'm using now it's covered up_\n\n_With fear and filth and cowardice and shame_.\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me_ ,\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me_.\n\n_He said, \"I locked you in this body_ ,\n\n_I meant it as a kind of trial_.\n\n_You can use it for a weapon_ ,\n\n_Or to make some woman smile.\"_\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover... come back to me_\n\n_\"Then let me start again,\" I cried_ ,\n\n_\"Please let me start again_ ,\n\n_I want a face that's fair this time_ ,\n\n_I want a spirit that is calm.\"_\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover... come back to me_\n\n_\"I never, never turned aside,\" he said_ ,\n\n_\"I never walked away_.\n\n_It was you who built the temple_ ,\n\n_It was you who covered up my face.\"_\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover... come back to me_\n\n_And may the spirit of this song_ ,\n\n_May it rise up pure and free_.\n\n_May it be a shield for you_ ,\n\n_A shield against the enemy_.\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover... come back to me_\n\n_Yes and lover, lover, lover, lover... come back to me_.\n\n'Lover Lover Lover'\n\n**MM:** You say, \"Please let me start again, I want a face that's fair this time, I want a spirit that is calm\". What else would you want if you could start again? What would you change?\n\n**LC:** You mean if I had the power to change things?\n\n**MM:** Yes.\n\n**LC:** Well, I don't. I don't... [Laughs quietly] It's impossible to speak of these things because the change you want, the change you wish, is based on experience. The experiences come about through your... Let me put it this way. Any changes that I would want would be based on my experience. And without that experience, I wouldn't have the information to establish what kind of changes I wanted or not, so that the notion of changing is futile. The change is based on experience and the experience is what has made you anyhow. I can't really describe what I mean. Do you know what I mean?\n\n**MM:** Do you mean you are the sum-total of your experience?\n\n**LC:** Yes, and anything that you have within that context is based on what you are anyhow, so... It's just a continuing soap opera.\n\n**MM:** Well, in \"real life\", you have a new experience. You are a father and you have the responsibility of being a parent. Does it change your outlook on life?\n\n**LC:** It does... Oh yes. It does change.\n\n**MM:** In what way?\n\n**LC:** It makes you dull and slow-witted and tired and fed up, among other things. It certainly does do those things. You see, the next generation has already been created and, except to provide a roof and food, the male in this situation is really quite superfluous.\n\n**MM:** Personally, my father was certainly not superfluous in my life. He provided not only a roof and food but inspired me to sing, read and write... What about instilling values, spiritual guidance \u2013 even just the meaning of the family name that you're passing on to them?\n\n**LC:** I suppose I could pass on a few things, but there are many male models around that could do as good a job as I could. As for duplicating myself or reproducing myself, I have no interest in creating someone just like me.\n\n**MM:** So why the children then?\n\n**LC:** Well, the children in my case were generally the woman's idea, but this is nobody's business but my own, you know. I have myself no urgency and no strong desire to participate in the creation of the next generation. I never felt that. But Suzanne, although rationally she doesn't know why she is in the position she's in, was seized by an overwhelming need for children.\n\n_Your father's gone a-hunting_\n\n_And he's lost his lucky charm_\n\n_And he's lost the guardian heart_\n\n_That keeps the hunter from the harm_\n\n_Your father's gone a-hunting_\n\n_He asked me to say goodbye_\n\n_And he warned me not to stop him_\n\n_I wouldn't, I wouldn't even try_\n\n'Hunter's Lullaby'\n\n**MM:** In your song 'There Is A War' you express a sort of a war between man and woman. For real? Or/and metaphorically?\n\n**LC:** That song starts: \"There is a war between the rich and the poor, a war between a man and a woman, there is a war between the ones who say there is a war and the ones who say that there isn't\". But you see, I'm not a politician and I don't have to be bound by any aspect of any particular thing that I have treated. I've described the war between men and women. It's a fact that everybody recognises. It's not something that I have to justify. Any man over thirty knows that there is a war between men and women. I mean even before women became vocal, and their own interpretation of the war.\n\nBut that isn't the only aspect between men and women. It's just one of the aspects that I've treated in my work, and in my life \u2013 I mean sometimes I'm in a state of war with a woman and sometimes there's a truce. Sometimes it feels that there never was a war. And sometimes there never was a truce. We are not always in the aspect of warriors.\n\n**MM:** But surely you don't mean a war for real?\n\n**LC:** Fight to the death.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Your lips are curling \u2013 ironically, it seems.\n\n**LC:** You know what war is.\n\n**MM:** Yes, unfortunately, I do know what a real war is.\n\n**LC:** Well, that's what it is. I mean, we have to assume with each other in a conversation that, in the conversation we both know what we are talking about. And I think you have to assume that the people listening know what we're talking about, and I think we can agree that there is a war between men and women. That is, that often there is a fight to the death, that is a fight to the psychic death between men and women, a struggle for supremacy, and a ruthless and vicious contest of wills.\n\nNow this is only one aspect. This is by no means a total description of all activities between men and women.\n\nI mean a marriage or a long association between a man and a woman is such a subtle and complex and mysterious event that writers, singers and poets will be engaged from now on, and all the time up to now, in trying to illuminate this awesome mystery.\n\n**MM:** Do you think that's more pronounced now because \"women became vocal\", as you put it?\n\n**LC:** No, I don't think there is any more or less. I think this is an aspect of struggle. And I have no idea what it means in the long run. I would say that women's lib, in a sense, gives away the position, and makes the female position somewhat weaker than it was when these activities... when this war was somewhat more camouflaged.\n\nThis only applies to the luxury class. You know, when it comes down to opportunities for employment and equal wages and that sort of thing, I don't think that any reasonable person will have any quarrels with the position that liberated women take on this.\n\nIn terms of the upper classes, and the luxury-loving people (such as we are), then the disclosure of women that they are, you know, at war, kind of gives their position away.\n\nLike, I never thought they were at war until they convinced me of it. I just thought I was taking these bruises accidentally. But now I know there is a full-fledged war, both sides have stated their intentions.\n\n**MM:** Women are stronger than men, you mentioned before.\n\n**LC:** They seem to be very much stronger today. I think that anyone who observes men and women in the same room carefully understands that women make most of the major decisions in any room at any time. They are making the sexual choices, certainly, in most situations nowadays. They seem to be determining the psychic quality in any room that they are in these days.\n\n**MM:** So are you giving up?\n\n**LC:** I quit!\n\n**MM:** [Laughs]\n\n_There is a war between the rich and poor_\n\n_War between the man and the woman_\n\n_There is a war between the ones who say there is a war_\n\n_And the ones who say there isn't_\n\n_Why don't you come on back to the war?_\n\n_Why don't you come on back to the war?_\n\n_You cannot stand what I've become_\n\n_You much prefer the gentleman I was before_\n\n_I was so easy to defeat, I was so easy to control_\n\n_I didn't even know there was a war_\n\n'There Is A War'\n\n**MM:** In 'So Long, Marianne' and in many of your songs and your poems, your lovers are forever parting.\n\n**LC:** That's true. I don't remember any of the songs right now... I don't remember the songs I wrote a long time ago. Let's see... They are all saying goodbye to each other?\n\n**MM:** Well, you love them and leave them.\n\n_Hello, my love_ ,\n\n_And my love_ ,\n\n_Goodbye_.\n\n'Here It Is'\n\n_Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving_.\n\n_Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost_.\n\n'Alexandra Leaving'\n\n_I loved you in the morning_ ,\n\n_Our kisses deep and warm_ ,\n\n_Your hair upon the pillow_\n\n_Like a sleepy golden storm_ ,\n\n_Yes many loved before us_ ,\n\n_I know that we are not new_ ,\n\n_In city and in forest_\n\n_They smiled like me and you_ ,\n\n_But let's not talk of love or chains_\n\n_And things we can't untie_ ,\n\n_Your eyes are soft with sorrow_ ,\n\n_Hey, that's no way to say goodbye_.\n\n'Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye'\n\n_So long, Marianne, it's time that we began_\n\n_To laugh and cry and cry_\n\n_And laugh about it all again_.\n\n'So Long, Marianne'\n\n**LC:** Well, I have a few here on my new record in which they are condemned to each other for eternity. For instance, I have that song, it goes like this:\n\n_I tried to leave you_ ,\n\n_I don't deny_\n\n_I closed the book on us_\n\n_At least a hundred times_\n\n_I wake up every morning by your side_\n\n_The years go by_ ,\n\n_You lose your pride_\n\n_The baby is crying so you do not go outside_\n\n_And all your work is right before your eyes_\n\n_Goodnight, my darling_\n\n_I hope you're satisfied_\n\n_The bed is kind of narrow_ ,\n\n_But my arms are opened wide_\n\n_And here's a man working for your smile_.\n\n'I Tried To Leave You'\n\nThis is a monogamous song.\n\n**MM:** Still, you use the word \"condemn\" to describe monogamy.\n\n**LC:** Lovers condemn. They're like mated beasts \u2013 the same cage and the long embrace and fighting over scraps of freedom. There is a version of the thing which is very unattractive. I think anyone who has lived with anyone else knows what I mean.\n\n**MM:** Much of your work is expressed in terms of relationship between man and woman. Be it allegorically or metaphorically, it's man and woman...\n\n**LC:** I suppose all subjects are just an allegory or metaphor for human activity. I think I was very badly educated and never taught how to work with things; if I had really learned a skill and another relationship with the world in which the emphasis on the social activities were not so strong, I might have been able to treat other subjects. I don't know... That was my experience. I didn't really have significant experience with the world, the forests, the rivers or with machines and ideas. I had very simple and limited relationships. One was with my own mind, that is writing, and the other was with the people that I lived with, which were women.\n\n**MM:** Judging by your poetry and songs, you draw your inspiration from real life relationships with people... With women in particular.\n\n**LC:** Yes, I certainly think in the past that's true. I don't feel that so much anymore.\n\n**MM:** Did you ever get any feedback from persons who had inspired certain experiences or events or emotions you've used publicly, in your writing?\n\n**LC:** I've never been accused of betraying anything that should be left unsaid. No, I don't think that I've exploited it on that level. If you can make something that is beautiful out of something you've experienced, I think that everybody concerned is happy about it.\n\n**MM:** Well, I'm thinking of Zelda Fitzgerald. She seemed to resent that her husband had used their experiences in his work.\n\n**LC:** Yes, well, I guess she had ambitions as a writer herself. But I don't know \u2013 I don't think I've taken anything that anybody could have used in any other way.\n\n_I've been listening_\n\n_To all the dissention_\n\n_I've been listening_\n\n_To all the pain_\n\n_And I feel that no matter_\n\n_What I do for you_\n\n_It's going to come back again_\n\n_But I think that I can heal it_\n\n_But I think that I can heal it_\n\n_I'm a fool, but I think I can heal it_\n\n_With this song_\n\n'Minute Prologue'\n\nHamburg, 1974. Ellen Poppinga / Getty\n**At Rehearsals**\n\n* * *\n\n\"IN THE WOODS\"\n\n**MM:** The creative input of the group during this afternoon's rehearsal was wonderful \u2013 inspiring, really.\n\n**LC:** There is a lot of cross-fertilisation in the group and a lot of ideas do emerge, but I especially like singing with Emily [Bindiger] and Erin [Dickins] because, first of all, they sweeten the air around me, and it makes my own voice sound better to me... my own voice seems bearable when I have it sweetened by these two voices, you know? Like, I'll begin a phrase and they will carry it through into something that is music. I know that what I began was not quite music. But when I hear it develop... For instance, we do a song called 'Leaving Green Sleeves' that is on the record [ _New Skin For The Old Ceremon_ y], which is a development of the song 'Greensleeves', and I sing a phrase and Emily and Erin carry it right down the line, bars beyond where I end. And I think people can, even at the end of their phrase, think charitably of what I have done.\n\n_I sang my songs, I told my lies_ ,\n\n_To lie between your matchless thighs_.\n\n_And ain't it fine, ain't it wild_\n\n_To finally end our exercise_.\n\n_Then I saw you naked in the early dawn_ ,\n\n_Oh, I hoped you would be someone new_.\n\n_I reached for you but you were gone_ ,\n\n_So lady I'm going too_.\n\n_Green sleeves, you're all alone_\n\n_Green sleeves, you're all alone_ ,\n\n_The leaves have fallen, the men have all gone home_.\n\n_Green sleeves, it's so easily done_ ,\n\n_Leaving the Lady Green Sleeves_.\n\n'Leaving Green Sleeves'\n\n**MM:** When we were singing with you around your kitchen table back in Montreal, you said that you cannot duplicate this kind of a feeling in a studio.\n\n**LC:** Well, I think you can duplicate it. I don't think I did. That particular song that we were singing, 'Lover, Lover, Lover', we sang that song better around the kitchen table than we had in the studio. But I think that that's just because I haven't mastered the studio yet in the same way that I've mastered the kitchen table.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I hope, perhaps, if I continue making records, I will be able to have a higher mastery of the studio. I think we could have gotten that feeling in the studio.\n\nIf you had come down to the studio, and maybe Roshi had been there and some other friends, then we could have gotten that feeling. It's just a matter of failure of energy.\n\nYou know, there were so many other things that had to be done that I had to settle for a version of the song that was respectable, that reached a certain standard.\n\n**MM:** I'm sorry, I thought you meant it in a general way...\n\n**LC:** No, I didn't mean it in a general... I think that all these things are possible. There's no reason why that kind of energy and that kind of magic cannot be conjured in a studio situation. I think it can. I think there are records around that... For instance, Dylan's 'Rainy Day Woman' has that feeling of people just jamming together, and it is a wonderful thing when it comes, and I think that song ['Lover Lover Lover'] should have had that. That's one of the songs that I feel... somewhat reluctant about.\n\n**MM:** How do you feel about the other songs on this new record that you've just finished, _New Skin For The Old Ceremony_?\n\n**LC:** Well, I tend to answer that in a technical way. I think I'm pleased with the record. There are three songs that I feel I would have redone if I had the time and the energy. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to bring a record from its conception to its conclusion and adhere to certain standards and principles, because you're dealing with large numbers of people and a lot of machinery, and there are a lot of areas, moment after moment, in which the whole thing can fall away from the standards you've set, so, by and large, I'm pleased with it.\n\nThe production, I think, is good. The sound is good. The conception is good. The arrangements are excellent. I've had the great good luck of working with a man by the name of John Lissauer, who has understood the work very, very well, and everything he's added to the song and the music has been, I think, very fine.\n\nI do have quarrels here and there. But they're of a minor quality. There are three songs that I would redo, if I could do it. I don't want to say what they are because there's no point in casting shadows on the thing.\n\nNaturally, I feel like someone said about poems. You know, you never finish a poem, you just abandon them. So I feel that a lot of the songs, if I had kept them around for another four or five years, would have had interesting developments. But I don't think I could tolerate in myself, and my dependents certainly couldn't tolerate, another five or six years of silence. So that, all these things considered, I think it's okay.\n\n**MM:** During the rehearsal break, you said that you are quite satisfied with the record you've just completed because the music is more in the foreground now than it has ever been before.\n\n**LC:** Well, when I say I'm satisfied, I mean that I find it endurable. In other words, I'm not totally humiliated by the work I have a lot of reservations about. That goes without saying. But I'm pleased by the fact that there is a record because I never thought that there would be another record. I thought that I had a number of unfinished songs that I couldn't seem to finish. I thought that, for very good reason, the muse had deserted me, and that I would not stand around scratching at her door and I would have the courage to turn my back on the whole thing, which I was quite prepared to do and had done, even though there was pressure on me to make another record \u2013 you know, financial pressure and also the pressure of the challenge.\n\nBut I had pretty well turned my back on it. And I had abandoned all these unfinished songs I had pretty well closed the book on.\n\nAnd, for some reason or another, I had a golden fortnight and a lot of songs presented conclusions to me. So I found myself with some finished songs, which was very refreshing. I hadn't had that experience for a long time.\n\n**MM:** I had a wise teacher who maintained that a gift is also a liability.\n\n**LC:** A gift is a liability?\n\n**MM:** Yes. Do you feel that your gifts are also a liability?\n\n**LC:** Not at all.\n\n**MM:** Don't you feel a certain responsibility to them? Disciplined because of them? I wondered about it when you said the muse had deserted you, \"For very good reasons\".\n\n**LC:** Well, you know, I think that there is tremendous justice and equilibrium in the psychic world or in the invisible world or that mental world, or whatever you want to call it... and that we are always completely responsible for our own condition. And when I say that I was no longer visited by inspiration, to put it in classical terms, I felt that was quite justified.\n\nIt's hard to go into the actual reasons for that and I don't think it does me any service to try to describe it any more thoroughly. It's just that if I knew the poems weren't coming, I knew that either I was resting, which was the charitable description of what the process was, or I was not leading the kind of life which invited that kind of inspiration.\n\n**MM:** Which is, what?\n\n**LC:** Well, it's hard to say exactly what it is, you know. It's a thing of degree and it's a subtle thing. Everybody understands this, that they can be off one day or two days or three days but then when they're off continually, they generally know why. They can either adjust their direction or if they're particularly pig-headed and stubborn, and irresponsible, they can persist in their course and endure sterility. And I suppose there are all kinds of complexities, but generally, we are... I would say we are always responsible for this kind of situation ourselves, and the correction of it. Anyhow, I had the illusion [that] the correction of it is in our own hands too.\n\n_I looked for you in everyone_\n\n_And they called me on that too_\n\n_I lived alone but I was only_\n\n_Coming back to you_\n\n_Ah they're shutting down the factory now_\n\n_Just when all the bills are due_\n\n_And the fields they're under lock and key_\n\n_Tho' the rain and the sun come through_\n\n_And springtime starts but then it stops_\n\n_In the name of something new_\n\n_And all the senses rise against this_\n\n_Coming back to you_\n\n_And they're handing down my sentence now_\n\n_And I know what I must do_\n\n_Another mile of silence while I'm_\n\n_Coming back to you_\n\n_There are many in your life_\n\n_And many still to be_\n\n_Since you are a shining light_\n\n_There's many that you'll see_\n\n_But I have to deal with envy_\n\n_When you choose the precious few_\n\n_Who've left their pride on the other side of_\n\n_Coming back to you_\n\n_Even in your arms I know_\n\n_I'll never get it right_\n\n_Even when you bend to give me_\n\n_Comfort in the night_\n\n_I've got to have your word on this_\n\n_Or none of it is true_\n\n_And all I've said was just instead of_\n\n_Coming back to you_\n\n'Coming Back To You'\n\n**MM:** Your music was not expressed properly in your records prior to this new album, you told me before...\n\n**LC:** Well, I felt that I had a lot of trouble translating my ideas... You did an interview with Joni Mitchell a few weeks ago that I heard, where I think Tom Scott spoke of the fact that Joni didn't know the technical language of music, but that he could translate her vision into music. Well, I came across such a man, John Lissauer, who completely understood the nature of my music and intention of the lyrics and could translate this into music and not only that, but could augment them and elaborate them so that the effort can satisfy his own high intentions, so... I'm quite pleased with the music that has come out. I think it's just a scanty beginning, but it's a respectable beginning of what I hope will be... at least a collaboration that lasts for another record or so.\n\n**MM:** Do you listen to your previous recordings?\n\n**LC:** No, I don't like listening to them, but I think they're okay.\n\n**MM:** Why don't you like listening to them?\n\n**LC:** I already heard them...\n\n**MM:** [Laughs]\n\n[John Lissauer, producer and arranger, enters the room]\n\n**LC:** Malka, this is John Lissauer. John, Malka is a singer.\n\n**MM:** Hi John, yours is a new association with Leonard I understand.\n\n[Leonard leaves the room]\n\n**JOHN LISSAUER** : Yes. I met him through Lewis Furey, another local Montrealer. I made some records with him and I've just put together a band for him. We did two weeks at the Nelson Hotel. And Leonard came down and sort of liked the approach that I had taken and there you have it. He came to New York and we talked. And we decided to try a couple of cuts and see what happened. And... the way it worked... I saw myself more of an illustrator, to put Leonard's songs in a framework, to give it the colours...\n\nI tried to work to Leonard rather than make him change in any way. The way we recorded everything was to work basically to Leonard's voice and his guitar and maybe a bass or drums or another guitar, but very, very simply. We'd record that until we got something that we were very happy with. And then we would add the colours, add the textures to that, to give it a kind of framework. So, in some cases, things are very sparse, if that was appropriate, and in some cases, they are more done up.\n\n**MM:** Did you find the music challenging?\n\n**JL:** Tremendously.\n\n**MM:** In what way?\n\n**JL:** Now, you hit me with the easy questions. I'll have to get it in before Leonard comes back... Leonard doesn't play an extra note. He doesn't write an extra word. Everything is scaled. It's actual simplicity. It would be almost impossible to clutter Leonard's music. It makes it very challenging to find just the right little nuances to imply the... environment for each of his songs. To enhance that, and make it visual.\n\nEach of his songs is like a little event, a vignette, a dream... It's complete and unto itself. Leonard writes songs from moments of inspiration and he doesn't intellectualise them very much. He's totally uncompromising and he won't change what he does.\n\n**MM:** Leonard mentioned to me that it was hard for him to find someone who could understand what he tried to do musically, before, since he wasn't trained musically.\n\n**JL:** Well, I don't know how hard he looked. I mean, what he did in the past, he worked with people who are kind of similar to me, or I'm similar to them. John Simon, his first producer/musical director is very creative, very talented and quite a visual musician and very inspired. And Bob Johnston, who did the next couple of albums is the same way. Very sensitive.\n\nAnd then, as far as I know, Leonard didn't record in the past three years... He probably just took a break. And then we sort of got together...\n\n**MM:** You're a trained musician, right? I saw or, rather, heard it during the rehearsal today and from this latest of Leonard's recordings.\n\n**JL:** Yeah. Pretty legitimate. Pretty legitimate. I went to college and studied at a music conservatory. I started out as a classical clarinetist. Then I started to play piano and started to get into pop music. My whole family are musicians. Even if I hadn't learned to read a note, I think I would have ended up with the same musical appreciation that I got.\n\n**MM:** Do you think that the wedding of a classically trained musician and the raw musician like Leonard\n\n**JL:** Oh, I think it works great because, whereas you call Leonard a \"raw\" musician, he's really an intuitive musician. His musical awareness is really acute. He can listen to something and find the real essence of it faster than most very well trained musicians can. And that's what a musician really is. His songs are not intellectualised. They are not overthought. When he writes music he doesn't approach his songs the way a legitimate composer would approach them, with a lot of careful melodic construction and inner cleverness. He presents a very simple and basic song, very much from the true folk tradition.\n\n**MM:** Do you help with composing the music as well?\n\n**JL:** No. No way. Occasionally, I will add to it in terms of writing or orchestrating an introduction or an interlude or something and I'll try and use motifs that he might use or imply or just melodic sense. I will never try and rewrite any of his music or do anything like that because it's usually one hundred percent correct. All you can do is enhance. You can't manipulate it.\n\n**MM:** Do you often get, \"What is Leonard Cohen really like?\"\n\n**JL:** [Laughs] All the time... Well, he's the easiest artist I've ever worked with. The easiest in terms of being totally without ego. Absolutely easy to communicate with in all ways. Very considerate and punctual. He's never difficult to get a hold of. He always does exactly what he says he's going to do. He's a very hard worker. A much harder worker than I am. I was always willing to quit earlier than he was and that's very unusual in someone who's supposed to be a big star. You expect a bit of temperament and eccentricity... I never met anyone like him. He's a teacher and he's a learner and he's a gem.\n\n**MM:** Many people have an image of Leonard Cohen as mysterious, elusive \u2013 an image born out of his poetry and lyrics, perhaps. Is he like this in person?\n\n**JL:** Yes... The great thing about Leonard is he gives you little gems all the time. Little zingers. Every line that he even speaks, even his analogies, are very small and simple and beautiful and often very ambiguous. He's very, very sensitive and he also is very careful to keep things contained, and to keep them on a poetic level. He's very stimulating by doing less than is expected and doing it beautifully.\n\nHe's also a man of opposites, conflicts and ambiguities. And that's what makes him have that image to the public of difficult to approach. He really is not difficult to approach at all. He's quite open. And... he's just vague enough to make the person he's with be very alive. He's a master. I've never met anyone like him really. Everyone who gets to know him finds Leonard attractive because he doesn't compete. And especially with women, he doesn't compete at all and he makes himself very vulnerable.\n\n**MM:** [Approaching back up singer] I have a special love for back up singers. Amazing your range and versatility... and humility... I hope it's okay to bring you to the foreground here and ask you to introduce yourself?\n\n**EMILY:** [Back-up singer] Hi, my name is Emily Bindiger. I'm from New York. I'm 19. Got long hair. I'm short and I sing loud. [Laughs] And I'm on five cuts on the album. And now I'm doing Leonard's tour in Europe.\n\n**MM:** And you've been involved with Leonard's work for how long?\n\n**EB:** For just about a year now. Last summer in Niagara-on-the-Lake in Ontario I was in the production of _Sisters Of Mercy_ , then we did it off-Broadway.\n\n**MM:** Does Leonard surprise you sometimes?\n\n**EB:** Yeah, I think Leonard has a tendency to put his singing down. I enjoy his singing immensely. There's something about his vocal style, about his voice, that moves me very much... [Laughs] Not to tears, as Leonard might think.\n\nI enjoy singing with Leonard, but... every so often Leonard will look at me and say, \"What are the words to that song?\" or \"What key is it in?\" and... yeah, that surprises me. The fact that Leonard sometimes forgets his own songs, you know. I know them backwards and forwards and it just surprises me.\n\n**MM:** You know them backwards and forwards, and still you enjoy singing his songs every night.\n\n**EB:** I've been what you call a Leonard Cohen freak since I was around fourteen. My sister introduced me to Leonard's music and from then on I just grabbed up all the albums. I felt that his music suited my voice and my personal style of singing. I could do as many embellishments as I wanted because I feel his music lends itself to that, lends itself to different people doing what they want with his music.\n\n**MM:** You mean you can pour yourself into it?\n\n**EB:** Very easily. I can put myself in some of the situations, make it a part of me. That's why I'm glad I'm going on tour now. I just get off on singing the music.\n\n**LC:** [Entering the room] Do I have to leave for this interview?\n\n**EB:** No. You can sit in.\n\n**LC:** You can lie down on this bed, Emily... I think you need a pillow. Put your feet up here.\n\n**EB:** [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I don't want you to feel left out when the action starts.\n\n**EB:** And I enjoy working with Leonard.\n\n**LC:** He's a prince.\n\n**EB:** [Laughs]\n\n**MM:** Do you write your own songs, Emily?\n\n**EB:** I do... Last summer I started writing a song. It sounded exactly like Leonard's song. I just threw it out the window. It was like, really, a direct lift of one of his songs.\n\n**LC:** Why didn't you give it to me, then? Why did you throw it out?\n\n**EB:** Oh, I didn't throw it out. I just stuck it in a drawer. [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** Which song of mine did it remind you of?\n\n**EB:** Oh, I just heard 'Chelsea's Song'.\n\n**LC:** Did you do the lyrics?\n\n**EB:** Yeah, I did the lyrics. It even started with \"I remember...\" [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I think we should do this song.\n\n**EB:** [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I found a song that I didn't even have to write that's my own.\n\nNew York, circa 1968. Roz Kelly / Getty\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Emily, you are nineteen years old and the music that your generation hears is hard rock, soft rock \u2013 quite different from Leonard's.\n\n**EB:** I do my best to avoid loud and rocky music. I sort of go for the sound like Joni Mitchell, Gordie Lightfoot, David Bromberg. Very country, finger-picking, which is probably why I enjoy singing Leonard's music. [Strums guitar, and sings]\n\n_It's four in the morning, the end of December_\n\n_I'm writing you now just to see if you're better_\n\n_New York is cold, but I like where I'm living_\n\n_There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening_.\n\n_I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert_\n\n_You're living for nothing now_ ,\n\n_I hope you're keeping some kind of record_.\n\n_Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair_\n\n_She said that you gave it to her_\n\n_That night that you planned to go clear_\n\n_Did you ever go clear?_\n\n_Ah, the last time we saw you, you looked so much older_\n\n_Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder_\n\n_You'd been to the station to meet every train_\n\n_And you came home without Lili Marlene_\n\n_And you treated my woman to a flake of your life_\n\n_And when she came back she was nobody's wife_.\n\n_Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth_\n\n_One more thin gypsy thief_\n\n_Well I see Jane's awake_\n\n_She sends her regards_.\n\n_And what can I tell you my brother, my killer_\n\n_What can I possibly say?_\n\n_I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you_\n\n_I'm glad you stood in my way_.\n\n_If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me_\n\n_Well your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free_.\n\n_Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes_\n\n_I thought it was there for good so I never tried_.\n\n_And Jane came by with a lock of your hair_\n\n_She said that you gave it to her_\n\n_That night that you planned to go clear_\n\n_Sincerely a friend_\n\n'Famous Blue Raincoat'\n\n**MM:** Bravo, Emily!\n\n**EB:** That's my favourite, my favourite song of Leonard's. I sang that song in _Sisters Of Mercy_ and every night there would be a different story in my head about what it means and the emotions it would evoke. They would stem from something different each night, each performance. Inevitably, on stage, I would end up hysterically crying at the end of the song. I think musically and lyrically, it's just beautiful.\n\n**MM:** You sang it like a woman that lived ninety years, not only nineteen.\n\n**EB:** I look more like twelve and I had to overcome it. [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I thought you were twelve.\n\n**EB:** Sorry, Leonard.\n\n**LC:** You are fired.\n\n**MM:** Leonard, how do you feel when such a young person understands your song on this level?\n\n**LC:** Oh, I've never thought of Emily as a young person.\n\n**MM:** Emily, do you contribute to the arrangements of the songs?\n\n**EB:** Yes. Quite a lot. Whenever I think of an idea, we end up just doing it. There's another girl doing the tour, Erin Dickins, and I say, \"Let's try this\", and if the musical director likes it, inevitably we keep it. Well, we improve on it, you know, because we get off on each other's creativity.\n\n**MM:** I heard that you also vetoed one of Leonard's songs, like you decided that you didn't want to sing it.\n\n**EB:** That's exactly what happened. We just looked at the chart of one of the songs and we said, \"You want to do it?\" \"Nah, I don't want to do it.\" \"You want to do it?\" And it went around like that. We all decided that we just didn't want to do it and, you know, we wanted to throw the chart out the window actually in the middle of 18th Street in New York.\n\n**MM:** Do you get a lot of, \"What is Leonard really like?\"\n\n**EB:** [Laughs] I guess people expect me to say that he's all that he is reputed to be, from his poetry and from his songs. That he's this incredible lover with ninety million women on his side... [Laughs]\n\nI don't know. Maybe he is like that. Certainly, in _Sisters Of Mercy_ that's what he was made out to be and a lot of people got freaked out by that. The critics thought that he was very narcissistic, and this whole self-love thing, the whole sex-oriented feeling that a lot of people have about him, I guess, it comes through in some parts of his work. But, as far as what Leonard's really like? He's really like Leonard...\n\n**ERIN DICKINS** [Back-up singer \u2013 joins Emily, Leonard and Malka] The only thing Leonard demands of you is to create, not to copy things that happened. He's just happy if you're creating and making a mood. And\u2014\n\n**LC:** He's a prince.\n\n**MM:** Leonard, Emily mentioned _Sisters Of Mercy_. How did you feel about that experience?\n\n**LC:** Well, of course, I would have felt a lot better about it if it had been a smash hit and was still playing now and we'd sold a cast album. The fact that it folded after a few performances certainly does colour my feelings but, to tell you the truth, I'm glad that it folded, because I never really loved the show.\n\nI was always having to make some kind of adjustment in my mind, some kind of rationalisation of why it might succeed or why it might be good.\n\nI realised after the show had got underway that there were grave defects in it. And, in a sense, it didn't deserve to succeed and it's not one of those instances where I feel that the critics destroyed us, which they did, or that it was unjustifiably condemned. I feel that there was something lacking in the show and that it did not have that special kind of life, interior life, which would allow it to survive.\n\n_Well they lay down beside me_ ,\n\n_I made my confession to them_.\n\n_They touched both my eyes_\n\n_And I touched the dew on their hem_.\n\n_If your life is a leaf_\n\n_That the seasons tear off and condemn_\n\n_They will bind you with love_\n\n_That is graceful and green as a stem_.\n\n_When I left they were sleeping_ ,\n\n_I hope you run into them soon_.\n\n_Don't turn on the lights_ ,\n\n_You can read their address by the moon_.\n\n_And you won't make me jealous_\n\n_If I hear that they sweetened your night:_\n\n_We weren't lovers like that_\n\n_And besides it would still be all right_ ,\n\n_We weren't lovers like that_\n\n_And besides it would still be all right_.\n\n'Sisters Of Mercy'\n\n**MM:** You thought the criticism of _Sisters Of Mercy_ was justified, Leonard, but aside from that, does it bother you what critics say about your work?\n\n**LC:** [Sings]\n\n_And I thank you, I thank you. For doing your duty_.\n\n_You keepers of truth, you guardians of beauty_.\n\n_Your vision is right. My vision is wrong_.\n\n_I'm sorry for smudging the air with my song_.\n\n_Lalalalalala_\n\n'A Singer Must Die'\n\n**MM:** Touring, is sort of living a life of a gypsy, travelling all over the world. But always... Well, so far at least, you've always returned to Montreal. To Quebec of all places, at this time of all times?\n\n**LC:** I have a little house in Montreal, a little family in the house, little garden, the corn is growing, the beans are growing up the stalks. I live on a nice little street. The children come in and we give them cookies. It's just nice here.\n\n**MM:** Well, you make it sound so nice, yet not long ago you said that you feel like an immigrant in your own country.\n\n**LC:** Did I say that?\n\n**MM:** Yes.\n\n**LC:** When did I say that? I don't remember saying that. It's true. I live on a street of immigrants. In any sense, I don't mean that in any self-suffering sense. I live on a street of immigrants. I live right on the dividing line between French and English Montreal and the kind of no-man's land where the Greeks and Portuguese live. And I feel that I belong in this particular section of the city. I guess I do feel like an immigrant.\n\n**MM:** But it's almost a political statement for a major English/Canadian poet like you to live in Montreal, Quebec, these days. Are you politically oriented?\n\n**LC:** I'm aware of who is governing me. I'm somewhat aware of what people want me to do. As for participating in that process, I have my own tiny avenues of participation.\n\n**MM:** Which are?\n\n**LC:** Well, on the most obvious level, I can vote. I can praise or condemn leaders or policies in my personal conversation. But, more important than that, I can, for myself \u2013 I don't just sway large masses of people one way or another toward political goals, but I can place certain values in the air, articulate them for myself and just let them stand there to maybe encourage a certain kind of behaviour or to impede another kind.\n\n**MM:** Let me put it another way: your language of expression is English. You live nowadays in a Canadian province that has just passed a bill to have an official language which is French \u2013 only French. Even created an official language police to bar English in public discourse. How do you feel about it?\n\n**LC:** I feel a little fine about that. It doesn't bother me at all. In fact, I don't see how a nation can survive without having a single language. It's a utopian idea to think that a nation can really have two languages.\n\nI'm not talking about Canada. Canada isn't really a nation, so it can have as many languages as it wants. That's its great value and its great glory \u2013 that it really isn't a nation.\n\nBut Quebec really is a nation, in the sense that it's one people with one religion and one language and one kind of experience \u2013 all living together, six million of them in the same place. It's absolutely understandable that they should have their own language.\n\nI would make another proposal. For instance, there are English people living in Quebec who also had a long experience over the generations, who don't speak another language, who have a common experience. Why should these people be compelled to suffer the extremities of a minority experience and this is exactly what the French Canadians have asked about themselves and answered, \"No, why should we?\" Why should the English, who share and associate with the large English-speaking culture of North America, and even the world, why should they be compelled to suddenly deal in French? They shouldn't. There's no reason why they should be.\n\nThere's only one solution. That's partition. Just as French Qu\u00e9bec is a reality, there is another reality which nobody speaks of. And that is the reality of English Quebec. And for all the reasons that there should be a French Qu\u00e9bec, there should be an English Quebec. And English Quebec should also be guaranteed. There's no reason why English Quebec should not be guaranteed and why its language and its experience should not be guaranteed.\n\nTherefore, there should be a partition. Quebec should be partitioned right down St. Lawrence Boulevard. Everything west of St. Lawrence Boulevard, running right to Ottawa, should be English Quebec and should be guaranteed as English Quebec. And everything east of St. Lawrence Boulevard, that is right to the Atlantic Ocean, should be French Qu\u00e9bec, and there should be no quarrel between these two peoples.\n\n**MM:** People who are not in this room cannot see the smile on your face.\n\n**LC:** Well, I'm serious about this, actually. I think that any French person will understand, after having their own experience in Quebec and somehow living the life of a minority people, when they themselves feel and are a majority. And there are cultural differences. Such things do exist and it's foolish not to validate these differences of cultural experience.\n\nWell, the English in Quebec had a different cultural experience than the French and the English in other parts of Canada. That experience is valid and important and rich. And it should be guaranteed. And it should not be overwhelmed by legislation in Quebec. Nor should it be overwhelmed by legislation in Ottawa. It is a unique experience. And I myself want to protect it and encourage it. That's why I know that Quebec has to be partitioned. There has to be an English Quebec, with the same sense of sovereignty that French Qu\u00e9bec has.\n\n_The blood, the soil, the faith_\n\n_These words you can't forget_\n\n_Your vow, your holy place_\n\n_O love, aren't you tired yet?_\n\n_The blood, the soil_ ,\n\n_The faith O love_ ,\n\n_Aren't you tired yet?_\n\n_A cross on every hill_\n\n_A star, a minaret_\n\n_So many graves to fill_\n\n_O love, aren't you tired yet?_\n\n'The Faith'\n\n**MM:** When I listened to what we talked before, there seems to be a\u2014\n\n**LC:** What we said before.\n\n**MM:** What we said before, oh God, one day I'll learn to speak English properly.\n\n**LC:** You don't mind me correcting you, do you?\n\n**MM:** No.\n\n**LC:** You very rarely make a mistake.\n\n**MM:** Ahhh, you don't hear it through my ears. [Laughs]. You'll be surprised what I hear... especially on the recording of our conversation. But at one point in the recording you were talking about self-improvement. Why this desire for self-improvement?\n\n**LC:** No, it was your interest in self-improvement.\n\n**MM:** Well, you mentioned it a few times, but to give you one example, you said that you quit smoking for self-improvement.\n\n**LC:** I said that ironically. I don't know why I quit smoking. There is a reason why I quit smoking but it's very, very private. And I think that you can only quit smoking if you have a very, very private reason. I don't know if my reason is private enough to keep me away from tobacco indefinitely.\n\n**MM:** You also mention in your poems and songs that...\n\n**LC:** Do you have a cigarette?\n\n**MM:** Oh no. [Laughs] No... In our recorded conversation as well as in your songs and poems you mention that...\n\n**LC:** [Sings]\n\n_The years go by_\n\n_You lose your pride_\n\n_The baby's crying_\n\n_So you do not go outside_\n\nThe whole story is told in that song. In fact, everything that you asked me could be answered by the material. And anything I say outside the material has a dull and tedious ring to it. It would really be best to listen to the material itself, rather than question me to speak casually about these things.\n\n**MM:** Well, it's precisely because I listened to the material itself, that I wonder why do you keep referring to yourself, or to the \"I\" in denigrating terms, if not derogatory: \"greedy\", \"ugly\" and\u2013\n\n**LC:** I never said I was ugly.\n\n**MM:** \"We are ugly but we have the music\", you say in 'Chelsea Hotel' and \"for this ugly hump at which you stare\", in 'Avalanche' and in 'Please Don't Pass Me By' you go much further and say\u2013\n\n**LC:** Oh yes. Yes. I remember that. Look, if you're going to insist on holding me to these... You know... We're speaking now in a profane situation that, you know... Excuse me, I'm just scratching my pubic hair.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] I'm amusing you, I see, you can't stop smiling... But leaving all pubescent matters, do you remember saying, \"Please understand. I never had a secret chart to get to the heart of this or any other matter\"?\n\n**LC:** [Sings]\n\n_Please understand_.\n\nYes, I remember that.\n\n**MM:** Poets have been regarded through the ages as prophets, or having the pulse on the truth, that's why I'm inclined to think that poets like you, do have \"a secret chart to the heart of this or other matter\". And in this context I wonder if I could run by you a few more words.\n\n**LC:** Sure. Go right ahead.\n\nAmsterdam, 1972. Gjisbert Hanekroot / Getty\n\n**MM:** \"Free\" and \"slave\" are repeated frequently in your work...\n\n**LC:** What about it?\n\n**MM:** These words, as well as \"greedy\" and \"begging\", are words that are also repeated by the poets in the Jewish prayer book, and by prophets in the Bible\u2014\n\n**LC:** I'm dead, you know. I don't have any idea of \"slave\" or \"free\" now. I don't know what it means. I don't care what it means.\n\n**MM:** Let me turn to your song 'Please Don't Pass Me By'. Here you renounce your dignity, your time, your courage. You say \"take it all away. Everything. My style. Everything.\" What is left?\n\n**LC:** Mmmmm. What is left. Search me. I never think about those things.\n\n**MM:** So you mean that when you say it or when you write it or when you sing it, it's just come out \u2013 from where?\n\n**LC:** [Long pause] Just the mind turns over.\n\n**MM:** It obviously hasn't turned over to the word, joy...\n\n**LC:** Joy. I just think of Bob Johnston's wife. Joy. He just mentioned her.\n\n**MM:** But, seriously, when I listened to your records I was aware that joy was missing from your songs. Yet now that I met you, I see there's a lot of joy in you, as well as laughter, playfulness \u2013 even jousting with your interviewer.\n\n**LC:** Too good.\n\n**MM:** Thank you. [Laughs] But really, it amazes me that such a dominant aspect of your character is missing in your recordings, your songs.\n\n**LC:** I agree completely. I think that there's an aspect that I've completely left out, and perhaps as I get better, I'll be able to include it.\n\n**MM:** \"Better\"?\n\n**LC:** As I master the possibilities of the work, I'll be able to treat more aspects of the diameter whatever it is... facets. A lot of the time, it's facets. I'll be able to treat more things, you know. Can't treat everything now. You just treat the things that are presented to you. You can't be too greedy in this racket. You treat whatever material is presented, and you try to keep yourself as open as possible, but there's no point in just scratching around at doors that don't yield.\n\n**MM:** Here you mention \"greed\" again.\n\n**LC:** Greed. Well, you're talking to one. One greedy fellow.\n\n**MM:** You mention it quite a lot in your lyrics, poems, and prose.\n\n**LC:** Yeah. I'm a greedy chap.\n\n**MM:** In what way?\n\n**LC:** Just in the way everybody understands. They shouldn't ask in what way. You know in what way. See, that's a very serious thing that I'm talking about now because... Everybody's so involved in deep and hidden meanings of everything that they are overlooking the obvious, as my teacher Hugh MacLennan used to say, \"Never overlook the obvious\". Or as another man said, \"Learn to stop barely... at the surface\".\n\nI know what greed is and you know what greed is. Just like you know what war is and I know what war is. There's no need for us to interrupt the natural comprehension of words to try to discover and try to squeeze things so that it will disclose some other level of meaning. We know what things mean. And we should accept those meanings that are instantaneous and clear.\n\n**MM:** Well, I'll tell you why I'm exploring this way or that, okay?\n\n**LC:** Sure.\n\n**MM:** First regarding \"greed\". Now that you've invited me to your home, I see it's quite humble, really, blue collar humble, let alone a world-renowned singer/poet/writer. So I suspect that you are so humble at heart that even the thought of an ambition or desire lends you the feel that you are greedy.\n\nAnd as to why I'm exploring for clarifications... It's partly because... Well, when I was reading your work or listening to your songs, I seem to comprehend your work better with every part of my being except my head. And since I consider myself an intelligent person, I'd like to understand it with my head, as well as with the rest of my body.\n\n**LC:** Well, I think Irving Layton said something to an interviewer who was interviewing me at the time. He happened to be present. He said something like this: \"I don't think Leonard's mind has ever been violated by an idea\". Something like that. I don't remember exactly what he said. But there's no point in bringing the mind into this. There's hardly any ideas in my work, any more than there's an idea in the buzz of a refrigerator. It's there, you know.\n\n**MM:** Well, even if you repeat certain words sort of like repeating your preference of a black attire, it teased my curiosity, your most repeated... Let's take for another example, \"nakedness\" that I mentioned before, or \"naked body\", or, \"Hey, won't you be naked for me?\"\n\n**LC:** Mmmm hummmm. Okay.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] When I see you sing, you seem to be\u2014\n\n**LC:** You see, in the mind, you're on top. You see, just talking about the mind puts me right on my back and exhausts me completely. I have no strength when I deal with the mind.\n\n**MM:** Okay, perhaps it's best to pause now, or stop...\n\n**LC:** From another point of view...\n\n**MM:** [Laughs nervously as suddenly, in a flash, his hand sneaks under her skirt and up her thighs] No, oh, God, Leonard, please! That's not... [Moves his hand away]\n\n**LC:**...And there's another possibility. I get my energy back, you see? I have other options and other ways to look at things and I get my energy back, see?\n\n**MM:** So let's talk about sex then.\n\n**LC:** No.\n\n**MM:** I'd like to turn to \u2013 Leonard, please! [Laughs nervously as Leonard's hand shoots again under her skirt, while both her hands are occupied with the recording device] This is ridiculous.\n\n**LC:** See, that's the only way I can keep my energy going and... You know, I notice that my energy has been slowly leaking away because I was trying to, you know, be a sort of respectful, nice chap during the interview. You know what I mean?\n\n**MM:** You call this respectful? [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** The fact is that... I'm only interested in intimacy. You ought to get a tape recording of me eating you.\n\n**MM:** Pardon?\n\n**LC:** You ought to get a tape recording of me eating you.\n\n**MM:** I'd rather have that experience, forget tape recording it. [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** You know, we could play that.\n\n**MM:** Okay, let's do it... [Laughs]\n\n**LC:** I don't know. You're very good. You're really a first-rate interviewer. But I can't... The last thing I want to talk about is myself. I have no interest in the subject at all.\n\n**MM:** All right. Let's talk about something other than yourself. Let's talk about another major subject addressed in your poetry and songs; the society that you live in...\n\n**LC:** God, I don't know anything about it.\n\n**MM:** Well, in one of your songs, one among my favourites, 'The Story Of Isaac', you maintained that it is about one generation influencing or affecting another generation. I understood it to be about the Covenant.\n\n**LC:** It's not a matter... See, it's... My brain just isn't up to answering these questions. I mean, I understand that these questions have a life of their own and that they have a hunger of their own and that they insist on being answered. But, you know, I feel I'm chomping through my brain, and I wish I could give a proper response to them.\n\n**MM:** Why is it that in your poetry and songs you talk about yourself and the society that you and I live in, but here you don't?\n\n**LC:** I don't know why that is but... You know, there's no point in wearing a diving suit, and one of those big lead helmets, if you're not diving under the sea. If you know what I mean?\n\n**MM:** No, I'm sorry.\n\n**LC:** You know, it's crazy to wear one of those big heavy diving suits to sit in a caf\u00e9 and drink coffee.\n\n**MM:** Okay, we'll go to something that doesn't require heavy diving gear.\n\n**LC:** Okay.\n\n**MM:** Okay, let's return to \"your naked body\" that is mentioned many, many times in your lyrics and poems, or \"Hey, won't you be naked for me?\" or \"nakedness\". And in your music, also, there is a sort of nakedness, a sparseness. And in your stage performances as well, you seem stripped of ego, really, quite naked, beautifully naked...\n\n**LC:** Tell me more.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Do you feel naked when you sing?\n\n**LC:** Only when I don't have my clothes on.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] You know what I mean.\n\n**LC:** No. You see, I'm a hard-bitten professional. I'm a stone professional. I'm not some trembling youth who just picked up his harp. I go from stage to stage and I sing my songs and I do it the best that I possibly can.\n\n**MM:** That would be very hard to believe for a person who heard you sing 'Please Don't Pass Me By'.\n\n**LC:** That's true. Occasionally... When I say \"professional\", I don't mean something that is cold and unfeeling and automatic. I mean someone who is prepared to take the risks of the evening without making any excuses for them, whether they're good or whether they're bad. And occasionally, something remarkable happens, and occasionally, something disastrous happens. From time to time there will be a real exposure, and a real intimacy and a real surprise for everybody concerned, and sometimes there will be just the professional rendering that meets the standards of the evening and of the profession \u2013 so that occasionally something wonderful happens and then occasionally something dull happens.\n\n_I was walking in New York City and I brushed up against the man in front of me_.\n\n_I felt a cardboard placard on his back_.\n\n_And when we passed a streetlight_ ,\n\n_I could read it, it said \"Please don't pass me by \u2013 I am blind, but you can see_\n\n_I've been blinded totally \u2013 please don't pass me by.\"_\n\n_I was walking along 7th Avenue, when I came to 14th Street_\n\n_I saw on the corner curious mutilations of the human form; it was a school for handicapped people_.\n\n_And there were cripples, and people in wheelchairs and crutches and it was snowing_ ,\n\n_And I got this sense that the whole city was singing this:_\n\n_Oh please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_Oh please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_For I am blind, but you can see, yes, I've been blinded totally, oh please don't pass me by_.\n\n_And you know as I was walking I thought it was them who were singing it_ ,\n\n_I thought it was they who were singing it, I thought it was the other who was_\n\n_Singing it, I thought it was someone else_.\n\n_But as I moved along I knew it was me, and that I was singing it to myself. It went:_\n\n_Please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_Oh please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_For I am blind, but you can see, well, I've been blinded totally, oh please don't pass me by_.\n\n_Oh please don't pass me by_.\n\n_Now I know that you're sitting there deep in your velvet seats and you're_\n\n_Thinking \"Uh, he's up there saying something that he thinks about, but I'll_\n\n_Never have to sing that song.\"_\n\n_But I promise you friends, that you're going to be singing this song: it may not be tonight_ ,\n\n_It may not be tomorrow, but one day you'll be on your knees_\n\n_And I want you to know the words when the time comes_.\n\n_Because you're going to have to sing it to yourself, or to another, or to your brother_.\n\n_You're going to have to learn to sing this song, it goes:_\n\n_Please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_Ah you don't have to sing this... not for you_.\n\n_Please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_For I am blind, but you can see_ ,\n\n_Yes, I've been blinded totally_ ,\n\n_Oh please don't pass me by_.\n\n_Well I sing this for the Jews and the Gypsies and the smoke that they made_.\n\n_And I sing this for the children of England, their faces so grave_.\n\n_And I sing this for a saviour with no one to save_.\n\n_Hey, won't you be naked for me?_\n\n_Hey, won't you be naked for me?_\n\n_It goes:_\n\n_Please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_Oh please don't pass me by_ ,\n\n_For I am blind, but you can see, yes, I've been blinded totally_ ,\n\n_Oh now, please don't pass me by_.\n\n_Well you know I have my songs and I have my poems_.\n\n_I have my book and I have the army, and sometimes I have your applause_.\n\n_I make some money, but you know what my friends_ ,\n\n_I'm still out there on the corner_.\n\n_I'm with the freaks_ ,\n\n_I'm with the hunted_ ,\n\n_I'm with the maimed, yes I'm with the torn_ ,\n\n_I'm with the down, I'm with the poor_.\n\n'Please Don't Pass Me By (A Disgrace)'\n\nAtlanta, 1974. Tom Hill / Getty\n**In Leonard's Study**\n\n* * *\n\n\"ALL THE ANSWERS ARE HERE\"\n\n**MM:** Let me turn to this quote attributed to you: \"I don't think of myself being a writer, a singer or whatever, the occupation of being a man is so much more.\"\n\n**LC:** Yeah, I remember I did say that. When did I say that? A while ago?\n\n**MM:** Well, your last interview, as far as I know, was about a year ago, so it was definitely more than a year ago.\n\n**LC:** I don't exactly know what I'm getting at, though I do recognise the first part of the statement that I don't... I don't assault myself with those kinds of description of my activities when I get up... I mean, at my work I consider myself that kind of worker. I think what I was trying to say is that it is hard enough to keep life and limb together these days without burdening yourself with a particular description of who you are. But in a sense we are amateurs and dilettantes, and this notion of getting by and having to examine all possibilities, rather than meet every situation as a singer, as a writer, as a poet.\n\n**MM:** I took it to mean, when you said \"the occupation of being a man\", what in Yiddish is called: a mentch.\n\n**LC:** Oh that's right. That's a good one. That's a good way to look at it, I think maybe I meant that. I don't remember what I meant. I know I was trying to press home some sort of point at the time.\n\n**MM:** Just to clarify, what means a mentch to you? A moral human being? A decent man?\n\n**LC:** I have tremendous resistance describing ideal archetypes. I think there are so many different ways of getting by and I wouldn't like to contribute to any of the tyrannies by adding my own version of what excellent behaviour might constitute...\n\n**MM:** I meant it in terms of the personal, not in the definitive or abstract general.\n\n**LC:** I don't know. That activity has been somewhat unconscious for me. I somehow... I think... I'm convinced that I'm a man. And I'm not quite sure what a manly position on the things I confront is. You know... I trust that my activities could be described as manly.\n\n**MM:** Returning to _Slaves_ , did you really feel that you were dying... as a poet, as an artist, when you wrote _Slaves_?\n\n**LC:** I don't know. I don't speak of these things outside of the work. Whatever is there is in the voice and... I really have no interest in being my own footnote.\n\n**MM:** There is so much bitterness in _Slaves_ and the tone of voice is almost like a fallen idol.\n\n**LC:** Well, I'm trying to treat all the experiences that I know, and maybe when the stuff is finished, and there's a lot of work to look into, maybe one will be able to find all the various aspects represented. As I say, I take the material that is offered me. I don't sit down and plan, \"I'm going to write a bitter book. I'm going to write a lyric song.\" You take the material that is at hand, if it's your habit to work this way. See, look at all that pile of stuff. I don't know what the tone of that book that is emerging out of that pile of manuscript \u2013 I don't know what the tone is right now. I'm not even interested in what the tone is. I'd like to be surprised by whatever emerges, will represent my condition at the moment. It's not like an astrological chart, you know.\n\n**MM:** Before your book _The Energy Of Slaves_ was published, I read somewhere that you had some apprehensions of publishing it.\n\n**LC:** Sure. I always have some reservations about my work. I'm never sure, you know, whether it's worthwhile putting it on the marketplace. I go from the feeling that this book shouldn't be published to the feeling that it's absolutely required reading for everyone.\n\n[Shuffles papers, flips pages]\n\nListen to this:\n\n_Oh take this longing from my tongue_\n\n_Whatever useless things these hands have done_\n\n_Let me see your beauty broken down_\n\n_Like you would do for one you love_\n\n_Your body like a searchlight my poverty revealed_\n\n_I would like to try your charity_\n\n_Until you cry, now you must try my greed_\n\n_And everything depends upon how near you sleep to me_\n\n_Just take this longing from my tongue_\n\n_All the lonely things my hands have done_\n\nThat song was begun in 1966 and was finished in '74. Here are all the versions of it, different. [Shuffles paper]... But this is the first version of it, here...\n\nNo, wait. It was in here. This notebook here. Here's a picture of me in 1968, Athens.\n\n**MM:** You look different now. More handsome.\n\n**LC:** [Flips pages] And this draft was written in New York City at the Chelsea Hotel.\n\nThis was written at the Grand Bretagne in Athens. A change in my material condition.\n\n_There's a girl in Montreal in 1969..._\n\n[All the while shuffling through papers]\n\nThere's a projected list of titles last winter before it had become the record.\n\nHere are various versions that I thought would be in it but never did arrive at the song. Different versions.\n\nLet's see, 1966 to 1972 is six years. 1974 is eight years. This song's been on my mind for eight years. Here, last summer, the last version, \"For all the longing on my tongue\". There it is. I'm glad to get rid of that song. I even had a file made on that song.\n\n**MM:** Once you finish a song or a poem do you sometimes feel like doing it over?\n\n**LC:** If I didn't abandon that song, I would keep on repairing it over and over again. It's just endless jiggling. [Flips pages]\n\n_I could not trade you for a nightingale_.\n\n_I could not trade you for a hammered golden bird_.\n\n_You took away my music_.\n\n_You sent me here with blunted tongue to listen only_.\n\n_Someone is playing a grand piano with two hands_.\n\n_Someone is whispering to her shepherd_.\n\n_I never got to wear my high leather boots_.\n\n_I never became a sign for everything that is high and nervous_.\n\n_You entered me into a quarrel with a woman and you said_ ,\n\n_This is your voice. I never got to build the barn_.\n\n_Only once did I ride with Kid Marley_.\n\n_The band ran down like an unwound music box, too slow and too sweet_.\n\n_A fungus became attached to the spirit of song and high pretensions infected the gift of words_.\n\n_I believe what they said about me_.\n\n_Someone has begun to squeeze the old accordion_.\n\n_I am forbidden to murder him_.\n\n_You are not listening to me_.\n\n_You are fiddling in your pocket_.\n\n_Someone is performing the national dance_.\n\n_The patriots have gathered round_.\n\n_Thank you, sir. Bless you, sir_.\n\n_You were so beautiful as a woman_.\n\n_You were so beautiful as a song_.\n\n_You are so ugly as a god_.\n\n**MM:** Oh, God... I'm not familiar with... What is it you were reading to me?\n\n**LC:** I don't know. I'm reading to you from something I wrote last winter. It seems better to read to you in response to questions than to manufacture my own. Now, you can ask me any question now, and I will be able to answer it from this book.\n\n**MM:** Alright, I'll gladly pick up your challenge and roll with it. How do you write?\n\n**LC:** Let me think.\n\n**MM:** You're thinking, Leonard, the mind is at work.\n\n**LC:** I mean, let me search through these pages... There is an answer here. What was the question again? How I write?\n\n**MM:** Yes.\n\n**LC:** You ask me how I write. This is how I write. _I get rid of the lizard. I eschew the philosopher's stone. I bury my girlfriend. I remove my personality from the line so that I am permitted to use the word \"I\" as many times as I want without offending my appetite for modesty. Then I resign. I do errands for my mother, or someone like her. I eat too much. I blame those closest to me for ruining my talent. Then you come to me. The joyous news is mine_.\n\nThe answers are all here... You see?... You can ask me any question, and I will be able to answer it from this book.\n\n**MM:** Okay, let me see if I can come up with something that demands a straight mundane answer rather than sublime poetry. Like, are you married, Leonard?\n\n**LC:** No, but I have a wife.\n\n**MM:** How is that?\n\n**LC:** _Hurry to your dinner_.\n\n_Hurry to your food_.\n\n_Finish feeble prayer, stonework, golem duties toward the woman being born_.\n\n_Hurry to the thigh in your plate and the cloudy city_.\n\n_Lean over your round world_.\n\n_Cut off rusty talk with the unfucked woman, the unconvinced friend_ ,\n\n_The countless uncertain universes, avoid diplomacy with them_.\n\n_Hurry to your appetite_.\n\n_Hurry to your birthright and the night of long knives and grease_.\n\n_Hurry, worker in the realms of song_.\n\n_Hurry, angel, covered spirit, minstrel of my greasy pilgrimage_.\n\n_And hurry back to the warm bed where she is sleeping, where it is dark, her face turned away_ ,\n\n_And you meet in half sleep, kind to each other as if newly met_.\n\n_Sleep against her back, your arm across her waist, your hand under her breast_.\n\n_Until she thrashes in her sleep_.\n\n_The flies walk over your face_.\n\n_She does not know how to make you comfortable_.\n\n_She never has_.\n\n_Hurry to sleep_.\n\n_Find a way to get upstairs_.\n\n_The bells have rung, the faithful are breathing frankincense_.\n\n_In a crack of the wood shutters the morning has begun_.\n\n_Hurry to your stretched-out nakedness and to lightly touch yourself_\n\n_As will some time the woman being born_.\n\n_Jiggle your knees, mind worker, hurry through your testament_.\n\n_Invent your song_.\n\n_Invent your power_.\n\n_Hurry to be born in the bed beside her_.\n\n_Hurry to the fish hook swimmer_.\n\n_Hurry to your destiny_.\n\n_Hurry to your cunt_.\n\n_Hurry to your vision of God_.\n\n_Time is like an arrow_.\n\n_Hurry to the bank_.\n\n_Hurry to your unborn children_.\n\n_Hurry to your thin body and your suntan_.\n\n_Then the slugs will dance, the pure night sky will not mock you_.\n\n_Hurry to your discipline and your bland regime_.\n\n_Move faster than the stain, the fat, the disappointed heart_.\n\n_Hurry to the peanut butter and the cool summer drink_.\n\n_Hurry to your miracle_.\n\n_Hurry to the empty stomach, the victory fast, the unbuilt temple_.\n\n_Wake her up and quarrel in your bed_.\n\n_Eat together through the dark_.\n\n_Seize the round world and stop it from struggling and plant your mouth in the burnt skin_.\n\n_I am your dead voice_.\n\n**MM:** Oh, that's powerful, great!\n\n**LC:** This is really great... Ask me any question...\n\n**MM:** Is this for your next book?\n\n**LC:** Don't know what will become of this. Seems to go on. This is a good way to answer questions.\n\n**MM:** I notice that this is very clean. Is this the first draft?\n\n**LC:** Yes, this is just the first draft. Something I had no idea what this is, or what it's meant to become. I just lock myself in a room for a few hours every day, and produce this... This is good. This is really wonderful. All the answers are here.\n\n**MM:** When was the last time you looked at what you were just reading?\n\n**LC:** In fact, I never looked at it. So I think this is maybe the first time I've ever read it. I think maybe I read it through once, shortly after I did it last winter.\n\n**MM:** How do you feel about reading it now?\n\n**LC:** It's got all the answers in it, ask me any question and I will be able to answer it from this book.\n\n**MM:** Okay, let's see... Try to find something far out... What is utopia for you?\n\n**LC:** _I said, Because it is so horrible between us_ ,\n\n_I will go and stop Egypt's bullet_.\n\n_Trumpets and a curtain of razor blades_.\n\n_Organ music_.\n\n_She said, That's beautiful_.\n\n_Then I can commit suicide and the child falls into strangers' hands_.\n\n_The radio said, He helped a lot of people but the good, they do die young_ ,\n\n_I just looked around and he was gone_.\n\n_I said. She said. The monstrosities of Lilith attack her_.\n\n_Yug, yug, yug, she said_.\n\n_What you did to me, she said_.\n\n_What you did to me, I said_.\n\n_The lonely, we said_.\n\n_The nights of hands on ourselves_.\n\n_Your unkindness, we said_.\n\n_Your greed_.\n\n_Your unkindness_.\n\n_Your bitter tongue_.\n\n_Give me time_.\n\n_You never learn_.\n\n_Your ancestors_.\n\n_My ancestors_.\n\n_Fuck you, I said_.\n\n_You shit_.\n\n_Stop screaming_.\n\n_I can't stand it_.\n\n_You can't stand anything_.\n\n_Nobody can live like this_.\n\n_In front of the child_.\n\n_Let him learn_.\n\n_This is no good_.\n\n_You're fuckin right, it's no good_.\n\n_This kitchen was once beautiful_.\n\n_Oil lamps, order, the set table_.\n\n_Sabbath observed_.\n\n_That's what I want_.\n\n_You don't want it_.\n\n_You don't know what I want_.\n\n_You don't know anything about me_.\n\n_You never did_.\n\n_Not in the beginning_.\n\n_Not now_.\n\n_In the realms, where this marriage was sealed, where the wedding feast goes on and on_ ,\n\n_Where Adam and Eve face one another_ ,\n\n_The foundations are faultless and secure_ ,\n\n_Your beast's hair flairs like black fire upward and your breasts, now in maidenhood_ ,\n\n_Now in motherhood, draw down my face_ ,\n\n_Our hunger blessed by sun and moon_ ,\n\n_A ring of dancers round the house_\n\n_Where within the room is hid_ ,\n\n_Where within the bed is undone_ ,\n\n_Whereupon the hunger's joined_ ,\n\n_Where within the one speaks himself expressions yet unknown_.\n\n**MM:** This is your take of utopia for the world? For society?\n\n**LC:** This is the world.\n\n**MM:** Do you make note of when you wrote it?\n\n**LC:** Sure I do, but I would never tell you. Maybe it would pin me down.\n\n**MM:** Oh no, I wasn't thinking of it in this way.\n\n**LC:** [Flipping pages]\n\n**MM:** I think you're surprised by these poems.\n\n**LC:** I haven't looked at these for a long time. I think it was only the other night that I went through them.\n\n**MM:** What do you think of them?\n\n**LC:** _The blind man loves you with his eyes, the deaf man with his music_.\n\n_The hospital, the battlefield, the torture room must serve you with numberless petitioners_.\n\n_On this most ordinary night, so bearable, so plentiful in grave distractions_ ,\n\n_Touch this worthless ink, this work of shame_.\n\n_Inform me from the great height of your beauty_.\n\n_This is the night of July 8, 1972_.\n\n[Strumming guitar]\n\n**MM:** Leonard.\n\n**LC:** Yes.\n\n**MM:** I was trying to say the other day that you portray yourself in your work as ugly, yet I find you beautiful in real life.\n\n**LC:** I find you beautiful too.\n\n**MM:** You meant it metaphorically in 'Chelsea Hotel', or is it...\n\n**LC:** [Sings]\n\n_You were famous, your heart was a legend_\n\n_You told me again, you preferred handsome men_\n\n_But for me you would make an exception_\n\n_And clenching your fist for the ones like us_\n\n_Who are oppressed by the figures of beauty_\n\n_You fixed yourself_\n\n_You said \u2013 well never mind, we are ugly but we have the music_\n\n_And then you got away, didn't you babe_\n\n_You just turned your back on the crowd_\n\n_But you got away_\n\n_I never once heard you say_\n\n_I need you, I don't need you_\n\n_I need you, I don't need you_\n\n_And all of that jiving around_\n\n**MM:** You know your song, 'Lover Lover Lover'...\n\n**LC:** Yes.\n\n**MM:** I find it strange in a way that the verses are so hard and biting, and the refrain is so soft and inviting.\n\n**LC:** That's a poem you just made there.\n\n**MM:** Do you believe in\u2014\n\n**LC:** [Sings] _I believe in music. I believe in love_.\n\n**MM:** Do you?\n\nIsle of Wight, 1970. Michael Putland / Getty\n\n**LC:** [Flipping pages]\n\n_How to speak poetry. Take the word \"butterfly\". To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items, people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, tremble, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you speak about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. If ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material_.\n\n_What is the expression which the age demands? The age demands no expression whatever. We have seen photographs of bereaved Asian mothers. We are not interested in the agony of your fumbled orgasm. There is nothing you can show on your face that can match the horror of this time. Do not even try. You will only hold yourself up to the scorn of those who have felt things deeply. We have seen newsreels of humans in the extremities of pain and dislocation. Everyone knows that you are eating well and are even being paid to stand up there. You are playing to people who have experienced a catastrophe. This should make you very quiet_.\n\n1972. Getty\n\n[Strums guitar]\n\n_Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Everyone knows you are in pain. You cannot tell the audience everything you know about love in every line of love you speak. Step aside and they will know what you know because they know it already. You have nothing to teach them. You are not more beautiful than they are. You are not wiser. Do not shout at them. Do not force a dry entry. This is bad sex. If you show the lines of your genitals, then deliver what you promise. And remember that people do not really want an acrobat in bed. What is our need? To be close to the natural man, to be close to the natural woman. Do not pretend that you are a beloved singer with a vast loyal audience which has followed the ups and downs of your life up to this very moment. The bombs, the flame-throwers, and all the shit have destroyed more than just the trees and villages. They have also destroyed the stage. Did you think your profession would escape the general destruction? There is no more stage. There are no more footlights. You are among the people. Then be modest. Speak the words, convey the data, step aside. Be by yourself. Be in your own room. Do not put yourself on_.\n\n_This is an interior landscape. It is inside. It is private. Respect the privacy of the material. These poems were written in silence. The courage of the play is to speak them. The discipline of the play is not to violate them. Let the audience feel your love of privacy. Be good whores. These poems are not slogans. They cannot advertise you. They cannot promote your reputation for sensitivity. You are not a stud. You are not a femme fatale. You are students of discipline. Do not act out the words. The words die when you act them out, they wither, and we are left with nothing but your ambition. Speak these words with the exact passion with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression around the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don't peep through them. Just wear them. This is a very difficult thing to do. The poems are nothing but information. They are the Constitution of the inner country. If you declaim them and blow them up with noble intentions and histrionics, then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers' Club or the National Geographic Society. These people know all about the risks of mountain climbing. They honor you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it, this is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps and sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event, but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not in the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence_.\n\n_Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. Do not be a bright thing on the stage. Read Hamlet's speech to the players_.\n\n**MM:** Was 'How To Speak Poetry'... was this in regard to the _Sisters Of Mercy_ show?\n\n**LC:** Yeah, that was something I wrote to the actors. But while I feel a lot of that was justified in terms of the kind of acting that was being done, I was also writing that to myself in terms of my own kinds of performances, both in ordinary living and on the stage.\n\n**MM:** What do you think you'll do in the future when you are really old?\n\n**LC:** Well, I'd like to get a little chicken farm, maybe in South Dakota.\n\n**MM:** [Laughs] Any projects of work, aside from raising chickens?\n\n**LC:** I do have a lot of plans. But I found that the less you talk about your plans, the more chance you have of having them come into being.\n\n[Flipping pages] This is great... Really wonderful... Ask me anything you want... All the answers to your questions are here... All the answers are here...\n\n1967. Jack Robinson / Getty\n\n**Songs Of Leonard Cohen**\n\n* * *\n\nDECEMBER 27, 1967  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Suzanne**\n\n**Master Song**\n\n**Winter Lady**\n\n**The Stranger Song**\n\n**Sisters Of Mercy**\n\n**So Long, Marianne**\n\n**Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye**\n\n**Stories Of The Street**\n\n**Teachers**\n\n**One of Us Cannot Be Wrong**\n\n**Suzanne**\n\n* * *\n\nSuzanne takes you down to her place near the river\n\nYou can hear the boats go by\n\nYou can spend the night beside her\n\nAnd you know that she's half crazy\n\nBut that's why you want to be there\n\nAnd she feeds you tea and oranges\n\nThat come all the way from China\n\nAnd just when you mean to tell her\n\nThat you have no love to give her\n\nThen she gets you on her wavelength\n\nAnd she lets the river answer\n\nThat you've always been her lover\n\nAnd you want to travel with her\n\nAnd you want to travel blind\n\nAnd you know that she will trust you\n\nFor you've touched her perfect body with your mind.\n\nAnd Jesus was a sailor\n\nWhen he walked upon the water\n\nAnd he spent a long time watching\n\nFrom his lonely wooden tower\n\nAnd when he knew for certain\n\nOnly drowning men could see him\n\nHe said \"All men will be sailors then\n\nUntil the sea shall free them\"\n\nBut he himself was broken\n\nLong before the sky would open\n\nForsaken, almost human\n\nHe sank beneath your wisdom like a stone\n\nAnd you want to travel with him\n\nAnd you want to travel blind\n\nAnd you think maybe you'll trust him\n\nFor he's touched your perfect body with his mind.\n\nNow Suzanne takes your hand\n\nAnd she leads you to the river\n\nShe is wearing rags and feathers\n\nFrom Salvation Army counters\n\nAnd the sun pours down like honey\n\nOn our lady of the harbor\n\nAnd she shows you where to look\n\nAmong the garbage and the flowers\n\nThere are heroes in the seaweed\n\nThere are children in the morning\n\nThey are leaning out for love\n\nAnd they will lean that way forever\n\nWhile Suzanne holds the mirror\n\nAnd you want to travel with her\n\nAnd you want to travel blind\n\nAnd you know that you can trust her\n\nFor she's touched your perfect body with her mind.\n\n**Master Song**\n\n* * *\n\nI believe that you heard your master sing\n\nWhen I was sick in bed\n\nI suppose that he told you everything\n\nThat I keep locked away in my head\n\nYour master took you traveling\n\nWell at least that's what you said\n\nAnd now do you come back to bring\n\nYour prisoner wine and bread?\n\nYou met him at some temple where\n\nThey take your clothes at the door\n\nHe was just a numberless man in a chair\n\nWho'd just come back from the war\n\nAnd you wrap up his tired face in your hair\n\nAnd he hands you the apple core\n\nThen he touches your lips now so suddenly bare\n\nOf all the kisses we put on some time before.\n\nAnd he gave you a German Shepherd to walk\n\nWith a collar of leather and nails\n\nAnd he never once made you explain or talk\n\nAbout all of the little details\n\nSuch as who had a worm and who had a rock\n\nAnd who had you through the mails\n\nNow your love is a secret all over the block\n\nAnd it never stops, not even when your master fails.\n\nAnd he took you up in his aeroplane\n\nWhich he flew without any hands\n\nAnd you cruised above the ribbons of rain\n\nThat drove the crowd from the stands\n\nThen he killed the lights in a lonely Lane\n\nAnd an ape with angel glands\n\nErased the final wisps of pain\n\nWith the music of rubber bands.\n\nAnd now I hear your master sing\n\nYou kneel for him to come\n\nHis body is a golden string\n\nThat your body is hanging from\n\nHis body is a golden string\n\nMy body has grown numb\n\nOh now you hear your master sing\n\nYour shirt is all undone.\n\nAnd will you kneel beside this bed\n\nThat we polished so long ago\n\nBefore your master chose instead\n\nTo make my bed of snow?\n\nYour eyes are wild and your knuckles are red\n\nAnd you're speaking far too low\n\nNo I can't make out what your master said\n\nBefore he made you go.\n\nThen I think you're playing far too rough\n\nFor a lady who's been to the moon\n\nI've lain by this window long enough\n\nTo get used to an empty room\n\nAnd your love is some dust in an old man's cuff\n\nWho is tapping his foot to a tune\n\nAnd your thighs are a ruin, you want too much\n\nLet's say you came back some time too soon.\n\nI loved your master perfectly\n\nI taught him all that he knew\n\nHe was starving in some deep mystery\n\nLike a man who is sure what is true\n\nAnd I sent you to him with my guarantee\n\nI could teach him something new\n\nAnd I taught him how you would long for me\n\nNo matter what he said, no matter what\n\nyou'd do.\n\nI believe that you heard your master sing\n\nWhile I was sick in bed\n\nI'm sure that he told you everything\n\nI must keep locked away in my head.\n\nYour master took you traveling\n\nWell at least that's what you said\n\nAnd now do you come back to bring\n\nYour prisoner wine and bread?\n\n**Winter Lady**\n\n* * *\n\nTrav'ling lady stay awhile\n\nUntil the night is over\n\nI'm just a station on your way\n\nI know I'm not your lover.\n\nWell I lived with a child of snow\n\nWhen I was a soldier\n\nAnd I fought every man for her\n\nUntil the nights grew colder.\n\nShe used to wear her hair like you\n\nExcept when she was sleeping\n\nAnd then she'd weave it on a loom\n\nOf smoke and gold and breathing.\n\nAnd why are you so quiet now\n\nStanding there in the doorway\n\nYou chose your journey long before\n\nYou came upon this highway.\n\nTrav'ling lady stay awhile\n\nUntil the night is over\n\nI'm just a station on your way\n\nI know I'm not your lover.\n\n1967. Jack Robinson\n\n**The Stranger Song**\n\n* * *\n\nIt's true that all the men you knew were dealers\n\nWho said they were through with dealing\n\nEvery time you gave them shelter\n\nI know that kind of man\n\nIt's hard to hold the hand of anyone\n\nWho is reaching for the sky just to surrender\n\nWho is reaching for the sky just to surrender.\n\nAnd then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind\n\nYou find he did not leave you very much\n\nNot even laughter\n\nLike any dealer he was watching for the card\n\nThat is so high and wild\n\nHe'll never need to deal another\n\nHe was just some Joseph looking for a manger\n\nHe was just some Joseph looking for a manger.\n\nAnd then leaning on your window sill\n\nHe'll say one day you caused his will\n\nTo weaken with your love and warmth and shelter\n\nAnd then taking from his wallet\n\nAn old schedule of trains he'll say\n\nI told you when I came I was a stranger\n\nI told you when I came I was a stranger.\n\nBut now another stranger seems\n\nTo want you to ignore his dreams\n\nAs though they were the burden of some other\n\nO you've seen that man before\n\nHis golden arm dispatching cards\n\nBut now it's rusted from the elbows to the finger\n\nAnd he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter\n\nYes he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter.\n\nAh you hate to see another tired man\n\nLay down his hand\n\nLike he was giving up the holy game of poker\n\nAnd while he talks his dreams to sleep\n\nYou notice there's a highway\n\nThat is curling up like smoke above his shoulder\n\nIt is curling just like smoke above his shoulder.\n\nYou tell him to come in sit down\n\nBut something makes you turn around\n\nThe door is open you can't close your shelter\n\nYou try the handle of the road\n\nIt opens do not be afraid\n\nIt's you my love, you who are the stranger\n\nIt's you my love, you who are the stranger.\n\nWell I've been waiting, I was sure\n\nWe'd meet between the trains we're waiting for\n\nI think it's time to board another\n\nPlease understand I never had a secret chart\n\nTo get me to the heart of this\n\nOr any other matter\n\nWhen he talks like this you don't know what he's after\n\nWhen he speaks like this you don't know what he's after.\n\nLet's meet tomorrow if you choose\n\nUpon the shore beneath the bridge\n\nThat they are building on some endless river\n\nThen he leaves the platform\n\nFor the sleeping car that's warm\n\nYou realize he's only advertising one more shelter\n\nAnd it comes to you, he never was a stranger\n\nAnd you say OK the bridge or someplace later.\n\nAnd then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind\n\nYou find he did not leave you very much\n\nNot even laughter\n\nLike any dealer he was watching for the card\n\nThat is so high and wild\n\nHe'll never need to deal another\n\nHe was just some Joseph looking for a manger\n\nHe was just some Joseph looking for a manger.\n\nAnd then leaning on your window sill\n\nHe'll say one day you caused his will\n\nTo weaken with your love and warmth and shelter\n\nAnd then taking from his wallet\n\nAn old schedule of trains he'll say\n\nI told you when I came I was a stranger\n\nI told you when I came I was a stranger\n\nI told you when I came I was a stranger...\n\n**Sisters Of Mercy**\n\n* * *\n\nOh the sisters of mercy they are not departed or gone\n\nThey were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on\n\nAnd they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song\n\nOh I hope you run into them, you who've been traveling so long.\n\nYes you who must leave everything that you cannot control\n\nIt begins with your family but soon it comes around to your soul\n\nWell I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how you're pinned\n\nWhen you're not feeling holy your loneliness says that you've sinned.\n\nWell they lay down beside me, I made my confession to them\n\nThey touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem\n\nIf your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn\n\nThey will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.\n\nWhen I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon\n\nDon't turn on the lights, you can read their address by the moon\n\nAnd you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened your night\n\nWe weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right\n\nWe weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right.\n\n**So Long, Marianne**\n\n* * *\n\nCome over to the window my little darling\n\nI'd like to try to read your palm\n\nI used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy\n\nBefore I let you take me home.\n\nNow so long, Marianne, it's time that we began\n\nTo laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.\n\nWell you know that I love to live with you\n\nBut you make me forget so very much\n\nI forget to pray for the angels\n\nAnd then the angels forget to pray for us.\n\nNow so long, Marianne, it's time that we began\n\nTo laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.\n\nWe met when we were almost young\n\nDeep in the green lilac park\n\nYou held on to me like I was a crucifix\n\nAs we went kneeling through the dark.\n\nOh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began\n\nTo laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.\n\nYour letters they all say that you're beside me now\n\nThen why do I feel alone\n\nI'm standing on a ledge and your fine spider web\n\nIs fastening my ankle to a stone.\n\nNow so long, Marianne, it's time that we began\n\nTo laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.\n\nFor now I need your hidden love\n\nI'm cold as a new razor blade\n\nYou left when I told you I was curious\n\nI never said that I was brave.\n\nOh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began\n\nTo laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.\n\nOh you are really such a pretty one\n\nI see you've gone and changed your name again\n\nAnd just when I climbed this whole mountainside\n\nTo wash my eyelids in the rain.\n\nOh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began\n\nTo laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.\n\n**Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye**\n\n* * *\n\nI loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm\n\nYour hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm\n\nYes many loved before us, I know that we are not new\n\nIn city and in forest they smiled like me and you\n\nBut now it's come to distances and both of us must try\n\nYour eyes are soft with sorrow\n\nHey, that's no way to say goodbye.\n\nI'm not looking for another as I wander in my time\n\nWalk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme\n\nYou know my love goes with you as your love stays with me\n\nIt's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea\n\nBut let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie\n\nYour eyes are soft with sorrow\n\nHey, that's no way to say goodbye.\n\nI loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm\n\nYour hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm\n\nYes many loved before us, I know that we are not new\n\nIn city and in forest they smiled like me and you\n\nBut let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie\n\nYour eyes are soft with sorrow\n\nHey, that's no way to say goodbye.\n\n**Stories Of The Street**\n\n* * *\n\nThe stories of the street are mine, the Spanish voices laugh\n\nThe Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas\n\nAnd I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose\n\nYes, one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.\n\nI know you've heard it's over now and war must surely come\n\nThe cities they are broke in half and the middle men are gone\n\nBut let me ask you one more time, O children of the dusk\n\nAll these hunters who are shrieking now, oh do they speak for us?\n\nAnd where do all these highways go, now that we are free\n\nWhy are the armies marching still that were coming home to me\n\nO lady with your legs so fine, O stranger at your wheel\n\nYou are locked into your suffering and your pleasures are the seal.\n\nThe age of lust is giving birth and both the parents ask\n\nThe nurse to tell them fairy tales on both sides of the glass\n\nAnd now the infant with his cord is hauled in like a kite\n\nAnd one eye filled with blueprints, one eye filled with night.\n\nO come with me my little one, we will find that farm\n\nAnd grow us grass and apples there and keep all the animals warm\n\nAnd if by chance I wake at night and I ask you who I am\n\nO take me to the slaughterhouse, I will wait there with the lamb.\n\nWith one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl\n\nI balance on a wishing well that all men call the world\n\nWe are so small between the stars, so large against the sky\n\nAnd lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your eye.\n\n**Teachers**\n\n* * *\n\nI met a woman long ago\n\nHer hair the black that black can go\n\nAre you a teacher of the heart?\n\nSoft she answered no.\n\nI met a girl across the sea\n\nHer hair the gold that gold can be\n\nAre you a teacher of the heart?\n\nYes, but not for thee.\n\nI met a man who lost his mind\n\nIn some lost place I had to find\n\nFollow me the wise man said\n\nbut he walked behind.\n\nI walked into a hospital\n\nWhere none was sick and none was well\n\nWhen at night the nurses left\n\nI could not walk at all.\n\nMorning came and then came noon\n\nDinner time a scalpel blade\n\nLay beside my silver spoon.\n\nSome girls wander by mistake\n\nInto the mess that scalpels make\n\nAre you the teachers of my heart?\n\nWe teach old hearts to break.\n\nOne morning I woke up alone\n\nThe hospital and the nurses gone\n\nHave I carved enough my Lord?\n\nChild, you are a bone.\n\nI ate and ate and ate\n\nNo I did not miss a plate, well\n\nHow much do these suppers cost?\n\nWe'll take it out in hate.\n\nI spent my hatred everyplace\n\nOn every work on every face\n\nSomeone gave me wishes\n\nAnd I wished for an embrace.\n\nSeveral girls embraced me then\n\nI was embraced by men\n\nIs my passion perfect?\n\nNo, do it once again.\n\nI was handsome I was strong\n\nI knew the words of every song\n\nDid my singing please you?\n\nNo, the words you sang were wrong.\n\nWho is it whom I address\n\nWho takes down what I confess?\n\nAre you the teachers of my heart?\n\nWe teach old hearts to rest.\n\nOh teachers are my lessons done?\n\nI cannot do another one\n\nThey laughed and laughed and said,\n\nWell child\n\nAre your lessons done?\n\nAre your lessons done?\n\nAre your lessons done?\n\n**One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong**\n\n* * *\n\nI lit a thin green candle to make you jealous of me\n\nBut the room just filled up with mosquitos\n\nThey heard that my body was free\n\nThen I took the dust of a long sleepless night\n\nAnd I put it in your little shoe\n\nAnd then I confess that I tortured the dress\n\nThat you wore for the world to look through.\n\nI showed my heart to the doctor, he said I just have to quit\n\nThen he wrote himself a prescription\n\nAnd your name was mentioned in it\n\nThen he locked himself in a library shelf\n\nWith the details of our honeymoon\n\nAnd I hear from the nurse that he's gotten much worse\n\nAnd his practice is all in a ruin.\n\nI heard of a saint who had loved you\n\nSo I studied all night in his school\n\nHe taught that the duty of lovers\n\nIs to tarnish the golden rule\n\nAnd just when I was sure that his teachings were pure\n\nHe drowned himself in the pool\n\nHis body is gone but back here on the lawn\n\nHis spirit continues to drool.\n\nAn Eskimo showed me a movie\n\nHe'd recently taken of you\n\nThe poor man could hardly stop shivering\n\nHis lips and his fingers were blue.\n\nI suppose that he froze when the wind took your clothes\n\nAnd I guess he just never got warm\n\nBut you stand there so nice in your blizzard of ice\n\nOh please let me come into the storm.\n\nNew York, circa 1968. Roz Kelly / Getty\n\n**Songs From A Room**\n\n* * *\n\nAPRIL 7, 1969  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Bird On The Wire**\n\n**Story Of Isaac**\n\n**A Bunch Of Lonesome Heroes**\n\n**The Partisan**\n\n**Seems So Long Ago, Nancy**\n\n**The Old Revolution**\n\n**The Butcher**\n\n**You Know Who I Am**\n\n**Lady Midnight**\n\n**Tonight Will Be Fine**\n\n**Bird On The Wire**\n\n* * *\n\nLike a bird on the wire\n\nLike a drunk in a midnight choir\n\nI have tried in my way to be free\n\nLike a worm on a hook\n\nLike a knight from some old fashioned book\n\nI have saved all my ribbons for thee.\n\nIf I, if I have been unkind\n\nI hope that you can just let it go by\n\nIf I, if I have been untrue\n\nI hope you know it was never to you.\n\nLike a baby, stillborn\n\nLike a beast with his horn\n\nI have torn everyone who reached out for me\n\nBut I swear by this song\n\nAnd by all that I have done wrong\n\nI will make it all up to thee.\n\nI saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch\n\nHe said to me \"You must not ask for so much.\"\n\nAnd a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door\n\nShe cried to me \"Hey, why not ask for more?\"\n\nOh like a bird on the wire\n\nLike a drunk in a midnight choir\n\nI have tried in my way to be free.\n\n**Story Of Isaac**\n\n* * *\n\nThe door it opened slowly\n\nMy father he came in\n\nI was nine years old\n\nAnd he stood so tall above me\n\nHis blue eyes they were shining\n\nAnd his voice was very cold.\n\nHe said \"I've had a vision\n\nAnd you know I'm strong and holy\n\nI must do what I've been told.\"\n\nSo he started up the mountain\n\nI was running, he was walking\n\nAnd his axe was made of gold.\n\nWell the trees they got much smaller\n\nThe lake a lady's mirror\n\nWe stopped to drink some wine\n\nThen he threw the bottle over\n\nBroke a minute later\n\nAnd he put his hand on mine.\n\nThought I saw an eagle\n\nBut it might have been a vulture\n\nI never could decide\n\nThen my father built an altar\n\nHe looked once behind his shoulder\n\nHe knew I would not hide.\n\nYou who build these altars now\n\nTo sacrifice these children\n\nYou must not do it anymore\n\nA scheme is not a vision\n\nAnd you never have been tempted\n\nBy a demon or a god.\n\nYou who stand above them now\n\nYour hatchets blunt and bloody\n\nYou were not there before\n\nWhen I lay upon a mountain\n\nAnd my father's hand was trembling\n\nWith the beauty of the word.\n\nAnd if you call me brother now\n\nForgive me if I inquire\n\n\"Just according to whose plan?\"\n\nWhen it all comes down to dust\n\nI will kill you if I must\n\nI will help you if I can.\n\nWhen it all comes down to dust\n\nI will help you if I must\n\nI will kill you if I can.\n\nAnd mercy on our uniform\n\nMan of peace or man of war\n\nThe peacock spreads his fan.\n\n**A Bunch Of Lonesome Heroes**\n\n* * *\n\nA bunch of lonesome and very quarrelsome heroes\n\nWere smoking out along the open road\n\nThe night was very dark and thick between them\n\nEach man beneath his ordinary load\n\n\"I'd like to tell my story\"\n\nSaid one of them so young and bold\n\n\"I'd like to tell my story\n\nBefore I turn into gold.\"\n\nBut no one really could hear him\n\nThe night so dark and thick and green\n\nWell I guess that these heroes must always live there\n\nWhere you and I have only been.\n\nPut out your cigarette my love\n\nYou've been alone too long\n\nAnd some of us are very hungry now\n\nTo hear what it is you've done that was so wrong.\n\nI sing this for the crickets\n\nI sing this for the army\n\nI sing this for your children\n\nAnd for all who do not need me\n\n\"I'd like to tell my story\"\n\nSaid one of them so bold\n\n\"Oh yes, I'd like to tell my story\n\n'Cause you know I feel I'm turning into gold.\"\n\n1967. Jack Robinson / Getty\n\n**Seems So Long Ago, Nancy**\n\n* * *\n\nIt seems so long ago\n\nNancy was alone\n\nLooking at The Late Late Show\n\nThrough a semi-precious stone.\n\nIn the House of Honesty\n\nHer father was on trial\n\nIn the House of Mystery\n\nThere was no one at all\n\nThere was no one at all.\n\nIt seems so long ago\n\nNone of us were strong\n\nNancy wore green stockings\n\nAnd she slept with everyone.\n\nShe never said she'd wait for us\n\nAlthough she was alone\n\nI think she fell in love for us\n\nIn nineteen sixty one\n\nIn nineteen sixty one.\n\nIt seems so long ago\n\nNancy was alone\n\nA forty five beside her head\n\nAn open telephone.\n\nWe told her she was beautiful\n\nWe told her she was free\n\nBut none of us would meet her in\n\nThe House of Mystery\n\nThe House of Mystery.\n\nAnd now you look around you\n\nSee her everywhere\n\nMany use her body\n\nMany comb her hair\n\nIn the hollow of the night\n\nWhen you are cold and numb\n\nYou hear her talking freely then\n\nShe's happy that you've come\n\nShe's happy that you've come.\n\n**The Old Revolution**\n\n* * *\n\nI finally broke into the prison\n\nI found my place in the chain\n\nEven damnation is poisoned with rainbows\n\nAll the brave young men\n\nThey're waiting now to see a signal\n\nWhich some killer will be lighting for pay.\n\nInto this furnace I ask you now to venture\n\nYou whom I cannot betray.\n\nI fought in the old revolution\n\nOn the side of the ghost and the King\n\nOf course I was very young\n\nAnd I thought that we were winning\n\nI can't pretend I still feel very much like singing\n\nAs they carry the bodies away.\n\nInto this furnace I ask you now to venture\n\nYou whom I cannot betray.\n\nLately you've started to stutter\n\nAs though you had nothing to say\n\nTo all of my architects let me be traitor\n\nNow let me say I myself gave the order\n\nTo sleep and to search and to destroy.\n\nInto this furnace I ask you now to venture\n\nYou whom I cannot betray.\n\nYes, you who are broken by power\n\nYou who are absent all day\n\nYou who are kings for the sake of your children's story\n\nThe hand of your beggar is burdened down with money\n\nThe hand of your lover is clay.\n\nInto this furnace I ask you now to venture\n\nYou whom I cannot betray.\n\n**The Butcher**\n\n* * *\n\nI came upon a butcher\n\nHe was slaughtering a lamb\n\nI accused him there\n\nWith his tortured lamb\n\nHe said \"Listen to me, child\n\nI am what I am\n\nAnd you, you are my only son.\"\n\nWell, I found a silver needle\n\nI put it into my arm\n\nIt did some good\n\nDid some harm\n\nBut the nights were cold\n\nAnd it almost kept me warm\n\nHow come the night is long?\n\nI saw some flowers growing up\n\nWhere that lamb fell down\n\nWas I supposed to praise my Lord\n\nMake some kind of joyful sound?\n\nHe said \"Listen, listen to me now\n\nI go round and round\n\nAnd you, you are my only child.\"\n\nDo not leave me now\n\nDo not leave me now\n\nI'm broken down\n\nFrom a recent fall\n\nBlood upon my body\n\nAnd ice upon my soul\n\nLead on, my son, it is your world.\n\n**You Know Who I Am**\n\n* * *\n\nI cannot follow you, my love\n\nYou cannot follow me.\n\nI am the distance you put between\n\nAll of the moments that we will be.\n\nYou know who I am\n\nYou've stared at the sun\n\nWell, I am the one who loves\n\nChanging from nothing to one.\n\nSometimes I need you naked\n\nSometimes I need you wild\n\nI need you to carry my children in\n\nAnd I need you to kill a child.\n\nYou know who I am\n\nYou've stared at the sun\n\nWell, I am the one who loves\n\nChanging from nothing to one.\n\nIf you should ever track me down\n\nI will surrender there\n\nAnd I will leave with you one broken man\n\nWhom I will teach you to repair.\n\nYou know who I am\n\nYou've stared at the sun\n\nWell, I am the one who loves\n\nChanging from nothing to one.\n\nI cannot follow you, my love\n\nYou cannot follow me.\n\nI am the distance you put between\n\nAll of the moments that we will be.\n\nYou know who I am\n\nYou've stared at the sun\n\nWell, I am the one who loves\n\nChanging from nothing to one.\n\n**Lady Midnight**\n\n* * *\n\nI came by myself to a very crowded place\n\nI was looking for someone who had lines in her face\n\nI found her there but she was past all concern\n\nI asked her to hold me, I said \"Lady, unfold me\"\n\nBut she scorned me and she told me\n\nI was dead and I could never return.\n\nWell, I argued all night like so many have before\n\nSaying \"Whatever you give me, I seem to need so much more\"\n\nThen she pointed at me where I kneeled on her floor\n\nShe said \"Don't try to use me or slyly refuse me\n\nJust win me or lose me\n\nIt is this that the darkness is for.\"\n\nI cried \"Oh, Lady Midnight, I fear that you grow old\n\nThe stars eat your body and the wind makes you cold.\"\n\n\"If we cry now,\" she said, \"it will just be ignored.\"\n\nSo I walked through the morning, sweet early morning\n\nI could hear my lady calling\n\n\"You've won me, you've won me, my lord\n\nYou've won me, you've won me, my lord\n\nYes, you've won me, you've won me, my lord\n\nAh, you've won me, you've won me, my lord\n\nAh, you've won me, you've won me, my lord.\"\n\n**Tonight Will Be Fine**\n\n* * *\n\nSometimes I find I get to thinking of the past\n\nWe swore to each other then that our love would surely last\n\nYou kept right on loving, I went on a fast\n\nNow I am too thin and your love is too vast\n\nBut I know from your eyes\n\nAnd I know from your smile\n\nThat tonight will be fine\n\nWill be fine, will be fine, will be fine\n\nFor a while.\n\nI choose the rooms that I live in with care\n\nThe windows are small and the walls almost bare\n\nThere's only one bed and there's only one prayer\n\nI listen all night for your step on the stair\n\nBut I know from your eyes\n\nAnd I know from your smile\n\nThat tonight will be fine\n\nWill be fine, will be fine, will be fine\n\nFor a while.\n\nOh sometimes I see her undressing for me\n\nShe's the soft naked lady love meant her to be\n\nAnd she's moving her body so brave and so free\n\nIf I've got to remember that's a fine memory\n\nAnd I know from her eyes\n\nAnd I know from her smile\n\nThat tonight will be fine\n\nWill be fine, will be fine, will be fine\n\nFor a while.\n\n* * *\n\nThe live version included on _Live Songs_ (1973) contains two additional stanzas:\n\nI've looked into the mirrors in numberless places\n\nThey all smile back at me with their troublesome faces\n\nAnd the cards that they dealt me, there weren't any aces\n\nAnd the horses never listen to me at the races\n\nBut I know from your eyes\n\nAnd I know from your pretty little smile\n\nThat tonight, tonight will be fine\n\nWill be fine, will be fine, will be fine\n\nFor a while.\n\nThere's still one or two of us walking the street\n\nNo arrows of direction painted under our feet\n\nNo angels to warn us away from the heat\n\nAnd no honey to keep us where it is sweet\n\nBut I know from your eyes\n\nAnd I know from your pretty little smile\n\nThat tonight, tonight will be fine\n\nWill be fine, will be fine, will be fine\n\nFor a while.\n\nAnd I know from your eyes\n\nAnd I know from your pretty little smile\n\nThat tonight will be fine\n\nWill be fine, will be fine, will be fine\n\nFor a while.\n\n* * *\n\n'The Partisan': words by Emmanuel d'Astier de la Vigerie, music by Anna Marly. Translation from the French by Hy Zaret.\n\nLondon, 1970. Barry Plummer\n\n**Songs Of Love And Hate**\n\n* * *\n\nMARCH 19, 1971  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Avalanche**\n\n**Last Year's Man**\n\n**Dress Rehearsal Rag**\n\n**Diamonds In The Mine**\n\n**Love Calls You By Your Name**\n\n**Famous Blue Raincoat**\n\n**Sing Another Song, Boys**\n\n**Joan Of Arc**\n\n**Avalanche**\n\n* * *\n\nWell I stepped into an avalanche\n\nIt covered up my soul\n\nWhen I am not this hunchback that you see\n\nI sleep beneath the golden hill\n\nYou who wish to conquer pain\n\nYou must learn, learn to serve me well.\n\nYou strike my side by accident\n\nAs you go down for your gold\n\nThe cripple here that you clothe and feed\n\nIs neither starved nor cold\n\nHe does not ask for your company\n\nNot at the centre, the centre of the world.\n\nWhen I am on a pedestal\n\nYou did not raise me there\n\nYour laws do not compel me\n\nTo kneel grotesque and bare\n\nI myself am the pedestal\n\nFor this ugly hump at which you stare.\n\nYou who wish to conquer pain\n\nYou must learn what makes me kind\n\nThe crumbs of love that you offer me\n\nThey're the crumbs I've left behind\n\nYour pain is no credential here\n\nIt's just the shadow, shadow of my wound.\n\nI have begun to long for you\n\nI who have no greed\n\nI have begun to ask for you\n\nI who have no need\n\nYou say you've gone away from me\n\nBut I can feel you when you breathe.\n\nDo not dress in those rags for me\n\nI know you are not poor\n\nYou don't love me quite so fiercely now\n\nWhen you know that you are not sure\n\nIt is your turn, beloved\n\nIt is your flesh that I wear.\n\n**Last Year's Man**\n\n* * *\n\nThe rain falls down on last year's man\n\nThat's a jew's harp on the table\n\nThat's a crayon in his hand\n\nAnd the corners of the blueprint are ruined since they rolled\n\nFar past the stems of thumbtacks\n\nThat still throw shadows on the wood\n\nAnd the skylight is like skin for a drum I'll never mend\n\nAnd all the rain falls down, amen\n\nOn the works of last year's man.\n\nI met a lady, she was playing with her soldiers in the dark\n\nOh one by one she had to tell them\n\nThat her name was Joan of Arc.\n\nI was in that army, yes I stayed a little while\n\nI want to thank you, Joan of Arc\n\nFor treating me so well\n\nAnd though I wear a uniform I was not born to fight\n\nAll these wounded boys you lie beside\n\nGoodnight, my friends, goodnight.\n\nI came upon a wedding that old families had contrived\n\nBethlehem the bridegroom\n\nBabylon the bride.\n\nGreat Babylon was naked, oh she stood there trembling for me\n\nAnd Bethlehem inflamed us both\n\nLike the shy one at some orgy\n\nAnd when we fell together all our flesh was like a veil\n\nThat I had to draw aside to see\n\nThe serpent eat its tail.\n\nSome women wait for Jesus, and some women wait for Cain\n\nSo I hang upon my altar\n\nAnd I hoist my axe again.\n\nAnd I take the one who finds me back to where it all began\n\nWhen Jesus was the honeymoon\n\nAnd Cain was just the man\n\nAnd we read from pleasant Bibles that are bound in blood and skin\n\nThat the wilderness is gathering\n\nAll its children back again.\n\nThe rain falls down on last year's man\n\nAn hour has gone by\n\nAnd he has not moved his hand\n\nBut everything will happen if he only gives the word\n\nThe lovers will rise up\n\nAnd the mountains touch the ground\n\nBut the skylight is like skin for a drum I'll never mend\n\nAnd all the rain falls down, amen\n\nOn the works of last year's man.\n\n**Dress Rehearsal Rag**\n\n* * *\n\nFour o'clock in the afternoon\n\nAnd I didn't feel like very much.\n\nI said to myself \"Where are you golden boy\n\nWhere is your famous golden touch?\"\n\nI thought you knew where\n\nAll of the elephants lie down\n\nI thought you were the crown prince\n\nOf all the wheels in Ivory Town.\n\nJust take a look at your body now\n\nThere's nothing much to save\n\nAnd a bitter voice in the mirror cries\n\n\"Hey, Prince, you need a shave.\"\n\nNow if you can manage to get\n\nYour trembling fingers to behave\n\nWhy don't you try unwrapping\n\nA stainless steel razor blade?\n\nThat's right, it's come to this\n\nYes, it's come to this\n\nAnd wasn't it a long way down\n\nWasn't it a strange way down?\n\nThere's no hot water\n\nAnd the cold is running thin.\n\nWell, what do you expect from\n\nThe kind of places you've been living in?\n\nDon't drink from that cup\n\nIt's all caked and cracked along the rim\n\nThat's not the electric light, my friend\n\nThat is your vision growing dim.\n\nCover up your face with soap, there\n\nNow you're Santa Claus\n\nAnd you've got a gift for anyone\n\nWho will give you his applause.\n\nI thought you were a racing man\n\nAh, but you couldn't take the pace\n\nThat's a funeral in the mirror\n\nAnd it's stopping at your face\n\nThat's right, it's come to this\n\nYes it's come to this\n\nAnd wasn't it a long way down\n\nAh wasn't it a strange way down.\n\nOnce there was a path\n\nAnd a girl with chestnut hair\n\nAnd you passed the summers\n\nPicking all of the berries that grew there.\n\nThere were times she was a woman\n\nOh, there were times she was just a child\n\nAnd you held her in the shadows\n\nWhere the raspberries grow wild\n\nAnd you climbed the twilight mountains\n\nAnd you sang about the view\n\nAnd everywhere that you wandered\n\nLove seemed to go along with you.\n\nThat's a hard one to remember\n\nYes it makes you clench your fist\n\nAnd then the veins stand out like highways\n\nAll along your wrist\n\nAnd yes it's come to this\n\nIt's come to this\n\nAnd wasn't it a long way down\n\nWasn't it a strange way down?\n\nYou can still find a job\n\nGo out and talk to a friend.\n\nOn the back of every magazine\n\nThere are those coupons you can send.\n\nWhy don't you join the Rosicrucians\n\nThey can give you back your hope\n\nYou can find your love with diagrams\n\nOn a plain brown envelope.\n\nBut you've used up all your coupons\n\nExcept the one that seems\n\nTo be written on your wrist\n\nAlong with several thousand dreams.\n\nNow Santa Claus comes forward\n\nThat's a razor in his mit\n\nAnd he puts on his dark glasses\n\nAnd he shows you where to hit\n\nAnd then the cameras pan\n\nThe stand in stunt man\n\nDress rehearsal rag\n\nIt's just the dress rehearsal rag\n\nYou know this dress rehearsal rag\n\nIt's just a dress rehearsal rag.\n\n**Diamonds In The Mine**\n\n* * *\n\nThe woman in blue, she's asking for revenge\n\nThe man in white \u2013 that's you \u2013 says he has no friends\n\nThe river is swollen up with rusty cans\n\nAnd the trees are burning in your promised land.\n\nAnd there are no letters in the mailbox\n\nAnd there are no grapes upon the vine\n\nAnd there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore\n\nAnd there are no diamonds in the mine.\n\nWell, you tell me that your lover has a broken limb\n\nYou say you're kind of restless now and it's on account of him\n\nWell, I saw the man in question, it was just the other night\n\nHe was eating up a lady where the lions and Christians fight.\n\nAnd there are no letters in the mailbox\n\nAnd there are no grapes upon the vine\n\nAnd there are no chocolates in the boxes anymore\n\nAnd there are no diamonds in the mine.\n\n(You tell them now)\n\nAh, there is no comfort in the covens of the witch\n\nSome very clever doctor went and sterilized the bitch\n\nAnd the only man of energy, yes the revolution's pride\n\nHe trained a hundred women just to kill an unborn child.\n\nAnd there are no letters in the mailbox\n\nOh no, there are no, no grapes upon your vine\n\nAnd there are, there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore\n\nAnd there are no diamonds in your mine.\n\nAnd there are no letters in the mailbox\n\nAnd there are no grapes upon the vine\n\nAnd there are no chocolates in your boxes anymore\n\nAnd there are no diamonds in your mine.\n\n**Love Calls You By Your Name**\n\n* * *\n\nYou thought that it could never happen\n\nTo all the people that you became\n\nYour body lost in legend, the beast so very tame.\n\nBut here, right here\n\nBetween the birthmark and the stain\n\nBetween the ocean and your open vein\n\nBetween the snowman and the rain\n\nOnce again, once again\n\nLove calls you by your name.\n\nThe women in your scrapbook\n\nWhom you still praise and blame\n\nYou say they chained you to your fingernails\n\nAnd you climb the halls of fame.\n\nOh but here, right here\n\nBetween the peanuts and the cage\n\nBetween the darkness and the stage\n\nBetween the hour and the age\n\nOnce again, once again\n\nLove calls you by your name.\n\nShouldering your loneliness\n\nLike a gun that you will not learn to aim\n\nYou stumble into this movie house\n\nThen you climb, you climb into the frame.\n\nYes, and here, right here\n\nBetween the moonlight and the lane\n\nBetween the tunnel and the train\n\nBetween the victim and his stain\n\nOnce again, once again\n\nLove calls you by your name.\n\nI leave the lady meditating\n\nOn the very love which I, I do not wish to claim.\n\nI journey down the hundred steps\n\nBut the street is still the very same.\n\nAnd here, right here\n\nBetween the dancer and his cane\n\nBetween the sailboat and the drain\n\nBetween the newsreel and your tiny pain\n\nOnce again, once again\n\nLove calls you by your name.\n\nWhere are you, Judy, where are you, Anne?\n\nWhere are the paths your heroes came?\n\nWondering out loud as the bandage pulls away\n\nWas I, was I only limping, was I really lame?\n\nOh here, come over here\n\nBetween the windmill and the grain\n\nBetween the sundial and the chain\n\nBetween the traitor and her pain\n\nOnce again, once again\n\nLove calls you by your name.\n\n**Famous Blue Raincoat**\n\n* * *\n\nIt's four in the morning, the end of December\n\nI'm writing you now just to see if you're better\n\nNew York is cold, but I like where I'm living\n\nThere's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.\n\nI hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert\n\nYou're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.\n\nYes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair\n\nShe said that you gave it to her\n\nThat night that you planned to go clear\n\nDid you ever go clear?\n\nAh, the last time we saw you, you looked so much older\n\nYour famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder\n\nYou'd been to the station to meet every train\n\nAnd you came home without Lili Marlene\n\nAnd you treated my woman to a flake of your life\n\nAnd when she came back she was nobody's wife.\n\nWell I see you there with the rose in your teeth\n\nOne more thin gypsy thief\n\nWell I see Jane's awake\n\nShe sends her regards.\n\nAnd what can I tell you my brother, my killer\n\nWhat can I possibly say?\n\nI guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you\n\nI'm glad you stood in my way.\n\nIf you ever come by here, for Jane or for me\n\nYour enemy is sleeping and his woman is free.\n\nYes, and thanks for the trouble you took from her eyes\n\nI thought it was there for good so I never tried.\n\nAnd Jane came by with a lock of your hair\n\nShe said that you gave it to her\n\nThat night that you planned to go clear\n\nSincerely, L. Cohen\n\n**Sing Another Song, Boys**\n\n* * *\n\n(Let's sing another song, boys, this one has grown old and bitter.)\n\nAh his fingernails, I see they're broken\n\nHis ships they're all on fire.\n\nThe moneylender's lovely little daughter\n\nAh, she's eaten, she's eaten with desire.\n\nShe spies him through the glasses\n\nFrom the pawnshops of her wicked father\n\nShe hails him with a microphone\n\nThat some poor singer, just like me, had to leave her\n\nShe tempts him with a clarinet\n\nShe waves a Nazi dagger\n\nShe finds him lying in a heap\n\nShe wants to be his woman.\n\nHe says \"Yes, I might go to sleep\n\nBut kindly leave, leave the future\n\nLeave it open.\"\n\nHe stands where it is steep\n\nOh I guess he thinks that he's the very first one\n\nHis hand upon his leather belt now\n\nLike it was the wheel of some big ocean liner.\n\nAnd she will learn to touch herself so well\n\nAs all the sails burn down like paper.\n\nAnd he has lit the chain\n\nOf his famous cigarillo.\n\nAh, they'll never, they'll never ever reach the moon\n\nAt least not the one that we're after\n\nIt's floating broken on the open sea, look out there, my friends\n\nAnd it carries no survivors.\n\nBut let's leave these lovers wondering\n\nWhy they cannot have each other\n\nAnd let's sing another song, boys\n\nThis one has grown old and bitter.\n\n**Joan Of Arc**\n\n* * *\n\nNow the flames they followed Joan of Arc\n\nAs she came riding through the dark\n\nNo moon to keep her armor bright\n\nNo man to get her through this very smoky night.\n\nShe said \"I'm tired of the war\n\nI want the kind of work I had before\n\nA wedding dress or something white\n\nTo wear upon my swollen appetite.\"\n\nWell, I'm glad to hear you talk this way\n\nYou know I've watched you riding every day\n\nAnd something in me yearns to win\n\nSuch a cold and lonesome heroine.\n\n\"And who are you?\" she sternly spoke\n\nTo the one beneath the smoke.\n\n\"Why, I'm fire,\" he replied\n\n\"And I love your solitude, I love your pride.\"\n\n\"Then fire, make your body cold\n\nI'm going to give you mine to hold\"\n\nSaying this she climbed inside\n\nTo be his one, to be his only bride.\n\nAnd deep into his fiery heart\n\nHe took the dust of Joan of Arc\n\nAnd high above the wedding guests\n\nHe hung the ashes of her wedding dress.\n\nIt was deep into his fiery heart\n\nHe took the dust of Joan of Arc\n\nAnd then she clearly understood\n\nIf he was fire, oh then she must be wood.\n\nI saw her wince, I saw her cry\n\nI saw the glory in her eye.\n\nMyself I long for love and light\n\nBut must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?\n\nAmsterdam, 1972. Gjisbert Hanekroot / Rex Features\n\n**Live Songs**\n\n* * *\n\nAPRIL 1, 1973  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Minute Prologue**\n\n**Passing Through**\n\n**You Know Who I Am**\n\n**Bird On The Wire**\n\n**Seems So Long Ago, Nancy**\n\n**Improvisation**\n\n**Story Of Isaac**\n\n**Please Don't Pass Me By (A Disgrace)**\n\n**Tonight Will Be Fine**\n\n**Queen Victoria**\n\n**Minute Prologue**\n\n* * *\n\nI've been listening\n\nTo all the dissention.\n\nI've been listening\n\nTo all the pain.\n\nAnd I feel that no matter\n\nWhat I do for you\n\nIt's going to come back again.\n\nBut I think that I can heal it\n\nBut I think that I can heal it\n\nI'm a fool, but I think I can heal it\n\nWith this song.\n\n**Passing Through**\n\n* * *\n\nI saw Jesus on the cross on a hill called Calvary\n\n\"Do you hate mankind for what they done to you?\"\n\nHe said \"Talk of love not hate, things to do \u2013 it's getting late.\n\nI've so little time and I'm only passing through.\"\n\nPassing through, passing through\n\nSometimes happy, sometimes blue\n\nGlad that I ran into you\n\nTell the people that you saw me passing through.\n\nI saw Adam leave the Garden with an apple in his hand\n\nI said \"Now you're out, what are you going to do?\"\n\n\"Plant some crops and pray for rain, maybe raise a little cane.\n\nI'm an orphan now, and I'm only passing through.\"\n\nPassing through, passing through\n\nSometimes happy, sometimes blue\n\nGlad that I ran into you\n\nTell the people that you saw me passing through.\n\nI was with Washington at Valley Forge, shivering in the snow.\n\nI said \"How come the men here suffer like they do?\"\n\n\"Men will suffer, men will fight, even die for what is right\n\nEven though they know they're only passing through.\"\n\nPassing through, passing through\n\nSometimes happy, sometimes blue\n\nGlad that I ran into you\n\nTell the people that you saw me passing through.\n\nI was with Franklin Roosevelt's side on the night before he died.\n\nHe said \"One world must come out of World War Two\" (ah, the fool)\n\n\"Yankee, Russian, white or tan,\" he said, \"A man is still a man.\n\nWe're all on one road, and we're only passing through.\"\n\nPassing through, passing through\n\nSometimes happy, sometimes blue\n\nGlad that I ran into you\n\nTell the people that you saw me passing through.\n\n(Let's do it one more time)\n\nPassing through, passing through\n\nSometimes happy, sometimes blue\n\nGlad that I ran into you\n\nTell the people that you saw me passing through.\n\n**Please Don't Pass Me By (A Disgrace)**\n\n* * *\n\nI was walking in New York City and I brushed up against the man in front of me. I felt a cardboard placard on his back. And when we passed a streetlight, I could read it, it said \"Please don't pass me by \u2013 I am blind, but you can see \u2013 I've been blinded totally \u2013 Please don't pass me by.\" I was walking along 7th Avenue; when I came to 14th Street I saw on the corner curious mutilations of the human form; it was a school for handicapped people. And there were cripples, and people in wheelchairs and crutches and it was snowing, and I got this sense that the whole city was singing this:\n\nOh please don't pass me by\n\nOh please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, but you can see\n\nYes, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh please don't pass me by.\n\nAnd you know as I was walking I thought it was them who were singing it, I thought it was they who were singing it, I thought it was the other who was singing it, I thought it was someone else. But as I moved along I knew it was me, and that I was singing it to myself. It went:\n\nPlease don't pass me by\n\nOh please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, but you can see\n\nWell, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh please don't pass me by.\n\nOh please don't pass me by.\n\nNow I know that you're sitting there deep in your velvet seats and you're thinking \"Uh, he's up there saying something that he thinks about, but I'll never have to sing that song.\" But I promise you friends, that you're going to be singing this song: it may not be tonight, it may not be tomorrow, but one day you'll be on your knees and I want you to know the words when the time comes. Because you're going to have to sing it to yourself, or to another, or to your brother. You're going to have to learn to sing this song, it goes:\n\nPlease don't pass me by\n\nAh you don't have to sing this... not for you\n\nPlease don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, but you can see\n\nYes, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh please don't pass me by.\n\nWell I sing this for the Jews and the Gypsies and the smoke that they made. And I sing this for the children of England, their faces so grave. And I sing this for a saviour with no one to save. Hey, won't you be naked for me? Hey, won't you be naked for me? It goes:\n\nPlease don't pass me by\n\nOh please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, but you can see\n\nYes, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh now, please don't pass me by.\n\nNow there's nothing that I tell you that will help you connect the blood tortured night with the day that comes next. But I want it to hurt you, I want it to end. Oh, won't you be naked for me? Oh now:\n\nPlease don't pass me by\n\nOh please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, but you can see\n\nBut I've been blinded totally\n\nOh, please don't pass me by.\n\nWell I sing this song for you Blonde Beasts, I sing this song for you Venuses upon your shells on the foam of the sea. And I sing this for the freaks and the cripples, and the hunchback, and the burned, and the burning, and the maimed, and the broken, and the torn, and all of those that you talk about at the coffee tables, at the meetings, and the demonstrations, on the streets, in your music, in my songs. I mean the real ones that are burning, I mean the real ones that are burning\n\nI say, please don't pass me by\n\nOh now, please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, yeah but you can see\n\nAh now, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh no, please don't pass me by.\n\nI know that you still think that it's me. I know that you think that there's somebody else. I know that these words aren't yours. But I tell you friends that one day\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down on your knees\n\nYou're going to get down...\n\nOh, please don't pass me by\n\nOh, please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, yeah but you can see\n\nYes, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh, please don't pass me by.\n\nWell you know I have my songs and I have my poems. I have my book and I have the army, and sometimes I have your applause. I make some money, but you know what my friends, I'm still out there on the corner. I'm with the freaks, I'm with the hunted, I'm with the maimed, yes I'm with the torn, I'm with the down, I'm with the poor. Come on now...\n\nAh, please don't pass me by\n\nWell I've got to go now friends\n\nBut, please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, yeah but you can see\n\nOh, I've been blinded,\n\nI've been blinded totally\n\nOh now, please don't pass me by.\n\nNow I want to take away my dignity, yes take my dignity. My friends, take my dignity, take my form, take my style, take my honor, take my courage, take my time, take my time...'Cause you know I'm with you singing this song. And I wish you would, I wish you would, I wish you would go home with someone else. Wish you'd go home with someone else. I wish you'd go home with someone else. Don't be the person that you came with. Oh, don't be the person that you came with, oh don't be the person that you came with. Ah, I'm not going to be. I can't stand him. I can't stand who I am. That's why I've got to get down on my knees. Because I can't make it by myself. I'm not by myself anymore because the man I was before he was a tyrant, he was a slave, he was in chains, he was broken and then he sang:\n\nOh, please don't pass me by\n\nOh, please don't pass me by\n\nFor I am blind, yes I am blind\n\nOh but you can see\n\nYes, I've been blinded totally\n\nOh, please don't pass me by.\n\nWell I hope I see you out there on the corner. Yeah I hope as I go by that I hear you whisper with the breeze. Because I'm going to leave you now, I'm going to find me someone new. Find someone new.\n\nAnd please don't pass me by.\n\n**Queen Victoria**\n\n* * *\n\nQueen Victoria\n\nMy father and all his tobacco loved you.\n\nI love you, too, in all your forms\n\nThe slim unlovely virgin floating among German beards\n\nThe mean governess of the huge pink maps\n\nThe solitary mourner of a prince.\n\nQueen Victoria\n\nI am cold and rainy\n\nI am dirty as a glass roof in a train station\n\nI feel like an empty cast iron exhibition\n\nI want ornaments on everything\n\nBecause my love, she gone with other boys.\n\nQueen Victoria\n\nDo you have a punishment under the white lace?\n\nWill you be short with her, make her read those little Bibles?\n\nWill you spank her with a mechanical corset?\n\nI want her pure as power, I want her skin slightly musty with petticoats.\n\nWill you wash the easy bidet out of her head?\n\nQueen Victoria\n\nI'm not much nourished by modern love\n\nWill you come into my life\n\nWith your sorrow and your black carriages\n\nAnd your perfect\n\nMemories.\n\nQueen Victoria\n\nThe Twentieth Century belongs to you and me.\n\nLet us be two severe giants not less lonely for our partnership\n\nWho discolored test tubes in the halls of Science\n\nWho turned up unwelcome at every World's Fair\n\nHeavy with proverb and correction\n\nConfusing the star-dazed tourists\n\nWith our incomparable sense of loss.\n\nBarry Plummer\n\nHamburg, 1970. Gunter Zint / Getty\n\n**New Skin For The Old Ceremony**\n\n* * *\n\nAUGUST 11, 1974  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Is This What You Wanted**\n\n**Chelsea Hotel #2**\n\n**Lover Lover Lover**\n\n**Field Commander Cohen**\n\n**Why Don't You Try**\n\n**There Is A War**\n\n**A Singer Must Die**\n\n**I Tried To Leave You**\n\n**Who By Fire**\n\n**Take This Longing**\n\n**Leaving Green Sleeves**\n\n**Is This What You Wanted**\n\n* * *\n\nYou were the promise at dawn\n\nI was the morning after.\n\nYou were Jesus Christ my Lord\n\nI was the money lender.\n\nYou were the sensitive woman\n\nI was the very reverend Freud.\n\nYou were the manual orgasm\n\nI was the dirty little boy.\n\nAnd is this what you wanted\n\nTo live in a house that is haunted\n\nBy the ghost of you and me?\n\nIs this what you wanted...\n\nYou were Marlon Brando\n\nI was Steve McQueen.\n\nYou were K.Y. Jelly\n\nI was Vaseline.\n\nYou were the father of modern medicine\n\nI was Mr. Clean.\n\nYou where the whore and the beast of Babylon\n\nI was Rin Tin Tin.\n\nAnd is this what you wanted...\n\nAnd is this what you wanted...\n\nYou got old and wrinkled\n\nI stayed seventeen.\n\nYou lusted after so many\n\nI lay here with one.\n\nYou defied your solitude\n\nI came through alone.\n\nYou said you could never love me\n\nI undid your gown.\n\nAnd is this what you wanted...\n\nAnd is this what you wanted...\n\nI mean is this what you wanted...\n\nThat's right, is this what you wanted...\n\n**Chelsea Hotel #2**\n\n* * *\n\nI remember you\n\nWell in the Chelsea Hotel\n\nYou were talking so brave and so sweet\n\nGiving me head on the unmade bed\n\nWhile the limousines wait in the street.\n\nThose were the reasons and that was New York\n\nWe were running for the money and the flesh.\n\nAnd that was called love for the workers in song\n\nProbably still is for those of them left.\n\nAh but you got away, didn't you babe\n\nYou just turned your back on the crowd\n\nYou got away, I never once heard you say\n\nI need you, I don't need you\n\nI need you, I don't need you\n\nAnd all of that jiving around.\n\nI remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel\n\nYou were famous, your heart was a legend.\n\nYou told me again you preferred handsome men\n\nBut for me you would make an exception.\n\nAnd clenching your fist for the ones like us\n\nWho are oppressed by the figures of beauty\n\nYou fixed yourself, you said \"Well never mind\n\nWe are ugly but we have the music.\"\n\nAnd then you got away, didn't you babe\n\nI don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best\n\nI can't keep track of each fallen robin.\n\nI remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel\n\nThat's all, I don't even think of you that often.\n\n**Lover Lover Lover**\n\n* * *\n\nI asked my father\n\nI said \"Father change my name.\"\n\nThe one I'm using now it's covered up\n\nWith fear and filth and cowardice and shame.\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me.\n\nHe said \"I locked you in this body\n\nI meant it as a kind of trial.\n\nYou can use it for a weapon\n\nOr to make some woman smile.\"\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me.\n\n\"Then let me start again,\" I cried\n\n\"Please let me start again\n\nI want a face that's fair this time\n\nI want a spirit that is calm.\"\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me.\n\n\"I never never turned aside,\" he said\n\n\"I never walked away.\n\nIt was you who built the temple\n\nIt was you who covered up my face.\"\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me.\n\nAnd may the spirit of this song\n\nMay it rise up pure and free.\n\nMay it be a shield for you\n\nA shield against the enemy.\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me.\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me\n\nYes and lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover, lover come back to me.\n\n**Field Commander Cohen**\n\n* * *\n\nField Commander Cohen, he was our most important spy.\n\nWounded in the line of duty\n\nParachuting acid into diplomatic cocktail parties\n\nUrging Fidel Castro to abandon fields and castles.\n\nLeave it all and like a man\n\nCome back to nothing special\n\nSuch as waiting rooms and ticket lines\n\nSilver bullet suicides\n\nAnd messianic ocean tides\n\nAnd racial roller-coaster rides\n\nAnd other forms of boredom advertised as poetry.\n\nI know you need your sleep now\n\nI know your life's been hard\n\nBut many men are falling\n\nWhere you promised to stand guard.\n\nI never asked but I heard you cast your lot along with the poor\n\nBut then I overheard your prayer\n\nThat you be this and nothing more\n\nThan just some grateful faithful woman's favorite singing millionaire\n\nThe patron Saint of envy and the grocer of despair\n\nWorking for the Yankee Dollar.\n\nI know you need your sleep now\n\nAh, lover come and lie with me, if my lover is who you are\n\nAnd be your sweetest self awhile until I ask for more, my child\n\nThen let the other selves be rung, yeah, let them manifest and come\n\nTill every taste is on the tongue\n\nTill love is pierced and love is hung\n\nAnd every kind of freedom done, then, oh\n\nOh my love, oh my love, oh my love\n\nOh my love, oh my love, oh my love.\n\n**Why Don't You Try**\n\n* * *\n\nWhy don't you try to do without him?\n\nWhy don't you try to live alone?\n\nDo you really need his hands for your passion?\n\nDo you really need his heart for your throne?\n\nDo you need his labor for your baby?\n\nDo you need his beast for the bone?\n\nDo you need to hold a leash to be a lady?\n\nI know you're going to make, make it on your own.\n\nWhy don't you try to forget him\n\nJust open up your dainty little hand?\n\nYou know this life is filled with many sweet companions\n\nMany satisfying one-night stands.\n\nDo you want to be the ditch around a tower?\n\nDo you want to be the moonlight in his cave?\n\nDo you want to give your blessing to his power\n\nAs he goes whistling past his daddy, past his daddy's grave.\n\nI'd like to take you, take you to the ceremony\n\nWell, that is if I remember the way.\n\nYou see Jack and Jill, they're going to join their misery\n\nI'm afraid it's time for everyone to pray.\n\nYou can see they've finally taken cover\n\nThey're willing, yeah they're willing to obey.\n\nTheir vows are difficult, they're for each other\n\nSo let nobody put a loophole, a loophole in their way.\n\n**There Is A War**\n\n* * *\n\nThere is a war between the rich and poor\n\nA war between the man and the woman\n\nThere is a war between the ones who say there is a war\n\nAnd the ones who say there isn't.\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, that's right, get in it\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, it's just beginning.\n\nWell I live here with a woman and a child\n\nThe situation makes me kind of nervous\n\nYes, I rise up from her arms, she says \"I guess you call this love\"\n\nI call it service.\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, don't be a tourist\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, before it hurts us\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, let's all get nervous.\n\nYou cannot stand what I've become\n\nYou much prefer the gentleman I was before\n\nI was so easy to defeat, I was so easy to control\n\nI didn't even know there was a war.\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, don't be embarrassed\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, you can still get married.\n\nThere is a war between the rich and poor\n\nA war between the man and the woman\n\nThere is a war between the left and right\n\nA war between the black and white\n\nA war between the odd and the even.\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, pick up your tiny burden\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, let's all get even\n\nWhy don't you come on back to the war, can't you hear me speaking?\n\n**A Singer Must Die**\n\n* * *\n\nNow the courtroom is quiet, but who will confess\n\nIs it true you betrayed us? The answer is Yes.\n\nThen read me the list of the crimes that are mine\n\nI will ask for the mercy that you love to decline.\n\nAnd all the ladies go moist and the judge has no choice\n\nA singer must die for the lie in his voice.\n\nAnd I thank you, I thank you for doing your duty\n\nYou keepers of truth, you guardians of beauty\n\nYour vision is right, my vision is wrong\n\nI'm sorry for smudging the air with my song.\n\nOh the night it is thick, my defences are hid\n\nIn the clothes of a woman I would like to forgive\n\nIn the rings of her silk, in the hinge of her thighs\n\nWhere I have to go begging in beauty's disguise.\n\nOh goodnight, goodnight my night after night\n\nMy night after night after night after night after night after night.\n\nI am so afraid that I listen to you\n\nYour sun-glassed protectors they do that to you\n\nIt's their ways to detain, their ways to disgrace\n\nTheir knee in your balls and their fist in your face\n\nYes and long live the state by whoever it's made\n\nSir, I didn't see nothing, I was just getting home late.\n\nGetty\n\n**I Tried To Leave You**\n\n* * *\n\nI tried to leave you, I don't deny\n\nI closed the book on us, at least a hundred times\n\nI'd wake up every morning by your side.\n\nThe years go by, you lose your pride\n\nThe baby's crying, so you do not go outside\n\nAnd all your work it's right before your eyes.\n\nGoodnight, my darling, I hope you're satisfied\n\nThe bed is kind of narrow but my arms are open wide\n\nAnd here's a man still working for your smile.\n\n**Who By Fire**\n\n* * *\n\nAnd who by fire, who by water\n\nWho in the sunshine, who in the night time\n\nWho by high ordeal, who by common trial\n\nWho in your merry, merry month of May\n\nWho by very slow decay\n\nAnd who shall I say is calling?\n\nAnd who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate\n\nWho in these realms of love, who by something blunt\n\nAnd who by avalanche, who by powder\n\nWho for his greed, who for his hunger\n\nAnd who shall I say is calling?\n\nAnd who by brave assent, who by accident\n\nWho in solitude, who in this mirror\n\nWho by his lady's command, who by his own hand\n\nWho in mortal chains, who in power\n\nAnd who shall I say is calling?\n\n**Take This Longing**\n\n* * *\n\nMany men have loved the bells\n\nYou fastened to the rein\n\nAnd everyone who wanted you\n\nThey found what they will always want again\n\nYour beauty lost to you yourself\n\nJust as it was lost to them.\n\nOh take this longing from my tongue\n\nWhatever useless things these hands have done\n\nLet me see your beauty broken down\n\nLike you would do for one you love.\n\nYour body like a searchlight\n\nMy poverty revealed\n\nI would like to try your charity\n\nUntil you cry \"Now you must try my greed\"\n\nAnd everything depends upon\n\nHow near you sleep to me.\n\nJust take this longing from my tongue\n\nAll the lonely things my hands have done\n\nLet me see your beauty broken down\n\nLike you would do for one you love.\n\nHungry as an archway\n\nThrough which the troops have passed\n\nI stand in ruins behind you\n\nWith your winter clothes,\n\nyour broken sandal straps\n\nI love to see you naked over there\n\nEspecially from the back.\n\nOh take this longing from my tongue\n\nAll the useless things my hands have done\n\nUntie for me your hired blue gown\n\nLike you would do for one that you love.\n\nYou're faithful to the better man\n\nI'm afraid that he left\n\nSo let me judge your love affair\n\nIn this very room where I have sentenced\n\nMine to death.\n\nI'll even wear these old laurel leaves\n\nThat he's shaken from his head.\n\nJust take this longing from my tongue\n\nAll the useless things my hands have done\n\nLet me see your beauty broken down\n\nLike you would do for one you love\n\nLike you would do for one you love.\n\n**Leaving Green Sleeves**\n\n* * *\n\nAlas, my love you did me wrong\n\nTo cast me out discourteously\n\nFor I have loved you so long\n\nDelighting in your very company.\n\nNow if you intend to show me disdain\n\nDon't you know it all the more enraptures me\n\nFor even so I still remain your lover in captivity.\n\nGreen sleeves, you're all alone\n\nThe leaves have fallen, the men have gone.\n\nGreen sleeves, there's no one home\n\nNot even the Lady Green Sleeves.\n\nI sang my songs, I told my lies\n\nTo lie between your matchless thighs\n\nAnd ain't it fine, ain't it wild\n\nTo finally end our exercise.\n\nThen I saw you naked in the early dawn\n\nOh, I hoped you would be someone new.\n\nI reached for you but you were gone\n\nSo lady I'm going too.\n\nGreen sleeves, you're all alone\n\nThe leaves have fallen, the men have gone.\n\nGreen sleeves, there's no one home\n\nNot even the Lady Green Sleeves.\n\nGreen sleeves, you're all alone\n\nThe leaves have fallen, the men have all gone home.\n\nGreen sleeves, it's so easily done\n\nLeaving the Lady Green Sleeves.\n\nClaude van Heye / Photoshot\n\n**Do I Have To Dance All Night**\n\n* * *\n\n1976  \nCBS\n\nI'm Forty-One, the moon is full\n\nYou make love very well\n\nYou touch me like I touch myself\n\nI like you Mademoiselle.\n\nYou're so fresh and you're so new\n\nI do enjoy you, Miss\n\nThere's nothing I would rather do\n\nThan move around just like this.\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nOoh tell me, Bird of Paradise\n\nDo I have to dance all night?\n\nYou never really have to tell me what\n\nYou really think of me \u2013 alright\n\nLet's say I'm doing fine\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nDo I have to dance all night?\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nOoh tell me, Bird of Paradise\n\nDo I have to dance all night?\n\nI learned this step a while ago\n\nI had to practice it while everybody slept\n\nI waited half my life for you, you know\n\nI didn't even think that you'd accept\n\nAnd here you are before me in the flesh\n\nSaying \"Yes, yes, yes!\"\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nOoh tell me, Bird of Paradise\n\nDo I have to dance all night?\n\nI learned this step a while ago\n\nI had to practice it while everybody slept\n\nI waited half my life for you, you know\n\nI didn't even think that you'd accept\n\nAnd here you are before me in the flesh\n\nSaying \"Yes, yes, yes!\"\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nBut do I have to dance all night?\n\nOoh tell me, Bird of Paradise\n\nDo I have to dance all night?\n\n* * *\n\nCohen recorded this song live in Paris in 1976. It was released as a single sold only in Europe and has not been included on any of his albums.\n\n1976. Michael Putland / Getty\n\n**Death Of A Ladies' Man**\n\n* * *\n\nNOVEMBER 13, 1977  \nWARNER BROS\n\n**True Love Leaves No Traces**\n\n**Iodine**\n\n**Paper Thin Hotel**\n\n**Memories**\n\n**I Left A Woman Waiting**\n\n**Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On**\n\n**Fingerprints**\n\n**Death Of A Ladies' Man**\n\n**True Love Leaves No Traces**\n\n* * *\n\nAs the mist leaves no scar\n\nOn the dark green hill\n\nSo my body leaves no scar\n\nOn you and never will\n\nThrough windows in the dark\n\nThe children come, the children go\n\nLike arrows with no targets\n\nLike shackles made of snow\n\nTrue love leaves no traces\n\nIf you and I are one\n\nIt's lost in our embraces\n\nLike stars against the sun\n\nAs a falling leaf may rest\n\nA moment on the air\n\nSo your head upon my breast\n\nSo my hand upon your hair\n\nAnd many nights endure\n\nWithout a moon or star\n\nSo we will endure\n\nWhen one is gone and far\n\nTrue love leaves no traces\n\nIf you and I are one\n\nIt's lost in our embraces\n\nLike stars against the sun\n\n**Iodine**\n\n* * *\n\nI needed you, I knew I was in danger\n\nOf losing what I used to think was mine\n\nYou let me love you till I was a failure\n\nYou let me love you till I was a failure\n\nYour beauty on my bruise like iodine\n\nI asked you if a man could be forgiven\n\nAnd though I failed at love, was this a crime\n\nYou said, Don't worry, don't worry, darling\n\nYou said, Don't worry, don't you worry, darling\n\nThere are many ways a man can serve his time\n\nYou covered up that place I could not master\n\nIt wasn't dark enough to shut my eyes\n\nSo I was with you, O sweet compassion\n\nYes I was with you, O sweet compassion\n\nCompassion with the sting of iodine\n\nYour saintly kisses reeked of iodine\n\nYour fragrance with a fume of iodine\n\nAnd pity in the room like iodine\n\nYour sister fingers burned like iodine\n\nAnd all my wanton lust was iodine\n\nMy masquerade of trust was iodine\n\nAnd everywhere the flare of iodine\n\n**Paper Thin Hotel**\n\n* * *\n\nThe walls of this hotel are paper-thin\n\nLast night I heard you making love to him\n\nThe struggle mouth to mouth and limb to limb\n\nThe grunt of unity when he came in\n\nI stood there with my ear against the wall\n\nI was not seized by jealousy at all\n\nIn fact a burden lifted from my soul\n\nI learned that love was out of my control\n\nA heavy burden lifted from my soul\n\nI heard that love was out of my control\n\nI listened to your kisses at the door\n\nI never heard the world so clear before\n\nYou ran your bath and you began to sing\n\nI felt so good I couldn't feel a thing\n\nI stood there with my ear against the wall\n\nI was not seized by jealousy at all\n\nIn fact a burden lifted from my soul\n\nI learned that love was out of my control\n\nA heavy burden lifted from my soul\n\nI heard that love was out of my control\n\nAnd I can't wait to tell you to your face\n\nAnd I can't wait for you to take my place\n\nYou are The Naked Angel In My Heart\n\nYou are The Woman With Her Legs Apart\n\nIt's written on the walls of this hotel\n\nYou go to heaven once you've been to hell\n\nA heavy burden lifted from my soul\n\nI heard that love was out of my control\n\n**Memories**\n\n* * *\n\nFrankie Lane, he was singing Jezebel\n\nI pinned an Iron Cross to my lapel\n\nI walked up to the tallest and the blondest girl\n\nI said, Look, you don't know me now but very soon you will\n\nSo won't you let me see\n\nI said, Won't you let me see\n\nI said, Won't you let me see\n\nYour naked body?\n\nJust dance me to the dark side of the gym\n\nChances are I'll let you do most anything\n\nI know you're hungry, I can hear it in your voice\n\nAnd there are many parts of me to touch, you have your choice\n\nAh but no you cannot see\n\nShe said, No you cannot see\n\nShe said, No you cannot see\n\nMy naked body.\n\nSo we're dancing close, the band is playing Stardust\n\nBalloons and paper streamers floating down on us\n\nShe says, You've got a minute left to fall in love\n\nIn solemn moments such as this I have put my trust\n\nAnd all my faith to see\n\nI said all my faith to see\n\nI said all my faith to see\n\nHer naked body.\n\n**I Left A Woman Waiting**\n\n* * *\n\nI left a woman waiting\n\nI met her sometime later\n\nShe said, I see your eyes are dead\n\nWhat happened to you, lover?\n\nWhat happened to you, my lover?\n\nWhat happened to you, lover?\n\nWhat happened to you?\n\nAnd since she spoke the truth to me\n\nI tried to answer truthfully\n\nWhatever happened to my eyes\n\nHappened to your beauty\n\nHappened to your beauty\n\nWhat happened to your beauty\n\nHappened to me.\n\nWe took ourselves to someone's bed\n\nAnd there we fell together\n\nQuick as dogs and truly dead were we\n\nAnd free as running water\n\nFree as running water\n\nFree as running water\n\nFree as you and me\n\nThe way it's got to be\n\nThe way it's got to be, lover.\n\n**Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On**\n\n* * *\n\nI was born in a beauty salon\n\nMy father was a dresser of hair\n\nMy mother was a girl you could call on\n\nWhen you called she was always there\n\nWhen you called she was always there\n\nWhen you called she was always there\n\nWhen you called she was always there\n\nWhen you called she was always there\n\nAh but don't go home with your hard-on\n\nIt will only drive you insane\n\nYou can't shake it (or break it) with your Motown\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nI've looked behind all of the faces\n\nThat smile you down to your knees\n\nAnd the lips that say, Come on, taste us\n\nAnd when you try to they make you say,\n\nPlease\n\nWhen you try to they make you say Please\n\nWhen you try to they make you say Please\n\nWhen you try to they make you say Please\n\nWhen you try to they make you say Please\n\nAh but don't go home with your hard-on\n\nIt will only drive you insane\n\nYou can't shake it (or break it) with your Motown\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nHere come's your bride with her veil on\n\nApproach her, you wretch, if you dare\n\nApproach her, you ape with your tail on\n\nOnce you have her she'll always be there\n\nOnce you have her she'll always be there\n\nOnce you have her she'll always be there\n\nOnce you have her she'll always be there\n\nOnce you have her she'll always be there\n\nAh but don't go home with your hard-on\n\nIt will only drive you insane\n\nYou can't shake it (or break it) with your Motown\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nSo I work in that same beauty salon\n\nI'm chained to the old masquerade\n\nThe lipstick, the shadow, the silicone\n\nI follow my father's trade\n\nI follow my father's trade\n\nYes I follow my father's trade\n\nYes I follow my father's trade\n\nYes I follow my father's trade\n\nAh but don't go home with your hard-on\n\nIt will only drive you insane\n\nYou can't shake it (or break it) with your Motown\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\nYou can't melt it down in the rain\n\n**Fingerprints**\n\n* * *\n\nI touched you once too often\n\nNow I don't know who I am\n\nMy fingerprints were missing\n\nWhen I wiped away the jam\n\nYes, I called my fingerprints all night\n\nBut they don't seem to care\n\nThe last time that I saw them\n\nThey were leafing through your hair\n\nFingerprints, fingerprints\n\nWhere are you now my fingerprints?\n\nYeah, I thought I'd leave this morning\n\nSo I emptied out your drawer\n\nA hundred thousand fingerprints\n\nThey floated to the floor\n\nYou know you hardly stopped to pick them up\n\nYou don't care what you lose\n\nAh you don't even seem to know\n\nWhose fingerprints are whose\n\nFingerprints, fingerprints\n\nWhere are you now my fingerprints?\n\nAnd now you want to marry me\n\nYou want to take me down the aisle\n\nYou want to throw confetti fingerprints\n\nYou know that's not my style\n\nO sure I'd like to marry you\n\nBut I can't face the dawn\n\nWith any girl who knew me\n\nWhen my fingerprints were on\n\nFingerprints, fingerprints\n\nWhere are you now my fingerprints?\n\nFingerprints, oh fingerprints\n\nWhere are you now my fingerprints?\n\n**Death Of A Ladies' Man**\n\n* * *\n\nAh the man she wanted all her life was hanging by a thread\n\n\"I never even knew how much I wanted you,\" she said.\n\nHis muscles they were numbered and his style was obsolete.\n\n\"O baby, I have come too late.\" She knelt beside his feet.\n\n\"I'll never see a face like yours in years of men to come\n\nI'll never see such arms again in wrestling or in love.\"\n\nAnd all his virtues burning in the smoky Holocaust\n\nShe took unto herself most everything her lover lost.\n\nNow the master of this landscape he was standing at the view\n\nWith a sparrow of St. Francis that he was preaching to\n\nShe beckoned to the sentry of his high religious mood\n\nShe said \"I'll make a place between my legs\n\nI'll show you solitude.\"\n\nHe offered her an orgy in a many mirrored room\n\nHe promised her protection for the issue of her womb\n\nShe moved her body hard against a sharpened metal spoon\n\nShe stopped the bloody rituals of passage to the moon.\n\nShe took his much admired oriental frame of mind\n\nAnd the heart-of-darkness alibi his money hides behind\n\nShe took his blonde Madonna and his monastery wine\n\n\"This mental space is occupied and everything is mine.\"\n\nHe tried to make a final stand beside the railway track\n\nShe said \"The art of longing's over and it's never coming back.\"\n\nShe took his tavern parliament, his cap, his cocky dance\n\nShe mocked his female fashions and his working-class moustache.\n\nThe last time that I saw him he was trying hard to get\n\nA woman's education, but he's not a woman yet\n\nAnd the last time that I saw her she was living with some boy\n\nWho gives her soul an empty room and gives her body joy.\n\nSo the great affair is over but whoever would have guessed\n\nIt would leave us all so vacant and so deeply unimpressed\n\nIt's like our visit to the moon or to that other star\n\nI guess you go for nothing if you really want to go that far.\n\nIt's like our visit to the moon or to that other star\n\nI guess you go for nothing if you really want to go that far.\n\nIt's like our visit to the moon or to that other star\n\nI guess you go for nothing if you really want to go that far.\n\nGai Terrell / Getty\n\n**Recent Songs**\n\n* * *\n\nSEPTEMBER 27, 1979  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**The Guests**\n\n**Humbled In Love**\n\n**The Window**\n\n**Came So Far For Beauty**\n\n**The Lost Canadian (Un Canadien errant)**\n\n**The Traitor**\n\n**Our Lady Of Solitude**\n\n**The Gypsy's Wife**\n\n**The Smokey Life**\n\n**Ballad Of The Absent Mare**\n\n**The Guests**\n\n* * *\n\nOne by one, the guests arrive\n\nThe guests are coming through\n\nThe open-hearted many\n\nThe broken-hearted few\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going\n\nAnd no one knows why the wine is flowing\n\nOh love I need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nOh... I need you now\n\nAnd those who dance, begin to dance\n\nThose who weep begin\n\nAnd \"Welcome, welcome\" cries a voice\n\n\"Let all my guests come in.\"\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going\n\nAnd no one knows why the wine is flowing\n\nOh love I need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nOh... I need you now\n\nAnd all go stumbling through that house\n\nIn lonely secrecy\n\nSaying \"Do reveal yourself\"\n\nOr \"Why has thou forsaken me?\"\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going\n\nAnd no one knows why the wine is flowing\n\nOh love I need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nOh... I need you now\n\nAll at once the torches flare\n\nThe inner door flies open\n\nOne by one they enter there\n\nIn every style of passion\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going...\n\nAnd here they take their sweet repast\n\nWhile house and grounds dissolve\n\nAnd one by one the guests are cast\n\nBeyond the garden wall\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going\n\nAnd no one knows why the wine is flowing\n\nOh love I need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nOh... I need you now\n\nThose who dance, begin to dance\n\nThose who weep begin\n\nThose who earnestly are lost\n\nAre lost and lost again\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going\n\nAnd no one knows why the wine is flowing\n\nOh love I need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nOh... I need you now\n\nOne by one the guests arrive\n\nThe guests are coming through\n\nThe broken-hearted many\n\nThe open-hearted few\n\nAnd no one knows where the night is going\n\nAnd no one knows why the wine is flowing\n\nOh love I need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nI need you\n\nOh... I need you now\n\n**Humbled In Love**\n\n* * *\n\nDo you remember all of those pledges\n\nThat we pledged in the passionate night\n\nAh they're soiled now, they're torn at the edges\n\nLike moths on a still yellow light\n\nNo penance serves to renew them\n\nNo massive transfusions of trust\n\nWhy not even revenge can undo them\n\nSo twisted these vows and so crushed\n\nAnd you say you've been humbled in love\n\nCut down in your love\n\nForced to kneel in the mud next to me\n\nAh but why so bitterly turn from the one\n\nWho kneels there as deeply as thee\n\nChildren have taken these pledges\n\nThey have ferried them out of the past\n\nOh beyond all the graves and the hedges\n\nWhere love must go hiding at last\n\nAnd here where there is no description\n\nOh here in the moment at hand\n\nNo sinner need rise up forgiven\n\nNo victim need limp to the stand\n\nAnd you say you've been humbled in love\n\nCut down in your love\n\nForced to kneel in the mud next to me\n\nAh but why so bitterly turn from the one\n\nWho kneels there as deeply as thee\n\nAnd look dear heart, look at the virgin\n\nLook how she welcomes him into her gown\n\nYes, and mark how the stranger's cold armor\n\nDissolves like a star falling down\n\nWhy trade this vision for desire\n\nWhen you may have them both\n\nYou will never see a man this naked\n\nI will never hold a woman this close\n\nAnd you say you've been humbled in love\n\nCut down in your love\n\nForced to kneel in the mud next to me\n\nAh but why so bitterly turn from the one\n\nWho kneels there as deeply as thee\n\n**The Window**\n\n* * *\n\nWhy do you stand by the window\n\nAbandoned to beauty and pride\n\nThe thorn of the night in your bosom\n\nThe spear of the age in your side\n\nLost in the rages of fragrance\n\nLost in the rags of remorse\n\nLost in the waves of a sickness\n\nThat loosens the high silver nerves\n\nOh chosen love, oh frozen love\n\nOh tangle of matter and ghost\n\nOh darling of angels, demons and saints\n\nAnd the whole broken-hearted host\n\nGentle this soul\n\nAnd come forth from the cloud of unknowing\n\nAnd kiss the cheek of the moon\n\nThe New Jerusalem glowing\n\nWhy tarry all night in the ruin\n\nAnd leave no word of discomfort\n\nAnd leave no observer to mourn\n\nBut climb on your tears and be silent\n\nLike a rose on its ladder of thorns\n\nOh chosen love, oh frozen love\n\nOh tangle of matter and ghost\n\nOh darling of angels, demons and saints\n\nAnd the whole broken-hearted host\n\nGentle this soul\n\nThen lay your rose on the fire\n\nThe fire give up to the sun\n\nThe sun give over to splendor\n\nIn the arms of the high holy one\n\nFor the holy one dreams of a letter\n\nDreams of a letter's death\n\nOh bless thee continuous stutter\n\nOf the word being made into flesh\n\nOh chosen love, oh frozen love\n\nOh tangle of matter and ghost\n\nOh darling of angels, demons and saints\n\nAnd the whole broken-hearted host\n\nGentle this soul\n\nGentle this soul\n\n**Came So Far For Beauty**\n\n* * *\n\nI came so far for beauty\n\nI left so much behind\n\nMy patience and my family\n\nMy masterpiece unsigned\n\nI thought I'd be rewarded\n\nFor such a lonely choice\n\nAnd surely she would answer\n\nTo such a very hopeless voice\n\nI practiced all my sainthood\n\nI gave to one and all\n\nBut the rumors of my virtue\n\nThey moved her not at all\n\nI changed my style to silver\n\nI changed my clothes to black\n\nAnd where I would surrender\n\nNow I would attack\n\nI stormed the old casino\n\nFor the money and the flesh\n\nAnd I myself decided\n\nWhat was rotten and what was fresh\n\nAnd men to do my bidding\n\nAnd broken bones to teach\n\nThe value of my pardon\n\nThe shadow of my reach\n\nBut no, I could not touch her\n\nWith such a heavy hand\n\nHer star beyond my order\n\nHer nakedness unmanned\n\nI came so far for beauty\n\nI left so much behind\n\nMy patience and my family\n\nMy masterpiece unsigned\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with John Lissauer\n\n**The Traitor**\n\n* * *\n\nNow the Swan it floated on the English river\n\nAh the Rose of High Romance it opened wide\n\nA sun tanned woman yearned me through the summer\n\nAnd the judges watched us from the other side.\n\nI told my mother, Mother I must leave you\n\nPreserve my room but do not shed a tear\n\nShould rumor of a shabby ending reach you\n\nIt was half my fault and half the atmosphere.\n\nBut the Rose I sickened with a scarlet fever\n\nAnd the Swan I tempted with a sense of shame\n\nShe said at last I was her finest lover\n\nAnd if she withered I would be to blame.\n\nThe judges said you missed it by a fraction\n\nRise up and brace your troops for the attack\n\nAh, the dreamers ride against the men of action\n\nOh, see the men of action falling back\n\nBut I lingered on her thighs a fatal moment\n\nI kissed her lips as though I thirsted still\n\nMy falsity had stung me like a hornet\n\nThe poison sank and it paralysed my will\n\nI could not move to warn all the younger soldiers\n\nThat they had been deserted from above\n\nSo on battlefields from here to Barcelona\n\nI'm listed with the enemies of love.\n\nAnd long ago she said, I must be leaving,\n\nAh but keep my body here to lie upon\n\nYou can move it up and down and when I'm sleeping\n\nRun some wire through that Rose and wind the Swan.\n\nSo daily I renew my idle duty\n\nI touch her here and there \u2013 I know my place\n\nI kiss her open mouth and I praise her beauty\n\nand people call me traitor to my face.\n\nIan Cook / Getty\n\n**Our Lady Of Solitude**\n\n* * *\n\nAll summer long she touched me\n\nShe gathered in my soul\n\nFrom many a thorn, from many thickets\n\nHer fingers like a weaver's\n\nQuick and cool\n\nAnd the light came from her body\n\nAnd the night went through her grace\n\nAll summer long she touched me\n\nAnd I knew her, I knew her\n\nFace to face\n\nAnd her dress was blue and silver\n\nAnd her words were few and small\n\nShe is the vessel of the whole wide world\n\nMistress, oh mistress, of us all\n\nDear Lady; Queen of Solitude\n\nI thank you with my heart\n\nFor keeping me so close to thee\n\nWhile so many, oh so many, stood apart\n\nAnd the light came from her body\n\nAnd the night went through her grace\n\nAll summer long she touched me\n\nI knew her, I knew her\n\nFace to face\n\n**The Gypsy's Wife**\n\n* * *\n\nAnd where, where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight\n\nI've heard all the wild reports, they can't be right\n\nBut whose head is this she's dancing with on the threshing floor\n\nWhose darkness deepens in her arms a little more\n\nAnd where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?\n\nWhere, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?\n\nAh the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe\n\nA ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee\n\nShe says \"My body is the light, my body is the way\"\n\nI raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride's bouquet\n\nAnd where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?\n\nWhere, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?\n\nToo early for the rainbow, too early for the dove\n\nThese are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood\n\nAnd there is no man or woman who can't be touched\n\nBut you who come between them will be judged\n\nAnd where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?\n\nWhere, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?\n\n1979. Getty\n\n**The Smokey Life**\n\n* * *\n\nI've never seen your eyes so wide\n\nI've never seen your appetite quite this occupied\n\nElsewhere is your feast of love\n\nI know, where long ago we agreed to keep it light\n\nSo let's be married one more night\n\nIt's light, light enough\n\nTo let it go\n\nIt's light enough to let it go\n\nRemember when the scenery started fading\n\nI held you till you learned to walk on air\n\nSo don't look down the ground is gone\n\nThere's no one waiting anyway\n\nThe Smokey Life is practiced\n\nEverywhere\n\nSo set your restless heart at ease\n\nTake a lesson from these Autumn leaves\n\nThey waste no time waiting for the snow\n\nDon't argue now you'll be late\n\nThere is nothing to investigate\n\nIt's light enough, light enough\n\nTo let it go\n\nLight enough to let it go\n\nRemember when the scenery started fading\n\nI held you till you learned to walk on air\n\nSo don't look down the ground is gone\n\nThere's no one waiting anyway\n\nThe Smokey Life is practiced everywhere\n\nCome on back if the moment lends\n\nYou can look up all my very closest friends\n\nLight, light enough\n\nTo let it go\n\nIt's light enough to let it go\n\n**Ballad Of The Absent Mare**\n\n* * *\n\nSay a prayer for the cowboy\n\nHis mare's run away\n\nAnd he'll walk till he finds her\n\nHis darling, his stray\n\nBut the river's in flood\n\nAnd the roads are awash\n\nAnd the bridges break up\n\nIn the panic of loss\n\nAnd there's nothing to follow\n\nThere's nowhere to go\n\nShe's gone like the summer\n\nGone like the snow\n\nAnd the crickets are breaking\n\nHis heart with their song\n\nAs the day caves in\n\nAnd the night is all wrong.\n\nDid he dream, was it she\n\nWho went galloping past\n\nAnd bent down the fern\n\nBroke open the grass\n\nAnd printed the mud with\n\nThe iron and the gold\n\nThat he nailed to her feet\n\nWhen he was the lord\n\nAnd although she goes grazing\n\nA minute away\n\nHe tracks her all night\n\nHe tracks her all day\n\nOh blind to her presence\n\nExcept to compare\n\nHis injury here\n\nWith her punishment there.\n\nThen at home on a branch\n\nIn the highest tree\n\nA songbird sings out\n\nSo suddenly\n\nAh, the sun is warm\n\nAnd the soft winds ride\n\nOn the willow trees\n\nBy the river side.\n\nOh, the world is sweet\n\nThe world is wide\n\nAnd she's there where\n\nThe light and the darkness divide\n\nAnd the steam's coming off her\n\nShe's huge and she's shy\n\nAnd she steps on the moon\n\nWhen she paws at the sky.\n\nAnd she comes to his hand\n\nBut she's not really tame\n\nShe longs to be lost\n\nHe longs for the same\n\nAnd she'll bolt and she'll plunge\n\nThrough the first open pass\n\nTo roll and to feed\n\nIn the sweet mountain grass\n\nOr, she'll make a break\n\nFor the high plateau\n\nWhere there's nothing above\n\nAnd there's nothing below\n\nAnd it's time for the burden\n\nIt's time for the whip\n\nWill she walk through the flame\n\nCan he shoot from the hip.\n\nSo he binds himself\n\nTo the galloping mare\n\nAnd she binds herself\n\nTo the rider there\n\nAnd there is no space\n\nBut there's left and right\n\nAnd there is no time\n\nBut there's day and night\n\nAnd he leans on her neck\n\nAnd he whispers low\n\n\"Whither thou goest I will go\"\n\nAnd they turn as one\n\nAnd they head for the plain\n\nNo need for the whip\n\nAh, no need for the rein.\n\nNow the clasp of this union\n\nWho fastens it tight?\n\nWho snaps it asunder\n\nThe very next night\n\nSome say the rider\n\nSome say the mare\n\nOr that love's like the smoke\n\nBeyond all repair\n\nBut my darling says\n\n\"Leonard, just let it go by\n\nThat old silhouette\n\nOn the great western sky\"\n\nSo I pick out a tune\n\nAnd they move right along\n\nAnd they're gone like the smoke\n\nAnd they're gone like this song.\n\n* * *\n\n'The Lost Canadian (Un Canadien Errant)': words and music by Antoine G\u00e9rin-Lajoie\n\nNew York, mid-1980s. Oliver Morris / Getty\n\n**Various Positions**\n\n* * *\n\nFEBRUARY 7, 1985  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Dance Me To The End Of Love**\n\n**Coming Back To You**\n\n**The Law**\n\n**Night Comes On**\n\n**Hallelujah**\n\n**The Captain**\n\n**Hunter's Lullaby**\n\n**Heart With No Companion**\n\n**If It Be Your Will**\n\n**Dance Me To The End of Love**\n\n* * *\n\nDance me to your beauty with a burning violin\n\nDance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in\n\nLift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nOh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone\n\nLet me feel you moving like they do in Babylon\n\nShow me slowly what I only know the limits of\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on\n\nDance me very tenderly and dance me very long\n\nWe're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the children who are asking to be born\n\nDance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn\n\nRaise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to your beauty with a burning violin\n\nDance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in\n\nTouch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\nDance me to the end of love\n\n**Coming Back To You**\n\n* * *\n\nMaybe I'm still hurting\n\nI can't turn the other cheek\n\nBut you know that I still love you\n\nIt's just that I can't speak\n\nI looked for you in everyone\n\nAnd they called me on that too\n\nI lived alone but I was only\n\nComing back to you\n\nAh, they're shutting down the factory now\n\nJust when all the bills are due\n\nAnd the fields they're under lock and key\n\nTho' the rain and the sun come through\n\nAnd springtime starts but then it stops\n\nIn the name of something new\n\nAnd all the senses rise against this\n\nComing back to you\n\nAnd they're handing down my sentence now\n\nAnd I know what I must do\n\nAnother mile of silence while I'm\n\nComing back to you\n\nThere are many in your life\n\nAnd many still to be\n\nSince you are a shining light\n\nThere's many that you'll see\n\nBut I have to deal with envy\n\nWhen you choose the precious few\n\nWho've left their pride on the other side of\n\nComing back to you\n\nEven in your arms I know\n\nI'll never get it right\n\nEven when you bend to give me\n\nComfort in the night\n\nI've got to have your word on this\n\nOr none of it is true\n\nAnd all I've said was just instead of\n\nComing back to you\n\n**The Law**\n\n* * *\n\nHow many times did you call me\n\nAnd I knew it was late\n\nI left everybody\n\nBut I never went straight\n\nI don't claim to be guilty\n\nBut I do understand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nNow my heart's like a blister\n\nFrom doing what I do\n\nIf the moon has a sister\n\nIt's got to be you\n\nI'm going to miss you forever\n\nTho' it's not what I planned\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nNow the deal has been dirty\n\nSince dirty began\n\nI'm not asking for mercy\n\nNot from the man\n\nYou just don't ask for mercy\n\nWhile you're still on the stand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nI don't claim to be guilty\n\nGuilty's too grand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThat's all I can say, baby\n\nThat's all I can say\n\nIt wasn't for nothing\n\nThat they put me away\n\nI fell with my angel\n\nDown the chain of command\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\nThere's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand\n\n**Night Comes On**\n\n* * *\n\nI went down to the place\n\nWhere I knew she lay waiting\n\nUnder the marble and the snow\n\nI said, Mother I'm frightened\n\nThe thunder and the lightning\n\nI'll never come through this alone\n\nShe said, I'll be with you\n\nMy shawl wrapped around you\n\nMy hand on your head when you go\n\nAnd the night came on\n\nIt was very calm\n\nI wanted the night to go on and on\n\nBut she said, Go back to the World\n\nWe were fighting in Egypt\n\nWhen they signed this agreement\n\nThat nobody else had to die\n\nThere was this terrible sound\n\nAnd my father went down\n\nWith a terrible wound in his side\n\nHe said, Try to go on\n\nTake my books, take my gun\n\nRemember, my son, how they lied\n\nAnd the night comes on\n\nIt's very calm\n\nI'd like to pretend that my father was wrong\n\nBut you don't want to lie, not to the young\n\nWe were locked in this kitchen\n\nI took to religion\n\nAnd I wondered how long she would stay\n\nI needed so much\n\nTo have nothing to touch\n\nI've always been greedy that way\n\nBut my son and my daughter\n\nClimbed out of the water\n\nCrying, Papa, you promised to play\n\nAnd they lead me away\n\nTo the great surprise\n\nIt's Papa, don't peek, Papa, cover your eyes\n\nAnd they hide, they hide in the World\n\nNow I look for her always\n\nI'm lost in this calling\n\nI'm tied to the threads of some prayer\n\nSaying, When will she summon me\n\nWhen will she come to me\n\nWhat must I do to prepare\n\nWhen she bends to my longing\n\nLike a willow, like a fountain\n\nShe stands in the luminous air\n\nAnd the night comes on\n\nAnd it's very calm\n\nI lie in her arms and say, When I'm gone\n\nI'll be yours, yours for a song\n\nNow the crickets are singing\n\nThe vesper bells ringing\n\nThe cat's curled asleep in his chair\n\nI'll go down to Bill's Bar\n\nI can make it that far\n\nAnd I'll see if my friends are still there\n\nYes, and here's to the few\n\nWho forgive what you do\n\nAnd the fewer who don't even care\n\nAnd the night comes on\n\nIt's very calm\n\nI want to cross over, I want to go home\n\nBut she says, Go back, go back to the World\n\n**Hallelujah**\n\n* * *\n\nNow I've heard there was a secret chord\n\nThat David played, and it pleased the Lord\n\nBut you don't really care for music, do you?\n\nIt goes like this\n\nThe fourth, the fifth\n\nThe minor fall, the major lift\n\nThe baffled king composing Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nYour faith was strong but you needed proof\n\nYou saw her bathing on the roof\n\nHer beauty and the moonlight overthrew you\n\nShe tied you\n\nTo a kitchen chair\n\nShe broke your throne, and she cut your hair\n\nAnd from your lips she drew the Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nYou say I took the name in vain\n\nI don't even know the name\n\nBut if I did, well really, what's it to you?\n\nThere's a blaze of light\n\nIn every word\n\nIt doesn't matter which you heard\n\nThe holy or the broken Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nI did my best, it wasn't much\n\nI couldn't feel, so I tried to touch\n\nI've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you\n\nAnd even though\n\nIt all went wrong\n\nI'll stand before the Lord of Song\n\nWith nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah...\n\n* * *\n\n1984 version from _Various Positions_ (1984)\n\n**Hallelujah**\n\n* * *\n\nBaby, I've been here before\n\nI know this room, I've walked this floor\n\nI used to live alone before I knew you\n\nYeah I've seen your flag\n\nOn the marble arch\n\nBut listen, love is not some kind of victory march\n\nNo, it's a cold and it's a very broken Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nThere was a time you let me know\n\nWhat's really going on below\n\nAh but now you never show it to me, do you?\n\nYeah but I remember\n\nYeah when I moved in you\n\nAnd the holy dove, she was moving too\n\nYes every single breath that we drew was Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nMaybe there's a God above\n\nAs for me, all I've ever seemed to learn from love\n\nIs how to shoot at someone who outdrew you\n\nYeah but it's not a complaint\n\nThat you hear tonight\n\nIt's not the laughter of someone who claims to have seen the light\n\nNo, it's a cold and it's a very lonely Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nI did my best, it wasn't much\n\nI couldn't feel, so I learned to touch\n\nI've told the truth, I didn't come all this way to fool you\n\nYeah even though\n\nIt all went wrong\n\nI'll stand right here before the Lord of Song\n\nWith nothing on my lips but Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah\n\nHallelujah, Hallelujah...\n\n* * *\n\n1988 version included on _Live In Concert_ (1994)\n\n**The Captain**\n\n* * *\n\nNow the Captain called me to his bed\n\nHe fumbled for my hand\n\n\"Take these silver bars,\" he said\n\n\"I'm giving you command.\"\n\n\"Command of what, there's no one here\n\nThere's only you and me\n\nAll the rest are dead or in retreat\n\nOr with the enemy.\"\n\n\"Complain, complain, that's all you've done\n\nEver since we lost\n\nIf it's not the Crucifixion\n\nThen it's the Holocaust.\"\n\n\"May Christ have mercy on your soul\n\nFor making such a joke\n\nAmid these hearts that burn like coal\n\nAnd the flesh that rose like smoke.\"\n\n\"I know that you have suffered, lad\n\nBut suffer this awhile:\n\nWhatever makes a soldier sad\n\nWill make a killer smile.\"\n\n\"I'm leaving, Captain, I must go\n\nThere's blood upon your hand\n\nBut tell me, Captain, if you know\n\nOf a decent place to stand.\"\n\n\"There is no decent place to stand\n\nIn a massacre;\n\nBut if a woman take your hand\n\nGo and stand with her.\"\n\n\"I left a wife in Tennessee\n\nAnd a baby in Saigon\n\nI risked my life, but not to hear\n\nSome country-western song.\"\n\n\"Ah but if you cannot raise your love\n\nTo a very high degree\n\nThen you're just the man I've been thinking of\n\nSo come and stand with me.\"\n\n\"Your standing days are done,\" I cried\n\n\"You'll rally me no more.\n\nI don't even know what side\n\nWe fought on, or what for.\"\n\n\"I'm on the side that's always lost\n\nAgainst the side of Heaven\n\nI'm on the side of Snake-eyes tossed\n\nAgainst the side of Seven.\n\nAnd I've read the Bill of Human Rights\n\nAnd some of it was true\n\nBut there wasn't any burden left\n\nSo I'm laying it on you.\"\n\nNow the Captain he was dying\n\nBut the Captain wasn't hurt\n\nThe silver bars were in my hand\n\nI pinned them to my shirt.\n\n**Hunter's Lullaby**\n\n* * *\n\nYour father's gone a-hunting\n\nHe's deep in the forest so wild\n\nAnd he cannot take his wife with him\n\nHe cannot take his child\n\nYour father's gone a-hunting\n\nIn the quicksand and the clay\n\nAnd a woman cannot follow him\n\nAlthough she knows the way\n\nYour father's gone a-hunting\n\nThrough the silver and the glass\n\nWhere only greed can enter\n\nBut spirit, spirit cannot pass\n\nYour father's gone a-hunting\n\nFor the beast he'll never bind\n\nAnd he leaves a baby sleeping\n\nAnd his blessings all behind\n\nYour father's gone a-hunting\n\nAnd he's lost his lucky charm\n\nAnd he's lost the guardian heart\n\nThat keeps the hunter from the harm\n\nYour father's gone a-hunting\n\nHe asked me to say goodbye\n\nAnd he warned me not to stop him\n\nI wouldn't, I wouldn't even try\n\n**Heart With No Companion**\n\n* * *\n\nI greet you from the other side\n\nOf sorrow and despair\n\nWith a love so vast and shattered\n\nIt will reach you everywhere\n\nAnd I sing this for the captain\n\nWhose ship has not been built\n\nFor the mother in confusion\n\nHer cradle still unfilled\n\nFor the heart with no companion\n\nFor the soul without a king\n\nFor the prima ballerina\n\nWho cannot dance to anything\n\nThrough the days of shame that are coming\n\nThrough the nights of wild distress\n\nThough your promise count for nothing\n\nYou must keep it nonetheless\n\nYou must keep it for the captain\n\nWhose ship has not been built\n\nFor the mother in confusion\n\nHer cradle still unfilled\n\nFor the heart with no companion\n\nFor the soul without a king\n\nFor the prima ballerina\n\nWho cannot dance to anything\n\nI greet you from the other side\n\nOf sorrow and despair\n\nWith a love so vast and shattered\n\nIt will reach you everywhere\n\n**If It Be Your Will**\n\n* * *\n\nIf it be your will\n\nThat I speak no more\n\nAnd my voice be still\n\nAs it was before\n\nI will speak no more\n\nI shall abide until\n\nI am spoken for\n\nIf it be your will\n\nIf it be your will\n\nThat a voice be true\n\nFrom this broken hill\n\nI will sing to you\n\nFrom this broken hill\n\nAll your praises they shall ring\n\nIf it be your will\n\nTo let me sing\n\nFrom this broken hill\n\nAll your praises they shall ring\n\nIf it be your will\n\nTo let me sing\n\nIf it be your will\n\nIf there is a choice\n\nLet the rivers fill\n\nLet the hills rejoice\n\nLet your mercy spill\n\nOn all these burning hearts in hell\n\nIf it be your will\n\nTo make us well\n\nAnd draw us near\n\nAnd bind us tight\n\nAll your children here\n\nIn their rags of light\n\nIn our rags of light\n\nAll dressed to kill\n\nAnd end this night\n\nIf it be your will\n\nIf it be your will\n\nJean-Claude Deutsch / Getty\n\n**I'm Your Man**\n\n* * *\n\nFEBRUARY 2, 1988  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**First We Take Manhattan**\n\n**Ain't No Cure For Love**\n\n**Everybody Knows**\n\n**I'm Your Man**\n\n**Take This Waltz**\n\n**Jazz Police**\n\n**I Can't Forget**\n\n**Tower Of Song**\n\n**First We Take Manhattan**\n\n* * *\n\nThey sentenced me to twenty years of boredom\n\nFor trying to change the system from within\n\nI'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them\n\nFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin\n\nI'm guided by a signal in the heavens\n\nI'm guided by this birthmark on my skin\n\nI'm guided by the beauty of our weapons\n\nFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin\n\nI'd really like to live beside you, baby\n\nI love your body and your spirit and your clothes\n\nBut you see that line there moving through the station?\n\nI told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those\n\nAh you loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I just might win\n\nYou know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline\n\nHow many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin\n\nFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin\n\nI don't like your fashion business mister\n\nAnd I don't like these drugs that keep you thin\n\nI don't like what happened to my sister\n\nFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin\n\nI'd really like to live beside you, baby\n\nI love your body and your spirit and your clothes\n\nBut you see that line there moving through the station?\n\nI told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those\n\nAnd I thank you for those items that you sent me\n\nThe monkey and the plywood violin\n\nI practiced every night, now I'm ready\n\nFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin\n\nI am guided\n\nAh remember me, I used to live for music\n\nRemember me, I brought your groceries in\n\nWell it's Father's Day and everybody's wounded\n\nFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin\n\n**Ain't No Cure For Love**\n\n* * *\n\nI loved you for a long, long time\n\nI know this love is real\n\nIt don't matter how it all went wrong\n\nThat don't change the way I feel\n\nAnd I can't believe that time's\n\nGonna heal this wound I'm speaking of\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nI'm aching for you baby\n\nI can't pretend I'm not\n\nI need to see you naked\n\nIn your body and your thought\n\nI've got you like a habit\n\nAnd I'll never get enough\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nAll the rocket ships are climbing through the sky\n\nThe holy books are open wide\n\nThe doctors working day and night\n\nBut they'll never ever find that cure for love\n\nThere ain't no drink no drug\n\n(Ah tell them, angels)\n\nThere's nothing pure enough to be a cure for love\n\nI see you in the subway and I see you on the bus\n\nI see you lying down with me, I see you waking up\n\nI see your hand, I see your hair\n\nYour bracelets and your brush\n\nAnd I call to you, I call to you\n\nBut I don't call soft enough\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nI walked into this empty church I had no place else to go\n\nWhen the sweetest voice I ever heard, whispered to my soul\n\nI don't need to be forgiven for loving you so much\n\nIt's written in the scriptures\n\nIt's written there in blood\n\nI even heard the angels declare it from above\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nThere ain't no cure for love\n\nAll the rocket ships are climbing through the sky\n\nThe holy books are open wide\n\nThe doctors working day and night\n\nBut they'll never ever find that cure\n\nThat cure for love\n\n**Everybody Knows**\n\n* * *\n\nEverybody knows that the dice are loaded\n\nEverybody rolls with their fingers crossed\n\nEverybody knows that the war is over\n\nEverybody knows the good guys lost\n\nEverybody knows the fight was fixed\n\nThe poor stay poor, the rich get rich\n\nThat's how it goes\n\nEverybody knows\n\nEverybody knows that the boat is leaking\n\nEverybody knows that the captain lied\n\nEverybody got this broken feeling\n\nLike their father or their dog just died\n\nEverybody talking to their pockets\n\nEverybody wants a box of chocolates\n\nAnd a long stem rose\n\nEverybody knows\n\nEverybody knows that you love me baby\n\nEverybody knows that you really do\n\nEverybody knows that you've been faithful\n\nAh, give or take a night or two\n\nEverybody knows you've been discreet\n\nBut there were so many people you just had to meet\n\nWithout your clothes\n\nAnd everybody knows\n\nEverybody knows, everybody knows\n\nThat's how it goes\n\nEverybody knows\n\nEverybody knows, everybody knows\n\nThat's how it goes\n\nEverybody knows\n\nAnd everybody knows that it's now or never\n\nEverybody knows that it's me or you\n\nAnd everybody knows that you live forever\n\nAh, when you've done a line or two\n\nEverybody knows the deal is rotten\n\nOld Black Joe's still pickin' cotton\n\nFor your ribbons and bows\n\nAnd everybody knows\n\nAnd everybody knows that the Plague is coming\n\nEverybody knows that it's moving fast\n\nEverybody knows that the naked man and woman\n\nAre just a shining artifact of the past\n\nEverybody knows the scene is dead\n\nBut there's gonna be a meter on your bed\n\nThat will disclose\n\nWhat everybody knows\n\nAnd everybody knows that you're in trouble\n\nEverybody knows what you've been through\n\nFrom the bloody cross on top of Calvary\n\nTo the beach of Malibu\n\nEverybody knows it's coming apart\n\nTake one last look at this Sacred Heart\n\nBefore it blows\n\nAnd everybody knows\n\nEverybody knows, everybody knows\n\nThat's how it goes\n\nEverybody knows\n\nOh everybody knows, everybody knows\n\nThat's how it goes\n\nEverybody knows\n\nEverybody knows\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**I'm Your Man**\n\n* * *\n\nIf you want a lover\n\nI'll do anything you ask me to\n\nAnd if you want another kind of love\n\nI'll wear a mask for you\n\nIf you want a partner\n\nTake my hand\n\nOr if you want to strike me down in anger\n\nHere I stand\n\nI'm your man\n\nIf you want a boxer\n\nI will step into the ring for you\n\nAnd if you want a doctor\n\nI'll examine every inch of you\n\nIf you want a driver\n\nClimb inside\n\nOr if you want to take me for a ride\n\nYou know you can\n\nI'm your man\n\nAh, the moon's too bright\n\nThe chain's too tight\n\nThe beast won't go to sleep\n\nI've been running through these promises to you\n\nThat I made and I could not keep\n\nAh, but a man never got a woman back\n\nNot by begging on his knees\n\nOr I'd crawl to you baby\n\nAnd I'd fall at your feet\n\nAnd I'd howl at your beauty\n\nLike a dog in heat\n\nAnd I'd claw at your heart\n\nAnd I'd tear at your sheet\n\nI'd say please, please\n\nI'm your man\n\nAnd if you've got to sleep\n\nA moment on the road\n\nI will steer for you\n\nAnd if you want to work the street alone\n\nI'll disappear for you\n\nIf you want a father for your child\n\nOr only want to walk with me a while\n\nAcross the sand\n\nI'm your man\n\nIf you want a lover\n\nI'll do anything you ask me to\n\nAnd if you want another kind of love\n\nI'll wear a mask for you\n\n**Take This Waltz**\n\n* * *\n\nNow in Vienna there're ten pretty women\n\nThere's a shoulder where Death comes to cry\n\nThere's a lobby with nine hundred windows\n\nThere's a tree where the doves go to die\n\nThere's a piece that was torn from the morning\n\nAnd it hangs in the Gallery of Frost\n\nAy, Ay, Ay, Ay\n\nTake this waltz, take this waltz\n\nTake this waltz with the clamp on its jaws\n\nOh I want you, I want you, I want you\n\nOn a chair with a dead magazine\n\nIn the cave at the tip of the lily\n\nIn some hallways where love's never been\n\nOn a bed where the moon has been sweating\n\nIn a cry filled with footsteps and sand\n\nAy, Ay, Ay, Ay\n\nTake this waltz, take this waltz\n\nTake its broken waist in your hand\n\nThis waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz\n\nWith its very own breath of brandy and Death\n\nDragging its tail in the sea\n\nThere's a concert hall in Vienna\n\nWhere your mouth had a thousand reviews\n\nThere's a bar where the boys have stopped talking\n\nThey've been sentenced to death by the blues\n\nAh, but who is it climbs to your picture\n\nWith a garland of freshly cut tears?\n\nAy, Ay, Ay, Ay\n\nTake this waltz, take this waltz\n\nTake this waltz it's been dying for years\n\nThere's an attic where children are playing\n\nWhere I've got to lie down with you soon\n\nIn a dream of Hungarian lanterns\n\nIn the mist of some sweet afternoon\n\nAnd I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow\n\nAll your sheep and your lilies of snow\n\nAy, Ay, Ay, Ay\n\nTake this waltz, take this waltz\n\nWith its \"I'll never forget you, you know!\"\n\nThis waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz...\n\nAnd I'll dance with you in Vienna\n\nI'll be wearing a river's disguise\n\nThe hyacinth wild on my shoulder\n\nMy mouth on the dew of your thighs\n\nAnd I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook\n\nWith the photographs there, and the moss\n\nAnd I'll yield to the flood of your beauty\n\nMy cheap violin and my cross\n\nAnd you'll carry me down on your dancing\n\nTo the pools that you lift on your wrist\n\nOh my love, Oh my love\n\nTake this waltz, take this waltz\n\nIt's yours now. It's all that there is.\n\n* * *\n\nThe lyrics to 'Take This Waltz' are Cohen's translation of Federico Garcia Lorca's poem 'Peque\u00f1o Vals Vien\u00e8s'\n\n**Jazz Police**\n\n* * *\n\nCan you tell me why the bells are ringing?\n\nNothing's happened in a million years\n\nI've been sitting here since Wednesday morning\n\nWednesday morning can't believe my ears\n\nJazz police are looking through my folders\n\nJazz police are talking to my niece\n\nJazz police have got their final orders\n\nJazzer, drop your axe, it's Jazz police!\n\nJesus taken serious by the many\n\nJesus taken joyous by a few\n\nJazz police are paid by J.P. Getty\n\nJazzers paid by J. Paul Getty II\n\nJazz police I hear you calling\n\nJazz police I feel so blue\n\nJazz police I think I'm falling,\n\nI'm falling for you\n\nWild as any freedom loving racist\n\nI applaud the actions of the chief\n\nTell me now oh beautiful and spacious\n\nAm I in trouble with the Jazz police?\n\nJazz police are looking through my folders...\n\nThey will never understand our culture\n\nThey'll never understand the Jazz police\n\nJazz police are working for my mother\n\nBlood is thicker margarine than grease\n\nLet me be somebody I admire\n\nLet me be that muscle down the street\n\nStick another turtle on the fire\n\nGuys like me are mad for turtle meat\n\nJazz police I hear you calling\n\nJazz police I feel so blue\n\nJazz police I think I'm falling,\n\nI'm falling for you\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Jeff Fisher\n\n**I Can't Forget**\n\n* * *\n\nI stumbled out of bed\n\nI got ready for the struggle\n\nI smoked a cigarette\n\nAnd I tightened up my gut\n\nI said this can't be me\n\nMust be my double\n\nAnd I can't forget, I can't forget\n\nI can't forget but I don't remember what\n\nI'm burning up the road\n\nI'm heading down to Phoenix\n\nI got this old address\n\nOf someone that I knew\n\nIt was high and fine and free\n\nAh, you should have seen us\n\nAnd I can't forget, I can't forget\n\nI can't forget but I don't remember who\n\nI'll be there today\n\nWith a big bouquet of cactus\n\nI got this rig that runs on memories\n\nAnd I promise, cross my heart\n\nThey'll never catch us\n\nBut if they do, just tell them it was me\n\nYeah I loved you all my life\n\nAnd that's how I want to end it\n\nThe summer's almost gone\n\nThe winter's tuning up\n\nYeah, the summer's gone\n\nBut a lot goes on forever\n\nAnd I can't forget, I can't forget\n\nI can't forget but I don't remember what\n\n**Tower Of Song**\n\n* * *\n\nWell my friends are gone and my hair is gray\n\nI ache in the places where I used to play\n\nAnd I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on\n\nI'm just paying my rent every day\n\nOh in the Tower of Song\n\nI said to Hank Williams: how lonely does it get?\n\nHank Williams hasn't answered yet\n\nBut I hear him coughing all night long\n\nA hundred floors above me\n\nIn the Tower of Song\n\nI was born like this, I had no choice\n\nI was born with the gift of a golden voice\n\nAnd twenty-seven angels from the Great Beyond\n\nThey tied me to this table right here\n\nIn the Tower of Song\n\nSo you can stick your little pins in that voodoo doll\n\nI'm very sorry, baby, doesn't look like me at all\n\nI'm standing by the window where the light is strong\n\nAh, they don't let a woman kill you\n\nNot in the Tower of Song\n\nNow you can say that I've grown bitter but of this you may be sure\n\nThe rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor\n\nAnd there's a mighty judgement coming, but I may be wrong\n\nYou see, you hear these funny voices\n\nIn the Tower of Song\n\nI see you standing on the other side\n\nI don't know how the river got so wide\n\nI loved you baby, way back when\n\nAnd all the bridges are burning that we might have crossed\n\nBut I feel so close to everything that we lost\n\nWe'll never have to lose it again\n\nNow I bid you farewell, I don't know when I'll be back\n\nThey're moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track\n\nBut you'll be hearing from me baby, long after I'm gone\n\nI'll be speaking to you sweetly\n\nFrom a window in the Tower of Song\n\nYeah my friends are gone and my hair is gray\n\nI ache in the places where I used to play\n\nAnd I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on\n\nI'm just paying my rent every day\n\nOh in the Tower of Song\n\nCirca 1990. Terry O'Neill\n\n**The Future**\n\n* * *\n\nNOVEMBER 24, 1992  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**The Future**\n\n**Waiting For The Miracle**\n\n**Be For Real**\n\n**Closing Time**\n\n**Anthem**\n\n**Democracy**\n\n**Light As The Breeze**\n\n**Always**\n\n**Tacoma Trailer**\n\n**The Future**\n\n* * *\n\nGive me back my broken night\n\nMy mirrored room, my secret life\n\nIt's lonely here,\n\nThere's no one left to torture\n\nGive me absolute control\n\nOver every living soul\n\nAnd lie beside me, baby,\n\nThat's an order!\n\nGive me crack and anal sex\n\nTake the only tree that's left\n\nAnd stuff it up the hole\n\nIn your culture\n\nGive me back the Berlin wall\n\nGive me Stalin and St Paul\n\nI've seen the future, brother:\n\nIt is murder.\n\nThings are going to slide, slide in all directions\n\nWon't be nothing\n\nNothing you can measure anymore\n\nThe blizzard, the blizzard of the world\n\nHas crossed the threshold\n\nAnd it has overturned\n\nThe order of the soul\n\nWhen they said REPENT REPENT\n\nI wonder what they meant\n\nWhen they said REPENT REPENT\n\nI wonder what they meant\n\nWhen they said REPENT REPENT\n\nI wonder what they meant\n\nYou don't know me from the wind\n\nYou never will, you never did\n\nI'm the little Jew\n\nWho wrote the Bible\n\nI've seen the nations rise and fall\n\nI've heard their stories, heard them all\n\nBut love's the only engine of survival\n\nYour servant here, he has been told\n\nTo say it clear, to say it cold:\n\nIt's over, it ain't going\n\nAny further\n\nAnd now the wheels of heaven stop\n\nYou feel the devil's riding crop\n\nGet ready for the future:\n\nIt is murder\n\nThings are going to slide, slide in all directions...\n\nThere'll be the breaking of the ancient western code\n\nYour private life will suddenly explode\n\nThere'll be phantoms\n\nThere'll be fires on the road\n\nAnd the white man dancing\n\nYou'll see a woman hanging upside down\n\nHer features covered by her fallen gown\n\nAnd all the lousy little poets coming round\n\nTryin' to sound like Charlie Manson\n\nAnd the white man dancin'\n\nGive me back the Berlin wall\n\nGive me Stalin and St Paul\n\nGive me Christ\n\nOr give me Hiroshima\n\nDestroy another fetus now\n\nWe don't like children anyhow\n\nI've seen the future, baby:\n\nIt is murder\n\nThings are going to slide, slide in all directions...\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**Waiting For The Miracle**\n\n* * *\n\nBaby, I've been waiting\n\nI've been waiting night and day.\n\nI didn't see the time\n\nI waited half my life away.\n\nThere were lots of invitations\n\nAnd I know you sent me some,\n\nBut I was waiting\n\nFor the miracle, for the miracle to come.\n\nI know you really loved me.\n\nBut, you see, my hands were tied.\n\nI know it must have hurt you\n\nIt must have hurt your pride\n\nTo have to stand beneath my window\n\nWith your bugle and your drum,\n\nAnd me I'm up there waiting\n\nFor the miracle, for the miracle to come.\n\nAh I don't believe you'd like it,\n\nYou wouldn't like it here.\n\nThere ain't no entertainment\n\nAnd the judgements are severe.\n\nThe Maestro says it's Mozart\n\nBut it sounds like bubble gum\n\nWhen you're waiting\n\nFor the miracle, for the miracle to come.\n\nWaiting for the miracle\n\nThere's nothing left to do.\n\nI haven't been this happy\n\nsince the end of World War II.\n\nNothing left to do\n\nWhen you know that you've been taken.\n\nNothing left to do\n\nWhen you're begging for a crumb.\n\nNothing left to do\n\nWhen you've got to go on waiting\n\nWaiting for the miracle to come.\n\nI dreamed about you, baby.\n\nIt was just the other night.\n\nMost of you was naked\n\nAh, but some of you was light.\n\nThe sands of time were falling\n\nFrom your fingers and your thumb\n\nAnd you were waiting\n\nFor the miracle, for the miracle to come.\n\nAh baby, let's get married\n\nWe've been alone too long.\n\nLet's be alone together.\n\nLet's see if we're that strong.\n\nYeah let's do something crazy\n\nSomething absolutely wrong\n\nWhile we're waiting\n\nfor the miracle, for the miracle to come.\n\nNothing left to do\n\nWhen you know that you've been taken.\n\nNothing left to do\n\nWhen you're begging for a crumb.\n\nNothing left to do\n\nWhen you've got to go on waiting\n\nWaiting for the miracle to come.\n\nWhen you've fallen on the highway\n\nAnd you're lying in the rain\n\nAnd they ask you how you're doing\n\nOf course you'll say you can't complain.\n\nIf you're squeezed for information\n\nThat's when you've got to play it dumb\n\nYou just say you're out there waiting\n\nFor the miracle, for the miracle to come.\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**Closing Time**\n\n* * *\n\nAh we're drinking and we're dancing\n\nAnd the band is really happening\n\nAnd the Johnny Walker wisdom running high\n\nAnd my very sweet companion\n\nShe's the Angel of Compassion\n\nShe's rubbing half the world against her thigh\n\nAnd every drinker every dancer\n\nLifts a happy face to thank her\n\nThe fiddler fiddles something so sublime\n\nAll the women tear their blouses off\n\nAnd the men they dance on the polka-dots\n\nAnd it's partner found, it's partner lost\n\nAnd it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops:\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nYeah the women tear their blouses off\n\nAnd the men they dance on the polka-dots\n\nAnd it's partner found, it's partner lost\n\nAnd it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops:\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nAh we're lonely, we're romantic\n\nAnd the cider's laced with acid\n\nAnd the Holy Spirit's crying \"Where's the beef?\"\n\nAnd the moon is swimming naked\n\nAnd the summer night is fragrant\n\nWith a mighty expectation of relief\n\nSo we struggle and we stagger\n\nDown the snakes and up the ladder\n\nTo the tower where the blessed hours chime\n\nAnd I swear it happened just like this:\n\nA sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss\n\nThe Gates of Love they budged an inch\n\nI can't say much has happened since\n\nBut CLOSING TIME\n\nI swear it happened just like this\n\nA sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss\n\nThe Gates of Love they budged an inch\n\nI can't say much has happened since\n\nCLOSING TIME\n\nI loved you for your beauty\n\nBut that doesn't make a fool of me:\n\nYou were in it for your beauty too\n\nAnd I loved you for your body\n\nThere's a voice that sounds like God to me\n\nDeclaring, declaring, declaring that your body's really you\n\nAnd I loved you when our love was blessed\n\nAnd I love you now there's nothing left\n\nBut sorrow and a sense of overtime\n\nAnd I missed you since the place got wrecked\n\nAnd I just don't care what happens next\n\nLooks like freedom but it feels like death\n\nIt's something in between, I guess\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nYeah I missed you since the place got wrecked\n\nBy the winds of change and the weeds of sex\n\nLooks like freedom but it feels like death\n\nIt's something in between, I guess\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nYeah we're drinking and we're dancing\n\nBut there's nothing really happening\n\nAnd the place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night\n\nAnd my very close companion\n\nGets me fumbling gets me laughing\n\nShe's a hundred but she's wearing something tight\n\nAnd I lift my glass to the Awful Truth\n\nWhich you can't reveal to the Ears of Youth\n\nExcept to say it isn't worth a dime\n\nAnd the whole damn place goes crazy twice\n\nAnd it's once for the devil and once for Christ\n\nBut the Boss don't like these dizzy heights\n\nWe're busted in the blinding lights\n\nBusted in the blinding lights\n\nOf CLOSING TIME\n\nThe whole damn place goes crazy twice\n\nAnd it's once for the devil and once for Christ\n\nBut the Boss don't like these dizzy heights\n\nWe're busted in the blinding lights\n\nBusted in the blinding lights\n\nOf CLOSING TIME\n\nOh the women tear their blouses off\n\nAnd the men they dance on the polka-dots\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nAnd it's partner found, it's partner lost\n\nAnd it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nI swear it happened just like this:\n\nA sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss\n\nIt's CLOSING TIME\n\nThe Gates of Love they budged an inch\n\nI can't say much has happened since\n\nBut CLOSING TIME\n\nI loved you when our love was blessed\n\nI love you now there's nothing left\n\nBut CLOSING TIME\n\nI miss you since the place got wrecked\n\nBy the winds of change and the weeds of sex.\n\n**Anthem**\n\n* * *\n\nThe birds they sang\n\nAt the break of day\n\nStart again\n\nI heard them say\n\nDon't dwell on what\n\nHas passed away\n\nOr what is yet to be.\n\nAh the wars they will\n\nBe fought again\n\nThe holy dove\n\nShe will be caught again\n\nBought and sold\n\nAnd bought again\n\nThe dove is never free.\n\nRing the bells that still can ring\n\nForget your perfect offering\n\nThere is a crack in everything\n\nThat's how the light gets in.\n\nWe asked for signs\n\nThe signs were sent\n\nThe birth betrayed\n\nThe marriage spent\n\nYeah the widowhood\n\nOf every government\n\nSigns for all to see.\n\nI can't run no more\n\nWith that lawless crowd\n\nWhile the killers in high places\n\nSay their prayers out loud.\n\nBut they've summoned, they've\n\nsummoned up\n\nA thundercloud\n\nAnd they're going to hear from me.\n\nRing the bells that still can ring\n\nForget your perfect offering\n\nThere is a crack in everything\n\nThat's how the light gets in.\n\nYou can add up the parts\n\nBut you won't have the sum\n\nYou can strike up the march\n\nThere is no drum\n\nEvery heart, every heart\n\nTo love will come\n\nBut like a refugee.\n\nRing the bells that still can ring\n\nForget your perfect offering\n\nThere is a crack, a crack in everything\n\nThat's how the light gets in.\n\nRing the bells that still can ring\n\nForget your perfect offering\n\nThere is a crack, a crack in everything\n\nThat's how the light gets in.\n\nThat's how the light gets in.\n\nThat's how the light gets in.\n\n**Democracy**\n\n* * *\n\nIt's coming through a hole in the air,\n\nFrom those nights in Tiananmen Square.\n\nIt's coming from the feel\n\nThat this ain't exactly real\n\nOr it's real, but it ain't exactly there.\n\nFrom the wars against disorder\n\nFrom the sirens night and day\n\nFrom the fires of the homeless\n\nFrom the ashes of the gay:\n\nDemocracy is coming to the U.S.A.\n\nIt's coming through a crack in the wall\n\nOn a visionary flood of alcohol\n\nFrom the staggering account\n\nOf the Sermon on the Mount\n\nWhich I don't pretend to understand at all.\n\nIt's coming from the silence\n\nOn the dock of the bay,\n\nFrom the brave, the bold, the battered\n\nHeart of Chevrolet:\n\nDemocracy is coming to the U.S.A.\n\nIt's coming from the sorrow in the street\n\nThe holy places where the races meet\n\nFrom the homicidal bitchin'\n\nThat goes down in every kitchen\n\nTo determine who will serve and who will eat.\n\nFrom the wells of disappointment\n\nWhere the women kneel to pray\n\nFor the grace of God in the desert here\n\nAnd the desert far away:\n\nDemocracy is coming to the U.S.A.\n\nSail on, sail on\n\nO mighty Ship of State!\n\nTo the Shores of Need\n\nPast the Reefs of Greed\n\nThrough the Squalls of Hate\n\nSail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.\n\nIt's coming to America first\n\nThe cradle of the best and of the worst.\n\nIt's here they got the range\n\nAnd the machinery for change\n\nAnd it's here they got the spiritual thirst.\n\nIt's here the family's broken\n\nAnd it's here the lonely say\n\nThat the heart has got to open\n\nIn a fundamental way:\n\nDemocracy is coming to the U.S.A.\n\nIt's coming from the women and the men.\n\nO baby, we'll be making love again.\n\nWe'll be going down so deep\n\nThe river's going to weep\n\nAnd the mountain's going to shout Amen.\n\nIt's coming like the tidal flood\n\nBeneath the lunar sway\n\nImperial, mysterious\n\nIn amorous array:\n\nDemocracy is coming to the U.S.A.\n\nSail on, sail on\n\nO mighty Ship of State!\n\nTo the Shores of Need\n\nPast the Reefs of Greed\n\nThrough the Squalls of Hate\n\nSail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.\n\nI'm sentimental, if you know what I mean\n\nI love the country but I can't stand the scene.\n\nAnd I'm neither left or right\n\nI'm just staying home tonight\n\nGetting lost in that hopeless little screen.\n\nBut I'm stubborn as those garbage bags\n\nThat Time cannot decay.\n\nI'm junk but I'm still holding up\n\nThis little wild bouquet:\n\nDemocracy is coming to the U.S.A.\n\nEbet Roberts / Getty\n\n**Light As The Breeze**\n\n* * *\n\nShe stands before you naked.\n\nYou can see it, you can taste it\n\nAnd she comes to you light as the breeze.\n\nNow you can drink it or you can nurse it,\n\nIt don't matter how you worship\n\nAs long as you're\n\nDown on your knees.\n\nSo I knelt there at the delta,\n\nAt the alpha and the omega,\n\nAt the cradle of the river and the seas.\n\nAnd like a blessing come from heaven\n\nFor something like a second\n\nI was healed and my heart\n\nWas at ease.\n\nO baby I waited\n\nSo long for your kiss\n\nFor something to happen,\n\nOh something like this.\n\nAnd you're weak and you're harmless\n\nAnd you're sleeping in your harness\n\nAnd the wind going wild\n\nIn the trees\n\nAnd it ain't exactly prison\n\nBut you'll never be forgiven\n\nFor whatever you've done\n\nWith the keys.\n\nO baby I waited\n\nSo long for your kiss\n\nFor something to happen,\n\nOh something like this.\n\nIt's dark now and it's snowing\n\nO my love I must be going\n\nThe river has started to freeze.\n\nAnd I'm sick of pretending\n\nI'm broken from bending\n\nI've lived too long on my knees.\n\nThen she dances so graceful\n\nAnd your heart's hard and hateful\n\nAnd she's naked\n\nBut that's just a tease.\n\nAnd you turn in disgust\n\nFrom your hatred and from your love\n\nAnd she comes to you\n\nLight as the breeze.\n\nO baby I waited\n\nSo long for your kiss\n\nFor something to happen,\n\nOh something like this.\n\nThere's blood on every bracelet\n\nYou can see it, you can taste it\n\nAnd it's Please baby\n\nPlease baby please.\n\nAnd she says, Drink deeply, pilgrim\n\nBut don't forget there's still a woman\n\nBeneath this\n\nResplendent chemise.\n\nSo I knelt there at the delta,\n\nAt the alpha and the omega,\n\nI knelt there like one who believes.\n\nAnd the blessings come from heaven\n\nAnd for something like a second\n\nI'm cured and my heart\n\nIs at ease.\n\n* * *\n\n'Be For Real': words and music by Frederick Knight 'Always': words and music by Irving Berlin\n\n1996. Norman Lomax / Rex Features\n\n**More Best Of Leonard Cohen**\n\n* * *\n\nOCTOBER 7, 1997  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Never Any Good**\n\n**The Great Event**\n\n**Never Any Good**\n\n* * *\n\nI was never any good at loving you\n\nI was never any good at coming\n\nThrough for you.\n\nYou're going to feel much better\n\nWhen you cut me loose forever\n\nI was never any good\n\nNever any good\n\nI was never any good at loving you\n\nI was dying when we met\n\nI bet my life on you\n\nBut you called me and I folded\n\nLike you knew I'd do.\n\nYou called my ace, my king, my bluff\n\nOkay, you win, enough's enough\n\nI was never any good\n\nNever any good\n\nI was never any good at loving you\n\nI was pretty good at taking out the garbage.\n\nPretty good at holding up the wall\n\nDealing with the fire and the earthquake\n\nBut that don't count\n\nThat don't count\n\nThat don't count for nothing much at all.\n\nI was never any good at loving you.\n\nI was just a tourist in your bed looking\n\nAt the view\n\nBut I can't forget where my lips\n\nHave been\n\nThose holy hills, that deep ravine\n\nI was never any good\n\nNever any good\n\nI was never any good at loving you.\n\nI was pretty good at taking out the garbage\n\nPretty good at holding up the wall.\n\nI'm sorry for my crimes against\n\nThe moonlight\n\nI didn't think\n\nI didn't think\n\nI didn't think the moon would mind at all.\n\nI was never any good at loving you\n\nAt doing what a woman really wants\n\nA man to do.\n\nYou're going to feel much better\n\nWhen you cut me loose forever\n\nI was never any good\n\nNever any good\n\nI was never any good at loving you.\n\n**The Great Event**\n\n* * *\n\nIt's going to happen very soon. The great event which will end the horror. Which will end the sorrow. Next Tuesday, when the sun goes down, I will play the Moonlight Sonata backwards. This will reverse the effects of the world's mad plunge into suffering, for the last 200 million years. What a lovely night that would be. What a sigh of relief, as the senile robins become bright red again, and the retired nightingales pick up their dusty tails and assert the majesty of creation.\n\nLos Angeles. Ethan Hill / Getty\n\n**Ten New Songs**\n\n* * *\n\nOCTOBER 9, 2001  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**In My Secret Life**\n\n**A Thousand Kisses Deep**\n\n**That Don't Make It Junk**\n\n**Here It Is**\n\n**Love Itself**\n\n**By The Rivers Dark**\n\n**Alexandra Leaving**\n\n**You Have Loved Enough**\n\n**Boogie Street**\n\n**The Land Of Plenty**\n\n* * *\n\nAll songs from this album co-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**In My Secret Life**\n\n* * *\n\nI saw you this morning.\n\nYou were moving so fast.\n\nCan't seem to loosen my grip\n\nOn the past.\n\nAnd I miss you so much.\n\nThere's no one in sight.\n\nAnd we're still making love\n\nIn My Secret Life.\n\nI smile when I'm angry.\n\nI cheat and I lie.\n\nI do what I have to do\n\nTo get by.\n\nBut I know what is wrong.\n\nAnd I know what is right.\n\nAnd I'd die for the truth\n\nIn My Secret Life.\n\nHold on, hold on, my brother.\n\nMy sister, hold on tight.\n\nI finally got my orders.\n\nI'll be marching through the morning,\n\nMarching through the night,\n\nMoving across the borders\n\nOf My Secret Life.\n\nLooked through the paper.\n\nMakes you want to cry.\n\nNobody cares if the people Live or die.\n\nAnd the dealer wants you thinking\n\nThat it's either black or white.\n\nThank G\u2013d it's not that simple\n\nIn My Secret Life.\n\nI bite my lip.\n\nI buy what I'm told:\n\nFrom the latest hit\n\nTo the wisdom of old.\n\nBut I'm always alone.\n\nAnd my heart is like ice.\n\nAnd it's crowded and cold\n\nIn My Secret Life.\n\n**A Thousand Kisses Deep**\n\n* * *\n\nThe ponies run, the girls are young,\n\nThe odds are there to beat.\n\nYou win a while, and then it's done\n\nYour little winning streak.\n\nAnd summoned now to deal\n\nWith your invincible defeat,\n\nYou live your life as if it's real,\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\nI'm turning tricks, I'm getting fixed,\n\nI'm back on Boogie Street.\n\nYou lose your grip, and then you slip\n\nInto the Masterpiece.\n\nAnd maybe I had miles to drive\n\nAnd promises to keep:\n\nYou ditch it all to stay alive\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\nAnd sometimes when the night is slow,\n\nThe wretched and the meek,\n\nWe gather up our hearts and go\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\nConfined to sex, we pressed against\n\nThe limits of the sea:\n\nI saw there were no oceans left\n\nFor scavengers like me.\n\nI made it to the forward deck\n\nI blessed our remnant fleet\n\nAnd then consented to be wrecked\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\nI'm turning tricks, I'm getting fixed,\n\nI'm back on Boogie Street.\n\nI guess they won't exchange the gifts\n\nThat you were meant to keep.\n\nAnd quiet is the thought of you\n\nThe file on you complete\n\nExcept what we forgot to do\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\nAnd sometimes when the night is slow,\n\nThe wretched and the meek,\n\nWe gather up our hearts and go\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\nThe ponies run, the girls are young,\n\nThe odds are there to beat.\n\nYou win a while, and then it's done\n\nYour little winning streak.\n\nAnd summoned now to deal\n\nWith your invincible defeat,\n\nYou live your life as if it's real,\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep.\n\n* * *\n\nFor Sandy\n\n**That Don't Make It Junk**\n\n* * *\n\nI fought against the bottle,\n\nBut I had to do it drunk.\n\nTook my diamond to the pawnshop\n\nBut that don't make it junk.\n\nI know that I'm forgiven,\n\nBut I don't know how I know.\n\nI don't trust my inner feelings\n\nInner feelings come and go.\n\nHow come you called me here tonight?\n\nHow come you bother\n\nWith my heart at all?\n\nYou raise me up in grace\n\nThen you put me in a place\n\nWhere I must fall.\n\nToo late to fix another drink,\n\nThe lights are going out.\n\nI'll listen to the darkness sing\n\nI know what that's about.\n\nI tried to love you my way,\n\nBut I couldn't make it hold.\n\nSo I closed the Book of Longing\n\nAnd I do what I am told.\n\nHow come you called me here tonight?\n\nHow come you bother with my heart at all?\n\nYou raise me up in grace\n\nThen you put me in a place\n\nWhere I must fall.\n\nI fought against the bottle,\n\nBut I had to do it drunk.\n\nTook my diamond to the pawnshop\n\nBut that don't make it junk.\n\n**Here It Is**\n\n* * *\n\nHere is your crown\n\nAnd your seal and rings;\n\nAnd here is your love\n\nFor all things.\n\nHere is your cart,\n\nAnd your cardboard and piss;\n\nAnd here is your love\n\nFor all of this.\n\nMay everyone live,\n\nAnd may everyone die.\n\nHello, my love,\n\nAnd my love, Goodbye.\n\nHere is your wine,\n\nAnd your drunken fall;\n\nAnd here is your love\n\nYour love for it all.\n\nHere is your sickness,\n\nYour bed and your pan;\n\nAnd here is your love\n\nFor the woman, the man.\n\nMay everyone live,\n\nAnd may everyone die.\n\nHello, my love,\n\nAnd my love, Goodbye.\n\nAnd here is the night,\n\nThe night has begun;\n\nAnd here is your death\n\nIn the heart of your son.\n\nAnd here is the dawn,\n\n(Until death do us part);\n\nAnd here is your death\n\nIn your daughter's heart.\n\nMay everyone live,\n\nAnd may everyone die.\n\nHello, my love,\n\nAnd my love, Goodbye.\n\nAnd here you are hurried,\n\nAnd here you are gone;\n\nAnd here is the love\n\nThat it's all built upon.\n\nHere is your cross,\n\nYour nails and your hill;\n\nAnd here is your love\n\nThat lists where it will.\n\nMay everyone live,\n\nAnd may everyone die.\n\nHello, my love,\n\nAnd my love, Goodbye.\n\n**Love Itself**\n\n* * *\n\nThe light came through the window,\n\nStraight from the sun above,\n\nAnd so inside my little room\n\nThere plunged the rays of Love.\n\nIn streams of light I clearly saw\n\nThe dust you seldom see,\n\nOut of which the Nameless makes\n\nA Name for one like me.\n\nI'll try to say a little more:\n\nLove went on and on\n\nUntil it reached an open door\n\nThen Love Itself\n\nLove Itself was gone.\n\nAll busy in the sunlight\n\nThe flecks did float and dance,\n\nAnd I was tumbled up with them\n\nIn formless circumstance.\n\nI'll try to say a little more:\n\nLove went on and on\n\nUntil it reached an open door\n\nThen Love Itself\n\nLove Itself was gone.\n\nThen I came back from where I'd been.\n\nMy room, it looked the same\n\nBut there was nothing left between\n\nThe Nameless and the Name.\n\nAll busy in the sunlight\n\nThe flecks did float and dance,\n\nAnd I was tumbled up with them\n\nIn formless circumstance.\n\nI'll try to say a little more:\n\nLove went on and on\n\nUntil it reached an open door\n\nThen Love itself,\n\nLove Itself was gone.\n\nLove Itself was gone.\n\n* * *\n\nfor L.W.  \n(American writer Leon Wieseltier)\n\n**By The Rivers Dark**\n\n* * *\n\nBy the rivers dark\n\nI wandered on.\n\nI lived my life\n\nIn Babylon.\n\nAnd I did forget\n\nMy holy song:\n\nAnd I had no strength\n\nIn Babylon.\n\nBy the rivers dark\n\nWhere I could not see\n\nWho was waiting there\n\nWho was hunting me.\n\nAnd he cut my lip\n\nAnd he cut my heart.\n\nSo I could not drink\n\nFrom the river dark.\n\nAnd he covered me\n\nAnd I saw within\n\nMy lawless heart\n\nAnd my wedding ring.\n\nI did not know\n\nAnd I could not see\n\nWho was waiting there\n\nWho was hunting me.\n\nBy the rivers dark\n\nI panicked on.\n\nI belonged at last\n\nTo Babylon.\n\nThen he struck my heart\n\nWith a deadly force\n\nAnd he said \"This heart:\n\nIt is not yours.\"\n\nAnd he gave the wind\n\nMy wedding ring:\n\nAnd he circled us\n\nWith everything.\n\nBy the rivers dark,\n\nIn a wounded dawn,\n\nI live my life\n\nIn Babylon.\n\nThough I take my song\n\nFrom a withered limb,\n\nBoth song and tree\n\nThey sing for him.\n\nBe the truth unsaid\n\nAnd the blessing gone\n\nIf I forget\n\nMy Babylon.\n\nI did not know\n\nAnd I could not see\n\nWho was waiting there\n\nWho was hunting me.\n\nBy the rivers dark\n\nWhere it all goes on\n\nBy the rivers dark\n\nIn Babylon.\n\n**Alexandra Leaving**\n\n* * *\n\nSuddenly the night has grown colder.\n\nThe god of love preparing to depart.\n\nAlexandra hoisted on his shoulder,\n\nThey slip between the sentries of the heart.\n\nUpheld by the simplicities of pleasure\n\nThey gain the light, they formlessly entwine;\n\nAnd radiant beyond your widest measure\n\nThey fall among the voices and the wine.\n\nIt's not a trick, your senses all deceiving,\n\nA fitful dream, the morning will exhaust\n\nSay goodbye to Alexandra leaving.\n\nThen say goodbye to Alexandra lost.\n\nEven though she sleeps upon your satin;\n\nEven though she wakes you with a kiss.\n\nDo not say the moment was imagined;\n\nDo not stoop to strategies like this.\n\nAs someone long prepared for this to happen\n\nGo firmly to the window. Drink it in.\n\nExquisite music. Alexandra laughing.\n\nYour firm commitments tangible again.\n\nAnd you who had the honor of her evening,\n\nAnd by the honor had your own restored\n\nSay goodbye to Alexandra leaving;\n\nAlexandra leaving with her lord.\n\nEven though she sleeps upon your satin;\n\nEven though she wakes you with a kiss.\n\nDo not say the moment was imagined;\n\nDo not stoop to strategies like this.\n\nAs someone long prepared for the occasion\n\nIn full command of every plan you wrecked\n\nDo not choose a coward's explanation\n\nThat hides behind the cause and the effect.\n\nAnd you who were bewildered by a meaning\n\nWhose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed\n\nSay goodbye to Alexandra leaving.\n\nThen say goodbye to Alexandra lost.\n\nSay goodbye to Alexandra leaving.\n\nThen say goodbye to Alexandra lost.\n\n**You Have Loved Enough**\n\n* * *\n\nI said I'd be your lover.\n\nYou laughed at what I said.\n\nI lost my job forever.\n\nI was counted with the dead.\n\nI swept the marble chambers\n\nBut you sent me down below.\n\nYou kept me from believing,\n\nUntil you let me know:\n\nThat I am not the one who loves\n\nIt's love that seizes me.\n\nWhen hatred with his package comes\n\nYou forbid delivery.\n\nAnd when the hunger for your touch\n\nRises from the hunger,\n\nYou whisper \"You have loved enough,\n\nNow let me be the Lover.\"\n\nI swept the marble chambers\n\nBut you sent me down below.\n\nYou kept me from believing\n\nUntil you let me know:\n\nThat I am not the one who loves\n\nIt's love that chooses me.\n\nWhen hatred with his package comes\n\nYou forbid delivery.\n\nAnd when the hunger for your touch\n\nRises from the hunger,\n\nYou whisper \"You have loved enough,\n\nNow let me be the Lover.\"\n\n**Boogie Street**\n\n* * *\n\nO Crown of Light, O Darkened One,\n\nI never thought we'd meet.\n\nYou kiss my lips, and then it's done:\n\nI'm back on Boogie Street.\n\nA sip of wine, a cigarette,\n\nAnd then it's time to go.\n\nI tidied up the kitchenette;\n\nI tuned the old banjo.\n\nI'm wanted at the traffic-jam.\n\nThey're saving me a seat.\n\nI'm what I am, and what I am\n\nIs back on Boogie Street.\n\nAnd O my love, I still recall\n\nThe pleasures that we knew;\n\nThe rivers and the waterfall,\n\nWherein I bathed with you.\n\nBewildered by your beauty there,\n\nI'd kneel to dry your feet.\n\nBy such instructions you prepare\n\nA man for Boogie Street.\n\nO Crown of Light, O Darkened One,\n\nI never thought we'd meet.\n\nYou kiss my lips, and then it's done:\n\nI'm back on Boogie Street.\n\nSo come, my friends, be not afraid.\n\nWe are so lightly here.\n\nIt is in love that we are made;\n\nIn love we disappear.\n\nThough all the maps of blood and flesh\n\nAre posted on the door,\n\nThere's no one who has told us yet\n\nWhat Boogie Street is for.\n\nO Crown of Light, O Darkened One,\n\nI never thought we'd meet.\n\nYou kiss my lips, and then it's done:\n\nI'm back on Boogie Street.\n\nA sip of wine, a cigarette,\n\nAnd then it's time to go.\n\nI tidied up the kitchenette;\n\nI tuned the old banjo.\n\nI'm wanted at the traffic-jam.\n\nThey're saving me a seat.\n\nI'm what I am, and what I am\n\nIs back on Boogie Street.\n\n**The Land Of Plenty**\n\n* * *\n\nDon't really have the courage\n\nTo stand where I must stand.\n\nDon't really have the temperament\n\nTo lend a helping hand.\n\nDon't really know who sent me\n\nTo raise my voice and say:\n\nMay the lights in The Land of Plenty\n\nShine on the truth some day.\n\nI don't know why I come here,\n\nKnowing as I do\n\nWhat you really think of me,\n\nWhat I really think of you.\n\nFor the millions in a prison\n\nThat wealth has set apart\n\nFor the Christ who has not risen\n\nFrom the caverns of the heart\n\nFor the innermost decision\n\nThat we cannot but obey\n\nFor what's left of our religion,\n\nI lift my voice and pray:\n\nMay the lights in The Land of Plenty\n\nShine on the truth some day.\n\nI know I said I'd meet you,\n\nI'd meet you at the store\n\nBut I can't buy it, baby.\n\nI can't buy it anymore.\n\nAnd I don't really know who sent me,\n\nTo raise my voice and say:\n\nMay the lights in The Land of Plenty\n\nShine on the truth some day.\n\nFor the innermost decision\n\nThat we cannot but obey\n\nFor what's left of our religion\n\nI lift my voice and pray:\n\nMay the lights in The Land of Plenty\n\nShine on the truth some day.\n\nGetty\n\n**Dear Heather**\n\n* * *\n\nOCTOBER 26, 2004  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Go No More A-Roving**\n\n**Because Of**\n\n**The Letters**\n\n**Undertow**\n\n**Morning Glory**\n\n**On That Day**\n\n**Villanelle For Our Time**\n\n**There For You**\n\n**Dear Heather**\n\n**Nightingale**\n\n**To A Teacher**\n\n**The Faith**\n\n**Tennessee Waltz**\n\n**Because Of**\n\n* * *\n\nBecause of a few songs\n\nWherein I spoke of their mystery,\n\nWomen have been\n\nExceptionally kind\n\nTo my old age.\n\nThey make a secret place\n\nIn their busy lives\n\nAnd they take me there.\n\nThey become naked\n\nIn their different ways\n\nAnd they say,\n\n\"Look at me, Leonard\n\nLook at me one last time.\"\n\nThen they bend over the bed\n\nAnd cover me up\n\nLike a baby that is shivering.\n\n**The Letters**\n\n* * *\n\nYou never liked to get\n\nThe letters that I sent.\n\nBut now you've got the gist\n\nOf what my letters meant.\n\nYou're reading them again,\n\nThe ones you didn't burn.\n\nYou press them to your lips,\n\nMy pages of concern.\n\nI said there'd been a flood.\n\nI said there's nothing left.\n\nI hoped that you would come.\n\nI gave you my address.\n\nYour story was so long,\n\nThe plot was so intense,\n\nIt took you years to cross\n\nThe lines of self-defence.\n\nThe wounded forms appear:\n\nThe loss, the full extent.\n\nAnd simple kindness here\n\nThe solitude of strength.\n\nYou walk into my room.\n\nYou stand there at my desk.\n\nBegin your letter to\n\nThe one who's coming next.\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**Undertow**\n\n* * *\n\nI set out one night\n\nWhen the tide was low\n\nThere were signs in the sky\n\nBut I did not know\n\nI'd be caught in the grip\n\nOf the undertow\n\nDitched on a beach\n\nWhere the sea hates to go\n\nWith a child in my arms\n\nAnd a chill in my soul\n\nAnd my heart the shape\n\nOf a begging bowl\n\n**Morning Glory**\n\n* * *\n\nNo words this time? No words. No, there are times when nothing can be done. Not this time. Is it censorship? Is it censorship? No, it's evaporation. No, it's evaporation. Is this leading somewhere? Yes. We're going down the lane. Is this going somewhere? Into the garden. Into the backyard. We're walking down the driveway. Are we moving towards... We're in the backyard... Some transcendental moment? It's almost light. That's right. That's it. Are we moving towards some transcendental moment? That's right. That's it. Do you think you'll be able to pull it off? Yes. Do you think you can pull it off? Yes, it might happen. I'm all ears. I'm all ears. Oh, the morning glory!\n\n**On That Day**\n\n* * *\n\nSome people say\n\nIt's what we deserve\n\nFor sins against g\u2013d\n\nFor crimes in the world\n\nI wouldn't know\n\nI'm just holding the fort\n\nSince that day\n\nThey wounded New York\n\nSome people say\n\nThey hate us of old\n\nOur women unveiled\n\nOur slaves and our gold\n\nI wouldn't know\n\nI'm just holding the fort\n\nBut answer me this\n\nI won't take you to court\n\nDid you go crazy\n\nOr did you report\n\nOn that day\n\nOn that day\n\nThey wounded New York\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Anjani Thomas\n\n**There For You**\n\n* * *\n\nWhen it all went down\n\nAnd the pain came through\n\nI get it now\n\nI was there for you\n\nDon't ask me how\n\nI know it's true\n\nI get it now\n\nI was there for you\n\nI make my plans\n\nLike I always do\n\nBut when I look back\n\nI was there for you\n\nI walk the streets\n\nLike I used to do\n\nAnd I freeze with fear\n\nBut I'm there for you\n\nI see my life\n\nIn full review\n\nIt was never me\n\nIt was always you\n\nYou sent me here\n\nYou sent me there\n\nBreaking things\n\nI can't repair\n\nMaking objects\n\nOut of thoughts\n\nMaking more\n\nBy thinking not\n\nEating food\n\nAnd drinking wine\n\nA body that\n\nI thought was mine\n\nDressed as Arab\n\nDressed as Jew\n\nO mask of iron\n\nI was there for you\n\nMoods of glory\n\nMoods so foul\n\nThe world comes through\n\nA bloody towel\n\nAnd death is old\n\nBut it's always new\n\nI freeze with fear\n\nAnd I'm there for you\n\nI see it clear\n\nI always knew\n\nIt was never me\n\nI was there for you\n\nI was there for you\n\nMy darling one\n\nAnd by your law\n\nIt all was done\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**Dear Heather**\n\n* * *\n\nDear Heather\n\nPlease walk by me again\n\nWith a drink in your hand\n\nAnd your legs all white\n\nFrom the winter\n\nGetty\n\n**Nightingale**\n\n* * *\n\nI built my house beside the wood\n\nSo I could hear you singing\n\nAnd it was sweet and it was good\n\nAnd love was all beginning.\n\nFare thee well my nightingale\n\n'Twas long ago I found you\n\nNow all your songs of beauty fail\n\nThe forest closes 'round you\n\nThe sun goes down behind a veil\n\n'Tis now that you would call me\n\nSo rest in peace my nightingale\n\nBeneath your branch of holly.\n\nFare thee well my nightingale\n\nI lived but to be near you\n\nTho' you are singing somewhere still\n\nI can no longer hear you.\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Anjani Thomas\n\nDedicated to Carl Anderson (1945\u20132004)\n\n**To A Teacher**\n\n* * *\n\nHurt once and for all into silence.\n\nA long pain ending without a song to prove it.\n\nWho could stand beside you so close to Eden,\n\nWhen you glinted in every eye the held-high\n\nRazor, shivering every ram and son?\n\nAnd now the silent loony bin, where\n\nThe shadows live in the rafters like\n\nDay-weary bats,\n\nUntil the turning mind, a radar signal,\n\nLures them to exaggerate\n\nMountain-size on the white stone wall\n\nYour tiny limp.\n\nHow can I leave you in such a house?\n\nAre there no more saints and wizards\n\nTo praise their ways with pupils,\n\nNo more evil to stun with the slap\n\nOf a wet red tongue?\n\nDid you confuse the Messiah in a mirror\n\nAnd rest because he had finally come?\n\nLet me cry Help beside you, Teacher.\n\nI have entered under this dark roof\n\nAs fearlessly as an honored son\n\nEnters his father's house.\n\n* * *\n\nDedicated to A M Klein (1909\u20131972)\n\n(Taken from Cohen's _The Spice-Box Of Earth_ )\n\n**The Faith**\n\n* * *\n\nThe sea so deep and blind\n\nThe sun, the wild regret\n\nThe club, the wheel, the mind\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nThe club, the wheel, the mind\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nThe blood, the soil, the faith\n\nThese words you can't forget\n\nYour vow, your holy place\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nThe blood, the soil, the faith\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nA cross on every hill\n\nA star, a minaret\n\nSo many graves to fill\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nSo many graves to fill\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nThe sea so deep and blind\n\nWhere still the sun must set\n\nAnd time itself unwind\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\nAnd time itself unwind\n\nO love, aren't you tired yet?\n\n* * *\n\nBased on a Qu\u00e9b\u00e9cois folk song\n\n**Tennessee Waltz**\n\n* * *\n\nI was dancing with my darlin'\n\nTo the Tennessee Waltz\n\nWhen an old friend I happened to see.\n\nIntroduced him to my loved one\n\nAnd while they were waltzing\n\nMy friend stole my sweetheart from me.\n\nI remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz\n\nNow I know just how much I have lost\n\nYes I lost my little darlin'\n\nThe night they were playing\n\nThe beautiful Tennessee Waltz.\n\nShe comes dancing through the darkness\n\nTo the Tennessee Waltz\n\nAnd I feel like I'm falling apart\n\nAnd it's stronger than drink\n\nAnd it's deeper than sorrow\n\nThis darkness she's left in my heart.\n\n* * *\n\nWritten by Redd Stewart and Pee Wee King\n\nAdditional verse: Leonard Cohen\n\n* * *\n\n'Go No More A-Roving': words by Lord Byron\n\n'Villanelle For Our Time': words by Frank Scott\n\nGlastonbury, 2008. Edd Westmacott / Getty\n\n**Live In London**\n\n* * *\n\nMARCH 31, 2009  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Whither Thou Goest**\n\n**Whither Thou Goest**\n\n* * *\n\nWhither thou goest I will go\n\nWhither thou lodgest I will lodge\n\nThy people shall be,\n\nMy people.\n\nWhither thou goest I will go\n\nWhither thou goest I will go\n\nWhither thou goest I will go...\n\n* * *\n\nAdapted by Leonard Cohen from _The Book Of Ruth_\n\nLos Angeles. Ann Johansson / Getty\n\nNew York, 2006. Andrew Harrer / Getty\n\n**Old Ideas**\n\n* * *\n\nJANUARY 31, 2012  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Going Home**\n\n**Amen**\n\n**Show Me The Place**\n\n**Darkness**\n\n**Anyhow**\n\n**Crazy To Love You**\n\n**Come Healing**\n\n**Banjo**\n\n**Lullaby**\n\n**Different Sides**\n\n**Going Home**\n\n* * *\n\nI love to speak with Leonard\n\nHe's a sportsman and a shepherd\n\nHe's a lazy bastard\n\nLiving in a suit.\n\nBut he does say what I tell him\n\nEven though it isn't welcome\n\nHe just doesn't have the freedom\n\nTo refuse.\n\nHe will speak these words of wisdom\n\nLike a sage, a man of vision\n\nThough he knows he's really nothing\n\nBut the brief elaboration of a tube.\n\nGoing home\n\nWithout my sorrow\n\nGoing home\n\nSometime tomorrow\n\nGoing home\n\nTo where it's better\n\nThan before\n\nGoing home\n\nWithout my burden\n\nGoing home\n\nBehind the curtain\n\nGoing home\n\nWithout the costume\n\nThat I wore\n\nHe wants to write a love song\n\nAn anthem of forgiving\n\nA manual for living with defeat\n\nA cry above the suffering\n\nA sacrifice recovering\n\nBut that isn't what I need him\n\nTo complete\n\nI want to make him certain\n\nThat he doesn't have a burden\n\nThat he doesn't need a vision\n\nThat he only has permission\n\nTo do my instant bidding\n\nWhich is to SAY what I have told him\n\nTo repeat\n\nGoing home\n\nWithout my sorrow\n\nGoing home\n\nSometime tomorrow\n\nGoing home\n\nTo where it's better\n\nThan before\n\nGoing home\n\nWithout my burden\n\nGoing home\n\nBehind the curtain\n\nGoing home\n\nWithout the costume\n\nThat I wore\n\nI love to speak with Leonard\n\nHe's a sportsman and a shepherd\n\nHe's a lazy bastard\n\nLiving in a suit.\n\n**Amen**\n\n* * *\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I've been to the river\n\nAnd I've taken the edge off my thirst\n\nTell me again\n\nWe're alone and I'm \u2013 I'm listening\n\nI'm listening so hard that it hurts\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I'm clean and I'm sober\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I've seen through the horror\n\nTell me again\n\nTell me over and over\n\nTell me that you want me then\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\n... Amen\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen the victims are singing\n\nAnd Laws of Remorse are restored\n\nTell me again\n\nThat you know what I'm thinking\n\nBut vengeance belongs to the lord\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I'm clean and I'm sober\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I've seen through the horror\n\nTell me again\n\nTell me over and over\n\nTell me that you love me then\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\n... Amen\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen the day has been ransomed\n\nAnd night has no right to begin\n\nTry me again\n\nWhen the angels are panting\n\nAnd scratching the door to come in\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I'm clean and I'm sober\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I've seen through the horror\n\nTell me again\n\nTell me over and over\n\nTell me that you need me then\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\n... Amen\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen the filth of the butcher\n\nIs washed in the blood of the lamb\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen the rest of the culture\n\nHas passed through the Eye of the Camp\n\nTell me again\n\nWhen I've seen through the horror\n\nTell me again\n\nTell me over and over\n\nTell me that you love me then\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\nAmen\n\n... Amen\n\n**Show Me The Place**\n\n* * *\n\nShow me the place\n\nWhere you want your slave to go\n\nShow me the place\n\nI've forgotten, I don't know\n\nShow me the place\n\nFor my head is bending low\n\nShow me the place\n\nWhere you want your slave to go\n\nShow me the place\n\nHelp me roll away the stone\n\nShow me the place\n\nI can't move this thing alone\n\nShow me the place\n\nWhere the Word became a man\n\nShow me the place\n\nWhere the suffering began\n\nThe troubles came\n\nI saved what I could save\n\nA thread of light\n\nA particle, a wave\n\nBut there were chains\n\nSo I hastened to behave\n\nThere were chains\n\nSo I loved you like a slave\n\nShow me the place\n\nWhere you want your slave to go\n\nShow me the place\n\nI've forgotten, I don't know\n\n**Darkness**\n\n* * *\n\nI caught the darkness\n\nDrinking from your cup\n\nI caught the darkness\n\nDrinking from your cup\n\nI said: Is this contagious?\n\nYou said: Just drink it up\n\nI got no future\n\nI know my days are few\n\nThe present's not that pleasant\n\nJust a lot of things to do\n\nI thought the past would last me\n\nBut the darkness got that too\n\nI should have seen it coming\n\nIt was right behind your eyes\n\nYou were young and it was summer\n\nI just had to take a dive\n\nWinning you was easy\n\nBut darkness was the prize\n\nI don't smoke no cigarette\n\nI don't drink no alcohol\n\nI ain't had much loving yet\n\nBut that's always been your call\n\nHey I don't miss it baby\n\nI got no taste for anything at all\n\nI used to love the rainbow\n\nI used to love the view\n\nI loved the early morning\n\nI'd pretend that it was new\n\nBut I caught the darkness baby\n\nAnd I got it worse than you\n\nI caught the darkness\n\nIt was drinking from your cup\n\nI caught the darkness\n\nDrinking from your cup\n\nI said: Is this contagious?\n\nYou said: Just drink it up\n\n**Anyhow**\n\n* * *\n\nIt's a shame and it's a pity\n\nThe way you treat me now\n\nI know you can't forgive me\n\nBut forgive me anyhow\n\nThe ending got so ugly\n\nI even heard you say\n\nYou never ever loved me\n\nOh but love me anyway\n\nDreamed about you baby\n\nYou were wearing half your dress.\n\nI know you have to hate me\n\nBut could you hate me less?\n\nI used up all my chances\n\nAnd you'll never take me back\n\nBut there ain't no harm in asking\n\nCould you cut me one more slack?\n\nI'm naked and I'm filthy\n\nAnd there's sweat upon my brow\n\nAnd both of us are guilty\n\nAnyhow\n\nHave mercy on me baby\n\nAfter all I did confess\n\nEven though you have to hate me\n\nCould you hate me less?\n\nIt's a shame and it's a pity\n\nI know you can't forgive me\n\nThe ending got so ugly\n\nYou never ever loved me\n\nDreamed about you baby\n\nI know you have to hate me\n\nI'm naked and I'm filthy\n\nAnd both of us are guilty\n\nAnyhow\n\nHave mercy on me baby\n\n**Crazy To Love You**\n\n* * *\n\nHad to go crazy to love you\n\nHad to go down to the pit\n\nHad to do time in the tower\n\nBegging my crazy to quit\n\nHad to go crazy to love you\n\nYou, who were never the one\n\nWhom I chased through the souvenir heartache\n\nHer braids and her blouse all undone\n\nSometimes I'd head for the highway\n\nI'm old and the mirrors don't lie\n\nBut crazy has places to hide in\n\nDeeper than saying goodbye\n\nHad to go crazy to love you\n\nHad to let everything fall\n\nHad to be people I hated\n\nHad to be no one at all\n\nI'm tired of choosing desire\n\nBeen saved by a sweet fatigue\n\nThe gates of commitment unwired\n\nAnd nobody trying to leave\n\nSometimes I'd head for the highway\n\nI'm old and the mirrors don't lie\n\nBut crazy has places to hide in\n\nDeeper than saying goodbye\n\nHad to go crazy to love you\n\nYou, who were never the one\n\nWhom I chased through the souvenir heartache\n\nHer braids and her blouse all undone\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Anjani Thomas\n\n**Come Healing**\n\n* * *\n\nO gather up the brokenness\n\nAnd bring it to me now,\n\nThe fragrance of those promises\n\nYou never dared to vow\n\nThe splinters that you carry\n\nThe cross you left behind:\n\nCome healing of the body\n\nCome healing of the mind\n\nAnd let the heavens hear it\n\nThe penitential hymn:\n\nCome healing of the spirit\n\nCome healing of the limb\n\nBehold the gates of mercy,\n\nIn arbitrary space,\n\nAnd none of us deserving\n\nThe cruelty or the grace\n\nO solitude of longing\n\nWhere love has been confined:\n\nCome healing of the body\n\nCome healing of the mind\n\nO see the darkness yielding\n\nThat tore the light apart:\n\nCome healing of the reason\n\nCome healing of the heart\n\nO troubled dust concealing\n\nAn undivided love,\n\nThe Heart beneath is teaching\n\nTo the broken Heart above\n\nO let the heavens falter\n\nAnd let the earth proclaim:\n\nCome healing of the Altar\n\nCome healing of the Name\n\nO longing of the branches\n\nTo lift the little bud,\n\nO longing of the arteries\n\nTo purify the blood\n\nAnd let the heavens hear it\n\nThe penitential hymn:\n\nCome healing of the spirit\n\nCome healing of the limb\n\nO let the heavens hear it\n\n**Banjo**\n\n* * *\n\nThere's something that I'm watching\n\nMeans a lot to me\n\nIt's a broken banjo bobbing\n\nOn the dark infested sea\n\nDon't know how it got there\n\nMaybe taken by the wave\n\nOff of someone's shoulder\n\nOr out of someone's grave\n\nIt's coming for me darling\n\nNo matter where I go\n\nIts duty is to harm me\n\nMy duty is to know\n\nThere's something that I'm watching\n\nMeans a lot to me\n\nIt's a broken banjo bobbing\n\nOn the dark infested sea\n\n**Lullaby**\n\n* * *\n\nSleep baby sleep\n\nThe day's on the run\n\nThe wind in the trees\n\nIs talking in tongues\n\nIf your heart is torn\n\nI don't wonder why\n\nIf the night is long\n\nHere's my lullaby\n\nWell the mouse ate the crumb\n\nThen the cat ate the crust\n\nNow they've fallen in love\n\nThey're talking in tongues\n\nIf your heart is torn\n\nI don't wonder why\n\nIf the night is long\n\nHere's my lullaby\n\nSleep baby sleep\n\nThere's a morning to come\n\nThe wind in the trees\n\nthey're talking in tongues\n\nIf your heart is torn\n\nI don't wonder why\n\nIf the night is long\n\nHere's my lullaby\n\n**Different Sides**\n\n* * *\n\nWe find ourselves on different sides\n\nOf a line that nobody drew.\n\nThough it all may be one in the higher eye\n\nDown here where we live it is two\n\nI to my side call the meek and the mild\n\nYou to your side call the Word.\n\nBy virtue of suffering I claim to have won\n\nYou claim to have never been heard\n\nBoth of us say there are laws to obey\n\nBut frankly I don't like your tone.\n\nYou want to change the way I make love\n\nI want to leave it alone\n\nThe pull of the moon the thrust of the sun\n\nAnd thus the ocean is crossed.\n\nThe waters are blessed while a shadowy guest\n\nKindles a light for the lost\n\nBoth of us say there are laws to obey\n\nBut frankly I don't like your tone.\n\nYou want to change the way I make love\n\nI want to leave it alone\n\nDown in the valley the famine goes on\n\nThe famine up on the hill.\n\nI say that you shouldn't you couldn't you can't\n\nYou say that you must and you will\n\nBoth of us say there are laws to obey\n\nBut frankly I don't like your tone.\n\nYou want to change the way I make love\n\nI want to leave it alone\n\nYou want to live where the suffering is\n\nI want to get out of town.\n\nC'mon baby give me a kiss\n\nStop writing everything down\n\nBoth of us say there are laws to obey\n\nBut frankly I don't like your tone.\n\nYou want to change the way I make love\n\nI want to leave it alone\n\nBoth of us say there are laws to obey\n\nParis, 2012. Joel Saget / Getty\n\n**Popular Problems**\n\n* * *\n\nSEPTEMBER 23, 2014  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Slow**\n\n**Almost Like The Blues**\n\n**Samson In New Orleans**\n\n**A Street**\n\n**Did I Ever Love You**\n\n**My Oh My**\n\n**Nevermind**\n\n**Born In Chains**\n\n**You Got Me Singing**\n\n**Slow**\n\n* * *\n\nI'm slowing down the tune\n\nI never liked it fast\n\nYou want to get there soon\n\nI want to get there last\n\nIt's not because I'm old\n\nIt's not the life I led\n\nI always liked it slow\n\nThat's what my momma said\n\nI'm lacing up my shoe\n\nBut I don't want to run\n\nI'll get here when I do\n\nDon't need no starting gun\n\nIt's not because I'm old\n\nIt's not what dying does\n\nI always liked it slow\n\nSlow is in my blood\n\nI always liked it slow\n\nI never liked it fast\n\nWith you it's got to go\n\nWith me it's got to last\n\nIt's not because I'm old\n\nIt's not because I'm dead\n\nI always liked it slow\n\nThat's what my momma said\n\nAll your moves are swift\n\nAll your turns are tight\n\nLet me catch my breath\n\nI thought we had all night\n\nI like to take my time\n\nI like to linger as it flies\n\nA weekend on your lips\n\nA lifetime in your eyes\n\nI always liked it slow\n\nI never liked it fast\n\nWith you it's got to go\n\nWith me it's got to last\n\nI'm slowing down the tune\n\nI never liked it fast\n\nYou want to get there soon\n\nI want to get there last\n\nSo baby let me go\n\nYou're wanted back in town.\n\nIn case they want to know\n\nI'm just trying to slow it down\n\n**Almost Like The Blues**\n\n* * *\n\nI saw some people starving\n\nThere was murder, there was rape\n\nTheir villages were burning\n\nThey were trying to escape\n\nI couldn't meet their glances\n\nI was staring at my shoes\n\nIt was acid, it was tragic\n\nIt was almost like the blues\n\nI have to die a little\n\nBetween each murderous thought\n\nAnd when I'm finished thinking\n\nI have to die a lot\n\nThere's torture and there's killing\n\nAnd there's all my bad reviews\n\nThe war, the children missing\n\nLord, it's almost like the blues\n\nSo I let my heart get frozen\n\nTo keep away the rot\n\nMy father said I'm chosen\n\nMy mother said I'm not\n\nI listened to their story\n\nOf the Gypsies and the Jews\n\nIt was good, it wasn't boring\n\nIt was almost like the blues\n\nThere is no G\u2013d in Heaven\n\nAnd there is no Hell below\n\nSo says the great professor\n\nOf all there is to know\n\nBut I've had the invitation\n\nThat a sinner can't refuse\n\nAnd it's almost like salvation\n\nIt's almost like the blues\n\n**Samson In New Orleans**\n\n* * *\n\nYou said that you were with me\n\nYou said you were my friend\n\nDid you really love the city\n\nOr did you just pretend\n\nYou said you loved her secrets\n\nAnd her freedoms hid away\n\nShe was better than America,\n\nThat's what I heard you say\n\nYou said how could this happen\n\nYou said how can this be\n\nThe remnant all dishonored\n\nOn the bridge of misery\n\nAnd we who cried for mercy\n\nFrom the bottom of the pit\n\nWas our prayer so damn unworthy\n\nThe Son rejected it?\n\nSo gather up the killers\n\nGet everyone in town\n\nStand me by those pillars\n\nLet me take this temple down\n\nThe king so kind and solemn\n\nHe wears a bloody crown\n\nSo stand me by that column\n\nLet me take this temple down\n\nYou said how could this happen\n\nYou said how can this be\n\nThe chains are gone from heaven\n\nThe storms are wild and free\n\nThere's other ways to answer\n\nThat certainly is true\n\nMe, I'm blind with death and anger\n\nAnd that's no place for you\n\nThere's a woman in the window\n\nAnd a bed in Tinsel Town\n\nI'll write you when it's over\n\nLet me take this temple down\n\n**A Street**\n\n* * *\n\nI used to be your favorite drunk\n\nGood for one more laugh\n\nThen we both ran out of luck\n\nLuck was all we ever had.\n\nYou put on a uniform\n\nTo fight the Civil War,\n\nYou looked so good I didn't care\n\nWhat side you were fighting for\n\nIt wasn't all that easy\n\nWhen you up and walked away\n\nBut I'll save that little story\n\nFor another rainy day\n\nI know the burden's heavy\n\nAs you wheel it through the night,\n\nSome people say it's empty\n\nBut that don't mean it's light\n\nYou left me with the dishes\n\nAnd a baby in the bath.\n\nYou're tight with the militias\n\nYou wear their camouflage.\n\nYou always said we're equal\n\nSo let me march with you\n\nJust an extra in the sequel\n\nTo the old red white and blue\n\nBaby don't ignore me\n\nWe were smokers, we were friends\n\nForget that tired story\n\nOf betrayal and revenge.\n\nI see the Ghost of Culture\n\nWith numbers on his wrist\n\nSalute some new conclusion\n\nWhich all of us have missed\n\nI cried for you this morning\n\nAnd I'll cry for you again\n\nBut I'm not in charge of sorrow\n\nSo please don't ask me when\n\nThere may be wine and roses\n\nAnd magnums of champagne\n\nBut we'll never, no we'll never\n\nEver be that drunk again\n\nThe party's over\n\nBut I've landed on my feet:\n\nI'll be standing on this corner\n\nWhere there used to be a street\n\n**Did I Ever Love You**\n\n* * *\n\nDid I ever love you\n\nDid I ever need you\n\nDid I ever fight you\n\nDid I ever want to\n\nDid I ever leave you\n\nWas I ever able\n\nAre we still leaning\n\nAcross the old table\n\nDid I ever love you\n\nDid I ever need you\n\nDid I ever fight you\n\nDid I ever want to\n\nWas it ever settled\n\nWas it ever over\n\nAnd is it still raining\n\nBack in November\n\nThe lemon trees blossom\n\nThe almond trees wither\n\nWas I ever someone\n\nWho could love you forever\n\nWas it ever settled\n\nWas it ever over\n\nAnd is it still raining\n\nBack in November\n\nThe lemon trees blossom\n\nThe almond trees whither\n\nIt's Spring and it's Summer\n\nAnd it's Winter forever\n\nDid I ever love you\n\nDoes it really matter\n\nDid I ever fight you\n\nYou don't need to answer\n\nDid I ever leave you\n\nWas I ever able\n\nAre we still leaning\n\nAcross the old table\n\nDid I ever love you\n\nDid I ever need you\n\nDid I ever fight you\n\nDid I ever want to\n\n**My Oh My**\n\n* * *\n\nWasn't hard to love you\n\nDidn't have to try\n\nWasn't hard to love you\n\nDidn't have to try\n\nHeld you for a little while\n\nMy Oh My Oh My\n\nDrove you to the station\n\nNever asked you why\n\nDrove you to the station\n\nNever asked you why\n\nHeld you for a little while\n\nMy Oh My Oh My\n\nAll the boys are waving\n\nTrying to catch your eye\n\nAll the boys are waving\n\nTrying to catch your eye\n\nHeld you for a little while\n\nMy Oh My Oh My\n\nWasn't hard to love you\n\nDidn't have to try\n\nWasn't hard to love you\n\nDidn't have to try\n\nHeld you for a little while\n\nMy Oh My Oh My\n\n**Nevermind**\n\n* * *\n\nThe war was lost\n\nThe treaty signed\n\nI was not caught\n\nI crossed the line\n\nI was not caught\n\nThough many tried\n\nI live among you\n\nWell disguised\n\nI had to leave\n\nMy life behind\n\nI dug some graves\n\nYou'll never find\n\nThe story's told\n\nWith facts and lies\n\nI had a name\n\nBut never mind\n\nNever mind\n\nNever mind\n\nThe war was lost\n\nThe treaty signed\n\nThere's truth that lives\n\nAnd truth that dies\n\nI don't know which\n\nSo never mind\n\nYour victory\n\nWas so complete\n\nThat some among you\n\nThought to keep\n\nA record of\n\nOur little lives\n\nThe clothes we wore\n\nOur spoons our knives\n\nThe games of luck\n\nOur soldiers played\n\nThe stones we cut\n\nThe songs we made\n\nOur law of peace\n\nWhich understands\n\nA husband leads\n\nA wife commands\n\nAnd all of this\n\nExpressions of\n\nThe Sweet Indifference\n\nSome call Love\n\nThe High Indifference\n\nSome call Fate\n\nBut we had Names\n\nMore intimate\n\nNames so deep and\n\nNames so true\n\nThey're blood to me\n\nThey're dust to you\n\nThere is no need\n\nThat this survive\n\nThere's truth that lives\n\nAnd truth that dies\n\nNever mind\n\nNever mind\n\nI live the life\n\nI left behind\n\nThere's truth that lives\n\nAnd truth that dies\n\nI don't know which\n\nSo never mind\n\nI could not kill\n\nThe way you kill\n\nI could not hate\n\nI tried I failed\n\nYou turned me in\n\nAt least you tried\n\nYou side with them\n\nWhom you despise\n\nThis was your heart\n\nThis swarm of flies\n\nThis was once your mouth\n\nThis bowl of lies\n\nYou serve them well\n\nI'm not surprised\n\nYou're of their kin\n\nYou're of their kind\n\nNever mind\n\nNever mind\n\nThe story's told\n\nWith facts and lies\n\nYou own the world\n\nSo never mind\n\nNever mind\n\nNever mind\n\nI live the life\n\nI left behind\n\nI live it full\n\nI live it wide\n\nThrough layers of time\n\nYou can't divide\n\nMy woman's here\n\nMy children too\n\nTheir graves are safe\n\nFrom ghosts like you\n\nIn places deep\n\nWith roots entwined\n\nI live the life\n\nI left behind\n\n**Born In Chains**\n\n* * *\n\nI was born in chains\n\nBut I was taken out of Egypt\n\nI was bound to a burden\n\nBut the burden it was raised\n\nLord I can no longer\n\nKeep this secret\n\nBlessed is the name\n\nThe name be praised\n\nI fled to the edge\n\nOf the mighty sea of sorrow\n\nPursued by the riders\n\nOf a cruel and dark regime\n\nBut the waters parted\n\nAnd my soul crossed over\n\nOut of Egypt\n\nOut of Pharaoh's dream\n\nWord of words\n\nAnd measure of all measures\n\nBlessed is the name\n\nThe name be blessed\n\nWritten on my heart\n\nIn burning letters\n\nThat's all I know\n\nI cannot read the rest\n\nI was idle with my soul\n\nWhen I heard that you could use me\n\nI followed very closely\n\nMy life remained the same\n\nBut then you showed me\n\nWhere you had been wounded\n\nIn every atom\n\nBroken is the name\n\nI was alone on the road\n\nYour love was so confusing\n\nAnd all my teachers told me\n\nThat I had myself to blame\n\nBut in the grip\n\nOf sensual illusion\n\nA sweet unknowing\n\nUnified the name\n\nWord of words\n\nAnd measure of all measures\n\nBlessed is the name\n\nThe name be blessed\n\nWritten on my heart\n\nIn burning letters\n\nThat's all I know\n\nI cannot read the rest\n\nI've heard the soul unfolds\n\nIn the chambers of its longing\n\nAnd the bitter liquor sweetens\n\nIn the hammered cup\n\nBut all the ladders\n\nOf the night have fallen\n\nOnly darkness now\n\nTo lift the longing up\n\n**You Got Me Singing**\n\n* * *\n\nYou got me singing\n\nEven though the news is bad\n\nYou got me singing\n\nThe only song I ever had\n\nYou got me singing\n\nEver since the river died\n\nYou got me thinking\n\nOf the places we could hide\n\nYou got me singing\n\nEven though the world is gone\n\nYou got me thinking\n\nI'd like to carry on\n\nYou got me singing\n\nEven though it all looks grim\n\nYou got me singing\n\nThe Hallelujah hymn\n\nYou got me singing\n\nLike a prisoner in a jail\n\nYou got me singing\n\nLike my pardon's in the mail\n\nYou got me wishing\n\nOur little love would last\n\nYou got me thinking\n\nLike those people of the past\n\nLondon, 2013. Rune Hellestad / Getty\n\n**Can't Forget: A Souvenir Of The Grand Tour**\n\n* * *\n\nMAY 12, 2015  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**Never Gave Nobody Trouble**\n\n**Got A Little Secret**\n\n**Never Gave Nobody Trouble**\n\n* * *\n\nCouldn't pay the mortgage\n\nAnd it broke my baby's heart\n\nI couldn't pay the mortgage\n\nIt broke my baby's heart\n\nI never gave nobody trouble\n\nBut it ain't too late to start\n\nDon't wanna break no window\n\nDon't wanna burn no car\n\nDon't wanna break no window\n\nAnd I don't wanna burn your car\n\nYou got the right to all your riches\n\nBut you let it go too far\n\nYou sail the mighty ocean\n\nOn a yacht designed for you\n\nYou sail the mighty ocean\n\nOn a yacht designed for you\n\nYeah, but the ocean's fake with garbage\n\nYou ain't gonna make it through\n\nI never gave nobody trouble\n\nI'm alone and ordinary\n\nI never gave nobody trouble\n\nI'm alone and ordinary\n\nI said, I never gave nobody trouble\n\nBut you know goddamn well that I can\n\n**Got A Little Secret**\n\n* * *\n\nI've got a little secret\n\nYou've got to promise not to tell\n\nI said, I've got a little secret\n\nIf you promise not to tell\n\nI made a date in heaven, oh Lord\n\nBut I've been keepin' it in hell\n\nI'd like to love you baby\n\nBut it don't seem right\n\nI'd like to love you baby\n\nIt just don't seem right\n\nYou see, I've got this full-length mirror\n\nAnd it ain't a pretty sight\n\nI've got a little secret\n\nYou've got to promise not to tell\n\nI've got a little secret\n\nIf you promise not to tell\n\nI made a date in heaven\n\nBut I've been keepin' it in hell\n\nI'd like to hold you baby\n\nBut my arms are old and weak\n\nI would, I'd like to hold you baby\n\nBut my arms are old and weak\n\nI was listenin' to your story\n\nBut I guess I fell asleep\n\nI've got a little secret\n\nIf you promise not to tell\n\nI said, I've got a little secret\n\nYou've got to promise not to tell\n\nYou see, I made a date in heaven\n\nBut I've been keepin' it in hell\n\nIt's kinda chilly in your kitchen\n\nIt must be ten below\n\nIt's kinda chilly in your kitchen\n\nMust be ten below\n\nI bought a ticket for the tropics\n\nI must have lost it in the snow\n\nI've got a little secret\n\nIf you promise not to tell\n\nI've got a little secret\n\nIf you promise not to tell\n\nYou see, I made a date in heaven\n\nBut I've been keepin' it in hell\n\n* * *\n\n'La Manic': words and music by Georges Dor\n\n'Choices': words and music by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis\n\nRotterdam, 2013. Paul Bergen / Getty\n\n**You Want It Darker**\n\n* * *\n\nOCTOBER 21, 2016  \nCOLUMBIA\n\n**You Want It Darker**\n\n**Treaty**\n\n**On The Level**\n\n**Leaving The Table**\n\n**If I Didn't Have Your Love**\n\n**Traveling Light**\n\n**It Seemed The Better Way**\n\n**Steer Your Way**\n\n**String Reprise / Treaty**\n\n**You Want It Darker**\n\n* * *\n\nIf you are the dealer\n\nI am out of the game\n\nIf you are the healer\n\nI'm broken and lame\n\nIf thine is the glory\n\nThen mine must be the shame\n\nYou want it darker\n\nWe kill the flame\n\nMagnified and sanctified\n\nBe Thy Holy Name\n\nVilified and crucified\n\nIn the human frame\n\nA million candles burning\n\nFor the help that never came\n\nYou want it darker\n\nWe kill the flame\n\nHineni Hineni\n\nI'm ready, my Lord\n\nThere's a lover in the story\n\nBut the story is still the same\n\nThere's a lullaby for suffering\n\nAnd a paradox to blame\n\nBut it's written in the scriptures\n\nAnd it's not some idle claim\n\nYou want it darker\n\nWe kill the flame\n\nThey're lining up the prisoners\n\nThe guards are taking aim\n\nI struggled with some demons\n\nThey were middle-class and tame\n\nDidn't know I had permission\n\nTo murder and to maim\n\nYou want it darker\n\nWe kill the flame\n\nHineni Hineni\n\nI'm ready, my Lord\n\nMagnified and sanctified\n\nBe Thy Holy Name\n\nVilified and crucified\n\nIn the human frame\n\nA million candles burning\n\nFor the love that never came\n\nYou want it darker\n\nWe kill the flame\n\nIf you are the dealer\n\nI'm out of the game\n\nIf you are the healer\n\nI'm broken and lame\n\nIf thine is the glory\n\nThen mine must be the shame\n\nYou want it darker\n\nWe kill the flame\n\nHineni Hineni\n\nI'm ready, my Lord\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Patrick Leonard\n\n**Treaty**\n\n* * *\n\nI seen you change the water into wine\n\nI seen you change it back to water too\n\nI sit at your table every night\n\nI try but I just don't get high with you\n\nI wish there was a treaty we could sign\n\nI do not care who takes this bloody hill\n\nI'm angry and I'm tired all the time\n\nI wish there was a treaty\n\nI wish there was a treaty\n\nBetween your love and mine\n\nThey're dancing in the street \u2013 it's Jubilee\n\nWe sold ourselves for love but now we're free\n\nI'm so sorry for the ghost I made you be\n\nOnly one of us was real \u2013 and that was me\n\nI haven't said a word since you've been gone\n\nThat any liar couldn't say as well\n\nI just can't believe the static coming on\n\nYou were my ground, my safe and sound\n\nYou were my aerial\n\nThe fields are crying out \u2013 it's Jubilee\n\nWe sold ourselves for love but now we're free\n\nI'm so sorry for the ghost I made you be\n\nOnly one of us was real \u2013 and that was me\n\nI heard the snake was baffled by his sin\n\nHe shed his scales to find the snake within\n\nBut born again is born without a skin\n\nThe poison enters into everything\n\nI wish there was a treaty we could sign\n\nI do not care who takes the bloody hill\n\nI'm angry and I'm tired all the time\n\nI wish there was a treaty\n\nI wish there was a treaty\n\nBetween your love and mine\n\nI wish there was a treaty we could sign\n\nIt's over now, the water and the wine\n\nWe were broken then but now we're borderline\n\nI wish there was a treaty\n\nI wish there was a treaty\n\nBetween your love and mine\n\n**On The Level**\n\n* * *\n\nI knew that it was wrong\n\nI didn't have a doubt\n\nI was dying to get back home\n\nAnd you were starting out\n\nI said I best be moving on\n\nYou said, We have all day\n\nYou smiled at me like I was young\n\nIt took my breath away\n\nYour crazy fragrance all around\n\nYour secrets all in view\n\nMy lost, my lost was saying found\n\nMy don't was saying do\n\nLet's keep it on the level\n\nWhen I walked away from you\n\nI turned my back on the devil\n\nTurned my back on the angel, too\n\nThey ought to give my heart a medal\n\nFor letting go of you\n\nWhen I turned my back on the devil\n\nTurned my back on the angel, too\n\nNow I'm living in this temple\n\nWhere they tell you what to do\n\nI'm old and I've had to settle\n\nOn a different point of view\n\nI was fighting with temptation\n\nBut I didn't want to win\n\nA man like me don't like to see\n\nTemptation caving in\n\nYour crazy fragrance all around\n\nYou secrets in my view\n\nMy lost, my lost was saying found\n\nMy don't was saying do\n\nLet's keep it on the level\n\nWhen I walked away from you\n\nI turned my back on the devil\n\nTurned my back on the angel, too\n\nThey ought to give my heart a medal\n\nFor letting go of you\n\nWhen I turned my back on the devil\n\nTurned my back on the angel, too\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Sharon Robinson\n\n**Leaving The Table**\n\n* * *\n\nI'm leaving the table\n\nI'm out of the game\n\nI don't know the people\n\nIn your picture frame\n\nIf I ever loved you\n\nIt's a crying shame\n\nIf I ever loved you\n\nIf I knew your name\n\nYou don't need a lawyer\n\nI'm not making a claim\n\nYou don't need to surrender\n\nI'm not taking aim\n\nI don't need a lover\n\nThe wretched beast is tame\n\nI don't need a lover\n\nSo blow out the flame\n\nThere's nobody missing\n\nThere is no reward\n\nLittle by little\n\nWe're cutting the cord\n\nWe're spending the treasure\n\nThat love cannot afford\n\nI know you can feel it\n\nThe sweetness restored\n\nI don't need a reason\n\nFor what I became\n\nI've got these excuses\n\nThey're tired and lame\n\nI don't need a pardon\n\nThere's no one left to blame\n\nI'm leaving the table\n\nI'm out of the game\n\n**If I Didn't Have Your Love**\n\n* * *\n\nIf the sun would lose its light\n\nAnd we lived an endless night\n\nAnd there was nothing left\n\nThat you could feel,\n\nThat's how it would be,\n\nWhat the world would seem to me,\n\nIf I didn't have your love\n\nTo make it real\n\nIf the stars were all unpinned\n\nAnd a cold and bitter wind\n\nSwallowed up the world\n\nWithout a trace,\n\nWell that's where I would be,\n\nWhat my life would seem to me,\n\nIf I couldn't lift the veil\n\nAnd see your face\n\nIf no leaves were on the tree\n\nAnd no water in the sea\n\nAnd the break of day\n\nHad nothing to reveal,\n\nThat's how broken I would be,\n\nWhat my life would seem to me,\n\nIf I didn't have your love\n\nTo make it real\n\nIf the sun would lose its light\n\nAnd we lived an endless night\n\nAnd there was nothing left\n\nThat you could feel;\n\nIf the sea were sand alone\n\nAnd the flowers made of stone\n\nAnd no one that you hurt\n\nCould ever heal\n\nThat's how broken I would be,\n\nWhat my life would seem to me,\n\nIf I didn't have your love\n\nTo make it real\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Patrick Leonard\n\n**Traveling Light**\n\n* * *\n\nI'm traveling light\n\nIt's au revoir\n\nMy once so bright\n\nMy fallen star\n\nI'm running late\n\nThey'll close the bar\n\nI used to play\n\nOne mean guitar\n\nI guess I'm just\n\nSomebody who\n\nHas given up\n\nOn the me and you\n\nI'm not alone\n\nI've met a few\n\nTraveling light like\n\nWe used to do\n\nGoodnight goodnight\n\nMy fallen star\n\nI guess you're right\n\nYou always are\n\nI know you're right\n\nAbout the blues\n\nYou live some life\n\nYou'd never choose\n\nI'm just a fool\n\nA dreamer who\n\nForgot to dream\n\nOf the me and you\n\nI am not alone\n\nI've met a few\n\nTraveling light like\n\nWe used to do\n\nTraveling light\n\nIt's au revoir\n\nMy once so bright\n\nMy fallen star\n\nI'm running late\n\nThey'll close the bar\n\nI used to play\n\nOne mean guitar\n\nI guess I'm just\n\nSomebody who\n\nHas given up\n\nOn the me and you\n\nI'm not alone\n\nI've met a few\n\nTraveling light like\n\nWe used to do\n\nBut if the road\n\nLeads back to you\n\nMust I forget\n\nThe things I knew\n\nWhen I was friends\n\nWith one or two\n\nTraveling light like\n\nWe used to do\n\nI'm traveling light\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Patrick Leonard and Adam Cohen\n\n**It Seemed The Better Way**\n\n* * *\n\nIt seemed the better way\n\nWhen first I heard him speak\n\nBut now it's much too late\n\nTo turn the other cheek\n\nSounded like the truth\n\nSeemed the better way\n\nSounded like the truth\n\nBut it's not the truth today\n\nI wonder what it was\n\nI wonder what it meant\n\nAt first he touched on love\n\nBut then he touched on death\n\nI better hold my tongue\n\nI better take my place\n\nLift this glass of blood\n\nTry to say the grace\n\n* * *\n\nCo-written with Patrick Leonard\n\n**Steer Your Way**\n\n* * *\n\nSteer your way through the ruins of the Altar and the Mall\n\nSteer your way through the fables of Creation and The Fall\n\nSteer your way past the Palaces that rise above the rot\n\nYear by year\n\nMonth by month\n\nDay by day\n\nThought by thought\n\nSteer your heart past the Truth you believed in yesterday\n\nSuch as Fundamental Goodness and the Wisdom of the Way\n\nSteer your heart, precious heart, past the women whom you bought\n\nYear by year\n\nMonth by month\n\nDay by day\n\nThought by thought\n\nSteer your way through the pain that is far more real than you\n\nThat has smashed the Cosmic Model that has blinded every View\n\nAnd please don't make me go there, though there be a God or not\n\nYear by year\n\nMonth by month\n\nDay by day\n\nThought by thought\n\nThey whisper still, the injured stones, the blunted mountains weep\n\nAs he died to make men holy, let us die to make things cheap\n\nAnd say the Mea Culpa, which you've probably forgot\n\nYear by year\n\nMonth by month\n\nDay by day\n\nThought by thought\n\nSteer your way, O my heart, though I have no right to ask\n\nTo the one who was never, never equal to the task\n\nWho knows he's been convicted, who knows he will be shot\n\nYear by year\n\nMonth by month\n\nDay by day\n\nThought by thought\n\nNewport, 1967. David Gahr / Getty\n**Other Songs**\n\n* * *\n\nSONGS WRITTEN BY LEONARD COHEN BUT RECORDED ONLY BY OTHER ARTISTS\n\n**Priests**\n\n**God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot**\n\n**Song Of Bernadette**\n\n**Way Down Deep**\n\n**It Just Feels**\n\n**Summertime**\n\n**Priests**\n\n* * *\n\nAnd who will write love songs for you\n\nWhen I am lord at last\n\nAnd your body is some little highway shrine\n\nThat all my priests have passed,\n\nThat all my priests have passed?\n\nMy priests they will put flowers there,\n\nThey will stand before the glass,\n\nBut they'll wear away your little window, Love,\n\nThey will trample on the grass,\n\nThey will trample on the grass.\n\nAnd who will aim the arrow\n\nThat men will follow through your grace\n\nWhen I am lord of memory\n\nAnd all your armor has turned to lace,\n\nAnd all your armor has turned to lace?\n\nThe simple life of heroes,\n\nAnd the twisted life of saints,\n\nThey just confuse the sunny calendar\n\nWith their red and golden paints,\n\nWith their red and golden paints.\n\nAnd all of you have seen the dance\n\nThat God has kept from me,\n\nBut he has seen me watching you\n\nWhen all your minds were free,\n\nWhen all your minds were free.\n\nAnd who will write love songs for you\n\nWhen I am lord at last\n\nAnd your body is some little highway shrine\n\nThat all my priests have passed,\n\nThat all my priests have passed?\n\nMy priests they will put flowers there,\n\nThey will stand before the glass,\n\nBut they'll wear away your little window, Love,\n\nThey will trample on the grass,\n\nThey will trample on the grass.\n\n* * *\n\nRecorded by Judy Collins ( _Wildflowers_ in 1967), Richie Havens ( _Richard P. Havens, 1983_ in 1969) and Enrique Morente ( _Omega_ in Spanish, 1996)\n\nDavid Gahr / Getty\n\n**God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot**\n\n* * *\n\nGod is alive, magic is afoot\n\nGod is alive, magic is afoot\n\nGod is alive, magic is afoot\n\nGod is afoot, magic is alive\n\nAlive is afoot, magic never died\n\nGod never sickened\n\nMany poor men lied\n\nMany sick men lied\n\nMagic never weakened\n\nMagic never hid\n\nMagic always ruled\n\nGod is afoot, God never died\n\nGod was ruler\n\nThough his funeral lengthened\n\nThough his mourners thickened\n\nMagic never fled\n\nThough his shrouds were hoisted\n\nThe naked God did live\n\nThough his words were twisted\n\nThe naked magic thrived\n\nThough his death was published\n\nRound and round the world\n\nThe heart did not believe\n\nMany hurt men wondered\n\nMany struck men bled\n\nMagic never faltered\n\nMagic always lead\n\nMany stones were rolled\n\nBut God would not lie down\n\nMany wild men lied\n\nMany fat men listened\n\nThough they offered stones\n\nMagic still was fed\n\nThough they locked their coffers\n\nGod was always served\n\nMagic is afoot, God is alive\n\nAlive is afoot\n\nAlive is in command\n\nMany weak men hungered\n\nMany strong men thrived\n\nThough they boast of solitude\n\nGod was at their side\n\nNor the dreamer in his cell\n\nNor the captain on the hill\n\nMagic is alive\n\nThough his death was pardoned\n\nRound and round the world\n\nThe heart would not believe\n\nThough laws were carved in marble\n\nThey could not shelter men\n\nThough altars built in parliaments\n\nThey could not order men\n\nPolice arrested magic and magic went with them\n\nMmmmm... for magic loves the hungry\n\nBut magic would not tarry\n\nIt moves from arm to arm\n\nIt would not stay with them\n\nMagic is afoot\n\nIt cannot come to harm\n\nIt rests in an empty palm\n\nIt spawns in an empty mind\n\nBut magic is no instrument\n\nMagic is the end\n\nMany men drove magic\n\nBut magic stayed behind\n\nMany strong men lied\n\nThey only passed through magic\n\nAnd out the other side\n\nMany weak men lied\n\nThey came to God in secret\n\nAnd though they left Him nourished\n\nThey would not tell who healed\n\nThough mountains danced before them\n\nThey said that God was dead\n\nThough his shrouds were hoisted\n\nThe naked God did live\n\nThis I mean to whisper to my mind\n\nThis I mean to laugh within my mind\n\nThis I mean my mind to serve\n\nTill service is but magic\n\nMoving through the world\n\nAnd mind itself is magic\n\nCoursing through the flesh\n\nAnd flesh itself is magic\n\nDancing on a clock\n\nAnd time itself\n\nThe magic length of God\n\nGod is alive, magic is afoot\n\nGod is alive, magic is afoot\n\nGod is alive, magic is afoot...\n\n* * *\n\nRecorded twice by Buffy Saint-Marie ( _Illuminations_ , 1969 and _Up Where We Belong_ , 1996)\n\n**Song Of Bernadette**\n\n* * *\n\nThere was a child named Bernadette,\n\nI heard the story long ago,\n\nShe saw the Queen of Heaven once\n\nAnd kept the vision in her soul.\n\nNo one believed what she had seen,\n\nNo one believed what she heard\n\nThat there were sorrows to be healed\n\nAnd mercy, mercy in this world.\n\nSo many hearts I find\n\nBroke like yours and mine,\n\nTorn by what we've done and can't undo.\n\nI just want to hold you,\n\nWon't you let me hold you\n\nLike Bernadette would do\n\nWe've been around, we fall, we fly\n\nWe mostly fall, we mostly run\n\nAnd every now and then we try\n\nTo mend the damage that we've done.\n\nTonight, tonight I cannot rest,\n\nI've got this joy inside my breast\n\nTo think that I did not forget\n\nThat child, that song of Bernadette.\n\nSo many hearts I find\n\nBroke like yours and mine,\n\nTorn by what we've done and can't undo.\n\nI just want to hold you,\n\nWon't you let me hold you\n\nLike Bernadette would do\n\n* * *\n\nWritten by Leonard Cohen, Jennifer Warnes and Bill Elliott. Recorded by Jennifer Warnes ( _Famous Blue Raincoat_ , 1986)\n\n**Way Down Deep**\n\n* * *\n\nWay down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way down deep\n\nI wander with you in my sleep\n\nI'm way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nIt came to me this morning\n\nI was walking down the street\n\nWas like my soul could taste you\n\nAnd God, you tasted sweet\n\nFinally I can breathe again\n\nFinally I can speak\n\nI've got you in the glory place\n\nI've got you way down deep\n\nI've got you way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nI wander with you in my sleep\n\nI'm way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nIt's a funny feeling\n\nBut I cannot say I mind\n\nI know that I'm dealing with\n\nA love that's far from blind\n\nI see every single angle\n\nI look before I leap\n\nAnd how else can I put it\n\nWhen you've got me way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way down deep\n\nI wander with you in my sleep\n\nI'm way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nDon't matter what we gave away\n\nWas nothing we could keep\n\nDon't matter what we didn't say\n\nYou know that talk is cheap\n\nForgive me if I hate you\n\nYou're a liar and a thief\n\nBut I've got you in the glory place\n\nI've got you way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way down deep\n\nI wander with you in my sleep\n\nI'm way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nDon't matter if the road is long\n\nDon't matter if it's steep\n\nDon't matter if the moon goes out\n\nAnd darkness is complete\n\nDon't matter if we lose our way\n\nI know we're gonna meet\n\nI've got you in the glory place\n\nI've got you way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\nYou've got me way down, way down deep\n\nI wander with you in my sleep\n\nI'm way down, way way down\n\nWay way down deep\n\n* * *\n\nWritten by Leonard Cohen, Jennifer Warnes and Amy La Television. Recorded by Jennifer Warnes ( _The Hunter_ , 1992)\n\n**It Just Feels**\n\n* * *\n\nIt feels so good\n\nAnd it feels so right\n\nIt feels like I've been rescued\n\nIn the middle of the night\n\nAnd all the tricks and all the angels\n\nAnd all the dirty rotten deals\n\nThey don't count now\n\nThey've been canceled\n\nAnd it feels, it just feels\n\nThank you Babe, thank you Babe\n\nIt feels so good\n\nAnd it feels so right\n\nIt feels like I've been rescued\n\nIn the middle of the night\n\nAnd the sweetest voice has spoken\n\nAnd the deepest wound is healed\n\nAnd the darkness is exploding\n\nAnd it feels, it just feels\n\nThank you Babe, thank you Babe\n\nIt comes so sweet\n\nAnd it comes so fast\n\nIt comes like windows breaking\n\nI can take a breath at last\n\nThank you for the breaking\n\nAnd thank you for the breath\n\nAnd for sayin' it was nothing\n\nNothing meaning life or death\n\nThank you Babe, it just feels\n\n* * *\n\nWritten by Leonard Cohen and David A. Stewart. Recorded by Sylvie Marechal ( _Voie Lact\u00e9e_ , 1992)\n\n**Summertime**\n\n* * *\n\nSummertime when will you come?\n\nI wanna put my light things on\n\nI wanna put my winter life away\n\nSummertime I need a sunny day\n\nI want those peaches on the table\n\nWant the watermelon red\n\nAnd the warm sun creeping through the window\n\nTo ease the outer pain\n\nI want the sand out there to lie on\n\nAnd the sea out there to swim\n\nSo my heart can take a holiday\n\nFrom breaking over here\n\nSummertime when will you come?\n\nI wanna put my light things on\n\nWanna put my winter life away\n\nSummertime I need a sunny day\n\nAnd I want it dry forever\n\nWanna roll those windows down\n\nGet the breeze back on my body\n\nGet my feet back on the ground\n\nI want the sand out there to lie on\n\nAnd the sea out there to swim\n\nSo my heart can take a holiday\n\nFrom breaking over here\n\nSummertime when will you come?\n\nI wanna put my light things on\n\nI wanna put my winter life away\n\nSummertime I need a sunny day\n\n* * *\n\nWritten by Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson. Recorded by Diana Ross ( _Red Hot Rhythm And Blues_ , 1987) and Roberta Flack ( _Set The Night To Music_ , 1991)\n[**Did you enjoy _All the Answers are Here_?  \nThen recommend it to a friend! **](9781783239443_contents.xhtml)\n\n  *  \n  *\n\n  *  \n  *  \n  *\n\n  *\n\n**Why not try some of our other great titles.**\n\n# Joni Mitchell: Both Sides Now\n\n**Both Sides Now** is an intimate exploration of Joni Mitchell's life and art.\n\nWhen singer, musician, and broadcast journalist Malka Marom was asked to interview Joni Mitchell in 1973, she eagerly accepted the opportunity to converse with the performer she'd first met late one night in 1966 at an open mic in Yorkville. More conversations followed over the next four decades of friendship, and it was only after Joni and Malka completed their last recorded interview, in 2012, that Malka discovered the heart of their discussions: the creative process.\n\nIn **Joni Mitchell: Both Sides Now** , Joni and Malka follow this thread through seven decades of life and art, discussing the influence of Joni's childhood, love and loss, playing dives and huge festivals, acclaim and criticism, poverty and affluence, glamorous triumphs and tragic mistakes...\n\nThis riveting narrative, told in interviews, lyrics, paintings, and photographs, is shared in the hope of inspiring others.\n\nBuy the Ebook Here\n\n# Patti Smith: A Biography\n\n_Patti Smith_ is one of pop culture's true troubadours. Emerging from the New York punk scene of the mid-seventies whilst mixing poetry, underground theatre, jazz and rock, she has left a rebellious and individual legacy like no other.\n\nArthur Rimbaud, Robert Mapplethorpe, Sam Shepard and Bruce Springsteen are just a few who have become associated with the Patti Smith legend. She has toured with Bob Dylan, opened for the New York Dolls, duetted with R.E.M. and written songs for film. Nick Johnstone unravels every facet of this strange and winding career, and makes fascinating sense of a complex creative who refused to compromise.\n\nThis _Omnibus Enhanced_ edition of **Patti Smith: A Biography** features an interactive timeline of her life, filled with audio, video and imagery of gigs, interviews, songs and memorabilia. Additionally, curated Spotify playlists allow you to listen to her greatest songs, her contemporaries in the punk scene, and more.\n\n**Patti Smith: A Biography** provides a compelling insight into the journey of a true artist; a unique story of creativity, passion and rebellion.\n\nBuy the Ebook Here\n\n# Loudon Wainwright III: Liner Notes...\n\n_'Liner Notes is, unsurprisingly, as good as its author's songs, with moments of sharp humor alternating with real-life pain, and vivid reflections on love, death, and the whole damn thing. Loudon Wainwright is a true original: not like anyone else, just as he set out to be.'_ Salman Rushdie\n\nIn the late 1960s, Loudon Wainwright III established himself as a loner, deliberately standing outside the conventional. He recorded his first album in 1969, full of raw, angry poetry, but it was the 1972 novelty song 'Dead Skunk' that brought him popular recognition.\n\nWainwright's songs are as hilarious as they can be painful. In **Liner Notes** , he details the family history and fractured relationships that have informed him: the alcoholism, infidelities and competitiveness; the successes, joys and love. Wainwright writes poignantly about being a son, a parent, a brother and a grandfather while re-printing selections from his father's columns and meditating upon family, inspiration and art.\n\nAs plain-speaking on the page as in his songs, Wainwright lays everything bare in this heartfelt memoir of music and family. His lyrics adorn and inform the text, amplifying his prose and connecting his songs to the life he led.\n\n_'He is unafraid and clear-eyed about the events of his life \u2013 and utterly engaging.'_ Rosanne Cash\n\n_'Fans of the self-lacerating, painfully funny Wainwright III will find the memoir they want here'_ Kirkus Reviews\n\nBuy the Ebook Here\n\n# Jimmy Webb: The Cake And The Rain\n\nJimmy Webb is 'America's Songwriter'. His deep, complex songs have been recorded by artists ranging from Frank Sinatra to Carly Simon to R.E.M to Art Garfunkel to Donna Summer. He is the youngest man ever inducted into the Songwriters' Hall of Fame, the only artist ever to win Grammy awards for music, lyrics _and_ orchestration, and his chart-topping career has, so far, lasted fifty years, most recently including a Kanye West rap and a new classical nocturne.\n\nIn 1969, Webb was a 'heavy pot smoker, sexual adventurer, and hopelessly liberal Democrat who hated the war in Vietnam'. Four years later, he was living in his gated mansion, lying for John Lennon and stashing hundred dollar bills and cocaine in his house-safe. During this whirlwind of hedonism, in 1973, Webb accidentally over-dosed on what proved to be street-level PCP. When he awoke from his coma, he wasn't even able to recognise a piano...\n\nIn **The Cake And The Rain** , Webb takes the reader through his life and his choices which led him to this tragic moment. Rich with a sense of time and place, with the voices of characters both lost and celebrated, and with the same youthful spirit which catapulted him into a moneyed and manic world of stardom, this is the sunning memoir of one of the greatest songwriters of all time: a man with unfathomable talent \u2013 and luck.\n\nBuy the Ebook Here\n**Index**\n\n* * *\n\nA Bunch Of Lonesome Heroes\n\nA Singer Must Die\n\nA Street\n\nA Thousand Kisses Deep\n\nAin't No Cure For Love\n\nAlexandra Leaving\n\nAlmost Like The Blues\n\nAmen\n\nAnthem\n\nAnyhow\n\nAvalanche\n\nBallad Of The Absent Mare\n\nBanjo\n\nBecause Of\n\nBird On The Wire\n\nBoogie Street\n\nBorn In Chains\n\nBy The Rivers Dark\n\nCame So Far For Beauty\n\nChelsea Hotel #2\n\nClosing Time\n\nCome Healing\n\nComing Back To You\n\nCrazy To Love You\n\nDance Me To The End Of Love\n\nDarkness\n\nDear Heather\n\nDeath Of A Ladies' Man\n\nDemocracy\n\nDiamonds In The Mine\n\nDid I Ever Love You\n\nDifferent Sides\n\nDo I Have To Dance All Night\n\nDon't Go Home With Your Hard-On\n\nDress Rehearsal Rag\n\nEverybody Knows\n\nFamous Blue Raincoat\n\nField Commander Cohen\n\nFingerprints\n\nFirst We Take Manhattan\n\nGod Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot\n\nGoing Home\n\nGot A Little Secret\n\nHallelujah\n\nHeart With No Companion\n\nHere It Is\n\nHey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye\n\nHumbled In Love\n\nHunter's Lullaby\n\nI Can't Forget\n\nI Left A Woman Waiting\n\nI Tried To Leave You\n\nI'm Your Man\n\nIf I Didn't Have Your Love\n\nIf It Be Your Will\n\nIn My Secret Life\n\nIodine\n\nIs This What You Wanted\n\nIt Just Feels\n\nIt Seemed The Better Way\n\nJazz Police\n\nJoan Of Arc\n\nLady Midnight\n\nLast Year's Man\n\nLeaving Green Sleeves\n\nLeaving The Table\n\nLight As The Breeze\n\nLove Calls You By Your Name\n\nLove Itself\n\nLover Lover Lover\n\nLullaby\n\nMaster Song\n\nMemories\n\nMinute Prologue\n\nMorning Glory\n\nMy Oh My\n\nNever Any Good\n\nNever Gave Nobody Trouble\n\nNevermind\n\nNight Comes On\n\nNightingale\n\nOn That Day\n\nOn The Level\n\nOne of Us Cannot Be Wrong\n\nOur Lady Of Solitude\n\nPaper Thin Hotel\n\nPassing Through\n\nPlease Don't Pass Me By (A Disgrace)\n\nPriests\n\nQueen Victoria\n\nSamson In New Orleans\n\nSeems So Long Ago, Nancy\n\nShow Me The Place\n\nSing Another Song, Boys\n\nSisters Of Mercy\n\nSlow\n\nSo Long, Marianne\n\nSong Of Bernadette\n\nSteer Your Way\n\nStories Of The Street\n\nStory Of Isaac\n\nSummertime\n\nSuzanne\n\nTake This Longing\n\nTake This Waltz\n\nTeachers\n\nTennessee Waltz\n\nThat Don't Make It Junk\n\nThe Butcher\n\nThe Captain\n\nThe Faith\n\nThe Future\n\nThe Great Event\n\nThe Guests\n\nThe Gypsy's Wife\n\nThe Land Of Plenty\n\nThe Law\n\nThe Letters\n\nThe Old Revolution\n\nThe Smokey Life\n\nThe Stranger Song\n\nThe Traitor\n\nThe Window\n\nThere For You\n\nThere Is A War\n\nTo A Teacher\n\nTonight Will Be Fine\n\nTower Of Song\n\nTraveling Light\n\nTreaty\n\nTrue Love Leaves No Traces\n\nUndertow\n\nWaiting For The Miracle\n\nWay Down Deep\n\nWhither Thou Goest\n\nWho By Fire\n\nWhy Don't You Try\n\nWinter Lady\n\nYou Got Me Singing\n\nYou Have Loved Enough\n\nYou Know Who I Am\n\nYou Want It Darker\n**Song Credits**\n\n* * *\n\n**Ain't No Cure For Love** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1986 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Alexandra Leaving** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Almost Like The Blues** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Amen** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Anthem** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Anyhow** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Avalanche** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Ballad Of The Absent Mare** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Banjo** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Because Of** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Bird On The Wire** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1968 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated / Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Boogie Street** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Born In Chains** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**A Bunch of Lonesome Heroes** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1969 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Butcher** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1969 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**By The Rivers Dark** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Came So Far For Beauty** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & John Lissauer. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Bad Monk Publishing. Copyright Control/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Captain** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1984 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Chelsea Hotel #2** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Closing Time** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Come Healing** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Kobalt Music Publishing Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Coming Back To You** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1984 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Crazy To Love You** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Anjani Thomas. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 Little Fountain Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Dance Me To The End Of Love** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1984 Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Darkness** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Dear Heather** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Death Of A Ladies' Man** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Sony/ATV Tunes LLC/Mother Bertha Music Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Democracy** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Diamonds In The Mine** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1971 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Did I Ever Love You** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas, LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Different Sides** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Do I Have To Dance All Night** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1976 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/ABKCO Music Inc/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Dress Rehearsal Rag** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Everybody Knows** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 1988 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Faith** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Famous Blue Raincoat** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1971 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Field Commander Cohen** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Stranger Music Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Fingerprints** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing/EMI Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**First We Take Manhattan** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1987 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Future** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot** Words by Leonard Cohen. Music by Leonard Cohen & Buffy Saint-Marie \u00a9 Copyright 1970 Sony/ATV Songs LLC/Caleb-Music Co. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Going Home** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Got A Little Secret** Words & music by Leonard Cohen, Mitchell Watkins & Felicity Buirski. \u00a9 Copyright 2015 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Great Event** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1997 Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Guests** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Gypsy's Wife** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Hallelujah** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1984 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Heart With No Companion** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1985 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Here It Is** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Humbled In Love** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Hunter's Lullaby** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1985 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**I Can't Forget** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1988 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**I Left A Woman Waiting** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**I Tried To Leave You** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**If I Didn't Have Your Love** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard \u00a9 Copyright 2016 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**If It Be Your Will** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1984 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**I'm Your Man** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1988 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Improvisation** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1973 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**In My Secret Life** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Iodine** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Is This What You Wanted** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Stranger Music Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**It Just Feels** Words by Leonard Cohen & David Stewart. Music by David Stewart & John Turnbull. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Bad Monk Publishing Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Copyright Control. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**It Seemed The Better Way** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Jazz Police** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Jeffrey Fisher. \u00a9 Copyright 1988 Bad Monk Publishing. EMI Music Publishing Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Joan Of Arc** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1971 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Lady Midnight** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1969 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Land Of Plenty** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Last Year's Man** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1971 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Law** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1984 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Leaving Green Sleeves** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Stranger Music Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Leaving The Table** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 Old Ideas LLC Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Letters** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Sharon Robinson Songs/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Light As The Breeze** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Love Calls You By Your Name** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Love Itself** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Lover Lover Lover** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Lullaby** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Master Song** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Memories** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Minute Prologue** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1973 Stranger Music Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Morning Glory** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**My Oh My** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Never Any Good** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1995 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Never Gave Nobody Trouble** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2013 Old Ideas LLC Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Nevermind** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Night Comes On** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1985 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Nightingale** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Anjani Thomas. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Little Fountain Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Old Revolution** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1969 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**On That Day** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Anjani Thomas. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Little Fountain Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**On The Level** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 Sharon Robinson Songs/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Our Lady Of Solitude** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Paper Thin Hotel** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Please Don't Pass Me By (A Disgrace)** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1973 Stranger Music Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Priests** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Queen Victoria** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1972 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Music Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Samson In New Orleans** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Seems So Long Ago, Nancy** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1969 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Show Me The Place** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2012 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Sing Another Song, Boys** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1971 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**A Singer Must Die** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Sisters Of Mercy** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Chrysalis company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Slow** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Smokey Life** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**So Long, Marianne** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Song Of Bernadette** Words & music by Leonard Cohen, Jennifer Warnes & William Elliott. \u00a9 Copyright 1986 Bad Monk Publishing/Bill Elliott Music/Warnes Music. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Peermusic (UK) Limited/EMI Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Stages** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2015 Old Ideas LLC Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Steer Your Way** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 Old Ideas LLC Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Stories Of The Street** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Story Of Isaac** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1969 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Stranger Song** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**A Street** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Anjani Thomas. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 Little Fountain Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**String Reprise / Treaty** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Summertime** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 1987 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Suzanne** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1966 Stranger Music Incorporated. TRO Essex Music Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Tacoma Trailer** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Take This Longing** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. MAM (Music Publishing) Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Take This Waltz** Words by Leonard Cohen & Federico Garc\u00eda Lorca. Music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1986 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated/EMI Songs Espana SRL. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/EMI Songs Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Teachers** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**That Don't Make It Junk** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**There For You** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Sharon Robinson Songs/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**There Is A War** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**A Thousand Kisses Deep** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson Songs/Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**To A Teacher** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Tonight Will Be Fine** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Tower Of Song** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1988 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Traitor** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Traveling Light** Words & music by Leonard Cohen, Patrick Leonard & Adam Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited/Adam Cohen. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Treaty** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**True Love Leaves No Traces** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Phil Spector. \u00a9 Copyright 1977 Mother Bertha Music Incorporated/Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. EMI Music Publishing Limited/ABKCO Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Undertow** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Villanelle For Our Time** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Frank Scott. \u00a9 Copyright 2004 Old Ideas LLC. Copyright Control/Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Waiting For The Miracle** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Sharon Robinson Songs/Stranger Music Incorporated. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Way Down Deep** Words & music by Leonard Cohen, Jennifer Warnes & Amy La Television. \u00a9 Copyright 1992 Stranger Music Incorporated/Warnes Music/Amyzoomusic. Hornall Brothers Music Limited/Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Universal/MCA Music Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Whither Thou Goest** Words Adapted from the Book of Ruth. Music by Guy Singer. \u00a9 Copyright 1954 Hill And Range Songs Inc. Carlin Music Corporation. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Who By Fire** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Why Don't You Try** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1974 Stranger Music Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**The Window** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1979 Bad Monk Publishing. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**Winter Lady** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1966 Sony/ATV Music Publishing Acquisition Incorporated. Chrysalis Songs Limited, a BMG Company. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**You Got Me Singing** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2014 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**You Have Loved Enough** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. & Sharon Robinson. \u00a9 Copyright 2001 Sharon Robinson. Songs/Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Wixen Music UK Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**You Know Who I Am** Words & music by Leonard Cohen. \u00a9 Copyright 1967 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n\n**You Want It Darker** Words & music by Leonard Cohen & Patrick Leonard. \u00a9 Copyright 2016 No Tomato Music/Old Ideas LLC. Sony/ATV Music Publishing/Kobalt Music Publishing Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.\n**Acknowledgements**\n\n* * *\n\n\"And I thank you, I thank you\", Leonard Cohen,  \n\"keeper of truth, guardian of beauty\", for the \"blaze of light in every word\",  \nand for singing \"with a love so vast and shattered\" to a multitude  \nof \"heart[s] with no companion[s]\" and \"souls without a king\",  \nand for making this world a better place.\n\nMay your memory be bound with the communal spirit  \nof the living who love you the world over.\n\nI'm most grateful to David Barraclough, managing editor of Omnibus Press,  \nfor inviting me to participate in this book and for the kindness and consideration  \nhe has extended to me ever since the day I first met him.\n\nIt's been my good fortune to work with dream editor Jen Knoch.  \nDeep heartfelt gratitude to her for offering me her wise editorial acumen  \nand generosity of heart not only for this work, but also for  \n _Joni Mitchell: In Her Own Word_ s ( _Joni Mitchell: Both Sides Now_ , in the UK).  \nMany thanks, also, to John Lissauer, Emily Bindiger and Erin Dickins.\n\nA most special thanks to Daniel Marom,  \nwho rescued my interview with Leonard Cohen from decades of dust,  \nand to Inna Shapiro, who urged that it be published.  \nAnd to Marv Cohen for the butterfly dust.\nCopyright \u00a9 2017 Omnibus Press\n\nThis edition \u00a9 2017 Omnibus Press\n\n(A Division of Music Sales Limited, 14-15 Berners Street, London W1T 3LJ)\n\nOrder No: OP57057\n\nSource ISBN: 978-17855-8435-0\n\nEbook ISBN: 978-1-78323-944-3\n\nVersion: 2017-08-18\n\nThe Author hereby asserts his / her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with Sections 77 to 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.\n\n'The Change', 'I Bury My Girlfriend', 'Hurry to Dinner', 'How To Speak Poetry' are all excerpted from Death Of A Lady's Man by Leonard Cohen. Copyright \u00a9 Leonard Cohen, 1978. Reprinted by permission of McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited.\n\nEvery effort has been made to trace the copyright holders of the photographs in this book, but one or two were unreachable. We would be grateful if the photographers concerned would contact us.\n\nBy clicking on the links in this eBook you, the reader, agree to Music Sales Ltd. collecting basic usage information to improve our service. This information is used solely for Music Sales Ltd. purposes and will not be used for marketing purposes or shared with third parties. If you have any questions, please email music@musicsales.co.uk\n\nA catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.\n\nDesign by Lora Findlay  \nPicture Research by Malka Marom and Dave Brolan  \nCover image: London 1964, \u00a9 Michael Putland / Getty\n\nFor all your musical needs including instruments, sheet music and accessories, visit  \nwww.musicroom.com\n\nTo find out more about Omnibus Press visit  \nwww.omnibuspress.com\n\n## Contents\n\n  1. Title Page\n  2. Contents\n  3. Digital Timeline\n  4. My Leonard Cohen\n  5. In The Shed\n  6. At The House\n  7. At Rehearsals\n  8. In Leonard's Study\n  9. _\\- Songs Of Leonard Cohen_\n  10. _\\- Songs From A Room_\n  11. _\\- Songs Of Love And Hate_\n  12. _\\- Live Songs_\n  13. _\\- New Skin For The Old Ceremony_\n  14. _\\- Do I Have To Dance All Night_\n  15. _\\- Death Of A Ladies' Man_\n  16. _\\- Recent Songs_\n  17. _\\- Various Positions_\n  18. _\\- I'm Your Man_\n  19. _\\- The Future_\n  20. _\\- More Best Of Leonard Cohen_\n  21. _\\- Ten New Songs_\n  22. _\\- Dear Heather_\n  23. _\\- Live In London_\n  24. _\\- Old Ideas_\n  25. _\\- Popular Problems_\n  26. _\\- Can't Forget: A Souvenir Of The Grand Tour_\n  27. _\\- You Want It Darker_\n  28. \\- Other Songs\n  29. Recommend to a Friend\n  30. Also Available...\n  31. Song Credits\n  32. Acknowledgements\n\n## Guide\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Contents\n  3. Title Page\n\n## Pages\n\n  1. \n  2. \n  3. \n  4. \n  5. \n  6. \n  7. \n  8. \n  9. \n  10. \n  11. \n  12. \n  13. \n  14. \n  15. \n  16. \n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51. \n  52. \n  53. \n  54. \n  55. \n  56. \n  57. \n  58. \n  59. \n  60. \n  61. \n  62. \n  63. \n  64. \n  65. \n  66. \n  67. \n  68. \n  69. \n  70. \n  71. \n  72. \n  73. \n  74. \n  75. \n  76. \n  77. \n  78. \n  79. \n  80. \n  81. \n  82. \n  83. \n  84. \n  85. \n  86. \n  87. \n  88. \n  89. \n  90. \n  91. \n  92. \n  93. \n  94. \n  95. \n  96. \n  97. \n  98. \n  99. \n  100. \n  101. \n  102. \n  103. \n  104. \n  105. \n  106. \n  107. \n  108. \n  109. \n  110. \n  111. \n  112. \n  113. \n  114. \n  115. \n  116. \n  117. \n  118. \n  119. \n  120. \n  121. \n  122. \n  123. \n  124. \n  125. \n  126. \n  127. \n  128. \n  129. \n  130. \n  131. \n  132. \n  133. \n  134. \n  135. \n  136. \n  137. \n  138. \n  139. \n  140. \n  141. \n  142. \n  143. \n  144. \n  145. \n  146. \n  147. \n  148. \n  149. \n  150. \n  151. \n  152. \n  153. \n  154. \n  155. \n  156. \n  157. \n  158. \n  159. \n  160. \n  161. \n  162. \n  163. \n  164. \n  165. \n  166. \n  167. \n  168. \n  169. \n  170. \n  171. \n  172. \n  173. \n  174. \n  175. \n  176. \n  177. \n  178. \n  179. \n  180. \n  181. \n  182. \n  183. \n  184. \n  185. \n  186. \n  187. \n  188. \n  189. \n  190. \n  191. \n  192. \n  193. \n  194. \n  195. \n  196. \n  197. \n  198. \n  199. \n  200. \n  201. \n  202. \n  203. \n  204. \n  205. \n  206. \n  207. \n  208. \n  209. \n  210. \n  211. \n  212. \n  213. \n  214. \n  215. \n  216. \n  217. \n  218. \n  219. \n  220. \n  221. \n  222. \n  223. \n  224. \n  225. \n  226. \n  227. \n  228. \n  229. \n  230. \n  231. \n  232. \n  233. \n  234. \n  235. \n  236. \n  237. \n  238. \n  239. \n  240. \n  241. \n  242. \n  243. \n  244. \n  245. \n  246. \n  247. \n  248. \n  249. \n  250. \n  251. \n  252. \n  253. \n  254. \n  255. \n  256. \n  257. \n  258. \n  259. \n  260. \n  261. \n  262. \n  263. \n  264. \n  265. \n  266. \n  267. \n  268. \n  269. \n  270. \n  271. \n  272. \n  273. \n  274. \n  275. \n  276. \n  277. \n  278. \n  279. \n  280. \n  281. \n  282. \n  283. \n  284. \n  285. \n  286. \n  287. \n  288. \n  289. \n  290. \n  291.\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Python Passive Network Mapping 2015 - Hosmer, Chet;"}, "text": " \n# Python Passive Network Mapping\n\n## P2NMAP\n\nChet Hosmer\n\n# Table of Contents\n\nCover\n\nTitle page\n\nCopyright\n\nDedication\n\nBiography\n\nPreface\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nChapter 1: Introduction\n\nAbstract\n\nConventions Used in This Text\n\nWhat is Python Passive Network Mapping or P2NMAP?\n\nWhy Does This Method Cast a Larger Net?\n\nHow Can Active Network Mapping Actually Hurt You?\n\nOrganization of the Book\n\nReview\n\nSummary Questions\n\nChapter 2: What You DON'T Know About Your Network\n\nAbstract\n\nWhat's Running on Your Network Might Surprise You\n\nOS Fingerprinting\n\nWhat Open Ports or Services Don't You Know About?\n\nWho's Touching Your Network?\n\nReview\n\nSummary Questions\n\nChapter 3: Capturing Network Packets Using Python\n\nAbstract\n\nSetting up a Python Passive Network Mapping Environment\n\nThe Art of the Silent Capture\n\nPython Source Code\n\nReview\n\nSummary Questions\n\nChapter 4: Packet Capture Analysis\n\nAbstract\n\nPacket Capture Analysis\n\nSetting up Options for Analysis\n\nPerforming Analysis\n\nReview\n\nSummary Questions\n\nChapter 5: PCAP Extractor and OS Fingerprinting\n\nAbstract\n\nPCAP Extraction\n\nPassive OS Fingerprinting\n\nReview\n\nSummary Questions\n\nChapter 6: Future Considerations and Challenge Problems\n\nAbstract\n\nAuthor Observations\n\nAuthor Predictions\n\nChallenge Problems\n\nMore Information\n\nSubject Index\n\n# Copyright\n\nAcquiring Editor: Chris Katsaropoulos\n\nEditorial Project Manager: Benjamin Rearick\n\nProject Manager: Priya Kumaraguruparan\n\nDesigner: Matthew Limbert\n\nSyngress is an imprint of Elsevier\n\n225 Wyman Street, Waltham, MA 02451, USA\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2015 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.\n\nNo part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Details on how to seek permission, further information about the Publisher's permissions policies and our arrangements with organizations such as the Copyright Clearance Center and the Copyright Licensing Agency, can be found at our website: www.elsevier.com/permissions.\n\nThis book and the individual contributions contained in it are protected under copyright by the Publisher (other than as may be noted herein).\n\nNotices\n\nKnowledge and best practice in this field are constantly changing. As new research and experience broaden our understanding, changes in research methods, professional practices, or medical treatment may become necessary.\n\nPractitioners and researchers must always rely on their own experience and knowledge in evaluating and using any information, methods, compounds, or experiments described herein. In using such information or methods they should be mindful of their own safety and the safety of others, including parties for whom they have a professional responsibility.\n\nTo the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the authors, contributors, or editors, assume any liability for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods, products, instructions, or ideas contained in the material herein.\n\nBritish Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data\n\nA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nA catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress\n\nISBN: 978-0-12-802721-9\n\nFor information on all Syngress publications visit our website at <http://store.elsevier.com/>\n\n# Dedication\n\nTo our children who inspire me every day and make me realize how blessed I truly am. Whether you take care of the sick and injured, you teach and inspire future generations, you care deeply and fight to protect our environment or you simply bring unconditional love to everyone you touch. To Kira, Tiffany, Trisha and Matty.\n\n# Biography\n\nChet Hosmer is the Founder of Python Forensics, Inc. a non-profit organization focused on the collaborative development of open-source investigative technologies using the Python programming language. Chet is also the founder of WetStone Technologies, Inc. and has been researching and developing technology and training surrounding forensics, digital investigation and steganography for over two decades. He has made numerous appearances to discuss emerging cyber threats including National Public Radio's Kojo Nnamdi show, ABC's Primetime Thursday, NHK Japan, CrimeCrime TechTV and ABC News Australia. He has also been a frequent contributor to technical and news stories relating to cyber security and forensics and has been interviewed and quoted by IEEE, The New York Times, The Washington Post, Government Computer News, Salon.com and Wired Magazine.\n\nChet serves as a visiting professor at Utica College where he teaches in the Cybersecurity Graduate program. He is also an Adjunct Faculty member at Champlain College in the Masters of Science in Digital Forensic Science Program. Chet delivers keynote and plenary talks on various cyber security related topics around the world each year.\n\nChet resides with Wife Janet, Son Matthew along with his four legged family near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.\n\nGary C. Kessler, Ph.D., CCE, CCFP, CISSP, is a Professor of Homeland Security at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, a member of the North Florida ICAC (Volusia County Sheriff's Department), and president and janitor of Gary Kessler Associates, a training and consulting company specializing in computer and network security and digital forensics. He is the co-author of two professional texts and over 70 articles, a frequent speaker at regional, national, and international conferences, and past editor-in-chief of the Journal of Digital Forensics, Security and Law. More information about Gary can be found at his Web site, http://www.garykessler.net.\n\n# Preface\n\nIt is Monday morning, July 6, 2015 and you have just returned from the long holiday weekend. On your desk sits a note that reads...\n\nA vulnerability has been discovered that may affect SCADA based networks. We need to determine if any of our systems are potentially vulnerable or worse have already been compromised. As you know, we cannot actively scan our SCADA network, so we need to passively map network activity and behaviors over the next week and then analyze the results. We need a way to determine/verify every end point on our network, what systems they communicate with, what countries those connections have made to and from.\n\nI Need prelim report by noon tomorrow.\n\nThanks,\n\nthe CISO\n\nP.S. we have no budget for new toys.\n\n## Intended Audience\n\nThis information in this book was designed to be accessible by anyone who has a desire to learn how to leverage the Python programming language to passively monitor and analyze network activity for worthy causes. The open source scripts and knowledge transfer are yours to use and hopefully inspire you to advance the scripts, contribute to the community, and look at passive network monitoring from a whole new perspective.\n\n## Prerequisites\n\nAccess to a computer, familiarity with an operating system (Windows, Linux or Mac) and access to the Internet, coupled with a desire to learn. Some familiarity with programming and the Python programming language would be helpful.\n\n## Reading this Book\n\nThe book is organized with the first two chapters focused on introductory material to define what passive network mapping is, how to setup an environment to perform passive network mapping, and to demonstrate what value passive network mapping can bring.\n\nChapters 3 and  introduce scripts that perform passive network capture on a Linux or Windows platform, and provides scripts that allow you to perform network mapping functions and mine the captured data for analysis purposes.\n\nChapter 5, provides a script that can convert existing packet capture files (.pcap) into the structure necessary to perform network mapping, analysis and OS Fingerprinting. In addition, Chapter 5 develops a model and working script that performs OS Fingerprinting using only passively observed data.\n\nChapter 6 then presents future predictions, observations along with a series of challenge problems for future work.\n\n## Supported Platforms\n\nAll the examples in the book are written in Python 2.7.x in order to provide the greatest platform compatibility.\n\nThe P2NMAP-Capture.py script has been validated on Linux and Windows operating systems.\n\nThe P2NMAP-Analyze.py script, P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor.py script and P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint.py scripts have been validated for Linux, Windows and Mac.\n\n## Download Software\n\nThose purchasing the book, will also have access to the open source code examples in the book for easy use, enhancement and continued research. The scripts and text have been created for easy integration into graduate and undergraduate classrooms, training courses and hands on lab environments.\n\nThe source code is available from the python-forensics.org web site.\n\n## Comments, Questions and Contributions\n\nI encourage you to contribute in a positive way to this initiative. Your questions, comments and contributions to the source code library and enhanced passive OS Fingerprint dataset will benefit the whole community. www.python-forensics.org will make these resources available to all.\n\nFinally, I challenge you all to share your ideas, knowledge and experience.\n\nSincerely,\n\nChet Hosmer\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nMy sincerest thanks go to:\n\nDr. Gary Kessler, the technical editor for this book. Gary is everything you could want from a technical editor... not only does he find all my technical errors, but he also brings great ideas to the table. Thank you Gary, your constant encouragement and friendship made the process fun.\n\nChris Katsaropoulos, Ben Rearick, Steve Elliot, and the whole team at Elsevier for your enthusiasm for this topic, and all the guidance, patience and support along the way.\n\nTo Janet, for helping to make every chapter better, more consistent and always finding just the right quote to kick off each chapter.\n\nAnd to the whole team at WetStone... Carlton, Tiffany, Geoff, Amanda, Heather, Brian and Sean for making it possible for me to begin the next chapter of my career.\nChapter 1\n\n# Introduction\n\n## Abstract\n\nThis chapter provides an overview of traditional and passive network mapping. The chapter introduces the concept of Python Passive Network Mapping (P2NMAP) and examines the pros and cons of such an approach. The chapter also examines some of the dangers and pitfalls of active network scanning, especially in critical infrastructure based environments.\n\n## Keywords\n\nPython\n\nPassive\n\nNetwork\n\nMapping\n\nNmap\n\nZenmap\n\nping\n\nicmp\n\ntcpdump\n\necho\n\nreply\n\n\"Measure what is measurable, and make measurable what is not so.\"\n\nGalileo Galilei\n\nContents\n\nConventions Used in This Text 1\n\nSo What is a Ping Anyway? 5\n\nWhat is Python Passive Network Mapping or P2NMAP? 10\n\nWhy Does This Method Cast a Larger Net? 12\n\nHow Can Active Network Mapping Actually Hurt You? 13\n\nOrganization of the Book 14\n\nReview 14\n\nSummary Questions 15\n\n## Conventions Used in This Text\n\nI use standard typographical conventions (bold, italics, etc.), to highlight text that stands out from the overall body of the paragraph. The font styles I will be using throughout the text are:\n\nItalic\n\nUsed for file and directory names and to emphasize terms\n\nConstant width\n\nUsed for code listings and script generated output\n\nConstant Width and Bold\n\nUsed for user input\n\nEnterprise Networks today are complex, difficult to investigate, require specialized tools and demand exceptional and expert skills in order to properly respond to incidents. When dealing with incidents that involve critical infrastructure or other regulated industry environments the specialization of the toolkits can indeed be daunting.\n\nOne of the first challenges that face incident response teams and forensic investigation units is \"What does your network consist of and how is it configured?\" This may seem like a simple question that is easily answered by the Information Technology group. However, when responding to incidents like Heartbleed, Operation Shady Rat, and breaches at major retailers, the technical information and details regarding the network map can be vital.\n\nMore specific questions may also include:\n\n\u25aa What internet protocol (IP) addresses and subnets do you operate?\n\n\u25aa What servers and end points are running?\n\n\u25aa Are the Servers local, hosted at an external site or in the cloud?\n\n\u25aa What Operating Systems are in use? What versions and are they up-to-date?\n\n\u25aa What Services (open ports) are available on each server and host?\n\n\u25aa What applications and databases are in use?\n\n\u25aa How is your network configured, protected and isolated?\n\n\u25aa What connections are allowed between servers, hosts and Internet users?\n\n\u25aa What connections have occurred recently?\n\n\u25aa Are the activities from or to specific end points anomalous?\n\n\u25aa Where are those connections (to and from)? If the connection include hosts outside the internal network where are these connections physically located in the world? Can they be pinpointed and verified?\n\nFigure 1-1 Enterprise Networks.\n\nIf some or all of these questions can be answered the follow-up questions are of course:\n\n\u25aa How do you know?...and\n\n\u25aa Are you sure?\n\nTypically these answers come from the Chief Information Officer (CIO) or the directed IT personnel responsible for the network along with the (Chief Information Security Officer) CISO and related cyber security staff members. Each of these groups utilize a variety of tools to assist in managing the cyber assets under their control. These tools can range from a simple set of spreadsheets to complex asset control inventory and management systems, or in the worst case, stored between the ears of the staff members themselves. Don't get me wrong, many of these folks are very talented and have a pulse and deep understanding of the networks they manage. All of this information regardless of its source or form factor is important and valuable to incident response and forensic investigation teams. They of course have the arduous task of determining what is happening or has happened, who is doing it, how to mitigate and remediate the damage and better defend against future incidents. All of the data regardless of the means of collection however, is necessary to execute a comprehensive forensic investigation.\n\nPython Passive Network Mapping: P2NMAP - An open source solution to uncovering nefarious network activity deals with the challenge \"what does your network consist of and what are identifiable or unusual behaviors?\" Traditionally, network mapping is an active process whereby IT and cyber teams utilize tools to identify network based assets.\n\nNmap, (Network Mapper - a security scanner originally written by Gordon Lyon - also known by his pseudonym Fyodor Vaskovich) used to discover hosts and services on a computer network, works by communicating raw IP packets to specified IP address ranges to determine:\n\n\u25aa what hosts exist within the range\n\n\u25aa what services are running on each of the discovered hosts\n\n\u25aa what operating system are those host likely to be running\n\n...and a plethora of other characteristics that can be tested and measured through this active interrogation method.\n\nBy way of a quick introduction let's take a look at the current instantiation of Nmap for Windows using the Zenmap Graphical User Interface (GUI).\n\nFigure 1-2 depicts the main display of Nmap running under the Zenmap GUI version 6.47. Zenmap is a multi-platform graphical front-end that interfaces with the standard command line of Nmap and then displays the results in a more useable and interactive format.\n\nFigure 1-2 Nmap Today.\n\nAs you can see in Figure 1-2A, I have selected a simple ping Scan with a target selection of 192.168.0.0/24. Zenmap displays the exact Nmap command that will be executed based on the selections that I have made. Dissecting the command reveals the specific instructions delivered to the Nmap engine.\n\nFigure 1-2A Ping Scan Selection.\n\nThe results of this quick scan can be seen in Figure 1-3. As you scan through the list of computers and other devices on my local network you might find some interesting hits and responses.\n\n1. IP address 192.168.0.7 was identified as a Roku box used for streaming content from the Internet.\n\n2. IP address 192.168.0.7 was identified as our Bose Wave Radio.\n\n3. IP address 192.168.0.13 was identified as our B-Link surveillance camera, just in case you had thoughts about stealing the Bose wave radio. :)\n\n4. IP address 192.168.0.16 identified as an Apple device,....this could be one of many\n\n5. IP address 192.168.0.19 is a DirecTV receiver\n\n6. IP address 192.168.0.185 is an Internet radio\n\nAlong with several other typical computers. (My wife was a computer scientist also... thus the 'several'!) It is important to note, that the manufacturer identification of these devices is not based on any Nmap magic, but rather on the OUI (Organizationally Unique Identifier) portion of the MAC address.\n\nThis provides a pretty good scan of the active devices on my local network. Of course these are the devices that responded to scan. What about the printers and other mobile devices that were not identified? We will be discussing this issue throughout the book.\n\nFigure 1-3 Summary Results of Ping Scan.\n\nIf you are a more visual person, Figure 1-4 provides a graphical view of the network IP addresses identified. This allows users to drill down into specific devices and discover additional information.\n\nFigure 1-4 Network Map generated by Zenmap.\n\n### So What is a Ping Anyway?\n\nPing is the cyber equivalent of traditional SONAR (short for SOund Navigation And Ranging), or the \"pings\" that are used to locate objects under water. A cyber ping actually refers to the use of a special network protocol namely the Internet Control Message Protocol (ICMP). It is primarily used by network devices to send error messages indicating that specific services are unavailable or unreachable, or to communicate and query specific status.\n\nFor host discovery purposes, ICMP's Echo Request message is used to make a request to a specific IP addresses and then wait for the associated Echo Reply Type Message. Traditional thinking is that if you cannot obtain a response from a host that you ping, other services offered are likely unavailable. In many cases when troubleshooting connection issues ping is used to verify connectivity to a specific IP address.\n\nDue to increased concern and awareness of cyber security issues many network firewalls and gateways block ICMP Echo Requests to stop unauthorized mapping of hosts on the network. Unfortunately, this plays both ways as insiders that wish to add hosts to the corporate network will configure their systems to block ICMP Echo Requests as well and therefore will not be discoverable using this type of scan.\n\nICMP is part of the Internet Protocol Layer as shown in Figure 1-5 and ICMP messages are transmitted using IP datagrams as depicted in Figure 1-6.\n\nFigure 1-5 Example Internet Protocol Stack Layers.\n\nFigure 1-6 ICMP Message Contained Within and IP Datagram.\n\nMany message types and codes exist as shown in Table 1-1 on the following page. For our use in host discovery, the highlighted Echo Request Type 8, Code 0 and Echo Reply Type 0, Code 0 represent our primary use. However, as you can see, ICMP has many other Types and Codes that are used by network devices. Note ICMP is an IP Type 1 message.\n\nTable 1-1\n\nICMP Types and Codes\n\nType | Code | Description | Query | Error  \n---|---|---|---|---  \n0 | 0 | Echo Reply (Ping Reply) |   |   \n3 |  | Destination Unreachable |  |    \n| 0 | Network Unreachable |  |    \n| 1 | Host Unreachable |  |    \n| 2 | Protocol Unreachable |  |    \n| 3 | Port Unreachable |  |    \n| 4 | Fragmentation Error |  |    \n| 5 | Source Route Failure |  |    \n| 6 | Destination Route Failure or Unknown |  |    \n| 7 | Destination Host Unknown |  |    \n| 8 | Obsolete |  |    \n| 9 | Destination Network Blocked |  |    \n| 10 | Destination Host Blocked |  |    \n| 11 | Network Unreachable |  |    \n| 12 | Host Unreachable |  |    \n| 13 | Communication Filtered |  |    \n| 14 | Host Precedence Violation |  |    \n| 15 | Precedence Cutoff |  |    \n4 | 0 | Source Quench |  |    \n5 |  | Redirect |  |    \n| 0 | Network Redirect |  |    \n| 1 | Host Redirect |  |    \n| 2 | Type of Service Redirect based on Network |  |    \n| 3 | Type of Service Redirect based on Host |  |    \n8 | 0 | Echo Request Ping |   |   \n9 | 0 | Router Advertisement |   |   \n10 | 0 | Router Solicitation |   |   \n11 |  | Time Errors |  |   \n| 0 | Time to Live == 0 during transit |  |    \n| 1 | Time to Live == 0 during reassembly |  |    \n12 |  | Parameter Error |  |   \n| 0 | IP Header Error |  |    \n| 1 | Option Field Missing |  |    \n13 | 0 | Timestamp Request |   |   \n14 | 1 | Timestamp Reply |   |   \n15 | 0 | Obsolete |  |   \n16 | 0 | Obsolete |  |   \n17 | 0 | Address Mask Request |   |   \n18 | 0 | Address Mask Reply |   |\n\nTo provide a quick demonstration, I configured a simple network made up of just 4 computers as shown in Figure 1-7.\n\nFigure 1-7 Simple ICMP Test Network.\n\nIn this example, using the ping command, I sent ICMP Request Type Packets from 192.168.0.5 \u2192 192.168.0.9. IP address 192.168.0.9 responded with the appropriate response message.\n\nYou might notice that the packet delays are timed and range from 40.6 ms to 279 ms. This may seem unusual to you. I chose this specific target IP address, (as shown in Figure 1-3, this is my Bose Wave Radio), to show the response to pings. As you can see responses from this device are a bit erratic in comparison to a typical desktop computer. Also, you may notice that each of the ICMP requests contain a different sequence number denoted as icmp req = 1, icmp req = 2,... icmp req = 6. This is because the ping command employs a monotonically increasing value starting at 1, since IP packets, by their definition, are unreliable (or, better defined, as best effort), and packets can be lost, respond out of sequence, or be delayed. Finally, you notice that the ping request includes a ttl value of 64, where ttl stands for Time-To-Live and is decremented by 1 each time the packet passes through a router. Therefore the ttl value set to 64 allows the packet to route to as many as 64 network hops before the IP packet would be discarded to avoid looping.\n\nI also have setup 192.168.0.10 as a Linux Host running Tcpdump. Tcpdump is a network monitoring program that captures and records TCP/IP data. Tcpdump is primarily designed to capture packets, however, the program has many options that can also assist in filtering, and performing statistical calculations and provide users with information that can assist in determining the health of their network.\n\nI utilized the following command line to execute the Tcpdump session:\n\n$ sudo tcpdump \u2013vv icmp\n\nThe sudo command pronounced (su \"do\") allows some (or all) commands to be executed as root provided that the user has the appropriate privilege associated with their account. Tcpdump is the command that we wish to execute as root. The \u2013vv option instructs tcpdump to provide verbose output and finally, the icmp designator instructs tcpdump to only capture icmp packets. The following is the abbreviated packet results captured by the tcpdump command.\n\nTCP Dump Output\n\nRequest 1\n\nReply 1\n\nRequest 2\n\nReply 2\n\n_______________________________________________________________....... Skipped for brevity\n\nRequest 6\n\nReply 6\n\nNow that we have taken a quick tour of Nmap and have a fundamental understanding of a basic ping scan we will explore where this book will take us next.\n\n## What is Python Passive Network Mapping or P2NMAP?\n\nSimply put, P2NMAP is a method to map networks using only the Python programming language without ever emitting a packet onto the network. In addition, we want our activities to be stealthy and not expose our investigation. This is not for hacking or nefarious purposes as you will see, but in many cases performing these activities without the perpetrators knowledge is important, especially when that perpetrator is an insider.\n\nThere are several advantages and some disadvantages of this method. Table 1-2 defines some of these advantages and disadvantages.\n\nTable 1-2\n\nAdvantages and Dis-Advantages of P2NMAP\n\nAdvantages | Disadvantages  \n---|---\n\n\u25aa Zero overhead or impact on the network itself. This can be very important especially within critical infrastructure environments, where activity scanning technologies can disrupt operations. | \u25aa The time to compile a complete map of the network may take longer, although providing a more thorough view of the environment.\n\n\u25aa The ability to uncover hosts and services that are unknown or are missed by active scanning methods. | \u25aa It is more difficult to identify details such as specific operating systems, hardware types and vulnerabilities.\n\n\u25aa Identify behaviors that are potentially dangerous, hostile, nefarious or outside of defined policies.\n\n|\n\n\u25aa P2NMAP provides a full motion video in comparison with the snapshot approach that most active scanning methods provide.\n\n|\n\n\u25aa P2NMAP provides an extensible framework where users can add new capabilities and extend behaviors using one of the most popular and easy to learn programming environments.\n\n|\n\nThe Common Vulnerabilities and Exposure (CVE-2014-016) vulnerability (commonly referred to as \"Heartbleed\") may be the longest running zero day vulnerability to date. It is important to note, that Heartbleed is NOT a vulnerability of the SSL protocol in general, but rather an example of an implementation bug. Once discovered, it has taken months to fully identify impacted systems, and even longer to remediate a solution. One of the reasons this is so is because to fully identify all the impacted systems, modern vulnerability scanners have to test every IP address and every possible port running on each of those systems. It is simply not enough to scan for common OpenSSL ports and then test for the vulnerability. Thousands of applications and services use OpenSSL and many do not use standard ports like 443.\n\nWhen scanning for these applications and services the expectation of the scanners is that:\n\n1. All the systems are powered on\n\n2. The scanners have visibility and are not blocked by firewalls or guards\n\n3. The scanning operations themselves won't disrupt operations\n\n4. The vulnerable services are in fact running\n\n5. The vulnerable services are properly responding to the probes.\n\nThat is a lot of assumptions. In addition, if those systems are running inside a critical infrastructure environment good luck in convincing the operators to let you start wildly scanning every IP address and every port. Instead a more sanguine approach is to passively monitor these environments with zero danger in causing harm and a greater chance of identifying the full range of systems impacted by Heartbleed. You may say this might take weeks or longer to accomplish using a passive approach. However, ask the real operators of these environments, how long it took to actively scan these environments, how many scans were necessary, how many times systems and operations were disrupted and you will find, as the saying goes, that \"discretion is the better part of valor\".\n\n## Why Does This Method Cast a Larger Net?\n\nThe simple answer is that you will find important and undeniable facts about how your network and environment is operating. By passively mapping the behavior of your network you will know, depending upon how long you monitor, every IP address that has touched the environment, what and where in the world they have touched, how often they have communicated, and at what time of day or night were they communicating. This can only be accomplished by patiently mapping these behaviors over time.\n\nMuch like cartography which is described as both the art and science of map making, network mapping requires the same discipline, patience and consistency. Unlike cartography, however, where maps are re-drawn every 50-100 years, the maps of our digital network can change dramatically in just days.\n\nYou can see the contrast between a modern network map and a cartographer's map in Figure 1-8 and Figure 1-9, respectively.\n\nFigure 1-8 Social Network Map.\n\nFigure 1-9 Fra Mauro World Map circa 1480 AD.\n\n## How Can Active Network Mapping Actually Hurt You?\n\nActive Network Mapping has several specific impacts:\n\n1. Active network mapping behavior mimics hostile or hacking activity and can cause intrusion prevention systems to react to counter the actions.\n\n2. Host based sensors can also identify these behaviors as hostile and react to the behavior and create outages.\n\n3. Active scanning activities place significant load on the network, servers, routers and network devices.\n\n4. Errors in setting up the scanners, (for example scanning improper IP addresses ranges), can inadvertently impact adjacent networks. If the resulting scan causes damage or outages to those networks, operators of the scanners can be liable.\n\nOne of my favorite examples of this comes from a release by Hewlett Packard in the midst of the discovery of the Heartbleed vulnerability:\n\n\"HP Integrated Lights-Out products (iLO, iLO 2, iLO 3, iLO 4) do not use the OpenSSL library and are NOT exposed to the CVE-2014-0160 vulnerability (now known as \"Heartbleed\").... However, there is a bug in these libraries that will cause first-generation iLO and iLO 2 devices to enter a live lockup situation when a vulnerability scanner runs to check for the Heartbleed vulnerability.\" http://h20566.www2.hp.com/portal/site/hpsc/template.PAGE/public/kb/docDisplay?docId=emr_na-c04249852-1&ac.admitted=1406398999314.876444892.199480143\n\nThe point is that by merely scanning these systems for the Heartbleed vulnerability you can literally shut the lights off.\n\n## Organization of the Book\n\nIn order to quickly address P2NMAP and get you started using, expanding and developing new innovations in passive network mapping, I have arranged the book to get to the point quickly. I would also like to provide detailed explanation of each step, script program and method, thus leaving nothing unexplored.\n\nI want these processes to be easily usable by novice and expert users, students, academics, practitioners, programmers, incident response teams and those wanting to learn about both Python and network investigation as the same time. I always have found learning a new programming language or environment is much more fun if there is a problem to solve first.\n\nIn Chapter 2, I explain what you don't know about your network - and more importantly, why you need to know it and why it is important. Also, I look at who is touching your network, and from where. Why should you be concerned about this?\n\nChapter 3 focuses on how to capture network packets with Python and some special tools. We also look at how you can efficiently store, index and manage what you capture. Most importantly, I discuss how you can do this silently.\n\nChapters 4 and  tackle the analysis of what we have captured, how to make sense of it and how to create an extensible toolkit. This toolkit can be freely used, shared, evolved and also includes opportunities for you to participate in the future expansion.\n\nChapter 6 takes a look at future opportunities and outlines next steps for P2NMAP.\n\nFinally, each chapter includes a summary of topics covered, challenge problems and review questions making the book suitable for use in college and university academic environments.\n\n## Review\n\nIn this chapter we quickly examined Nmap and the basic method of scanning and mapping a simple network. We examined the ICMP protocol and demonstrated how ICMP Requests and Reply make up the ping operation that can identify IP addresses on your network. Through this process we showed how many devices not just computers are on your network and do respond to this door-rattling exercise. Next, I provided you with a quick overview definition of what P2NMAP is, and what some of the advantages and disadvantages to this approach are. I also took a look at why passive mapping can be safer and more thorough method for network mapping. Finally, we examined some ways that active mapping can actually be dangerous.\n\n## Summary Questions\n\n1. What are the fundamental differences between active and passive network mapping?\n\n2. What other specific harm could active network mapping cause and/or what regulatory policies could be impacted?\n\n3. What advantages or disadvantages could be caused by passively mapping networks?\n\n4. What benefits and/or limitations do you think choosing a language like Python might pose when applied to network mapping?\n\n# References\n\nNmap Security Scanner, <http://nmap.org>\n\nZenmap the official Nmap Security Scanner Graphical User Interface, <http://nmap.org/zenmap/>\n\nThe official web site of tcpdump, <http://tcpdump.org>\nChapter 2\n\n# What You DON'T Know About Your Network\n\n## Abstract\n\nThis chapter examines devices and services that may be running on your network. Using tcpdump we examine and try to make sense of captured network activity in promiscuous mode. I also introduce the first Python script to perform a targeted promiscuous capture. The script attempts to make sense of which IP address (source or destination) is the client vs server and the script also extracts useful information that can be used for OS Fingerprinting. The chapter also introduces the concept of deductive and inductive reasoning and considers other applications of passive network mapping.\n\n## Keywords\n\nDMZ\n\nVPN\n\nFirewall\n\nApplication Firewall\n\nDLP\n\nSEIM\n\nMaginot\n\ndetect\n\nprotect\n\nreact\n\nwearable technology\n\nNFC\n\neducated guess\n\ndeductive reasoning\n\ninductive reasoning\n\npromiscuous mode\n\ntcpdump\n\nTOS\n\nTTL\n\nDF\n\nwindow size\n\nOS fingerprinting\n\nopen port patterns\n\n\"Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens.\"\n\nJimi Hendrix\n\nContents\n\nWhat's Running on Your Network Might Surprise You 17\n\nBig vs. Little 17\n\nWe Care About What's Running on Our Systems 18\n\nWhy Do We Care? 19\n\nA Quick Demonstration 21\n\nHow to Do This in Python? 23\n\nSample Program Output 29\n\nOS Fingerprinting 30\n\nOS Fingerprinting Using TCP/IP Default Header Values 30\n\nOS Fingerprinting Using Open Port Patterns 32\n\nWhat Open Ports or Services Don't You Know About? 32\n\nHow is This Useful? 33\n\nWho's Touching Your Network? 34\n\nReview 35\n\nSummary Questions 35\n\n## What's Running on Your Network Might Surprise You\n\nModern environments boast massive infrastructures and sophisticated security technologies designed to keep the bad guys out.\n\nWhat if the bad guys are already in?\n\nToday, the defensive technology mix includes traditional firewalls, application firewalls, a demilitarized zone (DMZ), virtual private networks (VPN), anti-virus, anti-spyware, patch management infrastructures, content filters, host and network data leak protection (DLP), specialized privilege guards and security event and incident management (SEIM) solutions. Unfortunately, these systems and technologies do little to protect against new threats or hidden vulnerabilities that exist within the environment they protect. In some cases, they exist within the security solutions themselves!\n\nIn addition, the solutions today bear resemblance and similar weaknesses to those created by the French Minister of War, Andre Maginot, who in the 1930's created fortifications to protect France from a German invasion. Much like the Maginot line (see figure 2-1), modern cyber security solutions provide great protection against a direct attack, but can be circumvented by insiders through the exploitation of unknown vulnerabilities, via new attack vectors, by means of social engineering activities and can be infiltrated due to lack of deep understanding of one's own environment.\n\nFigure 2-1 Map the Maginot Line.\n\n### Big vs. Little\n\nIt turns out that many smaller organizations are more difficult to penetrate due to the fact that the environment is better understood by both the Information Technology (IT) teams and the Cyber Security teams that protect them. Larger organizations in many cases have undergone numerous mergers and acquisitions along with the melding of information systems. They have also been around longer and likely employ legacy technologies, or have systems operating throughout their network that have simply been forgotten and are running services that are vulnerable.\n\nThe following statement is critically important....\n\nThe more you know about your environment, the better you can protect your assets, the easier you can detect anomalous activity, and the faster you can react to new attacks and vulnerabilities.\n\n### We Care About What's Running on Our Systems\n\nThis might seem obvious as you read this, but you are likely to be surprised by systems and services that are operating on your network. We tend to think only about servers and desktop workstations, since our view of the world is that this is where the information is created, accessed and utilized. Obviously, our infrastructures are changing and what is running or attached to our network is also evolving. Let's just take a look at just a small list of devices and systems we need to be concerned about today (I have purposely left out Servers and Desktop Workstations from the list):\n\n\u25aa Android phones and tablets\n\n\u25aa iOS phones and tablets\n\n\u25aa Windows phones and tablets\n\n\u25aa Blackberry phones and tablets\n\n\u25aa Printers and multifunction devices (print, scan, fax)\n\n\u25aa Copiers and Biz Centers\n\n\u25aa Voice Over Internet Protocol (VOIP) systems\n\n\u25aa Security cameras\n\n\u25aa Internet radios\n\n\u25aa Handheld personal cameras\n\n\u25aa Near Field Communication Devices (NFC)\n\n\u25aa Conference room phones\n\n\u25aa Wearable technologies (fitness, surveillance see Figures 2-2\u20132-4)\n\nFigure 2-2 Wearable Camera Glasses.\n\nFigure 2-3 Smart Watches.\n\nFigure 2-4 Wearable Fitness Devices.\n\n### Why Do We Care?\n\nAt the end of the day, these are all computers at their core with access to networks, the Internet and possibly your corporate infrastructure and information. The questions are:\n\n1. Can you identify them on your network?\n\n2. Do you know where they are located?\n\n3. What data do they have access to?\n\n4. Most importantly, what is the risk and potential impact they pose if compromised?\n\nThe other important aspect of the mobile, wireless, Bluetooth, wearables and NFC devices is that they tend to leave very temporal footprints. Meaning that traditional active network mapping methods may be ineffective in detecting their presence or tracking their behaviors.\n\nBased on this brief introduction, you can see that there are significant advantages to having a firm understanding of the devices that should be attached to our networks, whether these devices are servers, workstations or mobile devices. Think of this as home-field advantage, by understanding what should be operating on your network it becomes easier to identify those devices that shouldn't be there.\n\nAs I demonstrated in Chapter 1, actively identifying devices on a network using NMAP quickly provides information about the obvious suspects. What we are looking for here are those devices that operate either in a temporal fashion or are purposely stealthy. Approaching the problem from a passive point view is different in that we have to wait for devices to reveal their presence by actively participating.\n\nOnce again we will turn to tcpdump to demonstrate some of the ways to capture packets in a passive manner. You might realize that I can do the same thing with Wireshark or a host of other proprietary toolsets. However, one of the problems with this approach is that in order to capture packets at the kernel level, you must be operating at a very high privilege level, and using complex and far-reaching security tools to do so is risky business. Thus my approach throughout the book will be to use simple well-known open-source technologies to perform operations at high levels of privilege. In this way we can limit the need to provide root privilege to only those processes that are absolutely necessary. Likewise our analysis tools (after we have captured the necessary packet samples) can and should operate at a user level.\n\n### A Quick Demonstration\n\nLet's answer the following simple question. What computers on my network are hitting remote web servers? To keep things simple, I want to capture only traffic that has a destination address of Port 80. To demonstrate this, I captured some traffic off my home network with tcpdump using the following Linux/Unix commands:\n\nFirst, I placed my eth0 adapter into promiscuous mode.\n\n$ sudo ifconfig eth0 promisc\n\nTranslating the command\n\nsudo: Execute the command with super user privilege\n\nifconfig Linux ifconfig command\n\neth0: Specify the Ethernet adapter I wish to set\n\npromisc: Set eth0 in promiscuous mode\n\nAfter completion of the command we can check the results by running ifconfig. As you can see the eth0 adapter is now running in promiscuous multicast mode\n\nNext, I use the tcpdump command to collect any packets originating from source port 80.\n\n$ sudo tcpdump \u2013i eth0 \u2013n src port 80\n\nTranslating the command:\n\nsudo: Run the command with super user privilege\n\ntcpdump: The command we wish to execute at privilege\n\n-i eth0: Utilize the Ethernet 0 adapter to perform the capture\n\n-n: Do not resolve IP address to name\n\nsrc port 80: only capture packets that have a source port of 80\n\nAs a result the command returns a barrage of data. I have snipped out the redundant entries.\n\nThis results in the following unique values from a network mapping point of view\n\nTable 2-1\n\nManually Identified Unique Values\n\nServer IP | Client IP | Source Port | Destination Port  \n---|---|---|---  \n50.62.120.26 | 192.168.0.22 | 80 | 48637  \n108.160.165.54 | 192.168.0.22 | 80 | 48532  \n23.52.91.27 | 192.168.0.22 | 80 | 48660\n\n### How to Do This in Python?\n\nContinuing with the theme of keeping this simple with an eye on passive network mapping, how might we approach this same solution in Python? I will add the ability to automatically generate a unique list of the Server / Client interactions over Port 443.\n\nThe script has two basic parts,\n\n1. The Main program that:\n\na. Sets up the network interface in promiscuous mode\n\nb. Opens a raw socket\n\nc. Listens and reads packets from the raw socket\n\nd. Calls the PacketExtractor() function to decode the packet\n\ne. Updates a list with packets that meet our port criteria\n\nf. Once the maximum number of packets are collected a unique list is generated\n\n2. The PacketExtractor() function that:\n\na. Extracts the IP Header\n\nb. Extracts the TCP Header\n\nc. Obtains the Source and Destination IP Addresses\n\nd. Obtains the Source and Destinations Port Numbers\n\ne. Makes an educated guess as to the Server vs. Client\n\nf. Returns a list containing ServerIP, ClientIP, ServerPort\n\n### Sample Program Output\n\nAs you can see from this example, it is relatively straight forward to create a simple controlled traffic capture Python script and begin to map simple behaviors on the network. This capture then can process the captured data and identify specific hosts and services they support.\n\nA couple special notes regarding this script.\n\n1. This is a Linux only implementation\n\n2. The Script needs to be run with super user privilege\n\n$ sudo python capture443.py\n\n3. The advantage over using tcpdump or Wireshark relates to:\n\na. Finer grained control over Super User activity\n\nb. The simplicity of the operation\n\nc. The ability to target specific results\n\n## OS Fingerprinting\n\nI wanted to introduce the concept of OS Fingerprinting up front, since much discussion that surrounds Network Mapping attempts to identify the Operating System that is running behind a particular IP address. This process can be more difficult using passive methods, however it is still possible to make solid arguments for a particular OS. Our focus in the coming chapters is to craft scripts that will ensure that we capture and interpret traffic and fill out the IP range, observe and identify port / service activity and provide clear information regarding what insiders and outsiders are doing.\n\n### OS Fingerprinting Using TCP/IP Default Header Values\n\nSeveral well-known attributes exist for gathering information about the OS executing behind each IP address that we are passively watching. They include:\n\nTable 2-2\n\nCommon OS Fingerprinting Fields\n\nIP Header | Defined  \n---|---  \nTTL | Time to Live  \nTOS | Type of Service  \nDF | Don't Fragment Flag  \nTCP Header | Defined  \n---|---  \nWindow | Window Size\n\nNote, these values are only valuable when the SYN flag is set for a specific TCP packet. You will notice in the capture443.py script, I painstakingly extracted the TTL, TOS, DF from the IP Header and I extract Window Size from the TCP Header. I also create a unique list of the observed fingerprinting values. This script then can be used to record these notable header fields in order to build a more comprehensive \"observed\" OS fingerprints.\n\nBased on observations from a plethora of sources, Table 2-3 provides a snapshot of observed values that can provide insight to enable fingerprinting an OS. This fingerprinting process is virtually the same for passive vs active mapping - the only difference being when observing passively, the stimulus must come from normal network traffic, not from artificially generated stimuli.\n\nTable 2-3\n\nSampling of OS Observed Values\n\n| Time to Live | Window Size  \n---|---|---  \nObserved OS | Initial Value | Typical Setting  \nLinux | 64 | 5840  \nOpen BSD | 64 | 16,384  \nSolaris | 255 | 8,760  \nAIX | 64 | 16,384  \nWindows XP | 128 | 65,535  \nWindows 2K | 128 | 16,384  \nWindows 7 | 128 | 8,192  \nMac OS X | 64 | 65,535\n\nFigure 2-5 TCP/IP Header with Key Fingerprinting Fields Highlighted.\n\nAn educated guess of the OS behind the IP address is possible by creating a comprehensive list of the most common devices. It is important to point out that masking these TCP/IP header fields can be accomplished by those trying to obscure these signatures. Thus it is important to utilize multiple methods:\n\n### OS Fingerprinting Using Open Port Patterns\n\nAnother common method is to take an inventory of open port patterns. This is especially useful when collecting passive network behaviors of hosts operating within the monitored environment. Table 2-4 lists just a few of the common ports that can provide clues to the operating system running behind the IP.\n\nTable 2-4\n\nSampling of Open Port Patterns\n\nPort Number | Most Common Usage | OS Fingerprint Guess  \n---|---|---  \n445 | Microsoft Active Directory | Windows  \n987 | Microsoft Sharepoint Service | Windows  \n1270 | Microsoft System Center Operations Manager (SCOM) | Windows  \n331 | Apple OS Server Admin | Mac OS X  \n660 | Mac OS Server Admin | Mac OS X  \n11111 | Remote Configuration Interface | RedHat Linux\n\nWe will explore OS Fingerprinting analysis using deductive and inductive reasoning in Chapter 4.\n\n## What Open Ports or Services Don't You Know About?\n\nAs was recently seen with the OpenSSL 'Heartbleed' (CVE-2014-0160) and Shellshock (CVE-2014-6271) vulnerabilities, the ability to know what services are operating and on what systems is quite useful. Once again we could use tools like NMAP to discover open ports (at least during the snapshot) with the previously discussed risks. Standard network ports are assigned by the Internet Assigned Numbers Authority (IANA) via the Service Name and Transport Protocol Port Number Registry. Generally (as there is debate) an agreed upon port classification is as follows:\n\nService Ports: 1-1023 are considered well-known ports that represent services that most of us agree to abide by.\n\nService Ports: 1024 to 49151 are recognized as registered ports. They are assigned by IANA upon application and approval.\n\nService Ports: 49152\u201365535 are considered Dynamic, Private or Ephemeral (i.e. lasting for a short time or transient). For example, ports in this range are commonly used by clients making a connection to a server.\n\nOne way to leverage this knowledge of course is to detect traffic originating from, or going to one of these defined ports. By doing so we can  deduce services that are running on these hosts and clients that are utilizing them.\n\nIn addition to the \"agreed upon\" port definitions above, organizations such as the SANS Internet Storm Center have created lists of known malicious ports. For example, one compiled list contains default ports utilized by Trojans. Therefore, if you find that one these ports is being probed, it may possibly indicate that someone is attempting to communicate with a Trojan that is running on your network. Thus mapping both the request, and potentially the response to one or more of these ports would be useful in mapping as well.\n\n### How is This Useful?\n\nBased on the simple capture443.py script I presented earlier in this chapter, along with the results shown, we could deduce the following:\n\nLocal Client 192.168.0.13 has made a secure web page connection to the following servers:\n\n199.16.156.201, 23.73.162.234, 66.153.250.229, 66.153.250.234, 66.153.250.238, 66.153.250.241, 74.125.137.132, 74.125.137.154, 74.125.196.99, 74.125.230.127\n\nThis deduction was made based on the following facts:\n\n1. IP address 192.168.0.13 is a Class C private address block. According to RFC 1918, any Class C address in the range 192.168.0.0-192.168.255.255 (which can also be denoted 192.168.0.0/16) should be considered private and non-routable. This means that I cannot directly address any Class C address within that range unless I'm connected to that very same Class C physical network.\n\n2. Each of the other IP addresses can be geographically located. For example, addresses 199.16.156.201 is located in the Mountain View, California area. The IP addresses 66.153.25 are located in South Carolina. Each of these IP addresses communicated with the client over service port 443, which by default is the http protocol running over a secure TLS or SSL connection.\n\nIn addition, I could infer that client 192.168.0.13 performed a web search that provided a link to the other servers identified. I can make this inference because IP addresses 74.125.137.x belongs to Google, and it is likely that client 192.168.0.13 performed the suggested search using Google.\n\nDeductive vs Inductive Reasoning\n\nDeductive reasoning is based on the premise that if the predicates are true, and the logic is sound the conclusion must be valid.\n\nThe classic example is\n\n\"All men are mortal\"\n\n\"Socrates was a man\"\n\nTherefore: Socrates was mortal\n\nInductive reasoning, on the other hand, seeks a probable or a likely explanation. A classic example of an inductive argument is:\n\n\"All politicians I have met are deceitful\"\n\n\"I have just met David and he is a politician\"\n\nTherefore: David must be deceitful\n\nMuch like the inductive argument that was made:\n\n\"IP 192.168.0.13 connected to Google\"\n\n\"Google is the search engine that provides links to other web sites\"\n\nTherefore: the subsequent server IP addresses must have come from Google\n\nIn both of these cases the likelihood is probable, however unlike the deductive arguments other possible conclusions exist.\n\nIn order to perform Passive Network Mapping we will be using both deductive and inductive methods throughout the process. The quality of our arguments, premises, observations and logic will determine how accurate our results will be. Based on that, it will be important to craft these arguments and observations such that they can be improved with time.\n\nNote: Active Network Mapping also uses both methods especially during the process of OS Fingerprinting.\n\n## Who's Touching Your Network?\n\nThe next logical question to ask is who is actually touching your network? This includes trusted insiders, employees, IT staff (either in-house or out-sourced), and those outside your direct sphere of control. This doesn't mean just hackers, but can also mean business partners, contract employees, vendors, Internet Service Providers (ISPs), the government, and, of course, your customers. By passively collecting, classifying, analyzing and reasoning about the network activity and open ports, we can glean a tremendous amount of information including:\n\n1. What IP addresses are insiders connecting to?\n\n2. Where are the insiders and outsider located geographically?\n\n3. How often and at what time of day are these services being used? Is this activity normal or abnormal?\n\n4. What IP addresses are outsiders connecting to?\n\n5. Where are these outsiders located geographically?\n\nAs you may quickly realize, these questions are more difficult or even in some cases impossible to answer when using active scanning methods, and force direct interaction in response stimulation. In Chapter 4 we will provide scripts that can collect and analyze targeted information that can assist in answering at least some of these questions and provide the foundation for further expanded development.\n\n## Review\n\nIn Chapter 2, I examined the breadth of devices that may be running on your network that are worth considering. I also discussed their associated risks. I then setup a network capture using Linux and tcpdump to capture network packets using promiscuous mode. By manually examining the results I extracted the unique results shown. Next, I developed a Python script that would perform the same type of promiscuous capture, but focused on targeting network activity associated with port 443, which is typically associated with the http protocol over TLS/SSL.\n\nThe script also makes an educated guess and converted the typical source IP and destination IP into the more meaningful server vs client characterization. This allowed me to automatically generate the unique list of client server interactions occurring on port 443. Next, I examined the TCP/UDP Port mapping and defined the ranges of well known, registered and ephemeral ports. I then introduced the subtle differences between deductive and inductive reasoning that will be used in future chapters and scripts. Next, I introduced a couple of OS Fingerprinting methods that will be used in Chapter 4. And finally, we examined the additional benefits of Python Passive Network Mapping as applied to behavior of trusted insiders and outsiders.\n\n## Summary Questions\n\n1. What additional network devices will be important to map and identify on our networks and why?\n\n2. How would you generalize the capture443.py script to allow for other targeted captures?\n\n3. Expand the capture443.py script to implement these generalizations.\n\n4. How might you expand capture443.py to create a comprehensive list of unique observed combination of TOS, TTL, DF and Window Size? Then implement the standalone solution.\n\n5. What other OS Fingerprinting methods would be applicable to passive mapping activities.\n\n6. What passive network mapping operations would be best suited for deductive reasoning?\n\n7. What passive network mapping operations would be best suited for inductive reasoning?\n\n# Additional Resources\n\nSANS Intrusion Detection FAQ: <http://www.sans.org/security-resources/idfaq/oddports.php>\n\nIANA \u2013 The Internet Assigned Numbers Authority: <http://www.iana.org/>\n\nTCPDUMP and LIBPCAP: <http://www.tcpdump.org/>\n\nIntroduction to LOGIC, Seventh Edition 1986, by Irving M. Copi ISBN: 0-02-325020-8 McMillan Publishing Company New York New York.\n\nMight I also recommend a good TCP/IP text or two, e.g., Chappell & Tittell, Guide to TCP/IP or Stevens, TCP/IP Illustrated, Vol. 1. I would also offer my own \"An Overview of TCP/IP Protocols and the Internet\" at <http://www.garykessler.net/library/tcpip.html>\nChapter 3\n\n# Capturing Network Packets Using Python\n\n## Abstract\n\nThis chapter examines the rules of thumb necessary to setup a packet capture environment. In addition, I cover considerations for information capture, Python data type selection for observation storage along with the creation of classes for handling data storage, and retrieval of packet contents. Finally, the P2NMAP capture script is completed and ready for use to passively capture TCP and UDP packets.\n\n## Keywords\n\nPacket Capture\n\nTCP\n\nUDP\n\nDictionary\n\nTuples\n\nSignaling\n\nClass\n\nServerIP\n\nClientIP\n\nPort\n\nSmart Switch\n\nMonitoring\n\nSYN\n\nTOS\n\nDF\n\nTTL\n\nWindowSize\n\npromiscuous mode\n\n\"We are drowning in information, but starved for knowledge\"\n\nJohn Naisbitt\n\nContents\n\nSetting up a Python Passive Network Mapping Environment 37\n\nSwitch Configuration for Packet Capture 37\n\nComputing Resources 38\n\nStoring Captured Data 39\n\nStoring the Captured Packets \u2013 Python Dictionaries 40\n\nIPObservationDictionary Class 41\n\nOSObservationDictionary Class 44\n\nThe Art of the Silent Capture 47\n\nPython Source Code 48\n\nCommand Line Entry and Execution of P2NMAP-Capture.py 59\n\nReview 61\n\nSummary Questions 61\n\n## Setting up a Python Passive Network Mapping Environment\n\nChapter 2 provided two initial, (yet incomplete) solutions to promiscuous mode packet capturing. The first used the standard Linux tcpdump command and the second a Python script that captured packets flowing to and from TCP Port 443. The Python script developed in Chapter 2 provides a good foundation for both the capture and extraction of key data from packets traversing the network we are monitoring.\n\n### Switch Configuration for Packet Capture\n\nAt this point you might be asking how to configure an environment to begin experimenting with packet capturing using these methods. Within most modern networking infrastructures, switches support port mirroring via a Switched Port ANalyzer (SPAN) or Remote Switched Port ANalyzer (RSPAN). For my experimentation and daily use, I'm using a TP-LINK 8 Port Gigabit Easy Smart Switch TL-SG108E as shown in Figure 3-1. I have experimented with many switches and hubs for this purpose, and for a low cost, reliable and easy to configure device, this is the best that I have found so far.\n\nFigure 3-1 TL-SG108E 8-Port Gigabit Switch.\n\nThe simplicity of the switch is based on a software application \"Easy Smart Configuration Utility\", shown in Figure 3-2, that comes with the switch. The configuration utility allows for the configuration of all the features available on the TL-SG108E.\n\nFigure 3-2 Easy Smart Configuration Utility.\n\nFor our purposes, the most important feature is the establishment of a monitoring port that is usable for passively capturing network traffic. Figure 3-3 shows the configuration screen for port monitoring. In this example, I have setup Port 8 to be the monitoring port and ports 2-7 to be monitored. This means all traffic flowing in or out of ports 2-7 will be available for monitoring on Port 8. Note, I purposely chose to leave port 1 out of the selection. I then connect my sniffing appliance (my Linux computer in this case) to Port 8 of the switch, and I can begin using tcpdump or the Python script developed in Chapter 2 to silently capture network traffic and run experiments.\n\nFigure 3-3 Port Monitoring Configuration using the Easy Smart Configuration Utility.\n\n### Computing Resources\n\nPerforming packet capture is both processor and memory intensive, so for simple experimentation and demonstration almost any modern platform will due. For the examples in this book, I focus on using Linux and Windows. The scripts can be modified to run on Mac as well, but updates to libcap, ifconfig etc. would be necessary. However, for use in real-world environments where capturing packet data over several days or weeks will require greater considerations, a minimum system would be configured as follows:\n\n\u25aa Dual Quad Core Processors 3GHz (in later chapters we will examine multiprocessor separation threading of code)\n\n\u25aa 64-128 GB of Memory\n\n\u25aa 4 TB of Fixed Storage\n\n\u25aa 10 Gbps NIC Card (if the network supports these speeds\n\n### Storing Captured Data\n\nThe next challenge that we face is the storage of the captured packets, including the definition of what information I need to store. Python offers many internal data structures for this purpose, and if you recall, in Chapter 2, I used Python List Objects to store the captured data:\n\nEach entry of ipObservations List contains:\n\n[serverIP, clientIP, serverPort]\n\nserverIP: The IP Address of the deduced Server\n\nclientIP: The IP Address of the deduced Client\n\nserverPort: The Port Number associated with the deduced Server\n\nEach entry of osObservations contains a list which holds extracted TCP/IP Header Data if the SYN flag was set for the packet. This data will be used later as an aid to OS Fingerprinting.\n\n[serverIP, TOS, timeToLive, DF, windowSize]\n\nserverIP: The IP Address of the deduced Server\n\nTOS: Type of Service Field\n\nDF: Don't Fragment bit; when set, a packet cannot be fragmented\n\nwindowSize: Largest TCP receive window that the server can handle.\n\ntimeToLive: Sets the network hop limit for a packet life. TTL is decremented by one each time it passes through a router; once the value reaches zero, the packet is discarded to avoid endless looping.\n\nThe nice thing about this approach it is quite simple, however, the Python List contains duplicates, and due to the number of packets destined to be collected we want to reduce the size of the packet information we store. So, we must be a little more strategic. In addition, there is some additional information that will be useful to record. Namely, the time that the packets are observed.\n\n### Storing the Captured Packets \u2013 Python Dictionaries\n\nThe question is how to do this without completely saturating the data that we capture? Since the time of each packet would be different if we decide to store the actually time value for each packet, we couldn't remove duplicate serverIP, ClientIP, serverPort packets from our captures. Thus, I have come up with a method of retaining vital time based information regarding each packet, without holding duplicate packets. In addition, this approach will allow for the implementation of Python Dictionaries as the basic storage mechanism.\n\nPython Dictionaries are built-in to the language and thus are quite useful. Fundamentally, Python Dictionaries are Key / Value pairs. Where the Key and Value can be complex types such as Lists or Tuples.\n\nWhat is a tuple? A tuple is a sequence of immutable Python objects. Tuples are sequences, much like lists, however tuples can't be changed. The big benefit of tuples is that they are hash-able objects and thus can be used as a Key within a dictionary.\n\nTherefore, let's create a dictionary Key / Value Pair to replace the ipObservations List.\n\nKey = tuple(serverIP, clientIP, serverPort)\n\nValue = [0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0,0]\n\nEach value entry is the number of occurrences of this combination per hour. Note that there are 24 values representing each of the hours of the day. Here is a code snippet that shows how to create a dictionary to do this. Obviously we will be extracting the packet data dynamically and creating the dictionary and key value pairs.\n\n### IPObservationDictionary Class\n\nApproaching the storage of the IP observations in this manner will allow me to keep the size of the storage to a minimum by only recording the unique connection observations (e.g., unique server\u2013client connections). In addition, I will be able to generate histograms of activities based on serverIP, clientIP and service type in future chapters based on the hour of the day.\n\nTo make this approach re-usable, I will create a class to handle the IPObservationDictionary. The class will be simple at first and will be enhanced in later chapters when we begin to process the data collected by the Python Capture process.\n\nThe example and resulting code run verifies that the Dictionary and Class are functioning properly. We have validated each of the class methods:\n\ninit: Creates the empty dictionary\n\nAddOb: Adds an observation to the dictionary. If the key does not exist it will create a new entry. If the key exists it will simply add the observation to the proper hour (time slot) for the histogram.\n\nGetOb: Attempts to retrieve and observation based on a key, the key does not exist it return None.\n\nSaveOb: Saves the current Dictionary Object to a file of our choice. This will be useful if we which to periodically save the Dictionary Object to a file.\n\nLoadOb: Loads a previously saved Dictionary object.\n\n### OSObservationDictionary Class\n\nVery similar to the IPObservationDictionaryClass, this class handles the data storage operations of the operating system observations. These observations include:\n\nThe serverIP, TOS, timeToLive, DF, and windowSize, all of which were defined earlier in the chapter.\n\n## The Art of the Silent Capture\n\nThe next step is to enhance our primitive capture script developed in Chapter 2 with the following capabilities:\n\n1. Allow for the capture of TCP or UDP packets specified on the command line\n\n2. Allow for storage of the capture packets into the newly created IPObservationsClass\n\n3. Allow for the storage of the Operating System Observations into the newly created OSObservationsClass\n\n4. Add a PrintOB method to both the IPObservation and OSObservation classes, this will print the contents of the observations\n\n5. Allow the user to specify the time period of the capture\n\n6. Save the results of capture to a file for later analysis\n\nI have covered all of these individual steps and basic capabilities with the exception of the time period for the capture. In order to accomplish this I will introduce the concept of signaling and raise an exception when the time expiries. I will then integrate the specific exception handling operation in the main loop of the script. This requires a few removed steps.\n\n1. I create a class myTimeout that will propagate the exception into the script when the handler fires\n\n2. I create a signal handler that will catch the timeout when the set time expires\n\n3. I need to establish an alarm based on the duration of the capture. (Note capture duration is represented in seconds).\n\n4. Finally, within a try / except block, the specific timeout exception is caught and the perpetual loop is terminated.\n\n## Python Source Code\n\nThe final commented P2NMAP capture script shown here includes all the capabilities defined above. I have also included a sample output from the capture script.\n\nI will be creating the actual network map based on the results of this script in following chapters.\n\n### Command Line Entry and Execution of P2NMAP-Capture.py\n\nWindows: (note the command prompt must be launched with Administrator Rights:\n\npython P2MAP-Capture.py \u2013v \u2013m 2 \u2013p ./\n\nLinux:\n\nsudo python P2MAP-Capture.py \u2013v \u2013m 2 \u2013p ./\n\n## Review\n\nIn Chapter 3, we examined the rules of thumb necessary to setup a packet capture environment, including the discussion of switch selection and configuration along with system hardware considerations. Next, we examined the \"kind-of\" information that is required to collect from network packets that will eventually aid in the passive mapping of a network and operating system fingerprinting. I then considered different Python data types that could dynamically store the packet results, and the Python Dictionary was chosen as the data storage type. Special consideration was given to the construction of these dictionaries in order to eliminate duplicate observations. In addition, I devised a method for including a basic histogram of similar packet occurrence for each unique combination of Server IP, Server Port and Client IP. At this point I designed two classes: IPObservationsDictionary and OSObservationDictionary that handle creation, adding, reading, loading, saving and printing of the associated Dictionary. I then revealed the concept of signaling to handle a time based capture of packets. Finally, I combined all these capabilities into a single script to perform packet capture and storage.\n\n## Summary Questions\n\n1. What additional information might be useful for network mapping or OS Fingerprinting to store about each packet without disrupting the reduction of duplicate entries?\n\n2. For packets with both source IP and Destination IP addresses above 1024, what method could be developed to better establish server vs. client identity.\n\n3. How might we filter out specific packet types or IP ranges from our capture in order to reduce the storage requirements?\n\n# Additional Resource\n\nO'Connor TJ. _Violent Python: A Cookbook for Hackers, Forensic Analysts, Penetration Testers and Security Engineers_. Elsevier; 2013: ISBN-13: 978-1597499576, Chapter 4, Network Traffic Analysis with Python. \nChapter 4\n\n# Packet Capture Analysis\n\n## Abstract\n\nThis Chapter focuses on the development of P2NMAP-Analyze.py, a new Python script that performs analysis operations on .ipdict observation files that were created by the P2NMAP-Capture Script. This is accomplished by extending the ipObservationsDictionary Class to include several key analysis methods. These methods extract key information, such as observed servers and clients, as well as key server / client interactions.\n\n## Keywords\n\nP2NMAP-Analyze.py\n\n.ipdict files\n\nport lookup\n\nhost lookup\n\ngeographic IP Mapping\n\nSTDOUT\n\nclient\n\nserver\n\nport\n\nIP Address\n\nport description\n\nhistogram\n\n\"All great truths are simple in final analysis, and easily understood; if they are not, they are not great truths.\"\n\nNapoleon Hill\n\nContents\n\nPacket Capture Analysis 63\n\nSetting up Options for Analysis 64\n\nLoading an Observation File 65\n\nDirect Program Output 66\n\nSpecifying the Host Lookup Option 68\n\nSpecifying the Country Lookup Option 69\n\nPerforming Analysis 71\n\nPrinting Observations All 72\n\nPrinting the Observed Servers 74\n\nPrinting the Observed Clients 76\n\nPrinting the Observed Server to Client Connections 77\n\nPrinting a Histogram of Observations 80\n\nFinal P2NMAP-Anaysis.py Script Complete Source Code 84\n\nReview 97\n\nSummary Questions 97\n\n## Packet Capture Analysis\n\nNow that we have \"P2NMAP-Capture.py\" in hand, a Python Packet Capture Tool that performs well on both Windows and Linux platforms, along with creating a dictionary of time collected results, we now can perform some useful analysis of the collected data.\n\nAs you observed in Chapter 3, the tool produces two output files:\n\n20150206-132401.ipDict contains the Internet Protocol Observations Dictionary, and 20150206-132438.osDict contains the Operating System Observations Dictionary. In this chapter I focus on the analysis of the .ipDict observations.\n\nA key aspect of the P2NMAP approach is to passively monitor network traffic and record the results without ever placing a packet on the network. A second key is to collect data over a period of time, measured in at least hours - if not days. This approach is in direct contrast with active mapping methods that probe network devices, and there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods.\n\nOne of the key advantages of the passive approach is to be able to observe the behavior of network devices over the course of days or even weeks and map behaviors of both servers and clients over the period.\n\nYet another important aspect of the technical approach is the development of the ipObservationDictionary Class. Using a class for this purpose allows us to re-use the class as a starting point for the development of the analysis methods. For example, the class already contains methods to save and load IP Dictionary Files, along with methods to print out the Internet Protocol observations stored in the currently loaded dictionary. By extending the capabilities of the class and the resulting instantiated objects, we can provide a straight-forward method to advance the analysis capabilities now and in the future.\n\nThe initial set of methods that are to be added to the ipObservationDictionary Class over the capture period include:\n\n1. Load an Observation File\n\n2. Print out all the recorded observations\n\n3. Print the unique list of identified servers along with ports in use\n\n4. Print the unique list of identified clients\n\n5. Print the unique connection list (servers to client) with port details\n\n6. Print 24 hour histogram of activity for each unique server / client connections\n\nIn addition, to this base set of analysis items, I have also provided three special lookups to provide additional information for the analyst. They include:\n\n1. Port Number to Port Name Conversion\n\n2. Host Name Lookup based on IP Address (note this requires Internet Access)\n\n3. Country Location based on the IP Address\n\nTo access these capabilities I have created a simple menu driven script, P2NMAP-Analyze.py to perform the defined analysis operations. Figure 4-1 depicts the P2NMAP-Analyze.py menu.\n\nFigure 4-1 P2NMAP Analysis Menu.\n\nIn the following sections, I will discuss the operation, implementation and rationale for each menu operation.\n\n## Setting up Options for Analysis\n\nBefore we begin to execute the analysis methods themselves, several options are necessary to set within the interface. They include:\n\n1. Loading an Observation File\n\n2. Directing the Program Output\n\n3. Specifying the Host Lookup Option\n\n4. Specifying the Country Lookup Option\n\n### Loading an Observation File\n\nLoading an observation file is quite straight-forward. During the capture process I saved the ipDict file using Python's built in Pickle Module. The Python Standard Library module, pickle provides the ability to pickle and un-pickle an object, where pickling converts any Python object such as a list, set, dictionary or any other object into a character stream. The character stream contains all the information that would be necessary to reconstruct the object within another Python script. This is exactly what we wanted to do as I have de-coupled the capture and analysis capabilities of P2NMAP. Since I wanted to provide a completely Python-based solution for Passive Network Mapping, I separated the operations in this manner.\n\nIf you wanted to use a .pcap file or other packet capture method, you would simply extract data from the .pcap file and create a Python dictionary object. Then the P2NMAP-Analysis.py script could then be applied to the resulting pickled dictionary file. Note: See Chapter 5 for a script that will accomplish this process.\n\nThe only two methods that are necessary to accomplish this are:\n\nwhere self.Dictionary is the Dictionary object I wish to save or load. The object fp is the File Pointer to either the output or input file.\n\nI added the following method to the class IPObservationDictionary as shown below:\n\nIf the method is successful it sets the object attributes:\n\n\u25aa self.observationsLoaded to True\n\n\u25aa self.observationFileName to the file name that was loaded.\n\nThese two attributes are used by other methods within the class IPObservationDictionary.\n\nHowever, if the load fails, the self.observationsLoaded attribute is set to False and the self.observationFileName is set to blank. In addition an error message is displayed to the user.\n\nAs you will see during the operation of the script, no other operations will be available to the user until a valid observation file is successfully loaded.\n\n### Direct Program Output\n\nOne of the questions that I get quite often is: How do I use the same print statement to direct output to either 'standard out' or to a file. The problem with using the redirect symbol, ' > ' as shown here....\n\n$ python P2NMAP-Analysis.py > results.txt\n\n....is that all messages are sent to the results file including prompts, informational and warning messages. This can be solved using the following method in Python:\n\nI create a variable named OUT and set it equal to the result of an open method such as the one shown below. I then preface every print message with print >> OUT, and whatever follows is then written directly to the output file, regardless of the complexity. This will ensure that the output file will look exactly like the output that would have been displayed on the screen using 'standard out'.\n\nThe question then becomes, how do I then direct the output to 'standard out'?\n\nThat turns out to be the easy part if you know your way around the Python Standard Library module. If the OUT variable is global, then by allowing the user to change the variable, the output will be directed to the proper output, in this case either standard out or the file results.txt.\n\nTo implement this in the module, I create a toggle allowing the user to change the output direction between 'standard out' and a file. This way, the analyst can review the output on the screen and then once they are satisfied with the results they can toggle and have the function output directed to the file. Note, this is a good technique to use within any forensic related script. Here is the code excerpt that performs the toggle when the user selects the 'O' output option from the menu. Notice that I perform the close method, OUT.close() when switching from file output back to STDOUT. This ensures that the file will be closed and all data will be written to the file. Also, I open the output file using \"w+\", meaning that data will be appended to the results.txt file.\n\n### Specifying the Host Lookup Option\n\nOne of the important aspects of passive network capture is the mapping of IP addresses to Host Names. This is done using network address translation, in this case from IP address to Host Name. In the spirit of this book (so far), I want to perform this lookup using native Python code and Python Standard Libraries. It turns out that this is quite simple to do, but just a word of warning.... this will take time and Internet access to accomplish. Once again I will use the toggle method within the menu system to provide the user with the option of turning Host Lookup on or off, with the default being Host Lookup is off.\n\nThe HOST_LOOKUP variable is then evaluated by each of the analysis methods. If the HOST_LOOKUP is true, then the analysis methods will translate the IP address into the related host name. The code to perform this lookup utilizes the Python Standard Library Module, socket and only requires a single socket call to accomplish this:\n\nIt is important to note that the socket.gethostbyaddr() returns a triple.\n\nAccording to the Python Standard Library Reference: \"The Triple (hostname, aliaslist, ipaddrlist) where hostname is the primary host name responding to the given ip_address, aliaslist is a (possibly empty) list of alternative host names for the same address, and ipaddrlist is a list of IPv4/v6 addresses for the same interface on the same host (most likely containing only a single address).\"\n\nFor our application we are only interested in the first element of the triple, the name of the host. If exceptions occur during the call (in other words, the host name could not be associated with a specific IP address), I fill the triple with blanks so when those elements are accessed in the code, they are simply printed as blanks.\n\n### Specifying the Country Lookup Option\n\nWhen investigating server and client IP addresses, one of the typical questions that arises is \"Where is the IP located geographically?\" In some cases this is difficult to confirm if the server or client are attempting to anonymize their locations, however for most cases the mapping of IP address to a general geographic region is possible.\n\nTo handle this specific lookup I'm going to use a Python 3rd Party Library and dataset. The 3rd Party Library is pygeoip.\n\nTo install the pygeoip library within your Python Environment you can use pip. Pip is the most popular Python package management system, and is used to install and manage 3rd party packages written in Python. The pygeoip library is installed from the command line; note that the pip package management system must already be installed.\n\nOnce pygeoip is installed, you must also download the latest database from MAXMIND developer website at: <http://dev.maxmind.com/geoip/legacy/geolite/>\n\nFor the examples in this chapter I downloaded the GeoLite Country Binary/Gzip Version as shown in Figure 4-2. I then unzipped and placed the geo.dat file in my source directory for easy access. Note, I changed the name to geo.dat as the unzip generates GeoIP.dat, this way when I download updates I can keep track of new vs old.\n\nFigure 4-2 MAXMIND GeoLite Country Database Binary/Gzip Version.\n\nFollowing the instructions on the MAXMIND web site, I included the statement as required when importing the 3rd Party Library as shown below.\n\nNow that the pygeoip library and associated database geo.dat are installed, I can use them to associate an IP Address with a country. I created a simple function to call and return the country name. If no country can be associated with the given IP address a blank string is returned.\n\nAs with the Host Lookup Method, I provide a toggle that will either set the COUNTRY_LOOKUP variable to True or False depending upon the current state. This is accomplished by the user specifying 'C' option as shown here:\n\nThen anywhere in the code where inclusion of the Country Name would be appropriate the COUNTRY_LOOKUP variable is interrogated and used accordingly.\n\n## Performing Analysis\n\nNow that the perfunctory setup is complete, we can execute the individual analysis operations. They include:\n\n1. Printing all observations contained within the loaded observation file\n\n2. Printing the Observed Server List\n\n3. Printing the Observed Client List\n\n4. Printing the Observed Server to Client Connections\n\n5. Printing the Histogram of Observations\n\n### Printing Observations All\n\nThe printing out of all the Observations simply requires extracting each dictionary entry and printing out the contents. This includes the Server IP Address, Client IP Address, Server Port Number, Port Type (TCP or UDP) along with the number of observations of this unique combination occurring during each hourly period. The method to perform this operation is shown below.\n\nExecuting this code produces the following (abbreviated) result\n\n### Printing the Observed Servers\n\nThe next analysis function will iterate through the dictionary and provide a sorted list of observed servers. For each server a list of observed service ports supported by the server are also listed. In addition, details such as geolocation (i.e. country), host name and port description will be included based upon the settings specified by the user. The method developed to extract these details from the observations dictionary is shown below.\n\nExecuting this code produces the following (abbreviated) result\n\n### Printing the Observed Clients\n\nExtracting and printing the list of observed clients is accomplished in the same manner as that of the observed servers. Once again the output will include details such as geolocation (i.e. country) and host name if they are specified to be included by the user. The method developed to extract these details from the observations dictionary is shown below. One question you might ask is why is the client port not specified?\n\nWhy is the client port not included? Eliminating the client port (which would typically be an ephemeral port, and not useful to us) significantly reduces the size of our dictionary. If we were to include the ephemeral ports in the dictionary key, virtually every server client connection would be unique.\n\nExecuting this method produces the following (abbreviated) result:\n\n### Printing the Observed Server to Client Connections\n\nAnother interesting way to view the results of the observation, is to list each server and include all client connections made to that server. This provides the comprehensive server / client connection list. This method is slightly more complex, since the dictionary must first generate the list of observed servers, and then generate a list of clients that connected over any port to that server. The method developed to extract these details from the observations dictionary is shown below.\n\nExecuting this method produces the following (abbreviated) result:\n\n### Printing a Histogram of Observations\n\nThe final extraction will add to the detailed server / client connection list and provide a histogram of activities for each server and client interaction. The Histogram produced is for a 24 hour time table. If the P2NMAP-Capture script is run for multiple days the activities for each hour will be cumulative. This allows the investigator to quickly observe activities occurring at unusual times of the day, activities that occur only a small number of times, or possibly only once. This can potentially indicate a heartbeat or beacon generated by a malicious application. The method developed to extract these details from the observations dictionary is shown below.\n\nExecuting this method produces the following (abbreviated) result\n\n### Final P2NMAP-Anaysis.py Script Complete Source Code\n\nThe final P2NMAP-Analysis.py script is shown here. Note that the entire script is a single Python file and requires no arguments to execute. However, there are a couple of assumptions.\n\n1. The \"geo.dat\" file must be included in the source directory\n\n2. The pygeoip 3rd Party Library has been installed using:\n\n$ pip install pygeoip\n\nor\n\nC:\\> pip install pygeoip\n\n3. You have a populated IP dictionary file that was generated by the P2NMAP-Capture script.\n\nNow you are ready to execute P2NMAP-Analysis.py\n\n$ python P2NMAP-Analysis.py\n\nor\n\nC:\\> python P2NMAP-Analysis.py\n\nThis will yield the following menu selections and you can start experimenting with the differing modes of operation and analysis functions.\n\n## Review\n\nIn Chapter 4, I leveraged the .ipdict file created in Chapter 3 using the P2NMAP-Capture Script. This file contains the complete dump of the IP observations dictionary. By utilizing this observations dictionary, I created several key methods within the ipObservationsDictionary Class. These methods perform operations including: Printing the complete IP Observations Dictionary, Generating a Comprehensive Server and Client List, Generating a detailed Server / Client Connection List and a detailed histogram of the observation data. In addition, I extrapolated key information from the observed data including Host Name based on the Observation IP Address, Detailed Port Descriptions based on the server ports in use and geographic location of many of the observed servers and clients. Finally, I created a simple menu driven interface that can be used to experiment with the newly created analysis methods.\n\n## Summary Questions\n\n1. What additional analysis methods could be created from the observed data?\n\n2. What filters could be created that would reduce the output and allow the analyst to focus in on targeted data? For example, \"Generate a Histogram of any connections that occur less than n times during the observations. Or generate a server / client list for those devices operating outside the U.S.\n\n# Additional Resource\n\nSeitz Justin. _Black Hat Python, Python Programming for Hackers and Pentesters_. San Francisco, California: No Starch Press; 2015: ISBN: 13-978-1-59327-590-7. \nChapter 5\n\n# PCAP Extractor and OS Fingerprinting\n\n## Abstract\n\nThis chapter focuses on two key capabilities: 1) the ability to extract key data from pcap files to convert them into the .ipDict and .osDict format. 2) the development of an extensible method of Passive OS Fingerprinting based on a truth table, which is based on the core data stored in the osDict.\n\n## Keywords\n\nP2NMAP-Capture\n\nP2NMAP-Analyze\n\nP2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor\n\nPCAP\n\ndpkt\n\ntruth table\n\nTTL\n\nTOS\n\nDF\n\nWindow Size\n\nSYN\n\nIP\n\nPort\n\n\"It is by doubting that we come to investigate, and by investigating that we recognize the truth.\"\n\nPeter Abelard\n\nContents\n\nPCAP Extraction 99\n\nReview of P2NMAP-Capture 101\n\nUtilizing the dptk Package 102\n\nP2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor.py Script 104\n\nExecuting P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor 112\n\nPassive OS Fingerprinting 116\n\nOS Fingerprinting Truth Table 116\n\nTruth Table Python Class 118\n\nP2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint Script 123\n\nExecuting P2NMAP- OS-Fingerprint 131\n\nReview 134\n\nSummary Questions 135\n\n## PCAP Extraction\n\nWhen performing incident response activities, mapping a network or performing penetration testing, you are likely to run in to situations where packet captures have already occurred. This could be in response to an event, or in today's world, more often as a routine practice. Either way, the packet capture (pcap) files can provide valuable information that we can examine and report on using P2NMAP-Analzer.py, which was developed in Chapter 4.\n\nIn order to accomplish this, I needed to develop a script that would extract the pertinent data from an existing pcap file and create both an .ipDict and .osDict file that can be processed. In other words, we need to interpret the pcap file to generate the same output files that P2NMAP-Capture.py does.\n\nA number of years ago, Dug Song produced the Python Module dpkt (among many others) that is ideally suited for processing existing packet captures such as pcap files. I have tested the module extensively, and it is a nice addition to your core library within Python. One criticism of the library is the lack of documentation, however our use of the library is pretty straight-forward and my script will hopefully clear up the usage for at least our use case.\n\nInstalling dpkt as with most 3rd party Python packages is quite simple: The following command lines work just fine on Windows, Linux and Mac.\n\nWindows:\n\npip install dpkt\n\nLinux/Mac:\n\nsudo pip install dpkt\n\nWhenever I install a new package/module within Python, I run a quick verification that it is working. To do this, I can launch a Python shell from either the Windows or Linux command prompt. Below I show this from a Windows session. I then use the built-in Python import command to load the package. Once the package has been successfully imported you can then use the built-in Python dir() function to print the attributes associated with the package. For even more information you can also use the built-in help() function.\n\nNote, if the import functions fails, it would indicate that the dpkt package is not properly installed.\n\n### Review of P2NMAP-Capture\n\nAs you know from the development of the P2NMAP-Capture.py script for network mapping and OS Fingerprinting, we only require a few key pieces of data. We organize that data within an efficient data structure that both minimizes the size and also allows fast processing of the resulting data.\n\nThe core data we need from the pcap records in order to properly generate .ipDict and .osDict files are as follows:\n\nGeneral:\n\n\u25aa Packet Timestamp\n\n\u25aa .ipdict\n\n\u25aa Source IP\n\n\u25aa Destination IP\n\n\u25aa Source Port\n\n\u25aa Destination Port\n\n\u25aa Protocol (TCP or UDP)\n\n\u25aa .osDict\n\n\u25aa Source IP\n\n\u25aa Destination IP\n\n\u25aa Source Port\n\n\u25aa Destination Port\n\n\u25aa SYN Flag\n\n\u25aa DF Flag\n\n\u25aa TTL (Time to live value)\n\n\u25aa TOS (Type of service value)\n\n\u25aa Window Size\n\n### Utilizing the dptk Package\n\nThe Code to extract the necessary data from the pcap files is isolated here (note: to simplify the code, I left out the exception processing, which is in the full version of the script). Minus the comment line, less than 20 lines of code are required to obtain the fields we require.\n\nThe rest of the script uses the previously created classes:\n\nclass IPObservationDictionary:\n\nclass OSObservationDictionary:\n\n.. along with the same packet processing code that was developed during the P2NMAP-Capture.py script. The full script is included here:\n\n### P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor.py Script\n\n### Executing P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor\n\nExecuting the PCAP-Extractor is done from the command line (again, Windows command shell along with Linux / Mac Shells all operate the same).\n\nExecuting the script with the \u2013h option only, provides the argument list. Only 3 arguments are available:\n\n\u25aa -v (optional) which will provide a verbose output from the application\n\n\u25aa \u2013i which is the input file and specifies the pcap file to extract from\n\n\u25aa \u2013o which specifies the output directory where the resulting .ipDict and.osDict files will be written with the familiar timestamp filename\n\nWhen the script is executed with the verbose argument the following sample output is also generated on screen. (note: this output has been abridged to save space).\n\nNow you can utilize the resulting files from this run:\n\n20150303-151016.ipDict\n\n20150303-151016.osDict\n\nNow that we have generated the extracted ipDict and osDict files we can utilize P2NMAP-Analyze.py or P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint.py to perform the requisite analysis. Note the P2NMAP-OS.Fingerpring.py script will be discussed in the next section.\n\nWhere do you find .pcap files to experiment with? You can obviously perform a Google search and you will find quite a few potential sources. However, three sources that I used heavily during experimentation include:\n\nWireShark Samples Captures: <http://wiki.wireshark.org/SampleCaptures>\n\nTcpreplay: <http://tcpreplay.appneta.com/wiki/captures.html>\n\nNETRESEC: <http://www.netresec.com/?page=PcapFiles>\n\nShown in Figure 5-1, Figure 5-2 and Figure 5-3\n\nFigure 5-1 Wireshark Samples Captures Web Page.\n\nFigure 5-2 Tcpreplay Sample Captures.\n\nFigure 5-3 NETRESEC Sample Captures.\n\n## Passive OS Fingerprinting\n\nAs many people are painfully aware, performing passive OS fingerprinting is a significant challenge. However, in this section I will provide the building blocks for identifying at least the general OS that is executing on the associated server platforms. The actual missing-link is a comprehensive dataset of rules that would more accurately map OS behaviors. This method is not meant to compete with the active methods of fingerprinting generated from the NMAP community, SAINT developers, McAfee/Intel Foundstone labs and other mainstream vendors. Rather the solution is presented to encourage expansion of the method, especially the painstaking task of developing signatures that will work during passive based examinations.\n\n### OS Fingerprinting Truth Table\n\nDuring the passive collection of packet data (whether using P2NMAP-Capture.py or extracting packet data using P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor.py) several key initial parameters were collected from observed packets. These IP packet values include Type of Service, Time to Live, Don't Fragment (DF) and Window Size. These values were only collected when the IP packet contained a TCP segment with the SYN flag set. This set of values allows for the creation of a Truth Table that would generate possible OS Fingerprinting when all four of the table values match the observed values.\n\nTruth Tables provide a method of defining all possible values that can exist for a certain set of facts, variables or functions. These tables contains multiple rows and columns, with the top row representing the category values along with a final column that contains the conclusion based on the values specified in that row.\n\nTable 5-1 shows a sample table with a few sample entries.\n\nTable 5-1\n\nBasic Truth Table\n\nTime to Live | Type of Service | DF Flag | Window Size | OS Identified  \n---|---|---|---|---  \n128 | 0 | Y | 5000-9000 | Window NT  \n64 | 16 | N | 17520 | Open BSD  \n128 | 0 | Y | 32000-32768 | Netware\n\nIn order to improve on the basic concept, I wanted a bit more flexibility in the table. First, the Time to Live observations are impacted by the number of router hops that the packets take between the source and destination. Thus even if the packet starts out at 128, the value we observe is likely to be less than 128, therefore I will make this a range of values instead of a fixed number. Secondly, for certain known fingerprint signatures only 2 of the values may be required for an accurate identification.\n\nFor example, we may have knowledge that a certain CISCO network device has a starting TTL value of 255 and a Window Size of 4128, but the Type of Service and DF flags are not relevant, unknown or unreliable. In this case I would like to ignore the DF and TOS fields during the comparison (by using wild cards). Finally, for ease of parsing the table, the TTL and Window Size fields will always contain a range. The resulting truth table would then look like that in Table 5-2.\n\nTable 5-2\n\nImproved Truth Table\n\nTime to Live | Type of Service | DF Flag | Window Size | OS Identified  \n---|---|---|---|---  \n65-128 | 0 | Y | 5000-9000 | Window NT  \n33-64 | 16 | N | 17520-17520 | Open BSD  \n65-128 | 0 | Y | 32000-32768 | Netware  \n129-255 | * | * | 4128-4128 | Cisco IOS\n\nA sample flat file truth table file is shown here, with the syntax being strict space delimited columns to make parsing the file simple. The file can be expanded to contain additional values as more known observations become available or the fingerprint data improves.\n\n### Truth Table Python Class\n\nTo handle the processing of the truth table, I create a simple class that will perform three basic functions:\n\n1. Load the truth table and process the range values\n\n2. Accept a known set (TTL, TOS, DF and Window Size) as input and return the first matching OS Fingerprint from the loaded truth table.\n\n3. Print the truth table for convenience and verification\n\nNow that we can load and process the truth table, all that is left to do is build a menu driven script that can:\n\n1. Load a previously generated .osDict file\n\n2. Load and process and user defined truth table\n\n3. Generate the OS fingerprint results\n\nIn addition, I have provided similar support functions as with the P2NMAP-Analyze script to allow directing the output to a file, along with the ability to print the contents of the .osDict observations and the truth table contents.\n\n### P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint Script\n\n### Executing P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint\n\nOperating P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint.py, requires no command line arguments as the user is prompted for all necessary input.\n\nBefore processing and generating the OS Fingerprints a valid observation file and a valid truth table must be provided: Once this is accomplished successfully, the menu will change to allow for the execution of the remaining options:\n\n1. Print truth table\n\n2. Print observations\n\n3. Print probable OS fingerprint\n\nSelecting Option 1, produces the following truth table output, (Current Loaded Fingerprint Truth Table).\n\nSelecting Option 2, produces the familiar (abridged) OS Observations result\n\nFinally, Selecting Option 3, produces the (abridged) Probable OS Fingerprint Result\n\n## Review\n\nI tackled extracting key data from pcap files to convert them into the .ipDict and .osDict format in Chapter 5. This provides a direct way of handling captured network traffic from sources other than P2NMAP-Capture.py developed in Chapter 3. This was critical since more and more organizations are routinely collecting, preserving and retaining pcap files in their normal course of business. To extract the data, we used the 3rd Party Python Library dpkt, and were able to accomplish this core extraction process in less than 20 lines of code. I then wrapped this process into a script to automatically perform the functions.\n\nNext, for the first time we used the contents of the .osDict file to make use of the observed TTL, TOS, DF and Window Size to predict the OS Type of the server in question. I defined a method using a truth table to perform this operation, and provided a baseline for further expansion of the truth table to improve the accuracy of the fingerprint identification. Next, I created the complete script, P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint.py, to experiment with this new method of OS identification.\n\nI also provided sample script execution for both P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor and P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint.\n\n## Summary Questions\n\n1. Challenge Problem 1: Develop experiments that generate observed behavior of a variety of operating systems under normal operation. Use that data to improve the truth table and ultimately the accuracy of Passive OS Fingerprint identification.\n\n2. Challenge Problem 2: Utilize the ipDict result and the port values obtained to further improve OS Fingerprint identification by creating a truth table that provides association of known ports with the most operating system most probably in use.\n\n3. Challenge Problem 3: Modify both P2NMAP-Capture.py and P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor.py to collecting TTL, TOS, DF and Window Size observations for protocols other than TCP/UDP.\n\n# Additional Resources\n\nSong Dug, dptk Python Package, <https://pypi.python.org/pypi/dpkt>\n\nSilverman Jeffery, dptk documentation, <http://www.commercialventvac.com/dpkt.html>\nChapter 6\n\n# Future Considerations and Challenge Problems\n\n## Abstract\n\nThis chapter provides a wrap-up of the book along with some critical observations and predictions by the author. In addition, several key challenge problems are presented to advance the core solutions presented in the text.\n\n## Keywords\n\nFuture\n\nChallenge Problems\n\nAuthor Observations\n\nMore Information\n\nSource Code\n\nTruth Tables\n\nDownload\n\n\"There are two levers for moving men: interest and fear.\"\n\nNapoleon Bonaparte\n\nContents\n\nAuthor Observations 137\n\nAuthor Predictions 138\n\nChallenge Problems 140\n\nMore Information 141\n\n## Author Observations\n\nDeveloping this text and the associated scripts has been quite enjoyable. At the outset, my goal was to develop a text and scripts written in Python to perform the foundation of passive network mapping. This foundation has many uses and my hope is that it will continue to evolve.\n\nIn a world where we need to strike an achievable balance between security and privacy, I believe the concepts shared in this book provide the beginnings and underpinnings of that balance. None of the scripts or methods provided here analyze or expose the contents of network packets, rather they only focus on the end-to-end connections and key header information.\n\nAccording to 18 U.S. Code \u00a7 3121 \"a government agency authorized to install and use a pen register or trap and trace device under this chapter or under State law shall use technology reasonably available to it that restricts the recording or decoding of electronic or other impulses to the dialing, routing, addressing, and signaling information utilized in the processing and transmitting of wire or electronic communications so as not to include the contents of any wire or electronic communications\"\n\nI wanted to make sure that the P2NMAP scripts met these requirements for two basic reasons:\n\n1. I wanted the scripts to be usable in a wide range of lawful situations both by law enforcement and within corporate environments.\n\n2. I wanted to demonstrate that staying within these limits could provide a useful and extensible toolset. The results of this first step may generate enough probable cause to generate a warrant that would then allow the examination of content.\n\nAdditionally, my goal was to create a full open source solution in order to:\n\n1. Provide a baseline for other researchers, developers, academics and students, allowing them to advance the scripts to suit their specific needs.\n\n2. Demonstrate that it was possible to create a Python-only source code solution for the capture, analysis and OS Fingerprinting of observed network traffic.\n\n3. Provide a solution that could be safely deployed in environments where it could be dangerous to perform active network mapping, where damage to, or shutdown of critical information systems could occur, (e.g. SCADA environments).\n\n4. Provide a Python-only solution where the resulting scripts would be portable across a wide range of computing platforms.\n\n5. Finally, to allow the review by others to ensure that what has been presented meets these goals and objectives.\n\n## Author Predictions\n\nFigure 6-1 Future Predictions.\n\nDue to the combination of....\n\n\u25aa strengthening security controls\n\n\u25aa mobile device integration\n\n\u25aa the broad acceptance of Bring Your Own Device (BYOD) models\n\n\u25aa the entr\u00e9e of wearable networked devices\n\n\u25aa the movement toward the Internet of Things (IOT) philosophies\n\n\u25aa the increased use of data leak prevention systems\n\n\u25aa the improved application of firewalls, content filters\n\n\u25aa the widespread deployment of intrusion prevention apparatus within corporate infrastructures\n\n\u25aa and the continued reduction in the cost of data storage devices\n\n.... the following predictions seem reasonable:\n\n1. Monitoring (in other words, continuous passive network capture) will increase dramatically. As the devices we utilize each day become more transient players in the networks we control, our ability to actively scan or map these activities will become almost impossible.\n\n2. Our ability to track devices and the humans attached to them is already quite elusive, and will continue to become more difficult as the explosive nature of these devices we carry or wear expands.\n\n3. The line between broadband and land based networks will continue to blur. Even today our devices automatically switch seamlessly from one wireless network, to another, to broadband and back again even when we don't leave our homes!\n\n4. Our ability to mine this data and make sense of it will become vital, if we wish to solve crimes, ferret out malicious insiders, stop the leakage of personal or corporate information and one day pre-empt nefarious acts instead of just reacting to them once they become the latest New York Times headline. We obviously must change our tactics.\n\nFigure 6-2 New York Times Technology Headline 2-5-2015.\n\nOf course privacy concerns continue to expand as the digital footprint that we leave with every click, post, tweet, music/video download, App purchase or now even every time we start our car or open our fridge expands. These actions become fodder for government monitoring, commercial gains and potential criminal activity.\n\n## Challenge Problems\n\nSeveral key challenge problems exist that are logical next steps. These can be approached by individuals, graduate and undergraduate students (with assistance) and by organizations wishing to participate in the evolution of the P2NMAP technologies.\n\nChallenge 1: Passive OS Fingerprints \u2013 The development a complete truth table or other decision making model for a wide variety of operating signatures is essential. This requires both an initial effort to develop the current baseline (moving back in time) as well as methods to measure new versions.\n\nChallenge 2: IPv6 \u2013 The challenge of evolving P2NMAP scripts to support IPv6 environments is two-fold. First, in order to perform the same level of capture and analysis that is currently supported for IPv4. Second, to examine/analyze and observe IPv6 headers to identify key data elements that would improve OS Fingerprinting.\n\nChallenge 3: Wireless Passive Network Mapping \u2013 P2NMAP today will capture connections from WiFi devices as they flow in and out of current network switches. However, providing the ability to passively capture and analyze wireless connection in the air and mapping their temporal behaviors would be beneficial.\n\nChallenge 4: IP Activity Mapping \u2013 The current capture and analysis capabilities of P2NMAP provide the fundamental data necessary to map behavior by specific IP addresses (clients or servers). However, sorting, filtering and visualizing this behavior would add significant value to investigators.\n\nChallenge 5: Cross IP Link Analysis \u2013 It is likely that multiple P2NMAP captures or PCAP files collected from multiple network vantages points or even geographically separated networks is likely. The ability to combine, process and analyze a set of captures would provide a more global perspective for investigators.\n\nChallenge 6: Python 3.3x \u2013 Porting P2NMAP-Capture, P2NMAP-Analyze, P2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint and P2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor should prove to be fairly straight-forward. This is the reason I minimized the use of 3rd party packages which is typically the most difficult aspect relating to the port.\n\nChallenge 7: GUI vs Command Line \u2013 Finally, the current P2NMAP scripts are command line based in order to focus on core details of passive capture, analysis and OS fingerprinting. However, there are certainly benefits to wrapping the core scripts into a GUI for ease of use, configuration, management of captures, reporting and general visualization.\n\n## More Information\n\nFor additional information, the latest source code downloads, updated truth tables and other P2NMAP information:\n\nVisit:\n\nwww.python-forensics.org/\n\nTo contact the author directly:\n\ncdh@python-forensics.org\n\n# Subject Index\n\nA\n\nActive network map, , , , ,\n\nActive scanning, , ,\n\nApplication firewalls,\n\nargparse, , , ,\n\nB\n\nBose wave radio, ,\n\nBring your own device (BYOD) models,\n\nBYOD, See Bring your own device (BYOD) models\n\nC\n\nCaptured data,\n\nstoring of,\n\nCartography,\n\nFra Mauro world map,\n\nsocial network map,\n\nChief information officer (CIO),\n\nChief information security officer (CISO), , , ,\n\nCIO, See Chief information officer (CIO)\n\nCISCO network device,\n\nCISO, See Chief information security officer (CISO)\n\nClass C physical network,\n\nClass C private address block,\n\nCode snippet,\n\nCommand line entry,\n\nCommercial gains,\n\nCommon vulnerabilities and exposure (CVE),\n\nComputing resources,\n\nContent filters, ,\n\nConventions, use of,\n\nbold,\n\nitalic,\n\nCountry lookup option, specifying of, ,\n\nCritical infrastructure, ,\n\nCross IP link analysis,\n\nCVE, See Common vulnerabilities and exposure (CVE)\n\nCyber assets,\n\nCyber ping command,\n\nCyber security, , ,\n\nD\n\nData leak protection (DLP),\n\nData storage operations,\n\ndatetime, , , , , , ,\n\nDeductive reasoning,\n\nDemilitarized zone (DMZ),\n\nDF flags,\n\nDictionary, , , 63\u201365, , , ,\n\nDirect program output,\n\nDLP, See Data leak protection (DLP)\n\nDMZ, See Demilitarized zone (DMZ)\n\nDptk package, utilizing of,\n\nE\n\nEasy smart configuration utility,\n\nEnterprise networks, ,\n\nF\n\nFra Mauro world map,\n\nG\n\nGraphical user interface (GUI), ,\n\nGUI, See Graphical user interface (GUI)\n\nH\n\nHackers,\n\nHeartbleed, , , ,\n\nHistogram of observations, printing of, ,\n\nHost based sensors,\n\nHost lookup option, specifying of, ,\n\nHOST_LOOKUP variable, ,\n\nHost name lookup,\n\nHost names, , , , ,\n\nI\n\nIANA, See Internet assigned numbers authority (IANA)\n\nICMP, See Internet control message protocol (ICMP)\n\nifconfig, , ,\n\nIncident response teams, ,\n\nInductive reasoning,\n\nexample of,\n\nInformation technology (IT),\n\ndevices, 18\u201320\n\nrelated incidents,\n\nheartbleed,\n\noperation shady rat,\n\nsample program output,\n\nInternal data structures,\n\nInternet assigned numbers authority (IANA),\n\nservice name,\n\ntransport protocol port number registry,\n\nInternet control message protocol (ICMP), 5\u20137, ,\n\necho reply type message,\n\necho request message,\n\nmessage types, ,\n\nrequest type packets,\n\ntest network,\n\nInternet of things (IOT) philosophies,\n\nInternet protocol (IP)\n\nactivity mapping,\n\naddresses,\n\ndatagrams, ,\n\nlayer,\n\nobservation dictionary, ,\n\nclass methods,\n\nclientIP,\n\nserverIP,\n\nInternet service providers (ISP),\n\nIOT, See Internet of things (IOT) philosophies\n\nIP, See Internet protocol (IP)\n\n.ipDict observations, , ,\n\nIpObservationDictionary class, , ,\n\nIPv6,\n\nISP, See Internet service providers (ISP)\n\nIT, See Information technology (IT)\n\nL\n\nLinux commands,\n\nLinux tcpdump command,\n\nLyon, Gordon,\n\nM\n\nMaginot line, ,\n\nMAXMIND geolite country database binary/gzip version, ,\n\nN\n\nNear field communication devices (NFC),\n\nNETRESEC sample captures,\n\nNetwork mapper (Nmap),\n\nNetwork mapping, , , , ,\n\nactive, , ,\n\npassive, , , ,\n\npython passive, , ,\n\nwireless passive,\n\nNetwork privacy,\n\nNetwork related predictions,\n\nNew York Times technology headline 2-5-2015,\n\nNetwork traffic, , , , ,\n\nNFC, See Near field communication devices (NFC)\n\nNmap, See Network mapper (Nmap)\n\nO\n\nObservation file, loading of, ,\n\nObservations, printing of, ,\n\nclient IP address,\n\nport type,\n\nserver IP address,\n\nserver port number,\n\nObserved client list, ,\n\nObserved server list,\n\nObserved server to client connections, ,\n\nOpenSSL, , ,\n\nOperation Shady Rat,\n\nOrganizationally unique identifier (OUI),\n\nOS,\n\nfingerprinting,\n\nobserved values,\n\nopen port patterns,\n\nTCP/IP default header values, ,\n\npassive fingerprinting,\n\ntruth table fingerprinting,\n\nOSObservationsClass,\n\nOUI, See Organizationally unique identifier (OUI)\n\nP\n\nPacket capture (PCAP), ,\n\nanalysis performing methods,\n\nhistogram of observations, printing of,\n\nobservations, printing of,\n\nobserved client list, printing of,\n\nobserved server list, printing of,\n\nobserved server to client connections, printing of,\n\nextraction,\n\n.ipDict file,\n\n.osDict file,\n\nextractor, executing of, ,\n\npassive approach,\n\nsetting up options for,\n\ncountry lookup option, specifying of,\n\nhost lookup option, specifying of,\n\nobservation file, loading of,\n\nprogram output, directing of,\n\ntechnical approach,\n\nPacket capturing,\n\nPacket data, ,\n\ncapturing of,\n\nPassive network mapping, ,\n\nPassive OS fingerprints,\n\nPatch management infrastructures,\n\nPCAP, See Packet capture (PCAP)\n\nPcap files, , , ,\n\nPickle module,\n\nPing, ,\n\nPing scan selection,\n\npip, , , , ,\n\nplatform, , , , , ,\n\nresults of,\n\nP2NMAP, See Python passive network mapping (P2NMAP)\n\nanalysis menu, ,\n\nextractor, executing of,\n\nscripts,\n\ntechnologies,\n\ncross IP link analysis,\n\nGraphical user interface vs command line,\n\nIP activity mapping,\n\nIPv6,\n\npassive OS fingerprints,\n\npython 3.3x,\n\nwireless passive network mapping,\n\nP2NMAP-Analysis.py script,\n\nP2NMAP-Analzer.py,\n\nP2NMAP-capture.py,\n\nexecution of,\n\nscript, review of,\n\nnetwork mapping,\n\nOS fingerprinting,\n\nP2NMAP-Capture script,\n\nP2NMAP-OS-fingerprint script,\n\nexecution of,\n\nPort mirroring switch supported,\n\nremote switched port analyzer (RSPAN),\n\nswitched port analyzer (SPAN),\n\nPort monitoring,\n\nconfiguration of,\n\nPort name conversion,\n\nPort number, , , , ,\n\nPotential criminal activity,\n\nPrimitive capture script,\n\npromisc, , ,\n\nPygeoip library, ,\n\nPython code,\n\nPython dictionaries,\n\nclientIP,\n\nduplicate serverIP,\n\nlists,\n\nserverPort,\n\ntuples,\n\nPython dir function,\n\nPython import command,\n\nPython module dpkt,\n\nPython-only solution,\n\nPython-only source code solution,\n\nPython package management system,\n\nPython packet capture tool,\n\nPython passive network mapping (P2NMAP), ,\n\nadvantages and disadvantages, ,\n\nenvironment, setting up of,\n\nPython P2NMAP-Analysis.py,\n\nPython programming language,\n\nPython script, ,\n\nPython shell,\n\nPython source code,\n\nPython standard libraries,\n\nmodule, , ,\n\nreference,\n\nPython 3.3x,\n\nP2NMAP-Analyze,\n\nP2NMAP-Capture, porting of,\n\nP2NMAP-OS-Fingerprint,\n\nP2NMAP-PCAP-Extractor,\n\nR\n\nRemote switched port analyzer (RSPAN),\n\nRoku box,\n\nRouters, , , ,\n\nRSPAN, See Remote switched port analyzer (RSPAN)\n\nS\n\nSANS internet storm center,\n\nSCADA environments,\n\nSecurity event and incident management (SEIM),\n\nServers, , , , , , , , ,\n\nServices, , , , , , ,\n\nSEIM, See Security event and incident management (SEIM)\n\nself.observationFileName,\n\nself.observationsLoaded attribute,\n\nSignal,\n\nSocial network map,\n\nsocket, 24\u201329, , , , , , , , ,\n\nSONAR, See Sound navigation and ranging (SONAR)\n\nSound navigation and ranging (SONAR),\n\nSPAN, See Switched port analyzer (SPAN)\n\nstruct, , ,\n\nSudo command,\n\nSwitched port analyzer (SPAN),\n\nsys, , , , , , ,\n\nT\n\nTCP, , ,\n\nTcpdump command,\n\nTcpdump network monitoring program,\n\nTcpreplay sample captures,\n\nTime-to-live (ttl) value\n\nobservations,\n\nvalue,\n\nT L-SG108E 8-Port Gigabit Switch, ,\n\nTrojan, in network,\n\nTruth table,\n\nbasic,\n\nimproved,\n\npython class,\n\nbasic functions,\n\nmenu driven script, building of,\n\nttl, See Time-to-live (ttl) value\n\nU\n\nUDP, , ,\n\nUnix commands,\n\nV\n\nVaskovich, Fyodor,\n\nVirtual private networks (VPN),\n\nVoice over internet protocol (VOIP) systems,\n\nVOIP, See Voice over internet protocol (VOIP) systems\n\nVPN, See Virtual private networks (VPN)\n\nW\n\nWarning messages,\n\nWeb servers,\n\nWindow size,\n\nWireless passive network mapping,\n\nWireshark samples captures web page,\n\nZ\n\nZenmap, , \n\n# Table of Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title page\n  3. Table of Contents\n  4. Copyright\n  5. Dedication\n  6. Biography\n  7. Preface\n  8. Acknowledgments\n  9. Chapter 1: Introduction\n    1. Abstract\n    2. Conventions Used in This Text\n    3. What is Python Passive Network Mapping or P2NMAP?\n    4. Why Does This Method Cast a Larger Net?\n    5. How Can Active Network Mapping Actually Hurt You?\n    6. Organization of the Book\n    7. Review\n    8. Summary Questions\n  10. Chapter 2: What You DON'T Know About Your Network\n    1. Abstract\n    2. What's Running on Your Network Might Surprise You\n    3. OS Fingerprinting\n    4. What Open Ports or Services Don't You Know About?\n    5. Who's Touching Your Network?\n    6. Review\n    7. Summary Questions\n  11. Chapter 3: Capturing Network Packets Using Python\n    1. Abstract\n    2. Setting up a Python Passive Network Mapping Environment\n    3. The Art of the Silent Capture\n    4. Python Source Code\n    5. Review\n    6. Summary Questions\n  12. Chapter 4: Packet Capture Analysis\n    1. Abstract\n    2. Packet Capture Analysis\n    3. Setting up Options for Analysis\n    4. Performing Analysis\n    5. Review\n    6. Summary Questions\n  13. Chapter 5: PCAP Extractor and OS Fingerprinting\n    1. Abstract\n    2. PCAP Extraction\n    3. Passive OS Fingerprinting\n    4. Review\n    5. Summary Questions\n  14. Chapter 6: Future Considerations and Challenge Problems\n    1. Abstract\n    2. Author Observations\n    3. Author Predictions\n    4. Challenge Problems\n    5. More Information\n  15. Subject Index\n\n## List of tables\n\n  1. Tables in Chapter 1\n    1. Table 1-1\n    2. Table 1-2\n  2. Tables in Chapter 2\n    1. Table 2-1\n    2. Table 2-2\n    3. Table 2-3\n    4. Table 2-4\n  3. Tables in Chapter 5\n    1. Table 5-1\n    2. Table 5-2\n\n## List of figures\n\n  1. Figures in Chapter 1\n    1. Figure 1-1\n    2. Figure 1-2\n    3. Figure 1-2A\n    4. Figure 1-3\n    5. Figure 1-4\n    6. Figure 1-5\n    7. Figure 1-6\n    8. Figure 1-7\n    9. Figure 1-8\n    10. Figure 1-9\n  2. Figures in Chapter 2\n    1. Figure 2-1\n    2. Figure 2-2\n    3. Figure 2-3\n    4. Figure 2-4\n    5. Figure 2-5\n  3. Figures in Chapter 3\n    1. Figure 3-1\n    2. Figure 3-2\n    3. Figure 3-3\n  4. Figures in Chapter 4\n    1. Figure 4-1\n    2. Figure 4-2\n  5. Figures in Chapter 5\n    1. Figure 5-1\n    2. Figure 5-2\n    3. Figure 5-3\n  6. Figures in Chapter 6\n    1. Figure 6-1\n    2. Figure 6-2\n\n## Landmarks\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title page\n  3. Table of Contents\n\n  1. i\n  2. ii\n  3. iii\n  4. iv\n  5. v\n  6. ix\n  7. xi\n  8. xii\n  9. xiii\n  10. xv\n  11. \n  12. \n  13. \n  14. \n  15. \n  16. \n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51. \n  52. \n  53. \n  54. \n  55. \n  56. \n  57. \n  58. \n  59. \n  60. \n  61. \n  62. \n  63. \n  64. \n  65. \n  66. \n  67. \n  68. \n  69. \n  70. \n  71. \n  72. \n  73. \n  74. \n  75. \n  76. \n  77. \n  78. \n  79. \n  80. \n  81. \n  82. \n  83. \n  84. \n  85. \n  86. \n  87. \n  88. \n  89. \n  90. \n  91. \n  92. \n  93. \n  94. \n  95. \n  96. \n  97. \n  98. \n  99. \n  100. \n  101. \n  102. \n  103. \n  104. \n  105. \n  106. \n  107. \n  108. \n  109. \n  110. \n  111. \n  112. \n  113. \n  114. \n  115. \n  116. \n  117. \n  118. \n  119. \n  120. \n  121. \n  122. \n  123. \n  124. \n  125. \n  126. \n  127. \n  128. \n  129. \n  130. \n  131. \n  132. \n  133. \n  134. \n  135. \n  136. \n  137. \n  138. \n  139. \n  140. \n  141. \n  142. \n  143. \n  144. \n  145. \n  146. \n  147. \n  148. \n  149. \n  150.\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "The Great Detective - Gary Lovisi"}, "text": " \nBORGO PRESS BOOKS BY GARY LOVISI\n\nBattling Boxing Stories: Thrilling Tales of Pugilistic Puissance (Editor)\n\nDriving Hell's Highway: A Crime Novel\n\nGargoyle Nights: A Collection of Horror\n\nThe Great Detective: His Further Adventures (Editor)\n\nMars Needs Books!: A Science Fiction Novel\n\nMurder of a Bookman: A Bentley Hollow Collectibles Mystery Novel\n\nViolence Is the Only Solution: 3 Vic Powers Crime Tales\nCOPYRIGHT INFORMATION\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2012 by Gary Lovisi\n\nPublished by Wildside Press LLC\n\nwww.wildsidebooks.com\nDEDICATION\n\nTo the writers in this book, whose stories have made it so special.\nINTRODUCTION, by Gary Lovisi\n\nSherlock Holmes!\n\nThat magical name conjures up all that is thrilling and exciting about the classic mystery short story. The Great Detective, created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is without doubt the most well-known and popular fictional character ever created\u2014and with good reason. Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories are fascinating excursions into scientific detection with interesting, well-formed characters, offering intelligent, thoughtful mysteries that all men and women can relate to\u2014and all enjoy. Quite simply, Doyle created magic with his Sherlock Holmes stories.\n\nWriters over the last hundred years have been desperately trying to capture and recreate that magic, and I feel that the authors in this book have done just that. These are well-crafted stories by writers whose love of the original Holmes stories by Doyle clearly shows in their work. While some of our contributors hail from as far away as Australia and New Zealand\u2014or right back to old-time professionals like Morris Hershman who lives a stone's throw away from me in Queens, New York\u2014what they all have in common is that each of their stories keep to the traditional Holmes and Watson as created by Doyle.\n\nThese stories feature our heroes in a variety of cases set in various stages of their career together. In this book you will encounter stories that recreate our Sherlock Holmes in all new adventures, some of which continue or expand upon earlier cases. One story takes an endearing look at Holmes in his old age, another looks at the mystery surrounding a race horse that could match Silver Blaze for speed; murder and betrayal figure in many tales, and even good old Inspector Lestrade has a bit of say-so in one tale. In my own contribution, our heroes take an unusual interest in the game of golf!\n\nHowever, any anthology of Sherlock Holmes stories worth its salt is marked just as well by what it does not contain as by what it does contain. You'll find no distaff tales in this volume; no variants on our heroes, no unlikely personality traits, nor supernatural flummery. None of that nonsense, thank you very much, but I could not resist just one exception! This is Holmes and Watson the way they were meant to be, the way Doyle wrote them. I believe what these stories really are, are rather personal love letters by each author to Holmes and Watson, and to their creator Arthur Conan Doyle. It is good to have them all together in this one volume.\n\nI am sure you will enjoy the stories in this book. I chose each tale especially for its unique qualities, and I know each one will not fail to entertain and thrill you as much as it did me. So now sit back in your comfortable chair and let the fog of old Victorian London swirl around you, or perhaps the smoke from Holmes' own pipe, and take a trek with us to the front door of 221B Baker Street. Holmes and Watson are there waiting, and we can see that once again, the game is afoot!\n\n\u2014Gary Lovisi\n\nSeptember, 2012\n\nBrooklyn, New York\nTHE MYSTERY OF OGHAM MANOR, by Stan Trybulski\n\nI had been away from our lodgings for several days, setting up my new surgery on the High Street in Putney, and on my return I found a noticeably thinner and unshaven Holmes packing his small travel valise.\n\n\"Aha, my missing colleague. I was about to conclude I would not have the pleasure of your assistance.\"\n\n\"You are working on a new case, I take it.\" I knew that my old friend had been in need of money recently, for he had been spending inordinate sums on matters of which I disapprove so strongly that I am not disposed to discuss them here. That he had been fasting did not disturb me for I was quite used to this manifestation of his periods of intense intellectual activity, but that his cat-like fastidiousness concerning personal hygiene had apparently been abandoned placed me on my guard.\n\n\"Yes, one that will be quite lucrative and may also prove to be a professional challenge.\" There was a strange glow in his eyes and I feared he had slipped back into the grip of the demons that once had so fearfully possessed him before he underwent what his brother Mycroft called \"the cure.\"\n\nI sat down in my wing chair and studied him carefully as he continued packing. There had been a time in his career, and not so long ago, that only the challenge to his superb intellect would have mattered. I decided not to chide him and sensing the opportunity for another good story that I could submit to a new American magazine, I only said, \"Well, are you going to tell me about it?\"\n\n\"I have been retained by the Anglo-Hibernian Life Assurance Company, Ltd., of Galway, Ireland, to ascertain if the shooting accident of a businessman Ethelbert Wolkner on his Dorset estate three days ago was an accident or suicide.\"\n\n\"This doesn't seem to be your type of case; it should be a simple forensic decision by the local coroner.\"\n\nMy good friend snapped his valise shut. \"Ah, yes, a forensic decision to be sure. But simple? That, I am afraid, will be quite another matter. For only last month, Anglo-Hibernian insured the life of the late Mr. Wolkner for the tidy sum of \u00a375,000. A sum they are not anxious to pay out if they can avoid it.\" He stared at me, his eyes almost feverish. \"You had better get packing, Watson; with your knowledge of gunshot wounds from your Army days in the Hindu Kush, I am sure you may be able to render valuable assistance to the dear country doctor. And to my clients, of course.\"\n\n\"How on earth did this Irish insurance company come to retain you?\" As I asked this question, my eyes drifted around the room but stopped when they fell on two empty cut glass tumblers resting on Holmes' laboratory table. The glasses contained a small residue of brown liquid on their interiors and next to them stood a nearly full bottle of Jameson's whiskey.\n\nHolmes smiled. \"Very observant, old chum. Yes, I have had company and not long ago. Perhaps your packing can wait a bit. Sit down and rest while I tell you a little story.\" He walked over to the table and poured some of the whiskey into the glasses and handed me one. I sat in my favorite wingback chair and waited.\n\nMy colleague sat opposite me and raised his glass in salute. \"You have been as good a companion as any man could ask for. Both trusted colleague and friend. So let us first drink together.\" He quickly swallowed the whiskey in his glass while I sipped mine. I waited while he refilled his glass.\n\nHe took another large swallow and stared at me, his eyes still feverish. \"I have been mysterious for good reasons about the years I spent in hiding after my confrontation with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, but I can tell you this much, that I spent several of those years near Galway, on the tiny island of Inis O\u00edrr, studying the Erse language and literature. It was there that I met a Mr. Sean Carroll, President of Anglo-Hibernian.\"\n\n\"Why, dear friend, even after all these years, you continue to amaze me. Erse? Why on earth Erse?\"\n\nHolmes poured some more of the whiskey into my tumbler and then filled his glass half full. I had never seen him drink like this, yet I held my tongue lest he mistake any comment as a reprimand and cease to recount what might just be the best story of our career together.\n\n\"Why on earth not? To study one of the world's most noble languages, of course. All the while hiding in Moriarty's back yard, where he would never think to look for me.\" He drank some more of the whiskey.\n\n\"But how on earth did you wind up in Ireland?\"\n\n\"When I fell into the Reichenbach Falls, carrying Moriarty with me, I must have hit my head on a rock. When I came around, I could barely see, for blood from a cut had seeped down my brow and into my eyes. I found myself in the water at the base of the falls, with one arm draped over a fallen branch and Moriarty nowhere to be found. I hoped the fiend had drowned, but I could not take the chance that he was still alive. So I had to go into hiding.\n\n\"With my free arm, I maneuvered myself and the log through the roiling water to the bank where I climbed up into the forest. Finding the necessary ferns and plants, I managed to staunch the bleeding and dull the pain.\n\n\"Fearful of falling asleep and being surprised by Moriarty or his henchmen, as soon as my clothes were sufficiently dry, I made my way to Zurich. After a quick meal of sausage, potato salad, and a pichet of a young white wine, I felt restored and paid a visit to a small, very discreet private bank where I kept a secret account. Upon giving the agreed pass code to the clerk, I was ushered into the vault where I took from my private safe box a substantial amount of pounds, francs, marks, and dollars, along with several passports, a handful of diamonds, and a dozen or so small gold bars. Enough wealth to take me to South America where I would live very comfortably while continuing my study of exotic poisons.\n\n\"After leaving my bank, I went by train to Locarno, where I spent a week recuperating at a lakeside hotel. Thus refreshed and fit enough for a long journey, I crossed the border into Italy. My plan was to take a steamer from Genoa to Brazil, but in order to make sure that I was not being followed by Moriarty or his assassins, I spent several weeks traveling around Italy. I moved through Venice, Padua, Siena, Rome, doubling back and forth, using the different identities my passports provided. It was in Florence that I chanced upon the opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity to purchase a rare Amati violin.\"\n\nHe walked over to his wardrobe closet and took out his battered violin case and tapped it. \"This violin.\"\n\n\"You mean that old instrument you are constantly fiddling on is an Amati?\"\n\nHe nodded and if I had not known better, I would have sworn that his face had flushed slightly with embarrassment.\n\n\"Let us say that this is just another little secret between us. An indulgence that cost me much of the money I had intended for my new life as Senhor Gustavo Peres of Salvador, Brazil. Still, I had other passports in other names and other interests that would take me to other countries. If I could not slip half a world away from Moriarty, why not then hide in his own garden? So I made my way to Galway, this time as Gerard Murphy, and on the Aran Island of Inis O\u00edrr, I hid away while all the world believed Sherlock Holmes was dead.\n\n\"Yet, it wasn't enough to just burrow on that tiny rock in the Atlantic, monkishly pouring through ancient tomes. I had to complete my identity as Murphy. And reclusiveness among that small band of clannish people would only raise suspicion. I could not afford wagging tongues. So every few weeks, like the other islanders, I would take the ferry to Galway to buy provisions and books and read the newspapers. I had to watch out for any diabolical crimes that would indicate Moriarty had resurfaced.\"\n\n\"God, Holmes, you could have contacted me, your old friend who always helped you.\"\n\n\"I could not take the chance, for I feared that Moriarty, if he had also survived the fall at Reichenbach, was having you watched. Besides, I had my studies, not only was I reading ancient Erse, but I was writing poetry in that most wonderful tongue.\" As he spoke, for the first time I saw true emotion on his face. Wistfulness, at least.\n\n\"And then there were the Saturday nights. When the weather wasn't foul, I would take a fishing boat to a little village called Doolin and go to O'Connor's Pub and fiddle.\" He opened up his violin case and took out his prized Amati. \"With this, dear fellow. The one thing I brought to Ireland with me.\"\n\n\"You mean you played Irish reels and such with that magnificent instrument? Suppose it had become damaged?\"\n\n\"Not I, old friend, for Sherlock Holmes no longer existed. It was Gerard Murphy, bearded and speaking Erse like a true son of County Clare or Galway that drank his pint of stout and dram of whiskey by a roaring fire and much to the delight of everyone, especially myself, fiddled away while the wind and rain howled outside. I was a new man, in body, soul, and identity. For Gerard Murphy was no longer just a name on one of the passports I carried with me when I escaped into Italy. He was a hard-fiddling, hard-drinking Irishman who could compose a poem in Erse as quickly as he could recite an old one.\" He emitted a deep sigh.\n\n\"But alas, even old bearded Murph is no more. The reasons for my reemergence as Holmes are well known to you and I shan't waste time going over them. Suffice it to say that an end had come to the happiest period of my life.\"\n\nA thin smile suddenly crept over his lips and disappeared so quickly that I wasn't sure that I had actually seen it. He picked up the Amati and expertly rosined his bow and struck off such a jolly tune that I wanted to get up and dance. When he finished, he set the instrument lovingly back in its case, poured another dram and continued.\n\n\"It was during a night of fiddling at O'Connor's that I first met Sean Carroll. He was also a fiddler and while we were playing he kept glancing at my Amati. 'That's a strange fiddle, Gerard,' he said when we were done playing. 'Perhaps it is more suited for the London Symphony.' He then explained to me that he owned an insurance company and was well-versed in the value of rare musical instruments, and that he knew the violin was quite valuable but did not know its provenance. When I whispered that it was an Amati, he asked to play it. 'Just a little,' he said, and I let him. He swore he would tell no one and in that island of deep secrets I and my violin became just one more.\"\n\n\"So he never knew who you were? Then how did he contact you?\"\n\n\"Dear friend, have you never heard of newspapers? Or magazines? Such as the Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine in which you tirelessly promote my cases. Do they not have photographs and etchings of me for the entire world to see?\"\n\n\"But you said you were wearing a beard in Ireland.\"\n\n\"That little subterfuge was only meant for the villagers on Inis O\u00edrr, it would never fool a clever man like Sean Carroll, nor was it meant too.\" Holmes looked at the clock on the mantle and suddenly stood up. \"You had better get packing, our train leaves from Paddington in thirty minutes. I'll fill you in on the rest of the story during the trip.\" He looked quickly around, jammed the cork back into the whiskey bottle and unsnapping his valise, placed it inside.\n\n\"The night could be cold,\" he said. I did not argue with him.\n\n* * * *\n\nWe were only five minutes out of Paddington when my colleague opened his valise and produced the bottle of Jameson and the two cut-glass tumblers. He half-filled one of the glasses and handed it to me, then half-filled the other.\n\n\"A gift from Mr. Carroll,\" he said, raising his glass in salute. \"Up the Irish.\" He drank.\n\n\"If you say so.\" I sipped my whiskey.\n\n\"And so I do.\" A thin smile crossed his lips. \"Now, are you ready for the rest of the story?\" Without waiting for my answer he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. When he filled the pipe and stoked its flame with a few hearty puffs, he sat back and began to relate what can only be described as a very strange tale.\n\n\"About two months ago Mr. Carroll, while in London on business, was approached at his hotel by a rather tall man with a clipped military moustache named Cyrus Murdoch. Murdoch introduced himself as the president of the Lombard Street Associates, an investment firm based in Geneva, Switzerland, but with substantial interests in Great Britain. It seems that Murdoch's firm wanted to insure the life of the late Mr. Wolkner, the head of their London branch. When Mr. O'Connor said that the premium on a \u00a375,000 policy would be quite high, this man Murdoch did not even blanch.\"\n\n\"And you found that suspicious?\"\n\n\"Not at all, dear fellow. It appears the insured Wolkner was worth every farthing of the premium. From London, he directed much of the Lombard Street firm's overseas investments, which are quite substantial. A grand cru vineyard in Bordeaux; trading in world currencies; gold and diamond mines in Rhodesia and South Africa, among others. He was making a lot of money for the firm.\n\n\"Moreover, Mr. Wolkner was the second son of the Earl of Putney, and as such mingled among the highest circles of the realm. Many high personages became clients of the Lombard Street Associates, which is why, as Murdoch explained to Mr. Carroll, the insurance policy on Wolkner had to be initiated very discreetly, and engaging a Galway-based firm was more appropriate to maintain secrecy.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we should speak to this Murdoch fellow?\"\n\n\"So we shall\u2014when the time is ripe. For now, let us speak to the good country doctor and the grieving widow and view the scene of the tragedy.\"\n\n\"The grieving widow?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear fellow, the widow. Did I forget to mention her? I really must be getting on in years. A woman who is said to have considerable charm...or charms, as one might put it. At least in days past. The mistress of Ogham Manor.\"\n\n\"Ogham Manor? That is a strange name for an estate.\"\n\n\"I imagine it draws its name from the Ogham stones which can be found throughout Cornwall and Devon. Apparently they are also present in Dorset.\"\n\n\"What on earth are Ogham stones?\"\n\n\"Pillars, dear fellow. Pillars carved with an ancient Erse alphabet called Ogham. In the dawn of our British civilization warlike Irish tribes rampaged through Wales and then invaded southwest England. They marked the borders of their conquests with these pillars.\"\n\nAs Holmes talked, I took out my pen and paper and wrote as if I was back in Cambridge, listening to my history tutor.\n\nThe story that Holmes related to me on the train made me forget the trip and before I knew it we had reached Dorchester, where my good friend had already reserved a hansom cab to take us the ten or so miles further into the hinterland.\n\n\"This is wild lonesome country for the south of England,\" I said as the cab took us through a maze of narrow lanes that were bordered by high hedges that separated the properties of the small holders from each other. The bleak solitude placed me on edge after the hustle and bustle of London.\n\nHolmes nodded.\n\n\"It is a place for deep meditation and contemplation.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nThe home of Dr. Sedgecombe was outside the village of Beaminster, set back from a lane even more narrow and twisted than the ones we had just driven over. A large farmhouse whose ancient stone and timber appeared to be badly in need of repair, it was surrounded by high hedges and an iron gate stood guard over the drive. We found the gate unlocked and open and Holmes told the driver to go directly to the house. There was a small open carriage on one side of the drive, its horse tethered to a stone hitching post. A man, apparently the driver, was lounging against a tree. Our driver eased our hansom cab next to the carriage and got out and opened the door for us.\n\nAlighting from the cab, Holmes told the driver to wait and we then walked up to the front door. With a surprising vigor Holmes seized the iron knocker and slammed it against the frame several times. Even as the sound still echoed, the door opened and a woman, her head covered in a veil, rushed past us, bumping into me in the process. She entered the open carriage and waved the driver forward. Behind us in the doorway stood a slightly-stooped man. His face was ruddy as that of a country gentleman and adorned with a thick walrus moustache.\n\n\"A distressed patient. I apologize for her rudeness,\" he said.\n\nHolmes introduced himself, and explained that we had been retained by the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Co. to investigate the death of Mr. Wolkner. \"Merely routine,\" my colleague added.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dr. Sedgecombe, surprise evident in his voice. \"I shouldn't have thought that Wolkner would be insured for a large enough sum to warrant an inquiry.\"\n\n\"You consider him to be financially improvident, doctor?\"\n\n\"No, it's just that here in the Dorset countryside, I've found the people to be of plain state, regardless of their economic status, not given to valuing themselves in high monetary terms.\"\n\n\"He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates, who indeed did place his monetary value rather highly. By the way, doctor, have you heard of Lombard Street Associates?\"\n\nThe latter shook his head. \"I'm afraid not. I've relegated myself to a simple country practice in semi-retirement. I've not spent much time in those types of circles.\"\n\n\"Really? I take it then that you are not from Dorset, that you have had a practice elsewhere?\"\n\n\"Yes, I had a surgery in Leeds, but as I grew older, I decided to sell the practice and relocate to Dorset. I find the weather more hospitable than in the north and the countryside rather peaceful.\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"Were you the attending physician for Mr. Wolkner?\"\n\n\"No, I only met the deceased, I'm afraid, after he was deceased. As the nearest physician to Ogham Manor, the Dorset constabulary asked me to examine the body and give the coroner my opinion.\"\n\n\"Was there any possibility of suicide?\"\n\nDr. Sedgecombe laughed. \"By shotgun? There was no way he could have pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger, his arms were far too short.\"\n\n\"What if he had used his feet?\" I interjected.\n\n\"Of course, it could be possible, but he would have had to have had the most practiced toes I've ever seen. Moreover, his boots were on when he was found.\"\n\nHolmes took his pipe out of his coat and rubbed it in his hands. He placed the unfilled pipe in his mouth and looked the doctor straight in the face. \"Was there any evidence of foul play?\"\n\n\"None that I saw. The body was found lying next to a fallen log, and Wolkner's hunting breeches and one elbow of his jacket were covered with damp soil. It was obvious that he had tripped over the log and fell, the shotgun accidentally discharging.\"\n\nHolmes took the pipe out of his mouth. \"One or both barrels?\"\n\n\"One. Good Lord, that was enough.\"\n\n\"Who found the body?\"\n\n\"The old housekeeper, Essie O'Brien. Mrs. Wolkner had sent her to the shoot to fetch her husband as it was getting on tea time. Even though they were residing in the country by themselves, she insisted they continue the proper social formalities.\"\n\n\"And just what did the O'Brien woman do next?\"\n\n\"I gather from what Mrs. Wolkner told me that she ran, or rather hobbled, straight back to the manor house to inform her mistress of the accident.\"\n\n\"And the way you saw him was the same way the housekeeper found him?\"\n\n\"That's what she told me.\"\n\n\"Could there have been any other cause of death?\"\n\n\"With half his head blown off? Not bloody likely. Excuse the expression, but it is rather appropriate. My dear Mr. Holmes, I hardly think so.\"\n\n\"He was definitely shot then?\"\n\n\"There was a spent shell in one of the barrels of the shotgun, a faint smell of gunpowder and more than a dozen pellets imbedded in what was left of his face and skull. Yes, he was definitely shot.\"\n\n\"Could he have suffered a heart attack? Or perhaps there was medication in his system?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, but that would not have changed my conclusions. He died of massive brain trauma and hemorrhaging. But death was instantaneous.\"\n\n\"And were there no other visible injuries to his body?\"\n\n\"Nary a one,\" said Dr. Sedgecombe, his voice turning cold. \"If there had been, I would certainly have included them in my report to the coroner. Now gentleman, if you will excuse me, I have to ready my surgery. There are patient visiting hours this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Yes, doctor, we do not wish to detain you any further.\" Holmes's voice had turned quiet. \"But I do have one more question. Did you conduct an autopsy?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not. He had a widow in a grievous state and with the cause of death so evident, I saw no need.\" The doctor's face suddenly flushed. \"Now, good day.\" He angrily shut the door.\n\nAs we walked back to our carriage, Holmes asked. \"What do you make of our Dr. Sedgecombe?\"\n\n\"As a physician, I can understand his attitude. After all, you seemed to be questioning not only his medical conclusion but also his professional judgment.\"\n\n\"Perhaps with good cause.\"\n\nI said nothing further on the matter, for I knew Holmes's intellect and deductive reasoning in past cases had proved me wrong much too often. Nevertheless, I still felt discomfited by the assault on a medical colleague's integrity.\n\nWhen we arrived at Ogham Manor, we were greeted by an elderly woman whom I took to be the housekeeper, Essie O'Brien. Holmes handed her his card and the letter of inquiry from the insurance company and asked to see Mrs. Wolkner. She led us to the library, a large room just off the entrance hall, and whose walls were adorned with various hunting weapons as well as book cases. There was a desk and chair facing the window and a large Chesterfield sofa facing a fireplace. The housekeeper left to inform her mistress of our presence. Instead of sitting while waiting, I inspected a set of hunting rifles affixed to one wall in a crossed position, while my colleague amused himself over some books.\n\nWe did not have long to wait for Mrs. Wolkner. She soon appeared at the library door, her presence announced by the housekeeper. I turned from the gun rack to see a woman of late middle age but still somewhat attractive, with long white hair done into two thick braids that hung all the way down her back. She wore a long black dress that showed off what appeared to be a handsome figure, but what my medical experience had taught had more to do with the abilities of her undergarments and the tailoring of her clothes than the bounties of nature.\n\n\"Mr. Holmes?\" Her voice had a quaver that I put down to her emotional condition, for she was twisting a handkerchief with her hands.\n\nMy colleague suddenly turned away from the bookcase and faced her. \"Mrs. Wolkner.\" He approached and gently seized her hand with a gallantry that was most unusual for him. \"This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. I am so sorry that we have to disturb you in this time of bereavement.\"\n\nShe looked briefly at me and dabbed at reddened eyes with the handkerchief. \"Mr. Holmes, these business matters are a terrible imposition, but if you must.... Well, let us sit then.\"\n\nHolmes led her to the large Chesterfield sofa and sat next to her, still holding her hand.\n\n\"I don't quite understand, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea my poor dear husband had ever taken out insurance on his life.\"\n\nHolmes patted her hand. \"Indeed, he did not. He was insured by his firm, Lombard Street Associates. Were you not aware?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"My poor dear Bertie never discussed business matters with me.\" She dabbed at her eyes again. \"Well, if the policy does not concern me, Mr. Holmes, cannot this matter wait until I at least place poor Bertie in his final resting place?\"\n\n\"I fear not, dear lady. But it may not be necessary to disturb you much further. We would need to speak to your housekeeper, Essie O'Brien, of course, as she was the one who discovered your unfortunate husband.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, I'll send her to you straight away.\"\n\n\"And the place where this tragic event occurred. We will have to inspect that, as well.\"\n\n\"He maintained a private shoot adjacent to the manor's woods. He and some other gentlemen from his firm owned it jointly. He loved to shoot, ever since his Oxford days. He said it helped reduce his stutter.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, his stutter. I understand he acquired that due to his childhood nurse trying to 'cure' him of left-handedness.\"\n\n\"Yes, but he still wrote left-handed although he shot with his right, and all she gave him in return was that horrible stutter. When it would reach the point that it interfered with his work, he would go off to the shoot. There's a small hunting lodge, really just a cabin, where he could be alone. Sometimes he would even stay overnight if he wanted to hunt early in the morning.\"\n\n\"May we see it?\"\n\n\"Of course, Mr. Holmes. I'll get you the key. And Essie will show you the way.\"\n\nHolmes waited until she left the room and then asked, \"What do you make of her?\"\n\n\"An aging beauty.\"\n\n\"Well, we're all getting on in years, old boy. What I meant was, how did you assess her psychological state?\"\n\n\"She seems to be keeping a stiff upper lip over the death of her husband.\"\n\n\"Yes, she does seem so.\"\n\nOur conversation was interrupted when the old lady appeared at the library door. \"You wanted to see me, sir?\" Her question was directed at Holmes.\n\n\"Ah, Mrs. O'Brien. Your mistress said you would direct us to the shooting cabin. And I would like to ask you a few questions on the way.\"\n\n\"It's Miss O'Brien, sir, I've never married.\" Despite her age, the housekeeper spoke with a firmness of voice that indicated that she was still not only of sound mind but of body.\n\n\"Tell me, good woman, other than yourself who else is in service at the manor?\"\n\n\"Only Throbble, the gardener. He's a little dimwitted, but he manages to muddle through his chores.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I haven't seen him here.\"\n\n\"You won't, it's his day off. Is there anything else?\"\n\nHolmes smiled at her. \"No, you've been very helpful.\"\n\n\"Please follow me then.\"\n\nOutside, Holmes went over to our driver and spoke a few words, and then scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to the man. He rejoined us and the old woman led the way. She moved at such a brisk pace that I, with my war wound still aggravating my leg, had some difficulty keeping up. As we passed out through the main gate, she pointed at the stone columns that stood on each side of the drive, silent and sturdy as if they were sentinels. Strange markings that appeared to be horizontal and angular slashes were cut into them.\n\n\"Ogham stones, sir,\" she said, quickly blessing herself. \"You will see another, a larger one, by the cabin. I believe Mr. Wolkner understood them; that was why he had the cabin built there.\"\n\n\"And you, Miss O'Brien? Can you make anything out of them?\"\n\n\"I fear not, sir. They may have something to do with ancient Erse, that's all I know.\" She started walking through the fields and we followed. After about a quarter mile, she stopped and pointed at a spinney in the distance. \"You'll find the cabin there, Mr. Holmes. At the edge of the spinney. I'll return to my duties now.\"\n\n\"Your duties can wait. I need you to show me exactly where you found the body.\" Holmes gripped her elbow and gently urged her forward but she shrugged him off and retreated a few steps.\n\n\"I can't, sir, it's too horrible. Please don't make me.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I must. You found the body and your presence at the scene is absolutely necessary.\" His voice had turned cold as ice and hard as steel.\n\n\"Heavens, Holmes,\" I said. \"She has already described all this to the Dorset constables.\"\n\n\"That would be like you describing Isaac Newton's laws of motion to a cat.\"\n\nAnd quick as a cat, he bounded alongside the poor woman and seized her arm. \"Now come along, Miss O'Brien, there is nothing to fear.\" It was clear, however, that she feared plenty, whether imagined or real. Yet she held herself erect and took a step down the path.\n\n\"Very well then. But I certainly have no need of an Englishman to guide me.\"\n\nAs we walked, Holmes continued to question the woman, his voice and manner no longer hard but casual.\n\n\"Did Mr. Wolkner hunt often?\"\n\n\"Many mornings in the spring and fall. Often he would stay overnight in the cabin so he could be out at the crack of dawn.\"\n\n\"But this is midsummer?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, but he said he had spotted some grouse the other day while walking in the fields.\"\n\nWhen we neared the spinney, I saw a large cabin with a porch that looked out over the meadows and some low rolling hills beyond. Next to the cabin was a thick pillar about five feet high with carved markings like the Ogham stones back at the manor.\n\n\"Where was the body when you found it?\"\n\n\"Over there.\" Miss O'Brien pointed at the edge of the spinney where there were some downed trees. Holmes set out towards them, the woman following behind him. I brought up the rear in case she tried to run off. After a hundred or so paces, we reached one of the fallen trees.\n\n\"There,\" she said. \"On the other side of that log was where the body lay.\" She made no move toward the spot. Holmes again gripped her elbow and prodded her forward until they were standing in front of the log.\n\n\"How did you come to find him?\"\n\n\"My mistress sent me to fetch him for tea.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, we know that. But how did come to find him in this exact spot?\" As he asked the question, Holmes was not looking at the woman but instead was gazing intently into the spinney.\n\n\"I called for him but there was no answer. I went into the cabin but it was empty, so I walked into the fields and called again. There was no one, not even a bird. I walked all the way around the edge of the meadow and as I made my way back toward the spinney, I almost tripped over him.\"\n\n\"Was he face up or face down?\"\n\n\"Face down.\"\n\n\"And where was his head and where were his feet?\"\n\n\"His feet were by the log and his head was pointing toward the meadow.\"\n\n\"And his shotgun?\"\n\n\"Lying on the ground, next to his right arm.\"\n\n\"Did you touch the body?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Then how did you know he was dead?\"\n\nShe shuddered but said nothing.\n\nHolmes turned his gaze away from the trees and looked directly at her for a long moment. \"What did you do next?\"\n\n\"I ran back to the manor and told my mistress.\"\n\n\"Told her what, exactly?\"\n\n\"That Mr. Wolkner, her husband, was dead.\"\n\n\"How did she react?\"\n\n\"She had one of her fainting spells.\"\n\n\"I take it she was not in good health?\"\n\n\"On, no, she is really quite fit for her age, if you know what I mean. It's just that she's given to what she call the 'vapors.' She would often collapse and gasp for breath when she became overexcited.\"\n\n\"Poor woman,\" I said. \"Is she under medical care?\"\n\n\"Dr. Sedgecombe treats her.\"\n\nHolmes smiled thinly at her. \"I have no further questions at this time, thank you, but I will trouble you for the key to the cabin.\"\n\nShe reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a sturdy brass key and handed it to him. Without saying another word, she turned and starting walking back in the direction from which we came. She had gone only a few steps when she stopped and turned once again toward us.\n\n\"It was the blood, sir. There was so much of it everywhere. On the grass, on the log, on poor Mr. Wolkner. That's how I knew he was dead.\" She turned again and walked away.\n\nHolmes nodded at her receding figure and walked up the steps to the cabin door and unlocked it. Inside, we found a large room with a stone fireplace and a few chairs and a small dining table. There were smaller rooms on either side of the large room. One was fitted as a kitchen with a stove, a wash basin, a counter, and some cupboards. The other room contained a large bed.\n\n\"Seems like something out of one of those American wild west dime novels, podnuh,\" I said to Holmes, trying to make a small joke.\n\n\"Very much so. What do you make of those?\" He pointed to a wall with a series of hooks from which a conglomeration of clothes hung. There was an army uniform with unpolished buttons hanging from one hook. Army boots and a pair of Wellingtons were beneath it on the floor.\n\n\"Sloppy soldiering,\" I said.\n\n\"Not at all, dear friend. There were not to be worn at tattoo but for hunting. If the buttons were polished, their brightness would scare away the birds.\"\n\nI also saw a patched woolen loden hunting jacket, its bright green long faded from use.\n\n\"What do you deduce from the hunting jacket, dear fellow?\"\n\n\"That our late Mr. Wolkner was not a man to spend money unnecessarily. It looks like something one would find at the old clothes market on Gloucester Street.\"\n\n\"Quite so. Anything else?\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought he was that smallish,\" I said, noting the jacket's size.\n\n\"Precisely.\" He took his pipe out and filled it. \"I want to sit outside for a while and calculate. Would you be good enough, old boy, to rummage around and see if there's any tea and put a kettle on?\"\n\nWhile I ransacked the cupboards. Holmes dragged one of the chairs out onto the porch. When I brought him his tea, his pipe was lit and he was lost in thought. Without saying a word, I set the cup down next to him and went back inside and poured myself a cup. I had brought a recent treatise on gunshot wounds and blood poisoning to read on the train, but the tale Holmes related was so fascinating, I had left the little monograph untouched. Sitting in one of the chairs, I now pulled out the treatise and began to read. Some time had passed, I knew not how much for I had become as lost in thought as my colleague, before I noted his presence back inside the cabin.\n\n\"Watson, I have considered much here and there is still much more to consider. I think I'll have a short lie down.\" He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. By the time he awoke, the afternoon had grown late and we immediately set off for the manor. When we reached the house, it was almost dusk. Our driver and the hansom cab were nowhere to be found.\n\nAnger flooded through me. \"Good lord, Holmes, how on earth are we to get back to Dorchester? And our luggage? It is gone. What are we to do?\"\n\nMy colleague appeared unperturbed by the matter but I persisted. \"Perhaps someone in the village can drive us? Let us ask Mrs. Wolkner.\"\n\nEssie answered the door and ushered us in. I saw our bags resting on the floor and immediately felt relieved. \"Look Holmes, our bags. Perhaps the driver has not left us after all?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not, sir,\" Essie said to me. \"When I returned from the cabin, the driver and the cab were gone. Only the bags were there, sitting on the ground, so I brought them inside.\"\n\n\"Thank you, dear woman,\" I said to her. \"But how are we to get back to Dorchester? Is there anyone in the village who can drive us?\" As I asked the question, Mrs. Wolkner came down the stairs, hobbling slightly and assisted by a splendid looking brass-topped walking stick.\n\n\"I am afraid it's too late to return to Dorchester. You will not find a coachman willing to navigate these treacherous country lanes at night. But there are guest rooms here at the manor, and it would not be an inconvenience to put you up. In the morning, I will send Essie into the village to find someone to drive you.\"\n\nHolmes gave a little bow to the woman. \"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Wolkner, but the hunting cabin will be sufficient. There is a fireplace and wood outside.\"\n\n\"Very well, Mr. Holmes. I will have Essie pack some food for you and prepare a lantern, for the walk at night is not easy.\" She gestured at her ankle. \"As you see, a turned ankle can happen anywhere.\"\n\nHolmes smiled thinly. \"Yes, I do see. Thank you, you are most generous with your hospitality.\"\n\n* * * *\n\n\"That blasted coachman.\" Anger had flooded me because of the situation he placed us in. Mrs. Wolkner was right. Even though the path was clear and we had trod it only an hour or so ago, the walk was dangerous in the pitch black night. And carrying our luggage and the basket of food made it even more dicey.\n\n\"Now, dear fellow, is that anyway for a physician of your stature to speak?\"\n\n\"If you twist your ankle like Mrs. Wolkner, ask me that question again.\"\n\nMy anger was soon tempered, however, by the delicious food Essie had prepared for us. In the basket was a roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and a wedge of Stilton cheese, two bottles of beer and a bottle of port. While I set out the dishes, Holmes prepared a fire and we ate and drank as fine a meal as Mrs. Hudson had ever prepared for us at our lodgings.\n\nAfterwards, I made tea and Holmes poured the last of the Jameson into our cups and we drank.\n\n\"What do you make of Mrs. Wolkner?\" he asked after a long stretch of silence.\n\n\"You already asked me that.\"\n\n\"No, I mean her state when we saw her tonight.\"\n\n\"She seemed to be holding up well; nerves calm considering the death of her husband and now the injury to her ankle. I must say, that was an exquisite walking stick she was using. I have never seen one like it. With a brass top. Oriental, I gather?\"\n\n\"Quite so. Teak with Buddhist carvings, but its head is gold-plated.\"\n\n\"Fascinating.\"\n\n\"I agree, Watson, I agree. Fascinating.\" Holmes finished the last of his tea and Jameson and stood. \"I think I will take a walk outside and look at the Ogham stone.\"\n\n\"It's a shame that Essie O'Brien doesn't understand them. For your curiosity about them seems rather high.\"\n\n\"Not to worry, Watson. For during my self-exile on Inis O\u00edrr I met the most wonderful and delightful intellect I had ever come across, an erudite monk named Brother Kenneth who, when in his cups, wrote the most lovely Erse poetry. There were many the stormy nights when Brother Kenneth and I sat by the fire with cups of hot tea and Jameson and discussed Ogham and the Ogham stones. Not only did my knowledge of that ancient language expand, but by delving into the mysteries of the Ogham Stones, I was able to satisfy my ongoing interest in codes and ciphers. And the Ogham Stones proved to be the most difficult ciphers of my career. Yet, as I expected, I eventually cracked them. I certainly shall have no trouble understanding this one.\"\n\nHolmes went out and I stoked the fire and finished the monograph before retiring. I awoke the next morning to a steady drumbeat of rain on the roof and the comforting sound of the kettle on. Holmes was already up and had shaved and was pouring our tea. He drank his tea quickly, oblivious to the heat, and stood. Seizing an umbrella that was by the door, he thrust the portal open and looked outside.\n\nHe then turned back to me. \"The rain is bearable. Finish your tea, old boy, and come take a walk with me. I have something to show you and I would like your opinion about it.\"\n\n\"My opinion? Is it a medical matter?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. Nevertheless, any conclusions you draw may prove to be invaluable.\"\n\nAlways ready to render assistance to my colleague, I followed him out the cabin door, and hunching up next to him under the umbrella we headed toward the spinney. Once inside the grove, Holmes shut the umbrella and plunging ahead, used it to poke back the branches in our path. We soon reached a small clearing where in the center stood a wooden pole.\n\n\"What do you make of that?\" he asked me.\n\nI walked over to the pole and examined it. It had long perpendicular striations carved into it, and there were horizontal and slanted slashes running through the striations and from their sides.\n\n\"It looks like an Ogham stone, but the pillar is made of wood and the cuts are recent.\"\n\n\"Excellent observations. Anything else?\"\n\n\"It is crudely carved.\"\n\n\"Jolly good observation.\"\n\n\"What does it say?\"\n\nThe thin smile reappeared on his face. \"Like the stone pillar, it contains a message. But this message is gibberish.\"\n\n\"Gibberish? Why on earth would someone carve gibberish in the middle of a Dorset spinney?\"\n\n\"Let me give you a rudimentary explication of Ogham, dear fellow. The alphabet is based on the twenty trees that were sacred to the ancient Irish druids. Each slash or combination of slashes stands for one of the Ogham alphabet. Now let us return to the cabin, for I wish to have another cup of tea and wait.\"\n\n\"Wait? Good lord, Holmes, wait for what?\"\n\n\"Not what, Watson, whom!\"\n\nWhen we reached the cabin, there was a folded note pressed into the door. Holmes snatched it and began to read. \"Aha. We must return to the manor house immediately. There is no time to lose lest we allow the murderer of Mr. Wolkner to escape.\"\n\n\"Murder? How...when did you deduce his death was a murder?\"\n\n\"I will explain later. Did you bring your service revolver?\"\n\n\"It is in my bag.\"\n\n\"Good. Fetch it and follow me. Quickly now.\" Holmes pushed open the umbrella and set off down the path toward the manor house.\n\n\"But the umbrella...,\" I yelled after him for he had left me with nothing to protect myself from cold drizzle. But he did not stop and soon he disappeared from view. I went into the cabin and retrieved the Colt. I tried to catch up but it was no use with my bad leg. By the time I reached the manor house, the front door was open and I plunged through it without knocking. I could hear voices in the library, and I slid open the door to find my colleague and Mrs. Wolkner, sitting and leaning on her walking stick, being served tea by Essie.\n\n\"Ah, Watson, Just in time. I was about to relate an interesting tale to our hostess, and it should interest you as well.\"\n\n\"Won't you join us for tea, doctor? I am sure you are as interested in what Mr. Holmes has to say as I am.\"\n\nI sat and waited while Essie poured my tea. When she had finished Holmes began.\n\n\"My story starts two decades ago in America. It is a tale that should curdle the blood of any decent human being. A story about a vivacious young woman. A woman who wanted and expected everything that a life of leisure could give her. She was an actress. No, not the kind that appears on the stage to delight audiences. For this woman's stage was the boudoir, and her audience consisted of rich young men, sons of successful Southern planters. Have you ever heard of Miss Annabelle Portia Perkins?\"\n\nI shook my head for I hadn't the foggiest notion who he was talking about.\n\n\"Perhaps you might remember her by the infamous name her notoriety bestowed upon her. The Black Widow of Virginia. Does that jog your memory, Watson?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do remember something about a woman called that, but that was some years ago, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, many years ago. This actress of the bedchamber managed to win the heart of Eustice Broyhurst, the scion of a rich Virginia tobacco company. As Annabelle Broyhurst, she became the toast of Southern society. And then her young husband tragically died, shooting himself for reasons no one could quite fathom at the time. There were rumors that there had been a scandal involving his wife, and soon she was referred to as the Black Widow. There was also talk of prosecuting her for the man's death, but his family was said to have hushed it up, paying her a substantial sum to leave the country.\n\n\"In Paris, as the story goes, Annabelle dropped her first name and called herself Portia. After squandering her fortune on a series of handsome but rather vapid young paramours, she left the City of Lights for Nice on the Riviera, where she met an elderly Bavarian aristocrat, Otto, Freiherr von Schritter zu Adelberg. It was not long before she had also drawn him to her evil bosom. In a matter of weeks she was the Baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and the mistress of his family's vast estate and castle. That marriage, like her first, did not last long and also ended in tragedy. It seems the good old Freiherr, perhaps after indulging in a little too much schnapps, stumbled over a log while out hunting in the woods and accidently shot himself.\"\n\n\"Incredible. What a coincidence. Both husbands killed.\"\n\nHolmes suddenly sprung to his feet. \"Coincidence? Watson, your naivety amazes me. Having witnessed my tragic affair with the woman, have you learned nothing about the wiles and cunning of the female species?\" His voice was wrought with emotion.\n\nI knew Holmes was talking about Irene Adler, the only woman he had ever loved and who had betrayed him, only to later seek him out in New York and give her life to save his.1 Because of the pain and anguish he felt, he could never say her name, and would only call her \"the woman.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, dear fellow. I didn't mean to upset you. Please sit back down and continue.\"\n\n\"It seems that the old Freiherr had a son, a cavalry officer who was a favorite of the Kaiser. Given the feudal laws of primogeniture and the Kaiser's influence, the estate went entirely to the young man. He apparently kept his stepmother around for a temporary dalliance, but then quickly tiring of her, he sent her packing with little more than the clothes on her back. But the story doesn't end there, old chum. No, Watson, the baroness Portia was not going to allow herself to be consigned to the Hades of jaded beauty, to be dismissed from society, sent away with only a trollop's pourboire. It was at the spa in Baden that she came upon the late Mr. Wolkner, second son to the Earl of Putney, whom she took to be wealthy enough for her to ignore his pronounced stutter.\"\n\nHolmes looked over at Mrs. Wolkner and smiled thinly. \"Have I related the story correctly?\"\n\n\"It is your story, Mr. Holmes, so I shall let you tell it without comment for now.\"\n\n\"It seems my trusted colleague Morrell has wired me from Switzerland with some interesting news.\"\n\n\"Morrell? You mean that scruffy little bootblack who used to shine shoes outside the Theatre Royal in Haymarket until he earned the price of a standing-room ticket? That Morrell?\"\n\n\"Exactly, dear friend. That Morrell who became the most talented and trusted of my Baker Street Irregulars and who carried out some of the most daring feats in that capacity. The lad I sent up to Sydney Sussex, where he did a double first in Classical Languages and in Modern History.\"\n\n\"I can't believe it.\"\n\n\"Who, upon leaving Oxford, was no longer the humble drudge of his childhood and became employed by The Crown in matters as sensitive as those that I had tasked him with.\"\n\nI sat back in my chair.\n\n\"And who along with my brother Mycroft is also a stalwart member of the Diogenes club. Upon my instructions yesterday, our coachman took the train to London and went to the club and left a note for Morrell. A note in which I asked the man to make a very urgent and specific inquiry for me. Mycroft, for whom Morrell also undertakes sensitive matters, made sure that the message was wired immediately to Geneva. I have the reply right here.\" He smiled thinly once more and withdrew the folded piece of paper that had been jammed in the cabin door.\n\n\"What does it say?\" My curiosity was now at a fevered pitch.\n\nThe smile disappeared from his face. \"Perhaps Mrs. Wolkner can tell you?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I have no idea,\" she said, her voice tense.\n\n\"Very well then; I shall enlighten you.\" He turned back to me. \"As you know, the Lombard Street Associates is a Swiss-based firm. I asked Morrell to make inquiries through his contacts in the Swiss government and find out who the owner was.\"\n\n\"You mean the owner was not that man Murdoch?\"\n\n\"Murdoch was only a pawn in this evil scheme. To be used and disposed of when no longer needed.\"\n\n\"But used by whom?\"\n\n\"The mastermind who controls Lombard Street Associates.\"\n\n\"Who?\" I cried. \"Who?\"\n\nHe put the folded piece of paper back in his pocket. \"I shall come to that in a while, but for now I would like to turn your attention to the mystery of the Oghams. Remember the gibberish on the wooden pillar? Well, it took me almost an hour before I realized that it wasn't just gibberish, after all. Not if you looked at the message as numbers instead of an alphabet. After another hour, I had deciphered enough to discern that I now possessed the combination to a safe and the pass code to a bank account. A pass code not unlike the one to my safe box in Zurich. I walked back to the manor while it was still dark, slipped inside and found the safe behind this bookcase.\"\n\nI watched as Holmes walked over to very same bookcase that had intrigued him only the day before. He reached up to a corner and pressed the wood. The panel next to the case slid up to reveal a wall safe. Spinning the combination dial quickly, he yanked the steel door open and withdrew a thick packet of papers that was bound with a red ribbon. Turning toward Mrs. Wolkner, he said, \"Shall I read the contents?\"\n\n\"That will not be necessary.\" Using her walking stick as a crutch, she forced herself to her feet and hobbled over to where Holmes was standing.\n\n\"You are very clever, Mr. Holmes.\"\n\n\"What on earth is she talking about? What are those papers that you have?\"\n\n\"Evidence, Watson. Evidence that Lombard Street Associates is owned and controlled by the Baroness Portia. Who is none other than this evil creature you see standing before me.\" He gave a slight bow to Mrs. Wolkner.\n\nShe nodded back.\n\n\"Baroness?\" I cried, looking at the woman. \"Good heavens, Holmes, do you mean...?\"\n\n\"Yes, Watson. She is none other than the Black Widow of Virginia.\"\n\nMrs. Wolkner nodded again. \"Please continue.\"\n\n\"When I said her husband had made a lot of money for the firm, it was the truth. But at the expense of his clients.\" He undid the ribbon on the packet of papers and waved the top sheet at me. \"It is all here, Watson. How the firm was looted, their clients' money siphoned off and deposited into a secret bank account in Geneva. An account controlled by this poisonous creature.\"\n\n\"Do you mean Wolkner stole from his family and friends? But he was from one of the finest of families. A British aristocrat would never commit such foul deeds!\"\n\n\"No, Watson, Mr. Wolkner did not participate. These crimes were solely the work of his employer. Somehow, he stumbled onto the embezzlements and also learned that he was merely a dupe for the woman he was married to.\"\n\n\"But why did he keep the papers in his safe?\"\n\n\"Guilt, Watson. Guilt and love. The two emotions most common to our male species.\"\n\n\"So he did kill himself?\"\n\n\"No, dear fellow. The poor man may very well have contemplated it, for he was faced with either handing over the woman he loved to the law or betraying the trust of clients. Either way, he would have been ruined.\"\n\n\"I don't understand why he carved the numbers on the wooden Ogham pillar? Who was it to be a code for?\"\n\n\"No one, Watson. He was not intentionally leaving a clue, only trying to work it out in his mind by writing things down. He was tormented by his moral dilemma and did not know what to do, so he set about writing it out but in a way that he thought no else would stumble upon it.\" Holmes stared at Mrs. Wolkner.\n\n\"I suspect that the original plan had been for our Black Widow here to disappear, leaving her husband, as the Americans like to say, holding the bag.\"\n\nMrs. Wolkner laughed. \"The stuttering fool actually confronted me about the thefts. If he had only left well enough alone, he would be alive today.\"\n\n\"Yes, his honor and decency of character required that he inform you of what he had learned. Did he plead with you to return the funds to the firm's accounts? Of course he did. Did you play along with him? Of course you did. But you had no intention of doing any such thing. So the plan had to be changed. Now, the poor man would have to be disposed of. That is where your accomplices came in.\"\n\n\"You have proof of all this?\" I was incredulous, for we had been at Ogham Manor for less than twenty-four hours and Holmes seemed to not only have found a murder where there was none, but to also have solved it.\n\n\"Inspector Gregson has Dr. Sedgecombe in custody. His full confession is not necessary, for we have enough evidence to hang him.\"\n\n\"Gregson? Sedgecombe? How on earth did Gregson become involved? And what evidence?\"\n\n\"Our valiant coachman also delivered a message to him at Scotland Yard. Gregson then made inquiries about Sedgecombe with his colleagues in Leeds. It seems our country doctor had been forced to sell his surgery to settle some very large gambling debts.\" He turned to Mrs. Wolkner. \"Sedgecombe was always in need of money, a weakness that someone of your cunning would have seized upon. Am I not correct?\"\n\nThe woman said nothing.\n\n\"Your silence will change nothing. An autopsy will reveal slivers of rock imbedded in Mr. Wolkner's face. For he was rendered unconscious with a savage blow before being dispatched by a shotgun blast. The force of the pellets tearing through his face would have pushed the rock fragments deep into the bone and pulp. But any good pathologist with a knowledge of war wounds would have found them. My colleague, Dr. Watson, for example.\"\n\n\"So Dr. Sedgecombe killed Mr. Wolkner?\"\n\n\"Not at all, dear fellow. Nor did the other accomplice, the slow-witted gardener, Throbble. The murder was left to another.\n\n\"Yes, the doctor and Throbble were only pawns whom this evil woman lured into her honey trap and easily convinced to do away with her unsuspecting husband.\n\n\"She concocted a story for Throbble. How her husband had discovered that she loved the dimwit, and he was going to have the poor man dismissed from service, beaten, and jailed. There was only one way Throbble could save them. He would have to hit Wolkner with a rock and kill him, she said. It would look like a fall and then he, they, would be safe to continue their affair.\n\n\"Of course, she knew better. A face smashed by a rock would never be taken for the result of a fall. So she watched from the cabin as Throbble approached her husband and struck him down. After she sent the dimwit back to the manor, she went over and placed the shotgun's barrel next to the unconscious man's face and pulled the trigger.\"\n\nHe stared down at the woman, a look of distaste spread across his face. \"Is that how you killed your first two husbands?\"\n\n\"Oh, with that twit Eustice, it was suicide all right. I made sure he had plenty of reason. It wasn't difficult to arrange it so he would come upon me while I was in a compromising position with one of the plantation overseers. I knew he couldn't handle it emotionally. It was risky, though. He might have killed me as well.\" She gave a little laugh.\n\n\"As for Otto? I had him teach me everything he knew. He thought it was a lark to have his wife fence. The ep\u00e9e, the saber, the foil, I learned them all. And when I became as good a fencer as he was, I killed the swine.\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Holmes, it was easy to kill the old fool. While we were hunting one afternoon, I asked if I could use his shotgun instead of mine. So we switched weapons. And then just a push as he stepped over a log while going down a slope and I shot him with his own gun and took mine back. A tragic accident. Everyone agreed.\" She gave a venom-filled laugh.\n\nI was shocked by the bitterness of the laugh that came from such a pretty mouth. Even Holmes drew away from her, horror on his face. The woman laughed again. \"Don't be so surprised, Mr. Holmes. After all, Irene Adler played you for the utter fool.\"\n\nRage suddenly flooded into Holmes's face. I had never seen my colleague so angry. He reached out and grabbed the Black Widow's braids and twisted them so roughly that the evil wench was forced to her knees.\n\nHe yanked on the braids, forcing her face upwards. \"If you even utter as much as syllable of her name again, I swear I'll garrote you with your own hair.\"\n\n\"You'll do no such thing.\" With a sudden move, she hooked one of his legs with her walking stick and upended him. Springing to her feet, she twirled the stick as if was a baton. \"Oh, did I forget to mention that Otto also taught me the art of single stick before he had his accident?\"\n\nAt the mention of that ancient and noble art of canne de combat, which my colleague was also an aficionado of some repute, I was curious to see if the Black Widow's prowess with cudgel could best him.\n\nHolmes rolled over on his side several times until he reached the chair where he had rested his umbrella. He snatched it up and held it in front of his face just in time to parry what might have been a lethal blow from the gold-plated head of the walking stick. The Black Widow danced away, and then with a spin of her body she danced forward, thrusting her stick at his groin, only to have him parry it once more.\n\nHe had not yet been touched but clearly he was on the defensive in this combat. On her toes, the evil woman circled him and then once more thrust the stick toward his manhood. Holmes managed to parry again, only to have her twirl the stick like a baton and bring it down upon the center of the umbrella, which snapped like a twig.\n\n\"I have you now, Mr. Holmes. And I assure you, I will make your demise as humiliating and painful as possible.\" She thrust once more at his groin, but Holmes managed to deflect most of the blow with a shard of the umbrella. But with a flick of her wrist, she sent the other end, the one with the gold-plated knob, crashing against his left knee. Holmes fell to the floor, trying to ward off further blows with his left arm while jabbing at her with a piece of the umbrella in his right hand.\n\nIt was no use. I could see he was tiring and it would be only a matter of time before the Black Widow delivered an incapacitating blow which surely would be followed by others until my colleague was no more.\n\n\"Stop!\" I cried, taking my service revolver out of my pocket and pointing it at her. With a motion so fluid and so fast that I did not even see it until it was over, she knocked the gun out of my hand, dropped her stick, snatched the gun up and waved back and forth at Holmes and myself.\n\n\"One more murder or two, it matters not,\" she laughed.\n\n\"You'll never escape,\" Holmes said.\n\n\"We'll see.\" She turned to the housekeeper. \"Essie, fetch my walking stick and go harness the carriage.\"\n\nThe old woman picked up the stick but did not move further. Finally she spoke. \"I knew you were evil the day I first laid eyes on you. But to kill your husband, who was only good to you...?\" Essie suddenly lashed out with the walking stick, knocking my pistol out of her evil mistress's hand. As it clattered to the floor, the Black Widow dove for it. Holmes, just as quickly, rushed toward her and buried his head between her thighs and gripping her buttocks, upended her before she could the reach the weapon. She kept bucking her hips while clawing for the pistol as my colleague pushed his head further between her thighs. Suddenly, with a violent twist, she managed to break free and sprang to her feet.\n\nHolmes was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath, but was now between the killer and the gun. She stood in front of him and laughed. \"You think you are very clever, don't you, trying the French trick on me. Did you really think you were the first man to try and subdue me in the Gallic manner?\"\n\nShe dashed for the doors to the garden before Holmes could reach the pistol. She turned back and glared at us, her eyes dark pools of hate. \"I'll have my revenge, Mr. Sherlock Holmes; we'll meet again.\" Then she disappeared through the doors.\n\n\"Holmes, she's getting away.\"\n\n\"Let her go, Watson, I have what we need. The law will soon catch up to her.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nSuch was the sad case of Ethelbert Wolkner of Ogham Manor, Dorset. How Holmes used his prodigious mental talents of deductive reasoning to discern the plot by the dead man's wife, the erstwhile baroness Portia von Schritter zu Adelberg and her true identity as the \"Black Widow of Virginia,\" and the complicity of her paramour, Dr. Sedgecombe, was revealed to me on the train ride back to London.\n\n\"The clues were all there, Watson, as many as the stars in the sky, but you had to look up to see them.\"\n\n\"When did you first deduce that Mr. Wolkner's death was the result of murder?\"\n\n\"When we first arrived at Dr. Sedgecombe's farmhouse. I deduced it from mere observation. You should have done the same.\"\n\n\"Observation. Just what was I supposed to have observed?\"\n\n\"Do you not remember the description of Murdoch that was given to me by Mr. Carroll of the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Company?\"\n\n\"Of course, a tall, pale-faced man with erect posture and a military moustache. What has that got to do with Dr. Sedgecombe?\"\n\n\"That is exactly the question I would expect from someone as inobservant as you apparently were. Old chum, Dr. Sedgecombe was stooped with a ruddy face covered by a walrus moustache, was he not?\"\n\nI nodded agreement while taking notes.\n\n\"Imagine if he stood erect and his face was not ruddy from the country air, and the walrus moustache was trimmed to an officer's measurement. What would you see?\"\n\n\"Why, Murdoch, of course.\"\n\n\"And what about the state of the farmhouse? Surely you noticed that?\"\n\n\"It was badly in need of repair.\"\n\n\"And what did you deduce from that observation?\"\n\nI stopped writing. \"I must confess, Holmes, that I had not deduced anything.\"\n\n\"And now?\"\n\n\"That Sedgecombe either did not have the funds to make the repairs, or that he had no plans to stay long at the farm and would leave the repairs to the next owner.\"\n\n\"Excellent. A day late but an excellent deduction. For as Inspector Gregson's inquiries in Leeds had proved, Sedgecombe had impoverished himself through gambling and had to sell his surgery to cover his losses. A rundown farmhouse in Dorset was all he could afford. Now let us progress to his patient, the woman who so rudely bumped into you as she hurried away from the farmhouse.\"\n\n\"What about her?\"\n\n\"Did not the doctor say that he had patient hours later that afternoon? So why was she there? And who was she?\"\n\n\"You mean she was the Baroness Portia, I mean Mrs. Wolkner?\"\n\n\"Yes, and the driver was Throbble. While I was investigating last night for the safe, I also looked into the carriage house and spied the very same carriage that was outside Sedgecombe's place. And that Throbble was driving his mistress on his day off led me to deduce that their relationship was something more than mistress and gardener.\"\n\n\"And did not Essie say that Sedgecombe had been treating the woman for the 'vapors?' Yet, he swore he had never met her husband until the man's death. Moreover, I suspect that if we question Essie further, we will learn that the 'vapors' only came about after Sedgecombe moved to Dorset.\n\n\"Furthermore, one who was observant would have seen that while Mrs. Wolkner was dabbing at her reddened eyes with her handkerchief, there were no tears.\"\n\nI took this as a reprimand by Holmes concerning my talents of observation, but I was so impressed by his deductive reasoning that I could only urge him to continue.\n\n\"These clues were enough to raise my suspicions, so I had Morrell confirm them with his inquiries in Geneva. Meanwhile I was consumed with deciphering the Ogham inscription on the wooden pillar in the spinney. Remember, you commented that the slashes were rather crude. That was because they were right-hand writing done by a left-handed man. And that could have been none other than poor Mr. Wolkner.\n\n\"And then there was the hunting. One never hunts grouse in mid-summer. It just isn't done, old boy. No, Wolkner was going back to his Ogham pole. Topping that off, there were clothes in the cabin. It was you, Watson, who clued me while remaining clueless yourself.\"\n\n\"However do you mean?\" I asked without looking up for I was scribbling my notes as fast as I could.\n\n\"The size of the green loden hunting jacket, of course. A Bavarian style, I might add. You commented how small it was. That was because it did not belong to Wolkner, but rather to his wife, the Baroness Portia. And from that one could deduce that she was knowledgeable about hunting and weaponry. Yes, dear fellow, once the clues marked the trail, I only had to follow it.\"\n\n\"And what will become of Essie? At her age, it will be hard to place her in service elsewhere.\"\n\n\"I believe that when I inform Mr. Carroll of the valuable service she rendered and the money we have saved the Anglo-Hibernian Insurance Co., there will undoubtedly be a generous stipend to be paid, and perhaps a small cottage on the coast.\"\n\n\"And then you could go and fiddle for her by the firelight.\" I laughed at my little joke.\n\n\"Perhaps I shall, Watson. Perhaps I shall.\"\n\n1. In another story, Be Good or Begone, I related how Irene Adler died trying to save Sherlock Holmes from being poisoned in New York by Professor Moriarty.\nTHE DENTIST, by Magda Jozsa\n\nI.\n\nIt was mid-October of the year 1883. Life was comfortable. I had recovered from my war wounds (except for the occasional twinge), and was now doing locum work to supplement my meager pension.\n\nI took over the practice of Dr. Peter Morley while he was away on holidays. His practice was located in Epping, and, as part of the deal, I was to live in his house\u2014to save commuting daily. It also made me more readily available for his patients after hours.\n\nTo familiarize myself with the clients of his practice, I made a habit of reading up on his case notes of past patients. I don't know what it was that made me delve into his deceased files, perhaps it was just the desire to see if there had been any epidemics in the area, or perhaps it was the unwitting influence of my friend Sherlock Holmes. No one could live with such a man and not lose some of his naivet\u00e9 with regard to human nature. Whatever the reason, I made a curious discovery.\n\nHis case histories were filed in order of year. I began with checking the deaths for the past year. There had been three deaths in the last six months. One was Dr. Morley's own wife, Beatrice, and two other ladies\u2014a Mrs. Kate Boyce, and a widow, Mrs. Elsie Presnell. Dr. Morley\u2014in their case notes\u2014had described all three as presenting with acute nausea, vomiting and impaired respiration. Rapid in onset, culminating in heart failure and death. All three were in their late thirties to early forties. They had died within hours of the first symptom. I found this rather singular. What disease would cause such symptoms? In the back of my mind I could hear Holmes's clipped tones saying: \"Poison, Watson, poison.\"\n\nCould it be? Surely an experienced doctor of Morley's years would have been able to detect if the victims had been poisoned\u2014especially as one was his own wife? I wished Holmes were here. It would be good to talk to him about this. My tenure here was only for eight weeks. I had already served four and hadn't seen Holmes since. I had invited him to come visit me in Epping; only he was in one of his lethargic moods and could not bestir himself.\n\nI was disturbed from my ruminations by the arrival of a patient, and found myself busy for the next two hours. Just as I was thinking of having some lunch, a maidservant came hurrying in.\n\n\"Doctor, you're urgently needed at the Hurley house\u2014Mrs. Hurley is ill something dreadful!\" she cried.\n\nI grabbed my bag and followed her. She had a carriage waiting. At the house, the sick woman's sister, Gloria Hobson, met me. As she hurriedly led me to the sick woman's bedroom, she explained that Mr. Hurley was out of town on business.\n\nWe entered the tastefully decorated room, but I must confess I did not pay much attention to my surrounds. The woman in the bed caught my attention immediately. I surmised that she was a fairly attractive woman under normal circumstances. Now she bore the waxy pallor of the very ill.\n\n\"Mrs. Hurley, I'm Dr. Watson,\" I said, taking her hand and automatically checking her pulse. It was rapid. \"Can you tell me your symptoms, please?\"\n\nHer voice was weak and barely audible. I had to lean close to hear her.\n\n\"And I can't see clearly,\" she said. \"Things are blurry, and can't keep anything down. I feel so sick.\" She stopped talking to catch her breath, which was coming in short, rapid gasps. \"M-my tongue's numb.\"\n\n\"What have you eaten today?\" I asked.\n\nShe shook her head. \"Nothing,\" she muttered softly.\n\n\"We were on our way home from the dentist when she started feeling sick,\" said Miss Hobson. \"I helped her home and sent for you.\"\n\nI must confess I was rather mystified. What struck me as most significant was the similarity between this lady's symptoms and those of the three cases I had read about earlier. Could she have been poisoned? The sister seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare and I thought it unlikely that she was the culprit. Dr. Morley had not recorded numbness or blurred vision in the other cases, but the speed of the patient's deterioration was the same. I was highly suspicious. It was fortunate the husband was away, or he would have been my first suspect.\n\nIf it was poison, how was it administered? She had not ingested it. I examined her arms for signs of a needle prick, but her skin was blemish free. I was baffled. This bemusement did not stop me from acting though. I considered using an emetic on her, but decided against it. She was too weak and had already been vomiting. Any digested substance would have been evacuated long before now. Instead, with the help of her sister, we forced her to drink charcoal. This substance has a highly absorbent quality and is especially good for neutralizing noxious substances in the stomach. It was all to no avail. I tried everything I could think of, yet her condition continued to decline. Without actually knowing what the substance was I could hardly administer an antidote, even if I had a supply of it. In the end, in desperation, I called in the housemaid who had fetched me and wrote out a telegram to Holmes, asking her to dispatch it immediately. After which I returned to my patient.\n\nII.\n\nHolmes arrived within the hour. His eyes were bright with curiosity and the eagerness of a bloodhound about to be given a scent. His prominent nose and long, lean torso seemed to quiver in anticipation of this scent. He arrived ten minutes before Mrs. Hurley died.\n\n\"So, what is the emergency, Watson?\" he asked, his eyes going to my patient.\n\n'She's dying, Holmes, and there is nothing I can do. I think she's been poisoned. She hasn't ingested anything. There are no needle marks on her arms, yet to all intents and purposes she has the symptoms of poisoning. I would bet every penny I had on it.\"\n\nHolmes moved across to the woman, whose breathing now came in ragged gasps. \"How long has she been like this?\"\n\n\"The first symptoms started three hours ago. I've been here for two of them. She lapsed into a coma within the last half hour.\"\n\n\"What was she doing prior to her collapse?\"\n\n\"Nothing. She was on her way home from the dentist. She hadn't stopped to eat anything. Her sister was with her. She collapsed when she was halfway home.\"\n\n\"The dentist?\" Holmes leaned forward eagerly and opened the woman's mouth. He studied her intensely. \"Looks like two fillings.\"\n\n\"Surely you don't think it's from the dentist?\"\n\n\"I don't think anything yet, Watson. I'm just gathering data.\" Holmes examined her arms, and also her feet and in between her toes.\n\n\"What are you looking for?\"\n\n\"Injection marks. If you inject someone between the toes no one will ever think to look there. There are none though.\" He sniffed the air and asked: \"Did you keep some of her emesis?\"\n\n\"Yes, in a jar. I meant to have it tested later.\"\n\n\"Good. I can do that. There are various alkaloids around that can cause similar symptoms to what she is exhibiting. You should read my monograph on poisons.\" He stepped away from her. She had not responded to his examination. Indeed, she was not conscious of his presence.\n\n\"Holmes, the reason I called you so promptly is that this is the fourth case in the last six months.\"\n\n\"What?\" Holmes turned a surprised face to me.\n\n\"I was reading some of Dr. Morley's past histories and came across three similar cases to this. One was Morley's own wife. All three died rapidly.\"\n\n\"Had they been to the dentist?\" asked Holmes with interest.\n\n\"The notes didn't say.\"\n\n\"I want to talk to the sister. Where's the husband?\"\n\n\"Away on business. Not expected back until tomorrow. Husbands are always the first to be suspected, but he's in the clear this time.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Holmes looked at my patient, his eyes thoughtful. At that moment the sister entered. She looked askance at Holmes.\n\n\"Miss Hobson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,\" I introduced.\n\nHer eyes widened in surprise. \"Sherlock Holmes, the detective?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Holmes. \"Can you tell me exactly what happened today\u2014from the moment you arose until her collapse?\"\n\nShe appeared startled, but answered readily enough. \"Not a lot happened. We had breakfast at seven. Dorothy always invites me to stay over when her husband is away. She feels scared when she's alone.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Oh, ever since some burglars broke in and attacked her. Fortunately there was a constable passing the house. He heard her screams and came to the rescue.\"\n\n\"How long ago was this?\"\n\n\"Six, maybe seven months ago.\"\n\n\"Continue.\"\n\n\"Well, like I said, we had breakfast, then we went into town. We did a little shopping, filling in time until it was time for Dorothy's dentist appointment. She'd been troubled with toothache lately. The dentist\u2014Mr. Carlyle is new to the area, but I hear he is very good.\"\n\n\"Did you both eat the same food for breakfast?\"\n\n\"Yes. It is served on a platter and we just helped ourselves.\"\n\n\"Who made the appointment for the dentist?\"\n\n\"Her husband.\"\n\n\"What does Mr. Hurley do for a living?\"\n\n\"He is an insurance investigator. That is why he has to travel occasionally.\"\n\n\"I see. She was well until she visited the dentist?'\n\n\"Never better.\"\n\n\"How long was she with him?\"\n\n\"Nearly an hour.\"\n\n\"Was she alone with him?\"\n\n\"Oh no. I was there. She hates going to the dentist. I always have to go with her. Same with doctors.\"\n\n\"Did he give her any injections or fluid to drink?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"She had two fillings?\"\n\n\"Yes. He said he didn't have to pull the offending tooth out.\"\n\n\"He was in your sight the whole time?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You saw him mix the fillings?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you notice anything unusual during this procedure?\"\n\n\"No\u2014not really. Why all these questions?\"\n\n\"Bear with me please, Miss Hobson,\" said Holmes. \"Dr. Watson here has reason to suspect poison, and I agree with him.\"\n\n\"Poison!\" she gasped, her eyes turning to her sister in horror.\n\n\"So you left the dentist after an hour. What happened then?\"\n\n\"We thought we would walk home, it being such a nice day. We were halfway here when she complained of feeling sick and dizzy. She said her mouth was numb. She couldn't go on. I hailed a cab, and as soon as we got home I sent for the doctor.\"\n\n\"What were relations like between your sister and her husband?\"\n\n\"All right, I suppose. They had their differences, but all married people do.\"\n\n\"Was she happy?\"\n\nThe woman's face clouded a little. \"I'm not sure. She really didn't discuss her married life with me...although, once or twice, she did say that I didn't know how lucky I was to be single.\"\n\n\"Did her husband ever physically hurt her?\"\n\n\"Not that I am aware of.\"\n\n\"What do you think of him\u2014personally?\"\n\nHer lips tightened. \"I can't say I am over fond of him. I only meet Dorothy when he is away, or she visits me. He has always resented our closeness.\"\n\n\"What company does he work for?\"\n\n\"United Kingdom Insurance.\"\n\nSuddenly the patient convulsed, white froth bubbling from her mouth, and then she became still as she stopped breathing. I hurried forward, but there was nothing I could do.\n\nMiss Hobson let out a wail of distress and ran to her side, clutching her sister's hand.\n\nI patted her on the shoulder comfortingly. \"I'm sorry.\"\n\nHer eyes burned with grief as she turned to face Holmes. \"If Hurley is in any way responsible for her death, I want you to get him, Mr. Holmes. Spare no expense. I want you to get the villain responsible for this.\"\n\n\"I'll do my best, Miss Hobson.\" Holmes left the room whilst I did my best to comfort the grieving woman. He was outside in the street by the time I joined him nearly half an hour later.\n\nIII.\n\n\"I'd like to see the records of the other dead women, Watson,\" he said, as soon as I joined him.\n\n\"Um.... I don't know if I can do that, Holmes. They're confidential.\"\n\n\"But if you suspect poisoning in all four cases, then the law can subpoena those records. I need more information, Watson.\"\n\nI hesitated a moment and deliberated. Finally I decided that as the women were dead, quite possibly murdered, then I owed it to them to supply the information to Holmes. \"All right, we'll go back to the clinic.\"\n\nAs we walked, Holmes said: \"I spoke to the servants while you were occupied.\"\n\n\"Anything interesting?\"\n\n\"Yes. Seems Mrs. Hurley was not happily married. She and her husband argued often. She was driven to tears many a time.\"\n\n\"But the husband couldn't have poisoned her, he is out of town,\" I pointed out.\n\n\"Hmm,\" was his noncommittal reply.\n\nBack at the surgery, Holmes took up the histories and began to study them. After a long while, he said, \"I'm surprised Dr. Morley didn't suspect poison. It is also curious that his own wife died of the same symptoms.\"\n\n\"Well he couldn't have poisoned Mrs. Hurley, he's in Switzerland.\"\n\nDid he tell you why he was going there?\"\n\n\"Yes. He told me his wife had died recently and he needed to get away for a while.\"\n\n\"I see.\" He turned back to the files, then after a moment muttered, \"Interesting...I wonder....\" His eyes took a faraway introspective look as he became lost in his thoughts.\n\nI was loath to interrupt him so I busied myself with some paperwork.\n\nAbruptly Holmes woke from his reverie and came over to me saying, \"Punch me in the jaw will you, Watson.\"\n\n\"What?\" I stared at him, startled by his request.\n\n\"Punch me in the jaw. I want to have reason to visit the dentist.\"\n\n\"Can't you just pretend to have a toothache?\" I asked, reluctant to punch my best friend.\n\n\"No. If he is a good dentist, he will know I'm faking it. If I've been punched, I can claim I'm worried about a loose tooth.\"\n\n\"I don't want to punch you Holmes,\" I replied.\n\nHis lips quirked into a grin. \"I am glad about that, but for art's sake, realism and all that sort of thing, I beseech you to do it. Otherwise, I will have to go out and start a brawl with some innocent.\"\n\nI sighed, drew back my fist and punched him. The hit turned his head slightly.\n\n\"Call that a punch?\" he jibed. \"A five-year-old girl could hit harder than that. Call yourself a man? You really are a pathetic excuse for a....\"\n\nI struck again, much harder this time. Holmes took several steps back from it I was pleased to note.\n\nHe rubbed his jaw. \"That's better. I don't know that I'd really want to get on your bad side, old chap. You've got a punch like a mule kick.\" He was still feeling at his jaw, and then checked his teeth. \"I'll be damned!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I think you really have loosened a tooth.\"\n\nMy eyes widened. \"Oh, I am so sorry, Holmes. You shouldn't have said those things.\"\n\n\"That was the whole idea.\"\n\nI shook my head. Who could ever figure Holmes? Anyone else would have been furious. He was happy.\n\n\"Well\u2014I'm off to the dentist, after having been attacked by a brute of a doctor.\" He grinned at me.\n\nI would have liked to have gone with him, but there were patients in the waiting room.\n\nIV.\n\nAfter Holmes left, I had little time to fret, as I was busy attending to the patients. The last left by half past five and I was becoming rather anxious. What was keeping Holmes? I wondered if I should close the office and go home, or wait here for him. Also, my belly was growling. I had missed lunch. I decided to wait another half hour, and then return to the Morley residence. Holmes could always find me there.\n\nI was just locking the door when I heard Holmes's voice. \"Have you got the vomit, Watson?\"\n\n\"The...?\" I turned around in surprise. Then it clicked. \"Oh, in the office.\" I unlocked the door again and collected Mrs. Hurley's specimen.\n\n\"Feel like some dinner, Watson,\" he asked, rather cheerily I thought.\n\n\"Well and truly,\" I handed Holmes the jar.\n\nHe looked at it and added, \"Perhaps you could put it in a bag? I don't think the restaurant would approve our having a jar of vomit on the table.\"\n\n\"I don't think I am much taken with the idea, either,\" I said, finding a paper bag.\n\n* * * *\n\nWe discovered a quaint little Italian restaurant, found a table by the window and ordered. As we sat sipping our aperitifs, I said, \"So how did it go? From your manner I am assuming you have had a successful day.\"\n\n\"It certainly wasn't a waste,\" he agreed.\n\n\"So?\" I prodded.\n\nHe smiled. \"Well, I went to the dentist holding my poor aching jaw and told the receptionist it was an emergency. I got in to see him fairly quickly. Dr. Thomas Carlyle is a rather personable man and skilled at his work. He fixed my tooth quite expertly.\n\n\"'So, Mr. Witherspoon,' said he, 'how did you loosen your tooth?' I looked up and told him I'd had an encounter with a tradesman when he tried to overcharge me. The lout had struck me when I was unprepared, I said. He commiserated with me. We had a nice little chat. He told me he used to have a practice in Hampstead, but wanted to live closer to London. He's been in practice in Epping for the last six months. I asked him if he had settled in and made friends in the area and he said he had\u2014other professional gentlemen. He asked me what I did. I told him I was a jeweler. That was pretty much it. He was very quick in his ministrations. Gave me a large bill and sent me on my way.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\" I asked, surprised. This seemed rather paltry. Hardly worth being punched in the jaw.\n\n\"Almost. As I was paying my bill, I chatted with the receptionist. I asked her if Mrs. Morley, Mrs. Boyce, and Mrs. Presnell had visited the dentist in the last six months. She was surprised by the question but answered yes to it anyway. I mentioned, just in passing what a nice fellow Mr. Carlyle seemed to be, and how I hoped he wasn't too lonely settling into a new territory. She told me that he wasn't in the least bit lonely as he had been keeping company with Mrs. Presnell quite a bit\u2014she was a widow.\"\n\n\"'Have you seen her around lately?' I asked. The question made her think. 'No, not lately,' she said. At that moment another customer came in and I took the opportunity to leave.\"\n\n\"Did they die the same day that they visited the dentist?\" I asked.\n\n\"Not sure. I could hardly ask the girl for the exact dates. I will pay the office a visit later on. Care to join me?\"\n\n\"If you like,\" I agreed. \"So is the dentist the murderer, Holmes?\"\n\n\"If the other three had visited him on the day of their deaths, it will look highly suspicious for him. However, I still need method and motive.\"\n\n\"Yet, if he did do it, what possible reason could he have for murdering those four women? It is all a mystery to me,\" I said.\n\nHolmes smiled faintly. \"And a suitable brain teaser for me. Thank you, Watson for bringing it to my attention. I was dying of boredom in Baker Street.\"\n\n\"That reminds me, what took you so long? I'm sure you weren't at the dentist's this whole time.\"\n\n\"No, I paid a few visits. I once handled an investigation for United Kingdom Insurance. They promised to look up some information for me. They think very highly of Jack Hurley. He is definitely away on business by the way. He sent them a telegram around eleven this morning. His wife took ill around twelve-thirty. There is no way he could come from Dunsmead to here in that time, so he is in the clear as the actual murderer. Certainly in this instance, anyway.\"\n\n\"In this instance? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Watson, Watson, Watson. You have heard what I have heard. You have seen what I have seen. Try and figure it out for yourself,\" said Holmes, refusing to say anymore on the subject.\n\nWe enjoyed our meal, after which we went to Baker Street so that Holmes could test the specimen. Whilst he set about organizing his equipment, I helped myself to his monograph on poisons, deciding now was as good a time as any to familiarize myself.\n\nV.\n\nHolmes worked quietly for an hour, and then grunted with disgust. He turned off his burner and came over to join me by the fire. \"Nothing! Not one ounce of any known poison.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she expelled it with her first vomit,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Then she would have recovered. \"No,\" Holmes shook his head, \"there still should have been a trace.\" He took up his pipe and threw himself down into his armchair, lapsing into a brooding silence.\n\n\"Well, I didn't think she ingested it anyway. Perhaps we should have taken a blood sample,\" I suggested.\n\n\"I wouldn't be surprised if that came up negative as well. After all, she wasn't injected, either.\"\n\n\"There are various ways for a person to absorb something,\" I began, in my best medical lecturer tone. \"Through the skin, the mucous membranes, the....\"\n\n\"That is it!\" cried Holmes; his eyes alight with sudden excitement. \"What a sluggish goat I've been. She complained of tingling in the mouth did she not?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The mucous membranes in the mouth are amongst the most absorbent in the human body. The poison was in the fillings. We'll have to get them.\"\n\n\"Are you mad? You cannot go pulling teeth out of a dead woman\u2014why, that's sacrilegious!\"\n\n\"I'm not about to pull all her teeth out\u2014just two,\" argued Holmes. \"I need them to test. If I hadn't been so abysmally slow, I could have got them earlier. Do you know which funeral parlor they have taken her to?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Never mind, it should be easy enough to work out. After all, she is likely to be at the closest one.\"\n\n\"Are you forgetting you were planning on breaking into the dentist's office tonight?\" I said.\n\n\"We can do both.\" Holmes's eyes glinted. \"Are you game, Watson?\"\n\nLike a fool, I said yes, even though I did not relish the idea of breaking into a funeral parlor.\n\n\"Do you have any tooth pulling tools?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Never mind, we'll steal some from the dentist's while we're there.\"\n\nI sighed. This was getting worse by the minute.\n\nWe changed into our burglar clothes\u2014dark trousers, polo neck jumpers and dark coats. Holmes checked his lock picks and dark lantern, whilst I carried a jimmy, just in case force was needed. Holmes was grinning. I secretly thought that he enjoyed these forays to the other side of the law. He loved the thrill and excitement of such nerve-wracking endeavors. There is many the time that he has said that he would have made a good criminal, and I have no doubt of it. He would have been a formidable foe indeed. I sometimes wondered if he ever regretted being on the side of the law. In fact I asked him once.\n\n\"The only problem with my being a criminal is that I would have no incentive. The lure of riches does not appeal to me,\" he had said. \"It is hardly worth risking life and liberty for material gains if one does not care for them. And to steal for art's sake is a poor motive for a life of crime. I'm afraid I couldn't work up the enthusiasm to break the law just for the sake of it. I have to have a reason for my actions.\"\n\nWe made our way back to Epping, stopped the cab two streets away from our destination, and walked to the dentist's surgery. At the back door, Holmes made short work of the lock. Inside, I went to the surgery to collect a pair of tooth-pulling forceps, while Holmes examined the appointment book.\n\n\"Any luck?\" I asked, joining him.\n\n\"Yes indeed. All four visited the dentist the same day they died. I would sat that it is more than a coincidence. Now I am even more convinced that the poison is in the fillings.\"\n\n\"So it's the funeral home next?\"\n\n\"Mmm. There are two in this area. The nearest is The Eternal Rest funeral parlor.\"\n\nVI.\n\nAt The Eternal Rest, we had to take a risk and enter the front door, as the back was barred. I kept lookout while Holmes picked the lock. It was a rather complicated one and he had difficulty with it.\n\n\"Why are they so security conscious?\" I whispered. \"It's not like anyone would want to steal their merchandise.\"\n\n\"Not the coffins perhaps, but many customers are buried with jewelry on. They are easy pickings for thieves.\"\n\n\"How ghoulish.\"\n\n\"It's a living,\" shrugged Holmes. Considering that he was about to rob the dead woman of her teeth, I supposed that he was hardly in a position to criticize other grave robbers.\n\nI was breathing heavily by the time we entered as I had spotted a constable on his beat up near the end of the street. The last thing I wanted was to be seen breaking in. We passed through the reception area and crept towards the back rooms. There were two empty tables and one that was occupied. Holmes pulled back the sheet\u2014it was Mrs. Hurley. He had guessed right\u2014sorry, deduced correctly. He claimed he never guessed.\n\n\"Rip out the teeth, Watson,\" ordered Holmes.\n\n\"No, I can't,\" I replied, feeling suddenly squeamish despite having seen numerous dead bodies both in my practice and in the army. I just felt that this was a desecration.\n\nHolmes threw me a curious glance, and then took the forceps from me and handed me the dark lantern instead. \"You hold the light then.\" He bent to his task and located the two teeth with the new fillings.\n\nI grimaced at the noise he made as he wrenched the teeth out. Lucky she was dead, I thought, otherwise she'd be screaming blue murder.\n\nHolmes dropped the teeth into an envelope and pocketed it.\n\n\"Shh,\" I hissed, just as he was about to speak. \"I heard something.\" I quickly extinguished the lantern as Holmes moved silently towards the door. He peeked out, then hurriedly closed the door.\n\n\"It's the constable,\" he whispered just as softly.\n\nI looked around the barren room with its tiny windows that we could never fit through. We were trapped. Holmes also glanced around, but unlike me, his fertile imagination came up with a solution.\n\n\"Quick, up on the tables.\"\n\nWe grabbed a sheet each and jumped up onto the hard wooden tables, throwing the sheets over us as we lay down. Not a moment too soon, either. I had barely covered myself before I heard the door open. I held my breath, absolutely petrified of being caught.\n\nI could hear his heavy footsteps as he clumped around the room. I saw the light of his lantern through the sheet as he shone it around. It seemed to rest on me for an eternity. I could feel my nose itching and a sneeze startling to well, when suddenly there was the most gosh awful moan.\n\nIt was chilling.\n\nIt was eerie.\n\nIt sounded like a fiend from hell. I nearly leapt up and ran for it, dredging up all my nerve to remain still.\n\nThe young constable gave a howl of fright and ran from the room.\n\nI pulled my sheet down to see Holmes sitting up, sheet still over his head, and moaning like a banshee with abdominal pains.\n\n\"Holmes!\"\n\nHe pulled the sheet down and laughed heartily.\n\n\"You and your practical jokes,\" I said, climbing down from the table. \"Honestly, you are worse than a schoolboy sometimes.\"\n\nHe just grinned at me.\n\nWe left by the back door this time and had to walk several blocks before we found a cab willing to take us to Baker Street. Most were on their way home for the night. It was nearly two a.m.\n\n* * * *\n\nBack at Baker Street, we fortified ourselves with a sherry, and then I settled down before the fire, while Holmes went to work on the teeth.\n\nI must have dozed off, for the first rays of light were shinning through our window when I woke to the feel of Holmes's hand on my shoulder. He looked bright-eyed and rested, despite having been awake all night.\n\n\"You are right, Watson,\" he said. \"She was poisoned. I have found traces of Aconitum napellus, or Aconite as it's known.\"\n\n\"What is it? I've never heard of it?\" I blinked the sleep from my eyes and sat up straighter.\n\n\"It's a common garden plant, also known as monk's blood or wolf's bane. Its leaves look like parsley and its roots look like horseradish. It's an alkaloid and extremely poisonous. Symptoms can appear within eight minutes of absorption and death occurs in several hours. A large dose kills instantly.\"\n\n\"It sounds deadly.\"\n\n\"It is deadly. It is one of the oldest known poisons. Very popular with the Greeks and Romans of ancient times. Look at this\u2014\" Holmes motioned me over to his chemical bench.\n\nHe held up a tooth under the light. \"See this discoloration, that is the aconite. He cleverly made a paste of it and applied it to the base of the filling so that when pressed down into the tooth, it would be rapidly absorbed into the bloodstream. That's why I couldn't find traces in the abdominal contents. That is also why you wouldn't have been able to save her, even if you had an antidote. Although, to my knowledge, there is no antidote to this poison.\"\n\n\"What about the other women?\"\n\n\"I'd say they died the same way. They all visited the dentist on the day of their deaths. No doubt they had fillings. Perhaps we should....\"\n\n\"No!\" I cut in adamantly, reading his mind. \"It was bad enough going to the funeral parlor. I am not going to dig up the other ladies and pull their teeth out.\"\n\nHolmes smiled faintly and countered, \"It would conclusively prove cause of death.\"\n\n\"But we already have him on one charge of murder. That's enough to hang him. Besides, once it is brought to their attention, the police can always exhume the bodies legally,\" I argued.\n\nHolmes shrugged. \"I suppose.\"\n\n\"No suppose about it.\"\n\n\"You're just worried that they'll rise out of their graves,\" he teased.\n\n\"With you around, it wouldn't surprise me,\" I rejoined caustically.\n\nHe chuckled. \"All right, you win.\"\n\n\"Are you going to report him to the police today?\"\n\n\"No. I still need a motive. It is easy enough to deduce why he murdered Mrs. Presnell, but....\"\n\n\"Easy? No it's not. Why did he kill her?\"\n\n\"You always want everything handed to you on a platter, Watson. Think. Use your mind. Use your imagination. You said you wanted to become a writer; well, you need imagination for that. Exercise your brain cells.\"\n\nI sighed. It was easy for him. \"I suppose you've got the whole mystery solved already,\" I grumbled.\n\nHe smiled. \"Just about. Still need to tie up a few loose ends. It is one thing to theorize, but one cannot take theories to court. I can convict Carlyle, but not the others.\"\n\n\"Others?\"\n\nHolmes ignored the question. \"Still, it is quite an interesting little plot. Thank you for introducing me to it, Watson.\"\n\n\"You're welcome. What's this about the others?\"\n\n\"Think about it, Watson. It really is too easy. Elementary even.\"\n\nIt was so irritating when he was being smug. I just sighed with frustration.\n\nVII.\n\nI had breakfast at Baker Street, and then returned to Epping to put in a weary day's work. By four o'clock, my eyes were drooping. I did not know how Holmes could stay up all night and day and look so chipper. At eight o'clock that evening I was thinking of turning in for an early night, when Holmes turned up.\n\n\"Though you might like to know the latest developments,\" he said without preamble.\n\n\"Yes, of course.\" I offered him a cigar and we made ourselves comfortable.\n\n\"I went out to Hampstead today. Carlyle told the truth. He did have a practice there. Left after his wife died\u2014suddenly.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" My eyes widened with surprise.\n\nHolmes nodded grimly. \"I'd say he perfected his technique on her. Her life was insured with guess who?\"\n\n\"United Kingdom Insurance?\"\n\n\"Spot on, and the investigator was none other than Jack Hurley.\"\n\nI thought for a moment. \"That doesn't make sense, Holmes. If Hurley became suspicious of him, why would Carlyle kill his wife? Surely it would be more logical to kill Hurley himself?\"\n\n\"Oh, Hurley was suspicious all right, but he approved the policy. He had no intention of turning Carlyle in. You are forgetting that other attempt on Mrs. Hurley's life.\"\n\n\"What attempt?\"\n\n\"The burglars, Watson. That wasn't a random attack. It happened seven months ago. Hurley tried to have his wife killed and make it look like strangers did it. All employees of United Kingdom are given policies for themselves and their spouses. He made a deal with Carlyle when he investigated his claim. 'Come to Epping and kill my wife, and I'll approve your policy,' he probably said.\"\n\n\"That's outrageous!\"\n\n\"But plausible. It also leaves the husband in the clear, as he was out of town when his wife died. He has the perfect alibi.\"\n\n\"All right, I grant you that your theory works for Hurley and Carlyle's wife, but what about Mrs. Presnell, Mrs. Boyce, and Mrs. Morley?\"\n\n\"Ah, that's a little more complicated. All the ladies had policies on them with United Kingdom. Mrs. Presnell was also independently wealthy. When she died, Carlyle was her beneficiary. Now do you have any guesses as to why she was killed?\"\n\n\"He wanted her money.\"\n\n\"Correct. He ingratiated himself with the widow, and then killed her. Probably offered her free dental services.\"\n\n\"That still doesn't explain the other two,\" I reminded him.\n\n\"Surely it is obvious?\"\n\n\"To you maybe, but not to me.\"\n\n\"That is because you are too trusting in human nature,\" said Holmes, but the way he said it made it sound as if this trait was more a failing than a asset. \"Any doctor worth his salt would suspect poison, just as you did. They might miss one patient, but not four. Coincidental deaths would make an honest doctor suspicious. They would report their suspicions to the police, unless....\"\n\n\"He was in on it too!\" I exclaimed excitedly, finally seeing the way Holmes's reasoning was going.\n\n\"Exactly. He certified the deaths as heart failure. Hurley approved the insurance claims, and Boyce, the lawyer, ensured that the wills were in the husband's favor\u2014or as in Carlyle's case, in his favor. I've seen Mrs. Presnell's will, it is a forgery and a fairly poor one at that, but as she had no relatives, there was no risk of anyone contesting the will. He probably did it as payment for Carlyle killing his wife. All four were in it together.\"\n\n\"That's incredible.\" I was shocked by the thought of a group of supposedly respectable men joining forces to murder their wives systematically. \"They're all pillars of the community\u2014a lawyer, doctor, dentist and insurance investigator. Who would have thought?\"\n\n\"Greed doesn't discriminate,\" replied Holmes a trifle cynically. \"The four are good friends, and are often seen together.\"\n\n\"Have you told the police yet?\"\n\n\"No, I'll go tomorrow.\"\n\nCongratulations, Holmes,\" I said warmly.\n\n\"No, it is you who should be congratulated, Watson. If you hadn't picked up on it and noticed the other details these scoundrels would have got off scot free.\"\n\nI smiled. \"It's living with you, Holmes. Your suspicious nature has rubbed off on me.\"\n\n\"I wish I could say the same. Your trustful nature has not rubbed off on me,\" he replied, smiling faintly.\n\n* * * *\n\nBoyce, Hurley, and Carlyle were arrested the next day. The bodies of their wives were exhumed and their teeth checked. All had been killed by aconite poisoning, with the poison secreted in the fillings. I finished my eight-week stint and when Dr. Morley returned home, reported his return to the police. I could barely keep a straight face when he greeted me. It was extremely difficult being civil to the blackguard.\n\nIn due course, all four were hung, and Miss Hobson paid us a visit to thank Holmes. The papers made much of the case. I was rather touched when the first story came out. Holmes had been interviewed and he insisted that the case was solved largely due to me. I knew this wasn't exactly true, but Holmes always was generous, and it made me feel proud to be associated with him.\n\nAs to becoming a writer? Well, I have decided that I will set some of Holmes' extraordinary cases down on paper. It is the least I owe him. The world should be told about this most remarkable man. I will report the facts as I encounter them and let the readers form their own opinion.\nTHE FURY, by Lyn McConchie\n\nWe were at breakfast when we heard a loud voice, the thump of footsteps towards our door, and a familiar figure appeared.\n\nI rose in surprise to greet our visitor\u2014while Holmes, who tends to the phlegmatic, especially around breakfast\u2014remained seated.\n\n\"Colonel Ross!\" I exclaimed. \"What are you doing here, has something happened to Silver Blaze again?\"\n\nThe Colonel shook his head. \"No, he is still at stud, producing some excellent foals but it's a strange business\u2014and has to do with his son.\"\n\nI was somewhat perplexed. \"Whose son, Colonel?'\n\n\"Why, Silver Blaze's colt of course. The Fury.\"\n\nI was horrified. The colt was in his third year now; a magnificent animal and bidding fair to beat even the records set by his sire. The previous year he had stormed down tracks all over the country, winning again and again, so that the name of Colonel Ross was spoken of with awe at his good fortune in possessing first the sire, and then the colt of so great a line.\n\n\"Don't say something has happened to The Fury?\" I protested. \"It would be the greatest loss to horse racing England has seen. A horse like that should\u2014must\u2014carry on his line.\"\n\nThe Colonel slumped into the nearest chair and mutely accepted the cup of tea Holmes passed to him, and accepted also a piece of toast that he loaded with butter and marmalade and began to eat absent-mindedly.\n\n\"It is worse than that. If I cannot recover what has vanished then The Fury is useless to me. He will not race, he refuses to allow any jockey to remain on his back, and he does not eat well and is losing condition.\"\n\nHolmes finished his toast, drained the last drop of tea from his cup and thrust back his chair. \"It seems you have a story to tell, Colonel. Begin.\"\n\nThe Colonel squirmed. \"It is not easy to confess, but The Fury is Silver Blaze's first colt. I was there at his birth and the moment he fought his way to his feet it was clear he was born to race. Every line was quality, from every angle he was a champion. An experienced horseman can see the potential in a newborn foal, just for the few minutes after the animal's birth. That is why I was present. My trainer and I could only stare and know that Silver Blaze had bred true. But there was one problem.\"\n\n\"What was that, Colonel?\" I asked.\n\n\"The Fury's dam was Maid of Athens. She comes from a line notorious for their savagery. Her sire killed two stable lads, Maid of Athens crippled another and injured several during her racing career and it was her intractability that caused her owner to retire her early to the breeding paddock. Silver Blaze is without that sort of vice but a foal learns from his dam. We racehorse owners have a saying, 'speed from the sire, temper from the dam' and it proved to be true.\n\n\"As he grew older The Fury became more difficult to handle until finally, in a battle between the animal and my trainer who was endeavoring to break him to saddle. The Fury pulled a tendon and was put out to rest in a small paddock at the back of the stables. This is screened from the stables themselves by a tall solid hedge and as the animal had a three-sided shelter in the paddock, he was normally seen only once a day, in the evening, when a small amount of hay was brought to him.\n\n\"I was staying in the area and unexpectedly drove over to talk to the trainer, a James Hammond. After the business with Hammond I cleared out the staff and took on this man together with his family. He is a good man, married to a woman whose father was a trainer so she knows and understands horses herself, and his son too, while currently a stable-boy there, bids to be a promising jockey and I had it in mind for the lad and The Fury to be trained together.\n\n\"In addition, Hammond had hired on two extra stable-boys, both of whom I may say were terrified of The Fury and quite useless in handling him. I had spoken with Hammond and while at the stables wished to see The Fury, so Hammond and I walked down the property and passed through the hedge, not at the usual gate, but through a convenient gap at the far end\u2014since we had been that way looking at another of my horses. Thus the lad we caught had no idea of our presence.\"\n\n\"Caught, Colonel?\"\n\n\"Aye, caught. But doing something I would have believed no one could attempt and be unharmed. He was standing directly behind The Fury, disentangling burrs from his tail while the colt stood placid as an old donkey, and when the job was finished the boy walked to The Fury's head and that savage beast dropped his head into the lad's shirt and stood there as if communing with a friend. I was astounded\u2014but I am no fool, though I say so myself. I caught back Hammond by the arm, cautioning him to silence, for it occurred to me on the instant that here was the perfect stable lad for The Fury.\n\n\"Find out who he is, and hire him.\" I hissed to Hammond.\n\n\"Sir, he looks to be very young.\"\n\nI looked at the boy again and had to agree. He appeared to be perhaps twelve years of age and of very slight build, yet I have seen other lads no larger and if he could handle The Fury so confidently I cared not if he be a babe in arms and no bigger than a dwarf.\n\n\"Find him, hire him,\" I ordered Hammond. \"I think he is a whisperer, and if he can deal with The Fury as it seems, pay him a good wage. I want him to have no reason to change stables.\"\n\n\"And your man found the boy.\" Holmes said, \"The lad has now gone missing, and The Fury will not work without him.\"\n\n\"That is most unhappily true, sir. He vanished two weeks ago and since then The Fury has never cleaned up a meal, he has attempted to savage anyone who approaches him and no jockey, not even my trainer's son is able to stay on the animal. He is entered in one of the major races in two month's time. If we do not find the boy and return him to The Fury, the horse will be in no condition to race, I will lose a fortune and I will be a laughing stock for I have wagered heavily on The Fury in private bets as well as public ones.\"\n\n\"But have you not asked the lad's family?\" I questioned the Colonel.\n\n\"Of course,\" he snapped. \"That is, we could not find them, but we have looked for them.\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"I think you had best go back to the beginning of your tale again and tell me how your man found the boy and persuaded him to work for you, if your man told you of that?\"\n\n\"I have the tale from Hammond indeed. According to him he followed the boy across several fields until he reached a broken-down gypsy caravan. As you know, the moor is sometimes home to a number of gypsies. He presumed the lad was one of them and, as they are usually poor to starving, and the offer of a well-paid job would be seized, he approached the caravan confidently. He was met by an old woman who glared at him.\n\n\"'What's thee want hereabouts, mester?'\n\n\"'I want to hire your grandson,' Hammond said, indicating the lad who had appeared around a corner of the caravan.\n\n\"'Does thee, for what?'\n\n\"'As stable boy to The Fury, the colt owned by Colonel Ross.'\n\n\"The crone seemed much amused. \"'Thee knows he be good wi' horses then?'\n\n\"The Colonel and I saw him handle the colt. The Colonel will pay a pound a week to the lad.\"\n\nI nodded in reply to Ross's look at me. That was an excellent wage, twice, even three times what a stable lad could expect usually, but if the boy could handle a dangerous horse like that he'd have been worth every penny.\"\n\nThe old woman nodded. \"Aye, then thee'll have him. But he comes home nights to me here else he don't go. I be too old to live alone an' I needs my grandson to help me evenings.\"\n\nColonel Ross's gaze met mine and he shrugged. \"It was irregular, but if the boy could do what was required then it was worth meeting that condition. Hammond agreed, and the boy arrived the following morning at five. By the time Hammond was out there the lad had The Fury back in a stall, fed, watered, groomed, and standing quiet.\n\n\"In the next few weeks the horse was a changed animal. He would do anything the lad asked of him, and his training was easy. Hammond supervised but the boy, we were told his name was Joe Farr, did all the work. In a few more months Hammond's lad, Matthew, was riding The Fury in training\u2014and so long as Joe was present The Fury was completely tractable. It was like a miracle and I thanked God for it.\"\n\n\"It is not so greatly uncommon,\" I said. \"I have known of other cases. You are a horseman and will know of Lady Jane's Son. He would not race without his stable cat being present at the track. When she had kittens they played about his hooves and he was always careful never to harm one. The cat died, but her daughter took over and went with the horse when he was retired to stud.\"\n\n\"That is true, and I have known cases where the horse was rendered tractable with a stable companion that was a donkey, a pony, or even a goat. As you say, it is not unknown, but in my case it is now most inconvenient.\"\n\n\"So what happened?\"\n\n\"Nothing for a long time. All appeared amicability. The lad was courteous when I visited and appeared utterly devoted to The Fury. Why, when some tout sneaked into the stables and attempted to bribe the boy to drug The Fury, he shouted for Hammond and my man says the lad was in a complete passion so that he had to pull him from the tout's throat. When The Fury was once ill the boy remained with him day and night until the horse was well again. I queried that he had been permitted to do so, and he said that he had spoken with his grandam and she had agreed since he loved the horse so greatly. The colt ran five times in his second year with Matthew Hammond riding him, and won four of the races. A great future looked likely for him.\"\n\n\"What then?\"\n\n\"That is what I do not know!\" cried Colonel Ross in exasperation. \"There appeared to be some small tiff with another of the stable-boys. Hammond says he found them struggling one evening. He pulled them apart and asked what the trouble was; neither would say what had begun the quarrel, so he sent Joe home and the other lad to his bed. In the morning Joe did not return. Hammond sought out the caravan but it was gone\u2014and from that day to this he has seen and heard nothing of Joe or his grandmother.\"\n\nHere he wrenched his collar. \"If I do not have the boy back, The Fury will not race. I can use him for breeding, but his best years for racing are now and as yet his reputation on the track is not all it could be. The fees I could charge are yet low. Find Joe Farr for me, Mr. Holmes, and I will pay and pay well. Can you do this thing?\"\n\n\"What if the boy will not return, or asks for certain conditions?\"\n\n\"I will meet almost any condition he may ask if only he will return. I will double his wage, sack the lad with whom he quarreled, allow his grandmother to have her caravan on my land so none may move her on, only persuade him back.\"\n\nHolmes smiled briefly. \"You are not a completely conventional man, are you, Colonel Ross?\"\n\nThe Colonel stared. \"I suppose I am not, Mr. Holmes. I'm a hard man perhaps, but a just one, I believe. If you are suggesting that Joe has been dishonest in some way and fled to avoid retribution, tell him that I know of no harm he has done me. If he has harmed another, I will stand for him. You know, Holmes, I liked the lad. He was a hard worker, never shirked his duty, and cared for The Fury as if he were his own. He had courage too. I've seen The Fury panic, kicking and rearing, and Joe went in under flying hooves cool as you please to soothe the colt and bring him down. He's the sort of lad I'd have taken as many of as I could enlist for my old cavalry unit.\"\n\n\"Then I shall do my best.\" Holmes answered him. \"Call here again in three days and I may have news for you. Meanwhile, please write a note for Hammond instructing him to allow me every access to the stables and his staff.\"\n\n\"At once, sir.\" I provided paper, pen and ink and Colonel Ross dashed off a brief note, dusted the ink dry, folded and sealed the sheet of paper and handed it to Holmes. \"Here you are, sir. And I shall wait on you again in three days.\"\n\nHe strode out energetically and I turned to my old friend. \"You have some idea already, do you not?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"The name of Farr is a gypsy name, but not as the Colonel believes it to be. The name is Faa; spelled as F A A and those of the line of Johnny Faa, who was a king amongst them a century ago, carry it. Years back I heard a scandal about a branch of the Faa family. The daughter wed a man who wasn't of their blood in any way; he was a blacksmith however, so the marriage was tolerated\u2014but only the girl's mother remained in touch with her.\"\n\n\"And you wonder if Joe Farr is not the daughter's son, the old woman being the girl's mother?\" I asked.\n\n\"Precisely. I must discover where the Boswell tribe has their vardos currently and speak to them. They may be able to tell me a considerable amount.\" As he was speaking Holmes vanished into his room and I heard his voice through the half-shut door.\n\n\"Vardos, Holmes?\" I queried, \"And will they talk to one who is not a gypsy?\"\n\n\"A vardo is a caravan, Watson. And the gypsies will talk to me, I am known to them as an old friend under more than one name.\"\n\nHe then emerged and I stared. In every way he was a gypsy down to the small gold rings on his ears and the lurid-colored scarf about his neck. His face was swarthy, and even his hands and wrists were weathered to a deep brown.\n\n\"Holmes, it is wonderful!\"\n\n\"It is convincing, that is more important.\" Holmes said dryly. \"Meet Jack Smith of the Devonshire branch of the Smith tribe.\"\n\nHe pulled his scarf straighter and clattered down the stair in boots which I now saw, were old and slightly broken, with knotted laces. He did not return that day or night. But as I was brewing a pot of tea next morning he reappeared, looking tired.\n\n\"I was right, Watson. The old woman is Margaret Faa whose daughter, Leah, wed a blacksmith. He died twelve years later and his family cheated Leah of her inheritance and drove her and the child out. She returned to her people, but they demanded she remarry from amongst them and she refused since it would have meant that her child would have been forced to conform to Romany laws. In some altercation Leah was killed, and her mother then took her caravan and the child and left to wander alone.\"\n\n\"How long ago was that?\" I queried.\n\n\"Almost four years.\"\n\nI raised my brow in some surprise. \"But Joe Farr has been working for more than a year for Colonel Ross. From what you say the lad must now be seventeen and Ross was convinced he was only twelve or thereabouts when he was hired.\"\n\n\"Gypsying can be a hard life,\" was all Holmes said to that.\n\n\"Where will you go now?\"\n\n\"To Ross's stables. I would question Hammond, his family, and the lad with whom Joe Faa was quarrelling.\"\n\n\"And afterwards?\"\n\n\"Afterwards I think I may have news for the Colonel.\"\n\n\"You have found the lad then?\"\n\n\"I know where the caravan is, but it remains to be seen if I can convince them to return to King's Pyland. The old woman may not wish to bring the lad back, and he may not wish to come. There were reasons I suspect, for their departure, which reasons still apply.\"\n\nThat afternoon we departed for the moor. The journey is arduous and it was not until the next day that we were able to seek out Hammond and question him.\n\nHolmes began. \"The lad, Joe Farr as you knew him, did he stand his watch one night in three as is your custom here?\"\n\n\"He did, sir. He would return after the evening meal to his grandmother's caravan to see all safe there, then he would walk back after dark to stand his watch. By the time I was up in the morning he would have all shipshape with The Fury and would nap in the hay for a few hours. Several times after he first arrived I woke up in the early hours to check and see that he was watching according to his duty. Always, sir, he was awake and alert.\"\n\n\"What of his person, was he clean and tidy?\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir. He washed regular and told me he took a bath each week at the caravan. I believed him, and his clothes were always well washed and neatly mended. I have to admit, sir, when first the Colonel insisted we hire the boy I was reluctant. But he stole nothing, and when a man attempted to bribe him to harm The Fury he attacked the man with such anger I must pull him away lest he commit bloody murder. I gave him his wages each week, fifteen shillings and two half crowns, and I believe he gave it all to his grandmother. He did not smoke or drink, and he was always quiet-spoken and polite. If all stable lads were like him, sir, the lot of a trainer would be much easier.\"\n\nHolmes nodded slowly. \"Colonel Ross said much the same. Now I would speak to your good wife.\" The lady was summoned, but could add nothing to her man's information\u2014although I believed she knew something she was withholding. Yet, to my surprise, Holmes questioned her no further but allowed her to depart. After that her son appeared looking worried.\n\n\"I'm Matthew Hammond, sir, I understand you wish to question me?\"\n\n\"I do,\" Holmes said.\n\nI was looking the lad over as Holmes asked his questions and the boy replied, still with a concerned look upon his face. He was a good-looking boy of some five feet, eight inches, dressed in the country style. He was lean and small-boned, but fresh-faced, hard-muscled, and with an air of competence about him. I judged his age to be around twenty or so, and he had an honest, decent look about him that I liked immediately.\n\n\"What do you know of the missing lad?\"\n\n\"Little enough, sir. He was a little shy for he seldom chattered, but he did his work very well, and all the horses would do more for him than for anyone else.\"\n\n\"Which perhaps caused resentment?\" Holmes said quietly. The lad nodded. \"The lad with whom he was quarrelling, is he one who might have resented Joe's abilities?\" Again there came the wordless agreement. \"Would you be pleased to see Joe back again?\"\n\n\"I would that, sir. I miss him and so does The Fury. Joe and me always got on real well, and I gave Bob a beating after Dad told me about him quarrelling with Joe and trying to knock him about. Weren't no use though, Joe was gone and he mayn't come back.\"\n\n\"If he does, would you be glad of it?\"\n\nMatthew Hammond's face lit with hope. \"You know where he is, sir? You'll get him to come home? Tell him if you find him as Matt says he should come back to us and there'll always be a place here.\"\n\nHolmes dismissed the young man with a smile and turned to me. \"The last piece of the puzzle, my dear Watson. Now we have only to seek out Margaret Faa and convince her and Joe that they should return to King's Pyland.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nThe dogcart we had used to reach the stables was waiting. Holmes took the reins and we returned in haste, a train took us to Poole in Dorset where we hired another vehicle and made our way to Morden heath. I was weary, but Holmes seemed tireless.\n\n\"Cheer up, Watson, we are almost there.\"\n\n\"Almost where?\" I asked.\n\n\"Almost to where some of the Boswells are camped, and Margaret Faa with them.\" He flicked the pony lightly with the whip and we rattled over the rough heath track towards a clump of caravans surrounded by a ring of suspicious dogs, bored horses, and swarthy people who awaited our coming without signs of welcome.\n\nHolmes halted the pony and looked at them. \"I wish to see Margaret Faa, tell her Kooshto Bok is here.\" At that there was a burst of laughter and one of the men swaggered forward.\n\n\"Good luck is it?\" Who are you to call himself that for a Romi?\"\n\n\"Perhaps the beng,\" Holmes said. \"Give her the word.\"\n\nThe man nodded and vanished among the caravans to return in minutes. \"She'll speak to you. Jal palla.\" We followed as ordered, winding through the vans until we walked down a long dip and around bracken clumps to emerge by a single caravan. Beside it grazed a skewbald pony, a plump and well cared for beast that looked us over and nickered hopefully. The man had left us here and I wondered what we should do now. Holmes produced a sugar lump from his pocket and fed the pony, then turned to the caravan and spoke quietly.\n\n\"Avel, joovel, dukker and roker.\"\n\nAn old woman peered at him from the window and snorted. \"Who are you to bid me come out to talk and tell your fortune, gaujo?\"\n\n\"No foreigner to your people, the Boswells have known me before.\"\n\n\"How do they call you then?\"\n\n\"Jinomengro.\"\n\nShe nodded, \"I know of you. I will come out and talk\u2014but your fortune is your own.\"\n\n\"Maybe I'll tell you yours instead.\" She laughed an amazing laugh like that of a girl and disappeared back into the caravan to emerge seconds later to sit on the steps and survey us.\n\n\"So, why are you here, man who knows, and what is it that you know?\"\n\nHolmes seated himself comfortably on the grass. I followed suit more awkwardly, and he lit his pipe, blew out a cloud of smoke and started.\n\n\"Once there was a woman who loved a man of sastera.\" Here the old woman laughed appreciatively, and later Holmes explained that the word meant iron as was a pun on the man's trade as a blacksmith as well as a compliment on his physical abilities. \"She wed him and it was not expressly forbidden since those who work as komlomeskro have magic. She bore him a child, but in time he died and his kinfolk drove her out saying that she was not of their breed and should inherit nothing.\"\n\n\"They were wrong.\"\n\n\"They paid,\" Holmes said quietly, \"Did they not?\"\n\n\"They paid,\" the old woman agreed. \"Our curse on them\u2014and all they had was gone over the years. But it did my daughter little good. She died, so I took the child and came away to live apart.\"\n\n\"Because you did not wish the child to be as the Romany, despised, apart, wed and bred too early and oft ill-used?\"\n\n\"Aava,\" she nodded once, a short powerful downward jerk of her chin.\n\n\"Then a man offered the child employment. He would be well-paid, well-treated and valued and he would be let do the work he wished to do for he loves horses and can speak to them?\"\n\n\"Aava.\"\n\n\"Until one he worked with uncovered the secret and would have used him ill, so that the child fled back to you and you took him on the road again. But behind him lies one who will die without him, one who loves with all his heart. Will you keep them apart?\"\n\nThe door flung open and a slender girl in an explosion of skirts hurtled down the steps. \"The Fury, he is ill, pining for me, or is it Matthew you mean? Tell me! Who is it you mean?\"\n\nI must admit that I sat on the grass almost too stunned to regain my feet. Holmes uncoiled his lean frame and stood to take her hand.\n\n\"It is The Fury firstly that I mean. He will neither eat nor work without you, but Matthew said if I found you that I should say this to you from him. 'Tell him if you find him as Matt says he should come back to us and there'll always be a place here' Those were his words and you yourself will know the truth to them.\"\n\nThe girl nodded. \"His truth, but what of Mr. Hammond and his wife? What will they say when they know? What will the Colonel say who will not be so quick to take on a girl to groom The Fury?\"\n\nHolmes smiled at her. \"I think the Colonel would take on the devil himself for a stable lad did the devil handle horses as you can. What is your name?\"\n\n\"My father was Joseph therefore I used that name at the stables. My own name now is Ruth, a name from the Bible for my mother said I was Ruth to her Naomi. My father's people would have allowed me to stay with them if she was gone, but I would not. Before that I was called Leah after my mother.\"\n\n\"Ruth, then. Will you come back to London with us to meet Colonel Ross and after that to King's Pyland if he accepts you?\"\n\nRuth Faa nodded slowly. \"I will come. My grandmother will follow and meet me at the stables\u2014if I do not rejoin her before she is there.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nSo we went back to London, stared at by fellow passengers as we traveled, watched half-contemptuously, half-suspiciously by those who wondered why we traveled with a young gypsy girl at our heels. On our arrival Holmes delivered the girl to Mrs. Hudson's hands, and she, good woman that she was, let the girl bathe and gave her the clothes to wear which Holmes had arranged.\n\nRuth rejoined us looking like the boy she had been at the stables. Holmes had provided breeches, a checked shirt, a neck scarf, and scissors for the girl to trim her hair again and that she had done. I could see how it was that she had been mistaken for a boy all that time. Her figure was very slender and her features aquiline so that with a boy's loose garb she looked to be no more than a young lad. I could see too how it was that Ross had mistaken her age, for she looked in her lad's clothing to be around thirteen or fourteen.\n\nHolmes must have sent a messenger to the Colonel immediately upon our return, for we had no sooner eaten than the man was on our doorstep. He strode in, seized the boy by the shoulders and shook him gently.\n\n\"Joe, Joe, why did you run away? The Fury is pining, he won't eat, won't be saddled, won't be ridden and he's kicked young Jackson so that the boy is limping like a spavined horse.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Ruth snapped.\n\nColonel Ross stared down at her. \"What? Good! Why?\" His gaze on her sharpened, \"What did he try on you, lad?\"\n\nHolmes drew him back from the girl. \"I think before anything, Colonel, you should know who Joe really is.\"\n\n\"I don't care about any of that,\" said Ross impatiently. \"So the lad got into some small trouble and fled, I can make it right whatever it may be.\"\n\n\"Possibly, Colonel, but you may find it more difficult to change the boy's sex. This is Ruth Faa who met The Fury. They loved each other at first sight and yes, she is a whisperer as you surmised. She wanted to work with the horse, but knew no stables would give a girl work as a stable lad.\"\n\nColonel Ross stared down, and gradually\u2014I could see the transition in his face\u2014he discerned the female beneath the boy's disguise. Ruth stood motionless before him, waiting. At last his jaw clenched in decision.\n\n\"I do not care. Let her keep to her costume, let others believe what they will. She is The Fury's groom so long as he races. If there is scandal over it I will face it out, so long as the horse keeps winning I will know it for sour grapes when men sneer.\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"I expected no less from you, Colonel Ross. But I would venture to say that you might have any problem resolved shortly. Let us go down to your stables in the morning. One thing I will tell you which Ruth\u2014or Joe\u2014will not. Bob Jackson discovered her secret and attempted to blackmail her of all her wages. When she refused that demand he said she could pay in another way and laid hands upon her. That time your trainer intervened, not knowing what the quarrel meant\u2014but it was this which drove Ruth from the stables since she feared what next Bob would do.\"\n\nRoss's eyes burned with a cold rage. \"He will be gone the moment I set foot on my land there. And he will go with a warning on what may happen to lads who talk too freely.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" said Holmes. \"I knew Joe could rely on you.\"\n\nStill, I wondered, it was a makeshift solution at best. The boy would not keep silent forever, and how long would Ross hold up under the sneers of those who deem a young girl too fragile to handle a high-spirited colt? Holmes reassured me later on.\n\n\"Do not worry, my dear Watson.\" His eyes had the ghost of a twinkle as we approached the stables. \"I think all will be resolved very well.\"\n\nMatthew Hammond came out at the sound of our wheels and cried out as Ruth waved from the letdown window. I opened the door and they were in each other's arms. For minutes he held her, before he turned to face his parents who were standing at the door, his father agape, but his mother smiling, and I saw she too had guessed Ruth's secret.\n\n\"Mother, Father, this is the girl I'll wed. This is\u2014\" He grinned down at her and she supplied her female name with a tiny, joyous smile.\n\n\"Ruth.\"\n\n\"This is Ruth. She'll be lad for The Fury, I'll be his jockey, he'll make a fortune for the Colonel and nobody better say anything about her ever.\"\n\nThe Colonel went off into a great shout of laughter, I found I was following suit and even Holmes had something that could almost be described as a grin about his lips.\n\n* * * *\n\nSo that was the way of it. Ruth was stable lad for The Fury throughout the animal's career and that was long and illustrious. But well before it ended Ruth and Matthew had married and she bore him two sons and a daughter. The Fury bred fine foals and Colonel Ross became a rich man.\n\nAnd Silver Blaze? He bred great fillies and many other fine colts, but there was never another one as brilliant or as dangerous as The Fury. Nor, I think, one who was so cared for and so greatly loved by his stable-lad\u2014but then, I doubt that any other of his colts had a Ruth.\n\nNOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Acquaintances of mine in the United States who specialize in Sherlock Holmes, Caroline and Joel Senter, queried the Romany words used by Sherlock Holmes when I was writing this story. I was able to assure them (and you) that the words are correct for the country (England) and the time period for my stories (1890-1910). I also own a brief\u2014and very rare\u2014Romany dictionary put out by the English Folklore Society of that period.\nDEATH AND NO CONSEQUENCES, by Richard K. Tobin\n\nHaving known my friend Sherlock Holmes for some years, I could tell by the sounds coming from upstairs that he was shaving. He was more alert than ever these past eight months. However his pipe was less active. In fact, until recently, he would still be abed at this hour. As for his pipe, while he had decreased its usage, he had increased his cigarette consumption this last fall till now, the Christmas season.\n\nI could barely believe we had someone at the door, for it was only 7:30 in the morning. I went to tell the person to call at a more suitable hour. The person was not the usual trades person, but turned out to be the lovely Sarah MacGuillicudy. She was a personal secretary to Lord Hotchkiss, he being the nobleman who was the charge d'affaires of the Peerage Society Association. He was the watchdog to reckon with if a royal person misbehaved or a person other than royalty besmirched a titled member of British society. He contributed in other ways as well to make the lives of British crowned heads more amenable and trouble-free.\n\nWhat use, pray tell, could she or Lord Hotchkiss, have for my friend of longstanding, Sherlock Holmes. On looking at young Miss MacGuillicudy, I saw a healthy young woman. She was well-washed and-dressed, with a spectacular head of blonde hair.\n\nThe fire was springing to life just as Sherlock Holmes walked into our room, thankfully covered decently, except for his argyle, fleece-lined slippers. I performed the introductions. All hope of a quiet breakfast was soon postponed.\n\nHolmes asked, \"What moved you, Miss MacGuillicudy, to come to me?\"\n\nThe woman looked over at me and asked, \"Is it safe to talk, you both knowing that what I now tell you, must never be repeated?\"\n\nHolmes remarked, \"Of course, and I'm sure I speak for the doctor as well.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" I murmured.\n\nOur lovely female guest gave me a piercing stare and asked, \"Is that so, Doctor Watson? The reason I must be sure is, it is something that has blemished our Queen's royal court and also a relative of hers is deeply involved.\"\n\nHolmes, smiling, said, \"Please tell us more.\"\n\nWe both sat there for twenty minutes and were told how Prince Henry had murdered a waitress late last night. He was a nephew of Queen Victoria and it was all being hushed up. We were told only what we needed to know.\n\nMiss MacGuillicudy told us her given name was Eliza, and then informed us that this rather atrocious prince was a favorite of our Queen.\n\nSherlock Holmes, whose fame had spread over most of Britain, was being asked to investigate the murder, find out the reason or reasons, for the murder, and whatever made Prince Henry get mixed up with a waitress whose immediate family were Irish immigrants. However, the girl, Nellie Malone, was born in England and her father was a trained elementary school teacher. Her mother was a nurse before they immigrated.\n\nMy own feelings were that something was amiss here. I had no idea what. It didn't change anything when Miss Eliza informed us that this Malone female was very attractive.\n\nThis seemed an easy case and one that would pay well. Not that Holmes was practical about money matters.\n\nAfter Miss Eliza MacGuillicudy departed, Holmes remarked, \"I'm quite ravenous, Watson.\"\n\nI replied, \"No time for a fit breakfast. Speed is of the essence.\"\n\n\"What a time for my housekeeper to become sick.\"\n\nI replied, \"I looked in on Mrs. Hudson. It's not pneumonia but a bad case of the flu.\"\n\n\"So be it, Watson.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nWe soon were in a hansom and on our way. We were informed by young Eliza of the location of the victim, in the only decent Irish neighborhood in London, where she was employed in her uncle's restaurant temporarily. It was in that restaurant where her remains had been found. After the investigation, Holmes was to submit a report but we did not yet know to whom.\n\nHolmes still looked rather fit. Any attempt at sartorial success had been completely lost on him. His dark hair had thinned but a mere trifle. His necktie couldn't be more pitiful. His thin facial features, however, drew most peoples' attention. Not that I had much to boast about. Less, since I received my second letter from the London Medical Society concerning my careless manner of managing my medical practice.\n\nI asked my friend of many years, \"Is there any way Prince Henry can be censured for his behavior?\"\n\nHolmes replied, \"Not from his own kind. If the press were to discover Prince Henry's foul play, it may result in an unpleasant situation. People from many walks of life have long memories and a strong sense of propriety. The press is the only real threat.\"\n\nI remarked, \"One supposes the Prince is well aware there could be trouble but of such a minor nature, considering the deed, it must only be far from intimidating.\"\n\nHolmes gazed on me benignly. Then he said, \"I now understand the case fully and we shall no doubt do our part.\" Then he put his head back as if in a trance, and still no pipe. There were packaged cigarettes in his shirt pocket, however. On the positive side, I rarely had to escort him up the stairs to his bedroom anymore because of his foggy faculties.\n\nBoth Miss Eliza and Holmes fully understood the importance of hushing up the murder of Nellie Malone by the royal rake, just as I did. There was a bad seed in that young man. This Miss Malone was an attractive young woman, with beautiful blue eyes. She worked as a legal office clerk for a barrister, who, once retired, chose to close his office rather than sell it. She was filling time until some more suitable means of employment surfaced.\n\nDespite Holmes' behavior, the case was made that much simpler; today being Sunday. The newspapers didn't publish on Sunday. Instead, other than a skeleton crew, even their printing presses were shut down. Our Christmas blessing, bah, humbug.\n\nI buttoned up the top of my overcoat, as the raw, damp, cold settled in. We had travelled through a slum area but now were in a better district. The houses were an improvement and the passersby were better dressed and cleaner. That and fewer stray dogs and cats. Also, hardly any litter strewn about.\n\nOnce inside the restaurant, even with decent enough accoutrements, I could tell there was no heat on. It was cool but no dampness. There was a tall, slim, blond London bobby on the premises keeping a close watch . We introduced ourselves and when we asked, he said, \"No disturbances and even less bother, sirs.\"\n\nI asked, \"Any reporters?\"\n\nThe bobby replied, \"None, sir.\"\n\nHolmes asked, \"The remains then?\"\n\nThe bobby, Randolph Grover, replied, \"It's down in the basement, and well, very grotesque.\"\n\nI asked, \"In what way?\"\n\n\"The remains were found to be dismembered, sir.\"\n\n\"So I have been informed. Awful,\" was my reply.\n\nHolmes asked, \"Can you lead us down?\"\n\n\"If you would, sir, certainly.\"\n\nGrover lit an oil lantern and led the way. I followed behind Holmes making note of his barely pressed, brown trousers. My years as a doctor, I felt certain, had prepared me for what was to come next.\n\nWe went into the stores room. Then Holmes uttered, \"Oh, my God.\"\n\nI took a look and started to gag. Even in a hospital setting I had never seen anything as macabre or horrifying.\n\nSomething caught my eye a short moment later. I asked, \"What is that, Constable Grover or would you...well, of all....\"\n\nHe replied, \"I can answer you, sir, but because you are a man of medicine, you've likely digested it by now.\"\n\n\"Damn it!\"\n\n\"What is it, Watson?\" asked Holmes, \"And at what month?\"\n\n\"I believe it's time to brush up on my medical techniques.\" What I had just been looking at was a fetus.\n\nIn reply to Holmes' earlier question I said, \"The embryo is approaching its third month. Possibly eleven weeks in the womb.\"\n\n\"Then, as you can see, we have a beast on our hands. The law is powerless.\"\n\nI replied, \"Barbarism, Holmes. And the Prince was obviously aware of the pregnancy.\"\n\nGrover looked uncomfortable.\n\nHolmes declared, \"No murder weapon or other implements of brutality left behind. An act done by criminals of the most hard-core kind. An open-and-shut case with the scales of justice gone awry.\"\n\nI replied, \"There appears to be no redemption in sight. There is only evil here. Nellie will be mourned but nothing more.\"\n\nYoung Grover asked of Holmes, \"Is there at least an attempt at justice to be done? What is your plan?\"\n\nHolmes replied, \"No plan. This case is unsolvable and I shall say just that in my report.\"\n\n\"But why?\" I asked.\n\nHolmes replied, \"This brutal act was inspired by the devil and I'm not one to lock horns with the supernatural.\" The Great Detective's eyes were glittering with anger.\n\nWe then walked back up to the restaurant accompanied on our way by the sound of small scratchy feet on their way in to sample whatever they might.\n\n* * * *\n\nBack in the restaurant, an establishment called Morrissey's of Dingle Road, Holmes and I each found a chair. We sat at one of the tables and I soon adjusted my position to Holmes' long legs. Grover said, \"I'm just going to nose about the kitchen for a bit. I'm not expecting trouble and still no reporters that I was told to stay clear of. A most favorable omen.\"\n\nHolmes said, \"We shall await your nose.\"\n\nGrover replied, \"Yes, sir. I should inform you, late this afternoon, three men will be arriving to remove the remains of Miss Malone. That corpse I predict will never be seen again. Then two men will come here shortly after. They are not police and I am told not to interfere. The next part is the good one. They will pay you both a generous fee, in cash only.\"\n\nHolmes replied, \"We also were told what to expect.\"\n\n\"But why cash, Constable?\" I asked.\n\nGrover smiled and said, \"Harder to trace, sir.\"\n\nHolmes snorted and said, \"Were you expecting him to say something else, Watson?\"\n\n\"Come to think of it, not really.\"\n\n\"And what's the good news?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Well, generous pay, I presume.\"\n\n\"You presume not enough. The good news is Grover has gone into the kitchen and don't offer to do the cleanup.\"\n\n\"Indeed, no. However, I have been dreaming of a bowl of oatmeal all morning.\"\n\n\"First, here comes tea and sweet rolls.\"\n\nNot long after, I did get my oatmeal and Holmes was served eggs sunny side up with fried potatoes and an unbelievable four fat German sausages. We ate and felt much better.\n\nNellie's parents, apparently Catholic, would be thinking, likely as not, to hold a memorial service for her. Her life ended tragically and no one would ever know why.\n\nTime, however, was heavy on our hands. I walked up near the glass-front window. The window itself was unusual because it was divided into twenty twelve-inch-long panes of glass and just as wide. Each twelve-inch-long sheet of glass had its own frame, made out of what could be either walnut or mahogany brought up from the Caribbean. It was a nice effect as were the green-and-black place mats. As for Holmes, he seemed to be satisfied just to sit there.\n\nSuddenly a booming voice bellowed, \"Hear that Watson?\"\n\n\"Other than your voice, nothing, Holmes.\"\n\n\"Listen closely.\"\n\nIt took a few minutes and then I did hear something. I asked, \"What do you make it to be?\"\n\nHolmes replied, \"We are being approached by a carriage and the prince in question may be a passenger.\"\n\n\"How is that so evident? I see no indication of that.\"\n\nHolmes declared, \"There are four horses, all of them trotting in unison and hauling a luxurious coach behind them.\"\n\n\"I could see trotting to perfection, but the coach, how do you surmise it to be luxurious?\" I questioned Holmes.\n\nHolmes remarked, \"The horses are bearing a heavy load, not like a two-wheeled hansom. This coach has four wheels and is of the sturdiest construction.\"\n\nI replied, \"Therefore heavier and more expensive, which means high society may be approaching and noisily so, as you claim.\"\n\n\"Well done, Watson. Soon I shall be able to write the rest of my report and then doze silently.\"\n\nI asked, \"A tea first, Holmes?\"\n\n\"Yes, we must have tea and a chat and hopefully the young miscreant doesn't barge in to see us.\"\n\nThe carriage arrived, a most handsome rig. It was made of varnished wood with many layers of varnish well appliqued. The four horses were all black in color and were big and strong with excellent, well-trained behavior. All four of them were mares.\n\nThen a man's head leaned forward and looked out the window. It was not just any face we saw. I had steeled myself for this moment. Holmes, however, wasn't at all flustered. Looking out the carriage window at us was the murderer of the pretty, well-turned Nellie Malone.\n\nHe leered at us, then smiled in a most brazen manner. He was obviously a young man with no conscience and his soul had departed already and rested comfortably in hell. Looks-wise, his teeth had an abundance of enamel and were a brilliant white, in front of which were well-formed lips. A crown of luxuriant charcoal-colored hair topped off a strangely handsome face. His features, all were well-sculpted and one melded with the other. He was ensconced in a black silk cloak with a bright red lining. One supposes the cloak was to fend off the chilly afternoon air. I did wonder about the gaudy lining. I didn't quite fear for my life and my friend Sherlock Holmes' life just then, but I was sure he'd kill the both of us if we caused him any grief whatsoever. It was a frightening prospect, especially allowing for the remains of Miss Malone. Then he reached under his cloak and pulled out a gun!\n\nHolmes said, \"Don't flinch. Stay where you are.\"\n\nThe prince fondled the gun briefly. He stared at it intently and then put it away. It made for a nervous few minutes. However, we recovered from the threat.\n\nI asked, \"Since he didn't aim his revolver at us, Holmes, would it be a favorable portent?\"\n\nHolmes replied, \"Perchance, but what is more likely is he may have signified to us what is to be his next instrument of death.\"\n\n\"Then he's on a mad, hate-filled rage?\" I asked.\n\nHolmes adroitly remarked, \"He's engulfed in himself. His faulty mind tells him his actions are perfectly appropriate.\"\n\n\"You are suggesting he doesn't understand the difference between right and wrong?\"\n\nHolmes declared, \"You are approximately correct. There was no guidance in his life and he became a shallow young man, one with no empathy or feelings. Whatever his emotional range, they are all disturbed.\"\n\nCalmly seated next to him was a brunette young woman, slim and of some elegance and carefully attired in the best dress that London had to offer. Her shoes alone would cost me what I would make in a week practicing medicine.\n\nI observed that the woman was having trouble turning her head, followed by a bad cough. Her eyes were clouded, perhaps from insomnia.\n\nHolmes declared, \"Mark that woman, Watson. I am sure within all reasonable doubt that is Lucy Waters, the contralto whose fame has spread near and wide.\"\n\n\"I see. Quite the impossible gentleman friend, I must say. But she is coping nicely.\"\n\nNow the Prince and his contralto friend of the day, became engaged in a conversation. With one last look at Holmes and I and Constable Randolph Grover, the carriage departed. Miss Waters was coughing at the time and did seem to spit something up.\n\nBut the deed was done. Holmes took his seat, and I across from him, in-between his long slim legs. I was snug up against the table, my waistline was snug against my green tweed jacket, it having spread a couple of inches from my expanding girth. I made note not to fill my plate so much.\n\nHolmes started a short but heartfelt tirade. That was his way. Myself, I felt lonely somehow, and depressed. Holmes finished by saying, \"If I could be allowed to interrogate that horrid man, I'd tell him a few things about human decency. No doubt this was all his way of stating that our waitress, pretty and buxom as she was, with lovely blonde hair and blue eyes, beautiful even in death, was unfit to bear his child. Perchance he should have considered that matter earlier. Certainly he had his sport but did it have to end like this? Undoubtedly she was attracted to him but she soon found out about his second face. One could conjecture that she may have been deeply in love with him. Too late she realized he had a beastly streak in him.\"\n\nMercifully our tea arrived and a scone for each of us with a dish of marmalade.\n\nFinally, and I wasn't surprised, my companion lit up his first pipe of the day.\n\nHolmes closed his eyes and for but a brief second, I thought I saw a tear. He then finished off the scone and talked about the painful breaking apart of his home. His mother committed adultery and it was final. Holmes' father told him he could still wear his father's name. In another conversation during an investigation of a member of parliament representing the Leeds area, he had mentioned Sherlock was not his original first name. He then began to haul on his pipe furiously until the bowl was as red as the setting sun. I was now hearing his account of what started him on drugs. That story stayed the same from years previously when I had first heard it.\n\nA misdiagnosis by a doctor when Holmes was a young adult left Holmes in much pain. The doctor prescribed morphine for over a month and my friend developed a lifelong craving, one that seemed to be ending over the last ten months.\n\nI looked out at the sky just before dark and saw the clouds, one on top of the other spread thinly and in long parallel lines. On asking my learned friend, he told me it was a sign of a mild winter and early spring.\n\nI asked, \"Would you like more good news?\"\n\n\"I have little use for good news, Watson, but let's have it. Out with it, now.\"\n\nI said, \"I'm sure you remember the rather striking young contralto.\"\n\n\"Actually, I'm trying to forget.\"\n\n\"Then put this in your pipe and puff away.\"\n\n\"Oh, this I must hear,\" spoke Holmes.\n\nI sat upright and fixed my pale blue eyes exclusively on my friend of many years. I launched my commentary. \"You see, Holmes, Miss Waters had trouble turning her head in our direction. That could mean she's recently been inflicted with meningitis and either doesn't know, or she's not talking. Then came the bad cough and much spitting up. That is a sure sign of bacterial tuberculosis. Those tuberculosis germs are spread through the air. Both diseases are quite contagious. Now, one wonders if a small heaping lump of good old-fashioned justice is now about to happen.\"\n\n\"Amazing, Watson. However, both diseases can be treated. You will find that on page four of your official medical practice journal.\"\n\nI shrugged and said, \"Oh, well, but let us not forget he will go through a period of poor health. I should add the treatment isn't necessarily successful for either disease.\"\n\nHolmes' face was more relaxed and he was about to say something when our fine friend, young Grover, came by and said, \"It isn't much, but supper shan't be long.\"\n\nI asked, \"To what do we owe all this?\"\n\nGrover replied, \"I've long wanted a soft, yet interesting shift.\"\n\nHolmes declared, \"Good man.\"\n\nThen the three of us were caught by surprise. In walked three men, two carrying boxes and a few sheets of canvas. The other man carried a bucket and an array of cleaning supplies and a disinfectant. It was late enough in the day for darkness to have descended, in part.\n\nI couldn't help but smile. This ordeal was coming to the only conclusion possible.\n\nOne of the men (all three were dressed in typical ruffian's garb) said, \"We're here to spirit something away to a place where she'll never be found. Those are our orders, no matter what.\"\n\nI asked, \"You know your work then?\"\n\n\"So Scotland Yard now tells us. Not that I ever considered me to be on such good terms with 'em.\"\n\nHolmes asked, \"And the other reason then?\"\n\n\"Nifty packet, sor. The three of us.\"\n\nThey went down to the basement having received directions to the corpse's location from our bobby friend. They came up with the remains carefully packed up and discreetly loaded it on a wagon that had first transported them here. All done in a half an hour. Nellie Malone's history had just ended.\n\nWhen supper was over, I asked Grover, \"What now?\"\n\n\"Your pay should come soon, ever so discreetly.\"\n\nI stated, \"No matter what, Holmes. I'll try to negotiate more.\"\n\n\"Hardly necessary, Doctor, I'm sure.\"\n\nA few minutes later, a young man wearing a Tyrolean hat, with a short plume, came up the street aiming for the front door of the Morrissey. Another man with a cutthroat look about him jumped out from somewhere nearby at the young man. The young man in the meantime had pulled out a writing pad and pencil. Damn it, a reporter! Still, no corpse, no story, we hoped. He may have followed the Prince here. When he refused to leave, another man of anthropoid proportions added his weight to the discussion and the reporter left after the added threat. No wonder. The huge man had shoulders almost four-feet wide. I turned towards Holmes and said, \"Please, no more reporters. It would ruin things irreparably.\"\n\nFinally, in came two middle-aged, portly, well-dressed men, although the fellow with the green-and-white tie and light slacks was a little off center. The taller of the two with an impressive full-length beige overcoat said in a most excellent speaking voice, \"Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, one presumes?\"\n\n\"You have us and in our usual state,\" spoke Holmes.\n\nThen he gave me a most stern look. That was just as well. Not only were our fees most generous but there was a carriage at our disposal and we were free to go. Holmes did spend ten minutes passing on his take on this case. When Holmes commented on the gun, the improperly dressed officer remarked, \"That sounds like an accurate facet of the Prince's personality.\"\n\nMyself, I was most satisfied that the press had been successfully avoided.\n\nOnce out the door, Holmes suggested we had just been contacted by the British Secret Service. Then he asked, \"Did I ever tell you how I chanced to become a private detective?\"\n\n\"You did mutter something on the subject. As I recall, it was after we shook hands for the first time.\"\n\n\"What must I have said?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"As I recall, you were twenty-years old and through officially with your studies. It was just before your mother sent you a generous bank draft for four thousand pounds. But to the point, a woman asked you if you'd try to find her lost dog for her. She informed you that she would add just a bit to your pay if you found her missing husband as well.\"\n\n\"Then what?\" Holmes asked snappishly.\n\nI replied, \"It's been a long day. However, you found the husband sleeping it off on the floor of a nearby grog house. No real money in the husband but as you tried to sober him up, the dog came out of hiding. You went on to say it was the only job you had ever done, and you felt shortly after, since you were experienced at it, you would make it your chosen path. A one-day advertisement in a London daily newspaper announcing your new chosen path was all you needed to get your start. The quality of your sleuthing to this day has left you never short of clients.\"\n\n\"You know too much, Watson.\"\n\nI replied, \"There is no such thing as knowing too much.\"\n\n\"I should tell you, I still have most of my mother's money. It paid my first two months' rent on Baker Street. Father paid for my education and nothing more.\"\n\n\"As for me, Holmes, my family life wasn't even as decent as yours.\"\n\n\"I've long suspected as much. A least I talk of mine,\" Holmes added. \"To conclude, Watson, you and I were but a crown-owned insurance policy in this case. If this matter were to leak out, imagine the embarrassing headlines, the enormous gossip mill, also it would spread internationally. Then and only then would my investigation be of some use. The Queen's spokesman could easily and truly claim that I was hired to help the police to get to the bottom of this matter, no stone left unturned, as it were. It would have helped, but only if needed.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" I replied. \"I couldn't help but feel early on that the facts in this undertaking didn't quite add up. Nor does your one pipe for the entire day.\"\n\n\"Ah, thank you for the reminder. Perhaps I could offer you more payment?\" Holmes said with a wry grin.\n\nI shook my head and replied, \"If my medical license is suspended, I may need it.\"\n\n\"Ah, in that case, Watson, you can perhaps write this matter up under the title of 'The Case of the Indolent Doctor.'\"\nMURDER AT THE DIOGENES CLUB, by John L. French\n\nSherlock Homes stood alone in the room. The bodies had been removed but their presence was not needed. Standing in the center of the crime scene, he let it speak to him.\n\nThe first to die had been prone on his bed when the heavy weight crushed his skull. One blow was all it had taken. Two for the second man who had risen slightly before being struck. This one may have moaned or otherwise cried out for the third had been fully awake and sitting up when he met his end. It had taken at least three blows, no more than five, to put him down.\n\nIt was the blood patterns that told the story. Holmes surveyed the scene, taking in the stains on the walls and ceiling. Slight upward spatters over the first bed. Against the opposite wall, high over bed two, was blood cast off from the weapon as the murderer swung around. More upward-traveling spatter, this time at a slight angle. Holmes's eyes traced the trajectory determining at where the rising head would have been struck. Six inches, no more, off the thick pillow, on the side of the skull. It would have stunned him, no more. Cast off from the first blow above the pillow. Low angle spatter, some on the wall, most on the pillow, shows evidence of the second blow and final blow.\n\nThe third bed was against the far, outer wall, between two windows, one of which was broken. Holmes saw the action in his mind as if shown by Charles Jenkins's Phantoscope. The third man rising, awakened by the attack on his roommates. He pushes off his wool blanket, swings around, his feet on the floor, perhaps groggy from his awakening. The only light on this, the second story, comes from the moon through the window. Maybe he sees his killer, maybe not, before the weapon comes down on top of his skull.\n\nPausing his thoughts, Holmes checked his conclusion. Yes, spatter on the ceiling and some on the far wall. He went on.\n\nThe third man slumps. One, possibly two blows to the back of the head. Blood on the floor shows where he fell, face up, before one last strike finished him.\n\nSatisfied, Holmes nodded to himself then set about searching for what else the room could tell him, his keen eyes picking out tiny slivers of glass on the first bed and the pillow of the third. \"Curious,\" he said aloud, and walked over to the broken window, careful not to step on too many glass shards.\n\nBoth windows looked out onto an adjacent first floor roof, an easy entry point for a cracksman. There was little glass from the broken one on the roof. Most of it was on the floor inside. Using his magnifier, Holmes examined the stress marks caused by the breakage of the glass. As he expected, they indicated that the window had been broken from the outside.\n\nA spot of what was very probably blood on the wall near the window drew Holmes's attention. With magnifier still in hand, he bent to the floor to search for a mark that may or may not be there.\n\nThat's where he was when Dr. John Watson came into the room. \"Like a bloodhound on a scent,\" Watson thought, not for the first time. He knew enough not to interrupt Holmes while he was thus engaged, so he waited patiently until his friend was finished.\n\nSatisfied with his examination of the floor, Holmes straightened. \"Good afternoon, Watson. You've been to the morgue? You've viewed the bodies?\"\n\n\"As you requested, Holmes. After examination, it is my professional opinion that they were all killed with the same weapon, possibly a....\"\n\n\"Leaded walking stick,\" Holmes interrupted, \"wielded by a powerfully built left-handed man.\"\n\n\"Really, Holmes,\" Watson bristled. \"If you already knew, why send me to the morgue?\"\n\nThe detective smiled at his friend. \"I did not know this, Watson, when I asked you to assist me. It was not until I came here that the room told me most of what I need to know.\"\n\n\"And what it that, Holmes?\"\n\nStepping to the doorway where Watson was still standing, Holmes waved his hand in invitation. \"Ask it yourself. You know my methods. Apply them.\"\n\nWatson had grown used to these challenges from Holmes. He welcomed the opportunity to put his observational skills to the test. Although he seldom was able to match his friend's deductions, he believed that what he had learned from Holmes over the years had made him a better physician.\n\nLike Holmes had before him, Watson took a long, close look around the crime scene. \"The round red stain on the wall by the window,\" he said when he finished, \"you were looking for a mark on the floor when I came in. You found it and the two together suggested not only the type of weapon used but, from the length of the supposed cane, the height of its wielder.\"\n\nHolmes smiled. \"Very good, Watson. You are progressing. The length of, as you say, 'the supposed cane' suggests a man about five feet, nine inches tall. My retirement to Sussex now seems closer. What else?\"\n\n\"From the victims' injuries I could tell that their killer was left-handed. As for what told you...you did write that monograph on the analysis of blood stain patterns.\"\n\n\"One of the few of mine you have read,\" Holmes chided.\n\n\"I have little interest in bees, tattoos or polyphonic whatevers. But getting back to this crime, it would take someone powerful to kill three men with so few blows in so little time. The window?\"\n\n\"Definitely broken from the outside.\"\n\n\"Then what happened is, as you would say, elementary. A sneak thief out to burgle the building, broke a window on entry. On finding the room occupied, he panicked, killed the three of them and fled the room.\"\n\n\"Is that all, Watson?\"\n\n\"All that I can see, Holmes. Although I will allow that there may some small details that I missed that will lead you straight to the killer's lair.\"\n\n\"One or two, Watson, one or two. May I suggest that you look out the broken window.\"\n\nWatson did so, then turned to his friend. \"Shoemarks on the roof leading away from the window, consistent with the theory that that was the murderer's point of exit.\"\n\n\"You see nothing else?\"\n\n\"No I don't. Why, is there something else to see?\"\n\nHolmes joined the doctor at the window. \"No, there is not. Now if you'll excuse me,\" Holmes easily raised the lower sash, \"I wish to measure those shoemarks. I'll join you downstairs in the Strangers' Room when I have finished.\"\n\n\"As you wish. But really, Holmes, I do think the only mystery here is why the Diogenes Club would need your services for the simple murder of servants by a burglar, no matter how brutal.\"\n\nHolmes let out a sigh, one unheard by Watson, who had already left the room. \"Murder,\" he said softly to himself, \"is never simple. As for the victims being servants, I think not.\" Then as he climbed through the open sash, he sighed again. \"Sussex, I'm afraid, is still many years off.\"\n\nNo sooner had Watson seated himself in the Strangers' Room than he heard, \"He's in here, Mr. Holmes.\"\n\nOdd, the doctor thought, there were several shoemarks on the roof and Holmes would have measured them all. He could not have finished that fast.\n\nThen the light from the entrance hall was eclipsed by a large shape and Mycroft Holmes entered the room.\n\n\"Easily a seventh of a ton,\" Watson observed to himself, as he viewed the elder Holmes with his professional eye. Making his way across the room. Mycroft sat next to Watson, allowed a minute as if to make sure the chair would not collapse beneath him and greeted Watson with,\n\n\"I assure you, Doctor, that despite my size I am in near perfect health.\"\n\nUnperturbed by Mycroft's seeming to have read his thoughts, Holmes did it all the time, Watson countered, \"Except for a touch of gout, some shortness of breath and hypertension I would agree with you, Mr. Holmes. I'd suggest a change in diet, some exercise and a complete examination, but you are too much like your brother to take my advice.\"\n\nMycroft chuckled. Had he not been within the confines of his club he might have laughed out loud. \"Bravo, Doctor. Your association with my brother has done you good. If I ever decide to place my fate in the hands of medical science, you will be my first choice. And speaking of my brother, how did he come to be called into this situation?\"\n\n\"I had assumed you called him.\"\n\n\"Now why would I need Sherlock when I am every bit as...ah, it is your fault he is here.\"\n\n\"Mine, how is that, Mr. Holmes?\"\n\n\"Elementary. When the murders were discovered someone no doubt suggested sending for 'Mr. Holmes.' Thanks to your writings, it was my brother who was first thought of, despite this being more home to me than my own dwelling. Now then, tell me, if you can, what did Sherlock find?\"\n\n\"Just what I was meant to, Mycroft.\" Looking up, Watson saw his friend standing in the doorway. His pants were dirty, his coat dusty, his face scratched and his hair very much uncombed. Somewhere between the roof and the club's front door, Holmes had lost his hat. \"Is there someplace private we can talk? Possibly your first floor office?\"\n\n\"How did you know that I had...no matter, now that I think of it, it is obvious. Very well, come along, Sherlock.\" And after some hesitation added, \"You as well, Doctor, but let it be understood, this is not a matter for The Strand.\"\n\nAn Otis lift deprived Watson of a sight he had always wanted to see, Mycroft Holmes ascending a staircase. Once in his office, seated behind his desk in a chair that had to have been specially built for his comfort, Mycroft began by saying,\n\n\"You were not meant to find anything, Sherlock. The Yard was. Some of the brighter ones have begun employing your methods. It was, as I explained to Dr. Watson, mere chance that you were called in.\"\n\n\"And so the police viewed your staged scene and came to the same erroneous conclusion that Watson did?\"\n\n\"Precisely, brother. As we speak they are scouring the city for a murderous burglar. \"\n\nWatson sighed and asked, \"What did I miss this time?\"\n\n\"You missed nothing, Watson. Rather, you saw everything you were meant to see\u2014the bloodstains, broken window, shoemarks leading from the window, even the artfully placed signs of a possible weapon\u2014a distinct touch, that, Mycroft.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Sherlock.\"\n\n\"What you saw, Watson, but did not note was the glass in the bed of the first murdered man and on the pillow of the third. If the window was broken before the killings, it should not have been there. In addition, the noise from the breaking of the window would have been enough to awaken at least one of the three.\"\n\n\"But Holmes,\" Watson protested, \"you yourself stated that the window was broken from the outside.\"\n\n\"Indeed it was, Watson, by whomever my brother had exit the room through that portal, break the window then leave behind traces of his descent to the alley. Really, Mycroft, you should have had your man leave shoemarks in both directions. And by the way, the shoemarks on the roof indicated a taller man than did the marks from the cane.\"\n\n\"Some of us are not as familiar with scenes of crime as you are, brother. It was enough to fool Scotland Yard.\"\n\n\"Especially with you there to confirm their conclusions, brother.\"\n\nWatson spoke up. \"It's a pity then that someone called in the wrong Holmes, isn't it?\" To his friend Watson added an aside, \"That's what your brother conveyed to me.\" Then to both brothers, \"So if entry or exit was not by way of the roof, the murderer must be part of the Diogenes Club, either a member or servant. What is being done to find him?\"\n\nThe brothers looked at one another. \"Is he really that blind, Sherlock?\"\n\n\"Watson no doubt assumes that my appearance is from falling off the roof, or tripping in the alley.\"\n\n\"You have been known to do so, Holmes, when sufficiently distracted.\"\n\n\"Once only, Watson. Twice if you count the cataract.\"\n\n\"Three times. The last time was in that stable. You had to throw your cape away. So those dark stains on your trousers are....\"\n\n\"Blood, Watson, but not mine, I assure you.\" Addressing both the doctor and his brother Holmes went on. \"With Mycroft, then the police then me on the scene, it would have been foolhardy for the bludger to try and leave the building. He would only have drawn attention to himself. But I hope I am not being immodest by saying that with the both of us present he must have known that it was only a matter of time before he was exposed. It was his singular ill fortune to leave by the rear door as I was descending from the roof.\"\n\n\"I would think, Holmes, that his bad luck was in not realizing that you had no doubt surmised his continued presence in the Club and were prepared to wait all afternoon for his departure.\"\n\nNodding at Watson's compliment, which he did not bother to deny, Holmes continued. \"I saw right away that the man was of the proper height to have delivered the fatal blows. I approached, and even in the dim light of the alley I could see his bloodstained clothing. I threw him my hat, which he caught in his left hand. His game was up, mine had begun. After a brief but ultimately ineffective resistance,\" Holmes rubbed the scratches on his face, \"I subdued him. I left him bound in the alley with several of the kitchen help to watch him. No doubt the police, summoned on my order, have him by now.\"\n\n\"And on leaving here you will, of course, go straight to the Yard where you will explain that you used your great powers of observation to track the burglar from his own descent from the roof to his nearby hiding place, leaving out any mention of his being in the Diogenes Club.\"\n\n\"An order, brother?\" Holmes asked with one eyebrow raised.\n\nMycroft's hand raised in supplication. \"Let's call it a request.\"\n\n\"Why should Holmes lie to the police?\"\n\n\"It would not be the first time, Watson,\" the detective told his friend. \"And in this case a plausible lie is better than the truth.\"\n\n\"Which is, Holmes?\"\n\nHolmes looked at his brother, who nodded in permission, then replied. \"That an agent working for a foreign power gained access to the Club as a servant, waited his chance then assassinated three covert members of Her Majesty's overseas service.\"\n\n\"My word, Holmes! How did you...?\"\n\n\"The murder room, Watson. There were sparse furnishings, no personal effects and the bedclothes were of a higher quality than one gives to servants. Given my brother's elaborate charade and what we know of his true activities, what other conclusion could there be?\"\n\nA satisfied smile briefly crept over Mycroft's face. \"Well done, Sherlock. I trust that when you talk to the Yard you will do the right thing.\"\n\nReturning the smile, Holmes said, \"As always, brother.\"\n\n\"But what of the man Holmes took into custody?\" Watson asked. \"Will he not talk?\"\n\n\"That man, Doctor, plays the same game as do I. He will not talk, not to the police. Later, when agents of her Majesty's take custody of him, he will then be\u2014persuaded\u2014to talk. Then we will find out all he knows.\"\n\nWatson felt a sudden chill, one he knew came not from the temperature in the room but from within him. He arose, the proper English gentleman believing in justice, fair play and all that was right. He then asked the question he did not want to ask, hoping not to hear the answer he feared the most.\n\n\"I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you did not sacrifice three good men just to trap a foreign agent who may have vital information?\"\n\nIf Mycroft took offense at this query he did not show it. \"I assure you, Doctor, that I would never sacrifice good men for any reason.\"\n\nWas there a slight emphasis on the word \"good?\" Before Watson could decide Holmes had taken him by the arm. \"Come Watson, we've taken up enough of Mycroft's time.\"\n\nOnce on the streets of Pall Mall, Holmes said, \"It's me to the Yard and you, well, you must have patients.\"\n\nAs if letting other matters drop, Watson quipped, \"With you, Holmes, I need all the patience I can muster.\"\n\nIt was a few days later in their Baker Street lodgings that Watson said to Holmes, \"You never asked me why I thought the murdered men at the Diogenes Club were servants.\"\n\n\"I had not thought to ask,\" Holmes said calmly. He then smiled and in a close approximation of his friend's voice added, \"What did I miss this time?\"\n\n\"I saw the bodies, you did not. Their clothing had been removed but it was there, in a heap by the examination tables. It was of poor quality, servants' wear, not what the government would provide to trusted agents about to embark to the continent.\"\n\nWatson paused to give Holmes time to absorb this, then went on.\n\n\"As a matter of course, in my examination I noted lividity on all three bodies. While it was consistent with the position in which they would have been found, your description of events leaves little time for it to have occurred. And on reflection, I could not swear that the wounds I observed had not been made post-mortem.\"\n\nTheir roles somehow reversed, Holmes sat listening to Watson in surprise, thinking, \"So this is how it feels.\" He barely heard Watson as the doctor asked,\n\n\"Tell me, Holmes, were I to test the blood samples that I know you routinely take from scenes such as these, would they prove to be human? Or was the whole thing an even bigger charade than we have been led to believe?\"\n\nFor a time the detective sat silently, his fingers forming a tent in front of him. Just when Watson thought his friend was not going to answer, Holmes said,\n\n\"Pig's blood in bladders, I suspect. Easily obtained from the kitchen. Mycroft reads all my monographs and would have known what to do to achieve the desired results. The bodies he would have obtained from a charity hospital. Or from a burke, he would not be beyond that. Beaten, as you said, post-mortem. Had I been there to see the wounds Mycroft's scheme would have fallen through before it was hatched. Still, it was enough to fool the police. But not you, my friend, and for that you have my congratulations.\"\n\n\"But to what ends, Holmes?\"\n\n\"Wheels within wheels, Watson. Do you really think that a foreign agent could infiltrate the Diogenes Club without my brother being aware of his presence? A double agent, most likely. One of Mycroft's men seeming to work for the other side. Mycroft's position being mostly secret but not entirely unknown in certain circles, it is likely that the club was being watched by this foreign power. So we have three murders\u2014the police are called, bodies removed, 'The Great Sherlock Holmes' summoned.\" Holmes said this last with no little self-mockery. \"The so-called assassin arrested. His bona fides now in place, he can now be released to the other side in trade for one of ours. One of our agents freed and another in what is hoped a position of trust and confidence.\"\n\n\"And how can Mycroft be sure he can trust the man who is returned?\"\n\n\"Not for nothing is it called 'The Great Game,' one with deadly consequences and more moves than chess. Makes me glad I am but a simple consulting detective, one who deals with the more honest crimes of theft and murder.\"\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE NIGHT HUNTER, by Ralph E. Vaughan\n\nSherlock Holmes leaned back against the cool damp wall, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a shabby dark coat, chin resting upon his chest, eyes half-closed, a dirty merchantman's cap pulled low over his forehead.\n\nA thick yellowish fog swirled through the narrow, cobbled street, obscuring most of its gritty length. Holmes, however, did not rely on vision alone.\n\nSomewhere a gas lamp burned, but only its fitful sputtering and hissing gave it away, not its feeble illumination.\n\nNo footfalls broke the silence, for the inhabitants of London were cowering in their dwellings, whether those abodes were mean or palatial. Terror made all men equal.\n\nFor the past several nights, a killer had prowled the chartered streets of London, more wide-ranging than had been the Ripper of three decades back (though that creature was still fresh as new-spilt blood in Holmes' memory), and certainly more ferocious in his cutting, in his taking of trophies from the kill. This new terror that had come to the capitol of the world was of a nature never seen before, no respecter of place or position.\n\nBoth the titled and the untitled had fallen: the tradesman and laborer; the merchant and the moneyed wastrel; the lady returning from a West End theater and the grimy doxie wandering the East End's foul and lust-stained alleys\u2014none were safe from the predations of the faceless killer christened the \"Night Hunter\" by the fevered imaginations of the scribes of Fleet Street.\n\nNone were safe from his....\n\nNo, not a knife, Holmes thought. He had examined the wounds and the remains of the dead, and those cuts, those slashes that sliced through bone as easily as soft flesh had not been made by any blade he had ever seen; no knife had ever filleted skin from muscle so cleanly and effortlessly. Heads were usually taken, sometimes hands, sometimes suits of skin\u2014the detectives of New Scotland Yard still resisted what Holmes knew to be the truth, that those parts which had been taken had been taken as trophies, and that the appellation awarded by the gentlemen of Fleet Street was more correct than they knew.\n\nThe Home Secretary had dismissed Holmes' speculations, not because he did not believe, but because he refused to believe.\n\nOnce more, as was not unusual, Sherlock Holmes found himself on a solitary quest, separated from the other guardians of law and order by an intellect unfettered by the restraints of ignorance and banality.\n\nOnce again, Sherlock Holmes hunted a hunter.\n\nAnd this time the hunter was a hunter indeed.\n\nMaps were still strewn across his rooms on Baker Street, much to the continued consternation of Mrs. Hudson, the most put-upon and aggrieved landlady in all of London, maps marked not only with locations of murders, but with notations about each locale, analyses of such things as would never concern the regular police\u2014the air temperature and humidity, reports of unknown lights and sounds, the archaeological remains found beneath the current habitations, and the nature of each area's local geology, particularly the presence of \"lost\" rivers.\n\nYes, the hidden rivers of London which wound their ways through caverns and chambers unknown even to the city's sewer rats, two-legged as well as four.\n\nHolmes could hear the soft murmuring of one of London's lost rivers now, where he stood, an almost inaudible whisper in the wall he leaned against, a persistent ripple beneath his feet.\n\n\"I don't see what you are getting at, Holmes,\" Professor Edward Challenger had remarked after examining the results of Holmes' research three days earlier. \"Are you tracking a man or an animal?\"\n\n\"Neither, I think,\" Holmes had replied. \"The basic mistake made by the great minds at Scotland Yard and the Home Office is that they are looking at this outbreak of violence and murder as nothing more than another expression of rage and frustration by someone of the lower classes.\"\n\n\"Preposterous!\" Professor Challenger exclaimed. \"I examined many victims myself; those wounds were no more made by a man's hand than they were by an animal's tooth or claw.\"\n\n\"Obviously not an animal,\" Holmes agreed, \"else I might have asked for the temporary release of Colonel Moran.\"\n\n\"But I thought he was....\"\n\n\"No, not hanged, quite unfortunately,\" Holmes replied grimly. \"Despite my best efforts, and the testimonies of both Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade, the Crown Prosecutor declined to seek the rope.\" Holmes shook his head. \"Too many nervous people in high places want his silence held; evidently, when Professor Moriarty vanished from the scene, Colonel Sebastian Moran became heir to much valuable information, and thus the Colonel retains a grip on life.\"\n\n\"Big game hunter, was he?\"\n\n\"The best of the lot when it came to the animal kingdom, and most of the human realm.\" Holmes uttered a rare soft chuckle. \"But not all.\"\n\n\"So,\" Challenger asked, \"if not a man and not a beast, then what?\"\n\n\"So-called common sense gives no answer, and must yield to logical deduction,\" Holmes replied. \"When you have eliminated all possible answers, whatever remains, however outlandish it may seem, must be the answer.\"\n\n\"Not a man, not a beast?\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" Holmes declared, \"and nothing of the spirit world, for we need not enter the realm of djinnes and demons, ghosts and ghouls to account for these murders.\"\n\n\"But still not of this world? Are you mad, Holmes?\"\n\nHolmes smiled. \"Not at all, my dear Challenger. The Earth is one world in the heavens. Astronomy may not be one of my strengths, but if one world exists, then others must as well, for nothing in nature exists as a singularity...present company excepted, of course. And if life exists here, logic dictates it must exist elsewhere, some at levels much more primitive than known on Earth; by the same reasoning, however, it stands there must also be worlds unknown where there exist cultures that are as far in advance of our own as we are to the savages of the Pacific islands or the aboriginals of Australia.\"\n\n\"And, as we know all too well, Holmes, the more advanced the civilization\u2014\"\n\n\"The more efficient the methods of killing.\"\n\n\"It appears a very efficient and ruthless hunter has come to London Town,\" Challenger remarked.\n\nIn the three days that elapsed since that meeting of the minds, Holmes and Challenger had searched for patterns in violence; additionally, since they now had a working theory, albeit unconventional, they also considered reports and events which the police would never connect to the murder spree. And that investigation had led the two of them to the East End of London, not far from the River Thames, quite near a blood-stenched slaughterhouse, and the murmur of waters which had flowed atop during the time of the Roman legionnaires.\n\nA bell tolled through the night, its leaden tones muffled by distance and blinding fog. There was no certainty the Night Hunter would come this way tonight, but in the absence of certitude even Sherlock Holmes, whose mind functioned as coldly and keenly as a mathematical engine, could grasp at probabilities.\n\nWhen the last tone faded to silence, Holmes realized another sound had joined the soft background noises, but this was not the murmuring of rivers lost or found, not the whisper of breezes in the city canyons. Something moved in the darkness, cloaked by the choking London fog, something not far away.\n\nIt was not Challenger, Holmes knew, for he was stationed a bit closer to the slaughterhouse.\n\n\"Up to a night of fun, dearie?\"\n\nThe voice was soft, sibilant and close by, but no form could be attached to the words. Another unfortunate abroad in the haunted night, forced to travel the mean streets of the metropolis by a desperation that trumped fear.\n\nAnother lady of negotiable affection.\n\nHolmes started to speak to the voice in the darkness, but held silent. There was something very odd about the intonation, about the cadence, about the timbre. Sherlock Holmes knew more about human speech than any man in London, except, perhaps, old Higgens, of course, and there was something about the voice in the fog that did not sit right with him.\n\nIt appeared the be the voice of a woman, and yet it was not. Holmes was a consummate actor and adept at disguise; in his time, there had been a few occasions when he had not only disguised his features and nationality, as he did this night, but his gender as well. It was easy to play the part of a woman, as long as one did not speak. It was one thing for a woman to pretend to manhood and confidently say, \"Good evening, Mr. Holmes,\" in passing, but it was quite another thing entirely for a man to attempt the same, much less to carry it off. And this did not seem to be a man voicing a woman...more what Holmes would expect from a high-quality wax cylinder, an approximation of fidelity, but no more than a facsimile.\n\nSomething paused in the night, as if sizing up Holmes despite the fog cover, as if the eyes of the intruder could pierce the night.\n\nHolmes stealthily raised the muzzle of his weapon in his coat pocket, aiming by every sense except sight.\n\nSome predator sought prey under the cover of night, something that was neither man nor beast. Its predations, though, had not brought it to prey, but to another hunter, a hunter who also sought the most cunning quarry, a hunter old in the most dangerous game.\n\n\"Are you looking for me?\" Sherlock Holmes murmured.\n\n\"Are you looking for me?\" hissed the night.\n\nHolmes' eyes narrowed and he lifted his sharp chin from his chest, his height revealing itself as his muscles tensed like iron cords. As he emerged from the persona of a drunken Lascar, he noted three red dots of light precisely over his heart. Instantly, without pausing for thought or analysis, Holmes dropped and rolled across the hard filthy cobbles, his revolver appearing with the suddenness of an Indian cobra.\n\nAs Holmes moved, reddish pellets of light burst from a height just over six feet above the ground, but it was such a light as the detective had never before seen, unlike any ever produced by lantern or even the artificer's electric coil. Where the unearthly beam struck, the wall exploded outward, silence shattered, molten fragments erupted, dust roiled, and the force of the explosion for a moment pushed back the wall of yellowish London fog.\n\nIn that moment, Sherlock Holmes fired his weapon three times, guided by a glimpse of a vague shape shimmering in the mist, as if the mist itself had tried to congeal into a form, not man-shaped, but one that was a travesty, a mockery of that image which was created to be crowned with honor and glory; no, this had the seeming of a being of diabolical proportions.\n\nTwo of the rounds from Holmes' revolver struck mid-mass, thunking with the solidity of lead slugs slamming against a beef carcass.\n\nThe third bullet hit somewhat higher, about the same place where the strange pellets of light had emanated. Immediately, something exploded, flares of energy arced upward and out; flames burst to life. In the glare, the vague shape shimmered into firmness. Sherlock Holmes, who had seen so many strange things in his life that he at times considered himself totally jaded to the grotesque, at times considered returning to the sublime oblivion of the seven-per-cent solution, was actually startled.\n\nThe being was neither human nor animal, but seemed a parody of both.\n\nIt was huge, nearly seven feet in height, massively muscled, more that thirty stone in weight, wearing some sort of metallic armor and mask, with oily coils of hair flowing from under the helm like black venomous serpents. The breastplate was covered with a kind of netting, and affixed to it were skulls of various sizes and types, including one that could have been a chimpanzee or small human. Trophies. Arcs of silvery lightning rippled across the body armor, and for a long moment the creature seemed to shift between visibility and invisibility.\n\nSherlock Holmes smiled thinly.\n\nThe being, this predator that hunted through nighttime London, was neither god nor demon; obviously it was better armed than would have been its human counterpart, and the industry of mechanical genius had given it fearsome tools of destruction and subterfuge, but it was subject to the same sort of technological failures that cost the lives of men in sport and upon the field of battle.\n\nIts clawed hands ripped the blazing weapon from its shoulder and flung it in Holmes' direction, deflecting a fourth shot from his revolver.\n\nHolmes aimed at the onrushing beast.\n\nThe revolver jammed.\n\nThe hunter surged toward Holmes, taloned hands ready to flay flesh from bone, to add the skull of a certain consulting detective to its trophy room.\n\nSherlock Holmes did not avert his gaze.\n\nHe stared at the black polished eyes behind the mask.\n\nThunder shattered the night.\n\nThe hunter staggered back, armor pealed open to reveal tattered flesh and spouting streams of phosphorescent green blood.\n\nA strong hand grabbed Holmes' arm and helped him scramble up; he cleared his weapon and out the corners of his eyes saw the hunter fall to its knees.\n\n\"Challenger!\"\n\n\"What is it, Holmes?\"\n\nProfessor Edward Challenger could not take his gaze from the beast. Cradled in his arms was the .577 Nitro Express rifle he had insisted upon bringing, upon keeping in the urban blind he and Holmes had prepared before the fall of darkness.\n\n\"Our Night Hunter,\" Holmes replied.\n\n\"Where on earth\u2014?\"\n\n\"Not of this Earth,\" Holmes murmured, unable to keep a measure of satisfaction from his voice.\n\n\"Holmes!\" Challenger cried, pointing.\n\nThe creature started to rise, then fell forward, rolling onto its back. The two men approached the carcass, Challenger with his elephant rifle at the ready.\n\nHolmes kneeled, pulled several small connections from the mask, each releasing a hiss of foetid pressurized gas, then slipped the long fingers of his left hand beneath the edge of the mask; his other hand held the revolver point blank to what should have been the creature's throat. The mask unlocked with a solid click, then came away.\n\n\"Good God!\" Challenger exclaimed. \"What a monster!\"\n\nA monster it was indeed, with a face straight from an opium nightmare, less flesh and more like the carapace of a crab, having a mouth gorged with fangs but hinged to open from side-to-side, opposite the motion of a human mouth.\n\n\"It breathes still,\" Holmes said.\n\nChallenger brought the elephant rifle to bear.\n\n\"We must bind it so\u2014\"\n\nHolmes' sentiment remained unstated. The beast erupted into motion. It pushed Holmes away but not before Holmes discharged his revolver. The aim was spoiled, however, and what should have been a killing shot became a deep graze; the greenish ichor that passed for the hunter's blood spouted across the cobbles. The roar of Challenger's Nitro Express shattered the night, but the huge shell went wide, and by the time the explorer had chambered another, the hunter was fleeing into the night.\n\nHolmes and Challenger gave chase.\n\nA clang sounded hollowly.\n\n\"Into the sewers,\" Challenger muttered grimly.\n\n\"To the underground river that empties into the Thames,\" Holmes explained.\n\nChallenger merely nodded.\n\nThey found a ragged opening in a narrow alley between two buildings where an iron grate had been frenziedly ripped away.\n\nHolmes and Challenger dropped into the darkness without hesitation, following thudding footfalls and a trail of glowing green blood.\n\nA break in the brick sewer wall led to unknown regions, and the men followed.\n\nIn its time, this strange being had hunted the citizens of London, taking trophies as a man might take a tiger's skin for a rug or a head to adorn a space above a mantle, but now it was the hunted. In hunting man, it had not possessed the advantage that man has over the beasts of the jungle, for man was a thinking animal, a reasoning beast; lacking claws and fangs and speed, man had bested the primordial creatures that would have devoured him by reason of his cunning mind, and history had repeated itself here in the capitol of the world.\n\nSuddenly, in that stygian world where a river now flowed unknown, a strange noise sounded, a whining sound that betoke raw power and yet was unlike any sound of propulsion made by the machines of humanity. Simultaneously a bluish illumination flooded the underground chambers. As they entered a cavern very close to the river they saw a machine resting in a large expanse of muddy water, the source of the light and sound, reflected in the water's surface.\n\nA hatchway closed, but not before Holmes and Challenger saw the outlandish form of the hunter, had one last chance to fire their weapons. The hunter fell within, the hatch slid into place, and the engines of the convoluted craft flared to life.\n\nHolmes dove downward into the mud and water, taking Challenger with him. They felt heat blast over them, heard the shattering of brick and mortar.\n\nThey leaped to their feet when the heat vanished and ran to the opening created by the craft ramming through.\n\nFor an instant, they saw a manta-like ship nearly skimming the black river's surface, its blue flames reflected by obsidian waters. Then it soared abruptly upward, vanishing into the murky, misty night. Silence surged softly back and soon they heard nothing but the lapping of water against quays and men involved in ancient maritime enterprises.\n\n\"Damn,\" Challenger muttered after a few moments.\n\n\"What is it, Challenger?\"\n\n\"Damn, but that head would have made a good trophy above my fireplace,\" he explained, tilting his head and giving his friend a wry smile. \"I doubt I shall ever have a chance to take that again.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, Challenger,\" Sherlock Holmes countered as they turned and started away. \"I have every confidence that you will.\"\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE DEVIL'S FATHER, by Morris Hershman\n\nFame, as my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes occasionally insisted, is the destroyer of function. Let a man be recognized among the general public, Holmes might add pensively, and it promptly becomes impossible to proceed about his business, particularly that of pursuing the craft of detection, a fate which for his part he claimed he owned entirely to the accounts which I had indicated about certain of his cases.\n\nHolmes happened to be holding forth in this vein on a chill pre-Christmas afternoon at our quarters in Baker Street when he suddenly halted himself almost in mid-sentence.\n\n\"I can relieve your mind, Watson, by informing you that the man you expect to join us will be arriving very shortly.\"\n\n\"Holmes, is this black magic on your part? How could you possibly know what is on my mind?\"\n\n\"It is absurdly elementary, my dear fellow. You are continually looking at the door and then examining the face of the turnip watch you wear.\"\n\n\"Could I not be expecting a woman to join us?\"\n\n\"In that case, you would be dressed far more like a bird showing off its plumage.\"\n\n\"And how do you know that the man will arrive 'very shortly'?\"\n\n\"Because a glance out the window shows a florid-faced and worried looking gentleman (with much military experience in his past, I'll be bound!) halting before our premises and looking at the exterior. Someday I must compose a monograph about the effects of anticipation on the reasoning processes.\"\n\nBefore I could apologize for not having spoken about the impending visitation, Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, was ushering a new arrival into our premises.\n\nI said, \"This is Colonel Phineas Warburton, late of Her Majesty's Service, whom I knew in Afghanistan.\" Indeed, he had been among the first to reach me when that infernal Jezail bullet I still carry had penetrated my flesh. \"We recently encountered each other in the Strand, and he asked to consult you.\"\n\n\"Let us hope that your problem is of interest, Colonel Warburton. Pray be seated and make your statement.\"\n\n\"I'll get right to the point. I have a son, Mr. Holmes, adopted as a baby by my late wife and myself shortly before a fever carried her off. I was left to raise Trevor, but my duty so occupied me that I couldn't be the best of fathers. Trevor, in a sense, raised himself.\"\n\n\"An elder's duty has warped more children than the basest of crimes,\" Holmes observed. \"Please continue, Colonel.\"\n\n\"Trevor married and was soon in need of funds. No part of my pension would have sufficed to help sufficiently. Not long after his marriage to Violet. I was horrified to learn that my son had illegally invaded the premises of a jeweler in Hatton Gardens to commit theft. With his revolver he fired at a drawer containing valuables and opened it.\"\n\n\"Mr. Trevor Warburton's impatience could dispose him toward further violence.\"\n\n\"It is that possibility, Mr. Holmes, which brings me to ask for help. You see, Trevor was captured and convicted for his crime. He is to be released from Dartmoor on a day not yet determined, but within the week, and has written me that he intends returning to Surrey.\"\n\n\"Where, I presume, he has lived with his wife.\"\n\n\"They rent a cottage in the village of Casshire.\"\n\n\"And you feel that he may be tempted once again into the commission of a crime.\"\n\n\"Tempted into violence is how I must put it. Trevor has previously written that he feels strongly about an extravagant wife having argued him into taking draconian measures to support her. It grieves and shames me to say that I greatly fear possible consequences of his anger at Violet, whether or not justified. He might perpetrate an even greater\u2014ah, indiscretion, than in the past.\"\n\n\"Hm! I must tell you, sir, that I appreciate the difficulty but am not aware of any way in which I must help.\"\n\n\"I dreaded as much, Mr. Holmes, but there may be one solution to this hellish difficulty. If my son is told by so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes that he will be watched as closely as a dealer in a gambling hell to prevent any misstep, it may be enough to keep Trevor law-abiding from then on.\"\n\nHolmes looked displeased. \"It is not gratifying to confront a commission in which my fa\u00e7ade as pictured by Watson, is wanted rather than my hard-won skills as a consulting investigator. You will be aware, though, Colonel, that I can be strongly moved by the task of preventing crime.\"\n\n\"You will not find me ungrateful for your help, Holmes.\"\n\n\"Our good landlady, Mrs. Hudson, will certainly be pleased to hear as much,\" Holmes said dryly, rising. \"I take it that you remain in London at least till the matter can be apparently resolved. Where can you be reached? The Albany? Capital?\"\n\n* * * *\n\nHolmes spent the balance of the daylight hours wrapped in thick coils of silence, rather than bestirring himself to arrange a prison interview with Warburton's devil of a son. He sat staring wordlessly at our bullet-pocked walls, his eyes half-shut, an unlighted meerschaum planted between his lips.\n\nI said peevishly, \"Sitting immobile for hours will not prevent a woman's being battered, or worse, murdered.\"\n\n\"Without evidence or the means to procure it, I do not yet know how to proceed.\"\n\nAware that I was on the threshold of an argument at a difficult time, I descended instead to the street to take the wintry London evening air. Returning not long after, I was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson near the stairs, evidently awaiting me.\n\n\"Mr. Holmes told me to let you know that he has left until tomorrow midday, Doctor.\"\n\nAt least Holmes was about to give that wicked young Warburton the sort of talking to that had been richly earned. Holmes was not too late to prevent a horrid crime.\n\n* * * *\n\nHolmes did not reappear into the breakfast hour. A telegram from Warburton was delivered, inquiring about the current status of the matter he had placed before us. After some thought I wrote out a telegram to the effect that all was proceeding satisfactorily. Having signed my friend's name to the concoction. I requested our page-boy to drop it off at the appropriate location.\n\nAs for the remainder of that morning and into the early afternoon, I hardly recall it. The fire was burning in our grate, adding warmth to the winter day, and I very much fear I dozed off. Suffice it to say that I knew nothing more until my ears made out a sound nearby and I forced both eyes open.\n\n\"Just a moment, my good man,\" I snapped to the scruffy stranger who had invaded our quarters. \"Did you receive an appointment to meet with Mr. Holmes at this time?\"\n\nWhereupon I was astonished to hear a familiar chuckle issuing from that intruder's parched lips.\n\n\"You are ever loyal, Watson, the blessed British bulldog of the life,\" said Sherlock Holmes. \"The blame for my outr\u00e9 wardrobe lies at your door, you having published such accounts of my work as to make it far more difficult for me to accomplish in everyday clothes, as I have often explained.\"\n\n\"Spare me, Holmes.\"\n\n\"To business, then. I was unable to visit Dartmoor, the trains to the area not running because of the recent snow and the current icy weather.\"\n\n\"What have you been doing?\"\n\n\"I hiked myself to Surrey and the village of Casshire, where I repaired to the Pipe and Shag, as the local pub is rather felicitously named.\"\n\n\"Ah! You wanted to question various residents without seeming to do so.\"\n\n\"Bravo, Watson! Your capacity for logical deduction grows apace, I am happy to hear. Yes, in my disguise, it seemed to me that the natives would talk easily about young Warburton. I found several who were happy to indulge in that supposedly feminine sport of gossip. It seems that the young Warburton\u2014had fared badly as far as obtaining the needful was concerned. The young man attempted to find means of honest employment in London and elsewhere, but was thwarted at every turn. He had made application to serve in Her Majesty's forces when the crime took place with its grim aftermath.\"\n\n\"How has Mrs. Warburton lived while her husband was detained at Her Majesty's pleasure?\"\n\n\"There, Watson, you have put an unerring finger on a point of great interest. It would appear that Mrs. Warburton has inherited money from her late mother's will. An adequate stipend for two will shortly be arriving on the first of the month and into the foreseeable future.\"\n\n\"One hopes it will be enough to save her from possible unpleasantness at her husband's hands,\" I said. \"He has been imprisoned while she, at liberty, has a newly gained income. Is it possible he feels no regrets? That he can persuade himself she was not to blame? Is it possible? Is it likely?\"\n\n\"I have taken a step to prevent the worst, if only a small step,\" Holmes responded. \"After an overnight stay in Surrey, I met with Violet Warburton, introducing myself correctly. She understood the necessity for my garish costume without referring to it, a young woman who thinks before speaking. Cautious, obviously, with no bent for risk, which may be quite fortunate in the situation that confronts us.\"\n\n\"Did you tell her of the possible difficulty?\"\n\n\"I did indeed. Violet Warburton loyally refuses to believe that her husband committed the crime for which he was detained, or that he might do her some mischief. She was familiar with my reputation, so she gave me her word that she would be cautious in dealing with her husband and to allow no stranger into her home for the near future. She promised to inform the local constabulary with no delay if any difficulty occurs along those lines. As the trait of caution is part of the young woman's disposition. I accept her word.\"\n\n\"In other words,\" I said, suddenly triumphant despite the current strains, \"she was familiar with your reputation which enabled you to gain her consent, because of the 'sensational' accounts I have caused to be published about your many achievements.\"\n\n\"A touch, Watson, distinctly a touch!\" My friend's hearty chuckle was lost in the search for a stubby pen and paper on his cluttered desk. \"I am writing to the principal warder of Dartmoor, a bit belatedly, asking when Trevor Warburton is to be released. Then, my dear Watson, you and I will take a hand in the game.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nIn the next hours Holmes beguiled himself by adding cuttings from the newspapers to his various volumes about criminal cases in the length and breadth of Empire. This chore concluded, he favored me with several sentimental German Christmas lieder skillfully rendered on his violin. I was breathing deeply in pleasure when a reply came to his recent telegram. Holmes was suddenly galvanized.\n\n\"Trevor Warburton was released from Dartmoor early this morning.\"\n\n\"He will have returned to his wife before you can warn him to restrain from further violent impulses!\"\n\n\"An immediate trip must be made to Casshire. It is dark now and dirty deeds blend invisibly into the sheath of darkness.\" He reached for a timetable. \"Dress quickly, Watson! Your company will keep strangers from noticing my undisguised presence.\"\n\n\"Shall I take a revolver?\"\n\n\"There is less chance of mishap if we bring sticks, and I expect further assistance from the full moon.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nOur train was approaching the snow-tipped chalk downs of Surrey before it occurred to me to regret that my army friend had not been asked to join us. I said as much.\n\n\"There is no reason to think that the colonel would like what he might have to witness, Watson. In this matter, even if in no other, circumstances may have conspired for the best.\"\n\nMy further desultory efforts at conversation were met with silence. Holmes was straining to see through the once spotless windows at our sides. He jumped to his feet shortly after we saw the ice-tipped River Way looking like a blue knife in a blancmange. I joined him as the train let us off in the appropriate village, which was no different in external appearance from many others I had seen.\n\n\"The local will serve as a rough compass needle pointing north.\" So saying, he set off down the High Street, stick at the ready, eyes squinting straight ahead. I found myself several steps behind no matter how hard I struggled to catch up.\n\nDespite my having been of assistance to him\u2014or perhaps I flatter myself\u2014in a number of cases. I never did become used to the lightning quickness with which my friend could act. When he whirled about to urge me by a gesture to walk more silently, I was so taken by surprise that several seconds passed before I was able to do his bidding. I was at my usual two-three paces behind when he halted and raised one hand to keep me from moving straight ahead.\n\n\"Behind that tree,\" he whispered.\n\nHolmes' face was hard, as if contemplating an enemy, eyes narrowed, lips taut against each other. Most surprising of all he had gripped his stick so tightly that the moon's light gave those taut knuckles a semblance of fury.\n\n\"Do you think that Trevor Warburton has arrived?\" I asked, careful to keep my voice low.\n\n\"No,\" Holmes returned. \"Every room but the parlor is dark, and those who live alone are proverbially sparing of light.\"\n\nThe full moon shortly enabled me to see a male approaching the Warburton door, his back toward us. Warburton's devil of an adopted son, I felt sure, was walking along grounds he knew. A sturdy devil, he looked.\n\nI turned to Holmes for guidance and received a shock when he pointed firmly back to the unfolding drama before us. A woman's footsteps eagerly approached the other side of the door as the new arrival knocked imperiously.\n\nThere was a pause, and then along the brisk night air, it was possible to hear a slurred and almost gravelly voice.\n\n\"It is I, Trevor.\"\n\nNo movement could be heard from the other side of the door.\n\nHolmes, already in motion, called back to me, \"Now, Watson!\"\n\nEven as Holmes raced to the door, myself only a step back, Trevor Warburton's body thundered against it, striking at the correct angle to force it open. He had shown a devastating lack of caution by not hearing or paying attention to Holmes. The full moon let a cone of light over his broad back into the large room.\n\nHolmes had raised the stick and connected solidly with the man's form. The man grunted and showed a revolver which was promptly knocked out of his nerveless hand. He suddenly staggered, having taken a total of ten steps into the room, then fell back to the floor.\n\nOnly now that Holmes had prevailed did I turn to the woman. Blood marked a cheek where she had surely been struck in the seconds that the villain had been able to do what he wished. She was pluckily recovering her balance before I started to attend her.\n\nThat done, I looked down at the monster writhing at our feet and received one of the most profound shocks of my life. For I was staring not at the youthful Trevor Warburton, but at Trevor's adopted father, my army friend, Colonel Phineas Warburton.\n\n* * * *\n\n\"The criminal himself made me suspicious of his villainy,\" Holmes observed on the morning train back to London. \"In speaking to us at Baker Street, he offered a jarring simile about a dealer in a gambling hell, you recall, while discussing a matter in which the prime factor was a lack of money. It caused me to view other aspects of his story in a different light, and to wonder whether he himself was afflicted with a shortage of the necessary.\"\n\n\"And he was?\"\n\n\"Indeed, yes. I was able to learn the truth in the briefest time by making contact with my brother, whose acquaintance you have made over the years. To a far greater extent than myself, Mycroft knows everything about potential scandals of any interest. Truly, he is the Debrett's of the disreputable. He provided me with the information that Warburton had been on the ropes, financially, for quite awhile, and staving off discovery by the skin of his teeth.\"\n\n\"I can hardly believe that Phineas Warburton acquired gambling debts that drove him to steal his son's revolver some years ago and commit a robbery, then say nothing when Trevor was sent to prison in his stead.\"\n\n\"The colonel's confession freely given, even boastfully given for some reason, must force you to accept those facts, Watson, as well as the horror that followed. Learning that his daughter-in-law had inherited enough to solve his difficulty he decided to take that money for himself by lying, cheating, and committing a base murder which could involve exposing another human being to a judicial sentence of hanging.\"\n\nI nodded sadly, well aware from his jaunty confession that Phineas Warburton had lied, among other things, about Trevor's feelings for his young wife. Later, he had urged Trevor to spend a few restful hours in London upon his release from imprisonment, promising to telegraph Violet Warburton with the good news that her husband was free. Of course he had done nothing of the sort.\n\nWhen the young man finally rested, the colonel felt able to wreak fatal mischief that would be laid at the door of the luckless younger man. If Mrs. Warburton hadn't failed to accept the colonel's claim of identity as Trevor in those last moments, he would have been entirely successful, inheriting the dead daughter-in-law's money from Trevor's estate after the latter had been hanged.\n\n\"Couldn't he have thrown himself at the mercy of the young people and borrowed a considerable portion of the money that he needed?\"\n\n\"He lacked enough judgment to consider doing so,\" Holmes tapped his own forehead as if to say that the man's faculties had been impaired by greed.\n\n\"I fear, after having seen him, that the matter may be more tragic than you believe, Holmes. Warburton's reason may have been shaken to the foundations by his many reverses, and he may never leave an institution for the\u2014the insane.\"\n\n\"Your apprehensions could be wholly justified, Watson, but Warburton's stay cannot be without an end. Everything in this span of our lives is pro tempore, old fellow, for we begin afresh after we leave this first plane of existence.\"\n\nI introduced to this notice the problem of Colonel Warburton's madness.\n\n\u2014A. Conan Doyle,\n\n\"The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb\"\nA MEMO FROM INSPECTOR LESTRADE, by Marvin Kaye\n\nThose who have faithfully read Dr. Watson's many accounts of Mr. Holmes' adventures and exploits may wonder that I begin this piece with a reference to Dr. Watson as my old friend. My appearances, of course, in various of his compositions are restricted to the details of those investigations. But in my ongoing involvement with Holmes, I swiftly apperceived Dr. Watson as one of the kindest gentlemen I have ever met. In the earlier years, we had no occasion to interact socially, but when I learned that Sherlock Holmes had supposedly died at Reichenbach Falls, I paid Dr. Watson a visit to offer my condolences. Both touched and grateful, he poured us two generous measures of brandy and proposed a toast. I lifted my glass and with heart-felt sympathy drank to Holmes' memory.\n\nIt is true that Holmes was a trial to me at times, but for all his unorthodox modes of investigation, his ratiocinative abilities were formidable, and I freely acknowledge (at least now) that it was a privilege to work with him. But work, you see, always defined our relationship, whereas Dr. Watson's affability, humor, and his skill as a raconteur made him a splendid companion to sit by a fireside and share a wee dram with.\n\nI saw less of the doctor after the astonishing return of Sherlock Holmes, but on one occasion, all three of us were brought together when I sought assistance on a purely personal matter. I am grateful to have this opportunity to tell about it, and to thank Mr. Holmes through the aegis of this public forum.\n\n* * * *\n\nThe year prior to my retirement was less demanding than I was accustomed to; I was relegated to a desk job, and a younger officer was assigned to duties that I suspected were now considered too taxing for my accumulated years. My wife, at least, was pleased, and for two reasons: first, I was less at risk; second, my hours were now much more regular, which resulted in my being able to spend more time at home.\n\nIt was this second reason that prompted me to seek membership in the Nonpareil Club. This was a gentleman's establishment a short distance from Holmes' Baker Street quarters. The geographic proximity proved fortuitous, though that never would have occurred to me had not the club extended its hospitality to one Colonel Barton P. Upwood, a person who soon earned the disfavor of the rest of the members, myself included, though I had not sought to cultivate his acquaintance. But his presence in our sacrosanct \"quiet chamber\" swiftly disturbed all of its denizens.\n\nDo not be misled; what I refer to as the \"quiet chamber\" was the Nonpareil's main room. Our club is not very large. It has a few private parlors devoted to whatever business might prompt members to reserve their use for a designated time, and the upstairs floor offers a few modest suites designed for overnight stays.\n\nThe central chamber of the venue holds a number of overstuffed armchairs that I generally lounge upon whilst sipping brandy, reading daily news-sheets, and perhaps puffing upon a Havana cigar. There are also tables and upright chairs for those who wish to play at whist, vingt-et-un, and other card games. At one time the addition of a billiard table was considered, but the idea of all that clicking of cue-sticks against the balls did not appeal to most of the membership, and the notion was, shall we say, tabled.\n\nThe main room, you see, always was intended to be a quiet place\u2014not to the extent that I have been told pervades a certain chamber at The Diogenes Club, to which Sherlock Holmes's formidable brother Mycroft belongs. But all actions and events pursued within the Nonpareil, whether they be for business or pleasure, are expected to be done with gentlemanly discretion and an irreducible minimum of sound as is humanly possible. A long array of potables arranged along one wall, paralleled by a counter with several high stools for imbibers to perch, is presided over by a bar-tender who carries on his duties without producing anything louder than an occasional chink of an ice-cube. As for the gentleman's gentleman who serves drinks, empties the ash-trays and dusts the furniture, the Executive Committee even went to the extent of hiring a deaf-mute named Richmond.\n\n* * * *\n\nNow try to imagine the consternation that was wrought when Colonel Upwood joined our club! Dr. Watson once made passing reference in print to the man's \"atrocious conduct\" as well as that card scandal which the Nonpareil Executive Committee vainly tried to hush up, a circumstance that I regret, though that body of worthies perhaps deserved what they got for accepting Upwood as a member in the first place.\n\nTo begin with, the man was incapable of addressing anyone in soft tones; his customary mode of utterance was precious close to a shout. He even spoke loudly to Richmond, though the Colonel was told more than once that our butler was not only incapable of speech, but also suffered from a hearing deficiency. This would have been bad enough, but Upwood was responsible for a variety of coarse nonverbal noises: snorts, burps, ear-shattering sneezes and equally loud nose-blowing, as well as other sounds I prefer not to name.\n\nThe elder club members naturally began to complain, but it soon became general knowledge that the Executive Committee, which for some time had been troubled by difficulties in balancing the club's budget, had voted in favor of membership for the Colonel because of the generous gratuity he elected to pay over and above the usual initiation fee and annual dues assessment.\n\nThis so thoroughly exasperated one Admiral Norrington Miles, one of the club's founding members (and chief complainant against Colonel Upwood), that he took it upon himself to confront him. In a frosty tone that I imagine once chilled the Admiral's nautical subordinates, he said, \"Sir, from now on you will desist from disturbing the Nonpareil with your loud voice and catalogue of abominable noises.\"\n\nColonel Upwood's response was raucous laughter. He banged a large pistol on the card table where he sat. \"This thing,\" he declared, \"makes a lot more noise.\"\n\nI half expected Admiral Miles to seize the weapon and pistol-whip the man, but after several seconds of tense silence, he pivoted smartly, and left the club. As soon as he was gone, Upwood pocketed his firing-piece and riffle-shuffled his deck of cards three times, declaring, \"Is anyone in the mood to play bridge-whist?\" After it was clear that no one intended to answer him, he snorted, \"Hardly surprising. Obviously, none of you have the cojones to challenge me, not even at cards.\"\n\nThis was more than I could tolerate; I stepped up to his table and demanded to know what the stakes were. Two other Nonpareil members followed my example, and for the next few hours I sacrificed much of the currency in my billfold, but my suspicions were confirmed: Colonel Upwood was not only a bounder, he was also a cheat.\n\n* * * *\n\n\"How curious!\" Dr. Watson exclaimed. \"This is the second time that we have heard that name this evening.\"\n\n\"Tut, Watson, tut, we must not disclose the identity of our previous caller.\"\n\n\"Of course not, Holmes! You know me better than that.\" The good doctor offered me a snifter of excellent brandy and we all took seats in the front chamber of 221B Baker Street, where a cheerfully crackling fire warmed us.\n\nSherlock Holmes regarded me thoughtfully, \"Inspector, assuming you are correct and Upwood is a devious gambler, why come to me about it? After all, you have the resources of the London police force available to pursue the matter.\"\n\n\"I am loath to subject the Nonpareil to the distress and negative publicity that might entail. Furthermore, as yet I have no evidence to support my belief that he is cheating. I know a few things on the topic, but it is not my area of expertise. I could speak with someone in the vice squad, of course, but even that might have negative results. Thus I have come to you, for I know I may rely upon your, and Dr, Watson's, discretion.\"\n\nThey both thanked me. \"As Watson has revealed, we have already been visited tonight about Colonel Upwood.\"\n\n\"Has someone else complained that he cheats at cards?\"\n\nHolmes shook his head. \"I am not at liberty to discuss the nature of the commission I accepted, but I have already consulted both my library and my brother and you may he interested to know that Upwood is not a British colonel.\"\n\n\"I wondered about that. His raucous speech patterns are decidedly unfamiliar.\"\n\nDr. Watson chuckled. \"I should think so. Holmes has placed him as an Australian who migrated to Canada.\"\n\n\"So he only pretends to be a military man!\"\n\n\"Not so, Inspector,\" Holmes replied. \"He's also been in America and took an army commission there, though Mycroft says Upwood has seen no significant action. Watson, another round, if you will?\"\n\nOur friend, replenishing our brandy, asked me, \"Why do you think Colonel Upwood is rigging his card games?\"\n\n\"I have two reasons. The first is the manner in which he holds the deck.\"\n\n\"Describe it for me,\" said Holmes.\n\n\"He lets it nestle in his palm with his thumb on top. His pinky, ring and middle finger press the edges against the heel of his hand.\"\n\n\"And,\" Holmes added, \"his forefinger curls round the deck's top edge?\"\n\n\"Precisely. A magician I know holds cards in the same manner.\"\n\nHolmes smiled. \"I learned about it the same way, Inspector. It's what is sometimes called the engineer's clutch, or the mechanic's grip. It allows for considerable control of the deck should the manipulator wish to deal from the bottom, execute a false shuffle, or a variety of other stealthy maneuvers. In itself, of course, it constitutes no proof that Upwood is doing any such thing. But you said you have another reason to be suspicious?\"\n\n\"Yes. The man almost never loses.\"\n\n\"That,\" Holmes nodded, finishing his brandy, \"is indeed a telltale. I think a visit to your club, Inspector, is, shall we say, in the cards? Could Watson and I accompany you there in a few days?\"\n\nI said I would arrange it. Holmes then had me describe the Nonpareil Club to him in considerable detail, from the physical arrangement of the main chamber, its shape, size, furniture and related appurtenances, to the customary club members and staff; he even had me describe the design of the club's card decks.\n\n* * * *\n\nThree days later we met in the early evening at the club's front entrance. Holmes outlined his plan of action in the most general of terms, for, I suspect, his sense of the dramatic, which Dr. Watson has mentioned on several occasions, compelled Holmes to reserve the particulars of the evening's intended program, except to the extent that he found it necessary to instruct me and his friend in what he wished us to do.\n\nOur chief role, he explained, was to play cards with him and \"our mark,\" as Holmes put it, and we were told to play like the veriest amateurs.\n\n\"Do not be concerned about your losses, gentlemen. Our costs tonight are amply underwritten.\" With that he produced three large rolls of currency, two of which he gave us, keeping the third bundle for himself. This circumstance reinforced my suspicion of the identity, though not the mission, of Holmes's secret client.\n\nAs we entered the club's main chamber, the first person I saw was Upwood, who was seated in the middle of the room at a green baize card table. He faced the bar where several members sat nursing drinks, their backs turned (necessarily, due to the angle, yet also deliberately, I supposed) to the abrasive Colonel who was playing some variety of solitaire, cursing quite audibly from time to time at the turn of the cards.\n\n\"Richmond!\" he shouted suddenly. \"Fetch me some rum!\"\n\nThis, of course, produced no immediate result from the subject of his demand, inasmuch as that worthy was occupied emptying ashtrays with no idea that he had been summoned.\n\nThe bartender, however, certainly heard. He proceeded to fill a glass whilst Peter Farringwell, assuredly the most amiable denizen of the Nonpareil, tapped Richmond's shoulder. When he had the butler's attention, Farringwell explained what was wanted in that fidgety finger-talk which Richmond was proficient in, though only a few other club members, and certainly not myself, were able to manage for his behest. Thus did the man hie himself to the bar and in such wise the disruptive interloper finally got his rum.\n\nHolmes nodded to me, and then murmured something to Dr. Watson, who, I was surprised to see, immediately quitted the room we had just entered. Still, as thespians say, it was my cue, so I crossed to Colonel Upwood and said that I sought an opportunity to recompense the losses I had incurred the last time I played cards with him.\n\nA raucous laugh. Adjusting his garish neck-tie, he loudly riffled the cards and declared, \"The more fool, you! But if you propose to play bridge-whist, we shall both be disappointed. No one else is likely to join us.\"\n\n\"Never fear,\" I said, \"I've brought two friends along for the purpose.\"\n\n\"You mean, sir, that you've rounded up a pair of ringers?\" He belched, and did not apologize for his solecism. \"Very well, bring 'em on.\"\n\nHolmes stepped forward. I introduced him as Mr. Sherringford Vernet (a family name, he'd told me earlier).\n\n\"Have a seat,\" said the Colonel. \"I've met your companion the other night, but I never learned his monicker.\"\n\n\"Vernet,\" introduced me as Mr. Gregson. He had not prepared me for that, and I almost protested, but bit my tongue (literally, unfortunately).\n\nUpwood took a sip of rum, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. \"We're still one player short.\"\n\nAt that fortuitous instant, Dr. Watson reappeared. As he approached our table, Holmes-Vernet introduced him as one \"Ormond Sacker.\" (Later I asked Holmes where he'd come up with such an odd name. Dr. Watson, with a chuckle, informed me that Sacker was another client of his Scottish literary agent.)\n\n* * * *\n\nBefore proceeding with my tale, it strikes me that contemporary readers will not be familiar with the game of bridge-whist, which, at the time of the Upwood scandal, enjoyed a brief period of popularity in London.\n\nWhist, of course, is a fairly venerable trick-taking game, one which bridge eventually supplanted in most gaming circles, both in England and America. The two, however, are more similar than different. Each consists of a series of tricks, that is, rounds of play in which each contestant sets upon the table one of the cards he or she has been dealt. The highest card wins the trick, thus contributing or detracting from each player's final score for the hand.\n\nBridge is distinguished by the declaration of a \"trump\" suit, which is determined nowadays by players bidding for the advantage of naming it. For those of you who are not conversant with the term, a trump suit is one of the four card denominations\u2014clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades\u2014that for the duration of the hand is declared higher in value than the other three suits. Thus, let us say that a player sets down a seven of diamonds. His first opponent produces the queen of diamonds, but the next player, in partnership with the one who played the seven, sets down the king of the same suit. The second opponent, however, plays the two of spades and since that is the trump suit, he or she wins the trick.\n\nIn terms of years, bridge-whist was an ephemeral pastime. Its play was distinct from the hyphenated halves of its name inasmuch as the dealer of every hand, after reviewing the cards he'd gotten, named the trump suit for that round of play. This, of course, was a major advantage, but every player got to deal and thus enjoyed the same privilege.\n\n* * * *\n\nTo report alphabetically (and pseudonymously), Gregson, Sacker, Upwood, and Vernet played bridge-whist for a few hours. During that time, Upwood and Holmes both smoked incessantly, cigarettes for Holmes, whilst the other puffed pungent cigars, one of which I accepted. Poor Watson coughed pointedly, whilst Richmond had frequent occasion to hover about us and empty our oft-filled ash-trays. As the game progressed, the store of cash bet upon each successive hand slowly dwindled for Messrs. Gregson, Sacker and Vernet, though not for the Colonel.\n\nAt length, our ears and sensibilities were assaulted by an ungentlemanly eructation (in other words, a rude burp!), but for once said unpleasant noise was not committed by Upwood, but rather by Mr. \"Vernet.\"\n\nIt was meant as a signal to me and Dr. Watson. I'd been waiting for this moment, but when it came, I confess to being concerned by the great quantity of alcohol that Holmes had imbibed. I knew it was part of the general plan to demonstrate to our opponent what easy \"marks\" we all were, but I feared Holmes had thrown himself into the part much too heartily, to our potential disadvantage. (When I expressed my doubts after the evening's business had been accomplished, Holmes said, \"O, ye of little faith!\" and Dr. Watson assured me that Holmes' capacity, though seldom put to the test, was enormous).\n\n\"I have to go home soon,\" Holmes-Vernet slurringly declared. \"Before I go, though, I'd like to play just one more hand.\"\n\nUpwood's laugh was reminiscent of the bark of some large sea-mammal. \"In other words, buster, you've got more money you want to throw away?\"\n\n\"Vernet\" smiled. \"Possibly, Colonel\u2014but I have a proposition that might amuse you.\"\n\nUpwood grunted. \"Go on. Make me laugh.\"\n\n\"These are the stakes\u2014\" said Holmes (I attribute this remark to him, not his alter ego, because his tone was suddenly coldly sober)\u2014\"If you win, you get all of the remaining money in my possession, as well as that of my companions.\"\n\nThe Colonel's eyes narrowed. It was clear he'd noticed the change in his opponent's demeanour. \"Well, Vernet, those are handsome stakes\u2014but how do I know that you chaps have anything left to gamble?\"\n\nWe were prepared for this possibility. We all displayed what was left in our wallets, which, in the aggregate, still comprised a fair sum of lucre. This, of course, made Upwood even more suspicious, but Holmes had also anticipated that.\n\n\"Those are stakes worth playing for,\" our opponent admitted, \"but I've already won a considerable amount this evening, and I have the distinct feeling that I am now being, as they say, hustled. Do you expect me to risk everything I've got on the outcome of a single hand?\"\n\n\"By no means, Colonel,\" Holmes demurred. \"I trust that the counter-stakes I am about to suggest will appear quite modest to you.\"\n\n\"All right, name them.\"\n\n\"I only ask you to risk two things: nine guineas to be paid to my friend Gregson here, plus the granting of a single favor to me.\"\n\nThe sum, which was certainly modest compared to what we'd already gambled, was the precise amount I'd lost to the Colonel a few nights earlier.\n\n\"How generous, Mr. Vernet. But what's your favor?\"\n\n\"You will only find that out if you lose the hand. But I promise that it will be well within your power to grant, and it will neither be dishonorable, immoral, nor will it compromise you in any fashion, fiscally, legally, nor spiritually.\"\n\n\"I confess that, against my better judgment, you have me hooked. Shall I shuffle the cards?\"\n\n\"Not just yet,\" Holmes replied. \"There is one further condition. I don't want to continue with bridge-whist, at which you are obviously an expert. I propose to play another game.\"\n\n\"What? Poker?\"\n\nHolmes shook his head. \"A game called Niagara Falls bridge-whist.\"\n\nUpwood slammed the table with the flat of his hands. \"Damn it, sir! There's no such game!\"\n\n\"Indeed there is. It's played all the time\u2014in Canada.\"\n\nThat made the Colonel stop and think. He'd lived in Canada, of course, but did he want to declare that in public? Before he could think of what to say, Dr. Watson suddenly slumped over the table, slipped off his chair and landed on the floor. He had apparently fainted.\n\n\"Douse him with cold water,\" Holmes-Vernet suggested heartlessly.\n\nI strode to the bar, grasped a pitcher and dashed its contents in poor Watson's face. He sputtered, toweled himself with a handkerchief, and apologized profusely. Upwood, with uncharacteristic concern, suggested we forgo our game and take our inebriated friend home. Sacker-Watson wouldn't hear of it, though, so we all resumed our seats at the table and commenced to play \"Niagara Falls bridge-whist.\"\n\nAlong the green surface, Holmes spread the cards face-down so that they described an arc. \"This pattern,\" he said, \"is where the game derives its name. It's meant to look like Niagara Falls\u2014the American side, I do believe.\"\n\n\"Very pretty,\" said Upwood. \"Now what?\"\n\n\"Since I am this hand's dealer,\" Holmes said, \"the first thing I must do is to select my cards at random, without looking at their faces.\" He proceeded to fish out thirteen cards from the \"waterfall\" and arranged them, still face-down, in front of him. \"Now each of you does the same, one at a time, eldest hand first.\"\n\nEldest hand meant the player to his left, and that was the Colonel. He chose his cards, assembling them in a row without turning them over. It was Dr. Watson's turn next, and I picked up the rest.\n\n\"Now, I suppose,\" the Colonel said, \"we pick up our cards and you declare trumps?\"\n\nVernet-Holmes shook his head. \"Not in this game I don't. I must name the trump suit before I examine my cards.\"\n\nThis idea vastly amused our \"mark.\" As for myself, I was half-convinced that Holmes was both drunk and slightly mad. Certainly I saw no way short of Divine Accident that he could win.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" Upwood prompted, \"what suit do you choose?\"\n\nHolmes shrugged, imbibed more brandy, shrugged again, then finally selected spades as trumps.\n\nAfter the Colonel had studied his cards, he played the Ace of Hearts. Dr. Watson set down a four of the same suit and I sloughed off a ten. Holmes won the trick with the two of spades.\n\n\"Well, that was lucky, wasn't it?\" the Colonel grumbled. \"Now try to beat this!\" He played the Ace of Diamonds. Holmes beat it with the three of spades.\n\nUpwood did not laugh again. Holmes won the eleven remaining tricks. His hand consisted solely of the entire trump suit.\n\n* * * *\n\n\"I confess,\" our foe growled, counting off nine guineas from his billfold and shoving them onto the table in front of me, \"I admire your ruse. However you brought it off, it was brilliantly executed.\"\n\nHolmes regarded him with a cold smile. \"Do you mean to imply that I cheated you, sir?\"\n\n\"Of course you did! There has never been such a hand as yours in the entire history of whist, bridge, or any of their variants.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I was merely lucky.\"\n\n\"Perhaps tomorrow the moon and sun will suddenly change places.\" He waved it away. \"I suspected you were up to something, but I chose to play, anyway, and I am glad I did. It's not often one witnesses such entertaining flummery. Had I spent the night dining and taking in a play, it surely would have cost me more. I do not know how you brought it off\u2014\"\n\n\"That, Colonel, is your weakness.\"\n\n\"If you are trying to insult me, calling me weak is an excellent way to do so. But I will let it pass. I am curious to know what favor I must do for you now that I've lost the hand.\"\n\n\"Effective immediately,\" Holmes answered, \"you will resign from the Nonpareil Club and never attempt to renew your membership.\"\n\nUpwood plunked his pistol down on the table. \"I'd like to see you make me do that.\"\n\nHolmes sighed. \"I was sure this is how you would respond\u2014not as a gentleman. Since you have decided to welsh on your bet, I shall resort to other means. First, I will tell you the real names of the players you have spent the night with. I am Sherlock Holmes, the man on your left is my friend Dr. John H. Watson, and this other gentleman is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.\"\n\nThe bounder's face turned beet-red. \"I don't give a damn who any of you are! You've got nothing on me!\"\n\n\"Colonel,\" Holmes continued, \"I prefaced the introductions I just made with the word 'First.' My second point is that your partner in crime, one Toddy Armbruster, is at this moment in the custody of the London police.\"\n\nUpwood looked round wildly, then shot to his feet, but before he could lay hold of his weapon, Holmes seized the Colonel's wrist. \"If I release you, sir, will you leave here quietly?\"\n\n\"Holmes, you are\u2014\" Here the man uttered a great number of obscenities, but once he'd vented his anger, all the fight went out of him. \"Yes, damn you, yes.\"\n\nHolmes permitted him to pocket his pistol. Colonel Upwood quit the Nonpareil Club, never to return.\n\n* * * *\n\nBack at 221B, Holmes, Dr. Watson and I were pleased to discover that Mrs. Hudson had set out a snack consisting of cold beef, aromatic cheese, hot biscuits, condiments, and mugs of amber ale.\n\nAs we heartily tucked in, I remarked to Holmes that I was by now not only certain of the identity of his secret client, but also the nature of the task he'd set him. \"Admiral Norrington Miles wanted you to find a way to oust Colonel Upwood from the club, am I correct?\"\n\nMy host smiled, \"Excellent, Lestrade. You might be right.\" Then his smile disappeared. \"Inspector, I'm afraid that I owe you an apology.\"\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"As soon as we entered the Nonpareil, I recognized Toddy Armbruster, though fortunately he had never met me.\n\nI understand now why he was apologizing. We had hoped to conduct the night's adventure without incurring curiosity and unwanted publicity, but once Holmes told Dr, Watson to inform the police about Armbruster, there was no going back, and the press soon reported the Upwood card scandal.\n\n\"It was the one circumstance I had not anticipated,\" said Holmes.\n\nAt that moment, Mrs. Hudson came in to clear the empty plates and brush crumbs off the table. Holmes gestured; Dr. Watson and I joined him in the sitting room where strong coffee and brandy awaited us. After a few sips of each, Holmes went to a low table covered with newspapers and periodicals, which he bundled into a pile in order to make room to spread out the deck of cards he produced from one of his pockets.\n\n\"I say, Holmes,\" Dr. Watson exclaimed, \"have you taken up petty thievery?\"\n\n\"What on earth do you mean? Ah, I see\u2014you're referring to my cards!\"\n\n\"But they're not yours...they belong to the Nonpareil Club!\"\n\n\"Calm yourself, Watson. I got these from the bar-tender. He has an ample supply for anyone who wishes to purchase a deck.\"\n\n\"When did you have the opportunity?\"\n\n\"I went to the club the day before.\"\n\nThat surprised me. \"How did you gain entry without being a member?\"\n\n\"Mycroft arranged it.\"\n\n\"But, Holmes,\" his companion said, \"you've never shown much interest in card games.\"\n\n\"True, Watson, but you may recall that I asked the Inspector to describe the design of the club's cards. When he did so, I knew that I must arm myself with a spare deck before we met Colonel Upwood.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nHolmes spread the cards out on the table in the same curved arc he'd made at the outset of our hand of Niagara Falls bridge-whist. He indicated the array and asked us to tell him whether we noticed anything (other than the curved shape of the display) that we might deem worthy of comment.\n\nWe examined them. The back of each card bore a simple gray-and-white design with the words \"The Nonpareil Club\" in the middle of it, and the club's address on a line below the name in smaller type-face.\n\nPermit me now to state that cinema and theatrical actors who depict Dr. Watson as a sort of bumbling Colonel Blimp do the man considerable disservice. In fact, he's quite an intelligent chap. Not on Holmes's level, of course, but then, other than brother Mycroft, who is?\n\nI make this observation prefatory to revealing that it was Dr. Watson who first realized what Holmes meant us to see concerning the Nonpareil card deck.\n\n\"Though I cannot tell what denomination any of these cards may be, since they are all face-down,\" Dr. Watson said, \"yet I do notice that, in a manner of speaking, several of these cards call attention to themselves.\"\n\n\"Excellent, Watson.\" He turned to me. \"Do you see how they differ?\"\n\n\"Yes, Holmes, now that I study them, I do.\" Several of the cards, perhaps when they had been shuffled, were turned around so that the club's name and address were upside down.\n\n\"Conjurers would call this a one-way deck,\" Holmes told us. \"If all the cards are arranged in the same orientation, the backs look identical, but the trained eye will easily locate a card that has been turned around, especially if the deck is ribbon-spread in a manner similar to what I have done.\"\n\n\"So is this the way Colonel Upwood cheats?\" I asked.\n\n\"I doubt it, Inspector, not altogether. I am sure that the man noticed this peculiarity, but even armed with such knowledge, a crooked gambler would not be likely to tip fortune by more than a few admittedly telling degrees. Now the manner in which Upwood gripped his cards, as we already discussed, is a sign that he knows how to execute false shuffles, deal from the bottom, and employ other sly methods to stack hands in his favor. As a matter of fact, as we played, I caught him a few times using such techniques. But still, the man rarely loses. That suggested to me that he also had an accomplice feeding him information.\"\n\n\"Aha!\" Dr. Watson suddenly exclaimed. \"I see how you won that game!\" He then appeared unsure of himself, an attitude I suppose is integral to sharing quarters with Sherlock Holmes. \"Well, I believe I do....\"\n\n\"Tell us what you think, dear fellow.\"\n\n\"You told me, Holmes, that there would come a time when you would need me to create a diversion to distract the Colonel. That's when I pretended to faint.\"\n\n\"Yes, Watson, and one of your better performances, I may say. Continue.\"\n\n\"While the others were helping me off the floor, you switched the deck we'd been using with the one you bought earlier.\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"Go on.\"\n\n\"The deck you'd bought had all of the spades reversed so that you'd recognize them when you assembled your hand.\"\n\n\"Precisely.\"\n\nI broke into the conversation with the observation that it was fortunate Holmes was acquainted with a game such as Niagara Falls bridge-whist with its odd variation whereby the dealer names the trump suit before being permitted to examine the cards he'd chosen blindly.\n\n\"Oh, dear Inspector!\" Holmes exclaimed. \"There's no such game. I invented it!\" He took a moment to pour more coffee for us and also refilled our snifters. I was beginning to worry at the growing lateness of the hour, and hoped my dear wife was not in a pet, but before I left, there was one more thing I positively needed to know, and dear Dr. Watson surely shared my curiosity.\n\n\"Holmes,\" I said, \"who was the Colonel's accomplice?\"\n\n\"Why, Toddy Armbruster, of course.\"\n\n\"But there's no such member in the club!\"\n\n\"I never said there was. Toddy Armbruster is the confidence trickster who was involved in an attempted securities swindle last summer in Manchester. He's the only member of the gang who got away. I've seen his face on the wall of nearly every police station I've visited during the past few months. I'm surprised you don't know about him, Inspector.\"\n\nI sighed. \"Since they relegated me to a desk job, I've not been able to stay current with the day-to-day, so to speak.\"\n\n\"Another bit of luck for us,\" said Holmes. \"He'd never met either of us, so he had no idea what was ahead for him. But during Watson's pretended fainting spell, I not only switched decks, I also managed to whisper to him, \"Hello, Toddy.\" That's when he tried to bolt.\"\n\nNow I understood! \"Great Heavens! You mean that Armbruster\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes, Lestrade,\" said Holmes, \"Toddy Armbruster was pretending to be none other than the Nonpareil Club's speechless employee, Richmond.\"\n\n\"Damn him!\" I swore. \"So while he fussed about emptying our ashtrays, he peeked at our hands and told what he'd learned to Colonel Upwood in the sign language of the deafmute!\"\n\n\"Yes, gentlemen. It is, you see, a case in which the silent butler did it.\"\n\n\"Ooh, Holmes,\" Dr. Watson groaned. \"How could you?!\"\nTHE BUTTON-BOX, by Lyn McConchie\n\nIt was the year of '96 in which the following case occurred. Like so many of Holmes' cases it began with the trivial and ended with a more serious crime. And the trivial in this case was so bewilderingly trivial that initially I could see no rhyme or reason in it.\n\nHolmes had been busy investigating the case of the Bermondsy abductions and at the end of that depraved and vicious series of events we were taking our leisure for a time while I attended to personal matters and Holmes, despite his pipe and his violin, had already become bored. So that it was all to the good when it appeared that a new case was presenting itself hopefully for our inspection.\n\nIt started with the arrival in our rooms of Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke. We had aided him in an earlier mystery when one of his students had attempted to gain an unfair advantage in pursuing a scholarship, and now he was again on our doorstep begging for our assistance.\n\n\"For,\" he said, as he accepted a cup of tea. \"My grandmother is so enraged by this insolent theft that I fear for her health.\"\n\nI looked at him in surprise. I had believed Soames to be in his mid-forties and I would have supposed his grandmother to be long since dead. He caught my look and understood it at once.\n\n\"No, I fear it is my appearance which deceives you, Doctor. I am but thirty-six although I know I appear some years older, also the women of my family have always been healthy and long-lived. My grandmother is eighty-seven and in her energy you would think her near a score of years the younger.\"\n\nHolmes intervened. \"Tell us why the lady is so agitated and why it is that you require my aid?\"\n\nSoames shivered. \"It is terrible, that a lady of her age cannot walk abroad without being flung to the ground and having her property seized from her.\"\n\n\"What property?\" I questioned him. \"Her handbag, I assume?\"\n\n\"No, that is the foolish thing. It was her button-box that was stolen.\"\n\nI stared at him. \"Her button-box? What is that, and why should your grandmother be carrying it about with her?\"\n\nHolmes broke in quietly. \"A button-box is a box that contains buttons, Watson. Many women build up quite a collection; since buttons can cost quite large sums it is not uncommon for the woman of the house to select a container and place in it any loose or spare buttons she obtain. Then if a button is required she may search within the box and use one from her store. Into the box go also complete sets of buttons from garments which are otherwise too worn out to continue to give service.\"\n\nI nodded. \"Now that you mention it, I do recall my mother had such a container.\"\n\nSoames sighed. \"My grandmother's button-box was old. It was, so far as any of us know, passed down to her from her grandmother who had it from hers. The container is referred to as a box, but in reality it is more of a tiny chest. One apparently made in imitation of a sailor's chest\u2014and family legend has it that it was given to some long ago Soames as a gift from someone for whom he had done a favor.\"\n\n\"Is there a curse?\" I asked frivolously.\n\nSoames groaned. \"No, there is not, although I shall think there is if Holmes cannot retrieve the item. My grandmother is a woman of strong character and we are not like to ever hear the last of it if her button-box is not returned to her.\"\n\nI eyed the lecturer as he paced in his agitation. Soames was a tall, spare man of a nervous and excitable temperament at the best of times\u2014which these were not. I imagined his grandmother to be a tall lady, gaunt of features, nervous, excitable, and with a penetrating and shrill voice, which would drive Soames to distraction.\n\nBesides, Holmes needed a trivial case to occupy his mind, and one of such pleasantly bewildering and minor importance should occupy him splendidly. I could see he was considering the proposition and I hastened to endorse the idea.\n\n\"Are you sure you wish to use your time in seeking out a lost button-box, Holmes?\"\n\nMy friend eyed me with amusement, while Soames' look as he stood up was one of reproach. Holmes turned to the lecturer. \"No, no, Mr. Soames. Watson is merely using reverse psychology. He hopes that by stressing the unimportance of the case that I may be moved to investigate.\"\n\nHe waved Soames to a seat again. \"Tell me how your grandmother came to lose her button-box\u2014and I foresee,\" he added, \"That we shall all become very tired of hearing those two words before this case is concluded. But to begin your tale, how is it that she was carrying the item about the town?\"\n\n\"My family, Mr. Holmes, have lived near the University for some generations. My grandmother has a small house near the University and is often about visiting friends and doing good works in connection either with the church or with the University. A week ago yesterday she was calling on an old friend who has a small granddaughter staying with her, and my grandmother took her button-box to amuse the child while her elders were in converse.\n\n\"She had taken a cab to her friend's home which is in a short close. This backs onto the University and the close is too narrow for a cab to enter. My grandmother therefore paid the driver off at the entrance to the street and it was shortly after she alighted and began to walk down towards her friend's house that she was seized from behind. The button-box was wrenched from the crook of her arm and she was thrust to the ground. Whoever did this clearly had no intention of her seeing him since, as he did this, he also dragged her shawl over her head and by the time she was able to clear her vision and rise to her feet again, there was no one to be seen.\n\n\"It may be noteworthy that her handbag was untouched and she is positive that there was no attempt to take it from her. My grandmother is a woman of resolution. Bruised and shaken though she was she returned to the main road, hailed a cab and had herself driven at once to the police station where she laid an official complaint. However, she says it was clear to her that the police would take no interest in the case. As one man said to her, it would be some child, no doubt, and what fence will pay out for buttons?\"\n\n\"I have known buttons which were worth a considerable sum,\" Holmes observed.\n\n\"That may have been true had some of her buttons been ornamented with precious stones. But, Mr. Holmes, they were not. Oh, here and there she may have had a set with paste stones. But mostly they were merely attractive buttons or the more workaday items from family shirts. But they are the collection of her life, passed down from her own grandmother and she feels, I think, that in some way they were a trust. She is distraught and angry. Please help her, Mr. Holmes!\"\n\nHolmes rose in a leisurely fashion. \"Well, Watson, are you game to go in pursuit of Mr. Soames' grandmother's button-box?\" I nodded. \"Then let us firstly interview the lady, and after that we shall seek out the scene of the crime and discover what we can find there. Where shall we find your grandmother, Mr. Soames?\"\n\n\"Back in her home, sir. I will guide you there and introduce you, if indeed you wish to go at once.\"\n\n\"We do.\" was Holmes' rejoinder and he swept us out to halt momentarily while a cab was hailed, and we were ushered into the vehicle. Soames gave the address and we were off, bowling down the street in pursuit of a button-box.\n\nHilton Soames' grandmother was not at all as I had expected her to be. She was short, dumpy and stout, with a low voice\u2014which I thought would usually be pleasant but which just now had a note of real rancor contained within its tones\u2014and something of the look of Queen Victoria about her. Certain it was that she was not amused.\n\n\"It is a disgrace, gentlemen! My button-box, stolen, and what possible use could it be to any save myself? And the police who tell me that they have no time to search for lost button-boxes. It was not lost; it was violently stolen from me. The police are dunderheads.\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"It is indeed an outrage and if the police do not take it seriously, than I assure you, Mrs. Soames, my friend Watson and I do.\"\n\n\"Then you will endeavor to restore it to me?\"\n\n\"I will, Mrs. Soames. Now, to that end, tell me everything that occurred, omit no detail.\" We settled to listen.\n\n\"I was intending to visit my friend, Marjorie Fuller, in Garnet's Close. She had her little granddaughter staying, the child is only six and children of that age can become easily bored if they have nothing to do while their elders' talk goes above their heads. Thus I did as I often do in such a case. I took with me my button-box so that the girl might have something to amuse her while Marjorie and I discussed the flower roster for the Church's Saints' Days.\n\n\"I took a cab\u2014I know the driver, a most respectable man named Brown who treats his horse very kindly\u2014and as Garnet's Close is too narrow for a cab, I alighted at the entrance around ten in the morning, paid Brown and began to walk up the close.\"\n\n\"Did you see anyone walking towards you, or near the close entrance?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, the close was empty of people and the street when I alighted appeared to be so as well.\" Holmes nodded for her to continue.\n\n\"I passed the first three houses and was opposite the fourth\u2014the houses are on one side of the close only, the other side is the wall of the University\u2014when I was seized and held. At the same moment my shawl was flung over my head, my button-box was torn from my arm, and I was pushed to the ground. For perhaps so much as three or four minutes I was stunned by the unexpected assault, but then I thrust my shawl back, struggled to my feet and discovered that I was unharmed. I hurried to the main street and looked to either side, but could see no one who might have been my assailant.\"\n\n\"Assailants,\" said Holmes.\n\nThe old lady bridled. \"Two of them? I have been attacked by two ruffians?\"\n\n\"Think back, madam. Were you not already being held while at the same time your shawl was used to blind you and your button-box was seized?\"\n\n\"By heavens, yes, it was so. You are right, Mr. Holmes. There must have been two men. I distinctly remember the grip one of them had upon my arms even while my button-box was wrenched from me. Then that same grip which held me was transferred to a thrust that saw me measure my length on the ground.\"\n\n\"Now, madam, I am sure you are still shaken and bruised. But if you will allow, I would like to perform an experiment?\"\n\n\"I am in your hands, sir.\"\n\nThen please stand and turn your back to me.\" The old lady obeyed. \"Indicate whereabouts upon your arms you were gripped.\" Her fingers touched the upper level of her left arm, and then the other hand came up and matched the gesture to the right.\n\n\"Here, Mr. Holmes.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Now, If I place my hands in the same position, does it seem to you as if the man who seized you could have been of my height?\"\n\n\"It feels as if you loom over me, sir. I think he was not so tall.\"\n\n\"Mr. Soames?\" Her grandson took up the position while the old lady considered again.\n\n\"He still feels too tall.\"\n\n\"Your turn, Watson.\" I took up my position and it seemed I was too short. Holmes looked pleased.\n\n\"Then we have two assailants, one of whom is around five feet eight inches to five feet ten inches in height.\"\n\nMrs. Soames, who had sat down by now, stared up at my friend. \"But, that is no child.\"\n\n\"Indeed so, and as you will realize this changes things. Now, let us venture further. You say you were level with the fourth house when you were attacked. We will go to examine this close shortly, but what can you tell me of the fourth house and its occupants?\"\n\n\"There are none, Mr. Holmes. The family that used to live there has gone. The father had, I believe a position as head clerk at a large firm of merchants. However, they have moved the factory further from the town and he packed up his family and moved to live in the village near the new building. The house is to let, but however, and to my knowledge, no tenant has as yet taken up residence.\"\n\nI saw understanding dawn on her face. \"I see, sir. The police think that I was pushed over and robbed by some child attracted by the appearance of my button-box. You can already show I was robbed by two men acting in concert who carefully chose the location of their attack.\"\n\nHolmes made a slight bow. \"Wonderful, madam. You have summed up all our discoveries. There is one final point thus far. This act was surely premeditated, with your button-box as their deliberate objective. Nor could they have come upon you by accident. Ordinary thieves would have taken your handbag. These men wanted your button-box and your button-box only. I think we must go immediately to study this Garnet's Close.\"\n\nMrs. Soames would by no means be left behind so that there were four of us who presently studied the short secluded close. It was a pleasant aspect. Down one ride ran a line of twelve houses, each in its own grounds with ample shrubbery. The road was wide enough for a dogcart but the wider cab would not have been able to negotiate it nor to turn without intruding on private property.\n\nThe houses were of a reasonable size, most two-storied, and with a drive leading to a stable behind. On the other side of the close a high wide brick wall arose, which I understood from Soames to be the back wall of the University, with a number of storage sheds and stables for visiting vehicles on the University side. The wall was a good ten feet and I feel it unlikely any thief would have found it possible to scale without ropes or a ladder which Mrs. Soames would have seen as she approached down the close.\n\nHolmes agreed. \"No, Watson. I think the thieves had another escape in mind.\" He turned to the old lady who was watching him with interest. \"Do you recall any sound of footsteps after you were flung aside?\"\n\nHer reply was unequivocal. \"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Ah, that may be useful.\" With that he walked along the line of houses, halting outside the fourth and studying the driveway keenly. He twisted and turned, surveying the surface then walking cautiously up and down the lawn while stooped over. He then came towards us and I saw satisfaction in his face.\n\n\"We were right, madam. There were two men. One was of medium height, powerfully built and originally athletic. He wears a size ten shoe and weighs about twelve stone. The other was smaller, slight in build and wearing shoes that are narrow in the foot. He wears a size six shoe and weighs around nine stone or perhaps a little less.\"\n\n\"The old lady peered up at him. \"So they ran in here before I could drag the shawl from my eyes?\"\n\n\"They also waited here for you to pass. Do you see the significance of that, madam?\"\n\nMrs. Soames snorted vigorously. \"I'd thank you, sir, not to assume me a fool. If they waited for me they must have known I was visiting my friend that day, and how could they have known that? You will wish to know whom I told, and whom they may have told in turn.\" She turned to her grandson. \"You knew, for I called on you the day before and said that I would be visiting Marjorie on the following day. I also mentioned Marjorie's granddaughter and said I would take my button-box to amuse the child.\"\n\nSoames appeared horrified. \"I told no one, why should I speak of such small family matters?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said thoughtfully. \"But in which of your sets of rooms were you while this visit was discussed? Your personal rooms or the ones allocated by the University?\"\n\n\"Why my rooms at the University, the two where I receive pupils and have my teaching materials.\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"Yes, and where you seldom close any door to the outer corridor, where anyone who loiters may hear your conversation. Your grandmother has a clear voice. But you see where this evidence too leads? Only those with business within the University could have overhead what was said.\"\n\nSoames threw up his hands. \"But why, Mr. Holmes? Here we have two men, possibly students at the University, they set out to commit the premeditated crime of stealing an old lady's button-box. How is it they know of the item, what can they want with it, and why have they gone to such trouble to obtain it?\"\n\nMrs. Soames glanced at my friend. \"I think that Mr. Holmes will discover the answers to those questions, my dear. He appears to be a most intelligent and energetic young man. I leave the matter in his hands with the utmost confidence.\" And with that, she marched to the main road, hailed a cab, and was driven away while we stared after her.\n\n\"Well, Watson,\" Holmes said, \"We must deserve that lady's belief in us. You go with Soames. I want a list of everyone at the University who might know anything at all of his grandmother's movements in the ordinary way. Then speak to the porter of Soames' building. I would know if any of those on the first list appear on his list as visiting the building the day Mrs. Soames was speaking to her grandson of her planned engagements.\"\n\n\"And you, Holmes, what will you be doing?\"\n\n\"I would have a few words with the police. Meet me at the Grand Hotel where I will have taken rooms once I have completed that errand.\"\n\nIt was a long and tedious discussion. I wrote while Soames endlessly racked his brains for his colleagues and pupils who might know of his family. With the list in hand we met Holmes at the hotel, went upstairs to where a good meal had been laid for us in our suite, and ate heartily. Once the wine was passed I spoke to my friend.\n\n\"What did the police have to say to your new information?\"\n\n\"It seems they are of the same opinion still, that it was high-spirited children and that I am wasting my time. But they did give me some other valuable information that we shall use later tonight. We have a few calls to make.\"\n\n\"Where do we go?\"\n\n\"To a number of the pawn shops in the area about the close, Watson, a discovery in one of them or even the lack of findings may confirm an hypothesis I am developing.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nI followed Holmes over the course of the evening to a number of grimy establishments and it was in one of the most cluttered shops I have ever seen that we came upon a small chest that seemed to fit the description of the stolen button-box. Holmes picked it up and opened the lid carefully.\n\n\"The contents appear to be intact, Watson. Now I wonder what the proprietor will tell us of his purchase of this.\" He turned to the man who was hovering anxiously behind him. \"This is stolen property,\" Holmes said sternly. \"How did you come by it?\"\n\nThe pawnbroker gaped at us. \"Gentlemen, who would bother to steal a trumpery item? I thought I might sell it for a few shillings to someone who likes such things. It is a nice box with a good selection of buttons, but I gave the man who sold it to me only a florin. He told me it had been his wife's and with her dead now he had no use for it.\"\n\nI handed him a florin. \"I will take the box back to its owner and you shall lose nothing by your purchase. Come, tell my friend of the vendor.\"\n\n\"He was a not a gentleman. I took him for a laborer and I think I may have seen him about the streets near the old market.\" With further questioning we obtained quite a good description of the man, what the pawnbroker believed to be some of his usual haunts, and, with the button-box securely under my arm, we set off in search of the seller. We found him in a bar but not yet more than slightly drunk. Holmes approached him.\n\n\"What is your name?\"\n\nThe man recognized authority when he heard it. He straightened up slightly and spoke with a strong country accent.\n\n\"I'm Isaac Tremain, who be you as asks?\" Holmes and I recognized the accent, it was Cornish or South Devon\u2014on the edge of the counties they overlap in places.\n\n\"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my good friend, Doctor Watson. Tremain, you say? What is your village?\"\n\n\"Duloe, sir.\"\n\n\"I know it, a pleasant place. How is it you are so far from home?\"\n\nIsaac Tremain heaved a sigh. \"I followed the work, sir. But I'll go home as soon as ever I can. My brother, he says there'll be a place on the squire's estate for me very soon. Let me once get back and I won't never be leaving again.\"\n\n\"I agree, a man wants to have his own friends and family about him. Those people and places he has always known.\"\n\n\"Aye, sir. That he do.\"\n\n\"Would it not help if you had a train ticket back?\"\n\n\"Aye, it would. But 'tis six a' one an' half a dozen a' the other, sir. I be homesick so I drink, then I ain't got the money for a ticket, then I drink a'cos I be homesick and can't afford to go home.\" It was with difficulty I repressed a smile at that. Holmes, however, remained unmoved.\n\n\"What if you received a ticket? One you could not turn into coin.\"\n\n\"Why, I reckon I'd go to home right now, on the very next train as ever was. My brother, he'd give me a bed 'til this job wi' t' squire be ready.\"\n\n\"I will give you a ticket, and there will be no policeman asking you questions after me if you do as you say. I want to know about the button-box you sold to the pawnbroker. Where got you it?\"\n\nIsaac Tremain looked at him and of a sudden any drink was out of him. \"I heard of you, you'm a man as has made the police look silly a time or two. All right, I'll tell you so long's I gets the ticket?\"\n\nHolmes nodded. \"Right then. I were walking along the street an' ahead of me I sees a lad drop this li'l box over the wall into a garden. Guess that's something he don't want, I says to myself. Wonder what it is? He keeps walking like he's done nothing so I walks along quiet until he turns the corner then I trots back and picks up what he dropped.\n\n\"I find it's this li'l box and I'm mortal worried it'll have jewels or something inside. Police ask questions about a man like me having that sort o' thing about them. So I open it careful like and blow me down if'n it ain't filled wi' buttons. Just like a box me mother had when I was a boy. Knows no pawnbroker will ever think I stole that so I takes it to one and he gives me two shillin' for it.\"\n\n\"I believe you and you shall have your ticket. Now, describe the man, carefully now, I have some idea whom it might be and if you lie I shall know.\"\n\n\"I won't tell you no lies, sir. He was a little fella, mebbe five feet an' six or seven inches in height. I walked along behind him a ways and I saw that. He wore narrer shoes, fancy ones, and I'd say he'd strip to about nine stone or thereabouts. Not much muscle, least ways he didn't walk like it but he were well fed enough, he hadn't never starved. Good cloes, not like no lord, but good enough quality fer a shopkeeper in a good way 'o business.\" Oh, there's one way you'll know him for certain sure, sir, ain't many of his kind in town.\" He added the final detail and I saw Holmes' jaw set. \"Have I done well for you, sir?\"\n\nHolmes clapped him gently on the shoulder. \"You have, sir, very well, and you shall have your ticket. Come with us now and I will obtain it for you.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nWe left Isaac Tremain at the station, he to go to his room and pack his meagre possessions before using his ticket, we to our hotel to sleep. I spoke quietly as we rocked along the road in our cab.\n\n\"You know who the thieves were, do you not?\"\n\n\"I believe so, but I have been more fortunate in this matter than you, Watson. I know one thing you never learned. If I am right then Mr. Hilton Soames and his grandmother will receive a most pleasant surprise quite apart from the button-box you will be able to return to her tomorrow. But before we do so, I wish to make an examination of the button-box. I think there may be more to it than is easily visible.\"\n\nAnd with that he took up the box, emptied it of its contents, and began to poke and pry gently at all aspects of the pieces where they joined. There was no sound, but of a sudden a portion of the inner lid came open and Holmes muttered in satisfaction.\n\n\"I thought so. Look here, Watson. A secret cavity, there is nothing within, but I think there once was. It was the contents of this cavity the thieves sought.\"\n\n\"How did they know it was there, do you know?\"\n\n\"I believe so. All we have to do is ask a last question or two of Mr. Hilton Soames, and I must check some papers at the University library. I saw them when I was researching some early English charters there last. With a sight of that to refresh my memory, and the answers I seek, all the threads shall be in my hands.\"\n\nWe departed the hotel mid-morning the next day, and took a cab to the University where Holmes paused at the library to ask for certain documents that he perused carefully. We then gathered up Soames and went thence to his grandmother's small house. Her joy when I produced her button-box was extreme.\n\n\"I knew you could do it, Mr. Holmes. I was sure a man like you would succeed where the police would not even look. But who stole it from me and why?\"\n\nHolmes spoke to her grandson. \"When I was here some months ago you had three pupils each working towards the Fortescue Scholarship. One attempted to cheat and then in a fit of conscience resigned from the attempt. Tell me of the two who remained, which of them gained the valuable scholarship?\"\n\nSoames shook his head. \"Both and neither, sir. In the end they were so closely marked on all their work that it was decided to share the scholarship between them.\"\n\n\"How is it that neither can afford the University without the Fortescue?\"\n\n\"Miles McLaren is a brilliant scholar, he has vast amounts of knowledge in many areas, some quite exotic, but he is completely undisciplined and will not work. Nor are his family wealthy since I fear that the family trait of gambling has lost them most of their estates over the generations.\"\n\n\"What are the exotic areas of which you speak?\"\n\n\"He loves antiques and knows something about many periods; he also enjoys history and has often spent time when he should have been working in looking up obscure and rare papers at the University library.\"\n\n\"What of your other scholar?\"\n\n\"Daulat Ras is Indian of the highest caste. His father was once a ruler and a fanatic, or so I am told, on the family's history, but through a rebellion of his subjects he was cast down. The family has some money but not enough to keep the lad at St. Luke's for the time required for him to qualify. Both had sufficient money to pay their first year, the Fortescue will allow them to complete their second year and a half of their third. Both however, wish to continue for the third and fourth years.\"\n\nMrs. Soames piped up. \"Now, sir, we have answered your questions. Do you answer mine. Who stole my button-box and why?\"\n\nHolmes reached for the box and manipulated it so that the hiding place opened within the lid. \"Your box was stolen for the buttons it held, not in the body of the box, but within this hiding place.\" Both Soames were staring at the box incredulously. \"I believe that your family's name for the box arose, not because you used it for buttons after you were given it, but because it was given to your family first to hold safe and secret a very special set of buttons.\n\n\"If there is one thing I have learned over and over, it is that family legends hold truth in them, but equally, that that truth may be confused and obscure even to the family who tell the story. This button-box is not English to begin with. Some noble in this land would never have given it to a Soames. It is of Indian work and no more than two hundred years old. It appears English because the maker copied an English sailor's sea chest.\n\n\"Now. Much further back in history there was a Soames who was valet to King Charles the First. I cannot prove this sequence of events, but it is my belief that the valet passed letters between his imprisoned king and the king's son. In gratitude for the kindness, and before King Charles was taken out to die, he cut a set of buttons from the clothing he would leave behind him and gave them to the valet. These were retained in the family as a treasure.\n\n\"Some generations later a Soames visiting India came into possession of the button-box, being shown its secret and deciding that it should be used for the keeping in secret of the set of buttons. I think it was for that that it was named the button-box. Since using it for other buttons would hide its other purpose, it was so used and that usage continued.\n\n\"Tell me, was not your great-grandfather slain when he was only a young man?\" Soames and his grandmother both nodded. \"So, the secret was lost. This box became just the family button-box and no more. However, there is another secret. In the University library there lies an early English Charter covering all Universities that existed at that time. In that the second Charles has written a brief paragraph which is obscure to any who do not know the reason.\"\n\nHolmes took from his pocket a piece of paper and read slowly. \"And further to scholarships listed, if any shall come with a set of the buttons once owned by my dear father and present them to any University, then shall that man or any other he shall designate, be free of whichever University he please for the period of five years in total. Such a time he being free also to break or change at his own choosing.\"\n\nHe looked at Soames. \"As I understand it, that can be construed to mean that the man who produces this set of buttons is free to attend any University of his choosing for five years and all expenses must be borne by that University. He may also as it says, 'break or change the period.' In other words, that five years may be split between two or even three persons. Your pupils apart did not know enough to utilize the information, but I believe one spoke to the other and together they decided to steal the button-box.\"\n\nMrs. Soames glared. \"You mean the Indian knew about the hiding place in my box, that it was possibly from his family when mine received it? And that other man read about King Charles and then about the charter, so they decided to steal my button-box to make sure they could stay at St. Luke's?\" Holmes nodded. \"What will you do to them, and\u2014\" in something of a wail, \"what about the buttons?\"\n\n\"Do not fear for them. What would it profit Ras and McLaren to flee? No, they will stay waiting for the right time to produce their plunder and buy themselves time to study without cost. We have only to approach them correctly and they will yield up their loot tamely I believe, so long as there will be no prosecution.\"\n\nAnd the thieves did so once it was put to them what they had done and a search of their rooms uncovered the priceless buttons. I saw them once before they were taken to the Soames' family bank and deposited there. Upon that sight I realized why they had been kept secret originally. The set of twelve was of fine gold, each centered with the monarch's crest, and that centered again with a fine diamond. The edge of each button was outlined with a ring of small sapphires.\n\nTo be found in possession of those before the Second Charles ascended the throne would have been death for valet Soames. Afterwards he may simply have cherished the last memento he had of his fallen King. None of us can be sure; it was all too long ago.\n\n* * * *\n\nRas and McLaren were not charged with the robbery of Mrs. Soames. However, their scholarship was stripped from them and where they went after that I do not know. It was Holmes who had the last word on them some weeks after we had returned to his rooms in London.\n\n\"The true folly on their part was the open robbery of Mrs. Soames and that they would have used the King Charles buttons to fulfil the charter. How could they explain their possession of them? Whereas had they stolen the button-box quietly from the Soames' house, abstracted the buttons, returned the box and made arrangements to sell the King Charles buttons privately to some American millionaire who would remain silent, they would have obtained sufficient money to have paid their required time at the University twice over\u2014and would have been most unlikely to have been caught\u2014or even suspected.\"\n\nWith which conclusion, and needless to say, I agreed. Holmes was right in another thing as well. Neither of us ever wishes to hear the words 'button-box' again, nor have I any wish to see one. The Soames' button-box has been sufficient to last us our remaining years.\nSHERLOCK HOLMES\u2014STYMIED! by Gary Lovisi\n\n\"I see you have been unable to resist the allure of the links once again,\" my friend Sherlock Holmes said to me one afternoon upon my visit to our old digs at 221B Baker Street. He was running his eyes over my attire with disdain, having obviously surmised that I had come over straight from playing a round of golf.\n\nI nodded my acknowledgement. Since my marriage and the sometimes heavy workload at St. Barts I'd seen Holmes only sparingly during the last year, so these occasional visits were moments of great joy for me to see my old friend again and catch up on his cases. My only spare time of late had been taken up with my new guilty indulgence; that fascinating creation called golf.\n\n\"A most stimulating and enjoyable exercise,\" I told my friend.\n\n\"Hah!\" Holmes huffed sarcastically, \"a gross and unmitigated waste of time. Adult men chasing around a little ball in a game of simple and utter luck. I'm afraid that is not for me.\"\n\n\"It is a sport, Holmes, not merely a game,\" I countered inexplicably upset by his words, feeling it was somehow my duty to defend the sport. \"I have found it an enjoyable pursuit over the last few months and have been invited to play at some of the most prestigious courses in England and Scotland, including the very home of golf, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews. I have even become friends with Tom Morris himself, Old Tom Morris as he is called, a legend of the game. I tell you it is not a game of luck, it is fraught with hazards and challenges which require a high level of skill.\"\n\nHolmes brushed all this aside with a casual wave of his hand. If it was not criminal in nature, nor fell within the narrow scope of his interests, he was rarely engaged.\n\n\"You know, Holmes,\" I told him allowing a hint of annoyance to enter my voice, \"We are now four years into the 20th Century, a time for new beginnings and newer things\u2014such as golfing. The game has lately set up strict rules of play affecting every contingency. I would think this is one aspect of it that you would find appealing and even approve of.\"\n\n\"Rubbish! You mentioned rules as in a sport, yet you yourself just called it a game. Checkers would be more stimulating.\"\n\n\"Oh, come now, Holmes!\" I retorted peevishly.\n\n\"You yourself called it a game,\" he countered with a wry grin.\n\n\"That was merely a figure of speech.\"\n\nHolmes looked at me shaking his head in mock despair, \"Watson, poor, poor Watson, I am saddened to hear that you have succumbed to the frippery of such a game of chance. Far better it would be to spend your time and your meager funds on the roulette wheel. Better odds, eh?\"\n\n\"I beg to disagree. I have found there is great skill involved in every aspect of golfing, from the opening drive down the fairway, to the chipping, and of course putting on the green. It can be most stimulating and challenging. You of all people should not be so quick to disparage a game\u2014or dare I say sport\u2014which you have never once tried yourself.\"\n\nSherlock Holmes looked thoughtful and then gave me a wry grin, \"You have me there, old fellow. You may be correct. Perhaps some day we shall have a go at it.\"\n\n\"I would be most delighted to do so, Holmes. Perhaps when you are not so heavily engaged with cases?\"\n\n\"Well, Watson, you have come at the perfect time. Cases have been few and far between lately. It seems the criminal classes have gone on holiday. Most disappointing.\"\n\nI laughed at his dilemma, \"Well, I am sure something of merit will turn up soon.\"\n\n\"Obviously it shall, but tell me more of this golfing mania you have contracted like a bad London cold. I see that there is something that evidently disturbs you about it.\"\n\nI looked at Sherlock Holmes closely. The man was remarkable. So far I had been quite careful, through neither word nor gesture, to let on to him the true nature of my visit. \"You are as perceptive as ever. How did you guess?\"\n\n\"Guess! Did you say 'guess'?\"\n\n\"I meant.... What I meant to say...,\" I fumbled quickly.\n\n\"Never mind, old boy,\" Holmes smiled indulgently at my discomfort. \"Put it down to my knowledge of your person through our long association. I can see there is something bothering you, and yet you are loathe to bring it up, but it picks at you nevertheless. It is about this game of yours, is it not?\"\n\nI sighed, \"Yes, Holmes, it is a most depressing problem, but surely it does not rise to the level where your magnificent talents need to be employed.\"\n\n\"Why not let me be the judge of that. As I told you, interesting cases are scant right now so if you have something of merit I should be happy to hear the details.\"\n\nI nodded with relief that my friend was concerned, collected my thoughts and then began my narrative as I sat down in my old chair across from his own. \"You are correct that it has to do with golfing. I have already mentioned that I have made the acquaintance of Old Tom Morris. He is a most decent and gentlemanly fellow. These days he is the greenskeeper at the R&A, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, in Scotland.\"\n\n\"Yes, where they play the British Open. I believe Old Morris even won the championship four times in the '60s?\" Holmes stated.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" I smiled. \"So you know something of the game?\"\n\n\"A niggling bit here and there. I heard about the fellow primarily through the mystery that befell his son, Young Tom Morris.\"\n\n\"Young Tom?\" I asked casually, but curious. \"I had not heard.\"\n\n\"A most tragic affair, Watson. Old Tom's son, Tommy\u2014these days known as Young Tom\u2014was a golfing prodigy. He was a legend in his own time who followed his father into golfing history by winning four British Opens. He was young, barely 24 years of age when his wife and child died in childbirth. Young Tom died three months later on Christmas Day in 1875 of unknown causes. It was all quite mysterious, but most people at the time blamed it on a broken heart.\"\n\n\"A sad tale,\" I said softly.\n\n\"Sadder still was the loving father's reply when asked if such a death could be possible.\"\n\n\"What did he say, Holmes?\"\n\n\"It is said Old Tom replied that if it were possible for a person to die from a broken heart, then he would surely have died himself at the time.\"\n\nI sighed, \"That is sad. I had no idea.\"\n\n\"Old Tom has outlived his son by a quarter of a century. By all accounts he is a man of unique and outstanding character and talents. I should very much like to meet him some day.\" Holmes stated, then he looked directly at me and asked, \"So, now Watson, tell me what you came here for.\"\n\n\"Well, Holmes, the Open will be concluded tomorrow evening with the presentation of the Championship Cup to the winner\u2014it is a large silver trophy more commonly known as the Claret Jug. The problem is, the Claret Jug has turned up missing.\"\n\n\"Is this jug valuable?\" Holmes asked with more interest now.\n\n\"Yes, sterling silver, worth a considerable sum\u2014but it is priceless to the club.\"\n\nSherlock Holmes nodded, looked at me from his seat and said calmly, \"Tell me, has anyone at the club turned up missing?\"\n\nI looked at Holmes, shrugged, \"No, not that I know of. However Old Tom mentioned to me that one of his boys, a caddy, has gone sick and not reported to work for the last two days. Old Tom says it is most unlike the lad not to be available for any match, much less a championship.\"\n\n\"And is this boy interested in the game?\"\n\n\"Well, I assume so, most of the caddies are enthusiastic about golfing. Old Tom told me this boy is well-mannered but rather more fanatical than most about the game.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Holmes said thoughtfully. Finally he looked up at me with an inexplicable smile upon his face. \"Well, Watson, you must know there is little I can do about this here in London.\"\n\n\"I understand, Holmes,\" I replied softly, apparently defeated, but grateful he had at least listened to my story. \"It's just that Old Tom is very upset over the loss of the trophy. It will be a disaster for the Open, for the club, and for the game of golf itself.\"\n\nHolmes suddenly stood up from his seat and looked at me sharply, \"Well then, there is nothing else to do but set off for Scotland at once and remedy this situation. Come, Watson, the game\u2014of golf this time\u2014is afoot!\"\n\n* * * *\n\nDue to the efficiencies of the British railway system, Holmes and I reached Saint Andrews in no less than eight hours and once at the club I introduced the great detective to Morris. Old Tom had also been a winner of the British Open no less than four times, but these days he was a famous ballmaker, clubmaker and course designer. For many years he had been the head greenskeeper at Saint Andrews.\n\nOld Tom Morris certainly looked every one of his 83 years of age, sporting a long, flowing white beard that rested on the center of his broad chest. He was dressed in golfing attire, a sporting jacket and plaid cap on his gray head. His left hand often rested in his trouser pocket where he kept an ever-present pipe and he used an upside-down hickory-shafted mashie niblick as a cane. While he never seemed to smile, his piercing blue eyes exuded intense energy and gentle kindness.\n\nI introduced the golfing legend to the detective legend.\n\n\"Ach, as I live and breathe, can it be none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes come hither to Scotland to visit our lovely club?\" Morris asked with a thick Scottish brogue and a joyful face that lit up with mirth. He proved a most hearty and cheerful fellow. While it appeared he never cracked a smile and was the epitome of the dour Scot, Old Tom was truly a kind and warm-hearted man. His eyes fairly twinkled as he spoke. \"I am so honored to meet you, sir, and I welcome you to Saint Andrews. I assume Doctor Watson has told you about our little problem?\"\n\n\"Yes, he has, that is why I am here, Mr. Morris.\"\n\n\"Well, I thank you, but please, just call me Old Tom, good sir.\"\n\nHolmes allowed a warm smile, \"Well, Old Tom, you have a missing trophy and I hear the presentation is later this evening?\"\n\n\"Aye, the championship is just finishing up and we find ourselves in dire difficulty,\" Old Tom said sadly. \"The Claret Jug, as it is called, has permanently resided at the R&A\u2014as we call the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews\u2014since 1873. The trophy is presented to the winner of the British Open each year. The winner gets to keep it for a year before returning it to the R&A, thence to be passed on to the next champion. It has lately been returned to the club by last year's winner. Now the trophy has gone missing. I fear it may even have been stolen.\"\n\n\"The good doctor has told me that one of your boys has gone ill and not turned up for work.\"\n\n\"Why yes, that is true. Young Daniel Roberts, a caddy, a good boy.\"\n\n\"And where may we find young Mr. Roberts?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"In the village. He lives with his mum over her dressmakers shop.\"\n\nHolmes nodded, \"Then let us repair there immediately, for we have no time to lose.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nWhen we reached the home of the boy we found young Daniel Roberts upstairs in his room in bed with an apparent and dire illness of unknown origin. With the consent of his mother and under Holmes' instructions, I quickly attended to the boy, giving him a thorough medical examination. Finally I walked outside the room to confer privately with my friend.\n\n\"Well, doctor, what is your diagnosis?\" Holmes asked me.\n\n\"There's nothing physically wrong with the boy at all. But he is terrified of something that he is desperately trying to hide. His heart is pounding fearfully from it.\"\n\nHolmes just nodded, then walked back into the room with me. There we saw Old Tom and Mrs. Roberts looking sadly upon the boy laying so sickly in the bed. The boy saw us enter and coughed lightly.\n\nHolmes grew grimly serious, \"This will not do, Daniel. Doctor Watson has given you a full examination. There is nothing wrong with you. I know you are feigning illness. Time is wasting. You must tell me what you did with the Saint Andrews trophy.\"\n\nThe boy's face fell into despair, he was trapped and looked over to his mother.\n\n\"Daniel Roberts, now you tell these men the truth!\" the boy's mother commanded.\n\nDaniel looked shocked, fearful with despair, but he did not reply.\n\n\"I know you stole the trophy, young man,\" Holmes declared. \"The game is up so you might as well make a clean breast of it now.\"\n\n\"Come on, lad, 'tis time to speak up,\" Old Tom prompted, looking dour and disappointed that one of his boys had actually stolen the famed trophy.\n\nThe boy began to cry.\n\n\"Come now, Danny,\" Old Tom added gently, \"tell me what happened. Why did you steal the trophy? Who did you sell it to?\"\n\n\"Oh no, that's not the way it was at all, Mr. Tom,\" the boy blurted through tears. \"I took it when the previous winner retuned it to the club a few days ago. I just wanted to see me name on that trophy like all the great golfers of years before, because one day my name could be etched there too. So I used some ink to write me name there, right below Young Mr. Tom's last win from '72, I did.\"\n\n\"Danny Roberts, you didn't!\" his mother shouted angrily.\n\nHolmes motioned her to silence, \"Go on, Danny. Where is the trophy now? Did you sell it?\"\n\n\"Sell it? Of course not, sir! I would never think of such a thing,\" the boy stammered obviously upset at the very thought.\n\n\"Then what did you do with it?\" Old Tom prompted.\n\nDanny looked grim, wide eyes pleading with Old Tom, \"I'm so sorry. I was scared, sir. I know I did wrong by putting me name there and was trying to remove it, but it just would not come off. I was terrified! Then I got the idea to take the trophy down to the stream to use the water to wash off the ink. To my relief my name came off, but then I dropped the trophy down into the stream. It went in deep.\"\n\n\"So why didn't you dive in after it?\" I asked the boy.\n\nDanny looked up sheepishly, \"I cannot swim.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Holmes said, hiding a wry grin.\n\nDanny went on to explain, \"I was fearful of disappointing Mr. Tom. He been so good to me and all. He always told me how golf teaches responsibility and good sportsmanship, then I failed him. So I pretended to be ill so I would not have to face him. I am sorry, Mr. Tom.\"\n\nOld Tom smiled gently, \"Think no more of it, lad.\"\n\n\"Will I be going off to prison?\" the boy asked nervously.\n\nOld Tom laughed with gentle warmth, \"Of course not, Danny.\"\n\n\"So where's the trophy now?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Why, still at the bottom of the stream, where I left it,\" Danny replied.\n\nHolmes nodded, \"Very well then. Now Danny, get yourself out of that bed and let us go and fetch it immediately.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nIt was early the next morning when Sherlock Holmes and I played our first round of golf. The problem of the day before had been solved satisfactorily; the trophy had been retrieved and then presented in time to the championship winner with nary a hitch. Young Danny had been suitably chastised by Old Tom but was allowed to keep his position as a caddy at the club. Once again all was right and well at the R&A.\n\nStill and all that next day offered us a lovely, brisk, Scottish morning, perfect for a round of golf at the Royal and Ancient Saint Andrews. Old Tom had made a gift of a favorable tee time to Holmes and I, in gratitude for our deed. So my companion reluctantly agreed to play a round. We decided to play a singles match, just him and I, stroke play. Old Tom and Danny even volunteered to act as our caddies, each giving us much needed and helpful instruction and information before we began play.\n\nThe course at the R&A was sandy in nature, with small hills that played havoc with even the most well-struck drive, frequently knocking the ball devilishly off-line and into an insidiously placed pot bunker that only the most diabolically warped mind could have created. It was a challenging course to play.\n\nThe first hole, known as the \"Burn\" hole, was a par four. With a good deal of luck, Holmes and I both bogied it with five. We were lucky to shoot only one stroke over par. I did better on the second hole actually making par, while Holmes did better than I on the third. By the fourth hole I began to realize that Holmes seemed to know a lot more about playing golf than he'd ever let on to me. We played a few more holes and we did well enough, mostly through the good advice of our caddies, both of us going over par of course, but not terribly so.\n\n\"Where did you learn to play so well?\" I finally asked Holmes, astounded by his quality of play. I was no master of the game, nor was he, but I was surprised by the rapidity with which he had picked up the essentials.\n\nHolmes only smiled, adjusted his deerstalker cap, and replied, \"On the train to Saint Andrews, of course. While you slept the hours away, I studied up on the game reading the golfing books in your pack. I found Horace E. Hutchinson's volume most useful, while The Art of Golf by Simpson was highly informative. Did you know it even includes photographic plates of our friend Old Tom demonstrating the value of the swing? His advice is priceless. You may be correct in stating that once you understand this game it opens up a true appreciation of it.\"\n\n\"Posh, Holmes! Golf from books!\" I snorted derisively, but I could not help but laud his improved attitude. \"All right then, we'll see where this leads, we're off to the Tenth. So far we are even, so let's see what you can do on the back nine.\"\n\nWe moved on to the Tenth hole and played through. I went ahead by a stroke, but by the next hole Holmes had drawn even with me. He went ahead on the Thirteenth, but I caught up to him by the Fifteenth. At this point it was anyone's game. Holmes played with grim determination, scowling at bad shots but seemingly elated when he made a good one\u2014in that way he proved no different from any other golfer.\n\nIt was on the approach to the last hole that Old Tom announced, \"Gentlemen, the Eighteenth Hole. It is a par 4, at 360 yards in length, and you both be even up to this point.\"\n\n\"A close contest, Watson,\" Holmes said ruefully. \"You are quite right, this pursuit can be most challenging. I think I shall win this hole and then put to bed once and for all your obsessive dreams concerning this game.\"\n\n\"I shall give you a good fight, Holmes,\" I warned.\n\nSherlock Holmes smiled, \"I would expect nothing less, old man.\"\n\nIt had taken us each two strokes to get onto the green of the Eighteenth. Holmes had a difficult 20 foot putt to make the hole. My putt was shorter, being almost 12 feet in distance. Being farthest from the hole, Holmes played first.\n\nHolmes' putt went straight and true right towards the hole. It looked like it just might go in. My face grew grim with the bitter taste of impending doom. Surely his ball was heading straight for the hole and would fall in right away. I looked over at my friend and he appeared elated. Then I saw his ball suddenly stop dead, less than a foot from the cup. Holmes stared at the ball in utter shock and disbelief as if willing it to move on it's own accord and go into the cup. But it did not.\n\nNow it was my turn. A grim smile came to my face as I prepared for my putt. Danny, acting as my caddy took out one of his favorite hickory-shafted putting cleeks and handed it to me. \"Here, Doctor, try this one. You have a level shot, play it straight and it should go true.\"\n\nI nodded, my face serious with the competitive spirit as I got into position and made my putt. It was a less forceful stroke than my opponent's. I intended a simple and straight stroke, but my ball immediately veered off curving in a wide arc. I shook my head with dark trepidation and took a deep breath. I saw that Holmes held his breath also.\n\nAll four of us watched intently as my ball rolled in a wide arc, slowly moving closer and closer to the cup with what appeared to be the sureness of inevitability. I let out a tense breath. It looked like I just might make the hole. Then the ball suddenly encountered a rough patch on the green and by some devilish action hooked in front of Holmes' ball and rolled to a dead stop. I tried to figure out what had just happened. My ball now lay between Holmes' ball and the cup by barely over six inches\u2014effectively blocking him from the cup.\n\n\"That's the way, doctor!\" Danny, shouted with glee.\n\nOld Tom Morris just laughed with uproarious mirth, \"Aye, well played, Doctor Watson, it appears you've stymied Mr. Holmes quite nicely!\"\n\n\"Stymied?\" Holmes blurted. He was obviously not aware of this particular rule.\n\nI was surprised myself by the turn of events but quickly realized it could be a potential game changer for me.\n\nOld Tom explained, \"Watson's ball blocks your own from the cup, Mr. Holmes. It's an old and valued rule of golf, called the Stymie. In golf you must hit your ball true to the hole. Hence, when another ball blocks your own, you are stymied. It's your play, Mr. Holmes.\"\n\n\"How can it be played, if Watson's ball blocks mine?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Indeed,\" Old Tom said most sympathetically, \"the balls be just over six inches apart\u2014so Watson's ball canna' be lifted as per the rules. Your only option is to concede the hole, or negotiate the stymie. When a player be stymied he obviously can not putt straight for the hole, but if he strikes his ball so as to miss his opponent's ball and yet go into the hole, he is said to negotiate the stymie. Well, Mr. Holmes?\"\n\nThe Great Detective carefully regarded his options. They were woefully limited. \"You have placed me in quite the pickle, Watson. I shall not concede the hole to you, so you leave me no alternative but to attempt, as Old Tom says, to negotiate this...stymie.\"\n\n\"Bravo, Mr. Holmes!\" Old Tom enthused warmly at my friend's obvious pluck. \"Here now, use this Jigger, it will give you the loft you need to play your ball.\"\n\nHolmes took the hickory-shafted Jigger and prepared to make his play. He took his time and hit the ball with a sudden and sharp lifting motion that lofted his ball into the air. I was shocked to see his ball ride over my own\u2014a bare two inches in height and straight towards the hole. Then his ball kicked right into the hole\u2014and bounced right back out!\n\nHolmes' ball slowly rolled away to rest a few inches from the cup.\n\nIt was heartbreaking. Danny grimaced while Old Tom shook his head good-naturedly at the mystical vagaries of the game. I stood there amazed by what I had just seen. Holmes for his part said not one word, his face had become a solid mask of stone. I decided it was not the right time for me to make any comment about what had happened.\n\nIt was my turn now. I took my time. With the utmost care I took my putt, lightly tapping my ball so it fell squarely into the cup with a soft plop. I sighed with relief and looked over at my friend.\n\nSherlock Holmes seemed to hardly believe what had happened. A moment later he mechanically tapped his ball into the hole, officially ending the game, and then he walked away in a rather sullen funk.\n\nI had beat Holmes by one stroke but my victory was bittersweet.\n\nI thought I could hear my friend murmuring to himself as he walked off the green, something about how he had been right all along, that golf was a stupid game, a horrendous waste of time, and based solely upon luck rather than any true skill.\n\n\"You know, Watson, some day that damnable stymie rule will have to go,\" he commented to me sharply as the four of us walked off towards the clubhouse.\n\nOld Tom Morris cut in before I could reply, \"Never, Mr. Holmes! Not while I live! Aye, golfing tradition, it surely be. One of the most sacred rules of the game.\"\n\n\"Hah!\" Holmes snorted derisively dismissing the entire affair. Then he looked at me and suddenly smiled with renewed good humor, \"Well played, Watson. I must say, well played, indeed.\"\n\n\"Why thank you, Holmes, that is very gracious of you. It was a close contest. I am sure you will do better on our next outing,\" I said in an upbeat tone, trying to offer him some measure of support, but I knew the truth. I knew my friend. This was the first and last game of golf I or anyone else would ever play with Sherlock Holmes.\n\nI shook my head in consternation as Holmes and I accompanied Old Tom towards his clubmaking shop off the 18th green. We had sent young Danny off, and now the three of us sat down enjoying a few pints, sharing stories about golf and life, and never once did we ever mention the stymie again.\n\n* * * *\n\nHISTORICAL NOTE: Much of the background of this story is based on historical facts that deal with the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at Saint Andrews, in Scotland; the British Open trophy, better know as the Claret Jug; and the lives of Young Tom and Old Tom Morris. I also want to thank the real Dan Roberts, as well as the Gerritsen Beach Golf Museum Library for their assistance. The Stymie rule was finally taken out of golf in 1952. Before then, players could not lift their ball, but after 1952 they would use a marker on the green and then lift their ball so as not to obstruct an opponent's ball. There are many who wish the Stymie was still in effect.\nBAD HABITS, by Magda Jozsa\n\nONE\n\nImagine my surprise when I entered the sitting room of my comfortable abode at 221 Baker Street and could hear the plucking of Holmes's violin, but he was nowhere in sight. It sounded like he was picking at the violin like one would a guitar, running up and down the scales. I looked around the room in confusion. The sound appeared to be coming from behind the sofa. As I moved closer I spotted Holmes's ungainly rear sticking up as he backed up slowly. He was on all fours, plucking at the strings of his violin, and shuffling backward with his knees.\n\n\"Holmes?\" I queried. \"What on earth are you doing?\" I moved closer.\n\n\"I'm trying to kill a spider, Watson.\"\n\nI moved around to the front of the couch and looked down. Near Holmes, crawling along undisturbed by his efforts was a large gray huntsman.\n\n\"How will playing your violin kill it?\" I asked\u2014although there were times when his playing preyed on my nerves enough to be almost fatal.\n\n\"I'm trying to find the right note that will disable it,\" he explained. \"Certain pitches can paralyze the nerves.\"\n\nI shook my head in exasperation and stamped my foot down on the spider, flattening it.\n\nHolmes sat back on his haunches. \"Your way works, too,\" he said mildly.\n\n\"You need a case, Holmes,\" I said. \"If this is all you have to occupy your time, you must be desperate for something to do.\"\n\n\"I am. I'm beside myself with lethargy and mental tedium. There are no challenges in life. What's the point of being the world's best\u2014the world's only consulting detective if I have nothing upon which to try my talents?\"\n\nI ignored his slight conceit. \"Why don't you take up some research? Better still, file your old cases,\" I said pointing to a stack of papers in the corner, which Holmes insisted no one must touch but he.\n\nHe tossed his violin carelessly onto the sofa and stood up. \"Nice try, Watson,\" he said without rancor. He knew I was curious about those old cases, as they occurred before I'd met him.\n\n\"Maybe I will. Perhaps I should tell you about the case in which I first met Lestrade\u2014he was just a sergeant then....\" He wandered over to the fireplace, selected a pipe from the rack on the mantle and filled it with tobacco from the Persian slipper. \"Interesting case that,\" he mused. \"First time I was ever shot.\"\n\nI looked up with interest. \"You've been shot? I'd be interested to hear about it,\" I said, also lighting up my pipe.\n\n\"It was in the summer of '79,\" began Holmes, only to be interrupted by Mrs. Hudson bringing up the afternoon mail. He flicked through the envelopes, tossed a couple to me and dropped the rest onto the floor, opening one. This he perused with great interest.\n\nI glanced at my own mail, which was of little consequence.\n\n\"What do you make of this, Watson?\" he asked, handing the letter over.\n\nI read it aloud:\n\n\"Mr. Holmes, we fear for our lives. We are imprisoned by evil. Please help us. I will try to come to London by the evening train. Sr. Mary Ignatius.\"\n\n\"A nun?\" I queried, looking at Holmes with surprise.\n\nHe smiled, obviously pleased to have something out of the ordinary.\n\n\"From the village of Sherbrook, Dartmoor,\" he said, studying the envelope. \"Young woman. She wrote this hurriedly\u2014note the strokes. Strong and clear but smudged as if she couldn't wait to blot the letter properly.\"\n\n\"Dartmoor eh? Well, I guess that's the place for demons and such. But what is this evil she talks about?\"\n\n\"I have no idea. She uses the plural 'we'. No doubt she is from a convent and the danger that threatens her also threatens the other sisters.\" He rubbed his hands together. \"I've never had a nun for a client before,\" he enthused. He checked the Bradshaw for train timetables. \"Last train from Sherbrook is seven p.m.\"\n\nHis boredom was gone, and so was his inclination to share the details of his old case. Instead, he busied himself with studying his commonplace books. When eight o'clock came and went, he began to pace.\n\n\"She should have been here by now,\" he muttered over and over.\n\n\"Perhaps she couldn't make the train. She did say she would try to come. Maybe she couldn't make it,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Maybe she was prevented,\" Holmes replied gravely. He went to his desk and scribbled a telegram on one of his blank forms, then rang for Mrs. Hudson.\n\n\"Send the boy with this please, Mrs. Hudson\u2014it's urgent,\" he instructed.\n\nIt was another two hours before he received a reply, and during that time he paced about our rooms restlessly.\n\nHe tore the telegram open. \"Blast!\" he cried.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I wired the Sherbrook station master to find out if a nun had boarded the train.\"\n\n\"Did she?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He grabbed his hat and coat. \"Coming, Watson? I fear foul play.\"\n\nI grabbed my own coat and hurried after him. We made our way to Paddington Station. At the station-master's office, he asked if the train from Dartmoor was still at the station.\n\n\"You're in luck, Mr. Holmes,\" said Mr. Phillips, the station-master. \"The carriages have been moved to a siding for cleaning.\" He detailed one of the security men to take us to the train.\n\nHolmes searched every carriage from third class to first. No sign of our errant nun. We returned to Mr. Phillips' office.\n\n\"Can you give me the route the train took?\" asked Holmes.\n\nThe station-master obliged.\n\n\"You're not planning on going along the track now, are you, Holmes?\" I queried. \"It's pitch dark\u2014even more so in the country. You won't see anything.\"\n\nAs much as he hated to admit it, I was right. \"First light, Watson; but I fear we are too late.\"\n\nWe returned to Baker Street. I retired, knowing full well that he would not sleep this night.\n\nTWO\n\nIt was still dark when I felt his hand upon my shoulder. \"Wake up, Watson.\"\n\nI grunted and grumbled my way to consciousness.\n\n\"I have made tea, but I'm afraid we will have to forgo breakfast.\"\n\nI groaned and sat up. \"It's still dark,\" I complained.\n\n\"It will be light by the time we get to Paddington. Now bestir yourself.\"\n\nHe left the room and I forced myself to get up. I was too bleary-eyed to risk shaving. I'd be more likely to slit my throat. Fifteen minutes later I joined Holmes and drank my tea. The clock showed the time to be four-thirty.\n\nThere was a hired buggy waiting for us out front and I was glad of my overcoat, scarf, and gloves when we went outside. It was bitterly cold in the pre-dawn gloom.\n\nHolmes clambered up and took the reins.\n\n\"Up here, Watson,\" he said. \"\"When we get to the tracks. I will look to the right and you can search the left.\"\n\nBy the time we reached Paddington a pale sun made its appearance. Holmes drove through the rail yard and then picked out a rough bumpy track alongside the rails. Just as well I hadn't had breakfast, it would have been shaken out of me.\n\n\"Keep your eyes peeled,\" he instructed tersely. I didn't have to ask what for. I knew we were looking for the nun's body. He no doubt feared that she had fallen\u2014or had been pushed\u2014from the train.\n\nWe passed several villages, and as the sun rose higher, I was hopeful that Holmes would stop at one long enough to get some breakfast. A vain hope. He wasn't interested in food.\n\nIt was nearing eleven. We'd been travelling for some six hours and I was getting ready to insist that we stop long enough to get some lunch, when I noticed something black against a bush, down at the base of the railway embankment.\n\n\"There\u2014Holmes!' I cried, standing up in the buggy for a better look and almost toppling out when he stopped abruptly.\n\n\"What did you see?\" he demanded, also standing up.\n\n\"Down there!\" I pointed.\n\nHolmes leapt from the carriage and slithered down the steep embankment.\n\nI followed, somewhat more cautiously. I stopped by Holmes, as he knelt beside the body of a young woman dressed in a nun's habit. She was bloody and battered from her fall from the train, but it wasn't the fall that killed her. The white front of her habit was stained red.\n\n\"She's been stabbed,\" he said soberly. \"Stabbed, and then thrown from the train.\"\n\nI glanced around at the barren landscape that surrounded us. \"If we hadn't been looking for her, I doubt if anyone would have found her for weeks.\"\n\n\"Yes. That's why the body was dumped here. Her fear was genuine.\"\n\n\"I guess it's out of your hands now,\" I said. When he looked in askance at me, I added. \"I mean, she can hardly retain you now.\"\n\n\"She already has. She became my client the minute she wrote that letter. I may be too late to help her, but she spoke in the plural\u2014there are other lives at stake.\"\n\nWith effort, we managed to bring her body up the embankment. I wrapped her in a blanket and placed her in the back of the buggy. Holmes then drove to the nearest village where we reported the crime to the local constabulary.\n\nThe town constable was a bellicose bulldog of a man. \"We can't handle this,\" he complained. \"It's a job for Scotland Yard.\"\n\n\"Then it is your responsibility to notify them,\" said Holmes abruptly.\n\n\"Yeah, but if you're going back to London, you can do it. It's a London case anyway. It's not like she was killed here...you might as well take the body, too. I'd only have to send her up,\" said the constable, making excuses for not doing anything.\n\n\"No wonder you're stuck in this backwater. It's all you're good for,\" said Holmes, his temper rising.\n\n\"Come on, Holmes,\" I said pulling his sleeve. \"He's not worth your wrath, and too stupid to be of use. We might as well go to Scotland Yard ourselves. It will be more worthwhile.\"\n\nHolmes allowed me to lead him out and even agreed to stop long enough for a meal before starting our long journey back. We left the horse with the local blacksmith to feed and tend while we ate, then resumed our journey an hour later. The pace was much brisker and more comfortable, as we now travelled on the road. It only took four hours to return to London.\n\nHolmes drove straight to Scotland Yard. The Inspector on duty turned out to be Stanley Hopkins. He greeted Holmes with enthusiasm, and Holmes in turn, was pleased to see him. He considered Hopkins one of the brightest the Yard had to offer.\n\nThe body was taken to the morgue. Hopkins expressed his shock at the murder of a nun. Holmes told him about her letter. She had no identification on her except for a silver cross around her neck with 'Mary' inscribed on its back.\n\n\"We'll do what we can to investigate this, Mr. Holmes, but if you want to follow up the Sherbrook side yourself...,\" began Hopkins.\n\n\"Most definitely. Do send the official police to the convent to inform them of her demise, and for proper identification. As to what it was that she feared\u2014that is still to be determined.\"\n\nHolmes looked grim. There was something base and heinous in the murder of a nun, far more so than the murder of an ordinary woman.\n\nTHREE\n\nAfter leaving Scotland Yard, Holmes dropped off the buggy and we returned to Baker Street. We had missed the last train to Sherbrook. It concerned me that Holmes would spend another night pacing, but he surprised me by retiring at nine o'clock.\n\nJust before going into his room, he advised me: \"You should go to bed early too, Watson. First train leaves at eight in the morning and I want to be on it.\"\n\nI nodded, finished my pipe and called it a night. I confess I was rather tired. Getting up before dawn has never been one of my favorite pastimes. It had been a long day.\n\n* * * *\n\nWe were both up and breakfasted by seven the next morning, and at the station before eight. Stanley Hopkins met us there.\n\n\"Thought I'd catch you here, Mr. Holmes,\" he said in greeting. \"There is a convent about five miles from Sherbrook, called the Sisters of Mercy. They're an order of the Catholic Church that has taken a vow of silence. Only the Mother Superior is allowed to talk. They didn't report the nun missing, but apparently they have been looking for her themselves.\"\n\n\"Why didn't they report it?\" I asked.\n\n\"It seems she's gone missing before. They usually find her and bring her back without anyone being any wiser.\"\n\n\"That implies that there is something odd about her,\" said Holmes thoughtfully.\n\n\"Well, yes...that letter of yours is a bit odd too, if you don't mind me saying. If it wasn't for the knife in her chest, I'd be inclined to think she fell from the train on her own.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that's what we are meant to think,\" replied Holmes.\n\n\"The local Sergeant's name is Reid\u2014Robert Reid. I've telegraphed him to expect you. He will arrange accommodation for you. He'll also be able to fill you in on the local scene.\"\n\n\"What about you, Hopkins? How is your investigation proceeding?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"We've been trying to trace the people that were on the train, in the hope that someone might have seen something\u2014or at least seen the nun in the company of someone else. I'm afraid we haven't had much luck so far. We've managed to trace a couple of people, but they boarded after the place where the body was found.\"\n\n\"The murderer was unable to return to Sherbrook after the deed, as it was the last train. It is unlikely he would disembark at a small town for where he is more likely to be noticed and remembered. Logically, he would have travelled on to London and become one of the crowd. He may already have returned to Sherbrook yesterday, or, for all we know, could even be on this train,\" said Holmes nodding towards the train that steamed up to the platform where we stood.\n\n\"What makes you think the murderer is from Sherbrook?\" I asked.\n\n\"How else would he have known the nun was on board?\" countered Holmes.\n\n\"He may not have known. It could be just some crazy fool with an aversion to nuns,\" said Hopkins.\n\n\"While that is always possible, it seems hardly likely in view of the fact that she was coming to see me. I believe she was killed to be silenced.\"\n\nHopkins nodded. \"Well, if I come up with anything, I will let you know,\" he promised.\n\n\"As I will you,\" returned Holmes.\n\nI waved good-bye as we boarded the train, and, instead of moving immediately to first class as we usually did, Holmes loitered in the passageway watching the travellers board.\n\n\"Excuse me, sirs,\" said a soft feminine voice. I turned and was rewarded with the sight of a very attractive young woman with the face of an angel surrounded by a halo of blonde hair.\n\n\"May I pass please?\" she asked sweetly.\n\n\"Of course, my dear, of course,\" I said, stepping back hurriedly.\n\nShe smiled brightly at Holmes and me in passing.\n\nHolmes also stepped back a pace to let her pass.\n\n\"Come on, let's find a carriage,\" he said ignoring the woman.\n\nI stared after her, hoping to catch a final glimpse of that delightful countenance. With a wistful sigh I followed him as we moved on to the first-class carriage to our reserved compartment. We travelled in silence\u2014Holmes lost in his thoughts. I was always loath to interrupt him at such times.\n\n* * * *\n\nAt Sherbrook, only seven people disembarked, including Holmes and myself. Four were men in various types of dress, and one was the angel-faced woman.\n\nI noticed Holmes paying particular attention to the men.\n\n\"Mr. Holmes?\"\n\nHolmes turned. \"I'm Holmes, this is Dr. Watson.\"\n\n\"How do you do, sir? I'm Sergeant Reid. Inspector Hopkins said you were coming.\"\n\nWe shook hands with the pleasant-faced young man. I liked the look of him; he had honest blue eyes, brown hair, and stood some six feet tall.\n\n\"Pleased to meet you,\" I said as we shook hands.\n\n\"I'm afraid there isn't a hotel in town, but I can put you up at my place. It's not extravagant but it's comfortable, and the missus is so excited at having the famous Sherlock Holmes in the house, that she's been cleaning and cooking all day.\"\n\n\"Er, thank you, but really she needn't trouble herself on our account. Our needs are simple,\" replied Holmes, a little disconcerted by Reid's enthusiasm. It was obvious he was yet another admirer of Holmes.\n\n\"No trouble, Mr. Holmes,\" replied the other cheerfully. \"We can go to the house and drop your bags off first if you like.\"\n\n\"Actually, I would rather go to your office and learn more about the local situation here.\"\n\n\"Yes of course, anything you like. Inspector Hopkins said I was to give you every assistance.\" The sergeant was young and eager, and keen to watch a master in action. It was a pleasant change from that other country policeman we had encountered just two days ago.\n\nWe strolled leisurely through the village to the small police station, which was little more than a one-room shack with one corner fenced off by bars.\n\n\"We don't have much need for a jail here,\" explained Sergeant Reid at our curious glance. \"Princeton Prison is only ten miles yonder. If we have any dangerous criminals that need to be kept overnight, I take them up there.\"\n\n\"I see. Tell me about the Sisters of Mercy Convent?\" requested Holmes, sitting down in front of Reid's desk and taking out his cigarette case.\n\n\"It's been there for as long as I can remember and I've lived around these parts all my life. They do charity works; make preserves that they sell; help out the local doctor when a midwife is required, and visit the prison to comfort sick or dying inmates.\"\n\n\"How long has it been a silent order?\"\n\nReid frowned. \"Now that you mention it, not that long. I think it is something that came in with the new Mother Superior.\"\n\n\"New Mother Superior? How new?\"\n\n\"She's been here for about a month. She and three nuns arrived early last month. Mother Superior Capuano was pretty old and sick. This new one\u2014Mother Superior Augustine came to take her place. Mother Superior Capuano was planning on going up to their main convent in London, but died two days after the new Mother Superior arrived. It seems that they've taken the vow of silence to honor the death of old Mother Superior Capuano. I think it is only a temporary thing. A mark of respect, like.\"\n\n\"Quite. The Mother Superior was willing to talk to you?\"\n\n\"Sure. Someone has to be able to talk\u2014especially when dealing with outsiders. She was quite helpful and pleasant.\"\n\n\"When you told her about the nun we found, how did she react?\"\n\n\"Well, she was shocked of course, who wouldn't be? Said that it was something that Mother Superior Capuano feared would happen to Sr. Mary Ignatius.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It seems that the sister was a bit odd. She'd be all right for months, and then would suddenly take it into her head that she was surrounded by monsters or demons or evil or what have you, and would escape from the convent to get away from them. The other nuns would search for her whenever she did that and fetch her back. Usually they would sedate her for a couple of days and then she'd be right as rain until the next time some fool notion got into her head.\"\n\n\"The Mother Superior told you this?\"\n\n\"Uh huh.\"\n\n\"Why wasn't she in an asylum?\" I asked.\n\n\"They look after their own, or at least that's what the Mother Superior told me. Said as how Sr. Mary wasn't dangerous and the delusional episodes only came out every now and again.\"\n\n\"Why were they expecting her to get killed one day?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"Well, it's not like they were expecting her to get murdered. They feared she would come to harm when she wandered off.\" The Sergeant frowned for a moment. \"I mean; they were worried that she would meet someone crazier than her.... I guess she did.\"\n\n\"Did they know why she was going to London?\"\n\n\"No. I mean, I didn't ask.\"\n\n\"How often do the sisters come to town?\"\n\n\"Not often. They're pretty self-sufficient at the convent. Since taking the vow of silence, I've only seen one or two of them and the Mother Superior. Only the ones that are allowed to talk come in.\"\n\n\"Did anyone see Sr. Mary posting a letter on the weekend?\"\n\n\"I don't know, but she wouldn't have to come into town to do it.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, the nuns have a deal going with the postman. They put their outgoing mail in the letter box and he collects it when dropping off their new mail.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Holmes butted his cigarette and stood up. \"Now, Sergeant, I would like to visit the convent. Is that possible?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course. We can go right now if you like. I've arranged to borrow Jim Pyke's buggy.\"\n\n\"Excellent.\"\n\nThe Sergeant beamed at Holmes's approbation and hurried out to fetch the carriage.\n\nFOUR\n\nAn eight-foot high stone wall surrounded the convent. As we drove through the gates we could see nuns working in the vegetable plots. There was one nun that appeared to be supervising the others\u2014though what supervision they needed was beyond me. I also wondered how she gave orders if she wasn't allowed to speak.\n\nWe pulled up in front of the main building. As the horse came to a stop, the heavy oak front door opened and a tall, stately woman in the traditional black habit emerged to meet us at the steps. She nodded to the policeman.\n\n\"Sergeant Reid\u2014back so soon?\"\n\n\"Mother Superior,\" he greeted. \"Sorry to disturb you, but these gentleman have just arrived from London and wished to see you about the dead woman.\"\n\nShe frowned. \"What more can I tell you? We are all devastated by Sr. Mary's death, but she wasn't murdered here. Why aren't these gentleman looking for her killer elsewhere?\"\n\n\"Because we need to find out why she was coming to London, and if she planned on meeting anyone there,\" said Holmes smoothly as he stepped forward.\n\nHer eyes scoured Holmes, missing nothing.\n\nHis return scrutiny was just as thorough.\n\n\"Who might you be, sir?\" she asked. If she weren't a nun, I would have described her tone as imperious. In fact, take away the habit and she would have been a good looking, well preserved woman in her early sixties. She matched Holmes's stare unflinchingly. It struck me that she had as strong a character as Holmes, and was plainly used to getting her own way.\n\n\"My apologies. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.\"\n\n\"Sherlock Holmes!\" If the name disconcerted her, she concealed it well. \"I have heard of you of course, but you are not the official police. What has this to do with you?\"\n\n\"Scotland Yard often utilizes my services on difficult or delicate cases,\" explained Holmes truthfully, if not accurately. Clearly he didn't want her to know about the letter.\n\n\"What can you tell me about Sr. Mary Ignatius?\" asked Holmes, getting down to business.\n\nThe Mother Superior repeated what the sergeant had already told us. When she finished, Holmes glanced past her at the middle-aged nun who had come silently out the door to stand behind the Mother Superior as she spoke.\n\n\"Is that correct, Sister?\" he asked.\n\nThe Mother Superior turned sharply and stared at the nun. The nun licked her lips, looked at the Mother Superior, and then nodded. It seemed to me that the rigidity of the Mother Superior's shoulders slackened at the response and she relaxed.\n\n\"Sr. Agnes has taken the vow of silence and must not speak. I am sure you will respect that, Mr. Holmes.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" replied Holmes, with a slight bow in her direction.\n\nThe nun came down the steps and stood near us. She seemed nervous and fidgety and her feet kept scuffling the ground.\n\n\"Go join the others in the garden, Sr. Agnes,\" ordered the Mother Superior.\n\nThe nun nodded, but before leaving she touched Holmes's sleeve and fingered the silver cross at her neck. Her eyes seemed to plead with him.\n\nThe Mother Superior glared at her. \"Go\u2014now!\" she said sharply, then as an aside to Holmes, added: \"What she is trying to tell you is that we are all praying that you find the villain who murdered Sr. Mary.\"\n\n\"Mm,\" murmured Holmes in assent as he took out his pipe. It slipped from his fingers. \"Clumsy of me,\" he said, bending to pick it up, and only succeeding in sending it slithering away. He followed it and finally managed to capture it. He stopped near where the nun had stood and picked up his pipe, scuffling the dirt in the process. He looked up at the Mother Superior and smiled: \"Now where was I?\"\n\n\"There is no smoking here,\" she said sternly.\n\n\"Ah\u2014yes. My apologies.\" Holmes returned the pipe to his pocket. \"Do you know why Sr. Mary was going to London?\"\n\n\"No. She did not confide in anyone. She just left.\"\n\n\"What time did you notice her missing?\"\n\n\"Around six o'clock Monday night. She never showed up for evening prayer. Naturally we began to search for her immediately.\"\n\n\"Naturally. May I look at Sr. Mary's room please?\"\n\nThe Mother Superior frowned. \"What will that avail you?\"\n\n\"You say that normally she just runs away from the convent but has always stayed in this neighborhood. She has never boarded a train before, has she?\"\n\n\"Not to my knowledge.\"\n\n\"Exactly. Therefore there was something different about her psychosis this time. I may be able to discover a reason for her behavior. Murder does not just happen\u2014there is usually grounds.\"\n\n\"I see. I hadn't thought of that.\"\n\nAt that moment, another nun emerged. This one was a rather striking looking woman with coal black eyes, her hair hidden by her veil.\n\nHolmes studied the newcomer with interest. \"That's interesting,\" he said casually. \"I didn't think Catholic nuns were allowed to get married.\"\n\n\"Pardon?\" asked the Mother Superior coldly.\n\nHolmes nodded to the dark-eyed nun's left hand. \"She's wearing a wedding ring.\"\n\n\"Oh that.\" The Mother Superior smiled. \"It is a small affectation that some of the sisters wear. It symbolizes their marriage to God. It is the practice of some convents, as is the giving of a silver cross when one moves from novice to sister. Each order has their individual way of marking the transition. I also used to wear a ring,\" she added, waving her hand in Holmes's face. Now that she brought it to my attention, I noticed the pale line of a ring mark against her finger.\n\nHolmes smiled and had a rather curious expression on his face. \"I see. I stand corrected.\"\n\n\"Will there be anything else, Mr. Holmes?\" she asked blandly.\n\n\"Just Sr. Mary's room. I haven't any more questions for you at this time.\"\n\nAt that moment, a commotion broke out in the garden. \"Goodness gracious, I hope they haven't seen another snake,\" murmured the Mother Superior. \"Sr. Julius will take you to Sr. Mary's room. Bear in mind that she also has taken the vow of silence.\"\n\nWe nodded as she hurried off toward the garden. Sr. Julius of the dark eyes motioned for us to follow her.\n\nWhile we walked, Holmes said, \"Sr. Julius, are you one of the nuns that accompanied Mother Superior Augustine here a month ago?\"\n\nSr. Julius put a finger to her lips indicating that she couldn't answer.\n\n\"A nod will suffice,\" said Holmes.\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"You are all from the same convent?\"\n\nShe nodded again.\n\n\"Did you know Sr. Mary Ignatius well?\"\n\nShe shook her head, and then opened a door to a cell-like room.\n\nIt was too small for all of us to enter, so Reid and I stood by the door as Holmes went in. As I stood beside Sr. Julius I was conscious of the pleasant scent of her perfume.\n\nThe room contained a narrow bunk, a chair, a small table and a thin wardrobe. Holmes glanced inside. It contained her spare habit and underwear. On the desk were a writing pad, ink and blotter. The blotter was new and unused. Holmes picked up the pad and held it up towards the window so that the light would reflect off the page. He grunted as if he had just discovered something significant and put the pad down.\n\n\"Nothing here I'm afraid,\" he said turning around, his words belying his previous manner.\n\nThe nun led us silently back to the front door where we were once again joined by the Mother Superior.\n\n\"Find anything helpful?\" she asked.\n\n\"Unfortunately, no,\" replied Holmes with a sigh. \"Thank you for your time, Mother Superior.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nOn the drive back to town, I asked, \"Did you learn anything useful, Holmes?\"\n\n\"Quite a bit,\" he replied enigmatically.\n\n\"I don't see how. The Mother Superior wasn't overly helpful.\"\n\n\"It is not what they said, Watson, but what they omitted to say,\" Holmes explained, then changing tack, asked, \"Did you notice her hands?\"\n\n\"Yes. She had very elegant hands,\" I stated, and Reid nodded in agreement.\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Holmes, sitting back on his seat as if he had just made a point.\n\n\"Anything else?\" I prodded.\n\n\"Did anything strike you as unusual about Sr. Julius?\"\n\n\"No\u2014not really.\"\n\n\"You're not even trying, Watson,\" complained Holmes disgustedly.\n\nI concentrated, recalling all I could about the nun.\n\n\"The...uh...wedding ring...?\"\n\n\"No! The Mother Superior already explained its presence.\"\n\n\"She was very attractive for a nun,\" I offered rather tentatively.\n\nHolmes scowled at me. \"There is no law that says nuns have to be ugly,\" he countered.\n\nReid gave a little snigger at that, but said nothing.\n\nUnfortunately, it brought Holmes's attention to him. \"What about you, Sergeant, did you notice anything?\"\n\nAfter a long moment of thought, Reid shrugged. \"I'm sorry. She just looked like an ordinary everyday nun.\"\n\nHolmes shook his head. \"A good investigator uses all his senses,\" he hinted.\n\n\"Perfume!\" I exclaimed suddenly. \"She was wearing perfume!\"\n\n\"If a man waits long enough,\" said Holmes with a long-suffering theatrical sigh. \"Yes, Watson, she was wearing perfume.\"\n\n\"That's hardly significant though, is it?\"\n\n\"How many nuns do you know that wear perfume?\"\n\n\"Um...well, actually, I don't know any nuns. Is that important?\"\n\n\"It could be,\" replied Holmes.\n\nLooking at him, I was struck with a sudden thought. I poked a finger at him and accused. \"You don't know, either!\"\n\nHolmes' lips quirked into a faint smile of acknowledgment, before he confessed, \"I'm afraid I am not personally acquainted with any nuns either, but I am pretty certain that they do not wear perfume, not French perfume at any rate.\"\n\nI smiled to myself. Holmes always gave off the aura of all-knowing, even when he wasn't certain of his facts. This was the first time I had actually caught him in an uncertainty.\n\n\"I need to send a wire, and I want to visit the prison,\" Holmes said to Sergeant Reid.\n\n\"It's getting late, Mr. Holmes. The prison doesn't allow visitors at nightfall and it'll be dark by the time we get there.\"\n\n\"In that case, I'll go tomorrow. Meantime I would like to see the local doctor and the station-master instead.\"\n\nFIVE\n\nAt the post office, Holmes scribbled out a telegram. While he did so I noticed that Sergeant Reid seemed a little edgy and kept checking his watch, however, as he did not say anything, I felt it prudent not to ask. I assumed it was the call of nature that was causing his agitation.\n\nOur next stop was to the train station. The station-master had been absent when we arrived; else I'm sure Holmes would have questioned him then. He proved to be a stocky little man with a phenomenal memory\u2014much to Holmes's delight.\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Holmes,\" he replied in answer to Holmes's question. \"Only one nun boarded the train that night.\"\n\n\"What did she look like?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"Scared.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Yup. Like the devil hisself was after ha'.\"\n\n\"Did she say anything to you?\"\n\n\"Just\u2014'one ticket to London, please'.\"\n\n\"What other passengers boarded the same train?\"\n\n\"Just Mr. Crabtree\u2014the local chemist, and a young lad with red hair.\"\n\n\"Crabtree goes up to London every second month and visits his brother, sir. Been doing that for the last three years,\" interjected Reid.\n\n\"And the boy\u2014did you recognize him?\"\n\n\"Nope. Can't say as I did. But then I don't know ever' one aroun' here. Could be some farmer's lad.\"\n\n\"Has he returned?\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"On the following day, how many people disembarked here?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"Two. Mr. King, visiting his sister over at the post office, and Mrs. Philmore, the dressmaker. She goes up regular like to buy material and stuff, she does.\"\n\n\"What day did they leave?\"\n\n\"Mr. King doesn't live here\u2014he's from Oakland, and Mrs. Philmore took the mornin' train and came back on the last.\"\n\n\"Only two passengers disembarked for the whole day?\" I asked in surprise.\n\n\"We're not exactly a bustlin' metropolis,\" grinned the station-master.\n\n\"Let me test your memory a bit more,\" said Holmes. \"On the day we arrived, there were five other passengers besides ourselves. Did you know any of them?\"\n\n\"Sure did. There was Bart Hayes\u2014he's a farmer. My wife buys our eggs from him. Duncan Martin, he works for Hayes. The other was Crabtree on 'is way home again and then there was Tom Werner, bar tender at the Criterion.\"\n\n\"That's the pub,\" elaborated Reid, as if we couldn't figure that out for ourselves.\n\n\"What about the woman?\"\n\n\"What woman?\" asked the station-master, stumped for the first time.\n\n\"The attractive blonde-haired young woman that alighted here same time as us,\" I said.\n\n\"No woman came through the gate, sir,\" said the Station-master.\n\nHolmes glanced along the platform. It was open to the country at either end, and in fact, all around. \"She could easily have left without going through the gate,\" he pointed out.\n\n\"Yup, sure enough. Many do it, if they've got folk waiting for them. It's only if they're headed for town that they'll come through the gate,\" replied the Station-master.\n\n\"Do people board the train the same way?\"\n\n\"Nope. They have to come to the ticket window. Can't board without a ticket, you know.\"\n\n\"Actually they can,\" I said. \"Anyone could sneak on.\"\n\n\"I s'pose, and some 'as tried it, but they don't stay on,\" countered the Station-master. \"See, I always make a ticket check on the train just before it pulls out. There ain't no conductor on the late run, it's our job to check the tickets. There was only one nun, Crabtree and the boy that boarded here that day; I'd stake me life on it. And there were only seven other folks on board picked up from other stations.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Holmes. He tossed a sovereign to the Station-master, and nodded his thanks.\n\n\"Home now?\" asked Reid eagerly.\n\n\"Not yet. I want to talk to the doctor,\" replied Holmes, oblivious to the other's agitation.\n\nReid led us to the doctor's house at a brisk pace. The doctor was having his dinner but did not mind our intrusion.\n\n\"I just want to know about Mother Superior Capuano. What did she die of?\" asked Holmes after introductions had been performed.\n\n\"Heart failure,\" came the prompt reply. \"That's why she was retiring. It's unfortunate that she never had a chance to go to the convent in London. She was really looking forward to that.\"\n\n\"Was her death unexpected?\"\n\n\"Not really, she was three and eighty after all, and with her heart the way it was, it could have happened at any time. The excitement of the impending move could quite easily have brought it on.\"\n\n\"What did her hands look like?\"\n\nThe doctor blinked in surprise. \"Her hands?\"\n\n\"Mmm.\"\n\n\"Like a nun's. Worn from years of hard work, gnarled and arthritic. Does that answer your question?\"\n\n\"Perfectly, thank you.\"\n\nAs we left, I noticed Reid checking his watch again. \"Can we go home now?\" he asked plaintively.\n\n\"Certainly\u2014is something wrong Sergeant?\" asked Holmes, finally deigning to notice his obvious discomfort.\n\n\"It's just that I'm usually home for dinner by six; my wife was expecting us around then.\"\n\n\"Oh\u2014and the time now?\"\n\n\"Nearly eight.\" That explained his anxiety. He was worried about how his wife was going to react to our being so late for dinner. She would not be pleased.\n\nSIX\n\nWe hurried to the Sergeant's house after a quick detour to the police station to pick up our bags. When we entered his house, he went quickly to the kitchen, while we followed along at a slower pace.\n\nMrs. Reid was sitting at the kitchen table. She was a plump, fluffy honey-blonde. She was crying.\n\nReid hastened over to her, apologizing furiously.\n\nShe looked up at him: \"It's ruined,\" she cried. \"All ruined! I wanted it to be perfect and now it's spoiled.\"\n\nHolmes always claimed to have no penchant for dealing with distraught women, but when he wanted to he could be irresistibly charming\u2014calming even the most waspish woman with his suave manner. He decided to turn on the charm now. He stepped forward:\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Reid\u2014a thousand apologies. If I had known such a charming and attractive a hostess awaited our arrival, I would not have dallied so. Your distress is entirely due to me and I am disconsolate.\" He took her hand and kissed it with a flourish and a courtly bow.\n\nHer tears dried instantly. She was not accustomed to being greeted with such vigor and panache. \"I am just upset, Mr. Holmes, because I wanted dinner to be perfect and now it's ruined.\"\n\n\"Ruined? Surely not.\" Holmes went over and peeked in the oven. \"You exaggerate, my dear Mrs. Reid. In fact, I think you've been talking to Mrs. Hudson. How else would you know that I prefer my roasts to be overcooked? I have an aversion to raw meat.\"\n\n\"Th-then you don't mind?\" She looked hopeful.\n\n\"Mind? Not at all. It's cooked to perfection. Give us a moment to wash up and we will not tarry anymore. I am ravenous.\"\n\nThe lady smiled and wiped her eyes, her mood brighter.\n\n\"I'll show you to your room,\" offered Reid, his voice reflecting his relief. As he led us up the stairs, he said: \"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. We don't often have such important visitors and my wife wanted everything to be perfect.\"\n\nThere was a twinkle of amusement in Holmes's eyes. \"Far be it for me to be the cause of marital discord.\"\n\nWe entered our room. There was one ordinary bed and a camp bed set up. Holmes tossed his bag onto the camp bed, leaving me the other.\n\n\"You're a faker, Holmes,\" I said, taking off my coat.\n\n\"Oh. Why do you say that?\" He eyed me curiously.\n\n\"You pretend to be cold, emotionless and indifferent to others, but really you are just a big softie inside.\"\n\n\"I see, and what brings you to that conclusion?\"\n\n\"How you treated the Sergeant's wife.\"\n\n\"Oh that. We are staying in their home, and I for one, have no desire to listen to them fighting. My motives were purely selfish.\"\n\n\"You can't fool me, Holmes,\" I replied. \"You do realize that you'll have to eat whatever she dishes up now, don't you?\"\n\nHolmes made a face, and then smiled suddenly as a thought occurred to him. \"You'll have to eat it all too. It would be rude not to.\"\n\n\"Thanks for nothing,\" I replied sourly, while at the same time giving thanks that I thought to bring my medical bag with me. It had a good supply of digestives and antacids in it.\n\nWe washed quickly and returned downstairs. Mrs. Reid had tidied up her appearance and the table was set. She piled our plates with burnt and dry roast beef, accompanied with burnt and dry roast potatoes. We required frequent sips of wine to wash the food down.\n\nHolmes, who had never been a big eater, cleaned his plate, and with effort I managed to do the same, though every piece seemed to stick in my throat. The Sergeant gamely followed our example. None of us dared not to.\n\nAn excellent dessert followed the main course. We complimented the lady profusely on her culinary expertise. By the end of dinner, I believe Mrs. Reid thought Holmes was the most wonderful man on the face of the earth, as he entertained her with humorous anecdotes of some of his cases.\n\nWe retired at ten-thirty, claiming fatigue from a long journey and hectic day. Once in our room, I was quick to break out the antacids and other aids to digestion. Holmes was rubbing at his sternum. I handed him a dose, which he drank gratefully.\n\n\"I hope Reid appreciates our sacrifice,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm sure he does. As long as you don't run off with his wife.\"\n\n\"I'm not about to run off with his wife.\"\n\n\"No, but she's about ready to run off with you. Don't tell me you didn't notice. She thinks you're wonderful,\" I said, half-serious, half-teasing.\n\n\"I am wonderful, Watson,\" replied Holmes immodestly. This statement was followed by a burp that set him to rubbing his sternum again.\n\nSEVEN\n\nNext morning after a light breakfast, Reid drove us to Princeton Prison. The Governor was delighted to meet Holmes, happily listing all the prisoners that were current residents thanks to Holmes's efforts.\n\n\"Really, sir,\" said Holmes, when the other stopped to take a breath. \"I had no idea there were so many.\"\n\n\"You've been busy,\" he said.\n\n\"Indeed I have,\" agreed Holmes pleasantly.\n\nWe made our way to Governor Snowden's office. Once we were all comfortably seated and puffing away on his cigars, Holmes brought up the object of our visit.\n\n\"Tell me, Mr. Snowden, has the new Mother Superior from the convent visited and introduced herself?\"\n\n\"Yes, she certainly has. Her first week here, in fact. A most charming woman she is. Almost a pity she's a nun,\" replied Snowden.\n\nI thought to myself that it was lucky she was a nun or he would probably be chasing her, if his enthusiasm were anything to go on.\n\n\"While she was here did she speak to any of the prisoners?\"\n\n\"No\u2014not really.\"\n\n\"Not really? Elucidate please\u2014what exactly do you mean by not really?\" Holmes fastened his gray eyes intently on the other man.\n\n\"Well, she wanted to view the inmates during their exercise period. We were in the yard. As we were passing a couple of inmates she stumbled. She would have fallen, but one of the fellows caught her and helped her up. She only thanked and blessed him. She didn't actually converse with him or anything like that.\"\n\nHolmes frowned. \"Did they touch?\"\n\n\"He held her arm momentarily.\"\n\n\"What about her hands, were they in your sight at all times?\"\n\nThe governor thought for a moment, a little puzzled by Holmes's questions. \"I can't say I noticed.\"\n\n\"Have any nuns been here since?\"\n\n\"No. There's been no need. We only call them if someone is sick or dying. The men like to see a woman at times like that. I don't trouble the good sisters otherwise.\"\n\n\"Who was the prisoner that she stumbled into?\"\n\n\"Hastings. He was standing nearby\u2014him and his son.\"\n\n\"Hastings....\" Holmes closed his eyes as he searched his memory. \"Ah, not John Hastings that raided the Bank of England's vaults four years ago?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the one. Scotland Yard nabbed him and his son for the job. The rest of the gang got away with the money. Hastings never talked. They killed a night watchman during the robbery.\"\n\n\"Stabbed wasn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, I believe so.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised they weren't hung,\" I said.\n\n\"They should have been, but the law is hoping that they may change their minds eventually and tell us where the money is or who their accomplices were.\"\n\n\"Have they had any visitors since their incarceration?\"\n\n\"Young Hastings' wife comes every three months. John Hastings' wife has come a couple of times, but not recently.\n\n\"What about the women? Have they been kept under surveillance\u2014presumably their husbands have told them the whereabouts of the money,\" said Holmes.\n\n\"I believe they were watched for a time, but I doubt if Hastings told them. Could any man trust his wife to stay faithful once they've got their hands on half a million pounds?\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" I interrupted, a little confused. \"Did you not say, sir, that the accomplices got away with the money?\"\n\n\"I did, but that was only conjecture at the time of the robbery. No trace of the money has shown up. If it was in circulation\u2014and it would be by now\u2014some bank would have come across some of the notes. The general theory is that Hastings had it and hid it. That's why he refuses to talk. I think he's hoping those same accomplices will find a way to free him.\"\n\n\"Has any attempt been made?\"\n\n\"Yes. They were in Dartmoor originally. Almost escaped from there. Clothes were smuggled in to them. That's why they were transferred here. We have higher security.\"\n\n\"How long a sentence did they draw?\" I asked.\n\n\"Life. They were offered a deal in exchange for the whereabouts of the money, but refused it,\" explained Snowden.\n\n\"I'd like to have a look at the exercise yard if I may?\" said Holmes, standing up, abruptly ending the conversation.\n\n\"Er...certainly,\" agreed Snowden, a little startled by Holmes's manner. As we walked along the stone corridors to the exercise yard, I reassured him that this was just Holmes's way and urged him not to be offended.\n\nHolmes took a walk around the exercise yard, which was empty at this time\u2014all the prisoners being occupied at various tasks inside.\n\n\"Does that wall lead to the outside?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"Yes, but as you can see we have armed guards patrolling the perimeter. If somehow a prisoner managed to breach the wall, they wouldn't get very far before they were shot. We have an excellent view for some five miles all round.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Holmes looked around him. \"That gate\u2014where does it lead?\"\n\n\"To the front entrance. No prisoner could escape that way.\"\n\nHolmes nodded then held out his hand to Snowden. They shook.\n\n\"Thank you very much. This has been a most instructive visit.\"\n\n\"Anytime, Mr. Holmes. You're always welcome here.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nOn our way back to town, Holmes was silent and thoughtful. As we reached the outskirts of Sherbrook, he said: \"You can drop me off at the Post Office, Reid.\"\n\nI alighted with him and waited outside whilst he went in. The telegrapher handed him a telegram that had just come for him. Holmes read his message as he walked out to join me.\n\n\"What now, Holmes?\" I asked.\n\n\"I think...,\" he began only to cut off his words when he spied the Mother Superior from the convent walking towards us on the other side of the street. He crossed quickly to meet her, and I hurried along in his wake.\n\n\"Good afternoon, Mother Superior Augustine,\" he greeted.\n\n\"Mr. Holmes. How is your investigation proceeding?\" she asked pleasantly.\n\n\"Quite well. I'm returning to London on the last train,\" he said much to my surprise. \"I have a meeting this evening with the Mother Superior of your old Convent\u2014Morevale isn't it?\n\n\"Yes. Please send her my regards won't you? It was she that recommended me for this post.\" She smiled disarmingly at him. \"Are you any closer to finding the reason why Sr. Mary Ignatius went to London?\"\n\n\"Yes\u2014she was coming to see me.\" Holmes watched her like a hawk studying a worm.\n\n\"Goodness, I wonder what she wanted with you?\" Her manner remained charming, but her eyes were surprisingly cold and calculating.\n\n\"I know what she wanted,\" Holmes replied still watching her.\n\nShe smiled at him and replied, \"I see. That's good. The sooner this business is over the better for all concerned. You've informed the police of your suspicions of course?\" She was still cool, but I thought I detected a note of concern in her voice.\n\n\"Not yet. I never work like that. If you have read any of Watson's stories you would know that I like to have all my facts at hand before presenting a completed case to the authorities.\"\n\n\"Oh, so you are missing some facts?\"\n\n\"One or two minor ones.\"\n\n\"Interesting, I must find the time to read the good Doctor's stories. I'm sure they're fascinating. You're going on the evening train you said?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, I wish you a pleasant trip then,\" she smiled, nodded and left us.\n\n\"I didn't know we were going back to London, Holmes: and what use is it visiting the Mother Superior of Morevale Convent?\"\n\n\"Merrivale Convent, Watson,\" corrected Holmes.\n\n\"But you said Morevale,\" I pointed out.\n\n\"Yes. You would think she'd know the name of her previous convent, wouldn't you?\" he replied, his voice dry.\n\n\"Well, whatever the name of the convent, why are we going there?\"\n\n\"We're not.\"\n\n\"But you just said...?\"\n\n\"Head on over to the Reid's house and pack our bags, will you, Watson?\" he asked, ignoring my confusion.\n\n\"Will we be there for dinner, or should I make our apologies?\"\n\n\"No we'll eat first, as long as we can catch the seven o'clock train.\"\n\nEIGHT\n\nHolmes returned to the Reid house with Sergeant Reid in tow at five-thirty. As Mrs. Reid was setting the table for dinner, she asked, \"Must you leave so soon, Mr. Holmes?\"\n\n\"Unfortunately, yes. I have to continue my investigations in London. However, we will probably be returning in the near future, and I must say, my dear Mrs. Reid, that the food and hospitality we have received here exceeds even that which the best hotels in London provide.\"\n\nShe smiled warmly at him. \"I will look forward to your return, Mr. Holmes. It's been an honor and a pleasure having you here.\"\n\n\"The pleasure is all mine, Madame,\" responded Holmes smoothly.\n\n\"I'm already anticipating your next visit here. I will always make you welcome,\" she said, still smiling at him.\n\nMy eyebrows went up at that for her tone was suggestive. Lucky her husband wasn't in the room. As for Holmes, if he picked up on the tone of her comments, he chose to ignore it and sat down at the table instead.\n\nThe dinner of shepherd's pie was excellent\u2014she really was a good cook. We collected our bags, thanked our host and hostess and walked to the train station.\n\n\"It is just as well we are leaving, Holmes. A couple more days in that house and Mrs. Reid would be divorcing her husband for you.\"\n\n\"Nonsense.\"\n\n\"No, true. She is smitten with you.\"\n\n\"It is just an infatuation, Watson. She is unaccustomed to gentlemen.\"\n\n\"No, it's more than that, trust me. I can tell these things.\" I insisted.\n\n\"Well, Reid's marriage is safe. I am not in the habit of chasing other men's wives. In fact, I'm not in the habit of chasing any women, married or otherwise\u2014as you very well know, Watson.\"\n\n\"I didn't say you were doing the chasing, Holmes. But your speech was very flowery. Women like that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"In that case, we will make any future visits here brief and not overnight, for that is the sort of situation I prefer to avoid.\"\n\nI smiled, and when we reached the train station, I bought the tickets while Holmes wandered out onto the platform. There was only one other traveller besides us\u2014a young man, who seemed intent on studying his shoes.\n\nHolmes went over to him and said, \"Excuse me, young man, but were you perchance on this train on Monday night?\"\n\nThe fellow gave Holmes a fleeting glance before returning his gaze back to his feet, mumbling his answer in a husky voice. \"I ain't never bin on a train afore.\"\n\n\"I see, terribly sorry to bother you, then,\" apologized Holmes, moving away.\n\nWhen the train arrived we boarded and the station-master came on with us, checking tickets. As he drew level with us, Holmes asked softly. \"'Scuse me\u2014is that the boy who was on the train Monday?\"\n\nThe station-master glanced at the boy and frowned. \"Looks a bit like him, 'cept that lad had red hair and this 'uns dark.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\nThe station-master went on his way and checked the tickets of the other nineteen passengers on board. We moved out of the second-class carriage to first-class once the train started to move.\n\nAs we made ourselves comfortable, I said, \"Too bad it wasn't the same boy.\"\n\n\"Hair color can be easily changed, Watson.\"\n\n\"So you think he's the same one?\"\n\n\"As I never saw the original one it is hard to say. Curious coincidence though, is it not?\"\n\n\"Not really. There must be a thousand boys travelling trains at any given moment. It would only be a coincidence if there was a boy and a nun\u2014and Mr. Crabtree.\" I replied.\n\n\"You're so pedantic Watson,\" said Holmes without rancor. He lit his pipe and closed his eyes. I soon followed his example\u2014without the pipe\u2014and dozed for a bit. In fact I was still dozing when Holmes left the carriage. I was dreaming. In my dream I heard a cry of, \"Watson!\"\n\nMy eyes flickered open and I woke. I blinked in confusion for a moment and looked around, noting Holmes's absence.\n\n\"Holmes?\" I stood up and looked out into the passageway. There was no one there. I walked along, feeling a sudden gnawing of apprehension in the pit of my stomach. Where was Holmes? He couldn't just disappear. I came level with the side door and stopped to eye the passing terrain. I automatically placed my hand against the doorframe as I put my nose to the window. Then I took my hand away I stared stupidly at the red stain upon it for a moment.\n\nBlood!\n\nVisions of Holmes being stabbed and shoved from the train brought strength to my legs and thought to my brain. I leapt toward the emergency cord and pulled with all my strength. The train came to a screeching halt, almost toppling me over.\n\nThere was no conductor on the train so it was left to the irate driver to come storming along demanding to know who pulled the cord. As soon as I saw him, I demanded, \"You need to shunt the train back up the tracks. Sherlock Holmes has been attacked and pushed off the train.\"\n\n\"Sherlock Holmes\u2014the detective?\"\n\n\"The one and only. I fear he has been murdered.\"\n\n\"You got it Guv'nor,\" he said, his eyes alight with excitement.\n\nWithin minutes, ignoring the queries of the other passengers, I hurried out onto the platform at the back of the train and held up the powerful lantern that I found in the guard's carriage when I passed through. As the train began to shunt backwards, I scanned the terrain. Fortunately the moon was out, so it wasn't quite pitch black. My heart was heavy. Was this the end of our partnership\u2014our friendship? I dreaded the thought. Could Holmes be so easily defeated? More to the point, how could it have happened? He was on his guard. He was always on his guard. To be knifed and pushed off a train so easily, it just did not seem possible.\n\nAs I held the lantern up I continued to study the topography, while I fingered the whistle the engineer had given me in my other hand.\n\nWe shunted for some fifteen minutes before I espied a dark shape by the side of the tracks. I gave three quick blasts on the whistle and leapt from the train before it had stopped, hurrying to the shape.\n\nI recognized the familiar hounds-check cloth of his Inverness.\n\n\"Holmes!\" I cried as I dropped to my knees and rolled him. There was blood on his head and the handle of a knife protruded from between his ribs. His eyes fluttered open.\n\n\"Angel face,\" he muttered before passing out again.\n\nThe engineer and fireman joined me. \"He's alive,\" I said. They helped me carry him back onto the train and into our carriage. I unearthed my medical bag, being glad for a second time that I had brought it.\n\n\"Please get to London as quickly as you can,\" I requested. The engineer grinned in anticipation and we were soon speeding along\u2014the train breaking its own speed record.\n\nI was oblivious to all this though, concentrating all my efforts on Holmes. I pulled the knife out and checked the position of the wound, heaving a sigh of relief as I did so. Favor smiled on Holmes. The knife had missed his vital organs, but he had bled heavily. The damage was minimal in surgical terms, only if I hadn't noticed him missing when I did, he would almost certainly have bled to death before he was found. Just as the nun had.\n\nI heaved a sigh of relief. He would recover from the knife wound and the loss of blood. At this stage I was more concerned with his head injury. Head wounds were tricky at the best of times. He must have received it when he fell. I was surprised that he had broken no bones in the process, for the train had been travelling at full speed.\n\nI tried to rouse him with smelling salts but was unsuccessful. His pupils were equal and reacting to light, but for all I knew he could be bleeding intracranially. I dressed the cut on his head and sat back and worried.\n\nI had known Holmes for five years now, and yet I still knew so little about him, while he knew probably everything about me. What of his relations\u2014his next of kin? Did he even have any? Who should I notify if he died? I didn't even know who Holmes' lawyers were or even if he had made a will. He never spoke of his parents, so I assumed they were dead. He never mentioned any siblings, so I assumed he was an only child. These were the thoughts that went through my mind. Why, I didn't even know what religion Holmes was\u2014if any.\n\nLooking at his ashen face, as he lay on the seat breathing raggedly, I determined that whatever the cost, whatever it required, I would not let Holmes die.\n\nNINE\n\nAs soon as the train stopped, the stoker ran for the police and for a cab for me. Meantime, the engineer, calling for help from the platform porters ensured that every door was guarded to make sure none of the passengers disembarked before the police came and questioned them. It was my belief that the murderer was still on the train, for we had travelled non-stop. He couldn't have got off anywhere and we were moving too fast for him to jump off.\n\nWhile I was waiting for the stoker to return with the cab, an elderly constable approached me. I told him what happened as quickly as I could and mentioned that Holmes had been suspicious of a young lad. I gave him a description of the boy and asked him to investigate him thoroughly. I also mentioned that the attack on Holmes was exactly the same as the attack on the nun\u2014the case that we were currently probing. He promised to get details on all the passengers. I referred him to Inspector Hopkins and told him that he was handling the nun murder case, and to notify him at once of this attack on Holmes. I was about to issue further instructions when I spied the stoker waving to me.\n\n\"I have to go now, Constable. Holmes needs urgent medical attention. Inspector Hopkins knows where to find me.\" With that and the help of a couple of porters, I carried Holmes to the waiting cab, thanked the stoker and was soon on my way.\n\nAt Baker Street, the cabby helped me carry Holmes upstairs and I wasted no time in putting him to bed.\n\nMrs. Hudson fluttered around me in a great state of anxiety, eager to help. She acted as my nurse as I stitched the knife wound and applied a dressing.\n\nThrough the long night, I continued to monitor Holmes' vital signs and his neurological state, which remained unchanged. He wasn't exactly in a coma, but he was deeply unconscious. He did respond to some stimuli, but was not opening his eyes or able to speak.\n\nAs I sat there by his bed in the dimly lit room, I pondered on those words he had muttered to me out by the railroad tracks. Was it from the ravings of concussion or was he trying to tell me something? I doubt very much if he was calling me angel face. Was he merely confused? Or perhaps he was seeing things? Or was it a vital clue as to the identity of his attacker?\n\nIt was at moments like this that I wished I had his quick wit, and was the actual light, instead of the illuminator as he often referred to me. Obviously it meant something to Holmes, but it was a complete mystery to me. I decided to try a different tack.\n\nHow did the killer know we would be on the train? Holmes had only decided when he was talking to the Mother Superior in Sherbrook. She knew we were going and so did Sergeant Reid, his wife and the station-master. The station-master wasn't on the train and I felt I could rule out the Sergeant and his wife\u2014especially his wife. That only left the Mother Superior. She wasn't on the train though, nor was there any nuns. Nuns were often called angels of mercy. Was Holmes referring to them? Surely a nun didn't stab Holmes? That seemed too remote a possibility to even contemplate.\n\n* * * *\n\nI managed to doze at intervals throughout the night, but was still weary and bleary-eyed come morning. Mrs. Hudson came in with coffee at six, and she too looked as if she had slept little. She stood by Holmes' bed looking at him, not realizing that I was awake and watching her. She gazed at him with a fondness, not unlike that of a mother for her son, and I realized just how much she cared for her erstwhile, temperamental and exceedingly difficult tenant. He was more than a tenant to her and she fussed over him like a mother, putting up with all his moods, odorous experiments and even indoor target practice without complaint.\n\nI also understood Holmes' attitude towards her now. He was always respectful and polite to her even when he was moody. Perhaps he thought of her as the mother he never had. It was an interesting situation and one that I promised myself I would pay more attention to when he recovered.\n\nI yawned and straightened up in my chair, stretching the crick out of my back.\n\nMrs. Hudson turned around at that and looked at me anxiously. \"How is he Doctor?\"\n\nI made a quick check of his vital signs. \"Stable.\" Neurologically he was unchanged, although it appeared to me that his breathing was more natural and regular than it had been\u2014more like that of a person sleeping deeply. I checked his pupils; they contracted rapidly in the light.\n\n\"He doesn't seem to have deteriorated. If anything, he appears to be sleeping now, rather than unconscious.\" I explained to her\u2014perhaps needing to hear the words out loud to reassure myself. Mrs. Hudson appeared to be very near to tears. I patted her shoulder reassuringly. \"He's a survivor. You know that as well as I.\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\nI took up the bottle of smelling salts and held them under Holmes's nose. His eyes flickered in response. They opened but were unfocused.\n\n\"Holmes...can you hear me?\" I asked.\n\nHis eyes met mine. I took hold of his hands and instructed: \"Squeeze my hands, Holmes\u2014as hard as you can.\"\n\nTo my great relief he complied. His grip was weak, but that would be due to the loss of blood, not to any paralysis. The fact that he responded and obeyed was proof that despite his obviously dazed state, there was no brain damage. He closed his eyes again and was soon asleep. I turned and smiled at Mrs. Hudson.\n\n\"I think he is going to be all right,\" I said.\n\nShe hugged me in an unexpected display of emotion, apologized for it and then left the room hurriedly, no doubt to have a cry in her kitchen.\n\nAt seven, Stanley Hopkins arrived. A tall, corpulent man, who did not introduce himself, accompanied him. Hopkins also neglected to introduce him. This man said little but listened attentively to everything I said.\n\n\"What happened, Doctor?\" asked Hopkins.\n\n\"We were on the train, returning from Sherbrook. I was dozing in our carriage and never heard Holmes leave. I woke to Holmes's cry. I ran out into the corridor and there was no sign of him. That's when I found the trace of blood on the exit door's frame. I stopped the train immediately and had them back up. We found Holmes about five miles back. He'd been stabbed.\" I stood up and handed Hopkins the knife. \"You will note that this is identical to the knife we found in the nun.\"\n\nHopkins nodded in agreement studying the knife with interest.\n\n\"How is he?\" asked the fat man, speaking for the first time. I noticed that he had light gray eyes, similar to Holmes' when he was concentrating intensely.\n\n\"He was lucky with the knife wound. It missed all his vital organs and did little damage. He bled heavily of course. If we hadn't found him as quickly as we did, he would have bled to death. My main concern however, is the head injury he received falling from the train,\" I explained.\n\n\"Head injury?\" There was concern in the fat man's voice.\n\n\"Yes, but I think he is going to be all right with that, too. He's been unconscious all night, but woke up and responded a little this morning. I am hopeful that he will make a full recovery.\"\n\nThe fat man nodded.\n\n\"Did he say anything\u2014anything at all?\" asked Hopkins.\n\n\"Just...well...it sounded like 'angel face'. I've been racking my brains trying to figure out what he meant by that.\"\n\n\"It doesn't ring any bells?\"\n\n\"Nary a one.\" I replied. \"What about you, did you question the boy?\"\n\n\"What boy?\" asked Hopkins.\n\n\"Why, the boy on the train of course,\" I was surprised at his apparent ignorance.\n\n\"There was no boy on the train. There were seven women and twelve men, not counting you and Holmes. They were all questioned. What's this about a boy?\"\n\n\"The day the nun was killed one of her fellow passengers was a boy with red hair. The station-master did not know him and he hasn't returned to Sherbrook, or so we thought. Yesterday at the Sherbrook station, a boy\u2014roughly the same age as the previous one\u2014also boarded the train. He had dark brown hair, but I know Holmes was suspicious of him. He insisted that it was more than a coincidence. Claimed it was easy to change the color of one's hair,\" I explained.\n\n\"But if he was suspicious of this boy, surely he would have been on his guard if the boy approached him,\" said the fat man.\n\n\"I know,\" I agreed. \"That's what I thought. He was suspicious. He was wary. I have no idea how it could have happened. Holmes is a man perpetually on his guard.\" I felt perplexed and I showed it.\n\n\"Well, there was no boy on the train when it reached London, which means he must have jumped off when you stopped the train to pick up Holmes,\" said Hopkins.\n\n\"May we take a look at him?\" asked the fat man.\n\nI nodded.\n\nHe entered Holmes' bedroom without asking directions to it, and stood by the bed, looking down at the sleeping form.\n\nAs Hopkins made to follow him into the room, I grabbed his sleeve and whispered: \"Who is he?\"\n\n\"Uh...a friend of Holmes'.\"\n\nThe fact that he still refrained from mentioning his name made me wonder if he was somebody important, someone whose identity had to be kept secret for security reasons.\n\nAfter a long moment, the fat man turned, fastening his steely gray eyes onto me and offering his hand.\n\nI shook it.\n\n\"Thank you, Dr. Watson,\" he said simply. \"I appreciate all you have done.\"\n\n\"Notify me the minute he wakes and is capable of talking\u2014day or night,\" instructed Hopkins.\n\nI nodded in agreement.\n\nTEN\n\nIt was nearly lunchtime before I got around to reading the morning papers. The headlines glared at me.\n\nSHERLOCK HOLMES ATTACKED!\n\nGREAT DETECTIVE AT DEATH'S DOOR!\n\nSUPER SLEUTH CRITICAL!\n\nGod only knows where they got their information from for I certainly hadn't spoken to any reporters. I dozed in my chair until nearly five o'clock. I roused when I heard a sound coming from Holmes' room. I hurried in. He was awake. His eyes were clear and reasonably alert.\n\nI smiled at him. \"Hello, Holmes. Do you know where you are?\"\n\nHe looked around the room and replied: \"My room. My bed.\"\n\n\"Which is\u2014where?\"\n\n\"221B Baker Street.\" His voice grew stronger with every word.\n\n\"What year is it?\"\n\n\"1886.\"\n\n\"Who am I?\"\n\n\"Dr. John H. Watson. My friend and doctor.\"\n\nMy relief knew no bounds at his replies. I quickly checked his limb strengths and reflexes, before asking, \"Do you know what happened to you, Holmes?\"\n\nHe looked at me, his eyes clouding slightly. \"That's what I was going to ask you.\"\n\n\"You don't remember anything?\" I prodded.\n\n\"My head hurts. My side hurts. I feel generally weak all over and you are treating me like a patient. I am assuming that I have been in some kind of accident. As to what that accident was, I have no recollection.\"\n\n\"We were on the train returning to London from Sherbrook,\" I said, trying to jog his memory.\n\n\"And?\" he looked at me expectantly.\n\n\"And you left our carriage and were stabbed and pushed off the train.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"Not sure. We think it was a lad of some six and ten years. He was on the train, but had disappeared by the time it reached London. You had been suspicious of him, Holmes.\"\n\n\"Was I? I guess I had a right to be if he was the one who did this to me.\" Holmes smiled weakly at me, but I knew it troubled him that he could not remember the incident.\n\n\"What were we doing in Sherbrook?\" he asked after a moment's thought.\n\n\"Investigating the death of a nun\u2014don't you remember?\"\n\n\"She was stabbed and thrown off a train?\" he answered, his voice doubtful.\n\n\"Yes, yes! You do remember,\" I cried excitedly. \"She was from the convent in Sherbrook.\"\n\n\"I see. Actually, I don't remember. I just deduced that.\"\n\nMy excitement died. His abilities had not diminished; he just had no recollection of recent events. This was not uncommon with head injuries.\n\n\"Never mind, Holmes. I have it all written down. You can read it when you're feeling better. It will come back to you, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"Are you?\" His eyes met mine with his unflinching gaze.\n\n\"Yes, quite sure. Amnesia is common after head trauma. You bumped your head when you fell off the train. It is not unusual for people to forget recent events in such cases. The fact that your long-term memory is unaffected proves you suffered no lasting damage. It's only a matter of time before you regain your memory.\n\n\"When you are feeling stronger, you can read my notes. It will help to jog your memory. In the meantime, it is more important that you get your strength back. Do you feel up to taking some nourishment?\"\n\nHe nodded. I notified Mrs. Hudson and she insisted on feeding some broth to Holmes personally, even though he protested that there was nothing wrong with his arms. While she was doing that I sent a telegram to Hopkins telling him Holmes was awake but had no memory of the attack. I also added to the message a warning not to bother Holmes until he was stronger. I didn't want him coming around and pestering Holmes. Badgering him would only increase his anxiety over his loss of memory.\n\n* * * *\n\nThe next day, Holmes still in bed, but taking more of an interest in his surroundings, asked for the afternoon papers. I brought in several. The news of his attack had been relegated to the second page. The headlines for this day were full of news of the massive jailbreak at Princeton. Apparently someone had dynamited the side wall of the exercise yard at the prison. The prisoners had run for it. Ten had been shot; three guards had been killed, and police were still rounding up the escapees. At this time thirty-four had been apprehended and twelve were still missing.\n\n\"Watson,\" said Holmes, \"I seem to recall visiting Princeton Prison.\"\n\n\"That's right, Holmes, we did. You showed an interest in the exercise yard and in a couple of prisoners named Hastings\u2014father and son.\"\n\n\"John and Robert Hastings\u2014the Bank of England job of '81,\" replied Holmes, though I noted there was still some uncertainty in his voice.\n\n\"Yes, you're exactly right,\" I agreed.\n\nHe smiled with satisfaction. \"Send a message to Hopkins will you, Watson. Ask him to come round when he can. I want to know more about the breakout.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\" I hurried to do his bidding, and then returned to his room and helped myself to some of the papers.\n\n* * * *\n\nIt was nearly eight before Hopkins put in an appearance.\n\n\"Mr. Holmes, I'm glad you're feeling better,\" he said.\n\n\"Ah, Hopkins, good of you to come. What can you tell me about the breakout?\"\n\n\"We have recovered all but four,\" said Hopkins.\n\n\"Two of those four being John and Robert Hastings,\" stated Holmes.\n\nHopkins sat up straighter on his seat, a look of surprise on his face. \"How did you know that?\"\n\nHolmes smiled and for the first and last time in our acquaintance admitted, \"Lucky guess. Watson told me I had shown an interest in Hastings when I visited the prison last week.\"\n\nThis from the man who swore he never guessed!\n\n\"Do you know why you were interested in them?\" asked Hopkins eagerly.\n\nHolmes frowned. \"I'm not sure, but I believe I feared that someone would attempt to break them out. After all half a million pounds is a tempting lure.\"\n\n\"It's been tried before,\" agreed Hopkins. \"Unsuccessfully.\"\n\n\"Until now,\" pointed out Holmes. \"Tell me, were there any nuns at the prison when the breakout happened?\"\n\n\"Not at the prison, but there was one with a wagon along the road. In fact, she had seen some of the fleeing prisoners and pointed the police in the right direction.\"\n\n\"Was her wagon searched?\"\n\n\"No, of course not. She would know if a prisoner climbed on board.\"\n\n\"Yes, she would.\"\n\n\"Surely you don't think she was hiding prisoners in her wagon?\"\n\n\"I don't know what to think,\" sighed Holmes, lying wearily back against his pillows.\n\n\"Do you remember anything from the train?\" asked Hopkins.\n\n\"It's still a complete blank, although I am starting to recall a few bits and pieces from the last few days.\"\n\n\"What about the words 'angel face'? Does that mean anything to you?\" persisted Hopkins.\n\n\"Angel face?\"\n\n\"That's what you muttered to me when I found you, Holmes,\" I said.\n\n\"Angel face.\" Holmes repeated, thinking with effort. \"I'm sorry. I have no idea what I could have meant. Are you sure I said angel face?\"\n\n\"That's what it sounded like,\" I said, feeling rather doubtful now that I heard right.\n\n\"Have you found the boy, Hopkins?\" asked Holmes.\n\n\"No. We've scoured the villages near where the train stopped in case someone spotted him walking in, only he seems to be invisible.\"\n\n\"Just like the one that was on the train with the nun,\" I commented.\n\nHolmes slithered down in his bed and pulled his blankets up to his chin. He closed his eyes, and just before sleep claimed him said, \"The easiest way to become invisible is to change your identity.\"\n\nI escorted Hopkins out. Holmes's comment had triggered a thought.\n\n\"Inspector, the seven women that were on the train\u2014what did they look like?\"\n\n\"Like women,\" he replied.\n\n\"No. I mean did any stand out\u2014in looks, character, behavior?\"\n\n\"Well, there was one,\" Hopkins smiled almost dreamily. \"Blonde she was. Sweet and angelic. What a woman.\"\n\n\"Angelic? She had a face like an angel?\" I prodded, suddenly excited.\n\n\"You could describe her like that,\" agreed Hopkins.\n\n\"Don't you see\u2014face like an angel, angel face! Holmes was stabbed by a woman\u2014that woman!\"\n\nHopkins' eyebrows went up a notch.\n\n\"If you'd seen her, Doctor you wouldn't say that. She was such a pretty, sweet little thing.\"\n\n\"That's just it. No man would be on his guard in her presence. Not even Holmes. He was on the lookout for a boy. It is easy for a woman to disguise herself as a youth, and I remember he kept his face turned away so we never saw it clearly. She probably wore a wig, and then once the train was moving, changed into her female garb and took Holmes by surprise. That is the only way anyone could get close to him.\"\n\nHopkins was nodding now. \"There is a certain logic to that, Doctor. We have her address at the Yard. I'll check into it.\"\n\n\"Don't be surprised if you find it's false,\" I cautioned.\n\nHopkins left, as optimistic as I was that we were on the right track.\n\nAn hour later I received a telegram from him saying simply: Wrong Address. No trace. Hopkins.\n\nI smiled. Now I knew what Holmes felt like when he made a breakthrough on a case. I resolved to spend some more time in contemplation. I helped myself to tobacco from the Persian slipper, and, with pipe billowing, made myself comfortable in an armchair, endeavoring to emulate Holmes.\n\nELEVEN\n\nI recalled the vision of loveliness that had passed us on the train and disembarked the same time as us on our trip to Sherbrook. She had made sure that no one at the station would see her. It all made sense to me now. Disguised as a boy she boarded the train with the nun and murdered her. That's why the 'boy' never returned to Sherbrook, but a woman did. Then again a boy boarded with us and attempted to murder Holmes while disguised as a woman. She escaped unhindered and unsuspected while the police wasted time looking for the non-existent boy. She had probably already returned to Sherbrook by now.\n\nI puffed for a moment on the pungent shag, watching the smoke spirals. Where would a woman of uncommon appearance hide in a small village? Holmes always said the easiest way to hide something was to leave it where everyone could see it. Where would you not notice a woman\u2014amongst other woman of course! And where was the biggest collection of anonymous women? The convent!\n\nI almost leapt out of my chair. Holmes had been suspicious of the nuns at the convent\u2014two nuns anyhow. The Mother Superior and Sr. Julius. Sr. Julius wore perfume, which he considered odd. Now what was it about the Mother Superior that aroused his suspicions? I puffed furiously.\n\nHer hands! He asked if I had noticed her hands. There had been nothing noticeable or remarkable about her hands, yet Holmes considered it a significant point. I knew him well enough by now to know that he did not bring things to my attention for no reason. The fault was not his but mine that I repeatedly missed seeing what he did. I tried to remember what I'd seen that first day. Her hands were white and smooth with manicured nails\u2014a typical lady's hands.\n\nMy eyes widened and I spluttered on the smoke. That was it. They were lady's hands! Not a nun's. The local doctor had said the old nun that died had gnarled, work-roughened hands. If the new Mother Superior had been a nun all her life, her hands should have been the same.\n\nI jumped out of the chair and went over to where Holmes' coat was hanging and pulled a telegram from its pocket. It was the reply he had pocketed before speaking to the Mother Superior about us returning to London. It said: Mother Superior Augustine and three sisters left Merrivale convent June 6th. No rings. No scents. Hopkins.\n\nThree nuns. Four in all. I remembered now. Sergeant Reid had mentioned that. We had only seen two. The angel-faced woman could be one of the other two. Maybe Sr. Mary Ignatius found out that they were impostors and that's why she was trying to contact Holmes. My elation grew. I knew I was on the right track. It was all clear before me. Holmes had already deduced all this, but had forgotten it after the blow to his head.\n\nAnother thought struck me as I walked over to my desk. The Mother Superior had lied about the name of her previous convent. Holmes had tested her. Is that why he told her we were leaving and on which train? Perhaps he expected to be attacked. No doubt he thought he would be more than a match for any woman, but it seems he underestimated the enemy for once.\n\nI sat down at my desk and wrote out my reasoning. I decided that I would return to Sherbrook on the morrow to confront the impostors and find the murderer posing as a nun. I suppose I could have informed Hopkins, but where would the glory be in that? He would take the credit. Holmes was indisposed, so that left me. This was going to be my case, solved by my own reasoning. It was going to be a nice surprise for Holmes, too, and perhaps he would be a little less critical of my deductive reasoning ability in the future. I finished writing, blotted the letter and slipped it into an envelope. I emptied my pipe and had a quick sherry before going into Holmes' room.\n\nHe was sleeping soundly. I smiled. He was sure to be astonished when I apprehended the impostors and captured his attacker. I savored the thought. I was always a step behind him when I accompanied him on an investigation, but not this time. Thanks to his amnesia, I was a step ahead. It was my turn to shine.\n\nI went to bed feeling rather light-hearted. I would catch the eight o'clock train first thing in the morning. Should have the whole case wrapped up by lunchtime. I slept the sleep of the just, dreaming of my impending triumph. I suppose I was feeling a bit cocky and pleased with myself, but then, how was I to know?\n\nTWELVE\n\nNext morning, I was up early and had breakfasted by seven. Holmes was still sleeping. At this point in his recovery, sleep was what he needed most, and considering how little he slept normally; I believed it would do him no harm. I took care not to disturb him. Before I left, I propped the envelope with my deductions and plan of action in it on the breakfast table, donned my coat, checked that I had my revolver in my pocket and made my way to Paddington Station.\n\nI reached Sherbrook at ten thirty. As I disembarked, I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should seek Sergeant Reid's assistance or go it alone. After a moment's deliberation, I decided that his presence would make my visit official. I walked to the police station and found a sign tacked to the door.\n\nHUNTING PRISONERS\n\nOf course! I had forgotten about the prison breakout from Princeton. It looked like I was on my own. I went to the local blacksmith, who recognized me from my previous visit. He was more than happy to supply a pony and trap for my use. With transport organized, I was soon on my way to the convent, firmly resolved as to what I would do.\n\nAt the convent, I had no sooner walked up the steps than Mother Superior came out to greet me.\n\n\"Dr. Watson,\" she said. \"What brings you here?\"\n\n\"I am on a commission from Sherlock Holmes,\" I replied, thinking that his name would bear more weight.\n\n\"Mr. Holmes\u2014why...I thought he was at death's door?\" she said, sudden concern on her face.\n\n\"It was a near thing,\" I admitted. \"However, he is recovering.\"\n\n\"So Mr. Holmes didn't actually send you?\" she asked, the relief in her voice evident.\n\n\"I often pursue my own line of inquiry when we work together,\" I replied a trifle pompously, a little put out by her manner.\n\n\"Has he been able to pass on his knowledge to the police yet? I seem to remember him saying something to the effect that he hadn't...prior to his accident,\" she said.\n\n\"Madam\u2014that was no accident. It was a vicious attack by a woman. A woman whom I believe is hiding here at the convent.\" I announced, forgetting for a moment that she was also under suspicion.\n\n\"Really? My goodness! So Mr. Holmes saw his attacker then?\"\n\n\"No, but I did.\"\n\nHer eyes narrowed, then she smiled pleasantly at me and said: \"If that woman is hiding here, the only way for you to find her is to search the convent.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I mean to do, and I will tolerate no hindrance,\" I said as sternly as I was able.\n\n\"Dr. Watson, I am as anxious as you to find Sr. Mary's murderer, and I am absolutely horrified by the thought that it could be one of us. You may search as much as you like, and be welcome,\" she said warmly.\n\nNow I was confused. If she were an impostor hiding a murderer would she want me to search the convent? What if I had done her an injustice? Just because she had smooth hands did not necessarily make her a villain. What if she only ever did administrative work, rather than field work and heavy labor like the other nuns? Her hands would stay soft then. There was always the possibility that she was completely innocent; certainly her attitude wasn't that of someone with a guilty conscience. She seemed so obliging and concerned for Holmes's welfare....\n\n\"I want to see all the nuns,\" I began.\n\n\"Yes, of course. If you'll follow me, Doctor, you will be able to see them when they come out from Morning Prayer.\"\n\nShe motioned to a door and I walked in ahead of her, as she brought up the rear. I had perhaps taken ten steps up the hall when her words came back to me like a thunderbolt: 'I'm as anxious as you to find Sr. Mary's murderer.' I had said I was looking for the woman who attacked Holmes, not Sr. Mary's murderer. How did she know they were one and the same? No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, than I began to turn, and in that instant everything went black and I collapsed.\n\n* * * *\n\nWhen I revived, my head was pounding and I found myself tied to a chair in the Mother Superior's office. I was face to face with a woman of angelic appearance dressed as a nun. I shuddered for there was a look of anticipation on her face that was unsavory taken with her appearance, that and the fact that she played with a knife.\n\n\"Back off, Ida,\" ordered the Mother Superior, and the blonde moved over and to the side of me. I could see now there were six women in the room, all dressed as nuns.\n\n\"Why stop her,\" said one of the nuns in a deep masculine voice. \"Let Ida finish him off, and then we'll set fire to the church and be on our way. We have no reason to hang around here any longer. He might have talked.\"\n\n\"He hasn't,\" she replied confidently.\n\nI saw the face of the nun that had spoken before then. It was actually a man dressed as a woman.\n\n\"Who are you?\" I asked in surprise.\n\nHe smiled at me. \"Don't see why I shouldn't tell you, your time's fast runnin' out. I'm John Hastings.\"\n\n\"The convict?\"\n\n\"Ex-convict,\" he corrected. \"Soon to be wealthy tourist.\"\n\nNow, I understood Holmes' interest in the prison, and his questions regarding the Mother Superior and if she had had any contact with Hastings. He surmised that she was here to break him out. If only he had shared his knowledge. Now it was too late. I was in one hell of a pickle, brought on by my own carelessness. So much for my moment in the sun. I was a miserable failure, just like always. I silently berated myself, paying little attention to my captors. I barely heard their conversation, so wretched was I. Hastings was saying something about going to Lord Nelson to pick up the money, but I didn't catch it all.\n\nI heard the cry of a whippoorwill and looked up. It is fortunate I was tied to the chair, else I would have fallen out, for there was Holmes' face peeking at me through the window. He winked at me and disappeared. All was not lost!\n\nI decided to distract the killers, to give Holmes a chance to get in and affect a rescue. Though I didn't see how he would be able to manage so many, but then again, I considered it impossible that he could even be here at this time when he should have been home in bed. It was so like Holmes to do the impossible.\n\n\"Actually, Hastings,\" I said a little more loudly than normal. \"The police know where I am. I left a message for Sergeant Reid, asking him to bring reinforcements here. He's had more than enough time to organize his forces. I doubt very much if you will be going anywhere but back to prison. As for these women, I will see them hang.\"\n\nThere came a hiss from behind me. A hand gripped my hair and pulled my head back, exposing my throat. I felt the prick of Ida's knife against my neck.\n\n\"What did you write in your note?\" demanded Hastings.\n\n\"Why should I tell you?\" I returned.\n\n\"If you don't I'll let Ida finish you off. It's a sickness with her. She has the face of an angel, but she just loves to kill, don't you Ida love?\"\n\nShe moved the knife from my neck and caressed its tip. \"I love to see them bleed. Let me slit his throat, Dad. We don't need him.\"\n\n\"Later, sweetheart. If the police are on their way, we may need him as a hostage. We don't need the other nuns though. Robert, go set fire to the church. Clara,\" he turned to the Mother Superior\u2014his wife no doubt, and said, \"Is everything ready? We can't afford to waste anymore time here.\"\n\n\"Yes the wagon is at the back, loaded and ready.\"\n\n\"Good. Untie the good doctor, will you Julia?\" he ordered the woman I knew as Sr. Julius.\n\nAs soon as she untied me, I stood up. It was at that moment that Holmes burst in, gun at the ready. Hopkins and Reid, both armed, followed him in. Hastings, gentleman that he was, pushed Ida towards Hopkins and fired his revolver at Holmes. Holmes returned fire and he did not miss. Hastings dropped, his head bloody. Hopkins, meantime, fought with a crazed Ida, who slashed at him with her knife, managing to wound him in the process. Despite her attack he was still hesitant to shoot her.\n\nHolmes struck out with the barrel of his gun and knocked her to the ground. The Mother Superior dropped to the ground beside her husband. I moved over quickly and picked up his fallen gun. Reid covered the others, his weapon unwavering.\n\n\"I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you, Holmes.\"\n\nHe smiled wryly in return. \"And I you, Watson. I should congratulate you on your deductions. You were quite right.\" He looked down at the unconscious woman by Hopkins' feet. \"It was she who attacked me. She boarded the train disguised as a boy, then changed to herself after the train left the station. She did the same thing with Sr. Mary.\"\n\n\"I wasn't quite right,\" I said ruefully. \"I never connected them with the Hastings.\"\n\n\"You were hardly to know that Hastings had a wife and two daughters, and his son had a wife. There was no gang when they robbed the bank of England; it was just this lot\u2014one big happy family. It was our knife wielder here that murdered the guard. I suspected it was his womenfolk posing as nuns as soon as I heard that the Mother Superior had made contact with him in the prison. Her hands were out of sight. She no doubt slipped him a message with their escape plans on it. It was all very clever, and they might have got away with it if they hadn't killed Sr. Mary Ignatius.\"\n\nClara Hastings glared at Holmes. \"How did you know we killed her? How could you know?\"\n\n\"You removed the top page from her note pad and read the letter she sent to me. You knew she was coming to see me and you also missed her presence at evening prayer; that's when you sent Ida to stop her.\"\n\nI nodded in confirmation and he continued. \"When I looked at her notepad, I saw that the sheet was unmarked, it shouldn't have been. If she was crazy as you claimed she was, there should have been an imprint of the letter she wrote to me on it. That there was not, told me that you knew she had written to me, and what she had written. All you had to do was stop her talking to me and I would be no wiser\u2014or so you thought. Ida murdered her, pushed her body off the train and returned the next day to Sherbrook.\"\n\n\"You can't prove that,\" muttered Clara Hastings.\n\n\"I think I can. I am afraid, my dear Mrs. Hastings that you, your daughters and daughter-in-law are for the gallows. You're responsible for seven deaths that I know of.\"\n\n\"Seven?\" I looked at him in surprise.\n\n\"Yes, seven. The real Mother Superior Augustine, and the three nuns that accompanied her. They murdered them and took their clothing and identification. Mother Superior Capuano was also murdered. No doubt she realized you were an impostor so you smothered her in her sick bed.\"\n\n\"She died of heart failure,\" insisted Clara.\n\n\"Heart failure, smothered by a pillow; it is difficult to tell the difference,\" shrugged Holmes. \"Then of course, there was the night watchman during the robbery, and we mustn't forget Sr. Mary. Not to mention the attempt on me.\"\n\n\"Too bad about the last one,\" she muttered sullenly.\n\n\"Yes, she slipped up badly didn't she? Didn't count on Watson finding me so fast and treating me so expertly. Had I been alone she would have been successful.\"\n\n\"Our cover was perfect!\" cried Julia Hastings\u2014wife of Robert.\n\n\"Not really, Mrs. Hastings. You left on your wedding ring, and although Mrs. Hastings Sr. tried to explain that away, I knew it was a falsehood. You also wear scent\u2014expensive French perfume if I'm not mistaken. I have never heard of any nun that did. Then there were your hands; you all have smooth hands as opposed to the real nuns. The day we were here, Sr. Agnes told me you were liars and impostors....\"\n\n\"Sr. Agnes?\" Clara Hastings looked up at him. \"How could she? She didn't say a word to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, I must admit, Holmes, I don't see how you can make a claim like that,\" I said, agreeing with the criminal on this one.\n\nHolmes smiled. \"She didn't speak, but she wrote me a message. You thought she was fidgeting, Watson, when in reality she was writing a message.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's why you pretended to drop your pipe, you were reading it?\" I said, understanding dawning.\n\n\"Exactly. She wrote the word 'no'. I had asked her if what Clara here said was true, she had nodded under the watchful eyes of her captors, but wrote no in the dirt. That commotion that broke out just before we went in to see Sr. Mary's room was some of the nuns wanting to come to us for help.\"\n\n\"What I don't understand is how only four women could keep the other twenty or so prisoner. The others outnumbered them. Surely they could have overpowered them?\" I said.\n\n\"Unless I am mistaken, Mother Superior Capuano was murdered for two reasons; one, to silence her, the other to set her up as an example to the others. I have no doubt whatsoever that there were several nuns held in captivity with Ida guarding them, to ensure the continued good behavior of the others. They could not act for fear of risking their lives.\"\n\n\"Sr. Mary did though,\" I pointed out.\n\n\"She tried. It cost her her life.\"\n\nAt that moment we heard the approach of someone. Clara Hastings tensed, perhaps thinking it was her son, Robert, but to her disappointment it was a young police officer. He saluted Hopkins and said: \"We've got Robert Hastings, sir and we've found the nuns. They were all tied and gagged and locked in the chapel. The floors, pews and some of the nuns were drenched in paraffin. He was about to set fire to them.\"\n\nHopkins shook his head in disgust. \"Money or no money, he'll hang this time. All of you will.\"\n\nMore policemen entered and handcuffed the survivors. Lovely Ida was just starting to rouse from the clout Holmes had given her. It was a shame that such a demented mind hid behind that sweet face.\n\nThe real nuns, once freed of their bonds were quite eager to talk and tell their story. It was much as Holmes had said. Several nuns were held hostage to ensure their cooperation. They were not a silent order and only had to pretend to be, as Clara Hastings did not want any of them being given the opportunity to talk. She bragged of killing Mother Superior Capuano to the nuns and threatened to do the same to them if they disobeyed. Sr. Mary had managed to smuggle her letter to Holmes out by putting it in the letterbox by the road. The postman collected it and posted it for her as he often did for the nuns when he found outgoing mail in their box. Mrs. Hastings was unaware of this practice and had thus been fooled.\n\nI admired the courage of Sr. Mary Ignatius in trying to seek help for the other sisters. It was a shame she did not live to see this day.\n\nTHIRTEEN\n\nOn the journey back to London, I said to Holmes. \"How was it that you arrived so fortuitously, Holmes?\"\n\n\"I woke up around nine o'clock when Hopkins arrived. I invited him for breakfast. Your letter had slipped down and I did not find it until Mrs. Hudson cleared the trays away. When I read it, my memory came flooding back. I remembered everything. You were on the right track, Watson. I'm proud of you.\"\n\nPraise from Holmes was rare indeed. My heart warmed to him.\n\n\"Unfortunately, I realized that you were walking into danger, for it was obvious you had not made the connection between the prison escapees and the nuns. Still, I was most impressed with your deductions. Hopkins commandeered a train and we came to Sherbrook post haste. Sergeant Reid met us at the station with reinforcements and we made our way here. We advanced cautiously when we saw the wagon at the back. We weren't sure if we were in time, or if they had already left. You bought us that time, Watson. We would have been too late to catch them. You know the rest.\"\n\n\"You have no idea how I felt when I saw your face looking in the window,\" I said.\n\n\"I think I might,\" he returned, smiling faintly.\n\n\"There's just one thing that puzzles me, Holmes.\"\n\n\"That is?\"\n\n\"How did that woman manage to stab you and push you off the train? You were expecting an attack weren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes I was. That's why I told Mrs. Hastings that we were leaving. I thought sure she would make some sort of an attempt.\"\n\n\"And you suspected that the boy was really a woman?\"\n\n\"Naturally.\"\n\n\"Then how did she manage it?\"\n\n\"Easily. Yes, I knew the boy was a woman and I was watching for him. I was standing in the corridor by the exit door, when a soft female voice said: 'Excuse me please.' I turned to let her pass. As she passed I glimpsed her face and recognized her as the woman that disappeared from the train at Sherbrook. I was about to make some comment, when she swung round suddenly and stabbed me. The shock of that blow disorientated me for a moment. She opened the door and tried to push me out. I hung onto the doorframe with a bloody hand, until she stamped her foot against it causing me to let loose and fall. It happened so fast, Watson. I underestimated her deadliness.\"\n\n\"I'm sure a lot of men have,\" I returned.\n\n\"Not anymore. She'll hang, along with the rest of her family.\"\n\nBack at Baker Street, I urged Holmes to return to bed as he was looking pale and exhausted. The activities of the day had placed a strain on him in his weakened state. The fact that he went without argument and without a final pipe of the night was proof of this. I was glad to be home. For a while there I thought I would never see it again.\n\n* * * *\n\nTwo days later, Holmes was up and about and more his usual self. He grumbled repeatedly about Mrs. Hudson fussing over him and urging him to eat to get his strength up.\n\n\"Say, Holmes,\" I began. \"When you were unconscious you had a visitor who did not introduce himself.'\n\n\"Oh? What did he look like?\"\n\n\"He was as tall as you, perhaps a little taller and a great deal wider. He had curious pale gray eyes and didn't say much, but he did seem concerned for your welfare. Who was he?\"\n\n\"He's the executor of my will, Watson,\" replied Holmes, the tone of his voice brooking no further questions. However, he took pity on my hangdog expression and added, \"He is an interesting fellow. Perhaps I will formally introduce you to him one day.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Holmes,\" I said and meant it for I knew how jealously he guarded his private life.\n\nThat afternoon, Stanley Hopkins stopped by for a visit. We plied him with brandy and cigars, and he made himself comfortable by the fire.\n\n\"Its good to see you looking so well, Mr. Holmes,\" he said.\n\n\"Thanks to Watson, Inspector,\" returned Holmes, generous as always.\n\n\"It's a shame we weren't able to recover the money. Robert Hastings refuses to talk, his Mother, wife and sisters don't know where it is and John Hastings of course, is dead.\"\n\n\"They didn't happen to say anything while you were held captive, did they Watson?\" asked Holmes.\n\nI frowned, my brow furrowed in thought. I wish I'd listened more closely to their conversation. I had been too preoccupied with my own self-pity.\n\n\"I seem to remember Hastings saying something about picking the money up from Lord Nelson.\" I said finally.\n\nHolmes turned to Hopkins. \"Where were the Hastings' apprehended?\"\n\n\"Near the state Library,\" he replied.\n\n\"Do you think the money is in the library?\" I asked eagerly.\n\n\"Hardly. Too many people going in and out. They needed a hiding place that was unlikely to be disturbed.\" Holmes put down his pipe. \"Gentlemen, fancy an expedition to Trafalgar Square?\" His eyes were shining and I could see he was excited.\n\n\"Don't tell me you have figured it out already, Mr. Holmes?\" said Hopkins, also putting out his cigar.\n\n\"Possibly, Hopkins. Quite possibly.\"\n\n* * * *\n\nWe were soon on our way to Trafalgar Square. This late in the day, traffic was mild and no crowds thronged the streets. Holmes went straight to the statue of Lord Nelson and studied it. After a few minutes he gave up on the statue and studied the base. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and took out his penknife. With this he started to chip at the mortar around one block of stone. After some five minutes, the block came loose and Hopkins and I gasped in surprise. For instead of being the thickness of the other stones it was no more than one inch thick, leaving a cavity. Holmes reached in and pulled out an oilskin bag. He held it up, smiling with delight at our expressions.\n\n\"How did you know, Mr. Holmes?\" Hopkins was full of praise.\n\nHolmes tapped the piece that he had removed. \"It's not stone. It's wood, carefully made up to look exactly like the other stones. They must have planned on hiding the money here in case the police came by. At some stage prior to the robbery, they came and removed a stone and replaced it with this replica. The Bank of England is only two streets down from here. After the robbery, the men came here while the women went home. That is how they were caught because they returned later. That is also why the women were never arrested, because there was no proof that they had gone out. They had been seen near the bank by the guard in another building. It was a stroke of bad luck for them, but they did have time to hide the money. They always thought that their womenfolk would break them out of prison, which is why they never talked. Perhaps Robert is still keeping his mouth shut in the hope that someone else will get him out.\"\n\n\"No hope now, I can guarantee that. As soon as word gets out that the money has been found, there will be no takers. He's on his own.\" Hopkins shook hands with Holmes and myself. \"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It is always a pleasure to see you in action.\"\n\nHe left us clutching the oilskin sack jubilantly, and we returned to Baker Street.\n\n* * * *\n\n\"Well, Watson, that was an interesting case wouldn't you say\u2014and profitable too.\"\n\n\"Profitable, how can you say that? Your client is dead. She's hardly going to pay you.\"\n\n\"No, but the Bank of England will for recovery of the money. I think we will be able to afford a holiday out of it. Fancy a trip to the Riviera, Watson? It should be rather pleasant this time of year.\"\n\n\"I say; that would be excellent!\" I agreed with enthusiasm.\n\nThe Riviera was a place usually beyond my budget. It would be an absolute delight to go there, and it was not often that Holmes suggested going on holidays. It was usually all I could do to drag him away from Baker Street.\"\n\n\"As your doctor, Holmes. I would highly recommend it.\"\nIRENE AND THE OLD DETECTIVE, by Richard L. Kellogg\n\nIrene walked slowly down the country lane and tried to remember what Mr. Holmes had told her. The old man said that most people don't pay attention to the little things which make life so exciting. To understand our world, he felt that we must learn how to look, listen, touch, taste, and smell.\n\nThe little girl stopped and thought very hard. She saw the strange designs made by the clouds in the sky. She heard the soft rustling of the leaves in the trees. Noticing some red berries along the hedgerow, she gently touched the bushes and then ate some of the delicious fruit. It was early fall and she smelled the faint odor of a wood fire drifting in the breeze.\n\n\"My friend is right,\" she thought. \"It is more fun to wander through the woods when you notice everything around you. I am glad that Mr. Holmes taught me so much.\"\n\nIrene lived with her parents on a small farm in the southern part of England. A lively girl with blond hair and blue eyes, she was often lonely until she met a new neighbor named Holmes. He lived with his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, in a cottage near a sandy beach on the English Channel.\n\nMr. Holmes was a retired detective; a tall, thin gentleman with white hair and a crooked nose. He spent a great deal of time taking care of his bees, working in the vegetable garden, and reading the many books in his library. The old man was lonesome and enjoyed the company of children. He liked the little girl and often told her that he had once been fond of another pretty girl whose name was Irene. The two became the best of friends and he taught her a lot of the things he had learned during his long life.\n\nIrene wasn't sure what detectives did, but she knew the old man was good at solving problems. He would help her solve a difficult problem, chuckle softly, and say that the answer was \"Elementary, most elementary.\" This meant that it was a simple problem to work out.\n\nAs she came out of the woods, she saw her friend pacing around the lawn in front of the cottage. He was puffing rapidly on a large pipe and clouds of smoke were curling like a halo around his head. Taking off his battered hat, Mr. Holmes wiped his brow and shouted, \"Hello, Irene. Come and join me. It is quite warm for so late in the year.\"\n\nIrene waved a greeting in return and hurried down the lane to his house. She saw that he had planted flowers around the yard since her last visit. The blossoms would attract more birds and bees to his home.\n\n\"How are you today?\" asked Irene. \"I haven't visited you in quite a while.\"\n\n\"I'm feeling fine, thank you. It is time for tea and biscuits after a busy morning in the garden. Can you stay for lunch?\"\n\n\"I would love to,\" said the little girl. \"I have missed the hot tea and your delicious honey.\"\n\nAfter their meal, they went outdoors to sit in chairs on the front porch. The old man told her how he had been feeding the birds and that they perched on his hands when he sat quietly. He showed her some pictures he had sketched of the birds. Irene clapped her hands with joy when he gave her one of his best drawings to take home.\n\nAs Irene was preparing to leave, the old man asked softly, \"Is there anything I can help you with? You appear to be upset over something.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing for you to worry about. Besides, I didn't say anything about being upset.\"\n\n\"No, you didn't,\" replied Mr. Holmes. \"However, I noted that your right eye was twitching and that you were rubbing your hands together. It is also obvious that you have recently been chewing your fingernails.\"\n\nIrene took a deep breath and laughed. \"You are up to your old tricks again. I can never keep a secret when you are around.\"\n\n\"Friends should not keep secrets from each other,\" noted the old man. He put the pipe back in his mouth and puffed away with a very sad expression on his face.\n\n\"Well, I guess you should be told,\" said the little girl. \"I am not doing well at school. My grades are poor. My parents and my teacher are not pleased with me.\"\n\nMr. Holmes saw that Irene was close to tears. \"Come now, don't cry about it,\" he said. \"This is a little problem we can solve together. I haven't had such an important case in years.\"\n\n\"But older people seem to know everything,\" complained Irene. \"Children are never as smart as adults. I feel bad whenever I think about it.\"\n\nMr. Holmes just grinned. \"It seems that way to children but grown-ups don't have all the answers either. They have just lived longer and had more time to learn things. You are a bright girl and don't you forget it.\"\n\n\"But how can I get better grades at school?\" the little girl asked. \"You are the best and wisest man I know. Everyone knows that. Can you show me how to be as smart as you are?\"\n\nMr. Holmes scratched his chin and thought for a moment. He suddenly snapped his fingers and his gray eyes twinkled. \"We can do it together. Let's have a meeting tomorrow. We will talk about the best way to learn. I know you can do much better at school.\"\n\nWhen Irene returned the next afternoon, the old man was feeding the birds behind his cottage. He called each bird by name and smiled as they ran around the lawn between his legs.\n\n\"Welcome back,\" he yelled. \"I have a fine lesson for you today. Come and join the class.\"\n\nThe little girl could see that he was in a cheerful mood. They sat in chairs beside the house and felt the warmth of the sunshine. It was a wonderful day to be outdoors with a friend.\n\n\"I have some problems for you today,\" stated Mr. Holmes. \"I will pretend to be the teacher and you can pretend to be the student. The lawn will be our classroom.\"\n\n\"This will be great fun. I hope that I know all the answers.\"\n\n\"We will see,\" replied the old man. \"Here is my first problem: How many animals of each type did Moses take on the ark at the time of the great flood?\"\n\n\"What an easy question! He took two of each kind. I learned that last year in church. Two is the answer.\"\n\n\"Are you sure of that answer?\" asked Mr. Holmes.\n\nIrene said, \"I am absolutely, positively sure.\"\n\nThe old man smiled with an impish look on his face. \"I am sorry to disappoint you but Moses didn't take any animals on the ark. That was Noah's job.\"\n\n\"Oh, you fooled me,\" cried the little girl. \"I guess I wasn't paying attention.\"\n\n\"Try another one,\" continued Mr. Holmes. \"A train goes off the rails and crashes into a bridge during a terrible storm. The passengers on the train are from England, China, and Australia. In which one of the three countries should the survivors be buried?\"\n\n\"Let me think,\" said Irene. \"England, China, and Australia. How strange. It seems they would be buried in their own countries.\"\n\n\"My questions are pretty tricky,\" the old man admitted. \"The people who survive would not be buried. After all, they are still alive.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Irene. \"The problems are really simple ones when you listen carefully.\"\n\n\"That is just my point. You must pay close attention to what the teacher tells you and to what you read in your textbooks. Every fact is useful when you are trying to solve a mystery.\"\n\nIrene said, \"You are probably right. Sometimes I look out the window or whisper to my friends during class. I promise to work harder on my lessons.\"\n\nThe little girl tried to do what Mr. Holmes suggested. She listened closely to everything her teacher said and put extra effort into her lessons.\n\n* * * *\n\nSeveral weeks later, Irene visited the old man again. She wanted to tell him that she was doing much better at school. As she knocked on the door, she heard the sound of a violin. Mr. Holmes was practicing the musical scales.\n\nHe opened the door and asked her to come in. \"It's good to see you once again,\" he said.\n\n\"I see that you have new kittens at home,\" he continued. \"How many do you have to play with?\"\n\n\"There are three but I don't remember telling you about them. They were just born last week.\"\n\nHolmes nodded his head and chuckled. \"No, you didn't have to tell me. I see cat hairs on your blouse and fresh scratches on your hands. Kittens love to bite and claw people. Of course, it's all in fun.\"\n\n\"You usually know things before I tell you. I suppose you already know I am here to report about my better grades at school.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't know, but I am delighted to hear about it,\" said the old man.\n\nThey went into the living room. Mr. Holmes placed his old violin on a stack of books near his favorite chair. He agreed to play some music before she had to leave for home.\n\nAfter sitting down, the old man told Irene that he was quite concerned about the health of his dearest friend. He had just received a letter from Dr. Watson, who was residing in London. He passed the letter to Irene so that she could read it aloud.\n\n\"My dear Holmes,\" Watson had written. \"Thank you for your kind invitation to the country. I need time to recover from a broken limb before making such a long trip. In fact, I just walked home from the doctor's office. I was taken there today after falling down some stairs at a home on Baker Street. I pray this finds you well. Most sincerely yours, Watson.\"\n\n\"That is too bad,\" said Irene. She slowly read the message again and thought for a few moments.\n\nHer eyes brightened as she spoke. \"It is too bad that Dr. Watson broke his left arm. My arm was broken when I fell out a tree last year so I know how it feels.\"\n\n\"Wait just a minute,\" interrupted the old man. \"How do you know if it was the right arm, left arm, right leg, or left leg? Watson didn't provide any details of his injury.\"\n\nIrene started to laugh. \"You taught me how to pay attention. Since Dr. Watson walked home, he must not have broken his leg. I also remember that he writes with his right hand so it must be the other arm which was broken.\"\n\nHolmes leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. He reached out for the violin and said, \"Nice work, Irene. You solved the puzzling mystery of the broken limb without any help from me. It appears that we are ready to form our own detective agency.\"\n\nIrene was proud of herself. She knew there wouldn't be any more problems with her work at school. Her friend had taught her how to be a good student as well as a good detective.\n\nFor Caitlin Jonas, who likes to pretend that she is a detective.\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nA number of these pieces have been previously published, in whole or in part, and are reprinted by permission of their authors or agents:\n\n\"The Mystery of Ogham Manor\" by Stan Trybulski appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Stan Trybulski.\n\n\"The Dentist\" by Magda Jozsa appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Magda Jozsa.\n\n\"The Fury\" by Lyn McConchie appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Lyn McConchie.\n\n\"Death and No Consequences\" by Richard K. Tobin appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Richard K. Tobin.\n\n\"Murder at the Diogenes Club\" by John L. French appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by John L. French.\n\n\"The Adventure of the Night Hunter\" by Ralph E. Vaughan appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Ralph E. Vaughan.\n\n\"The Adventure of the Devil's Father\" by Morris Hershman was first published in Red Herring Mystery Magazine, 1996. Copyright \u00a9 1996, 2012 by Morris Hershman.\n\n\"A Memo from Inspector Lestrade\" by Marvin Kaye was first published in somewhat different form in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6, 2011. Copyright \u00a9 2011, 2012 by Marvin Kaye.\n\n\"The Button Box\" by Lyn McConchie appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Lyn McConchie.\n\n\"Sherlock Holmes\u2014Stymied!\" by Gary Lovisi was originally published in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #5, Spring, 2011. Copyright \u00a9 2011, 2012 by Gary Lovisi.\n\n\"Bad Habits\" by Magda Jozsa appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Magda Jozsa.\n\n\"Irene and the Old Detective\" by Richard L. Kellogg appears here for the first time. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Richard L. Kellogg.\nABOUT THE AUTHORS\n\nSTAN TRYBULSKI is a Connecticut writer who is the author of the crime novel The Gendarme, and the popular Doherty Mystery series which includes The Ides of June, Forty-Deuce, One-Trick Pony, and Case Maker. His short stories have appeared in Hardboiled, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine and many other periodicals. Stan can be contacted via email at ftrybulski@sent.net.\n\nMAGDA JOZSA is an Australian author who says she was bitten by the writing bug at the age of fourteen when The Australian Woman's Weekly magazine published a short story written by her. She makes her home in Ballarat, Australia and is a huge fan of the Sherlock Holmes tales. As Ballarat and the goldfields feature in several of Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories, it's only natural she graduated to writing Sherlock Holmes pastiches. She is the author of the novel Sherlock Holmes on the Wild Frontier (available on amazon.com) which is a terrific tale of Holmes and Watson in the American West. A sequel Return to the Wild Frontier has recently been completed. She has also written some twenty-three books in her Neptune King detective series and many other fine works. Magda's two stories here are top-rate traditional Holmes tales, she can be contacted via email at shwildfrontier@yahoo.com.\n\nLYN MCCONCHIE hails from New Zealand and has written novels published by Tor and Avalon Books as well as a volume of fourteen Sherlock Holmes short stories with the common theme of someone either from one of the original stories, or sent by them, who has come to Sherlock and Watson asking for help. She writes her Holmes tales unapologetically in the original style, no sex, no undue violence and I am happy to have two of her fine tales in this book. You can find out more about Lyn at her website www.lynmconchie.com.\n\nRICHARD K. TOBIN is a Canadian author from Nova Scotia who began life as a farm boy. He recently worked as an employee of the Department of National Defense. In 2002, Richard took over the care of his elderly, widowed mother and in his spare time began to teach himself the writer's trade. After writing and selling many short stories and poems, Richard's first book, The Cuban Connection, saw publication from Bio Publishing in 2012, available at Amazon and other online bookstores. This is Richard's first short story about Sherlock Holmes.\n\nJOHN L. FRENCH in the real world is a crime scene supervisor with the Baltimore Police Department Crime Laboratory. As a writer of crime, pulp and horror fiction for many years, his stories have appeared in Hardboiled, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Best New Zombie Tales. He is the editor of the hard crime anthology, Bad Cop, No Donut (Padwolf) and of the forthcoming To Hell in a Fast Car. Paradise Denied, a collection of his short stories will soon be published by Books of the Dead Press. \"Murder at the Diogenes Club\" is John's first official Sherlock Holmes story. John can be reached via email at jfrenchfam@aol.com.\n\nRALPH E. VAUGHAN makes his home in California and is the author of several Sherlock Holmes tales, many of which involve Lovecraftian themes. His first was the well-regarded, The Adventure of the Ancient Gods which has the minor distinction of being the first pairing of Sherlock Holmes with H. P. Lovecraft. Other Holmes volumes include The Coils of Time, The Dreaming Detective, The Terror Out of Time, and Professor Challenger and the Mystery of the Dreamlands; many of these books originally were published by Gryphon Books in the US but he has also been published in Germany and Croatia. Ralph can be contacted via email at ralphy1@gmail.com.\n\nMORRIS HERSHMAN is a legendary author who lives in Queens, New York. He is one of the original writers from the great days of vintage paperback pulp fiction. He has written almost every kind of book and every type of short story you can think of, though he has particular talent in writing thrilling crime tales. Morris is one of the original writers for the 1950s digest crime magazine Manhunt, and many others of that era, all of which are so collectible today. Morris also wrote many novels for Midwood Books and other outfits under his pseudonym Arnold English.\n\nMARVIN KAYE is a renowned writer and editor who has been writing fine books in the fantasy field for decades. He has written one excellent pastiche novel of interconnected Sherlock Holmes stories, The Incredible Umbrella (Dell Books, 1980) and edited three terrific Sherlock Holmes anthologies of all new stories by top writers for St. Martin's Press: The Game Is Afoot (1994), Resurrected Holmes (1996), and The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (1998). He is currently the editor of the popular crime fiction periodical Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine and the new, revived Weird Tales. He is a terrific writer, but he is also one of the best editors I have ever encountered.\n\nGARY LOVISI is a Brooklyn-based author and big-time Sherlock Holmes fan and collector who writes both fiction and non-fiction about The Great Detective. He is the founder of the small independent press Gryphon Books, and editor of Paperback Parade and Hardboiled magazines. His Sherlock Holmes books include The Secret Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Ramble House, 2007), which contains three long pastiches including his MWA Edgar Award Nominated Best Short Story \"The Adventure of the Missing Detective\"; More Secret Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Ramble House, 2011) three more pastiches; and the new novel, Sherlock Holmes: The Baron's Revenge (Airship27, 2012) which is a sequel to Doyle's classic story \"The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.\" His Holmes pastiches have appeared in various anthologies as well as Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine and The Strand Magazine. Editing this anthology of new Sherlock Holmes stories is a dream come true for him. You can contact Gary at his website www.gryphonbooks.com.\n\nRICHARD L. KELLOGG lives in upstate New York and is a Professor Emeritus of Psychology at the SUNY College of Technology in Alfred, New York. He has received grants from the SUNY Research Foundation to develop instructional materials on the Sherlockian model of problem solving and has delivered conference presentations on Sherlock Holmes at Alfred University, Colby College, and the Stevens Institute of Technology. Richard is also a frequent contributor to The Baker Street Journal and The Serpentine Muse. His most recent book on the Great Detective is the collection of insightful articles, Vignettes of Sherlock Holmes (Gryphon Books, 2008). Richard delights in introducing young readers to the magical world of Holmes and Watson and his story in this volume is no exception. He can be reached via email at rkellogg8@stny.rr.com.\n\nLUCILLE CALI, our cover artist for this book, is a Brooklyn gal born and bred. She has done book and magazine cover art for Gryphon Books and Hardboiled magazine that recreate the best illustrations from popular pulp ficton vintage paperbacks. Her special cover for this book was the result of her original painting done on a wooden box recreating a classic British Sherlock Holmes paperback cover of the 1950s. She has been married to Gary Lovisi for the last thirteen years and is an avid Holmes fan. Lucille can be contacted vai email at lalovisi@gmail.com.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "An Interactive Introduction to Knot Theory - Inga Johnson"}, "text": " \nAn Interactive Introduction to\n\n# KNOT THEORY\n\nInga Johnson\n\n_Willamette University_\n\nAllison Henrich\n\n_Seattle University_\n\nDOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.  \nMineola, New York\n_Copyright_\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2017 by Inga Johnson and Allison Henrich\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\n_Bibliographical Note_\n\n_An Interactive Introduction to Knot Theory_ is a new work, first published by Dover Publications, Inc., in 2017.\n\n_International Standard Book Number_\n\n_ISBN-13: 978-0-486-80463-7_\n\n_ISBN-10: 0-486-80463-1_\n\nManufactured in the United States by LSC Communications\n\n80463101 2017\n\nwww.doverpublications.com\n\n## **Contents**\n\n**Notes**\n\n**1 Playing & Building Intuition**\n\n1.1Projections, Diagrams & Equivalence\n\n1.2Crossing and Unknotting Numbers\n\n1.3Alternating Knots\n\n1.4Games with Knots\n\n1.5Mirrors, Orientation & Inverses\n\n1.6Knot Composition & Prime Knots\n\n1.7Knot Notation\n\n1.8Questions in Knot Theory\n\n**2 Knot Definition & Equivalence**\n\n2.1Polygonal Curves & \u0394-Equivalence\n\n2.2Diagram Equivalence via R-Moves\n\n2.3The Equivalence of \u0394- and R-Equivalence\n\n2.4Nonequivalence and Invariants\n\n**3 Families of Links and Braids**\n\n3.1Twist Knots\n\n3.2Pretzel Links\n\n3.3Torus Links\n\n3.4Closed Braids\n\n**4 Knot Notation**\n\n4.1DT Notation\n\n4.2Gauss Codes & Gauss Diagrams\n\n4.3Rational Knots & Conway Notation\n\n**5 Combinatorial Knot Invariants**\n\n5.1The Writhe of a Diagram\n\n5.2The Linking Numberz\n\n5.3Tricolorability\n\n5.4A Generalization of Tricolorability\n\n5.5Matrices, Colorings & Determinants\n\n**6 Knot Polynomials**\n\n6.1The Alexander Polynomial\n\n6.2The Kauffman Bracket & Jones Polynomial\n\n6.3Tait's Conjecture\n\n**7 Unknotting Operations & Invariants**\n\n7.1Unknotting Operations\n\n7.2The Unknotting Number\n\n7.3The Region Unknotting Number\n\n**8 Virtual Knots**\n\n8.1What is a Virtual Knot?\n\n8.2Virtual Knot Invariants\n\n8.3Virtual Unknotting\n\n**Acknowledgments**\n\n**Index**\n\n**Bibliography**\n\n## **A Note to the Reader**\n\nThis book does not follow the design of a traditional math textbook. There are very few complete proofs included, and the exercises are not listed at the end of each section. Instead, this text is an invitation to ponder, question, create, and _figure out on your own_ some beautiful mathematical results in the field of knot theory. Exercises are sprinkled in between statements of definitions, descriptions, and propositions. Some exercises are designed to introduce you to new ideas and to point you in the direction of why or how an idea is important. Other exercises guide you through the technical and subtle arguments that provide the foundation for our understanding of knots and links. Answers are rarely provided in full, but the path toward a solution or proof is illuminated.\n\nAs indicated by the word _interactive_ in the title, this book is meant to be read with paper and pencil (colored pencils, string, and pipe cleaners, too!) in hand so that you can jot down your ideas, explore how a new definition applies to your favorite examples, find the answer to a question, or prove a theorem. As you are reading the text, we hope you will be in a space where conversations and collaborations with others are readily available.\n\n## **A Note to the Instructor**\n\nWe designed this book for a student-centered classroom where students regularly spend class time working collaboratively on problems, presenting solutions, and vetting arguments made by their peers. We have used the textbook both in a 10-week quarter and in a 15-week semester. Our classes typically have 10-20 undergraduate students, though this book could be used by a larger class of up to 30 students or even by a single group of 2-3 undergraduate research students. Indeed, we have successfully used parts of the book to introduce summer research students to the fundamental ideas in knot theory. Prerequisites for this book include a course on proof writing (which includes exposure to ideas like sets and modular arithmetic) and proof techniques (e.g., proof by induction) as well as a course on linear or matrix algebra.\n\n## Chapter 1\n\n## Playing & Building Intuition\n\nEach section in Chapter 1 is a hands-on introduction to knots, links, and equivalence. In this chapter, we will learn about several foundational concepts in the study of knots. The _formal_ definition of a knot is postponed to Chapter 2 to allow time to first play and build intuition within the mathematically rich and beautiful field of knot theory.\n\nInformally, a **knot** is a closed loop in space. The term **closed loop** means that the loop has no loose ends, and no beginning or ending points. You can think of a knot as a knotted-up circle made of string or wire. A **link** is a collection of closed loops in space and the number of loops is called the number of **components** of the link. A link can have one component. Thus, knots are just special types of links having only one component. Note that, when we use the term 'link' in this book, we are generally referring to both knots and links with more than one component.\n\nThe examples of knots and links seen in Table 1.1 are flat drawings of 3-dimensional loops in space. A 2-dimensional drawing of a link is called a **diagram** of the link. In a diagram, the term **crossing** is used to describe a location where one portion of the link passes over another portion of the link. Crossings are identified by a short break in the drawing of the curve, which indicates that this portion of the curve is passing under the unbroken portion of curve.\n\nTwo links are called **equivalent** if they have the same number of components and they can be physically manipulated in space (rotated, bent, twisted, stretched, etc.), without cutting, so that the first link is transformed identically into the second. We imagine that our strings are highly elastic so they can be scaled up or down in size, stretched and contracted.\n\nWhile playing and building your intuition with the activities in this chapter, you may come up with your own questions or conjectures. We encourage you to collect and write down your ideas and add them to the list of questions in Section 1.8. Perhaps you will create your own new open research question about knots or perhaps you will stumble upon the same questions that the founders of the field of knot theory have puzzled over for years.\n\nOne last note before you begin. In mathematics, formal proofs of theorems rely on concepts and constructions being _formally defined_. Since the formal definition of a knot is not given in Chapter 1, we will not be asking the reader for formal proofs in this chapter. Instead, we ask the reader to give an _argument_ that a statement is mathematically valid. We specifically use the term 'argument' rather than 'proof to allow for what we recognize is a tension between the desire for a formal proof with an initial lack of the formal definitions that are needed to make such a proof rigorous. An argument, in this setting, may be viewed as being less formal than a proof, but it should be as clear and complete an explanation as possible. In Chapter 2, you will notice a shift from play to formalism. Formal proofs related to the definition of a knot or link will serve as the foundation both for our play and for our proofs in the remainder of the book.\n\nTable 1.1: Examples of Link Diagrams.\n\n### **1.1 Projections, Diagrams & Equivalence**\n\n**Exercise 1.1.1.** (a) Identify the _knots_ in Table 1.1. Build them with pipe cleaners, and determine any equivalences between different pictures. Record your findings and conjectures. (b) Identify the _links with more than one component_ in Table 1.1. Build them with pipe cleaners, and determine any equivalences between different pictures. Record your findings and conjectures.\n\nGiven a link _L_ in space and a light source some distance away, the shadow of the link made on a plane across from the light source is called a **projection** or **shadow** of the link. Projections can look similar to the pictures in Table 1.1, but they are missing information about which is the under-strand and which is the over-strand. The curve intersections in a projection are called **precrossings.** A precrossing is said to have been **resolved** once we have selected the crossing information (that is, we have specified which strand passes over and which passes under at the crossing). Once all crossing information is determined in a link projection, the image is then a **link diagram.**\n\nFigure 1.1.1: A knot projection in a plane, the knot in space, and a light source.\n\nThe projection of a link _L_ onto two distinct planes in   can result in strikingly different images. Some projections are nonstandard and cannot be used to recreate the link in space, even if crossing information is included. While such projections may be useful in certain situations, they are not the projections that knot theorists typically study. (A list of specific projections characteristics to avoid will be studied in Chapter 2.) Two different projections of a link, _L_ , can also have vastly different numbers of crossings. The following two exercises investigate the relationship between a link, its numerous projections, and the diagrams stemming from those projections.\n\n**Exercise 1.1.2.** (a) Make a knot out of rigid material such as wire. Draw a projection of that knot from two perspectives that result in significantly different projections. (b) For that same knot, draw a nonstandard diagram of your knot from which the knot cannot be reconstructed. (For instance, maybe there are places in your diagram where several strands are tangent to each other or where three or more strands of the knot intersect at a single point.)\n\n**Exercise 1.1.3.** Create a single rigid knot _K_ in space such that one projection of _K_ results in a diagram with four crossings and another projection results in a diagram with zero crossings.\n\n**Exercise 1.1.4.** The knot labeled (a) in Table 1.1 is called the **unknot** or the **trivial knot.** Give an argument explaining why any knot diagram with exactly one or exactly two crossings must be equivalent to the unknot. (Hint: Draw the crossing(s) first, and then make a knot by connecting the ends in all possible ways so that no more crossings are created. Approach this task systematically so that your argument shows, without a doubt, that _all_ possible ways have been considered.)\n\nWe've just seen that there are no nontrivial knots that can be drawn with just one or two crossings. In fact, the smallest nontrivial knot is a knot that can be drawn with three crossings. Any knot that can be drawn with three crossings and no fewer is typically referred to as a **trefoil** knot.\n\n### **1.2 Crossing and Unknotting Numbers**\n\nSome of the links in Table 1.1 can be manipulated in space and then redrawn with fewer crossings. The **crossing number** of a link _L_ is the minimum number of crossings needed in a diagram of _L_. For instance, if the crossing number of _L_ is five, then it is impossible to draw a diagram of _L_ that has four or fewer crossings.\n\n**Exercise 1.2.1.** For each link in Table 1.1, make a conjecture about the crossing number of the link. Can you provide an argument in support of any of your conjectures? Which conjectures do you not yet have enough tools to prove?\n\n**Exercise 1.2.2.** Determine the crossing number of the knot in Figure 1.2.1.\n\nFigure 1.2.1: A complicated knot?\n\n**Exercise 1.2.3.** Consider the knot projection in Figure 1.2.2. Start with an arbitrary precrossing of _P_ and resolve it into a crossing. Imagine grasping the over-strand and pulling this strand up out of the plane of the paper. Using this visualization as inspiration, show for your projection that the remaining precrossings can be resolved so that the resulting knot is the unknot.\n\nFigure 1.2.2: A knot projection.\n\n**Exercise 1.2.4.** Use the example in Exercise 1.2.3 as a guide to write an argument that given _any_ knot projection, the precrossings can be resolved to produce a diagram of the unknot. (Hint: There are two parts to this problem. First you must _devise an algorithm_ to create the desired unknot diagram. Then you must argue that the resulting diagram actually _is_ the diagram of the unknot.)\n\nLet _K_ be a knot. Using your argument in Exercise 1.2.4, we can show that, given any diagram _D_ for _K_ , some number of crossings can be changed in _D_ to produce a diagram of the unknot. Note that changing a crossing in a knot diagram is like passing the corresponding knot through itself in space. Typically, this \"passing through\" operation results in a different type of knot. The minimum number of times the knot must pass through itself before it becomes unknotted is called the **unknotting number** of the knot.\n\nNote that the definition of unknotting number is a spatial characteristic of the physical knot. Thus, the unknotting number is not tied to a particular diagram of the knot. We can use diagrams to build intuition about what a knot's unknotting number might be, but such intuition does not always constitute a proof that a given knot has a specific unknotting number. For instance, if we can show that changing two crossings in a diagram of a knot _K_ produces the unknot, we can say that the unknotting number of _K_ is _at most_ two. We cannot, however, claim that the unknotting number of _K_ is _exactly_ two without more work. Perhaps there's another diagram of the knot that only requires one crossing change to become unknotted.\n\n**Exercise 1.2.5.** Use the diagrams provided to conjecture the unknotting number of the knots labeled (b), (f), and (o) from Table 1.1. Experiment with alternate diagrams for these knots to give additional support for your conjectures.\n\nWe will take a closer look at the unknotting number and study interesting ways to unknot diagrams in Chapter 7.\n\n### **1.3 Alternating Knots**\n\nA diagram _D_ for a link _L_ is called an **alternating diagram** provided that, if you traverse each component in the diagram, then you alternately pass over and under the crossings. For example, the diagram (b) from Table 1.1 is alternating, while the diagram (1) is not. A link _L_ is called an **alternating link** provided that there exists an alternating diagram _D_ for _L_.\n\n**Exercise 1.3.1.** Determine which links in Table 1.1 are alternating links. Record your findings. (Note that there are many nonalternating diagrams that can be created of a given alternating link, so just because a particular diagram is not alternating does not imply that _no diagram_ of that link is alternating!)\n\n**Exercise 1.3.2.** Choose one of the alternating links you found in Exercise 1.3.1 that has an alternating diagram in Table 1.1. Produce an equivalent, nonalternating diagram of this link.\n\n**Exercise 1.3.3.** Consider the knot projection in Figure 1.2.2. Show that the precrossings can be resolved in such a way that the diagram becomes an alternating diagram. Investigate whether this can always be done for any knot projection. Can you find a knot projection for which there is no possible selection of crossings that will result in an alternating diagram? Record your findings, arguments, and conjectures.\n\nThe following three exercises relate to finding the crossing number of an alternating diagram.\n\n**Exercise 1.3.4.** Consider the alternating diagrams in Table 1.1. For each alternating diagram, can you produce an equivalent diagram for this link that has fewer crossings? If so, is the resulting diagram alternating? Record your findings.\n\n**Exercise 1.3.5.** Consider the alternating knots in Figure 1.3.1. For each alternating knot, can you produce another diagram for this knot that has fewer crossings? If so, is the resulting diagram alternating? Record your findings.\n\n**Exercise 1.3.6.** Suppose _K_ is an alternating knot. Use the exercise above to state a conjecture regarding any diagram of _K_ that has a minimum number of crossings. Are there required properties for the diagram of _K_? Will a diagram of _K_ with minimum crossings always be alternating? Create your own new examples to give further evidence in support of your conjecture.\n\nWe will revisit your conjecture and provide a proof determining the crossing number for alternating links in Chapter 6.\n\nFigure 1.3.1: Examples of alternating knots. What is the crossing number of each knot?\n\n### **1.4 Games with Knots**\n\nGiven a projection of a knot, we can play a game called the Knotting-Unknotting game. Suppose two players, Kenya and Ulysses, take the knot projection in Figure 1.4.1 as their starting \"game board.\"\n\nFigure 1.4.1: A game board for the Knotting-Unknotting game.\n\nThe players take turns resolving precrossings until all crossing information has been determined. Once a crossing has been resolved, it cannot be changed. **K** enya's goal is to create a nontrivial knot, while **U** lysses' goal is to make the **u** nknot.\n\n**Exercise 1.4.1.** Find a friend and decide who will play the part of Kenya and who will play the part of Ulysses. Next, decide who will play first and who will play second. Play the game on the projection in Figure 1.4.1. Who won? Did the winner seem to have an unfair advantage?\n\n**Exercise 1.4.2.** Play the same game as in the previous exercise, but switch who goes first. Who won? Did the winner seem to have an unfair advantage?\n\n**Exercise 1.4.3.** Now draw your own projection and play another round of the Knotting-Unknotting game. Describe any strategies you uncover for how each player should play the game.\n\n**Exercise 1.4.4.** Is there a knot projection on which Ulysses (the unknotter) can always win, regardless of whether he plays first or second?\n\n**Exercise 1.4.5.** Is there a knot projection on which Kenya (the knotter) can always win, regardless of whether she plays first or second?\n\n**Exercise 1.4.6.** Invent and explore your own game that can be played on a knot diagram or a projection of a knot diagram.\n\n### **1.5 Mirrors, Orientation & Inverses**\n\nThe **mirror image** of a link diagram _D_ , denoted _D m_, is the link obtained by changing all of the crossings of _D_. In other words, each crossing over-strand becomes the under-strand of that crossing and vice versa.\n\n**Exercise 1.5.1.** Let _D_ be a link diagram and _D_ * be obtained by reflecting _D_ through a mirror. Explain why _D_ * and _D m_ result in equivalent links. (Use the description of equivalence of knots and links that was given at the beginning of this chapter.)\n\nA link is called **chiral** if it is _not_ equivalent to its mirror image. If it is equivalent to its mirror image, it is called **amphichiral** or **achiral.**\n\n**Exercise 1.5.2.** Investigate whether the knots (c), (d), (n), and (o) in Table 1.1 are chiral or achiral. Record your findings and conjectures.\n\nA link can be given an **orientation** by simply assigning a direction of travel around each loop. Orientation is typically indicated by drawing one or more small arrowheads as shown in Figure 1.5.2.\n\nFigure 1.5.1: A knot and its mirror image.\n\nFigure 1.5.2: Example of an oriented knot.\n\nFor an oriented knot diagram _D_ , the same diagram with the opposite orientation is called the **reverse** of _D_ , denoted  . For some links, the choice of orientation does not matter. That is, the oriented link is equivalent to its reverse. A link with this property is called **invertible.**\n\n**Exercise 1.5.3.** (1) Determine whether or not the links in Table 1.1 are invertible. (2) Create your own knot with seven or fewer crossings and determine whether or not your knot is invertible.\n\n### **1.6 Knot Composition & Prime Knots**\n\nGiven two link diagrams, we can create a new link by removing a small arc from each diagram and then connecting the four endpoints by two new arcs, as in Figure 1.6.1. For two links _J_ and _K_ , the new link is called the **composition** of _J_ and _K_ and is denoted _J_ # _K_.\n\nA knot is called a **composite knot** if it can be expressed as the composition of two nontrivial knots. The knots that make up the composite knot are called the **factor knots.**\n\nFigure 1.6.1: The composition of _K_ and _L_.\n\n**Exercise 1.6.1.** Determine the result of composing the unknot with a link _L_. Record your findings.\n\nIf a knot is not the composition of any two nontrivial knots, then it is called a **prime knot.**\n\n**Exercise 1.6.2.** The knots in Figure 1.6.2 are composite. Make each knot out of string. Play with your physical knots to identify their prime factor knots.\n\nFigure 1.6.2: Examples of composite knots.\n\n### **1.7 Knot Notation**\n\nSuppose you are studying an alternating knot diagram while having a phone conversation with a friend about some interesting aspect of your diagram. Suspend disbelief to further suppose that your friend doesn't have a smartphone or any other device that would allow for a picture of your diagram to be sent to her. How can you give her instructions over the phone to recreate your diagram? Is there a systematic way that you can encode or describe the diagram and crossing information so that she can reconstruct your picture?\n\n**Exercise 1.7.1.** Work with a friend to create notation for encoding alternating knots that can be used in non-pictoral communication with a person or a computer. Your notation should be easy to _determine_ ; that is, given a knot diagram, there should be a relatively straightforward algorithm to follow to determine the notation for that particular diagram. Your notation should also be easy to _use;_ that is, it should allow someone to recreate the diagram of the knot that was used to determine the notation (or recreate an equivalent diagram) with no additional information other than your notational conventions.\n\n**Exercise 1.7.2.** Investigate any limitations of the notational scheme you created above by working with the same friend and following the steps provided below. Record and summarize your findings.\n\n**Step A.**\n\n1.Sit back-to-back with your friend. Each of you should have paper and pencil in hand.\n\n2.Secretly select one of the alternating knot diagrams from Table 1.1 and use your notation to encode this knot.\n\n3.Pass your notation only (no figures or references to Table 1.1) to your friend. They will then pass their notation to you.\n\n4.Decode the notation given to you by drawing the diagram that the notation suggests.\n\n5.Turn around to compare your diagram with their selected diagram from Table 1.1. Is your decoded diagram the same as or equivalent to the diagram that they encoded? Why or why not?\n\n6.Record and summarize your findings.\n\nFigure 1.7.1: Use this diagram in Step B.\n\n**Step B.**\n\n1.Sit back-to-back with your friend. Each of you should have paper and pencil in hand.\n\n2.Draw the knot in Figure 1.7.1 and encode it using your notation.\n\n3.Are there any choices made in the determination of your notation from a diagram? If so, make these choices in various ways to create a list of notations describing the diagram.\n\n4.Exchange notations with your friend.\n\n5.Using your friend's list of notations, draw each knot diagram.\n\n6.Are all of the drawn diagrams equivalent? Why or why not?\n\n7.Are there any choices you had to make when recreating the diagram from the notation? What are they? Do the various choices always result in equivalent knots? Why?\n\n8.Repeat these steps for knot (b) from Table 1.1.\n\n9.Record and summarize your findings.\n\n**Step C.**\n\n1.Draw your own alternating knot diagram with five or fewer crossings.\n\n2.Encode this diagram using the notational scheme you found above.\n\nFigure 1.7.2: A twist of an arc of the diagram.\n\n3.Now twist one arc in your diagram so the result is a new _alternating_ diagram that contains one new crossing. Figure 1.7.2 shows what is meant by the word 'twist.'\n\n4.Encode this new diagram using your notation and swap the notation for both diagrams with your friend's notation.\n\n5.Decode the notation given to you by your friend. Are the two diagrams equivalent?\n\n6.Is there a recognizable characteristic within your friend's notation that could be used to identify where the twisting is encoded? Encode and decode several more examples to formulate and test your conjectures.\n\n**Exercise 1.7.3.** You just designed a method for encoding alternating knots. Could your notation be modified to encode information about nonalternating knots as well?\n\nIn Chapter 4, we will learn about and investigate several ways to encode knotting information.\n\n### **1.8 Questions in Knot Theory**\n\nSome of the most difficult questions in knot theory are very easy to state. Here are a few questions for us to ponder regarding the basic ideas from this chapter.\n\n1.Given knots _K_ and _J_ , how can we determine if _K_ is equivalent to _J_?\n\n2.How might we prove that two knots are not equivalent? In particular, how can we prove that a given nontrivial knot is actually nontrivial?\n\n3.How can we determine the crossing number of a knot?\n\n4.How can we determine the unknotting number of a knot?\n\n5.How can one produce a table of the simplest knots? How should the complexity of a knot be measured?\n\n6.Which knots are amphichiral?\n\n7.Given a knot _K_ , how can we determine if _K_ is prime?\n\n8.Is there a definition of an alternating knot that relies only on a knot's position in space and not on any diagrams of the knot?\n\n9.Which knots are invertible?\n\n**Exercise 1.8.1.** Add your own questions to the list above.\n\n## **Chapter 2**\n\n## **Definition and Equivalence of Knots and Links**\n\nSo far, we've been exploring knot theory using intuitive ideas about what knots and links are and when they are equivalent. In this chapter, we will formalize these ideas. We begin with a definition of knots and links in   using collections of line segments.\n\n### **2.1 Polygonal Curves & \u0394-Equivalence**\n\n**Definition 2.1.1.** If _A, B_ are points in  , we use _AB_ to denote the line segment from _A_ to _B_. For an ordered set of distinct points, ( _A_ 1, _A_ 2, _A_ 3, . . . , _A n_), with   for all _i_ , the union of the segments _A_ 1 _A_ 2, _A_ 2 _A_ 3, . . . _A_ _n_ \u20131 _A n_, _A nA_1 is called a **closed polygonal curve** in  . If each segment intersects exactly two other segments, intersecting only at an endpoint, then the curve is called **simple.** We call the points _A i_ the **denning points** or **vertices** of the polygonal curve.\n\n**Definition 2.1.2. A knot** is a simple closed polygonal curve in  . A **link,** _L_ , is a finite union of pairwise nonintersecting knots. The number of knots in the union comprising _L_ is called the number of **components** of the link. Thus a knot is a link with exactly one component.\n\nFigure 2.1.1: Example of a knot.\n\nFigure 2.1.2: Example of a link with three components.\n\n**Definition 2.1.3.** The two-dimensional pictures of links, like those seen in Figures 2.1.1 and 2.1.2, are called **link diagrams.** A link diagram comes from a _particular type_ of **projection** (in the standard geometric sense) of the link onto a plane in  . At each point where the projection of two line segments from _L_ results in a point of intersection in the projection plane, one of the two segments is drawn as broken, or as if a piece of the line segment is missing. The broken segment is assumed to be passing under the unbroken segment. The places in a diagram where a segment passes under another is called a **crossing** of the diagram.\n\nThe projection of a link _L_ onto two distinct planes in   can result in strikingly different images, and some projections cannot be used to recreate a knot in space unless more information is provided. Such projections should be avoided for the purposes of our discussion. In the exercise below, we investigate projections and create a succinct list of properties to avoid.\n\n**Exercise 2.1.4.** Make a knot out of straws and tape with 9 straws. Complete the four steps below.\n\n1.Draw a projection of your knot that looks as if only 8 straws were used in the knot.\n\n2.For the same knot, draw several projections from which the knot cannot be reconstructed by simply indicating crossing information. Draw any other projections you encounter that contain diagrammatic oddities.\n\n3.Make a list of all properties of projections that should be avoided when drawing a link diagram.\n\n4.Compare your list with a friend's list to create a complete and succinct list of Properties to Avoid.\n\n**Definition 2.1.5. A regular projection** of a link _L_ is a projection that has none of the Properties to Avoid from Exercise 2.1.4, part 4. A **link diagram** for _L_ is a regular projection of the link _L_ that includes all crossing information (i.e., information about which strand passes over and which passes under at each crossing).\n\nIt is not immediately obvious that all links have regular projections. Sometimes a link must be manipulated in   before a regular projection can be found. However, given any link _L_ , there will always exist a link diagram that represents either _L_ or a link equivalent to _L_.\n\n**Definition 2.1.6.** Let _A_ and _B_ be two adjacent defining points of a link _L_ in  . Suppose _C_ is a point in   such that the triangle \u0394 _ABC_ and its interior intersect _L_ only along the line segment _AB_. We call such a triangle, \u0394 _ABC_ , an **elementary triangle.** An elementary triangle can be a **degenerate triangle** with _C_ \u2208 _AB_.\n\nUnder these conditions, replacing the line segment _AB_ by the segments _AC_ \u222a _CB_ results in a new link, _L_ \u2032. This process of replacement is called an **elementary move** applied to _L_ resulting in _L_ \u2032. The inverse process of removing _AC_ \u222a _CB_ and replacing these two segments with the segment _AB_ , assuming that the triangle \u0394 _ABC_ and its interior intersect the link only along the segments _AC_ \u222a _CB_ , will also be referred to as an elementary move.\n\nWhen applying an elementary move \u0394 _ABC_ to a diagram of a link, we always select a point _C_ that both satisfies the definition of an elementary triangle and results in a link diagram for _L_ \u2032. For if a point   is selected such that the resulting diagram is not regular, then the projection plane or the point _C_ can be altered slightly to result in a projection to a link diagram.\n\nFigure 2.1.3: Example of an elementary move applied to _L_ resulting in _L_ \u2032.\n\n**Definition 2.1.7.** Two links, _L_ and _L_ \u2032, are called **\u0394-equivalent** or **delta equivalent,** denoted  , provided there exists a sequence of links _L_ = _L_ 1, _L_ 2, . . . _L n_ = _L_ \u2032 such that each _L_ _i_ +1 is obtained from _L i_ via an elementary move, for all _i_ = 1, . . . _n_ \u2013 1.\n\n**Exercise 2.1.8.** Prove that \u0394-equivalence is an equivalence relation on the set of links. In other words, prove that   is a reflexive, symmetric, and transitive relation.\n\n**Exercise 2.1.9.** Prove that the knots _K_ 1 and _K_ 2, shown in Figure 2.1.4, are \u0394-equivalent. (See Figure 2.1.5 for examples of elementary moves applied to _K_ 1.)\n\nFigure 2.1.4: Example of equivalent knots.\n\nFigure 2.1.5: A sequence of elementary moves applied to _K_ 1. The red segments outline the elementary triangle and indicate the new line segment(s) that join the diagram after the elementary move is applied. Each arrow, except for one, is an equivalence resulting from a single elementary move. Can you spot the arrow that is the result of two elementary moves?\n\n**Exercise 2.1.10.** Determine which equivalences shown in Figure 2.1.5 are the result of more than one elementary move.\n\n### **2.2 Diagram Equivalence via R-Moves**\n\nAs we saw in Exercise 2.1.9, creating and visually following a sequence of elementary moves is not always easy. In this section, we develop an alternate but equivalent notion of link equivalence that is generated by a small list of localized changes to a link diagram. To find this list of small changes, we consider subdivisions of elementary triangles into 'less complicated' elementary triangles. To make this more concrete, let's look at an example. Consider the elementary triangle in (a) from Figure 2.2.1 and the subdivision shown in (b). Each subtriangle in the subdivision contains _at most two line segments_ of the link diagram. If we can show that for _any_ elementary triangle such a subdivision can always be found, then we can redefine link equivalence in terms of a sequence of elementary moves using only our 'less complicated' elementary triangles from a small finite list. This reframing of link equivalence will prove to be very powerful in Chapter 5 where we study combinatorial properties of links.\n\nFigure 2.2.1: An elementary triangle \u0394 _ABC_ and a subdivision. Each sub-triangle of the subdivision is itself an elementary triangle. The elementary move \u0394 _ABC_ can also be performed by applying all the elementary moves in the subdivision one at a time, starting along the segment _AB_ and moving upward toward _C_. (Check this! Several of the elementary moves must use degenerate triangles.)\n\nOur goal is to create a short list of simple, localized, elementary moves that is long enough so that _any_ elementary triangle can be subdivided into pieces on our list. Do you see the tension in this goal? A _short_ list that is _long_ enough. In this section, we look to Figure 2.2.1 for inspiration of what to put on our list of moves, but there is no guarantee that this example subdivision contains all the moves that we will need. (In fact, it does not!) Once our list is seemingly complete, then we must _prove_ that our list is long enough so that any elementary triangle can be subdivided into moves on our list.\n\nThe first additions to our list of localized elementary moves are a collection of simple moves that do not change the number of crossings in a link diagram. Examples of these moves, called planar isotopies, are shown in Figure 2.2.2.\n\n**Definition 2.2.1.** Let \u0394 _ABC_ be an elementary triangle in a diagram D that contains the link segment _AB_. The elementary move \u0394 _ABC_ is called a **planar isotopy** if it satisfies one of the following three conditions.\n\n(i) _In the link diagram_ , \u0394 _ABC_ coincides with no points of the link other than the segment _AB_.\n\n(ii) _In the link diagram_ , \u0394 _ABC_ and the segment _AB_ lie under (or over) the interior of exactly one line segment that is not adjacent to _AB_. If the line segment crosses under the segment _AB_ (resp., over _AB_ ), then it crosses under (resp., over) either _AC_ or _CB_ after replacement.\n\n(iii) _In the link diagram_ , \u0394 _ABC_ and the segment _AB_ lie under (or over) exactly two adjacent line segments and their shared vertex. One of the two segments crosses over (resp., under) the segment _AB_ , thus the other segment crosses over (resp., under) either _AC_ or _CB_ after replacement.\n\nThe inverse of a move of type (i)-(iii) is also a planar isotopy. A sequence of several planar isotopies is also considered to be a planar isotopy.\n\nThe dotted circle in Figure 2.2.2 indicates that the move is taking place locally, i.e., within a small region of the diagram and the diagram is unchanged outside this region.\n\nFigure 2.2.2: Planar isotopies of types (i), (ii), and (iii).\n\n**Exercise 2.2.2.** Number all the subtriangles in Figure 2.2.1 (b) to indicate an order in which they can be applied. (There are many valid ways to do this.) For your ordering, determine the number of subtriangles that are planar isotopies of type (i), determine how many are of type (ii), and find how many are of type (iii). Check with a friend to see if your numbers are the same. Your numbers might be different depending on the order in which the subtriangle moves are made.\n\n**Exercise 2.2.3.** Let _L_ 1 and _L_ 2 be the links in Figure 2.2.3. Provide a sequence of planar isotopies from _L_ 1 to _L_ 2.\n\nFigure 2.2.3: The link _L_ 2 can be obtained from link _L_ 1 via a sequence of planar isotopies.\n\nSeveral of the subtriangles in Figure 2.2.1 (b) are not planar isotopies because they change the number of crossings in the diagram. Therefore, we must add to our list of localized elementary moves a few simple moves that _do change_ the number of crossings. Figure 2.2.4 contains two examples of elementary moves that increase or decrease the number of crossings in the diagram by one. We add these elementary moves to our list.\n\nFigure 2.2.4: This elementary move, called an R1 move, changes the number of crossings in the diagram by one.\n\n**Definition 2.2.4.** Let \u0394 _ABC_ be an elementary triangle that lies over or under a single edge and that edge is adjacent to an edge that is to be replaced (as is the case in Figure 2.2.4). Then the elementary move \u0394 _ABC_ is called an **R1 move.**\n\n**Exercise 2.2.5.** Find at least one example of an R1 move subtriangle in the subdivision shown in (b) of Figure 2.2.1.\n\nBefore adding more moves to our list, let's eliminate from consideration a special type of elementary triangle that an R1 move is designed to address. The next two lemmas will help when proving that our list is \"long enough\" because they allow us to focus our proof on certain \"nice\" elementary triangles.\n\nFrom the definition of a link, there are two line segments that emanate from a segment _AB_ , and there are two possibilities of how an elementary triangle might interact with the two line segments of the diagram that emanate from _AB_. The elementary triangle \u0394 _ABC_ either (1) doesn't coincide with the edges emanating from _AB_ ; or (2) coincides with at least one of the edges emanating from _AB_. The simpler situation of type (1) is pictured in Figure 2.2.5, where neither of the edges emanating from _AB_ lies above and neither lies below the elementary triangle _ABC_. Two examples of type (2) can be found in Figure 2.2.6.\n\nFigure 2.2.5: Elementary move of type (1). The edges emanating from _AB_ do not coincide with triangle \u0394 _ABC_.\n\nIn the lemma below, we will show that for an elementary triangle of type (2) where exactly one edge emanating from _AB_ coincides with the elementary triangle, it is possible to subdivide the elementary triangle into a sequence of three elementary moves, two of which are type (1) and the other is an R1 move. This lemma will allow us to concentrate our efforts on elementary triangles of type (1) when looking for any remaining necessary additions to our list.\n\n**Lemma 2.2.6.** _Suppose A and B are adjacent defining points of a link L with diagram D. Suppose_   _is a point such that the triangle_ \u0394 _ABCis an elementary triangle of type (2) with exactly one emanating edge coincident with_ \u0394 _ABC. Then the elementary move corresponding to the triangle ABC can be performed as a composition of three elementary moves: an R1 move and two elementary moves of type (1)_.\n\nFigure 2.2.6: Elementary moves of type (2). On the left, one of the edges emanating from _AB_ lies under the elementary triangle. On the right, the elementary triangle coincides with both edges emanating from _AB_.\n\nFigure 2.2.7: An elementary triangle that coincides with one of the edges emanating from _AB_ as well as other portions of the diagram D.\n\n**Proof of Lemma 2.2.6.** Let _EA_ denote the line segment that lies above or below the elementary triangle _ABC_. Select a point _A_ \u2032 along the segment _AB_ so that (i) the segment _A_ \u2032 _C_ doesn't intersect any vertices or crossings in the diagram D, (ii) the triangle _AA_ \u2032 _C_ contains no vertices or crossings from D, and (iii) the segment _AA_ \u2032 does not contain a crossing. Such an _A_ \u2032 exists since there are only finitely many vertices and crossings in D, but there are infinitely many candidates for _A_ \u2032 along the segment _AB_. Notice that the triangles _AA_ \u2032 _C_ and _A_ \u2032 _BC_ are both elementary triangles since they are subtriangles of \u0394 _ABC_.\n\nNext, select a point _C_ \u2032 along the segment _AC_ such that the triangle _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2033 coincides with no parts of the link diagram other than the edge _AA_ \u2032 and a portion of the edge _AE_. In particular, select _C_ \u2032 so that the segment _AC_ \u2032 contains no crossings. Why does such a point _C_ \u2032 exist? If a point _C_ \u2032 were selected and there were some other part of the diagram D that coincided with \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2033, then, by condition (ii) in the selection of _A_ \u2032, the incident portion of D would be a straight edge that crosses \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_. Where might this edge cross \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_? It could not cross the segment _AA_ \u2032 by condition (iii) in the selection properties of _A_ \u2032. Hence, any straight edge that coincides with \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032 must intersect both of the edges _AC_ \u2032 and _C_ \u2032 _A_ \u2032. Since _A_ \u2032 was selected to satisfy (i), this edge could not cross _AE_ within \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032. Hence the edge must coincide with \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032 on the side of _AE_ opposite _AA_ \u2032. In this case, we make a new selection for _C_ \u2032 that is close enough to _A_ so that _AC_ \u2032 contains no crossings of D. Then the triangle _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032 will not coincide with the diagram D except along _AE_.\n\nTo complete the proof of Lemma 2.2.6 we perform the elementary move \u0394 _ABC_ via a sequence of three subelementary moves. (See Figure 2.2.8 for reference.) First apply the move that replaces segment _AA_ \u2032 with segments _AC_ \u2032 \u222a _C_ \u2032 _A_ \u2032 (corresponding to \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032), which, by design, is an R1 move. Next apply the moves \u0394 _A_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032 _C_ and \u0394 _A_ \u2032 _CB_ which, by construction, are both of type (1).\n\nFigure 2.2.8: A sequence of three elementary moves that results in the move \u0394 _ABC_ when composed. Starting with the elementary triangle in Figure 2.2.7, first apply the R1 move \u0394 _AA_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032, as seen in (i). Then apply \u0394 _A_ \u2032 _C_ \u2032 _C_ , as seen in (ii), and \u0394 _A_ \u2032 _CB_ , as seen in (iii).\n\nThe previous lemma addresses elementary triangles of type (2), where _exactly one_ edge emanating from _A_ or _B_ lies above or below \u0394 _ABC_. How do we deal with type (2) triangles where _both_ emanating edges lie above or below \u0394 _ABC?_ We consider this subcase in the following lemma.\n\n**Lemma 2.2.7.** _Suppose A and B are adjacent defining points of a link L and_   _is a point such that the triangle_ \u0394 _ABC is an elementary triangle. Let D be a diagram for L_ \u222a \u0394 _ABC. Suppose that both edges adjacent to AB lie above or below the elementary triangle in D. Then theelementary move_ \u0394 _ABC can be subdivided into a composition of elementary moves: two R1 moves and other elementary moves of the type in case (1)_.\n\n**Exercise 2.2.8.** Use Lemma 2.2.6 to prove Lemma 2.2.7.\n\nOur list of localized elementary moves currently contains planar isotopies of types (i), (ii), and (iii) and the R1 move, but, as seen in Figure 2.2.1, there are still more moves we must add. Thanks to the previous two lemmas we can reduce our search from considering all possible elementary triangles to now only considering elementary triangles of type (1). This makes our search a bit more manageable.\n\nUsing Figure 2.2.5 as a starting point, let's systematically consider how pieces of diagram D may lie above or below \u0394 _ABC_. Consider the cases where\n\n(a)no part of link _L_ lies above or below \u0394 _ABC_ ;\n\n(b)exactly one line segment lies above or below \u0394 _ABC_ ;\n\n(c)exactly two line segments lie above or below \u0394 _ABC_ ; or\n\n(d)more than two line segments lie above or below \u0394 _ABC_.\n\nClearly these cases exhaust all possibilities. Case (a) describes a planar isotopy of type (i), which is an elementary triangle that has already been added to our list.\n\n**Exercise 2.2.9.** For cases (b) and (c) listed above, draw an exhaustive list of representatives (up to planar isotopy) of how the line segments may be situated relative to triangle \u0394 _ABC_. For example, in case (b) the line segment could cross _AB_ or not cross _AB_. The subcase where it crosses _AB_ has already been considered. Explain why. In the subcase where the segment doesn't cross _AB_ there are two cases, as shown in Figure 2.2.9. Case (c) can be separated into three subcases: the two line segments do not intersect above or below \u0394 _ABC;_ the two line segments are adjacent and thus \u0394 _ABC_ contains exactly one defining point; or the two segments cross within \u0394 _ABC_. Note that, up to planar isotopy, we don't care where a given line segment crosses _AB_ , just that it does.\n\n**Exercise 2.2.10.** First, determine which of the figures in your solution to Exercise 2.2.9 result in an elementary move that is a planar isotopy. These moves are already on our list. Next, determine which of your figures are merely mirror images of each other. List only one figure from each mirror image pair and add it to our list.\n\nFigure 2.2.9: Examples of case (b).\n\nIn an effort to keep our list of elementary moves short, we will eliminate a few moves. If an elementary move on our list can be completed using other elementary moves already on our list, then we need not include it on our list. Such moves are called **redundant.**\n\n**Exercise 2.2.11.** Prove that the move in Figure 2.2.10 is redundant. That is, show that this move can be completed through a sequence of other moves on our list. (Hint: Consider the subdivision in Figure 2.2.10.)\n\nFigure 2.2.10: This elementary move can be subdivided to show that it is redundant. Are any additional subdivisions needed?\n\n**Exercise 2.2.12.** Continuing with your list from Exercise 2.2.10, remove all moves that are redundant. Provide a proof that each removed move is actually redundant.\n\nNow we should have a complete list of all necessary R-moves up to mirror images. Check your list with Figure 2.2.11.\n\n**Definition 2.2.13.** The moves listed in Figure 2.2.11 are called **R-moves.** Link diagrams that are equivalent through a sequence of R-moves and planar isotopies are called **R-equivalent.**\n\nFigure 2.2.11: Is this list of R-moves complete?\n\nLast, we consider case (d), where more than two line segments of _L_ lie above or below the type (1) elementary triangle \u0394 _ABC_. For this case, we subdivide the elementary triangle and show that our existing list of R-moves is sufficient.\n\n**Proposition 2.2.14.** _Suppose A and B are defining points of a link L with diagram D and the triangle_ \u0394 _ABC is an elementary triangle for L such that the edges emanating from AB do not lie above or below_ \u0394 _ABC in diagram D. Suppose that more than two line segments of L lie above or below_ \u0394 _ABC. Then_ \u0394 _ABC can be subdivided into elementary subtriangles such that no more than two line segments of L lie above or below each subtriangle_.\n\n**Exercise 2.2.15.** Prove Proposition 2.2.14 by describing an algorithm that results in a subdivision of \u0394 _ABC_ with the desired properties. (Hint: Start by drawing an example triangle and place several segments of _L_ above and below the example triangle. Find a _process_ that can be used algorithmically to subdivide your example triangle into subtriangles. Then think about how to describe and generalize your algorithm so it may be applied to an arbitrary \u0394 _ABC_. In your proof, make sure to address why your algorithm will _always_ work.)\n\nThe results of this section can now be used to prove the main result of the next section, that A-equivalence is equivalent to R-equivalence.\n\n### **2.3 The Equivalence of \u0394- and R-Equivalence**\n\n**Theorem 2.3.1.** _Let L and L' be links and D and D' be diagrams of L and L_ \u2032, _respectively. Then L and L_ \u2032 _are_ \u0394 _-equivalent if and only if D and D_ \u2032 _are R-equivalent_.\n\n**Exercise 2.3.2.** Prove Theorem 2.3.1.\n\nFigure 2.3.1: The three types of Reidemeister moves.\n\nKnots and links are usually thought of and drawn as smooth curves. An informal way of dealing with this is to view the smooth arcs as polygonal curves with a very large number of segments arranged so that the curve appears smooth. From here onward, we will draw knots and links as smooth. The smoothed versions of the R-moves, shown in Figure 2.3.1, are merely the R-moves along with many planar isotopies, enough to make the diagram look smooth. We will often refer to these smoothed moves as _Reidemeister moves_ , in honor of Kurt Reidemeister, the mathematician that discovered them [31]. We consider Reidemeister moves to be smooth R-moves together with smooth planar isotopies. If we prefer to be brief, we may also use R-moves to refer to the Reidemeister moves.\n\n**Definition 2.3.3.** The three **Reidemeister moves,** often denoted R1, R2, and R3, are given pictorially in Figure 2.3.1. We assume that when a Reidemeister move is performed on a link diagram, the part of the diagram located outside of the dotted circle remains unchanged.\n\nFigure 2.3.2: Two smooth knots that are equivalent via Reidemeister moves.\n\n**Exercise 2.3.4.** The knots in Figure 2.3.2 are equivalent via Reidemeister moves. An equivalence is started in Figure 2.3.3, where each arrow denotes the application of a single Reidemeister move. Complete the proof of this equivalence. Each diagram in your equivalence should differ from the previous diagram by no more than _one_ Reidemeister move and/or a planar isotopy.\n\nNotice in Figure 2.3.2, the equivalence from (b) to (c) denotes an R3 move. An R3 move locally transforms a diagram with three crossings and removes no crossings. Do you see why the loop in (c) is a required outcome of the R3 move?\n\nFigure 2.3.3: A sequence of Reidemeister moves applied to _K_ 1.\n\n**Exercise 2.3.5.** Consider the knot projection _P_ shown in Figure 2.3.4. Surprisingly, for each knot _K_ in Figure 2.3.5, there is some choice of crossing information of _P_ that yields _K_. (Indeed, the projection in Figure 2.3.5 contains _all knots_ that can be drawn with six or fewer crossings!) So for each knot _K_ in Figure 2.3.5, your task is to choose crossing information for the precrossings in _P_ to obtain _K_. Then use Reidemeister moves to show that your resolution of crossings in _P_ yields a knot diagram of _K_ equivalent to the particular diagram of _K_ given in Figure 2.3.5.\n\nFigure 2.3.4: A 7-crossing knot projection, _P_.\n\nFigure 2.3.5: All knots that can be drawn with 6 or fewer crossings.\n\n**Exercise 2.3.6.** In Figure 2.3.1, we illustrate two types of R1 moves, one R2 move, and two types of R3 moves, for a total of five oriented moves. If we were to draw all possible _oriented_ Reidemeister moves, i.e., R-moves where we choose an orientation for each strand involved in the move, how many moves would we generate?\n\nMathematician Michael Polyak proved that, from our large set of oriented R-moves, there is a subset of just four R-moves that generate the entire set [30]. What exactly does this mean? Just as any vector in a vector space can be written as a linear combination of basis vectors, any oriented R-move can be derived from a sequence of R-moves from our generating set. It turns out there are many generating sets of four R-moves. We give one particular generating set in Figure 2.3.6.\n\nFigure 2.3.6: A generating set of oriented Reidemeister moves.\n\nExercise 2.3.7. In Figure 2.3.7, we picture an oriented R2 move that is not in the generating set shown in Figure 2.3.6. Show how this R2 move can be derived from a sequence of moves in the generating set.\n\nFigure 2.3.7: An oriented R2 move.\n\n### **2.4 Nonequivalence and Invariants**\n\nNow that we have a well-defined notion of equivalence for links and link diagrams, we can begin to explore the idea of _nonequivalence_. To show that two diagrams represent equivalent knots or links, we need only find a sequence of Reidemeister moves that transforms one into the other. But how is it possible to show that two diagrams _fail_ to be equivalent? If you think about it, you can see that failing to find a Reidemeister sequence relating two link diagrams is not _proof_ that the two diagrams represent different links. Indeed, there are some complicated diagrams of the unknot that need to be made more complicated before they can be simplified. Sometimes a great deal of creativity is required to find a Reidemeister sequence relating two diagrams.\n\nThe answer to the riddle of how to prove nonequivalence is contained in the notion of an _invariant_. Informally, a **link** or **knot invariant** is a function that takes in a link or knot and outputs a value. If two equivalent links or knots are plugged into this function, the function _must_ return the same or equivalent values. Conversely, if two nonequivalent links or knots are plugged in, the invariant may return the same or different values. In the case when two links are plugged in and two distinct values are returned, we can be sure that the two input links are distinct. So link invariants provide tools to prove that certain link diagrams are nonequivalent.\n\nAs an analogy, suppose you encounter a strange character (call him Mr. F) who you suspect to be your friend Tobias in disguise. To determine if Mr. F is indeed Tobias, you might apply the \"height invariant.\" Height is typically a fixed quality in young and middle aged adults. So if you determine that Tobias is about 6'1\" and Mr. F is 5'7\", you _can be sure_ that Mr. F is not Tobias in disguise.\n\nNow that we have some intuition, let us introduce the formal definition of an invariant.\n\n**Definition 2.4.1. A knot** or **link invariant** is a function from the set of equivalence classes of knots or links to a specified codomain.\n\nIn Chapter 5 and beyond, we will study knot and link invariants that are functions into the set of integers, a set of matrices, or a set of polynomials. To prove that a function is indeed a link invariant, we must simply show that it is a well-defined function on the set of equivalence classes of links. In other words, we must show that if a link _K_ is equivalent to a link _J_ , then the function has the same value on _K_ as is does on _J_.\n\nBefore we develop invariants, however, let's learn about some interesting examples of knots and links!\n\n## Chapter 3\n\n## Families of Links and Braids\n\nWhenever you learn a new mathematical concept, it is useful to have a collection of simple examples to apply the new concept to in order to gain intuition. For instance,   is a nice example of a vector space,   is a useful example of a group, and the torus is an interesting, yet simple, example of a topological space. In this chapter, we introduce a few families of knots and links with particularly nice properties. These examples will provide some context for us to think about the knot invariants we will introduce in Chapter 5.\n\n### **3.1 Twist Knots**\n\nTwist knots are one of the simplest families of knots. They will be an interesting family to consider when we look at various combinatorial properties of knots.\n\n**Definition 3.1.1. A twist knot** of _n_ half-twists, denoted _T n_, is obtained by twisting two parallel strands _n_ times and then hooking the ends together so that the knot is alternating, as seen in Figure 3.1.1.\n\nFigure 3.1.1: Examples of twist knots.\n\n**Exercise 3.1.2.** Prove that knots ( _b_ ) and ( _c_ ) from Table 1.1 are twist knots. Are there any other twist knots in Table 1.1?\n\n**Exercise 3.1.3.** Prove that every twist knot is invertible. (Recall the definition of invertible from Section 1.5.)\n\n**Exercise 3.1.4.** Investigate the Knotting-Unknotting game (from Section 1.4) on the projection of twist knots _T n_ where _n_ is even. Prove the following propositions.\n\n1.If Kenya (the knotter) plays second on a twist knot _T n_, where _n_ is even, then Kenya has a winning strategy.\n\n2.If Ulysses (the unknotter) plays second on a twist knot _T n_, where _n_ is even, then Ulysses has a winning strategy.\n\n**Exercise 3.1.5.** Investigate the Knotting-Unknotting game on the projection of twist knots _T n_ where _n_ is odd. Who has a winning strategy when Kenya (the knotter) plays second? What about when Ulysses (the unknotter) plays second? Formulate and prove two propositions about these cases.\n\n### **3.2 Pretzel Links**\n\nAnother fascinating collection of links is the family of pretzel links. These links are both rich in structure but also easy to visualize since they are made out of simple twists.\n\n**Definition 3.2.1.** Let _p, q_ , and _r_ be integers. **A 3-strand pretzel link** _P p,q,r_ can be constructed as follows. Take three pairs of string segments and arrange them vertically. Twist the bottom ends of the first pair _p_ times (in the counterclockwise direction if _p_ > 0 and in the clockwise direction if _p_ < 0). Twist the bottom ends of the second pair _q_ times and the bottom end of the third pair _r_ times. After twisting the pairs, glue (or tie) more strands of string to adjoin the ends of the three pairs as in the examples pictured in Figures 3.2.1 and 3.2.2.\n\nFigure 3.2.1: The pretzel link _P_ 5,\u20133,7.\n\n**Exercise 3.2.2.** How many components do the pretzel links in Figures 3.2.1 and 3.2.2 have? Is either one of these links a knot?\n\nFigure 3.2.2: The pretzel link _P_ 4,\u20132,\u20135.\n\n**Exercise 3.2.3.** For which values of _p, q_ , and _r_ is the link _P p,q,r_ a knot? For which _p, q_ , and _r_ does _P p,q,r_ have more than one component? Conjecture conditions on _p, q_ , and _r_ that determine the number of components in _P p,q,r_ and then prove your conjecture.\n\n**Exercise 3.2.4.** (i) Investigate the invertibility of the knot _P_ 7,5,4\n\n(ii) Investigate the invertibility of the knot _P_ 7,5,3.\n\n**Exercise 3.2.5.** (i) Prove that the pretzel knot _P_ 5,\u20131,\u20131 is equivalent to the twist knot _T_ 4.\n\n(ii) In general, are there values of _p, q_ , and _r_ such that _P p,q,r_ is equivalent to _T n_?\n\n**Exercise 3.2.6.** Investigate if there is a relationship between _P a,b,c_ and _P b,c,a_ and _P c,a,b_. If you hrid a relationship, explain it. Furthermore, explore if there is a relationship between _P a,b,c_ and a pretzel link with a noncyclic permutation of the original link's indices, like _P a,c,b._. What did you discover?\n\n**Exercise 3.2.7.** Determine a condition on the integers _a, b_ , and _c_ that guarantees _P a,b,c_ is alternating.\n\n**Exercise 3.2.8.** Prove that for positive integers _q_ and _r_ , the link _P_ _q_ ,\u20131, _r_ is an alternating link.\n\n### **3.3 Torus Links**\n\nTorus links are one of the most accessible, symmetric, and interesting infinite families of links. We see several examples of knots and links in this family in Figure 3.3.1.\n\nFigure 3.3.1: Examples of torus links.\n\nThese links are called 'torus links' because each member of this family can be embedded on the surface of a torus (think: doughnut) without any crossings, as shown in Figure 3.3.2.\n\nFigure 3.3.2: The torus link _T_ 3,\u20132 embedded on the surface of a torus.\n\n**Definition 3.3.1. A torus link diagram** _T p,q_ is defined if _p_ > 0 and _q_ ,  . Begin with _p_ horizontal strands. For _q_ positive, the bottommost _q_ strands are\u2014one at a time\u2014wrapped up and over the remaining strands. For _q_ negative, the topmost _q_ strands are\u2014one at a time\u2014wrapped down and over the remaining strands. Once the wrapping is complete, the strand ends are connected so that no new crossings are made. A link _L_ is called a **torus link** if it is equivalent to a torus link diagram.\n\n**Exercise 3.3.2.** Draw torus links _T_ 6,9 and _T_ 10,\u20136. For the four examples given in Figures 3.3.1, as well as links _T_ 6,9 and _T_ 10,\u20136, determine the number of components in each link. Which are knots?\n\n**Exercise 3.3.3.** Conjecture a condition on _p_ and _q_ for _T p,q_ which results in a one-component torus knot and prove your conjecture.\n\n**Exercise 3.3.4.** The families of pretzel links and torus links are not distinct. Show that the pretzel knot _P_ \u20132,3,3 is a torus knot. Can you find another pretzel knot that is a torus knot?\n\n**Exercise 3.3.5.** Investigate whether or not the family of twist knots is distinct from torus knots. Is there a twist knot that is also a torus knot? If so, give an example. If not, explain why not.\n\n**Exercise 3.3.6.** Prove that the torus knot _T_ 3,4 is equivalent to the knot in Figure 3.3.3, which is known as the knot 819.\n\nFigure 3.3.3: The knot 819 is a torus knot.\n\n**Exercise 3.3.7.** Investigate whether or not the knot 819 is an alternating knot.\n\n**Exercise 3.3.8.** Investigate whether or not the knot _T_ 2,3 is equivalent to _T_ 3,2. Can your findings be generalized?\n\n### **3.4 Closed Braids**\n\nThe family of links called closed braids are a generalization of torus links. We define closed braids by considering a diagram of _n_ concentric strands. For example, see Figure 3.4.1 with 4 concentric strands. A small disc-like subregion of the diagram is called a **replaceable region** if it contains arcs from two adjacent concentric strands and nothing else. See Figure 3.4.2 for examples and nonexamples of replaceable regions.\n\n**Definition 3.4.1. A closed _n_ -braid diagram** is obtained from a diagram of _n_ concentric strands by identifying finitely many nonintersecting replaceable regions and replacing the two strands within each region by a crossing. A knot or link is a **closed braid** if it is equivalent to a closed _n_ -braid diagram for some _n_.\n\nFigure 3.4.1: Four concentric strands.\n\nFigure 3.4.2: Examples of replaceable regions are shown in (a). The diagram (b) shows a nonexample of a replaceable region because it contains three strands.\n\nFigure 3.4.3: An example of a closed braid resulting from placing crossings in the replaceable regions shown in Figure 3.4.2 (a).\n\nBy construction, a closed _n_ -braid diagram has an innermost region with the property that any line segment drawn from the innermost region to a point that is exterior to the link will intersect the diagram at exactly _n_ points. We count both the under- and over-strands if the segment happens to pass through a crossing. In Figure 3.4.4, we see an example that is not in closed braid form because it fails the line-segment condition.\n\nFigure 3.4.4: A diagram that is not in the form of a closed braid diagram.\n\nClosed braids can have one or more components. In Figure 3.4.5, the closed braid (a) is a link while the closed braid (b) is a knot.\n\nFigure 3.4.5: (a) A two component closed braid link, and (b) a closed braid knot.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.2.** Identify concentric circles and replaceable regions to show that the torus link _T p,q_ is a closed braid.\n\nAs we saw in Chapter 2, diagrams that look quite different can be equivalent via Reidemeister moves and, thus, represent the same knot. In our current setting, this means that a knot is a closed braid if it _can be represented_ in a closed braid diagram. Let's investigate whether certain examples of the knots and links we've already studied are closed braids. If a given example does not initially look like a closed braid, could they be changed via Reidemeister moves into a diagram of a closed braid?\n\n**Exercise 3.4.3.** Identify six diagrams in Table 1.1 that, up to planar isotopy, are in closed braid form.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.4.** Play with the knot in Figure 3.4.6 to discover how to put it into closed braid form. (Hint: Make the region with the dot the innermost region. To do so, only one strand needs to be moved\u2014the bold strand\u2014but the movement will require several Reidemeister moves. Write down a sequence of diagrams that show how to put the knot into closed braid form.)\n\nFigure 3.4.6: Is this knot diagram equivalent to a closed braid diagram?\n\n**Exercise 3.4.5.** Show that knot (n) from Table 1.1 can be written in closed braid form.\n\nExercises 3.4.6 and 3.4.5 show that even though a knot diagram may seem far from being in closed braid form, it is sometimes possible to manipulate it into a closed braid form. Is this always possible? Surprisingly, the answer is yes! In preparation to prove that all knots are closed braids, we need some new notation that uses the sign of a crossing.\n\n**Definition 3.4.6.** For a crossing in an oriented link diagram, the **sign** of the crossing is determined by the \"right hand rule.'\" Imagine placing your thumb on the over-strand of the crossing, pointing in the direction of the orientation, and curling your fingers under and around in the direction of the under-strand. A crossing is called a **positive crossing** when you _must_ use your right hand to curl your fingers in the direction of the under-strand. A crossing is called a **negative crossing** when you _must_ use your left hand to curl your fingers in the direction of the under-strand. Figure 3.4.7 shows examples of positive and negative crossings.\n\nFigure 3.4.7: A positive crossing and a negative crossing.\n\nWe introduce an alternative diagrammatic notation that highlights certain features of a closed braid. Here is how it works for diagrams that are already in closed braid form. Start by giving the closed braid diagram an orientation such that all concentric strands will be traversed clockwise or all will be traversed counterclockwise about the innermost region. In the alternative notation for our braid diagram we will replace each positive crossing of the braid with a line segment labeled with a positive sign, \"+,\" and replace each negative crossing with a line segment labeled with a negative sign, \"\u2013\". Figure 3.4.8 shows an example of how this is done for a diagram in closed braid form.\n\nFigure 3.4.8: An example of an oriented closed braid and the alternate notation for this braid consisting of oriented circles and signed-line segments.\n\nThe alternate notation described above is easy to turn back into a closed braid. As seen in Figure 3.4.8, we simply replace each signed-line segment with a crossing of the corresponding sign.\n\nTo prove that _every_ knot is equivalent to a closed braid, we develop an analogous way to transform an arbitrary knot diagram into a diagram of oriented circles and signed-line segments. As is the case for the alternate notation applied to a closed braid diagram, we will create oriented circles that _consistently follow the orientation of the diagram_ and signed-line segments that _connect_ the oriented circles. Thus, given an arbitrary knot diagram, we will smooth each crossing so that the local orientation of the arcs are consistent with the orientation of the diagram. Then, we replace the crossing with an appropriately signed-line segment connecting the two oriented arcs. Each newly formed circle in the resulting diagram has a well-defined orientation because each local smoothing respected the global orientation of the knot. An example of this process applied to a negative crossing is shown in Figure 3.4.9 and an example of it applied to a positive crossing is shown in Figure 3.4.10.\n\nFigure 3.4.9: (a) An arbitrary negative crossing, (b) a smoothing of the crossing that is consistent with the orientation of the diagram, and (c) a replacement of the crossing with a signed-line segment that connects the two arcs.\n\nFigure 3.4.10: (a) An arbitrary positive crossing, (b) a smoothing of the crossing that is consistent with the orientation of the diagram, and (c) a replacement of the crossing with a signed-line segment that connects the two arcs.\n\n**Definition 3.4.7.** The **Seifert diagram** of an oriented knot diagram is the diagram of oriented circles and signed-line segments that is obtained by applying the smoothing and replacement procedure, shown in Figures 3.4.10 and 3.4.9, to every crossing in the oriented diagram. The orientated circles in the Seifert diagram are called **Seifert circles.**\n\nThe twist knot _T_ 4 and its Seifert diagram are shown in Figure 3.4.11.\n\nFigure 3.4.11: The knot _T_ 4 and its Seifert diagram.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.8.** Construct the Seifert diagrams of the knots _T_ 3 and _P_ \u20133,2,3, pictured in Figure 3.4.12.\n\nFigure 3.4.12: The knots _T_ 3 and _P_ \u20133,2,3.\n\nNext, we look at various Seifert diagrams of knots that are not presented in closed braid form and look for ways to manipulate them into a closed braid form. There is one important caveat. We must take care when manipulating a Seifert diagram to ensure that the resulting diagram represents an equivalent knot. Our goal is for the Seifert circles within the final diagram to be concentric and coherently oriented.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.9.** Figure 3.4.13 represents the Seifert circle representation of a knot diagram. This diagram is not a closed braid because the circle labeled **C** fails to be concentric. Show that the diagram can be altered slightly to represent a closed braid. Prove that your alteration preserves knot equivalence by drawing the knot diagrams before and after the alteration and describing the Reidemeister moves that prove these two diagrams are equivalent.\n\nFigure 3.4.13: This diagram is _almost_ in closed braid form.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.10.** Generalize your proof above to the following, more general scenario. Suppose a Seifert diagram contains two closed braid subsections that are oppositely oriented and connected by a collection of crossings between the outermost circles of each subsection (for example, see Figure 3.4.14). Prove that such a diagram is equivalent to that of a closed braid. (Hint: Recall that Reidemeister moves are not defined on Seifert diagrams. Thus, an argument proving equivalence must use the knot diagrams, not the Seifert diagrams.) Your proof should be a general argument that does not rely on Figure 3.4.14 specifically.)\n\nFigure 3.4.14: This diagram is not in closed braid form. Can it be altered to produce an equivalent diagram that is in closed braid form? Investigate!\n\nThere are other types of Seifert diagrams that we have yet to consider, for example, the Seifert diagram of the knot _T_ 3 from Exercise 3.4.8. The Seifert diagram for this knot has four circles and none are concentric. What do we do in this case? Let's simplify this problem and consider a pair of Seifert circles. Once we gain some intuition, we can try to generalize our results so that they apply to the Seifert diagram _T_ 3. There are two cases to consider when looking at a pair of non-nested Seifert circles: either the two circles have the same orientation or they have opposite orientation (one clockwise and one counterclockwise). Our previous argument in Exercise 3.4.10 can be used to address the latter case, so let's focus on the case where the two circles have the same orientation, as in Figure 3.4.15.\n\nFigure 3.4.15: Two Seifert circles, both with clockwise orientation.\n\nTo put the circles in Figure 3.4.15 into a closed braid form, the obvious thing to do is to pick up one circle and place it inside the other. Although this idea will work in this simple case, it is not generalizable to the case where the two Seifert circles are connected to other circles via signed-line segments. So instead, let's use an R2 move on a portion of each circle. Since the circular arcs in a Seifert diagram represent the strands of a link, we can perform an R2 move in a region adjacent to the circles where no signed arcs are located. When an R2 move is performed, there will be two new crossings introduced that must then be smoothed using the Seifert diagram technique to produce a Seifert diagram.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.11.** Determine the Seifert diagram associated to Figure 3.4.15 after an R2 move is applied.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.12.** Transform the Seifert diagram of the twist knot _T_ 3 into a closed braid form. (Hint: Pair up similarly oriented but nonconcentric Seifert circles and use the R2 move strategy from Exercise 3.4.11. You may also need the techniques from Exercise 3.4.10 to create your final braid diagram.)\n\n**Exercise 3.4.13.** Prove that every twist knot can be transformed into a closed braid. (You are encouraged to think about this proof as _precisely describing_ an algorithm that will transform the Seifert diagram of a twist knot into closed braid form. Throughout the algorithm, you should explain not only _how_ to apply the algorithm, but _why_ you know that you will be able to apply the algorithm and _why_ you know your algorithm will terminate.)\n\nAs we work toward proving that every knot can be represented as a closed braid, we introduce new terminology for pairs of Seifert circles and a measurement of how far away a Seifert diagram is from closed braid form. A pair of circles within a Seifert diagram is called an **incoherently oriented pair** if the circles are nested and have opposite orientation, or if they are not nested and have the same orientation. In Figure 3.4.16, we see two examples of incoherently oriented pairs. Such a pair of circles would _not_ be seen in a Seifert diagram that is in closed braid form. On the other hand, the pairs of circles in Figure 3.4.17 are said to be **coherently oriented pairs.** These pairs are either nested circles with the same orientation, or non-nested circles with opposite orientation. Notice that any two circles in a closed braid diagram are a coherently oriented pair.\n\nFigure 3.4.16: Two pairs of incoherently oriented circles.\n\nFigure 3.4.17: Two pairs of coherently oriented circles.\n\nThe following exercise shows that some diagrams of oriented circles connected by signed segments cannot be attained as Seifert diagrams of oriented knots or links.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.14.** Prove that a pair of incoherently oriented circles within a Seifert diagram cannot be connected by a signed arc. (Note that there are a total of four distinct pairs of incoherently oriented circles, two of which are in Figure 3.4.16.)\n\n**Exercise 3.4.15.** Use Exercise 3.4.14 to show that the diagram in Figure 3.4.18 cannot be part of a Seifert diagram, regardless of how orientations are assigned to the circles.\n\nFigure 3.4.18: This diagram cannot be part of a Seifert diagram.\n\nNext, we define a measurement of how far away a Seifert diagram is from closed braid form.\n\n**Definition 3.4.16. The height of a Seifert diagram** _D_ , denoted _h(D)_ , is the number of distinct pairs of incoherently oriented Seifert circles in _D_.\n\nNotice that _h_ ( _D_ ) = 0 if and only if _D_ is (1) in closed braid form or (2) in the generalized form of Figure 3.4.14. As we saw in Exercise 3.4.10, the diagram in Figure 3.4.14 is just a short manipulation away from being in closed braid form.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.17.** Show that the Seifert diagram for the knot _T_ 4 in Figure 3.4.11 has height 3.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.18.** Draw a Seifert diagram of a knot that has height 1 and a Seifert diagram of a knot that has height 2. How many such diagrams of height 1 or 2 can you find? (Make sure your diagrams are _legal_ Seifert diagrams by applying Exercise 3.4.14.)\n\n**Exercise 3.4.19.** Determine the height of the Seifert diagram in Figure 3.4.19.\n\nWe know that if a Seifert diagram contains a pair of incoherently oriented circles, then it cannot be in closed braid form. The R2 move described in Exercise 3.4.11 shows how a pair of non-nested, incoherently oriented circles can be transformed into a pair of coherently oriented circles. The next exercise shows that whenever such an R2 move can be performed, doing so will reduce the height of the Seifert diagram.\n\nFigure 3.4.19: A Seifert diagram.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.20.** Suppose _C_ 1 and _C_ 2 are an incoherently oriented pair of Seifert circles within a Seifert diagram _D_ that are adjacent to a common region of the Seifert diagram. Prove that performing an R2 move on _C_ 1 and _C_ 2 within the common region results in a Seifert diagram _D_ \u2032 with _h_ ( _D_ \u2032) < _h_ ( _D_ ).\n\nWe are very close to proving that every knot can be represented as a closed braid! There is only one more piece in our puzzle. We need to show that in every Seifert diagram with non-zero height, there exists a region adjacent to a pair of incoherently oriented Seifert circles in which we can apply an R2 move.\n\n**Definition 3.4.21.** A **defect region** of a Seifert diagram is a region of a Seifert diagram that is adjacent to two incoherently oriented circles.\n\nAn example of a defect region is shown in Figure 3.4.20. The red dotted curves in Figure 3.4.21 show two possible places where an R2 move can be applied to an incoherently oriented pair of Seifert circles.\n\nAt last, we prove the final step, that if a Seifert diagram contains a pair of incoherently oriented circles, then it will also contain a defect region.\n\nFigure 3.4.20: The shaded region is a defect region of the Seifert diagram. It happens to be adjacent to two pairs of incoherently oriented circles.\n\nFigure 3.4.21: The height-reducing R2 move can be applied along either of the red dotted curves shown in these figures.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.22.** Let _K_ be an arbitrary knot with Seifert diagram _D_. If _h_ ( _D_ ) > 0, then _D_ contains a defect region.\n\nWe now have all the necessary ingredients to prove what is known as Alexander's Theorem. This result was originally proved by James W. Alexander II in 1923 [3].\n\n**Theorem 3.4.23. [Alexander's Theorem]** _Every knot can be represented as a closed braid_.\n\n**Exercise 3.4.24.** Prove Alexander's Theorem.\n\n## **Chapter 4**\n\n## **Knot Notation**\n\nIn Section 1.7, you created your own knot notation that could be used to encode the information contained in an alternating knot diagram. Perhaps your knot notation was even flexible enough to encode the information in _any_ knot diagram. If so, you may have discovered one of the many notations commonly used to encode knots by knot theorists today! In this chapter, we focus on several common ways to encode knotting information. Some of these codes involve strings of symbols, and some will require us to draw new types of diagrams.\n\n### **4.1 DT Notation**\n\nOne of the most common notations in use today is called **DT notation,** or **Dowker-Thistlethwaite notation,** named after knot theorists Clifford Hugh Dowker and Morwen Thistlethwaite. Here's how it works.\n\nStarting at a given point on the knot diagram (which we will call the **base point** ), travel in the direction of the orientation, labeling the first crossing you encounter with a 1, the second crossing you encounter with a 2, and so forth. Continue this process until every crossing has two labels and you have returned to the base point. Now, travel through your knot diagram a second time. For each time you pass _over_ a crossing where you had placed an even number, make this even label negative. Even labels that were assigned as you passed _under_ a crossing should remain positive.\n\nFor example, see Figure 4.1.1. When we labeled the second crossing, we were passing over the crossing, so our label should be \u20132. On the other hand, when we assigned a label to the fourth crossing, we were passing under the crossing, so the label should remain a positive number.\n\nNow that we have our diagram labeled, we create an _n_ -tuple of ordered pairs where the first element of each ordered pair is an odd number, and the second element is even. The number of elements _n_ in this tuple is equal to the number of crossings in our diagram. Here's how we create this ordered list. The first element of the _n_ -tuple should be (1, _m_ ) for whichever integer _m_ is paired with 1 in the diagram. For the example in Figure 4.1.1, for instance, _m_ would equal \u20136. The second element of the _n_ -tuple should be of the form (3, _q_ ) where _q_ is the integer paired with 3, etc.\n\nFigure 4.1.1: A knot diagram with a DT-labeling.\n\nThe 5-tuple we would create from Example 4.1.1 would be\n\nOf course, when we form such a list, the odd numbers become entirely superfluous. For any _n_ -tuple we create in this way, the first elements of the ordered pairs will always be the first _n_ odd numbers, in order. So the final DT code we derive to represent the knot diagram is simply the ordered _n_ -tuple of _even_ numbers in the list, e.g., (\u20136, 10, 8, \u20132, 4).\n\n**Exercise 4.1.1.** Explain why labeling a knot diagram using the DT algorithm always gives you one odd and one even number at each crossing.\n\n**Exercise 4.1.2.** Reconstruct the knot diagram that has DT code (\u20136, \u20138, 12, \u20132, 14, 16, 4, 10). Is the knot diagram alternating?\n\n**Exercise 4.1.3.** Find the DT code for knots (b) and (c) from Table 1.1 as follows. For both knots, select a base point and an orientation so that the first crossing you encounter, you pass over the crossing. What conclusions can you make from this exercise?\n\n**Exercise 4.1.4.** Can you identify whether or not a knot diagram is alternating by looking at a DT code for the diagram? If so, explain how. If not, why not?\n\n**Exercise 4.1.5.** Draw your favorite knot diagram and find the diagram's DT code. Have a friend draw their favorite knot diagram and do the same. Now, each of you should make a copy of your diagram, without labeling the crossings with DT code numbering and without specifying the starting point. You may, however, mark the orientation of your knot diagram. Finally, swap diagrams without giving away your notation. Find the DT codes for each other's diagrams. Did you come up with the same codes? Why or why not?\n\n**Exercise 4.1.6.** Explore the effect on the DT code of moving your base point along the knot diagram past a single crossing.\n\nFor the next exercises, it will be helpful to use the following terminology.\n\n**Definition 4.1.7.** A knot together with a base point is referred to as a based knot. Similarly, a knot diagram with a specified base point is referred to as a **based-knot diagram.**\n\n**Exercise 4.1.8.** How does the DT code of an oriented-based-knot diagram _D_ compare to the DT code of the same based-knot diagram with the opposite orientation? Formulate and prove a conjecture about this relationship.\n\n**Exercise 4.1.9.** How does the DT code of an oriented-based-knot diagram _D_ compare to the DT code of the mirror image of _D_? Formulate and prove a conjecture about this relationship.\n\nWe have seen that Reidemeister moves don't affect the knot type, but they do affect the knot diagram. Since the DT code is dependent on the specific diagram of the knot we are encoding, let's think about how the DT code changes as we perform Reidemeister moves.\n\nFigure 4.1.2: Equivalent knot diagrams. From left to right, each diagram differs from the preceeding diagram by exactly one Reidemeister move.\n\n**Exercise 4.1.10**. Determine which Reidemeister moves have been performed to obtain each diagram in the sequence in Figure 4.1.2 from the first diagram. Then find the DT codes corresponding to these knot diagrams for a consistent choice of base point.\n\n**Exercise 4.1.11.** Determine the effect on the DT code of performing an R1 move on a knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 4.1.12.** Determine the effect on the DT code of performing an R2 move on a knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 4.1.13.** Determine the effect on the DT code of performing an R3 move on a knot diagram.\n\nBefore moving on to the next way of encoding knotting information, discuss with a friend the pros and cons of using DT notation to encode knotting information.\n\n### **4.2 Gauss Codes & Gauss Diagrams**\n\nSo far, we have been considering knots by looking at their knot diagrams in the plane. There is another, quite useful _visual_ way of representing a knot called a **Gauss diagram.** A Gauss diagram is made from a circle together with several decorated chords. More specifically, each chord is decorated with an arrowhead and a sign. Here is an example.\n\nFigure 4.2.1: A knot diagram and its corresponding Gauss diagram.\n\nSo what exactly is the correspondence between these two types of diagrams? Let's figure it out by focusing on our example. Begin by taking a look at the knot diagram in Figure 4.2.1. Find the base point on the diagram, and notice that each of the crossings is labeled by a single number. Now, travel from the base point around the knot diagram in the direction of the orientation. As you travel, record the order in which you encounter the crossings. You might record this order in a list, such as:\n\nYou might even record a bit more information by noting when you pass over ( _O_ ) and when you pass under ( _U_ ) each crossing. For instance, you could write the following:\n\nThis sequence is called a **Gauss code** and can already be used to encode a great deal of information about the knot.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.1.** Find a Gauss code for the the pretzel knot in Figure 4.2.2.\n\nFigure 4.2.2: A pretzel-knot diagram.\n\nLet's return to our original example from Figure 4.2.1. To create a Gauss diagram from this code, separately draw a circle with a base point on it. Travel around the circle counterclockwise from the base point, listing the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 5, 4, 3 at regular intervals around the circle as you go. You should have two 1s, two 2s, etc. Connect each of these pairs of numbers by a chord. What you have now is a chord diagram, the first step to creating your Gauss diagram!\n\nYou already recorded in your Gauss code when you passed over and when you passed under each crossing. To record this same information in the Gauss diagram, decorate the chords in your chord diagram with arrowheads, making the arrow point toward the under-strand of the crossing. For instance, you first pass _under_ crossing 1 when you travel around the knot from the base point. Thus, your arrow should be pointing _toward_ your first encounter with chord 1 in the Gauss diagram. Add arrowheads to all chords in your chord diagram and then compare it with Figure 4.2.1 to see if you're on the right track.\n\nFinally, determine the sign of each crossing, as in Definition 3.4.6, and decorate each arrow of your Gauss diagram with its sign. _Voila!_ You are done. Your Gauss diagram should look the same as the one in Figure 4.2.1.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.2.** Create a Gauss diagram for the pretzel knot in Figure 4.2.2.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.3.** Create Gauss diagrams for all of the _knot_ diagrams in Figure 1.1. (You may ignore any links with more than one component!)\n\n**Exercise 4.2.4.** Suppose you are given a Gauss diagram that is associated to a knot diagram, but you aren't sure what the knot diagram looks like. Can you tell by looking at the Gauss diagram whether or not the corresponding knot diagram is alternating?\n\nYou may ask yourself a natural question at this point. Do different knot diagrams of the same knot correspond to different Gauss diagrams? To answer this question, let us consider the effect on the corresponding Gauss diagrams of performing a Reidemeister move on a knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.5.** Find the Gauss diagrams corresponding to the four equivalent knot diagrams in Figure 4.1.2. What can you conclude about the effect of Reidemeister moves in a Gauss diagram?\n\nUsing the previous exercise for intuition, let's think more systematically about the effects different R-moves have on Gauss diagrams of knots.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.6.** Determine all possible effects on the corresponding Gauss diagram of performing an R1 move on a knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.7.** Show that if a Gauss diagram contains only nonintersecting arrows, as in Figure 4.2.3, then it must be a Gauss diagram of the unknot.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.8.** In Figure 4.2.4, we see a Gauss diagram schema that illustrates one possible effect of an R2 move on a Gauss diagram. (The dotted portions of the circle in the Gauss diagram indicate that _any_ additional chord endpoints may appear in this portion of the diagram. The solid portion of the circle in the Gauss diagram indicates that _no additional_ chord endpoints appear in this portion of the diagram.) Are there other Gauss diagrammatic R2 moves? Determine all possible effects on the corresponding Gauss diagram of performing an R2 move on a knot diagram. Share your findings by providing a complete list of one or more Gauss diagrammatic schemas, including the one shown in Figure 4.2.4.\n\nFigure 4.2.3: A Gauss diagram containing only nonintersecting arrows.\n\nFigure 4.2.4: A Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister 2 move.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.9.** Determine all possible effects on the corresponding Gauss diagram of performing an R3 move on a knot diagram. Record your findings by providing Gauss diagrammatic schemas, as in Figure 4.2.4, for each R3 move.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.10.** Compare the results you obtained in the previous exercises to the Gauss diagrammatic R-moves illustrated in Figure 4.2.5. Did you discover any possibilities that are missing in Figure 4.2.5?\n\nAs we learned in Section 2.3, _all_ oriented R-moves can be derived from the generating set of moves in Figure 2.3.6. So while you may have found several related valid Gauss diagrammatic R-moves, the moves in Figure 4.2.5 will suffice to generate all possible equivalences of Gauss diagrams.\n\nFigure 4.2.5: Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister moves. The _n_ is a variable that may represent + or \u2013.\n\nFigure 4.2.6: A Gauss diagrammatic R3 move that does not appear in Figure 4.2.5.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.11.** Notice that the Gauss diagrammatic R2 move shown in Figure 4.2.4 and the R3 move shown in Figure 4.2.6 are not pictured in Figure 4.2.5. Prove that the two moves shown in Figures 4.2.4 and 4.2.6 can be obtained via a sequence of Gauss diagrammatic R-moves that are all in Figure 4.2.5. Your proofs must respect the dotted regions of the circle in the Gauss diagram, meaning that your argument cannot assume no other chords are within the dotted regions.\n\n**Exercise 4.2.12.** You just learned how to make Gauss codes and Gauss diagrams for knots, but what about links with more than one component? Invent an extension of Gauss notation for two-component links.\n\n### **4.3 Rational Tangles and Knots, and Conway Notation**\n\nAnother type of knot notation, called **Conway notation,** is rather different than the notations we've discussed so far. Conway notation can be more difficult to determine for an arbitrary diagram, but it is incredibly useful for defining and studying an interesting family of knots called **rational knots.** We will narrow our focus here and use Conway notation to describe only rational knots. Readers that are interested in exploring Conway notation for nonrational knots can find more information here [9].\n\nThe building blocks of rational knots, called _tangles_ , are special types of subdiagrams of a knot or link diagram.\n\n**Definition 4.3.1.** A **tangle diagram** is a diagram contained in a disk that consists of two arcs whose four endpoints are fixed along the boundary of the disk. The disk is denoted by a dashed circle surrounding the subdiagram. Sometimes the dashed disk boundary is omitted, but implied. When drawing a tangle, we situate the four fixed endpoints roughly on the NW, NE, SE, and SW compass points.\n\nFigure 4.3.1: Examples of tangle diagrams.\n\nWe can view a tangle diagram as a subdiagram of a knot or link by imagining that the two arcs in the tangle extend into a larger knot or link diagram outside of the disk.\n\n**Definition 4.3.2.** Two tangle diagrams are **equivalent** provided that one can be continuously deformed into the other via planar isotopies and Reidemeister moves performed within the dashed circle _while keeping the arc endpoints fixed_. The symbol \u223c denotes tangle equivalence.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.3.** To practice working with tangle equivalence, find two pairs of equivalent tangles in Figure 4.3.2. Remember, when manipulating a tangle, the four endpoints must remain fixed.\n\nFigure 4.3.2: Which pairs of tangles are equivalent?\n\nConway's notation for rational knots elucidates the rich algebraic and geometric structures that stem from combining and manipulating tangles. Tangles can be summed, multiplied, rotated, mirrored, inverted, and flipped.\n\n**Definition 4.3.4.** Let _T, T_ 1, _T_ 2, and _Q_ be tangles. The **tangle sum** of _T_ 1 and _T_ 2, denoted _T_ 1 \\+ _T_ 2 and depicted in Figure 4.3.3, is the result of horizontally arranging _T_ 1 and _T_ 2 and connecting their adjacent arc endpoints. The **tangle product** of _T_ 1 and _T_ 2, denoted _T_ 1 * _T_ 2 and depicted in Figure 4.3.4, is the result of vertically stacking _T_ 1 and _T_ 2 and connecting adjacent arc endpoints. The **rotation of a tangle** _T_ , denoted _T r_, rotates _T_ clockwise by 90 degrees. The **mirror of a tangle** _T_ , denoted \u2013 _T i_, is the tangle resulting from switching all crossings in _T_. The **inverse of a tangle** _T_ , denoted _T i_, is defined to be \u2013 _T r_, the mirror of the clockwise 90-degree rotation of _T_. The last two operations on a tangle _Q_ are the **vertical** and **horizontal flips** of _Q_ over a vertical or horizontal line, denoted by _Q V flip_ and _Q H flip_, respectively, and depicted in Figure 4.3.6.\n\nFigure 4.3.3: The sum of two tangles, _T_ 1 \\+ _T_ 2.\n\nFigure 4.3.4: The product of two tangles, _T_ 1 * _T_ 2.\n\nFigure 4.3.5: The rotation and inverse of a tangle.\n\nThe tangle building blocks that are used to create all rational tangles are the **integer and reciprocal** tangles, examples of which are shown in Figures 4.3.7 and 4.3.8.\n\n**Definition 4.3.5.** We define a **rational tangle** as a tangle that can be constructed inductively, as follows. All integer and reciprocal tangles are rational tangles. Given a rational tangle _T k_, the tangle _T_ _k_ +1 that is obtained from _T k_ by either (1) _adding an integer tangle_ or (2) _multiplying by a reciprocal tangle_ is also a rational tangle. A diagram of a rational tangle, _T_ , that depicts the finite sequence in the inductive construction of _T_ is called a **twist diagram** of the rational tangle _T_.\n\nFigure 4.3.6: The vertical and horizontal flip of a tangle.\n\nFigure 4.3.7: Examples of integer tangles.\n\nFigure 4.3.8: Examples of reciprocal tangles.\n\nFigure 4.3.9: Some twist diagrams of rational tangles.\n\nWhen first looking at a twist diagram, it can be difficult to determine the sequence of integer and reciprocal tangles used to make the rational tangle. However, if you are given a twist diagram, you will be able to identify the _last_ summand or factor because two adjacent arc endpoints (from that last summand or factor) can be untwisted to remove it from the tangle. In other words, from _T_ _k_ +1, we can always find two adjacent arc endpoints in the tangle that can be untwisted (some number of times) to uncover _T k_.\n\nThe second to last summand or factor can be identified similarly, and so on, until the starting point of the rational tangle is apparent. For example, we can find the construction sequence for rational tangle (a) in Figure 4.3.9 by observing it has a _last_ summand of \u20141] on the right of the diagram. Untwisting this rightmost [\u22121] summand, we see the second to last term was multiplication below by the reciprocal tangle  . Untwisting the factor  , we see a left summand of [[2] and a right summand of \u22124]. Untwisting both integer tangles [[2] and \u22124], we see that the rational tangle (a) was constructed starting with the reciprocal tangle  . Finally, we arrive at the following notation for the rational tangle (a) in [Figure 4.3.9:\n\n**Exercise 4.3.6.** Write the rational tangle (b) in Figure 4.3.9 as a sum and product of integer and reciprocal tangles by using the untwisting strategy described above. Be careful to use parentheses appropriately in your final notation!\n\nIn the next exercise, we will show that the notation used for describing a twist diagram is not unique. For example, the rational tangle (a) in Figure 4.3.9 can also be described as:\n\nor, by an equivalence, as\n\n**Exercise 4.3.7.** Prove the following three statements.\n\n1.For all integers _n_ and _m_ , [ _n_ ] + [ _m_ ] \u223c [ _n_ \\+ _m_ ].\n\n2.For all integers _n_ and _m_ ,  .\n\n3.For any nonzero integer _n_ ,   and  . Also, [0]i = [\u221e] and [\u221e] _i_ = [0].\n\nNow that we are familiar with the construction of rational tangles, a reasonable question to ask is _why_ do we restrict to summing integer tangles and multiplying by reciprocal tangles? Can't we add two reciprocal tangles? Or multiply by an integer tangle? Well, in truth, both of these things can be done; however, the result is generally not a rational tangle. One of the key properties of a rational tangle is that, if we allow the endpoints of the tangle to move, it can be completely untwisted until it becomes the 0] or [\u221e] tangle. In [Figure 4.3.10 there are some tangles that fail to have this property when we use the sum operation with reciprocal tangles or multiplication with integer tangles.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.8.** Identify the tangle sums from Figure 4.3.10 that are _not_ rational.\n\nFigure 4.3.10: Four examples of tangle sums and products, not all of which are rational.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.9.** Identify the tangle in Figure 4.3.1 that is _not_ a rational tangle.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.10.** For each tangle, determine whether or not it is rational.\n\n(i)\n\n(ii)\n\nWith the next exercise and definition, we set the stage to uncover some surprising results about the vertical and horizontal flip of a rational tangle.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.11.** Prove that integer and reciprocal tangles are equivalent to their flips. That is, prove the following four equivalences.\n\n1.\n\n2.\n\n3.\n\n4. .\n\n**Definition 4.3.12.** Given a tangle of the form \u00b11] + _P_ , the horizontal flip of _P_ that untwists [\u00b11] and yields the equivalent tangle _P H flip_ \\+ [\u00b11] is called a **flype**. Similarly, for a tangle of the form  , the vertical flip of _P_ that untwists   and yields the equivalent tangle   is also called a **flype.** Two of these four flype equivalences are depicted in [Figure 4.3.11.\n\nFigure 4.3.11: The flype equivalences.\n\nIn Exercise 4.3.11, we saw that the flips of integer and reciprocal tangles are equivalent to themselves. Perhaps surprisingly, _all_ rational tangles are equivalent to their flips! Also, another interesting result follows as a corollary of the flip equivalence, namely that tangle addition and multiplication are, in a sense, commutative.\n\n**Theorem 4.3.13. [The Flip Theorem]** _For a rational tangle P_ ,\n\n**Corollary 4.3.14.** _For rational tangle P and an integer m_ ,\n\nThe next exercise and the example in Figure 4.3.12 help us build intuition that will lead to the proof of The Flip Theorem and its corollary.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.15.** Use the flype equivalences to prove that the following statements hold for all integers _n_ and _m_.\n\n(i) , and\n\n(ii) .\n\nFigure 4.3.12: An example showing _P H flip_ \u223c _P_ , for a rational tangle, _P_.\n\nAs seen in Figure 4.3.12, for the rational tangle  , its horizontal flip is given by  . Next we use the flype equivalences of type (a) and (b) from Figure 4.3.11. First, we apply a flype of type (b) to _P H flip_, moving the factor   from the bottom to the top of the figure. Then, three flypes of type (a) transform   to  , and this completes the diagrammatic argument showing _P H flip_ \u223c _P_.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.16.** Using the techniques shown in Figure 4.3.12, write a sequence of diagram equivalences that show _Q_ \u223c _Q V flip_ for  .\n\nNext we will prove The Flip Theorem using the intuition we have gained from Figure 4.3.12 and Exercise 4.3.16.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.17.** Prove The Flip Theorem. (Hint: Use induction on the number of crossings in _P_. For the inductive step there will be four cases to consider: _P_ = _Q_ \\+ [\u00b11], _P_ = [\u00b11] + _Q_ ,  , and  . Notice that _Q_ is a rational tangle with one fewer crossing than _P_.)\n\n**Exercise 4.3.18.** Use The Flip Theorem to prove Corollary 4.3.14.\n\nThe next equivalence is simple, but eye opening! Recall from part 3 of Exercise 4.3.7, we recognized that a reciprocal tangle   is the inverse of the integer tangle  _a_ ], and vice versa. In [Theorem 4.3.19, we recognize the product   as the inverse of a sum. This equivalence is a key step in understanding the term _rational_ is used in the name of rational tangles. From here onward, we use the notation   instead of _P i_.\n\n**Theorem 4.3.19** (The Product-to-Inverse Equivalence). _For a rational tangle P and an integer a_ ,\n\n**Exercise 4.3.20.** Prove Theroem 4.3.19. (Hint: Draw the diagrams within the claimed equivalence and provide a Reidemeister sequence of diagrams that prove they are equivalent tangles.)\n\nThe Product-to-Inverse Equivalence will allow us to transform our notation for a rational tangle in a very important way; given the notation for a rational-tangle-twist form we can change it into notation that looks like a continued fraction. This change is accomplished by replacing each product expression with the equivalent inverse expression. As our notation for a rational tangle becomes more like a rational number, we will get closer to understanding a powerful association between rational tangles and rational numbers.\n\nFirst, let's use an example to clarify the notational-transformation process of replacing product expressions with the equivalent inverse expressions. In this example, we use Corollary 4.3.14 and Theorem 4.3.19 repeatedly, and the results from Exercise 4.3.7.\n\nLet's start with the notation for a particular rational tangle in twist form,\n\nUsing the Product-to-Inverse Equivalence, we can transform   into the equivalent tangle  , where  . Hence,\n\nNext, from commutativity of adding \u20138] and the commutativity of multiplying by  , and from using that [[3] \\+ [\u20138] \u223c [\u20135] and  , we have the following two equivalences.\n\nUsing the Product-to-Inverse Equivalence again, this time on the product  , we have\n\nNow, our rational tangle that was once in twist form looks rather like a continued fraction!\n\n**Exercise 4.3.21.** (a) Use Corollary 4.3.14 and the Product-to-Inverse Equivalences to transform the rational tangle below into an expression that looks like a continued fraction.\n\n(b) Compare your continued fraction from part (a) to the preceding example. The notation should suggest a relationship between the rational tangles\n\nUsing this example for inspiration, conjecture and prove a more general tangle relationship.\n\nGiven a rational tangle in twist form, the process from Exercise 4.3.21 and the preceding example can be applied to write the tangle in what is called _continued fraction form_.\n\n**Definition 4.3.22. A continued fraction form** of a rational tangle is an algebraic description of a rational tangle by a continued fraction of integer tangles as shown below\n\nwhere each _a i_ is a nonzero integer, except possibly _a n_ which could be zero. Notice that the integer tangle [ _a n_] is the last tangle in the construction of _T_. The twists in [ _a n_] are the portion of the rational tangle where untwisting could start if one were to deconstruct the rational tangle. On the other hand, the tangle [ _a_ 1] denotes the tangle to which all other integer and reciprocal tangles must be summed and multiplied; that is, [ _a_ 1] is the first tangle in the construction of _T_. When drawing a rational tangle _T_ using its continued fraction notation, it is helpful to notice whether [ _a_ 1] is an integer or reciprocal tangle when _T_ is given in twist form. Since the integer tangles in continued fraction notation alternate between reciprocal and integer tangles, we can simply use the parity of _n_ (the number of integer tangles in the continued fraction form of _T_ ) to determine whether [ _a_ 1] is an integer or reciprocal tangle in the twist notation for _T_.\n\nWe use these observations in the following exercise.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.23.** Draw the rational tangle diagram from its continued fraction form.\n\nThe continued fraction form of a rational tangle motivates the following association between continued fractions and rational tangles that was first seen to be a complete invariant for rational tangles by John H. Conway in 1970.\n\n**Definition 4.3.24.** For a rational tangle _T_ , with continued fraction form\n\nwe defined the **fraction of** _T_ , denoted _F_ ( _T_ ), by\n\n**Theorem 4.3.25. [Conway's Theorem]** _Two rational tangles are equivalent if and only if their associated fractions are equal_.\n\nConway's Theorem implies that the fraction defined above is a complete invariant of rational tangles. That is, it tells us exactly when two tangles are and are not equivalent. As an example, consider the two continued fractions below.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.26.** Show the two fractions below are equal.\n\nThe two fractions in Exercise 4.3.26 are the fractions associated to the rational tangles,\n\nConway's Theorem implies that, since the two numerical fractions are equal, the two rational tangles are equivalent. Figure 4.3.14 shows this through a sequence of equivalences (planar isotopy, Reidemeister moves, and flypes).\n\n**Exercise 4.3.27.** For each equivalence in Figure 4.3.14, identify whether it is a planar isotopy, a flype, or sequence of several Reidemeister moves.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.28.** Use Conway's Theorem to determine whether or not the two rational tangles shown in Figure 4.3.13 are equivalent.\n\nFigure 4.3.13: Are these rational tangles equivalent?\n\n**Exercise 4.3.29.** Use Conway's Theorem to determine whether or not the two rational tangles shown in Figure 4.3.15 are equivalent.\n\nFigure 4.3.14: A sequence of tangle equivalences showing  .\n\nFigure 4.3.15: Are these rational tangles equivalent?\n\nIn what follows, our aim is to prove half of Conway's theorem, namely that if two rational tangles have equal fractions, then the rational tangles are equivalent. We direct the interested reader to several excellent sources that also prove the converse, that the fraction of a rational tangle is a well-defined function on equivalence classes of rational tangles [,].\n\n**Theorem 4.3.30.** _If two rational tangles have equal fractions, then the tangles are equivalent_.\n\nTo prove that equal fractions imply equivalent tangles, we will use three ingredients: a unique representation of a continued fraction, an algebraic equality due to Lagrange, and a tangle equivalence that we will call \"Lagrange's equivalence.\"\n\nWe begin with a fact about the unique representation of continued fractions. Every fraction,  , has a unique representation as\n\nSuch a continued fraction, written with all nonnegative integers except possibly _a n_, will be called the **regular form continued fraction** of  . Notice that within a regular form continued fraction, the expression   is always positive and less than 1. This means that _a n_ must be the greatest integer less than or equal to  . Hence, given a fraction   the value of _a n_ in its regular continued fraction form is unique. The following exercise should help make the existence and uniqueness of the remaining integers _a_ _n_ \u20131, _a_ _n_ \u20132, . . . , _a_ 1 seem plausible as well.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.31.** For each of the three continued fractions below, show that it is equal to a regular form continued fraction. (Hint: First write the fraction as  , then determine the appropriate value for _a n_. Next, determine _a_ _n_ \u20131 > 0, _a_ _n_ \u20132 > 0, and so on. Reflect on your algorithmic process to construct an argument for why the resulting regular continued fraction representation of   is unique.)\n\n(i)\n\n(ii)\n\n(iii)\n\nNext a useful formula, that is attributed to Lagrange, is given by\n\n**Exercise 4.3.32**. Use algebra to prove that the formula of Lagrange, stated above, is a valid formula.\n\nThis formula, used first by Goldman and Kauffman in the proof of Conway's theorem [12], can be used to transform a continued fraction that is not in regular form into one that is in regular form. Observe that the negative term   on the left of the equation is transformed into an expression including the nonnegative term   on the right side. Thus, the right side of the equality has one fewer negative sign. A partial example that illustrates this transformation is shown below.\n\nConsider the continued fraction (a) from Exercise 4.3.31, which is not in regular form. To partially transform this expression into its regular form, we first factor out the negative signs so that they become subtraction operations in the continued fraction expression. This is needed for the application of Lagrange's formula, as the left side of the equation involves a difference with the expression   rather than the addition of  .\n\nNotice that, after factoring out the _two_ negative signs in front of the 3 and 4, we have a total of _three_ subtractions. This means that we need only to apply Lagrange's formula at most three times. We begin with the subtraction at the bottom of the continued fraction.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.33.** Use Lagrange's formula twice more on the previous example to find the regular form of this continued fraction. Note that your final expression should be the same continued fraction as was found in Exercise 4.3.31.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.34.** Use the Lagrange formula to transform the continued fractions (b) and (c) from Exercise 4.3.31 into regular form. (Hint: Factor all negative signs out of fraction denominators to become subtraction signs. Then apply Lagrange's formula multiple times from the bottom upward.)\n\nLast, we state and then prove a tangle equivalence inspired by Lagrange's equality; not only does Lagrange's formula hold for continued fractions, but it also holds for rational tangles!\n\n**Theorem 4.3.35** (Lagrange's Equivalence for Rational Tangles). _For an integer tangle_ [ _P_ ] _and a rational tangle_ [ _Q_ ],\n\n**Exercise 4.3.36.** Prove Lagrange's Equivalence for Rational Tangles. (Hint: Draw the diagram for   by first drawing  _Q_ ] + [\u20131], then invert it, and so on. Next, draw the diagram for  . Find a short sequence of equivalences (using planar isotopies, flypes, flips, or a sequence of Reidemeister moves) that transform the more complicated diagram into the simpler. State the name of each step of your equivalence as a planar isotopy, flype, flip, or sequence of Reidemeister moves. For inspiration, you may wish to look at the equivalences in [Figure 4.3.14.)\n\nThe last step in the proof of Theorem 4.3.30 is to put these ideas together. We start with the assumption that _T_ and _R_ are two rational tangles whose associated fractions both equal  . Denote the continued fraction form of _T_ and _R_ by\n\nand denote the regular form of   as  .\n\nFigure 4.3.16: The hypothesis of Theorem 4.3.30. Suppose _T_ and _R_ are rational tangles such that  .\n\n**Exercise 4.3.37.** Write a formal proof of Theorem 4.3.30. (Hint: Referring to Figure 4.3.16, what happens when Lagrange's equality is repeatedly applied to the continued fraction _F_ ( _T_ ) with the goal of transforming it into a regular form continued fraction? What happens when Lagrange's equality is repeatedly applied to the continued fraction _F_ ( _R_ ) with the goal of transforming it into a regular form continued fraction? How does this relate to  ? To prove _T_ \u223c _R_ , it suffices to prove _T_ \u223c _Q_ and _Q_ \u223c _R_ for some rational tangle _Q_. Figure 4.3.17 should inspire both the selection of _Q_ and the means of proving that both _T_ and _R_ are equivalent to _Q_.)\n\nFigure 4.3.17: The desired conclusion of Theorem 4.3.30 is to show that _T \u223c R_.\n\nNow we will make some connections back to the world of knots and links by defining rational knots and links. There are two natural ways to connect the strand-ends of a tangle to create a knot or link. They are called the **numerator** and **denominator closures** of _T_ , denoted by _N_ ( _T_ ) and _D_ ( _T_ ), respectively, and depicted in Figure 4.3.18.\n\nFigure 4.3.18: The numerator and denominator closures of a tangle, _T_.\n\n**Definition 4.3.38.** A knot or link, _L_ , is called **rational** provided that there exists a rational tangle _T_ such that either _N_ ( _T_ ) or _D_ ( _T_ ) is equivalent to _L_.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.39.** Prove or disprove each of the following statements.\n\n1.For a tangle, _T_ , _N_ ( _T_ ) = _D_ ( _T r_).\n\n2.For a tangle, _T_ , _D_ ( _T_ ) = _N_ ( _T r_).\n\n3.For a rational tangle _T_ ,  .\n\n4.For a rational tangle _T_ , _D_ ( _T_ \\+ [ _a_ ]) = _D_ ( _T_ ).\n\nParts 3 and 4 of Exercise 4.3.39 imply that if _K_ is a rational link such that _K_ = _N_ ( _T_ ) for a rational tangle _T_ , then we can assume that the last tangle algebraically contributing to _T_ is an integer tangle. Similarly, if _K_ is a rational link such that _K_ = _D_ ( _T_ ) for some rational tangle _T_ , then we may assume that the last tangle algebraically contributing to _T_ is a reciprocal tangle.\n\nAs we mentioned at the beginning of this section, Conway notation is a useful notation for encoding rational links and knots. In fact, Conway used his notation (for rational and nonrational knots) to create a list (by hand) of all prime knots with 11 or fewer crossings.\n\n**Definition 4.3.40.** Suppose the knot _K_ is equivalent to the numerator closure of a rational tangle, _T_ , with continued fraction form\n\nsuch that each _a i_ is a nonzero integer. The **Conway notation** for _K_ is given by the string of integers [[ _a_ 1 _a_ 2 . . . _a n_]].\n\nFor example, the Conway notation [4 \u20132 3 1 5]] encodes a knot whose final summand (before numerator closure) is the integer tangle [[5]. Since the numbers listed alternate between integer and reciprocal tangles, the 3 and 4 values in the notation also represent integer tangles while the \u20132 and 1 represent reciprocal tangles. Hence the notation [[4 \u20132 3 1 5]] encodes the rational knot\n\nSimilarly, to decode the notation [[3 6 \u20134 \u20133]], we observe that the final summand of the rational tangle is the integer tangle [\u20133]. Hence, within the notation [[3 6 \u20134 \u20133]], the 3 and \u20134 represent reciprocal tangles and 6 and \u20133 represent integer tangles. So [[3 6 \u20134 \u20133]] encodes the rational link\n\n**Exercise 4.3.41.** The Conway notation for all nontrivial prime knots with seven crossings is given below. Draw the knots that correspond to each sequence.\n\nAs a corollary of Conway's Theorem we have the following.\n\n**Corollary 4.3.42** (Conway). _Let L_ 1 _and L_ 2 _be rational links. Then L_ 1 _and L_ 2 _are equivalent if their continued fractions are equal_.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.43.** Prove Corollary 4.3.42 using Theorem 4.3.25.\n\nNote the difference between Conway's Theorem and its corollary. Not only is every instance of \"tangle\" replaced by \"link,\" but there is another difference as well. Can you spot it? The corollary implies that there might be equivalent rational links that have different associated continued fractions. Perhaps this makes sense, because once we've closed a tangle, we no longer have any endpoints we need to keep fixed. We have a bit more freedom in how we might manipulate our link diagram. While there is indeed more freedom, we state an incredibly useful result, proven by Schubert, that completely characterizes rational link equivalence [36].\n\n**Theorem 4.3.44. [Schubert's Theorem]** _Suppose L_ 1 _is a rational link with reduced fraction_   _and L_ 2 _is a rational link with reduced fraction_  . _Then L_ 1 _and L_ 2 _are equivalent if and only if_\n\n1. _p_ = _p_ \u2032 _and_\n\n2. _either q_ = _q_ \u2032 _(mod p) or qq_ \u2032 = 1 _(mod p)_.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.45.** Show that the rational links associated to the sequences [[2 3 4]] and [[4 3 2]] are equivalent but that the rational tangles associated to these sequences are not equivalent.\n\n**Exercise 4.3.46.** Show that for any nonzero integers a, _b_ , and c, the rational link [[ _a b c_ ]] is equivalent to the rational link [[ _c b a_ ]]. (Challenge: Can this result be generalized to rational \"palindromic\" sequences with more than three terms, i.e., links of the form [[ _a_ 1 _a_ 2 ... _a n_]] and [[ _a n_... _a_ 2 _a_ 1]]?)\n\n## **Chapter 5**\n\n## **Combinatorial Knot Invariants**\n\nWe discussed the idea of a knot or link invariant in Section 2.4 as a means of proving that two links are _not_ equivalent. In Chapter 5, we will consider some examples as well as a nonexample of knot and link invariants.\n\n### **5.1 The Writhe of a Diagram**\n\nWe begin our exploration by recalling the notion of the sign of a crossing from Definition 3.4.6, pictured again in Figure 5.1.1 below.\n\nFigure 5.1.1: Negative and positive crossings.\n\n**Definition 5.1.1.** The **writhe** _w_ ( _D_ ) of a link diagram _D_ is the sum of the signs of the crossings in the diagram.\n\n**Exercise 5.1.2.** Choose an orientation for each of the knot diagrams in Figure 5.1.2, and then compute the writhe. Once you've done this, change all orientations and compute the writhes of the oriented knot diagrams with reverse orientations.\n\nFigure 5.1.2: Determine the writhe of these knots.\n\n**Exercise 5.1.3.** Draw a picture of your favorite knot. Give it an orientation and compute the writhe. Now, give your diagram the opposite orientation. Compute the writhe of this diagram. What do you notice? Formulate and prove a conjecture about the relationship between the writhe of an oriented knot diagram _D_ and its reverse .\n\n**Exercise 5.1.4. 1.** Draw a picture of your favorite 2-component link. Give it an orientation and compute the writhe.\n\n2.Now, give _one of the components_ of your diagram the opposite orientation. Compute the writhe of this diagram. What do you notice?\n\n3.Now, change the orientation of the second component and compute the writhe of the resulting diagram. What do you notice?\n\n4.Formulate and prove a conjecture about the relationship between the writhe of an oriented link diagram _D_ and the writhe of link diagrams obtained from _D_ by reversing the orientation of (a) one component or (b) both components of the diagram.\n\n**Exercise 5.1.5.** Consider the torus knot _T_ 2, _n_ , where _n_ is a positive odd number. What is the writhe of _T_ 2, _n_?\n\n**Exercise 5.1.6.** Consider the standard rational link diagram _D_ with Conway notation [[a b c]]. What is the writhe of _D_ ?\n\nLet's investigate whether or not the writhe is a link invariant. Recall from Chapter 2 that two diagrams represent the same link if and only if the two diagrams are equivalent by a sequence of Reidemeister moves and planar isotopies. Therefore, if we can prove that the application of the Reidemeister moves doesn't change the writhe, then we will have shown that the writhe is an invariant. We'll start our investigation with an analysis of the writhe for a Reidemeister 2 move.\n\nSuppose that a Reidemeister 2 move or its inverse is applied to a link diagram. We will show that the local portion of the link diagram contributes the same value to the writhe before and after the move is performed.\n\nConsider Figure 5.1.3 and observe that the two crossings are signed +1 and \u20131, regardless of how the arcs are oriented. Thus these two crossings contribute a zero sum to the writhe of the diagram. After the Reidemeister 2 move is applied, both crossings are removed. Thus, locally, this portion of the diagram still contributes zero to the writhe. Therefore the writhe is invariant under a Reidemeister 2 move.\n\n**Exercise 5.1.7.** Finish the investigation into whether or not the writhe of an oriented link diagram is an invariant by considering the following questions.\n\nFigure 5.1.3: Before and after a Reidemeister 2 move.\n\n1.Is the writhe invariant under the Reidemeister 3 move? (To answer this, consider the sums of the signs of the crossings in a link diagram just before and just after a Reidemeister 3 move has been performed.)\n\n2.Is the writhe invariant under the Reidemeister 1 move?\n\n3.What can you conclude? Is the writhe a link invariant? In other words, is the sum of the signs of the crossings in a link diagram preserved by _all_ Reidemeister moves?\n\nAt this point, you may be wondering how useful the writhe is. We will discover in Chapter 6 that the writhe, given the way it behaves under the Reidemeister moves, can help us to define one of the most widely used knot and link invariants. In addition, one restriction of the writhe provides a simple, but useful, virtual knot invariant in Chapter 8. For now, we will investigate another restriction of the writhe for links that yields a fundamental link invariant.\n\n### **5.2 The Linking Number**\n\nWe now have a well-defined notion of the sign of a crossing in a link diagram, but how can we harness this sign convention to develop link invariants? The answer is quite simple. For a two-component oriented link, we define a link invariant called the _linking number_.\n\n**Definition 5.2.1.** Let _J_ and _K_ be two components of an oriented link diagram. The **linking number** of the link formed by _J_ and _K_ (ignoring any other components the link may have), denoted lk ( _K, J_ ), is half the sum of the signs of the crossings where _J_ and _K_ cross.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.2.** Find at least one pair of link diagrams from Table 1.1 that do not have the same linking number.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.3.** Show that the oriented Whitehead link, shown in Figure 5.2.1, has linking number 0.\n\nFigure 5.2.1: The oriented Whitehead link.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.4.** Construct three examples of link diagrams with three different nonzero linking numbers.\n\nNext we prove that the linking number is indeed a link invariant.\n\n**Theorem 5.2.5.** _If D and D' are two diagrams of a two-component link L, then the linking numbers of D and D' are equal_.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.6.** Prove Theorem 5.2.5. (Hint: Show that the linking number is unchanged by the application of R1, R2, and R3 moves.)\n\n**Exercise 5.2.7.** Consider the torus link _T_ 2, _n_ where _n_ is a positive even number. In this case, _T_ 2, _n_ is a two-component link. What is the linking number of _T_ 2, _n_ if both components are oriented in the same direction? What if the two components are oppositely oriented?\n\n**Exercise 5.2.8.** Find a family of two-component links (other than the _T_ 2, _n_ example) such that, for every integer _n_ , there is exactly one member of the family with linking number _n_.\n\nThe definition of linking number makes it clear that lk ( _J, K_ ) and lk ( _K, J_ ) are equal. However, it isn't clear why the linking number is always an integer (rather than sometimes equal to half an integer). We will prove that the linking number is indeed always an integer through the following sequence of lemmas.\n\nFirst, note that the sum in the definition of the linking number above can be split into the sum of the signs of the crossings where the _K_ component crosses over the _J_ component, and the sum of the signs of the crossings where the _J_ component crosses over the _K_ component. Let's call these subsums the _K_ **over** _J_ **sum** and the _J_ **over** _K_ **sum** and denote them by \u03a3 _K/J_ and \u03a3 _J/K_ , respectively. Using our sum notation, we have the following.\n\nOur first lemma states that the two 'oversums' defined above are unchanged by Reidemeister moves. In other words, both \u03a3 _K/J_ and \u03a3 _K/J_ are invariants in their own rights.\n\n**Lemma 5.2.9.** _For a link with two components K and J_ ,\n\n_(i) the K over J sum is unchanged by Reidemeister moves, and_\n\n_(ii) the J over K sum is unchanged by Reidemeister moves_.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.10.** Prove part (i) of Lemma 5.2.9. Part (ii) follows by the same argument.\n\nNext, we investigate how changing a crossing between two components of an oriented link diagram impacts the _difference_ between the two oversums.\n\n**Lemma 5.2.11.** _Let K and J be the components of a link diagram D. Suppose one crossing of component J with component K is changed, resulting in a new diagram D'. Then the difference_ \u03a3 _K/J_ \u2212 \u03a3 _J/K_ _does not change value, as D is changed to D_ \u2032.\n\nThe following lemma looks at a special case. Suppose all the crossings of _K_ with _J_ are crossings of _K_ over _J_. What would the link look like in this case? Are the two components of the link actually linked?\n\n**Lemma 5.2.12.** _If the crossings in an oriented link diagram are such that K always passes over J, then the difference_ \u03a3 _K/J_ \u2013 \u03a3 _K/J_ _is zero_.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.13.** Prove Lemma 5.2.12. (Hint: Notice that this link can be deformed so that _K_ and _J_ have disjoint projections.)\n\n**Theorem 5.2.14.** _The linking number is always an integer_.\n\n**Exercise 5.2.15.** Prove Theorem 5.2.14. (Hint: Put the previous two lemmas together to make conclusions about an arbitrary link with two components. Start with a diagram _D_ of an arbitrary link of two components _J_ and _K_. Consider the diagram _D'_ identical to _D_ except that all crossings of _K_ with _J_ are crossings of _K_ over _J_. By Lemma 5.2.12, what does the difference \u03a3 _K/J_ \u2013 \u03a3 _K/J_ equal? Now change _D_ \u2032 back to _D_ , one crossing at a time and use Lemma 5.2.11.)\n\nNotice that the argument in Exercise 5.2.15 also proves that the linking number can be defined via either of two oversums, i.e.,\n\n### **5.3 Tricolorability**\n\nWe just explored an example of a quantity that _fails_ to be an oriented knot or link invariant as well as a quantity that _is_ an invariant of oriented links with two components. We don't yet have an example, however, of an invariant that is defined for knots. So let's explore the idea of a knot coloring. The colorability of a diagram is a new genre of invariant that can be explored both for knots and for links.\n\n**Definition 5.3.1.** A knot diagram is called **tricolorable** if each arc in the diagram can be drawn using one of three colors, say red (R), yellow (Y), and blue (B), in such a way that the following two conditions hold.\n\n1) At least two colors are used in the diagram.\n\n2) At each crossing, either all arcs are colored the same or all arcs are different colors.\n\n**Exercise 5.3.2.** (a) Finish assigning colors to the black arcs of the diagram in Figure 5.3.1 to give a valid tricoloring of the diagram. (b) Determine which diagrams in Table 1.1 are tricolorable.\n\nFigure 5.3.1: An example of a partial tricoloring of a knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 5.3.3.** Which of the diagrams in Figure 5.1.2 are tricolorable?\n\nAs mentioned above, tricolorability is a link invariant. We prove this by showing it is impossible for one diagram of a knot _K_ to be tricolorable while another diagram of the same knot is not tricolorable.\n\n**Theorem 5.3.4.** _If a given diagram of a knot, K, is tricolorable, then every diagram of K is tricolorable_.\n\nTheorem 5.3.4 ensures that the following definition makes sense and gives our first example of a knot invariant.\n\n**Definition 5.3.5.** A knot is called **tricolorable** if its diagrams are tricolorable.\n\n**Exercise 5.3.6.** Prove Theorem 5.3.4. (Hint: Show that the tricolorability of a diagram is unchanged by the application of R1, R2, and R3 moves.)\n\n**Exercise 5.3.7.** Prove that the trefoil knot is not equivalent to the unknot.\n\n**Exercise 5.3.8.** For which values of _n_ is the torus knot _T_ 2, _n_ tricolorable?\n\n**Exercise 5.3.9.** Explore the tricolorability of pretzel links. Make a conjecture and prove it.\n\n**Exercise 5.3.10.** Are either of the closed braids in Figure 3.4.5 tricolorable?\n\n### **5.4 A Generalization of Tricolorability**\n\nIn Section 5.3, we saw how tricolorability is used to distinguish between knots. In this section, we will generalize this idea to a new invariant that uses more than three colors. Instead of adding more colors such as magenta, chartreuse, burnt sienna, and the like, we think of _numbers_ as being 'colors.' That is, we label the strands in our diagram with numbers from the set _L n_ = {0, 1, 2, . . . , _n_ \u2013 1}. For tricoloring, in particular, we use numbers in the set {0, 1, 2} instead of our red, yellow, and blue palette.\n\nTo define generalized _n_ -colorability we mimic the first condition in the definition of tricolorability that at least two labels from _L n_ are used. In generalizing the second half of the definition, however, we have more freedom. One way to interpret the condition that 'at each crossing, either all arcs are colored the same or all arcs are different colors' is to say that once two of the three strands in a crossing have been labeled, say with labels _a_ and _b_ , then the label of the third strand should be determined by some formula depending on _a_ and _b_. The simplest type of formula would be a linear formula, such as _c_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yb_ , where _c_ is the label of the third strand and _X_ and _Y_ are coefficients selected to ensure that _n_ -colorability is a well-defined invariant.\n\nFigure 5.4.1: At a given crossing, the strands are colored with numbers _a, b, c_ from _L n_.\n\nThe next exercise investigates the values of _X_ and _Y_ in the linear relationship _c_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yb_.\n\n**Exercise 5.4.1.** Consider the labels _a, b, c_ of the strands involved in a crossing as shown in Figure 5.4.1.\n\n1.Notice that the color _a_ is on the overstrand, while _b_ and _c_ are on the understrands. If _a_ and _b_ are known, the linear formula _c_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yb_ should give the value of _c_. However, by symmetry, if _a_ and _c_ are known, the formula _b_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yc_ should give the value of _b_. Use these two equations to find an integer value of _Y_.\n\n2.Now, plug the integer that you found for _Y_ above into the equation _c_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yb_ so that we can determine what integer _X_ ought to be. Note that the resulting linear equation needs to be satisfied if _a_ = _b_ = _c_ since monochromatic colorings of crossings are required for R1 invariance of colorability. Use this constraint to determine what _X_ must be.\n\nAnother constraint on the linear formula _c_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yb_ is that _c_ should be one of the numbers from _L n_ = {0, 1, 2, . . . , _n_ \u2013 1}. This next exercise investigates what can be done to address this issue.\n\n**Exercise 5.4.2.** Return to the previous definition of tricolorability, but use the 'colors' 0, 1, and 2 instead of red, yellow, and blue. Consider the six crossings in Figure 5.4.2.\n\n1.For each crossing in Figure 5.4.2, the definition of tricoloring requires the value of _c_ to be the color that is not used on the other two strands. Determine the value of _c_ that is forced by this constraint for each crossing.\n\n2.In each of the six crossings, use the linear relationship _c_ = _Xa_ \\+ _Yb_ with the values of _X_ and _Y_ found in Exercise 5.4.1 to determine the integer that _c_ must equal.\n\n3.Compare the results of the previous two tasks. How can _c_ be viewed so that the value of _c_ found using our original tricoloring definition coincides with the requirements forced by the linear formula? (Hint: Modular arithmetic is helpful here.)\n\nExercises 5.4.1 and 5.4.2 lead to one possible generalization of coloring with more than three colors, as is given in the following definition.\n\n**Definition 5.4.3.** Let _p_ be an odd prime. A knot diagram is **_p_ -colorable** if each arc of the diagram can be labeled with an integer from 0 to _p_ \u2013 1 such that:\n\n1) At least two labels are distinct.\n\n2) At each crossing, the relation 2 _x_ \u2013 _y_ \u2013 _z_ \u2261 0 (mod _p_ ) holds, where _x_ is the label on the overstrand and _y_ and _z_ are the other two labels.\n\nFigure 5.4.2: A figure of six crossings labeled from the set _L_ 3 = {0, 1, 2}. In each crossing, two of the three strands have been colored and one strand, labeled _c_ , is to be determined.\n\n**Exercise 5.4.4.** Figure 5.4.3 illustrates a partial 7-coloring of a knot. Check that each crossing has a valid labeling and determine the values of _a_ and _b_.\n\nFigure 5.4.3: Complete this partial 7-coloring.\n\nThe following is a generalization of Theorem 5.3.4.\n\n**Theorem 5.4.5.** _If a given diagram of a knot K is p-colorable, then every diagram of K is p-colorable. Thus, p-colorability is a knot invariant_.\n\nTo prove Theorem 5.4.5, let _D_ be a p-colorable diagram of a knot _K_. Recall that any two diagrams of _K_ are related via a sequence of Reidemeister moves and planar isotopies. Since planar isotopies change only the shape of an arc and do not change the crossings, it suffices to show that after the application of a Reidemeister move, the resulting diagram of _K_ remains _p_ -colorable.\n\nWe begin by applying an R2 move to the diagram _D_ and show that the resulting diagram _D_ \u2032 is also _p_ -colorable. There are two possibilities we need to consider: (1) _D_ \u2032 contains the two additional crossings created by the R2 move; or (2) _D_ contains the two crossings that are removed by the R2 move. We consider case (1) first.\n\nSuppose two arcs in a _p_ -coloring of _D_ are colored _x_ and _y_ as indicated on the left of Figure 5.4.4. After the R2 move, the diagram _D_ \u2032 inherits the valid coloring of _D_ on all arcs not depicted in Figure 5.4.4. This means that the arcs emanating into the rest of the diagram for _D_ \u2032 must remain colored _x_ and _y_ to ensure the coloring remains valid elsewhere in the diagram. As _D_ was colored using more than two labels, _D_ \u2032 also uses more than two labels. Therefore, a valid coloring exists for _D_ \u2032 if and only if there exists a numerical color for the arc _c_ that results in a valid coloring on the two new crossings created by the R2 move.\n\n**Exercise 5.4.6.** Determine the numerical color of arc _c_ in Figure 5.4.4 so that the two crossings adjacent to arc _c_ have valid _p_ -colorings. (Hint: The numerical color for _c_ will depend on _x_ and _y_.)\n\nFigure 5.4.4: A _p_ -coloring before and after an R2 move.\n\n**Exercise 5.4.7.** Finish the proof of Theorem 5.4.5. That is, complete the proof for the R2 move, case (2), and complete the proofs for the application of R3 and R1 moves.\n\n**Exercise 5.4.8.** Determine which knots with six or fewer crossings can be 5-colored. For each example, exhibit a 5-coloring. (Figure 2.3.5 contains diagrams of all knots with six or fewer crossings.)\n\n**Exercise 5.4.9.** For which primes _p_ can the trefoil knot diagram be p-colored? (Hint: Label the three strands _x, y_ , and _z_ , and then write out the system of equations that must be satisfied by a valid coloring. For which primes _p_ can you solve this system?)\n\n**Exercise 5.4.10.** The p-coloring invariant can be used to distinguish between knots. The knot 816 is both 5- and 7-colorable. However the knots 71 and 41 are not. Prove this. Diagrams of the knots 816, 71, and 41 are given in Figure 5.4.5.\n\nFigure 5.4.5: The knots 816, 71, and 41.\n\n### **5.5 Matrices, Colorings & Determinants**\n\nIn this section, we will use linear algebra to simplify the problem of finding a _p_ -coloring of a diagram or proving that no such coloring exists. We will also find a new knot invariant along the way.\n\nTo translate the problem of coloring a knot diagram into a linear algebra problem, we begin by denoting the color of each arc by a variable. If the knot diagram has _n_ arcs, we color them _x_ 1, _x_ 2, _x_ 3, . . . , _x n_. For each crossing in the diagram, we can write down a linear equation relating these variables as follows. If arc _x i_ passes over a crossing where _x j_ and _x k_ are the arcs that come together to form the understrand of the crossing, then we write\n\nA p-coloring of the knot exists if there is a solution,  , to this system of linear equations such that the entries of   are not all equal.\n\nNow the problem of finding a _p_ -coloring has been reduced to solving a system of linear equations. As is typical in linear algebra, we will write the system of linear equations as a matrix equation. Let's work through an example with the **square knot** pictured in Figure 5.5.1. Using the given labeling, the corresponding system of mod _p_ equations is listed in Figure 5.5.2.\n\nFigure 5.5.1: The diagram of a square knot that contains six arcs.\n\nFigure 5.5.2: The system of equations from the square knot with labels from Figure 5.5.1.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.1.** Determine the missing equation in Figure 5.5.2.\n\nThis system of equations is written in matrix form in Figure 5.5.3.\n\nNotice that there is a one-to-one relationship between the arcs and the crossings in a knot diagram. One way to see why this is true is to orient the knot and observe that each arc in the diagram emanates from a unique crossing. Therefore, in general, a diagram with _n_ crossings will result in an _n_ \u00d7 _n_ matrix. We call this matrix the **crossing-arc matrix** associated to the knot diagram _D_ , denoted by _A D_. Notice that each row of the crossing-arc matrix is associated to one of the crossings. Hence, every row contains the entries \u20131, \u20131, and 2 and all remaining entries are zero (except in the case where the crossing is an R1 twist, in which case the nonzero entries are \u20131 and 1). On the other hand, each column of the crossing-arc matrix is associated to one arc of the diagram. Hence, for a given arc, the corresponding column contains two \u20131 entries for the two crossings involving the arc's endpoints. In addition, for each time the arc passes over a crossing, the column contains a 2. The remaining entries of the column are 0 (except in the case when the arc ends in an R1 twist, in which case the column includes an entry of 1).\n\nFigure 5.5.3: The matrix equation from the system of equations in Figure 5.5.2.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.2.** Fill in the bottom row of the crossing-arc matrix in Figure 5.5.3. Determine the values of _a, b, c, d, e_ , and _f_.\n\nStandard techniques of linear algebra apply to solving systems of equations mod _p_. (Formally, for a prime number _p_ , the integers mod _p_ form a field.) Unfortunately, the added condition that at least two of the _x i_'s differ introduces a few subtleties that need to be addressed before general results can be presented.\n\nWe begin with a few observations. First, note that setting each _x i_ = 1 is a solution to the system of equations in Figure 5.5.3. This is true in general because the matrix always consists of rows whose nonzero entries (namely, 2, \u20131, and \u20131) sum to zero. (Note, however, that a solution of all 1's is not a solution to the coloring problem because we need at least two distinct entries in the vector of colors.) Second, recall that for any matrix equation  , if   and   are two solutions and _k_ is any constant, then   and   are also solutions.\n\nThese two observations imply that if there is a solution   with not all entries equal, then there is a solution\n\n  with _\u03c5 n_ = 0, i.e.,\n\nwhere   denotes an _n_ \u00d7 1 vector with all entries equal to 1.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.3.** Prove that if   is a solution to   with not all entries equal, then   is another solution such that _\u03c5 n_ = 0 and not all entries are equal.\n\nThus, if for a knot _K_ there is a valid _p_ -coloring, then there is also valid coloring with _\u03c5 n_ = 0. Observe what this implies about the crossing-arc matrix. A solution with not all entries equal corresponds to a nonzero solution to the system of equations determined by the original matrix with its last column deleted. Looking back at the matrix in Figure 5.5.3, this discussion implies that to find a _p_ -coloring of the square knot, we want to find a _nonzero_ solution of the matrix equation in Figure 5.5.4.\n\nFigure 5.5.4: The crossing-arc matrix equation from Figure 5.5.3 with the sixth column and variable _x_ 6 both removed.\n\nRecall, from linear algebra, that six vectors in   must be linearly dependent. Hence, the six row vectors in the matrix from Figure 5.5.4 must be linearly dependent. Therefore, one of the six equations contributing to the matrix equation in Figure 5.5.4 is unnecessary, so it is possible to reduce the system down to five equations and five unknowns. In general, the same argument can be applied to reduce the _n_ \u00d7 ( _n_ \u2013 1) matrix equation associated to a knot with _n_ crossings to a square ( _n_ \u2013 1) \u00d7 ( _n_ \u2013 1) matrix equation. Which equation can we eliminate? In other words, which row of the crossing-arc matrix can we remove?\n\nLet the rows of the square knot's crossing-arc matrix be denoted by  . If, for example, we can show that the sixth row is a linear combination of rows 1 through 5, then we can delete the bottom row of the crossing-arc matrix. We will show that this is indeed the case by creating a specific linear combination of the rows, using only coefficients _c i_ = \u00b11, such that the linear combination below, sums to the zero vector.\n\nThis will prove linear dependence of the rows. As row 6 will have either a 1 or \u20131 for a coefficient, this proves it is dependent on the other five rows and thus the sixth row can be eliminated.\n\nBefore determining the coefficients _c i_, we must define a _checkerboard coloring_ of a link diagram.\n\n**Definition 5.5.4.** Given a link diagram, _D_ , a **checkerboard coloring** of _D_ , is a coloring of the regions of the diagram using two colors, for example the colors green and white, such that the green regions are adjacent only to white regions, and the white regions are adjacent only to green regions. (Sometimes, we forgo the use of specific color names and use 'shaded' and 'unshaded' to refer to the two colors for the regions.)\n\nEvery link diagram can be checkerboard colored in two ways. For examples, see Figure 5.5.5.\n\nFigure 5.5.5: Two checkerboard colorings of a link.\n\nTo determine which coefficients should be multiplied by \u20131 in our linear combination, we apply the following clever algorithm. First, orient the knot. At each crossing in the diagram put a dot to the right of the overstrand just before entering the crossing. Now, checkerboard color the diagram of the knot so that the color of the unbounded region of the plane is white or unshaded. If the dot for a crossing lies in a shaded region, give the row of the matrix corresponding to that crossing a coefficient of \u20131, or else use a coefficient of 1. We call this algorithm the **dot-checkerboard algorithm.**\n\nFigure 5.5.6 shows the square knot with a choice of orientation, the checkerboard coloring of the diagram, and the dot associated to each crossing.\n\nFigure 5.5.6: A dotted, checkerboard colored diagram of the square knot.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.5.** Prove that every knot diagram can be checkerboard colored. (Hint: Can the unknot be checkerboard colored? Can every diagram of the unknot be checkerboard colored? Does changing a crossing in a diagram impact the validity of a checkerboard coloring? Also, consider using Exercise 1.2.4.)\n\n**Exercise 5.5.6.** Prove that the choice of orientation does not influence the outcome of the dot-checkerboard algorithm.\n\nAs indicated by Figure 5.5.6, the rows associated with the three crossings on the right-hand side of the diagram, that is, rows 4, 5, and 6, have coefficients of \u20131. The resulting linear combination now sums to the zero vector.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.7.** Suppose   are the row vectors from the crossing-arc matrix associated to the square knot discussed above. Check the arithmetic in the following equality.\n\nThis proves   is linearly dependent on rows 1 through 5, which implies the bottom row of the crossing-arc matrix can be eliminated without changing the solution space of the matrix equation. Removing the bottom row, we now have a 5 \u00d7 5 altered crossing-arc matrix, denoted _\u00c3 D_, as shown in the matrix equation in Figure 5.5.7.\n\nFigure 5.5.7: The altered crossing-arc matrix equation. A nontrivial solution of this equation corresponds to a valid _p_ -coloring of the knot diagram.\n\nWe proceed by applying methods from linear algebra to the associated square matrix to study whether or not a knot diagram has a _p_ -coloring. Recall, if _A_ is a square matrix, then the equation   has a nontrivial solution if and only if det( _A_ ) = 0, or, since we are working mod _p_ , if and only if the determinant is divisible by _p_. The 5 \u00d7 5 matrix above has determinant 9. Since 9 is divisible by 3, the knot in Figure 5.5.1 can be 3-colored. Since 9 has no other prime divisors, this knot cannot be _p_ -colored for any prime _p_ other than 3.\n\nThe following theorem summarizes the discussion above.\n\n**Theorem 5.5.8.** _Let A D denote a crossing-arc matrix associated to a knot diagram, D, with n arcs. Deleting any one column and any one row of AD yields a new matrix \u00c3D. The knot diagram, _D_ , can be p-colored if and only if the matrix equation   has a nontrivial solution mod p_.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.9.** In the example of the square knot, the last column and the last row of the crossing-arc matrix _A_ were deleted. However, Theorem 5.5.8 states that any one row and any one column of _A_ can be deleted. Explain why it does not matter which row and which column are deleted. (Hint: For the proof that any column can be deleted, study the solution to Exercise 5.5.3. For the proof that any row can be deleted, notice the dot-checkerboard algorithm gives a linear combination of all rows in which every row has a nonzero coefficient.)\n\nRecall that we made a choice when assigning the labels _x_ 1, _x_ 2, . . . , _x n_ to the arcs in our diagram. Changing this assignment of labels will result in a different crossing-arc matrix. It is not difficult to see, however, that the process above can be applied and will yield the same result. One way to see this is to return to viewing the crossing-arc matrix equation as a system of linear equations. Notice that the _existence of a solution_ to the system of equations has no bearing on the names of the variables used within the system. So the assignment of the labels to the arcs in the knot diagram doesn't influence the outcome.\n\nTo complete the proof of Theorem 5.5.8, it suffices to show why the dot-checkerboard algorithm always gives a linear combination of the rows of the crossing-arc matrix that sums to the zero vector.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.10.** Given an arbitrary knot diagram, _D_ , with _n_ crossings, prove that the dot-checkerboard algorithm described above results in a linear combination of the row vectors of the crossing-arc matrix that sum to the zero vector. (Hint: Analyze an arbitrary arc _x i_ in your knot diagram. There are several possibilities to consider for _x i_. First, assume this arc never passes over a crossing. (Such an arc doesn't exist in an alternating knot diagram, but it may exist in an arbitrary diagram.) In this case, what are the entries of the _i th_ column? In the linear combination produced by the dot-checkerboard algorithm, do these entries sum to zero? Next, analyze the arc _x i_, assuming that this arc passes over exactly one crossing. What are the entries of the _i th_ column of the matrix? In the linear combination produced by the dot-checkerboard algorithm, do these entries sum to zero? Continue your analysis of arc _x i_, assuming it passes over two, three, or four crossings. Once you determine a pattern, explain what happens in general.)\n\nNow that we have a way of translating the _p_ -coloring question into a question about the existence of a nontrivial solution of the matrix equation  , let's recall the powerful relationship between a matrix equation and the determinant of the matrix while reviewing some important ideas from linear algebra.\n\n**Linear Algebra Review, Fact 1.** A nontrivial solution to   exists if and only if _A_ is not invertible, and _A_ is not invertible if and only if det( _A_ ) = 0. These equivalences still hold when considered modulo a prime _p_.\n\nPerhaps surprisingly, the determinant gives us information about the colorability of the _knot_ , not merely the knot diagram _D_. Thus, the determinant yeilds another powerful knot invariant. For a knot _K_ and _any_ diagram _D_ of _K_ , the **determinant of** _K_ is the absolute value of the determinant of _\u00c3 D_, the associated ( _n_ \u2013 1) \u00d7 ( _n_ \u2013 1) matrix obtained from the crossing-arc matrix by deleting any one column and any one row.\n\nRecall, that the determinant of a 2 \u00d7 2 matrix   is given by det ( _A_ ) = _ad_ \u2013 _bc_. For larger matrices, determinants can be calculated in several ways, one of which is a recursive process called minor expansion. The _ij th_ minor of an _n_ \u00d7 _n_ matrix _A_ , denoted _M ij_, is the ( _n_ \u2013 1) \u00d7 ( _n_ \u2013 1) matrix obtained from _A_ by eliminating the _i th_ row and the _j th_ column. Minor expansion can be performed along any row or any column of an _n_ \u00d7 _n_ matrix _A_. Along the _i th_ row, we fix _i_ and use the formula\n\nTo calculate a determinant along the _j th_ column instead, we fix _j_ and use the formula\n\nNotice that this formula is recursive in the sense that one must still calculate the determinant of the minors, _M ij_. However, the minors are smaller in size than _A_ so if the process is repeated, it will eventually end with the calculation of the determinant of one or more 2 \u00d7 2 matrices.\n\nHere is a quick example showing the first step in calculating the determinant using minor expansion along the fourth row of the matrix _M_ below.\n\nNow there are three 3 \u00d7 3 determinants to calculate to complete the calculation of the determinant of _M_. Let's look at the calculation of the determinant of the minor _M_ 44 using minor expansion along the first column.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.11.** Complete the calculation that we started above for the determinant of the 4 \u00d7 4 matrix _M_.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.12.** Find the determinant of each knot in Figure 2.3.5. Using the determinant, find the values of _p_ for which each knot is _p_ -colorable.\n\nTo prove that the determinant of a knot gives a well-defined knot invariant, we must show it is invariant under Reidemeister moves. In preparation for this, we recall some important observations and theorems from linear algebra. These results will be useful to us as we complete several upcoming exercises.\n\nFirst, let's look at a definition. Given an _n_ \u00d7 _n_ matrix _A_ , the **elementary matrix that corresponds to a specified row or column operation on _A_** is the matrix that is obtained by performing the specified row or column operation on the _n_ \u00d7 _n_ identity matrix.\n\n**Linear Algebra Review, Fact 2.** Performing an elementary row (respectively, column) operation on a matrix _A_ is equivalent to multiplying _A_ on the left (respectively, right) by the corresponding elementary matrix.\n\nFor instance, the row operation \"add 5 times row 1 to row 2\" (when applied to a 3 \u00d7 3 matrix) corresponds to the elementary matrix\n\nThis correspondence is useful because, as Fact 1 implies, the matrix product _EB_ , for an arbitrary 3 \u00d7 3 matrix _B_ , gives the result of \"adding 5 times row 1 of _B_ to row 2 of _B_ \" in a much more succinct expression (You should check this product!). Also notice that if we calculate the matrix product in the reverse order, _BE_ , then matrix _E_ performs the column operation \"add 5 times column 2 of _B_ to column 1 of _B_.\" This is to be expected since _E_ can also be viewed as the result of this exact column operation applied to the 3 \u00d7 3 identity matrix. So, by multiplying the elementary matrix _E_ on the left of _B_ , we perform the _row_ operation corresponding to _E_ , and multiplying _E_ on the right of _B_ performs the _column_ operation corresponding to _E_.\n\nHere is an example of this observation that includes several row and column operations applied to a 2 \u00d7 2 matrix _A_.\n\nConsider the matrix   and apply the following row and column operations.\n\n\u2022add two times row 1 of _A_ to row 2\n\n\u2022swap columns 1 and 2\n\n\u2022multiply row 2 by\n\n\u2022add the negative of row 2 to row 1\n\n\u2022add \u20133 times column 1 to column 2\n\n**Exercise 5.5.13.** Prove that the list of row and column operations above transforms _A_ into  .\n\nApplying Linear Algebra Review, Fact 2, the 2 \u00d7 2 matrix _A_ and the list of row and column operations that transform _A_ into _B_ are equivalent to the following matrix product equality.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.14.** (1) Calculate the matrix product\n\n  to show   that it is equal to\n\n(2) Comment on the order of the elementary matrices in this product. Why is the matrix   the first in the product? Why is   last in this product?\n\nNext, we recall a few more facts from linear algebra. You might also want to review these results by reading any standard linear algebra textbook.\n\n**Linear Algebra Review, Fact 3.** The determinant is multiplicative. That is, for _k_ \u00d7 _k_ matrices _A_ and _B_ , we have the equality det( _AB_ ) = det( _A_ ) det( _B_ ).\n\n**Linear Algebra Review, Fact 4.**\n\n\u2022 If _E_ is an elementary matrix corresponding to adding a multiple of a row/column to another row/column, then det ( _E_ ) = 1.\n\n\u2022 If _E_ is an elementary matrix corresponding to swapping two rows/columns, then det( _E_ ) = \u00b11.\n\n\u2022 If _E_ is an elementary matrix corresponding to multiplying a row/column by the scalar _k_ , then det( _E_ ) \u2013 _k_.\n\nThis completes our linear algebra review. Returning to our main goal of this section, we can show that the determinant of a knot remains constant after the application of each of the three Reidemeister moves. To begin the proof of invariance under an R1 move, consider the following notation. Let _D_ be a diagram with _n_ crossings and, hence, _n_ arcs. Select an assignment of the arc labels _x_ 1, _x_ 2, . . . , _x n_, as pictured in Figure 5.5.8, so that the R1 move is performed on the arc labeled _x n_. Suppose, also, that _x n_ passes over _K_ crossings on one side of the R1 move and passes over _j_ crossings on the other side of the R1 move ( _K_ and/or _j_ may equal 0). After the R1 move, we keep the arc labels constant with one exception: the new arc will be labeled _x_ _n_ +1.\n\nFigure 5.5.8: Notation for the crossing-arc matrix of a knot before and after an R1 move.\n\nUsing the notation in Figure 5.5.8, we have the two crossing-arc matrices shown in Figure 5.5.9.\n\nFigure 5.5.9: The crossing-arc matrices associated with the two diagrams in Figure 5.5.8, with _A_ * denoting the _n_ \u00d7 ( _n_ \u2013 1) matrix containing the crossing-arc values from arcs _x_ 1, . . . , _x_ _n_ \u20131.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.15.** Prove that the determinant of a knot is unchanged by the application of an R1 move. (Hint: Use row and column operations and the linear algebra review facts to prove that both matrices in Figure 5.5.9 have the same determinant as the matrix in Figure 5.5.10.)\n\nFigure 5.5.10: Both matrices in Figure 5.5.9 have determinants equal to the determinant of the _n_ \u00d7 _n_ matrix below, up to a factor of \u00b11.\n\n**Exercise 5.5.16.** Prove that the determinant of a knot is unchanged by the application of an R2 move. (Hint: Set up your notation with care, as we did in Exercise 5.5.15.)\n\n**Exercise 5.5.17.** Prove that the determinant of a knot is unchanged by the application of an R3 move.\n\n## **Chapter 6**\n\n## **Knot Polynomials**\n\n### **6.1 The Alexander Polynomial**\n\nThe Alexander polynomial, a knot invariant discovered by James W. Alexander in 1923, was the first and only polynomial knot invariant for over 60 years. The polynomial can be calculated by evaluating the determinant of a matrix associated to a diagram of a knot. In addition to picking a diagram of the knot to compute the Alexander polynomial, many choices are made when the matrix is constructed. It is a rather amazing polynomial, but there is much to prove when showing that the construction that produces the polynomial is an invariant of knots.\n\nLet _K_ be a knot with an _n_ crossing knot diagram _D_. Choose an orientation for _D_. Label the arcs and the crossings of the diagram each with the integers 1 through _n_. Create an _n_ \u00d7 _n_ matrix with entries in row _w_ determined by the arc labels that meet at crossing _w_. If, while following the orientation along arc _i_ , we encounter arc _j_ to the left and _k_ to the right of crossing _w_ , then the matrix entries of row _w_ are 1 \u2013 _t_ in column _i, t_ in column _j_ and \u20131 in column _k_. All other entries in row _w_ are zero. If any of _i_ , _j_ , or _k_ happen to be equal, then we put the sum of the entries into the appropriate column.\n\nNotice that this matrix is similar to the matrix we used when calculating the determinant of a knot. However, instead of the row _w_ containing the entries 2, \u20131, \u20131, it contains the linear functions 1 \u2013 _t, t_ , and \u20131. Observe that when this matrix is evaluated at _t_ = \u2013 1, we obtain the crossing-arc matrix used in calculating the determinant of the knot. Also notice that, just as with the matrix that is used to compute the determinant of a knot, the column vectors of this matrix sum to the zero vector.\n\nFigure 6.1.1: The Alexander polynomial matrix entries for crossing _w_.\n\n**Definition 6.1.1.** Given an oriented and labeled diagram _D_ of a knot _K_ , create the matrix _M D_ whose entries are described in Figure 6.1.1. The ( _n_ \u2013 1) \u00d7 ( _n_ \u2013 1) matrix obtained by removing the bottom row and last column from _M D_ is called an **Alexander matrix** of the diagram _D_. The determinant of an Alexander matrix, denoted by _A D_( _t_ ), is called an **Alexander polynomial of the diagram** _D_. The determinant of a 0 \u00d7 0 matrix is defined to be 1, and thus, the Alexander polynomial of the unknot is defined to be 1.\n\nThe following examples show that the Alexander polynomial as described is not quite a knot invariant. It depends on the knot diagram, the orientation, and the choices made in the knot labeling. However, we will discover that an Alexander polynomial can be normalized to produce a bonafide knot invariant!\n\n**Exercise 6.1.2.** To calculate the Alexander polynomial of the figure eight knot diagram shown in Figure 6.1.2, we begin by selecting an orientation, as well as a labeling of the arcs and crossings. One possibility is to make the choices shown in Figure 6.1.2. For this diagram, we label the crossings by the label of the overstrand arc.\n\n1.Find the 4 \u00d7 4 matrix associated with these choices.\n\n2.Find the Alexander matrix associated with these choices.\n\n3.Find the resulting Alexander polynomial of the diagram in Figure 6.1.2.\n\nFigure 6.1.2: Oriented and labeled figure eight knot. 1\n\n**Exercise 6.1.3.** Next, consider the figure eight knot shown in Figure 6.1.3, with crossing labels shown. Label each arc according to the crossing that the arc passes over.\n\n1.Find the 5 \u00d7 5 matrix associated with these choices.\n\n2.Find the Alexander matrix associated with these choices.\n\n3.Find the resulting Alexander polynomial of the diagram in Figure 6.1.3.\n\nFigure 6.1.3: Labeled figure eight knot with R1 move performed.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.4.** (1) Calculate the Alexander polynomial of the left-handed trefoil knot from the knot diagram that has three negative crossings.\n\n(2) Calculate the Alexander polynomial of the right-handed trefoil knot from the knot diagram that has three positive crossings.\n\n(3) Perform an R2 move on the right-handed trefoil, and then calculate the Alexander polynomial for this new diagram.\n\nAs we saw in the previous exercises, the Alexander polynomial depends on the choice of the knot diagram and the choices made when labeling the diagram. However, we also observe that the polynomials obtained by making various choices differ by no more than a factor of _\u00b1t k_ for some integer _k_.\n\n**Theorem 6.1.5.** _Suppose D is an oriented knot diagram and consider two different labelings of the arcs and crossings of D. Denote the two labeled diagrams by D_ 1 and _D_ 2. _The Alexander polynomials of the two labelings satisfy A D_( _t_ ) = _\u00b1t kA_ _D_ 2( _t_ ) _for some integer k_.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.6.** Prove Theorem 6.1.5. (Hint: A change in labeling of exactly two arcs of _D_ corresponds to swapping the two corresponding columns of the Alexander matrix. Recall that swapping two columns of a matrix is an elementary operation. Find the analogous correspondence for a change in the labels for exactly two crossings. When the corresponding elementary operations are applied to the Alexander matrix, what is the effect on the Alexander polynomial?)\n\n**Theorem 6.1.7.** _Suppose D and D' are two different diagrams of an oriented knot K. Then the Alexander polynomials of the two diagrams satisfy A D_( _t_ ) = \u00b1 _t_ _k_ _A_ _D_ \u2032( _t_ ) _for some integer k_.\n\nTogether, we will prove Theorem 6.1.7 in the case where _D_ and _D_ \u2032 differ by an R3 move. The remaining cases of Theorem 6.1.7 are left as Exercise 6.1.10.\n\nSuppose the oriented diagrams _D_ and _D_ \u2032 differ by an _R3_ move, as shown in Figure 6.1.4. Label the arcs for _D_ and _D_ \u2032 identically throughout the diagram except in the local region where the R3 move is made. For these local arcs, using the labeling scheme shown in Figure 6.1.4. Observe that the arcs that extend beyond the local regions are consistently labeled before and after the R3 move. Next, we create the two matrices _M D_ and _M_ _D_ \u2032 corresponding to the labeled diagrams before and after the _R_ 3 move, as shown in Figures 6.1.5 and 6.1.6. The matrix _B_ * is identical in both _M D_ and _M_ _D_ \u2032 due to the choice of identical labeling for the portions of diagram _D_ and _D_ \u2032 that are not pictured.\n\nFigure 6.1.4: An oriented R3 move with labeled arcs, _a_ 1, . . . , _a_ 6 and labeled crossings _C_ 1, _C_ 2, _C_ 3.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.8.** Use Figure 6.1.4 to check the matrix entries in the top three rows of _M D_ and _M_ _D_ \u2032, as shown in Figures 6.1.5 and 6.1.6. Explain why column 1, in both matrices, contains only zeros below the third row. Explain why rows 1 \u2013 3, for both matrices, contain only zeros in the entries after the sixth column.\n\nOur goal now is to use elementary row and column operations to transform _M D_ into a form that is similar to _M_ _D_ \u2032. Initially, we do not want the elementary row and column operations to alter _B_ *, so we restrict to using row operations on the top three rows, and column operations that add a multiple of column 1 to some other column.\n\nFigure 6.1.5: The matrix _M D_ associated to diagram in _D_ from Figure 6.1.4. The submatrix _B_ * contains the matrix entries for the remaining crossings in the diagram.\n\nFigure 6.1.6: The matrix _M_ _D_ \u2032 associated to diagram in _D_ \u2032 from Figure 6.1.4. The submatrix _B_ * contains the matrix entries for the remaining crossings in the diagram and is identical to _B_ * in Figure 6.1.5.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.9.** (a) Apply the following list of row and column operations to the matrix _M_ _D_ from Figure 6.1.5.\n\n(1)Add (1 \u2013 _t_ ) times row 1 to row 3.\n\n(2)Add _t_ times column 1 to column 5.\n\n(3)Add _t_ times column 1 to column 6.\n\n(4)Multiply row 2 by _t_ \u20131.\n\n(5)Multiply row 3 by _t_ \u20131.\n\n(6)Multiply column 1 by \u2013 _t_ 2.\n\nLet the matrix resulting from these five operations be denoted by  .\n\n(b) Observe that   is now identical to _M_ _D_ \u2032, except in two of the matrix entries.\n\n(c) In the next manipulation, we alter   and _M_ _D_ \u2032 in an identical way so that any changes to _B_ * are the same in both matrices.\n\n(7)Swap the second and last columns of  . Name the result  .\n\n(8)Swap the second and last columns of _M_ _D_ \u2032. Name the result _M_ \u2032 _D_ \u2032.\n\n(d) For each matrix manipulation (1) \u2013 (8), state the effect it has on the determinant of the matrix.\n\n(e) The Alexander polynomial is obtained by deleting the last column and bottom row of   and _M_ \u2032 _D_ \u2032 and taking the determinant of the resulting matrices. Prove that the Alexander polynomials of _D_ and _D_ \u2032 differ by no more than a factor of _\u00b1t k_.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.10.** Prove the remaining cases of Theorem 6.1.7. (Hint: You must prove the result holds if _D_ and _D_ \u2032 differ by a single Reidemeister move. Use Figure 2.3.6 to prove the result holds for a generating set of oriented Reidemeister moves. For each Reidemeister move, take special care to set up your notation and the matrices _M D_ and _M_ _D_ \u2032. Find elementary operations that can be applied to these two matrices that show they lead to Alexander polynomials that differ by no more than a factor of \u00b1 _t k_.)\n\nNext, we investigate the influence of the choice of orientation on the calculation of the Alexander polynomial. We will see that the coefficients of the Alexander polynomial exhibit a special symmetry.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.11.** Let _D_ denote the diagram of the figure eight knot with labels and orientation as in Figure 6.1.2. Find the Alexander polynomial of the reverse,  . Show that   for some integer _k_.\n\n**Theorem 6.1.12.** _Suppose D is an oriented and labeled diagram and its reverse is . The Alexander polynomial of the diagram and its reverse satisfy_  _for some integer j_.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.13.** Prove Theorem 6.1.12.\n\nWe can now define _the_ Alexander polynomial of a knot as a normalized version of the polynomial that we have been calling the Alexander polynomial of a diagram _D_.\n\n**Definition 6.1.14.** Given the Alexander polynomial, AD( _t_ ), for a labeled and oriented diagram, _D_ , of a knot, _K_ , factor the polynomial as\n\nfor some integer _k_ , so that _A K_( _t_ ) has a positive constant term. The resulting polynomial, _A K_( _t_ ), is the **Alexander polynomial of the knot** _K_.\n\nThe polynomial _A K_( _t_ ) is independent of the choice of labeling by Theorem 6.1.5, is independent of the choice of diagram by Theorem 6.1.7, and is independent of the choice of orientation by Theorem 6.1.12. Therefore, the Alexander polynomial, _A K_( _t_ ), is an invariant of unoriented knots.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.15.** Calculate the Alexander polynomial of the seven crossing knot diagram in Figure 6.1.7.\n\nFigure 6.1.7: A knot diagram with seven crossings.\n\nThe Alexander polynomial can be used to distinguish many knots from one another, but there are some knots it cannot differentiate.\n\n**Exercise 6.1.16.** Show that the knot in Figure 6.1.8 has Alexander polynomial 1.\n\nThe knot in Figure 6.1.8 is one of two knots with 11 crossings that has a trivial Alexander polynomial. No knots with 10 or fewer crossings has a trivial Alexander polynomial, other than the unknot.\n\nFigure 6.1.8: A nontrivial knot with trivial Alexander polynomial.\n\n### **6.2 The Kauffman Bracket & Jones Polynomial**\n\nAnother polynomial, discovered in 1984 by Vaughn F. R. Jones, associates a Laurent polynomial with integer coefficients [16] to every knot or link. Unlike the Alexander polynomial, the Jones polynomial can sometimes distinguish between nonequivalent mirror images of a knot. Indeed, we will see that the Jones polynomial can distinguish between the **left-handed trefoil** and **right-handed trefoil,** that is, the trefoil that can be drawn with three negative crossings and the trefoil that can be drawn with three positive crossings. The Jones polynomial is a stronger invariant than the Alexander polynomial. For example, currently there is no known example of a nontrivial knot _K_ whose Jones polynomial is trivial, whereas the knot in Figure 6.1.8 is such a knot for the Alexander polynomial.\n\nWe will define the Jones polynomial of a link _L_ through a recursively-defined function called the Kauffman bracket [20]. The Kauffman bracket is a function,  , that assigns a Laurent polynomial to an unoriented link diagram _L_. To compute the Kauffman bracket of a link diagram, we provide a way of relating the bracket of a nontrivial link diagram to a pair of brackets of simpler link diagrams. Specifically, the Kauffman bracket of a link diagram, _L n_, with _n_ crossings, for _n_ \u2265 1, is defined to be equal to the value of a certain sum,\n\ninvolving the Kauffman bracket of two associated link diagrams, each with _n_ \u2013 1 crossings. The two simpler link diagrams,   and  , are obtained from the original diagram _L n_ by _smoothing_ at a crossing of _L n_ in both possible ways. In other words, a crossing is replaced by a [0] or [\u221e] tangle. This is called Rule 3.\n\nWe observe that when smoothing a crossing in a link, a disconnected, trivial unknot diagram may arise. If this happens, we can simplify the bracket of the disjoint union _L_ \u2032 \u222a _U_ where _U_ denotes a crossingless diagram of the unknot. The bracket   is replaced by a multiple of the Kauffman bracket of _L_ \u2032, namely  . _Voila!_ We have Rule 2.\n\nFinally, we define  , the bracket of the unknot diagram with no crossings, to be 1. This base case is called Rule 1.\n\nThese three rules are summarized in the following definition.\n\n**Definition 6.2.1.** The **Kauffman bracket** of a link diagram, _L_ , is a polynomial in integer powers of the variable _A_ , denoted by  , defined by the following three rules.\n\n1.\n\n2.\n\n3.\n\nNotice that for any link, we can repeatedly apply Rule 3, reducing the number of crossings at each step. We can apply Rule 2 to eliminate disjoint unknotted components. Ultimately, we will be left with a single unknot component to which we can apply Rule 1. In Exercise 6.2.4, we show that the order in which these rules are applied does not affect the final result. Thus, the Kauffman bracket is a well-defined quantity assigned to a link diagram.\n\nFirst, let's see these rules in action on a very simple pair of examples.\n\n**Example 6.2.2.** We compute the following bracket polynomials:   and  .\n\nNow, let's all try computing the Kauffman bracket!\n\n**Exercise 6.2.3.** Show that the bracket polynomial of the left-handed trefoil shown in Figure 6.2.1 is _A_ 7 \u2013 _A_ 3 \u2013 _A_ \u20135. You may use the results of Example 6.2.2 to simplify your calculation, if you like.\n\nFigure 6.2.1: The left-handed trefoil.\n\n**Exercise 6.2.4.** (a) Show that when Rule 3 for the bracket polynomial is applied to two crossings of a diagram, the order in which it is applied does not affect the result.\n\n(b) Show that when Rules 2 and 3 for the bracket polynomial are applied to a link with a disjoint union of the unknot, the order in which they are applied does not affect the result.\n\n**Exercise 6.2.5.** Find the effect on the Kauffman bracket of performing an R2 move. In other words, what should _X_ and _Y_ be in Figure 6.2.2?\n\nFigure 6.2.2: The Kauffman bracket of an R2 move.\n\nIn Exercise 6.2.5, you proved that the Kauffman bracket is invariant under the R2 move. Indeed, this invariance is how Kauffman determined the terms _A_ \u20131 and (\u2013 _A_ 2 \u2013 _A_ \u20132) in the definition of the Kauffman bracket. Let's take a look at how the invariance of the Kauffman bracket under R3 moves is a direct result of its invariance under R2 moves as shown in Figure 6.2.3.\n\nFigure 6.2.3: The Kauffman bracket of an R3 move.\n\nIn order to determine whether or not the Kauffman bracket is a link invariant, it remains to consider the R1 moves. As we saw in Example 6.2.2, there seems to be a problem with this type of Reidemeister moves. Indeed, the Kauffman bracket is _not_ invariant under R1 moves.\n\nFigure 6.2.4: The Kauffman bracket of an R1 move.\n\n**Exercise 6.2.6.** Determine the coefficients _U_ and _V_ of the bracket equations in Figure 6.2.4.\n\nCan you think of another quantity we've seen that is invariant under R2 and R3 moves, but not R1 moves? That's right! The writhe! (Recall Definition 5.1.1.) Because both the writhe and the Kauffman bracket fail to be link invariants in similar ways, the writhe of a link is used to adjust for the lack of invariance of the bracket under an R1 move. Using this clever trick, we can create a link invariant.\n\nBased on our findings in Exercise 6.2.6, we see that multiplying the bracket polynomial   of an oriented link _L_ by (\u2013 _A_ )\u20133 _w_ ( _L_ ) where _w_ ( _L_ ) is the writhe of _L_ , will cancel out the noninvariant behavior of the bracket of an R1 move. Using Exercises 5.1.7 and 6.2.5 as well as the computation in Figure 6.2.3, we can prove that the polynomial, _K L_( _A_ ), called the **Kauffman bracket polynomial** or the **Kauffman polynomial,**\n\nis a link invariant. Notice that for a knot, the invariant does not depend on the choice of orientation, by our result in Exercise 5.1.3. However, for a link of two or more components, the writhe will depend on the choice of orientation of the components. (See Exercise 5.1.4.) This is precisely why we now require _L_ to be oriented.\n\n**Exercise 6.2.7.** Prove that the Kauffman bracket polynomial is an invariant of oriented links.\n\nAt last, we are in a position to define the Jones polynomial.\n\n**Definition 6.2.8.** The **Jones polynomial** of a link _L_ , denoted by _V L_( _t_ ), is obtained by making the variable substitution _A_ = _t_ \u20131/4 in the polynomial _K L_( _A_ ).\n\n**Exercise 6.2.9.** Using Exercise 6.2.3, determine the Jones polynomial of the left-handed trefoil knot.\n\n**Exercise 6.2.10.** Calculate the Jones polynomial of the right-handed trefoil knot. Use Exercise 6.2.9 to conclude that the trefoil knot is not equivalent to its mirror image.\n\n**Exercise 6.2.11.** Choose orientations for the components of the Whitehead link (see Figure 5.2.1) and compute the Jones polynomial. Compute the Jones polynomial of the unlink with two components. Use these results to conclude the Whitehead link is a nontrivial link. (To do your Kauffman polynomial computation, you may prefer to use the diagram of the Whitehead link with five crossings, shown in Table 1.1, example (i).)\n\n### **6.3 Tait's Conjecture**\n\nThe discovery of the Jones polynomial led to an explosion of new ideas and results in knot theory. One such result is a proof of one of the renowned Tait Conjectures, which were first proposed in the late 19th century by physicist Peter Guthrie Tait [38]. We alluded to one of the Tait Conjectures in Section 1.3, Exercise 1.3.6. This exercise asks you to play with alternating knots with the goal of conjecturing their crossing number. Several diagrams in Figure 1.3.1 have one or more crossings that can be untwisted, thus reducing the number of crossings in the diagram. The crossings that can be untwisted are called _reducible crossings_. A reducible crossing can be readily identified in a diagram by observing that the four regions adjacent to a reducible crossing are not distinct regions in the diagram, as in Figure 6.3.1.\n\n**Definition 6.3.1.** A **reducible crossing** is a crossing in a knot diagram such that a single region in the diagram is _twice_ adjacent to that crossing. A diagram without any reducible crossings is called a **reduced diagram.**\n\nFigure 6.3.1: An example of a diagram with a reducible crossing. The shaded region below is twice adjacent to the reducible crossing _c_.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.2.** Consider the diagrams in Figure 1.3.1. Find all of the crossings in these diagrams that are reducible. Are any of these diagrams reduced?\n\nThe idea of the first Tait Conjecture is that once an _alternating_ diagram is reduced, the number of crossings in the diagram cannot be decreased.\n\n**Theorem 6.3.3. [Tait's Conjecture]** _If L is a connected and reduced alternating diagram of a link with n crossings, then the crossing number of L is n. Equivalently, any two connected, reduced alternating diagrams of a link L have the same number of crossings_.\n\nAs you can see, Tait's Conjecture specifically applies to _connected_ link diagrams. Let's look at a definition.\n\n**Definition 6.3.4.** A link diagram _L_ is called **connected** provided that the corresponding link shadow is a connected subspace of the plane.\n\nWe will prove Tait's Conjecture using the Kauffman polynomial. However, rather than using the recursive definition of the bracket given in Definition 6.2.1, we introduce an explicit formula for the Kauffman bracket in terms of smoothed states of a diagram.\n\nRecall the recursive formula for the Kauffman polynomial that reduces evaluating the Kauffman bracket on a diagram with _n_ crossings to evaluating it on a diagram with _n_ \u2013 1 crossings.\n\nWe call the smoothing that is paired with the coefficient _A_ an **_A_ -smoothing** and the smoothing that is paired with the coefficient _A_ \u20131 an **_A_ \u20131-smoothing** of the crossing. For a link diagram _L_ , the diagram obtained by performing a smoothing of type _A_ or type _A_ \u20131 for every crossing of _L_ is called a **smoothed state** of _L_.\n\nFor a link diagram _L_ and state _S_ of _L_ that contains _i A_ -smoothings and _j A_ \u20131-smoothings, we define the **bracket of _L_ for the state _S_** as\n\nFigure 6.3.2: The figure eight knot\u2014commonly referred to by its name, 41, from the Rolfsen knot table [33]\u2014together with two of its 16 smoothed states. Each crossing in the smoothed state is labeled with an _A_ or _A_ \u20131, according to its smoothing type.\n\nFor example, using the notation from Figure 6.3.2, we have the following.\n\nGiven a link _L_ with _n_ crossings, the explicit formula for the Kauffman bracket polynomial,  , is obtained by considering all possible states, _S_ , of _L_. Since each crossing can be smoothed in two distinct ways, _L_ will have 2 _n_ associated states. We take the sum over all states _S_ of _L_ of the product of   with a factor that accounts for the number of connected components in that state.\n\n**Theorem 6.3.5.** _Given a link L with n crossings, the Kauffman bracket of L is given by_\n\n_where_ | _S_ | _denotes the number of components of the smoothed state S of L_.\n\nIn our Figure 6.3.2 example, the summands of   corresponding to the states _S_ 1 and _S_ 2 are:\n\n**Exercise 6.3.6.** Show that the Kauffman bracket of the figure eight knot diagram in Figure 6.3.2 is\n\nby completing the computation started above and using Theorem 6.3.5. (Hint: There are 14 more states to consider.)\n\n**Exercise 6.3.7.** Calculate the Kauffman polynomial of the left-handed trefoil knot using the explicit formula for the Kauffman polynomial in Theorem 6.3.5. Compare your answer with the one you obtained in Exercise 6.2.3.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.8.** Using the intuition you gained from completing Exercises 6.3.6 and 6.3.7, prove Theorem 6.3.5. (Hint: Proceed by induction on the number of crossings in a knot diagram.)\n\n**Exercise 6.3.9.** Conjecture and prove a relationship between the Kauffman bracket polynomial of a link _L_ and its mirror image _L m_. (Hint: First, look at the relationship between the Kauffman bracket of the left- and right-handed trefoils for inspiration. Next, test your conjecture. The knot 4i is equivalent to its mirror image. Is your conjecture consistent with this fact?)\n\nNow that we are armed with an explicit formula for the Kauffman bracket, we can work toward a proof of our main result. Our proof of Tait's Conjecture makes use of the Kauffman bracket via its _span_ , defined as follows.\n\n**Definition 6.3.10.** For a link diagram _L_ , the **Kauffman span** of _L_ , span( _L_ ), is the maximum degree of the Kauffman bracket of _L_ ,  , minus the minimum degree of  .\n\n**Exercise 6.3.11.** (a) What is span(41)? (b) How does the span of the left-handed trefoil compare to the span of the right-handed trefoil?\n\nInterestingly, while the Kaufman bracket fails to be a link invariant, its span is a link invariant.\n\n**Theorem 6.3.12.** _The Kauffman span of a link L, span_ ( _L_ ), _is a link invariant_.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.13.** Prove Theorem 6.3.12. (Hint: Make use of the results of Section 6.2.)\n\nOur strategy for proving Tait's Conjecture will involve determining the span of a connected alternating link diagram.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.14.** Let _c_ be a crossing of connected link diagram _L_. Suppose the link diagram _L_ is checkerboard colored such that, at the crossing _c_ , the shaded regions adjacent to _c_ are the regions that would be joined by an A-smoothing at _c_. Show that if _L_ is alternating, then at _every other crossing in the diagram_ , the shaded regions are the regions that would be joined by an A-smoothing of the crossing. (See Figure 6.3.3 for examples of such checkerboard colorings.)\n\nFigure 6.3.3: The left-handed and right-handed trefoils with A-smoothing checkerboard colorings.\n\nOur next goal is to prove the following lemma about the maximum and minimum degrees of the variable _A_ in the Kauffman bracket.\n\n**Lemma 6.3.15.** _Suppose L is a connected, reduced, alternating link diagram. Suppose L is checkerboard colored so that at each crossing of L the shaded regions are precisely the regions joined by an A-smoothing of the crossing. Then the terms of highest and lowest degree in  are given by_\n\n_where cr_ ( _L_ ) _is the number of crossings in L, W is the number of unshaded regions in the diagram, and B is the number of shaded regions in the diagram_.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.16.** Checkerboard color the knot 41 and use your calculation from Exercise 6.3.6 to verify that Lemma 6.3.15 holds for this example.\n\nWe will work toward a proof of Lemma 6.3.15 by completing the following exercises. **Assume that the hypotheses ofLemma 6.3.15 hold for Exercises 6.3.17, 6.3.18, 6.3.19, and 6.3.20.**\n\n**Exercise 6.3.17.** Let _S_ be the state of all A-smoothings of the crossings of _L_. Calculate the contribution of _S_ to the Kauffman bracket  . Show that the max degree term of this contribution is\n\nTo prove Lemma 6.3.15, it suffices to show that this max degree term from state _S_ (with all A-smoothings) does not cancel with a term coming from the contribution of some other state of _L_.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.18.** Let _S_ be the state of all A-smoothings and let _S_ \u2032 be some other state. Observe that _S_ \u2032 can be obtained from _S_ by changing one smoothing at a time from an _A_ -smoothing to an A\u20131-smoothing. Let _S_ = _S_ 0, _S_ 1, _S_ 2, . . . , _S k_ = _S_ \u2032 be a sequence of states of _L_ that results in _S_ \u2032 such that each state has exactly one more _A_ \u20131 smoothing than the previous listed state. Prove that the maximal degree contribution of _S_ _i_ +1 is less than or equal to the maximal degree contribution of _S i_.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.19.** Use the fact that the diagram _L_ is _reduced_ to prove that the maximal degree contribution of _S_ 1 is strictly less than that of _S_ 0.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.20.** The previous exercises imply that the maximum degree term of   is\n\nFollow steps similar to Exercises 6.3.17, 6.3.18, and 6.3.19 to prove that the minimum degree term of   is\n\n**Exercise 6.3.21.** Suppose that _L_ is a connected, reduced, alternating link diagram. Use the previous results to determine the span of _L_. (Note that the span will be in terms of the number of crossings, _cr_ ( _L_ ), in _L_ and the numbers of shaded and unshaded regions, _B_ and _W_ , in a certain checkerboard coloring of _L_.)\n\nBefore we complete the proof of Tait's Conjecture, we need to take a brief and helpful detour to learn about a topological invariant called the _Euler characteristic_ , discovered around 1750 by the great mathematician Leonhard Euler.\n\n**Definition 6.3.22.** Suppose _X_ is a topological space composed of _V_ vertices, _E_ edges, and _F_ 'faces' or regions. Then the **Euler characteristic** of _X_ , denoted _\u03c7_ ( _X_ ), is defined by the formula\n\nTo see how the Euler characteristic is computed, let us look at one of the simplest topological spaces: a sphere. It is not hard to show that the Euler characteristic of the sphere is equal to 2. Indeed, the sphere can be decomposed into one vertex (say, somewhere on the equator), an edge that travels along the equator and is bounded on both ends by the single vertex, and two 'faces' or regions consisting of the northern and southern hemispheres, as in Figure 6.3.23. In this case, _V_ = 1, _E_ = 1, and _F_ = 2, and so _\u03c7_ = 1 \u2013 1 + 2 = 2.\n\n**Figure 6.3.23.** A sphere composed of one vertex, one edge, and two faces.\n\nWhat makes the Euler characteristic so useful is that it is a _topological invariant_. In other words, no matter how we decide to view a topological space _X_ as a collection of vertices, edges, and faces, _\u03c7_ ( _X_ ) remains unchanged. In particular, there are any number of other ways we could have chosen to divide the sphere into vertices, edges, and faces, but regardless of which choice we make, _\u03c7_ = 2.\n\nYou might wonder, how does this relate to our current situation? Suppose we draw a connected link diagram _L_ on the surface of a sphere. If we forget _L_ \u2032s crossing information, we can view the diagram as a graph, where the crossings in _L_ are vertices and the arcs between adjacent crossings are edges. The regions bounded by the edges of the graph form faces on the surface in which _L_ lies. The outer region of a link diagram in the plane forms a strange sort of face. Notice that, if instead of viewing our graph as lying in the plane, we view it as lying on a sphere, this outer face is far more like the other faces in the diagram.\n\n**Figure 6.3.24.** A sphere decomposed into vertices, edges, and faces by a connected link shadow.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.25.** Verify that the Euler characteristic of the sphere _S_ is 2, using the decomposition of _S_ into vertices, edges, and faces created by the knot shadow pictured on the sphere in Figure 6.3.24.\n\nNext, in order to harness the Euler characteristic to relate the number of crossings to the number of regions in a link diagram, we need to determine the relationship between the number of crossings and the number of arcs in a link diagram. In other words, what is the relationship between the number of vertices and edges in the graph created by a link shadow?\n\n**Exercise 6.3.26.** View the shadow of a connected link diagram _L_ as a graph on a sphere by forgetting the crossing information. Conjecture and prove a relationship between the number of vertices and the number of edges in the graph in terms of the number of crossings of _L_. (Hint: Draw three different link shadows, each with 5\u201310 precrossings. For each example shadow, count the number of vertices and edges in the graph and compare with the number of crossings in your link diagram.)\n\nNow we are convinced that the shadow of a connected link diagram _L_ gives rise to a connected planar graph on the sphere such that _V_ = _cr_ ( _L_ ), _E_ = 2 _cr_ ( _L_ ), and _F_ = _B_ \\+ _W_. Thus,\n\nIt follows that\n\nAt last, we can use this relationship between crossings and regions to prove the main result.\n\n**Exercise 6.3.27** (Proof of Tait's Conjecture). Prove that any two connected, reduced, alternating link diagrams for a given alternating link have the same number of crossings. (Hint: Let _L_ and _L_ \u2032 be two connected, reduced, and alternating diagrams of the same link. Prove that _cr_ ( _L_ ) = _cr_ ( _L_ \u2032) by observing that span( _L_ ) = span( _L_ \u2032), and then simplifying by using Exercise 6.3.21 together with the result we just derived.)\n\n### Notes\n\nLaurent polynomials are finite polynomial expressions that can include negative powers as well as positive powers of variables.\n\n## **Chapter 7**\n\n## **Unknotting Operations & Invariants**\n\n### **7.1 Unknotting Operations**\n\nOne interesting measure of complexity in knot theory concerns how difficult it is to unknot a nontrivial knot if certain unknotting operations are allowed. In this section, we explore several methods of unknotting. We will then be able to consider some questions related to knot complexity.\n\nAs we saw in Section 1.4, the most fundamental unknotting operation is that of a **crossing change,** pictured in Figure 7.1.1 below.\n\nFigure 7.1.1: The crossing change move.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.1.** Suppose the knot diagrams in Figure 7.1.2 need to be unknotted. Perform a number of crossing changes on these diagrams to produce diagrams of the unknot. In each case, how many crossing changes did you need? (Could you have used fewer?)\n\nFigure 7.1.2: Knot diagrams to be unknotted.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.2.** Using what you discovered in Section 1.4, prove the following. Given any knot diagram, a number of crossing changes can be performed on the diagram to produce a diagram of the unknot.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.3.** Prove that no more than half the crossings in a knot diagram must be changed in order to produce a diagram of the unknot. (Hint: The mirror image of a diagram of an unknot is also a diagram of the unknot. Prove this and illustrate how this fact relates to the exercise.)\n\nWhile the crossing change move is the standard unknotting operation, there are several more local moves that can be used to produce the unknot. It may not be obvious to see why, but the #-move and the  -move, defined in Figure 7.1.3, are two more examples of unknotting operations in the following sense. Given any knot diagram _D_ , there is a sequence of Reidemeister moves and #-moves (or  -moves) that can be performed on _D_ to produce an unknotted circle.\n\nFigure 7.1.3: The unknotting #-move and  -move.\n\nThese unknotting operations (and others) are studied in [2, 26, 27].\n\nAnother operation that can be applied to knot diagrams is called the **region crossing change,** or **RCC move.** Given a diagram of a knot, an RCC move is performed by choosing a region _R_ in the diagram and changing all crossings that fall along the boundary of that region. An illustration of how this move works is shown in Figure 7.1.4. We can also allow the RCC move to be performed on the region surrounding the knot.\n\nObserve that the #-move shown in Figure 7.1.3 is just a special type of RCC move.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.4.** Consider the knot diagrams in Figure 7.1.2. For each diagram, perform an RCC move on the region _outside_ of the diagram. What does the resulting diagram look like? In each case, how many crossings were affected by the RCC move?\n\n**Exercise 7.1.5.** Consider the knot diagrams (a1) and (b1) on the left in Figure 7.1.4. Perform RCC moves on some number of regions in each diagram to produce diagrams of the unknot. What is the fewest number of moves needed to unknot each diagram?\n\nFigure 7.1.4: The RCC move performed on a region _R_ in two different knot diagrams.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.6.** Determine the effect of performing an RCC move _twice_ on the same region in a knot diagram. Formulate and prove a conjecture about the effect of performing the RCC move an even number of times on a given region of a knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.7.** Consider the two knot diagrams in Figure 7.1.2. For each of the two diagrams, find a set of regions such that performing RCC moves on those regions produces an unknot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.8.** The knot diagram (a) on the left in Figure 7.1.2 is nonalternating. Find a set of regions on which you can perform RCC moves to produce an alternating knot diagram.\n\nIn Exercise 7.1.2, you showed that the crossing change move is an unknotting operation. Perhaps this is an unsurprising fact. It is much more surprising, however, that the RCC move can be used to unknot _any_ knot diagram, not just those diagrams you unknotted in Exercises 7.1.5 and 7.1.7. A young Japanese mathematician named Ayaka Shimizu was the first to prove our next main theorem, Theorem 7.1.9, in [37]. Using her strategy, we will prove that the RCC move is an unknotting operation.\n\n**Theorem 7.1.9.** _Given any knot diagram, it is possible to obtain a diagram of the unknot by performing some number of region crossing change moves on the diagram_.\n\nOur global strategy to prove Theorem 7.1.9 will be to piggyback on the result that the crossing change (CC) move is known to be an unknotting operation, as we showed in Exercise 7.1.2. So it suffices to prove that, for an arbitrary crossing _c_ in a knot diagram _D_ , there exists a collection of regions in _D_ on which RCC moves can be performed to change _c_ and only _c_. This will prove that the RCC move is also an unknotting operation since each crossing change that is required to unknot the diagram can be achieved by performing RCC moves on some collection of regions in the diagram. Keeping this in mind, let's focus our efforts to prove the following proposition. Theorem 7.1.9 will follow as a corollary.\n\n**Proposition 7.1.10.** _Given any knot diagram D and a crossing c in D, there exists a collection of regions in D on which RCC moves can be performed in order to change the crossing c and only crossing c in D_.\n\nOur goal is to prove Proposition 7.1.10 in two cases, first for the special case of _reduced knot diagrams_ , as in Definition 6.3.1. Then, we will construct an argument by induction on the number of reducible crossings to prove the proposition in general. To see why these two cases may need separate treatment, we make the following observations.\n\nFigure 7.1.5: Regions _A_ , _B_ , _C_ , and _D_ adjacent to a crossing.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.11.** Consider region _A_ in Figure 7.1.5.\n\n1.Assuming this crossing appears in an arbitrary knot diagram, determine which of the remaining regions (if any) _could_ actually be the same region as _A_. (Hint: It may help to think about this question in terms of the crossings in a reducible diagram, e.g., diagrams (b1) and (b2) in Figure 7.1.4.)\n\n2.Assuming this crossing appears in a reduced knot diagram, determine which of the remaining regions (if any) could be the same region as _A_.\n\n3.Summarize your observations.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.12.** Suppose the crossing in Figure 7.1.5 appears in a reduced knot diagram. Determine the effect on the crossing of performing RCC moves on:\n\n(i) an even number of the regions _A, B, C_ , and _D;_\n\n(ii) an odd number of the regions _A, B, C_ , and _D_.\n\nExplain why the assumption that our knot diagram is reduced is important.\n\nIn Definition 5.5.4, we introduced the idea of a checkerboard coloring of a knot or link diagram. As it happens, checkerboard colorings play an important role in figuring out which RCC moves should be performed to change exactly one crossing in a diagram. To continue setting the stage to prove Proposition 7.1.10 in the case where the diagram _D_ is reduced, let's work through the following exercises.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.13.** Consider the knot diagram (al) in Figure 7.1.4, ignoring the shading in the region labeled _R_. Draw this diagram together with a checkerboard coloring. Determine what happens when RCC moves are performed on _all_ of the shaded regions.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.14.** Suppose, more generally, that you are given a _reduced knot_ diagram _D_ and its checkerboard coloring. Formulate and prove a conjecture that describes the effect of performing RCC moves on all of the shaded regions in the checkerboard coloring of _D_.\n\nWith these observations in hand, let's begin to prove Proposition 7.1.10 for the reduced diagram case. The following three-step algorithm can be used to determine the regions on which RCC moves will be applied to achieve our desired crossing change in a reduced diagram.\n\n**Step 1: Assign an orientation to the reduced knot diagram _D_ and smooth the diagram at crossing _c_ with respect to the orientation, as pictured in Figure 7.1.6.**\n\n**Exercise 7.1.15.** Explain why the choice of orientation in Step 1 does not influence the resulting smoothed diagram.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.16.** Explain why the diagram that results from Step 1 is a two component link. How do the two arc segments that come from the smoothing contribute to the two components?\n\nAfter Step 1, the new diagram will contain a newly formed region which consists of two regions from the original knot diagram. Call this new region _R_ , as pictured in Figure 7.1.6.\n\nFigure 7.1.6: Smoothing at a positive or negative crossing in the direction of the orientation.\n\n**Step 2: After smoothing at crossing _c_ , select one of the two components in the link diagram. For the selected component, _completely ignoring the other_ , checkerboard color it so that the region _R_ is unshaded.**\n\nTo clarify Step 2, Figure 7.1.7 illustrates two examples where one component of a link is checkerboard colored while the other component is ignored.\n\n**Step 3: Using the shaded regions from Step 2, shade the corresponding regions in our original knot diagram and perform RCC moves on precisely these regions (exactly once per region).**\n\n**Exercise 7.1.17.** Apply the three-step algorithm as follows to the reduced diagram in Figure 7.1.8 to see how the algorithm works.\n\nFigure 7.1.7: Checkerboard coloring a single link component in a diagram with two components.\n\nFigure 7.1.8: A knot to be simplified via RCC moves.\n\n1.Apply Step 1 to the diagram in Figure 7.1.8, smoothing at the crossing labeled _c_. Label the newly formed region _R_.\n\n2.Choose one component of this diagram to checkerboard color and shade regions following Step 2. Note that one component choice will result in a rather trivial checkerboard coloring (where essentially all that needs to be done is to shade the interior of a disk) while the other component choice leads to a more interesting checkerboard coloring. Either choice will work.\n\n3.Follow Step 3 to identify the regions in the original knot diagram we can apply RCC moves to in order to change crossing _c_ and only crossing _c_. Verify that performing the RCC move on these regions gives us our desired result.\n\nNow, let's back up and see what would have happened if we had made the other component choice in Step 2.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.18.** You made a choice in Exercise 7.1.17 about which link component to checkerboard color. Now, go back to your smoothed diagram and select the other component. Follow Steps 2 and 3 to find an alternate collection of RCC moves that will switch crossing _c_ and only crossing _c_. Verify that your collection of regions changes crossing _c_ and only crossing c.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.19.** Go through steps 1\u20133 once again to identify a set of regions on which RCC moves can be applied in Figure 7.1.8 in order to change crossing _c_ \u2032 and only _c_ \u2032.\n\nNow, we have two sets of regions: one set of regions on which RCC moves can be performed to change _c_ , and another set of regions on which RCC moves can be performed to change _c_ \u2032. What if we want to change _both_ crossings? In the next exercise, we'll explore how to harness the previous results to perform more than one crossing change at a time.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.20.** Identify a set _Q_ of regions of the diagram _D_ in Figure 7.1.8 for which the following holds. If an RCC move is applied _exactly once_ to each region in _Q_ , both crossings _c_ and _c_ \u2032 will change, and all other crossings will stay the same. (Hint: Use your result from Exercise 7.1.12.)\n\nThe examples above give good evidence that the three-step algorithm indeed determines a set of regions in a reduced diagram for which the application of RCC moves will successfully change a specified crossing. Now we must _prove_ that this process works in general.\n\n**Lemma 7.1.21** (Proposition 7.1.10: The Reduced Diagram Case). _Given a reduced diagram, D, and a crossing c in D, there exists a collection of regions in D on which RCC moves can be performed in order to change the crossing c while leaving all other crossings in D unchanged_.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.22.** Prove Lemma 7.1.21. In other words, show that the three-step algorithm always works. (Hint: There are two natural steps in this proof. (1) Prove that if RCC moves are performed on the identified collection of regions, then crossing _c_ changes. (2) Prove that, for a crossing _d_ \u2260 _c_ in the diagram, _d_ remains unchanged after the RCC moves have been performed. Be sure you know why your proof only works for reduced knot diagrams!)\n\nNow that we have shown Proposition 7.1.10 holds for reduced knot diagrams, let's consider diagrams with reducible crossings. We will work toward understanding which regions to select in an arbitrary reducible diagram by first considering the case of a knot diagram with _exactly one_ reducible crossing. A careful analysis of this case will form the foundation for an inductive argument on the number of reducible crossings in a knot diagram. Our next goal, then, will be to prove the following lemma.\n\n**Lemma 7.1.23** (Proposition 7.1.10: The Case of Exactly One Reducible Crossing). _Given a diagram, D, with exactly one reducible crossing d, and a specified crossing c (possibly equal to d) in D, there exists a collection of regions in D on which RCC moves can be performed in order to change the crossing c while leaving all other crossings in D unchanged_.\n\nTo prove Lemma 7.1.23, we consider two cases. In Case 1, the crossing _d_ is precisely the crossing we wish to change. In Case 2, we would like to change a reduced crossing, _c_ \u2260 _d_ , of _D_. Let's explore an example to determine how to attack the simpler case, Case 1.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.24.** The diagram in Figure 7.1.9 has one reducible crossing _d_. Determine how _a portion of the diagram_ can be checkerboard colored such that, if an RCC move is performed on each shaded region, the reducible crossing _d_ and only _d_ is changed.\n\nFigure 7.1.9: A reducible diagram with exactly one reducible crossing, _d_.\n\nUsing this example for intuition, prove Case 1 of Lemma 7.1.23.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.25.** (Proof of Case 1 of Lemma 7.1.23) Describe, in general, how to identify a collection of regions in a diagram, _D_ , with exactly one reducible crossing, _d_ , such that using RCC moves on these regions changes the crossing _d_ and only _d_. Prove that the regions described achieve the desired crossing change. (Hint: You may wish to use the notation or smoothing idea described in Figure 7.1.10.)\n\nNext, we turn to Case 2 of Lemma 7.1.23 where we want to change a crossing _c_ that is a reduced crossing in a reducible diagram _D_. For this case, the following notation will come in handy. By definition, the reducible crossing _d_ has an associated region that is twice adjacent to _d_ ; call this associated region _A_. If the diagram _D_ is smoothed at the reducible crossing _d_ with respect to a choice of orientation (as in Step 1 of the three-step algorithm), then the smoothed diagram is a disjoint union of two diagrams with the region _A_ separating them. Of these two diagrams, we call the component that contains _c_ diagram _D_ 2. We'll call the other reduced diagram _D_ 1. Furthermore, in the diagram _D_ , let _B_ denote the region adjacent to crossing _d_ such that after smoothing at _d, B_ can be viewed as a region inside _D_ 2 See Figure 7.1.10 for an illustration of these naming conventions.\n\nFigure 7.1.10: A diagram with a reducible crossing, _d_. Before smoothing, the regions _A_ and _B_ are adjacent to the crossing _d_ , and region _A_ is twice adjacent to _d_. After smoothing at _d_ , _D_ 1 is the diagram that does not contain crossing _c_.\n\nNotice that in Case 2 of Lemma 7.1.23, _D_ contains exactly one reducible crossing, _d_. If we smooth at _d_ , there are no more reducible crossings in the resulting link diagram. In other words, both of the diagrams _D_ 1 and _D_ 2 are reduced knot diagrams. By Lemma 7.1.21, the three-step algorithm can be used on _D_ 2 (while ignoring _D_ 1) to determine a collection of regions of _D_ 2 that change _c_ and only _c_. A reasonable guess is that this collection of regions, if changed in the original diagram _D_ , will give us our desired result. However, there are some subtleties in how these selected regions behave when viewed as regions of _D_. Let's look at an example to give us ideas for a general proof of Case 2.\n\nFigure 7.1.11: The diagram from Figure 7.1.9 with the reducible crossing _d_ smoothed and the knot diagram _D_ 1 ignored. In _D_ 2, the crossing _c_ has been smoothed and one component of the resulting link is checkerboard colored (so that _R_ is unshaded) while the other link component is ignored. Notice that the region _A_ 2 of _D_ 2 is the entire large region at the center of the diagram containing _D_ 1, since _D_ 1 is ignored.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.26.** Return to the example in Figure 7.1.9. Smooth the reducible crossing _d_ , respecting the orientation of the knot. Follow the three-step algorithm on _D_ 2 (completely ignoring _D_ 1) and _determine the selected regions of D_ 2 that will change _c_ and only _c_ in _D_ 2. Regardless of the choice of component you made in the three-step algorithm, the region _A_ should be shaded. One such component choice is shown in Figure 7.1.11. Draw the checkerboard coloring corresponding to the _other choice_.\n\nWe now take the regions of _D_ 2 that were selected in Exercise 7.1.26 and adjust them to find regions in the original diagram _D_ on which we should perform RCC moves. You might ask, why do the regions need adjusting? To answer this question, let's view all of the shaded regions in Figure 7.1.11 as regions of _D_ and pay special attention to what happens at _d_ if RCC moves are applied to all of these regions. See Figure 7.1.12.\n\nThe crossing _c_ will indeed be changed by these regions, since RCC moves are applied to exactly one of the four regions adjacent to _c_. Unfortunately, the crossing _d_ is _also_ changed when RCC moves are applied to all of the shaded regions in Figure 7.1.12, since _d_ only has three distinct adjacent regions, and all of them are shaded. So, in this example, a modification of the selected regions is required to determine an unknotting set of regions.\n\nFigure 7.1.12: When RCC moves are performed in the shaded regions of _D, two_ crossings change in the diagram.\n\nIt should not be surprising that the adjustments we'd like to make are in the portion of the diagram that has thus far been ignored, namely _D_ 1.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.27.** Modify the shaded regions in the diagram in Figure 7.1.12 by _unshading_ certain regions so that, if we perform RCC moves on all of the remaining shaded regions, _c_ and only _c_ is changed.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.28.** Use the checkerboard coloring corresponding to the _other component choice_ that you found in Exercise 7.1.26 to determine whether performing RCC moves on all of the shaded regions of your diagram (viewed as regions of _D_ ) changes _c_ and only _c_ in _D_. Is a modification to your collection of regions needed? Why or why not? What adjustment to the set of regions (if any) will allow us to change _c_ and only _c_ by performing RCC moves on the regions in the set?\n\nUsing Exercises 7.1.27 and 7.1.28 for intuition, let's go back to the general setting of Case 2 of Lemma 7.1.23. We will let   denote our desired collection of regions of _D_ on which RCC moves can be applied to change crossing _c_ and only _c_. By Lemma 7.1.21, since _D_ 2 is reduced, there exists a collection of regions of _D_ 2, call it  , such that performing RCC moves on these regions achieves the desired crossing change at _c_ and only _c_ in _D_ 2. (Once again, we are ignoring _D_ 1 and its regions, as in Figure 7.1.11.) Let's call _A_ 2 the region of _D_ 2 that contains _A_ , as illustrated in two different types of examples in Figure 7.1.13. Since the regions _A_ 2 and _B_ may or may not be in  , there are four mutually exclusive possibilities to consider in order to determine what   should be. We begin by including in   all of the regions in  \u2014each now viewed as a region of _D_ \u2014 _except for A_ 2 if _A_ 2 is in   (since _A_ 2 is not a region of _D_ ).\n\nFigure 7.1.13: Two examples illustrating the relationship between _A_ in _D_ and _A_ 2 in _D_ 2.\n\nHere are the four subcases.\n\n1.Suppose   contains both regions _A_ 2 and _B_ , as in Figure 7.1.14. Checkerboard color _D_ 1 (which sits inside _A_ 2) in such a way that the surrounding region _A_ is included in the set of shaded regions. Add to _Q_ both _A_ and all the newly shaded regions of _D_ 1 that lie within _A_ 2.\n\nFigure 7.1.14: Subcase 1.\n\n2.Suppose _A_ 2 is in   and _B_ is not in  , as in Figure 7.1.15. In this case, add to   all regions inside _D_ 1, as well as _A_.\n\n3.Suppose _A_ 2 is not in   and _B_ is in  . Determining the set of regions,  , in this case is left as Exercise 7.1.29.\n\nFigure 7.1.15: Subcase 2.\n\n4.Finally, suppose that _A_ 2 is not in   and _B_ is not in  , as in Figure 7.1.16. Then neither regions inside _D_ 1 nor region _A_ should be included in _Q_.\n\nFigure 7.1.16: Subcase 4.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.29.** Complete the description of regions   in Subcase 3, assuming _A_ 2 is not in   and _B_ is in  . Provide a figure in support of your description, analogous to the figure for each case given above.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.30.** (Proof of Case 2 of Lemma 7.1.23) For each of the four subcases above, prove that if   contains exactly the regions specified, then performing RCC moves on all regions in   will change _c_ in _D_ and no other crossings.\n\nWe are now more than ready to prove Proposition 7.1.10.\n\n**Proposition 7.1.31** (Inductive Step of Proposition 7.1.10). _Suppose D is a reducible knot diagram containing at least one reducible crossing. Let c be any crossing in D, perhaps a reducible crossing. Then there is a subset of regions Q of D on which RCC moves can be performed in order to change crossing c, while leaving all other crossings in D unchanged_.\n\n**Proof ofProposition 7.1.31.** We will argue by induction on _k_ , the number of reducible crossings in _D_. Lemma 7.1.21 states that Proposition 7.1.10 holds for a reduced diagram, that is _k_ = 0, while Lemma 7.1.23 states that Proposition 7.1.10 holds for _k_ = 1. This 'second' base case holds the key to the inductive step! At the heart of the proof of Lemma 7.1.23 (Case 2), we smoothed at a reducible crossing, leaving two disjoint diagrams, _D_ 1 and _D_ 2, where we assumed that _D_ 2 contains _c_ and one fewer reducible crossing.\n\nSuppose Proposition 7.1.31 holds for all knot diagrams with _k_ or fewer reducible crossings. Let _c_ be a crossing in a knot diagram with _k_ \\+ 1 reducible crossings.\n\n**Exercise 7.1.32.** Complete the proof of Proposition 7.1.31. (Hint: Consider two cases, one where _c_ is a reducible crossing and one where _c_ is reduced. First, consider the case where _c_ is reducible, and use what you learned in Exercise 7.1.25. For the second case, argue that there must exist a reducible crossing _d_ in _D_ such that _d_ \u2260 _c_ and smoothing at _d_ results in two disjoint diagrams: _D_ 2 containing _c_ , and _D_ 1 which is reduced. Then apply the inductive hypothesis to _D_ 2 and complete the proof using four cases analogous to Lemma 7.1.23.)\n\n### **7.2 The Unknotting Number**\n\nIn Section 1.2, the **unknotting number** of a knot is defined to be the minimum number of times the knot must pass through itself before it becomes unknotted. In other words, the unknotting number of a knot _K_ is the minimum number of crossing change moves that must be performed on a diagram of _K_ to produce the unknot, where the minimum is taken over all diagrams of _K_. We denote the unknotting number of _K_ by _u_ ( _K_ ).\n\n**Exercise 7.2.1.** Explain why the unknotting number of a knot is a knot invariant.\n\n**Exercise 7.2.2.** Prove that a knot _K_ has unknotting number 0 if and only if _K_ is the unknot.\n\n**Exercise 7.2.3.** Prove that all twist knots have unknotting number one.\n\n**Exercise 7.2.4.** Show that for the (2, _p_ ) torus knot, _T_ 2, _p_ , the unknotting number satisfies  . (In fact,  , but equality is more difficult to prove! Note for this problem that _p_ must be odd for _T_ 2, _p_ to be a knot rather than a link.)\n\nFor cases where it is less obvious how to unknot a knot diagram, we can use the following easily computable upper bound to determine partial information about the unknotting number. Suppose we have a knot _K_ with diagram _D_. Form the Gauss diagram _G D_ associated to _D_ , as described in Chapter 4. The **trivializing number,** _t_ ( _D_ ), is equal to the minimum number of arrows that must be removed from _G D_ so that no arrows intersect.\n\nFor instance, in Figure 7.2.1, we picture a twist knot, its Gauss diagram, and a subdiagram of the Gauss diagram containing only nonintersecting arrows. In this example, _t_ ( _D_ ) = 2 since two arrows (1 and 5) had to be removed to produce a diagram with only nonintersecting arrows.\n\nFigure 7.2.1: A knot diagram _D_ , its Gauss diagram _G D_, and a subdiagram of _G D_ containing no intersecting arrows.\n\nThe trivializing number was originally defined by Ryo Hanaki in [13]. Building on Hanaki's work, a group of undergraduate researchers working in the Williams College SMALL REU proved the following result [15].\n\n**Theorem 7.2.5.** _For any diagram D of a knot K_ ,\n\n**Exercise 7.2.6.** Use Theorem 7.2.5 to give an alternative proof that the unknotting number of any twist knot is 1.\n\n**Exercise 7.2.7.** Consider the knot diagrams in Figure 7.2.2. Find an upper bound on the unknotting number for each knot. (Hint: Find the trivializing number for each diagram and use Theorem 7.2.5.)\n\nFigure 7.2.2: Diagrams to be unknotted.\n\nIn Exercise 7.2.7, you found upper bounds for the unknotting numbers of several knot diagrams. In particular, you discovered indirectly that diagram (c) can be unknotted with three crossing changes. Surprisingly, if we make the diagram of this knot _more complex_ , the knot can be unknotted with _fewer_ crossing changes!\n\n**Exercise 7.2.8.** Observe two diagrams of the pretzel knot _P_ 5,1,4 in Figure 7.2.3. Verify that (i) the minimal crossing diagram of _P_ 5,1,4 can be unknotted by changing its three highlighted crossings; and (ii) the diagram with more crossings can be unknotted by changing its two highlighted crossings.\n\nFigure 7.2.3: Nakanishi-Bleiler example.\n\nThe pair of diagrams in Figure 7.2.3 was discovered independently by Nakanishi [28] and Bleiler [6] as an example showing that the unknotting number of a knot might only be achievable on a diagram that has more than the minimum number of crossings. This is one of the factors that makes the unknotting number of a knot particularly difficult to compute.\n\nOne famous result that has been used to determine certain unknotting numbers was proven by Martin Scharlemann [35]. Recall, from Section 1.6, the definitions of prime and composite knots. His classical theorem concerning unknotting numbers that is easy to understand, but difficult to prove, is the following.\n\n**Theorem 7.2.9.** _Any composite knot has unknotting number at least_ 2. _Equivalently, all knots with unknotting number_ 1 _are prime_.\n\n**Exercise 7.2.10.** Use Theorem 7.2.9 to answer the following questions.\n\n1.What can you conclude about the unknotting number of the square knot (pictured in Figure 5.5.1)?\n\n2.What does Exercise 7.2.3 imply about the family of twist knots?\n\n### **7.3 The Region Unknotting Number**\n\nWe have just explored the classical unknotting number. Similarly, we can define unknotting numbers for the other unknotting operations, just as Ayaka Shimizu first did for the RCC move in [37]. In particular, the region unknotting number, _u R_( _K_ ), of a knot _K_ is the minimum number of RCC moves that must be performed in a diagram of _K_ to produce the unknot, where the minimum is taken over all diagrams of _K_. Abusing notation, we use _u R_( _D_ ) to denote the minimum number of regions that must be changed in a particular diagram _D_ of a knot in order to produce a diagram of the unknot. Note that if _D_ is a diagram of _K_ , then _u R_( _K_ ) \u2264 _u R_( _D_ ). (Explain why!)\n\n**Exercise 7.3.1.** Prove that the following families of knots all have region unknotting number 1.\n\n1.Twist knots\n\n2.Knots with Conway notation [ _m_ 2 _m_ ]] (as in [Definition 4.3.40)\n\n3.Knots with Conway notation [[ _m_ 2 ( _m_ \u00b1 1)]]\n\n**Exercise 7.3.2.** Make conjectures about the values of _u R_( _K_ ) for each of the knots _K_ shown in Figure 7.2.2.\n\n**Exercise 7.3.3.** Make a conjecture about the region unknotting number of a (2,p) torus knot, _u R_( _T_ 2, _p_ )\n\nIn an attempt to learn something about the region unknotting number, one natural question to ask is: what is the relationship between _u R_( _K_ ) and the crossing number _c_ ( _K_ ) of a knot _K_? A related, but simpler, question to answer is the following: what is the relationship between the region unknotting number of a knot diagram and the number of regions in the diagram? Let's explore these questions for the case of reduced diagrams of knots.\n\nThe following terminology will help us in our exploration. Suppose we have a reduced knot diagram with a checkerboard coloring. Let _B_ be the set of shaded regions in the diagram and _W_ be the set of unshaded regions. Now suppose that _P_ is some subset of _B_ and _V_ is some subset of _W_. Then, _B_ \u2013 _P_ will denote all shaded regions _not_ in the subset _P_ and _W_ \u2013 _V_ will denote all unshaded regions _not_ in _V_. Let's proceed by working through the following two exercises, using what we learned in Exercise 7.1.14 about applying RCC moves to all shaded regions in a reduced knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 7.3.4.** An example of a reduced knot diagram with sets of regions _B, P, W_ , and _V_ is shown in Figure 7.3.1.\n\n1.Consider the effect of performing RCC moves on all regions in _P_.\n\n2.Consider the effect of performing RCC moves on all regions in _B_ \u2013 _P_.\n\n3.Consider the effect of performing RCC moves on all regions in _V_.\n\n4.Consider the effect of performing RCC moves on all regions in _W_ \u2013 _V_.\n\nWhat did you notice?\n\n**Exercise 7.3.5.** Formulate and prove a conjecture about the relationship between the diagram obtained by performing RCC moves on all regions in _P_ and the diagram obtained by performing RCC moves on all regions in _B_ \u2013 _P_. Then, formulate and prove a similar conjecture for _V_ and _W_ \u2013 _V_.\n\nThe following exercise uses the **floor function,** [ _x_ ], i.e., the function that takes in a real number _x_ and returns the largest integer less than or equal to _x_.\n\n**Exercise 7.3.6.** Suppose that _D_ is a reduced, checkerboard colored knot diagram and let _b_ denote the number of shaded regions and _w_ the number of unshaded regions in _D_. Let _U_ be a diagram of the unknot with the same underlying projection as _D_. Show that _U_ can be obtained from _D_ using no more than _n_ moves, where\n\nFigure 7.3.1: Subsets of checkerboard colored regions: _B_ , the set of 'shaded' regions, consists of the regions colored dark and light green, and _W_ , the set of 'unshaded' regions, consists of regions colored dark and light orange. In particular, regions in the set _P_ are colored dark green, and regions in _B_ \u2013 _P_ are light green, while regions in the set _V_ are colored dark orange, and regions in _W_ \u2013 _V_ are light orange.\n\n(Hint: Use the result of Exercise 7.3.5.)\n\n**Exercise 7.3.7.** Building upon Exercise 7.3.6, prove Theorem 7.3.8.\n\n**Theorem 7.3.8.** _The region unknotting number u R_( _D_ ) _of a reduced knot diagram D is no greater than half the number of regions in D_.\n\nThis is a nice result in and of itself, but let's push our investigation a bit further to answer our original question. How does the region unknotting number of a knot _K_ relate to the _crossing number_ of _K_? Since Theorem 7.3.8 tells us about the relationship between _u R_ and the number of _regions_ in a diagram, we're halfway there.\n\nRecall the relationship we discovered in Section 6.3 between the number of regions, _F_ , in a knot diagram _D_ and the number of crossings, _c_ ( _D_ ):\n\n**Exercise 7.3.9.** Prove Theorem 7.3.10. (Hint: Use the fact that _F_ = 2 + _c_ ( _D_ ) together with your result from Exercise 7.3.6.)\n\n**Theorem 7.3.10.** _Let D be a reduced knot diagram and c_ ( _D_ ) _the number of crossings in D. Then_\n\nNow, we have all the tools we need to show the following corollary about the region unknotting number of a _knot_ , not just the region unknotting number of a particular _diagram_ of the knot.\n\n**Corollary 7.3.11.** _Let K be a knot_.\n\n_1. If D is any reduced diagram of K, then  , where c_( _D_ ) _denotes the number of crossings in D_.\n\n_2. In general,  , where c_( _K_ ) _denotes the crossing number of K, as defined in Activity 1.4. (Hint: Use the fact that every knot has a reduced diagram.)_\n\n**Exercise 7.3.12.** Prove Corollary 7.3.11.\n\n## **Chapter 8**\n\n## **Virtual Knots**\n\n### **8.1 What is a Virtual Knot?**\n\nThink back to Chapter 4 where we first learned about using Gauss diagrams to record knot diagrammatic information. Since there is a well-defined algorithm for creating a Gauss diagram from a knot diagram, we can see that every knot diagram corresponds to a Gauss diagram. You might ask, though, about the converse of this statement. Does every well-formed Gauss diagram correspond to a knot diagram? The answer is a resounding no. The surprisingly simple example in Figure 8.1.1 illustrates this fact.\n\nFigure 8.1.1: A Gauss diagram without a knot.\n\n**Exercise 8.1.1.** Consider the Gauss diagram from Figure 8.1.1. _It is impossible to construct a corresponding knot diagram_. Try to do the impossible and construct a knot diagram for this Gauss diagram. In the process, discover what goes awry. Describe your findings.\n\nThis fact is precisely what prompted the discovery of a more general collection of knots called **virtual knots.** A virtual knot can formally be defined as a Gauss diagram, where two virtual knots are considered to be equivalent if and only if their Gauss diagrams can be related by a sequence of the Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister moves that you discovered in Chapter 4. (See Figure 4.2.5.)\n\nThe theory of virtual knots was independently discovered by Louis Kauffman, in [21], and Naoko and Seiichi Kamada, in [17], where the knotlike objects are called **abstract knots.**\n\n**Exercise 8.1.2.** Show, using the Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister moves discovered in Chapter 4, that the virtual knots in Figures 8.1.1 and 8.1.2 are equivalent.\n\nFigure 8.1.2: A virtual knot equivalent to the simplest nontrivial virtual knot.\n\nIt's clear from the definition that all ordinary knots (i.e., the knots we've been studying until now, which we will henceforth refer to as \"classical knots\") are also virtual knots since they correspond to Gauss diagrams, but there is a vast world of nonclassical virtual knots. The simplest example is our friend the **virtual trefoil** shown in Figures 8.1.1 and 8.1.2. Figure 8.1.3 illustrates several other simple examples of nonclassical virtual knots.\n\nFigure 8.1.3: Two distinct nonclassical virtual knots.\n\nWhile virtual knots can be defined in terms of Gauss diagrams, they can also be defined in terms of strange sorts of knot diagrams. A virtual knot diagram is a knot diagram that may involve both ordinary crossings and **virtual crossings.** The ordinary, classical crossings are the familiar crossings that appear as arrows in the Gauss diagram. The virtual crossings are those we are forced to draw when reconstructing a knot diagram from a Gauss diagram. Virtual crossings can be thought of as not really existing, since they don't appear in the Gauss diagram of a virtual knot. In a virtual knot diagram, virtual crossings are drawn as in Figure 8.1.4.\n\nFigure 8.1.4: The two types of crossings in a virtual knot diagram: a classical crossing and a virtual crossing.\n\nIn Figure 8.1.5, a virtual knot is given both in terms of its virtual knot diagram and its Gauss diagram. For a simple exercise, identify each arrow in the Gauss diagram with its corresponding classical crossing. It is very important to remember that the virtual crossings do not appear in the Gauss diagram\u2014only classical crossing information is recorded.\n\nFigure 8.1.5: A virtual knot diagram and its Gauss diagram.\n\n**Exercise 8.1.3.** Construct virtual knot diagrams for the Gauss diagrams in Figure 8.1.3.\n\n**Exercise 8.1.4.** Prove that any virtual knot diagram containing _only_ virtual crossings (and no classical crossings) must be the unknot. (See Figure 8.1.6 for examples of such diagrams.)\n\n**Exercise 8.1.5.** Prove that any virtual knot diagram containing _exactly one_ classical crossing must be the unknot. (Hint: The proof of this fact may be quite similar to the proof of Exercise 8.1.4.)\n\n**Exercise 8.1.6.** Construct virtual knot diagrams that correspond to the Gauss diagrams in Figures 8.1.1 and 8.1.2. Can one (or both!) of these diagrams be drawn with a single virtual crossing? (Hint: Why might this knot be called the virtual trefoil?)\n\nFigure 8.1.6: Examples of virtual diagrams of the unknot.\n\nBy virtue of our original definition of virtual knot equivalence, we see that classical Reidemeister moves can be performed on virtual knot diagrams without changing the virtual knot type. What other Reidemeister-type moves should be included in a list of R-moves for virtual knots?\n\n**Exercise 8.1.7.** Any additional Reidemeister moves we allow for knots with virtual crossings should have _no effect on the Gauss diagram_ of the knot. In Figure 8.1.7, there are eight _potential_ Reidemister-type moves for virtual knots.\n\n1.Determine which subset of these moves we should call the **virtual Reidemeister moves.** Use your results to write a reference sheet of the three classical and four virtual Reidemeister moves that characterize virtual knot equivalence. (Hint: Exactly half of these moves should be allowed.)\n\n2.For each of the moves that should _not_ be allowed on our list, provide a Gauss diagram schema illustrating the effect of the prohibited move.\n\n**Exercise 8.1.8.** Use the set of three classical and four virtual R-moves to show that the virtual knot diagrams you constructed in Exercise 8.1.6 represent equivalent virtual knots. (Notice that this is an alternative way to prove the equivalence in Exercise 8.1.2.)\n\n**Exercise 8.1.9.** By providing sequences of virtual Reidemeister moves, prove that the diagrams in Figure 8.1.6 are all diagrams of the unknot.\n\nFigure 8.1.7: Eight _potential_ virtual Reidemeister moves.\n\n**Exercise 8.1.10.** Create a virtual knot diagram with eight virtual crossings and six classical crossings that is equivalent to the virtual knot shown in Figure 8.1.5. (Be creative!) Make sure you provide the sequence of R-moves that demonstrates the equivalence.\n\n### **8.2 Virtual Knot Invariants**\n\nNow that we know what virtual knots are, one big question we might ask is the following. How can we tell when a given virtual knot is actually _nonclassical_? In other words, given a Gauss diagram how do we know if we actually need virtual crossings to construct the given knot? Similarly, if presented with a knot diagram that has virtual crossings, how do we know whether it is equivalent to a diagram with only classical crossings? Before we discover a partial answer to this question, let's build some intuition about why this task may be tricky!\n\n**Exercise 8.2.1.** The diagram in Figure 8.2.1 is a virtual-looking diagram of the unknot. Use the classical and virtual R-moves to prove that this is indeed the unknot.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.2.** Draw several different virtual knot diagrams that are all equivalent to the (classical) trefoil but that all have some extraneous virtual crossings in them. Show that your diagrams are equivalent to the trefoil by providing a sequence of diagrams that are related by virtual and classical R-moves.\n\nFigure 8.2.1: The unknot in a virtual disguise.\n\nGiven a diagram with virtual crossings, it can be difficult to determine whether or not the diagram might represent a classical knot. To identify certain virtual knots that are nonclassical, we introduce an idea of Kauffman's called _crossing parity_ , first introduced in [19].\n\n**Definition 8.2.3.** A crossing in a virtual knot diagram is called **even** if its corresponding chord in the Gauss diagram intersects an even number of chords. Otherwise, we call the crossing **odd.**\n\n**Exercise 8.2.4.** Classify all chords in the Gauss diagram in Figure 8.1.5 as either even or odd. Use this classification to determine which crossings in the corresponding knot diagram are even and which are odd.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.5.** Give an alternate definition for even and odd crossings that relies only on the virtual knot diagram, without making reference to the corresponding Gauss diagram. Is it possible to avoid any reference to virtual crossings in your alternate definition?\n\nNow consider the following quantity associated to a knot diagram _D_.\n\n**Definition 8.2.6.** The **odd writhe,** _J_ ( _D_ ), of a knot diagram _D_ is the sum of the signs of all _odd_ crossings in _D_.\n\nNotice that if _D_ has no odd crossings, _J_ ( _D_ ) = 0.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.7.** Find the odd writhes of the Gauss diagrams in Figures 8.1.1, 8.1.2, 8.1.3, and 8.1.5.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.8.** Give a virtual knot diagram _D_ for which the value of _J_ ( _D_ ) is \u20135.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.9.** Suppose _D_ is a virtual knot diagram and _D m_ is its mirror image (obtained from _D_ by changing all classical crossings of _D_ ). Show that _J_ ( _D_ ) = \u2013 _J_ ( _D m_).\n\nIn Chapter 5, we learned that the writhe of a knot is not a knot invariant. Interestingly, the odd writhe _is_ an invariant for virtual knots.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.10.** Prove that the odd writhe is an invariant of virtual knots. In other words, prove that _J_ is a function such that if virtual knot diagrams _D_ and _D_ \u2032 are equivalent, then _J_ ( _D_ ) = _J_ ( _D_ \u2032).\n\n**Exercise 8.2.11.** Use the result you proved in Exercise 8.2.10 to find a virtual knot diagram _D_ that is not equivalent to its mirror image _D m_.\n\nA particularly useful fact about the odd writhe is that _J_ = 0 for all classical knots. In other words, if you are able to prove that _J_ ( _K_ ) \u2260 0, this is a proof that _K_ is a nonclassical virtual knot!\n\n**Exercise 8.2.12.** Use the odd writhe to show that one of the Gauss diagrams in Figure 8.2.2 corresponds to a nonclassical knot. Is the other knot classical or not?\n\nFigure 8.2.2: Two virtual knots, given by their Gauss diagrams.\n\nWe have seen that the odd writhe is a useful invariant, but there are limits to what it can achieve. Indeed, as you may have discovered, there are nonclassical virtual knots for which _J_ ( _K_ ) = 0. The invariant _J_ only gives us partial information about which virtual knots are classical and which aren't. So what are some other virtual knot invariants? Here, we mention one called the _intersection index polynomial_ [7, 14]. To define the intersection index polynomial, we first need to define the intersection index of a single crossing in a virtual knot diagram. Then, we will use the intersection indices of all of the crossings in a virtual knot diagram to form a polynomial invariant for that virtual knot.\n\nFor a given oriented virtual knot diagram _D_ , let us choose a classical crossing, _d_ , in this diagram and _smooth_ the crossing, as pictured in Figure 8.2.3.\n\nFigure 8.2.3: Smoothing of a crossing with numbered components.\n\nThis smoothing produces the diagram of a two-component virtual link. We label the components of the link as follows: when the crossing that is being smoothed is oriented upward, the component on the left is assigned the number 1 and the component on the right is assigned the number 2. Just as in the definition of the linking number of a classical link, we restrict our attention to crossings involving both components. So let _C d_ denote the set of (classical) crossings in this virtual link diagram that involve both components of the link. We assign signs _\u03b1_ ( _x_ ) to each classical crossing _x_ in _C d_ as shown in Figure 8.2.4 based on which component of the link each strand of the crossing belongs to. (Note that this is a different way of assigning signs to crossings than we are used to!)\n\nNow we have the following definition. The **intersection index of a crossing** _D_ in a virtual knot diagram _K_ is the sum of the values _\u03b1_ ( _x_ ) for all classical crossings _x_ in _C d_. Let's denote the intersection index of crossing _D_ by _i_ ( _d_ ). See Figure 8.2.5 for an example illustrating how to compute the intersection index for each of the crossings in a given virtual knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.13.** Find the intersection index of each classical crossing in the virtual knot diagram pictured in Figure 8.1.5.\n\nFigure 8.2.4: Definition of _\u03b1_ ( _x_ ) of a classical crossing _x_ in _C d_.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.14.** Find the intersection index of each classical crossing in the virtual knot diagram pictured in Figure 8.2.6.\n\nUsing the idea of an intersection index, we define a polynomial invariant for virtual knots as follows.\n\n**Definition 8.2.15.** Let the **intersection index polynomial, p** _t_ ( _K_ ), for virtual knot _K_ with diagram _D_ be the sum over all classical crossings _D_ in _D_ of the polynomial _sign_ ( _d_ )( _t_ | _i_ ( _d_ )| \u2013 1). In more succinct notation:\n\nIn this formula, the quantity _sign_ ( _d_ ) is the usual sign of the crossing _d_ (as in Definition 3.4.6), and the letter _t_ is a variable.\n\nFor the example in Figure 8.2.5, verify the following computation.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.16.** Show that **P** _t_ ( _T \u03c5_) = 2 _t_ \u2013 2 for the virtual trefoil _T \u03c5_ by computing the intersection index polynomial in two different ways, using the two equivalent, but distinct, virtual trefoil diagrams you created in Exercise 8.1.6.\n\nFigure 8.2.5: Computing the intersection index for all crossings in a virtual knot diagram.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.17.** Find **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) for the virtual knot _K_ shown in Figure 8.1.5.\n\n**Exercise 8.2.18.** Find **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) for the virtual knot _K_ shown in Figure 8.2.6. What is _J_ ( _K_ ) for this virtual knot?\n\n**Exercise 8.2.19.** Prove that **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) does not depend on the virtual knot diagram you choose to represent _K_. In other words, **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) is a virtual knot invariant. (Hint: Proceed with your proof by determining the effect of each classical and virtual R-move on the value of the polynomial. In particular, explain why the \u20131 term is essential for invariance of **p** _t_ ( _K_ ).)\n\nFigure 8.2.6: Another example of a virtual knot.\n\nThe intersection index polynomial has several interesting properties, as we see in Theorem 8.2.20.\n\n**Theorem 8.2.20.** 1. _The invariant_ **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) = 0 _if K is a classical knot_.\n\n_2. The invariant_ **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) _is_ **strictly stronger** _than J, meaning that if J can be used to prove that two virtual knots K and K_ \u2032 _aren't equivalent (by showing J_ ( _K_ ) \u2260 _J_ ( _K_ \u2032), _so can_ **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) _(by showing_ **P** _t_ ( _K_ ) \u2260 **P** _t_ ( _K_ \u2032)). _Furthermore, there are nonequivalent virtual knots that_ **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) _can distinguish that J can't. (SeeExercise 8.2.18.)_\n\nThe first statement in Theorem 8.2.20 can be proven by using the famous _Jordan Curve Theorem_ to show that the intersection index of any crossing in a classical knot diagram is 0, but let's focus on the second statement. Can you prove it?\n\n**Exercise 8.2.21.** Prove statement 2 in Theorem 8.2.20. (Hint: Consider the terms corresponding to odd crossings in **p** _t_ ( _K_ ).)\n\nIn this section, we have defined several virtual knot invariants that give us information about the \"virtualness\" of nonclassical virtual knots, but that are uninteresting for classical knots. There are many more virtual knot invariants that have been studied that not only distinguish nonclassical virtuals, but that can also distinguish classical knots from one another. For instance, there are several ways to extend the Jones polynomial so that it is an invariant of virtual knots but it agrees with the Jones polynomial for all classical knots. See [10, 21] for various virtual enhancements of the Jones polynomial. Other interesting virtual knot invariants can be found in [11, 21, 34] and elsewhere.\n\n### **8.3 Virtual Unknotting**\n\nIn Chapter 7, we delved into some unknotting operations for classical knots. In particular, we learned about the crossing change (CC) move that can be used to turn any knot diagram into a diagram of the unknot. Perhaps surprisingly, the CC move is _not_ an unknotting operation for virtual knots. We can show this using one of our favorite examples.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.1.** Consider the virtual knot diagram _D_ in Figure 8.2.5. We computed **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) for this virtual knot using _D_ and saw that **p** _t_ ( _K_ ) \u2260 0, thus proving that the virtual knot is nonclassical. In particular, we proved that the virtual knot is _not_ the unknot. Show that, for every possible virtual knot diagram _D_ \u2032 that is related to _D_ by some number of CC moves, the intersection index polynomial is nonzero. Thus, _D_ cannot be unknotted using CC moves.\n\nAnother famous example of a nonclassical virtual knot that cannot be unknotted with CC moves is **Kishino's knot,** pictured in Figure 8.3.1 and first introduced in [24]. Unlike the example in Figure 8.2.5, more powerful virtual knot invariants than _J_ or **p** _t_ are needed to prove that Kishino's knot is nontrivial. (See, for instance, [4, 10].)\n\nFigure 8.3.1: Kishino's knot.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.2.** Prove that neither the odd writhe nor the intersection index polynomial can distinguish Kishino's knot from the unknot.\n\nIf we take a closer look at Kishino's knot, we see that the reason this virtual knot diagram is nontrivially and virtually knotted is a consequence of the fact that certain Reidemeister-type moves are forbidden. In Exercise 8.1.7, you showed that four of the potential virtual Reidemeister moves fail to describe a virtual knot equivalence. Two of these moves are particularly interesting: moves (e) and (f). These two moves are commonly referred to as the **forbidden moves.** Notice that if either of the forbidden moves were allowable as virtual R-moves, Kishino's knot would be unknottable.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.3.** Show that Kishino's knot can be unknotted using virtual Reidemeister moves together with one or both of the forbidden moves, i.e., moves (e) and (f) in Figure 8.1.7.\n\nSince we are able to unknot Kishino's knot using forbidden moves, we might ask, are there _other_ virtual knots that can be unknotted with forbidden moves? The answer is a resounding \"Yes!\" Sam Nelson proved the following theorem in [29].\n\n**Theorem 8.3.4.** _If both of the forbidden moves are added to the collection of classical and virtual Reidemeister moves, then_ every _virtual (and classical) knot can be unknotted_.\n\nThe way Nelson proved this fascinating result is actually quite simple. He showed that the Gauss diagrammatic forbidden moves along with Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister moves can be used to rearrange all arrows in any Gauss diagram so that they become nonintersecting. As you proved in Exercise 4.2.7, such a Gauss diagram must represent an unknot. Let's reconstruct the details of Nelson's proof.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.5.** Use the Gauss diagram schema you derived in Exercise 8.1.7 for forbidden moves (e) and (f) in Figure 8.1.7 along with Gauss diagrammatic R-moves from Figures 4.2.5, 4.2.4, and 8.3.2 to justify each of the moves in the Gauss diagram sequence shown in Figure 8.3.3. In other words, identify moves _i, ii, iii, iv_ , and _v_ if _n_ is replaced by + and \u2013 _n_ is replaced by \u2013. Similarly, identify moves _i, ii, iii, iv_ , and _v_ if _n_ is replaced by \u2013 and \u2013 _n_ is replaced by +.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.6. In** Exercise 8.3.5, Gauss diagrammatic R-moves and forbidden moves were used to move the head of an arrow past the tail of an arrow in a Gauss diagram _when the arrows have the same sign_. Now, prove that the head of an arrow can be moved past the tail of an arrow that has the _opposite sign_ (as shown in Figure 8.3.4) by providing a sequence of Gauss diagrammatic R-moves and forbidden moves similar to the one shown in Figure 8.3.3.\n\nBefore we put all of the pieces together and complete our proof, let's see how these derived forbidden moves are able to unknot several nontrivial virtual knots.\n\nFigure 8.3.2: Four Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister 3 moves that do not appear in Figure 4.2.5, but can be derived from the minimal generating set shown in the figure. (Did you find all four of these moves in Exercise 4.2.9?)\n\nFigure 8.3.3: A sequence of Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister and forbidden moves.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.7.** Unknot the two nontrivial virtual knots in Figure 8.1.3 using the derived forbidden moves from Figures 8.3.3 and 8.3.4.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.8.** Use Exercises 4.2.7, 8.3.5, and 8.3.6 to prove Theorem 8.3.4.\n\nIt is clear now why we don't allow forbidden moves to be used to characterize virtual knot equivalence. Curiously, if just _one_ of the two forbidden moves is added to the list of classical and virtual R-moves, the resulting knot theory isn't trivial. (Recall that we needed _both_ forbidden moves in order to complete our proof above.) In fact, this new kind of knot theory is quite interesting! It is referred to as the theory of **welded knots** [18].\n\nFigure 8.3.4: A move that can be derived from a sequence of Gauss diagrammatic Reidemeister and forbidden moves.\n\nWe just showed that the pair of forbidden moves can unknot any virtual knot. Just as in classical knot theory, there are many types of unknotting operations. Let's look at a different flavor of unknotting operation for virtual knots called _virtualization_. When a classical crossing in a virtual knot diagram is replaced by a virtual crossing, as in Figure 8.3.5, we call this a **virtualization** of the crossing.\n\nFigure 8.3.5: A classical crossing becomes a virtual crossing via the virtualization operation.\n\nIn Exercises 8.1.4 and 8.1.5, we proved (perhaps without realizing it) that virtualization is an unknotting operation. Indeed, if all or nearly all of the classical crossings in a virtual knot diagram are virtualized, then the diagram becomes the unknot. An interesting question emerges from this idea: can we unknot a given virtual knot diagram with fewer virtualization moves?\n\n**Exercise 8.3.9.** Perform some number _n_ < 3 of virtualization moves on the diagram of Kishino's knot in Figure 8.3.1 to transform the diagram into an unknot. Show, using virtual R-moves, that your virtualized diagram is indeed the unknot.\n\nGiven that the virtualization move is a virtual unknotting operation, we can define the virtual unknotting number of a virtual knot _K_.\n\n**Definition 8.3.10.** The **virtual unknotting number,** _u \u03c5_( _K_ ), of _K_ is the minimum number of virtualization moves that must be performed on a diagram _D_ of _K_ in order to produce the unknot. Here, the minimum is taken over all possible diagrams _D_ of _K_.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.11.** Make a conjecture about the value of _u \u03c5_( _K_ ) for the virtual knot _K_ shown in Figure 8.1.5.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.12.** Provide an infinite family of virtual knots with virtual unknotting number 1. (Hint: There are two parts to this problem. First, use the odd writhe or the intersection index polynomial to prove that all of the virtual knots in your family are distinct. Second, prove that each member of the family does indeed have virtual unknotting number 1.)\n\nFinally, let's think about the virtual unknotting number more generally.\n\n**Exercise 8.3.13.** In Section 7.2, we defined the trivializing number _t_ ( _D_ ) of a knot diagram _D_ via its Gauss diagram _G D_. Since _t_ ( _D_ ) is defined in terms of Gauss diagrams, its definition can be extended to virtual knots. Use the trivializing number to find an upper bound on the virtual unknotting number of a virtual knot.\n\n## **Acknowledgments**\n\nWe would like to thank Charles Livingston and Colin Adams for their thoughtful feedback on this manuscript. We are also grateful to Erin McNicholas, David Neel, and Leanne Robertson for providing helpful suggestions for improvement. Most especially, we would like to recognize our knot theory students\u2014Elsa, Fintan, Hunter, Jacob, Justin, Leigh, Randi, Sean, Spencer, Taz, Ana, Kees, Megan, Rufei, Sarah, and Zach\u2014who helped us to make significant improvements to the book throughout the writing and editing process as well as those students who inspired us to write this book in the first place.\n\nFinally, we owe a debt of gratitude our wonderful families and friends. Thank you for being our cheerleaders! Your patience, support, and love are so greatly appreciated!\n\n## **Index**\n\n_A_ and _A_ \u20131-smoothing,\n\n\u0394-equivalent,\n\nabstract knots,\n\nAlexander matrix,\n\nAlexander polynomial,\n\nAlexander's Theorem,\n\nbased knot,\n\ncheckerboard coloring,\n\nclosed braid,\n\nreplaceable region,\n\nclosed polygonal curve,\n\nconnected link diagram,\n\ncontinued fraction form of a rational tangle,\n\ncontinued fraction regular form,\n\nConway notation,\n\nConway's Theorem,\n\ncrossing,\n\ncrossing change,\n\ncrossing sign,\n\ncrossing-arc matrix,\n\ndefect region,\n\ndegenerate triangle,\n\ndelta equivalent,\n\ndeterminant of a knot,\n\ndot-checkerboard algorithm,\n\nDT notation,\n\nelementary matrix,\n\nelementary move,\n\nelementary triangle,\n\nEuler characteristic,\n\neven crossing,\n\nfigure eight knot,\n\nfloor function,\n\nflype,\n\nforbidden moves,\n\nfraction of a rational tangle,\n\nGauss code,\n\nGauss diagram,\n\ninteger tangle,\n\nintersection index of a crossing,\n\nintersection index polynomial,\n\ninverse of a tangle,\n\nJones polynomial,\n\nKauffman bracket,\n\nKauffman bracket polynomial,\n\nKauffman span,\n\nKishino's knot,\n\nknot,\n\ndefining points,\n\nknot invariant,\n\nlink,\n\nlink invariant,\n\nlink components,\n\nlink diagram,\n\nlinking number,\n\nmirror of a tangle,\n\nnegative crossing,\n\nodd crossing,\n\nodd writhe,\n\np-colorable,\n\nplanar isotopy,\n\npositive crossing,\n\npretzel link,\n\nprojection,\n\nR1 move, ,\n\nR2 move,\n\nR3 move,\n\nrational knot,\n\nrational link,\n\nrational tangle,\n\nreciprocal tangle,\n\nreduced diagram,\n\nreducible crossing,\n\nredundant moves,\n\nregion crossing change,\n\nRCC move,\n\nregion unknotting number,\n\nregular projection,\n\nReidemeister moves,\n\nSchubert's Theorem,\n\nSeifert circles,\n\nSeifert diagram,\n\nheight,\n\nSeifert circles\n\ncoherently oriented pairs,\n\nincoherently oriented pairs,\n\nsimple curve,\n\nsmoothed state,\n\nbracket of smoothed state,\n\nsquare knot,\n\nTait's Conjecture,\n\ntangle denominator closure,\n\ntangle diagram,\n\ntangle equivalence,\n\ntangle numerator closure,\n\ntangle product,\n\ntangle rotation,\n\ntangle sum,\n\nThe Flip Theorem,\n\ntorus link,\n\ntrefoil,\n\nleft-handed trefoil,\n\nright-handed trefoil,\n\ntricolorable,\n\ntrivializing number,\n\ntwist diagram,\n\ntwist knot,\n\nunknotting number,\n\nvertical and horizontal flip,\n\nvirtual crossings,\n\nvirtual knots,\n\nvirtual Reidemeister moves,\n\nvirtual unknotting number,\n\nvirtualization,\n\nwelded knots,\n\nwrithe, \n\n## **Bibliography**\n\n[1]C. 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{"meta": {"title": "Defending Jacob - William Landay"}, "text": "\n\n_Defending Jacob_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2012 by William Landay\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\nPublished in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.\n\nDELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nLanday, William.  \nDefending Jacob: a novel / William Landay.  \np. cm.  \neISBN: 978-0-345-52759-2  \n1. Public prosecutors\u2014Fiction. 2. Murder\u2014Investigation\u2014Fiction. 3. Massachusetts\u2014  \nFiction. I. Title.  \nPS3612.A5477D44 2011  \n813'.6\u2014dc22 2011011623\n\nwww.bantamdell.com\n\nv3.1\n\n# Contents\n\n_Cover_\n\n_Title Page_\n\n_Copyright_\n\nPart One\n\n 1 In the Grand Jury\n\n 2 Our Crowd\n\n 3 Back to School\n\n 4 Mindfuck\n\n 5 Everyone Knows You Did It\n\n 6 Descent\n\n 7 Denial\n\n 8 The End\n\nPart Two\n\n 9 Arraignment\n\n10 Leopards\n\n11 Running\n\n12 Confessions\n\n13 179 Days\n\n14 Questioning\n\n15 Playing Detective\n\n16 Witness\n\n17 Nothing's Wrong with Me!\n\n18 The Murder Gene, Redux\n\n19 The Cutting Room\n\n20 One Son Was Here, the Other Was Gone\n\n21 Beware the Fury of a Patient Man\n\n22 A Heart Two Sizes Too Small\n\n23 Him\n\nPart Three\n\n24 It's Different for Mothers\n\n25 The Schoolteacher, Glasses Girl, the Fat Somerville Guy, Urkel, the Recording Studio Guy, the Housewife, Braces Woman, and Other Oracles of Truth\n\n26 Someone Is Watching\n\n27 Openings\n\n28 A Verdict\n\n29 The Burning Monk\n\n30 The Third Rail\n\n31 Hanging Up\n\n32 The Absence of Evidence\n\n33 Father O'Leary\n\n34 Jacob Was Mad\n\n35 Argentina\n\n36 Helluva Show\n\nPart Four\n\n37 After-Life\n\n38 The Policeman's Dilemma\n\n39 Paradise\n\n40 No Way Out\n\n_Other Books by This Author_\n\n_About the Author_\n\n# **Part**  \n **ONE**\n\n_\"Let us be practical in our expectations of the Criminal Law.... [For] we have merely to imagine, by some trick of time travel, meeting our earliest hominid ancestor, Adam, a proto-man, short of stature, luxuriantly furred, newly bipedal, foraging about on the African savannah three million or so years ago. Now, let us agree that we may pronounce whatever laws we like for this clever little creature, still it would be unwise to pet him.\"_\n\n\u2014REYNARD THOMPSON,  \n_A General Theory of Human Violence_ (1921)\n\n# **1 | In the Grand Jury**\n\nMr. Logiudice: State your name, please.\n\nWitness: Andrew Barber.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What do you do for work, Mr. Barber?\n\nWitness: I was an assistant district attorney in this county for 22 years.\n\nMr. Logiudice: \"Was.\" What do you do for work now?\n\nWitness: I suppose you'd say I'm unemployed.\n\nIn April 2008, Neal Logiudice finally subpoenaed me to appear before the grand jury. By then it was too late. Too late for his case, certainly, but also too late for Logiudice. His reputation was already damaged beyond repair, and his career along with it. A prosecutor can limp along with a damaged reputation for a while, but his colleagues will watch him like wolves and eventually he will be forced out, for the good of the pack. I have seen it many times: an ADA is irreplaceable one day, forgotten the next.\n\nI have always had a soft spot for Neal Logiudice (pronounced _la-JOO-dis_ ). He came to the DA's office a dozen years before this, right out of law school. He was twenty-nine then, short, with thinning hair and a little potbelly. His mouth was overstuffed with teeth; he had to force it shut, like a full suitcase, which left him with a sour, pucker-mouthed expression. I used to get after him not to make this face in front of juries\u2014nobody likes a scold\u2014but he did it unconsciously. He would get up in front of the jury box shaking his head and pursing his lips like a schoolmarm or a priest, and in every juror there stirred a secret desire to vote against him. Inside the office, Logiudice was a bit of an operator and a kiss-ass. He got a lot of teasing. Other ADAs tooled on him endlessly, but he got it from everyone, even people who worked with the office at arm's length\u2014cops, clerks, secretaries, people who did not usually make their contempt for a prosecutor quite so obvious. They called him Milhouse, after a dweeby character on _The Simpsons_ , and they came up with a thousand variations on his name: LoFoolish, LoDoofus, Sid Vicious, Judicious, on and on. But to me, Logiudice was okay. He was just innocent. With the best intentions, he smashed people's lives and never lost a minute of sleep over it. He only went after bad guys, after all. That is the Prosecutor's Fallacy\u2014 _They are bad guys because I am prosecuting them_ \u2014and Logiudice was not the first to be fooled by it, so I forgave him for being righteous. I even liked him. I rooted for him precisely because of his oddities, the unpronounceable name, the snaggled teeth\u2014which any of his peers would have had straightened with expensive braces, paid for by Mummy and Daddy\u2014even his naked ambition. I saw something in the guy. An air of sturdiness in the way he bore up under so much rejection, how he just took it and took it. He was obviously a working-class kid determined to get for himself what so many others had simply been handed. In that way, and _only_ in that way, I suppose, he was just like me.\n\nNow, a dozen years after he arrived in the office, despite all his quirks, he had made it, or nearly made it. Neal Logiudice was First Assistant, the number two man in the Middlesex District Attorney's Office, the DA's right hand and chief trial attorney. He took over the job from me\u2014this kid who once said to me, \"Andy, you're _exactly_ what I want to be someday.\" I should have seen it coming.\n\nIn the grand jury room that morning, the jurors were in a sullen, defeated mood. They sat, thirty-odd men and women who had not been clever enough to find a way out of serving, all crammed into those school chairs with teardrop-shaped desks for chair arms. They understood their jobs well enough by now. Grand juries serve for months, and they figure out pretty quickly what the gig is all about: accuse, point your finger, name the wicked one.\n\nA grand jury proceeding is not a trial. There is no judge in the room and no defense lawyer. The prosecutor runs the show. It is an investigation and in theory a check on the prosecutor's power, since the grand jury decides whether the prosecutor has enough evidence to haul a suspect into court for trial. If there is enough evidence, the grand jury grants the prosecutor an indictment, his ticket to Superior Court. If not, they return a \"no bill\" and the case is over before it begins. In practice, no bills are rare. Most grand juries indict. Why not? They only see one side of the case.\n\nBut in this case, I suspect the jurors knew Logiudice did not have a case. Not today. The truth was not going to be found, not with evidence this stale and tainted, not after everything that had happened. It had been over a year already\u2014over twelve months since the body of a fourteen-year-old boy was found in the woods with three stab wounds arranged in a line across the chest as if he'd been forked with a trident. But it was not the time, so much. It was everything else. Too late, and the grand jury knew it.\n\nI knew it too.\n\nOnly Logiudice was undeterred. He pursed his lips in that odd way of his. He reviewed his notes on a yellow legal pad, considered his next question. He was doing just what I'd taught him. The voice in his head was mine: Never mind how weak your case is. Stick to the system. Play the game the same way it's been played the last five-hundred-odd years, use the same gutter tactic that has always governed cross-examination\u2014lure, trap, fuck.\n\nHe said, \"Do you recall when you first heard about the Rifkin boy's murder?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Describe it.\"\n\n\"I got a call, I think, first from CPAC\u2014that's the state police. Then two more came in right away, one from the Newton police, one from the duty DA. I may have the order wrong, but basically the phone started ringing off the hook.\"\n\n\"When was this?\"\n\n\"Thursday, April 12, 2007, around nine A.M., right after the body was discovered.\"\n\n\"Why were you called?\"\n\n\"I was the First Assistant. I was notified of every murder in the county. It was standard procedure.\"\n\n\"But you did not keep every case, did you? You did not personally investigate and try every homicide that came in?\"\n\n\"No, of course not. I didn't have that kind of time. I kept very few homicides. Most I assigned to other ADAs.\"\n\n\"But this one you kept.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you decide immediately that you were going to keep it for yourself, or did you only decide that later?\"\n\n\"I decided almost immediately.\"\n\n\"Why? Why did you want this case in particular?\"\n\n\"I had an understanding with the district attorney, Lynn Canavan: certain cases I would try personally.\"\n\n\"What sort of cases?\"\n\n\"High-priority cases.\"\n\n\"Why you?\"\n\n\"I was the senior trial lawyer in the office. She wanted to be sure that important cases were handled properly.\"\n\n\"Who decided if a case was high priority?\"\n\n\"Me, in the first instance. In consultation with the district attorney, of course, but things tend to move pretty fast at the beginning. There isn't usually time for a meeting.\"\n\n\"So _you_ decided the Rifkin murder was a high-priority case?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because it involved the murder of a child. I think we also had an idea it might blow up, catch the media's attention. It was that kind of case. It happened in a wealthy town, with a wealthy victim. We'd already had a few cases like that. At the beginning we did not know exactly what it was, either. In some ways it looked like a schoolhouse killing, a Columbine thing. Basically, we didn't know what the hell it was, but it smelled like a big case. If it had turned out to be a smaller thing, I would have passed it off later, but in those first few hours I had to be sure everything was done right.\"\n\n\"Did you inform the district attorney that you had a conflict of interest?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I didn't have one.\"\n\n\"Wasn't your son, Jacob, a classmate of the dead boy?\"\n\n\"Yes, but I didn't know the victim. Jacob didn't know him either, as far as I was aware. I'd never even heard the dead boy's name.\"\n\n\"You did not know the kid. All right. But you did know that he and your son were in the same grade at the same middle school in the same town?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you still didn't think you were conflicted out? You didn't think your objectivity might be called into question?\"\n\n\"No. Of course not.\"\n\n\"Even in hindsight? You insist, you\u2014 Even in hindsight, you _still_ don't feel the circumstances gave even the _appearance_ of a conflict?\"\n\n\"No, there was nothing improper about it. There was nothing even unusual about it. The fact that I lived in the town where the murder happened? That was a _good_ thing. In smaller counties, the prosecutor often lives in the community where a crime happens, he often knows the people affected by it. So what? So he wants to catch the murderer _even more_? That's not a conflict of interest. Look, the bottom line is, I have a conflict with all murderers. That's my job. This was a horrible, horrible crime; it was my job to do something about it. I was determined to do just that.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Logiudice lowered his eyes to his pad. No sense attacking the witness so early in his testimony. He would come back to this point later in the day, no doubt, when I was tired. For now, best to keep the temperature down.\n\n\"You understand your Fifth Amendment rights?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"And you have waived them?\"\n\n\"Apparently. I'm here. I'm talking.\"\n\nTitters from the grand jury.\n\nLogiudice laid down his pad, and with it he seemed to set aside his game plan for a moment. \"Mr. Barber\u2014Andy\u2014could I just ask you something: why not invoke them? Why not remain silent?\" The next sentence he left unsaid: _That's what I would do_.\n\nI thought for a moment that this was a tactic, a bit of playacting. But Logiudice seemed to mean it. He was worried I was up to something. He did not want to be tricked, to look like a fool.\n\nI said, \"I have no desire to remain silent. I want the truth to come out.\"\n\n\"No matter what?\"\n\n\"I believe in the system, same as you, same as everyone here.\"\n\nNow, this was not exactly true. I do not believe in the court system, at least I do not think it is especially good at finding the truth. No lawyer does. We have all seen too many mistakes, too many bad results. A jury verdict is just a guess\u2014a well-intentioned guess, generally, but you simply cannot tell fact from fiction by taking a vote. And yet, despite all that, I do believe in the power of the ritual. I believe in the religious symbolism, the black robes, the marble-columned courthouses like Greek temples. When we hold a trial, we are saying a mass. We are praying together to do what is right and to be protected from danger, and that is worth doing whether or not our prayers are actually heard.\n\nOf course, Logiudice did not go in for that sort of solemn bullshit. He lived in the lawyer's binary world, guilty or not guilty, and he was determined to keep me pinned there.\n\n\"You believe in the system, do you?\" he sniffed. \"All right, Andy, let's get back to it, then. We'll let the system do its work.\" He gave the jury a knowing, smart-ass look.\n\nAttaboy, Neal. Don't let the witness jump into bed with the jury\u2014 _you_ jump into bed with the jury. Jump in there and snuggle right up beside them under the blanket and leave the witness out in the cold. I smirked. I would have stood up and applauded if I'd been allowed to, because I taught him to do precisely this. Why deny myself a little fatherly pride? I must not have been all bad\u2014I turned Neal Logiudice into a half-decent lawyer, after all.\n\n\"So go on already,\" I said, nuzzling the jury's neck. \"Stop screwing around and get on with it, Neal.\"\n\nHe gave me a look, then picked up his yellow pad again and scanned it, looking for his place. I could practically read the thought spelled out across his forehead: _lure, trap, fuck_. \"Okay,\" he said, \"let's pick it up at the aftermath of the murder.\"\n\n# **2 | Our Crowd**\n\n_April 2007: twelve months earlier_.\n\nWhen the Rifkins opened their home for the shiva, the Jewish period of mourning, it seemed the whole town came. The family would not be allowed to mourn in private. The boy's murder was a public event; the grieving would be as well. The house was so full that when the murmur of conversation occasionally swelled, the whole thing began to feel awkwardly like a party, until the crowd lowered its voice as one, as if an invisible volume knob were being turned.\n\nI made apologetic faces as I moved through this crowd, repeating \"Excuse me,\" turning this way and that to shuffle by.\n\nPeople stared with curious expressions. Someone said, \"That's him, that's Andy Barber,\" but I did not stop. We were four days past the murder now, and everyone knew I was handling the case. They wanted to ask about it, naturally, about suspects and clues and all that, but they did not dare. For the moment, the details of the investigation did not matter, only the raw fact that an innocent kid was dead.\n\n_Murdered!_ The news sucker-punched them. Newton had no crime to speak of. What the locals knew about violence necessarily came from news reports and TV shows. They had supposed that violent crime was limited to the city, to an underclass of urban hillbillies. They were wrong about that, of course, but they were not fools and they would not have been so shocked by the murder of an adult. What made the Rifkin murder so profane was that it involved one of the town's children. It was a violation of Newton's self-image. For a while a sign had stood in Newton Centre declaring the place \"A Community of Families, A Family of Communities,\" and you often heard it repeated that Newton was \"a good place to raise kids.\" Which indeed it was. It brimmed with test-prep centers and after-school tutors, karate dojos and Saturday soccer leagues. The town's young parents especially prized this idea of Newton as a child's paradise. Many of them had left the hip, sophisticated city to move here. They had accepted massive expenses, stultifying monotony, and the queasy disappointment of settling for a conventional life. To these ambivalent residents, the whole suburban project made sense only because it was \"a good place to raise kids.\" They had staked everything on it.\n\nMoving from room to room, I passed one tribe after another. The kids, the dead boy's friends, had crowded into a small den at the front of the house. They talked softly, stared. One girl's mascara was smeared with tears. My own son, Jacob, sat in a low chair, lank and gangly, apart from the others. He gazed into his cell phone screen, uninterested in the conversations around him.\n\nThe grief-stunned family was next door in the living room, old grandmas, baby cousins.\n\nIn the kitchen, finally, were the parents of the kids who'd gone through the Newton schools with Ben Rifkin. This was our crowd. We had known one another since our kids showed up for the first day of kindergarten eight years earlier. We had stood together at a thousand morning drop-offs and afternoon pickups, endless soccer games and school fund-raisers and one memorable production of _Twelve Angry Men_. Still, a few close friendships aside, we did not know one another all that well. There was a camaraderie among us, certainly, but no real connection. Most of these acquaintanceships would not survive our kids' graduation from high school. But in those first few days after Ben Rifkin's murder, we felt an illusion of closeness. It was as if we had all suddenly been revealed to one another.\n\nIn the Rifkins' vast kitchen\u2014Wolf cooktop, Sub-Zero fridge, granite counters, English-white cabinets\u2014the school parents huddled in clusters of three or four and made intimate confessions about insomnia, sadness, unshakeable dread. They talked over and over about Columbine and 9/11 and how Ben's death made them cling to their own children while they could. The extravagant emotions of that evening were heightened by the warm light in the kitchen, cast by hanging fixtures with burnt-orange globes. In that firelight, as I entered the room, the parents were indulging one another in the luxury of confessing secrets.\n\nAt the kitchen island one of the moms, Toby Lanzman, was arranging hors d'oeuvres on a serving platter as I came into the room. A dish towel was slung over her shoulder. The sinews in her forearms stood out as she worked. Toby was my wife Laurie's best friend, one of the few enduring connections we had made here. She saw me searching for my wife, and she pointed across the room.\n\n\"She's mothering the mothers,\" Toby said.\n\n\"I see that.\"\n\n\"Well, we can all use a little mothering at the moment.\"\n\nI grunted, gave her a puzzled look, and moved off. Toby was an incitement. My only defense against her was a tactical retreat.\n\nLaurie stood with a small circle of moms. Her hair, which has always been thick and unruly, was swept up in a loose bun at the back of her head and held there by a big tortoiseshell hair clip. She rubbed a friend's upper arm in a consoling way. Her friend inclined toward Laurie visibly, like a cat being stroked.\n\nWhen I reached her, Laurie put her left arm around my waist. \"Hi, sweetie.\"\n\n\"It's time to go.\"\n\n\"Andy, you've been saying that since the second we got here.\"\n\n\"Not true. I've been thinking it, not saying it.\"\n\n\"Well, it's been written all over your face.\" She sighed. \"I knew we should have come in separate cars.\"\n\nShe took a moment to appraise me. She did not want to go but understood that I was uneasy, that I felt spotlighted here, that I was not much of a talker to begin with\u2014chitchat in crowded rooms always left me exhausted\u2014and these things all had to be weighed. A family had to be managed, like any other organization.\n\n\"You go,\" she decided. \"I'll get a ride home with Toby.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Why not? Take Jacob with you.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\" I leaned down\u2014Laurie is almost a foot shorter than me\u2014to stage-whisper, \"Because I'd _love_ to stay.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Go. Before I change my mind.\"\n\nThe funereal women stared.\n\n\"Go on. Your coat's in the bedroom upstairs.\"\n\nI went upstairs and found myself in a long corridor. The noise was muted here, which came as a relief. The echo of the crowd still murmured in my ears. I began searching for the coats. In one bedroom, which apparently belonged to the dead boy's little sister, there was a pile of coats on the bed, but mine was not in the pile.\n\nThe door to the next room was closed. I knocked, opened it, poked my head in to peek around.\n\nThe room was gloomy. The only light came from a brass floor lamp in the far corner. The dead boy's father sat in a wing chair under this light. Dan Rifkin was small, trim, delicate. As always, his hair was sprayed in place. He wore an expensive-looking dark suit. There was a rough two-inch tear in his lapel to symbolize his broken heart\u2014a waste of an expensive suit, I thought. In the dim light, his eyes were sunken, rimmed in bluish circles like a raccoon's eye-mask.\n\n\"Hello, Andy,\" he said.\n\n\"Sorry. Just looking for my coat. Didn't mean to bother you.\"\n\n\"No, come sit a minute.\"\n\n\"Nah. I don't want to intrude.\"\n\n\"Please, sit, sit. There's something I want to ask you.\"\n\nMy heart sank. I have seen the writhing of survivors of murder victims. My job forces me to watch it. Parents of murdered children have it worst, and to me the fathers have it even worse than the mothers because they are taught to be stoic, to \"act like a man.\" Studies have shown that fathers of murdered children often die within a few years of the murder, often of heart failure. Really, they die of grief. At some point a prosecutor realizes he cannot survive that kind of heartbreak either. He cannot follow the fathers down. So he focuses instead on the technical aspects of the job. He turns it into a craft like any other. The trick is to keep the suffering at a distance.\n\nBut Dan Rifkin insisted. He waved his arm like a cop directing cars to move ahead, and seeing there was no choice, I closed the door gently and took the chair next to his.\n\n\"Drink?\" He held up a tumbler of coppery whiskey, neat.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Is there any news, Andy?\"\n\n\"No. Afraid not.\"\n\nHe nodded, looked off toward the corner of the room, disappointed. \"I've always loved this room. This is where I come to think. When something like this happens, you spend a lot of time thinking.\" He made a tight little smile: _Don't worry, I'm all right_.\n\n\"I'm sure that's true.\"\n\n\"The thing I can't get past is: why did this guy do it?\"\n\n\"Dan, you really shouldn't\u2014\"\n\n\"No, hear me out. Just\u2014I don't\u2014I don't need hand-holding. I'm a rational person, that's all. I have questions. Not about the details. When we've talked, you and I, it's always about the details: the evidence, the court procedures. But I'm a rational person, okay? I'm a rational person and I have questions. Other questions.\"\n\nI sank in my seat, felt my shoulders relax, acquiescing.\n\n\"Okay. So here it is: Ben was so _good_. That's the first thing. Of course no kid deserves this, anyway. I know that. But Ben really was a good boy. He was _so_ good. And just a kid. He was fourteen years old, for God's sake! Never made any trouble. Never. Never, never, never. So why? What was the motive? I don't mean anger, greed, jealousy, that kind of motive, because there _can't_ be an ordinary motive in this case, there can't, it just doesn't make sense. Who could feel that kind of, of _rage_ against Ben, against any little kid? It just doesn't make sense. It just doesn't make sense.\" Rifkin put the four fingertips of his right hand on his forehead and worked the skin in slow circles. \"What I mean is: what _separates_ these people? Because I've felt those things, of course, those _motives_ \u2014angry, greedy, jealous\u2014you've felt them, everybody's felt them. But we've never killed anyone. You see? We never _could_ kill anyone. But some people do, some people _can_. Why is that?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You must have some sense of these things.\"\n\n\"No. I don't, really.\"\n\n\"But you talk to them, you meet them. What do they say, the killers?\"\n\n\"They don't talk much, most of them.\"\n\n\"Do you ever ask? Not why they did it, but what makes them capable of it in the first place.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because they wouldn't answer. Their lawyers wouldn't let them answer.\"\n\n\"Lawyers!\" He tossed his hand.\n\n\"They wouldn't know how to answer, anyway, most of them. These philosophical murderers\u2014Chianti and fava beans and all that stuff\u2014it's bullshit. It's just the movies. Anyway, they're full of shit, these guys. If they had to answer, they'd probably tell you about their rough childhoods or something. They'd make themselves the victims. That's the usual story.\"\n\nHe nodded once, to urge me on.\n\n\"Dan, the thing is, you can't torture yourself looking for reasons. There are none. It's not logical. Not the part you're talking about.\"\n\nRifkin slid down in his chair a little, concentrating, as if he would need to give the whole thing more thought. His eyes glistened but his voice was even, controlled. \"Do other parents ask these sorts of things?\"\n\n\"They ask all kinds of things.\"\n\n\"Do you see them after the case is over? The parents?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"I mean long after, years.\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"And do they\u2014how do they seem? Are they all right?\"\n\n\"Some of them are all right.\"\n\n\"But some of them aren't.\"\n\n\"Some of them aren't.\"\n\n\"What do they do, the ones who make it? What are the key things? There must be a pattern. What's the strategy, what are the best practices? What's worked for them?\"\n\n\"They get help. They rely on their families, the people around them. There are groups out there for survivors; they use those. We can put you in touch. You should talk to the victim advocate. She'll set you up with a support group. It's very helpful. You can't do it alone, that's the thing. You have to remember there are other people out there who have gone through it, who know what you're going through.\"\n\n\"And the other ones, the parents who don't make it, what happens to them? The ones who never recover?\"\n\n\"You're not going to be one of those.\"\n\n\"But if I am? What happens to me, to us?\"\n\n\"We're not going to let that happen. We're not even going to think that way.\"\n\n\"But it does happen. It does happen, doesn't it? It does.\"\n\n\"Not to you. Ben wouldn't want it to happen to you.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"I know your son,\" Rifkin said. \"Jacob.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I've seen him around the school. He seems like a good kid. Big handsome boy. You must be proud.\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"He looks like you, I think.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I've been told.\"\n\nHe took a deep breath. \"You know, I find myself thinking about these kids from Ben's class. I feel attached. I want to see them succeed, you know? I've watched them grow up, I feel close to them. Is that unusual? Am I feeling that because it makes me feel closer to Ben? Is that why I'm latching onto these other kids? Because that's what it sounds like, doesn't it? It looks weird.\"\n\n\"Dan, don't worry about how things look. People are going to think whatever they think. The hell with 'em. You can't worry about it.\"\n\nHe massaged his forehead some more. His agony could not have been more obvious if he had been bleeding on the floor. I wanted to help him. At the same time, I wanted to get away from him.\n\n\"It would help me if I _knew_ , if, if the case was resolved. It will help me when you resolve the case. Because the uncertainty\u2014it's draining. It'll help when the case is resolved, won't it? In other cases you've seen, that helps the parents, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so.\"\n\n\"I don't mean to pressure you. I don't mean to sound that way. It's just, I think it will help me when the case is resolved and I know this guy is\u2014when he's _locked up_ and _put away_. I know you'll do that. I have faith in you, of course. I mean, _of course_. I'm not doubting you, Andy. I'm just saying it will help me. Me, my wife, everyone. That's what we need, I think. Closure. That's what we're looking to you for.\"\n\nThat night Laurie and I lay in bed reading.\n\n\"I still think they're making a mistake opening the school so soon.\"\n\n\"Laurie, we've been all through this.\" My voice had a bored tone. _Been there, done that_. \"Jacob will be perfectly safe. We'll take him there ourselves, we'll walk him right up to the door. There'll be cops all over. He'll be safer in school than anywhere else.\"\n\n\"Safer. You can't know that. How could you know that? Nobody has any idea who this guy is or where he is or what he intends to do next.\"\n\n\"They have to open the school sometime. Life goes on.\"\n\n\"You're wrong, Andy.\"\n\n\"How long do you want them to wait?\"\n\n\"Until they catch the guy.\"\n\n\"That could take a while.\"\n\n\"So? What's the worst that could happen? The kids miss a few days of school. So what? At least they'd be safe.\"\n\n\"You can't make them totally safe. It's a big world out there. Big, dangerous world.\"\n\n\"Okay, safer.\"\n\nI laid my book down on my belly, where it formed a little roof. \"Laurie, if you keep the school closed, you send these kids the wrong message. School isn't supposed to be dangerous. It's not a place they should be afraid of. It's their second home. It's where they spend most of their waking hours. They _want_ to be there. They want to be with their friends, not stuck at home, hiding under the bed so the bogeyman doesn't get them.\"\n\n\"The bogeyman already got one of them. That makes him not a bogeyman.\"\n\n\"Okay, but you see what I'm saying.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see what you're saying, Andy. I'm just telling you you're wrong. The number one priority is keeping the kids safe, physically. Then they can go be with their friends or whatever. Until they catch the guy, you can't promise me the kids'll be safe.\"\n\n\"You need a guarantee?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"We'll catch the guy,\" I said. \"I guarantee it.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Soon.\"\n\n\"You know this?\"\n\n\"I expect it. We always catch 'em.\"\n\n\"Not always. Remember the guy who killed his wife and wrapped her in a blanket in the back of the Saab?\"\n\n\"We _did_ catch that guy. We just couldn't\u2014all right, _almost_ always. We almost always catch 'em. This guy we'll catch, I promise you.\"\n\n\"What if you're wrong?\"\n\n\"If I'm wrong, I'm sure you'll tell me all about it.\"\n\n\"No, I mean if you're wrong and some poor kid gets hurt?\"\n\n\"That won't happen, Laurie.\"\n\nShe frowned, giving up. \"There's no arguing with you. It's like running into a wall over and over again.\"\n\n\"We're not arguing. We're discussing.\"\n\n\"You're a lawyer; you don't know the difference. _I'm_ arguing.\"\n\n\"Look, what do you want me to say, Laurie?\"\n\n\"I don't want you to say anything. I want you to listen. You know, being confident isn't the same as being right. Think. We might be putting our son in danger.\" She pressed her fingertip to my temple and shoved it, a gesture half playful, half pissed off. \"Think.\"\n\nShe turned away, laid her book atop a wobbly pile of others on her night table, and lay down with her back to me, curled up, a kid in an adult body.\n\n\"Here,\" I said, \"scootch over.\"\n\nWith a series of body hops, she moved backward until her back was against me. Until she could feel some warmth or sturdiness or whatever she needed from me at that moment. I rubbed her upper arm.\n\n\"It's going to be all right.\"\n\nShe grunted.\n\nI said, \"I suppose make-up sex is out of the question?\"\n\n\"I thought we weren't arguing.\"\n\n\"I wasn't, but you were. And I want you to know: it's okay, I forgive you.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha. Maybe if you say you're sorry.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"You don't sound sorry.\"\n\n\"I am truly, deeply sorry. Truly.\"\n\n\"Now say you're wrong.\"\n\n\"Wrong?\"\n\n\"Say you're wrong. Do you want it or not?\"\n\n\"Hm. So, just to be clear: all I have to do is say I'm wrong and a beautiful woman will make passionate love to me.\"\n\n\"I didn't say passionate. Just regular.\"\n\n\"Okay, so: say I'm wrong and a beautiful woman will make love to me, completely without passion but with pretty good technique. That's the situation?\"\n\n\"Pretty good technique?\"\n\n\"Astounding technique.\"\n\n\"Yes, Counselor, that's the situation.\"\n\nI put away my book, McCullough's biography of Truman, atop a slippery pile of slick magazines on my own night table, and turned off the light. \"Forget it. I'm not wrong.\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter. You already said I'm beautiful. I win.\"\n\n# **3 | Back to School**\n\nEarly the next morning there was a voice in the dark, in Jacob's room, a groan\u2014and I woke up to find my body already moving, swinging up onto its feet, shuffling around the foot of the bed. Still dense with sleep, I passed out of the gloom of the bedroom, through the gray light of dawn in the hallway, then back into darkness again in my son's bedroom.\n\nI turned on the wall switch and adjusted the dimmer. Jacob's room was cluttered with huge oafish sneakers, a MacBook covered with stickers, an iPod, schoolbooks, paperback novels, shoe boxes filled with old baseball cards and comic books. In a corner, an Xbox was hooked up to an old TV. The Xbox disks and their cases were piled nearby, mostly combat role-play games. There was dirty laundry, of course, but also two stacks of clean laundry neatly folded and delivered by Laurie, which Jacob had declined to put away in his bureau because it was easier to pluck clean clothes right from the piles. On top of a low bookcase was a group of trophies Jacob had won when he was a kid playing youth soccer. He had not been much of an athlete, but back then every kid got a trophy, and in the years since he had simply never moved them. The little statues sat there like religious relics, ignored, virtually invisible to him. There was a vintage movie poster for a 1970s chop-socky picture, _Five Fingers of Death_ , which featured a man in a karate outfit smashing his well-manicured fist through a brick wall. (\"The Martial Arts Masterpiece! SEE one incredible onslaught after another! PALE before the forbidden ritual of the steel palm! CHEER the young warrior who alone takes on the evil war-lords of martial arts!\") The clutter in here was so deep and permanent, Laurie and I had long since stopped fighting with Jacob to clean it up. For that matter, we had stopped even noticing it. Laurie had a theory that the mess was a projection of Jacob's inner life\u2014that stepping into his bedroom was like stepping into his chaotic teenage mind\u2014so it was silly to nag him about it. Believe me, this is what you get when you marry a shrink's daughter. To me, it was just a messy room and it drove me crazy every time I came into it.\n\nJacob lay on his side at the edge of his bed, not moving. His head was arched back and his mouth hung open, like a howling wolf. He was not snoring but his breathing had a clotted sound; he had been fighting a little cold. Between sliffy breaths, he whimpered, \"N\u2014, n\u2014\": _No, no_.\n\n\"Jacob,\" I whispered. I reached out to soothe his head. \"Jake!\"\n\nHe cried again. His eyes fluttered behind the eyelids.\n\nOutside, a trolley clattered by, the first train into Boston on the Riverside line, which passed every morning at 6:05.\n\n\"It's just a dream,\" I told him.\n\nI felt a little gush of pleasure at comforting my son this way. The situation triggered one of those nostalgic pangs that parents are subject to, a dim memory of Jake as a three- or four-year-old boy when we had a bedtime routine: I would ask, \"Who loves Jacob?\" and he would answer, \"Daddy does.\" It was the last thing we said to each other before he went to sleep each night. But Jake never needed reassuring. It never occurred to him that daddies might disappear, not his daddy at any rate. It was me that needed our little call-and-response. When I was a kid, my father was not around. I barely knew him. So I resolved that my own children would never feel that; they would never know what it is to be fatherless. How strange that in just a few years Jake would leave _me_. He would go off to college, and my time as an everyday, active-duty father would be over. I would see him less and less, eventually our relationship would wither to a few visits a year on holidays and summer weekends. I could not quite imagine it. What was I if not Jacob's father?\n\nThen another thought, unavoidable in the circumstances: no doubt Dan Rifkin meant to keep his son from harm too, no less than I did, and no doubt he was as unprepared as I was to say good-bye to his son. But Ben Rifkin lay in a refrigerated drawer in the M.E.'s office while my son lay in his warm bed, with nothing but luck to separate the one from the other. I am ashamed to admit that I thought, _Thank God. Thank God it was his kid that got taken, not mine_. I did not think I could survive the loss.\n\nI knelt beside the bed and circled my arms around Jacob and laid my head on his. I remembered again: when he was a little kid, the moment he woke up every morning Jake used to pad sleepily across the hall to our bed to snuggle. Now, under my arms he was impossibly big and bony and coltish. Handsome, with dark curly hair and a ruddy complexion. He was fourteen. Certainly he would never allow me to hold him this way if he was awake. In the last few years he had become a little surly and reclusive and a pain in the ass. At times it was like having a stranger living in the house\u2014a vaguely hostile stranger. Typical adolescent behavior, Laurie said. He was trying out different personas, getting ready to leave childhood behind for good.\n\nI was surprised when my touch actually settled Jacob down, stopped whatever bad dream he had been having. He drew in a single deep breath and rolled over. His breathing relaxed into a comfortable stride, and he settled into a deep sleep, deeper than I was capable of. (At fifty-one years old, I seemed to have forgotten how to sleep. I woke up several times a night and rarely got more than four or five hours of sleep.) It pleased me to think I had soothed him, but who knows? Maybe he did not even know I was there.\n\nThat morning the three of us were all skittish. The reopening of the McCormick School just five days after the murder had us all a little rattled. We followed our normal routine\u2014showers, coffee and bagels, glance at the Net for email and sports scores and news\u2014but we were tense and awkward. We were all up by six-thirty but we dawdled and found ourselves running late, which only added to the anxiety.\n\nLaurie in particular was nervous. She was not only afraid for Jacob, I think. She was unnerved by the murder, still, as healthy people are surprised when they become seriously ill for the first time. You might expect that living with a prosecutor all those years would have prepared Laurie better than her neighbors. She ought to have known by then that\u2014though I was hard-hearted and tone-deaf to point it out the night before\u2014life _does_ go on. Even the wettest violence, in the end, is cooked down to the stuff of court cases: a ream of paper, a few exhibits, a dozen sweating and stammering witnesses. The world looks away, and why not? People die, some by violence\u2014it is tragic, yes, but at some point it ceases to be shocking, at least to an old prosecutor. Laurie had seen the cycle many times, watching over my shoulder, yet she was still thrown by the irruption of violence in her own life. It showed in her every movement, in the arthritic way she held herself, in the subdued tone of her voice. She was working to maintain her composure and not having an easy time of it.\n\nJacob stared into his MacBook and chewed his rubbery microwaved frozen bagel in silence. Laurie tried to draw him out, as she always does, but he was not having any of it.\n\n\"How are you feeling about going back, Jacob?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Are you nervous? Worried? What?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"How can you not know? Who else would know?\"\n\n\"Mom, I don't feel like talking now.\"\n\nThis was the polite phrase we had instructed him to use instead of just ignoring his parents. But by this point he had repeated \"I don't feel like talking now\" so often and so robotically, the politeness had drained out of it.\n\n\"Jacob, can you just tell me if you're feeling all right so I don't have to worry?\"\n\n\"I just _said_. I don't feel like talking.\"\n\nLaurie gave me an exasperated look.\n\n\"Jake, your mother asked you a question. It wouldn't kill you to answer.\"\n\n\"I'm _fine_.\"\n\n\"I think your mother was looking for a bit more detail than that.\"\n\n\"Dad, just\u2014\" His attention drifted back to his computer.\n\nI shrugged at Laurie. \"The child says he's fine.\"\n\n\"I got that. Thanks.\"\n\n\"No worries, mother. Hunky-dory, end of story.\"\n\n\"How about you, husband?\"\n\n\"I'm _fine_. I don't feel like talking now.\"\n\nJacob shot me a sour look.\n\nLaurie smiled reluctantly. \"I need a daughter to even things up around here, give me someone to talk to. It's like living with a couple of tombstones.\"\n\n\"What you need is a wife.\"\n\n\"The thought has occurred to me.\"\n\nWe both accompanied Jacob to school. Most of the other parents did the same, and at eight o'clock the school looked like a carnival. There was a little traffic jam out front, heavy with Honda minivans and family sedans and SUVs. A few news vans were parked nearby, barnacled with dishes, boxes, antennae. Police sawhorses blocked either end of the circular driveway. A Newton cop stood guard near the school entrance. Another waited in a cruiser parked out front. Students wended their way through these obstacles toward the door, their backs bent under heavy packs. Parents loitered on the sidewalk or escorted their kids all the way to the front door.\n\nI parked our minivan on the street almost a block away and we sat gawking.\n\n\"Whoa,\" Jacob murmured.\n\n\"Whoa,\" Laurie agreed.\n\n\"This is wild.\" Jacob.\n\nLaurie looked stricken. Her left hand dangled from the armrest, her long fingers and beautiful clear nails. She always had lovely, elegant hands; my own mother's fat-fingered scrubwoman hands looked like dog's paws beside Laurie's. I reached across to take her hand, lacing my fingers in hers so that our two hands made one fist. The sight of her hand in mine made me briefly sentimental. I gave her an encouraging look and jostled our knotted hands. This was, for me, a hysterical burst of emotion, and Laurie squeezed my hand to thank me for it. She turned to gaze through the windshield again. Her dark hair was threaded with gray. Faint wrinkles branched from the corners of her eyes and mouth. But, looking across, I seemed to see her younger, unlined face too, somehow.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"You're staring.\"\n\n\"You're my wife. I'm allowed to stare.\"\n\n\"Is that the rule?\"\n\n\"Yes. Stare, leer, ogle, anything I want. Trust me. I'm a lawyer.\"\n\nA good marriage drags a long tail of memory behind it. A single word or gesture, a tone of voice can conjure up so many remembrances. Laurie and I had been flirting like this for thirty-odd years, since the day we met in college and we both went a little love-crazy. Things were different now, of course. At fifty-one, love was a quieter experience. We drifted through the days together. But we both remembered how it all started, and even now, in the middle of my middle age, when I think of that shining young girl, I still feel a little thrill of first love, still there, still burning like a pilot light.\n\nWe walked toward the school, climbing the little mound the building is set on.\n\nJacob sloped along between us. He wore a faded brown hoodie, droopy jeans, and Adidas Superstar throwbacks. His backpack was slung over his right shoulder. His hair was a little long. It hung down over his ears, with a wing across his forehead nearly covering his eyebrows. A braver boy would have taken this look further and flaunted himself as a goth or a hipster or some other flavor of rebel, but that was not Jacob. A hint of nonconformity was all he would risk. There was a wondering little smile on his face. He seemed to be enjoying all the excitement, which, among other things, undeniably broke up the tedium of eighth grade.\n\nWhen we reached the sidewalk in front of the school, we were absorbed into a group of three young mothers, all of whom had kids in Jacob's class. The strongest and most outgoing of them, the implicit leader, was Toby Lanzman, the woman I'd seen at the Rifkins' shiva the night before. She wore shimmery black workout pants, a fitted T-shirt, and a baseball cap with her ponytail threaded through a hole in the back. Toby was a fitness addict. She had a runner's lean body and fatless face. Among the school fathers, her muscularity was both exciting and intimidating, but electric either way. Me, I thought she was worth a dozen of the other parents here. She was the type of friend you'd want in a crisis. The type who would stand by you.\n\nBut if Toby was the captain of this group of mothers, Laurie was its real emotional center\u2014its heart and probably its brain too. Laurie was everyone's confidante. When something went wrong, when one of them lost a job or a husband strayed or a child struggled in school, it was Laurie she called. They were attracted to the same quality in Laurie that I was, no doubt: she had a thoughtful, cerebral warmth. I had a vague sense, at emotional moments, that these women were my romantic rivals, that they wanted some of the same things from Laurie that I did (approval, love). So, when I saw them gathered together in their shadow family, with Toby in the role of stern father and Laurie the warmhearted mother, it was impossible not to feel a little jealous and excluded.\n\nToby gathered us into the little circle on the sidewalk, welcoming each of us with a distinct protocol that I never got quite right: a hug for Laurie, a kiss on the cheek for me\u2014 _mwah_ , she said in my ear\u2014a simple hello for Jacob. \"Isn't this all just terrible?\" She sighed.\n\n\"I'm in shock,\" Laurie confessed, relieved to be among her friends. \"I just can't process this. I don't know what to think.\" Her expression was more puzzled than distressed. She could not make any logic of what had happened.\n\n\"How about you, Jacob?\" Toby trained her eyes on Jacob, determined to ignore the age difference between them. \"How are you doing?\"\n\nJacob shrugged. \"I'm good.\"\n\n\"Ready to get back to school?\"\n\nHe dismissed the question with another, bigger shrug\u2014he jacked his shoulders up high then dropped them\u2014to show he knew he was being patronized.\n\nI said, \"Better get going, Jake, you're going to be late. You have to go through a security check, remember.\"\n\n\"Yeah, okay.\" Jacob rolled his eyes, as if all this concern for the kids' security was yet another confirmation of the eternal stupidity of adults. Didn't they realize it was all too late?\n\n\"Just get going,\" I said, smiling at him.\n\n\"No weapons, no sharp objects?\" Toby said with a smirk. She was quoting a directive that had gone out from the school principal via email, which spelled out various new security measures for the school.\n\nJacob thumb-lifted his backpack a few inches off his shoulder. \"Just books.\"\n\n\"All right, then. Get going. Go learn something.\"\n\nJacob offered a wave to the adults, who smiled their benevolence, and he shambled off past the police sawhorses, joining the tide of students headed for the school door.\n\nWhen he was gone, the group abandoned their pretense of cheerfulness. The full weight of worry descended on them.\n\nEven Toby sounded beleaguered. \"Has anyone reached out to Dan and Joan Rifkin?\"\n\n\"I don't think so,\" Laurie said.\n\n\"We really should. I mean, we have to.\"\n\n\"Those poor people. I can't even imagine.\"\n\n\"I don't think anyone knows what to say to them.\" This was Susan Frank, the only woman in the group dressed in work clothes, the gray wool skirt-suit of a lawyer. \"I mean, what _can_ you say? Really, what on earth can you say to someone after that? It's just so\u2014I don't know, overwhelming.\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" Laurie agreed. \"There's absolutely nothing you can say to make it right. But it doesn't matter what you say; the point is just to reach out to them.\"\n\n\"Just let them know you're thinking of them,\" Toby echoed. \"That's all anyone can do, let them know you're thinking of them.\"\n\nThe last of the women present, Wendy Seligman, asked me, \"What do you think, Andy? You have to do this all the time, don't you? Talk to families after something like this.\"\n\n\"I don't say anything, mostly. I just stick to the case. I don't talk about anything else. The other stuff, there's not a lot I can do.\"\n\nWendy nodded, disappointed. She considered me a bore, one of those husbands who must be tolerated, the lesser half of a married couple. But she revered Laurie, who seemed to excel in each of the three distinct roles these women juggled, as wife, mother, and only lastly as herself. If I was interesting to Laurie, Wendy presumed, then I must have a hidden side that I did not bother to share\u2014which meant, perhaps, that _I_ considered _her_ dull, not worth the effort that real conversation required. Wendy was divorced, the only divorc\u00e9e or single mom in their little group, and she was prone to imagine that others studied her for defects.\n\nToby tried to lighten the mood. \"You know, we spent all those years keeping these kids away from toy guns and violent TV shows and video games. Bob and I didn't even let our kids have water guns, for God's sake, unless they looked like something else. And even then we did not call them 'guns'; we called them 'squirters' or whatever, you know, like the kids wouldn't _know_. Now this. It's like\u2014\" She threw up her hands in comic exasperation.\n\nBut the joke fell flat.\n\n\"It's ironic,\" Wendy agreed somberly, to make Toby feel heard.\n\n\"It's true.\" Susan sighed, again for Toby's benefit.\n\nLaurie said, \"I think we overestimate what we can do as parents. Your kid is your kid. You get what you get.\"\n\n\"So I could have given the kids the damn water guns?\"\n\n\"Probably. With Jacob\u2014I don't know. I just wonder sometimes if it ever really mattered, all the things we did, all the things we worried about. He was always what he is now, just smaller. It's the same with all our kids. None of them are really all that different from what they were when they were little.\"\n\n\"Yes, but our parenting styles haven't changed either. So maybe we're just teaching them the same things.\"\n\nWendy: \"I don't have a parenting style. I'm just making it up as I go.\"\n\nSusan: \"Me too. We all are. Except Laurie. Laurie, you probably have a parenting style. Toby, you too.\"\n\n\"I do not!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, you do! You probably read books about it.\"\n\n\"Not me.\" Laurie put up her hands: _I'm innocent_. \"Anyway, the point is, I just think we flatter ourselves when we say we can engineer our kids to be this way or that way. It's mostly just hardwired.\"\n\nThe women eyed one another. Maybe Jacob was hardwired, not their kids. Not like Jacob, anyway.\n\nWendy said, \"Did any of you know Ben?\" She meant Ben Rifkin, the murder victim. They had not known him. Calling him by his first name was just a way of adopting him.\n\nToby: \"No. Dylan never was friends with him. And Ben never played sports or anything.\"\n\nSusan: \"He was in Max's class a few times. I used to see him. He seemed like a good kid, I guess, but who ever knows?\"\n\nToby: \"They have lives of their own, these kids. I'm sure they have their secrets.\"\n\nLaurie: \"Just like us. Just like us at their age, for that matter.\"\n\nToby: \"I was a good girl. At their age, I never gave my parents a thing to worry about.\"\n\nLaurie: \"I was a good girl too.\"\n\nI said, intruding, \"You weren't _that_ good.\"\n\n\"I was until I met you. You corrupted me.\"\n\n\"Did I? Well, I'm quite proud of that. I'll have to put it on my r\u00e9sum\u00e9.\"\n\nBut the kidding felt inappropriate so soon after the mention of the dead child's name, and I felt crude and embarrassed before the women, whose emotional sensibilities were so much finer than mine.\n\nThere was a moment's silence then Wendy blurted, \"Oh my God, those poor, poor people. That mother! And here we are, just 'Life goes on, back to school,' and her little boy will never, never come back.\" Wendy's eyes became watery. _The horror of it: one day, through no fault of your own_ \u2014\n\nToby came forward to hug her friend, and Laurie and Susan rubbed Wendy's back.\n\nExcluded, I stood there a moment with a dumb, well-meaning expression\u2014a tight smile, a softening around the eyes\u2014then I excused myself to go check on the security station at the school entrance before things devolved into more weepiness. I did not quite understand the depth of Wendy's grief for a child she did not know; I took it as yet another sign of the woman's emotional vulnerability. Also, that Wendy had echoed my own words from the night before, \"Life goes on,\" seemed to align her with Laurie in a tiff that had only just been resolved. All in all, an opportune moment to take off.\n\nI made my way to the security station that had been set up in the school foyer. It consisted of a long table where coats and backpacks were inspected by hand and an area where Newton cops, two male, two female, swept the kids with metal-detecting wands. Jake was right: the whole thing was ridiculous. There was no reason to think anyone would bring a weapon into the school or that the murderer had any connection to the school at all. The body had not even been found on school grounds. It made sense only as a show for the anxious parents.\n\nAs I arrived, the Kabuki ritual of searching each student had come to a stop. In a rising voice, a young girl negotiated with one of the cops while a second cop looked on, his wand held across his chest at port arms as if he might be called upon to club her with it. The trouble, it became clear, was her sweatshirt, which read \"F-C-U-K.\" The cop had deemed this message \"inciteful\" and thus, according to the school's improvised security rules, forbidden. The girl explained to him that the initials stood for a brand of clothing that you could find at any mall, and even if it did suggest a \"bad word\" how could anyone be _incited_ by it? and she was not giving up her sweatshirt which was very expensive and why should she let some cop throw an expensive sweatshirt in a Dumpster for no good reason? They were at an impasse.\n\nHer adversary, the cop, had a stooped posture. His neck craned forward so that his head rode out in front of his body, giving him a vulturous look. But he straightened when he saw me approach, drawing his head back, causing the skin under his chin to fold over itself.\n\n\"Everything okay?\" I asked the cop.\n\n\"Yes, _sir_.\"\n\nYes, _sir_. I hated the military mannerisms adopted by police departments, the bogus military ranks and chain of command and all that. \"At ease,\" I said, intending it as a joke, but the cop looked down at his feet, abashed.\n\n\"Hi,\" I said to the girl, who looked like she was in seventh or eighth grade. I did not recognize her as one of Jacob's classmates, but she might have been.\n\n\"Hi.\"\n\n\"What's the problem here? Maybe I can help.\"\n\n\"You're Jacob Barber's dad, aren't you?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"Aren't you like a cop or something?\"\n\n\"Just a DA. And who are you?\"\n\n\"Sarah.\"\n\n\"Sarah. Okay, Sarah. What's the trouble?\"\n\nThe girl paused, uncertain. Then another gush: \"It's just, I'm trying to tell this officer he doesn't have to take away my sweatshirt, I'll put it in my locker or I'll turn it inside out, whatever. Only he doesn't like what it says, even though no one will even _see_ it, and there's nothing wrong with it anyway, it's just a _word_. This is all so totally\u2014\" She left off the last word: _stupid_.\n\n\"I don't make the rules,\" the cop explained simply.\n\n\"It doesn't _say_ anything! That's, like, my whole thing! It doesn't say what he says it says! Anyway, I already told him I'll put it _away_. I _told_ him! I told him like a million times but he won't listen. It's not fair.\"\n\nThe girl was about to cry, which reminded me of the grown woman I had just left on the sidewalk also near tears. Jesus, there was no escaping them.\n\n\"Well,\" I suggested to the cop, \"I think it'll be okay if she just leaves it in her locker, don't you? I can't imagine what harm could come of it. I'll take responsibility.\"\n\n\"Hey, you're the boss. Whatever you want.\"\n\n\"And tomorrow,\" I said to the girl, to make it up to this cop, \"maybe you'll leave that sweatshirt at home.\"\n\nI winked at her, and she gathered up her things and quick-marched away down the hall.\n\nI took a position shoulder to shoulder with the affronted cop and together we looked out through the school doors toward the street.\n\nA beat.\n\n\"You did the right thing,\" I said. \"Probably should have kept my nose out of it.\"\n\nIt was bullshit, of course, both sentences. No doubt the cop knew it was bullshit too. But what could he do? The same chain of command that compelled him to enforce a stupid rule now compelled him to defer to some hulking dumb-ass lawyer in a cheap suit who did not know how hard it was to be a cop and how little of the cops' work ever made it into the police reports that found their way to the clueless virginal DAs all sealed up in their courthouses like nuns in a convent. _Pfft_.\n\n\"It's nothing,\" the cop told me.\n\nAnd it was nothing. But I stood there awhile, anyway, presenting a united front with him, to be sure he knew whose team I was on.\n\n# **4 | Mindfuck**\n\nThe Middlesex County Courthouse, where the DA's office was headquartered, was an unrelievedly ugly building. A sixteen-story tower built in the 1960s, the exterior fa\u00e7ades were molded concrete in various rectangular shapes: flat slabs, egg-crate grids, arrow-slit windows. It was as if the architect had banned curved lines and warm building materials in an effort to make the place as grim as possible. Things did not get much better inside. The interior spaces were airless, yellowed, grimy. Most offices had no windows; the solid block shape of the building entombed them. The modern-style courtrooms were windowless too. It is a common architectural strategy to build courtrooms without windows, to enhance the effect of a chamber isolated from the everyday world, a theater for the great and timeless work of the law. Here they need not have bothered: you could spend whole days in this building and never see sun or sky. Worse, the courthouse was known to be a \"sick building.\" The elevator shafts were lined with asbestos, and every time an elevator door rattled open, the building coughed out a cloud of toxic particulate into the air. Soon enough the whole ramshackle thing would have to be shut down. But for now, for the lawyers and detectives inside, the shabbiness did not matter much. It is in seedy places like this that the real work of local government so often gets done. After a while, you stop noticing.\n\nMost days I was at my desk by seven-thirty or eight, before the phones really got going, before first call at nine-thirty. But with Jacob's school reopening that morning, I did not get in till after nine. Anxious to see the Rifkin file, I immediately closed my office door, sat down, and arrayed the murder scene photos across my desk. I propped one foot on an open drawer and leaned back, staring at them.\n\nAt the corners of my desk, the photo-wood laminate had begun to peel away from the pressboard desk. I had a nervous habit of picking at these corners unconsciously, prying up the flexy laminate surface with my finger like a scab. I was sometimes surprised to hear the rhythmic clicking sound it made as I lifted and snapped it. It was a sound I associated with deep thought. That morning, I'm sure, I was ticking like a bomb.\n\nThe investigation felt wrong. Strange. Too quiet, even after five long days of digging. It is a clich\u00e9 but it is true: most cases break quickly, in the frantic hours and days right after a murder, when the noise is everywhere, evidence, theories, ideas, witnesses, accusations\u2014possibilities. Other cases take a little longer to sort out, to pick out the right signal in that noisy environment, the true story among many plausible ones. A very few cases never get solved. The signal never does emerge from the static. Possibilities abound, all plausible, none confirmable, none provable, and that is how the case ends. But in every case there is always noise. There are always suspects, theories, possibilities to consider. Not in the Rifkin murder. Five days of silence. Somebody stitched three holes in a line across that boy's chest and left nothing to indicate who or why.\n\nThe tantalizing anxiety this caused\u2014in me, in the detectives working the case, even in the town\u2014was beginning to grate. I felt like I was being toyed with, purposely manipulated. A secret was being kept from me. Jacob and his friends have a slang term, _mindfuck_ , which describes tormenting someone by misleading him, usually by withholding a crucial fact. A girl pretends to like a boy\u2014that is a mindfuck. A movie reveals an essential fact only at the end, which changes or explains everything that went before\u2014 _The Sixth Sense_ and _The UsualSuspects_, for example, are what Jake calls _mindfuck movies_. The Rifkin case was beginning to feel like a mindfuck. The only way to explain the complete dead silence in the aftermath of the murder was that someone had orchestrated all this. Someone out there was watching, enjoying our ignorance, our foolishness. In the investigation phase of a violent crime, the detective often conceives a righteous hate for the criminal before he has any idea who the criminal is. I did not usually feel that sort of passion about any case, but I disliked this murderer already. For murdering, yes, but also for fucking with us. For refusing to submit. For controlling the situation. When I did finally learn his name and face, I would merely adjust my contempt to fit him.\n\nIn the murder scene photos spread out before me, the body lay in the brown leaves, twisted, face up toward the sky, eyes open. The images themselves were not especially grisly\u2014a boy lying in the leaves. Anyway, gore itself did not usually faze me. Like many people who have been exposed to violence, I confined my emotions within a narrow range. Never too high, never too low. Since I was a kid, I have always made sure of that. My emotions ran on steel rails.\n\nBenjamin Rifkin was fourteen years old, in eighth grade at the McCormick School. Jacob was a classmate but barely knew him. He told me Ben had a reputation at school as \"kind of a slacker,\" smart but not much of a student, never in the advanced classes that filled Jacob's schedule. He was handsome, even a little flashy. He often wore his short hair swept up in front with something called hair wax. Girls liked him, according to Jacob. Ben liked sports and was a decent athlete, but he was more into skateboarding and skiing than team sports. \"I didn't hang out with him,\" Jacob said. \"He had his own crew. They were all a little too cool.\" He added, with the casual acid of adolescence, \"Everybody's all into him now, but before, it was like nobody even noticed him.\"\n\nThe body was found on April 12, 2007, in Cold Spring Park, sixty-five acres of pine woods that bordered the school grounds. The woods were veined with jogging paths. They crisscrossed one another and led, through many branchings, to a main trail that ringed the perimeter of the park. I knew these trails pretty well; I jogged there most mornings. It was along one of the smaller trails that Ben's body had been flung facedown into a little gully. It slid to a stop at the foot of a tree. A woman named Paula Giannetto discovered the body as she jogged past. The time of discovery was precise; she switched off her jogging watch as she paused to investigate at 9:07 A.M.\u2014less than an hour after the boy had left his home for the short walk to school. There was no blood visible. The body lay with its head downhill, arms extended, legs together, like a graceful diver. Giannetto reported that the boy was not obviously dead, so she rolled him over hoping to revive him. \"I thought he was sick, maybe he passed out or something. I didn't think\u2014\" The medical examiner would later note that the body's inverted position on sloping ground, feet above head, may have accounted for the unnatural flush of the face. Blood had drained into the head, causing \"lividity.\" When she rolled the boy over, the witness saw the front of his T-shirt was sopped in red blood. Gasping, she stumbled and fell backward, crabbed a few feet away on her palms and heels, then got up and ran. The position of the body in the murder scene photos\u2014twisted, face up\u2014therefore was not accurate.\n\nThe boy had been stabbed three times in the chest. One strike punctured the heart and would by itself have been fatal. The knife was driven straight in and jerked straight out again, one-two-three, like a bayonet. The weapon had a jagged edge, evidenced by shredding at the left edge of each wound and in the torn shirt fabric. The angle of entry suggested an attacker about Ben's size, five foot ten or so, although the sloping ground in the park made this projection unreliable. The weapon had not been found. There were no defensive wounds: the victim's arms and hands were unmarked. The best clue, perhaps, was a single pristine fingerprint, stamped in the victim's own blood, cleanly preserved on a plastic tag on the inside of the victim's unzipped sweatshirt, where his murderer might have grabbed him by the lapels and tossed him down the slope into the gully. The print did not match either the victim or Paula Giannetto.\n\nThe bare facts of the crime had developed very little in the five days since the murder. Detectives had canvassed the neighborhood and twice swept the park, immediately after the discovery and again twenty-four hours later to find witnesses who frequented the park at that hour of the day. The sweeps had yielded nothing. To the newspapers and, increasingly, to the terrified parents at the McCormick School, the murder looked like a random strike. As the days passed with no news, the silence from the cops and the DA's office seemed to confirm parents' worst fears: a predator lurked in the woods of Cold Spring Park. Since then, the park lay abandoned, though a Newton Police cruiser idled in the parking lot all day to reassure the joggers and power-walkers. Only the dog owners continued to come, to let their dogs off the leash on a meadow designated for this purpose.\n\nA state trooper in plain clothes named Paul Duffy slipped into my office with a familiar perfunctory knock and sat down opposite my desk, evidently excited.\n\nLieutenant Detective Paul Duffy was a policeman by birth, a third-generation cop, son of a former Boston P. D. homicide chief. But he did not look the part. Soft-spoken, with a receding hairline and fine features, he might have been in some gentler profession than policing. Duffy headed a state police unit detailed to the DA's office. The unit was known by its acronym, CPAC (pronounced _sea pack_ ). The initials stood for Crime Prevention and Control, but the title was essentially meaningless (\"crime prevention and control\" is ostensibly what all cops do) and hardly anyone knew what the letters actually meant. In practice, CPAC's charge was simple: they were the district attorney's detectives. They worked cases that were unusually complex, long term, or high profile. Most important, they handled all the county's murders. In homicide cases, CPAC detectives worked alongside the local cops, who for the most part welcomed the assistance. Outside Boston itself, homicides were rare enough that the locals could not develop the necessary expertise, particularly in the smaller towns where murders were rare as comets. Still, it was a politically delicate situation when the staties swept in to take over a local investigation. A light touch like Paul Duffy's was required. To lead the CPAC unit, it was not enough to be a smart investigator; you had to be supple enough to satisfy the different constituencies whose toes it was CPAC's job to step on.\n\nI loved Duffy without reservation. Virtually alone among the cops I worked with, he was a personal friend. We often worked cases together, the DA's top lawyer and top detective. We socialized together too. Our families knew each other. Paul had named me godfather to the middle of his three sons, Owen, and if only I had believed in God or fathers, I would have done the same for him. He was more outgoing than I, more gregarious and sentimental, but good friendships require complementary personalities, not identical ones.\n\n\"Tell me you have something or get out of my office.\"\n\n\"I have something.\"\n\n\"It's about time.\"\n\n\"That doesn't sound very grateful.\"\n\nHe flipped a file folder onto my desk.\n\n_\"Leonard Patz,\"_ I read aloud from a Board of Probation record. \" _Indecent A &B on a minor; lewd and lascivious; lewd and lascivious; trespass; indecent A&B, dismissed; indecent A&B on a minor, pending_. Lovely. The neighborhood pedophile.\"\n\nDuffy said, \"He's twenty-six years old. Lives near the park in that condo place, the Windsor or whatever they call it.\"\n\nA mug shot paper-clipped to the folder showed a large man with a pudgy face, close-cropped hair, Cupid's-bow lips. I slipped it out from under the paper clip and studied it.\n\n\"Handsome fella. Why didn't we know about him?\"\n\n\"He wasn't in the sex offender registry. He moved to Newton in the last year and never registered.\"\n\n\"So how'd you find him?\"\n\n\"One of the ADAs in the Child Abuse Unit flagged him. That's the pending indecent A&B in Newton District Court, top of the page there.\"\n\n\"What's the bail?\"\n\n\"Personal.\"\n\n\"What'd he do?\"\n\n\"Grabbed some kid's package in the public library. The kid was fourteen, same as Ben Rifkin.\"\n\n\"Really? That fits, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"It's a start.\"\n\n\"Wait, he grabs a kid's balls and he gets out on personal?\"\n\n\"Apparently there's some question whether the kid wants to testify.\"\n\n\"Still. _I_ go to that library.\"\n\n\"Might want to wear a cup.\"\n\n\"I never leave home without one.\"\n\nI studied the mug shot. I had a feeling about Patz right from the start. Of course, I was desperate\u2014I _wanted_ to feel that feeling, I badly needed a suspect, I needed to produce something finally\u2014so I distrusted my suspicion. But I could not ignore it altogether. You have to follow your intuition. That is what expertise is: all the experience, the cases won and lost, the painful mistakes, all the technical details you learn by rote repetition, over time these things leave you with an instinctive sense of your craft. A \"gut\" for it. And from this first encounter, my gut told me Patz might be the one.\n\n\"It's worth giving him a shake, at least,\" I said.\n\n\"There's just one thing: there's no violence on Patz's record. No weapons, nothing. That's the only thing.\"\n\n\"I see two indecent A&Bs. That's violent enough for me.\"\n\n\"Grabbing a kid by the nuts isn't the same as murder.\"\n\n\"You got to start somewhere.\"\n\n\"Maybe. I don't know, Andy. I mean, I see where you're going, but to me he sounds like more of a wanker than a killer. Anyway, the sex angle\u2014the Rifkin kid had no signs of sexual assault.\"\n\nI shrugged. \"Maybe he never got that far. He could have been interrupted. Maybe he propositions the kid or tries to force him into the forest at knifepoint, and the kid resists. Or maybe the kid laughs at him, ridicules him, and Patz flies into a rage.\"\n\n\"That's a lot of maybes.\"\n\n\"Well, let's see what he has to say. Go bring him in.\"\n\n\"Can't bring him in. We've got nothing to hold him on. There's nothing tying him to this case.\"\n\n\"So tell him you want him to come look through the mug books and see if he can identify anyone he might have seen in Cold Spring Park.\"\n\n\"He's already got a Committee lawyer for the pending case. He's not going to come in voluntarily.\"\n\n\"Then tell him you'll violate him for not registering his new address with the sex offender registry. You've already got him jammed up on that. Tell him the kiddy porn on his computer is a federal offense. Tell him anything, it doesn't matter. Just get him in and give a little squeeze.\"\n\nDuffy smirked and raised his eyebrows. Ball-grabbing jokes never get old.\n\n\"Just go pick him up.\"\n\nDuffy hesitated. \"I don't know. It feels like we're jumping the gun. Why not just show Patz's picture around, see if anyone can put him in the park that morning? Talk to his neighbors. Maybe knock on his door, low-key it, don't spook him, get him talking that way.\" Duffy formed his fingers into a beak and flapped it open and shut: _talk, talk_. \"You never know. If you pick him up, he'll just call his lawyer. You might lose your only chance to talk to him.\"\n\n\"No, it's better we pick him up. After that, you can sweet-talk him, Duff. That's what you're good at.\"\n\n\"You sure?\"\n\n\"We can't have people saying we didn't push hard enough on this guy.\"\n\nThe comment was off key, and a doubtful expression crossed Duffy's face. We had always made it a rule not to give a shit how things looked or what people thought. A prosecutor's judgment is supposed to be insulated from politics.\n\n\"You know what I mean, Paul. This is the first credible suspect we've found. I don't want to lose him because we didn't do enough.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" he said with a sour little frown. \"I'll bring him in.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nDuffy leaned back in his chair, the work conversation over, eager now to smooth the slight friction between us.\n\n\"How'd it go with Jacob at school this morning?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's okay. Nothing bothers Jake. Now, Laurie, on the other hand...\"\n\n\"She a little shook up?\"\n\n\"A little? You remember in _Jaws_ when Roy Scheider has to send his kids into the ocean to show everyone it's safe to swim?\"\n\n\"Your wife looked like Roy Scheider? That's what you're saying?\"\n\n\"The expression on her face.\"\n\n\"You weren't worried? Come on, I'll bet you looked like Roy Scheider too.\"\n\n\"Listen, pal, I was all Robert Shaw, I promise you.\"\n\n\"Things didn't end well for Robert Shaw, as I recall.\"\n\n\"For the shark either. That's all that matters, Duff. Now go get Patz.\"\n\n\"Andy, I'm a little uncomfortable with this,\" Lynn Canavan said.\n\nFor a moment I did not know what she was talking about. It actually crossed my mind she might be kidding. When we were younger, she used to like putting people on. More than once I got sucked in, taking seriously a comment that, a moment later, was revealed as a joke. But I saw, in the next moment, that she was quite serious. Or seemed to be. She had become a little hard to read lately.\n\nThere were three of us that morning in Canavan's big corner office, District Attorney Canavan, Neal Logiudice, and me. We were seated at a round conference table, at the center of which was an empty box from Dunkin' Donuts, left over from a meeting earlier that morning. The room had a dressy finish, with wood paneling and windows overlooking East Cambridge. But it still had the same chill as the rest of the courthouse. Same thin plum-purple industrial carpet over a concrete slab floor. Same dingy flecked acoustic tiles overhead. Same stale, twice-breathed air. As power offices go, it was not much.\n\nCanavan fiddled with a pen, tapping the tip on a yellow pad, head tilted as if she was thinking it over. \"I don't know. You handling this case, I don't know as I like it. Your son goes to that school. It's a close thing. I'm a little uncomfortable.\"\n\n\" _You're_ uncomfortable, Lynn, or Rasputin here is?\" I gestured toward Logiudice.\n\n\"Oh, that's funny, Andy\u2014\"\n\n\"I am,\" Canavan asserted.\n\n\"Let me guess: Neal wants the case.\"\n\n\"Neal thinks there might be an issue. I do too, frankly. There's an appearance of a conflict. That does matter, Andy.\"\n\nIndeed, appearances did matter. Lynn Canavan was a rising political star. From the moment she was elected district attorney, two years earlier, there were rumors about which office she would run for next: governor, Massachusetts attorney general, even U.S. senator. She was in her forties, attractive, smart, serious, ambitious. I had known and worked alongside her for fifteen years, since we were both young lawyers. We were allies. She appointed me First Assistant the day she was elected DA, but I knew from the start it was a short-term gig. A courtroom mucker like me is of no value out in the political world. Wherever Canavan was headed, I would not be going along. But that was all still in the future. In the meantime, she was biding her time, polishing her public persona, her \"brand\": the no-nonsense law-and-order professional. On camera she rarely smiled, rarely joked. She wore little makeup or jewelry and kept her hair short and sensible. The older people in the office remembered a different Lynn Canavan\u2014fun, charismatic, one of the boys, who could swear like a sailor and drink like she had a hollow leg. But the voters never saw any of that, and at this point maybe the old, more natural Lynn did not exist anymore. I suppose she had no choice but to transform herself. Her life was now an endless candidacy; you could hardly blame her for becoming what she pretended to be for so long. Anyway, we all do have to grow up, put childish things aside and all that. But something was lost too. In the course of Lynn's transformation from butterfly to moth, our long friendship had suffered. Neither of us felt the old intimacy, the sense of trust and connection we'd once had. Maybe she would make me a judge someday, for old times' sake, to pay the whole thing off. But we both knew, I think, that our friendship had run its course. We both felt vaguely awkward and mournful around each other because of it, like lovers on the downside of an unwinding affair.\n\nIn any event, Lynn Canavan's likely ascent created a vacuum behind her, and politics abhors a vacuum. That Neal Logiudice might actually fill it would have seemed absurd, once upon a time. Now, who knew? Clearly Logiudice did not see me as an obstacle. I had said over and over that I had no interest in the job, and I meant it. The last thing I wanted was to live an exposed, public life. Still, he would need more than bureaucratic infighting to get there. If Neal wanted to be DA, he would need a real accomplishment to show the voters. A splashy signature win in the courtroom. He needed a skin. Whose skin, I was just beginning to understand.\n\n\"Are you pulling me off the case, Lynn?\"\n\n\"Right now I'm just asking what you think.\"\n\n\"We've been through this. I'm keeping the case. There's no issue.\"\n\n\"It hits pretty close to home, Andy. Your son might be in danger. If he'd been unlucky enough to be walking through that park at the wrong time...\"\n\nLogiudice said, \"Maybe your judgment is clouded, just a little. I mean, if you're being fair, if you stop and think about it objectively.\"\n\n\"Clouded how?\"\n\n\"Does it make you emotional?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you angry, Andy?\"\n\n\"Do I look angry?\" I counted out the words one by one.\n\n\"Yeah, you do, a little. Or maybe just defensive. But you shouldn't be; we're all on the same side here. Hey, it's perfectly natural to be emotional. If my son was involved\u2014\"\n\n\"Neal, are you actually questioning my integrity? Or just my competence?\"\n\n\"Neither. I'm questioning your objectivity.\"\n\n\"Lynn, does he speak for you? Are you believing this bullshit?\"\n\nShe frowned. \"My antennae are up, to be honest.\"\n\n\"Your antennae? Come on, what does that mean?\"\n\n\"I'm uneasy.\"\n\nLogiudice: \"It's the appearance, Andy. The _appearance_ of objectivity. Nobody's saying you actually\u2014\"\n\n\"Look, just fuck off, Neal, okay? This doesn't concern you.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"Just let me run my case. I don't give a rat's ass about the appearance. The case is going slow because that's the way it's going, not because I'm dragging my feet. I'm not going to be stampeded into indicting someone just to make it look good. I thought I taught you better than that.\"\n\n\"You taught me I should push every case as hard as I could.\"\n\n\"I _am_ pushing as hard as I can.\"\n\n\"Why haven't you interviewed the kids? It's been five days already.\"\n\n\"You know damn well why. Because this isn't Boston, Neal, it's Newton. Every frickin' detail has to be negotiated: which kids we can talk to, where we talk to them, what we can ask, who has to be present. This isn't Dorchester High. Half the parents in this school are lawyers.\"\n\n\"Relax, Andy. No one's accusing you of anything. The problem is how it will be perceived. From the outside, it might look like you're ignoring the obvious.\"\n\n\"Meaning what?\"\n\n\"The students. Have you considered that the killer might be a student? You've told me a thousand times, haven't you: follow the evidence wherever it leads.\"\n\n\"There's no evidence to suggest it's a student. None. If there were, I'd follow it.\"\n\n\"You can't follow it if you won't look for it.\"\n\nThis was an _aha!_ moment. I finally got it. The time had come, as I always knew it would. I was the one immediately above Neal on the ladder. Now he would target me the way he had so many others.\n\nI made a wry smile. \"Neal, what is it you're after? Is it the case? You want it? You can have it. Or is it my job? What the hell, you can have that too. But it'd be easier for everyone if you'd just come out and say it.\"\n\n\"I don't want anything, Andy. I just want to see things come out right.\"\n\n\"Lynn, are you taking me off the case or are you going to back me?\"\n\nShe gave me a warm look but an indirect answer. \"When have I ever not backed you?\"\n\nI nodded, accepting the truth of this. I put on a resolute mask and declared a fresh start. \"Look, the school just reopened today, the kids are all back. We have the student interviews this afternoon. Something good is gonna happen soon.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Canavan said. \"Let's hope so.\"\n\nBut Logiudice chipped in, \"Who's going to interview your son?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Not you, I hope.\"\n\n\"Not me. Paul Duffy probably.\"\n\n\"Who decided that?\"\n\n\"Me. That's the way it works, Neal. I decide. And if there's a mistake, it'll be me standing in front of the jury to take the hit.\"\n\nHe gave Canavan a look\u2014 _See? I told you, he won't listen_ \u2014which she met with a neutral expression.\n\n# **5 | Everyone Knows You Did It**\n\nThe student interviews began right after school. For the kids, it had been a long day filled with class meetings and grief counseling. CPAC detectives in plain clothes had gone from classroom to classroom encouraging kids to share tips with the investigators, anonymously if necessary. The kids stared back dully.\n\nThe McCormick was a middle school, which in this town meant it covered grades six through eight. The building was an arrangement of plain rectangular boxes. Inside, the walls were painted thick with many layers of teal. Laurie grew up in Newton and went to the McCormick in the 1970s; she said the school had hardly changed except for the illusion, as she walked down the halls, that the whole structure had shrunk.\n\nAs I had told Canavan, these interviews were a contentious subject. At first, the school principal flatly refused to allow us to \"storm in\" and talk to any kid we pleased. Had the crime happened in another place\u2014in the urb rather than the suburb\u2014we would not have bothered to ask permission. Here, the school board and even the mayor intervened directly with Lynn Canavan to slow us down. In the end, we were allowed to talk to the kids on school grounds but only on certain conditions. Kids who were not in Ben Rifkin's homeroom were off limits unless we had a specific reason to believe they might know something. Any student could have a parent and/or a lawyer present and could end the interview at any time, for any reason or no reason. Most of this was easy to concede. They were entitled to a lot of it anyway. The real point of stipulating so many rules was to send the cops a message: treat these kids with kid gloves. Which was fine, but precious time was lost while we diddled around negotiating.\n\nAt two o'clock, Paul and I commandeered the principal's office and together we interviewed the highest-priority witnesses: the victim's close friends, a few kids who were known to walk to school through Cold Spring Park, and those who specifically requested to speak with the investigators. Two dozen interviews were scheduled for the two of us. Other CPAC detectives would conduct interviews at the same time. Most we expected to be brief and yield nothing. We were trawling, dragging our net along the sea bottom, hoping.\n\nBut something odd happened. After just three or four interviews, Paul and I had the distinct impression we were being stonewalled. At first we thought we were seeing the usual repertoire of adolescent tics and evasions, the shrugs and _y'knows_ and _whatevers_ , the wandering eyes. We were both fathers. We knew that walling out adults was what all teenagers did; it was the whole point of these behaviors. In itself, there was nothing suspicious about it. But as the interviews went on, we realized something more brazen and purposeful was going on. The kids' answers went too far. They were not content to say they knew nothing about the murder; they denied even knowing the victim. Ben Rifkin seemed to have had no friends at all, only acquaintances. Other kids never spoke to him, had no idea who did. These were transparent lies. Ben had not been unpopular. We already knew who most of Ben's friends were. It was a betrayal, I thought, for his buddies to disown him so quickly and completely.\n\nWorse, the eighth-graders at the McCormick were not especially competent liars. Some of them, the more shameless ones, seemed to believe that the way to pass off a lie convincingly was to oversell it. So, when they got ready to tell a particularly tall one, they would stop all the foot-shuffling and _y'knows_ , and deliver the lie with maximum conviction. It was as if they had read a manual on behaviors associated with honesty\u2014eye contact! firm voice!\u2014and were determined to display them all at once, like peacocks fanning their tail feathers. The effect was to reverse the behavior patterns you might expect to see in adults\u2014the teens seemed evasive when honest and direct when lying\u2014but their shifting manner set off alarm bells just the same. The other kids, the majority, were too self-conscious to begin with and lying only made them more so. They were tentative. The truth inside them made them squirm. This obviously did not work either. I could have told them, of course, that a virtuoso liar slips the false statement in among the true ones without a flutter of any kind, like a magician slipping the bent card into the middle of the deck. I have had an education in virtuosic lying, believe me.\n\nPaul and I began to exchange suspicious glances. The pace of the interviews slowed as we challenged some of the more obvious lies. Between interviews, Paul joked about a code of silence. \"These kids are like Sicilians,\" he said. Neither of us said what we were truly thinking. There is a plummeting feeling, as if the floor has fallen away beneath you. It is the happy vertigo you feel when a case opens up and lets you in.\n\nApparently we had been wrong\u2014there was no other way to say it. We had considered the possibility that a fellow student was involved, but we had discounted it. There was no evidence pointing that way. No sullen outcasts among the students, no sloppy schoolboy trail of evidence to follow. Nor was there an apparent motive: no grandiose adolescent fantasies of outlaw glory, no damaged, bullied kids out for revenge, no petty classroom feud. Nothing. Now, neither of us had to say it. That vertiginous feeling was the thought: these kids knew something.\n\nA girl sloped into the office and dropped into the chair opposite us, then, with great effort, she refused to acknowledge us.\n\n\"Sarah Groehl?\" Paul said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'm Lieutenant Detective Paul Duffy. I'm with the state police. This here is Andrew Barber. He's the assistant district attorney in charge of this case.\"\n\n\"I know.\" She looked up at me finally. \"You're Jacob Barber's dad.\"\n\n\"Yes. You're the sweatshirt girl. From this morning.\"\n\nShe smiled shyly.\n\n\"Sorry, I should have remembered you. I'm having a tough day, Sarah.\"\n\n\"Yeah, why's that?\"\n\n\"Nobody wants to talk to us. Now, why is that, you have any idea?\"\n\n\"You're cops.\"\n\n\"That's it?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" She made a face: _Duh!_\n\nI waited a moment, hoping for more. The girl returned a look of exquisite boredom.\n\n\"Are you a friend of Jacob's?\"\n\nShe looked down, considered, shrugged. \"I guess so.\"\n\n\"How come I haven't heard your name?\"\n\n\"Ask Jacob.\"\n\n\"He doesn't tell me anything. I have to ask you.\"\n\n\"We know each other. We're not, like, friends, Jacob and me. We just know each other.\"\n\n\"How about Ben Rifkin? Did you know him?\"\n\n\"Same. I knew him but I didn't really _know_ him.\"\n\n\"Did you like him?\"\n\n\"He was okay.\"\n\n\"Just okay?\"\n\n\"He was a good kid, I guess. Like I said, we weren't really close.\"\n\n\"Okay. So I'll stop asking stupid questions. Why don't you just tell us, Sarah? Anything at all that might help us, anything you think we ought to know.\"\n\nShe shifted in her seat. \"I don't really know what you\u2014I don't know what to tell you.\"\n\n\"Well, tell me about this place, this school. Start with that. Tell me something about McCormick that I don't know. What's it like to go to school here? What's funny about this place? What's strange about it?\"\n\nNo response.\n\n\"Sarah, we want to help, you know, but we need some of you kids to help _us_.\"\n\nShe shifted around in her seat.\n\n\"You owe that much to Ben, don't you think? If he was your friend?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't have anything to say, I guess. I don't know anything.\"\n\n\"Sarah, whoever did this, he's still out there. You know that, don't you? If you can help, then you have a responsibility. A real responsibility. Otherwise this same thing is going to happen again to some other kid. Then it would be on you. If you didn't do everything\u2014absolutely everything you could\u2014to make it stop, then the next one would be on you, wouldn't it? How would that make you feel?\"\n\n\"You're trying to guilt me. It won't work. My mom does that too.\"\n\n\"I'm not trying to guilt you. I'm just telling you the truth.\"\n\nNo response.\n\n_Bang!_ Duffy smacked the table with his open palm. Some papers drifted with the breeze he created. \"Jesus! This is bullshit, Andy. Just put a subpoena on these kids already, would you? Put 'em in the grand jury, swear 'em in, and if they don't want to say anything, just lock 'em up for contempt. This is a waste of time. For Christ's sake!\"\n\nThe girl's eyes dilated.\n\nDuffy took his cell phone from a holster on his belt and looked at it, though it had not rung. \"I have to make a call,\" he announced. \"I'll be right back,\" and out he marched.\n\nThe kid said, \"Is he supposed to be the bad cop?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"He's not very good at it.\"\n\n\"You jumped. I saw you.\"\n\n\"Only 'cause he startled me. He banged the table.\"\n\n\"He's right, you know. If you kids don't start helping us out, we'll have to do this another way.\"\n\n\"I thought we didn't have to say anything if we didn't want to.\"\n\n\"That's true today. Tomorrow, maybe not.\"\n\nShe thought it over.\n\n\"Sarah, it's true, what you said before. I'm a DA. But I'm also a dad, okay? So I'm not going to just let this thing go. Because I keep thinking of Ben Rifkin's dad. I keep thinking of how he must be feeling. Can you even imagine how your mom or dad would feel if this happened to you? How devastated they'd be?\"\n\n\"They're split up. My dad's out of the picture. I live with my mom.\"\n\n\"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.\"\n\n\"It's no big deal.\"\n\n\"Well, Sarah, look, you're all our kids, you know. All you kids in Jacob's class, even the ones I don't know, I care about. All of us parents feel that way.\"\n\nShe rolled her eyes.\n\n\"You don't believe that?\"\n\n\"No. You don't even know me.\"\n\n\"That's true. Still, I care what happens to you just the same. I care about this school, this town. I'm not going to just let this happen. This isn't going away. You understand that?\"\n\n\"Is anyone talking to Jacob?\"\n\n\"You mean my son Jacob?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that?\"\n\n\"No reason.\"\n\n\"There must be a reason. What is it, Sarah?\"\n\nThe girl studied her lap. \"The cop who came to our class said we could tell you things anonymously?\"\n\n\"That's right. There's a tip line.\"\n\n\"How do we know you won't try to, like, figure out who gave a tip? I mean, that's something you'd want to know, right? Who said something?\"\n\n\"Sarah, come on. What is it you want to say?\"\n\n\"How do we know it will stay anonymous?\"\n\n\"You just have to trust us, I guess.\"\n\n\"Trust who? You?\"\n\n\"Me. Detective Duffy. There's a lot of people working on this case.\"\n\n\"What if I just...\" She looked up.\n\n\"Look, I'm not going to lie to you, Sarah. If you tell me something here, it's not anonymous. My job is to catch the guy who did this, but it's also to try him in court and for that I'll need witnesses. I'd be lying if I told you any different. I'm trying to be honest with you here.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" She considered. \"I really don't know anything.\"\n\n\"You sure about that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nI looked her in the eye just a moment to let her know I wasn't fooled, then I accepted her lie. I pulled a business card from my wallet. \"This is my card. I'm going to write my cell phone number on the back. My personal email too.\" I slid the card across the desk. \"You can contact me anytime, okay? Anytime. And I'll do what I can to look out for you.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nShe took the card and stood up. She looked down at her hands, at her fingers. Her fingertips were stained with black ink, imperfectly wiped off. All the students at the school were being fingerprinted that day, \"voluntarily,\" though there were jokes about the implications of refusing. Sarah frowned at the ink stains, then crossed her arms to hide them and in that awkward posture she said, \"Hey, can I ask you something, Mr. Barber? Are you ever the bad cop?\"\n\n\"No, never.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"It's just not me, I guess.\"\n\n\"So how do you do your job, then?\"\n\n\"I have a mean streak, deep down. Trust me.\"\n\n\"You just hide it?\"\n\n\"I just hide it.\"\n\nThat night, a little before eleven, I was alone in the kitchen, using my laptop computer which I had set up on the kitchen counter. I was cleaning up some odd bits of work, answering emails mostly. A new message arrived in my inbox. The subject line read\u2014shouted\u2014\"RE: BEN RIFKIN >>> README.\" It was from a Gmail address, tylerdurden982@gmail.com. The time stamp read 10:54:27 PM. The message contained a single line, a hyperlink: \"Look here.\" I clicked the link.\n\nThe link took me to a Facebook group called \"  Friends of Ben Rifkin  .\" The Facebook group was new. It could not have been established more than four days before; the day of the murder, CPAC had looked at Facebook and it was not there.\n\nWe had found the dead boy's personal Facebook page (almost every kid at the McCormick was on Facebook), but Ben's page contained no hints about the murder. For what it was worth, in his profile he had been keen to present himself as a free spirit.\n\n**Ben Rifkin** |   \n---|---  \nis out boarding |   \nNetworks: | McCormick Middle School '07  \nNewton, MA  \nSex: | Male  \nInterested in: | Women  \nRelationship Status: | Single  \nBirthday: | December 3, 1992  \nPolitical Views: | Vulcan  \nReligious Views: | Heathen\n\nThe rest was the usual clutter of digital junk: YouTube videos, games, pictures, a stream of vapid, gossipy messages. Relatively speaking, though, Ben had not been an especially heavy user of Facebook. Much of the activity on his page happened after he was murdered, when messages from Ben's classmates continued to accumulate in a ghostly way until the page was removed at his parents' request.\n\nThe new \"tribute\" page apparently was opened in response, to give kids a place to go on posting messages about the murder. The title, \"  Friends of Ben Rifkin  ,\" seemed to use _friends_ in the Facebook sense: it was open to anyone in the McCormick class of 2007, whether or not they had actually been Ben's friend.\n\nAt the top of the page was a small photo of Ben, the same one he had used on his personal page. Presumably it had been cut-and-pasted from the dead boy's old page by whoever launched this group. The picture showed Ben smiling, shirtless, apparently on a beach (the sand and ocean were visible behind him). He was making a \"hang loose\" gesture with his right hand. Down the right side of the page there was a panel called the Wall, filled with messages in reverse chronological order.\n\n**Jenna Linde** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 9:02pm on April 17th, 2007\n\nI miss you ben. I remember our talks. i love you forever i love you I love you\n\n**Christa Dufresne** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 8:43pm on April 17th, 2007\n\nthis is the cruelest thing whoever did this. I will never forget you Ben. I think about you every day.\n\nIt is important to note that in 2007 Facebook was still largely a kids' paradise. Its explosive growth among adults happened in the following couple of years. That was the case in our circle, at least. Most of the parents at the McCormick School looked at Facebook now and then to monitor what their kids were up to, but that was about it. A few of our friends joined, but they rarely used it. There were not enough other parents there yet to make it worthwhile. Personally I had no idea what Jacob and his friends saw in Facebook. I could not grasp why all this information-churning was so compelling. The only explanation, it seemed to me, was that Facebook was where kids went to be away from adults, their secret place where they strutted and flirted and goofed around with the bravado they could never muster in person in the school cafeteria. Jacob, certainly, was much more clever and assertive online than in person, as many shy kids are. Laurie and I saw the danger in allowing Jacob to carry on like this in secret. We insisted he give us his password so we could check up on him, but honestly, Laurie was the only one who ever looked at Jacob's Facebook page. To me, the kids' online conversation was even less interesting than the offline version. If I ever looked at Facebook back then, it was because the face in question was in one of my case files. Was I a neglectful parent? In hindsight, obviously yes. But then we all were, all the parents at Jacob's school. We did not know the stakes were so high.\n\nThere were already several hundred messages on the \"  Friends of Ben Rifkin  \" page.\n\n**Emily Salzman** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 10:12pm on April 16th, 2007\n\nI am still totally wigged. who did this? why did you do it? why? what was the point? what did u get out of it? this is just so sick\n\n**Alex Kurzon** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 1:14pm on April 16th, 2007\n\nat cold sprg pk now. yellow tape still up. nthng to see though. no cops.\n\nThe messages went on like this, unguarded, confessional. The Web created an illusion of intimacy, a byproduct of the kids' dazed immersion in the \"virtual\" world. Alas, they were about to learn the Web belonged to grown-ups: I was already thinking of the subpoena _duces tecum_ \u2014the order to produce documents and records\u2014that I would send to Facebook to preserve all these online conversations. In the meantime, avid as an eavesdropper, I went on reading.\n\n**Dylan Feldman** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 9:07pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nJacob STFU. if you dont want to read it, go someplace else. you of all people. f*ck off. he considered you a friend. dickhead\n\n**Mike Canin** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 9:01pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nHave to call you out on that Jake. You're not the FB police, esp the way things went down. you shd keep your head down & be quiet.\n\n**John Marolla** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 8:51pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nWTF? JB what are you mouthing off here for? go die. the world would be a better place. go f*ck off & die.\n\n**Julie Kerschner** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 8:48pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nNot cool, Jacob.\n\n**Jacob Barber** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 7:30pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nMaybe you all haven't heard\u2014Ben is dead. Why are we still writing him messages? And why are some people acting like his best friend when you never were? Can we just be real here?\n\nI stopped at Jacob's name\u2014at the realization that these last venomous messages were aimed at _my_ Jacob. I was not prepared for the reality of Jacob's life, the complexity of his relationships, the trials he went through, the brutality of the world he inhabited. _Go die. The world would be a better place_. How could my son have been told such a thing and never shared it with his family? Never even let on? I was disappointed not in Jacob but in myself. How could I have left my son with the impression I did not care about such things? Or was I being a wimp, overreacting to the exaggerated, hopped-up tone of the Internet?\n\nI also felt like a fool, honestly. I ought to have known about all this. Laurie and I had talked with Jacob only in the most general way about what he did on the Internet. We knew that when he went off to his room at night, he was able to go online. But we had some software installed on his computer to prevent him from looking at certain websites, porn sites mostly, and we felt that was enough. Facebook never seemed particularly dangerous, certainly. Also, neither of us wanted to spy on him. As a couple, we believed that you raise a child with good values and then you give him space, you trust him to behave responsibly, at least until he gives you reason not to. Modern, enlightened parents, we had not wanted to be Jake's adversaries, quizzing him about every move, hectoring him. It was a philosophy shared by most of the McCormick parents. What choice did we have? No parent can monitor his kid's every moment, online or off. In the end, every child leads his own life, largely out of his parents' sight. Still, when I saw the words _Go die_ , I realized how naive and stupid we had been. Jacob did not need our trust or our respect as much as he needed our protection, and that we had not given him.\n\nI scrolled through the messages more quickly. There were hundreds, each just a line or two. I could not possibly read them all, and I had no idea what Sarah Groehl wanted me to find. Jacob disappeared from the conversation for a long stretch as the messages got older. The kids consoled one another in maudlin messages ( _we will never evr be the same_ ) and hard-boiled ones ( _die young, stay pretty_ ). Over and over they expressed their shock. The girls protested their love and loyalty, the boys their anger. I scoured these endless repetitive messages for some worthwhile detail: _i cant believe this... we have to stick together... there are cops everywhere in school..._\n\nFinally, I clicked over to Jacob's own Facebook page, where a hotter conversation was still simmering, this one from the immediate aftermath of the murder. Again, the messages were displayed in reverse chronological order.\n\n**Marlie Kunitz** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 3:29pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nD.Y.: Do NOT say things like that here. That is GOSSIP and it could get people HURT. Even if it's a joke, it's stupid. Jake, just ignore him.\n\n**Joe O'Connor** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 3:16pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nEveryone shd all just keep their mouths SHUT if we dont know what we're talking abt. that means you derek, you tool. this is SERIOUS SHIT here. NFW you shd be talking out of your ass like that.\n\n**Mark Spicer** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 3:07pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nANYbody could say ANYthing about ANYbody. maybe YOU have a knife derek? how does it feel when somebody starts a rumor about YOU?\n\nThen this:\n\n**Derek Yoo** (McCormick Middle School) wrote at 2:25pm on April 15th, 2007\n\nJake, everyone knows you did it. You have a knife. I've seen it.\n\nI could not move. Could not budge my eyes from the message. I stared at it until the letters broke down into pixels. Derek Yoo was a friend of Jacob's, a good friend. He had been to our house a hundred times. The two boys had been in kindergarten together. Derek was a good kid.\n\n_I've seen it_.\n\nThe next morning I let Laurie and Jacob both leave before me. I told them I had a meeting at the Newton police station and did not want to drive back and forth to Cambridge. When they were safely gone, I went up to Jacob's room and searched.\n\nThe search did not take long. In the top drawer of the bureau, I found something hard, lazily hidden in an old white T-shirt. I unrolled the T-shirt until it spilled onto the bureau a folding knife with a black rubberized handle. I picked it up daintily, tweezed the blade between my thumb and index finger, and pulled it open.\n\n\"Oh my God,\" I murmured.\n\nIt might have been a military knife or a hunting knife, but then it seemed too small for that. Unfolded, it was about ten inches long. The handle was black, grippy, shaped to accept four fingers. The blade was hook-shaped, with an intricately serrated cutting edge\u2014a ripping blade\u2014and it came to a lethal gothic point. The flat sides of the blade had been drilled out, presumably to save weight. The knife was sinister and beautiful, the shape of the blade, its curve and taper. It was like one of those lovely deadly things in nature, a lick of flame or the claw of an enormous cat.\n\n# **6 | Descent**\n\n_One year later_.\n\nTRANSCRIPT OF GRAND JURY INVESTIGATION.\n\nMr. Logiudice: When you discovered the knife, what did you do? I presume you reported it immediately.\n\nWitness: No, I did not.\n\nMr. Logiudice: No? You discovered the murder weapon in an ongoing murder investigation and you did not tell anyone? Why not? You made such a pretty speech earlier this morning about how you believed in the system.\n\nWitness: I did not report it because I did not believe that it was the murder weapon. I certainly did not know it for a fact.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You didn't know it for a fact? Well, how could you? You kept it hidden! You didn't submit the knife for forensic testing, for blood, fingerprints, comparison with the wound, and so forth. That would be the ordinary procedure, wouldn't it?\n\nWitness: It would be if you genuinely suspected it was the weapon.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Ah. So you didn't even suspect it was the weapon?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: The thought never crossed your mind?\n\nWitness: This was my son. A father does not think, can't even imagine his child in those terms.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Really? Can't even imagine it?\n\nWitness: That's right.\n\nMr. Logiudice: The boy had no history of violence? No juvenile criminal record?\n\nWitness: No. None.\n\nMr. Logiudice: No behavioral problems? No psychological problems?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: He had never hurt a fly, is that fair to say?\n\nWitness: Something like that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And yet when you found the knife, you covered it up. You behaved exactly as if you thought he was guilty.\n\nWitness: That is not accurate.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Well, you didn't report it.\n\nWitness: I was slow to realize\u2014in hindsight, I admit\u2014\n\nMr. Logiudice: Mr. Barber, how could you be slow to realize when, in fact, you'd been waiting for this moment for fourteen years, from the day your son was born?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: You'd been waiting for this moment. Fearing it, dreading it. But expecting it.\n\nWitness: That's not true.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Isn't it? Mr. Barber, isn't it fair to say that violence runs in your family?\n\nWitness: I object. That is a completely improper question.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Your objection is noted for the record.\n\nWitness: You are trying to mislead this jury. You are suggesting that Jacob could inherit a tendency to violence, as if violence were the same as red hair or hairy ears. That's wrong on the biology and wrong on the law. In a word, it's bullshit. And you know it.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But I'm not talking about biology at all. I'm talking about your state of mind, what you believed at the moment you found that knife. Now, if you choose to believe in bullshit, that's your business. But what you believed is perfectly relevant and perfectly admissible as evidence. And you know it. But, out of respect, I'll withdraw the question. We'll approach it another way. Have you ever heard the phrase \"the murder gene\"?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You've heard it where?\n\nWitness: Just in conversation. I've used it in conversation with my wife. It's a figure of speech, nothing more.\n\nMr. Logiudice: A figure of speech.\n\nWitness: It is not a scientific term. I'm not a scientist.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Of course. We're all non-experts here. Now, when you used this, this figure of speech, \"the murder gene,\" what were you referring to?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: Oh, come on, Andy, there's no reason to be shy about it. It's all a matter of public record now. You've felt a lot of anxiety, haven't you, in your life?\n\nWitness: A long time ago. When I was a kid. Not now.\n\nMr. Logiudice: A long time ago, okay. You were worried\u2014a long time ago, when you were a kid\u2014about your own history, your own family, weren't you?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: It's fair to say you're descended from a long line of violent men, aren't you, Mr. Barber?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: It's fair to say that, isn't it?\n\nWitness: [Inaudible.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. You're descended from a long line of violent men, aren't you? Mr. Barber?\n\nViolence did run in my family. You could follow it like a red thread back through three generations. Probably there were more. Probably the red thread ran right the way back to Cain, but I never had any desire to trace it. A few stories, lurid, mostly unverifiable, and a few photographs had come down to me; that was affliction enough. When I was a kid, I wanted to forget these stories entirely. I used to wonder what it would be like if a magical amnesia descended and erased my mind completely, leaving only a body and some sort of blank self, all potential, all soft clay. But of course, no matter how I tried to forget, the story of my ancestors was always stored in deep memory, always ready to poke up into awareness. I learned to manage with it. Later, for Jacob's sake, I learned to drink it down entirely, leaving nothing for anyone to see, nothing to \"share.\" Laurie was a great believer in sharing, in the talking cure, but I never meant to cure myself. I never believed such a thing was possible. That is what Laurie never understood. She knew that my father's ghost troubled me, but not why. She presumed the issue was that I never knew him and there would forever be a daddy-shaped hole in my life. I never told her anything else, though she tried to pry me open like an oyster. Laurie's own dad was a shrink, and before Jacob was born she was a teacher at the Gavin Middle School in South Boston, fifth- and sixth-grade English. She believed, based on these experiences, that she had some understanding of under-fathered young boys. \"You'll never be able to deal with it,\" she would tell me, \"if you won't talk about it.\" Oh, Laurie, you never got it! I never intended to \"deal with it.\" I intended to stop it cold. I meant to stop the whole sordid criminal line of descent by absorbing it all inside me. I would stand there and stop it like a bullet. I would simply refuse to pass it along to Jake. So I chose not to learn much. Not to research my history or analyze it for causes and effects. I purposely orphaned myself from the whole brawling lot of them. As far as I knew\u2014as far as I chose to know\u2014the red thread went back to my great-grandfather, a slit-eyed thug named James Burkett, who came east from North Dakota carrying in his bones some feral, wicked instinct for violence that would manifest itself over and over, in Burkett himself, in his son, and most spectacularly in his grandson, my father.\n\nJames Burkett was born near Minot, North Dakota, sometime around 1890. The circumstances of his childhood, his parents, whether he had any education\u2014I knew nothing about these things. Only that he grew up on the High Plains of Dakota in the years after Little Big Horn, at the closing of the frontier. The first real evidence I had of the man was a sepia photograph on thick card stock, taken in New York City at the H.W. Harrison Photographic Studio on Fulton Street on Wednesday, August 23, 1911. The day and date were carefully noted in pencil on the back of the photo along with his new name, \"James Barber.\" The story behind this journey was also murky. The way I heard it\u2014from my mother, who got it from my father's father\u2014was that Burkett lit out of North Dakota to escape an armed robbery charge. He lay low awhile on the southern shore of Lake Superior, clamming and working on fishing boats, then made his way to New York under a new name. Why he changed his name\u2014whether it was to avoid an arrest warrant or just to make a new start with a new identity out east, or for some other reason\u2014no one knew for sure. Nor could anyone explain why my great-grandfather chose Barber as his new surname. The only solid evidence I had of this period was the photo itself. It was the only image of James Burkett-Barber I ever saw. He would have been about twenty or twenty-one when it was taken. He is shown full figure. Slim and taut, bandy-legged, in a borrowed coat, with a bowler held in the crook of his arm. He squints into the camera with a Bowery smirk, one corner of his mouth curling up like smoke.\n\nI surmised that the charge in North Dakota was probably more serious than armed robbery. Not only did Burkett-Barber go to great lengths to escape it\u2014a low-rent stickup man on the lam did not have to travel so far or transform himself so completely\u2014but upon arriving in New York he displayed an aptitude for violence almost immediately. There was no apprenticeship. He did not work his way up from petty assaults, as novice criminals do; he stepped onstage a hoodlum in full flower. His criminal record in New York included arrests for ABDW, assault with intent to rob, assault with intent to murder, mayhem, possession of an infernal device, possession of an unlicensed firearm, rape, and attempted murder. Between his first arrest in New York state in 1912 and his death in 1941, James Barber spent nearly half his days in prison or in custody awaiting trial. On two charges of rape and attempted murder alone, he served fourteen years combined.\n\nIt was the record of a professional criminal, and the one description of him that surfaced in the casebooks bore that out. The case was an attempted murder in 1916. It generated a perfunctory appeal and was therefore written up in the New York case reports in 1918. The summary of the facts of the case, as reported by Judge Barton in his decision, is just a few sentences long:\n\n_The defendant became embroiled in an argument with the victim, a man named Payton, at a Brooklyn bar. The argument had to do with a debt Payton owed either to the defendant himself (according to the defendant) or to another for whom the defendant worked as a \"stalker,\" or debt-collector (according to the State). In the course of this argument, the defendant, in a transport of rage, attacked the victim with a bottle. He persisted in the attack even after the bottle had broken, after the affray had spilled from the bar out onto the street, and after the victim's left eye was badly damaged and his left ear shorn nearly off. The attack finally ended when several bystanders, to whom the victim was known, intervened to overwhelm the defendant and hold him forcibly, with great effort, until police arrived_.\n\nOne other detail from that court decision stood out. The judge noted, \"The defendant's reputation for violence was well known to Payton, as indeed it was well known generally.\"\n\nJames Barber left at least one son, my grandfather Russell, who was called Rusty. Rusty Barber lived until 1971. I knew him only briefly, when I was a very little kid. Most of what I know about him comes from stories he told my mother, who later passed them on to me.\n\nRusty never met his father and therefore never missed him. Didn't waste a hell of a lot of thought on him. Rusty was raised in Meriden, Connecticut, where his mother had people and where she returned from New York City, pregnant, to raise him up. She told the boy about his father, including his crimes. She did not mince words, but neither she nor the boy made a big deal about it or felt especially burdened. Lots of folks had it worse in those days. It did not occur to anyone that Rusty's father might affect the boy's future in any way. On the contrary, Rusty was raised with essentially the same expectations his neighbors were. He was a mediocre student and a little wild, but he did graduate from Meriden High School. He entered West Point in 1933 but left after his plebe year, much of which he spent in special confinement and walking disciplinary tours. He came back to Meriden, worked odd jobs, drifted. He married a local girl, my grandmother, and seven months later had a son, whom he called William. Once, Rusty was involved in a minor scuffle and wound up getting arrested for assaulting a police officer, though he had not done any such thing, really. Just did not like the way the man laid hands on him.\n\nIt was the war that turned things around for Rusty Barber. He joined the Army as a private and took part in the D-day invasion with the First Infantry Division. By the time the war was over, he was a lieutenant in the Third Army, a winner of the Medal of Honor and two Silver Stars, and a certified hero. During the battle for Nuremberg in April 1945, he single-handedly stormed a German machine-gun emplacement, killing six Germans, the last two using his bayonet. There was a parade for him back in Meriden. He rode on the back of an open convertible and waved to the girls.\n\nAfter the war, he had two more kids, bought his own little wood-frame house in Meriden. But he was not nearly as well suited to peacetime. He flopped in a series of businesses\u2014insurance, real estate, a restaurant. He did finally find a place as a traveling salesman. He repped a number of clothing and shoe lines, and he spent most of his working life driving around southern New England with boxes of samples in his car trunk, which he displayed to storekeepers in one cramped office after another. Looking back on this period in my grandfather's life, he must have been laboring mightily to stay straight. Rusty Barber had his father's genius for violence, which the war encouraged and rewarded, but he was not exceptionally talented in any other respect. Still, he might have made it. He might have got through life peacefully, in a left-handed way. But it was a precarious thing, and events conspired against him.\n\nOn May 11, 1950, he was in Lowell, Massachusetts, calling on Birke's clothing store to show the new line of Mighty Mac parkas for the fall. He stopped for lunch at a hot dog place he liked called Elliot's. As he left Elliot's, there was an accident. A car swiped the front of Rusty's Buick Special as he crept out of the parking lot. There was an argument. A shove. The other man produced a knife. When it was over, the man lay on the street, and Rusty walked away as if nothing had happened. The man stood up with his hands pressed to his belly. Blood seeped through his fingers. He opened his shirt but held his hands over his stomach a moment, as if he had a bellyache. When the man finally pulled his hands away, a slick coiled snake of intestines drooped out of him. A vertical incision split his stomach from the pelvis to the bottom of the chestbone. With his own hands, the man lifted his intestines back into his own body, held them there, and walked inside to call the police.\n\nThey threw the book at Rusty: assault with intent to murder, mayhem, ABDW. At trial, he argued self-defense but he confessed, fatally, that he did not recall any of the things he was accused of, including taking the man's knife and gutting him with it. His memory failed at the moment the man came at him with the knife. He was sentenced to seven to ten years; he served three. By the time he got back to Meriden, his eldest son, William\u2014my father, Billy Barber\u2014was eighteen and already too wild for any father to control, even one as formidable as Rusty.\n\nAnd here we reach the part of the story where the fabric frays and runs out. For I have no real memories of my own father back then, just fragments\u2014\n\nan unfocused blue-green tattoo on the inside of his right wrist, in the shape of a cross or a dagger, which he picked up in prison somewhere\u2014\n\nhis hands, pale red-knuckled bony talons, quite credible as instruments of murder\u2014\n\nhis mouth full of long yellow teeth\u2014\n\na curved pearl-handled knife, which he always carried in his belt at the small of his back, tucked there every morning automatically, the way other men slipped a wallet into a back pocket.\n\nBeyond these glimpses, though, I just cannot remember him. And even these scraps I don't really trust; I have had years to embellish them. It was 1961 when I last saw my father. I was five, he was twenty-six. For a long time, as a little kid, I tried to preserve my memories of him to keep him from disappearing. That was before I really understood what he was. Over the years, he dematerialized anyway. By the time I was ten or so, I had no real memory of him except these few stray puzzle pieces. A little while after that I quit thinking of him altogether. For convenience, I lived as if I had no father, as if I had come into the world unfathered, and this attitude I never questioned because nothing any good could ever come of it.\n\nOne memory did stick, if imperfectly. Sometime in that last summer, 1961, my mom took me to visit him in the Whalley Avenue jail in New Haven. We sat at one of the pitted wood tables in the crowded visiting room. The prisoners in their boxy prison dungarees and pajama tops all looked like the crayon drawings of flat, square-shaped men that my friends and I used to draw. I must have been shy that day\u2014you had to be careful around him\u2014because my father had to coax me. \"Come here, let me look at you.\" He clamped his fist around my tiny upper arm and drew me forward. \"Come here. You come all this way to visit, get over here.\" Years later, I can still feel his grip on my arm, twisting it slightly, the way you would twist a chicken leg to tear it away.\n\nHe had done a terrible thing. I knew that. No adult would tell me what it was exactly. It involved a girl and one of the empty boarded-up row houses on Congress Avenue. And the pearl-handled knife. That was the part that made grown-ups go quiet.\n\nMy childhood ended that summer. I learned the word _murder_. But it is not enough to be told a word as big as that. You have to live with it, carry it around with you. You have to pace around and around it, see it from different angles, at different times of day, in different light, until you understand, until it enters you. You have to hold it inside yourself in secret for years, like the hideous stone inside a peach.\n\nHow much of this did Laurie know? None of it. I knew the moment I laid eyes on her that she was a Nice Jewish Girl from a Nice Jewish Family and she would not consider me if she knew the truth. So I told her in vague and romantic terms that my father had a raffish reputation but I had never known him. I was the product of a short, unhappy love affair. For the next thirty-five years that was how things stood. To Laurie, I was essentially fatherless. I never told her any different because in my own mind I _was_ essentially fatherless. Certainly I was not Bloody Billy Barber's son. There was nothing very dramatic in all this. When I told my girlfriend, who became my wife, that I did not know who my father was, I was simply saying out loud what I had been repeating to myself for years. I was not misleading her at all. If I had once been Billy Barber's son, by the time I met Laurie I had long ceased to be, except in strict biological terms. What I told Laurie was nearer the truth than the actual facts were. You will say, _Okay, but surely in all those years there must have come a time when you could have told her_. But the truth is, as time went by, what I had told Laurie became more and more true. As a grown man, I was even less Billy's boy. It was all just a story, some old myth that had nothing to do with who I actually was. I did not even think about it much, honestly. At some point as adults we cease to be our parents' children and we become our children's parents instead. What was more, I had the girl. I had Laurie, and we were happy. Our marriage settled into a rhythm, we believed we knew each other, and we were each happy with our conception of our partner. Why spoil that? Why risk the rare happy marriage\u2014rarer still, a love marriage that endures\u2014for something as common and as toxic as complete, unthinking, transparent honesty? Who would be helped by my telling? Me? Not at all. I was made of steel, I promise you. There is a more mundane explanation too: it just never came up. It turns out there is no good time in the average day to announce to your wife that you are the son of a murderer.\n\n# **7 | Denial**\n\nLogiudice was half right: by this point I did suspect Jacob, but not of murder. The scenario Logiudice was trying to sell to the grand jury\u2014that, because of my family history and because of the knife, I immediately knew Jacob was a psychopath and covered for him\u2014was pure bullshit. I don't blame Logiudice for overselling the case that way. Juries are hard of hearing by nature, the more so in this case where circumstances essentially forced them to stick their fingers in their ears. Logiudice had no choice but to shout. But the fact is, nothing so dramatic had happened. The suggestion that Jacob might be a murderer was just crazy; I did not seriously consider it. What I thought, rather, was that something was up. Jacob knew more than he was telling. Lord knows, that was unsettling enough. Suspicion, once it started to corkscrew itself into my thoughts, made me experience everything twice: as questing prosecutor and as anxious father, one after the truth, the other terrified of it. And if I did not exactly confess all that to the grand jury, well, I knew enough to oversell my case too.\n\nThe day I discovered the knife, Jacob got home from school around two-thirty. From the kitchen, Laurie and I listened to him clatter into the front hall and back-heel the door shut, then slip off his backpack and coat in the mudroom. We exchanged nervous glances as, like sonar operators, we interpreted these sounds.\n\n\"Jacob,\" Laurie called, \"can you come in here, please?\"\n\nThere was a moment's stillness, a catch, before he said, \"Okay.\"\n\nLaurie made a positive face to reassure me.\n\nJacob shambled into the kitchen apprehensively. From my perspective, looking up at him, it struck me how big he had gotten, this man-sized boy.\n\n\"Dad. What are you doing home?\"\n\n\"There's something we need to talk about, Jake.\"\n\nHe came in a little farther and saw the knife on the table between us. With the blade folded into the handle, the knife had lost its menace. It was just a tool.\n\nI said, in as neutral a tone as I could manage, \"You want to tell us what this is?\"\n\n\"Um, a knife?\"\n\n\"Don't fool around, Jacob.\"\n\n\"Sit down, Jacob,\" his mother encouraged. \"Sit down.\"\n\nHe sat. \"You looked through my room?\"\n\n\"I did, not your mother.\"\n\n\"You searched it?\"\n\n\"Yup.\"\n\n\"Ever heard of privacy?\"\n\n\"Jacob,\" Laurie said, \"your father was worried about you.\" He rolled his eyes.\n\nLaurie continued, \"We're both worried. Why don't you just tell us what this is all about.\"\n\n\"Jacob, you put me in a difficult position, you know. Half the state police are looking for this knife.\"\n\n\"For _this_ knife?\"\n\n\"Not _this_ knife; _a_ knife. You know what I mean. For a knife like this. I just don't understand what a kid like you is doing with a knife like this. Why do you need it, Jake?\"\n\n\"I don't need it. It's just something I got.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You got it but you don't know why?\"\n\n\"It's just, I don't know, something I did. For no reason. It doesn't mean anything. Why does everything have to mean something?\"\n\n\"Then why did you hide it?\"\n\n\"Probably because I knew you'd freak out.\"\n\n\"Well, you got that right, at least. Why do you need a knife?\"\n\n\"I just told you, I don't need it. I just thought it was kinda cool. I liked it. I just wanted it.\"\n\n\"Are you having problems with other kids?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Is there someone you're afraid of?\"\n\n\"No. Like I said, I just saw it and I thought it was cool so I bought it.\" He shrugged.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"This army-navy store in town. They're not hard to find.\"\n\n\"Is there a record of the sale? Did you use a credit card?\"\n\n\"No, cash.\"\n\nMy eyes narrowed.\n\n\"It's not that unusual, Jesus, Dad. People do use cash, you know.\"\n\n\"What do you do with it?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I just look at it, hold it, see how it feels.\"\n\n\"Do you carry it with you?\"\n\n\"No. Not usually.\"\n\n\"But sometimes?\"\n\n\"No. Well, rarely.\"\n\n\"Do you bring it to school?\"\n\n\"No. Except once. I showed it to some kids.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Derek, Dylan. Couple others maybe.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\" 'Cause I thought it was cool. It was like, Hey, check this out.\"\n\n\"Have you ever used it for anything?\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"I don't know, whatever you'd use a knife for: to cut.\"\n\n\"You mean have I ever stabbed anyone with it in Cold Spring Park?\"\n\n\"No, I mean, have you ever used it at all?\"\n\n\"No, never. Of course not.\"\n\n\"So you just got it and stuck it in your drawer?\"\n\n\"Pretty much, yeah.\"\n\n\"That doesn't make sense.\"\n\n\"Well, it's the truth.\"\n\n\"Why would you\u2014\"\n\n\"Andy,\" his mother cut in, \"he's a teenager. That's why.\"\n\n\"Laurie, he doesn't need help.\"\n\nLaurie explained, \"Teenagers do stupid things sometimes.\" She turned to Jacob. \"Even _smart_ teenagers do stupid things.\"\n\n\"Jacob, I need to ask you, for my own peace of mind: is this the knife they're looking for?\"\n\n\"No! Are you crazy?\"\n\n\"Do you know anything about what happened to Ben Rifkin? Anything you heard from your friends? Anything at all you can tell me?\"\n\n\"No. Of course not.\" He looked at me evenly, meeting my gaze with his own. It only lasted a moment but it was unmistakably a challenge\u2014the sort of eye-fuck a defiant witness will flip you on the stand. Once he had outfaced me, his point made, he became a petulant kid again: \"I can't believe you're asking me this stuff, Dad. It's like, I get home from school and suddenly I get all these questions. I just can't believe this. I can't believe you actually think these things about me.\"\n\n\"I don't think anything about you, Jacob. All I know is you brought that knife into my house and I'd like to know why.\"\n\n\"Who told you to look for it?\"\n\n\"Never mind who told me.\"\n\n\"One of the kids at school, obviously. Someone you interviewed yesterday. Just tell me who.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter who. This isn't about what other kids did. You're not the victim here.\"\n\n\"Andy,\" Laurie warned. She had told me not to confront or cross-examine him, not to accuse. _Just talk to him, Andy. This is a family. We talk to each other_.\n\nI looked away. Deep breath. \"Jacob, if I submit that knife for testing, for blood or any other evidence, would you object?\"\n\n\"No. Go ahead, do whatever tests you want. I don't care.\"\n\nI considered for a moment. \"Okay. I believe you. I believe you.\"\n\n\"Do I get my knife back?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not.\"\n\n\"It's my knife. You have no right to take it.\"\n\n\"I'm your father. That gives me the right.\"\n\n\"You're also with the cops.\"\n\n\"Are you worried about the cops for some reason, Jake?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then what are you talking about your rights for?\"\n\n\"What if I don't let you take it?\"\n\n\"Try.\"\n\nHe stood there looking at the knife on the table and at me, weighing the risk and reward. \"This is _so_ wrong,\" he said, and he frowned at the injustice.\n\n\"Jake, your father's just doing what he thinks is best because he loves you.\"\n\n\"What about what _I_ think is best? That doesn't matter, I suppose.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"It doesn't.\"\n\nBy the time I got to the Newton police station that same afternoon, they had Patz in the interview room, where he sat as still as an Easter Island head, staring into a camera that was hidden in the face of a schoolhouse clock. Patz knew the camera was there. The detectives were required to inform him and get his consent to record the interview. The camera was hidden anyway in the hope that suspects would stop thinking about it.\n\nPatz's image was piped to a small computer screen in the detective bureau, right outside the interview room, where a half dozen Newton and CPAC detectives stood watching. So far it had not been much of a show, apparently. The cops wore flat expressions, not seeing much, not expecting to see much.\n\nI came into the detective bureau and joined them. \"He say anything?\"\n\n\"Nothing. He's Sergeant Schultz.\"\n\nOnscreen, Patz's image filled the frame. He sat at the head of a long wood table. Behind him was a bare white wall. Patz was a big man. According to his probation officer he was six foot three and two hundred sixty pounds. Even seated behind a table, he looked massive. But his body was soft. His sides, belly, and tits all sagged against his black polo shirt, as if he had been poured and bagged up inside this black sack cinched shut at the neck.\n\n\"Jesus,\" I said, \"this guy could use a little exercise.\"\n\nOne of the CPAC guys said, \"How about jerking off to kiddie porn?\"\n\nWe all sniggered.\n\nIn the interview room, on one side of Patz was Paul Duffy from CPAC, on the other a Newton detective, Nils Peterson. The cops were visible onscreen only now and then, when they leaned forward into the camera frame.\n\nDuffy was leading the Q&A. \"Okay, take me through it one more time. Tell me what you remember from that morning.\"\n\n\"I already told you.\"\n\n\"One more time. You'd be surprised the things that come back to people when they go back over the story.\"\n\n\"I don't want to talk anymore. I'm getting tired.\"\n\n\"Hey, Lenny, do yourself a favor, all right? I'm trying to exclude you here. I already told you: I'm trying to rule you _out_. This is in your interest.\"\n\n\"It's Leonard.\"\n\n\"A witness puts you in Cold Spring Park that morning.\"\n\nThat was a fib.\n\nOnscreen, Duffy said, \"You know I have to check that out. With your record, that's just the way it is. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't.\"\n\nPatz sighed.\n\n\"Just one more time, Lenny. I don't want to get the wrong guy.\"\n\n\"It's Leonard.\" He rubbed his eyes. \"All right. I was in the park. I walk there every morning. But I was nowhere near where the kid got killed. I never go that way, I never walk in that part. I didn't see anything, I didn't hear anything\"\u2014he began to count these points on his fingers\u2014\"I don't know the kid, I never saw the kid, I never heard of the kid.\"\n\n\"All right, calm down, Lenny.\"\n\n\"I am calm.\" A glance into the camera.\n\n\"And you didn't see anyone that morning?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No one saw you leave your apartment or come back?\"\n\n\"How should I know?\"\n\n\"You didn't see anyone in the park who looked suspicious, anyone who didn't belong there, who we should know about?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"All right, let's take a quick break, okay? You stay here. We'll be back in a few minutes. We'll just have a few more questions and then that'll be it.\"\n\n\"What about my lawyer?\"\n\n\"Haven't heard from him yet.\"\n\n\"You'll tell me when he gets here?\"\n\n\"Sure, Lenny.\"\n\nThe two detectives got up to leave.\n\n\"I've never hurt anyone,\" Patz said. \"You remember that. I never hurt anyone. Ever.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Duffy reassured him, \"I believe you.\"\n\nThe detectives crossed in front of the camera and stepped through the door directly into the room where they had been only distant images in the computer monitor.\n\nDuffy shook his head. \"I've got nothing. He's used to dealing with cops. I just don't have anything to challenge him with. I'd like to let him sit there awhile and cool off, but I don't think we'll have time. His lawyer's on the way. What do you want to do, Andy?\"\n\n\"You've been going like this for how long?\"\n\n\"A couple hours maybe. Something like that.\"\n\n\"Just like this? Deny, deny, deny?\"\n\n\"Yeah. It's useless.\"\n\n\"Do it again.\"\n\n\"Do it again? Are you kidding? How long have you been watching?\"\n\n\"I just got here, Duff, but what else can we do? He's our only real suspect. A little boy is dead; this guy likes little boys. He's already given you the fact he was in the park that morning. He knows the area. He's there every morning, so he knows the routine, he knows kids walk through those woods every morning. He's certainly big enough to overpower the victim. That's motive, means, and opportunity. So I say stay with it till he gives you something.\"\n\nDuffy's eyes flicked to the other cops in the room then back to me. \"His lawyer's about to shut it down anyway, Andy.\"\n\n\"Then there's no time to waste, is there? Get back in there. Get me a confession and I'll take it to the grand jury this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Just get you a confession? Just like that?\"\n\n\"That's why you get the big bucks, pal.\"\n\n\"What about the kids at the school? I thought that's where we were headed.\"\n\n\"We'll keep looking at it, Duff, but what do we have, really? A bunch of freaked-out kids running their mouths on Facebook? So what? Look at this guy. Just look at him. Name me a better suspect. We don't have one.\"\n\n\"You really believe that, Andy? This is the guy, you think?\"\n\n\"Yes. Maybe. _Maybe_. But we need something real to prove it. Get me a confession, Duff. Get me the knife. Get me anything. We need something.\"\n\n\"Okay, then.\" Duffy looked resolutely at the Newton detective who was his partner on this case. \"We do it again. Like the man says.\"\n\nThe cop hesitated, appealing to Duffy with his eyes. _Why waste time?_\n\n\"We do it again,\" Duffy repeated. \"Like the man says.\"\n\nMr. Logiudice: They never got the chance, did they? The detectives never got back into the interrogation room with Leonard Patz that day.\n\nWitness: No, they did not. Not that day or any other day.\n\nMr. Logiudice: How did you feel about that?\n\nWitness: I thought it was a mistake. Based on what we knew at the time, it was a mistake to turn away from Patz as a suspect so early in the investigation. He was our best suspect by far.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You still believe that?\n\nWitness: Without a doubt. We should have stayed on Patz.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Why?\n\nWitness: Because that's where the evidence was pointing.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Not all the evidence.\n\nWitness: All? You never have all the evidence pointing in one direction, not in a tough case like this one. That's precisely the problem. You don't have enough information, the data is incomplete. There is no clear pattern, no obvious answer. So detectives do what all people do: they form a narrative in their head, a theory, and then they go looking in the data for evidence to support it. They pick a suspect first, then they look for the evidence to convict him. And they stop noticing evidence that points at other suspects.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Like Leonard Patz.\n\nWitness: Like Leonard Patz.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Are you suggesting that's what happened here?\n\nWitness: I'm suggesting mistakes were made, yes, certainly.\n\nMr. Logiudice: So what is a detective supposed to do in this situation?\n\nWitness: He has to be wary of locking onto one suspect too soon. Because if he guesses wrong, he will miss evidence pointing him toward the right answer. He'll miss even obvious things.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But a detective has to form theories. He has to focus on suspects, usually before he has clear evidence against them. What else can he do?\n\nWitness: That's the dilemma. You always start with a guess. And sometimes you guess wrong.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Did anyone guess wrong in this case?\n\nWitness: We didn't know. We just didn't know.\n\nMr. Logiudice: All right, go on with your story. Why didn't the detectives go on interrogating Patz?\n\nAn older man with a battered lawyer's bag came into the detective bureau. His name was Jonathan Klein. He was short, slight, a little stooped. He wore a gray suit with a black turtleneck. His hair was long and strikingly white. He swept it straight back over his head where it hung over the back of his collar. He had a white goatee as well. He said in a soft voice, \"Hello, Andy.\"\n\n\"Jonathan.\"\n\nWe shook hands with real warmth. I always liked and respected Jonathan Klein. Bookish and vaguely bohemian, he was unlike me. (I am as conventional as white toast.) But he did not lecture or lie, which set him apart from his brethren in the defense bar, who had only a casual regard for the truth, and he was genuinely smart and knew the law. He was\u2014there is no other word for it\u2014wise. Also, it must be said, I had a childish attraction to men of my father's generation, as if I still harbored a faint hope of being unorphaned, even at this late date.\n\nKlein said, \"I'd like to see my client now.\" His voice was soft\u2014it was naturally soft, this was not an affectation or a tactic\u2014so that the room tended to grow quiet around him. You found yourself leaning in close to make out what he was saying.\n\n\"I didn't know you were representing this guy, Jonathan. Kind of a low-rent case for you, isn't it? Some crummy pedophile ball-grabber? It's bad for your reputation.\"\n\n\"Reputation? We're lawyers! Anyway, he's not here because he's a pedophile. We both know that. This is a lot of cops to put on a case about ball-grabbing.\"\n\nI stepped aside. \"All right. He's right in there. Go on in.\"\n\n\"You'll turn off the camera and the microphone?\"\n\n\"Yeah. You want to use another room instead?\"\n\n\"No, of course not.\" He smiled gently. \"I trust you, Andy.\"\n\n\"Enough to let your man keep talking?\"\n\n\"No, no. I trust you too much for that.\"\n\nAnd that was the end of Patz's Q&A.\n\nNine-thirty P.M.\n\nLaurie lay on the couch gazing at me, her book tented on her belly. She wore a brown V-neck shirt with a wreath of chunky embroidery around the neck, and her tortoiseshell reading glasses. Over the years she had found a way to carry her younger style into middle age; she had upgraded the embroidered peasant blouses and ripped jeans of her brainy funkster teens for a more elegant, tailored version of the same look.\n\nShe said, \"Do you want to talk about it?\"\n\n\"Talk about what?\"\n\n\"Jacob.\"\n\n\"We already did.\"\n\n\"I know, but you're brooding.\"\n\n\"I'm not brooding. I'm watching TV.\"\n\n\"The Cooking Channel?\" She smiled, warmly skeptical.\n\n\"There's nothing else on. Anyway, I like cooking.\"\n\n\"No, you don't.\"\n\n\"I like _watching_ cooking.\"\n\n\"It's okay, Andy. You don't have to if you're not ready.\"\n\n\"It's not that. It's just there's nothing to say.\"\n\n\"Can I ask you one question?\"\n\nI rolled my eyes: _Does it matter if I say no?_\n\nShe picked up the remote from the coffee table and switched off the TV. \"When we talked to Jacob today, you said you didn't think he did anything, but then you turned around and cross-examined him.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't.\"\n\n\"You did. You never accused him of anything, exactly, but your tone was... prosecutorial.\"\n\n\"It was?\"\n\n\"A little.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean for it to be. I'll apologize to him later.\"\n\n\"You don't have to apologize.\"\n\n\"I do, if that's how I came off.\"\n\n\"I'm just asking why. Is there anything you're not telling me?\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"Whatever made you go after him that way.\"\n\n\"I didn't go after him. Anyway, no, I was just upset about the knife. And what Derek wrote on Facebook.\"\n\n\"Because Jacob's had some behavioral\u2014\"\n\n\"Jesus, Laurie, come on. Be serious. This is just some kids gossiping. If I could get my hands on Derek. That was incredibly stupid, what he wrote. Honestly, sometimes I think that kid isn't all there.\"\n\n\"Derek's not a bad kid.\"\n\n\"Will you still say that when Jacob gets a knock on the door one day?\"\n\n\"Is that a real possibility?\"\n\n\"No. Of course not.\"\n\n\"Do we have any responsibility here?\"\n\n\"You mean, is it our fault somehow?\"\n\n\"Fault? No. I mean, do we have to report it?\"\n\n\"No. God, no. There's nothing to report. It's not a crime to have a knife. It's not a crime to be a stupid teenager either\u2014thank God, or we'd have to throw half of 'em in the can.\"\n\nLaurie nodded neutrally. \"It's just, he's been accused, and now you know about it. And it's not like the cops aren't going to find it anyway; it's right there on Facebook.\"\n\n\"It's not a credible accusation, Laurie. There's no reason to bring the whole world down on Jake's head. The whole thing is ridiculous.\"\n\n\"Is that what you really think, Andy?\"\n\n\"Yes! Of course. Don't you?\"\n\nShe searched my face. \"Okay. So this isn't what's bothering you?\"\n\n\"I already told you: nothing's bothering me.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Really.\"\n\n\"What did you do with the knife?\"\n\n\"I got rid of it.\"\n\n\"Got rid of it where?\"\n\n\"I threw it away. Not here. In a Dumpster somewhere.\"\n\n\"You covered for him.\"\n\n\"No. I just wanted that knife out of my house. And I didn't want anyone using it to make Jacob look guilty when he's not. That's all.\"\n\n\"How is that different from covering for him?\"\n\n\"You can't _cover_ for someone who didn't do anything wrong.\"\n\nShe gave me a searching look. \"Okay. I'm going up to bed. You coming?\"\n\n\"In a little while.\"\n\nShe got up, came over to plow her fingers through my hair and kiss my forehead. \"Don't stay up too late, sweetheart. You won't be able to get up in the morning.\"\n\n\"Laurie, you didn't answer my question. I asked you what _you_ think? Do you agree it's ridiculous to think Jacob did this?\"\n\n\"I think it's very hard to imagine, yes.\"\n\n\"But you _can_ imagine it?\"\n\n\"I don't know. You mean you can't, Andy? You can't even imagine it?\"\n\n\"No, I can't. This is our son we're talking about.\"\n\nShe pulled back from me visibly, cautiously. \"I don't know. I guess I can't imagine it either. But then I think: when I woke up this morning, I could not have imagined that knife.\"\n\n# **8 | The End**\n\n_Sunday, April 22, 2007, ten days after the murder_.\n\nOn a raw, drizzly morning, hundreds of volunteers turned out to sweep Cold Spring Park for the missing knife. They were a cross-section of the town. Kids from the McCormick, some who had been friends with Ben Rifkin, some who were clearly from other school tribes\u2014jocks, geeks, kittenish good girls. There were lots of young mothers and fathers. A few of the activist _macher_ s who were constantly organizing community efforts of one kind or another. All these assembled in the morning damp, listened to instructions from Paul Duffy about how the search would proceed, then in teams they tromped off across the spongy wet ground to search their assigned quadrants of the woods for the knife. There was a determined mood to the whole adventure. It was a relief for everyone to do something finally, to be admitted into the investigation. Soon, they were sure, the whole thing would be resolved. It was the waiting, the uncertainty that was wearing them down. The knife would end all that. It would bear fingerprints or blood or some other morsel that would unlock the mystery, and the town would finally be able to exhale.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You didn't take part in the search, did you?\n\nWitness: No, I did not.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Because you knew it was a fool's errand. The knife they were looking for had already been found in Jacob's dresser drawer. And you had already dumped it for him.\n\nWitness: No. I knew that was not the knife they were looking for. There was no doubt in my mind. Zero.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Then why didn't you join the search?\n\nWitness: A prosecutor never takes part in his own searches. I couldn't risk becoming a witness in my own case. Think about it: if I were the one to find the murder weapon, I'd have become an essential witness. I'd be forced to cross the courtroom and take the stand. I'd have to give up the case. That's why a good prosecutor always hangs back. He waits at the police station or out on the street while a search warrant is executed, he watches from the next room while a detective conducts an interrogation. That is Prosecution 101, Neal. It's standard procedure. It's exactly what I taught you, once upon a time. Maybe you weren't listening.\n\nMr. Logiudice: So it was for technical reasons?\n\nWitness: Neal, no one wanted the search to succeed as much as I did. I wanted my son to be proven innocent. Finding the real knife would have accomplished that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You're not the least bit troubled by the way you disposed of Jacob's knife? Even now, knowing what happened?\n\nWitness: I did what I thought was right. Jake was innocent. It was the wrong knife.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Of course you weren't willing to test that theory, were you? You didn't submit the knife for forensic testing, for fingerprints or blood or fiber traces, as you threatened Jacob you might?\n\nWitness: It was the wrong knife. I did not need a test to confirm that for me.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You already knew.\n\nWitness: I already knew.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What was it\u2014what made you so sure?\n\nWitness: I knew my son.\n\nMr. Logiudice: That's it? You knew your son?\n\nWitness: I did what any father would do. I tried to protect him from his own stupidity.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Okay. We'll leave it. All right, so while the others searched in Cold Spring Park that morning, you waited where?\n\nWitness: In the parking lot at the entrance to the park.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And at some point Mr. Rifkin, the victim's father, appeared?\n\nWitness: Yes. When I first saw him, he was coming from the direction of the woods. There are playing fields at the front of the park there, soccer fields, baseball. That morning the fields were empty. It was just a huge flat open grassy expanse. And he was making his way across it toward me.\n\nThis will always be my lasting image of Dan Rifkin alone in his misery: a small figure meandering across this massive green space, head bowed, arms thrust down into his coat pockets. The wind kept blustering him off course. He zigzagged like a little boat tacking upwind.\n\nI went out onto the fields to meet him, but we were some distance apart and the crossing took time. For an awkward interval we watched each other approach. What must we have looked like from above? Two tiny forms inching across an empty green field toward a meeting somewhere in the center.\n\nAs he drew close, I waved. But Rifkin did not return the gesture. Thinking he was upset by accidentally running across the search, I made a churlish note to ream out the victim advocate who had forgotten to warn Rifkin away from the park that day.\n\n\"Hey, Dan,\" I said in a wary tone.\n\nHe wore aviator sunglasses, though the weather was gray, and his eyes showed dimly through the lenses. He stared up at me, his eyes behind those lenses as huge and inexpressive as a fly's. Angry, apparently.\n\n\"Are you okay, Dan? What are you doing here?\"\n\n\"I'm surprised to see _you_ here.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why is that? Where else would I be?\"\n\nHe snorted.\n\n\"What is it, Dan?\"\n\n\"You know\"\u2014his tone going philosophical\u2014\"I've had the strangest feeling lately, like I'm onstage and all the people around me are actors. Everyone in the world, every single person rushing around me on the sidewalk, they march around with their noses up in the air pretending like nothing has happened, and I'm the only one who knows the truth. I'm the only one who knows Everything Has Changed.\"\n\nI nodded, benign, indulging him.\n\n\"They're _false_. You know what I mean, Andy? They're pretending.\"\n\n\"I can only imagine how you must feel, Dan.\"\n\n\"I think maybe you're an actor too.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that?\"\n\n\"I think you're false.\" Rifkin took off his sunglasses, folded them carefully, and stowed them in an inside pocket of his jacket. The bags under his eyes had darkened since I saw him last. His olive skin had taken on a grayish pallor. \"I hear you're being taken off the case.\"\n\n\"What? You heard that from who?\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter who. I just want you to know: I want another DA.\"\n\n\"Okay, well, that's something we can talk about, certainly.\"\n\n\"There's nothing to talk about. It's already done. Go call your boss. You need to talk to your own people. I told you, I want another DA. Someone who won't just sit on the case. And that's going to happen now.\"\n\n\"Sit on the case? Dan, what the hell are you talking about?\"\n\n\"You said everything was being done. What was being done, exactly?\"\n\n\"Look, it's been a hard case, I acknowledge\u2014\"\n\n\"No, no, it's more than that and you know it. Why haven't you pressed those kids? Still, to this day? I mean, really put the screws to them? That's what I want to know.\"\n\n\"I _have_ talked to them.\"\n\n\"Including your own kid, Andy?\"\n\nMy mouth fell open. I extended my hand toward him, to touch his arm, to connect, but he raised his arm as if to backhand it away.\n\n\"You've been lying to me, Andy. All along you've been lying.\"\n\nHe looked off toward the trees. \"Do you know what bothers me, Andy? About being here, in this place? It's that for a while\u2014for a few minutes, maybe just a few seconds, I don't know how long\u2014but for some amount of time my son was alive here. He was out there lying in some _fucking_ wet leaves, bleeding to death. And I wasn't here with him. I was supposed to be here to help him. That's what a father does. But I didn't know. I was off somewhere, in the car, in my office, talking on the phone, whatever it was I was doing. Do you understand that, Andy? Do you have any idea how that feels? Can you even imagine it? I saw him get born, I saw him take his first steps and... and learn to ride a bike. I took him to his first day of school. But I wasn't here to help him when he died. Can you imagine how that feels?\"\n\n\"Dan,\" I said weakly, \"why don't I get a cruiser down here to drive you home? I don't think it's good for you to be here. You should be with your family.\"\n\n\"I can't be with my family, Andy, that's the fucking point! My family is dead.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" I looked down at the ground, at his white sneakers spattered with mud and pine needles.\n\n\"I'll tell you something,\" Rifkin added. \"It doesn't matter what happens to me now. I could become a... a drug addict or a thief or a bum. It just doesn't matter what happens to me from here. Why should it? Why should I care?\"\n\nHe said this with a bitter snarl.\n\n\"Call your office, Andy.\" A beat. \"Go on, call. It's over. You're out.\"\n\nI took out my cell phone and called Lynn Canavan directly on her cell. It rang three times. I could imagine her reading the caller ID window, preparing herself to answer.\n\n\"I'm at the office,\" she said. \"Why don't you come down here right away.\"\n\nI told her, as Rifkin looked on with satisfaction, that if she had something to say, she could say it right then and save me the trip.\n\n\"No,\" she insisted. \"Come to the office, Andy. I want to talk to you face-to-face.\"\n\nI snapped the phone shut. I wanted to say something to Rifkin, good-bye or good luck or some valedictory bullshit, who knew what? Something told me he was right and this was good-bye. But he did not want to hear it. His posture announced as much. He had already assigned me a villain's role. Probably he knew more than I did, anyway.\n\nI left him on that green field and drove across the river to Cambridge in a defeated reverie. I was resigned to the fact that I would be removed from the case; it simply did not make sense that Rifkin would have come up with that on his own. Somebody had tipped him off, probably Logiudice, whose Iago whispers in the district attorney's ear had finally won the day. Okay, then. I would be removed for a conflict of interest, a technicality. I had been outmaneuvered, that was all. It was office politics, and I was an apolitical guy, always had been. So Logiudice would have his high-profile case, and I would move on to the next file, the next body, the next case to enter the funnel. I still believed all this, foolish or delusional or rationalizing as I was. I still did not see what was coming. There was so little evidence pointing to Jacob\u2014a schoolgirl with a secret, some kids gossiping on Facebook, even the knife. As evidence these were nothing. Any semicompetent defense lawyer would swipe them aside like cobwebs.\n\nAt the courthouse, there were no fewer than four plainclothes troopers waiting at the front door to meet me. I recognized them all as CPAC guys but I knew only one very well, a detective named Moynihan. They escorted me like a Praetorian guard through the courthouse lobby to the district attorney's office, then through cubicles and hallways abandoned on a Sunday morning, to Lynn Canavan's corner office.\n\nThere were three people there, seated at the conference table, Canavan, Logiudice, and a press guy named Larry Siff, whose constant presence at Canavan's side for the past year or so had been a discouraging sign of the permanent campaign. I had no beef with Siff personally, but I despised his intrusion into a sacred process to which I had devoted my life. Most of the time he did not even have to speak; his mere presence ensured that political implications would be considered.\n\nDistrict Attorney Canavan said, \"Sit down, Andy.\"\n\n\"Did you really think you needed all this, Lynn? What did you think I was going to do? Jump out the window?\"\n\n\"It's for your own good. You know how it goes.\"\n\n\"How what goes? I feel like I'm under arrest.\"\n\n\"No. We just have to be careful. People get upset. They react unpredictably. We don't want any scenes. You'd have done the same thing.\"\n\n\"Not true.\" I sat down. \"So what am I going to be upset about?\"\n\n\"Andy,\" she said, \"we have some bad news. On the Rifkin case? The print on the victim's sweatshirt? It's your son Jacob's.\" She slid a stapled report toward me.\n\nI scanned the report. It was from the State Police Crime Lab. The report identified a dozen points of comparison between the latent found at the murder scene and one of the knowns on Jacob's print card, much more than the standard eight required for a positive match. It was the right thumb: Jacob had reached out and grabbed the victim by his unzipped sweatshirt, leaving the print on that inside tag.\n\nI said, bewildered, \"I'm sure there's some explanation.\"\n\n\"I'm sure there is.\"\n\n\"They go to the same school. Jacob is in his class. They knew each other.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"It doesn't mean\u2014\"\n\n\"We know, Andy.\"\n\nThey looked at me with pity. All except for the younger troopers, now standing by the window, who did not know me and could still despise me as they would any other bad guy.\n\n\"We're putting you on paid leave. It's partly my fault: it was a mistake to let you have the case in the first place. These guys\"\u2014she gestured toward the troopers\u2014\"will go to your office with you. You can take your personal belongings. No papers, no files. You're not to touch the computer. Your work product belongs to the office.\"\n\n\"Who's taking the case?\"\n\n\"Neal is.\"\n\nI smiled. _Of course he is_.\n\n\"Andy, do you object to Neal trying the case for some reason?\"\n\n\"Does it matter what I think, Lynn?\"\n\n\"Maybe, if you can make a case.\"\n\nI shook my head. \"No. Let him have it. I insist.\"\n\nLogiudice looked away, avoiding my eyes.\n\n\"Have you arrested him?\"\n\nMore eyes darting around the room, avoiding me.\n\n\"Lynn, have you arrested my son?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you going to?\"\n\nLogiudice cut in, \"We don't have to tell you that.\"\n\nCanavan put out her hand to still him. \"Yes. We don't have much choice, in the circumstances.\"\n\n\"In the circumstances? What circumstances? You think he's going to take off for Costa Rica?\"\n\nShe shrugged.\n\n\"You already have the warrant?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Lynn, you have my word: he'll turn himself in. You don't need to arrest him. He doesn't belong in a jail, even for one night. He's no flight risk, you know that. He's my son. He's my son, Lynn. I don't want to see him arrested.\"\n\n\"Andy,\" the district attorney advised, waving away my pleading like smoke, \"it'd probably be best for everyone if you stayed away from the courthouse for a while. Let the dust settle. Okay?\"\n\n\"Lynn, I'm asking you as a friend, as a personal favor: please, don't arrest him.\"\n\n\"It's not a close call, Andy.\"\n\n\"Why? I don't understand. Because of a fingerprint? One fucking fingerprint? That's all there is? You must have more. Tell me there's more.\"\n\n\"Andy, I suggest you go get a lawyer.\"\n\n\"Get a lawyer? I _am_ a lawyer. Tell me why you're doing this to my son. You're destroying my family. I have a right to know why.\"\n\n\"I'm just reacting to the evidence, that's all.\"\n\n\"The evidence points to Patz. I've told you that.\"\n\n\"There's more than you're aware of, Andy. Much more.\"\n\nIt took me a moment to absorb the implications of that. Just a moment, though. I folded my cards and determined that from then on, I would show them nothing.\n\nI stood up. \"Okay. Let's get moving.\"\n\n\"Just like that?\"\n\n\"Was there anything else you wanted to say to me? You, Neal?\"\n\nCanavan said, \"You know, we're still concerned about you. Whatever your son... may have done, he's not you. You and I go back a ways, Andy. I don't forget that.\"\n\nI felt my face go hard, as if I was peering through the eye-holes of a stone mask. I looked only at Canavan, my old friend whom I still loved and still, despite everything, trusted. I did not dare glance at Logiudice. There was a wild energy rushing into my right arm. In that moment I felt that if I so much as looked at him, my hand would flash out, snatch up his throat, and crush it.\n\n\"Are we done here?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Good. I have to go. I have to find my family right away.\"\n\nDistrict Attorney Canavan's face was wary. \"You okay to drive, Andy?\"\n\n\"I'm fine.\"\n\n\"All right. These guys will go with you to your office.\"\n\nIn my office I tossed a few things into a cardboard box, papers and desk-debris, pictures plucked off the wall, the little souvenirs of years of work. An axe handle, evidence from a case I had never been able to push through the grand jury. It all fit into one cardboard box, all the years, the work, the friendships, the respect I had accumulated by little spoonfuls in case after case. All gone now, no matter how Jacob's case turned out. For even if Jacob was cleared, I would never escape the stain of the accusation. A jury could only declare my son \"not guilty,\" never \"innocent.\" The stink would never leave us. I doubted I would ever walk into a courtroom again as a lawyer. But things were racing too fast to linger over the past or future. There was only now.\n\nI was not panicked, oddly. I never did lose my nerve. Jacob's homicide charge was a grenade\u2014we would all inevitably be destroyed by it; only the details remained to be worked out\u2014but a strange, calm urgency came over me. Surely a search warrant team was already on its way to my home. That may even have been why the DA had brought me all the way down here: to keep me out of that house before it could be searched. It was exactly what I would have done.\n\nI bolted out of the office.\n\nI called Laurie's cell from the car. No answer. \"Laurie, it's very, very important. Call me back right away, the second you get this message.\"\n\nI called Jacob's cell phone too. No answer.\n\nI got home too late: four Newton cruisers were already parked outside, watching, freezing the house while they waited for the warrant to arrive. I continued around the block and parked.\n\nMy house is adjacent to a train stop on the suburban commuter-train line. An eight-foot fence separates the platform from my backyard. I spidered over it easily. There was so much adrenaline in me, I could have clambered up Mount Rushmore.\n\nIn my yard, I pushed through the arbor vitae at the edge of the lawn. The leaves flicked and needled across me as I bodied through the bushes.\n\nI ran across my backyard. My neighbor was in his backyard, gardening. He waved to me, and out of neighborly reflex I waved back as I sprinted by.\n\nInside, I called out quietly for Jacob. To prepare him for what was coming. No one was home.\n\nI bolted up the stairs, into Jacob's room, where I yanked open drawers, the closet, tossed up the laundry piles on the floor, desperate to find anything remotely incriminating and get rid of it.\n\nDoes that sound awful to you? I hear the little voice in your head: _Destruction of evidence! Obstruction of justice!_ You are naive. You imagine the courts are reliable, that wrong results are rare, and therefore I ought to have trusted the system. _If he truly believed Jacob was innocent_ , you are thinking, _he would have simply let the police sweep in and take whatever they liked_. Here is the dirty little secret: the error rate in criminal verdicts is much higher than anyone imagines. Not just false negatives, the guilty criminals who get off scot-free\u2014those \"errors\" we recognize and accept. They are the predictable result of stacking the deck in defendants' favor as we do. The real surprise is the frequency of false positives, the innocent men found guilty. That error rate we do not acknowledge\u2014do not even think about\u2014because it calls so much into question. The fact is, what we call proof is as fallible as the witnesses who produce it, human beings all. Memories fail, eyewitness identifications are notoriously unreliable, even the best-intentioned cops are subject to failures of judgment and recall. The human element in any system is always prone to error. Why should the courts be any different? They are not. Our blind trust in the system is the product of ignorance and magical thinking, and there was no way in hell I was going to trust my son's fate to it. Not because I believed he was guilty, I assure you, but precisely because he was innocent. I was doing what little I could to ensure the right result, the just result. If you do not believe me, go spend a few hours in the nearest criminal court, then ask yourself if you really believe it is error-free. Ask yourself if you would trust _your_ child to it.\n\nIn any event, I did not find anything even remotely worrisome in Jake's room, just the usual teenage junk, dirty laundry, sneakers molded to the shape of his enormous feet, schoolbooks, video-gamer mags, charging cables for his various electronics. I don't know what I expected to find, really. The trouble was that I did not know what the DA had yet, what made them so anxious to charge Jacob, and it made me crazy wondering what that missing piece could be.\n\nI was still tossing the room when my cell phone rang. It was Laurie. I told her to get home right away\u2014she was visiting a friend in Brookline, twenty minutes away\u2014but I did not tell her anything more. She was too emotional. I did not know how she would react and I did not have time to deal with her. _Help Jacob now, fix Laurie later_. \"Where's Jacob?\" I asked. She did not know. I hung up on her.\n\nI took a last glance around the room. I was tempted to hide Jacob's laptop. God only knew what was on his hard drive. But I worried that stashing the computer would hurt him either way: if the computer went missing, that would be suspicious, given his online presence; on the other hand, if found it might contain devastating evidence. In the end I left it\u2014unwisely, maybe, but there was no time to consider. Jacob knew he had been publicly accused on Facebook; presumably he had been wily enough to scrub his hard drive if need be.\n\nThe doorbell rang. Game over. I was still breathing heavily.\n\nAt the door, none other than Paul Duffy was there to hand me the search warrant. \"Sorry, Andy,\" he said.\n\nI stared. The troopers in their blue windbreakers, the cruisers with their flashers on, my old friend extending the trifolded warrant toward me\u2014I simply did not know how to react, so I barely reacted at all. I stood there, mute, as he pressed the paper into my hand.\n\n\"Andy, I have to ask you to wait outside. You know the drill.\"\n\nIt took a few seconds to rouse myself, to come back into the moment and accept that this was really happening. But I was determined not to make the amateur's mistake, not to stumble and give them anything. No dumb statements blurted out under pressure in the critical early moments of the case. That is the mistake that puts people in Walpole.\n\n\"Is Jacob here, Andy?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Do you know where he is?\"\n\n\"No idea.\"\n\n\"Okay, come on, buddy, step out, please.\" He put his hand gently on my upper arm to encourage me, but he did not pull me out of the house. He seemed willing to wait till I was ready. He leaned in and said confidentially, \"Let's do this the right way.\"\n\n\"It's okay, Paul.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Just do your job, okay? Don't fuck it up.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"You dot those _i_ 's and cross those _t_ 's, or Logiudice'll throw you under the bus. He'll make you look like Barney Fife at the trial, mark my words. He'll do what he has to do. He won't protect you like I would.\"\n\n\"Okay, Andy. It's all right. Come on out.\"\n\nI waited on the sidewalk in front of the house. Gawkers accumulated across the street, drawn by the cruisers out front. I would have preferred to wait in the backyard, out of view, but I had to be there when Laurie or Jacob got home, to comfort them\u2014and to coach them.\n\nLaurie arrived just a few minutes into the search. She wobbled when she heard the news. I steadied her and whispered into her ear not to say anything, not even to show any emotion, not fear or sadness. Give them nothing. She made a scornful sound, then she cried. Her sobbing was honest, uninhibited, as if no one was watching. She did not care what people thought, because no one had ever thought badly of her, not for one moment in her life. I knew better. We stood together in front of the house, I with my arm around her in a protective, possessive way.\n\nWhen the search stretched into its second hour, we retreated to the back of the house and sat on the deck. There Laurie cried softly, gathered herself, cried again.\n\nAt some point Detective Duffy came around back and climbed the stairs to the deck. \"Andy, just so you know, we found a knife this morning in the park. It was in the muck next to a lake.\"\n\n\"I knew it. I knew it would show up. Are there any prints, blood, anything on it?\"\n\n\"Nothing obvious. It's at the lab. There was this dried algae all over it, like green powder.\"\n\n\"It's Patz's.\"\n\n\"I don't know. Maybe.\"\n\n\"What kind of knife was it?\"\n\n\"Just, like, a regular kitchen knife.\"\n\nLaurie said, \"A _kitchen_ knife?\"\n\n\"Yeah. You guys got all yours?\"\n\nI said, \"Come on, Duff, be serious. What are you asking a question like that for?\"\n\n\"All right, sorry. It's my job to ask.\"\n\nLaurie glared.\n\n\"You guys heard from Jacob yet, Andy?\"\n\n\"No. We can't find him. We've been calling everyone.\"\n\nDuffy stifled a skeptical look.\n\n\"He's a kid,\" I said, \"he disappears sometimes. When he gets here, Paul, I don't want anyone talking to him. No questions. He's a minor. He has a right to have a parent or guardian present. Don't try and pull anything.\"\n\n\"Jesus, Andy, nobody's going to _pull anything_. We would like to talk to him, though, obviously.\"\n\n\"Forget it.\"\n\n\"Andy, it might help him.\"\n\n\"Forget it. He's got nothing to say. Not one word.\"\n\nIn the middle of the yard, something caught our eyes and all three of us turned. A rabbit, tree-bark gray, sniffed the air, twitched its head, alerted, relaxed. It hopped a few feet, stopped. Motionless, it blended into the grass and the gloomy light. I almost lost sight of it until it hopped a little more, a gray ripple.\n\nDuffy turned back to Laurie. Only a few Saturdays before, we had all gone out to a restaurant for dinner, Duffy and his wife and Laurie and I. It seemed like another lifetime. \"We're just about done here, Laurie. We'll be out of here soon.\"\n\nShe nodded, too pissed off and heartbroken and betrayed to tell him it was all right.\n\n\"Paul,\" I told him, \"he did not do it. I want to say that to you in case I don't get another chance. You and I aren't going to talk for a while, probably, so I want you to hear it right from me, okay? He did not do it. He did not do it.\"\n\n\"Okay. I hear you.\" He turned to go.\n\n\"He's innocent. As innocent as your kid.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" he said, and he left.\n\nOver by the arbor vitae, the rabbit hunched, jaws munching.\n\nWe waited until after dark for Jacob, until the cops and the voyeurs had all drifted away. He never came.\n\nHe had been hiding for hours, mostly in the woods of Cold Spring Park, in backyards, and in the play structure behind the elementary school he had once attended, which is where the cops found him at around eight o'clock.\n\nHe submitted to the handcuffs without complaint, the police report said. He did not run. He greeted the cop by saying \"I'm the one you're looking for\" and \"I didn't do it.\" When the cop said dismissively, \"Then how did your fingerprint get on the body?,\" Jacob blurted\u2014foolishly or cannily, I am still not sure\u2014\"I found him. He was already lying there. I tried to pick him up so I could help him. Then I saw he was dead, and I got scared and ran.\" It was the only statement Jacob ever gave the police. He must have realized, belatedly, that it was risky to blurt out confessions like that one, and he never said another word. Jacob knew, as few boys do, the full value of the Fifth Amendment. Later, there would be speculation about why Jacob made this singular statement, how complete and self-serving it was. There were intimations he had crafted the statement beforehand and conveniently let it slip\u2014he was gaming the case, launching his defense as early as possible. All I know for sure is that Jacob was never as smart or as cunning as he was described in the media.\n\nIn any case, after that, the only thing Jacob told the cop, over and over, was \"I want my dad.\"\n\nHe could not be bailed that night. He was held in the lockup in Newton, just a mile or two from our house.\n\nLaurie and I were allowed to see him only briefly, in a little windowless visiting room.\n\nJacob was obviously shaken. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed. His face was flushed, a single horizontal slash of red across each cheek, like war paint. He was obviously scared shitless. At the same time he was trying to stay composed. His manner was clenched, rigid, mechanical. A boy imitating manliness, at least an adolescent's conception of manliness. That was the part that broke my heart, I think, the way he struggled to hold it together, to keep that storm of emotion\u2014panic, anger, sorrow\u2014all siloed up inside himself. He would not be able to do it much longer, I thought. He was burning fuel fast.\n\n\"Jacob,\" Laurie said in a wobbly voice, \"are you all right?\"\n\n\"No! Obviously _not_.\" He gestured at the room around him, the situation he was in, and made a sardonic face. \"I'm dead.\"\n\n\"Jake\u2014\"\n\n\"They're saying _I_ killed Ben? No way. No _way_. I can't believe this is happening. I can't _believe_ this.\"\n\nI said, \"Hey, Jake, it's a mistake. It's some kind of horrible misunderstanding. We'll work it out, okay? I don't want you to lose hope. This is just the beginning of the process. There's a long way to go.\"\n\n\"I can't believe it. I can't believe it. I'm just, like\"\u2014he made an exploding sound and with his hands he sculpted a mushroom cloud\u2014\"you know? It's like, it's like, who's that guy? In the story?\"\n\n\"Kafka.\"\n\n\"No. The guy from, whatsit? The movie.\"\n\n\"I don't know, Jake.\"\n\n\"Where the guy, like, finds out the world isn't really the world? It's just, like, a dream? Like a simulation? A computer made it all? And now he gets to see the real world. It's, like, an old movie.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure.\"\n\n\" _The Matrix_!\"\n\n\" _The Matrix_? That's old?\"\n\n\"Keanu Reeves, Dad? Please.\"\n\nI looked at Laurie. \"Keanu Reeves?\"\n\nShe shrugged.\n\nIt was amazing that Jake could be goofy, even now. But he was. He was the same dorky kid that he had been a few hours before\u2014had always been, for that matter.\n\n\"Dad, what am I supposed to do?\"\n\n\"We're going to fight. We'll fight this every step of the way.\"\n\n\"No, I mean, like, not generally. _Now_. What happens next?\"\n\n\"There'll be an arraignment tomorrow morning. They'll just read the charge and we'll set bail and you'll come home.\"\n\n\"How much is bail?\"\n\n\"We'll find out tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What if we can't afford it? What happens to me?\"\n\n\"We'll find it, don't worry. We have some money saved up. We have the house.\"\n\nHe sniffed. He'd heard me complain about money a thousand times. \"I'm so sorry. I didn't do it, I swear. I know I'm not, like, a perfect kid, okay? But I didn't do this.\"\n\n\"I believe you.\"\n\nLaurie added, \"You _are_ perfect, Jacob.\"\n\n\"I didn't even _know_ Ben. He was just, like, this kid from school. Why would I do this? Huh? Why? Okay, why are they saying I did this?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Jake.\"\n\n\"This is your case! What do you mean, you don't know?\"\n\n\"I just don't know.\"\n\n\"You mean, you don't want to tell me.\"\n\n\"No. Don't say that. Jake, do you think I was investigating _you_? Really?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"So just for no reason\u2014for no reason\u2014I killed Ben Rifkin? That's just\u2014that's just\u2014I don't know what it is. It's crazy. This whole thing is totally crazy.\"\n\n\"Jacob, you don't have to convince us. We're on your side. Always. No matter what happens.\"\n\n\"Jesus.\" He raked his fingers through his hair. \"This is Derek's fault. He did this. I _know_ it.\"\n\n\"Derek? Why Derek?\"\n\n\"He's just\u2014he's like\u2014he gets freaked out by stuff, you know? Like, the littlest things and he freaks out about them. I swear, when I get out, I'm going to fuck him up. I swear it.\"\n\n\"Jake, I don't think Derek could have done this.\"\n\n\"He did. You watch. That kid.\"\n\nLaurie and I exchanged a puzzled look.\n\n\"Jake, we're going to get you out of here. We'll put up the bail, whatever it is. We'll find the money. We're not going to let you sit in jail. But you're going to have to spend the night here, just until the arraignment in the morning. We'll meet you at the courthouse first thing. We'll have a lawyer with us. You'll be home for dinner tomorrow. Tomorrow you're going to sleep in your own bed, I promise.\"\n\n\"I don't want a lawyer. I want you. You be my lawyer. Who could be better?\"\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"Why not? I want you. You're my father. I need you now.\"\n\n\"It's a bad idea, Jacob. You need a defense lawyer. Anyway, it's all taken care of. I called my friend Jonathan Klein. He's very, very good, I promise you.\"\n\nHe frowned, disappointed. \"You couldn't do it anyway. You're a DA.\"\n\n\"Not anymore.\"\n\n\"You got fired?\"\n\n\"Not yet. I'm on leave. They'll fire me later, probably.\"\n\n\" 'Cuz of me?\"\n\n\"No, not 'cuz of you. _You_ didn't do anything. It's just the way things go.\"\n\n\"So what are you going to do? Like, for money? You need a job.\"\n\n\"Don't worry about money. Let me worry about money.\"\n\nA cop, some young kid I did not know, knocked and said, \"Time.\"\n\nLaurie told Jacob, \"We love you. We love you _so much_.\"\n\n\"Okay, Mom.\"\n\nShe wrapped her arms around him. For a moment he did not move at all, and Laurie stood there hugging him as if she had embraced a tree or a building column. Finally he relented and patted her back.\n\n\"Do you know it, Jake? Do you know how much we love you?\"\n\nOver her shoulder, he rolled his eyes. \"Yes, Mom.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" She pulled herself away and swiped the tears from her eyes. \"Okay, then.\"\n\nJacob seemed to tremble on the verge of crying as well.\n\nI hugged him. I pulled him close, squeezed hard, then stepped back. I looked him over from head to toe. There was mud ground into the knees of his jeans from the hours he had spent hiding in Cold Spring Park, in a rainy April. \"You be strong, okay?\"\n\n\"You too,\" he said. He grinned, apparently catching the dopiness of his answer.\n\nWe left him there.\n\nAnd still the night was not over.\n\nAt two A.M. I was in the living room, slumped on the couch. I felt marooned, unable to move my body up to the bedroom or to fall asleep where I was.\n\nLaurie padded down the stairs barefoot, in pajama bottoms and a favorite turquoise T-shirt that was now too threadbare for anything but sleeping in. Her breasts drooped inside it, defeated by age, gravity. Her hair was a mess, her eyes half shut. The sight of her nearly brought me to tears. From the third step she said, \"Andy, come to bed. There's nothing more we can do tonight.\"\n\n\"Soon.\"\n\n\"Not soon; now. Come.\"\n\n\"Laurie, come here. There's something we have to talk about.\"\n\nShe shuffled across the front hall to join me in the living room, and in those dozen steps she seemed to come fully awake. I was not the type to ask for help often. When I did, it alarmed her. \"What is it, sweetheart?\"\n\n\"Sit down. There's something I have to tell you. Something that's going to come out soon.\"\n\n\"About Jacob?\"\n\n\"About me.\"\n\nI told her everything, all that I knew about my bloodline. About James Burkett, the first bloody Barber, who came east from the frontier like a reverse pioneer bringing his wildness to New York. And Rusty Barber, my war-hero grandfather who wound up gutting a man in a fight over a traffic accident in Lowell, Massachusetts. And my own father, Bloody Billy Barber, whose shadowy climactic orgy of violence involved a young girl and a knife in an abandoned building. After thirty-four years of waiting, the whole story took only five or ten minutes to tell. Once it was out, it seemed like a puny thing to have found so burdensome for so long, and I was confident, briefly, that Laurie would see it that way too.\n\n\"That's what I come from.\"\n\nShe nodded, blank-faced, doped with disappointment\u2014in me, in my history, in my dishonesty. \"Andy, why didn't you ever tell me?\"\n\n\"Because it didn't matter. It was never who I was. I'm not like them.\"\n\n\"But you didn't trust me to understand that.\"\n\n\"No. Laurie, it's not about that.\"\n\n\"You just never got around to it?\"\n\n\"No. At the beginning I didn't want you to think of me that way. Then the longer it went, the less it seemed to matter. We were so... happy.\"\n\n\"Until now, when you _had_ to tell me, you had no choice.\"\n\n\"Laurie, I want you to know about it now because it's probably going to come out\u2014not because it really has anything to do with this, but because shit like this always comes out. It has nothing to do with Jacob. Or me.\"\n\n\"You're sure of that?\"\n\nI died for a moment. Then: \"Yes, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"So sure that you felt you had to hide it from me.\"\n\n\"No, that's not right.\"\n\n\"Anything else you haven't told me?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe thought it over. \"Okay, then.\"\n\n\" _Okay_ meaning what? Do you have any questions? Do you want to talk?\"\n\nShe gave me a reproachful look: _I_ was asking _her_ if she wanted to talk? At two in the morning? On _this_ morning?\n\n\"Laurie, nothing is different. This doesn't change anything. I'm the same person you've known since we were seventeen.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" She looked down at her lap where her hands were wrestling. \"You should have told me before, that's all I can say right now. I had a right to know. I had a right to know who I was marrying, who I was having a child with.\"\n\n\"You did know. You married _me_. All this other stuff is just history. It's got nothing to do with us.\"\n\n\"You should have told me, that's all. I had a right to know.\"\n\n\"If I'd told you, you wouldn't have married me. You wouldn't have gone out with me in the first place.\"\n\n\"You don't know that. You never gave me the chance.\"\n\n\"Oh, come on. If I'd asked you out and you knew?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I would have said.\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because girls like you don't... settle for boys like that. Look, let's just forget it.\"\n\n\"How do you know, Andy? How do you know what I'd choose?\"\n\n\"You're right. You're right, I don't. I'm sorry.\"\n\nThere was a lull, and it could have been all right still. At that moment we could still have survived it and moved on.\n\nI knelt in front of her, rested my arms on her lap, on her warm legs. \"Laurie, I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry I didn't tell you. But I can't undo that now. The important thing is, I need to know you understand: my father, my grandfather\u2014I'm not them. I need to know you believe that.\"\n\n\"I do. I mean, I guess I do\u2014 _of course_ I do. I don't know, Andy, it's late. I have to get some sleep. I can't do this now. I'm too tired.\"\n\n\"Laurie, you know me. Look at me. You know me.\"\n\nShe studied my face.\n\nFrom this close I was surprised to discover she looked rather old and exhausted, and I thought it had been selfish of me and a little cruel to unload this on her now, in the middle of the night after the worst day of her life, just to get it off my chest, to ease my own mind. And I remembered her. I remembered the girl with brown legs sitting on a beach towel on Old Campus freshman year, the girl so far out of my league that she was actually easy to talk to because there was nothing to lose. At seventeen, I knew: my entire childhood had been just a prelude to this girl. I had never felt anything like it, and still haven't. I felt changed by her, physically. Not sexually, though we had sex everywhere, like minks, in the library stacks, in an empty classroom, her car, her family's beach house, even a cemetery. It was more: I became a different person, myself, the person I am now. And everything that came after\u2014my family, my home, our entire life together\u2014was a gift she gave me. The spell lasted thirty-four years. Now, at fifty-one, I saw her as she actually was, finally. It came as a surprise: no longer the shining girl, she was just a woman after all.\n\n# **Part**  \n **TWO**\n\n_\"That murder might be any business of the state is a relatively modern idea. For most of human history, homicide has been a purely private affair. In traditional societies, a killing was simply the occasion for a dispute between two clans. The killer's family or tribe was expected to resolve the dispute equitably by some sort of offering to the victim's family or tribe. The restitution varied from society to society. It might involve anything from a fine to the death of the murderer (or a stand-in). If the victim's kin was unsatisfied, a blood feud might ensue. This pattern endured across many centuries and many societies.... Current practice notwithstanding, by long tradition murder has been strictly a family matter.\"_\n\n\u2014JOSEPH EISEN,  \n_Murder: A History_ (1949)\n\n# **9 | Arraignment**\n\nThe next morning, Jonathan Klein stood with Laurie and me in the gloom of the Thorndike Street garage as we armored ourselves against the reporters gathered at the courthouse door, just down the street. Klein wore a gray suit with his usual black turtleneck. No tie today, even for court. The suit, particularly the pants, hung loosely off him. He must have been a tailor's nightmare, with his thin, assless body. Reading glasses hung from an Indian-bead lanyard around his neck. He carried his ancient cowhide briefcase, worn slick as an old saddle. To an outsider, no doubt, Klein would have seemed inadequate to the job. Too small, too meek. But something about him was reassuring to me. With his backswept white hair, white goatee, and benevolent smile, I thought there was a magical quality about him. A sense of calm surrounded him. Lord knows, we needed it.\n\nKlein peeked down the block at the reporters, who loafed and chatted, a wolf pack sniffing about for something to do. \"All right,\" he said. \"Andy, I know you've been through this before, but never from this side. Laurie, this will all be new to you. So I'm going to read you the catechism, both of you.\"\n\nHe extended his hand to touch Laurie's sleeve. She looked devastated by the double shocks of the day before, Jacob's arrest and the Barber curse. We had spoken very little in the morning as we ate, dressed, and got ready for court. It crossed my mind for the first time that we were headed for divorce. However the trial turned out, Laurie would leave me when it was over. I could tell she was eyeing me, making up her mind. What did it mean to find out that she had been tricked into marrying me? Should she feel betrayed? Or acknowledge that her uneasiness meant I was right all along: girls like her don't marry boys like me. In any event, Jonathan's touch seemed to comfort her. She manufactured a brief little smile for him, then a bleary look returned to her face.\n\nKlein: \"From this moment on, from the time we arrive at the courthouse until you get back home tonight and close the door of your house, I want you to show nothing. No emotion at all. Keep a poker face. Got it?\"\n\nLaurie did not respond. She seemed dazed.\n\n\"I'm a potted plant,\" I assured him.\n\n\"Good. Because every expression, every reaction, every flicker of emotion will be interpreted against you. Laugh, and they'll say you don't take the proceedings seriously. Scowl, and they'll say you're surly, you're not contrite, you resent being hauled into court. Cry, and you're faking.\"\n\nHe looked at Laurie.\n\n\"Okay,\" she said, less sure of herself, particularly of this last item.\n\n\"Don't answer any questions. You don't have to. On TV only the pictures matter; it is impossible to tell whether you heard a question that someone shouted at you. Most important\u2014and I'll speak to Jacob about this when I get to the lockup\u2014any sign of anger, from Jacob in particular, will confirm people's worst suspicions. You have to remember: in their eyes, in _everybody's_ eyes, Jacob is guilty. You _all_ are. They only want something to confirm what they already know. Any little scrap will do.\"\n\nLaurie said, \"It's a little late to be worried about our public image, isn't it?\"\n\nThat morning the _Globe_ had run a page-one headline: DA's TEEN SON CHARGED IN NEWTON KILLING. The _Herald_ was sensational but, to its credit, forthright. Its tabloid cover showed a background photo of what appeared to be the murder scene, an empty slope in a forest, with a snapshot of Jacob that they must have culled from the Web, and the word MONSTER. There was a teaser at the bottom: \"Prosecutor benched amid allegations of cover-up as his own teenage son is unmasked in Newton knife murder.\"\n\nLaurie had a point: after that, maintaining a poker face as we walked into court did seem a little inadequate.\n\nBut Klein only shrugged. The rules were beyond question. They might as well have been written on stone tablets by the finger of God. He said, in his quiet, commonsense way, \"We'll do the most we can with what we have.\"\n\nSo we did as we were told. We kept our feet moving through the proxy mob of reporters waiting for us in front of the courthouse. We showed no emotion, answered no questions, pretended we did not hear the questions as they were yelled in our ears. They kept on shouting questions anyway. Microphones bristled and probed around us. \"How are you doing?\" \"What do you say to all the people who trusted you?\" \"Anything to say to the victim's family?\" \"Did Jacob do it?\" \"We just want to hear your side.\" \"Will he testify?\" One, trying to provoke, said, \"Mr. Barber, how does it feel to be on the other side?\"\n\nI held Laurie's hand and we pushed through into the lobby. Things were surprisingly quiet, even normal inside. Reporters were barred here. At the lobby security station, people stood back to let us pass. The sheriff's officers who used to wave me through with a smile now wanded me and inspected the change from my pocket.\n\nWe were alone again, briefly, in the elevator. As we rode to the sixth floor, where the first-session courtroom was, I reached for Laurie's hand, my fingers scrabbling against hers to find a fit. My wife was a good deal shorter than I, so in order to hold her hand I had to haul it up to the level of my hip. She was left with her elbow bent, as if she were checking her watch. A look of distaste crossed her face\u2014her eyelids fluttered, her lips tightened. It was barely perceptible, a micro-movement, but I noticed and released her hand. The elevator doors shivered as the box was lifted. Klein kept his eyes on the panel of ranked buttons, tactfully.\n\nWhen the doors rattled open, we marched through the crowded lobby to courtroom 6B, there to wait on the front center bench until our case was called.\n\nAn awkward interval passed before the judge took the bench. We had been told our case would be called promptly at ten so the court could deal with us\u2014and the circus of reporters and gawkers\u2014then quickly get back to business. We arrived at the courtroom around quarter of. Time dragged while we waited. It felt like a lot more than fifteen minutes. The crowds of lawyers, most of whom I knew well, stood back as if there were a magnetic field around us.\n\nPaul Duffy was there, standing against the far wall with Logiudice and a couple of the CPAC guys. Duffy\u2014who was essentially an uncle to Jacob\u2014glanced at me once as we sat down, then turned away. I was not offended. I did not feel shunned. There was an etiquette to these things, that's all. Duffy had to support the home team. That was his job. Maybe we would become friends again after Jacob was cleared, maybe we wouldn't. For now, the friendship was suspended. No hard feelings, but that was the way it had to be. I know that Laurie was not so bloodless about Duffy's snubs or anyone else's. To her, it was awful to see friendships snapped off this way. We were the same people _after_ that we had been _before_ , and because we had not changed, it was easy for her to forget that others saw us\u2014all of us, not just Jacob\u2014in a completely new way. At a minimum, Laurie felt, people ought to see that, whatever Jacob may have done, she and I were certainly innocent. It was a delusion I never shared.\n\nCourtroom 6B had an extra jury box to accommodate large jury pools, and that morning in the empty extra jury box a TV camera was set up to provide a shared video feed to all the local stations. While we waited, the cameraman kept the lens pointed at us. We wore our defendants' blank masks, said nothing to each other, barely even blinked. It is not an easy thing to be watched for so long. I began to notice little things, as one does during extended downtimes. I studied my own hands, which were big and pale, with prominent scuffed knuckles. Not a lawyer's hands, I thought. Strange to see them appended to my own coat sleeves. That quarter hour of waiting and being stared at in the courtroom\u2014a courtroom I once owned, a room as comfortable to me as my own kitchen\u2014was even worse than what followed.\n\nAt ten, the first-session judge swept in wearing her black robe. Judge Rivera, a terrible judge but a good break for us. You must understand: Courtroom 6B, the first-session court, was a hardship post for judges; they rotated in and out of it every few months. It was the job of the first-session judge to make the trains run on time\u2014to assign cases to the other courtrooms in such a way that the workload was spread evenly, to winnow the docket by cajoling plea bargains out of reluctant ADAs and defendants, and to sort through the remaining administrative busywork on the daily docket as efficiently as possible. It was a hectic job\u2014delegate, dump, defer. Lourdes Rivera was fiftyish, with a frazzled demeanor, and magnificently miscast as the judge to make the trains run on time. It was all she could do to get herself to court on time with her robe zipped up and her cell phone turned off. The lawyers scorned her. They grumbled about how she got the job because of her good looks or her opportune marriage to a politically connected lawyer or to plump up the number of Latinos on the bench. They called her Lard-Ass Rivera. But we could hardly have picked a better judge that morning. Judge Rivera had been on the Superior Court bench less than five years but already she had a towering reputation in the district attorney's office as a defendant's judge. Most of the judges in Cambridge had the same reputation: soft, unrealistic, liberal. Now it seemed perfectly appropriate to load the dice that way. A liberal, it turns out, is a conservative who's been indicted.\n\nWhen the clerk called Jacob's case\u2014\"Indictment number oh-eight-dash-four-four-oh-seven, Commonwealth v. Jacob Michael Barber, one count of murder in the first degree\"\u2014my son was ushered in by two court officers from the lockup and made to stand in the middle of the courtroom, in front of the jury box. He scanned the crowd, saw us, and immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. Embarrassed and awkward, he began to fuss with his suit and tie, which Laurie had picked out for him and Klein had delivered. Jacob was not used to wearing a suit and he seemed to feel both dapper and straitjacketed. He had already begun to outgrow the coat. Laurie used to joke that he was growing so fast that, at night when the house was quiet, she could hear his bones stretching. Now he fidgeted to make the coat sit properly on his shoulders but it would not stretch that far. From all this fidgeting, reporters would later say that Jacob was vain, that he even enjoyed his moment in the spotlight, a slur we would hear over and over when the trial actually began. The truth was, he was an awkward boy and so thoroughly terrified that he did not know where to put his hands. The wonder was that he managed to stand there with as much composure as he did.\n\nJonathan passed through the swinging gate in the bar, laid his briefcase on the defense table, and took a position beside Jacob. He put his hand on Jacob's back, not for Jacob's benefit but to make a point: _This boy is no monster, I am not afraid to touch him_. And more: _I am not simply a hired gun doing my professional duty for a distasteful client. I believe in this kid. I am his friend_.\n\n\"Commonwealth,\" Lard-Ass Rivera said, \"I'll hear you.\"\n\nLogiudice stood up at the prosecutor's table. He ran his palm down the length of his tie then reached around to give the back hem of his coat a little tug. \"Your Honor,\" he began mournfully, \"this is a heinous case.\" He pronounced the word _hay-eenus_ , and I understood that the actual reason courtrooms often have no windows is to prevent the parties from heaving lawyers out of them. Logiudice recited the facts of the case, already familiar to everyone from the last twenty-four hours of news reports, retold now with a minimum of embellishment for the torches-and-pitchforks mob beyond the camera. There was even a little singsong in his voice, as if we had all heard these facts often enough to be bored by them.\n\nBut when he reached his bail argument, Logiudice's tone became somber. \"Your Honor, we all know and have fond feelings for the defendant's father, who is in the courtroom today. I personally have known this man. Respected and admired him. I have great affection for this man, and compassion, as we all do, I'm sure. Always the smartest man in the room. Things came so easily to him. But. But.\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\nLogiudice turned to look at me, not by twisting his body but by snaking his neck around his own shoulder.\n\n_Things came so easily to him_. Could he really have believed that?\n\n\"Mr. Logiudice,\" Lard-Ass said, \"I presume you know _Andrew_ Barber is not accused of anything.\"\n\nLogiudice faced front again. \"Yes, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"Let's get to the bail, then.\"\n\n\"Your Honor, the Commonwealth is seeking a very high bail: five hundred thousand cash, five million surety. The Commonwealth would argue that, because of the unusual circumstances of his family situation, this defendant poses a particular risk of flight in light of the savagery of the crime, the overwhelming likelihood of conviction, and the unusual sophistication of this defendant, who has grown up in a home where criminal law is the family business.\"\n\nLogiudice went on with this horseshit for a few minutes. He seemed to have memorized his lines and was delivering them now without any particular feeling.\n\nIn my head the odd mention of me went right on playing like a countermelody. _I have great affection for this man, and compassion. Always the smartest man in the room. Things came so easily to him_. In the courtroom it seemed to have been received almost as a slip of the tongue, a sniffly little tribute blurted out on the spur of the moment. They were touched. They had watched this scene before: the disillusioned young apprentice sees his mentor revealed as an ordinary man or otherwise brought low, the scales fall from his eyes, etc., etc. Bullshit. Logiudice was not the type to make extemporaneous speeches, not with the camera running. I imagine he practiced this line before a mirror. The only question was what he expected to get out of it, how exactly he meant to sink the knife into Jacob.\n\nIn the end, Lard-Ass Rivera was unmoved by Logiudice's bail argument. She set the bail where it had been since the day he was arrested, at a measly ten grand, a token number reflecting the fact that Jacob had nowhere to run and, after all, his family was known to the court.\n\nLogiudice shrugged off the defeat. His bail argument was nothing but grandstanding anyway. \"Your Honor,\" he barreled on, \"the Commonwealth would also raise an objection to the entry of an appearance by Mr. Klein as defense counsel in this case. Mr. Klein was previously engaged as attorney for another suspect in this homicide, a man whose name I will not mention in open court. To represent a second defendant in the same case creates a clear conflict of interest. Defense counsel would surely have been privy to confidential information from this other suspect that might impact the defense in this case. I can only imagine that the defendant is planting the seed for an appeal based on ineffective assistance if he is convicted.\"\n\nThe suggestion of a sneaky trick pulled Jonathan to his feet. It was exceptionally rare for one lawyer to attack another so openly. Even in the scrum of a bitter trial, in court a formal, clubby politeness was always maintained. Jonathan was genuinely insulted. \"Your Honor, if the Commonwealth had taken the time to ascertain the actual facts, he would never have made that accusation. The fact is, I was never retained by the other suspect in this case nor did I ever have any conversation with him about it. This was a client I represented years ago on an unrelated matter who called me out of the blue to come to the Newton police station where he was being questioned. My sole involvement with him in this case was to advise that he not answer any questions. As he was never accused, I never spoke to him again. I was not privy to any information, confidential or otherwise, now or in any previous matter, that bears on this case even remotely. There is no conflict of interest at all.\"\n\n\"Your Honor,\" Logiudice said with an unctuous shrug, \"as an officer of the court, it is my duty to report an issue like this. If Mr. Klein is offended...\"\n\n\"Is it your duty to deny the defendant the counsel of his choosing? Or to call him a liar before the case even begins?\"\n\n\"All right,\" Lard-Ass said, \"both of you. Mr. Logiudice, the Commonwealth's objection to the entry of Mr. Klein's appearance as counsel is noted and overruled.\" She glanced up from her papers and eyed him over the top of the judge's bench. \"Don't get carried away.\"\n\nLogiudice limited his response to a pantomime of disagreement\u2014a tip of the head, eyebrows raised\u2014so as not to provoke the judge. But in the shadow trial of public opinion, he had probably scored a point. In the next day's papers, on talk radio, on the Internet chat boards that dissected the case, they would be discussing whether Jacob Barber was trying to pull a fast one. Anyway, it was never Logiudice's intention to be liked.\n\n\"I'm sending this case out to Judge French for trial,\" Lard-Ass Rivera said with finality. She flipped the file toward the clerk. \"We'll recess for ten minutes.\" She frowned at the cameraman and the reporters in the back and\u2014I may have imagined this\u2014at Logiudice.\n\nThe bail was arranged quickly, and Jacob was released to us. Together we left the courthouse through a gauntlet of reporters that seemed to have grown since we arrived. Grown more aggressive too: out on Thorndike Street, they tried to stop us by standing in our path. Somebody\u2014it may have been a reporter, though no one saw him\u2014pushed Jacob in the chest, knocking him back a few steps, trying to elicit a response. Jacob gave none. His blank face never wavered. Even the more polite ones had a slippery tactic to get us to stop and talk: they asked, \"Can you just tell us what happened in there?\" as if they did not know, as if the whole thing had not been broadcast to them via the live video feed and text messages from their colleagues.\n\nBy the time we rounded the corner and drove up to our home, we were exhausted. Laurie in particular looked wrung out. Her hair was beginning to craze in the humidity. Her face looked drawn. Since the catastrophe, she had been losing weight steadily and her lovely heart-shaped face was becoming gaunt. As I began to turn the car into the driveway, Laurie gasped, \"Oh my God,\" and clapped her hand over her mouth.\n\nThere was graffiti on the front of our house, drawn with a thick black marker.\n\nMURDERER\n\nWE HATE YOU\n\nROT IN HELL\n\nThe letters were big, blocky, and neat, written in no particular haste. Our house was faced with tan shingles, and the edges of these shingles caused the pen to skip as it crossed from one to the next. Otherwise it had been done carefully, in broad daylight, while we were gone. The graffiti had not been there when we left that morning, I am sure of that.\n\nI looked up and down the street. The sidewalks were empty. Down the block a gardening crew had parked a truck, and their mowers and leaf blowers buzzed loudly. No sign of neighbors. No people at all. Just neat green lawns, rhododendrons blooming pink and purple, a cordon of big old maples running the length of the block, shading the street.\n\nLaurie jumped out and ran into the house, leaving Jacob and me to stare at the graffiti.\n\n\"Don't let them get to you, Jake. They're just trying to scare you.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"This is just one idiot. That's all it takes is one idiot. It's not everyone. It's not how people feel.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is.\"\n\n\"Not everyone.\"\n\n\"Of course it is. It's okay, Dad. I don't really care.\"\n\nI twisted to look at him in the back seat. \"Really? This doesn't bother you?\"\n\n\"No.\" He sat with his arms crossed, eyes narrow, lips tight.\n\n\"If it did, you'd tell me, right?\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"Because it's okay to feel... hurt. You know that?\"\n\nHe frowned disdainfully and shook his head, like an emperor declining to grant an indulgence. _They can't hurt me_.\n\n\"So tell me. What are you feeling inside, Jake, right now, this minute?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing? That's not possible.\"\n\n\"Like you said, it's just one asshole. One idiot, whatever. I mean, it's not like kids have never said anything bad about me, Dad. They do it to my face. What do you think school is? This\"\u2014he gestured with his chin toward the graffiti on the house\u2014\"this is just a different platform.\"\n\nI gazed at him a moment. He did not move, except that his eyes traveled from me to the passenger window. I patted his knee, though it was awkward to reach and the best I could manage was to tap my fingertip against the hard bone of his kneecap. It occurred to me that I had given him the wrong advice the night before, when I had told him to \"be strong.\" I was telling him, in so many words, to be like me. But now that I saw he had taken my words to heart and swaddled himself in theatrical toughness, like an adolescent Clint Eastwood, I regretted the comment. I wanted the other Jacob, my goofy, awkward son, to show his face again. But it was too late. Anyway, his tough-guy act was oddly moving to me.\n\n\"You're a great kid, Jake. I'm proud of you. I mean, the way you stood up there today, now this. You're a good kid.\"\n\nHe snorted. \"Yeah, okay, Dad.\"\n\nInside I found Laurie on her hands and knees rummaging through the cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. She was still wearing the navy skirt she wore to court.\n\n\"Just leave it, Laurie. I'll take care of it. You go rest.\"\n\n\"You'll take care of it when?\"\n\n\"Whenever you want.\"\n\n\"You say you'll take care of things and then you don't. I don't want that thing on my house. Not for one more minute. I'm not going to just leave it there.\"\n\n\"I said I'll take care of it. Please. Go rest.\"\n\n\"How can I rest, Andy, with that thing? Honestly. Did you see what they wrote? On our home! On our _home_ , Andy, and you want me to just go rest? Great. This is just great. They walk right up and write on our house and nobody says anything, nobody lifts a finger, not one of our fucking neighbors.\" She enunciated the expletive meticulously, right down to the final _G_ , as people who are not used to swearing often do. \"We should call the cops. It's a crime, isn't it? It _is_ a crime, I know it is. It's vandalism. Should we call the cops?\"\n\n\"No. We're not calling the cops.\"\n\n\"No. Of course not.\"\n\nShe came up with a bottle of Fantastik, then snatched up a dish towel and soaked it under the faucet.\n\n\"Laurie, please, let me do this. Let me help you, at least.\"\n\n\"Would you just stop? I said I'll do it.\"\n\nShe had taken off her shoes and she marched out like that, barefoot in her nylons, and she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.\n\nI went out with her, but there was nothing for me to do except watch.\n\nHer hair bounced to the vigorous movements of her arm. Her eyes were wet and her face flushed.\n\n\"Can I help, Laurie?\"\n\n\"No. I'll do it.\"\n\nAt length, I gave up watching and went back in. I heard her scruffing against the side of the house for a long time. She succeeded in rubbing out the words, but the ink left a gray cloud on the paint. It is still there today.\n\n# **10 | Leopards**\n\nJonathan's office was a little warren of cluttered rooms in a century-old Victorian near Harvard Square. The practice was essentially a one-man operation. He did have an associate, a young woman named Ellen Curtice who was just out of Suffolk Law. But he used her only as a stand-in on days when he could not be in court himself (usually because he was held on trial elsewhere) and to handle basic legal research. It was understood, apparently, that Ellen would move on when she was ready to launch her own practice. For now, she was a vaguely disconcerting presence in the office, a mostly silent, dark-eyed observer of the clients who came and went, the murderers, rapists, thieves, child molesters, tax evaders, and all their cursed families. There was a bit of Northampton about her, a bit of the college kid's orthodox radicalism. I imagined she judged Jacob harshly\u2014the suburban rich kid who pissed away all the advantages he had lucked into, something like that\u2014but her behavior gave nothing away. Ellen treated us with elaborate politeness. She insisted on calling me Mister Barber and offered to take my coat whenever I showed up, as if any hint of intimacy would undermine her neutral pose.\n\nThe only other member of Jonathan's team was Mrs. Wurtz, who kept the books, answered the phone, and, when she could no longer stand the mess, reluctantly scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom while murmuring murder under her breath. She bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother.\n\nThe best room in the office was the library. It had a red-brick fireplace and bookcases lined with familiar old law books: the honey bindings of the Massachusetts and federal case reports, the army-green Mass. Appeals reports, the wine red of the old Mass. Practice series.\n\nIt was in this warm little den that we gathered just a few hours after Jacob's arraignment, in early afternoon, to discuss the case. We three Barbers sat around an old circular oak table with Jonathan. Ellen was there too, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.\n\nJacob wore a burgundy hoodie that had the logo of a clothing company on the chest, a silhouette of a rhino. As the meeting began, he slumped in his chair with the cavernous hood over his head like a druid. I told him, \"Jacob, take your hood off. Don't be disrespectful.\" He slipped it off with a sulky flip and sat there with an absent expression, as if the meeting was a matter for grown-ups that held little interest for him.\n\nLaurie, in her sexy schoolmarm glasses and a lightweight fleece pullover, looked like a thousand other suburban soccer moms, except for the shock-hammered look in her eyes. She asked for a legal pad of her own and gamely made ready to take notes along with Ellen. Laurie seemed determined to keep her head\u2014to think her way out of the maze, to remain clearheaded and industrious even in this surreal dream. She might have had an easier time of it, honestly, if she had not been so engaged. The stupid and belligerent have it easy in these situations; they can simply stop thinking and gird for battle, trust to the experts and to fate, insisting that everything will turn out right in the end. Laurie was neither stupid nor belligerent, and in the end she paid an awful price\u2014but I am getting ahead of the story. For the moment, seeing her with her pad and pen inevitably reminded me of our college days, when Laurie was a bit of a grind, at least compared to me. We rarely took classes together. Our interests were not the same\u2014I was drawn to history, Laurie to psych, English, and film\u2014and anyway we did not want to become one of those nauseating inseparable couples that mooned around campus side by side like Siamese twins. In four years, the one class we shared was Edmund Morgan's intro to early American history, which we took freshman year when we'd just started dating. I used to steal Laurie's notebook before exams to catch up on the lectures I'd skipped. I remember gaping at her class notes, page after page of neat cursive. She captured long phrases from the lectures verbatim, broke the lectures down into branching concepts and subconcepts, added her own thoughts as she went. There were few of the cross-outs or scribbles or snaking arrows that filled my sloppy, frantic, clownish class notes. In fact, that notebook from Edmund Morgan's lectures was part of the revelation of meeting Laurie. What struck me was not just that she was probably smarter than me. Coming from a small town\u2014Watertown, New York\u2014I was prepared for that. I fully expected Yale to be swarming with brainy, worldly kids like Laurie Gold. I had studied up on them by reading Salinger stories and watching _Love Story_ and _The Paper Chase_. No, the epiphany I had looking at Laurie's notebook was not that she was smart but that she was unknowable. She was every bit as complex as I was. As a kid, I had always believed there was a special drama about being Andy Barber, but the interior experience of being Laurie Gold must have been just as fraught with secrets and sorrows. She would always be a mystery, as all other people are. Try as I might to penetrate her, by talking, kissing, stabbing myself into her, the best I would ever do was to know her just a little. It is a childish realization, I admit\u2014no one worth knowing can be quite known, no one worth possessing can be quite possessed\u2014but after all, we were children.\n\n\"Well,\" Jonathan said, looking up from his papers, \"this is just the initial package from Neal Logiudice. All I have here is the indictment and some of the police reports, so obviously we don't have all the prosecution's evidence yet. But we have a general picture of the case against Jacob. We can begin talking, at least, and try to get a general picture of what the trial will look like. We can start to figure out what we need to do between now and then.\n\n\"Jacob, before we begin, I want to say a couple of things to you in particular.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"First, you're the client here. That means that, as far as possible, you are the decision maker. Not your parents, not me, not anyone else. This is _your_ case. _You_ are always in control. Nothing is going to happen here that _you_ don't agree with. Okay?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"To the extent you want to leave the decision-making up to your mom and dad or to me, that's perfectly understandable. But you should not feel like you don't have a say in your own case. The law is treating you as an adult. For better or worse, by law in Massachusetts every kid your age charged with first-degree murder is charged as an adult. So I'm going to do my best to treat you as an adult too. Okay?\"\n\nJacob said, \" 'Kay.\"\n\nNot a wasted syllable. If Jonathan was expecting an outpouring of gratitude, he had the wrong kid.\n\n\"The other thing is, I don't want you to feel overwhelmed. I want to warn you: in every case like this, there's an 'oh shit' moment. That's when you look up at the case against you, you see all the evidence, all the people on the DA's team, you hear all the things the DA is saying in court, and you panic. You feel hopeless. Deep down, a little voice says, 'Oh shit!' I want you to understand, it happens every time. If it hasn't hit you yet, it will. And what I want you to remember, when that 'oh shit' feeling hits, is that we have enough resources right here in this room to win. There's no reason to panic. It does not matter how big the DA's team is, it doesn't matter how strong the DA's case looks, or how confident Logiudice seems. We are not outgunned. We do need to stay cool. And if we do, we have everything we need to win. Now, do you believe that?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Not really, I guess.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm telling you it's true.\"\n\nJacob's eyes dropped to his lap.\n\nA microexpression, a disappointed pucker, fluttered across Jonathan's face.\n\nSo much for the pep talk.\n\nGiving up, he slipped on his half-moon glasses and paged through the papers in front of him, mostly photocopies of police reports and the \"statement of the case\" filed by Logiudice, which laid out the essentials of the government's evidence. Without his jacket, wearing the same black turtleneck he'd worn in court, Jonathan's shoulders looked slight and bony.\n\n\"The theory,\" he said, \"seems to be that Ben Rifkin was bullying you, therefore you got a knife and, when the opportunity presented itself or perhaps when the victim bullied you one time too many, you took your revenge. There don't seem to be any direct witnesses. A woman who was walking in Cold Spring Park places you in the area that morning. Another walker in the park heard the victim cry out, 'Stop, you're hurting me,' but she didn't actually see anything. And a fellow student\u2014that's Logiudice's phrase, _a fellow student_ \u2014alleges you had a knife. That fellow student is not named in the reports I have here. Jacob, any idea who that is?\"\n\n\"It's Derek. Derek Yoo.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that?\"\n\n\"He said the same thing on Facebook. He's been saying it for a while.\"\n\nJonathan nodded but did not ask the obvious question: _Is it true?_\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"it's a very circumstantial case. There's the thumbprint, which I want to talk about. But fingerprints are a very limited kind of evidence. There is no way to tell exactly when or how a fingerprint got there. There's often an innocent explanation.\"\n\nHe dropped this remark in an offhand way, without looking up.\n\nI squirmed.\n\nLaurie said, \"There is something else.\" A beat, a curious feeling in the room.\n\nLaurie glanced around the table apprehensively. Her voice was momentarily husky, congested. \"What if they say Jacob inherited something, like a disease?\"\n\n\"I don't understand. Inherited what?\"\n\n\"Violence.\"\n\nJacob: \"What!?\"\n\n\"I don't know if my husband has told you: there is a history of violence in our family. Apparently.\"\n\nI noticed that she said _our family_ , plural. I clung to that to prevent myself from falling off a cliff.\n\nJonathan sat back and slipped off his glasses, let them dangle from the lanyard. He looked at her with a puzzled expression.\n\n\"Not Andy and me,\" Laurie said. \"Jacob's grandfather, his great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather. Et cetera.\"\n\nJacob: \"Mom, what are you _talking_ about?\"\n\n\"I'm just wondering, could they say Jacob has a... a tendency? A... genetic tendency?\"\n\n\"What sort of tendency?\"\n\n\"To violence.\"\n\n\"A _genetic_ tendency to violence? No. Of course not.\" Jonathan shook his head, then his curiosity got the better of him. \"Whose father and grandfather are we talking about?\"\n\n\"Mine.\"\n\nI felt myself redden, the warmth rising in my cheeks, my ears. I was ashamed, then ashamed at feeling ashamed, at my lack of self-command. Then ashamed, again, that Jonathan was watching my son learn of this in real time, exposing me as a liar, a bad father. Only last was I ashamed in my son's eyes.\n\nJonathan looked away from me, pointedly, allowing me to recover myself. \"No, Laurie, that sort of evidence would definitely not be admissible. Anyway, as far as I know, there is no such thing as a genetic tendency to violence. If Andy really does have violence in his family background, then his own good nature and his life prove that the tendency doesn't exist.\" He glanced at me to be sure I heard the confidence in his voice.\n\n\"It's not Andy that I doubt. It's the DA, Logiudice. What if he finds out? I Googled it this morning. There have been cases where this sort of DNA evidence has been used. They say it makes the defendant aggressive. They called it 'the murder gene.' \"\n\n\"That's ridiculous. 'The murder gene'! You certainly did not find any cases like that in Massachusetts.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nI volunteered, \"Jonathan, she's upset. We just talked about this last night. It's my fault. I shouldn't have put all this on her right now.\"\n\nLaurie held herself erect to demonstrate how wrong I was. She was in control, not reacting wildly out of emotion.\n\nIn a comforting tone, Jonathan said, \"Laurie, all I can tell you is that if they do try to raise that as an issue, we'll fight it tooth and nail. It's insane.\" Jonathan snorted and shook his head, which for a soft-spoken guy like him was a rather violent outburst.\n\nAnd even now, looking back on that moment when the idea of a \"murder gene\" was first raised, by Laurie of all people, I feel my back stiffen, I feel the anger ooze up my spine. The murder gene was not just a contemptible idea and a slander\u2014though it absolutely was both of those things. It also offended me as a lawyer. I saw right away the backwardness of it, the way it warped the real science of DNA and the genetic component of behavior, and overlaid it with the junk science of sleazy lawyers, the cynical science-lite language whose actual purpose was to manipulate juries, to fool them with the sheen of scientific certainty. The murder gene was a lie. A lawyer's con game.\n\nIt was also a deeply subversive idea. It undercut the whole premise of the criminal law. In court, the thing we punish is the criminal intention\u2014the _mens rea_ , the guilty mind. There is an ancient rule: _actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea_ \u2014\"the act does not create guilt unless the mind is also guilty.\" That is why we do not convict children, drunks, and schizophrenics: they are incapable of _deciding_ to commit their crimes with a true understanding of the significance of their actions. Free will is as important to the law as it is to religion or any other code of morality. We do not punish the leopard for its wildness. Would Logiudice have the balls to make the argument anyway? \"Born bad\"? I was sure he would try. Whether or not it was good science or good law, he would whisper it in the jury's ear like a gossip passing a secret. He would find a way.\n\nIn the end Laurie was right, of course: the murder gene would haunt us, if not quite the way she anticipated. But in that first meeting, Jonathan\u2014and I\u2014trained in the humanist tradition of the law, instinctively rejected it. We laughed it off. The idea had got ahold of Laurie's imagination, though, and Jacob's too.\n\nMy son's jaw literally hung open. \"Is somebody going to tell me what you guys are talking about?\"\n\n\"Jake,\" I began. But the words did not come.\n\n\"What? Somebody tell me!\"\n\n\"My father is in prison. He has been for a long time.\"\n\n\"But you never knew your father.\"\n\n\"That's not entirely true.\"\n\n\"But you _said_. You've always said.\"\n\n\"I did, I _said_. I'm sorry for that. I never _really_ knew him, that was true. But I knew who he was.\"\n\n\"You lied to me?\"\n\n\"I didn't tell you the whole truth.\"\n\n\"You lied.\"\n\nI shook my head. All the reasons, all the things I had felt as a kid, seemed ridiculous and inadequate now. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Jeez. What did he do?\"\n\nDeep breath. \"He killed a girl.\"\n\n\"How? Why? What happened?\"\n\n\"I don't really want to talk about it.\"\n\n\"You don't want to talk about it? No shit you don't want to talk about it!\"\n\n\"He was a bad guy, Jacob, that's all. Let's just leave it at that.\"\n\n\"How come you never told me?\"\n\n\"Jacob,\" Laurie cut in softly, \"I never knew either. I only found out last night.\" She laid her hand on Jacob's and rustled it. \"It's okay. We're still kind of figuring out how to process all this. Try to stay calm, okay?\"\n\n\"It's just\u2014it can't be true. How come you never told me? This is my\u2014what?\u2014my grandfather? How could you keep that from me? Who do you think you are?\"\n\n\"Jacob. Watch how you talk to your father.\"\n\n\"No, it's okay, Laurie. He's got a right to be upset.\"\n\n\"I _am_ upset!\"\n\n\"Jacob, I never told you\u2014I never told anyone\u2014because I was afraid people would look at me differently. And now I'm afraid it's how people are going to look at you too. I didn't want that to happen. Someday, maybe someday very soon, you'll understand.\"\n\nHe gawped at me, unsatisfied.\n\n\"I didn't mean for it to come to all this. I wanted\u2014I wanted to move past it.\"\n\n\"But Dad, it's who I am.\"\n\n\"That's not how I looked at it.\"\n\n\"I had a right to know.\"\n\n\"That's not how I looked at it, Jake.\"\n\n\"I _didn't_ have a right to know? About my own family?\"\n\n\"You had a right to _not_ know. You had a right to start with a blank slate, to be whatever you wanted to be, same as every other kid.\"\n\n\"But I _wasn't_ the same as every other kid.\"\n\n\"Of course you were.\"\n\nLaurie looked away.\n\nJacob tossed himself backward in his chair. He seemed more shocked than aggrieved. The questions, the complaints, were just a way to channel his emotion. He sat there awhile, deep in thought. \"I don't be _lieve_ it,\" he said, bewildered. \"I just don't believe it. I don't believe you _did_ that.\"\n\n\"Look, Jacob, if you want to be mad at me for lying, okay. But my intentions were good. I did this for you. Even before you were born, I did it for you.\"\n\n\"Oh, come _on_. You did it for yourself.\"\n\n\"I did it for myself, yes, and for my son, for the son I hoped I was going to have someday, to make things a little easier for him. For _you_.\"\n\n\"It didn't work out so great, did it?\"\n\n\"I think it did. I think your life has been easier than it would have been. I certainly hope so. It's been easier than mine was, that's for sure.\"\n\n\"Dad, look where we are.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\nHe said nothing.\n\nLaurie offered, in a honeyed voice, \"Jacob, we need to be careful how we talk to each other, okay? Try to understand your father's position even if you disagree with it. Put yourself in his shoes.\"\n\n\"Mom, you're the one who said it: I have the murder gene.\"\n\n\"I did not say that, Jacob.\"\n\n\"You implied it. Of course you did!\"\n\n\"Jacob, you know I didn't say that. I don't even think there is such a thing. I was talking about other trials I read about.\"\n\n\"Mom, it's okay. It's just a _fact_. If you weren't concerned about it, you wouldn't have Googled it.\"\n\n\"A fact? How do you know it's a fact, all of a sudden?\"\n\n\"Mom, let me ask you something: why do people only want to talk about inheriting good things? When an athlete has a kid who's good at sports, nobody has any problem saying the kid inherited his talent. When a musician has a musical kid, when a professor has a smart kid, whatever. What's the difference?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Jacob. It's just different.\"\n\nJonathan\u2014who had not spoken in so long I had almost forgotten he was present\u2014said calmly, \"The difference is it's not a crime to be athletic or musical or smart. We need to be very careful about locking people up for what they _are_ rather than what they _do_. There is a very long ugly history of that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"So what do I do if this is what I _am_?\"\n\nMe: \"Jacob, what are you saying, exactly?\"\n\n\"What if I have this thing inside me and I can't help it?\"\n\n\"There's nothing inside you.\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\nThere was a very long silence, ten seconds or so that seemed to last much longer.\n\n\"Jacob,\" I said, \"the 'murder gene' is just a phrase. It's a metaphor. You understand that, right?\"\n\nShrug. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Jake, you've just got it wrong, okay? Even if a murderer had a child who was also a murderer, you wouldn't need genetics to explain that.\"\n\n\"How do _you_ know?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've thought about it, Jacob, believe me, I've thought about it. But it just can't be. I think of it this way: if Yo-Yo Ma had a son, the kid wouldn't be born knowing how to play the cello. He'd have to learn to play the cello just like everyone else. The most you can inherit is talent, potential. What you do with it, what you become, all that is up to you.\"\n\n\"Did you inherit your father's talent?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"Look at me. Look at my life, like Jonathan said. You know me. You've lived with me fourteen years now. Have I ever been violent, ever?\"\n\nHe shrugged again, unimpressed. \"Maybe you just never learned to play your cello. Doesn't mean you don't have the talent.\"\n\n\"Jacob, what do you want me to say? It's impossible to prove a thing like that.\"\n\n\"I know. That's my problem too. How do I know what's in me?\"\n\n\"Nothing is in you.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Dad: I think you know exactly how I'm feeling right now. I know exactly why you didn't tell anyone about this for so long. It wasn't because of what _they_ might think you were.\"\n\nJacob leaned back and folded his hands on his belly, closing off the subject. He had clasped onto the idea of a murder gene and after that I don't think he ever let it go. I let the subject drop too. No sense preaching to him about the boundlessness of human potential. He had his generation's instinctive preference for scientific explanations over the old verities. He knew what happens when science comes up against magical thinking.\n\n# **11 | Running**\n\nI am not a natural runner. Too heavy-legged, too big and bulky. I am built like a butcher. And honestly I derive little pleasure from running. I do it because I have to. If I don't, I get fat, an unhappy tendency I inherited from my mother's side, all stout-bodied peasant stock from eastern Europe, Scotland, and points unknown. So most mornings around six or six-thirty I galumphed through the streets and the jogging paths in Cold Spring Park until I had pounded out my daily three miles.\n\nI was determined to keep on doing it even after Jacob was indicted. No doubt the neighbors would have preferred that we Barbers not show our faces, particularly in Cold Spring Park. I did accommodate them somewhat. I ran early in the morning, I kept my distance from others, I bowed my head like a fugitive when passing a jogger going the opposite direction. And of course I never ran near the murder site. But I decided from the start that, for my own sanity, I would hold on to this aspect of before-life.\n\nThe morning after our initial conference with Jonathan, I experienced that elusive, oxymoronic thing, a \"good run.\" I felt light and fast. For once, running was not a series of leaps and thuds, but\u2014and I don't mean to be too poetic about this\u2014like flying. I felt my body rush forward with a kind of natural ease and predatory speed, as if I had always been meant to feel like this. I don't know why it happened, exactly, though I suspect the added anxiety of the case flooded my system with adrenaline. I moved quickly through Cold Spring Park in the damp chill, around the loop that follows the perimeter of the park, hopping over tree roots and rocks, leaping the little pools of rainwater and the squelching mud patches that dot the park in spring. I felt so good, in fact, that I ran past my usual park exit and went on through the woods a little farther, to the front of the park where, with only the vaguest intention or design in my head, but a conviction\u2014fast growing into a certainty\u2014that Leonard Patz was the one, I came out into the parking lot of the Windsor Apartments.\n\nI padded around the parking lot a bit. I did not have the vaguest idea where Patz's apartment was. The buildings were plain blocks of red brick, three stories high.\n\nI found Patz's car, a rusting plum-colored late-nineties Ford Probe whose description I remembered from Patz's file, among the details Paul Duffy had begun to gather. It was just the sort of car a child molester ought to drive. The vehicular embodiment of a pedophile is precisely a plum-colored late-nineties Ford Probe. Short of flying the NAMBLA flag from the antenna, the car could not have suited the man better. Patz had adorned his pedo-mobile with various disarming badges: a \"Teach Children\" Massachusetts vanity plate, bumper stickers for the Red Sox and the World Wildlife Fund, with its cuddly panda logo. Both doors were locked. I cupped my hands over the driver's window to peer inside. The interior was immaculate, if worn.\n\nAt the entrance to the nearest apartment building, I found the buzzer for his apartment, \"PATZ, L.\"\n\nThe apartment complex was beginning to stir. A few residents straggled out to their cars or to make the short walk to Dunkin' Donuts just down the street. Most wore business clothes. One woman coming out of Patz's building held the door open for me politely\u2014there is no better disguise for a stalker in the suburbs than to present oneself as a clean-shaven Caucasian in jogging clothes\u2014but I declined with a thankful expression. What would I do inside the building? Knock on Patz's door? No. Not yet, at least.\n\nThe idea was only just forming in my head that Jonathan's approach was too timid. He was thinking too much like a defense lawyer, content to put the Commonwealth to its burden, win it on cross, poke a few holes in Logiudice's case then argue to the jury that, yes, there was some evidence against Jacob but it wasn't enough. I preferred to attack, always. To be fair, this was a misinterpretation of what Jonathan had said and badly underestimated him. But I knew\u2014and Jonathan surely did as well\u2014that the better strategy is to offer the jury an alternate narrative. The jurors would want to know, naturally, if Jacob did not do it, who did? We had to offer them a story to satisfy that craving. We humans are swayed more by stories than by abstract concepts like \"burden of proof\" or \"presumed innocent.\" We are pattern-seeking, storytelling animals, and have been since we began drawing on cave walls. Patz would be our story. That sounds calculating and dishonest, I realize, as if the whole thing was a matter of trial tactics, so let me add that in this case the counternarrative happened to be true: Patz actually did do it. I knew it. It was only a matter of showing the jury the truth. That was all I ever wanted with respect to Patz: to follow the evidence, play it straight, as I always had. You will say I am protesting too much, making myself sound too virtuous\u2014arguing my own case to a jury. Well, I acknowledge the illogic: Patz did it because Jacob did not. But the illogic was not apparent to me then. I was the boy's father. And the fact is, I was right to suspect Patz.\n\n# **12 | Confessions**\n\nBringing in a shrink was Jonathan's idea. It was standard procedure, he told us, to seek a \"competency and criminal responsibility evaluation.\" But a quick Google search revealed that the shrink he chose was an authority on the role of genetic inheritance in behavior. Despite what he had said about the absurdity of a \"murder gene,\" Jonathan was preparing to confront the issue if need be. I was convinced that, whatever the scientific merit of the theory, Logiudice would never be allowed to argue it to the jury. The argument was bogus, just a slicked-back, scienced-up version of an ancient courtroom trick, what lawyers call \"propensity evidence\": the defendant tends to do stuff like this, so he probably did it here too, even if the prosecution can't prove it. It's simple: the defendant is a bank robber; a bank has been robbed\u2014we all know what happened here. It is a way for the prosecution to tempt the jury with a wink and a nudge to convict despite a weak case. No judge would let Logiudice get away with it. Equally important, the science of genetically influenced behavior simply had not matured enough to be admitted in court. It was a new field, and the law purposely lags behind science. The courts cannot afford to make mistakes by taking chances on cutting-edge theories that may not prove out. I did not blame Jonathan for preparing to challenge the murder gene theory. Good trial preparation is really over-preparation. Jonathan had to be prepared for everything, even the one-in-a-hundred chance the judge might admit murder gene evidence. What bothered me was that he did not confide in me what he was up to. He did not trust me. I had fooled myself that we would act as a team, fellow lawyers, colleagues. But to Jonathan, I was just a client. Worse, I was a crazy, unreliable client, one who had to be misled.\n\nOur meetings with the shrink took place on the campus of McLean Hospital, the mental hospital where Dr. Elizabeth Vogel practiced. We met in a bare, bookless room. It was sparsely furnished with a few chairs and low tables. African masks hung on the wall.\n\nDr. Vogel was a big woman. Not flabby; on the contrary, she had none of the pale softness of an academic, though she was one. (She taught and researched at Harvard Medical School as well as McLean.) Rather, Dr. Vogel had broad shoulders and a great square carved head. She was olive-skinned and, in May, already very tan. Her hair, mostly gray, was cut short. No makeup. A constellation of three diamond studs was arrayed on her brown earlobe. I imagined her hiking up sun-blasted mountain trails every weekend or bashing her way through the waves off Truro. She was big in the sense of prominent too, a big shot, which only enhanced her imposing quality. It was not clear to me why such a woman would choose the quiet, patient work of psychiatry. Her manner suggested a low tolerance for bullshit, of which she must have listened to quite a lot. She did not just sit there and nod, as shrinks are supposed to do. She leaned forward, tilted her head as if to hear you better, as if she was avid for good frank talk, for the real story.\n\nLaurie confessed everything to her willingly, eagerly. In this Earth Mother she felt she had a natural ally, an expert who would explain Jacob's problems. As if the doctor was on our side. In long question-answer exchanges Laurie tried to draw on Dr. Vogel's expertise. She quizzed the doctor: How to understand Jacob? How to help him? Laurie did not have the vocabulary, the specific knowledge. She wanted to extract those things from Dr. Vogel. She seemed unaware, or maybe just unconcerned, that Dr. Vogel was extracting from her as well. To be clear, I do not blame Laurie. She loved her son and she believed in psychiatry, in the power of gab. And of course she was shaken. After a few weeks living with the fact of Jacob's indictment, the strain was beginning to tell; she was vulnerable to a sympathetic ear like Dr. Vogel's. But for all that, I could not just sit there and let it happen. Laurie was so determined to help Jacob, she nearly hung him.\n\nIn our first meeting with the shrink, Laurie offered this rather startling confession: \"When Jacob was a baby I used to be able to tell from the sound of his crawl when he was in a scary mood. I know that sounds outrageous, but it's true. He would come storming down the hall on all fours, and I just knew.\"\n\n\"You knew what?\"\n\n\"I knew I was in for it. He would go on rampages. He'd throw things, he'd scream. There was nothing I could do with him. I'd just put him in his crib or his Pack 'n Play and I'd walk away. I'd let him scream and thrash till he calmed down.\"\n\n\"Don't all babies scream and thrash, Laurie?\"\n\n\"Not like this. Not like this.\"\n\nI said, \"That's ridiculous. He was a baby. Babies cry.\"\n\n\"Andy,\" the doctor purred, \"let her speak. You'll have your turn. Go on, Laurie.\"\n\n\"Yes, go on, Laurie. Tell her how Jacob pulled the wings off flies.\"\n\n\"Doctor, you'll have to forgive him. He doesn't believe in this\u2014in talking honestly about private things.\"\n\n\"That's not true. I do believe in it.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you ever do it?\"\n\n\"It's a talent I don't possess.\"\n\n\"Talking?\"\n\n\"Complaining.\"\n\n\"No, this is called talking, Andy, not complaining. And it's a skill, not a talent; you could learn it if you wanted to. You can talk for hours in court.\"\n\n\"That's different.\"\n\n\"Because a lawyer doesn't have to be honest?\"\n\n\"No, it's just a different situation, Laurie. There's a time and a place for everything.\"\n\n\"My God, Andy, we're in a psychiatrist's office. If this isn't the time and place...\"\n\n\"Yes, but we're here for Jacob, not us. Not you. You need to remember that.\"\n\n\"I think I remember why we're here, Andy. Don't worry. I know exactly why we're here.\"\n\n\"Do you? You're not talking like you know it.\"\n\n\"Don't lecture me, Andy.\"\n\nDr. Vogel said, \"Hold on. I want to make something clear. Andy, I was hired by the defense team. I work for you. There's no need to hide anything from me. I'm on Jacob's side. My findings here can only help your son. I'll submit my report to Jonathan, then you all can decide what to do with it. It's entirely your decision.\"\n\n\"And if we want to throw it in the trash?\"\n\n\"You can. The point is, our conversation here is entirely confidential. There's no reason to hold back. You don't need to defend your son, not in this room. I only want the truth about him.\"\n\nI made a sour face. The truth about Jacob. Who could say what that was? What was the truth about anyone?\n\n\"All right,\" Dr. Vogel said. \"Laurie, you were describing Jacob as a baby. I'd like to hear more about that.\"\n\n\"From the time he was two, other kids started getting hurt around Jacob.\"\n\nI gave Laurie a hard look. She seemed ethereally unaware of the danger of frankness.\n\nBut Laurie returned my glare with a fierce look of her own. I cannot say for certain what she was thinking; Laurie and I did not talk as much or as easily since the night I confessed my secret history. A little curtain had come down between us. But clearly she was in no mood for lawyerly advice. She meant to have her say.\n\nShe said, \"It happened several times. At day care once, Jacob was toddling on the top of a play structure when another boy fell off. The boy needed stitches. Another time, a little girl flew off the monkey bars and broke her arm. A boy down the street rode his tricycle down a steep hill. That boy needed stitches too. He said Jakey pushed him.\"\n\n\"How often did these things happen?\"\n\n\"Every year or so. Jacob's day care teachers told us all the time that they could not take their eyes off him, he was too rough. I was scared to death he would get kicked out of day care. Then what would we do? I was still working at the time, teaching; we needed day care. There were long waiting lists at all the other day care centers. If Jacob got thrown out, I'd have to stop working. We actually put our name on the list at another day care, just in case.\"\n\n\"Oh my God, Laurie, he was four years old! This is _years_ ago! What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Andy, really, you have to let her speak or this just won't work.\"\n\n\"But the time she's talking about, Jacob was four\u2014years\u2014old.\"\n\n\"Andy, I understand where you're coming from. Just let her finish, then you'll have a turn, all right? All right. Laurie, I'm curious: what did the other kids at day care think of him?\"\n\n\"Oh, the kids, I don't know. Jacob had very few playdates, so I imagine the other kids didn't like him especially.\"\n\n\"And the parents?\"\n\n\"I'm sure they didn't want their kids to be alone with him. But none of the moms ever said anything to me about it. We were all too nice for that. We didn't criticize each other's kids. Nice people don't do that, except behind each other's backs.\"\n\n\"What about you, Laurie? What did you think about Jacob's behavior?\"\n\n\"I knew I had a difficult child. I did. I knew he had some behavior problems. He was rambunctious, he was a little too rough, a little too aggressive.\"\n\n\"Was he a bully?\"\n\n\"No. Not exactly. He just didn't think about other kids, how they would feel.\"\n\n\"Was he short-tempered?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Mean?\"\n\n\"Mean. No, _mean_ isn't the word for it either. It was more like\u2014I don't know what to call it, exactly. He just couldn't seem to imagine how other kids would feel if he pushed them down, so he was... hard to control. I guess that's it: he was hard to control. But a lot of boys are like that. That's how we talked about it at the time: 'A lot of boys go through this. It's a phase. Jacob will outgrow it.' That was how we looked at it. I was horrified when other kids got hurt, of course, but what could I do? What could _we_ do?\"\n\n\"What _did_ you do, Laurie? Did you ever try to get help?\"\n\n\"Oh, we talked about it endlessly, Andy and I. Andy always told me not to worry. I asked the pediatrician about it, and he told me the same thing: 'Don't worry, Jake is still very little, it will pass.' They made me feel a little crazy, like I was one of those crazy, jumpy moms always hovering over their kids, freaking out about Band-Aids and... and peanut allergies. And here was Andy and the pediatrician saying, 'It will pass, it will pass.' \"\n\n\"But it _did_ pass, Laurie. You _were_ overreacting. The pediatrician was right.\"\n\n\"Was he? Honey, look where we are. You never want to face this.\"\n\n\"Face what?\"\n\n\"That maybe Jacob needed help. Maybe it's our fault. We should have done something.\"\n\n\"Done what? Or else what?\"\n\nHer head drooped, hopeless. The memory of these early childhood incidents haunted her, as if she had seen a shark's fin that disappeared under water. It was lunacy.\n\n\"Laurie, what are you suggesting? This is our son we're talking about.\"\n\n\"I'm not suggesting anything, Andy. Don't make this a loyalty contest or a\u2014a fight. I'm just wondering about what we did back then. I mean, I don't know what the answer was, I have no idea what we should have done. Maybe Jake needed medication. Or counseling. I don't know. I just can't help thinking we must have made mistakes. We must have. We tried so hard and we meant so well. We don't deserve all this. We were good, responsible people. You know? We did everything right. We weren't too young. We waited. In fact, we almost waited too long; I was thirty-six when I had Jacob. We weren't rich, but we both worked hard and we had enough money to give the baby everything he needed. We did everything right, and yet here we are. It isn't fair.\" She shook her head and murmured, \"It isn't fair.\"\n\nBeside me, Laurie's hand rested on the arm of her chair. I thought I might lay my hand on hers to soothe her, but in the moment it took to consider it, she withdrew her hand and knotted her arms down tight over her belly.\n\nShe said, \"I look back on us then and I see we weren't ready at all. I mean, no one ever is, right? We were kids. I don't care how old we were; we were kids. And we were clueless and we were scared shitless, like all new parents. And I don't know, maybe we made mistakes.\"\n\n\"What mistakes, Laurie? Really. You're being dramatic. It just wasn't that bad. Jacob was a little boisterous and rough. Is that really such a big deal? He was a little boy! Some kids got hurt because four-year-olds get hurt. They totter around, and three-quarters of their body weight is in their enormous heads, so they fall down and crash into things. They fall off play structures, they fall off bicycles. It happens. They're like drunks. Anyway, the pediatrician was right: Jacob did outgrow it. This stuff all stopped when he got older. You're beating yourself up, but there's nothing to feel guilty about, Laurie. We didn't do anything wrong.\"\n\n\"That's just what you always used to say. You never wanted to admit anything was out of place. Or maybe you just never saw it. I mean, I'm not blaming you. It wasn't your fault. I see that now. I understand what you were dealing with, what you must have been carrying around inside.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't put it on that.\"\n\n\"Andy, it must have been a burden.\"\n\n\"It wasn't. Ever. I promise you.\"\n\n\"All right, whatever you say. But you need to think about the possibility that you don't see Jacob objectively. You're not reliable. Dr. Vogel needs to know that.\"\n\n\" _I'm_ not reliable?\"\n\n\"No, you're not.\"\n\nDr. Vogel was watching, saying nothing. She knew my backstory, of course. It was the reason we hired her, an expert on genetic wickedness. Still, the subject embarrassed me. I fell silent, ashamed.\n\nThe psychiatrist said, \"Is that true, Laurie? Jacob's behavior got better as he got older?\"\n\n\"Yes, in some ways. I mean, it was _better_ , certainly. Kids weren't getting hurt around him anymore. But he still misbehaved.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Well, he stole. He always stole, his whole childhood. From stores, from CVS, even from the library. He would steal from me. He'd go right into my purse. I caught him shoplifting a couple of times when he was little. I talked to him about it but it never made any difference. What was I supposed to do? Cut off his hands?\"\n\nI said, \"This is totally unfair. You're not being fair to Jacob.\"\n\n\"Why? I'm being honest.\"\n\n\"No, you're being honest about how you _feel_ , because Jacob's in trouble and you feel responsible somehow, so you're reading back into his life all these terrible things that just weren't there. I mean, really: he stole from your purse? So what? You're just not giving the doctor an accurate picture. We're here to talk about Jacob's court case.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So what does shoplifting have to do with murder? What's the difference if he took a candy bar or a pen or something from CVS? What on earth does that have to do with Ben Rifkin being brutally stabbed to death? You're lumping these things together like shoplifting and bloody murder are the same thing. They're not.\"\n\nDr. Vogel said, \"I think what Laurie is describing is a pattern of rule-breaking. She's suggesting that Jacob, for whatever reason, can't seem to stay within the bounds of accepted behavior.\"\n\n\"No. That's a sociopath.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What you're describing\u2014\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"\u2014is a sociopath. Is that what you're saying? Jacob is a sociopath?\"\n\n\"No.\" Dr. Vogel put up her hands. \"I didn't say that, Andy. I did not use that word. I'm just trying to get a complete picture of Jacob. I haven't come to any conclusions about anything. My mind is wide open.\"\n\nLaurie said, earnest and grave, \"I think Jacob may have problems. He may need help.\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"He's our son, Andy. It's our responsibility to take care of him.\"\n\n\"That's what I'm trying to do.\"\n\nLaurie's eyes glistened but no tears came. She had already done her crying. This was a thought she'd been holding inside awhile, working it through, arriving at this awful conclusion. _I think Jacob may have problems_.\n\nDr. Vogel said, with treacherous compassion, \"Laurie, do you have doubts about Jacob's innocence?\"\n\nLaurie swiped her eyes dry and sat up stiff-backed. \"No.\"\n\n\"It sounds like you might.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\"\n\n\"Yes. He's not capable of this. A mother knows her child. Jacob's not capable of this.\"\n\nThe psychiatrist nodded, accepting the statement even if she did not quite believe it. Even, for that matter, if she did not believe that Laurie believed it.\n\n\"Doctor, do you mind if I ask you something? Do _you_ think I made mistakes? Was there a pattern there that I missed? Was there something more I should have done, if I'd been a better mom?\"\n\nThe doctor hesitated for just a moment. On the wall above her, two of the African masks howled. \"No, Laurie. I don't think you did anything wrong at all. Honestly, I think you need to stop beating yourself up. If there was a pattern there, if there was a way to predict Jacob was heading for trouble, I don't see how any parent could have recognized it. Not based on what you've told me so far. A lot of kids have the sort of issues Jacob had and it means nothing at all.\"\n\n\"I did the best I could.\"\n\n\"You did fine, Laurie. Don't do that to yourself. Andy's not wrong: what you've described so far? You did what any mother would have done. You did the best you could for your child. That's all anyone can ask.\"\n\nLaurie held her head up, but there was a brittleness about her. It was like watching tiny threadlike cracks begin to spread and craze over her. Dr. Vogel seemed to perceive this fragile quality too, but she could not have known how entirely new it was. How changed Laurie already was. You had to really know Laurie and cherish her to appreciate what was happening. Once, my wife read so constantly that she would hold a book in her left hand while she brushed her teeth with the right; now, she never picked up a book, she could not muster the concentration or even the interest. Before, she had this way of focusing on whomever she spoke to, so that you felt you were the most impossibly captivating person in the room; now, her eyes wandered and she seemed not to be in the room herself. Her clothes, her hair, her makeup all were a bit wrong, a bit mismatched and sloppy. The quality that had always made her shine\u2014a youthful, eager optimism\u2014had begun to fade. But of course you had to know her Before in order to see what Laurie had lost. I was the only one in the room who understood what was happening to her.\n\nStill, she was nowhere near surrender. \"I did the best I could,\" she announced with a sudden, unconvincing resolve.\n\n\"Laurie, tell me about Jacob now. What is he like?\"\n\n\"Hm.\" She smiled at the thought of him. \"He's very smart. Very funny, very charming. Handsome.\" She actually blushed a little at the word _handsome_. Mother-love is love, after all. \"He's into computers, he loves gadgets, video games, music. He reads a lot.\"\n\n\"Any problems with temper or violence?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You've been telling us Jacob had issues with violence when he was a preschooler.\"\n\n\"It stopped as soon as he got to kindergarten.\"\n\n\"I'm just wondering if you still have any concerns about it. Does he still behave in any way that disturbs or worries you?\"\n\n\"She already said no, Doctor.\"\n\n\"Well, I want to explore it a little further.\"\n\n\"It's okay, Andy. No, Jacob's never violent anymore. I almost wish he would act out _more_. He can be very hard to communicate with. He's hard to read. He doesn't talk a lot. He broods. He's very introverted. Not just shy; I mean he introverts his feelings, his energy is all directed inward. He's very remote, very guarded. He smolders. But no, he's not violent.\"\n\n\"Does he have other ways to express himself? Music, friends, sports, clubs, whatever?\"\n\n\"No. He's not much of a joiner. And he only has a few friends. Derek, a couple of others.\"\n\n\"Girlfriends?\"\n\n\"No, he's too young for that.\"\n\n\"Is he?\"\n\n\"Isn't he?\"\n\nThe doctor shrugged.\n\n\"Anyway, he's not mean. He can be very critical, caustic, sarcastic. He's cynical. Fourteen years old and he's already cynical! He hasn't experienced enough to be cynical, has he? He hasn't earned it. Maybe it's just a pose. It's how kids are today. Arch, ironic.\"\n\n\"Those sound like unpleasant qualities.\"\n\n\"Do they? I don't mean them to. Jacob's just complicated, I think. He's moody. You know, he likes to be the angry boy, the 'nobody fucking understands me' boy.\"\n\nThis was too much.\n\nI snapped, \"Laurie, come on, that's every teenager, the angry boy, the 'nobody fucking understands me' boy. Come on! What you've just described is every adolescent on earth. It's not a kid; it's a bar code.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Laurie bowed her head. \"I don't know. I always thought maybe Jacob should see a shrink.\"\n\n\"You've _never_ said he should see a shrink!\"\n\n\"I didn't say I said it. I said I wondered if it was the right thing to do, just so he would have someone to talk to.\"\n\nDr. Vogel growled, \"Andy.\"\n\n\"Well, I can't just sit here!\"\n\n\"Try. We're here to listen to each other, to support each other, not argue.\"\n\n\"Look,\" I said, exasperated, \"enough is enough. The whole presumption of this conversation is that Jacob has something to answer for, to explain. It's just not true. A horrible thing happened, all right? Horrible. But it's not our fault. It's certainly not Jake's fault. You know, I'm sitting here and I'm listening, and I'm thinking, What the hell are we talking about? Jacob had nothing to do with Ben Rifkin getting killed, nothing, but we're all sitting here talking about Jake as if he's some kind of freak or monster or something. He's not. He's just an ordinary kid. He has his flaws like every other kid, but he had nothing to do with this. I'm sorry, but somebody has to stand up for Jacob here.\"\n\nDr. Vogel: \"Andy, looking back, what do _you_ think about all those kids who got hurt around Jacob? All the kids falling off playground structures and crashing bicycles? Was it all just bad luck? Coincidence? How do you think about it?\"\n\n\"Jacob had a lot of energy; he played too rough. I acknowledge that. It's something we dealt with when he was a kid. But that's all it was. I mean, this all happened before Jake got to kindergarten. Kindergarten!\"\n\n\"And the anger? You don't think Jacob has an issue with anger?\"\n\n\"No, I don't. People get angry. It's not an _issue_.\"\n\n\"There's a report here from Jacob's file that he punched a hole in the wall in his bedroom. You had to call a plasterer. This was just last fall. Is that true?\"\n\n\"Yes, but\u2014how did you get that?\"\n\n\"Jonathan.\"\n\n\"That was for Jacob's legal defense only!\"\n\n\"That's what we're doing here, preparing his defense. Is it true? Did he punch a hole in the wall?\"\n\n\"Yes. So what?\"\n\n\"People don't generally punch holes in walls, do they?\"\n\n\"Sometimes they do, actually.\"\n\n\"Do you?\"\n\nDeep breath. \"No.\"\n\n\"Laurie thinks you may have a blind spot about the possibility of Jacob being... violent. What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"She thinks I'm in denial.\"\n\n\"Are you?\"\n\nI shook my head in a stubborn, melancholy way, like a horse swaying its head in a narrow stall. \"No. Just the opposite. I'm hyperalert to these things; I'm hyperaware. I mean, you know my background. My whole life\u2014\" Deep breath. \"Lookit, you're always concerned when kids get hurt; even if it's an accident, you never want to see something like that. And you're always concerned when your own kid behaves in ways that are... disturbing. So yes, I was aware of these things, I was concerned. But I knew Jacob, I knew my kid, and I loved him and I believed in him. And I still do. I'm sticking with him.\"\n\n\"We're all sticking with him, Andy. That's completely unfair! I love him too. It's got nothing to do with that.\"\n\n\"I never said you didn't, Laurie. Did you hear me say you didn't love him?\"\n\n\"No, but you always retreat to that: _I love him_. Of course you love him. We both love him. I'm just saying, you can love your child and still see his flaws. You _have_ to see his flaws, otherwise how can you help him?\"\n\n\"Laurie, did you or did you not hear me say you didn't love him?\"\n\n\"Andy, that's not what I'm saying! You're not listening!\"\n\n\"I am listening! I just don't agree with you. You're drawing this picture of Jacob as violent and moody and, and dangerous, based on nothing, and I just disagree. But if I disagree, you say I'm being dishonest. Or 'unreliable.' You're calling me a liar.\"\n\n\"I did _not_ call you a liar! I've never called you a liar.\"\n\n\"You didn't use the word, no.\"\n\n\"Andy, no one's attacking you. There's nothing wrong with admitting your son might need a little help. It doesn't say anything about you.\"\n\nThe comment bayoneted me. Because _of course_ Laurie was talking about me. This whole thing was completely about me. I was the reason, the only reason, she thought our son might be dangerous. If he were not a Barber, no one would ever have parsed his childhood so closely for signs of trouble.\n\nBut I remained silent. What was the use? There was no defense to being a Barber.\n\nDr. Vogel said cautiously, \"Okay, maybe we should just stop here. I'm not sure it would be productive to go on much longer. This isn't easy for anyone, I realize. We've made some progress. We can try again next week.\"\n\nI looked down at my lap, avoiding Laurie's eyes, ashamed, though for what I was not exactly sure.\n\n\"Let me just ask you both one last question. Maybe we can leave on a happier note, okay? So let's assume for a moment that this case will go away. Assume that in a few months the case will be dismissed and Jacob will be free to go and do whatever he pleases. Just as if this case had never happened. No qualifications, no lingering shadows, nothing at all. Now, if that were to happen, where would you see your son in ten years? Laurie?\"\n\n\"Wow. I can't think that way. I'm just getting through from one day to the next, you know? Ten years is just... too hard to imagine.\"\n\n\"Okay, I understand. But just as a thought exercise, try. Where do you see your son in ten years?\"\n\nLaurie considered. She shook her head. \"I can't. I don't even like to think about it. I just can't envision anything good. I think about Jacob's situation constantly, Doctor, _constantly_ , and I can't see how this story could end happily. Poor Jacob. I just _hope_ , you know? That's all I can do. But if I think about when he's older and we're not around? I don't know, I just hope he's okay.\"\n\n\"That's all?\"\n\n\"That's all.\"\n\n\"All right, how about you, Andy? If this case disappeared, where would you see Jacob in ten years?\"\n\n\"If he walks on this case?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"I see him happy.\"\n\n\"Happy, okay.\"\n\n\"Maybe with someone, a wife who makes him happy. Maybe a father. With a son.\"\n\nLaurie shifted.\n\n\"But through with all this teenage crap. All the self-pity, the narcissism. If Jacob has a weakness, it's that he doesn't have the kind of discipline it takes. He's... self-indulgent. He doesn't have the... I don't know... the steel.\"\n\nDr. Vogel: \"The steel to do what?\"\n\nLaurie looked at me across her shoulder, curious.\n\nWe all heard the answer in our heads, I think, even Dr. Vogel: _the steel to be a Barber_.\n\n\"To grow up,\" I said weakly. \"To be an adult.\"\n\n\"Like you?\"\n\n\"No. Not like me. Jake's got to do it his own way, I know that. I'm not one of those dads.\"\n\nI pulled my elbows into my lap, as if trying to squeeze through a narrow passageway.\n\n\"Jacob doesn't have the kind of discipline you had as a kid?\"\n\n\"No, he doesn't.\"\n\n\"Why does that matter, Andy? What is he steeling himself for? Or against?\"\n\nThe two women shared a glance, the briefest eye-tap. They were studying me, together, understanding each other. Judging me _unreliable_ , in Laurie's word.\n\n\"Life,\" I murmured. \"Jacob's got to steel himself against life. Same as every other kid.\"\n\nLaurie leaned forward, elbows on knees, and she took my hand.\n\n# **13 | 179 Days**\n\nAfter the catastrophe of Jacob's arrest, every day had an unbearable urgency. A dull, constant anxiety set in. In some ways, the weeks that followed the arrest were worse than the event itself. We were all counting the days, I think. Jacob's trial was scheduled for October 17, and the date became an obsession. It was as if the future, which we had formerly measured by the length of our lives, as everyone does, now had a definite endpoint. Whatever lay beyond the trial, we could not imagine. Everything\u2014the entire universe\u2014ended on October 17. All we could do was count down the 179 days until then. This is something I did not understand when I was like you, when nothing had ever happened to me: how much easier it was to endure the big moments than the in-between times, the non-events, the waiting. The high drama of Jacob's arrest, his arraignment in court, and so on\u2014bad as those were, they barreled past and were gone. The real suffering came when no one was looking, during those 179 long days. The unoccupied afternoons in a quiet house, when worry silently engulfed us. The intense awareness of time, the heaviness of the passing minutes, the dizzying, trippy sense that the days were both too few and too long. In the end, we were eager for the trial if only because we could not stand the waiting. It was like a deathwatch.\n\nOne night in May\u201428 days after the arrest, 151 still to go\u2014the three of us were sitting at the dinner table.\n\nJacob was sullen. He rarely lifted his eyes from his plate. He chewed his food noisily, like a little kid, making wet, squishing sounds, a habit he had since he was a little kid. \"I don't understand why we have to do this every night,\" he said in an offhand way.\n\n\"Do what?\"\n\n\"Have, like, a big sit-down dinner, like it's a party or something. It's just the three of us.\"\n\nLaurie explained, not for the first time, \"It's pretty simple, really. That's what families do. They sit down and have a proper dinner together.\"\n\n\"But it's just us.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So it's like, every night you spend all this time cooking for _three people_. Then we sit down and eat for, like, fifteen minutes. Then we have to spend even more time after, doing all the dishes, which we wouldn't even _have_ if you didn't make such a big deal about it every night.\"\n\n\"It's not so bad. I don't see you doing too many dishes, Jacob.\"\n\n\"That's not the point, Mom. It's just a waste. We could just have pizza or Chinese or whatever and the whole thing'd be over in like fifteen minutes.\"\n\n\"But I don't want the whole thing to be over in fifteen minutes. I want to enjoy dinner with my family.\"\n\n\"You actually _want_ it to take an hour every night?\"\n\n\"I'd prefer two hours. I'll take what I can get.\" She smirked, sipped her water.\n\n\"We never made a big deal about dinner before.\"\n\n\"Well, we do now.\"\n\n\"I know why you're really doing it, Mom.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why's that?\"\n\n\"So I won't get all depressed. You think if I just have a nice family dinner every night, my case will just go away.\"\n\n\"Well, I certainly don't think that.\"\n\n\"Good, because it's not going away.\"\n\n\"I just want it to go away for a little while, Jacob. Just one hour a day. Is that really so awful?\"\n\n\"Yes! Because it doesn't work. It makes things worse. It's like, the more you pretend everything is so normal, the more you remind me how _un_ -normal it really is. I mean, look at this.\" He waggled his arms around, flummoxed by the old-fashioned, _haimish_ dinner Laurie had made: chicken pot pie, fresh string beans, lemonade, with a cylindrical candle for a centerpiece. \"It's _fake_ normal.\"\n\n\"Like jumbo shrimp,\" I said.\n\n\"Andy, shush. Jacob, what do you want me to do? I've never been in this situation before. What should a mom do? Tell me and I'll do it.\"\n\n\"I don't know. If you want to keep me from getting depressed, give me drugs, not... chicken pot pie.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I'm all out of drugs at the moment.\"\n\n\"Jake,\" I said between bites, \"Derek could probably hook you up.\"\n\n\"That's very helpful, Andy. Jacob, has it ever occurred to you that the reason I make dinner every night, and the reason I don't let you eat in front of the TV, and the reason I don't let you stand around the kitchen eating your dinner out of Tupperware or skip dinner altogether and stay up in your room playing video games, is because of _me_. Maybe this is all for me, not you. This isn't easy for me either.\"\n\n\"Because you don't think I'm going to get off.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe phone rang.\n\n\"Yes! I mean, _obviously_. Otherwise you wouldn't need to count every dinner.\"\n\n\"No, Jacob. It's because I want to have my family around me. When times are tough, that's what families do. They gather around, they support each other. Everything isn't always about you, you know. _You_ need to be there for _me_ too.\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence. Jacob seemed unabashed at his adolescent self-absorbed narcissism; he just couldn't think of a suitably snappy comeback.\n\nThe phone rang again.\n\nLaurie gave Jacob a so-there look\u2014eyebrows raised, chin tucked\u2014then she got up to answer the phone, hurrying a little to reach it before the fourth ring, when the answering machine would intercept the call.\n\nJacob looked wary. Why was Mom answering the phone? We had already learned not to respond to the ringing. Jacob knew, certainly, that the call was not for him. His friends had all dropped him cold. Anyway, he had never used the telephone much. He considered it intrusive, awkward, archaic, inefficient. Any friend who wanted to speak to Jake would just text him or log on to Facebook to chat. These new technologies were more comfortable because less intimate. Jake preferred typing to talking.\n\nI felt an instinctive urge to warn Laurie not to answer, but I held back. I did not want to spoil the evening. I wanted to support her. These family dinners were important to Laurie. Jacob was essentially right: she wanted to preserve as much normalcy as possible. Presumably that's why she let her guard down: we were laboring to behave like a normal family, and normal families are not afraid of the phone.\n\nI said, in a coded reminder, \"What does the caller ID say?\"\n\n\" 'Private caller.' \"\n\nShe picked up the phone, which was in the kitchen, in clear view of the dining room table. Her back was to Jacob and me. She said, \"Hello,\" then went silent. Over the next few seconds, her shoulders and back slumped by infinitesimal degrees. It was as if she was deflating slightly as she listened.\n\nI said, \"Laurie?\"\n\nIn a shaky voice, she said to the caller, \"Who is this? Where did you get this number?\"\n\nMore listening.\n\n\"Don't call here again. Do you hear me? Don't you dare call here again.\"\n\nI took the phone from her gently and hung it up.\n\n\"Oh my God, Andy.\"\n\n\"Are you okay?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\nWe went back to the table and sat quietly for a moment.\n\nLaurie picked up her fork and scooped a token bit of chicken into her mouth. Her face was rigid, her body still wilted and round-shouldered.\n\n\"What did he say?\" Jacob asked.\n\n\"Just eat your dinner, Jacob.\"\n\nI could not reach her across the table. All I could offer was a concerned face.\n\n\"You could star-sixty-nine him,\" Jacob suggested.\n\n\"Let's just enjoy our dinner,\" Laurie said. She took another nibble and chewed busily, then sat absolutely stone still.\n\n\"Laurie?\"\n\nShe cleared her throat, mumbled \"Excuse me,\" and left the table.\n\nThere were still 151 days to go.\n\n# **14 | Questioning**\n\nJonathan: \"Tell me about the knife.\"\n\nJacob: \"What do you want to know?\"\n\n\"Well, the DA is going to say you bought it because you were being bullied. They'll say that's your motive. But you told your folks you bought it for no reason.\"\n\n\"I didn't say I bought it for no reason. I said I bought it because I wanted it.\"\n\n\"Yes, but _why_ did you want it?\"\n\n\"Why did you want that necktie? Do you have a reason for everything you buy?\"\n\n\"Jacob, a knife is a little different from a necktie, wouldn't you say?\"\n\n\"No. It's all just stuff. That's how our society works: you spend all your time making money so you can trade it for stuff, then\u2014\"\n\n\"Now it's gone?\"\n\n\"\u2014then you go out and make _more_ money so you can buy _more_ stuff\u2014\"\n\n\"Jacob, the knife is gone?\"\n\n\"Yeah. My dad took it.\"\n\n\"You have the knife, Andy?\"\n\n\"No. It's gone.\"\n\n\"You got rid of it?\"\n\n\"It was dangerous. It wasn't an appropriate knife for a kid to have. It wasn't a toy. Any father would have\u2014\"\n\n\"Andy, I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to confirm what happened.\"\n\n\"Sorry. Yes, I got rid of it.\"\n\nJonathan nodded but offered no comment. We were sitting at the round oak table in his office, the only room he had that was large enough to accommodate our entire family. The young associate, Ellen, was there too, assiduously scribbling notes. It occurred to me that she was there to witness the conversation in order to protect Jonathan, not to help us. He was creating a record just in case he ever fell out with his clients and there was a dispute about what he had been told.\n\nLaurie watched with her hands folded in her lap. Her composure, once so natural, now required more effort to maintain. She spoke a little less, involved herself a little less in these legal strategy sessions. It was as if she was conserving her energy for the moment-to-moment effort of just holding herself together.\n\nJacob was sulking. He picked at the surface of the table with a fingernail, his goofy teenage pride wounded by Jonathan's lack of enthusiasm for his insights into the rudiments of capitalism.\n\nJonathan petted his short beard, absorbed in his own thoughts. \"But you had the knife the day Ben Rifkin was killed?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you have it with you in the park that morning?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did you have it with you when you left?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Where was it?\"\n\n\"In a drawer in my room, same as always.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So when you left for school, was there anything unusual about the morning?\"\n\n\"When I left? No.\"\n\n\"Did you follow your usual route to school? Through the park?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So the spot where Ben was killed was right on the path you normally follow through the park?\"\n\n\"I guess so. I never really thought about it that way.\"\n\n\"Before you found the body, did you see or hear anything as you walked through the park?\"\n\n\"No. I was just walking and then there he was, just lying there.\"\n\n\"Describe him. How was he lying when you first saw him?\"\n\n\"He was just lying there. He was, like, lying on his stomach on this, like, little slope, in a bunch of leaves.\"\n\n\"Dry leaves or wet leaves?\"\n\n\"Wet.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\"\n\n\"I think.\"\n\n\"You think? Or you're guessing?\"\n\n\"I don't really remember that part too well.\"\n\n\"So why did you answer the question?\"\n\n\"I'm not really sure.\"\n\n\"From now on, you answer absolutely honestly, okay? If the accurate answer is _I don't remember_ , then that's what you say, all right?\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"So you see a body lying on the ground. Was there any blood?\"\n\n\"I didn't see any right then.\"\n\n\"What did you do as you approached the body?\"\n\n\"I kind of called his name. Like 'Ben, Ben. You okay?' Something like that.\"\n\n\"So you recognized him right away?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"How? I thought he was lying facedown with his head at the bottom of a slope, and you were looking down from above.\"\n\n\"I guess I just recognized, like, his clothes and, you know, his look.\"\n\n\"His look?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Like, his appearance.\"\n\n\"All you could see was the bottom of Ben's sneakers.\"\n\n\"No, I could see more than that. You can just tell, you know?\"\n\n\"All right, so you find the body and you say 'Ben, Ben.' What next?\"\n\n\"Well, he didn't answer and he wasn't moving, so I figured he must be hurt pretty bad, so I kind of went down to him to see if he was okay.\"\n\n\"Did you call for help?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not? Did you have a cell phone?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So you find a victim of a bloody murder and you have a phone in your pocket, but it never occurs to you to call nine-one-one?\"\n\nJonathan was careful to ask all his questions in a curious tone, as if he was just trying to figure the whole thing out. It was an interrogation, but not a hostile one. Not obviously hostile.\n\n\"Do you know anything about first aid?\"\n\n\"No, I just figured I should see if he was okay first.\"\n\n\"Did it occur to you that a crime had occurred?\"\n\n\"It occurred to me, I guess, but I wasn't totally sure. It could have been an accident. Like if he just fell or something.\"\n\n\"Fell on what? Why?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I'm just saying.\"\n\n\"So you had no reason to think he just fell?\"\n\n\"No. You're twisting things.\"\n\n\"I'm just trying to understand, Jacob. Why didn't you call for help? Why didn't you call your father? He's a lawyer, he works for the DA\u2014he would have known what to do.\"\n\n\"It just\u2014I don't know, I didn't think of it. It was kind of an emergency. I wasn't, like, _prepared_ for it. I didn't know what I was supposed to do.\"\n\n\"Okay, what happened next?\"\n\n\"I kind of went down the hill and I got down beside him.\"\n\n\"Got down on your knees, you mean?\"\n\n\"I guess so.\"\n\n\"In the wet leaves?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Maybe I stayed standing.\"\n\n\"You stayed standing. So you were looking down over him, right?\"\n\n\"No. I don't really remember. When you say it like that, I think maybe I must have been down on a knee.\"\n\n\"Derek saw you a few minutes later in school and he did not say anything about your pants being wet or muddy.\"\n\n\"I guess I must have been standing, then.\"\n\n\"All right, standing. So you're standing over him, looking down at him. What next?\"\n\n\"Like I said, I kind of rolled him over to check on him.\"\n\n\"Did you say anything to him first?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"You see a classmate lying facedown, unconscious, and you just flip him over without a word?\"\n\n\"No, I mean maybe I said something, I'm not completely sure.\"\n\n\"When you were standing over Ben at the bottom of the slope, did you see any evidence of a crime then?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"There was a long smear of blood going all the way down the hill from Ben's wounds. You didn't notice it?\"\n\n\"No. I mean, I was, like, freaking out, you know?\"\n\n\"Freaking out how? What does that mean, exactly?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Just, like, panicking.\"\n\n\"Panicking why? You said you didn't know what happened, you did not think there'd been a crime. You thought it might be an accident.\"\n\n\"I know, but this kid was just lying there. It was just a freaky situation.\"\n\n\"When Derek saw you just a few minutes later, you weren't freaking out.\"\n\n\"No, I was. I just didn't show it. I was freaking out on the inside.\"\n\n\"All right. So you're standing over the body. Ben is already dead. He's bled out from three wounds in his chest and there's a trail of blood leading down the hill to the body, but you didn't see _any_ blood and you didn't have any idea what happened. And you're freaking out but only on the inside. What next?\"\n\n\"It sounds like you don't believe me.\"\n\n\"Jacob, let me tell you something: it doesn't matter if I believe you. I'm your lawyer, not your mom or dad.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but still. I don't really appreciate how you're making it sound. This is my story, okay? And you're making it sound like I'm lying.\"\n\nLaurie, who had not spoken throughout this entire meeting, said, \"Please stop, Jonathan. I'm sorry. Just please stop. You've made your point.\"\n\nJonathan was brought up short, chastened. \"All right, Jacob, your mother's right. Maybe we'd better stop right here. I don't mean to upset you. But I want you to think about something. This whole story of yours might have sounded good when you told it in your head, when you were alone in your room. But things tend to sound different under cross-examination. And I promise you, what we're doing here is a walk in the park next to what Neal Logiudice will do to you if you take the stand. I'm on _your_ side; Logiudice isn't. I'm also a nice guy; Logiudice\u2014well, he has a job to do. Now, I think what you're about to tell me is that, faced with this body lying facedown with blood flooding out of three gaping chest wounds, you somehow managed to stick your arm underneath the body so that you could leave a single thumbprint _inside_ Ben's sweatshirt\u2014yet when you pulled your arm out again there was not a trace of blood on it, so that when you showed up at school a few minutes later no one thought anything was amiss. Now, if you were a juror, what would you think about that story?\"\n\n\"But it's true. Not the details\u2014you messed me up on the details. He wasn't lying, like, totally facedown, and it wasn't like blood was gushing all over. It just wasn't like that. That's just you, you know, playing games. I'm telling the truth.\"\n\n\"Jacob, I'm sorry I upset you. But I am not playing games.\"\n\n\"I swear to God, it's the truth.\"\n\n\"Okay. I understand.\"\n\n\"No. You're calling me a liar.\"\n\nJonathan did not respond. It is, of course, the last resort of a liar to challenge his inquisitor to call him a liar directly. Worse, there was an edge in Jacob's voice. It might have been the hint of a threat or it might have been a terrified boy near tears.\n\nI said, \"Jake, it's all right. Jonathan has a job to do.\"\n\n\"I know, but he doesn't believe me.\"\n\n\"It's okay. He'll be your lawyer whether he believes you or not. Defense lawyers are like that.\" I gave Jacob a wink.\n\n\"What about my trial? How am I going to get up there?\"\n\n\"You're not,\" I said. \"You're not going anywhere near that witness stand. You're going to sit at the defense table and the only reason you're going to get up is to go home at night.\"\n\nJonathan slipped in, \"I think that's wise.\"\n\n\"But how will I tell my story?\"\n\n\"Jacob, I don't know if you've been listening to yourself the last few minutes. You cannot take the stand.\"\n\n\"Then what's my defense?\"\n\nJonathan said, \"We don't have to present a defense. We have no burden. The burden is entirely on the prosecution. We're going to attack their case at every turn, Jacob, until there's nothing left of it. That's our defense.\"\n\n\"Dad?\"\n\nI hesitated. \"I'm not sure it's going to be enough, Jonathan. We can't just throw a few spitballs at Logiudice's case. He has the thumbprint, he has the witness who puts a knife in Jacob's hand. We're going to have to do more. We have to give those jurors _something_.\"\n\n\"So what do you suggest I do, Andy?\"\n\n\"I just think maybe we need to consider presenting a real, affirmative defense.\"\n\n\"Love to. What do you have in mind? As far as I can see, all the evidence points one way.\"\n\n\"What about Patz? The jury should at least _hear_ about him. Give them the real killer.\"\n\n\"The real killer? Oh, my. How do we prove that?\"\n\n\"We'll hire a detective to dig into it.\"\n\n\"Dig into what? Patz? There's nothing there. When you were in the DA's office, you had the state police, every local police department, the FBI, CIA, KGB, NASA.\"\n\n\"We always had less resources than you defense guys imagined.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But you had more than you have now, and you never found anything. What's a private detective going to do that a dozen state police detectives couldn't?\"\n\nI had no answer.\n\n\"Andy, look, I know _you_ understand that the defense has no burden of proof. You know it, but I'm not entirely sure you believe it. This is how the game is played from the other side. We don't get to pick our clients, we don't get to just drop a case if the evidence isn't there. So this is our case.\" He gestured toward the papers in front of him. \"We play the cards we're dealt. We have no choice.\"\n\n\"Then we have to find some new cards.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Up our sleeves.\"\n\n\"I note,\" Jonathan drawled, \"that you are wearing a short-sleeve shirt.\"\n\n# **15 | Playing Detective**\n\nAt the Starbucks in Newton Centre, Sarah Groehl had plugged herself into a MacBook. Seeing me, she disengaged herself from the computer, canting her head left then right to remove her earphones, just as women do when they take off earrings. She looked at me sleepily, blinking, rousing herself from a Web-trance.\n\n\"Hi, Sarah. Am I disturbing you?\"\n\n\"No, I was just... I don't know.\"\n\n\"Can I talk to you?\"\n\n\"About what?\n\nI gave her a look: _Come on_. \"We can go somewhere else if you want.\"\n\nShe did not immediately answer. The tables were crowded together, and people pretended not to be listening, obeying the etiquette of coffee shops. But the ordinary awkwardness of having a conversation within others' hearing was multiplied by my family's infamy and by Sarah's own awkwardness. She was embarrassed to be seen with me. She may have been afraid of me too, after all she had heard. With so much to consider, she seemed unable to answer. I suggested we sit on the park bench across the street, where I figured she would feel safe in the sight of others yet out of hearing range, and she made a sweeping motion with her head to swing her bangs off her forehead, away from her eyes, and said okay.\n\n\"Can I buy you another coffee?\"\n\n\"I don't drink coffee.\"\n\nWe sat side by side on the green-slatted bench across the street. Sarah held herself royally erect. She was not fat, but she was not thin enough for the tight T-shirt she wore. A little roll of flesh blossomed over her shorts\u2014a \"muffin top,\" the kids called it without embarrassment. I thought she might be a nice girl for Jacob when all this was over.\n\nI held my Starbucks paper cup. I'd lost interest in it but there was no place to dump it now. I turned it in my hands.\n\n\"Sarah, I'm trying to find out what really happened to Ben Rifkin. I need to find the guy who really did this.\"\n\nShe gave me a skeptical sidelong gaze. \"What do you mean, 'the guy who really did this'?\"\n\n\"Jacob didn't do it. They have the wrong guy.\"\n\n\"I thought that wasn't your job anymore. You're playing detective?\"\n\n\"It's my job as a father now.\"\n\n\"O _-kay_.\" She smirked and shook her head.\n\n\"Does that sound crazy, to say he's innocent?\"\n\n\"No. I guess not.\"\n\n\"I think maybe you know Jacob is innocent too. The things you said...\"\n\n\"I never said _that_.\"\n\n\"Sarah, you know we adults don't really have any idea what's going on in your lives. How could we? But somebody has to open up to us a little bit. Some of you kids have to help.\"\n\n\"We have.\"\n\n\"Not enough. Don't you see, Sarah? A friend of yours is going to go to prison for a murder he didn't commit.\"\n\n\"How do I know he didn't commit it? Isn't that, like, the whole thing? It's like, how would anyone know that? Including you.\"\n\n\"Well, do you think he's guilty?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"So you have doubts.\"\n\n\"I just said, I don't know.\"\n\n\"I do know, Sarah. Okay? I've been doing this for a long time and I know: Jacob did not do it. I promise you. He didn't do it. He's completely innocent.\"\n\n\"Of course you think that. You're his father.\"\n\n\"I am, it's true. But I'm not just his father. There's evidence, Sarah. You haven't seen it but I have.\"\n\nShe looked at me with a beneficent little smile, and briefly she was the adult and I was a foolish child. \"I don't know what you want me to say, Mr. Barber. What do _I_ know? It's not like I was tight with either one of them, Jacob or Ben.\"\n\n\"Sarah, you were the one who told me to look on Facebook.\"\n\n\"I did not.\"\n\n\"Okay, well, let's just say if\u2014 _if_ you were the one who told me to look on Facebook. Why did you do that? What did you want me to find?\"\n\n\"Okay, I'm not saying it was me that told you anything, okay?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Because I don't want to be, like, involved, okay?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"It was just, you know, there were these rumors going around and I thought you should know what kids were saying. 'Cause nobody seemed to know, you know? Like, nobody who was in charge. No offense, but you all seemed kind of clueless. Kids knew. Kids were saying Jacob had a knife, and Jake and Ben had a fight. But you guys were running around totally clueless. Actually Ben had been kind of a bully to Jake for a long time, you know? It wasn't like that makes anyone a murderer, all right? But it was just kind of something I thought you guys should know.\"\n\n\"What was Ben bullying Jake about?\"\n\n\"Why don't you just ask Jake? He's your kid.\"\n\n\"I have. He never mentioned anything about Ben bullying him. All he tells me is everything was just fine, he had no problems with Ben or anyone else.\"\n\n\"Okay, then maybe\u2014I don't know, I mean, maybe I'm just wrong.\"\n\n\"Come on, you don't think you're wrong, Sarah. What was Jake being bullied about?\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"Look, it's not like it's such a big deal. Everyone gets bullied. Well, not bullied\u2014teased, okay? I see how your eyes light up when I say 'bullied,' like it's some big thing. Adults love to talk about bullying. We've had all these training classes in bullying and all that.\" She shook her head.\n\n\"Okay, so not bullied\u2014teased. What about? What were they getting on him about?\"\n\n\"The usual stuff: he's gay, he's a geek, he's a loser.\"\n\n\"Who was saying that?\"\n\n\"Just kids. Everyone. It was not a big thing. It happens for a while, then it moves on to the next kid.\"\n\n\"Was Ben teasing Jacob?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but it wasn't, like, _only_ Ben. Don't take this the wrong way, but Jacob isn't exactly in the cool crowd.\"\n\n\"No? What crowd is he in?\"\n\n\"I don't know. He's not really in a crowd. He's just kind of nothing. It's hard to explain. Jacob's kind of like a cool geek, I'd say, only there kind of isn't really such a thing. Does that make sense?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, it's like there's jocks? He definitely isn't one of those. And there's smart kids? Only he isn't really smart enough to be one of them either. I mean, he's smart, okay?, but he isn't like _that_ smart. It's like you need to have a _thing_ , you know? You need to play an instrument or be on a team or be in a play or whatever, or like be ethnic or lesbian or retarded or something\u2014not that there's anything wrong with those things. It's just, like, if you don't have any of those things then you're just kind of one of those kids, you know? Like just a regular kid, and nobody knows what to call you\u2014you're nothing, but not in a _bad_ way. And that's kind of like what Jacob was, you know? He was just like a regular kid. Does _that_ make sense?\"\n\n\"Perfect sense.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Yes. What are _you_ , Sarah? What's your 'thing'?\"\n\n\"I don't have one. Same as Jacob. I'm nothing.\"\n\n\"But not in a bad way.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want to get all Cliff Huxtable here, but I don't think you're nothing.\"\n\n\"Who's Cliff Huxtable?\"\n\n\"Never mind.\"\n\nAcross the street, people stole glances at us as they went in and out of Starbucks, though it was not clear if they recognized me. Maybe I was being paranoid.\n\n\"I just want to say, like\"\u2014she searched around for the words\u2014\"I think it's really cool what you're trying to do? Like trying to prove Jacob innocent and all? You seem like a really good dad. Only Jacob isn't like you. You know that, don't you?\"\n\n\"No? Why?\"\n\n\"Just, like, his manner? He's kind of quiet? He's really shy? I'm not saying he's a bad kid. I mean, not at _all_. But he doesn't have a lot of friends, y'know? He has, like, his little circle? Like Derek and that kid Josh? (That kid is totally weird, by the way. I mean, like, totally random.) But Jacob doesn't really have a lot of friends in, like, his network. I mean, I guess he likes it that way, y'know? Which is okay, it's _totally fine_. I'm not saying anything. It's just like, there must be a lot going on inside there, in his\u2014y'know, inside. I just, I don't know if he's happy.\"\n\n\"Does he seem unhappy to you, Sarah?\"\n\n\"Yeah, a little. But I mean, everyone's unhappy, right? I mean sometimes?\"\n\nI didn't answer.\n\n\"You need to talk to Derek. Derek Yoo? He knows more about all this than I do.\"\n\n\"Right now I'm talking to you, Sarah.\"\n\n\"No, go talk to Derek. I don't want to get in the middle of it, you know? Derek and Jacob have been really tight, like, since they were little kids. I'm sure Derek can tell you more than I can. I mean, I'm sure he'll _want_ to help Jacob. He's like Jacob's best friend.\"\n\n\"Why don't _you_ want to help Jacob, Sarah?\"\n\n\"I do want to. I just, I don't really know. I don't know enough about it. But Derek does.\"\n\nI wanted to pat her on the hand or the shoulder or something, but that sort of fatherly contact has been drummed out of us. So I tipped my paper cup toward her in a sort of toast, and I said, \"There's something we always asked when we ended an interview in my old job: is there anything you think I ought to know that I didn't ask about? Anything at all?\"\n\n\"No. Not that I can think of.\"\n\n\"You're sure?\"\n\nShe held up her pinkie. \"Promise.\"\n\n\"Okay, Sarah, thank you. I know Jacob's probably not the most popular kid right now, and I think it's very brave of you to talk to me like this.\"\n\n\"It's not brave. If it was brave, I wouldn't do it. I'm not a brave person. It's more like, I like Jake. I mean, I don't know about the case and all that? But I used to like Jake, you know, like _before_. He was a good kid.\"\n\n\"Is. Is a good kid.\"\n\n\"Is. Right.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"You know what, Mr. Barber? I bet you had like a really good father. Because, you know, you're like a really good father, so I bet you had a good father who kind of taught you. Am I right?\"\n\nJesus, didn't this kid read the papers?\n\n\"Not exactly,\" I said.\n\n\"Not exactly but close?\"\n\n\"I didn't have a father.\"\n\n\"Stepfather?\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"Everybody has a father, Mr. Barber. Except, like, God or something.\"\n\n\"Not me, Sarah.\"\n\n\"Oh. Well, then, maybe that's kind of a _good_ thing. Just, like, take fathers totally out of the equation.\"\n\n\"Maybe. I'm probably not the best guy to ask.\"\n\nThe Yoos lived on one of the mazy, shady streets behind the library, near the elementary school where all these kids first met. The house was a tidy little center-entrance colonial on a small lot, white with black shutters. A previous owner had built a brick shelter around the front door, which stood out on the white face of the building like a red-lipsticked mouth. I remembered crowding into this little compartment when Laurie and I used to visit during the winter months. That was back when Jacob and Derek were in grade school. Our families had been friendly then. Those were the days when the parents of Jacob's friends tended to become our friends too. We used to line up other families like puzzle pieces, father to father, mother to mother, kid to kid, to see if we had a match. The Yoos were not a perfect fit for us\u2014Derek had a little sister named Abigail, three years younger than the boys\u2014but the friendship between our families had been convenient for a while. That we saw them less now was not the result of a breakup. The kids had simply outgrown us. They socialized among themselves now, and there had not been enough left of the family friendship to cause either of the parent couples to seek out the other. Still, I felt we were friends, even now. I was naive.\n\nIt was Derek who answered the door when I rang. He froze. Just gawped at me with his big dumb syrupy brown eyes until I finally said, \"Hi, Derek.\"\n\n\"Hey, Andy.\"\n\nThe Yoo kids had always called Laurie and me by our first names, a permissive practice I never quite got used to and which, under the current circumstances, grated all the more.\n\n\"Can I talk to you a minute?\"\n\nAgain, Derek seemed unable to formulate any answer at all. He stared at me.\n\nFrom the kitchen, Derek's dad, David Yoo, called, \"Derek, who is it?\"\n\n\"It's all right, Derek,\" I reassured him. His panic seemed almost comical. Why on earth was he so rattled? He had seen me a thousand times.\n\n\"Derek, who is it?\"\n\nI heard a chair scrape along the kitchen floor. David Yoo came out into the front hall and, with a hand placed lightly around the back of Derek's neck, he drew his son back away from the door. \"Hi, Andy.\"\n\n\"Hi, David.\"\n\n\"Was there something we can do for you?\"\n\n\"I just wanted to talk to Derek.\"\n\n\"Talk about what?\"\n\n\"About the case. What happened. I'm trying to find out who really did it. Jacob is innocent, you know. I'm helping prepare for the trial.\"\n\nDavid nodded in an understanding way.\n\nHis wife, Karen, now came out of the kitchen and greeted me briefly, and they all stood together in the doorway like a family portrait.\n\n\"Can I come in, David?\"\n\n\"I don't think that's a good idea.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"We're on the witness list, Andy. I don't think we're supposed to talk to anyone.\"\n\n\"That's ridiculous. This is America\u2014you can talk to whoever you want.\"\n\n\"The prosecutor told us not to talk to anyone.\"\n\n\"Logiudice?\"\n\n\"That's right. He said, don't talk to anyone.\"\n\n\"Well, he meant reporters. He didn't want you running around making conflicting statements. He's just thinking about the cross-examination. I'm trying to find the tru\u2014\"\n\n\"That's not what he said, Andy. He said, don't talk to anyone.\"\n\n\"Yes, but he can't say that. Nobody can tell you not to talk to anyone.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"David, this is my _son_. You know Jacob. You've known him since he was a kid.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Well, can I at least come in and we'll talk about it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nWe locked eyes.\n\n\"Andy,\" he said, \"this is our family time. I really don't appreciate you being here.\"\n\nHe went to close the door. His wife stopped him, holding the edge of the door, imploring him with her eyes.\n\n\"Please don't come back here,\" David Yoo told me. He added, weakly, \"Good luck.\"\n\nHe removed Karen's hand from the door and gently closed it and, I could hear, he slid the chain into the lock.\n\n# **16 | Witness**\n\nI was greeted at the Magraths' apartment door by a dumpy, pie-faced woman with a frizz of unsprung black hair. She wore black spandex leggings and an oversized T-shirt with an equally oversized message stamped across the front: _Don't Give Me Attitude, I Have One of My Own_. This witticism ran six full lines, drawing my eyes southward over her person from wavering bosom to detumescent belly, a journey I regret even now.\n\nI said, \"Is Matthew here?\"\n\n\"Who wants to know?\"\n\n\"I represent Jacob Barber.\"\n\nA blank look.\n\n\"The murder in Cold Spring Park.\"\n\n\"Ah. You his lawyer?\"\n\n\"Father, actually.\"\n\n\"It's about time. I was beginning to think that kid was all alone in the world.\"\n\n\"How's that?\"\n\n\"It's just we been waiting for someone to show up here. It's been weeks. Where's the cops already?\"\n\n\"Can I just\u2014is Matthew Magrath here? That's your son, I assume?\"\n\n\"You sure you're not a cop?\"\n\n\"Pretty sure, yeah.\"\n\n\"Probation officer?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nShe put a hand on her hip, tucking it under the little skirt of fat that circled her waist.\n\n\"I'd like to ask him about Leonard Patz.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\nThe woman's behavior was so strange\u2014not just her cryptic answers but the oddball way she looked up at me\u2014that I was slow to grasp what she was saying about Patz.\n\n\"Is Matt here?\" I repeated, anxious to be rid of her.\n\n\"Yeah.\" She swung the door open. \"Matt! There's someone here to see you.\"\n\nShe shuffled back into the apartment as if she had lost interest in the whole thing. The apartment was small and cluttered. Posh a suburb as Newton is, there are still corners that working people can afford. The Magraths lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in a white vinyl-sided house subdivided into four units. It was early evening, and the light inside was dim. A Red Sox game played on an enormous, ancient rear-projection TV. Facing the TV was a mottled, mustard-colored plush armchair, into which Mrs. Magrath dropped herself.\n\n\"You like baseball?\" she said over her shoulder. \" 'Cuz I do.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"You know who they're playing?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I thought you said you liked baseball.\"\n\n\"I've had some other things on my mind.\"\n\n\"It's the Blue Jays.\"\n\n\"Ah. The Blue Jays. How could I forget?\"\n\n\"Matt!\" she blasted. Then, to me: \"He's in there with his girlfriend doing God knows what. Kristin, that's the girlfriend. Kid hasn't said two words to me all the times she's been over here. Treats me like I'm a piece of shit. Just wants to go running off with Matt like I don't even exist. Matt too. He only wants to be with Kristin. They got no time for me, the both of them.\"\n\nI nodded. \"Oh.\"\n\n\"How'd you get our name? I thought sex victims are supposed to be confidential.\"\n\n\"I used to be with the DA's office.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah, that's right, I knew that. You're the one. I read about you in the papers. So you seen the whole file?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So you know about this guy Leonard Patz? What he did to Matt?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Sounds like he groped him in the library.\"\n\n\"He groped him in the balls.\"\n\n\"Well, the\u2014okay, there too.\"\n\n\"Matt!\"\n\n\"If this is a bad time...\"\n\n\"No. You're lucky he's here. Usually he goes off with the girlfriend and I don't even see him. His curfew's eight-thirty but he doesn't care. He just goes off. His probation officer knows all about it. I guess I can tell you that, can't I, he's got a probation officer? I don't know what to do with him. I don't know what to tell anyone anymore, you know? DYS had him for a while, then they sent him back. I moved here from Quincy so he wouldn't be around his friends, who were no good. So I came here 'cuz I thought it would help him, you know? You ever try to find a section-eight apartment in this town? _Pfft_. Me, I don't care where _I_ live. It doesn't matter to me. So you know what? You know what he says to me now? After I do all this for him? He says, 'Oh, you've changed, Ma. Now you moved to Newton, you think you're fancy. You wear your fancy glasses, your fancy clothes, you think you're like these Newton people.' You know why I wear these glasses?\" She picked up a pair of glasses from a table beside the armrest. \" 'Cuz I can't see! Only now he's got me so crazy I don't even wear them in my own house. I wore these same glasses in Quincy and he didn't say a thing. It's like, no matter what I do for him, it's never enough.\"\n\n\"It's not easy being a mother,\" I ventured.\n\n\"Oh, well, he says he doesn't want me to be his mother anymore. He says that all the time. You know why? I think it's because I'm overweight, it's because I'm not attractive. I don't have a skinny body like Kristin and I don't go to the gym and I don't have nice hair. I can't help it! This is what I am! I'm still his mother! You know what he calls me when he gets mad? He calls me a fat shit. Imagine saying something like that to your mother, calling her a fat shit. I do everything for this kid, everything. Does he ever thank me? Does he ever say, 'Oh, I love you, Ma, thank you'? No. He just tells me, 'I need money.' He asks me for money and I tell him, 'I don't have any money to give you, Matty.' And he says, 'Come on, Ma, not even a couple a bucks?' And I tell him I need that money to buy him all these things he likes, like this Celtics jacket he had to have, for a hundred fifty bucks, and like a fool I go and buy it for him, just to make him happy.\"\n\nThe bedroom door opened and Matt Magrath came out, barefoot, wearing only Adidas gym shorts and a T-shirt. \"Ma, give it a rest, would you? You're freaking the guy out.\"\n\nThe police reports in Leonard Patz's indecent A&B case described the victim as fourteen years old, but Matt Magrath seemed a few years older than that. He was handsome, square-jawed, with a slouchy, wised-up manner.\n\nThe girlfriend, Kristin, followed him out of the bedroom door. She was not as pretty as Matt. She had a thin face, small mouth, freckles, flat chest. She wore a wide-necked shirt that hung off one side, exposing a milky shoulder and a vampy lavender bra strap. I knew instantly that this boy did not care about her. He would break her heart, probably very soon. I felt sorry for her before she even got all the way out of the bedroom door. She looked about thirteen or fourteen. How many men would break her heart before she was through?\n\n\" _You're_ Matthew Magrath?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Why? Who are you?\"\n\n\"How old are you, Matthew? What's your birth date?\"\n\n\"August 17, 1992.\"\n\nI was distracted momentarily by the thought of it: 1992. How recent it sounded, how far along in my life I was already. In 1992 I had already been a lawyer for eight years. Laurie and I were trying to conceive Jacob, in both senses.\n\n\"You're not even fifteen years old yet.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"So nothing.\" I glanced at Kristin, who was watching me with a lidded expression like a proper bad girl. \"I came to ask you about Leonard Patz.\"\n\n\"Len? What do you want to know?\"\n\n\" 'Len'? Is that what you call him?\"\n\n\"Sometimes. Who are you again?\"\n\n\"I'm Jacob Barber's father. The boy who's accused in the Cold Spring Park murder.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" He nodded. \"I figured you were something like that. I figured you might be a cop or something. The way you were looking at me. Like I done something wrong.\"\n\n\"Do _you_ think you've done something wrong, Matt?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then you've got nothing to worry about, do you? Doesn't matter if I'm a cop or not.\"\n\n\"What about her?\" He inclined his head toward the girl.\n\n\"What about her?\"\n\n\"Isn't it a crime if you have sex with a kid and she's, like, too young\u2014so it's like, what do they call it?\"\n\n\"Statutory rape.\"\n\n\"Right. Only it doesn't count if I'm too young too, does it? Like, if _two_ kids have sex, you know, with each other, and they're _both_ under the age and they're boning each other\u2014\"\n\nHis mother gasped, \"Matt!\"\n\n\"The age of consent in Massachusetts is sixteen. If two fourteen-year-olds have sex, they're both committing rape.\"\n\n\"You mean they're raping each other?\"\n\n\"Technically, yes.\"\n\nHe gave Kristin a conspiratorial look. \"How old are you, girl?\"\n\n\"Sixteen,\" she said.\n\n\"My lucky day.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't go that far, son. The day's not over yet.\"\n\n\"You know what? I don't think I better talk to you, about Len or anything else.\"\n\n\"Matt, I'm not a cop. I don't care how old your girlfriend is, I don't care what you do. I'm only concerned with Leonard Patz.\"\n\n\"You're that kid's father?\" Touch of a Boston accent: _fatha_.\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Your kid didn't do it, you know.\"\n\nI waited. My heart began to pound.\n\n\"Len did.\"\n\n\"How do you know that, Matt?\"\n\n\"I just know.\"\n\n\"You know _how_? I thought you were the victim in an indecent A&B. I didn't think you knew... Len.\"\n\n\"Well, it's complicated.\"\n\n\"Is it?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Lenny and me are friends, kind of.\"\n\n\"He's the kind of friend you report to the cops for indecent A&B?\"\n\n\"I'll be honest with you. What I reported him for? Lenny never did that.\"\n\n\"No? So why'd you report him?\"\n\nA little grin. \"Like I said, it's complicated.\"\n\n\"Did he grab you or not?\"\n\n\"Yeah, he did.\"\n\n\"So what's complicated?\"\n\n\"Hey, you know what? I'm not really comfortable with this. I don't think I should be talking to you. I have a right to remain silent. I think I'll go ahead and take that, a'ight?\"\n\n\"You have a right to remain silent with the cops. I'm not a cop. The Fifth Amendment doesn't apply to me. In this room right now, there is no Fifth Amendment.\"\n\n\"I could get in trouble.\"\n\n\"Matt\u2014son. Listen to me. I'm a very patient man. But you're beginning to try my patience. I'm starting to feel\"\u2014deep breath\u2014\"angry, Matt, okay? That's not something I like to feel. So let's stop playing games here, all right?\"\n\nI felt the enormity of the body that houses me. How much bigger I was than this kid. I had the sense I was expanding, I was becoming too big for the room to hold me.\n\n\"If you know something about that murder in Cold Spring Park, Matt, you're going to give it to me. Because, son, you have no idea what I've been through.\"\n\n\"I don't want to talk in front of them.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nI clamped my fist around the kid's right upper arm and twisted it\u2014but not twisting it anywhere near the limits of my strength at that moment, because I felt how easily I could separate that arm from his body with just a little torque, how I could tear it off him, skin, muscle, and bone\u2014and I led him into his mother's bedroom, which was furnished, memorably, with a night table comprised of two Hood milk crates stacked and turned upside down and a collage of photos of male movie stars carefully cut out of magazines and Scotch-taped to the wall. I closed the door and stood in front of it, arms crossed. As quickly as it had formed, the adrenaline was already receding from my arms and shoulders, as if my body sensed the crisis had passed its peak, the kid had already folded.\n\n\"Tell me about Leonard. How do you know him?\"\n\n\"Leonard came up to me once at McDonald's, like all greasy and pathetic, and he asked me if I wanted anything, like a burger or anything. He said he'd buy me whatever I wanted if I'd just eat it with him, like just sit at the table with him. I knew he was a fag, but if he wanted to buy me a Big Mac, what did I care? I know _I'm_ not gay, so what does it matter to me? So I said okay, and we're eating and he's trying to be all beast, like he's this cool dude, like he's my buddy, and he asks me if I want to come see his apartment. He says he's got a bunch of DVDs there and we can watch a movie or whatever. So I knew what he was after. So I told him straight up I wasn't going to do anything with him, but if he had some money maybe we could work something out. So he says he'll give me fifty bucks if he can, like, touch my package or whatever, like over my pants. I told him he could do it if he gave me a hundred bucks. So he did.\"\n\n\"He gave you a hundred bucks?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Just, like, to touch my ass and stuff.\" The kid snorted at the price he had extorted for such a small thing.\n\n\"Go on.\"\n\n\"So after that he kept saying he wanted to keep doing it. So he'd give me a hundred bucks every time.\"\n\n\"And what did you do for him?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I swear.\"\n\n\"Come on, Matt. A hundred bucks?\"\n\n\"Really. Alls I ever did was let him touch my ass and, like... my front.\"\n\n\"Did you take anything off?\"\n\n\"No. My clothes were on the whole time.\"\n\n\"Every time?\"\n\n\"Every time.\"\n\n\"How many times were there?\"\n\n\"Five.\"\n\n\"Five hundred bucks?\"\n\n\"That's right.\" The kid sniggered again. Easy money.\n\n\"Did he reach inside your pants?\"\n\nHesitation. \"Once.\"\n\n\"Once?\"\n\n\"Really. _Once_.\"\n\n\"How long did this go on?\"\n\n\"A few weeks. He said it was all he could afford.\"\n\n\"So what happened at the library?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I've never even been to the library. I don't even know where it is.\"\n\n\"So why'd you report him?\"\n\n\"He said he didn't want to pay me anymore. He said he didn't like paying, he shouldn't have to pay if we were, like, friends. I told him if he didn't pay me, I'd report him. I knew he was on probation, I knew he was on the sex offender list. If he got violated on his probation, he was going away. Even he knew that.\"\n\n\"And he wouldn't pay?\"\n\n\"He paid some. He comes to me all like, 'I'll pay you half.' So I told him, 'You'll pay me _all_.' He had it. He's got lots of it. Anyway, it wasn't like I _wanted_ to. But I need _money_ , you know? I mean, look at this place. You know what it's like to have no money? It's like you can't _do_ anything.\"\n\n\"So you were shaking him down for money. So what? What's this got to do with Cold Spring Park?\"\n\n\"That was his whole reason, like, for dropping me. He said there was this other kid he liked, some kid who walked through the park in the morning near his apartment.\"\n\n\"What kid?\"\n\n\"The one who got killed.\"\n\n\"How do you know it's the same kid?\"\n\n\" 'Cuz Leonard said he was going to try and meet him. He was, like, scouting him out. Like, walking through the park in the morning trying to meet him. He even knew the kid's name. He heard his friends say it. It was Ben. He said he was going to try to talk to him. This was all before it happened he's saying these things. I didn't even think anything about it until the kid got killed.\"\n\n\"What did Leonard say about him?\"\n\n\"He said he was beautiful. That was the word he used, _beautiful_.\"\n\n\"What makes you think he could be violent? Did he ever threaten you?\"\n\n\"No. Are you kidding? I'd fuck him up. That's just it. Lenny's kind of a pussy. That's why he likes kids, I think, because he's a big guy but he figures kids are smaller.\"\n\n\"So why would he be violent with Ben Rifkin if he met him in the park?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I wasn't there. But I know Lenny had a knife and he took it with him when he thought he might be meeting people, because he said sometimes, you know, if you're like a fag and you go up to the wrong guy, it can be bad.\"\n\n\"You saw the knife?\"\n\n\"Yeah, he had it with him the day I met him.\"\n\n\"What did it look like?\"\n\n\"Just, I don't know, it was a knife.\"\n\n\"Like a kitchen knife?\"\n\n\"No, more like a fighting knife, I guess. It had, like, teeth. I almost took it from him. It was pretty cool.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you ever tell anyone about this? You knew that kid got murdered.\"\n\n\"I'm on probation too. I couldn't really tell anyone I was, like, getting money out of him or, like, that I lied about him grabbing me in the library. That's like a crime.\"\n\n\"Stop saying 'like.' It's not _like_ a crime. It _is_ a crime.\"\n\n\"Right. Exactly.\"\n\n\"Matt, how long were you going to go before you told anyone this? Were you going to let my son get convicted of a murder he didn't commit just so you wouldn't have to be embarrassed you were letting some guy grab your nuts every week? Were you going to just keep your mouth shut while they sent my son off to Walpole?\"\n\nThe kid did not answer.\n\nThe anger I felt was of an old, familiar kind now. A simple, righteous, soothing anger I knew like an old friend. I was not angry at this smart-ass punk. Life tends to punish fools like Matt Magrath anyway, sooner or later. No, I was angry at Patz himself, because he was a murderer\u2014and the worst kind of murderer, a child murderer, a category for which cops and prosecutors reserve a special contempt.\n\n\"I figured no one would believe me. 'Cuz my whole problem was, like, I couldn't tell about the kid that got killed because I already lied about the thing in the library. So if I told the truth, they were just going to say, 'Well, you already lied once. Why should we believe you now?' So what would be the point?\"\n\nHe was right, of course. Matt Magrath was about as bad a witness as you could dream up. An admitted liar, no jury would ever trust him. The only trouble was, like the boy who cried wolf, he happened to be telling the truth this time.\n\n# **17 | Nothing's Wrong with Me!**\n\nFacebook froze Jacob's account, probably because of a subpoena compelling the production of everything he had ever posted. But with suicidal persistence, he opened a new Facebook account under the name \"Marvin Glasscock\" and began friending his inner circle again. He made no secret of this, and I roared about it. To my surprise, Laurie took Jacob's side. \"He's all alone,\" she said. \"He needs _people_.\" Everything Laurie did\u2014everything she ever did\u2014was to help her son. She insisted that Jacob was completely isolated now and his \"online life\" was such a necessary, integral, \"natural\" part of how kids socialize that it would be cruel to deny him even this minimal human contact. I reminded her that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts intended to deprive him of a hell of a lot more than that, and we agreed at least to place some limits on the new account. Jacob was not to change the password, which would deny us access and the ability to edit him; he was not to post anything that touched on the case even remotely; and he was strictly forbidden to post photos or video, which were impossible to keep from squirting around the Internet once they got loose and which could easily be misconstrued. Thus began a cat-and-mouse game in which an otherwise intelligent child endeavored to make jokes about his own situation in terms just vague enough that his father would not censor what he wrote.\n\nI made it a part of my morning rounds on the Internet to check what Marvin Glasscock had written on Facebook the night before. Every morning: first stop Gmail, second Facebook. Then Google \"Jacob Barber\" for news of the case. Then, if all was clear, I would disappear down the rabbit hole of the Internet for a few minutes to forget the raging shit-storm I was standing in.\n\nWhat I found most amazing about my son's reincarnation on Facebook was that anyone was willing to \"friend\" him at all. In the real world, he had no friends. He was now utterly alone. No one ever called him or visited. He had been suspended from school and, come September, the town would be obliged to hire a tutor for him. The law required it. Laurie had been negotiating with the school department for weeks, haggling over how much in-home tutoring Jake was entitled to. In the meantime, he seemed to be utterly friendless. The same kids who were willing to link to Jacob online refused to acknowledge him in person. Granted, there were only a handful who accepted \"Marvin Glasscock\" into their online circle. Before the Rifkin murder, Jacob's Facebook network\u2014the number of kids who read Jacob's dashed-off comments and whose comments Jacob followed in turn\u2014numbered 474, mostly classmates, mostly kids I had never heard of. After the murder, he had only four, one of whom was Derek Yoo. I wonder if those four, or Jacob, ever quite understood that their every move online created a record, every keyboard click was recorded and stored on a server somewhere. Nothing they did on the Web\u2014nothing\u2014was private. And unlike a phone call, this was a written form of communication: they were generating a transcript of every conversation. The Web is a prosecutor's fantasy, a monitoring and recording device that hears the most intimate, lurid secrets, even those never spoken out loud. It is better than a wire. It is a wire planted inside everyone's head.\n\nIt was a matter of time, of course. Sooner or later, typing into his laptop late one night in the stoned-out bliss of Web surfing, Jacob would make a dumb-shit teenage slipup. It finally came in mid-August. Early on a Sunday morning I glanced at Marvin Glasscock's Facebook page to find an image of Anthony Perkins in _Psycho_ , the famous silhouetted figure with a knife raised over his shoulder to stab Janet Leigh in the shower, now with Jacob's face Photoshopped onto it\u2014Jacob as Norman Bates. The face was clipped from a snapshot of Jacob, apparently at a party. It showed Jacob grinning. Jacob had posted the mash-up photo with the caption \"What people think of me.\" His friends responded with these comments: \"Dude looks like a lady.\" \"Awesome job. You should make this your new profile pic.\" \"Wee-wee-wee [ _Psycho_ music].\" \"Marvin Glasscock! Dude comes in with the total facemelter!!!\"\n\nI did not immediately delete the photo. I wanted to confront Jacob with it. I carried the laptop upstairs with me, the machine humming in my hand.\n\nHe was in his room, still asleep. One of his young-adult novels lay open, pages down, on the night table. These were invariably futuristic science fiction or military fantasies about ultrasecret Army units with names like \"Alpha Force.\" (No broody teen vampires for Jacob: not escapist _enough_.)\n\nIt was around seven. The shades were down, the light in the room was muted.\n\nAs I tromped barefoot to the side of his bed, Jacob woke up and twisted to look at me. No doubt I was scowling. I turned the computer around to show the screen to him, the evidence of his crime.\n\n\"What is this?\"\n\nHe groaned, not quite awake.\n\n\"What is this?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"This!\"\n\n\"I don't know. What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"This picture on Facebook. From last night? Did you put this up?\"\n\n\"It's a joke.\"\n\n\"A joke?\"\n\n\"It's just a joke, Dad.\"\n\n\"A joke? What's wrong with you?\"\n\n\"Do we have to make a big deal\u2014\"\n\n\"Jacob, do you know what they're going to do with this picture? They're going to wave it around in front of the jury and do you know what they're going to say? They're going to say it shows consciousness of guilt. That's just the phrase they'll use, _consciousness of guilt_. They'll say, 'This is how Jacob Barber sees himself. Psycho. When he looks in the mirror, this is the reflection he sees: Norman Bates.' They'll use the word _psycho_ over and over, and they'll hold this picture up and the jury will stare at it. They'll stare at it and guess what? They'll never be able to forget it, they'll never be able to quite get it out of their minds. It'll stick in their heads. It'll affect them. It'll twist them, it'll stain them. Maybe not all of them, maybe not much. But it will move the needle just a little further against you. That's how it works. That's what you did with this: you gave them a gift. A gift. For no good reason. If Logiudice finds this, it will never go away. Don't you get that? Don't you know what's at stake, Jacob?\"\n\n\"Yes!\"\n\n\"Do you know what they want to do to you?\"\n\n\"Of course I do.\"\n\n\"Then why? Tell me. Because it doesn't make any sense. Why would you do this?\"\n\n\"I already told you, it was a joke. It means the opposite of what you're saying. It's how other people see me. It's not how I see myself. It's not even about me.\"\n\n\"Oh. Well, that's perfectly reasonable. You were just being clever and ironic. And of course the DA and the jury, they'll all understand that too. Jesus. Are you stupid?\"\n\n\"I'm not stupid.\"\n\n\"Then what's wrong with you?\"\n\nLaurie's voice, behind me: \"Andy! Enough.\" Her arms were crossed, eyes still sleepy.\n\nJacob said mournfully, \"Nothing's wrong with me.\"\n\n\"Then what possessed you to\u2014\"\n\n\"Andy, stop.\"\n\n\"Why, Jacob? Just tell me why?\" My anger had peaked. Still, I was feeling wild enough to spray a few bullets Laurie's way too. \"Can I ask him that? Can I ask him why? Or is that too much?\"\n\n\"It was just a joke, Dad. Can we just delete it?\"\n\n\"No! We can't just delete it. That's the whole point! It doesn't go away, Jacob. We can delete it but it doesn't go away. When your buddy Derek goes to the DA and tells him you have a Facebook account named Melvin Glasscock or whatever and you put this picture up, all the DA has to do is send them a subpoena and he gets it. Facebook will just give it to him, all of it. This stuff sticks to you. It's like napalm. You can't do this. You can't do it.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"You can't do stuff like this. Not now.\"\n\n\"O- _kay_ , I said. Sorry.\"\n\n\"Don't be sorry. Sorry won't fix the problem.\"\n\n\"Andy, stop already. You're scaring me. What do you want him to do? It's done. He said he's sorry. What do you keep haranguing him for?\"\n\n\"I keep haranguing him because it's important!\"\n\n\"It's done. He made a mistake. He's a kid. Please calm down, Andy. Please.\"\n\nShe came across the room, took the laptop from my hands\u2014I was barely aware I was still holding it\u2014and she examined the photo closely. She held the laptop with one hand on each edge, like a cafeteria tray.\n\n\"All right.\" She shrugged. \"So let's just delete it and be done with it. How do I delete it? I don't see a button.\"\n\nI took the laptop and searched the screen. \"I don't see it either. Jacob, how do you delete this thing?\"\n\nHe took the laptop and, now seated on the edge of his bed, he clicked it a few times. \"There. Gone.\" He closed the lid, handed it to me, then lay down and rolled over, turning his back to me.\n\nLaurie gave me a look, like _I_ was the crazy one. \"I'm going back to bed, Andy.\" She padded out of the room, then I heard our bed rustle as she climbed back into it. Laurie had always been an early riser, even on Sundays, until this happened to us.\n\nI stood there a moment, the laptop by my side now, held at my hip like a closed book.\n\n\"I'm sorry I yelled.\"\n\nJacob sniffed. I could not tell what that sniff signaled, whether he was near tears or angry with me. But it struck something in me and made me sentimental. I remembered Baby Jake, our little precious beautiful blond wide-eyed baby. That this boy, this child-man, was one and the same person as that baby\u2014it came to me like a new idea, something I had never known. The baby did not become the boy; the baby _was_ the boy, the same creature, unchanged at the core. This was the very baby I had held in my arms.\n\nI sat down on the bed beside him and laid my hand on his bare shoulder. \"I'm sorry I yelled. I shouldn't lose my temper. I'm just trying to look out for you. You know that, don't you?\"\n\n\"I'm going back to sleep.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Just leave me alone.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Okay, so go away.\"\n\nI nodded, rubbed his shoulder a few times as if I could press the thought into him through his skin, _I love you_ , but he lay there like a stone and I stood up to leave.\n\nThe shape in the bed said, \"There's nothing wrong with me. And I know exactly what they're going to do to me. I don't need you to tell me.\"\n\n\"I know, Jake. I know.\"\n\nAnd then, with the bravado and heedlessness of a child, he fell asleep.\n\n# **18 | The Murder Gene, Redux**\n\nOne Tuesday morning near summer's end, Laurie and I sat in Dr. Vogel's office for our weekly meeting under the eyes of those howling African masks. The session had not begun\u2014we were still settling ourselves in our familiar chairs, making ritualistic comments about the warm weather outside, Laurie shivering a little in the air-conditioning\u2014when the doctor announced, \"Andy, I have to tell you, I think this is going to be a difficult hour for you.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Why is that?\"\n\n\"We need to talk about some of the biological issues involved in this case, the genetics.\" She hesitated. Dr. Vogel studiously maintained an impassive expression during our sessions, presumably to keep her own emotions from influencing ours. But this time her mouth and jaw clenched visibly. \"And I need to take a DNA sample from you. It's just a quick swab of your mouth. No needles, nothing intrusive. I just use a sterile Q-tip to wipe your gums and take a sample of your saliva.\"\n\n\"A DNA sample? You've got to be kidding me. I thought we were going to exclude all that.\"\n\n\"Andy, look, I'm a doctor, not a lawyer; I can't tell you what's going to be allowed into evidence or what will be excluded. That's between you and Jonathan. What I can tell you is that behavioral genetics\u2014and by that I mean the science of how behavior is influenced by our genes\u2014cuts two ways. The prosecution may want to introduce this sort of evidence to show that Jacob is violent by nature, a born killer, because obviously it makes it more likely that Jacob committed this murder. But we may want to introduce it too. If it gets to the point where the DA has likely proven Jacob actually killed this boy\u2014I'm saying _if;_ I'm not predicting, I'm not saying this is what I believe, just _if_ \u2014then we may want to bring in the genetic evidence as mitigation.\"\n\nLaurie said, \"Mitigation?\"\n\nI explained, \"To reduce it from first-degree homicide to second or manslaughter.\"\n\nLaurie winced. The technical terms were discouraging, a reminder of how efficiently the system worked. A courthouse is a factory, sorting violence into a taxonomy of crimes, processing suspects into criminals.\n\nI was discouraged too. The lawyer in me knew, instantly, the calculation Jonathan was making. Like a general preparing for battle, he was planning his fallback positions, a controlled tactical retreat.\n\nI told my son's mother in a gentle tone, \"First-degree is life without parole. It's a mandatory sentence. The judge has no discretion. With second-degree Jake would be parole-eligible in twenty years. He'd only be thirty-four. He'd still have a whole life ahead of him.\"\n\n\"Jonathan has asked me to research the issue, to prepare for it, just in case. Laurie, I think the point, the easiest way to think of it, is this: the law punishes intentional crimes. It presumes every act is intentional, a product of free will. If you did it, it is assumed you meant to do it. The law is very unforgiving of 'yes but' defenses. _Yes, but I had a hard childhood. Yes, but I have a mental disease. Yes, but I was drunk. Yes, but I was carried away by anger_. If you commit a crime, the law will say you are guilty despite these things. But it _will_ take them into account when it comes to the precise definition of the crime and when it comes to the sentence. At that point, anything that affects your free will\u2014including a genetic predisposition to violence or low impulse control\u2014at least theoretically can be taken into account.\"\n\n\"It's ridiculous,\" I scoffed. \"No jury would ever buy it. You're going to tell them, 'I killed a fourteen-year-old boy but let me go anyway'? Forget it. Not gonna happen.\"\n\n\"We may not have a choice, Andy, _if_.\"\n\n\"This is bullshit,\" I told Dr. Vogel. \"You're gonna take a sample of _my_ DNA? I've never hurt a fly.\"\n\nThe doctor nodded. No reaction. A perfect shrink, she just sat there and let the words break over her like waves on a jetty because that was the way to keep me talking. Somewhere she had learned that if an interviewer remains silent, the interviewee will rush to fill the silence.\n\n\"I've never hurt anyone. I don't have a temper. That's just not me. I never even played football. My mother never let me. She knew I wouldn't like it. She knew. There was no violence in our house. When I was a kid, do you know what I played? I played the clarinet. While all my friends were playing football, I played the clarinet.\"\n\nLaurie slid her hand over mine to smother my growing agitation. These sorts of gestures between us were becoming more rare, and I was moved by it. It calmed me.\n\nDr. Vogel said, \"Andy, I know you have a lot invested in this. In your identity, your reputation, in the man you've become, the man you've made yourself. We've talked about that, and I understand perfectly. But that's exactly the point. We are not just a product of our genes. We are all a product of many, many things: genes and environment, nature and nurture. The fact that you are who you are is the best example I know of the power of free will, of the individual. No matter what we find encoded in your genes, it will say nothing about who you are. Human behavior is much more complex than that. The same genetic sequence in one individual may produce a completely different result in different individuals and different environments. What we're talking about here is just a genetic predisposition. Predisposition is not predestination. We humans are much, much more than our DNA. The mistake people tend to make with a new science like this one is over-determinism. We've discussed this before. We are not talking about the genes that code for blue eyes here. Human behavior has many, many more causes than simple physical traits.\"\n\n\"That's a lovely speech\u2014and yet you still want to stick a Q-tip in my mouth. What if I don't want to know what's in my DNA? What if I don't like what I'm programmed for?\"\n\n\"Andy, as hard as this is for you, it's not about you. It's about Jacob. The question is, how far will you go for Jacob? What will you do to protect your son?\"\n\n\"That's not fair.\"\n\n\"It's the way it is. I didn't put you here.\"\n\n\"No. Jonathan did. He's the one who should be telling me these things, not you.\"\n\n\"Probably he doesn't want to fight with you about it. He doesn't even know if he'll use it at trial. It's just something he wants to keep in his pocket, just in case. Also, he might think you'd say no to him.\"\n\n\"He's right. That's why he ought to be having this conversation himself.\"\n\n\"He's just doing his job. You of all people should understand that.\"\n\n\"His job is to do what his client wants.\"\n\n\"His job is to win, Andy, not to spare anyone's feelings. Anyway, you're not the client; Jacob is. The only thing that matters here is Jacob. That's why we're all here, to help Jacob.\"\n\n\"So Jonathan wants to argue in court that Jacob _does_ have the murder gene?\"\n\n\"If it comes down to it, if we get desperate, yes, we may have to argue that Jacob has certain specific gene variants that make him more likely to act in aggressive or antisocial ways.\"\n\n\"All those qualifications and nuances, to ordinary people it's mumbo jumbo. The newspapers will call it a murder gene. They'll say we're natural-born killers. Our whole family.\"\n\n\"All we can do is tell them the truth. If they want to distort it, sensationalize it, what can we do?\"\n\n\"Okay, say I go for it, I let you take your DNA sample. Tell me exactly what it is you're looking for.\"\n\n\"Do you know anything about biology?\"\n\n\"Only what I got in high school.\"\n\n\"Were you any good in high school biology?\"\n\n\"I was better at clarinet.\"\n\n\"Okay, in a nutshell? Bearing in mind that the causes of human behavior are infinitely complex and there is no simple genetic trigger for particular human behaviors; we are always talking about a gene-environment interaction; and anyway 'criminal' behavior is not a scientific term, it's a legal one, and certain behaviors that may be defined as criminal in one situation may not be criminal in another, like war\u2014\"\n\n\"Okay, okay, I get it. It's complicated. Dumb it down for me. Just tell me: what are you looking for in my spit?\"\n\nShe smiled, relenting. \"Okay. There are two specific gene variants that have been linked to male antisocial behavior, which might help account for multigenerational patterns of violence in families like yours. The first is an allele of a gene called MAOA. The MAOA gene controls an enzyme that metabolizes certain neurotransmitters like serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. It's been called 'the warrior gene' because of its association with aggressive behavior. The mutation is called _MAOA Knockout_. It has been argued in court as a trigger for violence before, but the argument was too simplistic and it was rejected. Our understanding of the gene-environment interplay has improved since then\u2014the science is getting better and very quickly\u2014and we may have better testimony now.\n\n\"The second mutation is located in what's called the serotonin transporter gene. The official name for the gene is SLC6A4. It's located on chromosome 17. It encodes a protein that facilitates the activity of the serotonin transporter system, which is what enables the re-uptake of serotonin from the synapse back into the neuron.\"\n\nI held up my hand: _enough_.\n\nShe said, \"The point is, the science is good and it's getting better every day. Just imagine: up till now, we've always asked, What causes human behavior? Is it nature or nurture? And we've been very good at studying the nurture side of the equation. There's lots and lots of good studies on how environment affects behavior. But now, for the first time in human history, we can look at the nature side. This is cutting-edge stuff. The structure of DNA was only discovered in 1953. We're just beginning to understand. We're just beginning to look at what we are. Not as some abstraction like the 'soul' or metaphor like the 'human heart,' but the real mechanics of human beings, the nuts and bolts. This\"\u2014she pinched the skin of her own arm and pulled up a sample of her own flesh\u2014\"the human body is a machine. It is a system, a very complex system made of molecules and driven by chemical reactions and electrical impulses. Our minds are part of that system. People have no trouble accepting that nurture affects behavior. Why not nature?\"\n\n\"Doctor, will this keep my kid out of prison?\"\n\n\"It might.\"\n\n\"Then do it.\"\n\n\"There's more.\"\n\n\"Why does this not surprise me?\"\n\n\"I need a swab from your father too.\"\n\n\"My father? You're joking. I haven't spoken to my father since I was five years old. I have no idea if he's even alive.\"\n\n\"He is alive. He's in Northern Prison in Somers, Connecticut.\"\n\nA beat. \"So go test him.\"\n\n\"I tried. He won't see me.\"\n\nI blinked at her. I was wrong-footed both by the news my father was alive and by the fact that she had already got a message from him. She had an advantage over me. Not only did she know my history, she did not consider it history at all. It was no burden to her. To Dr. Vogel, trying to contact Billy Barber was no harder than picking up the phone.\n\n\"He says you have to ask.\"\n\n\"Me? He wouldn't know me if I stood up in his soup.\"\n\n\"Apparently he wants to change that.\"\n\n\"He does? Why?\"\n\n\"A father gets old, he wants to know his son a little.\" She shrugged. \"Who can understand the human heart?\"\n\n\"So he knows about me?\"\n\n\"Oh, he knows all about you.\"\n\nI felt myself flush like a little kid with the thrill of it: a father! Then, just as quickly, my mood plummeted, the thought of Bloody Billy Barber turned to acid.\n\n\"Tell him to fuck off.\"\n\n\"I can't tell him that. We need his help. We need a sample to argue that a genetic mutation is more than a one-off but a family trait passed down from father to son to son.\"\n\n\"We could get a court order.\"\n\n\"Not without giving away to the DA what we're up to.\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\nLaurie finally spoke. \"Andy, you need to think about Jacob. How far would you go for him?\"\n\n\"I'd go to hell and back.\"\n\n\"Okay, then. So you will.\"\n\n# **19 | The Cutting Room**\n\nIn the last week of August\u2014that non-week, the week of Sundays when we all move a little slower and mourn the passing of summer and get ourselves ready for fall\u2014the temperatures climbed and the air thickened until the heat was all anyone could talk about: when it would break, how high it would go, how unbearable the humidity was. It drove people indoors, as if it was winter. The sidewalks and shops were oddly quiet. To me the heat was not an affliction, it was merely a symptom, as a fever is a symptom of the flu. It was only the most obvious reason the world was fast becoming unbearable.\n\nWe were all a little heat-crazy by then, Laurie and Jacob and I. Looking back on it, it is hard to believe how self-absorbed I had become, how this whole story seemed to be about _me_ , not Jacob, not our entire family. Jacob's guilt and mine were entangled in my mind, though no one had ever accused me of anything explicitly. I was coming apart, of course. I knew this. I distinctly remember exhorting myself to hold it together, to keep up appearances, not to crack.\n\nBut I did not share my feelings with Laurie, and I did not try to draw out hers either, because we were all coming apart. I discouraged any sort of frank emotional talk, and soon enough I stopped noticing my wife altogether. I never asked\u2014never even asked!\u2014what the experience was like for the mother of Jacob the murderer. I thought it was more important to be\u2014at least to seem\u2014a tower of strength and to encourage her to be strong as well. It was the only sensible approach: tough it out, get through the trial, do whatever it takes to keep Jacob safe, then repair the emotional damage later. After. It was as if there was a place called After, and if I could just push my family across to that shore, then everything would be all right. There would be time for all these \"soft\" problems in the land of After. I was wrong. I think about that now, how I should have seen Laurie then, should have paid more attention. She had saved my life, once. I came to her damaged and she had loved me anyway. And when she was damaged, I did not lift a finger to help her. I only noticed that her hair was getting grayer and sloppier, and her face was becoming crazed with lines like an old ceramic vase. She had lost so much weight that her hip bones protruded, and when we were together she spoke less and less. In spite of it all, I never softened in my determination to save Jacob first and heal Laurie later. I try to rationalize that merciless intransigence now: I was by then a master of internalizing dangerous emotions; my mind was overheated with the stress of that endless summer. It is all true and it is all bullshit too. The truth is, I was a fool. Laurie, I was a fool. I know that now.\n\nI went to the Yoos' home around ten o'clock one morning. Derek's parents both worked, even during this pseudo-vacation week. I knew Derek would be home alone. He and Jacob were still texting regularly. They even spoke on the phone, though only during the day, when Derek's parents were not around to hear. I was convinced Derek would want to help his friend, he would want to talk to me, tell me the truth, but I was afraid he would not let me in anyway. He was a good kid. He would do as he had been told, as he always did, always had done. So I was prepared to talk my way into the house, even to force my way in to get to him. I remember feeling quite capable of that. I came to the house wearing baggy cargo shorts and a T-shirt that stuck to my sweaty back. I had gained some weight since this all began, and I recall that the shorts shimmied down my hips over and over, weighted down by my gut. I had to hike them up constantly. I had always been fit and trim. My sloppy new body made me ashamed, but I felt no inclination to fix it. Again, there would be time _after_.\n\nArriving at the Yoos' home, I did not knock. I did not want to give the kid a chance to hide from me, to see me and refuse to answer the door, pretend he was not there. Instead I went around to the back, past the little flower garden, past a hydrangea shooting white conical bunches of flowers in every direction like fireworks, a blossoming that David Yoo waited all year for, I remembered.\n\nThe Yoos had built an extension off the back of their house. It contained a mudroom and a breakfast room. The walls were windowed all around. From the back deck I could see in through the kitchen to the little sitting area where Derek sprawled on a couch in front of the TV. There was patio furniture on this deck, an umbrellaed table and six chairs. If Derek had refused to let me in, I might have thrown one of those heavy patio chairs through the French door, like William Hurt in _Body Heat_. But the door was unlocked. I walked right into the house as if I owned it, as if I had just run out to the garage to take out the trash.\n\nInside, the house was cool, air-conditioned.\n\nDerek scrambled to his feet but he did not come toward me. He stood with his skinny calves against the couch, in gym shorts and a black T-shirt with the Zildjian logo across the chest. His bare feet were long and bony. His toes pressed down into the carpet, arching like little caterpillars. Nerves. When I first met Derek, he was five years old and still pudgy. Now he was another scrawny, gangly, slightly spaced-out teenage kid like my own. He was just like Jacob in every way but one: there was no cloud on Derek's future, nothing to obstruct him. He would move through adolescence with the same zonked-out expression as Jacob, same crap clothes, same shambling, no-eye-contact manner, and he would pass right on into adulthood. He was the blameless kid Jacob might have been, and I thought briefly how nice it would be to have such an uncomplicated kid. I envied David Yoo even as I considered him, at the moment, an asshole without peer.\n\n\"Hello, Derek.\"\n\n\"Hi.\"\n\n\"What's wrong, Derek?\"\n\n\"You're not supposed to be here.\"\n\n\"I've been here a hundred times.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but you're not supposed to be here now.\"\n\n\"I just want to talk. About Jacob.\"\n\n\"I'm not supposed to.\"\n\n\"Derek, what's wrong with you? You're all... flustered.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you afraid of me?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then why are you acting like this?\"\n\n\"Like what? I'm not doing anything.\"\n\n\"You look like you just shit a brick.\"\n\n\"No. It's just, you're not supposed to be here.\"\n\n\"Relax, Derek. Sit down. I just want to know the truth, that's all. What on earth is going on here? What's _really_ going on? I just wish someone would tell me.\"\n\nI moved through the kitchen into the TV room cautiously, as if I were approaching a skittish animal.\n\n\"I don't care what your parents said, Derek. Your parents are wrong. Jacob deserves your help. He's your friend. Your _friend_. I am too. I'm your friend and this is what friends do, Derek. They help each other. That's all I want, is for you to be Jacob's friend, right now. He needs you.\"\n\nI sat down.\n\n\"What did you tell Logiudice? What could you possibly have told him that would make him believe my son is a murderer?\"\n\n\"I didn't say Jake is a murderer.\"\n\n\"What did you tell him, then?\"\n\n\"Why don't you ask Logiudice? I thought he had to tell you?\"\n\n\"He's supposed to, Derek, but he's playing games. He's not a good guy, Derek. I know it might be hard for you to understand that. He didn't put you in front of the grand jury because then he would have to provide me with a transcript. He probably did not have you talk to a detective either, because then the cop would have written a report. So I need _you_ to tell me, Derek. I need you to do the right thing. Tell me what you said to Logiudice that made him so sure Jacob is guilty.\"\n\n\"I told him the truth.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know, Derek. Everyone tells the truth. It's so tiresome. Because it's never the same truth. So I need to know _exactly_ what you said.\"\n\n\"I'm not supposed to\u2014\"\n\n\"Dammit, Derek! What did you say!\"\n\nHe recoiled then plunked down on the couch, as if the shout had blasted him backward.\n\nI calmed myself. I said in a soft voice just short of despair, \"Please, Derek. Please tell me.\"\n\n\"I just told him, you know, some things that have been going on in school.\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"Like Jake was getting picked on. Ben Rifkin was, like, the leader of this group of kids. Like slacker kids. They were kind of giving Jake a hard time.\"\n\n\"About what?\"\n\n\"Like saying he was gay, that was the main thing. Just, like, rumors. Ben just made stuff up. And, you know, I don't even care if Jake _is_ gay. I really don't. I wish he'd just say it if he was.\"\n\n\"Do you think he's gay?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Maybe. But it doesn't matter, because he didn't do any of the things Ben said he did. Ben just made it up. He just liked tooling on Jake for some reason. Like it was a game for him or something. He was kind of a bully.\"\n\n\"What did Ben say?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Just, like, starting rumors. Like he said Jake offered to blow a kid at this party\u2014which he didn't. Or that he got a boner in the shower after track one day. Or that one of the teachers went back into school during recess one day and caught Jake jerking off in one of the classrooms. It was all totally not true.\"\n\n\"Why did he say it, then?\"\n\n\" 'Cause Ben was a dick. There was just something about Jake that Ben didn't like, and that kind of got him excited, you know? It was like he couldn't help himself. If he saw Jake, he gave him a rash of shit. Every time. I guess he figured he could get away with it too. He was just a dick. To be honest? Nobody likes to say it because he got killed and everything? But Ben was a mean kid. Whoever did this\u2014well, I don't know, I don't want to say\u2014whatever. Ben was just a mean kid.\"\n\n\"But why was he mean to _Jacob_? I don't get that.\"\n\n\"He just didn't like him. Jake is like\u2014I mean, I know Jake, okay? And I like him. But come on. I mean, you have to know Jake isn't, like, a normal kid?\"\n\n\"Why not? Because kids thought he was gay?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then what does 'normal' mean?\"\n\nHe gave me a searching look. \"Jake has a mean streak of his own.\" Derek held his eyes on me.\n\nI tried not to betray any emotion. Tried to stop my Adam's apple from bobbing down and up.\n\nDerek said, \"I think maybe Ben didn't know that. Ben kind of picked the wrong little freak to pick on. He had no clue.\"\n\n\"So that's why you went on Facebook and told everyone about the knife?\"\n\n\"No. It was more than that. I mean, it was like, the whole reason he got the knife was he was afraid of Ben. He thought Ben was going to go after him someday and try to mess him up, and then Jake was going to have to defend himself. You never knew about any of this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Jacob never told you about _any_ of this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, I told because I knew Jake got the knife and I knew it was because he was afraid Ben was going to try something. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I don't know. I don't know why I told.\"\n\n\"You told because it was the truth. You wanted to tell the truth.\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"But that knife wasn't the murder weapon. The knife you saw, that Jacob had? It's not the one that killed Ben. They found another knife in Cold Spring Park. You know that, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but who knows? They found a knife....\" Shrug. \"Anyway, it was like, at the time everybody was still talking about 'Where's the knife?' And Jake always used to say, like, 'My dad's a DA and I know about the law,' like he knew what he could get away with. Like, if anyone ever accused him? You know?\"\n\n\"Did he ever say that?\"\n\n\"No. Not exactly.\"\n\n\"So is that what you told Logiudice?\"\n\n\"No! 'Course not. 'Cause, like, this isn't stuff I really _know_ , you know? This is just, like, what I think.\"\n\n\"So what exactly did you tell Logiudice?\"\n\n\"Just that Jacob had a knife.\"\n\n\"The wrong knife.\"\n\n\"Well, if that's what you want to say, whatever. I just told Logiudice about the knife and that Ben was kind of bullying him. And that the morning it happened, Jake came into school with blood on him.\"\n\n\"Which Jacob admits. He found Ben. He tried to help him. That's how he got the blood on him.\"\n\n\"I know, I know, An\u2014Mr. Barber. I'm not saying anything about Jake. I'm just telling you what I told the DA. Jake came into school and I saw blood on him, and he told me he had to clean it up because people wouldn't understand. And he was right: they didn't.\"\n\n\"Derek, can I ask you something? Do you really think it's possible? I mean, is there anything else you're not telling me? Because what I'm hearing, it still doesn't make sense that Jacob did this. It just doesn't add up.\"\n\nDerek squirmed. His body corkscrewed away from me.\n\n\"You think he did it, don't you, Derek?\"\n\n\"No. I mean, there's like a one percent chance, you know? Just, like, a little bit of\"\u2014he held up his fingers a millimeter apart\u2014\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Doubt.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Why? Why would you have even a little bit of doubt? You've known Jacob most of your life. You've been best friends.\"\n\n\"Because Jake\u2014he's just kind of a different kid. You know, I'm not saying anything, all right? But he's just kind of\u2014I said he had, like, a mean streak but that isn't really it. I don't know how to say it. It's not like he has a temper or he gets mad or anything. He doesn't get _mad_ , you know? He just\u2014he's kind of mean. Not to me, 'cause I'm his friend. But to other kids sometimes? He just says weird things. Like racist stuff, just jokes. Or he calls fat girls fat or he says inappropriate stuff about them, like about their bodies. And he reads these stories on the Net? Kind of porn, but about torture. He calls it 'cutter,' like 'cutter porn.' He'll say, like, 'Dude, I was up so late reading cutter on the Net last night.' He showed me some of the stories? Like, on his iPod? And I'm like, 'Dude, this is sick.' You know, it's like stories about... you know, cutting people? Like tying women up and cutting them and killing them and stuff? And tying up men and cutting stuff off and\"\u2014he grimaced\u2014\"you know, castrating them? It's totally sick. He still does it.\"\n\n\"What do you mean he still does it?\"\n\n\"He reads it.\"\n\n\"That's not true. I've been checking the computer. I put a program on it that tells me what Jacob does and where he goes on the Internet.\"\n\n\"He uses his iPod. That iPod Touch?\"\n\nFor a moment I was the stupid, out-of-touch parent.\n\nDerek said helpfully, \"He finds them on these forums on the Net. This site called the Cutting Room. People trade stories, I guess. They write them and post them for other people to read.\"\n\n\"Derek, kids look at porn. I know that. You're sure that's not just what we're talking about?\"\n\n\"I'm totally, totally sure. This is _not_ porn. Anyway, it's not even just that. I mean, he can read whatever he wants. It's none of my business. But he just has this thing where he kind of doesn't care.\"\n\n\"Doesn't care about what?\"\n\n\"About people, about animals, about anything.\" He shook his head.\n\nI sat silent, waiting.\n\n\"One time we were out, a group of us, and we were just kind of sitting on this wall, like hanging out. It was the middle of the afternoon. And this guy goes by on the sidewalk and he has these, kind of like, crutches? Like, you know those kind that go up over your arm and there's like a ring that goes over your arm? And he couldn't really control his legs. He just sort of dragged them like he was paralyzed or he had some disease or something. And this guy goes by, and Jake just starts laughing. I mean, not like quiet laughing but really loud, like crazy laughing, like 'HA HA HA.' He wouldn't stop. The guy must have heard him; he went right past us, right in front of us. And we're all just kind of looking at Jacob like, 'Dude, what's wrong with you?' And he's like, 'Are you guys all blind? Didn't you even see that guy? He's a total freak show!' It was just... mean. I mean, I know you're Jacob's dad and all, and I don't like to say this, but Jake can be just mean. I don't like being around him when he's like that. I get a little scared of him, to tell you the truth.\"\n\nDerek made a sad little grimace, as if he was making a difficult admission to himself for the first time. His friend Jake had let him down. He went on in a less disgusted, more mournful tone.\n\n\"Once\u2014this was like last fall, I guess?\u2014Jake found this dog. Just, like, a little mutt. He was lost, I guess, but he wasn't a stray because he had a collar on. Jake had him on, like, a string? You know, instead of a leash?\"\n\n\"Jacob never had a dog,\" I said.\n\nDerek nodded at me with that same sad expression, as if it was his duty to explain this to Jacob's poor, clueless father. He seemed to know, finally, how oblivious parents can be, and it disappointed him.\n\n\"I saw him later and I asked him about the dog, and Jake was like, 'I had to bury it.' So I was like, 'You mean, it died?' And he wouldn't really answer. He was just like, 'Dude, I had to bury it.' I didn't see Jake for a while after that, 'cause I sort of knew, you know? Like I knew it was bad. And there were these posters. Like the family that owned the dog, they put up these posters all over the place, like stapled on phone poles and trees, you know? Like with pictures of this dog? And I never said anything about it, and finally the family stopped putting up the posters, and I just kind of tried to forget about it.\"\n\nA moment passed in silence. When I was sure he had nothing more to add, I said, \"Derek, if you knew all this, how could you and Jacob still be friends?\"\n\n\"We're not friends like we used to be, like when we were kids. We're just kind of _old_ friends, you know? It's different.\"\n\n\"Old friends but still friends?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Sometimes I think it's like he was never my real friend, you know? He was just kind of this kid I knew from school. I don't think he ever, like, _cared_ about me. Not that he didn't _like_ me or anything. He just didn't care either way, most of the time.\"\n\n\"And the rest of the time?\"\n\nDerek shrugged. His answer was a bit of a non sequitur but I'll put it down here just as he said it. \"I always figured he'd get into trouble someday. I just figured it would be when we were grown up.\"\n\nWe sat there awhile, Derek and I, not saying anything. We both understood, I think, that there was no going back, no un-saying the things he had just said.\n\nI drove home slowly through the town center, savoring the ride. Maybe it is only an error of hindsight, but it seems to me now that I knew what was coming, I knew this was the end of something, and it was a tiny pleasure to prolong the car ride, to be \"normal\" awhile longer.\n\nAt home, I continued to move in that deliberate way, up the stairs to my son's room.\n\nHis iPod Touch was on the bureau, a sleek glassy little slab that came alive in my hand. The iPod was password-protected, but Jacob had surrendered the password to us as a condition of keeping the iPod. I entered the four-digit password and opened the Web browser. Jacob kept only a handful of obvious sites bookmarked: Facebook, Gmail, a few blogs he liked about technology and video games and music. There was no trace of a site called the Cutting Room. I had to do a Google search to find it.\n\nThe Cutting Room was a message board, a place where visitors could post plain-text messages for others to read. The site was filled with stories that were essentially what Derek had described: extended sexual fantasies involving bondage and sadism, even mutilation, rape, murder. Some\u2014a tiny fraction\u2014seemed to have no sexual element; they described torture for its own sake, rather like the ultra-gory spatter-horror movies that fill the theaters now. The site had no images or video, only text, and even that was unformatted. From the stripped-down browser on the iPod, it was impossible to tell which of these stories Jacob had read or how long he had spent on the site. But the page did show that Jacob was a member of this message board: his screen name, Job, was displayed at the top of the page. I presume \"Job\" was a play on his first name or his initials (though Jacob's middle initial was not O), or maybe it was a sly reference to the trials he was enduring.\n\nI clicked on the user name \"Job\" and a link took me to a page where Job's favorite stories on the site were saved. A dozen stories were listed. At the top of the list was a story called \"A Walk in the Woods.\" It was dated April 19, over three months earlier. The fields for the author and uploader both were blank.\n\nIt began, \" _Jason Fears took a knife into the woods that morning because he figured he might need it. He kept the knife in his sweatshirt pocket and as he walked he curled his fingers around the grip and the knife in his fist sent a surge up his arm and through his shoulder and into his brain and lit up his solar plexus like a firework going off in the sky_.\"\n\nThe story went on in long, unfurling, purple sentences like that one. It was a lurid, barely fictionalized account of the murder of Ben Rifkin in Cold Spring Park. In the story the park was renamed \"Rock River Park.\" Newton was called \"Brooktown.\" Ben Rifkin became a shifty, villainous bully called \"Brent Mallis.\"\n\nI assumed Jacob wrote it, but there was no way to be certain. There was nothing in the story that gave away the writer's identity. The voice did sound like an adolescent, and Jacob was a bookish boy who had been lurking in the Cutting Room long enough to learn the genre. The author had at least a passing knowledge of Cold Spring Park, which was described pretty accurately. Still, the most I could say with certainty was that Jacob had read the story, which proved nothing, really.\n\nSo I got on with the business of lawyering away at the evidence. Minimizing it. Defending Jacob.\n\nThe story was no confession. There was nothing in it that I recognized as nonpublic information. The whole thing might have been pieced together out of newspaper clippings and a vivid imagination. Even the most chilling detail, when Ben\u2014or \"Brent Mallis\"\u2014cried, \"Stop, you're hurting me,\" had been widely reported in the newspapers. As for the nonpublic information, how accurate was any of it? Even the investigators had no way of knowing whether Ben Rifkin really said \"Hey, faggot\" when he saw his killer in the woods that morning, as \"Brent Mallis\" said to \"Jason Fears.\" Or whether, when the killer stabbed Ben in the chest, the knife slipped in with no resistance, no bump of bone, no sticking on skin or rubbery organs, \"like he was stabbing into the air.\" These things were unwitnessed, unconfirmable.\n\nAnyway, Jacob would have realized it was idiotic to write this trash whether or not he was actually guilty. Yes, he had posted the _Psycho_ photo on Facebook, but surely he would not go this far.\n\nEven if he had written it, or just read it, what did it prove? It would be stupid, yes, but kids do stupid things. The interior of a teenager's mind is an endless war between Stupid and Clever; this was just a case of Stupid winning a battle. Considering the pressure Jake was under and the fact he'd been practically locked up in the house for months, and now the growing clamor as the trial approached, it was understandable. Could you really hold the kid responsible for every tasteless, tactless, brainless thing he said? What kid would not begin to act a little crazy in Jacob's situation? Anyway, who among us would be judged by the dumbest things we did as teenagers?\n\nI told myself these things, I marshaled my arguments as I'd been trained to do, but I could not get that boy's cry out of my head: \"Stop, you're hurting me.\" And something in me tore open. I don't know how else to put it. I still would not admit doubt into my thinking. I still believed in Jacob and, God knows, I still loved him, and there was no evidence\u2014no real _proof_ \u2014of anything. The lawyer in me understood all this. But the part of me that was Jacob's father felt cut, wounded. An emotion is a thought, yes, an idea, but it is also a sensation, an ache in your body. Desire, love, hate, fear, repulsion\u2014you _feel_ these things in your muscle and bones, not just in your mind. That is how this little heartbreak felt: like a physical injury, deep inside my body, an internal bleeding, a nick that would continue to seep.\n\nI read the story again, then I cleared it from the browser's memory. I put the iPod back on Jacob's bureau and I would have left it there and never said anything to him about it, certainly never would have said anything to Laurie either, but I worried there might be danger in the iPod. I was familiar enough with the Internet and with police work to know that digital footprints are not easily erased. Every click on the Web creates a record, on servers out in the ether and also on the hard drives of individual computers, and these records persist no matter how you try to delete them. What if the DA somehow found Jacob's iPod and scoured it for evidence? The iPod was dangerous in another way too, as a portal to the Web for Jacob that I could not police as easily as the family computers. The iPod was small and phonelike, and Jacob used it with the same expectation of privacy that he would if it were a phone. He was careless with it, and maybe sneaky too. The iPod was a leak. It was a danger.\n\nI brought it down to the basement and laid it on my little worktable, glass side up, and I got a hammer and smashed it.\n\n# **20 | One Son Was Here, the Other Was Gone**\n\nThe market closest to our house was a Whole Foods, and we loathed it. The wastefulness of all those pyramids of immaculate fruit and vegetables which, we knew, could only be created by throwing away enormous amounts of cosmetically imperfect food. The bogus earthiness, an elaborate pretense that Whole Foods was something other than a luxury store. And of course the prices. We had always avoided shopping there because of the high prices. Now, with Jacob's case threatening to bankrupt us, the thought of it seemed particularly ludicrous. We had no business shopping there.\n\nWe were already ruined financially. We were not rich people to begin with. We had been able to live in this town only because we had bought in when prices were low and because we were leveraged up to our eyeballs. Now Jonathan's fee was already into six figures. We had spent all of Jacob's college money on it and begun dipping into retirement savings. Before the case was over, I was sure, we would be wiped out, borrowing against the house to pay the bills. I knew, also, that my career as a prosecutor was over. Even if the verdict was \"not guilty,\" I would never be able to walk into a courtroom without trailing the stink of the accusation. Maybe after the case was ended Lynn Canavan would do the right thing and offer to keep me on the payroll, but I could not stay there, not as a charity case. Laurie might be able to go back to teaching, but we would not be able to pay the bills on her income alone. This is an aspect of crime stories I never fully appreciated until I became one: it is so ruinously expensive to mount a defense that, innocent or guilty, the accusation is itself a devastating punishment. Every defendant pays a price.\n\nThere was another reason for us to avoid Whole Foods as well. I was determined not to be seen around town, certainly not to do anything that might suggest we were taking the case lightly. It was a question of image. I wanted people to see our family as shattered, because we _were_ shattered. When the jury pool filed into the courtroom, I did not want any of them to harbor some vague memory of the Barbers luxuriating in pricey shops while the Rifkin boy lay buried in the ground. An unflattering mention in the newspaper, a fanciful rumor, a baseless impression\u2014these things could easily tip the jury against us.\n\nBut we went to Whole Foods one evening, all three of us, when time was short and we were sick of all the wariness and waiting, and we were hungry. It was just before Labor Day. The town had emptied out for the holiday.\n\nAnd what a relief it was to be there. We were lulled by the wonderful, narcotic ordinariness of shopping at the market. We were so like our old selves\u2014Laurie the competent shopper and meal-planner, me the bumbling husband grabbing the odd item here or there on a whim, Jacob the kid whimpering for something to eat right away, before we reached the register\u2014that we forgot ourselves. We strolled up and down the aisles. We enjoyed the packages banked up around us, made little jokes about the organic foods on the shelves. At the cheese section Jacob made a joke about the smell of a potent Gruy\u00e8re that they were offering customers to taste and the possible gastric consequences of eating too much of it, and we all laughed, all three of us, not because the joke was especially funny (though I am not above a good fart joke) but because Jacob had made a joke at all. Over the summer he had become so silent, such an enigma to us, that we celebrated just to see our little boy peeking out at us again. He smiled and it was impossible to believe he was the monster everyone seemed to think he was.\n\nWe were still smiling when we came out of this last aisle into the cash register area at the front of the store. All the aisles drained here, and the shoppers eddied around, sorting themselves into checkout lines. We took our place at the end of a short line with just a couple of people in front of us. Laurie stood with her hand on the push-bar of the cart. I stood beside her. Jacob was behind us.\n\nDan Rifkin guided his cart into the checkout line beside ours. He was five feet away, if that. For a moment he did not see us. His sunglasses rested on the top of his head, pillowed in his hair. He wore neatly pressed khaki shorts and a tucked-in polo shirt. His belt was canvas with a blue band on which was embroidered a pattern of little ships' anchors. He wore thin-soled loafers without socks. It was the sort of country-club-casual style that I have always thought looks ridiculous on a grown man. A naturally formal person often looks odd when he tries to dress down, just as a natural slob looks out of place in a suit. Dan Rifkin was not the sort of guy who looked at home in short pants.\n\nI turned my back to him and whispered to Laurie that he was beside us.\n\nHer hand went over her mouth. \"Where?\"\n\n\"Right behind me. Don't look.\"\n\nShe looked.\n\nI turned back to find Rifkin's wife, Joan, had appeared beside him. She had some of her husband's miniature, doll-like quality. She was small and slim and had a lovely face. Her frosted blond hair was cut in a pixie. She must have been very beautiful once\u2014she still had the vivacious, actressy manner of a woman who knows how to use her looks\u2014but she was fading now. Her face was gaunt and her eyes bugged slightly, with years, with stress, with grief. I had met her several times over the years, before all this happened; she never remembered who I was.\n\nNow the two of them stared at us. Dan hardly moved. His keys dangled from his hooked index finger without jangling. His consternation or surprise or whatever he was feeling barely registered on his face.\n\nJoan's face was more animated. She glared, offended by our presence here. No one had to say anything. It was a matter of numbers. We were three, they were two. One son was here, the other gone. The simple fact of Jacob's continued existence must have seemed profane to them.\n\nIt was all so painfully obvious and awkward that the five of us stood there dumbstruck for a moment, gaping at each other while the commotion of the market went on around us.\n\nI told Jacob, \"Why don't you go wait in the car.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nHe began to move off.\n\nThe Rifkins still stared.\n\nI had decided immediately not to say anything unless they initiated the conversation. It was impossible to imagine what I could say that would not be painful or tactless or provocative.\n\nBut Laurie wanted to speak. Her desire to walk over to them was palpable. With great effort, she was restraining herself. I find it touching and almost naive how complete is my wife's faith in communication and connection. To her, there is virtually no problem that does not benefit from a little talk-talk-talk. What is more, she genuinely believed that the case was somehow a shared misfortune, that our family was suffering also, that it was no easy thing to see your son wrongly accused of murder, to see his life ruined for no good reason. The tragedy of Ben Rifkin's murder did not lessen the tragedy of Jake's own victimization. I don't think Laurie meant to say any of this. She is much too empathetic. I think she just wanted to communicate her sympathy somehow, to connect, with the usual banality of \"I'm so sorry for your loss\" or some such.\n\nLaurie said, \"I\u2014\"\n\n\"Laurie,\" I cut her off, \"go wait in the car with Jacob. I'll pay for the stuff.\"\n\nIt did not cross my mind simply to leave. We had a right to be there. We had a right to eat, surely.\n\nLaurie moved past me toward Joan Rifkin. I made a halfhearted effort to stop her but there was never any way to talk my wife out of something once she decided to do it. She was a mule. A sweet, empathetic, brilliant, sensitive, lovely woman, but a mule just the same.\n\nShe walked right up to them and made a gesture with her hands, extending them palms up as if she wanted to take Joan's hands in hers, or maybe just signaling that she did not know exactly what to say, or that she carried no weapons.\n\nJoan met this gesture by crossing her arms.\n\nDan raised his own arm slightly. He looked like he was getting ready to hold Laurie off if for some reason she attacked.\n\nLaurie said, \"Joan\u2014\"\n\nJoan spat in her face. She did it very suddenly, without bothering to work up the saliva in her mouth, and not much came out. It was more of a gesture, perhaps the gesture she thought was appropriate in the circumstances\u2014but then, who could ever be prepared for circumstances like these?\n\nLaurie covered her face with both hands, wiped the spit with her fingers.\n\n\"Murderers,\" Joan said.\n\nI went to Laurie and put my hand on her shoulder. She was as still as stone.\n\nJoan glowered up at me. If she were a man or if she was less genteel, maybe she would have gone after me. She quivered with hatred like a tuning fork. I could not hate her back. I could not be angry with her, could not find much feeling at all for her except sadness, sadness for all of us.\n\nI said to Dan, \"Sorry,\" as if there was no point in talking to Joan and it was up to us men to handle the emotions that our wives could not.\n\nI took Laurie's hand and led her out of the store with elaborate politeness, saying softly over and over \"Excuse us... sorry... excuse us\" as we squeezed past the other shoppers and their carts and out into the parking lot where no one recognized us and we were returned to the semi-anonymity that we still enjoyed in those last few weeks before the trial, before the deluge.\n\n\"We didn't get our things,\" Laurie said.\n\n\"It's okay. We don't need them.\"\n\n# **21 | Beware the Fury of a Patient Man**\n\nIt is the happy lot of defense lawyers to see the good in people. No matter how wicked or incomprehensible the crime, no matter how overwhelming the evidence of guilt, the defense lawyer never forgets his client is a human being like the rest of us. That, of course, is what makes every defendant worth defending. I cannot tell you how many times a lawyer has suggested to me that his baby-shaker or wife-beater \"really isn't a bad guy.\" Even the swaggering mercenaries with their gold Rolexes and alligator briefcases harbor this tiny redeeming fleck of humanism: every criminal is still a man, a complex of good and bad, fully deserving of our empathy and mercy. To cops and prosecutors, things are not so sunny. We have the opposite impulse. We are quick to see the stain, the worm, the latent criminality in even the best people. Experience tells us the nice man next door is capable of anything. The priest may be a pedophile, the cop a crook; the loving husband and father may harbor a filthy secret. Of course, we believe these things for the same reason the defender believes as he does: people are only human.\n\nThe more I watched Leonard Patz, the more I became convinced he was Ben Rifkin's killer. I followed him on his morning rounds, to Dunkin' Donuts then to work at Staples, and I was there when he came out of work too. His Staples uniform made him look ridiculous. The red polo shirt hugged his flabby torso too tightly. Khaki pants accentuated the sort of bulging pelvis that Jacob and his pals call a \"front butt.\" I did not dare go into the store to see what they had Patz selling. Electronics, probably, computers, cell phones\u2014he looked like the type. Of course it is the prosecutor's privilege to choose his defendant, but I simply could not understand why Logiudice preferred Jacob to this man. Maybe it is a parent's wishful thinking or a prosecutor's cynicism, but I still do not understand it, even now.\n\nBy August, I had been following Patz around for weeks, in the mornings and evenings, before and after his workday. Matt Magrath's information was proof positive, as far as I was concerned, but it would not fly in court. No jury would ever accept his word. I needed harder evidence, something that did not rely on that shifty kid. I do not know what exactly I was hoping to see by trailing Patz around like this. A stumble. A return to the scene, a late-night drive to dispose of evidence. Anything.\n\nIn the event, Patz did nothing especially suspicious. For that matter, he did not do very much at all. In his off hours, he seemed content to loaf in shops or hang out in his apartment near Cold Spring Park. He liked to eat at the McDonald's on Soldiers Field Road in Brighton, where he would order at the drive-through and eat in his plum-colored car while listening to the radio. Once, he went to the movies by himself. None of it was remotely significant. But nothing he did ever shook my certainty that Patz was the one. The outrageous possibility that my son would be sacrificed to save this man became an obsession. I grew more and more addled the longer I followed him, stared at him, the longer I dwelt on this idea. The dullness of his life, far from dispelling my suspicion, only infuriated me all the more. He was hiding, laying low, waiting for Logiudice to do his work for him.\n\nOn a sultry Wednesday evening in August, I followed directly behind Patz's car as he made his way home through Newton Centre, a shopping area and village green where several busy roads intersect. It was around five o'clock and still sunny. Traffic was lighter than usual (this is the sort of town that empties out in August) but still bumper-to-bumper. Most drivers had their car windows rolled up tight against the humid heat. A few, including Patz and me, kept our windows open and hung our left elbows out for a little relief. Even the ice-cream eaters on the sidewalk outside J.P. Licks had a limp, defeated look.\n\nAt a red light I nuzzled in behind Patz's car. I clenched the steering wheel tight.\n\nPatz's brake lights flickered and his car lurched slightly.\n\nI lifted my foot off the brake. I don't know why. I was not sure how far I intended to take it. But I was happy, for the first time in a long time, as my car rolled forward and bumped his with a satisfying _chunk_.\n\nHe looked at me in his rearview mirror and raised his hands. _What was that!_\n\nI shrugged, backed the car up a few feet, then knocked his bumper again, a little harder this time. _Chunk_.\n\nThrough his rear window, I saw his shadowy shape put up its hands again in exasperation. I watched him shift the car into park, open the door, and hoist his bulk up out of the car.\n\nAnd I became a different person. A different person, yet I moved and acted with a naturalness and fluency that was wild and unfamiliar, and thrilling.\n\nI was out of the car and moving toward him before I was quite aware of my own motion, without ever actually deciding to confront him.\n\nHe raised his hands in front of his chest, palms forward, and his face registered surprise.\n\nI gathered his shirt up in my hands and thrust him against his car, bending him backward. I buried my snout in his face and growled, \"I know what you did.\"\n\nHe did not respond.\n\n\"I know what you did.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about? Who are you?\"\n\n\"I know about the boy in Cold Spring Park.\"\n\n\"Oh my God, you're crazy.\"\n\n\"You have no idea.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about. Honest. You've got the wrong guy.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Do you remember going to meet Ben Rifkin in the park? Do you remember telling Matt Magrath you were going to do that?\"\n\n\"Matt Magrath?\"\n\n\"How long were you watching Ben Rifkin, how long were you stalking him? Did you ever talk to him? Did you bring your knife that day? What happened? Did you offer him the same deal you had with Matt, a hundred bucks for a feel? Did he turn you down? Did he make fun of you, call you names? Did he try to beat you up, push you around, scare you? What set you off, Leonard? What made you do it?\"\n\n\"You're the father, aren't you?\"\n\n\"No, I'm not Ben's father.\"\n\n\"No, the one that got charged. You're the father. They told me about you. The DA said you'd try to talk to me.\"\n\n\"What DA?\"\n\n\"Logiudice.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\"\n\n\"He said you had this idea in your head and you might try to talk to me someday, and I shouldn't talk to you. He said you were...\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"He said you were crazy. He said you might be violent.\"\n\nI let go of Patz and stepped back.\n\nI was surprised to find I had lifted him off the ground. He slid down the side of his car, landing on his heels. His red Staples uniform shirt was pulled up out of his Dockers khakis, baring an expanse of round belly, but he did not dare straighten himself up yet. He eyed me cautiously.\n\n\"I know what you did,\" I assured him, coming back into myself. \"No way my kid is going away because of you.\"\n\n\"But I didn't do anything.\"\n\n\"Yes, you did. Yes, you did. Matt told me all about it.\"\n\n\"Please just leave me alone. I didn't do anything. I'm just doing what the DA told me to do.\"\n\nI nodded, feeling exposed and out of control. Embarrassed. \"I know what you did,\" I said again, low and certain, as much to myself this time as to Patz. The phrase comforted me, like a little prayer.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And did you continue following Leonard Patz after that day?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Why? What on earth did you hope to accomplish?\n\nWitness: I was trying to solve the case, to prove Patz was the murderer.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You really believed that?\n\nWitness: Yes. You made the wrong call, Neal. The evidence pointed at Patz, not Jacob. That was your best case. You were supposed to follow the evidence wherever it led. That was your job.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Boy, you don't give up, do you?\n\nWitness: You don't have kids, do you, Neal?\n\nMr. Logiudice: No.\n\nWitness: No, I didn't think so. If you did, you'd understand. Did you tell Patz not to talk to me?\n\nMr. Logiudice: Yes.\n\nWitness: Because you knew if the jury heard the evidence against Patz, they never would have believed Jacob did it. You were loading the dice, isn't that right?\n\nMr. Logiudice: I was prosecuting my case. I was prosecuting the suspect I believed did it. That's my job.\n\nWitness: Then why were you so afraid to let the jury hear about Patz?\n\nMr. Logiudice: Because he didn't do it! I was doing what I thought was right, based on the evidence I had at the time. Andy, look, you're not the one asking questions here. That's not your job anymore. It's mine.\n\nWitness: It's just strange, isn't it? Telling a guy like that not to talk to the defense. It's burying exculpatory evidence, isn't it. But you had your reasons, didn't you, Neal?\n\nMr. Logiudice: Would you at least\u2014 Please. Call me Mr. Logiudice. I've earned that, at least.\n\nWitness: Tell them, Neal. Go on, tell them how you knew Leonard Patz. Tell them what the jury never heard.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Let's move on.\n\n# **22 | A Heart Two Sizes Too Small**\n\nMr. Logiudice: Directing your attention to a document that's been marked Exhibit, um, 22, do you recognize this document?\n\nWitness: Yes, it's a letter from Dr. Vogel to Jonathan Klein, our defense lawyer.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And the date?\n\nWitness: It's dated October 2.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Two weeks before the trial.\n\nWitness: Yes, give or take.\n\nMr. Logiudice: The bottom of the letter says, \"CC: Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Barber.\" Were you shown this letter at the time?\n\nWitness: Yes, I was.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But your attorney never turned over this document in discovery, is that correct?\n\nWitness: Not as far as I know.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Not as far as anyone knows.\n\nWitness: Don't testify, Neal. Come on, ask a question.\n\nMr. Logiudice: All right. Why was this document never turned over to the prosecution?\n\nWitness: Because it's privileged. It's a doctor-patient communication and it's work product, which means it was created by the defense team as part of its trial preparation. That makes it confidential. It's exempt from discovery.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But you've produced it now. And in response to an ordinary boilerplate discovery order. Why? Are you waiving the privilege?\n\nWitness: The privilege isn't mine to waive. But it doesn't matter now, does it? The only thing that matters now is the truth.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Here we go. This is the part where you tell us how you believe in the system and all that.\n\nWitness: The system is as good as the people running it, Neal.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Did you believe in Dr. Vogel?\n\nWitness: Yes. Completely.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And you have confidence in her now? Nothing has happened to shake your faith in the doctor's observations?\n\nWitness: I trust her. She's a good doctor.\n\nMr. Logiudice: So you don't dispute anything in this letter?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And what was the purpose of this letter?\n\nWitness: It was an opinion letter. It was meant to summarize the doctor's findings about Jacob so that Jonathan could make a decision about whether to call Dr. Vogel as a witness and whether he wanted to get into this whole subject at all, the subject of Jacob's mental health.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Would you read the second paragraph to the grand jury, please.\n\nWitness: \"The client presents as an articulate, intelligent, polite fourteen-year-old boy. His manner is shy and he is somewhat reticent in conversation, but nothing in his conduct suggests a compromised ability to perceive, recall, or relate the incidents involved in this case or to assist trial counsel in making informed, intelligent, well-reasoned decisions pertaining to his own legal defense.\"\n\nMr. Logiudice: What the doctor is saying there is that in her professional opinion Jacob was competent to stand trial, isn't that right?\n\nWitness: That's a legal opinion, not a clinical one. But yes, obviously the doctor is aware of the standard.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And what about criminal responsibility? The doctor addresses that question in her letter as well, doesn't she? Look at paragraph three.\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Read it, please.\n\nWitness: Quote: \"There is insufficient evidence as yet to conclude definitively whether Jacob adequately perceives the distinction between right and wrong and can adequately govern his behavior to act according to that distinction. There may be sufficient evidence, however, to support a colorable argument relying on genetic and neurological evidence based on a theory of 'irresistible impulse.' \" Unquote.\n\nMr. Logiudice: \"There may be sufficient evidence,\" \"a colorable argument\"\u2014that's a lot of hedging, isn't it?\n\nWitness: It's understandable. People were bound to be skeptical about making excuses for murder. If the doctor took the stand and made that argument, she'd better be damn sure.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But she did say, in fact, at least at this stage, that it was possible? It was a \"colorable argument\"?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: A murder gene?\n\nWitness: She never used that term.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Would you read the paragraph labeled \"Diagnosis Overview\"? Page three, top of the page.\n\nWitness: Neal, do you want me to read the whole thing to them? The document is already in evidence. They can read it for themselves.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Please. Humor me.\n\nWitness: Quote: \"Jacob exhibits behavior and expresses thoughts and inclinations, both in private session and in his history outside direct clinical observation, that would support any or all of the following diagnoses in isolation or in combination: reactive attachment disorder, narcissistic personality disorder\"\u2014look, if you're asking me to comment on a psychiatrist's clinical diagnosis\u2014\n\nMr. Logiudice: Please, just one more. Page four, paragraph two, the sentence I've indicated with a sticky note.\n\nWitness: Quote: \"The best way to summarize this entire constellation of observations\u2014lack of empathy, difficulties with impulse control, occasional cruelty\u2014is to say that Jacob resembles the Grinch of Dr. Seuss: 'His heart is two sizes too small.' \" Unquote.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You look upset. I'm sorry. Does that upset you?\n\nWitness: Jesus, Neal. Jesus.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Is this how you felt when you first heard that your son had a heart that was two sizes too small?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: Is this how it felt?\n\nWitness: Objection. Relevance.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Noted. Now answer the question, please. Is this how it felt?\n\nWitness: Yes! How do you think I felt, for Christ's sake! I'm his father.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Exactly. How is it that you lived with a boy who had the capacity for this sort of violence all these years and you never even noticed it? Never suspected one thing was out of place? Never lifted a finger to address these psychological problems?\n\nWitness: What do you want me to say, Neal?\n\nMr. Logiudice: That you knew. You knew, Andy. You knew.\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: How is that possible, Andy? How could you not know? How is that even possible?\n\nWitness: I don't know. I only know it's the truth.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Again with that. You sure do stick to your talking points, don't you? You keep saying \"the truth, the truth, the truth,\" as if saying it makes it so.\n\nWitness: You don't have kids, Neal. I don't expect you to understand.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Enlighten me. Enlighten all of us.\n\nWitness: You can't see your own kids straight. No one can. You love them too much, you're too close. If you had a son. If you had a son.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Do you need a minute to gather yourself?\n\nWitness: No. Have you ever heard of confirmation bias? Confirmation bias is the tendency to see things in your environment that confirm your preconceived ideas and not see things that conflict with what you already believe. I think maybe something like that happens with kids. You see what you want to see.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And what you don't want to see, you choose not to?\n\nWitness: Not choose. You just don't see it.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But in order for that to be true, for it to be confirmation bias, you would have to genuinely believe in the thing. Because you're talking about an unconscious process. So you would have to genuinely believe in your heart of hearts that Jacob was an ordinary kid, that his heart was not two sizes too small, correct?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But in this case, that couldn't be true, could it? Because you had reason to be on the lookout for signs of trouble, didn't you? Your whole life\u2014your whole life, Andy\u2014you've been aware of the possibility, isn't that true?\n\nWitness: No, it is not.\n\nMr. Logiudice: No? Did you forget who your father was?\n\nWitness: Yes. For thirty years or so, I forgot. I meant to forget, I purposely forgot, I was entitled to forget.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You were entitled?\n\nWitness: Yes. It was a personal matter.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Was it, though? You never really believed that. You forgot who your father was? Forgot what your son might become if he turned out like Grandpa? Come on, you don't forget a thing like that. You knew. \"Confirmation bias\"!\n\nWitness: Step back, Neal.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You knew.\n\nWitness: Step back. Get out of my face. Act like a lawyer, for once.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Well, now. There's the Andy Barber we all know. Back in control of yourself. Master of self-control, master of self-delusion. Master actor. Let me ask you something: those thirty years when you forgot who you are, where you came from, you were telling yourself a story, weren't you? For that matter, you were telling everyone a story. In a word, you were lying.\n\nWitness: I never said anything that was not true.\n\nMr. Logiudice: No, but you left a few things out, didn't you? You left a few things out.\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: And yet now you want the grand jury to believe every word you say.\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: All right, then. Go on with your story.\n\n# **23 | Him**\n\n_Northern Correctional Institution_ ,\n\n_Somers, Connecticut_.\n\nThe visiting booth at Northern seemed designed to disorient and isolate. A claustrophobic sealed white box, about five feet wide by eight feet deep, with a windowed door behind me and a plate-glass window in front. A beige dial-less phone on the wall at my right hand. A white counter to rest my arms on. The booth was designed to keep the prisoners caged in, of course: Northern was a level-five maximum security facility that permitted only no-contact visits. But it was I who felt entombed.\n\nAnd when he appeared in the window\u2014my father, Bloody Billy Barber\u2014hands cuffed at his waist, a tangle of ash gray hair, smirking down at me\u2014amused, I suppose, at his pissant kid showing up here finally\u2014I was glad for the thick glass slab between us. Glad that he could see but not reach me. The leopard in the zoo wanders to the edge of his pen and, through the bars or across an unjumpable moat, he stares at you with contempt for your inferiority, for needing that barrier between you. There is a shared understanding in that moment, nonverbal but no less real: the leopard is predator and you are prey, and it is only the barrier that permits us humans to feel superior and secure. That feeling, standing at the leopard's cage, is edged with shame, at the animal's superior strength, at his hauteur, his low estimation of you. To my own surprise, what I felt in those first moments in my father's presence was precisely the zoo-goer's subtle shame. The surge of emotion took me by surprise. I had not expected to feel much of anything. Let's be honest: Billy Barber was a stranger to me. I had not seen him in forty-five years or so, since I was a kid. But I could not have been more frozen by him. He held me as surely as if he had somehow materialized on my side of the glass and wrapped me in his arms.\n\nHe stood there framed in the window, a three-quarter-length portrait of an old con, his eyes on me. He gave a little snort.\n\nI broke eye contact, and he sat down.\n\nA guard stood several feet behind him, near the blank wall. (Everything was blank, every wall, every door, every surface. From what I could see, Northern C.I. seemed to be made up entirely of unbroken white plaster walls and gray concrete walls. The facility was new, completed only in 1995, so I assumed the lack of color was part of some crazy-making penal strategy. After all, it is no harder to paint a wall yellow or blue than white.)\n\nMy father picked up his phone\u2014even as I write the words _my father_ I feel a little thrill, and my mind reverses the film of my life back to 1961 when I last saw him, in the visiting room at the Whalley Avenue jail; that is the moment of divergence, the whole contingent, ramifying course of our two lives begins there\u2014and I picked up my phone.\n\n\"Thanks for seeing me.\"\n\n\"They're not exactly standing in line.\"\n\nOn his wrist was the blue tattoo I had remembered for so many years. It was actually quite small and indistinct, a little fuzzy-edged crucifix that had darkened with age to plum purple, like a deep bruise. I had misremembered it. I had misremembered him: he was only average height, thin, more muscular now than I'd imagined. Ropy jail-house muscles, even at seventy-two. He had picked up a new tattoo as well, much more intricate and artful than the old one: a dragon that coiled itself around his neck so that its tail and snout met at the base of his throat like a necklace pendant.\n\n\"About time you come see me.\"\n\nI sniffed. The risible suggestion that _his_ feelings were hurt, that _he_ was the victim here, pissed me off. What balls. Typical con, this guy was\u2014always wheedling, angling, gaming.\n\n\"What's it been,\" he went on, \"a whole life? A whole life I'm rotting away and you don't have time to come see your old man. Not even once. What kind of kid are you? What kind of kid does that?\"\n\n\"You practice that speech?\"\n\n\"Don't smart-mouth me. What'd I ever do to you? Huh? Nothing. But a whole life you never come see me. Your own father. What kind of kid doesn't visit his own father for forty years?\"\n\n\"I'm _your_ son. That should explain it.\"\n\n\"My son? Not _my_ son. I don't know you. Never laid eyes on you.\"\n\n\"Want to see my birth certificate?\"\n\n\"Like I give a shit about a fuckin' birth certificate. You think that's what makes a son? One squirt fifty years ago, that's what you are to me. What'd you think? I'd be happy to see you? Did you think I'd be jumping up and down, whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo?\"\n\n\"You could have said no. I wasn't on your visitor list.\"\n\n\"No one's on my fuckin' list. Whattaya think? Who would be on my fuckin' list? They don't let people visit here anyway. Just immediate family.\"\n\n\"You want me to leave?\"\n\n\"No. Did you hear me say that?\" He shook his head, frowned. \"This fuckin' place. This place is the worst. I haven't been here the whole time, you know. They move me around. You do bad somewheres else, they send you here. It's a hole.\"\n\nHe seemed to lose interest in the subject and he fell silent.\n\nI did not speak. I have found in any Q&A, in court, in witness interviews, wherever, often the best thing you can do is wait, say nothing. The witness will want to fill the awkward silence. He will feel a vague compulsion to keep talking, to prove he is not holding back, to prove he is smart and in the know, to earn your trust. In this case, I think, I waited just out of habit. Certainly I had no intention of leaving. Not until he said yes.\n\nHis mood shifted. He slumped. Almost visibly, he went from petulant to resigned, even self-pitying.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"you came out big, at least. She must've fed you good.\"\n\n\"She did fine. With everything.\"\n\n\"How is she, your mother?\"\n\n\"What do you give a shit?\"\n\n\"I don't.\"\n\n\"So don't talk about her.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't I?\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"I knew her before you did,\" he said. He squirmed in his chair with a leer, wiggled his hips, mimed fucking her.\n\n\"Your grandson is in trouble. Did you know that?\"\n\n\"Did I\u2014? I didn't even know I had a grandson. What's his name?\"\n\n\"Jacob.\"\n\n\"Jacob?\"\n\n\"What's so funny?\"\n\n\"The fuck kind of faggot name is Jacob?\"\n\n\"It's a name!\"\n\nBouncing with laughter, he sang in falsetto, \"Jaaaacob!\"\n\n\"Watch your mouth. He's a good kid.\"\n\n\"Yeah? Can't be that good or you wouldn't be here.\"\n\n\"I said watch your mouth.\"\n\n\"What's little Jacob in trouble for?\"\n\n\"Murder.\"\n\n\"Murder? Murder. How old is he?\"\n\n\"Fourteen.\"\n\nMy father lowered the phone to his lap and slumped back in his chair. When he sat back up again, he said, \"Who'd he kill?\"\n\n\"No one. He's innocent.\"\n\n\"Yeah, so am I.\"\n\n\"He's really innocent.\"\n\n\"Okay, okay.\"\n\n\"You never heard anything about this?\"\n\n\"I never hear about anything in here. This place is a toilet.\"\n\n\"You must be the oldest con in here.\"\n\n\"One of 'em.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you survive it.\"\n\n\"You can't hurt steel.\" The handcuffs forced him to raise both arms as he held the phone in his left hand, and he flexed his unoccupied right arm. \"You can't hurt steel.\" But then his bravado vanished. \"This place is a hole,\" he said. \"It's like living in a fuckin' cave.\"\n\nHe had a way of swinging between the two poles of hyper-machismo and self-pity. It was hard to tell which one was a put-on. Maybe neither was. On the street this sort of emotional volatility would have seemed crazy. In here, who knew? Maybe it was a natural reaction to this place.\n\n\"You put yourself in this place.\"\n\n\"I put myself in this place and I'm doing my bid and I'm not complaining. You hear me complaining?\"\n\nI did not answer.\n\n\"So what d'you want outa me? You want me to do something for poor innocent little Jacob?\"\n\n\"I may want you to testify.\"\n\n\"Testify to what?\"\n\n\"Let me ask you something. When you killed that girl, what did it feel like? Not physically. I mean, what was in your mind, what were you thinking about?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, what was I thinking about?\"\n\n\"Why did you do it?\"\n\n\"What do you want me to say? You tell me.\"\n\n\"I just want you to tell the truth.\"\n\n\"Yeah, right. Nobody wants that. Especially the people who tell you they want the truth\u2014trust me, they don't want the truth. You tell me what you want me to say to help the kid out and I'll say it. I don't give a shit. What do I give a shit?\"\n\n\"Let me put it this way. When it happened, were you thinking anything? Anything at all? Or was it kind of an irresistible impulse?\"\n\nThe corner of his mouth curled upward. \"An irresistible impulse?\"\n\n\"Just answer.\"\n\n\"Is that what you're going for?\"\n\n\"Never mind what I'm going for. I'm not going for anything. Just tell me what you felt.\"\n\n\"I felt an irresistible impulse.\"\n\nI exhaled loud and long. \"You know, if you were a better liar, you might not be in here.\"\n\n\"If you weren't such a good liar, you might not be out there.\" He eyed me. \"You want me to help get the kid off, I'll help you. He's my grandkid. Just tell me what you need.\"\n\nI had already decided Bloody Billy Barber was not going to come within ten miles of the witness stand. He was worse than a liar\u2014he was a bad liar.\n\n\"All right,\" I said, \"you want to know what I came for? This is what I came for.\" I held up a little packet: a sterile swab and a plastic envelope to hold it. \"I need to wipe your gums with this. For DNA.\"\n\n\"The guards won't let you.\"\n\n\"Let me worry about the guards. I need you to let me.\"\n\n\"What do you need my DNA for?\"\n\n\"We're testing for a certain mutation. It's called MAOA Knockout.\"\n\n\"What in the fuck is MAOA Knockout?\"\n\n\"It's a genetic mutation. They think it might code your body to be more aggressive in certain environments.\"\n\n\"Who thinks that?\"\n\n\"Scientists.\"\n\nHis eyes narrowed. You could practically read his thoughts, the selfish opportunism of a career con: maybe here was an argument to flip his own conviction.\n\n\"The more you talk, the more I think maybe Jacob isn't so innocent.\"\n\n\"I didn't come here to hear your opinion. I came to get your spit on this Q-tip. If you say no, I'll go get a court order and come back and we'll take it the hard way.\"\n\n\"Why would I say no?\"\n\n\"Why would you do anything? Guys like you I don't understand.\"\n\n\"What's to understand? I'm the same as anyone else. Same as you.\"\n\n\"Yeah, okay, whatever.\"\n\n\"Don't give me 'okay, whatever.' Did you ever stop to think that without me you wouldn't exist?\"\n\n\"Every day.\"\n\n\"See? There.\"\n\n\"It's not a happy thought.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm still your old man, kiddo, whether you like it or not. It don't have to make you happy.\"\n\n\"It don't.\"\n\nAfter some negotiation and a call to the deputy warden, a deal was struck. I would not be allowed to swab my father's mouth personally, which would have been the best method because it would create the cleanest chain of custody: I could testify that the sample was genuine because the Q-tip never left my possession. Not at Northern. \"No contact\" meant no contact. At length, I was allowed to give the kit to a guard, who passed it to my father.\n\nI talked him through the procedure step by step on the phone in the visiting booth. \"All you have to do is break open the package and wipe the Q-tip around your cheek a little. Just so it soaks up a little spit. Swallow first. Then wipe it on the inside of your cheek near the back of your mouth, back where your jaws meet. Then I want you to put the Q-tip in that plastic bottle there, without touching the tip to anything else, then screw the top on. Then I want you to put that label across the top, and sign and date the label. And I need to be able to watch you do all that, so don't block me.\"\n\nWith his hands still cuffed, he ripped open the paper package holding the swab. It was a long wooden stick, longer than an ordinary Q-tip. He put the swab straight into his mouth like a lollipop and he pretended to bite it. Then, looking at me through the window, he bared his teeth and wiped the cotton tip across his upper front gums. Then he swirled it around at the back of his mouth, in the pocket of his cheek. He held the stick up to the window.\n\n\"Now you.\"\n\n# **Part**  \n **THREE**\n\n_\"I have in mind an experiment. Take an infant\u2014regardless of ancestry, race, talent, or predilection, so long as he is essentially healthy\u2014and I will make of him whatever you like. I will produce an artist, soldier, doctor, lawyer, priest; or I will raise him to be a thief. You may decide. The infant is equally capable of all these things. All that is required is training, time, and a properly controlled environmment.\"_\n\n\u2014JOHN F. WATKINS,  \n_Principles of Behaviorism_ (1913)\n\n# **24 | It's Different for Mothers**\n\nFor years I never expected to lose in court. In practice, I did lose, of course. Every lawyer loses, just as every baseball player makes an out seventy percent of the time he goes to bat. But I was never intimidated, and I spat on prosecutors who were\u2014the politicians and wheeler-dealers who were afraid to try a case that was not a sure thing, who would not risk a not-guilty. To a prosecutor, there is no dishonor in a not-guilty, not when the alternative is a sleazy deal. We are not measured by simple won-lost records. The truth is, the best won-lost records are not built on great trial work. They are built on cherry-picking only the strongest cases for trial and pleading out the rest, regardless of the right and wrong of it. That was Logiudice's way, not mine. Better to fight and lose than sell out your victim.\n\nThat is one reason I loved homicides. You cannot plead guilty to murder in Massachusetts. Every case must go to trial. The rule is a remnant of the days when murder was punishable by death in this state. In a capital case, no shortcuts were permitted, no deals. The stakes were simply too high. So to this day every homicide case, no matter how lopsided, must be tried. Prosecutors cannot cherry-pick the sure winners for trial and the long shots to dump. _Well_ , I liked to think, _so much the better. Then the difference will be me. I will win even withthe weaker case_. That was how I saw it. But then, we all tell ourselves stories about ourselves. The money man tells himself that by getting rich he is actually enriching others, the artist tells himself that his creations are things of deathless beauty, the soldier tells himself he is on the side of the angels. Me, I told myself that in court I could make things turn out right\u2014that when I won, justice was served. You can get drunk on such thinking, and in Jacob's case I was.\n\nAs the trial approached, I felt a familiar battlefield euphoria. It never crossed my mind that we would lose. I was energized, optimistic, confident, pugnacious. All of it in hindsight seems strangely disconnected from reality. But it is not so strange, if you think about it. Treat a man like an anvil and he will long to hit back.\n\nThe trial began in mid-October 2007, at the height of leaf season. Soon the trees would release their leaves all at once, but for the moment the foliage was in its final brilliant efflorescence of red, orange, and mustard.\n\nOn the eve of the trial, a Tuesday night, the air was unseasonably warm. The overnight temperature did not fall much below sixty degrees, and the air was dense, humid, agitated. I woke up in the middle of the night, sensing something wrong in the atmosphere, as I always do when Laurie cannot sleep.\n\nShe was lying on her side, up on one elbow, head propped in her hand.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" I whispered to her.\n\n\"Listen.\"\n\n\"To what?\"\n\n\"Sh. Just wait, listen.\"\n\nOutside, the night rustled.\n\nThere was a loud screech. It began as an animal's yelp then quickly rose into a piercing high-pitched shriek, like the _screel_ of a train's brakes.\n\n\"What on earth is that?\" she said.\n\n\"I don't know. A cat? A bird maybe? Something is killing it.\"\n\n\"What would be killing a cat?\"\n\n\"A fox, a coyote. Raccoon, maybe.\"\n\n\"It's like we live in the woods, all of a sudden. This is the city! I've lived here all my life. We never had foxes and coyotes. And those huge wild turkeys we get in the yard? We never had any of that.\"\n\n\"There's a lot of new development. The town's getting built up. Their natural habitats are disappearing. They're getting flushed out into the open.\"\n\n\"Listen to that sound, Andy. I can't even tell what direction it's coming from or how far away it is. It's like it's right next to us. It must be one of the neighbors' cats.\"\n\nWe listened. It came again. This time the dying animal's screeches definitely sounded like a cat. The cry began recognizably as a cat's mewling before the wild, electrified shrieks began.\n\n\"Why is it taking so long?\"\n\n\"Maybe it's toying with its prey. Cats do that with mice, I know.\"\n\n\"It's awful.\"\n\n\"It's nature.\"\n\n\"To be cruel? To torture your prey before you kill it? How is that natural? What evolutionary advantage does cruelty give?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Laurie. It's just the way it is. Whatever would attack a cat like that\u2014some starving coyote or wild dog or whatever\u2014I'm sure it's desperate. It can't be easy to hunt around here.\"\n\n\"If he's desperate, then he should kill it and eat it already.\"\n\n\"Why don't we try to get some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow.\"\n\n\"How can I sleep with that?\"\n\n\"You want one of my Ambien?\"\n\n\"No. They knock me out all the next morning. I want to be alert tomorrow. I don't know how you take those things.\"\n\n\"Are you kidding? I eat them like Tic Tacs. They don't knock me out _enough_.\"\n\n\"I don't need pills, Andy. I just want that sound to stop.\"\n\n\"Come on, lie down.\"\n\nShe let her head down. I folded my body against her back, and she seated herself against me.\n\n\"You're just nervous, Laurie. It's understandable.\"\n\n\"I don't know if I can do this, Andy. Really, I don't have the strength.\"\n\n\"We'll get through it.\"\n\n\"It's easier for you. You've seen the whole process before. And you're not a mother. Not that this is _easy_ for you. I know it's not. But it's different for me. I just can't do it. I'm not going to make it.\"\n\n\"I wish I could make it go away for you, Laurie, but I can't.\"\n\n\"No. This helps, anyway, what you're doing now. We'll just lie here. It has to stop soon.\"\n\nThe shrieks went on for another fifteen minutes or so. Neither of us slept much even after they stopped.\n\nWhen we emerged from our house at eight o'clock the next morning, a Fox 25 news van idled across the street, smoke wisping from the tailpipe. A cameraman filmed us as we walked to the car. He was faceless behind his shoulder-held camera. Or rather, the camera was his face, his one-eyed insect head.\n\nOutside the courthouse in Cambridge, we made our way to the front entrance on Thorndike Street, where reporters swarmed. Again they bumbled against one another as we came up the block. Again the cameras jostled for a clear shot, again the microphones probed the air in front of us. The crush of reporters was much easier to deal with this time, having been through it once before at the arraignment. Jacob's presence excited them most, but I was oddly thankful that Jacob had to run this gauntlet. I had a theory that it was always better for a defendant to be bailed and out on the street than to be held in the pretrial lockup, as most of my own murder defendants had been. Defendants who did not make bail seemed to leave the building only one way, via the prisoners' exit\u2014heading for Concord, not home. Those prisoner-defendants moved down through the courthouse, like meat through a grinder or like the steel balls that bounce down a pachinko machine: from the jail on the top floors, down through the various courtrooms, finally out through the basement-level garage, where the sheriff's vans carted them off to the various prisons. Better that Jacob walk in through the front door, better that he retain his freedom and dignity as long as possible. Once this building caught you in its gears, it did not like to let go.\n\n# **25 | The Schoolteacher, Glasses Girl, the Fat Somerville Guy, Urkel, the Recording Studio Guy, the Housewife, Braces Woman, and Other Oracles of Truth**\n\nIn Middlesex County, judges were ostensibly assigned to trials at random. No one actually believed such a lottery existed. The same few judges were assigned high-profile cases over and over, and the judges who kept drawing the winning lottery tickets tended to be prima donnas\u2014just the sort who would lobby for the gig behind the scenes. But no one ever complained. Bucking the entrenched routines of that courthouse was generally an exercise in pissing upwind, and anyway the self-selection of egomaniacal judges probably was for the best. It takes a healthy dose of ego to keep command of a contentious courtroom. That and it made for a better show: big cases need big personalities.\n\nSo it came as no surprise that the judge assigned to Jacob's trial was Burton French. Everyone knew he would be. The hairnetted cafeteria ladies, the mental-patient janitors, even the mice that scratched around behind the ceiling tiles all knew that, if a TV camera was going to be in the courtroom, the judge on the bench would be Burt French. He was very likely the only judge whose face the public recognized, as he appeared often on the local news shows to dilate on matters legal. The camera loved him. In person he had a slightly laughable Colonel Blimp appearance\u2014a wine-cask body supported uncertainly by two wiry legs\u2014but as a talking head on the TV screen he projected the sort of reassuring gravity we like to see in our judges. He spoke in definitive declarations, none of the \"on the one hand, on the other hand\" that journalists rely on. At the same time he was never bombastic; he never seemed to be faking or provoking, manufacturing the \"heat\" that TV loves. Rather, he had a way of using his square, serious face, of tucking in his chin and leveling his eyes at the camera and saying things like \"The Law does not permit [this or that].\" You could hardly blame viewers for thinking, _If The Law could talk, this is what it would sound like_.\n\nWhat made all this so unbearable to the lawyers who gathered to gossip before the First Session every morning or over lunch at the Cinnabon in the Galleria food court was that Judge French's gruff no-bullshit attitude was itself pure bullshit. The man who presented himself in public as the embodiment of The Law, they thought, was in reality a publicity seeker, an intellectual lightweight, and in the courtroom a petty tyrant. Which made him the perfect embodiment of The Law, when you really thought about it.\n\nOf course by the time Jake's trial began I did not give a rat's ass about Judge French's failings. All that mattered was the game, and Burt French was an advantage to us. He was essentially conservative, not the sort of judge to go out on a limb for a novel legal theory like the Murder Gene. Equally important, he was the sort of judge who liked to test the lawyers who appeared before him. He had a bully's instinct for weakness or uncertainty, and he loved to torment bumbling, unprepared lawyers. Throwing Neal Logiudice in front of a guy like that was chumming the water, and Lynn Canavan made a mistake by doing it in such an important case. But then, what choice did she have? She could not send me anymore.\n\nSo it began.\n\nBut it began\u2014as is often the case with an event you have anticipated too eagerly for too long\u2014with a sense of anticlimax. We waited in the crowded gallery of courtroom 12B as the clock spun past nine o'clock, nine-fifteen, nine-thirty. Jonathan sat beside us, unfazed by the delay. He checked in with the judge's clerk a few times, only to be told each time that there were delays in setting up the pool camera whose video feed the news stations, including Court TV, were to share. Then we waited awhile longer while the larger-than-usual jury pool which we had reserved was being organized. Jonathan reported these things to us, then opened up his _New York Times_ and read peacefully.\n\nAt the front of the courtroom, Judge French's clerk, a woman named Mary McQuade, fiddled with some papers; then, satisfied, she stood and surveyed the chamber with crossed arms. I always got along with Mary. I made it my business to. The court clerks were gatekeepers to the judges and therefore influential. Mary in particular seemed to enjoy the secondhand prestige of her position, the nearness to power. And the truth is, she did her job well, brokering between Judge French's blustering and the lawyers' constant jockeying for advantage. The word _bureaucrat_ has a negative connotation, but we do need bureaucracies, after all, and it is good bureaucrats that make them go. Mary certainly made no apologies for her place in the system. She wore expensive, stylish eyeglasses and decent suits, as if to separate herself from the hacks in the other courtrooms.\n\nIn a chair along the far wall was the court officer, an enormous fat man named Ernie Zinelli. Ernie was sixty-odd years old and three hundred\u2013odd pounds, and if there was ever actually trouble in the courtroom, the poor guy would probably keel over of a heart attack. His presence as the judge's enforcer was purely symbolic, like the gavel. But I loved Ernie. Over the years he had grown increasingly open with me about his opinions of defendants, which were generally unfavorable in the extreme, and about judges and lawyers, which were only slightly more positive.\n\nThat morning, these two old colleagues of mine barely acknowledged me. Mary glanced in my direction occasionally but gave no sign she had ever seen me before. Ernie risked a little grin. They seemed afraid someone might think that any friendly gestures were directed at Jacob, who sat beside me. I wondered if they had been instructed to ignore me. Probably they just figured I had joined the other team.\n\nWhen the judge finally did take the bench a little before ten, we were stiff from sitting.\n\nEveryone stood at Ernie's recital of the familiar \"Oyez, oyez, oyez, the Superior Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is now in session,\" and Jacob fidgeted right through to the end: \"All ye having business before this court come forward and ye shall be heard.\" His mother and I both put a hand on Jacob's back to reassure him.\n\nThe case was called, Jonathan gestured to Jacob, and the two of them crossed the bar and took their seats at the defense table, as they would every morning for the next two weeks.\n\nThis would be Laurie's view of the entire trial. From the front row of the gallery benches, she would sit impassively for hour after hour, day after day, staring at the back of Jacob's head. Poised on that bench, my wife looked very pale and thin among the spectators, as if Jacob's case was a cancer that she had to endure, a physical struggle. And yet, no matter how she withered, I could not help seeing in Laurie the ghost of her younger self, the teenaged girl with a lovely, full, heart-shaped face. I have an idea that this is what enduring love really means. Your memories of a girl at seventeen become as real and vivid as the middle-aged woman sitting in front of you. It is a happy sort of double vision, this seeing and remembering. To be seen this way is to be known.\n\nLaurie was miserable sitting there. The parents of young defendants have been consigned to a peculiar purgatory in these trials. We were expected to be present but silent. We were implicated in Jacob's crime as both victims and perpetrators. We were pitied, since we had done nothing wrong. We had just been unlucky, lost the pregnancy lottery, and been stuck with a rogue child. Sperm + egg = murderer\u2014something like that. Can't be helped. At the same time we were despised: _somebody_ had to be responsible for Jacob, and we had created the boy and raised him\u2014we must have done _something_ wrong. Even worse, now we had the gall to support the killer; we actually wanted to see him get away with it, which only confirmed our antisocial nature, our bone-deep badness. Of course, the public view of us was so contradictory and jumped-up with emotion that there was no way to answer it, no right way to act. People would think what they wanted, they would imagine for us whatever sinister or suffering interior life they chose. And for the next two weeks Laurie would play her part. She would sit there at the back of the courtroom as still and expressionless as a marble statue. She would watch the back of her son's head, trying to interpret the tiniest micromovements. She would react to nothing. It did not matter that once she had held that baby boy in her arms and whispered in his ear, \"Sh, sh.\" At this point, nobody gave a shit.\n\nWhen he finally took the bench, Judge French scanned the room as the clerk read out the case: \"Number oh-eight-dash-four-four-oh-seven, Commonwealth v. Jacob Michael Barber, a single count of murder in the first degree. For the defendant, Jonathan Klein. For the Commonwealth, Assistant District Attorney Neal Logiudice.\" The judge's handsome, grave face settled briefly on each of the players, Jacob, the lawyers, even us, conferring on each a momentary significance while we were in his gaze, which vanished as soon as his eyes swept on.\n\nOver the years I had tried many cases before Judge French, and although I thought he was a bit of an empty suit, I liked him well enough. He had been a football player at Harvard, a defensive lineman. In his senior year he had fallen on a fumble in the end zone against Yale, and this singular brilliant moment had stuck with him. He kept a framed picture of it on his office wall, big Burt French in his crimson and gold uniform lying on his side on the ground, cuddling the precious egg he'd found. I suspect the picture struck me differently than it did Judge French. To me, he was the sort of guy such things happened to. Rich and good-looking and all the rest, no doubt opportunities had always presented themselves like so many footballs lying in his way and he had merely to fall on them, all the while presuming his good fortune was the natural product of his talent. One wonders how a charmed man like him would have been affected by a father like Bloody Billy Barber. All that ease, all that naturalness, all that credulous self-confidence. For years I had studied men like Burt French, despised them, copied them.\n\n\"Mr. Klein,\" the judge said, slipping on a pair of half-glasses, \"any preliminary motions before we begin the voir dire?\"\n\nJonathan stood. \"A couple of things, Your Honor. First, the defendant's father, Andrew Barber, would like to enter an appearance in the case on the defendant's behalf. With the court's permission, he is going to second-chair me at the trial.\"\n\nJonathan went to the clerk and handed her the motion, a single sheet announcing that I would be part of the defense team. The clerk handed the sheet to the judge, who frowned at it.\n\n\"It's not really my decision, Mr. Klein, but I'm not sure it's wise either.\"\n\n\"It's the family's wish,\" Jonathan said, distancing himself from the decision.\n\nThe judge scribbled his name on the sheet, allowing the motion. \"Mr. Barber, you can come forward.\"\n\nI came around the bar and sat down at the defense table beside Jacob.\n\n\"Anything else?\"\n\n\"Your Honor, I have filed a motion _in limine_ to exclude scientific evidence based on an alleged genetic predisposition to violence.\"\n\n\"Yes. I have read your motion and I am inclined to allow it. Do you wish to be heard further before I rule? As I understand it, your position is that the science has not been established and, even if it was, there is no specific evidence of a violent propensity, genetic or otherwise, in this case. Is that the gist of it?\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor, that's the gist.\"\n\n\"Mr. Logiudice? Do you want to be heard or will you rest on your brief? It seems to me the defense is entitled to a hearing on that sort of evidence before it comes in. Mind you, I am not excluding such evidence definitively. I am merely ruling that, if you choose to offer evidence of a genetic tendency to violence, we will hold a hearing at that time, outside the jury's presence, to decide whether it will be admitted or not.\"\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor, I would like to be heard on that.\"\n\nThe judge blinked at him. His face read plain as day, _Sit down and shut up_.\n\nLogiudice stood and buttoned his suit coat, a slim three-button number that, when buttoned up this way, did not fit him properly. Logiudice's neck craned forward slightly while the jacket stayed erect, which caused the coat collar to float an inch or two away from his neck like a monk's cowl.\n\n\"Your Honor, the Commonwealth's position\u2014and we are prepared to offer expert evidence on this point\u2014is that the science of behavioral genetics has made great strides and continues to advance every day, and it is already mature enough by far and away to be admitted here. We would submit that this is even the extreme case where to exclude such evidence would be improper\u2014\"\n\n\"The motion is allowed.\"\n\nLogiudice stood there a moment, unsure if his pocket had just been picked.\n\n\"Mr. Logiudice,\" the judge explained as he signed the motion, _Allowed. French, J._ , \"I have not excluded the evidence. My ruling is simply that, if you want to offer it, you will have to provide notice to the defense and we will have a hearing on its admissibility before you offer it to the jury. Understood?\"\n\n\"Understood, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"Let me be crystal clear: not a word of it until I rule it's coming in.\"\n\n\"Understood, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"We're not going to turn this into a circus.\" The judge sighed. \"All right, anything else before I bring in the jury venire?\"\n\nThe lawyers shook their heads.\n\nWith a series of nods\u2014the judge to the clerk, the clerk to the court officer\u2014the potential jurors were fetched from one of the lower floors. They shuffled in, rubbernecking the courtroom like tourists wandering through Versailles. The chamber must have disappointed them. It was a grungy courtroom in the modern style: high boxy ceilings, minimalist furnishings of maple wood and black laminate, muted indirect lighting. Two flags drooped from listing flagpoles, an American flag to the judge's right and the flag of Massachusetts to his left. The American flag at least had its original vivid colors; the state flag, once pure white, had faded to a dingy ivory. Otherwise there was nothing, no statue, no chiseled Latin inscription, no portrait of a forgotten judge, nothing to relieve the Scandinavian austerity of the design. I had been in this courtroom a thousand times, but the jurors' disappointment made me look at it, finally, and realize how exhausted it all appeared.\n\nThe jury pool filled the entire gallery at the back of the courtroom, leaving only the two benches that had been reserved for the defendant's family, reporters, and a few others whose courthouse connections entitled them to remain. The potential jurors were a mix of working people and housewives, kids and retirees. Jury pools usually skewed slightly blue-collar and underemployed, since these were the people more likely to respond to a summons. But this jury pool had a vaguely professional look to it, I thought. Lots of good haircuts, new shoes, BlackBerry holsters, pens sticking out of pockets. This too was good for us, I decided. We wanted smart, coolheaded jurors, people with the brains to understand a technical defense or the limitations of scientific evidence, and the balls to say _Not guilty_.\n\nWe began the process of voir dire, the question-and-answer process by which juries are chosen. Jonathan and I each had our jury seating charts, a table of two rows, six columns\u2014twelve places in all, plus two extra boxes on the right side of the sheet\u2014matching the chairs in the jury box. Twelve jurors, plus two alternates who would hear all the evidence but would not take part in the deliberations unless one of the jurors dropped out. Fourteen candidates were called forward, fourteen chairs were filled, we scribbled the names plus a few notes in the boxes on our scorecards, and the process began.\n\nJonathan and I conferred on each potential juror. We had six peremptory challenges, which we could use to eliminate a juror without stating a reason, and an unlimited number of challenges \"for cause,\" meaning challenges based on some explicit reason to think the juror would be biased. For all the strategizing, jury selection has always been something of a shot in the dark. There are pricey experts who claim to remove some of the guesswork using focus groups, psychological profiling, statistics, and so on\u2014the scientific method\u2014but predicting how a stranger will judge your case, especially based on the very limited information in a jury questionnaire, is frankly more art than science, the more so in Massachusetts where the rules severely limit how extensively jurors may be questioned. And yet, we tried to sort them. We looked for education; for suburbanites who might sympathize with Jacob and not hold his comfortable background against him; for dispassionate professions like accountant, engineer, programmer. Logiudice tried to load up on working folks, parents, anyone who might be outraged at the crime and who would have little problem believing a boy could kill even on scant provocation.\n\nJurors came forward, sat, were dismissed, and new candidates came forward and sat, and we scribbled details about them in our seating charts\u2014\n\nAnd two hours later we had our jury.\n\nWe gave each juror a nickname so we could remember them. They were: the Schoolteacher (forewoman), Glasses Girl, Grandpa, Fat Somerville Guy, Recording Studio Guy, Urkel, the Canal (a woman born in Panama), Waltham Mom, the Waitress, Construction Guy (properly a wood-floor installer, a surly squinty-eyed piece of work whom we worried about from the start), Concord Housewife, Truck Driver (actually a delivery guy for a commercial food-supply company), Braces Woman (alternate), and the Bartender (alternate). They had nothing in common except their glaring lack of qualifications for the job. It was almost comical how ignorant they were of the law, of how trials worked, even of this case, which had been splashed all over the newspapers and evening news. They were chosen for their perfect ignorance of these things. That is how the system works. In the end, the lawyers and judges happily step aside and hand the entire process over to a dozen complete amateurs. It would be funny if it were not so perverse. How futile the whole project is. Surely Jacob must have realized it as he looked at those fourteen blank faces. The towering lie of the criminal justice system\u2014that we can reliably determine the truth, that we can know \"beyond a reasonable doubt\" who is guilty and who is not\u2014is built on this whopper of an admission: after a thousand years or so of refining the process, judges and lawyers are no more able to say what is true than a dozen knuckleheads selected at random off the street. Jacob must have shivered at the thought.\n\n# **26 | Someone Is Watching**\n\nThat night, over dinner, in the safety of our kitchen, we chattered excitedly. Words came tumbling, grumbles, boasts, fears. We were working off nervous energy more than anything else.\n\nLaurie did her best to keep all the talk going. She was evidently exhausted from a sleepless night and a long day, but she always believed that the more we talked, the better off we would all be. So she posed questions and confessed her own fears and kept passing dishes of food, inviting us to talk and talk. In these light moments, I glimpsed the old effervescent Laurie\u2014or rather, I heard her, for her voice never aged. In every other way Laurie withered during Jacob's crisis: her eyes looked sunken and haunted, her peaches-and-cream complexion became sallow and cracked. But her voice was gloriously untouched. When she opened her mouth, out came the same teenage girl's voice I had first heard nearly thirty-five years before. It was like a phone call from 1974.\n\nAt one point Jacob said of the jury, \"I don't think they liked me, just the way they were looking at me.\"\n\n\"Jacob, they've only been in the box one day. Give them a chance. Besides, so far all they know about you is that you've been accused of murder. What do you expect them to think?\"\n\n\"They're not supposed to think anything yet.\"\n\n\"They're human, Jake. Just don't give them any reason to dislike you, that's all you can do. Stay cool. No reactions. None of your faces.\"\n\n\"What faces?\"\n\n\"You have a face you make when you're not paying attention. You scowl.\"\n\n\"I don't scowl!\"\n\n\"You do.\"\n\n\"Mom, do I scowl?\"\n\n\"I haven't noticed it. Sometimes your father gets carried away with the strategy.\"\n\n\"You do, Jake. It's like\u2014\" I made the scowling face.\n\n\"Dad, that's not a scowl. You just look constipated.\"\n\n\"Hey, I'm serious. That's what you look like when you're not paying attention. It makes you look angry. Don't let the jury see that face.\"\n\n\"That's my face! What can I do?\"\n\n\"Just be your handsome self, Jacob,\" Laurie said sweetly. She gave him a broken little smile. Her sweatshirt was on backward. She seemed unaware of it, though the tag rubbed against her throat.\n\n\"Hey, speaking of my handsome self, did you guys know there's a Twitter hashtag about me?\"\n\nLaurie: \"What does that mean?\"\n\n\"It's a way for people to talk about me on Twitter. And what they're saying? It's all like: _Jacob Barber is gorgeous. I want to have his baby. Jacob Barber is innocent_.\"\n\nMe: \"Yeah, what else are they saying?\"\n\n\"All right, there's _some_ bad things, but mostly it's positive. Like seventy percent.\"\n\n\"Seventy percent positive?\"\n\n\"About.\"\n\n\"You've been following it that closely?\"\n\n\"It only happened today. But yeah, of course I read it. You've got to check it out, Dad. Just go to Twitter and search for 'pound sign Jacob Barber,' no spaces.\" He wrote it on his paper napkin: _#jacobbarber_. \"I was a trending topic! Do you know what that means? Usually that's like Kobe Bryant or Justin Timberlake or people like that.\"\n\n\"That's, um, great, Jacob.\" I gave a skeptical look to the boy's mother.\n\nThis was not the first time our son's Internet celebrity had come up. Someone\u2014probably a school friend\u2014had put together a website, JacobBarber.com, to support him. The site featured a message board where people could declare Jacob's innocence or wish him well or expound on his saintly character. Negative messages were filtered out. There was a Facebook group supporting him too. The consensus online was that Jacob was a little odd, possibly homicidal, definitely attractive, conclusions that were not unrelated. He also got occasional text messages on his cell phone from strangers. Most were vicious, but not all. Some were from girls who told him he was cute or made sexual propositions. He claimed these messages ran about two to one negative versus positive, and this seemed to be enough for him. He knew he was innocent, after all. Anyway, he did not want to change his cell phone number.\n\nLaurie: \"Maybe you should stay off Facebook and all that, Jacob. At least until this is over.\"\n\n\"I just read, Mom. I never write anything. I'm a lurker.\"\n\n\"A lurker? Don't use that word. Do me a favor, just stay away from the Internet for a while, will you? You could get hurt.\"\n\n\"Jacob, I think what your mother is saying is that the next couple of weeks may go easier if we just try to stay on an even keel. So maybe we should all just close our ears a little bit.\"\n\n\"I'll miss my fifteen minutes of fame,\" he said. He grinned, oblivious and blithely brave, as only a kid can be.\n\nLaurie looked horrified.\n\n\"That'd be a real shame,\" I grumbled.\n\n\"Jacob, let's hope you have your fifteen minutes of fame for something else.\"\n\nWe all went quiet. Silverware clinked on plates.\n\nLaurie said, \"I wish that guy would turn off his engine.\"\n\n\"What guy?\"\n\n\"That guy.\" She gestured with her knife toward the window. \"Don't you hear him? There's a guy sitting in his car out there with the engine running. It's giving me a headache. It's like this buzz in my ear that won't go away. What's the word for that, when you get a buzz in your ear?\"\n\n_\"Tinnitus,\"_ I said.\n\nShe made a face.\n\n\"Crossword puzzles,\" I explained.\n\nI got up to look out the window, more curious than concerned. It was a big sedan. I couldn't make out precisely what model. Some oversized end-of-the-American-auto-industry crap four-door, maybe a Lincoln. It was parked across the street, two houses down, in a dark area between streetlights where I could not see the driver at all, even in silhouette. Inside there was a dot of amber light like a star as the driver took a drag from a cigarette, then the little star winked out.\n\n\"Probably just waiting for someone.\"\n\n\"So let him wait with the engine off. Hasn't this guy heard of global warming?\"\n\n\"Probably an older guy.\" I was inferring from the cigarette, the idling engine, the aircraft-carrier-sized car\u2014all habits that belonged to an older generation, I thought.\n\n\"Asshole's probably a reporter,\" Jacob said.\n\n\"Jake!\"\n\n\"Sorry, Mom.\"\n\n\"Laurie, why don't I go talk to him? I'll tell him to turn it off.\"\n\n\"No. Who knows what he wants? Whatever he's up to, it can't be good. Just stay put.\"\n\n\"Honey, you're being paranoid.\" I never used words like _honey_ or _sweetie_ or _dear_ , but the gentle tone seemed necessary. \"It's probably just some old geezer smoking a butt, listening to the radio. He probably doesn't realize he's bothering anyone leaving the engine running.\"\n\nShe frowned skeptically. \"You're the one who keeps saying we have to keep our heads down, stay out of trouble. Maybe he wants you to come out there and try something. Maybe he's trying to bait you into it.\"\n\n\"Laurie, come on. It's just a car.\"\n\n\"Just a car, huh?\"\n\n\"Just a car.\"\n\nBut it was not just a car.\n\nAround nine I took out the garbage: one plastic barrel of trash, one awkward rectangular green bucket of recycling. The recycling bucket was sized in such a way that it could not quite be carried in one hand comfortably. Your fingers always began to cramp halfway up the driveway, so that carrying both items to the sidewalk in one trip involved a fast-waddling race-walk out to the street before the recycling spilled all over. It was not until I had put the barrel and the recycling bucket down and arranged them neatly side by side that I noticed the same car again. It had moved. This time it was parked a few houses away from ours in the other direction, again across the street. The engine was off. No firefly of a burning cigarette inside. The car might even have been empty. It was impossible to tell in the dark.\n\nI peered into the dark to make out some details about the car.\n\nThe engine came on, then the headlights. The car had no front license plate.\n\nI began to pace toward it, curious.\n\nThe car backed away from me slowly, like an animal sensing a threat, then it backed away fast. At the first cross street, it did a quick, expert turnaround and drove off. I never got closer than twenty yards. In the dark, I could not make out anything about the car, not even the color or the make. It was reckless driving on such a small street. Reckless and good.\n\nLater still, after Laurie had sensibly gone to sleep, I sat watching Jon Stewart with Jacob in the living room. I had spread myself across the couch with my right foot propped on the cushion and my right arm dangled over the backrest. I felt an itch, a faint sensation of being watched, and I lifted the blind to peek out again.\n\nThe car was back.\n\nI went out the back door, through the neighbor's backyard, and emerged behind the car. It was a Lincoln Town Car, license plate 75K S82. The interior was dark.\n\nI walked up slowly alongside the driver's door. I felt ready to knock on the glass, to open the door, pull the guy out of the car, to pin him down on the sidewalk and warn him to stay away from us.\n\nBut the car was empty. I looked around briefly for the driver, a man with a cigarette. But I was being a fool. Laurie was making me paranoid too. It was just a parked car. Probably the driver was in one of the adjacent houses sound asleep or screwing his wife or watching the tube or doing any of the things normal people do, the things we used to do. What had I really seen, after all?\n\nStill, better safe than sorry. I called Paul Duffy.\n\n\"Counselor,\" he answered in his old laconic way, as if he was pleased to hear from me, pleased and not surprised, even after months of silence, at eleven-thirty on the eve of opening statements.\n\n\"Duff, sorry to bother you.\"\n\n\"No bother. What's wrong?\"\n\n\"It's probably nothing. I think there might be someone watching us. He's been parked outside all night.\"\n\n\"It's a man?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. I didn't see him. Just the car.\"\n\n\"You said 'him.' \"\n\n\"I'm assuming.\"\n\n\"What was he doing?\"\n\n\"It was just a car parked out front of the house with his engine running. This was around six, dinnertime. Then I saw him again around nine o'clock. But as soon as I started to walk toward him, he turned around and took off.\"\n\n\"Has he threatened you in any way?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Have you ever seen the car before?\"\n\n\"No. I don't think so.\"\n\nDeep breath into the phone. \"Andy, can I give you a piece of advice?\"\n\n\"I wish somebody would.\"\n\n\"Go to bed. Tomorrow's a big day for you. You're all under a lot of pressure.\"\n\n\"You think it's just a parked car.\"\n\n\"Sounds to me like it's just a parked car.\"\n\n\"Would you do me a favor and run the plate? Just to be sure. Laurie's really stressed. It'd make her feel better.\"\n\n\"Just between you and me?\"\n\n\"Of course, Duff.\"\n\n\"Okay, give it to me.\"\n\n\"It's Mass. plate number 75K S82. It's a Lincoln Town Car.\"\n\n\"All right, hold on.\"\n\nThere was a long silence as he called it in. I watched Steven Colbert with the sound muted.\n\nWhen he came back, he said, \"That plate belongs on a Honda Accord.\"\n\n\"Shit. It's stolen.\"\n\n\"No. It hasn't been reported stolen, at least.\"\n\n\"So what's it doing on a Lincoln?\"\n\n\"Probably just borrowed it, in case somebody noticed him and reported the plate to the cops. All you need is a screwdriver.\"\n\n\"Shit.\"\n\n\"Andy, you need to call this in to Newton P. D. It's still probably nothing, but file a report and at least get it on the record.\"\n\n\"I don't want to do that right now. The trial starts tomorrow. If I report it, it'll find its way into the news. I can't have that. It's important we seem normal and stable right now. I want that jury to see a regular family, just like them. Because we _are_ just like them.\"\n\n\"Andy, if someone's threatening you...\"\n\n\"No. No one's threatened us. No one's actually done anything. You said yourself, it looks like just a parked car.\"\n\n\"But you were worried enough that you called me.\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter. I'll deal with it. If the jury hears about it, half of them would think we're full of shit. They'd think we're faking it to drum up sympathy, like we're trying to play the victim in all this. No drama. Anything that makes us look odd, untrustworthy, phony, _strange_ , makes it harder to get them to say _not guilty_.\"\n\n\"So what do you want to do?\"\n\n\"Maybe you could send a cruiser by without filing a report? Just move him along, scare him off. Just so I can tell Laurie she doesn't have to worry.\"\n\n\"I better do it myself, otherwise there'll have to be a report.\"\n\n\"I appreciate it. There's no way I can ever pay you back.\"\n\n\"Just get your kid home safe, Andy.\"\n\n\"You mean that?\"\n\nA pause.\n\n\"I don't know. This whole thing just doesn't feel right. Maybe it's just seeing you and Jacob at the defense table. I've known that kid since he was born.\"\n\n\"Paul, he didn't do it. I guarantee it.\"\n\nHe grunted, unconvinced. \"Andy, who would be watching your house?\"\n\n\"The victim's family? Maybe some kid who knew Ben Rifkin? Some nut who read about the case in the paper? Could be anyone. Did you guys ever follow up on Patz?\"\n\n\"Who knows? Andy, I have no idea what's going on over there. They've got me in a friggin' public relations unit. Next thing, they'll have me riding up and down the turnpike giving speeding tickets. They pulled me off the case as soon as Jacob got indicted. I half expected them to investigate _me_ , like I was in some kind of cover-up with you. So I don't have much information. But there was no reason for them to keep going after Patz once they charged someone else. The case was already solved.\"\n\nWe both considered that in silence a moment.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, \"I'll be by. Tell Laurie it's okay.\"\n\n\"I already told her it's okay. She doesn't believe me.\"\n\n\"She won't believe me either. Whatever. You go get some sleep too. You two won't make it like this. It's only the first night.\"\n\nI thanked him and went upstairs to climb in bed with Laurie.\n\nShe lay curled up like a cat, her back to me. \"Who was that?\" she murmured into her pillow.\n\n\"Paul.\"\n\n\"What'd he say?\"\n\n\"He said it's probably just a parked car. Everything's okay.\"\n\nShe groaned.\n\n\"He said you wouldn't believe him.\"\n\n\"He was right.\"\n\n# **27 | Openings**\n\nWhat was Neal Logiudice thinking when he stood up to deliver his opening statement to the jury? He was keenly aware of the two unmanned cameras on him. That much was clear as he meticulously buttoned the top two buttons of his coat. It was apparently a second new suit, not the same one he had worn the day before, though today's suit was the same hip three-button style. (The shopping spree was a mistake. He tended to preen in his new costumes.) He must have imagined himself as a hero. Ambitious, sure, but his goals matched the public's\u2014what was good for Neal was good for everyone, except Jacob of course\u2014so no harm in that. There must have been a rightness too in seeing me at the defense table, literally displaced. I don't mean to suggest there was any sense of Oedipal payback in Logiudice's head that day. Anyway, he gave no outward sign of it. As he arranged his new coat and stood for a moment plumping for the jury\u2014the two juries, I should say, one in court, one on the other side of the TV cameras\u2014I saw only a young man's vanity. I could not hate him or even begrudge him a little self-satisfaction. He had graduated, grown up, he was finally The Man. We all have felt such things at one time or another. Oedipal or not, it is a pleasure after long years to stand in our fathers' place, and it is a perfectly innocent pleasure. Anyway, why blame Oedipus? He was a victim. Poor Oedipus never meant to hurt anybody.\n\nLogiudice nodded toward the judge ( _Show the jury you are respectful..._ ). He glared balefully at Jacob as he passed (... _and that you are not afraid of the defendant, because if you do not have the courage to look him in the eye and say \"guilty,\" how can you expect the jury to do it?_ ). He stood directly in front of the jury with his fingertips resting on the front rail of the jury box ( _Close up the space between you; make them feel you are one of them_ ).\n\n\"A teenage boy,\" he said, \"found dead. In a forest called Cold Spring Park. Early on a spring morning. A fourteen-year-old boy stabbed three times in a line across the chest and tossed down an embankment slick with mud and wet leaves, and left to die facedown less than a quarter mile from the school he'd been walking to, a quarter mile from the home he'd left only minutes before.\"\n\nHis eyes roamed across the jury box.\n\n\"And the whole thing\u2014the decision to do this, the choice\u2014to take a life, to take this boy's life\u2014it only takes a second.\"\n\nHe let the phrase hang there.\n\n\"One split second and\"\u2014he snapped his fingers\u2014\"snap. It only takes a second to lose your temper. And that is all you need, a second, an instant, to form the intention to murder. In this courtroom it is called _malice aforethought_. The conscious decision to kill, however quickly the intention forms, however briefly it is in the murderer's mind. First-degree murder can happen just... like... that.\"\n\nHe began to pace the length of the jury box, lingering to make eye contact with each juror as he passed.\n\n\"Let's think about the defendant a moment. This is a case about a boy who had everything: good family, good grades, beautiful home in a wealthy suburb. He had it all, more than most, anyway, much more. But the defendant had something else too: he had a lethal temper. And when he was pushed\u2014not too hard, just teased, just messed around with, the sort of thing that must go on every day in every school in the country\u2014but when he was pushed a little too far and he decided he'd had enough, that lethal temper finally just... snapped.\"\n\n_You must tell the jury the \"story of the case,\" the tale that led to thefinal act. Facts are not enough; you must weave them into a story. The jury must be able to answer the question \"What is this case about?\" Answer that question for them and you win. Distill the case down to a single phrase for them, a theme, even a single word. Embed that phrase in their minds. Let them take it back into the jury room with them, so that when they open their mouths to discuss the case, your words come tumbling out_.\n\n\"The defendant snapped.\" He snapped his fingers again.\n\nHe came to the defense table, stood too close, purposely disrespecting us by invading our space. He leveled his finger at Jacob, who looked down at his lap to avoid it. Logiudice was entirely full of shit but his technique was magnificent.\n\n\"But this wasn't just any boy from a good home in a good suburb. And he wasn't just any boy with a quick temper. This defendant had something else that set him apart.\"\n\nLogiudice's finger slid from Jacob to me.\n\n\"He had a father who was an assistant district attorney. And not just any assistant district attorney either. No, the defendant's father, Andrew Barber, was the First Assistant, the top man, in the very office where I work, right here in this building.\"\n\nIn that moment I could have reached out and grabbed that fucking finger and torn it off Logiudice's pale freckled hand. I looked him in the eye, showed nothing.\n\n\"This defendant\u2014\"\n\nHe withdrew his finger, raised it above his shoulder as if he were testing the wind, then he wagged it in the air as he moved back to the jury box.\n\n\"This defendant\u2014\"\n\n_Do not refer to the defendant by name. Call him only \"the defendant.\" A name humanizes him, makes the jury see him as a person worthy of sympathy, even mercy_.\n\n\"This defendant wasn't some clueless kid. No, no. He'd watched for years as his father prosecuted every major murder in this county. He'd listened to the dinner table conversations, overheard the phone calls, the shop talk. He grew up in a home where murder was the family business.\"\n\nJonathan dropped his pen on his notepad, emitted an exasperated hissing sigh, and shook his head. The suggestion that \"murder was the family business\" came awfully close to the argument Logiudice had been barred from making. But Jonathan did not object. He could not appear to be obstructing the prosecution with technical, legalistic defenses. His defense would not be technical: Jacob did not do it. Jonathan did not want to muddy that message.\n\nI understood all this. Still, it was infuriating to watch such contemptible bullshit go unchallenged.\n\nThe judge eyed Logiudice.\n\nLogiudice: \"At least, murder _trials_ were the family business. The business of proving a murderer guilty, what we're doing right here right now\u2014this was something the defendant knew a little about, and not from watching TV shows. So when he snapped\u2014when the moment came, the last deadly provocation, and he went after one of his own classmates with a hunting knife\u2014he had already laid the groundwork, just in case. And when it was over, he covered his tracks like an expert. Because in a way he was an expert.\n\n\"There was only one problem: even experts make mistakes. And over the next few days we're going to uncover the tracks that led right back to him. And only to him. And when you've seen all the evidence, you'll know beyond a reasonable doubt, beyond _any_ doubt, that this defendant is guilty.\"\n\nA pause.\n\n\"But why? You're asking, Why would he kill a boy in his eighth-grade class? Why would any child do this to another child?\"\n\nHe made a perplexed gesture: eyebrows raised, big shrug.\n\n\"Well, we've all been in school.\"\n\nHis lips began to curl up into a smirk, conspiratorial. _Let's be naughty together and have a laugh in the courtroom_.\n\n\"Come on, we've all been there, some of us more recently than others.\"\n\nHe gave a crocodile smile which was, to my amazement, returned with little knowing grins from the jurors.\n\n\"That's right, we've all been there. And we all know how kids can be. Let's face it: school can be difficult. Kids can be mean. They tease, they horse around, they poke fun. You're going to hear testimony that the victim in this case, a fourteen-year-old boy named Ben Rifkin, teased the defendant. Nothing especially shocking, nothing that would be a big deal to most kids. Nothing you wouldn't hear on any playground in any town if you left this courtroom right now and drove around a bit.\n\n\"Let me be clear about something: it is not necessary to make a saint out of Ben Rifkin, the victim in this case. You're going to hear some things about Ben Rifkin that maybe aren't too flattering. But I want you to remember this: Ben Rifkin was a boy like any other boy. He was not perfect. He was a regular kid with all the flaws and all the growing pains of an ordinary teenager. He was fourteen years old\u2014fourteen!\u2014with his whole life stretched out in front of him. Not a saint, not a saint. But who among us would want to be judged only by the first fourteen years of our lives? Who among us was complete and... and... and _finished_ at fourteen?\n\n\"Ben Rifkin was everything the defendant wanted to be. He was handsome, cool, popular. The defendant, on the other hand, was an outsider among his own classmates. Quiet, lonely, sensitive, odd. An outcast.\n\n\"But Ben made a fatal mistake in teasing this strange boy. He didn't know about that temper, about the defendant's hidden capacity\u2014even desire\u2014to kill.\"\n\n\"Objection!\"\n\n\"Sustained. The jury will disregard the remark about the defendant's desire, which is complete speculation.\"\n\nLogiudice did not look away from the jury. He stood stone-still, shirked the objection, pretended he had not even heard it. _The judge and the defense are trying to keep it from you, but we know the truth_.\n\n\"The defendant made his plans. He got a knife. And not a kid's knife, not a whittling knife, not a Swiss Army knife\u2014a hunting knife, a knife designed for killing. You will hear about that knife from the defendant's own best friend, who saw it in the defendant's hand, who heard the defendant say he meant to use it against Ben Rifkin.\n\n\"You will hear that the defendant thought it all out; he planned the murder. He even described the murder several weeks later in a story that he wrote and even brazenly posted on the Internet\u2014a story in which he describes how the murder was conceived, planned in detail, and executed. Now, the defendant may try to explain away this story, which includes a detailed description of Ben Rifkin's murder, including details known only to the actual murderer. He may tell you, 'I was only fantasizing.' To which I say, as no doubt you will, What sort of kid fantasizes about a friend's murder?\"\n\nHe paced, allowing the question to hang.\n\n\"Here is what we know: when the defendant left his house and set off for Cold Spring Park the morning of April 12, 2007, as he walked off into the woods, he took with him a knife in his pocket and an idea in his head. He was ready. From that point, all that remained was the trigger, the spark that made the defendant... snap.\n\n\"So what was that trigger? What was it that converted a fantasy of murder into the real thing?\"\n\nHe paused. It was the central question to be answered, the riddle Logiudice simply had to solve: how does a normal boy with no history of violence suddenly do something so brutal? Motive is an element of every case, not legally but in the head of each and every juror. That is why motiveless (or undermotivated) crimes are so hard to prove. Jurors want to understand what happened; they want to know _why_. They demand a logical answer. Apparently Logiudice had none. He could only offer theories, guesses, probabilities, \"murder genes.\"\n\n\"We may never know,\" he admitted, doing his best to shrug off the gaping hole in his case, the very strangeness of the crime, its apparent inexplicability. \"Did Ben call him a name? Did he call him _faggot_ or _pussy_ , as he had in the past? Or _geek_ or _loser_? Did he push him, threaten him, bully him somehow? Probably.\"\n\nI shook my head. _Probably?_\n\n\"Whatever it was that set the defendant off, when he met Ben Rifkin in Cold Spring Park that fateful morning, April 12, 2007, around eight-twenty A.M.\u2014where he knew Ben would be, because the two of them had been walking to school through those woods for years\u2014he chose to put his plan into action. He stabbed Ben three times. He punched the knife into his chest\"\u2014he demonstrated with three sword-fighter thrusts of his right arm\u2014\" _one, two, three_. Three neat, evenly spaced wounds in a line across the chest. Even the pattern of the wounds suggests premeditation, coolness, self-control.\"\n\nLogiudice paused, a little uncertainly this time.\n\nThe jurors appeared unsure also. They watched him with expressions of concern. His opening statement, which had started so strong, had foundered on this all-important question of _why_. He seemed to want it both ways: at one moment Logiudice was suggesting Jacob had snapped, lost his temper, and murdered his classmate in a sudden rage. A moment later, he was suggesting Jacob had planned the murder for weeks, deliberated coolly over the details, used the lawyerly expertise of a prosecutor's son, then waited for his opportunity. The trouble, obviously, was that Logiudice himself had never quite been able to answer the question of motive, no matter how many theories he threw at it. The murder of Ben Rifkin just did not make sense. Even now, after months of investigation, we were asking, _Why?_ I was sure the jury would sense Logiudice's problem.\n\n\"When it was done, the defendant disposed of the knife. And he went off to school. He pretended to know nothing, even when the school was put in a lockdown and the police were frantically trying to solve the case. He kept his cool.\n\n\"Ah, but the defendant ought to have known, this son of a prosecutor, from his own long apprenticeship, that murder always leaves a trace. There is no such thing as an immaculate murder. Murder is messy, bloody, filthy work. Blood sprays and spatters. In the excitement of killing, mistakes are made.\n\n\"The defendant had left a fingerprint on the victim's sweatshirt, pressed into the victim's own wet blood\u2014a print that could only have been made in the immediate aftermath of the murder.\n\n\"And then the lies begin to pile up. When the fingerprint is finally identified, weeks after the murder, the defendant switches his story. After denying for weeks that he knew anything about the murder, now he claims he was there but only _after_ the murder.\"\n\nA skeptical look.\n\n\"A motive: an outcast schoolboy with a grudge against a classmate who had been teasing him.\n\n\"A weapon: the knife.\n\n\"A plan: detailed in a description of the murder written by the defendant himself.\n\n\"The physical evidence: the fingerprint on the victim's body, in the victim's own blood.\n\n\"Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence is overwhelming. This is a mountain of evidence. It leaves no room for doubt. When this trial is over and I have proved all the things I have just described to you, I am going to stand right here before you again, this time to ask you to do your part, to say what it obviously true, to draw the only conclusion you can: guilty. That word, _guilty_ , will be hard to say, I promise you. It is hard for anyone to judge another. All our lives we are taught not to. 'Judge not,' the Bible tells us. It is especially hard when the defendant is a child. We believe fervently in the innocence of our children. We want to believe in it; we want our children to be innocent. But this child is not innocent. No. When you look at all the evidence against him, you will know in your heart of hearts there is only one just verdict in this case: guilty. _Verdict_ , from the Latin for 'say the truth.' That is all I am going to ask you to do, say the truth: guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.\"\n\nHe gave them a look that was determined, righteous, imploring.\n\n\"Guilty,\" he said again.\n\nHe bowed his head mournfully, then returned to his chair, where he slumped down, apparently drained or lost in thought or grieving the dead boy, Ben Rifkin.\n\nBehind me, a woman in the audience whimpered. There were sounds of footsteps and the swinging door as she rushed out of the courtroom. I did not dare turn around to look.\n\nMy sense was that Logiudice's opening had been quite good. It was by far the best I had ever seen him deliver. But it was not the home run he needed. There was still room for doubt. _Why did he do it?_ The jurors must have sensed the weakness in his case, the doughnut hole at its center. That was a real problem for the prosecution, since there is no time in a trial when the state's case looks stronger than in the opening statement, where the story is pristine and uncontradicted, before the evidence has been dinged up by the realities of a trial, bumbling friendly witnesses, expert hostile witnesses, cross-examination, and all the rest. My impression was that he had left us an opportunity.\n\n\"Defense?\" the judge said.\n\nJonathan stood up. It struck me at the time\u2014and still does now, when I see him\u2014that he was one of those men whom it is easy to imagine as a boy, even in his gray-haired sixties. His hair was perpetually mussed, his coat unbuttoned, his tie and collar always a little askew, as if the whole getup were a boys' school uniform that he wore only because the rules required it. He stood before the jury box and scratched the back of his head and his face became perplexed as he thought it all over. For all anyone knew, he had not prepared a thing to say and needed a moment to compose his thoughts. After Logiudice's long opening, which somehow managed to seem both rehearsed and rambling, Jonathan's rumpled spontaneity was a breath of fresh air. Now, I admire Jonathan and I like him too, so I may be placing a thumb on the scale for him, but it seemed to me, even before he opened his mouth to speak, that he was the more likeable of the two lawyers, which is no small thing. Compared with Logiudice, who seemed unable to draw a breath without calculating how it would be seen by others, Jonathan was all naturalness, all ease. Slouching in the courtroom in his lousy suit, distracted by his own thoughts, he looked as at home as a man in his pajamas in his own kitchen eating over the sink.\n\n\"You know,\" he began, \"I think about one thing he said, the lawyer for the government.\" He waved his arm behind him in the general direction of Logiudice. \"The death of a young man like Ben Rifkin is awful. Even among all the crimes, all the murders, all the terrible things we see here, it's just tragic. He was just a boy. And all the years this boy had in front of him, all the things he might have become, the great doctor, great artist, the wise leader, it's all lost. All lost.\n\n\"When you see a tragedy as enormous as that, you want to make it right, you want to fix it somehow. You want to see justice done. Maybe you feel angry; you want to see someone pay. We all feel these things, we're all only human.\n\n\"But Jacob Barber is innocent. I want to say that again so there's no misunderstanding: Jacob Barber is completely innocent. He did nothing at all, he had nothing to do with this murder. This is the wrong man.\n\n\"The evidence you just heard about, it all turns out to be nothing. The moment you scratch the surface, the moment you look at it, you understand what really happened, and the state's case blows away like smoke. That fingerprint, for example, which the government lawyer made so much of. You will hear how that fingerprint got there, just as Jacob told the policeman who arrested him, the moment he was asked. He found his classmate lying on the ground wounded, and he did what any good person would do: he tried to help. He rolled Ben over to check on him, to see if he was okay, to help him. And when he saw Ben was dead, he did the exact same thing many of us would do: he got scared. He did not want to get involved. He worried that if he told anyone he'd seen the body, let alone touched it, he would become a suspect, he might be accused of something he did not do. Was that the right reaction? Of course not. Does he wish he had been braver and told the truth right from the start? Of course he does. But he is a boy, he is human, and he made a mistake. There's no more to it than that.\n\n\"Don't\u2014\"\n\nHe stopped, looked down, considered his next sentence.\n\n\"Don't let it happen twice. One boy is dead. Don't destroy another innocent boy to make up for it. Don't let this case become a second tragedy. We've had enough tragedy already.\"\n\nThe first witness was Paula Giannetto, the jogger who discovered the body. I did not know this woman but I recognized her from around town, from the market or Starbucks or the dry cleaner. Newton is not a small town, but it is divided into several \"villages\" and within these neighborhoods the same faces keep popping up. Oddly, I did not remember seeing her jogging in Cold Spring Park, though apparently we both ran there often around the time of the murder.\n\nLogiudice led her through her testimony, which dragged on too long. He was over-thorough, anxious to get from her every last ounce of detail and pathos there was to be got. Ordinarily, for the prosecutor a funny transformation takes place with the first witness: after standing center-stage for his opening statement, the prosecutor now steps out of the spotlight. The focus shifts to the witness, and the rules require the prosecutor to be almost passive in his questions. He steers the witness or prods her along with neutral questions like \"What happened next?\" or \"What did you see then?\" But Logiudice was quite picky about the details he wanted from Paula Giannetto. He kept stopping her to probe about this or that. Jonathan never objected to any of this, since none of the testimony tied Jacob to the murder even remotely. But again I sensed Logiudice fumbling his case, not by some grand strategic blunder but inch by inch, in a thousand little ways. (Was this wishful thinking? Maybe. I do not pretend to be objective.) Giannetto was on the stand for the better part of an hour relating her story, which was essentially unchanged since she first told it the day of the murder.\n\nIt had been a cool, damp spring morning. She was running along a hilly section of trail through Cold Spring Park when she saw what seemed to be a boy lying facedown on a leaf-strewn embankment, which sloped down to a tiny algae-skinned pond. The boy wore jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. His backpack had tumbled down the hill near him. Giannetto was jogging by herself and she did not see anyone else near the body. She had passed a couple of other joggers and kids walking to school (the park was a common route to the McCormick School, which abutted it), but she saw no one near the body. She had not heard anything either, no cries or sounds of a struggle, since she had been listening to music on her iPod, which she wore in a holder strapped to her upper arm. She was even able to name the song that was playing when she saw the body: \"This Is the Day\" by a group called The The.\n\nGiannetto stopped, removed the earbuds of her iPod, and looked down at the boy from the trail above. From just a few feet away, she saw the bottoms of his sneakers, his body foreshortened. She said, \"Are you okay? Do you need help?\" When she got no response, she went down to check on him, sidestepping carefully down the hill because of the slippery leaves. She was a mother, she said, and she could not imagine not checking on the boy, as she would expect others to do for her kids. She had it in her head that the boy had passed out, maybe from some sickness or allergy, maybe even from drugs or who knew what. So she got down on her knees beside him and jostled his shoulder, then jostled both shoulders, then rolled him over by his shoulders.\n\nThat is when she saw the blood that soaked his chest and the reddened leaves under him and all around him, still wet and glistening, draining out of the three vent-holes in his chest. The boy's skin was gray but there were small splotches of pink on his face, she said. She had a vague recollection that his skin was cold to the touch but she had no specific memory of touching it. Perhaps the body had shifted in her hands so that its skin brushed her hand. The head fell back heavily, the mouth gawped open.\n\nIt took her a moment to process the surreal fact that the boy in her arms was dead. She dropped the body, which she had been holding under the shoulders. She screamed. She slid away from it on her butt, then turned and managed to scramble over the leaves on all fours back up the hill to the trail.\n\nFor a moment, she said, nothing happened. She stood there, alone in the woods, staring at the body. She could hear the music still playing faintly in her earbuds, still playing \"This Is the Day.\" The whole thing had not even lasted the three minutes it takes to get through a pop song.\n\nIt took a ludicrously long time to bring out this simple story. After such a lengthy direct examination, Jonathan's cross was brief almost to the point of comedy.\n\n\"You never saw the defendant, Jacob Barber, in the park that morning, did you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No further questions.\"\n\nWith the next witness, Logiudice misstepped. No, more than that. He stepped in shit. The witness was the Newton P. D. detective who had headed up the investigation for the local department. This was a standard, _pro forma_ sort of witness. Logiudice had to begin by running a few witnesses up there to establish the essential facts and the timetable of that first day, when the murder was discovered. The first-responding cop is often called to testify about the state of the murder scene and the critical early moments of the investigation, before the case is joined\u2014and taken over\u2014by the State Police CPAC unit. So this was a witness Logiudice had to call, really. He was just following the playbook. I'd have done the same thing. The trouble was, he did not know his witness as well as I did.\n\nLieutenant Detective Nils Peterson joined the force in Newton just a few years before I started at the DA's office, fresh out of law school. Which is to say, I had known Nils since 1984\u2014when Neal Logiudice was in high school struggling to maintain a busy schedule of A.P. classes, band, and compulsive masturbation. (I am speculating. I cannot say for sure that he was in the band.) Nils had been handsome when we were younger. He had the sandy blond hair you might imagine based on his name. Now, in his early fifties, his hair had darkened, his back was a little stooped, his belly thickened. But he had an attractive soft-spoken demeanor on the stand, with none of the abrasive, cocksure bluster some cops exude. Juries swooned for him.\n\nLogiudice took him through the basic facts. The body had been found lying on its back, face up to the sky, having been flipped over by the jogger who discovered it. The pattern of the three stab wounds. The lack of obvious motive or suspects. No signs of struggle or defensive wounds, suggesting a sudden or surprise attack. Photos of the body and the surrounding area were entered into evidence. In the first minutes and hours of the investigation, the park had been sealed and searched, with no results. Several footprints were found in the park but none in the immediate area of the body and none that were ever matched to a suspect. In any case it was a public park\u2014there were probably thousands of footprint traces, if you cared to look for them.\n\nAnd then this.\n\nLogiudice: \"Is it the usual procedure that an assistant district attorney is assigned to direct homicide investigations right away?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Who was the assistant district attorney assigned to the case that day?\"\n\n\"Objection!\"\n\nJudge French: \"I'll see counsel at sidebar.\"\n\nLogiudice and Jonathan went to the far side of the judge's bench where they talked in low murmurs. Judge French stood tall above them, as was his habit. Most judges wheeled their chairs over to the rail or leaned in close, the better to whisper with the lawyers. Not Burt French.\n\nThe sidebar conference took place out of the jury's hearing and mine. The next few paragraphs I have cut and pasted from the trial transcript.\n\nThe judge: \"Where are you going with this?\"\n\nLogiudice: \"Your Honor, the jury is entitled to know the defendant's own father was in charge of the early stages of the investigation, particularly if the defense is going to suggest anything was handled improperly, as I suspect they will have to.\"\n\n\"Counselor?\"\n\nJonathan: \"Well, our objection is twofold. First, it is irrelevant. It is guilt by association. Even if the defendant's father should not have taken the case and even if he mishandled it in some way\u2014and I'm not suggesting that either is true\u2014it still doesn't say a damn thing about the defendant himself. Unless Mr. Logiudice means to suggest the son was involved in a conspiracy with his father to cover up evidence of the crime, then there is no way to construe evidence against the father as having anything to do with the son's guilt or innocence. If Mr. Logiudice wants to indict the father for obstruction of justice or some such thing, then he should go ahead and do it and we'll all come back here someday and we'll have a trial on that. But that's not the case we're trying here today.\n\n\"The second objection is that it is improperly prejudicial. It is guilt by insinuation. He is trying to poison the jury with the suggestion that the father must have known the son was involved and therefore he must have been up to something improper. But there's no evidence either that the father suspected his son\u2014which he certainly did not\u2014or that he did anything improper when he was leading the investigation. Let's be honest: the prosecutor wants to toss a stink bomb into this courtroom to distract the jury from the fact that there is virtually no direct evidence against the defendant. It's\u2014\"\n\n\"Okay, okay, I got it.\"\n\nLogiudice: \"Your Honor, how important it is, that's for the jury to decide. But they have a right to know. The defendant can't have it both ways: he can't argue that the cops screwed up and then conveniently leave out the fact that the cop in charge was the defendant's own father.\"\n\nThe judge: \"I'm going to allow it. But Mr. Logiudice, I'm warning you, if this trial gets sidetracked into a discussion of whether the father screwed up, intentionally or not, I'm going to cut it off. The defense has a point: that's not the case we're here to try. If you want to indict the father, do it.\"\n\nThe transcript does not record Logiudice's reaction, but I remember it well. He looked across the courtroom directly at me.\n\nReturning to the little lectern near the jury box, he faced Nils Peterson and resumed his questions. \"Detective, I'll repeat the question. Who was the assistant DA assigned to the case that day?\"\n\n\"Andrew Barber.\"\n\n\"Do you see Andrew Barber in the courtroom here today?\"\n\n\"Yes, he's right there, beside the defendant.\"\n\n\"And did you know Mr. Barber when he was an assistant DA? Did the two of you ever work together?\"\n\n\"Sure, I knew him. We worked together many times.\"\n\n\"Were you friendly with Mr. Barber?\"\n\n\"Yes, I'd say so.\"\n\n\"Did it occur to you at the time that it was odd Mr. Barber was handling a case involving his own son's school, a classmate, a boy he might even have known something about?\"\n\n\"No, not really.\"\n\n\"Well, did it seem strange to you that Mr. Barber's son might well become a witness in the case?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't think about that.\"\n\n\"But, when he was leading the case, the defendant's father pushed for a suspect who turned out not to be involved, a man who lived near the park who had a record as a sexual offender?\"\n\n\"Yes. His name was Leonard Patz. He had a record for indecent A&Bs on kids, things like that.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Barber\u2014Andrew Barber, the father\u2014wanted to pursue this man as a suspect, did he not?\"\n\n\"Objection. Relevance.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\nLogiudice: \"Detective, while the defendant's father was leading the investigation, did you consider Leonard Patz as a suspect?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And Patz was later cleared when the defendant's own son was charged?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\nPeterson hesitated here, seeing the trap. If he went too far to help his friend, he would necessarily help the defense. He tried to find a middle way. \"Patz was not charged.\"\n\n\"And when Mr. Barber's son was charged, were you surprised at that point by Mr. Barber's earlier involvement in the case?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"I thought it was surprising, yes, in the sense\u2014\"\n\n\"Have you ever heard of a prosecutor or a cop becoming involved in an investigation of his own son?\"\n\nCornered, Peterson drew a deep breath. \"No.\"\n\n\"It would be a conflict of interest, wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained. Move on, Mr. Logiudice.\"\n\nLogiudice asked a few more desultory, halfhearted questions, relishing the afterglow of a victory. When he sat down, he had the dopey, flushed face of a man who just got laid, and he kept his head down until he could overmaster it.\n\nOn cross, Jonathan again did not bother to attack much of anything Peterson had said about the crime scene, because again there was virtually nothing in his rendition that pointed to Jacob. There was so little trace of antagonism between these two soft-spoken guys, in fact, and the questions were all so inconsequential, that it might have been a defense witness Jonathan was questioning.\n\n\"The body was lying in a twisted position when you arrived at the scene, is that right, Detective?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So, given the fact the body had been moved, some evidence had been lost even before you arrived. For example, the position of the body can often help you reconstruct the attack itself, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is.\"\n\n\"And when the body is flipped over, the effect of lividity\u2014or the blood settling with gravity\u2014is also reversed. It's like turning over a sand timer: the blood starts to flow the other way, and the inferences you usually draw from lividity are lost, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm not a forensics expert, but yes.\"\n\n\"Understood, but you _are_ a homicide detective.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And it's fair to say that, as a general rule, at a murder scene when the body is disturbed or moved, evidence is often lost.\"\n\n\"Generally true, yes. In this case, there's no way of knowing if anything was actually lost.\"\n\n\"Was the murder weapon found?\"\n\n\"Not that day, no.\"\n\n\"Was it ever found?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And besides the single fingerprint on the victim's sweatshirt, there was nothing at all that pointed to a particular defendant?\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\n\"And of course the fingerprint was not identified until much later, right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So the crime scene itself, on that first day, did not yield any evidence that pointed to a particular suspect?\"\n\n\"No. Just the unidentified fingerprint.\"\n\n\"So it's fair to say that at the beginning of the investigation you didn't have any obvious suspects?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So in that situation, as an investigator, wouldn't you want to know, wouldn't it be relevant information that a known, convicted pedophile lived adjacent to that park? A man with a record of sexual assaults on young boys of about the victim's age?\"\n\n\"It would.\"\n\nI could feel the jury's eyes on me as they seemed to understand, finally, where Jonathan was going\u2014that he was not simply settling for a series of small hits.\n\n\"So it didn't seem improper or unusual or the slightest bit odd to you when Andy Barber, the defendant's father, focused his attention on this man, this Leonard Patz?\"\n\n\"No, it didn't.\"\n\n\"In fact, based on what you knew at the time, he wouldn't be doing his job if he _didn't_ check out this man, would he?\"\n\n\"No, I don't think so.\"\n\n\"And, in fact, you learned in your subsequent investigation that Patz was indeed known to walk in that park in the mornings, isn't that true?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Objection.\" There was not much conviction in Logiudice's voice.\n\n\"Overruled.\" Plenty of conviction in the judge's voice. \"You opened the door, Counselor.\"\n\nI had always disliked Judge French's tendency to let his sympathies show. He was a ham, and generally his emoting favored the defense. His courtroom always felt like a home game for the defendant. Now that I was on the defendant's side, of course, I was delighted to see the judge so openly cheerleading for us. It was an easy ruling, anyway. Logiudice had opened this subject. He could not now prevent the defense from exploring it.\n\nI gestured to Jonathan and he came over to accept a piece of paper from me. When he read it, his eyebrows rose. I had written three questions on the paper. He folded the paper neatly and moved closer to the witness stand.\n\n\"Detective, did you ever disagree with any of the decisions Andy Barber made when he was leading the investigation?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And, in fact, isn't it true that you also wanted to pursue the investigation against this man, Patz, at the beginning of the investigation?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nA juror\u2014Fat Somerville Guy, in chair number seven\u2014actually snorted and shook his head.\n\nJonathan heard that guffaw over his shoulder from the jury box, and he looked like he was about to sit down.\n\nI gave him a look that said, _Go on_.\n\nHe frowned. Outside of TV shows, you do not go for the kill on cross-examination. You land a few shots then sit your ass down. The witness, remember, has all the power, not you. Plus, the third line on that page was the archetypal Question You Never Ask On Cross: open-ended, subjective, the sort of question that invites a long, unpredictable answer. To a veteran lawyer, the feeling was like the moment in a horror movie when the babysitter hears a noise in the basement and opens the creaky door to go down and investigate. _Don't do it!_ the audience says.\n\n_Do it_ , my expression insisted.\n\n\"Detective,\" he began, \"I know this is awkward for you. I'm not asking you to express any opinion about the defendant himself. I understand you have a job to do on that score. But limiting our discussion to the defendant's father, Andy Barber, whose judgment and integrity has been called into question here\u2014\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"How long have you known the older Mr. Barber?\"\n\n\"A long time.\"\n\n\"How long?\"\n\n\"Twenty years. More, probably.\"\n\n\"And having known him over twenty years, what is your opinion of him as a prosecutor, with respect to his ability, his integrity, his judgment?\"\n\n\"We're not talking about the son? Only the father?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\nPeterson looked directly at me. \"He's the best they've got. The best they used to have, anyway.\"\n\n\"No further questions.\"\n\n_No further questions_ meaning _Fuck you_. Logiudice would never again focus quite so explicitly on my role in the investigation, though it was a note he touched on a few times in the course of the trial. No doubt, that first day he successfully planted the idea in the jurors' minds. For the time being, that may have been all he needed to accomplish.\n\nStill, we walked out of the courtroom that afternoon feeling victorious.\n\nIt didn't last.\n\n# **28 | A Verdict**\n\nDr. Vogel informed us grimly, \"I'm afraid I have some rather difficult things to say.\"\n\nWe had all been feeling drained. The stress of a full day in court leaves you bone-tired and muscle-sore. But the doctor's gloom put us on red alert. Laurie focused on her with an intent expression, Jonathan with his usual owlish curiosity.\n\nMe: \"I promise you, we're used to bad news. At this point, we're bulletproof.\"\n\nDr. Vogel avoided my eyes.\n\nIn hindsight I hear how ridiculous I must have sounded. We parents often talk with ridiculous bravado when it comes to our kids. We swear that we can take any abuse, beat any challenge. No test is too great. Anything for our kids. But no one is bulletproof, parents least of all. Our kids make us vulnerable.\n\nIn hindsight I see too that this meeting was exquisitely timed to break us. Only an hour or so had passed since court had adjourned for the day, and as the adrenaline receded, so did our sense of triumph, leaving us doped, punch-drunk. We were in no shape for bad news.\n\nThe scene was Jonathan's office near Harvard Square. We were seated around the circular oak table in his book-walled library, just the four of us, Laurie and me, Jonathan and Dr. Vogel. Jacob was out in the waiting room with Jonathan's young associate, Ellen.\n\nWhen Dr. Vogel turned away from me, when she could not look me in the eye, she must have been thinking, _You think you're bulletproof? Just wait_.\n\n\"How about you, Laurie?\" the shrink said in her solicitous, therapeutic voice. \"Do you think you can handle this right now?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\nDr. Vogel's eyes moved over Laurie: her hair, which kinked up like stretched springs, and her complexion, which now looked jaundiced, with dark bags under her eyes. She had lost so much weight, the skin sagged and pouched on her face and her clothes drooped on her bony shoulders. I thought: when did all this deterioration happen? All at once, with the strain of this case? Or gradually, over the years, without my noticing? This was not my Laurie anymore, the brave girl who invented me and who, it now seemed, I had invented for myself. She looked so wasted, in fact, it occurred to me that she was dying before our eyes. The case was consuming her. She was never built for this sort of fight. She had never been hard. She had never had to be. Life never hardened her. It was not her fault, of course, but to me\u2014who felt unbreakable, even this late in the events\u2014Laurie's fragility was impossibly poignant. I was prepared to be hard for both of us, for all three of us, but there was nothing I could do to protect Laurie from the stress. You see, I could not stop loving her, and I still cannot. Because it is easy to be hard if you have a stony nature. But imagine what it cost Laurie that day as she sat bolt upright at the edge of her chair, gamely focused on the doctor, ready for yet another blow. She never stopped defending Jacob, never stopped analyzing the chessboard, calculating every move and countermove. She never stopped protecting him, even in the end.\n\nDr. Vogel said, \"Why don't I just explain my conclusions a little bit, then afterward I'll answer your questions if you have any, okay? I know it's very, very hard to hear difficult news about Jacob, but brace yourselves for just a few minutes, okay? Just listen, then we can talk.\"\n\nWe nodded.\n\nJonathan said, \"For the record, none of this is discoverable by the prosecution. You don't have to worry. Everything we discuss here and everything Dr. Vogel tells you now is privileged. This conversation is absolutely confidential. It never leaves this room. So you can speak frankly, as can the doctor, okay?\"\n\nMore nodding.\n\n\"I don't understand why we have to do this,\" I said. \"Jonathan, why do we even have to get into this if our defense is that Jacob didn't do it at all?\"\n\nJonathan made a V of his hand and stroked his short white beard. \"I hope you're right. I hope the case goes well and we never have to raise this issue.\"\n\n\"Then why do this?\"\n\nJonathan turned away slightly, dismissing me.\n\n\"Why do this, Jonathan?\"\n\n\"Because Jacob looks guilty.\"\n\nLaurie gasped.\n\n\"I don't mean that he _is_ guilty, only that there is a lot of evidence against him. The Commonwealth has not put up their strongest witnesses yet. This is going to get harder for us. A lot harder. And when it does, I want to be prepared. Andy, you of all people should understand that.\"\n\n\"All right,\" the doctor said, wading in. \"I've just given Jonathan my report. Really, it's an opinion letter, a summary of my conclusions, what I would say if I was ever called to testify and what I think you could expect if this issue ever came up at trial. Now, I wanted to speak with you two alone first, without Jacob. I have not shared my conclusions with Jacob. When this case is over, depending on how it goes, we can have a more meaningful conversation about how to deal with some of these issues in a clinical setting. But for now our concern is not therapy, it is the trial. I was engaged for a specific purpose, as an expert for the defense. So that's why Jacob is not in the room now. He will have a lot more work to do when the trial is over. But for now we need to speak candidly about him, which may be easier if he's out of the room.\n\n\"There are two disorders that Jacob exhibits pretty clearly, narcissistic personality disorder and reactive attachment disorder. There is some suggestion of an antisocial personality disorder as well, which is a not uncommon comorbidity, but because I'm not as certain of the diagnosis, I haven't included it in my report.\n\n\"It is important to realize that not all the behaviors I'm going to describe are necessarily pathological, even in combination. To some extent every teenager is a narcissist, every adolescent is dealing with attachment issues. It is a matter of degree. We are not talking about a monster here. We're talking about an ordinary kid\u2014only more so. So I don't want you to hear this as a condemnation. I want you to _use_ the things I'm telling you, not be overwhelmed by them. I want to give you the tools, the vocabulary, to help your son. The point is to understand Jacob better, okay? Laurie? Andy?\"\n\nWe agreed, obediently, dishonestly.\n\n\"Good. Okay, narcissistic personality disorder. This is the one you probably know something about. Its primary characteristics are grandiosity and lack of empathy. In Jacob's case, the grandiosity does not come across as dramatic or boastful, arrogant, haughty, which is what people commonly associate with it. Jacob's grandiosity is quieter. It shows up as an inflated sense of self-importance, a conviction he is special, exceptional. Rules that might apply to others do not apply to him. He feels he is not understood by his peers, especially the other kids at school, with a few select exceptions whom Jacob identifies as special like him, usually based on their intelligence.\n\n\"The other key aspect of NPD, especially in the context of a criminal case, is lack of empathy. Jacob exhibits an unusual coldness toward others, even\u2014and this surprised me, given the context\u2014even for Ben Rifkin and his family. When I asked Jacob about it in one of our sessions, his response was that people die every day by the millions; that car crashes are statistically more significant than murder; that soldiers kill thousands more and get medals for it\u2014so why should we worry about one murdered boy? Even when I tried to lead him back to the Rifkins and prodded him to express some sort of feeling for them or for Ben, he couldn't or wouldn't do it. All of which fits a pattern of incidents you have described throughout Jacob's childhood in which other children have been injured around him, children flying off jungle gyms and being knocked off bicycles and so forth.\n\n\"He seems to regard other people not just as less significant than himself, but as less human. He cannot see himself mirrored in others in any way. He cannot seem to imagine that others have the same universal human feelings that he does\u2014pain, sadness, loneliness\u2014which is a sensitivity that ordinary adolescents have no trouble understanding at this age. I won't belabor the point. The relevance of these feelings in a forensic context is obvious. Without empathy, anything is permitted. Morality becomes very subjective and flexible.\n\n\"The good news is that NPD is not a chemical imbalance. And it is not genetic. It is a complex of behaviors, a deeply ingrained habit. Which means it can be unlearned, over time.\"\n\nThe doctor went on with barely a pause.\n\n\"The other disorder is actually the more disturbing one. Reactive attachment disorder is a relatively new diagnosis. And because it is new, we don't know much about it. There hasn't been much study done. It is uncommon, it is difficult to diagnose, and it is difficult to treat.\n\n\"The critical aspect of RAD is that it stems from a disruption of ordinary childhood emotional attachments in infancy. The theory is that ordinarily infants attach to a single, reliable caregiver, and from that secure base they explore the world. They know that their basic emotional and physical needs will be met by that one person. Where that reliable caregiver is not present or where the caregiver changes too often, children may relate to others in inappropriate ways, sometimes grossly inappropriate ways: aggression, rage, lying, defiance, lack of remorse, cruelty; or overfamiliarity, hyperactivity, self-endangerment.\n\n\"The definition of this disorder requires some sort of disruption in early caregiving\u2014'pathogenic care,' usually mistreatment or neglect by the parent or caregiver. But there is some controversy about exactly what that means. I am not suggesting either of you were deficient in any way. This is not about your parenting. But recent research suggests the disorder can arise even without deficient caregiving. Some children just seem temperamentally vulnerable to attachment disorders, so that even minor disruptions\u2014day care, for example, or being passed from one caregiver to the next too often\u2014can be enough to trigger an attachment disorder.\"\n\n\"Day care?\" Laurie.\n\n\"Only in exceptional cases.\"\n\n\"Jacob was in day care from the time he was three months old. We both worked. I stopped teaching when he was four.\"\n\n\"Laurie, we don't know enough to presume a cause and effect. You have to resist the urge to blame yourself. There is no reason to think neglect is the cause here. Jacob may just have been one of these vulnerable, hypersensitive children. This is all a very new area. We researchers are struggling to understand it ourselves.\"\n\nDr. Vogel gave Laurie a reassuring look, but there was a hint in her voice of protesting too much, and I could see Laurie was not mollified.\n\nUnable to help, Dr. Vogel simply plowed on. She seemed to think that the best way to get across all this devastating information was to do it quickly and get it over with.\n\n\"In Jacob's case, whatever the trigger, there is evidence of atypical attachment as an infant. You've reported that as a child he seemed guarded and hypervigilant at times, or erratic and prone to excessive anger and lashing out at other times.\"\n\nMe: \"But _all_ kids are 'erratic' and 'prone to excessive anger.' Lots of kids go to day care and don't\u2014\"\n\n\"It would be very unusual to see RAD\"\u2014she pronounced it as a rhyme for _bad_ \u2014\"in the absence of some sort of neglect, but we simply don't know.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" Laurie raised both hands in a stop sign. \"Just stop it!\" She stood and pushed her chair away, retreated to the far corner of the room. \"You think he did it.\"\n\n\"I didn't say that,\" Dr. Vogel demurred.\n\n\"You didn't have to say it.\"\n\n\"No, Laurie, really, I don't have any way to know whether he did it. That's not my job. It's not what I set out to determine.\"\n\nMe: \"Laurie, this is psychobabble. She said herself, you could say these things about any kid\u2014narcissistic, self-centered. Find me a teenager who _isn't_ like that. It's garbage. I don't believe a word of it.\"\n\n\"Of course you don't! You never see these things. You're so determined to be normal and for _us all_ to be normal that you just close your eyes and ignore anything that doesn't fit.\"\n\n\"We _are_ normal.\"\n\n\"Oh my God. Do you think this is normal, Andy?\"\n\n\"This situation? No. But do I think Jacob is normal? Yes! Is that so crazy?\"\n\n\"Andy. You're not seeing things right. I feel like I have to think for both of us because you just can't see.\"\n\nI went over to her to comfort her, to lay my hand on her crossed arms. \"Laurie, this is our son.\"\n\nShe flailed her hands, batting mine away. \"Andy, stop it. We are not normal.\"\n\n\"Of course we are. What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"You've been pretending. For years. All this time you've been pretending.\"\n\n\"No. Not about the important things.\"\n\n\"The important things! Andy, you didn't tell the truth. All this time you never told the truth.\"\n\n\"I never lied.\"\n\n\"Every day you didn't tell, you were lying. Every day. Every day.\"\n\nShe shoved past me to confront Dr. Vogel again. \"You think Jacob did it.\"\n\n\"Laurie, please sit down. You're upset.\"\n\n\"Just say it. Don't sit there and read me your report and recite the _DSM_ to me. I can read the _DSM_ too. Just say what you mean: he did it.\"\n\n\"I can't tell you he did or didn't do it. I just don't know.\"\n\n\"So you're saying he _might_ have done it. You think it's actually possible.\"\n\n\"Laurie, please sit down.\"\n\n\"I don't want to sit down! Answer me!\"\n\n\"I see certain traits and behaviors in Jacob that disturb me, yes, but that's a very different thing\u2014\"\n\n\"And it's our fault? Excuse me: it _could_ be our fault, it's _possible_ that it _might just be_ our fault, because we're such bad parents, because we had the nerve, the... the cruelty to put him in day care like every other kid in this town. Every other kid!\"\n\n\"No. I would not say that, Laurie. It is positively _not_ your fault in any way. Put that thought right out of your head.\"\n\n\"And the gene, this mutation you tested for. What do you call it? Knockout whatever.\"\n\n\"MAOA Knockout.\"\n\n\"Does Jacob have it?\"\n\n\"The gene is not what you're suggesting. I've explained, at the most it creates a predisposition\u2014\"\n\n\"Doctor. Does. Jacob. Have it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And my husband?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And my\u2014I don't even know what to call him\u2014my father-in-law?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, there you go. Of course he does. And what you said earlier, about Jacob's heart being two sizes too small, like the Grinch?\"\n\n\"I should not have phrased it like that. That was a foolish thing to say. I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Never mind how you phrased it. Do you still believe it? Is my son's heart two sizes too small?\"\n\n\"We need to work on building an emotional vocabulary for Jacob. It's not about the size of his heart. His emotional maturity is not at the same level as his peers.\"\n\n\"What level is it at? His emotional maturity?\"\n\nDeep breath. \"Jacob presents some of the characteristics of a boy half his age.\"\n\n\"Seven! My son has the emotional maturity of a seven-year-old! That's what you're saying!\"\n\n\"That's not the way I'd put it.\"\n\n\"So what do I do? What do I do?\"\n\nNo answer.\n\n\"What am I supposed to do?\"\n\n\"Shh,\" I said, \"he'll hear you.\"\n\n# **29 | The Burning Monk**\n\nDay three of the trial.\n\nBeside me at the defense table, Jacob picked at a gristly nubbin of skin on his right thumb, near the nail. He had been scraping away at this area of his thumb for a while, nervously, absently, and had opened a little crack that extended from the cuticle down about a quarter inch toward the knuckle. He did not chew the cuticle, as kids often do. His method involved scratching the skin with a fingernail, lifting little peels and shavings until he succeeded in scooping up a substantial sliver, whereupon he would bear down and set about removing the rubbery protrusion by a battery of wiggles, tugs, and, when all else failed, slicing it with the dull edge of a fingernail. The area of these excavations never had a chance to heal. After a particularly aggressive excision, blood would seep from the wound, and he would have to squeeze his thumb with a Kleenex, if he had one, or stick the whole thing in his mouth to slurp it clean. He seemed to believe, against all logic, that no one could be bothered by this nauseating little drama.\n\nI took the hand Jacob was punishing and moved it down into his lap, out of the jurors' sight, then rested my arm protectively on the back of his chair.\n\nOn the stand, a woman was testifying. Ruthann Something-or-other. She was fifty years old or so. Likeable face. Short, plain haircut. More gray hair than dark, a fact she made no effort to conceal. No jewelry except a watch and wedding ring. She wore black clogs. She was one of the neighbors who walked their dogs along the trails in Cold Spring Park every morning. Logiudice had called her to testify that she passed a boy who roughly resembled Jacob near the murder scene that morning. It would have been a worthwhile bit of evidence if only this woman could deliver on it, but she was obviously suffering on the stand. She washed her hands over and over in her lap. She weighed every question before answering. Before long, her anxiety became more compelling than her actual testimony, which did not amount to much.\n\nLogiudice: \"Could you describe this boy?\"\n\n\"He was average, I guess. Five nine, five ten. Skinny. He was wearing jeans and sneakers. Dark hair.\"\n\nThis was not a boy she was describing, it was a shadow. Half the kids in Newton fit the description, and she was not done yet. She hedged and hedged, until Logiudice was reduced to prompting his own witness by sneaking into his questions little reminders, like cue cards, of what she had said in her initial answers to the police on the day of the murder. The prosecutor's constant prompting got Jonathan up on his feet to object over and over, and the whole thing became increasingly ridiculous, with the witness getting ready to recant the ID, and Logiudice too dense to get her off the stand before she made it official, and Jonathan jumping up and down to object to the leading\u2014\n\nand somehow it all faded into the background for me. I could not focus on it, let alone care about it. I had a sinking sense that this whole trial did not matter. It was already too late. Dr. Vogel's verdict mattered at least as much as this one would.\n\nNext to me was Jacob, this riddle Laurie and I had made. His size, his resemblance to me, the likelihood that he would fill out and come to resemble me even more\u2014all this shattered me. Every father knows the disconcerting moment when you see your child as a weird, distorted double of yourself. It is as if for a moment your identities overlap. You see an idea, a conception of your boyish inner self, stand right up in front of you, made real and flesh. He is you and not you, familiar and strange. He is you restarted, rewound; at the same time he is as foreign and unknowable as any other person. In the push/pull of this confusion, with my arm on the back of his chair, I touched his shoulder.\n\nGuiltily he laid his hands flat on his lap, where he had gone back to picking the raw skin on his right thumb and had managed to pry up a new sliver.\n\nDirectly behind me, Laurie sat alone on the front bench. She sat alone every day of the trial. We were friendless in Newton, of course. I wanted to enlist Laurie's parents to sit with her in the courtroom. I am sure they would have done it. But Laurie would not allow it. She was being a bit of a martyr here. She had brought down catastrophe on her own family by marrying into mine; now she was determined to pay the price alone. In court, people tended to leave a foot or so on either side of her. Whenever I turned, she was alone in that zone of isolation on the bench, distracted, her arms half folded, her chin resting in one hand, listening, looking down at the floor rather than at the witness. The night before, Laurie had been so shaken by Dr. Vogel's diagnosis that she begged one of my Ambiens and still could not sleep. Lying in bed in the dark, she said, \"If he _is_ guilty, Andy, what do we do?\" I told her there was nothing to do at the moment but wait until the jury decided if he was guilty or not. I tried to snuggle with her to comfort her, which seemed like the husbandly thing to do, but my touch rattled her even more and she wriggled away from me to the very edge of the bed, where she lay as still as she could but quite obviously awake, her sniffles and little movements betraying her. Back in her teaching days, Laurie had been (to me) a miraculous sleeper. She turned off the light as early as nine o'clock because she had to wake up so early, and she was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. But that was another Laurie.\n\nMeanwhile, in the courtroom Logiudice apparently had decided to ride it out to the end with this witness, even as she gave every sign of imploding. It is hard to justify Logiudice's decision in strategic terms, so I imagine he just wanted to prevent Jonathan from having the honor of eliciting her final recantation. Or maybe he still hoped, desperately, that she would come around in the end. But he would not give up, the stubborn bastard. It was actually sort of noble, in a weird way, like a captain going down with his ship or a monk dousing himself with gasoline and setting himself on fire. By the time Logiudice got to his last question\u2014he had scripted the whole examination on his yellow legal pad and stuck to the script even as the witness improvised freely\u2014Jonathan had put down his pen and was watching through his fingers.\n\nQuestion: \"Is the boy you saw in Cold Spring Park that morning sitting here in the courtroom today?\"\n\nAnswer: \"I can't be sure.\"\n\n\"Well, do you see a boy matching the description you gave of the boy from the park?\"\n\nAnswer: \"I don't\u2014I'm really not sure anymore. It was a kid. That's all I know for sure. It was a long time ago. The more I think about it, I just don't want to say. I don't want to send some kid to prison for life if there's a chance I might be wrong. I couldn't live with myself if I did that.\"\n\nJudge French blew out a long, droll sigh. He arched his eyebrows and removed his glasses. \"Mr. Klein, I take it you have no questions?\"\n\n\"No, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"I didn't think so.\"\n\nThings did not improve much for Logiudice the rest of that day. He had organized his witnesses into logical groups, and today was devoted to the civilian witnesses. They were passersby. None had seen anything especially damning from Jacob's point of view. But then, it was a weak case, and Logiudice was right to throw everything he had into the pot. So we heard from two more people, a man and a woman, who each testified they saw Jacob in the park, albeit not near the murder scene. Another witness saw a figure running from the general area of the murder. She could not say anything about this person's age or identity, but the clothes roughly matched what Jacob was wearing that day, even if jeans and a light jacket were not exactly a distinctive uniform, especially in a park filled with kids walking to school.\n\nLogiudice did end on a harrowing note. His last witness was a man named Sam Studnitzer who was walking his dog through the park that morning. Studnitzer had a very short haircut, narrow shoulders, a gentle manner.\n\n\"Where were you going?\" Logiudice asked.\n\n\"There is a field where dogs can run around off the leash. I take my dog most mornings.\"\n\n\"What kind of dog is he?\"\n\n\"A black Lab. His name is Bo.\"\n\n\"What time was it?\"\n\n\"Around eight-twenty. I'm usually earlier.\"\n\n\"Where in the park were you and Bo?\"\n\n\"We were on one of the paths through the woods. The dog had gone on ahead, sniffing around.\"\n\n\"And what happened?\"\n\nStudnitzer hesitated.\n\nThe Rifkins were in the courtroom, on the front bench behind the prosecution table.\n\n\"I heard a little boy's voice.\"\n\n\"What did the little boy say?\"\n\n\"He said, 'Stop, you're hurting me.' \"\n\n\"Did he say anything else?\"\n\nStudnitzer slumped, frowned. Quietly: \"No.\"\n\n\"Just 'Stop, you're hurting me'?\"\n\nStudnitzer did not answer, but clamped fingers over his temples, covering his eyes.\n\nLogiudice waited.\n\nThe courtroom was so dead quiet, Studnitzer's sniffly breathing was clearly audible. He took his hand away from his face. \"No. That's all I heard.\"\n\n\"Did you see anyone else around you?\"\n\n\"No. I couldn't see very far. The sight lines are limited. That part of the park is hilly. The trees grow thick. We were coming down a little slope. I couldn't see anyone.\"\n\n\"Could you tell which direction the cry came from?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did you look around, did you investigate? Did you try to help the little boy in any way?\"\n\n\"No. I didn't know. I thought it was just kids. I didn't know. I didn't think anything of it. There are so many kids in that park every morning, laughing, fooling around. It sounded like just... roughhousing.\" His eyes fell.\n\n\"What did the boy's voice sound like?\"\n\n\"Like he was hurt. He was in pain.\"\n\n\"Were there any other sounds after the cry? Pushing, sounds of a struggle, anything at all?\"\n\n\"No. I didn't hear anything like that.\"\n\n\"What happened next?\"\n\n\"The dog was alert, hyper, strange. I didn't know what his problem was. I kind of pushed him along, and we kept on walking through the park.\"\n\n\"Did you see anyone as you were walking?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did you observe anything else unusual that morning?\"\n\n\"No, not until after, when I heard the sirens and cops started streaming into the park. That's when I found out what happened.\"\n\nLogiudice sat down.\n\nEveryone in the courtroom was hearing those words in a loop in their heads: _Stop, you're hurting me. Stop, you're hurting me_. I have not gotten them out of my head yet. I doubt I ever will. But the truth is, even this detail did not point to Jacob.\n\nTo underscore that fact, Jonathan stood up on cross to ask a single perfunctory question: \"Mr. Studnitzer, you never saw this boy, Jacob Barber, in the park that morning, did you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nJonathan took a moment to shake his head in front of the jury and say, \"Terrible, terrible,\" to demonstrate that we too were on the side of the angels.\n\nThere it stood. Despite everything\u2014Dr. Vogel's awful diagnosis and Laurie's shell shock and the hauntingly ordinary words of the boy as he was stabbed\u2014after three days we were still up, way up. If this were a Little League game, we might be talking about the mercy rule. As it turned out, it was our last good day.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Let me stop you there for just a moment. I understand your wife was upset.\n\nWitness: We were all upset.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But Laurie in particular was struggling.\n\nWitness: Yes, she was having a hard time handling the pressure.\n\nMr. Logiudice: More than that. She was clearly having her doubts about Jacob's innocence, especially after you all spoke with Dr. Vogel and got the full diagnosis in some detail. She even asked you point-blank what you two ought to do if he was guilty, didn't she?\n\nWitness: Yes. A little later. But she was very upset at that moment. You have no idea what this sort of pressure is like.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What about you? Weren't you upset too?\n\nWitness: Of course I was. I was terrified.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Terrified because you were finally beginning to consider the possibility Jacob might be guilty?\n\nWitness: No, terrified because the jury might convict him whether he was actually guilty or not.\n\nMr. Logiudice: It still hadn't crossed your mind that Jacob might actually have done it?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Not once? Not for a single second?\n\nWitness: Not once.\n\nMr. Logiudice: \"Confirmation bias,\" is that it, Andy?\n\nWitness: Fuck you, Neal. Heartless prick.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Don't lose your temper.\n\nWitness: You've never seen me lose my temper.\n\nMr. Logiudice: No. I can just imagine.\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: All right, let's continue.\n\n# 30 | The Third Rail\n\nTrial day four.\n\nPaul Duffy on the stand. He wore a blue blazer, rep tie, and gray flannel pants, which was about as formal as he ever managed to dress. Like Jonathan, he was one of those men it is easy to imagine as boys, men whose appearance almost forces you to see the boy inside. It was nothing particular about his physical features, but a boyish quality in his manner. Maybe it was just the effect of my long friendship with him. To me, Paul remained twenty-seven years old forever, his age when I met him.\n\nFor Logiudice, of course, that friendship made Duffy a slippery witness. At the start, Logiudice's manner was tentative, his questions overly cautious. If he had asked, I could have told him that Paul Duffy was not going to lie, even for me. It just wasn't in him. (I would have told him also to put down his ridiculous yellow pad. He looked like a goddamn amateur.)\n\n\"Would you state your name for the record, please?\"\n\n\"Paul Michael Duffy.\"\n\n\"What do you do for work?\"\n\n\"I'm a lieutenant detective with the Massachusetts State Police.\"\n\n\"How long have you been employed by the state police?\"\n\n\"Twenty-six years.\"\n\n\"And what is your current assignment?\"\n\n\"I am in a public relations unit.\"\n\n\"Directing your attention to April 12, 2007, what was your assignment on that date?\"\n\n\"I was in charge of a special unit of detectives assigned to the Middlesex District Attorney's Office. The unit is called CPAC, for Crime Prevention and Control. It consists of fifteen to twenty detectives at any given time, all with the special training and experience required to assist the ADAs and local departments in the investigation and prosecution of complex cases of various kinds, particularly homicides.\" Duffy recited this little speech in a drone, from rote memory.\n\n\"And had you participated in many homicide investigations prior to April 12, 2007?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Approximately how many?\"\n\n\"Over a hundred, though I was not in charge of all of them.\"\n\n\"Okay, on April 12, 2007, did you receive a phone call about a murder in Newton?\"\n\n\"Yes. Around nine-fifteen A.M. I got a call from a Lieutenant Foley in Newton informing me there had been a homicide involving a child in Cold Spring Park.\"\n\n\"And what was the first thing you did?\"\n\n\"I called the district attorney's office to inform them.\"\n\n\"Is that standard procedure?\"\n\n\"Yes. The local department is required by law to inform the state police of all homicides or unnatural deaths, then we inform the DA immediately.\"\n\n\"Who specifically did you call?\"\n\n\"Andy Barber.\"\n\n\"Why Andy Barber?\"\n\n\"He was the First Assistant, which means he was the second in command to the district attorney herself.\"\n\n\"What was your understanding about what Mr. Barber would do with that information?\"\n\n\"He would assign an ADA to run the investigation for their office.\"\n\n\"Might he keep the case for himself?\"\n\n\"He might. He handled a lot of homicides himself.\"\n\n\"Did you have any expectations that morning as to whether Mr. Barber would keep the case for himself?\"\n\nJonathan lifted his butt six inches from his chair. \"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"Detective Duffy, what did you think Mr. Barber would do with the case at that point?\"\n\n\"I did not know. I suppose I figured he might keep it. It looked like it might be a big case right from the get-go. He kept those sorts of cases a lot. But if he put someone else on it, that would not have surprised me either. There were other good people there besides Mr. Barber. To be honest, I did not really think about it much. I had my own job to do. I let him worry about the DA's office. My job was to run CPAC.\"\n\n\"Do you know whether the district attorney, Lynn Canavan, was informed right away?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I presume so.\"\n\n\"All right, after telephoning Mr. Barber, what did you do next?\"\n\n\"I went to the location.\"\n\n\"What time did you arrive there?\"\n\n\"Nine thirty-five in the morning.\"\n\n\"Describe the scene when you first arrived.\"\n\n\"The entrance to Cold Spring Park is on Beacon Street. There is a parking lot at the front of the park. Behind that there are tennis courts and playing fields. Then behind the fields it is all woods, and there are trails leading off into the woods. There were a lot of police vehicles in the parking lot and on the street out front. Lots of cops around.\"\n\n\"What did you do?\"\n\n\"I parked on Beacon Street and approached the location on foot. I was met by Detective Peterson of the Newton Police and by Mr. Barber.\"\n\n\"Again, was there anything unusual about Mr. Barber's presence at the homicide scene?\"\n\n\"No. He lived pretty close to the location, and he generally went to homicide scenes even if he didn't intend to keep the case.\"\n\n\"How did you know Mr. Barber lived near Cold Spring Park?\"\n\n\"Because I've known him for years.\"\n\n\"In fact, you two are personal friends.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Close friends?\"\n\n\"Yes. We were.\"\n\n\"And now?\"\n\nThere was a hitch before he answered. \"I can't speak for him. I still consider him a friend.\"\n\n\"Do you two still see each other socially?\"\n\n\"No. Not since Jacob was indicted.\"\n\n\"When was the last time you and Mr. Barber spoke?\"\n\n\"Before the indictment.\"\n\nA lie, but a white lie. The truth would have been misleading to the jury. It would have suggested, wrongly, that Duffy could not be trusted. Duffy was biased but honest about the big questions. He did not flinch as he delivered the statement. I did not flinch at it either. The point of a trial is to reach the right result, which requires constant recalibration along the way, like a sailboat tacking upwind.\n\n\"All right, you get to the park, you meet Detective Peterson and Mr. Barber. What happens next?\"\n\n\"They explained the basic situation to me, that the victim had already been identified as Benjamin Rifkin, and they walked me through the park to the actual scene of the homicide.\"\n\n\"What did you see when you got there?\"\n\n\"The perimeter of the area was already taped off. The M.E. and crime-scene-services technicians had not arrived at the location yet. There was a photographer from the local police there taking pictures. The victim was still lying on the ground, the body, with nothing much around it. Basically they froze the scene when they got there, to preserve it.\"\n\n\"Could you actually see the body?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Could you describe the position of the body when you first saw it?\"\n\n\"The victim was lying on a hill with the head at the lower end and the feet farther up the hill. It was twisted so the head was looking up toward the sky and the bottom half of the body and the legs were on its side.\"\n\n\"What did you do next?\"\n\n\"I approached the body with Detective Peterson and Mr. Barber. Detective Peterson was showing me details about the scene.\"\n\n\"What was he showing you?\"\n\n\"At the top of the hill, near the trail there was a good deal of blood on the ground, cast-off blood. I saw a number of droplets that were quite small, less than an inch in diameter. There were also a few larger stains that appeared to be what is called contact smears. These were on the leaves.\"\n\n\"What is a contact smear?\"\n\n\"It's when a surface with wet blood contacts another surface and the blood transfers. It leaves a stain.\"\n\n\"Describe the contact smears.\"\n\n\"They were farther down the hill. There were several. They were several inches long at first, and as you went farther down the hill they became thicker and longer, more blood.\"\n\n\"Now, I understand that you are not a criminalist, but did you form any impressions at the time, or theories, about what this blood evidence suggested?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did. It looked like the homicide had taken place near the trail, where there were blood drops that had fallen, then the body fell or was pushed down the side of the hill, causing it to slide on its stomach, leaving the long contact smears of blood on the leaves.\"\n\n\"All right, so having formed this theory, what did you do next?\"\n\n\"I went down and inspected the body.\"\n\n\"What did you see?\"\n\n\"It had three wounds across the chest. It was a little difficult to see because the front of the body was soaked in blood, the victim's shirt. There was also quite a bit of blood around the body where it had apparently been draining out of these wounds.\"\n\n\"Was there anything unusual about those bloodstains, the pooled blood around the body?\"\n\n\"Yes. There were some molded prints, shoe prints and other impressions, in the blood, meaning someone had stepped in the wet blood and left a print in it, like a mold.\"\n\n\"What did you conclude from those molded shoe prints?\"\n\n\"Obviously someone had stood or knelt beside the body soon after the murder, while the blood was still wet enough to take the impression.\"\n\n\"Were you aware of the jogger, Paula Giannetto, who discovered the body?\"\n\n\"Yes, I was.\"\n\n\"How did that figure in your thinking about the molded prints?\"\n\n\"I thought she might have left them, but I could not be sure.\"\n\n\"What else did you conclude?\"\n\n\"Well, there was quite a bit of blood that had been cast off during the attack. It had sprayed and also been smeared. I did not know how the attacker might have been standing, but I figured from the position of the wounds on the victim's chest that he was probably standing right in front of him. So I figured the person we were looking for might have some blood on him. He might also have a weapon, although a knife is small and pretty easy to dispose of. But the blood was the big thing. It was a reasonably messy scene.\"\n\n\"Did you make any other observations about the victim, particularly about his hands?\"\n\n\"Yes, they were not cut or injured.\"\n\n\"What did that suggest to you?\"\n\n\"The absence of defensive wounds suggested he did not struggle or fight back against his assailant, which suggested he was either surprised or never saw the attack coming and did not have a chance to get his hands up to block the blows.\"\n\n\"Suggesting he may have known his assailant?\"\n\nJonathan levitated his butt a few inches above his chair again. \"Objection. Speculation.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"All right, what did you do next?\"\n\n\"Well, the murder was still relatively fresh. The park had been sealed, and we immediately searched it to ascertain if there were any individuals in it. That search had begun before I got there.\"\n\n\"And did you find anyone?\"\n\n\"We found a few people who were pretty far away from the scene. No one seemed particularly suspicious. There was no indication that any of them were connected with the homicide in any way.\"\n\n\"No blood on them?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No knives?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"So it's fair to say that in the early hours of the investigation you had no obvious suspects?\"\n\n\"We had no suspects at all.\"\n\n\"And over the next few days, how many suspects were you able to identify and develop?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"What did you do next? How did you continue the investigation?\"\n\n\"Well, we interviewed everyone we could who had any information. The victim's family and friends, anyone who might have seen anything the morning of the murder.\"\n\n\"Did this include the victim's classmates?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"There was some delay in getting into the school. The parents in the town were concerned about us interviewing the kids. There was some discussion about whether the kids needed to have a lawyer present at the interviews and whether we could go into the school without a warrant, into the lockers and things. There was also some discussion about whether it was appropriate to use the school building for the interviews and which students we would be allowed to interview.\"\n\n\"What was your reaction to all this delay?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"I was angry, to be honest. The colder a case gets, the harder it is to solve.\"\n\n\"And who was running the case with you for the district attorney's office?\"\n\n\"Mr. Barber.\"\n\n\"Andrew Barber, the defendant's father?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did it strike you by this time that there was something inappropriate about Andy Barber working this case when his son's school was involved?\"\n\n\"Not really. I mean, I was aware of it. But it wasn't like a Columbine thing: we didn't necessarily have a kid-on-kid murder. We did not have any real reason to believe any of the kids at the school were involved, let alone Jacob.\"\n\n\"So you never questioned Mr. Barber's judgment in this regard, even in your own mind?\"\n\n\"No, never.\"\n\n\"Did you ever discuss it with him?\"\n\n\"Once.\"\n\n\"And would you describe that conversation?\"\n\n\"I just said to Andy that, you know, just to cover your... derriere, you might want to pass this one off.\"\n\n\"Because you saw a conflict of interest?\"\n\n\"I saw that his kid's school might be involved, and you never know. Why not just keep your distance?\"\n\n\"And what did he say?\"\n\n\"He said there was no conflict, because if his kid was ever in danger from a murderer, then that was all the _more_ reason he would want to see the case solved. Plus, he said he felt some responsibility because he lived in the town and there weren't many homicides there, so he figured people would be especially upset. He wanted to do the right thing for them.\"\n\nLogiudice paused at that last phrase and glared at Duffy for just an instant.\n\n\"Did Mr. Barber, the defendant's father, ever suggest that you pursue a theory that one of Ben Rifkin's classmates might have murdered him?\"\n\n\"No. He never suggested that or ruled it out.\"\n\n\"But he did not actively pursue a theory that Ben was killed by a classmate?\"\n\n\"No. But you don't 'actively pursue'\u2014\"\n\n\"Did he try to steer the investigation in any other direction?\"\n\n\"I don't understand, 'steer' it?\"\n\n\"Did he have any other suspects in mind?\"\n\n\"Yes. There was a man named Leonard Patz who lived near the park, and there was some circumstantial indication he might be involved. Andy wanted to pursue that suspect.\"\n\n\"In fact, wasn't Andy Barber the only one pushing Patz as a suspect?\"\n\n\"Objection. Leading.\"\n\n\"Sustained. This is your witness, Mr. Logiudice.\"\n\n\"Withdraw the question. You did ultimately interview the children, Ben's classmates at the McCormick School?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And what did you learn?\"\n\n\"Well, we learned at some length\u2014because the kids were not very forthcoming\u2014that there was an ongoing beef between Ben and the defendant, between Ben and Jacob. Ben had been bullying Jacob. That led us to begin considering Jacob as a suspect.\"\n\n\"Even while his father ran the investigation?\"\n\n\"Certain aspects of the investigation had to be carried out without Mr. Barber knowing.\"\n\nThis came as a hammer blow to me. I had not heard it before. I had assumed something like it, but not that Duffy himself was involved. He must have seen my face fall, because a helpless look crossed his face.\n\n\"And how did this come about? Was another assistant DA appointed to investigate the case without Mr. Barber's knowledge?\"\n\n\"Yes. You.\"\n\n\"And this was done on whose approval?\"\n\n\"The district attorney, Lynn Canavan.\"\n\n\"And what did this investigation reveal?\"\n\n\"Evidence developed against the defendant to the effect that he had a knife consistent with the wounds, he had sufficient motive, and most important he had stated his intention to defend himself with the knife if the victim continued to bully him. The defendant had also come to school with a small amount of blood on his right hand that morning, blood drops. We learned these things from the defendant's friend, Derek Yoo.\"\n\n\"The defendant had blood on his right hand?\"\n\n\"According to his friend Derek Yoo, yes.\"\n\n\"And he had announced his intention to use the knife on Ben Rifkin?\"\n\n\"That's what Derek Yoo informed us.\"\n\n\"At some point did you become aware of a story on a website called the Cutting Room?\"\n\n\"Yes. Derek Yoo described that to us as well.\"\n\n\"And did you investigate this website, the Cutting Room?\"\n\n\"Yes. It is a site where people post fantasy stories that are mostly about sex and violence, including some very disturbing\u2014\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Did you find a story on the Cutting Room website that related to this case?\"\n\n\"Yes, we did. We found a story that described the murder essentially from the murderer's point of view. The names were changed and some of the details were a little off, but the situation was the same. It was obviously the same case.\"\n\n\"Who wrote that story?\"\n\n\"The defendant did.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"Derek Yoo informed us the defendant had told him.\"\n\n\"Were you able to confirm that in any other way?\"\n\n\"No. We were able to determine the ISP of the computer the story was originally uploaded from, which is like a fingerprint identifying where the computer is located. It came back to the Peet's coffee shop in Newton Centre.\"\n\n\"Were you able to identify the actual machine that was used to upload the story?\"\n\n\"No. It was someone who linked to the coffee shop's wireless network. That was as far as we could trace it. Peet's does not keep records of which computers jump on and off that network, and it does not require users to sign on to the network with a name or a credit card or anything. So we could not trace it any further.\"\n\n\"But you had Derek Yoo's word that the defendant had admitted writing it?\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\n\"And what was it about the story that made it so compelling, that convinced you only the murderer could have written it?\"\n\n\"Every detail was there. The clincher for me was that it described the angle of the knife wounds. The story said the stabs were planned to enter the chest at an angle that would allow the knife blade to penetrate between the ribs to maximize the damage to internal organs. I didn't think anyone would know about the knife angle. It wasn't public information. And it would not be an easy detail to guess because it requires the attacker hold the knife at an unnatural angle, horizontally, so it slips between the ribs. Also the level of detail, the planning\u2014it was essentially a written confession. I knew we had probable cause to arrest at that point.\"\n\n\"But you did not arrest the defendant immediately?\"\n\n\"No. We still wanted to find the knife and any other evidence that the defendant might have hidden in the house.\"\n\n\"So what did you do?\"\n\n\"We got the warrant and hit the house.\"\n\n\"And what did you find?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Did you take the defendant's computer?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What sort of computer was it?\"\n\n\"It was an Apple laptop, white in color.\"\n\n\"And did you have the computer searched by specialists trained in uncovering material from hard drives of this kind?\"\n\n\"Yes. They were not able to find anything directly incriminating.\"\n\n\"Did they find anything at all that was relevant to the case?\"\n\n\"They found a software program called Disk Scraper. The program erases from the hard drive traces of old or deleted documents or programs. Jacob is very good with computers. So it's still possible the story was deleted from the computer even though we couldn't find it.\"\n\n\"Objection. Speculation.\"\n\n\"Sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard the last sentence.\"\n\nLogiudice: \"Were they able to find pornography?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"Were they able to find pornography?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Any other violent stories or anything connected to the murder?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Were you able to corroborate Derek Yoo's claim that Jacob had a knife in any way? Was there any paperwork from the purchase of the knife, for example?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Was the actual murder weapon ever found?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But a knife _was_ found in Cold Spring Park at some point?\"\n\n\"Yes. We continued to search the park for some time after the murder. We felt that the perpetrator must have ditched the knife somewhere in the park to avoid detection. We did finally find a knife in a shallow pond. The knife was about the right size, but subsequent forensic analysis showed it was not the knife used in the murder.\"\n\n\"How was that determined?\"\n\n\"The blade of this knife was larger than the wounds would indicate, and it did not have a serrated blade consistent with the torn edges of the victim's wounds.\"\n\n\"So what did you conclude from the fact that the knife had been thrown in the pond there?\"\n\n\"I thought it was put there to throw us off, to send us down the wrong path. Probably by someone who did not have access to the forensic reports describing the wounds and the likely characteristics of the weapon.\"\n\n\"Any guesses about who might have planted that knife?\"\n\n\"Objection. Calls for speculation.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\nLogiudice considered a moment. He took a deep, satisfied breath, relieved finally to have a professional witness to work with. That Duffy knew and liked me\u2014that he was somewhat biased in Jacob's favor and visibly conflicted about being on the stand\u2014only made his testimony the more damning. _Finally_ , Logiudice evidently felt, _finally_.\n\n\"No further questions,\" he said.\n\nJonathan bounced up and went to a spot at the far end of the jury box, where he leaned against the rail. If he could have climbed into the jury box itself to ask his questions, he would have.\n\n\"Or the knife might have just been dropped there for no reason at all?\" he said.\n\n\"It's possible.\"\n\n\"Because things are tossed away in parks all the time?\"\n\n\"True.\"\n\n\"So when you say the knife may have been planted there to deceive you, that's a guess, isn't it?\"\n\n\"An educated guess, yes.\"\n\n\"A wild guess, I'd say.\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Let's go back a little, Lieutenant. You testified that there was a lot of blood found at the scene, cast-off blood, spatters, contact smears, and of course the victim's shirt was soaked in blood.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"There was so much blood, in fact, you testified that when you went off to search the park for suspects, you were looking for someone with blood on him. Isn't that what you said?\"\n\n\"Looking for someone who _might_ have blood on him, yes.\"\n\n\"A lot of blood on him?\"\n\n\"I was not certain of that.\"\n\n\"Oh, come on now. You testified that, based on the pattern of the wounds, Ben Rifkin's attacker was probably standing right in front of him, correct?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you testified there was cast-off blood.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\" 'Cast-off' meaning it was thrown, projected, it shot out?\"\n\n\"Yes, but\u2014\"\n\n\"In fact, in a case with so much blood, with wounds this grievous, you would have to think the attacker would have quite a bit of blood on him because the wounds would spurt?\"\n\n\"Not necessarily.\"\n\n\"Not necessarily but very likely, isn't it, Detective?\"\n\n\"It's likely.\"\n\n\"And of course in a stabbing, the attacker has to stand quite close to the victim, within arm's length, obviously?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where it would be impossible to avoid the spray?\"\n\n\"I didn't use the word _spray_.\"\n\n\"Where it would be impossible to avoid the cast-off blood?\"\n\n\"I can't say that for sure.\"\n\n\"And the description of Jacob with blood on him as he arrived at school that morning\u2014you heard this from his friend Derek Yoo, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And what Derek Yoo described was that Jacob had some small amounts of blood on his right hand, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"None on his clothes?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"None on his face or anywhere else on his body?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"On his shoes?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"All of which is perfectly consistent with the explanation Jacob gave his friend Derek Yoo, isn't it, that he discovered the body _after_ the attack and _then_ he touched it with his right hand?\"\n\n\"It is consistent, yes, but not the only possible explanation.\"\n\n\"And of course Jacob did go to school that morning?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He was in school just minutes after the murder, we know that, right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When does school start at the McCormick?\"\n\n\"Eight thirty-five.\"\n\n\"And when was the time of the murder, according to the M.E., if you know?\"\n\n\"Sometime between eight and eight-thirty.\"\n\n\"But Jacob was in his seat in school at eight thirty-five with no blood on him at all?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And if I were to suggest to you, hypothetically, that the story Jacob wrote that impressed you so much\u2014that you described as virtually a written confession\u2014if I were to show you evidence that Jacob did not make up the facts in that story, that all the details in the story were already well known among the students at the McCormick School, would that affect your thinking about how important it was as evidence?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course!\"\n\nDuffy looked at him poker-faced. His job here was to say as little as possible, to pare away every extra word. Volunteering details could only help the defense.\n\n\"Now, on this question of Andy Barber's role in the investigation, are you suggesting that your friend Andy did anything wrong or inappropriate here?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Can you point to any errors or suspicious decisions he made?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Anything you questioned then or now?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"There was some mention of this man Leonard Patz. Even knowing what we know now, does it seem inappropriate to you that Patz was once considered a legitimate suspect?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No, because in the early stages of an investigation, you pursue every reasonable lead, you cast your net as wide as possible, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"In fact, if I told you that Andy Barber still believes that Patz was the real killer in this case, would that surprise you, Lieutenant?\"\n\nDuffy made a little frown. \"No. That's what he always believed.\"\n\n\"Isn't it also true that you were the detective who brought Leonard Patz to Mr. Barber's attention in the first place?\"\n\n\"Yes, but\u2014\"\n\n\"And was Andy Barber's judgment about homicide investigations generally reliable?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did it seem odd to you in any way that Andy Barber wanted to pursue an investigation of Leonard Patz for Ben Rifkin's murder?\"\n\n\"Odd? No. It made sense, based on the limited information we had at the time.\"\n\n\"And yet the investigation of Patz was never seriously pursued, was it?\"\n\n\"It was stopped once the decision was made to indict Jacob Barber, yes.\"\n\n\"And who made that decision, to stop focusing on Patz?\"\n\n\"The district attorney, Lynn Canavan.\"\n\n\"Did she make that decision alone?\"\n\n\"No, I believe she was advised by Mr. Logiudice.\"\n\n\"Was there any evidence at the time that excluded Leonard Patz as a suspect?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Has any evidence ever come up that clears him directly?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No. Because that angle was simply dropped, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"I suppose.\"\n\n\"It was dropped because Mr. Logiudice wanted it dropped, no?\"\n\n\"There was a discussion among all the investigators, including the district attorney and Mr. Logiudice\u2014\"\n\n\"It was dropped because in that discussion Mr. Logiudice pushed to have it dropped, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Well, we're here now, so obviously yes.\" There was a trace of exasperation in Duffy's voice.\n\n\"So, even knowing what we know now, do you have any doubts about your friend Andrew Barber's integrity?\"\n\n\"No.\" Duffy thought about it, or pretended to. \"No, I don't think Andy ever had any suspicions about Jacob.\"\n\n\"You don't think Andy suspected anything?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"The boy's own father, who lived with him his whole life? He did not know anything?\"\n\nDuffy shrugged. \"I can't say for sure. But I don't think so.\"\n\n\"How is it possible to live with a child for fourteen years and know so little about him?\"\n\n\"I can't say for sure.\"\n\n\"No. In fact, you've known Jacob all his life too, haven't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And initially you had no suspicions about Jacob either, did you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"In all those years, it never seemed to you there was anything dangerous about Jacob? You had no reason to suspect him, did you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No, of course not.\"\n\n\"Objection. Request that Mr. Klein not add his own commentary to the witness's answers.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"My apologies,\" Jonathan said with a great show of insincerity. \"Nothing further.\"\n\nThe judge: \"Mr. Logiudice. Redirect?\"\n\nLogiudice considered. He might have left it there. Certainly he had enough to argue to the jury that I was crooked and had hijacked the investigation to cover for my crazy kid. Hell, he did not even have to argue it; the jury had heard it intimated several times in testimony. In any event, I was not the one on trial here. He could have just taken his winnings and moved on. But he was puffed up from his newfound momentum. You could see in his face that he felt himself in the grip of a grand inspiration. He seemed to believe the kill shot was right there within reach. Another little boy in a grown-up's body, unable to resist the cookie jar in front of him.\n\n\"Yes, Your Honor,\" he said, and went to a spot directly in front of the witness stand.\n\nA little rustle in the courtroom.\n\n\"Detective Duffy, you say you have no reservations at all about the way Andrew Barber conducted this case?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"Because he didn't know anything, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Objection. Leading. This is a prosecution witness.\"\n\n\"He can have it.\"\n\n\"And how long would you say you've known Andy Barber, how many years?\"\n\n\"Objection. Relevance.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"I guess I've known Andy over twenty years.\"\n\n\"So you know him pretty well?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Inside and out?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"When did you learn that his father is a murderer?\" Boom.\n\nJonathan and I both shot out of our seats, jostling the table. \"Objection!\"\n\n\"Sustained! The witness is instructed not to answer that question and the jury is to disregard it! Give it no weight. Treat the question as if it was never asked.\" Judge French turned to the lawyers. \"I'll see counsel at sidebar right now.\"\n\nI did not go with Jonathan to the sidebar conference so, again, I am quoting the judge's whispered comments from the trial transcript. But I did watch the judge as he spoke, and I can tell you he was obviously furious. Red-faced, he put his hands on the edge of the judge's bench and leaned over to hiss at Logiudice.\n\n\"I am shocked, I'm stunned you did that. I explicitly told you in no uncertain terms not to go there or I would declare a mistrial. What do you have to say, Mr. Logiudice?\"\n\n\"It was defense counsel who chose to cross on this question of the character of the defendant's father and the integrity of the investigation. If he chooses to make that an issue, the prosecution is perfectly entitled to argue its side of the case. I was just following up on Mr. Klein's line of questioning. He specifically raised the issue of whether the defendant's father had any reason to suspect his son.\"\n\n\"Mr. Klein, I presume you are going to move for a mistrial.\"\n\n\"Yup.\"\n\n\"Step back.\"\n\nThe lawyers went back to their respective tables.\n\nJudge French remained standing to address the jury, as was his habit. He even unzipped his robe a bit and gripped the edge of its collar as if he were posing for a statue. \"Ladies and gentlemen, I am instructing you to ignore that last question. Strike it from your minds entirely. There is a saying in the law that 'you cannot unring the bell,' but I'm going to ask you to do just that. The question was improper and the prosecutor should not have asked it, and I want you to be aware of that. Now, I am going to dismiss you for the day while the court attends to other business. The sequestration order remains in place. I remind you not to talk about this case with anybody at all. Do not listen to media reports about it or read about it in the newspapers. Turn off your radios and TVs. Block yourself off from it entirely. All right, the jury is dismissed. We'll see you tomorrow morning, nine o'clock sharp.\"\n\nThe jury filed out, exchanging looks with each other. A few of them stole glances at Logiudice.\n\nWhen they were gone, the judge said, \"Mr. Klein.\"\n\nJonathan stood. \"Your Honor, the defendant moves for a mistrial. This issue was the subject of extensive pretrial discussion, the upshot of which was that the issue is so volatile and so prejudicial that mentioning it would result in a mistrial. This was the third rail that the prosecution was explicitly told not to touch. Now he has.\"\n\nThe judge massaged his forehead.\n\nJonathan continued, \"If the court is not inclined to declare a mistrial, the defendant will move to expand its witness list by two: Leonard Patz and William Barber.\"\n\n\"William Barber is the defendant's grandfather?\"\n\n\"Correct. I may need a governor's warrant to get him transported here. But if the prosecution insists on this bizarre insinuation that the defendant somehow is guilty by inheritance, that he is a member of a criminal family, born a murderer, then we have a right to rebut that.\"\n\nThe judge stood there a moment, grinding his molars. \"I'll take it under advisement. I'll give you my decision in the morning. Court is adjourned till nine o'clock tomorrow.\"\n\nMr. Logiudice: Before we move on, Mr. Barber, about that knife, the one that was thrown in the lake to throw off the investigators. Do you have any idea who might have planted that knife?\n\nWitness: Of course. I knew from the start.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Did you? And how's that?\n\nWitness: The knife was missing from our kitchen.\n\nMr. Logiudice: An identical knife?\n\nWitness: A knife that matched the description I'd been given. I've since seen the knife that was recovered from the pond, when we were shown the state's evidence. It's our knife. It was old, pretty distinctive. It did not match the set. I recognized it.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Then it was thrown in the pond by someone in your family?\n\nWitness: Of course.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Jacob? To deflect any inference of guilt from the actual knife he owned?\n\nWitness: No. Jake was too smart for that. And I was too. I knew what the wounds looked like; I'd talked to the forensics people. I knew that knife couldn't have made Ben Rifkin's wounds.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Laurie, then? Why?\n\nWitness: Because we believed in our son. He told us he didn't do it. We didn't want to see his life ruined just because he'd been foolish enough to buy a knife. We knew people would see that knife and jump to the wrong conclusion. We talked about the danger of it. So Laurie decided to give the cops another knife. The only problem was, she was the least sophisticated among the three of us about these things and she was also the most upset. She was not careful enough. She chose the wrong sort of knife. She left a loose end.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Did she talk to you before she did this?\n\nWitness: Before, no.\n\nMr. Logiudice: After, then?\n\nWitness: I confronted her. She did not deny it.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And what did you say to this person who'd just interfered with a homicide investigation?\n\nWitness: What did I say? I said I wished she'd talked to me first. I would have given her the right knife to throw.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Is that really how you feel now, Andy? That this is all a joke? Do you really have so little respect for what we do here?\n\nWitness: When I said that to my wife, I assure you I wasn't joking. Let's leave it at that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: All right. Continue with your story.\n\nWhen we got back to our car in the garage a block from the courthouse, there was a white piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. It was quarter-folded. Opening it, I read,\n\nJUDGMENT DAY IS COMING  \nMURDERER, YOU DIE\n\nJonathan was still with us, making it a group of four. He frowned at the note and slipped it into his briefcase. \"I'll take care of this. I'll file a report with the Cambridge police. You all go home.\"\n\nLaurie said, \"That's all we can do?\"\n\n\"We should let the Newton police know too, just in case,\" I suggested. \"Maybe it's time we had a cruiser camped out by our house. The world's full of lunatics.\"\n\nI was distracted by a figure standing in the corner of the garage, quite a distance away but obviously watching us. He was an older man, near seventy probably. He wore a jacket, golf shirt, and scally cap. Looked like a million guys around Boston. Some old mick tough. He was lighting a cigarette\u2014it was the flare of his lighter that caught my eye\u2014and the glowing tip of the cigarette linked him with the car that had been parked outside our house a few nights before, the interior blacked out except for the little glowing firefly of a cigarette tip in the car window. And wasn't he just the sort of dinosaur to drive a Lincoln frickin' Town Car?\n\nOur eyes met for a moment. He thrust his lighter into his pants pocket and continued walking, out through a doorway to a staircase, and he was gone. Had he been walking before I saw him? He seemed to have been standing and staring, but I had only just glanced over. Maybe he had just stopped a moment before to light the cigarette.\n\n\"Did you see that guy?\"\n\nJonathan: \"What guy?\"\n\n\"That guy who was just over there looking at us.\"\n\n\"Didn't see him. Who was he?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Never seen him before.\"\n\n\"You think he had something to do with the note?\"\n\n\"Don't know. I don't even know if he was looking at us. But he seemed to be, you know?\"\n\n\"Come on,\" Jonathan encouraged us toward the car, \"there are a lot of people looking at us lately. It'll be over soon.\"\n\n# **31 | Hanging Up**\n\nAround six that night, as the three of us finished our dinner\u2014Jacob and I indulging ourselves in a little cautious optimism, spitting on Logiudice and his desperate tactics; Laurie trying to keep up the appearance of confidence and normalcy, even as she had become vaguely suspicious of the both of us\u2014the phone rang.\n\nI answered. An operator informed me that she had a collect call. Would I accept the charges? It came as a surprise that people still made collect calls. Was this a prank? Were there any phone booths left to make a collect call from? Only in prisons.\n\n\"Collect call from who?\"\n\n\"Bill Barber.\"\n\n\"Jesus. No, I won't accept. Wait a minute, hang on.\" I held the phone against my chest, as if my heart would speak to him directly. Then: \"All right, I'll accept the charges.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Please hold while I connect you. Have a nice day.\"\n\nA click.\n\n\"Hallo?\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"What is it? I thought you was gonna come down and visit me again.\"\n\n\"I've been a little busy.\"\n\nHe mimicked me, \" _Oh, I been a little busy_. Relax, would ya? I'm just shittin' ya, you dope. Wha'd ya think? _Hey, come on down, junior, I'll take ya out fishin'!_ I'll take you fishin'\u2014you know for what? For fishes!\" I had no idea what this meant. Some prison slang, presumably. Whatever it meant, the joke was funny to him. He roared into the phone.\n\n\"Jesus Christ, you talk a lot.\"\n\n\"No shit, 'cause I got no one to talk to in this fuckin' place. My kid never visits me.\"\n\n\"Was there something you wanted? Or did you just call to chat?\"\n\n\"I want to know how the kid's trial is going.\"\n\n\"What do you care?\"\n\n\"He's my grandson. I want to know.\"\n\n\"His whole life you never even knew his name.\"\n\n\"Whose fault is that?\"\n\n\"Yours.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I'm sure you think that.\" A pause.\n\n\"I heard my name came up in court today. We're following the whole thing here. It's like the World Series for cons.\"\n\n\"Yeah, your name came up. See, even sitting in prison, you're still screwing your family over.\"\n\n\"Oh, junior, don't be such a pisser. The kid's gonna get off.\"\n\n\"You think so? You figure you're a pretty good lawyer, Mister Life-Without-Parole?\"\n\n\"I know a few things.\"\n\n\"You know a few things. _Pff_. Do me a favor, Clarence Darrow: don't call here and tell me my business. I've already got a lawyer.\"\n\n\"Nobody's telling you your business, junior. But when your lawyer talks about bringing me in to testify, that makes it my business, now, don't it?\"\n\n\"It isn't going to happen. That's all we need is you on the stand. Turn the whole thing into a circus.\"\n\n\"You got a better strategy?\"\n\n\"Yeah, we do.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"We're not even going to put on a case. We'll put the Commonwealth to its burden. They have\u2014 What am I even talking to you about this for?\"\n\n\"Because you want to. When the chips are down, a kid needs his old man.\"\n\n\"Is that a joke?\"\n\n\"No! I'm still your father.\"\n\n\"No, you're not.\"\n\n\"I'm not?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then who is?\"\n\n\"Me.\"\n\n\"You don't have a father? What are you, a tree?\"\n\n\"That's right, I don't have one. And I don't need one now.\"\n\n\"Everybody needs a father, everybody needs a father. You need me now more than ever. How else are you gonna prove that 'irresistible impulse' thing?\"\n\n\"We don't need to prove it.\"\n\n\"No? Why not?\"\n\n\"Because Logiudice can't prove his case. That's obvious. So our defense is simple: Jacob didn't do it.\"\n\n\"What if that changes?\"\n\n\"It won't.\"\n\n\"So why'd you come all the way down here and ask me about it? And test my spit? What was that all about?\"\n\n\"Just covering my bases.\"\n\n\"Just covering your bases. So the kid didn't do it but just in case he did.\"\n\n\"Something like that.\"\n\n\"So what's your lawyer want me to say, then?\"\n\n\"He doesn't want you to say anything. He shouldn't have said that in court today. It was a mistake. He was probably thinking he'd run you up there to testify that you never had anything to do with your grandson. But I already told you, you're not coming anywhere near that courtroom.\"\n\n\"You better talk with your lawyer about that.\"\n\n\"Listen to me, Bloody Billy. I'm going to say this for the last time: you don't exist. You're just a bad dream I used to have when I was a kid.\"\n\n\"Hey, junior, you want to hurt my feelings? Kick me in the balls.\"\n\n\"What's that supposed to mean?\"\n\n\"It means don't bother calling me names. It don't bother me. I'm the kid's grandfather no matter what you say. Nothing you can do about it. You can deny me all you want, pretend I don't exist. Doesn't matter. Doesn't change the truth.\"\n\nI sat down, suddenly unsteady.\n\n\"Who's this guy Patz your cop friend testified about?\"\n\nI was pissed and confused, agitated, so I did not stop to consider. I blurted, \"He's the guy who did it.\"\n\n\"That killed this kid?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"You sure?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I've got a witness.\"\n\n\"And you're gonna let my grandson take the hit for it?\"\n\n\"Let him? No.\"\n\n\"Then do something, junior. Tell me about this guy Patz.\"\n\n\"What do you want to know? He likes little boys.\"\n\n\"He's a child molester?\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"Sort of? Either he is or he isn't. How can you be sort of a child molester?\"\n\n\"Same way you were a murderer before you actually murdered someone.\"\n\n\"Oh, stop it, junior. I told you, you can't hurt my feelings.\"\n\n\"Would you stop calling me that, 'junior'?\"\n\n\"Does it bother ya?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What should I call ya?\"\n\n\"Don't call me anything.\"\n\n\" _Pssh_. I got to call you something. How else am I gonna talk to ya?\"\n\n\"You're not.\"\n\n\"Junior, you got a lot of anger, you know that?\"\n\n\"Was there anything else you wanted?\"\n\n\"Wanted? I don't want anything outa you.\"\n\n\"I figured maybe you want a cake with a file in it.\"\n\n\"Funny guy. A file in it. I get it. 'Cause I'm in prison.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"Listen to me, junior, I don't need no cake with a file in it, all right? You know why? I'll tell you why. 'Cause I'm not in prison.\"\n\n\"No. Did they let you out?\"\n\n\"They don't have to let me out.\"\n\n\"They don't? Let me give you a tip, crazy old man. That big building with the bars? The one they never let you out of? That's called a prison, and you are definitely in it.\"\n\n\"No. See, now you're the one that doesn't get it, junior. All they got locked up in this hole is my body. That's all they got, my body, not me. I'm everywhere, see? Everywhere you look, junior, everywhere you go. Okay? Now, you just keep my grandkid out of this place. You got that, junior?\"\n\n\"Why don't you do it? You're everywhere.\"\n\n\"Maybe I will. Maybe I'll fly right up there\u2014\"\n\n\"Look, I got to go, all right? I'm hanging up.\"\n\n\"No. We're not done\u2014\"\n\nI hung up on him. But he was right, he _was_ right there with me, because his voice kept right on rattling in my ears. I picked the phone up and smashed it down in its cradle again\u2014one two three times\u2014until I could not hear him anymore.\n\nJacob and Laurie both were staring at me with wide eyes.\n\n\"That was your grandfather.\"\n\n\"I caught that.\"\n\n\"Jake, I don't want you to ever talk to him, all right? I'm serious.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"You're never to speak to him, even if he calls you. You just hang up the phone. You got it?\"\n\n\"Okay, okay.\"\n\nLaurie glared. \"That goes for you too, Andy. I don't want that man calling my house. He's poison. Next time he calls, you hang up the phone, got it?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Are you all right, husband?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n# **32 | The Absence of Evidence**\n\nTrial day five.\n\nAt the stroke of nine, Judge French stormed the bench and announced in a clenched way that the defendant's motion for mistrial was denied. He said\u2014as the stenographer repeated his words into a cone-shaped microphone which she held over her face like an oxygen mask\u2014\"Defendant's objection to the mention of the defendant's grandfather is noted for the record and the issue is preserved for appeal. I have given the jury a curative instruction. I think that's enough. The prosecutor is cautioned not to mention the issue any further, and that's all we're going to hear about it. Now, absent any other objections, Court Officer, bring in the jury and let's get started.\"\n\nI can't say I was surprised. Mistrials are rare. The judge was not going to flush away the state's enormous investment in seeing this trial through to the end, not if he could help it. He might have been embarrassed by a mistrial too. It might look like he had lost control of his courtroom. Logiudice knew all this, of course. He may have crossed the line intentionally, betting that the high stakes in this case made a mistrial particularly unlikely. But that is unkind.\n\nThe trial swept on.\n\n\"What is your name, please?\"\n\n\"Karen Rakowski. R-A-K-O-W-S-K-I.\"\n\n\"What is your occupation and your current assignment?\"\n\n\"I am a criminalist with the Massachusetts State Police. I'm currently assigned to the State Police Crime Lab.\"\n\n\"What is a criminalist, exactly?\"\n\n\"A criminalist is someone who applies the principles of the natural and physical sciences to identify, preserve, and analyze evidence at a crime scene. She later testifies to her findings in a court of law.\"\n\n\"How long have you been a criminalist with the state police?\"\n\n\"Eleven years.\"\n\n\"Approximately how many crime scenes would you say you've investigated over the course of your career?\"\n\n\"Approximately five hundred.\"\n\n\"Are you a member of any professional organizations?\"\n\nRakowski proceeded to rattle off the names of a half dozen organizations, then her degrees and a teaching position and a few publications, all of which went swiftly by like a freight train: difficult to distinguish in detail but impressive in its length. The truth was, no one listened to Rakowski's information dump because no one really questioned her qualifications. She was well known and respected. It should be pointed out that the job of \"criminalist\" has become a lot more professional and rigorous than it was when I started out. It has even become fashionable. Forensic science has become a lot more complex, particularly with respect to DNA evidence. No doubt the job has been glamorized by shows like _CSI_ too. Whatever the reason, the job attracts more and better candidates now, and Karen Rakowski was among the first wave of criminalists in our county who were not just cops moonlighting as amateur scientists. She was the real thing. It was a lot easier to picture her in a white lab coat than in the jodhpurs and jackboots of the state police. I was glad she had been assigned the case. I knew she would give us a fair shake.\n\n\"On April 12, 2007, at around ten A.M., did you get a phone call about a murder in Cold Spring Park in Newton?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"What did you do in response?\"\n\n\"I went to the location, where I was met by Lieutenant Duffy, who gave me a briefing about what he had at the crime scene and what he wanted me to do. He brought me to the location where the body was lying.\"\n\n\"Had the body been moved, as far as you know?\"\n\n\"I was told it had not been disturbed since the police arrived there.\"\n\n\"Had the medical examiner arrived yet?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Is it preferable for the criminalist to arrive before the medical examiner?\"\n\n\"Yes. The M.E. can't process the body without moving it. Once the body is moved, obviously you can't draw any inferences from its position.\"\n\n\"Now, in this case you knew that the body had already been moved by the jogger who discovered it.\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Were you able to draw any conclusions from the position of the body and from the surrounding scene nonetheless, when you first saw it?\"\n\n\"Yes. It was apparent that the attack had taken place at the top of the hill by a walking trail and that the body had slid down the hill afterward. That was evidenced by a trail of blood leading down the hillside to the final resting position of the body.\"\n\n\"These are the contact smears of blood we heard about yesterday?\"\n\n\"Yes. When I arrived, the body itself had been rolled over face up, and I could see that the victim's T-shirt was soaked with what appeared to be wet blood.\"\n\n\"What significance did you attach, if any, to the large amount of blood on the victim's body?\"\n\n\"At the time, none. Obviously, the wounds were significant and fatal, but I knew that before I arrived.\"\n\n\"But doesn't the large amount of blood at the scene suggest a bloody struggle?\"\n\n\"Not necessarily. Blood circulates through our bodies constantly. It is a hydraulic system: it is being pumped around and around. It moves through the circulatory system, through the veins, under pressure. When a person is killed, the blood is no longer under the pressure of a pump and its movement is then controlled by the ordinary laws of physics. So a lot of the blood that was apparent at the scene, both on the victim himself and on the ground underneath and around him, might have simply drained out of him because of gravity, because of the way the body was lying: feet above head, facedown. So the blood on the body might have been postmortem bleeding. I could not tell yet.\"\n\n\"Okay, so what did you do next?\"\n\n\"I examined the scene more closely. I observed some blood spatters near the top of the hill, at what seemed to be the point of the attack. There were only a few spatters here.\"\n\n\"Let me stop you there. Is there a discipline in the forensic sciences of blood spatter analysis?\"\n\n\"Yes. It is the study of the patterns of blood spatters, which can yield useful information.\"\n\n\"Were you able to get any useful information from the blood spatters in this case?\"\n\n\"Yes. As I was saying, at the point of attack there were a few very small blood spatters, less than an inch in size, and it was apparent from their size that they had fallen more or less straight down to the ground, spattering evenly in all directions. That is called a low-velocity drop or sometimes 'passive bleeding.' \"\n\nLogiudice: \"Now, yesterday we heard some discussion by the defense about whether you could expect to find blood on the attacker's body or on his clothes after an attack like this one. Based on your observations of the blood spatters, do you have an opinion about this?\"\n\n\"Yes. It is not _necessarily_ true that the attacker here would have blood on him. Going back to the circulatory system that pumps blood through the body: remember that once blood is ejected from the body out into the air, it is subject to the ordinary laws of physics just like anything else. Now, it's true, if an artery is cut, depending where it is on the body, you would expect the blood to gush out. That's called 'arterial gushing.' Same with a vein. But if it's a capillary, you might see just dripping like this. I did not see any spatters at the scene that seemed to have been cast off with force. That sort of cast-off blood would land at an angle and spatter unevenly, like this.\" She demonstrated by sliding her fist along the length of her forearm to show how the blood drop would spread across the surface at impact. \"It is also possible that the assailant stood behind the victim when he stabbed him, which would put him out of the trajectory of any spraying blood. And of course it is possible the assailant changed his clothes after the attack. All of which is simply to say that you cannot automatically assume that the assailant in this case would be covered in blood after the attack despite the large amount of blood found at the scene.\"\n\n\"Are you familiar with the saying 'The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence'?\"\n\n\"Objection. Leading.\"\n\n\"He can have it. You can answer the question.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What does that saying mean?\"\n\n\"It means that, just because there is no physical evidence proving a person's presence at a particular time and place, you cannot necessarily conclude that he was not actually there. It's probably easier to understand if I put it this way: a person can be present at a crime and leave no physical evidence there.\"\n\nRakowski's testimony went on for some time. It was a critical part of Logiudice's case and he took his time putting it in. She testified in detail that the blood found at the scene was all the victim's. There was no physical evidence found in the immediate vicinity of the body that could be linked to any other person\u2014no finger-, hand-, or shoe prints, no hairs or fibers, no blood or other organic material\u2014with the single exception of that damn fingerprint.\n\n\"Where precisely was the fingerprint located?\"\n\n\"The victim was wearing a zippered sweatshirt with the zipper open. On the inside of that sweatshirt, about here\"\u2014she indicated a spot on the inside of her own jacket, on the left side of the lining where an interior pocket is often located\u2014\"there was a plastic tag with the manufacturer's name. The print was found on that tag.\"\n\n\"Does the surface on which a fingerprint is found affect its value?\"\n\n\"Well, some surfaces take a print better. This was a flat surface. It had been wetted with blood, almost like an inked pad, and it showed the fingerprint very clearly.\"\n\n\"So this was a clean print?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And after studying this fingerprint, whose print did you determine it was?\"\n\n\"The defendant, Jacob Barber's.\"\n\nJonathan stood and said with a shrug in his voice, \"We'll stipulate it's the defendant's fingerprint.\"\n\nThe judge said, \"Without objection,\" and he turned to the jury: \"The meaning of a stipulation is that the defense concedes that a fact is true without the prosecutor having to prove it. Both parties agree to the truth of this fact, therefore you may take it as true and proven. Okay, Mr. Logiudice.\"\n\n\"What significance, if any, did you assign to the fact that the fingerprint was in the victim's own blood?\"\n\n\"Obviously the blood had to be on that tag first in order for the defendant's finger to be pressed into it. So the significance is that the fingerprint was put there after the attack had begun, or at least after the victim had been cut at least once, and soon enough after the attack that the blood on that tag was still wet, since dry blood would not have taken the print the same way, if at all. So that print was put there during or very soon after the attack.\"\n\n\"How big a window are we talking about? How soon before the blood on that tag is too dry to take the fingerprint?\"\n\n\"There are a lot of factors involved. But not more than fifteen minutes on the outside.\"\n\n\"Even sooner, is it likely?\"\n\n\"Impossible to say.\"\n\n_Good girl, Karen. Don't take the bait_.\n\nThe only sparring took place when Logiudice tried to enter into evidence a knife, a sleek and wicked thing called a Spyderco Civilian, which was the knife Jacob specifically named in his story imagining the Rifkin murder. Jonathan vehemently objected to this knife being shown to the jury since there was no evidence that Jacob ever owned such a knife. I had dumped Jacob's knife long before the cops searched his room, but I blanched at the sight of the Spyderco Civilian. It looked very similar to Jacob's. I didn't dare turn around to look at Laurie, so I can only report what she later told me: \"I died when I saw it.\" Judge French ultimately did not allow Logiudice to enter the knife in evidence. Its physical appearance, he said, was \"inflammatory\" given how weakly the government had linked the knife to Jacob. Which was Judge French's way of saying he was not about to let Logiudice start waving a lethal-looking knife around the courtroom as a way to work the jury up into a lynch mob\u2014not until the government offered a witness who could say Jacob had such a knife. But he would allow the expert to testify about the knife in general terms.\n\n\"Is that knife consistent with the victim's wounds?\"\n\n\"Yes. We examined the size and shape of the blade relative to the wounds and they were consistent. The blade on that particular knife is curved and has a serrated edge, which would account for the ragged tears at the edge of the wounds. It is a knife designed for slashing at an opponent, as you would in a knife fight. A knife intended to make a neat slice will typically have a smooth, very sharp edge, like a scalpel.\"\n\n\"So the killer might have used exactly that sort of knife?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"He might have, yes.\"\n\n\"Could you tell from the angle of the wounds and the design of the knife how the killer might have inflicted the fatal wounds, what sort of motion he might have used?\"\n\n\"Based on the fact that the wounds enter the body essentially straight, that is, on a horizontal plane, it would seem that the assailant most likely stood directly in front of the victim, was of about equal height, and stabbed straight ahead in three thrusts holding his arm roughly level.\"\n\n\"Would you demonstrate the motion you mean, please?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\nRakowski stood up and thrust her right arm ahead three times. She sat back down.\n\nLogiudice said nothing for a few seconds. The courtroom was silent enough in those moments that I heard someone behind me in the gallery emit a long breath, _whoo_.\n\nJonathan fought gallantly on cross. He did not attack Rakowski directly. She was obviously competent and playing it straight, and there was nothing to be gained by savaging her. He kept the focus on the physical evidence and how thin it really was.\n\n\"The government mentioned the phrase 'The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.' Do you remember that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Isn't it also true that the absence of evidence is precisely that: an absence of evidence?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nJonathan showed a wry smile to the jury. \"In this case, we have a fairly substantial absence of evidence, don't we? There is no blood evidence against the defendant?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Genetic evidence? DNA?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Hairs?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Fibers?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Anything at all that puts the defendant at the scene besides that fingerprint?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Handprints? Fingerprints? Shoe prints? All missing?\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n\"Well! Now, that's what I call an absence of evidence!\"\n\nThe jury laughed. Jacob and I laughed, more with relief than anything else. Logiudice jumped up to object and the objection was sustained, but it hardly mattered.\n\n\"And the fingerprint that was found, Jacob's fingerprint on the victim's sweatshirt. Isn't it true that fingerprint evidence has one huge limitation: you can't tell _when_ the print was put there?\"\n\n\"That's true, except for the inference to be drawn from the fact the blood was still wet when the defendant's finger touched it.\"\n\n\"Yes, the wet blood. Exactly. May I pose a hypothetical to you, Ms. Rakowski? Let's suppose, hypothetically, that the defendant, Jacob, came upon the victim, his friend and classmate, lying on the ground in the park as he, Jacob, walked to school. Suppose, again for our hypothetical, suppose it was only minutes after the attack. And suppose finally that he held the victim by his sweatshirt in an attempt to help him or to be sure he was okay. Wouldn't that be perfectly consistent with finding the fingerprint where you did?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And finally, with regard to the knife we heard about, the\u2014what was it?\u2014the Spyderco Civilian. Isn't it true that there are many knives that could have created those wounds?\"\n\n\"Yes. I presume so.\"\n\n\"Because all you have to judge by is the characteristics of those wounds, the size and shape, the depth of penetration, and so on, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And all you know, therefore, is that the murder weapon seemed to have a jagged edge and a blade of a certain size, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you make any effort to determine how many knives out there fit that description?\"\n\n\"No. I was asked by the DA only to determine whether that particular knife was consistent with the victim's wounds. I was not given any other knives to compare.\"\n\n\"Well, that's putting the rabbit into the hat, then, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"The investigators made no effort to determine how many knives could have made those wounds?\"\n\n\"I was not asked about other models, no.\"\n\n\"Do you have any idea, roughly? How many knives would leave a wound about two inches wide and penetrate three or four inches?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I would be speculating.\"\n\n\"A thousand? Come on, it must be at least that many.\"\n\n\"I couldn't say. It would be a large number. You have to remember, a small knife can create an opening larger than the blade itself, because the attacker can use it to slice the wound open. A scalpel is quite small but obviously it can create a very large incision. So when we talk about the size of the wound relative to the blade, what we're talking about is the maximum size of the blade, the outer limit, because obviously the blade cannot be larger than the opening it was inserted into, at least if we're talking about a penetration wound as we are here. Below that limit, the size of the wound alone cannot tell you precisely how big the knife was. So I can't answer your question.\"\n\nJonathan cocked his head. He was not buying it. \"Five hundred?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"One hundred?\"\n\n\"It's possible.\"\n\n\"Ah, it's possible. So our chances are one in a hundred?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Why were the investigators interested in that particular knife, Ms. Rakowski, the Spyderco Civilian? Why did they ask you to compare that model with the wounds?\"\n\n\"Because it was mentioned in an account of the murder that the defendant wrote\u2014\"\n\n\"According to Derek Yoo.\"\n\n\"Correct. And the same witness apparently saw a similar knife in the defendant's possession.\"\n\n\"Derek Yoo again?\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\n\"So the only thing connecting that knife to Jacob is this one mixed-up boy, Derek Yoo?\"\n\nShe did not answer. Logiudice objected too quickly. It did not matter.\n\n\"Nothing further, Your Honor.\"\n\n# **33 | Father O'Leary**\n\nThe case was becoming a close thing, it seemed to me, but I still felt optimistic. Logiudice was hoping to draw an inside straight\u2014to assemble a winning combination out of a messy hand of deuce-three-five-six. He had no choice, really. He had crap cards. No ace, no piece of evidence so damning it _required_ the jury to convict. His last hope was a cohort of witnesses culled from Jacob's classmates. I could not imagine any of the McCormick kids commanding that much respect from the jury.\n\nJacob felt as I did, and we had a fine old time ridiculing Logiudice's case, reassuring ourselves that every card he laid down was a deuce or a three. Jonathan's bit about the \"absence of evidence\" and the dressing-down Logiudice got for alluding to the murder-gene issue particularly delighted us. I do not mean to suggest Jacob was not scared shitless. He was. We all were. Jacob's anxiety just took the form of beating his chest a little. Mine too. I felt aggressive, all adrenaline and testosterone. I was a fast-idling engine. The nearness of such an enormous catastrophe as a guilty verdict sharpened every sensation.\n\nLaurie was a lot more gloomy. She assumed that in a close case, the jury would feel it was their duty to convict. They would take no chances. Just lock up this boy-monster, protect everyone else's innocent babes, and be done with it. She also figured the jury would want to see someone swing for the murder of Ben Rifkin. Anything less and justice would not have been done. If the neck in the noose happened to be Jacob's, they would take it. In all Laurie's doomsaying, I heard intimations of something darker, but I did not dare challenge her on it. Some feelings it is better not to surface. Some things a mother should never be forced to say about her son, even if she believes them.\n\nSo we declared a truce that night. We resolved to stop the endless rehashing of the forensic testimony we had heard that day. No more talk about the nuances of blood spatters and angles of knife entry and all that. Instead we sat on the couch and watched TV in contented silence. When Laurie went upstairs around ten, I had a vague idea that I might follow her. Once, I would have. My libido would have pulled me up the stairs like a Great Dane on a leash. But that was over now. Laurie's interest in sex had vanished, and I could not imagine going to sleep beside her or going to sleep at all. Anyway, someone needed to turn off the TV and tell Jacob to go to bed when the time came, otherwise the kid would be up until two.\n\nJust after eleven\u2014Jon Stewart was just coming on\u2014Jake said, \"He's here again.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"The guy with the cigarette.\"\n\nI peered through the wood shutters in our living room.\n\nAcross the street was the Lincoln Town Car. It was parked, brazenly, right across the street from our house, under a streetlight. The window was open a crack so the driver could flick his cigarette ashes out onto the street.\n\nJacob said, \"Should we call the cops?\"\n\n\"No. I'll take care of it myself.\"\n\nI went to the coat closet in the front hall and rummaged out a baseball bat that had been there for years, stuck in among the umbrellas and boots where Jacob must have left it after Little League one day. It was aluminum, red, a kid-sized Louisville Slugger.\n\n\"Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Dad.\"\n\n\"It's a fantastic idea, trust me.\"\n\nI concede, looking back, that this was, in fact, not a fantastic idea. I was not unaware of the harm I could do to the public's perception of us, even of Jacob. I think I had some vague notion I would throw a scare into Cigarette Man without doing any real harm. More to the point, I felt like I could run through a wall, and I wanted to do _something_ finally. I'm not sure how far I meant to take it, honestly. In the event, I never got the chance to find out.\n\nAs I reached the sidewalk in front of my own house, an unmarked police cruiser\u2014a black Interceptor\u2014raced up between us. It seemed to come out of nowhere, its wigwags and blue flashers lighting up the street. The cruiser parked at an angle to the front of the Lincoln, blocking it from leaving.\n\nOut popped Paul Duffy, in plain clothes except for a state police windbreaker and a badge clipped to his belt. He looked at me\u2014I think by now I had dropped the bat to my side, at least, though I must have looked ridiculous anyway\u2014and he raised his eyebrows. \"Get back in the house, Babe Ruth.\"\n\nI did not move. I was so shocked, and my feelings about Duffy were so mixed at this point, that I could not really listen to him anyway.\n\nDuffy ignored me and went to the Lincoln.\n\nThe driver's window opened with an electric hum and the driver asked, \"Is there a problem?\"\n\n\"License and registration, please.\"\n\n\"What did I do?\"\n\n\"License and registration, please.\"\n\n\"I have a right to sit in my car, don't I?\"\n\n\"Sir, are you refusing to provide identification?\"\n\n\"I'm not refusing anything. I just want to know what you're bothering me for. I'm just sitting here minding my own business on a public street.\"\n\nThe driver relented, though. He popped his cigarette into his mouth and leaned far over so he could wiggle his wallet out from under his ass. When Duffy took the license and went back to his cruiser, the guy looked at me from under the brim of his scally cap and said, \"How ya doin', pal?\"\n\nI did not answer.\n\n\"Everything okay with you and your family?\"\n\nMore staring.\n\n\"It's good to have a family.\"\n\nI did not answer again, and the guy went back to smoking his cigarette with theatrical nonchalance.\n\nDuffy came out of the cruiser again and handed the guy his license and registration.\n\nDuffy: \"Were you parked here the other night?\"\n\n\"No, sir. I don't know anything about that.\"\n\n\"Why don't you move on, Mr. O'Leary. Have a good night. Don't come back here again.\"\n\n\"It's a public street, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Not for you.\"\n\n\"All right, Officer.\" He leaned way over again and grunted as he wedged his wallet into his back pocket. \"Sorry. I move a little slow. Getting old. Happens to everyone, right?\" He grinned up at Duffy then at me. \"You gentlemen have a nice evening.\" He pulled his seat belt across his chest and made a show of clicking it. \"Click it or ticket,\" he said. \"Officer, I'm afraid you'll have to move your car. You're blocking me.\"\n\nDuffy went to his cruiser and backed it up a few feet.\n\n\"G'night, Mr. Barber,\" the man said, and he cruised off slowly.\n\nDuffy came up to stand beside me.\n\nI said, \"You want to tell me what that was all about?\"\n\n\"I think we better talk.\"\n\n\"You want to come in?\"\n\n\"Look, Andy, I understand if you don't want to have me around, in the house, whatever. It's okay. We can just talk here.\"\n\n\"No. It's all right. Just come in.\"\n\n\"I'd rather\u2014\"\n\n\"I said it's okay, Duff.\"\n\nHe frowned. \"Is Laurie up?\"\n\n\"You afraid to face her?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But you're not afraid to face me?\"\n\n\"I'm not thrilled about it, to be honest.\"\n\n\"Well, don't worry. I think she's asleep.\"\n\n\"You mind if I take that?\"\n\nI handed him the bat.\n\n\"Were you really gonna use it?\"\n\n\"I have the right to remain silent.\"\n\n\"Probably a good time to do that.\"\n\nHe tossed the bat into his cruiser and followed me inside.\n\nLaurie stood at the top of the stairs in flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt with her arms crossed. She said nothing.\n\nDuffy said, \"Hi, Laurie.\"\n\nShe turned away, went back to bed.\n\n\"Hi, Jacob.\"\n\n\"Hi,\" Jacob said, constrained by manners and habit from expressing any sense of anger or betrayal.\n\nIn the kitchen I asked what he had been doing outside our house.\n\n\"Your lawyer called me. He said he wasn't getting any traction in Newton or Cambridge.\"\n\n\"So he called you? I thought you were in public relations now.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, I did this as kind of a personal project.\"\n\nI nodded. I don't know how I felt about Paul Duffy at that moment. I suppose I understood that he did what he had to do in testifying against Jacob. I could not think of him as my enemy. But we would never be friends again either. If my kid wound up in Walpole doing life without parole, it would be Duffy who put him there. We both knew that. Neither of us had the words to address any of this directly, so we ignored it. This is the best thing about men's friendships: most any awkwardness can be ignored by mutual agreement and, true connection being unimaginable, you can get on with the easier business of parallel living.\n\n\"So who is he?\"\n\n\"His name is James O'Leary. They call him Father O'Leary. Born February 1943, so sixty-four years old.\"\n\n\"Grandfather O'Leary, more like.\"\n\n\"He's no joke. He's an old gangster. His record goes back fifty years and it reads like a statute book. It's all there. Weapons, drugs, violence. The feds had him up on a RICO charge with a bunch of other guys back in the eighties but he beat it. He used to be a muscle guy, that's what I was told. A leg-breaker. Now he's too old for that.\"\n\n\"So what does he do now?\"\n\n\"He's a fixer. Hires himself out, but it's just small-time stuff. He makes problems go away. Whatever you need, collections, evictions, shutting people up.\"\n\n\"Father O'Leary. So what's he got against Jacob?\"\n\n\"Nothing, I'm sure. The question is who is paying him and for what.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\nDuffy shrugged. \"I have no idea. Must be somebody who's got a beef with Jacob. That's a big group at the moment: anybody who knew Ben Rifkin, anybody who's ticked off about this case\u2014hell, anybody with basic cable.\"\n\n\"Great. So what do I do if I see him again?\"\n\n\"Cross the street. Then call me.\"\n\n\"You'll send the public relations department?\"\n\n\"I'll send the Eighty-Second Airborne if I have to.\"\n\nI smiled.\n\n\"I still got a few friends,\" he assured me.\n\n\"Are they going to let you go back to CPAC?\"\n\n\"Depends. We'll see if Rasputin lets them when he becomes DA.\"\n\n\"He still needs one big hook before he runs for DA.\"\n\n\"Yeah, that's the other thing: he's not going to get it.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No. I've been looking into your friend Patz.\"\n\n\"Because you got crossed on it?\"\n\n\"That and I remember you asking about Patz and Logiudice and whether there was any connection between them. Why would Logiudice not want to look at him for this murder?\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"Well, maybe it's nothing but there is a connection there. Logiudice had a case with him when he was in the Child Abuse Unit. It was a rape. Logiudice broke it down to indecent A&B and pleaded it out.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"It might be nothing. Maybe the victim was reluctant or could not go through with it for whatever reason, and Logiudice did the right thing. Or maybe he dumped the wrong case, and Patz went off and committed a murder. Not the kind of thing you put on a campaign poster.\" He shrugged. \"I don't have access to the DA's files. That's as far as I could get without calling attention to what I was doing. Hey, it's not much, but it's something.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"Yeah, we'll see,\" he murmured. \"It kind of doesn't matter if it's true, does it? If you just mention something like that in court, kick up a little dust in people's eyes, know what I mean?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know what you mean, Perry Mason.\"\n\n\"And if Logiudice takes it on the chin, that's just a bonus, right?\"\n\nI smiled. \"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Andy, I am sorry, you know.\"\n\n\"I know you are.\"\n\n\"This job sucks sometimes.\"\n\nWe stood looking at each other a few seconds.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, \"well, I'll let you get to sleep. Big day tomorrow. You want me to sit out there awhile in case your friend comes back?\"\n\n\"No. Thanks. We'll be okay, I think.\"\n\n\"Okay. So, see you later, I guess.\"\n\nBefore I got into bed twenty minutes later, I raised the bedroom shade to peek out at the street. The black cruiser was still there, as I knew it would be.\n\n# **34 | Jacob Was Mad**\n\nTrial day six.\n\nFather O'Leary was in the audience at the back of the courtroom when the trial resumed next morning.\n\nLaurie, looking gray and depleted, was at her lonely post in the front row of the gallery.\n\nLogiudice, his confidence buoyed by the performances of a series of professional witnesses, moved with a little strut. It is a peculiarity of trials that, though the witness is ostensibly the star, the lawyer who is asking the questions is the only one in the courtroom who is free to move around as he pleases. Good lawyers tend not to move much, since they want the jurors' eyes to remain on the witness. But Logiudice could not seem to find a comfortable perch as he flitted from the witness stand to the jury box to the prosecution table and various points in between before finally coming to roost at the lectern. I suspect he was on edge about the day's slate of civilian witnesses, Jacob's classmates, determined not to let these amateur witnesses run away with his case the way the last ones had.\n\nOn the stand was Derek Yoo. Derek who had eaten in our kitchen a thousand times. Who had lounged on our couch watching football games and scattering Doritos on the carpet. Derek who had jumped around the living room playing GameCube and Wii with Jacob. Derek who had blissfully nodded his head for hours, probably stoned, to the pounding bass beat of his iPod while Jacob did the same beside him\u2014the music so loud we could hear it murmuring in his headphones; it was like hearing their thoughts. Now, seeing this same Derek Yoo on the stand, I would happily have skinned him alive, with his limp brush-proof garage-band hair and sleepy slacker expression, who now threatened to send my son to Walpole forever. For the event, Derek wore a tweed sport coat that hung off his narrow shoulders. His shirt collar was too big. Cinched under his tie, it bunched and twisted, and dangled from his skinny neck like a waiting noose.\n\n\"How long have you known the defendant, Derek?\"\n\n\"Since kindergarten, I guess.\"\n\n\"You went to elementary school together?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where was that?\"\n\n\"Mason-Rice in Newton.\"\n\n\"And you've been friendly ever since?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Best friends?\"\n\n\"I guess so. Sometimes.\"\n\n\"You've been to each other's houses?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Hung out together after school and on weekends?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Have you been in the same homeroom?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"When was the last time?\"\n\n\"Not last year. This year Jake is not in school. I guess he has a tutor. So I guess two years ago.\"\n\n\"But even in years when you weren't in the same homeroom, you remained close friends?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So how many years is it that you and the defendant have been close friends?\"\n\n\"Eight.\"\n\n\"Eight. And you're how old?\"\n\n\"I'm fifteen now.\"\n\n\"Is it fair to say that, as of the day Ben Rifkin was murdered, April 12, 2007, Jacob Barber was your best friend?\"\n\nDerek's voice went quiet. The thought made him either sad or embarrassed. \"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Okay. Directing your attention to the morning of April 12, 2007, do you remember where you were that morning?\"\n\n\"In school.\"\n\n\"About what time did you get to school?\"\n\n\"Eight-thirty.\"\n\n\"How did you get to school that day?\"\n\n\"Walked.\"\n\n\"Did your route take you through Cold Spring Park?\"\n\n\"No, I come from the other direction.\"\n\n\"Okay. When you got to school, where did you go?\"\n\n\"I stopped at my locker to put my stuff away, then I went to homeroom.\"\n\n\"And the defendant was not in your homeroom that year, correct?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you see him before homeroom that morning?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I saw him at the lockers.\"\n\n\"What was he doing?\"\n\n\"He was just putting his stuff in his locker.\"\n\n\"Was there anything unusual about his appearance?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"About his clothes?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Was there anything on his hand?\"\n\n\"There was a big spot. It looked like blood.\"\n\n\"Describe the spot.\"\n\n\"It was just, like, a red spot, like the size of a quarter.\"\n\n\"Did you ask him about it?\"\n\n\"Yes. I said, 'Dude, what did you do to your hand?' And he was like, 'Oh, it's nothing. Just a scratch.' \"\n\n\"Did you see the defendant try to remove the blood?\"\n\n\"Not right then.\"\n\n\"Did he deny that the spot on his hand was blood?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Okay, what happened next?\"\n\n\"I went off to homeroom.\"\n\n\"Was Ben Rifkin in your homeroom that year?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But he wasn't in homeroom that morning.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did that seem strange to you?\"\n\n\"No. I don't know if I even noticed. I guess I would have figured he was just out sick.\"\n\n\"So what happened in homeroom?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Just the usual: attendance, some announcements, then we went off to class.\"\n\n\"What was your first class that day?\"\n\n\"English.\"\n\n\"Did you go?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Was the defendant in your English class?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Did you see him in the classroom that morning?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you speak to him?\"\n\n\"We just said hello, that's all.\"\n\n\"Was there anything unusual about the defendant's manner or anything he said?\"\n\n\"No, not really.\"\n\n\"He didn't seem upset.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Anything unusual about his appearance?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No blood on his clothes, nothing like that?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Would you describe the defendant's appearance when you saw him in English class that morning?\"\n\n\"I think he was just wearing, like, regular clothes: jeans, sneakers, whatever. There was no blood on his clothes, if that's what you mean.\"\n\n\"What about on his hands?\"\n\n\"The spot was gone.\"\n\n\"He'd washed his hands?\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"Were there any cuts or scratches on his hands? Any reason he might have been bleeding?\"\n\n\"Not that I remember. I wasn't really paying attention. It didn't matter then.\"\n\n\"Okay, what happened next?\"\n\n\"We had English class for like fifteen minutes, then there was an announcement that the school was being put in a lockdown.\"\n\n\"What is a lockdown?\"\n\n\"It's when you have to go back to your homeroom and they take attendance and lock all the doors and keep everyone there.\"\n\n\"Do you know why the school gets put in a lockdown?\"\n\n\"Because there's some kind of danger.\"\n\n\"What did you think when you heard the school was going into a lockdown?\"\n\n\"Columbine.\"\n\n\"You thought somebody was at the school with a gun?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Did you have any idea who?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Were you afraid?\"\n\n\"Yeah, of course. Everybody was.\"\n\n\"Do you remember how the defendant reacted when the principal announced the lockdown?\"\n\n\"He didn't say anything. He just kind of smiled. There wasn't much time. We just heard it and everybody ran.\"\n\n\"Did the defendant seem nervous or frightened?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"At the time, did anybody know what the lockdown was about?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did anyone connect it to Ben Rifkin?\"\n\n\"No. I mean, later that morning they told us, but not at the start.\"\n\n\"What happened next?\"\n\n\"We just stayed in our homerooms with the doors locked. They came on the intercom and they told us we weren't in any danger, there were no guns or anything, so the teachers unlocked the door and we just kind of waited there. It was like a drill or something.\"\n\n\"You had practiced lockdowns before?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"What happened next?\"\n\n\"We stayed there. They told us to take out our books and read or do homework or whatever. Then they canceled school for the rest of the day and we went home around eleven.\"\n\n\"Nobody ever questioned you or the other students?\"\n\n\"Not that day, no.\"\n\n\"Nobody ever searched the school or the lockers or any of the students?\"\n\n\"Not that I saw.\"\n\n\"So when school got out and they finally let you leave the room, what did you see?\"\n\n\"There were just a lot of parents waiting outside the school to get their kids. All the parents came to the school.\"\n\n\"When did you see the defendant next?\"\n\n\"We were texting that afternoon, I guess?\"\n\n\"By texting, you mean you were exchanging text messages on your cell phones?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What did you talk about?\"\n\n\"Well, at that point all we knew was that Ben got killed. We didn't know, like, exactly what happened or anything. So we were just both like, Did you hear anything? What did you hear? What's going on?\"\n\n\"And what did the defendant say to you?\"\n\n\"Well, I was just like, Dude, isn't that the way you go to school? Did you see anything? And Jake just said no.\"\n\n\"He said no?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"He didn't say that he'd seen Ben lying on the ground and he tried to revive him or see if he was okay?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What else did he say while you were texting?\"\n\n\"Well, we were just kind of joking because Ben had been kind of picking on Jacob for a while. So we were all like, 'Couldn't happen to a nicer guy' and 'Your wishes came true' and stuff like that. I know that sounds really bad now but it was just, like, joking.\"\n\n\"When you say Ben Rifkin had been picking on Jacob, describe what you mean. What exactly had been going on between those two?\"\n\n\"Ben was just like, he was in a different group. He was just\u2014I don't want to say not-nice things about him after what happened and everything\u2014but he was not very nice to Jake or to me, or to anyone in our group.\"\n\n\"Who is in your group?\"\n\n\"It was pretty much me, Jake, and this other kid, Dylan.\"\n\n\"And what was your group like? What was your reputation in school?\"\n\n\"We were geeks.\" Derek said this without embarrassment or bitterness. Did not bother him. Just the way it was.\n\n\"And Ben, what was he like?\"\n\n\"I don't know. He was handsome.\"\n\n\"He was handsome?\"\n\nDerek flushed. \"I don't know. He was just in a different group than us.\"\n\n\"Were you friends with Ben Rifkin?\"\n\n\"No. I mean, I knew him, like, to say hello, but we weren't friends.\"\n\n\"But he never picked on you?\"\n\n\"I don't know. He probably called me a fag or whatever. I wouldn't call it bullying or anything. Somebody calls you a fag, it's just like, whatever. It was no big deal.\"\n\n\"Did Ben call other people names?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"I don't know, fag, geek, slut, bitch, loser, whatever. It was just the way he was, it was kind of the way he talked.\"\n\n\"To everyone?\"\n\n\"No, not everyone. Just kids he didn't like. Kids he didn't think were cool.\"\n\n\"Was Jacob cool?\"\n\nShy smile. \"No. None of us were.\"\n\n\"Did Ben like Jacob?\"\n\n\"No. Definitely not.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Just didn't.\"\n\n\"For no reason? Was there some kind of beef between them? Anything specific?\"\n\n\"No. It was just like, Ben didn't think Jake was cool. None of us were. He said stuff to all of us.\"\n\n\"But it was worse for Jacob than for you or Dylan?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I think he just kind of saw that it got to Jake. Like I said, for me, if somebody calls you a fag or a geek or whatever, what can you do? I just kind of didn't fight back. But Jake got all bent out of shape, so Ben just kept on doing it.\"\n\n\"Doing what?\"\n\n\"Calling him names.\"\n\n\"What names?\"\n\n\" 'Fag' mostly. Some other things, worse things.\"\n\n\"What worse things? Go ahead. You can say them.\"\n\n\"It was mostly about being gay. He would keep asking Jacob whether he'd done different gay stuff. He just kept saying it over and over and over.\"\n\n\"Saying what?\"\n\nDerek took a deep breath. \"I don't know if I can use the words.\"\n\n\"It's all right. Go ahead.\"\n\n\"He'd say, like, 'Did you suck anyone's\u2014' I don't really want to say it. It was just stuff like that. He just wouldn't stop.\"\n\n\"Did anyone at school think Jacob actually was gay?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"No. I mean, I don't think so. It's not like anyone cared anyway. _I_ don't care.\" He looked at Jacob. \"I still don't care.\"\n\n\"Did Jacob ever say anything to you about being gay, either way?\"\n\n\"He said he wasn't.\"\n\n\"In what context? Why did he say that to you?\"\n\n\"I was just, like, telling him to ignore Ben. I was like, 'Hey, Jake, it's not like you're gay anyway, so what do you care?' So he said he wasn't, and he said it wasn't about whether he was gay; it was about Ben giving him shit\u2014giving him grief, I mean\u2014and how long was it going to go on before anyone did anything to stop it? He just knew it was wrong and no one was doing anything to stop it.\"\n\n\"So Jacob was upset about it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He felt he was being bullied?\"\n\n\"He _was_ being bullied.\"\n\n\"Did you ever intervene to try to stop Ben from bullying your friend?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because it wouldn't have mattered. Ben wouldn't have listened. It doesn't work that way.\"\n\n\"Was the bullying just verbal? Or did it ever become physical?\"\n\n\"Sometimes Ben would push him or like jostle him as he went by, like knock him with his shoulder. Sometimes he took Jake's stuff, like stuff from his backpack or his lunch or whatever.\"\n\n\"Now, the defendant looks like a big kid. How could Ben get away with picking on him?\"\n\n\"Ben was big too, and he was kind of tougher. And he had more friends. I think we all\u2014like Jake and Dylan and me\u2014we kind of knew we weren't important kids. I mean, I don't know, it's weird. It's kind of hard to explain. But if it got to be a real fight with Ben, we would have just been cut out.\"\n\n\"Socially, you mean.\"\n\n\"Yeah. And then what would school be like if we were just, like, alone?\"\n\n\"Did Ben do this to other kids too, or just Jacob?\"\n\n\"Just Jacob.\"\n\n\"Any idea why?\"\n\n\" 'Cause he knew it made Jake mad.\"\n\n\"You could see it made him mad?\"\n\n\"Everyone could.\"\n\n\"Did Jacob get mad a lot?\"\n\n\"At Ben? Of course.\"\n\n\"At other things too?\"\n\n\"Yeah, a little.\"\n\n\"Tell us about Jacob's temper.\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"Go ahead, Derek, tell us about the defendant's temper.\"\n\n\"He just, like, got really upset about stuff. He kind of stewed about it and he couldn't let it go. He'd get himself all worked up on the inside and then sometimes he would kind of go off over some little thing. He'd always feel bad afterward and he'd be embarrassed because it was like he was always overreacting, because it was never just about whatever made him go off. It was all the other stuff he'd be thinking about.\"\n\n\"And you know this how?\"\n\n\"Because he'd tell me.\"\n\n\"Did he ever lose his temper with you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did he ever lose his temper in front of you?\"\n\n\"Yeah, sometimes he could be a little schizo.\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained. The jury will ignore that last comment.\"\n\n\"Derek, would you describe a time you saw the defendant lose his temper?\"\n\n\"Objection, relevance.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Derek, would you tell the court what happened when the defendant found a stray dog?\"\n\n\"Objection, relevance.\"\n\n\"Sustained. Move on, Mr. Logiudice.\"\n\nLogiudice puckered his mouth. He flipped a page of his yellow pad, a page of questions he would set aside. Like a bird rustled from his perch, he began to move nervously around the courtroom again as he asked his questions until, at length, he settled back into his place at the lectern near the jury box.\n\n\"For whatever reason, in the days after Ben Rifkin's murder, you became concerned about your friend Jacob's role in it?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Overruled.\"\n\n\"You can answer, Derek.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Was there anything in particular, besides his temper, that made you suspicious of Jacob?\"\n\n\"Yes. He had a knife. It was like kind of an army knife, like a combat knife. It had this really really sharp blade with all these _... teeth_. It was a really scary knife.\"\n\n\"You saw this knife yourself?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Jake showed it to me. He even brought it to school once.\"\n\n\"Why did he bring it to school?\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Did he show you the knife once at school?\"\n\n\"Yeah, he showed me.\"\n\n\"Did he say why he was showing it to you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did he tell you why he wanted a knife at all?\"\n\n\"I think he just thought it was cool.\"\n\n\"And how did you react when you saw the knife?\"\n\n\"I was like, 'Dude, that's cool.' \"\n\n\"You weren't bothered by it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Concerned?\"\n\n\"No, not then.\"\n\n\"Was Ben Rifkin around when Jacob produced the knife that day?\"\n\n\"No. Nobody knew Jake had the knife. That's the thing. He was just walking around with it. It was like Jake had this secret.\"\n\n\"Where did he carry the knife?\"\n\n\"In his backpack or his pocket.\"\n\n\"Did he ever show it to anyone else or threaten anyone with it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"All right, so Jacob had a knife. Was there anything else that made you suspicious of your friend Jacob in the hours and days after Ben Rifkin was murdered?\"\n\n\"Well, like I said, at the very beginning nobody knew what happened. Then it kind of came out that Ben got killed with a knife in Cold Spring Park, and I just kind of knew.\"\n\n\"Knew what?\"\n\n\"Knew\u2014I mean, I felt like he probably did it.\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained. The jury will disregard the last answer.\"\n\n\"How did you know Jacob\u2014\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained. Move on, Mr. Logiudice.\"\n\nLogiudice pursed his lips, regrouped. \"Did Jacob ever talk about a website called the Cutting Room?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Would you tell the jury, what is the Cutting Room?\"\n\n\"It's like a porn site, kind of, only it's just stories and anyone can write stories and post them there.\"\n\n\"What kind of stories?\"\n\n\"Like S&M, I guess. I don't really know. It's, like, sex and violence.\"\n\n\"Did Jacob talk about the site often?\"\n\n\"Yeah. He liked it, I guess. He used to go there a lot.\"\n\n\"Did you go there?\"\n\nSheepish, blushing. \"No. I didn't like it.\"\n\n\"Did it bother you that Jacob went there?\"\n\n\"No. It's his business.\"\n\n\"Did Jacob ever show you a story on the Cutting Room that described Ben Rifkin's murder?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When did Jacob show you this story?\"\n\n\"Like late April, I think.\"\n\n\"After the murder?\"\n\n\"Yeah, a few days after.\"\n\n\"What did he tell you about it?\"\n\n\"He just said he had this story he wrote and he posted it on this message board.\"\n\n\"You mean he posted it online for other people to read?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"And did you read the story?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"How did you find it?\"\n\n\"Jacob sent me a link.\"\n\n\"How? Email? Facebook?\"\n\n\"Facebook? No! Anyone could have seen it. I think it was email. So I went to the site and I read it.\"\n\n\"And what did you think of the story when you read it the first time?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I thought it was weird that he wrote it, but it was kind of interesting, I guess. Jacob was always a really good writer.\"\n\n\"Did he write other stories like this one?\"\n\n\"No, not exactly. He wrote some that were, like\u2014\"\n\n\"Objection.\"\n\n\"Sustained. Next question.\"\n\nLogiudice produced a document, laser-printed, thick with text on both sides. He laid it on the witness stand in front of Derek.\n\n\"Is that the story the defendant told you he wrote?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Is that printout an accurate record of the story precisely as you read it that day?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I guess.\"\n\n\"Move the document be admitted in evidence.\"\n\n\"The document is admitted and marked Commonwealth's Exhibit... Mary?\"\n\n\"Twenty-six.\"\n\n\"Commonwealth's exhibit twenty-six.\"\n\n\"How do you know for sure that the defendant wrote this story?\"\n\n\"Why would he say it if it wasn't true?\"\n\n\"And what was it about the story that made you so concerned about Jacob and the Rifkin murder?\"\n\n\"It was just, like, a total description, every little detail. He described the knife, the stabs in the chest, the whole thing. Even the character, the kid that got stabbed\u2014in the story Jake calls him 'Brent Mallis,' but it's obviously Ben Rifkin. Anyone who knew Ben would know. It wasn't like totally fiction. It was just obvious.\"\n\n\"Do you and your friends sometimes exchange messages on Facebook?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"And three days after Ben Rifkin was murdered, on April 15, 2007, did you post a message on Facebook saying, 'Jake, everyone knows you did it. You have a knife. I've seen it.' \"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why did you post that message?\"\n\n\"I just didn't want to be the only one who knew about the knife. It was like, I didn't want to be alone knowing that.\"\n\n\"When you posted that message on Facebook accusing your friend of the murder, did he ever respond?\"\n\n\"I wasn't really accusing him. It was just something I wanted to say.\"\n\n\"Did the defendant respond in any way?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure what you mean. I mean, he posted on Facebook, but not really responding to that.\"\n\n\"Well, did he ever deny that he murdered Ben Rifkin?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"After you published your accusation on Facebook in front of his whole class?\"\n\n\"I didn't _publish_ it. I just put it on Facebook.\"\n\n\"Did he ever deny the accusation?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did you ever accuse him directly, to his face?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Before you saw that story on the Cutting Room, did you ever report your suspicions about Jacob to the police?\"\n\n\"Not exactly.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I wasn't totally sure. Plus, the cop in charge of the case was Jacob's dad.\"\n\n\"And what did you think when you realized that it was Jacob's dad who was running the case?\"\n\n\"Ob- _jec_ -tion.\" Jonathan's voice was disgusted.\n\n\"Sustained.\"\n\n\"Derek, one last question. It was you that sought out the police to share this information, isn't that right? Nobody had to come ask you?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"You felt you had to turn in your own best friend?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"No further questions.\"\n\nJonathan stood up. He seemed for all the world to be unfazed by what he had just heard. And he would conduct a gallant cross, I knew. But something had obviously changed in the courtroom. The atmosphere was electric. It was as if we had all just decided something. You could read it in the faces of the jurors and Judge French, you could hear it in the supreme quiet of the crowd: Jacob was not going to walk out of that courtroom, not out the front door anyway. The excitement was a mix of relief\u2014everyone's doubts were resolved at last, about whether Jacob did it and whether he would get away with it\u2014and palpable eagerness for revenge. The rest of the trial would be only details, formalities, tying up loose ends. Even my friend Ernie the court officer looked at Jacob with a wary eye, assessing how he would react to the handcuffs. But Jonathan seemed not to notice the drop in air pressure. He moved to the lectern and slipped on the half-glasses he wore on a chain around his neck and began to take it apart piece by piece.\n\n\"These things you've told us about, they bothered you, but not so much that you broke off your friendship with Jacob?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"In fact, you two continued to be friends for days and even weeks after the murder, isn't that right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Isn't it true that you even went to Jacob's house after the murder?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"So it's fair to say that you weren't too sure at the time that Jacob really was the murderer?\"\n\n\"Yeah, that's right.\"\n\n\"Because you wouldn't want to remain friends with a murderer, of course?\"\n\n\"No, I guess not.\"\n\n\"Even after you posted that message on Facebook where you accused Jacob of the murder, you _still_ remained friends with him? You still remained in contact, still hung around?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Were you ever afraid of Jacob?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Did he ever threaten or intimidate you in any way? Or lose his temper at you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Isn't it true that it was your parents who told you you couldn't stay with friends with Jacob, that you _never_ decided to stop being friends with Jacob?\"\n\n\"Kind of.\"\n\nJonathan backed off, sensing Derek beginning to hedge, and he moved to a new topic. \"The day of the murder, you said you saw Jacob before school and again in English class right after school started?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But there was no indication that he had been involved in any kind of struggle?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No blood?\"\n\n\"Just the little spot on his hand.\"\n\n\"No scratches, no torn clothes, nothing like that? No mud?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"In fact, it never even occurred to you, looking at Jacob in English class that morning, that he might have been involved in anything on the way to school?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"When you later came to the conclusion that Jacob might have committed the murder, as you've suggested here, did you take that into account? That after a bloody, fatal knife attack, Jacob somehow emerged without a drop of blood on him, without so much as a scratch? Did you think about that, Derek?\"\n\n\"Kind of.\"\n\n\"Kind of?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You said Ben Rifkin was a bigger kid than Jacob, bigger and tougher?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But still Jacob came out of this struggle without a mark on him?\"\n\nDerek did not answer.\n\n\"Now, you said something about Jacob grinning when the lockdown was announced. Did other kids grin? Is it natural enough for a kid to grin when there's excitement, when you're nervous?\"\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\n\"It's just something kids do sometimes.\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"Now, the knife you saw, Jacob's knife. Just to be clear, you have no idea whether that was the knife that was used in the murder?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And Jacob never said anything to you about _intending_ to use the knife on Ben Rifkin, because of the bullying?\"\n\n\"Intending? No, he didn't say that.\"\n\n\"And when he showed the knife to you, it never occurred to you that he planned to kill Ben Rifkin? Because if it did, you would have done something about it, right?\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"So, as far as you knew, Jacob never had a _plan_ to kill Ben Rifkin?\"\n\n\"A plan? No.\"\n\n\"Never talked about when or how he was going to kill Ben Rifkin?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then, later, he just sent you the story?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"He sent you a link by email, you said?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you save that email?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"It didn't seem smart. I mean, for Jake\u2014from Jacob's point of view.\"\n\n\"So you deleted the email because you were protecting him?\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me, of all the details in that story, was there anything that was new to you, anything you didn't already know either from the Web or from news stories or from other kids talking?\"\n\n\"No, not really.\"\n\n\"The knife, the park, the three stab wounds\u2014that was all well known by then, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Hardly a confession, then, is it?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"And did he say in the email that he'd written the story? Or just found it?\"\n\n\"I don't remember exactly what the email said. I think it was just, like, 'Dude, check this out' or something like that.\"\n\n\"But you're sure Jacob told you he wrote the story, not that he just read it?\"\n\n\"Pretty sure.\"\n\n\" _Pretty_ sure?\"\n\n\"Pretty sure, yeah.\"\n\nJonathan went on in this way for some time, doing what he could, shaving away and shaving away at Derek Yoo's testimony, scoring what points he could. Who knows what the jurors were really making of it. All I can tell you is that the half dozen jurors who were furiously taking notes during Derek's direct testimony had put down their pens now. Some were no longer even looking at him; they had dropped their eyes to their laps. Maybe Jonathan had won the day and they had decided to discount Derek's testimony entirely. But it did not seem that way. It seemed like I had been fooling myself, and for the first time I began to imagine in realistic terms what it would be like when Jacob was in Concord prison.\n\n# **35 | Argentina**\n\nDriving home from court that day I was morose, and my sadness infected Jacob and Laurie. From the start, I had been the steady one. It upset them, I think, to see me lose hope. I tried to lie for them. I said all the usual things about not feeling too up on a good day or too down on a bad day; about how the prosecution's evidence always looks worse on first sight than it does later, in the context of the whole case; about how juries are impossible to anticipate and we should not read too much into their every little gesture. But my tone gave me away. I thought we had probably lost the case that day. At a minimum, the damage was enough that we would have to present a real defense. It would be foolish to rely on \"reasonable doubt\" at this point: the story Jacob had written about the murder read like a confession, and try as he might, Jonathan could not disprove Derek's testimony that Jacob wrote it. I did not admit any of this. There was nothing to gain by telling the truth, so I didn't. All I said to them was that \"It wasn't a good day.\" But that was enough.\n\nFather O'Leary did not appear to watch over us that night, or anyone else. We Barbers were left in complete isolation. If we had been shot out into space, we could not have felt more alone. We ordered Chinese food, as we had a thousand times the last few months, because China City delivers and the driver speaks so little English that we did not have to feel self-conscious opening the door for him. We ate our boneless spare ribs and General Gao's chicken in near silence, then slunk off to opposite corners of the house for the evening. We were too sick of the case to talk about it anymore but too obsessed with it to talk about anything else. We were too gloomy for the idiocies of TV\u2014suddenly our lives seemed finite, and much too short to waste\u2014and too distracted to read.\n\nAround ten, I went into Jacob's room to check on him. He lay on his back on the bed.\n\n\"You okay, Jacob?\"\n\n\"Not really.\"\n\nI went over and sat on the side of the bed. He hoisted his butt over to make room, but Jake was getting so big there was hardly enough space for both of us. (He used to lie right on my chest for naps when he was a baby. He had been no bigger than a loaf of bread.)\n\nHe rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand. \"Dad, can I ask you something? If you thought things were looking bad, like the case was about to go the wrong way, would you tell me?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"No, not 'why'; just, would you tell me?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I guess so.\"\n\n\"Because it wouldn't make sense to\u2014well, if I took off, what would happen to you and Mom?\"\n\n\"We'd lose all our money.\"\n\n\"They'd take away the house?\"\n\n\"Eventually. We put it up as security on your bail.\"\n\nHe considered this.\n\n\"It's just a house,\" I told him. \"I wouldn't miss it. It doesn't matter as much as you.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but still. Where would you guys live?\"\n\n\"Is this what you've been lying here thinking about?\"\n\n\"A little bit.\"\n\nLaurie came to the door. She folded her arms and leaned on the doorpost.\n\nI said, \"Where would you go?\"\n\n\"Buenos Aires.\"\n\n\"Buenos Aires? Why there?\"\n\n\"It just sounds like a cool place.\"\n\n\"Says who?\"\n\n\"There was an article about it in the _Times_. It's the Paris of South America.\"\n\n\"Hm. I didn't know South America had a Paris.\"\n\n\"It is in South America, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah, it's in Argentina. You may want to do a little more research before you run off there.\"\n\n\"Is there a\u2014whaddaya call it?\u2014a treaty, like a fugitive treaty?\"\n\n\"An extradition treaty? I don't know. I guess that'd be another thing you'd want to check out first.\"\n\n\"Yeah. I guess so.\"\n\n\"How would you pay for the ticket?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't. You would.\"\n\n\"And a passport? You surrendered yours, remember?\"\n\n\"I'd get a new one somehow.\"\n\n\"Just like that? How?\"\n\nLaurie came and sat on the floor beside the bed and stroked his hair. \"He'd sneak across the border into Canada and he'd get a Canadian passport.\"\n\n\"Hm. Not sure it's actually that easy, but okay. So what would you do once you got to Buenos Aires, which we know is in Argentina?\"\n\nLaurie said, \"He'd dance the tango.\" Her eyes were wet.\n\n\"Do you know how to dance the tango, Jacob?\"\n\n\"Not exactly.\"\n\n\"Not exactly, he says.\"\n\n\"Not exactly, like, meaning not at all.\" He laughed.\n\n\"Well, you can get tango lessons in Buenos Aires, I would think.\"\n\nLaurie said, \"In Buenos Aires, everybody knows the tango.\"\n\n\"You'll need someone to dance the tango _with_ , won't you?\"\n\nHe smiled shyly.\n\nLaurie said, \"Buenos Aires is filled with beautiful women who dance the tango. Beautiful, mysterious women. Jacob will have his pick.\"\n\n\"Is that true, Dad? Lots of beautiful women in Buenos Aires?\"\n\n\"That's what I hear.\"\n\nHe lay back and laced his fingers behind his head. \"This is sounding better and better.\"\n\n\"What will you do there when you get done dancing the tango, Jake?\"\n\n\"Go to school, I guess.\"\n\n\"I pay for that too?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"And after school?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Maybe I'll be a lawyer like you.\"\n\n\"Don't you think you'll want to keep a low profile? You know, being a fugitive and all?\"\n\nLaurie answered for him. \"No. They're going to forget all about him and he's going to have a long, happy, wonderful life in Argentina with a beautiful woman who dances the tango, and Jacob will be a great man.\" She got up on her knees so she could look at his face and continue to stroke his hair as he lay there. \"He'll have children, and his children will have children, and he'll bring so much happiness to so many people that no one will ever believe that once upon a time in America people said horrible things about him.\"\n\nJacob closed his eyes. \"I don't know if I can go to court tomorrow. I just don't want to do it anymore.\"\n\n\"I know, Jake.\" I laid my palm on his chest. \"It's almost over.\"\n\n\"That's what I'm afraid of.\"\n\nLaurie: \"I don't think I can do it anymore either.\"\n\n\"It'll be over soon. We just have to hang in there. I promise.\"\n\n\"Dad, you'll tell me, right? Like you said? If it's time for me to...?\" He cocked his head toward the door.\n\nI suppose I could have told him the truth. _It's not like that, Jake_. _There's nowhere to go_. But I didn't. I said, \"It's not going to happen. We're going to win.\"\n\n\"But _if_.\"\n\n\"If. Yeah, definitely I'll tell you, Jacob.\" I tousled his hair. \"Let's try to get some sleep.\"\n\nLaurie kissed his forehead, and I did the same.\n\nHe said, \"Maybe you guys'll come to Buenos Aires too. We can all go.\"\n\n\"Can we still order from China City there?\"\n\n\"Sure, Dad.\" He grinned. \"We'll fly it in.\"\n\n\"Okay, then. For a second, I didn't think it was a realistic plan. Now get some sleep. Another big day tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Let's hope not,\" he said.\n\nWhen Laurie and I got into bed, she said in a pillow-talk murmur, \"When we were talking about Buenos Aires, that was the first time I've felt happy in I don't know how long. I don't remember the last time I smiled.\"\n\nBut her confidence must have faltered, because only a few seconds later, as she lay on her side facing me, she whispered, \"What if he went to Buenos Aires and killed someone there?\"\n\n\"Laurie, he's not going to Buenos Aires and he's not going to kill anyone. He didn't kill anyone _here_.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure.\"\n\n\"Don't say that.\"\n\nShe looked away.\n\n\"Laurie?\"\n\n\"Andy, what if we're the ones who are wrong? What if he gets off and then, God forbid, he does it again? Don't we have some responsibility?\"\n\n\"Laurie, it's late, you're exhausted. We'll have this conversation some other time. For now, you need to stop thinking that way. You're making yourself crazy.\"\n\n\"No.\" She gave me an imploring look, like _I_ was the one who was not making sense. \"Andy, we need to be honest with each other. This is something we need to think about.\"\n\n\"Why? The trial isn't over yet. You're quitting too soon.\"\n\n\"We need to think about it because he's our son. He needs our support.\"\n\n\"Laurie, we're doing our job. We're supporting him, we're helping him get through the trial.\"\n\n\"Is that our job?\"\n\n\"Yes! What else is there?\"\n\n\"What if he needs something else, Andy?\"\n\n\"There _is_ nothing else. What are you talking about? There's nothing more we can do. We're already doing everything humanly possible.\"\n\n\"Andy, what if he's guilty?\"\n\n\"He won't be.\"\n\nHer breathy whispering became intense, pointed. \"I don't mean the verdict. I mean the truth. What if he really is guilty?\"\n\n\"He isn't.\"\n\n\"Andy, is that what you really think? He didn't do it? Simple as that? You have no doubt at all?\"\n\nI did not answer. I could not bear to.\n\n\"Andy, I can't read you anymore. You need to talk to me, you need to tell me. I'm never sure what's going on inside you anymore.\"\n\n\"Nothing's going on inside me,\" I said, and the statement felt even truer than I'd intended.\n\n\"Andy, sometimes I just want to grab you by the lapels and _make_ you tell the truth.\"\n\n\"Oh, the thing with my father again.\"\n\n\"No, it's not that. I'm talking about Jacob. I need you to be absolutely honest here, for _me_. I need to know. Even if _you_ don't, _I_ need to know: do you think Jacob did it?\"\n\n\"I think there are things a parent should never think about a child.\"\n\n\"That's not what I asked.\"\n\n\"Laurie, he's my son.\"\n\n\"He's _our_ son. We're responsible for him.\"\n\n\"Exactly. We're responsible for him. We need to stick with him.\" I put my hand on her head, stroked her hair.\n\nShe swiped it away. \"No! Andy, do you understand what I'm saying to you? If he's guilty, then we're guilty too. That's just the way it is. We're implicated. We made him\u2014you and me. We created him and we sent him out into the world. And if he really did this\u2014can you handle that? Can you handle that possibility?\"\n\n\"If I have to.\"\n\n\"Really, Andy? Could you?\"\n\n\"Yes. Look, if he's guilty, if we lose, then we'll have to face that somehow. I mean, I _get_ that. We'll still be his parents. You can't resign from this job.\"\n\n\"Andy, you are the most infuriating, dishonest man.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I need you to be here with me right now, and you're not.\"\n\n\"I am!\"\n\n\"No. You're managing me. You're talking in platitudes. You're in there behind those handsome brown eyes and I don't know what you're really thinking. I can't tell.\"\n\nI sighed, shook my head. \"Sometimes I can't tell either, Laurie. I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm trying not to think at all.\"\n\n\"Andy, please, you _have_ to think. Look inside yourself. You're his father. You can't avoid this. Did he do it? It's a yes-or-no question.\"\n\nShe was pushing me toward it, this towering black idea, Jacob the Murderer. I brushed against it, touched the hem of its robe\u2014and I could not go any further. The danger was too great.\n\nI said, \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Then you think he might have.\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"But it's possible, at least.\"\n\n\"I said I don't know, Laurie.\"\n\nShe scrutinized my face, my eyes, searching for something she could trust, for bedrock. I tried to put on a mask of resolve for her, so she would find in my expression whatever it was she needed\u2014reassurance, love, connection, whatever. But the truth? Certainty? I did not have those. They were not mine to give.\n\nA couple of hours later, around one A.M., there was a siren in the distance. This was unusual; in our quiet suburb the cops and fire engines generally do not use them. Flashers only. The siren lasted only five seconds or so, then resonated in the quiet, suspended like a flare. Behind me Laurie was asleep in the same position as before, with her back to me. I went to the window and looked out but there was nothing to see. I would not find out until the next morning what that siren was and how, unknown to us, everything had already changed. We were already in Argentina.\n\n# **36 | Helluva Show**\n\nThe phone rang at five-thirty the next morning, my cell phone, and I answered it automatically, conditioned over the years to receive these emergency calls at crazy hours. I even answered in my old commanding voice, \"Andy Barber!,\" to convince people that I had not actually been sleeping, no matter what the hour.\n\nWhen I hung up, Laurie said, \"Who was that?\"\n\n\"Jonathan.\"\n\n\"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"So what was it?\"\n\nI felt a grin spread over my face and a dreamy, bewildered happiness embraced me.\n\n\"Andy?\"\n\n\"It's over.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, it's over?\"\n\n\"He confessed.\"\n\n\"What? Who confessed?\"\n\n\"Patz.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"Jonathan did what he said he would in court: he had him served. Patz got the subpoena and last night he killed himself. He left a note with a full confession. Jonathan said they've been at his apartment all night. They confirmed the handwriting; the note is legit. Patz confessed.\"\n\n\"He confessed? Just like that? Is that possible?\"\n\n\"It doesn't seem real, does it?\"\n\n\"How did he kill himself?\"\n\n\"Hung himself.\"\n\n\"Oh my God.\"\n\n\"Jonathan says he's going to move for dismissal as soon as court opens.\"\n\nLaurie's hands covered her mouth. She was already crying. We embraced, then we ran into Jacob's room as if it were Christmas morning\u2014or Easter, given that this miracle was more in the nature of a resurrection\u2014and we shook him awake and hugged him and shared the incredible news.\n\nAnd everything was different. Just like that, everything was different. We got dressed in our trial clothes and we bided our time till we could drive to the courthouse. We watched the news on TV and checked Boston.com for mention of Patz's suicide but there was none, so we sat there grinning at one another and shaking our heads in disbelief.\n\nIt was better than a not-guilty from the jury. We kept saying this: _not guilty_ is merely a failure of proof. Jacob had actually been proven _innocent_. It was as if the entire horrific episode was erased. I do not believe in God or miracles, but this was a miracle. I cannot explain the feeling any other way. It felt as if we had been saved by some sort of divine intervention\u2014by a real miracle. The only limit on our joy was the fact we could not quite believe it and we did not want to celebrate until the case was officially dismissed. It was at least conceivable, after all, that Logiudice would continue his prosecution even in the face of Patz's confession.\n\nIn the event, Jonathan did not get the chance to move for dismissal. Before the judge even took the bench, Logiudice filed a nol pros\u2014a nolle prosequi, which announced the government's decision to drop the charges.\n\nAt nine sharp, the judge bounded out to the bench with a little grin. He read over the nol pros with a theatrical flourish and, with a palm-up motion of his hand, he asked Jacob to stand. \"Mr. Barber, I see from your face and from your dad's face that you've already heard the news. So let me be the first to tell you the words I'm sure you've longed to hear: Jacob Barber, you are a free man.\" There was a cheer\u2014a cheer!\u2014and Jacob and I hugged.\n\nThe judge banged his gavel but he did so with an indulgent smile. When the courtroom was relatively quiet again, he gestured to the clerk, who read in a monotone\u2014apparently only she was not happy for the result\u2014\"Jacob Michael Barber, in the matter of indictment number oh-eight-dash-four-four-oh-seven, the Commonwealth having nolle prosequi the within indictment, it is ordered by the court that you be discharged of this indictment and go without day insofar as this indictment is concerned. The bail previously posted may be returned to the surety. Case dismissed.\"\n\n_Go without day_. The awkward legal formulation that is the defendant's ticket out. It means, You may go without any more court days scheduled\u2014go and not come back.\n\nMary rubber-stamped the indictment, slipped the paper into her file, and tossed the file into her out-box with such bureaucratic efficiency that you might have thought she had a stack of cases to get through before lunch.\n\nAnd it was over.\n\nOr almost over. We made our way through the crowd of reporters, jostling now to congratulate us and get their video in time for the morning shows, and we wound up literally running down Thorndike Street to the garage where we were parked. Running, laughing\u2014free!\n\nWe made it to our car and for an awkward moment we were preoccupied with trying to find the words to thank Jonathan, who graciously declined the credit because, he said, truthfully, he had not actually done anything. We thanked him anyway. Thanked him and thanked him. I pumped his arm up and down, and Laurie hugged him. \"You would have won,\" I told him. \"I'm sure of it.\"\n\nIn all of this, it was Jacob who saw them coming. \"Uh-oh,\" he said.\n\nThere were two of them. Dan Rifkin came first. He was wearing a tan trench coat, fancier than most, over-designed, with a profusion of buttons, pockets, and epaulettes. He still had that doll-like immobile face, so it was impossible to know exactly what he intended. Apologizing to us, perhaps?\n\nA few feet behind him was Father O'Leary, a giant by comparison with Rifkin, ambling along with his hands in his pockets and his scally cap pulled low over his eyes.\n\nWe turned slowly to meet them. We must all have had the same expression, puzzled but pleased to see this man who should naturally have been our friend now, despite the pain he had been through, graciously coming to welcome us back into his world, into the real world. But his expression was strange. Hard.\n\nLaurie said, \"Dan?\"\n\nHe did not respond. He took from one of the deep pockets of his trench coat a knife, an ordinary kitchen knife, which I recognized, absurd as this sounds, as a W\u00fcsthof Classic steak knife because we have the same set of knives in a knife block on our kitchen counter. But I did not have time to fully fathom the sublime weirdness of being stabbed with such a knife because almost immediately, before Dan Rifkin got within a few feet of us, Father O'Leary grabbed Rifkin by the arm. He banged Rifkin's hand once on the hood of the car, which caused the knife to clatter down to the concrete garage floor. Then he flipped Rifkin's arm behind the little man's back and easily\u2014so easily he might have been manipulating a mannequin\u2014he bent him over the hood of the car. He said to Rifkin, \"Easy there, champ.\"\n\nHe did all this with expert, graceful professionalism. The whole transaction could not have lasted more than a few seconds, and we were left gaping at the two men.\n\n\"Who _are_ you?\" I said finally.\n\n\"Friend of your father's. He asked me to look out for you.\"\n\n\"My father? How do you know my father? No, wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know.\"\n\n\"What do you want me to do with this guy?\"\n\n\"Let him go! What's wrong with you?\"\n\nHe did.\n\nRifkin straightened himself up. He had tears in his eyes. He looked at us with helpless impotence\u2014apparently he still believed Jacob had killed his son, but he could not do anything about it\u2014and he staggered off, to what torments I cannot imagine.\n\nFather O'Leary went to Jacob and extended his hand. \"Congratulations, kid. That was something in there this morning. Did you see the expression on that asshole DA's face? Priceless!\"\n\nJacob shook his hand with a bewildered expression.\n\n\"Helluva show,\" Father O'Leary said. \"Helluva show.\" He laughed. \"And you're Billy Barber's kid?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" I had never been proud to say that. I'm not sure I had ever actually said it out loud in public before. But it gave me a connection to Father O'Leary and it seemed to amuse him, so we both smiled at it.\n\n\"You're bigger than him, that's for sure. You could fit two of that little shit inside a you.\"\n\nI did not know what to do with that comment so I just stood there.\n\n\"Tell your old man I said hello, all right?\" Father O'Leary said. \"Jesus, I could tell you stories about him.\"\n\n\"Don't. Please.\"\n\nFinally to Jacob: \"It's your lucky day, kid.\" He laughed again and ambled away and I have never seen Father O'Leary again to this day.\n\n# **Part**  \n **FOUR**\n\n_\"Precisely how the electrical signals and chemical reactions occurring second by second in the human body make the leap to thought, motivation, impulse\u2014where the physical machinery of man stops and the ghost in the machine, consciousness, begins\u2014is not truly a scientific question, for the simple reason that we cannot design an experiment to capture, measure or duplicate it. For all we have learned, the fact remains that we do not understand in any meaningful way why people do what they do, and likely never will.\"_\n\n\u2014PAUL HEITZ,  \n\"Neurocriminology and Its Discontents,\"  \n_American Journal of Criminology and Public_  \n_Policy_ , Fall 2008\n\n# **37 | After-Life**\n\nLife goes on, probably too long if we're being honest about it. In a long life there are thirty or thirty-five thousand days to be got through, but only a few dozen that really matter, Big Days when Something Momentous Happens. The rest\u2014the vast majority, tens of thousands of days\u2014are unremarkable, repetitive, even monotonous. We glide through them then instantly forget them. We tend not to think about this arithmetic when we look back on our lives. We remember the handful of Big Days and throw away the rest. We organize our long, shapeless lives into tidy little stories, as I am doing here. But our lives are mostly made up of junk, of ordinary, forgettable days, and \"The End\" is never the end.\n\nThe day Jacob was exonerated, of course, was a Big Day. But after it, remarkably, the little days just kept on coming.\n\nWe did not return to \"normal\"; we had, all three of us, forgotten what normal was. At least, we had no illusions that we would ever get back to it. But in the days and weeks after Jacob's release, as the euphoria of our vindication receded, we did fall into a routine, if a barren one. We went out very little. Never to restaurants or other public places where we felt leered at. I took over the grocery shopping, since Laurie would not risk running into the Rifkins at the market again, and I picked up the wifely habit of planning the week's dinner menus in my head as I shopped (pasta Monday, chicken Tuesday, hamburgers Wednesday...). We went to a few movies, usually midweek when the theaters were less crowded, and even then we made a point of slipping in just as the lights went down. Mostly we loafed around the house. We surfed the Web incessantly, entranced, glassy-eyed. We exercised on the treadmill in the basement rather than jog outside. We upped our Netflix plan so that we had as many DVDs on hand as possible. It sounds dismal, looking back on it, but at the time it felt wonderful. We were free, or something like it.\n\nWe considered moving\u2014not to Buenos Aires, alas, but to more prosaic places where we might start again: Florida, California, Wyoming, anywhere we imagined people went to reinvent themselves. For a while I was preoccupied with the little town of Bisbee, Arizona, where I was told it is easy to get lost and stay lost. There was always the possibility of leaving the country too, which had a certain glamor. We got into interminable discussions about all this. Laurie doubted we could outrun the publicity the case had received, no matter how far we moved. Anyway, she said, her whole life was in Boston. For my part, I was eager to move somewhere else. I did not belong to any place to begin with; my home was wherever Laurie was. But I never was able to make much headway with her.\n\nIn Newton bad feelings lingered. Most of our neighbors had reached their own verdict: not guilty, but not exactly innocent either. Jacob may not have murdered Ben Rifkin, but they had heard enough to be disturbed by him. His knife, his violent fantasies, his wicked bloodline. To some, the abrupt end of the trial seemed fishy too. The kid's continued presence in town worried and irritated people. Even the kind ones were not anxious to have Jacob in their children's lives. Why take a chance? Even if they were ninety-nine percent sure of his innocence, who would risk being wrong when the stakes were so high? And who would risk the stigma of being seen with him? He was a pariah, whether he was actually guilty or not.\n\nWith all this, we did not dare send Jacob back to school in Newton. When he had first been indicted and promptly suspended from school, the town had been obliged to hire a home tutor for him, Mrs. McGowan, and we rehired her now to continue homeschooling him. Mrs. McGowan was the only regular visitor to our house, virtually the only one who ever saw the way we actually lived. When she walked in, a bit dowdy and heavy-hipped, her eyes would dance around, taking in the piles of dirty laundry, the unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink, Jacob's dirty hair. We must have seemed a little crazy to her. But she continued to show up every morning at nine to sit with Jacob at the kitchen table, reviewing his lessons, drubbing him for not doing his homework. \"No one's going to feel sorry for you,\" she told him forthrightly. Laurie took an active part in Jacob's lessons too. She was a remarkable teacher, I thought, patient, kind. I had never actually seen her teach before, but watching her work with Jacob, I thought: she _should_ go back to teaching. She should have been doing it all along.\n\nAs the weeks went by, Jacob was quite content in his new solitary life. He was a natural hermit. He did not miss school or his friends, he said. In fact, homeschooling might have suited him best from the start. It gave him the best part of school, the \"content\" (his word), without the myriad complications of girls, sex, sports, bullies, peer pressure, cliques\u2014the complication of other kids, basically. Jake was just happier alone. After what he'd been through, who could blame him? When we discussed moving, it was always Jacob who was most enthusiastically in favor. The farther, the remoter, the better. Bisbee, Arizona, would suit him fine, he thought. That was Jacob\u2014that equanimity, that poise, half serene, half oblivious. It will sound weird, I know, but Jacob, who always had the most at stake in this case, never broke down and cried, never lost it. Sometimes he would get angry or sullen or introverted, occasionally self-pitying, as all kids do, but he never came apart. Now that the case was over, he was that same even-tempered kid. It was not hard to imagine why his classmates might find his eerie composure a little off-putting. Personally, I found it admirable.\n\nI did not have to work, at least for a while. I was still technically on paid leave from the district attorney's office. My full salary continued to be direct-deposited to my checking account, as it had been throughout this entire episode. No doubt this was a tricky problem for Lynn Canavan. She had backed the wrong horse. Now she had no excuse to fire me since I had done nothing wrong, but she could not very well bring me back as First Assistant either. Eventually she would have to offer me a position and I would have to refuse it, and that would be the end of it. But in the near term she seemed willing to keep me on the payroll in return for my keeping my mouth shut, which seemed like a small price to pay. I would have kept my mouth shut anyway; I liked her.\n\nMeanwhile, Canavan had bigger fish to fry. She had to figure out what to do about Logiudice, the Rasputin in her court, whose professional implosion had surely ended his own political hopes and, if she was not careful, might end hers too. But, again, she could not fire a prosecutor merely for losing a case, otherwise who would ever be willing to go to work for her? The general view was that Canavan would run for attorney general or even governor soon and leave the whole mess behind for the next DA to clean up. But for the time being, all she could do was watch and wait. Maybe Logiudice could resurrect his reputation somehow. Hey, you never know.\n\nI did not worry much about my own career for the time being. Certainly I was done as a prosecutor. The snickering would have been too much. I suppose I might have gone on as some other kind of lawyer. There was always criminal defense, where the link to Jacob's case might even have been a badge of honor\u2014the drama of an innocent boy wrongly accused, who had stood up to The Man, or whatever. But it was a little late in the day to be switching sides. I was not sure I could bring myself to defend the same scumbags I had spent a lifetime locking up. Where that left me I had no idea. In limbo, I suppose, like the rest of my family.\n\nOf the three of us, Laurie was the most beaten up by the trial. In the weeks that followed she did recover a little, but she never did return to what she was Before. She never put back on the weight she had lost, and her face would always look drawn to me. It was as if she'd aged ten years in just a few months. But the real change was inside. In those first weeks after Jacob's trouble, there was a cool, guarded quality about Laurie. She was wary. To me, this new, more cautious manner was understandable. She had been victimized, and she responded the way victims do. It did alter the dynamics of our family\u2014no more Mom warmly imploring Jacob and me, the family involutes, to share our feelings and jabber about our problems and generally turn ourselves inside out for her. She had withdrawn from all that, for a while at least. She watched us from a distance now. I could hardly begrudge her any of this. Damaged at last, my wife had become a little like me, a little harder. Damage hardens us all. It will harden you too, when it finds you\u2014and it will find you.\n\n# **38 | The Policeman's Dilemma**\n\n_Northern Correctional Institution_ ,\n\n_Somers, Connecticut_.\n\nIn the visiting booth again. Sealed up in my white-walled compartment, thick glass window in front of me. Steady background noise: murmuring in the adjacent booths, in the distance muted shouts and prison racket, announcements over an intercom.\n\nBloody Billy shuffled into the window frame, his hands cuffed to a waist chain, a second chain running from his waist down to his cuffed ankles. No matter: he came into the room like a tyrannical king, chin thrust forward, badass sneer, gray hair combed back over his head in a crazy-old-man pompadour.\n\nTwo guards piloted him to the chair but without laying a hand on him. One of them released the handcuffs from his waist while the other watched, then they both backed away, out of the window frame.\n\nMy father picked up the phone and, with his hands joined at his chin as if in prayer, he said, \"Junior!\" His tone said, _What a pleasant surprise!_\n\n\"Why did you do it?\"\n\n\"Do what?\"\n\n\"Patz.\"\n\nHis eyes traveled from my face to the phone on the wall and back, reminding me to watch what I said on a monitored line.\n\n\"Junior, what are you talking about? I've been here the whole time. Maybe you haven't heard: I don't get out much.\"\n\nI unfolded a Triple-I record, a multistate criminal record. It was several pages long. I palmed it smooth and pressed the front page against the glass with five fingertips for him to read the name: _James Michael O'Leary, a.k.a. Jimmy, Jimmy-O, Father O'Leary, DOB 2/18/43_.\n\nHe leaned forward and squinted at the document. \"Never heard of him.\"\n\n\"Never heard of him? Really?\"\n\n\"Never heard of him.\"\n\n\"You did a bid with him right here.\"\n\n\"A lot of guys come through here.\"\n\n\"Six years you were here together. Six years!\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"I don't socialize. It's jail, not Yale. Maybe if you had a picture or something?\" Mischievous wink. \"But I never heard of this guy.\"\n\n\"Well, he's heard of you.\"\n\nShrug. \"Lot of people have heard of me. I'm a legend.\"\n\n\"He said you asked him to look out for us, to look out for Jacob.\"\n\n\"Bullshit.\"\n\n\"To protect us.\"\n\n\"Bullshit.\"\n\n\"You sent someone to protect us? You think I need you to protect my kid?\"\n\n\"Hey, I never said any of that. This is all you talkin'. Like I said, I never heard of this guy. I don't know what the hell you're talking about.\"\n\nNow, spend enough time in a courthouse and you become a connoisseur of lying. You learn to recognize the various types of bullshit, as Eskimos are said to distinguish different types of snow. The sort of winking denial Billy was indulging here\u2014in which the words _I didn'tdo it_ were delivered in a way that announced _Of course I did it, but we both know you can't prove it_ \u2014must be every criminal's special delight. To laugh in a cop's face! Certainly my dirtbag father was enjoying the hell out of it. From the cop's point of view, there is no sense fighting this sort of confession-denial. You learn to accept this situation. It is part of the game. It is the policeman's dilemma: sometimes you can't prove the case without a confession, but you can't get a confession unless you already have proof.\n\nSo I just took the paper down from the glass and dropped it on the little melamine counter in front of me. I sat back and rubbed my forehead. \"You fool. You stupid old fool. Do you know what you've done?\"\n\n\"Fool? What are you, calling me a fool? I didn't do shit.\"\n\n\"Jacob was innocent! You stupid, stupid old man.\"\n\n\"Watch your mouth, junior. I don't have to stay here talking to you.\"\n\n\"We didn't need your help.\"\n\n\"No? Could've fooled me.\"\n\n\"We would have won.\"\n\n\"And if you didn't? What then? You want the kid to rot in a place like this? You know what this place is, junior? This is a grave. It's a garbage dump. It's a big hole in the ground where they throw the trash nobody wants to see anymore. Anyways, you're the one who told me that night on the phone, you were going to lose.\"\n\n\"Look, you can't\u2014you can't just\u2014\"\n\n\"Jesus, junior, keep your dress on, would you? This is fuckin' embarrassing. Look, I'm not saying anything about what happened, okay? 'Cause I don't know. Whatever happened to this guy\u2014what's his name? Patz?\u2014whatever happened to this guy, I don't know. I'm stuck here in this pit. What the hell do I know? But if you're asking me to boohoo because some kiddy-raper child-molester piece of shit got killed, or killed himself, or whatever? Forget about it. Good riddance. One less piece of shit in the world. Fuck him. He's gone.\" He held a fist to his mouth and blew into it then blossomed open his fingers, like a magician making a coin disappear. _Gone_. \"One less asshole in the world, that's all it is. Guy like that, the world's a better place without him.\"\n\n\"But _with_ you?\"\n\nHe glared. \"Hey, I'm still here.\" He puffed his chest. \"It don't matter what you think of me. I'm still here, junior, whether you like it or not. You can't get rid of me.\"\n\n\"Like cockroaches.\"\n\n\"That's right, I'm a tough old cockroach. Proud of it.\"\n\n\"So what did you do? Call in a favor? Or just reach out to an old friend?\"\n\n\"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about.\"\n\n\"You know, the thing is, it actually took me a while to figure it out. I've got a cop friend who told me this guy Father O'Leary was an old leg-breaker and he was still working as a fixer, and when I asked what that meant, a 'fixer,' he said, 'He makes problems go away.' So that's what you did, isn't it? You called an old friend and you made the problem go away.\"\n\nNo answer. Why should he help me by talking? Bloody Billy understood the policeman's dilemma as well as I did. No confession, no case; no case, no confession.\n\nBut we both knew what went down. We were thinking the exact same thing, I'm sure: Father O'Leary goes over there one night, after a particularly bad day for Jacob in court, and he puts a scare into this fat kid, waves a gun in his face, makes him sign a confession. The kid probably shit his pants before Father O'Leary strung him up.\n\n\"Do you know what you've done to Jacob?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I saved his life.\"\n\n\"No. You took away his day in court. You took away his chance to hear the jury say 'not guilty.' From now on, there'll always be a little doubt. There'll always be people convinced Jacob is a murderer.\"\n\nHe laughed. Not a little laugh but a roar. \"His day in court? And I'm the fool? Junior, you know what? You're not as smart as I thought you were.\" He laughed some more. Big, crazy, gusting belly laughs. He mimicked me in a high, prissy voice, \" 'Oh, his day in court!' Jesus, junior! It's a wonder you're out there and I'm in here. How the fuck does that happen? You dumb gavoon.\"\n\n\"It's a crazy world. Imagine, them putting a guy like you in prison.\"\n\nHe ignored me. He leaned forward as if he meant to whisper a secret in my ear through the inch-thick slab of glass. \"Listen,\" he confided, \"you want to get all Dudley Do-Right here? You want to throw your kid back in the shit? Is that what you want, junior? Call the cops. Go ahead, call the cops and tell them this whole crazy story you've got about Patz and this guy O'Leary I supposedly know. What do I give a shit? I'm in here for life anyway. You won't be hurting me. Go on. He's your kid. Do what you want with him. Like you said, maybe the kid'll get off. Take your chances.\"\n\n\"They can't try Jacob again anyway. Jeopardy's attached.\"\n\n\"So? Even better. Sounds like you think this guy O'Leary committed a murder. If I was you, I'd go report it right away. Is that what you're going to do, Mr. DA Man? Or maybe that won't look so good for the kid, will it?\"\n\nHe looked me square in the eyes for a few seconds until I became aware of my own blinking.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"I didn't think so. We through here?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Good. Hey, guard! Guard!\"\n\nTwo guards ambled over with skeptical faces.\n\n\"Me and my son are all done visiting. You guys ever met my son?\"\n\nThe guards did not answer, did not even glance at me. They seemed to think it was a trick to get them to look away for a second and they were not about to fall for it. Their job was to get the wild animal back into its cage. That was dangerous enough. There was no percentage in breaking protocol.\n\n\"All right,\" my father said as one of the guards fished around for the key to reattach the cuffs to his harness. \"You come back soon, junior. Remember, I'm still your father. I'll always be your father.\" The guards began to rustle him out of the chair but he went right on talking. \"Hey,\" he said to the guards, \"you should get to know this guy. He's a lawyer. Maybe you guys'll need a lawyer somed\u2014\"\n\nOne of the guards pulled the phone from his hand and hung it up. He stood the prisoner up, reattached the handcuffs to his waist chain, then tugged the whole arrangement of chains to make sure he was properly trussed. Billy's eyes were on me the whole time, even as the guards jostled him. What he saw when he looked at me is anybody's guess. Probably just a stranger in a window frame.\n\nMr. Logiudice: I'm going to ask you again. And I'm going to remind you, Mr. Barber, you are under oath.\n\nWitness: I'm aware of that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And you are aware we are talking about a murder here.\n\nWitness: The M.E. ruled it a suicide.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Leonard Patz was murdered and you know it!\n\nWitness: I don't know how anyone could know that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And you have nothing to add?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You have no idea what happened to Leonard Patz on October 25, 2007?\n\nWitness: None.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Any theories?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Do you know anything at all about James Michael O'Leary, also known as Father O'Leary?\n\nWitness: Never heard of him.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Really? You've never even heard the name.\n\nWitness: Never heard of him.\n\nI remember Neal Logiudice standing there with his arms crossed, smoldering. Once upon a time, I might have patted him on the back, told him, \"Witnesses lie. Nothing you can do. Go have a beer, just let it go. All crime is local, Neal\u2014these guys all come back sooner or later.\" But Logiudice was not the type to shrug off an insolent witness. Probably he did not give a shit about the Patz murder, anyway. This was not about Leonard Patz.\n\nIt was already late afternoon when Logiudice finally forced me into a little harmless perjury. I had been testifying all day, and I was tired. It was April. The days were beginning to get longer. The daylight was just beginning to dim when I said, \"Never heard of him.\"\n\nBy then Logiudice must have known he was not going to restore his own reputation here, least of all by asking for my help. He resigned from the DA's office soon after. He is a defense lawyer in Boston now. I have no doubt he will make a great defense lawyer too, right up until the day he is disbarred. But for now, I console myself with that image of him in the grand jury room doing a slow burn as his case, and his career, collapsed before his eyes. I like to think of it as the last lesson I ever taught him, my former prot\u00e9g\u00e9. It's the policeman's dilemma, Neal. After a while you get used to it.\n\n# **39 | Paradise**\n\nIt turns out, you can get used to most anything. What one day seems a shocking, unbearable outrage over time comes to seem ordinary, unremarkable.\n\nAs those first few months passed, the insult of Jacob's trial gradually lost its power to enrage us. We had done all we could. This grotesque thing had happened to our family. We would always be known for it. It would be the first sentence in all our obituaries. And we would always be shaped by the experience, in ways we could not guess at the time. All this began to seem normal, permanent, hardly worth commenting on. And when it did\u2014when we started to get used to our new life as a notorious family, when we finally began to look forward, not back\u2014our family gradually reemerged.\n\nLaurie was the first of us to reawaken. She renewed her friendship with Toby Lanzman. Toby had not reached out to us during the trial, but she was the first of our Newton friends to reconnect with us afterward. Still her old fit, commanding self\u2014same lean runner's face, same springy, high-rumped body\u2014Toby guided Laurie in a fearsome exercise program that included long, cold jogs along Commonwealth Avenue. Laurie wanted to get stronger, she said. Soon Laurie was driving herself through grueling workouts even without Toby. She would come back from increasingly long runs, red-faced and glistening with sweat in the dead of winter. \"Have to get stronger.\"\n\nRecovering her role as family captain, Laurie threw herself into the great project of reviving Jacob and me as well. She cooked tremendous breakfasts of waffles or omelettes or hot cereal, and now that we had no jobs to rush off to, we lingered over the newspapers, which Jacob read on his MacBook while Laurie and I shared the newsprint versions of the _Globe_ and the _Times_. She organized family movie nights and even allowed me to pick the gangster pictures I love, then she suffered good-naturedly as Jacob and I repeated our favorite lines over and over: \"Say hello to my leetle friend\" and \"I didn't know until this day that it was Barzini all along.\" She said that my Brando sounded like Elmer Fudd, which required a trip to YouTube to show Jacob who Elmer Fudd was. How strange to hear ourselves laughing again.\n\nAnd when all this was not working fast enough, when Jacob and I could not seem to shake the gloom of the last year, Laurie decided that stronger medicine was needed.\n\n\"Why don't we go away for a while?\" she said brightly at dinner one night. \"We could take a family vacation like we used to.\"\n\nIt was one of those blindingly obvious ideas that hits you like a revelation. Of course! The moment she suggested it, we knew that _of course_ we had to go. Why had it taken us so long to think of it? Just talking about the idea made us a little giddy.\n\n\"That's brilliant,\" I said. \"Clear our heads!\"\n\n\"Push the reset button!\" Jacob.\n\nLaurie raised her fists and wiggled them, she was so excited. \"I am so _sick_ of all this. I hate this house. I hate this town. I hate the way I feel all day\u2014trapped. I just really want to be someplace else.\"\n\nMy memory is that the three of us went right to the computer and chose our destination that same night. We picked a resort in Jamaica called Waves. None of us had ever heard of Waves or been to Jamaica. We based the decision on nothing more than the resort's own website, which dazzled us with fantastically Photoshopped images: palm trees, white-sand beaches, aquamarine ocean. It was all so perfect and so obviously fraudulent that we could not resist it. It was travel porn. There were laughing couples, she toned and tan in her bikini and wrap, he gray at the temples but sporting a full rack of bodybuilder's abs\u2014the soccer mom and middle manager transformed at Waves into their true inner minx and stud. There was a hotel complex festooned with shutters and verandas, the exteriors brightly painted to evoke a fantasy Caribbean village. The hotel overlooked a network of cerulean swimming pools with fountains and swim-up bars. The Waves logo shimmered on every pool floor. The blue pools spilled from one down to the next until the water reached the edge of a low cliff, and over the edge an elevator descended to a horseshoe-shaped beach and a pristine little cay and, off in the distance, the blue of the ocean stretched all the way out into the endless blue of the sky with no clear horizon line, which would have spoiled the illusion that Waves inhabited the same round planet as everyplace else. It was just the sort of dreamworld we longed to escape into. We did not want to go anyplace \"real\"; you cannot be in a place like Paris or Rome without thinking, and we wanted most of all not to think. At Waves, happily, it seemed no thought could survive for long. Nothing would be allowed to spoil the fun.\n\nThe remarkable thing about all this emotional manipulation was that it actually worked. We actually achieved the traveler's fantasy of leaving our old selves and all our troubles behind. We were transported, in both senses. Not all at once, of course, but little by little. We felt the weight begin to lift the moment we booked the trip, a nice long two-week stay. Then we felt lighter still when the plane lifted off from Boston, and even more so when we stepped out into the glare and the warm tropical breeze on the tarmac at the little airport in Montego Bay. Already we were different. We were strangely, miraculously, deliriously happy. We looked at one another with surprise, as if to say, _Could this be true? Are we really... happy?_ You will say that we were deluding ourselves; our troubles were no less real. And of course that is true, but so what? We had earned a vacation.\n\nAt the airport, Jacob grinned. Laurie held my hand. \"It's paradise!\" she beamed.\n\nWe made our way through the terminal and out to a small shuttle bus, where a driver held a clipboard with the Waves logo and a list of guests he was supposed to pick up. He looked a little bedraggled in a T-shirt, shorts, and shower sandals. But he grinned at us and he peppered his sentences with _\"Ya, mahn!\"_ and generally he made a good show of it. \"Ya, man!\" he said over and over, until we were saying it too. Obviously he had performed this happy-native routine a thousand times. The pasty vacationers ate it up, us included. _Ya, man!_\n\nThe bus ride lasted nearly two hours. We bounced over a crumbling road that roughly followed the north coast of the island. To our right were lush green mountains, to the left, the sea. The poverty of the island was hard to miss. We passed little tumbledown houses and shanties knocked together from scrap wood and corrugated tin. Ragged women and scrawny kids walked along the sides of the road. The vacationers in the bus were subdued during the ride. The natives' poverty was a bummer and they wanted to be sensitive to it; at the same time they had come for a good time and it wasn't _their_ fault the island was poor.\n\nJacob found himself seated on the wide bench at the back of the bus next to a girl about his age. She was pretty in a debate-team way, and the two kids chatted cautiously. Jacob kept his answers short, as if every word was a stick of dynamite. He wore a dumb grin. Here was a girl who did not know anything about the murder, did not even seem aware that Jacob was a geek who could not quite bring himself to look a girl in the eye. (He was proving himself quite capable of looking this girl in the chest, however.) It was all so wonderfully normal, Laurie and I made a point of not staring lest _we_ screw it up for him.\n\nI whispered, \"And I figured _I'd_ get laid on this trip before Jacob.\"\n\n\"My money's still on you,\" she said.\n\nWhen the bus finally arrived at Waves, we passed through a grand gate, past lush manicured beds of red hibiscus and yellow impatiens, and stopped under a portico at the main entrance to the hotel. Grinning bellmen unpacked the bags. They wore uniforms that combined British military bits\u2014pith helmets blancoed to a dazzling whiteness, black pants with a thick red stripe down the side\u2014and bright flower-print shirts. It was a delirious combination, just right for the army of Paradise, the good-time army.\n\nIn the lobby, we checked in. We exchanged our money for the in-house currency of Waves, little silver coins called \"sand dollars.\" A good-time soldier in a pith helmet served a complimentary rum punch, about which I can tell you only that it contained grenadine (it was bright red) and rum, and I immediately had another, feeling it was my patriotic duty to the pseudonation of Waves. I tipped the soldier, Lord knew how much since the exchange rate for sand dollars was a nebulous thing, but the tip must have been generous because he pocketed the coin and said, \"Ya, man,\" illogically but happily. From there, my memory of the first day gets a little fuzzy.\n\nAnd the second.\n\nI apologize for the silly tone, but the truth is we were damn happy. And relieved. With the strain of the previous year finally removed, we got a little silly. I know this story is all a very solemn business. Ben Rifkin had still been murdered, even if it had not been by Jacob. And Jacob had only been saved by the intervention of a second murder arranged by a deus ex prison\u2014a secret only I was aware of. And of course, as the accused, we were still widely presumed guilty of _something_ and so we had no right to be happy anyway. We had taken to heart Jonathan's very strict instructions never to laugh or smile in public, lest anyone think we were not treating the situation with the proper gravity, lest they think we were anything less than shattered. Now, finally, we exhaled and, in our exhaustion, we felt intoxicated even when we weren't. We did not feel like murderers at all.\n\nWe spent our first few mornings at the beach, afternoons at one of the many pools. Every evening the resort offered some sort of entertainment. This might be a musical show or karaoke or a talent contest for the guests. Whatever the format, the staff exhorted us to have the most extroverted sort of fun. They would call from the stage in lilting island accents, \"Come on, ev-ry-bah-dy, make some noise!\" and we guests would clap and cheer with maximum gusto. Afterward there would be dancing. A good dose of Waves punch was required to get through it.\n\nWe ate ravenously. Meals were all-you-can-eat buffets, and we made up for months of undereating. Laurie and I spent our sand dollars on beers and pi\u00f1a coladas. Jacob even tried his first beer. \"Good,\" he pronounced it manfully, though he did not finish it.\n\nJacob spent most of his time with his new girlfriend, whose name\u2014brace yourself\u2014was Hope. He was content to be with us too, but more and more the two of them went off together. Later we found out that Jacob had given her a false last name. Jacob Gold, he called himself, borrowing Laurie's maiden name, which is why Hope never found out about the case. We did not know about Jacob's little subterfuge at the time, so we were left to wonder what it meant, exactly, that this girl was flirting with Jacob. Was she so oblivious that it never occurred to her to do a simple Google search on him? If she had Googled \"Jacob Barber,\" she would have come up with about three hundred thousand results. (The number has grown since then.) Or maybe she did know and got some weird thrill out of dating this dangerous pariah. Jacob told us Hope had no idea about the case, and we did not dare question her directly for fear of spoiling the first good thing that had happened to Jacob in a very long time. We did not see much of Hope, anyway, in the few days we knew her. She and Jake preferred to be by themselves. Even if we were all at the pool together, the two of them would come over to say hello, then they would go sit at a little distance from us. Once we glimpsed them holding hands furtively as they lay on adjacent chaises.\n\nI want to say\u2014it is important you know\u2014we liked Hope, not least because she made our son happy. Jacob brightened whenever she was around. She had a warm way about her. She was courteous and polite, with blond hair and a wonderful soft Virginia accent that seemed lovely to us Bostonians. She was a little pudgy but comfortable in her body, comfortable enough to wear bikinis every day, and we liked her for that too, for the easy way she carried herself, free of the usual morbid teenage insecurities. Even her unlikely name added to the fairy-tale symmetry of her sudden appearance on stage. \"Finally we have Hope,\" I would say to Laurie.\n\nThe truth is, we were not entirely focused on Jacob and Hope. Laurie and I had our own relationship to work on. We had to relearn each other, reestablish the old patterns. We even resumed our sex life, not frantically but slowly, tentatively. Probably we were as clumsy as Jacob and Hope, who no doubt were fumbling over each other at the same time, in secret corners and thrust up against palm trees. Laurie got very brown very quickly, as she always has. To my middle-aged eyes she looked insanely sexy, and I began to wonder if the website did not have it right, after all: she looked more and more like the hot soccer mom in the ad. She was still the best-looking woman I ever saw. It was a miracle that I got her in the first place and a miracle that she stayed with me as long as she did.\n\nI think that, sometime in that first week, Laurie began to forgive herself for the primal sin\u2014as she saw it\u2014of losing faith in her own son, of doubting his innocence during the trial. You could see it in the way she began to loosen up around him. This was an internal struggle for her; she had nothing to reconcile with Jacob, since he never knew about her doubts, let alone that she had actually been afraid of him. Only Laurie could forgive herself. Personally, I did not see it as such a big deal. As betrayals go, this was a small one, and understandable in the circumstances. Maybe you have to be a mother to know why she took it so hard. All I can say is that, as Laurie began to feel better, our whole family began to return to its normal rhythm. Our family orbited around Laurie. Always had.\n\nWe quickly settled into a few routines, as people must, even in dreamworlds like Waves. My favorite ritual was to watch the sunset from the beach as a family. Every evening, we brought beers down with us and dragged three beach chairs to the water's edge so we could sit with our feet in the water. Hope joined us to watch the sunset once, seating herself tactfully beside Laurie like a lady-in-waiting attending her queen. But generally it was just us three Barbers. Around us in the dimming light, little children would play in the sand and the shallow water, toddlers, even a few babies and their young parents. Gradually the beach would get quieter as the other guests left to get ready for dinner. The lifeguards would drag the empty beach chairs across the sand and stack them for the night, making a clatter, and finally the lifeguards themselves would leave, and only a few sunset gazers would linger on the beach. We would look out into the distance, where two arms of land reached out to encircle the little bay, and the horizon would burn yellow then red then indigo.\n\nLooking back on it now, I picture my happy family of three sitting on that beach at sunset and I want to freeze the story there. We must have looked so normal, Laurie and Jacob and me, so much like all the other partyers and suburbanites at that resort. We must have seemed just like everyone else, which, when you get down to it, is all I ever really wanted.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And then?\n\nWitness: And then\u2014\n\nMr. Logiudice: Then what happened, Mr. Barber?\n\nWitness: The girl disappeared.\n\n# 40 | No Way Out\n\nEvening was coming on now. Outside, daylight was withdrawing, the sky going dull, the familiar sunless gray sky of a cold spring in New England. The grand-jury room, no longer flooded with clear sunlight, went yellow under the fluorescent lights.\n\nThe jurors' attention had come and gone the last few hours, but now they sat up attentively. They knew what was coming.\n\nI had been in the chair testifying all day. I must have looked a little haggard. Logiudice circled me excitedly, like a boxer sizing up a woozy opponent.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Do you have any information about what happened to Hope Connors?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: When did you learn she had vanished?\n\nWitness: I don't recall exactly. I remember how it began. We got a call in our room at the resort around dinnertime. It was Hope's mother, asking if she was with Jacob. They had not heard from her all afternoon.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What did you tell her?\n\nWitness: That we hadn't seen her.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And Jacob? What did he say about it?\n\nWitness: Jake was with us. I asked him if he knew where Hope was. He said no.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Was there anything unusual about Jacob's reaction when you asked him that question?\n\nWitness: No. He just shrugged. There was no reason to worry. We all figured she'd probably just gone off to explore. Probably she lost track of time. There was no cell phone reception there, so the kids were constantly disappearing. But the resort was very safe. It was completely fenced in. No one could get in to harm her. Hope's mom wasn't panicked either. I told her not to worry, Hope would probably be back any minute.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But Hope Connors never did come back.\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: In fact, her body was not found for several weeks, isn't that right?\n\nWitness: Seven weeks.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And when it was found?\n\nWitness: The body was washed up on the shore several miles away from the resort. She drowned, apparently.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Apparently?\n\nWitness: When a body is in the water that long\u2014It had deteriorated. My understanding is that it had also been fed on by marine life. I don't know for certain; I was not privy to that investigation. Suffice it to say, the body did not yield much evidence.\n\nMr. Logiudice: The case is considered an unsolved homicide?\n\nWitness: I don't know. It shouldn't be. There's no evidence to support that. The evidence suggests only that she went swimming and drowned.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Well, that's not quite true, is it? There is some evidence that Hope Connors's windpipe was crushed before she went into the water.\n\nWitness: That inference is _not_ supported by the evidence. The body was badly degraded. The cops down there\u2014there was so much pressure, so much media. That investigation was not conducted properly.\n\nMr. Logiudice: That happened quite a bit around Jacob, didn't it? A murder, a botched investigation. He must have been the unluckiest boy.\n\nWitness: Is that a question?\n\nMr. Logiudice: We'll move on. Your son's name has been widely linked to the case, hasn't it?\n\nWitness: In the tabloids and some sleazy websites. They'll say anything for money. There's no profit in saying Jacob was innocent.\n\nMr. Logiudice: How did Jacob react to the girl's disappearance?\n\nWitness: He was concerned, of course. Hope was someone he cared about.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And your wife?\n\nWitness: She was also very, very concerned.\n\nMr. Logiudice: That's all, \"very, very concerned\"?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Isn't it fair to say she concluded Jacob had something to do with that girl's disappearance?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Was there anything in particular that convinced her of this?\n\nWitness: There was something that happened at the beach. It was the day the girl disappeared. Jacob got there\u2014this was late afternoon, to watch the sunset\u2014and he sat on my right. Laurie was on my left. We said, \"Where's Hope?\" Jacob said, \"With her family, I guess. I haven't seen her.\" So we made some kind of joke\u2014I think it was Laurie who asked\u2014if everything was all right between them, if they'd had a fight. He said no, he just hadn't seen her for a few hours. I\u2014\n\nMr. Logiudice: Andy? Are you all right?\n\nWitness: Yeah. Sorry, yes. Jake\u2014he had these spots on his bathing suit, these little red spots.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Describe the spots.\n\nWitness: They were spatters.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What color?\n\nWitness: Brownish red.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Blood spatters?\n\nWitness: I don't know. I didn't think so. I asked him what it was, what did he do to his bathing suit? He said he must have dripped something he'd been eating, ketchup or something.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And your wife? What did she think of the red spatters?\n\nWitness: She didn't think anything at the time. It was nothing, because we didn't know the girl was missing yet. I told him to just go jump in the water and swim around until the bathing suit was clean.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And how did Jacob react?\n\nWitness: He didn't react at all. He just got up and he walked out on the dock\u2014it was an H-shaped dock; he walked out the right-hand dock\u2014and he dove in.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Interesting that it was you who told him to wash the bloodstains off his bathing suit.\n\nWitness: I had no idea if they were bloodstains. I still don't know if that's true.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You still don't know? Really? Then why were you so quick to tell him to jump in the water?\n\nWitness: Laurie said something to him about how the bathing suit was expensive and Jacob should take better care of his things. He was so careless, such a slob. I didn't want him to get in trouble with his mother. We were all having such a good time. That's all it was.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But this was why Laurie was upset when Hope Connors first went missing?\n\nWitness: Partly, yes. It was the whole situation, everything we'd been through.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Laurie wanted to go home immediately, isn't that right?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But you refused.\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Why?\n\nWitness: Because I knew what people would say: that Jacob was guilty and he was running away before the cops could pick him up. They would call him a killer. I wasn't going to let anyone say that about him.\n\nMr. Logiudice: In fact, the authorities in Jamaica did question Jacob, didn't they?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But they never arrested him?\n\nWitness: No. There was no reason to arrest him. He didn't do anything.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Jesus, Andy, how can you be so damn sure? How can you be sure of that?\n\nWitness: How can anyone be sure of anything? I trust my kid. I have to.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You have to why?\n\nWitness: Because I'm his father. I owe him that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: That's it?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What about Hope Connors? What did you owe her?\n\nWitness: Jacob did not kill that girl.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Kids just kept dying around him, is that it?\n\nWitness: That's an improper question.\n\nMr. Logiudice: I'll withdraw it. Andy, do you honestly think you're a reliable witness? Do you honestly think you see your son right?\n\nWitness: I think I'm reliable, yes, generally. I don't think any parent can be completely objective about his kid, I'll concede that.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And yet Laurie had no trouble seeing Jacob for what he was, did she?\n\nWitness: You'll have to ask her.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Laurie had no trouble believing Jacob had something to do with that girl's vanishing?\n\nWitness: As I said, Laurie was very shaken by the whole thing. She was not herself. She came to her own conclusions.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Did she ever discuss her suspicions with you?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: I'll repeat the question. Did your wife ever discuss her suspicions about Jacob?\n\nWitness: No, she did not.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Your own wife never confided in you?\n\nWitness: She did not feel that she could. Not about this. We'd talked about the Rifkin case, of course. I think she knew there were some things I just could not discuss; there were some places I just could not go. Those things she would just have to handle by herself.\n\nMr. Logiudice: So after two weeks in Jamaica?\n\nWitness: We came home.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And when you got home, at that point did Laurie finally voice her suspicions about Jacob?\n\nWitness: Not really.\n\nMr. Logiudice: \"Not really\"\u2014what does that mean?\n\nWitness: When we got home from Jamaica, Laurie was very, very quiet. She wouldn't discuss anything at all with me, really. She was very wary, very upset. She was scared. I tried to talk to her, draw her out, but she didn't trust me, I think.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Did she ever discuss what you two ought to do, morally, as parents?\n\nWitness: No.\n\nMr. Logiudice: If she had asked you, what would you have said? What do you think your moral obligation was as parents of a murderer?\n\nWitness: It's a hypothetical question. I don't believe we were parents of a murderer.\n\nMr. Logiudice: All right, hypothetically then: If Jacob was guilty, what should you and your wife have done about it?\n\nWitness: You can ask the question as many ways as you like, Neal. I won't answer it. It never happened.\n\nWhat happened then I can honestly say was the most genuine, spontaneous reaction I ever saw out of Neal Logiudice. He flung his yellow pad in frustration. It fluttered like a shotgunned bird tumbling out of the sky, settling in the far corner of the room.\n\nAn older woman on the grand jury gasped.\n\nI thought for a moment it was one of Logiudice's phony gestures\u2014a cue to the jury: _Can't you see he's lying?_ \u2014the better because it would not show up in the transcript. But Logiudice just stood there, hands on hips, looking at his shoes, faintly shaking his head.\n\nAfter a moment he collected himself. He folded his arms and took a deep breath. _Back to it. Lure, trap, fuck_.\n\nHe raised his eyes to me and saw\u2014what? A criminal? A victim? In any event, a disappointment. I rather doubt he had the sense to see the truth: that there are wounds worse than fatal, which the law's little binary distinctions\u2014guilty/innocent, criminal/victim\u2014cannot fathom, let alone fix. The law is a hammer, not a scalpel.\n\nMr. Logiudice: You understand this grand jury is investigating your wife, Laurie Barber?\n\nWitness: Of course.\n\nMr. Logiudice: We've been here all day talking about her, about why she did this.\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: I don't give a damn about Jacob.\n\nWitness: If you say so.\n\nMr. Logiudice: And you know that you're not under any suspicion, of anything at all?\n\nWitness: If you say so.\n\nMr. Logiudice: But you are under oath. I don't need to remind you of that?\n\nWitness: Yes, I know the rules, Neal.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What your wife did, Andy\u2014I don't understand why you won't help us. This was your family.\n\nWitness: Pose a question, Neal. Don't make speeches.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What Laurie did\u2014doesn't it bother y\u2014\n\nWitness: Objection! Pose a proper question!\n\nMr. Logiudice: She should be indicted!\n\nWitness: Next question.\n\nMr. Logiudice: She should be indicted and brought to trial and locked up, and you know it!\n\nWitness: Next question!\n\nMr. Logiudice: On the date of offense, March 19, 2008, did you receive news about the defendant, Laurie Barber?\n\nWitness: Yes.\n\nMr. Logiudice: How?\n\nWitness: Around nine A.M. the doorbell rang. It was Paul Duffy.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What did Lieutenant Duffy say?\n\nWitness: He asked if he could come inside and sit down. He said he had terrible news. I told him, Just say it, whatever it was, just tell me right there at the door. He said there'd been an accident. Laurie and Jacob were in the car, on the pike, and it went off the road. He said Jacob was dead. Laurie was banged up pretty bad but she would make it.\n\nMr. Logiudice: Go on.\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: What happened next, Mr. Barber?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: Andy?\n\nWitness: I, um\u2014I felt my knees begin to buckle, I started to fall straight down. Paul reached out to grab me. He held me up. He helped me into the living room to a chair.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What else did he tell you?\n\nWitness: He said\u2014\n\nMr. Logiudice: Do you need to take a break?\n\nWitness: No. Sorry. I'm all right.\n\nMr. Logiudice: What else did Lieutenant Duffy tell you?\n\nWitness: He said there were no other cars involved. There were witnesses, other drivers, who saw the car aim directly at a bridge abutment. She did not put on the brakes or try to steer away from it. The witnesses said she accelerated as she headed for the collision. She actually accelerated. The witnesses thought the driver must have passed out or had a heart attack or something.\n\nMr. Logiudice: It was murder, Andy. She murdered your son.\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: This grand jury wants to indict her. Look at them. They want to do the right thing. We all do. But you have to help us. You have to tell us the truth. What happened to your son?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: What happened to Jacob?\n\n[The witness did not respond.]\n\nMr. Logiudice: This can still come out right, Andy.\n\nWitness: Can it?\n\nOutside the courthouse, a hard wind jetted down Thorndike Street. Another architectural flaw: the high, flat walls on all four sides created a tornado wind around the base of the building. On a raw April evening like this, with the wind swirling around it, the courthouse could be hard even to reach. There might as well have been a moat around it. I pulled my coat around me and made my way down Thorndike toward the garage with the wind jostling my back. It was the last time I was ever in that courthouse. I leaned back against the wind like a man holding a door closed.\n\nOf course, some things are impossible to put behind you. I have imagined those last moments over and over. I relive the last few seconds of Jacob's life every day, and when I sleep I dream of it. It does not matter that I was not there. I cannot keep my mind from seeing it.\n\nWith less than one minute remaining in his life, Jacob lolled in the middle row of the minivan with his long legs stretched out in front of him. He always sat in the second row, like a little kid, even when he and his mom were the only ones in the car. He was not wearing his seat belt. He was often careless about it. Ordinarily Laurie would have hassled him to put it on. That morning she did not.\n\nJacob and Laurie had not spoken much during the ride. There was not much to say. Jacob's mom had been quiet and saturnine since we had come back from Jamaica a few weeks earlier. He was smart enough to give her some space. Deep down, he must have known he had lost his mother\u2014lost her trust, not her love. It was hard for them to be together. So, after exchanging a few labored words as they drove up Route 128, they both fell silent once they reached the turnpike, heading west off the ramp. The minivan merged into traffic and picked up speed, and mother and son settled in for the long dull ride.\n\nThere was another reason for Jacob's silence. He was going to an interview at a private school in Natick. We did not think any school would admit him, honestly. What school would risk the legal liability, even if it was willing to brave the notoriety of having bloody Jacob Barber on campus? We expected Jacob would be homeschooled for the rest of his high school years. But we had been instructed that the town would not cover the costs of homeschooling under a special-ed plan unless we had exhausted all other options, so a few perfunctory interviews had been arranged. The whole process was difficult for Jacob\u2014he had to prove he was not wanted by being rejected over and over\u2014and this morning the need for another pointless interview made him sullen. The schools granted him interviews, he thought, just to get a glimpse of him, to see what the monster looked like up close.\n\nHe asked his mom to turn on the radio. She put on WBUR, the NPR news station, but turned it off quickly. It was painful to be reminded that the great world continued to turn, unnoticing.\n\nAfter a few minutes on the highway, there were tears on Laurie's face. She clenched the wheel.\n\nJacob did not notice. He was lost in his own thoughts. His eyes were fixed on the view ahead of him, between the two front seats. Through the windshield: the crowd of cars speeding in formation down the track.\n\nLaurie signaled and moved into the right lane, where the traffic was sparse, and she began to pick up speed, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80. She unclipped her seat belt and handed it back over her left shoulder.\n\nJacob would have grown, of course. In a couple of years his voice would have deepened. There would have been new friends. In his twenties he would have looked more and more like his father. His dark stare would have relaxed, with time, into a gentler expression as he set down the worries and sorrows of adolescence. His rawboned frame would have filled out. He would not have been as big as his hulking father, just a little taller, a little broader in the shoulders than most. He would have considered law school. All kids imagine themselves in their parents' occupations, however briefly, however uncomfortably. But he would not have become a lawyer. He would have considered the work too extroverted, too theatrical, too pedantic for his reticent personality. He would have spent a long time searching, a long time laboring in jobs that did not suit him.\n\nAs the minivan crossed 85 miles per hour, Jacob said, without any real concern, \"Going a little fast there, aren't you, Mom?\"\n\n\"Am I?\"\n\nHe would have met his grandfather. He was curious already. And given his own legal problems, he would have wanted to confront the whole issue of his patrimony, of what it meant to be the grandson of Bloody Billy Barber. He would have gone to meet the man and been disappointed. The legend\u2014the nickname, the fearsome reputation, the murder that was literally unspeakable to so many\u2014was much bigger than the withered old man behind it, who in the end was just a thug, albeit a well-bred thug. Jacob would have come to terms with it somehow. He would not have done it the way I did, by erasing it, ignoring it, willing it away. He was too thoughtful to fool himself that way. But he would have made his peace with it. He would have passed from son to father, and only then would he have seen how little the whole thing really meant.\n\nLater, after some wandering, he would have settled somewhere far away, somewhere no one had ever heard of the Barbers, or at least where no one knew enough about the story to bother with it. Somewhere out west, I think. Bisbee, Arizona, maybe. Or California. Who knows? And in one of those places, one day he would have held his own son in his arms and looked down into that baby's eyes\u2014as I did with Jacob many times\u2014and wondered, _Who are you? What are you thinking?_\n\n\"Are you all right, Mom?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"What are you doing? This is dangerous.\"\n\n88, 89, 90. The minivan, a Honda Odyssey, was actually quite heavy\u2014not mini at all, its name notwithstanding\u2014and had a powerful engine. It was easy to speed. It felt very stable at high speeds. Driving it, I was often surprised to glance down at the speedometer and discover I was doing 80 or 85 miles an hour. But above 90, it began to shudder a little and the wheels began to lose contact with the road.\n\n\"Mom?\"\n\n\"I love you, Jacob.\"\n\nJacob pressed himself back against his seat. His hands scrabbled for the seat belt but it was already too late. There were only a few seconds left. He still did not understand what was going on. His mind grasped at explanations for the speed, for Mom's bizarre calm: a jammed accelerator, a rush to avoid being late for the interview, or maybe her attention had just wandered.\n\n\"I love you and your father both.\"\n\nThe minivan began to slip into the breakdown lane on the right side of the road, first the right wheels stepping over the line, then the left\u2014only seconds remaining now\u2014and continued to pick up speed as the road went down a little hill, assisting the engine, which was beginning to top out as the vehicle hit 96, 97, 98.\n\n\"Mom! Stop!\"\n\nShe launched the minivan directly at a bridge abutment. It was a molded-concrete wall built into the side of a hill. The abutment was guarded by a Jersey barrier, which ought to have guided the minivan away from a direct impact. But the vehicle was going too fast and the angle of approach was too direct, so that when Laurie edged into it the Jersey barrier lifted the right-side wheels, causing the vehicle to skitter up the wall and, disastrously, to flip. Laurie lost control of the car immediately but she never let go of the steering wheel. The van scraped and skidded up the Jersey barrier and vaulted off the top of it, its momentum catapulting it up into the air as it rolled three-quarters of the way to upside down, like a ship capsizing to its port side.\n\nWith the minivan in the air, rolling counterclockwise, the engine racing, Laurie screaming\u2014a fraction of a second, that's all\u2014Jacob would have thought of me\u2014who had held him, my own baby, looked down into _his_ eyes\u2014and he would have understood I loved him, no matter what, to the very end\u2014as he saw the concrete wall flying forward to meet him.\n\n#\n\nBY WILLIAM LANDAY\n\n_Mission Flats_\n\n_The Strangler_\n\n# **About the Author**\n\nWILLIAM LANDAY is the author of two other novels: _Mission Flats_ , which won the Dagger Award for best debut crime novel, and _The Strangler_ , which was nominated for the Strand Magazine Critics Award for best crime novel of the year. He lives in Boston.\n\nwww.williamlanday.com\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Susan Kiernan-Lewis - Irish End Game 02 - Going Gone [retail]"}, "text": " \n# Going Gone\n\n### Book 2 of the Irish End Games\n\n## Susan Kiernan-Lewis\n\n#### San Marco Press\n\n### Contents\n\nSummary\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\nChapter 12\n\nChapter 13\n\nChapter 14\n\nChapter 15\n\nChapter 16\n\nChapter 17\n\nChapter 18\n\nChapter 19\n\nChapter 20\n\nChapter 21\n\nChapter 22\n\nChapter 23\n\nChapter 24\n\nChapter 25\n\nChapter 26\n\nChapter 27\n\nChapter 28\n\nChapter 29\n\nChapter 30\n\nChapter 31\n\nChapter 32\n\nChapter 33\n\nChapter 34\n\nChapter 35\n\nChapter 36\n\nAbout the Author\n**Going Gone**\n\n**Book 2 of the Irish End Games**\n\n* * *\n\n**Susan Kiernan-Lewis**\n\n* * *\n\nSan Marco Press\n\n* * *\n\nCopyright 2013 by Susan Kiernan-Lewis. All rights reserved.\n\n* * *\n\nThe adventure continues when tragedy strikes the family of three displaced Americans in Ireland. Sarah Woodson is brutally taken across the Irish Sea to the pastoral beauty of England's Cotswolds and discovers the horrors of a post-apocalyptic sex slave trade.\n\n* * *\n\nDetermined to escape her captors\u2014including a monster who's vowed never to let her leave England alive\u2014and to survive the impossible journey of a thousand miles through the harsh Welsh wilderness, Sarah uses every resource she has to find her way home again. _Going Gone_ is an tale of heart-stopping proportion showing the resiliency of the human spirit and the unfathomable depths of a mother's love.\n\n# 1\n\nMike Donovan looked up from the drawings in front of him on the makeshift wooden desk, his reading glasses perched on his long, very un-Irish nose. His sister, Fiona, stood in the opening of the lean-to, an empty cook pot resting on one hip, watching him. He sighed and removed his glasses, tossing them down on the desk.\n\n\"We've got a problem,\" she said, pursing her lips as if she'd just tasted a lemon.\n\n\"Whatever it is, Fi,\" he said, \"couldn't you have softened the blow with a cuppa?\"\n\n\"It's Gavin,\" Fi said, jerking her head to indicate the direction of Mike's son. \"And young John.\"\n\nHe looked up with interest. \"John?\" he said, frowning. \"What trouble has Gavin gotten the boy into now?\"\n\nGavin was a good lad, and immensely helpful as an extra hand, but he lacked the judgment that would enable any sane body to call him mature. The fact that he had taken Sarah's boy, John, under his wing as the little brother he never had was rarely to anyone's benefit.\n\n\"Their roughhousing knocked the chicken stew in the dirt. It's only fit for the hogs now.\"\n\n\"None of it could be saved?\" Mike stood up. Wasting food was a serious offence. Probably would have been even before The Crisis, but now it could mean the difference between life and death. And there were none of them that didn't know that to the very marrow of their bones. \"Where are they?\"\n\n\"Waiting for you. In the barn.\"\n\n\"Shite.\" Mike stood to his full height then ducked to avoid hitting the short lean-to's ceiling. His hand rested on the belt around his waist.\n\n\"You'll not beat them?\" Fiona asked. She stepped out of his way, as if half expecting him to bowl her over in his eagerness to reprimand the boys.\n\n\"Gavin's too old,\" he said tiredly. He glanced at his sister, whose eyes snapped with irritation over the ruined stew.\n\n\"And little John?\" she said. She stared him down, challenging him. He knew what she was thinking. Sarah's boy. You wouldn't dare.\n\n\"Tell Gavin to take the night watch on the south pasture,\" he said. He knew he had to send him mounted. No sense in sending the daft bugger on foot\u2014although Mike was sorely tempted to do it\u2014in case he needed to sound the alarm. \"But he's wasted enough food for one day. He can do it on an empty stomach.\"\n\n\"And John?\" Fiona repeated, more gently this time.\n\n\"He knows what's coming,\" Mike said gruffly. \"Tell Gavin to go. I'll be on my way directly.\" He could see his answer satisfied her, which annoyed him. \"And maybe you can find something in the way of replacing the meal we'll be needing in a few hours?\" he added acerbically.\n\nShe nodded and hurried off toward the barn.\n\nShite. Mike took a moment to look over the edge of the camp to where David and Sarah's cottage sat. He hated that they refused to join the community. But they let John come as much as they could spare him. And they knew the rules as well as he did. Even so, he didn't relish telling the American soccer mom, who only countenanced \"time-outs\" and lengthy written exercises as punishments, that he was about to beat the pants off her boy with a leather belt.\n\nDavid and Sarah arrived at Donovan's community late in the afternoon. A skinned rabbit was carefully wrapped and stashed in a hamper sitting on Sarah's knee. Every time Sarah came to the camp she was surprised at how much had been built to make it the little bustling community that it was.\n\nThe first person she saw was Fiona Donovan. \"Hey, Fi,\" Sarah said, hopping down from the cart. \"Brought ya a bunny for your crock pot.\"\n\n\"Sure, I'll never understand your American humor,\" Fiona said, taking the meat from her and giving her a hug.\n\n\"John in shouting distance?\" Sarah asked, looking around the settlement. A large campfire anchored the middle of the camp, with recently constructed huts, tents and bedrolls fanning out around it.\n\n\"Oh, he's around here somewhere,\" Fiona said. \"Good afternoon to you, David,\" she said, as David jumped down from the cart seat. \"You'll be wanting to put the animals up in the barn. Just leave the cart where it is.\"\n\nDavid unharnessed the pony and led him away from the center of camp. Fiona and Sarah walked over to the large black pot hanging from a hook over the fire ringed in stones.\n\n\"Mmm-mm. Smells good.\" Sarah peered in the pot.\n\n\"If you lived here,\" Fiona said, leaning over to pick up a steaming kettle of water, \"you'd eat with us every night.\"\n\n\"We're doing fine over there.\"\n\n\"Who said you weren't?\" Fiona said, pouring boiling water into a large, chipped teapot. \"It's not just about protection or getting enough to eat. It's about fellowship, Sarah.\"\n\n\"I know, and I agree with you.\" Sarah continued to crane her neck, searching.\n\nFiona handed her a cup of tea.\n\n\"Hey, Mom. Looking for me?\"\n\nSarah turned to see John who had materialized at her elbow. She had recently learned not to hug him\u2014at least not in public. Her smile dissolved when she looked more closely at him. \"John, what happened to you?\" She reached out to him.\n\n\"Nothing happened to me,\" he said, pulling away from her grasp. \"Stop it.\"\n\nHis eyes were red and his face tear-streaked. Sarah knew it took a lot to get tears from her boy. She looked at Fiona and was rewarded with a hasty glance away. \"What happened, Fi?\"\n\n\"Nothing, Mom,\" John said. \"Why can't you leave it alone?\" He turned on his heel and bolted away from her.\n\nSarah watched him go, her mouth open, then turned back to her friend. \"You're not going to tell me?\"\n\n\"Not if the lad doesn't want me to. Drink your tea.\"\n\nSarah turned in the direction John had gone and forced herself to let it go. He was all in one piece. That was the main thing. Whatever had happened, he didn't want to share it with her. She had to admit that had started to happen more and more. On top of everything else, she thought miserably, I'm losing my little boy, too.\n\nShe sipped her tea, letting the heat slip down her throat and soothe her. A young woman approached and spooned up a bowl of soup. Sarah couldn't help notice how outlandish the woman, Caitlin's, outfit was. Dressed in skintight leggings with a low-cut top, she looked like she was dressed for a night of clubbing, not eating stew by a campfire. The girl made a dramatic show of looking at Sarah from head to toe before sneering and turning away.\n\n\"What the heck is her problem?\"\n\nFiona sighed. \"Well, Caitlin is a special case, there's no mistake. But still, you can't be too surprised not to have people waving flags when you show up, what with you so standoffish and all.\"\n\n\"Standoffish? Are you serious?\"\n\n\"Sarah, we've talked about this before. You and your setting up in Deidre and Seamus's old cottage far outside our walls\u2014\"\n\n\"First, Fiona, you don't have walls, and second, you know we took their cottage because it's hidden from the road. We're safer there.\"\n\n\"There's nothing safer than numbers,\" a voice boomed out, making Sarah spill her tea on her jeans. Mike Donovan definitely had a big way about him, not the least of which was his voice. Using it now, while he was still a good twenty yards away, her first thought was incredulity that he had heard enough of their conversation to enter into it.\n\n\"Hey, Mike,\" she said. \"Still banging on that drum, are you?\"\n\n\"Sure, and I'll be banging on it until you and David come to your senses and move out of the McClenny place and over here with us.\"\n\nMike squatted down next to the two women and Sarah couldn't help but think it wasn't an easy feat with his long legs. \"You doing alright, Sarah?\" His eyes pierced hers in anything but a casual inquiry and his directness made Sarah catch her breath.\n\n\"We're doing good, Mike,\" she said, smiling at him. \"We're hanging in there.\"\n\nThe look he gave her said that was not the question he had asked. Before she had the chance to divert him along safer lines, a commotion behind him in the direction of the stables did it for her. She looked past him to see David and John walking quickly toward them. John was trying to talk to David and was running along beside him. David was walking, his chin high and confrontational, his fists clenched at his sides.\n\n\"I want a word with you, Donovan,\" he said abruptly as he approached the group.\n\nMike stood up slowly and turned to face him. Sarah saw him rest his hands on his hips in a gesture of calm and insouciance. She stood up too.\n\n\"Woodson,\" Mike said calmly.\n\n\"It's none of your business,\" John said hotly to his father. \"It's my business and I've taken care of it.\"\n\nDavid ignored him, his eyes drilling into Mike Donovan. \"Some of the guys at the stable mentioned to me that you beat my son today?\"\n\nSarah gasped and couldn't help looking at Mike and then John.\n\n\"It's none of your business!\" John said, jerking his father by the sleeve to get his attention. \"I screwed up.\"\n\n\"I asked you a question, Donovan,\" David said, clenching and unclenching his fists.\n\n\"That's right,\" Mike said. \"John knows the rules. He broke 'em. He was punished for it.\"\n\n\"You...you struck him?\" Sarah asked, looking at John with the streaks of dirty tears down his face.\n\nMike turned to her. \"I gave him a hiding, same as I'd do to anyone if through horseplay and uncaring they deprived the community out of hard-earned food.\" He turned back to David. \"You think this is a game, Woodson? You think we're camping out here? This is life and death, man.\"\n\n\"You arrogant bastard,\" David said. \"You got your own private dictatorship here, don't you? Donovan's Kingdom.\"\n\n\"No, Dad,\" John said walking over to Mike and standing in front of him. \"It's not like that. I was wrong. It's the rule. We gotta have rules. Especially now.\"\n\nSarah gritted her teeth and took a long breath to keep control of her emotions, but she saw David lose his own as his face contorted into a mask of fury and intent.\n\nJust when she knew he was about to launch himself at Mike, the earth rumbled beneath their feet and a roar of thunderous noise bombarded the camp, building to an excruciating pitch until the noise obliterated everything.\n\n# 2\n\nFrom the pieces of knapsack and useless bits of metal trinkets found embedded in the surrounding oak trees, they guessed he had been a peddler.\n\nThe sound of the explosion had sent half the camp running toward the south entrance. Mothers ran screaming the names of their children, the unbearable sounds of terror ratcheting higher with every step.\n\nMike reached the area with the first wave of the panicked. He stepped carefully into the brand new clearing, which was smoking and foul smelling. \"Head count!\" he shouted, looking around with a pounding heart. It wasn't one of their watch sites\u2014in fact, everyone knew it was strictly off-limits\u2014but that didn't mean it wasn't a place a bored child wouldn't wander off to. He listened to the voices, some tremulous and tearful, others angry, as they reeled off their names in the order that had been decided. Each head of household called out his surname and the phrase \"all accounted for\" to indicate the whereabouts of each member of his family was known.\n\nWhen Donovan announced his own name, with only Gavin to account for, the thought came to him, like a deadly asp slithering into his sleeping bag, that he did not know where his son was.\n\nThe Woodsons were at his elbow within minutes. Not formally a part of the group, they remained silent as they surveyed the damage. \"Who set it off?\" Sarah asked.\n\nDonovan held up a hand to her, demanding silence as he listened to the members of his group call out their names to assure him that their community remained intact.\n\nAs he listened, his eyes scanned the trees and the smoking hole before him where the landmine had been triggered, and he registered that the birds had stopped singing, the camp dogs had stopped barking.\n\n_Death has a habit of stalling everything about normal daily life_ , he thought bitterly.\n\n\"Da? You okay over there?\"\n\nHe gave a shuddering sigh at the sound of his son's voice, calling to him from across the camp. He glanced up and nodded at Gavin.\n\nBy this time, the crowd had stopped calling out their names and were, instead, jostling babies, pulling children back from the lip of the smoking pit, and kicking at the rim and surrounding area with boot toes and sticks.\n\nOne woman's shrill voice pierced the din of noise above the others. \"God have mercy, Mike, are there any more here?\"\n\nDonovan turned to look at David, who stood grimly by his side. David shook his head, refusing to look at him.\n\n\"No, Maeve,\" Mike called to the woman. \"Just the usual areas. You all know them.\"\n\n\"Well, what made it go off, then?\" another man called out. \"Were we being attacked, or should we be looking to pick pieces of raw mutton off the trees?\"\n\nMike noted the angry voice, soon joined by others, and he resisted the urge to look at David\u2014the man responsible for the smoking hole and the slowly building hysteria in his community.\n\n\"Go back to camp,\" he said tiredly, trying to sound commanding. \"I'll investigate and make a full report at dinner.\" He turned to David who, maddeningly, didn't seem to feel any responsibility for what had happened. If anything, he looked as if he had a mind to resume the fight with Mike over John's whipping. Steeling himself to stay calm, Mike glanced at Sarah. \"Take John back to camp,\" he said. When she hesitated, looking instead to David, Mike added an edge to his voice. \" _Now_ ,\" he said. Without a word, she grabbed her son's hand and tugged him away from the two men.\n\nMike stood with his hands on his hips looking at the destruction. \"I want the rest of the landmines dismantled,\" he said icily. \"If you want to bury them in front of your own cottage, you're welcome to.\"\n\n\"That's not what your group said three months ago when I found these mines stacked in an abandoned army depot in Glyncannon. Three months ago, your people begged me to plant them on your perimeter.\"\n\n\"Three months ago we were bulldozed by your paranoia.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure anyone would believe _you_ were bulldozed, Donovan. Fact is, you were outvoted. Your group wanted the security. Just because some wandering tinker crept up on the camp and got himself blown up doesn't mean the mines aren't still a good idea.\"\n\n\"Just get rid of them.\"\n\n\"We haven't had an incident in three months and now you think you're living in Brigadoon?\" David looked at him with disgust. \"How do you know this guy wasn't the advance guard of an attack? How do you know the landmine didn't send the message to his gang that we aren't ripe for the picking?\"\n\nDonovan strode over to a nearby ash tree and pried out a metal button with flowers stamped on it. He came back to Woodson and threw it at him, watching it ping off the man's chest. \"This guy was a peddler,\" he said heatedly. \"He wasn't the _advance man_ on anything except maybe in his plan to trade a few buttons for a hot meal tonight.\"\n\nDavid shrugged. \"For all you know.\"\n\n\"Yeah, for all I know. But I'm in charge so get rid of them.\" He turned to look at the smoking hole again. \"It makes me sick to think I let you talk me into them in the first place.\"\n\n\"Maybe you were more concerned about protection a few months back.\"\n\n\"We have security measures.\"\n\n\"A few pits with sharpened stakes in them? A couple of tree snares? Three teenage boys rotating watch on the perimeter?\" David jabbed a finger in the direction of the hole. \" _This_ is the only thing that protects you at the end of the day. Telling everyone under no uncertain terms that you'll kill first and ask questions later. _This_ is what keeps the murdering thieves and opportunists moving past your place to the next poor sod.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Donovan muttered. \"But right now we just killed the next poor sod and I'm not convinced the price was worth it. Dig up the other two. _Today_.\" He turned on his heel and left Woodson standing alone in the glade, the chirping of the birds in the trees once more resuming.\n\n* * *\n\nJohn and Sarah trudged away from the explosion site. They felt the hostile stares and grumblings as they walked. It was clear whom the camp was blaming for the disturbance.\n\n\"Mr. Donovan's gonna make Dad dismantle the other bombs,\" John said, swinging up to sit in the driver's seat. \"He thinks they're dangerous.\"\n\n\"They _are_ dangerous,\" Sarah said, watching the opening to the grove where Mike and her husband still conferred, hidden from view. \"But necessary. Like having a loaded weapon. Very dangerous, but thank God for it when you need it.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Dad says you can always accomplish more with a kind word and a rifle than you can with just a kind word.\"\n\n\"How very Irish-sounding of him.\" Sarah smiled, trying to lighten the mood.\n\n\"Who do you think got blown up?\" John asked, looking at his hands.\n\nSarah felt her heart clutch. Lately the child was always so sure of himself, it surprised her when he reverted back to being the young boy he really was. \"I don't know, angel,\" she said. \"Some poor soul, I suppose.\" She reached out to take his hand. \"This world we live in isn't like Jacksonville during a hurricane warning or something. There are treacherous people out there...\" She turned to wave to the countryside beyond the borders of the little camp. \"It's a lawless time right now. Until we can get everything back up.\"\n\n\"I know, Mom, but doesn't that make us lawless too? I mean, hiding bombs for innocent people to walk on?\"\n\n\"John, I know this sounds harsh, and I don't want to scare you, but you don't know when the bad people will come. You have to be ready.\"\n\n\"Fiona says we're like isolationists or something,\" John mumbled.\n\nSarah realized that the time John spent in the community away from his family was having an effect on him. He was pulling away from her and David.\n\n\"Fiona said that?\"\n\n\"Don't be mad at her, Mom. She's just saying what a lot of people are saying, only nicer.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Sarah turned away from him as she caught a glimpse of Mike striding back into the camp without David. \"People blame us for what happened.\"\n\n\"Well, it _is_ our fault. Being Americans and all.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Sarah patted his knee. \"Chill here for a bit, John? I need to go have a word with Mr. Donovan.\"\n\n* * *\n\nMike saw her heading his way and knew he should've expected it. She wasn't used to being ordered about, least ways by him. Come to that, he wasn't used to doing it. It surprised him how easy it came and, truth be told, that he'd enjoyed doing it. No, safety in numbers or not, he had to admit there was some benefit to having her live out of reach.\n\n\"Mike, hold up, please,\" she said as she ran to catch up with him.\n\n\"Sarah,\" he said, not breaking his stride.\n\n\"Are you having David dig up the other landmines?\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Do you think that's wise?\"\n\n\"Why else would I be doing it?\"\n\nShe grabbed him by the sleeve and forced him to stop. \"There are threats everywhere, Mike.\"\n\n\"So you say.\"\n\n\"How can you possibly doubt it? After what happened last year? After what nearly happened to Gavin? To...to me?\"\n\nMike looked down into her face and remembered the fear and desperation of those bad days. He remembered her agony when she thought she had lost her son and her husband, and he knew why she couldn't feel safe. He lifted a hand and touched her shoulder.\n\n\"We can't live in anticipation of the worst happening,\" he said gently.\n\nShe watched his eyes, as if he would say more. As if that argument wasn't just too obviously weak to stand on its own.\n\n\"That's exactly what we have to live in anticipation of,\" she said finally. \"All the time. Or risk being caught off guard. That's what these new times require, Mike.\"\n\nHe dropped his hand, like it had become too heavy for him to lift. \"Not here, they don't,\" he said, and left her where she stood by the center cook fire.\n\n* * *\n\nCaitlin stood in the veiled opening of her tent and watched as Mike put his hand on the American's shoulder. She saw his glance, just for the barest of moments, leave the woman's eyes as she spoke and drop to her mouth. Fury pulsed through her like a tidal wave surging over a seawall.\n\nCaitlin knew he fancied the Yank. Everyone in camp who wasn't either blind or half-witted knew it. That he could be so bold with her\u2014and her with her own husband not twenty yards away!\u2014made Caitlin want to rip his ruddy, handsome face with her fingernails. Though she'd yet to catch them, she was sure the two were already rutting: _they must be! And catch them I will, of that you can be certain_ , she thought, squatting and stabbing the ground with the broken fork she'd been holding in her hands.\n\nShe definitely bloody _would_.\n\n# 3\n\nIn the months and years to come, Sarah would always remember that crisp, bright fall day as one of the prettiest she'd ever experienced since coming to Ireland. The memory would do little to console her during the terrible days ahead.\n\nShe and David and John had left the camp as dusk fell. David refused to stay\u2014and no one begged them to change their minds. In the back of the little pony cart sat the two rusting landmines David had removed from the perimeter of the camp. He'd intended to replant them around their own cottage, but had to admit they didn't look functional anymore\u2014if they ever had been. Mike insisted he take them away, and so they rattled and jostled in the back of the pony trap until he could dump them at the edge of the little pond on the outskirts of Deirdre and Seamus's property. In the morning, he would row out to the middle of the pond and drop them in.\n\nJohn had been silent on the ride back to their cottage. Sarah knew he wanted to be with his parents, but that he was torn. She made it easy on him by insisting he come home with them. She offered an early release to him by allowing him to return the next day after breakfast if his chores were done.\n\nAfter leaving the undetonated bombs by the pond, they'd trudged home, tired and hungry in the dark. Sarah knew they had been viewed as bad mannered and foolish to leave after dark, but there wasn't anything for it.\n\nThey were no longer welcome in Donovan's Lot.\n\nDavid drove the cart to the front of the cottage, where Sarah and John hopped out. Someone had tossed the dead rabbit into the back of the cart\u2014dramatic proof in these hungry times of how reviled they had become. She ushered her tired boy into the house while David led the ponies to the barn, where he would untack and feed them.\n\nAfter a quick swipe with a soapy washcloth, she bundled John off to bed. There was enough light by the full moon, so she didn't bother wasting precious oil by lighting the lamps. She lit one candle and set it by the bedside and waited for David. She heard him come in and wash up briefly before coming into the bedroom and sagging onto the bed. It had been a demoralizing, sapping day for all of them. As bold and sure as David sounded when arguing with Mike\u2014or even the whole camp, as it had felt when so many people approached them later with recriminations for their part in the peddler's death, indeed the origin of The Crisis, itself\u2014Sarah knew he had doubts.\n\n_It's true_ , she thought, tiredly. _If they want to lay the blame for this at the Americans' feet, they're probably right._ While the few facts they had about why all the electronics failed and all the cars refused to move seem to point in the direction of a retaliation attempt against the Americans for something that happened in the Middle East, it was still hard for a middle class family of three to carry the can for a whole nation in the face of such righteous anger.\n\n_When you're the head dog, the other dogs in the harness\u2014so-called friends or not\u2014are not going to soon forget the poor scenery they suffered through along the way._ It didn't matter that Ireland and the US were friends (or at least they used to be.) It didn't matter how many people in the US were Irish-descendants. In the end, it only mattered that the US had been the target that allowed its closest friends (at least those friends standing too close) to take the hit for them.\n\nAnd David and Sarah were the face of that now-hated target.\n\n\"Pretty crappy day,\" David said, as he sought a comfortable position in the bed. \"John okay?\"\n\n\"He's fine,\" Sarah said, feeling the weariness of the day sink into her bones with the realization that she never got her dinner. \"Did you eat?\"\n\nDavid gave a half-laugh that relayed no mirth.\n\n\"Oh!\" she said, suddenly. \"I forgot all about the cart tracks you found. In all the excitement, they never had the council meeting. Did you get a chance to tell Mike what you saw?\"\n\nDavid snorted with disgust. \"He was too focused on me getting the mines dug up. I'm sure he'd just tell me a few cart tracks and cigarette butts were nothing to worry about. The man's living in a dream world.\"\n\nSarah put a hand on his shoulder. \"We need to mend our fences with the community, David. They're all we have. We can't cut ties with them. We need them.\"\n\n\"For what? In what possible way do we need them?\" David wrenched the covers over his shoulders and turned from her. She knew the questions weren't an invitation to conversation. It was just as well. She was so tired as it was she could have wept.\n\nThe next morning crept up on them. Accustomed to the mornings being cold and wet during this time of year, David and Sarah had gotten in the habit of rising late and allowing the fog and mist to burn off before starting their chores. Sarah would get the cook stove going for their morning tea, and if there was any food in the house she would cobble together a kind of breakfast.\n\nMost mornings she would make dough in hopes that she'd have bread to serve for dinner. Her inexperience combined with the continual dampness in the air usually prevented the dough from rising, resulting in an unsatisfyingly unleavened and very dense bread that nobody enjoyed, but all ate.\n\nJohn's chores involved keeping the firewood box in the kitchen full of kindling\u2014for which he didn't have to use a hatchet or an axe to Sarah's relief\u2014and to feed the animals\u2014the two ponies, the dog, the lone goat and the flock of chickens that essentially sustained them when the summer garden's harvest ran out.\n\nSarah noticed that the box was full of kindling but they were running low on firewood. She stood in the kitchen door that opened up to the back pasture, where she saw David already chopping wood. He looked intense, single-minded and determined. A wave of sadness passed through her as she watched him. He'd had such a different life \"back home\" as senior partner at a mid-size accounting firm.\n\nShe watched him attack the wood stump, his arms rippling with the muscles he'd created through their new life, and wondered what he thought of these days. Did he still worry out knotty accounting problems as he toiled and physically labored? Did he miss beyond endurance his corporate world? No wonder he let Mike get to him. Sarah couldn't help glancing in the direction of the community. Mike's plantation was real, his rule unassailable and tangible. His authority unimpeachable.\n\n_No wonder David flinched under his influence. Back in his world, Mike Donovan would be cutting David's lawn for him._\n\nSarah squinted against the horizon to catch a glimpse of John. She could tell by where the sun was that it wasn't early, though still well before eight in the morning. She glanced again at the box full of kindling. It was very possible the boy had rushed through his chores before his parents were even out of bed, saddled his pony and left for Donovan's camp. He was drawn to the man\u2014and his tented kingdom\u2014like a boy was drawn to adventure.\n\nShe withdrew into the kitchen and began pounding the dough that, hopefully, would transform into a loaf of bread in eight short hours. As she was covering the bowl of dough with one of Deirdre's kitchen towels, she turned to see her husband standing in the doorway, his arms full of cut firewood. He was staring at her with an expression of unutterable sadness.\n\n\"David? You okay?\"\n\nHe grunted and dumped the wood into the flat basket next to the cook stove. \"I think John's already gone off.\"\n\n\"I was wondering about that. You didn't see him before he left?\"\n\nDavid didn't answer, and when Sarah looked up from tucking the bowl of dough against the wall on the kitchen counter she saw that he appeared to be examining her thoughtfully.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"You know he's in love with you,\" David said flatly.\n\nHer face must have relayed her thoughts, because he spoke before she could. \"And do us both a favor and don't say _who_?\"\n\n\"Well, I think you're imagining that,\" she said, wiping her hands on her apron and breaking eye contact with him.\n\n\"Yeah, right. How can I blame him? I just don't need to see it on a daily basis.\"\n\nShe faced him. \"Look, David, I can't say what is or isn't going on in Mike Donovan's head, but as long as it isn't in mine, what difference does it make?\"\n\n\"Yeah, right,\" he said again. \"He's already taken my son.\"\n\n\"Don't even say that! If you're talking about the...about Mike spanking John, I hate it too, but I understand it. These are different times, hard times.\"\n\n\"It takes a village?\" David said sarcastically, and Sarah suddenly realized it wasn't a part of him she had ever seen much. Except lately.\n\n\"The concept of everyone having your back in a community is as old as time,\" Sarah said, wondering why he was putting her in the position of defending the community. \"Mike didn't invent it.\" She turned to pour his tea into a large earthenware mug.\n\n\"Are you making an appeal to move in with them?\"\n\n\"You know I'm not.\"\n\nShe set his tea out on the table in front of him, but he turned after a moment and walked out of the kitchen.\n\nThe rest of the day was a quiet one between them, and Sarah would have cause to remember that, too. The fog had burned off and revealed a beautiful fall day, crisp and clear, the sky a blue so vivid she wished she had watercolors to capture it. Even the sun struggled out for several hours in the afternoon and Sarah wondered what John was doing with the fine day. _Was he swimming with Gavin in the pond? Was he fishing? Was Mike showing him how to use the new hand-carved tools some of the men were making?_ She thought of Fiona and was grateful for the affection and warmth she knew she directed at John.\n\nIt was just as she was pulling the pan of baked bread from the oven and feeling the thrill of a job well done\u2014it had risen beautifully! \u2014that she heard the noise from the road that zigzagged covertly up the hill above their cottage. She set the bread on the rack on the counter and went to the kitchen window, turning back a corner of the curtain she often thought of poor Deirdre hand-sewing as a young bride. The forecourt was empty and she tried to recreate in her mind the sound she thought she had heard.\n\nSituated as it was down a twisting hill covered and camouflaged by rampant ivy and scrub brush that prevented an easy view of the little cottage tucked away at the bottom like a jewel, the idea that casual travelers or wayfarers would happen upon the cottage was not readily believable. It was half the reason she and David decided to move into it.\n\nHad she imagined the noise?\n\nHaving learned the hard way on more than one occasion the merit in taking action based on the safest course rather than a philosophy of _what were the odds?_ Sarah stepped out of view from the window and dug out the loaded Glock pistol from a kitchen drawer. She had been standing in this very cottage the day three murdering gypsy ruffians had attacked her, though then she'd been armed with only a rolling pin.\n\nShe held her breath and waited. Complete silence answered her. A stab of growing unease punctured her chest and begin to creep its way toward her throat. David had been working on the fence in the south pasture\u2014the one closest to the house. The faraway ringing sound of his hammer against the metal studs of the wooden fence could be heard from the kitchen...or should be.\n\nThere shouldn't be complete silence.\n\nIt had been many months since she had handled the gun, and she felt her nerves jump as she quickly checked the clip to make sure it was loaded. Her hands were moist and she took a moment to wipe them, one by one, on her apron. She edged over to the back door and peered out, taking care not to show herself in the window in the door.\n\nThere were four of them. Three men were standing by David at the furthest corner of the pasture fence line, his tools lying discarded at his feet. He had his hands up as if to disarm them with his vulnerability. Sarah's heart jumped when she saw him, saw them. From this distance, it was no wonder she hadn't heard them, although she could see they were conversing. When one of the men raised the butt of his rifle to David's face, he almost looked like he was pantomiming until he brought it crashing down, causing David's head to snap back before he fell against the fence.\n\nSucking in a horrified breath, Sarah flung open the kitchen door and was down the back steps and into the pasture, door banging shut behind her. She wasn't the only one who heard it. As she ran, the gun she held in both hands pointing at the group of men in front of her, the tip of it bouncing up and down, she heard only her breath coming in jagged rasps and pants. She could see David on the ground.\n\nHe wasn't moving.\n\nShe saw them turn\u2014all three of them\u2014to face her. The closer she got, she could see by their clothing that they were not Irish. They were not starving either. The man with the rifle pointed it at her and she slowed her steps to allow a steadier aim. Seamus had killed three men the last time they'd been attacked at this cottage because the blackguards hadn't thought him capable of it. She wasn't sure she was fostering the same assumption of incompetence this time.\n\nShe moved nearer to them, and caught glimpses of her husband on the ground. He was moving and groaning, thank God. She forced herself not to look at him and aimed the barrel of her Glock at the man with the rifle. She was surprised to see how normal he looked. He wore jeans and a tee shirt with running shoes. He looked like he had somehow avoided the last hard year of no food, no petrol, and fear. Unlike almost everybody else she had seen since The Crisis, he didn't look uncomfortable or needy.\n\nHe smiled at her in what looked, perversely, likely a genuinely warm greeting. \"Well, hello, hello,\" he said, his voice smooth and controlled.\n\nHe was English.\n\n\"This little plum was worth stopping for, eh, boys? Fine round arse on her. Won't Denny love trying _her_ on for size? Are you American, then, too, luv?\" he asked as he casually swept the barrel of his rifle so that it pointed at David on the ground.\n\nSarah glanced at the other two men to satisfy her initial assessment that they were the underlings and this young man\u2014he couldn't be twenty-five\u2014was the one in control.\n\n\"All of you bugger off,\" she said breathlessly, feeling her arms start to shake from the exertion of holding the heavy gun out in front of her.\n\nThe three men erupted into laughter, truly delighted.\n\n\"Blimey! She's like Wonder-fuckin'-woman!\"\n\nThe other two men crowed loudly at their leader's humor and repeated the phrase to heightened bouts of laughter.\n\n\"David!\" she called out. Out of the corner of her eye she could see he was stirring, trying to sit up, but his face was splattered with blood. He appeared dazed and shook his head, trying to clear it. \"I mean it, You bastards better head out. I will shoot you!\"\n\n\"Nah, you won't, darlin',\" the leader of the group said, nudging David's face with the barrel of his rifle. \"I must say, I don't like people pointing guns at me. Oy, Jimmy, sit the Yank up there by the fence.\"\n\nSarah watched as the two men grabbed David by the arms and dragged him to a sitting position and propped him up by the fence. She could see he was struggling to come to his senses.\n\n_If only their positions were reversed! Should I just start shooting? The bastard was holding his gun right to David's head. Would he have time to shoot him before I\u2014_\n\n\"Oy, chickie, here's the deal,\" the leader said, grinning a smile of very white, very straight teeth. \"Give me your gun or I'll blow his fuckin' head off.\"\n\nShe could see David shaking his head. He might be trying to clear his head, he might just be addled, but she felt sure he was telling her not to give it up.\n\nThe Englishman slammed the nose of his rifle into David's temple and David groaned, but he didn't topple over.\n\n\"Give me the gun or I shoot the bastard!\" the Englishman yelled.\n\nSarah later would believe that a part of her didn't understand the words or comprehend the meaning. A part of her was only terrorized and harboring some belief that this creature would not kill her or her husband\u2014even in this terrible new world. But right at that very moment she only knew, if it meant her own death, she couldn't just let them kill the man she loved, the father to her child...her David. And so she dropped her arms\u2014her heavy, tremulous arms, with their weighty purchase\u2014and let the gun fall into the grassy dirt at her feet.\n\nShe never even heard the monster's grunt of satisfaction over the sound of the gun blast that blew the top of her husband's head off.\n\n# 4\n\nThe sounds of gunshots were unusual these days, and it didn't take long for reports of the noise to make the rounds in Donovan's small community of fifty people. He, himself, had heard the single gunshot as he was coming out of the stable, leading a horse on either side. He must have tensed, because one of the horses shied and had to be calmed. Although it was impossible to tell which direction the sound came from, instinctively he looked toward the Woodson cottage. He noticed his sister-in-law, Caitlin, standing by her tent watching him and he nodded curtly toward her in greeting. Gavin came running from across the central camp cook fire.\n\n\"Da! Did you hear that? Sounds like it came from over near the Woodsons'. Me and Danny'll check it out, eh?\"\n\nMike handed the horses off to a young teenage girl who materialized on his left. \"Take these two, Nuala,\" he said to her. \"Put 'em in the paddock for now.\"\n\n\"Not the south pasture, Mr. Donovan?\"\n\nThe girl was earnest and hardworking, Donovan knew. Pretty, too, but she didn't seem to realize it.\n\n\"Not just yet. Go on now.\" He turned to Gavin, who was standing in front of him bouncing on the balls of his feet.\n\n\"Where's young John?\" he asked.\n\nGavin pointed to the other side of the cook fire. \"Fiona's got him plucking chickens,\" he said.\n\nDonovan followed his glance and saw that John was, indeed, standing with Fiona, a pile of feathers at his feet. But he was looking in the direction of his home.\n\n\"Send him to me,\" Donovan said. \"And you go. But mind! Be sneaky about it. If there's trouble over there, I want information not grandstanding.\"\n\nGavin was off before Mike had finished speaking. He watched him grab John by the shoulder and point to Donovan before sprinting off in the direction of the house. Mike saw John struggle between the desire to follow Gavin and obey the order to come to Mike. He turned and trotted over to Donovan.\n\n\"You hear a gunshot?\" Mike asked him.\n\n\"Yes, sir. Over at our place.\"\n\n\"We don't know that. Gavin's off to check on it and I'll be needing you to stay here until we know what's going on.\"\n\n\"But, I...\" John was clearly moments from tearing out after Gavin and Mike couldn't help but think it a blessing that just the day before he'd the opportunity to impress upon the boy that he was to be obeyed at all times. If young John's backside hadn't still been smarting from his recent shellacking\u2014and Mike had no doubt that it was\u2014he might have been tempted to ignore Mike's wishes. As it was, he looked in frustration in the direction of his house.\n\n\"Go on, now,\" Mike said. \"Finish your chores. Gavin'll be back in a tick if there's anything to report.\"\n\nMike watched John trudge back to the campfire, where Fiona waited for him. She gave Mike a questioning look but he merely shrugged.\n\nThey'd find out soon enough.\n\n* * *\n\nSarah sat in the back of the wooden cart, her hands tied in front of her, a gag in her mouth, her head leaning and banging against the rough wood sides of the bouncing cart as it jostled over the once-smooth country roads. The time between David being shot and her placement in the cart felt like a sequence in a dream. She didn't remember how she got here, if she walked or was carried. She didn't remember if the men spoke to her after they'd killed David, or laughed, or just turned away from the carnage. She didn't know how long she had been sitting in the cart or how long it had been traveling down the long, bumpy road.\n\nThree women huddled with her in the bottom of the wooden cart but Sarah didn't look at them. The smell of vomit, and worse, pooled on the floor, and with her mouth bound she was forced to breathe every vile gust through her nose. One of the women, a girl it sounded like, was crying softly, almost noiselessly.\n\nThe sound began to push the image of David to the forefront of her mind and she fought to sink back into her numb state. She couldn't think of him. She couldn't remember her last vision of him. Dear God, she would go mad. She couldn't remember any of it right now. Later. She would remember it later.\n\nShe tried to tell herself, as the cart lurched down the road, that none of this was real.\n\n_How? How could it have happened?_ _The cottage was hidden from the road, was virtually invisible._\n\nAs she fought to keep the images and thoughts from overwhelming her, she looked back at the cottage from where she sat in the cart. A heavy tarp was thrown over the top, but afforded a wedge of a window to the outside world. She thought, inanely, of the lone cooling loaf of bread on the counter in her kitchen at the same moment that she saw the long telltale smoke from their chimney and her cook stove heralding the way to their sanctuary.\n\n* * *\n\nDonovan didn't believe he had ever been more exhausted in his life.\n\nIt was well past dark as he packed his saddlebags and gave out his last orders. Fiona and Gavin stood in the stables, silent as mutes, watching him secure his bedroll on the saddle.\n\n\"Why can't I come with you?\" Gavin asked the question without conviction. Donovan knew he didn't have to explain why Gavin needed to stay.\n\nFiona was another matter.\n\n\"We need you here,\" she said fiercely. \"Send someone else after her.\"\n\nDonovan tugged down the stirrups on the saddle and turned to her. \"I can't.\" He glanced at Gavin and held his arms out. The boy came into them and Gavin held him close and long. _This was something little John would never be able to do again_ , he thought. He'd never again know the warm and secure feel of his loving father's arms around him. The least Mike could do was make sure the lad got his mother back.\n\n_Like that's the reason I'm going._\n\nHe released Gavin and clapped a hand on his shoulder. \"Watch over the camp, but err on the side of caution. Take no chances. No heroics. If someone comes, gather everyone together and hide in the caves like we practiced, you hear?\"\n\nGavin nodded solemnly. \"I'll take care of the place.\"\n\n\"I know you will, son.\" Donovan gave Gavin's shoulder one last squeeze and the boy turned and slipped out of the stable. He glanced at Fiona. \"Who would you have me send, then?\"\n\nFiona rubbed the chill of the autumn night from her arms as she looked wildly around the stable as if trying to find someone else. \"I don't know,\" she said finally. She looked at him quickly. \"And I love her, too, mind. It's just, we can't afford to lose you.\"\n\n\"You won't lose me.\"\n\n\"I'm sure that's what David said too,\" Fiona said tartly.\n\nThe exhaustion pierced Donovan and his shoulders sagged with the weight of it. It was nearly impossible to believe that David was gone. When Gavin had come running back with the terrible news, Mike had gone himself to see. The sight had nearly made him sick.\n\nFrom what he could see by the boot prints in the damp earth by David's body, there had been two of them\u2014and Sarah. He could tell that Sarah had been dragged away. He followed the tracks to signs of a heavy cart moving due east from the Woodson cottage. Whoever they were, they were traveling loaded and slow. He should have no trouble in overtaking them.\n\nHe mounted and leaned down to pat his sister on the shoulder. \"Take special care of young John.\" The boy had been devastated, naturally. His tears\u2014and his bravery\u2014had nearly broken Mike's heart. \"Tell him I'll bring his mother home. He'll believe it because I will.\" As Mike spoke, he felt his throat closing up again and he knew he was telegraphing his emotions to Fi.\n\nYes, it had been horrifying to find David\u2014 _the man had been so vital and alive just a few hours before!_ Yes, it had been upsetting for the whole community to be reminded that such horrors could still happen. But the real agony? The gut-wrenching, bone-watering agony that Mike struggled not to let overwhelm him?\n\n_They'd taken Sarah._\n\n_They had her, whoever they were. They must have her bound and probably hurt, because there was no way Sarah wouldn't put up a fight not to be taken from her son._\n\nJust the thought of her, hurt, helpless and heartbroken herself, made Mike put his heels to his horse's flank, exhaustion be damned.\n\n# 5\n\nThe cart moved relentlessly forward for hours. Sarah didn't notice if it stopped, though later she would realized it must have in order for the men to relieve themselves on the side of the road. Two of the women she shared the back of the cart with soiled themselves and seemed not to notice or care. When Sarah began to emerge from her self-induced dreamlike state, she was aware that it was nearly dawn. They had driven all night. Or, if they stopped, she had no memory of it.\n\nIt was her own need to empty her bladder that tugged her back to reality. When she found herself looking around the cart interior, she saw a pair of bright brown eyes watching her.\n\n\"If you need to use the loo,\" the voice whispered in an English accent, \"you just knock on the seat behind you. They'll stop because they don't want to have to clean up any messes.\"\n\nSarah stared at her and licked her lips. Someone had pulled her gag down and it hung like a decorative scarf at her neck. She glanced at the other two women, who clearly could have benefited from that information earlier. They hugged each other tightly, their eyes sealed shut. Sarah assumed they had been taken together. She looked back at the woman with the big brown eyes.\n\n\"Why?\" she croaked. As soon as she spoke the word, she was sorry. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about or think about what had happened, let alone what _was_ happening. Immediately she held up her hand, palm out, and shook her head. \"No,\" she whispered.\n\nBut it was too late. The image of David came roaring back, blotting out every other sight or thought or sound. Sarah covered her face with her hands and a terrible, keening moan erupted from her throat. David all crumpled up and bloody, his eyes not seeing the sky or the ground. Her handsome husband. His wit, his crinkling blue eyes that saw everything so clearly. _Dear God, how could it be possible?_ _After everything they'd been through. After all the close calls, all the sacrifices...how was it possible to lose him now?_\n\n\"Do you need to go?\" the voice whispered again.\n\nSarah pulled her hands from her face. Her wrists chafed badly where they were tied but she didn't care. She looked at the woman, who looked almost friendly.\n\n\"Why?\" she asked again, this time with resignation.\n\n\"I overheard them talking,\" the woman said, scooting closer to Sarah. \"They're hoping to ransom us to our families.\"\n\nSarah looked at her like she was mad.\n\n\"We just need to sit tight,\" the woman said, smiling shyly. \"Not do anything to get us hurt in the meantime.\"\n\n\"I have no family.\" The pit of her stomach roiled as she thought of her husband lying in his own gore in their south pasture. A flashing image of John came to her and she felt a moment's dread that these monsters might have visited Donovan's place, but no, there was just the four women in the cart.\n\n\"Well, then whoever wants you returned, pet,\" the woman said. \"I'm Angie by the way.\"\n\nSarah could see that Angie's bonds were looser than her own. As she watched, the woman constantly moved her wrists and tugged at the fibers of the rope that bound her.\n\n\"Sarah,\" Sarah said tiredly. _Could it be that simple? Ransom?_ \"How do they know where to go to find our families?\"\n\nAngie shrugged. \"I'm just telling what I heard 'em say.\"\n\nSarah nodded and then reached up and tapped firmly on the wooden bench over her head to get her captors' attention. She felt the cart slow and then stop. The tarp over the top of the cart, which had given them the impression of a snug little cave, was wrenched off, exposing them all to the wind and the rain. Sarah guessed it was late afternoon by the light, although she wasn't sure she hadn't been unconscious for part of the trip.\n\nInvoluntarily, she took in a hungry gasp of air, as if she'd only been breathing with a half a lung under the tarp. The face that glared at her from over the cart's side was the young redheaded man who had helped drag David to the fence. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but he had helped kill him.\n\nHis eyes looked at Angie, questioning, and his face seemed to soften.\n\n\"Oy,\" Angie said, her voice softer and pleading. \"We need to use the facilities.\"\n\nThe man looked away and the leader joined him at the side of the cart. \"Jesus!\" he said. \"Smells like you already did. What pigs! Come on, Aidan, get 'em out. Blimey, what else would you expect from the Irish?\"\n\n\"Jeff!\" the driver called. \"Take over here and let me do that, eh? You've had all the fun today.\"\n\nThe young man called Aidan pulled the gate down in back and Sarah and Angie scooted toward the opening. They were stopped in the middle of the road, but Sarah hadn't seen another traveler. Angie scrambled out first and Sarah watched the two men's faces as she did. They must have been bored, she thought. They were enjoying the distraction. She looked into the face of the man called Jeff\u2014the one who'd murdered David\u2014and she carved his features into her brain.\n\n_One day. Some day. If not me, it'll be someone like me. I'll see you punished._\n\nBefore Angie was all the way out of the cart, Jeff reached forward and grabbed her breasts, pulling her all the way out. She squealed in pain as he wrenched her out of the cart and dropped her to the ground while the other men laughed.\n\nSarah's heart pounded as the third man came around the side of the cart. He was homely, his face pocked with old acne scars. It's true, she thought with her fear rising inside her. People born ugly will act ugly. She jumped down from the cart and went to stand next to Angie, who was glowering at Jeff as he climbed back into the driver's seat of the cart and picked up the reins. Sarah looked around and then held up her hands.\n\n\"Can you untie us?\" she said. \"I can't get my...my...\" It occurred to her that she didn't want to be anywhere near these animals when she had her pants down, but short of soiling herself, she had to try.\n\nAidan glanced at Angie again, then pulled out a knife and stuck it between the cords of Sarah's wrists. Her hands sprang free as soon as they were cut and she quickly massaged them, but forced the automatic _thank you_ that was on her lips back into her throat.\n\n\"Try anything and I'll tie your hands to your feet for the rest of the trip,\" he said, as he cut through Angie's cords.\n\nAngie and Sarah edged away from the road and into the ravine, where they lowered their pants and relieved themselves. She could hear the other two women whimpering and she guessed they were having their bonds cut, too. Before she was quite finished, the ugly one came and peered over the ravine at them. He laughed and then turned away.\n\nAngie zipped up her jeans and rubbed the red marks on her wrists.\n\n\"They're fucking animals,\" she said, her face flushed with anger. \"I'm not even Irish, nor you neither.\"\n\nBefore she could answer, Sarah heard a scream from the road. She fastened her jeans and bolted up the side of the ravine. She saw that the ugly one had one of the other women down on the ground. Her scream had been silenced by the large, filthy hand that gripped her face. She lay motionless as he ripped at her skirt with the other and positioned himself between her legs.\n\n\"Old enough to be your mother, ya randy git!\"\n\n\"I think this _is_ his mother!\"\n\n\"Nah, I've had her. She ain't this fine.\"\n\nThe men's raucous laughter echoed down the empty road.\n\nWithout thinking, Sarah charged. She felt Angie's fingers gripping at her from behind, but she shook her off and sprinted across the road.\n\nBy the time she reached the two on the ground, the oaf had obviously removed all obstacles to his goal as his naked backside was pumping vigorously. Before Sarah could reach him, an arm whipped out and pulled her off her feet and swung her away from them. When Aidan set her on her feet, he backhanded her full force into the side of the cart. Sarah's head cracked against the wagon and all light and sound snapped out as she slumped to the ground.\n\nWhen she awoke, her hands were bound again and the cart was once more moving. Either it was dark out or the tarp was covering them with no gap, and Sarah could barely make out the forms of the other three women with her. She ran her tongue over her teeth and found at least three loose ones. Her head ached badly and her arm felt on fire. That must have happened when they'd reloaded her unconscious body back into the cart, she thought.\n\n\"You awake, Sarah?\"\n\nSarah turned to see Angie's anxious face next to her. \"You scared the shit out of me,. Why did you do that? That was crazy.\"\n\nSarah's eyes tried to adjust to the dark and see the woman who'd been raped. She sat where she had before, holding the younger woman and staring where the opening in the tarp had been, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the scenery.\n\nSarah looked back at Angie and closed her eyes. She was definitely seeing double, so she guessed she probably had a concussion.\n\n\"You gotta stop that shit, Sarah. They are gonna bloody do what they're gonna do. Just let 'em!\"\n\nSarah opened her eyes and saw that Angie looked genuinely distressed.\n\n\"Trust me, they'll do all of us before we get where we're going. You want to live to escape, you gotta pick your battles.\"\n\nSarah knew she was right. She had been foolish this afternoon, with no plan or weapon beyond her horror and anger.\n\n_If I get killed, I'll never see John again._\n\nAs if reading her mind, Angie reached out to touch Sarah's hand and Sarah saw that she was tied again, too. \"You really don't have any family?\"\n\nSarah took a long withering breath and willed the emotion to stay in check. Her voice was a whisper. \"A son.\"\n\n\"Is he young? Young enough to need his Mum?\"\n\nSarah looked at Angie and forced the tears not to come. \"He doesn't think so,\" she said, and tried to smile.\n\n\"So see? You gotta stay in one piece, however you need to do that, for his sake.\"\n\nSarah nodded and then shifted against the cart. Some of them must be asleep, she thought. Normally she could hear voices from the front. Two on the cart front and one\u2014Gareth, she thought they'd called him\u2014riding point on a green gelding.\n\n\"How about you?\" Sarah asked.\n\nAngie's face relaxed but she shook her head. \"Not yet,\" she said. \"But I aim to live long enough to do it some day.\" She shrugged. \"I got a boyfriend.\"\n\nSarah looked away and felt the terrible agony of the day close around her like a vice she couldn't escape from. She wasn't even sure it was her voice that spoke, but it must have been. \"I had a husband. A good man. A loving father. My dearest friend...\" She put her hands to her face and a terrible keening wail came from deep inside her. She could hear one of the drivers, either Jeff or Aidan, knock hard against the side of the cart. \"Shut up in there!\"\n\nAngie's hand squeezed Sarah's. \"Shhh, Sarah,\" she said. \"Keep it in, petal. Keep it all inside for now.\"\n\nSarah took a shuddering breath and nodded. Using every inch of strength she ever possessed, she shoved the desperate, bottomless, grief deep inside her.\n\n# 6\n\nDenny Correy rolled off the young teenager, slapping her bare bum as he did. He wouldn't have her leaking all over the floor for him to step in. It was for precisely this reason he didn't allow the little piece in his bed. \"Off you go now,\" he said, as he stood to pull his jeans back on. She scrambled to her feet and snatched up her clothes as she bolted for the door. It was annoying to see the look of fear on her face\u2014and the rush she was always in to vacate his chambers. It was pretty clear he'd have to up the ante with the girl soon. Tell her it wasn't enough just to open her legs to him. If she ever wanted to see her little brother again, she'd have to at least pretend to like it.\n\nIt would have been preferable if he didn't have to tell her how to act.\n\nThe last year had been a wild ride in more ways than one. In all his thirty years it never would have occurred to him that the same laws that had restricted and impinged on him for so long would actually be the making of him. After the bomb\u2014or the Great Equalizer as Denny liked to call it\u2014all the high and mighty had been dragged from their mansions, stripped of their high-tech toys and torched in their Daimlers and Jags.\n\n_That last one quite literally_ , he thought, smiling to himself as he dressed.\n\nYes, an England without electricity, without cars, without laws, however temporary it was\u2014and make no mistake, there were definite rumblings of the cranky old bitch righting herself\u2014was just the place for a sod like him to plant his flag. And thrive.\n\nHe glanced at the rumpled sheets on the floor and saw there was blood again.\n\nIn fact, there was no reason to think he couldn't keep all that he'd built after the lights went back on. The commodity services he offered would always be needed.\n\n\"Yo, Denny! You decent yet?\"\n\nThe voice came from the anteroom outside his bedroom. He knew Meyers, the acting Chief Constable for these parts, was waiting for him. He grinned at what he must have thought watching the girl dash past him naked and trembling as a fawn, his seed dribbling down her long legs.\n\n\"Enter,\" he bellowed, his good mood restored at the thought of the fat bastard's randy envy of him.\n\nHe settled himself behind the large oaken desk in the corner of the room. When he had first found the house\u2014deserted just days before by the looks of it\u2014he had chosen the largest upstairs room as his headquarters. Over his shoulder and through the ceiling to floor window, he could see the long needle of smoke from the chimney in the middle of the factory.\n\n_His_ factory. He smiled to think of it, flexing his hands in an attempt to limber up the crippled fingers on his right hand\u2014the one smashed to a pulp two years earlier in a prison yard fight.\n\nHe looked up to acknowledge Meyers's entrance.\n\n\"Pfew!\" the man said, arranging his bulk in a wooden chair opposite the desk. \"Smells like skank-sex in here.\"\n\n\"The very best kind,\" Denny said, grinning at the man. \"Almost as good as rape.\"\n\nMeyers's eyebrows shot up. \"That wasn't rape? Sure looked like it to me the way the lass was making good her escape.\" He laughed.\n\nDenny fought for control of his instant rage, comforting himself with thoughts of the girl's punishment for embarrassing him like this. _She'll be lucky to have legs left to exit his bedroom at any speed_ , he thought, trying to calm himself.\n\n\"To what do I owe?\" he drawled, forcing himself not to reveal to the fat fuck how he'd gotten to him. \"I assume, Chief Constable, that you continue to enjoy the fruits of my labors?\"\n\nThe corpulent slug was a frequent, and free, visitor to Denny's small prostitution ring. A small price to pay, he thought\u2014especially since _he_ wasn't paying it\u2014to ensure that the grass-roots law and order group in the area that Meyers headed continued to leave him and his lot alone.\n\nMeyers sighed heavily, as if it pained him to have to tell Denny his news. Denny developed an image in his head of the man swinging from a rope from the center beam of his chicken-processing plant in order to assuage his impatience.\n\n\"About that little matter we discussed last time...\" he said.\n\n\"You'll have to remind me.\"\n\n\"You using kiddies in the factories has got a lot of the women in the area up in arms.\"\n\n\"Fuck 'em.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, if it's all the same to you, I'll respectfully decline. But they're making enough noise and, well, like I said last time, the whores are another thing, and I really think the women can push this to a point where I don't think you want it pushed.\"\n\n\"What are you saying, Meyers?\" It was all he could do not to pull out the SIG semi-automatic from his desk drawer and put them both out of their misery.\n\n\"Look, don't get me wrong,\" Meyers said. \"I am a mere tool of the people.\" He held his hands out in a helpless gesture. \"If the greater good decides to make a move against you...\"\n\n\"Are you insane? I have an _army_. Anything you come at me with\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't misunderstand, Denny! We are _all_ totally happy with our arrangement. But truth be told, why would _you_ want to fight if you can avoid it? I grant you we wouldn't win against you, but we'd do some damage. Maybe even shut down the factory for a time. It's like I told you last time, the women of the district\u2014our wives, mind!\u2014are determined to rescue the poor bitches, who I happen to know for a personal fact give themselves freely to the paying men of the area\u2014\"\n\n\"In fact, give themselves to those women's own husbands and boyfriends.\"\n\n\"Of course! But saying the women have no power wouldn't be the truth. And this is what they want. If you make us fight you to appease them, well nobody wins that way.\"\n\n\"Just for the pleasure of watching you take a knife in the gut, I'm tempted to let your women wage their war against me. I'll have _them_ working my chicken factory and filling my whore house when the smoke clears.\"\n\nMeyers, wisely, said nothing.\n\n\"Let me ask you, Meyers, do you know where I recruit my whores?\"\n\n\"My understanding is from your raids on the English villages along the river which were hit the worst by The Crisis, aye? The ones that didn't re-band or reorganize after it all went down?\"\n\nDenny nodded, narrowing his eyes at the constable. \"That's right. And most of those villages are an easy day's ride from Correyville.\" Denny resisted the urge to feel the twinge of pride at the sound of the name of his town.\n\nMeyers's eyes widened as the light behind them clicked on. \"You're thinking of moving your recruitment efforts further afield.\"\n\n\"It's already in process.\"\n\n\"That's brilliant.\" Meyers rubbed his hands together at the apparent ease and happy resolution to the problem. \"I feel confident the ladies of the district will be much mollified, as long as you leave the English rose alone.\"\n\n\"So glad I could help. Is that all?\" Denny steepled his hands in front of him on his desk and regarded the Chief Constable. It had taken him all of one hour to come up with the idea after the last visit from the little fear-spewing worm and his veiled threats. Although Denny's first impulse was to kill the messenger, he knew there would just be another Chief Constable in his stead. In a rare flash of maturity and conciliation, he had decided that the best route around this particular problem would be to appear to be accommodating to the present government. It could only aid him in his dealings in the new post-EMP world as the UK slowly got back to its feet.\n\nBesides, Meyers was right. Using Irish whores was actually a bloody brilliant idea. There had already been at least one occasion where a newly recruited whore\u2014who had been taken from her village not days before and insufficiently drugged for her first day on the job\u2014had been put in a room with a john from her same village. It hadn't discomfited the john. In fact, the man had reportedly been delighted to tup\u2014every way to Sunday\u2014a woman he'd known and desired for years, but who had, in fact, been married to another. It had, however, caused a problem with the other whores when it became known.\n\nRecruiting his whores\u2014or factory workers if they were too old or too ugly\u2014from outside the country would alleviate that problem very nicely indeed.\n\n# 7\n\nDonovan sat on his big bay at the river's edge and watched as the cart's wheel tracks disappeared into it from the bank. He had hoped to catch up to them before now, before they could pull some crap like this. He scanned the banks in either direction but saw nothing to draw his attention. They had gone in here. Likely they would've crossed, but they could just as easily have come back out on the same side. The point wasn't getting across the river necessarily.\n\nThe point was covering their tracks.\n\nAlthough a fisherman by trade, Donovan had hunted enough to know a little something about tracking. But a river was the grand equalizer. They might as well have disappeared into thin air.\n\nHe dismounted and led his horse to the river, where he scooped up water in his hat and let him drink. It had been mildly unpleasant at midday with the rain starting in, and the day had gone from blustery to bracing. He glanced at the sun in the sky, slowly sinking against the horizon. Things were only going to get worse.\n\nEven he had seen the folly in leaving after dark. He couldn't see their tracks, couldn't see the inevitable signs of a cart rolling through glen or across little-used country lanes. He only knew that a cart needed to stay on a road and this was the only road even barely passable. And he knew he couldn't just stay back at camp and do nothing. So he'd slept in his saddle and waited for first light to pick up the tracks before the early morning drizzle erased them and\u2014thank God for the mud!\u2014had followed them here. If it hadn't been for the deep crevices carved into the thick earth by the heavy cartwheels, the rain would have defeated him.\n\nAnd now the river had done exactly that.\n\nHe looked upriver. If they were heading to Dublin, he should be able to pick up their tracks again somewhere along the bank when they reconnected with a road of some kind. On the other hand, if they weren't heading to any specific town, but rather a cave or hideout of some kind, they might come out of the river at any point and no one could say where.\n\nAnd all the while he stood here and watered his horse and looked up and down the river, Sarah was perhaps being tortured or raped. Knowing that mouth on her, he thought grimly, she was at least as likely to get herself killed. He flapped his hat out, spilling the residue water against his leg, and then remounted.\n\nHe squinted up at the descending sun. It was months since anyone had a working wristwatch, the batteries long since having run down, and he sorely missed his own. He guessed it was after four o'clock. That meant she'd been taken roughly twenty-four hours ago. He had at least three hours before he lost the light. Might as well head toward Dublin as anywhere.\n\n_Why would they take her? What else was in the cart to make it so heavy?_ Donovan eased his mount into the shallow shoals of the river, keeping his eye on the bank to pick up the trails again. What if they hadn't gone to Dublin? _And if they did, how the fook am I gonna find her in friggin' Dublin?_\n\nThe snap of a breaking branch caused his horse to jerk its head up, and Donovan forced himself not to tense in the saddle. He scanned the scrubby woods that lined the riverbank. The noise had been close. Someone was close...and watching him.\n\n_Ah, bugger this_ , he thought, resting his hand on the stock of the shotgun tucked into its saddle sheathe. \"I can hear you,\" he shouted. \"So you might as well show yourself!\"\n\nHe waited, scanning the bushes for any movement, his hand hovering on his gun when a small rustle of bushes just south of where he was standing in the river opened up. He watched in astonishment as a pony emerged, leaves sticking to his bridle and cavesson as if he were an Indian's war pony.\n\nWhen he saw John Woodson ride forward, his face rigid with determination, Mike's shoulders relaxed. _I might've known,_ he thought, shaking his head. But he realized with surprise that a part of him had been waiting for the boy all along.\n\n\"What took ya so long?\" Mike called out to him. He saw the lad relax immediately and trot over to join him.\n\n\"You're not mad?\"\n\n\"Actually, I was just thinking I could use a little help about now. Come on.\"\n\nWith the two of them scouring both sides of the river at once, they were able to determine that the cart had not come out on the other side anywhere close, but had probably walked in the shallows a mile or more.\n\n\"North or south, do you think?\" John asked as he sat his pony and shaded his eyes as he stared in the direction of the plummeting sun.\n\n\"Neither,\" Mike said, unsaddling his horse and tossing the saddle on the ground. \"If it was me and I didn't want people to know I was heading some place obvious I'd walk my horse in the river for a spell.\"\n\n\"So you think them going in the water means they're going to Dublin?\"\n\n\"That would be my guess. Or any town between here and there.\"\n\n\"But taking a cart through the water...\" John frowned as he watched the current in the river eddy around the grasses hugging the bank. \"That's desperate. They could tip over so easy.\"\n\n\"I imagine they _are_ desperate,\" Mike said, and then was sorry he had. The boy didn't need reminding of how bad the situation was for his mother. Mike couldn't help but notice how pale he looked. Earlier he'd chalked it up to the fact that John's life had just been devastated, but now he watched him waver in his saddle. It wasn't just mourning or fear. The boy looked ill.\n\n\"Climb on down here, John,\" Mike said. \"We can't do anymore today.\"\n\n\"Every minute we stay here is a minute Mom is moving away from us.\"\n\n\"They have to rest, too.\"\n\n\"Maybe they don't. They've got a cart. Maybe they take turns driving and they just go all night.\"\n\n\"The horses'll need to rest. As do we. Untack your pony, son.\"\n\nHe watched John slowly give up the idea of pressing on. As much as he clearly wanted to, it was also just as clear the boy was spent. He slid silently from his saddle and snaked the reins over the animal's neck to lead him to the camp.\n\nMike hated to speak the words, especially as how the boy looked to be holding himself together with a wing and a prayer, but they needed saying and then they could move on. He took a long breath. \"I'm so very sorry about your father, John. Truly sorry.\"\n\nJohn nodded, his eyes collecting with the tears he'd worked hard not to shed. He turned away from Mike to loosen his pony's girth. \"Thanks,\" he said so softly that Mike nearly didn't hear him. Mike gave him a moment and the two made camp wordlessly until Mike had a small fire going.\n\n\"There's only cold jerky and tack,\" Mike said. \"But I thought the fire would be...good.\" He wanted to say comforting. He felt so helpless in the face of such world-shattering grief. He handed John a piece of the chewy goat jerky. The two sat facing the fire without speaking for several minutes.\n\n\"What did you do with the mines?\" Mike finally asked.\n\nJohn looked up, surprised. So caught up was he with his own thoughts, he appeared to have momentarily forgotten that Mike was there. \"Dad left them at the goat pond between the pastures.\"\n\n\"He didn't throw 'em in?\"\n\nJohn shook his head. \"At least not before I left.\" He looked up at Mike. \"You think you can use them now?\"\n\n\"Somehow. Yeah. We can use them.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" John said, staring into the fire. \"It's nice to know he was right about them after all.\"\n\n_Except the reason he was right about them was the death of him_ , Mike thought darkly.\n\nHe noticed that John still held the jerky in his hand, untouched. By the fire's light, he could see a fine sheen of sweat on his face. \"John? You feel alright, boy?\"\n\nJohn looked up at him dully and then turned his head to vomit in the dirt behind him. Mike caught him in his arms before he could fall over into a faint. He held the unconscious boy in stunned helplessness.\n\nAfter a fitful sleep with Mike sponging his face every few minutes through the night with cool water, John had rallied enough by daybreak to be able to sit up on his own, though he was still weak. Mike had run through every possibility of what could be ailing the child but he didn't recognize the symptoms. He wondered at first if it could be something only American children got, but he quickly discarded the idea. The Woodsons had been in Ireland a full year now\u2014ever since the lights went out all over the world trapping them here, far from their home in the States. Whatever had made him sick, at least he seemed to be getting a little stronger as the day wore on.\n\n\"We need to get going,\" John said weakly. \"Every minute we stay here\u2014\"\n\n\"I know, son,\" Mike said. \"I know. And we will. As soon as you're strong enough to sit a saddle.\"\n\n\"That may be too late, Mr. Donovan!\"\n\n\"Shhh, boy. Preserve your strength.\" It couldn't be something he ate. He hadn't eaten anything. Mike packed up the camp and saddled both horses. The sun, what there was of it, was directly overhead. Barring any complications or unseen impediments, they should be able to make it back to the main camp by nightfall.\n\nThe anguish in Mike's chest at having to turn back was matched by the look in John's eyes. He went down to the river to fill a bag to douse the remnants of the fire ring with, and gave the lad the privacy he needed as the tears streaked down his face, and his young heart filled with the painful hopeless longing for the mother he would now not see today.\n\n* * *\n\nThey had to stop twice. Both times Mike was forced to dismount and settle John on the ground. Both times he felt the fevered cheeks and uneven, rasping breathing and wondered in creeping unease if there would be anything for Sarah to return to.\n\n_Dear God, am I supposed to rescue her in order to bring her back to sit by two graves?_\n\n\"I'm feeling better, Mr. Donovan,\" John said weakly.\n\n\"You look better,\" Mike lied, handing him a cup of water, heartened that the lad didn't seem to need any help drinking it.\n\n\"I guess thanks to me we're not going to make it home tonight, are we?\"\n\nMike watched the boy's face as defeat and fear competed for dominance in his gaunt expression. \"We'll get home when we're meant to,\" he said.\n\n\"Only, if I'd never followed you, you'd be half way to Dublin by now. If we never find her, it'll be my fault.\"\n\n\"Stop it now this instant! Stop that kind of talk, young John Woodson. Is that what you'd want your mother to be hearing you say?\" The woman's voice jolted Mike to his feet.\n\nHe slapped his hat against his pant leg as Fiona entered the campfire leading a tall grey mare. \"Holy shite, Fiona!\" he exclaimed. \"Where the hell did you come from?\"\n\n\"You know, if _I'm_ able to sneak up on you then you do know that just about anyone in the county could, too, don't you?\" She knelt down next to John and Mike was gratified to see her quickly take charge. She smoothed the boy's hair across his forehead and pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. \"Looks like the fever's just broken,\" she said. She patted him on the shoulder and smiled down at him. \"I know you feel like hell, me darlin', but you're on the mend.\"\n\n\"Great,\" John said weakly and closed his eyes.\n\n\"What the hell, Fi,\" Mike said as he took her horse and pulled its saddle off. \"What are you doing here?\"\n\n\"It's glad you should be that I'm here, Michael Donovan!\" she said, sitting down next to John and laying his head in her lap. \"I have news, so I thought to take the chance I'd find you. Although I must say I was hoping to find you a bit further along than this. You're just four hours from camp, you know that?\"\n\nMike sat down next to her and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. \"I know. The lad's sick. I needed to get him back.\"\n\n\"Take a minute to hear what I've learned and then you can go on and make up the time. I'll bring young John home after he's had a wee nap.\"\n\nThe thought that he could resume the search for Sarah brought Mike to his feet. It wasn't until then that he realized he had deliberately and consciously tamped down his anxiety and frustration about having to turn back. He stood and grabbed his saddle, swinging it up on the bay's back in one fluid movement.\n\n\"Tell me as I saddle up.\"\n\nFiona glanced at John to make sure he was sleeping and joined Mike as he tightened the girth on his gelding.\n\n\"I've got three things to tell you. First is that Caitlin is causing problems again.\"\n\nMike frowned and pulled the stirrups down from the saddle. \"What kind of problems?\"\n\n\"Well, she's always been the one saying how this is all the Americans' fault and like, but now she's saying...\" Fiona lowered her voice. \"She's saying how David deserved what he got and that it was justice.\"\n\n\"She's fecking barking,\" Mike said with disgust.\n\n\"Sure, maybe, but there's them that's listening to her. Because she was Ellen's sister\u2014 _and is your sister-in-law_ \u2014she fancies she's got a certain status in the camp, you see. There's some told me she's set her cap for you, Mike.\"\n\n\"Don't be ridiculous.\"\n\n\"She's telling some that the two of you'll be married before Michaelmas.\"\n\nMike snorted. \"Well, it's nonsense and gossip.\"\n\n\"Don't be brushing it off as just gossip, brother dear. You'll have to deal with it sooner or later, no mistake.\"\n\n\"Fine. Next?\"\n\nFiona took a long breath and put her hand on Mike's arm to force him to stop packing his saddlebag. \"You cannot be gone for long, Mike. We need you.\"\n\nHe turned to face her and he felt his impatience bristling off of him.\n\n\"Put a time limit on it,\" she said firmly. \"Say, a week. If you don't find her in that time, she's lost to you. Accept it and come back to us.\"\n\n\"I won't promise that.\"\n\n\"Because you'll throw away the good of the community to run after another man's wife?\"\n\nMike reacted as if she'd slapped him and Fiona knew she'd gone too far. \"I'm sorry, Mike,\" she said. \"I didn't mean that. But the fact is, it's not just Caitlin saying all this is the Americans' fault and yet you go running after one of them\u2014\"\n\n\" _One of them_? Fiona, this is _Sarah_.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"I don't know if you do, girl. _Sarah,_ who's had her husband murdered and been dragged off, hurt and terrified, her son left behind\u2014\"\n\n\"Lower your voice,\" Fiona hissed. \"You'll wake him. I love Sarah, you know I do. But there's anti-American feeling over all and you've got to put the needs of the community over\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't care if she's Osama bin feckin Laden,\" Mike said heatedly. \"I'm going after her and I won't come back until I find her.\"\n\nFiona stared at him, but her hands dropped from her hips, defeated.\n\n\"So what's the third thing?\" Mike asked as he turned to resume packing his saddlebag.\n\nShe took a step back from him. \"The third thing is that three armed men took a couple of women from a village on the other side of Balinagh.\"\n\nMike stopped to turn and listen to her.\n\n\"They killed their men, too.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"Rumor is they're English and headed back there.\"\n\n\"Cor! That's two hundred miles away.\"\n\nFiona could see she'd stunned him with her news. His hands stopped working on the saddle and his eyes looked out into the night as if somehow he might catch a glimpse of the one he sought.\n\n\"It's worse than that, Mike. If this is the same group what took Sarah they're not on the Welsh coast but nearer to _London_. Forget making it to Wexford or Arklow on old Petey there.\" She nodded at Mike's horse. \"We're talking _across_ the Irish Sea and a trek of a thousand miles.\"\n\n# 8\n\nThe question that haunted Sarah, even in her dreams, was: _should she fight them now and try to escape or, as Angie seemed to believe, should she endure and wait for her moment?_\n\nWhen she thought of all that she had waiting for her\u2014John, thoughts of her parents\u2014it all seemed even further away than before. For the first time since coming to Ireland she allowed herself to think the unthinkable: she was never going to get back to the States and she would never see them again.\n\nThis was blasphemy and absolutely not allowed in the Woodson cabin. But as she sat in the back of the cart, pressed in tight with six terrified women and not knowing what her future could be, if she even had one, the idea that she would someday be pumping gas again on Beach Boulevard in Jacksonville, Florida, was as ludicrous as thinking she could escape her current nightmare by making herself invisible.\n\nShe had spent a good deal of time blocking certain thoughts from her mind. Thoughts so debilitating and useless that they stripped her of every ounce of strength or power she ever had. She willed herself not to think of John being told that his father had been killed. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands to will herself not to envision his sweet face as he realized he might never see his mother again. She willed herself not to think of David, not his laugh or his beautiful eyes or the way he held her and always made her feel safe and loved. And when she failed, as she so often did, she felt herself just a little bit weaker, a little bit more lost.\n\nShould she try to escape? Or should she bide her time and just make sure she survived the journey? Should she fight? Or should she just endure? And with every minute she hesitated, she moved farther and farther from John.\n\nCould she make them believe she was passive? After attacking the rapist in the road the day before, she thought it would be hard to rewrite their concept of her. Either way she chose would have unpleasant consequences, that much she knew.\n\n_Which one is the way back to John?_\n\nHer eyes settled on Angie, who was watching one of the new girls nervously. When Angie saw her looking, she edged over to her.\n\n\"I don't like the looks of this,\" she said, indicating the chubby blonde who sat bolt upright on the floor of the cart, knees pulled up to her chest, her eyes darting everywhere.\n\nSarah understood what she meant. The girl didn't look frightened. She looked pissed off. _That was dangerous._\n\n\"Oy, what's your name?\" Angie whispered loudly to the girl.\n\nShe flashed an annoyed look at Angie but answered. \"Janice,\" she said sullenly. \"Do you know who these tossers are? Do you know what's going on?\"\n\n\"No,\" Angie said, \"I just know not fightin' 'em is the way to stay alive.\"\n\nThe girl gave her an incredulous look. \" _Stay alive_? You think they mean to murder us, then?\" The three girls who had been dumped into the cart with her began to squawk and cry. An abrupt pounding on the side of the cart came from where the two men sat on the driver's seat. \"Shut up in there, ya cows, or we'll shut ya up!\"\n\n\"Feck you, ya fecking bastard!\" shrieked Janice. She started to stand up in the cart. Sarah gasped at her foolishness and she and Angie both lunged to grab her and pull her back down, but it was too late. The cart came to an abrupt stop, throwing all the women against each other and the floor.\n\nSarah waited and held her breath as the tarp was wrenched off the cart and she could see that it was night. The man Aidan rode up on his horse and took his hat off, slapping it against his leg. \"What's going on, Jeff? We'll never meet the boat at this rate.\"\n\n_Boat?_ Sarah would have tried to get Angie's eye if there wasn't so much going on.\n\n\"Which one of you bitches yelled?\" Jeff, the man who had murdered David, stood at the foot of cart. Even in the semi-dark, Sarah could see the fury and the madness in his face. She felt herself involuntarily shrinking back into the farthest corner of the cart.\n\nJanice still stood, but Sarah could see a little healthy fear had infused her. She wiped her hands on her slacks. \"I just wanted to know where you was taking us, like,\" she said. When he didn't immediately respond, she added, \"The men in my village will come after you. You can't steal us away like we was nothing.\"\n\nSarah stole a glance at Angie, but she was watching the exchange between Janice and Jeff with intense fascination. Sarah wasn't absolutely positive the woman wasn't smiling.\n\n\"Will they now, darlin'?\" Jeff held out a hand to her and beckoned her to come closer to where he stood. \"Then perhaps we should just let you go if you're going to be so much trouble to us.\"\n\nThe word _nooooooo_ was trying to form in Sarah's throat and in her mouth, but nothing came out except the softest groan. She watched the drama before her like it was a bad movie, one with an inevitable and terrible ending. She watched Janice hesitate and then move boldly forward to grasp Jeff's hand and be helped out of the wagon to the ground. Jeff turned and raked the tarp back over the rest of the women.\n\nThe darkness covered the women and deadened the sounds of Janice and Jeff's voices until there was nothing but silence. After several minutes, the cart began to move again.\n\nJanice never returned.\n\nSarah watched the faces of the other women, the two who had been taken before her, and the three who had been taken with Janice. Their eyes were wide, the whites of their eyes stark in the darkness. There was no scream, no cut-off shriek to herald whatever fate had befallen poor Janice. There didn't need to be. Every single desperately terrified woman sitting in that cart from hell knew exactly what had happened to the poor, brave, stupid girl.\n\nThey rode in gut-clenching silence, each of them processing the evil that held them, the monsters who had ultimate power over them, and the sickening fear of what tomorrow would bring. Sarah's attention was focused on tomorrow, too, but also on a niggling thought that had begun to bother her and just wouldn't go away.\n\nShe couldn't be sure, but just before Jeff threw the tarp to cover them she was almost positive that he looked at Angie.\n\nSometime the next morning, Sarah was awakened by a terrible odor. Pulling herself up to a sitting position, she realized that more women had been added to the cart. She now had a young woman nearly in her lap, and when she looked around she could see there were two additional people in the cart. She licked her lips and tried to assemble her thoughts coherently.\n\nThere was no way she would have naturally slept through the cart stopping and three more people joining them. Her mouth was dry and her head pounded. Up to now she had assumed they were the effects of her concussion, but now she believed it was much more likely they were all being drugged. How else would they easily and silently pass close by villages and townships with their cargo of stolen women? It was one thing to cow them all into an enforced silence, but even threats are powerless against hysteria. She looked over the somnolent heap of sleeping women and saw that Angie was awake.\n\n\"They didn't let her go,\" Angie said, her voice low but clear. \"Janice? They didn't just let her go.\"\n\n\"You think?\" Sarah's voice was raw and raspy. She tried to remember the last time the men had stopped and given them water.\n\n\"It's more important than ever that we not fight them. You see that, right? These bastards are insane.\"\n\n\"We got more sometime in the night.\"\n\nAngie nodded. \"I was awake when they came in. I heard 'em talking and we're nearly there now.\"\n\n\"Where's there?\"\n\n\"I don't know but the trip's almost over.\"\n\nSarah looked away and saw a wedge of daylight from underneath the tarp. She was surprised to see the legs of a gray horse go by. That wasn't Aidan's horse. A stranger had just passed them on the road. She looked at Angie but she had her eyes closed.\n\nThey were on a road with other people. And for the first time, Sarah wasn't too drugged. She thought for a moment. _If I scream out and alert someone that we're back here and...and it doesn't work, they'll kill me. And John is an orphan. Or they'll kill me and they'll kill whatever innocent traveler happened to hear me._\n\nHer eyes filled with tears as she watched the legs of another horse and another mounted traveler pass the cart.\n\nSarah bent her head and prayed. She had prayed many times since this nightmare had begun. The difference was, this time she prayed a desperate plea that had been lodged in her heart since she had first awakened in the back of this filthy cart from hell.\n\nShe prayed God would help her believe Mike was coming for her.\n\n* * *\n\nAt midday the following day, the cart stopped. After several minutes, one of the men reached in and pulled Angie out of the back. Moments later, Angie lifted the tarp and gestured for Sarah to come out, too. When Sarah stuck her head out of the back, she saw the cart was poised on a long pier leading to a steam-powered ferry. There were no other people or vehicles around them.\n\nShe jumped down on the pier to join Angie. Aidan, sitting on his horse behind them, never once took his eyes from the two of them. She could see the bulge of his handgun under his jacket. Just turning her face to the sharp and bracing air of the sea brought tears of relief to Sarah's eyes after the dank, claustrophobic world under the tarp. It took a moment for the realization to register that they were about to leave the country.\n\nAngie smoked a cigarette and turned her face upward to catch what few rays of sunshine escaped from the bank of grey clouds overhead. Sarah couldn't help but wonder how in the world Angie had rated this honor _._ She hadn't been out of the cart long enough to have performed a sexual service for any of the men. _Maybe a promise of it had been enough?_ That also didn't make sense given the number of rapes so far on the trip.\n\n\"If they intend to ransom us,\" Sarah said, keeping her voice low, \"why are they taking us out of Ireland?\"\n\nAngie looked at the gaping sea as the waves lapped against the dock. \"You're right. It doesn't make sense.\"\n\n\"What do they want with us? What possible benefit are we to them?\"\n\nAngie glanced at Sarah and her eyes dropped to Sarah's breasts.\n\nSarah spoke with frustration. \"If _that's_ all they wanted, they can do that right here in Ireland.\"\n\n\"It doesn't make sense,\" Angie repeated, looking back at the water. \"They're definitely taking us to England.\"\n\n\"You're English.\"\n\nAngie looked at her. \"I was in Ireland on holiday when The Crisis hit.\"\n\n\"So why aren't you thrilled to be returning to England?\"\n\nAngie shrugged. \"Like you, I don't really have family back there.\"\n\n\"You're lying.\" Sarah glanced at the men as they spoke to the ferry driver. \"Are you with them?\"\n\n\"Why would you say that? Are you barking? _Them_?\"\n\n\"Then what is an English girl doing in Ireland\u2014\"\n\n\"I told you! I was on holiday!\"\n\n\"Where is it you said they grabbed you?\"\n\n\"Other side of Darnagh. I was camping with me boyfriend.\"\n\n\"Oy!\" Aidan barked at them. \"You two keep your voices down.\"\n\nSarah ignored him. \"What happened to him?\"\n\n\"They knocked him out and took me.\"\n\nSarah watched her closely. \"That story sounds rehearsed. You're with them.\"\n\nAngie's eyes hardened and her face took on a transformation. \"Fuck,\" she said. \"Well, it doesn't matter now.\" She threw her cigarette down and ground it out with the toe of her boot. A boot, Sarah now saw, that looked remarkably new and shiny. Angie turned and motioned to Aidan behind her. \"Get her back inside and tell Jeff to move over. I'm done sitting in this shite.\"\n\nAs Aidan jumped down from his horse, Angie looked at Sarah. \"Look, the one thing I told you that _is_ the truth is that if you mind yourself nobody else gets hurt. Tell them inside, too. Everybody behaves, and we all arrive alive.\"\n\nAidan grabbed Angie's hands and cut the knot in one swift movement. Without another word, he pulled back the tarp and grabbed Sarah by her arm. She looked wildly around to see if there was anyone anywhere to see that she was being shoved into the back of a cart full of sobbing, doomed women.\n\nThere wasn't.\n\nBack inside and under the tarp, Sarah leaned against the side of the cart and felt the first jolting pitch as the vehicle moved onto the small ferry. She looked at the lone woman across from her, staring blindly into space in numbed shock. From a gap in the tarp, Sarah could see the blue of the ocean of St. George's Channel behind the woman's head.\n\nAnd beyond that, England.\n\n# 9\n\nThe moment Caitlin saw the two of them ride back into camp without Mike was the moment she knew she had already won.\n\nThe boy sagged in his saddle she noticed with a smile, but the look on Fiona's face worried her. Fi was tough and she could smell bullshit a mile off. She could definitely be a problem if Caitlin was to successfully finish what she started.\n\nShe watched as several of the other community families rushed out to greet the two. _Like friggin' royalty. Like the little Yank was the feckin' crown prince returned to his kingdom._ _Now that the little shite's da was gone, there was nothing standing in the way of the Yank bitch crawling into Mike's bed, and all of 'em being the picture of the perfect little family._\n\nNothing except her.\n\nA smirk formed on Caitlin's face as she watched Fiona help the brat down from his horse. Two children around his age ran up to him, but he shook his head as if he barely had the strength to make it to his bed, let alone play a game of stickball. Too right, Caitlin thought as she watched him stumble after Fiona toward her cottage.\n\n_Looks like he'll be needing tending. Likely Fi has her hands full these days, what with big brother running after the new widow._\n\n_Likely she'll be glad of whatever help a loving sister-in-law could give._\n\n* * *\n\nMike had never been to the east coast of Ireland. In his mind, he expected it to look much like the west coast, which he knew well. As he sat on his horse looking down onto the busy harbor, it occurred to him that the difference was that this coast, the one on the channel and facing Wales, looked a little more civilized than what he was used to. His coast was wild\u2014uncontained by land or shuttle boats taking commuters to and fro. Although there was no denying the awe-inspiring beauty of the coast, he knew which part of Ireland _he_ preferred.\n\nIt was midday and the scene below him was controlled chaos. An outdoor market stretched from the bulkhead where the ferry was tied all the way through town. Even from where he sat\u2014easily a half a mile away\u2014he could hear the noise and clamor of the market.\n\n_This is what we should still have in Balinagh_ , he thought. Except, without a natural conduit like the channel leading straight to the UK, there was no reason for people to come to it, let alone stay in the region. Most people around Balinagh had left months ago to be near family or better resources in the towns and along the coast.\n\nOnly a barking mad Irishman would stubbornly insist on creating a community out of the godless wilderness.\n\nAs he moved down the worn pasture path down the steep hill to the town, Mike kept his eyes on the ferryboat lashed to the long pier that jutted out into St. George's Channel. He wasn't positive this was where they would have come. Mike had lost whatever possible tracks might have been Sarah's. It was possible, if they had more raids, that they crossed the channel further north up the coast.\n\nNow, as he descended to the town, he realized he was going strictly on hearsay from Fiona's sources, logic, and hope. If he was totally off the mark coming here instead of further up the coast, he'd likely never know. And since the alternative was to turn around and go back to camp without even a whiff of the trail of the bastards who took her, he pressed on.\n\nHe knew he should rest and water Petey\u2014it'd been a long and tiring trip, with rain most of the way\u2014but he was keenly aware of the time. The lights and electricity may be out, but one thing stayed the same: it wasn't going to get any easier the colder the trail got.\n\nHe saw the covered cart as soon as he was close enough to make out shapes on the ferry. It was easily large enough to carry several people in back and the tarp covering it was loosely tied. _In case people needed to breathe_. He stood in his stirrups the last few steps down into the town to get a better look. A young woman sat in front with two drivers, both of whom looked like rough trade. One of the men had his arm around the woman but she kept shrugging him off.\n\n_Sarah might be in there._\n\nWhen he stepped from the pasture path to the cobblestones of the town's main drag, he worked to keep Petey at a walk although it was all he could do not to gallop him straight for the ferry landing.\n\n_Did I figure it right after all?_\n\nIt made so much sense. This was the most direct route back to the UK, especially if you had cargo that wouldn't stand close inspection. The closer he got, the better he could see the young thugs with the cart. Even the woman looked rough, her face hard and ugly. Mike strained to see if the back of the cart moved at all\u2014anything to indicate there might be human cargo hidden under that tarp.\n\n\"Whoa! Hold up, yer honor!\"\n\nMike jerked his mount to avoid hitting a large bald man standing in his path.\n\n\"Watch where you're going, you idiot!\" Mike blurted. He could see over the man's shoulder that the ferry was making last minute preparations for debarkation.\n\n\"Oh, idiot, is it?\" the man said, reaching out to grab Petey's bridle.\n\n\"Get your hands off my horse.\"\n\n\"Jimmy! Liam! Give us a hand over here, will ya?\"\n\nMike saw one of the men on the cart on the ferry jump down from his seat and go to the back, where he lifted up a corner of the tarp to peer inside.\n\n_Why would he do that unless there were people back there?'_\n\nTwo men appeared on either side of Mike's horse. One of them grabbed at Petey's reins, trying to snatch them from Mike's grasp.\n\n\"What the feck?\"\n\nThe other man deftly slipped Mike's rifle from his saddle scabbard.\n\n\"I'm afraid you'll be needing to come with us, squire,\" the bald man said as Mike twisted in his saddle to try to grab for his rifle. When he turned back to face the bald man in front of him, he saw the snout end of a Colt 45 pistol, which the man was aiming at his head.\n\n# 10\n\nSarah was stunned to realize she slept even fifteen minutes during the wretched and lengthy channel crossing. Interspersed between the sounds and smells of the remaining women's vomiting and cries, she had turned off her brain and given herself up to oblivion. The agony of reawakening to her nightmare was softened by the renewed strength the rest had given her.\n\nIt was three days after the attack. When Angie had convinced Sarah to resign herself to enduring the trip without fighting, and when she believed that there might be an end to it, Sarah had devised a method to keep track of how long she was gone. Now, after Angie's treachery was revealed to be just a way to keep her and the rest of the women manageable, she tried not to think of all the opportunities to escape she had let go by.\n\nThree days since the attack meant that Mike's camp had long since galvanized into action. While it was true she and David had taken a step away from the group, she knew they would try to find her.\n\n_Mike_ would try to find her.\n\nThree days and nights. Mike and his posse would be on horseback and travelling faster than the loaded cart full of women.\n\nWhy hadn't he found them yet? Would he be able to track them to the coast? Would he know they'd left the country?\n\nThree days and no hint that anyone was coming for her.\n\nHer captors seemed, if anything, to be even more relaxed than when they started. They were drunk most of the time now that Angie was riding with them. They seemed to abdicate all control to her.\n\nHow had she believed even for a minute that Angie was a victim like herself? She never looked afraid. Unlike the rest of them, who all sported either bruises or busted lips from their handlers' impatience, she had never exhibited any signs of abuse. Looking back at the first two days of travel, it seemed preposterous to Sarah that anyone could have believed Angie was one of them.\n\nThe cart heaved dramatically to one side, triggering hysterical shrieks from the seven women huddled in the back. Sarah determined that the crossing was over. She listened to one of the men cursing as, from the sounds of it, he roughly attempted to re-harness the horses to the cart for the exit from the ferry.\n\nThe canvas flap hiding the women jerked open and Angie peered in. \"Shirrup, back here,\" she said harshly.\n\nImmediately, the women's cries reduced to moans and muffled sobs.\n\n\"You'll have a chance to use the facilities after we're off the boat. I'll need you to move quietly and quickly when I tell you to, is that clear?\"\n\nThe women all nodded, clutching each other in fear as if Angie were the personification of the devil himself.\n\n_They weren't far wrong,_ Sarah thought, narrowing her eyes at the woman.\n\n\"Where are you taking us?\" Sarah asked.\n\n\"Ah, now, I'm not at liberty to spoil that particular surprise. Just know that it won't disappoint and that it's better than lying dead in a ditch. Just ask poor Janice.\"\n\n\"Why are you doing this? For money?\"\n\nSarah thought she saw a shadow pass over Angie's face but the woman quickly regained control.\n\n\"I'm doing it because it's my job, petal. That's all.\" Angie ended the conversation with an abrupt jerk of the canvas flap that closed the women back in and blotted out the slim wedge of light.\n\nAn hour later, the cart was parked under a large grove of ash and aspens. Sarah and the seven other women had been allowed to relieve themselves without interference in a long ditch that ran parallel to the road. It occurred to Sarah that now that Angie didn't have to play the part of one of the victims, there would likely be no more rapes or beatings. She was definitely the one in charge.\n\nAngie stood at the top of the ditch watching the women while the men watered the horses and smoked across the paved highway. Like the roads in the area around Balinagh, the road had been unused for over a year now. Already the sun and the weather had buckled the asphalt. Bushes grew wild on the perimeter.\n\nWhat little news she and the rest of them had received about conditions in England or the rest of the United Kingdom after The Crisis had indicated that England hadn't been as badly hit. From what she could see\u2014miles and miles of unused highway\u2014that did not bear out.\n\nShe climbed up the side of the incline toward Angie. \"I can't imagine what would cause you to do this to other women,\" Sarah said when she reached her. \"Are they holding your grandma hostage or something?\"\n\nAngie grinned at her. \"You know what I see when I see you, Yank? What I saw the very first time they threw you in the back of the cart three days ago?\"\n\nSarah wiped her hands on her jeans and looked away, forcing her face not to show her emotion. She didn't want to think three days back. _David had still been alive three days back._\n\n\"I thought, blimey, we got us a cuckoo. You know that story? We went shopping for wrens and robins and we pulled us a big Yank cuckoo into the nest. Let's just say I expect a bonus for landing you.\"\n\n\"You got kids, Angie? Looks to me like you got childbearing hips. Maybe more than one?\"\n\n\"Shut up, Yank, or I'll put the gag back on. Might wipe my arse with it first.\"\n\n\"Your kiddies know what Mummy is doing these days? I bet you got a refrigerator door full of their finger paintings back home. Maybe you got one showing Mummy putting a knife in someone's back. Maybe Daddy?\"\n\n\"Shut up, I said! You don't know anything about me.\" Angie took a step toward her and Sarah forced herself not to move.\n\n\"I know you're a mother, same as me.\"\n\n\"Then you don't know shit. Get back in the cart.\" Angie shoved past Sarah and stood at the top of the ditch. \"Let's go! Nose powdering after we get where we're going. Lunch is served once you ladies get your arses back in the cart.\"\n\nSarah looked down the long lonely highway. There were no hikers, no riders, no horses, no carts. She could still smell the sea and she knew it had been less than an hour since they'd made the crossing. But wherever they were off the coast of England, it was deserted and remote.\n\nThe rest of the women struggled up the side of the ditch and hurried to the cart. Sarah noticed that they all avoided eye contact with the men. There had been one more rape before Angie revealed herself but none since.\n\nOnce everyone was seated in the back again, Angie left the canvas off so they could get some air. The gesture depressed Sarah. It meant they were going nowhere near a town or any other place inhabited. The level of laughter and horseplay among the men increased too.\n\nThey aren't worried, Sarah thought. They know they're in the homestretch now.\n\n* * *\n\n_5 Days after the attack._\n\nSarah and the seven women ate and slept in the back of the cart. They were allowed out twice a day for bathroom breaks but everyone stayed tied. Sarah's wrists had rubbed raw, bled, scabbed over, and rubbed raw again dozens of times over. Their captors were in a hurry. That was clear. They took turns sleeping in the front of the cart so that they didn't need to make camp at night.\n\nIn the two days as they trudged eastward across England\u2014through rains and evil winds, drizzles and even a spitting snowfall\u2014they never saw another living person.\n\nThe other women in the cart were as close to zombies as still-living people could be, Sarah thought. Like her, most if not all of them had seen loved ones murdered before they were abducted. Two of the women had been raped. All of them sat in the cart, compliant, and numb with fear. They didn't engage Sarah or each other. A couple, mother and daughter it looked like, clung to each other. The rest behaved according to what they all knew to be true without a doubt\u2014they were on their own.\n\nMidday on the sixth day, Sarah knew they were close to the end. Usually after lunch Angie stopped the cart and let the women out for a moment. Today, she jumped down from the driver's bench and, with Jeff's help, secured the tarp closed over the opening in the back, blotting out the light. Sarah tried to catch her eye to get some hint of what was happening but Angie was all business. The other women began to move restlessly in back. They, too, knew that something was coming. Whatever horrors they had been keeping back in the darkest recesses of their minds were about to come rushing and screaming to the foreground.\n\nSarah peeled a corner of the tarp away from the side of the cart and got down on her hands and knees to peer out. For an hour or more, all she saw was sky. Just about the time that the women were starting to relax again, the cart picked up speed and they began to talk in excited, panicked tones. Sarah could see buildings now, and other people on horseback moving alongside the cart. She could hear, too. It wasn't the sounds of normal traffic pre-Crisis, but it was the unmistakable hum of a town in full activity. She heard voices calling, laughing, a horse's scream and the constant clop-clop of more horse-drawn carts on the road with them.\n\n\"Be quiet!\" she whispered to the women and they silenced immediately. It was dark under the canvas, and rank with the smell of unwashed bodies and stark fear. She could see the whites of the eyes of the woman who sat closest to her. They all stared at her as if waiting for her orders.\n\n_Well, I imagine you'll be told what to do soon enough_ , Sarah thought. _I guess we all will._\n\nWhen the cart stopped suddenly, Sarah was still bent over to look through her gap in the canvas and fell forward toward the opening. She scrambled back but the women had surged forward and filled her spot. She felt a knee in the small of her back and her breath pushed out of her. Suddenly, the canvas tarp whipped back and the sweet breath of afternoon air came rushing into the foul-smelling cart. Sarah stayed on her hands and knees, trying to steady herself while the women receded like a noxious tide of noise and odor.\n\n\"Shirrup!\" Angie's voice was hard and shrill. As Sarah looked up and blinked into the light, she saw Angie and Jeff standing at the end of the cart. He unhooked the back panel and held out his arms to her. She hesitated.\n\n\"This is where you get off, petal,\" Angie said. \"Hurry up, we have a few more stops today. Move your arse.\"\n\nSarah crawled to the edge of the wagon and felt Jeff's hands capture her under her arms and drag her off the end of the cart. She fell to the ground and the pavement slammed into her face, cutting her lip open on her tooth.\n\n\"Who else, Ange?\" Jeff asked, nudging Sarah with his steel-toed boot to make her move out of his way.\n\n\"That one,\" Angie said. \"The old one and the kid, too.\"\n\n\"Aw, Ange, you're no fun,\" Jeff said. \"I was looking forward to having a go at the tyke.\"\n\n\"And that one there with the big nose.\"\n\n\"But she's got tits! No one cares about a big nose with those tits!\"\n\n\"Let's go, ladies,\" Angie said. \"You, you and you, out! Right now. I don't want to have to send my friend in to get you.\"\n\nSarah staggered to her feet and looked around as the two women and the teenager scrambled out of the back of the wagon. The cart had stopped in front of the entrance to a long dirt driveway. Behind her was the town they'd just ridden through. She craned her neck to see past Jeff. Down the driveway was a long series of shacks and huts strung together by ramshackle walkways. It looked like it had once been a factory of some kind. The windows were broken out, but Sarah could see smoke pouring out of the chimneys at each of the joined buildings.\n\nA deserted workhouse in the middle of nowhere.\n\nOnly it wasn't deserted.\n\nJeff turned and grabbed Sarah's bound hands and looped a long rope through her bonds, attaching her to the two other women and the child. She could see the other women in the cart looking even more terrified than before they stopped. The end of the line for Sarah and the other two women seemed, clearly, to be some kind of factory. Even from this distance, Sarah could see women coming out of the door with buckets of water and going back in.\n\nWhatever they were making in there, she thought, at least they didn't seem to be turning people into soap.\n\nAt least she didn't think they were.\n\nJeff brought her rudely back to the present with a rough jerk on the rope that ripped into her raw and bloodied wrists. She bit back a cry of pain. He saluted Angie from where she sat at the front of the cart and began to walk down the driveway, leading the women.\n\nSarah turned to see Angie watching her as she was led down the front drive. Their eyes met. Angie didn't smile. Her eyes looked hunted and sick.\n\n* * *\n\nThe smell of the place was beyond what her senses had ever experienced before.\n\nSarah entered behind the other women through the large double doors. As soon as she stepped foot inside, the illusion of a factory vanished and was replaced by the image of a fifteen century insane asylum. With only what natural light there was from the overhead windows\u2014a bank of ten windows, each easily twenty feet high\u2014vision was handicapped to distinguishing human form from animal.\n\nSarah stopped abruptly as the young girl ahead of her bent over and threw up the meager lunch she'd had an hour earlier. Before Sarah could think to sidestep the puddle of sick, she was assailed with the most intensely evil odor she had ever endured. Her hands flew involuntarily to her mouth in attempt to physically stop entry of the terrible stench into her nose or mouth. It was the smell of hell itself. A simmering pestilence of sewage and excrement, festering sores and foul air that was thick against Sarah's lips and nose. She gagged and drew in a long, shallow breath through her mouth.\n\nHer eyes watered in the fumes and she blinked to clear her vision. Jeff was still pulling them further into the interior of the hellhole. She could see now that he had a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. As she stumbled forward, the floor of the place slick underfoot, she saw the people. Hundreds of them lined the main corridor where Sarah and the other women were being led. On either side people were standing or kneeling, pleading with them, their arms upraised, their hands clasped in prayer. Many were naked, but those that weren't were dressed in filthy rags.\n\nThey looked like they were starving. They looked like photos Sarah remembered seeing of concentration camp victims before the Allies rescued them.\n\nThe noise of the place was unholy, matched only by the relentless stench. A roar of machinery laced the people's pleas like an undercurrent of percussion. Behind the line of begging wretches, Sarah could see bodies lying in various stages of decomposition. Beyond that were the long snaking lines of the factory workers standing at their stations, their backs to the door.\n\nUp ahead, Jeff was talking with a stooped over, one-armed elderly man. The old man nodded continually as Jeff talked, never once looking him in the eye. Finally, Jeff thrust the end of the rope into the man's hand and walked back out the way he had come. As Sarah watched him, she found herself memorizing his walk, his eyes above the scarf.\n\nIf hope of seeing John again was what kept her alive, imagining this man's eventual just deserts was what kept her sane.\n\nHe passed her without a glance in his hurry to exit the reeking bedlam.\n\nSarah turned to look at the people who still stood in the aisle, entreating her with muted cries of anguish. A young man, totally nude, screamed in frustration and Sarah thought she saw that his tongue had been cut out. She looked away in horror and gripped the rope in front of her as if it were a lifeline and not the very thing pulling her deeper and deeper into the furor and chaos. She forced herself not to look at the tragic souls with their arms outstretched to her. _How can they possibly think I am in any position to help them?_\n\nBut she knew. They were once like her. Strong, well fed. Clothed. Alert. They had once walked through those double doors.\n\nA sharp jerk on her hands jolted her attention to what was happening in front of her. The old man who had been given their rope was in the process of untying them. Up close, Sarah could see he wasn't really that old at all. But he was stooped and one-armed, and she bet he didn't come into this place that way.\n\nWhen he roughly disengaged her bonds, Sarah cried out in pain. Her wrists were badly abraded. She felt she had left a thin layer of skin on the ropes he whipped from her hands. He dropped the rope on the ground and motioned for her and the other three to follow him. Sarah noticed the young girl had her arms wrapped around the waist of the woman who was probably her mother. Sarah didn't know whether to be glad or sorry for that.\n\nThe other woman, whose large nose had saved her from whatever had been behind Door Number Two, rubbed her wrists and kept her eyes on the back of their new jailor. She had been one of the new ones, Sarah thought. Her nightmare was only two days old.\n\nThey followed the man through the corridor of naked, weeping humanity into the very heart of the noise and confusion of the factory, for that was clearly what it was. The closer they came to the backs of the standing workers, Sarah could see bits of feathers floating in the air. As they came up to the workers, the feathers formed a virtual explosion of fleece and eiderdown that hung in the air like mushroom clouds of fluff.\n\nAs they hurried past the workers, Sarah could see that the women\u2014there were very few men, and they all old\u2014were killing, plucking and gutting chickens. The noise was at such a tumultuous peak that it was obvious the cacophony came from the terrified birds\u2014most of them shitting themselves in their violent panic\u2014and the sounds of the hand cranked machinery that smashed the carcasses to dust.\n\n_If ever there was a hell on earth_...Sarah thought as she watched the glazed, robotic looks on the chicken workers.\n\nThe man stopped at one spot on the factory line and grabbed the girl from her mother. He shoved her into line and held up a finger to make her look at him. She tore her eyes from her mother and watched him as if hypnotized. He grabbed a live chicken from the crate to the left of the girl, wrung its neck and placed its still flopping body in her hands. He pointed to the basket of chicken feathers. In the clangor of the factory, it was impossible to hear conversation of any kind.\n\nAnd then the girl, who up until a year ago probably had only used her hands to text her BFF or get a fill-in on her gel nail set, grabbed the spasmodic chicken and began frenetically yanking its feathers out. Sarah saw the man nod with satisfaction and then turn to look at the girl's mother. He indicated with a jerk of his head that she was to stay with the girl. Sarah watched the mother's face twist into tears of relief as she jumped up to the place to the left of her daughter and grabbed a live chicken.\n\nThe man continued walking until another gap in the line revealed itself and he repeated his tutelage with the big-nosed woman. A few steps later, he indicated a spot in the line and Sarah stepped up. He stood next to her and waited while a young girl handed the woman to her right a newly killed, largely plucked chicken.\n\nSarah watched the woman cut the chicken down its breast with a sharp knife and then pull the ribs apart before handing it to the man. He reached into the body cavity and pulled out a handful of warm, bloody offal. Sarah saw him quickly toss gizzards, heart and liver into a bucket in front of her, and the remaining viscera onto the floor. The woman directly to Sarah's right waited for the gutted chicken with a small hatchet in her hands. The man handed her the chicken and Sarah watched her detach the bird's feet and head in two whacks.\n\nHe stepped back and motioned for Sarah to take his place. The woman to her left handed her a newly cut chicken and the woman to her right tapped her hatchet with impatience.\n\nSarah stood and gutted chickens for the next five hours. At one point she tried to communicate with the women around her to ask where the facilities were that she might relieve herself. The man quickly appeared, but before she could speak he brandished a short stubbed whip and brought it whistling down across her shoulders. Stunned, Sarah whirled on him without thinking. He backed away from her, then grabbed the young girl in line and, in front of Sarah, beat her back and buttocks with his whip, his eyes on Sarah throughout.\n\nShe quickly took her place back in line and didn't look up again until a loud bell clanged and all the workers stepped down from their places in line. She followed the women she had worked next to all afternoon to her bed for the night.\n\nToo exhausted to think of eating and too nauseated to keep it down anyway, Sarah fell on the thin covering on the floor that was her pallet. The women's dormitory was a smaller room off the main work floor, but the smell was no less foul. Sarah lay on the pallet, grateful to be off her feet. Her legs twitched and aching pain clawed up to her thighs.\n\nHow in the world would she last another day? Except for the high windows in the main killing floor, she had seen no other way out of the factory except the double front doors. A few women were allowed to go out to fetch the buckets of water they were constantly throwing down on the floor to wash away the blood and the sticky offal, but otherwise no one left or entered the building.\n\nThe light had plunged the factory into darkness except for one lantern in the dormitory. Sarah could smell food being cooked but she was too tired to lift her head to see who was doing it or if they were sharing. For the first time since she came to the factory, she heard voices and conversation around her. Soft, murmuring voices and even a chuckle filtered through her subconscious, although Sarah wasn't sure she hadn't fallen asleep and dreamed that.\n\nWas it the middle of the night? Was she awake? Her fingers and feet vibrated with exhaustion and the exertion of being held taut all day. When she closed her eyes, she realized she had been breathing out of her nose for hours and hadn't realized it. The smell no longer seemed that bad.\n\nShe was so tired she didn't realize a hand was pressing on her shoulder until she felt it through her blouse and the thin rag that served as a blanket. She jerked around to face the woman who had stood next to her all day chopping off chicken heads and feet. For a moment, Sarah wasn't sure she wasn't dreaming her, too.\n\n\"You're thirsty, luv,\" the woman said, holding out a plastic cup to Sarah.\n\nSarah sat up and reached for the water, not caring if it were radioactive or laced with cyanide. She drank it down and groaned with the relief of quenching a thirst she hadn't even registered that she had. \"Thank you,\" she whispered, the memory of the poor girl's beating coming quickly to mind.\n\n\"We can talk a bit in here,\" the woman said as she took the cup back. Sarah guessed her age to be close to her own. She had kind eyes, but her hair had been cropped short, as if she had been sick.\n\n\"How long have you been here?\" Sarah was grateful for the kindness and she tried to smile, praying it didn't look like something manic and unnatural.\n\n\"Not long. Just long enough to know the ropes.\"\n\n\"How did you come to be here? Does your family know?\"\n\n\"My family is gone.\" The woman looked away and then back at Sarah. \"It's just me now.\"\n\n\"Did they come to your village and take you?\"\n\n\"You sound different. Where are you from?\"\n\n\"I'm American. My name's Sarah.\"\n\n\"I'm Desdemona. People call me Dez. Where did they find you?\"\n\n\"I was living in Ireland. They...they killed my husband to take me.\" It didn't feel any more real to say the words, but the pain at hearing them was just as bad.\n\n\"I'm sorry about that. We'd heard a rumor that they was going further afield for the recruits. Ireland, huh?\"\n\nSarah shook her head. \"Recruits for their poultry processing factory? They've kidnapped me for this?\"\n\n\"That's not how it works.\"\n\n\"How what works? And those people by the door...the ones that look like they're about to keel over? Who are they?\"\n\n\"They were us, six months ago.\" Dez's mouth hardened when she spoke. \"But it won't be me. It damn sure won't be me, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"Is there no escape? I thought there were laws in England even after the, you know, the bomb.\"\n\n\"We have laws,\" Dez said with disgust. \"But the people in charge are paid to look the other way.\"\n\n\"Don't you have a village? People to look out for you?\" Sarah thought of Mike's community. Everyone from very different walks of life had come together to forge a new kind of clan that watched everyone else's back. If it weren't for her and David's stubbornness, she would probably be safe within their compound right this minute.\n\n\"I was a paralegal in Kent. I had a boyfriend, who I haven't seen since The Crisis, may God rest his soul. He was a fool so I'm sure he's dead. I stayed in my apartment for a while until the looting and the gangs drove me out, then I was living in the street. It wasn't like that where you're from?\"\n\nSarah shook her head. \"No, we...there's a community run by this head guy and it's all good and we...they look out for each other.\"\n\n\"Well, that's nice, I'm sure. There wasn't anything like that where I was. When Correy's goons found me, I was ready to be found.\"\n\n\"Correy?\"\n\nDez laughed. \"Yeah, we're in Correyville. Didn't you know? I guess it's like that community you was talking about, only instead of some Irish guy running things it's the devil himself.\"\n\n\"Dez, there's got to be a way out of here. I've got a family to get back to. If you wanted, you could come with me.\"\n\nDez looked down at the empty plastic cup and then over her shoulder. The rest of the women were either sleeping or talking quietly in small groups. Whoever had cooked had passed the food among the group.\n\n\"You don't need to bother. You're not staying.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"They brought you here so you'd be agreeable to where they _really_ want you to be. I've seen 'em do it fifty times or more already.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, _where they really want me to be_? Why didn't they just take me there?\"\n\n\"Coz most women don't take to whoring if they don't have something worse to compare it to. Me, I was pushed into a corner a few times early on after The Crisis\u2014for food, mind you\u2014and it didn't kill me.\" Dez shrugged. \"But they ain't asking me.\"\n\n\"How do you know they'll give me a choice?\"\n\n\"Because they have you pulling guts. It looks like nothing, but there's a skill to it, especially what I do. They got you pulling guts because they want you to go screaming for the door.\"\n\n\"And the door leads to their prostitution operation?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Those girls eat good, and they have nice beds. They don't get walloped for nothing nor have to smell shite every minute of the day. You want to be there, Sarah. Trust me.\"\n\n\"And you think they put me _here_ so I would then gratefully give my body to whomever paid me.\"\n\n\"Well, they're not paying _you_ , but yeah. I sure as shit would.\" Dez looked around the room. \"There's not many would turn down the offer if it was made to them.\"\n\n\"But some did.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, some would rather die, wouldn't they?\"\n\nSarah sighed and fell back onto her pallet. The stench seemed to be reviving as she looked around the darkened room. \"I have a child,\" she said. \"Dying's not an option.\"\n\n\"Well, then I guess you're going to the whorehouse.\"\n\n# 11\n\nTwo days sitting in the back of what used to be a dry cleaners. Two days of wondering where Sarah was and if that was really her on the ferry.\n\nTwo days.\n\nMike sat at the counter and looked out the window onto the street of Boreen, County Wexford.\n\nTwo days. Just long enough to cool her trail down to make it impossible to ever pick up again. _It had been her. He knew it._\n\nA light tap on the door prompted him to his feet and he stood watching the front door\u2014still with its welcoming customer's chime intact\u2014open on the form of a tall woman holding a covered tray. As usual, she was accompanied by a man\u2014never the same one\u2014with a gun.\n\n\"Aideen,\" Mike said, his eyes never leaving the man and his gun.\n\n\"Good morning, Mike,\" she said. She was a good-looking woman, Mike had to admit. Big where it counted, delicate everywhere else. \"I'm afraid we'll be seeing the back of you today.\"\n\n\"Oh? Finally going to shoot me, are you?\"\n\nHer laugh was a rich, throaty one and nearly prompted a smile from him too. If circumstances had been different, he found himself thinking.\n\n\"Liam, you big mug, I told you not to bring that in here. It's not necessary.\"\n\nLiam frowned and put his gun back in its holster. \"We don't know that for sure,\" he said, eyeing Mike suspiciously.\n\n\"Now, Mike,\" Aideen said, spreading out the tray of food on the counter. \"We've had this discussion before. You know that no town can function without rules, and I am sorry that you were caught in them. But tolls are important these days. Especially now. We couldn't run the town without them.\"\n\nMike sat back down and reached for the cup of tea on the tray. \"I'll be getting me horse back today? And me rifle?\"\n\n\"Of course. We're not uncivilized. Edgar doesn't enjoy incarcerating people.\"\n\n_Yeah, right._\n\n\"But we've had the use of your horse for two days and so your toll is paid, and also the fine, mind, for breaking the law in the first place.\"\n\n\"The law? Which would be entering the town without first asking permission?\"\n\n\"Ah, now, Mike, don't be like that. I've told you before, the law pertains to anyone on horseback or horse-drawn vehicle and it's a good law and we'll stand by that. What with you coming into town without a punt in your pocket, what else could we do?\"\n\n\"But I'm free to go now?\" Mike stood up.\n\n\"Aye, but I thought I might make a suggestion?\"\n\n\"I'm listening.\"\n\n\"You're keen to cross to Wales, am I right?\"\n\nMike nodded.\n\n\"Well, that's expensive, ya see. And what with you as broke as\u2014\"\n\n\"What's your suggestion, Aideen?\"\n\n\"Work on my father's farm for two weeks. He'll pay you enough for a round-trip passage to the UK.\"\n\nMike hesitated. \"I'll need a fare for another on the way back.\"\n\nNow Aideen hesitated and Mike thought her eyes grew a little brighter. \"Oh, I see. A runaway wife?\"\n\n\"No. Just a friend.\"\n\nShe extended her hand across the tray. \"Two weeks and you'll be on your way again. You have my word.\"\n\nHe hesitated. In the two days he'd had to cool his heels, he realized he needed to be smarter about what he was doing. Partly the reason he'd been caught unawares by the toll\u2014and Edgar\u2014was that he was too focused on his goal and he missed all the important clues around him.\n\nHe shook her hand. \"Two weeks.\"\n\nAn hour later, he had his horse and rifle back and was riding alongside Aideen's pony trap to her father's farm.\n\nHe glanced around the scenery in this part of Ireland. While the cliffs and crags still buckled beneath the green sod like the area he was from, there was something more tranquil or tame about this part of his country. His eyes lighted on Aideen as she held the reins on the trap. She couldn't be yet thirty, he thought as he watched her curly brown hair cascade down her back, her face freckled from the sun and lack of makeup.\n\nShe'd brought a food tray to him for two days in the back of the dry cleaners and spoke cheerfully to him each time. But she had a story. He could see it in her eyes, eyes that weren't as cheerful and ready as her easy smile.\n\nHe stretched his back and wondered how far away from the coast her father's farm was.\n\nIf his plan wasn't to turn right around and head back to Donovan's Lot, then he needed to use his head better about how he went about things.\n\nHe had to get to the UK because that's where Sarah was.\n\nThat meant he had to get on the ferry because that was the only way, short of swimming it, to get to the UK.\n\nThe ferry cost money.\n\nHe had no money.\n\nHe'd take the time to make the money.\n\nHe could run around like a goose trying to make everything happen fast and get nowhere. Or he could put his shoulder to the plow, probably literally, for two weeks and ensure he got to England.\n\nNow if only Sarah could hold on that long.\n\n# 12\n\n_9 Days after the attack._\n\nSarah wondered if they would ever come for her. After three full days on the line, she was seriously balancing whether her odds were better breaking out of the factory at night or waiting until they took her to the whorehouse, where there were bound to be more opportunities.\n\nIf they were going to offer her the option at all.\n\nDez assured her they would ask her, they were just making sure she was amenable. Sarah picked chicken viscera out from under her nails and wondered if the smell would ever come out of her hair. The days were long and grueling. If she hadn't known that deliverance was coming, she had to admit it would have been much, much worse.\n\nWhere was Mike? Was anybody coming? Had they given up on her? She forced herself not to think what John must be going through\u2014all alone. She knew Fiona would mother him, take care of him.\n\nStill, she had to get back to him.\n\nIt was late on the third day, just before the clang of the day's bell was about to sound, that they came for her. She recognized the man called Aidan and someone else she had never seen before. Her hands still wringing with chicken entrails, she felt a strong hand clamp down on her elbow and pull her away from the line.\n\n\"Cor, she stinks! Can't we hose her off first?\"\n\n\"Just bring her. Don't bother tying her, she won't try anything.\"\n\nSarah didn't even have a chance to get eye contact with Dez before she was dragged out of the factory. The light was fading when they opened the double factory doors and prodded her outdoors. She was grateful it wasn't earlier in the day. Likely, she would've collapsed like a squirming mole at first glance of the sun. As it was, for her purposes she knew the night was her ally.\n\n\"I was gonna have a go at her before we delivered her, but I'm not sure I've had my shots.\" The man that Sarah didn't know was a rough sort. He was big, easily six-three, with a thick skull and a slack, protruding bottom lip. Aidan referred to him as Gil.\n\n\"You don't want to touch anything in there you don't have to. Besides, Denny would have your balls on a platter you touch her before him.\"\n\nIn the three days since she had been bound, her wrists had scabbed over and she didn't relish the idea of having them broken open again. She went meekly to the back of the cart wondering how long the trip was and if she'd have a chance to slip off. She was stopped before she could climb in.\n\n\"Nah ya don't, little sister,\" Aidan said. \"Hop up top between us.\" Aidan lifted the reins and patted the seat next to him. \"And we're no happier about it than you are.\" With sinking heart, Sarah climbed onto the driver's bench and sat next to Aidan. Gil pulled himself up and wedged her in.\n\nIt was clear why they didn't feel a need to bind her hands, at any rate.\n\nWith the factory receding in the distance over her shoulder, Sarah felt a gnawing feeling of anxiety and trepidation working up from her gut to her shoulders.\n\nWould they expect her to go to work _tonight_? Were they taking her straight to the whorehouse?\n\nShe looked frantically from side to side hoping to see someone who might recognize that she wasn't a willing rider with these two men. But there was no one else on the road this evening. Wedged in between them, Sarah had never felt more helpless or more like prey in her entire life. She could practically feel the hunger and urgency pinging off the man, Gil, as he sat next to her, his face twisted into a lethal contortion of anger and need.\n\nSomeone who hurt others for the pleasure of it, she found herself thinking, although why she thought she knew that she couldn't say.\n\nWherever they were taking her, she thought, could not be more uncomfortable or dangerous than where she sat right this minute.\n\nShe was, of course, absolutely wrong.\n\n* * *\n\nThe ride wasn't long enough. Before it was totally dark, the horse cart turned a corner revealing a long curving driveway that led to a large three-story mansion. Before The Crisis, it must have belonged to someone rich and powerful Sarah thought as she regarded the house on their approach. Kerosene lamps hung in several of the windows illuminating the rooms even from the outside.\n\nWhoever lived there now was powerful, that was for sure. Jags and Bentleys may not drive up and down this bricked entranceway any longer, but the man who lives here is a king in every other way that matters. Dez said his name was Correy. As they rode toward the mansion, Sarah knew the man they were taking her to hired cutthroats and murderers to abduct innocent women and children to work in his filthy, vermin-ridden factory and as sex slaves to whomever still had legal tender.\n\nBy the time they stopped the cart in front, Sarah wished she was back in the factory.\n\nGil jumped down and Sarah immediately joined him to avoid any chance he might try to assist her.\n\n\"I'll take her from here, gentlemen.\"\n\nSarah looked up the stairs at the verandah, where a stout woman stood, her arms crossed in front of her. If it weren't for the fact that she had screaming orange hair piled up into a beehive hairdo, Sarah would've thought she was the housekeeper. She followed her up the stairs, aware that the men were coming, too.\n\nSarah followed the woman through the house and down the main hall. She could hear raised voices at one end of the house, but she couldn't hear what they said. She needed to hurry to keep up with the woman ahead of her. The men had fallen away at the foyer and Sarah was grateful for that. Finding the right moment to slip away from this woman would be easier if she didn't have to watch her back, too.\n\nThe woman opened a door off a back room and motioned Sarah inside. She took one step in and her resolve began to falter. The room was steamed with the fragrance of orange and rose petals that rose off the large claw-footed bathtub situated in the middle of the room. Sarah stared at it with wonder.\n\n\"Clothes.\" The woman said the word as if she was giving an order she expected to be obeyed without hesitation.\n\nSarah blinked at her and then the tub and unbuttoned her shirt. She dropped it, her bra, underwear and jeans to the floor.\n\n\"Kick them over here.\"\n\nSarah obeyed, then went to the tub without being told. She gripped the sides and eased herself into the hot pool of sudsy water, an involuntary groan escaping her as she did.\n\nThe woman watched her for a moment and then said, \"Get clean everywhere. You've got ten minutes.\" And then she swept Sarah's clothes from the room with her foot and left, closing the door behind her.\n\nIt would never have occurred to Sarah that the one time she had had in nine days to escape would be the one time she was almost physically incapable of doing so. She needed the bath, the soak, the perfume, the heat, the water. She leaned her head back and dipped her head in the water, feeling the grime and the pain of the last week melt away. Like finding rest in unlikely conditions and food she wouldn't have fed to the dogs a week ago, she needed this restorative for whatever lay ahead of her. She held her breath and submerged totally. When she came up, she could see the filth coating the top of her sweet-smelling tub of water. She reached for the shampoo that had been left out for her.\n\nShe hadn't had shampoo in over eight months. She squeezed it out onto her head and massaged it into her scalp, feeling gently for the place where Aidan had slammed her head into the side of the cart. When she dipped her head back again to rinse the soap, she noticed that the bubbles were no longer grey. The shampoo had swung the tide. She stood up just as the woman reentered the room with a wide, fluffy towel in her arms, a change of clothes draped over a forearm.\n\n\"Figured I wouldn't have to tell a Yank how to get clean,\" she said in a clipped English accent. \"One is never sure what to expect with the Irish, however.\" She handed the towel to Sarah, who quickly toweled off and wrapped it around her body.\n\n\"Put this on.\" The woman held up a negligee. It was black, short and totally see-through. She held out a pair of crotch-less panties in her hand.\n\n_So that's the way it's going to be_. Sarah reminded herself that she was clean and that was a start. It wasn't a gun. But it was better than what she had an hour ago.\n\nShe reached for the outfit.\n\n* * *\n\nThirty minutes later, Sarah stood in the middle of a man's bedroom. She knew it was Correy that she was waiting for, not a john. The head guy himself was going to interview her. The woman who had arranged her bath, clearly a madam of some kind, had made it clear that she was to sexually avail herself to Correy.\n\nAfter dressing in the skimpy negligee, she was led to Correy's bedroom.\n\nWhere she waited.\n\nThe bedroom was masculine, almost painfully so. It looked as if someone was trying very hard to show that he was very male.\n\nThat almost never boded well.\n\nSarah's heart was pounding as she waited, seated on the man's bed, which was made of heavy brocades and velvets. She couldn't imagine how he kept them clean now that washing machines were no more. He probably had poor peasant women banging them out on stones in the river. She shivered. In all the times she had to think about this moment, one thing she never thought would happen...was this moment.\n\nIt had never occurred to her\u2014even after all that Dez had said about it\u2014that she might actually end up having to give her body to someone. And not just _any_ someone, but someone vile and wretched and evil. She felt goose bumps creep down her arms and she rubbed them away.\n\n_Could this really be happening? Was this really going to happen?_ She glanced at the orange-headed madam, who sat in a chair by the window looking out. Sarah felt absolutely naked. The negligee easily revealed her breasts and she couldn't help hugging her body with her arms to cover them.\n\nOnce, the woman looked at her from the window and commented. \"You'll need to drop your arms when he comes in. He won't be charmed by attempts to hide them.\"\n\n_Who was this monster?_\n\nAs she waited, Sarah took a long breath and reminded herself that the road back to her son had to go down this path. It wasn't by way of the poultry factory\u2014which was a dead end in every way\u2014and it wasn't by way of someone coming to rescue her. Tonight may be a terrible night. It may in fact be the worst night of her life, but it was a necessary night in order to get to the other nights\u2014nights where an opportunity would present itself and she would be able to run.\n\nThe door banged open, startling both women. Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, but she quickly dropped it as the madam had warned her. She sat on the bed, feeling like she was nothing but a pair of breasts and a few strips of lace and panties.\n\nHe walked in and straight over to her. If she hadn't known him to be the monster he was, she would have taken him for a friendly young man who was eager to make her acquaintance. He smiled openly at her. He wasn't bad looking, with blue eyes and straight teeth, but he didn't look nice.\n\n\"Well, well, well, so this is the Yank. Very nice, I must say. Sarah, is it? I think Angie said?\"\n\nSarah cleared her throat. \"Yes, that's right.\"\n\n\"Jolly good. Love that American accent. Reminds me of _Friends_. You ever watch that show? Phoebe was my favorite. Good tits. How's your arse?\"\n\nSarah stared at him. \"Excuse me?\"\n\nThe madam from the window walked over. \"Turn around and let him see your arse, stupid.\"\n\nSarah slid off the bed and turned away.\n\n\"Bend over,\" he said.\n\n_Oh, dear God, he's not going to do anything right here, is he?_\n\nSarah put her hands on the bed and leaned over.\n\n\"Oh, very nice, indeed,\" he said. For a moment, Sarah thought they were done. She was about to turn back around when she felt his hand slide up her bottom and yank her panties down and off. \"How many times do I have to tell you, Maggie, I hate these things?\"\n\n\"Sorry, Mr. Correy.\"\n\n\"Get out!\" he screamed.\n\nSarah turned to go but he grabbed her by the arm and held her by the bed. \"Not you.\"\n\nWhen she tried to turn to face him, her heart pounding in her ears, her face red with fear and revulsion, he held her immobile between him and the bed. She felt him rub his pelvis against her naked bottom. She grimaced and bit her lip to endure it. He leaned over so his mouth was near her ear while both his hands held her hips in place in front of him.\n\n\"Now, here's what you need to ask yourself, luv,\" he whispered hoarsely into her ear. \"Is fighting me, or anyone else I send to roger you\u2014which will surely force me to slit your throat and throw you on the growing pile of useless bitches who crossed me\u2014going to get you back to your boy? Angie said you had a son. If you're dead, you have zero chance of ever seeing him again. You see how this works?\"\n\nSarah took in a breath and held it.\n\n\"I asked you a question.\"\n\n\"Yes, I understand.\"\n\n\"I love how quickly you Yanks see the writing. So, you'll be stripping down without my having to do it for you. You'll await me in my bed, no matter how long I take. And you'll do me just fine, no matter what I ask you to do. Do we understand each other?\"\n\nSarah nodded, her hands gripping the bed in front of her. He gave her bare ass one last hard squeeze before he slapped it and pushed away from her. \"Chin up, darlin', English women have taken it up the arse for Mother England for years. I don't recollect the exact phrase but it's something like that. I won't mind a bit if it helps to think of your boy while I roger you.\" He laughed roughly and moved to the door. \"I'll be back.\"\n\nSarah nodded again and waited until the door closed behind him.\n\nShe was alone.\n\nJumping off the bed, Sarah ran across the room and jerked open the first drawer in his tallboy. T-shirts and underwear were neatly stacked. Rifling under the clothes, she found nothing she could use to protect herself. Hearing footsteps outside the door, she paused. When they passed, she pulled open the second drawer to find only jeans. Sarah touched the rough denim fabric and then, hearing a different set of footsteps, hurriedly pushed the drawer shut and ran back to the bed.\n\nShe could tell that whomever was about to enter the room wasn't Correy. Correy was slim and short. The footsteps were heavy, indicating a large man. She arranged herself on the bed and tried to calm her hurried breathing. Her eyes darted around the room, looking, searching for something, anything, she could use for protection. And then she saw the doorknob begin to turn and she found herself holding her breath.\n\nHe literally filled the doorway with his bulk. The man, Gil, stood at the entrance to the bedroom, a leer planted firmly across his face, his eyes never raising any higher than her nearly naked breasts. He took one step into the room and shut the door behind him.\n\n# 13\n\nHe stood in front of her, his hands on his hips and grinned, his eyes never meeting hers.\n\n_He looks at me like I'm a thing to be devoured_ , Sarah thought, with rising panic. She slipped off the bed and stood in front of him, not sure why she moved, but not able to help herself. She wasn't trying to escape, exactly, but it didn't matter. The grin disappeared from the man's face and his lips curled back to reveal yellow and chipped teeth. He slapped Sarah hard, knocking her down against the bed.\n\n\"Bitch! Who told ya you could move?\"\n\nSarah's mouth filled with the taste of her own blood. She scrambled across the bed and turned to watch him as he moved around the foot of the bed to cut off her escape. She had meant to give in. She'd told herself she would do what she had to do to survive. She didn't know why she couldn't stop herself from moving away from him.\n\nHe cracked his knuckles and advanced on her, his eyes again on her breasts. \"Denny said you're too old for him so you're all mine, sis. I wouldn't think of yelling or anything coz I pretty much got the green light to do whatever I want, and it's up to you whether there's anything left of ya afterwards to go on to Maggie's or I haul your arse back to the factory. Ya understand me, bitch?\"\n\nSarah stared at him and felt the helplessness sift through her. She couldn't do it. She could not allow him to climb on top of her. Her mind was a whirl of motion and a thousand different thoughts and images. Would she ever be the same again if she let him touch her? Would she be anything worth having back as a mother?\n\nHer eyes narrowed as she watched Gil undo his belt and drop his pants on the floor. He still had his socks and boots on and Sarah thought she saw something flash from the top of his sock. He was wearing a shoulder holster but she couldn't see if there was anything in it. Whatever she did, she needed to do it now. She looked frantically at the nightstand by the bed but there was nothing there, not even a book or a paperweight.\n\n\"Denny said we can't use the bed so move over here by the couch. If I have to come get you, I'll make sure it hurts bad.\"\n\nShe watched him waiting for her, his stiff member holding his shirtfront up like a sagging tent pole. She nodded and moved toward the couch. She had only one trick in her bag and if she screwed it up he'd kill her. But if she didn't at least try, she would surely die a slower, different way.\n\nAs she passed him, she turned to him and said, \"I was hoping it would be you ever since we first met this morning.\"\n\nHe grunted in surprise. She saw his eyes were not on her face. She counted on it. She pushed her chest out higher and placed her hands on his arms. \"I want you to do me,\" she said plainly. He hesitated just long enough, his eyes mesmerized by the swaying of her full naked breasts so close they were nearly touching his arm.\n\nShe brought her knee up sharp and hard between his legs.\n\nHe emitted a strangled breath and she pushed him off balance. He fell onto his back against the wall and folded up with a long, wailing groan. She didn't waste the moment. Using her fear and revulsion to push her to take the next step, she knelt over him and grabbed the blade she'd seen in his boot.\n\n_Don't think! Just do it!_\n\n\"I'll kill you for this you bitch...\" he groaned.\n\nSarah drew the blade across his throat and watched his eyes spring open wide as she did. A gasp of air hit her knuckles from his exposed windpipe. She knew it was enough and she couldn't wait any longer. Before she was even standing, she shed the negligee on the floor. She grabbed the gun from his harness, then ran to the dresser and jerked open the second drawer for the jeans.\n\nShe turned and listened to sounds from the hallway. She heard laughing and women's voices. Over her shoulder, she could hear that the wheezing had stopped. She pulled on a pair of jeans and grabbed a t-shirt from the top drawer.\n\nShe checked that the gun was loaded then tucked it into the back waist of her jeans. The knife was sticky with blood but she held it in her hand in case she met anyone on her way out. She glanced out the window and sent a silent prayer of thanks that it was already dark. She would have to leave through the window, across the roof. She was barefoot but it couldn't be helped. She didn't know how long she had before Correy reclaimed his bedroom, but she knew she needed to be long gone by then.\n\nWith the knife still in her hand, she pulled the window open and crawled out onto the sill. Correy's bedroom faced the back garden, not the front, and she counted that as a major stroke of luck. As she negotiated a five-foot drop from the window ledge, she glanced back in the bedroom to confirm what she already knew. Her would-be rapist lay propped up against the wall, his hands still cupping his naked crotch, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. She could see the line of red across his throat even from eight feet away.\n\nShe dropped onto the second roof below the bedroom window and crouched on all fours to inch her way to the roof edge. There was a first story roof eave over the back door entrance. Once she made it that far, she could drop the rest of the way into the bushes. She might come away with some bad scratches, but at least she wouldn't break anything. She could see the dark lawn stretching all the way to fence perimeter about one hundred meters away. Once she was down, she should be able to make it to the back fence at a dead run in seconds. The woods on the other side looked dense and thick, but that was to her benefit.\n\nWhile she didn't worry about the fence being electrified, as she released her hold on the roof edge and dropped into a hedge of hazel shrubs by the back door it did occur to her that Correy might have security or dogs. She landed painfully in the center of the bush with branches lashing her face and neck and immediately fought to free herself. She took a quick inventory as she ran for the back fence. Her feet had taken the worst of it, but still only stings at this point. Figuring she'd stand a greater chance of running into sentries at the fence, she ran straight across the lawn. If a dog caught her, she'd kill it with her knife.\n\nIf she ran into a man, same thing.\n\nThe grass was cold and smooth under her feet. She felt the gun pinching into her back as she ran, but also felt an exhilaration as the evening air pushed against her and she saw the fence come nearer and nearer.\n\nNine days of abuse and imprisonment, threats and beatings. Nine days of crying silently for her losses, of praying and hoping for rescue, of waiting for something to happen.\n\nAnd now she was running free. Running directly back to her boy.\n\nAnd she'd be damned if anyone would stop her.\n\n# 14\n\nThe work was hard and Mike was glad of it.\n\nTen-hour days of plowing fields, feeding livestock, cleaning out stalls and pigsties, and mending fences left him falling asleep over his dinner and nights of dreamless, uninterrupted sleep. He slept in the barn near Petey, which suited him fine, and counted the days until he'd earned enough to ride back to Boreen.\n\nMeanwhile, he stepped into the routine of hard physical labor and forced himself to put his worries away until the job was done. Aideen lived in town with her young daughter, but came each Sunday and Wednesday to cook enough to tide Mike and her father over for the days in between.\n\nHer father was a right bastard.\n\nSmall and wiry, with a ferret face that seemed to push in on itself when he grimaced, Fionn Malone worked alongside Mike as if they were inmates on a chain gang. His dour and humorless manner infected the atmosphere of every room he entered. Mike was glad to retreat to the barn each night.\n\nThe second Sunday that Aideen came to cook and clean, she asked Mike if he would ride back to Boreen with her.\n\n\"Only, there are some _gougers_ on the loose lately,\" she said. \"And I've left it too late today. You can ride back in the morning.\"\n\nMike knew it was easily a two-hour ride each way and there was no way Fionn would pay him for the excursion. His shoulders sagged at the thought of delaying his trip across the channel by even one more day. But he couldn't let Aideen ride back in the dark either.\n\n\"I promise you'll be paid for your time,\" she said. \"I've got one or two things needing mending at my place, too.\"\n\n\"Not married, Aideen?\"\n\n\"I _was_ married, Mike Donovan. But me Darryl was killed soon after the _Yank's Gift_.\" When he frowned, she said, \"Surely they call it that where you're from? It's because it's thanks to the Americans we're all living like savages, you see?\"\n\n\"It's an American I'm looking for.\"\n\n\"You and everyone else around these parts. But seriously, I wouldn't advertise the fact. People aren't too pleased with the Yanks these days. Just last week, a woman was tarred and feathered for saying she thought the Americans make good movies.\"\n\n\"A bit drastic, surely?\"\n\nAideen shrugged. \"People are frustrated. The worst of it are the rumors that say the US was totally unaffected.\"\n\n\"I'm sure that's wrong.\"\n\n\"Are you? Seems to me it's exactly what you'd expect from 'em. They start all this bother and we end up paying the price for it.\"\n\nThat evening, Mike tied Petey to the back of Aideen's pony trap and drove her back to Boreen.\n\nBefore they left, Fionn had him clear out of the house for an hour while he and Aideen talked of family matters that didn't concern him. When he and Aideen rode back to town, Mike couldn't help but notice she'd been crying. He hoped she and her father weren't dealing with some kind of health crisis.\n\n_What else could it be? The old bastard was hardly in danger of losing his job._\n\nThe trip took longer by pony trap, and Mike swore he could feel every bump in the road. Plus, it wasn't an activity that overwhelmed him like the farm work did. His mind, especially with the quiet mood Aideen was in, was free to roam and think the worst. When he wasn't worrying about where Sarah was or what she must be going through, his thoughts inevitably turned to Gavin and wondering about how his community fared.\n\nWhile he tried to believe they could survive without him, he had to admit the people living there\u2014twelve families, sixty individuals all total\u2014were remarkably capable of making some seriously stupid mistakes.\n\nFiona's pessimism aside, he couldn't help but think this break from his directorship would give Gavin the opportunity he needed to grow up a little.\n\nHe sighed as he watched the dark shapes along the side of the road morph and dissolve into bushes and leafless trees.\n\n_Who was he kidding?_ What with Caitlin's mischief and Gavin's immaturity, the community was, without doubt, in total chaos right now. And here he was pitching hay and driving the farmer's daughter down country lanes.\n\nThe world really had gone mad.\n\nWhile the night was quite dark, the hour probably was only a little past nine when they stopped at a house to pick up Aideen's eight-year-old daughter, Taffy. She was half asleep, stumbling to the pony trap for the short ride back to Aideen's apartment in Boreen. The girl was pretty, with large dark eyes. Her skin was dark, too, attesting to the fact that her father had been of a different race from her mother.\n\nThat night, Mike slept on an old mattress in the hallway of Aideen's apartment. He couldn't help but notice she behaved as if this was the first safe and secure night's sleep she'd had in months.\n\n_If she was so afraid, why she didn't just move back in with her father?_ Then he remembered Fionn's glowering face as they loaded up the pony trap and figured he probably had his answer.\n\nThe next morning, he nailed a window sill back together for Aideen and cleaned out the worst of a neighboring apartment that people were clearly using as their own private dumping ground. The little girl, Taffy, was quiet and hung close to her mother, but Mike had been able to coax a small smile from her before he got ready to leave.\n\n\"I can't thank you enough, Mike,\" Aideen said, handing him a sandwich of fresh bread and cheese.\n\n\"No problem.\" He looked toward the channel, beyond which he knew Sarah must be battling to stay alive.\n\n\"It was a lot to ask,\" Aideen said solemnly and put her hand on his wrist. \"I want you to know that I'm aware of that. If you're ever...\" she looked over her shoulder to see that Taffy was out of earshot, \"needing a friend...a close friend, well, I'm here.\"\n\nMike was surprised. Aideen was a handsome woman and no mistake. Her figure was slim, with large breasts, and he'd be lying if he hadn't imagined at least once or twice in a fevered moment the feel of her round bottom in his hands. But there was something off about the invitation that he couldn't place his finger on. Maybe because, as friendly as Aideen had always been, even as rotten as their acquaintance had started out, there had never really been any heat or chemistry between them.\n\nProbably just another sign of the times, he thought wearily. When a woman finds she needs something that only the stronger sex can provide, like protection or rebuilding windowsills, she thinks of her own innate skillset first.\n\n\"I'll keep it in mind, Aideen,\" he said, smiling warmly at her. \"And I thank you for the kind offer.\"\n\n\"Sure, it's nothing. Now you'd better get going. There's a gathering slated for later this morning and I'll feel better if you're well out of town before it gets going.\"\n\n\"Is it some kind of anti-Irish parade, because I thought we were all Irish here.\"\n\n\"No, it's just that, Irish or not, you're not from around these parts and this is a gathering about what to do with outsiders.\"\n\n\"The Americans? Because I can almost guarantee you won't see too many of 'em around here. They're rare.\"\n\nAideen laughed. \"People just need to vent, Mike. And if burning an American flag is going to make them feel better about the fact that they don't have milk for their tea, well, then they just need to do it.\"\n\nThe section of town where Aideen's block of flats was located was nearer the waterfront than the road leading out of town. Mike realized when he finally had to dismount to lead Petey out of the narrow and crowded market streets that Aideen hadn't exaggerated the congestion. As he pushed through the crowd of gathered townspeople, he saw homemade American flags draped across rails and barrels, ready for the first match.\n\nIt felt like such a waste of time and energy to pour hatred into being mad at a concept rather than buckling down to the immense amount of work there always was to do these days. He couldn't imagine how many hours it must have taken the women in town to create those flags\u2014some looked like works of art in their craftsmanship\u2014only to destroy them at a party that wasn't going to make anyone feel better after it was over.\n\nWhen he saw a young man lounging by one of the ale barrels waiting for the festivities to start, Mike had the nagging feeling that he'd seen him somewhere before. As he made his way through the crowd, he examined the boy's clothing and his hair, trying to place where in the world he had seen him. Suddenly, a snapshot formed in his head of a man jumping down from the horse-drawn cart on the ferry to look inside the back of the cart.\n\n_Was it the same guy?_\n\nMike squinted and pulled hard on Petey's reins as he approached him. It could be him. But did it make sense that a week later he'd be back on this side of the channel?\n\n\"Hey!\" he said, getting the lad's attention. \"A word?\"\n\nThe young man looked at Mike with the same expression Mike was used to seeing on Gavin's face when he knew he needed to be respectful but there were things he'd rather not be called on.\n\n_Guilt, I think they call it._\n\nThe boy instantly stopped leaning on the barrel and straightened up to take stock in whatever kind of threat Mike might be to him. \"Whatdya want?\" he asked, a vein of insolence in his voice.\n\n\"You seen an American woman?\" Mike asked. \"About this high, dark hair? Came through here a week ago in the back of covered cart?\"\n\nThe boy looked at him in confusion, and the honesty of his look made Mike realize that he didn't know him after all, had never seen him before.\n\nBut by then it was too late.\n\n\"Oy! This bugger's asking about 'is American girlfriend!\"\n\nBefore Mike even had the chance to open his mouth to refute it, they were on him.\n\n# 15\n\nAngie had never seen Denny so unglued.\n\nAnd she had once watched him attempt to draw and quarter a man with his bare hands.\n\n\"I want the bitch dead,\" he said. He sat in his study, fists gripping a heavy paperweight that Angie had reason to believe would be lobbed at her before she would be allowed to leave. While technically not Angie's fault that the Yank bitch had murdered Gil, stolen a gun and escaped from Denny's bedroom, the fact that she had brought her in\u2014what was supposed to be her great achievement\u2014perversely made her the one responsible. Angie only hoped Denny wouldn't try to use her as a temporary substitute for whatever he was thinking of for the Yank.\n\n_Goddam her! If I catch her first, Denny better hope there's something left for him to murder._\n\n\"Angie? May I hear your plan, please, of how you intend to correct this cock-up?\"\n\nAngie knew the reasonable tone hid a malicious intent. She had heard him speak in that same voice on occasions when a knife to the kidney was his next move.\n\n\"She'll try to head back to Ireland,\" Angie said, hoping her voice didn't shake. \"We'll have the main roads covered. I am confident we'll pick her up by lunchtime.\"\n\n\"Really? Lunchtime? So should I save my appetite for dessert? Is that what you're saying?\"\n\n\"Yes, Denny.\"\n\n\"Because I have to tell you, Angie, that regardless of how I may look to you, I am really, very upset.\"\n\n_Don't speak. He wants you to respond. Don't do it._\n\nFour men stood with her in the library. She tried to imagine the kind of person who had lived in this house before Denny took it over. There were so many books lining the shelves, it seemed incredible to believe one person, or even one family, could read them all. Likely they were just for show. She wondered how Denny had taken possession of the place. Did the original owners leave of their own accord, or had Denny helped them along?\n\nShe turned to the men, two of who, Jeff and Aidan, had been with her on the trip to Ireland. \"We'll need five horses. Make sure you've got enough rounds for your weapons.\"\n\n\"I don't want her dead.\"\n\nAngie nodded and then dismissed the men with a hand gesture. When the door closed behind them, she braced herself. She knew she couldn't go until he released her. She'd learned that the hard way. Today, that release could be anything from demanding she get on her knees in front of him to a beating that would prohibit her from getting out of bed for a week.\n\nOr anything in between.\n\nOn impulse, she cleared her throat. She knew she was taking a chance, but what did she have to lose? As soon as the thought came to her head, she banished it.\n\n_Dana._\n\nShe had everything to lose.\n\n\"Got something to say, Angie?\"\n\n\"The bitch has a kid.\"\n\n\"So you've said.\"\n\n\"At the compound near where she was taken. After we get her, I was thinking we might go and get him.\" She lifted her eyes from the carpet to see the effect of her words and was rewarded by what looked to be a genuine smile.\n\n\"Angie, my girl,\" Denny said, standing up and tossing the paperweight onto the floor, where it hit with a thud and rolled impotently across the room to thump against the couch leg. \"You are a feckin' genius.\" He turned from her and went to look out the window.\n\nIt was a cold day, but sunny. Not bad for a picnic by the river or a walk in the park, Angie thought. But not good at all for running barefoot and practically bare-assed though the woods and the highways.\n\n\"Now go get her.\"\n\n# 16\n\n_1 1 Days after the attack._\n\nBarefoot, hungry, and afraid of just about every person she glimpsed from the safety of her ditch, Sarah had spent the last two days travelling exclusively at night and hiding by day. She knew Correy wouldn't just let her go. At least she had to assume he wouldn't. Making it clear of his property without raising the alarm had given her the hope and the energy to walk the entire first night without stopping to rest. She knew she had to get as much distance between her and Correyville as possible. The problem was she had no idea which direction she should be traveling.\n\nHoping for the best and accepting that she might have to backtrack, she moved quickly in the steep ditches that lined the now rarely used highways. More than once, she stumbled over corpses in the dark. Her determination not to be one of them forced her from reacting as she normally would. She told herself that decomposing bodies were just one more hurdle in a nightmare of obstacles that stood between her and being with John again. The first body she fell over nearly unglued her. As she lay in the mud and stared at the rotting head, seeing the lips that once sang or kissed or laughed, she forced herself to shake the thoughts from her mind. And when she did, she leaned over and peeled off the dead woman's shoes.\n\nIn the morning of that first day, she found a large elm tree and climbed it, praying that Correy didn't have whatever the English equivalent to a bloodhound might be. She wedged herself in the highest forking branches and slept on and off until it was time to slip back into the darkness and walk on.\n\nSomewhere in the wee hours of that second night, her thighs aching and her lips cracked and scabbed over, she met the gypsies. She heard them a good mile before she spotted them. They were nearly a dozen ragtag homeless crouching around a fire that had been built at the base of an overpass. She knew she could avoid them by skirting wide around. But in addition to the singing and laughing, she smelled meat cooking and the aroma drew her to the group as decisively as a collar and leash.\n\nShe was starving.\n\nShe watched them for a while from the shadows. There were six men, four women and two children. She watched them huddle together for warmth and affection and hand feed each other like they were on a picnic. The men looked harsh to her, with chiseled features and jagged hair. The women all looked old and the children cross-eyed and silly.\n\nHer intention was to beg for food, but if she had to she would take it by force. She knew they could overpower her if it came to that and she prayed it wouldn't. She didn't want to kill anyone else. She hoped nobody would make her do that.\n\nShe stepped out of the dark and stood waiting for them to see her.\n\nThe music stopped and she watched as all twelve heads swiveled to look at her.\n\n\"Hello,\" she said. \"May I join you tonight?\"\n\nShe wasn't at all sure what she must look like to them. Her clothes were ill fitting but she looked obviously female even so. She remained where she was standing.\n\nFinally, one of the men stood up and held a hand out to her beckoning her toward the circle of warmth. \"You'll be welcome.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe leader of the gypsy band was called Declan. Sarah realized it must be a sign of the new times that few people offered a surname any more. Declan's family had been living under the overpass for nearly three months. They'd been chased out of most communities pretty steadily ever since The Crisis.\n\nSarah's intention after sharing their food with them was to leave immediately. She didn't know how far she'd already come or how far she needed to go. But now, if anyone were to speak to this group, they would know how close Sarah was. Even so, it was very hard to leave.\n\n\"If you've come from Correyville as you say, you're only about ten kilometers outside. But kilometers only matter if you're measuring a distance to something, don't you think?\"\n\nDeclan was intelligent but simple. Sarah couldn't help but think that he and Mike would get on very well. Plus, incredibly, Declan seemed happy with what he was doing. Sarah liked him immediately. The food they offered her was some kind of woodland creature, either possum or rabbit. She didn't know, she couldn't tell, and she didn't ask. It was hot and delicious and she ripped the meat from its bones like she were a wild animal herself.\n\n\"How far is it to the coast, do you known?\"\n\nDeclan accepted a cup of something hot from his wife and passed it to Sarah. She smelled the aromatic vapors of alcohol coming from over the lip of the cup. She drank deeply.\n\n\"In miles or time is it you want to know?\"\n\n\"Miles, I guess.\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nSarah grinned. \"Okay, then time.\"\n\n\"Well, that depends. Can you do twenty-five miles in a day?\"\n\n\"I'm traveling at night so it's a lot slower. I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Traveling at night because you're fearful of strangers?\"\n\n\"That,\" Sarah said evasively.\n\n\"Or people who are not strangers to you?\"\n\nSarah sipped from the warm wine again and handed it back to Declan. \"I don't want to cause trouble for your family. The people who are after me are evil.\"\n\n\"You'll never get where you're going traveling by night,\" Declan said as he leaned back against a tree and lit up a pipe. He grimaced. \"Ran out of tobacco almost a year ago now. Ragwort doesn't draw well and it tastes like shite, but it's still a comforting habit.\" He pushed a stick into the fire and one of the children came and curled up in his lap. Sarah thought the child looked to be about five.\n\n\"So how far do you think the coast is from here?\"\n\nDeclan shrugged. \"Two hundred miles, at least.\"\n\nSarah tried to remember the cart ride after they left the boat. She had slept through some of it but it had easily taken the bulk of three days. How was she ever going to make two hundred miles on foot traveling in ditches by night? It would take her months and Correy would surely find her. She closed her eyes, as if the news was too much to take in.\n\n\"But that's the long way, mind.\"\n\nShe opened her eyes. \"The long way?\"\n\n\"Aye. Nobody takes the shortcut, you see. That'd be daft. But you, Sarah, you might just be crazy enough.\"\n\n\"Why does nobody take the short way?\"\n\n\"Because it's straight through the Brecon Beacons which is five hundred miles of wilderness, wild animals and bandits.\"\n\nShe stared at him.\n\n\"But it cuts off nearly a hundred miles of going by highway and nobody\u2014not whoever is after you nor anybody else\u2014is going in there if they don't have to.\"\n\n\"I have to,\" Sarah said with determination.\n\nDeclan put down the wine cup and leaned over to hand Sarah another piece of meat from the spit in the fire. \"I believe you do. You can travel by day without worry, at least until you come out t'other side.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"Then it's another sixty miles of watching your back to the coast. But you should be safe 'til then.\"\n\nSarah finished chewing and stuck the animal bone in her jeans pocket. She didn't know when she'd eat again and she could at least suck on it if things got bad.\n\nAnd things were almost certainly going to get bad.\n\nShe stood up. \"How far did you say I'm from this Beacons place?\"\n\n\"Around thirty miles. If you continue on as you're going, you'll see a sign for it. It's a national park. Or at least it was. The people coming after you won't expect you to go in there.\"\n\n\"Because I'd have to be crazy.\"\n\n\"Aye, that's right. You'll be safe from them. But there are other things to worry about in there. Mind, keep your eyes open.\" Declan stood up and set the child down next to the fire. He took a few steps over to the where a pile of knapsacks were and dug around and returned with one. He handed it to Sarah.\n\n\"There's some jerky in there, and some hardtack. It's not wonderful but it'll keep you from starving. Once you're inside the Beacons, you'll need to catch some food for yourself. I wouldn't count on the kindness of strangers. I tucked a slingshot inside. Do you have a knife?\" Sarah nodded and took the bag from him.\n\n\"That's good. You know how to skin and gut what you kill? Only I notice you don't sound like someone from round these parts and most people have had to get their hands dirty since the bomb went off.\"\n\n\"I know how,\" Sarah said. \"I can't believe how generous you've been to me. I wish I could do something for you.\"\n\n\"We have everything we need.\"\n\nAmazingly, Sarah thought he really believed that. \"You sound Irish,\" she said. \"Is that where you're originally from?\"\n\n\"Aye, it is.\"\n\n\"Well, Ireland is where I'm going. If you ever find your way back there, I come from a community of people who would love to meet you.\" She waved a hand to the rest of the group, who were huddled sleeping around the campfire. \"All of you. And you would be very welcome were you to come. Ask for Mike Donovan's place.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Sarah. Now you'll need to be going if you want to make any time at all. You won't manage it to the Beacons by day's light, so you'll have to decide whether to risk it or stop.\"\n\n\"May I hug you?\"\n\nDeclan laughed and held out his arms. \"Cor, I don't know where you're from,\" he said, \"but it most certainly is not from around here.\"\n\nShe hugged him tightly and felt his goodness and his generosity help to wash away the horrors of the people she had met in the last two weeks. She released him, hoisted the bag onto her back and, after a brief nod of thanks, slipped back into the shadows.\n\n* * *\n\nIf she had to guess, Sarah would say it took sixteen hours from the gypsies' campfire to the sign that said \"Brecon Beacons National Park 5 kilometers.\" Six hours walking in the dark and praying she hadn't gotten turned around, and ten hours waiting for the shroud of darkness to cloak her entrance into the park. In the end, she was too afraid to risk walking by day. It was painful to be so close, but Correy's people had to figure she would go back the way she came and she was still too near the main highway, the A7. If there was ever a perfect time to find her, this would be it.\n\nShe found a good elm tree across from the park sign. Just looking at it gave her optimism that sanctuary was close. She hid herself among the branches and found a secure perch where she could doze off without falling. Her stomach growled and she ate the small bits of jerky that Declan had put in the pack for her. He had also included the dented wine cup and a thin, patched blanket, and Sarah blessed him with real tears when she huddled shivering under it against the night's cold.\n\nThe days were the worst because, with no activity, it was hard to turn off her brain. And her brain was full of fears and what-ifs and terrible memories. She tried to will herself to sleep, but the occasional movements below of travelers kept her alert and fretful. She just had to survive undetected until nightfall, then she'd find a cave or a campsite and really sleep.\n\nFor now, she just had to not be seen and not fall out of the tree.\n\n* * *\n\nWhen evening fell, it was hard not to climb down before it was really dark. The longer she sat in the tree, the more keenly she felt John's pain and imagined his tears. And the more frantic she became to get back on the road toward him.\n\nFinally she slipped to the ground. She hadn't seen or heard anyone in over an hour. These days, most people made sure they were some place safe before night fell. As usual, Sarah stood absolutely still for a moment and listened. When she was sure she was alone, she walked over to the ravine that ran parallel with the highway and looked in. On more than one occasion, she had found people sleeping in the ditch.\n\nShe preferred the corpses.\n\nThere was no moon and she was tempted to jog along the highway instead of getting back in the ditch. Five kilometers were at least a solid two hours at the rate she had to move in the ravine. On foot on the highway, even in the ill-fitting dead woman's shoes, she could make the distance in less than an hour. The urge to get somewhere she could feel safe and not have to constantly look over her shoulder was paramount.\n\nShe decided to risk it.\n\nTurning away from the ditch, she hoisted her pack on her shoulder and began to jog in the direction of the park.\n\n_In twenty minutes, I'll be a third of the way there,_ she told herself. _If it gets dark at nine, then I can be in the park and bedded down by ten._\n\nShe checked that her gun was still snugly fitted in the small of her back and held the slim blade in her hand and picked up her pace.\n\nWith no moon to go by, she tried to count the minutes but decided that was too distracting when she needed to be on the lookout for people. Her experience with Correy's group had told her that when they came, they would come noisily. She assumed they wouldn't bother with carts for this errand, nor would they come on foot. She was banking on the fact that she would hear\u2014she would literally _feel_ \u2014mounted riders coming down the road toward her well before she could see them.\n\nThe gun she took off Gil was a semi-automatic pistol. It had a full clip of 15 rounds. As far as Sarah was concerned, if she had to she could take out at least a dozen before going down herself, especially if she was in a good strategic position when they found her, like in a tree. Problem was, they knew she was armed. _They would probably dress accordingly_. Nonetheless, the gun gave her strength. _No matter how my story wraps up_ , she found herself thinking, _I'm not quitting without taking a good many of them with me._\n\nWinded and distracted by thoughts of which direction they might come from, the sound of a branch snapping jolted her out of her near complacency. Silently, she slid into the ditch on her stomach and pulled out the gun. She tried to soften her panicked breathing\u2014the only sound in the night for miles. Her eyes darted down the highway and into the brush across the road. It sounded like a branch, so that meant the woods. Was someone in there? Someone watching her? Following her?\n\nShe lay without moving, her fingers growing slick with sweat around the handle of the gun, but she was too afraid to risk wiping her hands on the ground or her jeans. Had she imagined the sound? If it didn't come again, did that mean whoever it was had seen her jump in the ditch and was now waiting for her? She blinked and tried to see in the gloom of the darkest part of the night, but the trees and bushes across the road remained impermeable and solid.\n\nShe knew she had all night to make a distance of what now was probably only a little more than a mile. All night to wait this guy out, whoever he was, and not do something crazy impatient like jump up and try to run the rest of the way to the park entrance.\n\nAll night.\n\nShe took a steadying breath and was about to stand up and chance that it was her imagination after all when she saw him. He materialized out of the shadows from deep within the woods. At first she thought she might be hallucinating. He stepped quietly, almost gently, onto the vacant highway and lifted his nose high up to catch the scent.\n\n_Catch her scent._\n\nSarah's heart pounded in her chest at the sight of the sheer size of the black bear. How could something so big creep so silently? She aimed the gun at the animal's head. She'd read that some bears have skulls so hard that bullets fired from terrified hikers just ricochet off them, serving only to enrage the beast and prompt it to charge.\n\nCould it smell her? Could it smell her fear?\n\nFrozen and determined not to move unless she had to empty the entire clip into the animal, which she was fully prepared to do, Sarah fought not to allow the whimpers of terror escape her trembling lips. The bear rose up on his back legs and staggered to the middle of the road. The odor from his foul-smelling pelt reached Sarah like a slap. When it hit her she jerked and the gun, slick with her perspiration, slid out of her grasp. She gasped and lunged for the falling gun just as the beast snapped its head in her direction, its eyes roaming, flashing and scanning the ditch until it found her.\n\nGroping desperately for the gun that had skidded to the bottom of the ditch, Sarah scrambled further into the ravine. She looked back over her shoulder just in time to see the monster standing at its full height, roaring in fury. And then he charged her.\n\n# 17\n\nAngie saw the bear first. Because she was on foot and because the bear was clearly distracted by something else, it hadn't noticed her. And that would have been fine. She could have just waited and let the animal go on its way.\n\nObviously, Jeff and his lot had other ideas.\n\n\"Cor, blimey, it's a fucking bear!\"\n\nThe first shot whistled by Angie's ear and she dove into the dirt along the side of the road to avoid being what she was sure would laughingly be referred to as collateral damage by those assholes should she get accidentally shot in the back. She stayed down while the air blistered with what sounded like a fusillade of bullets tearing into the bear, the bushes, the ground and, as they would later discover, even one of their own horses.\n\nAngie waited patiently for the slaughter to stop. It had been her idea to look for the Yank at night. After three full days of no trace of her, Denny was murderous in his intention to kill _someone_ if she wasn't recaptured soon. It seemed an obvious solution to look for her by night. That's when the stupid bitch was sleeping, right? That's when they'd catch her napping.\n\nUnfortunately, it also meant going out with these idiots in conditions even less manageable than when she was faking being a kidnapped victim in the wilds of Ireland. And because she insisted on walking point, the clods seemed to be having trouble remembering that she was in charge.\n\nShe stood up now. \"You bloody idiots!\" she yelled to them. \"Do ya think you've told everyone within a fifty kilometer radius that we're here? So much for sneaking up on her!\"\n\nThe men laughed. \"Don't get your knickers in a wad, Ange,\" Jeff said. \"Or if you do, I'll be happy to help you unwad them.\"\n\nThe other men laughed again.\n\n\"Was that my horse you daft feckers killed?\" Angie said, walking toward the bear carcass. She looked at the mountain of steaming, brown, bloody fur. She put her hand to her nose. \"God, he stinks.\" She turned on the others as they rode up to where she stood. \"Where did he come from? I thought we killed 'em all off back in the Middle Ages. _And_ you nearly killed me in the process.\"\n\n\"We had to kill 'im, Ange,\" one of the men said as he dismounted. \"He coulda gone for us or killed the horses.\"\n\n\"So by all means, let's _us_ kill the horses before he can,\" she muttered. She snatched the reins out of his hands. \"No sense in trying to tip-toe around now. You lot have made it clear we're here.\"\n\n\"Hey! That's my ride!\" The man pulled the reins out of Angie's hands and raised a hand to her, but before he could take a step, a stunned look came into his eyes and he dropped to his knees. The reins fell from his fingers as he smacked face-first into the asphalt of the highway. Angie looked over his body at Jeff, who sat on his horse directly behind the man on the ground.\n\n\"What did you...?\" Angie looked at Jeff and then the body on the road in front of her. \"Shit, Jeff. Did you just knife him?\"\n\n\"It's called maintaining order, Ange, and I'm surprised I have to tell you about that. What kind of respect you think you'll have with the men if you don't enforce it? You can thank me later. Bill, grab the reins and hand 'im to Angie. Good lad.\"\n\nThe young man named Bill, his face white at the sudden murder of one their number, literally jumped to grab the horse's reins, causing the already agitated animal to shy violently and bolt away from the group.\n\n\"Go get 'im, ya daft bugger!\" Jeff yelled at him as the boy turned and raced after the panicked horse. Angie shook her head and walked over to the ditch by the bear's carcass. She pulled out a flashlight and directed the beam into the ravine.\n\n\"Find something?\" Jeff walked his horse over to her.\n\n\"I don't know, but the bastard was looking at something before you guys came roaring up. Something in the ditch.\"\n\nJeff swung down from the saddle and the two of them peered into the ravine. \"Nothing but a couple of corpses down there,\" he said.\n\n\"Go down and check it out.\"\n\n\"Aw, shit, Angie. We can't check every dead body we find in every ditch from Hereford to the coast.\"\n\n\"You want to tell that to Denny if we have to explain why we didn't find her? You want to explain how there was one ditch you were too much of a pussy to go down into and maybe that was the one ditch she was in?\"\n\n\"Those bodies are fucking dead down there, Angie. Jesus, you can smell how dead they are from here.\"\n\nAngie looked at him and he sighed and handed her the reins. \"Speaking of pussy,\" he muttered. \"I must be barking to think this'll lead anywhere but me picking maggots outta my hair.\"\n\nAngie directed the flashlight onto the pile of bodies. It looked like two but might be more. It was hard to tell where one set of arms and legs ended and more began.\n\n\"Aw, Christ, it's revolting! This one's fecking head isn't even attached. Are you happy? Both are dead in the most disgusting, rotting, possible way that any poor bastards can be dead. Or would you like me to bring some bits up to you to prove it?\"\n\nAngie glanced back at the dead man in the road. If Jeff still had his knife on him she'd have him make sure both bodies were dead. As it was...she was tired and the night was a complete balls up. One lost horse. One dead horse. One dead man. And another night where the bitch was still free.\n\n\"Never mind,\" she said to Jeff as he climbed out of the ditch. \"The night's a disaster. We'll start again in the morning.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSarah waited until she could only hear the mourning doves herald the new dawn, and still she waited. Finally, she pushed the decaying corpse off her from where she'd pulled him so many hours before and scrambled up the side of the ditch, snatching up the gun from where she'd dropped it. In the half light of the new day, she could see that the corpse she'd slept with last night\u2014and she had actually fallen asleep at one point\u2014was a decayed and rotting lump of flesh that could be either male or female. She said a silent prayer of thanks to whoever it was and climbed up to the highway.\n\nIt was not yet quite light, but nowhere near as dark as she needed it to be. She ran, slapping at the things that still crawled in her hair and down her shirt, trying to remind herself as she had for the hours she'd endured their tickling last night that their very revolting nature had saved her life.\n\nShe ran as if she were outrunning wild horses on her trail. She ran as if John were at the end of the road. She ran knowing she was racing the light to stay alive. When she saw the exit ramp to the park she didn't hesitate, but veered down it and never stopped until she saw the park entrance, a large sign that spanned the four-lane that led into it, weeds and bushes flourishing from the cracks in the pavement.\n\nAs soon as she entered the park, a feeling of peace descended on her. She slowed her run to a jog and tried to remember what Declan had told her about finding her way inside the Beacons. It was five hundred miles of rough terrain and it wouldn't do for her to wander all five hundred of it and not come out the other side any closer to her destination.\n\nShe found a wide elm tree and pulled herself into the first layer of steady branches. She was still close enough to the entrance that she didn't trust Angie and her gang wouldn't follow her in, but she wanted to rest and she needed to think. From where she sat she was surprised to see a considerable amount of animal activity. _This place must be deserted if the rabbits and hedgehogs were roaming about without fear_ , she thought. She felt in her bag for the slingshot but decided she needed to get further into the park before trying her hand at it.\n\nFrom what Declan told her, she needed to travel due west as much as she could for as long as she could. If she found a cliff or some other natural impasse, she'd take the time to find her way around it. Until then...she looked up in the sky to see the sun was nearly at its apex. She climbed down and moved deeper into the park. There was a walking path but it had been overgrown since The Crisis, as clearly nobody was keeping up the maintenance on it. That suited Sarah just fine. The fewer people, the better.\n\nWhen she came to a little creek, she prayed it wasn't polluted and dropped to her stomach to drink and wash her face. The sun was directly overhead, but in just a t-shirt it was still too cool. Shivering, she searched the area for sticks and kindling. She thought she was probably a good three hours inside the park and she hoped that was enough. When she piled the sticks on the ground, she took the longest one and dug the end of it into the ground. John had showed her how to find true north back in Jacksonville when he was working on a badge for his Scout troop. She saw the shadow it made was on a level spot and she brushed it free of debris. She placed a tiny pebble at the tip of the shadow it cast.\n\nShe had water at this spot and she thought she was far enough in. There didn't appear to be any trees wide or tall enough to sleep in though, and that worried her. It felt good to be walking around in the daylight after two days of hiding by day.\n\nDid she really feel safe enough to build a fire?\n\nHer stomach growled and she pulled the slingshot out of her bag. She'd seen evidence that there was plenty of small game in the area. Just the thought of cooked meat made her mouth water. She hid her bag under a bush and walked down the overgrown path a bit until she found a large rock she could climb on to hunt from.\n\nThirty minutes later, she came back to her campsite empty-handed. She examined the pebble on the ground to see that it was now several inches away from the tip of the shadow. She put another pebble down on the new tip of the shadow and drew a line in the dirt with a stick between the two pebbles. If she had done it right, and that might be a pretty big if she realized, and she stood in front and between the two pebbles, the first on her left, then she should be facing true north. That meant that due west was to her left in a straight line. That also meant that she had travelled the last three hours going north instead of west. But it couldn't be helped and at least now she knew.\n\nHopefully.\n\nGauging by the sun that it was about two or so in the afternoon, Sarah decided to dedicate the whole rest of the day to finding food. If she could get at least one meal under her belt, she'd travel a lot farther the next day.\n\nShe shivered again and considered running in place to try to warm up, but decided it wasn't wise to deliberately wear herself out. She took the slingshot and gathered up the sharpest stones that would fit in the pocket and practiced hitting a tree near her camp. She was a terrible shot, throwing the sling down in frustration at one point. Maybe she should try to find fish in the creek instead? But she had no line or hook or bait. She sat and stared at the slingshot and felt the possum bone from last night's meal with the gypsies poking her through her jeans. With more hunger and weariness than she ever remembered feeling, she got up and filled her pockets with stones and retrieved the slingshot.\n\nIt was nearly nightfall before she returned to her campsite, but she came back with two decent sized rabbits. It was all she could do not to gut them with her bare hands and eat them raw. She was hungry enough she thought she could do it without gagging. The long afternoon of hunting had been punctuated with many hours of worry and fear and thoughts of John and David and Mike. It had been thirteen days, nearly two weeks, since David's murder. Two weeks of mindless terror for Sarah and relentless worry and sadness for her boy.\n\n_13 Days after the attack_ , she thought, wishing she had a journal to write it down in. As long as she used her brain to remember where she came from and how long it had been, she felt there was hope and she could stay sane, or at least grounded. She knew that didn't make sense but somehow it helped.\n\nAnd now the fire. She had never made one herself from just flint and sticks, and tonight she didn't even have the flint, just rocks. She put a slim stick against a rock in a nest of dry leaves and rocked it back and forth in her hands, alternating the tempo in hopes of creating the necessary friction to make the spark she needed.\n\nAn hour later, her back aching and damp with sweat in spite of the dropping temperature, she still hadn't succeeded in catching the leaves on fire. She tried to remember how John did it for the Scouts or how David did it on at least a half dozen occasions at the cottage during their first year after the lights went out. She remembered seeing him use a stick as a spindle and rubbing it between his hands\u2014his large, capable hands. She tried to emulate how she remembered him doing it. And as she worked, the bodies of the two rabbits seemed to mock her.\n\n_Dear God, would she really have to eat them raw?_\n\nShe kicked herself for not figuring out the fire question earlier, because now it was too dark to go looking for berries, and unless she was going to eat the meat uncooked she had another hungry night ahead of her.\n\nAnd a cold one.\n\nNight fell quickly once the light started to go. She dropped the sticks and the spindle and the rock and went to wrap up in the thin blanket from her pack. She hated to sleep out in the open but there was no other option. There were no trees big enough to hold her in this section of the park. Declan had said there were caves, but after her run-in with the bear, Sarah felt better about her odds sleeping out in the open.\n\nShe pulled the gun out and dropped it in her lap and wrapped the blanket tightly around her shoulders and leaned up against a large rock. It still held a tiny bit of warmth from the day's sun. It was hard to believe she had spent all day hunting for food that she now couldn't eat. She was angry and frustrated with herself but she knew it couldn't be helped. She had made it this far and she was alive.\n\nTomorrow would bring another day of opportunities. Tomorrow she would eat. One way or the other.\n\nShe slept badly, awakening at every creak in the earth, every hoot or peep from any of the forest's birds and creatures. Every time she awoke, she gripped the gun in her lap as if she might need to defend herself against monsters in the dark, and every time she was soothed back to sleep by the calm, normal sounds of a forest just going about its business.\n\nIn the morning, she was ready to move on. She steadied herself against a tree after jumping up too quickly and feeling the leafy canopy overhead swirl and rock around her as a result. She would need to eat today somehow or she would be crawling to the coast. She went back to the creek and drank her fill, wishing she had something to carry water in. She packed up the rabbits in her pack and headed into the woods, going due west.\n\nEven hungry, Sarah immediately noticed the difference in her affect. Declan was right. There was still plenty to be afraid of and she kept her eyes and ears alert for animals, or people, who might be lurking in the brush. But the constant fear she had lived with ever since she killed Gil and fled Correy's house, that was gone. Just looking around this wilderness it was clear nobody would be here if they didn't have to be. Surely not the likes of Angie and her riffraff gang.\n\nNo, she didn't need to worry about Correy here. And the peacefulness of that gave her a strength and an optimism that helped buoy her in the absence of the food she so desperately craved.\n\nShe decided to keep it simple. If she came across water, she stopped and drank as much as she could. When she needed to rest, she set up a stick to measure the sun and confirm that she was traveling west. If she found berries she recognized, she would eat them on the spot and strip the bush by filling her pack. Unfortunately, she didn't expect to find many berry bushes at this time of year. She would stop two hours before nightfall to make the fire. If she failed tonight, she would eat the rabbits raw.\n\nIt rained a cold, nasty rain midmorning that got stronger and more fierce as the day went on. Drenched and miserable, she realized that the matter of the fire had been taken out of her hands. She might as well eat lunch as opposed to waiting, because there would be nothing dry enough for her to make a fire with. In a way, it was a relief not to have to fight the battle.\n\nAround noon, she found a stone overhang that gave protection from the worst of the storm, and, using the knife she had taken off Gil, she cleaned and skinned the rabbits. She cut off a small strip of meat and swallowed it without chewing. She caught water in the cup Declan had given her in the pack and chased the meat down with a cupful. Nothing came back up and so she did it again and again until she felt the agony of her stomach relent and although hardly sated, she was no longer starving.\n\n_14 days after the attack_ , she thought. _I'm alive and I'm fed and I'm moving ever closer back home._ She gave the first honest smile she'd felt since the attack as she drank from the gypsy cup and stared out at the forest through the curtain of rain.\n\nBy God, she was going to do this.\n\n* * *\n\nTwo hours later, the trail was a flood of debris crashing down a flume of muddy water. Sarah sat on the rock and shivered in her wet blanket. The sun had never made another appearance after the rain started in earnest. A lost day. There was no way she could walk in this mess. A flash of lightning slashed at a tree a hundred yards away from her, accompanied by a crash of thunder. Sarah jumped. She pressed her body farther under the stone overhang,\n\nThere was nothing she could do but wait. Even once the rain stopped, if it ever did, the flooding could go on for days. The creek had probably overflowed its banks and now whatever had been dry land was underwater. She pulled the blanket tighter around her.\n\n_Forty miles in ideal conditions_ , she thought. _Forty miles of overland trekking where I might average fifteen miles a day if I find food enough to fuel me and nothing else slows me down_. That's three days if nothing goes wrong. That's three days on the _other_ side of however long the storm would slow her down.\n\nShe glanced at the raw rabbit and realized she might as well eat again. She wasn't going anywhere at least until tomorrow. She said a prayer of protection for her parents in Florida in the hopes that they still lived, and for her boy and everyone at Mike's camp, and for herself and for poor Dez, and for Declan's family. She ate and drank, then curled up and slept soundly the rest of the afternoon and through most of the night. The last thing she needed to worry about was attack by man or beast. Not in weather that wasn't fit for either.\n\nWhen she moved her cramped legs and awoke the next morning, the sun was peeking through the canopy of tree leaves and the birds were singing. She felt strong and although she was hungry, it didn't weaken her, just motivated her to get going. Careful not to try to make up for lost time and end up with a sprained ankle slipping in the muddy trails or over fallen tree limbs, Sarah moved steadily west. Her thighs chaffed badly from the wet jeans. She draped her blanket on her backpack in hopes it might dry from the autumn sun shining down.\n\nFor the first time since she'd begun her journey home, Sarah almost felt like singing. She walked and scanned the bushes around her for berries. It wasn't until late afternoon\u2014about the time she was thinking of finding a place for the night\u2014that she broke through a line of young pines to see she was at the precipice of a gentle cliff, at the bottom of which was a settlement of several dozen homes.\n\nSarah stood on the ridge in shock, her mouth open, as she looked down on the small village, each domicile with a smoking chimney of warmth and the unavoidable aroma of cooking suppers.\n\n# 18\n\nSarah didn't hesitate. She needed warmth and a safe place to rest or she didn't stand a chance of surviving her attempt through the wilderness. She touched the Glock snug in the small of her back and descended the wooded hill to the encampment below. She didn't want to approach quietly. In her experience, people reacted poorly to be taken by surprise.\n\nShe prayed for the best and called out as she walked toward the settlement. \"Hello, is anybody here? I am a friend. Hellooooooo.\"\n\nThe children saw her first and Sarah thought that was a good sign. It was much the same at Mike's camp. The kids were usually not focused on their work and were more easily distracted by something new. Three boys and four girls, all around nine years of age, ran toward her and then stopped. One of the girls called out behind her, \"Mummy! A stranger's come!\"\n\nSarah stopped and held out her empty hands. She smiled at the children and was relieved to see most of them smiled back. A woman wearing jeans and athletic shoes appeared from behind the line of children. She was wiping her hands on a small towel she had tucked into the waist of her jeans. She didn't look unfriendly, but she wasn't smiling either.\n\n\"May I help you, Miss?\" she said, eyeing Sarah's clothing and looking behind her to see if she were alone.\n\n\"I'm traveling through the Beacons,\" Sarah said, smiling but feeling a rush of dizziness at the lack of food. \"I was hoping I might stay with you for a night or two. I have food.\" She twisted her pack around and pulled out the two rabbits.\n\nThe woman smiled. \"Well, you're welcome, of course. Are you alone?\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\nShe turned to address the children, \"You lot go on and find Sandra's dad and tell 'im we have a traveler what's come visiting. Go on now.\"\n\nThe children disappeared in a rush back toward the interior of the makeshift village.\n\n\"My name's Sarah. I've become separated from my family and am trying to find my way back. I won't stay long, but a day or two would help me. I'm happy to work while I'm here.\"\n\nThe woman took a few steps toward her, her hand out for the rabbits. \"I'm Lexi,\" she said. \"Food is always welcome, but news even more so. You're welcome to what we have.\"\n\nThe group had banded together, not unlike Mike's community\u2014family and friends of family and neighbors. Quickly realizing that the new times would require a different kind of friendship and harmony to survive, they elected a leader and struck out deep into the national forest to create their community.\n\n\"We knew there were few enough what would choose to live in here,\" Lexi said as she ladled up a large bowl of rabbit stew for Sarah. \"But we have plenty of everything we need.\"\n\n\"Because we _made_ it happen,\" her husband said pointedly. Adwen was a rough man, with arms coated in tattoos and a shaved head. Lexi told Sarah that he had been in construction before The Crisis, so he was good with his hands and knew how to give orders. In the changed world after The Crisis, that put him high up the ladder in the new society. \"We learned how to hunt and we don't waste what we have. We plant what we need and guard the crops from the wild animals.\"\n\nSarah gratefully accepted her second bowl of stew. \"I was attacked by a bear up on the highway about a mile from the entrance to the park. I thought bears were extinct in the UK.\"\n\nAdwen nodded. \"From the zoo. There's one not far from the park. The animals were starving after The Crisis. Not being used to hunting for themselves, most died pretty quick. But some adapted.\"\n\n\"No bears in here?\"\n\n\"So far, just the normal stuff.\"\n\n\"How about wolves?\"\n\n\"They were one of the ones that adapted. We haven't seen many, but they're in here with us.\"\n\n\"And foxes,\" a little girl said meekly.\n\nAdwen grinned. \"Yes, little one, and foxes.\"\n\nLexi and Adwen's home looked not unlike Sarah and David's own cottage back in Ireland. It was primitive but had been made comfortable. It had a dirt floor but Adwen was working to make a wooden floor for them. The couple had two small children, a boy and a girl.\n\n\"I worked as a secretary for one of the big Honda dealerships in Hereford,\" Lexi said. \"When it all came down, me and my Adwen knew we had to leave the city. It weren't safe.\"\n\n\"All kinds of _human_ animals were adapting to the situation, too,\" Adwen said, pulling a sleepy child into his arms at the dinner table.\n\n\"So we left,\" Lexi said. \"We gathered together them what was interested in coming with us and we set out. We've been here a full year. We've never been threatened and we've never gone hungry. Not a single day.\" Sarah saw Lexi look at her husband with love shining in her eyes.\n\nAdwen nodded. \"The Beacons can be a fierce place,\" he said. \"Not many would choose to live here. Do ya ken how it got its name?\"\n\nSarah shook her head.\n\nAdwen arranged the sleepy child in his arms and smiled at his son, who sat listening by his knee. \"The Brecon Beacons are said to have been named after the practice of our ancestors of lighting signal fires on mountain tops to warn of invaders.\"\n\n\"They continued the practice,\" Lexi said, \"even in modern times, but more like to commemorate or celebrate a special event.\"\n\n\"Like when Prince William married the Duchess of Cambridge.\"\n\n\"Only she wasn't a Duchess then, idiot,\" the little girl said to her brother from her father's arms.\n\n\"Now, now,\" Adwen said, patting the girl's leg. \"Hugh's right. They lit the torches when the royal couple married.\"\n\n\"I'll bet it's a sight to see,\" Sarah said.\n\n\"Oh, aye,\" Adwen said, staring dreamingly into space as if seeing it in his mind's eye. \"That it is. That it is.\"\n\nThat night, Sarah slept with a full stomach in a warm bed. In the morning, she met Lexi at the kitchen table with a large wooden bowl of green beans in her lap.\n\n\"What can I do to help?\"\n\n\"You've done enough just bringing food to the table.\"\n\n\"Alright, well, what can I do to buy a flint from you?\"\n\nSarah noticed how Adwen lit the cook stove the night before within seconds of their entering the cottage. The little house had been warm and snug all night long.\n\n\"A flint?\" Lexi nodded. \"You'll be needing one for your trip. I think we can help you with that.\"\n\nThe rest of the day\u2014day 16 after the attack\u2014Sarah pitched mulch onto dormant vegetable beds, dragged buckets of water from the creek to the lean-to where the settlement donkeys and goats were kept, and mended tent tarp with a needle nearly as thick as her finger and about as sharp. She would have left on the third day, but the cold November skies opened up again and for three straight days drenched the little settlement, forcing everyone indoors for the duration.\n\nNo longer troubled by hunger, Sarah spent the long hours worrying about John and the trip ahead of her. In an attempt to give Adwen and Lexi a break from her constant presence, she began to spend part of her days in the communal lodge, a large hut at the end of the main byway off which the other huts and cabins sprouted. There, the women in the settlement gathered to swap advice and support one another. If there were babies, they were there in the arms of their mothers. It was where the elderly congregated too.\n\nSarah had been surprised to see them\u2014it was the older population that had suffered the most from The Crisis. With no medicines and no accommodations made for their special needs, old people had been the first to succumb. This group sat closest to the cook fire in the communal lodge. There were only three old women, but they sewed and minded the children and dispensed what wisdom they could, given the situation.\n\nEvvie was the first to greet Sarah when she peeked into the hut. Her hair was white, not grey, and Evvie kept it twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were very blue and twinkled, even when she wasn't smiling.\n\n\"Hello, there,\" she said to Sarah. \"I heard we had us a Yankee Doodle in our midst.\" Her smile dimpled at her own joke. \"I'm Evvie, Lexi's mother.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so pleased to meet you,\" Sarah said, holding out her hand. She wondered why Evvie didn't live in Adwen and Lexi's cottage but thought it was possible she and her son-in-law weren't a match made in heaven.\n\nShe sat down next to Evvie and saw that the old woman was making lace. \"That is so pretty,\" she said, indicating the strip of worn lace.\n\n\"A bit silly under the circumstances,\" Evvie said, sighing. \"Lexi has mentioned on more than one occasion that I'm a bit useless.\"\n\nThat totally did not sound like Lexi to Sarah. \"Y'all seem to have settled in here pretty well,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, my goodness. Are you Scarlett O'Hara? Because I loved that movie as a girl.\"\n\nSarah laughed. \"Well, I guess it's true you can take the girl out of the South but not the South out of the girl. Where are you from?\"\n\nEvvie smoothed out the lace and picked up her tatting needles again. \"I was born in London,\" she said. \"Lived there all through the war, met my first husband...\" She looked up at Sarah. \"Not Lexi's dad, mind. I had a career on the stage.\"\n\n\"You were an actress?\"\n\n\"I was. After my husband died, I met Alvin and he wanted babies so I quit.\"\n\n\"Wow. Where's Alvin now?\"\n\n\"Oh, dead. I'm tough on husbands. That's what my third husband, Mark, says.\" Evvie laughed and shook her head and then she sobered. \"I do wonder what must have become of him. We heard such terrible things of what was happening in London.\"\n\n\"Why weren't you in London with him?\"\n\n\"I wanted to see my grandbabies. The Crisis happened during my visit last year.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry, Evvie. I'm sure you must miss him very much.\"\n\n\"I do,\" Evvie said quietly. \"Still, my Mark is very resourceful. I do believe he will try to find a way to me, you see. In spite of what my daughter and her husband think.\"\n\n\"Love will find a way.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\nFearing that the conversation might veer toward Sarah's own husband and not feeling at all ready to deal with it, Sarah steered the topic away.\n\n\"I'm from Ireland, and over there we all thought that The Crisis hasn't been so bad for the British people.\"\n\nEvvie snorted.\n\n\"I know,\" Sarah said. \"It's just that we were hoping England was getting itself sorted out and then y'all could come help us.\"\n\n\"I don't imagine my country will be sorted out in my lifetime.\"\n\nSarah noticed that Evvie spoke very matter-of-factly. She looked around the lodge and realized that the other women were sitting and listening to their conversation. She smiled at them and they smiled back.\n\n\"Is it bad out there?\" one woman asked as she nursed her baby. Sarah realized that the child must have been born out here in the wilderness.\n\n\"It is,\" Sarah said. \"I, myself, was kidnapped and only managed to escape by...by sheer luck.\"\n\n\"Kidnapped?\" another woman said with a gasp. \"Whatever for?\"\n\n\"Oh, what do you _think_ , Maizy?\" the nursing woman said. \"Use your imagination.\"\n\nMaizy turned her horrified eyes on Sarah.\n\n\"You're lucky to be here,\" Sarah said to her. She glanced at Evvie, then back to the listening women. \"I don't know how long it will take for proper law and order to kick in again, but right now hiding out sounds like a pretty good plan to me.\"\n\n\"So you'll be staying with us?\" Evvie asked without taking her eyes off her needlework.\n\n\"No. I have a child in Ireland. I have to get back to him.\"\n\n\"They stole you away from _Ireland_?\" Maizy said.\n\n\"They did. And that's where I'm headed.\"\n\n\"I went to Dublin once,\" Maizy said. \"It took a long time to get there. And I wasn't walking neither.\"\n\nSarah stood up to leave. \"It will take as long as it takes.\"\n\n\"When will you go?\" Evvie asked.\n\n\"Tomorrow. The rains have finally let up. I've got a brand new flint to make my evening fires with and a pack full of vegetables and smoked meat. My blistered feet have healed and I've slept five full nights without once being afraid someone wanted to slit my throat or eat me.\"\n\nThe women laughed nervously, but Sarah noticed Evvie did not.\n\n* * *\n\nThat night after dinner as Sarah was sitting in front of the cook stove with Lexi's two children and trying to remember a Harry Potter storyline to tell them, Lexi responded to a knock at the door. In the five days that Sarah had lived with the little family, this was not an unusual occurrence. Most of the families in the settlement had visited her to hear for themselves what news she had to tell about the outside world.\n\nTonight, Lexi interrupted Sarah's storytelling to ask her if she would step outside to speak with her visitor. Perplexed, Sarah set the little girl, Tabitha, down and went to the door. Adwen was out with the men tonight. He had a still that they were working on, and now that the long days of planting and tending the gardens were over for the season he spent much of his day there.\n\nSarah went to the door and was surprised to see Evvie.\n\n\"Evvie? You don't have to stand out here. Why don't you\u2014\" As Sarah turned to usher Evvie into the cabin, it occurred to her that it was strange that Lexi hadn't insisted her mother come in.\n\n\"No, dear, thank you,\" Evvie said. \"I need to speak with you privately, if that's all the same with you.\"\n\nFrowning, Sarah stepped out on the doorstep and closed the cottage door behind her.\n\n\"Is everything alright?\" she asked.\n\nEvvie shook her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears. \"Of course, as you well know, everything is not alright and I'm sure they never will be.\"\n\nSarah put a tentative hand out to pat the old woman's shoulder. \"Oh, Evvie,\" she said. \"Things'll get better. And you're safe here in the meantime\u2014\"\n\n\"That's just it, Sarah,\" Evvie said. \"I am very much _not_ safe here. I have come to ask you if I might accompany you on your journey to Ireland.\"\n\n# 19\n\nThank God for Aideen.\n\nMike propped himself up in the bed and watched her as she sat by the window sewing. In the four days that he'd been forced to stay with her after the mob beating he'd learned that bringing tea to prisoners was only one of the many jobs the woman did to cobble together a living for her and her Taffy. She sewed, she manned market booths for owners with reason to be away, she tutored children, she ran errands, polished shoes, sold homemade muffins along with the wild berries she and Taffy picked in the summer time.\n\nShe was a hardworking, down to earth kind of girl. The sort of woman Fiona would bond with immediately. He grinned ruefully. Put a gun in her hand and give her a cheeky attitude and she'd look a whole lot like Sarah, too.\n\nThe crowd had been grateful for the pre-rally entertainment. They'd broken his nose, three ribs and loosened a few teeth. Not too bad, considering.\n\nThey could've taken his horse and his gun.\n\nThey could've killed him and thrown his body in the channel.\n\nAideen had heard the roar of the crowd and followed it to its source. While she had to wait until the mob had largely finished with him, Mike had no doubt it was her insistence that he was _not_ pro-American and that he did not, in fact, even _know_ any Americans that accounted for the fact that they allowed him to leave with her. Everyone knew Aideen. There was no way she would be harboring a Yank-lover.\n\nAs he watched her now, he realized that she never smiled or sang or hummed unless someone was watching\u2014including little Taffy. He'd not realized that until he'd had occasion to watch her for nearly four straight days from his cot.\n\nAideen wasn't just unhappy like many people were since The Crisis.\n\nAideen was miserable.\n\nMike shifted his position and let a groan escape at the effort. She was on her feet, tossing down her sewing and approaching his bed.\n\n\"Can I help you?\"\n\nHe waved her away. He'd already had the distinct displeasure several times before of having her help him to a spot in the alley where he could relieve himself. If he could manage anything going forward that had to do with his person or his pain, by God he would.\n\n\"Where's Taffy?\" he said, gasping, trying to distract her from his struggles.\n\nShe frowned and watched him until he settled into a position, then went back to her chair and picked up the pants she was mending for someone in town. \"She's napping. I'll be getting her up in a bit.\"\n\nMike knew that Taffy never went out to the farm with Aideen. In fact, Aideen paid hard-earned money to have a woman watch her while she went. He thought that was odd. As hard as Aideen worked for her money?\n\nDamned odd.\n\n\"You tell your da I'll be back tomorrow?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"He wasn't well pleased that you've been gone so long. But it couldn't be helped.\" She got up and went across the room for a leather pouch. She drew out a bag of small gold coins, the new tender in post-Crisis Ireland. She walked over to Mike and set it next to him on the bed. \"You'll have enough by next week,\" she said.\n\nMike thanked her but didn't touch the money. When he thought how hard she had to work\u2014and the dump she and Taffy lived in\u2014it almost felt wrong to be taking gold from her hands so that he could move on. He shook himself out of the thought. He'd already pushed back his time line by another five days. And when every day counted for so much, he wasn't even sure there was any point now.\n\n\"She must mean a lot to you,\" Aideen said. \"Your American.\"\n\n\"She's a good friend. And she has a son who needs her.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's good then. No husband to worry about her except for you?\"\n\nMike glanced in her direction but she was looking at the stitches she was making in the seam. \"Her husband was killed two weeks ago.\"\n\nAideen looked up. \"So now you're taking care of her.\"\n\n\"Someone has to.\"\n\n\"I didn't know it worked like that,\" Aideen said. Mike detected the slightest trace of bitterness in her voice. \"It's good though if it does...in your world.\"\n\nMike wasn't sure what to say or if he should ask her about her husband. From the looks of Taffy, it was a mixed-race marriage and likely there had been some grief over that. Especially in this town. He found himself wondering exactly _how_ her husband had died.\n\nThe next day, he rode back to her father's farm with her in the pony trap. With his ribs still mending, it would have been too painful to have attempted the trip on Petey's back. Another week or so\u2014about what he had left to work in his agreement with Fionn\u2014and he should be okay for riding.\n\nWhen he got back to the farm, he spent some time settling Petey back in the stalls with the other animals. Aideen, usually so welcoming, had behaved almost standoffish when they got back to the farm and Mike, taking the hint, stayed in the barn and out of the way until she was ready to leave. He wasn't surprised if she was sick of him. It had been quite an imposition nursing him for the last several days. When he finally came into the house for his supper, he was surprised to see that she'd already left without saying goodbye.\n\nOld Fionn wasn't much of a talker, which suited Mike. He ladled up the goat stew that Aideen had made and settled in front of the fireplace with the old man. To his left, the door to the single bedroom in the farmhouse was open and Mike noticed the bedclothes were rumpled, as if the old tosser had been napping all day instead of working. Mike shrugged and dug into his meal.\n\nIt wasn't his business what the old bastard did when Mike wasn't around.\n\nLike his first week on the farm, Mike's schedule began to take on almost a comforting routine of early morning rising and hard work that left him tired in a good way. The sun was rarely out these fall days, but when it was it was hard not to feel the glory of being alive. Mike surprised himself at how much he enjoyed the work on the farm. So different in many ways from fishing, but still outdoors for all that. He worked the land at Donovan's Lot just as hard and just as relentlessly as he did here on Fionn's farm. But the stress and worry of providing for so many weighed on him and sapped the joy that a simple day's labor gave him here.\n\nSunday came and Aideen didn't show.\n\nThe old guy opened cans of beans for their supper and said nothing of it.\n\nShould he worry? Was Aideen just held up? He looked at Fionn spooning out his dinner straight from the can. He didn't seem at all phased by her nonappearance. _So was this typical?_\n\nMildly concerned but not ready to go riding into town to find her, Mike focused on finishing his week's work. His ribs were still sore but didn't inhibit his getting the chores done that Fionn was paying him for. The closer Mike got to payday, the more anxious he became about leaving and what he would do once he was on the other side.\n\nWhen Wednesday came and still Aideen didn't come, he confronted Fionn.\n\n\"Do you think she's in trouble?\"\n\nFionn frowned over his meal of cold beans. \"In trouble how?\"\n\n\"Because she hasn't shown up twice in a row now.\"\n\n\"Oh, she'll be here tomorrow.\"\n\nMike frowned. \"How do you know that?\"\n\n\"It's your last day, innit? She'll come to make sure you get your pay.\" He looked up all of a sudden with a fierce look on his face. \"You're not tupping her, are ya?\"\n\n\"Settle down, granddad,\" Mike said, trying to keep his voice light. \"I'm not doing anything to her. Except being very grateful to have met her.\"\n\nFionn grunted and directed his attention back to his beans.\n\nMike went to bed early that night. One more day and he'd be on his way. One more day and he'd be on the ferry and then in Wales. He looked out the window of the barn at the moon waxing big and pale over the barnyard and wondered where Sarah was tonight.\n\n_Hang on, girl_ , he thought. _I'm coming_.\n\n* * *\n\nFionn was right; Aideen did come the next day. Mike was so happy to see her, after worrying about her for nearly a week, that he didn't even mind that she seemed a little more businesslike with him than usual. The day had been a long one, with Fionn pushing him to do more than he normally did, trying to get a little extra out of him for his last day, Mike knew.\n\nWhen Aideen drove into the frontcourt in front of the farmhouse in her pony trap, Mike called to her. \"We missed you, lass. I'll be riding back with you if you'll give me a tick to wash up?\"\n\nShe nodded without smiling. He could see her father waiting for her on the porch. Fionn went into the house without waiting for her.\n\n_Strange family_ , Mike thought as he went back to the barn for the bucket of clear spring water he'd brought up to wash with.\n\nThe water was cold and he was anxious to be gone. Both of those were responsible for the fact that Mike was at Aideen's pony trap and ready to go long before anyone would logically expect him to be. And both of those facts were the reason that Aideen, not expecting Mike to be ready yet, came down the steps of the porch thinking she was alone, her face mottled by tears and pulling down the hem of her skirt.\n\nFionn came out and stood on the porch. He wasn't smiling, but he was rearranging the front of his trousers.\n\nAt first Mike just stared at the scene and refused to believe what he was thinking. But when he caught Aideen's eye and she looked away in guilt and shame, he knew.\n\n_That sorry feckin' bastard..._\n\n\"Mike, no!\" Aideen grabbed his arm. Mike hadn't even realized he was climbing the porch stairs. He watched Fionn back away and slam the door. He heard the bolt fall.\n\n\"Son of a bitch!\" He turned to Aideen.\n\n\"Let's just go, please,\" she begged him. \"I've got the rest of the money and you never have to see him again.\"\n\n\"Whereas you do?\"\n\n\"Mike, just get in the cart and let's go. Please.\"\n\nFighting every instinct that told him to go in that house and beat the ever loving shite out of that toad of a man who cowered behind the door, Mike turned away and lashed Petey's reins to the back of the cart. He got in next to Aideen and took the reins from her and urged the little pony onward.\n\nHe waited until they were a good mile away from the cottage, waited until she had stopped crying and her tears were dry.\n\n\"Why, Aideen?\"\n\nShe took a long withering breath and let it out slowly. \"Unlike the lucky women in your world, Mike Donovan, I have no knight in shining armor to swoop in and take me away from all this. I have a daughter. She has to eat.\"\n\n\"He pays for your apartment?\"\n\nAideen nodded and looked as if she would start crying again. \"It was all I could do to get him to allow me to leave at all. You think mending and picking blueberries is a living?\" She turned on Mike. \"You think I can feed my child on that? I'm doing everything I can to ensure I don't end up going back there to live.\"\n\n\"You can't do that.\"\n\n\"Well, thank you, but pep talks don't pay the bills. I'll do what I have to.\"\n\n\"Is there someplace else you could live?\"\n\nShe hesitated. \"Not really. I...I have an auntie in Wales. A cousin came through last month to say they were doing well and that I was welcome to come but...\"\n\n\"You don't have the ferry fare.\"\n\nAideen laughed with mirth. \"Absurd, isn't it? I sit at my window and stare out to sea and think, 'Right over there is a sane life, a happier life. Right over there and right out of reach.'\"\n\n\"That's why you never bring Taffy to your father's.\"\n\nAideen put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes but Mike could hear her words. \"He started in on me when I was her age.\"\n\n\"Son of bitch.\"\n\n\"He's already starting to demand I bring her with me.\"\n\n\"Alright, I get the picture.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, Mike.\"\n\n\"What in the world for? For having a shite for a father? For loving your daughter and wantin' to protect her?\"\n\nShe broke down again and sobbed, and except for the sounds of her heartbreak only the wind through the early evening air flitting through the trees could be heard.\n\nWhen Mike pulled up to the house of the woman minding Taffy, he put a hand out to stop Aideen from jumping out of the cart.\n\n\"How much did I earn for my passage?\"\n\nAideen frowned as if she didn't understand the question. \"Enough for you and your horse.\"\n\n\"And if I were a woman and a wee child instead?\"\n\n\"Mike, no.\"\n\n\"It's either that or you let me go back and shoot the blackguard.\"\n\nAideen's eyes filled with tears and he could see vibrant hope fill her face for the first time since he'd met her. \"But what about the woman you're looking for? How will you get to Wales?\"\n\n\"I'll get there, Aideen,\" Mike said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. \"Or I won't. Go get your bairn. First things first.\"\n\nAideen threw her arms around him and held him like he was her lifeline. \"God bless you, Mike Donovan, for coming into my life. I prayed for deliverance and he answered by sending you to me.\"\n\nAs her shoulders began to shake, Mike could feel her tears begin again.\n\n# 20\n\n_2 0 Days after the attack._\n\nEvvie had no possessions except for the clothes on her back. When they left the village early the next morning, Sarah quickly fashioned a walking stick for the old woman and positioned her ahead of her on the path at least until they were well clear of the village.\n\nIt had taken all the willpower Sarah possessed not to tell Lexi what she thought of her. But even with the Glock backing her up, it occurred to her that people so coldblooded that they would routinely kill their elders to save on food would probably have no trouble killing a lone traveler intent on notifying the authorities or threatening to reveal their whereabouts to any bandits she encountered. She had seen Adwen on more than one occasion eyeing her backpack with what looked distinctly like covetous longing.\n\nEvvie's revelation had stunned Sarah. While it was true she noticed there weren't many old people in the community, she had assumed it was because it was a hard life. When Evvie told her it was because the elderly were taken out and slain on the eve of their seventieth birthday in order to preserve the community's resources for the younger and hardier members, Sarah was sorry to discover that she had no hesitation in believing it. Evvie was much older than seventy. She said that had been a special allowance as a result of her relationship to Adwen.\n\nThe community had no issues with Sarah taking the old woman with her.\n\nJust as long as she never come back.\n\n\"We're not monsters,\" Lexi said as Sarah stood in the doorway of her cabin before leaving. \"We are doing what's necessary to survive.\"\n\n\"Thank you for all that you have done for me,\" Sarah said. The words tasted sour in her mouth but she felt them necessary to say. People who would kill their own mothers could kill a stranger for a shiny new backpack.\n\n\"Good luck in finding your way home to your boy,\" Lexi said, scooping up her own boy in her arms. She never addressed or looked in the direction of Evvie as she walked toward them from the lodge where she had spent the night. Sarah smiled at the little boy in Lexi's arms and turned to hand Evvie the walking stick.\n\nThe sooner they were out of this evil place, the better.\n\n* * *\n\n\"I met some Yanks during the War,\" Evvie said when they stopped to rest on a mossy boulder overlooking a breathtaking valley of firs and oak trees. \"I was only a child but they were all so handsome. They gave me gum.\"\n\nShe looked at Sarah, who was taking an inventory of their food. They had walked five miles before Evvie started to give out. \"Can you imagine? Gum! We didn't have jam or eggs or decent bread at home, but I had Juicy Fruit chewing gum. I can still taste it. Like an explosion of all good things ready to happen.\"\n\nSarah looked over at her. \"How old were you?\"\n\n\"Eight. I'll never forget it. After that, we used to chase after them whenever we saw them and yell out, _got any gum, chum_? The Yanks loved it.\"\n\n\"You know you coming with me might make it a little trickier for Mark to find you.\"\n\n\"It'll be even trickier if I'm dead.\"\n\n_Good point._\n\n\"I don't even know what to say about all that back there.\"\n\nEvvie shrugged. \"Lexi insisted it wasn't personal. Two men and three women were murdered this spring.\" She paused. \"Friends of mine.\"\n\n\"Dear God. Your own daughter!\"\n\n\"Well, one of the men killed this spring was Adwen's father,\" Evvie said. \"Although I'm told they never got along.\"\n\n\"I'm looking forward to you meeting Mike's group. And John. You'll live with us, of course. I mean, if you want to.\"\n\n\"I would love that. I don't suppose your group has any kind of medical supplies, do they?\"\n\nSarah frowned. \"I don't really know. Do you need medicine?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing. I was on blood pressure medication a few months back.\"\n\n\"You ran out, I guess.\"\n\n\"Other people have it much worse, I'm sure. How much longer, do you think?\"\n\nSarah looked out over the valley and shrugged helplessly. \"I think we have to get to the edge of that.\"\n\n\"Oh, my.\"\n\n\"Yeah, at this rate...I don't know.\"\n\n\"I'm slowing you down terribly, aren't I, dear?\"\n\n\"Not really.\"\n\n\"I know I am.\"\n\n\"It can't be helped, Evvie. It is what it is, you know?\"\n\n\"It will take as long as it takes.\"\n\nSarah smiled at her. \"Yeah, something like that.\" She packed up the backpack and handed Evvie a thermos she'd stolen from Adwen's bed after she found out he was killing all the old people in the village. A part of her was hoping very much he came after to her to try to reclaim it. \"I'll give you a toot of this if you think you'll still be able to walk a few more miles today. Once it's gone, I'll fill it with water.\"\n\nEvvie took the thermos and the smallest of ladylike sips from it. She handed it back. \"Good to go, Miz Scarlett,\" she said.\n\n* * *\n\nThey managed another two miles that day before stopping for the night. Sarah had to consciously fight down her frustration. _It is what it is,_ she told herself.\n\nShe found an old campground near a creek still swollen from the recent rains. There was a wooden lean-to damaged by the elements and lack of maintenance in the last year, but very serviceable. Sarah pulled out the two wool blankets that Lexi had allowed her mother to take and spread them on the ground.\n\n\"There's plenty of leaves around here,\" she said to Evvie, who instantly began gathering them in the long apron she still wore around her waist.\n\n\"It's the most useful I've felt in a year,\" Evvie said stooping to pick up the leaves.\n\n\"They'll help cushion our beds tonight and maybe we can get some to burn.\"\n\n\"You have a flint?\"\n\n\"I do, but I've never used one.\"\n\n\"Oh dear.\"\n\nSarah looked at Evvie and smiled encouragingly. It had been a cold day that was only made bearable by their constant motion. With the fading light, the dropping temperature crept into their bones. A fire would be necessary tonight if they were to get any rest at all.\n\n\"Well, peckers up, dearie,\" Evvie said. \"I'm sure we'll manage. Is there any food left?\"\n\nSarah spread out their provisions. Several sticks of goat jerky, some cooked rabbit, and a few apples. Although hardly a feast, Sarah knew they wouldn't go to bed hungry. Tomorrow she would need to hunt something.\n\nBefore the sun left the sky completely, Sarah set to work to build a fire. She created a small pile of dried leaves on top of kindling that Evvie had collected. She took out her knife and began slashing it against the flint to get a spark. After a few moments, Evvie settled herself down next to her and spread out her skirts around her.\n\n\"May I make a suggestion, dear?\"\n\nSarah turned to her and saw in her face the expression of someone who was used to having her advice ignored, her suggestions mocked.\n\n\"Please,\" Sarah said. She had never really watched David make a fire the few times they had needed to. She had no idea of what she was doing.\n\n\"I think you need to create a little house for the spark to jump into, you see?\"\n\n\"Not really.\" Sarah tried to hand the flint to Evvie, but the older woman gathered up the dry leaves in her hands and began kneading them to form a small mass the size and shape of a sparrow's nest.\n\n\"You jab two sticks in the ground so that they arc into each other like a pergola.\"\n\nSarah watched with amazement and growing optimism as Evvie began to build her little structure of twigs and sticks. When she was done, it resembled an Indian teepee.\n\n\"Does the bird nest thing go inside?\"\n\n\"All in due time.\"\n\nSarah felt an evil, icy wind slice through the little campsite and she braced her back against it. She still only had a t-shirt, but today she also wore the blanket that Declan had given her wrapped around like a poncho. She blew warm breath on her fingers and realized that this fire wasn't just a means of comfort for her. As cold as it would get tonight, they might need it to ward off any aggressive wildlife in the area.\n\n\"Now, take your knife...my goodness that is a wicked looking thing. Wherever did you get it?\"\n\n\"You don't want to know.\"\n\n\"Anyway, in the middle of our bird's nest, put the flint flat side up and start scraping off bits of magnesium into the nest.\"\n\n\"I would never have known to do this,\" Sarah said as she began rubbing her knife edge against the flint.\n\n\"That's probably enough. Now turn the flint around to the round side and strike a spark into the nest.\"\n\nSarah slashed the knife against the flint and sparks flew everywhere. \"It works!\"\n\n\"Yes, but it's even better if the sparks go in the nest where the magnesium is.\"\n\n\"Yeah, good point.\" Sarah bent over the little bundle of tinder and zeroed in on the black flakes of magnesium at the bottom. This time when she struck the flint, one of the sparks caught and lit up the nest with a small flame.\n\n\"We did it! Oh my God, Evvie, you're a genius!\"\n\n\"Now pick up the nest and tuck it into our teepee, Sarah.\"\n\nSarah could hear the excitement in Evvie's voice and wondered for a moment if Evvie was as surprised as she was they had made fire. She slid the burning nest into the bottom of the teepee and watched as the flames eagerly crept up the structure. She added more kindling and then a few larger sticks until there was clearly no danger the fire would go out.\n\n\"You totally just paid for your passage, Evvie,\" Sarah said, holding her hands out to the campfire. \"I swear I think I can do anything if I'm not starving or freezing my ass off.\"\n\nEvvie laughed and moved toward the fire, too. \"Words to live by, petal,\" she said. \"Words to live by.\"\n\nThat night they slept warm and with full stomachs. As usual when she wasn't concerned with immediate threats to her survival, Sarah fell asleep with thoughts of John and David...and Mike. She couldn't blame Mike for not coming. As far as he could tell she must have disappeared from the face of the Earth. Even if he made it as far as Correy's place\u2014and she prayed he hadn't\u2014there would be no way for him to pick up her trail from there. No, with twenty-one days between now and the day she was taken, there was no way her trail wasn't too cold to follow.\n\nAs much as he might want to, she knew Mike would never find her now. It was up to Sarah to find her own way home.\n\n* * *\n\n_2 2 Days after the attack._\n\nThe next morning she and Evvie woke to frost on the ground and a fire that had gone out sometime during the night. Shivering, Sarah went immediately to Evvie bundled up in the corner of the lean to where she must have crawled in the middle of the night when the fire went out. She touched the old woman's shoulder and was relieved when Evvie turned to face her.\n\n\"Sorry I don't have a latt\u00e9 to offer you,\" Sarah said. \"But if you want to wash your face before we head out, I'll go with you to the creek.\"\n\nEvvie nodded and struggled to a sitting position. \"Will you start the fire again?\"\n\nSarah looked at the campfire and saw that the wood had all burned. If she stopped to relight the fire, she would have to gather wood first. \"Do you mind if we don't? I'm really hoping to make better time today.\"\n\n\"Of course, dear,\" Evvie said. \"I'll look forward to it all the more this evening.\"\n\n\"Did you sleep okay?\" Sarah wasn't sure why she asked since they'd both obviously been pretty miserable the last part of the night. It just felt like the civilized thing to say.\n\n\"Very nicely, dear, until the fire went out.\"\n\n\"What can we do to make it last longer?\"\n\nEvvie stood up and shook out her blanket as she peered in the direction of the creek. \"Let me think on that,\" she said, her eyes sparkling with life and mirth for the first time since Sarah had known her.\n\nThey walked nearly the whole rest of the day without stopping. Sarah knew that Evvie was pushing herself in order not to hold them up. They were so close now!\n\nBy Sarah's estimate, they were halfway through the Beacons. They had seen no other humans and, except for a few wild pigs that Sarah had half entertained the idea of going after with her sling shot, no animals either. The terrain was rough but not impassably so. A year earlier, day-trippers had walked these paths and picnicked along these streams and marveled at the many waterfalls.\n\nBut perhaps not in early November, Sarah reminded herself.\n\nWhen it was time to stop, she could see that Evvie was totally done in. She took Evvie by the hand and led her to a clearing overlooking a small valley. They weren't near a stream, but Sarah had finally dumped out Adwen's hooch and filled the thermos with water so they didn't need to be. She spread out a blanket and insisted Evvie sit.\n\n\"But we've got hours yet of daylight,\" Evvie said, her voice broken with short breaths.\n\n\"We've done enough for one day,\" Sarah said firmly. She placed the knife and the flint in Evvie's lap. \"When you feel up to it, put a fire together for us. I'll be back with dinner in an hour.\"\n\n\"You're leaving?\" The ragged fear in Evvie's voice snagged Sarah and she turned to the woman.\n\n\"Evvie, we're in this together, okay? I mean, would I leave my knife and flint after I just figured out how to make fire?\"\n\nEvvie looked at the tools in her lap and Sarah could see some of the anxiety ease from her face. \"I...I guess not.\"\n\nSarah came back and knelt by her. She put a hand on her shoulder. \"You have every right not to trust people after what your dipshit daughter did to you, but that's not me. I will not leave you. Okay?\"\n\nEvvie looked into Sarah's face and her eyes were full to tears. \"Okay,\" she whispered through a tremulous smile.\n\n\"Make us a fire.\" Sarah stood and pulled out her slingshot. \"I'm going to go bring home the bacon.\" As she turned away, she stopped and then returned to Evvie and pulled out the handgun.\n\n\"Have you ever used a gun?\"\n\nEvvie eyed the pistol with what looked like growing horror. \"Of course not.\"\n\n\"Well, it's not complicated.\" Sarah placed the gun next to her. \"Not that I'm expecting you to need it, but if someone or something comes sniffing around before I get back...\"\n\nEvvie touched the gun with a tentative finger. \"I will,\" she said.\n\nThat night, they ate what Evvie said was a badger but neither of them much cared. It was fresh meat. Sarah ate hungrily, only mildly concerned of what the smell of roasting meat might lure to the campsite. After they ate, they faced the fire and let the warmth and light renew and restore them from the long day of walking.\n\n\"How much longer do you think?\" Evvie asked as she wiped her fingers on the tail of the tattered blanket draped over her shoulders.\n\n\"I don't know. I don't have a good method for estimating miles. I was pretty much just going to walk until we reached the highway.\"\n\n\"And then what?\"\n\n\"Well, and then we walk to the coast and get on a boat to Ireland.\"\n\n\"How old is your boy? John, right?\"\n\nSarah nodded. It didn't help to think of John. Up to now, she'd discovered that thinking of him weakened her and made her want to curl up into a ball and weep. \"Twelve.\"\n\n\"That's young. Where's his father?\"\n\nSarah cleared her throat. \"Killed when they took me.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear Lord, Sarah, I'm so sorry. Just a few weeks ago?\"\n\n\"Three weeks ago.\"\n\n\"You lost your husband just three weeks ago.\" Evvie shook her head as if unable to understand the horror of it.\n\n\"Well, it's not like I _lost_ him, you know? I mean, I didn't _misplace_ him and neither did he die of natural causes. He was murdered.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry, Sarah.\"\n\n\"No, _I'm_ sorry. I don't mean to go off on you. It's just...I can't believe it, you know? Oh, what am I saying? You of all people know what I'm saying. People are no damn good. That's all. And it comes out in the worst of times.\"\n\n\"Not true, Sarah,\" Evvie said, tossing a piece of kindling into the roaring fire. \"People haven't changed because of the circumstances. The rotters are still finding a way to take advantage. But the good people are still good.\"\n\nSarah had an image of Declan and his family feeding and outfitting her when they had so little themselves. She knew Evvie was right. She just wasn't in the mood to agree at the moment.\n\n\"Whatever,\" she said.\n\n\"And your parents?\" Evvie asked gently. \"Are they back in the States?\"\n\nSarah nodded. \"No word from them or about them.\"\n\n\"You poor, poor girl,\" Evvie said. When Sarah looked up she could see the sadness and the pain wreathed in Evvie's face. She held her arms out and Sarah surprised herself by coming into them. Evvie was stout, whereas her own mother was slim from years of tennis playing and careful calorie counting. But everything else was the same. The love, the comfort.\n\nAnd as Sarah began to cry, hopelessly, tirelessly, for her own mother, for her boy and her lost husband, she felt somehow renewed and stronger cradled in the old woman's arms.\n\n* * *\n\n_2 5 days after the attack._\n\nThe day they emerged from the Brecon Beacons National Park, the sun shone bright against a relentlessly blue sky. It had taken a full five days to cover the distance of thirty hard miles. Sarah's jeans were loose and she'd taken to carrying the gun in her front jeans pocket. Evvie, too, had lost weight.\n\n\"Why are we not leaving the park?\" Evvie asked when they stopped for lunch but didn't move on.\n\n\"I'm just making sure it's safe.\"\n\n\"Are you expecting your friends to be waiting outside? How in the world would they know at which point you might exit?\"\n\nSarah knew Evvie was right, but still she hesitated. The memory of Angie goading her thug to search the corpses in the ditch was fresh and vivid in her mind. She didn't know if it was personal or if Angie was just psychotic\u2014maybe a bit of both\u2014but that was nearly a week ago. By now she would be more determined than ever to find Sarah.\n\nSarah realized that a part of her was shocked that she had passed through the Beacons without mishap. She had fed herself\u2014 _and_ an elderly woman\u2014and kept them warm and safe through terrain that was rough and inhospitable and emerged unharmed on the other side.\n\nNow if they could just stay that way.\n\n\"Sarah? Dear?\"\n\nSarah looked at Evvie.\n\n\"It's not like you haven't had time to think of what you'll do when we got here.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"And a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single foot forward.\"\n\n\"Not really helping, Evvie.\"\n\nEvvie laughed and stood up. \"I'm ready when you are, dear.\"\n\n\"It'll be harder to find food out there,\" Sarah said.\n\n\"You're stalling.\" Evvie picked up her slim knapsack and turned toward the park exit. \"Personally, I have high hopes of finding a proper bed for tonight.\"\n\nSarah checked her gun and hoisted her pack onto her shoulder. Whatever was waiting for her, it was time to meet it head on.\n\n\"How far to the coast?\" Evvie asked over her shoulder.\n\nSarah scanned the bushes beside them and ahead. The feeling of anxiety ratcheted up with every step she took now that she knew she was back on Angie's playing field. \"Sixty miles.\"\n\n\"My, that's far. How long do you think it will take us?\"\n\n_Me, three days,_ Sarah thought. _Us, more like six. If we're lucky._\n\n\"I'm not sure. Maybe a week.\"\n\nThe highway at the edge of the park looked empty.\n\n_But that's what it would look like if they were lying in ambush_.\n\nShe wanted to slink out around the perimeter, hiding in the bushes, gun in her hand. But Evvie was in a hurry to get back to civilization and trotted out of the park and up the long sloping drive that led to the highway.\n\nSarah pulled the gun out and held in in front of her with both hands. Her head swiveled from side to side trying to take in the full perimeter as they walked. By the time they reached the top of the slope\u2014uneventfully\u2014that led to the highway entrance ramp, Sarah was already tired and her neck hurt.\n\n\"Can we hitch a ride, do you think?\" Evvie asked peering down the road, one hand on a bony hip as if about to thrust out a leg to entice the next would-be motorist.\n\n\"I thought we'd stay away from the highways,\" Sarah said dubiously.\n\n\"Oh dear, do you mind if we at least give it a try? I'm really hoping to find a hotel room for the night. Just the thought of a hot bath and a toilet where I don't have to use a handful of cold leaves to wipe me bum has given me the will to live for the last day or more.\"\n\n\"I know it's been tough,\" Sarah said, watching Evvie. Could they afford to go into town? Would they be less likely to attract attention because she was no longer a woman traveling alone?\n\n\"Here comes something.\"\n\nAs soon as she spoke, Sarah heard the comfortable clip-clopping sound of a horse drawn cart. The memory of the terrible four days she had spent in the back of a cart much like this one came roaring back to her and it was all she could do not to grab Evvie's arm and dive for the ditch along the side of the road. Seeing Evvie's excitement and hope as she watched the cart approached made her hesitate.\n\n\"What if they mean us harm?\" Sarah asked, trying to calm her racing heart as she stood with Evvie and watched the cart come closer.\n\n\"Then you can shoot them, dear,\" Evvie said, smoothing back her hair into some semblance of order.\n\nSarah hid the gun back in her front pocket. \"There's always that, I guess.\"\n\nThe cart stopped several yards ahead of them. A man in the driver's seat stood up. \"May I help you, missus?\" he shouted.\n\n\"We need a ride to town, if you'd be so kind,\" Evvie answered. \"Can you give us a lift?\"\n\n\"Aye, there's room if you'd like to come on,\" he said, motioning to the back of the cart.\n\n\"I don't like it,\" Sarah whispered hoarsely to Evvie.\n\n\"Think how much time we'll save,\" Evvie whispered back. She trotted to the cart. Sarah kept her hand on the gun in her pocket. The man was probably in his fifties, she thought, although Sarah knew the year since The Crisis had aged everyone prematurely. While his voice was rough and harsh, she could see when she got closer that his eyes were kind, if tired.\n\nHe had seen bad things.\n\nAnd yet still he stopped to give two strangers a ride. In the back of his cart were two large bushels of root vegetables, mostly potatoes.\n\n\"If you don't mind sitting in back with the spuds,\" he said, gesturing to the flatbed of his cart.\n\n\"Not at all,\" Evvie said. \"What town are you going to, may I ask?\" She gave Sarah a quick look to ascertain that she felt it was safe and then walked to the end of the cart. With Sarah's help, she placed her feet in toeholds on the cartwheel spokes and pulled herself into the back. Sarah let go of the gun in her pocket and did the same.\n\n\"I'm heading to Carmarthen,\" he said. \"And yourselves?\"\n\nEvvie looked at Sarah, who almost imperceptibly shook her head and gave her a warning look.\n\n\"Just a place for the night,\" Evvie said, her eyes still on Sarah. \"Carmarthen will suit us fine. You're Welsh, then?\n\n\"Aye,\" the man said turning around, touching his patched cheese cutter cap. \"Davey Smail. I bought yon spuds in Llangadog two days ago. Carmarthen's been hit hard since the Yank's Gift.\"\n\nNow it was Evvie's turn to warn Sarah not to speak with a severe look in her eye. \"I don't believe I know that term, Davey. Whatever do you mean by the _Yank's Gift_?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's just what some around here call the Black Out, ya ken? We don't know much about _why_ it happened, but it's certain as the freckles on your face that it's the goddamn Americans what's brought it to our shores.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd say that's a safe guess,\" Evvie said and winced apologetically to Sarah, who shrugged. She closed her eyes and tried to appreciate the break from walking for what it was\u2014a chance to rest up and still make some distance. But Davey's words reverberated in sinister tones in her head as she rode, leaning against one of the potato baskets.\n\n# 21\n\n_D ay 28 after the attack._\n\nThe first night in a bed in nearly a month. The first bath that she wasn't terrorized in the middle of taking. The first time she was alone in a room without a dead body staring at her from the floorboards.\n\nSarah couldn't wait to leave...and Evvie wasn't budging.\n\n\"You said yourself the coast is almost five days distance,\" Evvie said. \"Just thinking about walking for five days makes me want to sit down and never get up again. You do know I'm old, right?\"\n\nSarah sighed. \"I can't leave you here.\"\n\n\"Too right you can't!\"\n\n\"But I need to go, Evvie. My son\u2014\"\n\n\"We've only been here one night!\"\n\n\"One night is all we have money for\u2014\"\n\n\"You could work. The woman who runs this boarding house said she would be happy to let you work for our room and board.\"\n\nSarah watched Evvie cross her arms on her chest, her mouth pulled down into a pout.\n\n\"I can't stay, Evvie.\"\n\n\"And I'm too old to go!\"\n\nSarah moved to where the older woman sat and picked up her hand. \"The longer I stay, the more dangerous it is for both of us.\"\n\n\"You don't know that.\"\n\n\"I do. The people following me are desperate. If it was up to me we'd be sleeping in ditches and avoiding the highways altogether.\"\n\n\"I can't do that,\" Evvie said, her bottom lip trembling. \"Just the thought of it...\"\n\n\"I know.\" Sarah patted her hand. \"So here's what we're going to do.\" She took a deep breath. \"I'm going to work for the woman, Alice, just long enough to buy you a week's worth of lodging. That'll give me enough time to get home, get Mike, and come back for you.\"\n\n\"You're crazy, Sarah.\"\n\n\"It's the best plan I've got.\"\n\nEvvie looked out the cracked and dirty window in the upstairs bedroom that she and Sarah shared. The town of Carmarthen had obviously once been a thriving tourist's mecca before The Crisis\u2014or the Yank's Gift as almost everyone they met called it. But now it was a dingy, ramshackle collection of huts and poorly constructed houses and buildings. There was a large tent city along its perimeter, but from the looks of it, Sarah thought, that was where most of the crime, prostitution and violence were centered.\n\n\"One week?\" Evvie looked out the window as if expecting to see demons or bandits lining up to break into the boarding house as soon as Sarah left.\n\n\"One week. And I'll be back.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThat evening at dinner, Sarah made arrangements with Alice, the house's proprietor. She was a suspicious, tight-faced woman with bad teeth, but Sarah thought she could trust her. She wasn't sure she had much choice.\n\n\"So, you work for me for two days and I let the old one sit tight for a week.\"\n\n\"Board too, mind.\"\n\n\"Sure, sure. And when you come back, I get an extra twenty quid.\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\nAlice shrugged as if to say it was all the same to her, but Sarah knew the house was only half filled with boarders who could pay Alice in any way at all.\n\n\"Where did you say you were from? I can't place your accent.\"\n\n\"Donegal.\" Sarah figured mimicking the way Fiona spoke would be an easier way out of the American accent problem than trying to sound English in England.\n\n\"Be faster if you turned a few tricks, you know,\" Alice said, peering at Sarah as if wondering if there was something physically deformed about her that prevented this.\n\n\"No, thanks. I'm a hard worker. Just tell me what you need doing.\"\n\n\"Oh, you can be sure of that. Starting tonight, unless you've got any more coin like last night? I didn't think so. The kitchen, if you please. Pedro will show you what needs doing. I hope you weren't planning on sleeping tonight.\"\n\nSarah worked five straight hours that night rinsing dishes after she'd first dragged in buckets of water from the only working well in the town, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The water was brackish and smelled bad. She stripped all the beds in the house and dragged the heavy sheets and blankets to the basement where large vats and washtubs were filled with ice water. She sudsed and scrubbed the bed linens with coarse brushes. The temperatures dropped significantly outside and Sarah found her hard labor her only defense against the cold.\n\nJust before dawn, dripping with sweat, she collapsed onto the wooden back steps of the house, so tired she didn't even feel the chill, her fingers blue and blistered, her legs aching as if she'd run a marathon. She looked due west\u2014the direction where John was\u2014and closed her eyes in prayer.\n\n\"Oy, want a bite?\"\n\nShe turned her head to find a young girl bundled in a thick wool rug sitting on the top step of the stairs to the boarding house. She looked like a blonde Indian. Her eyes were large and almond-shaped, but her skin was light. She was holding out a meat pasty. Sarah took the pastry. She and Evvie had seen the stands set up on the main drag of Carmarthen, but the meat pies were expensive. It took all of Evvie's money for one night and board for two. The fragrance of the pies had tortured Sarah long into the night as she tried to fall asleep. She sank her teeth into the pie and immediately groaned with pleasure.\n\n\"Good, eh?\" the girl said. \"You keep it. I've already had two.\"\n\nSarah forced herself to wrap the meat pie in a napkin and put it in her pocket. _Evvie will think she's died and gone to heaven,_ she thought.\n\n\"Thank you so much,\" Sarah said, refocusing on the girl. \"I'll save it for me mum.\"\n\nThe girl's eyes were bright and seemed to dance as she regarded Sarah. For a town full of so much desperation and pain, she looked remarkably well fed and cheerful.\n\n\"No worries. I seen you and the oldie-but-goodie come in yesterday. Where you from, then?\"\n\nSarah recited the lie she and Evvie had concocted. \"We're from Gloucester, heading for Narberth. I've a brother there working the fields.\"\n\n\"Sure you do.\"\n\nSarah blinked at the retort. Did the girl not believe her? In the dim light, it was difficult to see her expression. Come to think of it, what was this girl doing at the boarding house?\n\n\"And yourself?\" Sarah asked. \"Do you live in Carmarthen?\"\n\n\"I'm from the Kale. Ever heard of 'em?\"\n\nSarah shook her head.\n\n\"They call us Welsh Romanies, but basically we're gypsies. I'm Papin.\"\n\n\"Sarah.\"\n\n\"You've got a secret, Sarah.\" Papin smiled and Sarah was struck by the young girl's self-possession.\n\n\"I guess we all do,\" Sarah said, wondering if she was being missed in the kitchen and should be getting back. She stood up.\n\n\"A man asked me tonight about someone who sounded a whole lot like you, except for you not being American.\"\n\nSarah stopped in mid turn, her hand frozen on the wooden railing. She turned and took a step toward the young gypsy girl and squatted down on the step to look into her face. When she did, she realized the girl couldn't be more than thirteen years old.\n\n\"What man?\"\n\n\"An Englishman with a lying face and hurting hands.\"\n\n\"He...he hurt you?\"\n\n\"He took what I was offering, but wouldn't pay me afterwards.\"\n\nThe bite of meat pie threatened to come back up Sarah's throat. That explained how the girl had money. \"When?\"\n\n\"Tonight.\" The girl nodded in the direction of the street. \"There's a pub before the tents. Him and his mates are staying there.\"\n\n\"What did you tell him?\" Sarah's palms were damp and the cold night air lifted her long hair from her collar.\n\n\"Told him I didn't know no Yank. Which I don't, do I? What with you being from Gloucester and all. Or is it Ireland?\"\n\nSarah's mind was a jumble of panic and questions. Had the girl revealed there was a strange woman just come to town and staying at the boarding house? How did the little gypsy guess it was Sarah the men were looking for? Were they asking everyone?\n\nShe and Evvie would have to go tonight. She couldn't leave her now. The men would question Alice, and likely Papin again, and end up with Evvie. She rubbed a hand across her face trying to imagine how she was going to do this with an eighty-year-old woman in the middle of the night with no food and no way to travel but on foot.\n\n\"What is it you want?\"\n\nThe girl didn't answer immediately. She stretched out her legs and when she did, Sarah noticed that her thighs were bruised and her skirt was ripped. Sarah looked in the direction the girl had indicated.\n\n\"I want to go with you. Which ain't Narberth.\"\n\nSarah was astonished. \" _Go with me_? Whatever for?\" Was someone chasing the little gypsy girl, too?\n\nPapin shook her head as if shaking off Sarah's question like an annoying fly. \"Doesn't matter. Besides, I can help you.\"\n\nSarah watched her for a moment before speaking. \" _How_ can you help me?\"\n\nThe girl brought her knees up on the wooden step and leaned forward eagerly. \"I can move in with your mum while you get away. If she's with me, they won't think she's got anything to do with you.\" The girl's eyes were bright with excitement and her words gave Sarah a surge of excitement _. I can leave,_ she thought.\n\n_But something wasn't right._\n\n\"How can you come with me and also stay here with...with my mum?\"\n\n\"I'll stay just long enough so there's no suspicion on her, like. Then, when I can, I'll follow you. Tell me where you're going next.\"\n\n\"Alice knows I'm with the old woman.\"\n\n\"Alice doesn't care who's with who.\"\n\n\"But if they question Alice, she'll tell them.\"\n\n\"They won't question her. They don't even know yet about the old lady.\"\n\n_Yet._\n\n\"Oy,\" Papin said, \"weren't you planning on taking a hike anyway?\"\n\n_How did she know that?_ \"Yes, but I'm coming back for her.\"\n\n\"Then it all works out. Besides, what option do you have? The bloke who asked me about you was a real wanker. I wouldn't want him after _me_.\"\n\nSarah sat down heavily next to the girl. \"How long could you stay with her?\"\n\n\"Until the men leave. Then I'll join you. Where is it you're going?\"\n\nSarah paused. \"The coast. To catch a ferry to Ireland.\"\n\nPapin's eyes widened. \"That's a long way.\"\n\n\"Especially on foot.\" Sarah glanced at Papin's ballet-slippered feet. \"You still haven't said why you're so keen to come with me.\"\n\nPapin stood up and brushed off the skirt of her dress. She looked to Sarah like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. \"Does it matter?\" She looked at Sarah and smiled before turning and walking to the top of the stairs. It occurred to Sarah that the look she gave her was one she might expect to see from a much older, much more jaded woman.\n\nSarah turned to head back to her room to awaken Evvie and tell her the change of plans. The piece of meat pie still felt warm and moist in her pocket.\n\n# 22\n\nMike had been gone just shy of a month\u2014one wasted month\u2014and now it was done. The rescue mission was over. And wherever Sarah was, she was on her own, as in so many ways she'd always been. The weight of abandoning the search, even temporarily, was wedged tight into the base of Mike's throat, where he knew it would always be.\n\nWas God punishing him for loving her when she belonged to another? He never thought the Almighty operated along those lines, but this failure felt very like a lesson being crammed down his gob.\n\nIt helped watching Aideen and Taffy step aboard the ferry, their bags packed, Aideen smiling more broadly than he could ever remember her doing. He watched the sharp and bracing salt air rake the two travelers. Aideen turned her face into it, as if she welcomed the assault, the clean slate, the new life that awaited her.\n\n_Donovan's Sacrifice_ , he thought bitterly as he sat on Petey at the top of the pasture and looked down onto the harbor, the ferry gone hours earlier. His failure spelled a new life for Aideen, but it was at the cost of being able to help the one woman who mattered most to him.\n\nHe turned his horse's head west toward home and Donovan's Lot. Whatever waited for him back home would be there still when he arrived. Whatever bollocks Gavin had made of things would be sorted out in time. He likely couldn't have destroyed a whole community in a month's time.\n\nNo, there was only one piece of wreckage that wouldn't soon be recovered from or easily survived by his failure.\n\n_John._\n\n_What the hell was he going to say to John?_\n\n* * *\n\nThe lad seemed a little better, a little stronger. Whether it was the endless cups of tea, the lack of chores, Fi's constant attention, or just the resilience of a young body overcoming the mysterious ailment Fiona would never know, but he was slowly coming back to them.\n\nThere was a day or two when she wasn't sure he would.\n\nFiona hefted the plastic laundry basket full of wet clothing onto her hip and squinted at the sky. There wouldn't be loads of sun, but neither did it look like it was about to rain any time soon. She smiled to herself as she stepped off her porch. She was fairly sure that her real job at Donovan's Lot was as Chief Worrier. She knew her brother felt _he_ held that title, but he wasn't a woman. He wasn't even close. Nor until he grew ovaries could he ever be.\n\nShe lugged the basket to Mike's hut and set it down heavily on the first step of his decking. _Typical Mike_ , she thought. He's worked to make everybody else's cottage as tight and windproof as they could be and left his own place to grow moss and catch leaks. Not for the first time, she caught herself, thinking, _If only Ellen had lived..._\n\nA high-pitched squeal of a laugh caught on the breeze shuffled through camp and snagged Fiona's attention. _Speaking of Ellen_...She caught a glimpse of the dead woman's younger sister as Caitlin ran behind the tents that lined the main campfire.\n\n_What was the girl up to now?_\n\nTrue, the lass had come to her offering to sit with young John while he was the sickest, but then had been conveniently unavailable when Fiona suggested any real work for her to do. And as for sitting with the lad\u2014Fiona pulled out a pair of cotton pants from the pile of wet laundry and draped it over Mike's porch railing\u2014that had lasted all of one day after Fi caught Caitlin feeding the boy poteen. Remembering the incident, Fi colored with annoyance all over again.\n\n\"Are you trying to kill the lad?\" She had grabbed the bottle from Caitlin's hands. \"He's _twelve_ , you eejit!\"\n\nFi had seen an unpleasant side of Caitlin during that exchange, which ended with Caitlin flouncing out of the cottage and slamming the door behind her.\n\nWhen Fi saw that John was fine\u2014if a little woozy for the experience\u2014she regretted her harsh words. _Still, it's hard enough to live during these times without having to live through someone else's foolishness on top of it._\n\nAs she flapped out a wet t-shirt and positioned it next to the pants on the railing, she craned her neck to see what Caitlin was up to that involved scampering and squealing. She was _supposed_ to be gathering kindling for the widow McGinty's cook stove. When no other sounds came from behind the tents, Fi shrugged and went back to her own chores.\n\nAfter the poteen incident, Caitlin had opted to keep her distance from Fiona\u2014and so, John\u2014and Fiona had to admit she found it better for everyone all around. The following day when Fiona had gone to pour the poteen into a smaller bottle so that she could use the bigger one to store cooking oil, nearly a half a dozen undissolved aspirin tablets were glommed at the bottom of the bottle.\n\nAn innocent mistake, surely, on Caitlin's part, obviously trying to make the boy more comfortable.\n\nBut one that could easily have been fatal for him.\n\n# 23\n\nThe village of Bancyfelin was only five miles due west from Carmarthen, but it took Sarah all night to reach it. She hated to walk so close to the A40\u2014surely the main conduit for Angie and her group\u2014but she was afraid of getting lost. Besides, she had told Papin she would meet her in Merlins Bridge outside of Haverfordwest in two days' time. They had met again a few minutes before Sarah slipped away into the night\u2014her promise of work to Alice unfulfilled and so her dependence on Papin all the greater.\n\nIt was Papin who told her Merlins Bridge would be a good halfway point at which to meet. Unfortunately, it was a direct route from Carmarthen on the worst possible road for hiding. Sarah cursed herself for not confirming with the girl that they were headed toward the point on the coast _that had ferry crossings_. In the end, she knew it didn't matter. If she had to backtrack, she would.\n\nAfter the fifth group of noisy travelers forced her into the trees for another wasted hour of waiting and watching, Sarah finally decided to leave the highway for the pastures and woodland boundaries. Papin said that Merlins Bridge was only two days distance by foot, and what that translated into miles Sarah had no idea. Once again she realized she had placed her life in the hands of someone she had no reason to trust.\n\nWith the morning bearing down on her and what cover she had had up to then about to vanish, Sarah took off at a slow jog across the field. She knew she was off course. She knew she would probably not make the rendezvous at this rate. She also knew that traveling so close to the A40 was a death sentence. If she lost Papin, well, then she did. Mid-morning, grateful for not having seen another living soul, Sarah dropped over a broken fieldstone wall and rested, her back up against the wall. Evvie had insisted Sarah take the half-pie and she dug it out of her pack now and devoured it in two bites.\n\nHer heart ached to think of Evvie, her eyes big and trusting but scared, too, beseeching Sarah to return for her. It had been a painful parting.\n\nAnd then there was Papin. What was her story? If she needed to leave town, why did she need Sarah for that? And why volunteer to babysit Evvie in the meantime?\n\nNone of it made sense. Sarah closed her eyes and enjoyed the brief showing of the autumn sun on her face as it peeked through the clouds. If the girl showed up at Merlins Bridge then Sarah would honor her promise to bring her along. But if she wasn't there, Sarah wouldn't wait. Watching the sun retreat back into the clouds and the resulting icy gust of wind ruffling her hair, Sarah picked up her knapsack. Setting up sticks to ascertain her position wasn't helpful at this point. She needed to get away from the main road more than she needed to be heading due west.\n\nShe got to her feet and began walking.\n\nIn a way, the next two days were almost peaceful. With nobody's safety but her own to worry about, Sarah simply walked and slept, her mind locked in neutral. She killed a small rabbit in the afternoon of her second day, made a fire and cooked it before nightfall, then packed up her food and kept moving until late that night when she climbed a crabapple tree.\n\nWalking across fields and pastures made her feel vulnerable, and although the area looked as desolate as farmland that's been abandoned could look, Sarah couldn't take any chances. Twice she had had to throw rocks at wild and ravenously hungry dogs\u2014probably tame and beloved family pets up until last year\u2014in order to continue, and with the smell of cooked meat on her, she couldn't risk sleeping on the ground, especially without a fire. Moving again made her feel like every step was taking her closer to John and not the fatigue nor the hunger could diminish the spring in her step that that thought brought.\n\nWhile she felt relatively safe, she had to admit she had no idea where she was in relation to Merlins Bridge or the coast. She awoke in her tree on the morning of her third day since she left Carmarthen. It was thirty-one days since the attack. And it was raining. She pulled her wet blanket around her shoulders and squinted up at the billowing gray clouds overhead. Today was the day she was to meet Papin at Merlins Bridge. At least she wasn't hungry. She'd eaten the whole rabbit last night before falling asleep in the branches of her tree.\n\nWithout the sun, however, how was she going to be able to tell which direction she was walking? The last time she checked was yesterday morning, but she'd logged in many miles since then and with the meandering nature of her path\u2014over stonewalls and around woods or any sign of human habitation of which there had been few but enough\u2014she was sure she was no longer going due west. Sitting in the tree, she tried to decide if she should continue in the same direction she had been going before she stopped. Ultimately, she didn't see another option. The sun didn't appear to be coming out any time soon and she had a strong urge to be moving.\n\nShe dropped to the ground, checked her provisions, ensured that her gun and knife were secure in her pack\u2014she had stopped carrying the gun in her pocket, as it had begun to chafe badly on the top of her thigh\u2014and headed out. She walked in the rain until she saw the skies clearing ahead, which prompted her to move quicker. The sooner she got out of the weather, the sooner she could determine how badly off track she was and correct it.\n\nAs she moved toward the blue skies ahead, she noted that at some point in the trip she had mentally let go of the necessity of meeting up with Papin and was now focused strictly on just finding the coast. That thought surprised her and triggered her to say a prayer for Evvie's safety. Would Papin betray Evvie for whatever money Angie's thugs might give her? A chill ran down Sarah's spine as she remembered Jeff when he jumped into the ditch with her just a few days earlier.\n\nIf he only knew how close he had been to touching her warm, still living flesh under the two corpses lying with her in the ditch. She shivered, not in memory of her grisly ditch companions, but at the thought of what would have happened to her if the real monster in that ditch had discovered her alive.\n\nSuddenly, she saw a man and a woman walking toward her across the pasture. Because she had just been thinking of Angie and Jeff, she instantly dropped to her stomach in a panic and watched the two approach. As soon as she hit the ground, she could see it wasn't them, but still she didn't move. She watched them stumble along in the uneven footing of the pasture. Twice, the man reached out to grab the woman's elbow to steady her. Sarah turned on her back and pulled out the Glock. The rain, lighter now, still splashed into her face and she wiped it with the back of her sleeve, knowing she was about to give the two travelers a terrible fright. But there was nothing for it.\n\nShe stood up. She held the gun once more in her front pocket and she kept her hand in that pocket.\n\n\"Hello,\" she said in her best English accent. \"Hello, there.\"\n\nThe couple stopped, the woman clapping a terrified hand to her mouth to stifle the shriek that Sarah nonetheless clearly heard.\n\n\"Don't be frightened. I want nothing from you except directions.\"\n\nThe man's hand went to his woman's arm and Sarah hated that she was causing them such discomfort. Lord knows she was well acquainted with what it was like to live with fear hunched around every dark corner.\n\n\"We have nothing to give you,\" the man said. He was about forty, Sarah guessed, and thin, although whether that was by nature or the last terrible year was unknowable. The fact that he refused to hear Sarah say she wanted nothing from them made her realize they had likely been badly treated.\n\n\"Where are we?\" she asked, using her other hand to indicate the pasture. \"I'm lost.\" Hoping that describing herself in a vulnerable position might make them relax, Sarah smiled. On the other hand, she reminded herself, she _did_ have her hand on a gun and it probably looked very odd to the couple that she kept one hand in her pocket.\n\n\"You're in Wales,\" the man said.\n\nSarah nodded and tried to keep smiling. _This was obviously going to take awhile_ , she thought with impatience. \"How close are we to the coast?\"\n\nThe man glanced at his companion and Sarah was gratified to realize it was the kind of look husbands give when they're about to provide directions but expect to be second-guessed by their wives.\n\n\"Thirty kilometers?\"\n\nHis wife nodded.\n\nSarah's shoulders sagged dejectedly under her wet blanket. Thirty kilometers was around twenty miles. It was not welcome news. \"Am I going the right way toward the coast?\"\n\nThis seemed to surprise the man but he nodded. \"Perhaps a little bit more that way,\" he said, indicating a slight course correction to the left.\n\n\"Thank you.\" Sarah smiled to indicate that the two could continue on their way when, on impulse, she asked, \"Am I anywhere near Merlins Bridge, do you know?\"\n\nThe woman spoke for the first time. \"You've past it by about two miles,\" she said, not smiling. \"Back the way you come and off that aways is Clarbeston Road.\"\n\n\"What _used_ to be Clarbeston Road,\" her husband said.\n\n\"There's no markings on it,\" she said, \"but you can't miss it.\"\n\n\"We're going that way,\" the man said and Sarah saw the woman snap her head to look at him. She was either surprised he'd suggest they travel together...or he was lying.\n\n\"Thank you,\" Sarah said. \"I'll be along directly.\"\n\nThe man nodded and the couple continued walking. Sarah watched them go. It went against everything in her to retrace her steps when there was so much distance still between her and the coast. Backtracking two miles across the fields to meet up with Papin would cost her the rest of the morning. And how likely was it she was even there? Could she travel any faster than Sarah had? Then when Sarah confirmed that the girl _wasn't_ there, she would have to spend another couple of hours to return to where she was right now. And why? So she could assuage her guilt about not keeping her word to the little gypsy? Who would know? Sarah shifted her pack and turned in the direction that the couple had gone.\n\n_She_ would know.\n\nShe walked steadily until her longer stride couldn't help but catch up with the couple and then she walked with them, none of them speaking, which suited Sarah since her fake English accent was poor. When they reached the place that Sarah spent the night, the couple turned northwest and motioned for Sarah to follow them. She could tell when they shifted direction that the land was becoming more cultivated and that they were leaving the desolate fields behind. Tightening her hands into fists, Sarah took a long breath to calm herself.\n\nShe tried to remind herself that Angie would stick to the A40 as much as she could and that only people on foot or horseback would be able to comfortably travel these back roads. While Angie's lot was on horseback, there would be nothing in the way of alcohol or food or women to amuse them here. As she and the couple walked past crofts and what looked like abandoned holiday cottages, she prayed she was right and that Angie's men would stick to the larger towns.\n\n\"That there's Clarbeston Road,\" the man said to Sarah, pointing at a two-lane road that twisted and wound below them. Sarah would have to slide down a steep embankment to walk along the road.\n\n\"Which way is Merlins Bridge?\" she asked.\n\nThe man pointed in the direction. \"Though there's nothing much there now,\" he said, looking at Sarah closely.\n\nAfraid she had forgotten to use her English accent, Sarah just nodded her thanks and turned from them to negotiate the drop down to the road. She forced herself not to look back up at them. She knew they were watching her. She wondered where they were headed.\n\nOnce on the road and feeling remarkably relieved to feel solid asphalt under her feet for a change, Sarah began to jog in the direction that the man had pointed to. The sooner she touched base at Merlins Bridge the sooner she could either retrace her steps\u2014and that meant somehow getting back up that steep hill to the fields. The sun had come out now, which further buoyed Sarah's mood. With a re-emergent sun, she would be able to determine her direction again. Maybe she wouldn't have to backtrack at all to resume her trek to the coast.\n\nShe heard them before she saw them. Unfortunately, this time there was no handy ditch lining the road for her to hide herself. Sarah looked in panic at the tall hill to her left\u2014the one she'd just descended\u2014but realized that even if she could scale it in time it would only serve to make her more visible to whomever was approaching from around the corner on the road. From the sounds of it, she could tell there were at least two, and possibly more, coming her way on horseback. She slipped her hand into her pocket to touch the reassuringly cold hard shape of the Glock and turned the corner to face what was coming.\n\n# 24\n\nThe shock at seeing the two of them was so great that, at first, Sarah could only stand her ground in the middle of the road, her hand on her gun and stare. It wasn't until Papin called out to her that Sarah realized what she was seeing was real. Papin, dressed in a long flowing gypsy skirt and a woolen jumper, was astride a bone-white Welsh pony, leading two other saddled horses behind her.\n\nOne of which carried Evvie.\n\n\"Oy! Don't shoot, ya daft bitch!\" Papin called laughingly to Sarah. \"I told you we'd find her!\" she said over her shoulder as she trotted her pony down to meet Sarah where she stood.\n\n\"I don't believe this,\" Sarah said in wonder. \"This is either a miracle or I got some seriously bad mushrooms last night out in the field.\"\n\n\"Oh, we're real enough, dear,\" Evvie said, her cheeks brightly pink against the cold day. Sarah could see she was gripping the saddle pommel instead of the reins.\n\n\"I know it's a change of plan,\" Papin said, jerking a thumb to indicate Evvie. \"But the crazy old cow wouldn't stay by herself. What else could I do?\"\n\nSarah touched the nose of Evvie's horse. He was a mixed breed but sturdy for it. \"Where in the world did you get them?\" It hadn't occurred to her until that second that right behind seeing John again\u2014or Mike\u2014would have been the unimaginably wonderful possibility of riding the rest of the way home.\n\n\"Oh, that's a trade secret, but we might not want to travel the main highways. I figured you didn't want to anyway. Besides, there was no way the old lady was going to be able to make it on foot.\"\n\n\"I'd greatly appreciate it, dear, if you'd stop referring to me as the old lady and such.\" Sarah could see that Evvie spoke to Papin fondly, with a twinkle in her eye.\n\n\"How did you even know I was here?\" Sarah asked, moving to the riderless horse and tightening the girth on the saddle.\n\n\"Well, we didn't, did we? We got tired of waiting at the bridge and then some rough types came around and we thought we'd try waiting a little further on.\"\n\n\"I just can't believe y'all are here with horses,\" Sarah said as she secured her backpack onto the back of the saddle. \"We'll save the hugs for later, okay?\" She put her foot in the stirrup and swung easily up into the saddle.\n\nThe minute was she was astride again, after so many months of not riding, Sarah felt strong and in control again. Even a horse she'd never ridden before felt more naturally an extension of her body than walking.\n\n\"You don't ride, Evvie?\" she asked, nodding at the double set of reins in Papin's hands.\n\n\"Never once,\" Evvie said ruefully. \"But it beats walking.\"\n\n\"That it does,\" Sarah said, giving Papin a grin. The girl beamed with pleasure. Sarah touched her horse's sides with her legs and felt him wake up and move forward.\n\nWhen she thought of how close she came to skipping Merlins Bridge and missing Papin and Evvie\u2014 _and horses!\u2014_ she quickly shooed the thought from her head. They were mounted, well fed, together again and only twenty miles from the Welsh coast.\n\nThings were definitely looking up.\n\nThey rode for another two hours before making camp for the night. Riding or not, the trip was strenuous for Evvie, and upon being helped to dismount by Papin she sank to her knees.\n\n\"Whoa, Granny, you are seriously out of shape,\" Papin said, helping Evvie to a sitting position at the base of a broken stonewall while Sarah hobbled the horses nearby.\n\n\"I'm eighty-years-old, you impertinent brat,\" Evvie said good-naturedly. \"I'm actually in amazing condition for my age. Can we risk a campfire tonight, Sarah dear?\"\n\n\"I think so.\" Sarah handed her the flint and the knife. \"I'll go get the bits for the bird nest thingy. Did you guys bring any food by any chance?\"\n\nWhile Papin pulled out the stolen provisions from her saddle roll and Sarah gathered kindling and leaves for the fire, Evvie laid out blankets against the saddles, one for each of them. When she got the fire going, the three sat for long moments just warming their hands and staring into the flames without speaking. Even little Papin looked all-in, Sarah couldn't help but notice. She'd held up her end of the bargain in spades. She'd taken care of Evvie and gone several steps further by procuring horses and food. Sarah was having trouble imagining what she would have done without the little gypsy's help.\n\nPapin used Sarah's knife to slice the long tube of salami and bread that she'd brought. She also had a large chunk of cheddar cheese\u2014unimaginably rare in these days after The Crisis\u2014that the three shared in celebration of how far they had all come.\n\n\"I've never toasted with cheese before,\" Evvie said, holding up her piece and smiling.\n\n\"It's the perfect thing to toast with,\" Papin said. \"It's delicious, it fills you up and it's dead expensive.\"\n\n\"Maybe more than a toast, I want to give a prayer of thanksgiving,\" Sarah said. \"Because until the moment that I saw you two again, I'd forgotten what it felt like to be grateful for my good fortune.\" She held up her cheese chunk and said, \"To the three of us meeting safely again and to the journey ahead.\" She popped the cheese in her mouth.\n\n\"Hear, hear!\" Papin and Evvie both said, eating their cheese.\n\n\"Although, I must say, a hot bath would be good about now, too,\" Evvie said with a sigh, prompting Papin and Sarah to burst out laughing.\n\n\"You old hag! You're never satisfied!\" Papin said, reaching out and shaking Evvie's knee.\n\n\"You two obviously connected, I see,\" Sarah said.\n\n\"Well, she's a cheeky piece, it's true,\" Evvie said, smiling fondly at Papin. \"But she's also a treasure and, trust me, I've cause to know.\" Sarah saw Evvie's eyes fill with pain and she knew she was thinking of her daughter, Lexi.\n\n_Well, that's fitting,_ Sarah thought. _Take away a crap daughter and replace her with..._ she looked at Papin and smiled as the girl knelt behind Evvie and started to braid the older woman's long hair.\n\n_...with whom?_\n\nSarah turned back to the fire and stared into its depths again. The horses gave them the added benefit of serving as an early warning device in case anybody approached in the night. She could sleep soundly in front of the fire knowing, short of someone slitting the throats of the horses where they stood, that no one could surprise them.\n\nShe turned back to see that Papin had tucked Evvie into her blanket and pulled her own cover around her shoulders. She nestled close to Evvie and closed her eyes briefly, as if relishing the sheer closeness of the other woman. It drove a needle of sadness into Sarah's heart to see it. _Poor little motherless Papin._\n\nBefore Sarah took her place against her own saddle for the night, she did a slow and thorough perimeter check to make sure the horses were fine and that no sound or light was evident on the horizon. It was as quiet a night as one could experience, she thought. So still and dark, it truly felt like the end of the world.\n\nBack at the campsite, she could see that Papin, like the child she was, had lost the fight to stay awake. She was curled up to Evvie, who had one arm around the girl.\n\n\"She's knackered,\" Evvie said in a whisper.\n\n\"I thought you were, too.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am. We left Carmarthen before dawn this morning.\"\n\n\"You made it here in one day? Well, I guess you would, on horseback.\"\n\n\"There'll be room for the girl at the place we're going?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"And she'll live with us? And your boy?\"\n\nSarah tossed another big piece of wood on the campfire. \"That's the plan.\"\n\n\"It's almost like the new family unit after The Crisis is a bunch of patched-together misfits and orphans who need each other.\"\n\n\"Maybe that's the best kind of family.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Evvie used her free hand to smooth the loose hair from Papin's untroubled face as she slept.\n\n\"You going to be okay, Evvie?\"\n\nEvvie looked at her with a questioning look on her face. \"Why do you ask, dear?\"\n\n\"Well, I know riding beats walking but it's still stressful.\"\n\n\"I'll be fine, Sarah. I've got my girls with me, don't I?\"\n\nSarah met Evvie's smile with one of her own. \"You definitely do.\"\n\n* * *\n\nMike sat on his horse at the fork in the path next to the stone cairn that marked the entrance to Donovan's Lot. He had hand-stacked this cairn with Gavin the summer they'd celebrated a record harvest\u2014their first after The Crisis. He'd meant to put a sign of some kind on it but everything he thought of sounded too poncey. They weren't a country club for crissake.\n\nAt least from this vantage, it looked like the community was still standing. When the breeze turned, he could hear the light notes of children laughing. Always a good sign.\n\nThe trip to the coast had taken him two days. He'd allowed three for the ride back. The closer he got, the sicker he felt. He tried to remind himself that he'd only stay long enough to scrape together enough to afford a ferry fare and then he'd go back.\n\nAs cold as her trail would be by then, he knew exactly how futile the exercise was.\n\nBut it was all he had.\n\nAs he sat at the crossroads, bracing for his reentry into camp, he knew John would only have to see him ride in alone to know he hadn't found her.\n\nHe sat a moment longer, straining to hear the sounds of camp from this distance, trying to feel the moment of relief he always felt at coming home again.\n\nInstead, with deepening dread, he nudged his horse past the cairn stone stack and down the dirt road that led to Donovan's Lot and his people.\n\n* * *\n\nThe next morning, Sarah was sorry she hadn't taken the time to try to hunt a rabbit or hedgehog or something the night before. As a result, they had to start their journey with empty stomachs, and while the rain looked to be holding off, Evvie was already uncomfortable.\n\n\"It's just my arthritis,\" she said. \"It comes on with weather.\"\n\n\"But it ain't raining, Granny,\" Papin said, looking up at the grey skies.\n\n\"No, dear, it's the _threat_ of rain that brings on the misery in my joints.\"\n\nWhen they were all three mounted, Sarah took Evvie's reins and led the way out of the pasture and across the field. She knew she wanted to stay away from any roads, but sooner or later they would come to a stonewall they would need to get across and she wasn't at all sure how they would manage that.\n\nShe and Papin could probably jump the walls but it was taking a chance. If the horses weren't jumpers, they risked broken bones, or worse. Sarah had to admit it would be pretty terrible to come all this way only to end up with a broken leg because she'd been too impatient to walk around a fence.\n\nTempted to trot, Sarah forced all of them to stay at a steady walk. The last thing they needed was an unexpected pothole to either lame one of the horses or unseat one of them. She sat straight in her saddle and massaged a kink out of the small of her back. The Glock had turned into the heaviest possible encumbrance to traveling, but the security it brought was worth it. She had now lost enough weight that she was able to fold down the waistband of Denny's jeans, allowing her to once more tuck the gun against the small of her back.\n\nJust before lunch\u2014which was the last of the now stale bread and remnant salami\u2014Sarah made the painful but necessary decision to add extra miles to their trip when she realized that the thirty kilometers were measured by travel along the Clarbeston Road. Skirting the road by staying out in the open in the fields made her feel safer against the threat of Angie finding her, but it was at the cost of at least two more days traveling.\n\nThe three rode in silence until nearly dark. Twice Sarah had to dismount to try to reorient herself as to their location. Once, she sent Papin off to find anyone who might be able to give directions. It served the added benefit of allowing Evvie to rest. She looked to Sarah as if she were barely managing to stay upright in her saddle.\n\nPapin came back from her expedition with the report that there was nobody on the road to ask. By Sarah's calculations, they were, more or less, on track to hit the coast by late the next day.\n\nAs the late afternoon gave way to early evening, it began to rain. By the time they set up camp\u2014one that clearly wasn't going to have the benefit of a campfire\u2014the lightning began to light up the sky with regular intervals. It had been awhile since Sarah had had to endure a full-on storm of any strength. And always then, she had been sheltered in a cottage. She could see that Evvie looked worried.\n\n_Did the Welsh get tornadoes?_ she wondered _. Or hurricanes?_ Back in Florida, where she was from, it would be nearing the end of hurricane season.\n\n\"We gonna be okay, Sarah?\" Papin asked as she and Evvie huddled under a stand of trees, the water pouring off the leaves and branches and affording little protection from the rain.\n\n\"We'll be wet,\" Sarah said. \"And hungry. But we'll be fine.\" She hated to reward them all after such a long day of riding with a cold, wet night and no dinner, especially Evvie, who looked like she was having trouble breathing. But what else could she do?\n\n\"One more night and then we're at the coast and on the boat,\" she said. \"We're nearly there.\"\n\nEvvie nodded miserably and Sarah couldn't help but notice Papin's worried looks in her direction.\n\n\"Tell you what. How would you two like to sleep in a warm tent tonight with a fire right in the center of it?\"\n\nPapin's thin shoulders began to shake under her wet jumper. She looked at Sarah with trust and expectation. \"Don't tease us.\"\n\n\"In my country, Indians make teepees with a hole in the top so they could have their campfires inside and I think we can fashion something like that using our blankets and this old widow-maker.\"\n\nThe dead tree she indicated was easily fifteen feet tall and caught in its fall by two smaller trees beneath it. By stretching their blankets and securing them to the adjacent saplings near the widow-maker, Sarah was sure she could fashion a rudimentary tented lean-to. She grabbed her knife and began stripping one of the saplings nearest her of its branches.\n\n\"Do you really think so, Sarah?\" Papin asked, looking at the skinny trees that surrounded them.\n\n\"My brothers and I used to make them all the time up in north Georgia,\" Sarah said. \"I don't remember ever doing it in a thunderstorm, but the principle is the same. Evvie, you just sit tight. Papin, go stand over there with the ponies and make sure none of them gets an idea to bolt out of here.\"\n\nPapin nodded and moved out from the meager shelter of the trees to stand with the horses. Sarah could hear her soft voice under the sound of the rain as she talked to the animals.\n\nShe worked quickly to pull together the tree fort by stretching their blankets on the sapling notches and leaving a large gap in the top for the smoke to come out. As soon as she could she ushered Evvie inside and settled her down next to one of the saddles. She opened her shirt and dumped out the armful of twigs and kindling she'd collected when she built the tent, and handed Evvie the flint and the knife.\n\n\"Th\u2014there's no tinder,\" Evvie said, her hands shaking with the cold.\n\n\"I know. Sit tight.\" Sarah went out to where Papin stood with the quivering horses. \"Papin, you got any money?\"\n\n\"Money?\"\n\n\"Yes, as in bills?\"\n\nPapin lifted her sweater away from her waistband and pulled out a slim wallet, which she handed to Sarah. \"Why do you need money?\"\n\n\"I don't, specifically,\" Sarah said, pulling out several bills and handing the wallet back to her. \"I'll call you when the fire's going.\"\n\nShe hurried back to the tent and knelt next to Evvie and began crumpling up the pound notes. \"Not really good for much else,\" she said as Evvie struck a spark off the flint and caught the paper money. Sarah quickly tucked it under the kindling and the fire grew.\n\n\"Oh, thank you, Sarah,\" Evvie said, her voice quivering. She held her hands out to the little campfire and watched the smoke escape up and out the top of the tent. \"I don't think I could have endured a whole night wet and cold.\"\n\n\"I think we need to get you dry somehow, Evvie,\" Sarah said, eyeing her critically.\n\nPapin entered the tent. \"Blimey, I'm freezing.\"\n\nSarah disappeared outside and returned with a long stick in her hands. \"Get as close to the fire as you can, Evvie, and slip off your cardie.\"\n\n\"I don't think I can bear to.\"\n\n\"Okay, never mind.\" Sarah shrugged off her own thin jacket and stuck it on one of the sticks. She handed it to Papin. \"Over the fire, not in it. I'll be back in a sec.\"\n\nA mighty crack of thunder coincided with her squeezing back out of the small-tented enclosure. Papin squeaked at the sound of the crash and dropped Sarah's jacket into the fire, nearly extinguishing it. Hurriedly, she pulled it out and began blowing on the embers again to bring the fire back to life.\n\nSarah trotted over to where the ponies were hobbled. She was tempted to unhobble them. If they got spooked enough they could really hurt themselves trying to flee. On the other hand, tying them up would be even more dangerous. She pulled the saddle off her horse\u2014the only one who had yet to be untacked\u2014and carried it back to the tent. Standing a few feet outside, she could see the smoke coming out of the top in an orderly slim line. She could make out the shapes of Evvie and Papin inside and felt a rush of gratitude that she had been able to provide some kind of shelter against the terrible night. She parked her saddle in the opening of the tent and pulled out her backpack from where she'd tied it to the saddle.\n\n\"Check the jacket, Papin. It won't be dry but it'll be better than what she's got on. Evvie, take off your cardie.\"\n\n\"Oh, God, it's so cold,\" Evvie said through chattering teeth as she peeled her wet sweater off and handed it to Papin. She pulled on the jacket and Sarah had the satisfaction of hearing her friend groan with ecstasy. \"Ohhhhh! Sooooo warm!\"\n\n\"Good. And here's dinner.\" Sarah handed Evvie a chunk of bread.\n\nPapin was arranging Evvie's sweater on the stick and her eyes were large. \"Where did you get that?\"\n\n\"I put it in my bag yesterday and then thought we'd already eaten it. I've never been so glad to be forgetful in my life. Here's yours.\" She handed another large piece of bread to Papin, who held it in her free hand and looked at Evvie and then back at Sarah. \"Well, it's not the Dorchester,\" she said with a grin, \"but it's not shite either.\"\n\n\"Remind me to needlepoint that on a pillow when we get home,\" Sarah said, taking a bite out of her own bread. \"Might just be our new family motto.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIt was another night that Sarah knew she didn't have to worry about someone sneaking up on them. No one in his or her right mind would be out on a night like tonight.\n\n* * *\n\n\"Tell us about your David,\" Evvie said to Sarah, though Sarah'd been sure everyone had dozed off. Soft snores came from where Papin was curled up by the fire.\n\n\"I'm really not in the mood, Evvie.\"\n\n\"I know you miss him terribly.\"\n\n\"Same as you and your Mark. It's just easier not to think of him, and what happened, when I'm trying to be strong and do what's necessary.\"\n\n\"I understand. Well, can you tell me about this Donovan chap, then? The one who'll be taking us all in?\"\n\nSarah listened for a moment to the sounds of the rain as it continued to bear down on the little tent and the surrounding trees. Twice she'd gotten up to check on the horses and had to re-dry her wet t-shirt before putting it back on. \"Mike is like this ultimate paternalistic leader. He likes to be in charge and he's good at it so people pretty much let him lead the way.\"\n\n\"My. An Alpha male.\"\n\nSarah grinned at Evvie. \"What's that mean?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've read my share of romance books, Miz Scarlett. I know the sounds of a stubborn but natural-born leader.\"\n\n\"I guess so. I mean, before The Crisis he was probably this way, too. He thinks everyone should just fall in line and do it his way. He's not a bully. He just has his own way of seeing things and pretty much encourages you to see things that way, too.\"\n\n\"You like him.\"\n\n\"Everybody likes him.\"\n\n\"Oh, sure because _that's_ what I meant.\"\n\nSarah wagged a finger at her. \"There's nothing between me and Mike. I like him. And he's exactly what the community needs\u2014a strong leader who's willing to work hard to make the group safe.\"\n\n\"He's like a papa that takes care of everyone,\" Papin said sleepily.\n\n\"Exactly. I guarantee you both will love him.\"\n\n\"Do _you_ love him?\" Papin asked.\n\n\"Alright, enough of that. Why don't we all go to sleep? It's going to be a long day tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Can't you tell us a little something about the new world you're bringing us to?\"\n\n\"I thought I just did.\"\n\n\"Well, how about your son? What's John like?\"\n\nSarah hesitated and looked into the fire. It occurred to her that she had been working very hard _not_ to think of John, not to picture his face, not to remember his voice. It was just too painful while they were still so far apart. And because as soon as she saw him she knew the reunion would be bittersweet.\n\n_David._\n\nSarah pushed the accompanying image out of her head. The picture of David slumped on the ground, his hands lifeless in his lap, his dear head turned away, never to look at her or smile or...\n\n\"Sarah?\"\n\nShe shook herself out of the mood and threw a small stick onto the fire. \"John is like most twelve-year-old American boys: he loves his iPad and video games, plays soccer at school and is addicted to Netflix.\"\n\nThere was a pause and then Evvie said, \"Except, of course, he doesn't do any of those things any more.\"\n\nSarah felt a wave of exhaustion crash down over her. Evvie was right, of course. John was no longer that little boy who had climbed into his airplane seat a year ago full of questions and concerns about keeping all his electronics charged.\n\nHe was somebody different now.\n\n\"Well, he's safe,\" Sarah said. \"And right now, from where I'm sitting, that's the only thing that really matters.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\" Papin asked.\n\nEvvie patted the girl's hand. \"To a mother, the world would smell different, feel different without him in it. You'd know. When I think of my Mark, there's something about the thinking of him that makes me feel...that he's not in the world anymore.\"\n\n\"Oh, Evvie...\"\n\n\"It's true. I know Mark isn't coming for me. I know he's not trying to find me because I can feel that he's gone.\"\n\nPapin picked up Evvie's hand and smoothed her own small one on top of it. \"When I was eight, some men came and set me mum and me dad on fire,\" she said. \"Killed me little brother, too. So I can't ever play games of wondering, you know? I can't ever _not_ see them gone. Or how. When I close my eyes\u2014 _every time I close my eyes_ \u2014I see them leaving me.\"\n\n\"Holy God, Papin. How?\"\n\n\"Me mum shoved me in a closet in the caravan when she saw them coming. I heard 'em screaming, so I snuck out to see. Afterward, the men wanted to steal the caravan but it didn't work. So they just left. And never found me.\"\n\n\"Papin, I am so sorry for your terrible loss. But...this was before The Crisis? These men killed your family _before_ the lights went out?\"\n\nPapin nodded. \"One of the men accused my father of cheating him. I was too young and too scared to really understand what he was saying. He might have been right. My papa probably did cheat him.\"\n\n\"Those men were monsters and should have been arrested and put in cages.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"And you've been on your own ever since?\"\n\n\"No, there are families in the Kale. I was taken in and raised with my cousins. We were all one family.\"\n\n\"When did you leave to strike out on your own?\"\n\n\"Well, actually, the night I met you, Sarah.\"\n\nSarah opened her mouth as if to speak, but just looked at Papin in confusion.\n\n\"I could tell from the minute I saw you,\" Papin said. \"You know gypsies have the gift of second sight, aye? Well, I just knew.\"\n\n\"Knew what?\"\n\n\"That you were a mother looking for her child.\"\n\nTears sprang to Sarah's eyes. Of course Papin's radar would be very sensitive to _that_. Whether it could have been seen so clearly by anybody other than a motherless child was doubtful. \"Well, I am definitely that,\" Sarah said softly.\n\n\"What happened to your extended family?\" Evvie asked.\n\n\"They left.\"\n\n\" _Left?_ Moved away and didn't tell you?\"\n\n\"No, they told me. I guess most _gadjikane_ think all gypsies are whores, but my family couldn't accept me doing this.\"\n\n\"Selling your body for food,\" Sarah said.\n\n\"That's right.\" She looked at Sarah with eyes filled with such sadness and pain that Sarah quickly moved to take her into her arms. There would be time to hear the whole terrible story, to bear the unbearable agony of the child's broken heart. Later.\n\n\"Never again, Papin,\" Sarah whispered. \"I'm your family now.\" She reached out an arm to include Evvie in the hug. \" _We_ are your family now, by God, and nobody will leave anybody ever again. I promise.\"\n\nSarah felt Papin's thin body sag as she released the tension that had been holding her so securely together. Her arms tightened around Sarah's neck. \"Thank you,\" she whispered, sounding for the first time like the little girl she really was.\n\nAn hour later, Papin and Evvie were both asleep, the girl once more in the arms of the elder, who clung to her just as fiercely in her need. Sarah stepped out of the tent to relieve herself and to check again on the animals. They were calmer now that the storm seemed to have moved on and Sarah was grateful that it looked like they'd have transportation in the morning.\n\nThat had never been a sure thing while the storm lashed them. She plucked downed twigs and branches from where the horses stood and checked to see that the falling limbs hadn't hit them. While they could use a bag of oats about now, Sarah knew there was enough grass in the pasture to keep them going. And the travel, while relentless, wasn't arduous. It helped to be out in the night air, listening to the nickering and murmurs from the three horses. It helped to put her hand out on a sturdy flank and feel the reassuring strength of the beasts. She remembered, as a horse-crazy teenager in a northern suburb of Atlanta where she grew up, turning to her own horse many times in the midst of some silly teen angst. She knew now what she knew then, that there were few more comforting friends than a kindhearted horse that you loved.\n\nShe thought of her horse, Dan, back at the cottage and how she had been so afraid of him when she and David and John first came to Ireland. In her adult life, Sarah had suffered from a fear of horses after a nasty fall had ended her young career as a hunter-jumper. When she thought of Dan, so big and so fearless, and how she had allowed him to renew her strength and carry her through so much in the last year, she felt a sudden longing for the beast that nearly rivaled, for a moment, her need to see John again. She hadn't ridden Dan in months, what with one thing or another. There hadn't really been a need. Her life was comfortably centered around her husband and her child and trying to make a home for them in the new world order.\n\nShe tugged on the mane of Papin's pony and smiled sadly. This little guy had surely been the mount of some little rich girl, she thought. He was probably used to hot mash and fresh flakes of hay and his own little stall, cleaned and tidied on a daily basis, with his name in a plaque on the stall door, and ribbons in his mane. And now he was the new best friend of an orphaned gypsy girl who had seen more horror in her thirteen years than many urban police do in a career.\n\n_David._\n\nThe name and the image crept into her thoughts like a silent thief. This is why she refused to stop and reflect, to observe and to think. When she slowed down, the image of him came back to her and the unthinkable grief began to regroup to tear her down and weaken her. And she couldn't stop yet. She couldn't give in to the sadness. Not yet. She turned away from the horses to head back to the tent, noting that the rain had finally stopped.\n\nIt was at that moment that the surrounding world of peaceful pastures and sloping Welsh fields was pierced with an abrupt and ungodly wail.\n\n# 25\n\nLater, given that she had lost everything and the world was disintegrating in front of her very eyes, Sarah would realize that she, of all people, should have been prepared for the world to change in one drastic and terrible moment.\n\nShe ran back to the tent to see Papin shaking Evvie and whimpering. \"Wake up, Granny! Wake up!\"\n\n_Oh, God, no._\n\nSarah ripped back the tent flap and went to Evvie.\n\n\"Sarah, make her wake up! She don't look good at all.\"\n\nSarah put her fingers against Evvie's throat to catch the pulse\u2014the pulse that would never be caught again.\n\n_She looks so peaceful_ , Sarah thought. _Her brow free of creases, the lines of her mouth relaxed...she's with her Mark now_.\n\n\"Sarah, please...\" Papin still gripped Evvie's sweater in her attempt to awaken her.\n\nSarah sighed and put a hand on Papin's arm. \"Come away, Papin,\" she said. \"Evvie's gone.\"\n\n\"Noooooo!\" Papin looked at Sarah with horror and then back at Evvie. \"She can't be! I need her!\"\n\nIt struck Sarah as she fought to put away her feelings that it seemed that for a very long time now every instinct to mourn or grieve was trumped by a greater need to address an immediate threat. She pushed back the sadness, the incapacitating sadness, and closed her eyes to the sight of her dear friend lying by the campfire in her last sleep. She pulled Papin into her arms.\n\n\"She was old, Papin. She was tired. She's with God now.\"\n\n\"I want her to be with _me_ ,\" Papin sobbed.\n\n\"I know, sweetie. I know.\" Sarah pulled back and made Papin look her in the eye. \"Today's ride would have been terrible for her. She was exhausted\u2014\"\n\n\"We could've rested! We shouldn't have been riding so hard. We could've camped here for awhile...\"\n\nSarah winced. The girl was right. It was _Sarah_ who had set the pace and insisted they move as quickly as they had. It was Sarah who had pushed Evvie beyond her endurance.\n\n\"She picked the wrong person to travel with,\" Sarah said. \"It's because I have bad people chasing me that she died. We couldn't travel normally on the road with everyone else. It's because of me.\"\n\nPapin shook her head and eased back in Sarah's arms, her shoulders limp with resignation. \"Don't say that,\" she said. \"You're all I have now.\"\n\n* * *\n\nThe day's ride was harder than Sarah could ever have imagined. It began by dismantling the teepee and fashioning a litter that could then be dragged behind Evvie's horse. A litter with Evvie's body on it. Sarah had intended to take Evvie's sweater but Papin wouldn't hear of it. _\"She was always so cold!\"_ In the end, they wrapped the body in remnant blankets and dragged it behind the horse until they found the river they'd come upon the day before.\n\nThe idea of dumping poor Evvie's body in the fast-moving river was the least terrible idea in a long list of terrible ideas. Considering Papin's history, Sarah wouldn't even mention the possibility of fire, but they had no means by which to bury the body. They couldn't get it up in the trees and they couldn't just leave it. It made Sarah sick, too, to be standing on the riverbank and considering slipping her sweet friend into its unwelcoming waters.\n\nBut what else was there to do?\n\nPapin had not stopped weeping since she had discovered Evvie unresponsive. Sarah glanced at her now as she held her hands to her face, her shoulders shaking, and worried she might not recover from this.\n\n_Oh, Evvie_ , Sarah thought, her own heart fractured in a thousand places at the loss of the dear old soul. She knelt next to the litter and touched Evvie's hands, placed together over her chest. \"Pray with me, Papin,\" she said without looking up. Papin's sniffles answered her.\n\n\"Lord God, please look upon your servant, Evvie, who was a loving, caring soul to everyone she touched.\" Papin's weeping increased.\n\n\"And please bring her to yourself and give her the comfort and care that she rarely found in this world. And Lord, please help Papin and myself to have the courage we need to finish this journey safely and get back to our family. In Your name we pray, and in Your name we commend the spirit of our dear friend, Evvie.\"\n\nSarah stood and unfastened the belt she'd tied to the back of the horse's saddle to connect to the litter of branches and blankets. She knelt quickly and kissed Evvie on the cheek. \"I'll see you again one day, Evvie,\" she whispered. Then she stood with the end of the litter in her hands and tipped the body into the river as Papin's cries rose higher and higher on the wind.\n\n* * *\n\nThey reached the outskirts of the ferry town of Fishguard by nightfall. Sarah knew Papin was distraught during the long day's ride, but she couldn't believe stopping was going to help her. When they saw the flickering lights of the town in the distance, Sarah stopped and dismounted.\n\nThe plan was simple, but that didn't mean a hundred things couldn't go wrong with it. Neither of them had eaten all day\u2014or felt like it\u2014but Sarah worried that their hunger would weaken them.\n\nShe led Evvie's horse and Papin to an empty feed shed in the nearest pasture to the town. It had long since stopped being used as any place to store grain or hay, although by the looks of it travelers had used it as a place to bunk down against the wind and the cold at night. Sarah loosened the girth on her saddle. She checked to make sure that all saddlebags were empty and that any grain or crumb of food had either been transferred to her backpack or eaten on the spot. She put Declan's tin cup and her flint, wrapped in the two thin blankets they had, in her backpack.\n\nShe handed the knife to Papin, who accepted it listlessly. \"We can wait 'til morning if you'd rather,\" Sarah said.\n\nPapin shook her head.\n\n\"Okay. Let's run through it.\"\n\nPapin sighed, then seemed to force herself to sit up straight and shake off her dispiritedness. \"I go to the ferry master,\" she said. \"I find out when's the next crossing and will he take two horses for two tickets.\"\n\n\"Good. What else?\"\n\nPapin frowned. \"I look around to see if there's anything suspicious like. If so, I say I only want one ticket. Why is that, Sarah? Why do I buy only one if we're both going?\"\n\nSarah put her hand on Papin's knee from where she stood on the ground next to her on her pony. \"If you see someone looking at everyone going on the boat, they might ask the ferry master how many tickets you bought.\"\n\n\"Oh, right. If I say two, then he knows someone else is hiding in the shadows. You.\"\n\n\"Exactly. And then?\"\n\n\"If he'll sell me the tickets, I come back here making sure first nobody sees me.\"\n\n\"Good girl. It's light enough by the moon, but you'll have to be careful of anyone who might want to drag you from your horses.\"\n\n\"I know. I have the knife.\"\n\n\"Can you use it?\"\n\n\"If I have to.\"\n\nSarah wouldn't send her at night if possible, but the chances of slipping by Angie's people\u2014who almost certainly were somewhere near\u2014would be greater under cloak of darkness. It wasn't just thieves and miscreants who chose to slink about in the dark, she thought bitterly. Tonight, the darkness was her friend\u2014and Papin's.\n\n\"All right, sweetie,\" she said, her voice soft and full of pain to have to send her on this mission tonight of all nights. \"Go now and come back to me safely.\" She patted Papin's leg.\n\n\"Sarah?\"\n\nSarah looked up questioningly.\n\n\"Is it okay if I call you Mum, do you think?\"\n\nSarah put her arms around Papin's waist as she sat on the little pony and squeezed her hard. She felt Papin lay her head on her shoulder for a moment. \"I would be honored if you would, cherub,\" Sarah said to her. She looked into Papin's eyes, her own shining with unshed tears. \"You're my girl, now. I adopt you in the name of everything holy and good and right. You are my daughter.\"\n\nPapin smiled and nodded, her face relaxed for the first time since Evvie died. \"Okay, good,\" she said, then took a long breath. \"I'll be back in tick.\" She turned her pony toward the road.\n\nSarah watched her go, leading the two horses behind her until she was gone from sight, then knelt in the feed shed and cried until she thought her heart would break.\n\n* * *\n\n_A s usual_, Sarah thought as she squinted through the slats of the feed shed, _it's the ones left behind to wait that have it the roughest._ She had no way to estimate time and could only guess that Papin had been gone at least three hours. If sunset was seven o'clock, she reasoned, then it was close to nine now. Even in the chill of the night, her hands were sweaty. She should have given her the gun. She should have trailed along behind at a safe distance. She should never have let her go.\n\nBy the time she heard the faint clip-clop sounds of a lone horse coming across the pasture, Sarah was seconds away from walking into town to find Papin. Seeing her come across the field, the light of the moon illuminating her path, was one of the happiest sights so far in Sarah's life.\n\nShe ran to meet her. \"Thank God, you're back! What happened? Did you get the tickets? Did anyone stop you?\" She could see the sheer exhaustion in Papin's face and felt a stab of guilt for being the reason for it. She helped Papin dismount and then unsaddled and hobbled the pony in the pasture of dried grass.\n\nWhen she turned back to the shed, Papin was lying against the far wall, sound asleep. Sarah sat down next to her and gently pulled her into her arms, settling against the wall herself. Just holding her after so many hours of wondering and worry felt like an exquisite luxury. As she tightened her arms around the girl, she felt a large lump inside Papin's jersey that, upon exploration, turned out to be, miracles of all miracles, a fully roasted capon.\n\nPapin slept the full night through, never once budging from Sarah's side. Twice Sarah got up to check on the pony and to listen for any noises but the night was peaceful.\n\nIn the morning, both fully rested, Sarah and Papin ate the capon and readied themselves for whatever the day would bring.\n\n\"I got the tickets,\" Papin said, pulling out two crudely marked pieces of paper that Sarah studied and confirmed were probably what people were using for tickets in the post-Crisis world. \"He wanted to take little Sparky, too,\" she said, nodding toward her pony in the pasture, \"but I said no. Problem is, we can't bring him across unless we get a ticket for him, too.\"\n\n\"Trust me, Sparky will be fine. There's no end of people who would be only to happy to give him a good home.\"\n\n\"Or eat him.\"\n\n\"He's too valuable for that,\" Sarah said, although truthfully, as small as he was, he _was_ probably more valuable as food than a pack animal, and nobody larger than a child could comfortably ride him. \"Did you see anybody?\"\n\nPapin nodded. \"That bloke was there. The one who asked about you in Carmarthen.\"\n\nSarah's stomach lurched to hear the words although she had been expecting them.\n\n\"He stood right at the entrance to people getting on the boat and looked in the face of every woman stepping foot across the threshold.\"\n\n_Shit_. \"Just the one?\"\n\n\"There was another guy who came over and gave him a sandwich. But it was only the one guy checking all the people going onboard. How're you gonna get on the boat? Even _with_ a ticket?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You could let me distract him.\"\n\nSarah frowned at her. \"Distract him how?\"\n\n\"You know how.\"\n\n\"No way.\"\n\n\"I can do it and then follow right behind you.\"\n\n\"I said, no.\"\n\n\"But Sarah, what other choice do we have? How else you gonna get on that boat?\"\n\n\"I don't know, but there has to be another way.\"\n\n\"Look, it doesn't mean anything to me. It's just my body.\" Papin sat up earnestly and put aside the half eaten piece of poultry she had in her grip. \"I go someplace in my head far away while they're doing it to me.\"\n\n\"Papin, nobody is ever doing anything to you again where you have to _go somewhere in your head_ to escape it, do you hear me? We'll figure this out.\"\n\n\"How about if I distract him without doing the dirty?\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"I can distract him into wanting me and then I can make myself throw up. If I throw up at just the right moment, trust me, he won't want nothing to do with me.\"\n\nSarah frowned. \"Won't he be highly irritated with you?\"\n\n\"Is a beating better than letting him poke me?\"\n\n\"Dear God, what a question,\" Sarah said, rubbing her face with both hands. \"I don't know. Not a beating where you lose your hearing or a couple of teeth or...\"\n\n\"It won't be like that,\" Papin insisted. \"He'll slap me a couple of times and then he'll want to see the back of me real quick like, what with me reeking of puke.\"\n\nSarah looked away. How many more times would she risk Papin's safety for the sake of getting them both back to Donovan's Lot and John?\n\n\"Please, Mum,\" Papin said, touching Sarah's hand shyly. \"It's just playacting and I promise I won't get hurt. This time tomorrow, we'll both be safe on the other side in Ireland.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSeeing Jeff again, especially in the full light of day, threatened to bring up Sarah's breakfast of stolen roast capon. In a flash, she was back in her own pasture under a bright October sun, watching her husband bleed to death while this man stood over him. Just watching him from behind the thin hedge of laurel where she and Papin both crouched made her want to pull the gun from her jeans and empty every round into his murdering, filthy heart. When she thought of his hands on Papin, it was all she could do not to call off the whole thing.\n\nShe was shaken from her thoughts by a quick kiss on the cheek from Papin.\n\n\"If I can't make it on your same boat,\" Papin said in a whisper, \"I'll be along directly so just wait for me.\"\n\n\"You've got your ticket?\" Sarah felt like an anxious mother asking if her child remembered to bring her lunchbox to school.\n\n\"I do. Wish me luck and I'll see you as soon as I can.\"\n\n\"I love you, Papin,\" Sarah said. \"Be safe and don't take any chances.\"\n\n\"Love you too, Mum,\" Papin said, and then she was gone.\n\n_Desperate times_ , Sarah thought rubbing her arms in agitation as she watched Papin stroll straight up to Jeff, a provocative saunter in her little hips. She saw him zero in on her before she even crossed the streets. If he had been a cartoon, he would have licked his lips, she thought with disgust. Papin began to converse with him. From her position, she could see Jeff's expression but not Papin's. And his expression was X-rated.\n\nShe saw Jeff's glance flick back to the ferry entrance as two plump Indian women and a man trundled onto the gangplank. But his attention was brought instantly back to the little gypsy girl in front of him as Sarah saw Papin pull apart her blouse, exposing her breasts to him. His reaction was immediate. He left his post and went straight for her, his right hand already fumbling with his belt buckle.\n\nIf Papin, who he had now scooped up in his arms and was straddling his waist with her legs, hadn't whispered a different plan into his ear, Sarah was sure Jeff would have taken her right there in the street. Without even a backward glance at the ferry gangplank, Jeff, his hand firmly on Papin's bottom, turned and trotted with her into a nearby storefront.\n\nPraying she wouldn't vomit, Sarah bolted from behind the hedge and headed for the gangplank.\n\n# 26\n\nSarah walked purposely to the gangplank, not running, not looking over her shoulder. It took all her strength not to look to see if she were being watched by anyone other than Jeff. Two older men stood in front of her at the ferry threshold, their tickets in their hands. When it was her turn to board, the ferry master never even looked at her face, just took the ticket and waved her onto the boat. Even then, she didn't dare turn around, fearing it would be a public announcement of her attempted stealth.\n\nShe slunk to the bow of the boat as it pointed toward Ireland across the St. George's Channel and sat on one of the wooden benches that lined the ferry. In the middle of the boat were several horse carts, and even a few bicycles, as well as several large tarp covered platforms of food and provisions.\n\nPapin had said there were only two crossings today, weather permitting. They deliberately planned on Sarah making the first one. That way, if Papin missed the boat she could still cross and reunite with Sarah before nightfall.\n\nFor a change, Sarah was grateful for the harsh breeze that tore through the little cargo of horses, food and people. It meant she wouldn't look out of place with the blanket pulled over her head like a hood. She knew she hadn't been the first one onboard, but she was still surprised and dismayed to feel the boat lurch away from the dock so soon after she sat down. Again, she forced herself not to look for Papin in the group of passengers. Likely she would have to take the second crossing after all.\n\nHer stomach roiled with a mixture of dread and exhilaration as she watched the dock on the Welsh shore become increasingly smaller the further the boat moved into the channel. Papin had said the trip would take three hours if the weather wasn't an issue. Sarah glanced at the sky. Grey clouds, but nothing that looked threatening. The second ferry should be on schedule for later that afternoon.\n\nWith the United Kingdom receding over her shoulder, Sarah felt the tension in her shoulders relax. She looked ahead and tried unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the Irish coast. It was 36 days after the attack. As much as she tried to focus on how far she'd come and how she close she was to John, Sarah couldn't ignore the lump of unease that squirmed in her gut. She couldn't stop wondering if Papin had been able to deflect Jeff\u2014the same man responsible for David's murder! If she had any doubts about whether he could kill Papin without remorse, she only had to remember the sound of his raucous laughter as her husband bled to death at her feet.\n\nHad she just been so desperate to get across the channel that she was willing to sacrifice the girl? How could she have believed so readily Papin's foolish plan for distracting the monster?\n\nSarah stood up restlessly and felt the sweat trickle down her back in spite of the chill air. She gripped the railing and, for one mad moment, thought about jumping into the water and swimming back to Wales. A woman standing near her watched her with suspicious eyes and pulled her young daughter away, as if Sarah might contaminate her somehow. Sarah pulled her blanket hood down more to shield her face.\n\nA wave pounded the front of the ferry and Sarah felt her stomach leap up into her throat, carrying her meager breakfast with it. She turned her head and vomited over the side of the railing. She heard a shriek of dismay and guessed she'd probably sprayed the couple behind her. She wanted to apologize\u2014even if it was just a chagrinned look\u2014except the next wave launched another bout of roiling seasickness. She pushed her face into the wind and tried to concentrate on the horizon or the clouds, but her stomach wasn't to be fooled. It heaved its contents again moments after the next sharp movement of the ferry cresting the rough sea. The vomit was underfoot now and Sarah fought to stay upright in the slick mess. She inched her way further apart from the closest group of people\u2014the elderly black couple, who'd caught the first onslaught of her sickness\u2014and wedged herself between a stack of secured wooden crates and a barrel of what smelled like dead fish. Cramped in this space with no need to hold herself upright, she let the nausea wash over her in a relentless series of contractions.\n\nLater, she would be glad for the few moments of peace from worry and anxiety that the experience gave her. In an hour, she was weak and empty, cold and wet, but the sea had smoothed out and her nausea abated. It was then that she had time to torture herself with thoughts of all the people she had let down and lost.\n\nDavid.\n\nJohn.\n\nEvvie.\n\nPapin.\n\nShe took each person and addressed her wrongs to them, one by one. She itemized how she had failed them and how her failure had cost them. With the exception of John and Papin\u2014whom she wasn't absolutely sure were even alive\u2014the price of loving Sarah had been their very lives. She was travelling back to Ireland again. The last time she had come to this country, she was with her husband and their young son. John had morphed away from that sweet, na\u00efve boy in a matter of days of their arriving in Ireland\n\nAs for David, he had survived just a little over the first year.\n\nAs sick as she still felt, she forced herself to remember Evvie's twinkling eyes, her sorrow at her betrayal by her daughter, her playfulness with Papin.\n\nPapin. So much in need of a mother, so full of loss and disappointment. With every surge over every wave, the ferry took Sarah further and further away from her. A sacrifice Papin could bring herself to make...because she loved Sarah.\n\n_They all loved me. Every tragic one of them loved the wrong person when they decided to love me._ Sarah covered her face with her hands, smelling the vomit on her sleeves as she did. _And all I've got left now is prayer and hope that I haven't lost the children, that I haven't lost Papin or John._\n\nThe rest of the trip passed. For an hour or longer, Sarah realized she had been seeing the coast of Ireland ahead coming steadily nearer without really seeing it. It occurred to her that Angie might have people on this end waiting to catch her. She touched the gun in her pocket. It was not possible to believe that she had come this far, lost so much, only to be stopped now.\n\nShe set her jaw resolutely and stood into the wind to face the shoreline as it grew larger. She knew she didn't want to be the first or the last one off the boat\u2014just in case.\n\nShould she slip into the water? It didn't look that deep and it would help her avoid any unwanted welcome party on the other end. On the other hand, she didn't know what submerging guns did to their efficacy, but she didn't feel good about taking the chance of rendering her one weapon useless.\n\nWhen they reached the other side, the ferry slammed into the tire-lined cement pier with a sickening thud that sent many of the passengers sliding into one another. There didn't seem to be an orderly process for disembarking, which suited Sarah. For her purposes, chaos and confusion could only be her ally. She dove into the middle of the exiting crowd, her hood pulled over her head, and prayed there was no one to care. It seemed a fairly pathetic plan against attack, but in the end, it didn't matter. No one accosted her, no one even looked at her as she dropped onto the bulkhead at Rosslare Harbour and quickly melted into the crowd of travelers and villagers milling about the wide cement pier that serviced the channel.\n\nHer hand on her gun and her head down, Sarah moved into the heart of an active farmer's market that separated the harbor from the little village of Boreen that supported it.\n\nNow that she was on firm ground again, her empty stomach made itself known. She had no money and no food. She walked past tables of roasted meats, cheeses and wine\u2014there were even iced bottles of cola filling a large wooden drum. She couldn't imagine how they had survived this long with no replenishment or distribution or bottling plants. Surely, they were an unimaginable luxury at this point in The Crisis. There were, nonetheless, she noticed, several people lining up to buy a soft drink with whatever they had in the way of payment.\n\nTempted to steal a bun from the bakery table, Sarah wasn't sure she wouldn't be severely punished, possibly killed, for the crime. _You just never knew these days_. She kept moving through the market, heading for the pastures on the other side of the small village\u2014really only a short line of houses and a store on one side of the street\u2014where she would wait until the second ferry was due in. That would be several hours from now. She smelled the aroma of fresh baked bread and wished she could get something for Papin when she arrived. _She'll be hungry._\n\n_Pray God she isn't hurt._ Sarah pushed images out of her head of Jeff beating Papin for her ruse. Jeff strangling Papin with his filthy, murdering hands...\n\nShe began to trot through the village, partially to chase the images away, partially to remove herself from the painful temptation of the food she could not have. She reached the end of the village lane and turned inland, hopping over a disintegrating stonewall that might have been there since the time of the Normans. The more she moved up the hill into the fields, the better view she had of the harbor and the channel. Unfortunately, she couldn't see Wales no matter how high she climbed, just endless water that stretched seemingly to infinity.\n\nWales, and Papin, were a long way away.\n\nSarah sat in the pasture and looked down at the harbor. From here she would be able to see the ferry as it left again. She would see it when it came back with Papin onboard. She watched as the clouds rolled in and the sky darkened. She watched as the ferry master lashed the ferry to the dock and disappeared into his pier house to wait out the storm. Sarah found a stand of trees and huddled under them, watching the lightning flick through the branches while the thunder bellowed.\n\nWhen the storm abated, she ran to the pasture's edge to see that the ferry still sat, the light now too dim to chance another crossing today...no matter who had paid for a passing.\n\nThe disappointment when she realized she wouldn't see Papin today, that she would have to spend a night apart from her\u2014still not knowing if the child was safe\u2014brought Sarah to her knees. She slumped in the pasture and stared at the sight of the ferry, locked down and immobile for the night.\n\n# 27\n\n\"You'll _do_ something about that little _hoor_ , Mike Donovan, or I'll scratch her eyes out and feed 'em to the hogs!\"\n\n\"I'll handle it, Anna.\"\n\n\"I'll not be eased by smarm, mind! _Do_ something or I will! My Davie can't seem to stay away from that _sleeveen_ and I've a mind to throw in a pair of bollocks to sweeten the deal with yon pigs!\"\n\n_God's teeth, I'll kill that fecking Caitlin!_\n\n\"She'll not be bothering your Davie any more, Anna. I promise you. What you do with your husband's bollocks is entirely up to you.\"\n\n\"Are ya being funny, Mike? Only maybe you've developed a sense of humor on your travels that don't translate here.\" Anna stood with her hands on her hips, the very picture of the irate wife.\n\n\"Not at all, Anna,\" he said soothingly. \"I'll take care of it, you can be sure.\"\n\nThe woman snorted and stomped out of the cottage he used as an office. Fiona sat in a corner of the room, her feet up on a chair. She shook her head at him.\n\n\"Don't you have work to do?\" he asked, irritated. \"Is this what went on while I was gone? A bunch of layabouts and no work?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm pretty sure you don't want to go _there_ , brother dear,\" Fiona said, getting slowly to her feet. \"I told you Caitlin was becoming a handful.\"\n\n\"Screwing the other women's husbands in camp?\" He shook his head in bafflement. \"Is she just bored or barking? Or both?\"\n\n\"I don't know, but it was well beyond Gavin's ability to handle, that's for sure.\"\n\n\"Fine, Fi. I get it. I'm back now. I'll handle it.\"\n\n\"How? Are you going to put stocks in the center of camp? I hear that worked well in America in the seventeen hundreds. Oh, wait, no it didn't. How about stripping her and shaving her head? Although I have to say, our Caitlin is just perverse enough to enjoy the attention.\"\n\n\"Good God, was she always like this?\"\n\n\"You mean when Ellen was alive?\" Fiona softened her tone when she mentioned the name of Mike's dead wife. \"I don't know. Might be we just didn't see it then.\"\n\n\"Well, whatever, can you send her in to me? Do you know where she is?\" Mike ran a frustrated hand through his hair and pushed aside the stack of maps on his desk. He had been trying to sort out where the existing pits and snares were located around the perimeter of camp to decide if more needed to be dug.\n\nGavin had earlier helpfully pointed out that there weren't enough men in the camp to man the ones they already had.\n\n\"And John, too? If you should happen to see him.\"\n\nFiona stopped as she was moving toward the door. \"I'll try.\"\n\nMike glanced up in time to catch the sympathetic look she gave him. His homecoming had been everything he had expected it would be.\n\nIt hadn't been pretty.\n\nJohn was one of the very first people to watch him ride into camp, and the look on his face when he saw Mike was one that Mike would take with him to his grave. If he'd had it all to do over again, he would've told Aideen _sorry-for-your-troubles_ and gone on to Wales without a second thought. Although Mike knew he couldn't have.\n\nBut to see the look of stark betrayal on John's face was as damaging a wound as if John had accused him of killing his father.\n\nWhile he shared much of his adventures that first night and what news he had with the camp, John continued to avoid him. Whatever had existed between them before\u2014as friends or even avuncular camaraderie\u2014was gone, likely forever.\n\nMike would always be, in John's eyes, the grownup he'd had to depend on because he was too young to go after and rescue his mother himself.\n\nAnd Mike had failed. Failed him. Failed his mother.\n\nAnd the killer of it was that John needed him. He needed a father and he needed everything that Mike wanted very much to give him.\n\nBut he'd have none of it.\n\n\"Right,\" he said as Fiona turned away. \"Just Caitlin, then.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSarah waited for two days. Two days of ferries arriving and leaving again. Two days of people coming from and going to Wales.\n\nAnd no sign of Papin.\n\nSarah sat hunched on the perimeter of the pasture looking down at the harbor as she had done for two full days.\n\n_Why didn't Papin come?_ All the answers to that question were immediate and unwelcome. She had been prevented. She was dead.\n\nSarah couldn't stay much longer. There was no more dangerous spot for her than at this ferry crossing. But she couldn't leave either. She stood now and turned away from the harbor and looked across the pasture westward. Fewer than fifty miles in that direction\u2014two days of walking if she hurried\u2014was Donovan's Lot, _and John_. If Papin had come when they had planned, Sarah would be home by now. Her stomach lurched in frustration.\n\nAs the light receded from the sky, marking another day wasted, Sarah found she could wait no longer. Papin wasn't coming, for whatever reason. It was time for Sarah to move ahead.\n\nAs soon as it was morning, she would return to town and do whatever she had to do to get back across that fucking channel.\n\n# 28\n\nAngie stood by the window and stared out at the channel. \"Well, at least we know she's back in Ireland.\"\n\nJeff came up behind her and put his hands on her waist. \"It wasn't my fault, Angie,\" he said. \"It was the gypsy skank who tricked me.\"\n\nAngie turned her head to see the girl lying\u2014unconscious or dead, she wasn't sure which\u2014on the bed. \"It _was_ your fault. You let the Yank slip by. You and your dick.\"\n\n\"I love it when you talk to me like that.\"\n\n\"You'll love it less when Denny's picking your teeth out of the seawall when he hears.\"\n\n\"Why does he have to hear?\"\n\nAngie turned to him in frustration. She pointed to the man standing next to the bed. \"Dump the body in the channel or a ditch. Report back in thirty minutes. We're on the next ferry.\" He nodded and, tossing the girl over his shoulder, left the room.\n\n\"He has to hear because otherwise he's going to blame me.\"\n\nJeff grinned and reached around to cup her bottom with one hand. \"Don't you know yet, Ange, that he's going to blame you anyway?\"\n\nHe was right and she knew it. The minute the little gypsy girl told them\u2014bleeding and weeping so she was barely understandable\u2014that Sarah had made it onto the boat, Angie knew that she would pay for the cock-up. She pushed Jeff's hands away and turned back to the window.\n\nHow many times had she wondered if Jeff and the rest of them would follow her if something happened to Denny? It would be so easy. She was one of the last people he'd ever expect it to come from.\n\nJeff's hands were back on her waist and this time Angie didn't repulse him. Would Jeff follow her? Would the rest of them? Did they only mind her now because of Denny? Her mind unwillingly brought up the image of a darling little girl with bouncing dark curls, blue eyes sparkling. Hadn't she been told hundreds of times, maybe thousands, that Dana could be a child model?\n\nJeff hands were back on her arse again. Yes, they followed her now. But even in just the few months since The Crisis she had seen how the roles of men and women had been reshaped and hammered back into place the way they'd been for centuries. The stronger sex either protected or abused his strength, and the weaker sex either bartered her sex for safety or had it taken by force.\n\nAnd thinking for one moment that any of these men would follow her or accept her as their leader if she didn't have the long shadow of that lunatic behind her was as crazy as thinking little Dana would finally get her chance with the child modeling agencies.\n\nThe door burst open behind them and both she and Jeff jumped at the sound.\n\nDenny's bodyguard was a large black man named Eli. He grinned at the way he'd startled the two, but Angie wasn't fooled by his smile. As the closest person to Denny, Eli had his own demons to fight.\n\n\"Oy! Denny!\" he yelled over his shoulder. \"They're in here.\"\n\nAngie felt Jeff's hands drop from her body. She couldn't blame him. She would've done the same. When Denny walked into the small hotel room with the harbor view, he looked around the room at the bloody bedclothes where the girl had been tortured for what she knew, the two standing by the window, and the chair and desk that anchored the center of the room and he pulled out his Glock and pointed it at Angie. Jeff stepped away.\n\n\"Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow your fucking head off right now, Angie.\"\n\nAs ready as she always tried to be for this moment, Angie felt the blood leave her face and the tips of her fingers began to tingle. \"I know exactly where she's going,\" she said hoarsely.\n\n\"Jeff?\"\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"You remember where this compound is?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Wanna try a little harder, Angie?\"\n\n\"I want her as bad as you do, Denny. I'll walk through fire to get her. I'll be the vanguard going into the camp because, being a woman, they won't suspect me. And besides, Sarah thinks I'm her friend.\" That part was a lie but she had nothing to lose at this point by trying everything.\n\nDenny lowered his gun an inch. \"She trusts you? I thought she knew you were with us.\"\n\n\"She does, but she thinks I'm a mother like her and that I'm doing this for my child.\"\n\nNothing like the truth to really ring true, Angie thought bitterly. A full moment ticked by when nobody moved and nobody spoke until Denny finally tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans.\n\n\"How did she get this far?\"\n\n\"She picked up some friends along the way.\"\n\n\"Friends?\"\n\n\"They've been taken care of.\"\n\nDenny nodded. \"So she's made it all the way back to Ireland. Anyone see her get off the boat on the other side?\"\n\nAngie felt her skin craw again. She hadn't posted anyone on the other side. There hadn't seemed to be a point. \"We know where she's going and we know she's on foot. It seemed a better use of our resources to just go to the settlement she's heading for. We'll either intercept her on the road or take the camp\u2014with her and the boy\u2014if she makes it back before us.\"\n\n\"You got any information about this camp? How well defended it is?\"\n\n\"I sent Aidan there last week to scout it out. He'll give us a full report as soon as we arrive.\"\n\n\"I want the whole community wiped off the map.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"And the Yank taken alive. _And_ her boy.\"\n\nAngie nodded.\n\nDenny looked at the three faces staring at him as if he hadn't just held them at gunpoint for the last five minutes. \"What are we waiting for? Let's ride.\"\n\n* * *\n\n_D ear Lord, was it possible he was even sexier now than before?_ His month away had clearly chiseled him lean while keeping him big\u2014just how Caitlin liked her men. And he was as grumpy as ever, too. She walked to his desk and sat on the edge of it. She knew her skirt was riding up just high enough. If he made even the smallest effort, he'd get a little treat.\n\n\"Are you listening to me, Caitlin?\"\n\nShe leaned toward him, knowing she was about to fall out of her top and grinned when she saw his eyes go to her breasts. \"I am, Mike,\" she said. \"Every word.\"\n\n\"Get off my desk.\"\n\n\"It's not my fault the men like me.\" She hadn't moved but his eyes were on hers now.\n\n\"I see it different. We'll now have rules that I didn't think necessary to outline because I just assumed everyone would know how to act.\"\n\n\"Rules?\" she said, forming the word and feeling like a naughty schoolgirl with him. She knew she affected him. She could see it. If she leaned over a little bit more she bet she would see it in his pants, too.\n\n\"Like how to dress. This, for example, isn't appropriate.\" He waved a hand at her outfit. \"Get the feck off my desk, Caitlin, before I scrape you off.\"\n\n_Yeah, baby. Get physical with me. I love it._ But she slid off the desk and sat in the chair opposite him. She crossed her legs, doing her best to flash him in the process.\n\n\"Rule number one,\" he said, glowering at her in what she considered his best angry daddy impersonation. \"No relations with the other women's menfolk. Rule number two, only pants. I don't see any reason for anyone to wear a dress, but especially not you. That's not the kind of life we have here.\"\n\n\"I can't wear a skirt?\"\n\n\"That's right. No skirts, no dresses and your top buttoned all the way up unless you're taking a bath. Like I said, Caitlin, I hate to have to spell it out to you but clearly I do.\"\n\n\"And if I don't agree?\" She positively tingled at the thought that he was about to stand up, take her across his knee and reinforce his demands to her. After which, of course, he would knock his papers on the floor and take her hard right here, with the door open and all the world to see. She waited for him and smiled, biting her bottom lip in anticipation.\n\n\"Break any of these rules even once and you're gone. I'll have old Jerry take you to Limerick. I know you've got cousins there. Play by my rules, Caitlin, or get out.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that.\"\n\n\"Try me.\"\n\n\"You would throw me out? Your wife's sister?\"\n\n\"I see it more as you _deciding_ to leave since, if you abide my rules, you could stay.\"\n\n\"And if I think your rules are bollocks?\"\n\n\"You're welcome to find someplace else more to your liking.\"\n\nA dull pain erupted in her chest as the humiliation of what he was saying ignited in her brain. Her cheeks blazed hot and she turned so he couldn't see his effect on her.\n\n\"You'll be sorry you did this, Mike Donovan,\" she said heatedly. \"You'll be dead sorry you did this.\"\n\nShe turned and ran out the door, stopping only to pick up the glass vase that she knew he had given Ellen years ago, and smashed it against the open door to the cottage.\n\n* * *\n\n_4 0 Days after the attack._\n\nSarah watched the ferryman stroll out onto the pier. He still had a plastic coffee mug from one of the boutique coffee chains that she and David had been so addicted to back in Jacksonville. Watching the little ferryman sipping from it now seemed one of the most incredibly surreal moments of her life. Likely, it wasn't coffee he was sipping in any case.\n\nFrom her surveillance of the harbor over the last two days, she knew that the ferry managed two round trips a day when weather wasn't too bad. Powered by steam with ancient paddles at the stern, the ferry looked like the antique it probably was. It certainly wasn't large enough to handle cars, and just barely sufficed for carrying people and their livestock from the UK to Ireland and back again. Whoever had been in a position to resurrect and re-outfit the old paddle steamer was becoming very rich, Sarah mused.\n\nIt was always the same, in every country and in every age: the inventive and the opportunistic jumped at the new windows of chance that life\u2014and hardship\u2014opened for them. And profited.\n\nAn image of Denny came to mind. Whatever his background was, whoever he had been before the lights went out, he had ruthlessly taken advantage of the situation. In a world without laws, he was free to grow and prosper without cost to himself.\n\nA small pocket of people stood at the gate leading onto the ferry. Sarah could see the tickets clutched in their hands from where she stood, over fifty yards away.\n\nHer plan was simple. She would try and see if there was any way she might be able to sneak on board unnoticed, either by waiting until the boat launched and then slipping into the water to grab its towlines and hugging the bow for the trip, or by taking advantage of any natural distraction at the boarding area to join the crowd that would soon be gathering to board.\n\nIf she failed with the first ferry crossing, she would go to the ferryman's shack on the pier\u2014there were two drivers that spelled each other. She would offer whatever service he required to get her passage on the final ferry of the day.\n\nHer stomach roiled at the thought and she fought not to touch the gun snug in the waistband of her jeans as antidote to it. It was a revolting almost unthinkable thought, but if it was her best shot at the crossing, then so be it. At her age, five minutes of allowing a stranger access to her body wouldn't define her view of who she was or taint her memories of her sex life with David. It would just be one more necessary thing she had to do in a depraved and sinister world-gone-mad.\n\nShe'd survive.\n\nShe thought seriously about hijacking the damn boat instead, but she was already taking a major risk just remaining in the area with Angie's thugs on the loose. She couldn't imagine what the odds might be of her surviving an attempt to cross while holding a gun to the ferry driver's head.\n\nShe prayed she would be able to slip onboard unseen.\n\nShe watched the crowd of passengers grow at the end of the pier. Before long, she could see the ferryman standing at the gangway and beginning to accept tickets and ushering the people onto the boat. She moved onto the pier and walked down the long cement runway to where the steamboat was parked. It was lightly raining and the clouds were gray and threatening, but Sarah had seen them travel in much worse weather and she knew the trip would go. The chill wind bit into her thin sweater and she hurried to join the crowd now becoming more insistent on boarding and finding shelter from the rain.\n\nIt was when she reached the end of the small disorderly queue that it happened.\n\nA child squealed and burst from the group. Sarah watched the little girl run careening along the edge of the pier. Her mother screamed and the crowd stopped moving onto the boat long enough to witness whatever might happen. Sarah's spotted the ferryman, as interested in the drama unfolding as anyone, as he moved around the crowd to get a better look.\n\nShe wouldn't waste the gift. She moved silently, unobtrusively, onto the gangplank and onto the boat. Behind her she heard shouting, but the voices were directed away from her. She ran to the bow of the boat, invisible to any just standing at the entrance and scanning the passengers. She sat on the far side of the largest bulwark. Her heart was pounding in her ears as, within seconds, a couple sauntered over to her, clearly having just been allowed on by the ferryman.\n\n\"I'd give her a blistering, were she mine,\" the man said, as he shoved his hands in his pocket.\n\n\"She's just a baby.\"\n\n\"Baby or not.\"\n\nAs diversions went, Sarah thought, it hadn't been much. But it had been enough. She was onboard. She smiled at the couple and pretended to dig into her backpack to hide her face. No point in giving anybody anything to remember, she thought.\n\nWas she safe? She shivered inside her sweater and felt the rain splash against her jeans, which weren't under the protective arc of the heavy bulwark. The rest of the boarding seemed to take forever. Sarah glanced at the sky and prayed it wouldn't rain any harder. To make her way onboard just to have to turn back...\n\nShe noticed the couple next to her was still holding their tickets in their hands. She felt the color drop from her face. Peering around the bulwark, she saw the ferryman standing in the center aisle. He was doing a head count.\n\nShit! She looked under the bench to see if there was a place she could squeeze under but it was solid. She knew the couple on the bench next to her was watching her with some concern. Short of slipping over the side of the boat, there was no place she could go if the ferryman stepped around the bulwark to complete his count. She looked at the railing. _Do it! There's no time to think about it!_ She bit her lip and stood up...\n\n\"Oy! You there! Did I get your ticket?\"\n\nSarah jerked her head around to see the ferryman standing twenty feet away staring at her. He was clearly in the middle of his head count because he still held the fingers of his hand up to his face.\n\n\"Of course,\" Sarah said. Her accent sounded fake even to her.\n\nHe approached, his posture aggressive and brash with his intention. \"Let's see it then.\"\n\n\"You took it, didn't you?\" Sarah said. She looked at the couple next to her but they seemed to edge away from her, as if afraid to be infected by her.\n\n\"You're a feckin' stowaway, you are!\" the man bellowed, reaching out to grab Sarah by the shoulders.\n\nShe twisted away, stepping on the foot of the man next to her. Without thinking of what she was doing, she pulled the gun out of her jeans and aimed it at the ferryman.\n\nHe stopped and held up his hands, his eyes gone from her face to the gun. \"Oy, Danny! Get out 'ere! Got a feckin' stowaway with a feckin' gun!\"\n\nSarah stumbled against someone else, her eyes darting to the opening to the gangplank\u2014the opening which the ferryman was standing directly in front of.\n\n\"Move out of my way,\" she said, flicking the gun barrel at him to indicate she wanted him to move.\n\n\"Jaysus, Joseph and Mary, it's a feckin' Yank!\" the ferryman said.\n\nSarah could hear the murmuring of the crowd become louder.\n\nAnd the man didn't move.\n\nThere was no way she was going to get off this boat short of shooting him and stepping over his body on her way out.\n\nAnd she knew she couldn't do that.\n\n\"I don't want to hurt you,\" she said, sick with regret for having ever pulled the gun.\n\n\"Goddam Americans are the reason we're in this fix!\" someone yelled. Sarah heard a rumble of agreement and she could tell the people on the ferry were crowding in closer to get a look at her. \"Grab 'er gun! She can't shoot all of us!\"\n\nThe second Sarah glanced away from the ferryman to see who had spoken, he lunged at her. With a deep grunt, he hit full in the chest and batted the gun away. The air in her lungs whooshed out of her as she hit the railing of the boat, the sound of the gun skittering across the plank flooring ricocheting in her ears. She sank slowly to her knees as the nightmare turned to blessed blackness.\n\n# 29\n\nFiona threw back the covers and sat up straight in bed, her heart pounding in building alarm, her body poised for flight. The bedroom was quiet except for her breath, coming in loud, rasping pants.\n\n_Are we being attacked?_\n\nAnd then she heard it again, louder. A long moan of anguish that slipped under the door to her room like a snake.\n\n_The lad was having another nightmare._\n\nFiona's feet hit the cold wooden floor as she grabbed up her robe at the end of the bed. They could probably both use a cup of tea first. It might take awhile to get him back to sleep.\n\nShe hurried across the cottage sitting area, the fireplace long gone cold, to the other bedroom. It was freezing in his room.\n\n\"John, lad?\" She moved to his bed and knelt. She could see his face was wet with sweat. _He'd been in hell a good while before the horror of it finally woke him to cry out._\n\n\"She needs me, Fi,\" he said, his eyes still closed. \"I can tell she does.\"\n\n_Well, that's a safe bet,_ Fiona thought sadly. _Wherever the poor woman is she's likely to need a lot of things._\n\n\" _Whisht_ , John,\" she said soothingly, straightening his covers. \"It's just a dream, _leanbha_.'\"\n\n\"It felt so real,\" he whimpered.\n\n\"They always do. I'll make us a cup of tea, aye? Unless you think you can go back to sleep?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"Didn't think so.\" She stood up to leave.\n\n\"Fi, does it mean nothing that I can feel her alive somewhere in the world?\"\n\nA breath caught in Fi's throat and she returned to kneel by his bed again. Tonight the lad would break her heart in every way that it could be broken. \"I'm sure it means something,\" she said.\n\n\"And with Mr. Donovan home, I'm just to hope she finds her way back home on her own?\"\n\nThe lad used to call her brother _Uncle Mike_. Should she tell him that Mike might go out looking for her again someday? Mike already talked about doing just that. Would it only be getting the boy's hopes up?\n\n\"Your mother's a resourceful woman,\" she said, finally.\n\n\"I know. Mr. Donovan used to call her a female John Wayne.\"\n\n\"Aye, he did, I remember.\" She watched a tear escape his eye and trail down his cheek. _Did everything have to feel like a knife to the heart these days?_ She squeezed his hand. \"I'll get us that tea, _leanbha_.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSarah heard them talking before she opened her eyes. Men's rough voices. She could tell she was no longer on the boat and that she had been placed on something a little more comfortable than a wooden floor. It was a pallet of some kind, probably straw. Her head hurt terribly and as much as she dreaded making anyone aware of the fact that she was conscious, she couldn't help it. She turned her head and retched up bile and water.\n\n\"Aw, feck me, she's puking all over the floor! Get a bucket, ya eejit! I told ya I wouldn't put her there.\"\n\nSarah wiped her mouth and opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor of what clearly used to be a convenience store of some kind. Long stripped of its shelves, the place looked naked and menacing. Two men stood over her. One of them had her gun.\n\n\"Oy! Awake are ya? Tried to feckin' sneak on the ferry, didn't ya? Ya bastard Yank.\" The man squatted near her. He was slightly balding. He wore a pair of glasses with the frames taped. He looked exactly like someone she would expect to see in an H&R Block Tax office, or perhaps a manager of a corporate office. Maybe that's who he had been.\n\nIn another life.\n\nShe looked from him to the other man, who returned her look with a sneer of disgust on his face. She could see it wasn't the ferryman. This man was older and much, much angrier.\n\n\"Water,\" Sarah said, her voice a rasping croak.\n\nThe bald man barked out a rude laugh. \"Jaysus! She's asking for water. You don't at all understand your situation, do you, luv? Not at all.\"\n\nAs soon as he spoke the words, it was as if another level of volume turned up in Sarah's head and she was suddenly able to hear the sounds of people shouting outside. Her eyes glanced in the direction of the door, flanked by two large windows.\n\n\"That's right, luv. There's a lot of people ain't too happy with you right now. There's a lot who've lost loved ones, not to mention their homes, their feckin' jobs...\"\n\nSarah was pretty sure the bald guy was talking about himself.\n\n\"I...I didn't do this,\" she said. She knew it was a mistake before the words were out of her mouth. These people didn't want to believe she wasn't responsible. They were angry.\n\nThey _needed_ someone to be responsible.\n\n\"What? Are you Canadian, then? Is that what you're going to tell me?\"\n\n\"That's right. I'm Canadian.\"\n\nHe turned from her and spoke to the man behind him. \"Get Brian in here. He's got cousins in Winnipeg. We'll just do a little Q and A, eh?\"\n\n_Shit._ Sarah didn't know anything about Canada except they had Mounties, and she wasn't even sure they still did. \"It sounds like you've made up your mind about me. Why are you holding me?\"\n\n\"We're holding you, because you tried to steal passage on the Blue Lady, which is a very serious crime during these times. But don't worry,\" the man said standing up and towering over Sarah, \"we're gonna try ya proper-like. With a jury of yer peers and a judge and everything.\" He leaned over and smiled at her in what looked like a genuine sign of affection. \"And then we're gonna kill you.\"\n\nSarah felt the blood drain from her face. The expression on the men's faces was like nothing she had seen before. _Possession_. They were both clearly in the grip of a belief so profound and so unshakable that nothing she said would dissuade them. They wanted to kill her and unless she could find a way to escape, they would.\n\nShe wouldn't waste any more words. She needed to look around, take stock in her surroundings and find a way, find some way out.\n\n\"Oy! American bitch! What's the capital of Canada?\"\n\nSarah looked at the newcomer, Brian. The one with the nail ready to drive into her coffin. He was middle age and flabby, as if he might have been chubby before The Crisis but now did not have that luxury.\n\nSarah stared at him. _Nova Scotia? Toronto?_ Her shoulders sagged in defeat. __ What did it matter? Even if she'd been able to rattle off the entire Canadian parliamentary charter by heart, it wouldn't help. She could see that by the mad glint in their eyes.\n\nAnd she had no idea anyway of what the sodding capital was.\n\nShe shrugged. \"I'm pretty sure it's Go-Fuck-Yourself. Am I right?\"\n\nAt first Brian just looked at her as if trying to decipher her answer.\n\nFinally, the bald guy pushed past him. \"Right. She's American. Nobody else'd be so bloody arrogant about not knowing the capital of a neighborin' country. Makes me sick.\" He grabbed Sarah by her sweater and jerked her to her feet. Her head spun and she grabbed at the store counter to steady herself.\n\n\"Alright, Miss America, your accommodations await. Dinner'll be in directly. That's a joke, by the way.\"\n\nSarah's knees gave out on her and for a moment she wondered if they hadn't drugged her. She looked wildly around the store to see if there wasn't something she could use as a weapon. She could see the people now on the other side of the window.\n\nWhere had they all come from? Were they just waiting for some likely candidate to come along so they could all vent their frustrations?\n\nBrian moved ahead of her and pulled open the heavy door to the walk-in freezer. \"Don't worry, thanks to you lot the electricity's turned off. You'll still freeze your tits off, though.\"\n\n\"I can't...there's no air in there,\" Sarah said, panic leaping into her throat. _I can't go in that freezer._\n\n\"There's just enough,\" the bald guy said, giving her a shove that sent her falling head-first into the cold storage. Without another word, he shut the door behind her and she heard the lock slam down.\n\nHer cell was roughly twenty feet by ten. What little she knew about freezers, she assumed the ceiling, walls, floor and door were at least four inches thick, probably with some kind of insulation, but covered in sheets of impermeable steel. It was totally dark. She was able to feel empty shelves in the freezer but nothing else. After her initial ten minutes of frantic groping, her heart pounding in panic, she settled on the floor and drew herself into a tight ball, gripping her knees with her hands.\n\nSo here she was, she thought, shivering violently. Everyone she ever loved in her life was either dead, missing or all alone in the world. And unless a miracle happened, she would die before the week was out.\n\n_Is this really the end? Is this how it all ends?_ If she had left Papin, if she had just walked on to Balinagh and Donovan's Lot, she would be with friends tonight, her boy in her arms. But she couldn't stop the thought that reminded her that she had to go back for Papin, even if it meant the death of her. She succumbed completely to the full brunt of that knowledge as the tears came. Hearing her hopeless sobs reverberate off the walls of steel\u2014the gasping cries of a person who's lost everything and everyone\u2014drove her deeper into despair.\n\nShe must have slept at some point, cold or not, because when the door opened blinding her with the dim light from the store interior, it felt like only minutes since she'd been entombed. Weak from lack of food and gasping for air, Sarah sat hunched against the wall as her captors shoved a tray of bread and cheese across the floor to her. She saw an uncapped bottle of cola and looked at it with as much stunned amazement as if it had been a seven-tiered wedding cake.\n\n\"Eat, Yank,\" the man said. Sarah looked up, but he was backlit against the glare of the store windows and she couldn't see his face. She crawled to the tray and reached for the cola first. It was flat and warm but also sweet. Her stomach lurched with nausea at the first sip but she forced herself to keep it down. Her eyes filled with unwanted memories of a childhood of cold sodas in the summer.\n\n\"We had the trial last night,\" the man said. She recognized the voice as the bald man's. \"Sorry to have to tell ya, but you were found guilty.\"\n\nHis words just felt like water pinging off a tin roof. Their meaning meant nothing to her. This mob would do what it wanted and words and entreaties or even proof, if she'd anything like that to show them, would not stop them from their endgame. She tore a piece of bread in half and stuffed it in her mouth. It tasted of mold.\n\n\"We'll have it all read out to you good and proper later today. Didn't want you to be so weak with hunger you didn't know what was happening.\"\n\nShe finished chewing and took a last sip of cola to wash it down. \"What is your name?\"\n\nThat seemed to startle him. He even took a step backward. \"Not that you need to know,\" he said, \"but it's Edgar MacIntyre.\"\n\nSarah nodded. \"Who were you before The Crisis?\"\n\n\"Who was I? _Who was I_?\"\n\nShe could see he was clenching his fists in frustration. He glanced over his shoulder and Sarah wondered if they were alone in the store. She didn't hear anybody else. Even the noises from the mob outside were gone, and she wondered if they'd left to go back to their cold little cottages to curse the Yanks and blame the woman they held in their local Jiffy-Market for all their miseries and discomforts.\n\n\"I was the manager of an auto parts distribution plant, if you want to know,\" he said, biting off every word. \"That's who.\"\n\nSarah ate the last piece of bread and slumped back against the cold steel wall of her prison. \"So you were somebody important,\" she said in a soft voice.\n\n\"Bloody right, I was.\" He hesitated for a moment, as if he would say more, then turned and stomped out of her sight, leaving the door open and the tray on the floor.\n\nSarah waited. She knew he hadn't left the store and wondered if he left the door open because he was afraid she'd asphyxiate before they had a chance to properly murder her.\n\nShe stood up and inched toward the open door.\n\n\"I can see you, Yank, so don't get any bright ideas.\"\n\nEdgar's voice carried to her from the shop interior. Two more steps and she stood in the doorway, her knees shaking and wobbling, her hands clutching the hinges of the freezer door. The relative warmth of the shop tickled her face and she took another step towards it.\n\n\"That's far enough.\"\n\n\"I'm freezing in there.\"\n\n\"You're uncomfortable is all.\" Edgar appeared from around the corner. He was holding a ceramic mug with steam coming off the top. Things weren't so terrible he wasn't able to make himself a cup of tea, Sarah thought as she saw him.\n\nShe knew talking wouldn't help. Just seeing the cold dead look in his eyes told her that. He sipped his hot drink and watched her over the top of his mug.\n\nBut she couldn't help it.\n\n\"Is it fair to blame me for something my country might have done?\"\n\n\" _Might_ have done? See, that's kind of you Yanks all in a few words, ya know? _Might have done_?\"\n\n\"Well, it wasn't me, personally. I am a wife and mother. I...I have a young son who needs\u2014\"\n\n\"Not interested, Yank,\" Edgar said, scowling over his steaming mug. \"If I was you I'd breathe while I could. We got a schoolteacher in town says thirty minutes of oxygen, like, and then you can go back in 'til we're ready for you.\" He laughed harshly. \"So breathe while you still can.\"\n\nSarah tried to imagine if he had always been an evil, heartless man or if there had been a reasonable mind somewhere down deep at one time. It didn't matter. This was who he was now and she could see only brute force could possibly save her. She leaned against the doorjamb as her knees began to give way.\n\nForce was the very last thing she possessed now.\n\nShe hated herself for mentioning John to this man. Hated her appeal using his precious name and the fact that it was disdained. She hated reminding herself out loud that John was just a boy who needed his mother. Her heart squeezed as an image of him came to mind.\n\nShe looked around the store interior. It looked like any convenience store in the States, except for the lack of goods on the shelves. The floor had debris and broken furniture scattered about, so this was probably one of the first places looted when the lights went out.\n\nShe could see any number of items scattered in the rubble that might be used as a weapon. But she could also see her own gun stuck in Edgar's front waistband. In the end, nothing she could get her hands on\u2014if that was even possible given her weakened state and the fact that he wasn't taking his eyes off her\u2014would help her against a handgun.\n\n\"Don't move any closer,\" he said. \"You can get all the air you want from right there.\"\n\n\"It's freezing in there.\"\n\n\"Should I care about your comfort when you're the reason my Amy is gone?\"\n\n_Of course._ In a world with no laws and no recourse for the wicked deeds or bad luck for the tragedies that came after The Crisis, he and many others would need someone to atone.\n\n\"Your wife?\"\n\n\"Shut yer gob. Don't even say her name. _Yes_ , my wife. In chemo for six months before you feckers dropped the bomb on us and then dead not a month later after the docs all said she'd beat it. You bastards.\"\n\nSarah knew it was useless to mention that it wasn't the _Americans_ who had bombed them. In the end, it didn't matter. It was US actions in the Middle East that prompted retaliation to their allies, leaving as just a small part of the result a woman who should have lived but who had died instead.\n\n\"It's not just me,\" Edgar said. \"Every man and woman out there,\" he jerked his head to indicate the crowd that was once more gathering outside the window, \"has lost someone because of you feckers. Time you learned that you bastards can't act like you own the whole world.\"\n\n_And killing me will, of course, achieve that in your fevered, festering little mind,_ Sarah thought hopelessly.\n\n\"Back inside,\" Edgar said, abruptly, slamming his mug down on the counter nearest him. \"It may not make much of a dent in what your people do next, but we have damn little left to lose anyway. Inside,\" he snarled.\n\nSarah staggered backward into the freezer as he slammed the heavy door in her face. With the darkness and the relentless cold came a sudden silence, too. Then, with just the amplified sounds of her terrified breaths coming in ragged pants, she slid to a seated position with her back against the cold steel wall to wait.\n\n* * *\n\nEdgar was wrong. They didn't come for her later that day. She had been allowed to breathe and eat three more times before they finally came for her. By then, she was ready to have it be done.\n\nEvery time Edgar opened the door, she wondered if this was the day. When, after the third day, the door opened and three men stood in the opening, she knew it was time. The daily food had given her enough strength to survive, and when she wasn't praying or trying to sleep to hurry the time, she spent the long hours in the cold room pacing and moving. It kept her warmer and her limbs from locking up.\n\nShe was standing when they finally came for her.\n\n\"Oy! Ready for us are you?\" The man, Brian, stepped into the room and grabbed her by the elbow to pull her out. \"Blimey, it's cold in there. Well done, Ed. Well feckin' done.\"\n\nThe warmth of the shop interior washed over her as she stepped out of the freezer, the light blinding her. She stumbled as they pushed her toward the door, one man holding each elbow. She was grateful that they hadn't bound her. She could see it was raining outside and the thought came to her: _Ireland is green because Ireland is wet._ Had it really been only fifteen months when she had first said those words? So full of excitement with David and John to start their vacation in Ireland.\n\nBrian let go of her long enough to open the shop door and she was ushered out onto the street. She felt the rain on her face, and saw the mob of people crowded outside the shop. Their faces were angry and full of hate. One woman held a rosary and her face was shut into a grimace. Sarah didn't think she was praying for her.\n\nBefore she had a chance to fully take in the scene, she heard a shout and then felt a terrible punch on her chest. She staggered against the assault and her knees buckled but Edgar pulled her back from the ground. \"Oy!\" he shouted to the crowd. \"Not yet! We'll do this proper, I said!\"\n\nSarah saw the rock on the ground at her feet. Her ribs screamed with every breath she took.\n\n_Dear God, they're going to stone me to death_. She turned to Edgar, who still had her gun in his belt. She'd assumed they would shoot her, or, at the very worst, hang her. When she looked at the crowd\u2014getting louder and more unmanageable by the minute\u2014she could see that all of them, every single one of them, was gripping a rock or brick in his or her hands.\n\nEven the children.\n\nShe twisted her arm out of Edgar's grip and pushed away from him, but he quickly recaptured her and dragged her forward, forcing the crowd to part as he moved. Brian and two other men moved in front of them to prevent the mob from taking her before time. Sarah saw their faces close up and they were cursing her, some were screaming, several spat on her. One woman reached out and tried to slap her, catching only her ear but making it ring painfully.\n\nEdgar hauled her forward to where, just a week before, the little outdoor market had stood\u2014and probably would again by the weekend. There was a clearing and a small wooden platform that, before The Crisis, had likely served as a place where live bands would play on a summer's evening.\n\nSarah stared at it as she approached. This would be the place where she left this world.\n\nWhen Edgar reached the clearing he drew out his gun and shot it into the air, forcing the crowd into an immediate silence. \"Oy! I need to read the crimes and the verdict before we get to it. I need silence.\"\n\nThe crowd ringed the staging area. Sarah saw some of the men were tossing their rocks menacingly in their hands. Many carried burlap bags bulging with more rocks. Her terror edged up into her throat and her hands clutched spasmodically at her chest, as if she could somehow ease her labored breathing. _How long would this take? How long would it take before it was all over?_\n\n\"The convicted accused stands before you, good people of Boreen,\" Edgar said loudly. \"She has confessed to being responsible for the terrible destruction of our lives, our loved ones, and our country.\"\n\nSarah saw many in the mob nodding. Loud shouts of assent punctuated the midmorning air.\n\n\"She has shown no remorse\u2014which is typical, aye?\"\n\nThe crowd roared its agreement. A child threw her stone. It landed at Sarah's feet but it seemed to galvanize the crowd even further.\n\n\"And so she will suffer the righteous retribution of our laws. Our _Irish_ laws, by God!\" He turned to Sarah and pulled out his gun. Sarah found herself praying he would just shoot her.\n\n\"Yank, ya have been condemned to death by the good people of Boreen, County Wexford, Ireland, most of whom have suffered untold misery and the death of loved ones and family members because of you and your country. If you try to flee while justice is being served, I'll shoot you in the legs. Do you have anything to say?\"\n\nSarah turned to the crowd, her face white with fear and anger. The crowd quieted to hear her words. She took a deep breath, one of the last ones on this Earth she would be allowed to take, and said loudly and clearly...\n\n\"God bless America, you jealous bastards.\"\n\n# 30\n\nThe first stone caught her square in the stomach and she doubled over when it hit, gasping as the air escaped in a sharp burst of pain. Within seconds, a fusillade of rocks and bricks flew through the air. She cradled her head with her arms and turned away, feeling the impact of the barrage on her back and legs. Amazingly, most of the rocks hit near her or around her. If she had been praying for a quick death, she could see that was not to be.\n\nThe noise of the crowd had increased to a level of pandemonium that reminded Sarah of a college football stadium of screaming fans. Only in this case, they were calling for her blood.\n\nIn the pause before the crowd gathered up more rocks for a second onslaught, Sarah turned to look out toward the sea. It wasn't much, she thought as she focused on the horizon and the white caps dancing across the surface, but it wasn't the worst thing she could see in this life. The sound of another gunshot in the air made her snap her head around. Had Edgar mistaken her step toward the sea as an escape attempt? A rock whistled through the air and caught her viciously in the mouth. She cried out and brought her hands up to her face. A tooth was loose and blood seeped out past her lips.\n\nAnother gunshot and a single piercing scream sliced into the air around her.\n\nSomething was happening. She looked wildly around, her eyes darting everywhere at once. She saw Edgar pointing his gun at someone in the crowd. He was speaking. She could see his lips move but seemed to have gone deaf. She put a hand to the side of her head and pulled away fingers coated with blood. The crowd was moving aside, parting, and still Edgar aimed his weapon at them.\n\nWas he helping her? Did that make sense?\n\nAnd then she saw him. Saw what they were looking at. Saw what Edgar was pointing his gun at.\n\n_Mike._\n\nOn his horse, his rifle stock tucked against this side and pointed at Edgar and coming closer.\n\nComing for her.\n\nSarah clapped her hands to her mouth and then knelt and scooped up the largest of the rocks that had hit her. If the last thing she did was disarm the bastard before he could shoot Mike...\n\nShe flung the rock at Edgar's head, drilling him in the cheek as directly as a line drive off a baseball bat. The gun fell from his fingers as he staggered against the blow and she could see his cheek open up in a wide gaping smile of blood and sinew. She snatched up the fallen gun from the ground in front of him and turned to the crowd, who had now dropped their rocks and were backing up as if one entity.\n\nBefore she could think of what to do next, Mike's horse was pressing in on her. He never took his eyes off the crowd but reached down with one arm, and when she clasped his hand, pulled her up onto the back of his horse as if she'd weighed no more than a child. She clutched him around the waist with one arm while holding the gun out with the other hand.\n\nThe good people of Boreen, clearly concerned that their victim might be feeling vindictive, turned and bolted back to their cottages and huts. Sarah felt her hearing return the moment Mike spurred his mount to a clattering canter down main street, the men, women and children scattering before them. She jammed the gun into the back waistband of her jeans and wrapped her arms around Mike, leaning her cheek against his strong, broad back.\n\n* * *\n\nThey rode without speaking for nearly an hour in a solid rain before Mike stopped. He pulled up next to a stand of ash trees and walked his horse down into the shallow ditch and up the other side to the pasture beyond. He dismounted and gently pulled Sarah out of the saddle. She cried out when he did and hated herself for doing it.\n\nFor the last hour, she had been happier than she knew she had any right to be. She didn't deserve to be so joyous. Not with David dead and Papin lost for good. With every stride closer to Donovan's Lot, and John, she rejoiced in her life given back to her, and in the warmth and strength she took from seeing Mike again.\n\n\"Let's take a look at you, girl,\" he said, holding the reins in one hand and tilting her face to him.\n\n\"Thank you.\" Sarah felt the tears gather in her eyes and then streak down her face. \"Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you and thank God. I can't believe I'm alive.\"\n\n\"Nor me, lass.\" He shook his head and Sarah thought he'd aged since she saw him last, just five weeks ago. His eyes were full of worry and the tension she felt in his grip on her arm tightened.\n\n\"How did you know to come? How could you have known?\" Sarah couldn't stop crying and she didn't care to try. She had been strong for so long and it felt so good to just weep.\n\n\"I heard a rumor about an American woman being held on the coast. I didn't know for sure if it was you but I had to see.\"\n\nSarah leaned into him and let him put his arms around her. Her broken ribs made every breath a spasm of fiery pain, but it was nulled out by the comfort and strength in his arms. \"I never thought I'd see anybody I loved again,\" she said.\n\nShe thought she felt him start at that but he relaxed again. \"Young John is fine and safe,\" he assured her. \"And waiting for you, although he doesn't know it. I left camp yesterday only saying I had something I had to do. Didn't want to get the lad's hopes up. Are you hungry, Sarah?\"\n\nSniffling, she nodded and wiped her face with the back of her hand. \"How far away are we?\"\n\nMike went to retrieve a small packet from his saddlebags. He led her to a downed tree and settled her on it while he tied his horse's reins to a branch. \"It'll be too dark to travel much longer today,\" he said. \"One more night, Sarah.\" He handed her a piece of cheese tucked into a slice of fresh bread.\n\nShe took the bread and began crying again. His kindness, the lack of bugs or mold in the food, and the miracle that she would see John in the morning was all too much.\n\nMike sat next to her on the log and put his arm around her, being careful of her ribs. \"It's alright, Sarah. It's all over now. We've got you.\"\n\n* * *\n\nAfter she'd eaten, they rode for another hour before Mike stopped to make camp. He had no concern that the village mob would decide to pursue them, but Mike knew the more distance they created between them and the coast the easier Sarah would feel. Seeing her that morning, standing there, facing the crowd and believing she would die, was the most gut-wrenching moment in his life.\n\nThe bald wanker with the gun was lucky Mike didn't just shoot him straight-out.\n\nHe made a small campfire and hobbled the horse before bringing out more food. Sarah, looking bedraggled and drugged\u2014although she didn't act it\u2014sat on one of his bedroll blankets in front of the fire and faced west, toward her boy. They'd been lucky. It had rained on and off most of the day but the night looked to be clear, if cold. The first thing he'd done after their midday stop was to wrap her in his jacket, which had brought about another bout of tears.\n\nA constantly crying Sarah was not a Sarah he knew, and it mildly unsettled him. He had seen her in life and death situations before where she never shed a tear. He tried to imagine what she must have experienced in the interim five weeks, but vowed he wouldn't ask.\n\nWhen she was ready.\n\nHe handed her another cheese sandwich and a canteen of whisky and sat down close to her. As much as he needed to see her and touch her, he was grateful that she seemed to want that too. He didn't mistake it for anything other than what it was: the gratitude of an abused woman\u2014and a new widow\u2014reacting to the kindness of a friend. But it allowed him to touch her, to hold her, and he didn't think, after the loss of her, if he could've borne an insistence that they treat each other any less intimately.\n\nShe took a long draught of the whisky and made a face.\n\n\"Drink,\" he said. \"It'll do you good.\"\n\n\"The Irishman's perennial cry.\"\n\n_That's good. It meant she was coming back to herself._\n\n\"Speaking of nationalities, did you _want_ them to kill you, Sarah? I mean, was there possibly a time when saluting your stars and stripes might have been a little _less_ inopportune?\"\n\nSarah grinned and his heart soared to see it. \"It wouldn't have mattered. Nothing short of me bursting into flames would've stopped them. In fact, now that I think of it, they probably were waiting for me to burst into flames.\"\n\n\"Well, there's bad feeling just now about the Yanks, no mistake. All the more reason...\" He stopped.\n\nShe looked at him. \"All the more reason, what?\"\n\nHe shrugged. \"That I'll be minding you from now on.\"\n\n\"I have a feeling you don't mean that in the way I'm used to hearing it.\"\n\n\"I mean protecting you,\" he said firmly.\n\nShe took another long drink from the canteen and shivered as it went down. She handed it back to him. \"Works for me,\" she said, in another example of a Sarah he had never seen before.\n\nThat night, he placed their bedrolls next to each other with his nearest the fire so he could keep it going through the night. When he lay down, he was astounded that she lay down so close to him; it was almost like they were man and wife. He reminded himself that she craved the safety and security of human touch right now. She might even be imagining Mike was her David holding her.\n\nAs the moon flitted behind the lacy web of tree branches, dipping the campsite in and out of pale light, they lay silently together but Mike knew she was still awake.\n\n\"Mike?\"\n\n\"Mmm?\"\n\n\"I thought about giving my body for a boat ticket.\"\n\nHe felt an irrational bolt of jealousy and anger at what she must have had to endure since he saw her last but forced himself to keep his tone mild. \"We're all thinking of doing crazy things to survive. It's the times, Sarah.\"\n\n\"I was a hair's breadth away from it.\"\n\n\"You would do what you need to do to survive, to see your lad again.\"\n\n\"Mike, we have to find Papin.\"\n\nHe sat up to give the fire a poke and reenergize it. She had briefly filled him in on the little gypsy whore that had travelled with her for a bit. \"You know that's impossible, don't you?\"\n\nSarah sat up too and inched closer to the fire. And him. \"Mike, no.\"\n\n\"Have you asked yourself, Sarah, why she didn't come to you? Deep down, you must know.\"\n\n\"I told her I wouldn't leave her,\" Sarah said, beginning to cry again. \"I told her I was her family.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, darlin' I truly am.\" Mike pulled her into his arms, feeling her yield to him, her head tucked against his chest as she cried. \"But your lad is waiting for you and he needs you, too.\"\n\n\"I know. But how can I live not knowing what happened to her?\"\n\n\"You'll live. You'll have to, for John's sake.\"\n\n_If not my own_.\n\n* * *\n\nThe helicopter appeared as the tiniest spec in the sky. John said when he first saw it\u2014and he made it clear that he had been the first\u2014he thought it was a seabird a long way off course.\n\nHow this could happen when Mike had gone off just the day before Fiona could well believe, because that was the kind of luck she had. She handed the handsome American co-pilot another cup of tea and wondered if he was really old enough to fly the helicopter. He was dressed in a US Air Force uniform and introduced himself as Captain Jim Rader.\n\nLike every American she had ever met, he was confident and friendly. She figured the military component must have tempered the other typical American inclination to talk too much. The captain was unfailingly polite but also all business.\n\nHe'd landed in the pasture adjacent to Donovan's Lot not an hour earlier, with a crew of three and a small family of American ex-pats who, like the Woodsons, had been on holiday in Ireland when The Crisis happened. She had no idea what their circumstances were or how they managed to stay alive and in one piece. They refused to get off the aircraft even to stretch their legs when the helicopter landed.\n\nCaptain Rader's machine was bigger than anything Fiona had ever seen up close. John and Gavin and most of the other boys in the camp had crawled all over it and still hadn't had their fill. She shook her head.\n\n_John._\n\n_Dear God in holy heaven. Was it herself that was supposed to make this call?_\n\n\"Thanks for the tea, ma'am,\" the young captain said, standing. \"But we really need to be going. I've got another stop today before I deliver my cargo.\"\n\n\"So it won't be yourself that takes John back to the States?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. My orders are to collect the Woodson family and bring 'em to Limerick. They'll leave for the States from there.\" He looked over his shoulder as John entered the cottage.\n\n\"That is one cool bird,\" John said as he sat down next to Fiona. She noticed his eyes were brighter than she'd seen since Sarah was taken and his father slain. _Boys and their toys._\n\n\"Would you like to ride on it, young John?\" she asked him as she patted his knee.\n\nHe frowned, his eyes darting to the pilot. \"Are you giving rides?\"\n\nThe pilot reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. \"Nearly forgot this,\" he said, handing it to Fiona. \"It's a copy of my orders, so you know I'm not kidnapping him. And...\" he nodded at John, \"...a letter from his folks in Florida.\"\n\n\"Grandma and Grandpa?\" John jumped up and reached for the letter. \"They're alive? They're okay? Fi, let me see the letter.\"\n\n\"It's not addressed to you,\" Fiona said, glancing at the letter with Sarah's name marked clearly on it.\n\n\"I'm to bring the family with me to Limerick,\" the pilot said. \"Don't know if we'll be coming back this way.\" He shrugged. \"Don't expect so.\"\n\n\"So is the US back on its feet then?\" Fiona asked. She gave John a strict look to be interpreted: _settle down_. He was standing, looking like he was about to burst with questions and excitement.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. We never got hit, really. So we're dropping food and supplies and gathering up all our nationals who were stranded around the world when the thing happened.\"\n\n\"My dad died,\" John said, his voice wavering. \"He's not here to leave with us.\"\n\n\"Yeah, sorry, sport. That's what Miss Donovan was telling me. That's rough.\"\n\n\"And my mom's gone missing.\" John looked at Fiona, as if to ask if she was reading the situation any differently than he was.\n\n\"Yeah, sorry about that, too. But my orders are to take you with me, son.\"\n\n\"Take me? Back to the States?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\n\"But what about my mom?\" John looked from the captain to Fiona.\n\nFiona stood and walked to the door of the cottage. \"Could you give us a moment, please, Captain Rader?\" she said, smiling at him.\n\n\"I need to be leaving, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. We won't be a tick.\"\n\nWhen he nodded and exited the cottage, John sat down hard in one of the kitchen chairs. \"I'm not leaving without Mom.\"\n\nFiona sat next to him and picked up his hand. \"John, this is the moment we've all prayed for.\"\n\n\"Maybe you have. I haven't prayed for this.\"\n\n\"Your grandparents are distraught with worry for all of you\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not leaving without my mom!\"\n\nFiona could see his eyes filling with tears and she would curse Mike for the rest of her days that he had left and forced her to deal with this situation instead of him.\n\n\"John, I'm not saying your mam's dead and gone...\" John jumped to his feet and Fiona grabbed his arm to keep him in the room, \"...but _wherever_ she is, I do know she would want you to get on that helicopter. And if she _is_ gone, and please God I hope that's not true, I know she would want you with your grandparents. You can see that, can't you?\"\n\nJohn covered his face with his hands. \"I can't leave her,\" he said, his voice muffled by his hands and his tears.\n\n\"You're not, darling,\" Fiona said as she pulled him into her arms and kissed his bent head. \"You're just going on ahead. It's what she'd want.\"\n\nThe co-pilot rapped on the cottage door and stuck his head inside. \"Let's go, John,\" he said. \"Someday you might be able to come back and visit. But we gotta go _now_.\"\n\nFiona squeezed him tightly in her arms, then gave him a push toward the pilot. She watched as he walked to the waiting helicopter, its rotors wind-milling the air above him. Gavin ran out and threw an arm around John's shoulders and she saw their heads close together as they said goodbye.\n\nWhen the captain opened the helicopter door, John hesitated, turned and looked back at the camp, then climbed onboard.\n\nFiona watched as the aircraft lifted off and then became smaller and smaller in the sky before it disappeared from view. She walked back to the kitchen table, her eye falling on the letter to Sarah.\n\nThe minute John agreed to get on that helicopter, she knew was the minute he had finally faced the fact that his mother was probably dead.\n\nAnd for that, Fiona wept for him.\n\n# 31\n\nAngie pulled the blanket over her nakedness. The snores pummeling her from the other side of the bed assured her that Jeff still slept. She watched his unmoving form and a wave of nausea settled in her stomach.\n\n_I sure hope it's because of what I've become,_ she thought _. And not another feckin' baby._ She stood up and pulled on her pants and sweatshirt and moved to the window. Jeff had nailed a blanket up to it last night at her insistence.\n\n_So fucking chivalrous._\n\nIt wasn't her first time with Jeff, and the way he had hounded her over the last month she always knew in the back of her mind it wouldn't be the last. But she wasn't fool enough to think it meant anything.\n\nAs if she even wanted it to mean something.\n\n\"Oy, Jeff,\" she said. \"Denny'll be here soon. Get your arse up.\" She turned to the window and peeled a flap back on the blanket. They'd arrived in Ballinagh two days before. It wasn't much of a town as those things go, Angie thought. Maybe it was before The Crisis. Now it was just a street with abandoned storefronts, several of which she and the rest of Denny's crew had commandeered for their headquarters.\n\nIt had been a hard two days. Denny wasn't used to waiting. Angie wasn't crazy about it, herself. But it was still the smartest course of action. Even crazy Denny understood that.\n\nBecause the bitch hadn't come back yet.\n\n\"Angie, luv, come back to bed. I want ta show ya something.\"\n\nHe wasn't really a bad sort, she thought, glancing at the now moving form in the bed. He didn't push her. He didn't take, he asked. He always had her back and he listened to her. Living this kind of life, he was as good an ally as any.\n\nAnd allies were essential if you were going to survive. Before she could stop herself, Angie caught an image in her mind of her little girl. She was usually so good at stopping the pictures before they fully formed. Little Dana, her dark curls bouncing as she tossed her head. _If the child gets a chance to grow up, she'll be a real little flirt someday._\n\nIt was up to Angie to make sure she got that chance.\n\nThe sounds of the aircraft in the distance were indecipherable at first. It had been so long since Angie had heard any kind of motor that her brain couldn't seem to make sense of it. But the louder and more distinct the noise became, the more obvious it was that a helicopter was approaching. She strained to catch a glimpse of it through the window and realized she was hesitant to rush out into the street as she could see some of the other men were doing.\n\n_Why is that, Angie? Afraid the world has suddenly righted itself and it's time for your comeuppance?_\n\nShe shook the voice out of her head and bolted for the door.\n\nThere was a fucking helicopter flying overhead. And one thing she knew, that wasn't good news for any of them.\n\n* * *\n\n_4 5 Days after the attack._\n\nSix weeks since her world had imploded and left her reeling. Six weeks of rough travel and living in fear and being hunted. Six weeks and now her trial was nearly over. They would arrive back at Donovan's Lot today.\n\nIf Sarah had had it her way, she would have galloped the horse the last three miles. The thought that her journey was finally at and end, and her boy was nearly in her arms, was all that ran through her mind for the last several hours of the ride. Now that she could allow herself to freely think of him, to remember his face, his voice, she also reminded herself that John had had to deal with his father's death and his mother's disappearance all by himself.\n\n\"Well, we did our best, Sarah,\" Mike said. \"We've none of us let the boy alone for too very long.\"\n\n\"No, I know, Mike.\"\n\n\"Especially Fiona, ya ken. She loves the boy as her own. You know that.\"\n\n\"And he's been okay? I mean, considering?\"\n\n\"He's been sad, Sarah, there's no denying that, of course. But he's kept busy and he's fine. He's cared for and loved. You'd expect nothing less of us, surely?\"\n\nSarah hugged him tightly from where she sat behind him in the saddle, not caring what he must think of her. Just the thought that she would have her child back in her arms again was all that mattered now. \"Can't we at least trot?\"\n\nMike laughed. \"Have you ever put a horse into a trot riding double? It'll rattle your teeth.\"\n\nIn the end, Sarah rested her face against his strong, broad back and enjoyed the rocking walking gait of the big bay. The sun broke through the clouds and she closed her eyes to better feel the warmth against her cheeks. Mike had taken his jacket back against the November air, but she was well wrapped in the woolen blankets that they'd bedded down with.\n\nShe decided there was plenty of time to tell him about Denny and Angie and what may or may not be coming down on them.\n\nSurely the Lord above would give her a respite, a few moments without having to fight for her life, to just hold and keep her child once more?\n\n\"Nearly there, Sarah,\" Mike said, his voice warm and close.\n\n\"I need down,\" she said. \"I need to go faster on foot.\"\n\n\"Your ribs\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't care, Mike. I don't care.\" She swung her leg behind the saddle and slid down the length of the horse until her feet hit the ground, jarring her broken ribs in a punch that made her gasp.\n\n\"Sarah?\"\n\n\"I'm fine,\" she said, turning in the direction of the camp. It hurt too much at first to jog, but she could still make faster time on foot by cutting through the south end of the perimeter pastures. By the time she reached the camp's main entrance, she was running and never even felt her ribs.\n\n\"John! John!\" she called as soon as she entered camp. A few boys about his age were sitting by the center campfire whittling on sticks and they looked up in surprise when she ran up to them. \"Have you guys seen John Woodson?\" They shook their heads.\n\nSarah turned toward the main cottage on the perimeter of the center of camp. It hadn't been ready the last time she saw it, but now smoke came from the chimney. She ran up the steps of the porch and burst through the door without knocking.\n\n\"Fiona!\"\n\nFiona turned from the cook stove, a pan of biscuits in her gloved hands, and stared at Sarah as if she'd risen from the dead. \"Oh my God, Sarah.\"\n\n\"Fiona, where is he? I'm back! Oh my God, it's so good to see you. Put that thing down so I can hug you!\"\n\nFiona thumped the pan down on the table in front of her and a hand flew to her mouth in horror.\n\nSarah stopped abruptly. Fiona's expression literally took her breath away. A moment passed between them. Then Sarah spoke warily. \"Where is he, Fi? Where's John?\"\n\n\"Oh, Sarah, may God forgive me. He's gone.\"\n\n* * *\n\nLater, Mike knew, she'd listen to reason. Later she'd realize all the reasons, all the perfectly logical reasons, and maybe someday she'd even come to believe she'd have done the same.\n\nBut not today.\n\nWhen Mike came riding into camp a few minutes behind Sarah, he was not prepared for the frenzy of destruction and hysteria that greeted him. Sarah was in the middle of the camp, literally attempting to climb into the main cook fire, with Fiona hanging on her like they were of one flesh. Stunned but finally spurred into action when Sarah grabbed the hot tongs and pots over the fire with her bare hands and began flinging them around the camp, he leapt from his horse to tackle her before she hurt herself or anybody else.\n\n_What in the name of God could have happened in the five minutes they'd been apart?_\n\nHe held her on the ground while she struggled and screamed, her hysteria more terrible than what he could imagine any insane asylum could produce.\n\nIt had to be about John. That was the only thing that made sense.\n\nNow he heard Fiona crying too, and apologizing like it was _her_ who'd gone berserk and tried to wreck the camp and fling herself into the fire!\n\n\"Forgive me, Sarah! I'm so sorry! I would die rather than...oh, please God, strike me dead now. I am so, so sorry! I didn't know!\"\n\nMike knew that to the day they laid him in his coffin, he would hear Sarah's heart-wrenching sobs as she called for her boy, gone as surely and completely for her this day as if he'd died in his sleep.\n\n\"What the feck happened?\" he said to Fiona. \"Pull yourself together, Fi, and talk to me!\"\n\n\"The Yanks came for him,\" she said, sobbing into her hands and watching Sarah roll spasmodically in Mike's grasp. \"They came in a military helicopter and said they were here for the Woodsons and they was to take him.\"\n\n\"When? When did this happen?\"\n\nFiona shook her head as if she wouldn't answer.\n\n\" _Today_ , Da,\" Gavin said. He stood on the edge of the cook fire and used a long stick to put some of the embers and stones Sarah kicked away back into place. \"Just this morning.\"\n\nThe wail that came from Sarah then was the sound of a mother's heart broken, never to be whole again in this life.\n\nMike held her close as she cried herself to exhaustion. Then he picked her up and carried her into Fiona's cottage, her weight limp in his arms. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gavin take his horse and head toward the stables. Fiona ran into the cottage and began pulling out first aid ointments and bandages. Behind them, the people in the community who had gathered began to slowly shuffle back to their homes, tents and huts.\n\nMike set Sarah down on the couch in the living room.\n\n\"I can't bear it,\" Sarah said, her voice so small, Mike almost didn't hear her. He sat next to her and gingerly picked up both her hands. The palms and fingers were bright red and already badly blistered. He had nothing cold to ease the pain.\n\nFiona knelt in front of Sarah and took her hands from Mike. She covered the palms with a light coating of the greasy unguent and then wrapped both hands in clean bandages.\n\nAll the while, Sarah looked straight ahead as if in a trance, as if her anguish had rendered her dead in every way but a functioning body.\n\nNow was not the time for more questions.\n\nNor for finding fault. Because if it was, then Mike of all people knew that if he'd just _told_ someone where he was going\u2014instead of opting for the pleasure of the big surprise for young John\u2014that the boy would still be here.\n\n* * *\n\nThat night, Sarah slept in Fiona's bed, drugged numbed by grief and a stubborn insistence on her mind's part not to feel or think.\n\nWeary from his trip and the emotion of their terrible homecoming, Mike walked out onto the porch after Sarah fell sleep. Fiona joined him and handed him a cigarette that she lighted off her own.\n\n\"Where'd you get these?\"\n\nShe stared out onto the peaceful center of camp\u2014the fire banked, the spilled pots back in place over the iron tripods, dinner long since over.\n\n\"It's my fault,\" he said.\n\n\"Why didn't you tell someone where you were going?\"\n\nMike took a long drag off the cigarette and realized a part of him didn't expect to ever feel as sad as he had this last month now that Sarah was back. At least, he hadn't expected to quite so soon.\n\n\"I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up.\"\n\n\"Well, mission accomplished.\"\n\n\"I don't think I've ever felt as bad in me whole life, Fi, as I did today when I saw Sarah....so...so...\"\n\n\"Unhinged.\"\n\n\"By God, how do things get so bollocks-up?\"\n\nShe put a hand on her brother's arm. \"By all of us insisting on going around being human, I suppose,\" she said kindly.\n\n* * *\n\nDenny sat opposite Angie, Jeff and Aidan, a chipped and broken kitchen table between them. The place, like nearly every other store in Ballinagh, had been looted and stripped of anything of value. Angie thought the place must have served as the village pub at one point. Because wooden furniture was seen nowadays as an important fuel resource, it was surprising to find the table intact.\n\nThey had brought their own food and whisky with them. At one point, Angie looked around the broken interior of the bar and imagined how it must have been before: a warm interior, music playing, probably savory cottage pie sold by the slice. She glanced at the cold cheese sandwich on the table in front of her.\n\n\"Why would they do that?\" Denny asked, snapping Angie back to the conversation.\n\n\"Sounds like the US is still flying and eating hot food and watching TV,\" Angie said, shrugging.\n\n\"While the rest of us are back in the feckin' Stone Age,\" Aidan said, sourly. \"Thanks to them.\"\n\nAngie watched Denny's reaction. Since he had been in prison serving a life sentence when the lights went out\u2014effectively freeing every lowlife and scumbag behind bars\u2014she would be very surprised if he affected to long for the good old days before The Crisis. He merely grunted.\n\n\"But why would they take the kid? That's just crazy.\"\n\nAngie felt tired. Thanks to Jeff, she had gotten very little sleep the night before. And she had desperately needed sleep.\n\n\"It's just the Americans raking in their own, gathering everyone together,\" she said. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"But to send a helicopter for a kid?\"\n\nDenny had been irate, to the say the least, when he'd been informed a few hours after the copter sighting that the incident had resulted in the removal of one of the major reasons he was even on this crusade to Ireland.\n\nAnd Angie knew he was well aware that _she_ was the reason they'd waited. She watched him carefully now. As irrational as he famously was, it was impossible to believe he would forgive her for that.\n\n\"So what's the plan, Angie?\" Denny's words were slightly slurred, alerting her to the fact that he'd already been drinking heavily today. The good news about that, she thought, was that it took the edge off his temper.\n\nThe bad news was that he would either be completely useless in another few hours...or completely mental.\n\n\"If she doesn't come back soon, we go ahead and take the camp and just wait for her to stroll in.\"\n\n\"If we'd done that yesterday, we'd have the kid,\" Denny said, narrowing his eyes at her.\n\nAngie looked away from Denny's glare. _If I deny it, it'll trigger a rage. If I agree, he'll just shoot me where I sit._\n\n\"Well,\" Jeff said, \"except that when the US Calvary came flying in with their big-ass helicopter this morning, they'd see what we'd done and strafe us before we could hightail it back into the bushes.\"\n\nDenny looked at Jeff as if he'd started speaking Urdu. \"Good point,\" he said finally. He looked at Angie. \"Well done.\"\n\nAngie fought the impulse to look at Jeff. She knew he was smirking. He would expect to be rewarded later.\n\nHe deserved whatever he had in mind.\n\n\"Your girlfriend got any more juicy tidbits, Aidan?\" Denny said, turning to the big man to his left. \"Anything we can use?\"\n\nAidan pulled himself up into a straighter position in the chair. He'd risen in the ranks and value in Denny's eyes thanks to the good fortune of meeting a woman in town who was not only agreeable to his lecherous attentions, but who happened to have detailed knowledge about Sarah's little outlier community.\n\n\"She told me we'll have to block the escape routes that lead to the caves. I got a map she drew for me of where they are.\"\n\n\"Will we need to use men for that? Because we can't afford to post sentries.\"\n\n\"Nah, she says we can pull the trees down around the exits and nobody'll be able to get through.\"\n\n\"What kind of trees can be pulled down, you daft eejit?\" Jeff said.\n\n\"They're a part of a system of traps that Donovan and his lot put together. Like catapults and such.\"\n\nDenny grinned. \"So let me get this straight. We'll be able to block their secret escape routes _and_ destroy their ability to make an offensive strike at the same time?\"\n\nAidan, clearly delighting in the approval of his master, nodded. \"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Excellent.\"\n\n\"She's gonna show me the exact locations of the perimeter tree snares. So we can wreck 'em before time.\"\n\n\"I have to say, Aidan. You've put your dick to good use in this case.\" Denny looked around the table, inviting appreciation for his wit. Angie, Jeff and Aidan laughed on cue.\n\nA loud knock at the door made Angie jump.\n\n\"Whoa, Ange,\" Jeff said, putting a heavy hand on her neck. \"You gotta learn to relax.\"\n\nAngie shrugged off his hand and got up to answer the door. One of the other men, Danny, stood on the other side of it, scratching his crotch. \"Aidan's slag is here,\" he said.\n\n\"Send her in, and bring more wood to burn in the hearth. It's freezing in there.\" She returned to the room. \"Your girlfriend's on her way, Aidan. I need you to take her off straightaway to find and dismantle those snares around the camp.\"\n\n\"Well, maybe not _straightaway_.\" Aidan sniggered and high-fived Jeff.\n\nThe door opened behind her and the young woman entered. She wore a ridiculously short skirt and a low-cut blouse. She went straight to Aidan, who pulled her onto his lap. \"Hey, baby, I missed you,\" he murmured into her neck.\n\nAngie saw that Denny seemed to be looking at the two as if not totally sure what he was seeing. She wondered how much he'd already had to drink. She cleared her throat. \"Oy, Aidan, take Barbie and go check out the snares. _Now_.\" The girl giggled and grabbed for Aidan's belt buckle.\n\nAngie raised her voice. \"Aidan? Did you hear me?\"\n\nAidan stood up with the girl in his arms, flashing the table with the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear. She squealed and wrapped her arms around his neck.\n\n\"Oh! Before we go, Aidan,\" she said, \"I probably should mention the thing I discovered before coming here.\"\n\nAngie spoke sharply. \"You have news about the camp?\"\n\n\"You could say that.\"\n\nAngie couldn't believe how patient Denny was being with this little bitch. It was like he was hypnotized by the cow. She sighed in frustration but tried to temper her words when she spoke. \"Yes? And that would be?\"\n\nCaitlin looked up into Aidan's face. \"I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible.\" She turned to look at Denny, her eyes flashing with malice. \"She's back.\"\n\n# 32\n\n\"I'll take you to Limerick first thing in the morning. That's where Fi said the pilot was headed. If it's some kind of American military landing stage, we'll get you on the next plane to the States. That can't have been the only one. I promise you, Sarah, we'll get you back to your boy.\"\n\nSarah nodded. It had just been a shock. It wasn't forever. She would see John again. She knew that. She believed that.\n\n_He wasn't dead._\n\nShe rode next to Mike on her horse, Dan. It had been so long since she'd been on his back that it surprised her to feel so immediately comfortable once she was seated on him again. It's true, she thought patting Dan's neck, there's something so good for the inside of a person to be on the outside of a horse. _That and a good plan was all anyone needed in this world._\n\nA plan to reunite with loved ones.\n\nIn the quiet moments of the night when Mike and Fiona\u2014so worried about her, so attentive!\u2014thought she was asleep, it occurred to her that what life was really all about was getting back home again. In fact, life was just an endless series of leaving and finding your way home. Nothing else really mattered. She glanced at Mike as they rode the dusty lane down what used to be the main drag in this part of Ireland, but was now just a very serviceable bridle path.\n\n_He felt yesterday's tragedy so keenly, it was almost as if he'd lost his own son._ _That's because he loves me._\n\nThe thought didn't shock her when it came, but the ease with which she accepted it, so soon after losing David, made her stomach clench.\n\nShe had insisted they go back to her cottage the very next morning after arriving back in camp. She knew Mike didn't think it was a good idea, but he also didn't feel he could deny her much after what she'd lost.\n\n_Don't say it like that. Not even in your head. You haven't lost him. You'll get him back._\n\n\"Look, about the people who kidnapped me...\"\n\n\"There's plenty of time to talk about that, Sarah.\"\n\n\"I know, and I think this is one of those times. They are coming after me, Mike. They were waiting for me at the channel crossing and, trust me, they haven't given up. It wouldn't take much for them to find out I was heading back to Donovan's Lot.\"\n\n\"We'll deal with them if they come.\"\n\n\"They're ruthless killers, Mike. Worse than Finn's gang.\" Soon after The Crisis happened, she and Mike and David had fought a gypsy sociopath bent on destroying or ruling the Irish countryside.\n\n\"That's hard to believe.\"\n\n\"Well, maybe just as bad then.\"\n\n\"Why in the world would they follow you all the way back to Ireland?\"\n\n\"I...it's a long story.\"\n\n\"We have time right now, as you've just pointed out.\"\n\n\"Okay, fine. I...I escaped with my life from these bastards, and in the process...I killed a man.\"\n\n\"Jesus, Joseph and Mary!\" Mike pulled up his horse and stared at her. \"How in the name of God did you do that?\"\n\n\"Really, Mike?\" Sarah looked at him, her eyes flashing. \"Are you surprised that I was driven to that? Okay, let's see. Well, first I temporarily disabled him with a knee to the groin, then I grabbed the knife I found in his boot and I slit his throat with it.\" She realized she was crying and that Mike was looking at her with horror, but she found she couldn't stop talking. \"Oh, did I mention I was naked at the time? Because that's a really important part of the story...\"\n\n\"Sarah, shirrup, stop! Stop!\"\n\nSarah dropped her reins and covered her face with her hands. Within seconds she felt herself being pulled out of the saddle and crushed into Mike's arms.\n\n\"Stop, stop,\" he murmured into her hair as she wept. \"My poor girl, my poor, brave girl. I can't imagine what you've been through.\"\n\nSarah knew he felt helpless to comfort her, but the strength of his arms supported her and soothed her. She felt a tiny part of the revulsion of the experience begin to wane and the comfort of being loved and protected once more began to grow inside her, blotting out the rest. She pulled away from him. \"I'm sorry, Mike.\"\n\n\"Don't be sorry. You've every right to have a good cry. In fact, to be half mad considering what you've endured.\" He shook his head and began to pull her even closer but she stopped him.\n\n\"I'm okay. Or at least I will be. It didn't kill me. I'm still standing.\"\n\n\"You're a tough one, Sarah Woodson,\" Mike said, touching her hair.\n\nShe pulled away and smiled to soften the rejection. \"I'm okay, Mike. I'm ready to go on.\"\n\n\"If you're sure.\"\n\n\"I just want you to realize that they're evil, evil people and I'm afraid I've probably led them straight to Donovan's Lot.\"\n\n\"Pshht! We're ready for them,\" Mike said, as she turned to face her horse. She bent her knee and he boosted her easily onto Dan's back. \"As you know, we run drills constantly on clearing the camp and we're not without offensive resources. We won't be taken by surprise. You're not to worry, Sarah. Not anymore.\"\n\nShe gathered up her reins and smiled down on him. \"That's like saying I should hold off breathing for a while.\"\n\n\"Well, at least let me do the worrying for a little bit, eh?\" He mounted his horse, but when she moved forward she noticed he stood unmoving in the middle of the road.\n\n\"Why are you stopped?\" she asked.\n\nHe looked like he wasn't sure of how to phrase his words, and his hesitancy was starting to annoy her.\n\n\"Stop treating me like I'm going to break in two, Mike Donovan,\" she said, hoping her voice had some of her old spirit back and that he could hear it.\n\n\"It's a hard thing you're doing today, Sarah. I don't want to make it harder.\"\n\n\"Just tell me.\"\n\n\"We buried him in the east pasture,\" Mike said, pointing off the road. \"There's a gate yonder a bit where we can access it.\"\n\nSarah's eyes followed where he pointed. \"Why not near the cottage?\" she asked quietly.\n\nHe cleared his throat, clearly still pained to talk about it. \"It was John's preference. He said his da loved to watch the sun pop up behind the cairns of a morning.\"\n\nSarah nodded and forced herself to swallow past the large lump that was forming in her throat. John had made the decision. He'd had to deal with so much all alone. \"Take me there, then,\" she said, hearing the anguish in her voice.\n\n* * *\n\nAngie spotted the first sentry perched high in a tree about a half-kilometer from the compound. She was tempted to point him out to Denny for whatever brownie points that might earn her, but she knew he'd just open fire on the kid and they needed him to alert the others. Besides, there'd be plenty of time to shine her star with him.\n\n_After they got Sarah._\n\nWhen the kid began to noisily descend the tree, Angie was amazed that nobody else in her group could hear him. She had stationed Jimmy, Aidan and Damian at the escape exits to usher the fleeing masses back into camp. By the time tree-boy got back to raise the alarm, all he would effectively have done was round everyone up for Denny in one neat, terrified little parcel.\n\nAngie nudged her horse to ride up to Denny. \"This is the entrance.\"\n\n\"Doesn't look like much.\"\n\n\"Jeff's tied strips of white sheets to mark where the traps and pits are.\"\n\n\"I see that. How many men did Aidan say there were?\"\n\n\"About twenty. Five more that us.\"\n\n\"Except we have automatic rifles.\"\n\n\"And they'll have to deal with their women and children,\" Angie reminded him. \"When they're not allowed to run to safety, the men will lay down pretty quick.\"\n\n\"That's what I'm counting on,\" Denny said.\n\nAngie twisted around in her saddle to face the men behind her. \"Anybody in camp tries to use their gun, kill 'em. Anybody tries to run, kill 'em. Keep yer eyes out for the Yank. Any questions?\"\n\nA few laughs and a rude comment or two filtered back to her.\n\nDenny nodded. \"Let's do this,\" he said, urging his horse forward.\n\nThe camp sentry had done his job, Angie saw when they entered the camp. The campfire was untended, the center of the camp and all the huts and cottages ringing it were empty. She posted six men to stand equal distance from each other around the camp's perimeter and then dismounted, handing the reins of her horse to one of the new men. He was young and she hadn't learned his name yet. She gave orders for him to collect everyone's mounts and have them ready but off to the side.\n\nDenny stood in the middle of the camp and looked around. \"What a dump.\" He looked at Angie. \"Where is everyone?\"\n\nHow many times had they discussed this? It was all she could do not to roll her eyes...something that would definitely get her killed.\n\n\"Just wait,\" she said.\n\nThe minutes crept by and Angie was starting to envision how she would murder that idiot whore, Caitlin\u2014and Aidan, too for good measure\u2014if the information they'd been given was bad, when she heard them coming. They came from two different sides of the camp, women, children, and men.\n\nWhen Angie saw them, she could see that some of the Irishmen were bleeding, obviously the result of unwise resistance against a stronger force. Some of the children were crying, but for the most part the group was surprisingly silent.\n\nAs the community stumbled back into camp, Denny ran up to them, hungrily scanning faces in the crowd.\n\n_Looking for her._\n\nAngie's gut pinched again when she saw the children. They were afraid but not terrified. They trusted that the adults would not let real harm happen to them, she thought. How could they have lived this long in the new world since and still believe that?\n\nShe watched Denny walk up to a young girl\u2014no older than Dana\u2014and put a gun to her head. Her mother shrieked and grabbed the girl's arm to pull her away. The bodyguard, Eli, lunged at the mother, and a man from the crowd charged him. Angie saw Denny point his gun skyward and pull the trigger. Everyone froze, then a woman came from the middle of the crowd to stand in front of Denny. She put her hands on the sobbing girl and, looking into Denny's crazed eyes, said, \"I'll be taking the _bairn's_ place if you'll allow it.\"\n\nAngie watched Denny hesitate. He didn't like ideas that weren't his own, she knew, but the girl was attractive in a strongly Irish kind of way, curly hair, green eyes and freckles. And she had a good body. That counted for a lot in Denny's mind. And if he had a brain cell in his skull he could see that attacking the child was going to get them mobbed, automatic weapons or no.\n\nHe released the girl and she ran screeching to her mother. Eli relinquished his grip on the woman.\n\nDenny put his gun away in a show of accommodation and reasonableness that Angie knew was the lead-up to something much worse.\n\nWith a broad smile etching slowly across his face, he pulled out a short-handled dagger and pointed it at the young woman.\n\n\"Thank you for your suggestion, luv,\" he said. \"Now, I'll be needing you to tell me where the Yank bitch is since I'm not able to see her and I know she's back. You have until the count of three, after which I'll slit yer feckin throat and start on the kiddies as originally planned.\"\n\n# 33\n\nSarah knelt in the grass by David's grave. It was a simple mound with a cross. The words, _David Woodson, Loving Husband and Father,_ were carved on the wooden cross.\n\n\"John wanted to put the dates on himself,\" Mike said softly from where he stood behind her.\n\nShe touched the grass that edged the grave. The last time she had seen David was in this pasture. It was nearly impossible to believe that he now lay under this sod, the very sod where they'd grazed their goats and horses all summer long.\n\nShe wasn't sure what she thought she'd feel when she saw David's grave. Closure of some kind, she supposed. Instead, she felt nothing. It just didn't feel real to her that her animated, handsome husband was here. Not when the sky was so blue, the birds still sang and the trout still jumped in the pond. David was here, but she'd never touch him again. She'd never hear his voice again. She stood up abruptly and dusted the dirt from her jeans.\n\nA wave of irrational anger pierced her. She felt like she wanted to punch something. _Hard._\n\n\"You all right, Sarah?\"\n\n\"As good as I can be,\" she said, staring at the simple cross.\n\n\"I'll get the dates on it straightaway.\"\n\nShe shook her head. Poor Mike. So helpless in the face of her agony. Flailing around desperately to come up with _something_ that would somehow make a difference or make it all better. She looked at the grave and all she could think was _, David gone, Evvie gone, Papin gone, John gone._\n\n_Why am I still here? What possible reason or purpose could that be?_\n\n\"You all right, Sarah?\"\n\nShe turned to him and nodded. \"Let's go on back. I don't know what I was expecting to see.\"\n\n\"Would you feel better if he were in the kirkyard? We could do that.\"\n\n\"No. John's right. This is as good a place as any for his earthly body to rest.\"\n\n\"I'm just so sorry, Sarah.\"\n\n\"I know. Thanks.\"\n\nA shout off in the distance made Mike turn in that direction. Sarah could see a figure running toward them across the pasture. It was the most direct route from Donovan's Lot but was rarely used because there was no road.\n\n\"It's Gavin,\" Mike said. He was moving toward the boy before Sarah even registered his words. She grabbed the reins of both horses and led them after Mike. When she reached the two, Gavin was gasping for breath. There was a gash on his forehead and his eyes looked wild. Frightened.\n\n\"Slow down, son. What's happened?\"\n\n\"Da, they took the camp! They came from all sides and when we...it was all I could do...I hated to run but...Da, we have to hurry!\"\n\n\"Gavin, lad, take a breath. Who's come? What's happened?\"\n\nSarah stood, holding both horses, trying to fight down the panic that was rising up in her throat.\n\n\"It's them, Mike,\" she said. \"It's Denny's gang. They've come for me.\"\n\n\"Are the women and children safely out at least?\"\n\n\"They tried but was herded back into the center of camp. The blighters knew about the escape routes. Someone told 'em where they were.\"\n\nMike cursed. \"How many of them are there?\"\n\nGavin shook his head and looked back over his shoulder. \"I guess, ten? Maybe more. They were on horseback. And they're armed, Da. They had automatic weapons.\"\n\nMike strode to his bay and pulled out his rifle. He checked the cartridges and handed it to Gavin. \"Go to the tree overlooking the wash pond and climb to the top like we practiced.\"\n\nGavin took the gun, but before he could move away Mike grabbed him by the shoulder. \"Wait for my signal. Don't just start shooting or they'll pick you off like a sitting duck.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"Take Mrs. Woodson's horse. We'll double up. Now hurry!\"\n\nSarah handed her reins to Gavin and watched him vault onto Dan's back and swivel him into a gallop back toward the community. She turned to Mike. \"What are we going to do?\"\n\n\"Do you remember exactly where David put the landmines by the goat pond?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\n\"Take me to them.\" He mounted his big bay and held out his hand to pull her up behind him on the saddle.\n\nThey cantered across the pasture with Sarah holding to Mike's waist. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the white cross that marked David's grave. The same people who put him there were back to kill more people she cared about. Somewhere deep inside her, a low, slow fury began to build.\n\nShe pointed to the southeast corner of the pond and Mike rode to it. She slid to the ground and ran to the spot where she had last seen the ordinances. She splashed into the soggy lip of the pond and pulled back the rushes. Mike jumped down to search too. She felt every precious second tick by, knowing those monsters were terrorizing the people at the community, the children, Fiona...\n\nShe felt a wave of relief that John wasn't there.\n\n\"Son of a bitch,\" Mike said in frustration and looked at her. She knew he desperately wanted a different answer but she didn't have one for him. She looked at the pond bank, willing herself to see them where they should be. But it was no use.\n\nThe landmines were gone.\n\nThey rode as close as they dared before Mike let his horse roam free and then walked the rest of the way to the camp. Mike touched her on the shoulder when they got close and held a finger to his lips.\n\nShe knew. The bastards would have sentries posted. As soon as Denny discovered she wasn't in the camp, he'd be waiting for her to make her entrance. She nodded and kept walking. When they were still far enough away not to be able to pick up sounds, Mike stopped. He brought his hands together and gave a birdcall.\n\nSarah frowned and looked around.\n\n\"Gavin?\" she whispered.\n\nHe looked at her in frustration and what she thought looked very much like burgeoning fear. The sight of it made her stomach roil. \"He should be here,\" he said in a low voice.\n\nShe scanned the treetops but could see nothing. \"Could he have mistaken which tree you wanted him in?\"\n\n\"No. He's trained in this tree for six months.\"\n\n\"Mike, we can't wait. Trust me, they're hurting people. We need to go.\" Sarah gave the trees one last look, hoping to catch sight of the boy, and then walked toward the camp. Mike hurried next to her until they could hear voices from the camp, then he tugged on her sleeve to indicate they should crouch in the bushes.\n\nOn her hands and knees, Sarah crept up to the camp until Denny's voice, the words still indistinct, seemed to be the only thing in her ears. Its loud nasal tone rang in the quiet of the early afternoon. When she got close enough to see him, she stopped. Mike bumped into her from behind and she put a hand out to tell him to stay down.\n\nIn the center of the camp, Denny stood next to a woman who he held wrapped in his arms. Sarah's eyes swept the crowd that lined the camp center. She was close enough to see the terror on their faces. The men had protective arms around their women and children. Even the camp dogs were quiet. Or had been slain.\n\nSarah stifled a gasp when Denny turned in her direction.\n\nThe woman he held was Fiona. One hand was entangled in her hair. The other held a large double-edged dagger to her bared throat.\n\n# 34\n\nSarah was on her feet and moving toward the center of camp before Mike fully processed what he was seeing. He jerked out an arm to pull her back but it was too late. He got to his feet, his hand on his hunting knife\u2014the only weapon he had\u2014and followed her.\n\n\"Stop it!\" Sarah screamed as she entered the camp. \"Leave her alone!\"\n\nA man came out of the bushes and grabbed Mike by the shoulders. With a grunt, he slammed Mike against a tree trunk. He was easily two inches shorter but Mike held up his hands in surrender. The man seized his knife then punched him in the stomach. Fighting for breath with a rasping groan, Mike folded up and sank to his knees, explosions of pain thrumming out from his core.\n\n\"Get up, ya bastard,\" the man snarled, delivering a vicious kick to Mike's midsection. \"I can shoot ya here just as easy.\"\n\nMike forced himself to his feet, looking up in time to see Denny fling Fiona away and lunge for Sarah. Suddenly, a monstrous roar of noise bombarded the camp, hurling a cannonade of excruciating echo and sharp debris. A shower of rock and dirt pummeled the group as the thunderous salvo of sound strafed the camp.\n\nA hut across the camp center collapsed and the jagged sounds of terrified screams mixed with the din of the aftershocks reverberating in the air.\n\nMike slammed his fist into the man's jaw, following it with a bone-crunching uppercut to the bastard's chin. The thug went down with a grunt and didn't get back up. Mike snatched up the man's gun and dashed toward the camp center, pushing past fleeing women and children.\n\n_Were the wankers bombing them?_\n\nHe walked to the center of the camp\u2014his arm outstretched pointing the gun at Denny. Fiona sat on the ground, stunned by the impact of the explosion. Mike breeched the outer ring of the camp's interior and saw Sarah struggling between two men who held her.\n\n\"You've got one minute to clear out,\" he bellowed to Denny, who pivoted around to face him. He was disconcertingly confident, Mike thought, for having a gun pointed at his head.\n\n\"Really? And how about _you've_ got one minute to _live_ ,\" Denny retorted, a malicious grin stretching across his face.\n\nMike made a quick assessment of the situation. Sarah captured, most of the camp, including the men, fled into the woods\u2014at least a dozen fatigue-clad hoodlums, including one woman, running unchecked, knocking over cook pots and ransacking the tents and huts.\n\nHe heard the ominous sounds of multiple guns cocking and chambering their rounds\u2014and all of them pointed at him.\n\n\"Drop it, matey,\" Denny said. He jerked his head to indicate Fiona on the ground. \"I'm afraid I won't give your sister my best performance with you holding a gun on me.\"\n\nMike pulled the trigger at the same moment a terrible pressure imploded at the back of his head. Seconds later, he realized he had blacked out and was being dragged facedown in the dirt. All his senses were engulfed by an embracing, crushing pain in his head. He felt rivulets of blood streaming down his face as he fought to come fully conscious. He could hear Sarah's voice\u2014hysterically pitched and shrieking\u2014and Fiona's screams. His stomach clenched in a nauseating whirl of motion as strong hands heaved him over onto his back and wrenched him into a sitting position against the porch.\n\n\"Oy, Jason! Denny wants him awake.\"\n\nThe man, Jason, backhanded him hard across the mouth. \"Oy! Wake up, ye bogger.\"\n\nThe woman held a gun to Mike's head. \"Come on now, Buck, open those pretty blues. I know you're not gonna want to miss this.\"\n\nWhen he tried to move, the pain became a fusillade of agonizing spasms that migrated from the back of his head to the front. The intensified pitch of Fiona's screams cleared his double vision back into single focus. He tried to get up and felt the gun barrel pressed against his cheek.\n\n\"Settle down, big fella,\" the woman said. \"Your turn's coming. Woulda shot ya before now, but Denny wants everyone alive for the show.\"\n\nMike could see both Fiona and Sarah on their knees, holding each other by the main campfire. The maniac, Denny, was walking in front of them, waving his gun. Although Mike couldn't hear what he was saying, from his body language, it was clear he was gearing up for something. Sarah's back was to Mike, but Fiona's face was visible over her shoulder. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her lips moving in prayer.\n\nMike surged to his feet with a roar, knocking the woman backward onto the porch steps in the process. He nearly made it as far as the camp center before Denny whirled around and brought his pistol up to take aim. Mike knew there was no way he would reach him before the bugger pulled the trigger.\n\nHe tucked his head and charged.\n\n* * *\n\nThe sound of Angie's scream jerked Sarah out of her cocoon of hopeless inevitability and she twisted around to see Mike, his head bloodied, his eyes unfocused, staggering toward her and Fiona while Denny drew a bead on him.\n\nSarah closed her eyes, burying her face in Fiona's neck. When she heard the gunshot, she forced herself to look back at the body\u2014Mike's body\u2014on the ground. But what she saw instead didn't make sense.\n\nMike was still coming.\n\n_Had Denny missed? At that range? Had his gun misfired?_\n\nDenny, screaming in rage and pain, turned away from Mike's advance. Sarah saw Denny's face contorted in agony as he reached for the handle of the knife protruding from his left thigh where somebody had thrown it.\n\nMike hit him from behind, knocking the gun from his grip. Sarah pulled free of Fiona and scrambled to her feet as Mike lifted Denny in the air and heaved him onto the campfire.\n\n_She had to get that gun._\n\nDenny crawled out of the fire, slapping at the embers on his pant legs and bellowing bloody retribution, his eyes searching the ground for his weapon. When Sarah saw it, lying in the dirt not two steps from where she stood, she lunged for it. But before she could reach it, a tall man wearing rags and rings in his dreadlocks appeared as if from nowhere and scooped it up in one fluid movement. He hefted the weapon in his hand and gave Sarah a large, toothy grin. She staggered backwards in shock.\n\n\"Declan!\"\n\nDeclan turned and shouted to six men who were with him. Together they swarmed the camp, wielding clubs, hammers and hatchets. Sarah ran to Fiona and Mike, who watched the gypsies in stark amazement.\n\n\"It's the gypsies!\" Sarah said. \"The ones I met on the road!\"\n\nMike nodded to indicate he understood, then picked up a large piece of firewood and entered the fray. \"Go to the woods!\" he shouted.\n\nSarah grabbed Fiona's hand and ran to the edge of the camp, where she stopped and grabbed up a knife that was on the ground. \"You go on, Fi,\" she said. \"Tell the men to come back and help.\"\n\n\"You come with me.\"\n\n\"Just go!\" Sarah gave her a hard push and ran back to the camp.\n\nThe scene at the center of camp was bedlam. If it weren't for the gypsies looking like a band of rioting homeless people, Sarah wouldn't have been able to tell the good guys apart from the thugs. Even with the gypsies' help, she knew that short-handled knives and pieces of firewood were no match against automatic weapons.\n\nTaken by surprise as the invaders had been, no shots had yet been fired. But that wouldn't last forever.\n\n_If they didn't get those automatic weapons away from them soon..._\n\nShe looked wildly around to find Mike in the melee, or Denny. And she looked for one other. She searched for the one man she knew she had been looking for from the moment she stepped back into camp\u2014the man called Jeff.\n\nWhen she finally caught a glimpse of him in the same ugly black trainers and filthy jeans he had been wearing in their last encounter, he was standing\u2014gun in hand, talking animatedly to Angie. Sarah's stomach clenched and a vision of that afternoon in the pasture came rushing back to her. She remembered his laughing eyes as he regarded her terror. She remembered how he tricked her into dropping her gun.\n\nAnd she remembered what happened next.\n\nWithout even knowing she was doing it, Sarah moved toward him. Two other gang members joined Angie and Jeff, and Sarah watched as Angie pointed to the camp exit that led to the grain storage area where the community kept their food and seed supply.\n\n_So it was true. They know every point of entry to the camp, and every weakness._\n\nJeff nodded and then, with the two other men, ran in the direction Angie had pointed.\n\nSarah couldn't let them do whatever they intended on doing.\n\n_She couldn't let David's killer get away._\n\nSarah skirted the worst of the hand-to-hand fighting by jumping on porch fronts and over collapsed tents to reach the exit where the men had gone. Most of the men from Donovan's Lot, and even some of the women, had returned to help fight. It wouldn't matter, though, if they couldn't disarm Denny's thugs before they started shooting.\n\nThe exit Jeff and his group slipped through was just a gap between two large tents, but before Sarah could reach it the thunderous rumble of a second explosion erupted, knocking her off her feet. This time, large stones and rocks flew through the air. Sarah crawled behind one of the short stonewalls that lined a section of the camp's perimeter and covered her head with her arms.\n\nA gypsy fighter lay stunned next to a jagged boulder, a thin line of blood creeping down his face. When she saw the smoking rubble strewn around the camp\u2014the fighters momentarily dazed or running for cover\u2014she realized that the explosion must have come from somewhere near the cairn.\n\nAs Sarah stood up, she saw the bloody stump of a leg with the foot still attached lying inches from where she had crouched.\n\nThe foot was still wearing a black trainer.\n\n* * *\n\nThe sound of the explosion seemed to come seconds after Mike felt the ground jerk away beneath his feet. He released the man he'd been grappling with and the body fell limply to the ground like a discarded rag doll, Mike's knife embedded in his ribs.\n\nMike jerked the knife out and lurched to his feet. Two of the camp tents by the main fire had been flattened and their canvas was now flapping wildly. He tried to find Sarah but all he could see were the small groups of grappling men.\n\nAnd then he saw Denny. His leg was crudely tied with a piece of shirtsleeve that was already sodden red and he was attempting to pick himself up from the last blast.\n\nMike watched in disbelief as Denny aimed his gun at a scrum of men wrestling on the ground near the fire and, insanely, fired into the midst of them. Someone howled and the other three jerked away and separated.\n\nThe psycho had shot his own man.\n\nMike grabbed up the automatic rifle from the man whose neck he had just broken and tossed it to the big gypsy, Declan, as he ran past. \"Find Sarah!\" he yelled. Declan nodded and reversed course, running through the growing smoke that was starting to envelop the camp and quickly disappeared.\n\n\"Correy!\" Mike bellowed as he crossed the camp toward him. \"Drop your gun, arsehole and call your men off.\" He watched Denny face him, his face creased with rage and frustration.\n\n\"You sorry Irish bastard!\" Denny shrieked. \"I'll have her and then my men will have her\u2014\"\n\nMike reached him and backhanded him before Denny could get his gun aimed, knocking it out of his hand. Denny lunged at him, grasping Mike's head in his hands and smashing his own hard into his forehead.\n\nMike crumpled to his knees, his eyesight gone to black, his head a blinding monument of agony. He reached, unseeing, for Denny's face as he went down, trying to pull the bastard down with him.\n\n\"I'll gut you like the fish you smell like, you country shite,\" Denny snarled, panting. Mike felt Denny's fingers working to pry Mike's knife from his hand. When that happened, it would be all over.\n\nBlindly, Mike released the knife to him, then grasped Denny's head tightly between his hands\u2014and wrenched.\n\n* * *\n\nA woman's strangled scream jerked Sarah's attention away from the piece of bloody leg. Angie stood not twenty feet from her, staring at the wreckage the bomb had created. Behind her, three of Denny's men stood with their automatic rifles to their shoulders. They were aiming into the crowd of gypsy fighters.\n\nAngie shifted her gaze from the smoking rocks and body parts to Sarah. They locked eyes. Sarah saw the ugly stub of a gun appear in Angie's hand.\n\nAngie took aim and Sarah dove for cover.\n\nShe heard the shot but felt no impact. She tried to protect her head with her arms, but heard no other shot fired. Sarah peeked out from under her arms in time to see Angie drop to her knees, her hands clutching a gaping wound in her stomach. Gore poured from the wound, pumping the bloody life force from her body.\n\nWhen Sarah snapped her head around to see where the shot had come from, she saw Declan standing behind her, the rifle he'd shot Angie with still to his shoulder. He adjusted his stance and aimed his rifle at the three gunmen standing behind Angie.\n\nSarah knew she and Declan didn't stand a chance against them. She closed her eyes.\n\n_Please, God, take care of my boy. Give him strength and solace for a life without me and his father. Watch over him._\n\nShe took a breath and held it, waiting.\n\nFinally, she opened her eyes to see Denny's men, one by one, lowering their weapons. One even dropped his in the dirt.\n\nShe turned to Declan. His face was streaked with blood and one eye was closed. There was an open gash on the side of his head and the hand that gripped the gun was caked with dirt and blood. \"What's happening?\" she asked hoarsely. \"Are they giving up?\"\n\nThe big gypsy glanced away and Sarah followed his direction to see Denny, walking with difficulty between Mike and one of Declan's gypsy brothers. As they approached, Sarah could see that Denny wasn't walking at all. Nor would he ever again.\n\nMike heaved Denny's body on the ground. Denny's neck flopped at an unnatural angle. As Sarah turned away, her stomach roiling, she saw Denny's men move in to look at the body of their fallen leader.\n\n\"Head of the snake,\" Declan muttered. \"They're not going to fight on if he's not here to make 'em.\"\n\nDeclan stepped over Denny's body and held his hand out to Mike. \"Met your Sarah on the road. Said if I was ever in Ireland, I needed to come look up Mike Donovan. Didn't expect to have to work for my supper, though.\"\n\nMike grinned and clasped the gypsy's hand before Sarah launched herself into Declan's arms. \"Thank you, Declan,\" she said, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. \"Thank God for you.\"\n\n* * *\n\nSarah knelt by Angie. She could see there was nothing they had in the way of first aid that was going to make any difference but she couldn't let her die alone. She eased Angie's head onto her lap.\n\nAround them, the camp was noisy with people righting carts, and bandaging wounds. The laughter that floated over the noise told Sarah that none of their own had been seriously hurt. She could see Mike and Declan, shoulder to shoulder, as they labored to put the camp back to order.\n\nDenny's men had melted into the woods.\n\n\"I always wondered if they'd fight on without Denny,\" Angie said, grimacing against the bleeding wound in her middle that she clutched with both hands. \"If I'd only killed the bastard myself. I had plenty of opportunities. I can't believe it's going down like this.\" She coughed and cried out. Sarah didn't speak. She hoped it was enough that she was here. She wasn't sure she had the stomach to offer anything more.\n\n\"You were right, Yank.\" Angie's eyes fluttered and finally closed. \"I have a little girl. Named Dana.\"\n\nSarah scanned the camp. It was still smoking in spots from where the cairn had exploded.\n\nAngie coughed again. \"I was just trying to give her a chance to grow up, same as you and your lad.\"\n\n\"Angie, I...\" Sarah stopped talking when she realized Angie had had the last word. She touched the woman's no longer tortured brow. \"Sleep now, Angie,\" she said. \"It's over.\"\n\n* * *\n\nMike sat on the top porch step and surveyed the cleanup while Fiona wrapped a clean bandage around his head. It still hurt like bloody blazes, but his eyesight had at least returned to normal and he could only hope the pain\u2014if it was just a concussion\u2014would soon abate.\n\n\"You sure you're okay, Fi?\"\n\n\"Sure, why wouldn't I be?\"\n\n\"Okay, very funny. Just trying to be brotherly.\"\n\n\"Well, at least you can feel a little less guilty about young John not being anywhere near all of this.\"\n\n\"That thought did run through my mind,\" he admitted, \"in my ever-ongoing quest to think on the bright side of things while people are trying to kill me and mine.\"\n\n\"Speaking of which, you seen Caitlin recently?\"\n\nHe winced as she tied the knot to secure the bandage. \"I'll deal with it, Fi.\"\n\n\"You know it had to be her told them all our secrets.\"\n\n\"I said I'd deal with it.\"\n\n\"Well, you'd best get ready to do it because here she comes as bold as chalk, _and_ with one of 'em!\"\n\nMike looked up to see Caitlin walking down the center path of the camp, hanging on the arm of a large man with an ugly cut across his forehead. It was the man who'd attacked him in the woods.\n\nShe must have been waiting in the woods until the battle was over, Mike thought as she and the English wanker stood in front of him.\n\n\"I'll be needing Fiona to tend to the injuries that your _bowsies_ gave me Aidan. He'll be staying with me in me tent.\"\n\n_Had the daft bitch gone mental? Maybe Fi was right and she really was insane._\n\nMike stood up, feeling the sky sway just a bit. \"Take this piece of shite and piss off, Caitlin. You're not welcome here. Be glad I don't dip you in tar first.\"\n\nHer mouth fell open in astonishment. \"You can't throw me out! I'm your kin!\"\n\n\"You're nothing to me. Now bugger off. Don't make me lay hands on you.\"\n\nAidan snarled at him. \"I'd like to see you try, you big Irish bastard.\"\n\nBefore Mike could respond, Sarah, who he'd last seen sitting with the woman Declan had shot, stepped forward. She must have come over as soon as she saw Caitlin return to camp.\n\n\"A word, Mike,\" Sarah said turning to stare at Caitlin and Aidan. \"Do we have laws in Donovan's Lot?\"\n\nHe frowned. \"Aye. We do.\"\n\nSarah pointed to Aidan. \"This man aided in the murder of my husband, David Woodson.\"\n\nAidan dropped Caitlin's arm. \"She lies!\"\n\nSarah stepped up to him and put her face into his. \"I _saw_ you.\"\n\nMike jumped down from the porch and pulled Sarah back as he bellowed out, \"Jimmy! Patrick!\"\n\nAidan whirled and ran four steps before two men standing nearby tackled him.\n\n\"Tie him up,\" Mike said. \"Throw him in the granary. I'll deal with him later.\"\n\nCaitlin flew at Mike, her fists pounding his chest until he pushed her away and she fell in the dirt. \"You can't do this!\" she cried as Aidan was dragged away cursing and fighting.\n\n\"I can. And you've got two minutes to leave on your own steam, Caitlin. After that I'll lock you up so you can answer for your hand in today's events.\"\n\nCaitlin looked at him, disbelieving, then climbed to her feet. She gave Sarah a look of loathing.\n\n\"Sixty seconds,\" Mike said.\n\n\"I'll see you in Hell, Mike Donovan! You and your Yankee whore!\"\n\nSarah watched until Caitlin disappeared into the woods and then she turned to Mike. \"What will you do with him?\"\n\n\"There's no traveling magistrate to hear the case, Sarah, if that's what you're asking,\" he said wearily. \"I'm the law here. He abetted in David's murder.\" He sat down heavily on the porch, as if standing were suddenly too taxing, and looked into her face, his expression stern and unrelenting. \"So he dies.\"\n\nSuddenly, Fiona jumped down from the porch. \"It's Gavin!\" she called. \"He's safe, Mike. Thank the Lord.\"\n\nMike looked up to see the miraculous sight of his only child loping into the center of camp on Sarah's horse, beaming and looking very much like he had something to do with today's victory. A wave of relief cascaded over him. Now he could relax. Now he could finally rest.\n\nFiona ran up to Gavin when he dismounted and he picked her up and swung her in a wide arc. She squealed.\n\n\"We did it, Auntie!\" he said. \"I just wished I coulda seen the expressions on those bastards' faces.\"\n\nFiona laughed. \"Was that _you_ made all those explosions and saved our lives you big gobshite?\"\n\nGavin walked over to where Mike and Sarah waited on the porch steps, both of them smiling to see him unharmed and well. \"You know,\" he said, grinning, \"much as I'd love to take the credit, I reckon that mostly it was all John.\" He looked at Sarah and grinned even more broadly.\n\nMike watched as Sarah looked at Gavin and then, her hand covering her mouth to stifle a gasp. Immediately over Gavin's shoulder, jogging up the main center of camp, was twelve-year-old John Woodson, grinning from ear to ear.\n\n# 35\n\nSarah knew that no matter how long she lived she would literally never get her fill of looking at him. She gazed at her son as he sat at the dinner table, laughing and shoving with Mike's boy, Gavin, and she knew she hadn't stopped smiling since the moment she had seen him trot down the center aisle of camp, his face filthy, his hair wild around his head, straight for her. For the time it took for her to see him coming toward her\u2014unharmed and jubilant\u2014and then feel him in her arms again, Sarah knew she would never ask for more in this lifetime.\n\nLike most miracles, how it all came about was as thrilling a story of luck and happenstance combined with the stubbornness of the human spirit as there could ever be.\n\n\"When the pilot told me they had news of a VIP they needed to stop for in Limerick, I could see by the way he was looking at me that if I wanted to wander off from a bathroom break when we stopped they wouldn't look too hard for me.\" John bit into his third sandwich as he told his tale.\n\nSarah kept one hand on his arm the whole time, as if to confirm to herself that he was really there, flesh and blood.\n\n\"Who was the VIP?' Gavin asked.\n\nFiona slapped him playfully on the back of the head. \"What does it matter? Let him tell the story!\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Aunt, Fi,\" John said. \"That's the cool part.\" He looked at his mother. \"It was Prince William. He was on a fishing trip in Ireland and was in a hurry to get back to London.\"\n\n\"Mercy,\" Fiona said. \"You gave your seat up for the future King of England? Well done, lad!\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, I would've given it up for a French poodle if it meant I could get back home.\"\n\n\"So you walked all the way from Limerick?\" Declan asked. He sat beside Mike as the two smoked and sipped whiskey. Sarah was delighted, but not surprised, to see the obvious beginning of a strong friendship.\n\nJohn shook his head. \"The pilot put me down nearer to Adare. It's only twenty miles or so and the weather was fine.\"\n\n\"You just slipped away?\" Mike was shaking his head, either at the simplicity of it all or the grotesque priorities of the pilot choosing a celebrity over the young American who had been his first responsibility.\n\n\"Yeah, and when I got nearly to camp I ran into Gavin who told me what was happening.\"\n\nMike looked at his son. \"Is that why you weren't where you were supposed to be?\" he asked pointedly.\n\n\"Sorry, Da,\" Gavin said, and there was something about the way he answered that told Sarah that Gavin had grown up since she'd last seen him. \"It's true I wasn't where you told me to be, but I reckon I was exactly where I was _supposed_ to be.\"\n\n\"What riddle is this?\" Mike growled.\n\n\"It's on account of me, sir,\" John said, looking at Mike. \"And I'm sorry for making Gav disobey you. But I had to.\"\n\n\"Go on.\"\n\n\"Well,\" John said, reaching for a small sugar cake from the plate Fiona extended to him. \"I figured I knew better 'coz I had intel that you didn't.\"\n\nMike snorted but didn't respond.\n\n\"So _why_ did you not want Gavin in the tree his da told him to be in?\" Fiona asked.\n\nJohn put the cake down and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. Sarah could see that, although he was still the same size since she last saw him, his eyes seemed to belong to a much older boy.\n\n\"Uncle Mike wanted him in a certain tree as a sniper, but I needed him in a different tree so he could detonate the landmines.\"\n\n\"You replanted the landmines after I told your father to dig them up and remove them?\" Mike spoke evenly, but Sarah could tell there was no heat in his voice.\n\n\"Yes sir, I did,\" John said, meeting his eyes. \"My dad was right about needing those mines to defend the community. You must've thought the same thing when you found out we were under attack, 'coz my mom said you went looking for them.\"\n\nSarah stole a glance at Mike. He didn't say anything.\n\n\"The weeks you were gone, Mom, I did a lot of thinking about a lot of things. I figured Dad was right about us needing the explosives, but Uncle Mike was right, too, about not wanting people to accidentally walk on 'em. I figured, since they could be detonated by any mechanism that could activate their blasting caps, we didn't have to use them as somebody stepping on 'em.\"\n\n\"A bullet would work,\" Gavin said.\n\n\"Right. So I buried 'em in the cairn where nobody goes and under the stonewall by the eastern pasture.\"\n\n\"And then forgot to tell anyone about it,\" Gavin said, elbowing John good-naturedly.\n\nJohn grinned. \"Yeah. I meant to tell Gav, but next thing I know I'm on a helicopter and nobody knows but me that the whole place is rigged to blow with two well-placed hits.\"\n\n\"How did you know when to time the explosions?\" Declan asked.\n\nJohn shrugged. \"I didn't. The first one, we just let 'er rip. We didn't have a plan at all. The second time, though...\" John stopped speaking and Sarah found herself holding her breath.\n\nThe second time, Sarah knew, John had seen the three men exit the camp and saw that they would walk right by the cairn where the explosive was planted.\n\nWhat he _didn't_ know, she thought as she watched him struggle with the thought of what he had done, was that he had given the signal that killed the man who murdered his father. She didn't know if she would ever tell him that.\n\n\"Well,\" Mike said, finishing off his whiskey. \"I'd like to raise a toast to young John, here, and Declan and his family, without whose help in defending Donovan's Lot we'd none of us be here to give a toast.\"\n\nEveryone seconded the toast and drank. Sarah's eyes stung with tears as she watched her son.\n\n\"And I'd also like to raise a glass to the memory of David Woodson,\" Mike said. Sarah picked up her glass again and felt the tears streak down her face. \"Who was right, when I was wrong. And being right helped save us all on this day.\"\n\n\"Hear, hear,\" the room chorused as everyone drank.\n\nSarah saw Mike exchange a look with John over the cheers and conversation of the group. She saw Mike nod and John smile in response.\n\n* * *\n\nThat night, as Sarah sat next to John on his bed in Fiona's cottage, she felt a warmth radiating throughout her body that left her tingling with joy. To touch him again, to watch his expressions, to hold him just by reaching out...she couldn't remember a time when she felt more grace than she felt right now. It had been a long day and they were both exhausted, but still she hesitated to leave him to go to her bed, even as weary as she was. And so she sat near him as he talked, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.\n\n\"I knew you weren't dead, Mom. I mean, if you were dead, I know I'd have felt it.\" He yawned and rubbed his eyes. \"I just knew you were somewhere in the world. You know what I mean?\"\n\nSarah leaned over and kissed him, a vision of dear Evvie coming to mind and prompting an exhausted smile though her tears. \"I do, sweetie,\" she said as she watched her boy fall into sleep before her eyes. \"I know exactly what you mean.\"\n\n# 36\n\n_D ear Mom and Dad,_\n\n_As I write this, I have in front of me a letter that was delivered to me from you a month ago. As far as I can tell, it was written a month before that. I can't tell you of the joy and relief I felt when I saw your handwriting again, Mom! Knowing that you and Dad are alive and well, and that Jacksonville was not even touched by this international incident has given me more strength and hope than I can say._\n\n_John and I are both fine and I tell you that straightaway because I have some devastatingly bad news and I need you to brace yourselves. A little over two months ago, the cottage where David and John and I lived was attacked by raiders and David was killed. Even writing the words I have to stop and have a good cry. Maybe it'll always be that way._\n\n_It's hard for me to believe, even two months later, that David didn't survive this ordeal of ours. It's especially painful when I see signs every day that John and I may be able to go home soon\u2014and yet David won't be coming with us. I don't know whom else you might notify about David. His parents, as you know, are both gone and he had no siblings._\n\n_In the interim two months, many things have happened, and not all of them bad. After David was killed, I travelled to a small town somewhere in the Cotswolds. In the column of \"not all bad,\" is the fact that I met many good people as I made my way back across the UK and Wales. One of them was a young gypsy girl who did everything she could to sacrifice her life so that I could get back to John in Ireland. She was more than just a brave, heroic girl, though. While we traveled together I found her funny, optimistic, affectionate and incredibly resilient. If I were to tell you what her childhood was like, you'd be amazed that she could even laugh, let alone be the plucky, lovely girl she was._\n\n* * *\n\nSarah stared out the window, the tears gathering in her eyes once more at the thought of Papin. She forced herself to turn away from the sounds of the children's laughter out her window to concentrate on her letter.\n\n* * *\n\n_W ell, folks, the sun is starting to dip, which actually begins the busiest part of my day because it means dinner preparation. Sometimes I long for the days of a frozen peel-back carton and a microwave oven. Ha ha. Just kidding. What do I mean \"sometimes?\"_\n\n_Anyway, love to you both. I can't tell you how relieved I was to get your letter and to know that all is well with you both at home. The helicopter the came for us last month gave me confidence that one day our trial here will be done and John and I will both be back home again._\n\n_In the meantime, please know that we are both well and we are happy._\n\n_Love,_\n\n_Your daughter,_\n\n_Sarah_\n\n_PS - I forgot to mention, in case you were worried about where I'm living, that Mike Donovan, who runs the big community here, has moved me and John into a very sweet little cottage right in the middle of the community boundaries\u2014in fact very near his own hut. So we are safe and snug amidst our friends and dear ones._\n\n_Until I see you again...._\n\n* * *\n\nSarah set her pen down and carefully folded up the letter. She placed it inside the large wooden box that Mike had brought from the cottage she'd shared with David. The box had belonged to Deirdre.\n\nOut the window, she could see John on his pony. He looked like he was giving riding lessons to some of the smaller children. It hadn't been that long ago\u2014not quite a year\u2014when he had climbed onto the back of a horse for the first time himself. She saw Mike join the group. He held a piece of a plough in his hands and she guessed he was on his way to the work shed with it.\n\nSeeing him unexpectedly sent a tiny thrill through her that she had come to expect whenever she saw him. She didn't know what her life going forward in _Donovan's Lot_ would be like, but she had a feeling it would always be strongly affected by the undeniable pull she felt in the big Irishman's direction.\n\nWhile it had only been a week since she and Mike had made their way back to the camp, it had taken every ounce of self-restraint she had not to harangue him on a daily basis about going back to Wales to look for Papin.\n\nTonight was the night, she knew. After everything she had been through, the time for waiting was through. She straightened her back to physically steel her resolve.\n\nA head popped up in the window outside Sarah's writing table making her jump, and then laugh when she realized it was John still sitting on his pony.\n\n\"Hey, Mom, Aunt Fi wants to know if we're eating communal tonight again. She's got a big lamb stew and I told her you baked today.\"\n\n\"Yes, sweetie, of course,\" Sarah said. \"Go ahead and feed Star and put him up for the night. I'll be there directly.\"\n\n\"Uncle Mike's coming, too, Mom. He's gonna show me and Gav how to do that disappearing card trick thing.\"\n\nSarah was amazed that she could find such pleasure after so many weeks of horror. The days and weeks of living like an animal\u2014ready to kill at any moment, ready to distrust any kind face or motive\u2014had disappeared after just a few days of being back in the loving embrace of her friends and family. As she looked around the dinner table she thought that tonight was a perfect example of that.\n\nFiona was as bossy as ever, instructing where everyone should eat and whacking reaching hands with a ready wooden spoon, but there was a glint of humor in her eye.\n\nAnd something more.\n\nThe gypsy, Declan, had taken to spending more and more time at her table. And in her front parlor. And trailing behind her as she went to bring in the goats...\n\nAt first glance, Sarah thought they were the ultimate mismatch. The fisherman's daughter and the gypsy. But listening to them interact had changed her mind. And looking at Fiona's face when she watched Declan helped change her mind, too. It was hard to argue that something was wrong when it created such a picture of happiness in the beaming face of your best friend.\n\nMike sat next to Sarah, as he always did. Sarah knew there was a change in their relationship\u2014although it was, of course, unspoken and as yet not acted upon. Partly it was because David was out of the picture, and Sarah knew that. But it was also because of what the two of them had recently endured\u2014for the sake of the other. Now that Sarah was safely back at camp with John she realized she had been trying to get back to Mike nearly as much.\n\n_Which did not change the fact that she had a serious bone to pick with him._\n\nAfter supper, Sarah shooed everyone out of Fiona's kitchen\u2014except Mike\u2014and turned to the sink full of dirty dishes.\n\n\"I'll be thanking you for recruiting me for the wash up,\" he said drily, picking up a dishtowel. \"I often wonder how I'll unwind after a hard day of mending fences, chasing goats around the pasture and breaking up fights in camp.\"\n\nSarah laughed but didn't speak.\n\nHe sighed and reached for a dish. \"Let's have it, Sarah. I know you've got something to say.\"\n\n\"And you know what it is, too,\" Sarah said, plunging her hands into the cold soapy dishwater.\n\nHe sighed again. \"I was hoping you'd let it alone by now.\"\n\n\"I have to know what happened to her.\"\n\n\"Some things are best not known.\"\n\n\"This isn't one of them.\" She turned to him, her hands dripping on the floor. \"I can't leave John again and he won't let me go alone.\"\n\n\"And I won't let you go, period.\"\n\n\"Oh, so is this Donovan's Lot the Dictatorship now?\"\n\n\"My God, woman, it never ends with you, does it? We're all finally back in one piece and you're ready to go dig up more trouble.\"\n\n\"That's just it, Mike. I'm _not_ in one piece until I find out what happened to her.\"\n\n\"Even if what you find out is...is...\"\n\n\"Yes. Even then.\"\n\n\"Da, let me go,\" Gavin coming from the other room where he'd obviously been listening. \"I can be to the coast and back in three days. Me and Benjy are dying to stretch our legs a bit.\"\n\nMike hesitated just long enough. \"God, the pair of ya, will be the death of me,\" he said looking at Sarah and Gavin together. \"But the answer's still no. It's too dangerous and I'll not have it. Everyone stays put where I can keep an eye on 'em. And that's me last word on the subject.\"\n\nSarah nodded sadly and turned back to the dishes. \"I understand, Mike,\" she said quietly. \"I don't want to be any more trouble than I already have been. I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Ahhh, stop that, now,\" Mike said throwing the dishtowel over his shoulder. \"Bugger me if I can't get comfortable for five fecking minutes without someone wanting me to step in front of a bullet or put me hand up a cow's arse.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not sure about that last bit,\" Sarah said, fighting to keep the amusement and hope out of her voice, \"but I mean, you just said _I_ can't do it. So...\"\n\n\"Yes, fine,\" Mike said. He looked at Gavin who seemed to be literally jumping up and down at the prospect. \"We'll go. We'll go. Tomorrow at first light.\" He tossed down the dishtowel onto the counter. \"I assume this means I'm at least released from KP duty?\"\n\nSarah dried her hands and slipped into his arms, resting her head against his broad chest. When she felt him pull her in closer with one large hand stroking her on her back, she forced herself to step away and turn back to the dishes. The warmth of emotion\u2014and _desire_ \u2014that flooded through her body shocked her with its urgency.\n\nMore than that, she realized, blushing and breathless with guilt and longing, was the stunning realization that nothing in her life up to now had ever felt more right than the few seconds she had just experienced in his arms.\n\n* * *\n\nThe ride to Boreen on well-rested horses with a full saddlebag full of food and water made all the difference in the world, Mike thought bemusedly. He glanced over at Gavin who appeared happy just to be out in the world, regardless of the weather, the reason or errand. Mike had warned him they would likely come back empty handed\u2014or worse, with news that would not comfort anyone, but the lad seemed as focused on the adventure of it all than the outcome.\n\nThey arrived at Boreen by midday and boarded the ferry to Fishguard by late afternoon. Once cross the Channel, Mike gave Gavin the reins to both horses and told him to wait for him. Although clearly disappointed not to be joining his father as he searched the bars and brothels of Fishguard, Gavin wisely, did not openly complain.\n\nThere were several reasons why Mike hated this errand, not least of which was the fact that if he found out what happened to the gypsy and it was bad, Sarah would be stricken. And if he found out nothing, the stubborn lass would likely never give up the search.\n\n_What do they call that? Lose-lose?_\n\nIn the first two hours in Fishguard combing the harbor bars, he bought four beers with money he did not have to throw away and questioned dozens of fishermen, tradesmen, travelers and anybody else who looked like they might know something.\n\nBefore he stumbled, fuzzy-headed and discouraged, to where Gavin sat with the horses to find a place for the night, he'd been told by no fewer than three people that they'd heard of a little gypsy girl who'd been killed two weeks earlier.\n\nOne said he heard she'd been strangled. One said stabbed. The other couldn't remember.\n\n\"Does that mean we know what happened to her?\" Gavin asked, finishing off the last of their grub as Mike untacked the horses and brushed them down for the night.\n\n\"It's not proof enough,\" Mike said.\n\n\"Will you need to see the body?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I'll need,\" Mike said truthfully. \"I just know that hearsay isn't enough.\"\n\nThey slept the night in the stall next to their horses. The next morning, Mike told Gavin not to bothering tacking up. Just stay with the horses until Mike returned.\n\n\"Some adventure,\" Gavin said. \"Here I am in Wales and I'm seeing the inside of a fecking stable.\"\n\nMike chose to ignore the grumbling. \"I'll bring you back lunch,\" he said, checking his pockets to see how much coin he had left. Not much.\n\nA light rap on the stall door startled them both and they looked at each other warily.\n\n\"Well, you _were_ asking a lot of questions to a lot of people,\" Gavin whispered, shrugging.\n\n\"Come in,\" Mike said, pulling his rifle out of his saddle sheath.\n\nThe heavy stable door creaked open and a young boy poked his head through. \"Oy, mister? You lookin' for the gypsy girl?\"\n\nMike put the gun back and beckoned for the boy to enter. \"What do you know about her?\"\n\n\"You related to her or something?\" the boy asked, still not completely entering the stable.\n\n\"Something like that. Can I give you an American dollar to hear what you know?\" The money wasn't worth anything as far as buying beer but the contents of Sarah's billfold might be useful in other ways.\n\n\"Cor, really? A greenback? Can I see it?\"\n\n\"If you can tell me where I can find the gypsy girl, you can have it.\"\n\nThe boy licked his lips and stepped into the stable. \"She's at me auntie Mabel's place.\"\n\nMike held out the dollar to him but when the boy reached for it, Mike didn't let go. \"Where is your auntie Mabel's place, if I may be so bold?\"\n\nThe boy jerked his head to indicate it was outside the stable. \"I'll lead ya,\" he said. \"I'll take ya straight there. But ya gotta be quiet, like. The girls is all sleeping this early.\"\n\n\"The girls?\"\n\n\"Blimey, Da,\" Gavin said. \"He's taking ya to a whorehouse!\"\n\nMike released the dollar to the boy who examined it closely and then folded it and stuck it in his pocket.\n\n\"So she's alive?\"\n\nThe boy stopped and frowned. \"I'm not sure,\" he said. \"She was pretty smashed up when they dumped her at me Auntie Mabel's. But I think she was alive last time I saw her.\"\n\n\"When was that?\" Mike pulled on his jacket.\n\n\"A week ago?\"\n\nMike's stomach muscles clenched, but he nodded to the boy. \"Take me there, son,\" he said. \"And hurry.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIf you haven't read _Free Falling_ , _Book 1 of The Irish End Games_ , you'll want to see how the Woodson family got stranded in Ireland in the first place when a nuclear bomb dropped on the second day of their perfect vacation.\n\nIf you want to find out what happens next to Sarah, John and Mike, check out _Heading Home_ , _Book 3 of the Irish End Games._\n\n* * *\n\n**H ere is the beginning of _Heading Home_.**\n\n* * *\n\nThe colors from the setting sun streaked across the summer sky in a vibrant display as Sarah stood in the front room of her cottage. She filled a basket with fresh-baked rolls for the upcoming dinner at Fiona's. The days in Ireland were long and warm in late June. As she looked across the camp, awash with muted reds and yellows from the dying light, her eyes were drawn to the warm glow from inside Fiona's cottage.\n\nEven from a distance, it looked inviting and cozy. Sarah saw Fiona and Papin moving about the interior, doing the little homey chores necessary for putting a family meal together. She watched them until she saw Mike appear on the porch steps and heard Papin squeal her greeting to him.\n\nShe saw Mike open his arms and Papin and Fiona both came to him. Sarah would never forget the day, seven months ago, when Mike rode into camp with Papin cradled in his arms, her broken arm folded against her chest, her eyes wide with hope and expectation. When Sarah ran up to them, he dismounted and carried Papin to Sarah's cottage. Sarah held the dear broken girl\u2014and the man who had brought her home\u2014and believed her heart would burst from happiness.\n\nSince that day, Mike had stepped easily into the role of father to Papin, and the girl had responded like a Morning Glory to sunlight. Gregarious by nature, Papin slipped seamlessly into the pace and beat of family life as if she'd been born to it. For the first time ever, Papin had a loving family.\n\nOne thing everyone knew for sure: the bad times were behind her.\n\nAs Sarah packed her basket, it occurred to her that tonight was a typical evening meal with the people she loved most in the world. The anticipation she felt\u2014hearing them share about their day and laughing with them, as she knew she would\u2014filled her with a sense of wellbeing and security she'd never really had up to now.\n\nThe truth of it was they were finally all together\u2014all except for David. A shadow passed over her heart as she thought of him, buried beneath a scattering of wild flowers in the far pasture by Deirdre and Seamus's old cottage. She shook the thought from her mind. Tonight wasn't the time for reflection or regrets or grief. It was a night for celebration and toasts and joy.\n\nTomorrow was Fiona's wedding day.\n\n* * *\n\nMike Donovan stood at the end of the aisle and watched the bride approach. He had to admit he had never seen her look more beautiful, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling when she saw him. It was all he could do to mask his quickly misting eyes as he gazed at her.\n\n\"You ready, then?\" he asked gruffly, holding out his arm to her.\n\n\"As I'll ever be,\" Fiona said, grabbing on to his arm.\n\n\"Declan's a good bloke,\" Mike said, turning toward the chapel.\n\n\"I know.\"\n\nThey stood at the end of the path as it wrapped around the last hut before entering the camp. It had been Sarah's idea to have Mike and Fi approach the little chapel from the outdoor walkway. Mike had to admit, it felt even more special to take this walk with Fi, at the end of which he'd hand her over to the man who, in the last seven months, had become his closest mate since his school days.\n\nHard to believe it had been seven months since Declan and his gypsy gang of fortune tellers, goniffs, and grifters had stormed the little Irish settlement Mike had built and helped rescue them from an English assault. Seven months in which Declan had proved himself to be not only a friend and a capable lieutenant in managing the camp alongside Mike\u2014but the one man in all the world that Mike's sister, Fiona, would give her heart\n\n\"There's the music,\" Fi said, squeezing Mike's arm. \"I don't know how your Sarah did it, but it really sounds pretty close to _Haste to the Wedding_.\"\n\nMike grinned. _His Sarah_. As much as he loved the sound of that, and he knew Fiona only said it as a private gift to him on this special day, he also knew Sarah Woodson\u2014an American stranded in Ireland with her family after an ill-timed vacation\u2014belonged to no one.\n\nIt was true enough, however, that she was just about the most resourceful person he'd ever met. After everything that went down last year he had started calling her the female MacGyver.\n\n\"Let's go, Mike,\" Fi said, tugging on his arm. \"I got the bugger to the altar but there's no telling how long he'll stay there.\"\n\n\"He'll stay,\" Mike said, as he turned his attention back to his sister and her big day. \"You're not the only one who's waited a long time for this day.\"\n\n* * *\n\n_T he wedding could not be more perfect,_ Sarah thought as she dabbed her eyes, _if it had been privately catered with a limo waiting for the happy couple afterward_. As it was, they cut a homemade wedding cake that, due to the lack of sugar, tasted more like corn bread than cake and said their vows in front of a seriously inebriated justice of the peace in lieu of a proper priest. Just a few more things hard to come by after the bomb changed everyone's world, Sarah thought grimly.\n\nShe turned to her thirteen-year-old son, who was whispering loudly to the bride's nephew, Gavin. John was growing tall, like his father had been. His eighteen months of living in a world with no electricity, no electronics and no transportation beyond what a horse could provide had transformed him from an indulged child into a young man mature beyond his years.\n\nWhich didn't mean he still didn't need to be shushed from time to time. \"John,\" she whispered.\n\nHe turned to her, grinning apologetically and mouthed the words, _Sorry, Mom_.\n\nSarah turned back to the wedding to see Mike kiss Fiona at the altar in the little chapel that two weeks earlier had served as a granary shed, then go to stand by Declan.\n\nShe glanced at the calluses on her fingers. Before coming to Ireland a year and a half ago, she had worked in an advertising office in Jacksonville, Florida. Her major skillset involved the usual office equipment and word processing software.\n\nA lot had changed since then. Nowadays she baked bread and dug in the dirt and milked goats and mended clothes that she wouldn't have bothered giving to the poor once. Back then she'd had a paralyzing fear of horses. Now, she rode nearly every day and couldn't imagine her life without the presence of the gentle, forgiving beasts.\n\n_Back home_. It was a painful image that never got easier for Sarah. When the hydrogen bomb exploded over the Irish Sea eighteen months ago, it detonated an electromagnetic pulse that effectively flung Ireland and the United Kingdom back into the eighteen hundreds.\n\nSarah's dreams, her thoughts, her world would always focus on the hope that one day she and John would go back home to the United States.\n\nPapin sat to Sarah's left. A young gypsy girl, a year older than John, Papin had known only abuse and prostitution before meeting Sarah in Wales last year.\n\n\"Do they kiss when they marry in America?\" Papin asked in a loud whisper.\n\nSarah nodded and looked back at the ceremony. She felt responsible, in part, for Fiona's happiness, since it was Sarah who'd met Declan and his band of gypsies and urged him to come to Donovan's Lot. It would never have occurred to her then that the rambling, handsome gypsy who lived off the land\u2014and by his wits\u2014and the fisherman's daughter would fall in love. It had been a pleasure to watch it unfold over the last months.\n\nFiona, at thirty-five, had never married. Opinionated, fiery with a wild mane of curly brown hair, she looked like a gypsy queen, Sarah thought. _Who would have guessed she'd been waiting for her gypsy king to find her?_\n\nAs for Declan, his extended family had assumed after awhile that he would not wed and had given him the mantle of the family leader and patriarch\u2014even though none of the many gypsy children that scampered around the camp were his. When it became clear that he and Fiona intended to be together, it was as if Donovan's Lot had engendered its own William and Catherine love story, so eagerly did the people in the community endorse the match.\n\nDeclan, in his suede boots and demi-jacket, turned to Fiona and drew her close to him. Sarah watched Fiona turn to her new husband, her eyes shining, mouth slightly open as if to gasp at the wonder of the moment.\n\nWhen the couple kissed, Papin gave a loud sigh. \"So romantic.\"\n\nSeveral people in the seats in front of where Sarah and the two children sat turned to smile at Papin.\n\nIt _was_ romantic. And for sweet, darling Fi to find someone after all this time...Sarah caught her breath at the pleasure and sheer happiness for her dear friend. Her eyes strayed again to Mike, standing solemnly as the couple kissed and the crowd began to clap and cheer.\n\n_Were all brothers like this when their sisters got married?_ Sarah frowned. She would definitely need a word with him as soon as she could get him alone.\n\n* * *\n\nThe wedding feast was well underway. Two long tables stood opposite the cook fire loaded with fruit pies, roast chicken, fried apples, corn fritters and pitchers of buttermilk.\n\nSarah watched Mike talking with a few of the other men\u2014clearly discussing camp business of some kind from the serious nod of Mike's head as he listened. A natural leader, he had created this community of over a hundred people by bringing together neighbors and family right after The Crisis happened to form a place of security and fellowship.\n\nWhere before there had been only pasture and field, an assortment of huts, cottages and sturdy tents now ringed the main campfire. There were rules in the community, but the underlying belief held by all was that there was safety in numbers, and a good life could still be had, even without electricity or cars.\n\nSarah edged her way to the circle of men and slipped into the center. \"Excuse me, gents,\" she said as she slipped an arm around Mike's waist. \"The presence of the brother of the bride is requested on the dance floor. I'm sure camp business can wait one night.\"\n\nShe felt Mike's arm drape around her shoulders. A big man, he towered over her but she was grateful he didn't resort to stooping to accommodate her. She liked his size.\n\n\"Jimmy, Iain,\" Mike said, \"we'll sort it out in the morning. Sarah's right. Tonight's for celebrating.\"\n\n\"Without even a glass of beer?\" Iain said, shaking his head.\n\n\"Well, seeing how we don't have any, yes. Come on, old son, can ya not dance sober?\"\n\n\"Not anything you want to see,\" Jimmy said, laughing at his own wit.\n\nSarah pulled Mike free of the group. His arm felt relaxed around her shoulders, beer or not. Maybe he'd worked himself out of whatever mood she thought she'd detected.\n\n\"You okay?\" she asked, looking up at him.\n\n\"Sure, and why wouldn't I be? Me with my only sister wed to my best mate and the luscious Sarah Woodson all but pulling me into her arms for a dance?\"\n\nSarah grinned when Mike's hand moved from her shoulders to her waist and then to her bottom. She removed it firmly. \"None of that, Mike Donovan. Especially as we don't have alcohol to blame it on.\"\n\n\"I don't need to be drunk to want to feel your bum in me hands, Sarah.\" His eyes glittered meaningfully.\n\n\"Mike, behave yourself. This is Fiona's night.\"\n\n\"Nothing I have in mind will take anything away from my sister's night. And did you have to remind me?\"\n\nSarah laughed. \"I can't believe how old-fashioned you are! She's not a virgin, you know.\"\n\n\"Blimey! Did I need to hear that?\"\n\n\"We may live like we're in the sixteen hundreds but we _did_ all have twenty-first century lives until relatively recently.\"\n\n\"It might surprise ya to know, Sarah Woodson, that I'm not so keen to be discussing my sister's sex life.\"\n\n\"Alright, settle down. I just want to make sure you're okay. You looked a little grumpy up there during the ceremony.\"\n\n\"Well, that's just daft. I'm pleased as feckin' punch for the both of them.\"\n\n\"Remind me to make sure you don't make any toasts to the happy couple.\"\n\n\"And what would we even toast with?\"\n\n\"God! Is it really the end of the world for an Irishman to have no alcohol?\"\n\n\"I think you just answered your own question.\" Mike pulled up a bench a few yards away from the music and the dancing and pulled Sarah onto his lap.\n\n\"Mike!\" she squealed, but laughed as he held her firmly on his knee.\n\n\"Now we'll just be watching the others dance and enjoy this special day,\" he said. \"And marvel to the good Lord above that it's possible to do that without beer or whiskey. Sure, I'm not positive it _is_ possible to do that, ya ken?\"\n\nSarah slid off his lap and pulled him to a standing position. \"Dance with me, Mike,\" she said. \"There's no booze, no DJ, no canap\u00e9s and no bouquet to catch. Dance with me.\"\n\nHe stood up and followed her to the dirt dance floor, the rest of the dancers parting to make room for them. Some even clapped to see their leader\u2014easily the tallest of them\u2014coming among them. He nodded at Declan who was slow-dancing with Fiona and then drew Sarah into his arms. The music was scratchy and repetitive, but it was lively and had a beat.\n\nAs she relaxed in his arms Sarah glanced around the camp, taking note of where Papin and John were. Not surprisingly, John was standing with Gavin at the food table. The women of the camp had outdone themselves creating multiple tables of cakes, pies, ham, and devilled eggs.\n\nShe could see Papin on the dance floor. Iain, the man who had been arguing with Mike earlier, was methodically two stepping his way through the song, his large hands gripping her small waist. Sarah frowned. At thirty, Iain was way too old to be dancing with Papin. Plus, he was married.\n\nShe saw her fourteen-year-old adopted daughter's eyes flash up at Iain as she spoke, the words drowned out by the music. Papin was flirting with Iain. It was practically the only way the girl knew how to relate to men. Half the time she did it to John and Mike, too, although they ignored it.\n\nIain didn't seem to be ignoring it.\n\n\"Mike,\" Sarah said in a low voice. She felt his body stiffen as she spoke. It hadn't taken long for the two of them to develop an efficient shorthand communication.\n\n\"What is it?\" he said. By the way he moved in her arms, she could tell he was looking around to see what had upset her. It didn't take him long, either.\n\n\"Oy! Jamison!\" he bellowed. \"We'll not be needing your minding services any longer.\"\n\nPapin reddened as Iain dropped his hands from her and backed away. \"Da!\" she said indignantly. \"I'm not a baby!\"\n\nMike had stepped up to the role of co-parenting Papin, a virtual orphan when she came to the camp last year, with Sarah. He had seen immediately that she needed a loving and firm male presence\u2014and one who didn't want to bed her.\n\nMike gave Sarah's arm a squeeze of apology and went to Papin.\n\n\"I'll be having this dance, milady?\" he said, bowing at the waist.\n\nSarah held her breath but she needn't have worried. Papin smiled at Mike and held up her hands for him to pick her up and swing her, which he did, to her delighted giggles.\n\n* * *\n\nSarah saw Fiona sitting on one of the long wooden benches that had been brought out to line the center campfire. She sat holding the hem of her gown away from the dirt on the ground, her eyes wide with exhaustion and joy. Sarah joined her on the bench.\n\nShe reached out and patted Fiona's knee. \"Are you happy?\"\n\nFiona turned her face to Sarah with real delight. \"Oh, so happy, Sarah. I wish you this kind of happiness.\"\n\n\"I had it once, remember.\"\n\n\"Sure, that's right. With your David.\"\n\nFiona fanned herself. A light mist of perspiration coated her face, giving her the effect of glowing.\n\nSarah held her friend's hand. \"Declan is a good man. I can't tell you how happy I am for you both.\"\n\n\"Ta, Sarah. As happy as I'd be if you and Mike were ever to stop playing around and get down to being together.\"\n\nSarah squeezed her hand and found herself looking for Mike in the crowd of laughing, dancing bodies milling around the center courtyard. She knew Fiona was right. Just seeing Mike, the way his body moved, the way he looked at her, was enough to make her want to grab his hand and take him right back to her cottage with a _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the door. He would probably always have that effect on her.\n\nShe wasn't exactly sure why things hadn't moved along in that direction. It certainly wasn't for lack of broad hints and downright _trying_ on Mike's part.\n\nShe finally spotted him, his hand on one hip, leaning down to listen, as an elderly couple seemed to be talking earnestly to him about something. Sarah loved seeing him like this, unaware of her\u2014or anyone\u2014and doing what he did best: looking after the families in Donovan's Lot. His face was kind, his eyes alert as he listened. He was a good leader, Sarah mused. A little given to the _my-way-or-the-highway_ type thinking, but possibly that was normal for natural-born leaders.\n\n\"I know you're hot for him, Sarah Woodson. A blind person could see that. And you know he's burned for you since the day he laid eyes on you.\"\n\n\"Okay, Fi, let's focus on one romance at a time, shall we?\"\n\nFiona shook her head, but she smiled and plucked at the lace cuff of her wedding dress, a dated cocktail dress that some of the women in camp had fitted to Fiona's slim body. \"I just can't believe he's mine, you know?\"\n\n\"Trust me, Declan's saying the same thing.\"\n\n\"Which is even more amazing to me.\"\n\n\"Well, it shouldn't be, Fi. You were just holding out for the right one.\"\n\n\"That's one way to put it,\" Fi said laughing. \"Oh, here's my husband. I think he's got that 'it's time we're away, wench' look in his eye.\"\n\n\"I think you're right.\" Sarah stood up as Declan approached, his faced flushed, his gaze focused on the only woman he had eyes for.\n\n\"Excuse me, Sarah,\" he said, \"I'll be taking me bride, now. Fi?\" He held his arms out to Fiona and she slipped easily into them. The two kissed and Fi pulled him away toward their cottage. \"See you in the morning, Sarah,\" she said over her shoulder.\n\n\"Aye, but not too early, mind,\" Declan called out as the two disappeared into the evening.\n\nSmiling, Sarah pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and turned back to the party, which appeared to be winding down. She could see mothers pulling their children back to huts and tents. While there was no sugar to wire the little ones, the music and general excitement had served to make most of them cranky and tearful.\n\n\"The lovebirds call it a night?\"\n\nSarah turned to see Mike approaching with two steaming mugs in his hands. He handed one to her.\n\n\"Oh, that's perfect,\" she said, taking the cup. She sipped slowly and then coughed, her face reddening. She put a hand to her mouth. \"Is there whiskey in this?\" she whispered around another small cough. \"You could've warned me, first.\"\n\n\"I find the sneak attack is often more effective for my purposes. It's some of the last of what we got from that trip to Limerick in the spring. There's only just a dram so don't go broadcasting it.\"\n\n\"Perks of the rank?\" Sarah asked, reseating herself on the bench.\n\n\"Something like that. Fi and Dec pack it in?\"\n\n\"Please don't put it like that,\" Sarah said with a grin.\n\n\"Oh, very funny. You just don't quit, do you?\"\n\n\"Well, not when you make it so easy to tease you.\"\n\nThey sat, shoulder to shoulder, sipping their whisky and hot tea and watching the last of the partiers pick up children, food, and musical instruments. A few of the gypsies\u2014Declan's extended family\u2014seemed to be bedding down around the center campfire, which would burn all night long.\n\n\"Papin and John in bed, do you know?\"\n\nMike shook his head. \"They're in your cottage but too excited to sleep, I'll wager.\"\n\n\"It was a perfect night,\" Sarah said, finishing off her drink.\n\nMike took both cups and set them aside. \"The night's not over yet,\" he said in a low voice.\n\nWhen she saw his eyes regarding her, so full of tenderness and care, it was all she could do not to climb onto his lap right there. He was so much a part of her world, her support system in this life. So strong, so confident.\n\n_So damn sexy._\n\nHer face must have expressed more than she intended because he leaned in and kissed her mouth. A slow kiss she couldn't push away from.\n\nShe placed her hands on his broad shoulders and fell into the kiss, feeling him pull her close into his chest. A small moan escaped her lips as he looked into her dark eyes.\n\n\" _Yes_ , Sarah?\" he whispered.\n\n\"God, yes,\" she responded without hesitating.\n\n\"I'd pick you up and carry you there,\" he growled, his voice full of urgent need, \"but I don't want to alert the camp to my intentions.\"\n\n\" _Our_ intentions,\" Sarah said, kissing him firmly. \"I can walk. At least for now.\"\n\n\"God, woman, every word out of your mouth is making me hard as a brick.\" He tilted her head back to see her face lit by the firelight, her neck long and bare. He kissed her again.\n\n\"Oy, Mike! You still up, son? Is that you over yonder I see snoggin' the Widow Woodson? Mike?\"\n\nSarah stood up quickly, straightening her blouse and pulling her cardigan around her in time to see Jimmy Baskerville waving at Mike from across the campfire.\n\n\"Bloody hell,\" Mike cursed, shaking his head. \"Are ya kidding me?\"\n\nSarah would have laughed if she weren't so annoyed by the interruption herself\u2014and if she hadn't noticed that Jimmy was approaching with a stranger in tow.\n\n\"Oy, Mike,\" Jimmy said, walking to stand in front of Mike, still seated. \"We got us a visitor and you said we're always to bring 'em before yerself, like, whenever that happens.\"\n\nThe stranger stood behind Jimmy, almost as if hiding, Sarah thought. He looked bedraggled and hungry. He'd clearly been traveling and living off the land for many weeks, if not longer. Camp policy was to welcome all travelers with food and a bed for the night.\n\n\"I don't mean to disrupt the festivities,\" the man said, peeking out from behind Jimmy. \"But a bit of grub would be welcome.\"\n\nSarah saw Mike work to pull himself together and shake off his disappointment. He nodded to Jimmy. \"Go see if Molly is still up and have her put together a sandwich.\" Jimmy saluted him and turned on his heel.\n\nThe traveler stood alone now, his eyes darting from Sarah to Mike like a canary between two cats.\n\n\"Won't you sit down?\" she said, although the grunt she heard from Mike indicated he had hoped the man wouldn't be staying long.\n\n\"Thank you, missus,\" he said, not moving. He had a tattered backpack on his shoulder, and even in the dark Sarah could see it held very little. She returned to her seat on the bench.\n\n\"Please, sit,\" Sarah said again. \"We usually ask visitors if they have any news to share.\" She was hoping to make him feel less like a beggar by suggesting he had something to offer to the camp. The effect of her words on him was immediate.\n\n\"Can I ask you, missus,\" he said, \"if the way you speak is because you're American? I've got nothing against Yanks, mind,\" he said hurriedly. Not everyone in Ireland shared his tolerant attitude, Sarah knew.\n\n\"Yes, that's right,\" she said. \"I'm from Florida. I was on vacation in Ireland when The Crisis happened.\"\n\nThe man seemed to relax a little. He knelt in the dirt and shrugged off his pack and then slowly sat down, crossing his knees Indian-style on the ground. \"Well, it's mebbe that I do have news for you, in that case.\"\n\nMike, who had been watching the newcomer closely, turned his head to look at Sarah. Had she gasped? News about America \u2014other than groundless rumor\u2014was rare these days.\n\n\"Yes?\" she said. \"You've news about the US?\"\n\n\"It happens, I do, missus. I'm coming from Rathcoole. Been on the road, I guess, three weeks since but I reckon the news is still fresh.\"\n\nJimmy appeared with a ham sandwich. He had a few deviled eggs wrapped in paper, too. \"Sorry about no juice,\" he said. \"But we've been dry for months now.\" He handed the newcomer a flask of water.\n\nThe traveler shook his head and took a large bite. He looked at this audience apologetically as he chewed. \"Forgive me. Fresh bread...I've died and gone to heaven.\"\n\n_He's starving,_ Sarah thought. It was sometimes easy to forget that outside the walls of Donovan's Lot there were many who struggled daily just to survive.\n\n\"I'm Mike Donovan. You're welcome to stay the night. Jimmy'll find a place for you to throw down a bedroll.\"\n\n\"Ta very much. The name's Randy Paxton.\"\n\n\"English?\" Sarah asked.\n\n\"No, missus. I'm from up north.\"\n\n\"You've come a long way.\"\n\n\"This news,\" Mike said, eyeing the man suspiciously. \"Where did you come by it?\"\n\n\"News? He's got news?\" Jimmy looked at Mike. \"Should I rouse the camp?\"\n\nMike waved him back down into his seat. \"Unless the news is that the bloody British are invading, we'll have time enough tomorrow.\"\n\nPaxton finished off his sandwich and drained the water flask. \"Thank you kindly for the food,\" he said. \"I came by my news in Dublin.\"\n\n\"How is Dublin?\" Mike asked.\n\n\"It's...I don't rightly know how to say it. I was there just shy of three months. It was the three longest months of my life.\"\n\n\"Crime?\"\n\n\"Aye, and sickness.\"\n\nSarah felt her pulse quicken. \"Disease?\"\n\nPaxton nodded grimly. \"Garbage in the streets. And worse.\"\n\nMike grunted. \"It's not surprising. The wonder is people hadn't started getting sick before now.\"\n\n\"You said you had news of the Americans,\" Sarah said, tapping her nails against the seat of the bench.\n\n\"Aye, missus. In Dublin it was just a rumor, but when I came through Limerick I saw it for myself.\"\n\n\"Saw what? What did you see, man?\" Mike asked.\n\n\"The Air Lift, they call it. The Yanks have their military in Limerick and they're coming and going back and forth to the US like nothing ever happened. I saw the transport helicopters and also the big planes. Looked like whole families were leaving.\"\n\nSarah gasped and stood up, knocking the two teacups she'd shared with Mike to the ground. She was vaguely aware of his hand on her arm.\n\n_Limerick was only a day's ride away._\n\nShe turned to look out beyond the boundaries of the camp, her eyes glittering with awe and wonder. \"We can go home,\" she said, her voice a whisper. \"Thank you, God, it's finally happened. We can go home.\"\n\n* * *\n\nTo see what happens next to Sarah, John and Mike, check out _Heading Home,_ _Book 3 of the Irish End Games._\n\n# About the Author\n\nSusan Kiernan-Lewis lives in Ponte Vedra, Florida, and writes mysteries, dystopian thrillers, and romantic suspense. Like many authors, Susan depends on the reviews and word of mouth referrals of her readers. If you enjoyed _Going Gone_ , please consider leaving a review saying so on your purchase site.\n\nCheck out Susan's blog at susankiernanlewis.com and feel free to contact her at sanmarcopress@me.com. If you'd like to be notified when new books in this series come out, sign up for Susan's newsletter here.\n\n_Author's Note_ : For anyone who's Welsh or looks at a map, you may notice in _Going Gone_ that I moved _Merlins Bridge_ from south of _Haverfordwest_ to north of it, around where _Spittal_ is located. Sorry for any confusion, but I couldn't give up the wonderful name of _Merlins Bridge_ and it was a necessary plot point that Sarah travel to a ferry crossing by way of it.\n\n**Books by Susan Kiernan-Lewis**\n\n**The Maggie Newberry Mysteries**\n\nMurder in the South of France\n\nMurder \u00e0 la Carte\n\nMurder in Provence\n\nMurder in Paris\n\nMurder in Aix\n\nMurder in Nice\n\nMurder in the Latin Quarter\n\n* * *\n\n**More Books by Susan Kiernan-Lewis**\n\n**The French Women's Diet**\n\n**The Irish End Games**\n\nFree Falling\n\nGoing Gone\n\nHeading Home\n\nBlind Sided\n\nRising Tides\n\nCold Comfort\n\nNever Never\n\n**Mia Kazmaroff Romantic Suspense**\n\nReckless\n\nShameless\n\nBreathless\n\nHeartless\n\n**Ella Out of Time**\n\nSwept Away\n\nCarried Away\n\nStolen Away\n\n**Finding Infinity** (Romance)\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "The Wurst Is Yet to Come - Mary Daheim"}, "text": "\n\nDedication\n\nTo my granddaughters, Maisy and Clara, who give me hope that the future is in good hands. You are much loved.\nContents\n\nDedication\n\nChapter One\n\nChapter Two\n\nChapter Three\n\nChapter Four\n\nChapter Five\n\nChapter Six\n\nChapter Seven\n\nChapter Eight\n\nChapter Nine\n\nChapter Ten\n\nChapter Eleven\n\nChapter Twelve\n\nChapter Thirteen\n\nChapter Fourteen\n\nChapter Fifteen\n\nChapter Sixteen\n\nChapter Seventeen\n\nChapter Eighteen\n\nChapter Nineteen\n\nChapter Twenty\n\nChapter Twenty-one\n\nExcerpt from _Gone with the Win_\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nExcerpt from _Clam Wake_\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nAuthor's Note\n\nAbout the Author\n\nAlso by Mary Daheim\n\nCredits\n\nCopyright\n\nAbout the Publisher\nChapter One\n\nJudith McMonigle Flynn heard the knock at Hillside Manor's back door, wondered which friend or family member had forgotten the key, and hurried to see who was on the porch.\n\n\"Joe!\" she cried, looking through the small window and turning the doorknob. \"Why can't you . . .\" The knob fell off in her hand. \"Come to the front,\" she said to her husband, whose round face looked miffed\u2014and wet\u2014from the October rain.\n\nJoe Flynn narrowed his green eyes at Judith as he held up the other half of the doorknob. \"Warzdadamtolbag?\" he shouted.\n\n\"I can't hear you,\" Judith replied, gesturing at the leaky downspout where rainwater dripped with a noisy plop-plop-plop into a steel bowl by the steps.\n\nJoe tossed the doorknob aside and stomped off the porch. Sighing, Judith trudged back down the hallway, through the kitchen, the dining room, and the entry hall. She opened the front door just as Joe appeared on the walkway.\n\n\"What did you say?\" she asked, irritated by her husband's scowl.\n\n\"I said,\" Joe responded, dripping rainwater off of his navy-blue raincoat, \"where's that damned Tolvang? Your handyman was supposed to be here today.\"\n\n\"He couldn't come,\" Judith replied. \"His truck broke down.\"\n\n\"No kidding,\" Joe muttered, heading straight for the kitchen. \"Did the crank fall off, so he couldn't start that old heap?\"\n\nJudith traipsed after him. \"The crank is leaving mud on my clean floor. Bad day or did you stop off to see Mother first?\"\n\nJoe was in the back hallway, hanging up his raincoat. \"Why would I want to see your ghastly mother? Wasn't it bad enough I had to go through about a million background checks for the police department all day? Why did I take on this job? It's not worth the money.\"\n\n\"Because we need the money? Because you like your former partner, Woody Price? Because you're still a cop at heart?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" A faint smile tugged at Joe's mouth. \"All of the above?\" He entered the kitchen and put his arms around Judith. Brushing her lips with a kiss, he sniffed. \"You smell like a lemon.\"\n\n\"I've been squeezing lemons for a meringue pie,\" Judith said, leaning against Joe. \"Renie gave me a whole bag of them.\"\n\nJoe tipped Judith's chin to make eye contact. \"Why would your goofy cousin do that? No,\" he said quickly, putting his finger on her parted lips. \"I don't want to know. Let me guess. She's growing lemons in the basement instead of sweeping out the dirt she tracks in?\"\n\nJudith shook her head.\n\nJoe frowned in concentration. \"Somebody sent her a bag of lemons after trying her god-awful Shrimp Dump recipe in the parish cookbook?\"\n\nJudith shook her head again.\n\nJoe sighed and released his wife. \"I give up. And by the way, I hate lemon meringue pie.\"\n\n\"So does Bill,\" Judith said, referring to Renie's husband. \"I'm making it for Arlene and Carl Rankers when they arrive tomorrow to take over the B&B while I'm in Little Bavaria.\"\n\n\"Damn, I forgot you were leaving so soon,\" he said, moving to the family liquor cupboard. \"I keep thinking this is Tuesday.\"\n\n\"You could've gone with me,\" she said accusingly.\n\nJoe shook his head. \"Not with this unique assignment. I've got until Monday to wind it up. I feel as if I've still got another three, four million records to go through. No wonder I thought it was only Tuesday. Drink?\" he asked, holding a fifth of Scotch.\n\n\"Yes, please,\" Judith said. \"Renie thought they were onions.\"\n\nJoe paused, bottle in hand. \"What did she think were onions?\"\n\n\"Lemons,\" Judith said, checking the oven to see if the pie was done. \"Renie was in a rush at Falstaff's and grabbed a bag of lemons she thought were onions, but didn't notice until she got home. She wondered why her bill was fifteen bucks more than she expected. Lemons cost a lot more than onions, so she gave some to me.\"\n\n\"Why didn't she return them?\" Joe asked, pouring their drinks.\n\n\"Because . . .\" Judith frowned. \"Renie doesn't like making exchanges. She gets all mixed up with numbers.\"\n\n\"She gets all mixed up with lemons and onions,\" Joe said, handing Judith her Scotch-rocks.\n\n\"She has a deadline today for designing a corporate Web site,\" Judith explained, opening the oven and removing the pie. \"I baked individual meringues for the guests' social hour.\" Glancing at the old schoolhouse clock, she saw it was ten to six. \"I'd better set everything out on the buffet. We're full tonight, thank heavens. The economic downturn is hurting the hospitality industry. Ingrid Heffelman was chewing off my ear today, saying how everybody at the state B&B association is complaining about vacancies.\" She shot Joe a sharp glance. \"As usual, she told me to give you her best.\"\n\n\"Wish I knew what it was,\" Joe said breezily. \"Maybe I'll find out while you're gone.\"\n\nJudith glared at Joe. \"Don't even think about it. Have you ever seen Ingrid Heffelman up close? Renie calls her Inbred Heffalump.\"\n\n\"Renie's got a bad mouth,\" Joe said in his usual mellow tone. \"I've seen Ingrid a couple of times. I'd describe her as . . .\" He took a sip of Scotch and gazed up at the high kitchen ceiling. \"Rubenesque.\"\n\n\"You mean she looks like the painter? Maybe it's her beard.\"\n\n\"Hey, when have I ever given you cause to be jealous?\"\n\n\"How about the twenty years you were married to Herself instead of to your fianc\u00e9e, who happened to be me?\"\n\n\"Good God,\" Joe muttered, \"that was another twenty years ago. Now we've been married that long.\"\n\nJudith removed a tray of crab and mushroom hors d'oeuvres from the oven. \"Are you crazy? It's only been sixteen. You can't count any better than Renie. And don't you dare say it seems longer.\"\n\nThe gold flecks danced in Joe's green eyes. \"It seems like only yesterday.\"\n\n\"Right.\" She transferred the hors d'oeuvres onto a serving platter. And berated herself for being waspish. Judith and Joe had managed to make unfortunate first marriages that had kept them apart for two decades. Fate had not been kind\u2014until a homicide case at Hillside Manor brought them together again. \"I'm sorry,\" she said, platter in hand. \"I just wish you were going with me to Little Bavaria instead of Renie. In fact, I wish I'd never taken on the task of helping out at the state's B&B booth during the Oktoberfest. I'll be working and Renie will be bitching. She gets bored easily. And neither of us likes beer.\"\n\n\"Nothing wrong with good beer,\" Joe remarked, swiping an hors d'oeuvre off the platter.\n\n\"Nothing right about this whole gig,\" Judith said. \"Ingrid made it her own little project to get the B&B booth. I got the impression that the organizers weren't all that crazy about the idea because they wanted to focus on tourism in their own part of the state. But Ingrid persevered, probably by being her usual obnoxious self.\"\n\n\"Gosh,\" Joe said in mock surprise, \"you don't like her much.\"\n\n\"That,\" Judith responded, heading for the living room, \"is true\u2014and the feeling is mutual.\"\n\nFive minutes later, as she was setting out the meringues, the Wilsons and the Morgans from Omaha showed up for the social hour. They gushed appropriately and Judith chatted with them for a few minutes before the businessman from St. Paul arrived along with the newlyweds from Salem, Oregon. Judith returned to the kitchen just in time for yet another confrontation between Joe and her mother.\n\n\"See here, buster,\" the old lady said, wagging a finger at her son-in-law, \"just because you claim you had to work late doesn't mean my supper should be late. I had to ram the back door to get inside. It's busted. Where's my useless daughter?\" Gertrude Grover leaned from her motorized wheelchair to see beyond Joe. \"There you are. Well? Did you ruin whatever slop you're going to feed me?\"\n\n\"Mother . . .\" Judith began, dismayed that Gertrude hadn't bothered to put on any rain gear except for throwing a sweater over her head. You'll catch cold. Your hair's wet.\"\n\n\"You're all wet. What's for supper?\"\n\n\"Beef Stroganoff.\" Judith noted that Joe had left the kitchen and Sweetums had entered it. The cat rubbed his wet fur against her leg.\n\nGertrude glowered. \"Like my niece Serena makes?\"\n\n\"Renie uses about a gallon of sour cream,\" Judith said. \"It's not good for your cholesterol.\"\n\n\"You know my cholesterol's perfect,\" the old lady declared.\n\nJudith did know, and couldn't understand how her mother, who considered grease a food group and smoked like a chimney, could have such a low\u2014and healthy\u2014reading. \"I use a different recipe, and that's\u2014ow!\" Judith jumped as Sweetums clawed her leg. \"Damnit, you've trained that wretched beast to attack upon silent command!\"\n\nGertrude looked smug. \"Okay, we're even. Dish it up and bring it out.\" She turned the wheelchair around and headed back to her converted toolshed apartment. With a last malevolent look at Judith, Sweetums followed, his big plume of a tail waving in triumph.\n\nJudith rubbed at her leg, thankful that the cat hadn't torn her slacks or drawn blood. After Judith delivered her mother's dinner, Joe strolled in with the dregs of his drink and sat down.\n\n\"Your mother's off base,\" he said after Judith had dished up their servings. \"As usual. I like your version better than Renie's.\"\n\nJudith avoided looking at Joe's slight paunch. \"It's much less fattening and the wine adds some zing. In fact,\" she confessed, sitting down opposite her husband, \"it's not beef Stroganoff. It's beef bourguignon. Mother doesn't trust food with French names.\"\n\n\"I figured as much,\" Joe said. \"I know my way around a kitchen.\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"Yes, you do. You're a good cook.\"\n\nJoe shrugged. \"I'm not a chef like Dan was. When Dan worked at being a chef\u2014or at anything else. Why him? I always wondered.\"\n\n\"He was the only one who asked me. What else could I do when you left me knocked up with Mike?\"\n\nJoe lowered his eyes. \"Don't remind me. I haven't gotten drunk since the night Vivian hauled me off to the JP in Vegas.\"\n\nJudith jumped as she heard someone come through the back door. \"Arlene! Are you here to get prepped for your B&B stint?\"\n\n\"No,\" their neighbor replied. \"I stopped to see your mother. She's excited about the fun Carl and I'll have with her while you're gone.\" Arlene's pretty face beamed. \"What a sweetie! You must exaggerate how she upsets you, Judith. I've never heard her utter a harsh word.\"\n\n\"That,\" Joe said, \"is because she saves them up for us.\"\n\nArlene shook her head. \"Joe's such a card. May I borrow a can of cream of chicken soup? I don't want Carl to have to go up to the store. He's worn out from painting the kitchen and he still has to fix the upstairs plumbing and check out the roof. That windstorm last week loosened some of the shingles. Oh\u2014he should come over and fix your back door. It's broken, you know.\"\n\nJudith was used to Arlene's contradictory reasoning. \"Sure, you know where to find the soup. Pantry, third shelf. Joe can repair the door.\" She shot him a meaningful look.\n\nArlene started back down the hall, but stopped. \"By the way,\" she said, \"where will you be staying in Little Bavaria?\"\n\n\"A B&B called Hanover Haus,\" Judith replied. \"I'll write it all down for you. Several of us who are manning the innkeeping booth will be staying there, too. I've never done anything like this before, but Ingrid Heffelman talked me into it.\" Cajoled, badgered, browbeat were the words that rushed through her mind. And compensation for Ingrid not pulling her B&B license after so many dead bodies had shown up at or near Hillside Manor since Judith had been an innkeeper.\n\n\"You'll have a wonderful time meeting new people.\" Arlene said. \"I hope none of them are murderers.\" She kept on going down the hall.\n\n\"I'll work through the weekend, either here or at city hall, to wind up this job for Woody. The last few months have been a big headache since he was appointed a precinct captain just as the mayor ordered a departmental investigation. I assume you haven't forgotten what happened last January?\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"Hardly. Having you supposedly under arrest drove me to the brink. In fact, that episode almost got me killed.\"\n\n\"I figured you'd recall our nerve-racking start to the new year.\" Joe polished off the last of his dinner and stood up. \"What time does the train leave tomorrow?\"\n\n\"Nine-thirty,\" Judith replied before taking a last bite of broccoli.\n\n\"I'll drop you off on my way to headquarters.\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"Bill volunteered.\"\n\n\"Bill can un-volunteer,\" Joe said. \"The last time he took you and Renie to the train, she had him so confused that you almost missed the damned Empire Builder. I'll call him. He'll thank me.\"\n\nJudith didn't argue. Renie's weird rationale for changing clocks to and from daylight and standard time the previous October had been so confusing that Judith had tried to forget it ever happened.\n\n\"One thing, though,\" Joe said, putting his plate and cutlery in the dishwasher. \"Promise me you won't get into trouble.\"\n\nJudith smiled ingenuously. \"Don't worry. I won't have time to do that. I'll be busy with the booth and making nice with potential guests.\"\n\nJoe frowned. \"What's Renie going to do?\"\n\n\"Who knows? I'll probably spend the rest of the time keeping her from antagonizing people that I'm making nice with.\"\n\nJoe didn't look convinced. \"You didn't promise.\"\n\n\"That's dumb,\" Judith said. \"I already told you what I'd be doing. Isn't that good enough? We'll be coming back Monday morning.\"\n\nJoe shrugged. Judith sensed what he was thinking. They both knew she never made promises she couldn't keep.\n\nRenie wasn't a morning person. Judith wasn't surprised to see Bill Jones's grim expression as he carried his wife's suitcase to the Subaru. \"She's coming,\" he said, opening the rear door and shoving the luggage across the seat. \"Any chance you can leave her in Little Bavaria?\"\n\n\"You'd miss her,\" Judith said, trying to sound convincing.\n\nBill scowled. \"She just missed me with a cereal bowl. I'm going back inside to calm down Oscar. He gets agitated when Renie gets up before he does. It interrupts our discussion of the morning newspaper.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . right,\" Judith said as Bill saluted both Flynns before heading back into the house. \"Damn,\" she murmured, \"just when I was feeling sorry for Bill, he had to bring up that stupid stuffed ape!\"\n\nJoe seemed unfazed. \"Oscar can't be that stupid if he can talk about current events.\"\n\n\"Joe!\" Judith glared at her husband. \"Don't you dare buy into\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey, here comes Renie. Look, she's kissing Bill good-bye. She can't be all that grumpy. Or maybe she's biting him. Is he bleeding?\"\n\n\"That's lipstick,\" Judith said in disgust. \"Don't make any smart-ass remarks when she gets in the car, okay?\"\n\nRenie, attired in a forest-green cable-knit sweater and matching slacks, marched out to the car and got into the backseat.\n\nJoe spoke first. \"Good morn\u2014\"\n\n\"What's good about it?\" Renie snarled. \"It's mother-jumping eight o'clock and no human being should be up in the middle of the mother-jumping night!\" She slumped down and fumbled with the seat belt. \"Hey, this sucker's broken! You want to get me killed?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Joe murmured.\n\n\"It's not broken,\" Judith said, craning her neck to look at her cousin. \"It's just . . . tricky.\"\n\n\"Bill's waving bye-bye,\" Joe said.\n\n\"The hell he is,\" Renie snapped. \"He just gave me the finger!\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Joe said, \"it looked kind of like a wave.\"\n\n\"Ha! He . . . there! I got it fastened. Let's rock.\"\n\nThe ride downtown was in morning rush-hour traffic, but mercifully, Renie kept quiet. The sun had come up and it promised to be a crisp, beautiful autumn day. Judith kept her eyes straight ahead while Joe muttered an occasional rude remark about less competent drivers. They reached the train station at ten to nine.\n\n\"Grab a cart,\" Joe said. \"I'm in an impound area and I'm already late. I don't want to have to arrest myself.\"\n\nJudith leaned over to kiss Joe. \"I love you,\" she said.\n\n\"Right. Go. Somebody's pulling up behind me.\"\n\n\"Men!\" Judith said under her breath after she'd dragged the travel case out of the car.\n\nRenie had snatched a cart from an elderly couple who seemed confused. \"Dump your case here,\" she called to Judith. \"Don't run. You'll dislocate your phony hip. I don't want any more crap this morning.\"\n\nWincing at the Subaru's squealing tires as Joe rocketed away from the station, Judith joined Renie by the door. \"Those poor old people,\" she whispered after the cousins had gone inside. \"Why couldn't you get a cart on this side of the door?\"\n\n\"What door?\" Renie retorted. \"You think I can see this early?\"\n\n\"You can sure bitch,\" Judith said. \"Watch where you're going with that cart. It's not a NASCAR entry. You almost ran into that baby carrier on the floor.\"\n\n\"The baby should have wheels on that thing,\" Renie muttered. \"Have we got tickets?\"\n\n\"Yes. We have to check in at that desk when the conductor arrives. The line's already forming.\"\n\nRenie stopped so abruptly that Judith almost fell on top of her. \"Then I'm going to sit down right here.\"\n\n\"But there's a man\u2014\"\n\n\"Oops!\" Renie yipped as the bearded man who was already sitting in the chair let out a cry of surprise. \"Sorry,\" she mumbled, and moved over to an empty seat. She glared at her cousin. \"I told you I couldn't see. You should've warned me.\"\n\n\"I tried to,\" Judith said in an irritated tone. \"Why don't you just shut up and sit there?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nJudith wasn't surprised by her cousin's sudden docile change. After sixty years of being closer than sisters, they knew each other better than anyone else did. Sometimes they didn't like each other very much, but their bond was so strong that nothing short of global destruction could sever it. Thus, Judith barely noticed that Renie had gone to sleep.\n\nThe bearded man leaned across the empty chair between them. \"Is your friend all right?\" he inquired in a deep, faintly accented voice.\n\n\"What? Oh\u2014yes, she's fine. My cousin isn't an early riser.\"\n\n\"You're cousins?\" the man said, still speaking softly. \"You don't look alike.\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith said. \"My cousin's sort of small. I'm not.\"\n\n\"Your coloring is not the same . . . excuse me, I apologize.\" He chuckled, apparently embarrassed. \"I should not be so bold.\"\n\n\"It's okay,\" Judith said, smiling. \"Are you from around here?\"\n\n\"No,\" he replied, stroking his short gray beard. \"I'm from Los Angeles. But I grew up partly in Germany. Tuttlingen, to be exact.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" Judith said. \"My maternal ancestors came from that area.\"\n\nHe held out his hand. \"I am Franz Wessler. And you?\"\n\n\"Judith Flynn,\" she said, shaking hands. \"My husband's Irish. That is, Irish-American.\"\n\n\"Very nice to meet you. You are going far?\"\n\n\"No, only to Little Bavaria.\"\n\nHe beamed, sporting a gold eyetooth. \"So am I! I have family there. You are going to Oktoberfest?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith smiled again. \"It's nice not to have to drive over the pass. The train didn't used to stop at Little Bavaria, you know.\"\n\nFranz nodded. \"True. I have not been there for some time.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" Judith's dark eyes showed her genuine interest in other people. \"Do your parents live in Little Bavaria?\"\n\nFranz nodded again, though he had turned grave. \"My father does. At ninety-six, he is elderly, but in robust health. Still, you never know how much longer anyone has. I have not seen him since 1999. I felt I should waste no more time.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" Judith said. \"My mother is elderly, too. Nobody lives forever.\" Except my mother, she thought. Maybe God doesn't want her. And immediately she felt guilty. Gertrude's parting words that morning had been to not drink any beer or act like a strumpet.\n\n\"Does he live alone?\" Judith inquired.\n\n\"Ah . . . no.\" Franz avoided Judith's gaze. \"Mutter died years ago.\"\n\nAn announcement asked passengers to line up for the conductor. \"That's us,\" Judith said, noting that Franz carried only a briefcase.\n\nHe stood up. \"I hope to see you in Little Bavaria.\"\n\n\"You may,\" Judith said. \"Enjoy the view. It should be lovely with all the trees in fall colors. We're lucky the weather's clear today.\"\n\nFranz picked up his briefcase. \"After you.\"\n\n\"No, go ahead. It may take me a while to wake up my cousin.\"\n\n\"Well . . . if you insist.\" Franz sketched a bow and got into line.\n\nRenie, however, was awake. \"I heard that,\" she said, vaulting out of the chair. \"You're already picking up strange guys?\"\n\n\"Keep it down,\" Judith warned, rolling her travel case behind a couple with two small children. \"If you were eavesdropping, then you know that Franz Wessler has an aged father in Little Bavaria. I have to be polite to everybody. They might be potential B&B guests.\"\n\nRenie plopped her suitcase on the floor. \"Are you going to mention Hillside Manor's mortality rate? Or tell them that if a problem arises, emergency vehicles are always parked by the cul-de-sac?\"\n\n\"Pipe down,\" Judith whispered. \"Why didn't you stay asleep? I could've put you in a luggage cart and shoved you to the train platform.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"That's what my son-in-law Odo does when I have a temper tantrum in one of those horrible big-box stores. Then, as I sail out the door, I throw him my credit card. Those places make me crabby.\"\n\n\"Odo is a smart man,\" Judith murmured. \"Anne was lucky to get someone who could put up with all her peculiar proclivities.\"\n\n\"Huh?\" Renie stared at her cousin. \"Like what? Our daughter is perfectly normal.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Judith said, gazing at the high ceiling, where the original century-old plaster flower motif was being restored, \"her obsession with casino gambling, her fascination with old cemeteries and ghost towns, her so-called work meetings that are only an excuse to dine and guzzle wine. Not every husband would humor her.\"\n\n\"Ha! Mike married a bossy Valkyrie with a big mouth,\" Renie countered, glaring at the three-year-old boy who was tugging at her slacks. \"Why doesn't he tell her to back off?\" She held up a hand. \"Don't say it. Because she could throw him through the front window?\"\n\nJudith leaned closer to Renie. \"Listen up, coz, since you chewed out Kristin last Christmas, she insists she'll never come to any family gathering where you're present. How do you like that?\"\n\n\"I like that a lot,\" Renie retorted, ignoring the older little boy, who was trying to show her a couple of Matchbox cars. \"I did it for your sake. She had no right to call you a doormat.\"\n\n\"You would,\" Judith shot back\u2014and suddenly began to cry.\n\n\"What the hell . . . ?\" Renie muttered as the younger child yanked so hard on her slacks that she almost fell over her travel case. \"Damn! Beat it, twerp!\" She turned back to Judith. \"Why are you crying?\"\n\n\"Oh . . . I . . .\" Judith sniffed a couple of times. \"Mike called last night to say the Forest Service is transferring him to a new ranger post.\"\n\n\"When? Where?\"\n\nJudith took a tissue out of her purse and wiped her eyes. \"He doesn't know. He's been in his current job for ten years. It's time.\"\n\nRenie frowned. \"Oh, coz, I'm sorry. They were just an hour away, and the little boys are growing so fast . . .\" She seemed at a loss for words.\n\nJudith had gotten herself under control. \"They could go anywhere in the United States. Even Hawaii or Alaska.\"\n\nRenie glared at the older boy, who was racing his Matchbox cars between the cousins. \"Is Mike upset?\"\n\n\"Well . . . yes. They have to take Mac and Joe-Joe out of school. And both he and Kristin liked being close to a city, and this area is home to Mike. Joe isn't happy about it either.\"\n\nThe cousins had moved up almost to the conductor's desk. Only the little boys' parents were waiting ahead of them. Judith glimpsed Franz Wessler heading through the door to the train. The big clock on the far wall informed her that it was 9:25. She noticed that the line behind them reached almost to the length of the waiting room. Their departure was going to be delayed, but that was the least of her concerns. The trip to Little Bavaria would take less than four hours.\n\n\"How soon?\" Renie asked.\n\nThe question startled Judith. \"How soon? Oh\u2014you mean before they find out where they're going? I'm not sure. They'd probably move after the first of the year.\"\n\n\"Then they'll be here for the holidays,\" Renie pointed out.\n\n\"Maybe.\" Judith's lips barely moved.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I told you. Kristin won't come to family occasions if you're there.\"\n\nRenie's face puckered with disgust. \"What a brat! Don't worry. I'll have a little talk with her. She'll come and behave herself or I'll fix it so that Mike can mail her to your house in a padded envelope.\"\n\n\"You want to end up in the ER?\" Judith shot back. \"She's twice your size.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"True, but I'm sneakier. She'll never know what hit her.\"\n\n\"Don't. Please. You'll only make things worse.\"\n\n\"How could I?\" Renie said. And jumped\u2014and swore.\n\nJudith looked down at the toddler, who was wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Renie snatched his hand out from under the cuff of her slacks.\n\n\"Get your stupid car off my leg, you little twit! What do I look like? The Brick Yard?\"\n\nIt was his turn to burst into tears. The boy's mother turned around just as her husband got to the desk. \"What's wrong with Ormond?\" she asked in a vague voice. \"Did he hurt himself?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" Renie said, \"but if you don't move this pest and the one hanging on to my backside, I'll stuff them both in the baggage car.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" the young woman huffed. \"Ormond and Thurmond are amusing themselves. Don't you like children?\"\n\n\"Only as an appetizer,\" Renie snapped.\n\n\"Excuse me?\" The woman took a step toward Renie. Ormond's crying had dwindled to a whimper. Thurmond, who looked about five, scrambled to his mother's side. Their father had finished at the desk.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said. \"Let's get on that iron horsey, guys!\"\n\nBoth boys scampered off with him, but their mother lingered. \"Stay away from our sweeties, you . . . monster.\" Getting a frozen stare in return, she turned to Judith. \"Are you responsible for her?\"\n\nJudith blinked. \"Ah . . .\"\n\n\"Skip it,\" the young woman said. \"If you two bother us on the train, I'll call the conductor.\" She rushed off, flipping a long woolen scarf over one shoulder as if it were a penalty flag.\n\nJudith approached the conductor, who, she realized, looked distressingly familiar. \"Good morning, Mr. Peterson,\" she said in her friendliest tone. \"We're only going as far as Little Bavaria this time.\"\n\nMr. Peterson didn't conceal his relief. \"That's . . . good. I mean,\" he went on with a quick glance at Renie, \"it's a delightful town, especially this time of year. Have a pleasant trip.\" He handed the tickets back to Judith. \"You, too, Mrs. Bones.\"\n\n\"It's Jones,\" Renie growled.\n\nJudith practically shoved Renie toward the door. \"A natural mistake,\" she murmured. \"Mr. Peterson probably was thinking about the bodies that littered our route on the Boston trip.\"\n\n\"Big deal,\" Renie grumbled. \"Which car are we in?\"\n\n\"Second one down,\" Judith replied, checking the seat numbers.\n\nRenie went first. They reasoned that if Judith fell forward, she'd land on something soft. Unless, of course, she fell backward.\n\nJudith noticed Franz Wessler toward the rear of the car. Renie saw the family of four behind their own seats.\n\n\"Damn!\" she said under her breath. \"Do we have to put up with those little hoodlums the whole trip?\"\n\n\"We could go to the caf\u00e9 for coffee,\" Judith suggested, placing her suitcase on a shelf at the coach's near end. \"I wonder if most of these people are going to Little Bavaria, too.\"\n\n\"Some of them are,\" Renie said. \"They're dressed German-style.\"\n\nMost of the costumes were worn by a dozen or more older people, but there were two younger couples and four teenagers in lederhosen and dirndl outfits. Letting Renie take the window seat, Judith avoided eye contact with the couple behind them. The little boys were whining. The older child demanded ice cream. Their parents were asking if the train had a play area.\n\n\"They're going to Little Bavaria,\" Judith whispered. \"Try not to turn any of them into victims.\"\n\nRenie merely shook her head and continued staring out the window as they began a snail-like pace north through the tunnel under the downtown area. The coach lights flickered; the little boys wailed in fear. Renie lay back and groaned.\n\n\"It's ni-ni time, darlings,\" the mother said. \"How about a nice nap?\"\n\n\"It's dark!\" the older boy shrieked. \"No nap!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" the father said, chuckling, \"you know they like to sleep with the lights on. We can't change their routine.\"\n\n\"Of course not, but . . .\" Mom shut up as the car's lights went on and the train began to pick up speed. The boys quieted.\n\n\"Where's Mr. Peterson?\" Renie muttered. \"We can't go to the caf\u00e9 until he takes our tickets.\"\n\n\"It could be a few minutes,\" Judith said, wincing slightly as one of the boys kicked the back of her seat. \"It's a fairly long train.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Renie sat back and continued staring into the darkness.\n\nThey were out of the tunnel and headed north along the Sound by the time Mr. Peterson showed up. Renie kept looking out the window while Judith handed over their tickets.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" the conductor said, leaning closer. \"I saw you speaking to the bearded man in the station. Do you know where he went? He's supposed to be in this coach.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"No. Maybe he's in the men's room.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Mr. Peterson moved on.\n\n\"Let's go,\" Renie said, standing up. \"I'm hungry.\"\n\nJudith led the way, moving cautiously down the aisle. They had to walk through another coach car before reaching the caf\u00e9. Fortunately, there were still adjacent stools at the counter. Judith ordered coffee and a bran muffin. Renie asked for hot chocolate and a doughnut.\n\n\"The kids went to sleep,\" Judith said. \"That helps.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"Why don't I check out the observation car? We could avoid the hooligans and get a better view. After the next stop, we'll be heading toward the pass.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Judith agreed. \"You've cheered up.\"\n\n\"Yeah, it's after ten,\" Renie said, before licking hot chocolate off her upper lip. \"I'm almost human.\"\n\n\"True.\" Judith surveyed the other caf\u00e9 patrons. \"Franz isn't here.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Franz Wessler, the man who sat by us in the station.\"\n\nRenie's shoulders slumped. \"Please. No mysteries this time, okay? Let's take a trip without homicides, disappearances, or near-death experiences. I'm not as young as I used to be. I've come off the bench for Joe instead of working on La Belle \u00c9poque's spring catalog.\"\n\n\"Stop griping,\" Judith said. \"We're only going to be in Little Bavaria for three full days. What could possibly happen?\"\n\nRenie turned to stare at her cousin, slowly shaking her head. Along with her artist's talent, she was a history buff. Thus, she knew history had a way of repeating itself\u2014especially for the cousins.\n\nThe journey up the western face of the mountains had been beautiful. Gold, orange, red, and brown foliage shone in the late-morning sun. As they climbed to the summit, only traces of old snow lay in the shade of the tall cedar, fir, and pine trees. They'd passed the green-tinged river, trickling waterfalls, and small towns clinging to the cliff sides. By the time they began the brief descent into Little Bavaria, they had returned to their seats.\n\nThe station wasn't more than a sleek blue canopy with a bench on the edge of town, but a bus was waiting to drive passengers to their destinations. Judith couldn't help but scan what looked like about forty people who had disembarked. To her relief, the family of four was walking in the opposite direction. She saw no sign of Franz Wessler, but decided not to mention the fact to Renie. Maybe a relative was meeting him.\n\n\"Gorgeous day over here,\" Renie said as they walked to the bus. \"It's always either warmer or colder on this side of the summit.\"\n\nJudith nodded. The mountains divided the state not only geographically, but in almost every other way. The western half was damp, cool, hilly, and much more heavily populated. To the east, the larger part of the state had a Midwestern air. Agriculture dominated, with wheat fields, orchards, and farms scattered over great stretches of almost flat land. Summers were hot; winters were cold. The western side was damp and rainy; the eastern part got far more snow. The very earth changed from dark brown to brick red where the Ice Age had carved out the arid land that had been spurned until great dams were built under President Roosevelt's New Deal.\n\nBut at the 1,100-foot level, Little Bavaria clung to the mountainside in alpine splendor, a fitting tribute to its namesake.\n\n\"Good,\" Renie murmured when they'd pulled onto the main street, \"they haven't spoiled it. I was afraid they might get too kitschy. This kind of Bavarian architecture is sufficiently elaborate in and of itself.\"\n\n\"Danke, Frau Jones,\" Judith said with a wry smile. \"Your artistic talent is showing. I must confess, every time I've been here, I actually feel as if we were back in Germany almost forty years ago.\"\n\n\"That's the point,\" her cousin said with a nod at the balconied buildings with their bright flags fluttering in the autumn breeze. \"Very smart of the locals to keep it simple. Where is Hanover Haus?\"\n\n\"It's in the middle of town on the right-hand side,\" Judith replied. \"When I told the driver where we were staying, he said it's the third stop.\"\n\nSeveral of the older visitors in costume got off at the first hostelry. The two younger couples with their quartet of teenagers made their exit next. By the time the bus reached Hanover Haus, a half-dozen other people disembarked with the cousins. Judith recognized two of the women as fellow innkeepers. She was about to greet them, but both suddenly seemed preoccupied with looking elsewhere. Judith shot Renie a quick glance. \"What's wrong with them? Did they snub me?\"\n\n\"Who are they?\" Renie asked in her normal tone.\n\nJudith made a face at her cousin. \"Keep it down, will you?\" She slowed her pace midway through the small lobby. \"Let's wait until everybody else checks in. In fact, let's go back outside.\"\n\n\"With our luggage?\" Renie retorted. \"We'll look like pathetic waifs.\"\n\n\"We'll shove them into that alcove,\" Judith said, indicating a recess by the entrance. \"I don't want to get off to a bad start running into people who believe what Ingrid Heffelman says about me being a ghoul.\"\n\nRenie cooperated. A moment later, they were outside. \"I spy a caf\u00e9,\" she said, pointing to the Gray Goose Beer House. \"Let's eat.\"\n\nJudith didn't argue. They walked two doors down and entered the pub. It was almost full, but several patrons were obviously leaving. After a brief wait, the cousins were seated at a table by the fireplace. Their server was a careworn blonde whose nametag identified her as HERTHA.\n\nJudith barely had a chance to glance at the menu, which was attached to a wooden plank. \"Which brat do you recommend?\"\n\n\"The special's duck,\" the server said in a jaded voice.\n\n\"Okay,\" Judith said. \"A kaiser roll and a small green salad, please.\"\n\nHertha turned to Renie, who was scowling. \"And you, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Ma'am would rather eat this menu plank than bratwurst,\" Renie declared. \"I've cooked so many of those things for my husband that\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey, brat,\" Judith interrupted, \"order something else.\"\n\nRenie's expression grew puckish. \"Why not? I'll have the pastrami on light rye. And I'll bet your name isn't really Hertha.\"\n\n\"Right,\" the server said wearily. \"It's Ruby. Does it matter?\"\n\nRenie grinned. \"No.\"\n\nRuby leaned closer. \"We use German names for the tourists.\"\n\n\"Dumb,\" Renie remarked\u2014but smiled.\n\nRuby trudged away. \"I don't think she likes her job,\" Judith said. \"I'm not sure I like mine if the other innkeepers give me the evil eye.\"\n\n\"You'll win them over,\" Renie said. \"Just don't find a corpse.\"\nChapter Two\n\nAfter getting their bags, the cousins noticed the lobby was empty except for a buzz-cut young man at the desk. His nametag read HANS. When he turned to get their keys, Renie murmured, \"Jake or Rick?\"\n\nJudith mouthed, \"Brad? Alex?\"\n\nRenie shrugged.\n\nTheir room was on the second\u2014and top\u2014floor, overlooking the main street. \"Not the best vantage point,\" Renie noted. \"The brochure says the rear balcony has a river and mountain view.\"\n\nJudith also moved to the window. \"We have a balcony, too.\"\n\n\"So? You want to gaze at the other tourists or the alpine scenery?\"\n\nJudith glanced at the gas fireplace. \"It'd be too cool during the evening to sit outside. It's pleasant now, though.\" She studied the brochure. \"There's a dozen rooms, plus a bridal suite. No vacancies, so with two to a room, that's twenty-six guests. How many are innkeepers?\"\n\n\"Is this a game? How many innkeepers does it take to fill a B&B? I give up. In fact, I don't care. You said there were only eight of you manning the booth,\" Renie said, flopping down on the queen-size bed.\n\n\"That's today's schedule,\" Judith replied, still gazing out the window, \"but it changes daily to give as many innkeepers as possible a chance to recruit guests. We got to choose our own lodging because we get only a small stipend. It is a self-promotional opportunity.\"\n\n\"How come your group has never asked me to design anything for them? That brochure sucks scissors.\"\n\nJudith turned around and leaned against the armoire between the windows. \"Do you really want to work with Ingrid Heffelman?\"\n\nRenie kicked off her shoes. \"Sure. I've faced off with worse clients than Inbred Heffalump. Think mayor, think governor, think\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop.\" Judith sat down in one of the room's two armchairs. \"We have to be at Wolfgang's Gast Haus at six, but first I have to attend a rally-round-the-booth meeting that I assume you'd hate.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't do that if you promised me a date with Hugh Laurie.\"\n\nJudith assumed a put-upon expression. \"I thought you might've changed your mind.\"\n\n\"About Hugh Laurie?\" Renie sat up. \"He's here?\"\n\n\"No, you idiot. I mean you'd be curious how innkeepers do business at the administrative level.\"\n\nRenie yawned. \"Sounds dumb.\"\n\n\"Okay, then I'll meet you at Wolfgang's,\" Judith said. \"It's two-thirty now, so I'm going to get ready. The meeting's at four.\"\n\n\"Two hours? Are you nuts?\"\n\nJudith avoided Renie's gaze. \"There are some presentations. And speakers. Maybe discussions. Statistics demonstrating the need to\u2014\"\n\nRenie had snatched up a pillow and put it over her head. \"Please! Be quiet! You think I don't get stuck with enough of that bilge in my own job? I'll see you at the bar.\"\n\nBy three-fifteen, Judith was walking the two blocks to Wolfgang's Gast Haus, where the meeting would he held. The cocktail party indicated informal attire, so she'd changed into black tailored slacks and a black sweater with two rows of tiny silver bars around the boatneck. Spotting the B&B association's booth, she saw one of the innkeepers she'd recognized at Hanover Haus. Judith hesitated. Eventually, she'd have to meet the woman. Now or later, she thought, and put on her friendliest smile. \"Hi,\" she said to the fortyish strawberry blonde. \"We've met. I'm\u2014\"\n\n\"Flynn,\" the woman interrupted, shaking Judith's hand without enthusiasm. \"You own the B&B on Heraldsgate Hill.\" She made the last word sound like some kind of hell.\n\n\"You,\" Judith said, keeping her smile in place, \"have two B&Bs, one in the Langford district and the other near the north city limits.\"\n\n\"Three,\" the woman replied. \"I recently bought out Hermione Wingate's Teal Lake B&B. She and Elrod retired to Taos, New Mexico.\"\n\nJudith wished the annoying woman was wearing a nametag. She tried to visualize who was in charge of the booth. Dinkle or Dunkle or Dumble . . . something like that. It suddenly came to her. Denkel, Eleanor Denkel. \"Is there anything I can do here now, Eleanor?\"\n\nEleanor looked at the clock tower across the street. \"It's three-twenty-six. You have enough time before the meeting to sweep the area around the booth. The broom is in the corner by the state maps.\"\n\nJudith tried to keep her expression pleasant, feeling a bit like Cinderella in her festive sweater. \"Okay. Ah . . . you are in charge of our booth, right?\"\n\n\"Indeed I am,\" Eleanor said. \"The Oktoberfest chairman is Herman Stromeyer. He'll speak to us at one of our meetings. As you probably know, the honorary chairman is one of Little Bavaria's longtime leading citizens.\" The merest hint of a smile tugged at Eleanor's thin lips. \"He's my dear grandfather, Dietrich Wessler.\"\n\nJudith didn't know. Before she could ask if Franz Wessler was related to Eleanor, the other woman pointed to the booth. \"Do you see your broom?\" she asked.\n\n\"My . . . ? Yes, thanks.\"\n\nJudith walked away, thinking that Eleanor should be wielding the broom. Or riding on it.\n\nThe meeting was as soporific as Renie had predicted. It was one of those occasions when Judith was grateful that she rarely had to leave Hillside Manor to conduct any part of her business. Midway through a tedious statistical recap of who, why, and when guests visited state B&Bs during an average year, Judith felt sorry for Renie, who often had to suffer through such sessions as a graphic designer.\n\nBy the time the drone fest concluded at 5:50, she was fighting the urge to nod off. Eleanor had the last word, which was \"Getr\u00e4nk!\" Judging from the applause, it had something to do with getting drunk. For once, that sounded like a good idea to Judith.\n\nThe travel packet stated that the cocktail party was for all the Oktoberfest exhibitors. A sign in the lobby pointed to the ballroom just down the hall from the registration desk. Not that Judith needed the information\u2014she merely followed the crowd.\n\nThe high-ceilinged room with its display of hunting horns, antlers, archery equipment, and paintings of the real Bavaria was filling up. Except for Eleanor Denkel, who was almost enveloped by a half-dozen people who seemed eager for her company, Judith didn't recognize anyone. She headed for the bar, hoping Renie would show up soon.\n\nThe bartender was a good-looking young man whose nametag ID'd him as Fritz. He poured Judith a hefty Scotch-rocks. \"Are you really Fritz?\" she asked.\n\nHe grinned. \"All the bartenders are Fritz.\" He gestured at his vis-\u00e0-vis, an older man with a shaved head. \"Him, too, but he's a genuine Fritz. The waitresses are Heidi or Hertha. Saves on printing\u2014and remembering names.\"\n\nJudith glanced at Fritz II, who was serving what looked like rum and Coke to the other B&B owner she'd recognized at Hanover Haus. \"Thanks, Fritz.\" She turned away just as a wave of excitement erupted by the main door. \"What's going on?\" she asked over her shoulder.\n\nFritz had started to serve a goateed man in lederhosen. \"The Great White Vater,\" he said. \"Dietrich Wessler.\"\n\nJudith moved closer, but could see only a thatch of silver hair. Most of his admirers were speaking German. A hearty guffaw and a rumbling bass quieted the crowd. She assumed the speaker was the Oktoberfest honorary chairman\u2014and Eleanor Denkel's grandfather.\n\n\"My, my!\" a female voice cried softly. \"Can you believe his age?\"\n\nJudith realized that the fair-haired speaker was the other innkeeper she'd recognized earlier. \"I can't believe it until I see him.\"\n\n\"He's ninety-six,\" the woman said, straining to stand on tiptoes for a better vantage point. \"You're tall, Judith. Can you see his face?\"\n\n\"Only his hair,\" Judith said, unable to recall the woman's name.\n\n\"It's all his own,\" she said, turning so Judith saw her nametag: CONSTANCE BEAULIEU, as in BEW-ly, who owned a B&B across the Sound.\n\n\"How are you, Connie?\" Judith inquired.\n\nConnie, a pretty, bouncy woman, smiled brightly. \"Just ducky-doodle. Isn't this a wonderful place for a cozy get-together?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith agreed, surprised at the other woman's friendly about-face. \"Lovely time of year, too.\"\n\nThe audience erupted into laughter. \"What did he say?\" Connie inquired. \"I don't speak German.\"\n\n\"Nor do I,\" Judith admitted. \"You're staying at Hanover Haus?\"\n\nConnie nodded. \"Charming, isn't it? Very European. Very old world. Very authentic.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" a third voice said, \"because it's actually a room as opposed to a meat locker?\"\n\nJudith gave a start. \"Oh! Connie, this is my cousin Serena Jones. Connie's an innkeeper, too.\"\n\n\"No kidding,\" Renie said, holding on to her cocktail glass with both hands. \"Hi, Connie. Call me Renie. Who's the old fart doing the stand-up routine? Looks like he's too old to stand up, let alone do a routine.\"\n\nJudith turned just enough so that Connie couldn't see her face and shot Renie a warning glance. \"That's the festival's honorary chairman, Dietrich Wessler.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"No kidding. How come he's not funny?\"\n\n\"How would you know? You don't speak German.\"\n\n\"So what?\" Renie's face turned droll. \"How many German comedians can you tick off on your fingers?\"\n\n\"Coz . . . Hey, how could you see him? You're short.\"\n\n\"My mascara fell out of my purse and rolled into the audience,\" Renie explained. \"I had to crawl between all those Germans. It was like the Redwood Forest. Those legs! Those thighs! That lederhosen! Mein Gott!\" She grinned. \"How's that for German?\"\n\nFortunately, Connie Beaulieu had moved on, perhaps to get a better look at Herr Wessler. \"Please,\" Judith begged, \"try not to embarrass me while we're here. This is my job, my living, my career.\"\n\n\"I thought that Connie person was someone you wanted to avoid,\" Renie said, looking puzzled. \"I was rescuing you.\"\n\n\"She was fine,\" Judith declared. \"Kind of silly, but pleasant. Maybe it was because she was with Eleanor Denkel, who was not.\"\n\n\"Not what? Not Eleanor Denkel? Who was she instead? Is this another game?\"\n\nJudith heaved a heavy sigh. \"Coz . . . I think I need a refill.\"\n\n\"Why not? Herr Gasbag is still going at it. The crowd's eating it up. Speaking of eating, where are the hors d'oeuvres?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Judith said, moving back toward the bar. \"Probably on the other side of the room. I can't see beyond Wessler's admirers.\"\n\nWhat she could see was Franz Wessler, moving away from the bar with a cocktail glass in hand. He espied the cousins and smiled.\n\nJudith felt an odd sense of relief. \"Mr. Wessler,\" she said, smiling. \"I thought we lost you along the way.\"\n\n\"Please\u2014call me Franz.\" He smiled at both cousins. \"I don't believe I've formally met your . . . cousin, correct?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith introduced Renie, who behaved with proper aplomb.\n\n\"Charmed,\" Franz declared, flashing the gold eyetooth. \"Have you met my father? As usual, he has drawn all eyes\u2014and ears\u2014to himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course,\" Judith said. \"Then you are . . . Eleanor Denkel's . . . ?\" Uncertain of the relationship, she let the question dangle.\n\n\"Uncle,\" Franz replied. \"Her father and I were brothers. Alas, he passed away some years ago. I have not seen Eleanor since . . . I am not certain how long. You are also an innkeeper?\"\n\n\"Uh\u2014that's right,\" Judith said, momentarily diverted by the entrance of an oompah band. \"I know her only slightly.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Franz looked beyond the cousins. \"I must pay homage to Vater. We have only had the briefest of conversations since I arrived.\"\n\n\"I thought we'd lost you on the train,\" Judith said. \"The conductor couldn't find you when he collected our tickets.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" Franz frowned. \"He did not look very hard. Excuse me. I mustn't let Vater tire himself before we dine.\"\n\nRenie jabbed Judith's arm. \"Don't,\" she said, raising her voice to be heard as the band began to play.\n\n\"Don't what?\" Judith said, moving briskly to the bar.\n\nRenie scooted along to keep up. \"Wonder if Franz was lying or being evasive. Worse yet, don't speculate that he strangled Mr. Peterson and threw him off the train from a trestle in the mountains.\"\n\n\"I won't,\" Judith said testily, though similar thoughts had flashed through her mind. \"He was probably in the restroom.\"\n\nThey reached the bar. Judith didn't have to ask for her refill. Fritz I remembered she was Scotch-rocks. \"You're a good bartender,\" she said. \"When my first husband owned a restaurant, I often worked the bar and it isn't easy remembering what strangers drink.\" Especially with the Meat & Mingle's tawdry clientele, who couldn't remember either, and would have been satisfied if I'd served them Liquid-Plumr.\n\n\"It's a knack,\" Fritz I said. \"How's CC and 7UP doing?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Renie said, holding up her half-full glass. \"Where's the food? I'm starving.\"\n\nFritz's words were drowned out by some very loud oompah. He grinned helplessly, then waved a hand toward his right and pointed straight ahead. Judith nodded and accepted her refill. Luckily, the band was playing on the opposite side of the room.\n\n\"Holy cats,\" Judith said as they hurried away, \"that's really loud.\"\n\n\"It's sure a lot of oompah,\" Renie agreed.\n\nA couple was dishing various appetizers onto sturdy paper plates. Judith did a double take, recognizing the blond woman in the tight pink sweater as Hertha\u2014or Ruby\u2014from the beer house. \"You're serving yourself,\" she said, moving alongside their lunch waitress. \"Are you Ruby for the rest of the evening?\"\n\n\"Oh\u2014it's you,\" the faux blonde said with mild interest. \"Yeah, I worked the early shift.\" She used her free hand to grab her companion's arm. \"Hey, Burt, this is . . . I don't know your names,\" she admitted.\n\n\"I'm Judith, this is my cousin Renie.\" She shook Burt's hand. \"Do you live here, too?\"\n\n\"No,\" he replied, ducking his balding head with its fringe of curly brown hair. \"I'm a blogger.\"\n\nJudith cupped her ear. \"Do you log in this area?\"\n\nBurt looked puzzled. \"Huh?\"\n\nRenie set down her drink and pantomimed chopping a tree\u2014or striking out at home plate. \"You know\u2014axes,\" she clarified.\n\nRuby smirked. \"Burt's a blogger.\"\n\n\"That's . . . nice,\" Judith said. \"Any particular kind of blog?\"\n\n\"Political,\" Burt replied, all but shouting to be heard over the band. \"You realize human beings are regressing, don't you?\"\n\nJudith stared at him just long enough to feel embarrassed. \"Well\u2014isn't that social commentary? I mean, it's\u2014\"\n\nBut Burt was shaking his head. \"No, no, no. It's why the world is in such a mess. Politically. Especially this country. We know too much, but we don't think. Our brains are atrophying.\"\n\nThe tuba player blasted out a couple of notes that made Judith wince. Some of the guests were dancing as they melted away from where Dietrich Wessler had held court. \"Yes,\" Judith practically yelled, \"glad you won a trophy. Downhill or cross-country?\"\n\nBurt cupped his ear. \"What? This country makes you cross? Downhill is right. A slippery slope of sloppy stupidity.\"\n\nThe hissing sibilant sounds sprayed Judith, forcing her to back away and bump Renie's arm. \"Hey,\" her cousin yelled, \"watch it!\"\n\n\"Let's get out of here,\" Judith said through gritted teeth.\n\nRenie speared a chunk of pickled herring. \"Sure.\"\n\nAt least Judith thought that was what her cousin had said. But when she turned around to gaze at the dancers hopping, bopping, and practically jumping out of their dirndls and lederhosen, she had no idea how they could brave such a mass of frenzied Teutonic flesh.\n\n\"This is worse than trying to get through Nordquist's annual sale,\" Renie shouted. \"Where did Ruby and Burt go?\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" Judith yelled back. \"Who cares?\"\n\nJudith's ears were ringing. Many of the dancers were her own age, some much older. She was amazed at their vigor, but appalled at her own reaction. The frenetic participants became a blur, but a long minute passed before the music came to a cacophonous halt. Judith's body sagged. The dancers broke ranks amid much panting and laughter.\n\n\"Where will we go?\" Renie asked Judith in a normal voice. \"Won't your B&B colleagues report you to Inbred Heffalump as a deserter?\"\n\n\"At this point,\" Judith declared, her face set, \"my ears are ringing so much that all I need to make me really nuts is\u2014\"\n\nA piercing scream came from the middle of the room, where Eleanor Denkel was swaying and clutching at her breast. The sudden silence was almost as deafening as the oompah band. Then, like viewing a slow-motion pantomime, the cousins watched the dancers moving lead-footedly toward Eleanor. The circle around her began to close\u2014but not before Judith glimpsed Dietrich Wessler lying on the floor with a pool of blood creeping across the hardwood.\nChapter Three\n\nJudith grabbed Renie's arm. \"Drop everything,\" she whispered. \"We're really out of here!\"\n\n\"But . . .\" Renie's mouth was agape. \"How?\"\n\nThe crowd was focused on Eleanor\u2014and what Judith could only guess was the corpse of Dietrich Wessler.\n\n\"There's a door behind the bar,\" she said, moving as fast as she could manage. \"I'm not sticking around for this one.\"\n\nThe bar was deserted. Apparently the Fritzes had joined the rest of the stunned onlookers. Judith barely heard the muffled screams, curses, and agitated buzz from the big room as she set her glass on a stool. \"Lose the appetizers,\" she murmured to Renie, moving behind the bar. To her relief, the door was unlocked. It opened onto an area filled with cartons of liquor, mixers, produce, and other edibles. A large shelf holding dinnerware was on their left, a stack of chairs was on their right. Slowing at the next door, Judith opened it cautiously. A short hall led to double doors she thought might be the kitchen.\n\n\"Damn,\" she swore under her breath. \"We're trapped.\"\n\nRenie was still holding her plate of hors d'oeuvres. \"Why don't we stay here until they move the stiff? We've got food.\"\n\nJudith gave Renie an exasperated look. \"That's the dopiest . . . wait. Can you fake illness?\"\n\n\"Sure. What kind? I need symptoms.\"\n\n\"Food poisoning\u2014allergies. Your peanut reaction. Look puny.\"\n\n\"I'll have to hold my breath.\"\n\n\"Whatever.\" Judith was at the double doors. \"I go first. We'll make this quick. Don't fake your own death.\"\n\n\"Looks like Herr Wessler didn't have to fake his,\" Renie said, trudging after her cousin. \"Seemed real to me.\"\n\nApparently the disastrous news hadn't yet reached the kitchen. The hired help was busy with dinner preparations. Judith looked around for anyone who might be in charge. At last she spotted a man in a chef's toque berating a line cook over some slices of veal.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" she called. \"Are you Chef . . . Brfle?\" She had no idea what the burly man's name was. \"Help us, please.\"\n\n\"What?\" he barked, wiping his hands on a towel.\n\n\"My cousin has a severe peanut allergy. She thinks there may be peanuts in the food. Is that possible?\"\n\nThe chef scowled. \"How can I tell? She looted the place!\"\n\nJudith tried not to waver as she heard distant sirens. \"Either you have peanuts or peanut oil in the appetizers or you don't. Which is it?\"\n\nThe chef glanced at Renie, who was leaning against a shelf, panting slightly and blinking rapidly. \"No,\" he said emphatically. \"No such ingredients used for the cocktail party. Please leave. We're busy.\"\n\n\"How do we get out?\" Judith asked. \"My cousin needs fresh air.\"\n\nThe chef jerked his thumb over his shoulder. \"That way. It leads to the garbage. Fresh air is down toward the river.\" He turned back to the line cook, who was cowering over his veal.\n\nJudith had to lean against the heavy outer door to open it. Garbage stench or not, she took a deep breath as the door closed behind them. \"Nice job, coz,\" she said as Renie reluctantly put her appetizer plate's leavings in a Dumpster. \"How do we get back to Hanover Haus? Except for the light by the door, it's pitch-dark\u2014and cold.\"\n\n\"We could walk around the building,\" Renie suggested. \"It sounds as if the EMTs have arrived. Maybe they could give us a ride.\"\n\n\"Not funny,\" Judith murmured. \"Do you have a flashlight?\"\n\n\"Yes, on my key chain. Bill bought it for me,\" Renie went on, searching in her suede shoulder bag, \"so I could see to start the car and not put the key in the glove compartment instead of the ignition. I'll go first so if you fall, you can\u2014\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Judith said impatiently. \"Move before the cops show up.\"\n\n\"There's a path,\" Renie said uncertainly, heading down the slope that led to the river, \"but I don't think it takes us back to the main street. Damn! This light's so small I can't see more than three feet ahead.\"\n\nJudith paused for a moment. \"The hotel lights are above us now. Can you imagine what's going on inside?\"\n\n\"I sure can. Everybody's probably wondering where FASTO is.\"\n\n\"Oh, God!\" Judith cried. \"Don't mention that Web site. Why couldn't my so-called admirers have come up with an acronym besides Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders? I'm sick of people who can't read calling me FATSO.\"\n\n\"You're too self-conscious about your weight. You're tall, you can weigh . . . hold on. The trail veers off by a bench up ahead.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Judith looked up. \"The clouds are moving. Maybe we can see by the moon. That'd help,\" she added, carefully picking her way along the dirt path. \"They may look for us. We're witnesses.\"\n\n\"Stop thinking like a cop's wife,\" Renie said as they passed the wrought-iron bench and began climbing back up the hill. \"Hey\u2014I'll bet I know where this goes. I noticed a nice restaurant on my way to the hotel. We could have dinner.\"\n\nJudith started to protest but thought better of it. \"Yes, we could claim that we left before the disaster.\"\n\n\"Now you sound more like a perp.\" Renie stopped and let out a little yip. \"I see a ghost! Look, up there by the big rock.\"\n\nJudith edged closer. She saw the white spectral figure\u2014and a jack-o'-lantern. \"It's a Halloween decoration,\" she said in disgust. \"Did you miss the witches and black cats and pumpkins around town?\"\n\n\"Guess I was focused on all the Bavarian stuff,\" Renie replied. She moved on, looking up the riverbank. \"Wow\u2014lots of flashing lights over by the hotel. Looks just like the cul-de-sac in front of your B&B. You can't feel homesick here.\"\n\n\"Coz . . .\" Judith began, exasperated.\n\nRenie gestured at her cousin. \"Let's book. The moon's out. I see steps leading to wherever we're going.\"\n\nFeeling unusually weary, Judith kept a firm grasp on the handrail as they climbed a dozen stairs to level ground. They were in between two buildings divided by a paved walk. \"If we're where I think we are,\" she said, \"whatever's on our left isn't far from Hanover Haus. Is that where you saw the restaurant?\"\n\n\"Right, Mad Ludvig's. There's a picture of his ersatz medieval castle outside. Stay put. I'll make sure there's a rear entrance.\"\n\nRenie moved quickly away from where the path ended and onto a grassy patch close to the riverbank. Only a faint light from a coach-style lantern shone down as the moon was suddenly obscured by drifting clouds. Suddenly Judith heard her cousin let out a strangled cry before turning around and racing back to the top of the stairs.\n\n\"What now?\" she demanded in alarm.\n\n\"A bear is there!\" she gasped. \"Look!\"\n\nJudith could see only a dark form moving in back of the two-story building. Then the creature moved into the lantern's glow. \"It's somebody in a bear suit,\" Judith said in disgust. \"Have you ever seen a real bear walk upright like that?\"\n\nRenie let out a big breath. \"Damn! Scared by a bear that's not a bear. If I see any lions and tigers, don't let me panic. Whoa! That bear's got bigger teeth than I do.\"\n\nJudith caught only a glimpse of the bear-suited person, who had turned the corner and was ambling toward the front of the building. \"Those are tusks. It must be a boar, not a bear. I think the boar is one of the symbols of Bavaria.\"\n\n\"Bear, boar, body,\" Renie noted. \"Makes Halloween seem tame.\"\n\nJudith didn't argue. \"There must be a door by that lantern. Shall we go in the back way and pretend we're coming out of the restrooms? Unless the restrooms aren't in back.\"\n\nRenie had regained her aplomb. \"We'll say we got lost trying to find them,\" she said, leading the way. \"Let's hope this door is unlocked.\"\n\nLuck was with the cousins. The entry led into a short hallway with two doors, one marked FRAUS, the other, HERRS.\n\n\"Should be 'Hiss' and 'Herrs,' \" Renie murmured, moving toward what she hoped would be the dining room. Instead, it was the bar, which was crowded. The cousins exchanged perplexed glances. \"What should we fake now?\" Renie whispered.\n\n\"Indignation at waiting so long?\" Judith suggested after a pause. \"You do that sort of thing better than I do.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"Okay.\" She gestured discreetly at an arched doorway. \"Restaurant?\"\n\n\"Has to be,\" Judith murmured.\n\nAt a few minutes after seven, the dining area was jammed. Renie approached a petite waitress with blond braids wound around her head. \"How much longer?\" she asked in a cranky voice. \"We've been waiting for twenty minutes. Our reservation was for six-forty-five.\"\n\nThe waitress, whose nametag predictably identified her as HEIDI, blinked twice at Renie. \"We don't take reservations.\"\n\n\"What?\" Renie shrieked. \"I called this afternoon. I asked for a reservation at six-forty-five and . . . Hertha said that would be fine.\"\n\n\"Hertha's new,\" Heidi said. \"She must have made a mistake. You'll have to wait in line. There are four parties ahead of you, but you're the only pair. I can probably seat you in fifteen minutes.\"\n\nRenie sighed. \"Are you sure? We're starving.\"\n\nHeidi looked at an inglenook where two young people were holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. \"I hope so. Romeo and Juliet finished eating ten minutes ago. They should get a room. Meanwhile, I'll remind Hertha that we don't take reservations. Sorry for the confusion.\"\n\nJudith held up a hand. \"Don't bother Hertha. It's a natural mistake. Which one is she?\"\n\n\"Depends on which Hertha,\" Heidi said. \"We have four new hires for Oktoberfest.\" She moved away, responding to an older man's wave.\n\n\"Well?\" Renie said. \"Did I do all right with the lying?\"\n\n\"Too much,\" Judith said. \"You should've stopped after the part about calling this afternoon. Lying is an art. You never overdo it.\"\n\n\"You ought to know,\" Renie murmured. \"You're a champ.\"\n\n\"I don't really lie,\" Judith protested. \"I fib for worthy causes.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" Renie nudged her cousin. \"The lovers are going off to do what lovers always do. We're in luck.\"\n\nHeidi, however, was engaged in a serious conversation with a tall man in a forest-green Bavarian jacket. It was another five minutes before the vacant table was bussed and the waitress motioned to the cousins.\n\n\"Sorry about that,\" Heidi said, looking distressed. \"The manager just told me there was a terrible incident at Wolfgang's Gast Haus just a few minutes ago.\" She shook herself. \"Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned that. But it kind of upset me.\"\n\nJudith frowned. \"An incident? What was it? Food poisoning?\"\n\nHeidi gulped. \"No. Someone was stabbed.\" She looked around to make sure no one could overhear. \"The poor man's been the town's patron forever. A saint, some call him. Who'd do that to such a beloved old guy?\" Tears glistened in her eyes. \"Excuse me. I'm so upset.\" She jammed her hand into her dirndl's apron pockets and stumbled away.\n\n\"Not beloved by everybody,\" Renie murmured.\n\n\"Damn,\" Judith said. \"We should've stayed. Maybe I could help. Think how horrible Franz must feel\u2014and even that dink, Ellie Denkel.\"\n\n\"Too late now,\" Renie said airily. \"You made the right choice to get out of there. Think about Ingrid Heffelman. Think about Joe. Whatever you do, don't think about whodunit.\"\n\nBut of course Judith couldn't think of anything else.\n\nAfter both cousins had ordered the venison steak entr\u00e9e, Renie tried to steer Judith away from dwelling on the tragedy. She was, of course, doomed to failure.\n\n\"Stop, coz,\" Judith finally said after her cousin had tried to talk about Wagnerian opera. \"I'm not an opera fan, and even if I were, doesn't everybody always end up dead?\"\n\n\"Not in Meistersinger,\" Renie assured her. \"It's a comedy.\"\n\n\"You already told me there were no German comedians.\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Renie hedged. \"Meistersinger's not exactly falling-down funny, it's more . . . um . . . sort of . . . well . . . nobody dies.\"\n\n\"Unlike at the hotel,\" Judith pointed out grimly.\n\n\"You don't even know if the Grossvater is dead,\" Renie pointed out. \"Maybe he was only wounded.\"\n\n\"I know a corpse when I see one.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"You see what you want to see.\"\n\nFrowning, Judith realized that her cousin might be right. \"There was blood,\" she finally said. \"He's very old. Still, Franz told me his father was in good shape.\"\n\nHeidi, looking as if she'd regained her aplomb, came to ask if the cousins wanted dessert. Judith was uncertain; Renie wasn't.\n\n\"I'll have the Black Forest cherry torte,\" she said.\n\n\"Ohhh . . .\" Judith refocused on the menu. \"Apple strudel, please. Have you heard anything more about the incident at Wolfgang's?\"\n\n\"Not really,\" the waitress replied, looking worried. \"All we know is that our usual clientele isn't showing up. My manager thinks they might be people who were at the hotel when Herr Wessler was stabbed. The police may be questioning them.\"\n\nJudith ignored Renie's glare. \"Will Herr Wessler survive?\"\n\nHeidi shook her head. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You'd better bring our desserts,\" Judith said, trying to smile. \"Coz's disposition won't improve until she's gobbling your torte.\"\n\nSomehow the cousins finished their dessert, paid the bill, and left without alluding to what had happened at the hotel. Mainly that was because\u2014or at least Judith reasoned\u2014they didn't speak to each other until they were on their way to Hanover Haus.\n\n\"Go ahead,\" Renie said. \"Look back to check on the crime scene. You'll burst if you don't satisfy your curiosity.\"\n\nJudith's stubborn streak prevailed. \"No.\"\n\nWith a resigned sigh, Renie stopped and turned around. \"Hmm. I wouldn't have expected that.\"\n\nJudith didn't rise to the bait, but kept moving.\n\nRenie had to hurry to catch up with her cousin's longer strides. \"Wow! You don't see a guy hitting a cop with a trombone very often.\"\n\nJudith's strong profile was set in stone and her dark eyes were fixed on the inn's door. She didn't say a word. Once inside the lobby, she ignored the stout, older woman at the desk and headed straight for the stairs. Walking too much on pavement had depleted her physical resources. Neither cousin spoke until they were in their room,\n\n\"Okay,\" Judith finally said, \"I won't mention Wessler again. I have to be at the B&B booth by nine, so I'll set the alarm for seven-fifteen.\"\n\n\"Seven-fifteen?\" Renie shrieked. \"I haven't been up that early since I had to get drunk to make an early plane to London!\"\n\n\"Don't tell me about your fear of flying or your guzzling of Wild Turkey before a flight. You embarrassed Bill, Joe, me\u2014and yourself!\"\n\nRenie looked puzzled. \"I don't remember. Did we get to London?\"\n\n\"Oh, shut up!\" Judith threw her handbag on the bed. \"It's eight-thirty. Leave me in peace. It's been a long day.\"\n\n\"It sure has,\" Renie groused, heading for the bathroom. \"Hey,\" she yelled, \"there's no tub, only a shower. I hate showers. They scare me.\"\n\n\"Buy a fifth of Wild Turkey,\" Judith shot back. \"Just stop griping.\"\n\nRenie glowered at her cousin. \"I think I will. I saw a liquor store across the street.\" Whirling around, she opened the door\u2014and saw a tall, dark-skinned man in a police uniform.\n\nJudith saw him, too, and couldn't suppress a little gasp.\n\nThe officer removed his hat. \"Are you Judith Flynn?\"\n\n\"Never heard of her,\" Renie said. \"Excuse me, I'm going\u2014\"\n\n\"Answer the question.\"\n\n\"Never heard of her,\" she repeated.\n\nHe nodded at Judith. \"Is that Ms. Jones?\"\n\n\"Your guess is as good as mine,\" Renie muttered, forced to step aside as the officer entered the room.\n\n\"I'm Lieutenant Alex Hernandez,\" he said. \"Ms. Jones, Ms. Flynn, you're wanted for questioning in the death of Dietrich Wessler. Would you both please come with me?\"\nChapter Four\n\nThe cousins exchanged beleaguered glances. \"Okay,\" Judith said, picking up her purse and jacket. \"But we can't tell you anything. We left before anything happened.\"\n\n\"Too much oompah,\" Renie remarked.\n\n\"Oh?\" Hernandez said, arching his dark brows.\n\nJudith realized her slip of the tongue. \"We had dinner at Mad Ludvig's. Our waitress told us there'd been some kind of accident.\"\n\nThe officer made a gesture for the cousins to go out the door. \"Please. You can tell me all about it downtown.\"\n\nJudith reluctantly followed Hernandez, but Renie stopped on the threshold. \"Downtown? What downtown? Aren't we already there?\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" he said over his shoulder. \"I transferred here only a few months ago. I was a city cop for ten years. Come along, Ms. Flynn.\"\n\n\"I am coming,\" Judith retorted, already halfway down the stairs. \"I prefer 'Mrs.,' not 'Ms.' I like being married.\"\n\nHernandez ignored Judith's remark. \"Where's Ms. Flynn?\" He turned to see Renie still in doorway. \"Hey, move it. Do I need backup?\"\n\n\"I'll back up if you don't stop calling me Ms. Flynn,\" she snarled.\n\n\"Fine, Mrs. Flynn,\" he said, making a sharp motion with his hand. \"I guess you like being married, too.\"\n\n\"Sometimes,\" Renie said. \"But I like it better when you call me by the right\u2014\"\n\n\"Hey!\" Hernandez shouted. \"Do you want to get arrested for impeding justice, Mrs. Flynn?\"\n\nRenie crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway.\n\nThe officer took two steps toward Renie. \"I'm not kidding.\" He reached for his cell.\n\nPointing to Judith, who was at the bottom of the stairs, Renie gazed innocently at Hernandez. \"Why don't you ask her? For all I know, she might enjoy getting arrested instead of having her husband in jail. That episode made her fractious,\" she went on, alluding to the nerve-racking events of the past January.\n\n\"Coz,\" Judith yelled, \"cooperate! We can sort it out downtown. I mean, at headquarters.\"\n\nLooking mulish, Renie slammed the door behind her and stomped downstairs so fast that Hernandez had to lean against the balustrade to keep her from bumping into him.\n\nThe woman behind the desk stared at the trio marching out the door. \"Their credit cards better be good!\" she called after them.\n\n\"Up hers,\" Renie muttered as Hernandez opened the cruiser's rear door.\n\nThe cousins heard the locks click while the officer went around to the driver's side. \"Stick with Mrs. Flynn,\" Judith murmured.\n\n\"What?\" Renie said, aghast.\n\n\"Try it. He's already baffled. It might work for us.\"\n\nRenie had no chance to respond. Hernandez was behind the wheel, driving westward three blocks down the main street and turning right. The police station was on the next corner, discreetly tucked out of sight. The sturdy gray one-story building took up half the block and bore no resemblance to the rest of the local architecture.\n\n\"Gee,\" Renie said loudly, \"that looks like a jail. How do you say that in German?\"\n\n\"The Clink?\" Judith suggested.\n\n\"No,\" Renie said, \"that was a real English prison, and a very notorious one. I suppose in German it's der Klinker\u2014with a K, right, Lieutenant Fernandez?\"\n\n\"It's Hernandez,\" the officer snapped. \"I don't speak German.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Renie sounded uncommonly meek. \"Sorry. I have trouble with names. I get them mixed up sometimes.\"\n\nJudith elbowed Renie. \"Knock it off,\" she said under her breath.\n\nHernandez got out of the car, opened the rear door on Judith's side, and ushered the cousins into the police station. To Judith's surprise, the small reception area was vacant except for a fair-haired young woman behind the service counter. Various maps and flyers covered the walls, but the only local decor was the mounted head of an elk with enormous antlers and a wanted poster hanging around its neck.\n\n\"Call me a taxidermist,\" Renie whispered to Judith. \"I'll bet that thing with the horns on its head is the former police chief.\"\n\n\"Shut up,\" Judith said, barely moving her lips.\n\n\"Interrogation room,\" Hernandez said to the young woman, before speaking to the cousins. \"Follow me.\"\n\nThe room was small and spare with a window that Judith assumed had one-way glass since she couldn't see anything except dim reflections. There was a table with two chairs on each side, a small file cabinet, and another, much smaller table with a coffeepot on a hot plate.\n\n\"Would you like something to drink?\" Hernandez inquired, indicating that the cousins should sit down.\n\nJudith and Renie both declined. The officer sat down across from them, opened a laptop, and cleared his throat. \"We understand that you attended the cocktail party this evening at Wolfgang's Gast Haus. What time did you arrive?\"\n\n\"About six,\" the cousins answered in unison.\n\n\"Please,\" Hernandez said. \"One at a time. Mrs. Flynn?\"\n\nRenie made a face. \"Maybe it was six-oh-five. Or maybe six-oh-three. It might even have been\u2014\"\n\n\"Close enough,\" the officer interrupted before nodding at Judith. \"And you?\"\n\n\"Six.\"\n\nHernandez nodded in apparent approval. Perhaps deciding that Judith was prone to more succinct answers, he kept his dark eyes fixed on her. \"What did you do once you got to the party?\"\n\n\"I went to the bar and ordered a drink.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\nJudith gestured at Renie. \"She joined me. Then I recognized someone I knew\u2014vaguely\u2014so we chatted a bit.\"\n\nHernandez had an unsettlingly steady gaze and rarely blinked. \"You remained together?\"\n\n\"The three of us, yes.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\nJudith thought back to the sequence of events. It had been only three hours since the cocktail party had begun. Yet it seemed much longer. \"About the same time Dietrich Wessler entered the ballroom, we met some recent acquaintances. Many of the guests rushed to greet Mr. Wessler, but we merely watched.\"\n\n\"Did you know Wessler?\"\n\n\"Ah . . . no,\" Judith said, reluctant to mention the older man's son, Franz, by name. \"Someone told us who he was and how large a role he plays in this community.\"\n\n\"Did you meet him?\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"A large crowd had gathered around him and we were outsiders. Besides, I think he was speaking in German.\"\n\nHernandez finally made some notations on the laptop. \"What did you do next?\"\n\nJudith hesitated. \"The band started up. A couple of people tried to talk to us, but I couldn't hear over the music. My cousin and I went back to the bar.\"\n\nThe officer frowned. \"How long had you been at the cocktail party at that point?\"\n\nJudith glanced at Renie. \"Less than half an hour?\"\n\nHernandez frowned slightly. \"You already needed refills?\"\n\nRenie finally spoke up. \"She did, but I didn't. I already had mine. The drinks were free\u2014and stingy. I like lots of ice. There wasn't enough booze to make a newborn goofy. Not that I'd want to do that\u2014nobody likes a drunken baby rolling around in the crib and crying off-key.\"\n\n\"Certainly not.\" Hernandez looked even sterner as he turned back to Judith. \"Go on.\"\n\n\"We went to the appetizer table,\" Judith replied. \"The band had started to play and it was really loud. We couldn't hear ourselves think. A bunch of people were dancing. It was raucous and so noisy. Then,\" she went on, pointing to Renie, \"she got concerned about her allergies, so we went to the kitchen to ask the chef about nuts.\"\n\n\"Nuts?\" Hernandez seemed bemused.\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said. \"Peanuts mainly, which aren't actually nuts, but legumes. She has a life-threatening allergy to them. We spoke to the chef and he assured us they hadn't used peanuts or peanut oil. But not wanting to take chances, she threw her plate away outside of the kitchen and we left to have dinner at Mad Ludvig's. We'd just returned when you arrived at Hanover Haus.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Hernandez drummed his fingers on the table. \"So you weren't at the party when the tragedy occurred.\"\n\nJudith leaned forward. \"Can you tell us what happened? We only heard that it was something terrible and involved Mr. Wessler. Of course we heard sirens when we were going to the restaurant.\"\n\nThe officer's expression didn't change. \"Dietrich Wessler apparently died from a stab wound.\"\n\n\"That's awful!\" Judith cried. \"How could such a thing happen?\"\n\n\"That,\" Hernandez said, \"is what we'd like to know.\"\n\nJudith didn't dare look at Renie, nor did she utter another word. Her nerves were so taut that she had to fold her hands in her lap to stay calm. She wondered if the interrogation had concluded. If so, it seemed incomplete. Had the local police interviewed every person at the cocktail party? Of course they might have called in the county sheriff or even the state patrol. Judith estimated that there had been a hundred\u2014maybe more\u2014people in the ballroom, excluding the band and servers. The kitchen help, the front desk, the people in charge would all have to be questioned. Yet no one else seemed to be in the station except the young woman at the desk. Maybe there were prisoners in the cells. If so, who was guarding them? Most of all, why had she and Renie been brought to police headquarters? Couldn't Hernandez have asked his routine queries at Hanover Haus?\n\n\"Very well,\" he finally said, closing his laptop. \"That's it.\" Although he'd leaned back the chair, his eyes were still unwavering. \"Thank you. Do you need a ride back to your inn?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said, starting to get up, \"if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"By the way,\" the officer said quietly, \"which one of you is FASTO?\"\n\nJudith's jaw dropped. She had to lean on the table for support. \"I beg your pardon?\"\n\nHe pointed to Renie. \"It's not you, Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Flynn is tall. It says so on the Web site.\" He gazed at Judith. \"Well?\"\n\nJudith sat back down again. \"I'm FASTO. How did you know?\"\n\nA faint smile touched Hernandez's wide mouth. \"We do our homework, even here in Little Bavaria. Someone mentioned that one of the innkeepers had a knack for solving mysteries.\" He tapped the laptop. \"You weren't hard to find. Trying to dupe me was a waste of time.\"\n\n\"That Web site does not have my approval,\" Judith asserted. \"Some silly people got the notion that I'm an amateur detective. It's ridiculous. I've just been in the wrong place at the wrong time too often. Not to mention that my husband is a retired homicide detective. In fact, he's now a private investigator.\"\n\nHernandez leaned back in the chair. \"The wrong time? How many wrong times can there be in sixteen years? Shall I start with the fortune teller or just allude to your recent encounter with some big Paines?\"\n\nJudith held her head. \"Ohhh . . .\"\n\n\"Relax, coz,\" Renie said. \"I'll bet Inbred Heffalump ratted you out to those other B&B people. Doesn't she always?\"\n\n\"She thinks I'm a disgrace to the innkeeping profession,\" Judith blurted. \"You know what she's like.\"\n\nHernandez sat up straight. \"It's too bad you left early. It might've helped us if you'd seen something. You're obviously a keen observer.\"\n\nJudith's conscience got the better of her. \"Okay, so we didn't leave before it happened. But I truly didn't see anything that would help. In fact, that's why we left. I didn't want to get mixed up in another murder case. I'm beginning to feel hexed.\"\n\n\"Beginning to?\" Hernandez said mildly. \"I'd think you might've felt that way after you found a body in your British Columbia hotel elevator.\"\n\n\"Don't rub it in,\" Judith warned.\n\n\"So what did you see?\" Hernandez asked.\n\nJudith took a big breath. \"Probably what everybody else did from the same angle. The music and the dancers stopped. The crowd sort of melted away from the middle of the ballroom. And there was poor Mr. Wessler lying on the floor. I didn't see a knife. At least I don't remember it. But I did see some blood. That's when my cousin and I took off.\"\n\nHernandez inclined his head. \"How about before it happened?\"\n\n\"Nothing, just what I told you earlier. No strange behavior on anybody's part, nothing suspicious. Just a typical cocktail get-together except for the enthusiastic dancing and the loud oompah band.\" She turned to Renie. \"Am I missing something?\"\n\n\"No. I never got a really good look at Wessler until I saw him lying on the floor. That was after I got off the floor.\"\n\nHernandez raised an eyebrow. \"You were on the floor? You were dancing?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"I can't dance worth a hoot. Very disappointing for my husband. My experience on the floor involved my eyelashes. Don't get me wrong, my lashes are real, but I dropped\u2014\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Hernandez interrupted. \"So far no one else has given us much help either.\"\n\n\"How long was the knife?\" Judith asked.\n\nHernandez held his hands apart. \"The blade was no more than three and a half inches.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Yes, that makes sense.\" She paused. \"I suppose that was how it was planned.\"\n\nHernandez frowned. \"Beg your pardon?\"\n\nJudith grimaced. \"Is this an official homicide?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"We won't make it official until after the autopsy. But I don't see how it could've been an accident.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"If it was murder, it was premeditated. In that crowd, with all those bodies so close together in constant motion and the noise such a distraction, who'd notice a small weapon like a steak knife? Was Mr. Wessler dancing? I didn't actually see him in the blur.\"\n\n\"Yes. He's a very vigorous old man. Was, I mean.\" Hernandez looked chagrined. \"That's the strange part. He seemed to have been loved by everybody around here.\"\n\nSadly, Judith shook her head. \"No, not quite everybody. Unless,\" she added, \"someone loved him to death.\"\nChapter Five\n\nTo her dismay\u2014but not to her surprise\u2014Lieutenant Hernandez insisted that Judith keep in touch.\n\n\"I realize you couldn't see much under the circumstances,\" he allowed, after stopping the squad car in front of Hanover Haus, \"but judging from your history, you have an uncanny way of getting people to open up. You're also very impressionable\u2014in the literal meaning of the word. It's possible that something you saw or heard this evening may come back to you. Chief Duomo would like to have you drop by tomorrow morning. He's very impressed with your credentials.\"\n\n\"Then he's easily impressed, especially about me being so impressionable,\" Judith said glumly. \"Or something like that. Okay, but it'll have to be after eleven. I'm working the B&B booth until then.\"\n\n\"That's fine,\" Hernandez said. \"I'll let him know. Thanks again. And,\" he added as Judith started to get out of the car, \"be careful.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, \"coz is always careful. Nobody's tried to kill her for almost ten months.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" the officer murmured. \"So I understand.\" He saluted before pulling out onto the street.\n\n\"Damn!\" Judith cried. \"What happened after I fingered the killer last January was never on the FASTO Web site because Joe and Woody wouldn't allow the full story to reach the media. How do these cops know about it?\"\n\n\"Because they're cops?\" Renie said, opening the door to the inn. \"It's the Blue Network. Word gets out.\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"You're right. Let's just hope none of this current disaster gets back over the mountains to Joe.\"\n\nThe woman behind the desk looked up. \"You're back,\" she said, sounding disappointed.\n\n\"They let us out on bail,\" Renie said. \"If any of our customers show up, send them to the right room. You might want to pat them down first to make sure they brought cash.\"\n\nIgnoring the woman's startled face, the cousins went upstairs.\n\n\"Why,\" Judith asked as they entered their room, \"do you have to make things worse?\"\n\nRenie looked innocent. \"Like how? Hey,\" she went on, shifting gears, \"maybe we should stick with the charade that I'm you?\"\n\nJudith removed her jacket. \"What for? The cops know who's who.\"\n\n\"But what about everybody else?\" Renie countered. \"I don't mean we'd switch places, but we could pretend I'm taking over the sleuthing and let you off the hook with your B&B detractors. You investigate and I take credit. Then Inbred Heffalump can stick it in her mail slot.\"\n\nJudith started to scoff, but paused. \"Could we carry it off?\"\n\n\"What's to carry? The burden is light, the reward is heavy. For you, I mean.\"\n\n\"What if I don't want to sleuth?\"\n\nRenie's expression was reproachful. \"Coz . . .\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"Let me sleep on it.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\nHalf an hour later, the cousins were in bed. Each had brought a book for late-night reading. Not long after ten-thirty, Judith felt drowsy. \"I'm turning out the lamp on my side. Okay?\"\n\n\"I want to finish this chapter,\" Renie said. \"I've only got three pages to go. Do you know who Bill James rates as the greatest second baseman of all time?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith admitted, switching off her light. \"Who?\"\n\n\"Joe Morgan,\" Renie replied. \"He gets my vote, too.\"\n\n\"Lucky Joe. G'night.\"\n\nA couple of minutes later, Renie shut her book, turned off the other lamp, and settled down. Judith had closed her eyes, trying to erase the image of Dietrich Wessler on the ballroom floor. She'd almost succeeded when a chomping noise disturbed her.\n\n\"Damnit,\" Judith said, lifting her head, \"are you chewing gum?\"\n\n\"You know I chew Big Red before I go to sleep,\" Renie replied.\n\n\"I'd forgotten,\" Judith said. \"Can you stop?\"\n\n\"Not until I've had at least four sticks.\"\n\n\"How does Bill stand it?\"\n\n\"He wears earplugs,\" Renie said, smacking and snapping away.\n\n\"Why did you ever start that?\"\n\n\"I like Big Red,\" her cousin replied. \"It's soothing, and only a problem if it gets on me when I go to sleep while I'm still chewing.\"\n\n\"It's disgusting,\" Judith declared. \"Please try to chew quietly.\"\n\n\"Can't,\" Renie said. \"I've got big teeth. All the better to chew with. Done with Stick Number One.\"\n\n\"Oh, God!\" Judith wailed into the pillow.\n\n\"Hey\u2014if God hadn't wanted me to chew gum in bed, he wouldn't have\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop! At least shut up.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\nBut the chomping continued, sounding like Clydesdale horses slogging down a muddy road. Judith pulled the covers over her ears in an effort to lessen the irritating noise. After almost five minutes, Renie apparently finished the final stick and rolled over onto her side. Judith expelled a big sigh, but was wide-awake. Trying to get into a drowsy state, she chose to think of something pleasant\u2014like Renie lying in the parking lot under an enormous wad of Big Red gum.\n\nWhen the alarm went off the next morning, it was Renie's turn to gripe. By the time Judith emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, her cousin had gone back to sleep. Breakfast was served beginning at seven-forty-five. Judith stopped at the front desk to ask the young man called Hans how to get to the dining room. He informed her it was through the hall at the other end of the desk. The cuckoo clock on the far wall sounded the quarter hour as Judith moved on.\n\nA half-dozen guests had already gathered around the table that was set for twelve. Judith nodded pleasantly, if vaguely, before going to the trestle table by the wall, where she selected a bran muffin, fresh fruit, and a sausage patty. After pouring a cup of coffee, she wondered how Renie would react to the meager offerings, compared to the more lavish breakfasts Judith provided at Hillside Manor. Thankful she wouldn't be around to find out, Judith sought a place at the main table. The only person she recognized was Constance Beaulieu, who was sitting next to a thin-faced man with a handlebar mustache. A swift glance revealed that they were wearing matching wedding rings.\n\n\"Good morning, Connie,\" Judith said pleasantly, sitting down next to the man she assumed was Mr. Beaulieu.\n\n\"Oh, Judith!\" Connie gasped, a hand at her breast. \"Isn't it just awful about Mr. Wessler? Did you see all that blood? I almost fainted!\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Just enough so that we\u2014my cousin and I\u2014left. Does anybody know what happened?\"\n\nThe supposed Mr. Beaulieu laughed hoarsely. \"If anybody does, they aren't telling us.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Connie said, her hand moving to the man's arm. \"This is my better half, George.\" She beamed at him. \"I told you about Judith Flynn, darling. Now you can see for yourself.\"\n\nSee what? Judith thought and couldn't help but frown when George leaned slightly closer. \"Yes,\" he murmured, his mustache twitching a bit. \"It's those dark eyes. Gypsy eyes. They reflect. Both outwardly and inwardly.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\" Judith said, trying to smile. \"I'm not a Gypsy. That is, I've nothing against Gypsies, I just\u2014\"\n\n\"No, no,\" George said, lifting a hand in protest. \"The quality of looking deeply to see things others don't. FASTO is clearly a corruption of Fausto. Feast of Fools, eh?\" He chuckled richly.\n\nBefore Judith could say anything, Eleanor Denkel entered the dining room with a small, balding man trailing behind her like a pull toy. In fact, his long ears and drooping eyelids made him look like a bloodhound.\n\n\"Judith!\" Eleanor exclaimed. \"Who killed Grossvater?\"\n\n\"I've no idea,\" Judith said, surprised.\n\n\"But if you don't know,\" Eleanor said crossly, \"who does?\"\n\nJudith tried not to show her exasperation. \"I'm not a wizard. Besides, my cousin and I left right after it happened.\"\n\n\"But,\" Eleanor protested, \"you're FATSO!\"\n\nA sharp riposte almost shot out of Judith's mouth, but she squelched it in time. \"Actually,\" she said calmly, \"I'm not. That Web site is all a mistake. It's a cover-up for my cousin Serena. She doesn't like to be pestered by her admirers.\"\n\nEleanor gaped at Judith. \"No! But Ingrid told us . . .\"\n\nJudith waved her hand. \"Of course Ingrid would say I'm FASTO. I insist she does that. But if you study the Web site, you'll see that in every homicide case, my cousin is there in the background. And that's where she'll stay. Even now, she's on the case.\" The pillowcase, Judith thought to herself. Not exactly a bald-faced lie. . .\n\n\"But,\" Connie said, \"why are you telling us this now?\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"Everyone at this table is an innkeeper or associated with an innkeeper, right?\" She paused to take in the nods and murmurs of agreement. \"We have a bond,\" Judith went on, \"so I can be candid. Besides, you know how Ingrid often chides me for being a sleuth. It's merely a ruse to cover for my cousin. We're all in the same business, so you should know I'd never be able to do such a thing.\" She forced a laugh. \"How could an innkeeper have spare time to play detective?\"\n\nMore nods and hushed agreement ensued. Judith turned back to Eleanor. \"I'm afraid I haven't been introduced,\" she said, motioning at the little man half hidden by Eleanor's solid figure.\n\n\"Oh,\" Eleanor said, grabbing the man's hand and yanking him forward. \"This is Delmar, my husband. Delmar, this is\u2014\"\n\n\"So I gathered,\" Delmar said, limply shaking Judith's hand. \"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fatso. I mean, Mrs. Flynn. I've heard about you from Ellie.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said, her smile frozen in place. \"And some of it\u2014alas\u2014is untrue. But now we all have a little secret.\"\n\n\"That is exciting,\" Connie burbled. \"I just love secrets.\"\n\nThe Denkels had moved over to the trestle table to select their breakfast. Judith buttered her muffin and couldn't help but wonder if she'd dug herself a very deep hole. She suddenly shivered\u2014and wondered if the hole might be her own grave.\n\nThe conversation turned to Wessler's murder. Apparently the other innkeepers had already offered condolences to Ellie on her loss, perhaps the previous evening. Judith thought Ellie seemed remarkably composed. After a few desultory remarks about the horror of it all, Judith leaned toward the Denkels, who had sat down across from her.\n\n\"I met your uncle Franz at the train station back home,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh?\" Ellie's expression was taut. \"Until last night, I hadn't seen him in years.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"He mentioned that he hadn't been here for some time. Was he terribly upset about his father's death?\"\n\nEllie glanced at Delmar. \"Could you tell how Onkel Franz reacted?\"\n\nDelmar, who was gnawing on a hard roll, shook his head.\n\n\"My uncle doesn't show his feelings,\" Ellie said. \"He's a stoic.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith said, exercising one of her tactics for getting people to open up, \"that serves him well in his work.\"\n\nEllie frowned. \"I've never considered that. But he does have to distance himself from it. Emotionally, I mean.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Perspective\u2014that's so important in his field of expertise. Keeping his distance.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" Delmar put in. \"And his eye\u2014a genuine camera.\"\n\n\"Not to mention his nose,\" Ellie added.\n\nJudith nodded again. What does Franz do? she wondered. A photographer? An architect? A garbage collector? Maybe his job wasn't important in terms of what had had happened to his father. But once Judith's curiosity was aroused, it had to be satisfied. Thus, she soldiered on. \"Is Los Angeles really the best place for him these days?\"\n\nEllie grew thoughtful. \"Yes,\" she said after a long pause, \"I suppose it is. Naturally, he travels a great deal.\" She grimaced. \"Not to our part of the world, though.\"\n\nConnie giggled. \"Oh, Ellie, don't be so hard on your uncle. He was ever so charming last night\u2014or was before your grandfather got stabbed. He was telling me about his latest documentary.\"\n\nThank you, Connie, Judith thought. \"What,\" she inquired, \"is this one about?\"\n\nEllie looked sour. \"Some African children's disease. Dreadful thing. I'll never watch it. In color, too. Disgusting symptoms, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"But,\" George Beaulieu said, leaning past his wife, \"hasn't your uncle's humanitarianism won him several awards?\"\n\nEllie shrugged. \"Probably. He seldom writes or calls. I suppose he's too busy saving lives and doing good.\"\n\nJudith glanced in the direction of the rest of the people who were eating their breakfast at the other end of the table. They were involved in their own conversation. She wondered if, being innkeepers or spouses or somehow connected, they were discussing Dietrich Wessler's murder. While Franz's documentary films sounded worthwhile, they didn't seem to have much to do with why his father had been killed.\n\nIndeed, Delmar Denkel was now talking about a recent movie he'd seen on TV that he'd found offensive. It seemed he'd been so offended that he could hardly wait for it to end over two hours later. Judith wondered if he'd lost the remote. She finished eating and took a last sip of coffee. With a smile and a nod, she excused herself. It was eight-thirty\u2014time for her to start heading to the B&B booth.\n\nTo her surprise, a voice called out to her just as she reached the main street. \"Mrs. Flynn! Wait up!\"\n\nAn auburn-haired young man Judith had noticed at the end of the table hurried to catch up with her. \"I'm Gabe Hunter,\" he said. \"I own a B&B across the Sound on the Kingfish Peninsula. My folks ran it until they retired. You may know them\u2014John and Mary Lou Hunter.\"\n\n\"Yes, I met them once at a state meeting. They were fun people.\"\n\n\"They still are,\" Gabe said as they headed for the booth. \"I'm on duty with you this morning. What did you think about the corpse crashing the party last night? I mean, so to speak.\"\n\n\"It was horrible,\" Judith replied, wondering if Gabe was pumping her or just making conversation. \"My cousin and I took off. What happened after that?\"\n\nGabe grimaced. \"I was by the main entrance. I got there late because I stopped in the city to do some shopping. Traffic was horrendous\u2014it took three hours to drive from downtown.\"\n\nGabe paused while he and Judith made way for a couple with a toddler in a stroller who was waving a blue-and-white-checkered flag with a crest bearing the words FREESTAAT BAYERN.\n\n\"Anyway,\" Gabe continued, \"I checked into Hanover Haus and headed to Wolfgang's. I was getting into the mood of the place. Between the strolling musicians, the two-footed animals, the jugglers, the horse-drawn wagons, and the Bavarian architecture, I was in kind of a daze.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith agreed. \"The town has great charm.\"\n\nGabe nodded. \"Anyway, when I got to Wolfgang's, the dancers were blocking my way into the ballroom, so I waited for the band to finish. When it did, I headed to the bar, but it suddenly got so quiet\u2014eerie, really. Then I saw that old guy on the floor.\" He shook his head. \"I thought it was a Halloween prank\u2014or the start of a mystery game. People began screaming, but I still didn't get it. I found the bar, but nobody was serving. When I heard sirens, I knew the panic was genuine. End of bad joke, start of grim reality.\"\n\nThey'd arrived at the booth. Judith studied Gabe. He was average height with pale blue eyes and a fading suntan. His engaging manner compensated for unremarkable features. \"Did someone take charge?\" she asked as they entered the booth.\n\nGabe looked puzzled. \"You mean one of the guests?\"\n\n\"The victim's son and granddaughter were there. I wondered if they took over. Someone obviously called the police and the EMTs.\"\n\n\"Oh. I see what you mean,\" Gabe said. \"It was pandemonium. Anyone could've called 911. Everybody's got a cell.\"\n\n\"True.\" Judith paused to get her bearings. The morning was overcast, but would probably clear later in the day. Even now she could see the mist slowly rising up the mountains that all but encircled the town. Her gaze shifted to the neighboring booths. A sporting-goods store was on her left, a Bavarian meat vendor on her right. So far, most of the dozen or so pedestrians seemed disinclined to check out the exhibitors' offerings. Maybe, Judith thought, it was the crime-scene tape across the front of Wolfgang's Gast Haus that put them off.\n\nApparently, Gabe was wondering the same thing. \"How do the guests leave Wolfgang's?\" he asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. \"Are they trapped inside until the police finish investigating?\"\n\n\"How did you leave last night?\" Judith inquired.\n\n\"Oh.\" Gabe grinned sheepishly. \"They had a cop at the front door. It looked like he had a checklist. Either I was okay to take off or not on the list of people they still had to question.\"\n\n\"I assume you were asked to give some sort of statement.\"\n\nGabe nodded. \"They wanted to know what I saw, where I was staying, why I was at the cocktail party. Oh\u2014my name, address, all that stuff. Routine, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith was about to add that it sounded that way to her, too, but stopped short. She didn't want Gabe to know she'd had any experience with similar situations. He was new to the business and perhaps didn't know of her reputation as FASTO. \"Here come our first visitors,\" she said as a young couple approached hand in hand. Judith put on her innkeeper's face and went to work.\n\nThe next two hours were busy, answering questions, handing out brochures, quoting prices, and, on at least three occasions, trying to figure out which language the foreign tourists were speaking. Hindi, Urdu, Tamil, and Arabic were among the guesses made by Judith and Gabe. They were having better luck with a middle-aged Chinese couple whose English was understandable, when Renie showed up at the booth just before eleven. Mercifully, she hung back until the Chinese visitors had gone on their way.\n\n\"Hi, coz,\" Judith said cheerfully. \"We're almost done here. Meet Gabe Hunter,\" she added, turning to her fellow innkeeper. \"This is my cousin. You may have heard me mention her at breakfast this morning.\"\n\nGabe frowned. \"I did?\"\n\nJudith realized Gabe had been engaged in conversation at the table's opposite end. \"Oh. Well . . . this is Serena Jones. She's . . . here.\"\n\nRenie shot Judith a curious look, but smiled and shook hands with Gabe. \"Your backups are on their way. Connie and some guy named Phil are taking over. Phil forgot his glasses.\" She turned around. \"Here they come. Oops! Phil just walked into a lamppost. Guess he didn't get his glasses after all.\"\n\n\"I don't remember Phil,\" Judith said. \"Is he staying at Hanover Haus? He wasn't at breakfast.\"\n\nRenie glared at Judith. \"Breakfast wasn't at breakfast. By the time I got downstairs, the dining room was empty. Even the coffee urn was dry. You owe me, coz. It's an early lunch or I turn Little Bavaria into Dresden circa February 1945.\"\n\nJudith winced. \"Don't say that with so many Germans around. That wasn't one of the Allies' better ideas.\"\n\nGabe, who had been handing out brochures to a wholesome-looking couple who could've stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting, turned around. \"I read about that not too long ago. Half a million casualties in a city that wasn't a strategic target? That literally sounded like overkill. So close to the end of the war, too.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"Guess the Americans and the Brits hadn't had breakfast either. Come on, coz, Phil seems to be walking again. And no, he's staying at some other place on the river.\"\n\n\"Go ahead,\" Gabe said. \"I'll wait for the newcomers to get settled.\"\n\nGlad to avoid Connie, Judith grabbed her purse and exited the booth. \"Where to?\" she asked Renie.\n\n\"There's a pancake haus almost on the other side of Wolfgang's,\" Renie replied, leading the way. \"You're lucky I'm still civil.\"\n\n\"Don't forget,\" Judith said, wishing Renie wasn't practically running, \"I'm supposed to meet the police chief this morning.\"\n\n\"He can wait,\" Renie retorted.\n\nJudith spotted the Pancake Schloss some fifty yards away. \"Slow down! Hey\u2014there's a police car parked outside the restaurant.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Renie said. \"According to the Little Bavaria guidebook, this place also has good doughnuts. I figured maybe you could kill two birds with one scone. They have those, too. And Schloss translates as 'palace,' in case you've forgotten our visit to Germany.\"\n\n\"I sure haven't,\" Judith snarled. \"You were horrible that morning when we took the ship up the Rhine. Our breakfast was late, and after it finally came, you got mad at me for some stupid reason and poured a pitcher of cream all over my food.\"\n\n\"You'd filled the room with your stinking hair spray,\" Renie countered. \"I was damned near asphyxiated.\"\n\n\"Too bad you weren't,\" Judith said, still irked at the long-ago memory of Renie's rotten morning mood. \"Remember, the cops know who's who. Let's hope they don't rat me out to any of the innkeepers who think you're the sleuth,\" she added as they went inside the Pancake Schloss. \"You were right\u2014Ingrid can't get snarky with me this time.\"\n\nThe cousins were lucky. Their timing was such that most of the breakfast patrons were gone and the lunch crowd hadn't started to arrive. The restaurant was only half filled, but the current customers included two men in police uniforms in a booth near the back.\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, \"I bet one of those cops is Chief Duomo. He's got a big round bald head. Isn't duomo the Italian word for 'dome'?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith agreed, not waiting to be seated. \"Let's join them.\"\n\nThe bald man didn't seem surprised by the cousins' arrival. \"Mrs. Flynn,\" he said, looking droll. \"Park yourselves. You, too, Mrs. Jones.\"\n\nRenie nodded, sliding into the booth next to a lean-faced, hawk-nosed officer who regarded her with curious, heavy-lidded eyes. \"Don't stare,\" she said, reaching around him to snatch a menu. \"You're kind of skinny, but I'm part cannibal when I'm really hungry.\"\n\nThe officer had backed away when the menu almost hit his chin. \"You've got the teeth for it,\" he remarked.\n\nJudith, who didn't have much room next to the rotund police chief, tried to smile. \"Could you hand me a menu? I assume you're . . .\"\n\n\"Fat Matt Duomo,\" the chief interjected. \"Go ahead, call me that. I don't care, I don't have to. I'm the chief. Can I call you FATSO?\"\n\nJudith hesitated as Fat Matt handed her a menu. \"Why not? Everybody else does. Except,\" she went on, \"the B&B contingent. I've already told them my cousin is the real sleuth.\"\n\nDuomo shot Renie a sharp glance. \"Why'd you do that?\"\n\n\"Because,\" Judith admitted, \"I'm tired of the woman who runs the state association dumping on me when I find a dead body every so often.\"\n\nDuomo chuckled. \"Cramps your style, eh? Your rep's damned amazing. It makes us cops look dumb, but you're the goods, Mrs. F.\"\n\n\"A lot of luck\u2014much of it bad\u2014has been involved,\" Judith said, looking up at the hovering waitress whose nametag identified her as GRETEL. \"I'll have the waffle sandwich with spicy link sausages. Coffee and apple juice, too. Thanks.\" She handed the menu back to Duomo.\n\nRenie twirled a strand of chestnut hair, which, as usual, looked as if she'd combed it with a garden tool. \"Buttermilk pancakes, one egg over easy, hamburger steak medium, large apple juice, and decaf.\"\n\nThe tall and rangy Gretel glared at Renie before hurrying away.\n\n\"Hey,\" Duomo said, \"didn't introduce Major Schwartz, my second in command, title courtesy of fighting in 'Nam. Silver Star, Purple Heart, Jewish grandparents died in Buchenwald. Got quite a few folks around here whose families had some real bad experiences with the frigging Nazis. Fact is, Ernie here should be chief, but refused the promotion.\" Duomo grinned. \"He didn't want the headache. Can't say I blame him.\"\n\n\"Hi, Ernie,\" Renie said. \"I mean, Major.\"\n\n\"Ernie's fine,\" Schwartz said, \"since we'll be working together.\"\n\nJudith felt it was time to get down to business. \"Can you update us about your investigation?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Duomo said, \"if we can get more coffee. Where's Suzie?\"\n\n\"Suzie?\" Judith echoed.\n\n\"The waitress,\" the chief explained. \"She didn't want to be a Heidi or a Hertha. She likes Gretel better. What the hell\u2014she owns the place.\"\n\nJudith was curious. \"Why does she wait on tables?\"\n\n\"Shorthanded during Oktoberfest,\" Duomo replied. \"One waitress had a baby, another one sprained her ankle. Suzie and her husband started this place ten years ago. Done real good, best breakfast in town, open twenty-four hours during Oktoberfest and Christmas.\"\n\nThe cousins' food arrived. \"It looks wonderful,\" Judith said, smiling at Suzie aka Gretel. \"Thank you.\"\n\n\"You're welcome,\" Suzie said without enthusiasm. \"You two guys want more coffee or are you just taking up space being baffled?\"\n\n\"Come on, Suze,\" the chief said indulgently. \"We do our best. Yeah, more coffee. Thanks.\"\n\nSuzie stalked away.\n\nJudith frowned at Duomo. \"Isn't it a bit soon for her to give you a bad time about Wessler's murder?\"\n\n\"That's not what she meant,\" the chief said, looking pained. \"She's talking about her husband.\"\n\n\"What about him?\" Judith inquired, buttering her waffle.\n\nDuomo's expression grew even grimmer. \"He was murdered last August. Maybe you could help us with that one, too.\"\nChapter Six\n\nJudith was taken aback by the new request, but felt obligated to at least show interest. \"What happened to Suzie's husband?\"\n\nChief Duomo sighed heavily. \"Bob Stafford was a lawyer, but he got tired of working for Legal Aid after the first ten, fifteen years. They decided to move away from the big city, maybe set up practice in a small town. That wasn't too long after Little Bavaria started building a big rep as a tourist stop. Not just October and December, but ski season and camping\u2014all the outdoor stuff. Once they got here, they couldn't find any place that made decent pancakes. So instead of going back to the law, they built this restaurant\u2014Bavarian-chalet style with their living quarters upstairs. It was a big hit.\"\n\nThe chief paused as Suzie wordlessly refilled their coffee mugs. \"Everything went along real smooth,\" Duomo continued after Suzie was out of hearing range. \"That is, until early August, when Bob brought in some threatening letters, unsigned, about how whoever wrote the damned things had gotten a raw deal from Bob at Legal Aid. There were five of them, but we couldn't trace the sender. The next thing we know, Suzie reported Bob as missing. We found him not far from the Pancake Schloss by the river, apparently drowned. But we did an autopsy. The coroner's report showed that death was caused by a blow to the head before he ever hit the water.\" Duomo sighed again. \"We haven't solved the case. Hell, we don't even have a suspect. Everybody liked Bob, so we figure it had to be the letter writer.\"\n\nJudith swallowed some sausage before speaking. \"Postmark?\"\n\nIt was Ernie who answered. \"The city\u2014where else do all the nut jobs hang out?\"\n\nJudith couldn't suppress a small smile. \"Believe me, they're everywhere. I've found killers all over the world\u2014cities, small towns, island retreats, villages.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Duomo agreed grudgingly, \"I've read your Web site, but the bigger the place, the more of the nuts. Besides, whoever wrote the letters was bitching about Bob's legal work and that was all in the city.\"\n\n\"I assume,\" Judith said, \"you still have the letters?\"\n\n\"Hell, yes,\" the chief retorted. \"Handwritten, too. Even called in an expert who told us the sender was probably paranoid, a schizo, a psychopath, a real head case. I could've told him that, even without all those initials after my last name.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"My husband's a psychologist,\" she said. \"In professional terms, Bill would describe the writer as 'crazy as a bedbug.' \"\n\nErnie eyed her with sleepy-eyed amusement. \"He sounds like my kind of shrink.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"Bill doesn't mince words.\"\n\nDuomo gestured at Judith's plate. \"Your grub's on me,\" he said. \"Can you come back to the station after you're done here?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said, \"but I didn't sign up for two homicides. Unless,\" she went on, narrowing her eyes at Fat Matt, \"you feel they're linked.\"\n\nThe chief looked indignant. \"Linked? Hell, how would I know? You're the sleuth. How 'bout this? Do a two-fer and I won't tell your B&B gang you aren't FATSO.\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"I'll give it a shot, but it's virtually a cold case. Don't expect much from me. Are you two leaving now?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" the chief replied. \"You'll both have to move so we can get out. Time to arrest somebody . . . for something. Let's hit it, Ernie.\"\n\nAfter the policemen made their exit, Renie fixed Judith with a knowing expression. \"We're almost finished. When do we grill Suzie?\"\n\n\"Now,\" Judith said, checking her watch. \"It's after eleven-thirty, so the lunch crowd will start showing up. We need coffee refills.\"\n\n\"I see Suzie coming.\" Renie made a windmill motion. \"Quick, make tears, put on your widow act. You know how, even if you didn't cry much over Dan's moundlike body.\"\n\nJudith took a tissue out of her purse just before Suzie arrived at their booth. \"Want me to take away the cops' stuff?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh\u2014no,\" Renie said in a worried voice. \"We need more coffee. Decaf for me, that is. My poor cousin's having a bad day.\"\n\nSuzie slipped an order pad in her apron pocket, jabbed a pencil into her dark hair, and frowned. \"What's wrong? You two flunk plea bargaining with the local lawmen?\"\n\nJudith sniffled; Renie scowled. \"Hardly. My cousin's husband was a retired cop. He passed away recently under tragic circumstances. Can you cut her some slack, please?\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Suzie looked faintly chagrined. \"Sorry. I had no idea.\"\n\n\"Of course you wouldn't,\" Renie snapped. \"It isn't every day that a husband gets whacked. Sometimes they just blow up. I mean, blow away. You know\u2014like withered autumn leaves.\"\n\nSuzie glanced over her shoulder, apparently to see if she was needed elsewhere. \"Let me get your coffee\u2014and decaf.\"\n\n\"Not bad, coz,\" Judith murmured. \"Though you tend to overdo it. I didn't realize you could lie\u2014I mean, fib\u2014almost as well as I can.\"\n\n\"It's part of my job,\" Renie said. \"I have to lie all the time, like when I tell CEOs and public officials and academics they're actually smart.\" She turned solemn. \"Start sniffling again.\"\n\nArmed with two coffee carafes, the Widow Stafford refilled the cousins' mugs. \"Sorry I was abrupt. I recently lost my own husband.\"\n\nJudith dabbed at her eyes. \"So many widows, so much crime.\"\n\n\"Foul play, huh?\" Suzie remarked, still holding on to the carafes, but leaning against the back of the booth on Judith's side. \"Same here. What's this world coming to?\"\n\n\"Does it matter?\" Judith said in a woebegone voice.\n\n\"No.\" Suzie looked even grimmer. \"You're not a local. So why were you talking to the cops?\"\n\nJudith crumpled the tissue and cleared her throat. \"My husband passed through Little Bavaria shortly before he passed on. That is, he was killed on the highway about ten miles from here near the summit. Hit-and-run, but it may've been deliberate. He was changing a tire when he was struck. I know it was in another jurisdiction, but I thought maybe your local police would have some . . . clue. The county sheriff on the other side of the mountains is baffled.\"\n\n\"Big surprise,\" Suzie muttered. \"Same here with my husband. He was found by the river. Fat Matt and his crew don't have a clue either. And now they've got this mess with Herr Wessler. Wouldn't you think someone would've seen the old coot get stabbed?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Judith said in distracted voice, \"that's so awful! It must've been an accident. Did you know him?\"\n\n\"Sure. He was an institution in this town. He came to Little Bavaria before it was Little Bavaria.\" Suzie again glanced around the restaurant. \"Hey\u2014have to help the other customers. I put on a good dinner, if you're interested.\" She wheeled around and dashed off.\n\n\"I liked the tire part,\" Renie commented. \"Ambiguous.\"\n\n\"That happened to some guy a while ago. I saw it in the paper.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"That's why I'm glad we took the train. I don't mind when Bill's driving, but otherwise, this pass makes me nervous.\"\n\nJudith dug in her purse. \"I'm leaving a tip. I assume the chief picked up our tab, but just in case we want to come back here for dinner, it might be a good idea to butter up Suzie.\"\n\n\"She loosened up,\" Renie noted.\n\n\"But we didn't learn anything,\" Judith pointed out, putting a five-dollar bill by her plate. \"She didn't even mention the letters.\"\n\n\"Won't the chief have them?\"\n\n\"Probably.\" Judith didn't speak again until they were outside and going back down Main Street. \"I prefer not getting sidetracked with Bob Stafford's murder. Assuming that's what it was.\"\n\n\"What else could it be?\" Renie asked.\n\nJudith looked up at patches of old snow as the morning mist rose up the mountainside. \"He could've fallen and hit his head on a rock. Still . . .\" She shrugged. \"When it's not full of tourists, only a couple thousand people live here. If the letter writer who killed Bob wasn't local, he\u2014or she\u2014would have had to arrange a meeting. It sounds odd.\"\n\n\"I won't argue,\" Renie said. \"I'm just a dupe. Or a dope. Do you have anything on your official schedule today?\"\n\n\"Not until four,\" Judith replied. \"We have an event at town hall with the Oktoberfest organizers. Beer tasting and a concert to follow.\"\n\n\"I wish I liked beer better,\" Renie said. \"They can't serve the stronger German version here . . . whoa! What's going on by our B&B?\"\n\n\"Oh, I forgot! At one o'clock they have a big procession and the official opening ceremonies. They're assembling everybody. Look, here comes a guy in an old horse-drawn wagon.\"\n\n\"How do you know the horse is old? He looks kind of frisky to me.\"\n\n\"I meant the wagon,\" Judith said, with a reproving eye for her cousin. \"We haven't gone that far down the street, but it starts from just beyond the Kinderplatz. That is, the play area for kids.\"\n\n\"I get it, I get it,\" Renie muttered. \"So where are we going? I don't feel like marching in a parade.\"\n\n\"Neither do I,\" Judith said, and turned around. \"Why don't we check out the scene of the crime?\"\n\n\"You mean Wolfgang's? That's in the other direction.\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"Where Bob Stafford was killed. It happened behind the Pancake Schloss. There must be a trail.\"\n\n\"You realize the river will be higher now,\" Renie said as they approached the high bank in back of the restaurant.\n\n\"Of course. We were raised on a river at the family cabins, in case it slipped your mind. Here's the path.\" Judith studied the trail that zigzagged down the steep embankment. \"It looks doable. You first?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Renie said.\n\nThe trail was a fairly easy walk. The cousins were more than halfway down when Renie stopped. \"Hey\u2014this is weird. Take a look.\"\n\nJudith saw a wide spot dug out alongside the dirt track. It was overgrown with grass, weeds, and wild strawberry vines. \"It's some kind of marker. What does it say? I don't want to bend that far.\"\n\n\" 'HRH,' \" Renie said, pushing some of the vines aside. \"Just dates: 1919 to 1979. His Royal Highness? A family pet buried here?\"\n\nJudith looked incredulous. \"A sixty-year-old dog? Get real.\"\n\n\"A parrot, maybe. They live to be really old, just like our mothers.\"\n\n\"It has to be a person. The cleared area is big enough for a body.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Renie said. \"You've found another corpse. Too bad he or she died so long ago or you could figure out whodunit. Buried HRH here, I mean. Some people do die of natural causes.\"\n\n\"Why here? Why not in the cemetery?\"\n\n\"Hey\u2014forget it. Let's go down to the river and finish the ghoul expedition, okay?\"\n\nJudith gave in. A few moments later they were standing by the river. As ever, the riffles of water over rocks had a soothing effect. \"No oompah bands. No emergency vehicles. No sniping rival innkeepers.\"\n\n\"No fish,\" Renie added. \"Not like there used to be. But we've still got the mountains.\" She looked up above the tree line to the peaks with their crevasses of snow. \"Civilization will get us yet.\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" Judith murmured. \"If only people would stop moving here. Then they complain about the rain and the gray skies. I hate to do it, but when guests exult in a sunny day in the city, I tell them it's so rare that I might go blind. It's fine for them to visit, but why must they move here? All the new construction on Heraldsgate Hill is insane.\"\n\n\"Tell me about it.\" Renie stopped staring at the mountains. \"So is this your crime scene?\"\n\n\"It must be.\" Judith was quiet for a few moments. \"The river would've been lower in August when Bob was killed. The initial reaction was that he'd fallen and hit his head on a rock, but all I see now are a few pebbles. What do you figure? Another ten feet of bank, maybe?\"\n\n\"Probably, given the channel here. It's very wide and most of the snow would've melted much earlier.\"\n\nJudith nodded before turning to look up at the bank. \"How much could anyone have seen from there in August?\"\n\n\"Quite a bit. Very little now, of course, only the river and the other side. Anyone walking by might've spotted Bob. Or, of course, walking along down here.\"\n\n\"But unless it was a fisherman, why do that in the first place? I suspect Bob got a call at the Pancake Schloss from somebody who wanted to meet him by the river. But why not mention that to Suzie?\"\n\n\"Busy time of day?\" Renie suggested. \"She seems to go on autopilot when she's working.\"\n\n\"True. He might've told her and she didn't even hear him. Or he wouldn't have wanted to distract her.\" Judith paused, chin on fist. \"That'd indicate he wasn't worried about whoever he was meeting.\"\n\nRenie kicked at a broken branch by the river's edge until it landed in the water and was carried off downstream. \"Not the letter writer?\"\n\n\"Probably not. Bob was sufficiently upset or maybe just annoyed by the letters to take them to the police. Yes, the timing is right, but if Bob had common sense, he'd have insisted that the letter writer meet him at the restaurant or somewhere more public.\" Judith made a sweeping gesture. \"This place suggests that he knew his killer.\"\n\nRenie's gaze again took in the mountain view. \"I assume you're trying to connect the dots between Bob and Wessler.\"\n\n\"Not quite.\" Judith sighed. \"At least not yet. Come on, let's go.\"\n\n\"Go where?\"\n\n\"To see the cops,\" Judith said.\n\nThe uphill climb took a little longer. Finally, the cousins reached the main street, but had to stop three blocks away from the Pancake Schloss. The town was abustle, forcing Judith and Renie to wait for the passage of a half-dozen vehicles and an antique fire engine. They were about to cross when a woman leading two Saint Bernards caught their attention. It struck Judith that the dogs seemed to be leading her, given that they were in the street and not on the sidewalk. \"Excuse me,\" she called to the cousins. \"Can you help?\"\n\nJudith stepped off of the curb. \"I don't know much about dogs,\" she admitted. \"What do you want me to do?\"\n\n\"Could each of you grab one of the dogs' collars and lead them out of the street? These animals don't seem to want to obey me.\"\n\n\"Apparently not,\" Renie grumbled, but approached the nearest dog. \"Okay, Bernie, let's go . . .\" She almost fell over as the Saint Bernard jumped up and began licking her brown sweater. \"Hey! Stop! It's cashmere!\"\n\nThe other animal went for Renie, too. \"They smell hamburger steak,\" Judith muttered, trying in vain to grab the second dog's collar.\n\n\"Damnit!\" Renie yelled, backpedaling away from the dogs. \"I paid a hundred and sixty bucks for this sweater!\"\n\nA sharp whistle cut through the air. The dogs instantly retreated. A stern voice called out, \"Siegfried! Dolph! Here, here!\"\n\nThe Saint Bernards stood as if at attention. Judith gaped at Franz Wessler. \"Thank goodness! Are those your dogs?\"\n\n\"No,\" Franz said, patting both animals. \"They belonged to Vater.\" He looked at the breathless woman, whose heart-shaped, piquant face had turned pale as she reached the sidewalk. \"Are you all right, Klara?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" she replied, letting go of the leashes and running a hand through her blond hair. \"I should never walk them.\" She lowered her glacial-blue eyes. \"I'm sorry, Franz.\"\n\n\"You're sorry?\" Renie snapped. \"What about my sweater?\"\n\nJudith nudged Renie. \"Can it, coz.\"\n\nFranz chuckled. \"Meine Liebe Klara, did I not always say you were more in love with him than with me? Let us walk the dogs together.\"\n\nHolding the leashes in one hand, he offered Klara his other arm. They continued down the street without a backward glance at the cousins.\n\n\"Well!\" Judith exclaimed under her breath. \"No introductions? What was that about?\"\n\n\"Not my sweater,\" Renie griped.\n\n\"How old would you guess?\"\n\n\"My sweater? I got it last year at\u2014\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith interrupted. \"Klara.\"\n\nRenie grew serious. \"Forties, maybe? Hard to tell. She could be a bit younger or ten years older. Smooth skin except around the eyes and mouth. Hair may or may not be natural, though the texture is good and the color suits her. I figure she's stayed out of the sun, which is smart.\"\n\nJudith didn't speak until they were across the street, headed for the police station. \"So if Franz hasn't seen his father in several years, where's Klara been all this time?\"\n\nRenie shot Judith an irritated glance. \"In prison? A convent? Outer space? How would I know and why do you care?\"\n\nJudith heaved an impatient sigh. \"If I'm supposed to solve Herr Wessler's murder, I have to get background on the people involved. His son is a good place to start.\"\n\nRenie grinned. \"I think you've got a crush on Franz.\"\n\n\"That's dumb!\" Judith cried, almost stumbling onto the curb at the corner by police headquarters. \"He seems interesting. And he just happens to be the prime suspect in a homicide case.\"\n\n\"Gee, your kind of guy,\" Renie murmured, looking amused.\n\n\"Shut up,\" Judith snapped, almost hitting her cousin with the station door. \"Focus on the case. You're supposed to be a sleuth, so act like one instead of making smart-assed commentary.\" She marched up to the desk, where a pudgy older woman was complaining to a weary-looking policeman whose gray eyes seemed focused on the far wall.\n\n\"Look, Mrs. Crump, your neighbors can't adjust their lives to Mr. Crump's schedule,\" he asserted. \"There's no antinoise law for two in the afternoon. Can't your husband use earplugs?\"\n\n\"Roscoe shouldn't have to do that,\" Mrs. Crump declared, wagging a finger. \"He says they bother him, they tickle the hair in his ears. Now see here, Orville, we've lived in this town forever, long before all these newcomers moved here. We have long-standing rights!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Orville said in his beleaguered voice, \"and you've been standing here long enough and often enough to tell me about it. You know we can't do anything about your neighbors.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, barging past Judith to get next to Mrs. Crump, \"your neighbors are going to file a complaint about Roscoe. His snoring all day is driving them nuts.\"\n\nMrs. Crump swerved to stare at Renie. \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"The name is Jones,\" Renie said somberly. \"R. Jones.\"\n\nMrs. Crump looked puzzled. \"You are Jones? That's it?\"\n\n\"That's enough,\" Renie retorted. \"And I know what your husband really does at night.\"\n\n\"Well!\" Mrs. Crump put a hand to her big bosom. \"I should hope not! His work is classified.\"\n\n\"That,\" Renie said with a world-weary sigh, \"is how I know.\"\n\n\"I never . . . hrmpph!\" The other woman turned around so fast that she almost ran into Judith. \" 'Scuse me,\" she mumbled, making her exit.\n\nOfficer Orville seemed bemused. \"You two aren't by any chance the . . . um . . . er . . . women who . . . ah . . .\"\n\n\"You betcha,\" Renie said. \"Where's Fat Matt?\"\n\nOrville's leathery face darkened. \"He's about to go to lunch.\"\n\n\"Lunch?\" Renie repeated. \"He just got back from coffee.\"\n\nOrville nodded. \"But it's way past noon and he's late for lunch.\"\n\nRenie turned to Judith. \"No wonder he's Fat Matt. He'll be known as Dumbo Duomo for his elephantine size before he solves this murder case. We need to see him now. As my husband would say, boppin'!\" She clapped her hands for emphasis.\n\n\"Okay, okay,\" Orville said. \"I'll buzz him. Hey,\" he said, his finger on the button, \"how did you know Roscoe Crump works for security? You just got here.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"I know all things. It's what I do, it's who I am. Oof!\" She winced as Judith stepped on her foot.\n\n\"Okay,\" Orville said, gesturing at a door to their left, \"go ahead. He's in there. Can I ask what the R stands for?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said, limping slightly as she led the way for Judith. \"It stands for Results, which is what I get as FASTO.\"\n\nThe chief opened the door before Renie could grasp the knob. \"There you are,\" he said. \"I thought you got lost.\"\n\n\"No,\" Renie said, \"we were attacked by a couple of Saint Bernards, but we fought them off. We're city girls, and used to violence. You ought to see Mrs. Flynn's cat. Or her mother.\" She shuddered. \"Gruesome.\"\n\n\"Sounds god-awful,\" Duomo said, poker-faced. \"Have a seat. Don't mind Ernie. He nodded off about five minutes ago. He's one of those narcocalypso fellas. Or whatever they call 'em. Goes to sleep while he's walking down the street. Not much good on foot patrol, so I try to keep him on highway duty.\"\n\nSure enough, the deputy was asleep with his feet propped up on a filing cabinet. \"Isn't his driving a problem?\" Judith inquired.\n\nDuomo shook his head. \"Nah. He just puts on the cruise control. Okay. What've you got so far?\"\n\nRenie made a face. \"Other than being attacked by dogs?\"\n\nThe chief held up a hand. \"Button up. I want the real FATSO.\"\n\nJudith frowned. \"Do you mind? 'Mrs. Flynn' or 'Judith' is just fine. We've only been on the case about an hour. What do you expect?\"\n\nDuomo shrugged. \"It's a small town. Have you quizzed anybody?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith replied, \"we have. Who's Klara and how is she connected to Franz and Dietrich Wessler?\"\n\nThe chief leaned back and grinned. \"Klara is Franz's ex. They split nine, ten years ago. She moved here to be the old man's housekeeper. Think the only room she keeps up is the bedroom. Why else hire Olga Crump as a cleaning woman?\"\n\n\"Crump?\" Judith echoed. \"Is she married to Roscoe?\"\n\n\"Ah. So you've met her, too?\"\n\n\"She was complaining about neighbors . . .\"\n\nDuomo made an impatient gesture. \"Yeah, she likes to do that. The Kotters are good people. Otto Kotter plays trombone in the oompah band. He has to practice and it keeps Roscoe awake. Not our fault.\"\n\nJudith tried to ignore Ernie's snoring. \"What exactly does Roscoe do on his security job?\"\n\n\"Depends.\" He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk. \"Usually he sort of wanders around to make sure nobody's where they shouldn't be. But with Oktoberfest, he checks for illegal immigrants.\"\n\n\"Uh . . .\" Judith wasn't sure what Duomo meant. \"What kind?\"\n\nThe chief shrugged. \"Anybody who isn't German.\" He nodded at Judith. \"You're part German. Saw it when I did a background check.\"\n\n\"Yes, on my mother's side. She's a Hoffman.\"\n\nHe pointed at Renie. \"You're not, but since you're with FATSO . . . I mean, Mrs. Flynn, you're okay.\"\n\n\"What,\" Judith inquired, still puzzled, \"about the exhibitors? They aren't all of German descent.\"\n\n\"They have to pay a fee to set up their booths,\" Duomo replied. \"That makes them honorary Germans.\"\n\n\"What's the point?\" Judith persisted. \"Oktoberfest and all your other activities are aimed at bringing in tourists. It doesn't make any sense. What do you do if a couple of French-Canadians show up?\"\n\n\"We fine 'em. Five bucks\u2014and give 'em a ten-buck restaurant coupon. Most folks think it's funny. Makes our budget look good.\"\n\nJudith didn't dare look at Renie, knowing that they were both wondering if this wasn't the strangest of some very strange law enforcement personnel they'd ever met. Unless Duomo was kidding.\n\nJudith changed the subject. \"Let's see the witness list.\"\n\nDuomo grunted while leaning far enough out of his chair to punch Ernie's arm. \"Wake up, Major. Viet Cong got us surrounded.\"\n\nErnie Schwartz jerked himself into consciousness. \"Huh? Wha . . . where? Oh.\" He rubbed his eyes. \"What's up?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Flynn wants our witness list from Wolfgang's last night.\"\n\nThe other officer yawned widely. \"You're sitting on it, Chief.\"\n\nDuomo looked surprised. \"I am?\" He raised his portly body and felt under his rear end. \"Oh\u2014that's where it went. Have we got more copies?\"\n\nErnie nodded and stood up. \"Orville has some out front. I'll get one for our sleuth.\"\n\nThe chief nodded once. \"Good man,\" he said after his subordinate left. \"Specially when he's awake. Got any more questions?\"\n\n\"How about leads?\" Judith inquired.\n\n\"Leads?\" He wrinkled his nose. \"You mean in the Wessler case?\"\n\n\"It's a little late for the Lindbergh kidnapping,\" Renie noted.\n\n\"You,\" the chief said, shaking his finger at Renie, \"keep quiet. You're the beard, remember?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Renie growled. \"Then you're the gut.\"\n\nDuomo shrugged. \"Why not?\" He drummed his pudgy fingers on the desk. \"Okay, leads. Nope, can't think of any. Except for the knife.\"\n\n\"The knife?\" Judith repeated. \"What about it?\"\n\n\"Fingerprints,\" he replied. \"Lots of them. Smudged.\"\n\nJudith reined in her patience. \"Were any of them identifiable?\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"DNA?\" Judith inquired.\n\n\"Not yet.\"\n\nJudith persisted. \"Any idea where the knife came from?\"\n\n\"Nope. Unless it was off the food table by the roast beef.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, \"I never saw any roast beef! Where was it?\"\n\n\"Never mind, coz,\" Judith said under her breath. \"It was at the far end of the table.\" She raised her voice. \"Who was carving the beef?\"\n\n\"Anybody who wanted some,\" Duomo replied. \"It was self-serve. Fact is, there were a half dozen of those knives by the meat platter.\"\n\n\"But one was missing?\" Judith asked.\n\nThe chief shrugged. \"Guess so. On the other hand, you know how folks like to pocket the cutlery. Don't know why. Doesn't everybody have knives at home? I do.\"\n\nBefore Judith could say anything further, Ernie returned. \"Want these?\" he asked, proffering a sheaf of printed pages to Judith.\n\n\"Yes, thanks.\" She perused the top sheet. At least fifty names were listed. \"How many witnesses did you interview?\"\n\n\"Ninety,\" Duomo replied, \"maybe closer to a hundred, not including the hired help. You impressed?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith admitted. \"It must've taken several hours.\"\n\n\"Damned near five,\" the chief said grumpily. \"There was just Ernie here and me. I've only got a half-dozen full-time officers, but I'll be damned if I'll call in the sheriff or the state troopers. They always criticize how we operate. Who needs that? And they don't speak German.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"No, but the major does.\" He looked at Ernie, who was nodding off. \"So does Crump, our security guy. You want to keep that copy?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said. \"I need time to go through all these names.\"\n\n\"You do that.\" Duomo stood up. \"Way past my lunchtime. Hey, Major, hop to it. Those little guys in their black pj's are lurking behind the jungle vines.\"\n\nJudith and Renie got up. \"Thanks. Enjoy your lunch.\"\n\n\"Will do,\" the chief said. \"Don't be a stranger.\"\n\nThe cousins made their exit. Orville was on the phone and didn't look up as they passed by.\n\n\"Stranger is right,\" Judith said after they were outside. \"Major Schwartz reminds me of Uncle Vince\u2014always dozing off, even in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"Two years ago, he got his face stuck in the root vegetable dish. Orange doesn't become Uncle Vince.\"\n\n\"True. But how does this bunch keep law and order?\"\n\n\"They must,\" Renie pointed out. \"How often do you read about serious crime around here?\"\n\n\"Well . . . not often. Unless they keep a lid on it. Little Bavaria is kind of isolated up here in the mountains.\" Judith paused at the corner. \"Uh-oh. I hear music. The parade must be starting. How do we avoid it?\"\n\n\"Go down a couple of blocks to where they were assembling and do an end run?\" Renie suggested.\n\nA dozen preschoolers, holding on to a thick red rope, were being herded by two young women toward the main street. Judith nodded at a group of laughing adults who were making their way toward the parade route. \"We'll have to,\" she said with a sigh.\n\nBefore they could start walking in the opposite direction, a squad car pulled up next to the curb a few feet away. Judith put a hand on Renie's arm. \"Hold it. There's somebody in the backseat. Let's see if an arrest has been made.\"\n\n\"Are you joking? If they busted someone, it's probably a shoplifter pocketing cheap made-in-Myanmar German souvenirs.\"\n\nThey recognized Officer Hernandez when he got out of the driver's side. Apparently, he didn't notice them, but opened the rear door. Judith couldn't see who was getting out until after Hernandez moved away from her line of sight.\n\nWhen he did, she gasped. The officer was escorting a handcuffed perp into headquarters. Renie let out a little squeal as cop and captive marched to the entrance.\n\n\"Good grief!\" she cried. \"Isn't that Eleanor Denkel?\"\nChapter Seven\n\nWhat's that all about?\" Judith said, trying to keep her voice down as more parade goers trickled past them and detoured vehicles used the side street for access. \"Has Eleanor been arrested for being obnoxious?\"\n\nRenie cupped her ear. \"I can't hear you. The band's too loud.\"\n\nThe only place to escape traffic and parade noise was in the alley next to police headquarters. Judith grabbed Renie's arm, steering her in that direction. Reaching relative quiet next to an unoccupied police van, the cousins caught their breath.\n\n\"Why is Eleanor busted?\" Judith asked, still not raising her voice.\n\n\"Good question,\" Renie said with a smirk. \"You tell me, FASTO. Maybe she's a hooker?\"\n\n\"Hardly.\" Judith made a face. \"Handcuffs, too. You don't suppose . . . ?\" She let the question dangle.\n\nRenie's brown eyes widened. \"She dunnit? Her own grandfather?\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"Family ties are sometimes severed with a knife.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Renie mused, \"that can cut off a relationship. If we wait for Duomo to get back from lunch, it'll be time for his afternoon break.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" Judith agreed. \"I don't know who else is on duty besides Orville, but he can't abandon his post.\" She grimaced. \"Why does the concept of Ellie in a cell make me want to smile?\"\n\n\"Because she treats you like compost?\"\n\n\"There is that,\" Judith allowed, gazing up at the mountain that had become completely visible. \"The B&B association is like high school\u2014full of cliques. Not my style.\"\n\n\"You have to have certain things in common to be in a clique,\" Renie remarked. \"How many other innkeepers find corpses?\"\n\nJudith glowered at her cousin. \"Don't rub it in. Maybe we should watch the parade.\"\n\nRenie turned mulish. \"You know I'm not fond of parades.\"\n\n\"Have you ever watched an Oktoberfest parade?\"\n\n\"No, and don't try to break my record for abstinence.\"\n\nJudith shook her head and started walking down the alley before she realized her cousin wasn't behind her. \"Why are you leaning against that van?\" she demanded. \"Isn't it the paddy wagon?\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Renie called back. \"I figure that they'll have to use it to haul away rioters and drunks from the parade. Then I won't have to walk back to Hanover Haus.\"\n\n\"Oh, for . . .\" Judith was distracted by the screeching of tires. She glanced back to the street, where a squad car had just pulled up. \"Hey\u2014the chief's back!\" she shouted to her cousin.\n\n\"He ate and ran? Not likely.\" Renie shook her head, but hurried to join Judith, who was already on her way to accost Fat Matt and Major Schwartz before they entered the building.\n\n\"Whoa!\" the chief cried. \"You hear about the break we got in the Wessler case?\"\n\n\"Break?\" Judith said. \"You've only been gone ten minutes.\"\n\nDuomo waved an impatient hand as he paused at the entrance. \"Okay, so it's a confession. That's as good as a break. You going or coming?\" Before Judith could reply, he looked beyond her to where Ernie was apparently asleep on his feet by the squad car. \"Major!\" the chief barked. \"Land mine! Move it!\"\n\n\"Huh?\" The officer snapped to attention before jumping at least three feet across the sidewalk. \"Damn! Sneaky commie bastards!\"\n\n\"Better than an alarm clock,\" Duomo muttered, opening the door and allowing the cousins to enter first. He paused at the front desk, scrutinizing Orville. \"Seeing how we got this case wrapped up,\" the chief said, \"why don't you take that squad car outside and nip over to have Suzie put some lunch together for me? She knows what I like.\"\n\n\"But,\" Orville protested, \"the parade's going down Main Street. I'd have to drive out of town to get to the pancake house.\"\n\n\"Hell, Orville, just turn on the siren and bust right on through. Hop to it, I'm starved.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Orville said with his usual careworn manner. Putting on his regulation hat, he came around from behind the counter to make his exit. \"Pickles?\" he asked, halfway out the door.\n\n\"Sure, the little sweet ones,\" Duomo replied.\n\n\"Got it.\" Orville departed.\n\n\"Now,\" the chief said to the cousins, \"how do we work this? Probably not a good idea to let you in on the Denkel woman's interview. Why don't you two take over the front here while I listen in on whatever Hernandez is doing in the other room? Where'd Ernie go?\" He looked around and shrugged. \"Oh, well. Doesn't matter. It's all yours,\" he added with a wave of his hand before ambling off to the interrogation room.\n\n\"This is insane,\" Judith declared. \"I'm beginning to wonder if this whole thing is some sort of hoax.\"\n\n\"You mean . . .\" Renie's puzzled look suddenly disappeared. \"Ingrid has decided to get even with you by staging a murder?\"\n\n\"Exactly.\" Judith reluctantly moved around to the other side of the counter. \"We'll play along for now. It could be fun.\"\n\n\"Am I still FATSO?\" Renie asked, joining her cousin.\n\n\"Please\u2014FASTO. Sure. We can play this game, too. If the chief and the other cops are in on it, they could blow your cover. On the other hand, we could've lied to them as well as to the B&B people.\"\n\nRenie grimaced. \"I think I'm confused. Am I still married to Bill?\"\n\nJudith looked exasperated. \"Of course. Unless you prefer Joe.\"\n\n\"No!\" Renie cried. \"I mean, I like Joe and all that, but . . .\"\n\n\"Skip it.\" She glanced toward the interrogation room on her left. \"I wonder what they're doing in there. Laughing at us?\"\n\n\"Probably.\" Renie sat down by the phone console. \"I'm bored.\"\n\n\"You're nuts.\" Judith pulled a chair up to the computer. \"This is a rare opportunity. We can access police files.\"\n\n\"Such as?\"\n\n\"Let's see if the Stafford homicide is real.\"\n\nRenie was leaning her cheek on her hand. \"Real what?\"\n\n\"As in it actually happened.\" Judith scowled at the screen. \"I need a password. I thought this thing would be up and running.\"\n\nRenie gazed glumly at her cousin. \"Try 'Gestapo,' \" she muttered.\n\n\"Not funny.\"\n\n\"Then try the local newspaper,\" Renie said impatiently. \"You won't need a password to get online.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure what it's called,\" Judith admitted. \"It'd be a weekly?\"\n\nRenie yawned. \"Probably.\"\n\nJudith typed in \"Little Bavaria newspaper.\" The front page of the Blatt came up. \"It is a weekly. It came out Wednesday. I'll put in Bob Stafford's name and see what . . . ah!\" She stared at the headlines:\n\nLOCAL RESTAURATEUR'S BODY FOUND; M.E. CITES FOUL PLAY; CHIEF INVESTIGATES STAFFORD MURDER; DUOMO BAFFLED IN HOMICIDE CASE\n\n\"Sounds right,\" Renie murmured.\n\nJudith shrugged. \"At least we know that Bob Stafford really was murdered. This couldn't have been faked.\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" Renie mused, \"if the city TV and print media covered the alleged killing of Dietrich Wessler.\"\n\nAs in most B&Bs, including Hillside Manor, there were no TV sets in the guest rooms. \"We could pick up a daily paper,\" Judith suggested. \"But if this is a hoax, they'd never release it publicly. Even if it was a genuine homicide, it might not make the news back home. Thank goodness,\" she added, relieved that Joe would be kept in ignorance.\n\n\"A regional two-, three-graph item,\" Renie remarked. \"No other media coverage unless one of the TV stations is doing an Oktoberfest feature. I've seen no signs of that.\"\n\nJudith smiled wryly. \"If Mavis Lean-Brodie shows up,\" she said, referring to her longtime adversary and sometimes ally from KINE-TV, \"I'll know Herr Wessler really did get killed.\"\n\n\"Mavis,\" Renie said with the same inflection she might have used for \"plague\" or \"CEO.\"\n\nThe interrogation room's door opened. Chief Duomo stumbled out, mopping his forehead. \"Tough cookie,\" he murmured, closing the door behind him. \"Heart of granite. Never seen the like in my . . . twenty-five? Twenty-eight? Thirty . . . what the hell, I've been on this job too long.\"\n\n\"Eleanor confessed?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Oh, did she!\" He stuffed his wrinkled handkerchief into his back pocket. \"Well. That wraps it up. Thanks for your help. Now, if we could move on to that Stafford murder . . . after lunch, I mean. Where's Orville? How long does it take him to get my damned food?\"\n\nJudith had stood up. \"Are you going to let her post bail?\"\n\n\"Oh, sure,\" the chief said. \"She can't miss Oktoberfest. See ya.\" He ambled into his office and shut the door.\n\n\"Now what?\" Renie said.\n\n\"Hang on,\" Judith said. \"I'd like to see how that stuck-up Ellie plays this hand. Will she post bail? It's Friday. I can't imagine there's a bail bondsman anywhere around here after noon on a weekend.\"\n\n\"Gee,\" Renie said, \"I thought they'd be hanging out on street corners like hookers during a big beer blast like this.\"\n\nJudith disagreed. \"People don't get out of control. College kids don't count\u2014they don't need an excuse to guzzle. Oktoberfest's more than beer drinking; it's Bavarian customs, history, and culture.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Renie murmured. \"I don't want to get run down by a drunken tuba player.\"\n\n\"You won't.\" Judith paced the area behind the counter. \"Where's Ellie? Where's Hernandez? Ernie's probably asleep somewhere. Lord, what a crew!\"\n\n\"Hernandez is kind of cute,\" Renie remarked. \"He seemed normal\u2014by comparison. Whatever happened to Orville?\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" Judith's usual inexhaustible patience had snapped. She marched over to the door leading to the room Duomo had exited and knocked three times. There was no response. Frustrated, she turned the knob. The door opened, revealing an empty room. \"What on earth?\"\n\nRenie joined her cousin. \"There has to be another way to get out. I cleverly deduce that it was via that large open window that probably leads into the alley.\"\n\n\"Damn!\" Judith exclaimed. \"I didn't notice any window last night. I was too concerned about our own interrogation.\" She walked across the room and looked out. \"It's a two-foot drop. Even I could do that.\"\n\n\"Why don't we? I'm bored again.\"\n\n\"Stop that!\" Judith picked up a file folder from the table and scanned the papers inside. \"Hey\u2014this is Ellie's signed confession. It sounds almost enough like her to be the real thing.\"\n\n\"How about the short version?\" Renie said, lounging against the doorframe. \"Tweet will do.\"\n\nJudith reread the statement twice before responding. \"The motive is so predictable. Couldn't they be imaginative if they're writing fiction?\"\n\n\"Skip the critique. Cut to the headline.\"\n\n\"Ellie stabbed her grandfather because he was going to change his will and leave everything to Klara.\"\n\n\"Oh. You're right. That is so not original. Let's go.\"\n\nJudith hesitated. \"The parade may be over. The route's short.\"\n\nRenie turned around. \"Hi, Orville. Hey, want to let me have a couple of those fries?\"\n\n\"You want to get me fired?\" Orville muttered before moving on.\n\n\"Jerk,\" Renie muttered as Judith joined her in the outer office.\n\n\"You're right,\" she said. \"This game is dumb. I have to be at the town hall at four to attend the function with the Oktoberfest organizers.\"\n\n\"What am I supposed to do while you're there?\"\n\nJudith headed out the door. \"Amuse yourself. You're creative.\"\n\n\"I have to be inspired,\" Renie said as the cousins paused before crossing the street. \"I could check out some of the shops. Bill likes German stuff. Maybe I can find a nice bust of Goebbels.\"\n\nThey'd reached the main street, where the traffic flow was now normal. \"Hey,\" Judith said, \"isn't that Franz Wessler hurrying our way?\"\n\n\"Gee,\" Renie said, \"I'll bet he realized he's madly in love with you and wants to sweep you off your feet.\"\n\n\"Shut up, coz,\" Judith murmured as a worried-looking Franz approached them.\n\n\"Good afternoon,\" Franz said without his usual aplomb. \"I dare not linger. I must see the police.\" He sketched a bow and hurried away.\n\nRenie shot Judith a curious glance. \"About Ellie?\"\n\n\"Grab him. You can run, but I can't. Go!\"\n\nHer cousin looked reluctant, but she rushed away, calling after Franz. He stopped at the curb, obviously flummoxed. Renie took his arm, hauling him back to where Judith was ready and waiting to go straight to the point. \"Is this about Ellie's confession?\" she demanded.\n\nFranz turned pale. \"How do you know?\"\n\n\"We were at the police station when she was brought in,\" Judith replied. \"I have to level with you. I know Ellie didn't kill your father. This whole situation is absurd and you know it.\"\n\nTears welled up in Franz's eyes. \"Yes, yes. I am aware of that.\" He swallowed hard, lowering his head before he stared straight into Judith's eyes. \"That's why I'm going to the police. My niece didn't kill Vater. I did.\" He rushed across the street, heedless of oncoming traffic.\n\nJudith watched Franz disappear into the side street. \"Damn! Did Franz learn to act in L.A.? Those tears seemed real.\"\n\n\"I didn't get a good look,\" Renie admitted. \"His back was to me.\"\n\n\"Now I'm confused. Can anybody give us a straight answer?\"\n\nRenie thought for a moment. \"How about Inbred Heffalump?\"\n\n\"She's not here,\" Judith said. \"But,\" she went on, more slowly, \"my guess is that she's the one who put this thing together\u2014if, in fact, it is a payback hoax because of the bodies I've found.\"\n\nRenie gazed at the people who were milling about on the sidewalks. Many of them were wearing Bavarian garb and obviously enjoying themselves. \"That'd be too mean of her,\" she declared. \"You're here at her behest and she pulls a stunt like this? Why doesn't she get her butt over here with the rest of the B&B gang?\"\n\n\"She's an administrator,\" Judith explained. \"There are only a couple of dozen B&B owners in town. Ingrid made all the arrangements, but her presence isn't necessary.\"\n\n\"So what do we do now?\" Renie gazed at the town hall's clock tower. \"It's one-fifty. We've got almost two hours to kill. So to speak.\"\n\nJudith stepped aside for two 'tweenaged girls in dirndls running down the street and giggling their pigtailed heads off. A brass ensemble playing a merry tune could be heard in the distance. The sun was out, pale gold against a blue sky. What should have been a pleasant day now tasted sour.\n\n\"Let's go to the booth,\" Judith said after a pause. \"I don't know who's on duty, but there may be some innkeepers I haven't met. We can gauge their attitudes about this whole mess.\"\n\n\"That sounds like so much fun, I'd almost rather shave my head with a potato peeler.\" But Renie fell into step with her cousin.\n\nJudith spotted Connie Beaulieu at once, but the plump older man with her in the booth was a stranger. A dozen people, including children, were perusing brochures and chatting with the innkeepers.\n\n\"Want me to break this up?\" Renie asked quietly.\n\n\"No! They're potential guests.\"\n\n\"Not if you wait for those tots to grow up. You don't allow children.\"\n\n\"But parents need getaways.\"\n\nRenie sighed. \"So do I. Hey\u2014we missed lunch.\"\n\n\"I think there's food available a couple of booths down,\" Judith said, recalling the exhibitors' layout from her travel package. \"Go eat something before you get surly . . . er.\"\n\n\"I'll do that.\" Renie stalked away.\n\nAt least five minutes passed before Connie and the other innkeeper were free. Judith had amused herself by gazing at the passing parade that included two teenagers wearing antlers, several adults loaded down with shopping bags, a young man on crutches, and a redheaded woman mounted on a handsome gray hunter that looked like a show horse.\n\n\"Judith!\" Connie exclaimed. \"Come meet Eldridge Hoover! He's from the other side of the mountains, so he's staying with the eastern contingent at the Bavarian Inn. I just love him to pieces!\"\n\nEldridge put out a pudgy hand and chuckled. \"Call me 'Ridge,' \" he said, \"given that I'm sure not rich. Ho-ho-ho.\"\n\n\"Hi, Ridge,\" Judith said, shaking the man's soft hand. \"How's everything going?\"\n\nEldridge's jovial expression changed. \"To hell in a handcart. I'm glad I missed the cocktail party last night. Terrible tragedy. That poor old man\u2014he lives to a great age and then somebody stabs him like a chunk of beef!\" He shook his balding gray head and hooked his thumbs into his blue suspenders. \"Why would anybody do such a thing?\"\n\nConnie leaned toward Judith. \"I heard the most incredible rumor. Ellie is supposed to have confessed! That's ridiculous. I was with her when it happened. How does such gossip get started?\"\n\nJudith was wide-eyed. \"You were with her? Really?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Connie said indignantly. \"We didn't take part in the dancing. I don't know those steps. She and I were about to get something to eat when it happened.\" She shuddered, blond curls glinting in the autumn sunlight. \"Were you there?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith admitted, \"but we left right away. Too gruesome.\"\n\n\"But,\" Connie said, puzzled, \"I thought your cousin was . . . you know.\" She winked.\n\n\"Serena prefers distancing herself from the immediate crime,\" Judith explained. \"The ensuing chaos clouds her . . . brain.\"\n\nConnie nodded. \"I understand. She must be very deep.\"\n\nOut of the corner of her eye, Judith saw Renie approaching with a white-and-brown paper bag. She was stuffing a large clump of dark chocolate in her mouth. \"Yes,\" Judith remarked, \"she likes to savor things. I'll leave you in peace. I see more visitors approaching.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" Connie said. \"See you at four.\"\n\nEldridge was beaming again. \"Nice to meet you, Judith. How about being my date for the beer tasting later on?\"\n\n\"Uh . . .\" Judith was already backpedaling away from the booth. \"I have to see what my cousin's schedule is. She's been sleuthing, you see. Very conscientious, very thorough.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" Eldridge was befuddled. Maybe he hadn't heard of the infamous FASTO. \"See you there, then,\" he said, sounding disappointed.\n\nJudith managed to get in front of Renie before Connie and Eldridge could notice the melted chocolate that almost covered her cousin's chin. \"You're a wreck,\" she muttered. \"Didn't the candy booth have a napkin?\"\n\n\"No,\" Renie said, after swallowing the chocolate she'd managed to get inside her mouth and not on her person. \"Why?\"\n\n\"Skip it.\" Judith gazed at their surroundings. \"Let's take a break from murder, real or otherwise, and browse some of the shops.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Renie pointed to a clothing store. \"Bill's always wanted a cape. Maybe I can get him one of those Tyrolean-style things like the one I bought when we visited Innsbruck years ago.\"\n\nJudith was dubious. \"Bavaria meets the Tyrol?\"\n\n\"Hey, most people can't tell one part of the Holy Roman Empire from another.\"\n\n\"Clean yourself up. You don't want to get chocolate on the merchandise.\"\n\n\"No problem,\" Renie said, popping another chocolate cluster into her mouth. \"That's the last one. Ha ha.\" She used the empty bag to wipe off her face. And her neck. And both hands. \"I'm good. Let's go.\"\n\nThe shop was nestled between a cobbler and an antiques store. Judith refrained from chastising her cousin for her piggery. The worst part was that Renie could eat so much and never gain an ounce. Metabolism, Judith thought\u2014some pigs got it, some pigs don't.\n\nThe clothing shop was fairly small and very busy. While Renie browsed outerwear, Judith looked at sweaters. Christmas wasn't that far away. Maybe she could find something for Joe or Mike and his family. A forest-green lamb's-wool pullover caught her attention. It would suit Joe, but was available only in small and medium sizes. A navy-blue mohair crewneck suited Mike, but for all Judith knew, he might be sent to Florida on his next assignment. Frustrated, she moved on to the children's section. Before she could get past the lederhosen, someone tapped her arm.\n\n\"Judith?\" said George Beaulieu. \"Have you seen my wife?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" she replied. \"I talked to her just a few minutes ago at the B&B booth.\"\n\n\"She's not there now,\" he said, looking worried. \"She was supposed to come off duty at two. We were going to have a late lunch.\"\n\n\"Who's in the booth now?\" Judith inquired.\n\n\"Ah . . .\" George tweaked his handlebar mustache. \"Two innkeepers from the eastern group. They thought she'd headed this way.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"She's not here. But there are several other stores in this building, including up on the second floor. Maybe she went to the bookshop. It's right above us. Did you happen to see Mr. Hoover? He was with her in the booth.\"\n\n\"He's not there now,\" George said, his high forehead creased with concern. \"I met him when I walked Connie to the exhibit. This whole situation makes me anxious. What does your cousin think about it?\"\n\nLooking for Renie, she spotted her cousin at the cash register. \"She's still in the early interrogation stages. You've heard about Ellie?\"\n\nGeorge nodded. \"It's a mistake. Eleanor couldn't possibly have killed her grandfather. She must be taking the blame for someone else. That's the trouble with Ellie. Connie says the woman is so noble.\" He grimaced. \"I must be on my way. If you see my wife, please tell her I'm worried.\" He paused, staring into Judith's eyes. \"I still think you must be part Gypsy. Don't be offended.\"\n\nBefore Judith could comment, George hurried from the shop.\n\nJudith joined Renie at the counter. \"What did you buy?\"\n\n\"A snap-brim corduroy cap,\" Renie replied. \"No capes that wouldn't make Bill look like a bat.\" She waited to get her receipt from the young woman at the register. \"Who was that guy with the revolting mustache?\" she asked as they started out of the store.\n\n\"Connie's husband. He lost her somehow.\"\n\n\"I don't blame him,\" Renie said, pausing on the walkway. \"Let's go up to the bookstore. Bill gave me a list of World War Two books he thought they might have here.\"\n\nJudith glanced at the stairs leading to the second story. \"Why not? Joe likes those books, too, though he's not as avid about history as Bill.\"\n\nThe cousins climbed up to the balcony that jutted out from the front of the Bavarian chalet. They passed a crafts shop and a photography studio before arriving at Sadie's Stories.\n\nThe store was small, but one wall was so tall that a ladder was positioned by it. A half-dozen customers were browsing the fiction section. To Judith's dismay, the family of four from the train was among them. Thurmond was wrestling with a stuffed bear by the children's section. Ormond was chewing on the edges of a kiddie board book. His parents seemed absorbed in legal thrillers.\n\nRenie nudged Judith. \"Is it too late for me to get a restraining order for those little twits?\"\n\n\"Ask their parents,\" Judith whispered. \"They're the ones checking out the lawyer books.\"\n\n\"Just don't let them near me. Here's the history section,\" Renie said, pointing to a shelf behind her cousin.\n\n\"You know more about the subject than I do,\" Judith said. \"Recommend something.\"\n\nRenie, however, was studying Bill's list, printed in his small neat writing. \"The Gestapo: Hitler's Horror,\" she murmured. \"The SS and Racial Cleansing. Himmler Does Hamburg.\"\n\nJudith looked over Renie's shoulder. \"That can't be a real title.\"\n\n\"It's not, but all of these sound so gruesome,\" Renie said. \"Whatever happened to Fun with Adolf and Eva?\"\n\n\"They didn't end up having much of that,\" Judith pointed out.\n\n\"Serves them right. Oh, here's one Bill has marked with an asterisk\u2014Kommandant Killer: Hitler's Avenging Angel.\"\n\nJudith winced. \"That sounds even worse.\"\n\n\"It's all bad,\" Renie declared. \"I was old enough by the end of the war to read newspapers and magazines. I was horrified.\" She perused the shelves. \"I don't see Bill's priority title. Maybe I should ask Sadie.\"\n\nNoting the auburn-haired girl behind the counter, Judith smiled. \"I'll bet she's not Sadie. It's such an old-fashioned name.\"\n\nThe cousins waited for the clerk to ring up a young man who was buying a hiking trail book. After he left, Renie leaned on the counter. \"I'll bet you a ten percent discount you're not Sadie.\"\n\n\"Bet's off,\" the clerk replied, giggling. \"Sadie's been dead for thirty years. I'm her granddaughter, Jessica. Call me Jessi\u2014with an I.\"\n\nRenie showed Jessi the list Bill had made out. \"My husband especially wants the Kommandant book. I don't know why\u2014he already runs our house like a stalag. But I can't find this one on the shelf.\"\n\n\"Let me check,\" Jessi said, going to the computer. \"We can probably order it from . . .\" She frowned. \"Weird. It's been deleted.\"\n\n\"Out of print?\" Renie asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jessi replied, still frowning at the screen. \"It's a recent release. That's really odd. We had some computer problems a couple of days ago, but a techie customer fixed it. What else is on your list?\"\n\n\"Here,\" Renie said, pushing the slip of paper across the counter. \"Take your pick. My husband starred only the one you can't get.\"\n\n\"We have the first two,\" the clerk said. \"I'll get them for you.\" Jessi started around to the other side of the counter but paused, her fair, fresh-scrubbed face lighting up. \"Barry! I thought you had to work.\"\n\nThe cousins recognized the younger bartender from Wolfgang's Gast Haus. \"Barry fits him better than Fritz,\" Renie whispered.\n\nBarry was focused on Jessi. \"I don't have to work until later,\" he said, before noticing the cousins. \"Hey\u2014weren't you at the cocktail party last night when Wessler got killed?\"\n\nThe parents of the little boys turned away from their legal thrillers to stare at the newcomer.\n\n\"We escaped right after the carnage,\" Renie said. \"Where were you? The bar wasn't being tended the last time we sought refills.\"\n\n\"Both of us Fritzes had to see what happened when the music stopped,\" Barry said. \"Then we served brandy for the people in shock.\"\n\nJessi touched his arm. \"I'm glad I wasn't there. It sounded grim.\"\n\n\"It was,\" Barry said solemnly, \"though I never got a good look.\"\n\nA loud crash startled Judith, who turned to see the floor covered with chunks of plaster of Paris. Thurmond was screaming his head off.\n\n\"Thomas Mann!\" Jessi cried. \"The kid busted his bust!\"\n\n\"Thurmy!\" the mother shouted, racing to her son. \"Did the nasty head fall on you? My poor little man!\"\n\n\"What about Herr Mann?\" Jessi said under her breath. \"Kids!\"\n\nThurmond kept yelling. His father smiled fondly. \"He's okay, Gina. A good thing that statue wasn't marble.\" He turned to Jessi. \"You should keep stuff like that out of children's reach. It's dangerous.\"\n\n\"It's hollow,\" Jessi snapped. \"He shouldn't have climbed the ladder. And your other little guy is ripping up The Cat in the Hat.\"\n\nThe mother turned around sharply. \"He doesn't like Dr. Seuss. Ormy is very fussy about what he eats. I mean, what he reads.\" She glared again at Jessi. \"Maybe the plaster thing didn't harm Thurmy, but what about that bottle? If it broke, it could've cut him.\"\n\nJudith and Jessi both hurried to see what Thurmond's mother was talking about. Sure enough, there was a small bottle lying among the pieces that had once been Thomas Mann's bust.\n\n\"Hunh,\" Jessi said, puzzled. \"There's no label. It looks empty.\"\n\nBarry joined her after the miffed mother had picked up the blubbering Thurmond. \"Hey,\" he said, \"maybe it's something used by whoever made the bust. A glaze or paint?\"\n\n\"No idea,\" Jessi responded, bending down to pick up the item.\n\nRenie was leaning over Jessi's shoulder. \"I'm a graphic designer, so I've seen bottles like that, but I wonder why there's no label.\"\n\nJudith took a closer look. \"A medicine or a small liquor bottle? An exotic cooking ingredient?\" She turned to Renie. \"You're right\u2014why is there no label or any other identification on it?\"\n\nJessi turned around. \"If the kid hadn't broken Mann's head, we'd never have seen it.\" She looked from Judith to the parents. \"Hey, I don't want any trouble. It's okay. But you should keep an eye on your children. The bigger one could've fallen off that ladder and hurt himself.\"\n\n\"Aw,\" the father said, \"little boys like to explore.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" the mother chimed in, taking Thurmond in her arms and jiggling him in an effort to quiet him. \"If you had children, you'd understand that they must be allowed to experiment and test their limits. Furthermore, we didn't find anything of interest in your shop. Don't you have any good books?\"\n\nRenie looked belligerent. \"Maybe Ormond would enjoy eating a cookbook. Check the parenting section. You might learn something.\"\n\n\"That does it!\" the mother cried. \"We're out of here!\" She headed for the door. The father scooped up Ormond and was right behind her.\n\n\"No, you don't!\" Renie yelled, rushing after the quartet and grabbing the father by his sleeve. \"Citizen's arrest! Shoplifting!\" She pulled a paperback legal thriller from the father's coat pocket. \"Call the cops! Let's pat down the others\u2014especially the kids.\"\n\n\"No!\" Jessi shouted. \"Let them go! I don't want a fuss!\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"Your call. Beat it, you crooks.\"\n\nThe not-so-happy family bolted out of the shop. Renie handed the paperback to Jessi. \"Maybe you should have this checked for prints and run them through the ASIS database.\"\n\n\"Why bother?\" Jessi said wearily, shelving the book. \"Hey, Barry, want to help me clean up the mess the little brat made?\"\n\nIt was Judith's turn to step in. \"I hate to harp, but maybe you'd better not touch the bottle. If I were you, I'd turn it over to the police.\"\n\nBarry stared at Judith. \"You're serious?\"\n\nJudith hedged. \"There's something about that bottle that bothers me. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I'd like to know how it got there.\"\n\nJessi seemed mystified. \"Are you spooked because of what happened to Mr. Wessler?\"\n\nJudith didn't bother to lie, fib, or pretend. \"Yes. Who wouldn't be?\"\nChapter Eight\n\nBarry looked startled. \"Did you know the old guy?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith replied. \"But as witnesses, the police questioned us.\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" Barry said. \"They told me he was stabbed.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I realize that. I'm not suggesting any connection between the bottle and Mr. Wessler.\" She turned to Jessi. \"You'd toss it, right? So you won't care if my cousin and I take it with us.\"\n\nJessi eyed her with suspicion. \"Why?\"\n\nJudith was forced to use subterfuge. She put a hand on Renie's arm. \"Mrs. Jones is a private investigator who's following up on an illegal drug-labeling case. She's working with law enforcement officials all over the state, including Chief Duomo.\"\n\nJessi was incredulous. \"Jones? Is that her real name? Prove it.\"\n\nRenie reached into her handbag. \"Here's ID for my purchase.\"\n\nJessi scrutinized Renie's driver's license. \"You're a PI? My God! How come you've got chocolate on your elbow?\"\n\n\"I do?\" Renie looked at her arm. \"Oh. Guess I missed that. I was interrogating people at the candy store. I really go deep on the job.\"\n\nTwo elderly ladies entered the shop. Jessi put on her customer-friendly face. \"How may I help you?\" she asked.\n\n\"Quilts,\" the plumper of the women said. \"Do you have . . .\"\n\nJudith brushed past Jessi. \"We'll clean up,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Better start with the detective,\" Barry said. \"I'll get a broom and a dustpan.\"\n\n\"And a plastic bag,\" Judith murmured. Seeing Barry's puzzled look, she clarified her request. \"Not for Mrs. Jones\u2014for the bottle.\"\n\nBarry disappeared through a door by the counter. Renie was using a Kleenex to wipe the chocolate off her elbow. \"Glad I didn't wear a long-sleeved sweater,\" she remarked.\n\nJudith was already gathering the plaster shards together while not touching the bottle. \"It must've been put inside the bust through the hole in the bottom,\" she said, lowering her voice. \"There might be prints on these pieces, too.\"\n\n\"You got a theory?\" Renie asked.\n\nJudith shook her head. \"Only a question. Why would anyone put an unlabeled bottle in a bust of Thomas Mann?\"\n\n\"Somebody who didn't think he should have won a Nobel Prize?\"\n\nBarry reappeared with the broom and a plastic grocery store bag. \"No dustpan,\" he said.\n\n\"No problem,\" Judith said, standing up straight. \"I'm going to sweep everything into the bag without touching it.\"\n\n\"Wow.\" Barry also kept his voice down, glancing at Jessi, who was handing crafts books to her new customers. \"You're serious.\"\n\n\"Crime is serious,\" Judith said.\n\nBarry posed a question to Renie. \"Is she your assistant?\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"She's not too bright, but she can do the dirty work. And she notices things, like that bottle. I operate on a higher intellectual plane. Thus, I let her do the grunt work. Like sweeping.\"\n\n\"Wow,\" he repeated, oblivious to the harsh look Judith gave Renie.\n\n\"Tell me,\" Judith said, securing the plastic bag with a rubber band. \"I mean, tell us what you know about Bob Stafford's murder.\"\n\nBarry was startled. \"I don't know much more than anybody else. I arrived in town a few days after it happened. The cops seem baffled. I've been studying in Heidelberg, where I'm working on my doctorate in seventeenth-century history. My focus is the Thirty Years' War.\"\n\n\"Too long,\" Renie said. \"Not as bad as the Hundred Years' War, but still . . .\" She waved a hand in disgust. \"Didn't those armies get tired?\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Barry said, \"if you don't mind . . . I mean, I only know the bare facts about the murder. Why don't you talk to the police?\"\n\n\"We will,\" Judith said, then deferred to Renie. \"Won't we?\"\n\n\"Huh? Oh, sure. I've got it on my list of . . . STIFF. That stands for . . . 'Suspects To Interrogate For Future.' \"\n\n\"Of course you would.\" Barry seemed uncertain. \"I'd better do . . . something.\" He grabbed the broom and left through the side door.\n\n\"You're an idiot,\" Judith said between gritted teeth. \"Aren't you paying attention?\"\n\n\"I was,\" Renie replied, looking chagrined. \"Then I saw that coffee-table book on Givenchy. It distracted me. You know I've always loved his fashion designs. What an eye for understated elegance!\"\n\n\"Let's get out of here,\" Judith said, grabbing Renie's arm. \"Did you pay for your books?\"\n\n\"I never had a chance,\" Renie said, allowing herself to be propelled toward the door. \"Jessi was interrupted by the kid busting the bust. I hope she hangs on to the books for Bill.\"\n\nJudith sighed as they went out onto the balcony. \"That's okay. We'll come back later.\"\n\n\"Small towns,\" Renie muttered, starting down the stairs. \"At least the witness pool is smaller than in the city. Unless, of course, all the suspects are staying at your B&B.\"\n\n\"Not funny,\" Judith shot back. \"I'll admit, I still don't know what to think about Herr Wessler. The entire population, visitors included, is taking his death seriously. But that doesn't explain why two people have already confessed to murdering him.\"\n\n\"Maybe they both stabbed him,\" Renie suggested.\n\n\"You're reaching.\" Judith paused, seeing two dozen uniformed Camp Fire Girls heading down the main street toward the exhibits. \"Oh,\" she went on, \"I forgot there's a Camp Fire booth near ours. It's ten after three. I wonder if Connie's husband ever found her.\"\n\n\"I thought you were going to take that bottle and those plaster chunks to the cops.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Let's do it.\"\n\nThe cousins had to wait for a horse-drawn carriage to pass by. The now-familiar blue-and-white-checkered Bavarian flags fluttered from the carriage's roof. The bearded lederhosen-clad driver waved. Judith and Renie waved back.\n\n\"The local version of a taxi?\" Renie wondered aloud. \"Why didn't we hail it? I'm tired of walking. You must be pooped.\"\n\n\"I am,\" Judith admitted, \"but we have to play the game. If it is a game. Frankly, I have doubts.\"\n\n\"So you said. I'm beginning to feel the same way. For one thing, I can't see Inbred Heffalump going to all this trouble to bug you.\"\n\n\"True. It'd involve too much coordination, cooperation, and imagination\u2014and Ingrid doesn't have much of the third commodity.\" Judith didn't speak again until they were on the other side of the street. \"If Eleanor was released after confessing to a homicide Connie insists she couldn't have committed, where is Ellie?\" She didn't wait for Renie to answer. \"And what's with Franz Wessler? Did he also confess? Either this is the most inept bunch of cops I've ever come across or . . .\" She shook her head. \"I just don't know.\"\n\n\"Baffled, huh?\" Renie said cheerfully. \"It's about time.\"\n\nThey'd almost reached the corner across from the police station when a squad car pulled out. \"Hey,\" Judith called, seeing Duomo behind the wheel. Frantically, she waved her hand.\n\nThe vehicle almost slammed into the curb. \"Got something for me?\" the chief asked, sticking his head out of the window.\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith replied. \"Should we come back later?\"\n\n\"Heck, no,\" Duomo said. \"Hop in. We're going to the beer tasting.\"\n\n\"But . . .\" Judith began\u2014and stopped. \"Sure, why not?\"\n\nThe cousins got into the backseat. Ernie was up front with the chief. \"Gosh,\" Renie said, \"now I feel like a perp.\"\n\nJudith ignored the remark, but had a question for the chief. \"Isn't the beer tasting this evening?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Duomo said, heading for the main street. \"But the city budget's tight. We're the health inspectors, too, so we have to sample the brews.\" He glanced at Ernie. \"Helluva job, huh, Major?\"\n\nErnie grunted his assent.\n\nThey were headed down the main street, approaching the exhibitor booths. \"We found a bottle in a bust,\" Judith said, leaning forward to make sure Duomo could hear her.\n\n\"Whose bust?\" the chief asked. \"Did somebody get busted?\" He turned back to his subordinate. \"Did I miss a collar around here?\"\n\nErnie shrugged.\n\n\"It was at the bookstore,\" Judith finally said.\n\n\"The bookstore?\" The chief sounded puzzled. \"Hell, I haven't been in that place for years. Don't have time to read books. Same thing with Ernie here. Says they put him to sleep. Ha ha.\"\n\nJudith was practically gnashing her teeth. \"I'll explain when we stop. Where is the beer tasting?\"\n\n\"Just beyond the pancake house,\" the chief informed her. \"It's a little park that goes halfway down the bank to the river. Real nice.\"\n\nJudith glimpsed the B&B booth, which looked busy. Moments later, they pulled into the small parking area. All of the spots were taken. Duomo stopped the squad car at an angle, blocking a half-dozen cars from making an exit.\n\n\"Damn,\" he grumbled, \"they were supposed to reserve a VIP slot for me. Didn't Orville put in my request?\"\n\n\"Guess not,\" Ernie said\u2014and yawned.\n\n\"What the hey,\" the chief muttered before turning around. \"You want to show me whatever you've got there, Mrs. Flynn?\"\n\n\"I can't pass it through the screen between us,\" Judith said.\n\nDuomo sighed. \"Okay, let's do it.\" Huffing and puffing, he got out of the car and opened the door for the cousins.\n\nAfter Renie give her a boost, Judith placed the plastic bag on the hood. \"We went to Sadie's Stories,\" she explained. \"A little boy knocked over a bust of Thomas Mann. It broke and\u2014\"\n\n\"Who?\" the chief asked.\n\n\"Thomas . . . never mind.\" Judith opened the bag so Duomo could look inside. \"That bottle was in or by the hollow bust. It has no label, so I'm curious why anybody would ditch an empty bottle.\"\n\n\"Yeah, it could be one of those little shots they sell on planes and trains,\" the chief said, studying the bag's contents.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" Judith said. \"This looks more like a medicine bottle. It's the wrong shape for the kind sold to travelers. Besides, the brand name is usually on the cap's top and there's nothing on this one.\"\n\nDuomo chortled. \"That calls for a cap joke, but I can't think of one. Can't even think of one about a derby.\"\n\n\"Skip the jokes,\" Judith retorted. \"Shall I hang on to this or could Ernie take it back to the station?\"\n\nThe chief mulled over the query. \"Well . . . I guess.\" He glanced into the car. \"The major dozed off. Only guy I know who sleeps it off before he drinks.\" He leaned inside to shake Ernie's arm. \"Firefight! Move on out!\"\n\nThe cousins backed away while Ernie received his instructions. He got behind the wheel and was about to drive off when Judith yelled at the chief to take the plastic bag off the hood.\n\n\"Right, right,\" Duomo said wearily. \"I hate these high-end investigations. Suspects and witnesses and . . .\" He handed the bag to Ernie and started for the beer-tasting tent.\n\n\"Wait!\" Judith called.\n\n\"Now what?\" Duomo asked, exasperated.\n\nJudith's patience was strained, but she remained civil. \"You want our help solving this so-called case. Why did Franz Wessler go to headquarters earlier today?\"\n\n\"Oh, that,\" Duomo said, shaking his head. \"He tried to tell me he'd killed his father. That's bull. He's covering for somebody.\"\n\n\"Eleanor Denkel?\" Judith said.\n\n\"No. She's got some ax to grind, always does. Besides, she has an alibi. A pal of hers showed up a little while ago to say they'd been together when Wessler got stabbed. Friends alibi friends, and that's a fact, but I kind of believed this . . . what was her name?\" He scratched his bald head. \"Bowlegs? Boohoo?\"\n\n\"Connie Beaulieu,\" Judith said. \"Yes, I heard the same thing. Who do you think Franz is protecting?\"\n\nDuomo shrugged. \"His ex-wife, Klara? That doesn't make much sense, since she seemed kind of keen on the old guy. Still, it could be a lovers' quarrel. Never could figure out what was going on with that bunch. I mean, old Wessler was getting up there. That is, I wouldn't think he could get it . . . never mind. I better test those beers.\"\n\n\"That,\" Judith said after Duomo disappeared inside the tent, \"is one sorry excuse for a law officer.\"\n\n\"Maybe the small-town hick is an act to fool criminals,\" Renie said.\n\n\"Then he's got it down pat,\" Judith declared. \"I believe it. Though . . .\" She eyed her cousin curiously. \"This situation is different from most cases we've run into. In small towns, we've usually dealt with county law enforcement. If Duomo doesn't have the money or the personnel, why doesn't he call in the sheriff or even the state?\"\n\n\"Bad PR,\" Renie said. \"Der Alte is whacked just as the Oktoberfest event kicks off? This town's built on tourism. Otherwise, it would've died when it ceased being a timber and railroad town. The population's around a thousand hardy mountain souls. Yes, they've got winter sports, but there are other towns nearby. If any of them had two homicides in as many months, they'd set some sort of per capita record.\"\n\n\"I keep forgetting that you're involved in PR with your graphic-design business. However,\" Judith went on, going back to the main street, \"years ago, you told me that murder was good for my business.\"\n\n\"That's different,\" Renie said. \"You're in the city. People expect murders. And I don't see that it's hurt your bottom line.\"\n\n\"That's difficult to judge.\" Judith paused as they approached the busy exhibitors' area. In the past few minutes, clouds had rolled in from the north and the air had turned cooler. She wondered if the change would dampen the visitors' spirits. Murder hadn't seemed to faze them. \"Most of my guests don't know I'm FASTO,\" she went on. \"As long as Ingrid doesn't blackball me or pull my license, I should be okay.\"\n\n\"Sure, until your next guest checks out permanently.\"\n\n\"Shut up!\" Judith cried, walking faster. \"Let's switch subjects. What will you do while I'm at the town hall organizers' meeting?\"\n\n\"Take notes,\" Renie replied. \"I'm still the sleuth, aren't I?\"\n\n\"I suppose you are,\" Judith conceded. \"I don't imagine anybody will ask for your bona fides.\"\n\n\"I don't have any,\" Renie said, \"unless you count my HMO ID and my Nordquist card. Think I maxed that out last August. It's fifteen to four,\" she went on, looking up at the clock tower. \"Maybe I'll buy a warmer sweater. I saw one I liked where I bought Bill's cap.\"\n\n\"Why not just go back to the inn and get one of your own?\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"It's more fun to buy something new.\"\n\n\"How are you going to pay for it?\"\n\n\"Huh? Oh\u2014I've still got my debit card. If Bill hasn't gone to the bakery to buy his special treats, I should have a couple of grand left in that account. Those napoleons and Italian slippers tend to add up.\"\n\nJudith shook her head, marveling anew at how the Joneses could keep up with their spending\u2014let alone keep up with anyone else named Jones. The cousins parted company a block and a half from the town hall. The two-story building was located on the block between the bandstand and the police headquarters.\n\nAfter crossing the street, Judith gazed up at the numerous flags flying from what she assumed was a replica of an original Bayern village town hall. She already recognized the blue-and-white-checkered state flag of Bavaria, but there were several variations. Cities, towns, municipalities, she thought, or counties\u2014if there were counties in Germany. The trip that she and Renie had taken before their respective marriages hadn't included much information about the nuts and bolts of the country's government. The cousins had been too enthralled sailing up the Rhine River, attending High Mass at the Cologne Cathedral, exploring Heidelberg's ancient castle above the River Neckar, and marveling at how efficiently Munich had been rebuilt despite extensive Allied bombing. But the flags intrigued her, particularly a playful depiction of a comical boar tromping through the forest against a black-and-white background.\n\n\"Quite the display, eh?\" said a voice behind Judith.\n\n\"Oh!\" She turned to see Delmar Denkel looking obsequious. \"Yes, I was wondering if the flags represented cities within the state of Bavaria. Do you know anything about German government divisions?\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Delmar cleared his throat. \"Dachau is in Bavaria.\"\n\n\"It is?\" Judith said in surprise. \"I didn't realize that.\"\n\n\"So is Bertesgarten, Hitler's mountain retreat.\"\n\n\"Those sites weren't on our itinerary forty years ago.\"\n\n\"They wouldn't be, would they?\" Delmar said quietly.\n\n\"People visit those places now,\" Judith said, feeling a stiff wind from off the mountains. \"It's a lesson in how wrong a country can go under a charismatic but evil leader.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Delmar agreed, looking around as if he expected to see an SS officer eavesdropping on them. \"A reminder to future generations.\"\n\n\"You've visited Germany?\" she asked.\n\nDelmar nodded.\n\n\"Recently?\"\n\n\"This spring. Eleanor and I were there for two weeks.\" The words seemed wrung out of him, as if they were a confession.\n\n\"Ah . . . how is Eleanor?\"\n\n\"She's resting today.\" He gestured helplessly. \"You understand.\"\n\nJudith wasn't sure she did. But she tried to look sympathetic. \"Are you going inside to meet the Oktoberfest organizers? I mean, if Ellie isn't up to it . . .\" She let the rest of the sentence dangle.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Delmar replied, pulling up the collar of his suede jacket around his scrawny neck. \"I really don't. I'll walk a bit now.\"\n\nHe went on his way. Judith stood still, wondering what to make of the conversation\u2014and of Delmar Denkel. A handful of other people were heading for the town hall. Judith decided to join them, but took one last look at the flags that were now snapping in the chilly autumn wind.\n\nShe shivered, not sure if it was from the sudden change in the weather\u2014or something more sinister from out of the past.\n\nThe town hall was aptly named. The pine-paneled walls in the open area led to offices on two sides, a single staircase, and an elevator. Directly in front of Judith was the hall itself, also covered in mellow pine. A balcony went around three sides. She calculated that the large room must take up more than three-fourths of the building.\n\nAt least fifty people were already gathered, sipping wine and beer from casks mounted on a trestle table where the bald Fritz II held sway. Judith didn't see any of the B&B contingent. In fact, the only person she did recognize besides the bartender from Wolfgang's Gast Haus was Suzie Stafford, who was chatting amiably with an older couple wearing Bavarian garb.\n\nFeeling ill at ease, she approached the trestle table. Being neither a wine nor a beer drinker, she motioned to Fritz II. \"What would you suggest?\" she asked diffidently.\n\n\"A nice Liebfraumilch?\" he suggested with the hint of an accent.\n\n\"Um . . . sure.\" While Fritz II poured the white wine into a large sturdy goblet, she looked up at the assortment of mounted animal heads, including a tiger. \"Where was that poor cat shot? In a Bavarian zoo?\"\n\nFritz shook his head. \"No. In India, by Herr Wessler on one of his hunting trips.\" He moved a thick finger around the room. \"All these animals are his trophies. He was a great hunter.\"\n\n\"I didn't know that,\" Judith said. \"I also don't know the actual organizer of the Oktoberfest.\"\n\n\"Herman Stromeyer,\" he said, handing her the goblet. \"But he's got the flu, so I'm filling in for him this evening. I'm the mayor.\"\n\nJudith stared and almost sloshed wine on the blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth. \"You are? Why are you tending bar?\"\n\nHe shrugged his broad shoulders. \"I like doing it during Oktoberfest. I enjoy meeting people.\"\n\n\"Is your name really Fritz?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes. Fritz Gruber. I was born in Bremen. I came here twenty years ago with my American bride. She's from Omaha.\"\n\n\"But you ended up here,\" Judith remarked before taking her first sip of wine.\n\nFritz nodded. \"Herr Wessler was a distant relation. He urged us to move to Little Bavaria. He thought Omaha was too flat. He was right. It's best to live where one can look at mountains.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I've grown up with them.\" She savored the wine. \"This is quite good.\"\n\n\"You have no palate?\"\n\n\"I don't,\" she admitted. \"My first husband owned a restaurant and I tended bar there sometimes. I got used to the hard stuff.\" Not to mention, she thought, the hard times keeping the place afloat.\n\n\"Ah. A shame. Wine is better for you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith allowed, \"you may be right. I should offer condolences about Herr Wessler. He was what\u2014a cousin?\"\n\nFritz grimaced. \"Yes, though I never knew him in the old country. But our kinsmen kept in touch.\"\n\n\"Speaking of family, here's my cousin Serena,\" Judith said, spotting Renie in a red cable-knit sweater. \"She's also ignorant of wine.\"\n\n\"Hi, coz, hi, Fritz,\" Renie said, waving her hand at one of the casks. \"Pour me a blistering dark brew, thick as malt, brown as a bear's butt.\"\n\nJudith took a backward step. \"You sound belligerent.\"\n\n\"I am,\" Renie replied, eyeing Fritz warily. \"Don't shortchange me,\" she warned him, before turning back to her cousin. \"I had to fight off some beefy broad for this sweater. As if she could fit into it, even if it is a large. I left her flat on her ass somewhere in dirndls.\"\n\n\"Coz!\" Judith cried. \"You didn't!\"\n\n\"Yes, I did. I had my eye on this sweater. You think I'd let some big mama get her paws on it?\" Renie twirled around. \"How do I look?\"\n\n\"Like the Red Menace,\" Judith said. \"Take it easy. This is Fritz Gruber. He's the mayor.\"\n\nRenie regarded Fritz with a dubious eye. \"The hell you are. I'm not even sure you're Fritz.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I am,\" he replied, looking amused. \"Do you want your beer in a bucket?\"\n\n\"Why not? Or I could just lie on the floor and you could open the tap.\" But Renie held up a hand. \"A stein will do. Are you really a Fritz?\"\n\n\"I am indeed. Are you otherwise enjoying yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" Renie said. \"It's started to rain. That always cheers me.\"\n\nFritz handed Renie her stein. \"How jolly do you get with snow?\"\n\n\"I resort to weaponry.\" She glared at Judith, who'd glared at her first. \"Let's stop annoying Fritz. He's got other customers lined up.\" She flashed a smile at the bartender and moved away from the trestle table.\n\n\"It's a good thing I don't recognize most of this crowd,\" Judith grumbled. \"You not only embarrassed me, but I never got a chance to ask Fritz about his version of Wessler's demise.\"\n\n\"Crikey,\" Renie said indifferently. \"You'll get another crack at him. What on earth are you drinking?\"\n\n\"Liebfraumilch,\" Judith said, still annoyed. \"Doesn't Bill sometimes like to have a glass of . . . oh, no! Here comes Connie.\"\n\n\"Has she confessed to the murder yet?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith replied. \"I wonder what happened to Delmar?\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Eleanor's husband. I saw him just before I came\u2014\" Judith broke off, forcing a smile as Connie approached. \"Hi, how are you? I missed seeing you after your stint at the booth.\"\n\nConnie looked puzzled. \"Why were you looking for me?\"\n\n\"I wasn't,\" Judith blurted. \"George was doing the looking.\"\n\n\"George,\" Connie said truculently, \"fusses too much.\" She glanced over her shoulder. \"Speaking of which, I heard from Ingrid Heffelman today. She told me not to believe a word you told us. It's a wonder she let you join the rest of us for our exhibit. She also related a horrifying story about how you were almost killed last winter in your B&B.\"\n\nJudith forced a laugh. \"That's Ingrid's way of protecting my cousin.\" She darted a glance at Renie. \"Remember that poor man who fell out of his wheelchair and knocked me down?\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"It's a good thing Arlene came back with that tomato paste, so she could help you get up. How come Arlene uses so much tomato paste? She must make a lot of casseroles.\"\n\n\"She does,\" Judith said. \"She got into the habit while raising five kids. And Carl loves a casserole.\"\n\n\"So does Bill.\" Renie wrinkled her pug nose. \"I wish I did. You got any really good casserole recipes, Connie?\"\n\nThe other woman was looking perplexed. \"George doesn't care for noodles. Here he comes. He'll take forever to choose a wine. His dream is to have his own vineyard.\" Connie moved off to join her husband.\n\n\"Twerp,\" Renie remarked, after taking a swig of beer.\n\nJudith made a face. \"How did Ingrid hear about my near-death experience last January? The media was shut down by the police.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"All it takes is one person with a big mouth. Okay, so what now? Collar Suzie about the late and allegedly lamented Bob? Maybe if she gets loaded, she'll reveal something.\"\n\n\"Not a bad idea,\" Judith agreed. \"She, too, is heading for the bar.\"\n\n\"She cleans up pretty good,\" Renie remarked.\n\nJudith discreetly studied Suzie Stafford as she waited her turn at the trestle table. Her tall, rangy figure was dressed in a black satin blouse and slacks, accented by a double strand of pearls. The dark hair she'd tucked into a net at work now fell gracefully onto her shoulders. \"Mourning? Or prowling?\" Judith murmured.\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, also lowering her voice, \"even you weren't looking for another husband two months after Dan died.\"\n\n\"I never was. I just happened to find Joe again two years later.\"\n\nRenie smiled wryly. \"Reunited over a corpse. How romantic.\"\n\nJudith shot Renie a sharp look. \"How's your beer, big mouth?\"\n\n\"Not bad,\" Renie replied, \"considering it's beer.\"\n\n\"You're drinking it like you love it.\"\n\nRenie frowned at the half-empty stein. \"Huh. So I am. Huh.\"\n\n\"Behave,\" Judith whispered. \"Here comes Suzie.\"\n\n\"Good. I can sleuth,\" Renie said.\n\n\"What are you two doing here?\" Suzie asked, holding a glass of red wine in both hands. \"I thought you were just passing through.\"\n\n\"We decided to stay for the Oktoberfest,\" Judith replied. \"It takes my mind off my late husband.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Renie said, \"he won't get here until seven. Ha ha.\"\n\nJudith glared at her cousin. \"That's not funny!\"\n\n\"Good grief,\" Renie said. \"Tell Suze the truth and get it over with.\"\n\nJudith blanched, but knew Renie was right. \"Look, Suzie, I have been widowed, but I've remarried. Chief Duomo told us about Bob's death and I'm very sorry for you. But he also asked for our help.\"\n\nSuzie looked incredulous. \"Fat Matt wants your help? Why?\"\n\nJudith touched Renie's arm. \"My cousin Serena Jones is a private investigator. The chief is short-staffed. He asked her to consult not only on Wessler's death, but your husband's as well.\"\n\nSuzie's incredulity seemed to increase as she stared at Renie. \"You're a PI? You've got to be kidding!\"\n\n\"Hey!\" Renie cried. \"Watch it! The spouse is the prime suspect.\"\n\n\"Back at you!\" Suzie shouted. \"You look about as much like a detective as I look like Ava Gardner!\"\n\n\"You look more like Ava's gardener,\" Renie snarled. \"Or maybe you look more like Ava now, since she's dead!\"\n\n\"Coz!\" Judith used her free hand to grab Renie's wrist. \"Stop it! You two are creating a scene.\"\n\nRenie and Suzie both looked around. At least a dozen people, including Connie and George Beaulieu, were gaping at the pair.\n\n\"Screw it,\" Renie muttered. She took another swig from her stein and stalked off toward the stuffed tiger.\n\nJudith felt a hand on her arm. \"Mrs. Flynn, are you okay?\"\n\nFeeling slightly dazed, Judith didn't recognize the young man at first. \"Gabe! I'm fine. I think.\" She saw Suzie stomping in the opposite direction from where Renie had gone. The Beaulieus had melted into the crowd. \"My cousin and Mrs. Stafford got into an argument, that's all.\"\n\n\"Why don't I get you a refill on your wine?\" Gabe offered. \"I think you spilled some of it when you grabbed your cousin.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Judith looked down at the serviceable carpet and saw a large stain. \"Goodness, I didn't mean to make a mess. You're right\u2014my glass is almost empty. I'll go with you.\"\n\nGabe glanced at his watch. \"We'd better hurry. It's six-thirty. Mr. Gruber is giving his mayoral spiel in a few minutes. I don't know if he's tending bar solo or . . . he isn't. There's the other Fritz from Wolfgang's.\"\n\nJudith had also spotted Barry. \"Hi,\" she said as Gabe approached Fritz Gruber. \"I thought you had to work at the Gast Haus tonight.\"\n\nBarry shook his head. \"I'm only filling in. Between this event and everybody waiting for the beer tasting, there's not much action at Wolfgang's. This is a short gig. Then I'll take Jessi to the beer garden.\" He lowered his voice. \"How's Mom?\"\n\nJudith blanked. \"Mom?\"\n\n\"Oh\u2014Suzie. Guess I didn't formally introduce myself at the bookstore. I'm Barry Stafford, Suzie and Bob's son.\"\nChapter Nine\n\nJudith was stunned. \"I'd no idea. I'm sorry about your father.\"\n\n\"Me, too.\" Barry shrugged. \"That's why I came back from Germany sooner than I expected. I couldn't leave Mom alone. She seems tough, but . . . she looked upset when she was talking to you and your cousin.\"\n\n\"Serena and your mother kind of got into it,\" Judith said reluctantly. \"My cousin's feisty and your mom is obviously walking a thin line. Not that I blame her.\"\n\nBarry nodded. \"I noticed Mrs. Jones doesn't take prisoners when I was at the bookstore. Was she ever in Roller Derby?\"\n\nThe idea of the uncoordinated Renie zooming around competitors on a fast rink made Judith laugh out loud. \"Oh, no! She's not athletic.\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Barry was looking beyond Judith. \"I won't comment on that. Hi,\" he said to Renie. \"You need a refill for that stein?\"\n\n\"I sure do,\" Renie said, barging past Judith. \"Fill 'er up. I just faced off with a tiger. I won. I have bigger teeth.\"\n\n\"Bigger mouth, too,\" Judith muttered, stepping aside to join Gabe.\n\n\"You make friends easily,\" he said, handing over the wineglass. \"That's a must for an innkeeper. I have to force myself to be outgoing.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"I like people. I always have.\" Her gaze followed Fritz Gruber, who was putting on his blue Bavarian jacket. Moving from behind the trestle table, he paused to greet several guests before exiting the hall. \"Where's he going?\" she asked.\n\n\"Upstairs to the balcony,\" Renie said, holding her refilled stein. \"They have a stage behind those movable panels in back of the bar setup, but Barry told me they didn't want to bother moving everything. Fritz will be mercifully brief. For a German.\"\n\n\"Watch it,\" Judith warned.\n\nRenie frowned at Gabe. \"You're German, too?\"\n\nGabe laughed. \"No, I'm English and Swiss.\"\n\nA cowbell sounded over the crowd's chatter. Judith looked up to see Fritz Gruber on the balcony, smiling benignly at the gathering. \"Willkommen!\" he called. Virtually all of the guests applauded.\n\n\"Good,\" Renie said under her breath. \"If the whole thing's in German, I can nod off.\"\n\nBut Fritz immediately switched to English. \"We are delighted to have so many fine exhibitors at Oktoberfest. Each year we attract more visitors as well as merchants and organizations. We only have one main street, but it goes both ways . . .\"\n\n\"Double yawn,\" Renie murmured. \"Civic blah-blah. Same as corporate blah-blah. I'm bored. Maybe I'll go hit somebody.\"\n\n\"Don't embarrass us,\" Judith said through clenched teeth.\n\n\"Okay.\" Renie gestured at the entrance to the hall. \"Here comes Fat Matt and Hernandez. Are they going to arrest me?\"\n\nJudith turned around to look. \"Maybe. They're headed this way.\"\n\nFritz Gruber was winding down with a final German phrase that Judith translated as \"Let's party!\" but for all she knew, it could've been \"Avoid catching a social disease!\" Whatever it was, the crowd cheered and applauded. Taking a short bow, Fritz headed back to the staircase.\n\nGabe Hunter looked anxious. \"What the . . .\"\n\nJudith turned her gaze away from the balcony and gave a start. Hernandez was holding a pair of handcuffs. \"Gabriel Philip Hunter, you're a person of interest in the murder of Dietrich Wessler. Will you come along quietly or do I need to cuff you?\"\n\nAll eyes shifted away from the balcony. The gathering was stunned into silence. No one looked more shocked than Gabe Hunter.\n\n\"I . . . I don't know what . . . yes, of course . . . but . . .\" he babbled.\n\nDuomo nodded once. \"Then let's hit it.\"\n\nThe chief walked on one side of Gabe, Hernandez on the other. Judith realized that Duomo hadn't seen her standing next to Gabe or, if he had, didn't care. Her perplexity concerning the local top cop was growing blurrier by the minute.\n\nOr maybe it's the wine, she thought, noticing that her second glass was half empty.\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, \"I could use a refill. How 'bout you?\"\n\n\"You're cross-eyed,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Can't be,\" Renie said, rocking a bit on her heels. \"Never been able to eyes my cross. I mean\u2014\"\n\n\"No more refills,\" Judith declared. \"Not for both of us. I mean, either of us.\" She frowned. \"Don't I?\"\n\n\"Don't you what?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Judith admitted. \"Let's get out of here.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Renie drained her stein. \"Let's go to the beer tasting.\"\n\n\"We can't,\" Judith said. \"I mean, we shouldn't.\" She winced. \"Oh, what the hell . . . why not? We can walk it off.\"\n\n\"Good idea,\" Renie said, thrusting her empty mug at a startled silver-haired dowager. \"Wiedersehen, Frau Chump.\"\n\nA soft rain was falling when the cousins reached the street. Being natives, they hardly noticed. Judith suddenly realized she was still holding her wineglass. \"Damn! I have to take this back.\"\n\n\"Just put it on top of that parked . . . wow\u2014it's a mega Mercedes!\"\n\nJudith gazed at the sleek dark blue sedan. \"Oh, why not?\" She walked to the curb and placed the glass on the car's hood. Glancing at the windshield, she gasped before scurrying back to where Renie was waiting. \"Good grief! I just caught part of an X-rated show!\"\n\n\"What kind of show? Live or taped?\"\n\n\"Live, very much alive. It was just . . . bodies,\" Judith said, hurrying to the corner crosswalk. \"Moving bodies.\"\n\n\"Moving's good,\" Renie said. \"That means they aren't dead.\"\n\n\"I wonder who it is,\" Judith mused as they crossed the street and passed their own inn. \"There's your boar, cavorting with those kids and some guy in a blue-and-white-checkered shirt.\"\n\nRenie followed her cousin's gaze. \"That's a sixteenth-century tabard with the Bavarian colors. If I were an actual sleuth and not a cross-eyed sot, I'd say that vanity license plate on the Mercedes is a . . . what do you real detecting types call those things? A clue?\"\n\nJudith stopped abruptly to stare at her cousin. \"What was it?\"\n\nRenie spelled it out. \"W-E-S-L-E-R.\"\n\nJudith put a hand to her forehead. \"As in 'Wessler'?\"\n\n\"Yes. You know that with this state's vanity plates, you can't use more than six numbers or figures.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" She narrowed her eyes at Renie. \"You're not drunk.\"\n\n\"Of course I'm not,\" Renie replied impatiently. \"I just wanted to get out of there. I'll bet the next thing we would've had to endure was another oompah . . . oh, no!\" she cried as the sounds of a brass band could be heard from farther down the street. \"They're coming this way!\"\n\n\"We're going the other way,\" Judith said. \"Keep walking.\"\n\nThe cousins did just that, wincing slightly as the oompah band tromped past them a few yards away from the now-shuttered B&B booth.\n\n\"It's not that I don't like the music,\" Renie murmured as they approached the beer garden. \"It's just kind of loud.\"\n\n\"What?\" Judith said, the cheerful noise from the tented area in front of them seeming to resonate off the mountains.\n\nRenie merely shook her head.\n\nThe beer-tasting event was jammed. Boisterous laughter filled the tent, though no one seemed to be openly intoxicated. Judith noticed that a table had been set up with food, including various Bratw\u00fcrste.\n\n\"I'm hungry,\" she said in Renie's ear. \"I'm getting something to eat. How about you?\"\n\nRenie eyed the offerings with distaste. \"Sorry, coz. Bill likes bratwurst, but I don't. I'll just stand here and starve. As my mother would say, 'Don't worry about me.' \"\n\n\"I won't,\" Judith said, making her way to the table. The selection was mouthwatering. When Judith and Dan McMonigle had lived in the otherwise bleak Thurlow neighborhood, one of the few stellar attractions\u2014unless you counted the hookers near the airport\u2014was a shop featuring German delicacies.\n\n\"What do you like best?\" Eleanor Denkel inquired.\n\nJudith hadn't noticed her fellow innkeeper behind the table. \"Ellie! I thought you were at Hanover Haus.\"\n\n\"Or in a prison cell?\" Eleanor retorted. \"You must think I'm insane.\"\n\n\"Hardly,\" Judith replied, distracted by trying to choose between the Kulmbacher and the W\u00fcrzburger brats. \"I think you signed a false confession to divert the police. Duomo doesn't take you or Franz Wessler seriously. Nice try, though. I'll have a W\u00fcrzburger with the works.\"\n\n\"You would,\" Ellie muttered. \"If you're not FATSO, how do you know that?\"\n\n\"I told you, my cousin is FASTO. And don't stint on the mustard.\"\n\nEllie glared at Judith. \"Which kind?\"\n\n\"The hot one.\"\n\n\"You would,\" Ellie repeated. \"Does your cousin know who killed my grandfather?\"\n\n\"She's working on it.\" Judith glanced over her shoulder, but couldn't see Renie anywhere in the crowd. \"She's been interrogating suspects. You might not think so to look at her, but she's very smart.\"\n\n\"She hides it superbly,\" Ellie growled, slathering condiments on the brat. \"I should ask Ingrid what she thinks about your claim not to be the innkeeper who can't keep her guests alive.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"Go ahead. It's very hard to disabuse Ingrid of an idea once she gets it in her head. I gave up years ago. It's not my fault if I happen to be with Serena every time she comes across a corpse.\" She paused. \"I assume you know that a person of interest was taken from the town hall to headquarters just minutes ago.\"\n\nEllie almost dropped the meat fork. \"No! Who?\"\n\n\"Another innkeeper,\" Judith said casually. \"You may know him. Gabe Hunter from the Kingfish Peninsula.\"\n\nEllie handed over the bratwurst and its lavish condiments. \"I've met him,\" she said, puzzled, \"but he hasn't been in the business very long. His parents were the former owners. That doesn't sound right. Has the chief lost his mind?\"\n\nJudith cradled the plate and leaned closer. \"When's your grandfather's funeral?\"\n\nThe other woman's face tensed. \"Why? Do you plan to attend?\"\n\n\"I assume you wouldn't hold it during Oktoberfest.\"\n\nEllie had regained her aplomb. \"It's scheduled for Saint Hubert's feast day. I believe you're Catholic, so you realize the local church is named for him. In fact, Grossvater was a member of the Knights of Saint Hubert, awarded for his service in postwar Germany. Saint Hubert's feast day is November third. That's almost two weeks away. I trust you'll be gone by then,\" she added with apparent pleasure.\n\n\"Yes. Are you and Uncle Franz making the arrangements?\"\n\nEllie's face tensed again. \"No. Klara is in charge. She knows the priest who says the weekend Masses. Father Dash will be here Sunday.\"\n\nJudith wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. \"Father Dash?\"\n\nEleanor nodded. \"That's what Klara calls him. Excuse me, Judith. Other people are waiting to be served. Please move on.\"\n\nAnd just when it was getting interesting, Judith thought, clutching her plate and searching among the beer tasters for Renie. The red sweater ought to have been easy to spot, but there was no sign of her cousin. Judith contented herself with standing near the tent opening and enjoying the bratwurst and its numerous accompaniments.\n\nShe had finished eating when she felt a tap on her shoulder. \"Hi, coz,\" Renie said, entering the tent with a big bag of popcorn and a large Pepsi. \"How's the brat?\"\n\nJudith recovered from her surprise. \"You mean what I ate or Eleanor Denkel?\"\n\nRenie scowled. \"Eleanor's here?\"\n\n\"She's manning the Bratw\u00fcrste,\" Judith said. \"Ellie admitted she didn't kill Herr Wessler. But it seems as if he's really dead.\"\n\n\"No kidding,\" Renie said, after slurping down some Pepsi. \"Have they got him propped up here with the beer kegs?\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"They'll hold the funeral at Saint Hubert's Church. The way Ellie talked about it, I don't think she was lying. That means we really have to sleuth.\"\n\n\"I thought we already were,\" Renie said, before tossing a big handful of popcorn in her mouth.\n\n\"Well . . . I always hedge my bets.\" Judith couldn't quite quell her mixed emotions. \"It has to be the most peculiar case I've ever come across. And I'm not just talking about the local cops. What on earth does Gabe Hunter have to do with Herr Wessler? I wonder what kind of background check Duomo ran on him.\"\n\nRenie had stuffed more popcorn in her mouth. \"Mebedint.\"\n\nJudith had learned to translate her cousin's eat-and-speak long ago. \"He must've checked out Gabe. The chief would need to make a connection in order to find a motive. As for witnesses, we know what a zoo that must've been like at the cocktail party.\"\n\nRenie swallowed the popcorn. \"We would? We left, remember?\"\n\n\"Now I wish we'd stayed.\" Judith took her empty plate to a nearby bin. \"Where did you get popcorn and Pepsi?\"\n\n\"I remembered I didn't like beer that much,\" Renie explained. \"Besides, you have to buy tickets to sample the various different kinds. I'll only drink beer if it's free.\"\n\n\"Good thinking,\" Judith said. \"So where'd you get your snack?\"\n\n\"They're showing old German movies on a screen in a tent down the street. I've seen plenty of Fritz Lang, so I stayed only for the food and pop part. Hey, you look gloomy. Want to go have some real dinner?\"\n\n\"Huh?\" Judith had only half heard her cousin. \"Oh\u2014dinner? No, I'm full. Ellie didn't cheat on the serving. Maybe we can have a late supper. Can you last that long?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said. \"I just wish they'd put more butter on the popcorn. I asked for extra, but got extra small.\" She frowned at Judith. \"What's bothering you? Should I attack somebody as a diversion?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith replied, peeking outside to see if the rain was falling any harder. It wasn't\u2014in fact, it looked like a mere drizzle. \"Let's go to Wolfgang's. We need to ask some questions.\"\n\nRenie smirked. \"You have a theory.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Judith said as they made their exit, \"not exactly. But I wonder if all this confessing and arresting isn't a stall. The organizers\u2014including Fritz Gruber\u2014wouldn't like a real homicide charge until after Oktoberfest is over, right? That'd make for bad publicity. I wonder if they've closed ranks.\"\n\n\"Isn't that dangerous?\"\n\n\"Oh, come on, coz,\" Judith said, surprised to see how many people were on the street, cheerfully milling about and enjoying the damp, fresh autumn air. \"You've worked with PR types for years. You know how they react to anything that's negative.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said, making way for a couple with a baby in what looked like the Rolls-Royce of strollers, \"but it seldom involves murder.\"\n\n\"It can,\" Judith said, \"as we both know.\"\n\nRenie sighed. \"Hey\u2014you've walked too much, you've been standing too long. Let's stop at . . .\" Her gaze swung left. \"Wolfgang's bar.\"\n\n\"That's where we're going.\"\n\n\"I know,\" Renie said, \"but I had visions of you accosting the first person we met inside the door and interrogating everybody right down to that grumpy chef. We need to take a break.\"\n\nJudith didn't argue. The crime-scene tape was gone from the entrance. A sudden calm met them in the lobby. During the past few hours, Judith had become so inured to the raucous sound of revelry that she suddenly realized her need for peace and quiet. Even the front desk was deserted. An arrow pointed to the dining room and bar in the opposite direction from where the cocktail party had been held the previous night.\n\nExcept for a couple who seemed absorbed in each other, the bar was empty. No one seemed to be serving drinks, though the occupied table had wineglasses that appeared to be at least half full.\n\n\"You have to ring for service,\" the male customer said. \"There's a bell on the bar.\"\n\nRenie rang the bell. Loudly. \"Now what?\" she said to Judith.\n\n\"We could serve ourselves,\" Judith murmured. \"I have experience.\"\n\n\"I don't have experience as one of your Meat & Mingle clientele,\" Renie responded. \"Do I have to drool on the counter and cuss a lot?\"\n\n\"Not funny,\" Judith retorted. \"I've tried to squelch those memories for over twenty years.\"\n\nThe harried Ruby appeared through a rear door. \"You again,\" she said, her eyes showing a spark of amusement. \"What'll it be this time?\"\n\n\"You have two jobs?\" Judith said in surprise.\n\n\"I'd have three, if I could find another one,\" Ruby snapped. \"Burt blogs, but he doesn't earn. Well? You thirsty or what?\"\n\n\"Scotch-rocks,\" Judith said. \"Water back, house brand will do.\"\n\n\"Canadian,\" Renie said, \"with ice, 7UP, and rocks. Make it Crown Royal and I'll pay for it.\"\n\nRuby shot Renie a disapproving look. \"Lose the popcorn and the soda. We don't allow outside food in here.\"\n\n\"It's not outside,\" Renie said. \"It's already here.\"\n\n\"You heard . . .\" the waitress began.\n\nJudith snatched the offending items away from her cousin and handed them over. \"Ignore her. She's from the Meat & Mingle. If she gets rowdy, I'll toss her.\"\n\nRuby's eyes widened. \"The Meat & Mingle? You mean that old dump in the Thurlow part of the city? I thought that place went broke right after my dad got arrested there.\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Judith was speechless.\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, leaning on the bar, \"did he get busted for stealing the owner's wife's purse?\"\n\nRuby seemed almost as shaken as Judith. \"Yeah, except it was her wallet. Another drunk ratted on him to an off-duty cop. How do you know that? It was twenty years ago, when I was still in high school.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" Renie said, \"then the drinks are on you. Meet the victim, the former Mrs. McMonigle, now Mrs. Flynn, but always Judith.\"\n\n\"I'll be damned,\" Ruby murmured. \"Do I need your ID as proof?\"\n\nJudith had found her voice. \"Was your father fair-haired going bald, five ten, two hundred pounds with a wart over his right eye and a USN tattoo on the left forearm? Hung out with a guy called Big Bad Something-or-Other.\"\n\n\"Yep,\" Ruby said, shaking hands with Judith. \"Jimmy Tooms. He croaked not long ago. His Harley went off the road after he came up here to borrow money. Mom had already dumped him.\"\n\n\"Jimmy,\" Judith said, weighing the name with all the pain and suffering that had gone along with the rest of the Meat & Mingle's tawdry clientele. \"I don't recall\u2014did he do time?\"\n\n\"Twice,\" Jimmy's daughter said, pouring Scotch from a bottle Judith didn't recognize. \"Not for pinching your wallet, though. What happened to Mr. McMonigle?\"\n\n\"He blew up,\" Judith said. \"What kind of Scotch is that?\"\n\n\"You probably wouldn't know it,\" Ruby said. \"It's from a new distillery in Scotland. Old Presentation, just released this year.\"\n\n\"So how did you end up here?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Long story,\" Ruby said, her gaze veering past the cousins. \"Better check on refills before I head back to the dining room.\" She made an endrun around the bar, heading for her other customers.\n\n\"Darn,\" Judith said under her breath. \"She's a source. Maybe we'll get lucky and most people will be at the Oktoberfest events. There's the concert and some other events tonight.\" She smiled wanly as Ruby returned to the bar. \"If we need refills, do we ring the bell again?\"\n\n\"Help yourselves,\" Ruby said. \"You've got experience. Heck, you can wait on anybody who needs a drink. I've got dinner patrons.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith said after Ruby had briskly finished her tasks and exited the bar, \"we should eat here. I wonder why Barry didn't have to work. He mentioned taking Jessi to the beer tasting, but I didn't see them there while I was waiting for you.\"\n\n\"Slow night with everything else going on,\" Renie noted. \"As for Fritz Gruber, he apparently tends bar as a lark. I suppose he's involved in some of the other doings.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Judith conceded, noting that two young women had sat down at a table near the door. \"Am I really supposed to play bartender?\"\n\n\"Why not? After twenty years, you don't want to lose your touch.\"\n\n\"I also don't want to fall down. This Scotch is really powerful.\"\n\n\"Want me to serve them?\"\n\n\"Lord, no! Have you got something against Wolfgang's?\"\n\n\"Other than a corpse last night?\" Renie shrugged. \"No, if I had that kind of reaction, I'd never come to your B&B.\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"Fine. I'll wait on the newcomers.\"\n\nThe strawberry blonde and her raven-haired chum ordered a drink Judith had never heard of. \"I'm sorry,\" she confessed. \"I'm not familiar with a cocktail called Between the Sheets. What are the ingredients?\"\n\nBoth young women giggled and jiggled. \"Wow,\" the strawberry blonde said, \"this is really small-town! I thought everybody knew what goes into Between the Sheets.\" They both giggled some more.\n\nJudith finally got the basics out of the duo. \"Ever heard of a Between the Sheets?\" she whispered to Renie.\n\n\"Only when I lose my Big Red chewing gum at night and it gets stuck to the sheets\u2014and Bill. Then I hear plenty.\"\n\nJudith juggled brandy, rum, triple sec, and lemon juice in the hope that she was close to the correct amounts. \"Why do I feel as if I'm past my pull date?\" she muttered, adding a lemon twist to each drink. \"When I started tending bar at the Meat & Mingle, I served anyone who wanted a mixed drink a martini because it was the only cocktail I knew how to make. They didn't care. I could've poured lighter fluid and they'd have been happy.\"\n\n\"I thought you did,\" Renie said. \"To cut costs, I mean.\"\n\nJudith ignored the comment and carried the drinks to the young women. \"I hope I made them the way you wanted,\" she said.\n\nThe raven-haired giggler sampled hers. \"Close enough. Is it true that some old dude got whacked here last night?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so,\" Judith said.\n\nMiss Strawberry beamed with pleasure\u2014or maybe it was excitement. \"Can we go see where it happened?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Judith said. \"It may still be a crime scene.\"\n\nThe young women looked thrilled. \"Tell us where the old guy got offed,\" Miss Raven begged. \"Can we leave our drinks to check it out?\"\n\n\"Sure, why not?\" Judith said wearily. \"It was in the ballroom.\"\n\n\"With the wrench or the lead pipe?\" Miss Strawberry asked, green eyes sparkling.\n\n\"It's not a game,\" Judith declared. \"It's a tragedy.\"\n\nBoth young women sobered. \"We know that,\" Miss Strawberry said, looking defensive. \"We came here to party, not go all grim about some poor old geezer who got himself killed just because he was a Communist. Who cares about that stuff now? It's so last century.\"\n\nJudith stared at the young woman. \"Where did you hear that?\"\n\n\"At the ski shop,\" Miss Raven said. \"A really cute guy told us.\"\n\nMiss Strawberry waved a hand in dismissal. \"That guy was a snowboard geek. The girl who was hanging out with him said the old man was a Nazi chef.\"\n\nMiss Raven made a face. \"Here?\"\n\n\"No, in Germany. You know, when they had that war over there.\"\n\n\"Which war? Did I see the movie?\"\n\n\"Hey!\" Ruby had come out from behind the bar. \"I was kidding. You don't have to work. I'll take over. We've got a dining lull.\"\n\n\"No problem,\" Judith said, reluctantly moving away from the two young women. \"I'm a bit lost with some of the newer cocktails, though.\"\n\n\"Who isn't?\" Ruby said. \"It's all about the name, not the booze.\"\n\nRenie, who'd watched Judith from her bar-stool perch, grinned at Ruby. \"I managed to pour some Canadian without spilling it.\"\n\n\"Good for you.\" Ruby wiped down the bar anyway. \"Those two on the prowl?\" she asked under her breath, nodding at the young women.\n\n\"They want to see the murder site,\" Judith said. \"Ghoulish.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah,\" Ruby agreed. \"I saw it. The murder, I mean.\"\n\nJudith couldn't hide her surprise. \"You mean the stabbing?\"\n\n\"No, just after the crowd moved away from old Wessler. It wasn't too long after Burt and I talked to you. He'd gone to the can, so I wandered over to get some roast beef.\" She grimaced. \"That's when the band stopped and it got so damned quiet. Then everybody moved\u2014and I saw Wessler. Blood was all over the floor. How many times was that poor old coot stabbed?\"\n\nThe cousins traded glances. \"Once,\" Judith said. \"Or so we heard.\"\n\nRuby shook her head. \"Were you there?\"\n\nJudith grimaced. \"Yes, but we fled. We were in a state of shock.\"\n\nRuby's face was grim. \"Then you didn't see all the blood. It looked like a butcher shop. I bet they're still working on the stains in the floor.\"\n\n\"Did you see the body?\" Judith quickly clarified the question. \"I mean, right away?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Ruby said. \"Everybody did. Wessler's son sort of took over, trying to calm people until the cops and the EMTs got there. But it was really gruesome. I had to go throw up.\"\n\nJudith had drained her Scotch during Ruby's recital. \"You didn't wait for the cops?\" she asked, nudging her glass across the bar.\n\n\"Hell, no!\" Ruby said, pouring out a generous amount of Scotch and adding more ice. \"I was afraid I might pass out. I didn't come out of the can for at least ten minutes. I wasn't the only one either. Four or five other gals were sick, too. That ex-wife of Franz Wessler\u2014Klara\u2014was hysterical. Somebody finally slapped her silly. I came in here to calm my nerves. That's where I found Burt. He missed the whole thing. He thought I was crazy, but I asked what he thought all those sirens were for\u2014it wasn't just another car going off the mountain pass.\"\n\n\"Were you questioned by the police?\" Judith asked.\n\nRuby shook her head. \"I kept a low profile.\" Her gaze followed the couple as they left the bar. \" 'Scuse me. I better make sure they didn't shortchange us on their tab.\"\n\nRenie gulped down more Canadian. \"How fried do I have to get before we can have dinner? Now I am hungry.\"\n\nLost in thought, Judith gave a start. \"You're . . . what?\"\n\n\"Hungry,\" Renie said, baring her teeth.\n\n\"Okay. Let's see if we can take our drinks into the dining room,\" she said as Ruby returned to the bar.\n\n\"Sure,\" Ruby said. \"Open seating right now. Everybody's going to the concert. I hope Klara pulled herself together. She's going to sing.\"\n\nJudith registered surprise. \"She's a singer?\"\n\nRuby nodded, topping off Judith's drink. \"Opera. I'm heavy metal. Uh-oh. Here come the dudes. Maybe the Giggle Sisters can get lucky.\"\n\n\"What's your dinner suggestion?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Venison steak,\" Ruby said, heading for two young men who had sat down near the girls. \"I'll remind Chef Bruno to hold the antlers.\"\n\nThe cousins found their way to the dining room. Only a half-dozen tables were occupied. The walls were decorated with sketches of Mozart, Beethoven, Handel, and some other composers Judith didn't recognize. Renie, however, rattled off their names. \"Wagner, Schubert, Richard Strauss, Papa Haydn, Bach, Brahms, and some guy named Dortmunder.\"\n\n\"Dortmunder?\" Judith said, sitting down in a booth for two.\n\n\"Something like that,\" Renie said. \"It's a composer whose work I don't like. Too modern.\"\n\n\"I'll take your word for it. What did you think of Ruby's bloodbath description?\"\n\n\"Hey, we're going to be eating,\" Renie said, giving Judith a dirty look. \"Can we lighten up?\"\n\n\"What about those girls saying that someone at the ski shop told them Wessler was killed because he was a Communist\u2014or a Nazi chef?\"\n\n\"Politics,\" Renie muttered. \"Almost as distasteful as murder. Those twerps wouldn't know a commie or a Nazi from an oven mitt.\"\n\n\"I wondered,\" Judith said. \"Well?\"\n\nRenie picked up a menu. \"A socialist, a republican, an autocrat\u2014who knows? He could be a royalist and Mad Ludwig's his ancestor. I can imagine the rumors flying around this town. You know how things get twisted, especially in a . . . hey, they've got nefle!\"\n\n\"They do?\" Judith's dark eyes lit up. \"Do you suppose it's like Grandma Hoffman used to make?\"\n\n\"I never ate hers,\" Renie said, referring to Judith's maternal grandmother. \"But Grandma Grover made it, too. Let's hope it's not really spaetzle. That's like eating surgical tubing.\"\n\n\"Here comes Ruby,\" Judith said. \"She'll know.\"\n\n\"Hand-cut,\" the waitress replied. \"Bruno\u2014the chef\u2014is fussy.\"\n\nAs Ruby went off to put in their orders, the cousins briefly waxed lyrical over serious German cooking, recalling the weeks they'd spent in Germany. Just as they were growing almost misty-eyed, Ruby reappeared with their red-cabbage-and-beet salads.\n\n\"By the way,\" she said, lowering her voice, \"I think sex won out over homicide. The Giggle Sisters left with the two dudes. That other couple took off, too. I'm freed up in here until somebody rings that damned bell. Maybe I can have an early night for a change.\"\n\n\"She's had a hard life,\" Judith mused after the waitress had departed. \"I wonder how she ended up here.\"\n\n\"She ran out of gas?\"\n\n\"Figuratively, maybe.\" Judith paused. \"How 'bout that weapon?\"\n\n\"Forget it,\" Renie said, looking bored. \"If the chief thought it came from the buffet, it probably did. I'm not convinced there was that much blood on the floor. Some people pass out from a paper cut. I think Ruby likes dramatizing. She's not bad at it. Look at you\u2014you're the best liar I've ever met. Bill says you've raised lying to an art form.\"\n\nJudith almost dropped a beet slice off of her fork. \"That's not so! I never lie! I occasionally tell a small fib when it's necessary.\"\n\n\"Bingo,\" Renie said under her breath. \"You did it again. But you didn't fool me this time. Oh, Bill and I both admit we've swallowed most of your outrageous lies. We're gullible. But at least we're on guard.\"\n\nJudith crumpled her napkin and threw it on the table. \"I should leave you here to talk to yourself!\"\n\n\"You won't,\" Renie said complacently. \"I give you one word\u2014nefle.\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Judith retrieved her napkin and put it back in her lap. \"I haven't had real nefle in years. Mother used to make it now and then.\"\n\n\"That I believe,\" Renie said.\n\n\"Okay,\" Judith said, her equilibrium restored. \"Let's look at what we really know.\"\n\nRenie was wide-eyed. \"We know something?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith declared with a touch of impatience. \"Please. Let's stay reasonable for a few minutes. It was your idea for me to unburden myself. You were right\u2014I was feeling frustrated\u2014and tired.\"\n\n\"Go ahead. Tell me what we know. I'm all ears.\"\n\n\"Dietrich Wessler is dead. It's not a hoax. Maybe he was murdered. In fact, let's assume he was.\"\n\nRenie nodded as she polished off her salad.\n\n\"Bob Stafford was murdered.\"\n\n\"Two corpses. Got it.\"\n\n\"Several people somehow involved with Herr Wessler are concerned about someone close to them who may be the murderer of . . . well, at least of Wessler. For now, we'll separate the two deaths.\"\n\n\"Good idea.\"\n\n\"The cops really are baffled.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"No one is trying to make a fool of me.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. Say, we didn't get any bread.\"\n\n\"We don't need it. There are far too many connections between various people, which makes me wonder if\u2014\"\n\n\"We always get bread with salad,\" Renie said. \"You ate a big sandwich. You don't need bread. I do.\"\n\n\"You ate popcorn. Shut up and let me\u2014\"\n\nJudith was interrupted when Ruby arrived with their entr\u00e9es.\n\n\"Here's the venison,\" she said, placing their plates on the table. \"Medium rare. That's how Bruno does it.\"\n\n\"It all looks great,\" Judith said. \"Nice green beans, too.\"\n\n\"How about some bread?\" Renie said.\n\n\"We're out,\" Ruby replied. \"The baker got too busy to make enough for us even on a slow night. He had to do all the other stuff for the various events. Sorry.\" She tensed. \"Damn. There goes the bell from the bar.\" She took off.\n\n\"Where were we?\" Judith said.\n\n\"Wondering what happened to the bread,\" Renie replied.\n\n\"No, we weren't,\" Judith insisted. \"We were talking about false confessions. Which brings us to poor Gabe Hunter being hauled off for questioning. How on earth is he connected to this case? He hasn't been in the B&B business very long. I'd never heard of him until now.\"\n\nRenie had swallowed her first taste of venison and appeared to be having an out-of-body experience. \"Mmmm . . . ohhh . . . my!\"\n\n\"Good grief,\" Judith said crossly, \"you sound like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. It's a good thing nobody's watching us.\"\n\n\"You try it,\" Renie said. \"It really is orgasmic.\"\n\nJudith ate a mouthful and conceded the point. \"You're right. It's very . . . good. But I'm not about to pass out from ecstasy.\"\n\n\"That's because you already ate a bratwurst,\" Renie said. \"So why don't you call Inbred Heffalump and get the lowdown on Gabe?\"\n\n\"Because I don't want her to find out what's happened,\" Judith replied. \"She'll blame me for Wessler getting killed. I wonder if she already knows. I wouldn't put it past Connie or Ellie to tell her.\"\n\n\"You're paranoid,\" Renie said. \"They're all too busy confessing.\"\n\nJudith was about to grudgingly agree when she saw Franz Wessler enter the dining room. \"Franz just came in.\"\n\nRenie turned around. \"Hi, Franz,\" she called out. \"Over here.\"\n\nLooking startled, Franz came to their booth. \"Have you seen Klara?\" he asked.\n\nJudith shook her head. \"Not since earlier today, when she was with those dogs. Was she supposed to be here?\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Franz made a face. \"She left her music here last night. Originally, she was going to sing a number of welcome to the guests, but . . .\" He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. \"She thought she left the music here in all the . . . chaos that ensued. It's an original piece she wrote just for this occasion, so she's never performed it in public before.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Renie asked with feigned innocence. \"Some of that rockin' lied stuff about love in a cow pasture?\"\n\n\"Not precisely,\" Franz replied through tight lips. \"It's rather more . . . Volk-like, with apropos warmth and charm.\"\n\n\"Darn,\" Renie said. \"I was so hoping it'd be all idyllic romance.\" She turned serious eyes on Franz. \"I thought you might be in a more tender mood tonight. Death can do that to you. Liebestod and all that.\"\n\nFranz's lean face darkened. \"I've no idea what you're talking about. Excuse me, I must find Klara.\" He turned on his heel and hurried away.\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about,\" Judith said angrily. \"Are you nuts? Furthermore, you don't speak German. What's up with that?\"\n\nRenie uttered an impatient sigh. \"Your sighting of something erotic\u2014or at least romantic\u2014going on in the fancy Mercedes. I don't speak German, but I know something about Wagnerian opera. The Liebestod is a famous aria that Isolde sings about loving somebody to death. Or dying for love. Maybe it's loving to die.\" Renie wrinkled her nose. \"I didn't put that very well\u2014but you get the idea. I tend to nod off before she gets done singing the blasted thing. It's Wagner, it's German, it's long. No wonder she goes to sleep permanently. She's worn out.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Judith's anger faded. \"Your remark did seem to hit home with Franz. Now I wish I'd taken a closer look into that car.\"\n\n\"Just as well you didn't,\" Renie said, after devouring more venison. \"You might have fainted. You only like bodies when they're dead.\"\n\n\"Coz . . .\" But Judith's mind was following a different path from mere reproach. \"I suppose it could've been Franz and Klara reuniting in their mutual sorrow. Comforting each other over their loss.\"\n\n\"Gack,\" Renie said. \"How do you like the nefle?\"\n\n\"It's really good.\" But Judith wasn't focused on food. \"I wonder if Franz and Klara had children together.\"\n\n\"Ask. You usually do.\"\n\n\"I really haven't had a chance to talk to Franz,\" Judith said. \"In fact, he might have opened up if you hadn't annoyed him just now.\"\n\nRenie made a dismissive gesture. \"No room for him in this booth. Besides, he was trying to find Klara and her charming little lied.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith said after a pause, \"we should talk to the cops.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Renie asked. \"They're dumber than we are.\"\n\n\"We should find out if Gabe Hunter is still being held.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because,\" Judith persisted, \"he's a fellow innkeeper. I would think Eleanor, being in charge of the booths, might come to his rescue, but can you see her doing that?\"\n\nRenie polished off the last of her venison. \"Let me think. Ellie confessed to the murder, recanted, and now wants to exonerate Gabe. Of course. That makes perfect sense.\"\n\n\"That's what I mean,\" Judith said, trying not to grind her teeth. \"It doesn't. In fact, even if Ellie hadn't done all those things, she doesn't strike me as a humanitarian.\"\n\n\"But what about the strudel?\"\n\n\"What strudel?\"\n\n\"Didn't you see they had strudel listed as their dessert of the day on that chalkboard when we came in?\"\n\n\"Why not? It's Little Bavaria. No, I didn't notice it.\"\n\n\"Hunh. And you call yourself observant.\"\n\n\"What kind?\"\n\n\"Peach or pear.\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"I'm going to gain ten pounds on this trip. You don't have to worry about your weight. You have that weird metabolism that burns up every calorie. And your damned hair doesn't turn gray. You're not only annoying, but weird.\"\n\n\"Freak of nature,\" Renie said complacently. \"Stop fussing. You'll walk off any weight you gain. Besides, you're so tall it never shows.\"\n\n\"I can still feel it.\"\n\n\"Eleanor isn't.\"\n\n\"Isn't what?\"\n\n\"Refocus. A humanitarian. In fact, she must be a lousy innkeeper. She lacks warmth, which you ooze. And it's real.\"\n\nJudith pondered Renie's statement. \"True, but not all innkeepers are outgoing. Some people get involved in running a B&B for other reasons\u2014like Gabe Hunter. He took over the business from his parents when they retired. I have no idea how Ellie got involved with innkeeping. She's what? Maybe early forties? Sometimes when the empty nest syndrome strikes, the parents don't want to move out of their big house, so they turn it into a B&B. I know of some people who've done that. Maybe that's what happened to Ellie.\"\n\n\"Something happened to Ellie,\" Renie murmured. \"She's a pill.\"\n\nJudith looked up to see Ruby approaching. \"Dinner was excellent,\" she told the waitress. \"We should order dessert before coz here pitches some kind of fit. I'll go with the peach strudel.\"\n\n\"Make mine pear,\" Renie said.\n\n\"They're both good,\" Ruby assured them. \"Bruno's pastry chef does a mean strudel. Good thing he makes his own dough so we don't have to rely on the baker.\"\n\n\"Say,\" Judith said, as if off the top of her head, \"how did you end up here in Little Bavaria? It's a long way from the Meat & Mingle.\"\n\nRuby sneered. \"I could say the same for you. And it's a long story.\" She swiftly collected their plates and dashed away.\n\n\"Not a happy story,\" Judith remarked.\n\n\"You already mentioned something to that effect,\" Renie said. \"Is there a reason for asking her or just your usual interest in humanity?\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Judith fiddled with her wedding ring. \"Maybe it's because her father was the jerk who stole my wallet. Sometimes kids came to the restaurant\u2014they couldn't come in the bar\u2014to haul their parents home, especially the dads. So many of them spent their paychecks on booze. I wonder if Ruby was one of those kids.\"\n\n\"Why do you care?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Judith folded her hands in her lap before succumbing to a childish urge to bite her fingernails. \"Is my brain going? I feel like everything that's happened here is hopping around like mosquitoes in my head and never alighting long enough to make sense.\"\n\n\"You could put an ad for your brain in the local lost-and-found or whatever. That's what Oscar does when he mislays his orange pillow.\"\n\nJudith glared at Renie. \"Don't talk about Oscar. Your brain left the premises years ago.\"\n\n\"Okay. Did you hear what Clarence did the other night when I went down to the basement to tuck him in?\"\n\n\"Lose the bunny, too. I mean, don't lose him, but refrain from discussing his cutesy antics.\"\n\n\"You're jealous because Sweetums is such a wretched beast. Clarence is sweet in every way.\"\n\n\"Oh? Even the bunny poop he leaves on your basement floor?\"\n\n\"I clean it up every night. It's good for the garden. Clarence likes to go outside to nibble chickweed and clover. Bill or I always\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop!\" Judith held up a hand, but her dismayed expression changed when a young man in a chef's jacket arrived with their strudel.\n\n\"Who's the pear?\" he inquired.\n\n\"That's me,\" Renie said. \"Where's Ruby?\"\n\n\"She went home,\" the young man replied. \"Slow night.\" He slid their bill onto the table and ambled away.\n\nJudith frowned. \"That's odd.\"\n\n\"Why? Ruby said something about maybe leaving early.\"\n\n\"But before she served us?\"\n\nRenie made a face. \"We aren't royalty.\"\n\nJudith didn't argue. Her watch informed her it was going on nine. \"Maybe they close the dining room early during Oktoberfest.\"\n\n\"We're missing the concert,\" Renie said. \"Don't you want to hear Klara sing? Or will she sing a different kind of song to the cops?\"\n\nJudith slowly shook her head. \"Who knows? All I understand now is that Bruno's pastry chef has talent.\"\n\n\"So he does,\" Renie said, lapping up slices of pears with cinnamon-and-sugar-covered crumbs.\n\n\"In fact,\" Judith said after a few moments of silence, \"I think we should give our compliments to the chef.\"\n\nRenie winced. \"Why do I think it's Chef Bruno's turn to be grilled?\"\n\n\"Because,\" Judith said, studying the bill, \"that's what I plan to do. You owe me forty bucks.\"\n\n\"With tip?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I included our bar bill, too.\"\n\n\"Fair enough,\" Renie conceded, getting out her wallet. \"Why are you grilling the chef?\"\n\n\"Because,\" Judith replied, \"chefs count knives. I'd like to hear if one of his ended up in Herr Wessler's back.\"\nChapter Ten\n\nAs might be expected Chef Bruno didn't look pleased to see the cousins invade his domain. \"We're closed,\" he announced gruffly.\n\n\"Exactly,\" Judith said with a big smile. \"My late husband and I owned a restaurant. That's why I feel guilty about interrupting your work. I wanted to thank you on behalf of us innkeepers who are here for Oktoberfest. You run an amazing kitchen.\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" The chef glanced at his helpers, who had stopped scurrying around the kitchen to stare at the newcomers. Bruno himself suddenly stared at them, too. \"Didn't you two come in here last night?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith admitted, deciding that honesty was the best policy. \"We'd just witnessed the discovery of Mr. Wessler's body. We were horrified and fled the scene. It must've been chaos here after that.\"\n\nBruno used a towel to wipe off some perspiration from his high forehead. \"That's for damned sure. Never seen anything like it.\" He glared at a young man with a blond goatee. \"Almost lost my pastry chef.\"\n\nJudith smiled sympathetically. \"Oh, no! His strudel was amazing. But,\" she went on quickly, resorting to a semifib, \"I heard you lost a knife. I've always wondered why people feel free to take souvenirs.\"\n\nBruno scowled. \"You mean a buffet knife?\"\n\n\"Yes. Some of the people who were here last night mentioned that one or two had gone missing. That's just plain thievery.\"\n\n\"Hunh.\" Bruno's gaze took in his half-dozen staff members. \"How many did we get back? I didn't count them.\"\n\nA dark-skinned young man glanced at what might have been a cutlery drawer. \"We've got six of the ones we put out for the beef. I used two tonight.\" He looked at his coworkers. \"Anybody else got one?\"\n\nThe pastry chef nodded. \"It's right here. I took one to cut up the pears and peaches.\"\n\n\"That it?\" Bruno inquired, wiping perspiration from his bald head.\n\n\"You have one,\" a curly-haired redheaded man said. \"It's under the edge of that platter.\"\n\nThe chef peered at the counter. \"So I do. That makes ten. All accounted for.\" He turned back to Judith. \"Why are you asking?\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Judith grimaced. \"I heard that several were missing. I mean, stolen. Or borrowed. Or something.\"\n\n\"You heard wrong,\" Bruno said. \"Now, if you don't mind, we've got work to do.\" He picked up the knife he'd been using and ran his finger down the flat side of the blade. \"Glad you liked dinner. G'night.\"\n\nJudith decided they had no choice but to leave. \"Damn,\" she said when they'd gone out through the lobby, standing in a slight drizzle by the exhibitors' booths. \"Bruno reminds me of somebody\u2014maybe it's one of the chefs we had when Dan didn't feel like cooking. Or working.\" She sighed. \"Let's go back to the inn. I am tired and I hurt. I should call Joe to see how things are at home. Tomorrow is another day.\"\n\n\"Okay, Scarlett,\" Renie agreed. \"It's early for me, but I don't mind.\"\n\n\"Say,\" Judith said, walking slowly along the still-busy main street, \"how come your mother hasn't called you about six times?\"\n\n\"I told her I'd be out of range in the mountains.\"\n\nJudith automatically glanced up, though cloud cover and darkness obscured the nearby peaks. \"That might almost be true.\"\n\n\"It would, in the Himalayas\u2014that's where I told her we were going.\"\n\n\"You did not,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Well . . . not exactly. But I think she believed me. About the mountains and the interference, I mean.\"\n\n\"Are you going to call Bill?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"You know he hates to talk on the phone. If he even bothered to answer, he'd probably hang up on me.\"\n\nThe cousins sidestepped some costumed teenagers dancing what looked like a cross between hip-hop and a polka. Judith and Renie could hear music as they drew nearer to the bandstand.\n\n\"I wonder if Franz found Klara's piece,\" Judith murmured.\n\nRenie sniffed. \"If he didn't and she wrote it, she can probably fake it. Why not? Everything else around here seems fake.\"\n\n\"You think so? I like it. It seems authentic.\"\n\n\"I mean the Wessler murder,\" Renie said\u2014and grinned at her cousin. \"My God, don't tell me you've forgotten about that!\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith replied wearily. \"But I'd like to. At least for now.\"\n\nEntering Hanover Haus, they found the lobby deserted. \"Guess everybody's at the events,\" Renie remarked, starting up the stairs.\n\n\"You can't blame them,\" Judith said. \"That's where all the action is. We're probably the only guests not in attendance.\"\n\nInside their room, Judith collapsed on the bed while Renie headed for the bathroom, saying she was getting ready for bed\u2014if not for sleep.\n\n\"I'll read for a while,\" she said, closing the door behind her.\n\nJudith waited a couple minutes to unwind before getting out her cell to call Joe. He answered on the second ring.\n\n\"It's about time,\" he said. \"I thought you forgot about me.\"\n\n\"Never that,\" Judith assured him. \"We've been busy. At least I have. How's everything at home?\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\n\"Including Mother?\"\n\n\"She moved out.\"\n\n\"Joe\u2014\"\n\n\"How do you think she is? With Carl and Arlene dancing attendance on her, she's in fine fettle.\" He chuckled. \"That means I can ignore her\u2014and vice versa. We both like it that way.\"\n\nJudith propped herself up on a couple of pillows. \"So everything's going okay with the B&B guests?\"\n\n\"Uh . . . well, sure. Why wouldn't it be? The Rankerses are old hands at running this place.\"\n\n\"I know,\" Judith said, \"but every so often the unexpected happens.\" She paused, waiting for any sign of knowledge from Joe about the murder in Little Bavaria. \"I thought there might be some Oktoberfest TV coverage from the local stations, but I haven't seen any reporters or video cams. Maybe they're waiting for Saturday's big doings.\"\n\n\"Could be,\" Joe said. \"You want to get interviewed?\"\n\n\"Heavens, no!\" Judith exclaimed. \"I want . . . anonymity.\"\n\n\"Good thinking,\" Joe said, \"given your track record.\"\n\n\"Now don't start in\u2014\" She broke off. \"I assume Ingrid Heffelman hasn't asked you out on a date in my absence.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . no.\"\n\n\"You sound uncertain,\" Judith said, suddenly suspicious.\n\n\"Not about a date,\" Joe replied, after clearing his throat. \"She did stop by yesterday morning.\"\n\n\"What?\" Judith cried. \"You mean at the B&B?\"\n\n\"Where else? Ingrid told me an inspection is a regular thing every couple of years. It's a city regulation.\"\n\n\"There is a city regulation,\" Judith said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, \"as you well know, but the city sends its own inspectors, not somebody from the state B&B association. What's wrong with you? You were a city employee for almost forty years!\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Joe cleared his throat again. \"That's why I believed her. I was spending the morning going over some of those reports from the city hall investigation. Ingrid told me that because this thing has been going on since the first of the year\u2014along with budget cuts\u2014consultants have been hired to do some of the legwork. It made sense. The city's done that in other areas. She pointed out it was a good time to do it while some innkeepers were out of town. Sort of spring it on them when they'd have no chance to fix things up while she was inspecting other parts of the premises. You can't blame her for doing her job.\"\n\n\"Ordinarily it's not her job,\" Judith huffed. \"It sounds as if the two of you had quite a chat.\"\n\n\"The least I could do was offer her a cup of coffee,\" Joe said, sounding defensive.\n\n\"And the most you could do?\"\n\n\"Hey!\" Joe shouted. \"That was it. I left her to do whatever she had to do. Arlene came back inside about then. I went to my office.\"\n\nJudith wondered how Arlene had handled Ingrid. With a left hook, she hoped. \"Where was Carl?\"\n\n\"He'd gone to the grocery store,\" Joe said, sounding more like himself. \"You were low on eggs. Or bread. Maybe it was milk.\"\n\n\"Never mind. How long did Ingrid stay?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Joe replied. \"She was gone when I came down to get some lunch. Ingrid said you'd get her report in a few days.\"\n\n\"I'll bet it'll be a doozy,\" Judith muttered. \"Okay, sorry I got snappish. You know how Ingrid riles me.\"\n\n\"Forget it,\" Joe said. \"She seemed nice, never criticized anything about you, not even your deadly track record.\"\n\n\"Joe! Don't!\"\n\n\"I'm kidding. But I mean it\u2014it was a very pleasant visit.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Judith sighed. \"So no other problems?\"\n\n\"Nothing except a jealous wife. It's kind of flattering.\"\n\n\"Men!\" But Judith smiled. \"I'm broad-minded. It's just that Ingrid showing up on Hillside Manor's doorstep is galling.\"\n\n\"At least she left alive.\"\n\n\"That's not funny!\" But Judith was still smiling a few minutes later when she hung up just as Renie emerged from the bathroom.\n\n\"You look happy. Have you cracked the case?\" she asked.\n\nJudith explained about the phone call with Joe. Renie was amused. \"You should call Arlene. I'll bet she didn't take kindly to an intrusion on her temporary turf, especially the pushy Inbred Heffalump.\"\n\n\"I will call Arlene,\" Judith said, \"but not until tomorrow. She and Carl go to bed early. It's after ten. They probably went home and left Joe to lock up.\"\n\n\"Everything else okay at the B&B?\" Renie asked.\n\nJudith nodded. \"I didn't ask Joe if he'd heard from Mike, but if he had, he would've told me. Mike probably hasn't been notified yet about his new posting.\"\n\n\"No point in worrying about that,\" Renie said, lying down on her own side of the bed. \"Our kids are all so far away that Bill and I are lucky to see them two or three times a year. Thank goodness for e-mail and cell phones. Of course Bill never answers their calls when I'm not home. Good thing he doesn't. They often want money. Mom's a soft touch. Oh, heck, so's Bill. How,\" she asked, snuggling under the covers, \"are Carl and Arlene getting along with the B&B?\"\n\nJudith made a face. \"Fine, I think.\"\n\n\"Why are you looking so grim?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's stupid, really,\" Judith said with some reluctance. \"Ingrid Heffelman showed up to inspect Hillside Manor.\"\n\nRenie burst out laughing. \"She did? Why? Or was she really inspecting Joe?\"\n\n\"That's what I wonder. Ingrid's never done that before. In fact, nobody from the state board has ever conducted an inspection. It's all done through the city.\"\n\nRenie had put on her reading glasses. She peered at Judith with a wry expression. \"And her excuse for showing up on your doorstep was?\"\n\nJudith waved an impatient hand. \"Oh, the city hall investigation and all the departments being shorthanded and budget cuts and\u2014\"\n\nRenie interrupted. \"How did she know Joe would be home?\"\n\n\"Maybe she called first and talked to Arlene.\"\n\n\"Arlene wouldn't have been aware that Ingrid didn't do such things as inspect B&Bs,\" Renie pointed out. \"Makes sense. So where were the Rankerses while Ingrid was trying to seduce Joe?\"\n\n\"Stop! They only had coffee together.\" Judith paused. \"It was later in the morning. Arlene and Carl were checking out the guests.\"\n\n\"While Ingrid was checking out Joe. I suspect that maybe what you suspect could be right. But Ingrid's attempts at seduction wouldn't faze Joe. I've never seen the woman, but I always assumed my nickname of Inbred Heffalump wasn't far off the mark.\"\n\nJudith considered her cousin's comment. \"To be fair, Ingrid's not unattractive. She's a big woman, a little overweight, but tall and imposing. In fact, well, she's kind of like . . . me.\"\n\nRenie sighed. \"Oh, dear. Just Joe's type. Sorry about that.\"\n\n\"You're sorry?\" Judith retorted. \"How do you think I feel?\"\n\n\"Oh, coz, don't be stupid! Joe would never cheat on you. He waited too long to finally hook up with you. You know that.\"\n\nJudith frowned. \"Men are . . . men.\"\n\nRenie had opened her book. \"Don't be a jackass. We are, after all, kind of old. There are limits.\"\n\n\"That's part of the problem,\" Judith said. \"If Ingrid is really chasing him, Joe can't run as fast as he used to.\"\n\nRenie ignored the remark. Judith pouted a bit. And then realized she was too old to pout. Instead, she turned off her lamp and went to sleep. In her dreams, an elephant was chasing a lion with a red-gold mane through Hillside Manor's backyard. The elephant suddenly stopped in front of the toolshed. Sweetums leaped off of the birdbath and growled at the elephant. Gertrude appeared by the statue of Saint Francis, singing, \"You can have him, I don't want him, he's too dumb for me.\" The elephant ran off and disappeared in the Rankerses' giant hedge, apparently devoured by the mass of glossy laurel leaves. Judith wasn't surprised that she woke up smiling.\n\nJudith didn't have to be at the B&B booth until ten. She had awakened shortly before eight, but decided not to call Arlene until after nine-thirty. Her stand-in would still be busy with the guests' breakfast. Maybe she shouldn't call at all.\n\nRenie was again sleeping in, which was just as well as far as Judith was concerned. An early-rising Renie was not a pleasant Renie. Judith showered, dressed, combed her hair, and put on her makeup before heading down to breakfast. She arrived just after eight-thirty. The rest of the B&B contingent was already in place, looking, as Gertrude would say, \"like the pigs ate their little brother.\"\n\nJudith's polite \"good morning\" was greeted with a mixture of mumbles and blank stares. She selected a croissant, green melon balls, a couple of very thin ham slices, and pale coffee. Gabe Hunter's place was vacant, but Judith decided to sit in her previous spot by the Beaulieus.\n\n\"The Gypsy,\" George murmured, picking at a bran muffin. \"What do you see with those eyes this morning?\"\n\n\"Food,\" Judith said pleasantly. \"Did you go to the concert?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" George put a muffin crumb on his tongue and rolled it around in his mouth. \"Quite enjoyable,\" he said, after swallowing the morsel. \"Too many marches, though. I don't care for military music, especially the German variety.\" He shuddered slightly. \"All I can think of are panzer divisions mowing down everything in sight.\"\n\nConnie leaned around her husband. \"Pay no attention to George. He's seen too many war movies.\"\n\nGeorge sat up very straight. His handlebar mustache seemed to bristle. \"Nonsense! I was there. I lived through the war.\"\n\n\"You were a baby when it ended,\" Connie said. \"You never saw a German soldier in that village in the Dordogne. Carmaux wasn't exactly a strategic spot, darling.\"\n\nGeorge glowered at his wife. \"The Germans could've overrun us at any moment. You never knew what would happen. It was war.\"\n\nConnie giggled. \"Oh, George, you must have your drama!\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" George huffed. \"Even infants can sense danger.\"\n\nEllie, who was across from the Beaulieus, sneered. \"You must've outgrown it, George. Why didn't you sense danger night before last?\"\n\n\"As I recall,\" George said with a haughty look for Ellie, \"I was in the men's lavatory at the time of your grandfather's demise.\"\n\nConnie put a hand on her husband's arm. \"If George had been with me, maybe I wouldn't have reacted so violently and gotten sick. Besides, Ellie, I still don't understand why you went to the police to tell them you killed your own grandfather.\"\n\n\"Because,\" Ellie replied with a toss of her head, \"I blamed myself for asking him to speak to the cocktail-party attendees. I had to coax, which I should never have done, as he was elderly and yet so accommodating. I believe that's what caused him to have his heart attack and die. I'm still overcome with guilt.\" To make her point she dabbed at her dry eyes with her napkin.\n\n\"Heart attack?\" Judith said. \"He was stabbed.\"\n\nEllie's jaw jutted. \"He happened to fall on a knife someone dropped. So careless. Some people can't hold their liquor.\"\n\n\"Or their knife,\" Judith shot back. \"But that's not what the police say happened.\"\n\n\"Oh, for heaven's sake!\" Ellie exclaimed. \"In a small town like this, you don't expect to find clever policemen. Chief Duomo told me there'd be an autopsy. I'll call on them later today to hear the results.\"\n\nDelmar Denkel was nodding vigorously. \"Little Bavaria is a world unto itself. In great measure, I might add, to Ellie's grandfather. He resurrected this town from the dead.\"\n\n\"Too bad he couldn't have done the same for himself,\" Judith said, with a severe look at the Denkels. \"I haven't heard anyone question the fact that your grandfather was murdered. Will there be an inquest?\"\n\nEllie glared at Judith. \"The autopsy report will have to be concluded first. Gossip here runs like so many mice in a cheese cave. Naturally, the initial reaction was that poor Grossvater was stabbed to death, but that's erroneous.\"\n\nJudith wasn't cowed by Ellie's steely gaze. \"What about Gabe Hunter? Where is he, if not being held by the police?\"\n\n\"I've no idea,\" Ellie declared. \"Maybe he slept in.\" She pushed her plate away and stood up. \"Come, Delmar, I'm finished here.\"\n\nWith Delmar trailing her like a small mutt, Ellie departed.\n\nGeorge was still toying with his muffin. \"Could we change the subject? Dead people spoil my appetite.\"\n\nThe Beaulieus had spoiled Judith's. It was exactly nine o'clock. She wasn't due at the B&B booth for another hour. Her partner for the two-hour stint was a woman she knew only slightly, Evelyn Choo. The Choos owned Pearl House near the city's hospital district. Excusing herself, Judith got up and left. She took a deep breath and headed for the police station.\n\nGray clouds hung over the mountains, but the rain had stopped. Judith didn't bother putting up her jacket's hood even though the air was damp. The bright autumnal leaves clinging to the cottonwood and alder trees at the lower elevations seemed to beg for sunshine.\n\nFrom the outside, headquarters looked quiet. Inside, however, was another matter. Duomo was berating Orville for some alleged mistake while Officer Hernandez was consoling a sobbing woman who was lamenting the loss of something\u2014her purse, her cat\u2014or maybe her mind.\n\nFat Matt stopped cussing out Orville long enough to acknowledge Judith with a curt nod. Apparently, his subordinate had mislaid a statement\u2014and the chief's morning doughnuts. Just when Judith decided she might as well return to Hanover Haus, the woman stopped crying and Duomo finished tongue-lashing Orville.\n\n\"You got anything?\" the chief asked Judith.\n\n\"Questions,\" Judith said briskly, gesturing at Duomo's office.\n\n\"Sure, come on,\" he said affably, and led the way. Just before reaching the door, he called over his shoulder to the distraught woman. \"Don't worry. Nobody will keep the Red Baron for long. He's too quick.\"\n\nThe chief closed the door behind Judith and grunted as he sat down. \"Damned nuisance. Why can't people keep track of stuff?\"\n\nJudith sat down in one of the other chairs after removing what looked like a white bakery bag from the chair and setting it on Duomo's desk. \"I assume this is yours,\" she said.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said with a heartfelt sigh. \"There's my morning starter. Why'd Orville put it where I couldn't see it?\"\n\nJudith ignored the rhetorical remark. \"The Red Baron is who?\"\n\n\"It's not a who, it's a ferret,\" the chief replied, opening the bag. \"Want a cruller? Got some chocolate-covered ones.\"\n\n\"No thanks,\" she said. \"I won't take up much of your time, but I'm wondering if you're taking up mine.\" She noted the puzzled look on Duomo's face as he bit off a large chunk of cruller. \"First, what happened with Gabe Hunter last night after you brought him in here?\"\n\n\"Oh.\" The chief chewed hurriedly. \"Alibi was fuzzy. Claimed he wasn't at the cocktail party when Wessler went down. Witnesses saw him just before it happened. Kept insisting he'd arrived just after the fact. The major couldn't remember seeing Hunter. Maybe he'd dozed off. Got it squared away, so I let him go.\" He paused to eat more cruller.\n\n\"I spoke with Chef Bruno last night. He accounted for all his knives,\" Judith said. \"What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"I think Bruno counted the wrong knives,\" Duomo replied, wiping some chocolate off his chin. \"Sounds like him. My brother's an idiot.\"\n\nJudith stared at the chief. \"Bruno's your brother?\"\n\n\"Yeah. My other brother's the baker. Frankie, real name Francis, but he'd slug you if you called him that. He's almost as dumb as Bruno. Makes good doughnuts, though.\" He polished off the cruller.\n\nIt was no wonder the chef looked familiar. There was a definite resemblance\u2014especially the round bald head. In a small town, Judith figured at least half the population must be related to one another.\n\n\"Let's get back on track,\" she urged. \"One other thing really bothers me. This morning at breakfast with some of the other innkeepers, including Eleanor Denkel, Mr. Wessler's granddaughter, there was talk that he wasn't murdered, but had a heart attack and fell on a knife. Eleanor also said there's an autopsy. Is that true?\"\n\nDuomo put down a glazed cruller he'd taken out of the bakery bag. \"Yeah, sure, autopsies are good. The local doc who's in charge of our hospital is the coroner, but he's backed up with all these screwy tourists getting themselves banged up and falling down and whatever else they do when they get crazy at Oktoberfest. Hell, they had a deer come into the ER yesterday morning. Nothing wrong with the deer, just curious, I guess. Anyways, Doc Frolander will get to it later today, maybe. But pay no attention to what people say. Gossip's a big hobby around here.\"\n\n\"Eleanor Denkel isn't local,\" Judith pointed out. \"She may have family in Little Bavaria, but she's not part of your regular grapevine.\"\n\n\"It's contagious,\" Duomo stated. \"Ten minutes inside this town and everybody's cackling like a bunch of damned hens.\"\n\n\"So it's definitely homicide?\"\n\n\"Unless Doc Frolander says different.\" He bit into the cruller.\n\n\"What happened to the bottle that was found at the bookstore?\"\n\n\"It's . . . somewhere. The lab, I guess. You don't know how long that bottle's been at the bookstore. Hell, whoever made that busted gizmo might've had lacquer in it. Or would that be a glaze?\"\n\n\"It could be either one,\" Judith said irritably and stood up. \"I'll check back with you later on the autopsy.\"\n\nThe chief waved a hand for her to wait while he finished another bite of cruller. \"Hold it. You haven't given me anything. What've you been doing? Larking around town drinking beer and rubbernecking?\"\n\nJudith leaned both hands on the desk and looked Duomo straight in the eye. \"I have never come up against a case as confused and frustrating as this one. I can't get straight answers, witnesses have wildly different reactions to the same things, people make false confessions, and I still haven't been able to sort out who's related to who. For all I know, you're Herr Wessler's illegitimate son.\"\n\nThe chief dropped the cruller. \"Whoa! How did you know that?\"\nChapter Eleven\n\nJudith was speechless\u2014but only for a moment. Regaining her composure, she forced a sly smile. \"I'm FASTO, remember?\"\n\nChief Duomo still looked shaken. In fact, his eyes had misted over. \"Francesca Duomo was my mother. She came from Italy\u2014from Pescia, a Tuscan hill town. She fell in love with Wessler.\" He paused to dab at his eyes with a stubby finger.\n\n\"He must've had great charisma,\" Judith said, though she thought of several other attributes the deceased might also have possessed.\n\nDuomo nodded. \"My mama married an American alpine skier. He died young. That's why they lived here. I never knew him. Neither did my younger brothers.\"\n\n\"Ah . . .\" Judith was momentarily nonplussed. \"Wessler was also Bruno and Frankie's father?\"\n\nThe chief nodded again. \" 'Course.\" He narrowed his small eyes at Judith. \"You think my mama played around?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Judith said hastily. \"I didn't realize the birth order of you and your brothers. Is she . . . ah . . . still alive?\"\n\nDuomo shook his head. \"Passed back in '92. One of those damned aneurysms. Bingo!\" He clapped his hands once. \"She was gone. Just turned sixty the week before.\"\n\n\"Herr Wessler must've loved her very much.\"\n\n\"He loved everybody very much,\" the chief said. \"Think I got about three, four dozen half brothers and half sisters between here and Germany. Real friendly kind of guy.\" He smiled wistfully before stuffing the rest of the glazed cruller in his mouth.\n\nJudith was rarely at a loss when eliciting personal information from virtual strangers, but she was having a problem phrasing tactful queries about Matt's father and the gaggle of illegitimate Wessler offspring. \"So,\" she finally said, \"you're related to Franz Wessler and Eleanor Denkel.\"\n\nSwallowing first, Duomo tapped his fingers on the desk as if he were running a calculator. \"Right, right,\" he finally said. \"Franz is a half brother, Eleanor's a . . . half niece? Hard to keep track. We're all spread out.\" He rubbed his paunch. \"More ways than one. Get it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith smiled obligingly. \"Do you have any other half siblings here in Little Bavaria?\"\n\nFat Matt frowned. \"No, don't think so. Used to, but they all moved away. Let's see . . . there was Hans and Leah and Stan and . . . damn, can't recall that one half sister's name. She left when she was still in her teens. Nice-looking gal, but kind of standoffish. Never got to know her. Think she was about ten years younger than me. Oh, there was a boy, but his ma took him back east when he was just a little kid. She hated German food.\" Duomo scowled. \"You writing my life story?\"\n\n\"Hardly,\" Judith said. \"If Wessler was murdered, his heirs would be possible suspects. As you know, money is always a good motive.\"\n\nThe chief shrugged. \"I s'pose. But he gave most of his away, either to the lady friends or the town. Hell, I don't even know if he had a will.\" He scowled again. \"Are you saying I'm a suspect?\"\n\n\"You would be\u2014but you weren't at the scene,\" Judith pointed out. \"Unless, of course, you conspired with someone else.\"\n\n\"That's a bunch of crap,\" he declared, digging into the bakery bag. \"Plain? What's wrong with Orville? He knows I don't like crullers without frosting. Oh, well.\"\n\n\"You asked for my help and that's what I'm giving you,\" Judith said. \"If you're trying to remove suspicion from yourself, prove it.\"\n\nThe chief finished chewing. \"I wouldn't go to all that trouble to kill anybody, let alone Vater Wessler. I'd just frame him for some crime, shoot him, and claim he was trying to escape.\"\n\nJudith tended to believe Fat Matt was innocent, but didn't say so. Instead, she stood up. \"I have to be going. If you want to help me help you, figure out if any of your other half siblings might be involved. Ellie already confessed, if only because she felt guilty about begging Wessler to take on the B&B exhibit and host the cocktail party.\"\n\n\"Hunh. That one's new to me. She did natter on about him asking her to do it. Felt he couldn't live forever and didn't want to get senile and decrepit. Thought it'd be kind of spectacular for the town. You know\u2014going out in style. I guess.\"\n\n\"You bought that tale?\"\n\n\" 'Course not. It's like she was trying out different motives to see which one I liked best. That's why I let her go. Or maybe she was trying to make me look like a fool. It'd be like Ellie. She's not my favorite relative. Too high-and-mighty. Couldn't wait to get out of town. She headed for the big city the day after she graduated from high school.\"\n\n\"I won't argue the point about her arrogance,\" Judith said, \"but that's not the version I read in her statement.\"\n\nDuomo scowled. \"You snooping around here when I'm gone?\"\n\n\"Of course. How else can I find out anything? Now I've got two different versions of why Ellie claimed to have offed her grandfather. Three, if I count her signed confession about the will.\"\n\n\"Multiple choice,\" the chief muttered. \"They're all bull.\"\n\n\"That I believe,\" Judith snapped, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. \"I'll check in later about the autopsy.\"\n\n\"The . . . oh, sure. Hey\u2014on your way out, tell Orville he's an idiot. It'll save me a trip.\"\n\nJudith barely managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. But she didn't bother to say good-bye.\n\nEvelyn Choo was waiting for Judith in the parking lot at Hanover Haus. They shook hands as Evelyn explained that she always went for an early walk before starting breakfast for her guests.\n\n\"It's the only way I can wake myself up to start the day,\" she said. \"But since I don't have to make breakfast, I decided to take my walk after I ate. I'm staying at the Valhalla Inn on the edge of town by the river.\"\n\n\"It's good to change your routine,\" Judith remarked as they started down the almost deserted main street.\n\nEvelyn nodded absently. \"I suppose. I expected it to be so quaint and peaceful here after city life. I never came close to a homicide until last night. Ironic, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith agreed, hoping Evelyn had never heard any FASTO tales. \"Where were you when it happened?\" she inquired, involuntarily looking up at Sadie's Stories with its \"Closed\" sign.\n\n\"I wasn't in the ballroom,\" Evelyn replied, turning up the collar of her suede jacket as a sudden breeze blew down from the mountains. \"My husband had called to see if I'd arrived safely, but I couldn't hear him over the din of the band, so I went into the lobby. We chatted for a few moments\u2014and then the party got so quiet. I assumed someone was speaking to the guests, but before I could ring off, I heard sirens. I didn't think much of it\u2014the highway is treacherous. Then the sirens stopped and suddenly all those emergency people rushed inside. I didn't know what had happened until I went back to the ballroom.\" She shook her head. \"So sad. So . . . strange.\"\n\n\"Strange?\" Judith echoed.\n\n\"Theatrical, like a stage play or a film. Didn't you think so, too?\"\n\n\"I did,\" Judith said slowly, \"though almost subconsciously.\"\n\nEvelyn put her hood up over her short black hair. \"Maybe I reacted that way because it seemed so incredible. A small town, holding a big festival, everyone having a good time.\" She paused as they neared the exhibition area. \"Oh, Eleanor's already at the booth. I heard she's the victim's granddaughter.\"\n\n\"She is,\" Judith replied, trying to put on a pleasant face as they approached the prickly Mrs. Denkel. \"Are we all set?\" she asked, hoping to sound cordial.\n\n\"No,\" Ellie replied crossly. \"The two innkeepers from the Lake Shegogan B&B didn't clean up properly last night. I'm reorganizing the brochures and displays. Really, some people are very slapdash. I'd hate to see what their inns look like. How do they stay in business?\"\n\nJudith couldn't detect any serious disarray except for some maps that apparently had blown off the counter. \"Vandals and Huns, maybe?\"\n\nEllie glared at Judith. \"You and your little jokes. I'll let you and Evelyn finish cleaning up.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Judith said. \"It's quiet this morning. Everyone must be recovering from last night's events.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" Ellie allowed through pursed lips. \"You're five minutes early. If you were being paid, you'd probably demand overtime.\"\n\nEvelyn arched her perfect black eyebrows at Ellie. \"You have your own little jokes, Eleanor. You seem tired. Maybe you need a nap.\"\n\nEllie didn't bother to respond. She picked up her clutch purse and all but ran from the booth.\n\n\"Why,\" Evelyn said, joining Judith, who'd reached the counter first, \"does she have to be unpleasant? Most innkeepers are personable.\"\n\n\"Maybe Ellie's grieving for her grandfather.\"\n\n\"Well . . . perhaps. But I have to wonder if she and Mr. Wessler were close. She doesn't seem to know the town all that well.\"\n\n\"She was raised here,\" Judith pointed out.\n\nEvelyn looked surprised. \"Really?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"She moved away after high school, which was probably before Little Bavaria was turned into a tourist attraction. That might account for her lack of knowledge. I understand all the buildings along the main street were completely renovated in the Bavarian style.\"\n\n\"That would indicate Eleanor doesn't visit very often.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said, \"it may explain her unfamiliarity with all the changes. Tell me, how do you get along with Ingrid Heffelman?\"\n\nEvelyn laughed, but waited for the clock tower to chime ten. \"Ingrid and I sorted out our differences about running a B&B. She's not unreasonable, just a bit hidebound. Do you have problems with her?\"\n\nJudith omitted the body count, assuming Evelyn didn't know of her reputation. \"Maybe it's a personality clash,\" she hedged. \"I spoke to my husband last night. He told me Ingrid had come to inspect Hillside Manor. With the city's budget crisis, they're farming out certain jobs.\"\n\nEvelyn shrugged. \"That makes sense. She does run the state association. I don't think Pearl House is due for inspection until next year. Maybe the city will be in better financial shape by then.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" Judith said, noticing that the main street had grown busier in the last few minutes. In fact, two dark-skinned couples were headed their way. The men wore casual clothes, but the women were dressed in elegant saris. Judith and Evelyn put on their friendliest smiles and went to work.\n\nThe next hour and a half was busy. Some sixty people stopped to chat and study the brochures, photographs, and maps. At least half were Americans, and over a dozen were Canadians. There were also visitors from Costa Rica, Argentina, Thailand, and the United Kingdom. The first two couples had turned out to be from Bangalore, India.\n\nJudith was saying good-bye to a woman from Sarasota, Florida, when she spotted Renie approaching with Barry Stafford.\n\n\"You're awake,\" Judith said to her cousin.\n\n\"Sort of,\" Renie replied. \"I ran into Barry outside of the bookshop. We're heading for the pancake place. I haven't eaten breakfast and he's ready for lunch. Want to meet us there?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Judith said. She turned to introduce Evelyn, but her fellow innkeeper was still talking to a young couple who looked sufficiently dewy-eyed to be newlyweds. \"Save me a place.\"\n\nRenie said she would. The cuddling couple had moved on. A lull followed as pedestrians stopped to watch a juggler on the sidewalk.\n\n\"Who was that?\" Evelyn inquired.\n\n\"My cousin Serena,\" Judith replied.\n\n\"I assumed you might be related,\" Evelyn said. \"You don't look alike, but your mannerisms and the way you speak indicate a resemblance. I meant the young man. He seems familiar.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Judith said, \"that's because he tended bar at the cocktail party at Wolfgang's night before last.\"\n\nTheir conversation was interrupted by two middle-aged couples, chattering cheerfully in German. The respite was over. For the next half hour the booth was busy. Judith was glad to see Eldridge Hoover and even Connie Beaulieu show up for their stint. Gathering up her purse and the notebook in which she'd jotted down potential B&B guests, she asked if Evelyn wanted to join her for lunch at the Pancake Schloss. The other woman declined with polite, even sincere, regret. She was meeting an old friend who owned an inn on Chavez Island.\n\n\"Jeanne Clayton Barber?\" Judith asked in surprise.\n\nEvelyn smiled. \"You know her?\"\n\n\"Yes, from way back. In fact, I B&B-sat for her a few years ago after her husband died.\"\n\nEvelyn's face fell. \"No! Were you there when a man got killed?\"\n\nJudith flinched. \"Unfortunately, yes. But somehow I managed to survive that tragic episode.\"\n\nEvelyn shook her head. \"It must've been terrifying. Weren't you traumatized? How could you stand the stress?\"\n\n\"Ah . . . well, you know how it is\u2014you just keep going.\"\n\n\"I don't know if I could do that. I mean, to be involved in something as sordid as murder. Do you still have nightmares about it?\"\n\nJudith was trying to remember exactly who had gotten killed and why. All she could recall at the moment was thinking that Renie had hit the victim over the head with her dinner plate. At first, Judith had thought her cousin had killed him for trying to swipe her meal. \"Time heals all wounds,\" she murmured. \"I'd better meet my first susp\u2014I mean, first cousin. She's the impatient type. Tell Jeanne hello for me.\"\n\nEvelyn, looking faintly dazed, promised to convey her fellow innkeeper's greetings.\n\nBy the time Judith reached the restaurant, it was almost full. At first, she didn't see Renie or Barry, but her cousin stood up and waved from a booth near where they had sat the previous day.\n\n\"Suze and I declared a truce,\" Renie announced when Judith sat down next to her. \"Barry told her I was an orphan who had to work in a New England shoe factory as a child and she felt sorry for me.\"\n\nBarry laughed. \"Mom's sort of hotheaded sometimes, too. She kind of likes it when somebody mixes it up with her. She can't insult rude customers, so she saves her hostility for private gatherings.\"\n\nJudith glanced at Renie. \"My cousin's less discriminating.\"\n\n\"Hey, watch it,\" Renie said. \"Suze always lets Barry eat on the house. His guests, too. Don't criticize me or she might renege.\"\n\n\"One of my few perks,\" Barry noted. \"Mom figures she fed me and my buddies for the first eighteen years before I started college. She decided she might as well go on doing it while I'm in town.\"\n\n\"Very generous of her,\" Judith said, seeing that Renie had already demolished most of her Swedish pancakes, eggs, and ham. \"You two hooked up this morning at Sadie's Stories?\"\n\nRenie had stuffed her mouth with more ham, so Barry answered first. \"I was just coming out of the shop. Jessi and I overdid it last night at the beer tasting.\" He gave Judith a rueful look.\n\nSuzie suddenly appeared at the booth. \"What'll it be?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Judith exclaimed. \"I haven't looked at the menu.\"\n\n\"Try the Reuben,\" Barry suggested. \"Serena told me you like them. Mom serves a killer version.\" He pointed to the remnants on his plate. \"That's what I had.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Judith said, smiling at Suzie. \"And some lemonade?\"\n\n\"Got it.\" Suzie wheeled away with a squeak of rubber-soled shoes.\n\nRenie had polished off her Swedish pancakes. \"Dessert?\" Barry asked her. \"Mom gets her pies from Frankie the baker.\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"Not after breakfast. Somehow it seems so wrong. Go ahead, you had lunch and it's free. Never refuse a mom.\"\n\nOnce again, the mom under discussion materialized as if from nowhere. She set down a large Reuben and a generous side of German potato salad in front of Judith before looking at her son. \"I saved some rhubarb pie for you\u2014\u00e0 la mode?\"\n\n\"Sounds good,\" Barry said, grinning. \"Thanks, Mom.\"\n\nShe turned to Renie. \"And you, Weenie?\"\n\nRenie's eyes narrowed. \"I'm full. But thanks for asking, Floozie.\"\n\nSuzie laughed. \"I like you. You're spunky.\" She wheeled off again.\n\nBarry leaned closer to the cousins. \"Maybe I shouldn't bring this up,\" he said, looking serious, \"but I've been doing some research.\"\n\n\"About what?\" Judith asked. \"Your studies?\"\n\n\"Not exactly. It's more about what's going on here.\" Barry's gaze shifted to Renie. \"That book your husband wanted\u2014Kommandant Killer: Hitler's Avenging Angel. The fact that Jessi discovered it had been deleted made me curious. Even if a book's out of print, there's often a link to used booksellers. The more I thought about it, the more intrigued I got. I'm not focusing on the Nazi era for my thesis, but I have to know as much as I can about German history to understand what came before and after the Thirty Years' War. Germany's only been a nation for a little over a hundred years.\"\n\n\"Bismarck,\" Renie said. \"There was a girl in my high school history class who insisted his name was Otto von Bisquick. I tried to correct her after class, but I gave up. She thought he shouldn't be called the Iron Chancellor because he was only half-baked.\"\n\n\"Coz,\" Judith said with a withering glance, \"there are times when your knowledge of history is best kept under wraps. Let Barry continue.\"\n\n\"Phooey on you,\" Renie muttered. \"Spoilsport. History's fun.\"\n\nTo Judith's dismay, Barry was smiling. \"She's right. If you focus on historical figures, it's just a lot of old gossip. Sure, politics and ideology and all the rest are important, but you have to understand that individuals put all those things into motion in the first place.\"\n\n\"Don't encourage my cousin,\" Judith warned as Suzie wordlessly delivered her son's pie \u00e0 la mode before hurrying off again. \"Go ahead, tell us about the Kommandant book.\"\n\nBarry paused after tasting his pie. \"Mmm. Good. The local baker turns out some really good stuff.\"\n\n\"Did you know he's the chief of police's brother?\" Judith asked.\n\nBarry frowned. \"If I did, I forgot.\"\n\n\"Hey!\" Renie cried, slapping at Judith's arm. \"I didn't know that.\"\n\nJudith couldn't resist looking smug. \"Fat Matt's other brother is Bruno, the chef at Wolfgang's. They're all Herr Wessler's sons.\"\n\nRenie punched Judith's upper arm. \"Get out of here! You made that up!\"\n\nBarry, however, merely nodded. \"That's true. Which kind of leads into what I was going to say about the book.\"\n\nIt was Judith's turn to look incredulous. \"It does?\"\n\n\"It sounds strange,\" he admitted, putting down his fork, \"and bear in mind I read that book three, four years ago in the original German. It wasn't what you'd think from the title.\"\n\nRenie frowned. \"That book isn't about a concentration camp or a battle? Bill must be slipping.\"\n\n\"Kommandant's a military title,\" Barry said, pausing to make sure no one else could hear him. \"You've probably read books or seen movies about Hitler clones. Fiction, of course, but there were rumors all over Germany and elsewhere that the phenomenon was real. The book in question was about a German officer who was no fan of the F\u00fchrer, but loyal to his fatherland. Thus, after the war, he wanted to avenge himself on Hitler by populating the world with good people.\" Barry stopped again, either for effect or to take up his fork and eat more pie.\n\nRenie wrinkled her nose. \"You mean this is a feel-good read? My husband's a psychologist. He can only bond with nut jobs.\" She swiveled around to glare at her cousin. \"Don't you dare say it!\"\n\nJudith's dark eyes widened in feigned innocence. \"Say what?\"\n\nRenie didn't respond.\n\n\"So,\" Judith said to Barry, \"to cut to the chase, Herr Wessler was this Kommandant?\"\n\nBarry shook his head. \"The guy's name was Gerbald Wulff.\" Barry spelled it out for the cousins. \"He was a Prussian, from Konitz. But it does make me wonder.\"\n\nJudith wondered, too. \"Have you mentioned this to your mother?\"\n\n\"No,\" Barry replied. \"I didn't think too much about the title at first because I remembered the book in German. It was only this morning that I began to get curious. Jessi agreed it was all very strange.\"\n\n\"Very,\" Judith murmured. \"But it could be a coincidence.\"\n\nBarry waited to swallow some of his ice cream. \"How so? That the book is unavailable? That Herr Wessler seems to have fathered a large chunk of Little Bavaria's population? That he's been murdered?\"\n\n\"All of those things,\" Judith said. She turned to Renie. \"Do you know why Bill was so anxious to get that particular book?\"\n\nRenie frowned. \"No. I just assumed it was the usual nasty Nazi horror story. Being a shrink, Bill likes to study the better side of Germans during the war. He's fascinated by people like Maximilian Kolbe and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, especially their spiritual aura.\"\n\nBarry nodded. \"This book would fall into that category. Gerbald Wulff was a religious man. Lutheran, in fact.\"\n\n\"Wessler's Catholic,\" Judith said. \"The idea of any connection between him and Wulff is probably far-fetched. The book's nonavailability is curious, but may mean nothing. Can Jessi call one of the big chains to see if they can order it? If not, that'd eliminate any notion about it being tied into what's going on here in Little Bavaria.\"\n\n\"Good idea,\" Barry said. \"I'll ask her.\" He finished his pie and sighed. \"We'd better vacate this booth for the paying customers.\" He glanced at Judith's plate and looked embarrassed. \"You're not finished.\"\n\n\"No problem,\" Judith assured him. \"This Reuben is huge. I'll save the other half for later. The rest of the potato salad, too.\"\n\nRenie sighed. \"Coz likes to do that. It's her way of dieting. It'll take her the rest of the weekend to finish it.\"\n\nFive minutes later, they were out on the busy main street. The clouds had begun to lift and the wind had died down. Maybe, Judith thought, the sun would shine after all.\n\nBarry was gazing down the street at the clock tower. \"It's still the noon hour,\" he said. \"I won't bother Jessi now. That's always her busiest time. Heck, it's always busy with Oktoberfest.\"\n\n\"Don't,\" Renie said, getting out her cell. \"Coz thinks I'm an idiot, but I can phone a bookstore. I'll move away from the street noise.\"\n\nJudith was juggling her purse and the box that Suzie had provided for the leftovers when she spotted Klara Wessler coming down the street with the two dogs. \"Oh, no! They'll go for my sandwich!\"\n\nBarry laughed. \"I'll make sure they don't. Hi, Klara. Are you singing again tonight?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, straining at the leashes. \"If I don't collapse from walking these beasts.\" She nodded vaguely at Judith. \"I wish Franz would take them to California. I know so little about animals. They miss Dietrich and cannot understand why he isn't at home.\"\n\nBarry reached down to pat each of the dogs. \"Can't you find someone here who would take them?\"\n\nKlara shook her head. \"No. And Mrs. Crump\u2014the cleaning person\u2014complains all the time about them now. She wouldn't dare when Dietrich was alive.\" Tears glinted in her eyes. \"It is all so sad.\"\n\nBarry shifted from one foot to the other. \"I haven't yet decided when to head back to Europe. Maybe I'll stay on for the funeral.\"\n\nKlara nodded. \"That would be very kind. It will be . . . difficult.\"\n\nThe dogs had pulled Klara closer to Judith. They were definitely on the scent of her Reuben. She backed away\u2014into a lamppost. The impact was slight, but she dropped the container. The dogs pounced.\n\n\"Oh!\" Klara cried, tugging at the leashes. \"Stop! No, no!\"\n\nHer commands proved fruitless. The dogs gobbled the sandwich and most of the potato salad before Barry could grab the miscreants by their collars and pull them away.\n\nKlara stared helplessly at Judith. \"I'm so sorry. Really,\" she said, relinquishing the leashes to Barry. \"Have we met? You look familiar.\"\n\nRenie had returned from making her call. \"Yeah,\" she snarled. \"The last time your furry friends tried to ruin my cashmere sweater.\"\n\nKlara clapped her hands to cheeks that had turned pale from Renie's onslaught. \"I . . . feel . . . ill,\" she gasped.\n\nBarry intervened again. \"Klara, I'll walk you and the dogs home.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . please! Thank you!\" She fastened on to Barry's free arm.\n\n\"Later,\" Barry called as they headed toward the corner.\n\nJudith was seething. \"I don't know if I'm madder at you or Klara.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's a dead heat,\" Renie said calmly, picking up the residue from her cousin's leftovers and taking them to a garbage bin by the lamppost. \"I wish I liked dogs better. I prefer bunnies. Clarence is so adorable with his lop ears and twitchy whiskers. When I dress him in his sparkly tutu . . .\" She stopped, staring at Judith. \"Now what?\"\n\nHer anger evaporating, Judith squared her broad shoulders. \"You said it\u2014dead. Come on, coz, we're going to the cemetery.\"\nChapter Twelve\n\nWhere is the cemetery?\" Renie asked, looking around as if she could discover tombstones and monuments somewhere between the Fachwerk of the Bavarian half-timbered buildings. Instead, the only sign of the dead were some Halloween goblins in the window of a crafts shop across the street.\n\n\"We'll ask Suzie,\" Judith said, heading back to the restaurant.\n\nSuzie was still hustling. \"The cemetery?\" she said, barely pausing as she juggled plates of food. \"You have to drive. First turnoff by the high school, quarter of a mile north. Got a car?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith replied.\n\n\"Take mine,\" Suzie said. \"Green Ford Escort, parked out back. Keys are in my purse on the desk in the office. I'm not going anywhere.\"\n\nBefore Judith could ask where the office was located, Suzie was out of earshot with her lunch orders.\n\n\"It can't be hard to find,\" Renie said. \"Maybe near the kitchen?\"\n\nJudith had already moved in that direction. \"There's a door. My God, Suzie's a trusting soul.\"\n\nRenie shrugged as they circumvented tables where customers chatted between mouthfuls of Suzie's servings. \"Small-town people are more trusting. Except when they get killed, of course.\"\n\n\"She doesn't even know us,\" Judith countered, opening the door to what proved to be a small, cluttered office.\n\n\"We probably got a good word from Barry,\" Renie said. \"You intend to search her wallet for clues to Bob Stafford's murder?\"\n\nJudith found the key ring on top of the other items in the no-nonsense black handbag. \"Even I wouldn't be that crass.\"\n\n\"Yes, you would,\" Renie retorted, \"but if we're in a rush, I don't know why. The people in the cemetery aren't going anywhere.\"\n\nSuzie paid no attention when the cousins came out of the office. She was taking an order from Eleanor and Delmar Denkel, who both wore persnickety expressions. Suzie remained stoic, even as Ellie shook her head and Delmar peered at the menu as if looking for typos.\n\n\"What a pair of pills,\" Renie muttered after the cousins were outside and walking around to the back of the restaurant. \"Even Inbred Heffalump can't be that big a pain in the butt.\"\n\n\"That depends upon your point of view,\" Judith said, \"not to mention the size of Ingrid's butt. Ample does not begin to describe it.\"\n\n\"Wow\u2014you really don't like her, do you?\"\n\nJudith had spotted the Ford Escort parked on the grass outside of the building. She couldn't help but pause to take in the view. The river's white riffles glinted in the autumn sun. On the opposite bank, with their orange leaves and black bark, the poplar trees seemed dressed for Halloween. Her eyes lifted to the great swath of evergreens, a third stand of timber, judging from their size. Farther up she saw the bare mountain ridge where new snow had not yet fallen. Despite the busy main street not more than fifty yards away, the only sound she heard was the whistle of a freight train as it passed through the north side of town.\n\n\"Gorgeous setting,\" she murmured at last. \"Darn. I forgot to ask Barry or Suzie about that marker along the trail. They must know what or who it stands for. It's on their property.\"\n\n\"HRH? Gee, you're losing your grip. You must be tired. Slow down. You're pushing it.\"\n\nThey reached the Ford Escort. \"Oh!\" Judith exclaimed after the cousins were in the car. \"I forgot to ask where the high school is located.\"\n\n\"I saw a sign from the shuttle,\" Renie said. \"It's at the east end of town. Take a right out of the parking lot.\"\n\nJudith had to wait for both vehicles and pedestrians to get out of the way. On this Saturday of Oktoberfest, Little Bavaria seemed as busy as a big city. At last she made the turn, though the going was slow.\n\n\"Hey,\" she said, keeping her foot on the brake, \"what did you hear from the bookstore about the Kommandant availability?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"I called the shop on Heraldsgate Hill, but they were busy during the lunch hour. I'll ring back later.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's just a glitch,\" Judith said, picking up a bit of speed. \"It doesn't sound as if Wessler and the Kommandant are one and the same.\"\n\nRenie agreed.\n\nThey'd reached the high school. On a Saturday afternoon, the playing field had been turned into a staging area for the Oktoberfest performers. Judith glimpsed horse-drawn carts, musicians with brass instruments, a woman untangling puppet strings, and two medieval court jesters practicing their swings at each other with giant bratwursts. She also spotted Barry and Klara walking the Saint Bernards up the hill. \"Wessler's house must be around here,\" Judith remarked. \"I wonder if it looks like a sixteenth-century Schloss.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Renie said.\n\nBut just ahead of them on their right, the cousins saw a large brick-and-glass contemporary home perched on a hill. Only the mailbox by the road was built in the shape of a Bavarian half-timbered house. The name on it was Dietrich Wessler.\n\nRenie laughed. \"I suppose Herr Wessler had that house built before the town went Bavarian.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so,\" Judith said, following the road that now was flanked more by forest than by civilization. She all but stopped at the train tracks to make sure they were clear. \"Kind of disappointing. I expected something grander for the town Vater.\"\n\n\"Circa the 1950s or even later. Not bad for that period, though.\"\n\n\"Not ostentatious either,\" Judith said, noting that they were now in the forest. \"I wonder how far this is from . . . ah! There's the cemetery. The ground levels out here. It's a lovely woodland setting.\"\n\n\"Too bad the people buried here can't enjoy it,\" Renie remarked as Judith pulled onto the gravel road. \"That view part in their advertising probably doesn't mean much to the folks who aren't coming back.\"\n\n\"Don't be a ghoul.\"\n\n\"Hey\u2014I don't even know why we're here.\"\n\n\"Because,\" Judith said, opening the driver's door, \"I want to see if Wessler's wife is buried here. He certainly had a lot of girlfriends.\"\n\n\"You couldn't just ask?\" Renie said, before getting out of the car.\n\nJudith waited to respond until they were both standing on the gravel road. \"I get tired of asking questions sometimes,\" she admitted. \"Besides, cemeteries are interesting.\" She paused, looking around at the large clearing, but not seeing any older tombstones or monuments. \"Odd\u2014this place looks like it hasn't been around very long. I wonder if it dates from when the town went Bavarian. Maybe they buried their dead in the next big town to the east. There's nothing much on the other side of the pass for at least thirty miles.\"\n\nThe clear mountain air was tinged with the scent of damp earth and evergreen trees. Judith took a deep breath before stopping at the first grave. \"Mueller\u2014husband and wife. He died in 1992. She lasted only two more years without him.\"\n\nRenie scowled. \"Hey, I can read.\"\n\n\"Sorry.\" Judith kept moving, but stopped when she saw signs of a new grave up ahead on a gentle slope. \"Let's see if that's for Wessler.\"\n\n\"Wow! That might be a clue!\"\n\n\"I should've left you back at the Pancake Schloss with the Denkels.\" Judith quickened her step, but the uneven gravel threw her off balance. \"Oof!\" she gasped, fearful of dislocating her artificial hip.\n\nRenie was accustomed to such minor threats and reflexively grabbed her cousin's arm. \"Now aren't you glad I came along?\"\n\nJudith's expression was sheepish. \"Yes\u2014unless you pushed me.\"\n\n\"Right. I just love those trips with you to the ER.\"\n\nJudith stopped abruptly. \"Look\u2014here's Bob Stafford's grave.\"\n\nRenie stared at the simple but handsome marker. \"Gosh. He'd just turned fifty-three. Poor guy.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I sure haven't gotten anywhere with his homicide. Maybe it was some bum off the trains that go through here.\"\n\nRenie gave her cousin a quirky look. \"That'd be too simple. Senseless random killings aren't your style. You need motives, histories, relationships, all the things that your vaunted logic can deal with.\"\n\n\"Coz,\" Judith said forlornly, \"I don't know zip about Bob Stafford except the basics. I haven't had a chance to discuss him with Barry.\"\n\n\"You will,\" Renie said as they moved on.\n\nThe cousins solemnly approached the newly turned earth at the foot of the slope. Maybe it was inspired by the praying angels on each side of a marble marker. Maybe it was the thought of Dietrich Wessler, who would be lowered into the open grave in a matter of days. Maybe it was the blank space left for the Grossvater beside the name of Julia Monika Wessler, b. July 11, 1917; d. December 24, 1953.\n\n\"You do the math,\" Renie murmured.\n\nJudith calculated quickly. \"She was only thirty-six when she died on Christmas Eve. I wonder what happened to her.\"\n\nRenie had turned away to look down at a smaller marker. \"Maybe this is part of the explanation.\"\n\n\"Oh, my.\" Judith read the inscription aloud in a melancholy tone. \"Anna Maria Wessler, b. June 3, 1953, d. Dec. 24, 1953. An accident involving mother and daughter? Or an illness?\"\n\nRenie grimaced. \"Either way, it's awful.\"\n\n\"We should pray.\" Judith crossed herself, but didn't dare kneel. A faint breeze stirred the fir and hemlock trees, as if sighing for the departed souls.\n\n\"Over fifty years ago,\" Renie noted. \"Someone must know what happened. How about Chief Duomo?\"\n\nJudith hesitated. \"I figure him for about fifty, maybe a bit older.\"\n\n\"He'd still know,\" Renie pointed out. \"Given Wessler's notoriety, a lot of people would even if they weren't around then.\"\n\n\"True.\" Judith gazed at an adjacent concrete slab set in the ground. \"Josef Wessler, born August 12, 1947, died March 22, 1989. I wonder if that's Franz's brother. Look at this green marble stone below Dietrich Wessler's plot. Clotilde Elisabeth Wessler, also born in 1947 and died in 2003. I wonder if she was Josef's widow.\"\n\nRenie came over to stand by Judith. \"Looks to me as if Dietrich\u2014assuming he was in charge of the burials\u2014didn't like Joe as much as he liked Clotilde. Is your brain going in frantic circles?\"\n\nJudith made a face. \"I can't help it. Franz doesn't seem too fond of his father. I wonder if after Josef died, Dietrich made a play for Clotilde?\"\n\n\"Could we call her Tilly?\" Renie asked in a plaintive voice. \"Clotilde sounds kind of . . . formidable. Oh, I know there's a saint by that name, but still . . .\" She zipped up her purple car coat as the wind grew stronger, causing the smaller evergreens to sway.\n\n\"You can call her anything you want. I'd like to know what Herr Wessler called her. Love muffin, maybe?\"\n\n\"Which Herr Wessler? Josef or Dietrich?\"\n\nJudith pulled up her hood. \"Good question.\"\n\nThey started back down the path, but were startled when an elderly woman suddenly popped up from behind a granite tombstone. \"Excuse me,\" she said with a slight accent. \"Could you help me with my vase? It's stuck in the ground.\"\n\n\"Let me,\" Renie said. \"My cousin doesn't bend very well.\"\n\nJudith followed Renie. The white marble bore the inscription Helmut Bauer, born 1922, died 1989. There was a vacant space for Astrid, presumably his widow and the old lady who had a bouquet of gold chrysanthemums at her feet. \"My husband,\" she said simply.\n\nIt took Renie only a couple of tugs to loosen the vase. \"I saw a faucet by the path,\" she said, standing up. \"I'll fill this for you.\"\n\nMrs. Bauer looked at Judith through gold-rimmed glasses. \"Your cousin is very kind.\"\n\n\"Yes, she can be. I mean, she is. Your husband was fairly young when he passed away.\"\n\nThe old lady nodded. \"He died of grief.\"\n\nFor once, Judith was at a loss for words. \"I'm so sorry.\"\n\nMrs. Bauer made a slashing motion with her gloved hand. \"He had no reason to be ashamed! He was an innocent man, a good man.\"\n\nRenie returned with the water-filled vase. \"May I?\" she said, gesturing at the mums.\n\n\"Oh, please,\" Mrs. Bauer said. \"Thank you.\"\n\nJudith finally found her voice. \"Was he the victim of slander?\"\n\n\"Yes, how did you know?\" Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.\n\n\"I didn't. But if someone is innocent, then it indicates that lies have been told. In a small town, people gossip. That's often tragic.\"\n\nMrs. Bauer looked away. \"So it was. Evil walks in disguise.\"\n\nRenie had finished arranging the flowers. \"Your husband was German?\" She saw Mrs. Bauer nod. \"But you're . . . ?\"\n\n\"Swedish,\" the old lady said. \"How did you know?\"\n\n\"Your accent,\" Renie said. \"And Astrid is more Scandinavian.\"\n\n\"Kind and clever,\" Mrs. Bauer murmured. \"Thank you again.\"\n\nRenie darted Judith a smug glance. \"Can we give you a ride?\"\n\n\"No,\" Mrs. Bauer said with a little smile. \"I must say my prayers. I live not far away. I need to walk to keep my joints from growing stiff.\"\n\n\"Very wise,\" Renie said. \"Take care.\"\n\nThe old lady offered more thanks before the cousins returned to the path and got into the car. \"I wonder,\" Judith said, \"if the town hall's open on Saturday.\"\n\n\"Dubious. Try reviving your lock-picking skills from when you used them to learn what financial crises Dan was hiding from you.\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"How did I survive those years?\"\n\n\"You had extraordinary patience or you'd have bumped off Dan long before he blew up\u2014as you so indelicately put his demise.\"\n\n\"It beats explaining his diabetic condition.\" Judith slowed as they passed the Wessler house. \"Klara has a gentleman caller at the door.\"\n\nRenie looked out her window. \"Franz. Why not? He is her ex.\"\n\n\"True. I doubt Suzie would mind if we drove to the town hall. I'm not used to walking on pavement this much. It wears me down.\"\n\nRenie checked her watch. \"It's only one-thirty. As Suzie said, she's not going anywhere. We, however, are.\"\n\n\"Good point.\"\n\nAs they approached the high school, traffic once again came to a virtual halt. A crowd had formed on both sides of the playing field. Lanes had been outlined in chalk, apparently for some kind of race. Judith didn't dare take her eyes off of the pickup ahead of her lest she rear-end the vehicle. \"What is it? A beer-barrel race?\"\n\nRenie laughed. \"It's a dozen dachshunds, wearing Bavarian hats and waiting to run a fifty-yard dash.\"\n\nJudith laughed, too. \"I don't remember that event, but there are so many on the list. We missed the keg-tapping for the festival opening.\"\n\n\"Isn't that where some local bigwig shouts 'O'zapft is'? Or however you say 'let's get wasted' in German?\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Judith said, inching forward.\n\n\"And there they go!\" Renie shouted.\n\nThe pickup gained some speed. Judith had to move on to keep from getting Suzie's car hit by the SUV behind her. \"I hope the dogs know when to stop or they might become Wiener schnitzel.\"\n\nTurning onto the main street, Judith and the cars in front of her were forced to come to a dead halt. At least forty or more young people were dancing, singing, and forming conga lines. The unruly crowd appeared to be headed for the beer garden.\n\n\"I think they've already had enough for this early in the day,\" Judith said, looking dismayed. \"College kids, I suspect.\"\n\n\"I thought the beer garden was open only in the evening,\" Renie said as a couple of young men waved to her on the passenger-side window. In retaliation, she made an obscene gesture. Laughing good-naturedly, the pair returned the favor and moved on. \"Jackasses,\" Renie muttered. \"They'll regret it when they're puking up their innards.\"\n\n\"I'll regret it if we don't get out of this mob. Where's crowd control? Is Fat Matt sitting on his rear end having a midafternoon snack?\"\n\n\"Drive up on the sidewalk and turn the corner. All the pedestrians seem to be in the street.\"\n\nJudith was aghast. \"I can't do that! I'll get arrested.\"\n\n\"By who? I don't see any cops. For all we know, they're dancing with the college kids. Gun it.\"\n\n\"Oh, for . . .\" But Judith didn't have much choice as a roaring group of young sots began jumping on the cars in front of them. \"Hang on!\"\n\nShe turned the wheel with all her might, barely missing the pickup that was still in front her. It was just in time. A couple of girls and a trio of boys climbed onto the back of the truck, shrieking with glee. With a jolt, the Ford Escort mounted the curb to reach the sidewalk. Seeing no one in front of her in the thirty-odd feet ahead, Judith hit the gas, slowing only at the corner. Taking a right, she gently let the car slip onto the street where stragglers from the raucous crowd were catching their breath. Looking surprised, they scurried to get out of the way.\n\n\"That,\" Judith declared, easing off the gas, \"is the nuttiest driving I've done since Mike missed the school bus and I had to pick him up before the Thurlow neighborhood hookers started pestering him.\"\n\n\"Gee, he was twelve,\" Renie said. \"You were a really overprotective mom. Hey, I think I left my nerves back in the street.\"\n\n\"This was your idea,\" Judith reminded her.\n\n\"I've had worse ones, but I can't remember when. Going this way we'll end up in back of the town hall by the police station.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not get arrested for breaking and entering.\"\n\n\"Are you kidding? If the cops aren't out controlling that riot on the main drag, they're probably asleep under a pile of pastry.\"\n\n\"The action is behind us. It's almost deserted here.\"\n\n\"Everybody's having fun. I'm not sure I am.\"\n\n\"You'd prefer joining The Young and The Loutish?\" Judith inquired, noticing only one squad car parked by headquarters.\n\n\"No!\" Renie exclaimed. \"I'm not sure I was ever that young.\"\n\nJudith pulled up at the rear of the town hall. \"Should we check the front to see if they might be open?\"\n\n\"Doesn't that ruin your fun? On the other hand, we might get crushed by the mob that may have spread to that part of town.\"\n\nJudith considered their options. \"You're right. Besides, we probably can't park on the main street. Let's try the easy way.\"\n\nThe cousins got out of the car, making a quick surveillance of the side street, which appeared relatively deserted. The only living creatures they could see were a pair of crows teetering on a nearby power line.\n\n\"Locked,\" Judith announced as she tried the brass knob. \"Okay, let's see if I can remember how to do this.\" She rummaged in her purse and found a paper clip, which she twisted into a single long wire. \"You bend better than I do,\" she said to Renie. \"Listen for a click. But keep one eye on the street.\"\n\n\"If I do that, I'll be wall-eyed.\"\n\n\"Shut up. Just do it.\"\n\nJudith poked, twisted, jiggled, and turned. The only thing she heard besides the faint roar of the crowd and a couple of brass horns from the other street was Renie yawning. \"Cut it out,\" Judith snapped.\n\n\"Here,\" said a male voice right behind her. \"You need a key?\"\n\nJudith almost dropped the makeshift wire. \"Major Schwartz! I didn't hear you yawn. I mean, I thought it was . . .\"\n\nThe sleepy-eyed policeman nudged her aside and inserted a key. \"The chief thought you might need help. We're headed out to bust some drunken kids. Can't they learn in college how to hold their liquor? Why pay tuition just to study?\" He pushed the door open. \"I assume you're sleuthing. Good luck.\" He sauntered off to the patrol car.\n\n\"Well!\" Judith exclaimed under her breath. \"That was lucky! Didn't you see him coming?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie replied as they entered a small hall that led to another door. \"But you told me to be quiet. Anyway, I thought Ernie was sleepwalking. Look, there goes the boar.\"\n\nJudith saw the man\u2014or woman\u2014in the boar suit chasing some laughing children down the side street in the next block. She suddenly shivered. \"That thing creeps me out.\"\n\n\"Why? He's just another boring boar.\"\n\nJudith forced a smile. \"I know. But for some reason I had this sudden thought\u2014about the Dead walking. Stupid, huh?\"\n\nRenie shrugged, but didn't comment.\nChapter Thirteen\n\nThe cousins found themselves in the main hall, where the previous night's festivities had been held. They went out through the front, where a list of the town's departments was carved into a wooden cedar slab on the wall. Public records were in room three across the lobby.\n\nThe pine-paneled room wasn't much bigger than Judith's dining room. \"I keep forgetting how small this town is,\" she said. \"I suppose we should start with deaths.\"\n\n\"Why don't you do deaths while I do births?\" Renie suggested.\n\n\"Good plan.\" Judith found the filing cabinet containing deaths right next to births.\n\n\"They can computerize this,\" Renie said, opening the top drawer.\n\n\"Maybe it's part of the old-world atmosphere,\" Judith said, trying to figure out if she should go by date or name. The filing system didn't seem to be in any particular order. \"How are you doing with births?\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Renie replied, \"except for the three I birthed always being broke. Why?\"\n\n\"I mean these records,\" Judith said, trying not to sound impatient.\n\n\"Oh. They're in chronological order so far. The most recent one was born September nineteenth, a boy. That must be Suzie's waitress's kid. Remember\u2014she's short a couple of servers.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Judith murmured. \"But, to quote your dad, these files look like a bear with a crosscut saw went through them. There doesn't seem to be any order or sequence.\"\n\nRenie leaned against the open drawer of her filing cabinet. \"You're theorizing that somebody's gone through these files in a hurry or they want to stymie a snoop like you?\"\n\n\"Yes, it might be one or the other, or both.\" Judith tapped the top of the cabinet with her nails. \"Why? And when?\"\n\n\"Rhetorical or serious question?\"\n\n\"The latter. Wessler's certificate isn't here because the cause of death hasn't been officially determined. Even if Doc Frolander has finished the autopsy report, it won't be filed until Monday. I'm starting with his wife and child.\" Judith sighed. \"The top-drawer records seem random by date and initials of last names.\"\n\n\"Maybe I should help you with dead people,\" Renie said. \"I don't see how births matter so much in terms of satisfying your curiosity.\"\n\n\"Okay. Let's each pull out a drawer and sit down at the desk. There are two chairs, so we might as well be comfortable.\"\n\nFifteen minutes later, the cousins hadn't found anything remotely pertinent to the Wessler family\u2014or to anyone else whose name they recognized. Renie, in fact, had found several nondeath certificates in the drawer she was perusing.\n\n\"I've seen at least a half-dozen divorces and twice that many marriage licenses,\" she said in exasperation. \"Can't these people file things in their proper places?\"\n\n\"Maybe the town clerk is another one of Herr Wessler's kids.\"\n\nRenie paused, one arm draped over the filing cabinet on the desk. \"It's sick,\" she declared. \"All of this Wessler offspring stuff could lead to inbreeding like some of those Appalachian enclaves where everybody is related to everybody else and they all turn out weird.\"\n\nJudith considered her cousin's words. \"Well . . . not at this point. It's no secret when it comes to the locals acknowledging Herr Wessler's paternity. From what Chief Duomo told me, there are probably only a few of his illegitimate kids still around here. Now that he's dead, I assume there aren't any more on the way. Most of the people Fat Matt talked about are middle-aged.\"\n\n\"Given Wessler's vigor and good health,\" Renie said, flipping through more files, \"I'm surprised there aren't dozens. Speaking of youth, small-town people marry young. I've just come across two certificates for teenagers. Guess there wasn't much to do before they went Bavarian.\"\n\n\"That's generally true of small towns, or at least it used to be,\" Judith agreed. \"You're right, their system is really . . . hey,\" she said, turning to Renie, \"what year was that? The teenage marriages, I mean?\"\n\n\"Years,\" Renie corrected after going back to look at the marriage documents. \"One was in 1980 and the other was\"\u2014she grinned\u2014\"in 1985. Groom's name was Albert Edward Plebuck and the bride's name was Eleanor Jean Wessler. How did I miss that the first time? I must've been too caught up in their ages.\"\n\nJudith was smiling. \"Well, well. Ellie's secret past. Whatever happened to Plebuck?\"\n\n\"Should we search for a divorce?\"\n\n\"Fat Matt told me she moved away right after high school. He didn't say she got married first. Maybe they eloped and left town.\"\n\nRenie shook her head in mock dismay. \"I don't know what the first husband looked like, but if Delmar Denkel is an improvement, then I marvel that Plebuck was ever allowed to cross the county line. Do the Denkels have children? I mean the kind that they don't have to hide in a root cellar because they're really terrifying?\"\n\n\"I don't really know Ellie. Which is good\u2014until now.\"\n\n\"You're considering another motive for murder by Ellie?\"\n\n\"No, nothing like that. Do you see a phone book anywhere?\"\n\nRenie gazed around, came up empty, and started opening drawers in the desk. \"Here's one. It's tiny. What am I searching for? Plebuck?\"\n\n\"Right. He must've had parents.\"\n\n\"One would hope so . . .\" Renie scanned the listings. \"No Plebucks.\"\n\n\"Maybe they're in the cemetery,\" Judith said, tapping a pencil on the desk in an effort to ward off chewing her fingernails. \"It probably doesn't mean anything. Let's keep looking for those death certificates.\" A sudden thought occurred to her. \"If Ellie's maiden name is Wessler, where's the third brother? She's in her forties. Franz is younger than Josef, who apparently had no children. I don't get it. Even if Josef had kids who moved away, who is that third brother? We haven't come across any offspring of his.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"Then the unknown brother is Ellie's father.\"\n\n\"We'll ask Duomo,\" Judith said.\n\nThe cousins worked in silence until they heard the clock tower chime two. Judith finally found something of interest. \"Ah! Bob Stafford's death certificate!\"\n\n\"I didn't know we were looking for Bob,\" Renie said.\n\n\"It's sort of a bonus.\" Judith frowned. \"Nothing we didn't already know. Blow to the head by person or persons unknown. Death placed between two P.M. and four P.M. on Friday, August nineteenth, 2005.\"\n\n\"That's it?\" Renie asked.\n\nJudith didn't answer right away. \"Just attached notes from Doc Frolander's autopsy. Frankie Duomo was going fishing when he found the body around seven P.M. Frankie's the baker in the family. Initial reaction was that Bob had drowned . . . autopsy proved otherwise. Keep searching.\"\n\nRenie heaved a sigh. \"If I must. The divorce file is thin. I don't see anybody interesting. Mostly default decrees. 'De fault' of which spouse?\"\n\nJudith ignored the comment. Another five minutes passed before she hit pay dirt. \"Here's Josef Wessler's death certificate.\" She frowned. \"He died from complications of a fall off the balcony of Hanover Haus, of which he was the owner. That's our inn.\"\n\n\"Our in to what?\"\n\n\"The B&B where we're . . . you know damned well what I mean.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"Sure, but so what? The Wessler family's a big deal around here. Why shouldn't Dietrich's son own a local hostelry?\"\n\n\"He wasn't very old when he died.\"\n\n\"You think he was pushed? Of course you'd think that.\"\n\n\"Okay, so I let my imagination run away with me,\" Judith conceded. \"Still, I'm going to take another look at that balcony.\"\n\n\"I could push you and see what happens.\"\n\nJudith shot Renie a dark glance. \"Just keep searching.\"\n\nOnly a couple of minutes passed before Judith found Julia and Anna Wessler's death certificates. \"Oh, no! They both drowned!\"\n\nRenie stared. \"On Christmas Eve day? That's awful!\"\n\nJudith nodded absently as she read what few details were in the document. \"The river might've flooded, if a sudden warming spell melted the mountain snow-pack. But why would a mother take her baby to the river in that kind of a situation? Some kind of weird flash flood?\"\n\n\"We rarely have those around here,\" Renie said. \"That's usually triggered by a dam bursting or someone using dynamite improperly.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Which makes this sound suspicious. I wonder who runs the local newspaper?\"\n\nRenie's shoulders sagged. \"Gee\u2014just when I thought this was tedious. What about the other Mrs. Wessler? Do we need to find her death certificate or assume she died of natural causes, like a runaway roller coaster or trampled by a herd of giant tortoises?\"\n\n\"As long as we've gone this far, we might as well check Clotilde,\" Judith said. \"And yes, I'll humor you. I think Clotilde is a classy name.\"\n\n\"You would,\" Renie mumbled, flipping through more documents. \"Didn't you want to name Mike 'Balthazar'?\"\n\n\"I did not,\" Judith replied indignantly. \"It was 'Melchior.' \"\n\n\"I knew it was one of the Three Wise Men. Why not 'Casper'? And if they were so wise, how come they didn't have better names? You know\u2014like 'Tom,' 'Dick,' and 'Harry' or 'Groucho,' 'Harpo,' and 'Zeppo'?\"\n\n\"I wish you'd been named 'Harpo,' \" Judith said. \"Then I wouldn't have to listen to you jabber.\"\n\nRenie scowled. \"I'm trying to liven things up.\"\n\n\"You aren't. Ta-da!\" Judith cried, holding up a sheet of paper. \"Perseverance. I found Clotilde.\"\n\nRenie made a lethargic \"yippee\" motion with one finger. \"I'm thrilled,\" she murmured. \"Who done her in?\"\n\nJudith scanned the certificate. \"Ovarian cancer. She died at home, not in the hospital. Home was . . . Hanover Haus. She must have taken over running it after Josef died.\"\n\n\"Family quarters downstairs? They'd have room since the lobby's small. Do you know where the bridal suite is?\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"Judging from the layout, it may be on the main floor, too. Maybe it was originally part of where Josef and Clotilde lived. Franz would know, of course.\"\n\n\"Ah! Guess who I found? Henry Rupert Hellman, suicide, born 1919, died 1979.\" Renie waited for Judith's reaction.\n\n\"The marker by the river,\" she said in wonder. \"So is he buried there instead of in the cemetery because he killed himself?\"\n\n\"Maybe, maybe not,\" Renie said. \"Henry's suicide probably wouldn't have prevented him from being buried there, though I don't recall when the Church stopped banning people who offed themselves.\"\n\n\"I don't either,\" Judith murmured. \"But why bury him by the river? Unless he did it by drowning.\"\n\n\"That wouldn't be as easy as you'd think,\" Renie said. \"If the river's high enough, you get swept off your feet. Then you'd flop around and bump into rocks and fallen branches and make a big mess. It'd be way too much of a bother. Wet, too. You might catch cold.\"\n\nJudith's shoulders slumped. \"Your logic is so weird.\"\n\n\"My logic may not be as logical as yours, but it works for me.\" Renie began straightening the files in the drawer she'd been searching. \"If the guy shot himself at home, they couldn't put him in the armoire. Can we get a snack or do we have to visit the weekly Blatt?\"\n\n\"The newspaper can't be far from here,\" Judith said, tidying up her own portion of documents. \"I'm kind of hungry, too, but at least we can find out where the paper is located while we still have Suzie's car.\"\n\n\"Too bad those dogs ate your leftovers,\" Renie said, shoving her drawer back into the filing cabinet. \"Here, I'll put yours back, too.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Judith stood up, moving this way and that to work out the kinks in her neck, shoulders, and back. \"I have to admit those other drowning deaths bother me.\"\n\n\"For once, I don't blame you,\" Renie said, putting on her jacket.\n\n\"That's why I'd like to see the back issues.\" Judith paused to make sure they'd left everything in good order. \"It's so tragic.\"\n\nRenie opened the first door and led the way to the outside entrance. \"I wonder if they had a newspaper before the town became Little Bavaria, USA.\"\n\n\"I never thought of that,\" Judith said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. \"They must have had . . . hey, where's the car?\"\n\n\"You mean the one you parked in the no-parking zone?\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Didn't you see the sign?\"\n\nJudith was flabbergasted. \"I see it now. Why didn't you tell me?\"\n\n\"I didn't realize you were blind,\" Renie said. \"I thought you figured the cops would let you get away with it. I guess Schwartz didn't realize the Ford Escort was driven by you.\"\n\n\"Ohhh . . .\" Judith stared across the street at the police station. \"Somebody must be on duty.\" She paused, trying to hear if any noise was coming from the main street. \"It's quiet around here. Let's see if Fat Matt is back from arresting a few dozen unruly beer-crazed kids.\"\n\n\"Where would he put them?\" Renie asked as they crossed the street. \"He can't have very many cells.\"\n\n\"I don't care if he put them in a bus and drove them across the county line. What do we tell Suzie if we can't get the car back?\"\n\n\"You could tell her the truth,\" Renie said. \"I know it's not your style, but just for once . . .\" She shrugged as they entered the station.\n\nTo Judith's surprise, a redheaded young woman in uniform was behind the reception counter. \"Yes?\" she said in a brisk tone.\n\n\"You're . . .\" Judith stopped. The officer wasn't wearing a nametag.\n\n\"I'm on loan,\" the officer responded. \"The local police force is shorthanded during Oktoberfest. Shegogan County asked me to fill in. Double overtime. Why not?\" She shrugged. \"Call me Kitt, with two t's.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Judith said. \"Here's the problem, Kitt. Our car has been towed from behind the town hall. That is, it's not our car, but we\u2014\"\n\n\"Right,\" Kitt interrupted. \"I had it towed. You were in a no-parking zone. What did you expect? Or did you steal the car?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith said indignantly. \"A friend let us borrow it. The car belongs to Suzie Stafford, who owns the Pancake Schloss.\"\n\nKitt's gray eyes were as chilly as snow clouds. \"So? If you want it back, pay two hundred bucks cash and get it out of impound. I don't like pancakes.\"\n\n\"Two hundred cash?\" Judith exclaimed. \"I don't have that much on me.\" She turned to Renie. \"Do you?\"\n\n\"No,\" Renie said. \"I wouldn't give ten cents to somebody who didn't like pancakes.\" She glared at Kitt. \"What's wrong with you? People who don't like pancakes aren't normal.\"\n\n\"Watch it,\" Kitt said calmly. \"You want to spend the night in a cell? This Fat Matt guy doesn't serve pancakes for breakfast.\"\n\nRenie looked thoughtful. \"What does he serve? I had pancakes this morning. I might enjoy a change.\"\n\n\"That,\" Kitt said coldly, \"can be arranged.\"\n\n\"How about French toast or a nice omelet or\u2014\"\n\n\"Coz!\" Judith exclaimed. \"Shut up! We'll go to a cash machine.\"\n\nRenie made a face. \"You can't get an omelet from a cash machine.\"\n\nJudith grabbed Renie, hauling her to the door. \"We'll be back,\" she called to Kitt.\n\nThe officer didn't bother to look at the cousins. \"Whatev'.\"\n\n\"One of these days,\" Judith said when they got outside, \"you're going to get us into serious trouble.\"\n\n\"I'm not the one who parked in a no-parking zone.\"\n\n\"You should have told me!\"\n\n\"Hey\u2014you talk about serious trouble? How about all the times we've almost gotten ourselves killed because you were trying to finger who whacked whoever.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" Judith shot back, feeling the stiff wind sting her cheeks. \"But I've never asked a cop for an omelet.\"\n\n\"What about Joe's Special special? He used to be a cop.\"\n\n\"That's different. He likes to cook sometimes.\" Judith noticed that the main street was fairly busy, but there were no drunken revelers in sight. There were no signs of the police either. \"Where is a bank?\"\n\n\"How do I know?\" Renie snapped. \"I'm not the one who parked . . . oh, here come Connie and George Beaulieu. Ask them.\"\n\nJudith waved at the couple, who were crossing from the other side of the street. The Beaulieus didn't seem pleased to see the cousins, but stopped on the corner.\n\n\"The bank?\" George echoed in response to Judith's query. \"I don't think it's open on Saturdays.\"\n\n\"Oh, Judith,\" Connie said, making a feeble effort to look concerned, \"have you run out of money already?\"\n\n\"No. I need cash,\" Judith said, in less than her usual kindly tone.\n\n\"Cash, eh?\" George stroked his handlebar mustache. \"That sounds odd. Everyone here seems to take credit or debit cards. Or have you exceeded your limits? Budget, that's the secret. I always tell Connie before we leave the house that we must first make a strict budget and keep to it. Very prudent approach.\"\n\nConnie squeezed George's arm. \"My husband is so practical. But of course he has to be, since he's a government agent.\"\n\n\"He is?\" Judith asked in surprise. \"What branch of government?\"\n\n\"Now, Judith,\" Connie said, \"you should know better than to ask that question. Let's just say his work is . . . covert.\"\n\nGeorge nodded. \"Yes, deep cover, underground, you might say.\"\n\n\"How interesting,\" Judith remarked without enthusiasm. \"Does that mean you might know where the bank is?\"\n\nThe Beaulieus looked at each other questioningly. Finally George spoke. \"I think it's a block or so west of the town hall on the same side of the street.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Connie agreed. \"George is right. Of course. It's next to the newspaper office. I had to go in there\u2014the newspaper office, I mean\u2014day before yesterday because they'd listed the wrong time for my innkeeping seminar this afternoon at four-thirty.\"\n\n\"You're giving a seminar?\" Judith said in surprise. \"I didn't know anyone from the state association was doing that.\"\n\nConnie laughed. \"It was Ingrid Heffelman's idea. She felt it would be excellent publicity to have someone like me tell not only prospective hostelry owners but guests what our business is all about. So sweet of her to choose little old me!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith murmured. Ingrid and sweet were two words she never expected to hear in the same sentence. \"Good luck with that.\"\n\nThe Beaulieus had crossed to the other side of the main street. The cousins continued past the town hall just as the tower clock struck three. They reached the offices of the Little Bavaria Blatt first, but saw that it was closed.\n\n\"Drat,\" Judith said. \"I'd hoped it'd be open. You think they'd be covering the Oktoberfest events.\"\n\n\"They probably are,\" Renie said, circumventing a trio of older people who had stopped to chat. \"But if they publish midweek, they don't need to keep the office open. I assume they're probably taking photos and covering some of the bigger events. Hopefully, not Connie's seminar.\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"Sucking up to Ingrid. That galls me. You certainly were quiet when I talked to the Beaulieus.\"\n\n\"I was pretending they didn't exist.\"\n\n\"Good thinking. Here's the bank and there's the ATM. Damn. Forking out two hundred bucks wasn't in my budget. Even if I had one.\"\n\n\"We'll split it. I really should've mentioned the sign.\"\n\n\"You don't have to do that.\"\n\n\"No, but I will. I have my kindly moments. Quick, take advantage of this one. They never last long.\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"Thanks, coz. Let's hope this machine works.\"\n\nLuckily, their transactions went off without a hitch. Five minutes later they were back at police headquarters, where Chief Duomo was engaged in a shouting match with Officer Kitt.\n\n\"You don't tow Suze's car! This is Little Bavaria, not some big, ritzy place like Lake Shegogan! Do you want to cut off my waffles?\"\n\n\"How am I supposed to know who owns what car in this stinking little burg?\" Kitt yelled back. \"A no-parking zone means what it says where I come from! What kind of operation are you running here?\"\n\n\"My kind,\" Duomo bellowed. \"You don't know jack about how law enforcement works in a small . . .\" The chief suddenly noticed the cousins. \"Hey there, FATSO, what's up?\"\n\nJudith winced, but decided she wanted Duomo as her ally. \"Your extra help says I owe two hundred bucks for parking Suzie's car by the town-hall rear entrance.\"\n\n\"That's bull,\" Fat Matt declared, glowering at Kitt. \"Hell, I could pay that fine out of petty cash for you or Suze.\" He turned back to the still-irate redhead. \"Check the lockbox in that drawer and give the lady a couple of hundreds just for harassing her. She passed Go. Get it?\"\n\n\"You get it,\" Kitt snarled. \"It's your petty cash and I don't do charity when I'm on the job.\"\n\n\"Then do your job and go arrest somebody I don't like,\" the chief said. \"Go on, hit the streets.\"\n\nKitt grabbed her jacket and hat, hurtled around the counter, and shot one last malevolent look at the cousins. \"I should get triple overtime for this gig!\"\n\n\"To be fair,\" Judith said, after Kitt made her exit, \"I should've seen the sign. Were you serious about giving me the two hundred dollars?\"\n\nDuomo shrugged. \"Guess not. I think there's only about thirty in petty cash. My idiot brother wants to start charging me for his pastries. Hey, what's family for?\"\n\n\"Let's call it even,\" Judith said. \"We still have our hunskies. What happened to the rioting young drunks?\"\n\nDuomo leaned against the counter. \"We told 'em to take off. Where would I put a mob like that? Maybe they're walking out of town. They're too drunk to drive. Hell, they're too drunk to walk. If they try to flee justice, Orville and Ernie are waiting for them at each end of town. Maybe we could make some money off of that bunch. Anybody hungry?\"\n\nRenie raised her hand.\n\nDuomo nodded. \"I'll call that redhead and have her get something. Patrol's a waste of time during Oktoberfest. How 'bout some brats?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"I don't like them. A burger and fries sound good, though.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Duomo agreed. \"I'll give the redhead a few minutes to cool off. Kind of a good-looker, though. Too bad she's so ornery.\"\n\n\"While we're waiting,\" Judith said, tired of propping herself up against the counter, \"could we talk about some things my cousin and I found in the town records?\"\n\nFat Matt shrugged. \"Why not? Couldn't take you too long. The old town hall burned down years ago. Glad I wasn't the chief back then. They never did figure out who set the fire.\"\n\nJudith stared at Duomo. \"You mean it was arson?\"\n\n\"So it seemed. Just as well it got torched. Wessler would've built a new one anyway to fit his plan for Little Bavaria. Follow me. Hernandez should show up any minute.\"\n\nThe chief's office smelled of cigars and Limburger cheese. Judith and Renie both made sure they weren't going to sit on any leftovers before seating themselves across from Duomo.\n\n\"We went to the cemetery this afternoon,\" Judith began. \"We found the Wesslers' graves.\"\n\nThe chief yawned. \"So? They haven't moved for quite a while.\"\n\nJudith got to the point. \"How did Wessler's wife and child drown?\"\n\nFat Matt looked unmoved. \"They fell in the river. Julia couldn't swim. Neither could the baby.\"\n\n\"Why,\" she persisted, \"were they by the river on Christmas Eve?\"\n\n\"How would I know? I wasn't born yet.\" Fat Matt took in Judith's irked expression and sighed. \"It was during the day, not night.\"\n\n\"It seems odd,\" Judith persisted, \"especially if the river was high.\"\n\n\"I don't know what the river was like,\" the chief said impatiently. \"The story was she'd gone to get greens for decorations, slipped on a wet rock or something, and fell in. If she was carrying the kid, she probably couldn't let go to grab anything. It was a freaky thing. Nobody ever said anything different. Real sad, but those things happen.\"\n\nJudith considered the explanation, which was credible, if not necessarily true. \"How were they found?\"\n\n\"Hell, I don't know.\" Duomo was opening drawers, maybe searching for something to eat. \"I suppose Wessler went looking for them when they didn't show up. All I know is that it wasn't long after that he started having kids with other women. Guess he was making up for lost time or some damned thing.\"\n\n\"Why,\" Judith asked, leaning closer, \"do you never call him 'Dad' or 'Papa' or whatever most people call their fathers?\"\n\nThe chief shrugged. \"Too confusing. With so many of us, a half-dozen kids yelling for 'Dad' would've been kind of weird. Anybody could've called him that when I stop to think about it. Face it, Wessler was the town's father figure in more ways than one.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"How did your father get along with his sons?\"\n\n\"You mean the legit ones?\" Duomo leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. \"Oh . . . not sure I recall. I was a teenager back then. Not much interested in grown-up stuff. Didn't have much to do with my Wessler cousins\u2014Joe and Tilde's kids.\"\n\n\"Tilde!\" Renie exclaimed. \"That's not too bad.\"\n\nThe chief stared at her. \"Too bad for what?\"\n\n\"A name,\" Renie said. \"Clotilde bothers me.\"\n\n\"She never bothered me,\" Fat Matt said. \"I didn't see much of her. Kept herself to herself, as they say. Fussy woman. Franz was kind of snooty. No wonder Klara dumped him. Not that she isn't a little strange. All that singing stuff. Why can't she just yodel and get it over with? The tunes she sings last about half an hour. Or maybe it just seems like it.\"\n\n\"Lieder,\" Renie remarked.\n\n\"Leader of what?\" the chief said. \"She's never had a Girl Scout troop or a bunch of Camp Fire Girls. Too snooty, like Franz.\"\n\n\"I meant . . .\" Renie stopped. \"Skip it.\"\n\n\"You mentioned cousins,\" Judith said, trying to get back on track. \"Does Franz have other siblings besides Josef?\"\n\n\"You mean legit ones?\" Duomo saw Judith nod. \"Nope, just the baby sister who drowned.\"\n\nShe changed the subject. \"Has the autopsy been concluded?\"\n\nA knock sounded on the door. \"What?\" Duomo barked.\n\nHernandez entered, nodding vaguely at the cousins. \"Doc Frolander sent this over,\" he said, handing the chief a manila envelope.\n\n\"About time,\" Fat Matt grumbled. \"Where's that redhead?\"\n\nHernandez frowned. \"She took off in her own squad car.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" the chief said, his face reddening, \"she left town?\"\n\n\"No,\" Hernandez replied. \"She had to break up a dogfight. Those dachshunds mixed it up with Wessler's Saint Bernards. Franz was walking them. Dolph ate a couple of the dachshunds' hats.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Duomo sat back in his chair. \"Guess the redhead's sticking around. You might as well take over the front desk until she gets back.\"\n\nHernandez departed. The chief set the manila envelope aside. \"Damn. Now I can't send out for a snack.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Judith said, practically reaching out to grab the autopsy report, \"are you going to read that thing or not?\"\n\nFat Matt looked startled. \"Huh? Oh. Yeah, guess I'd better.\"\n\nJudith watched Duomo scan the report. It seemed to take him forever, though there were only three pages.\n\n\"I'll be damned,\" the chief finally said. \"Wessler wasn't stabbed to death after all. Doc says he was poisoned. How 'bout that?\"\nChapter Fourteen\n\nJudith didn't know what to think. \"How was he poisoned? What did he eat or drink? Was he injected? Did he take medication?\"\n\nThe chief held up a hand. \"Slow down. All these big scientific words . . .\" He ran a stubby finger under a couple of lines in the report. \"Aconite\u2014that's a short word, but it sounds like flooring. Or an altar boy? Wessler wanted all his sons to learn how to serve at church. I thought it meant I had to be a waiter. So did Bruno. Fact is, when he found it wasn't like that, he decided to become a chef. Maybe that's why Frankie wanted to be a baker. Never thought about that till now.\"\n\nJudith felt one of her headaches coming on. \"Please. An 'acolyte' is someone who serves at Mass. Serves the priest, that is. I mean, helps the priest celebrate Mass. 'Aconite' must be something else, but offhand, I don't know what it is. Doesn't Doc Frolander explain it somewhere?\"\n\nDuomo scowled at the last page of the report. \"Yeah, it's called monkshood in plain English. Hell, that sounds like more church stuff.\"\n\nThe cousins exchanged dismayed glances. \"Monkshood is also known as wolfsbane,\" Judith said. \"It grows around here.\"\n\n\"I'll be darned,\" Duomo said. \"Don't think we've ever had a poisoning case before.\"\n\n\"Why did somebody stab Wessler?\" Judith asked, still reeling from the latest news. \"He must've already been a goner.\"\n\nDuomo grimaced. \"I left out something. You'll get mad at me.\"\n\nJudith narrowed her eyes at the chief. \"What?\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" He cleared his throat. Twice. \"The stabbing part. I mean, he wasn't really stabbed. It was one of those joke knives, the kind that kids have for Halloween. Otto Kotter, the trombone guy, did it. He likes a good gag. Orville didn't know Otto was in on the setup and tried to stop him from fleeing the scene.\"\n\nJudith vaguely recalled Renie mentioning something about a cop and a trombone player. \"But what about all the blood?\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Fat Matt said, now on the defensive, \"if you'd stayed around instead of flying off like a wild goose in winter, you'd have been able to see that a real knife wound like that wouldn't have spilled so much blood. It was another one of those Halloween gag deals\u2014fake stuff. It might've fooled the witnesses, but you'd have caught on right away.\"\n\nJudith held her head. Renie leaned forward, resting an arm on the desk. \"That was a cheat on poor coz,\" she declared angrily. \"Why didn't you tell her the truth from the get-go?\"\n\n\"You don't have to get all cranky about it,\" Duomo huffed. \"Truth is, I needed your cousin's help in the Stafford case. The Wessler thing was a throw-in because you were there. If you'd stayed put, she'd have figured it out on the spot.\"\n\nJudith had collected her wits, though her temper was still frayed. \"You thought Wessler was playing a joke?\"\n\nDuomo sighed. \"At first. But he was dead, so I figured it was a pretty bad joke. Backfired, or something, probably had a heart attack in all the hoopla and excitement. Face it, he was my old man, so I let Doc Frolander do an autopsy. Imagine my surprise when all those morons like Ellie started confessing. That made me kind of suspicious.\"\n\n\"No kidding,\" Renie muttered.\n\n\"Hey,\" Duomo said, wagging a finger, \"the old guy was in darned good shape for his age. Frankly, I was surprised he'd keel over like that.\"\n\nJudith was shaking her head. \"You must be disappointed in me. I haven't gotten to first base with Bob Stafford's homicide. You forced me to get sidetracked with this Wessler thing.\"\n\n\"Yeah, right,\" Duomo agreed. \"Poor strategy on my part. Though now it turns out for the best. You've already done your homework on Wessler. Let's see if we can't get two for the price of one.\"\n\n\"You're paying me?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Not exactly,\" Fat Matt hedged. \"Suze will probably give you a free dinner. Maybe a lunch, too.\"\n\n\"Gosh,\" Renie said, all brown-eyed innocence, \"you're the cop. Can't you figure it all out so we can go home Monday?\"\n\n\"Don't be a smart-ass,\" the chief said. \"You've got FATSO here to sleuth. If I wasn't baffled before, I sure am now.\"\n\n\"It's FASTO,\" Judith all but shrieked, digging into her purse to find some Excedrin. \"Where can I get a glass of water?\"\n\n\"Uh . . . go ask Hernandez,\" the chief replied.\n\nRenie jumped up. \"I'll do it.\" She practically ran out the door.\n\nJudith set her elbows on the desk. \"May I see the report? Surely the doctor has more toxicology details. And yes, I've seen autopsy reports before. My husband's a retired police detective. On occasion, he'd let me see the results of a poisoning death after he'd closed a case.\"\n\n\"Think we should call him?\"\n\n\"No! I mean, he's very busy. In fact, he's doing an internal investigation of our city's police department.\"\n\nThe chief grimaced. \"Guess calling him is a bad idea. I wouldn't want him investigating us.\"\n\n\"You sure wouldn't,\" Judith murmured, taking the report from Fat Matt. \"May I assume that Doc Frolander is competent?\"\n\n\"You mean as a doctor?\" Duomo didn't wait for an answer. \"I guess so. He went to John's Hoppin' med school.\"\n\n\"You mean Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore?\"\n\nDuomo rubbed his bald head. \"Yeah, that sounds right.\"\n\n\"He must be brilliant,\" Judith said as Renie returned with a paper cup of water. \"That's one of the best med schools in the country.\"\n\n\"It is?\" The chief seemed unimpressed.\n\nJudith popped the Excedrin into her mouth and swallowed most of the water. \"Thanks, coz. I'm studying the autopsy report.\"\n\n\"I can see that,\" Renie said, sitting down. \"Anything of interest?\"\n\nJudith didn't answer right away. \"I'm trying to find out how quickly monkshood or wolfsbane works. Wessler seemed in fine fettle before he died.\" She paused, studying the details. \"It works fairly fast. The only sign of it is asphyxia, which, of course, could be caused by so many other things. At least that answers one question.\"\n\nThe chief looked surprised. \"It does? What's the question?\"\n\nJudith managed to hide her impatience. \"Whoever poisoned Wessler hoped to conceal the fact. Maybe the killer thought a small-town medical examiner wouldn't have the means to figure it out.\"\n\nRenie poked her cousin's arm. \"Back up. Are you considering that Bob's murder could tie in to any of this? I'm asking because I'd like to know if Mother Wessler and child drowned where Bob's body was found.\"\n\nJudith stared at Renie. \"Why?\"\n\n\"How many people in one small town drown? The Wessler house is close to where Bob's body was found, right? I know the incidents are separated by many years. But wouldn't that be the same area where Mrs. Wessler would go looking for Christmas greens?\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"There were no evergreens near that side of the river. Why would she go there at all?\"\n\n\"Having worked on graphic designs for Wirehoser Timber,\" Renie began, \"there may've been trees along that river at one time. They were cut or swept away by a flood. The usual undergrowth has taken over part of the path. The river could've even changed channels. So it's plausible that years ago Mrs. Wessler was gathering Christmas greens. But why did Bob Stafford go there in the first place?\"\n\nDuomo shot Judith a sharp glance. \"You sure she's not FATSO after all?\"\n\nJudith felt stupid. \"I was so busy admiring the view that I didn't notice. But my cousin's right\u2014which makes me wonder if Bob was killed by the river or somewhere else.\"\n\nThe chief scowled. \"And somebody hauled him down there? He was a fairly big guy. Not fat or anything, but at least average. You met Barry, his son?\" He saw the cousins nod. \"About the same height, only with another twenty pounds or so.\"\n\nJudith exchanged quick looks with Renie. \"Are you suggesting something symbolic about the third body being found by the river?\"\n\nRenie didn't answer right away. \"Sorry. My stomach's growling so loud that I can barely hear you. It could be connected, symbolic or otherwise.\" Her expression grew self-deprecating. \"Maybe I'm nuts.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Duomo said, turning back to Judith. \"I thought we were staying on track with Wessler and what really killed him.\"\n\n\"I can see a possible connection with the place where Mrs. Wessler and Bob were found dead, but not with what happened to your father,\" Judith admitted. \"We don't know where he was poisoned since he'd just arrived at Wolfgang's. The stomach contents don't tell us much. Wessler hadn't eaten for at least an hour, but he'd drunk some wine before arriving at the cocktail party. It doesn't state where he did that.\"\n\nThe chief shrugged. \"Don't know where he'd been before he showed up and croaked. Home, maybe. He wasn't a big drinker, so maybe he'd gone to some other shindig before\u2014\" Duomo's phone rang. He stared at it as if he could make it stop. Finally, after five rings, he reluctantly picked up the receiver. \"What now? I'm in conference.\"\n\nJudith watched Fat Matt's expression change from annoyance to exasperation. \"Okay, okay\u2014hell, can't you dumbbells control a riot?\" He slammed down the receiver, grunted as he stood up, and grabbed his cap. \"Those damned kids are tearing up the beer garden. It isn't even open yet. I thought they left town. Maybe I'll shoot a bunch of 'em. We got more room in the hospital than in the jail. Keep sleuthing. Gotta go.\"\n\nDuomo went. \"Great,\" Judith grumbled. \"Every so often he seems almost like a policeman. And then he goes all Keystone Kop on us.\"\n\nRenie leaned her head on her fist. \"Do you really think he's as stupid as he seems?\"\n\nJudith considered the question. \"No, but I don't think he's any genius either. Maybe it's an act to fool perps. I hope he kept that bottle from the Thomas Mann bust. I wonder if it contained poison. I also like your idea about the river site.\"\n\n\"I could get more ideas if I ate something,\" Renie said.\n\n\"Let's try one of the food stalls,\" Judith suggested, checking her watch. \"It's not quite four.\"\n\n\"No bratwursts,\" Renie said.\n\n\"Fine,\" Judith said. \"How about Frankie's bakery?\"\n\n\"Duomo's brother's place? Sure, why not? Where is it?\"\n\nJudith had gotten up and moved to the door. \"Let's find out.\"\n\nKitt had returned to desk duty. Judith asked if she knew the bakery's location. She didn't know and didn't much care. \"I don't live here, remember?\" she said, refocusing on the paperwork in front of her.\n\nThe cousins left. At the corner, Judith suddenly remembered seeing a bakery across the street from Sadie's Stories. \"Hey\u2014isn't it time for you to check back with the Heraldsgate Hill Bookshop?\"\n\n\"You're right,\" Renie said. \"I'll do it now before we're caught in another riot.\" Getting out her cell, she dialed the number from memory.\n\nJudith turned to look toward the main street where a half-dozen children were bouncing along in a pony cart driven by an older man who was apparently telling them stories that made them giggle. Another man was playing the accordion on the far corner while his audience sang along and clapped their hands. Judith smiled, admiring the pleasure that people of all ages seemed to derive from the Oktoberfest celebration. For a few moments she forgot about her headache and the tragedies that had triggered her frustration.\n\n\"Helene can order the book,\" Renie said, breaking her cousin's reverie. \"Bill should've gone to the neighborhood bookstore in the first place. I told her to get it and she thought it would be in by next Wednesday. Obviously, it's only unavailable in Little Bavaria.\"\n\n\"There's a reason,\" Judith said as they crossed the street, \"but I can't think why. From what Barry told us, it doesn't have anything to do with Wessler. I wonder what he did to get that Saint Hubert's award? I bet Father Dash knows. It's too bad he won't be here until tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What about Klara or Franz? They must have a complete biography of Wessler,\" Renie said, turning the corner onto the main street. \"Even if they don't know details, they have to put something together for the funeral eulogy.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" Judith agreed. \"Let's get a snack at the bakery and pay a call on whoever may be in at the Wessler house.\" She stopped suddenly, startling Renie.\n\n\"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"The car!\" Judith exclaimed. \"We forgot to collect it. We'll need it to get to the Wessler house. I'm not walking that far. Then we can take it back to Suzie before she thinks we stole it.\"\n\n\"Bayern B\u00e4ckerei first,\" Renie said, pointing to a sign between a dry cleaners and a hat emporium. \"I can translate that.\"\n\nThe bakery was crowded, and customers had to take a number. Renie found the dispenser near the door. \"Thirty-three.\" She looked up at a digital counter on the wall. \"We've got ten people ahead of us. Can you see how many clerks are waiting on customers? I'm too short.\"\n\n\"Three,\" Judith replied. \"Two women and a guy who looks like Fat Matt except he's not as fat and not completely bald.\"\n\n\"That's not too long a wait,\" Renie said. \"But we can't see what's in the bakery cases until some of those other people leave.\"\n\nUnfortunately, one of the customers moving away from the counter was Eleanor Denkel. \"Judith,\" she said in a cheerless voice. \"I didn't think you liked sweets. No wonder you don't like to be called FATSO.\"\n\n\"It's FASTO,\" Judith said grimly, \"and it's not me, it's my cousin, remember? Does she look fat to you?\"\n\nEllie eyed Renie with disdain. \"No, but those teeth of hers could devour an entire shelf in a hurry.\"\n\nRenie folded her arms across her bosom. \"I'll step outside with you, Ellie, and we'll discuss that further, okay?\"\n\nEllie looked shocked. \"How dare you!\"\n\nRenie shrugged, moving just enough to block the door. \"It's not a dare, it's a challenge. Well? Or do you need a second, such as that wizened little critter you call a husband?\"\n\nEllie's face turned a color akin to puce. \"I should call the police! You're threatening me.\"\n\n\"Go ahead,\" Renie said, her eyes flashing. \"Ask for Kitt. I'd love to see her hustle your butt off to jail. In fact, I'll go with you.\" She looked at Judith. \"You know what I like. I'll get the car while I'm watching Ellie get busted for interfering with an officer of the law.\"\n\nEllie's eyes widened. \"You've been deputized?\"\n\n\"The term is 'special consultant to the chief of police.' Well? What are you waiting for?\" Renie backed into the door, pushing it open. \"Move. Put your mojo where your mouth is.\"\n\n\"Oh, for . . .\" Ellie turned in every direction. \"Excuse me, I forgot something.\" She brushed past Judith, went back toward the counter, and tried to wedge herself between four other customers, who were crowded together at the end of the counter.\n\nRenie grinned and moved away from the door to let two patrons make their exit. \"I called her bluff.\"\n\n\"Coz, someday you'll go too far. But this time wasn't one of them. I kind of enjoyed it.\"\n\n\"Look,\" Renie said, \"Ellie's sneaking out the back way. Ha ha.\"\n\nJudith smiled ironically. \"So she can be intimidated. I wonder\u2014\"\n\nRenie interrupted. \"Two more just left. I mean it, you buy me something wonderful while I get the car and then pick you up. Bye.\" She followed the departing customers out of the door.\n\nJudith finally got up to the display case. Some of the trays were already empty; others held only a few items. She scanned the length of the baked goods, dismissing muffins, crullers, and any cookies with nuts from her wish list. Renie's allergies were no joke. She spotted some cinnamon twists in the end tray. Her cousin liked those. Judith's taste buds were tempted by a lone custard-filled Danish, but one of the buxom blondes behind the counter scooped it up and handed it to a bearded man next to her.\n\n\"Hungry?\" a voice behind her inquired.\n\n\"Franz!\" Judith turned around. \"What happened to the dogs?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" He chuckled. \"They were just frisking with the dachshunds. No harm done. Those hats didn't suit them. They were the orange ones and the green looked so much better. But of course it was easier to keep track of the racers with different-colored hats.\"\n\n\"We only saw them start the race,\" Judith said as two more customers, including the bearded man, left the shop. Franz Wessler moved up beside her. \"Serena and I were coming back from the cemetery. We saw some of your family's graves.\"\n\nFranz frowned. \"Do you always have cemeteries on your itinerary?\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact, we do,\" Judith said, telling only a small fib. \"We found some fascinating ones when we were in Scotland last year.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Franz said slowly, \"I can see how that would be of interest, especially if you know the area's history.\"\n\n\"That's the point. It's one of the ways you learn the history. For example, we found your mother's and your sister's graves.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course.\" Franz's face grew melancholy. \"Very sad.\"\n\nAnother customer left. Judith realized she was only one number away from being called. Glancing at Franz's ticket, she saw that he was thirty-two, just ahead of her. \"My father died young,\" she said. \"Do you remember much about your mother and sister's tragedy?\"\n\n\"No,\" Franz said, avoiding Judith's gaze. \"It happened when I was too young to understand. In fact, my father was so grief-stricken that he sent my brother, Josef, and me back to Germany to live with relatives for a time. This town was very small then. We had no high school, no doctor, no dentist, and of course no hospital. There was only a run-down motel. None of those facilities and services were available until the 1980s when my father began his campaign to create Little Bavaria as a tourist attraction. Josef returned before I did, but I stayed in Germany until I was in my midteens. I virtually had to learn English all over again. Our German relatives treated us well, but I felt as if I were divided between two worlds, the new and the old.\"\n\n\"Your father must've recovered from his loss,\" Judith said. \"Is that why he became involved in creating Little Bavaria?\"\n\n\"Not quite, though he . . .\"\n\nFrankie Duomo called number thirty-two. Franz turned, glanced at the baker, and pressed his ticket into Judith's hand. \"Go ahead, you've waited a long time. You look tired. I'll take your number instead.\"\n\n\"But . . .\" Judith began, puzzled.\n\nFranz smiled, though his eyes were hard. \"Please.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" She handed over her own ticket and passed Franz's across the counter. \"Hi,\" she said to Frankie. \"I'd like two cinnamon twists and one of your chocolate chip cookies.\"\n\n\"That's it?\" Frankie asked, his gaze flickering in Franz's direction as he moved farther away to the other end of the display case.\n\n\"Ah . . . I'll take a lemon Danish, too, please.\"\n\nFrankie complied wordlessly. He bagged the items and rang them up. Before he could give Judith the total, one of the buxom blondes called number thirty-three. \"That comes to six dollars and fifty-four cents,\" Frankie said.\n\nJudith gave him a ten. While waiting for change, she saw the blonde chatting amiably with Franz. A moment later, she was outside where the Ford Escort had pulled up in the store's small parking lot.\n\n\"I didn't run over anybody,\" Renie announced. \"What did you get?\"\n\n\"Here,\" Judith said, first removing the cookie. \"It's all yours.\"\n\n\"Yum! I love twists. Too bad Bill's not here\u2014lemon Danish is one of his favorites.\" She bit into a twist. \"Goddedatwisfirs. Denwllgo.\" She swallowed and stared at her cousin. \"You look weird. What's wrong?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But pull out.\"\n\n\"Weird\" didn't quite describe Judith's feeling. It felt more like apprehension. Or maybe even fear.\nChapter Fifteen\n\nRenie bit off more twist, but complied with her cousin's request to keep moving. A moment later, they were headed east on the main street, driving slowly as pedestrians, pony carts, strolling musicians, and a medieval jester impeded their path.\n\n\"Are we calling on the Wessler manse?\" Renie asked.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Judith repeated.\n\nRenie frowned. \"What did you do in the bakery? Take stupid pills?\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"No. But Franz Wessler was there and he seems to have an aversion to Frankie Duomo. He made me switch numbers with him so Frankie couldn't wait on him.\"\n\n\"Maybe Franz wanted to check out the buxom blondes,\" Renie said as they came to a full stop when a trio of acrobats tumbled across the street. \"I assume Klara's not putting out.\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" Judith said. \"I wonder if we should call on Klara. Do you think we'd scare her? She seems like the nervous type.\"\n\n\"I'd be nervous, too, if I had to drag those big Saint Bernards around,\" Renie said after she'd polished off the first twist. \"Are we going to the concert tonight or do you have an official function I don't know about?\"\n\n\"Ohh . . .\" Judith rummaged in her purse. \"I forgot. There's a small cocktail party for the innkeeping contingent at the Valhalla Inn. My gosh! I am losing it! What happened to Gabe Hunter after Duomo let him go?\"\n\n\"Gee,\" Renie said as they crept past the exhibit booths, \"why don't you ask him? He's on duty with some woman I don't recognize.\"\n\n\"Can you pull in somewhere?\" Judith asked, twisting around to see Gabe and his companion in the booth. \"Oh! That's Jeanne Barber. You know\u2014the woman I filled in for when we were on Chavez Island?\"\n\nRenie groaned. \"Another one of our misadventures with a corpse. She does look familiar, but her hair's a different color. It's been at least ten years.\" She turned the steering wheel, aiming at a spot on the sidewalk that was conveniently devoid of pedestrians. \"Hang on\u2014this could be b-b-bumpy.\"\n\nJudith gasped as the Ford Escort climbed the curb. \"We're lucky if we don't wreck Suzie's car before we get it back to her.\"\n\nGabe, Jeanne, and the half-dozen visitors at the booth stared in surprise. Judith turned to Renie before getting out. \"Drive around someplace while I talk to them, okay?\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie said, \"with all these meandering people, I may only get half a block away. Just go so I can get off the sidewalk.\"\n\nJudith went. Before she reached the B&B booth, Jeanne Clayton Barber let out a shriek of recognition. Signaling to her old high school chum to ignore her and continue talking to two young women, Judith discreetly stepped off to one side. A couple of minutes passed before Jeanne suddenly came out of the booth and embraced her.\n\n\"It's been ages!\" Jeanne cried. \"You've hardly changed one bit since I saw you at that B&B meeting five years ago.\"\n\n\"It was eight,\" Judith said, but smiled and wished she could say the same for Jeanne. The dyed auburn hair didn't suit her pale complexion and her angular frame looked downright scrawny. But the gray eyes still had a sparkle and the wrinkles indicated she had laughed more than she'd frowned. \"I heard you were here,\" Judith said after Jeanne stepped back. \"I worked the booth earlier with Evelyn Choo.\"\n\nJeanne nodded. \"Yes, I've known Evelyn for years. She and I served on a couple of committees together.\" She grimaced. \"You know how Ingrid Heffelman loves to coerce us onto committees.\"\n\n\"Fortunately,\" Judith said, \"I've been spared most of that. Just lucky, I guess.\" In fact, she knew that Ingrid preferred keeping her least favorite innkeeper a deep, dark secret. Or so Judith had always figured.\n\n\"We must get together,\" Jeanne said, glancing at the booth, where Gabe Hunter was still involved with a quartet of people wearing Bavarian garb. \"I assume you're attending the party for us tonight at the Valhalla Inn. Our host is Herman Stromeyer, the Oktoberfest chairman. The inn is such a cozy place at the west end of town\u2014perched out on the riverbank, it's a veritable aerie. You can imagine you're on the Rhine. I can practically hear the Lorelei calling.\"\n\n\"I not only haven't met Mr. Stromeyer, I haven't been that far down the main street,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Nor have I. He was supposed to address us at the cocktail party, but he never got the chance because of the tragedy. Evelyn Choo told me he came down with flu later that evening. Or maybe he was overcome by what happened to Mr. Wessler.\" She shuddered as the clock tower struck four. \"My goodness! The time flies so. I can't believe Gabe and I are finished already.\" She lowered her voice. \"That poor young man! Can you imagine being hauled off by the police for no reason? How embarrassing!\"\n\nJudith saw Gabe nodding and smiling at the Bavarian-clad foursome. \"Who's relieving you?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Jeanne said, \"Ellie and her husband are filling in because so many of us want to attend Connie's seminar. Are you coming?\"\n\nJudith's expression was noncommittal. \"I thought that whatever Connie is doing was aimed at travelers, not innkeepers.\"\n\n\"It's both,\" Jeanne said. \"So many people signed up for it that the venue has been changed to a larger room.\"\n\nJudith saw Eleanor and Delmar Denkel approaching from the other direction. \"I'll have to see about that. My cousin Serena is with me. You remember her from our stay on Chavez Island?\"\n\nJeanne looked faintly startled. \"Yes. Yes. She's . . . memorable.\"\n\n\"She is that,\" Judith conceded. \"Here comes Gabe. I'll see you at the cocktail party, Jeanne.\"\n\n\"What?\" Glancing over her shoulder at the Denkels, Jeanne suddenly seemed distracted. \"Oh, yes, the party. Excuse me, I should speak to Ellie and make sure we left everything in order.\"\n\nJeanne and Gabe nodded and smiled as they crossed paths. The young man approached Judith in a diffident manner.\n\n\"You must think I'm some kind of screwup,\" he said, adjusting the hood on his ski parka.\n\n\"You mean the mix-up with Chief Duomo?\" Judith laughed. \"Did he have you going in circles?\"\n\n\"You know that guy?\" Gabe asked. \"He's kind of strange.\"\n\n\"He's certainly different from most law enforcement officers I've . . . known,\" she said. \"My husband is a retired police detective.\"\n\n\"He's different from just about anybody I've ever met,\" Gabe said. \"The weird thing was that it was like he was trying to get information out of me about other people. But he went about it in such an oddball way that I didn't know what was really on his mind. Even after that other officer\u2014the guy with the sleepy eyes\u2014admitted he remembered I'd gotten to the party at Wolfgang's just as the old guy was killed, the chief still kept asking me a ton of questions.\"\n\n\"By then, he may've considered you a witness, not a suspect.\"\n\n\"I don't know. If so, why did I have to spend the night at the jail?\"\n\nJudith didn't answer right away. It suddenly occurred to her that maybe Duomo had done that for Gabe's protection. \"Did he focus on any certain individuals when he asked you about the other people?\"\n\nThe sound of a bass drum, a flugelhorn, and a brass saxhorn kept Gabe from answering immediately. The trio appeared from in back of the booths and continued down the street.\n\n\"Wow,\" Gabe said under his breath. \"I think they're advertising tonight's band concert. They sure like their music around here.\" He paused and blinked twice. \"What did you ask . . . oh, if Duomo focused on anybody in particular. He kept pretty much to the B&B group, mostly focused on on Ellie Denkel, but I really don't know her. That'd be natural, since she's the one in charge of us.\"\n\n\"She's from here,\" Judith said. \"But she already confessed.\"\n\nGabe shook his head. \"Falsely, right? Why? Is she shielding somebody? Delmar's a Realtor. He's not involved with running B&Bs.\"\n\n\"Delmar sells real estate?\" Ellie's pint-size mate didn't strike Judith as a typical high-pressure salesman.\n\nGabe shrugged. \"I guess. I heard her say he was involved in residential and commercial properties.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Judith scanned the street for the Ford Escort, but only saw a dozen stalled vehicles in either direction waiting for a group of Girl Scouts to cross. \"I'm glad you weren't further detained.\"\n\n\"Me, too. I better go.\" Gabe checked his watch. \"I'm attending Connie's seminar. Being new in the business, I need some tips.\"\n\n\"Good luck,\" Judith murmured. Gabe hurried off down the street, avoiding the Girl Scouts, who had reached the sidewalk.\n\nFinally, she saw the Ford Escort. To her horror, there was a deer on the hood. Judith waited anxiously for Renie to pull over to the curb. It was only then that she realized the deer was a large stuffed animal whose glassy eyes nevertheless seemed to stare at her in reproach.\n\n\"Hey,\" Renie called, leaning out the window, \"could you haul that thing inside? I feel like an idiot.\"\n\n\"You are an idiot,\" Judith said, wrestling with the deer. It wasn't very heavy, but the legs and antlers made it difficult to remove from the hood. \"And now I feel like an idiot,\" she declared, stuffing the deer in the backseat. \"Everybody's looking at me like I'm some kind of poacher. Dare I ask how that happened?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said. \"I was trying to turn around by the U.S. National Forest booth down the street and I hit the deer they had standing outside. Guess it got caught in the headlights.\"\n\n\"The headlights aren't on,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Did I say they were? The headlights are still there.\"\n\n\"No wonder Bill complains about your driving.\"\n\n\"You know I haven't got any depth perception. It's not my fault, it's genetic. Just stop griping and tell me where we're going.\"\n\n\"Oh . . . we should call on Klara. Let me think of a viable excuse.\"\n\n\"We could give her the deer as a hostess gift,\" Renie said, waiting for a Boy Scout troop to cross the street.\n\n\"That would really make her nervous,\" Judith said as they reached the high school turn. The dachshund racecourse had been replaced by a replica of Mad Ludwig's castle with a courtyard that served as a stage for a puppet show. Judith assumed it was probably a fairy tale enactment.\n\nAs often happened with the cousins, Renie read Judith's mind. \"I bet it's Grimm, but not too grim for the kiddies.\"\n\n\"I hope so. There's too much grim stuff around here already.\"\n\nThere was little traffic on the side street. Renie pulled into the curving driveway. \"Lots of steps to get to the porch. Can you manage?\"\n\n\"I'll have to,\" Judith said. \"You can't carry me.\"\n\nJudith was relieved to see there was a handrail. The cousins climbed the curving stone stairway to face an oak door with a brass knocker. Renie lifted it, discovering a buzzer underneath. She banged only once. A half-dozen musical notes resounded inside the house.\n\n\"What is that?\" Judith asked.\n\nRenie frowned. \"Maybe the overture from Wagner's Meistersinger?\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"You know more about opera than I do.\"\n\nThere was no immediate response. Renie was about to bang the knocker again when Olga Crump opened the door. The housekeeper peered suspiciously at the visitors. \"Do I know you?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, you do,\" Renie said, edging her way inside. \"We're here to tell you Roscoe is off the hook for snoring all day. The Kotters conceded that he has a right to nod off anytime he wants. It's in the Constitution under 'Freedom of Sleep.' Where's Mrs. Wessler?\"\n\nOlga, looking confused, pressed her hands against her big bosom. \"Is she expecting you?\"\n\n\"Expecting us to do what?\" Renie asked. \"Of course. Tell her that Mrs. Flynn and I have come to explain why we're here.\"\n\nStill looking puzzled, Olga stomped off down the long hallway. Judith gazed into the living room with its big stone fireplace and comfortable furniture. The only sign of the Wessler ancestral heritage was a plaque on one wall with what looked like a family crest.\n\nRenie tugged at Judith's arm. \"Sit. Klara can't throw us out if we look as if we're settled in.\"\n\n\"We can't be that impolite,\" Judith protested.\n\n\"Why not? Do you think Klara would faint?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith said, hearing voices close by. \"Here they come.\"\n\n\"They?\"\n\n\"Klara and Mrs. Crump,\" Judith whispered before turning around. \"Hello, Mrs. Wessler. How kind of you to let us inquire about your dogs. Are they recovered from their fracas with the dachshunds?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Klara said, her glacial-blue eyes round with surprise. \"Yes, it was a frisky romp. How did you know?\"\n\n\"We ran into Franz earlier,\" Judith said. \"My cousin also wanted to offer you her apologies for taking Siegfried and Dolph to task.\" She nudged Renie with her elbow.\n\n\"I'm terrified of dogs,\" Renie said, trying to look abject. \"My cousin will explain why. I can't really talk about it.\" She put a hand to her forehead and turned away.\n\n\"Please sit,\" Klara said, ushering them into the living room. \"No worries. The dogs are outside.\" She paused as the cousins sat down on a big forest-green divan. \"Is there something Mrs. Crump could fetch you before she feeds Siegfried and Dolph? A glass of wine, perhaps?\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" Judith said. \"I'm attending a cocktail party this evening.\" She smiled disarmingly. \"I don't want to impair my faculties.\"\n\nKlara waved a hand in dismissal of Mrs. Crump. \"Very prudent,\" she said, carefully arranging the pleats of her rust-colored skirt before sitting down in a brown gold-studded club chair. \"I appreciate your kindness in offering an apology, Mrs. . . . ?\"\n\n\"Jones,\" Renie said with a facile smile. \"Serena Jones.\"\n\nFor some reason, Klara laughed, a fittingly musical sound. \"You,\" she said, after reining in her merriment and looking at Judith, \"are . . . ?\"\n\n\"Judith Flynn. I'm part of the innkeeping group.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. I believe Franz mentioned that.\" A slight frown creased her high forehead. \"Where is Franz? He's been gone for quite some time.\"\n\n\"We saw him at the bakery,\" Judith said. \"That was probably twenty minutes ago.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Klara bit her lower lip. \"Maybe he's catching up with old friends, though after living away from here, he's lost track of so many.\"\n\n\"He must know Frankie the baker,\" Judith said innocently.\n\nKlara's face tightened. \"Franz distances himself from his father's other offspring. He finds them . . . an embarrassment.\" Her expression grew melancholy as she changed the subject. \"I've lived here only a few years. Los Angeles was a fine place for my career, but after Franz and I separated, I needed a more tranquil setting to revive my spirit. Little Bavaria seemed like Eden\u2014until now.\" Her eyes glistened with tears.\n\n\"You must've been very fond of your father-in-law,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Oh, yes.\" Klara sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a finger. \"He was such a sympathetic, understanding man. You might not think he would be so kind to his son's former wife, but that was not so. He invited me to live here. Dietrich was the epitome of compassion.\"\n\n\"So we hear,\" Judith said. \"Everyone seems to have loved him.\"\n\nKlara nodded. \"He truly had not an enemy in the world. That is what is so terrible.\" She stopped, looking forlorn.\n\nJudith nodded. \"I can't imagine why anyone would wish him harm. I heard he was made a member of the Knights of Saint Hubert. It's a very prestigious award. How did he earn such an honor?\"\n\nKlara tugged at a perfect pink earlobe. \"For his work with refugees. So many displaced persons, not only Germans, of course, but from other countries. Many had fled the Baltics to Germany to escape the Russian Communists. They lived like hunted animals during the war. Some of the Germans resented them. Dietrich saw to it they were treated kindly and not persecuted because they were foreign.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a very noble endeavor,\" Judith said. \"I didn't realize that Germany was considered a safe haven for people from Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia.\"\n\nKlara nodded. \"My parents were Latvian. It was so difficult for them, during the war, and even afterward. You'd be shocked how even some good German people behaved. Understandable, but inhumane.\"\n\n\"Mr. Wessler's honors seem well deserved,\" Judith said. \"I can't help but wonder if whoever . . . stabbed him was deranged.\"\n\nKlara's eyes widened in shock. \"Deranged? Oh, no! Surely not!\"\n\n\"Well . . .\" Judith raised her hands in a helpless gesture. \"Who else but a crazy person would want to harm Mr. Wessler?\"\n\n\"I know of no one so crazy,\" Klara said in a tremulous voice. \"I think perhaps it was a bizarre accident. I was never in the ballroom, so I only know what I heard later. I had to rest my voice that night.\"\n\nJudith glanced at Renie, an unspoken signal for her cousin to speak up. \"An accident? It wasn't a sword dance. Do you mean Mr. Wessler slipped and fell on a knife?\"\n\nKlara's oval face exhibited perplexity. \"A freakish thing. Franz described it as so much movement and loud music that it was a blur, like a bad dream that doesn't come into focus.\"\n\n\"True,\" Judith agreed, realizing Duomo hadn't had time to make the autopsy report public. \"Serena and I were there, and Franz is right about the circumstances. We were never sure if Mr. Wessler was dancing or simply caught up in the midst of those who were.\"\n\nKlara smiled faintly. \"Dietrich was a fine dancer. He may have joined in. Franz couldn't tell. He was at the bar when it happened.\"\n\nJudith thought back to the last time she'd seen Franz at the party, but couldn't remember. \"I assume,\" she finally said, \"Mr. Wessler was in good spirits when he left for the event at Wolfgang's that evening.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\" Klara smiled more brightly. \"He was very happy. He was always especially joyous during Oktoberfest. We'd had guests in that evening. Dietrich was ever so jolly.\"\n\nJudith smiled back. \"He must have been a connoisseur of German wines. He seemed to appreciate the good things of life.\"\n\nKlara nodded. \"He did. Wine, music, food.\" She lowered her head for moment. You left out women, Judith thought.\n\nKlara, however, continued quickly. \"He had plans for a vineyard about seventy miles from here. He'd already made an offer on some property. I'd like Franz to carry out his father's plan. It would be a living memorial to Dietrich.\"\n\nRenie leaned closer. \"I'd think the revival of this town would be his memorial. It's certainly alive\u2014and lively.\"\n\n\"That is so,\" Klara agreed, \"but the town is not authentic. The vineyard would grow grapes from vines in Franconia, the part of Bavaria known for its excellent wines. The Maindreieck district is famous for growing Silvaner and M\u00fcller-Thurgau grapes. Dietrich wished to experiment with the Silvaner, though he also planned to cultivate the more common grapes\u2014Riesling, Bacchus, Domina . . .\" She paused. \"You are familiar with Franconian wines?\"\n\n\"Only Deux Franc Charles,\" Renie said. \"We're not into enology.\"\n\nKlara seemed mystified. \"Deux Franc . . . ? I don't understand.\"\n\nJudith wanted to kick her cousin, but merely shook her head. \"Serena is teasing you. We're both ignorant when it comes to wine.\"\n\nKlara nodded. \"Sometimes I miss conversational nuances. What I mean is that Dietrich's plans were temporarily suspended when his partner died.\"\n\n\"His partner?\" Judith said.\n\n\"Yes. It was just a short time ago,\" Klara explained. \"Very sad, too. My father-in-law had gone into the vineyard business with the owner of the Pancake Schloss, Bob Stafford. He also met a tragic end. I wonder if the vineyard is cursed before it's planted?\"\nChapter Sixteen\n\nJudith also wondered if Dietrich Wessler and Bob Stafford were cursed. She didn't say so out loud, but instead commiserated about the two unfortunate deaths.\n\n\"It's terribly sad for the whole community,\" Judith said. \"From what we've heard, Bob was also a fine man. A hard worker, too.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Klara's gaze roamed to the family crest that was on the opposite wall. \"So is his widow, Mrs. Stafford. But I don't know if she was as enthusiastic about the vineyard project. She is very involved with her pancakes.\" Only a touch of sarcasm was hinted at in her tone.\n\n\"Hunh,\" Renie said. \"So who gets the loot? Mr. Wessler's, I mean.\"\n\n\"The . . .\" Klara's blue eyes widened. \"Forgive me, I don't know that word unless you mean the lute Dietrich kept in the music room.\"\n\n\"That lute, too,\" Renie replied. \"I mean, who inherits everything?\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Klara stared at her bronze ballet flats. \"I have no idea. Perhaps Franz knows.\" She brightened. \"Or Mrs. Stafford. Bob\u2014her late husband\u2014handled all of Dietrich's affairs. He was a lawyer before he became involved with pancakes.\"\n\n\"That so,\" Judith remarked softly. \"I'd forgotten that Bob practiced law before he and Suzie moved here.\"\n\nThe grandfather clock by Klara's chair struck five. \"Oh, my!\" she exclaimed, getting to her feet. \"I must rest. I'm singing at the concert this evening. You will be there?\"\n\nJudith opened her mouth to hedge, but Renie spoke first. \"What's on your program?\"\n\n\"A potpourri,\" Klara replied. \"Some of what you might call 'popular' songs as well as German and Viennese selections.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said, also standing up. \"We'll be there at least for part of it. My cousin has some other duties. Break a leg\u2014or should I say strain a vocal cord?\"\n\nKlara blanched. \"Whatever do you mean?\"\n\n\"It's showbiz talk,\" Renie said, hoisting her purse over her shoulder. \"Don't take it to heart, okay?\"\n\nKlara looked uncertain as she walked the cousins to the door. \"You must forgive me. My nerves are frayed to the bone.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Judith said softly. \"We'll see you this evening.\"\n\nNodding dumbly, Klara opened the door slowly, but quickly shut it behind her departing guests.\n\n\"That was a bust,\" Renie declared.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" Judith asked, gazing in every direction at her surroundings, which included a fallow garden, a bird feeder, and a pond.\n\n\"You didn't get a chance to ask Klara about the guests who were at the predeath party.\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith said, \"but that was interesting about the vineyard.\"\n\n\"You figure some rival winery or vineyard put Bob and Wessler out of business?\" Renie asked as she started down the steps. \"Hey\u2014are you coming or not?\" she yelled, seeing Judith still on the porch.\n\n\"Pipe down,\" Judith said, motioning with her hand. \"I'm taking this short flight of stairs that must lead to the back of the house.\"\n\nRenie sighed wearily. \"Fine,\" she said, scurrying onto the porch. \"You have noticed,\" she continued after they'd descended the steps, \"it's gotten colder now that the sun's setting. I should've brought my furs.\"\n\n\"You don't have any furs,\" Judith said, admiring the tidy, graceful landscaping that flanked both sides of the walk.\n\n\"I do if you count Oscar and Clarence,\" Renie said as they reached a tall wooden fence and gate. She jiggled the handle. \"It's locked.\"\n\nJudith elbowed Renie aside. \"Yoo-hoo!\" she called. \"Mrs. Crump!\"\n\nThe Saint Bernards barked in response. \"See what you've done?\" Renie hissed. \"Those beasts may get loose and attack . . .\"\n\nThe gate swung open, almost hitting the cousins. \"Yes?\" the housekeeper said. \"What's wrong?\"\n\nJudith's expression was apologetic. \"I left my gloves in the living room. Is there any chance you could let us in the back way?\"\n\nMrs. Crump frowned. \"Oh,\" she finally said, \"follow me.\"\n\nThe dogs were in their kennel, but barked again when they saw the visitors. The fenced portion of the backyard featured a patio, now stripped bare of summer furnishings. A few doggie toys were scattered on the lawn. Judith noticed a big hole dug next to the house, apparently by the Saint Bernards. The cousins went up a short flight of steps that led directly into the kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances and sleek contemporary furnishings lent a twenty-first-century aura. The only item that didn't match was a big, old-fashioned, black cast-iron stove.\n\nThe housekeeper apparently noticed Judith's interest. \"Wessler brought that from Germany. He said it cooked better than newer stoves. That was his opinion. I like the modern ones just fine.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said, \"so do I, but if Mr. Wessler entertained a lot, two stoves might have been better than one. I understand he had a party here the night of the tragedy. Did you have to cook for the guests?\"\n\nMrs. Crump shook her head. \"Cold appetizers, that's what the young Mrs. Wessler wanted to serve.\" She wrinkled her blunt nose. \"Fancy cheese and funny little crackers. She insisted it went well with the wine. She ought to know\u2014she drinks enough of it. Not that I should criticize. She's an 'artiste' and they're all kind of queer.\"\n\nJudith's expression was sympathetic. \"Do you cook and clean?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\" Mrs. Crump brushed off some almost invisible dust from the vintage stove. \"But usually just for guests.\"\n\n\"Did you have a big crowd the other night?\" Judith inquired.\n\n\"Mostly big shots from the Oktoberfest.\" She scowled at Judith and Renie. \"Who are you? Cops?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith replied with a little laugh. \"My husband is a retired policeman and he wanted me to drop by to say hello to Chief Duomo. They've known each other for years.\"\n\nMrs. Crump snorted. \"That dunderhead. How he ever got be a police chief is beyond me. Must've been who he knows, not what he knows. Roscoe thinks he's on the take.\"\n\nJudith feigned surprise. \"Really? Did you mention that your husband works undercover? Is that how he knows?\"\n\n\"Roscoe knows plenty,\" Mrs. Crump said. \"But he doesn't tell tales. Can't. He'd lose his job.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Judith said, trying to think of some way to get the housekeeper back on track. \"Was Chief Duomo at the party here?\"\n\nMrs. Crump shook her head. \"It was only for the Oktoberfest folks. Herman Stromeyer, a couple of German visitors from the old country, and some of the people in charge of the exhibit booths.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Judith said. \"Were the Denkels here from our B&B group?\"\n\n\"Could be,\" the housekeeper said. \"Are you an innkeeper?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Yes. You must have had a houseful.\"\n\n\"Not really,\" Mrs. Crump replied, casting her eyes to see what Renie was doing. \"About a dozen, I guess. Is she one of yours?\"\n\n\"She's my cousin,\" Judith said. \"Sometimes she helps me.\"\n\n\"Why is she looking in the fridge?\"\n\n\"Ah\u2014she's buying a new one,\" Judith said. \"Right, coz?\"\n\n\"Hunh?\" Renie shut the refrigerator door. \"Oh, right. Our old one is sort of . . . old.\"\n\nMrs. Crump scowled. \"That one cost a bundle. Wessler should've put more money into new pipes. The sink got plugged just before the party. The local plumber was closed and his backup charged the world. He knew we were in a bind. But money's no object in this place.\" She shook her head before looking at Judith. \"You better find your gloves.\"\n\n\"I will,\" Judith said. \"Is it okay if we leave through the front door?\"\n\n\"Just be quiet about it,\" Mrs. Crump said. \"I have to be heading home. It's time to wake up Roscoe.\"\n\nJudith and Renie followed the long hall out of the kitchen to the living room. \"You didn't have any gloves with you,\" Renie said when they were standing in front of the fireplace.\n\n\"I know that,\" Judith said. \"But if it gets much colder, I'll wish I did.\" She walked over to study the family crest. \"Nice. Just the name Wessler and something in German that I can't read. Can you?\"\n\nRenie studied what was probably a family motto. \"No. Liebe Winter Nicht. Something to do with love and winter, maybe.\"\n\n\"Hunh.\" Judith looked into the adjoining dining room, but saw nothing of interest. \"Drat. This visit hasn't been all that helpful.\"\n\n\"You expected items marked 'clue'?\"\n\n\"I was expecting something,\" Judith replied, going outside and grasping the handrail. \"I suppose we should return Suzie's car.\"\n\n\"That means we'll have to walk back to our inn,\" Renie said over her shoulder. \"Why can't we see if Barry can collect it for us?\"\n\n\"We don't know where Barry is,\" Judith replied, reaching the level ground. \"He may be tending bar. Besides, that'd be an imposition. Suzie probably wonders where we've been all afternoon.\"\n\n\"She probably hasn't had time to notice the car's still gone.\"\n\n\"We should return it now anyway,\" Judith said, pausing at the Ford Escort's passenger door. \"Maybe you should drop that deer off by the Forest Service booth first.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Renie peered into the backseat. \"Damn. It's still there. I hoped it had run away.\"\n\nThere seemed to be a late-afternoon, early-evening lull in the Oktoberfest action. It took less than two minutes to reach the exhibitors' area. Renie had some difficulty dislodging the stuffed deer from the car, but declined Judith's offer of help.\n\n\"If I can wrestle our tall and stalwart children to a buffet, I can handle this,\" she asserted. \"Stay put.\"\n\nGazing at the Forest Service booth, Judith wondered if Mike had heard anything about his next assignment. Deciding to check in with Joe, she got out her cell and tapped in her home phone number.\n\n\"Hey,\" Joe said, \"I thought you ran off with some Bavarian stud.\"\n\n\"Not my type,\" Judith said, smiling at the sound of his voice. \"We've been busy.\" She paused, watching Renie dump the stuffed deer in front of a forest ranger. \"It's a fascinating town.\" She paused again, seeing the tall, uniformed man point first at the deer and then at Renie.\n\n\"Staying out of trouble, I assume?\" Joe said.\n\n\"Oh,\" Judith responded, wincing as Renie stood with fists on hips and feet planted apart, \"of course.\" Apparently, either the city media hadn't carried the story about Wessler's murder or else Joe hadn't been keeping close track of the news. \"How's everything at home?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Joe replied. \"Your dreaded mother's helping Arlene make the guests' appetizers.\"\n\n\"She is? She's never so much as offered to do that for me,\" Judith said while Renie and the ranger went toe-to-toe in a shouting match. \"Where's Carl?\"\n\n\"He and I raked leaves in both our yards this afternoon,\" Joe said. \"He's home, taking a nap. I think I'll do the same before dinner. Arlene's making lasagna.\"\n\n\"Nice,\" Judith remarked, cringing as Renie backed up and swung her purse at the ranger. Luckily, she missed. \"No further harassment from Ingrid Heffelman?\"\n\n\"Uh\u2014no.\"\n\nRenie was stomping back to the car. The ranger stood his ground but Judith could hear him yelling what sounded like very unpleasant words. Judith, however, tried to focus on her husband. \"You seem uncertain about Ingrid.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing,\" Joe said, his voice strained. \"She dropped by this noon to give me a copy of her inspection. I mean, give you a copy.\"\n\nShe flinched as Renie bolted into the driver's seat and slammed the car door. \"Did she stay long?\" Judith asked Joe.\n\n\"No, she was in a hurry. What's going on? Who's cussing?\"\n\n\"Renie,\" Judith said as her cousin revved the engine, hit the gas\u2014and almost sideswiped the ranger who had followed her to the curb. \"I'd better hang up now. Oh\u2014have you heard from Mike?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" Joe said.\n\n\"I wish . . .\" She dropped the phone as Renie roared off down the street toward the Pancake Schloss. \"Damnit! What did you do now?\"\n\n\"That stupid ranger accused me of kidnapping his ugly stuffed deer! Like I'd want a stuffed animal sitting around the house? I've already got Bill. I mean, Oscar. Well, Oscar isn't really\u2014\"\n\n\"Oscar isn't real and would you please shut up? I can't bend down to pick up my cell. I don't think I disconnected Joe.\"\n\n\"It disconnects itself,\" Renie said, veering around a slow-moving truck. \"At least that's what one of my kids told me.\"\n\n\"Be careful! We almost ran into that oncoming SUV.\"\n\n\"Almost doesn't count,\" Renie muttered, careening into the parking lot. \"I told Ranger Ruggiero I'd report him to . . . somebody.\"\n\n\"Ruggiero?\" Judith gasped. \"Are you kidding?\"\n\nRenie slowed down as she headed to the rear of the pancake house. \"No. So what?\"\n\n\"He's the guy who's in charge of Mike's transfer. You didn't mention my name, did you?\"\n\n\"No. Why would I?\" Renie pulled into the place where Suzie had parked the car earlier in the day. \"What if I had? Mike goes by McMonigle, not Flynn.\"\n\n\"I've got to talk to him,\" Judith said. \"Did he see me in the car?\"\n\n\"How do I know? He probably didn't. He was too busy harassing me about the stupid deer.\"\n\n\"Can you reach my cell?\" Judith asked, undoing her seat belt.\n\n\"You're going to call Ranger Rude?\"\n\n\"No, of course not, but I need\u2014\"\n\n\"You need a lot of things,\" Renie griped, leaning over to grab the cell. \"You're lucky I don't dislocate my other shoulder.\" She handed over the slim black phone. \"You need a little sympathy for me.\"\n\n\"Coz . . . skip it. You give Suzie the car keys while I walk back to the Forest Service booth. We have to go in that direction anyway. When you see me talking to Ruggiero, pretend you don't know me and keep going.\"\n\n\"Hey\u2014I'll walk on the other side of the street,\" Renie said, getting out of the car. \"You want me to ask Suzie about the vineyard?\"\n\n\"You probably can't. It's the dinner hour. The lot's almost full.\"\n\nThe cousins parted company. Judith took her time traversing the block and a half to the exhibit area. She was shivering by the time she reached the Forest Service booth. Not only had it gotten colder, but she could smell snow in the air.\n\nThe stuffed deer was leaning against the side of the booth. Apparently Renie must have broken one of its legs. Ruggiero was easy to spot, being the tallest of the three rangers on duty. She approached him just as he finished talking to a couple of men in hunting gear.\n\n\"Hi,\" she said, forcing her warmest smile. \"I don't think we've met, but I know you.\" She extended her hand.\n\nRuggiero peered at her with shrewd gray eyes. \"How is that?\" he inquired, shaking hands with a firm but brief grip.\n\n\"I'm Mike McMonigle's mother,\" Judith said. \"I've been here in Little Bavaria with the innkeeping group since Thursday, so I've been out of touch with Mike.\" She decided not to use subterfuge. \"Do you know where his next posting is?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nJudith felt her heart start to beat a bit faster. \"Where is it?\"\n\n\"I can't say. It's not official.\"\n\n\"But . . .\" Judith was flummoxed by the ranger's stern expression. \"How soon will we\u2014will he know?\"\n\n\"He knows now,\" Ruggiero replied. \"But he can't tell anyone until it's official. That's how it works with the U.S. government.\"\n\nShe started to say something, realized it would be futile, and clamped her mouth shut. Ruggiero started to turn away, but Judith couldn't let him get off the hook so easily. \"Why isn't the U.S. government doing something about the murders around here?\"\n\nThe ranger swung around to face her. \"What are you talking about? That old geezer who got knifed in the bar brawl the other night?\"\n\nSo that was how the murder's being played, Judith thought. \"Yes.\" She gulped. \"I was there. It was awful.\"\n\n\"Look,\" Ruggiero said as if he were talking to a third grader, \"this Oktoberfest thing is basically an excuse for tourists to get drunk and go nuts. So far it hasn't been too bad. The people here have a pretty good grip on how to run this kind of show. But you wouldn't believe what I've heard from other parts of the country where they hold these shindigs. Talk about the Italians and the French getting sloshed at their celebrations\u2014the Germans do a damned good job of it, too. If I were you, I'd keep clear of these people. They can be dangerous.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" Judith said meekly. She shivered again, and this time it wasn't only from the cold night air.\n\nJudith and Renie didn't meet up until the last few yards before reaching the entrance to Hanover Haus. \"I thought you'd been busted by that ranger as my accomplice,\" Renie said, panting a bit. \"I practically ran the last two blocks to make sure you were okay.\"\n\n\"I am,\" Judith said, \"sort of. Let's talk after we get to the room.\"\n\nWhile changing clothes, Judith related her frustrating\u2014and disturbing\u2014encounter with Ranger Ruggiero. \"The most interesting part was how Wessler's murder is being played to the public. I suppose that's why Joe doesn't seem to know anything about it.\"\n\n\"Be relieved,\" Renie advised, taking an orange cowl-neck sweater out of her suitcase. \"So Ingrid showed up again? Is she stalking Joe?\"\n\n\"I'm beginning to wonder. Is she just trying to annoy me or is she really hot for him?\"\n\n\"Never having met her, I can't tell you much,\" Renie said, slipping the sweater over her head. \"I spoke briefly to Suzie about the vineyard. She had Barry waiting tables before tending bar at tonight's party.\"\n\nJudith was applying makeup in front of the bureau's oval mirror. \"What did she say?\"\n\nRenie had almost finished putting her mascara on. \"Suze said the plan was on hold. I got the impression she'd like to leave it that way.\"\n\n\"Did she seem annoyed by the inquiry?\"\n\n\"Why would I annoy her?\" Renie scowled at Judith. The mascara wand slipped and fell on the floor. \"Damn! See what you made me do?\" She snatched up the wand and stared in the mirror. \"Now I look like Raccoon Renie. I'll have to start over.\"\n\n\"Sorry. I only meant the question itself, not you. I mean, the two of you did get into it the other night . . .\"\n\nRenie had gone into the bathroom to remove the errant mascara marks. \"Suze and I are as one,\" she called out, having left the door open. \"The only problem was she got distracted when Franz Wessler came in.\"\n\n\"Franz?\" Judith's hand bobbed, sending her lipstick into her left nostril. \"Now you've done it!\" She got up and joined Renie in the bathroom. \"Hurry up. We're going to be late.\"\n\n\"Ha ha. You look funny.\"\n\n\"Mop yourself up so . . .\" Judith froze. \"What's that?\" she breathed.\n\nRenie stepped away from the sink. \"What's what?\"\n\n\"Shhh. It sounded like someone out on the balcony.\"\n\n\"So?\"\n\n\"I saw a shadow outside, as if someone was looking into our room.\"\n\n\"Watching us turn ourselves into clowns? Aren't there better things to do during Oktoberfest?\"\n\nJudith held up a hand, signaling for Renie to be quiet. \"Listen.\" But the only sound they heard was a hunting horn off in the distance.\n\nRenie stalked out of the bathroom, marched to the window, and shouted, \"If you got the money, honey, we got the time!\"\n\n\"Coz!\" Judith hissed, coming out of the bathroom. \"Stop that!\"\n\nRenie ignored the advice, opening the balcony door and looking out. \"Nothing to see here, as the cops would say, but it's snowing.\"\n\nJudith finished wiping off the lipstick smear before joining her cousin. \"Fresh footprints, but no tread on the soles. That's odd.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"It just started snowing. Was someone listening the whole time before the snow started?\"\n\nJudith took one last look before closing the door. \"Maybe. Fairly big footprints. That's kind of scary. At least I didn't imagine it.\"\n\n\"No,\" Renie agreed. \"Man or woman?\"\n\n\"I can't tell. The prints will be obliterated in a few minutes. I'd guess whoever it was must be fairly tall. The eavesdropper must not be staying here. A guest could listen at the other door. Unless it was a ruse to make us think that.\"\n\n\"Maybe it was your run-of-the-mill window peeper,\" Renie said. \"Every community has at least one of those.\"\n\n\"You don't believe that,\" Judith said, making another attempt at putting on her lipstick, but discovering her hand was unsteady. \"Okay, we can't dwell on it. How distracted was Suze by Franz's arrival?\"\n\nRenie waited to answer until she'd finished reapplying her mascara. \"I wouldn't call it 'agog,' but she seemed definitely interested in his arrival. Usually, she's unflappable on the job.\"\n\n\"Hmm. I wonder if she was in the car the other night with Franz. I don't recall seeing her after you two parted company at the town hall.\"\n\n\"You think Suze and Franz really got together? Not a bad idea. I mean, for them.\"\n\n\"Suze certainly had gone to some trouble to look like . . . maybe not Ava Gardner-esque, but not like Pancake Suzie either.\"\n\n\"Could be a strategic move,\" Renie said, pulling on her glossy brown leather boots. \"Something to do with the vineyard?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Judith sat down on the bed. \"Can you help me with my boots? I'm too tired to bend that far.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said. \"What would you do without me?\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"Well . . . I can never accuse you of being dull.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Renie put on the first of Judith's low-heeled snow boots. \"I never think of not being dull.\" She tugged on Judith's other boot. \"It's a lot better than thinking of being dead.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Judith agreed, standing up. \"Why do I have the feeling that's what we have to worry about?\"\nChapter Seventeen\n\nThe snow fell in feathery flakes, indicating that the temperature wasn't far below freezing. The wind had subsided, apparently coming off the mountains and blowing east. Judith envisioned a white world of orchards and farms in that part of the state.\n\n\"Winter wheat,\" she said aloud, walking along the next block past more shops and caf\u00e9s.\n\n\"What?\" Renie asked. \"Are you obsessed with crops now?\"\n\n\"I need a reminder that most people's lives are ordinary, ordained by the seasons. How many other people do you know who are afraid that someone may be lurking around the corner waiting to kill them?\"\n\n\"Plenty, if I count the shoppers at Falstaff's Grocery when I drive into the parking lot.\"\n\nJudith shot Renie an irked glance. \"You know what I mean.\"\n\n\"Just enjoy the snow.\" Renie gestured at a group of young people who were trying to make snowballs in the middle of the street. \"Look, they're probably so gassed they don't know the snow is too wet for weaponry. They'll have to wait a while to pelt each other.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"They're having fun. How far is this place?\"\n\n\"How would I know? It can't be too far. We're past the bandstand and that other inn. The town virtually ends in another block or two.\"\n\nThey trudged on for another half a block before seeing a sign and an arrow pointing toward the river. \"There it is. The Valhalla Inn,\" Judith said. \"I can see the roof. There better be stairs.\"\n\nThere were zigzagging stone steps already almost clear of snow from the arrival of earlier guests. Judith held on to the handrail and took her time. From what she could tell through the thick snow that was now falling, the inn looked older and more rustic than the rest of the town's architecture. It was built into the side of the hill above the river, its bottom two floors made of sandstone. Rough-hewn logs covered the second- and third-floor facades. The steep pitch of the roof indicated it had been constructed to withstand heavy snows when there had been even harder winters in the first half of the twentieth century.\n\n\"I bet this was the original ski lodge,\" Judith said, pausing at the pine door to listen to the river ripple in the mountain valley. \"It reminds me of our family cabin.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\" Renie retorted. \"So where's the outhouse?\"\n\n\"Forget it.\" Judith opened the door. The river's flow was drowned out by the sound of cheerful voices, hearty laughter, and a lively accordion. \"We are late,\" she murmured. \"Stay out of trouble, okay?\"\n\nRenie made a face, but didn't say anything. She was too busy trying to unzip her black hooded ski parka.\n\nEldridge Hoover and Jeanne Barber both rushed over to greet Judith. \"We were afraid you weren't coming!\" Jeanne cried, gripping her in a rib-crushing hug. \"Everybody's here.\"\n\nManaging to unlock herself from Jeanne's embrace, Judith scanned the crowd in the rustic room. She spotted the Denkels, the Beaulieus, Gabe Hunter, and several others from the B&B contingent. Barry Stafford was tending bar while Jessi kept him company. Evelyn Choo was talking to a slim, trim, silver-haired man Judith hadn't yet met.\n\n\"Connie must've finished her workshop,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Yes,\" Jeanne said. \"I learned all sorts of new tricks from her.\"\n\n\"I didn't know Connie was turning tricks,\" Renie said, sidling up to her cousin.\n\nJeanne looked puzzled; Eldridge let out a little snort that sounded like a stifled laugh.\n\nJudith changed the subject. \"Is that Mr. Stromeyer with Evelyn?\"\n\nJeanne nodded. \"He seems very nice, but he came down with flu a couple of days ago. That's why we haven't seen much of him. Mr. Stromeyer is much older than he looks. Isn't he distinguished?\"\n\nJudith studied the chairman's erect figure. \"Ex-military?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Jeanne said. \"Despite the German name, he was born in this country. He fought for our side.\"\n\n\"So did Eisenhower,\" Renie remarked.\n\n\"I should meet him,\" Judith said. She abandoned Renie to the two other innkeepers, but paused at the bar to ask Barry for a Scotch-rocks.\n\n\"You got it,\" Barry said with a wry smile. \"You can't get drunk if you're not drinking,\"\n\nJessi, who was sipping some sort of bubbly wine, shook her head. \"Don't encourage any more mayhem around here, Barry. This town is starting to make me nervous.\" She nodded in Stromeyer's direction. \"He's such a wonderful old guy, but he looks pale. Maybe he should've stayed home tonight after putting in so much work for the festival.\"\n\n\"Could you introduce me?\" Judith asked. \"I'd like to thank him for everything he's done.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Jessi said. \"Follow me.\"\n\nTo Judith's dismay, Ellie and Delmar Denkel had just approached Stromeyer. \"Judith,\" Ellie said, lifting her glass in a vague salute. \"You must meet Herman Stromeyer. Delmar and I feel like he's a dear friend.\"\n\nJudith thought Herman looked older up close. He offered her the hand that wasn't holding an empty wineglass. \"How do you do, Mrs. . . . ?\"\n\n\"McMonigle,\" Ellie put in hastily.\n\n\"Flynn,\" Judith said firmly.\n\nEllie snickered. \"I forgot you finally married that cop.\"\n\nJessi volunteered to get Herman a refill, but he demurred. \"I don't want to upset my stomach after the flu. Just sparkling cider, my dear.\"\n\nJessi took his empty glass. \"Sure, Gramps. Be right back.\"\n\nJudith didn't hide her surprise. \"Jessi is your granddaughter?\"\n\nHerman offered her an engaging smile. \"She is indeed. My Sadie passed away a long time ago. She's my youngest daughter's little girl.\"\n\n\"Goodness,\" Judith said, \"I'm used to the city. I forget how everyone in small towns seems connected to everybody else.\"\n\nEllie nudged Judith. \"You're drinking Scotch? How could you with all these amazing German wines?\"\n\n\"I have no palate,\" Judith admitted.\n\n\"Pity,\" Delmar said, tapping his glass. \"I've studied up on the differences between regional wines. This Silvania is top-notch, straight from the old country.\"\n\n\"Silvaner, darling,\" Ellie said, putting a hand on her husband's back. \"Oh, I realize you're making one of your little jokes.\"\n\nHerman looked slightly pained, but attempted a smile. \"It's not easy keeping track of wines and their regions. I'm no expert, like Dietrich Wessler, but, as they say, I know what I like.\" His expression brightened as Jessi reappeared with the sparkling cider. Renie wasn't far behind.\n\n\"Jerk,\" she said into Judith's ear. \"I had to listen to Jeanne Barber blah-blah about the wonders of island living. Evelyn abandoned me.\"\n\nIgnoring the comment, Judith introduced Renie to Herman. \"Not another innkeeper, eh?\" he said in a jovial tone.\n\n\"I'm a cousin-keeper,\" Renie said meekly. \"I don't get out much.\"\n\n\"That's not a bad thing,\" Ellie murmured.\n\nJudith held her breath as her cousin's eyes sparked. \"Watch it, Mrs. Dingle,\" Renie said softly. \"One thing I'm keeping is my temper.\"\n\nEllie whirled around so fast that she bumped Herman's arm, spilling some of the cider on the parquet floor. \"You're rude!\" she cried. \"What did you do with your manners?\"\n\nRenie assumed an innocent air. \"I gave them to you for your birthday. You never thanked me.\"\n\nJudith realized that several heads had turned in their direction. Jessi was motioning to Barry, who had come out from behind the bar. Ellie swerved toward Judith, who accidentally stepped on Barry's foot, causing him to bump into Herman and slosh cider on the hardwood floor.\n\n\"Don't move,\" Barry said. \"I'll wipe this up and get Herman a refill.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" Judith whispered to Barry, handing him her glass. \"Could you top this for me?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" He hurried back to the bar.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" Ellie said, her head held high. \"Come, Delmar, we must get out of the disaster area. We, too, need refills.\" She flounced off with her husband taking up the rear in his docile pet Chihuahua role.\n\n\"Chicken,\" Renie said, after taking a swig of her bourbon. \"The old hen's twice my size and still is scared of me. It must be the big teeth.\"\n\n\"And the big mouth,\" Judith said under her breath. Glancing at Herman, she saw that his smile was ironic.\n\n\"Ellie's soured with age,\" he murmured. \"She was always difficult. Spoiled, I think, by her mother to make up for her father's alcoholism.\"\n\nJudith felt her eyes widen. \"Her father drank?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so,\" Herman said, frowning. \"Being Dietrich Wessler's elder son was a burden for Josef. The younger one, Franz, had it easier and later moved away. Josef's death was untimely in the sense that he was drunk when he fell off the balcony at Hanover Haus. He died immediately of his injuries.\" He smiled in his ironic manner. \"Ellie's mother was more relieved than grief-stricken. Tilde was known around town as the Merry Widow.\"\n\n\"I didn't know Ellie very well until now,\" Judith said, still feeling confused about the Wessler family tree. \"We've had no chance to talk about backgrounds. Was Dietrich a harsh father or merely demanding?\"\n\n\"He wasn't cruel,\" Herman replied after a pause, \"but let's say he held great expectations, particularly for Josef as his firstborn.\"\n\nBarry had returned to wipe up the floor. \"Refills on the way with Jessi,\" he said. \"I had to give the Denkels another hit on their drinks first. Mrs. Denkel doesn't like to be kept waiting.\"\n\n\"She never has,\" Herman said softly.\n\nBarry finished his task and rushed away.\n\n\"Sad, really,\" Judith said. \"Ellie's upbringing, I mean. Speaking of tragedies, something just occurred to me. If the cemetery is relatively new, why are Mr. Wessler's wife and baby buried there? They died over fifty years ago.\"\n\nHerman's mouth twisted. \"The cemetery was created on land owned by Dietrich. Frau Wessler and her child were buried there in the forest. It was a logical place to put those who passed on later.\"\n\n\"That makes sense,\" Judith said. \"How did they drown?\"\n\nHerman's shrewd blue eyes regarded her with something akin to amusement. \"Are you writing a history of our little town?\"\n\n\"I am,\" Renie said, raising her hand. \"I'm a graphic designer. I thought I'd tell the story in 'toons.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Herman responded. \"It's had its comic opera aspects.\"\n\nHe paused to accept the glass Jessi offered him. \"Thanks, Jess. Mrs. Jones tells me she plans to write a book about us. Or draw one.\" He raised his glass and took a deep sip.\n\n\"Really?\" Jessi said, turning to Renie. \"Are you an artist?\"\n\n\"Sort of,\" Renie replied. \"I do graphics.\"\n\nJudith couldn't resist putting another question to Herman. \"My cousin and I happened to see the marker for a Henry Rupert Hellman. I understand he was a suicide, but why is his marker there?\"\n\nHerman looked askance. \"That's a story in itself, but nobody knows how much is true and how much is rumor. He'd come here from Germany around 1950. I've only been in Little Bavaria since 1982. Hank, as he was called, had a wife and a son, but they kept to themselves. Mrs. Hellman was in poor health and died young. Some people\u2014not all our residents back then were as broad-minded as they are now\u2014thought he felt awkward being Jewish. He couldn't openly practice his religion because there was no temple or synagogue.\" Herman shook his head. \"Then one day he hanged himself from a lamppost near the town hall. Very sad.\"\n\n\"What about his family?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"The son had moved away. I never knew them.\"\n\n\"No, not if you didn't come here . . .\" Judith stopped as Herman grasped his throat, dropped the glass, and reached out to Judith. Unable to support his weight, she stumbled backward into Jessi, who let out a little scream before trying to help with the stricken man.\n\n\"Gramps!\" Jessi cried. \"What's wrong?\"\n\nHe didn't respond. Somehow, the three women eased him onto the floor. It wasn't easy, given his size and the broken glass. Barry was running toward them. So were several other guests, including the Beaulieus and Evelyn Choo, who were coming from the bar behind Barry.\n\nEvelyn had her cell out. \"I'll call 911,\" she said, a ship of calm in a sea of shock. She stepped out of the way while Judith frantically tried to loosen Herman's tie and unbutton his white shirt. The old man was turning purple, still fighting for breath. Barry was trying to keep more gawkers from crowding around them.\n\n\"Please!\" he shouted. \"Step back. Make way for the EMTs.\"\n\nHands shaking, Judith tried to remember what to do from her Red Cross classes. But Herman had passed out. Or . . . she didn't want to think of the alternative. Putting a hand on his chest, she realized he was still breathing, if in a shallow, labored manner. Her own head felt strange. The headache must be coming back . . . it had been a long time since she'd taken the Excedrin . . . hours and hours and . . .\n\nThe last thing she heard was Ellie saying in her strident voice, \"Now see what you've done, Judith. You've killed Herman Stromeyer.\"\n\nJudith came to in a room that was so bright it almost blinded her. She blinked several times before realizing that she was looking up into the lights of a hospital corridor.\n\n\"It's okay,\" Renie said. \"You passed out. You're exhausted.\"\n\n\"Where's Herman?\" Judith asked, making a vain effort to sit up.\n\n\"They're working on him,\" Renie said, gesturing down the hall.\n\nJudith felt a sense of relief wash over her. \"Was it a stroke?\"\n\n\"I don't know. The medics arrived just after you fainted. They only had room for Herman, so Duomo put you in the paddy wagon. I rode along with you.\"\n\n\"What?\" Judith tried to lift her head, but couldn't quite manage it. \"How long was I out?\"\n\n\"Seven, eight minutes. The hospital's just past the high school. It took less than five minutes for the EMTs to do their thing.\"\n\n\"Good grief.\" Judith flung an arm over her eyes. \"That light is killing me. Have you got some Excedrin?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Renie replied. \"I also brought your purse. Have you got something in it that's stronger than the Excedrin we both carry because we're old and enfeebled? I think I'll take a couple just for the hell of it.\"\n\n\"Hand me my purse and get some water,\" Judith said. \"Have you seen a doctor?\"\n\n\"No, I don't have to.\" Renie gave the purse to Judith. \"I feel fine.\"\n\n\"I mean, have you talked . . . skip it.\" Judith didn't know whether to laugh or hit Renie. She did neither, saving her energy to find her pills.\n\nAfter her cousin went off to find some water, Judith located her pills and studied her surroundings. The hallway was lined with doors leading to what might have been exam rooms. She couldn't see any personnel, so assumed the staff was working elsewhere.\n\nRenie returned with a paper cup of water. \"Doc Frolander and an intern are the only ones on duty. Doc is tending to Herman. I overheard the term 'gastric lavage,' so they're pumping his stomach.\"\n\nJudith groaned. \"That indicates they think he was poisoned.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"I wondered. Think it was the wine or the cider?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Judith said, after swallowing the pills. \"Duomo noted that Wessler may not have died immediately after consuming whatever killed him. Did you see food at the party tonight?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"If I had, I'd have eaten it. I'm hungry.\"\n\n\"Who else came here with Herman?\"\n\n\"Jessi,\" Renie said, peeking around the nearby corner that led to another hallway. \"In fact, here she comes now with Fat Matt and a thin nurse. I thought I heard voices.\"\n\nThe police chief took one look at Judith and chuckled wryly. \"Don't tell me you got poisoned, too.\"\n\nThat hadn't occurred to Judith. \"I don't think so. I'm just really tired. I'm not used to walking so much on pavement.\"\n\n\"Tell me about it,\" Duomo said. \"Sure glad I don't do a beat anymore. 'Flatfoot' is right. Hey, the nurse wants to check you out.\"\n\nThe chief, Renie, and Jessi moved away. The nurse began taking Judith's vitals. She spoke only when she'd finished. \"Stomach pains?\"\n\n\"No. Just light-headed when I collapsed.\"\n\n\"No other complaints?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Your pulse is fine, no fever, but your blood pressure is elevated.\"\n\n\"It does that sometimes,\" Judith replied.\n\n\"Do you take medication for it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Very well. I recommend that you stay here for at least half an hour. If you want to see a doctor, you may have to wait longer. We just got word of a bad accident up at the summit.\"\n\n\"I don't think I need to bother anyone else,\" Judith said. \"Thanks.\"\n\nThe nurse moved swiftly around the corner and disappeared. Judith tried to sit up, but required a hand from Renie. Jessi looked pale and her eyes were red-rimmed.\n\n\"How,\" she asked of no one in particular, \"could Gramps get poisoned? Why would that happen to him?\"\n\n\"Could be food poisoning,\" the chief said. \"Did he eat before the shindig?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Jessi said. \"I worked until closing the shop. I'd brought my good clothes with me to save time so I'd be ready when Barry came to get me. He had to help set up the bar at a quarter to seven.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Duomo said absently. \"I should've stopped in. I've missed a lot of this year's functions. Damned job. Have to tend to business to impress the tourists. Oh, well. See you all later.\" He started toward what Judith thought must be the exit.\n\n\"Hey,\" she called in a feeble voice, \"don't you want to question us?\"\n\n\"Huh?\" Fat Matt turned around. \"Not now. You're sick. I'll catch you tomorrow.\" He disappeared around the corner.\n\nJudith grappled with the thin blanket that covered her. Jessi was nowhere in sight. Apparently, she had gone off to check on her grandfather. \"I can't lie here like a lump,\" Judith said. \"How do we get back to Hanover Haus? I sure can't walk.\"\n\n\"You could crawl,\" Renie suggested.\n\nJudith didn't bother to comment. She started to sit up, but found the effort too draining. \"I'm really worn out,\" she said in frustration.\n\n\"Maybe I can steal an ambulance,\" Renie said.\n\n\"Forget it. They're peeling people off the road up at the summit.\"\n\nRenie scanned the hallway. \"There must be something I can steal. Be right back.\" She went off and out of sight.\n\nJudith finally managed to raise her head enough to take the Excedrin. A moment later, Barry came around the corner.\n\n\"How are you doing?\" he asked. \"I followed Jessi here in Mom's car. No word yet on her granddad.\"\n\n\"How old is he?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Eighty-eight,\" Barry replied. \"He's a good guy. Jessi's folks retired to Arizona last year. Her dad likes to golf.\"\n\n\"Nice,\" Judith murmured, before taking in what Barry had said previously. \"You have your car here?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Barry smiled. \"You want a ride back to your inn?\"\n\n\"You should stay with Jessi, but . . .\" She stopped, hearing a rattling noise nearby. A moment later, Renie showed up, pushing a hospital bed.\n\n\"Hey, coz,\" she called, \"get Barry to hoist you onto this. I can wheel you back to Hanover Haus.\"\n\nBarry burst out laughing. Judith shook her head. \"We have transport. Barry has a car.\"\n\nRenie evinced surprise. \"A car? What a novel idea!\"\n\nFive minutes later, Judith was in the passenger seat of the Ford Escort. \"It's Mom's car,\" he explained. \"She didn't need it tonight.\"\n\n\"I thought it looked familiar,\" Renie said from the backseat. \"We got it impounded this afternoon. Good thing I got rid of the deer.\"\n\n\"The deer?\" Barry asked from behind the wheel. \"What deer?\"\n\nRenie explained about the stuffed buck. Judith told Barry why the car had gotten impounded.\n\n\"Mom didn't tell me you'd borrowed the Escort,\" he said as they drove down the busy main street. Vehicle and foot traffic had already turned the snow to slush. \"Guess she was too excited about her date.\"\n\n\"Your mother has a date?\" Judith said. \"How nice.\"\n\nBarry nodded. \"Some people might think it's too soon after Dad died, but Mom needs somebody to lean on. I can't stick around here forever. She seems independent and tough, but underneath . . . well, it's kind of a facade. Besides, this guy is really one cool dude.\"\n\n\"Dare I ask who?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Barry said, pulling up to the entrance of Hanover Haus. \"He's a bigwig forest ranger, name of Rick Ruggiero.\"\n\nJudith and Renie didn't let on they knew Ruggiero. Given Renie's fractious encounter and Judith's rejected pleas about Mike, their history with the ranger didn't add anything positive to their own r\u00e9sum\u00e9s. Nor was there much opportunity to discuss Suzie's date. Judith could walk through the small lobby, though she had to lean on Barry to steady her. The woman behind the desk glared at the trio and mouthed the word drunk. Renie mouthed a couple of unprintable words in return and moved on to help Judith take the stairs one at a time.\n\nInside their room, Judith thanked Barry profusely. Before he left, she begged him to let her know what had happened with Herman Stromeyer. Barry promised he would and departed.\n\n\"So Suzie's not hot for Franz,\" Judith murmured, lying on the bed. \"Just as well. Ruggiero's the strong, no-nonsense type. He must be stationed here. I wish I knew where Mike was going.\"\n\n\"You'll find out,\" Renie said, checking her watch. \"It's not yet nine. You don't intend to send me off to that concert to sleuth, do you?\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought about it,\" Judith said. \"But now that you mention it, the bandstand's only a little over a block away.\"\n\nRenie tipped her head to one side and looked pitiable. \"Coz . . .\"\n\n\"Klara said it would be popular music. You wouldn't mind that, would you? I mean, it's not that long, drawn-out stuff you hate.\"\n\nRenie groaned. \"It's snowing, it's cold, it's dark, it's . . .\" She picked up the parka she'd tossed on a chair. \"Okay, but you owe me.\"\n\n\"I already do,\" Judith said with a wan smile. \"You were a trouper at the hospital. Just don't mix it up with anybody, okay?\"\n\n\"I never make promises I can't keep,\" Renie said, putting on the parka. \"Maybe I can find some food. See you.\"\n\nJudith's headache was beginning to ease. She considered sitting up so she could read one of the two paperbacks she'd brought with her, but felt more like taking a nap. Turning off the bedside lamp, she closed her eyes. Moments later, she was sound asleep.\n\nA knock at the door woke her up. Judith fumbled for the light switch. Her watch informed her it was nine-forty. By the time she struggled out of bed, the knock sounded again, louder and more insistent. \"Who is it?\" Judith asked, wishing the door had a peephole.\n\n\"George Beaulieu,\" said the muffled voice. \"Please let me in.\"\n\nJudith hesitated, but decided if she needed help, she could stay near the balcony and yell down at the festival patrons who were probably all over the main street.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" she asked, seeing George's stricken expression. His overcoat and watch cap were dusted with melting snowflakes.\n\n\"I must talk to someone,\" he said in an anxious voice. \"I chose you, with your Gypsy eyes. May I sit?\"\n\nJudith gestured at one of the two simple armchairs. \"What's upset you so?\" she inquired, sitting in the other chair and relieved that she hadn't bothered to get undressed.\n\n\"It's Connie,\" George said, nervously smoothing his handlebar mustache. \"She's leaving me.\"\n\n\"No! Why would she do that?\"\n\nGeorge sniffled. \"She's in love with another man.\"\n\nJudith took a deep breath. \"How long has this been going on?\"\n\n\"Ever since we went to Disneyland,\" George said, taking a handkerchief out of his pants pocket.\n\nJudith refrained from asking if Connie had fallen in love with Pluto. Or Goofy. \"What did Disneyland have to do with it?\"\n\nGeorge paused to blow his nose. \"We went there a year ago last summer. I had to attend a training seminar in Anaheim. We'd taken our children to Disneyland years ago, but as long as we were staying close by, we decided it might be enjoyable to go by ourselves. One of the rides we went on was Splash Mountain\u2014the one featuring Brer Rabbit.\"\n\nJudith nodded while George caught his breath. \"My first husband and I took our son on that ride when we visited Disneyland.\" It wasn't exactly true. Dan McMonigle's girth couldn't fit into the craft that plied Splash Mountain's waterway. For a moment or two Judith was lost in reverie, and missed a beat in George's account.\n\n\". . . Connie met Franz, who was filming a folktale documentary. At first, I thought she was infatuated with the Possum, not the man.\"\n\nJudith waited for George to continue, but he was blowing his nose again. \"You say 'infatuated.' Do you mean that or something more serious? Did Franz reciprocate?\"\n\n\"Unfortunately, I caught a cold,\" George said with a mournful expression. \"Franz was staying at the same hotel. He and Connie had dinner together one night. She returned very late, insisting they merely talked, mostly about his films. I was fool enough to believe her.\"\n\n\"And?\" Judith urged.\n\n\"I believe that since then\"\u2014he grimaced\u2014\"they've texted.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Judith said. \"Oh, that's . . . too bad.\"\n\n\"And now they're . . . together.\" George blew his nose again.\n\n\"You mean . . . ?\"\n\n\"When I asked if you knew where Connie had gone the other day, I'm sure she was with Franz. Last night they left the concert arm in arm. I suspect the worst.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you leave with Connie before she could go with Franz?\"\n\n\"I was overcome by Klara's singing. I was among those giving her a standing ovation. She has such a lovely voice.\" George leaned forward in the chair. His face\u2014or what Judith could see of it with the sadly drooping handlebar mustache\u2014was full of appeal to her better nature. \"Those Gypsy eyes. Please convey your wisdom to me. I'm in agony.\"\n\n\"I'm no wiser than most people,\" Judith said firmly. \"You should discuss this with Connie. Or have you already done that?\"\n\n\"Not tonight,\" George replied. \"How could I? Connie and Franz are at tonight's musical event. I couldn't bear to be around them. Of course I broached the subject when we were in Disneyland, but I was ill, and not able to adequately articulate my concerns. She merely laughed and said they had only talked. But I know they've been in touch. This comes at an awful time\u2014we're about to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary.\"\n\n\"All the more reason to talk this out,\" Judith said.\n\nGeorge stared at his bony hands. \"Connie would only deny any wrongdoing.\"\n\nJudith hesitated, feeling helpless in the wake of George's reluctance. \"I recall you and Connie talking about your job being undercover. That indicates you might have resources to investigate what's actually going on between Connie and Franz. It may sound extreme, but are you willing to try a backdoor approach?\"\n\nGeorge scowled. \"How? By checking our sewer line? I already did that today for Mr. Stromeyer, but he needs a plumber.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\nHe let out a big sigh. \"I'm a sewer inspector for the city. Connie likes to make me sound mysterious. I'm not. I considered my task at Stromeyer's as a goodwill gesture. No charge.\"\n\n\"Very kind. I still think you two ought to talk. It's the best advice I can offer. It seems to me that your suspicions are a bit flimsy.\"\n\n\"Flimsy?\" George snorted and retrieved his handkerchief. \"I saw one of those texts. They were making plans to rendezvous at an expensive hotel in Vegas. She wanted to know which one Franz would choose. We've never been to Vegas, but he has. Isn't that solid evidence?\"\n\nOf what? Judith wanted to say, but retained her sympathetic manner. \"Your wife runs a B&B. She may've been inquiring on behalf of a guest. George, I think you're overreacting.\"\n\nHe blew his nose and retreated into his glum state. \"I disagree.\"\n\nThe door burst open and Renie practically fell into the room. \"Wow, I had a great time! They played some of my favorite . . . oops! Hi, George,\" she said, seeing him where he'd been hidden by the open door. \"Were you at the concert? Klara has a spectacular voice.\"\n\nHe looked dazed. \"Not tonight. I'm unwell.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"You look it.\" She turned to Judith. \"How are you feeling? Did you take a nap?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did. Any news?\"\n\nRenie glanced at George. \"Jessi says the other patient is better.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Judith said, getting out of the chair slowly, but surely. She turned to George, who looked blank. \"I hope you'll take my advice.\"\n\n\"What? Oh, yes, thank you. I'll try,\" he responded, \"though I'm pessimistic.\" With apparent reluctance, he, too, stood up. \"Thank you for hearing me out.\" He nodded absently at Renie and left.\n\n\"Well?\" Renie said. \"Did he confess to killing Herr Wessler, too?\"\n\nJudith sank back into the chair. \"No. He thinks Connie is carrying on with Franz Wessler. I think George is nuts.\"\n\nRenie grinned. \"I saw Connie with Franz\u2014an odd couple.\"\n\n\"I agree,\" Judith said, \"but I think George is making a mountain out of a molehill.\" She quickly described his suspicions. \"It's likely those text messages between Franz and Connie were to find a Vegas hotel as a surprise anniversary present for George.\"\n\nRenie, who had taken George's place in the vacant chair, shrugged. \"Could be. Connie didn't look like an enamored wayward wife when she left with Franz. In fact, I thought she looked scared.\"\n\n\"You mean Connie went with Franz unwillingly?\"\n\n\"No, not that,\" Renie said. \"She seemed frightened or worried.\"\n\n\"Maybe I should talk to Connie,\" Judith murmured. \"It's a shame I haven't warmed to her.\" She stared at Renie. \"Why did Ellie choose Connie to give that seminar? It wasn't on the original event schedule. Maybe you should chat her up tomorrow. I wonder if the Beaulieus are Catholic. George was born in France. I'm on duty at the booth at eleven with Eldridge Hoover, right after Mass.\"\n\nRenie didn't answer right away. \"No. You've been in the hospital. I'll do your stint with Eldridge while you have a sit-down with Connie. But you're going to have to pry George loose.\"\n\nJudith, however, protested. \"You don't know how to run a B&B.\"\n\n\"What's to know? I just hand out some poorly designed brochures and bare my teeth in a pseudo smile.\"\n\nJudith was too tired to argue. \"We'll sort this out in the morning. Tell me more about Herman Stromeyer.\"\n\n\"Not much to tell,\" Renie said, getting up and starting to undress. \"They pumped out his stomach and he's in some kind of condition. I forget what. Maybe upgraded from dire straits to so-so.\"\n\n\"Could they tell what he ingested?\"\n\n\"Poison, I guess,\" Renie said, from underneath the sweater she was pulling over her head.\n\n\"You guess? Did Jessi say it was poison?\"\n\nHaving discarded the sweater, Renie glared at her cousin. \"Of course not. They have to run tests. You know that.\"\n\nJudith leaned back in the chair. Her headache was better, but she was still bone tired. \"You're right. I'm worn out. Do the booth, but don't mouth off to anyone. Eldridge will help you. You're used to dealing with people in your graphic design business. What could possibly go wrong?\"\nChapter Eighteen\n\nRenie tried to discourage Judith from attending Mass the next morning, but failed. \"I can go to church,\" she said. \"Maybe I can talk to Father Dash about Mr. Wessler. But I'll come back here to rest.\"\n\nRenie looked dubious, but didn't argue. She obviously wasn't quite awake at nine-thirty in the morning. They skipped breakfast. Judith wasn't very hungry and Renie figured she could get something somewhere somehow after Mass.\n\nThe church was a block and a half uphill, but only one block east of Hanover Haus. The snow apparently had stopped not long after it had started, with less than two inches on the ground. The streets and sidewalks had been cleared, but the cousins took their time. The plain white church with its steep roof did not have the elaborate onion-shaped dome that was typical of southern Germany, but it definitely had a European feel inside.\n\n\"Baroque simplified,\" Renie whispered, entering the wooden pew.\n\nJudith agreed. The interior evoked the style of the seventeenth century, but was less lavish. The sanctuary featured colorful statuary of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus on her lap with Saint Joseph hovering behind them while cherubs watched under a deep blue sky.\n\nThe church had filled up by the time the priest and two teenage acolytes processed to the altar. Father Dash was of Asian descent, but his English was perfect. By the time he approached the pulpit to deliver his sermon, Renie nudged Judith.\n\n\"Check out the statue on my right. If that's Saint Hubert, how come he's dressed up as a hunter and eyeing that stag?\"\n\nJudith turned to look at the arched niche with its not-quite-life-size statuary. \"I don't know,\" she whispered, \"but that deer is better-looking than the one you were driving around in Suze's car.\"\n\nThe cousins kept quiet while Father Dash delivered an articulate if uninspiring sermon about the disciples trusting in Jesus, casting off their fear of drowning, and getting into the boat. Judith drifted, wondering how Mrs. Wessler and her baby had drowned, trying to picture Bob Stafford by the river before his assailant's attack, and if there was a connection between the two recent homicides. She was snapped back into the present when the lector read the petitions for the fourth Sunday of October. The next to the last was for the recovery of Herman Stromeyer; the final prayer was for Dietrich Wessler and all the souls of the departed.\n\nJudith and Renie had exchanged relieved glances at the mention of Herman's survival. So had several other members of the congregation. The liturgy continued, with the last blessing and dismissal at precisely eleven o'clock. The church bells rang, echoed by the chiming of the nearby clock tower. There was no announcement about a postliturgy get-together. Instead, Father Dash informed his worshippers that Dietrich Wessler's Requiem Mass would be held at eleven on Thursday, November 3, the feast of Saint Hubert. \"For those of you visiting Little Bavaria,\" he explained, \"the deceased was a beloved patron and father figure to the town, respected by all for his untiring diligence in re-creating a moribund village as a vibrant center of Bavarian culture.\"\n\n\"Are you okay to walk back to the inn by yourself?\" Renie asked as they moved outside with the rest of the parishioners and visitors.\n\nJudith nodded. \"I'd still like to speak to Father Dash, but he's surrounded by some of the locals.\" She nodded discreetly as they saw the priest standing in the midst of at least a dozen people.\n\n\"You could collapse again to get his attention,\" Renie said.\n\n\"No, I'll wait inside. I can catch him on his way to the sacristy.\"\n\nRenie hesitated. \"You're sure you want to do that?\"\n\nJudith insisted she did. \"Go on, I'll be fine. Grab something to eat before you rip some tourists apart with your bare teeth.\"\n\nRenie didn't need any further prodding. Judith went back inside the church. Only two elderly women remained, both saying the rosary. Judith guessed that the door to the left of the sanctuary led to the sacristy. She tried to visualize the building's exterior, but couldn't recall seeing any indication of a basement. If there was a rectory and a social hall, perhaps they weren't connected to the church.\n\nOne of the old ladies got out of the pew, moving to the nearby shrine of a nun. Judith recognized the parishioner as Astrid Bauer from the cemetery. When the old lady tried to light a votive candle, her hand shook so badly that she dropped the match and let out a little cry of dismay. Judith got out of the pew, but before she could take any action, the flame sputtered out.\n\n\"No harm done,\" Judith said softly. \"Let me do it for you.\"\n\n\"Thank you! Oh! You were with that sweet, kind woman who helped me with my bouquet.\"\n\nJudith smiled as she struck another match and lighted the wick. \"There,\" she said. \"Who is this saint? I don't recognize her.\"\n\n\"Saint Birgitta of Sweden,\" the woman replied, her wrinkled hands still trembling, though a faint smile touched her thin lips. \"I gave this statue to the church in memory of my daughter. It was all I could do.\"\n\n\"That's a lovely memorial,\" Judith said.\n\nMrs. Bauer nodded, her gaze straying to the flickering candle. \"My daughter was named for a saint who was never accepted by Rome. That nun is as lost to church history as my daughter is lost to me.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" Judith said. \"Your daughter died young?\"\n\nMrs. Bauer looked away. \"No. She is dead to me, but not to God.\" Crossing herself, she bowed her head, apparently in prayer.\n\nJudith had no choice but to move down the aisle, where she saw Father Dash enter the sanctuary. She smiled as she met him by the confessionals. \"I know you must be busy,\" she said, \"but may I speak to you for a moment? I have questions about Mr. Wessler's Requiem Mass.\"\n\nIf the priest was surprised by her request, he didn't show it. \"Fine, tag along while I get out of my rig. I have to say another Mass at a mission church this evening, but I can spare a few minutes now.\"\n\nFather Dash led the way. Judith had to hustle to keep up with him. She wondered if Dash was a nickname. It was one of the first questions she had for him when they entered the small room where the vestments and other Mass items were kept.\n\n\"I gather you're on the road a lot,\" she said.\n\n\"I am. Three, sometimes four different churches every weekend.\" He paused as he took off his chasuble. Judith figured him for midforties, medium height, sturdy build, and balding. \"During the week I work in the chancery office. I'm a canon lawyer.\"\n\n\"You're an American,\" she said, and was embarrassed that it sounded like an accusation.\n\n\"I am now, but I was born in Indonesia.\" He grinned. \"My last name's not Dash\u2014it's Wirahadashikudumah.\" At least that's what Judith thought he said. \"I came to this country when I was eight. You are . . . ?\"\n\n\"Judith Flynn, part of the innkeeping group.\" She shook hands with the priest. \"Have you served in Little Bavaria for a long time?\"\n\nFather Dash finished removing his vestments and carefully hung them on a padded hanger. \"About five years.\" He tucked a plaid shirt into his denim jeans. \"Cute town. Enthusiastic bunch of people. Terrific beer.\" He looked closely at Judith. \"You are Catholic, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, a cradle Catholic,\" Judith said.\n\n\"I thought so. You didn't look shocked when I mentioned beer. What did you want to ask about the Wessler service?\"\n\nJudith decided to level with Father Dash. \"I'm helping the police with their inquiries about Wessler's death\u2014and Bob Stafford's, too.\"\n\n\"No!\" The priest burst out laughing. \"You're serious?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so.\"\n\n\"From what I've seen of the local police chief, God love him, he's not the brightest bulb in the law enforcement marquee. But then I don't really know him. With a name like Duomo, you'd think he'd come to Mass sometimes. I never met Stafford\u2014not Catholic. Say, I haven't eaten yet. I had to fast before saying Mass. Any chance you're hungry?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith admitted as her stomach growled to prove it.\n\n\"Okay.\" Dash put on a black leather jacket. \"We'd better avoid the Pancake Schloss if we're going to discuss the late owner. There's a cr\u00eape place tucked away by the hardware store a block from here. Shall we?\"\n\n\"Sounds good.\" Judith smiled gratefully. \"I'm kind of worn out.\"\n\n\"You look a bit weary around the edges,\" Dash said, holding the door open for Judith. \"Oktoberfest can be tiring. Just as well I don't stick around here for too long at a time. I'm used to a less raucous life.\"\n\nThe sun was trying to break through the clouds when they got outside. A band played in the distance. They turned a corner a block away from police headquarters, venturing down a side street Judith hadn't yet seen. Werner's Cr\u00eaperie was between Hansel's Hardware and Gretchen's Kitchens. Father Dash must have been a regular, as the effusive white-haired woman who greeted him seated them immediately.\n\n\"Helga and Werner are Lutherans,\" the priest said, handing Judith a menu, \"but she must have some French in her. She makes great cr\u00eapes. They also offer a couple of German pancake specialties, too.\"\n\n\"I didn't realize how hungry I was until now,\" Judith said. \"I see they also have Swedish pancakes. That reminds me\u2014do you know the woman who was praying by the statue of Saint Birgitta?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Bauer?\" He nodded. \"She's Swedish, but converted years ago when she married . . . Helmut, I think. I never knew him. He died before I started coming here.\"\n\n\"She was praying for her daughter. It sounded . . . very sad.\"\n\nDash was studying the menu. \"I guess so. From what little I've heard, the girl went off the rails. She wouldn't be a girl now, of course, probably middle-aged. Mrs. Bauer must be in her eighties. I think I'll have the cr\u00eapes with the boysenberry jam.\"\n\nThe many choices made Judith indecisive. \"Oh, I guess I'll get the applesauce ones. They sound more German.\" She put the menu aside. \"Mrs. Bauer referred to a saint who wasn't a saint. I mean, in reference to praying to Saint Birgitta. Do you know who she meant?\"\n\nDash frowned. \"Not offhand. You mean somebody who's alive?\"\n\n\"No. Someone from the past. Apparently, Saint Birgitta is as close as she could come to the other person who was never canonized.\"\n\n\"I'd have to look it up,\" Dash said. \"There's a Saint Brigid, but she's Irish and definitely was canonized.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know about her.\"\n\nA very young-looking waiter came to take their orders. After he had gone off, Dash asked why Judith was helping the police with their homicide inquiries. She reluctantly told him about her reputation as FASTO. \"Please don't mention it to anyone. I'm trying to keep a low profile while I'm here. I don't want to get kicked out of the B&B association. The woman who runs it thinks I'm a magnet for murder.\"\n\nTheir meal arrived. \"Good service,\" Dash remarked. He eyed Judith curiously. \"Why here? Why now?\"\n\nJudith swallowed a bite of cr\u00eape. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"You say Duomo asked you to help. How'd he find you?\"\n\n\"I assume he came across the FASTO site on the Internet. I never look at it. Maybe it's cross-referenced under B&Bs or innkeepers.\"\n\n\"Not word of mouth?\"\n\nJudith felt stupid. \"I doubt it. He'd have mentioned it. Duomo seems desperate. He wasn't getting anywhere with the Stafford murder. Then Wessler got killed and last night Mr. Stromeyer was poisoned.\"\n\n\"Poisoned?\" Dash almost dropped his fork. \"I thought he had a heart attack. Are you sure?\"\n\nJudith explained how she had been a witness at the Valhalla Inn and then had ended up in the hospital, too. \"I know it all sounds improbable, but I haven't yet heard the results of the tests on Mr. Stromeyer. I'm glad he's stable. Isn't that what you were told?\"\n\nDash nodded again. \"Yes, Doc Frolander's son is one of my altar boys. He asked me to pray for Stromeyer. I don't know Herman. He's Lutheran, but he's another big wheel around here. Not as much as Wessler was, though.\"\n\n\"Tell me about the Knights of Saint Hubert,\" Judith said, sprinkling more powdered sugar on her cr\u00eape. \"How is the honor earned?\"\n\n\"Wessler got it for helping refugees after the war.\" Dash paused while the young waiter refilled their coffee cups. \"He worked mainly with displaced persons. A few of them\u2014along with several of the Germans\u2014followed him to America. Wessler emigrated around 1950, but settled somewhere else first. The Midwest, if I remember right.\"\n\n\"Omaha, someone told me. Speaking of Saint Hubert, my cousin and I wondered about the statue of him as a hunter.\"\n\nDash chuckled. \"It may be a myth. In fact, it may have been handed down from another saint who probably didn't even exist.\"\n\n\"The one Mrs. Bauer mentioned?\"\n\n\"No, this one was a guy, known as Saint Eustace. He was supposed to be a general under Trajan and an unholy terror on the battlefield. But as the legend goes, he went hunting in his quieter moments and a stag with a crucifix in its antlers appeared to him. He became a Christian and allegedly was martyred. Or maybe arrested by the local game warden for poaching. Anyway, somehow that tale became confused with Saint Hubert, who was a very holy eighth-century bishop of Ardennes. No martyr\u2014he died in some sort of fishing accident. I suppose that may be how his life story got mixed up with the one about Eustace. The hunter association fits Wessler better, though.\"\n\n\"I saw some of his big-game trophies at the town hall.\"\n\n\"Not just that kind of hunter.\" Dash grew serious. \"He's done some other hunting\u2014of people. Nazis, to be precise. Or so I've heard.\"\n\n\"You mean in this country or in Germany?\"\n\n\"I don't know specifics. Stromeyer knows the background. He served in Germany. Franz Wessler would know, too, of course.\"\n\nJudith grew thoughtful, but gave a start when the waiter brought their bill. \"Could Wessler's Nazi hunting be a motive for murder?\"\n\n\"Don't quote me. Oh, go ahead, it's a story that's gone around town for a long time. Maybe it's a myth, like Eustace. But the stag apparition is a better-looking visual than some poor dude falling out of a boat. Especially given today's sermon. How bored were you?\"\n\nJudith couldn't help laughing. \"I have to admit I was still tired from my spell last night.\"\n\nDash waved a hand. \"Forget it. I'm better at writing legal briefs than I am at sermons. Not my strong suit.\"\n\n\"We're lucky at Our Lady, Star of the Sea,\" Judith said. \"Father Hoyle is one of the few priests I've known who gives a good homily.\"\n\n\"I admire that,\" Dash said, reaching for his wallet. \"Let me make up for the sermon by paying the\u2014\"\n\n\"No!\" Judith protested. \"I only put five dollars in the collection. It's the least I can do. Please?\"\n\nDash hesitated\u2014and shrugged. \"Okay. If you're here on business, deduct it twice on your income tax\u2014once for business, once for charity.\"\n\n\"Isn't that a sin?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"Not unless you're using counterfeit money.\"\n\nJudith and Dash parted company at the corner. He headed for the rectory, which, as Judith had guessed, was separate from the church. The priest was meeting at one o'clock with Klara and Franz Wessler to begin plans for the Requiem Mass. Feeling much better after a good meal and the priest's company, Judith decided not to go directly to Hanover Haus. Instead, she walked across the street, heading for the police station. Maybe Fat Matt had the analysis of Herman Stromeyer's stomach contents by now.\n\nJudith felt she shouldn't have been surprised when Orville said the chief wasn't in. \"The wreck on the pass was a real mess,\" he explained. \"We got three in the hospital here and a couple of dead people headed for somebody else's morgue. The boss was so upset he kind of tied one on at the beer garden. He should be in around one. Or two. Or so.\"\n\n\"I suppose that's why he wasn't at church,\" Judith said pointedly. \"Did you get the report on Mr. Stromeyer from the doctor yet?\"\n\nOrville nodded. \"I put it on the chief's desk.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Judith said, and headed for Duomo's office.\n\n\"Hey,\" Orville said in a mild tone, \"you can't go in there.\"\n\n\"Watch me.\" She opened the door. \"See? I'm doing it now.\"\n\nJudith heard Orville sigh as she closed the door behind her. The report was in plain sight in a manila envelope stamped with Frolander's name and the hospital's address. Before sitting down, she made sure that there was nothing in the chief's chair\u2014like a bag of doughnuts.\n\nThe doctor's findings were what Judith expected. Traces of aconite\u2014or wolfsbane\u2014had been found. Herman had eaten a light supper before the cocktail party. The report contained nothing more of interest, other than mentioning that the amount he'd consumed wasn't fatal. She was getting up from Duomo's chair when Ernie Schwartz came into the office.\n\n\"Have you taken over for the chief?\" he asked.\n\nJudith noticed his droll expression. \"I wanted to see the results from Herman Stromeyer's brush with death last night.\"\n\nErnie eased himself into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. \"You seem to have recovered from whatever happened to you. I thought maybe you were poisoned, too.\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"I think it was exhaustion.\"\n\n\"You need more sleep.\" He yawned. \"I could use a nap myself.\"\n\nLeaning forward in the chair, Judith made sure she was making eye contact. \"Ernie\u2014tell me about Wessler's Nazi-hunting exploits.\"\n\nThe sleepy eyes sparked. \"Why?\"\n\n\"Isn't my curiosity natural? Aren't we looking for motive?\"\n\nErnie's shoulders sagged. \"I see your point. But that all happened in Germany.\" He sat up straighter. \"There were rumors when I was a kid that somebody around here was suspect. Assumed name maybe, new identity, respectable, you know the drill for those guys who tried to start over. But whoever it was never got fingered by Wessler. He died several years ago. The rumors dried up.\"\n\n\"What was his name when he was in Little Bavaria?\"\n\nErnie fingered his chin. \"The wife's still around. Must be getting up there in years. Her husband's name was Helmut Bauer.\"\nChapter Nineteen\n\nI've met Mrs. Bauer,\" Judith said. \"She told me her husband had died of shame because of malicious lies.\"\n\nErnie yawned. \"Could be.\"\n\n\"Had Mr. Bauer actually done something despicable?\"\n\nThe major gripped the table with both hands. \"I'm Jewish, I know what those SOBs did to some of my relatives. You want gory details? I might not like the replay, but do you think I've forgotten?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" Judith said, realizing that not only were the major's eyes wide open, but they seemed to almost sizzle. \"Nobody should ever forget it. Not only Jews, but Catholics, Lutherans, Gypsies, Communists, political dissidents, and so-called defective human beings.\"\n\nErnie leaned back in the chair. \"True. As for Bauer, I'm not sure what the accusations were. Maybe he was at one of the camps.\"\n\nJudith thought it might be wise to change the subject, lest Ernie work himself up into a frenzy\u2014or nod off. Maybe, she thought, that's why he fell asleep so often. It might be his way of not envisioning the horror that was Hitler. \"What happened to Bauer's daughter?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Ernie frowned. \"She was a year or two younger than I was. I can't remember her name . . . Isabel? Irene? Something like that. Tall, fair-haired, not the kind a guy would stare at, but not homely either. By the time I got back from 'Nam, I think she'd moved away. At least I don't remember much else about her except from high school.\"\n\n\"It must've been a small class,\" Judith said.\n\n\"True, but she was at least two years behind me.\" He smiled faintly. \"You know\u2014in high school the older kids don't pay much attention to the underclassmen.\"\n\n\"How did you end up here?\"\n\n\"My folks spent the war in an English village. They'd gotten out in 1938. After the war, they thought about moving to Israel, but that wasn't happening yet, so they emigrated to the States. They had relatives in New York, but Pa and Ma were small-town people who hated cities. My father dreamed of owning a grocery store. A cousin of his worked for the Department of the Interior. He'd spent a lot of time around here when they were building dams on this side of the mountains. After the cousin retired to Lake Shegogan, he urged my folks to move here. They ran the local grocery store for thirty years.\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"I didn't mean to pry. I wondered how a Jewish family would feel about moving where there were so many Germans.\"\n\n\"Back then, there weren't as many,\" Ernie said. \"That came later, after Wessler started beating the drums to turn the town around. When I was a kid, most people were logging and railroad workers.\" He looked at his watch. \"The chief should be showing up soon. I'd better get some shut-eye before he comes in. Good luck with whatever it is you're doing.\"\n\nAfter Ernie ambled away, Judith decided she'd better move on, too. She felt better, but guilt niggled at her. If she took her time, the two-block walk to the B&B exhibit shouldn't tire her out. Assuming, of course, that the booth was still standing. Judith didn't want to think about the havoc Renie might wreak if aggravation overcame her.\n\nThe sun had come out while she'd been in the chief's office. It was a beautiful fall day, crisp and clear, with new snow on the mountains. The ground in the village, however, was all but bare. Judith figured the temperature must be in the high thirties. As she started down the main street, she glanced up at the clock tower. It was ten minutes past noon. On a whim, she decided to stop in at Sadie's Stories. Maybe Jessi would have fresh news about her grandfather's condition.\n\nThe streets were more crowded than ever, but the bookstore wasn't busy. Judith figured most visitors were in search of lunch or brunch during the noon hour. Jessi was behind the counter ringing up a half-dozen children's books for a family of five. Barry was helping a young couple choose a travel atlas. Only two other customers, both elderly women, were browsing the shelves.\n\n\"Hi,\" Jessi said after the family exited. \"How are you feeling?\"\n\n\"Much better,\" Judith replied. \"How's your grandfather?\"\n\n\"Improving.\" Jessi checked to make sure no one was listening. \"The doctor said it was some kind of poison. I can't believe it!\"\n\nIt suddenly occurred to Judith that she didn't know if the general public had yet learned the real cause of Dietrich Wessler's death. \"Maybe someone made a mistake,\" Judith hedged, not wanting to alarm Jessi. \"Did Doc Frolander go into details?\"\n\n\"I didn't talk to him very long. He's worn out and was going to get some rest. I called my parents again, but told them not to come up here as long as Grandpa's better. They always spend Christmas here. Still, they're really upset.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Judith said. \"Do you have any books on saints?\"\n\n\"You mean Catholic saints?\" Jessi saw Judith nod. \"Yes, I think we have two\u2014one for children and one for adults. I'll show you.\"\n\nShe led Judith to the religion section. \"It should be right here, but it's not. My fill-in, Mrs. Zook, must've sold it. Would the children's version be any help?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith said. \"I'm looking for an obscure person.\" Seeing that the young couple had made their choice of an atlas, she let Jessi go to the register. Judith strolled over to the travel section, where Barry was straightening the shelves. \"Have you got time to talk to me\u2014and my cousin\u2014about what happened to your dad?\"\n\nBarry adjusted a staff recommendation sign on the shelf featuring German tourist guides. \"I don't know very much. As I told you, I wasn't here when it happened. You should talk to Mom, though she doesn't know anything more than the police do.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I'm on my way to meet Serena. Could we get together for coffee at the caf\u00e9 downstairs in fifteen minutes?\"\n\nHe glanced at Jessi, who was giving a smiling send-off to the couple with the atlas. \"Sure. Maybe I can pick up some lunch there for Jessi and me. Hey, I'm glad you're feeling better.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" Judith said, returning to the counter. \"Say, do you recall anyone who lingered around the Thomas Mann bust lately?\"\n\n\"No,\" Jessi replied. \"Only the brat who broke it. Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"My cousin thinks the bottle might've contained poison,\" Judith said. \"Chief Duomo is having it analyzed.\"\n\n\"I don't get it,\" Jessi said. \"If somebody deliberately poisoned Grandpa, the bottle wouldn't have been there before it happened.\"\n\n\"A valid point,\" Judith said, \"but Serena is so dogged about the tiniest detail of a crime she's working. She's got that kind of mind.\"\n\nJessi gaped at Judith. \"She's investigating Wessler's death?\"\n\n\"Gosh,\" Judith said, backpedaling to the door, \"I thought you knew she's a supersleuth. See you later. Oops!\" she exclaimed, bumping into a postcard display. \"I'm meeting her now. She subbed for me at the B&B booth.\" Or what's left of it, Judith thought grimly, and wished that the book title she'd just glimpsed wasn't The Last Train from Hiroshima.\n\nTo her great relief, the booth was still intact. Several people were obscuring Judith's view of Renie and Eldridge Hoover. But as she got closer, she spotted her cousin bobbing up to hand over some brochures and what looked like a map. Amazingly, the would-be inn patrons seemed in a jocular mood.\n\n\"Hi, coz,\" Renie called. \"Just took a reservation for Hillside Manor from these wonderful folks who live in Pocatello, Idaho. That makes sixteen so far. You're going to enjoy the Fawcetts,\" she added, gesturing at the middle-aged couple. \"They're anything but a pair of drips! Right, guys? Meet your innkeeper.\"\n\nThe Fawcetts laughed like crazy.\n\n\"Hi,\" Judith said a bit uncertainly. \"It's nice to meet you.\"\n\nEldridge leaned sideways to look at Judith. \"We've had a swell time. Can't believe our stint is up already. Roonie here is a real funster!\"\n\nRenie held up her hands in a helpless gesture. \"Hey, 'Dridge, being with you is like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July rolled into one. Here come Phil and Jeanne. Much as I hate to say it, I'd better scoot.\" She grabbed her purse, blew Eldridge a kiss, and left the booth.\n\n\"If,\" Renie said, after they were out of earshot, \"you ever ask me to do anything like that again, I swear I'll kill you.\"\n\n\"But you seemed to\u2014\"\n\n\"Of course I seemed to,\" Renie snarled. \"I do this for a living. Be nice, I mean. I get paid big bucks for it. And then I go home and verbally abuse Bill, Oscar, and even Clarence. Oh, they ignore me, so I retreat to the kitchen and break something.\"\n\nMomentarily distracted by the Bavarian boar who was driving a wagon full of laughing children, Judith didn't know what to say. \"Did you really take sixteen reservations?\"\n\n\"Of course. I charmed, wheedled, and entranced those suckers\u2014just like a design presentation, only with comfort and cuisine instead of art and artifice. God, but I can be a phony! Sometimes I scare me.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\nRenie glared at a dachshund wearing a purple hat before turning to shoot the same look at Judith. \"When what?\"\n\n\"When are the upcoming reservations?\" Judith asked meekly.\n\n\"Four in November, two in December, and the rest in January\u2014your slowest month. How do you like that for push and shove? Six of those people weren't even planning on coming to our fair city.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I mean it. But stop\u2014we're going to Kreuger's Kuchen. It's right there below the bookshop.\"\n\n\"We are? You're going to feed me?\"\n\n\"No. We're having coffee with Barry. You're the sleuth again.\"\n\nRenie sighed. \"Another hat for me to wear. Sheesh. Why not? It's a wonder you didn't have me assist at Mass or play the tuba in the marching band that's coming down the street and will probably take a detour so they can run us over.\"\n\nThe band kept marching. Judith and Renie kept walking\u2014straight into the caf\u00e9. Barry wasn't there yet. Apparently customers seated themselves. Judith pointed to a table near the door. \"That way Barry can see us,\" she said.\n\nRenie practically fell into a chair. \"I'm exhausted. Being nice wears me down. Why are we interrogating Barry? Is this the Stafford murder case? I like to know ahead of time what crime I'm solving.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith noticed menus, but wasn't hungry. \"I'm having a beverage. Go ahead, order something. I'll treat.\"\n\nRenie looked indecisive. \"I went to the bakery and bought a bunch of stuff. Frankie's kind of surly. Maybe that's another reason why Franz didn't want to deal with him yesterday.\"\n\n\"There's an undercurrent of tension with a lot of people around here,\" Judith said, relieved that her cousin seemed to be regaining her equilibrium. \"Before Barry arrives, let me catch you up on some things I've learned since we parted company.\"\n\nJudith quickly summed up her recent activities. The only interruption was by their server, a pert young woman who took the orders for Judith's mocha and Renie's root beer.\n\n\"You've got a book about saints at home, don't you?\" Judith said when she had finished her recital.\n\n\"Three of them,\" Renie replied. \"So? Bill won't answer the phone.\"\n\n\"Well . . . how else will we find out who the mystery nonsaint is?\"\n\n\"Why do we care? It sounds like one of your dumber ideas. If this person was never canonized, she probably wouldn't be listed anyway.\"\n\n\"You told me a while ago that at least one of your books listed all sorts of nonexistent saints. Mrs. Bauer said this was a real person. If Mr. Bauer was suspected of being a bad Nazi, I'm interested.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"If we had a computer . . . Maybe they've got one we could use at Hanover Haus. Though I doubt the old bat who's usually at the front desk would let us use it.\"\n\n\"Jessi might,\" Judith suggested. \"Or the cops.\"\n\n\"You're right, especially if Duomo is still hungover.\" Renie nodded toward the entrance. \"Here comes Barry.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" he apologized. \"The store got busy all of a sudden. I have to get takeout for Jessi and me because she wants to see her grandfather this afternoon. I'm going to sub for her.\"\n\n\"Say,\" Judith said, \"why don't you go with her? Serena and I can fill in. I'm a librarian. I worked for years at the Thurlow Public Library.\"\n\n\"No kidding?\" Barry grinned. \"Are you sure you want to do that?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith replied. \"Serena did an amazing job at the B&B booth. She can sell books to people who don't know how to rea . . . oof!\"\n\nBarry looked alarmed as Judith winced in pain. \"Are you okay?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I'm fine,\" Judith said, trying to smile even as she retaliated for Renie's kick by stamping on her cousin's foot. \"Just a little twit. I mean, twinge. Here's the waitress with our dinks. That is, drinks. Are you going to order now?\"\n\n\"Ah, sure,\" Barry said. He took a quick look at the menu, ordered chicken-salad and ham-on-rye sandwiches with side salads to go. His immediate request was for a double tall latte. \"Okay, I'm set, but I can't offer much about Dad's murder. It seemed like a random thing.\"\n\nJudith licked her lips to get rid of any mocha residue. \"Did you see the letters he received from the disgruntled client?\"\n\n\"I did,\" Barry said. \"Duomo thought they were mildly threatening, but the guy sounded more like a griper. I'm guessing it was a guy because the legal issue was how he got screwed over in a child custody dispute. He blamed my dad for mishandling the case.\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"Your garden-variety sorehead. But why wouldn't he sign the letters? How could he expect your father to know which case it was? He must've handled tons of custody battles over the years.\"\n\nBarry didn't answer at once. \"I never thought about that, but it's true. Growing up, I heard Dad talk about clients. Face it, the majority of Legal Aid clients are low income or uneducated. Maybe he just wanted to blow off steam, but stay anonymous. That doesn't make him a killer.\"\n\nRenie agreed. \"It'd take time and trouble to come here to murder somebody. When did your dad stop practicing law?\"\n\n\"Ten years ago, except for some cases he took on as favors.\"\n\n\"Local clients?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Mostly.\" Barry passed a hand over his forehead. \"I wasn't around all the time. Either I was in undergraduate school or studying for my advanced degrees. I recall only a couple of cases. One was a property dispute and the other was a messy divorce.\"\n\nJudith started to speak, but waited until the waitress brought Barry's latte. \"Are any of those litigants still in town?\" she inquired.\n\nBarry leaned back in the chair, looking up at the mosaic ceiling. \"The property involved was where an old gas station used to stand. The original owner had died and left the land\u2014and everything else including the gas storage drums\u2014to his granddaughter. She'd moved away and didn't want it. Too much trouble to get rid of the contaminated soil. Then a cousin who'd worked at the station asked her to give him a quitclaim deed and he'd take care of it for her. She thought he was pulling a fast one, and refused.\" Barry laughed softly. \"Mr. Wessler got into the act, trying to be a peacemaker. He liked to do that. He meant well, but it only caused more trouble. He was the heiress's paternal grandfather.\" His jaw dropped. \"You know her\u2014Eleanor Wessler Denkel.\"\n\nJudith stared at Barry. \"Let me get this straight. The maternal grandpa left her the property, right? Was the cousin a Wessler?\"\n\n\"Well . . . yes,\" Barry said. \"It was Frankie Duomo, one of Wessler's illegitimate kids. He wanted to open a bigger bakery there.\"\n\n\"Who won?\" Renie asked.\n\n\"Dietrich Wessler,\" Barry said. \"He paid off both Eleanor and Frankie, assumed the deed to the property, got it cleaned up, and that's where the beer garden is now. Franz Wessler pitched a fit. He came roaring up from L.A. to try to talk his father out of the deal. Franz wanted to open a small theater on the site. There's never been a movie house in this town. That's why they show the German movies in that tent down the street. To be honest, I thought Franz had the right idea.\"\n\nJudith took her last sip of mocha before posing another question. \"Did that cause a serious rift between Franz and his father?\"\n\n\"Mom told me it caused more than that,\" Barry replied, smiling wryly. \"I'd forgotten what happened until now. Franz didn't want to show only theatrical releases, but to preview his documentaries. And Klara wanted to use the theater as her private concert hall. That's why she moved up here\u2014to con Franz's father into making the deal. The irony was that she blamed Franz for not getting her way. That's when she divorced him and moved in with Wessler.\"\n\nJudith felt as if her head was spinning. \"Did Klara think she could get Wessler to change his mind?\"\n\nBarry shrugged. \"Who knows? She found a soft life with him. The old boy doted on her. I figure he left all his money to her.\"\n\n\"Hold it,\" Renie said. \"Where did Klara get her divorce?\"\n\nBarry looked puzzled. \"Where? You mean . . . ?\"\n\n\"Was it here in Little Bavaria or in California?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Barry said. \"I don't think Dad or Mom told me.\"\n\nJudith eyed her cousin. \"What are you getting at, supersleuth?\"\n\nRenie made a face. \"I'm not sure. But when we were going through those records at the town hall, I don't recall seeing anything about a Wessler divorce. In fact, there weren't that many divorces. I'm wondering if Klara and Franz aren't still married.\"\n\nBarry shook his head. \"Sorry. If Dad handled that one, I don't remember. Maybe Franz started the divorce proceedings in Los Angeles.\" He checked his watch. \"Are you serious about filling in at the bookshop?\"\n\nJudith took in Renie's benign mood. \"Yes. Serena still has to pick up those books for her husband.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Renie said. \"Bill won't speak to me for at least ten minutes if I don't bring him those books. And Oscar will have a fit.\"\n\n\"Oscar?\" Barry said with a puzzled expression.\n\nJudith stood up, digging into her wallet. \"Never mind. Oscar's a terrible grump. I'd tell him to get stuffed\u2014except he already is. We'll have Jessi come down here so you can eat in peace before you visit her grandfather at the hospital.\"\n\nLeaving a twenty-dollar bill on the table, she headed for the exit. Five minutes later, the cousins had taken over the bookstore. Renie had already agreed to check out the noncanonized saint on the shop's computer while Judith waited on customers. There were a half-dozen people browsing the shelves. Jessi had been effusive in her thanks, insisting that Renie take Bill's books without charge.\n\n\"I won't, of course,\" Renie said to Judith after Jessi had departed. \"You can ring me up. Where should I start with the nonsaint?\"\n\n\"Birgitta was Swedish,\" Judith said, keeping one eye on the customers. \"Back then, all of Scandinavia was Sweden, right? See what you find by cross-referencing Birgitta with whatever might work.\"\n\n\"Got it,\" Renie said, scooting behind the counter. \"Anglicized as Bridget, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Judith said as a ponytailed girl approached with a Twilight book.\n\nA half hour passed before Renie began to grow impatient. \"I've tried every which way to go at this and come up empty,\" she said under her breath to Judith, who'd just finished ringing up a frail old lady who'd bought four volumes of erotica. \"I've done all the Scandinavian saints through three centuries, famous Scandinavian women of the same period, every Ingamoder and Ingeborg and Inglenook or whatever along with Rikissa, Kristina, and Agda. Got any other ideas?\"\n\n\"Maybe we shouldn't stick to Sweden or Scandinavia. Why don't you try putting in just medieval Catholic saints?\"\n\n\"Oh, for . . .\" Renie held her head. \"Do you realize the hits I'll get? I'd have to expand it to more than a two-century time span for Scandinavian saints. I'm not sure why we're doing this in the first place.\"\n\n\"If I told you it's a hunch, would you hit me?\"\n\n\"No.\" Renie took a deep breath. \"Your hunches often work.\" She turned back to the computer.\n\nTwenty minutes later, Judith heard Renie let out a little squeal. Trying not to rush the gray-haired man who couldn't remember whether he'd read the latest Michael Connelly paperback or the one before that or even if he'd ever read any of them, Judith finally suggested that maybe he should confer with his wife, who was perusing romance novels.\n\n\"What is it?\" she finally whispered to Renie.\n\n\"I think I found her,\" Renie said softly. \"Look.\"\n\nJudith saw the name of the Swedish woman whose cause for canonization had been dropped during the Reformation. \"Good Lord!\" she exclaimed under her breath. \"I don't believe it!\"\n\nThe cousins exchanged startled glances.\n\n\"Maybe,\" Renie suggested, \"it's a coincidence.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith said, her voice unsteady. \"Let's hope so. I'd hate to think this might lead us to the killer.\"\n\nThe unofficial saint's name was Ingrid.\nChapter Twenty\n\nBut,\" Renie said, lowering her voice, \"it's only a coincidence.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Judith admitted. \"There must be a ton of Ingrids in this part of the country. Lots of Scandinavians. They were a major influence in this whole area. What are you doing now?\"\n\n\"Checking the usage of Ingrid as a first name,\" Renie murmured.\n\nThe couple who couldn't seem to make up their minds had settled on a cookbook. Judith rang them up while Renie kept searching.\n\n\"Just as I thought,\" Renie said after the customers left. \"Ingrid Bergman popularized the name circa 1940. I can't get a hit on anyone before that except for the ersatz saint. Is Heffelman her maiden name?\"\n\n\"I don't know. She's divorced. But what does Ingrid have to do with Little Bavaria? I've never heard her refer to the town until she organized the Oktoberfest exhibit. Nobody has mentioned a local connection with Ingrid. I assumed she'd grown up in the city. Is that a local phone book under the counter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Renie picked up the directory and flipped to the H listings. \"No Heffelmans.\" She turned the pages back to the Bs. \"One Bauer, initials A.L., the mother from the cemetery and the church. Coz, you've got Inbred Heffalump fever. She's not even here, yet you've been obsessing about her ever since we left home.\"\n\nJudith made a face. \"So I have. Face it, she's the only part of my job that drives me nuts. She's been on my case ever since the fortune teller was killed at Hillside Manor early on in my B&B career.\"\n\n\"So? You're still in business, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, but now she's showing up on my doorstep when she knows I'm not around. The few times she's met Joe, she's always been kind of flirty with him, which isn't Ingrid's usual style.\"\n\n\"Gee,\" Renie said, lowering her voice as two young men entered the shop, \"with tough competition like Delmar Denkel and George Beaulieu, I don't see how Joe would stand a chance with Ingrid.\"\n\n\"Not funny.\" Judith asked the new customers if she could help. They asked if she knew where the snowboarding books were. She pointed to the winter sports section. They began to browse.\n\n\"You trust Joe,\" Renie said quietly. \"Stop worrying.\"\n\n\"It's just another reason why Ingrid has been on my mind lately.\" Judith glanced at the young men who were absorbed in snowboarding books. \"You're right. I should forget about her and refocus.\"\n\n\"Do that. You still think two people are involved?\"\n\n\"If not, somebody's protecting someone. Ellie and Franz are both likely candidates because they're related. But it still points to a Wessler family member\u2014including Klara. Unless you count all the bastards.\"\n\n\"For that,\" Renie said, \"I need a football roster. The other sports don't have enough players.\"\n\nThe young men each brought a trade paperback to the register\u2014The Illustrated Guide to Snowboarding and 100 Classic Backcountry Ski & Snowboard Routes in Washington. \"Is this your first snowboarding adventure?\" Judith asked as she rang them up.\n\n\"First time,\" the shorter, stockier of the duo said. \"We need more snow. Guess we miscalculated.\"\n\n\"Guess we're unlucky,\" the taller, lankier young man said. \"We went hiking around here last summer and some jerk told us to get off his property. I thought anybody could walk along a river in this state. We weren't going to fish. Who would on a hot August afternoon?\"\n\n\"Right,\" said his companion. \"That guy acted like we were crooks.\"\n\nThe other young man laughed. \"That's because his buddy was wasted. He couldn't even sit up.\"\n\n\"So what?\" his friend said. \"Like we haven't seen drunks before?\"\n\nJudith kept her voice matter-of-fact. \"When was this in August?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" the stocky young man said, looking at his lanky friend. \"Third week? It was a Friday, I remember that.\"\n\n\"Was it near the Pancake Schloss?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"We'd just finished a late lunch there,\" the stocky one said.\n\nRenie poked Judith. \"As a police deputy, don't you think you should ask them to report what they saw? I'll stay here.\" Seeing the young men's wary expressions, Renie pulled a twenty and a five out of her wallet. \"The books are on me. We should all do our civic duty.\"\n\n\"She's right,\" Judith said, coming around from behind the counter and grabbing her jacket. \"Police headquarters is only a little more than a block away. Shall we?\"\n\nThe dumbfounded pair took the refund and the books. \"I guess,\" the lanky one said, \"but this is too weird.\"\n\nOn their way to the station, Judith explained that a crime might have been committed by the man who had told them to go away. She avoided any mention of murder for fear of scaring off the young men. At the entrance to the station, she paused.\n\n\"I'm Judith Flynn. I should know your names before we go inside.\"\n\n\"Tyler Whalen,\" the lanky one said.\n\n\"Jordan Smith,\" the stocky one replied. \"Really. It is Smith.\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"I believe you. It's too obvious to be made up.\"\n\nHernandez was back on duty at the desk. \"Chief's not here,\" he said, eyeing Judith and the young men with curiosity. \"He took the redhead out for drinks. Ernie's taking a nap break in one of the cells.\"\n\n\"Then you're it,\" Judith said, giving the officer a meaningful look. \"These gentlemen want to make a statement about what they saw by the river August nineteenth.\"\n\nIt took only a moment for Hernandez to realize what Judith meant. \"Okay, but we'll have to do it out here. I can't leave my post until Ernie wakes up. Let's get you settled in behind the counter.\"\n\nTyler and Jordan sat down in folding chairs, but still looked uncertain. Judith, who had seated herself in a chair Hernandez had fetched her, tried not to eavesdrop, but couldn't avoid it. The young men were apparently trying to figure out what kind of crime had occurred other than being drunk in public. Jordan remarked that if getting blotto was breaking the local law, about half the town could have been busted the previous evening.\n\nFinally, they set to work, writing out separate statements. The task took less than ten minutes. \"Here,\" Tyler said, handing over their accounts to Hernandez. \"This is the truth. It's all we can remember.\"\n\nThe basic facts meshed, but didn't go much beyond what Judith had already heard. After Hernandez had also read the statements, she asked if Tyler and Jordan could describe either the man who'd yelled at them or the one who seemed to be intoxicated.\n\n\"The jerk was fifty or so,\" Jordan said, looking at Tyler, who nodded. \"He was balding, sandy hair, average build. Tan chinos, tank top, I think. No facial hair, just an average dude.\"\n\n\"How tall?\" Hernandez inquired.\n\n\"I couldn't tell,\" Jordan replied. \"He was sort of squatting, propping up the drunk. If I had to guess, close to six feet.\"\n\n\"What,\" Judith asked, \"did the other man look like?\"\n\nTyler grimaced. \"We didn't see much of him. We'd just come down to the bottom of the trail when the dink told us to go away. I suppose we were twenty, thirty feet away. Brown hair, about the same age, bigger build, plaid shirt, dark pants.\" He shrugged. \"That's about it. His back was turned to us. We figured he was throwing up.\"\n\nJudith gazed at Hernandez. \"The jerk could be anybody,\" she said.\n\n\"Hey,\" Tyler said, \"I'm a cartoonist. I could do a sketch of Jerk-off.\"\n\n\"That might be helpful,\" Hernandez said without inflection. \"I'll get paper and pencils.\" He went over to a cabinet by the far wall.\n\nJudith wished Renie had come with her. Another artist's eye might help interpret whatever Tyler was going to draw. Trying not to bother the young man, she drew her chair closer to Jordan. \"Do you two come to Little Bavaria often?\" she asked in a virtual whisper.\n\nJordan shook his head. \"This is only the third time. We skied up at the summit last year. Tyler wants to try snowboarding to show off for his girlfriend. Why not? It sounds pretty cool to me, too.\"\n\n\"Cool and cold,\" Judith murmured, watching Tyler out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to be working quickly.\n\nHe was, in fact, finished. \"There,\" he said with satisfaction. \"Take a look. See if you recognize this creep.\"\n\nHernandez, who had been doing paperwork, joined Judith. She spoke first. \"He doesn't look familiar. But I don't live here.\"\n\nAfter another long moment, Hernandez shook his head. \"Nobody I know either. Of course, I've only been in Little Bavaria for a few months. The chief might recognize him.\"\n\nTyler seemed disappointed. \"Maybe I didn't really capture him.\"\n\nJudith smiled encouragingly. \"You've injected character into his face. He looks angry.\"\n\n\"He was,\" Tyler responded.\n\n\"Dude,\" Jordan said, \"you nailed him. I'd know him anywhere. But I don't want to.\" He turned to Hernandez. \"What crime did he commit?\"\n\nJudith waited for the officer to answer the question. Hernandez opted for discretion. \"I can only say he's a suspect.\"\n\nJudith didn't say anything at all.\n\nThe young men hadn't exhibited further curiosity. They left almost immediately, telling Judith to thank the woman with the big teeth for giving them the snowboarding books.\n\n\"I gather,\" she said to Hernandez, \"you think those two caught whoever killed Bob Stafford in the act?\"\n\n\"Maybe not actually killing him,\" he replied thoughtfully, \"but setting Stafford up to look as if he'd drowned.\"\n\n\"Their arrival must have scared the wits out of whoever he is,\" Judith said, then realized it was a stupid thing to say. \"No,\" she corrected herself, staring at the sketch again. \"There's no fear in his expression. He probably thought that if they asked what was going on, he could say his friend had fallen and hit his head.\"\n\n\"A cool customer,\" Hernandez remarked as Duomo came through the door.\n\n\"Hell's bells,\" the chief said, \"that redhead could drink me under the table. What's she got, a hollow leg?\"\n\n\"Her legs look fine to me,\" Hernandez murmured. \"Where is she?\"\n\n\"On patrol someplace,\" Fat Matt growled. \"Sober as a judge.\" He saw the sketch on the counter. \"Who's doing cartoons around here?\" Finally, he seemed to realize that Judith was present. \"You draw that? Am I supposed to arrest some guy from the funny papers?\"\n\nJudith tried to measure the chief's state of inebriation, decided he didn't seem much different from when he was sober, and informed him that the man in the drawing was a suspect in the Stafford homicide. She let Hernandez handle the rest of the explanation.\n\n\"The hell you say.\" Duomo squinted at the sketch. \"Never seen him before in my life. Just what we figured\u2014one of those random deals. We could put out an APB, maybe. Probably only get a bunch of crazies. Poor Bob. What would I do without those pancakes?\"\n\n\"You can make copies and post them around town,\" Judith said.\n\nDuomo looked aghast. \"During Oktoberfest? That guy's mug would scare visitors. We'll wait until after everybody's gone.\"\n\nJudith didn't argue. \"May I get a copy of it? My cousin and I are leaving early tomorrow on the Empire Builder.\"\n\nDuomo waved a hand. \"Go ahead. Think I'll join Ernie for a nap. I'm getting too old to drink on the job.\" He ambled out of sight.\n\nJudith stared at Hernandez, who was already scanning the sketch. \"Is your boss for real?\"\n\nThe officer smiled faintly. \"Define 'real.' \"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Judith said.\n\nFive minutes later, she returned to Sadie's Stories. Renie was selling six Agatha Christie mysteries to two middle-aged women. \"I can't believe you've missed her,\" she was saying in a chipper voice. \"She's the Queen of Plots. Every author since has stolen from her.\"\n\nThe women thanked her profusely and departed. Renie shook her head. \"I swear Christie invented every conceivable plot imaginable. I wonder what she'd have done with DNA. What's up?\"\n\n\"It's snowing,\" Judith said. \"I took my time coming back.\"\n\n\"I wondered. Someone mentioned the snow. It must've blown in fast. Business has slowed down.\" She checked the time. \"It's almost two. Barry and Jessi should be back soon. What's in that envelope?\"\n\nJudith explained about Tyler's artistic talent as she took the sketch out of the envelope. \"What do you think?\"\n\n\"Of his talent? Not bad. He's caught a real person. Alas, the guy looks like a bad apple. You think he killed Bob?\"\n\n\"Let's see if Barry recognizes him,\" Judith said, but paused before putting the drawing back in the envelope. \"Can you make a copy of this so he can show Suzie?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Renie said. \"They've got the same kind of all-in-one printer that I have. It'll only take a few seconds.\"\n\nShe'd just finished removing the copy of the sketch when Mrs. Bauer walked into the shop. Judith smiled in surprise. \"You're very brave to come out in the snow,\" she said.\n\nThe old woman peered at her for a moment until recognition struck. \"You were at church this morning. I didn't know you lived here.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" Judith said. \"My cousin and I are filling in for a friend while she has lunch. Do you know Jessi?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Mrs. Bauer said. \"A very nice young woman. I'm used to the snow. Jessi is holding an embroidery book for me. It has a long title\u2014something about making projects for the home.\"\n\nRenie scanned the shelf where Jessi stashed preordered books. \"Here you go,\" she said, setting Colorful Stitchery on the counter. \"It looks like it just came out this month.\"\n\nMrs. Bauer nodded. \"Yes. Jessi knew I'd enjoy it, though I wish my eyes were not beginning to fail.\"\n\n\"Here's Jessi now,\" Judith said, seeing her arrive with Barry.\n\nJessi greeted Mrs. Bauer while Judith picked up the sketch and showed it to Barry. \"Do you know this person?\"\n\nBarry stared at the drawing before giving Judith a quizzical look. \"No. Should I?\"\n\n\"Probably not.\" She lowered her voice. \"Are you leaving now?\"\n\n\"I don't have to,\" Barry said. \"The snow's really coming down.\"\n\nJudith held on to the sketch in case Jessi might know the man. She didn't want to explain why she'd asked Barry, but it was Mrs. Bauer who craned her neck to stare at the alleged suspect's likeness.\n\n\"Oh, dear God,\" she murmured, turning pale even as she adjusted her glasses. \"No, no!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Judith asked in alarm.\n\nMrs. Bauer peered at the drawing again. \"Perhaps I am mistaken. It's been so long . . . surely it can't be . . . but I could swear that is Jack, the man who ruined my daughter.\"\n\nAll eyes regarded the old lady with puzzlement. \"Jack who?\" Judith finally asked.\n\nTaking an embroidered handkerchief from her purse, Mrs. Bauer removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. \"Jack Hellman, the son of the horrible man who tried to destroy my husband's reputation. Those Hellmans are the most evil people on earth! Please tear up that picture. I think I'm going to faint.\"\n\nMrs. Bauer did just that. Luckily, Barry caught her before she hit the floor. \"Smelling salts, anyone?\" Renie said in a weary voice.\n\n\"No,\" Jessi said, \"but I'll get some water.\" She scurried out through the door at the end of the counter.\n\nBarry had gotten down on the floor, propping up Mrs. Bauer with his knee. She seemed to be coming around. \"Hellman?\" he said softly.\n\n\"I think,\" Judith said reluctantly, \"his father committed suicide. Before your time, though.\"\n\nBarry shook his head. \"Why have you got a picture of his son?\"\n\nBefore Judith could explain, Jessi appeared with a glass of water and a damp facecloth. Mrs. Bauer had opened her eyes, but looked dazed. \"I am so sorry,\" she mumbled. \"Very foolish of me.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" Jessi said, holding the paper cup to the old lady's lips. \"You had a bad shock.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, after sipping from the cup. \"I may be wrong, but the drawing looks like Jack's father at that same age. Fifty, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Judith said.\n\nBarry waited for Jessi to wipe off Mrs. Bauer's face before helping her to stand. \"I'll walk you home,\" he said. \"Maybe you should rest for a few minutes. Let me get the chair from behind the counter.\"\n\n\"I'll get it,\" Renie said. \"Hey, coz, why don't you and Barry go into the back room and get a bag for Mrs. Bauer's book?\"\n\n\"Don't you have some bags . . .\" Judith stopped. \"Oh, you mean the heavier ones. Sure, come on, Barry,\" she said, after he'd settled Mrs. Bauer in the chair.\n\nJessi looked mystified, but didn't say anything. Renie stealthily slipped the original sketch to her cousin. A moment later, Judith and Barry were in the shop's back room. Giving her a bewildered look, he asked what was going on with the drawing. \"I told you I don't recognize the guy. I think I've heard the name 'Hellman,' but that's about it.\"\n\n\"You've seen the marker on the trail from the Pancake Schloss, though. Didn't you ever ask what it was for?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Barry replied. \"My parents told me it was for some old nut who'd offed himself a long time ago. It was kind of creepy, but I never thought much about it.\"\n\nJudith explained about the snowboarders. As her tale unfolded, Barry's expression changed from curiosity to abject horror.\n\n\"You mean . . . these guys saw who killed my dad?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"It sounds like it. If so, then Jack Hellman\u2014the suicide's son\u2014may be the killer. I think we should go see Matt Duomo.\"\n\nBarry balked. \"No. We have to tell Mom first. I'll walk Mrs. Bauer home, then get Mom's car and collect you. Deal?\"\n\nJudith hesitated. \"Renie should go along to stay with Mrs. Bauer.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Barry sounded puzzled. \"She should be okay if she rests.\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"The police are shorthanded. Mrs. Bauer may be in danger. You, of all people, know there's a killer out there.\"\n\nRenie didn't argue with Judith's suggestion. \"Should I be armed?\" she whispered, putting on her jacket.\n\n\"Just be careful,\" Judith said under her breath. \"You're lethal with a pickle fork. But try getting Mrs. Bauer to talk about her daughter.\"\n\nTwenty minutes later, Barry had braved the snow to get the Escort to collect Judith, Renie, and Mrs. Bauer. Jessi had two new customers, a cheerful mother and daughter from Osoyoos, British Columbia, who didn't resemble homicidal maniacs.\n\nMrs. Bauer lived in a small frame house two blocks north of the police station and one block west of St. Hubert's. Along the way she had revealed some interesting, if perhaps misleading, information.\n\n\"Heinrich Hellman claimed to be Jewish,\" she said from the backseat, where she was sitting with Renie. \"But one evening I came to church to light a candle for my daughter. He was praying at Saint Hubert's shrine. It was quite dark inside, so he did not see me. I waited for him to finish, then I followed him outside. It was the first time I'd confronted him with the lies he'd told about my husband, Helmut. He denied everything, of course. The next day he committed suicide.\"\n\nShe'd concluded the recital just as Barry had pulled in front of her house. There was no chance for Judith to ask questions. She'd have to leave that up to Renie.\n\n\"I guess I've missed a lot of background about Little Bavaria's history,\" Barry said, heading for the police station. \"Did Mrs. Bauer mean that Hellman wasn't Jewish or that he was nuts? And what would his son have to do with my dad? I never knew any Hellmans.\"\n\n\"Major Schwartz might know,\" Judith said. \"He's Jewish.\"\n\n\"You mean Ernie, the Dozing Cop?\"\n\n\"Ernie may doze, but he's smart. The only problem is that he might not remember much about the Hellmans. Good grief,\" she exclaimed, \"it's snowing so hard that your windshield wipers can hardly keep up with the flakes! Won't the weather hamper the festival finale?\"\n\nBarry shrugged. \"It's barely above freezing. That's why the flakes are so big. It's not unusual to have a big snow in October. Sometimes it doesn't happen again until December.\"\n\nJudith realized she shouldn't have been surprised. Even on the more temperate western side of the mountains, the weather could be unpredictable. After Barry parked the car within a few yards of the station, he insisted that Judith wait for him to help her get out.\n\nHernandez had been replaced behind the counter by Ernie, who looked awake. \"We were expecting you,\" he said. \"What took so long?\"\n\n\"It wasn't Barry who ID'd the sketch,\" Judith said. \"It was Mrs. Bauer. Did you know the Hellmans?\"\n\n\"You mean the guy who offed himself? Sure. It happened a few years before I joined the force. What's he got to do with anything?\"\n\n\"Was he really Jewish?\"\n\nErnie laughed, a first for him as far as Judith was concerned. \"I guess so. We ethnic types don't always hang out together. He was old.\"\n\n\"What about his son?\"\n\nErnie frowned. \"Jack Hellman? Yeah, I went to high school with him. He was kind of a jerk. We weren't buddies, though I guess he was Jewish, too. No high school in Little Bavaria then. We had to bus over to Lake Shegogan. There were quite a few students in our class because it was the only high school for this whole area. Jack left town not long after graduation. I haven't seen him since.\"\n\nJudith showed Ernie the sketch.\"Well?\"\n\nErnie rested an elbow on the counter and stared at the drawing. \"Yeah, that could be him after thirty years.\" He looked at Barry. \"You ever see him with your dad?\"\n\n\"I've never seen him,\" Barry replied. \"I never heard of the family.\"\n\n\"Your ma seen this?\" Ernie asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" Barry said. \"I showed it to her when I went to get her car. She didn't recognize him either. This is crazy.\"\n\n\"Speaking of crazy,\" Judith said, \"where's the chief?\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Ernie said, \"you dissing our boss?\"\n\n\"Ah . . . I meant this whole thing is crazy,\" Judith said. \"Maybe he can enlighten us.\" But Duomo hadn't shown much interest in the sketch.\n\nErnie shrugged. \"Go ahead. He's back in his office. But knock first. He might be busy.\"\n\nJudith made no comment as she and Barry traipsed to the chief's door. To her surprise, Duomo was alert and studying what looked like a report. \"It's about time,\" he said. \"Got the busted bust and the bottle back from the lab. Hey, Barry, you working for FATSO these days?\"\n\nBarry looked askance at the chief's form of address. \"Mrs. Jones is the sleuth. I'm Mrs. Flynn's chauffeur. It's snowing hard.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Duomo said. \"I should patrol the highway, but it's too dangerous. What's up?\" He winked at Judith. \"I mean, with your sister.\"\n\n\"My cousin,\" Judith said, wishing she didn't spend half her time with Fat Matt trying to keep from shaking him. \"Take another look at this sketch. I think, I mean we think,\" she added for Barry's benefit, \"we may have fingered Bob Stafford's killer.\"\n\n\"The hell you say.\" Duomo gazed at the drawing. \"This guy does look kind of familiar. Is he one of my brothers?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of,\" Judith said. \"Keep looking and add thirty years to what you might remember about the man.\" Automatically, Judith did the same\u2014and something elusive tugged at her memory.\n\nThe chief apparently took Judith seriously. \"Then I think back to a twenty something type.\" He stared some more. \"Yeah, could be the Hellman brat. His old man was the one who did himself in. Jim? Joe? No, Jack, was trouble. But he's been gone for years.\" Duomo turned to Barry. \"Did you ID him?\"\n\n\"No,\" Barry said. \"Mom and I didn't recognize him. We wondered if he'd been a client of Dad's when he worked for Legal Aid.\"\n\nThe chief scowled. \"The jackass who wrote the letters to your pa?\"\n\nBarry nodded. \"Maybe.\"\n\nDuomo tapped a pencil on his desk. \"So who ID'd him?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Bauer,\" Judith said. \"She also told us a strange story.\"\n\nFat Matt sighed. \"Let's hear it.\"\n\nJudith repeated the old lady's tale of her encounter with the senior Hellman in the church that had been followed a day later by the older man's suicide. \"That's why my cousin is staying with Mrs. Bauer right now. After recognizing Jack, she could be in danger.\"\n\n\"How?\" Duomo scoffed. \"Bob was killed over two months ago. If Jack Hellman is still around, somebody would've seen him. Hell, I might have seen him. But I didn't. This isn't New York or L.A. There's no place you can hide for long in Little Bavaria.\"\n\nThe chief had a point. \"Okay,\" Judith finally said, \"maybe there's no threat to Mrs. Bauer, but shouldn't you try to track down Jack in connection with Bob's homicide?\"\n\n\"Yeah, sure, I'll do that.\" Duomo looked at Barry. \"Tell your ma I'm on the job. Good thing we got statements from those two snowshoe guys or whatever they are. Go ahead, beat it, kid. I'll give FATSO a ride back to . . . wherever she's going. Suze is probably worrying about you. By the way, if you see Jessi, tell her that Grandpa's doin' real good.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" Barry said. \"That's great news.\" He regarded Judith dubiously. \"You sure you want to stick around here?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"Yes. I have to report back to my cousin.\"\n\nTo Judith's surprise, Barry hugged her. \"Thanks. You've really taken a load off of Mom and me.\" He stepped back. \"I mean, your cousin has . . .\" He broke into a grin. \"You know what I mean.\"\n\nBarry hurried out of the office.\n\n\"Nice kid,\" Duomo remarked. \"Want a cigar?\"\n\n\"No thanks,\" Judith said. \"My husband enjoys them sometimes.\"\n\n\"I'll smoke one for him.\" The chief took forever to get the cigar lighted. When he finally did, he eyed the ash with disgust. \"Now why'd I do that? It's time for my snack. Oh, well.\" He picked up the lab report. \"Zip,\" he said. \"No usable prints, too many smudges. The bottle was clean. But Frolander's seen aconite come that way. A dose that size would kill most people, even a tough old cuss like Wessler.\"\n\n\"What about Herman Stromeyer?\"\n\n\"Same stuff. Different bottle. If it was in a bottle. Comes in all forms. Heck, the plant grows everywhere in this state, specially forests. Bunch of names and varieties, too. Bet you got 'em in your backyard. Invasive, but kind of pretty.\"\n\nJudith nodded. Every year she found wildflowers in her garden that had sprouted from windblown seeds. \"You'll talk to Suzie?\"\n\nDuomo frowned at the cigar, which had gone out. \"Think I'll have dinner there.\" He grimaced. \"She usually quits around eight, eight-thirty, so that means I'll have to eat late. Darn.\"\n\n\"See if you can get a list of Bob's clients,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Huh? You think Jack Hellman was a client?\"\n\n\"Why not? Maybe he lived in the city. It's a stretch, but he might be your letter writer.\"\n\n\"That's not the worst idea I've heard lately. But that still leaves us with a dead Wessler and a poisoned Stromeyer. Don't stop sleuthing.\"\n\n\"I don't have much time do it,\" Judith said. \"I told you, my cousin and I are going home early tomorrow morning.\"\n\nThe chief shook his head. \"You can't leave me in the lurch.\"\n\n\"I have to,\" Judith asserted. \"I have a B&B to run.\"\n\nDuomo chewed on the end of his unlighted cigar. \"I could arrest you. Then you'd have to stay.\"\n\n\"Then I'd have to sue you,\" Judith said. \"I hope I've accomplished what you originally wanted me to do, which was find out who killed Bob Stafford. You're on your own with Wessler. Good luck.\"\n\nJudith walked out of Duomo's office, through the reception area, and left the building. She hadn't seen such a heavy snowfall in twenty-five years when she'd had to walk two miles home from the Meat & Mingle. As she opened the station door, the dim memory of someone or something came back to her\u2014and disappeared into the snow that obliterated Little Bavaria.\nChapter Twenty-one\n\nThe snow blurred Judith's vision, preventing her from seeing more than one step ahead of her. Worse yet, she had no transportation except for her own feet. At least there was no sharp wind stinging her face. It was the quiet that disturbed her. No laughter, no music, no vehicles\u2014just silence. She squinted at her watch: 3:10.\n\nJudith was about to eat humble pie and go back inside to ask if someone could give her a ride to Hanover Haus when she saw a dim figure moving toward her from across the street. A moment later, she realized it was Renie.\n\n\"Why,\" her cousin demanded, \"are you standing out here?\"\n\n\"I'm an idiot,\" Judith admitted. \"I forgot I didn't have a car.\"\n\n\"Hang on to me. The snow's soft, but not slippery.\"\n\nJudith grabbed Renie's arm. \"Why aren't you guarding Astrid?\"\n\n\"A neighbor came who looked as benign as Mrs. Bauer. I told them to lock the doors and not let anyone in. I couldn't stay there forever.\"\n\nJudith wiped away the snowflakes that were gathering on her face. \"No, you couldn't. I wonder if tonight's grand finale is canceled?\"\n\n\"Could be, unless it stops snowing so hard.\"\n\nThey paused before crossing the main street. \"Did you get Mrs. Bauer to talk about her daughter?\"\n\n\"No,\" Renie replied as they crossed the deserted thoroughfare. \"But she did go on about the senior Hellman. I'll tell you more when we get back to our room.\"\n\nUpon arrival, Judith took off her jacket and flopped onto the bed. \"I'm tired. Again. Amuse me with tales from the crypt.\"\n\n\"That's sort of what it was,\" Renie said, tugging off her boots. \"I insisted Mrs. Bauer\u2014let's call her Astrid since she and I are now best buds\u2014drink something stronger than water. She had an unopened bottle of Absolut vodka and, better yet, pickled herring. Thus, we whiled away almost an hour while she revealed all about the Hellmans.\"\n\n\"Wow! Tell me more.\"\n\n\"I will, but let me take off your boots for you while I do it.\" Renie tossed her own pair aside. \"Astrid has done her homework. In fact, she has a copy of that Kommandant book Bill wants.\" She paused, grunting as the first of Judith's boots required extra effort. \"Astrid apparently got the only copy Sadie's Stories had before the title fell off the radar. What she read confirmed her suspicions about the senior Hellman. In fact, he's not Heinrich Hellman, but Engelbert Vogel, a Nazi collaborator. Every lie he told about Mr. Bauer apparently was true about him, including a new identity and a change in religion. Oops!\" Renie cried as she almost toppled over yanking off the other boot. \"His crimes included turning Jews and other so-called undesirables over to the SS and the Gestapo.\"\n\nJudith propped herself up on the pillows. \"What was the original connection between Bauer and Hellman aka Vogel?\"\n\n\"Bauer was hiding some Jewish friends in a small town where Vogel was an official. He found out about the family of seven and they were sent to the camps. Bauer and Astrid\u2014who'd come to Germany to work as an au pair just before the war\u2014barely escaped Vogel's wrath.\"\n\n\"And the men didn't cross paths until they met again here?\"\n\n\"Right. Bauer and Astrid fled to another town, where they got married and moved in with some people who had taken in displaced persons.\" Renie sat down on the other bed. \"Hellman\u2014I mean, Vogel\u2014had grown a beard, dyed his hair, and married an American woman at some point. Maybe, Astrid thought, a WAC. She died not long after giving birth to their son, Jack. That was before the cemetery existed. Astrid doesn't know where she's buried.\"\n\nJudith grew thoughtful. \"So who planted Vogel by the river?\"\n\nRenie's eyes sparkled. \"Herr Wessler. Who else? He was the one person who believed Bauer was innocent.\"\n\n\"My God! That's a motive for murder.\"\n\nRenie grinned. \"It sure is. Now where do we find Jack Hellman?\"\n\n\"Good question.\" Judith stared up at the half-timbered ceiling. \"A disguise?\" She shook her head before Renie could respond. \"If Jack Hellman killed Bob and Wessler, did he hang around here for two months? That doesn't seem likely. Maybe we are talking about two murderers. But what's the motive for either killing?\"\n\nRenie fingered her chin. \"Can we cross Jack off as the griping letter writer?\"\n\n\"I guess.\" Judith sounded uncertain. \"Wait. I've got an idea.\" She delved into her purse and took out her phone. \"Can you grab that folder on the little table? It's got my information in it. I need the number for Wolfgang's restaurant and bar.\"\n\nRenie got up, grabbed the folder, and handed it to Judith. \"Who are you calling?\"\n\n\"Ruby, the barmaid and waitress.\" Judith punched in the number. \"I hope she's at work.\"\n\nRuby wasn't on the job, but whoever answered obliged with a home number. A sullen female voice answered. \"Ruby?\" Judith said.\n\n\"Yeah. Who's this?\"\n\n\"Your sub from the other night when you were pulling double duty. Judith McMonigle Flynn. Have you got a moment?\"\n\nRuby uttered a short, bitter laugh. \"Sure. Time on my hands, nobody in my arms. What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"This sounds odd,\" Judith said. \"When did your dad die?\"\n\n\"You want to send flowers? It's a little late.\" Ruby paused. \"It was August, a Friday. I'd have to look at a calendar.\"\n\n\"How about August nineteenth?\"\n\n\"That sounds right,\" Ruby said, sounding surprised. \"Why? Are you suing his estate for what he stole from your bar?\" She laughed again. \"He didn't have an estate. I told you he was broke.\"\n\n\"Do you know how the motorcycle accident happened?\"\n\nRuby paused again. \"Well . . . no, and I wish I did. It was on one of those sharp, narrow curves. He was with some sleazebag buddy who took off, according to a witness. A trucker saw it happen and said Dad ran over an embankment. He always rode like a bat out of hell.\"\n\n\"Who was the buddy?\"\n\n\"Let me think. Oh\u2014it was that guy who hung out with him at your place. Big Badger or Bad Bull or some damned thing.\"\n\n\"Do you recall his real name?\"\n\n\"No. I only saw him once or twice. I didn't see him when Dad stopped in to put the squeeze on me.\"\n\n\"Would you recognize the sleazebag if you saw him?\"\n\n\"It's been a while. Hey, what is this? You working for the cops?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith was no longer playing games. \"I'm a police consultant on the Bob Stafford homicide.\"\n\n\"Holy crap! You think Dad killed Bob?\"\n\n\"No. I've got a sketch of his pal. Are you going to work?\"\n\n\"I'll try. It's only three blocks. I live near the railroad tracks. I'll be there around four. Are you coming to Wolfgang's?\"\n\n\"Probably not, but I can fax you the drawing.\"\n\nAfter hanging up, Judith noticed that Renie was giving her a curious look. \"What? Do you think I'm nuts?\"\n\n\"No,\" Renie said, \"but we don't have a fax machine.\"\n\n\"I mean, the cops can do that,\" Judith replied, not wanting to admit her cousin was right. \"But we're missing something.\"\n\n\"Such as Jack Hellman or whatever his name is?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Who burned down the original town hall? Was it someone who wanted to destroy the records?\" Suddenly she brightened. \"It happened when Jack's father was still alive. He hanged himself from the lamppost at the site. Wessler buried him by the river where his wife and baby died. That's the connection.\"\n\n\"You're reaching.\"\n\n\"No. I think it means something very important\u2014symbolic. Wessler could've planted Hellman\u2014and let's keep calling him that to avoid confusion\u2014in the forest or the local garbage dump. What if Hellman killed Mrs. Wessler and her child? And why would he do that? Did she know the truth about him from when they lived in Germany?\"\n\n\"If Mrs. Wessler knew, then so did Mr. Wessler.\" Renie clapped a hand to her cheek. \"Of course! Astrid Bauer told me Wessler knew Hellman was guilty of war crimes.\"\n\nJudith started to nod in agreement, but suddenly stared at Renie. \"What if Hellman's death wasn't a suicide?\"\n\n\"You mean . . .\" Renie bit her lower lip. \"Damn. It makes sense.\"\n\n\"It also makes a motive for Jack killing Wessler. Maybe Bob, too. He was Wessler's attorney and possibly a confidant. If the old guy was as decent as everyone says, he'd have to clear his conscience. His priest may be long gone. Next on the full-disclosure ladder is a lawyer.\"\n\n\"You're doing just fine,\" Renie said. \"But where is Jack Hellman? He can't be hiding in plain sight.\"\n\nJudith leaned back on the pillow. \"Something's tickling my brain\u2014evil and how it . . . damn! I forget. Do you recall hearing that?\"\n\nRenie rested her head on her hand. \"Gee . . . we've talked to so many people. But it does ring a bell. Let me think.\"\n\n\"Okay. Meanwhile, I'll call the cops and ask them to fax that sketch to Ruby at Wolfgang's. If she doesn't get to work, there's a chance someone else might recognize it and have some information about Jack.\"\n\n\"Dubious,\" Renie murmured, still apparently in deep thought.\n\nHernandez took the call. In his usual no-nonsense manner, he agreed to fax the sketch to the restaurant. \"I wonder,\" Judith said after disconnecting, \"if he feels out of place with the rest of the local cop crew.\"\n\n\"They should lose the cop cruiser and have a clown car,\" Renie said. \"Of course there aren't enough cops on the force for ten or fifteen of them to come out of one tiny vehicle. Besides, their uniforms aren't as funny as . . .\" Her jaw dropped as she gaped at Judith. \"Mrs. Bauer, at the cemetery, with the flowers.\"\n\n\"We're playing Clue again?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"No. She was talking about the Hellmans and how evil comes in disguise.\"\n\n\"It was probably a figure of speech,\" Judith said. \"Though Oktoberfest is a good place for a disguise, clowns included.\"\n\nFor a few moments the cousins were lost in thought. A knock on the door made both of them jump. Renie stood up. \"If it's a clown, call the cops.\" She cautiously opened the door. \"Are you a clown?\" she asked Eleanor Denkel.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" Ellie huffed as she stalked into the room. \"Really, you don't have any manners, do you?\"\n\n\"Guess not,\" Renie said. \"Have a seat.\"\n\nEllie, however, remained standing by the bed where Judith had sat up and was eyeing their visitor with curiosity.\n\n\"What now, Ellie?\" she asked.\n\nThe other woman's usual bravado faded. \"You must think I'm an idiot.\" She took a deep breath. \"You know I didn't kill my grandfather.\"\n\n\"I never thought you did,\" Judith said.\n\n\"But you don't know why I confessed. Three times.\"\n\n\"I'm listening,\" Judith said, her expression sympathetic.\n\nEllie took a deep breath. \"Ingrid Heffelman made me do it.\" She moved to the vacant chair and pulled it closer to the bed. \"If I didn't, she was going to pull my B&B license.\"\n\nJudith couldn't hide her dismay. \"I don't get it.\"\n\nEllie sat down. \"Nor do I. She called me as soon as she heard about what happened to . . . Dietrich. I thought . . .\" She winced, her eyes darting in Renie's direction. \"If your cousin is a sleuth or if you are, do you know why she'd ask such a thing?\"\n\nJudith hesitated about being candid. Ellie seemed sincere. \"Okay, I am FASTO. Serena is my able assistant.\" She was glad Ellie couldn't see Renie roll her eyes. \"But I truly don't know unless Ingrid has ties to Little Bavaria. Is that possible?\"\n\nEllie shook her head. \"Not to my knowledge.\"\n\n\"Was it her idea for us to take part in Oktoberfest?\"\n\n\"It was her decision.\" Ellie paused. \"But we've had a presence at other events\u2014state fairs, festivals, conventions. Several B&B owners have suggested Oktoberfest and small-town celebrations.\"\n\n\"True,\" Judith said. \"This is a first for me.\"\n\n\"I've done a few others in the city,\" Ellie said. \"This was convenient for me with family here.\" She looked away. \"For a while, at least.\"\n\n\"I am sorry about your loss,\" Judith said solemnly. \"What kind of pressure did Ingrid put on Connie?\"\n\nEllie's head jerked around to stare at Judith. \"You knew? She told Connie to make sure I confessed. She bribed her with that workshop.\"\n\n\"I don't get it,\" Judith admitted. \"Why did Ingrid do any of this?\"\n\nEllie sighed. \"You tell me. You're the sleuth.\"\n\nAnother knock on the door startled all three women. Renie, who had been sitting in an unusual state of quiet, jumped up to open the door. Franz Wessler rushed into the room.\n\n\"Eleanor!\" he cried. \"You're safe.\"\n\nEllie swung around in the chair. \"Of course. I got back here before the snow started coming down so hard.\"\n\nFranz looked chagrined. \"I'm sorry. Delmar is frantic. He thought you were stranded at the exhibit area.\"\n\nJudith gestured at Franz. \"Why don't you take the chair my cousin just vacated, Franz. You look cold. And weary. Please.\"\n\n\"No, thank you,\" Franz said, still looking at his niece. \"I must tell Delmar you're safe. He's outside.\"\n\nEllie looked annoyed. \"How silly of him. Go to the balcony and let him know I'm fine. And tell him to come inside, for heaven's sake.\"\n\nFranz froze. \"You know I can't do that.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Ellie put a hand over her mouth, turned pale, and bowed her head. \"I'm sorry,\" she mumbled, removing her hand. \"I didn't think.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" Franz said, awkwardly patting his niece's shoulder. \"I must go. I'll tell Delmar to come in on my way out.\" He made a little bow to the cousins. \"Forgive the intrusion.\"\n\nRenie moved away from the door to allow Franz to make his exit.\n\n\"What,\" Judith said to Ellie, \"was that all about?\"\n\nEllie sniffed before raising her head. \"You don't know?\" she asked in a hoarse voice. \"No,\" she went on quickly, \"even FASTO wouldn't know what happened between Franz and Josef.\"\n\nJudith waited for Ellie to continue, but it was Renie who spoke first after pulling the vacant chair by the bed. \"My cousin knows Josef was pushed off the balcony,\" she said, stretching the truth. \"She just isn't sure who did it. I assume it was his brother, Franz. That's why he won't go near there.\"\n\nEllie stared at Renie. \"Are you sure you're not really FASTO?\"\n\nRenie grimaced. \"The pretense seems to have turned into reality. I'm starting to think like a sleuth. Scary, huh?\"\n\nJudith smiled at her cousin. \"Serena has always helped me with my investigations. Was Josef drunk and abusing your mother?\"\n\nEllie's face tightened. \"Yes. He was trying to throw her over the balcony. Franz arrived just in time to stop him. They fought . . .\" She hung her head again, fists tightly clenched in her lap. \"Josef fell over the edge and was killed instantly. Dietrich never quite recovered from that. It created enormous tension between father and son. And I think Franz felt guilty for his own father's death. He thought maybe I had killed him.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I understand. Even the most admired people are flawed and few families live in total harmony. It's the human condition.\"\n\nEllie seemed to relax a bit. \"You really are a nice person.\"\n\n\"Most of the time,\" Judith said. \"It's pointless to rehash all this now. I do have a question, though. When you were growing up here, did you know the Bauer family very well?\"\n\nEllie seemed surprised. \"Only from church. Mr. Bauer died years ago and their daughter moved away. I don't remember much about her. She was ten, twelve years older than I was. We were never in school together. I doubt I'd know her if I saw her. Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"We met Mrs. Bauer,\" Judith said. \"Her husband was the victim of malicious lies, but your grandfather knew better.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Ellie was starting to pull herself together. \"Yes, that was typical of him\u2014righting wrongs. Except,\" she added ruefully, \"not always lenient with his own kin.\"\n\n\"Not an uncommon trait,\" Judith said. \"I've heard he had high hopes for his boys, especially your father, being the elder son.\"\n\nEllie stood up. \"Very dynastic of him, but very hard on Josef. I must go. Delmar needs comforting.\" She stood up, offering her hand. \"Thank you, Judith. I'm grateful to you.\" She turned to Renie. \"And you . . . Serena.\" Ellie seemed to have a bit of trouble getting out the name.\n\n\"I'll be damned,\" Renie said, after closing the door behind their guest. \"Ellie's human after all.\"\n\n\"Aren't we all,\" Judith murmured. \"You can go out onto the balcony without pitching a fit. See how hard it's snowing.\"\n\nRenie went around the bed to open the outer door. \"Still snowing, but not as heavy. Colder, though. Did you plan to do some sleuthing?\"\n\n\"No. It's too deep. Is there much activity out\u2014\" She was interrupted by her cell phone's ring.\n\nThe caller was Chief Duomo. \"Just thought I'd tell you Mrs. Bauer's still alive and kicking.\"\n\n\"You saw her?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"Nah, too risky. She called to report a bear in her yard. I told her not to worry, they wander around here fairly often, foraging for food.\"\n\n\"Was her neighbor still with her?\"\n\n\"No, but a relative showed up. Some kind of family reunion, I guess. Bear or no bear, the old lady sounded kind of cheerful. Gotta forage for my own food. Need to beef up if I have dinner late. Ciao.\"\n\nJudith hung up. \"Mrs. Bauer is fine except for seeing a bear in . . . don't bears hibernate this time of year?\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"Usually. I suppose bears could still be on the prowl.\" Her eyes widened. \"The bear that wasn't there?\"\n\n\"Exactly.\" Judith grabbed her cell. \"I'm telling Duomo to get his fat butt over to Mrs. Bauer's ASAP. I think I know where the killer's been hiding. That's no bear, that's the boar.\"\n\nHernandez answered her call to headquarters. \"Sorry,\" he said, \"the chief went to his brother's bakery. I can't believe he's walking.\"\n\nJudith didn't care if Duomo sank up to his eyeballs in the snow. \"Is someone on patrol?\"\n\n\"The major just left. He's chained up. If he can get through, he's probably close to your inn. Why? You need a lift?\"\n\nJudith hesitated. \"Yes. We'll be waiting out in front.\"\n\n\"Got it.\" Hernandez rang off.\n\nJudith burst into action. \"We're going with Ernie to Mrs. Bauer's. As usual, Fat Matt's a washout. Or a snow-out.\"\n\n\"Relax. It could be a bear,\" Renie said, putting on her jacket while also stepping into her boots. \"Need help?\"\n\n\"I can get into them when I'm not so tired. The off part's harder.\"\n\nTwo minutes later, they were in the parking lot. The snow was still falling, but in much smaller flakes. A few headlights and some foot traffic could be seen on the main street. The clock tower chimed the quarter hour after four.\n\n\"Hiding in plain sight,\" she said in dismay. \"Why didn't I think of that? The boar was outside of Wolfgang's right after Wessler was killed.\"\n\n\"Don't beat yourself up. We've seen lots of people in weird outfits.\"\n\n\"True. Here comes Ernie.\"\n\n\"What's up?\" he asked as Judith joined him in the front seat and Renie moved in behind them.\n\nJudith quickly explained her suspicions. The major's reaction was skeptical, but he made his way to Mrs. Bauer's house as fast as weather conditions would permit. Trying to stay calm, Judith noticed how quiet the town had become, as if the snow had trumped the usual raucous closing of the Oktoberfest celebration. Or maybe it was the pall of death that hung over the town along with the heavy dark clouds.\n\nRenie broke the silence. \"Why do I get stuck back here in the perp's seat? I'm innocent.\"\n\n\"Not of some things I could mention,\" Judith said through tight lips. She saw the outline of St. Hubert's loom through the snow. \"How far away are we from Mrs. Bauer's?\" she asked of Ernie.\n\n\"Block and a half,\" he said, turning left.\n\n\"Shouldn't you call for backup?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"What backup?\" Ernie said wryly.\n\n\"Well . . .\" Judith began, \"I assume you have everybody working.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Ernie said, slowing down as he carefully turned into an unplowed driveway, \"but they're all out rescuing drivers and pedestrians who didn't have sense enough to stay inside.\" He stopped the cruiser. \"Now what? Look for the bear or the boar or whatever beast is loose?\"\n\n\"I don't see a house,\" Judith said, peering at the windshield, which was beginning to accumulate a dusting of snowflakes. \"Where is it?\"\n\nErnie pointed straight ahead. \"About twenty yards, but I can't drive closer. The snow's drifted in the driveway. I'll check on Mrs. Bauer. If I see a two-footed animal, I'll bust him.\"\n\nErnie got out of the car. Renie leaned forward. \"So we just sit?\"\n\n\"I can't risk a fall in this stuff. The wind's blowing from the south. From what I can see, it looks like one big drift out there. The major should be wearing snowshoes.\"\n\n\"It's not snowing as hard, though,\" Renie said, straining to look out the window. \"I can't roll this down to see how cold it is because I'm the perp. Any chance you can turn on the heat? It's chilly in here.\"\n\n\"I can't see the controls on the dashboard,\" Judith said. \"I wonder if I can find a light somewhere.\"\n\n\"Use my key chain flashlight,\" Renie said, rummaging in her purse. \"Damn! My fingers are so stiff I can hardly move them.\"\n\n\"Why don't you get out and sit in the front seat?\"\n\n\"Because the rear doors are locked from the outside. On the other hand, I can't give you the flashlight through the grille between the seats. Can you get out and open the door for me without falling into a heap?\"\n\nJudith groaned. \"This is so . . .\"\n\nTo her surprise, the passenger door seemed to open on its own. At first, Judith could only see dark, bristly fur. She gasped as the creature lowered its head. Pointed ears, a broad snout, and two sharp tusks almost touched her face.\n\n\"Fool,\" a husky voice growled. \"Meddling is your profession. Now you're finally finished trying to ruin me!\"\n\nRenie screamed as the gloved hands reached out for Judith's throat. \"Vermin!\" the creature cried, lurching into the car and falling on top of Judith. Forced backward, her shoulder hit the horn. The boar uttered a stream of obscenities while Renie kept yelling.\n\nThe horn continued blaring into the stiff wind and falling snow. Judith could barely breathe, let alone move. If only Ernie would hear the horn . . . her mind fled back to the previous January when she'd found herself in the same dire straits and would've died if Arlene Rankers hadn't intervened. But Arlene was over a hundred miles away at Hillside Manor, readying for the arrival of guests . . .\n\n\"Die, you demon, die!\"\n\nThe menacing word didn't come from the boar. Judith heard a high-pitched voice cut through the air just as the creature suddenly went slack, but the horn kept blaring.\n\n\"What the hell . . . ?\" she heard Renie gasp.\n\nThe snout was pressing against Judith's forehead and her breathing was hampered by the weight of the inert body sprawled on top of her. Suddenly she heard someone\u2014Ernie Schwartz, she thought vaguely, though he sounded unlike himself as he yelled at somebody to stop doing something and put their hands on . . . the cruiser?\n\n\"Coz!\" Renie cried from the backseat. \"Can you breathe?\"\n\nJudith couldn't answer. But before she thought she'd smother, the pressure was released when the creature apparently was dragged out of the front seat.\n\n\"You okay, Mrs. Flynn?\" Ernie asked.\n\nSlowly opening her eyes, Judith let the officer grab her hands and pull her into a sitting position. \"Uh . . . huh,\" she panted, relieved that the horn had stopped honking. \"What . . . ?\" She blinked several times. She couldn't see anything of the boar, but the outline of what appeared to be a woman in ski pants and a parka was visible next to the cruiser.\n\n\"Take it easy,\" Ernie said, still leaning into the passenger seat. \"Backup's coming. Just relax. Your attacker is out cold, thanks to . . .\" He paused, turning around to look at whoever was standing by the cruiser. \"You got a name, lady?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith heard the woman say. \"I'm Ingrid Heffelman from the state B&B association.\"\n\nThe last place Judith expected to find herself that afternoon was in Hanover Haus's private quarters. Flames danced from crackling pine and cedar logs in the stone fireplace as she sipped a hot rum toddy and snuggled under a hand-knit blue-and-white-checkered coverlet.\n\n\"Good work,\" Chief Duomo said between mouthfuls of buttered popcorn. \"You, too, Mrs. Flynn. But our own Ingrid saved the day.\"\n\n\"Shut up, Matt,\" Ingrid snapped. \"You know I never let anyone find out I came from this stupid little burg. I was too ashamed after marrying that total loser, Jack Hellman. It only took me two months of emotional and physical abuse to figure out what he was really like.\"\n\n\"Aw, Ingrid,\" the chief said, \"don't be so hard on Little Bavaria. It was your idea to have your bunch come over here in the first place.\"\n\nIngrid sighed. \"It was Suzie and Bob. I knew them as neighbors in the city before they moved. I never told them I was born here. When Bob got killed where the other horror had happened, I had a feeling Jack was involved. Then he tried blackmailing me\u2014and not for the first time. But I knew he'd been involved in Bob's murder. One of his other ex-wives had raised some kind of ruckus over child custody and Bob had been his attorney at Legal Aid. I sent an anonymous letter to Dietrich Wessler, telling him to watch out for Jack. I don't know what the old guy did about it, but obviously not enough. I called Herman Stromeyer after I got here. He and Wessler were tight.\" She glared at Duomo. \"Well?\"\n\nThe chief shrugged. \"Never heard a peep out of either of 'em. You don't know how Wessler and Stromeyer handled stuff. They did things their own way, working like a couple of secret agents.\"\n\nIngrid nodded impatiently. \"And it cost them, or at least Wessler. Of course, I wasn't at the cocktail party when he died. I didn't get here in time. But at long last, I've reconciled with my mother.\"\n\n\"How?\" Judith asked.\n\n\"I finally went to see her,\" Ingrid said with a lift of her chin. \"She stubbornly thought I still loved Jack. I promised I'd get even with him for what he did to my father. She decided I wasn't a lost cause. Silly old bat.\"\n\n\"Takes all kinds,\" Duomo muttered. \"How come you changed your name from Hellman to Heffelman?\"\n\n\"Oh, that.\" Ingrid gave the chief a condescending look. \"My second husband was named Feldman. He drowned in a tragic birdbath accident. Frankly, he wasn't much of an improvement. I didn't want to sully the Bauer name any further, so I combined the two husbands' names as a reminder to never marry again. I'm unlucky in love. Unlike some.\" She glowered at Judith. \"Of course, you did flunk the first time around,\" she added, before turning to Renie. \"How come you're not wearing that red sweater you wrestled me to the ground for?\"\n\n\"I already wore it,\" Renie said smugly. \"I looked amazing.\"\n\nJudith's eyes widened. \"You mean . . . ?\"\n\nRenie scowled at her cousin. \"I told you my foe was a big mama. How did I know it was Inbred Heffalump? We'd never met.\"\n\n\"How dare you!\" Ingrid cried. \"I'm not that big!\"\n\n\"True,\" Judith said. \"You're built like me.\" Only more so, she thought. \"Did you visit my B&B to make sure I was in Little Bavaria?\"\n\nIngrid sneered. \"Of course not. Well . . . maybe.\"\n\n\"You certainly put pressure on the B&B contingent,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Yes,\" Ingrid said, with a swift look at Duomo. \"I had to stir the pot to keep everyone on their toes, you included. When I heard you insist you weren't FASTO, I thought you might back off just when I needed you.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Renie.\n\nErnie Schwartz entered the cozy parlor and addressed Ingrid. \"The perp will recover. Where'd you get that stiletto?\"\n\n\"It's a letter opener,\" she said. \"That is, it's an antique weapon, but not what my mother uses it for. She's not a violent person.\"\n\n\"Good,\" said Ernie, stretching out as much of his lanky frame as he could manage on a velvet-covered settee. \"I could use a nap.\"\n\n\"So,\" Judith said, \"what about the poison bottle at the bookshop?\"\n\n\"I put it there, though not in the bust.\"\n\n\"But nobody knew then that Wessler was poisoned,\" Judith pointed out. \"Nor could you guess the little kid would bust the bust.\"\n\nIngrid looked exasperated. \"Poison? Hardly. It was an empty eyedrop refill. I set it on the shelf and forgot about it. It must've gotten stuck under the bust.\"\n\n\"I guess,\" Judith murmured, \"I jumped to conclusions. Why didn't you go to the police and warn them about Jack?\"\n\nIngrid's sharp blue eyes went first to Duomo, who was polishing off the popcorn, and then to Ernie, who was already snoring softly on the settee. \"Judith\u2014that is the stupidest question I've ever heard!\"\n\nJudith winced. \"Yes, I suppose . . . I mean . . .\" She didn't know where to look. \"Okay, so how did Jack poison your grandfather and Herman?\"\n\nIt was Ingrid's turn to be disconcerted. \"I don't know. Don't tell me your mighty brain is also drained?\"\n\nJudith started to admit she was also at a loss, but Ingrid's words inspired her. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I do. He was the plumber.\"\n\n\"Plumber?\" Duomo repeated. \"What plumber?\"\n\n\"The one who came to the Wessler house just before the cocktail party and probably to Stromeyer's after George Beaulieu checked the sewer line. Mrs. Crump told us the plumber wasn't from here\u2014the local guy had already closed up shop. Serena and I saw a big hole by the back of the house off the kitchen. We thought it was dug by the dogs. I'll bet Jack screwed up the plumbing and then gained entry to both houses\u2014and managed to put poison into whatever Wessler and Stromeyer drank before leaving their respective homes.\"\n\nIngrid leaned back in her chair. \"Contrived, but it sounds like Jack. He was cunning.\"\n\nErnie's eyes had opened. \"The plumber did it?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Too bad there wasn't a butler.\"\n\nIngrid made a face. \"Too bad I didn't stab Jack a long time ago.\"\n\nDuomo nodded halfheartedly. \"Really too bad. Caused us a lot of work. Oh, well.\"\n\n\"Cheer up,\" Renie said. \"The wurst is over.\"\n\nThe train pulled out on time from Little Bavaria the next morning. The snow had stopped, but at least six inches remained on the ground.\n\n\"Beautiful,\" Renie murmured after settling into her window seat. \"How do you feel?\"\n\n\"Still worn out,\" Judith replied, fingering the manila envelope Chief Duomo had handed her just before the cousins had boarded the Empire Builder. \"But relieved. At least Ingrid should stop bothering me now. It's almost worth everything we went through to get her off my back.\"\n\nRenie was silent for a moment, apparently admiring the snow-blanketed trees as they climbed up to the summit. \"Jack's motive for killing Bob and Wessler doesn't make much sense. He'd been gone from Little Bavaria for thirty years. Why did he care what happened here?\"\n\n\"His whole life was a disaster,\" Judith replied. \"Broken marriages, children lost to him, and according to Ingrid, a criminal record and jail time. I suppose he met Bob and suddenly saw him as a symbol of his own failure. Jack hated the town, hated Ingrid, hated Wessler for knowing the truth about his father Helmut\u2014or Hank, as he was called. We'll never know if Wessler killed Hank or if he committed suicide, but one look at that marker on the trail by the river must've unhinged Jack. He unleashed all his rage on Bob. And then Wessler had to go. Stromeyer, too, because he knew the truth about the elder Hellman.\"\n\n\"Jack better not cop an insanity plea,\" Renie said. \"Hey, what's in that envelope?\"\n\nJudith undid the clasp and noticed a handwritten note attached to a glossy photograph. \" 'FATSO,' \" she read aloud\u2014and winced. \" 'Here's a pix Ernie took of the perp. Thought you might want a souvenir.' As if,\" she muttered before looking at the photo. \"Oh, good Lord! It's Jimmy Tooms's pal from the Meat & Mingle! Big Bull or Bad Bear or . . . I called him Boorish Boar! He had a handlebar mustache back then, kind of like George Beaulieu's. It reminded me of tusks. No wonder I had a creepy feeling about that snowboarder's sketch.\"\n\nRenie grinned. \"Just another Meat & Mingle memory.\"\n\n\"A really bad one, though there were . . . ouch!\" Judith cried as something struck the top of her head.\n\n\"Gotcha!\" Thurmond cried in glee. \"Like my big wubber wurst? Daddy bought it for me. It's a knockwurst, so I knocked you.\"\n\nJudith stared at the two brothers in the aisle. \"No, I don't like it. Please don't do that again.\"\n\nOrmond held up a similar item. \"I got a brat.\"\n\n\"You are a brat,\" Renie said. \"So's your brother. Go away.\"\n\nThe little boys' parents appeared from the other direction. \"Thurmie! Ormie!\" the mother cried. \"There you are! You shouldn't run off . . . oh! Stay away from those bad women! They might kidnap you!\"\n\n\"Are you nuts?\" Renie snapped. \"I'd rather wrestle a couple of saber-toothed tigers!\"\n\n\"With those teeth, you'd win,\" the father huffed before hustling his boys away.\n\n\"Neener-neener,\" Renie muttered, sinking down into her chair.\n\nJudith couldn't help laughing. \"You said the wurst was over.\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"I was wrong.\" She paused and grinned at Judith. \"No, I was right. At least until the next time you find a corpse.\"\n\nJudith's smile fled. \"Don't say that! I'm done, finished, kaput!\"\n\nStill looking amused, Renie just stared at Judith and said nothing. The train entered the long tunnel that descended from the summit and everything faded to black.\n\n## Excerpt from _Gone with the Win_\nChapter 1\n\nJudith McMonigle Flynn pulled her aging Subaru into the driveway, smiled at the sight of her husband's classic MG, and glanced up at the squirrel on the garage roof. \"Ha ha,\" she said out loud, \"you can't get me. No scampering around inside the walls, no taunting the resident cat, no digging up my flower beds will faze me. I'm a liberated B&B innkeeper, free of outside interferences. I'm focusing on my family and my livelihood. And no more sleuthing for me! The only dead body I'm interested in will be yours if you steal any more of my tulip bulbs. Take that, my furry little fiend!\"\n\nShe got out of the car and started unloading her Falstaff Market grocery bags. The first day of November was off to a good start in every way. Not even the garden's unfinished cleanup of fallen leaves, drooping dahlias, and faded chrysanthemums made her feel guilty. After saying good-bye to her Monday-night guests at Hillside Manor, she'd gone to St. Bruno's noon Mass at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill and then back up to the business district to restock the larder. Best of all, Judith had heard from her son, Mike, about his new posting with the U.S. Forest Service. Instead of being transferred to some far-flung outpost in Alaska or Florida, he and his wife and two sons would be at nearby Mount Tahoma, less than two hours away.\n\n\"Hold it!\" Joe Flynn called from the back porch steps. \"You shouldn't do that!\"\n\nJudith smiled at her husband. \"These bags aren't heavy except for . . .\" She stopped, realizing that Joe wasn't talking to her, but to Gertrude Grover, who was racing her wheelchair after Sweetums the cat.\n\n\"Brakes!\" Joe yelled at his mother-in law. \"Whoa . . . !\"\n\nGertrude slammed into the birdbath and let out a yelp. Joe rushed across the yard. Judith set the three grocery bags on the edge of the driveway and hurried to see if her mother was seriously injured. Sweetums arched his yellow-and-white furry body before stalking off toward the Rankerses' enormous hedge.\n\nThe old lady had landed facedown in the birdbath. Joe grabbed the back of her heavy cardigan and tugged. Gertrude lifted her head and turned this way and that, sputtering a bit. \"I can't see!\" she cried. \"I'm blind!\"\n\nJudith put a hand to her breast. \"I'll call 911,\" she said to Joe in a strangled voice, and hurried to where she'd left her purse by the groceries. Her fingers seemed to have a will of their own as she watched Joe trying to get Gertrude into a comfortable position in the wheelchair.\n\n\"Now what?\" the 911 operator said in a too-familiar voice. \"You got another stiff?\"\n\n\"No!\" Judith shouted. \"It's my mother. She's had an accident.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" the voice said in a jaded tone. \"Hang on, the EMTs are nearby.\" The fire station was only a few blocks from Hillside Manor. \"Is Mrs. Grover still alive?\"\n\n\"Uh . . .\" Judith saw her mother take a swing at Joe. \"Yes. But she can't see. Maybe she has a concussion.\"\n\n\"Any broken bones?\"\n\nGertrude kicked Joe in the shins. \"No,\" Judith said, \"unless it's her ribs. She may've punctured a lung.\"\n\nJust as the first sirens sounded in the distance, Gertrude got her motorized wheelchair in gear, shook her fist at Joe, and began cussing. \"Move it, noodlehead,\" she shouted. \"I'll bet you tampered with my brakes, you no-good excuse for a son-in-law!\"\n\n\"I never . . .\" Joe yelled back, but stopped when he heard a crunching sound. \"You just ran over your glasses, you crazy old bat!\"\n\nJudith winced. \"Maybe,\" she said into the phone, \"you should tell the EMTs not to . . .\" She paused, realizing they were already pulling into the cul-de-sac. \"Never mind. I'll ring off now. Thanks.\"\n\nGertrude was sailing up the ramp into the converted toolshed that served as her apartment.\n\n\"Dammit,\" Joe said under his breath, going past Judith to meet the emergency crew, \"I'll bet your ghastly mother did that on purpose!\"\n\n\"I still want her checked out,\" Judith called over her shoulder. \"Don't be so mean!\"\n\nGertrude was already arranging herself at the card table. \"Well?\" she said to Judith. \"Get my spare pair of glasses so I can see the jumble puzzle in the newspaper.\"\n\n\"Wait,\" Judith cautioned. \"Here come the medics.\"\n\n\"The . . .\" Gertrude peered at the two men who were entering into the toolshed. \"Hey, I didn't invite you! If you expect refreshments, forget it!\"\n\nFor once, Judith didn't recognize the male and female EMTs. \"Hi,\" she said feebly, edging toward the door. \"It's kind of cramped in here. I'll get out of your way. My mother crashed her wheelchair into the birdbath. She may have broken ribs or a concussion.\"\n\n\"Concussion?\" Gertrude rasped, gesturing at Judith. \"That one must've had a concussion when she married Lunkhead.\"\n\nThe medics chuckled obligingly. \"Let's check you out first, ma'am,\" the fair-haired young man said. \"We'll start with your name, okay?\"\n\n\"It's Joan Crawford,\" Gertrude replied. \"But don't call me Mommy Dearest. My dim-bulb daughter's still trying to learn to spell before she can write the book.\"\n\nJudith escaped without enduring any more insults from Gertrude. To her dismay, Cousin Renie was rushing up to Joe. \"Now what?\" she yelled. \"If you've got another corpse, I won't give you any geoducks!\"\n\n\"Calm down,\" Joe said in his mellow voice. \"The old bat crashed her wheelchair. The good news is that she doesn't seem to be hurt. The bad news is that she doesn't seem\u2014\"\n\n\"Skip it,\" Renie snapped. \"You want the geoducks or what?\"\n\n\"No, we don't want them,\" Joe declared. \"They're the only clam that's like eating an inner tube. Where did you get geoducks?\"\n\n\"Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince brought them down from the island,\" Renie replied. \"You think Bill and I will eat them? They're gruesome. How about the EMTs?\"\n\nJudith shook her head. \"If they do, we'll have to call more EMTs.\"\n\nRenie scowled. \"Who do I hate this week?\"\n\n\"How about some of your graphic design clients?\" Joe suggested.\n\nRenie wrinkled her pug nose. \"I don't hate them. They pay the bills. Besides, they're too dumb to know a geoduck from Daffy Duck. Damn!\" She glanced at her watch. \"It's garbage pickup day. If I hurry, maybe I can dump the vile stuff in the can. Give Aunt Gert my love. See you.\" She practically ran down the driveway.\n\nJoe leaned to one side to peer after Renie. \"No cops? No firefighters? How come your mother doesn't rate the rest of the emergency crew? Could it be that they're tired of coming here?\"\n\nJudith glared at her husband. \"Could it be now that you've finished your independent investigation of the city's police department, somebody put a skull and crossbones by our address?\"\n\n\"Hardly,\" Joe said. \"Woody Price wouldn't let that happen. My old pal's our precinct captain now, in case you've forgotten.\"\n\n\"I have not. In fact, I was thinking about asking them to dinner this weekend. We haven't seen Woody and Sondra socially for months. Maybe I should tell Renie to save those geoducks and we'll invite the mayor separately. Has he seen your report yet? If he criticizes you for the lapses you uncovered in the ranks, I'll make him eat geoduck fritters for his dinner. The smell alone would knock him out.\"\n\n\"Good idea,\" Joe murmured. \"About Woody and Sondra, that is.\"\n\n\"I'll call Sondra this afternoon,\" Judith said, casting a worried glance at the toolshed. \"What's taking the EMTs so long? Do you suppose Mother did break something?\"\n\n\"Like what? The medics' spirits?\" Joe picked up the groceries. \"You work it out. I'm putting this stuff away before the ice cream melts.\" He started picking up the bags while Judith trudged back to the toolshed.\n\n\"Okay,\" Gertrude was saying to the EMTs as she sorted out a hand of cards. \"You're in, Emily. Your bid, Jake. I usually start at two-fifty in three-handed pinochle. Have we got three quarters in the pot?\"\n\nShaking her head, Judith retreated into the backyard.\n\nJust before two-thirty, the EMTs apparently had another call. They had already reported to Joe that Mrs. Grover was in excellent shape for her age and that she was now four dollars and fifty cents richer after waxing them at pinochle. Judith listened to her husband's news with gritted teeth. \"Did they also find her charming company?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Yes,\" Joe replied with a stony face. \"Do you think she actually has a split personality?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith said sadly. \"But she's canny. She knows how to behave when she has to and she knows how to drive us nuts. The Rankerses like spending time with her.\" She gave a start. \"Where _are_ the Rankerses? They didn't show up when the EMTs arrived.\"\n\nJoe glanced out through the window above the kitchen sink. \"They're home now. Oh, Carl told me this morning they were going to a parish school event for one of their grandkids.\"\n\n\"Just as well they missed Mother's crash,\" Judith said, taking frozen puff pastry sheets from the fridge. \"Hey\u2014I didn't call Sondra yet. Would you call Woody instead? He'll know more about his work schedule than she will. I'm a veteran cop wife. We're always the last to know.\"\n\n\"Sure. I'll go up to my office to do that,\" Joe said, heading down the hallway to the back stairs.\n\nJudith checked her guest register. Four of the six rooms were full\u2014not too bad for the first week in November. The Sutcliffes from Houston, the Epsteins from Los Angeles, the Porcinis from Basking Ridge, New Jersey\u2014Judith hoped she didn't call them the Porcines\u2014and a Mary Smith from New York City. Renie had teased her about taking a reservation from anyone named Mary Smith, especially one living in a heavily populated area. Judith had laughed. Surely there really were dozens of Mary Smiths in the New York area.\n\nArlene Rankers showed up via the back door shortly after four. \"New neighbors,\" she announced. \"Our Cathy finally sold the house on the corner. The family moving in is originally from India. Or Indiana. Or maybe Indianapolis. Or maybe all three.\"\n\n\"That's . . . good,\" Judith said, opening a container of shrimp for the pastry puffs she was making for her guests' social hour. \"Children?\"\n\n\"Only the younger ones,\" Arlene replied, admiring the plump pink shrimp. \"The parents are adults.\"\n\nJudith never knew when her neighbor was joking. \"How soon are they moving in?\"\n\n\"Immediately,\" Arlene replied, still ogling the shrimp. \"They wanted to be settled by today, but the closing was held up over the weekend. Their last name is Bhatt. With an _h._ Carl and I are going to take them a welcome basket. I wonder if the other neighbors would like to join us.\"\n\n\"Count me in,\" Judith said. \"I bet the Steins, the Porters, the Ericsons, and the Dooleys will contribute, too. I don't know about Herself's current occupants. They're standoffish,\" she added, referring to the house owned by Joe's first wife. Vivian rented the property while spending most of her time basking and boozing in the Florida sun.\n\n_\"Very_ standoffish,\" Arlene agreed. \"I've hardly talked to them. Frosch is their last name. He's Herbert and she's Elma. One son\u2014Brick\u2014who lives in Idaho. Herbert works for the Boring Aerospace Company. Elma is a cook at one of the public schools over by Teal Lake. They're car-racing fans and she shops at Target and GutBusters. I don't think they always pay their bills on time. Elma had gallbladder surgery last month. They're a complete mystery to me.\"\n\nAs ever, Judith was astonished by how much her neighbor knew about people she didn't know. ABS\u2014better known as Arlene's Broadcasting System\u2014was ever efficient. \"Have you been looking at their mail?\" she asked with a sly glance.\n\nArlene gasped. \"What a naughty idea! But you know how Newton gets things confused in the cul-de-sac since he took over our route.\"\n\nThat much was true, as Judith had learned from frustrating experience. \"Come to think of it, I did get the Steins' _Smithsonian_ magazine last week. Joe read three articles before he took it over to their house. Oh\u2014and the Porters' light bill.\"\n\n\"Newton has poor eyesight,\" Arlene remarked. \"I must go home and fix those geoducks Serena left. Very generous of your cousin. I wish Carl didn't loathe them so much.\" She started for the back door, but stopped. \"How much was it?\"\n\n\"What?\" Judith asked.\n\nArlene frowned. \"The Porters' light bill, of course.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I didn't open it.\"\n\n\"Didn't you want to compare? I always do.\"\n\nJudith shrugged. \"I know ours is high. The guests, of course.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Arlene left.\n\nTwenty minutes later the first guests arrived. Alan and Deirdre Sutcliffe might be from Houston, but they weren't wearing cowboy hats and boots. In fact, they were bundled up like Eskimos.\n\n\"When will the snow start?\" Alan asked, struggling with the hood on his fur lined parka.\n\n\"I've no idea,\" Judith replied. \"Some years we don't get snow.\"\n\nDeirdre's green eyes widened in shock. \"But how do you have the dogsled races?\"\n\n\"We don't have dogsleds,\" Judith said. \"Maybe you're thinking of Alaska. Are you heading that way from here?\"\n\nThe Sutcliffes exchanged glances. \"We could,\" Alan said. \"Would we get back in time for dinner tomorrow if we left early in the morning? We've got a reservation someplace downtown.\"\n\n\"Ah . . . no.\" Judith kept a straight face. The newcomers weren't her first geography-challenged guests. Recently at least two couples had insisted they could visit the White House between breakfast and lunch. A pair of retired schoolteachers had wondered why they hadn't gone through customs since they were now in Canada. \"Even Ketchikan in southeastern Alaska is almost seven hundred air miles from here,\" Judith said.\n\n\"Oh my!\" Deirdre exclaimed. \"Are you sure? It looks so close on our globe in the study.\"\n\nJudith refrained from suggesting they buy a bigger globe. Calling upon her well-honed tact, she further enlightened the visitors with the usual brochures, maps, and other local information including the five-day weather forecast. By the time the Sutcliffes headed for Room Three, they had gotten over being upset because they'd forgotten their earmuffs.\n\nThe Epsteins had no illusions, being from the West Coast and having once lived in the city during their college days. The Por-cinis didn't arrive until almost six, due to an unexpected layover in Minneapolis. Judith was setting out the hors d'oeuvres on the living room buffet when she realized that Mary Smith hadn't yet arrived. Apparently she hadn't flown out of Newark as the Porci-nis had done, but had left New York via JFK. Late arrivals were not unusual, especially via plane\u2014or train for that matter.\n\nJudith dished up beef stew and dumplings to take out to Gertrude, who preferred her \"supper\" at five, but waited until the guests had dispersed. It was usually after six-thirty before the Flynns sat down to eat, but it gave them time for a cocktail. As Judith entered the toolshed, she was prepared for her mother's habitual complaints about the tardy arrival of her meal. Surprisingly, the old lady was all smiles.\n\n\"Arlene stopped in,\" Gertrude said. \"She knows how to treat an old lady. We sure had fun while you were gone to Little Bulgaria.\"\n\n\"Little Bavaria,\" Judith murmured, setting Gertrude's tray on the card table.\n\n\"Bavaria, Bulgaria, Bulimia\u2014those foreign countries are all the same to me.\" Gertrude stared at her plate. \"What are those white things? Golf balls? Where's the meat? Is that a carrot or did you whack off one of your fingers?\"\n\n\"It's beef stew and dumplings,\" Judith said wearily. \"One of your favorites. I suppose Arlene makes it better than I do.\"\n\nGertrude stabbed at a dumpling. \"Hunh. Not as tough as it looks. But then neither are you.\"\n\n\"You, however, are,\" Judith declared, sitting on the arm of the sofa. \"Are you sure you don't have any aches and pains from your crash?\"\n\nHer mother shrugged. \"No more than I usually have, which is plenty. But unlike you, I still have my own hips.\"\n\n\"You're lucky,\" Judith said, smiling. \"Renie and I didn't get such sturdy original parts like you and Aunt Deb. She has to be careful with her virtual shoulder replacement, just like I do with my hip.\"\n\n\"You and Serena got shortchanged in the smarts department, too,\" Gertrude said before taking a big bite of beef. \"Mmm. Not bad.\"\n\nJudith stood up and leaned down to kiss her mother's wrinkled cheek. \"I'm smart enough to make good stew.\"\n\nGertrude patted her daughter's hand. \"You are at that. Dumplings are fluffy, too. Gravy's not bad. And those _are_ carrots after all. Hey\u2014I found a spud!\"\n\n\"Go for it,\" Judith said. \"Oh\u2014I forgot the banana cream pie. And no, I didn't make it. I bought it at Falstaff's. On special.\"\n\nGertrude shot her daughter a flinty look. \"Even so, I'll bet you paid more than two ninety-nine for it.\"\n\nJudith was at the door. \"A bit. It _is_ the twenty-first century.\" The old lady looked surprised. \"It is? When did that happen?\" \"When you weren't looking,\" Judith said. She blew her mother a kiss and went back to the house.\n\nNo Mary Smith yet?\" Judith asked Joe, who was making their drinks on the kitchen counter.\n\n\"Mary Smith?\" Joe frowned. \"Oh\u2014the missing guest? Not unless she sneaked in while I was still upstairs. Everybody else is yukking it up in the living room. What's with the snowshoes in the entry hall?\"\n\nJudith sighed. \"Probably the Texans who thought this was Alaska. They must have brought them in from the front porch. I missed those.\"\n\nJoe chuckled. \"Why don't you send your guests a map before they come here? While you were out of town, a couple of hon-eymooners from Wichita wondered why Japan looked so close. They thought we were on the ocean, not the Sound.\"\n\n\"A lot of people confuse the Sound and the ocean,\" Judith said, accepting her Scotch from Joe. \"Why don't we take our drinks into the front parlor. That way I'll be closer to the door when Ms. Smith arrives.\"\n\nThe Flynns went through the dining room, into the entry hall, and passed the living room, where they could hear the guests visiting amicably. Before going into the parlor, Judith glanced through the front door's peephole, but there was no sign of a car or taxi in front of Hillside Manor. Joe asked if she wanted him to build a fire, but she said no. They wouldn't have time to enjoy it before dinner. Later, they'd adjourn to the vacated living room.\n\nThe domestic exchange between husband and wife centered on Mike's new posting. \"They'll be able to come for Thanksgiving,\" Judith said with a big smile. \"And Christmas, too.\"\n\nJoe frowned. \"I thought Kristin and Renie were having some kind of disagreement. As in wanting to knock out each other's lights.\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll get over it,\" Judith said with her usual optimism. \"Renie doesn't think Kristin shows me enough respect. You know our daughter-in-law likes to deliver a lecture now and then.\"\n\n\"She shouldn't deliver it to you,\" Joe declared. \"How did I miss it?\"\n\n\"It was a year ago,\" Judith said, her smile fading. \"It didn't bother me, but somehow it annoyed Renie, who told her if she ever did it again, she'd . . . react more strongly.\"\n\n\"Not physically, I hope. Kristin's built like an Amazon. Renie's a squirt. She wouldn't stand a chance.\"\n\n\"But she's cunning,\" Judith pointed out. \"Anyway, Kristin stated that she'd never attend any event under the same roof with Renie.\"\n\nJoe took a deep drink and gazed at the ceiling. \"Great. How are you going to sort out that one?\"\n\n\"I'm sure it's already blown over,\" Judith said. \"No doubt they've both forgotten about it.\"\n\n\"Are you nuts? Neither of those women would forget something like that. Dammit, Jude-girl, you've got your head in the sand\u2014again. Do you want me to intervene?\"\n\n\"No! I'll handle it,\" Judith asserted. \"Yes, Kristin can be overbearing and Renie is feisty, but they're adults.\"\n\n\"Adult warriors\u2014the worst kind. Oh,\" he said suddenly, \"I talked to Woody. He and Sondra can come for dinner Friday.\"\n\n\"Great,\" Judith said. \"Maybe I'll ask Renie and Bill, too. They like the Prices.\" She cocked an ear in the direction of the entry hall. \"Some of the guests are leaving. I think the first two are the Porcinis.\"\n\nA comfortable silence fell between Judith and Joe as they shared the parlor's cushioned window seat. Raindrops tapped at the glass behind them, a gentle reminder that autumn was well entrenched.\n\n\"You know,\" Judith said at last, putting her hand on Joe's shoulder, \"there was a time when I never dreamed we'd spend our lives together. All those wasted years with Dan and Vivian. But Fate was kind. Maybe that long dry spell made what we have now even better.\"\n\nJoe stared at her face, the gold flecks dancing in his green eyes. \"'Dry' isn't the right word, given that both our exes drank so much.\"\n\n\"Sad, but true,\" Judith agreed. \"If Herself hadn't gotten you drunk and hijacked you to Vegas to get married, I wouldn't have been left at the altar with your baby on the way. I do owe Dan a debt of gratitude for taking on Mike and me.\"\n\n\"Dumbest thing I ever did,\" Joe murmured. \"At least I got Caitlin out of that mess,\" he added, referring to his daughter by his first wife.\n\nJudith smiled. \"I've been thinking about how happy I am. It's such a relief to have Ingrid Heffelman off my back since I helped her in Little Bavaria. She doesn't have to worry anymore about me besmirching her precious state B&B association's reputation with my penchant for finding dead bodies. I'm getting too old to risk my neck tracking down killers. I just wish I could figure out a way to make my so-called admirers take down their site about my alleged adventures. I hate it when people get mixed up and think the acronym for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders isn't FASTO, but FATSO.\"\n\nJoe grinned at Judith. \"You're too sensitive about gaining weight. With your height, you could put on ten, even fifteen pounds and I probably wouldn't notice. As for the dangers involved in your years of sleuthing, you can't say I never warned you along the way.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Judith lowered her gaze. \"It isn't as if I went around looking for trouble.\" She paused, hearing the other two couples leave. \"I suppose we should head for the kitchen. I'll have to reheat the stew.\"\n\n\"What's the rush?\" Joe asked, his hand caressing Judith's thigh. \"We're alone at last. Why not do something else?\"\n\nJudith put her arms around Joe. \"Why not? We haven't been impulsive for at least two weeks.\"\n\n\"That's too long,\" he said softly, his face almost touching hers.\n\n\"Hmm,\" Judith murmured\u2014just as the doorbell chimed.\n\n\"Damn!\" Joe cried. \"Did one of the guests forget their key?\"\n\nJudith edged away from her husband. \"I'll get it. It might be the tardy Mary Smith.\"\n\nJoe pulled Judith back on the window seat. \"Stay put. I know how to check in a guest. I'll interrogate her and send her to her room. Then we can take up where we left off.\"\n\nGlimpsing the gold flecks in what Judith called his magic eyes, she shrugged. \"Why not? I'll stay out of sight.\"\n\nSettling back against the cushions, she heard Joe greet the newcomer. It was a woman, undoubtedly Mary Smith. Idly, Judith wondered if the stew had dried up. If necessary, she'd make fresh dumplings. Maybe she should have let Joe start a fire after all. That would make the parlor even more cozy and romantic. This would be a perfect ending to a very good day. Except, of course, for Gertrude's collision with the birdbath. But even that, Judith consoled herself, was only a minor irritation.\n\nHer reverie was interrupted by the exchange in the entry hall. Joe's mellow tone had sharpened; the woman sounded angry.\n\n\"So what?\" she said. \"I've got my ID. What more do you need?\"\n\nJudith recognized the voice, but couldn't quite place it.\n\n\"How about a credit card?\" Joe said, obviously irked. \"You didn't give one on this reservation.\"\n\n\"That's because I'm paying cash,\" the woman said.\n\nJudith leaned closer, hearing what sounded like rummaging.\n\n\"Here,\" the newcomer said. \"Two hundred bucks. Does that cover it? Or do you want to call the cops?\"\n\n\"I _am_ a cop,\" Joe said a bit wearily. \"Retired. Okay. Fine. But most people don't use an alias.\"\n\n\"I had to,\" the woman replied, sounding petulant. \"I was afraid Judith wouldn't want to see me again after Little Bavaria. Fact is, I wouldn't blame her.\"\n\nJudith got off the window seat and hurried out of the parlor. \"Ruby Tooms,\" she said, offering her hand. \"I had no idea it was you!\n\nSheepishly, Ruby took her hostess's hand. \"Like I told Mr. Flynn, I figured you might not want to run into me. But I have to talk to you.\" She brushed back a strand of pale blond hair and grimaced. \"I need your help. I want you to find my mother's killer.\"\nChapter 2\n\nJudith knew Joe was staring at her and not at Ruby. \"Excuse me,\" he said, keeping his voice level and low. \"Am I missing something here?\"\n\n\"Not really,\" Judith replied, avoiding her husband's gaze. \"But I should speak to Ruby privately. Do you mind? Dinner's on the stove.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Ruby said, \"if Mr. Flynn's a cop, why can't he listen in?\"\n\n_\"Retired_ cop,\" Joe repeated. \"Mrs. Flynn's retired, too. From sleuthing, that is.\" He grabbed Judith's arm. \"Isn't that right, my darling?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith replied with a lift of her chin. \"That's true. But the least we can do\u2014both having had experience with homicides\u2014is hear her story. Then we can advise her how to proceed. She has, after all, paid two hundred bucks for the privilege, which is more than her room costs. Unless you'd rather make change or refund the money.\"\n\nJoe frowned. \"Okay, come into the kitchen,\" he said to Ruby. \"You've paid for dinner, too. That includes a drink, if you want one.\"\n\n\"I sure do,\" Ruby said. \"I took the bus from Little Bavaria. It stopped at every little dumpy place along the way. That highway through the mountains is a bitch. There was a big wreck, so we had to wait until the mess was cleared off the road. It was raining like hell until we got close to the city. Make mine Scotch rocks\u2014 just like your wife's.\"\n\nJoe glanced at Judith. \"Sounds like you do know her.\"\n\n\"We met when Ruby was working two jobs as a waitress and bartender during Oktoberfest. It turned out that her father used to patronize Dan's caf\u00e9\u2014or at least the bar.\"\n\nJoe looked askance. \"Anybody who hung out at The Meat & Mingle must have an interesting resume\u2014or should I say 'police record'?\" Seeing Judith's dark eyes snap, he shrugged and led the way toward the kitchen. \"You two sit and talk,\" he said, opening the swinging half doors leading from the dining room. \"I know my way around a stove.\"\n\nRuby sat down across from Judith. \"Have all your husbands been able to cook?\"\n\n\"I've only had two,\" Judith replied. \"Dan's cooking was a vocation. Joe's is an avocation.\"\n\n\"Dan,\" Ruby echoed. \"He owned The Meat & Mingle, right?\" She saw Judith nod. \"Big guy? _Really_ big guy?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith said. \"I thought you told me you were too young to go into the bar to haul out your father.\"\n\n\"I was. I had to go into the restaurant part. I saw Dan\u2014I guessed he was Dan\u2014behind the serving area giving orders.\"\n\nAs Joe handed Ruby her drink and topped off his wife's, a flood of bittersweet memories rushed over Judith. To Dan's credit, he had been a good cook and a fine bartender. But he'd had no head for business, letting his employees rob him blind. Misplaced loyalty, Judith had called it at the time. Later, after The Meat & Mingle had gone broke, she called it something else.\n\nRuby raised her glass. \"To the bad old days,\" she said.\n\nThey clinked glasses. \"Although I've quit sleuthing,\" Judith began, \"and Joe's retired from the police force, he does some private investigating.\" Seeing a sharp glance of reproach from her husband, she quickly backtracked. \"He doesn't handle homicide cases, but he could recommend investigators who do.\"\n\nRuby didn't look overly upset. Judith suspected that she was used to rejection and disappointment. Though probably far from forty, the Little Bavaria waitress and barmaid seemed to have spent twice that many years in the school of hard knocks.\n\n\"Okay.\" Ruby shrugged her narrow shoulders. \"I'll give you the short version. Not long after Dad got fingered for stealing your wallet in the bar, Mom divorced him. He didn't do time for that caper, but a year or so later\u2014I was still in high school\u2014he held up a convenience store. No gun\u2014he had a knife, but got busted and served three years of a five-year stretch. Mom got a boyfriend a couple of notches up the social ladder from Dad. I mean,\" she went on with a droll expression, \"he could spell and he had a steady job in construction. They were talking marriage when about a month later, a neighbor found her strangled in our house six blocks from The Meat & Mingle. I don't know if you were still living in the area at the time.\"\n\nJudith frowned. \"Maybe not. Dan died a couple of years after the cafe and bar shut down. By then, I may've moved back here with my son, Mike. If I'd still been out in the Thurlow District, I'd probably remember her murder. But offhand, I don't.\"\n\nJoe had turned the stew on to simmer. After topping off his drink, he sat down next to Judith. \"Was your mother early forties, currently working at a nearby nursing home, and the neighbor found her when she noticed the mail hadn't been picked up for a couple of days?\"\n\nEven as Ruby nodded, Judith turned to stare at her husband. \"You remember the case? Were you on it?\"\n\n\"No, but I recall it was never solved.\" He gave Judith a quirky look. \"I remember the case because I knew it happened near Dan's caf\u00e9. I may've married somebody else the first time around, but I never forgot about you. I assumed you still lived in the area. I didn't know Dan was dead, and my first reaction was it could have been _you_. I panicked. Then the victim was ID'd, but I dreamed about you for a week after that.\"\n\nJudith put her hand on Joe's. \"That's so sweet.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" Ruby said, \"break it up, folks. Or so I tell my lovey-dovey couples in the bar before they start coupling on the barroom floor.\"\n\nJudith removed her hand and sat up straight. \"Suspects?\"\n\nRuby leaned back in the chair. \"Not bad old Dad. He and his buddy who hung out with him at The Meat & Mingle were both in the slammer. Mom was working as an aide at a nursing home. Peebles Place, closer to the Sound. Everybody called it Feebles Place. You remember it?\"\n\n\"Vaguely,\" Judith replied.\n\n\"It wasn't top-of-the-line,\" Ruby continued, \"but it survived the occasional violation. There was one old patient, Hector Sparks, who had the hots for Mom\u2014her first name was Opal, by the way. Not that Hector could put any moves on her, being partially paralyzed and about ninety. Face it, Mom could be a bit of a flirt. She liked men, men liked her. But she was no floozy. In fact, she insisted Hector teased all the women\u2014at least the pretty ones\u2014who worked at Peebles. Anyway, Hector talked about leaving Mom all his money. He didn't\u2014he outlived her, but his daughter and her family got wind of it, and pitched a five-star fit.\" She paused to sip from her drink. \"They almost got Mom fired, but before that happened, she was killed.\"\n\n\"So,\" Judith said, \"the Sparks family became prime suspects?\"\n\n\"I made sure of that,\" Ruby replied grimly. \"But they had solid alibis and there was no proof.\"\n\n\"No DNA back then,\" Joe noted. \"How was your mother strangled?\"\n\nRuby's gaze became steely. \"With a strap\u2014the kind they used at Peebles Place to lift patients who can't move on their own. What do you two sleuths make of that?\"\n\n\"Suggestive,\" Judith remarked.\n\nJoe, however, demurred. \"Would your mother have had one of those at home for any reason?\"\n\nRuby sighed. \"She could have. Mom knitted. She always carried her knitting with her, and sometimes she'd absentmindedly put something from the nursing home in the bag. One time I found a coffee mug, another time a thermometer. She didn't steal stuff, she was just kind of ditzy.\"\n\nJoe nodded. \"What about her current boyfriend?\"\n\nRuby shrugged. \"Duke\u2014real first name Darrell\u2014Swisher was okay. He hung out a lot at the racetrack. Dad knew him before Mom did. Dad knew everybody at the track. Whatever he didn't spend on booze, he spent on the ponies. Anyway, for some reason Duke liked my father, and when he found out Dad was in jail, he stopped by our house to ask if he could do anything for Mom. Turned out there were quite a few things he could do, Dad not exactly being a handyman. One of the things he did for Mom was to sleep with her. After her divorce was final, he proposed. She even had a ring. That was more than she had from Dad. I mean she'd _had_ one, but he'd pawned a long time ago.\"\n\nJudith finished her drink. \"Had Duke ever been married? I ask that in case there was a jealous ex lurking in the background.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Ruby replied, \"but he'd been divorced for a long time. The ex-wife remarried and moved away. Montana, maybe.\"\n\nJoe left the table to dish up dinner. Judith asked if Duke had children.\n\nRuby nodded. \"A couple, I think. I never met them. I don't know if Mom did or not. They may've been grown or gone with their mother.\"\n\n\"Was Duke ever a suspect?\" Joe asked, handing Judith her food.\n\n\"He was questioned,\" Ruby replied, \"but he was cleared.\"\n\nJoe pressed on. \"What was approximate time of death?\"\n\n\"It was June sixth\u2014D-day. I always remember that because Grandpa Stone\u2014Mom's dad\u2014had been at Omaha Beach. Mrs. Crabbe from next door was the one who found Mom two days after she'd been killed. She'd noticed how much mail there was, including a package. I opened it later. It was a dress Mom had ordered from some catalog company. When nobody came to the door, Mrs. Crabbe turned the knob and it was unlocked. She found Mom on the floor by the sofa and almost passed out, but she had sense enough to call 911. The EMTs came, along with the cops and the firefighters. They had to treat Mrs. Crabbe for shock. As for what time Mom was killed, the medical examiner figured somewhere between noon and five o'clock Wednesday afternoon.\"\n\nJudith swallowed a bite of beef before posing a question. \"Where were you during this time period?\"\n\nRuby laughed. \"I was wondering when you'd ask that. It was senior week. All sorts of hoo-ha going on. Class trip to Wild Waves, parties, commencement rehearsal. I often spent a lot of time with my best bud, Freddy Mae. I started doing that back in junior high. Mom sometimes worked nights, and frankly, I liked hanging out with Freddy Mae's family. By the time Mom was killed, my brother, Ozzie, was in the navy. He joined up right out of high school, two years ahead of me.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Your only sibling?\"\n\n\"Right. Dad knocked Mom up with Ozzie. They were really young when they got married. Big mistake. Getting married, I mean. Ozzie s okay, but I haven't seen him in over a year. He decided to make the navy his career. He's currently stationed in San Diego. Ozzie can retire in another three, four years. Lucky guy.\" Ruby's expression was rueful.\n\nJoe, who had seemed focused on his food, put down his fork and moved a few inches away from the table. \"Okay. Let's get down to basics. No sign of a break-in?\"\n\nRuby shook her head.\n\n\"Any sign of robbery, other injuries to your mother, evidence of a struggle or sexual assault?\"\n\nRuby shook her head again.\n\n\"No serious suspects other than the boyfriend, Duke, or the relatives of the old guy in the nursing home?\"\n\n\"No.\" Ruby smiled sheepishly. \"Not much to go on, huh?\"\n\nJoe grimaced. \"No wonder it's a cold case. I'm guessing\u2014but whoever investigates this for you will have to check it out\u2014there was no evidence at the scene?\"\n\n\"Not that I heard about,\" Ruby replied.\n\nJoe drummed his fingers on the table. \"One possibility\u2014it was a mistake. Somebody goes to the wrong house, broad daylight or not. Let's say it was a man if only because I assume your mother wasn't frail, being fairly young and able to do some heavy lifting at the retirement home. Mom pitches a five-star fit at the sight of the intruder, who panics. It sounds far-fetched, but it happens. I had a case like that early on in my homicide career. Maybe the killer is drunk or on drugs, assumes the house is empty, and then your mother finds him\u2014or her\u2014and the guy goes wacko. That happens, too. Again, a case of panic.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Ruby said, holding a piece of dumpling on her fork. \"I guess. But I'd like to know for sure.\"\n\nJudith had also finished her dinner. \"Is there anything more you can tell us? Sometimes it's minor things that are important.\"\n\nJoe turned to his wife. \"Let's not play trivia, okay?\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" she declared. \"It's the way I work a . . . I mean, how I figure things out. Like around the house. And garden.\"\n\nTo Judith's surprise, Joe merely shrugged and turned his gaze back to Ruby.\n\n\"Gosh,\" she said, a hand to her head, \"I don't remember after all these years. The only weird memory I have about that whole time is that Duke mentioned a horse running the day Mom was killed. The name reminded me of my favorite book. I asked him to put a six-buck combo on it and it won, going off at nine to one. The horse's name was Gone With The Win. At Mom's funeral, Duke gave me the forty bucks I'd won.\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"Did you often send bets to the track?\"\n\n\"Hardly ever.\" Ruby put down her fork. \"I worked part-time after school at the old supermarket across from the gas station. Dad was a dud when it came to child support\u2014especially when he was in jail. Besides, I'd turned eighteen, and that ended his noncontribution anyway. Retirement and nursing homes charge big bucks, but they don't pay them to their employees. Money was tight for Mom and me.\"\n\nJoe stood up and began clearing the table. \"I'll check my file and find somebody to take on your case.\" He looked at Judith and patted his slight paunch. \"No dessert for me. I'm really trying to lose a few pounds.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh,\" Judith said, smiling despite not believing him. After being married to the obese Dan, she didn't care if Joe had a minor tummy bulge. At least he didn't look like the Goodyear Blimp.\n\n\"I forgot to take Mother's dessert to her,\" she said, wincing. \"Joe, would you mind? It's the last of the banana cream pie.\"\n\nJoe looked put-upon, but murmured he'd do it\u2014when he'd finished his other chores.\n\n\"My mother has her own apartment out back,\" Judith explained to Ruby. \"She actually owns this house, but prefers her privacy.\" The truth was that Gertrude had refused to live under the same roof as Joe Flynn, but there was no need to offer details. \"It's very cozy,\" she went on, seeing the faintly bewildered look in Ruby's blue eyes. \"Besides, she isn't bothered by the B&B guests coming in and out.\"\n\n\"She must be kind of old,\" Ruby remarked.\n\n\"Yes, Mother is getting up there.\" _Way_ up there, Judith thought, and immediately felt guilty. \"She seems . . . ageless.\" _As in immortal, eternal, everlasting, and probably will outlive the rest of us._ \"She likes her independence.\"\n\nRuby made a face. \"My mom didn't like being independent. That's why she stuck by my dad for so long. She had trouble getting along without a man. Of course, she had trouble getting along with Dad, too.\"\n\nJoe had finished loading the dishwasher and was heading for the back stairs. Judith rose from her chair. \"I have ice cream if you'd like dessert. Or maybe an after-dinner drink?\"\n\n\"I'll skip the ice cream, but thanks,\" Ruby said, also standing up. \"Mr. Flynn should've let me bus the table. I'm used to it.\"\n\n\"You're a paying guest,\" Judith said, going to the liquor cupboard. \"Brandy, Drambuie, Galliano, or . . . I guess that's it unless there's something else in the dining room's guest liquor cabinet.\"\n\n\"Galliano sounds good,\" Ruby replied.\n\nJudith poured a measure into matching Isle of Murano glasses purchased when she and Renie visited Venice in their halcyon single years. \"Let's go in the living room and be comfortable,\" she said, handing Ruby her drink.\n\n\"I feel sort of dumb,\" Ruby blurted on their way through the dining room. \"I'm probably on a fool's errand. I feel like a pest. But I heard you had a big rep for crime solving.\"\n\n\"Don't believe everything you hear,\" Judith said, indicating that Ruby should sit on one of the two matching blue sofas flanking the fireplace. \"My expertise is overrated. But it's natural for you to want to know who killed your mother. In fact, I'm surprised you haven't done this sooner. Or,\" she continued, seating herself across from her guest, \"is this your first serious attempt at solving the mystery of her death?\"\n\nRuby paused after a sip of the golden liqueur. \"Good stuff. I haven't tasted this since the last time I had a Harvey Wallbanger.\" She licked her lips before speaking again. \"I moved away after Mom died. Ozzie and I sold the house and split the profits, which weren't all that much after we paid off Mom's bills. First, I went to a community college over in the eastern part of the state, but studying wasn't for me. Then I headed for Sun Valley. Don't know why, just thought maybe I'd like it. I met a guy there and we moved in together for a couple of years, but that didn't work out. Hell, you don't want to hear all this. Cut to the chase. Never did marry any of the guys I met along the way, and three years ago I finally ended up in Little Bavaria, where I got dumped by a ski bum. I liked it there. Last spring I saw a couple of stories on the news about old murders that hadn't been solved until DNA came along. I got to wondering about Mom. Then you showed up and I heard you were a hotshot sleuth. I liked you. I even kind of liked your lippy cousin.\" She shrugged. \"That's it. Here I am. But you're retired. Sorry 'bout that.\"\n\nJudith smiled weakly. \"I never intended to be any kind of sleuth. I just seemed to get mixed up in murders. The first one happened right here at the B&B in the dining room. How could I _not_ get involved? And then . . . well, some other situations arose, and being curious by nature, I just couldn't help myself. But I promised Joe I'd quit. Sleuthing can be a dangerous . . . hobby.\"\n\nRuby gazed in the direction of the big bay window, where the lights of the city glittered in the distance. \"Yeah, I suppose it could be risky. Just my luck.\" She sipped her drink before speaking again. \"That's okay. Your hubby will probably come up with somebody good.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he will,\" Judith said. \"If it'll help, your room is vacant for the next two nights. I won't charge you. It's not your fault I'm on the inactive list.\"\n\n\"Oh . . .\" Ruby looked uncertain. \"You sure?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Judith asserted. \"I gather you haven't lived in the city for a long time. It's changed and grown. The least I can do is help you navigate it. Besides, I know from living way out south in the Thurlow District that it's almost like being cut off from the city itself.\"\n\nRuby nodded. \"I never did know my way around even when I was growing up. I don't think I went downtown more than six, seven times.\"\n\n\"Understandable,\" Judith agreed as Joe entered the living room.\n\n\"Galliano?\" he remarked, leaning against the sofa and looking over Judith's shoulder.\n\n\"You want some?\" Judith asked, craning her neck to look at him.\n\n\"No, thanks. I need more than that after facing off with your mother.\" He turned to Ruby. \"I've got three names for you, including a woman investigator. Good people.\" He moved around to come between the sofas and hand over his list. \"Two are downtown and one is over on the Bluff. No fee from anyone to hear you out. I haven't called any of them yet, but I'll do that tomorrow first thing when they're on the job.\"\n\nRuby's face lighted up. \"Thanks, Mr. Flynn. You're a doll.\" He patted his paunch with one hand and ran the other through his graying red hair. \"A kewpie doll, maybe.\"\n\nThey all laughed. But Judith knew murder was never a laughing matter.\nChapter 3\n\nRuby Tooms decided to take advantage of Judith's offer to stay on at Hillside Manor. It had been years since she'd spent time in the city and decided to do some exploring.\n\n\"I might even head out to the Thurlow District,\" she told Judith Wednesday morning. \"You got a bus schedule?\"\n\nJudith said she had one in her visitor information. \"You'll have to transfer downtown,\" she added. \"I haven't been there since . . . well, since I moved here. The caf\u00e9's gone, and probably so are many of the other businesses. Believe it or not, I've heard the neighborhood has improved.\"\n\nRuby shrugged. \"It didn't have any other direction to go unless it slid into the Sound.\" Getting up from the kitchen table, she poured herself another mug of coffee. \"I've lost touch with my old pals from the bad old days. Maybe there's no point in going there. But I'd like to see if our house is still standing. Say,\" she went on before sitting down again, \"do you think I should make a list of all those people who might've been mixed up in my mother's murder? I could give it to the private eye who takes on my case.\"\n\n\"That's a good idea,\" Judith replied, opening the dishwasher to empty it. \"When will you start contacting the PIs Joe recommended?\"\n\n\"Tomorrow, I guess,\" Ruby said without enthusiasm. \"I wish your hubby did this kind of work.\"\n\n\"He did it for years as a cop. He's sort of burned out.\"\n\nRuby nodded as she sat down. \"I get it. Darn.\"\n\nJudith paused in the act of putting silverware away. \"You're not guilt-tripping Joe, you're doing it to me. Honestly, I can't get involved. I made a promise to my husband. I never, ever intended to get involved in murder. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and I let my curiosity get away with me. Besides, it's dangerous. I'm emphasizing this because I don't want you to start snooping around and try to figure out things for yourself. Leave it to a pro.\"\n\n\"Okay, okay,\" Ruby said wearily. \"I get it. But I still want a look around the old hood.\"\n\n\"That's fine,\" Judith declared, softening her tone. \"But don't go near any of the people involved\u2014if in fact they're still there.\"\n\nRuby took a last gulp of coffee and stood up. \"I won't. Honest. Now give me that bus schedule so I can at least _look_ at the scene of the crime. I need to do that. What do they call it? Closure?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Judith smiled. \"Just make sure that nobody tries to close _you_ \u2014permanently.\"\n\nI hate bicycles!\" Renie screamed into Judith's ear. \"Wait\u2014I don't mean bicycles as a mode of transport, I mean the dinks who ride them. If they're going to hog the roads, why can't they obey the rules? Are they all suicidal? I just saw some bozo ignore the four-way stop at the top of the hill and almost crash into a woman with a baby in a stroller. The baby slugged him. Ha ha.\"\n\n\"There are lanes for bikes,\" Judith pointed out reasonably.\n\n\"On the sidewalk?\" Renie snapped. \"That's where this idiot ended up. If I hadn't been in a hurry, I'd have run over him. I've no patience for people who break rules.\"\n\n\"And you don't?\" Judith retorted.\n\n\"Only when I'm forced to.\" Renie had lowered her voice. \"But that's not what I'm calling about.\"\n\n\"Which is?\" Judith asked, putting down the recipe book she'd been leafing through to get some new appetizer ideas.\n\n\"Uh . . . I forget. I got so upset about the . . . oh! Can I bring something for dinner with the Prices Friday night?\"\n\n\"No, I'm fine. I'm serving a pork loin. I'll get a dessert at Falstaff's.\"\n\n\"I could make Chocolate Glop,\" Renie suggested. \"It's Bill's favorite. My sister-in-law, Bippy, makes it for everybody's birthdays.\"\n\n\"Is that what it's really called?\"\n\n\"It's what I call it. I don't think Bippy has an actual name for it. It just . . . _is_.\"\n\n\"No thanks, I'll rely on Falstaff's. They have real names for their desserts. At least I'll know what we're eating.\"\n\n\"And take all of the fun out of it? Okay, it's your dinner. Think I'll go out and run over a bicyclist.\" Renie hung up.\n\nShaking her head, Judith set the phone down and went back to her recipe book. A few minutes later, a frowning Joe entered the kitchen to get a fresh diet soda.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" Judith asked, looking up from a list of ingredients for smoked salmon latkes.\n\n\"I just talked to Woody,\" he said, leaning against the refrigerator. \"The mayor is grudgingly going along with some of my suggestions to improve relations with people who aren't related to the police.\"\n\n\"That's good news,\" Judith said, \"assuming I know what you're talking about. Or that the mayor does. Why do you look disturbed?\"\n\nJoe opened the fridge and removed a can of Diet 7UP. \"I mentioned Ruby's cold case, just to see if Woody remembered it. Turns out it was his first homicide assignment.\"\n\nJudith's dark eyes widened. \"No! I mean . . . what did he say?\"\n\nJoe popped the top on the soda can and sighed. \"Woody's always felt it was a real blot on his r\u00e9sum\u00e9. It isn't, of course. Every tec has a few of those after a long career. But you know Woody\u2014he's got a lot of pride. It still bothers him. He told me he'd like to meet Ruby. He remembers her as a teenage kid.\"\n\nJudith's expression was sympathetic. \"I suppose he does. Woody's very kindhearted. Does he feel as if he failed her?\"\n\n\"Right.\" Joe sipped his soda. \"When we were partners and had cases we couldn't close for various reasons, I urged Woody to let go. If he ever had spare time and wanted to do some further checking, go ahead. But never let an unsolved murder become a millstone that would distract him from the current job. And he didn't. But it still bothers him.\"\n\nJudith moved closer to her husband and looked him in the eye. \"Joe, are you trying to tell me something?\"\n\nHis frown turned into a full-fledged scowl. \"Hell, no! I just wish I'd never stirred up Woody's sensitive conscience.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Judith backed away and shrugged. \"I thought maybe you were reconsidering taking on Ruby's problem.\"\n\nJoe vigorously shook his head. \"I don't give a damn about Ruby. I mean, other than that she's on a mission that probably has a dead end.\" He grinned sheepishly. \"Sorry. It's Woody that bothers me. I don't want to spend Friday night listening to him beat himself up over a cold case.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Judith glanced at her recipe. \"Sondra can console him. She's used to it. Do we have any cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche? I need it for the smoked salmon latkes.\"\n\nJoe opened the fridge. \"I don't see any. We've got smoked salmon in the pantry from the last fishing trip Bill and I took.\"\n\n\"Check the freezer,\" Judith said.\n\nJoe complied. After some mild cussing and haphazard rummaging, he produced a container of the desired item. \"Here. It was behind a bunch of your mother's pig hocks and her cigarettes. Why does she have to put her smokes in the freezer?\"\n\n\"Because she doesn't have a freezer in the toolshed. She thinks the cigarettes stay fresher if they're frozen.\"\n\n\"How about taking out the cigarettes and putting your mother in the freezer?\"\n\nJudith uttered an impatient sigh. \"Just be thankful that Mother doesn't like you. Otherwise, she'd never have insisted on having her own apartment. Would you really want her living in this house?\"\n\n\"I really don't want her living, period.\" Joe suddenly looked chagrined. \"Sorry, I didn't quite mean that.\"\n\nJudith couldn't help but smile, if wryly. \"Skip it. Can you get me a can of that smoked salmon?\"\n\nJoe wordlessly went down the hall to the pantry. Judith started peeling potatoes. Looking out the window over the sink, she noticed that it had begun to rain, light drops bouncing off the Rankerses' monster laurel hedge. Typical November, she thought, with temperatures in the high forties and probably some wind by nightfall.\n\nJoe returned with the smoked salmon. After setting the can on the counter, he kissed his wife's cheek. \"Maybe you _have_ reformed,\" he murmured.\n\nJudith gazed at him with innocent eyes. \"I gave you my word. When have I ever lied to you?\"\n\nJoe looked dubious. \"You lie to everybody else when it suits you.\"\n\n\"I do not lie. I tell fibs only when absolutely necessary.\"\n\nJoe's green eyes danced. \"Some of those fibs are real whoppers. You're very good at it.\"\n\nHer dark-eyed gaze met his. \"I repeat, have I ever lied\u2014or fibbed\u2014to you?\"\n\nJoe didn't answer immediately. \"How,\" he finally asked, \"would I know if you did?\"\n\nShortly after the current group of guests left on their appointed evening rounds, Judith began to worry about Ruby. It was almost seven-thirty and she had not yet returned to Hillside Manor.\n\n\"Maybe,\" Joe suggested when he and Judith were finished cleaning up the kitchen, \"she ran into some old pals. Not everybody flees the Thurlow neighborhood like you did.\"\n\n\"It's possible,\" Judith conceded. \"If she hasn't eaten, I saved enough of the spare ribs and the rest of dinner for her because I assumed she'd eat with us.\"\n\n\"Ruby's a free spirit,\" Joe said. \"Sounds as if she likes to keep on the move. Never married?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith said, turning on the dishwasher. \"She had some guy with her at an event in Little Bavaria, but he was kind of a drip. I figure she dumped him about the time Renie and I left town.\"\n\n\"There can't be a lot of eligible men in a little place like\u2014\"\n\nJoe was interrupted by the phone, which happened to be sitting behind him on the counter. \"Flynn here,\" he said, never breaking the habit after thirty years as a cop.\n\nJudith assumed it was for her, so she paused in the kitchen, watching Joe. His ruddy face darkened. \"Okay, I'll be right over. Thanks.\" He hurried off. \"That was Carl Rankers,\" he said, heading down the back hall to grab his jacket. \"They've got Ruby and she's a mess. Mistook their house for ours. Drunk, he figures. It's raining hard, so I'll go get her.\"\n\n\"Wait!\" Judith cried. \"I'm going with you!\"\n\n\"Stay put,\" Joe called, already at the back door.\n\nBut there was no stopping Judith. By the time she caught up with Joe, he was already on the Rankerses' front porch. Carl opened the door.\n\n\"We've never had one of your guests come here before,\" Carl said in his droll manner. \"Kind of exciting, at least for Arlene. She's making coffee. Want some?\"\n\n\"No thanks,\" Joe replied, leading the way in through the dining room and the adjacent living room. \"Save it to sober up my wife's latest guest.\" He shot Judith a reproachful glance. \"She likes to take in the occasional stray.\"\n\nArlene poked her head out from the kitchen. \"Five minutes,\" she announced. \"Booby, are you alive?\"\n\nThe object of her question was flopped on the beige sofa, eyes closed, mouth agape. Judith moved closer, noting that Ruby's face was dirty\u2014or bruised. \"Ruby,\" she said softly, \"are you awake?\"\n\nThe other woman's closed eyes flickered open\u2014and shut. \"Unf.\" She shifted her body with obvious painful effort. \"Oof.\"\n\nJudith sat down next to Ruby and looked up at Joe's disgruntled face. \"Go home. This is going to take a while. If I need help, Carl's here.\"\n\nThe two men exchanged wordless male glances. \"No,\" Joe said. \"Carl's got a bad back. I've only got flat feet.\"\n\nCarl put a hand on Joe's shoulder. \"Come on, let's go watch whichever overpaid NBA teams are on TV. This is women's work.\"\n\nJoe took one last look at Ruby, whose eyes were still closed. \"Oh, hell, why not? Call when you need me,\" he said, following Carl back out to the hallway and presumably to the family room downstairs.\n\nArlene stepped into the living room. \"Thank goodness they're gone. Men are so helpless except for heavy lifting. Though Carl isn't very good at that with his bad back. I _told_ him not to lift our SUV by himself. Men aren't very good at listening either. Is Booby dead?\"\n\n\"It's Ruby,\" Judith said. \"Just passed out. Is the coffee ready?\"\n\n\"Almost,\" Arlene replied, tapping her fingernails against the kitchen doorframe. \"Maybe she needs smelling salts. I don't have any.\"\n\n\"Neither do I,\" Judith said, gently trying to arrange her unconscious guest into a more comfortable position. \"But we can't leave her here to sleep it off. How on earth did Ruby get this far?\"\n\nArlene moved across the room to help Judith. \"Well,\" she went on as she handed Judith some throw pillows to put under the head of their patient, \"I'm not sure. Carl heard something out on the front porch, but he thought it was your cat, flinging himself at the storm door. He does that sometimes if we're serving fish. But we weren't. I'd made lasagna instead. Finally, Carl opened the door and Ruby fell into his arms. We never got a sensible word out of her. Of course, that's not unusual around here, especially when our children visit.\"\n\n\"That happened how long ago?\" Judith asked.\n\nArlene's pretty face puckered in recollection. \"Ten minutes before Carl called? She mumbled your name, so we thought she must be a guest who'd confused our houses, given that they're similar in style and it's such a dark, rainy night. But night often is . . . dark, I mean.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I wonder if she took the bus, but I don't see how she could have walked the two blocks from the bus stop. She would've had to cross Heraldsgate Avenue and that's not easy, being so busy and so steep. Maybe she took a cab. Or got a ride,\" she murmured, frowning. \"It looks as if her face is bruised.\"\n\n\"Maybe she fell down,\" Arlene suggested. \"You're right\u2014she wasn't in very good shape to walk. And she does reek like a distillery. Not that I've ever been to a distillery. Why would I do that? Carl took a tour once of a brewery and said it smelled awful. Goodness, your guests usually aren't drunk. When Carl and I have taken over the B&B for you, I don't recall anyone being more than a tad tiddly.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" Judith replied, noting that Ruby had begun to stir. \"While I can't control how much liquor guests consume when they're off the premises\u2014or if they bring their own supply with them\u2014I clearly state that excessive use of alcohol or any other harmful substance is grounds for being ejected. Is the coffee ready?\"\n\n\"It must be,\" Arlene said. She hurried off to the kitchen.\n\nRuby was groaning and had flung a hand over her eyes. \"Oooh . . . what . . . ?\"\n\n\"It's me . . . Judith. You're at our neighbors' house. You'll be fine.\"\n\n\"Huh?\" Ruby removed her arm and blinked several times. \"That light . . . can you turn it down?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" Judith reached around to click off the lamp on the end table. \"Coffee's coming.\"\n\n\"Coffee.\" Ruby uttered the word as if it were foreign to her.\n\n\"Can you sit up if I help you?\"\n\n\"Not sure.\" Ruby licked her dry lips. \"What happened? I feel like I was run over by a truck.\"\n\n\"You're lucky you weren't,\" Judith said, but immediately felt repentant. \"I mean, how did you get here?\"\n\nRuby had raised her head and her bloodshot eyes were wide open. \"I'm not sure. Where did you say we are?\"\n\nArlene appeared with a tray, three mugs, cream, sugar, and artificial sweetener. \"You're at our house,\" she said, setting the tray on the end table. \"I'm Arlene. Carl is downstairs with Joe watching tall men in long shorts with names like Dako and Manu and Nazr and Beno and Radoslav and Tim. Wouldn't you think Tim would feel out of place? And Tony, too.\" She shook her head.\n\nRuby looked justifiably confused. She stared at Judith. \"Are you sure you know where we are?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Does it matter?\" Arlene asked. _\"We_ know where you are. Have some coffee. It's Sully's. Carl and I like it very much. For all I know, Tim and Tony do, too.\" She poured coffee into a mug. \"Sugar? Cream?\"\n\n\"Black,\" Ruby answered, still looking dazed as she turned from Arlene to Judith. \"Do you know what happened to me?\"\n\n\"No,\" Judith replied. \"Do you mean you don't remember anything?\"\n\nRuby inched her way up on the throw pillows and took the coffee mug from Arlene. \"I'm not sure. I took the bus downtown and transferred to the one that went out to the Thurlow District. I found our old house, but I almost didn't recognize the place. It's been updated.\" She blew on the coffee before taking a sip. \"Then I walked around the block. No vacant lots, condos instead. Most of the houses looked like they'd been fixed up. At least one had been torn down and a real modern glass thing had been built in its place. Kind of ugly.\" She put a hand to her head. \"Anybody got aspirin?\"\n\n\"I'll get some,\" Arlene volunteered. \"And water.\" She dashed back to the kitchen.\n\nJudith helped Ruby sit up straighter. \"Did you walk through the business district?\"\n\nRuby nodded. \"It's only three blocks from where I grew up at the end of the bus line. Man, but it's grown! I had lunch at a real nice caf\u00e9 not far from where The Meat & Mingle used to be. That's where I met . . .\" Her face scrunched up in confusion. \"Who was it?\"\n\nArlene had returned with the aspirin and water. \"Nazr? Manu? Tim?\" She made a self-deprecating gesture. \"I'm just throwing out names. You never know when one will hit home.\"\n\n\"None of the above,\" Ruby replied glumly, swallowing the aspirin with a gulp of water. \"Damn! I can't remember anything!\"\n\nJudith pointed to Ruby's cheek. \"Somehow you got a bruise. Did you fall? Or . . . ?\" She left the query unfinished.\n\nRuby scowled. \"Did somebody slug me? I'm blank. Could I have a concussion?\"\n\nJudith grimaced. \"You might. Maybe we should go to the ER.\"\n\nBut Ruby emphatically shook her head. \"Forget it. All I want to do is sleep. If I've got a headache, it's from a hangover. I ought to know\u2014I've done it before.\"\n\nJudith hesitated, but decided not to argue. \"Okay. Finish your coffee while I get Joe.\"\n\n\"I'll do that,\" Arlene said, already heading toward the hall. \"I'd like to see if Tony and Tim have adjusted to playing with those people who have such peculiar names. And why are those shorts so long? They aren't at all short. They look like _frocks_ to me.\"\n\nRuby turned to Judith. \"Is she for real?\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"Arlene is one of the most real people on the planet. She's the best neighbor and a very good friend. She just has a different way of making people think about things.\"\n\n\"If you say so,\" Ruby remarked doubtfully before she took another swig from her mug. \"She makes damned good coffee, I'll say that.\"\n\nJoe and Carl reappeared with Arlene. \"Let's take Ruby to our house,\" Joe said. \"It's still raining hard.\"\n\nRuby offered Joe a weak smile. \"Thanks. You guys are great. I'm not used to people looking out for me.\"\n\nFive minutes later, Joe, Judith, and Ruby arrived at Hillside Manor's back door. \"Go ahead,\" Joe said to Judith. \"I've got Ruby.\"\n\nAs usual, the back door was unlocked until ten o'clock. Judith stepped inside and thought the hallway seemed strangely cool. After hanging her jacket on a peg, she entered the kitchen. The usually pristine floor was tracked with dark patches.\n\n\"Joe?\" she said, turning around to see him helping Ruby down the hall. \"Did you come back over here?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"Has your mother vandalized the place?\"\n\n\"It's not Mother . . . her wheelchair would leave long tracks. Look.\"\n\nJoe kept his arm around Ruby. \"Jesus!\" he said under his breath. \"Did a guest . . . \" He steered Ruby into a kitchen chair. \"Stay here. Both of you,\" he ordered, suddenly the brisk, controlled policeman that Judith remembered from their first meeting forty years earlier. She stood motionless as he brushed past her, through the swinging half doors, and presumably into the front hall.\n\nRuby propped her head up on one hand. \"What's going on?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Judith said, but jumped when she heard Joe swear again. \"Something's not quite right.\"\n\n\"One of your guests?\" Ruby inquired.\n\nJudith shook her head. She couldn't hear any further sound from Joe. Growing more anxious by the second, she was about to head for the front of the house when he returned to the kitchen, cell phone at his ear. \"That's right. The cul-de-sac. You make one smart-ass comment about 911 being called to this address and I'll give you the address of the unemployment office.\" He clicked off.\n\n\"What is it?\" Judith asked.\n\nJoe grimaced. \"Lippy 911 operator,\" he muttered, putting the cell back in his shirt pocket. \"Okay,\" he finally said, leaning on the back of an empty kitchen chair. \"We probably had an intruder. Whoever it was came in through the back door but didn't go out that way. Instead\u2014I don't know this for sure\u2014whoever it was probably went to another part of the house because the wet marks end in the front hall.\"\n\nJudith shivered. \"Is the intruder still here?\"\n\nJoe shook his head. \"No, because the front door was open. I suspect whoever it was left when he\u2014or she\u2014heard us coming through the back. Until the cops get here, we don't leave the kitchen.\" He gave both Judith and Ruby a dour look. \"Relax, ladies. Pretend you can enjoy yourselves. For now, Hillside Manor is a crime scene. What else is new?\"\n\n## EXCERPT FROM CLAM WAKE\nChapter Two\n\nJudith's mouth fell open. \"What?\"\n\n\"You heard me,\" Vance said. \"I already told Gert and talked to the Rankers. They'll fill in for you here while you're on Whoopee Island. You'll probably want to take Renie with you, so we'll stop off to give her the news on our way back home.\"\n\nJudith started to protest. \"But\u2014\"\n\n\"No buts, butt-head.\" Vance laughed. \"God, I haven't seen you look so surprised since you and Renie made yourselves into a horse for my birthday party forty years ago. You fell down and Renie lost her rear end. She looked kind of surprised, too. Talk about a couple of horse's\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop!\" Judith held up her hands. \"I need to sit. Please, Auntie Vance. Wouldn't you like some coffee?\"\n\n\"I'm fine. Stick Vince's head in the pot and maybe he'll wake up. Or drown.\" She charged ahead into the kitchen.\n\nDespite her harsh words, Vance poured coffee for Judith and Vince before joining them at the table. \"Okay, here's why we're going to Beatrice. Aunt Ellen's having shoulder surgery today. You know how she works three jobs and is involved in at least two dozen volunteer organizations. Uncle Win can't keep up with all that while she's in the hospital, so we volunteered to help. We won't be gone more than a week. My sister can't stay put any longer than that, and once she's mobile, we'll take off before Ellen and I kill each other.\"\n\nJudith nodded faintly. Uncle Vince just nodded off.\n\n\"As for you and Renie coming up to our place,\" Vance went on, \"there's an emergency meeting tomorrow night of everybody who lives at Obsession Shores. In the past few months there's been a lot of wrangling with some of the local morons, including a couple of new owners who bought land that won't percolate. You know that means they can't put in a septic tank. The dumb-asses should never have bought in, but that's what dumb-asses do\u2014dumb-assed stuff. Anyway, they're trying to run a sewer line through the development, and if you think the rest of us want to pay for something like that, then you're a dumb-ass, too.\"\n\n\"Of course you wouldn't want that,\" Judith agreed. \"But if there are only two couples, aren't they outnumbered about thirty to one?\"\n\nVance shook her curly graying blond head. \"You're right about the number of owners, but the original population has aged since we moved up there after Vince retired. Close to a third of them head south for the winter. And there are another dozen or more who only live at Obsession Shores in the summer. I doubt many\u2014even any\u2014of them will bother coming to the island for the meeting.\"\n\n\"So,\" Judith said, \"what are Renie and I supposed to do? Blow up the place wherever this civil war is going to be fought?\"\n\n\"That's right,\" Vance asserted. \"I've named you and Renie as our proxies. That's legal, so you'll represent us. Of course you'll vote no.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Judith made a face. \"Did I just say that?\"\n\nVance slapped her hand on the table. \"Yes. Now be damned sure you take an early ferry. It may be winter, but there's still quite a bit of weekend traffic over to the island. Off-season for crab pots, by the way.\"\n\n\"Darn,\" Judith said softly. \"Are you sure all of this is okay with Arlene and Carl?\"\n\n\"You bet your ass it is, twerp. I gave them a pile of clams, too. Lucky we were able to catch the Rankerses before they head for Palm Springs at the end of the month. Carl and Arlene are glad to get out of the house. Their downstairs is being painted starting on Monday.\"\n\n\"Monday?\" Judith echoed. \"Won't Renie and I be back by then?\"\n\n\"Well ...\" Vance paused to nudge Vince, whose face was getting dangerously close to his coffee mug. \"Knowing you, somebody on the island might get killed over this fracas and you'll want to stick around to figure out whodunit.\"\n\n\"That's not funny!\" Judith cried. \"I've retired from doing that.\"\n\n\"Oh, hell,\" Vance said, standing up and hauling Vince to his feet, \"half of the people who live there are retired. You'll fit right in. You sure you want two gallons of clams?\"\n\nJudith had also gotten to her feet. \"Oh ... maybe just one. I suppose Renie and I could dig our own. It'd help pass the time. Of course she may not come with me. She's working on some annual reports. Are you going to see her now?\"\n\n\"Right.\" Vance dragged Vince down the back hall. \"She'll come. She can always work on them at our place. She just draws a bunch of stuff anyway. How hard is that, unless she busts all her crayons?\"\n\n\"It's a lot more complicated than\u2014\"\n\n\"By the way,\" Vance broke in, \"I made my beef noodle bake, so your dinner's ready to heat. I baked ginger snaps and made Grandma Grover's coffee cake. Oh\u2014I made a boysenberry pie, too. You won't starve.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" Judith said, feeling overwhelmed. \"You didn't need to\u2014\"\n\nBut Vince interrupted, his pleasant face wearing the familiar worried look that was only noticeable when he was fully conscious. \"Don't take my boat out. It gets real choppy out there in January.\"\n\nVance glared at her husband. \"You think dead calm is choppy. That wreck of a boat hasn't been out in six years.\"\n\n\"It just needs a bit of work,\" Vince murmured. \"Good to see you, Judith. Have fun on The Rock. Stay warm and dry.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" Judith replied. \"We'll try our best to do ... both.\"\n\nVance laughed. \"Did I ever tell you we were married for three years before I realized Vince could talk? Let's go,\" she said, giving her husband another nudge. \"You need to take a nap behind the wheel.\"\n\nJudith watched the Webers walk away, arm in arm. Or maybe Vance was holding up Vince. It was hard to tell with her aunt and uncle.\n\nRenie called half an hour later. \"Okay, so I caved. What is it about Auntie Vance that makes everybody do her bidding? Except maybe Aunt Ellen when she visits from Beatrice? They're two of a kind. Sort of. Aunt Ellen always seems like she's on speed.\"\n\n\"I know. Auntie Vance is an irresistible force. Both Grover sisters are ... awesome. The brothers were never introverts. My father was the quietest of the bunch, but he certainly was immovable when he expressed his opinions.\"\n\n\"My dad was, too,\" Renie said, \"but in a droll, succinct sort of way. When he wasn't cussing and throwing things, of course.\"\n\n\"You're sure you can work on your projects at the island?\"\n\n\"Yes. My contribution is all smoke and mirrors. If I tell them my design concept conveys their message to shareholders or customers or wombats, they believe me. By now, I've got street cred. Those bozos in the corner offices don't know a concept from a contraceptive. Well ... they might know that, but you get what I'm saying.\"\n\n\"After spending fifteen minutes with Auntie Vance, I'm not sure I get what I'm saying,\" Judith admitted. \"Okay. I'll check the ferry schedule. I have one here for guests. I'll pick you up at ten tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Ten?\" Renie shrieked. \"I won't be awake at ten. Make it eleven.\"\n\n\"Fine. If we have to wait in line for three ferries, it's your fault.\"\n\n\"I'm willing to take that risk,\" Renie said. \"Oh, no! Mom's calling me. Maybe Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince stopped off to give her some clams, too, and Mom knows we're leaving town. You know what that means\u2014I'll get a dozen calls a day from her asking if I've been swept away by a tsunami or devoured by giant geoducks. Bye.\" Renie hung up.\n\nJudith had no sooner put down the phone when Gertrude wheeled herself through the back door. \"What's wrong with you?\" she demanded, putting on the brakes just short of running over her daughter's left foot. \"Have you made chowder yet? My lunch was kind of skimpy.\"\n\n\"I haven't had time to clean the clams,\" Judith said. \"I was just about to do it. We'll have chowder for dinner.\"\n\n\"Make enough for my lunch tomorrow, too,\" Gertrude ordered, ignoring Sweetums, who was weaving in and out under the motorized wheelchair. \"Or did Arlene and Carl get clams, too?\"\n\n\"They did,\" Judith replied as Phyliss reappeared via the dining room. \"Maybe she'll bring theirs over here.\"\n\nPhyliss wrinkled her nose. \"Clams are ungodly. Did you ever hear of our Lord multiplying the loaves and the clams? He wouldn't bother.\"\n\nGertrude took umbrage. \"You ever hear about the nectar of God? That was clam nectar. Guess you never read the Bible.\"\n\nPhyliss stiffened, clutching her cleaning rag as if she were trying to shred it. Or planning to wrap it around Gertrude's neck. \"You think I never read the Bible? Are you crazy? I read it every day. I never heard of any such thing. Or is that in your weird Catholic Bible?\"\n\nGertrude was undeterred. \"That's right. It's what the apostles drank when they played bingo. Kept 'em really juiced.\"\n\nPhyliss dropped the rag and put her hands over her ears. \"Blasphemy! I won't listen to another word!\" She rushed back through the dining room, oblivious to Sweetums, who was right behind her.\n\nGertrude laughed. \"I know how to shut up that crazy old bat. You try to reason with her. Trust me, kiddo, it can't be done.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't tease Phyliss,\" Judith said. \"Someday she might really get mad and quit. I don't know what I'd do without her.\"\n\nGertrude was still chuckling. \"I know what I can do with her\u2014and that's get her goat. Hey, at my age I need to have a little fun now and then. And yes, I do know it's 'nectar of the gods.' One of those Greek myth things, if what's left of my memory still works.\"\n\n\"Your memory works just fine when you want it to,\" Judith said, picking up the rag that Phyliss had dropped. \"I suppose you're looking forward to having Carl and Arlene here.\"\n\n\"You bet. They treat me right.\"\n\nJudith looked down at her mother. \"And I don't?\"\n\n\"That depends,\" Gertrude replied. \"Are we playing bridge tonight?\"\n\n\"I have to ask Renie and Aunt Deb if they can come.\"\n\n\"As annoying as Deb can be, she's not as lippy as Vance. As for my dingbat niece, she's a decent cardplayer, but don't tell her I said that. Fact is, compared to Serena, you're kind of mealymouthed. You may look like me, but she speaks her mind more like I do. Don't tell her that either. She might get swellheaded.\"\n\n\"I won't,\" Judith promised.\n\n\"Okay.\" Gertrude revved up her wheelchair. \"In that case, I'll go back to my so-called cardboard box of an apartment and start marking the cards. See you in the funny papers.\" She rolled off, just as Sweetums meandered out of the dining room before streaking through the kitchen and down the hall.\n\nTwo of a kind, her mother and the cat. Both were old and ornery, but still lovable.\n\nThere was no bridge game that Thursday night. Judith ended up with an unexpected party of four at the last minute. Two couples from Santa Barbara had arrived at a B&B across the ship canal only to discover there was a power outage in the neighborhood and no word on how long it would last.\n\nMeanwhile, Renie had flat-out rejected the cardplaying get-together because she wanted to finish another annual report project before leaving town. Aunt Deb couldn't make it because some old friends had dropped in unexpectedly from the eastern part of the state and stayed on for dinner. Gertrude was disappointed, but Judith consoled her by promising to bring back some of her favorite chocolates from the candy store on Whoopee Island.\n\nBy the time Judith had taken care of her guests' needs, made dinner, consulted with the Rankerses, played three games of cribbage with Gertrude, checked her larder, packed a suitcase, discovered Sweetums hiding under the kitchen sink, and listened to her mother's lecture about not picking up sailors on the island, it was going on midnight. She dragged herself up to bed, but couldn't settle down. She wondered if Joe and Bill had arrived in Auckland. Trying to figure out the time changes finally put her to sleep.\n\nMorning came too soon. Routine was the only thing that got Judith through serving breakfast. She put herself on autopilot, wearing a smile she hoped didn't look like it belonged to a robot and praying that her natural empathy for people would come through. Apparently, it did. The guests all seemed cheerful\u2014except Jack Larrabee, of course.\n\nArlene arrived just after ten thirty. \"You told me you wanted to leave before eleven,\" she said, slipping out of her all-weather jacket. \"Have the departing guests checked out?\"\n\n\"All but a reporter named Larrabee who should be coming down shortly,\" Judith replied. \"He's moving on up north today.\"\n\n\"How far north?\" Arlene inquired, looking suspicious.\n\n\"Uh ... I'm not sure, but eventually he'll go to a couple of cities in British Columbia. He's writing a newspaper series for people who want to visit our part of the world.\"\n\nArlene's blue eyes danced. \"Wonderful! I love to see the tourists come to town. I always tell them this is the best city to visit while they're on vacation. Did you tell him about the recent measles epidemic?\"\n\n\"Darn. I left that out. You'll get your chance with him. Don't forget the bicyclists who think they own the streets, yet ignore traffic laws.\"\n\nArlene nodded. \"The two-wheeled assassins. Yes, I could hardly omit them. What about the tolls on the floating bridge? When the bridges don't sink, of course.\"\n\n\"I forgot that, too. You're going to have quite a list.\"\n\nArlene's pretty face lit up. \"Oh, I can think of so many things! Most of our streets have lumps, potholes, and cracks. Those huge cranes that occasionally collapse at all the construction sites, the dangerous old viaduct, the changes with no warning when a one-way street suddenly becomes a two-way ... Goodness, I could go on forever.\n\nJudith gripped Arlene's shoulder. \"If anybody can do it, you can. I'm going now.\"\n\n\"Just hope the ferry doesn't run into a smaller boat or go aground ... again,\" Arlene called after her. \"Have a wonderful trip!\"\n\nJudith felt more alert after driving her Subaru over the top of the hill and halfway down the north side to Renie's house. She honked twice in front of the Joneses' Dutch colonial. And waited. She honked again. Another minute passed before she decided to see if knocking would rouse her cousin. But as Judith started to turn off the ignition, Renie staggered onto the porch, managed to let the storm door slam her halfway back inside, cussed a blue streak, dropped her keys, and scrambled around to pick them up by the milk box. When she finally fell into the passenger seat, she was panting.\n\n\"Stupid mornings,\" she muttered. \"I hate them. They come too damned early.\"\n\nJudith waited to speak until they were crossing the old stone bridge above the gully. \"Have you heard from Bill yet?\" she asked.\n\n\"Bill who?\" Renie growled.\n\n\"Your husband.\"\n\n\"Are you kidding? He hates the phone. What's wrong with this seat belt? It's busted.\"\n\nJudith braked at the six-way stop before making the loop to the main drag that led to the freeway. \"You're putting it in backward.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Renie finally clicked herself in. \"What about Joe?\"\n\n\"Nothing yet. Maybe they'll wait until they get to the fishing resort. What took you so long to come to the door?\"\n\n\"I had to say good-bye to Oscar. He's miffed because he didn't get to go to New Zealand. Frankly, he's not a good traveler. Bill decided not to take him anywhere after we went to Vegas and he had Oscar sit next to him at the blackjack table. The little twerp wouldn't let go of the silver dollar Bill gave him. It caused quite a scene when\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop. Please. I was just getting into a good mood for a change. I don't want to hear any more anecdotes about your stuffed ape.\"\n\nRenie folded her arms across her chest and pouted briefly. \"You might at least ask about Clarence.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Judith agreed. \"He's a real live animal. Who's caring for your bunny?\"\n\n\"A De Rosario grandkid from around the corner. Clarence is fairly self-sufficient. He puts himself to bed at night, you know.\"\n\n\"Very clever of him,\" Judith allowed for the sake of peace while she maneuvered into a steady stream of northbound traffic.\n\nThe cousins both were silent until they reached the freeway. Judith had thought it best to allow time for Renie to regain complete consciousness. Otherwise, they might get into an argument that would set the trip off on a wrong note.\n\nIt was Renie who finally spoke while Judith maneuvered around heavy northbound traffic. \"I'm not sure I understood the issue with the homeowners at Obsession Shores. Is it a vote on whether or not to put in a sewer system instead of septic tanks?\"\n\n\"That sounds right to me,\" Judith agreed. \"Of course there are probably some personality clashes involved.\"\n\n\"We've met some of the neighbors over the years,\" Renie said. \"Dick and Jane Sedgewick come to mind. Did Auntie Vance mention them?\"\n\n\"No. Maybe they're part of the snow-bird group that goes to California or Arizona this time of year. Oh\u2014the Friedmans. Sarah and Mel, right? They live close to the beach.\"\n\n\"Yes, cute gabled cottage.\" Renie didn't speak again until they'd passed the city limits. \"I'm trying to remember the name of that couple Auntie Vance didn't like. They live across the road and always shoo the deer over to her garden to nibble on the rosebushes.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"The Leonettis. I don't know if I ever heard their first names. Auntie Vance always called them something unprintable.\"\n\n\"She calls a lot of people names like that,\" Renie said, \"including most of us in the family. At least we know she loves us. In the Leonettis' case, venom is in her voice.\"\n\n\"The Bennetts,\" Judith blurted. \"That name just came back to me. They started out as summer people, but moved to the island when he retired. I don't remember much about them except that they lived directly below Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince.\"\n\nRenie grew thoughtful. \"He owned his own company. For some reason, I remember that. What was it ... ?\" She finally shook her head. \"Some kind of manufacturing, but I don't recall what they made.\"\n\n\"Trouble?\" Judith said.\n\n\"I hope not. Once we cast our votes tonight, I assume we could head home tomorrow.\"\n\nJudith glanced at Renie. \"Do you really want to do that? I'd like to stay through the weekend. It's been three years since Joe and I took Mike and his family to the island. The grandkids loved it. Besides, I figure Auntie Vance will want a full report of reactions to the voting results and the meeting itself.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Renie agreed. \"If we do that, we should wait to go back Monday morning. Ferry traffic Sunday night can be ugly. It's a short crossing, but they don't have superferrys on the route.\"\n\nJudith signaled for the turn off the freeway that would lead them to the dock. \"We might as well stay in the car,\" she said.\n\n\"Not me. I'm going up to get popcorn. I'm hungry.\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\nThey lapsed into silence until they were in the lane that led to the terminal. They noticed a security officer with a sniffer dog going from car to car, a precaution that had begun after the tragic events of 9/11. Man and dog passed by them with only a glance. And presumably a sniff.\n\nA ferry was heading into the dock. Judith surveyed the half-dozen lanes of vehicles waiting to go aboard. \"We're lucky. We'll make this one.\"\n\n\"It's not yet noon,\" Renie remarked, checking her watch. \"The rush will be on a little later. You sure you got the right senior fare for us?\"\n\n\"How could I get the wrong one?\"\n\n\"Just asking. If I'm getting old, I want my perks.\"\n\n\"It isn't as if there are two different rates for seniors. You expect 'old' and 'really old'?\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact,\" Renie said, \"I suspect that'll happen the way people are living so long. You do realize that there are now two generations of so-called seniors. Everybody fusses about the baby boomers gobbling up all the Social Security. They should work longer.\"\n\n\"What about young people looking for jobs?\" Judith asked in a reasonable voice.\n\n\"Most of them don't know what they want to major in, assuming they're going to college. Why not a one- or two-year public-service requirement for both sexes? Why doesn't anybody except me have good ideas?\"\n\n\"May I remind you that both our husbands took advantage of retirement at sixty-two?\" Judith pointed out.\n\n\"True\u2014and it galled me. But they're still earning, with Joe doing PI work and Bill seeing a few of his nutty patients. The only glitch is he nods off more often while they're unloading their problems on him.\"\n\nThe ferry had docked. The disembarking foot passengers came off first, followed by a long double line of vehicles that included a school bus, a moving van, and a cement mixer.\n\nTen minutes later the cousins were aboard and on their way across the Sound. Renie immediately got out to search for popcorn on the second deck. Luckily, Judith had been able to pull into an outside lane where she could get a porthole view of the water. She felt the engines kick into high gear after they cleared the docking area. The only other vessel she could see was some kind of freighter heading south toward the city. Seagulls swooped and squawked as they circled the water for food. Or, she thought, waiting for Renie to appear on deck with her popcorn. Her cousin tended to be a messy eater.\n\nJudith's attention was diverted by a man getting out of his SUV a couple of cars ahead of her. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He, too, headed toward the stairway that led to the upper deck.\n\nRenie returned by the time the ferry had slowed as it approached the dock in the little town of Cliffton. \"Wanthum?\" she asked, thrusting the almost-empty paper bag at Judith.\n\n\"No thanks,\" she replied, long ago having learned to understand her cousin when she talked with her mouth full. \"Those six kernels might spoil my appetite for lunch.\"\n\n\"Lun,\" Renie said, emptying the bag. \"Wheh?\"\n\n\"At the Webers,\" Judith said. \"Didn't Auntie Vance tell you she had a ton of food waiting for us?\"\n\nRenie swallowed. \"Yes, but I thought it might be fun to eat at the Chowder House up on the hill above the dock. It is twelve thirty.\"\n\n\"We can go there for dinner if you really want to eat out.\"\n\n\"No, we can't. The meeting's at seven. We'd be rushed.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow night, maybe,\" Judith offered.\n\n\"Okay. We could go into Langton instead. They have more restaurants. It's always fun to shop in their little stores and boutiques. I always like to go to the Sun Store, where they ... hey, I know that guy,\" Renie said, nodding at the man Judith had seen get out of his SUV. \"That's ... I forget.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I thought I recognized him, but I don't remember his name.\"\n\n\"Neither do I. It's Eddie or Edgar or something like that.\"\n\n\"The only thing I remember about him is that he looked a little like my father,\" Judith said. \"Same height, same weight, glasses.\"\n\nRenie smiled. \"Uncle Donald was better-looking.\"\n\n\"True,\" Judith agreed as the ferry bumped some of the pilings leading into the dock. \"I suppose we should call on some of the people we actually know, like the Sedgewicks and the Friedmans. They should be able to tell us more about who's for and who's against this sewer line.\"\n\n\"I can't figure out why anyone would be for it, especially if there are so many retirees living at Obsession Shores,\" Renie said as the cars began to disembark. \"Unless they're all rich, that's a pricey idea.\"\n\n\"Well ...\" Judith turned the ignition key. \"We had a septic tank at one of our seedy rentals in the Thurlow district. They can cause problems. We had our share even though Dan and I lived there less than a year before we got evicted.\"\n\n\"How many times were you kicked out during your ill-fated union with Dan? I forget, if only because he was such a jackass that he never let any of us visit while you spent nineteen years in exile from the rest of the family. The only house I saw was when Bill and I came out the night Dan died and listened to the rats partying inside the walls.\"\n\nJudith didn't answer right away, waiting her turn to get off of the ferry. Her marriage to Dan McMonigle wasn't her favorite topic of conversation. She'd met him while she was already engaged to Joe. As a rookie cop, his first encounter with OD'ed tenagers had led to his own overdosing on Scotch in a nearby bar. The woman known to Judith as Herself\u2014Vivian\u2014had promptly hijacked Joe to Vegas. When Joe sobered up, he discovered he was married to the wrong woman. In what seemed like a gallant effort at the time, Dan offered to marry Judith despite the fact that she was carrying Joe's baby. It didn't take her long to realize that his chivalry had been motivated by his quest for a meal ticket. Dan had a severe allergy to work.\n\n\"We were evicted only three times,\" Judith said as they followed the other vehicles up the hill and away from the dock. \"Of course we actually lost the first house that we'd bought while Dan was still running The Meat & Mingle Caf\u00e9. You may recall he forgot he had to make regular mortgage payments. Not to mention that he got into trouble with the IRS after the caf\u00e9 went under.\"\n\n\"It all comes back to me now,\" Renie murmured. \"I have trouble remembering because I've spent so much time trying to forget what you went through all those years. I could only talk to you on the phone late at night after Dan went to sleep\u2014or passed out.\"\n\n\"Just as well,\" Judith said. \"Joe's marriage to Herself was equally miserable. She drank as much as Dan did. Still does, as far as I can tell, but at least now she guzzles in her Florida condo on the Gulf.\"\n\n\"Just as well.\" Renie leaned forward in her seat. \"Do you remember where we turn to get to Obsession Shores?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"I make a left and then another left. It's toward the south end of the island, but on the side with the western exposure.\"\n\n\"That sounds right,\" Renie agreed, rubbernecking along the winding road. \"Wow. There's been a lot of building around here since I was on the island. Of course some people commute to the mainland.\"\n\n\"We're on Worthless Bay Road,\" Judith said. \"I've never figured out why the native tribes called the bay worthless.\"\n\n\"Maybe they were looking for gold,\" Renie suggested. \"Or couldn't get a permit for a floating casino.\"\n\nJudith darted an ironic glance at her cousin. \"Good thing they didn't. You'd spend all your time gambling while we're up here.\"\n\n\"I only go to a casino when Anne's in town and I can bond with my daughter. Or when Bill has a yen to play baccarat. Or when\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop,\" Judith broke in. \"I vividly recall your manic gambling mode when we all went to the Stillasnowamish Casino by the family cabins.\"\n\n\"Oh, that.\" Renie looked out the window. \"I see the bay.\"\n\nJudith smiled. \"I feel better already. It must be the saltwater air.\"\n\n\"Oh? Interesting, given that you haven't rolled down the window or gotten out of the car since we left home. Or does the absence of rain improve your disposition?\"\n\n\"You know the rain doesn't bother me. I'm a native, like you. Besides, the sky looks very gray and gloomy. I expect it'll rain before the day is out.\"\n\n\"No doubt.\" Renie leaned forward. \"Slow down. There's the sign for Obsession Shores.\"\n\n\"Got it.\" Judith braked and hit her right-turn signal. \"What the ...\" She frowned as she saw a sheet of paper that had been attached to the sign. \"Am I crazy or is that a skull and crossbones?\"\n\nRenie gaped at the crudely drawn artwork. \"It sure is. Gee, coz, you may be back in business.\"\nChapter Three\n\n\"No!\" Judith shrieked. \"Did you forget I retired from sleuthing last fall? The only reason I got involved back then was because Joe wanted to solve it for Woody's sake. It was his partner's first unsolved homicide.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Renie scowled. \"Why are you stopping?\"\n\nJudith smirked. \"To read the small print under the skull and crossbones. 'Say Nay to the Naysayers.' It's politics about the sewer vote.\"\n\nRenie leaned over to read the sign for herself. \"That's a gruesome way to win voters.\"\n\nJudith released the brake, heading down the gentle hill above the beach. \"This isn't some ritzy enclave,\" she said. \"These people are mostly blue-collar types like Uncle Vince, with a few upscale folks who like the setting and the proximity to the ferry.\" She nodded to her right, where an older gray three-story house sat on the edge of the forest. \"There's a height restriction to prevent blocking the view. Whoever owns that place wanted a bigger house and had to build away from the beach.\"\n\n\"The home on this side is much newer,\" Renie said. \"Don't look or you'll hit the mailboxes. It's octagonal with lots of glass and stonework. Nice, really, if you like that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"I'll take your artist's word for it until I can see for myself.\" Judith took a left into the paved driveway that led to the Webers' garage. \"I suppose Uncle Vince's little boat is down on the beach.\"\n\n\"It's been beached as long as I can remember,\" Renie said, collecting her purse from the car floor. \"If there's even the slightest hint of a big wave or a whitecap, he insists it's too choppy out there.\"\n\nJudith undid her seat belt and opened the car door. \"In all the years they've been up here, I think I've only been out in that boat once.\"\n\nRenie waited to comment until she'd grabbed her overnight bag and had gotten out of the Subaru. \"That sounds about right. I got seasick, which probably heightened Uncle Vince's fear of going far enough out that he was no longer scraping bottom.\"\n\n\"Auntie Vance insists the boat's not seaworthy,\" Judith said as they started up the stairs leading to the house's main floor. She paused to sniff the air. \"It does feel different, doesn't it?\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"There's a saltwater tang to it. Fresh and yet sort of pungent. You got the key?\"\n\nJudith stared at Renie. \"No. I thought Auntie Vance gave it to you. She was at your place after she left Hillside Manor.\"\n\n\"She never mentioned a key to me.\"\n\n\"Damn!\" Judith scrutinized the twenty-foot-long deck where Renie was already making a search. \"Any luck?\" she asked.\n\nRenie shook her head as she peered into various seashells, under the doormat, and between pieces of driftwood. \"You're stuck relying on the lockpicking skills you honed while married to Dan.\"\n\n\"I'm rusty,\" Judith admitted, digging in her purse for an item that would trip the lock. \"I haven't done this in ages, unlike when I had to open Dan's safe every week to see if there was money for food.\"\n\n\"I've got my trusty nail scissors,\" Renie volunteered.\n\n\"I can't seem to find anything that will do the job. Give me the ...\"\n\nRenie turned the knob. The door opened. \"Voil\u00e0!\" she exclaimed.\n\nJudith stared. \"How'd you know it was open?\"\n\n\"I didn't. But it never hurts to try.\"\n\nThe cousins entered the big paneled room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. The house plan was simple: the master bedroom off the living room section, a half bath, and a hallway with a guest room at one end and the laundry room at the other. The main bath was in the middle. There was also a partial basement that was entered from the garage, but had no access from the main floor. The furnishings were comfortable and solid. Auntie Vance wasn't one for flash and dash. Uncle Vince could go to sleep anywhere.\n\nJudith espied a note on the kitchen counter. Hi, Idiots, their aunt had scrawled. We took off this morning at five and figured nobody would bother robbing us because we don't have anything worth taking, so we left the door unlocked. If we gave you two boobs a key, you'd probably lose it. Have fun and stay out of trouble. XXX OOO, Auntie Vance.\n\n\"Typical,\" Judith said, laughing. \"I don't think I've ever heard of a break-in around here.\"\n\n\"It's a small community,\" Renie noted, setting her overnight case, tote bag, and purse on the floor. \"Maybe fifty houses, and some aren't occupied all year. I never heard of a neighborhood watch, but they probably don't need one. Obsession Shores is off the beaten track.\"\n\nJudith gazed through the big window that faced Worthless Bay, the Sound, and the mountains over on the Peninsula. \"From what I can tell, the tide's either almost in or starting to go back out.\"\n\n\"Check the bulletin board,\" Renie said, opening the fridge. \"There should be a tide table there some place. Oh, wow! Auntie Vance made us her clam chowder. A green salad to go with it. Let's eat.\"\n\nJudith found the side table in plain sight while Renie put a kettle on the stove to heat the chowder. \"Low tide is at ten to two.\"\n\n\"We can walk the beach later on,\" Renie suggested, finding a box of crackers in the cupboard by the stove. \"The tide won't come all the way in again until this evening. Of course, you'll want to start meeting and greeting the suspects. I mean, neighbors.\"\n\n\"Don't say things like that,\" Judith said sharply. \"Are you looking for trouble?\"\n\nRenie shrugged. \"We do have a way of finding it. Sometimes.\"\n\n\"For once, let's not,\" Judith said in her normal voice. \"The last thing I want is a dead body to spoil my improving mood.\"\n\nRenie was putting bowls and silverware on the table in the dining area. \"You're rarely in a funk. What set you off besides the normal postholiday blues? Joe? Your mother? Do you feel okay otherwise, aside from your artificial hip sometimes bothering you?\"\n\nJudith sat down, but waited for Renie to take her own place at the big pine table. \"Well ... physically, I feel okay. The last few days getting Joe ready for the trip have been hectic. I admit I was kind of jealous of him going off without me. Did it bother you to have Bill take such a big vacation while you stayed home?\"\n\nRenie shook her head. \"Heck no. It's good for him to get away from me once in a while. Sometimes I drive him nuts and vice versa. You and Joe haven't been married for almost forty years. We have. I miss Bill, and I'll be glad when he gets back. An occasional break does us both good.\" She glanced at the stove. \"Let me get the chowder.\"\n\n\"I understand that,\" Judith said. \"I resented the money Joe spent at the auction, but given the actual cost of the trip, it was insignificant. Now that he's gone and I'm not in my usual B&B whirl, I'm happy for him. Except for a long weekend up in Vancouver, we haven't had a real vacation since we all went to Scotland almost two years ago.\"\n\n\"So,\" Renie said, her brown eyes probing as she sat down after pouring the chowder, \"what is it that set you off?\"\n\n\"Ohhh ...\" Judith ran a hand through her shoulder-length dark hair with its pale gold highlights. \"This sounds stupid, but I think I'm still mad at myself for flubbing that cold case and fingering the wrong killer. I've never made a mistake like that in all my years of accidentally getting mixed up in murder.\"\n\nRenie looked as if she were trying not to laugh. \"No kidding. Gosh, coz, you only missed by choosing one prime suspect over the other. Your usual logic and keen people skills made the solution fit perfectly. Both of those two people had motive, opportunity, and not quite airtight alibis.\"\n\n\"I still got it wrong,\" Judith asserted. \"I should've stayed retired. I've gone out a loser.\"\n\nRenie held her head. \"That's about the dopiest thing I've heard from you. Unless I count saying yes to Dan when he proposed.\"\n\n\"It galls me to screw up a murder investigation.\"\n\n\"Please. You're ruining my taste buds for Auntie Vance's chowder.\"\n\n\"Nothing could do that. Skip it. If I remember, Dick and Jane Sedgewick live in the second house down on the right as you enter Obsession Shores. I mean, if we walk up there, they'd be on the left.\"\n\n\"That sounds right,\" Renie said, brushing cracker crumbs off her nubby green, gold, and bronze sweater. \"Or left, I mean.\"\n\nJudith got up to go to the counter that divided part of the kitchen from the rest of the larger room. \"Auntie Vance keeps all her important stuff here with the phone books and catalogs and ... ah! Here's a list of homeowners in the development. And,\" she went on with a hint of triumph, \"I found a copy of the measure we're voting on.\"\n\n\"Spare me,\" Renie said. \"All I need is to know is no.\"\n\nJudith sat down again. \"Don't you want to be informed?\"\n\n\"No. No, no, no.\" Renie viciously speared a lettuce leaf with her fork. \"You think I haven't had to work on designs for conning people into voting whatever way I was dragooned by earning big bucks from whichever civic or public utility outfit hired me?\"\n\n\"Fine. I'd like to know the details.\" Judith downed more chowder while reading through the proposal. \"It sounds clear to me. This measure is to establish a private nonprofit sewer system to serve the\u2014\"\n\nRenie held up a hand. \"Serves them right if it's passed. I get it.\"\n\nJudith put the single sheet of paper aside. \"Has it occurred to you that this could be a good thing?\"\n\n\"No. You want Auntie Vance to kill us for treason? If she and Uncle Vince are against it, I'm with them.\"\n\n\"I'm considering the opposition,\" Judith said reasonably. \"Some of these other people might really prefer sewer lines. Not to mention the properties that don't percolate, so that a septic tank isn't an option. Over the years the forest has reclaimed the land they couldn't sell. You may recall that when the Webers were talking about building up here, my parents considered buying in, too. But the site they were looking at didn't perc. Then my father died and Mother lost heart in the idea.\"\n\n\"Your mother had a heart back then? I always wondered where it went. And no, I don't remember that. I was in high school at the time.\"\n\n\"No, you weren't. You'd graduated from college.\"\n\n\"So I was too caught up making serious money by creating graphic designs for brain-dead corner-office types.\"\n\n\"That sounds right. Are you finished with your latest foray into piggery?\"\n\n\"Hey, I didn't spill much.\" Renie stood up. \"Let's go be neighborly.\"\n\n\"At least you didn't dress in your usual nonprofessional bumlike wardrobe,\" Judith noted as they cleared the table.\n\n\"I figured we were going public,\" Renie said, opening the dishwasher. \"A lot of these people must be really old. I don't want to scare them.\"\n\n\"Sometimes your bummy outfits scare me.\"\n\nRenie made no comment. The cousins put on their jackets and headed outside. After closing the door, Judith grimaced. \"I don't like not locking up. But we have no key. Does that bother you?\"\n\n\"Kind of,\" Renie admitted. \"But if that's how the locals live, I guess it shouldn't worry us. We're used to living in a big city, surrounded by the everyday threat of criminal activity. It keeps us alert.\"\n\nThe cousins took their time walking alongside the road. Overhead, the clouds were getting lower and darker. Accustomed to the gray of winter, neither Judith nor Renie paid much attention. The old joke was that the standard forecast was \"overcast with a high of fifty-five, a low of forty-three, and a ninety percent chance of rain.\" It was more of as truism than a joke during much of the year.\n\nAs they turned to follow the stone walkway to the front door, Judith glanced back to take in the view. \"Maybe a storm is coming this way,\" she noted. Moving figures crossing the main road halfway to the beach caught her eye. \"Some clam diggers are out. A couple of people are pushing somebody in a wheelchair. Do you recognize them?\"\n\nRenie made a face. \"From here? I'm farsighted, but they look like blobs to me.\"\n\nJudith shrugged and kept going. Dick and Jane Sedgewick were out on their deck, arguing about something. \"Hey,\" Dick called, waving at the cousins, \"button it up, Jane. We've got company. It looks like the Webers' nieces. I'll be damned.\"\n\n\"You probably will be,\" Jane said with a cutting glance at her husband. \"Hi, girls! Come on up. It's almost cocktail time.\"\n\n\"At one thirty?\" Renie called back as they approached the staircase. \"Isn't that kind of early?\"\n\n\"Not at Obsession Shores,\" Dick shot back with a grin. He was a big, hearty man with a full head of steel-gray hair. \"We figure anytime is cocktail time during the winter.\"\n\nJane took what Judith hoped was a playful punch at her husband's midsection. \"Don't listen to my bitter half. He wishes we could drink a lot more, but his ulcer and my high blood pressure have short-circuited our former party days. Come on in. We're trying to decide if this piece of so-called driftwood he picked up this morning is a coiled cobra or a worn-out tire. Dick doesn't see so well anymore, but I figure the Firestone imprint gives it away.\"\n\n\"Damn!\" Dick exclaimed. \"I should wear my trifocals when I go for a morning stroll, but they get blurred when it's foggy.\"\n\n\"You're foggy, Lover Boy,\" Jane said, taking Dick's arm as they ushered their guests inside. \"Vance told us you were going to stand in for them at the meeting tonight. I just hope you can stand the meeting. It's going to get ugly.\"\n\nJudith smiled. Ugly was not a word that would describe Jane Sedgewick. Age had not diminished her tall, voluptuous figure or her auburn-haired beauty. The silver streaks among her natural curls only emphasized the sparkle in her hazel eyes.\n\n\"Come into the nook,\" Dick said, leading the way past the kitchen with its gleaming black appliances. \"We call it our 'love nest,' but,\" he added, \"sometimes with my wife, it's more like a 'crow's nest.' Either way works with me.\" He slapped Jane's rear.\n\n\"Just don't say Old Crow,\" she murmured. \"I make a mean hot toddy. Real rum for this occasion. How about it, girls?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Judith said. \"Can I help?\"\n\nJane looked askance, but her hazel eyes danced. \"You think I'm doddering?\"\n\n\"I probably dodder more than you do,\" Judith replied. \"Hip replacement, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah, I remember Vance telling me about that. Dick got a new knee last year. Go ahead, you can help carry the mugs,\" she continued as they backtracked into the kitchen. \"Renie will entertain Dick. She's a sport, as I remember.\"\n\n\"She is that,\" Judith agreed. \"Speaking of sports, she and I should probably know who to watch out for as the enemy tonight.\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll be hard to miss,\" Jane said, turning on the teakettle. \"Of course, we don't know how everybody will vote. Some of these people are virtual strangers. That is, they're mostly a younger crowd, second generation of the original owners, or newcomers. They tend to keep to themselves.\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Typical, I imagine. Are there many children living here these days? In the early years after Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince moved up here, there weren't any young families.\"\n\n\"It's like everywhere else in this part of the country\u2014lots of newcomers moving in from all over the place.\" She paused to get a bottle of rum from a well-stocked liquor cabinet. \"As time went on, more people with children inherited or bought in. The school bus stops here now. There are about two dozen kids who ride it. That's quite a change in the last six, seven years. Until then, the only children we saw were usually just visiting.\"\n\nThe teakettle whistled. Jane made the drinks while telling Judith to grab a notepad from the kitchen drawer near the phone. \"You'll want to write down the names,\" she said. \"I don't know everybody, but I can at least identify some of the players, both pro and con sewers.\"\n\n\"Got it,\" Judith said, finding a ruled notepad on top of some kitchen appliance manuals. \"By the way, who's the old guy we saw being pushed by a couple on the way up here?\"\n\n\"Quentin Quimby,\" Jane replied. \"He's in his midnineties, but he can still walk. He'd rather ride, though, so his son and daughter-in-law have to push him around.\" She paused and laughed. \"Wrong term. Nobody pushes that old guy around. He's ornery, but he may be on our side against the sewer line. Unless he changes his mind, of course. His wife died a few years ago. Frankly, we thought she'd finally run away.\"\n\n\"Gosh,\" Judith said, \"maybe my mother would like to date him. They'd make a good pair. They could have an ornery competition.\"\n\nJane smiled. \"As I recall, your mother is a character. I like her.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" Judith agreed as Jane handed her two steaming mugs. \"But she sometimes frustrates me.\"\n\n\"Understood.\" Jane's expression was bemused. \"Sort of like being married a long time.\"\n\nGoing back into the nook, Judith and Jane joined Renie and Dick, who were talking about his former career in construction for a regional company specializing in skyscrapers.\n\n\"Never did like heights,\" Dick was saying. \"They had to make me a foreman because I wouldn't get off the ground.\"\n\nAfter handing out the steaming mugs, Jane called for attention. \"Let's get back down to earth, Dick,\" she said, sitting in a wicker-back chair. \"As in what should go in the ground around here. Friedmans against.\" She glanced at the cousins. \"You know them, right?\"\n\nJudith nodded. \"Are they around this afternoon?\"\n\n\"No,\" Jane said. \"They went into town to see Mel's doctor. He has to have elbow surgery.\"\n\nDick held up a finger. \"The Logans, Kent and Suzie. Dark green house one up from the beach and four over from this road on your left. He's an attorney, still practicing part-time. She's a pianist, still practicing the damned thing. She'll never get it right. I can't think how she made any kind of living off that when it sounds like she's wearing boxing gloves.\"\n\n\"The Johnsons, Charles and May,\" Jane put in. \"Older than God, but still sharp. You remember them? They're four doors past your aunt and uncle with about twenty hummingbird feeders around their house.\"\n\nJudith frowned. \"Um ... not offhand, but I might know them when I see them.\" She looked at Renie. \"How about you, coz?\"\n\n\"I'm blank,\" Renie replied.\n\n\"No problem,\" Dick said. \"In fact, maybe the best way is for you two to sit with us tonight and we'll clue you in as we go along.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Judith agreed after tasting her toddy. \"This is delicious,\" she added, smiling at Jane.\n\nHer hostess shrugged. \"I still had some mix left over from the holidays. We might as well use it up. It doesn't keep forever.\"\n\nRenie held out her mug. \"I already finished mine. How about a refill? I wouldn't want what you have left to go to waste.\"\n\n\"It won't go to your waist,\" Judith asserted, then turned to her hosts. \"She eats like a hog and never gains an ounce. It drives me nuts.\"\n\nThe Sedgewicks both laughed while Renie curled her lip at Judith. \"Go get it,\" Jane said. \"There's just enough left for a refill.\"\n\n\"I'll do that,\" Renie said, and exited the nook.\n\nJudith glanced at a note she'd made on the tablet. \"I'd like to know about one pro-sewer couple\u2014the Crowleys. Auntie Vance mentioned them in particular. What's their story?\"\n\nDick made a face. \"They're younger, late thirties, got two kids\u2014a boy and a girl\u2014who go to the grade school. They live next door to Mel and Sarah Friedman. Big on the environment, which I guess is why they want sewers. I don't know how that makes a difference, but it does to them.\"\n\nJudith nodded once. \"The Bennetts? Pro or con?\"\n\n\"Not sure. Kind of an odd couple. Been here a long time, but I don't know their take on this deal.\"\n\nRenie returned to the nook. \"Hey, coz,\" she said, \"ask about the guy we recognized from the ferry.\"\n\nJudith paused before offering a description. \"Older man, average size, glasses, and his name was something like Eddie or Edgar.\"\n\nJane was quick to answer. \"Ernie Glover. He and Edna used to be summer people before he retired from the state working as an auditor. He's on our side, so his wife probably is, too.\"\n\nJudith made another note. \"Is there one person who seems to be leading the charge for the sewer line?\"\n\nJane and Dick exchanged inquiring glances. He held up a hand, indicating his wife should answer the question.\n\n\"It's hard to tell,\" Jane admitted. \"The most vocal\u2014or maybe the loudest\u2014is Zach Bendarek. Kind of goofy, but likable.\"\n\n\"Ex-football player,\" Dick said. \"Probably didn't remember to put on his helmet before he got off the bench and into the game. Went on from the University to play in the pros for a few years before his knees went south. Wife's a little squirt of a thing.\" He glanced at Renie. \"Even littler than you, but cute.\"\n\n\"I'm not cute?\" Renie shot back. \"Watch it.\"\n\nDick chuckled. \"Hell, you always had a mouth on you, right? Not as bad as Vance, though. She's a damned hoot.\"\n\n\"She certainly is,\" Judith asserted, looking out the window. \"As long as the Friedmans aren't home, Renie and I should get our beach walk in now. It looks like it's going to pour fairly soon.\"\n\n\"It's that time of year,\" Jane said. \"But then it can rain up here almost any time of the year except July and August.\"\n\nThe Sedgewicks saw the cousins out the door. \"If you run low on food,\" Jane called out as they went down the steps, \"come to dinner while you're here. But knowing Vance, you're well stocked.\"\n\n\"We definitely are,\" Judith shouted back. \"See you at the meeting.\"\n\n\"Nice people,\" Renie commented as they walked down the road to the beach. \"They're holding up quite well.\"\n\n\"They enjoy sparring with each other.\" Judith glanced at Renie. \"Kind of reminds me of you and Bill.\"\n\n\"We don't spar, we viciously attack. Verbally, I mean.\"\n\n\"No, you don't. You two just have bigger vocabularies.\" Judith glanced at both sides of the road. \"It's quiet around here. Everybody seems to be hunkering down. Maybe they know a big storm is coming.\"\n\n\"You're used to being up here in the summer when the weather's good,\" Renie said. \"Careful with the steps to the beach.\"\n\n\"Right. You go first so that if I fall I'll land on\u2014\"\n\n\"Yeah, yeah,\" Renie shot back. \"I'm the human buffer.\"\n\nJudith held on to the railing and made short work of the ten steps. \"The wind's come up,\" she noted. \"Shall we see if we can find Uncle Vince's boat?\"\n\n\"Why not? He always tied it up over there by that big log. In fact, I can see it from here. Barely. Maybe nothing's left but the prow. No loss. Watch your step. There's always a lot of junk that washes up on the beach. Or what slobs leave after they've frolicked here. Unfortunately, it's not a private beach. Anybody can access it without coming through the development if they're willing to walk a bit.\"\n\n\"There's nobody out here now that I can see,\" Judith said. \"At least the sand isn't very wet this close to dry land. Have you noticed all the new construction on the north side of the bay by Scratchit Head?\"\n\n\"Yes, growth everywhere you look.\" Renie kicked at a discarded beer can. \"If I hadn't been raised by My Mother the Germaphobe, I'd pick that up and take it back to the garbage. Look over there,\" she said, pointing to a bundle of clothes. \"Somebody must have left their laundry by that big piece of driftwood.\"\n\nJudith peered at what looked like a pile of rags. \"Now, why would ...\" She paused as they got within twenty feet of the large bundle. \"Oh, coz ... I have an awful feeling.\"\n\n\"About what?\" Renie stared at Judith, then quickly walked closer. \"Good Lord!\" she exclaimed. \"It's a person!\"\n\nJudith picked up her pace. \"Is it a man?\"\n\nRenie nodded. \"He must've passed out.\" She rummaged in her purse to take out her cell.\n\nJudith moved closer to the man, who was facedown in the wet sand. A horrible yet all-too-familiar feeling overcame her. She tried to figure out if he was breathing. \"Can you take his pulse?\" she asked Renie. \"I shouldn't try to bend down that far.\"\n\nBut Renie had moved a few feet behind her, apparently calling 911. After disconnecting, she moved to Judith's side. \"I can, I guess,\" she said in a tremulous voice, \"but I don't think he's got a pulse. If he's facedown, he can't be breathing. Damn! Coz, I think you just found another freaking corpse!\"\n\nClick here to buy Clam Wake.\nAuthor's Note\n\nThe story takes place in October 2005.\nAbout the Author\n\n**MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM** is a Seattle native with a communications degree from the University of Washington. Realizing at an early age that getting published in books with real covers might elude her for years, she worked on daily newspapers and in public relations to help avoid her creditors. She lives in her hometown in a century-old house not unlike Hillside Manor, except for the body count. Daheim is also the author of the Alpine mystery series and the mother of three daughters and grandmother of two granddaughters, all of whom live within shrieking distance.\n\nwww.authormarydaheim.com\n\nVisit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.\nAlso by Mary Daheim\n\nJust Desserts\n\nFowl Prey\n\nHoly Terrors\n\nDune to Death\n\nBantam of the Opera\n\nA Fit of Tempera\n\nMajor Vices\n\nMurder, My Suite\n\nAuntie Mayhem\n\nNutty as a Fruitcake\n\nSeptember Mourn\n\nWed and Buried\n\nSnow Place to Die\n\nLegs Benedict\n\nCreeps Suzette\n\nA Streetcar Named Expire\n\nSuture Self\n\nSilver Scream\n\nHocus Croakus\n\nThis Old Souse\n\nDead Man Docking\n\nSaks & Violins\n\nScots on the Rocks\n\nVi Agra Falls\n\nLoco Motive\n\nAll the Pretty Hearses\nCredits\n\nCover design by Richard L. Aquan\n\nCover illustration by Bill Mayer\nCopyright\n\nThis book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.\n\nTHE WURST IS YET TO COME. Copyright \u00a9 2012 by Mary Daheim. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. 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{"meta": {"short_book_title": "Premature Burial and How it may be Prevented by William Tebb", "publication_date": 1868, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50460"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Giovanni Fini, deaurider and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                           PREMATURE BURIAL,\n\n                                  AND\n\n                       HOW IT MAY BE PREVENTED.\n\n\n\n\n                           PREMATURE BURIAL\n\n                                  AND\n\n                        HOW IT MAY BE PREVENTED\n\n           _WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO TRANCE, CATALEPSY, AND\n                  OTHER FORMS OF SUSPENDED ANIMATION_\n\n                                  BY\n\n                        WILLIAM TEBB, F.R.G.S.\n\n_Corresponding Member of the Royal Academy of Medical Sciences, Palermo;\n      Author of \u201cThe Recrudescence of Leprosy and its Causation\u201d_\n\n                                  AND\n\n                    COL. EDWARD PERRY VOLLUM, M.D.\n\n    _Late Medical Inspector, U.S. Army; Corresponding Member of the\n                     New York Academy of Sciences_\n\n[Illustration: LOGO]\n\n                                LONDON\n                     SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., LIM.\n                                 1896\n\n\n\n\n\u201cWhat if in the tomb I awake!\u201d--_Romeo and Juliet._\n\n\u201cHow comes it about that patients, given over as dead by their\nphysicians, sometimes recover, and that some have even returned to life\nin the very time of their funerals?\u201d--CELSUS.\n\n\u201cSuch is the condition of humanity, and so uncertain is men\u2019s judgment,\nthat they cannot determine even death itself.\u201d--PLINY.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nA DISTRESSING experience in the writer\u2019s family many years ago brought\nhome to his mind the danger of premature burial, and led ultimately\nto the careful study of a gruesome subject to which he has a strong\nnatural repugnance. His collaborator in the volume has himself passed\nthrough a state of profound suspended animation from drowning, having\nbeen laid out for dead--an experience which has induced him in like\nmanner to investigate the various death-counterfeits. The results of\nthe independent inquiries carried on by both of us in various parts\nof Europe and America, and by one of us during a sojourn in India in\nthe early part of this year, are now laid before the reader, with such\npractical suggestions as it is hoped may prepare the way for bringing\nabout certain needed reforms in our burial customs.\n\nThe danger, as I have attempted to show, is very real--to ourselves,\nto those most dear to us, and to the community in general; and it\nshould be a subject of very anxious concern how this danger may\nbe minimised or altogether prevented. The duty of taking the most\neffective precautions to this end is one that naturally falls to the\nLegislature, especially under a Government professing to regard social\nquestions as of paramount importance. Fortunately, this is a non-party\nand a non-contentious question, it imperils no interest, so that no\nformal obstruction or unnecessary delay need be apprehended; and it\nshould be urged upon the Government to introduce and carry an effective\nmeasure at the earliest opportunity, not only as a security against the\npossibility of so terrible an evil, but to quiet the widespread and not\naltogether unreasonable apprehension on this subject which is now so\nprevalent.\n\nIt has been found convenient to retain throughout the body of the work\nthe use of the singular pronoun, but every part of the book receives\nthe cordial approval of both authors, and with this explanation we\naccept its responsibility jointly.\n\nWe have to acknowledge our great indebtedness in preparing this volume\nto many previous writers, including such as have investigated the\nphenomena of suspended animation and the signs of death, and such\nas, with a more practical intention, have dwelt upon the danger of\ndeath-counterfeits being mistaken for the absolute extinction of life,\nillustrating their counsels or warnings by numerous instances. Grouping\nboth classes of writers together, we may mention specially the names of\nWinslow and Bruhier, Hufeland, Struve, Marcus Herz and K\u00f6ppen, Kite,\nCurry, and Anthony Fothergill; and, of more recent date, the names\nof Bouchut, Londe, L\u00e9normand, and Gaubert (on mortuaries), Russell\nFletcher, Franz Hartmann, and Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson.\n\nA work to which we are particularly indebted for the literature of\nthe subject is that of the late Dr. F\u00e9lix Gannal, \u201cMort Apparente\net Mort R\u00e9elle: moyens de les distinguer.\u201d Paris, 1890. Dr. Gannal,\nhaving qualified in medicine and pharmacy, occupied himself with the\nbusiness of embalming, which he inherited from his father. He employed\nthe considerable leisure which the practice of that art left to him in\ncompiling the above laborious work. He examined many books, pamphlets,\ntheses, and articles, from which he cited expressions of opinion on\nthe several points--in a lengthy form in his original edition (1868),\nin a condensed form in the second edition. His Bibliography is by\nfar the most comprehensive that has been hitherto compiled. Our own\nBibliography had been put together from various sources before we made\nuse of Dr. Gannal\u2019s. It includes several titles which he does not give;\nwhile, on the other hand, it has been considerably extended beyond its\noriginal limits by transcribing titles which we have found nowhere but\nin his list. The Bibliography, it need hardly be said, is much more\nextensive than our own reading; but it seemed useful to make it as\ncomplete as possible, whether the books had been seen by us or not, so\nas to show in chronological order how much interest had been aroused in\nthe subject from time to time--in one country more than another, or in\nvarious countries together. The titles of articles in journals, which\nbelong for the most part to the more recent period, have been taken\nfrom the Index Catalogue of the Surgeon-General\u2019s Library, Washington,\na few references being added to articles which have otherwise come\nunder our notice.\n\n  W. T.\n\n\n\n\n_CONTENTS._\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n\n  _Preface_                                                        _1_\n\n  _Introduction_                                                   _9_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER I._\n\n  _Trance_                                                        _21_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER II._\n\n  _Catalepsy_                                                     _32_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER III._\n\n  _Animal and So-called Human Hibernation_                        _40_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER IV._\n\n  _Premature Burial_                                              _51_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER V._\n\n  _Narrow Escapes from Premature Burial_                          _64_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER VI._\n\n  _Formalities and their Fatal Consequences_                     _105_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER VII._\n\n  _Probable Cases of Premature Burial_                           _113_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER VIII._\n\n  _Predisposing Causes and Conditions of Death-Counterfeits_     _120_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER IX._\n\n  _Premature Burial and Cremation in India. The Towers of\n      Silence_                                                   _129_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER X._\n\n  _The Danger of Hasty Burials_                                  _144_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XI._\n\n  _The Fear of Premature Burial_                                 _153_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XII._\n\n  _Sudden Death_                                                 _159_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XIII._\n\n  _The Signs of Death_                                           _180_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XIV._\n\n  _The Duration of Death-Counterfeits_                           _208_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XV._\n\n  _The Treatment of the Dead_                                    _215_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XVI._\n\n  _Number of Cases of Premature Burial_                          _220_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XVII._\n\n  _Embalming and Dissections_                                    _229_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XVIII._\n\n  _Death-Certification_                                          _238_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XIX._\n\n  _Suggestions for Prevention_                                   _257_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XX._\n\n  _Cremation as a Preventive of Premature Burial_                _275_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XXI._\n\n  _Waiting Mortuaries_                                           _285_\n\n\n  _CHAPTER XXII._\n\n  _Conclusion_                                                   _316_\n\n\n  _APPENDIX A._\n\n  _Historical Cases of Restoration from Apparent Death_          _325_\n\n\n  _APPENDIX B._\n\n  _Resuscitation of Still-Born and other Infants_                _341_\n\n\n  _APPENDIX C._\n\n  _Recovery of the Drowned_                                      _347_\n\n\n  _APPENDIX D._\n\n  _Miscellaneous Addenda_                                        _350_\n\n\n  _APPENDIX E._\n\n  _The Jewish Practice of Early Burial_                          _353_\n\n\n  _APPENDIX F._\n\n  _Summary of Ordinances, etc., Relating to the Inspection of\n  Corpses and of Interments_                                     _360_\n\n\n  _Bibliography_                                                 _363_\n\n\n  _Index_                                                        _389_\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nA CONCURRENCE of peculiar circumstances, beginning in May, 1895, has\ndirected public attention in England to the subject of premature\nburial, probably to a greater degree, so far as the author\u2019s\nrecollection serves, than at any time during the past half-century.\nAmongst these may be mentioned the publication of several recent cases\nof premature burial in the English and American papers; the narrow\nescape of a child found in Regent\u2019s Park, London, laid out for dead at\nthe Marylebone Mortuary, and afterwards restored to life; the issue\nin Boston, U.S., of Dr. Franz Hartmann\u2019s instructive essay, entitled,\n\u201cBuried Alive: an Examination into the Occult Causes of Apparent Death,\nTrance, and Catalepsy\u201d (a considerable number of copies having been\nsold in England), and the able leading articles and correspondence on\nthe subject in the _Spectator_, _Daily Chronicle_, _Morning Post_,\n_Leeds Mercury_, _The Jewish World_, _Plymouth Mercury_, _Manchester\nCourier_, _To-Day_, and many other daily and weekly journals.\n\nIt is curious, that while many books and pamphlets relating to\nthis important subject have been issued in France and Germany, no\nadequate and comprehensive treatise has appeared from the English\npress for more than sixty years past, nor writings in any form, with\nthe exception of a paper by Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson in No. 21\nof the _Asclepiad_, published in 1889, on the \u201cAbsolute Signs of\nDeath,\u201d sundry articles in the medical journals from time to time,\nand a London edition of Dr. Hartmann\u2019s volume in January, 1896. The\nsection upon \u201cReal and Apparent Death\u201d in the 1868 edition of the\nlate Professor Guy\u2019s _Forensic Medicine_ begins with the words, \u201cThis\nsubject has never attracted much attention in England, and no medical\nauthor of repute has treated it at any length\u201d--a remark not less true\nafter the lapse of a generation. The following chapters have been\nprepared with the view, not so much of supplying this omission, as of\nguiding the public to the dangers of our present mode of treating the\napparent dead, in the hope that reforms and preventive measures may be\ninstituted without delay in order to put an end to such unnecessary\ndomestic tragedies.\n\nIn introducing the subject the author is aware that the great majority\nof the medical profession in this country are either sceptical or\napathetic as to the alleged danger of living burial. Many do not\nbelieve in the existence of death-trance or death-counterfeits, and the\nmajority of those who do believe in them declare that cases are very\nrare, and that if consciousness is ever restored in the grave it can\nonly last a second or two, and that those who live in fear of such an\noccurrence should provide for a _post-mortem_ or for the severance of\nthe jugular vein. Many persons, on the other hand, after much careful\ninquiry, are of opinion that cases of premature burial are of frequent\noccurrence; and that the great majority of the human race (outside of\na few places in Germany, where waiting mortuaries are established, or\nwhere the police regulations, such as those described in this volume as\nexisting in W\u00fcrtemburg, are efficiently and systematically carried out)\nare liable to this catastrophe. Important as the subject is allowed to\nbe, and numerous as are the reported cases, no effective steps, either\npublic or private, appear to have been taken, outside of Germany and\nAustria, to remedy the evil. At present a majority of the people appear\ncontent to trust to the judgment of their relations and to the ordinary\ncertificates of death to safeguard them from so terrible a disaster.\nThat death-certificates and death-verifications are often of a most\nperfunctory description, both as to the fact of death and the cause\nof death, has been proved by overwhelming evidence before the recent\nHouse of Commons Committee on Death-Certification. Such certificates,\nwhen obtained, may be misleading and untrustworthy; while in many\ncases burials take place without the doctor having either attended\nthe patient or examined the body. Nor, in spite of the appointment\nof death-verificators by our neighbours across the Channel, is this\nimportant precaution effectively carried out by them. M. Devergie\nreports that in twenty-five thousand communes in France no verification\nof death takes place, although the law requires it; and he demands\nthat no diploma shall be given without the candidate having proved\nhimself conversant with the signs of death. (_Medical Times_, London,\n1874, vol. i., p. 25.) On personal inquiry from medical authorities in\nFrance, during the present year (1896), we learn that this laxity still\nprevails.\n\nIt appears strange that, except when a man dies, all his concerns are\nprotected by custom and formalities, or guarded by laws, so as to\ninsure his interests being fairly carried out to completion. Thus we\nsee that heirship, marriage, business affairs of all kinds, whether of\na public or private nature, are amply guarded by such precautionary\nand authoritative measures as will secure them. But one of the most\nimportant of all human interests--that which relates to the termination\nof life--is managed in such a careless and perfunctory way as to permit\nof irreparable mistakes. To be sure there are laws in most of the\nContinental States of Europe that are intended to regulate the care and\nburial of the dead, but few of them make it certain that the apparently\ndead shall not be mistaken for the really dead, and treated as such.\nNone of them allow more than seventy-two hours before burial (some\nallow only thirty-six, others twenty-four, and others again much less,\naccording to the nature of the disease), unless the attending physician\npetitions the authorities for reasonable delay--a rare occurrence.\nAnd even if postponement is granted, it is doubtful if the inevitable\nadministrative formalities would leave opportunities for dubious cases\nto receive timely and necessary attention, or for cases of trance,\ncatalepsy, coma, or the like, to be rescued from a living burial.\n\nIn the introduction to a Treatise entitled \u201cThe Uncertainty of the\nSigns of Death, and the Danger of Precipitate Interments,\u201d published in\n1746, the author, Mr. M. Cooper, surgeon, says:--\u201cThough death at some\ntime or other is the necessary and unavoidable portion of human nature,\nyet it is not always certain that persons taken for dead are really and\nirretrievably deprived of life, since it is evident from experience\nthat many apparently dead have afterwards proved themselves alive by\nrising from their shrouds, their coffins, and even from their graves.\nIt is equally certain that some persons, too soon interred after their\nsupposed decease, have in their graves fallen victims to a death which\nmight otherwise have been prevented, but which they then find more\ncruel than that procured by the rope or the rack.\u201d The author quotes\nLancisi, first physician to Pope Clement XI., who, in his Treatise _De\nsubitaneis mortibus_, observes:--\u201cHistories and relations are not the\nonly proofs which convince me that many persons supposed to be dead\nhave shown themselves alive, even when they were ready to be buried,\nsince I am induced to such a belief from what I myself have seen; for\nI saw a person of distinction, now alive, recover sensation and motion\nwhen the priest was performing the funeral service over him in church.\u201d\n\nAfter reporting and describing a large number of cases of premature\nburial, or of narrow escapes from such terrible occurrences, in which\nthe victims of hasty diagnosis were prepared for burial, or revived\nduring the progress of the burial service, Mr. Cooper continues:--\u201cNow,\nif a multiplicity of instances evince that many have the good fortune\nto escape being interred alive, it is justly to be suspected that\na far greater number have fallen victims to a fatal confinement in\ntheir graves. But because human nature is such a slave to prejudice,\nand so tied down by the fetters of custom, it is highly difficult, if\nnot absolutely impossible, to put people on their guard against such\nterrible accidents, or to persuade those vested with authority to take\nproper measures for preventing them.\u201d\n\nNothing seems to have been done to remedy this serious evil; and\nforty-two years later Mr. Chas. Kite, a well-known practitioner, called\nattention to the subject in a volume, entitled \u201cThe Recovery of the\nApparently Dead,\u201d London, 1788. This author, on p. 92, says:--\u201cMany,\nvarious, and even opposite appearances have been supposed to indicate\nthe total extinction of life. Formerly, a stoppage of the pulse and\nrespiration were thought to be unequivocal signs of death; particular\nattention in examining the state of the heart and larger arteries, the\nflame of a taper, a lock of wool, or a mirror applied to the mouth or\nnostrils, were conceived sufficient to ascertain these points; _and\ngreat has been the number of those who have fallen untimely victims\nto this erroneous opinion_. Some have formed their prognostic from\nthe livid, black, and cadaverous countenance; others from the heavy,\ndull, fixed, or flaccid state of the eyes; from the dilated pupil;\nthe foaming at the mouth and nostrils, the rigid and inflexible state\nof the body, jaws, or extremities; the intense and universal cold,\netc. Some, conceiving any one of these symptoms as incompetent and\ninadequate to the purpose, have required the presence of such of them\nas were, in their opinion, the least liable to error; but whoever will\ntake the trouble of reading the Reports of the (Humane) Society with\nattention, will meet with very many instances where all the appearances\nseparately, and even where several associated in the same case,\noccurred, and yet the patient recovered; and it is therefore evident\nthat these signs will not afford certain and unexceptionable criteria\nby which we may distinguish between life and death.\u201d\n\nMr. Kite furnishes references to numerous cases of recovery where the\napparently dead exhibited black, livid, or cadaverous countenances;\neyes fixed or obscure; eyeballs diminished in size, immovable and\nfixed in their sockets, the cornea without lustre; eyes shrivelled;\nfroth at the mouth; rigidity of the body, jaws, and extremities;\npartial or universal cold.[1]\n\nThe crux of the whole question is the uncertainty of the signs which\nannounce the cessation of physical existence. Prizes have been offered,\nand prizes have been awarded, but further experience has shown that the\nsigns and tests, sometimes singly and sometimes in combination, have\nbeen untrustworthy, and that the only certain and unfailing sign of\ndeath is decomposition.\n\nCommenting upon actual cases of premature burial, the _Lancet_, March\n17, 1866, p. 295, says:--\u201cTruly there is something about the very\nnotion of such a fate calculated to make one shudder, and to send a\ncold stream down one\u2019s spine. By such a catastrophe is not meant the\nsudden avalanche of earth, bricks, or stones upon the luckless miner or\nexcavator, or the crushing, suffocative death from tumbling ruins. No;\nit is the cool, determined treatment of a living being as if he were\ndead--the rolling him in his winding sheet, the screwing him down in\nhis coffin, the weeping at his funeral, and the final lowering of him\ninto the narrow grave, and piling upon his dark and box-like dungeon\nloads of his mother earth. The last footfall departs from the solitary\nchurch-yard, leaving the entranced sleeper behind in his hideous shell\nsoon to awaken to consciousness and to a benumbed half-suffocated\nexistence for a few minutes; or else, more horrible still, there he\nlies beneath the ground conscious of what has been and still is,\nuntil, by some fearful agonised struggle of the inner man at the weird\nphantasmagoria which has passed across his mental vision, he awakes to\na bodily vivification as desperate in its torment for a brief period as\nhas been that of his physical activity. But it is soon past. There is\nscarcely room to turn over in the wooden chamber; and what can avail a\nfew shrieks and struggles of a half-stifled, cramped-up man!\u201d\n\nTo prevent such unspeakable horrors as are here pictured, the Egyptians\nkept the bodies of the dead under careful supervision by the priests\nuntil satisfied that life was extinct, previous to embalming them\nby means of antiseptics, balsams, and odoriferous gums. The Greeks\nwere aware of the dangers of premature burial, and cut off fingers\nbefore cremation to see whether life was extinct. In ancient Rome the\nrecurrence of cases of premature burial had impressed the nation with\nthe necessity for exercising the greatest caution in the treatment of\nthe supposed dead; hasty conclusions were looked upon as criminal, the\nabsence of breath or heat or a cadaverous appearance were regarded\nas uncertain tests, and the supposed dead were put into warm baths\nor washed with hot water, and other means of restoration adopted.\nNeither in the greater part of Europe nor in the United States are\nany such means resorted to now, except in the case of apparent death\nby drowning, by asphyxia, or by hanging. Premature burials and narrow\nescapes are of almost every-day occurrence, as the narratives in the\nnewspapers testify; and the complaint made by a surgeon, Mr. Cooper,\na hundred and fifty years ago, that the evil is perpetuated because\nwe are slaves to prejudice, and because those vested with authority\nrefuse to take measures for prevention, remains a serious blot upon our\nadvanced civilisation. The _Spectator_, September 14, 1895, commenting\nupon this unsatisfactory state of affairs, observes:--\u201cBurning,\ndrowning, even the most hideous mutilation under a railway train, is\nas nothing compared with burial alive. Strangely enough this universal\nhorror seems to have produced no desire to guard against burial alive.\nWe all fear it, and yet practically no one takes any trouble to avoid\nthe risk of it happening in his own case, or in that of the rest of\nmankind. It would be the simplest thing in the world to take away all\nchance of burying alive; and yet the world remains indifferent, and\nenjoys its horror undisturbed by the hope of remedy.\u201d\n\nThe authors\u2019 own reasonings, opinions, and conclusions are here\nbriefly presented; but as the majority of the public are more or less\ninfluenced by authority, it has been thought advisable to furnish a\nseries of authenticated facts under the several headings to which they\nbelong, and to cite the judgments of eminent members of the medical\nprofession who have given special attention to the subject. The source\nof difficulty has been an _embarras de richesse_, or how from a mass\nof material, the extent of which will be seen by reference to the\nBibliography, to select typical cases without needless repetition.\nThe premature burials and narrow escapes from such disasters, which\nare reported by distinguished physicians and reputable writers, may\nbe numbered literally by hundreds, and for every one reported it is\nobvious from the nature of the case that many are never heard of.\nAmongst the names of notable persons who have thought the subject\nsufficiently practical for their attention may be mentioned those of\nEmpedocles, Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Pliny, Celsus, Plutarch, and St.\nAugustine in antiquity; of Fabricius, Lancisi, Winslow, Haller, Buffon,\nLavater, Moses Mendelssohn, Hufeland, and Alexander von Humboldt in\nmodern times.\n\nThe subject has several times engaged the attention of the French\nSenate and Legislative Chamber, as well as the Legislative Assemblies\nin the various States of Germany. In 1871, Dr. Alex. Wilder, Prof. of\nPhysiology and Psychological Science, read a paper before the members\nof both houses of the New York State Legislature at the Capitol,\nAlbany; but we are not aware that the subject has ever been introduced\nin any of the other State Legislatures, or in the British Parliament,\nor in any of the Colonial Assemblies.\n\nIn an editorial note, as far back as November 27, 1858, the _Lancet_,\nreferring to a case of death-trance, remarked that such \u201cexamples are\nsufficiently mysterious in their character to call for a more careful\ninvestigation than it has hitherto been possible to accord to them.\u201d\nThe facts disclosed in this treatise, the authors hope, may encourage\nqualified scientific observers to study the subject of death-trance,\nwhich, it must be admitted, has been strangely overlooked in England,\nthough it would not be easy to mention one which more deeply concerns\nevery individual born into the world.\n\nIn order to prevent unnecessary pain to the reader on a subject so\ndistressing in its nature, the more sensational and horrifying cases\nof premature burial have been omitted. They can, however, be found\nin abundance in the writings of Bruhier, K\u00f6ppen, Kempner, L\u00e9normand,\nBouchut, Russell Fletcher, and the Boston (U.S.) edition of Hartmann.\nIn England and in America it is the fashion amongst medical men to\nmaintain that the tests known to medical art are fully equal to the\nprevention of live burial, that the cases quoted by the newspapers\nare introduced for sensational purposes, and that most of them are\napocryphal. The perusal of the cases recorded in this volume, and a\ncareful consideration of the weight of cumulative evidence represented\nby the very full bibliography, must satisfy the majority of reflective\nreaders that the facts are both authentic and numerous.\n\n\n\n\n                           PREMATURE BURIAL,\n                                  AND\n                       HOW IT MAY BE PREVENTED.\n\n\n\n\n                 _SOME FORMS OF SUSPENDED ANIMATION._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTRANCE.\n\n\nOF all the various forms of suspended animation and apparent death,\ntrance and catalepsy are the least understood, and most likely to lead\nthe subject of them to a premature burial; the laws which control\nthem have perplexed pathologists in all ages, and appear to be as\ninsoluble as those which govern life itself. Dr. Le Clerc, in his\n\u201cHistory of Medicine,\u201d records that \u201cHeraclides, of Pontus, wrote a\nbook _concerning the causes of diseases_, and another _concerning\nthe disease in which the patient is without respiration_, in which\nhe affirmed that in this disorder the patient sometimes continued\nthirty days without respiration, in such wise that he appeared dead,\nnotwithstanding that there was no corruption of the body.\u201d[2]\n\nDr. Herbert Mayo, in \u201cLetters on Truths Contained in Popular\nSuperstitions,\u201d p. 34, says that \u201cdeath-trance is the suspension\nof the action of the heart, and of breathing, and of voluntary\nmotion--generally little sense of feeling and intelligence. With these\nphenomena is joined loss of external warmth, so that the usual evidence\nof life is gone. But there has occurred every shade of this condition\nthat can be imagined, between occasional slight manifestations of\nsuspension of one or other of the vital actions and their entire\ndisparition.\u201d\n\nMacnish, who also asserts that the function of the heart must go on,\nand even of the respiration, however slightly, says--\u201cNo affection\nto which the animal frame is subject is more remarkable than this\n(catalepsy, or trance).... There is such an apparent extinction of\nevery faculty essential to life, that it is inconceivable how existence\nshould go on during the continuance of the fit.\u201d--_Philos. of Sleep,\nGlasgow, 1834, pp. 225-6._\n\nIn Quain\u2019s \u201cDictionary of Medicine,\u201d ii., p. 1063, Dr. Gowers\nsays:--\u201cThe state now designated hypnotism is really induced trance,\nand trance has been accurately termed \u2018spontaneous hypnotism\u2019....\n\n\u201cThe mental functions seem, in most cases, to be in complete abeyance.\nNo manifestations of consciousness can be observed, or elicited by the\nmost powerful cutaneous stimulation, and on recovery no recollection of\nthe state is preserved. But in some cases volition only is lost, and\nthe patient is aware of all that passes, although unable to give the\nslightest evidence of consciousness....\n\n\u201cIn the cases in which the depression of the vital functions reaches\nan extreme degree, the patient appears dead to casual and sometimes to\ncareful observation. This condition has been termed \u2018death-trance,\u2019\nand has furnished the theme for many sensational stories, but\nthe most ghastly incidents of fiction have been paralleled by\nwell-authenticated facts. [The last clause appears in the new edition\nas follows:--\u201cPersons have certainly been buried in this state, and\nduring the recent epidemic of influenza an Italian narrowly escaped\ninterment during the consequent trance.\u201d]\n\n\u201cThe duration of trance has varied from a few hours or days to several\nweeks, months, or even a year.\n\n\u201cOccasionally it is attended by some vaso-motor disturbance. In a\nwell-authenticated case of death-trance the intense mental excitement\nproduced by the preparations for fastening the coffin lid occasioned a\nsweat to break out over the body.\u201d\n\n[CASE OF BENJAMIN DISRAELI.]\n\nMany notable men have at one time or another been subject to this\ndisorder. Speaking of Benjamin Disraeli, Mr. J. Fitzgerald Molloy, in\nhis \u201cLife of the Gorgeous Lady Blessington,\u201d vol. ii., pp. 37, 38, says\nthat in his \u201cyouth he was seized with fits of giddiness, during which\nthe world swung round him, he became abstracted, and once fell into a\ntrance from which he did not recover for a week.\u201d\n\n\nLETHARGIC STUPOR, OR TRANCE.\n\nThe _Lancet_ of December 22, 1883, pp. 1078-80, contains particulars\nfrom the pen of W. T. Gairdner, M.D., LL.D., etc., Professor of\nMedicine in the University of Glasgow, of a remarkable case of trance,\nextending continuously over more than twenty-three weeks, which\nattracted a considerable amount of notoriety at the time and led to\nan extensive discussion. In his comments upon the case, the author\ncontinues, in the issue of January 5, 1884, pp. 5, 6:--\n\n\u201cThe case recorded in the _Lancet_ of December 22, 1883, p. 1078, has\nbeen left up to this point without remarks, other than those obviously\nsuggested by the direct observation of the facts in comparison or\ncontrast with those of other cases coming more or less under the\ndesignation above mentioned. But in perusing, even in the most cursory\nmanner, the multitudinous literature pertaining to the subjects of\n\u2018trance,\u2019 \u2018ecstasy,\u2019 \u2018catalepsy,\u2019 etc., not to speak of the popular\nnarratives which from a very remote antiquity have handed down the\ntradition of preternatural sleep as an element in the fairy tales\nof almost all languages, one is struck by the almost uncontrollable\ndisposition to regard such cases as altogether outside the limits of\ntrue physiological science: as being, according to the expressive\nScotch phrase, \u2018no canny\u2019--or, in other words, miraculous--and as\ninvolving questions connected with the unseen world, \u2018the undiscovered\ncountry from whose bourn no traveller returns.\u2019 So much is this the\ncase, that, if in this nineteenth century the questions which presented\nthemselves to Hippocrates in the treatise, _\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1\u1f76 \u1f31\u03b5\u03c1\u1fc6\u03c2 \u03bd\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03bf\u03c5_\n(\u2018Concerning the Sacred Disease\u2019), had to be rediscussed, it would\ncertainly be in regard to some of the disorders mentioned above, and\nnot as to epilepsy in its well-recognised clinical types, that the\ntheory of a supernatural origin of the phenomena, whether favourably\nentertained or not, would fall to be argued. The irreconcilable\ndifferences of opinion in the Belgium Academy, as regards the quite\nmodern instance of Louise Lateau, are sufficient to show that all the\nculture and the scientific instincts of the present age have not quite\ninaugurated the \u2018reign of law,\u2019 nor established finally the position\nthat \u2018miracles do not happen.\u2019 On the other hand, the researches of\nM. Charcot and others seem to be ever extending the domain of science\nfurther into the region of the marvellous and the obscure, so that\neven the most pronounced cases of \u2018demoniac possession\u2019 of the olden\ntime have become the commonplaces of hystero-epilepsy in the clinique\nof the Salp\u00e9tri\u00e8re. The peculiar interest of the present case is that\nit is altogether devoid of any of these adventitious, and more or less\nromantic, incidents. The patient is the mother of a family, and has\nlived a strictly domestic and (up to a short time before her seizure)\nhealthy and regular life. There are no peculiar moral and religious\nproblems to perplex the situation. There is no history of inveterate\nhysteria, or of long continued rapt contemplation; nor has there been\nthe slightest evidence of any craving after notoriety, either before\nthe attack or since its termination. The moral atmosphere, in short,\nsurrounding the phenomena is altogether unfavourable to exaggeration\nand imposture, for which, indeed, no reasonable motive can be assigned.\nNevertheless, under these very commonplace conditions, concurring\nwith some degree of melancholy or mental despondency after delivery,\nbut during a convalescence otherwise normal, Mrs. M\u2019I---- presents\nto our notice a condition of suspended consciousness and disordered\ninnervation in no degree less extreme than the \u2018trances\u2019 or cataleptic\nattacks which have been recorded as the result of the most aggravated\nhysteria, or as the miracles of religious ecstasy and profound mental\nemotion. She becomes for the long period of over a hundred and sixty\ndays continuously an almost mindless automaton, connected with the\nexternal world only through a few insignificant reflexes and through\nthe organic functions. She is absolutely passive as regards everything\nthat demands spontaneous movement, and betrays almost no sign of\nsensation, general or special, when subjected to the severest tests\nthat can be applied short of physical injury.\u201d\n\n[CASE REPORTED BY PROF. W. T. GAIRDNER.]\n\nIn further notes upon the case, in the _Lancet_ of January 12, 1884, p.\n58, Professor Gairdner says:--\n\n \u201cThe only other case to which I desire to make allusion at present\n is one in which I am, fortunately, in a position to furnish a\n sequel to an incomplete narrative, not without resemblance to the\n one lately published in this journal. \u2018A Case of Trance\u2019 was the\n subject of a paragraph in the _British Medical Journal_ of May 31,\n 1879, p. 827, from which it appeared that in the London Hospital a\n woman, twenty-seven years of age, was at the time under the care\n of Dr. Langdon Down, being of rather small stature and weak mental\n capacity, and affected for at least two years with organic disease of\n the heart. About three weeks before the date of the report she had\n become suddenly somnolent, with most of the peculiarities in her sleep\n which have been already alluded to. She was fed partly by nutrient\n enemata, and for some days by a tube passed through the nostrils into\n the stomach. The resemblance is noted between this case and that of\n \u2018the famous Welsh fasting girl,\u2019 then attracting much attention in\n newspapers and otherwise. There being no further reference to this\n case in the journal, I wrote to Dr. Langdon Down, who kindly furnished\n me with the following additional particulars, which will, no doubt,\n be read even now with interest:--\u2018My patient, who was in a state of\n trance, recovered somewhat suddenly after about four weeks, and left\n the hospital. The first indication of returning consciousness was\n observed when I was reading to my class at her bedside one of the\n numerous letters that I had received entreating me not to have her\n buried until something which the writers recommended had been done.\n The paragraph of the medical journal got into some Welsh paper, and\n then went the round of the provincial press, hence the number of\n letters I received. This special one was from an old gentleman of\n eighty-four years, who, when he was twenty-four, was thought to be\n dead, and whose friends had assembled to follow him to the grave, when\n he heard the undertaker say, \u201cWould anyone like to see the corpse\n before I screw him down?\u201d The undertaker at the same time moved the\n head a little and struck it against the coffin, on which he aroused\n and sat up. On reading this aloud a visible smile passed over the face\n of my patient, and she returned to obvious consciousness soon after.\n She has not come under observation since she left the hospital.\u2019\n\n\u201cAlthough this case is probably only one among many, I mention it here\nbecause the receipt of the letter just given led me to investigate more\nparticularly the state of the hearing in Mrs. M\u2019I.\u2019s case, and also to\ntry the experiment of reading aloud Dr. Down\u2019s letter in her presence\nand that of the class. I had often remarked to bystanders that,\nalthough the subjects of these apparently unconscious states appeared\ninaccessible to the ordinary tests of sensibility, it was on record\nas regards some, even of those regarded as cases of \u2018apparent death,\u2019\nthat after recovery they affirm to have heard everything that passed,\nalthough unable to lift hand or foot to save themselves from premature\nburial. Neither the reading of the letter nor a violent shout into her\near produced any visible effects.\u201d\n\n[DEATH\u2019S COUNTERFEIT.]\n\nThomas More Madden, M.D., F.R.C.S. (Edin.), in an article on \u201cDeath\u2019s\nCounterfeit,\u201d in the _Medical Press and Circular_, vol. i., April 27,\n1887, pp. 386-8, relates the following case \u201cof so-called hysteric\ntrance\u201d:--\n\n \u201cA young lady, Miss R----, apparently in perfect health, went to her\n room after luncheon to make some change in her dress. A few minutes\n afterwards she was found lying on her bed in a profound sleep, from\n which she could not be awakened. When I first saw her, twenty-four\n hours later, she was sleeping tranquilly; the decubitus being dorsal,\n respiration scarcely perceptible, pulse seventy, and extremely small;\n her face was pallid, lips motionless, and the extremities very cold.\n At this moment, so death-like was her aspect, that a casual observer\n might have doubted the possibility of the vital spark still lingering\n in that apparently inanimate frame, on which no external stimulus\n seemed to produce any sensorial impression, with the exception\n that the pupils were normal and responded to light. Sinapisms were\n applied over the heart and to the legs, where they were left on until\n vesication was occasioned without causing any evidence of pain.\n Faradisation was also resorted to without effect. In this state she\n remained from the evening of December 31 until the afternoon of\n January 3, when the pulse became completely imperceptible; the surface\n of the body was icy cold, the respiratory movements apparently ceased,\n and her condition was to all outward appearance undistinguishable\n from death. Under the influence of repeated hypodermic injections of\n sulphuric ether and other remedies, however, she rallied somewhat,\n and her pulse and temperature improved. But she still slept on until\n the morning of the 9th, when she suddenly woke up, and, to the great\n astonishment of those about her, called for her clothes, which had\n been removed from their ordinary place, and wanted to come down to\n breakfast, without the least consciousness of what had occurred. Her\n recovery, I may add, was rapid and complete.\n\n \u201cThe next case of lethargy that came under my notice was that of a\n boy, who, after an attack of fever, fell into a state of complete\n lethargic coma, in which he lay insensible between life and death for\n forty-seven days, and ultimately recovered perfectly.\n\n \u201cIn a third instance of the same kind, in a lady under my care, the\n patient, after a lethargic sleep of twenty-seven days, recovered\n consciousness for a few hours, and then relapsed into her former\n comatose condition, in which she died.\n\n \u201cThe fourth case of lethargy which I have seen was, like the first,\n a case of trance, which lasted for seventy hours, during which the\n flickering vital spark was only preserved from extinction by the\n involuntary action of the spinal and nervous centres. In this instance\n the patient finally recovered.\n\n \u201cThe fifth and last instance of profound lethargy that has come within\n my own observation occurred last autumn in the Mater Misericordi\u00e6\n Hospital in a young woman.... In that instance, despite all that\n medical skill could suggest or unremitting attention could do, it was\n found impossible to arouse the patient from the apparently hysterical\n lethargic sleep in which she ultimately sank and died.\u201d\n\nI have referred to the foregoing cases, occurring in one physician\u2019s\nexperience, as disproving the general opinion that lethargy or trance\nis so rarely met with as to be of little medical importance. For my own\npart, I have no doubt that these conditions are of far more frequent\noccurrence than is generally supposed. Moreover, I have had reason to\nknow that death is occasionally so exactly thus counterfeited that\nthere is good cause for fearing the probability of living interment in\nsome cases of hasty burial.\n\n[DR. MORE MADDEN\u2019S OPINION.]\n\nReferring to death-trance, Dr. Madden observes, _ib._, p.\n388--\u201cDeath-trance, or that profound degree of lethargy which closely\ncounterfeits death, deserves greater attention than is generally paid\nto it as a pathological condition, as well as a possible cause of\npremature interment. For, unless we reject every statement, however\nwell authenticated, of those who have witnessed such cases, merely\nbecause their experience does not tally with our preconceived opinions\nand wishes, neither the frequent occurrence of death-trance nor the\nfearful results of its non-recognition can be questioned.\u201d\n\nMr. John Chippendale, F.R.C.S., writing to the _Lancet_, 1889, vol. i.,\np. 1173, on \u201cCatalepsy.--Post-mortem Sweating,\u201d says:--\n\n \u201cI may mention that there is a record of a man who during an illness\n was seized with trance, though, as he lay in what Claudio calls \u2018cold\n abstraction,\u2019 he was aware of all that was passing. At last, as he was\n about to be covered in his coffin, his mental condition was such that\n he broke into a profuse sweat, which was fortunately perceived, and he\n recovered and was able to recount his experiences.\u201d\n\nIt would appear from the following telegram through Reuter\u2019s Agency\nthat trance is occasionally epidemic:--\n\n [From _Daily Telegraph_, March 17, 1890.]\n\n \u201cA NEW DISEASE.\n\n  \u201cVienna, March 15, 1890.\n\n \u201cSeveral cases of a new disease, which originally appeared in\n Mantua immediately after the subsidence of the recent influenza\n epidemic, and to which the people of that city gave the name of \u2018La\n nonna\u2019--_Anglice_, \u2018Falling asleep\u2019--have occurred in the Comitat of\n Pressburg.\n\n \u201cPersons suffering from this complaint fall into a death-like trance,\n lasting about four days, out of which the patient wakes in a state of\n intense exhaustion. Recovery is very slow, but, so far, no fatal case\n has been reported.\u201d\n\nA correspondent writing to the _English Mechanic_ September 13, 1895,\nsays:--\u201cI know one lady who has been three times prepared for burial,\nand very narrowly escaped it on the first occasion.\u201d The author\nwrote to the writer for further details, and received a reply, dated\nSeptember 19, 1895, from which it appears that the lady had married\ninto a political family of considerable note, who would not care to\nhave her identity disclosed. My correspondent says:--\u201c I know that she\nlay several days in a state not to be distinguished from death; that\nshe was in her coffin, and, I believe, showed signs of life just as the\ncoffin was about to be closed. On two subsequent occasions she passed\ninto similar trances; but though believed to be dead, and treated as\nsuch, the previous experience prevented any idea of burial being\nentertained\u201d until clear evidence of dissolution should appear.\n\nThe _New York Weekly Witness_ of January 15, 1896, reports\n\n[A SEVEN YEARS\u2019 TRANCE.]\n\n \u201cA LONG CATALEPTIC SLEEP.\n\n \u201cInformation was received at Milford, Pa., last Friday, that William\n Depue, a prominent citizen of Bushkill, Pike County, whose mind for\n seven years has been a blank, had suddenly returned to consciousness.\n\n \u201cSeven years ago, while at work, Mr. Depue became ill. Doctors were\n summoned, but they could find no possible ailment. The sick man sank\n into a cataleptic sleep, from which medical science could not arouse\n him.\n\n \u201cAt no time during the long period did he recognise any one, and food\n was given him through a tube inserted in his mouth. He lost no flesh,\n and was apparently as healthy as any man. Although the best medical\n men in the country were called to his bedside, his case baffled them\n all.\n\n \u201cUpon recovering his senses he set about his usual labours as if he\n had been asleep but the ordinary time. He remembers nothing that has\n taken place during his seven years\u2019 trance.\u201d\n\nThe following case appeared in the _Middlesbrough Daily Gazette_,\nFebruary 9, 1896, and in a number of English papers:--\n\n \u201cThe young Dutch maiden, Maria Cvetskens, who now lies asleep at\n Stevensworth, has beaten the record in the annals of somnolence. At\n the beginning of last month she had been asleep for nearly three\n hundred days. The doctors, who visit her in great numbers, are agreed\n that there is no deception in the case. Her parents are of excellent\n repute, and it has never occurred to them to make any financial profit\n out of the abnormal state of their daughter. As to the cause of the\n prolonged sleep, the doctors differ.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nCATALEPSY.\n\n\nCATALEPSY differs in some of its characteristics from trance, but the\none is often mistaken for the other. It is not so much a disease as a\nsymptom of certain nervous disorders, and to which women and children\nare more particularly liable. Catalepsy can be produced artificially by\nhypnotisation. Like trance, it has often been mistaken for death, and\nits subjects buried alive.\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann differentiates the two disorders as follows:--\u201cThere\nseems hardly any limit to the time during which a person may remain\nin a trance; but catalepsy is due to some obstruction in the organic\nmechanism of the body, on account of its exhausted nervous power.\nIn the last case the activity of life begins again as soon as the\nimpediment is removed, or the nervous energy has recuperated its\nstrength.\u201d\n\nDr. Gowers, in Quain\u2019s \u201cDictionary of Medicine,\u201d ed. 1894, vol. i.,\npp. 284-5, describes catalepsy as belonging to both sexes, at all ages\nfrom six to sixty. It is a nervous affection, commonly associated\nwith distinct evidence of hysteria, but said sometimes to occur as\nan early symptom of epilepsy. It is attended commonly with loss of\nconsciousness. The limbs remain in the position they occupied at the\nonset, as if petrified. The whole or part of the muscles pass into\na state of rigidity. In profound conditions sensibility is lost to\ntouch, pain, and electricity; and no reflex movements can be induced\neven by touching the conjunctiva, a state of mental trance being\nassociated.\n\n[NATURE OF CATALEPSY.]\n\n_Cassell\u2019s Family Physician_ (by Physicians and Surgeons of the\nprincipal London Hospitals) describes this singular affection, as\nfollows:--\u201cCatalepsy is one of the strangest diseases possible. It\nis of rare occurrence, and some very sceptical people have even\ngone so far as to deny its existence. That is all nonsense, for\ncatalepsy is just as much a reality as gout or bronchitis. A fit of\ncatalepsy--for it is a paroxysmal disease--consists essentially in\nthe sudden suspension of thought, feeling, and the power of moving.\nThe patient remains in any position in which she--we say she, for it\noccurs mostly in women--happens to be at the moment of the seizure, and\nwill, moreover, retain any posture in which she may be placed during\nthe continuance of the fit. For example, you may stretch out the arms\nto their full length, and there they remain stretched out without\nshowing the slightest tendency to drop. It does not matter how absurd\nor inconvenient or apparently fatiguing the position may be, it is\nmaintained until altered by some one or until the fit is over. In these\nattacks there are no convulsions, but, on the contrary, the patient\nremains perfectly immobile. She is just like a waxen figure, or an\ninanimate statue, or a frozen corpse.\n\n\u201cCataleptic fits vary very much, not only in their frequency, but in\ntheir duration. Sometimes they are very short indeed, lasting only a\nfew minutes. In one case, that of a lady, they would sometimes come on\nwhen she was reading aloud. She would stop suddenly in the middle of a\nsentence, and a peculiar stiffness of the whole body would seize her,\nfixing the limbs immovably for several minutes. Then it would pass off,\nand the reading would be continued at the very word at which it had\nbeen interrupted, the patient being quite unconscious that anything had\nhappened. But sometimes fits such as these may last for days and days\ntogether, and it seems not improbable that people may have been buried\nin this state in mistake for death.\u201d\n\nThe following case, contributed by Dr. Gooch, will further illustrate\nthis malady:--\n\n \u201cA lady, who laboured habitually under melancholy, a few days after\n parturition was seized with catalepsy, and presented the following\n appearances:--She was lying in bed motionless and apparently\n senseless. It was thought the pupils of her eyes were dilated, and\n some apprehensions were entertained of effusion on the brain; but\n on examining them closely it was found they readily contracted when\n the light fell upon them. The only signs of life were warmth, and a\n pulse which was one hundred and twenty, and weak. In attempting to\n rouse her from this senseless state, the trunk of the body was lifted\n up and placed so far back as to form an obtuse angle with the lower\n extremities, and in this posture, with nothing to support her, she\n continued sitting for many minutes. One arm was now raised, and then\n the other, and in the posture they were placed they remained. It was\n a curious sight to see her sitting up staring lifelessly, her arms\n outstretched, yet without any visible signs of animation. She was\n very thin and pallid, and looked like a corpse that had been propped\n up and stiffened in that attitude. She was now taken out of bed and\n placed upright, and attempts were made to rouse her by calling loudly\n in her ears, but in vain; she stood up, indeed, but as inanimate as a\n statue. The slightest push put her off her balance, and she made no\n exertion to retain it, and would have fallen had she not been caught.\n She went into this state three times; the first lasted fourteen\n hours, the second twelve hours, and the third nine hours, with waking\n intervals of three days after the first fit, and of one day after\n the second; after this time the disease assumed the ordinary form of\n melancholia.--_The Science and Practice of Medicine, by Sir W. Aitken,\n p. 357._\n\n[CASES BY DRS. JEBB AND KING CHAMBERS.]\n\nDr. John Jebb, F.R.S., cited in Reynolds\u2019 \u201cSystem of Medicine,\u201d vol.\nii., pp. 99-102, has recorded the following graphic case:--\n\n \u201cIn the latter end of last year (_viz._, 1781), I was desired to\n visit a young lady who, for nine months, had been afflicted with that\n singular disorder termed a catalepsy. Although she was prepared for\n my visit, she was seized with the disorder as soon as my arrival was\n announced. She was employed in netting, and was passing the needle\n through the mesh, in which position she immediately became rigid,\n exhibiting, in a very pleasing form, a figure of death-like sleep,\n beyond the power of art to imitate or the imagination to conceive. Her\n forehead was serene, her features perfectly composed. The paleness\n of her colour, her breathing at a distance being also scarcely\n perceptible, operated in rendering the similitude to marble more exact\n and striking. The positions of her fingers, hands, and arms were\n altered with difficulty, but they preserved every form of flexure they\n acquired: nor were the muscles of the neck exempted from this law, her\n head maintaining every situation in which the hand could place it as\n firmly as her limbs,\u201d etc.\n\nDr. King Chambers, after citing the above case in full, continues:--\n\n \u201cThe most common exciting cause of catalepsy seems to be strong mental\n emotion. When Covent Garden Theatre was last burnt down, the blaze\n flashed in at the uncurtained windows of St. Mary\u2019s Hospital. One of\n my patients, a girl of twenty, recovering from low fever, was woke up\n by it, and exclaimed that the day of judgment was come. She remained\n in an excited state all night, and the next morning grew gradually\n stiff, like a corpse, whispering (before she became quite insensible)\n that she was dead. If her arm was raised, it remained extended in\n the position in which it was placed for several minutes, and then\n slowly subsided. The inelastic kind of way in which it retained its\n position for a time, and then gradually yielded to the force of\n gravity, reminded one more of a wax figure than of the marble to\n which Dr. Jebb compares it. A strange effect was produced by opening\n the eyelid of one eye; the other eye remained closed, and the raised\n lid after a time fell very slowly like the arm. A better superficial\n representation of death it is difficult to conceive.... In both these\n cases I convinced myself carefully that there was no deception.\n\n \u201cOther cases are of much longer duration.... The death-like state\n may last for days. It may be mistaken for real death, and treated as\n such....\n\n \u201cAny cases of apparent death that did occur (in former days) were\n burnt, or buried, or otherwise put out of the way, and were never more\n heard of. But after the establishment of Christianity, tenderness,\n sometimes excessive, for the remains of departed friends took the\n place of the hard, heathen selfishness. The dead were kept closer to\n the congregations of the living, as if to represent in material form\n the dogma of the Communion of Saints. This led to the discovery that\n some persons, indeed some persons of note (amongst others, Duns Scotus\n the theologian, at Cologne), had got out of their coffins, and died in\n a vain attempt to open the doors of their vaults.\u201d\n\n[CASES FROM THE MEDICAL JOURNALS.]\n\nThe author relates several other remarkable cases. Here is one:--\n\n \u201cI lighted accidently on another case, communicated to the same\n scientific body (Acad. Royale des Sciences), by M. Imbert in 1713.\n It is that of the driver of the Rouen diligence, aged forty-five,\n who fell into a kind of soporific catalepsy on hearing of the sudden\n death of a man he had quarrelled with. It appears that \u2018M. Burette,\n under whose care he was at La Charit\u00e9, made use of the most powerful\n assistances of art--bleeding in the arms, the foot, the neck, emetics,\n purgatives, blisters, leeches,\u2019 etc. At last somebody \u2018threw him\n naked into cold water to surprise him.\u2019 The effect surprised the\n doctors as much as the patient. It is related with evident wonder how\n that \u2018he opened his eyes, looked steadfastly, but did not speak.\u2019 His\n wife seems to have been a prudent woman, for a week afterwards she\n \u2018carried him home, where he is at present: they gave him no medicine;\n he speaks sensibly enough, and mends every day.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe _Lancet_, 1870, vol. i., p. 1044, in its Paris correspondence\nsays:--\n\n \u201cThe following curious case is related as having occurred at Dunkirk,\n on April 14, and as \u2018showing the utility of catalepsy.\u2019 A young girl\n of seventeen years was seized with a violent attack of epilepsy, and\n fell, on the above date, into a canal. A boatman immediately jumped\n into the water to save her, and brought her to the shore after twenty\n minutes. The most singular circumstance connected with the accident is\n that, when the young girl was taken out of the water, she presented\n all the symptoms of catalepsy. Notwithstanding this long immersion,\n she was resuscitated, and nothing afterwards transpired to cause any\n anxiety.\u201d\n\nMr. James Braid, M.R.C.S., in the _Medical Times_, 1850, vol. xxi.,\np. 402, narrates a case of a cataleptic woman in the Manchester Royal\nInfirmary under the care of Dr. John Mitchell, and writes:--\n\n \u201cEvery variety of contrivance and torture was resorted to by various\n parties who saw her, for the purpose of testing the degree of her\n insensibility, and for determining whether she might not be an\n impostor, but without eliciting the slightest indication of activity\n of any of the senses; ... nevertheless she _heard and understood all\n that was said and proposed to be done, and suffered the most exquisite\n torture from various tests applied to her_!! A fact so important as\n this ought to be published in every journal throughout the civilised\n world; so that in future professional men might be thereby led to\n exercise greater discretion and mercy in their modes of applying tests\n to such patients.\u201d\n\nThe _Somerset County Herald_ (Taunton) of October 12 1895, has the\nfollowing:--\n\n\n \u201cEXTRAORDINARY CASE OF TRANCE NEAR WEYMOUTH.\n\n \u201cThe wedding nuptials of a sailor from H.M.S. _Alexandra_ and a young\n woman residing at Broadwey, who were recently married, have been\n interrupted in a most unusual manner by the newly-made bride falling\n into a trance. On the day following the wedding Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer,\n for such is the name of the newly-espoused pair, went for a drive, and\n on returning in the evening the bride, remarking that she did not feel\n very well, went upstairs, and before long was in a sound sleep, which\n continued throughout the night and far into the following day. The\n relatives of the bride, remembering symptoms which she had previously\n developed, then sent for Dr. Pridham, who at once pronounced that\n the unfortunate young woman had fallen into a trance. Dr. Colmer, of\n Weymouth, was likewise called; but nothing that these two medical\n gentlemen could do had the slightest effect in arousing their patient\n from the state of lethargy into which she had so suddenly and\n unexpectedly relapsed. In this condition she remained for a space of\n five days, when she gradually showed signs of returning animation,\n and in the course of a few hours regained consciousness, though she\n was then in a very exhausted condition. After her awakening the young\n woman developed inflammation of the legs, which was regarded as a\n very serious condition for her to be in. In an interview on Saturday,\n Dr. Pridham described the trance as being exceedingly death-like in\n character, and added that, in such trances as the one in question, in\n the past people have no doubt been actually buried.\u201d\n\nA report of this case appears in the _St. James\u2019s Gazette_.\n\nA less experienced practitioner would probably have made out a death\ncertificate, as in numerous similar cases.\n\nAfter burial we hear no more of them; they may have been buried in\na death-like trance, but the medical certificate, no matter how\ninconsiderately given, consigns them to perpetual silence beyond appeal\nor escape. Family remonstrance is then unavailing, for, except in cases\nof strong suspicion of poisoning, no Home Secretary or Coroner would\ngrant an order for exhumation.\n\n[APATHY OF THE PUBLIC.]\n\nThe existence of trance, catalepsy, and other death counterfeits,\nfollowed by hasty burial, has been alluded to by reputable writers from\ntime immemorial; and while the veracity of these writers has remained\nunchallenged, and their narratives are confirmed by hundreds of cases\nof modern experience, the effect on the public mind has been only of a\ntransitory character, and nothing has been done either in England or\nAmerica to safeguard the people from such dreadful mistakes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nANIMAL AND SO-CALLED HUMAN HIBERNATION.\n\n\nTHE following case of the jerboa, or jumping mouse, recorded last\ncentury by Major-General Thomas Davies, F.R.S., in the \u201cTransactions\nof the Linn\u00e6an Society,\u201d[3] will show how far a torpid mammal may be\nremoved from the opportunity of breathing, and how imperceptibly, to\nthe eyes of an observer, its torpid life passed into actual death:--\n\n\u201cWith respect to the figure given of it in its dormant state (plate\nviii., fig. 6), I have to observe that the specimen was found by some\nworkmen in digging the foundation for a summer house in a gentleman\u2019s\ngarden, about two miles from Quebec, in the latter end of May, 1787.\nIt was discovered enclosed in a ball of clay, about the size of a\ncricket ball, nearly an inch in thickness, perfectly smooth within, and\nabout twenty inches under ground. The man who first discovered it, not\nknowing what it was, struck the ball with his spade, by which means it\nwas broken to pieces, or the ball also would have been presented to\nme. The drawing will perfectly show how the animal is laid during its\ndormant state [a tawny mouse, with long hind legs and long tail, coiled\nup into a perfect ovoid, of which the two poles are the crown of the\nhead and the rump.] How long it had been under ground it is impossible\nto say; but as I never could observe these animals in any parts of\nthe country after the beginning of September, I conceive that they\nlay themselves up some time in that month, or beginning of October,\nwhen the frost becomes sharp; nor did I ever see them again before the\nlast week of May, or beginning of June. From their being enveloped in\nballs of clay, without any appearance of food, I conceive they sleep\nduring the winter, and remain for that time without sustenance. As\nsoon as I conveyed this specimen to my house, I deposited it, as it\nwas, in a small chip box, in some cotton, waiting with great anxiety\nfor its waking; but that not taking place at the season they generally\nappear, I kept it until I found it began to smell: I then stuffed it,\nand preserved it in its torpid position. I am led to believe its not\nrecovering from that state arose from the heat of my room during the\ntime it was in the box, a fire having been constantly burning in the\nstove, and which in all probability was too great for respiration....\u201d\n\n[INSTANCES OF ANIMAL HIBERNATION.]\n\nMr. Braid, after citing facts as to higher animals, proceeds:--\u201cThere\nare other creatures which have not the power of migrating from climes\ntoo intensely hot for the normal exercise of their physical functions,\nand the lives of these animals are preserved through a state of torpor\nsuperinduced by the want of sufficient moisture, their bodies being\ndried up from excessive heat. This is the case with snails, which are\nsaid to have been revived by a little cold water being thrown on them,\nafter having remained in a dry and torpid state for fifteen years. The\n_vibrio tritici_ has also been restored, after perfect torpidity and\napparent death for five years and eight months, by merely soaking it\nin water. Some small, microscopic animals have been apparently killed\nand revived again a dozen times by drying and then applying moisture to\nthem. This is remarkably verified in the case of the wheel-animalcule.\nAnd Spallanzani states that some animalcules have been recovered by\nmoisture after a torpor of twenty-seven years. According to Humboldt,\nagain, some large animals are thrown into a similar state from want\nof moisture. Such he states to be the case with the alligator and\nboa-constrictor during the dry season in the plains of Venezuela, and\nwith other animals elsewhere.\u201d--_On Trance and Human Hibernation, p.\n47._\n\nDr. Moore Russell Fletcher, in his treatise on \u201cSuspended Animation,\u201d\npp. 7, 8, observes:--\u201cSnakes and toads live for a long time without air\nor food. The following experiment was made by a Mr. Tower, of Gardiner\n(Maine). An adder, upwards of two feet in length, was got into a glass\njar, which was tightly sealed. He was kept there for sixteen months\nwithout any apparent change, and when let out, looked as well as when\nput in, and crawled away.\n\n\u201cThe common pond trout, when thrown into snow, will soon freeze, remain\nso for days, and when put into cold water to remove the frost become\nlively as ever.\n\n\u201cWhen residing in New Brunswick, in 1842, we went to a lake to secure\nsome trout, which were frozen in the snow and kept for use. While there\nwe saw men with long wooden tongs catching frost fish from the salt\nwater at the entrance of a brook. The fish were thrown upon the ice in\ngreat quantities. We had a barrel of them put up with snow and kept\nfrozen, and in a cool place. For six or seven weeks they were taken\nout and used as wanted, and might be kept frozen for an indefinite\ntime, and be alive when thawed in cold water. The two pieces of a fish,\ncut in two when frozen, would move and try to swim when thawed in cold\nwater.\u201d\n\n\nSO-CALLED HUMAN HIBERNATION.\n\nDr. George Moore observes that \u201cA state of the body is certainly\nsometimes produced (in man) which is nearly analogous to the torpor of\nthe lower animals--_a condition utterly inexplicable to any principle\ntaught in the schools_. Who, for instance, can inform us how it happens\nthat certain fishes may be suddenly frozen in the Polar Sea, and so\nremain during the long winter and yet be requickened into full activity\nby returning summer?\u201d--_Use of the Body in Relation to the Mind, p. 31._\n\n[UNCERTAINTY OF DEATH.]\n\nHufeland, in his \u201cUncertainty of Death,\u201d 1824, p. 12, observes that\nit is easier for mankind to fall into a state of trance than the\nlower creatures, on account of their complicated anatomy. It is a\ntransitory state between life and death, into which anyone may pass and\nreturn from. Trance was common among the Greeks and Romans, who, just\nbefore cremation, had the custom of cutting off a finger-joint, most\nprobably to discover if there was any trace of life. Death does not\ncome suddenly; it is a gradual process from actual life into apparent\ndeath, and from that to actual death. It is a mistake to take outward\nappearances for inner death.\n\n\u201cIt often happens a person is buried in a trance knowing all the\npreparations for the interment, and this affects him so much that it\nprolongs the trance by its depressing influence. How long can a man\nexist in a state of trance? Is there no sign by which the remaining\nspark of life may be recognised? Do no means exist to prevent awakening\nin the grave? Nothing can be said as to its duration; but we do know\nthat differences in the cause and circumstances will cause a difference\nin duration. The amount of strength of the person would have great\neffect in this. Weak persons, broken down by excesses, would die sooner\nthan the strong. The nature of the disease would make a difference. Old\nage is less liable to trance than the young. Long sickness destroys\nthe sources of life, and shortens the process of death. Sorrow and\ntrouble, and numerous diseases, seem to bring on death; yet ofttimes\nthe source of life in them exists to its full extent, and what seems\nin them to be death may be only a fainting fit, or cramp, which\ntemporarily interrupts the action of life. Women are more liable to\ntrance than men: most cases have happened in them. Trance may exist in\nthe new-born; give them time, and many of them revive. The smell of the\nearth is at times sufficient to wake up a case of trance. Six or seven\ndays, or longer, are often required to restore such cases.\u201d (Extracted\nfrom pp. 10-24.)\n\n[SELF-INDUCED HIBERNATION.]\n\nMr. Chunder Sen, municipal secretary to the Maharajah of Jeypore,\nintroduced the author, during his visit to India, March 8, 1896, to\na venerable and learned fakir, who was seated on a couch Buddhist\nfashion, the feet turned towards the stomach, in the attitude of\nmeditation, in a small but comfortable house near the entrance to\nthe beautiful public gardens of that city. The fakir possesses the\npower of self-induced trance, which really amounts to a suspension of\nlife, being indistinguishable from death. In the month of December,\n1895, he passed into and remained in this condition for twenty days.\nOn several occasions the experiment has been conducted under test\nconditions. In 1889, Dr. Hem Chunder Sen, of Delhi, and his brother,\nMr. Chunder Sen, had the opportunity of examining the fakir while\npassing into a state of hibernation, and found that the pulse beat\nslower and slower until it ceased to beat at all. The stethoscope was\napplied to the heart by the doctor, who failed to detect the slightest\nmotion. The fakir, covered with a white shroud, was placed in a small\nsubterraneous cell built of masonry, measuring about six feet by six\nfeet, of rotund structure. The door was closed and locked, and the\nlock sealed with Dr. Sen\u2019s private seal and with that of Mr. Dhanna\nTal, the magistrate of the city; the flap door leading to the vault\nwas also carefully fastened. At the expiration of thirty-three days\nthe cell was opened, and the fakir was found just where he was placed,\nbut with a death-like appearance, the limbs having become stiff as in\n_rigor mortis_. He was brought from the vault, and the mouth was rubbed\nwith honey and milk, and the body and joints massaged with oil. In the\nevening, manifestations of life were exhibited, and the fakir was fed\nwith a spoonful of milk. The next day he was given a little juice of\npulses known as _dal_, and in three days he was able to eat bread and\nmilk, his normal diet. These cases are well known both at Delhi and\nat Jeypore, and the facts have never been disputed. The fakir is a\nSanscrit scholar, and is said to be endowed with much wisdom, and is\nconsulted by those who are interested in Hindu learning and religion.\nHe has never received money from visitors, and the mention of it\ndistresses him.\n\nThe _Medical Times_ of May 11, 1850, contains a communication from Mr.\nBraid, who says he has \u201clost no opportunity of accumulating evidence\non this subject, and that while many alleged feats of this kind are\nprobably of a deceptive character, still there are others which admit\nof no such explanation; and that it becomes the duty of scientific men\nfairly to admit the difficulty.\u201d He then refers to two documents by\neye-witnesses of these feats, and which, he says, \u201cwith the previous\nevidence on the subject, must set the point at rest for ever, as to\nthe fact of the feats referred to being genuine phenomena, deception\nbeing impossible.\u201d In one of these instances, the fakir was buried in\nthe ground for six weeks, and was, consequently, deprived not only of\nfood and drink, but also of light and air; when he was disinterred,\nhis legs and arms were shrivelled and stiff, but his face was full;\nno pulse could be discovered in the heart, temples, or arms. \u201cAbout\nthree years since I spent some time with a General C----, a highly\nrespectable and intelligent man, who had been a long time in the Indian\nservice, and who was himself an eye-witness of one of these feats. A\nfakir was buried several feet in the earth, under vigilant inspection,\nand a watch was set, so that no one could communicate with him; and to\nmake the matter doubly sure, corn was sown upon the grave, and during\nthe time the man was buried, it vegetated and grew to the height of\nseveral inches. He lay there forty-two days. The gentleman referred to\npassed the place many times during his burial, saw the growing corn,\nwas also present at his disinterment, and when he questioned the man,\nand intimated to him that he thought deception had been practised, the\nfakir offered, for a sum of money, to be buried again, for the same\nlength of time, by the General himself, and in his own garden. This\nchallenge, of course, closed the argument.\u201d\n\n[CASES REPORTED BY MR. BRAID.]\n\nCases of this kind might be multiplied on evidence which cannot be\ndoubted, and, in Mr. Braid\u2019s book, entitled \u201cHuman Hibernation,\u201d there\nare cases fully stated. Sir Claude Wade, who was an eye-witness of\nthese feats when acting as political agent at the Court of Runjeet\nSingh, at Lahore, and from whom Mr. Braid derived his information,\nmakes the following observations:--\u201cI share entirely in the apparent\nincredibility of the fact of a man being buried alive and surviving the\ntrial for various periods of duration; but however incompatible with\nour knowledge of physiology, in the absence of any visible proof to the\ncontrary, I am bound to declare my belief in the facts which I have\nrepresented, however impossible their existence may appear to others.\u201d\nUpon this Mr. Braid observes:--\u201cSuch then is the narrative of Sir C.\nM. Wade, and when we consider the high character of the author as a\ngentleman of honour, talents, and attainments of the highest order,\nand the searching, painstaking efforts displayed by him throughout the\nwhole investigation, and his close proximity to the body of the fakir,\nand opportunity of observing minutely every point for himself, as well\nas the facilities, by his personal intercourse with Runjeet Singh and\nthe whole of his Court, of gaining the most accurate information on\nevery point, I conceive it is impossible to have had a more valuable\nor conclusive document for determining the fact that no collusion or\ndeception existed.\u201d\n\nA case of this kind was exhibited at the Westminster Aquarium in the\nautumn of 1895, which was carefully watched and tested by medical\nexperts, without detection of any appearance of fraud or simulation.\nThe hypnotised man, Walter Johnson, an ex-soldier, twenty-nine years of\nage, was in a trance which lasted thirty days, during which time he was\nabsolutely unconscious, as shown by the various experiments to which he\nwas subjected.\n\nA case of induced trance and experimental burial, not unlike that\nof the Indian fakirs referred to, was reported in the London _Daily\nChronicle_, March 14, 1896. The experiment was carried out under test\nconditions.\n\n\n \u201c\u2018BURIED ALIVE\u2019 AT THE ROYAL AQUARIUM.\n\n \u201cAfter being entombed for six days in a hypnotic trance, Alfred\n Wootton was dug up and awakened at the Royal Aquarium (Westminster),\n on Saturday night in the presence of a crowd of interested spectators.\n Wootton was hypnotised on Monday by Professor Fricker, and consigned\n to his voluntary grave, nine feet deep, in view of the audience, who\n sealed the stout casket or coffin in which the subject was immured.\n Seven or eight feet of earth were then shovelled upon the body, a\n shaft being left open for the necessary respiration, and in order\n that the public might be able to see the man\u2019s face during the week.\n The experiment was a novel one in this country, and was intended to\n illustrate the extraordinary effect produced by the Indian fakirs,\n and to demonstrate the connection between hypnotism and psychology,\n while also showing the value of the former art as a curative agent.\n Wootton is a man thirty-eight years of age; he is a lead-worker,\n and on Monday weighed 10st. 2-1/2 lbs. He had previously been in a\n trance for a week in Glasgow, under Professor Fricker\u2019s experienced\n hands, so was not altogether new to the business; but he is the\n first to be \u2018buried alive\u2019 by way of amusement. To the uninitiated\n the whole thing was gruesome in the extreme, and this particular form\n of entertainment certainly cannot be commended. Before being covered\n in, Wootton\u2019s nose and ears were stopped with wax, which was removed\n before he was revived on Saturday. The theory of the burial is to\n secure an equable temperature day and night--which is impossible when\n the subject is above ground in the ordinary way--and therefore to\n induce a deeper trance. Of course, too, the patient was out of reach\n of the operator, and no suspicion of continuous hypnotising could rest\n upon the professor. No nourishment could be supplied for the same\n reason, though the man\u2019s lips were occasionally moistened by means of\n a damp sponge on the end of a rod, and no record of temperature or\n respiration could be kept. A good many people witnessed the digging\n up process, and the awakening took place in the concert room, whither\n the casket and its burden were conveyed. The professor was not long\n in arousing his subject, after electric and other tests had been\n applied to convince the audience that the man was perfectly insensible\n to pain and everything else. Indeed, a large needle was run through\n the flesh on the back of the hand without any effect whatever. The\n first thing on regaining consciousness that Wootton said was that he\n could not see, and then he asked for drink--milk, and subsequently\n a little brandy, being supplied. As soon as possible the patient\n was lifted out of his box, and with help was quickly able to walk\n about the platform. He complained of considerable stiffness of the\n limbs, and was undoubtedly weak, but otherwise seemed none the worse\n for his remarkable retirement from active life, and abstention from\n food for nearly a week. He was swathed in flannel, and soon found\n the heat of the room very oppressive, though at first he appeared to\n be particularly anxious to have his overcoat and his boots. It is\n anticipated that in a day or two at most Wootton will have regained\n his usual vigorous health.\u201d\n\n[EXPERIMENTAL BURIAL.]\n\nDr. Hartmann in \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d page 23, relates an account of a\nsimilar experiment with a fakir, differing from the above, however,\nin so far as it was made by some English residents, who did not put\nthe coffin into the earth, but hung it up in the air, so as to protect\nit from the danger of being eaten up by white ants. There seems to be\nhardly any limitation in regard to the time during which such a body\nmay be preserved and become reanimated again, provided that it is well\nprotected, although modern ignorance may smile at this statement.\n\nThose of our readers who wish to pursue this subject will find ample\nmaterial in \u201cObservations on Trance or Human Hibernation,\u201d 1850, by\nJames Braid, M.R.C.S.; Dr. Kuhn\u2019s report of his investigations of the\nIndian fakirs to the Anthropological Society of Munich, in 1895; the\nresearches of Dr. J. M. Honigberger, a German physician long resident\nin India; and in the _India Journal of Medical and Physical Science_,\n1836, vol. i., p. 389, etc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nPREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\nAT the sitting of the Paris Academy of Medicine, on April 10, 1827, a\npaper was read by M. Chantourelle, on the danger of hasty burial. This\nled to a discussion, in which M. Desgenettes stated that he had been\ntold by Dr. Thouret, who presided at the destruction of the vaults of\nLes Innocens, that many skeletons had been found in positions seeming\nto show that they had turned in their coffins. Dr. Thouret was so much\nimpressed by the circumstance that he had a special clause inserted in\nhis will relating to his own burial.[4]\n\nSimilar revelations, according to Kempner, have followed the\nexaminations of grave-yards in Holland, and in New York and other parts\nof the United States.\n\nOn July 2, 1896, the author visited the grave of Madam Blunden, in the\nCemetery, Basingstoke, Hants, who, according to the inscription (now\nobliterated), was buried alive. The following narrative appears in \u201cThe\nUncertainty of the Signs of Death,\u201d by Surgeon M. Cooper, London, 1746,\npp. 78, 79:--\n\n\u201cAt Basingstoke, in Hampshire, not many years ago, a gentlewoman of\ncharacter and fortune was taken ill, and, to all appearance, died,\nwhile her husband was on a journey to London. A messenger was forthwith\ndespatched to the gentleman, who returned immediately, and ordered\neverything for her decent interment. Accordingly, on the third day\nafter her supposed decease, she was buried in Holy Ghost Chapel, at the\noutside of the town, in a vault belonging to the family, over which\nthere is a school for poor children endowed by a charitable gentleman\nin the reign of Edward VI. It happened the next day that the boys,\nwhile they were at play, heard a noise in the vault, and one of them\nran and told his master, who, not crediting what he said, gave him a\nbox on the ear and sent him about his business; but, upon the other\nboys coming with the same story, his curiosity was awakened, so that he\nsent immediately for the sexton, and opened the vault and the lady\u2019s\ncoffin, where they found her just expiring. All possible means were\nused to recover her to life, but to no purpose, for she, in her agony,\nhad bit the nails off her fingers, and tore her face and head to that\ndegree, that, notwithstanding all the care that was taken of her, she\ndied in a few hours in inexpressible torment.\u201d\n\nThe _Sunday Times_, London, December 30, 1838, contains the following:--\n\n \u201cA frightful case of premature interment occurred not long since,\n at Tonneins, in the Lower Garonne. The victim, a man in the prime\n of life, had only a few shovelfuls of earth thrown into his grave,\n when an indistinct noise was heard to proceed from his coffin. The\n grave-digger, terrified beyond description, instantly fled to seek\n assistance, and some time elapsed before his return, when the crowd,\n which had by this time collected in considerable numbers round the\n grave, insisted on the coffin being opened. As soon as the first\n boards had been removed, it was ascertained, beyond a doubt, that the\n occupant had been interred alive. His countenance was frightfully\n contracted with the agony he had undergone; and, in his struggles, the\n unhappy man had forced his arms completely out of the winding sheet,\n in which they had been securely enveloped. A physician, who was on the\n spot, opened a vein, but no blood followed. The sufferer was beyond\n the reach of art.\u201d\n\n[RESUSCITATION IN GREENWOOD CEMETERY.]\n\nMr. Oscar F. Shaw, Attorney-at-Law, 145 Broadway, New York, furnished\nthe author with particulars of the following case, of which he had\npersonal knowledge:--\u201cIn or about the year 1851, Virginia M\u2019Donald,\nwho, up to that time had lived with her father on Catharine Street,\nin the City of New York, apparently died, and was buried in Greenwood\nCemetery, Brooklyn, N.Y.\n\n\u201cAfter the burial her mother declared her belief that the daughter\nwas not dead when buried, and persistently asserted her belief. The\nfamily tried in various ways to assure the mother of the death of her\ndaughter, and even resorted to ridicule for that purpose; but the\nmother insisted so long and so strenuously that her daughter was buried\nalive, that finally the family consented to having the body taken up,\nwhen to their horror, they discovered the body lying on the side, the\nhands badly bitten, and every indication of a premature burial.\u201d\n\nThe _Lancet_, May 22, 1858, p. 519, has the following:--\n\n  \u201cINTERMENT BEFORE DEATH.\n\n \u201cA case of restoration to consciousness after burial is recorded by\n the Austrian journals in the person of a rich manufacturer, named\n Oppelt, at Rudenberg. He was buried fifteen years ago, and lately,\n on opening the vault, the lid of the coffin was found forced open,\n and his skeleton in a sitting posture in a corner of the vault. A\n Government Commission has reported on the matter.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, August 20, 1864, p. 219.\n\n  \u201cPREMATURE INTERMENT.\n\n \u201cAmongst the papers left by the great Meyerbeer, were some which\n showed that he had a profound dread of premature interment. He\n directed, it is stated, that his body should be left for ten days\n undisturbed, with the face uncovered, and watched night and day. Bells\n were to be fastened to his feet. And at the end of the second day\n veins were to be opened in the arm and leg. This is the gossip of the\n capital in which he died. The first impression is that such a fear is\n morbid. No doubt fewer precautions would suffice, but now and again\n cases occur which seem to warrant such a feeling, and to show that\n want of caution may lead to premature interment in cases unknown. An\n instance is mentioned by the _Ost. Deutscher Post_ of Vienna. A few\n days since, runs the story, in the establishment of the Brothers of\n Charity in that capital, the bell of the dead-room was heard to ring\n violently, and on one of the attendants proceeding to the place to\n ascertain the cause, he was surprised at seeing one of the supposed\n dead men pulling the bell-rope. He was removed immediately to another\n room, and hopes are entertained of his recovery.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Times_, July 7, 1867, p. 12, col. 3.\n\n \u201cThe _Journal de Pontarlier_ relates a case of premature interment.\n During the funeral, three days back, of a young woman at Montflorin,\n who had apparently died in an epileptic fit, the grave-digger, after\n having thrown a spadeful of earth on the coffin, thought he heard a\n moaning from the tomb. The body was consequently exhumed, and a vein\n having been opened, yielded blood almost warm and liquid. Hopes were\n for a moment entertained that the young woman would recover from her\n lethargy, but she never did so entirely, and the next day life was\n found to be extinct.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, October 19, 1867, p. 504.\n\n  \u201cBURIED ALIVE.\n\n [INTERRED WITH USUAL FORMALITIES.]\n\n \u201cThe _Journal de Morlaix_ mentions that a young woman at Bohaste,\n France, who was supposed to have died from cholera a few days back,\n was buried on the following afternoon. The sexton, when about to\n fill in the grave, fancied that he heard a noise in the coffin, and\n sent for the medical officer, who, on removing the lid and examining\n the body, gave it as his opinion that the woman had been alive when\n buried.\u201d\n\nThe official journal of the French Senate, January 30, 1869, records\nthat the attention of the Senate was called to this case by means\nof a petition signed by seven residents in Paris, and the facts are\nconfirmed by L. Roger, _Officier de Sant\u00e9_.\n\nFrom the _Times_, May 6, 1874, p. 11, foot of col. 4.\n\n  \u201cPREMATURE INTERMENT.\n\n \u201cThe _Messager du Midi_ relates the following dreadful story:--A young\n married woman residing at Salon (Bouches du Rh\u00f4ne) died shortly after\n her confinement in August last. The medical man, who was hastily\n summoned when her illness assumed a dangerous form, certified her\n death, and recommended immediate burial in consequence of the intense\n heat then prevailing, and six hours afterwards the body was interred.\n A few days since, the husband having resolved to re-marry, the mother\n of his late wife desired to have her daughter\u2019s remains removed to her\n native town, Marseilles. When the vault was opened a horrible sight\n presented itself. The corpse lay in the middle of the vault, with\n dishevelled hair and the linen torn to pieces. It evidently had been\n gnawed in her agony by the unfortunate victim. The shock which the\n dreadful spectacle caused to the mother has been so great that fears\n are entertained for her reason, if not for her life.\u201d\n\nThe _British Medical Journal_, December 8, 1877, p. 819, inserts the\nfollowing:--\n\n  \u201cBURIED ALIVE.\n\n \u201cA correspondent at Naples states that the Appeal Court has had before\n it a case not likely to inspire confidence in the minds of those who\n look forward with horror to the possibility of being buried alive. It\n appeared from the evidence that some time ago a woman was interred\n with all the usual formalities, it being believed that she was dead,\n while she was only in a trance. Some days afterwards, the grave in\n which she had been placed being opened for the reception of another\n body, it was found that the clothes which covered the unfortunate\n woman were torn to pieces, and that she had even broken her limbs in\n attempting to extricate herself from the living tomb. The Court, after\n hearing the case, sentenced the doctor who had signed the certificate\n of decease, and the mayor who had authorised the interment, each to\n three months\u2019 imprisonment for involuntary manslaughter.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Daily Telegraph_, January 18, 1889.\n\n \u201cA gendarme was buried alive the other day in a village near Grenoble.\n The man had become intoxicated on potato brandy, and fell into a\n profound sleep. After twenty hours passed in slumber, his friends\n considered him to be dead, particularly as his body assumed the\n usual rigidity of a corpse. When the sexton, however, was lowering\n the remains of the ill-fated gendarme into the grave, he heard moans\n and knocks proceeding from the interior of the \u2018four-boards.\u2019 He\n immediately bored holes in the sides of the coffin, to let in air, and\n then knocked off the lid. The gendarme had, however, ceased to live,\n having horribly mutilated his head in his frantic but futile efforts\n to burst his coffin open.\u201d\n\n[EVIDENCE OF UNDERTAKERS.]\n\n[HORRIFYING CASES.]\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, July 22, 1889,\nrelates the following cases:--\n\n \u201cA New York undertaker recently told the following story, the\n circumstances of which are still remembered by old residents of the\n city:--\u2018About forty years ago a lady living on Division Street, New\n York City, fell dead, apparently, while in the act of dancing at a\n ball. It was a fashionable affair, and being able to afford it, she\n wore costly jewellery. Her husband, a flour merchant, who loved her\n devotedly, resolved that she should be interred in her ball dress,\n diamonds, pearls, and all; also that there should be no autopsy. As\n the weather was very inclement when the funeral reached the cemetery,\n the body was placed in the receiving vault for burial next day. The\n undertaker was not a poor man, but he was avaricious, and he made up\n his mind to possess the jewellery. He went in the night, and took\n the lady\u2019s watch from the folds of her dress. He next began to draw\n a diamond ring from her finger, and in doing so had to use violence\n enough to tear the skin. Then the lady moved and groaned, and the\n thief, terrified and conscience-stricken, fled from the cemetery, and\n has never been since heard from, that I know of. The lady, after the\n first emotions of horror at her unheard-of position had passed over,\n gathered her nerves together and stepped out of the vault, which\n the thief had left open. How she came home I cannot tell; but this\n I know--she lived and had children, two at least of whom are alive\n to-day.\u2019\n\n \u201cAnother New York undertaker told this story. The New York papers\n thirty-five years ago were full of its ghastly details. \u2018The daughter\n of a Court Street baker died. It was in winter, and the father,\n knowing that a married sister of his dead child, who lived in St.\n Louis, would like to see her face before laid in the grave for ever,\n had the body placed in the vault, waiting her arrival. The sister\n came, the vault was opened, the lid of the coffin taken off, when,\n to the unutterable horror of the friends assembled, they found the\n grave-clothes torn in shreds, and the fingers of both hands eaten off.\n The girl had been buried alive.\u2019\n\n \u201cUntil about forty years ago a noted family of Virginia preserved a\n curious custom, which had been religiously observed for more than a\n century. Over a hundred years ago a member of the family died, and,\n upon being exhumed, was found to have been buried alive. From that\n time until about 1850, every member of the family, man, woman, or\n child, who died, was stabbed in the heart with a knife in the hands of\n the head of the house. The reason for the cessation of this custom was\n that in 1850 or thereabouts a beautiful young girl was supposed to be\n dead, the knife was plunged into her bosom, when she gave vent to a\n fearful scream and died. She had merely been in a trance. The incident\n broke her father\u2019s heart, and in a fit of remorse he killed himself\n not long afterwards.\n\n \u201cThere are many families in the United States who, when any of their\n number dies, insist that an artery be opened to determine whether life\n has fled or not.\u201d\n\nThe following remarkable case of waking in the grave is reported from\nVienna:--\n\n \u201cA lady residing at Derbisch, near Kolin, in Bohemia, where she owned\n considerable property, was buried last week, after a brief illness,\n in the family vault at the local cemetery. Four days afterwards her\n granddaughter was interred in the same place, but as the stone slab\n covering the aperture was removed, the bystanders were horrified to\n see that the lid of the coffin below had been raised, and that the arm\n of the corpse was protruding. It was ascertained eventually that the\n unfortunate lady, who was supposed to have died of heart disease, had\n been buried alive. She had evidently recovered consciousness for a few\n minutes, and had found strength enough to burst open her coffin. The\n authorities are bent on taking measures of the utmost severity against\n those responsible.\u201d--_Undertakers\u2019 Journal, August 22, 1889._\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, July 22, 1890.\n\n \u201cA horrible story comes from Majola, Mantua. The body of a woman,\n named Lavrinia Merli, a peasant, who was supposed to have died from\n hysterics, was placed in a vault on Thursday, July 3. On Saturday\n evening it was found that the woman had regained consciousness, torn\n her grave-clothes in her struggles, had turned completely over in the\n coffin, and had given birth to a seven-months\u2019-old child. Both mother\n and child were dead when the coffin was opened for the last time\n previous to interment.\u201d\n\n \u201cA shocking occurrence is reported from Cesa, a little village\n near Naples. A woman living at that place was recently seized with\n sudden illness. A doctor who was called certified that the woman was\n dead, and the body was consequently placed in a coffin, which was\n deposited in the watch-house of the local cemetery. Next day an old\n woman passing close to the cemetery thought she heard smothered cries\n proceeding from the watch-house. The family was informed, but when the\n lid of the coffin was forced off a shocking spectacle presented itself\n to the gaze of the horrified villagers. The wretched woman had turned\n on her side, and the position of her arm showed that she had made a\n desperate effort to raise the lid. The eldest son, who was among the\n persons who broke open the coffin, received such a shock that he died\n three days later.\u201d--_Undertakers\u2019 Journal, September 22, 1893._\n\nThe _Progressive Thinker_, of November 14, 1891, relates that:--\n\n \u201cFarmer George Hefdecker, who lived at Erie, Pa., died very suddenly\n two weeks ago, of what is supposed to have been heart failure. The\n body was buried temporarily four days later in a neighbour\u2019s lot in\n the Erie cemetery pending the purchase of one by his family. The\n transfer was made in a few days, and when the casket was opened at\n the request of his family, a horrifying spectacle was presented. The\n body had turned round, and the face and interior of the casket bore\n the traces of a terrible struggle with death in its most awful shape.\n The distorted and blood-covered features bore evidence of the agony\n endured. The clothing about the head and neck had been torn into\n shreds, as was likewise the lining of the coffin. Bloody marks of\n finger nails on the face, throat, and neck, told of the awful despair\n of the doomed man, who tore his own flesh in his terrible anguish.\n Several fingers had been entirely bitten off, and the hands torn with\n the teeth until they scarcely resembled those of a human being.\u201d\n\nFrom the London _Echo_, October 6, 1894.\n\n  \u201cBURIED ALIVE.\n\n \u201cA story of a horrible nature comes from St. Petersburg in connection\n with the interment at Tioobayn, near that city, of a peasant girl\n named Antonova. She had presumably died, and in due course the funeral\n took place. After the service at the cemetery, the grave-diggers were\n startled by sounds of moaning proceeding from the coffin. Instead,\n however, of instantly breaking it open, they rushed off to find a\n doctor, and when he and some officials arrived and broke open the\n shell, the unhappy inmate was already the corpse she had been supposed\n to be a day earlier. It was evident, however, that no efforts could\n have saved life at the last moment. The body was half-turned in the\n coffin, the left hand, having escaped its bandages, being under the\n cheek.\u201d\n\nThe following case, cabled by Dalziel, appears in the London _Star_,\nAugust 19, 1895:--\n\n  \u201cSOUNDS FROM ANOTHER COFFIN.\n\n  \u201cGrenoble, August 17.\n\n \u201cOn Monday last a man was found in a dying condition by the side of\n a brook near the village of Le Pin. Everything possible was done\n for him, but he relapsed into unconsciousness, and became to all\n appearances dead. The funeral was arranged, and, there being no\n suspicion of foul play, the body was interred on the following day.\n The coffin had been lowered to the bottom of the grave, and the\n sexton had begun to cover it with earth, when he heard muffled sounds\n proceeding from it. The earth was hastily removed and the coffin\n opened, when it was discovered that the unfortunate occupant was\n alive. He was taken to a neighbouring house, but rapidly sank into\n a comatose condition, and died without uttering a word. The second\n burial took place yesterday.\u201d\n\nWhile in India, in the early part of this year (1896), Dr. Roger S.\nChew, of Calcutta, who, having been laid out for dead, and narrowly\nescaped living sepulture, has had the best reasons for studying the\nsubject, gave me particulars of the following cases:--\n\n \u201cFrank Lascelles, aged thirty-two years, was seated at breakfast with\n a number of us young fellows, and was in the middle of a burst of\n hearty laughter, when his head fell forward on his plate and he was\n \u2018dead.\u2019 As there was a distinct history of cardiac disease in his\n family, while he himself had frequently been treated for valvular\n disease of the heart, he was alleged to have \u2018died\u2019 of cardiac\n failure, and was duly interred in the Coonor Cemetery. Some six months\n later, permission was obtained to remove his remains to St. John\u2019s\n Church-yard in Ootacamund. The coffin was exhumed, and, as a \u2018matter\n of form,\u2019 the lid removed to identify the resident, when, to the\n horror of the lookers-on, it was noticed that, though mummification\n had taken place, there had been a fearful struggle underground, for\n the body, instead of being on its back as it was when first coffined,\n was _lying on its face_, with its arms and legs drawn up as close\n as the confined space would permit. His trousers (a perfectly new\n pair) were burst at the left knee, while his shirt-front was torn to\n ribands and bloodstained, and the wood of that portion of the coffin\n immediately below his mouth was stained a deep reddish-brown-black\n (_blood_). Old Dr. Donaldson, whom we were all very fond of, tried to\n explain matters by saying that the jolting of the coffin on its way\n to the cemetery had overturned the body, and that the blood stains on\n the shirt and wood were the natural result of blood flowing (_i.e._\n oozing) out of the mouth of the corpse as it lay face downwards.\n A nice theory, but scarcely a probable one, as all the jolting in\n creation could not possibly turn a corpse over in an Indian coffin,\n which is so built that there is scarcely two inches spare space over\n any portion of the contained body, and unless the supposed corpse\n regained consciousness and exerted _considerable_ force, it could not\n possibly turn round in its _narrow_ casket.\n\n [DR. ROGER S. CHEW\u2019S CASES.]\n\n \u201cMary Norah Best, aged seventeen years, an adopted daughter of Mrs.\n C. A. Moore, _n\u00e9e_ Chew, \u2018died\u2019 of cholera, and was entombed in the\n Chew\u2019s vault in the old French cemetery, at Calcutta. The certifying\n surgeon was a man who would have benefited by her death, and had twice\n (though ineffectually) attempted to put an end to her adopted mother,\n who fled from India to England after the second attempt on her life,\n but, unfortunately, left the girl behind. When Mary \u2018died\u2019 she was\n put into a _pine_ coffin, the lid of which was _nailed_, not screwed,\n down. In 1881, ten years or so later, the vault was unsealed to admit\n the body of Mrs. Moore\u2019s brother, J. A. A. Chew. On entering the\n vault, the undertaker\u2019s assistant and I found the lid of Mary\u2019s coffin\n on the floor, while the position of the skeleton (half in, half out of\n the coffin, and an ugly gash across the right parietal bone) _plainly_\n showed that after being entombed Mary awoke from her trance, struggled\n violently till she wrenched the lid off her coffin, when she either\n fainted away with the strain of the effort in bursting open her\n casket, and while falling forward over the edge of her coffin struck\n her head against the masonry shelf, and died almost immediately;\n or, worse still,--as surmised by some of her clothing which was\n found hanging over the edge of the coffin, and the position of her\n right hand, the fingers of which were bent and close to where her\n throat would have been had the flesh not rotted away,--she recovered\n consciousness, fought for life, forced her coffin open, and, sitting\n up in the pitchy darkness of the vault, went mad with fright, tore her\n clothes off, tried to throttle herself, and banged her head against\n the masonry shelf until she fell forward senseless and dead.\u201d\n\nDr. Chew says:--\u201cThough a layman, still it would be hard to find\na more indefatigable sanitarian than my late commanding officer,\nLieutenant-Colonel R. C. Sterndale, of the Presidency Volunteer Rifle\nBattalion, and for many years vice-chairman of the municipality of the\nsuburbs of Calcutta. In order to prove his theory that a great deal of\ndanger existed in the rainy season from subsoil water rising up into\nthe graves, saturating the bodies, and then poisoning the neighbouring\ntanks and wells, he caused a trench, ten feet long, six deep, and four\nwide, to be dug across an old Mahomedan grave-yard. Soundings and\nmeasurements having been taken of the subsoil water, he had a tarpaulin\nstretched over the trench, and daily measured the \u2018fall\u2019 of the\nwater-level. He had a drawing made of the section of that grave-yard\nin which the action of the nitre-laden water seemed to mummify some\nof the bodies. Amongst the rest was a somewhat mummified male corpse\nwhich, instead of being on his back, was lying on his abdomen; the left\narm supported the chin, but had a piece of it missing; the right hand\nclutched the left elbow, and the general position of the body was as\nif, consciousness having returned, the alleged corpse sat up, found\nthe weight of the earth too heavy to work through, and then, dying of\nsuffocation, fell forward in the position in which it was found and\nexposed.\u201d\n\nDr. Chew adds:--\u201cI have heard and read of several other instances, but,\nas they have not come within my personal observation, I do not mention\nor refer to them.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nNARROW ESCAPES FROM PREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\nALMOST every intelligent and observant person you converse with,\nif the subject is introduced, has either known or heard of narrow\nescapes of premature burial within his or her own circle of friends\nor acquaintances; and it is no exaggeration to say that such cases\nare numbered by thousands. It is to be hoped that the number of\ntimely discoveries vastly exceed those actually interred in a state\nof suspended animation; but as no investigation of grave-yards or\ncemeteries (which effectually conceal their own tragedies) has ever\ntaken place in England until the remains are reduced to dust, and\nrarely in other countries, one cannot be sure that this optimistic view\nis correct. The following cases of narrow escape appear to rest upon\ntrustworthy evidence.\n\nAn apparent suspension of life, following a serious illness, is usually\nconsidered a satisfactory proof of the reality of the expected death;\nbut these conditions cannot always be relied upon. Cases are on record\nwhere the objects of such simulacra of death appear, if let alone, to\ngather the essence of renewed vitality, and return to consciousness.\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_ of May, 1888, has a\ncase in point.\n\n[A RESUSCITATED HUMORIST.]\n\n \u201cMrs. Lockhart, of Birkhill, who died in 1825, used to relate to\n her grandchildren the following anecdote of her ancestor, Sir\n William Lindsay, of Covington, towards the close of the seventeenth\n century:--\u2018Sir William was a humorist, and noted, moreover, for\n preserving the picturesque appendage of a beard at a period when the\n fashion had long passed away. He had been extremely ill, and life\n was at last supposed to be extinct, though, as it afterwards turned\n out, he was merely in a \u201cdead faint\u201d or trance. The female relatives\n were assembled for the \u201cchesting\u201d--the act of putting a corpse into a\n coffin, with the entertainment given on such melancholy occasions--in\n a lighted chamber in the old tower of Covington, where the \u201cbearded\n knight\u201d lay stretched upon his bier. But when the servants were\n about to enter to assist at the ceremonies, Isabella Somerville, Sir\n William\u2019s great-granddaughter, and Mrs. Lockhart\u2019s grandmother, then\n a child, creeping close to her mother, whispered into her ear, \u201cThe\n beard is wagging! the beard is wagging!\u201d Mrs. Somerville, upon this,\n looked to the bier, and observing indications of life in the ancient\n knight, made the company retire, and Sir William soon came out of his\n faint. Hot bottles were applied and cordials administered, and in\n the course of the evening he was able to converse with his family.\n They explained that they had believed him to be actually dead, and\n that arrangements had even been made for his funeral. In answer to\n the question, \u201cHave the folks been warned?\u201d (_i.e._, invited to the\n funeral) he was told that they had--that the funeral day had been\n fixed, an ox slain, and other preparations made for entertaining the\n company. Sir William then said, \u201cAll is as it should be; keep it a\n dead secret that I am in life, and let the folks come.\u201d His wishes\n were complied with, and the company assembled for the burial at the\n appointed time. After some delay, occasioned by the non-arrival of\n the clergyman, as was supposed, and which afforded an opportunity of\n discussing the merits of the deceased, the door suddenly opened, when,\n to their surprise and terror, in stepped the knight himself, pale in\n countenance and dressed in black, leaning on the arm of the minister\n of the parish of Covington. Having quieted their alarm and explained\n matters, he called upon the clergyman to conduct an act of devotion,\n which included thanksgiving for his recovery and escape from being\n buried alive. This done, the dinner succeeded. A jolly evening, after\n the manner of the time, was passed, Sir William himself presiding over\n the carousals.\u2019\u201d\n\nDr. J. B. Vign\u00e9, in his \u201cMemoire sur les Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d\nParis, 1839, narrates the following:-- \u201cMr. B., an inhabitant of\nPoitiers, fell suddenly into a state resembling death; every means\nfor bringing him back to life were used without interruption; from\ncontinued dragging, his two little fingers were dislocated, and the\nsoles of his feet were burnt; but, all these having produced no\nsensation in him, he was thought decidedly dead. As they were on the\npoint of placing him in his coffin, some one recommended that he should\nbe bled in both arms and feet at the same time, which was immediately\ndone, and with such success that, to the astonishment of all, he\nrecovered from his apparent state of death. When he had entirely\nrecovered his senses, he declared that he had heard every word that had\nbeen said, and that his only fear was that he would be buried alive.\u201d\n\n\nAPPARENT DEATH IN PREGNANCY.\n\nHufeland (one of the greatest authorities on the subject in Germany),\nin his essay upon the uncertainty of the signs of death, tells of a\ncase of the wife of Professor Camerer, of T\u00fcbingen, who was hysterical,\nand had a fright in the sixth month of her pregnancy, which brought\non convulsions (eclampsia), which continued for four hours, when she\nseemed to die completely. Two celebrated physicians, besides three\nothers of less note, regarded the case as ended in death, as all the\nrecognised signs of death were present. However, attempts to revive\nher were at once resorted to, and were continued for five hours, when\nall the medical attendants, except one, gave the case up, and left.\nThe physician who remained pulled off a blister-plaster that had\nbeen put on one of the feet, when the lady gave feeble signs of life\nby twitchings about the mouth. The doctor then renewed his efforts\nto revive her, by various stimulating means, and by burning, and by\npricking the spine; but all in vain, for after her slight evidences of\nrevival, she seemed to die unmistakably. She lay in a state of apparent\ndeath for six days, but there was a small space over the heart where a\nlittle warmth could be detected by the hand, and on this account the\nburial was put off. On the seventh day she opened her eyes, and slowly\nrevived, but was completely unconscious of all that had happened. She\nthen gave birth to a dead child, and soon thereafter recovered her\nhealth completely.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[MORE CAREFUL EXAMINATION REQUIRED.]\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, November 27, 1858, p. 561.\n\n  \u201cTHE DEAD ALIVE.\n\n \u201cIt seems to be always desirable to obtain a contemporary record\n of all unusual phenomena. It is so more especially where they are\n of a somewhat indefinite character, and scarcely susceptible of\n exaggeration. We know of none which are more so than the cases of\n \u2018trance.\u2019 These examples are both sufficiently unusual to deserve a\n passing record, and sufficiently mysterious in their character to call\n for a more careful investigation than it has hitherto been possible to\n accord to them. We transcribe the facts of a recent instance, as they\n are circumstantially detailed, and, no doubt, some of the surgeons of\n Coventry will be able to afford their testimony as to the degree of\n correspondence of this narrative with their observations. \u201cThe girl,\n whose name is Amelia Hinks, is twelve or thirteen years of age, and\n resides with her parents in Bridge Street, Nuneaton. She had lately\n appeared to be sinking under the influence of some ill-explained\n disorder, and about three weeks since, as her friends imagined, she\n died. The body was removed to another room. It was rigid and icy cold.\n It was washed and laid out with all due funeral train. The limbs were\n decently placed, the eyelids closed and penny-pieces laid over them.\n The coffin was ordered. For more than forty-eight hours the supposed\n corpse lay beneath the winding-sheet, when it happened that her\n grandfather, coming from Leamington to assist in the last mournful\n ceremonies, went to see the corpse. The old man removed a penny-piece,\n and he thought that the corpse winked! There was a convulsive movement\n of the lid. This greatly disturbed his composure; for, though he had\n heard that she died with her eyes open, he was unprepared for this\n palpebral signal of her good understanding with death. A surgeon is\n said to have been summoned, who at first treated the matter as a\n delusion, but subsequently ascertained stethoscopically that there\n was still slight cardiac pulsation. The body was then removed to a\n warm room, and gradually the returning signs of animation became\n unequivocal. When speech was restored, the girl described many things\n which had taken place since her supposed death. She knew who had\n closed her eyes and placed the coppers thereon. She also heard the\n order given for her coffin, and could repeat the various remarks made\n over her as she lay in her death-clothes. She refused food, though in\n a state of extreme debility. She has since shown symptoms of mania,\n and is now said to have relapsed into a semi-cataleptic condition. The\n parents are \u2018creditable people,\u2019 and there is no apparent ruse in this\n unusually romantic history, which is causing considerable excitement\n in Nuneaton and its neighbourhood.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, December 18, 1858, p. 642.\n\n  \u201c\u2018THE DEAD ALIVE.\u2019\n\n  \u201c(To the Editor of the _Lancet_.)\n\n \u201cSir,--An article, \u2018The Dead Alive,\u2019 in your impression of the 27th\n ultimo, demands of me a veritable statement of the case alluded to.\n The subject of the inquiry is still living, and for some time past has\n afforded me scope for observation.\n\n[THE DEAD ALIVE.]\n\n \u201cI have only been waiting for a termination of the case, either in\n convalescence or death, to enable me to give to the profession,\n through your valuable columns, a full and truthful history of this\n rare and curious case, replete with interest. The exaggerated\n statement which has gone the round of the press has produced such\n great curiosity in this immediate neighbourhood that I have been\n applied to by many parties, professional and non-professional, to be\n permitted to see the case, the parents of the patient having refused\n admittance to all strangers.\n\n \u201cThe case having extended over a long period, and fearing a detailed\n account might occupy too much of your valuable space, I have condensed\n the matter as much as possible; but should the profession consider\n the case worthy of a more enlarged history, I will gladly, at some\n future period, meet their wishes, as far as my rough notes, aided by\n my memory, will supply it.\n\n \u201cIn August, 1858, I was requested to visit Miss Amelia Hincks, aged\n twelve years and nine months, daughter of a harness-maker, and\n residing with her parents in Bridge Street, Nuneaton. She was supposed\n to be suffering from pulmonary consumption.... On October 18, about\n half-past three a.m., she apparently died. She is said to have groaned\n heavily, waved her hands (which was a promised sign for her mother\n to know that the hour of her departure was come), turned her head\n a little to the light, dropped her jaw, and _died_. In about half\n an hour after her supposed departure she was washed, and attired in\n clean linen, the jaw was tied by a white handkerchief, penny-pieces\n laid over her eyes, her hands, semi-clenched, placed by her side,\n and her feet tied together by a piece of tape. She was then carried\n into another room, laid on a sofa, and covered over with a sheet. She\n appeared stiff and cold, two large books were placed on her feet, and\n I have no doubt she was considered to be a sweet corpse.\n\n \u201cAbout nine a.m., the grandfather of the supposed dead went into the\n death-chamber to give a last kiss to his grandchild, when he fancied\n he saw a convulsive movement of the eyelid, he having raised one of\n the coins. He communicated this fact to the parents and mourning\n friends, but they ridiculed the old man\u2019s statement, and said the\n movement of the eyelids was owing to the nerves working after death.\n Their theory, however, did not satisfy the experienced man of eighty\n years, and he could not reconcile himself to her death. As soon as\n I reached home, after having been out in the country all night, I\n was requested to see the child, to satisfy the old man that she was\n really dead. About half-past ten a.m. I called; and immediately\n on my entrance into the chamber I perceived a tremulous condition\n of the eyelids, such as we frequently see in hysterical patients.\n The penny-pieces had been removed by the grandfather. I placed a\n stethoscope over the region of the heart, and found that organ\n performing its functions perfectly and with tolerable force. I then\n felt for a radial pulse, which was easily detected, beating feebly,\n about seventy-five per minute. The legs and arms were stiff and cold,\n and the capillary circulation was so congested as at first sight to\n resemble incipient decomposition. I carefully watched the chest, which\n heaved quietly but almost imperceptibly; and immediately unbandaged\n the maiden, and informed her mourning parents that she was not dead.\n Imagine their consternation! The passing-bell had rung, the shutters\n were closed, the undertaker was on his way to measure her for her\n coffin, and other necessary preparations were being made for her\n interment. [The writer then proceeds to give interesting details as to\n the treatment of the case, and the means taken to promote recovery.]\n\n  \u201cRICHARD BIRD MASON, M.R.C.S., L.S.A.\n\n \u201cBridge Street, Nuneaton, December 14, 1858.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, March 5, 1859, p. 254.\n\n\n \u201cTRANCE.\n\n \u201cAnother case of trance is reported, in addition to those which we\n have lately recorded. A widow named Aufray, about sixty years of age,\n of St. Agnan de Cenui\u00e8res (Eure), long seriously ill, became suddenly\n worse, grew cold and motionless, and, as it was thought, dead. She\n was laid out, the coffin ordered, and the church bell tolled. She\n recovered consciousness just before the funeral was to take place.\u201d\n\n\nTHE QUESTION OF PREMATURE BURIAL BEFORE THE FRENCH SENATE.\n\n[FRENCH CASES.]\n\nThe _Medical Times_, London, 1866, vol. i., p. 258, under the heading\n\u201cBuried Alive\u201d remarks as follows:--\u201cThe abundance of other topics\nhinders us at present from saying more than a few words on the\nconditions under which there may be real danger of burial before life\nis quite extinct. Now, we will only reproduce the cases reported by\nCardinal Archbishop Donnet, in the French Senate, in a discussion\non a petition that the time between death and burial should be\nlengthened. We will add one instance, which we have heard on the best\nauthority:--About thirty years ago, a young woman of eighteen, daughter\nof Madame Laligand, living in the Rue des Tonnelliers, at Beaune,\nin Burgundy, was supposed to have died. The ordinary measures were\ntaken for interment. The body was put in a coffin, and taken to the\nchurch; the funeral service was said, and the _cort\u00e9ge_ set out for\nthe cemetery; but on the road between the church and the cemetery the\nsupposed dead recovered power of motion and speech, was removed from\nthe coffin, put to bed, recovered, married, and lived eighteen years\nafterwards. She said she retained her consciousness during the whole\nof her supposed death, and had counted the nails that were driven\ninto her coffin. Statements such as these, and such as those made by\nthe Archbishop, will surely be subjected to the ordeal of a French\nscientific commission, and we may suspend our judgment for the present.\nTo return to his Eminence. He said he had the very best reasons for\nbelieving that the victims of hasty interments were more numerous than\npeople supposed. He considered the rules and regulations prescribed by\nthe law very judicious; but, unfortunately, they were, particularly in\nthe country, not always executed as they should be, nor was sufficient\nimportance attached to them. In the village he was stationed in as\nan assistant-curate in the first period of his sacerdotal life, he\nsaved two persons from being buried alive. The first an aged man, who\nlived twelve hours after the hour prescribed for his interment by the\nmunicipal officer; the second was a man who was quite restored to life.\nIn both cases a trance more prolonged than usual was taken for actual\ndeath. The other instances, says the _Times\u2019_ correspondent, I give in\nthe words of the Archbishop:--\n\n \u201c\u2018The next case that occurred to me was at Bordeaux. A young lady, who\n bore one of the most distinguished names in the Department, had passed\n through what was supposed the last agony, and, as apparently all was\n over, the father and mother were torn away from the heartrending\n spectacle. As God willed it, I happened to pass the door of the house\n at the moment, when it occurred to me to call and inquire how the\n young lady was going on. When I entered the room, the nurse, finding\n the body breathless, was in the act of covering the face, and, indeed,\n there was every appearance that life had departed. Somehow or other,\n it did not seem to me so certain as to the bystanders. I lady not to\n give up all hope--that I was come to cure her, and that I was about\n to pray by her side. \u201cYou do not see me,\u201d I said, \u201cbut you hear what\n I am saying.\u201d My presentiments were not unfounded. The word of hope I\n uttered reached her ear and effected a marvellous change, or, rather,\n called back the life that was departing. The young girl survived; she\n is now a wife, and mother of children, and this day is the happiness\n of two most respectable families.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe Archbishop mentioned another instance of a similar revival in a\ntown in Hungary during the cholera of 1831, which he heard that day\nfrom one of his colleagues of the Senate, as they were mounting the\nstaircase. But the last related is so interesting, and made such a\nsensation, that it deserves to be repeated in his own words:--\n\n[CARDINAL DONNET\u2019S EXPERIENCE.]\n\n \u201c\u2018In the summer of 1826, on a close summer day, in a church which was\n exceedingly crowded, a young priest, who was in the act of preaching,\n was suddenly seized with giddiness in the pulpit. The words he was\n uttering became indistinct; he soon lost the power of speech, and\n sank down on the floor. He was taken out of the church and carried\n home. All was thought to be over. Some hours after, the funeral bell\n was tolled, and the usual preparations made for the interment. His\n eyesight was gone: but if he could see nothing, like the young lady I\n have alluded to he could hear, and I need not say that what reached\n his ears was not calculated to reassure him. The doctor came, examined\n him, and pronounced him dead; and after the usual inquiries as to\n his age and the place of his birth, etc., gave permission for his\n interment next morning. The venerable bishop, in whose cathedral the\n young priest was preaching when he was seized with the fit, came to\n his bedside to recite the \u201cDe Profundis.\u201d The body was measured for\n the coffin. Night came on, and you will easily feel how inexpressible\n was the anguish of the living being in such a situation. At last,\n amid the voices murmuring around him, he distinguished that of one\n whom he had known from infancy. That voice produced a marvellous\n effect and superhuman effort. Of what followed I need say no more\n than that the seemingly dead man stood next day in the same pulpit.\n That young priest, gentlemen, is the same man who is now speaking\n before you, and who, more than forty years after that event, implores\n those in authority, not merely to watch vigilantly over the careful\n execution of the legal prescriptions with regard to interments, but\n to enact fresh ones in order to prevent the recurrence of irreparable\n misfortunes.\u2019\u201d\n\nTo this report of the _Medical Times_ it may be added that the\npetition of M. de Carnot furnished statistics showing the frequency of\nthese terrible disasters, and suggested various preventive measures,\nincluding the establishment of mortuaries, a longer interval between\ndeath and burial, and the application of scientific methods of\nrestoration where decomposition is not manifest. The reality of the\nterrible dangers, as pointed out by Cardinal Donnet, was confirmed by\nSenators Tourangin and Viscount de Baral, in the recital of other cases\nof premature interment.\n\nWhen the subject was revived in the Senate on January 29, 1869--on\nwhich occasion five petitions were presented, urging important reforms,\nand detailing other cases of premature interment,--Cardinal Donnet\nagain took part in the debate, and urged that no burial should be\npermitted without the signature of a doctor or officer of health, as\nwell as the written authorisation of the Mayor, so that the fact of\ndeath might always be verified. The Cardinal then furnished particulars\nof another recent case of premature interment in l\u2019Est, and recalled\nthe fact that one of their honourable colleagues of the Senate, M. le\nComte de la Rue, had had a narrow escape from live sepulture.\n\nThe several petitions were forwarded to the Minister of the Interior,\nbut nothing was done to remedy the evil.\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, June 2, 1866, p. 611.\n\n\n\u201cON SUSPENDED ANIMATION.\n\n\u201cIn the course of the address delivered by Dr. Brewer to the Guardians\nof St. George\u2019s at St. James\u2019s Hall, he adverted to the \u2018laying-out\u2019\ncase at St. Pancras.... Dr. Brewer ... dwelt upon the question of\nsuspended animation in a passage which really deserves to be quoted....\n\n[CASE REPORTED BY DR. BREWER.]\n\n \u201c\u2018I have been more than once under a condition of apparently suspended\n respiration, and with circumstances less comfortable than those\n related of this babe; and yet, active as is my brain, and sensitive\n as is my body, I remember as well as though it were but yesterday\n that, on being restored to consciousness, no feeling of discomfort\n of any kind attended my experience on either occasion. It is under\n the truth to say I have known a score of cases of those who have been\n supposed dead being reanimated. It is not many months ago a friend of\n mine, a rector of a suburban parish, was pronounced by his medical\n attendant to be dead. His bed was arranged, and the room left in its\n silence. His daughter had re-entered and sat at the foot, and the\n solemn toll of his own church bell was vibrating through the chamber,\n when a hand drew aside the closed curtain, and a voice came from the\n occupant of the bed--\u201cElizabeth, my dear, what is that bell tolling\n for?\u201d The daughter\u2019s response was, perhaps, an unfortunate one: \u201c_For\n you, papa._\u201d Schwartz, the first eminent Indian missionary, was roused\n from his supposed death by hearing his favourite hymn sung over him\n previous to the last rites being performed, and his resuscitation made\n known by his joining in the verse.\u2019\u201d\n\nDr. B. W. Richardson quotes a case in the _Lancet_, 1888, vol.\nii., p. 1179, of a man who, in 1869, was rendered cataleptic by a\nlightning-stroke, and who narrowly escaped living burial.\n\nDr. Moore Russell Fletcher in his work on \u201cSuspended Animation,\u201d p. 26,\nsays:--\n\n \u201cIn June, 1869, a girl in Cleveland, Ohio, was taken ill, and after a\n short sickness died, and was laid out for burial; but as her mother\n insisted that she was not dead, efforts were made for some time to\n restore her to life, but in vain. Her mother, however, refused to let\n her be buried; and on the fifth day after that set for the funeral\n the slamming of a door aroused her, so that she recovered. She stated\n that, during most of the eight days which she lay there, she was\n conscious and heard what was said, although wholly unable to make the\n least motion.\u201d\n\nDr. M. S. Tanner in a letter to the _New York Times_, January 18, 1880,\nmentions two cases where persons awakened from trance at the moment of\nsepulture described in turn what their feelings had been. Said one:--\n\n \u201cHave you ever felt the paralysing influence of a horrible nightmare?\n If you have had such experience, then you are prepared to conceive of\n the mental agonies I endured when I realised that my friends believed\n me dead, and were making preparations for my burial. The hours and\n days of mental struggle spent in the vain endeavour to break loose\n from the vice-like grasp of this worse than horrible nightmare was a\n hell of torment such as no tongue can describe or pen portray.\u201d\n\n[VERDICT OF FOURTEEN PHYSICIANS.]\n\nThe other instance mentioned by Dr. Tanner is that of Dr. Johnson of\nSt. Charles, Illinois, who in the hearing of Dr. Tanner, and in the\npresence of a large audience in Harrison\u2019s Hall, Minneapolis, stated\nthat when a young man he was prostrated with a fever. He swooned away,\napparently dead. His attending physician said he was dead. His father\nwas faithless and unbelieving, and refused to bury him. He lay in this\ncondition, apparently dead, fourteen days. The attending physician\nbrought other physicians to examine the apparently lifeless form, and\nall stated unqualifiedly, \u201cHe is dead.\u201d Some fourteen physicians, among\nthem many eminent professors, examined the body, and there was no\nambiguity in the expression of their conclusion that the boy was dead.\nBut the father still turned a deaf ear to all entreaties to prepare\nthe body for the grave. Public feeling was at last aroused. The health\nofficer and other city officers, acting in their official capacity, and\nby the advice of physicians, peremptorily demanded that the body be\ninterred without delay. On the fourteenth day the father yielded under\nprotest; preparations were made for the funeral, when the emotions of\nthe still living subject, who was conscious of all transpiring around\nhim, were so intense as to be the means of his deliverance. He awoke\nfrom his trance.\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, June 7, 1884, p. 1058.\n\n\n \u201cIMPORTANT SUGGESTION FROM AN M.D.\n\n \u201c(To the Editor of the _Lancet_.)\n\n \u201cSir,--Without venturing to express an opinion on the case mentioned\n by the Rev. D. Williams[5] in the _Lancet_ of the 24th inst., I\n would beg to say that I have no doubt in my own mind but that people\n are sometimes \u2018buried alive.\u2019 An instance has come to my knowledge\n where this catastrophe was only avoided by a mere accident. A lady,\n about forty-five years of age, the wife of a clergyman in a northern\n county, was taken ill, and after some time, as was supposed, died.\n The funeral was delayed, and so was the closing of the coffin, in\n consequence of the absence of a son of the lady from home. When the\n boy arrived, the kissing, wailing, and commotion roused the supposed\n dead woman, and brought her to consciousness in her coffin. This\n lady would most probably have been buried alive were it not that the\n obsequies were delayed on account of the circumstance mentioned.\n\n \u201cNow, may not cases more or less similar to this sometimes occur, with\n the catastrophe of \u2018buried alive\u2019 added to them? But no such case\n could happen if it were made compulsory that the interment of a body\n should not be allowed to take place until after decomposition had set\n in, as attested by a medical man.\n\n  \u201cI am, Sir, yours truly,\n\n  \u201cWM. O\u2019NEILL, M.D.\n\n \u201cLincoln, May 26, 1884.\u201d\n\nIt is not always safe to conclude that persons enfeebled by age, or\nexhausted by long and severe illness, and pronounced dead by the\nattendant doctor, are really so. _The Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, August 23,\n1886, has the following:--\n\n \u201cIt appears that George O. Daniels, of Clinton, Kentucky, had been ill\n for several months, and at length, to all appearance, died. The body\n was put in a coffin, where it remained for twenty hours, awaiting the\n arrival of relatives to attend the funeral. At midnight the watchers\n who surrounded the coffin were startled by a deep groan emanating from\n it, and all but one, a German of the name of Wabbeking, rushed from\n the room. Wabbeking remained, and as the groans continued he raised\n the coffin-lid and saw that Daniels was alive. Seizing the body he\n placed it upright. A few spasmodic gasps, a shudder, and the corpse\n spoke. The relatives returned to find the man sitting in a chair, and\n conversing with reasonable strength. Mr. Daniels claims to have been\n perfectly conscious of everything which passed around him, but says he\n was unable to move a muscle. He heard the sobs of his relatives when\n he was pronounced dead by the doctors, and noticed the preparations\n for the funeral. He is about eighty years of age.\u201d\n\nThe same journal for July 23, 1888, reports the following under the\nhead of\n\n \u201cRETURNED TO LIFE TWICE.\n\n[RETURNED TO LIFE TWICE.]\n\n \u201cThe following details are given by the Cincinnati correspondent of\n the _New York Herald_ from Memphis, Tennessee:--Mrs. Dicie Webb keeps\n a grocery store on Beale Street, and is well known to hundreds. Two\n years ago John Webb, a son of Mrs. Webb, married Sarah Kelly, a pretty\n girl, to whom the mother-in-law became greatly attached. Before one\n year of their married life had passed, Mrs. Webb, jun., was stricken\n with consumption, and on several occasions came near dying. About a\n month ago the young woman became very anxious to visit her parents in\n Henderson County, and she was taken there. At first she appeared much\n improved, and hopes were felt that her life might be preserved through\n the summer, but two weeks ago last Tuesday a telegram announced her\n death, and the husband hurried to her parents\u2019 home. Three days later\n he returned with the corpse. The mother-in-law pleaded so hard for a\n sight of the dead woman, that finally, despite the belief that the\n body was badly decomposed, it was decided to open the coffin. While\n looking at the placid face Mrs. Webb was terrified at beholding the\n eyelids of the dead woman slowly opening. The eyes did not have the\n stony stare of death, nor the intelligent gleam of life. Mrs. Webb\n was unable to utter a sound. She could not move, but stood gazing at\n the gruesome sight. Her horror was increased when the supposed corpse\n slowly sat upright and, in an almost inaudible voice, said, \u2018Oh,\n where am I?\u2019 At this the weeping woman screamed. Friends who rushed\n into the room were almost paralysed at the sight, and fled shrieking.\n But one bolder than the others returned and spoke to the woman, who\n asked to be laid on the bed. Hastily she was taken from the coffin\n and cared for. In the course of the day the resurrected woman fully\n regained her mental powers. The day following she related a wonderful\n story. She said she was cognisant of all that occurred, and did not\n lose consciousness until she was put aboard the train for Memphis.\n Soon after being placed in her mother-in-law\u2019s house she came to her\n senses and knew all that was passing. While her mother-in-law was\n looking at her she made a supreme effort to speak. Mrs. Webb lived a\n number of days, when she again apparently died. The doctors pronounced\n her dead, and she was once more placed in the coffin. While the\n mother-in-law was taking her final farewell she heard a voice whisper,\n \u2018Mother, don\u2019t cry.\u2019 Looking into the girl\u2019s face, she saw the same\n look that she had noticed before. She called for help, and several\n women responded. Some one cried, \u2018Shake her; she\u2019s not dead.\u2019 In the\n excitement of the moment, the women, it is thought, shook the life out\n of the poor consumptive, and last Saturday she was buried. The family\n and friends have endeavoured to keep the matter quiet.\u201d\n\nThe _Daily Telegraph_, January 26, 1889, reports:--\n\n\n \u201cA NARROW ESCAPE.\n\n \u201cA Rochester correspondent telegraphs that a woman named Girvin,\n living at Burham, near Rochester, has just had a narrow escape of\n being buried alive. She fell into a kind of trance, which was mistaken\n for death. The coffin was ordered, and the usual preparations made for\n a funeral. But while a number of the relatives were gathered at the\n bedside bewailing their bereavement, the supposed corpse startled them\n by suddenly rising up in bed and asking what was the matter. The woman\n is making good progress towards convalescence.\u201d\n\nAnd on July 6, 1889, the same journal says:--\n\n[A CASE AT ST. LEONARDS.]\n\n \u201cOur St. Leonards correspondent telegraphs:--About a week ago the wife\n of a well-known tradesman in St. Leonards fell ill, and on Monday\n night last the doctor gave his opinion that she could not live through\n the next day. On Tuesday morning at ten o\u2019clock the doctor pronounced\n his patient dead, the nurse who was in attendance confirming the\n opinion. The intimation of death naturally created great distress\n among the friends of the woman, who was laid out in grave-clothes,\n washed, and prepared for burial, and, being a Roman Catholic, a\n crucifix was placed in her hand as she lay on her bier. When it was\n announced that the woman was dying, a priest was sent for; but he\n could not attend, as he was out of the town at the time.\n\n \u201cAbout a quarter to ten on Tuesday night the nurse entered the room\n without a light for the purpose of getting something which she knew\n where to find. Whilst in the darkened chamber she was startled to\n hear a slight cry proceeding from the bed where the body lay, and\n she rushed from the room in a terrible fright. The widower, hearing\n the scream of fright, rushed into the chamber with a light, and was\n astounded to find that his wife had raised herself up in the bed on\n her elbow. She faintly uttered the words, \u2018Where am I?\u2019 and again\n relapsed into a heavy sleep. The opportunity was seized of changing\n the shroud for proper habiliments, and in about an hour and a half\n she woke again perfectly conscious. Next morning she was told of what\n had occurred, but was quite ignorant of everything that had passed,\n thinking she had only had a long sleep. She is now doing well, and it\n is hoped she will soon be restored to health and strength. The doctor\n describes the case as the most remarkable he has ever met with in his\n experience.\u201d\n\nDr. Frederick A. Floyer, of Mortimer, Berks, published the\nfollowing-case in the _Tocsin_, November 1, 1889, vol. i., p. 84, under\nthe head of \u201cPremature Burial\u201d:--\n\n\u201cA narrow escape of this was recently communicated direct to the\nwriter, and as it has some extremely important bearings on the value\nof what are usually considered to be evidences of death, we give it as\ntold by the survivor, who is still alive in the form of a cheery and\nintelligent old lady in the fullest possession of her faculties and\nmemory.\n\n\u201cHerself the wife of a medical officer attached to the--th Regiment,\nshe was stationed at---- Island, where at the age of twenty-eight she\nwas safely confined. Shortly after this she was walking out with an\nattendant when she was taken suddenly ill with a painful spasm of the\nheart--what appears to have been an attack of angina pectoris--and was\nconveyed in-doors and propped up with pillows, suffering great pain,\nand although medical attendance was summoned, nothing was of avail,\nand she died--at least in the opinion of those around her, who paid\nthe proper attention to what they regarded as a corpse. It was the\ncustom there to bury at sundown any one who died during the day. We\nunderstand that in warm countries it is difficult to close the eyelids\nproperly, and so this lady, lying motionless and rigid, contemplated\nwith perfectly clear perception, but with an utter indifference, the\nbringing in of the coffin and the necessary preparations for her\ninterment; she remembers her children coming to take a last look at\nher, and then being taken down stairs.\n\n\u201cShe would never have lived to tell the story but for an accident,\nwhich happened in this way. Her nurse, who was much attached to her,\nwas stroking her face and the muscles of her jaw, and presently\ndeclared she heard a sound of breathing. Medical assistance was\nsummoned, and the mirror test applied, but the surface was undimmed.\nThen, to make sure, they opened a vein in each arm, but no blood\nflowed. No limb responded to stimulus, and they declared that the nurse\nwas mistaken, and that the body was dead beyond doubt.\n\n\u201cBut the nurse persisted in her belief and in her attentions, and did\nsucceed in establishing a sign of life. Then mustard applications to\nher feet and to the back of her neck, and burnt feathers applied to her\nnostrils, which she remembered burning her nose, completed her return\nto consciousness.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrom the _Pall Mall Gazette_, May 11, 1891.\n\n\n[CERTIFICATE OF APOPLEXY.]\n\n \u201cNARROW ESCAPE FROM BEING BURIED ALIVE.\n\n \u201cA Penn Station telegram to Dalziel says:--A singular case of\n simulation of death from fright occurred here on Saturday. Mrs.\n Sarseville, the wife of a farmer in this county, was in the cow-house\n attending to the dairy work when she saw a nest of squirming snakes\n through a hole in the plank floor. She fell to the ground apparently\n lifeless with fright. Help was summoned, and she was carried into the\n house. Before the physician arrived Mrs. Sarseville had begun to turn\n black, and he pronounced her dead, giving a certificate, in which he\n assigned apoplexy as the cause. During the night Mrs. Sarseville\u2019s\n daughter sat beside the coffin of her mother, lamenting her death.\n Just before daybreak she was startled to see the body move. She was\n more shocked when her mother opened her eyes and sat bolt upright in\n her coffin. The supposed corpse was no less startled than the girl\n to find herself dressed in grave-clothes and lying in a coffin. Help\n was summoned, and the lady helped out of her narrow bed and into\n her ordinary clothes. She took breakfast with the family yesterday\n morning, and seemed none the worse for her ghastly experience.\u201d\n\nFrom the _British Medical Journal_, March 12, 1892, p. 577.\n\n\n \u201cA NARROW ESCAPE FROM PREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n \u201cThe _Temps_ publishes a case of premature burial prevented by the\n daughter of the supposed dead man, who, on kissing her father,\n perceived that his body was not cold. The funeral _cort\u00e9ge_ was\n on the point of starting. Suitable measures restored the man to\n consciousness, and he opened his eyes and uttered one or two words.\n His condition is serious, but he is alive. This incident occurred at\n Vagueray, near Lyons.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Echo_, London, May 13, 1893.\n\n\n \u201cALMOST BURIED WHILE ALIVE.\n\n  \u201cLimoges, May 13.\n\n \u201cA woman has just had a narrow escape of being buried alive here. She\n was subject to epileptic fits, and during one of these a few days ago\n was pronounced to be dead. The arrangements for interment were made in\n due course, and as the coffin was being borne into the church some of\n the mourners said they heard a knocking inside. The party listened,\n and distinct taps were heard. No time was lost in wrenching off the\n lid of the coffin. It was then found that the woman was alive and\n conscious, although terribly frightened at the awful ordeal through\n which she had passed. A doctor was quickly in attendance, and under\n his direction the supposed corpse was removed from the coffin and\n placed on a litter for conveyance home again.\u201d\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, July 22, 1893, says:--\n\n \u201cCharles Walker was supposed to have died suddenly at St. Louis a\n few days ago, and a burial certificate was obtained in due course\n from the coroner\u2019s office. The body was lying in the coffin, and the\n relatives took a farewell look at the features, and withdrew as the\n undertaker\u2019s assistants advanced to screw down the lid. One of the\n undertaker\u2019s men noticed, however, that the position of the body in\n the coffin seemed to have undergone some slight change, and called\n attention to the fact. Suddenly, without any warning, the \u2018corpse\u2019 sat\n up in the coffin and gazed round the room. A physician was summoned,\n restoratives were applied, and in half an hour the supposed corpse was\n in a warm bed, sipping weak brandy and water, taking a lively interest\n in the surroundings. Heart-failure had produced a species of syncope\n resembling death that deceived even experts.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, August 22, 1893.\n\n\n \u201cSNATCHED FROM DEATH AT THE GRAVESIDE.\n\n \u201cA marvellous case of suspended animation is described from the\n British colony of Lagos, where an old woman named Oseni came to\n life when she was at the cemetery about to be buried. The mourners\n had assembled at the cemetery, and, in accordance with the Mahomedan\n rule, the body was lifted from the coffin to be buried, when several\n distinct coughs were given by the supposed corpse. She was at once\n released from the clothes which bound her, and the old woman, to the\n surprise and amazement of those present, sat upright and opened her\n eyes. Some gruel was then procured, of which she partook with evident\n relish.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Daily Telegraph_, London, December 12, 1893.\n\n\n[FOUR DAYS\u2019 APPARENT DEATH.]\n\n \u201cA LADY NEARLY BURIED ALIVE.\n\n  \u201cBerlin, December 11.\n\n \u201cFrom Militsch, in Silesia, an extraordinary case of trance is\n reported. It seems that, owing to the grave not being in readiness,\n some delay occurred in the burial of a lady, the wife of a major in\n the army, who to all appearance had died. On the fourth day after\n the lady\u2019s supposed death the maid was placing fresh flowers round\n the coffin, when she was much startled at seeing the body move, and\n finally assume an erect position. The lady had evidently been in a\n state of coma during the past four days, and narrowly escaped being\n buried alive.\u201d\n\nThe _Banner of Light_, Boston, July 28, 1894, quotes the following case\nof apparent sudden death from the _Boston Post_:--\n\n\n \u201cCOFFINED ALIVE!\n\n \u201cSprakers, a village not far from Rondout, N.Y., was treated to a\n sensation Tuesday, July 10, by the supposed resurrection from the dead\n of Miss Eleanor Markham, a young woman of respectability, who to all\n appearance had died on Sunday, July 8.\n\n \u201cMiss Markham about a fortnight ago complained of heart trouble, and\n was treated by Dr. Howard. She grew weaker gradually, and on Sunday\n morning apparently breathed her last, to the great grief of her\n relatives, by whom she was much beloved. The doctor pronounced her\n dead, and furnished the usual burial certificate.\n\n \u201cUndertaker Jones took charge of the funeral arrangements. On account\n of the warm weather it was decided that the interment should take\n place Tuesday, and in the morning Miss Markham was put in the coffin.\n\n \u201cAfter her relatives had taken the last look on what they supposed was\n their beloved dead, the lid of the coffin was fastened on, and the\n undertaker and his assistant took it to the hearse waiting outside.\n As they approached the hearse a noise was heard, and the coffin was\n put down and opened in short order. Behold! there was poor Eleanor\n Markham lying on her back, her face white and contorted, and her eyes\n distended.\n\n \u201c\u2018My God!\u2019 she cried, in broken accents. \u2018Where am I? You are burying\n me alive.\u2019 \u2018Hush! child,\u2019 said Dr. Howard, who happened to be present.\n \u2018You are all right. It is a mistake easily rectified.\u2019\n\n \u201cThe girl was then taken into the house and placed on the bed,\n when she fainted. While the doctor was administering stimulating\n restoratives the trappings of woe were removed, and the hearse drove\n away with more cheerful rapidity than a hearse was ever driven before.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n \u201c\u2018I was conscious all the time you were making preparations to bury\n me,\u2019 she said, \u2018and the horror of my situation is altogether beyond\n description. I could hear everything that was going on, even a whisper\n outside the door, and although I exerted all my will-power, and made\n a supreme physical effort to cry out, I was powerless.... At first I\n fancied the bearers would not hear me, but when I felt one end of the\n coffin falling suddenly, I knew that I had been heard.\u2019\n\n \u201cMiss Markham is on a fair way to recovery, and what is strange is\n that the flutterings of the heart that brought on her illness are\n gone.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Echo_, January 18, 1895.\n\n\n \u201cMISTAKEN FOR DEAD--A WOMAN\u2019S AWFUL EXPERIENCE.\n\n \u201cAn extraordinary affair is reported from Heap Bridge, Heywood.\n Yesterday a woman was supposed to have died, and she was washed, laid\n out, and measured for her coffin, a piece of linen being placed over\n her mouth. Eight hours later, however, as two women were engaged in\n the room, the supposed corpse blew the linen away, and raised herself\n up in bed. The two women were terribly frightened, and in their hasty\n retreat both tumbled downstairs, and are now suffering from slight\n injuries, as well as shock. Some time elapsed before any one else\n could be induced to enter the house, but eventually several persons\n went in together, and found the woman still sitting up in bed. She\n was exceedingly weak. Later, however, she succumbed, and the doctor\n expressed the opinion that her death was accelerated by shock. During\n the night the woman conversed with her son, who had carried her\n upstairs for dead, and told him of the awful sensation she felt whilst\n unable to speak during the washing and laying out of her body.\u201d\n\nThe following letter appeared in the London _Daily Chronicle_ of\nSeptember 24, 1895:--\n\n\n[A HUSBAND\u2019S PROMISE.]\n\n \u201cBURIED ALIVE.\n\n \u201cSir,--To your interesting correspondence on \u2018Buried Alive,\u2019 I would\n add the following, which I had directly from the mouth of one who but\n for the faithfulness of her husband would probably have been added to\n the number. I knew her quite well. She was the daughter of a physician\n in my native town, and her husband was a professor of music, and I\n will tell the incident as nearly as I can remember in her own words.\n She said:--\u2018I had in my early married life a dread of there being any\n mistake made about my death, and begged my husband that, should he\n survive me, he would watch my body himself, which he promised he would\n do. Some time after this, I was overtaken by a most terrible attack\n of fever, succeeded by entire exhaustion, and I, as my attendants\n believed, died, and was accordingly laid out for burial. My good\n husband was true to his promise, and he, with my sister, watched the\n corpse, and in the night they perceived some indication of returning\n life, and of course means were used for restoration.\u2019\n\n \u201cI cannot be quite sure how many years she lived after, but she had\n brought up at the time I speak of a family of four sons and one\n daughter, and she lived to a good old age.--Yours truly,\n\n  \u201cCASSANDRA M----.\n\n \u201cSeptember 18.\u201d\n\nSpeaking on the subject of premature burial the other day, a well-known\nLondon publisher told the author that he personally knew a lady, the\ndaughter of a British Consul, who had been taken for dead on two\nseparate occasions. On the first occasion the lady had been placed in\nher coffin, and the lid screwed down ready for interment. A friend who\nhad known the supposed deceased called to condole with the family,\nand said:--\u201cI should like to have a last look at dear L---- if you\nwill only permit me.\u201d The lid was accordingly removed, and the visitor\ndetected, as it seemed to her, signs of life in her friend; she was\ntaken out of her coffin, put in a warm bath, and recovered. Some years\nlater the same lady fell into a cataleptic state after a fever, and\nwas taken for dead. Preparations had been made for the funeral in\nboth instances, but delayed beyond the usual time for interment. She\nreturned to consciousness, and is now living.\n\nDr. Moore Russell Fletcher in \u201cSuspended Animation and the Danger of\nBurying Alive,\u201d p. 62, writes:--\n\n\u201c\u2018Seven hours in a coffin added ten years to my life,\u2019 was the remark\nof Martin Strong, of Twelfth Street, Philadelphia, some time after\nquitting the coffin in which his family had placed him for burial,\nafter Dr. Cummings had given a certificate of his death. Frank Stoop,\nof Clarinda, Iowa, was laid out for burial not long since, a physician\nhaving certified to his death; but fortunately he awoke from his state\nof coma in time to save his life.\u201d\n\n\nAN ARMY SURGEON\u2019S PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.\n\n[DR. CHEW\u2019S EXPERIENCES.]\n\nDr. R. G. S. Chew, of Calcutta, writing to the author, says:--\u201cIn\n1873 I was a student in the Bishop\u2019s High School, Poonah (Bombay\nPresidency), where I used to be generally at the head of my class,\nand when competing for the Science Prizes I was fully determined to\ntake the first prize or none. The Reverend---- Watson, Rector of St.\nMary\u2019s Church and Chaplain to our school, knew my disposition, and\ncautioned me against being too sanguine, lest disappointment might\ntell very keenly. The disappointment came, and with it much nervous\nexcitability. Shortly after this (Christmas, 1873) my favourite sister\nwas seized with convulsions that carried her off. From the moment of\nher decease to nearly a month after her interment I entirely lost the\npower of speech. On the day of the funeral I was parched with thirst,\nbut could not drink, as the water seemed to choke me. My eyes were\nburning and my head felt like bursting, but I could neither sob nor\ncry. I felt quite dazed, and followed the procession to the cemetery,\nwhere I stood motionless by the open grave; but as soon as they lowered\nthe little coffin into its resting-place I threw myself headlong into\nthe grave and fainted away. Some one pulled me out and carried me\nhome, where I lay in a sort of stupor for nine days, during which Dr.\nDonaldson attended me most patiently, and I regained consciousness,\nbut was too weak to even sit up in bed. On the 16th January, 1874, I\nfelt a peculiar sensation as of something filling up my throat--no\nswelling, no pain nor anything that pointed to throat affection--and\nthis getting worse and worse, in spite of everything, I _died_, as was\nsupposed, on the 18th of January, 1874, and was laid out for burial,\nas the most careful examination failed to show the slightest traces of\nlife. I had been in this state for twenty hours, and in another three\nhours would have been closed up for ever, when my eldest sister, who\nwas leaning over the head of my coffin crying over me, declared she\nsaw my lips move. The friends who had come to take their last look at\nme tried to persuade her it was only fancy, but, as she persisted,\nDr. Donaldson was sent for to convince her that I was really dead.\nFor some unexplained reason he had me taken out of the coffin and\nexamined very carefully from head to foot. Noticing a peculiar, soft\nfluctuating swelling at the base of my neck, just where the clavicles\nmeet the sternum, he went to his brougham, came back with his case of\ninstruments, and, before any one could stop him or ask what he was\ngoing to do, laid open the tumour and plunged in a tracheotomy tube,\nwhen a quantity of pus escaped, and, releasing the pressure on the\ncarotids and thyroid, was followed by a rush of blood and some movement\non my part that startled the doctor. Restoratives were used, and I was\nslowly nursed back to life; but the tracheotomy tube (I _still_ carry\nthe scar) was not finally removed till September, 1875.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cAPPARENT DEATH FROM A FALL.\n\n(_Communicated to the author by Dr. Chew._)\n\n[APPARENT DEATH FROM A FALL.]\n\n\u201cA sowar--_i.e._, native trooper--of the 7th regiment of cavalry, in\n1878, carrying despatches at Nowshera, was thrown from his horse,\nand, falling with his head against a sharp stone in the road, rolled\non to his back, in which position he was found some six or seven\nhours after, and conveyed to the morgue of the European Dep\u00f4t Hospital\npending removal to the \u2018lines\u2019 of his own corps. There was very\nlittle h\u00e6morrhage, and the stone was still wedged in between the\ntemporo-parietal suture. Cardiac sounds and respiratory murmurs could\nnot be detected. The limbs were perfectly rigid, and there was a good\ndeal of cadaveric ecchymosis to be distinctly seen. Nothing would have\nconvinced any one that the sowar was still alive, and Surgeons-Major\nHunter, Gibson, and Briggs, Apothecary S. Pollock, Assistant-Surgeon\nJ. Lewis and myself _verily_ believed he was stone-dead. As \u2018cause of\ndeath\u2019 is what the army is exceedingly particular about, Surgeon-Major\nHunter removed the impacted stone and lifted out portions of the\nfractured bone (prior to holding a proper _post-mortem_), when to the\nsurprise of all of us \u2018the corpse\u2019 deliberately closed its eyes (which\nwere staring open when the body was first brought in), and there was\na slight serous h\u00e6morrhage. On noticing this, the sowar\u2019s head was\ntrephined--no chloroform or other an\u00e6sthetic being used--some more\nfragments of bone and a large blood-clot that pressed on the brain were\nremoved, and as the sowar repeatedly flinched under this operation,\na stimulant was poured down his throat, and he was removed to his\nregimental hospital, from which he was discharged \u2018well\u2019 some six\nmonths and a half later. After this he did good service in the Afghan\nand Egyptian campaigns.\u201d\n\n\u201cAPPARENT DEATH FROM CHOLERA.\n\n\u201cThe cases of collapse and apparent death during epidemics of cholera\nare very numerous, as will be seen by reference to medical literature.\nWe have now before us particulars of cases from the _Calcutta Journal\nof Medicine_ for 1869, vol. ii., p. 383, where Dr. Charles Londe, of\nParis, observes that patients pronounced dead of cholera have been\nrepeatedly seen to move. See also, for Italy, _Lancet_, 1884, vol. ii.,\np. 655.\n\n\u201cA correspondent, signing himself T.E.N., in _To-Day_, October 12,\n1895, says:--\u2018When acting as special correspondent to the _Evening\nHerald_ in Hamburg during the cholera plague, I met a gentleman who\nhad been passed for dead and placed in the mortuary to await burial.\nWhen the porters entered some hours later to remove the hundred or so\nbodies, they found this gentleman sitting up in great pain, and very\nmuch frightened. He was placed in a ward and recovered. About the same\ntime a little girl came to life actually at the graveside. She had been\nbrought in one of several four-horse vans that conveyed bodies for\ninterment in the Ohlsdorff grave-yard. Fortunately for her, she had\nnot been placed in a coffin, the exigencies of the time rendering it\nimpossible to provide caskets for the dead. When the disease began to\ndie out, the people found time to ask--\u201cCan it be possible that life\nremains in any of the bodies buried?\u201d That the doctors in the latter\ndays cut the ulnar arteries of all subjects before passing them for\ndead is full of significance.\u2019\u201d\n\n[CASES COMMUNICATED BY DR. CHEW.]\n\nThe three following cases were communicated to the author, during\nhis sojourn in Calcutta, by Dr. Chew, in the early part of this year\n(1896):--\n\n\u201cIn March, 1877, Assistant-Surgeons H. A. Borthwick, S. Blake, H. B.\nRogers, and myself received orders to proceed from Rawal Pindi by\nbullock-train to Peshawur to join the various regiments we were to\nbe posted to for duty. We had just passed a place called Rati when\nBorthwick showed strong symptoms of cholera, from which he suffered\nall that night. The nearest hospital was twenty-five miles behind us,\nand though we had neither medicines nor sick-room comforts with us, we\nhad no alternative but to journey onwards, because the train-drivers\n(Indians) refused to turn back, and if we did return to Rawal Pindi we\nwould have been court-martialled for disobeying lawful commands and\ncoming back without orders to do so. Travelling by bullock-train is\nvery slow work, and far from a comfortable mode of transit; however,\nwe were obliged to make the best of it, and early next morning\nBorthwick was cold, stiff, and seemingly dead. Here was a fine state\nof affairs--the nearest cantonment, which we had no expectation of\nreaching (_i.e._, Nowshera) before nine p.m., was thirty-six miles\noff, and by the time we arrived at it, it would have been too late to\napproach the authorities, while Peshawur, our destination, was another\ntwenty-nine miles further off. Dispose of the body we dared not, and we\nhad no choice but to continue our route. All that day there was not a\nmovement or other sign to show that life was not extinct, and affairs\nseemed no better by five p.m. next day, when we reached Peshawur. The\napparent corpse was lifted out of the bullock-train and carried into\nthe hospital dispensary (where a strong fire was blazing) preparatory\nto papers being signed and arrangements made for its final disposal.\nWhether it was the heat of the fire before which he was placed, or\nwhether the vibriones had produced an antitoxin, I am not prepared to\nargue; but _we do know_ that Borthwick recovered consciousness while\nlying on the bed in that dispensary, and that he whom we mourned as\ndead returned to life. He served in the same military stations with me\nin the North-West Frontier till 1880, when he accompanied me to the\nCalcutta Medical College, where we parted company in February, 1882,\nI bound for Egypt and he for frontier duty. At first we corresponded\nregularly, but since 1885 we lost touch of each other.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cREVIVAL IN A MORTUARY IN INDIA.\n\n\u201cSergeant J. Clements Twining, of H.M.\u2019s 109th regiment of British\ninfantry, located at Dinapoor in 1876, was brought in an unconscious\nstate to the hospital, supposed to be suffering from _coup de soleil_.\nEverything that could be done was ineffectually tried to rouse him from\ncoma, and he was removed to the dead-house to wait _post-mortem_ next\nmorning. At two a.m. the sentry on the dead-house came rushing down\nto the dispensary (about four hundred and fifty yards off) declaring\nthat he had seen and heard a ghost in the dead-house, to which myself\nand the compounder and dresser on duty at once proceeded, to find that\nClements Twining, who was now partially conscious, was lying on the\ndead-house flags groaning most piteously--he had rolled off the table\non to the floor. He returned to health, and in 1877 accompanied his\nregiment to England, where I met him at Woolwich in 1883, and he asked\nme to corroborate his story of \u2018returning to life\u2019 to certain of his\nacquaintances who had refused to believe him.\u201d\n\n[THE USE OF MORTUARIES.]\n\n\n\u201cCHOLERA CORPSES REVIVED IN A MORTUARY.\n\n\u201cWhen the East Norfolk regiment was out cholera-dodging in 1878,\nColour-Sergeant T. Hall and Corporal W. Bellomy were sent into\ncantonments for burial as cholera corpses in the Nowshera Cemetery.\nThere was some delay in the interment owing to a difficulty in\nobtaining the wood necessary for their coffins, so both bodies\nwere placed in the dead-house, which was generously sprinkled with\ndisinfectants to ward off the risk of contagion. First Hall and then\nBellomy regained consciousness, and were duly returned to duty. The\nfollowing year Bellomy was \u2018invalided\u2019 to England, where I understand\nhe now enjoys the best of health.\u201d\n\n\u201cShortly after the Afghan war of 1878, Surgeon-Major T. Barnwell and\nI were told off to take a large number of time-expired men, invalids,\nand wounded, to Deolali on their way to England. Some of the wounded\nwere in a very critical state, necessitating great care; one man\nin particular, Trooper Holmes of the 10th Hussars, who had an ugly\nbullet-wound running along his left thigh and under the groin. Our only\nmeans of transport for these poor fellows was the \u2018palki\u2019 or doolie\ncarried by four bearers at a curious swinging pace. When we got to\nNowshera, Holmes seemed on a fair way to recovery, but the swinging\nof the doolie seemed too much for him, and he grew weaker day by day\ntill we got to Hassan Abdool, when we could not rouse him to take\nsome nourishment before starting on the march, and to all appearance\nhe seemed perfectly dead; but, as there was neither the time nor\nconvenience to hold a _post-mortem_, we carried the body on to \u2018John\nNicholson,\u2019 where, the same difficulties being in the way, and no\nfacilities for burial, we were obliged to put the _post-mortem_ off for\nanother day, and convey the corpse to Rawal Pindi rest camp, where we\nlaid him on the floor of the mortuary tent and covered him over with a\ntarpaulin. This was his salvation, as next morning (_i.e._, the third\nday succeeding his \u2018death\u2019), when we raised the tarpaulin to hold the\n_post-mortem_, some hundreds of field mice (these tracts are _noted_\nfor them) rushed out, and we noticed that Holmes was breathing, though\nvery slowly--five or six respirations to the minute--and there were a\nfew teeth marks where the mice had attacked his calves. To prevent a\nrelapse by the jolting on further marches, we handed him over to the\nstation hospital staff, who pulled him round, and then forwarded him to\nthe headquarters of his regiment at Meerut.\u201d\n\nA lady, distinguished alike for her literary gifts as well as for her\nphilanthropy, sends me the following:--\n\n\u201cI am much obliged to you for sending me \u2018Perils.\u2019 It is a terrible\nsubject, and one that has haunted me all my life, insomuch that I have\nnever made a will without inserting a clause requiring my throat to be\ncut before I am put underground. Of course one can have no reliance\non doctors whatever, and I have myself known a case in which a very\neminent one insisted on a coffin being screwed down because the corpse\nlooked so life-like and full of colour that the friends could not help\nindulging in hopes.\n\n[CASES IN IRELAND.]\n\n\u201cMy great grandmother, after whom I am called, a famous heiress, was\na notable case of narrow escape. As a girl she passed into a state of\napparent death, and a great funeral was ordered for her. Among the\nguests came a young girl friend, who insisted that she was not dead,\nand raised such a stir that the funeral was postponed, and time was\nallowed to pass till the marvel became that there were no signs of\nchange. I could never ascertain how long this comatose state lasted\nbefore she recovered; but she _did_ recover, so thoroughly that after\nher marriage with Richard Trench, of Garbuly, she became the mother\nof twenty-two children. Obviously this was no case of a feeble,\nhysterical, cataleptic subject. I will enclose photograph taken from a\nminiature of her in a ring in my possession.\n\n\u201cThere was another case, well known in Ireland in my youth, of a\nColonel Howard, who had a fine place (I think it was called Castle\nHoward) in Wicklow. He was supposed to be dead, and a lead coffin\nwas actually made with his name and date of death on it; after which\nColonel Howard came to life, and had the plate of the coffin fixed over\nhis kitchen chimney as a warning to his servants not to bury people in\na hurry.\u201d\n\nDr. Colin S. Valentine, LL.D., Principal of the Medical Missionary\nTraining College, Agra, N.W.P., told the author during his visit to\nAgra, February, 1896, that Captain Young, an officer in the regiment of\nwhich he (Dr. Valentine) was at that time army surgeon, who had been\ndreadfully mauled while tiger-hunting in Madras, was laid out for dead,\nand all the arrangements were made for his funeral at six o\u2019clock that\nevening, when consciousness returned, and he lived for twenty years\nafter.\n\nIn a lecture on \u201cSigns of Death and Disposal of the Dead,\u201d delivered by\nDr. A. Stephenson at Nottingham, January 9, 1896, the lecturer said \u201che\nonce attended a girl living in that locality who was in a trance. All\nthe preparations were made for her funeral, and the grave ordered. She\nremained in a trance three days, and her mother was annoyed because he\nwould not sign her death-certificate. On the third day she slowly rose\nand recovered. The girl would have been buried unless he had had a very\ngreat fear of her being buried alive.\u201d[6]\n\nFrom the London _Echo_, March 3, 1896.\n\n\n \u201cNARROW ESCAPE OF A GREEK-ORTHODOX METROPOLITAN.\n\n \u201cA letter from Constantinople, in the _Politische Korrespondenz_,\n gives a remarkable case of an apparent death which would have ended\n in a premature burial but for the high ecclesiastical position of the\n person concerned. On the 3rd of this month, Nicephorus Glycas, the\n Greek-Orthodox Metropolitan of <DW26>s, an old man in his eightieth\n year, after several days of confinement to his bed, was reported by\n the physician to be dead. The supposed dead bishop, in accordance\n with the rules of the Orthodox Church, was immediately clothed in\n his episcopal vestments, and placed upon the Metropolitan\u2019s throne\n in the great church of Methymni, where the body was exposed to the\n devout faithful during the day, and watched by relays of priests day\n and night. Crowds streamed into the church to take a last look at\n their venerable chief pastor. On the second night of \u201cthe exposition\n of the corpse,\u201d the Metropolitan suddenly started up from his seat\n and stared round him with amazement and horror at all the panoply\n of death amidst which he had been seated. The priests were not less\n horrified when the \u2018dead\u2019 bishop demanded what they were doing with\n him? The old man had simply fallen into a death-like lethargy, which\n the incompetent doctors had hastily concluded to be death. He is now\n as hale and hearty as can well be expected from an octogenarian. But\n here it is that the moral comes in. If Nicephorus Glycas had been a\n layman he would most certainly have been buried alive. Fortunately for\n him the Canon Law of the Orthodox Church does not allow a bishop to be\n buried earlier than the third day after his death; whereas a layman,\n according to the ancient Eastern custom, is generally buried about\n twelve hours after death has been certified. The excitement which has\n been aroused by the prelate\u2019s startling resurrection may tend to set\n men thinking more seriously about the frequent probability of the\n cruel horror of the interment of living persons.\u201d\n\nThe above-mentioned facts have been authenticated for the author by Dr.\nFranz Hartmann, of Hallein, Austria.\n\n\nNARROW ESCAPES OF SMALL-POX PATIENTS.\n\nMany physicians who dispute the frequency of premature burials admit\nthat the liability to such catastrophes is considerable during\nepidemics of small-pox, where extreme exhaustion, amounting to a\nsuspension of life, is distinguishable from actual death only by\npatient and prolonged observation.\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, June 21, 1884, p. 1150:--\n\n\n \u201cSUSPENDED ANIMATION AFTER SMALL-POX.\n\n \u201cSir,--I send you privately names and addresses by means of which you\n can test, if you please, the accuracy of the following statements,\n which I forward for insertion in your journal:--\n\n[APPARENT DEATHS AFTER SMALL-POX.]\n\n \u201cSome years since, a young man who had been attacked by small-pox\n was declared by the medical man to be dead, and was laid out for\n burial. The nurse, however, on paying a visit to the supposed corpse,\n thinking there was something uncorpse-like about its appearance, put\n a wine-glass over the mouth, and returning in a quarter of an hour,\n found it dimmed with breath. He was resuscitated, and, so far as I\n am aware, is still living. He would now be about forty-five. He is a\n farmer.\n\n \u201cA mother and her baby were ill of small-pox, and seemed likely to\n die. The grandmother, however, made the nurse promise that if death\n appeared to ensue, and even if the medical man pronounced either or\n both to be dead, she would put additional blankets on the one or\n both, and leave them so till her (the grandmother\u2019s) return, which\n would not be till the next day. They both appeared to die, and were\n declared dead by the doctor; but the nurse did as she had promised,\n and the next day when the grandmother returned, they were both alive,\n and were both living not very long since.\n\n \u201cSome twenty years ago, I was told that about forty years previously\n a young man, in a parish where I was acquainted, was put in a coffin\n as a person dead of small-pox; but when the bell was tolling for his\n funeral, and he was about to be \u2018screwed down,\u2019 he got up and vacated\n the coffin, and lived several years afterwards.\n\n \u201cIn a town where I was brought up, a woman was nearly buried alive\n through having gone into a trance on being frightened by a young lady\n who had put on a white sheet and pretended to be a \u2018ghost.\u2019 For years\n she was liable to long spells of insensibility, from which nothing\n could rouse her.\n\n \u201cThe haste with which small-pox corpses are disposed of nowadays is to\n be deprecated. They are usually buried within twelve hours of their\n supposed death, and the cases I first mentioned show with what very\n probable results. The only sure proof of death is decomposition, and\n a law ought to be passed forbidding burial until signs of it have\n appeared. Not very long since I was in a church-yard where a drain\n was being made round the church, and was not a little struck by the\n horrified look of a labourer who came to the vicar and stated that\n they had come on a skull face downward, which, he said, put it beyond\n doubt that the person it had belonged to had turned in his coffin\n after burial.--I am, Sir, yours faithfully,\n\n  \u201cB. A.\n\n \u201cJune 18, 1884.\u201d\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, May 22, 1895, has the following:--\n\n[REV. HARRY JONES\u2019 CASES.]\n\n \u201cThe Reverend Harry Jones, in his reminiscences, and as a London\n clergyman, declares his conviction that in times of panic from fatal\n epidemics it is not unlikely that some people are buried alive.\n Mr. Jones recalls a case within his knowledge of a young woman\n pronounced to be dead from cholera, and actually laid out for the\n usual collecting cart to call from the undertakers, when a neighbour\n happened to come in and lament over her. The story continues thus:\n \u2018And is poor Sarah really dead?\u2019 she cried. \u2018Well,\u2019 said her mother,\n \u2018she is, and she will soon be fetched away; but if you can do anything\n you may do it.\u2019 Acting on this permission the practical neighbour set\n about rubbing Sarah profusely with mustard. Sarah sat up, stung into\n renovated life, and so far recovered as to marry; \u2018and I myself,\u2019 says\n Mr. Jones, \u2018christened four or five of her children in the course of\n the next few years.\u2019 In another case, within Mr. Jones\u2019 parochial\n experiences in London, a man employed as potman lay _in extremis_. A\n doctor was called in, who said \u2018Turn him on his face, and I will put\n a thick strip of flannel soaked in spirits of wine down his spine. We\n will see what that will do.\u2019 A sister brought a store of flannel, the\n doctor soaked it in spirit, and prepared to apply it as he proposed.\n First, however, he placed the soaking mass in a heap (almost as big as\n a small hassock) in the middle of his back. Meanwhile the sister leant\n forward with a candle and accidently set the hassock on fire. \u2018This,\u2019\n adds the anecdotist, \u2018woke the potman up;\u2019 and not very long ago the\n doctor told me he had seen him in a street near the Oxford Circus.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Daily Chronicle_, September 19, 1895.\n\n \u201cSir,--I infer from the following facts that numbers of persons are\n buried alive after being supposed to have succumbed to small-pox.\n\n \u201cSome years ago, at St. Paul\u2019s, Belchamp, near Clare, a young man who\n had been down with the small-pox was pronounced to be dead, and was\n put into a coffin, which, fortunately, was left unclosed until after\n the bell began to toll for his funeral, when he rose and stepped out.\n He lived for many years after. In the same neighbourhood no less\n than three other similar cases occurred, saving that the undertakers\n were not so far forward in their work. Each of these would have been\n buried alive but for the facts that in one case the nurse, having\n suspicions, put a wine-glass over the mouth of the person (who had\n been already \u2018laid out\u2019), and on returning in a quarter of an hour\n found it dimmed with breath; and that in the other case the mother\n of a mother, who with her baby was declared by the doctor to be dead,\n had blankets heaped on them, and after a while had the satisfaction of\n seeing them revive. Two of these three persons are, I believe, still\n living, and would be just past middle-age. I enclose their names for\n your private perusal, that you may verify my statements if desired.\n The first-mentioned case happened about seventy years ago, but I heard\n of it from residents in the neighbourhood about forty years after it\n occurred.\n\n \u201cNowadays as soon as a small-pox patient is supposed to be dead, he\n or she is enclosed in a coffin and hurried off to the church-yard or\n cemetery the ensuing night--at least this is the practice in country\n places. I have no doubt that many have been buried alive.--Yours\n faithfully,\n\n  \u201cEX-CURATE.\n\n \u201cSeptember 18.\u201d\n\nBrigade-Surgeon W. Curran cites from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_,\nApril, 1873, in his Eighth Paper, entitled \u201cBuried Alive,\u201d as follows:--\n\n[IMPORTANCE OF CAREFUL EXAMINATION.]\n\n\u201cOn the 15th of October, 1842, a farmer who lived in the suburbs of\nNeufch\u00e2tel (Lower Seine) went to sleep in his hay-loft in the midst of\nsome newly mown hay. As he did not get up at the usual hour the next\nmorning, his wife went to call him, and found him dead. When the time\nfor his funeral arrived, some twenty-four or thirty hours subsequently,\nthose who were charged with the burial put the body on a bier, and\nhaving placed this on the ladder that communicated between the ground\nand the loft, they allowed it to slide down. All of a sudden one of\nthe rungs of this ladder gave way, and the bier, falling through, was\ndashed violently on the pavement below. The shock, which might have\nbeen fatal to a live person, proved to be the \u2018saving clause\u2019 of our\nsupposed dead one; and fortunately, too, the attendants had not, as\nso commonly happens in such contingencies, absconded; on the contrary,\nresponding without delay to the requirements of the situation, they\nquickly realised the gravity of the crisis, and, unbinding the shrouds\nof the farmer, they soon restored him to consciousness and life. He was\nable, we are further told, to resume his ordinary duties in a few days\nafterwards.\u201d[7]\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, January 22, 1889,\nsays:--\n\n\u201cMr. J. W. Smith, of 158 River Avenue, Alleghany\u201d has just had, for\ninstance, a remarkably narrow escape of prematurely putting his family\nin mourning, and one which will, we may be sure, be a very disagreeable\nrecollection for him during the rest of his existence. After a visit to\nthe Pittsburg Opera House one night, Mr. Smith was found lying \u2018stiff\nand cold\u2019 behind the stove in the dining-room, and apparently dead. A\nsuperficial examination by Dr. M\u2019Cready confirmed the worst fears of\nMrs. Smith, but subsequently the doctor sought carefully for any little\nspark of life which might lurk unseen, and, very fortunately for Mr.\nSmith, found it. But, beyond that, nothing could be accomplished; no\neffort to restore animation produced the slightest effect. Two other\nphysicians were then summoned; but neither attempts at bleeding, the\nuse of \u2018mustard baths,\u2019 nor the application of electricity, could\nrouse Mr. Smith after his visit to the opera. For three weeks he lay\ninsensible, and when he regained consciousness a fever followed. This\nevent, and some others of a similar character which are occasionally\nheard of, show that the examination of persons apparently dead should\nalways be undertaken by an efficient person, and by no means in a\nperfunctory manner.\u201d\n\nThe late Madame Blavatsky was subject to death-like trances, and Dr.\nFranz Hartmann informs me that she would have been buried alive if\nColonel Olcott had not telegraphed to let her have time to awaken.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nFORMALITIES AND THEIR FATAL CONSEQUENCES.\n\n\nWHENEVER grave-yards have been removed, owing to the rapid expansion\nof towns, in America, or examined elsewhere, unmistakable evidences of\npremature burial have been disclosed, as will be seen in this volume;\nbodies have been found turned upon their faces, the limbs contorted,\nwith hair dishevelled, the clothing torn, the flesh mutilated, and\ncoffins broken by the inmates in their mad endeavour to escape after\nreturning consciousness, to terminate life only in unspeakable mental\nand physical agonies. It may be said that every grave-yard has its\ntraditions, but the facts are carefully concealed lest they should\nreach the ears of the relatives, or incriminate the doctors who had\nwith such confidence certified to actual deaths which were only\napparent. It is not, however, the custom to remove grave-yards in\nEurope until all possibility of such discoveries has disappeared.\nTo reopen a grave is to break the seal of domestic grief. There\nis a widespread belief that where a coffin, with a duly certified\ncorpse,--dead or alive,--has been screwed up, it must not be opened\nwithout an authorisation from a magistrate, mayor, or other official,\nand many people have been suffocated in their coffins while waiting\nfor this formality. Common sense, under the circumstances, seems to be\noften paralysed.\n\nIn England it has been decided, Reg. _v._ Sharpe (1 Dearsley and Bell,\n160), to be a misdemeanour to disinter a body without lawful authority,\neven where the motive of the offender was pious and laudable; and a\ntoo rigorous interpretation of this and similar enactments in other\ncountries has led to the suffocation of many unfortunate victims of a\nmistaken medical diagnosis, whose lives, by prompt interposition, might\nhave been saved.\n\nK\u00f6ppen, in his work, entitled \u201cInformation Relative to Persons who have\nbeen Buried Alive,\u201d Halle, 1799, dedicated to His Majesty the King of\nPrussia, Frederick William III., quotes the following amongst a large\nnumber of cases of premature burial:--\u201cIn D----, the Baroness F----\ndied of small-pox. She was kept in her house three days, and then put\nin the family vault. After a time, a noise of knocking was heard in the\nvault, and the voice of the Baroness was also heard. The authorities\nwere informed; and instead of opening the door with an axe, as could\nhave been done, the key was sent for, which took three or four hours\nbefore the messenger returned with it. On opening the vault it was\nfound that the lady was lying on her side, with evidences of having\nsuffered terrible agony.\u201d\n\n[A MAGISTRATE CENSURED.]\n\nStruve, in his essay on \u201cSuspended Animation,\u201d 1803, p. 71, relates\nthe following:--\u201cA beggar arrived late at night, and almost frozen\nto death, at a German village, and, observing a school-house open,\nresolved to sleep there. The next morning, the school-boys found the\npoor man sitting motionless in the room, and hastened, affrighted,\nto inform the schoolmaster of what they had seen. The villagers,\nsupposing the beggar to be dead, interred him in the evening. During\nthe night, the watchman heard a knocking in the grave, accompanied by\nlamentations. He gave information to the bailiff of the village, who\ndeclined to listen to his tale. Soon afterwards the watchman returned\nto the grave, and again heard a hollow noise, interrupted by sighs.\nHe once more hastened to the magistrate, earnestly soliciting him to\ncause the grave to be opened; but the latter, being irresolute, delayed\nthis measure till the next morning, when he applied to the sheriff, who\nlived at a distance from the village, in order to obtain the necessary\ndirections. He was, however, obliged to wait some time before an\ninterview took place. The more judicious sheriff severely censured the\nmagistrate for not having opened the grave on the information from the\nwatchman, and desired him to return and cause it to be opened without\ndelay. On his arrival, the grave was immediately opened; but, just\nHeaven! what a sight! The poor, wretched man, after having recovered in\nthe grave, had expired for want of air. In his anguish and desperation\nhe had torn the flesh from his arms. All the spectators were struck\nwith horror at this dreadful scene.\u201d\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, November 22, 1880, relates the following:--\n\n \u201cAn extraordinary story is reported from Tredegar, South Wales. A\n man was buried at Cefn Golan Cemetery, and it is alleged that some\n of those who took part in carrying the body to the burial-ground\n heard knocking inside the coffin. No notice was taken of the affair\n at the time, but it has now come up again, and the rumour has caused\n a painful sensation throughout the district. It is stated that\n application has been made to the Home Secretary for permission to\n exhume the body.\u201d\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann, in his \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d pp. 10 and 44, relates\nthe two following cases:--\u201cIn the year 1856 a man died in an Hungarian\nvillage. It is customary there to dig the graves in rows. As the\ngrave-digger was making the new grave he heard sounds as of knocking\nproceeding from a grave where a man had been buried a few days\npreviously. Terrified, he went to the priest, and with the priest to\nthe police. At last permission was granted to open the grave; but by\nthat time its occupant had died in reality. The fact that he had been\nburied alive was made evident by the condition of the body, and by the\nwounds which the man had inflicted upon himself by biting his shoulders\nand arms.\n\n\u201cIn a small town in Prussia, an undertaker, living within the limits\nof the cemetery, heard during the night cries proceeding from within a\ngrave in which a person had been buried on the previous day. Not daring\nto interfere without permission, he went to the police and reported the\nmatter. When, after a great deal of delay, the required formalities\nwere fulfilled and permission granted to open the grave, it was found\nthat the man had been buried alive, but that he was now dead. His\nbody, which had been cold at the time of the funeral, was now warm and\nbleeding from many wounds, where he had skinned his hands and head in\nhis struggles to free himself before suffocation made an end to his\nmisery.\u201d\n\nA medical correspondent communicates to the author particulars of the\nfollowing case, which occurred at Salzburg, Austria:--\u201cSome children\nwere playing in the Luzergasse Cemetery, and their attention was\nattracted by knocking sounds in a newly-made grave. They informed the\ngrave-digger of it, and he secured permission to open the grave from\nwhence the sounds seemed to come. A man had been buried there at two\np.m. that day. The formalities of the permission to open the grave\ndelayed it till seven p.m., when, on opening the coffin, the body\nwas found to be bent completely over forwards, and was frightfully\ndistorted and bleeding from places on the hands and arms, which seemed\nto have been gnawed by the man\u2019s own teeth. The medical experts who\nwere called in to examine the case declared that the man had been\nburied alive.\u201d\n\n\nFrom the _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, January 22,\n1887.\n\n[FATAL RESULTS.]\n\n \u201cAnother shocking case of premature burial is reported; the distressing\n incident took place at Saumur, in France. A young man suddenly died, at\n least to all appearance, and his burial was ordered to take place as\n soon as possible. The _croquemorts_, or undertaker\u2019s men, who carried\n the coffin to the grave, thought they heard a noise like knocking under\n its lid, yet, being afraid of creating a panic among the people who\n attended the funeral, they went on with their burden. The coffin was\n duly placed in the grave, but, as the earth was being thrown upon it,\n unmistakable sounds of knocking were heard by everybody. The mayor,\n however, had to be sent for before the coffin could be opened, and\n some delay occurred in the arrival of that official. When the lid was\n removed, the horrible discovery was made that the unfortunate inmate\n had only just died from asphyxia. The conviction is spreading that the\n terrible French law requiring speedy interment ought to be modified\n without delay.\u201d\n\nMr. William Harbutt, School of Art, Bath, writes to me, November 27,\n1895:--\u201cThe copies of the pamphlet \u2018The Perils of Premature Burial,\u2019\nby Professor Alex. Wilder, you kindly sent me are in circulation.\nAlmost every one to whom I mention the subject knows some instances.\nOne, a case at Radstock, twelve miles from Bath, where the bearers at\nthe funeral heard noises inside the coffin, but were afraid to open it\nwithout the authority from a magistrate. When it was opened next day\nthe appearance of the body showed that he had been coffined alive, and\nhad had a terrible struggle to escape.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Star_, London, May 13, 1895.\n\n\n \u201cA WOMAN LOSES HER LIFE THROUGH LEGAL FORMALITIES.\n\n  \u201cParis, May 11.\n\n \u201cA woman who was believed to have died the day before was being buried\n at Doussard, when the grave-digger, who was engaged in filling up the\n grave, distinctly heard knocking coming from the coffin. He called\n a man who was working near, and he came and listened, and heard the\n knocking also. It was then about nine o\u2019clock in the morning. The\n knocking continued, and they listened for about half an hour, when it\n occurred to one of them that they ought to do something, so they went\n to inform the local authorities. The cur\u00e9 of the village was the first\n to arrive on the scene; but as no one had any authority to exhume the\n body the coffin was not taken up. All that was done was to bore some\n holes in the lid with a drill in such a way as to admit of air. By\n mid-day all the necessary formalities had been gone through, and it\n was decided at last to open the coffin. This was done; but whether\n the unfortunate woman was still alive at this time is doubtful. Some\n of those present affirm that she was. They state that they saw a\n little colour come into her cheeks, and the eyes open and shut. One\n thing is certain--viz.: that when at half-past six in the evening it\n was finally decided to consult a doctor, the practitioner summoned\n declared that death had taken place not more than five or six hours\n before. It was thought that had the coffin been opened directly the\n sounds were heard the woman\u2019s life might have been saved, and she\n would have been spared hours of indescribable torture and suffering.\u201d\n\nThe Paris edition of the _New York Herald_, May 14, 1895, says:--\n\n \u201cThe case of the woman buried alive at Annecy, in the Haute-Savoie,\n the other day, has almost found a pendant at Limoges. A woman,\n belonging to the village of Laterie, died, to all appearance at least,\n a few days ago. After the body had been placed in a coffin, it was\n transported to the village church. On the way the bearers heard sounds\n proceeding from it, and at once sent for the mayor, who ordered it to\n be opened. The woman was found to be suffering from _eclampsia_, which\n had been mistaken for death by her relatives.\u201d\n\nThe following case is instructive in that the victim was exhumed\nwithout an order from the Home Secretary, or waiting for any\nformalities, and was restored to life:--\n\n  \u201cBURYING ALIVE.\n\n  [From the _Spectator_, October 19, 1895.]\n\n[RESUSCITATION IN IRELAND.]\n\n \u201cSir,--_Apropos_ of your article and the correspondence about being\n buried alive, in the _Spectator_ of September 28, the enclosed may\n interest you. It is an extract which I have copied to-day out of a\n letter to a neighbour of mine from his brother in Ireland, dated\n October 6, 1895:--\u2018About three weeks ago, our kitchen-maid asked leave\n to go away for two or three days to see her mother, who was dying.\n She came back again on a Friday or Saturday, saying her mother was\n dead and buried. On Wednesday she got a letter saying her mother had\n been dug up, and was alive and getting all right. So she went up to\n see her, and sure enough there she was \u201cright enough,\u201d as G---- says,\n having got out of her trance, and knowing nothing about being in her\n grave from Saturday till Tuesday. The only thing she missed was her\n _rings_; she could not make out where they had got to. Her daughter,\n it seems, told the doctor on her way back here that it struck her that\n her mother had never got stiff after death, and she could not help\n thinking it was very odd; and it made her very uncomfortable. He\n never said a word: and the kitchen-maid heard nothing until she got\n the letter saying her mother was back again and alive. Luckily, she\n did not \u201ccome to\u201d until she had been taken out of her coffin. It was\n a \u201crum go\u201d altogether. They say exactly the same thing happened to a\n sister of hers who is now alive and well.\u2019--I am, Sir, etc.,\n\n  \u201cPEVERIL TURNBULL.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nPROBABLE CASES OF PREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\nTHERE is a great and natural reluctance on the part of medical\npractitioners to admit that they have made mistakes in\ndeath-certification, particularly in any one of the various forms\nof death counterfeits, or suspended animation. It should be noted\nthat amongst the lectures delivered on special occasions, such as\nthe opening of the medical schools, the subjects of trance and the\ndanger of premature burial are conspicuous for their absence; allusion\nto these subjects is of rare occurrence, nor does the study of this\nabstruse branch of medicine, so far as can be ascertained, form part\nof any medical curriculum. In the bibliography at the end of this\nvolume, extensive as it is, I can hardly refer to a single instance.\nDr. Franz Hartmann, whose work on \u201cBuried Alive\u201d has passed through two\nEnglish and one German edition, informs me that the same reticence is\nobservable in the medical schools of Germany. Many medical men do not\nbelieve in death-trance. They declare that they have never seen such a\ncase, and in their judgment when a sick patient ceases to breathe, when\nvolition is suspended, and the stethoscope reveals no signs of cardiac\naction, the death is real, and the case beyond recovery. The evidence\ndisclosed in this volume is the result of inquiry in many countries.\n\nFrom the _Medical Times_, London, 1860, vol. i., p. 65.\n\n \u201cA lady entering upon the ninth month of pregnancy died of pneumonia.\n All the other phenomena of death ensued, except that the colour of the\n face was unusually life-like. On the fifteenth day from that of death\n there was not the least cadaveric odour from the corpse, nor had its\n appearance much altered, and it was only on the sixteenth day that the\n lips darkened. The temperature of the atmosphere had undergone many\n changes during the time mentioned, but although there had been frost\n for a short period, the weather was in general damp and cold.\u201d\n\n[NEIGHBOURS\u2019 INTERFERENCE.]\n\nThis lady might not have been dead. The burial laws should have been\nsuch as to make it certain that she was dead before interment, by\nthe appearance of general decomposition. The examination of facts\ncollected by well-known physicians at home leads to the conclusion that\ncases of narrow escapes from premature burial are by no means of rare\noccurrence. And it must be obvious to the least reflective reader that\nin countries where burial follows quickly upon supposed death (as in\nTurkey and France, some parts of Ireland, and throughout India), or\nwhere there is no compulsory examination of the dead (as in the United\nStates or the United Kingdom), and amongst people like the Jews (since\nthe Jewish Law enjoins speedy interment), and especially in cases of\nsudden death (where attempts at resuscitation are rare), the number of\npremature burials may be considerable.\n\nIn the United States, while there is no law, as in France, enforcing\nburial within a prescribed number of days, it is the custom of civil\nauthorities, under regulations made by the Boards of Health, to compel\ninterments if delayed by reason of doubt as to actual death beyond a\nfew days.\n\nParticulars of the following case were sent me by a physician, January\n17, 1894:--\n\n\n \u201cWAS SHE ALIVE?\n\n \u201cMrs. John Emmons, of North Judson, Ind., was taken suddenly ill and\n apparently died, a week ago. Her husband desired to keep the body for\n a few days, to make sure of death. It seems that her mother went into\n a trance for four days, rallied, and lived five years; also that her\n grandfather on her mother\u2019s side, after having been pronounced dead\n for six days, awoke, and lived for twenty-three years. Mrs. Emmons\u2019s\n body was kept until Saturday, when, on the demand of the physician and\n numerous residents, it was interred. During the time between Monday\n and Saturday the body did not become rigid. Mortification did not set\n in, and she was laid to rest without waiting for that, the surest of\n all tests, to take place. Many are of the opinion that the woman has\n been buried alive.\u201d\n\nThere are many cases like the above on record, in which, although there\nis no absolute proof of premature burial, there is strong presumptive\nevidence of it. The following from _Truth_ (London) of May 23, 1895, is\nan example, and the writer has heard of many others:--\n\n \u201cThe other day I gave a story showing the difficulty of obtaining a\n _post-mortem_ examination after a doctor has once certified the cause\n of death. One of my readers caps it with a gruesome narrative, of\n which this is the outline: A man lately died in London. The coffin\n had to be removed by rail, and was to be closed on the fourth day\n after the death. My informant, taking a last look at the deceased,\n was struck by the complete absence of all the ordinary signs of death\n at such a period. In particular, he states that there was no rigidity\n in any part of the body, and there was a perceptible tinge of colour\n in the forehead. He went over to the doctor who had attended the\n deceased, described all the signs that he had observed, and begged the\n doctor to come and look at the body before the coffin was closed. The\n doctor absolutely refused, saying that he had given his certificate,\n and had no doubt as to the man\u2019s death. The friend then suggested that\n he might himself open a vein and see if blood flowed, to which the\n doctor replied that, if he did so without the authority of the widow,\n he would be indictable for felony. Whereupon, says my informant, who\n was only a friend of the family, \u2018I had to retire baffled, and let\n matters take their course.\u2019 Why on earth he did not take the widow\n into his confidence, or risk an indictment for felony by opening a\n vein on his own account, or even summon another doctor, he does not\n say. I trust that, should any friend of mine see my coffin about to\n be screwed down under similar circumstances, and find equal cause to\n doubt whether I am dead, he will summon up courage to stick a pin\n into me, and chance the consequences. This, however, has nothing to\n do with the doctor\u2019s responsibilities. It would seem that the medico\n in this case was either so confident in his own opinion as to decline\n even to walk across the road to investigate the extraordinary symptoms\n described to him, or else that he preferred the chance of the man\n being buried alive to the chance of having to admit he had made a\n mistake. Which alternative is the worst I do not know.\u201d\n\nThe _Gaulois_ (Paris) of May 16, 1894, contains the following:--\n\n\n \u201cDEATH OR CATALEPSY?\n\n \u201cThe funeral of the Comtesse de Jarnac, whose death was reported to\n have taken place on Saturday, was fixed for to-morrow, but it will\n probably be postponed. None of the usual signs of dissolution have\n appeared; the face still retains its colour, and _rigor mortis_ has\n not yet set in. Some hope is even entertained that the Comtesse may be\n simply in a state of catalepsy, and that the embolus, to which death\n was attributed, may have lodged in the lungs, not in the heart, in\n which case it may merely have caused a stoppage of the circulation\n (_sic_). The body had not been placed in the coffin up to a late hour\n last night.\u201d\n\n[CASE IN THE AUSTRIAN TYROL.]\n\n\nSTRANGULATION BY A SCARF.\n\nOne of the authors was present on May 14, 1894, with a company of\nladies and gentlemen gathered at a country mansion in the Austrian\nTyrol for afternoon tea, when the conversation turned upon the subject\nof premature burial. Among other cases related, the host described\nthat of one of his servants, a woman, who went to bed with toothache,\na long scarf being wrapped around her face and neck. As she did not\nappear the following morning, our host entered her room, and found her,\nas he supposed, strangled to death by the scarf tightly wound about\nher neck. A doctor was summoned, when he found that the woman was warm\nand limp, her face soft and  as in life; yet, as there was\nno respiration or perceptible wrist-pulse, nor beating of the heart,\nhe regarded her as dead, and thought it would be proper to bury her.\nThe host had doubts, however, about the case, and, having decided to\nobserve it further, he had the woman removed to an outhouse, where she\nremained three days longer without any change in her appearance or\ncondition in any way. But, as there was considerable impatience felt\nat the delay of the burial by the people on the estate, the host sent\nfor two doctors to make a final examination of the woman, and decide\nas to the existence of life or death. The doctors found that no change\nhad taken place--there was softness of the skin, colour in the face,\nlimpness of the muscles, and an unmistakable warmth of the body; but,\nas there was an absence of apparent respiration and beating of the\nheart, they decided that the woman was dead, and urged her burial,\nwhich was done. They attributed the high temperature to the process\nof decomposition which they assumed was going on, though there was no\nodour of putrefaction noticed by anyone.\n\nThe probabilities are that this woman was buried alive. And in the\npresent state of medical education on the subject of apparent death and\nthe causes that bring it about, many physicians would have come to a\nlike conclusion; and, as physicians know but little about it, they are\nnot on their guard concerning its dangers.\n\nA number of cases of apparent death that have survived--where there was\nstrangulation from a scarf, as in this case--have been reported. The\nexplanation in such cases is, that the pressure of the scarf around the\nneck keeps the venous blood from flowing down from the brain through\nthe jugular veins, and the brain, in consequence, becomes saturated\nwith carbonic acid gas from the detained venous blood, and a death-like\nstupor caused by carbonic acid poisoning ensues. Artificial respiration\nwould, it is believed, restore such persons to consciousness.\n\n[AN UNDERTAKER\u2019S EXPERIENCE.]\n\nA leading West End undertaker, whose letter is before me, writes\nunder date of June 26, 1896, as follows:--\u201cIn my experience I have\nhad but one case come under my personal observation where I had real\nuncertainty as to death being actually present, and that was an\ninstance of the kind in which this calamity is only likely, in my\nopinion, to occur. A girl who had been to work in Borwick\u2019s factory\napparently fainted and died, and within a few days the friends buried\nher. When we came to close the coffin, there was no evidence of death,\nand we did not close it without having a doctor sent for, and receiving\nhis assurance that she was dead. When reading the fatal cases which\nhave come to light upon this subject, I must confess to looking back\nupon that instance with much fear, and it is but a poor consolation to\nme that the responsibility was not mine, but the medical man\u2019s.\u201d\n\nThe foregoing cases are recorded because they are types of a class\nthat nearly every physician, undertaker, clergyman, or other observer\nhas met with or heard of, and the probabilities, having regard to the\nexisting confusion and uncertainty of opinion on the signs of death,\nare on the side of apparent rather than real death. On the other hand,\na medical correspondent informs the author that he is sceptical as to\nthe reported cases of narrow escapes, as on more than one occasion his\nefforts to verify the facts have proved abortive. It must be admitted\nthat there are difficulties in the way of such inquiries. If the\nsubject of trance, or narrow escape from burial, is a lady, publicity\ninjures her prospects of marriage, and, if a young man, his reputation\nfor business stability is endangered or prejudiced, so that this\nreticence on the part of relatives is hardly surprising. Such persons\ndo not like their gruesome and unpleasant experiences to be talked\nabout.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nPREDISPOSING CAUSES AND CONDITIONS OF DEATH-COUNTERFEITS.\n\n\nTHOSE who are most subject to the various forms of death-counterfeit\nare persons whose vocations exhaust the nervous force faster than\nthe natural powers of recuperation, and who resort to narcotics and\nstimulants to counteract the consequent physical depression. Dr. Alex.\nWilder, in his \u201cPerils of Premature Burial,\u201d London, E. W. Allen,\np. 19, says:--\u201cWe exhaust our energies by overwork, by excitement,\ntoo much fatigue of the brain, the use of tobacco, and sedatives or\nan\u00e6sthetics, and by habits and practices which hasten the Three Sisters\nin spinning the fatal thread. Apoplexy, palsy, epilepsy, are likely to\nprostrate any of us at any moment, and catalepsy, perhaps, is not very\nfar from any of us.\u201d Equally, if not even more likely, to be overtaken\nby these simulacra of death are the poor--the ill-fed, ill-conditioned,\nand overworked classes.\n\nWith regard to the causation of catalepsy, Dr. W. R. Gowers, in Quain\u2019s\n\u201cDictionary of Medicine,\u201d p. 216, says:--\u201cNervous exhaustion is the\ncommon predisponent; and emotional disturbance, especially religious\nexcitement, or sudden alarm, and blows on the head and back, are\nfrequent immediate causes. It occasionally occurs in the course of\nmental affections, and especially melancholia, and as an early symptom\nof epilepsy.\u201d\n\n\nFAINTING FITS.\n\nDr. James Curry, F.A.S., in his \u201cObservations on Apparent Death,\u201d pp.\n81, 82, referring to those conditions and diseases which predispose\nto death-counterfeits, to which women are more liable than men,\nsays:--\u201cThe faintings which most require assistance, and to which,\ntherefore, I wish particularly to direct the attention of my readers\nand the public, are those that take place from loss of blood, violent\nand long-continued fits of coughing, excessive vomiting or purging,\ngreat fatigue or want of food, and likewise after convulsions, and in\nthe advanced stage of low fevers. It is but seldom, however, that any\nattempt at recovery is made in such cases; and several reasons may be\nassigned for this, particularly the great resemblance that fainting\nfits of any duration bear to _actual death_, and the firm belief of the\nbystanders that the circumstances which preceded were sufficient to\ndestroy life entirely.\u201d\n\nThe author continues, pp. 106, 107:--\u201cNervous and highly hysterical\nfemales, who are subject to fainting fits, are the most frequent\nsubjects of this kind of apparent death; in which the person seems in\na state very nearly resembling that of hibernating animals, such as\nthe dormouse, bat, toad, frog, etc., which annually become insensible,\nmotionless, and apparently dead, on the setting in of the winter\u2019s\ncold, but spontaneously revive on the returning warmth of spring. Here,\nby some peculiar and yet unknown circumstance, the vital principle has\nits action suspended, but neither its existence destroyed, nor its\norgans injured, so as absolutely to prevent recovery, if not too long\nneglected.\u201d\n\n[THE VITAL PRINCIPLE SUSPENDED.]\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann reports a case which occurred within half a mile of\nhis residence near Hallein, Austria:--\u201cAt Oberalm, near Hallein, there\ndied the widow of a Dr. Ettenberger, a lawyer. It was known that she\nhad previously been affected with fits of catalepsy, and therefore all\npossible means were taken for the purpose of restoring her to life.\nAll, however, were in vain, and her death appeared to be certain. On\nthe third day, just before the hour appointed for the funeral, the\nfamily physician, Dr. Leber, bethought himself of trying some fresh\nexperiments on the corpse, when the woman revived. She had been fully\nconscious all the time, and aware of all the preparations that were\nmade for her funeral, although unable to make it known to others that\nshe was still alive.\u201d\n\nDr. Hartmann says:--\u201cIn 1866, in Kronstadt, a young and strong man,\nOrrendo by name, had a fit and died. He was put into a coffin and\ndeposited in the family vault in a church. Fourteen years afterwards,\nin 1880, the same vault was opened again for the purpose of admitting\nanother corpse. A horrible sight met those who entered. Orrendo\u2019s\ncoffin was empty, and his skeleton lying upon the floor. But the rest\nof the coffins were also broken open and emptied of their contents. It\nseemed to show that the man after awakening had burst his coffin open,\nand, becoming insane, had smashed the others, after which he had been\nstarved to death.\u201d--_Premature Burial_, _p._ 7.\n\nBouchut, in \u201cSignes de la Mort,\u201d p. 40, relates that \u201cA lawyer at\nVesoul was subject to fits of fainting, but kept the matter secret,\nso that the knowledge of it might not spread and interfere with his\nprospects of marriage; he only spoke confidentially of it to one of\nhis friends. The marriage took place, and he lived for some time in\ngood health, then suddenly fell into one of his fits, and his wife\nand the doctors, believing him dead, had him placed in a coffin, and\ngot everything ready for the funeral. His friend was absent, but\nfortunately returned just in time to prevent the burial. The lawyer\nrecovered, and lived for sixteen years after this event.\u201d\n\n\nINTENSE COLD.\n\n[EFFECTS OF INTENSE COLD.]\n\nM. Charles Londe, in \u201cLa Mort Apparente,\u201d p. 16, says:--\u201cIntense cold,\ncoincident with privations and fatigue, will produce all the phenomena\nof apparent death--phenomena susceptible of prolongation during several\ndays without producing actual death, and consequently exposing the\nindividual who could be restored to life to living burial;\u201d and he\nfurther maintains it as an indisputable fact that every day people are\nthus interred alive.\n\nStruve, in his essay on \u201cSuspended Animation,\u201d p. 140, says:--\u201cIn no\ncase whatever is the danger of committing homicide greater than in the\ntreatment of persons who have suffered by severe cold. Their death-like\nstate may deceive our judgment, not only because such persons continue\nlongest apparently dead, but because the want of susceptibility of\nirritation is in many cases not distinguishable from real death. A man\nbenumbed with cold burnt his feet, and had continued insensible to\npain, nor did he feel this sensation till he warmed them at a fire.\nIn this case it is evident that the susceptibility of irritation was\ndestroyed, while vital power remained.\u201d\n\n\nINFLUENZA.\n\nThis is a malady that has been enormously rife all over the world\nduring the past few years, and has baffled the efforts of physicians\nand sanitarians to arrest its progress: it is sometimes accompanied by\nconditions which can hardly be distinguished from catalepsy.\n\nThe _Lancet_, May 31, 1890, page 1215, gives the following:--\n\n\n \u201cCATALEPSY AS A SEQUELA OF INFLUENZA.\n\n \u201cThe neurotic sequel\u00e6 of influenza seem engaging more attention abroad\n than at home, probably from their symptoms being more pronounced than\n on this side the Channel. \u2018Nonna,\u2019 as it is called, if something more\n than the somnolence succeeding the exhaustion of influenza, has been\n thought in Upper Italy to have much in common with catalepsy--one\n case, indeed, amounting to the \u2018apparent death\u2019 of Pacini. This is\n reported from Como. The patient, Pasquale Ossola by name, had to\n all appearance died, and a certificate to that effect, after due\n consultation, was drawn up and signed. Already it wanted but an hour\n or so to the interment, when the \u2018corpse\u2019 began to move spontaneously\n and to exhibit signs of returning life. The relatives of the supposed\n dead man at once called in assistance, and though animation and\n consciousness, even to recognition, were restored, the resuscitation\n was not maintained, and the patient died. Fortunately, the funeral had\n been arranged on the traditional lines, and the faint chance of return\n to life was not extinguished by cremation.\u201d\n\n\nNARCOTICS.\n\n[CHLOROFORM DEATHS PREVENTABLE.]\n\nReferring to the supposed death of a girl, Sarola, aged eleven years,\nto whom chloroform had been administered in September, 1894, under\npeculiar circumstances, and the body hurried off to cremation, Dr.\nRoger S. Chew, of Calcutta, writes:--\u201cThat bottle of medicine was\ncharged with having caused the death of little Sarola, who, I firmly\nbelieve, was _burned alive_ while in a cataleptic condition induced by\nthe hysterical convulsions, and rendered profound by the administration\nof the chloroform. Surgeon Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Lawrie agrees\nwith me that at least ninety per cent. of the chloroform deaths are\npreventable if proper measures are adopted to resuscitate the body,\nand it is quite possible for a chloroform narcotic to be launched\ninto eternity on the funeral pyre or in the suffocating earth. What\na mournful vista Sarola\u2019s case opens up, and who can say how many\nhundreds have been similarly disposed of!\u201d--_Communicated to the\nAuthor._\n\nSir Benjamin Ward Richardson, in \u201cThe Absolute Signs and Proofs of\nDeath,\u201d in the _Asclepiad_, first quarter, 1889, p. 9, says:--\u201cIn\nthe first experiments made in this country with chloral, after the\ndiscovery of its effects by Liebriech, we learned that such a deep\nnarcotism could be induced by this narcotic that it might be impossible\nto say whether an animal under its influence were alive or dead.\u201d And\nreferring to cataleptic trance due to shock, he observes, p. 11, \u201cTrue\ntraumatic catalepsy is equally remarkable, and equally embarrassing.\nIt has been witnessed in the most destructive form after shock by\nlightning, and it may also have been met with after severe blows and\ncontusions of the head.\u201d\n\n\nCHOLERA.\n\nDr. Chew, referring to another of the predisposing causes of apparent\ndeath, and the danger of premature burial in India, says:--\u201cIn the\ncholera season there is a risk of a soldier being buried alive, as\nthe custom is to get rid of the body as soon as possible, and it is\nvery seldom indeed that a _post-mortem_ is held on a cholera corpse.\nIf the case be one of _true_ cholera, decomposition sets in before\nthe breath has entirely left the body, and, immediately life is\nextinct, putrefaction rushes forward so rapidly as to render a mistake\nimpossible; but in choleraic diarrh\u0153a or the lighter forms of cholera\nit is possible that coma resultant on extreme collapse may suspend\nanimation so as to simulate real death _without_ actual cessation of\nvital energy, and lead to live sepulture, except where, by some such\nlucky accident as the burial ground being a long journey off, the\nfuneral is delayed sufficiently to give a chance of recovery. And this\nsame accident may prove a salvation in syncope or coma from shock or\nprotracted illness.\n\n\u201cWith the civil population, save in very exceptional cases, there is\nvery little chance of recovery from apparent death, as the time between\nalleged decease and sepulture is very short indeed; and unless there\nare unmistakable signs of trance, syncope, or coma, the victim must die\n_after he_ (or she) _has been buried alive_.\u201d\n\n\nVARIOUS PREDISPOSING DISEASES.\n\n[THEIR NUMBER AND VARIETY.]\n\nLiving burials take place because the general public are ignorant of\nthe fact that there are many (some thirty) diseases, and some states\nof the body that cannot be called diseases, as well as a number of\nincidents and accidents, which produce all the appearances of death so\nclosely as to deceive any one.\n\nExcessive joy or excessive grief will often paralyse the nervous\nsystem, including the action of the heart and the respiratory\nfunctions, and occasion the appearance of sudden death as well as\nshocks, blows upon the head, fright, strokes of lightning, violent\ndisplays of temper; also certain drugs now in common medical use, such\nas Indian hemp, atropia, digitalis, tobacco, morphia, and veratrum.\nAccording to Dr. L\u00e9once L\u00e9normand, in \u201cDes Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d\npp. 85-104, the following diseases and conditions not infrequently\nproduce the like symptoms, viz., apoplexy, asphyxia, catalepsy,\nepilepsy, nervous exhaustion, ecstasy, h\u00e6morrhage, hysteria, lethargy,\nsyncope, tetanus, etc.\n\nDr. Herbert Mayo in his \u201cLetters on Truths contained in Popular\nSuperstitions,\u201d p. 34, remarks \u201cthat death-trance belongs to diseases\nof the nervous system, but in any form of disease, when the body is\nbrought to a certain state of debility, death-trance may supervene.\u201d\n\nDr. Hartmann observes: \u201cThe cases in which persons apparently dead have\nbeen restored to health by appropriate means are innumerable, and such\naccounts may be added to without end, as they are of daily occurrence,\nwhile it is also self-evident that, if they had not thus been saved,\npremature burial and death in the coffin would have taken place. But it\nalso often happens that cases of apparent death recover spontaneously,\nand even after all possible means taken for the restoration of life\nhave failed. This is specially the case in catalepsy, due to nervous\nexhaustion, which requires no other remedy than sufficient rest for the\nrecuperation of the life-power, which no kind of medicine can supply.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nPREMATURE BURIAL AND CREMATION IN INDIA.\n\n\nTHE following are some of the facts and experiences which were brought\nto the author\u2019s notice during a visit to India in the early part of\n1896.\n\n\nTHE CALCUTTA BURNING GHAT.\n\nOn February 9, 1896, I visited the Burning Ghat on the banks of the\nGanges, Calcutta, where twenty bodies are reduced to ashes by fire\ndaily. The corpse of an aged Hindu woman had just been brought in on\nmy arrival, death, we were told, having occurred but an hour before.\nThe deputy registrar asked the nearest relative a few questions as to\nthe age, caste, next of kin, cause of death, which were duly recorded\nin a book kept for that purpose, and, the charges having been paid,\nthe body, which was as supple as in life (and, except for want of\nvolition, bore no visible marks of death), was placed upon the logs,\nwhich were alternately crossed over each other, other logs being placed\non the top of the body, with straw underneath. The family being poor in\nthis case, no expensive spiced oils, ghee, or sandal wood were used.\nThe pyre having been sprinkled with water from the sacred river, the\nnearest male relative took a wisp of lighted straw and ran seven times\nround it, shouting \u201cRam, Ram, sach hai\u201d (the god Ram is true and great\nindeed). He then applied the torch, which in a few seconds reached the\nbody, while a Hindu priest recited verses from the Vedas. The process\nof burning occupied about four hours. Two other bodies, one an adult,\nand the other a child, were nearly burnt to ashes during my visit.\nIt appears that in India, when the body is motionless, and assumes a\ndeath-like appearance, as in trance or catalepsy, no attempt is ever\nmade at resuscitation, no matter how suddenly or unexpectedly the\nsupposed death may occur, nor is there any proper method of examination\nfor the purpose of death certification. Amongst the Hindus death is not\nconsidered an evil, but is the gate leading to a better and happier\nworld. Many Hindus when ill are carried by their friends to the banks\nof the sacred Ganges, where they meet death with much hope, and without\nfear.\n\nAt the General Hospital, Colombo, I was told by Dr. Van Lagenberg\nthat there was absolutely no protection against premature burials for\npersons subject to trance, as, although according to the law medical\ncertification was obligatory, medical examination was not; the doctor\ntaking the word of the friends as to the fact of death, and certifying\naccordingly. Early burial (about six hours after death) was the rule.\nThe Mother Superior to the staff of nurses mentioned the case of the\nvenerable Father Vestarani, an aged Catholic priest of Colombo, who was\nsubject to attacks of epilepsy: these were followed by apparent death,\nand he had several narrow escapes from premature burial. This case was\nalso known to my friend, Mr. Peter de Abrew, of Colombo, and others.\nThe house surgeon, Dr. H. M. Fernando, said that amongst the Moslems\nburial followed apparent death very quickly, sometimes in an hour.\n\nFrom Mr. Vira Raghava Chri, of Madras, manager of the _Hindu_, I\nlearned that the Brahmins always burn the dead soon after death occurs.\nThe relatives, if they reside within easy reach, are sent for. The body\nis washed in cold water, and after two or three hours the religious\nservice begins, which is performed by the priests, and consists of\ncitations from the Vedas having reference to the departure of the soul\nfrom the body, and to the lessons the solemn event teaches. These\nceremonies generally last for two or three hours, after which the body\nis taken to be burned. In answer to my inquiries as to what would\nhappen if within that time no sign of decomposition was exhibited, Mr.\nChri informed me that under no circumstances would they wait for more\nthan six hours before the body was taken to be burned. He had heard of\ncases of persons declared to be dead coming to life while being carried\nto the funeral pyre, when they were restored to and welcomed by their\nfriends. Cases were also known of the corpse sitting up amidst the\nflames, and being beaten down by those in charge of the funeral. They\nwere believed to be the victims of premature cremation. He thought,\nhowever, that such cases were rare amongst his co-religionists.\n\n[DIFFICULTY OF DIAGNOSIS.]\n\nMr. Mohan Chunder Roy, M.B., of Benares, said that it was a very\ndifficult matter, even for a medical practitioner, to distinguish the\nliving from the dead, and, where there were no signs of putrefaction,\nit was his custom to advise the relatives to wait before burial, or\nbefore sending the body to the burning ghat, which they were very\nreluctant to do. When apparent revivals to consciousness occurred on\nthe pyre, the superstitious people believed that it was due to the\npresence of evil spirits, and the attempt to escape is frustrated by\ncremators in charge of the burning ghat. This barbarous custom has been\nrepeatedly affirmed to me by intelligent natives as a matter of common\nnotoriety.\n\nOne reason why Hindus are hurried to the cremation ground so quickly,\nand without waiting to see whether the case is one of trance or\nsuspended animation, is that the relatives are not allowed either to\neat or drink while the body remains in the house. If a person touches\nany article in the house of mourning, that article must be washed and\npurified. After the cremation all the relatives purify themselves by\nbathing before they are allowed to eat or drink.\n\nMr. Durga Prasad, editor of the _Harbinger_, Lahore, writes, February\n29, 1896:--\u201cI recollect, when about twelve years old, my grandmother,\nwho was held in great esteem for her piety and experience, told me that\nshe was once declared to be dead, and was therefore carried to our\ncrematorium, or burning-place; but when about to be burnt she came back\nto life.\u201d\n\nMr. Joseph, assistant secretary at the Public Library and Museum,\nColombo, told the author that his father, owing to weakness of the\nheart, was subject to frequent attacks of trance-like insensibility.\nThey passed away by simple treatment in a few hours, but were sometimes\nquite alarming. He was afraid, owing to the superstitious fear of death\namong the ignorant classes in Ceylon, and the terror which keeping a\ncorpse, or a person in a state of catalepsy, where volition had ceased,\nexcited, that many were buried or burned alive, as it was the custom,\nparticularly amongst the Mahomedans, to carry the body away a few hours\nafter death. Signs of decomposition quickly appeared in a tropical\nclimate, but this unequivocal mode of verifying death was not often\nwaited for by Moslems.\n\n\nSRI SUMANGALA ON SINHALESE BURIALS IN CEYLON.\n\n[BURIAL IN CEYLON.]\n\nSri Sumangala, the venerable High Priest of the Buddhists of Ceylon,\nand Principal of the College for Buddhist Priests, at an interview the\nauthor had with him in January, 1895, stated that among the Sinhalese\nthe chances of burial or cremation of the apparently dead are not\nfrequent. Their customs are such that a corpse is seldom or never\nremoved for burial or cremation before the expiry of twenty-four hours\nafter death is said to have taken place. During that time climatic\ninfluence renders signs of decomposition and putrefaction apparent.\n\nOnly one case came under the observation of the venerable theologian,\nwhich was that of a person bitten by a cobra. The man apparently\nsuccumbed, but a native specialist, having arrived at the cemetery\njust before the burial, examined the case, and said that life was _not\nextinct_, and saved the man from a premature grave.\n\nThe following is from the _British Medical Journal_, April 26, 1884, p.\n844:--\n\n\n \u201cPREMATURE INTERMENT.\n\n \u201cThe _Times of India_, for March 21, has the following story:--On last\n Friday morning the family of a Goanese, named Manuel, aged seventy\n years, who had been for the last four months suffering from dysentery,\n thinking that he was dead, made preparations for his funeral. He was\n placed in a coffin and taken from his house, at Worlee, to a chapel\n at Lower Mahim, preparatory to burial. The priest, on putting his hand\n on the man\u2019s chest, found his heart still beating. He was thereupon\n removed to the Jamsetjee Jejeebhoy Hospital, where he remained in an\n unconscious state up to a late hour on last Friday night, when he\n died.\u201d\n\nIn a communication to the author from Mr. Nasarvariji F. Billimoria,\ndated March 14, 1896, the writer says that, where cases of premature\nburning have occurred in India, the relatives are unwilling to have\nthe facts published, and shrink from making them known. Moreover, when\nmembers of a family once declared dead have been rejected by their\nfriends in the land of shadows, and have returned to this life, they\nare believed to bring misfortune with them, and discredit is attached\nto the families in consequence. Mr. Billimoria says the following cases\ncan be relied upon as authentic:--\n\n \u201cIn the year 18--, in the town of B----, a Marwari was taken as dead\n and carried to the cremation ground. Unfortunately, at that time a\n superstition was prevalent among all classes of Indians that, if a\n dead one is brought back to his or her house, a plague would break\n out in the town. When, therefore, the Marwari survived, instead\n of bringing him back to the house, or even allowing him to roam\n elsewhere, he was killed, it is said, by a hatchet, which they were\n in the habit of carrying with them to break the fuel for the funeral\n pyre. This had happened in the old Gaekwari days when Governments did\n not interfere in the superstitious customs of the people.\u201d\n\nFortunately, however, those days are gone, and with them the old\nsuperstitions. Some time ago a fisherwoman, after taking a liberal\ndose of alcoholic drink and opium, was found (apparently) dead by her\nrelatives--low-caste Hindus. No time is lost among the Hindus, high or\nlow caste, to remove the body to the cremation ground after a man is\nfound dead.\n\n \u201cA bamboo bier was being prepared to carry the fisherwoman to the\n _Samash\u00e2n_ (cremation ground), upon which the body was laid as usual,\n and the relatives were to lift it to their shoulders: when, lo! the\n woman turned herself on the bier on her side, and, thanks to the good\n sense of the fishermen, she is still enjoying her life while I am\n writing.\n\n [HASTY CREMATION.]\n\n \u201cA young daughter of a Bania was sick for a long time, and was found\n apparently dead by her relatives, and carried to the _Samash\u00e2n_. These\n grounds are generally situated at a river side. When the bier was\n prepared for certain ceremonies, the girl showed signs of revival,\n and, one by one, the relatives would go near the bier, bend down,\n stare at the face, and retire aghast. Information had reached the town\n that the girl had survived; but the body, nevertheless, was cremated,\n and never brought back to the house. It is believed that in this case,\n although the girl had revived for a little time, she had died soon\n afterwards, as she had been ill for a long time previously. Granting\n that it was a case in which the dying became actively conscious a few\n minutes before real death, it is certain that great and indecent haste\n was practised by the relatives in pressing on the cremation, as is the\n usual mode in India.\u201d\n\nThe _Bombay Guardian_, January 11, 1896, under the head of \u201cThe Week\u2019s\nNews,\u201d announced that--\n\n \u201cA Brahmin went to Poona to attend the National Congress. He was laid\n up with fever, became dangerously ill, and fell into a trance. His\n friends, thinking him dead, made the necessary arrangements for the\n funeral. They took the supposed dead man to the river to be burned,\n but, just as the funeral procession arrived near the Shane temple, his\n head and hands were seen moving. The cloth having been removed from\n his face, he opened his eyes and tried to speak. He was taken home.\u201d\n\nThis case was reported also in the _Times of India_.\n\nThe subject of hasty and premature burials in India might with much\nprofit be introduced at the National Congress. The author believes\nthat thousands of people are annually buried and burned in a state of\nsuspended animation--particularly in places where cholera, small-pox,\nand other devastating plagues prevail. It is usual, both amongst\nthe Parsees and the Hindus, to begin preparations for the religious\nceremonies when the case is considered hopeless.\n\nDr. Roger S. Chew, of Calcutta, who for some years occupied the\nposition of army surgeon in India, writes to me:--\u201cThough there is\nevery risk of live interment with those classes who bury their dead,\nthis is a risk (save in cases of epidemic or battlefield) the British\nsoldier never runs in India, where the military law requires that a\n_post-mortem_ examination, not earlier than twelve hours after decease,\nmust be held on every soldier who dies from any cause except a highly\ncontagious or infectious disease.\u201d In the present unsatisfactory state\nof the law might not this safeguard be generally adopted?\n\n\nTHE TOWERS OF SILENCE, BOMBAY.\n\nOn Sunday, March 15, 1896, my daughter and I were accompanied to the\nTowers of Silence, situated on the highest part of Malabar Hill,\nBombay, by Mr. Phiroze C. Sethna, a highly accomplished Parsee\nmerchant, to whom we were indebted for many acts of kindness during our\nsojourn in the city. The position is one of rare beauty, commanding\nas it does charming panoramic views of Bombay and the surrounding\nneighbourhood, while immediately below are extensive cocoa and other\ntropical plantations. At the entrance to the towers is a notice-board\nin English, stating that none but Parsees are admitted. We passed under\nthe porch into the sacred enclosure, and found ourselves in the midst\nof a lovely garden planted with choice shrubs and trees, and were each\npresented by the gardener with bouquets of freshly-cut flowers.\n\n[THE TOWERS OF SILENCE.]\n\nThe towers are five in number, the smallest having been erected in\n1669, all modelled after the same pattern, and are about twenty-five\nfeet high. Inside is a circular platform about three hundred feet in\ncircumference paved with large slabs, and divided into rows of shallow\nopen receptacles in which the bodies are placed. There are three\nsections--for males, females, and children. We noticed a number of\nvultures sitting on the adjacent trees, and were informed that, when a\nfuneral is on its way, large numbers congregate upon the coping of the\ntower, ready to seize the body and devour it the moment it is deposited\nby the corpse-bearers on the slabs, after the conclusion of the funeral\nceremonies. In an hour or less the corpse is completely stripped of its\nflesh, when the bones are thrown into a well. From a sanitary point of\nview, the plan is preferable to burying or to cremation, which last,\nas it is carried out in India, is a slow and tedious process. Vultures\nhave never been known to attack children, or even babies left by their\nmothers tied for safety to a branch of a tree, and will not, it is\nsaid, attack a person only apparently dead, as in a trance or coma.\n\nAnother custom amongst the Parsees in the treatment of their dead is\nto bring a dog to the corpse before it is removed from the house, and\nanother dog on its arrival at the Tower of Silence. This ceremony is\nknown as the Sagdeed. In a pamphlet on the \u201cFuneral Ceremonies of the\nParsees,\u201d by Ervad Jivanji Jamshedje Mody, B.A., a learned priest of\nthe Parsee cult, with whom the author had the pleasure of an interview,\nthe explanation is that, according to the ancient belief, the spotted\ndog can discriminate between the really and the apparently dead. Dr.\nFranz Hartmann and other writers appear also to be of the opinion,\nwhich the author considers highly probable, that a dog knows whether\nhis master is really dead or only in a trance; but that a strange dog\nwould be able to discriminate and act as a sentinel to prevent a living\nperson being mistaken for a dead one, is highly improbable.\n\nHaving heard of several cases of persons taken to the Towers of Silence\nwho recovered consciousness after being laid within the enclosure, I\nasked Mr. Jivanji Mody what would happen in such a case, and what means\nof escape there would be? Mr. Mody replied that within the tower there\nis a chain hanging from the coping to the floor, by which a person\ncould draw himself up to the top of the structure, and he would then be\nseen and rescued. In a neatly-constructed model of these towers at the\nmuseum, Victoria Gardens, Bombay, no chain is visible. The subject of\napparent death, or suspended animation, and how to prevent premature\nburial, premature cremation, and premature exposure in the Towers of\nSilence, is beginning to excite interest in some parts of India. Mr.\nArdeshar Nowroji, Fort Bombay, student of Zoroastrian literature, is to\nread a paper on the subject before the Debating Society at Elphinstone\nCollege. Mr. Soabjee Dhunjeebhoy Wadia is also studying literature\nbearing on the same topic.\n\nMr. Dadabhoy Nusserwanje, a Bombay Parsee and merchant, residing\nat Colombo, Ceylon, informed the author, January 28, 1896, that he\nknew of two cases where his co-religionists had been declared dead,\nand the bodies prepared for burial (the preparation including the\nlong religious service as prescribed by their formulas), who were\nonly in a trance. This was proved by their having come back to life\nwhen placed in the Towers of Silence in Bombay. It appears that any\npersons officially and religiously given over for dead were formerly\nnot allowed to be restored to their relatives, or to the society to\nwhich they belonged, as they were supposed to carry with them, from\ntheir dead associates, liability to plagues or ill luck, and they are\nconsequently obliged to migrate to distant parts of the country. My\ninformant said that this superstition was so deeply rooted in the minds\nof the Parsee people that he did not think a reform was possible.\n\nCases of persons in a trance, mistaken for dead, are by no means\nuncommon, as would appear from the following communication from Mr.\nNasarvariji F. Billimoria, a Parsee of Bombay, addressed to Dr. Franz\nHartmann, and not previously published:-\n\n \u201cSeveral cases of revival of the apparently dead among the Parsees,\u201d\n writes Mr. Billimoria, \u201chave come to my notice.\n\n \u201cA Parsee, whom I shall call M---- B----, was given up as dead. The\n body was laid on the ground, and the usual ceremonies were being\n performed, when, to the surprise of the people surrounding the body,\n he rose and described some spiritual experience. He died long after\n this event took place, at a good old age, at Bilimora, a town about\n eighty miles north of Bombay.\n\n \u201cS----, a girl of about ten years, was also taken as dead in the same\n town, and, after laying her body on the ground, prayers were being\n recited by the priests. She rose and said that she had been to some\n other land, where she saw an old lady who ordered her to go away, as\n she was not required there just then. She died at a good old age a few\n months ago.\n\n \u201cA woman in the garb of a Hindu beggar was some time ago in the habit\n of interviewing Parsee ladies at odd times, viz., at about three or\n four o\u2019clock in the morning, at the same place, and asking several\n questions pertaining to religion. It was afterwards found that she was\n K---- (widow of a Parsee priest), who had apparently died a short time\n before, and, after revival, had emerged from the Tower of Silence,\n and, a superstition being prevalent among the people that none should\n be taken back among us who return from the dead, she dared not unite\n with the Parsees, and hence led a wanderer\u2019s life.\n\n \u201cIn Bombay, too, I have heard of some cases of the revival of the\n apparently dead among the Parsees, the principal of them being a\n lady of a wealthy family, and a Parsee who afterwards carried on his\n profession as a physician. The physician was living as a Christian on\n account of the prejudice among the Parsees before referred to. He was\n called \u201cM\u00fbtchala D\u00e2ktar,\u201d _i.e._, doctor with big moustache.\n\n \u201cSimilar cases had also occurred in Surat, where two Parsee women had\n returned from the Towers of Silence, one of whom lived afterwards as a\n Sanyasini. What became of the other I cannot say.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe funeral ceremonies among the Parsees provide that, after the signs\nof death are manifest, the body be washed with warm water, and laid on\na clean sheet; two persons hold the hands of the dead person, joining\nthemselves by a _paivand_ of tape. The priests recite certain prayers,\nafter which the body is laid on ground set apart for the purpose in\nthe house. Here it lies for several hours, during which time priests\nrecite alternately certain prayers, while a fire is kept alive with\nfragrant combustibles near the body. The Nasas\u00e2l\u00e2rs, or corpse-bearers,\narrive at the appointed time, when the fire is taken away, and other\nmanthr\u00e2 or prayers, which occupy an hour or so, are recited by two\npriests conjointly, gazing first on the iron bier, and then on the face\nof the body. A procession is then formed, and the body is carried by\nthe Nasas\u00e2l\u00e2rs only, the others walking in pairs, joining themselves\nby holding a handkerchief in their hands, several yards distant from\nthe body. The Towers of Silence are removed from the habitations of\nmankind, sometimes, miles distant, where, after the arrival of the\nfuneral procession, the last obeisance is performed, and the body\nis carried into the tower, which is called _Dukhm\u00e2h_, the mourners,\nexcept the Nasas\u00e2l\u00e2rs, remaining outside. The procession returns after\nfurther prayers. The towers are entirely open from above to allow ample\nsunlight, and to allow the carrion-birds access to the dead.\n\n\u201cFrom the foregoing it would appear that, with regard to the disposal\nof the dead, the Parsee system offers advantages, in respect of the\nrevival of the supposed dead persons, over the European system of\nburial. After real or supposed death, a fire is kept burning near the\nbody, the heat of which would indirectly assist in resuscitating those\nin a state of suspended animation.\n\n\u201cIf a man dies in the afternoon, his body is not carried to the towers\ntill next day, and in that case the fire is kept alive the whole night\nnear the body, two priests alternately reciting manthr\u00e2s. Some time is\nthus allowed to intervene between the supposed death and the disposal\nof the body in the Towers of Silence. There, too, the body is not laid\nwithout Zoroastrian ceremony. But in the system of disposal itself\nwe see another protection, in that the carrion-birds do not touch the\nbody unless they instinctively find evidence of putrefaction. It is a\nfact that in not a few cases persons have escaped from the dismal and\nterrible fate of being laid alive in the Towers of Silence. The system\nof disposal in the tower may appear to non-Zoroastrians repulsive; but\nneither the system of cremation nor burial will give us back those\nwhom they have once devoured. That the Parsees do not allow those who\nhave returned from the Towers of Silence to intermingle among them is\nanother question. This too, however, has attracted the attention of\nthis small community; and I hear that there is a standing order issued\nfrom the trustees of the Parsee Panchayet at Bombay to the Nasas\u00e2l\u00e2rs\n(the corpse-bearers) to the effect that they would be rewarded if they\nwould give information or bring back any body which had been revived\nafter it had been carried to the Towers of Silence.\u201d\n\nThe Parsee custom of using the dog is suggestive. There are numerous\ncases on record where a dog, following his master to the grave as one\nof the mourners, has refused to leave the grave; and these have been\nquoted as a proof of the undying love of the master\u2019s canine friend.\nMay it not be that dogs are gifted, as believed by the Parsees,\nwith another sense denied to most men--the faculty of discerning\nbetween real and apparent death? A medical correspondent relates the\nfollowing:--\n\n \u201cIn Austria, in 1870, a man seemed to be dead, and was placed in a\n coffin. After the usual three days of watching over the supposed\n corpse, the funeral was commenced; and when the coffin was being\n carried out of the house, it was noticed that the dog which belonged\n to the supposed defunct became very cross, and manifested great\n eagerness toward the coffin, and could not be driven away. Finally,\n as the coffin was about to be placed in the hearse, the dog attacked\n the bearers so furiously that they dropped it on the ground; and in\n the shock the lid was broken off, and the man inside awoke from his\n lethargic condition, and soon recovered his full consciousness. He was\n alive and well at last news of him. Dogs might possibly be of use in\n deciding doubtful cases, where their master was concerned.\u201d\n\nAlso the following:--\n\n[INTELLIGENCE OF DOGS.]\n\n \u201cThe postmaster of a village in Moravia \u2018died\u2019 in a fit of epilepsy,\n and was buried three days afterwards in due form. He had a little pet\n dog which showed great affection towards him, and after the burial\n the dog remained upon the man\u2019s grave and howled dismally, and would\n not be driven away. Several times the dog was taken home forcibly,\n but whenever it could escape it immediately returned. This lasted for\n a week, and became the talk of the village. About a year afterwards\n that part of the grave-yard had to be removed owing to an enlargement\n in building the church, and consequently the grave of the postmaster\n was opened, and the body was found in such a state and position as\n to leave no doubt that he had been buried alive, had returned to\n consciousness, and had died in the grave. The physician who had signed\n the certificate of death went insane on that account, soon after the\n discovery was made.\u201d--_Premature Burial, p. 109, London ed._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nTHE DANGER OF HASTY BURIALS.\n\n\nEARLY burials are advocated and defended by certain writers on sanitary\ngrounds; and there is, no doubt, something to be said for them,\nprovided the body shows unmistakable signs of dissolution; but to\nimpose a general rule upon Englishmen by Parliament, or upon Americans\nby State Legislature, as has been urged, would add to the existing evil\nof perfunctory and mistaken diagnosis of death, and greatly increase\nthe number of premature interments. The Romans kept the bodies of\nthe dead a week before burial, lest through haste they should inter\nthem while life remained. Servius, in his commentary on Virgil, tells\nus--\u201cThat on the eighth day they burned the body, and on the ninth put\nits ashes in the grave.\u201d Plato enjoined the bodies of the dead to be\nkept until the third day, _in order_ (as he says) _to be satisfied of\nthe reality of the death_. Quintilian explains why the Romans delayed\nburials as follows:--\u201cFor what purpose do ye imagine that long-delayed\ninterments were invented? Or on what account is it that the mournful\npomp of funeral solemnities is always interrupted by sorrowful groans\nand piercing cries? Why, for no other reason, but because we have seen\npersons return to life after they were about to be laid in the grave\nas dead.\u201d \u201cFor this reason,\u201d adds Lancisi, in \u201cDe Subita. Mort.,\u201d lib.\ni., cap. 15, \u201cthe Legislature has wisely and prudently prohibited\nthe immediate, or the too speedy, interment of all dead persons, and\nespecially of such as have the misfortune to be cut off by a sudden\ndeath.\u201d\n\n[THE ADVANTAGE OF DELAY.]\n\nTerilli, a celebrated physician of Venice, in a treatise of the\n\u201cCauses of Sudden Death,\u201d sect. vi., cap. 2, says:--\u201cSince the body\nis sometimes so deprived of every vital function, and the principle\nof life reduced so low, that it cannot be distinguished from death,\nthe laws both of natural comparison and revealed religion oblige us to\nwait a sufficient time for life manifesting itself by the usual signs,\nperadventure it should not be, as yet, totally extinguished; and if\nwe should act a contrary part, we may possibly become murderers, by\nconfining to the gloomy regions of the dead those who are actually\nalive.\u201d\n\nMr. Cooper, surgeon, in his treatise on \u201cThe Uncertainty of the\nSigns of Death,\u201d pp. 70, 71, had in his possession the following\ncertificate, written and signed by Mr. Blau, a native of Auvergne, a\nman of untainted veracity:--\u201cI hereto subscribe, and declare, that\nfifty-five years ago, happening to reside at Toulouse for the sake\nof my studies, and going to St. Stephen\u2019s Church to hear a sermon, I\nsaw a corpse brought thither for the sake of interment. The ceremony,\nhowever, was delayed till the sermon should be over; but the supposed\ndead person, being laid in a chapel and attended by all the mourners,\nabout the middle of the sermon discovered manifest signs of life,\nfor which reason he was quickly conveyed back to his own house. From\na consideration of circumstances, it is sufficiently obvious that,\nwithout the intervention of the sermon, the man had been interred\nalive.\u201d\n\nBetween 1780 and 1800 many pamphlets on the subject appeared in Germany\nand France. Opposite sides were taken, some advocating delay until\nputrefaction, others urging immediate burial.\n\nIn 1788, Marcus Hertz wrote strongly against the prevailing precipitate\nburials among the Jews. He asked \u201cwhat motive could justify hasty\nburials;\u201d and continued:--\u201cThe writings of learned men and doctors, of\nboth early times and recent date, describe the dangers of precipitate\nburial; there is not a town in the world that has not its stories of\nrevivals in the grave.\u201d\n\nIn 1791, Rev. J. W. C. Wolff, in Germany, published numerous narratives\nof narrow escapes from the grave.\n\nIn 1792, Rev. Johann Moritz Schwager stated that he had preached\nfor twenty years against precipitate burials, and that he had been\nrequested to do so by a number of corporate bodies who had evidence of\nthe danger of hasty interments.\n\nAbout 1800 great excitement prevailed in Germany on account of some\nnarrow escapes from living burial that happened in high quarters,\nmany books and pamphlets having been issued, and sermons preached\nby the clergy on the subject. The key-note of all of these was the\nfallaciousness of the appearances of death, and that none was reliable\nbut decomposition.\n\nAbout this period Dr. Herachborg, of K\u00f6nigsberg, Prussia, wrote that,\nfor forty years, as a doctor, he had always been disgusted with the\npractice of hasty burials; and, to show the ignorance of the times,\nhe mentions the case of a woman he kept under observation in bed for\nthree days, when her relations took her out and placed her on the\nfloor, insisting that she was dead. He resisted her burial, and had\nher covered with blankets; so that by being kept warm she recovered\ncompletely. He insisted that no sign of death could be relied upon.\n\n[HASTY BURIAL IN TURKEY.]\n\nFrom the _British Medical Journal_, April 12, 1862, p. 390. \u201cThe\n_Gaz. M\u00e9d. d\u2019Orient_ tells us that people in Constantinople are, in\nall probability, not unfrequently buried alive, in consequence of the\nprecipitancy with which their burial is performed. If the person dies\nduring the night, he has some chance of escaping premature sepulture;\nbut if he dies during the day, he is sure to be in his tomb in two\nhours after he has drawn his last breath. Facts of daily occurrence in\nthis country, we are told, prove that persons who were thought to have\ndied during the night have recovered before morning, and thus, thanks\nto the intervention of night, have been saved from being interred\nalive. Other facts of not unfrequent occurrence show that persons have\nrecovered while on their road to the grave. In other rarer cases,\nagain, the cries of the revivified half-buried ones have been heard by\nthe passers-by, and thus saved from a horrible conclusion.\u201d\n\nIn all countries it is the custom amongst the Jews to bury their dead,\nand apparently dead, quickly, without taking the slightest steps for\nrestoration, and many are the catastrophes recorded.\n\n\u201cThe Report of the Royal Humane Society\u201d of 1802 states:--\u201cAt the\nfuneral of a Jewess, one of the bearers thought he heard repeatedly\nsome motion in the coffin, and informed his friends. Medical assistance\nbeing obtained, she returned to her home in a few hours completely\nrestored.\u201d\n\nFrom the _British Medical Journal_, March 8, 1879, p. 356.\n\n\n\u201cSUSPENDED ANIMATION.\n\n\u201cA Jew, aged seventy, who had been ailing for some time, apparently\ndied recently in Lemberg, on a Friday night, after severe convulsions.\nThe deceased having been legally certified, the body was put on a\nbier, preparatory to the funeral, which had to be deferred, the next\nday being the Jewish Sabbath. Two pious brethren who had, according to\ntheir custom, been spending the night in prayer, watching the dead,\nwere suddenly, on the morning of the Saturday, disturbed from their\ndevotions by strange sounds proceeding from the bier, and, to their\ndismay, saw the dead man slowly rising, and preparing to descend from\nit, using at the same time very strong language. Both brethren fled\nvery precipitately; and one of them has since died from the effects\nof the fright. It is hoped by the _Wiener Medicinische Zeitung_ that\nthis case will make the local government watch the Jewish funerals more\ncarefully, as it is known that the Jews often bury their dead very\nquickly.\u201d\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, January 22, 1887, says:--\u201cThe dangers that\nmay arise from premature interment are illustrated by a sensational\nincident which recently occurred at Trencsin, in Hungary. The wife of\nthe Rabbi of the Jewish Congregation apparently died suddenly without\nhaving been previously ill. The night before the funeral the female\nwatcher, sitting in an adjoining room, heard a noise in the chamber of\ndeath, and, when, stricken with horror, she ventured to open the door,\nshe found that the seemingly dead woman had risen from her bier, and\nhad thrown off the shroud by which she was covered. By a fortunate\naccident the interment had been postponed in consequence of the\nintervening Sabbath, otherwise a horrible fate would have overtaken the\nRabbi\u2019s wife.\u201d\n\n[THE LANCET\u2019S SUGGESTIONS.]\n\nThe _Lancet_, August 23, 1884, vol. ii., p. 329, comments thus:--\n\n\n\u201cBURYING CHOLERA PATIENTS ALIVE.\n\n\u201cIt is not so much undue haste as inexcusable carelessness that must be\nblamed for the premature burying of persons who are not really dead.\nSuch heedlessness as alone can lead to the commission of this crime is\nnot a shade less black than manslaughter. We speak strongly, because\nthis is a matter in regard to which measures ought to be at once taken\nto render the horrible act impossible, and to dismiss all fear from the\npublic mind. If it be a fact, as would seem to be indisputable, that\nduring the last few weeks there have been cases--we will not attempt\nto say how many or how few--of burying alive, a scandal and a horror,\nwholly unpardonable in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, have\nto be faced; and the sooner the full truth is known and rules of safety\nestablished the better. Let it be once for all decided that measures\nshall be taken to ascertain the fact of death before burial. Why not\nrevert to the old practice, and _always_ open a vein in the arm after\ndeath, or pass a current of electricity through the body before the\ncoffin is finally screwed down? It may be held that these unpleasant\nresorts are unnecessary. We do not think they are. In any case enough\nis known of the possibilities of \u2018suspended animation\u2019 to render it\nunsafe to bury until the evidences of an actual extinction of life are\nunmistakable; and, as it is impossible to wait until decomposition sets\nin in all cases of death from infectious diseases, it would be prudent\nto adopt what must certainly be the least of evils.\u201d\n\nIf, as the _Lancet_ maintains, it is not possible to wait until the\nonly absolute sign of death is manifest, then, in a large majority\nof cases, there is no safety, and those who die fatally mutilated by\nhorrible accidents may be considered fortunate. The difficulty, we\nadmit, is of a serious nature, particularly for the poor, and can only\nbe overcome by the erection of mortuaries, as discussed in another\nchapter. The expedient of applying the electric current, suggested by\nthe _Lancet_, has been proved useless in cases of death-trance, where\nthe patients are impervious to the most violent modes of cutaneous\nexcitation.\n\nThe _Jewish World_, September 13, 1895, observes:--\u201cCases of trance\nand of the burial of persons who only seemed to be dead, and of narrow\nescapes of others from the most terrible of all imaginable fates, are\nnot so uncommon as most people suppose; and while Jews adhere to the\npractice of interring their dead within a few hours after the supposed\ndemise, there will always be a risk of such horrible catastrophes\nhappening, even more frequently among us than among the general\ncommunity. Here is, then, really a matter in which some reform is\nneeded, and that without a day\u2019s delay.\n\n[OPINIONS OF THE \u201cJEWISH WORLD.\u201d]\n\n\u201cTo say nothing of the merely human aspect of this important question,\nto bury until decomposition has actually set in might possibly be\nshown to be a violation of Jewish Law. It is now commonly admitted\nthat even expert medical men cannot be absolutely certain of death\nuntil some signs of decomposition have shown themselves. Now, so\nstrict is the Jewish Law as regards the risk of destroying life, that\nit is prohibited to even move or touch a man or woman who is on the\npoint of death, lest we hasten, by a moment, their dissolution. It is,\ntherefore, no less than a violation of the Jewish laws against murder\nto preserve a custom that involves even the minutest scintilla of risk\nof premature burial. It is high time that this question was seriously\ntaken up by the Jewish clergy and laity.\u201d[8]\n\nIn the province of Quebec no interment is permitted within twenty-four\nhours, and the Jews reconcile themselves to this delay, which, however,\nis far too brief to ensure safety.\n\nIt will be said that the danger referred to is not so imminent in the\nUnited Kingdom as in France, Spain, Portugal, or even in the United\nStates, owing to the existence of a more temperate climate, and the\nlonger period allowed for burial. This may be so and yet the danger\nbe considerable. It must be remembered that in the rural districts\nnothing in the shape of examination to establish the fact of death is\npractised; while in certain parts of Cornwall, throughout the greater\npart of agricultural Ireland, amongst the Jews in all cities and towns,\nas well as those who in all places are certified as dead of cholera,\nsmall-pox, and other infectious and epidemic diseases, burial often\nfollows certified death quite as quickly as in the Continental States\nbefore mentioned. In all the public resorts on the Continent the\nhotel-keepers, through an insensate fear of death and the injury which\nthe possession of \u201ca corpse,\u201d dead or alive, may do to their business,\nhave them coffined and disposed of, particularly in the night, within\na few hours of their supposed death. Dr. D. de Ligni\u00e8res, in \u201cPour ne\npas \u00eatre Enterr\u00e9 Vivant,\u201d Paris, 1893, says he has known of burials\nunder such circumstances six hours after death. This author says that\nthese scandalous homicidal acts are of every-day occurrence, and that\nthe rapacious landlords have no difficulty in obtaining certificates of\ndeath from the accommodating _mort verificateurs_. Every one who visits\nthe _h\u00f4tels des villes d\u2019eaux, des stations baln\u00e9aires_, may verify\n(he says) the truth of this statement for himself. In short, these are\nwilling disciples of the \u201cLatest Decalogue\u201d:--\n\n  \u201cThou shalt not kill; but need\u2019st not strive\n  Officiously to keep alive.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nFEAR OF PREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\nMANY of those who are most familiar with the phenomena of life and\ndeath, including celebrated physicians, men of science, and clergymen,\nknowing that all the ordinary signs of death (referred to in another\nchapter) have, in practice, sometimes proved delusive, have been a prey\nto the suspicion that a fatal mistake is possible in their own case.\nThey have, therefore, left precise instructions in their wills for\nvarious preventives which experience has shown to be necessary, and in\nsome instances a combination of these, so as to make doubly sure that\nthey shall not be subjected, like thousands of human beings, to the\nunspeakable horrors of being buried alive.\n\nMr. Horace Welby, in his volume entitled \u201cMysteries of Life, Death,\nand Futurity,\u201d 1861, under the head of \u201cPremature Interment,\u201d p.\n114, says:--\u201cHow prevalent is the fear of being buried alive may be\ngathered from the number of instances in which men have requested that,\nbefore the last offices are done for them, such wounds or mutilations\nshould be inflicted upon their bodies as would effectually prevent\nthe possibility of an awakening in the tomb. Dr. Dibdin relates that\nFrancis Douce, the antiquary, requested, in his will, that Sir Anthony\nCarlisle, the surgeon, should sever his head from his body, or take out\nhis heart, to prevent the return of vitality; and his co-residuary\nlegatee, Mr. Kerrick, has also requested the same operation to be\nperformed in the presence of his son.\u201d\n\nBishop Berkeley, Daniel O\u2019Connell, and the late Lord Lytton entertained\nsimilar apprehensions. Wilkie Collins had a like fear, for he always\nleft on his dressing-table a letter in which he solemnly enjoined\nhis people that, if he were found dead in the morning, he should at\nonce be carefully examined by a doctor. Hans Christian Andersen had a\nsimilar dread, and carried in his pocket a note to the effect that,\nwhen the time came, his friends were to make sure that he was really\ndead before burial. Harriet Martineau left her doctor ten pounds to see\nthat her head was amputated before burial. The dread of being buried\nalive dictated a clause in the will of the distinguished actress, the\nlate Miss Ada Cavendish, for the severance of the jugular vein; and\nprompted the late Mr. Edmund Yates to leave similar instructions, with\nthe provision that a fee of twenty guineas should be paid for the\noperation, which was carried out. Mr. John Rose, of New York, who died\nin November, 1895, made known his earnest desire that his coffin should\nnot be closed, but laid in the family vault at Roseton, and guarded day\nand night by two caretakers, who were instructed to watch for signs of\nreanimation.\n\nThe late Lady Burton, widow of Sir Richard Burton, provided that her\nheart was to be pierced with a needle, and her body to be submitted to\na _post-mortem_ examination, and afterwards embalmed (not stuffed) by\ncompetent experts. Lady Burton, it is said, had been subject to fits of\ntrance on more than one occasion, and was terribly afraid that such an\nattack might be diagnosed as death.\n\nThose who are most apprehensive of apparent death being mistaken for\nreal death are the clergy and other ministers of religion, and funeral\ndirectors--in other words, those who know most about it.\n\nLet anyone introduce the subject when in company, on a suitable\noccasion, and we shall hear of startling cases sufficient to shake\ncredulity, and to compel us to realise the danger to ourselves, as\nwell as to all other members of the community, under our present loose\ncustoms. If this dread of premature burial is not universal, as some\nwriters and authorities aver, it is certainly widely extended; and\nthe evidence set before our readers will show that it is by no means\nwithout foundation.\n\n[WIDELY EXTENDED.]\n\nThe _Lancet_, March 17, 1866, says:--\u201cThere are many apparently\ntrustworthy stories afloat, both in this country and on the Continent,\nwhich favour the belief that premature interment not only does\nsometimes take place, but is really of not so unfrequent occurrence as\nmight be supposed. Some few believe it to be not an unlikely event, and\nbreak out into a cold perspiration at the thought of the possibility\nof the misfortune happening to themselves. Others have actually made\nprovision in their wills that means should be taken, by cutting off a\nfinger, or making a pectoral incision, etc., to excite sensibility,\nin case any should remain after their supposed death; whilst a French\ncountess, in order to escape so terrible a fate, left a legacy to her\nmedical attendant as a fee for his severance of the carotid artery in\nher body before it was committed to the tomb.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. John Kingston, chaplain R.N., writing to the (London) _Morning\nPost_, September 18, 1895, says--\u201cThe danger of being buried alive\nappears to be a very real one; and I can testify, from my experience as\na clergyman, that a great many persons are haunted by the dread of that\nunspeakably horrible fate.\u201d The writer further expresses a hope that\nthe ventilation of the subject will be followed by practical results.\n\nWhile speaking on the subject of premature burials, in a lecture\ndelivered at Everett Hall, Brooklyn, New York, June, 1883, Mr. J. D.\nBeugless, the then President of the New York Cremation Society, said\nthat an undertaker in that city (Brooklyn) recently made provision in\nhis will, and exacted a promise from his wife of great caution, that\nhis body should be cremated, being induced thereto by the fear of being\nburied alive. \u201cLive burials,\u201d he says, \u201care far more frequent than most\npeople think.\u201d It is reported that another undertaker of Brooklyn some\ntime since deposited a body in a receiving vault temporarily: when he\nwent some days later to remove it for burial, what was his horror, upon\nopening the niche in which the coffin had been placed, to find the body\ncrouching at the door, stark in death, the hair dishevelled, the flesh\nof the arms lacerated and torn, and the face having the most appalling\nexpression of horror and despair ever witnessed by mortal eyes!\n\nAn undertaker, writing to the _Plymouth Morning News_, October 2, 1895,\nmentions that he reluctantly buried a young person, who lay in the\ncoffin for seven clear days without sign of decomposition, and only\nconsented to close the coffin then, on the assurance that the same\nconditions attended all the deaths which had previously occurred in the\nfamily. Dr. Hartmann and other authorities have found that such cases\nare probably the subjects of catalepsy, a malady which sometimes runs\nin families and affects every member. The undertaker adds that, in\nfuture, he should decline to close the coffin of the apparently dead\nuntil signs of decomposition set in, \u201cthus preventing the possibility\nof our worst fears being realised.\u201d If undertakers generally would\nadopt these wise and necessary precautions, living sepulture would\ncome to an end. Under the existing imperfect system of medical\nexamination--and, as we have shown, both in England and in the United\nStates, where there is usually no examination at all--there is often\na reckless haste in interments. No thoughtful persons can contemplate\nthe burial of a million and a half human beings annually in these two\ncountries without mistrust and misgivings.\n\nMany well-to-do people in civilised countries provide in their wills\nfor the prevention of premature interment, by leaving instructions for\nsurgical operations after their decease, _post-mortems_, embalmment,\nor cremation. It may happen, however, that wills are mislaid, lost,\nor withheld by the testators, or are not opened and read until after\nthe funeral, when the instructions in this regard, however strictly\nenjoined, are rendered abortive. Legacies should be given conditionally\non the observance of certain duties, and only payable on proofs to\nthe executors that they have been carried out. A large majority of\npeople do not, however, leave testamentary instructions, for the\nsimple reason that they have nothing to bequeath. And the majority\nhave an equal claim with the minority to be safeguarded by the State\nagainst such terrible misfortunes. Syncope, sometimes mistaken for\ndeath, is a condition to which both men and women, who are compelled\nby their poverty in all large cities to endure exhausting labours in\nill-ventilated work-rooms, and their often ill-nourished children in\nboard schools in England and in the public schools in America, are\npeculiarly liable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n\nTHE idea commonly entertained is that with animal bodies there are\nonly two possible conditions--either life or death; that the presence\nof one of these conditions implies the absence of the other; that when\nthe body has assumed the appearance of death, as during the sudden\nsuspension of all the functional activities, it must be dead. This\nlast is far from being true; for all the appearances of death are\nfallacious, especially those that accompany so-called sudden death.\nAll such cases should be challenged as of doubtful character, and held\nso till recovery or putrefaction of the tissues proves the presence of\nlife or of death. This subject is too often treated by medical writers\nwith indifference. Technically, it is regarded as a failure of the\nbrain, or lungs, or heart, to perform their functions; popularly, we\nsay that \u201cthe thread of life is snapped asunder;\u201d or it is \u201cthe going\nout of life,\u201d like the sudden extinguishing of a candle. The author\u2019s\nexperience, however, at the sick bedside, and in the death-chamber,\nhas taught him that life leaves the body in a gradual manner, and that\ndeath approaches, and takes the place of life, in one part or organ\nafter another, thus creeping through the tissues, and sometimes defying\nall tests to prove its presence, leaving putrefaction to be its only\nsign. There can be no such thing as veritable sudden death, unless the\nbody is crushed into a shapeless mass, like an insect under foot.\n\nThe late Dr. Farr, of the Registrar-General\u2019s Department, London,\nsays:--\u201cNo definition of the sense in which _sudden death_ is\npractically understood by coroners has been given.\u201d Dr. Granville says:\n\u201cThe writers on medical jurisprudence do not state with any strictness\nwhat they mean by sudden death, whether it be death in ten minutes,\nten hours, or ten days.\u201d[9] And he asks in the same vein, \u201cDoes sudden\ndeath mean death in three minutes, three hours, or three days?\u201d[10]\nStill further he remarks regarding the customary definitions, \u201cThey\nlead one to infer that a certain mysterious principle, called LIFE,\nhas been instantaneously withdrawn from a healthy and well-constituted\nindividual, who was at the very moment, as heretofore, exercising his\nproper animal functions with a regularity that promised to endure for a\nlong continuance of years.... No such phenomena occur in Nature, unless\nthrough violence or from accident. Under Nature\u2019s laws there is no such\nthing as sudden death.... In every case where death has abruptly cut\nshort the thread of life, there has been a preparation, more or less\nantecedent to the occurrence, which must inevitably have led to it....\nThe victim may seem to have been struck down, as if by lightning. But\nin reality the event was only the natural termination of an inward\nstate of things which insidiously and unexpectedly was preparing the\nblow.\u201d[11]\n\n[DR. TIDY ON CAUSES OF DEATH.]\n\nDr. Tidy, in \u201cLegal Medicine,\u201d p. 29, says:--\u201cAs a rule, the action\nrequired to bring about complete molecular death--_i.e._, the\nsuspension of vital activity in every part--is progressive. In a\ngiven case, therefore, we are unable to state any definite time as\nthe period of its occurrence. The popular idea of death is that the\nentire body dies at once. Somatic death is an impossibility.\u201d Thus,\nit is clear that the process of death, or the departure of life, may\nrequire days or weeks for its completion; and it may even be delayed\nto a time when putrefaction has set in quite generally, as when the\nhair and nails grow after the body has been buried some weeks, as has\nbeen credibly reported. Writers upon so-called sudden death recite a\nnumber of diseases and conditions which quickly destroy the machinery\nthat carries on the vital functions, thus rendering resuscitation quite\nimpossible. Tidy[12] names some twelve of such causes: prominent among\nthem are diseases of the heart, rupture of the heart, clots in the\nblood vessels, aneurisms, effusions of blood in the brain, bursting of\nvisceral abscesses, ulcers of the stomach, extra-uterine pregnancy,\nrupture of the uterus or bladder, large draughts of cold water taken\nwhen the body is heated, cholera, alcoholic poisoning, mental emotions,\netc. But he remarks upon these causes--\u201cBecause a person dies suddenly,\nthere being no evidence of violence or poison, the action adopted by\nmany coroners in not requiring a _post-mortem_ examination leaves\nthe most important witness--the dead body itself--unheard, and the\ninquest so far valueless.\u201d Which may mean that, without the risk of an\nautopsy, it is impossible in such cases to determine whether they are\nbeyond resuscitation or not, unless putrefaction settles the question.\nUnfortunately there is nothing in the external appearance of those\ncases of so-called sudden death in which the vital machinery may be\ntotally wrecked, to distinguish them from those of apparent death,\nin which all the organism is in a state of perfect integrity, and in\nwhich resuscitation is possible, provided the vital principle has not\nentirely left the body. Consequently, the only safe rule to observe\nin all cases in which death has not followed poisoning, or injuries\nwhich kill outright, or some known disease of sufficient duration and\nseverity to bring on dissolution, is to wait for unmistakable evidences\nof decomposition before autopsy, embalming, cremation, or burial is\nallowed.\n\nIn former times precipitate interments of persons who died suddenly\nwere specially guarded against.\n\nNothing is more common, on opening a newspaper, than to see one or more\nannouncements of sudden death. These occurrences are so frequent that\nthe great London dailies, except when an inquest is held, or when the\ndeceased is a person of note, omit to record them. The narratives are\nmuch alike: the person, described to be in his usual health, is seized\nwith faintness in the midst of his daily-avocation, and he falls down\napparently dead; or he retires for the night, and is found dead in his\nbed. In many instances _post-mortems_ are made, and an inquest held;\nbut in other cases the opinion of the attendant doctor, that the death\nis due to heart-disease, syncope, asphyxia, coma, apoplexy, or \u201cnatural\ncauses,\u201d is deemed sufficient. The friends who are called in to look at\nthe body will remark, \u201chow natural and how life-like,\u201d \u201chow flexible\nthe limbs,\u201d \u201chow placid the face;\u201d and, without the faintest attempt\nat resuscitation, arrangements are made for an early burial.\n\n[DR. WILDER ON SUDDEN DEATH.]\n\nDr. Alexander Wilder, Professor of Physiology and Psychology, in\na letter to the author, says:--\u201cThere are a variety of causes for\nsudden death. The use of tobacco is one. Another is overtaxed nervous\nsystem. Men of business keep on the strain till they drop from sheer\nexhaustion. At the base of the brain is a little nerve-ganglion, the\nmedulla oblongata, which, once impaired, sends death everywhere.\nOvertaxing the strength by study and mental stress will do this. The\nsolar ganglion below the diaphragm is the real vital focus of the body.\nIt is first to begin, last to die. A blow on it often kills. An emotion\nwill paralyse it. Even undue excess at a meal, or the use of overmuch\nalcohol, may produce the effect.\n\n\u201cTobacco impairs the action of the heart. An overfull stomach\nparalyses the ganglionic store, and breathing is likely to stop. It is\ndangerous in such cases to lie on the back. All these deaths are by\nheart-failure.\u201d It is syncope where the heart fails first; asphyxia\nwhere the lungs are first to cease; coma when the brain is first\nat fault. \u201cNatural causes\u201d and \u201cheart-failure\u201d usually mean, like\n\u201ccongestion,\u201d that the doctor\u2019s ideas are vague.\n\nDr. Wilder continues:--\u201cI would choose such a death if I could be sure\nit was death. _But most of those things which I have enumerated may\ncause a death which is only apparent._\u201d\n\nThe following briefly extracted cases from English papers are typical\nof thousands of others, and can be duplicated, with slight variation\nin terms, throughout the United States. The absolute proof of the\nreality of such deaths is not found in hasty diagnosis or in medical\ncertificates, but in the presence of putrefaction:--\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT ST. AUSTELLS.\n\n \u201cMr. P. G---- died suddenly yesterday. Apparently in his ordinary\n health, he had been busily occupied during the morning; went upstairs,\n and was found lying on his face on the floor. Dr. Jeffery was called,\n and pronounced life extinct, and expressed the opinion that death\n arose from syncope.\u201d--_Western Morning News, September 14, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH IN PEASCOD STREET.\n\n \u201cAn inquiry was held as to the circumstances attending the death of W.\n P----, which took place suddenly the previous evening. The deceased\n was forty-three years of age, and invariably enjoyed good health,\n except that he complained of headache at times. The jury returned a\n verdict of death from natural causes.\u201d--_Windsor Express, September\n 21, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cT. B---- was seized with sudden illness after retiring to rest, and\n expired before medical aid could be obtained. Deceased had been in his\n accustomed health, had been at work all day, and had eaten a hearty\n supper before retiring to rest. The Coroner was communicated with;\n but, as death was certified to be due to heart-disease, no inquest was\n necessary.\u201d--_Middlesex County Times, October 2, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A SERVANT.\n\n \u201cThe deceased, L. E----, aged twenty, retired on Sunday evening in her\n usual state of good health. In the morning she was found insensible,\n and, when the doctor arrived, shortly afterwards, he found life to\n be extinct. Evidence was given to show that she had previously been\n perfectly bright, cheerful, and well. Verdict of the jury, that\n \u2018Deceased died from failure of the action of the heart in the natural\n way.\u2019\u201d--_Harrogate Advertiser, October 12, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cAWFULLY SUDDEN DEATH NEAR AMBLESIDE.\n\n[TYPICAL EXAMPLES.]\n\n \u201cMr. H----, who had been remarkably cheerful during the day, was just\n in the act of lighting his pipe to enjoy a smoke, when his head fell\n back, and he died in a moment. The family doctor certified to the\n cause of death.\u201d--_Lancaster Guardian, October 12, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT SEA.\n\n \u201cMr. R. B. Tobins, the County Coroner, held an inquiry at the\n Guildhall, Plymouth, concerning the sudden death of P. E----.\n The deceased was sixty years of age, and was speaking to William\n Parkinson, when he began to cough, and passed away suddenly. Witness\n never knew deceased to be ill. Dr. Williams made a superficial\n examination of the body, and attributed death to heart-disease.\n Verdict: \u2018Natural causes.\u2019\u201d--_The Western Mercury, Plymouth, October\n 22, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT TWICKENHAM.\n\n \u201cLieutenant S. C. G---- fell down and expired suddenly while walking\n near Kneller Hall, yesterday afternoon. Deceased was forty-four years\n of age, and had been in his usual health.\u201d--_Daily News, November 1,\n 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT FOREST OF DEAN.\n\n \u201cMr. J. W. W---- died very suddenly. He was forty-five years of age;\n in his usual health and spirits on Monday; slept well; got up at five;\n told Mrs. W. W---- he was giddy; felt ill; went to bed; and died in\n her arms in a few minutes.\u201d--_Western Press Bristol, November 1, 1893._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH, WESTON-SUPER-MARE.\n\n \u201cMrs. E. T---- was found dead in her bedroom. She appeared \u2018all right\u2019\n when she retired to rest on Monday evening.\u201d--_Bristol Times and\n Mirror, November 7, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT NELSON.\n\n \u201cThe East Lancashire Coroner has received notice of the death of Ann,\n the wife of T. B----. She retired to bed apparently all right on\n Friday night. At two a.m. on Saturday the husband, who was awakened\n by the crying of the baby, went to his wife\u2019s bedroom and found her\n dead, she having apparently died in her sleep.\u201d--_Lancashire Express,\n Blackburn, November 11, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cA painful shock was caused at Lowestoft last evening by the sudden\n death of Mr. T. R.----, who was forty-seven years of age, and\n apparently in his usual health. He drove out to pay a visit, but death\n took place a few minutes after his arrival.\u201d--_Morning Advertiser,\n November 19, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT LLANDERFEL.\n\n \u201cMr. D. L---- was found dead in bed on Sunday morning at half-past\n eight. The deceased, who was fifty-four years of age, was apparently\n in the best of health on Saturday, and had come on a visit to his\n daughter. The verdict at the inquest was: \u2018Death from natural\n causes.\u2019\u201d--_Western Mail, Cardiff, November 19, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cOn Tuesday morning, between nine and ten o\u2019clock, A. S----,\n thirty-six, was in her bedroom apparently in her usual health, when\n she suddenly fell back against a chair and expired.\u201d--_Portsmouth\n Mail, November 28, 1893._\n\n\n \u201cDIED AT HIS WORK.\n\n \u201cYesterday the district Coroner was notified of the death of T. C.\n F----, aged thirty-nine, a butcher. F---- was cutting some meat on\n the block when he suddenly fell backwards dead. He had always enjoyed\n excellent health.\u201d--_Sun., November 29, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH AT EAST GRINSTEAD.\n\n \u201cMr. W. P----, a carpenter, died suddenly yesterday morning. He was\n engaged at a light task at his bench, apparently in his usual health,\n when about ten o\u2019clock he was seen to fall backwards. The doctor on\n arriving could only pronounce life extinct.\u201d--_Sussex Daily News,\n December 4, 1895._\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cW. D. D---- died suddenly yesterday morning. Deceased appeared to be\n in his usual health when he retired on Monday. About half-past six in\n the morning he was supplied with a cup of tea, and an hour later was\n found dead in bed. Dr. R---- was called in, and said death was due to\n natural causes.\u201d--_Dundee Advertiser, December 4, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A TRAM CONDUCTOR ON DUTY.\n\n \u201cA shock was occasioned the passengers as they were proceeding to\n town this morning by the sudden death of the conductor in charge.\n The deceased, J. D----, whose age is twenty-nine, had always been\n a steady, faithful servant, an army reserve man, and _suffered\n from no ailment, and certainly not from one likely to cause sudden\n death_.\u201d--_Daily Argus, Birmingham, December 5, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A WALSALL LABOURER.\n\n \u201cOn Tuesday, E. W----, aged thirty-six, retired to bed to all\n appearances in his usual health. His wife tried to awaken him about\n a quarter past seven on the following morning, but found that her\n husband was dead.\u201d--_Wolverhampton Evening News, December 6, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A COLLIERY MANAGER.\n\n \u201cLast night Mr. A. B. Stouth held an inquest concerning the death of\n T. S----. The deceased, who was described _as a very healthy man_,\n went to the colliery shortly after six o\u2019clock; he conversed freely\n with the workmen, and when in the act of taking off his coat he fell\n down and died. The verdict, without _post-mortem_ was returned: \u2018Died\n from natural causes.\u2019\u201d--_Birmingham Daily Gazette, December 10, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A VICAR.\n\n \u201cThe Rev. T. S. C----, of Salop, died very suddenly at his residence.\n He attended to his usual duties in the morning, apparently in the\n full enjoyment of health, and in the afternoon conducted a funeral.\n Immediately upon his return he was taken ill, and died a few minutes\n afterwards.\u201d--_Daily Argus, Birmingham, December 16, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A RAILWAY EMPLOYEE.\n\n \u201cA painfully sudden death occurred at Hounslow. A. H----, aged\n nineteen, clerk, started from home to attend his duties at the office,\n apparently in robust health. At about eight o\u2019clock, whilst sitting\n between two companions at a table, he suddenly fell forward and\n expired.\u201d--_Hounslow Chronicle, December 21, 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH OF A SCHOOL BOARD MEMBER.\n\n \u201cA painful sensation was created at Leicester yesterday by the\n discovery that Mr. R. M----, a leading Wesleyan, had been found dead\n in his bed. He was apparently in excellent health when he retired,\n after a light supper.\u201d--_Middlesborough Daily Gazette, December 30,\n 1895._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cMajor Taylor held an inquest on C. N. W---- yesterday. The deceased\n was described as a fine healthy boy. On Sunday forenoon he was placed\n on his grandmother\u2019s knee to nurse, when he fell back and expired. A\n verdict of death from natural causes was returned.\u201d--_Evening Press,\n York, January 1, 1896._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cYesterday, Mr. Reilly, Coroner, held an inquest on H. A. C----. It\n appeared that the servant, in passing his room, heard him moaning.\n Medical aid was procured, but he died in a few minutes. Deceased was\n in the enjoyment of robust health previously. Verdict: \u2018Death from\n natural causes.\u2019\u201d--_Irish Times, Dublin, January 3, 1896._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cMr. H. W---- was suddenly taken ill between five and six yesterday\n evening, apparently suffering from an apoplectic fit, and expired in\n a few minutes. Mr. W---- was a gentleman enjoying most robust health,\n and earlier in the afternoon was chatting genially with several of\n his friends. An inquest will probably not be necessary.\u201d--_Darlington\n North Star, January 17, 1896._\n\n\n \u201cSUDDEN DEATH.\n\n \u201cThe City Coroner held an inquiry on Saturday at the Stanley Arms\n relative to the death of Alice M. A----, aged twenty-eight, who died\n suddenly. On Friday she seemed in good health and spirits. From an\n internal examination of the body Dr. Miller was of opinion that she\n died of syncope or failure of the heart\u2019s action. Verdict: \u2018Death\n from natural causes; to wit, heart-disease.\u2019\u201d--_Eastern Daily Press,\n Norwich, January 20, 1896._\n\n[RECENT CASES OF SUDDEN DEATH.]\n\nAmongst other sudden deaths more recently reported are:--R. F----,\nof Torquay, described as \u201ca man of exceptional physique, who had\nevery appearance of possessing a very robust constitution.\u201d--F.\nP. C---- \u201clooked more than usually robust of late, had never been\nknown to complain of his head, and appeared in the best of health\nand spirits.\u201d--W. W----\u201chad always appeared to enjoy good health,\nwith the exception of a cough.\u201d--O. P----, \u201cbeyond failing appetite,\nhad given no indication of ill health.\u201d--W. M----\u201cwas in his usual\nhealth, and went to bed all right.\u201d--Mrs. T. B---- \u201cwas in the best\nof health, and was attending to her household duties.\u201d--L. T----, \u201ca\npowerfully-built fisherman, and most unlikely to come to such a sudden\ntermination of life.\u201d--M. J. M----, at East Garston. \u201cA _post-mortem_\nwas made by Dr. K. and his assistant, but they were unable to find any\nevidence as to the cause of death. Verdict: \u2018Natural causes.\u2019\u201d--The\nsudden death, while playing the pianoforte, of a girl, aged twelve,\n\u201cwho had never had a day\u2019s illness in her life.\u201d--S. G----\u201cwas quite\nwell, and in excellent spirits.\u201d--T. B. B---- was \u201ca robust man, and\nhad not been ailing.\u201d--G. R---- was \u201cin excellent health and spirits,\nand attended to his duties as usual.\u201d--A little girl, M. B----, who\nappeared to be in her usual health, died very suddenly while sleeping\nin a cot by the side of her parents. Verdict at the inquest: \u201cDeath\nfrom natural causes.\u201d--A. S----, aged twenty-three, a strong young\nfellow, who went to rest before eleven o\u2019clock. About one o\u2019clock the\nfollowing morning he was seized with pain, became unconscious, from\nwhich he succumbed.--R. J. C----, labourer, \u201ca fine, robust-looking\nman,\u201d suddenly expired before medical aid could be procured. Verdict\nat inquest: \u201cDied suddenly from natural causes.\u201d--Mrs. R----, \u201cwho\nwas quite well when her daughter left the room, was found dead on her\nreturn a few minutes later.\u201d--T. H----, blacksmith, \u201cwent to bed in his\nusual health and spirits\u201d in company with a comrade, who on attempting\nto wake him in the morning found life extinct.\n\nThe above are given simply as typical examples of a class of cases of\nwhich thousands might be cited, but it has not been thought necessary\nto weary the reader with the details of further instances.\n\nWhile it is not suggested that the foregoing are cases of premature\nburial, yet it is absolutely certain that they belong to the category\nof persons of whom a considerable percentage are liable to such\nmisadventures unless precautions very different from those in vogue are\ntaken to prevent them. All medical practitioners allow that a man may\nbe half drowned or half dead, and that cases of suspended animation\noccur where the most experienced physician is unable to detect the\nfaintest indication of breathing or cardiac movement. They are,\nhowever, quite sceptical as to absolute suspensions of life where all\nthe ordinary methods to test its existence fail; and, owing to this\nscepticism, and the readiness to give certificates of death in cases of\nalleged sudden death, have unwittingly promoted premature burials, as\nwill appear by the facts quoted in these pages.\n\n[HASTY BURIAL CONDEMNED.]\n\nMr. M. Cooper, in the \u201cUncertainty of the Signs of Death,\u201d p. 49,\ncites from a letter by one William Fabri, a surgeon, the opinion that\nwe \u201c... have just reason to condemn the too precipitate interment of\npersons overpowered by lethargies, apoplexies, or suffocation of the\nmatrix; for I know there have been some, supposed to be irretrievably\ncut off by these disorders, who, resuming strength and returning to\nlife, have raised the boards of their own coffins, because in such\ndisorders the soul only retires, as it were, to her most secret and\nconcealed residence, in order to make the body afterwards sensible\nthat she had not entirely forsaken it.\u201d These wise counsels were\nwritten two hundred and sixty-eight years ago, since which time\nthousands of our fellow-creatures have, it is feared, been the victims\nof premature interment, and yet the danger then pointed out remains.\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, the conductors of\nwhich are laudably anxious to keep their profession from the odium\nof burying people alive, referring to sudden deaths and this danger,\nsays, in its issue of January 24, 1894, under the head of \u201cA Burning\nQuestion\u201d:--\u201cSufferers from such chronic ailments as are reputed to\nend suddenly are in constant danger from the present state of the\nlaw, if they are in the hands of people interested in their death.\u201d\nAnd continues: \u201cEven where a medical certificate is obtained, such\ngeneral laxity has entered into proceedings that but little protection\nis thereby afforded to the public. While the medical man is bound\nto state what he believes to be the cause of death, he is under no\nobligation to make sure either that the patient is dead at all, or\nthat, if dead, he died from a particular disease for which he was\nattending him.\u201d\n\n\nVIVISECTION.\n\nThe _Medical Times and Gazette_, 1859, vol. xviii., p. 256, has the\nfollowing:--\n\n\n \u201cA CRIMINAL\u2019S HEART.\n\n \u201cWe find in an account taken from the \u2018Boston Medical and Surgical\n Journal\u2019 some observations on the heart of a hanged criminal,\n which are remarkable in a moral point of view, as well as in their\n scientific aspect. The man died, it appears, as the phrase is, without\n a struggle; and, therefore, probably in the first instance, he fell\n into a syncope. The lungs and brain were found normal. Seven minutes\n after suspension, the heart\u2019s sounds were distinctly heard, its\n pulsations being one hundred a minute; two minutes later they were\n ninety-eight; and in three minutes sixty, and very feeble. In two\n minutes more the sounds became inaudible. The man was suspended at ten\n o\u2019clock, and his body was cut down twenty-five minutes afterwards.\n There was then neither sound nor impulse. At 10.40 the cord was\n relaxed, and then the face became gradually pale; the spinal cord was\n uninjured.... At 11.30 a regular movement of pulsation was observed in\n the right subclavian vein; and on applying the ear to the chest, there\n was heard a regular, distinct, and single beat, accompanied with a\n slight impulse. Hereupon Drs.. Clark, Ellis, and Shaw open the thorax,\n and expose the heart, which still continues to beat! The right auricle\n contracted and dilated with energy and regularity. At twelve o\u2019clock\n the pulsations were forty in a minute; at 1.45 five per minute. They\n ceased at 2.45; but irritability did not entirely disappear until\n 3.18, more than five hours after suspension. \u2018This fact,\u2019 says M.\n S\u00e9quard, \u2018demonstrates that in a man, unfortunately, even when syncope\n exists for some minutes at the commencement of strangulation, the\n ventricles of the heart cease to beat almost as quickly as they do\n in strangulation without syncope.\u2019 With regard to the moral aspects\n of this case, the same gentleman remarks:--\u2018People will probably be\n surprised that the body of this man should have been opened while the\n beating of the heart was still audible. We will not ask here if the\n doctors committed or not a blamable action; we will only say that\n we know them personally, and that, if they have in part merited the\n violent reproaches addressed to them, they are, nevertheless, _hommes\n de c\u0153ur_, who, in an excess of scientific zeal, did not notice that\n the body upon which they experimented was not, perhaps, at the time a\n dead body.\u2019\u201d\n\n\nSYNCOPE.\n\nThe deaths attributed to syncope in the Registrar-General\u2019s reports for\nEngland and Wales during the last six years are:--\n\n            MALES.      FEMALES.\n  1888        817           896\n  1889        939           922\n  1890      1,237         1,250\n  1891      1,355         1,301\n  1892        941           943\n  1893        848           770\n\n[DEATHS ATTRIBUTED TO SYNCOPE.]\n\nSyncope, however, is not a disease, though often certified as such,\nbut is merely a symptom of certain maladies, or a manifestation of\nsuspended animation from unascertained cause. In Hoblyn\u2019s \u201cDictionary\nof Medical Terms,\u201d p. 632, syncope is described as--\u201cFainting or swoon;\na sudden suspension of the heart\u2019s action, accompanied by cessation\nof the functions of the organs of respiration, internal and external\nsensation, and voluntary motion.\u201d There appears, therefore, every\nprobability that, with careless or ignorant medical practitioners,\nsyncope is not seldom mistaken for trance, and a certificate of death\nmay be given where there is merely a suspension and not a termination\nof life; and this probability is reduced to a certainty when we\nlearn the number of premature burials and narrow escapes reported by\nWinslow, Bruhier, K\u00f6ppen, E. Bouchut, L\u00e9normand, F. Kempner, Moore\nRussell Fletcher, Gannal, Gaubert, Hartmann, and other recognised\nauthorities. Dr. James Curry, Senior Physician to Guy\u2019s Hospital, and\nLecturer on the Theory and Practice of Medicine, in the introduction\nto his \u201cObservations on Apparent Death,\u201d London, 1815, 2 ed., p. 1,\nsays--\u201cThe time is still within the recollection of many now living\nwhen it was almost universally believed that _life_ quitted the body in\na very few minutes after the person had ceased to breathe. Remarkable\nexamples to the contrary were, indeed, upon record; but these, besides\nbeing extremely rare, were generally cases wherein the _suspension_,\nas well as the _recovery of life_, had occurred _spontaneously_; they\nwere, therefore, beheld with astonishment, as particular instances of\nDivine Interposition.\u201d It is believed that the majority of the members\nof the medical profession still entertain the idea that a human being\nis dead when breathing can no longer be detected, as in the cases of\nreported sudden deaths; and, except in those which occur from drowning,\nor suffocation through noxious gases, attempts are very rarely made\nto promote restoration, and, unless they return to life spontaneously\nwhile above ground, there are good reasons to fear that an appreciable\nnumber do so under ground. The prevailing belief in the existence of\nsudden deaths is one of the chief causes of the terrible mistakes\nthat lead to live burials. If this delusive idea were removed, those\nconcerned, such as physicians, undertakers, relatives, and friends,\nwould treat a person who unexpectedly took on the appearance of death\nas one needing careful attention by physician and nurse to bring him\nround to health again, as is usually done in cases of fainting. If\ntrance were understood, doctors would be on the lookout for it; but,\nas it is not understood, it is called death, and we bury our mistakes\nunder ground.\n\nDr. Hilton Fagge, while doubting whether there is any foundation for\nthe strong fear which many persons entertain of being buried alive\nafter supposed death, allows that there is danger in cases of sudden\ndeath. In his \u201cPrinciples and Practice of Medicine,\u201d Dr. Fagge says:\n\u201cThe cases really requiring caution are some very few instances of\npersons found in the streets, or losing consciousness unexpectedly and\nin unusual circumstances.\u201d[13]\n\nDr. L\u00e9once L\u00e9normand, in \u201cDes Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d p. 86, says\nthat medical archives record details of a great number of apoplectic\ncases revived after one, two, and three days\u2019 apparent death; and\nobserves that the most celebrated physicians, both ancient and modern,\nagree in recommending delay in the burial of persons who succumb to\nthis affliction.\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann, in his \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d p. 11, quotes the\nfollowing:--\n\n[REVIVAL AFTER APPARENT DEATH.]\n\n \u201cIn the Bukovina, a young woman, in the vicinity of Radautz, died of\n spasms of the heart. They waited five days for the funeral, because no\n signs of putrefaction appeared. The clergyman then refused any longer\n delay, and the final arrangements for interment were made. Just as\n they were about to put the coffin into the grave, the sister of the\n deceased woman, who lived at another place, arrived, and begged to be\n permitted to see the dead body. Owing to her entreaties the coffin was\n opened, and as the woman saw the unaltered features of her sister,\n she asserted her belief that the supposed dead was still living.\n She procured a red-hot poker, and, in spite of the remonstrances\n of those present, she touched with it the soles of the feet of the\n corpse. There was a spasmodic jerk, and the woman recovered. The\n most remarkable thing was that the supposed dead woman had not been\n unconscious for a moment, but was able to describe afterwards all the\n details of what had taken place around her, from the moment when she\n was supposed to die up to the time of her recovery; but she had looked\n upon all that like an unconscious spectator, and not experienced any\n sensation, nor was she able to give any sign of life.\u201d\n\nIn \u201cLes Signes de la Mort,\u201d by Dr. E. Bouchut, p. 51, Dr. J. Schmid is\ncited for the case of a girl, seven years of age, who, while playing\nwith her companions, fell suddenly down (as if struck by lightning),\nand died. There was paleness, absence of pulse, insensibility to\nall stimulus. Nevertheless, owing to the requests of the distressed\nparents, the apparently hopeless attempts at resuscitation were\ncontinued. After three quarters of an hour the girl gave a sigh and\nrecovered.\n\n[DR. WATERMAN\u2019S CASE.]\n\nThe _Medical Record_, New York, 1883, vol. xxiii., p. 236, contains\na paper on \u201cRevivification\u201d (in cases of sudden apparent death from\nheart-disease, and in the still-born), by S. Waterman, M.D., New York\nCase 1, February, 1880.--Mr. B----, aged 84, suffered from valvular\ndisease of the heart, and likewise from Bright\u2019s disease. \u201cOne morning,\nwhile I was sitting at his bedside and in friendly conversation with\nhim, he being to all appearance in a very happy mood of mind, he\nsuddenly fell back, his eyes became fixed and glassy, a deadly pallor\ncrept over his countenance, respiration and the heart\u2019s action ceased\nsimultaneously, and death seemed to have carried him off suddenly and\nunexpectedly. It was this suddenness of the event that impelled me to\nmake efforts at revivification. Two nephews of Mrs. B----, who were\nfortunately in the house, were brought under requisition, and, under\nmy direction, systematic artificial movements were carried on for\nnearly thirty minutes, when one deep inspiratory effort was made by\nthe patient himself. Thus encouraged, we redoubled our efforts for ten\nminutes more; other inspiratory efforts followed in quicker succession;\nthe heart began to respond. Hardly audible at first, it acquired force\nand momentum; it could now be felt at the wrist; the deadly pallor\npassed away, the eyes lost their glassy, fixed aspect, sighs and groans\ncould be heard, twitchings of the muscles of the arm and fingers\ncould be distinctly felt, and the appearances of death made way for\nreanimated conditions. He lay unconscious for more than ten hours,\nrespiration being hurried, and breathing stertorous, the heart\u2019s action\nwild and irregular. During the night he was delirious and restless;\ntoward morning all untoward symptoms subsided, and a quiet sleep\nfollowed the extreme restlessness.... He died six weeks afterwards,\nunder symptoms of ur\u00e6mic toxication. During these six weeks he had\nseveral other attacks--one very prolonged and almost fatal--in which\nartificial respiration was resorted to with the same success.\u201d\n\nThe editor of the _Manchester Criterion_, December 11, 1895,\nsays:--\u201cMany cases of sudden death have been entombed who were really\nalive, so far as the union of the body and soul is concerned. Sudden\ndisappearance of life is very common, due to excessive weakness or a\npartial cessation of the heart\u2019s action; and doctors should be very\nchary in giving death-certificates until it has been ascertained\nthat decomposition has ensued. Many object to this delay, and on the\napproach of an indication of death, or apparent death, often hurry the\nbody to the grave. We know of a young lady, for whom the shroud was\nbought, and the crape fastened on the door, who was restored to life.\u201d\n\n\nSUDDEN DEATH.\n\nProfessor Alexander Wilder, M.D., in \u201cPerils of Premature Burial,\u201d p.\n16, says:--\u201cIn this country (America), however, the peril of interment\nbefore death has actually taken place is very great. For years past\nit has been a very common occurrence for persons in supposed good\nhealth to fall down suddenly, with every appearance of having died. We\ndo not regard sudden death with terror, as it is so often painless,\nand exempts the individual from the anxiety and other unpleasant\nexperiences which so often accompany a lingering dissolution. But\nthere is a terrible liability of being prostrated by catalepsy, the\ncounterpart of death, under such circumstances that those who have the\nbody in charge will not hesitate about a prompt interment.\u201d\n\n[PREVENTIVE LEGISLATION.]\n\n\u201cThe difficulty of distinguishing a person apparently dead from one\nwho is _really_ so has, in all countries where bodies are interred\nprecipitately, rendered it necessary for the law to assist humanity.\nOf several regulations made on this subject, a few of the most recent\nmay suffice--such as those of Arras in 1772; of Mantua in 1774; of\nthe Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1775; of the Senechauss\u00e9e of Sivrai in\nPoitou in 1777; and of the Parliament of Metz in the same year....\nThese edicts forbid the precipitate interment of persons who die\nsuddenly. Magistrates of health are to be informed, that physicians\nmay examine the body; that they may use every endeavour to recall\nlife, if possible, or to discover the cause of death.\u201d--_Encyclop\u00e6dia\nBritannica, quoted by John Snart in Apparent Death, 1824, pp. 81-82._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nSIGNS OF DEATH.\n\n\nTHE absence of respiration is the most ordinary sign of death, but at\nthe same time perhaps the one most likely to deceive. To ascertain\nwhether breathing be entirely suspended, it is a practice to hold a\nlooking-glass to the face.\n\n                \u201cLend me a looking-glass;\n  If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,\n  Why, then, she lives.\u201d--_King Lear_, Act v., Sc. 3.\n\nThe common belief is that, if the operations of the heart or lungs be\narrested for ever so brief a period, they will never be resumed, and\nupon a hasty diagnosis and perhaps a trifling experiment the person\nis declared dead. It would appear presumptuous to attempt to doubt or\ndeny a theory so widely accepted by both the lay and medical world, but\nnumerous well-attested facts show that the action of the vital organs,\nwith life itself, may occasionally be actually suspended, as proved by\nthe most rigorous tests known to science, and that various forms of\nsuspended animation taking on the appearance of actual death are of\nnot unfrequent occurrence. Scepticism, prejudice, and apathy on this\nsubject have led to thousands of persons being consigned to the grave\nto return to consciousness in that hopeless and dreadful prison.\n\n[VARIOUS TESTS CONSIDERED.]\n\nOne of the most distinguished physicians in London informed the author\nthat, being called in to decide a case of apparent or real death, he\nhad applied the stethoscope and failed to detect the faintest pulsation\nin the heart, and yet the woman recovered. The danger of premature\nburial he believed to be very real and by no means an imaginary one,\nand his opinions were well known in the profession.\n\n\nTHE RESPIRATORY TEST.\n\nSir Benjamin Ward Richardson, in his paper on \u201cThe Absolute Signs and\nProofs of Death,\u201d in the _Asclepiad_, No. 21 (1889), vol. vi., p. 6,\nsays:--\n\n\u201cAbout the existence of respiratory movements there is always some\ncause for doubt, even amongst skilled observers; for so slight a\nmovement of respiration is sufficient to carry on life, at what I have\nin another paper designated \u2018life at low tension,\u2019 the most practised\neye is apt to be deceived.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe cessation of the indications of respiratory function, although\nuseful in a general sense, is not by any means reliable. It is quite\ncertain that in poisoning by chloral, and in catalepsy, there may be\nlife when no external movement of the chest is appreciable.\u201d--_Ibidem,\npp. 13, 14._\n\n\nCARDIAC AND ARTERIAL FAILURE TEST.\n\n\u201cEqual doubt attends the absence of the arterial pulsations and heart\nsounds. It is quite certain that the pulses of the body, as well as the\nmovements and sounds of the heart, may be undetectable at a time when\nthe body is not only not dead but actually recoverable.\u201d--_Ibidem, p.\n14._\n\nIn a review of several works on the \u201cSigns of Death\u201d in _The British\nand Foreign Medical and Chirurgical Review_, vol. XV. [1855], p. 74,\nW. B. Kesteven writes that Bouchut\u2019s test of the cessation of the\naction of the heart for one or two minutes is not to be relied upon\nas a certain sign of death. \u201cM. Josat has recorded several instances\nwherein newly-born children have been most carefully examined during\nseveral minutes without the detection of the slightest cardial sound or\nmovement, and yet these have rallied and lived. M. Depaul has collected\nten similar instances. M. Brachet has recorded[14] an instance of a\nman in whom neither sound nor movement of the heart could be heard for\neight minutes, and who, nevertheless, survived. Another adult case\nis mentioned by Dr. Josat as having been witnessed by M. Girbal, of\nMontpellier.... Sir B. Brodie and others have described children born\nwithout hearts. The circulation is maintained at one period of human\nlife without the aid of the heart. It is, besides, quite consistent\nwith the facts observed in hysterical and other conditions of the\nnervous system, that the action of the heart, like that of other\nmuscles, should be so extremely feeble as not to be cognisable by any\nsound or impulse, and yet it may have sufficient movement slowly to\nmove the blood through the system, whose every function and endowment\nis suspended and all but annihilated. In cases of catalepsy, and of\nauthentic instances of apparent death, the respiratory muscles have not\nbeen seen to move, yet inspiration and expiration--however slowly and\nimperceptibly--must have taken place.\u201d\n\n\nTHE PUTREFACTIVE TEST.\n\n[THE PUTREFACTIVE TEST.]\n\nDr. Roger S. Chew, of Calcutta, whose personal experiences of apparent\ndeath are elsewhere recorded in this volume, says:--\n\n\u201cNumerous expedients have been suggested as means of ascertaining\nwhether a body is really dead or whether the animation is temporarily\nsuspended; but, though these suggestions may collectively yield a\ncorrect diagnosis, still they are valueless when separately considered,\nand cannot compare with the \u2018putrefaction test.\u2019\u201d\n\nIn the \u201cPrinciples and Practice of Medicine\u201d of the late Dr. Hilton\nFagge, edited by Dr. Pye-Smith, vol. i., p. 19, of the second edition,\nis the following:--\n\n\u201cIn most cases there is no difficulty in determining the exact moment\nat which death occurs. But sometimes it cannot be fixed with certainty,\nand there are some altogether exceptional instances (though I have\nnever myself met with one) in which for hours, or even for days, it\nremains uncertain whether life is extinct or merely suspended. _I\nbelieve that the only sign of death which is both certain to manifest\nitself in the course of a few days, and also absolutely conclusive and\ninfallible, is the occurrence of putrefaction_, which is generally\nfirst indicated by discoloration of the surface of the abdomen. And in\nany case admitting of doubt, the coffin should not be closed until this\nhas shown itself.\u201d (Italics ours.)\n\nThe _Medical Examiner_, Philadelphia, vol. vi., p. 610, says:--\n\n\u201cA recent French reviewer in the _Gazette M\u00e9dicale_ closes a survey\nof the differences between real and apparent death, by the following\nremarks:--\u2018Experience,\u2019 says he, \u2018has shown the insufficiency of\neach of these signs, with one exception--_putrefaction_. The absence\nof respiration and circulation, the absence of contractility and\nsensibility, general loss of heat, the hippocratic face, the cold\nsweat spreading over the body, cadaveric discoloration, relaxation of\nthe sphincters, loss of elasticity, the flattening of the soft parts\non which the body rests, the softness and flaccidity of the eyes, the\nopacity of the fingers, cadaveric rigidity, the expulsion of alimentary\nsubstances from the mouth;--all these signs combined or isolated may\npresent themselves in an individual suffering only from apparent\ndeath.\u2019\u201d\n\nProf. D. Ferrier, in an article on \u201cSigns of Death\u201d in Quain\u2019s\n\u201cDictionary of Medicine,\u201d pp. 327, 328, says:--\n\n\u201cIt is not always easy to determine when the spark of life has become\nfinally extinguished. From fear of being buried alive, which prevails\nmore abroad than in this country, some infallible criterion of death,\ncapable of being applied by unskilled persons, has been considered\na desideratum, and valuable prizes have been offered for such a\ndiscovery. The conditions most resembling actual death are syncope,\nasphyxia, and trance, particularly the last. We cannot, however,\nsay that any infallible criterion applicable by the vulgar has been\ndiscovered.\u201d\n\nThe writer then proceeds to describe the various symptoms usually\nconsidered to denote death. The chief of these is putrefaction, but he\nobserves that putrefaction may occur locally during life, and general\nseptic changes may occur to some extent before death.\n\nDr. Gannal, in \u201cSignes de la Mort,\u201d p. 31, says:--\n\n\u201cI share the opinion of the majority of authors who have written on\nthis subject, and I consider _putrefaction_ as the only certain sign of\ndeath.\u201d The author then shows that all other signs are uncertain, and\nadds \u201cthat it is possible, by taking certain measures, to wait until\nputrefaction is well manifest, without injuring the public health.\u201d If\nthe attending medical practitioner could always be relied upon to look\nfor any such combination of signs as above suggested, there would be\nmuch less danger of premature burial than at present almost everywhere\nprevails; but personal investigation obliges the author deliberately to\ndeclare that these are looked for only in a comparatively few instances.\n\n\n_RIGOR MORTIS._\n\n[RIGOR MORTIS.]\n\nWith reference to _rigor mortis_, one of the signs many physicians\nregard as infallible as putrefaction, and to which the _British Medical\nJournal_ attaches much importance, I cite the following:--\n\nDr. Samuel Barker Pratt says that _rigor mortis_, which is regarded as\nan absolute proof of death, is in itself a life-action, caused by a\ngradual withdrawal of the nerve-forces from the body, and is distinctly\nakin to, and the same in effect as, the tightening of a muscle, and\nother similar physiological actions in the living body.\n\nDr. Roger S. Chew observes:--\n\n\u201c_Rigor mortis_ is a condition that seldom or never supervenes in the\nhot weather in India, and is often a feature of catalepsy.\n\n\u201cEcchymoses, or _post-mortem_ stains, are sometimes of value, but very\nfrequently they do not appear, even though there are strong evidences\nof putrefaction having set in, and in some cases this cadaveric\nlividity, as it is termed, may be the result of violence received\nbefore animation was suspended, and, the vital spark not having been\nextinguished though the body was apparently dead, echymosis had\nasserted itself as a process of life, and not death.\u201d\n\nEbenezer Milner, M.D.Edinb., L.R.C.S.E., observes in a paper on\n\u201cCatalepsy or Trance\u201d in the _Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_,\n1850, vol. lxxiv., p. 330:--\n\n\u201cPatients labouring under an intense and prolonged paroxysm of\ncatalepsy have been supposed to be dead, and have been interred alive.\n\n[VARIOUS OTHER TESTS.]\n\n\u201cThere are numerous cases of this kind on record, and many more where\nindividuals, after being laid in their coffins, have fortunately\nrecovered from the attack before the period of interment. In such\ncases respiration is insensible, and the heart\u2019s action is almost in\nabeyance; the surface of the body is nearly cold, and presents the\npallor of death; and the articulations are stiff. Although it is no\ndoubt a difficult task to distinguish this state of trance from the\nstate of death, yet a careful examination of the body, and time, would\nlead to a correct diagnosis. The limbs after death are first lax, then\nstiff, and ultimately lax again. The stiffness of the limbs, known\nas the cadaveric rigidity, or _rigor mortis_, lasts for a longer or\nshorter time, according to circumstances; the sooner it supervenes, the\nshorter is its duration, and conversely. Now the stiffness of the limbs\naccompanying this intense form of trance supervenes at once, and lasts\nas long as the paroxysm continues. This is consequently a valuable\ndiagnostic sign.\u201d\n\nIt may be observed that only in rare and very exceptional cases is time\nallowed for careful and accurate diagnosis.\n\n\nCADAVEROUS COUNTENANCE.\n\nAnthony Fothergill, in \u201cA New Inquiry,\u201d 1795, p. 92:--\n\n\u201cNor can even the cadaverous countenance be, separately considered,\nan infallible test of life\u2019s total extinction. Nay, even putrefaction\nitself, though allowed to be the most unequivocal sign of death, might\nchance to deceive us in that syncope which sometimes supervenes on the\nlast stage of the confluent small-pox, sea-scurvy, or other highly\nputrid diseases.\u201d\n\n\nREGARDING CLENCHED JAWS.\n\nA. de Labordette, Chirurgien de l\u2019H\u00f4pital de Lisieux, states in a\nletter to the Secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution:--\n\n\u201cI have collected manifold observations relating to persons drowned or\nasphyxiated, in whose case contraction of the jaws was remarked, and\nwho were subsequently restored to life,\u201d Dr. Brown-S\u00e9quard concurred in\nthis, and declared further that such contraction is rather a sign of\nlife than of death.--_Lancet, 1870, vol. i., p. 436._\n\n\nTHE DIAPHANOUS TEST,\n\nfor the discovery of which a prize was given by the French Academy\nof Medicine, is regarded by Sir B. Ward Richardson as of secondary\nimportance. It has certainly failed in many instances.\n\nThe following communication on\n\n  THE PROPER VALUE OF THE DIAPHANOUS\n  TEST OF DEATH,\n\nby Edwin Haward, M.D.Edin., F.R.C.S.Eng., appears in the _Lancet_ of\nJune 10, 1893, p. 1404:--\n\n[THE DIAPHANOUS TEST.]\n\n\u201cA case has come lately under my observation in which the value of\nthe diaphanous test of death has been illustrated at its just worth,\nand, as the matter is one of supreme practical moment, I think it may\nbe considered deserving a brief notice in the pages of the _Lancet_.\nReaders of the _Lancet_ need scarcely be informed that the diaphanous\ntest consists in taking a hand of a supposed dead person, placing\nit before a strong artificial light, with the fingers extended and\njust touching each other, and then looking through the narrow spaces\nbetween the fingers to see if there be there a scarlet line of light.\nThe theory is that if there be such a line of scarlet colour there is\nsome circulation still in progress, and therefore evidence of vital\naction, whilst if there be no illumination, then the circulation has\nceased and death has occurred. The French Academy of Medicine was so\nimpressed with the value of this test that it awarded, I believe, to\nthe discoverer of it a considerable prize. The illustration I am about\nto give indicates, however, that this test must be received with the\nutmost caution. The facts run as follows:--I was called in January last\nto visit a lady seventy-three years of age, suffering from chronic\nbronchitis. She had often suffered at intervals from similar attacks\nduring a period of twenty-five years. The present attack was very\nsevere, and as she was obviously in a state of senile decrepitude her\nsymptoms naturally gave rise to considerable anxiety. Nevertheless, she\nrallied and improved so much that after a few days my attendance was\nno longer required. I heard nothing more of this lady until February\n6--a period of three weeks--when I was summoned early in the morning\nto see her immediately. The messenger told me that she had retired\nto bed in the usual way, and had apparently died in the night, but\nthat she looked so life-like there was great doubt whether death had\nactually taken place. Within half an hour I was by her bedside; there\nwas no sign of breathing, of pulse, or of heart-beat, and the hands,\nslightly flexed, were rather rigid, but the countenance looked like\nthat of a living person, the eyes being open and life-like. I believed\nher to be dead, and that the rigidity of the upper limbs indicated\ncommencing _rigor mortis_; but this curious fact was related to me by\na near relative, that once before she had passed into a death-like\nstate, with similar symptoms, even to the rigidity of the arms and\nhands, from which state she had recovered, and after which she had\nalways experienced the direst apprehension of being buried alive. Her\nanxiety, it will be easily conceived, was readily communicated to her\nrelatives, who urged me to leave nothing undone for determining whether\nlife was or was not extinct. Under the circumstances I suggested\nthat Dr. (now Sir) Benjamin Ward Richardson, who has made the proofs\nof death a special study, should be summoned. He soon arrived, and\nsubmitted the body to all the tests in the following order:--1. Heart\nsounds and motion entirely absent, together with all pulse movement.\n2. Respiratory sounds and movements entirely absent. 3. Temperature\nof the body taken from the mouth the same as that in the surrounding\nair in the room, 62\u00b0 F. 4. A bright needle plunged into the body of\nthe biceps muscle (Cloquet\u2019s needle test) and left there shows on\nwithdrawal no sign of oxidation. 5. Intermittent shocks of electricity\nat different tensions passed by needles into various muscles and\ngroups of muscles gave no indication whatever of irritability. 6. The\nfillet-test applied to the veins of the arm (Richardson\u2019s test) causes\nno filling of veins on the distal side of the fillet. 7. The opening\nof a vein to ascertain whether the blood has undergone coagulation\nshows that the blood was still fluid. 8. The subcutaneous injection of\nammonia (Monteverdi\u2019s test) causes the dirty brown stain indicative\nof dissolution. 9. On making careful movements of the joints of the\nextremities, of the lower jaw, and of the occipito-frontals, _rigor\nmortis_ is found in several parts. Thus of these nine tests eight\ndistinctly declared that death was absolute; the exception, the\nfluidity of the blood, being a phenomenon quite compatible with blood\npreternaturally fluid and at a low temperature, even though death had\noccurred. 10. There now remained the diaphanous test, which we carried\nout by the aid of a powerful reflector lamp, yielding an excellent and\npenetrating light. To our surprise the scarlet line of light between\nthe fingers was as distinct as it was in our own hands subjected to the\nsame experiment. The mass of evidence was of course distinctly to the\neffect that death was complete; but, to make assurance doubly sure, we\nhad the temperature of the room raised and the body carefully watched\nuntil signs of decomposition had set in. I made a visit myself on a\nsucceeding day to assure myself of this fact.\n\n[INADEQUACY OF DIAPHANOUS TEST.]\n\n\u201cThe results of these experimental tests were satisfactory, as\nfollowing and corroborating each other in eight out of the ten\ndifferent lines of procedure; but the point of my paper is to show the\nutter inadequacy of the diaphanous test, upon which some are inclined\nentirely to rely. Sir Benjamin Richardson has reported an instance in\nwhich the test applied to the hand of a lady who had simply fainted\ngave no evidence of the red line; she therefore, on that test alone,\nmight have been declared dead. In my case the reverse was presented;\nthe body was dead, whilst the red line supposed to indicate life was\nperfectly visible. Hence the test might possibly lead to a double\nerror, and ought never of itself to be relied upon.\n\n\u201cIt is a question worthy of consideration whether the colouration\nobserved was due to the fluid state of the blood after death; it is not\nunreasonable to suppose so but I prefer merely to offer the suggestion\nwithout further comment.\u201d\n\nDr. Gannal, in his \u201cSignes de la Mort,\u201d p. 54, says:--\n\n\u201cThe loss of transparency of the fingers is an uncertain sign, because\nwith certain subjects it takes place some time before death; next,\nbecause it does not always occur in the corpse; and finally, because\nit exists under certain circumstances in sick persons--in intermittent\nfever, for example, when the skin loses colour, the hands get cold, and\nthe nails blue, as happens at the onset of the fits.\u201d\n\nOrfila, \u201cM\u00e9dicine L\u00e9gale,\u201d vol. i., p. 478, 4th edit., observes:--\n\n\u201cThis sign can be of no use, because it is easy to prove that the\nfingers of corpses placed between the eye and the flame of a candle are\ntransparent, even when this experiment is made one or two days after\ndeath.\u201d\n\nSir Benjamin Ward Richardson read a paper before the Medical Society\nof London on \u201cThe Absolute Signs and Proofs of Death,\u201d published (in\n1889) in No. 21 of the _Asclepiad_. The circumstance which originated\nhis investigation was a case of the revival of an apparently dead\nchild immediately before the funeral. Dr. Richardson has seen persons\napparently dead, and presenting all the signs of death, but who were\nreally living. Amongst these he cites the following:--\n\n\u201cA medical man found dead, as it was presumed, from an excessive dose\nof chloral. To all common observation this gentleman was dead. There\nwas no sign of respiration; it was very difficult for an ear so long\ntrained as my own to detect the sounds of the heart; there was no pulse\nat the wrist, and the temperature of the body had fallen to 97\u00b0 Fahr.\nIn this condition the man had lain for some hours before my arrival;\nand yet, under the simple acts of raising the warmth of the room to 84\u00b0\nFahr. and injecting warm milk and water into the stomach, he rallied\nslowly out of the sleep, and made a perfect recovery.\u201d\n\nMore remarkable is the case of a man struck by lightning, details of\nwhich Sir Benjamin received, in 1869, from Dr. Jackson, of Somerby,\nLeicestershire.\n\n\u201cThe patient reached his home in a state of extreme prostration, in\nwhich he lay for a time, and then sank into such complete catalepsy\nthat he was pronounced to be dead, and heard the sound of his own\npassing bell from the neighbouring church; by a desperate attempt at\nmovement of his thumbs he attracted the attention of the women engaged\nabout him, and, being treated as one still alive, recovered, and lived\nfor several years afterwards, retaining in his memory the facts, and\nrelating them with the most consistent accuracy.\u201d\n\n[SIR B. W. RICHARDSON\u2019S ENUMERATION.]\n\nMedical practitioners tell us that the signs of death are quite easy\nand impossible to mistake. Dr. Richardson, who has had the best of\nreasons, as already shown, for observation and investigation, holds a\ndifferent opinion, and enumerates the signs of death as follows:--\n\n(1) Respiratory failure, including absence of visible movements of\nthe chest, absence of the respiratory murmur, absence of evidence of\ntranspiration of water vapour from the lungs by the breath.\n\n(2) Cardiac failure, including absence of arterial pulsation, of\ncardiac motion, and of cardiac sounds.\n\n(3) Absence of turgescence or filling of the veins on making pressure\nbetween them and the heart.\n\n(4) Reduction of the temperature of the body below the natural standard.\n\n(5) Rigor mortis and muscular collapse.\n\n(6) Coagulation of the blood.\n\n(7) Putrefactive decomposition.\n\n(8) Absence of red colour in semi-transparent parts under the influence\nof a powerful stream of light.\n\n(9) Absence of muscular contraction under the stimulus of galvanism, of\nheat, and of puncture.\n\n(10) Absence of red blush of the skin after subcutaneous injection of\nammonia (Monteverdi\u2019s test).\n\n(11) Absence of signs of rust or oxidation of a bright steel blade,\nafter plunging it deep into the tissues. (The needle test of Cloquet\nand Laborde.)\n\nSir Benjamin sums up as follows:--\n\n\u201cIf all these signs point to death--if there be no indications of\nrespiratory function; if there be no signs of movement of the pulse\nor heart, and no sounds of the heart; if the veins of the hand do\nnot enlarge on the distal side of the fillet; if the blood in the\nveins contains a coagulum; if the galvanic stimulus fails to produce\nmuscular contraction; if the injection of ammonia causes a dirty\nbrown blotch--the evidence may be considered conclusive that death is\nabsolute. If these signs leave any doubt, or even if they leave no\ndoubt, one further point of practice should be carried out. The body\nshould be kept in a room, the temperature of which has been raised to a\nheat of 84\u00b0 Fahr., with moisture diffused through the air; and in this\nwarm and moist atmosphere it should remain until distinct indications\nof putrefactive decomposition have set in.\u201d\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann, whose recent monograph[15] has excited much\nattention both in the English and American Press, observes:--\n\n\u201cApparent death is a state that resembles real death so closely that\neven the most experienced persons believe such a person to be really\ndead. In many cases not even the most experienced physician, coroner,\nor undertaker can distinguish a case of apparent death from real\ndeath, neither by external examination nor by means of the stethoscope,\nnor by any of the various tests which have been proposed by this or\nthat writer, for all those tests have been proved fallible, and it\nis now useless to discuss them at length, because many of the most\nexperienced members of the medical profession have already agreed that\nthere is no certain sign that a person is really and not apparently\ndead, except the beginning of a certain stage of putrefaction. All\nother tests ought to be set down as delusive and unreliable.\u201d\n\n[RULES FOR OFFICIAL INSPECTORS.]\n\nIn the Royal Decree issued by the Government for examining the dead\nin W\u00fcrtemberg, dated January 24, 1882 (_Dienst-Vorschriften f\u00fcr\nLeichensch\u00e4uer_, Stuttgart, 1885), various signs and experiments for\nenabling the official inspector of deaths to ascertain if actual death\nhas taken place are laid down. Among these are:--\n\n(1) \u201cThe cessation of sensibility may be assumed if, on raising the\neyelid, the pupil remains unaltered when a lighted candle is held\nclose to it; or if pungent odours, such as those derived from onions,\nvinegar, sal-ammoniac, or severe friction of the chest, arms, or\nsoles of the feet, the application of mustard, or burning tinder,\nor if sealing-wax dropped upon the chest produces no reaction, and\nparticularly if in the latter case the skin does not blister.\n\n(2) \u201cThe stoppage of the circulation of the blood, apart from the\nabsence of heart beating, if, after tying a tight bandage around the\narm, the veins do not swell up, upon the hands being firmly gripped;\nalso if, upon pricking the lips, no blood escapes; furthermore, if, on\nholding the hand in front of a bright light (the diaphanous test), the\nfinger-tips are no longer translucent as in the living.\u201d\n\nNor should the inspector ever neglect to examine the heart to ascertain\nthe complete absence of all sound, and to test the absence of breath by\nother experiments.\n\nThe rescript further adds that these experiments \u201cmay not furnish\nabsolute proof of death,\u201d and describes what further proceedings to\ninstitute. These are referred to in this volume in the chapter devoted\nto Death Certification.\n\nAn editorial note in the _Lancet_, January 29, 1887, p. 233, shows the\ndifficulty of distinguishing real from\n\n\n[CASES FROM THE \u201cLANCET.\u201d]\n\nAPPARENT DEATH.\n\n\u201cIt was only last year that we commented in our columns upon the \u2018signs\nof death,\u2019 drawing attention to the more important criteria by which\na skilful observer may avoid mistaking cases of so-called suspended\nanimation from actual disease. Quite recently two instances have been\nrecorded, in which, if report be true, it would seem there is still\nroom for maturing the judgment upon the question herein raised. At\nSaumur a young man afflicted with a contagious disease apparently died\nsuddenly. His body was enshrouded and coffined, but as the undertaker\u2019s\nmen were carrying the \u2018remains\u2019 to their last resting-place they\nheard what they believed to be a knocking against the coffin-lid, and\nthe sound was repeated in the grave. Instead of testing at once the\nevidence of their senses, they, in accordance with judicial custom,\nsent for the Mayor, in whose presence the lid was removed from the\ncoffin. Whereupon, to the horror of the spectators, it was observed\nthat the dead man had only just succumbed to asphyxia. The above\nnarrative seems on the face of it too ghastly to be true, especially as\nthe occupant of the coffin must have been shut up in a space containing\noxygen in quantity totally inadequate to sustain an approximation\nto ordinary breathing. But in cataleptic and similar states the\norganic functions are reduced to the lowest ebb, and history records\nseveral instances in which, for a time at least, the determination\nof the living state was a matter of uncertainty. In our issue of the\n15th inst., p. 129, the reader will find an account of \u2018Post-mortem\nIrritability of Muscle,\u2019 in which the phenomenon was manifested in a\nmarked degree two hours after death from a chronic wasting disorder--a\ncondition which favours early extinction of vital action in muscle.\nIt may be argued, then, with some show of reasonableness, that it\nis quite possible for the heart to stand still, as it were, and yet\nretain the power of action, although experience tells us but little on\nthe question as regards the human subject. Experiments on the lower\nanimals, however, show that over-distension of the right cavities of\nthe heart causes cessation of cardiac contraction, and that relief\nfrom the distension may be followed by resumption of the function of\ncontractibility. It must not be forgotten that an analogous condition\nis witnessed at times in patients suffering from capillary bronchitis\nor other physical states underlying acute distension of the right\nheart; for, in these cases, venesection is not uncommonly instrumental\nin arresting the rapidly failing cardiac contractions. The second\ncase of apparent death alluded to above happened in \u2018the land of big\nthings.\u2019 An inhabitant of Mount Joy, Paramatta, was believed to be\ndead, and his supposed remains were about to be committed to the\nearth, when a mourning relative startled the bystanders by exclaiming,\n\u2018I must see my father once more; something tells me he is not dead.\u2019\nThe coffin was taken from the grave to the sexton\u2019s tool-house, and\nthere opened, and was found to contain a living inmate, who justified\nthe presentiment of his son by \u2018slowly recovering.\u2019 As no mention is\nmade in either case of the period that elapsed between the occurrence\nof apparent death and the body being placed in the coffin, or of the\ntime during which the encasement lasted, special and minute criticism\nis uncalled for. Enough has been said on the subject to emphasize\nthe exhortation, \u2018Get knowledge, and with all thy getting get\nunderstanding.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe _British Medical Journal_, of September 28, 1895, in a leading\narticle on the \u201cSigns of Death,\u201d says:--\n\n\u201cThe question of the possibility of the interment of living beings\nhas recently been exercising the minds of a portion of the public,\nwhose fears have found expression in a series of letters to some of\nthe daily papers. It is a matter of regret that so much irresponsible\nnonsense and such hysterical outpourings should find a place in the\ncolumns of our great daily press. No attempt at the production of\nevidence in support of their beliefs or fears has been made by the\nmajority of writers, whilst the cases mentioned by the few are either\nthe inventions of the credulous or ignorant, or are destitute of\nfoundation. It cannot be said that the few medical men who have joined\nin this public correspondence have either contributed any useful\ninformation or have seriously attempted to allay the fears of the\npublic. One medical gentleman managed to earn for himself a cheap\nnotoriety by employing, with very scanty acknowledgment of the source,\ncopious extracts from Dr. Gowers\u2019 article on \u2018Trance\u2019 in Quain\u2019s\n\u2018Dictionary of Medicine.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe possibility of apparent death being mistaken for real death can\nonly be admitted when the decision of the reality of death is left to\nignorant persons. We are quite unprepared to admit the possibility of\nsuch a mistake occurring in this country to a medical practitioner\narmed with the methods for the recognition of death that modern\nscience has placed at his disposal. Moreover, even by the ignorant the\nreality of death can only be questioned during the period preceding\nputrefaction. During this period various signs of death appear which,\ntaken collectively, allow of an absolute opinion as to the reality of\ndeath being given. To each of these, as a sign of death, exception may\nperhaps be individually taken, but a medical opinion is formed from a\nconjunction of these signs, and not from the presence of an individual\none.\u201d\n\n[THE \u201cBRITISH MEDICAL JOURNAL.\u201d]\n\nThe writer must surely have overlooked the able treatises by Winslow,\nKempner, Russell Fletcher, Hartmann, Gannal, and others, supported by\nevidence in the aggregate of thousands of cases of premature burial\nor narrow escapes, or have forgotten the dreadful cases which have\nappeared from time to time in the columns of the _British Medical\nJournal_ itself. Commenting upon the case of a child nearly buried\nalive, this medical authority in its issue of October 31, 1885,\nunder the head of \u201cDeath or Coma,\u201d sensibly refers to some of the\ndifficulties in distinguishing apparent from real death as follows:--\n\n\u201cThe close similarity which is occasionally seen to connect the\nappearance of death with that of exhaustion following disease, was\nlately illustrated in a somewhat striking manner. An infant, seized\nwith convulsions, was supposed to have died about three weeks ago at\nStamford Hill. After five days\u2019 interval, preparations were being made\nfor its interment, when, at the grave\u2019s mouth, a cry was heard to\ncome from the coffin. The lid was taken off, and the child was found\nto be alive, was taken home, and is recovering. Such is the published\naccount of the latest recorded case of suspended animation. We need\nnot now attempt a dissertation on the physical meaning of coma. It\nis well known that this condition may last for considerable periods,\nand may at times, _even to the practised eye_, wear very much the\nsame aspect as death. In the present instance, its association with\nsome degree of convulsion may easily have been mistaken by relatives,\ndreading the worst, for the rigid stillness of _rigor mortis_. This\nis the more likely, since the latter state is apt to be a transient\none in infants, though it is said to be unusually well marked in death\nfrom convulsions. One cannot, however, help thinking that the presence\nof the various signs of death was not, in this case, very carefully\ninquired into. It is hardly possible that, had the other proofs as well\nas that of stiffening been sought for, they would have been missed. _It\nis true that hardly any one sign short of putrefaction can be relied\nupon as infallible._ In actual death, however, one may confidently\nreckon on the co-existence of more than one of these. After a period of\nfive days, not one should have been wanting. Besides _rigor mortis_,\nthe total absence of which, even in forms of death which are said\nnot to show it, we take leave to doubt, the _post-mortem_ lividity of\ndependent parts afford sure proof, as its absence suggests a doubt,\nof death. Then there is the eye, sunken, with glairy surface, flaccid\ncornea, and dilated insensitive pupil. Most practitioners, probably,\nare accustomed to rely upon stethoscopic evidence of heart-action or\nrespiration. These alone, indeed, are almost always sufficient to\ndecide the question of vitality, if they be watched for during one or\ntwo minutes. There is no information as to whether the child so nearly\nburied alive was seen by a medical man. It is difficult to believe\nthat, if it had been, some sign of life would not have been observed.\nStill, the case is a teaching one, even for medical men, and warns us\nto look for a combination of known tests where any doubt exists as to\nthe fact of death.\u201d The italics are ours.\n\nProf. Alex. Wilder, M.D., in \u201cPerils of Premature Burial,\u201d p. 20,\nsays:--\n\n[DR. ALEXANDER WILDER\u2019S OPINION.]\n\n\u201cThe signs of total extinction of life are not so unequivocal as many\nsuppose. Cessation of respiration and circulation do not afford the\nentire evidence, for the external senses are not sufficiently acute to\nenable us to detect either respiration or circulation in the smallest\ndegree compatible with mere existence. Loss of heat is by no means\nconclusive; for life may continue, and recovery take place, when no\nperceptible vital warmth exists.\u201d\n\nM. B. Gaubert, in \u201cLes Chambres Mortuaires d\u2019Attente,\u201d p. 187, Paris,\n1895, says:--\n\n\u201cOne of the most celebrated physicians of the Paris hospitals,\naccording to Dr. Ligni\u00e8res, declares that out of twenty certified\ndeaths, one only presented indubitable characteristics of absolute\ndeath.\u201d\n\nThe difficulty of diagnosis in many cases being allowed renders\nthe obligation and necessity for a radical change in our methods\nof treating the supposed dead a very urgent one. Medical writers,\nwhilst admitting the unsatisfactory nature of the current practice of\nmedical certification, allege that the remedy lies with Parliament\nto make compulsory a personal medical inspection of the dead, and to\nallow a fee as compensation for the trouble. This, however, would be\nvery far from meeting the difficulty. How many general practitioners\nwould be willing to submit half-a-dozen, say, of the eleven tests of\ndeath formulated by Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson, in any given case,\nand if willing, how many, having regard to the fact that these tests\nare not taught in the Medical Schools, and form no part of the usual\nmedical curriculum, would be competent to make them with the requisite\nskill? In most of the Continental States there are State-appointed\nsurgeons to examine the dead, _m\u00e9d\u00e9cins v\u00e9rificateurs_, and in\nsome of these--W\u00fcrtemburg, for instance--the official is obliged\nto examine the corpse several times before his certificate is made\nout. But notwithstanding this careful official inspection, cases of\npremature burial and narrow escapes are telegraphed by _Reuter_ and\n_Dalziel_ every now and then to the English Press, as we have seen, and\nadditional details, with the names and addresses of the victims, are\nfurnished by responsible special correspondents.\n\n[CONFUSION OF MEDICAL OPINIONS.]\n\nThe best proof that one can give of the uncertainty of the signs of\ndeath is the great divergence of opinion amongst medical experts. Dr.\nGannal, in \u201cSignes de la Mort,\u201d Paris, 1890, p. 27, observes:--\u201cIf\nany of these signs had presented characters of absolute certainty, it\nis unquestionable that the unanimity of authors would have recognised\nit; now, there is none. One sign held to be good by some, is declared\nbad by others.\u201d Dr. Gannal affirms with iteration that there is only\none unequivocal sign and proof of dissolution--decomposition. All\nauthorities agree that whatever degree of doubt attends the ordinary\nappearances of death, none dispute that this amounts to a demonstration.\n\nWhen standing round the bed of a sick patient, reduced to a state\nof coma or suspended animation, to which death is the expected\ntermination, as soon as the doctor utters the fatal words \u201call is\nover,\u201d no one present thinks of doubting the verdict, or putting it to\nthe test. Mr. Clarke Irvine, who has had a wide experience, writing in\nthe _Banner of Light_, December 14, 1895, Boston, U.S., says:--\n\n\u201cI have known of hundreds of deaths in my experience, and never have\nI known of any instance wherein a bystander has doubted save once,\nand then the person supposed dead was revived, and is now living out\nin Colorado. The mere accident of a stranger coming in just previous\nto the enclosing in a coffin prevented the man from the awful fate of\nburial alive, so far as we can see.\n\n\u201cIn one other, the supposed dead man came to life a little before the\ntime set for his funeral, by the accident of some one seizing hold of\nhis foot: he is still living, and a resident of this country. The case\nwas widely published in the newspapers after he was interviewed by a\nreporter in Chicago, where the rescued man was visiting at the time of\nthe great Fair. He is known as Judge William Poynter. I saw him a few\ndays ago, and have heard him relate the experience.\n\n\u201cThe case of the little girl who was rescued while the funeral was\nin progress, at St. Joseph, Missouri, I have already contributed to\n_The Banner_. These people were saved by a mere chance; how many have\npassed underground forever, of whom nothing was ever suspected! All\nthrough the country, people are dying or apparently dying, or falling\ninto death-like trances daily, and being placed in their coffins _as a\nmatter of course_, and hurried to and into their graves, _as of course_\nalso--and in the very nature of things it must be and must have been\nthat hundreds upon hundreds have been and are being consigned to that\nmost awful of all the dooms possible. The horror of the thing is simply\nunspeakable.\u201d\n\n\nOFFICIAL REGULATIONS FOR THE PREVENTION OF PREMATURE INTERMENT IN\nBAVARIA.\n\n[BAVARIAN REGULATIONS.]\n\nThe following are extracts from the Police Regulations for the\ninspection of the dead, and the prevention of premature burial in\nBavaria, and issued by the Royal State-Ministry for Home affairs:--\n\n\n \u00a7 4.\n\n In public hospitals, penitentiaries, charitable or other similar homes\n or institutions, the duty of inspection falls upon the physician in\n chief.\n\n Outside these institutions the inspectors must be chosen, in the\n first instance, from among physicians, after them surgeons, former\n assistants of military hospitals, and lastly, in default of such, from\n lay people. The latter must, however, be of undoubted respectability,\n and, before their appointment, must be properly instructed by the\n district physician, and subjected from time to time to an examination.\n\n\n \u00a7 6.\n\n As a rule the inspection of dead bodies must be made once if by\n doctors, and twice if by laymen. In communities which possess a\n mortuary a _second inspection_ has to be made, even though the regular\n inspection has previously been made by doctors or laymen.\n\n\n \u00a7 7.\n\n The first inspection has to be made as soon as possible after death,\n and, where practicable, within twenty-four hours, and in cases\n described under \u00a7 6, sec. 2, at least before removal of the body to\n the mortuary.\n\n The second inspection must take place just before burial.\n\n\n \u00a7 8.\n\n The body, until the arrival of the Inspector, must be left in\n an undisturbed position, with the face uncovered, and free from\n closely-fitting garments.\n\n The instructions of the Inspector, for the resuscitation of a body\n suspected of apparent death only, are to be followed most strictly.\n\n\n \u00a7 9.\n\n The Inspector has to give a certificate of corpse inspection\n confirmatory of his inspection, but he must only issue the same if he\n has fully ascertained the actuality of death.\n\n\n \u00a7 10.\n\n (1) As a rule the bodies must not be interred before the lapse of 48\n hours, but not later than 72 hours, after death.\n\n The Police Authorities may, however, at the recommendation of the\n Corpse Inspector, exceptionally grant permission for the burial before\n the expiration of 48 hours if a _post-mortem_ dissection has taken\n place, also if decomposition has set in, and if on account of lack of\n room the body has to be preserved in an overcrowded habitation.\n\n\n APPENDIX to the Police Instructions as to Corpse Inspection and time\n of Burial, of 20th November, 1885.\n\n\n I.\n\n The purpose of corpse inspection is to prohibit the concealment of\n deaths by violent means or resulting from medical malpractices;\n to detect infectious diseases, and the establishment of correct\n death lists; and particularly _to prevent the burial of people only\n apparently dead_. For this purpose each corpse is to be closely\n examined on the first inspection as to any signs of death, both in the\n front and the back of the body.\n\n\n II.\n\n The Inspectors have primarily to establish the actuality of death by\n observing and notifying all the symptoms accompanying or following the\n decease.\n\n Indications of death may be noted:--\n\n (1) If there is no indication of any pulsation noticeable, either in\n the region of the heart, at the neck, at the temples, or the forearm.\n\n (2) If the eyelids when pulled asunder remain open, and the eyes\n themselves appear sunken into their sockets, dulled, and lustreless,\n also if the eyeballs feel soft and relaxed.\n\n (3) If parts of the body are pale and cold, if chin and nose are\n pointed, if cheeks and temples are sunken.\n\n (4) If the lower jaw hangs down and immediately drops again if pushed\n up, or if the muscles feel hard and stiff (rigidity).\n\n (5) If the skin of the fingers held against one another, held towards\n light, do not appear reddish.\n\n (6) If a feather or burning candle held against the mouth show no sign\n of motion, or if there is no sign of moisture upon a looking-glass\n held before the mouth.\n\n (7) If on different parts of the body, particularly the neck, back, or\n posterior, or the undersurface of the extremities there are bluish-red\n spots (death spots) visible.\n\n (8) If the skin, particularly at the sides of the stomach, show a\n dirty-green discoloration (decomposition spots).\n\n The non-Medical Inspector has to observe at least all the symptoms 1\n to 4.\n\n In doubtful cases the Medical Inspectors are advised to test the\n muscles and nerves by electric currents.\n\n\n IV.\n\n If the inspection gives rise to suspicions of apparent death\n (Scheintod), the inspector must (if he is not himself a doctor)\n immediately call for the assistance of a practised physician, so as to\n establish the actual condition, and to adopt the necessary measures\n for resuscitation, as follows:--\n\n (1) Opening of the windows, and warming the room.\n\n (2) Efforts at artificial respiration.\n\n (3) Applications of warm mustard-plaisters to the chest and the\n extremities.\n\n (4) Rubbing with soft brushes, with cloths saturated in vinegar, or\n spirit of camphor, also with hot woollen cloths.\n\n (5) Irritation of the throat with a feather.\n\n (6) Smelling sal-ammoniac.\n\n (7) Dropping from time to time a few drops of \u201cextract of balm\u201d or\n similar essences into the mouth.\n\n Unless medical aid has meanwhile arrived, the application of these\n measures must be continued until the apparently dead comes, back to\n life, and begins to swallow, in which case he ought to have warm\n broth, tea, or wine, or until there is absolutely no doubt as to the\n total ineffectiveness of all attempts at reanimation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nDURATION OF DEATH-COUNTERFEITS.\n\n\nTHE differences observed in the length of time that persons have\nremained in this condition depended, doubtless, upon the constitutional\npeculiarities of the patients--such as strength or weakness--or upon\nthe nature of the disease from which they may have suffered. Struve,\nin his Essay, pp. 34-98, says \u201cthat it depends upon the proportion\nof vital power in the individual. Hence children and young persons\nwill endure longer than the aged. Also upon the nature of the element\nin which the accident happened, whether it contained greater or less\nproportion of oxygenated or carbonic acid gas, or other poisonous\nvapours. The latent vital power seems to be much longer preserved\nwhen animation has been suspended by cold. A man revived after being\nunder snow forty hours. Persons apparently dead sometimes awake after\nan interval of seven days, as was the case with Lady Russell.... In\nthe female sex, the suspension of vital power, spasms, fainting fits,\netc., originating from a hysterical, feeble constitution, are not\nrare, nor is it improbable that the state of apparent death may be of\nlonger duration with them; nay, it may be looked upon as a periodical\ndisorder, in which all susceptibility of irritation is extinguished.\u201d\nStruve further remarks, p. 98, \u201cthat the state in which the vital\npower is suspended, or in which there is a want of susceptibility\nof stimuli, consists of infinite modifications, from the momentary\ntransient fainting fit, to a death-like torpor of a day\u2019s duration.\nThe susceptibility of irritation may be completely suppressed, and the\napparently dead may be insensible of the strongest stimuli, such as the\noperation of the knife, and the effects of a red-hot iron.\u201d\n\n[M. JOSAT\u2019S OBSERVATIONS.]\n\nM. Josat, in \u201cDe la Mort et de ses Caract\u00e8res,\u201d gives the result of\nhis own observations in one hundred and sixty-two instances, in which\napparent death lasted--\n\n  In 7 from 36 to 42 hours.\n    20   \u201d  20 to 36   \u201d\n    47   \u201d  15 to 20   \u201d\n    58   \u201d   8 to 15   \u201d\n    30   \u201d   2 to  8   \u201d\n\nThe order of frequency of diseases in which these occurred was as\nfollows:--Asphyxia, hysteria, apoplexy, narcotism, concussion of the\nbrain, the cases of concussion being the shortest.\n\nThe length of time a person may live in the grave will depend upon\nsimilar concomitant conditions; but all things considered, a person\nburied while in a state of trance, catalepsy, asphyxia, narcotism,\nnervous shock, etc., and in any of the other states that cause apparent\ndeath without passing through a course of disease, and that occur\nduring his or her usual health, will have a longer struggle before\nlife becomes extinct than one whose strength had been exhausted by\nan attack of sickness. Estimates of the duration of such a struggle\ndiffer considerably. Some writers believe that \u201chowever intense, it\nmust be short-lived.\u201d As to the prolongation of the horrible suffering\nincident to such tragic occurrences, Dr. L\u00e9once L\u00e9normand, in his\n\u201cDes Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d pp. 2-4, observes--\u201cIt is a mistake to\nthink that a living person, enclosed in a narrow box, and covered with\nseveral feet of earth, would succumb to immediate asphyxiation.\u201d[16]\n\nDr. Charles Londe, in his \u201cLa Mort Apparent,\u201d remarks:--\u201cIt has been\ncalculated that, after one quarter of the quantity of atmospheric air\ncontained in the coffin--approximately estimated at one hundred and\ntwenty litres--was exhausted, death would set in; therefore, it is\nquite certain that, if the shroud is thick, and the coffin well closed,\nand the grave impenetrable to the atmosphere, life could not last more\nthan forty to sixty minutes after inhumation. But is not that a century\nof torture?\u201d\n\nSome allowance should be made for the persistence of the vital energy,\nwhich continues after all atmospheric air is cut off. \u201cExperiments on\ndogs show that the average duration of the respiratory movements after\nthe animal has been deprived of air is four minutes five seconds. The\nduration of the heart\u2019s action is seven minutes eleven seconds. The\naverage of the heart\u2019s action after the animal has ceased to make\nrespiratory efforts is three minutes fifteen seconds. These experiments\nfurther showed that a dog may be deprived of air during three minutes\nfifty seconds, and afterwards recover without the application of\nartificial means.\u201d[17]\n\n[PERSISTENCE OF LIFE.]\n\nProf. P. Brouardel, M.D., Paris, in \u201cLa Morte Subit\u00e9,\u201d p. 35, observes\nthat:--\u201cA dog, placed in a common coffin, lived five to six hours;\nbut a dog occupies less room than a man, who, in such a coffin, when\nclosed, would not have more than one hundred litres, so he would\npossibly live twenty minutes. I would not wish anybody to pass twenty\nsuch cruel minutes.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Bernard, a skilful surgeon of Paris, certified that, in the parish\nof Riol, he himself, and several other bystanders, saw a monk of the\nOrder of St. Francis, who had been buried for three or four days, taken\nfrom his grave breathing and alive, with his arms lacerated near the\nswathes employed to secure them; but he died immediately after his\nreleasement. This gentleman also asserts that a faithful narrative of\nso memorable an accident was drawn up by public authority, and that\nthe raising of the body was occasioned by a letter written from one of\nthe monk\u2019s friends, in which it was affirmed that he was subject to\nparoxysms of catalepsy.\u201d--_The Uncertainty of the Signs of Death, by\nSurgeon M. Cooper. Dublin, 1748._\n\nIn a volume, entitled \u201cInformation Relative to Persons who have been\nBuried Alive,\u201d by Heinrich Friedrich K\u00f6ppen, Halle, 1799, dedicated to\nFrederick William III., King of Prussia, and Louise, Queen of Prussia,\nare the nine following amongst many other cases:--\n\n \u201c_England._--Lady Russell, wife of a colonel in the army, was\n considered dead, and only through the tender affection of her husband\n was she saved from living burial. He would not allow her to be taken\n away until decomposition would absolutely force him to do so. After\n seven days, however, in the evening, when the bells were ringing, the\n faithful husband had the triumph to see her eyes open and her return\n to full consciousness.\u201d\n\n \u201c_Halle, Germany._--Medical Professor Junker, in Halle, a very humane\n man, had a corpse of a suicide--by hanging--delivered for dissection\n at his college. He was placed on a table in the dissecting room, and\n covered with a cloth. About midnight, while the professor was sitting\n at his writing-table in an adjoining room, he heard a great noise\n in the dissecting room, and fearing that cats were gnawing at the\n corpses, he went out, and saw the cloth in a disturbed condition,\n and on lifting it up found the corpse missing. As all the doors and\n windows were closed, he searched the room, and found the missing one\n crouching in a corner, trembling with cold, in the terror of death.\n He besought the professor for mercy, help, and means for escape, as\n he was a deserter from the army, and he would be severely punished\n if caught. After consideration the kind professor clothed him,\n and took him out of town at night as his own servant--passing the\n guards--pretending to be on a professional visit, and set him free\n in the country. Years afterwards he met the same man in Hamburg as a\n prosperous merchant.\u201d\n\n \u201c_Leipsic._--The wife of the publisher, Math\u00e4us Hornisch, died, and,\n according to the custom of the times, the coffin was opened before\n being put into the ground. The grave-digger noticed golden rings on\n her fingers, and in the following night went to the grave to steal\n them--which he found was not easy to do--when suddenly she drew back\n her arm. The robber ran away frightened, leaving his lantern at the\n grave. The woman recovered, but could not make out where she was, and\n cried for help. No one heard her; so she got out of the grave, took\n the lantern, and went to her home. Knocking at the door, the servant\n called to know who it was. She replied, \u201cYour mistress. Open the door;\n I am cold, and freezing to death.\u201d The master was called; and happily\n she was restored to her home again, where she lived for several years\n longer.\u201d\n\n \u201c_Pavese, Italy, 1787._--A clergyman was buried, and noises were heard\n in his grave afterwards. Upon opening the grave and the coffin, the\n man was found alive, and violently trembling with fright.\u201d\n\n \u201c_Paris, 1787._--A carpenter was buried, noises were heard proceeding\n from his grave, and upon opening it he was found to be breathing. He\n was taken to his home, where he recovered.\u201d\n\n [DR. K\u00d6PPEN\u2019S CASES.]\n\n \u201c_Stadamhof, 1785._--A young, healthy girl, on the way to a wedding,\n had an apoplectic stroke, as it was thought, and fell as if dead. The\n following day she was buried. The grave-digger, who was occupied near\n her grave that night, heard noises in it, and being superstitious ran\n home in fright. The following morning he returned to finish a grave\n he was digging, and heard the whining again from the girl\u2019s grave.\n He called for help, the grave was opened, when they found the girl\n turned over, her face scratched and bloody, her fingers bitten, and\n her mouth full of blood. She was dead, with evidences of most dreadful\n suffering.\u201d\n\n \u201c_France._--Madame Lacour died after a long sickness, and was buried\n in a vault of a church, with all her jewels on. Her maid and the\n sexton opened the coffin the following night to steal the jewellery,\n when some hot wax from the candle they were using fell on the\n woman\u2019s face and woke her up. The robbers fled in fright, and the\n woman went back to her home. She lived many years afterwards, and\n had a son who became a priest, who in turn--inheriting his mother\u2019s\n nature--underwent a fate similar to her own.\u201d\n\n \u201c_Lyons, France._--The wife of a merchant died. Two days after her\n seeming death, and just before the time set for her burial, her\n husband, who, it seems, had some doubts as to her death, had her\n taken from the coffin, and had a scarifier used in cupping applied in\n twenty-five places without bringing any blood, but the twenty-sixth\n application brought her to consciousness with a scream, and she\n recovered completely.\u201d\n\n \u201c_Cadillac._--A woman had been buried in the morning. In the following\n morning whining was heard in her grave. It was opened, and the woman\n was found still alive, but she had mutilated half of her right arm and\n the whole hand. She was finally restored.\u201d\n\nThe _Spectator_, October 11, 1895, publishes particulars of a recent\ncase of recovery, after three days\u2019 interment, in Ireland. See pp. 111,\n112 in this volume.\n\nK\u00f6ppen\u2019s investigations led him to observe that--\u201cHuman life may\nappear to come to a stop, and no one can say it will not go on again,\nif time enough is allowed for it to do so. This even the most learned\nin medicine cannot explain away or deny; and the greatest precaution\nshould be taken before death is declared to exist.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE TREATMENT OF THE DEAD.\n\n\nTHE following extracts from French, English, and American authorities,\nwho have made the subject of premature burial one of patient research,\nshow how the dead, or apparently dead, were treated in their respective\ncountries at the time they wrote, and when no reforms had been\ninstituted. Buffon, who wrote more than a century ago, said:--\u201cLife\noften very nearly resembles death. Neither ten, nor twenty, nor\ntwenty-four hours are sufficient to distinguish real from apparent\ndeath. There are instances of persons who have been alive in the grave\nat the end of the second, and even the third day. Why, then, suffer to\nbe interred so soon those whose lives we ardently wished to prolong?\nMost savages pay more attention to deceased friends and relatives,\nand regard as the first duty what is but a ceremony with us. Savages\nrespect their dead, clothe them, speak to them, recite their exploits,\nextol their virtues; while we, who pique ourselves on our feelings, do\nnot show common humanity; we forsake and fly from our dead. We have\nneither courage to look upon or speak to them; we avoid every place\nwhich can recall their memory.\u201d\n\nIn his \u201cHistory of the Modes of Interment among Different Nations,\u201d pp.\n191-193, Mr. G. A. Walker, surgeon, quotes the following observations,\nas deserving consideration on the subject of premature interment:--\u201cOn\nmany occasions, in all places, too much precipitation attends this\nlast office; or, if not precipitation, a neglect of due precautions\nin regard to the body in general; indeed, the most improper treatment\nthat can be imagined is adopted, and many a person is made to descend\ninto the grave before he has sighed his last breath. Ancient and\nmodern authors leave us no doubt respecting the dangers or misconduct\nof such precipitation. It must appear astonishing that the attention\nof mankind has been, after all, so little aroused by an idea the most\nterrible that can be conceived on this side eternity. According to\npresent usage, as soon as the semblance of death appears, the chamber\nof the sick is deserted by friends, relatives, and physicians; and the\napparently dead, though frequently living, body is committed to the\nmanagement of an ignorant and unfeeling nurse, whose care extends no\nfurther than laying the limbs straight, and securing her accustomed\nperquisites. The bed-clothes are immediately removed, and the body is\nexposed to the air. This, when cold, must extinguish any spark of life\nthat may remain, and which, by a different treatment, might have been\nkindled into flame; or it may only continue to repress it, and the\nunhappy person afterwards revive amidst the horrors of the tomb.\n\n\u201cThe difference between the end of a weak life and the commencement of\ndeath is so small, and the uncertainty of the signs of the latter is\nso well established, that we can scarcely suppose undertakers capable\nof distinguishing an apparent from a real death. Animals which sleep\nin the winter show no signs of life. In this case, circulation is\nonly suspended; but were it annihilated, the vital spark does not so\neasily lose its action as the fluids of the body, and the principle\nof life, which long survives the appearance of death, may re-animate\na body in which the action of all the organs seems to be at an end.\nBut how difficult it is to determine whether this principle may not\nbe revived.... Coldness, heaviness of the body, a leaden, livid\ncolour, with a yellowness in the visage, are all very uncertain signs.\nM. Zimmermann observed them all upon the body of a criminal, who\nfainted through dread of that punishment which he had merited. He was\nshaken, dragged about, and turned in the same manner as dead bodies\nare, without the least signs of resistance, and yet, at the end of\ntwenty-four hours, he was recalled to life by means of the volatile\nalkali.\u201d Mr. Walker\u2019s history was written nearly sixty years ago, but\nthe custom he deprecates still continues.\n\n[IN THE UNITED STATES.]\n\nDr. Moore Russell Fletcher, in his \u201cSuspended Animation and\nRestoration,\u201d Boston, 1890, p. 19, speaking of the treatment of the\ndead in the United States, says:--\u201cIt is doubtful whether modern\ncivilisation has much advanced the rites of burial, or the means of\npreventing interment before positive death. The practice now is, as\nsoon as apparent death takes place, to begin at once preparing the body\nfor burial; the relatives and physician desert the room, pack it in ice\nor open the windows, thus banishing any possible chance of reviving or\nresuscitating any spark of vitality which may exist. No examination\nis ever made by the physician or the friends to see if there are even\nthe faintest signs of life present. Under such circumstances, and with\nno attempts made at discovering whether any signs of life were still\npresent (but a hasty burial instead), it is not strange that cases of\npremature interment frequently occur.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Walter Whiter, in his \u201cDissertation on the Disorder of\nDeath,\u201d 1819, p. 328, sensibly observes:--\u201cThe signs marked on the\ndying and the dead are fallacious. The dying man may be the sinking\nman, exhausted by his malady, or perhaps exhausting his malady, and\nfainting under the conflict. Exert all the arts which you possess,\nand which have been found not only able to resuscitate and restore\nthe dying, but even the dead; rouse him from this perilous condition,\nand suffer him not, by your supineness and neglect, to pass into a\nstate of putrefactive death.\u201d And in p. 363:--\u201cIf the humane societies\nhad applied the same methods in various cases of natural death which\nthey have adopted in the case of drowning, and if they had obtained a\nsimilar success in the cultivation of their art, the gloom of the bed\nof death would be brightened with cheering prospects, and would have\nbecome the bed of restoration and the scene of hope.\u201d\n\n[AN OPENING FOR THE PROFESSION.]\n\nIn this connection we may remark that no profession is more overcrowded\nat the present time than that of medicine, particularly in the United\nKingdom, the English Colonies, and the United States. Hundreds of young\nmen graduate from medical colleges every year, vainly seeking openings\nfor a practice; and some, for the purpose of gaining a livelihood,\nresort to expedients which the _Lancet_ denounces as undignified,\nunprofessional, and disgraceful.[18] Then, again, the number of nurses\nand of those qualifying for this honourable vocation is already\nin excess of the demand, and nursing institutions under the keen\ncompetition to which they are subjected, are reducing their charges.\nNow, the care and treatment of the supposed dead is an honourable\nvocation, offering a wide field for the instructed physician and the\ntender and sympathetic nurse, and if the appliances for resuscitation\nwere always at hand, as they should be, in every hospital, town-hall,\nmortuary, police station, and in all large hotels and churches, many\nlives now subjected to the risks of premature burial would be saved.\nWhile in London there are two or more houses or retreats for the dying,\nthere is no place for the apparently dead but a shunned and neglected\ncoffin. The time is not far distant when the present mode of treating\nthe dead and the apparently dead--a practice born of superstition\nand fear, by which many are consigned to premature graves--will be\ncatalogued amongst the barbarisms of the nineteenth century.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nNUMBER OF CASES OF PREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\nTHOSE interested in the movement, if we are right in designating the\nwidespread feeling of discontent by this name, are occasionally asked\nif the cases of premature burial are numerous, and what estimates,\nif any, have been made of them. We have no means of answering these\nqueries. We do not even know the percentage of people who are subject\nto trance, catalepsy, shocks, stroke of lightning, syncope, exhausting\nlethargy, excessive opium-eating, or other diseases or conditions\nwhich produce the various death-counterfeits. Personal inquiries over\na considerable portion of Europe, America, and the East prove that\nsuch cases are by no means of infrequent occurrence, and this is the\ndeliberate conclusion of nearly all the authorities cited in this\nvolume.\n\nDr. Chambers wrote in 1787--\u201cEvery age and country affords instances\nof surprising recoveries, after lying long for dead. From the number\nof those preserved by lucky accidents, we may conclude a far greater\nnumber might have been preserved by timely pains and skill.\u201d--_Cited in\nMort Apparente et Mort R\u00e9elle, p. 17._\n\nIn his introduction to the work above cited, \u201cInformation Relative\nto Persons who have been Buried Alive,\u201d by Henrich Friedrich K\u00f6ppen,\nHalle, 1799, the author says:--\u201cGeneral Staff Medical Officer, D. O.\nin D., states that, in his opinion, one third of mankind are buried\nalive.\u201d This estimate is very obviously exaggerated, although many\ntrustworthy experiences prove that a certain number of those who die\nhave returned to consciousness in their graves. A great many are buried\nalive from ignorance of their relatives, who mistake coldness of the\nbody, stoppage of the pulse and breathing, the colour of death, spots\nof discolouration, a certain odour, and stiffness of the limbs--which\nare only deceptive signs, not the signs of real death.\n\n[DR. HUFELAND\u2019S ADVICE.]\n\nThe very respectable Dr. Hufeland says:--\u201cOne cannot be too careful in\ndeciding as to life or death, therefore I always advise a delay of the\nfuneral as long as possible, so as to make all certain as to death. No\nwonder when those who are buried alive, and who undergo indescribable\ntorture, condemn those who have been dearest to them in life. They will\nhave to undergo slow suffocation, in furious despair, while scratching\ntheir flesh to pieces, biting their tongues, and smashing their heads\nagainst their narrow houses that confine them, and calling to their\nbest friends, and cursing them as murderers. The dead should not be\nburied before the fourth day; we even have examples that prove that\neight days or a fortnight is too soon--as there have been revivals as\nlate as that. I say every one should respect those who only seem to\nbe dead. They should be treated gently, and kept in a warm bed for\nthirty-six hours.\u201d\n\nMr. John Snart, in his \u201cThesaurus,\u201d pp. 27, 28, London, 1817,\nsays:--\u201cThe number of dreadful catastrophes, arising from premature\ninterment, ... that have been _discovered_ only, or have transpired\nto man, _above ground_, both in ancient and modern times, conveys to\nevery reflecting mind the fearful thought that they are but a _sample_\n(per synecdochen) out of such an incalculable host, perhaps one in a\nthousand.\u201d\n\nProfessor Frori\u00e9p, quoted in Kempner\u2019s volume, says that--\u201cIn 1829,\narrangements were made at the cemetery, New York, so as to bury the\ncorpses in such manner as not to prevent them communicating with the\noutside world, in case any should have awakened to life; and among\ntwelve hundred persons buried six came to life again.\u201d In Holland, the\nsame author states, of a thousand cases investigated, five came to life\nbefore burial or at the grave. The Rev. J. G. Ouseley, in his pamphlet\non \u201cEarth to Earth Burial,\u201d London, 1895, estimates \u201cthat two thousand\nseven hundred persons at least, in England and Wales, are yearly\nconsigned to a living death, the most horrible conceivable.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Walter Whiter, in the \u201cDisorder of Death,\u201d 1819, p. 362,\ncalls attention to one of the reports (of Humane Societies) where the\nfollowing passage occurs: \u201cMonsieur Thieurey, Doctor Regent of the\nFaculty of Paris, is of opinion that one third, or perhaps half, of\nthose who die in their beds are not actually dead when they are buried.\nHe does not mean to say that so great a number would be restored to\nlife. In the intermediate state, which reaches from the instant of\napparent death to that of total extinction of life, the body is not\ninsensible to the treatment it receives, though unable to give any\nsigns of sensibility.\u201d\n\nMaximilian Misson, in his \u201cVoyage Through Italy,\u201d vol. i., letter 5,\ntells us \u201cthat the number of persons who have been interred as dead,\nwhen they were really alive, is very great, in comparison with those\nwho have been, happily, rescued from their graves.\u201d He then proceeds\nto substantiate his statement by the recital of cases.\n\n[VARIOUS ESTIMATES.]\n\nDr. L\u00e9once L\u00e9normand, in his able treatise, \u201cDes Inhumations\nPr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d has given his deliberate opinion that a thousandth part\nof the human race have been, and are, for want of knowledge, annually\nburied alive. This we regard as an under, rather than an overestimate.\n\nM. Le Guern, in his \u201cDanger des Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d which has\npassed through several editions, declares that he has personally met\nwith forty-six cases of premature burial in twelve years. He devoted\nthirty years to the study of the facts, and collected a list of two\nthousand three hundred and thirteen cases from various sources. He\nestimates the number of premature burials in France at two per thousand.\n\nOn February 27, 1866, the petition of M. Cornot was presented to the\nFrench Senate by M. de la Gueronni\u00e8re, stating that a comparatively\nlarge number of persons are annually buried alive, which he supported\nby statistics. The author has tried to procure a copy of this petition,\nbut these documents are not published by the State department.\n\nThe following appears in the _Lancet_, June 14, 1884, p. 1104:--\n\n\n \u201cBURIED ALIVE.\n\n \u201cSir,--That this is an incident that does happen, and frequently\n has happened, has for some years past been my firm conviction; and\n during epidemics, particularly in the East, its possible contingency\n has frequently caused me much anxiety; and when the burial has, for\n sanitary reasons, had to be very hurried, I always made it a rule to\n withhold my certificate unless I had personally inspected the body and\n assured myself of the fact of death.\n\n \u201cThe reason and necessity for extreme caution in such matters were\n impressed vividly upon me some years ago, when visiting the crypt\n of the cathedral at Bordeaux, where two bodies were shown, to whom,\n I think it obvious, this most terrible of all occurrences must have\n happened; and I am unable to attribute the position in which they were\n found in their coffins, and the look of horror which their faces still\n displayed, to any action of _rigor mortis_ or any other _post-mortem_\n change, but simply and solely to their having awakened to a full\n appreciation of their most awful position. In the case of one of\n these bodies, which was found lying on its side, the legs were drawn\n up nearly to a level with the abdomen, and the arms were in such a\n position as to convey the impression that both they and the legs had\n been used in a desperate, but futile, attempt to push out the side of\n the coffin; whilst the look of horror remaining on the face was simply\n indescribable. In the other case, the body was found lying on its\n face, the arms extended above the head, as if attempting to push out\n the top of the coffin. In the year 1870 these two bodies were still on\n view; and the attendants used to dwell at some length upon the horrors\n of being interred alive. It appears that some years prior to 1870,\n in making excavations in a church-yard in the immediate vicinity of\n the cathedral, the workmen came upon a belt of ground that apparently\n was impregnated with some antiseptic material, as all the bodies\n within this belt, to the number of about two hundred, were found to\n be almost as perfect as when they were buried; of these a selection\n appears to have been made; and at the time I mention about thirty or\n forty were exhibited, propped up on iron frames, in the crypt of the\n cathedral. The impression left on my mind at the time was that; if out\n of two hundred bodies so discovered there could be two in which, to\n say the least, there is a strong probability of live interment, this\n awful possibility was a thing that should receive more attention than\n is generally devoted to it.--I am, Sir, your obedient servant,\n\n  \u201cH. S.\n\n \u201cBayswater, June 10, 1884.\u201d\n\n[PROTESTS OF GENERAL COUNCILS.]\n\nProtests against the present state of the law in France are very\nfrequent. M. Gaubert in \u201cLes Chambres Mortuaires d\u2019Attente,\u201d page 80,\nsays: \u201cDuring the monarchy of July petitions have not ceased to come\nin from all parts of France to the Chamber of Deputies.\u201d For a great\nnumber of years, said the Deputy Varin, in the sitting of April 10,\n1847, every year petitions having the same object (the prevention\nof premature burial) are presented to the Chambers and referred to\nthe Ministry. What has been done, however? Nothing! Again M. Gaubert\nin p. 88, referring to resolutions of the General Councils of the\nDepartments, observes: \u201cThat under the movement of protest, which we\nare examining and find particularly serious, is shown the widespread\ncharacter which it assumes. It is, indeed, from all parts of France,\nand under every form, that the sad complaints of the public (for the\nprevention of premature burial) arrive at the office of the Minister\nof the Interior. Those protests adopted by the General Councils (of\nDepartments) were not the less numerous nor the less conspicuous in\nimportant places. Many of those who take the trouble to petition\nor draw up resolutions have been prompted to action by melancholy\nexperience of such catastrophes in their own families.\u201d\n\nM. Gaubert in \u201cLes Chambres Mortuaires d\u2019Attente\u201d (Paris, 1895), pp.\n193-195, says that in France there are in round numbers thirty-six\nthousand Communes, and it is beyond doubt that in every one of these\nwill be found cases of premature burial. Communes with a population\nof eight hundred have even several. Dr. Pineau has recorded twelve in\nthe single Commune of Fontenay-le-Comte in Poitou. In the large towns,\nespecially in those which have great hospitals, the proportion is\nmore considerable. In Paris, Dr. Rousseau, verificateur of the dead,\nin 1853 wrote: \u201cLe m\u00e9decin n\u2019est jamais appel\u00e9 que pour constater la\nmort apparente.\u201d M. Gaubert declares that he would not be far from the\ntruth in estimating the number of victims to apparent death at eight\nthousand a year, and asks if France be so rich in population as to be\nable to pay such an enormous tribute. Dr. Josat, laur\u00e9at de l\u2019Institut,\ndeclares that a considerable number of people refuse to visit France\nthrough fear that they might be overtaken by apparent death and\nprecipitately buried alive.\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 Journal_, July 22, 1889, the editor of which has\nexceptional opportunities of knowing the true facts, observes: \u201cIt\nhas been proved beyond all contradiction that there are more burials\nalive than is generally supposed. Stories of these cases are numerous.\nFive cases are reported on p. 85 of this same issue, one the wife of a\nwell-known tradesman at St. Leonards, medically pronounced dead, but\nwho revived before it was too late. Many undertakers could describe\nsimilar experiences.\u201d\n\n[OPINIONS OF DRS. CHEW AND HARTMANN.]\n\nDr. Roger S. Chew, of Calcutta, in reply to the author\u2019s inquiries\nwhile in India in the early part of the year (1896) says: \u201cThere are\nhundreds of instances on record where from some cause, as syncope,\nshock, chloroform, hysteria, or other condition not clearly understood,\nthe powers of life assumed a static condition in which oxidation\nwas completely arrested, carbonification was held in abeyance, and\nnitrification maintained at positive rest, with the consequence that\nthe vital functions have passed into a condition of hibernation or\napparent death so closely simulating real or absolute death as to\nrender differential diagnosis an almost impossibility, and to lead to\nthe interment or cremation while yet alive of a body apparently dead.\u201d\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann, of Hallein, Austria, whose book, \u201cBuried Alive,\u201d\nis now being translated into French, has collected seven hundred cases\nof premature burial and narrow escapes, several of which have occurred\nin his own neighbourhood, and is of opinion that the actual danger to\nevery member of the human family is of serious proportions, and that\nthe subject should not be trifled with. He is a strong advocate for\ncremation as offering the easiest practical method of prevention.\n\nIt will have been noticed that whenever the subject of premature burial\nhas been introduced in an influential journal published in England,\nthe United States, or the Continent, one contribution follows another\nin quick succession, by persons furnishing particulars of cases of\ntrance, catalepsy, and of narrow escapes from living burial. The Paris\n_Figaro_ opened its columns two years ago for this subject, and in\nfifteen days received four hundred letters from all parts of France.\nWhen we consider that nearly all the reported cases of resuscitation\nhave come about spontaneously and independently of human intervention,\nit becomes evident, owing to our ignorance and apathy, that cases of\npremature burial are far from infrequent, and our church-yards and\ncemeteries, like those examined by Dr. Thouret in Paris, are probably\nthe silent witnesses of unnumbered unspeakable tragedies. Immediate\nlegislation is called for to remedy a national evil, and to remove the\nfeeling of disquietude which extensively prevails.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nEMBALMING AND DISSECTIONS.\n\n\nAN intelligent and observing correspondent writes to the author that\n\u201cunder the prevailing custom of embalming in vogue in the United\nStates, it is almost impossible to have a living burial, as the\ninjection of the fluids used in the operation would prevent revival\nand make death certain. Of course, the class denominated \u2018poor folks,\u2019\nwho cannot afford this security, have to take their chances with the\nmysteries of trance and other forms of apparent death, as well as with\nignorance, indifference, and unseemly haste, that seem to encompass a\nman at a time when he is in need of the most considerate care.\u201d\n\nEmbalming is no doubt preferable, as was thought by the late Lady\nBurton, to the risks, prevailing in almost all countries, of burial\nbefore careful medical examination, for the reason that it is better\nto be killed outright by the embalmer\u2019s poisonous injections, or even\nto come to life under the scalpel of the anatomist, than to recover\nunderground. A leading New York investigator has openly declared his\nbelief that a considerable number of human beings (supposed by their\nrelatives to be dead, but who are really only in a state of death\ntrance) are annually killed in America by the embalming process.\n\n\nEMBALMING.\n\nIn the second edition of Dr. Curry\u2019s \u201cObservations on Apparent Death,\u201d\n1815, p. 105, the case is cited of William, Earl of Pembroke, who died\nApril 10, 1630. When the body was opened in order to be embalmed, he\nwas observed, immediately after the incision was made, to lift up his\nhand.\n\nF. Kempner, in \u201cDenkschrift,\u201d p. 6, says:--\n\n \u201cOwing to some great mental excitement, the Cardinal Spinosa fell\n into a state of apparent death. He was declared to be dead by his\n physicians, and they proceeded to open his chest for the purpose of\n embalming his body. When the lungs were laid open, the heart began\n to beat again; the cardinal returned to consciousness, and was just\n able to grasp the knife of the surgeon when he fell back and died in\n reality.\u201d[19]\n\n[PREMATURE EMBALMENT.]\n\nThe _Journal de Rouen_, Aug. 5th, 1837, relates the following:--\n\n \u201cCardinal Somaglia was seized with a severe illness, from extreme\n grief; he fell into a state of syncope, which lasted so long that the\n persons around him thought him dead. Preparations were instantly made\n to embalm his body, before the putrefactive process should commence,\n in order that he might be placed in a leaden coffin, in the family\n vault. The operator had scarcely penetrated into his chest when the\n heart was seen to beat. The unfortunate patient, who was returning to\n his senses at that moment, had still sufficient strength to push away\n the knife of the surgeon, but too late, for the lung had been mortally\n wounded, and the patient died in a most lamentable manner.\u201d\n\nDr. Hartmann in \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d p. 80, says:--\n\n \u201cThe celebrated actress Mlle. Rachel died at Paris, on 4th January,\n 1858. After the process of embalming her body had already begun, she\n awoke from her trance, but died ten hours afterwards owing to the\n injuries that had been inflicted upon her.\u201d\n\nThe _Celestial City_, New York, June 15, 1889, records:--\n\n\n \u201cMRS. BISHOP\u2019S EXPERIENCE.\n\n \u201cMrs. Eleanor Fletcher Bishop, the mother of the celebrated\n mind-reader, has a thrilling experience of her own regarding the\n horrors of being railroaded into the grave. Anent the unseemly haste\n exercised by the doctors who made the autopsy on her son, the old lady\n stated what terrible perils she at one time barely escaped. \u2018I am\n subject to the same cataleptic trances in which my boy often fell,\u2019\n said Mrs. Bishop. \u2018One can see and hear everything, but speech and\n movement are paralyzed. It is horrible. For six days, some years ago,\n I was in a trance, and saw arrangements being made for my funeral.\n Only my brother\u2019s determined resistance prevented them from embalming\n me, and I lay there and heard it all. On the seventh day I came to\n myself, but the agony I endured left its mark forever.\u2019\u201d\n\nDr. P. J. Gibbons, M.A., says:--\n\n\u201cIn my mind there is no doubt that bodies in which life is not extinct\nare embalmed. To prevent the embalming of live bodies in cases where\ndoubt exists, my method for resuscitation should be resorted to. If\nsuccess does not follow, death has taken place. When one in whom the\nvital spark may possibly not yet have fled is found, two objects should\nbe aimed at, viz., first, to restore breathing, and, second, to promote\nwarmth and circulation.\u201d--_The Casket_, Rochester, New York, April 1,\n1895.\n\nThe Select Committee of the House of Commons appointed in 1893 to\nenquire into the subject of Death Certification, suggests in their\nreport that in all cases where it is desired to embalm a dead body\nan authorisation should be obtained from the Home Secretary. This is\nprobably intended to prevent concealing cases of death by poisoning.\nThe Select Committee might very well have extended its recommendations\nto the need of verifying the death before the embalmer was allowed to\nexercise his art on the subject. Legislation in the United States,\nwhere embalming is extensively practised among well-to-do people, is a\nmatter of urgent necessity. The author is aware of only one town where\nthe city ordinance enforces such verification before permitting burial.\n\nMr. M. Cooper, surgeon, in his admirable little volume \u201cThe Uncertainty\nof the Signs of Death,\u201d London, 1746, p. 196, observes that \u201cthose who\nare dissected run no risk of being interred alive. The operation is an\ninfallible means to secure them from so terrible a fate. This is one\nadvantage which persons dissected have over those who are, without any\nfurther ceremony, shut up in their coffins.\u201d\n\n[PREMATURE AUTOPSIES.]\n\nThe following from Ogston\u2019s _Medical Jurisprudence_, p. 370, is a\ncase in point (quoted by the _Lancet_):--\u201cIn October, 1840, a servant\ngirl, who had retired to bed apparently in perfect health, was found\nthe following morning, as it appeared, dead. A surgeon who was called\npronounced her to have been dead for some hours. A coroner\u2019s inquest\nwas summoned for four o\u2019clock, and the reporter and the surgeon who\nhad been called in to the girl were ordered to inspect the body\nprevious to its sitting. On proceeding to the house for this purpose\nat two o\u2019clock, the inspectors found the girl lying in bed in an easy\nposture, her face pallid, but placid and composed, as if she were in\na deep sleep, while the heat of the body had not diminished. A vein\nwas opened by them, and various stimuli applied, but without affording\nany sign of resuscitation. After two hours of hesitation and delay, a\nmessage being brought that the jury were waiting for their evidence,\nthey were forced to proceed to the inspection. In moving the body for\nthis purpose, the warmth and pliancy of the limbs were such as to give\nthe examiners the idea that they had to deal with a living subject! The\ninternal cavities, as they proceeded, were found so warm that a very\ncopious steam issued from them on exposure. All the viscera were in a\nhealthy state, and nothing was detected which could throw the smallest\nlight on the cause of this person\u2019s death.\u201d Tidy (_Legal Medicine_),\npart i., p. 140, remarks thereon--\u201cA mistake had no doubt been made in\nthis case, as its warmth was not caused by decomposition.\u201d\n\nIn the _Cyclop\u00e6dia of Practical Medicine_, edited by Sir John\nForbes, M.D., and others, 1847, vol. i., pp. 548-9, we find the\nfollowing:--\u201cNothing is more certain than death; nothing is more\nuncertain at times than its reality; and numerous instances are\nrecorded of persons prematurely buried, or actually at the verge of the\ngrave before it was discovered that life still remained; and even of\nsome who were resuscitated by the knife of the anatomist.... Bruhier,\na celebrated French physician, who wrote on the uncertainties of the\nsigns of death in 1742, relates an instance of a young woman upon whose\nsupposed corpse an anatomical examination was about to be made when\nthe first stroke of the scalpel revealed the truth; she recovered,\nand lived many years afterwards. The case related by Philippe Pue is\nsomewhat similar. He proceeded to perform the C\u00e6sarean section upon\na woman who had to all appearance died undelivered, when the first\nincision betrayed the awful fallacy under which he acted.... \u2018There\nis scarcely a dissecting-room that has not some traditional story\nhanded down of subjects restored to life after being deposited within\nits walls. Many of these are mere inventions to catch the ever greedy\near of curiosity; but some of them are, we fear, too well founded to\nadmit of much doubt. To this class belongs the circumstance related\nby Louis, the celebrated French writer on medical jurisprudence. A\npatient who was supposed to have died in the Hospital Salp\u00e9tri\u00e8re was\nremoved to his dissecting-room. Next morning Louis was informed that\nmoans had been heard in the theatre; and on proceeding thither he\nfound to his horror that the supposed corpse had revived during the\nnight, and had actually died in the struggle to disengage himself from\nthe winding sheet in which he was enveloped. This was evident from\nthe distorted attitude in which the body was found. Allowing for much\nof the fiction with which such a subject must ever be mixed, there\nis still sufficient evidence to warrant a diligent examination of\nthe means of discriminating between real and apparent death; indeed,\nthe horror with which we contemplate a mistake of the living for the\ndead should excite us to the pursuit of knowledge by which an event\nso repugnant to our feelings may be avoided.... If life depends upon\nthe presence of a force or power continually opposed to the action of\nphysical and chemical laws, real death will be the loss of this force,\nand the abandonment of organised bodies to these agents; while apparent\ndeath will be only the suspension of the exercise of life, caused by\nsome derangement of the functions which serve as instruments of vital\naction. This suspension must have been lost for a considerable time,\nif we may judge by the cases collected by credible authors, to some of\nwhich we have alluded, and by the numerous instances of drowned persons\nrestored to life after long submersion. From this definition of life\nand death, it would follow that putrefaction is the only evidence of\nreal death.\u2019 ... The absence of the circulation of the blood has been\nlooked upon as a certain indication of death; but this test is not much\nto be depended on, for it is well known that persons may live even for\nhours in whom no trace of the action of the heart and arteries can be\nperceived.\u201d\n\nLe Guern, in \u201cDu Danger Des Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d chap. iv., p. 24,\nrelates that \u201cThe Abb\u00e9 Pr\u00e9vost was found in the forest of Chantilly\nperfectly insensible. They thought him dead. A surgeon proceeded\nto make a _post-mortem_; but hardly had he put the scalpel in the\nbody of the unfortunate victim before the supposed corpse uttered a\ncry, and the surgeon realised the mistake he had made. Pr\u00e9vost only\nbecame conscious to feel aware of the horror of the death by which he\nperished.\u201d\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann, in his \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d p. 80, has the\nfollowing:--\n\n \u201cIn May, 1864, a man died very suddenly at a hospital in the State of\n New York, and, as the doctors could not explain the cause of death,\n they resolved upon a _post-mortem_ examination, but, when they made\n the first cut with the knife, the supposed dead man jumped up and\n grasped the doctor\u2019s throat. The doctor was terrified and died of\n apoplexy on the spot, but the \u201cdead\u201d man recovered fully.\n\nBrigade-Surgeon W. Curran in his 8th paper, entitled \u201cBuried Alive,\u201d\nrelates the following:--\u201cAt the Medical College at Calcutta, on the 1st\nof February, 1861,\u201d so writes my friend as above, \u201cthe body of a Hindu\nmale, about 25 years of age, was brought from the police hospital for\ndissection.... It was brought to the dissecting-room about 6 a.m., and\nthe arteries were injected with arsenical solution about 7. At 11 the\nprosector opened the thorax and abdomen for the purpose of dissecting\nthe sympathetic nerve. At noon Mr. Macnamara distinctly saw the heart\nbeating; there was a regular rythmical vermicular action of the right\nauricle and ventricle. The pericardium was open, the heart being freely\nexposed, and lying to the left in its natural position. The heart\u2019s\naction, although regular, was very weak and slow. The left auricle was\nalso in action, but the left ventricle was contracted and rigid, and\napparently motionless. These spontaneous contractions continued till\nabout 12.45 p.m., and, further, the right side of this organ contracted\non the application of a stimulus, such as the point of a scalpel, &c.,\nfor a quarter of an hour longer.\u201d--_Health_, May 21st, 1886, p. 121.\n\nBruhier in his work, \u201cDissertation sur l\u2019Incertitude de la Mort et\nl\u2019Abus des Enterrements,\u201d records a number of cases of the supposed\ndead who, after burial, were revived at the dissecting table, together\nwith fifty-three that awoke in their coffins before being buried,\nfifty-two persons actually buried alive, and seventy-two other cases of\napparent death. This was at a time when body-snatching was in vogue,\nand it is a curious comment on our civilisation to be compelled to\nadmit that a subject of trance or catalepsy during the last or the\nearly part of the present century had a better chance of escape from so\nterrible a fate than now, when the vocation of the resurrection-man has\nbecome obsolete.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nDEATH-CERTIFICATION.\n\n\nA SELECT COMMITTEE of the House of Commons, under the chairmanship\nof Sir Walter Foster, M.D., was appointed on March 27, 1893, to\ninquire into the subject of death-certification in the United Kingdom.\nFourteen sittings were held, and thirty-two witnesses examined. All\nthe witnesses practically agreed as to the serious defects in the law,\nand a number of recommendations were made. It was shown that in about\nfour per cent. of the cases the cause of death was ill-defined and\nunspecified, many practitioners having forms specially printed for\ntheir own use, in which all mention of medical attendance is omitted,\nthe object being to enable the doctor to give certificates in cases\nwhich he has never attended. Numerous deaths attended by unqualified\npractitioners were certified by qualified practitioners who had\nprobably never seen the cases; and deaths were certified by medical\npractitioners who had not seen the patient for weeks or months prior\nto death, and who knew only by hearsay of the deaths having occurred.\nDeaths were also certified in which the true cause was suppressed in\ndeference to the feelings of survivors; these last in particular are\nreported to be very numerous.\n\n[INADEQUATE RECOMMENDATIONS.]\n\nIn Q. 2552-83, remarkable evidence was produced as to the reckless mode\nof death-certification. One medical witness testified that he saw a\ncertificate of death, signed by a registered medical practitioner,\ngiving both the fact and the cause of death of a man who was actually\nalive at the time, and who lived four days afterwards, with facts of\neven a more startling character described as \u201cmurder made easy.\u201d It was\npointed out that fraud and irregularity in giving false declarations of\ndeath are by no means infrequent. Various other matters are treated,\nand the following are some of their recommendations:--\n\n 1. That in no case should a death be registered without the production\n of a certificate of the cause of death by a registered medical\n practitioner, or by a coroner after inquest, or, in Scotland, by a\n procurator-fiscal.\n\n 2. That in each sanitary district a registered medical practitioner\n should be appointed as public medical certifier of the cause of\n death in cases in which a certificate from a medical practitioner in\n attendance was not forthcoming.\n\n 3. That a medical practitioner in attendance should be required,\n before giving a certificate of death, to personally inspect the body,\n but if, on the ground of distance, or for other sufficient reason, he\n is unable to make this inspection himself, he should obtain and attach\n to the certificate of the cause of death a certificate signed by two\n persons, neighbours, verifying the fact of death.\n\n 4. That medical practitioners be required to send certificates of\n death direct to the registrar instead of handing them to the relatives\n of the deceased.\n\n 5. That a form of certificate of death should be prescribed, and that\n medical practitioners should be required to use such form.\n\nFrom the _Times_, May 23, 1896:--\n\n\n DEATH-CERTIFICATION.\n\n At the special meeting of the Metropolitan Counties Branch of the\n British Medical Association, held last night at the Museum of\n Practical Geology, Jermyn Street, the subject of an improvement in\n the present procedure in death-certification and registration came up\n for discussion. Sir W. Priestley, M.P., president, took the chair.\n\n Sir Henry Thompson moved the following resolution:--\u201cConsidering\n that a Select Committee of the House of Commons has in 1893 made\n an extended inquiry into the subject of death-certification and\n registration on the plan now followed in this country, and has\n reported that it manifestly fails to accomplish the purpose for\n which it was designed, this meeting is of opinion that Her Majesty\u2019s\n Government should be respectfully memorialised to bring in a bill as\n soon as possible to give effect to an improved procedure in general\n accordance with the suggestions offered in the Committee\u2019s report.\u201d\n He said that, during the last twenty years or more, circumstances had\n not unfrequently occurred to attract public attention to the existence\n of grave defects in the system of death-certification adopted in this\n country, whether regarded as a safeguard against criminal attempts\n on life, or as a means of forming trustworthy records of disease for\n scientific purposes. From the Registrar-General\u2019s report for England\n and Wales for the year 1892, it was shown that in fifteen thousand\n cases of death no inquiry had been made as to its cause, and that no\n certificate had been obtained from any source--a number amounting to\n nearly three per cent. on the total returned for the year. On the\n same authority it appeared that in twenty-five thousand more, or four\n and a half per cent., the cases \u201cwere so inadequately certified as\n not to be classifiable,\u201d making together a class of seven and a half\n per cent. in which no evidence of any value as to the cause of death\n existed. After what had already been done in the matter, all that\n appeared to be necessary at present seemed to him to be that they\n should forward a memorial to the Home Secretary, with a request that\n he would consider the important work which had been already done by\n the Select Committee, and, if he saw fit, take steps to embody their\n recommendations in an Act of Parliament, for the purpose of giving the\n country a greatly improved procedure in exchange for that at present\n employed. Dr. Isambard Owen, in the absence of Dr. Farquharson, M.P.,\n seconded the resolution, and asserted that the State now winked at\n an exceedingly loose system of death-certification, since under\n the present procedure it was possible for a medical man to give a\n death-certificate on a patient whom he might not have seen for an\n interval of several weeks, and perhaps months. The resolution was\n supported by Dr. Nelson Hardy, Dr. Alderson, Dr. Hugh Woods, Dr.\n Sykes, and others, and was unanimously adopted.\n\nA well-known physician in large practice, writing to the author from\na Midland town, October 10, 1895, says:--\u201cMedical men, attending\npatients seriously ill, accept the statement of the friends that the\npatient died in the night, and give a certificate at once, without any\ninspection of the body. This is the regular practice.\u201d\n\n[INTERMENTS WITHOUT CERTIFICATES.]\n\nIn Ireland matters are no better, and clergymen and others, with whom\nthe author has been in correspondence, say they are much worse, and\nthe danger of premature burial is, if possible, greater than it is in\nEngland. The Rev. W. Walters, writing from Ventry Parsonage, Dingle,\nIreland, September 16, 1895, says:--\u201cIn Ireland interment usually takes\nplace the day after decease, and no certificate as to the cause of\ndeath is ever required. There is no safeguard whatever, and amongst the\nignorant poor I fear premature burial is terribly frequent.\u201d\n\nA prominent medical officer of health, having charge of a populous\nmetropolitan parish, wrote to the author, October 8, 1895, in reply to\ninquiries:--\u201cWhen a doctor attends a patient in an illness, and the\npatient dies, he usually accepts the word of the friends as to the\nfacts of death, and if they are poor, or in moderate circumstances,\nhe grants the certificate in the ordinary way. If he is satisfied as\nto the cause of death he dare not refuse the certificate. You will\nsee by the form I send you that _he need not actually satisfy himself\nthat the patient is dead_; if he is not satisfied he writes, \u2018As I\nam informed,\u2019 in the space left for the words.... On one occasion\nI was directed by a lady to drive a very long hat-pin through her\nheart after death, to ensure that she should not be buried alive.\nI have given so little attention to the matter that I cannot say\nif the Continental practice in this respect is better than ours.\n_Signs of decomposition are, I believe, the only ones of any real\nvalue._ The form of certificate of death referred to is marked,\n\u2018Printed by authority of the Registrar-General,\u2019 and a request marked\n\u2018N.B.\u2019 is to read the suggestions on page ii. In this other form,\nwhich is entitled \u2018Suggestions to medical practitioners respecting\ncertificates of the cause of death,\u2019 elaborate instructions are set\nforth under ten separate clauses, with examples showing in what way the\ndeath-certificates are to be filled up, but not one word of instruction\nor caution as to the fact of death--whether it be real or apparent--the\nabsolute signs of death, or the steps to be taken in doubtful cases,\nor in the various forms of suspended animation, such as coma, trance,\ncatalepsy, etc.\u201d\n\nThe _Times_, January 19, 1878, p. 9, foot of column 6, reports a\nsingular case in point:--\n\n\u201cPREMATURE.--A poor woman lay very ill in her scantily-furnished home\nin Sheffield. The doctor was sent for, and came. He at once saw that\nhers was a very grave case, and that she had, as he thought, little\nchance of recovery, even if she could get the nourishment her illness\nrequired. As he was about to leave, the question was put, \u2018When should\nwe send for you again, doctor?\u2019 \u2018Well,\u2019 was the reply, as he looked at\nthe poor woman and then at her wretched surroundings, \u2018I don\u2019t think\nyou need send for me again. She cannot possibly get better; and to\nsave you further trouble I\u2019ll just write you out a certificate for her\nburial.\u2019 And he did. After the doctor departed the woman--women always\nwere wilful--got better rapidly. She has now completely recovered,\nand goes about carrying her burial certificate with her.--_Sheffield\nTelegraph._\u201d\n\n[WORTHLESS DEATH-CERTIFICATES.]\n\nDr. Charles Cameron, M.P., in moving the introduction of the Disposal\nof the Dead (Regulation) Bill, in the House of Commons, on April 30,\n1884, said:--\u201cA very large number of our population die without any\nmedical attendance at all, or at least without having ever received\nsufficient medical attention to enable a certificate of the cause of\ndeath to be given worth the paper on which it is written. In many\nof these cases some sort of worthless certificate is procured and\npresented to the registrar, but many thousands of persons are each year\nburied in the United Kingdom without even this formality.\u201d\n\nThe contrast between the laxity at home and the regulations laid down\nby authority in W\u00fcrtemburg, Bavaria, and other Continental States, is\nremarkable, and should receive the attention of the Registrar-General\nwithout delay.\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, 1890, vol. i., p. 1440:--\n\n\n\u201cUNCERTIFIED CAUSES OF DEATH IN ENGLAND.\n\n\u201cConsidering the general progress that has been made in public health\nduring the last twenty years, it is seriously to be regretted that this\nmatter of unknown and uncertified causes of death has been practically\nleft untouched, and its settlement is, therefore more urgently needed\nnow than when so often pressed upon the public notice by the late\nDr. William Farr during his connection with the Registrar-General\u2019s\ndepartment.\u201d\n\nThe Parliamentary Committee above referred to omitted an unexampled\nopportunity of inquiring into the facts of premature burial. They\ncould have summoned pathologists, who had made trance and catalepsy a\nsubject of close and searching investigation, as well as physicians,\nwho, in their practice, have been called in to decide upon cases of\napparent death, and of witnesses up and down the country who know\nof such cases, and others who have met with narrow escapes from\nthese horrible mishaps. Instead of taking this reasonable course of\nprocedure, the Committee contented themselves by examining two or\nthree medical men, who had been summoned to give evidence upon the\nirregularities of death-certification only, and whose negative and\napathetic replies showed either that the subject had never engaged\ntheir attention, or that they were unwilling to charge any member of\nthe profession with a fault so ruinous to his professional reputation\nas to be unable to discriminate between the living and the dead. No\nquestions were submitted to the witnesses as to the signs of death,\nthe characteristics of catalepsy, trance, asphyxia, syncope, etc., or\nhow to distinguish these from death, or as to the submission of tests\nin doubtful cases in order to ascertain the fact of death. Indeed, it\nmay be observed that the investigation regarding a most vital point\nconnected with death-certification appears to have entirely escaped\nthe notice of this tribunal. As a specimen of the proceedings under\nthis head are the following (\u201cReport,\u201d p. 116)--Mr. John Tatham, M.A.,\nM.D., being under examination by the chairman, Si Walter Foster, M.D.\n\n[RELUCTANT ANSWERS.]\n\n Q. 2112--Have you ever had any instances within your knowledge, or\n brought to your notice, of cases where persons have been buried\n alive?--Never.\n\n Q. 2113--Do you think such cases occur frequently?--I have no means of\n knowing.\n\n Q. 2114--Supposing the public think they do sometimes, your methods\n (of medical death-certification) would be a great barrier to anything\n like that?--Yes.\n\n Q. 2115--The doctor\u2019s examination and identification of the body would\n enable them to detect in many instances if such an occurrence was\n likely to take place?--I think so.\n\nFurther questions were asked of the same witness by Dr. Farquharson.\n\n Q. 2178--You do not believe in people being buried alive?--I do not\n think that occurs in Manchester.\n\n Q. 2179--Do you think it occurs anywhere?--I do not know.\n\n Q. 2180--We read occasionally very horrifying descriptions of bodies\n having been found to have turned in their coffins. How do you explain\n that?--I am not able to explain it.\n\nA correspondent of the _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_,\nJuly 22, 1893, p. 92, writes:--\n\n\n \u201cPREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n \u201cSir,--The newspapers continue to give us fresh accounts of premature\n burials. Seeing how frequently cases are heard of (in spite of the\n exhumations being not one-thousandth per cent. of the interments), the\n occurrence is probably far more common than is generally supposed.\n It is, therefore, surprising that medical men have not discovered an\n infallible evidence of death--whatever the cause of death may be; or\n a simple means of proving, beyond the possibility of doubt, that life\n is extinct. Further, the application of such a test should, by law,\n be made to form part of the certificate of death.--I am, Sir, your\n obedient servant,\n\n  \u201cLUX.\n\n \u201cJuly 3.\u201d\n\n\nVERIFICATION OF DEATHS.\n\n\u201cIn Paris and the large French towns medical inspectors, called\n_m\u00e9decins verificateurs_, are appointed, whose business it is to visit\neach house where a death occurs, and ascertain that the person is\nreally dead, and that there are no suspicious circumstances connected\nwith his or her decease. More than eighty qualified medical men are\nemployed for this purpose in Paris.\n\n\u201cIn the rural districts of France this system is not in force; two\nwitnesses making a declaration to a civil officer that a death\nhas taken place, is considered sufficient. The burial is not\nallowed to take place until at least twenty-four hours after the\ndeclaration.\u201d--_Blyth: Dictionary of Hygiene and Public Health._\n\n[VERIFICATIONS ILLUSORY.]\n\nDr. L\u00e9once L\u00e9normand, in his admirable work \u201cDes Inhumations\nPr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d p. 140, accuses the _m\u00e9decins des morts_ in France\nwith culpable carelessness in the exercise of their function, which\nconsists in verifying the reality of the death. Instead of making a\nminute examination of the body to ascertain the fact of death, this\nwriter says they are content (except in cases of death from violence)\nto merely glance at the body, and immediately to hand the family the\nnecessary authorisation for interment. The inspector knows that if\nhe examined every part of the body, as in duty bound, he would be\naccused of barbarism and profanation. Those, therefore, who think that\npremature burial could be prevented in England by means only of a more\nstringent law of compulsory death-certification, would, if it were\ncarried, find themselves in hardly any better position than at present,\nwhere the fact of death is left to a great extent to the judgment of\nfriends, if the deceased has any, or to the perfunctory inspection of\nthe undertaker. It is in France where probably, in spite of _m\u00e9decins\nverificateurs_, more premature burials occur than in any country in\nEurope except Turkey, immediate burial after real or apparent death\nbeing the inexorable rule. Dr. L\u00e9normand attributes the frequency\nof premature burials in France, first of all, to the negligence and\nprejudices of the families of the deceased; then to the carelessness of\nthe doctors charged by the State with the inspection of the dead; and\nlastly, to the imperfection of the police regulations.\n\nFrom the _British Medical Journal_, January 28, 1893, p. 204. (Special\nCorrespondence, Paris.)\n\n\u201cPREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\u201cThe question whether premature burial occurs, and how to prevent it,\nis, notwithstanding the all-absorbing interest of the Panama question,\nattracting some attention here. The \u2018Union Medicale\u2019 devotes one of\nits feuilletons to it, in which two or three _nouvelles \u00e0 sensation_\nare reproduced, and easily proved to be untrue. Premature burial\ncannot occur, the writer says, when a death is duly verified. The\n77th Article of the Code obliges the _officier de l\u2019\u00e9tat civil_ to\nvisit the death-bed and verify every death; but this Article is a\ndead letter. The officer in question has neither time nor knowledge\nsufficient to put it in practice. In small country places, rarely any\nprecautions are taken to prevent premature burials. In more important\nvillages and towns, the mayors delegate the doctors of the locality\nto verify deaths before burial. Throughout the whole of France, it\nappears that there are not fifty towns where the death-verifying\nservice is well organised; and, on an average, there are from twenty\nthousand to thirty thousand burials without previous verification of\ndeath. The declaration of two witnesses is sufficient, who obtain\ntheir information from those around the deceased. In Paris, the two\nmortuaries already in existence--one at the Montmartre Cemetery,\nthe other at P\u00e8re La Chaise--are rarely used. The bodies of those\nwho die in the streets, from accident or sudden death, are taken\nthere when there is no domicile; also, those of foreigners who die\nin lodging-houses. In the course of eighteen months the mortuary of\nMontmartre received five dead bodies, and P\u00e8re La Chaise one. In\nGermany the mortuaries are much used, and every arrangement made is in\norder that any who come back to life may be able to easily summon help.\nAt Munich, a ring in connection with a bell-cord is put on one of the\nfingers of the hands of the dead. At Frankfort, similar precautions are\ntaken.\u201d\n\n[CONTINENTAL REGULATIONS.]\n\nExtracts from \u201cRegulations for the Domiciliary Examination of the Dead\nin the City of Brussels Civil Government (Medical Service).\u201d\n\n \u201cARTICLE 1.--The Medical Service of the Civil Government is\n distributed among the medical heads of divisions, the deputies and\n chiefs of the Department of Hygiene.\u201d\n\n \u201cARTICLE 5.--No interment can take place except after the decease has\n been verified by the doctors of the Civil Government by means of a\n careful and complete examination of the corpse.\u201d\n\nThis verification, as well as the identity of the person deceased,\nshall be certified by a _proc\u00e8s-verbal_ [statement, or description,\nfor which a blank is furnished \u201cA\u201d], which they shall leave at the\nhouse of the deceased.\n\n \u201cARTICLE 8.--They shall notify the officers of the Civil Government,\n and their superintendents of police, of any infractions of the\n regulation provisions which forbid proceeding with autopsy, moulding\n [making a cast?], embalmment, or putting in a coffin the corpse,\n before the death has been duly ascertained.\u201d\n\n \u201cARTICLE 9.--The verification of the decease of still-born or of\n newly-born infants shall exact a most attentive examination on the\n part of the examining doctors. They shall indicate in their report if\n the infant has died before, during, or after birth; and, in the last\n case, how long it lived after birth.\u201d\n\n \u201cARTICLE 10.--If they doubt the reality of the death, they shall\n employ, without delay, every means of recovery that science suggests\n under the circumstances. They shall immediately notify the visiting\n doctor, and, in every case, shall prepare the _proc\u00e8s-verbal_ of the\n verification of death only after certainty has been established, and,\n if need be, by repeated visits.\u201d\n\n \u201cARTICLE 11.--When a woman has died in a state of advanced pregnancy,\n they shall direct the artificial extraction of the infant, supposed to\n be yet living; and, in the lack of an attending doctor, shall perform\n it themselves when necessary.\u201d\n\n\nEXAMINATION AND CERTIFICATION OF THE DEAD IN W\u00dcRTEMBURG.\n\nA Royal Decree, entitled \u201cDienst-Vorschriften f\u00fcr Leichenha\u00fcser,\u201d\nfor the inspection and burial of the dead, promulgated by the King\nof W\u00fcrtemburg, January 24, 1884, provides for the appointment of\nmedical inspectors of the highest integrity and qualifications in\nevery commune, the position being justly regarded as one of great\nresponsibility.\n\nImmediately after a death, the body must under no circumstances be\ninterfered with, and must not be removed from the death-bed until after\nthe authorised inspection. _Post-mortems_ can be made only if the fact\nof death has been previously clearly established. Precise instructions\nare laid down, so that the inspector, who is to examine the entire\nbody, may see that the various forms of suspended animation are not\ncertified as actual death. Amongst these are the following:--\n\n \u201cSection ii.--To see that sensibility, pulsation of the heart, neck,\n temples, and forearm, and the breath, have ceased. That the muscles of\n the body have lost their elasticity; therefore the limbs are limp, the\n face sunken, the nose pinched, the eyes sunken, and, when the eyelids\n are forcibly opened, they remain so, the lower jaw drops more or less,\n and drops again when pressed upwards.\n\n \u201cIn actual death the body gradually gets colder, beginning with the\n exposed limbs, and in from ten to sixteen hours the body will be\n quite cold. The colour of the face becomes ashy pale, and the lips\n discoloured. The eye loses its brilliancy, and is usually dulled by a\n covering of dried mucus.\n\n \u201cIf all the foregoing symptoms are exhibited, and particularly if the\n deceased was of an advanced age, or if the death was caused by severe\n or long illness, which led to the expectation of a fatal result, the\n fact of death may be safely assumed.\n\n \u201cBut, on the other hand, if part of these symptoms are missing, or in\n cases of pregnancy, or exhaustion in consequence of flooding after\n confinement, or if death occurs under fits, or in violent outbursts\n of passion, the possibility of counterfeit-death is to be taken for\n granted.\n\n \u201cNotwithstanding the existence of all the symptoms (signs of death)\n before mentioned, the possibility of _apparent_ death is not excluded\n in cases where the death has occurred after syncope, tetanus,\n suffocation, or in cases of drowning, stroke of lightning, or from a\n severe fall, or from frost, or in still-born children.\u201d\n\nAfter detailing instructions as to a variety of experiments to\nascertain whether the death is actual or apparent, this Royal Decree\nproceeds:--\n\n \u201cSection viii.--These experiments may, however, not give absolute\n certainty as to the complete extinction of all life. If, therefore,\n the slightest doubt remains as to the reality of death, the inspector\n is to take the necessary precautions for the protection of the\n deceased, by frequent inspections, and the most careful examinations,\n and to obtain the assistance of the nearest physician or surgeon, who\n is to co-operate with him to promote resuscitation. If these attempts\n prove abortive, he must see that nothing is done which would be\n detrimental to reanimation, or resumption of life.\u201d\n\nThen follow minute instructions how to proceed under the varied\ncircumstances which may have produced the symptoms known as apparent\ndeath. _In no case must the burial certificate be handed over by the\ninspector until he has thoroughly satisfied himself of the presence of\nunmistakable signs of actual death._\n\nOne cannot help contrasting these carefully considered rules with\nthe lax and haphazard methods of dealing with the dead and apparent\ndead both in England and in the United States. As a consequence,\ncases of premature burial in W\u00fcrtemburg are of very rare occurrence,\nand sensible people in that country, knowing that the danger of\npremature burial has been reduced to a minimum, are not consumed by an\never-abiding anxiety as with us, nor is it the custom for testators in\nW\u00fcrtemburg to give instructions to their executors for piercing the\nheart or severing the jugular vein, or some other form of mutilation,\nas in France, Spain, and other countries, where the risks are so\nterribly great.\n\n[IN W\u00dcRTEMBURG.]\n\nThe only case of the danger of premature burial that has come to the\nauthor\u2019s notice in W\u00fcrtemburg is related by Bouchut, in his \u201cSignes de\nla Mort,\u201d p. 48:--\n\n \u201cIn the village of Achen, in W\u00fcrtemburg, Mrs. Eva Meyers, twenty-three\n years of age, was taken ill during an epidemic. Her condition became\n rapidly worse, and she apparently died. They put her into a coffin,\n and carried her from the warm into a cold room, there to await burial,\n which was to take place at two p.m. on the following day. Shortly\n after noon on that day, and before the carriers arrived, she awoke and\n made an effort to rise. Her aunt, who was present, and who believed\n that a ghost had taken possession of her, took a stick and would\n have killed her, if she had not been prevented by another woman.\n Nevertheless, she succeeded in pushing the body back violently into\n the coffin, after which she indignantly went to her room. The patient\n remained helplessly in that condition, and would have been buried if\n the usual hour for the burial had not for some reason been changed.\n Thus she remained for another twelve hours, when she was able to\n gather sufficient strength to arise. She still lives, and has paid\n the charges for her funeral, which were claimed by the clergy, the\n bell-ringer, and the undertaker.\u201d\n\nIn the United States the subject of Death-Verification has only\nrecently begun to engage public attention. The following appears to\nbe the only instance in which reasonable, although not altogether\nadequate, precautions are adopted.\n\n\n \u201cDOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE.--CITY ORDINANCES, 1895.\n\n \u201cCHAP. XVII.--VITAL STATISTICS.\n\n[AN AMERICAN CITY ORDINANCE.]\n\n \u201cSECTION 3.--Whenever any person shall die within the limits of the\n city, it shall be the duty of the physician, attending such person,\n during his or her last sickness, to examine the body of such deceased\n person before the burial thereof, and to make out a certificate,\n setting forth, as far as the same may be ascertained, the name, age,\n colour, sex, nativity, occupation, whether married or single, duration\n of residence in the city, cause, date, and place of death of such\n deceased person; and it shall be the duty of the undertaker, or other\n person in charge of the burial of such deceased person, to add to such\n certificate the date and place of burial, and, having duly signed the\n same, to deposit it with the city clerk, and obtain a permit for\n burial; and, in the case of death from any contagious or infectious\n disease, said certificate shall be made and forwarded immediately;\n and, in each case of a physician so examining and reporting, he shall\n receive of the city a fee of one dollar.\u201d\n\n \u201cSECTION 4.--Whenever a permit for burial is applied for, in case of\n death without the attendance of a physician, or it is impossible to\n obtain a physician\u2019s certificate, it shall be the duty of the city\n physician to make the necessary examination, and to investigate the\n case, and make and sign a certificate of the probable cause of death;\n and, if not satisfied as to the cause and circumstances attending such\n death, he shall so report to the mayor.\u201d\n\n \u201cSECTION 5.--No interment or disinterment of the dead body of any\n human being, or disposition thereof in any tomb, vault, or cemetery,\n shall be made within the city without a permit therefor, granted as\n aforesaid, nor otherwise than in accordance with such permit.\n\n \u201cNo undertaker, superintendent of cemetery, or other person shall\n assist in, assent to, or allow any such interment, or disinterment, to\n be made, until such permit has been given as aforesaid....\n\n \u201cAny person violating any of the provisions of this chapter shall be\n fined not less than ten nor more than twenty dollars.\u201d\n\nMr. A. Braxton Hicks, Barrister-at-Law, and Coroner for London and\nSurrey, states that--\n\n \u201cThe giving of certificates of death, and the registration of deaths,\n is regulated by 37 and 38 Vict. c. 88, called the Registration of\n Births and Deaths Act, its object being to provide a proper and\n accurate registration of births and deaths, with the causes of the\n latter.\n\n \u201cIn case of the death of any person who has been attended during his\n last illness by a registered medical practitioner, that practitioner\n shall sign and give to some person, required by this Act to give\n information concerning the death, a certificate stating, to the best\n of his knowledge and belief, the cause of death.\n\n \u201cNo certificate given by an unregistered medical man can be\n registered, and any person who covers an unregistered medical\n man by giving a certificate, or lending his name to the giving\n of a certificate by an unregistered medical man, is guilty of\n _unprofessional conduct_, as defined by the Medical Council.\u201d--_Hints\n to Medical Men concerning the granting of Certificates of Death._\n\n\nA DOCTOR FOR THE DEAD.\n\nDr. J. Brindley James, in a communication to the _Medical Times_,\nMay 23, 1896, pp. 355-356, calls attention to the insufficient\nsafeguards against premature burial under the present system of\ndeath-certification, and observes--\u201cThe dread possibility of premature\ninterment ever hangs like a gloomy sword of Damocles over all our\nheads, and fearful indeed is the authentic record of persons buried\nalive, who have recovered consciousness; too late, alas! to be rescued\nfrom their frightful dungeon. How often does our overworked--we do not\nsay careless--practitioner sign the death-certificate of a patient\nwhose death-bed he did not attend--whose corpse he has not visited? And\neven assuming him to have done so, and conscientiously too, in how many\nof the fearful cases above alluded to have not these formalities proved\ninsufficient, clearly suggesting the advisability of a specialist,\nexperienced in _post-mortem_ inspection, solely sanctioning interment\nin all cases.\u201d And Dr. Frederick Graves, writing in the same journal of\nJuly 18, 1896, says:--\n\n \u201cI have recently heard of a case which illustrates the utility of\n a medical examination before burial. A soldier in the German army,\n during the forced march on Paris, became unconscious, with five\n others, from sunstroke, and the six were put aside for burial by\n their comrades, when the timely examination of the army surgeon\n prevented premature burial of the person referred to, who is alive and\n well at the present time.\u201d\n\n[STRINGENT LEGISLATION SUGGESTED.]\n\nThe _Daily Chronicle_, London, September 16, 1895, in a leading article\non the danger of premature burial, says:--\u201cThe truth is, the whole\nsystem of certifying for burial needs to be reconsidered and reformed,\nand that for other reasons than the danger of entombment before life is\nextinct. We do not want a coroner\u2019s inquest, with its jury, for every\ndeath; but the doctors should be compelled, under severe penalties, to\ndiscover the certain sign of death before they authorise the burial,\nand to know the cause of death in every case. We trust now too much to\nindividuals in a generally trustworthy profession, who may not reach\nthe high general standard of their class, or may grow listless through\nthe indifference wrought by use and wont, or who think they can detect\nthe _rigor mortis_ at a glance, never having seen the severest form\nof catalepsy. There would be no difficulty in getting Parliament to\npass a more stringent regulation for death-certificates without much\ndiscussion, and there is no reason why Sir Matthew White Ridley should\nnot turn his attention to the matter, and, with such medical advice as\nthe Health Department of the Local Government Board will be pleased to\nlend him, propose a necessary little bill to the House of Commons next\nFebruary.\u201d\n\nThe following letter by a German resident in England appeared in the\n_Times_ of September 20, 1895:--\n\n\n \u201cBURIED ALIVE.\n\n \u201cSir,--As this important subject appears to be arresting the\n attention of the public in England, may I venture to state the law\n as to the examination of corpses in my own country? In a copy of\n the official regulations in W\u00fcrtemburg for the inspection of dead\n bodies (\u2018Dienst-Vorschriften f\u00fcr Leichenha\u00fcser in W\u00fcrtemburg, 1882.\u2019\n Stuttgart, W. Kohlhammer), I find the following:--\n\n \u201c\u2018No corpse must be interfered with before the arrival of the\n inspector, who is expected to pay several visits before granting the\n death-certificate, which he alone is authorised to do. In cases of\n death from infectious disease the body must be removed to a mortuary,\n where it is carefully watched.\u2019\n\n \u201cThese inspectors are highly qualified, State-appointed physicians,\n but, as if to show the uncertainty of all this care and experience,\n as we see by the researches of Dormodoff, Hufeland, Hartmann, and\n others, as well as by the reports of startling cases in the press,\n those medically and officially declared to be dead do occasionally\n come to life before burial. This is a state of things unworthy of the\n civilisation and humanity of which we are proud.\n\n \u201cMedical examination, not being infallible when carried out at its\n best, must be very unreliable when performed in a careless manner.\n\n \u201cA safer plan would be to send every supposed corpse to a mortuary,\n there to remain until decomposition manifests itself. As a German I\n should be afraid to die in England (excuse the paradox) for fear of\n being buried alive.\n\n  \u201cP. P.\n\n \u201cForest Hill, September 17.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nSUGGESTIONS FOR PREVENTION.\n\n\nTHE learned Dr. Vign\u00e9, of Rouen, who won the respect of his\nfellow-citizens during a long and honourable career, was for many years\nengaged in the study of this question, and published the result of his\nresearches shortly before his death. Convinced that the resources of\nscience were insufficient to distinguish real from apparent death, he\nleft testamentary instructions to provide against his own premature\nburial. (\u201cDes Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, p. 83,\u201d by L\u00e9normand.)\n\nDr. Winslow, a French physician, who had on two different occasions\nvery nearly fallen a victim to premature burial, having been laid out\nfor dead, chose for the subject of his thesis before the Paris Faculty\nof Medicine, \u201cLes moyens les plus propres \u00e0 reconna\u00eetre la r\u00e9alit\u00e9\nde la mort.\u201d Dr. Winslow may be said to have been the pioneer of a\nmovement in France for exposing the danger of, and educating the public\ninto the necessity of reforms in, the mode of treating the apparent\ndead; and, although his efforts and warnings were as of one crying\nin the wilderness or amongst an apathetic people, with a legislature\napparently uninfluenced either by facts or by reason, they were never\nrelaxed. Numerous writers have since confirmed the truth of Dr.\nWinslow\u2019s contention by facts within their own experience, and it is\nbelieved that legislation in France cannot be much longer delayed.\n\nThat the risk of premature burial is not an imaginary one, as recently\ndeclared by a leading London medical journal, has been shown by the\ncitation in this volume of cases of death-like trance which have\nbaffled the ablest of medical experts; also the instances of numerous\nnarrow escapes from this terrible occurrence, and of others where the\nvictims were suffocated before timely aid could be obtained, most of\nwhich are drawn from medical sources, and some from the columns of\nthe said sceptical journal. The painful reality is also shown by the\nmultitude of preventive measures suggested by medical authorities, and\nby the ingenious contrivances of those who have made this distressing\nsubject one of patient and laborious research. Several of the remedies\nsuggested for adoption in cataleptic cases are really homicidal, or\nseriously mutilative; many of them are impracticable, and have been\nshown by Hufeland, L\u00e9normand, Richardson, Hartmann, Bouchut, Fletcher,\nand Gannal to be delusive. The merits and demerits of some of these\nmethods might be inquired into by the appointment of a Parliamentary\nCommittee, or a Royal Commission, as a supplement to that appointed in\n1893, by Mr. Asquith, on Death-Certification.\n\n\nCUTANEOUS EXCITATION.\n\nDr. James Curry, F.R.S., in his \u201cObservations on Apparent Death,\u201d pp.\n56, 57, says, concerning the application of stimulants to the skin:--\n\n \u201cTo assist in rousing the activity of the vital principle, it has been\n customary to apply various stimulating matters to different parts\n of the body. But, as some of these applications are in themselves\n positively hurtful, and the others serviceable only according to the\n time and manner of their employment, it will be proper to consider\n them particularly.\n\n \u201cThe application of all such matters in cases of apparent death is\n founded upon the supposition that the skin still retains sensibility\n enough to be affected by them. It is well known, however, that even\n during life the skin loses sensibility in proportion as it is deprived\n of heat, and does not recover it again until the natural degree of\n warmth be restored. Previous to the restoration of heat, therefore, to\n a drowned body, all stimulating applications are useless, and, so far\n as they interfere with the other measures, are also prejudicial.\u201d\n\nSeveral writers, besides Dr. Winslow, whose views on premature burial\nare cited in this volume, have themselves been the victims of hasty\nand erroneous medical diagnosis; and, having had narrow escapes of\npremature burial, their experience has prompted them to take a deep\ninterest in the subject, with the determination to do what they could\nto enlighten and safeguard the public from so terrible a danger. In\nother cases, members of their families have been the unhappy victims\nof mistaken certificates. Mr. George T. Angell, the editor of \u201c_Dumb\nAnimals_,\u201d Boston, U.S., whose father was pronounced by his physician\ndead, and returned to consciousness after preparations for the funeral\nhad been made, has repeatedly alluded to the subject in his paper,\nand published preventive suggestions at various times, including the\nfollowing from a physician:--\n\n \u201cWhen I arrived, the man had been dead twenty-four hours. I empanelled\n a jury; the family of the deceased testified to the extent of their\n knowledge; but I was unable to find he had any disease sufficient\n to kill him. I looked at the body and examined it carefully. Then I\n lighted a match, and applied it to the end of one of the fingers of\n the corpse. Immediately a blister formed. I had the man put back into\n his bed, applied various restoratives, and to-day he is alive and\n well.\n\n \u201cThat is the test. Do you see the philosophy of it? If you are alive,\n you cannot burn your hand without raising a blister. Nature, in the\n effort to protect the inner tissues, throws a covering of water, a\n non-conductor of heat, between the fire and the flesh. If you were\n dead, and flames should come in contact with any part of your body, no\n blister would appear, and the flesh would be burned.\n\n \u201cAll you have to do is to apply a match to any part of the supposed\n corpse. If life remains, however little, a blister will at once form.\u201d\n\nThe test, like the following one, is deceptive, because life may be so\ntorpid and inactive as to be unable to respond to the irritation of\nheat, or even to the application of red hot irons.\n\n\nTHE BLISTER TEST.\n\nThe _British Medical Journal_, January 18, 1896, p. 180, under the head\nof \u201cLiving or Dead?\u201d prints the following communication concerning this\ntest:--\n\n[THE BLISTER TEST.]\n\n \u201cSir,--Burial alive, though of exceedingly rare occurrence, sometimes\n does happen, and calls for increased attention to the means of\n detecting with certainty the presence of vitality, however feeble.\n The ordinary means of deciding the vital question are known to all\n persons. Auscultation may detect the enfeebled heart-beat, while the\n electric battery can elicit any existing muscular contractility.\n Conditions of trance are occasionally almost mystical in their\n profundity (Brahmin trance), and a simple and ready-to-hand test to\n decide whether death has occurred is of prime importance. We can\n ascertain whether or not life still lingers in uncertain cases by\n applying (say) to the back of the forearm a small stream of boiling\n water directly from the kettle. If life is present, the boiling water\n will soon and unfailingly raise a blister where applied, and the\n blister will contain fluid, the serum of the blood. The production of\n the serum blister being essentially a vital process, its production\n or non-production becomes an infallible test, and determines the\n question. This test, not generally known, should be widely proclaimed.\n\n  \u201cJ. MILFORD BARNETT, M.D., Edin.\n\n \u201cBelfast, January 11, 1896.\u201d\n\nThis test has frequently failed, and should not be relied upon.\n\n\n[AUSCULTATION.]\n\nAUSCULTATION.\n\nThe stethoscope, which is regarded by many medical practitioners as an\ninfallible means of preventing premature burial, has proved a broken\nreed in hundreds of cases, and can be of use only when applied with\nother tests. Dr. Roger S. Chew, of Calcutta, writes to me, February,\n1896:--\n\n\u201cThe _British Medical Journal_ (September 28, 1895) tells us that the\ncareful use of the stethoscope will enable a medical man to distinguish\na living from a dead body. Auscultation may give startling results,\nand the body yet be absolutely dead. I recollect an instance of death\nfrom cobra-bite, when, though decomposition had set in, the relatives\nrefused to believe she was dead, because one of them declared that,\nthough he did not see her chest rise and fall, he had distinctly heard\nher sigh. A medical man was called in, applied the stethoscope over\nher thorax, and declared he could hear sounds from her lungs, and a\npeculiar \u2018_sough_,\u2019 \u2018_sough_\u2019 towards the apex of the heart. So far he\nwas right, but, as the girl had already been dead some fourteen hours,\nand the weather was warm, the sounds he heard were those of the escape\nof the putrefactive gases bubbling upward and unable to find exit, as\nher mouth was closed with a chin-bandage, and her nostrils plugged with\nmucus. To convince the parents that the girl was really dead, I offered\nto perform artificial respiration, to which end I untied the bandage,\nprized open her jaws, and pressed _heavily_ on her thorax, when some of\nthe imprisoned gases escaped, emitting an abominable odour that brought\nconviction of the girl being beyond all hope.\n\n\u201cIn another case, that of my son, aged two years, after a series of\nbrain symptoms and severe clonic convulsions preceding an outbreak\nof confluent small-pox, the stethoscope told me and a medical friend\nwho was present that my little boy had ceased to exist; but a liberal\napplication of ice to his head and cardiac region, together with\nviolent friction and artificial respiration vigorously employed for\n_forty_ minutes, restored the child to me, and I thanked God that I had\nrefused to accept the evidence of the stethoscope as final.\u201d\n\n\nELECTRICITY.\n\nThe application of the electric current is a powerful restorative agent\nin cases of suspended animation, if judiciously applied. Struve in\nhis essay, \u201cSuspended Animation,\u201d p. 151, under the head of \u201cApparent\ndeath from a fall,\u201d says:--\u201cA girl, three years of age, fell from a\nwindow two stories high upon the pavement. Though she was considered\nas lifeless, Mr. Squires, a natural philosopher, applied electricity.\nAlmost twenty minutes elapsed before the shocks produced any effect. At\nlast when some of the electric force pervaded the breast he observed a\nslight motion of the heart. The child soon after began to breathe and\ngroan with great difficulty, and after some minutes a vomiting ensued.\nFor a few days the patient remained in a state of stupefaction, but in\nthe course of a week she was perfectly restored to health.\u201d\n\n[THE ELECTRICAL TEST.]\n\nReferring to the subject of premature burial, Dr. W. S. Hedley, writing\nto the _Lancet_, October 5, 1895, says:--\u201cForty years ago the subject\nwas investigated by Crimotel, twenty years later by Rosenthal, and more\nrecently by Onimus. It seems safe to say that in no disease, certainly\nin none of those conditions usually enumerated as likely to be mistaken\nfor death, is galvanic and faradaic excitability abolished in every\nmuscle of the body. On the other hand, electro-muscular contractility\ndisappears in all the muscles within a few hours after death\n(generally ninety minutes to three hours, according to Rosenthal), its\npersistence varying to some extent with the particular muscle examined\n(1), and with the mode of death (2). Therefore, if electro-muscular\ncontractility be present in any muscle, it means life or death only\na few hours before. It is clear that no interment or _post-mortem_\nexamination ought to take place so long as there is any flicker of\nelectric excitability. To me it seems almost equally obvious that in\nall doubtful cases, sometimes in sudden death, and often to allay the\nanxiety of friends, this test ought to be applied, and applied by\none who is accustomed to handle electric currents for purposes of\ndiagnosis.\u201d\n\nThe _Medical Record_, New York, March 30, 1895, contains the\nfollowing:--\u201cIn a case reported by M. D\u2019Arsonval, a man was struck with\na current of four thousand five hundred volts. The current entered at\nhis hand and issued at his back. Half an hour or more elapsed before\nany attempts at resuscitation were made, but, on artificial respiration\nbeing practised on Silvester\u2019s method, recovery took place. Dr.\nDonnellan reports a case of the passage of a current of one thousand\nvolts through a man, which instantly caused coma, dilated pupils,\npallor of the face, and sweating; delirium and tonic, alternating\nwith clonic, spasms followed. The pulse was eighty. The respiration,\nat first stertorous, passed into the Cheyne-Stokes type. After the\ninjection, first of morphia, and then of strychnia, the patient fell\ninto a deep sleep, from which he awoke convalescent.--_Centralblatt f\u00fcr\ndie medicinischen Wissenschaften._\u201d\n\nThe apparatus for applying electrical currents, long used by the\nHumane Society for restoration of the drowned, might with advantage\nbe kept at public mortuaries, for use in cases of apparent death due\nto other causes, where decomposition has not manifested itself. The\nWeather Bureau at Washington advises those who are in the neighbourhood\nof persons struck by lightning to make immediate efforts to restore\nconsciousness, because the effect of lightning is to suspend animation\nrather than to produce death. Respiration and circulation should be\nstimulated, and the usual remedies for relief in such cases should be\nadministered for at least an hour before giving up the victim as dead.\n\nDr. Moore Russell Fletcher says:--\u201cWhen persons without pulse or\nbreathing are found in bed, in the field, or elsewhere, treat them\nin such manner as will restore from stroke of lightning, paralysis,\nor suspended animation from catalepsy, trance, or somnambulism, and\ncontinue the treatment until resuscitation rewards the exertions, or\ndecomposition is evident.\u201d--_Suspended Animation, pp. 7, 8._\n\n\nHYPODERMIC INJECTIONS.\n\nMr. E. E. Carpmael, of the Medical Department, Berkeley University,\nU.S.A., recommends, in the _Morning Post_, London, September 19,\n1895, the injection of strychnine in \u201ca supposed corpse;\u201d while\n\u201cMedicus,\u201d in the _Daily Chronicle_, September 17, 1895, considers\nthat _post-mortems_ \u201cwould be to the advantage of the patient, to\nhis relations, to science, and the community at large.\u201d No doubt\neither of these plans would prevent live sepulture, by killing the\ncataleptic subject; while \u201cM.R.C.S.,\u201d in _Morning Post_, September\n20, says:--\u201cObviously the simplest and best proof of death is\nputrefaction--shown chiefly by the discolouration of the abdomen.\u201d\n\n[HYPODERMIC INJECTIONS.]\n\nA correspondent in the _English Mechanic_, October 25, 1895, says:--\u201cI\nhave long advised hypodermic injection of morphia before placing in\ncoffin for burial. _Ex hypothesi_, the vital spark is not supposed to\nhave expired, and the circulatory system not finally stopped. Hence the\nhypodermic injection cannot be futile.\u201d\n\nA medical correspondent writing from Dresden, August 18, 1895, sends me\nthe following as showing the value of\n\n\nARTIFICIAL RESPIRATION.\n\n\u201cMajor J. H. Patzki, Surgeon, U.S. Army, reports that in 1882, at St.\nAugustine, Florida, a lady patient of his had an attack of tetanus,\ncaused by a scratch upon her foot by a nail while bathing. The\nconvulsive symptoms commenced in the muscles of the face, and increased\nin violence in spite of energetic treatment, until the fifth day, when\nthe respiratory muscles became involved. The breathing was completely\nsuspended by the spasmodic action, and the radial and carotid pulse\nceased. The cardiac sounds became utterly inaudible to careful\nstethoscopic examination repeatedly employed. The lady assumed all\nthe appearances of death, and there was _rigor mortis_, the result of\nmuscular spasm. Artificial respiration was resorted to, but not until\nafter the expiration of eighteen minutes did the first faint efforts\nof respiration, and a feeble action of the heart, become perceptible.\nArtificial respiration was continued for an hour afterwards, and the\nlife of the patient was saved, although the muscular spasms continued\nto some extent for six days.\n\n\u201cThis case is instructive in showing that tetanus, when it involves the\nchest, may produce a state of apparent death, by interfering with the\nrespiratory and cardiac functions; and that artificial respiration, if\npersistently employed, may rescue patients so affected from the perils\nof apparent death.\u201d\n\n[DR. JOHN OSWALD\u2019S OPINION.]\n\nDr. John Oswald, in \u201cSuspended Animal Life,\u201d Philadelphia, 1802, p.\n65, says:--\u201cThe books of authors on this subject are replete with\ncriteria to judge of the existence or non-existence of the vital\nprinciple. It is not necessary to take a separate view of the propriety\nor impropriety of adopting any of these ambiguous signs, when we have\nthe accomplishment of so great an end as that of restoring suspended\nlife! Our exertions should never be influenced by any of them, but\ncontinued with ardour and unremitted attention for a length of time.\nIt would be more happy for our unfortunate patients, and a source of\ngreater satisfaction to ourselves, were they expunged altogether. They\nare all fallacious to a certain degree, and ought never to have the\nsmallest influence on the propriety or impropriety of persevering in\nour attempts to revive the latent spark; for it is an unfortunate fact,\nin consequence of an ignorant confidence placed in them, that persons\nwho might have been restored to life, to their friends, and to society\nhave been consigned to the grave.... This important subject has been\nanxiously investigated by philosophers, to discover a just criterion of\njudging with more certainty in these cases whether life is extinct, and\nour patient a mass of dead matter, or whether, by our perseverance, he\nmay not be again recovered. The most indubitable sign is allowed to be\nputrefaction of the body, or disorganisation of the fibre.\u201d\n\nThe following extracts from an instructive but apparently forgotten\narticle in Dickens\u2019 \u201cAll the Year Round,\u201d July, 1869 (_\u00e0 propos_ of a\npamphlet, \u201cLettre sur la Mort Apparente, les Cons\u00e9quences R\u00e9elles des\nInhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, et le Temps pendant lequel peut persister\nl\u2019Aptitude \u00e0 \u00eatre rappell\u00e9 \u00e0 la Vie,\u201d by the late regretted Dr.\nCharles Londe), afford valuable suggestions:--\n\n \u201cSuffocation by foul air and mephitical gas is not a rare form of\n death in the United Kingdom. It is possible that suspended animation\n may now and then have been mistaken for the absolute extinction\n of life. Dr. Londe gives an instructive case to the purpose. At\n the extremity of a large grocer\u2019s shop, a close, narrow corner, or\n rather hole, was the sleeping-place of the shopman who managed the\n night sale till the shop was closed, and who opened the shutters at\n four in the morning. On the 16th of January, 1825, there were loud\n knocks at the grocer\u2019s door. As nobody stirred to open it, the grocer\n rose himself, grumbling at the shopman\u2019s laziness, and, proceeding\n to his sleeping-hole to scold him, he found him motionless in bed,\n completely deprived of consciousness. Terror-struck by the idea of\n sudden death, he immediately sent in search of a doctor, who suspected\n a case of asphyxia by mephitism. His suspicions were confirmed by\n the sight of a night-lamp, which had gone out, although supplied\n with oil and wick, and by a portable stove containing the remains\n of charcoal partly reduced to ashes. In spite of a severe frost, he\n immediately had the patient taken into the open air, and kept on a\n chair in a position as nearly vertical as possible. The limbs of the\n sufferer hung loose and drooping, the pupils were motionless, with\n no trace either of breathing or pulsation of the heart or arteries;\n in short, there were all the signs of death. The most approved modes\n of restoring animation were persisted in for a long while without\n success. At last, about three in the afternoon--that is, after _eleven\n hours\u2019_ continued exertion--a slight movement was heard in the region\n of the heart. A few hours afterwards the patient opened his eyes,\n regained consciousness, and was able to converse with the spectators\n attracted by his resurrection. Dr. Londe draws the same conclusions\n as before--namely, that persons suffocated by mephitism are not\n unfrequently buried when they might be saved.\u201d\n\n [DANGER TO CHOLERA PATIENTS.]\n\n \u201cWe have had cholera in Great Britain, and we may have it again.\n At such trying times, if ever, hurried interments are not merely\n excusable, but almost unavoidable. Nevertheless, one of the\n peculiarities of that fearful disease is to bring on some of the\n symptoms of death--the prostration, the coldness, and the dull livid\n hues--long before life has taken its departure. Now, Dr. Londe states,\n as an acknowledged fact, that patients pronounced dead of cholera have\n been repeatedly seen to move one or more of their limbs after death.\n While M. Trachez (who had been sent to Poland to study the cholera)\n was opening a subject in the dead-house of the Bagatelle Hospital, in\n Warsaw, he saw another body (that of a woman of fifty, who had died\n in two days, having her eyes still bright, her joints supple, but\n the whole surface extremely cold) which vividly moved its left foot\n ten or twelve times in the course of an hour. Afterwards, the right\n foot participated in the same movement, but very feebly. M. Trachez\n sent for Mr. Searle, an English surgeon, to direct his attention\n to the phenomenon. Mr. Searle _had often remarked it_. The woman,\n nevertheless, was left in the dissecting-room, and thence taken to the\n cemetery. Several other medical men stated that they had made similar\n observations. From which M. Trachez draws the inference: \u2018It is\n allowable to think that many cholera patients have been buried alive.\u2019\u201d\n\n \u201cDr. Veyrat, attached to the Bath Establishment, Aix, Savoy, was\n sent for to La Roche (Department of the Yonne), to visit a cholera\n patient, Th\u00e9r\u00e8se X., who had lost all the members of her family by\n the same disease. He found her in a complete state of asphyxia. He\n opened a vein; not a drop of blood flowed. He applied leeches; they\n bit, and immediately loosed their hold. He covered the body with\n stimulant applications, and went to take a little rest, requesting to\n be called if the patient manifested any signs of life. The night and\n next day passed without any change. While making preparations for the\n burial, they noticed a little blood oozing out of the leech-bites.\n Dr. Veyrat, informed of the circumstance, entered the chamber just as\n the nurse was about to wrap the corpse in its winding-sheet. Suddenly\n a rattling noise issued from Th\u00e9r\u00e8se\u2019s chest. She opened her eyes,\n and in a hollow voice said to the nurse: \u2018What are you doing here?\n I am not dead. Get away with you.\u2019 She recovered, and felt no other\n inconvenience than a deafness, which lasted about two months.\u201d\n\n \u201cExposure to cold may also induce a suspension of vitality liable to\n be mistaken for actual death. This year the French Senate has again\n received several petitions relative to premature interments.... And,\n considering the length of time that trances, catalepsies, lethargies,\n and cases of suspended animation have been known occasionally to\n continue, it is scarcely, in England, less interesting to us, though\n public feeling, which is only an expression of natural affection,\n approves, and indeed almost compels, a longer delay. The attention\n of the French Government being once more directed to the subject,\n there is little doubt that all reasonable grounds for fear will be\n removed.[20]\n\n \u201cThe petitioners have requested, as a precaution, that all burials for\n the future should, in the first instance, be only provisional. Before\n filling a grave, a communication is to be made between the coffin and\n the upper atmosphere by means of a respiratory tube; and the grave is\n not to be finally closed until all hope of life is abandoned. These\n precautions, it will be seen at once, however good in theory, are\n scarcely practicable. Others have demanded the general establishment\n of mortuary chambers, or dead-houses, like those in Germany. And not\n only the petitioners, but several senators, seem to consider that\n measure the full solution of the problem. Article 77 of the Civil Code\n prescribes a delay of twenty-four hours only, which appears to them\n to be insufficient, since, they urge, it admits the certainty that\n death has taken place only after putrefactive decomposition has set\n in. Now, a much longer time than twenty-four hours may elapse before\n that decomposition manifests itself. Deposit, therefore, your dead in\n a mortuary chapel, until you are perfectly sure, from the evidence of\n your senses, that life is utterly and hopelessly extinct.\n\n [DIFFICULTY OF DIAGNOSIS.]\n\n \u201cWhen Article 77 of the Civil Code was under discussion by the Council\n of State, Fourcroy added: \u2018It shall be specified that the civil\n officer be assisted by an officier de sant\u00e9 (a medical man of inferior\n rank to a doctor of medicine); because there are cases in which it is\n difficult to make certain that death has actually occurred, without a\n thorough knowledge of its symptoms, and because there are tolerably\n numerous examples to prove that people _have_ been buried alive.\u2019\n\n \u201cIn Paris, especially since Baron Hausmann\u2019s administration, Article\n 77 has been strictly fulfilled; but the same exactitude cannot be\n expected in out-of-the-way nooks and corners of the country, where\n a doctor cannot always be found at a minute\u2019s warning, to declare\n whether death be real or apparent only. It is clear that the\n Legislature has hit upon the sole indisputable practical solution; the\n difficulty lies in its rigorous and efficient application.\n\n \u201cIt has been judiciously remarked that it would be a good plan to\n spread the knowledge of the sure and certain characteristics which\n enable us to distinguish every form of lethargy from real death. It\n cannot be denied that at the present epoch the utmost pains are taken\n to popularise every kind of knowledge. Nevertheless, it makes slow way\n through the jungles of prejudice and vulgar error. Not long ago it was\n over and over again asserted that an infallible mode of ascertaining\n whether a person was dead or not was to inflict a burn on the sole of\n the foot. If a blister full of water resulted, the individual was not\n dead; if the contrary happened, there was no further hope. This error\n was unhesitatingly accepted as an item of the popular creed.\n\n \u201cThe Council of Hygiene, applied to by the Government, indicated\n putrefaction and cadaverous rigidity as infallible signs of actual\n death. In respect to the first--putrefaction--a professional man is\n not likely to make a mistake; but nothing is more possible than for\n non-professionals to confound hospital rottenness (gangrene) with true\n _post-mortem_ putrefaction. M. de Parville declines to admit it as a\n test adapted for popular application. Moreover, in winter, the time\n required for putrefaction to manifest itself is extremely uncertain.\n\n \u201cThe cadaverous rigidity--the stiffness of a corpse--offers an\n excellent mode of verifying death; but its value and importance are\n not yet appreciable by everybody, or by the first comer. Cadaverous\n rigidity occurs a few hours after death; the limbs, hitherto supple,\n stiffen; and it requires a certain effort to make them bend. But when\n once the faculty of bending a joint is forcibly restored--to the\n arm, for instance--it will not stiffen again, but will retain its\n suppleness. If the death be real, the rigidity is overcome once for\n all. But if the death be only apparent, the limbs quickly resume, with\n a sudden and jerking movement, the contracted position which they\n previously occupied. The stiffness begins at the top, the head and\n neck, and descends gradually to the trunk.\n\n \u201cThese characteristics are very clearly marked; but they must be\n caught in the fact, and at the moment of their appearance, because,\n after a time of variable duration, they disappear. The contraction\n of the members no longer exists, and the suppleness of the joints\n returns. Many other symptoms might be added to the above; but\n they demand still greater clearness of perception, more extended\n professional knowledge, and more practised habits of observation.\n\n \u201cAlthough the French Government is anxious to enforce throughout the\n whole empire the rules carried out in Paris, it is to be feared that\n great difficulties lie in the way. The verification of deaths on so\n enormous a scale, with strict minuteness, is almost impracticable.\n But, even if it were not, many timid persons would say: \u2018Who is\n to assure us of the correctness of the doctor\u2019s observations?\n Unfortunately, too many terrible examples of their fallibility are on\n record. The professional man is pressed for time. He pays a passing\n visit; gives a hurried glance; and a fatal mistake is so easily made!\u2019\n Public opinion will not be reassured until you can show, every time a\n death occurs, an irrefutable demonstration that life has departed.\n\n \u201cM. de Parville now announces the possibility of this great\n desideratum. He professes to place in any one\u2019s hands a self-acting\n apparatus which would declare not only whether the death be real,\n but _would leave in the hands of the experimenter a written proof of\n the reality of the death_. The scheme is this: It is well known that\n atropine--the active principle of _belladonna_--possesses the property\n of considerably dilating the pupil of the eye. Oculists constantly\n make use of it when they want to perform an operation, or to examine\n the interior of the eye. Now, M. le Docteur Bouchut has shown that\n atropine has no action on the pupil when death is real. In a state of\n lethargy, the pupil, under the influence of a few drops of atropine,\n dilates in the course of a few minutes; the dilatation also takes\n place a few instants after death; but it ceases absolutely in a\n quarter of an hour, or half an hour at the very longest; consequently\n the enlargement of the pupil is a certain sign that death is only\n apparent.\n\n [AN INGENIOUS CONTRIVANCE.]\n\n \u201cThis premised, imagine a little camera obscura, scarcely so big as an\n opera-glass, containing a slip of photographic paper, which is kept\n unrolling for five-and-twenty or thirty minutes by means of clockwork.\n This apparatus, placed a short distance in front of the dead person\u2019s\n eye, will depict on the paper the pupil of the eye, which will have\n been previously moistened with a few drops of atropine. It is evident\n that, as the paper slides before the eye of the corpse, if the pupil\n dilate, its photographic image will be dilated; if, on the contrary,\n it remains unchanged, the image will retain its original size. An\n inspection of the paper then enables the experimenter to read upon it\n whether the death is real or apparent only. This sort of declaration\n can be handed to the civil officer, who will give a permit to bury in\n return.\n\n \u201cBy this simple method a hasty or careless certificate of death\n becomes impossible. The instrument applies the test, and counts the\n minutes. The doctor and the civil officer are relieved from further\n responsibility. The paper gives evidence that the verification has\n actually and carefully been made; for suppose that half an hour is\n required to produce a test that can be relied on, the length of the\n strip of paper unrolled marks the time during which the experiment has\n been continued. An apparatus of the kind might be placed in the hands\n of the minister or one of the notables of every parish. Such a system\n would silence the apprehensions of the most timid; fears--natural\n enough--would disappear, and the world would be shocked by no fresh\n cases of premature burial.\u201d\n\nThe authors have not heard whether this ingenious contrivance had been\nput into practice, or with what result.\n\nVarious prizes have been offered, and awards made, by scientific and\nmedical societies, but, with one exception, the so-called proofs of\ndeath for which the awards have been given are deemed unsatisfactory.\nThe most notable of the prizes is that of the Marquis d\u2019Ourches,\nwho by his will bequeathed the sum of twenty thousand francs to be\ngiven to the author of the discovery of a simple and common means of\nrecognising beyond doubt the absolute signs of death, by such a test\nas could be adopted by poor villagers without technical instruction.\nThe Marquis d\u2019Ourches left also a prize of five thousand francs for\na similar discovery, but requiring the intervention of an expert. M.\nPierre Manni, Professor at the University of Rome, offered a prize,\nwhich was awarded to Dr. E. Bouchut, in 1846. And M. Dusgate, by will,\ndated January 11, 1872, bequeathed to the French Academy of Sciences\na sufficient sum in French _Rentes_, to found a quinquennial prize of\ntwo thousand five hundred francs to the author of the best work on\nthe diagnostic signs of death, and the means of preventing premature\ninterments. A decree of November 27, 1874, authorised the Academy to\naccept this legacy.\n\nDr. Gowers, on \u201cDiseases of the Nervous System,\u201d vol. ii., p. 1037,\nsays:--\u201cIn cases of \u2018death-trance,\u2019 in which no sign of vitality can be\nrecognised, the presence of life may be ascertained (1) by the absence\nof any sign of decomposition; (2) by the normal appearance of the\n_fundus oculi_ as seen with the ophthalmoscope; (3) by the persistence\nof the excitability of the muscles to electricity. This excitability\ndisappears in three hours after actual death. In a case observed by\nRosenthal, thirty hours after supposed death, the muscles were still\nexcitable, and the patient awoke.\u201d\n\nThe _British Medical Journal_, January 21, 1893, p. 145, reports,\nthrough its Paris correspondent, the first award. \u201cThe Acad\u00e9mie des\nSciences proposed as the subject for the Dusgate Prize for 1890, \u2018The\nSigns of Death, and the Means of Preventing Premature Burial.\u2019 The\nprize has been awarded to Dr. Maze, who considers that putrefaction is\nthe only certain sign. He urges that the deaths should be certified\nby medical men on oath; also that in every cemetery there should be a\nmortuary where dead bodies can be deposited, and that burial should\ntake place only when putrefactive changes set in. Cremation should be\nadopted.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nCREMATION AS A PREVENTIVE OF PREMATURE BURIAL.\n\n\n[SUGGESTIONS FOR PREVENTION.]\n\n[SIR HENRY THOMPSON\u2019S OPINION.]\n\nAMONGST the numerous suggestions made by correspondents in the press\nwith a view of preventing live sepulture, none has been more frequently\nput forward than that of cremation. Sir Henry Thompson, the president\nof the Cremation Society of England, in the second edition of his\nadmirable volume, \u201cModern Cremation: Its History and Practice,\u201d p. 41,\nobserves:--\u201cThere is a source of very painful dread--as I have reason\nto know--little talked of, it is true, but keenly felt by many persons\nat some time or another, the horror of which to some is inexpressible.\nIt is the dread of a premature burial--the fear lest some deep trance\nshould be mistaken for death, and that the awakening should take\nplace too late. Happily such occurrences must be exceedingly rare,\nespecially in this country, where the interval between death and\nburial is considerable, and the fear is almost a groundless one.\nStill, the conviction that such a fate is possible--which cannot\nbe altogether denied--will always be a source of severe trial to\nsome. With cremation no such catastrophe could ever occur; and the\ncompleteness of a properly-conducted process would render death\ninstantaneous and painless if by any unhappy chance an individual\nso circumstanced were submitted to it. But the guarantee against\nthis danger would be doubled, since inspection of the entire body\nmust of necessity immediately precede the act of cremation, no such\ninspection being possible under the present system.\u201d While agreeing\nwith this distinguished authority as to the advantages of cremation\nfrom the sanitary and \u00e6sthetic point of view, which he dwells upon\nin the treatise referred to, and admitting that a certain amount of\nprotection against live burial is obtainable by means of the dual\nmedical inspection, we cannot agree that this protection is absolute.\nCases of trance are on record where some half a dozen doctors, after\ncareful examinations, have pronounced a cataleptic patient to be dead,\nand the patient, in defiance of their united opinion, has recovered\nconsciousness, and been restored to health.\n\nDr. Franz Hartmann, in his \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d quotes the two following\ncases amongst many others:--\n\n \u201cMadame de P----, aged eighteen years, and subject to hysteria,\n apparently died, and for forty hours she presented all the signs of\n real death. All possible means of restoring her to life were taken,\n but proved of no avail. _Five physicians of Lyons were called in, and\n they finally agreed, positively, that the lady was really dead._ The\n funeral preparations were made; but owing to the supplications of a\n sister of the deceased the burial was delayed, when after a while the\n patient recovered. She said that she had been all the time aware of\n all that was going on, without being able to give a sign, and without\n even being desirous of attempting it.\u201d (F. Kempner, p. 38.)\n\n \u201cIn 1842 a remarkable affair occupied the attention of the court\n at the city of Nantes. A man apparently died, and _his death was\n certified to both by the attending physicians and the medical\n inspector_; he was put into a coffin, and the religious ceremonies\n were performed in good style. At the end of the funeral service, and\n as he was about to be buried, he awoke from his trance. The clergy and\n the undertakers sent in their accounts for the funeral expenses; but\n he refused to pay them, giving as his reason that he had not ordered\n them; whereupon he was sued for the money.\u201d (F. Kempner, p. 39.)\n\nNeither can we share the optimistic views of Sir Henry Thompson as\nto the rarity of premature interment. The results of searching and\nindependent inquiries and study in various countries by each of the\nauthors of this treatise all point the other way, and the various\nauthorities whose names and opinions are cited elsewhere in this\nvolume confess their astonishment at the number of cases brought to\nlight during their investigations. The Rev. H. R. Haweis also, in his\nwork \u201cAshes to Ashes: A Cremation Prelude\u201d (London, 1895, now out\nof print), advocates cremation on the ground of preventing living\nburial, and quotes several cases of persons buried while in a state of\ntrance. During a discussion on the merits and demerits of cremation\nin the _Birmingham Gazette_, September 17, 1895, Lieutenant-General\nPhelps, an able and judicious observer, advocated cremation for similar\nreasons, and said that \u201cthe use of a crematorium would entirely prevent\nthat ghastly accident, the burial of the living. There is no room to\ndoubt that this frightful catastrophe is of continual occurrence. The\nphenomena of trance are little understood, and a certificate of death\nis held by most of us to justify the burial of the \u2018corpse,\u2019 dead or\nalive. Those of us who object to the risk of being buried alive should\ndo all in our power to promote the success of this sanitary contrivance\nfor disposing of our dead.\u201d\n\nThe writer of the following communication, which appeared in the\n_Sunday Times_, September 6, 1896, has substantial reasons for\npreferring cremation to the risks of burial:--\n\n\n \u201cBURIAL DANGER AND ITS PREVENTION.\n\n[COMMUNICATION TO THE \u201cSUNDAY TIMES.\u201d]\n\n \u201cMadam,--When I was about five years old, my paternal home was one\n day plunged into a state of great consternation, through the sudden\n apparent death of my father, who had been sitting up during a part\n of the previous night occupied with some literary work, without a\n fire (it was in January), which brought on a death-like numbness,\n in which he was found the next morning. The family doctor, who was\n sent for at once, declared life to be extinct, but said he could not\n tell the cause of death until after the opening of the dead body.\n My mother, however, who did not see any reason why a young man of\n thirty-six should have died without any previous illness, caused the\n body of my father to be rubbed for about two hours, which renewed its\n circulation and brought it to life again. My father lived thirty-two\n years after that memorable day. Without the prudence of my mother,\n he would either have been dissected or buried alive. About twenty\n years after that occurrence, I visited the cemetery of P\u00e8re La Chaise\n (Paris), accompanied by some friends. While inspecting the monuments\n of some musical celebrities we heard a noise from another part of the\n cemetery, whereto we proceeded without delay. When we had arrived\n there we found a strong body of policemen surrounding an open grave.\n But in answer to our inquiring \u2018what had happened,\u2019 we were simply\n requested to leave the cemetery at once, which, of course, we had to\n do. Neither the _portier_ nor any other person connected with the\n burial-ground would give any satisfactory answer to our questions.\n We left puzzled. But a week after, a young lady, who had been of our\n party the week before, went again to the P\u00e8re La Chaise, determined\n to penetrate the mystery, in which endeavour she succeeded, partly\n through persuasion and partly through the gift of a twenty-franc piece\n to a grave-digger, who then told her the following story:--A poor\n young man of twenty-one years had been buried on the day of our visit.\n When the mourners had left the cemetery the grave-digger, who was\n occupied in filling up the grave, heard some noise coming from below.\n He hastened to the superintendent of the cemetery, imploring him\n to have the coffin opened, which, however, the superintendent could\n not do without the permission and the presence of the Commissaire de\n Police of that district. When the Commissaire appeared at last with\n his men, all was silent in the grave. But he had the coffin opened,\n nevertheless, \u2018to appease the mind of that poor grave-digger,\u2019 as\n he mockingly said. But great was the horror of the Commissaire de\n Police and his followers when the coffin was opened. The unfortunate\n young man (who was now quite dead) had been buried alive, recovered\n consciousness in his grave, scratched his face, bitten off the tips of\n his fingers, and turned around in his coffin, until suffocation put an\n end to his sufferings, which, if not long, must have been terrible.\n The Parisian newspapers did not mention the case. They were probably\n forbidden by the French Government to do so. But would it not have\n been wiser to let the whole world know of it, and thereby prevent\n repetitions of such dreadful occurrences? A similar case of live\n sepulture occurred in a village near Wiesbaden some thirty years ago,\n where a girl of sixteen was found with the same signs of suffocation\n in her coffin as those of that unfortunate young man in Paris. We are\n assured by a German authority that thousands of people are buried\n alive every year. But why should this be the case? If people must be\n buried before they begin to show signs of putrefaction (which seems\n to be the only reliable proof that life is really extinct), why not\n shorten their sufferings, in case of resuscitation, by opening an\n artery before they are buried? There is still much prejudice against\n the cremation of dead bodies, although two great facts are decidedly\n in its favour--viz., the impossibility of recovering consciousness\n when once inserted in the crematory oven, and the prevention of\n the unhealthiness which the slow process of putrefaction must\n entail.--Yours, etc.,\n\n  \u201cJ. H. BONAWITZ.\n\n \u201cLondon.\u201d\n\nProfessor Alexander Wilder, M.D., in his \u201cPerils of Premature Burial,\u201d\n1895, p. 16, says:--\u201cI have often wished that the old Oriental practice\nof cremation was in fashion among us. There would then be at least\nthe comfortable reflection of no liability to suffocation in a coffin.\nThe application of fire, however, will generally rouse the cataleptic\nperson to some manifestation of life.\u201d\n\n[CREMATION SOCIETY OF ENGLAND.]\n\nHaving regard to the importance of the subject the author wrote to the\nhon. secretary of the Cremation Society of England, and received the\nfollowing reply, dated 8 New Cavendish Street, London, W.:--\n\n \u201cWith reference to your inquiry as to the steps adopted to prevent a\n person in a trance being cremated, I may say that this society has not\n made any special provision in that respect. You will notice, however,\n that before a cremation can be carried out, the cause of death must be\n certified without the slightest shadow of doubt by two duly qualified\n medical men. This being so, I think there is less likelihood of a\n person who is simply in a trance being cremated than buried, one\n doctor\u2019s certificate being sufficient in the latter case.\n\n  \u201c(Signed)      T. C. SWINBURNE-HANHAM.\u201d\n\nIn the present state of medical knowledge on an occult subject not\nusually taught in the medical schools, and regarding phenomena as to\nwhich a large number of medical men are sceptical, to say the least,\nwe fail to see how the fact of death, in the absence of putrefaction,\ncan be certified \u201cbeyond the slightest shadow of doubt.\u201d Many of the\ncases cited in this volume are those regarding which the examining\nmedical practitioners have been most sure. The Rev. John Page Hopps, in\n_Light_, July 4, 1896, says:--\n\n \u201cWe are told that respect for the dead urges to burial as against\n cremation, but many are now very keenly feeling the reverse of this.\n They can bring the mind to bear the liberation of the body by one\n swift act of disintegration and purifying, but cannot overcome the\n shrinking from subjecting it to the foul and lingering processes of\n the grave--or, perchance, to the horror of recovering consciousness in\n the grave.\u201d\n\nWe take the occasion, however, to express on general grounds our\ncordial adherence to the cremation movement. Mr. Hopps further states\none of the strongest arguments thus:--\n\n \u201cRespect for the living, too, is an urgent motive. The highest\n authorities tell us that the air we breathe and the water we drink are\n often contaminated by the emanations of graves. It cannot be right\n that London, for instance, with all its inevitable impurities, should\n add to its foulnesses that of trying to live in company with thousands\n upon thousands of decaying bodies in its very midst.\u201d\n\nTo dispose of the dead decently, and at the same time without injury to\nthe living, is one of the first obligations of civilised communities,\nand cremation seems best calculated to fulfil the conditions. Zymotic\ndiseases, such as typhus, scarlatina, and the plague, have been traced\nin certain instances to emanations from burial-grounds.\n\nDr. Charles Creighton, in his \u201cHistory of Epidemics in Britain,\u201d vol.\ni., p. 336, says:--\u201cThe grand provocative of plague was no obvious\nnuisance above ground, but the loading of the soil, generation after\ngeneration, with an immense quantity of cadaveric matters, which were\ndiffused in the pores of the ground under the feet of the living, to\nrise in emanations more deadly in one season than in another.\u201d\n\nIt would seem from these experiences as though there was quite as much\ntruth as poetry in Shakespeare when he said, \u201cGrave-yards yawn, and\nhell itself breathes out contagion on the world.\u201d Before many years it\nis not unlikely that cremation in this as in some other countries will\nbe made obligatory in cases of death from all infectious diseases. As\nthe late Bishop of Manchester observed, \u201cThe earth is not for the dead,\nbut for the living.\u201d During the thirteen years ending 1890 there were\nthree hundred and three thousand four hundred and sixty-six deaths from\ncholera in Japan, and all the bodies of these persons were cremated. In\nIndia, as we have already shown, cremation is practised under most of\nthe religious systems, as it is believed that the soul is not free from\nits earthly tenement until the body is reduced to ashes. The method of\nburning is slow and cumbersome as compared with that adopted in Europe;\nbut during the author\u2019s last visit to Ceylon, in the early part of the\npresent year (1896), there was some talk of establishing a crematorium.\n\n[THE LONDON BURIAL-GROUNDS.]\n\nIn \u201cThe London Burial-Grounds,\u201d by Mrs. Basil Holmes, 1896, p. 269, the\nquestion is asked:--\u201cAre we ever to allow England to be divided like a\nchess-board into towns and burial-places? What we have to consider is\nhow to dispose of the dead without taking so much valuable space from\nthe living. In the metropolitan area alone we have almost filled (and\nin some places over-filled) twenty-four new cemeteries within sixty\nyears, with an area of above six hundred acres; and this is as nothing\ncompared with the huge extent of land used for interments just outside\nthe limits of the metropolis. If the cemeteries are not to extend\nindefinitely they must in time be built upon, or they must be used for\nburial over and over again, or the ground must revert to its original\nstate as agricultural land, or we must turn our parks and commons into\ncemeteries, and let our cemeteries be our only recreation grounds,\nwhich heaven forbid!\u201d\n\nAccording to Dr. Ebenezer Duncan eight thousand bodies are buried\nyearly in Glasgow and its neighbourhood, poisoning both air and water,\nand endangering the public health. The same state of things has existed\nin London, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, and other large towns.\nThe following resolution was unanimously adopted in the Preventive\nMedicine Department of a Health Congress, Glasgow, in July, 1896:--\n\n \u201cThat in the opinion of this Congress cremation of the dead,\n especially in cases of infectious disease, is a natural and very\n desirable hygienic process, and that this Congress of the British\n Institute of Public Health use all proper means to urge upon the\n Government the desirability of their promoting a measure to enable\n sanitary authorities, if they so desire, to build crematoria and to\n conduct them under proper superintendence.\u201d\n\nIt must be allowed, however, that cremation, in spite of its obvious\nadvantages, is not one of those movements which advance by leaps and\nbounds. The recent annual report of the Cremation Society of England\nstates that during the last year there were two hundred and eight\ncremations in the United Kingdom--viz., one hundred and fifty at\nWoking, and fifty-eight at Manchester. Crematoria have recently been\nestablished at Glasgow and Liverpool.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nWAITING MORTUARIES.\n\n\nOF all the various methods that have been suggested or introduced for\nthe prevention of premature interment, none has been attended with such\nsatisfactory results as the erection of mortuaries (Leichenh\u00e4user) in\nGermany. These structures, described in pp. 294 _et seq._, ought to\nbe provided, as far as practicable, in every parish, and certainly\nin every Sanitary District in the United Kingdom, and by the Boards\nof Health in the United States, and adapted to the requirements of\nthe population. They should be of chaste and elegant design, well\nventilated; their atmosphere made antiseptic with living plants and\nflowers, and by plenty of light; provided with baths and couches, and\na skilled attendant--edifices where both the dead and the apparent\ndead can be deposited pending burial, cremation, or resuscitation.\nSeparate compartments are necessary for cases where death has been due\nto accidents and for those who have succumbed to infectious diseases.\nEvery modern appliance should be introduced for the restoration of\nsuch as may exhibit signs of returning consciousness, and of those in\nwhom, after sufficient time had elapsed, no sign of putrefaction was\nobservable. The temperature of the room should be kept at eighty-four\ndegrees, as suggested by Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson, and no\ninterment, cremation, _post-mortem_, or embalming should be permitted\nuntil a medical examination by one or more experienced physicians\nshowed unequivocal signs of putrefaction. Perhaps the Royal Humane\nSociety, which during the last one hundred and fifty years has done\nsuch splendid work in restoring the drowned and asphyxiated, might\nbe willing to extend the field of its benevolent operations to other\nneglected forms of suspended animation where intelligent direction and\nsupervision is so much required.\n\nA writer in the _British and Foreign Medico-Chirurgical Review_, 1855,\nvol. xv., p. 75, says:--\u201cThe earliest movements in the direction of\nmeans for the prevention of premature interments originated with\nWinslow in France, followed by other well-known writers upon the signs\nof death. It was Madame Necker, however, who embodied their suggestions\nin a practicable form as submitted to the National Assembly, in\n1792, by Count Berchshold. In the ninth year of the first French\nRepublic (1801) a project was entertained for the erection of six\n\u2018temples funeraires\u2019 in Paris, but came to no good, as attendant evils\npreponderated. To Germany belongs the credit of having executed these\ndesigns in such wise that they should not prove the positive sources\nof more danger to the living than could be counter-balanced by the\noccasional preservation of an individual from the risk of premature\ninterment. Believing that this risk had been prodigiously diminished\nsince the establishment of these institutions for the reception of\ncases where doubt of the reality of death has existed, Hufeland, in\nWeimar, devised the plan that Frankfort-on-the-Maine incorporated\nwith its reform in sepulture and establishment of extra-mural\ncemeteries, in 1823. Hufeland\u2019s plans have subsequently been adopted\nand carried out in many other German States.... As a sanitary measure\nthe separation of the dead from the living, especially from among\nthe crowded poor, would be, apart from the not less important point\nof verification of death, an incalculable benefit.... It behoves us\nin this matter to learn another lesson from our neighbours, and to\ntake measures to prevent the occurrence of catastrophes too fearfully\nhorrible to contemplate in thought, too dreadful for the most vivid\nimagination to realise. Science can hold out no token by which to\nrecognise the certainty of death. Sanitary police, at least in England,\nis indifferent about the risk of a few burials alive, and thinks it\nsuperfluous to prevent their occurrence.\u201d\n\n[THE GERMAN SYSTEM.]\n\nThat the people have a right to protection by the State against\npreventable sources of danger, all civilised nations have acknowledged,\nby the making of laws that guard their citizens from the invasion of\ndiseases of domestic or foreign origin, as well as many other perils.\nBut the German-speaking countries have gone further than any other\nin this humane direction _by recognising apparent death as a special\nperil to be guarded against by law_, in order to prevent living\nburials. For this purpose they have established mortuaries connected\nwith cemeteries, in which the apparently dead are placed, under the\nobservation of physicians and attendants. Here the bodies are placed\nupon tables, dressed in their ordinary clothes, amidst light, warmth,\nand ventilation, surrounded by plants and floral tributes. Thus they\nare kept from forty-eight to seventy-two hours, unless decomposition\nsets in earlier, or the death was due to an infectious disease. Further\ndelay is allowed on application by the attending physician, or by some\nmember of the family interested. Cords connected with an alarm bell are\nattached to the fingers, under the conviction that the least movement\nof the body would arouse the attendant in an adjoining room. No doubt\nthese mortuaries have saved a certain number from being buried alive;\nbut the system can be improved by extending the observation until\nsuch time as death is certain, for experience shows that no stated\nlimit of time can apply to all cases of trance and catalepsy, which\nare the chief causes of apparent death. Some of these continue for\na week, and cases of even longer duration are not unknown. It often\nhappens that returning vital activity consists merely in scarcely\nperceptible movements of the eyelids or the mouth, a change of the\ncomplexion, slight moisture on the face, or a faint action of the\nheart, or a warmth in that region, or feeble thoracic movements--all\nof which might escape observation until the allotted time had expired,\nand no contrivance, however delicately adjusted, could announce their\npresence. Time alone will test the existence of life or death in such\ncases.\n\nThe extensive literature on this subject shows that the struggle to\nbring about the existing mortuary system in Germany was kept up for\nmany years before it obtained its measure of success. It was legalised\nabout the year 1795, after the physicians of Germany, France, and\nAustria had shown the absolute necessity for it.\n\nMortuaries have continued in high favour with the people wherever they\nhave once been properly established; none, so far as the author has\nbeen able to learn, have ever been abolished. At the present time the\ncity of Munich is constructing a mortuary at the Southern cemetery upon\na costly scale, surpassing in sumptuous accessories anything of the\nkind before attempted in Germany. It will be not unworthy of the public\nbuildings of the city. This is an emphatic endorsement of the necessity\nof the system by a people that for more than fifty years has given it a\nthorough trial; and it is a strong argument for its adoption elsewhere.\n\nThe question suggests itself here: Why should not the English-speaking\npeoples accept the long experience of a philosophical, painstaking,\nclear-minded people like the Germans, supported as it is by many\nsanitary and medical authorities in France, England, and the United\nStates, and establish these institutions in connection with existing\ncemeteries, with such modifications as national habits, local tastes,\nand customs may dictate?\n\nThe following practical suggestions are from a paper in the _Medical\nTimes_, vol. xvi., No. 415, p. 574, September 11, 1847, entitled, \u201cOn\nthe construction of houses for the reception of the dead; and on the\nmeans to be used for the recovery of those who are only in trances or\nfits, or in whom life is only impassive,\u201d by Robert Brandon, Esq.,\nGreat Russell Street, Bloomsbury:--\n\n\n \u201c_DUBI\u00c6 VIT\u00c6 REFUGIUM_; OR, ASYLUM FOR DOUBTFUL LIFE.\n\n [ASYLUM FOR DOUBTFUL LIFE.]\n\n \u201cThe building should be large enough to provide means for\n resuscitation, and have room enough for the deposition of bodies\n when epidemics are prevalent. There should be hot baths, for these\n often are alone enough to recall the vital spark; and a kitchen to\n prepare nourishment for those who are recovered, and for the porter\n and other officers who would live on the building. The room for the\n deposit of the bodies should communicate with the porter\u2019s room by\n means of a glass door, and every body should have a wire fixed to\n the feet and hands, in communication with a bell, which bell must\n ring in the porter\u2019s room, in order to warn him should there be any\n motion in those thought to be dead. There should be men and women on\n the premises to use friction, a galvanic machine, and the implements\n necessary for transfusion and artificial respiration. As the usual\n and accepted signs of death are not signs to be relied on, so is\n decomposition a true sign, and none should be buried until this be\n present; but as the presence of decomposed animal matter would be\n injurious, not only to the inmates of houses, but to the surrounding\n inhabitants, and as it is inconvenient to the poor man who has but one\n room to keep a body in that room, where he and his family eat, drink,\n and sleep, asylums for the reception of those thought to be dead\n should be constructed, and are absolutely necessary. Nor is it enough\n to wait for decomposition, but we should endeavour to prevent this\n by endeavouring to restore vitality by means of hot baths, external\n heat, artificial respiration, galvanism, or transfusion; the first of\n these is oftentimes enough. Now, I think it probable that many persons\n would be recovered, thought to be dead, for, out of a number of those\n reputed dead, a certain number have recovered--some by the sticking of\n the pins into them which fixed the shrouds, some under the surgeon\u2019s\n knife, some from delays in the burial, and others from the accidental\n overturning of the coffins, as we learn from a paper published on\n premature burials. Some time since a woman was kept above ground for\n a considerable time, as medical men could not decide if she were dead\n or no. And at Constantinople a sailor the other day was attacked with\n apoplexy, and a vein was opened in his arm; no blood came, and the\n man was thought to be dead, but on the road to the grave blood began\n to flow, and the supposed dead man recovered. There is now living in\n Brussels a man who escaped from the grave; and another built a house\n at Cologne to commemorate his escape. These cases will be enough to\n show that we have no certain sign of death but decomposition; and,\n if this be true, we must have asylums for the reception of bodies\n previous to decomposition, and for the application of means which can\n do no harm, and may do much good, such as those before indicated.\n Medical men think that the absence of respiration and want of heart\u2019s\n action, with loss of motion and sensation, are signs of death; but\n this is not the case, for many bodies which have been drowned have all\n these signs present and yet recover. Again, infants are often born\n without any action of the heart or lungs, and yet are recovered by\n very simple means, such as the hot bath; and I myself have recovered\n persons by stimulants who were thought to be dead. Many may be\n recovered by transfusion (first introduced into this country by the\n celebrated Dr. Blundel) when the heart still palpitates, but the\n brain is insensible; or by stimulants given at that period; or by\n hot bath, and the external application of heat; by galvanism, where\n other means have failed; and these can do no harm. Since the brain\n is insensible there can be no suffering; and many lives will be saved\n by perseverance, and the skilful application of means which have\n succeeded in isolated cases. Buildings for the reception of those\n thought to be dead should be placed in cemeteries.\n\n \u201cI divide life into active and passive. Life is active when man is\n in the enjoyment of all his faculties, intellectual and moral; when\n the various organs necessary for circulation and respiration are in\n play; when there is sensation, perception, and motion; and when the\n sphincters are not relaxed. Passive life is that state hitherto called\n death; but, according to me, death is decomposition.\n\n \u201cNor should we despair at any period previous to this, since we\n can give motion by galvanism; blood by transfusion; respiration by\n artificial respiration; heat by this and the external application\n of caloric; and by stimulants we can keep up that action which has\n been excited by other means. Nor must we despair if we do not at once\n succeed in our endeavours to recall life, for perseverance often\n accomplishes that which at first sight seems impossible.\n\n [MR. ROBERT BRANDON\u2019S SUGGESTIONS.]\n\n \u201cMen have recovered from simulated death after being in the sea twenty\n minutes, and I see no reason why, after disease, men may not also be\n recovered from a state resembling death. Many who are left as dead\n are only in fainting fits, some are in trances; and graves have been\n opened where the buried man has been found to have eaten portions of\n his own flesh, which of course he could not have done unless recovery\n had taken place. How horrible to think that we may awake up in our\n graves tormented with the pangs of hunger, unable scarce to breathe,\n and finding all escape from our narrow cell impossible; the prisoner\n in his grave has nought to do but to commend his soul afresh to his\n Maker, and lay himself down to die! May not much of this be prevented\n by asylums for doubtful life, by the application of reagents, and by\n building vaults in our cemeteries instead of graves? I earnestly hope\n that the day has arrived when we see these things in the proper light;\n when our church-yards will be no longer overloaded with the remains\n of those who, perhaps, might have lived had they been left a little\n longer above ground--had they been transfused, or even buried in\n vaults instead of graves, with a guardian to watch over their mortal\n remains! Life may exist, but not be evident; but the non-evidence\n of life is no proof of death, as many have been recovered in whom\n life was only latent--in whom there was no action of the heart,\n no respiration, no motion, no sensation. This has happened after\n drowning, in infants born asphyxiated, in women after flooding, and\n would happen much more often were the proper means applied in all\n cases to recall life, and to ascertain those who may be recoverable.\n Simple inspection is not enough to decide if a man be dead or not,\n because persons are often only in trances or fainting fits when they\n are thought to be dead; and I wish to insist on the fact that there is\n no sign of death but decomposition, and that, therefore, none should\n be buried until this sign be present, nor until an attestation of the\n presence of decomposition be given by some surgeon.\u201d\n\nReferring to the universal fear of burying relatives alive, the\n_Lancet_, September 20, 1845, vol. ii., p. 321, observed:--\u201cIt is\nbut little use to descant upon an evil without pointing out a remedy.\nIn Frankfort, Munich, and in various other towns, houses, properly\nsituated, have been fitted up for the temporary reception of the\ndead. Corpses are there deposited immediately after death, and taken\ncare of until the signs of decomposition have become unequivocal,\nmedical assistance being at hand should symptoms of vitality manifest\nthemselves. By this simple plan all the objections which attend on the\nretention of the dead in the dwellings of the poor may be obviated, and\nat the same time their dread of burying their relatives whilst still\nalive respected. This plan is evidently much preferable to that which\nis followed in France. In the latter country, in the large towns, there\nis in every district a medical inspector of the dead. The inspector\nis informed of the death as soon as it has taken place, and within\na very limited time is bound to inspect the body and give a formal\ncertificate. This guarantee having been obtained, the inhumation of\nthe deceased is enforced by law within two or three days of the death.\nNotwithstanding this precaution, cases have occurred, even during the\nlast few years, which appear to prove that inhumation has taken place\nbefore life was quite extinct. We doubt, also, whether such early\ninterment could under any circumstances be enforced in our own country.\nSome modification of the German plan is evidently what we must look\nfor in any system of legislation which may hereafter be decided on.\u201d\nThese admirable suggestions from the leading medical journal were made\nmore than half a century ago; since that time, every year has brought\nto light cases of living burial, and confirmed the urgent need of\nreform; but nothing has been done until quite recently to awaken public\nattention to their importance. The subject is of such a gruesome,\nunpleasant, and depressing character that few people care to have\ntheir names associated with a movement of this character, beneficent\nthough it is, and certain to save thousands of unfortunate people,\nparticularly women and children (who are more especially liable to\nvarious forms of suspended animation), from such tragic occurrences.\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, August 22, 1895,\nreferring to the fact that in 1892 thirty-one thousand eight hundred\nand ninety-two inquests were held in England, and to the urgent\nnecessity for the erection of mortuaries, says:--\n\n[EVERYWHERE NEEDED.]\n\n \u201cThe bountiful, or private enterprise, should provide these\n mortuaries. But once let their necessity be recognised and the scheme\n approved,--fashion leading the way,--then undertakers would readily\n supply what was wanted. If not, then the local authority should take\n the initiative. Mortuaries are sadly needed almost everywhere for\n present purposes, as newspapers constantly affirm. In providing them,\n care should be taken to build with an eye to future requirements when\n it shall become customary if not compulsory to remove the dead from\n among the living within a reasonable time after death.\n\n \u201cIt is merciful sometimes to be inexorable, and what a lot of willing\n and unnecessary discomfort and risk would be saved were it possible\n and the practice to find a temporary resting-place for our departed\n friends till we are ready to carry them befittingly to the tomb.\u201d\n\n\nMORTUARIES OF LONDON.\n\nEach of the sanitary districts in the Metropolis is supposed to have\na mortuary of some kind for the reception of bodies from hospitals,\ninfirmaries, hotels, private houses, as well as from the river and\nstreets, or in transit to and from foreign countries, where they are\nkept without charge for about five days, unless the public health\nrequires earlier interment. Hospitals, hotels, and families are\nthus relieved of the presence of corpses, for convenience, and for\npurposes of inquest. The mortuaries are nearly all plain, gloomy, and\ndepressing structures of brick. The best of them comprise a coroner\u2019s\ncourtroom, coroner\u2019s private room, the caretaker\u2019s rooms, waiting\nroom, _post-mortem_ room, chapel, and viewing room connected. There is\nno physician in attendance, and no autopsies are performed except by\nsurgeons upon their own cases, or for purposes of inquests. There are\nno appliances or conveniences for resuscitation, as all the bodies are\nregarded as dead, having been, for the most part, certified as such by\na medical practitioner, the exceptions being such as are taken from the\nwater or street by the police, or left there for inquest. The buildings\nare usually well lighted, and some of the rooms contain fire-places,\nbut they are devoid of taste or ornamentation of any kind. The bodies\nare kept in coffins, which, if there is any odour proceeding from them,\nare screwed down. Permission is afforded for inspection by doctors or\nby any of the family of the deceased on application to the keeper.\nThese mortuaries are kept clean, and decent and respectful treatment of\nthe bodies is enforced by regulations.\n\n[THE LONDON MORTUARIES.]\n\nThe London County Council issued a return (No. 157) dated March 9,\n1894, in pursuance of the Public Health (London) Act, 1891, relating to\ncoroners\u2019 courts, mortuaries, etc., from which it appears that there\nwere fifty-one mortuaries in the sanitary districts of London up to\nSeptember 30, 1893. In most of these the accommodation is described\nas \u201csufficient,\u201d \u201cgood,\u201d \u201cwell arranged,\u201d \u201cexcellent,\u201d \u201cconvenient.\u201d\nOthers are of an opposite character. The one attached to the Town\nHall, Holborn district, is reported as \u201cvery small (about nine feet by\nnine feet), inconvenient, and badly situated.\u201d In the Poplar district\nthe mortuary \u201cis an old crypt, quite unfit for the purpose, and has\nno convenience for _post-mortems_.\u201d At Ratcliffe, in the Limehouse\ndistrict, the mortuary \u201cconsists of a railway arch, and is very\nunsuitable.\u201d \u201cThere is a very small mortuary in the church-yard\u201d at\nShadwell. The mortuary under the church-yard of St. Martin\u2019s Church\n(St. Martin\u2019s-in-the-Fields) is reported \u201cvery imperfect.\u201d The one in\nthe Southern Coroner\u2019s district is situated under a railway arch, and\nthere is no mortuary-keeper. At St. Paul\u2019s, Deptford, the mortuary\ncontains only one room, which serves for mortuary and _post-mortem_\nroom. Plumstead is possessed of an underground mortuary in the\nchurch-yard, reported as \u201cunsatisfactory.\u201d The Lewisham district\nhas an \u201cunsuitable\u201d mortuary at the cemetery. Rotherhithe has \u201can\ninadequate mortuary in the old burial-ground.\u201d At St. George the\nMartyr (Southwark) the mortuary is reported to be \u201cinadequate and\nunsuitable.\u201d In the Strand district there is \u201cno proper mortuary, but\na small dead-house attached to the Savoy Chapel is used.\u201d Eltham,\nLea, and Kidbrooke, in the Plumstead district, have no mortuaries.\nThe part of Lambeth, S. and S.E., up the Clapham and Kennington Park\nroads, is without a mortuary, and _bodies awaiting inquest are kept in\nprivate houses_. Nor are there any mortuaries in the Greenwich district\n(Hatcham), Wapping, or Mile End Old Town. Arrangements are reported to\nbe in progress for the enlargement of some of these establishments and\nthe erection of others.\n\nNo resuscitations are reported from any of these places, except in\nthe case of Ernest Wicks, a boy two years old, who was found lying\non the grass in Regent\u2019s Park apparently dead, and resuscitated in\nSt. Marylebone Mortuary (after being laid out on a slab as dead) in\nSeptember, 1895, by the keeper, Mr. Ellis, assisted by Mrs. Ellis.\nWhen the doctor arrived, the child was breathing freely, though still\ninsensible. The child was taken to the Middlesex Hospital, and was\nreported by the surgeon to be recovering from a fit.\n\n[HOSPITAL MORTUARIES.]\n\nThe London mortuaries stand well in the estimation of the authorities,\nmedical practitioners, and the people, on account of their usefulness\nand convenience in relieving hotels and private houses of the dead\npending funerals, and in cases of deaths from infectious diseases, as\nwell as from accidents and acts of violence (amongst which suicides are\nincluded) which require investigation. In consequence of this, there is\na disposition on the part of the authorities to enlarge and improve the\nolder and smaller ones, and to introduce the later conveniences. Those\nin St. Marylebone and St. Luke\u2019s are the latest examples, and could,\nwith comparatively little outlay, be rendered creditable and useful\nestablishments. First of all, they require the means of resuscitation,\nsuch as are in use at the Royal Humane Societies\u2019 Dep\u00f4ts, and at\nthe German mortuaries; also baths, couches, plants, flowers, and\nmural ornaments, with a skilled nurse or caretaker, and a medical\npractitioner either on the establishment or within telephone call. A\nfundamental regulation should be added to the standing orders that,\nwhen there is no sign of decomposition, bodies should be treated not\nas dead but as sick needing attention, and to be kept under careful\nobservation. Such simple and inexpensive alterations, gradually\nintroduced by County, Parish, and District Councils, would, in the\ncourse of time, bring about a greater respect for the dead, with proper\nconsideration for the apparently dead, besides increasing the feeling\nof the sanctity of human life. In the course of time these improvements\nwould educate the public, and lead to the erection of new and handsome\nstructures of beautiful design, with appropriate artistic decorations,\nsuch as are to be found in Munich and other parts of Germany.\n\nThe _Medical Times_, September 5, 1896, p. 569, says:--\n\n \u201cIn a recent issue of the _Nursing Record_, there is an interesting\n article on hospital mortuaries by a special commissioner.... At\n Guy\u2019s the mortuary only contains room for one body. There is a bier,\n covered by a cradle and a red and white washing pall, and over this\n is a shelf, on which are placed a cross, fresh flowers, and candles.\n At St. Bartholomew\u2019s the mortuary itself is certainly not a place\n where one would care to find one\u2019s dead. The bare, white-washed\n walls, the sloping floor, the black lidless shells, covered by\n white sheets, would depress most people even if they had no special\n interest in them. That this is felt to some extent by the hospital\n authorities is evident from the fact that, when a member of the\n staff dies, they do their best to make other arrangements for the\n disposal of the body until it is removed from the hospital. There\n is an hospital not named [continues the _Medical Times_] where the\n only place available as a mortuary is the wash-house. It would appear\n that the managers of metropolitan hospitals do not believe in the\n reality of death-counterfeits, and therefore make no arrangements for\n resuscitation.\u201d\n\n\nMORTUARIES IN THE PROVINCES.\n\nWith the object of ascertaining the utility of these establishments,\nthe author wrote to the clerks or other officials in all the larger\ntowns in the United Kingdom, fifty in number, requesting copies of\nthe regulations, reports, etc. To these communications twenty-four\nreplies were received. Of these, only three sent copies of reports,\nfurnishing particulars of the number of bodies received, and the number\nof inquests and _post-mortems_; three sent copies of regulations;\nand the remainder do not publish either reports or regulations. One,\nhowever (Poplar), states that the by-laws in use are approved by the\nLocal Government Board. The Chief Constable at the Town Hall, Salford,\nwrites, July 26, 1896--\u201cThere are three mortuaries in the borough, but\na separate record of the bodies laid in the mortuaries is not kept, and\nno papers exist respecting them.\u201d Mr. Hagger, the Vestry Clerk of the\nParish of Liverpool, says--\u201cI know of no public mortuary in Liverpool\nwhich is considered to be of such importance as to call for anything\nin the shape of periodical reports.\u201d Mr. R. Davidson, Governor of the\nCity Parish Poorhouse, Glasgow, writes, July 27, 1896--\u201cI have never\nhad any reports relating to the mortuary here.\u201d Mr. J. Jackson, Chief\nConstable, Sheffield, writes, July 29--\u201cWe have never had papers or\nreports connected with it (the mortuary), except the ordinary rules and\nregulations for preserving decency, cleanliness, etc.\u201d Similar replies\nwere received from Manchester, Swansea, Scarborough, Wigan, Bristol,\nSt. Mary\u2019s (Islington), Dundee, and Catford. Mr. Robert Clinton, Master\nof the Bethnal Green Workhouse, writes, July 30--\u201cThat their mortuary\nhas not been the subject of any reports,\u201d and continues, \u201cThe subject\nof persons being buried alive is a very important one, and should\narouse the interest of every intelligent person. Some method ought\ncertainly to be devised that will prevent anyone being subjected to so\nhorrible a fate.\u201d\n\n\nIRELAND.\n\nThe following extracts are from the report by Dr. J. E. Kenny, M.P.,\nCoroner for the City of Dublin, received in January, 1894:--\n\n[BURIAL CUSTOMS IN IRELAND.]\n\n\u201cThere are no local laws in Dublin or in Ireland relative to the mode\nof disposal of the dead, but the Sanitary Acts, which refer to the\nUnited Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, can be availed of when\nnecessary to compel the burial of the dead within a reasonable period,\non the ground that an unburied body is a nuisance dangerous to public\nhealth. There is, however, no fixed period. Among Roman Catholics it\nis customary to bury the dead on the third or fourth day after death,\nbut there is no hard-and-fast rule.... The local burial authorities\nusually require a medical certificate of death before opening the\ngrave, but there is no legal sanction for this, and it is merely the\ncustom. The coroner\u2019s order for burial where an inquest is held does\naway with the necessity of such certificates as those above referred\nto, but _post-mortem_ examinations in these cases are the exception,\nnot the rule. A good many, however, are held on those who die in\nlocal hospitals when the consent of the relatives or friends can\nbe obtained. I have not heard of any case of cremation in Ireland,\nand earth-burial is the universal practice. Occasionally, when so\nordered by the will of the deceased, a body is removed to England\nfor cremation. I am myself rather in favour of cremation as a more\nscientific and safer method of disposing of the dead.\n\n\u201cThere are no chambers (mortuaries) of the kind referred to in this\nquestion in Dublin, nor, so far as I know, in Ireland. I know of no\nlaw as to the signs of death which must be recognised to exist before\nburial is permitted, nor is there any officer on whom is thrown the\nduty of ascertaining or deciding whether such exist or not.\n\n[REFORMS URGENTLY NEEDED.]\n\n\u201cIf cremation be generally adopted, it ought not to be performed\nearlier than the third day after death, or perhaps not until some\nunmistakable sign of decomposition has set in. I think this rule of\nsome such sign of decomposition setting in ought to apply to all\nmethods of disposal of the dead. Whenever well-marked warmth of the\nbody exists after apparent death, burial of any kind ought not to take\nplace until after a full and exhaustive examination by a competent\nauthority. In all doubtful cases I would suggest the application of\neither a hot iron to some sensitive part of the body, or that a small\nincision should be made over the course of some small artery, a person\nbeing left to watch the result for some time in the latter case, so as\nto take proper precautions against h\u00e6morrhage, should the person be not\nreally dead. It might perhaps with advantage be made the law that in\nevery case of death or supposed death the body should be viewed by a\nmedical man, who, having satisfied himself that death had taken place,\nwould sign a certificate to that effect. If I understand rightly, such\nis the law in France. I would, however, be opposed to any law making an\nautopsy necessary in every case. The existence of such a public officer\nas a coroner is undoubtedly of advantage in reference to cases of\nsudden death or supposed death, as it is among such cases that mistakes\nare most likely to occur. I can see no objection to the establishment,\nat the public expense, of chambers for the reception of dead bodies\nunder certain circumstances.\u201d\n\nIn reply to a similar inquiry Sir Charles A. Cameron, Superintendent\nMedical Officer of Health, writes, August 10, 1896--\u201cThere is no public\nmortuary in Dublin, but we are taking steps for the establishment of\none.\u201d\n\nIt need hardly be said that the mortuaries described in these reports\nhave little in common with certain _Leichenh\u00e4user_ of Germany or\nthe _Mortuaires d\u2019 Attente_ urgently called for by various writers\nof France, and proposed to be erected. The English mortuaries may\nmore appropriately be described as _morgues_ or depositories for\nthe homeless and neglected dead--useful for this purpose, but in no\nrespect fulfilling the requirements of the present day. Without skilful\nattendants and scientific appliances for the restoration of suspended\nlife, to which all are liable, the apparently dead, if deposited\nin such chilling establishments, would, through neglect, be more\nlikely to lose what spark of life remained than to have it kindled\ninto a flame and recover. The erection of mortuaries for the sake of\ndeath-counterfeits, and in order to give peace of mind to doubting\nfriends, would no doubt be opposed chiefly on the ground of expense.\nThe outlay must come from the pockets of the rate-payers, who have been\naccustomed to accept the cursory inspection of \u201cthe corpse\u201d and the\ncertificate of the doctor as a satisfactory solution of any misgivings\nas to the actuality of death. Under the circumstances it would not\nbe surprising if the unreflecting majority preferred to take what\nthey would consider to be an infinitesimal risk rather than to incur\nthe expense of the necessary outlay. This volume has been written to\nremove such apathy, and, if possible, to arouse public attention to\nthe subject; and if the facts are, as the author believes, absolutely\ntrue, and the danger real, other and abler contributions furnishing\nthe results of wider and more extensive investigations may be expected\nto follow. It is believed that the expense of constructing tastefully\ndesigned mortuaries in all populous districts could be met by a rate of\nfrom a farthing to a penny in the pound, and in the smaller or thinly\npopulated districts groups of parishes could unite in providing such\nuseful institutions. At present, under existing customs, probably ten\ntimes the amount required is annually expended in funeral trappings,\nmourning habiliments, costly wreaths, and ornamental monuments (mainly\nfor the purpose of ostentatious display) than would provide temporary\nresting-places for the real and apparently dead in every part of the\nUnited Kingdom. The erection of such establishments, where the fact\nof death in every case could be unequivocally demonstrated before\nburial or cremation, would remove an ever present and consuming load of\nanxiety from the hearts of thousands of sensitive souls.\n\n\nCONTINENTAL MORTUARIES.\n\n[CONTINENTAL MORTUARIES.]\n\nThe author is indebted to a \u201cTreatise on Public Health,\u201d by Albert\nPalemberg and A. Newsholme, London, 1893, for the following details:--\n\n\n BRUSSELS.\n\n \u201cThis city possesses two mortuaries to which bodies are conveyed from\n confined houses. One of these, within the town, only receives the\n bodies of persons not having died of an infectious disease; all others\n are conveyed to the mortuary at the Ev\u00e8re Cemetery....\n\n \u201cIn times of epidemic the removal of corpses to the mortuary is\n compulsory, and so also in other cases where the medical health\n officer decides that it is necessary. No corpse, without special\n permission, can be kept in the mortuary more than forty-eight hours\n after death, but this interval can be shortened or lengthened by\n special order.\u201d\n\n\n PARIS.\n\n \u201cBy a decision of July 21, 1890, the Municipal Council of Paris has\n decided to establish a mortuary in each of the cemeteries of the east\n (P\u00e8re La Chaise) and the north (Montmartre).... The mortuaries are\n not available for the bodies of persons having died from infectious\n disease.\n\n \u201cBodies are only admitted to the mortuary--(1) On the written\n application of the head of the family or some other persons competent\n to undertake the funeral. (2) On the production of a certificate of\n death from the doctor who attended the patient, stating that the death\n was not caused by infectious disease.\n\n \u201cUp to the present time (1893) these mortuaries do not appear to have\n been of great service, owing to the unwillingness of families to part\n with their dead before the time of interment.\n\n \u201c\u2018La Morgue.\u2019--This establishment only receives bodies on which a\n _post-mortem_ examination is required, and the bodies of unknown\n persons, placed there for recognition. In the hall where the bodies\n are exposed, the temperature is kept several degrees below zero by a\n system of refrigeration, thus retarding putrefaction. This system\n would, in consequence of the low temperature, greatly <DW44> or\n prevent the revival of persons who may only be in a state of torpidity\n from submergence, or of trance or catalepsy, who could be resuscitated\n if warmth and other proper means were promptly applied to them.\u201d\n\n\n BERLIN.\n\n \u201cIn some of the cemeteries mortuaries have been built, which are\n placed at the disposal of the public by the authorities, with the\n understanding that the corpses shall be taken from them as soon as\n possible.\n\n \u201cThe bodies of the poor are first placed in the depository of the old\n cemeteries, within the city enclosure, whence they are removed by\n night in carriages kept for the purpose to the mortuary in the large\n cemetery outside the city, to be buried the next day. The Jews have\n built a mortuary chapel in their new cemetery at Weissensee, which\n fulfils all the conditions required by modern hygiene, and contains\n everything necessary for washing, isolating, and enveloping the bodies.\n\n \u201cA new establishment, which answers its purpose perfectly, has\n been built in the old cemetery--Charit\u00e9--and is used for inquests,\n _post-mortem_ examinations, etc., also for the exhibition of bodies\n of unknown persons. The bodies are preserved from putrefaction by an\n apparatus in which refrigeration is produced by ammonia and chloride\n of calcium, as the Morgue in Paris.\u201d\n\n\n VIENNA.\n\n \u201cThere is a mortuary in each district of the city to which are brought\n corpses belonging to families who have imperfect accommodations.\n\n \u201cThe district doctor must decide whether removal is necessary, as it\n is his duty to register deaths and their causes. He should at the same\n time examine into the state of the dwelling from a sanitary standpoint.\n\n \u201cIn cases of sudden death, and when the cause of death is not\n apparent, a _post-mortem_ examination must be made.\n\n \u201cThe bodies of persons who have died from infectious disease must not\n be taken to the common mortuaries, but to one built in the common\n cemetery.\n\n \u201cBodies must not be buried in the city. The principal cemetery is at\n Kaiser-Ebersdorf, north-west of the city, and cost four millions of\n marks.\u201d\n\n\n STOCKHOLM.\n\n \u201cEvery parish possesses a mortuary vault. According to the regulations\n of the Health Commission, bodies must not remain there more than\n forty-eight hours in the hot season, and seventy-two in the cold\n weather.\u201d\n\nThe first modern mortuary was opened at Weimar, Germany, in 1791.\n\nIn a \u201cHandbook for Travellers in Europe\u201d for 1890, by W. Pembroke\nFetridge, p. 622, is the following description of the model mortuary in\nWeimar:--\n\n \u201cThe New Church-yard is a sweet place of its kind. Here may be seen\n an admirable arrangement to prevent premature burials in cases of\n suspended animation. In a dark chamber, lighted with a small lamp,\n the body lies in a coffin. In its fingers are placed strings, which\n communicate with an alarm clock; the least pulsation of the corpse\n will ring the bell in an adjoining chamber, where a person is placed\n to watch, when a medical attendant is at once supplied. There have\n been several cases where persons supposed to be dead were thus saved\n from premature burial.\u201d\n\nThe _Middlesborough Gazette_ of 11th October, 1895, says:--\n\n \u201cThose who have visited burying grounds in some parts of the South\n of England are well aware that tombs made in the shape of \u2018waiting\n rooms\u2019 are largely in vogue with the well-to-do classes. One in a\n little church-yard in Sussex was elegantly fitted up. The coffins were\n placed on one side of the well-lighted vault, while on the opposite\n side was a couch, chairs, and a table, together with books. The\n relatives of the deceased--eccentric they may have been, we are not\n prepared to say--visited the vault, access to which was gained by a\n flight of steps, and there passed much of their time in reading, the\n ladies doing needle work. But this sort of thing is only for the\n rich. The poor must be protected from being buried alive by other and\n more economical methods--namely, by stricter attention to the actual\n and unmistakable evidences of death, and by careful registration on\n medical certificates only.\u201d\n\nIt would appear by the following announcement, that an effort is being\nmade to supply one of the several properly fitted mortuaries needed in\nthe French capital:--\n\n \u201cThe _Pall Mall Gazette_ of September 21, 1895, announces a decided\n novelty in the way of limited liability companies--the Mortuary\n Waiting-room Company, which, it says, is on the point of being floated\n in the French capital. Our contemporary says that the amount for\n subscription is stated to be \u00a320,000, and dividends at the rate of at\n least 100 per cent. may, it is claimed, be confidently looked for. The\n company undertake to provide separate waiting-rooms, of two classes,\n in a large mortuary building. The alleged corpse will be comfortably\n deposited there upon a couch, and carefully looked after till the\n fact that it is a corpse shall have been established beyond question.\n The waiting-rooms will be tastefully decorated, with everything about\n them to welcome the revived tenant agreeably back to life. It is\n interesting to hear that no shareholder\u2019s heirs will be allowed to\n visit him.\u201d\n\nSome sanitarians and funeral reformers urge with much reason that the\npresence of the dead should not be allowed to endanger the health of\nthe living, and recommend that if death has occurred from infectious\ndisease, the body should be covered with charcoal and conveyed at once\nto a mortuary chamber; and others advise early burials for all as soon\nas possible. If, however, this volume has not demonstrated the danger\nof such early burials, except where decay of the earthly vesture is\nvisible, it will have been written in vain.\n\nThe following recommendation from a well-known physician and surgeon\nappears in _London_, p. 613, September 27, 1894:--\n\n \u201cCoroners\u2019 Courts and Mortuaries,\u201d a paper read at the Hygiene\n Congress at Buda Pesth, by W. J. Collins, M.D., M.S., B.Sc., D.P.H.\n (Lond.), L.C.C.\n\n \u201cI therefore hold that every inducement should be held out to the\n poor by local authorities, by the provision of decent, suitable, and\n attractive mortuaries, to allow their dead to be removed from danger\n to the living to a place where sentiment shall be respected and\n sanitation satisfied.\u201d\n\n\nTHE UTILITY OF MORTUARIES.\n\n[THE MAYOR OF MUNICH\u2019S OPINION.]\n\nDuring the discussion on Premature Burials in the press, the erection\nof mortuaries (chambres mortuaires d\u2019attente) has been objected to\n(1) on the ground of expense to the rate-payers; and (2) because the\nresults by way of resuscitation of those constructed in Germany have\nnot justified the cost of their erection and maintenance, and that\nif they had not already been in existence they would not now, it is\nsaid, be established. The most recent investigations on this subject\nhave been made by Monsieur B. Gaubert, the results of which appear in\nhis work, \u201cLes Chambres Mortuaires d\u2019Attente,\u201d a volume of 308 pages,\npublished in Paris, 1895. The author shows by the citation of facts\nthat both in France and Germany numerous cases of resuscitation of\npersons certified as dead, and deposited in mortuaries, in spite of\nmany drawbacks connected with their management, have occurred, and that\ntheir continuance is amply justified on the ground of utility. In the\nreport of the Municipal Council of Paris for 1880, No. 174, p. 84, is a\nletter from Herr Ehrhart, Mayor of Munich, May 2, 1880, who says:--\u201cThe\nlengthy period during which these establishments have been utilised,\nthe order which has always prevailed, the manner in which the\nremains are disposed and adorned, _the resuscitation of some who were\nbelieved to be dead_, have all contributed to remove any sentimental\nobjections to these establishments. The bodies are transported to the\nLeichenh\u00e4user twelve hours after death, without the least opposition on\nthe part of the relatives.\u201d The expense of these institutions would, no\ndoubt, in the aggregate be a considerable sum, but not nearly so large\nas that voted for the erection and maintenance of public libraries,\nnow so common; but in the presence of so serious and real a danger\nas that of living burial, to which any of us is liable, it is hardly\nworth considering. For peace of mind the cost of such insurance would\nbe cheerfully paid by thousands, and ought to be provided for the poor\nand for those who would in time come to value it. This is a matter that\nmight appropriately be taken up by the County, District, and Parish\nCouncils and Boards of Guardians, under the powers granted to them by\nthe Local Government Act of 1894.\n\nDr. Josat, in his treatise \u201cDe la mort et de ses caract\u00e8res,\u201d shows\nby numerous arguments and examples that, as there is an interval or\ncondition provided by nature between disease and health known as\n_convalescence_, and the transition between the one and the other\nis preceded by a variety of phenomena known as a _crisis_, so there\nis an interval between the termination of a fatal malady and real\ndeath (erroneously described as the agony), the symptoms which denote\nintermediate or apparent death. But while the result of an error may\nbe of little moment in the first case, it may in the other become\ndisastrous, by abandoning the dying before absolute death. It is during\nthis interval, between (so called) death agony and absolute death,\nwhich sometimes has been known to last a week, that the transfer to a\nsuitable mortuary should be made.\n\nThe following may be cited as typical illustrations of the utility of\nmortuaries in discovering the existence of life after apparent death.\n\n[AND CASES OF RESUSCITATION.]\n\nH. L. Kerthomas in \u201cDerni\u00e8res Consid\u00e9rations sur les Inhumations\nPr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es,\u201d Lille, 1852, p. 17, relates that--\n\n \u201cAt a hospital in Liege two house-surgeons were at the \u2018Salles des\n d\u00e9cades\u2019 in pursuance of their anatomical studies, when hearing at\n one side of them a noise like stifled breathing great was their fear!\n Still they coolly finished their examination, and then discovered the\n supposed corpse moving convulsively amongst his dead companions; but,\n thanks to efficient help, he was completely restored to health.\u201d (The\n above occurred in 1847.)\n\nM.B. Gaubert, in \u201cLes Chambres Mortuaires d\u2019Attente,\u201d records the six\nfollowing cases:--\u201cOn the 25th of January, 1849, the _Journal des\nD\u00e9bats_ recorded a fact somewhat similar to that which lately disturbed\nthe town of Perigueux:--\n\n\n \u201c\u2018MUNICH.\n\n \u201c\u2018A young man who was asphyxiated by charcoal had been declared dead\n by the doctor. After they had been watching the body twenty-four hours\n at the mortuary chamber, the family caused it to be carried to the\n church, where it passed the night without the customary caretaker. The\n next morning \u201cthe corpse\u201d was found bathed in its own blood, and the\n floor of the church was stained. Restored to consciousness during the\n night and not having any help, the poor young man had succumbed to\n h\u00e6morrhage, brought on by the incisions which they blindly practised\n on the body of the supposed dead one to make sure of his death.\u2019\n\n \u201c\u2018The mother of a family had just lost her child, aged five years. She\n carried to the Leichenh\u00e4user a heart broken by grief, cherishing the\n vague hope in the depth of her love that this separation would not\n be the last. According to habit the families of Munich exposed the\n corpse in a mortuary chamber amidst flowers and trees, and surrounded\n by a circle of light. The Leichenh\u00e4us then appeared to have lost its\n habitual funereal character--for it had quite a festive air. The\n poor mother passed the night amidst tears and prayers, waiting with\n anxiety and hoping for the arrival of the good news. The next morning\n a workman of the Leichenh\u00e4user knocked at the door of the house with\n a large bundle which he carried in his arms; a few seconds after, the\n mother pressed to her heart the resuscitated child which she was told\n she had just lost. The transports of joy she experienced were so great\n that she fell down dead. The child had come to life in the mortuary by\n himself, and, when the keeper saw it, it was playing with the white\n roses which had been placed on its shroud.\u2019 (P. 179.)\n\n\u201cThe same recent writer quotes the following on the testimony of the\nsurgeons Louis and Junker:--\n\n\n \u201c\u2018SALTP\u00c9TRI\u00c8RE.\n\n \u201c\u2018A young country girl,\u2019 said Surgeon Louis, \u2018strong and vigorous,\n twenty-five years old, left on foot from the Hotel Dieu, Paris, where\n she had been resting the night before, and came to Saltp\u00e9tri\u00e8re. The\n fatigue of the journey induced an attack of syncope on her arrival.\n They put her on the bed, and with cordials and warmth she revived,\n but at the end of an hour she had another attack. They thought she\n was dead, and carried her to the mortuary. After leaving the body--it\n had remained there some time--they carried it to the amphitheatre.\n The next morning a young surgeon said he had heard plaintive cries in\n the amphitheatre, and his fear had prevented him from coming to tell\n me. I went into the amphitheatre, and saw with sorrow that the poor\n girl, who had vainly struggled to free herself from the sheet which\n enveloped her, was now quite dead. She had one leg on the floor, and\n an arm on the seat of the trestle of a dissecting table. I here recall\n the feelings of horror with which I was agitated on this occasion.\n I doubt if there ever was a sadder or more touching spectacle than\n this.\u2019 (P. 187.)\n\n\u201cBERLIN.\n\n\u201c\u2018A Berlin apothecary wrote to me lately\u2019 (says Dr. L\u00e9normand) \u2018in this\ntown to the effect that during an interval of two years and a-half, ten\npeople stated to be dead had been recalled to life. I shall quote only\nthe following:--\n\n\n \u201c\u2018SOLDIER OF THE GUARD.\n\n \u201c\u2018In the middle of the night the bell of the vestibule rang violently.\n The caretaker, who had only entered on duties within a few days, much\n startled, ran towards the mortuary. As soon as he opened the door he\n found himself confronted with one of \u201cthe corpses\u201d enveloped in his\n shroud who had quitted his bier and was making his way out. He was a\n soldier of the guard believed to be dead, and he was able to join his\n regiment five days later.\u2019 (_Ibid._, p. 180.)\n\n\n\u201cFRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAINE.\n\n\u201cDr. Josat said that during his sojourn in Germany, Herr Schmill,\ndirector of the mortuary at Frankfort, related to him a case of\napparent death which occurred under his own eyes.\n\n \u201c\u2018In the year 1840, a girl of nineteen years died of acute\n pleuro-pneumonia. Her body, during very hot weather, was exposed\n in the mortuary for a period of eight days in a state of perfect\n preservation. Her face retained its colour, the limbs were supple,\n and the substance of the cornea transparent, whereas in ordinary\n cases decomposition shows itself on the third day. The parents could\n not reconcile themselves to have their daughter buried, and found\n themselves much troubled. Finally on the ninth day the supposed dead\n suddenly awoke without any premonitory indications of life.\u2019 (_Ibid._,\n p. 180.)\n\n\n\u201cBELGIUM.\n\n\u201cThere was a case at Brussels in January, 1867, of a person who\nreturned to life just as the bearers arrived at the mortuary.\n\n \u201c\u2018A workman of the suburbs, employed by a firm of carriers, fell ill,\n and in a few days died. This suddenness of the death caused doubts\n as to its reality, and after the usual delay he was taken to the\n mortuary connected with the cemetery. The body was left for a few\n days\u2019 observation. As soon as they arrived a noise escaped from the\n coffin, and arrested the attention of the people present. At once they\n hastened towards the coffin, and tried to restore him, and in a short\n time he came to life. The same evening he was able to return to his\n home. On the following day he went himself to the authorities to annul\n the record of his supposed death.\u2019\u201d (P. 182.)\n\nM. Gaubert continues:--\u201cWe have collected in Germany fourteen cases of\napparent death followed by return to life in mortuaries, in spite of\nall that has been done for the prevention of such occurrences.\u201d (P.\n182.)\n\n\n CASSEL.\n\n \u201cDr. E. Bouchut, in \u2018Signes de la Mort,\u2019 3rd edition, p. 50, relates\n that an apothecary\u2019s assistant had an attack of syncope, which\n continued for eight days, when he was apparently dead, and was removed\n to the mortuary of the Military Hospital, Cassel, where he was covered\n with a coarse wrapper and left amongst the dead. The following night\n he awoke from his lethargy, and, on recognising the horrible place\n where he was, dragged himself to the door and kicked against it. The\n noise was heard by the sentinel, aid arrived, and the patient was put\n in a warm bed, where he recovered. Dr. Bouchut says that, if he had\n been swathed in tight bandages, his efforts at release would have been\n futile, and he would have been buried alive.\u201d\n\n\nLILLE.\n\nThe Paris _Figaro_, March 31, 1894, on the authority of the _Progr\u00e9s du\nNord_, April 2, 1894, reports that:--\n\n \u201cM. Vangiesen, aged eighty-one years, awakened from supposed death on\n the flagstones of the mortuary at the Charit\u00e9 Hospital at Lille.\u201d\n\nThe _Undertakers\u2019 Review_, January 22, 1894, reports that Lena Fellows,\naged twenty-two years, a servant in the employ of A. R. Knox, of\nBuffalo, fell dead, as was thought, while at work on December 8.\nThe remains were taken to the morgue in a coffin, but next morning\nwhen morgue-keeper McShane began to lift the supposed corpse into\nthe refrigerator he found that the woman was alive. It was a case of\ncatalepsy.\n\nThe case of a child found apparently dead in Regents\u2019 Park, London,\nand carried to the Marylebone Mortuary, where it subsequently revived,\nhas already been noticed. The incident caused a good deal of comment,\nand suggested, doubtless, to the reflective reader that other cases of\nsuspended animation might have a less fortunate issue.\n\n[NEED OF CAREFUL SUPERVISION.]\n\nIt is quite impossible on the Continent for an enquirer, as the author\nknows from experience, to obtain reliable information with regard\nto what takes place within the walls of mortuaries, because of the\nnumerous officials and others who are interested in covering up any\nerrors of previous death-certification that may come to light in\nthem. These comprise the health authorities, and the police in places\nwhere the latter regulate funerals, as well as the physicians, whose\ncredit is at stake, and the nurses and undertakers. In many districts\nin Germany the original object of the mortuaries--the prevention of\npremature burial--advocated by Hufeland and others, has not been kept\nin view, but the edifices have rather been used for the convenience\nof the undertakers and their assistants, the bodies in many cases\nbeing removed before actual dissolution was established by evidence\nof putrefaction. This will need to be guarded against by more careful\nsupervision.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\n\nIT is universally admitted that nothing is less certain than life; and\nif the reader will weigh the facts, which it has been the authors\u2019\nintention to understate rather than overstate, he will rightly conclude\nthat nothing is more uncertain than the signs which are ordinarily\naccepted as indicating death. It would have been easy to fill a much\nlarger volume than this with reports of authentic cases of premature\nburial, and narrow escapes from such terrible mischances, and with more\ndetailed results of the authors\u2019 researches on the subject in various\nparts of Europe and America, as well as in the East. The cases adduced\nto illustrate the text are, however, presented as types of hundreds of\nothers obtainable from equally reputable sources, and to be found in\nthe works of various trustworthy authorities, the titles of which can\nbe seen in the Bibliography at the end of this volume.\n\nThe _London Review_ for July, 1791, p. 40, referring to \u201cAn Essay\non Vital Suspension: Being an Attempt to Investigate and Ascertain\nthose Diseases in which the Principles of Life are Apparently\nExtinguished,\u201d by a Medical Practitioner--observes, that this is one\nof many publications \u201cwritten by physicians and surgeons, versed in\nmedical science, and well skilled in anatomy, to demonstrate, beyond\na possibility of contradiction, that there are many cases in which\nthe human body has the appearance of death, and preserves it for a\nconsiderable time, without the reality; the vital principle being\nstill unsubdued, and a restoration of all its powers and functions\npracticable by the administration, in due time, of proper means.\u201d\nThe author of the pamphlet under review says, \u201cIt is a proof of the\ntemerity and imbecility of human judgment, that we have too many\ninstances on record, wherein even the most skilful physicians have\nerred in the decisions they have pronounced respecting the extinction\nof life.\u201d\n\n[IMBECILITY OF HUMAN JUDGMENT.]\n\nUnfortunately, we appear to be no nearer the prevention of these\nterrible mistakes now than we were when the reviewer called attention\nto them a century ago. The imbecility of human judgment complained\nof exists now in an unmitigated degree. The appearance of death is\ngenerally taken for its reality: and the great mass of the inhabitants\nof this planet are hurried to their graves without (except in a\ncomparatively few cases of drowning or poisoning) the application of\nany serious efforts at restoration, and without waiting for unequivocal\nsigns of dissolution.\n\nWhether the risks of being buried alive are as great as those declared\nby some of the authorities quoted in this volume, must be left to the\nreader to determine for himself; but that they are considerable there\nappears little room for doubt by those who have taken the trouble to\ninquire into the facts. How often is the reader shocked by reading\nnarratives in his daily or weekly newspaper of persons either buried\nalive, or of those in a state of suspended animation, but diagnosed and\nduly certificated by the attending doctor as dead, who have returned to\nconsciousness during the funeral rites or at the grave itself.\n\nThe _Lancet_ has borne frequent testimony to these disasters, some\nof which are quoted in this volume; and, just as we are writing the\nclosing chapter, the leading medical journal, in its issue of September\n12, 1896, p. 785, records the following from its Cork correspondent as\nhaving occurred at Little Island, Ireland, which, the writer says, is\nthoroughly vouched for:--\n\n\u201cA child of four years of age contracted (typhoid) fever, and to all\nordinary appearances died. The time of the funeral was appointed, and\nfriends were actually on their way to attend it. When the supposed\ncorpse was about to be removed from the bed to the coffin, signs of\nanimation were exhibited. The services of the medical man were again\nrequisitioned, and the child, opportunely rescued from such a terrible\ndeath, is now progressing satisfactorily.\u201d\n\nAmongst the headings of paragraphs taken from recent papers lying\nbefore me are the following:--\u201cBuried Alive,\u201d \u201cA Gruesome Narrative,\u201d\n\u201cRestored to Life in a Mortuary,\u201d \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d \u201cThe Dead Alive,\u201d\n\u201cBuried Alive,\u201d \u201cSounds from Another Coffin,\u201d \u201cMistaken for Dead,\u201d \u201cA\nLady Nearly Buried Alive,\u201d \u201cRevivification After Burial,\u201d \u201cA Woman\u2019s\nAwful Experience,\u201d \u201cBolt Upright in His Coffin,\u201d \u201cAlmost Buried while\nAlive,\u201d \u201cA Woman Buried Alive,\u201d \u201cThe Corpse Sat Up,\u201d \u201cAlive in Her\nCoffin,\u201d \u201cSeemed to Rise from Death,\u201d \u201cEscaped Burial Alive,\u201d \u201cRevival\nat a Wake,\u201d \u201cSnatched from Death at the Graveside,\u201d \u201cLaid Out, but not\nDead,\u201d \u201cAlive in His Grave,\u201d \u201cInterment before Death,\u201d \u201cCame to Life in\nthe Coffin,\u201d \u201cCorpse Seems to Live,\u201d \u201cThe Corpse Moved,\u201d etc.\n\nAccording to the \u201cLondon Manual and Municipal Year Book,\u201d 1896-97,\nthere are over four hundred public authorities at work in governing\nLondon, who spend over twelve million pounds a year, and from other\nsources it is said that seven millions a year are collected in the\nMetropolis for charitable purposes, and yet there are no officials,\nassociations, or insurance companies to safeguard the people either in\nthis wealthy Metropolis or in any part of the United Kingdom against\none of the most terrible physical calamities that can overtake any\nmember of the human family.\n\n[EXPECTATIONS OF LIFE.]\n\nThe Registrar-General\u2019s Decennial Supplement for 1881-90, published\nthis year (1896), includes a \u201cLife Table\u201d furnishing the expectations\nof life in England and Wales. It appears that the death-rate has fallen\nfrom 21.3 in the decade ending 1880 to 19.0 per thousand living in\nthat ending 1890. The expectation of life at birth, according to the\nactuary\u2019s standard in the decade 1871-80, was 41.3 years for males, and\n44.6 years for females. This has been increased, as shown in the \u201cLife\nTable\u201d 1881-90, to 43.6 for males, and 47.2 for females, mainly through\nsanitary amelioration. A perceptible increase, the author believes,\ncould be shown if steps were taken to restore still-born children, who\nconstitute about five per cent. of births, and if the same trouble were\nadopted to restore the apparently dead from other diseases (which are\nsometimes only crises of repose after wasting disease) as is generally\ntaken with respect to those accidentally poisoned or drowned. Besides\nreducing the mortality and increasing the expectation of life, such\na reform would greatly diminish the appalling suffering of those\nwho, through our apathy and ignorance, are, under our present system\nof _laissez faire_, consigned to precipitate interment, and would\nbring tranquillity of mind to those who are haunted all their lives\nthrough fear of such a catastrophe. Why we should limit our efforts\nat restoration of those apparently dead to a few cases has never been\nshown, and is surely a serious oversight, which should be remedied\nwithout delay.\n\nDr. Hartmann, in \u201cPremature Burial,\u201d observes--\u201cAs by cleaning a\ndusty watch the watchmaker causes the hindrances to be removed which\nprevented the energy stored up in the watch from setting the clockwork\nin motion, so, in cases of apparent death from catalepsy, asphyxia,\nsyncope, and other diseases causing obstacles to the manifestation\nof the life-energy in the body, these obstacles may be removed by\nappropriate means, such as are known to many intelligent physicians,\nand the energy of life being latent in the physical form may be enabled\nto manifest itself again when the harmony of the organism has been\nsufficiently restored, even after the heart has entirely ceased to\nbeat.\u201d\n\nDr. A. Fothergill says:--\u201cSince no one, from prince to peasant, can\nat all times be secure from these dreadful disasters, which suddenly\nsuspend vital action; and since medical practitioners themselves are\nnot exempt, it surely becomes them to use every exertion to _improve_\nthe art of _restoring animation_. May each progressive step in this\ninteresting path of science tend to that great object! and may every\nlaudable attempt undertaken with that benevolent view enable us with\nmore certainty to preserve life and to diminish the sum of human\ninfelicity!\u201d\n\nIt is regrettable that medical practitioners, neither in this nor in\nany of the Continental states, except, possibly, a few in Germany,\nhave been trained to distinguish apparent from real death; and when\na case of death-trance occurs, they certify to actual death, and the\nunfortunate person is interred in a strong coffin, which effectually\nconceals the tragedy following resuscitation. Moreover, the ordinary\npractitioner, both in England and the United States, considers himself\nexonerated from blame when he thus follows the traditions and practice\nof the heads of his profession. Personally, he has neither the time,\nopportunity, or inclination to study the abnormal phenomena of trance,\ncatalepsy, or hypnotisation, and thus the evil of live sepulture is\nperpetuated from generation to generation.\n\n\nSUMMARY OF CONCLUSIONS.\n\n(1) An examination of both the historical and modern cases of trance,\ncatalepsy, and other death-counterfeits shows that nothing is more\nuncertain than the so-called signs of death, and that in all countries\nand in all ages many persons supposed by their attendant physicians and\nrelations to be dead have revived, while the cases are as numerous and\nthe danger as great at the present day as at any previous period.\n\n(2) That the risk of premature burial is especially serious in France,\nin Spain and Portugal, in the west of Ireland, in both European and\nAsiatic Turkey, and in India; also amongst the Jews, where both the\nJewish law and ancient customs enjoin burial within a few hours of\ndeath, and for similar reasons in all Oriental countries; and in the\nSouthern States of North America.\n\n(3) That the various signs which are supposed to indicate death, such\nas the cessation of respiration and of cardiac action, a pale, waxy\nand death-like appearance, the stiffening of the limbs, or _rigor\nmortis_, insensibility to cutaneous excitation, the departure of heat\nfrom the body, are singly and collectively illusory; the only safe and\ninfallible test of dissolution being the manifestation of putrefaction\nin the abdomen.\n\n(4) That medical death-certificates have been shown by various\nwitnesses before the Select Parliamentary Committee of Inquiry\nof 1893-94 to be often misleading as to the cause of death, and\ninconclusive as to the fact of death. Any compulsory extension of the\ndeath-certification system in the present imperfect state of medical\nknowledge would only partially meet the necessities of the case,\nand might have the effect of crystallising a defective system into\nperfunctory routine. A certain safeguard would, however, be provided\nif the law made it binding on medical practitioners to set forth on\nthe death-certificate a precise statement of indications showing that\ndissolution has actually occurred.\n\n(5) That the only safe and effective method of reform is the\nestablishment of appropriately designed waiting mortuaries, such as\nare provided at Munich, Weimar, Stuttgart, and other German cities,\nwith qualified attendants and appliances for resuscitation, and where\ndoubtful cases of death (and all are doubtful in which decomposition\nhas not clearly manifested itself) can be deposited until the fact of\ndeath is unequivocally established.\n\n(6) That premature burial in civilised countries is mainly possible\nowing to the fact that instruction in the phenomena of trance,\ncatalepsy, syncope, and other forms of suspended animation is not\nsystematic in the medical schools in any country, and the means of\nprevention are therefore practically unknown. This omission should be\nimmediately remedied by the inclusion of the subject at the appropriate\nplace in the medical curriculum, and in the examination for degrees.\n\n(7) That, inasmuch as a radical change in the methods of treating\nthe dead or supposed dead is extremely urgent, and legislation with\nan overworked Parliament in England and apathetic State Legislatures\nin America will probably be delayed, the authors recommend, as a\npreliminary measure of protection, the formation of associations for\nthe prevention of premature burial amongst their members, as in some\ncities in France, Austria, and the United States, or the alternative\nplan of engrafting such an obligation of prevention upon existing\nassociations, clubs, and insurance companies established for other\npurposes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf the foregoing conclusions are established, the need for immediate\naction is urgent and imperative, and the prompt intervention of\nParliament should be at once invoked. May we hope for the cordial\nco-operation of all classes and of all sections on a question in\nwhich the whole community have a deep and vital interest, and on which\nprocrastination will certainly be fatal to some of its members. It is\nnot an academic question, but one of the gravest practical character,\nthe earnest consideration and treatment of which cannot be neglected\nwith impunity.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDICES.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX A.\n\nHISTORICAL CASES OF RESTORATION FROM APPARENT DEATH.\n\n\nFROM the time of Kornmann, Terilli, and Zacchia (see \u201cBibliography,\u201d\nseventeenth century), certain notable instances, from old authors,\nof restoration from apparent death have been cited, with a good deal\nof uniformity, in essays or theses on this subject. One of the most\nconvenient (to English readers) of these compilations is to be found in\nan anonymous essay, \u201cThe Uncertainty of the Signs of Death,\u201d Dublin,\n1748 (printed by George Faulkner), from which the following extracts\nare taken _verbatim_:--\n\nPlutarch informs us that a certain person fell from an eminence, but\ndid not show the least appearance of any wound, for, three days after,\nhe suddenly resumed his strength, and returned to life as his friends\nwere conveying him to the grave.\n\nAsclepiades, a celebrated physician, on his return from his country\nseat, met a large company conveying a corpse to the grave. A principle\nof curiosity induced him to ask the name of the deceased person, but\ngrief and sorrow reigned so universally that no one returned him\nanswer; upon which, approaching the corpse, he found the whole of it\nrubbed over with perfumes, and the mouth moistened with precious balm,\naccording to the custom of the Greeks; then carefully feeling every\npart, and discovering latent signs of life, he forthwith affirmed that\nthe person was not dead, and the person was saved.--_Celsus ii., 6, \u201cDe\nre Medica.\u201d_\n\nIn the tenth book of Plato\u2019s Republic is related the story of one\nEr, an Armenian, who was slain in battle. Ten days after, when the\nsurviving soldiers came with a view to inter the dead, they found all\nthe bodies corrupted except his; for which reason they conveyed him to\nhis own house in order to inter him in the usual manner. But two days\nafter, to the great surprise of all present, he returned to life when\nlaid on the funeral pile. Quenstedt remarks upon this case, which he\ntook from Kornmann\u2019s treatise \u201cDe Miraculis Mortuorum,\u201d \u201cThat the soul\nsometimes remains in the body when the senses are so fettered, and, as\nit were, locked up, that it is hard to determine whether a person is\ndead or alive.\u201d Pliny in his \u201cNatural History,\u201d book vii., chap. 52,\nwhich treats of _those who have returned to life when they were about\nto be laid in the grave_, tells us that Acilius Aviola, a man of so\nconsiderable distinction that he had formerly been honoured with the\nconsulship, returned to life when he was upon the funeral pile; but, as\nhe could not be rescued from the violence of the flames, he was burnt\nalive. The like misfortune also happened to Lucius Lamia, who had been\npraetor. These two shocking accidents are also related by Valerius\nMaximus. Celius Tubero had a happier fate than his two fellow-citizens,\nsince, according to Pliny, he discovered the signs of life before it\nwas too late. His state, however, was far from eligible, since, being\nlaid on the funeral pile, he stood a fair chance of being exposed to\nthe like misfortune. Pliny, from the testimony of Varro, adds that when\na distribution of land was making at Capua, a certain man, when carried\na considerable way from his own house in order to be interred, returned\nhome on foot. The like surprising accident also happened at Aquinum.\nThe last instance of this nature related by the author occurred at\nRome, and Pliny must, no doubt, have been intimately acquainted with\nall its most minute circumstances, since the person was one Cerfidius,\nthe husband of his mother\u2019s sister, who returned to life after an\nagreement had been made for his funeral with the undertaker, who was\nprobably much disappointed when he found him alive and in good health.\n\nThese examples drawn from Roman history greatly contribute to establish\nthe uncertainty of the signs of death, and ought to render us very\ncautious with respect to interments.\n\nGreece and Italy are not the only theatres in which such tragical\nevents have been acted, since other countries of Europe also furnish\nus with instances of a like nature. Thus, Maximilian Misson, in his\n\u201cVoyage Through Italy,\u201d tome i, letter 5, tells us--\n\n\u201cThat the number of persons who have been interred as dead, when they\nwere really alive, is very great in comparison with those who have\nbeen happily rescued from their graves; for, in the town of Cologne,\nArchbishop Geron--according to Albertus Krantz\u00efus--was interred alive,\nand died for want of a seasonable releasement.\u201d\n\nIt is also certain that in the same town the like misfortune happened\nto Johannes Duns Scotus, who in his grave tore his hands and wounded\nhis head. Misson also relates the following:--\n\n\u201cSome years ago the wife of one, Mr. Mervache, a goldsmith of\nPoictiers, being buried with some rings on her fingers, as she had\ndesired when dying, a poor man of the neighbourhood, being apprised\nof that circumstance, next night opened the grave in order to make\nhimself master of the rings, but as he could not pull them off without\nsome violence, he in the attempt waked the woman, who spoke distinctly,\nand complained of the injury done her. Upon this, the robber made\nhis escape. The woman, now roused from an apoplectic fit, rose from\nher coffin, returned to her own house, and in a few days recovered a\nperfect state of health.\u201d\n\nWhat induced Misson to relate these histories was a certain piece of\npainting preserved in the Church of the Holy Apostles at Cologne, in\norder to keep up the memory of a certain accident, which that traveller\nrelates in the following manner:--\n\n\u201cIn the year 1571, the wife of one of the magistrates of Cologne being\ninterred with a valuable ring on one of her fingers, the grave-digger\nnext night opened the grave in order to take it off, but we may readily\nsuppose that he was in no small consternation when the supposed dead\nbody squeezed his hand, and laid fast hold of him, in order to get\nout of her coffin. The thief, however, disengaging himself, made his\nescape with all expedition; and the lady, disentangling herself in the\nbest manner she could, went home and knocked at her own door, where,\nafter shivering in her shroud, after some delay she was admitted by the\nterror-stricken servants; and, being warmed and treated in a proper\nmanner, completely recovered.\u201d\n\nSimon Goubart, in his admirable and memorable histories, printed at\nGeneva in 1628, relates the following accident:--\u201cA lady, whose name\nwas Reichmuth Adoloh, was supposed to fall a victim to a pestilence,\nwhich raged with such impetuous fury as to cut off most of the\ninhabitants of Cologne. Soon after, however, she not only recovered her\nhealth, but also brought into the world three sons, who, in process of\ntime, were advanced to livings in the Church.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe town of Dijon, in Burgundy, was, in the year 1558, afflicted\nwith a violent plague, which cut off the inhabitants so fast that\nthere was not time for each dead person to have a separate grave;\nfor which reason large pits were made and filled with as many bodies\nas they could contain. In this deplorable conjuncture, Mrs. Nicole\nTentillet shared the common fate, and after labouring under the\ndisorder for some days, fell into a syncope so profound that she was\ntaken for dead, and accordingly buried in a pit with the other dead\nbodies. The next morning after her interment she returned to life,\nand made the strongest efforts to get out, but was held down by the\nweight of the bodies with which she was covered. She remained in this\nwretched condition for four days, when the grave-diggers took her out\nand carried her to her own house, where she recovered perfectly.\u201d\nFollowing this case, that of a labouring man of Cour\u00e7elles, near\nNeuch\u00e2tel, is narrated. He fell into so profound syncope that he was\ntaken for dead; but the persons who were putting him into his grave\nwithout a coffin, perceived some motion in his shoulders, for which\nreason they carried him to his own home, where he perfectly recovered.\nThis accident laid the foundation for his being called the ghost of\nCour\u00e7elles.\n\n\u201cA lawyer of Vesoul, a town of Franche-Comt\u00e9, near Besan\u00e7on, so\ncarefully concealed a lethargy, to which he was subject, that nobody\nknew anything of his disorder, though the paroxysms returned very\nfrequently. The motive which principally induced him to this secrecy\nwas the dread of losing a lady to whom he was just about to be married.\nBeing afraid, however, lest some paroxysm should prove fatal to him,\nhe communicated his case to the Sheriff of the town, who, by virtue of\nhis office, was obliged to take care of him if such a misfortune should\nhappen. The marriage was concluded, and the lawyer for a considerable\ntime enjoyed a perfect state of health, but at last was seized with so\nviolent a paroxysm of the disease that his lady, to whom he had not\nrevealed the secret, not doubting his death, ordered him to be put in\nhis coffin. The Sheriff, though absent when the paroxysm seized him,\nluckily returned in time to preserve him; for he ordered the interment\nto be delayed, and the lawyer, returning to life, survived the accident\nsixteen years.\u201d\n\nAnother case is that of a certain person who was conveyed to the church\nin order to be interred, but one of his friends sprinkling a large\nquantity of holy water on his face, which was covered, he not only\nreturned to life, but also resumed a perfect state of health.\n\nThis writer subjoins other histories of persons who, being interred\nalive, have expired in their graves and tombs, as has afterwards been\ndiscovered by various marks made, not only in their sepulchres, but\nalso in their own bodies. He in a particular manner mentions a young\nlady of Auxbourg, who, falling into a syncope, in consequence of a\nsuffocation of the matrix, was buried in a deep vault, without being\ncovered with earth, because her friends thought it sufficient to have\nthe vault carefully shut up. Some years after, however, one of the\nfamily happened to die; the vault was opened, and the body of the young\nlady found on the stairs at its entry, without any fingers on the right\nhand.\n\nIt is recorded in \u201cTr. de Aere et Alim. defect.,\u201d cap. vii., that a\ncertain woman was hanged, and in all appearances was dead, who was\nnevertheless restored to life by a physician accidentally coming in and\nordering a plentiful administration of sal ammoniac.\n\nAnother case of hanging is the story of Anne Green, executed at Oxford,\nDecember 14, 1650. She was hanged by the neck for half an hour,\nsome of her friends thumping her on the breast, others hanging with\nall their weight upon her legs, and then pulling her down again with\na sudden jerk, thereby the sooner to despatch her out of her pain.\nAfter she was in her coffin, being observed to breathe, a lusty fellow\nstamped with all his force on her breast and stomach to put her out of\npain. But by the assistance of Dr. Petty, Dr. Willis, Dr. Bathurst, and\nDr. Clark, she was again brought to life.\n\nKornmann, in his treatise \u201cDe Miraculis Mortuorum,\u201d relates the\nfollowing history:--\u201cSaint Augustine, from Saint Cirille, informs\nus that a Cardinal of the name of Andrew having died in Rome in the\npresence of several bystanders, was next day conveyed to the church,\nwhere the Pope and a body of the clergy attended service in order to do\nhonour to his memory. But to their great surprise, after some groans,\nhe recovered his life and senses. This event was at the time looked\nupon as a miracle, and ascribed to Saint Jerome to whom the Cardinal\nwas greatly attached.\u201d\n\nThe following account seems more to resemble a miracle, though we do\nnot find that it was looked upon as such:--\u201cGocellinus, a young man,\nand nephew to one of the Archbishops of Cologne, falling into the\nRhine, was not found for fifteen days after, but was discovered to be\nalive as he lay before the shrine of Saint Guibert.\u201d\n\nPersons curious or incredulous upon the dangers of precipitate burials\nmay, for their satisfaction, have recourse to the medical observations\nof Forestus; those of Amatus Lusitanus; the chirurgical observations of\nWilliam Fabri; the treatise of Levinus Lemnius on the secret miracles\nof Nature; the observations of Schenkins; the medico-legal questions\nof Paul Zacchias; Albertinus Bottonus\u2019s treatise of the Disorders of\nWomen; Terilli\u2019s treatise on the Causes of Sudden Death; Lancisi\u2019s\ntreatise Concerning Deaths, and Kornmann\u2019s treatise on the Miracles of\nthe Dead. These authors furnish us with a great variety of the most\npalpable and flagrant instances of the uncertainty of the signs of\ndeath. As examples of the possibility of even great anatomists being\nimposed upon by these fallacious signs, the two following accidents are\ngiven:--\n\n\u201cAndreas Vesalius, successively first physician to Charles the Fifth\nand his son Philip the Second of Spain, being persuaded that a certain\nSpanish gentleman, whom he had under management, was dead, asked\nliberty of his friends to lay open his body. His request being granted,\nhe no sooner plunged his dissecting-knife in the body than he observed\nsigns of life in it, since, upon opening the breast, he saw the heart\npalpitating. The friends of the deceased, horrified by the accident,\npursued Vesalius as a murderer; and the judges inclined that he should\nsuffer as such. By the entreaties of the King of Spain, he was rescued\nfrom the threatening danger, on condition that he would expiate his\ncrime by undertaking a voyage to the Holy Land.\u201d\n\nThe account of the accident that befell the other anatomist is taken\nfrom Terilli, and runs as follows:--\n\n\u201cA lady of distinction in Spain, being seized with an hysteric\nsuffocation so violent that she was thought irretrievably dead, her\nfriends employed a celebrated anatomist to lay open her body to\ndiscover the cause of her death. Upon the second stroke of the knife\nshe was roused from her disorder, and discovered evident signs of\nlife by her lamentable shrieks extorted by the fatal instrument. This\nmelancholy spectacle struck the bystanders with so much consternation\nand horror that the anatomist, now no less condemned and abhorred\nthan before applauded and extolled, was forthwith obliged to quit not\nonly the town but also the province in which the guiltless tragedy\nwas acted. But though he quitted the now disagreeable scene of the\naccident, a groundless remorse preyed upon his soul, till at last a\nfatal melancholy put an end to his life.\u201d\n\nPhysicians of the earlier ages knew that there were disorders which so\nlocked up or destroyed the external senses that the patients labouring\nunder them appeared to be dead. According to Mr. Le Clerc, in his\n\u201cHistory of Medicine,\u201d Diogenes Laertius informs us \u201cthat Empedocles\nwas particularly admired for curing a woman supposed to be dead, though\nthat philosopher frankly acknowledged that her disorder was only a\nsuffocation of the matrix, and affirmed that the patient might live in\nthat state (the absence of respiration) for thirty days.\u201d\n\nMr. Le Clerc, in the work already quoted, tells us that \u201cHeraclides\nof Pontus wrote a book concerning the causes of diseases, in which he\naffirmed that a patient is without respiration in certain disorders\nfor thirty days, and that they appeared dead in every respect, except\ncorruption of the body.\u201d\n\nTo these authorities we may add that of Pliny, who, after mentioning\nthe lamentable fate of Aviola and Lamia, affirms--\u201cThat such is the\ncondition of humanity, and so uncertain the judgment men are capable of\nforming of things, that even death itself is not to be trusted to.\u201d\n\nColerus, in \u201cOeconom.\u201d part vi., lib. xviii., cap. 113, observes, \u201cThat\na person as yet not really dead may, for a long time, remain apparently\nin that state without discovering the least signs of life; and this has\nhappened in the times of the Plague, when a great many persons interred\nhave returned to life in their graves.\u201d Authors also inform us that the\nlike accident frequently befalls women seized with a suffocation of the\nmatrix (hysteria).\n\nForestus, in \u201cObs. Med.,\u201d 1. xvii., obs. 9, informs us--\u201cThat drowned\npersons have returned to life after remaining forty-eight hours in the\nwater; and sometimes women, buried during a paroxysm of the hysteric\npassion, have returned to life in their graves; for which reason it is\nforbidden in some countries to bury the dead sooner than seventy-two\nhours after death.\u201d This precaution of delaying the interment of\npersons thought to be dead is of a very ancient date, since Dilberus,\nin \u201cDisput. Philol.,\u201d tome i., observes that Plato ordered the bodies\nof the dead to be kept till the third day, _in order to be satisfied of\nthe reality of death_.\n\nThe burial customs of the ancients often included steps that were taken\nas a precaution against mistaking the living for the dead. Indeed the\nfear of such an accident seems to have always been entertained as a\nthing liable to occur in every case of seeming death. The embalming\nprocess employed by the Egyptians was a surgical test of the kind.\nThe abdomen was first opened in order to remove the intestines, and\nsome startling experiences must have been had in consequence of the\nincisions required for this operation, because it was customary for the\nfriends and relatives of the deceased to throw stones at the persons\nemployed in embalming as soon as the work was over, owing to the horror\nwith which they were struck upon witnessing what must have been at\ntimes a cruel proceeding.\n\nThe funeral ceremonies used in the Caribbee Islands are, in a great\nmeasure, conformable to reason. They wash the body, wrap it up in\na cloth, and then begin a series of lamentations and discourses\ncalculated to recall the deceased to life, by naming all the pleasures\nand privileges he has enjoyed in the world, saying over and over again,\n\u201cHow comes it, then, that you have died?\u201d When the lamentations are\nover, they place the body on a small seat, in a grave about four or\nfive feet deep, and for ten days present aliments to it, entreating it\nto eat. Then, convinced that it would neither eat nor return to life,\nthey, for its obstinacy, throw the victuals on its head, and cover up\nthe grave. It is evident from the practices of this people that they\nwait so long before they cover the body with earth, because they have\nhad instances of persons recalled to life by these measures.\n\nLamentations of a similar kind were employed by the Jews and Romans, as\nwell as by the ancient Prussians and the inhabitants of Servia, founded\ndoubtless upon similar experiences.\n\nThe Thracians, according to Herodotus, kept their dead for only three\ndays, at the end of which time they offered up sacrifices of all kinds,\nand, after bidding their last adieu to the deceased, either burned or\ninterred their bodies.\n\nAccording to Quenstedt, the ancient Russians laid the body of the dead\nperson naked on a table, and washed it for an hour with warm water.\nThen they put it into a bier, which was set in the most public room in\nthe house. On the third day they conveyed it to the place of interment,\nwhere the bier, being opened, the women embraced the body with great\nlamentations. Then the singers spent an hour in shouting and making\na noise in order to recall it to life; after which it was let down\ninto the grave and covered with earth. So that this people used the\ntest of warm water, that of cries, and a reasonable delay, before they\nproceeded to the interment.\n\nIn the laws and history of the Jews, there is but one regulation with\nrespect to interment (in the twenty-first chapter of Deuteronomy),\nwhere the Jewish legislator orders persons hanged to be buried the same\nday. From this, one is led to infer that the funeral ceremonies, as\nhanded down from Adam, were otherwise perfect and unexceptionable. The\nbier used by the Jews, on which the body was laid, was not shut at the\ntop, as our coffins are, as is obvious from the resurrection of the\nWidow of Nain\u2019s son, recorded in the seventh chapter of Luke, where\nthese words occur:--\u201cAnd he came and touched the bier, and they that\nbare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise;\nand he that was dead sat up and began to speak.\u201d\n\nGierus and Calmet inform us that the body, before its interment, lay\nfor some days in the porch or dining-room of the house. According to\nMaretus, it was probably during this time that great lamentations were\nmade, in which the name of the deceased was intermixed with mournful\ncries and groans.\n\nMr. Boyer, member of the Faculty at Paris, observes that such\nlamentations are still used by the Eastern Jews, and even by the Greeks\nwho embrace the articles of the Greek Church. These people hire women\nto weep and dance by turns round the body of the dead person, whom they\ninterrogate with respect to the reasons they had for dying.\n\nLanzoni, a physician of Ferrara, informs us that \u201cwhen any person among\nthe Romans died, his nearest relatives closed his mouth and eyes, and\nwhen they saw him ready to expire, they caught his last words and\nsighs. Then calling him aloud three times by his name, they bade him an\neternal adieu.\u201d This ceremony of calling the name of the dying person\nwas called Conclamation, a custom that dates prior to the foundation of\nRome, and was only abolished with paganism.\n\nPropertius acquaints us with the effect they expected from the\nfirst Conclamation--since there were several of them. He introduces\nCynthia as saying, \u201cNobody called me by my name at the time my eyes\nwere closing, and I should have enjoyed an additional day if you had\nrecalled me to life.\u201d\n\nConclamations were made also by trumpets and horns, blown upon the\nhead, into the ears, and upon neck and chest, so as to penetrate all\nthe cavities of the body, into which, as the ancients imagined, the\nsoul might possibly make her retreat.\n\nQuenstedt and Casper Barthius, in \u201cAdvers.,\u201d lib. xxxvii., ch. 17, tell\nus that it was customary among the ancients to wash the bodies of their\ndead in warm water before they burned them, \u201cthat the heat of the water\nmight rouse the languid principle of life which might possibly be left\nin the body.\u201d\n\nBy warm water we are to understand boiling water, as is obvious from\nthe copious steam arising from the vessel represented in pieces of\nstatuary in such instances: as also from the Sixth Book of Virgil\u2019s\n\u201c\u00c6neid\u201d--\u201cSome of the companions of \u00c6neas, with boiling water taken\nfrom brazen vessels, wash the dead body, and then anoint it.\u201d\n\nThe Romans, as Lanzoni informs us, kept the bodies of the dead seven\ndays before they interred them; and Servius, in his commentary on\nVirgil, tells us \u201cthat on the eighth day they burned the body, and\non the ninth put its ashes in the grave.\u201d Polydorus and Alexander ab\nAlexandro are also of opinion that the Romans kept the dead seven\ndays; and Gierus affirms that they sometimes did not bury them till\nthe ninth; but it is easy to believe that they deviated from the most\nuniversal custom when evident and incontestable marks of death rendered\nit safe to inter before the usual time. Alexander ab Alexandro also\nobserves that it was customary among the Greeks to keep the bodies of\ntheir dead seven days before they put them on the funeral pile.\n\nIt would have, perhaps, been sufficient to have kept the bodies of the\ndead seven days, or nine, or till putrefaction evinced the certainty of\ndeath; but the Romans carried their circumspection farther, since, to\nuse the words of Quenstedt, \u201cThose who were employed in watching the\ndead now and then began their conclamations, and all at once called\nthe dead person aloud by his name, because, as Celsus informs us, the\nprinciple of life is often thought to have left the body when it still\nremains in it; for which reason conclamations were made, in order, if\npossible, to rouse it and excite it.\u201d\n\nIf our senses are so imperfect that the signs of life may escape\nthem; if the languid state of the sensitive powers, or the origin of\nthe nerves, is such that the most painful chirurgical operations are\nsometimes insufficient to put the spirits in motion; if the duration\nof a perfect insensibility for a considerable number of days is a\nprecarious and uncertain mark of death; and if situations, apparently\nthe most inconsistent with life, for a considerable time amount only to\nstrong presumptions that life is destroyed, we ought, with Mr. Winslow\nand a great many other celebrated authors, to conclude that a beginning\nof putrefaction is the only certain sign of death.\n\nMr. Winslow evidently proves that the most cruel chirurgical operations\nare sometimes insufficient to ascertain death. From these observations\nwe can but conclude--(1) That it is to no purpose to use the most\ncruel chirurgical operations; and (2) that it is necessary to abstain\nfrom such as may prove mortal to the patient. Mr. Winslow is indeed so\nfar from recommending operations of the last mentioned kind, that he\ncalls it rash to plunge a long needle under the nail of an apoplectic\npatient\u2019s toe.\n\nBut if Mr. Winslow thinks it rash to make a simple puncture in a\nnervous part, we ought, surely, not to entertain a favourable notion of\nthe large and enormous incisions made in dissections. Those, indeed,\nwho are dissected run no risk of being interred alive. The operation is\nan infallible means to secure them from so terrible a fate. This is one\nadvantage which persons dissected have over those who are without any\nfurther ceremony shut up in their coffins.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the appendix to the second edition of Dr. Curry\u2019s \u201cObservations on\nApparent Death\u201d several instances of a similar kind are added, and\namongst others the case of William Earl of Pembroke, who died April\n30, 1630. When the body was opened in order to be embalmed, he was\nobserved, immediately after the incision was made, to lift up his hand.\nThis is capped by the incident of Vesalius already given.\n\n\u201cA correspondent of the late Dr. Hawes assures us that there was then\nliving in Hertfordshire a lady of an ancient and honourable family\nwhose mother was brought to life after interment by the attempt of a\nthief to steal a valuable ring from her finger. (See Reports of the\nRoyal Humane Society for 1787-88-89, p. 77.) Whether it was the same\nor not I cannot say, but Lady Dryden, who resided in the southern part\nof Northamptonshire, in consequence of some such event having occurred\nin her family expressly directed in her will that her body should\nhave the throat cut across previous to interment; and to secure this\nbequeathed fifty pounds to an eminent physician, who actually performed\nit.\u201d--_Ibid., p. 106._\n\nDr. Elliotson refers to a case of a female who was pronounced to be\ndead. Her pulse could not be felt, and she was put into a coffin; and,\nas the coffin lid was being closed they observed a sweat break out, and\nthus saw that she was alive. She recovered completely, and then stated\nthat she had been unable to give any signs of life whatever; that she\nwas conscious of all that was going on around her; that she heard\neverything; and that when she found the coffin lid about to be put\non,the agony was dreadful beyond all description, so that it produced\nthe sweat seen by the attendants.\n\n\nDEATH-TRANCE.\n\nIn two cases related by the late Mr. Braid, of Manchester, \u201cthe\npatients remained in the horrible condition of hearing various remarks\nabout their death and interment. All this they heard distinctly\nwithout having the power of giving any indication that they were\nalive, until some accidental abrupt impression aroused them from their\nlethargy, and rescued them from their perilous situation. On one of\nthese occasions, what most intensely affected the feelings of the\nentranced subject, as she afterwards communicated to my informant,\nwas hearing a little sister, who came into the room, where she was\nlaid out for dead, exulting in the prospect, in consequence of her\ndeath, of getting possession of a necklace of the deceased.\u201d In\nanother instance, the patient remained in a cataleptic condition for\nfourteen days. During this period, the visible signs of vitality were a\nslight degree of animal heat and appearance of moisture when a mirror\nwas held close to her face. But although she had no voluntary power\nto give indication by word or gesture, nevertheless she heard and\nunderstood all that was said and proposed to be done, and suffered the\nmost exquisite torture from various tests applied to her.... There is\nhardly a more interesting chapter in the records of medical literature\nthan the history of well-authenticated cases of profound lethargy or\ndeath-trance. Most of the reported cases in which persons in a state\nof trance are stated to have been consigned to the horrors of a living\nburial may possibly be apocryphal. Still, on the other hand, there are\nunquestionably too many well-substantiated instances of the actual\noccurrence of this calamity, the horrors of which no effort of the\nimagination can exaggerate, and for the prevention of which no pains\ncan be excessive and no precaution superfluous.\n\nThe following is taken from \u201cMemorials of the Family of Scott, of\nScott\u2019s Hall, in the County of Kent, with an Appendix of Illustrative\nDocuments,\u201d by James Benat Scott, F. S. A., London, 1876, page 225:--\n\n\u201cRobert Scott, Esq., tenth (but sixth surviving) son of Sir Thomas\nScott, of Scot\u2019s-Hall, Knight, married Priscilla, one of the daughters\nof Sir Thomas Honywood, of Elmsmere, Knight, by whom he had nine\nchildren. Remarkable accidents happened to the said Robert Scott and\nPriscilla, his wife, before their marriage, at their marriage, and\nafter their marriage, before they had children. At their marriage,\nwhich was in or about the year 1610, the said Robert Scott having\nforgot his wedding ring when they were to be married, the said\nPriscilla was married with a ring with death\u2019s head upon it.\n\n\u201cWithin a short time after they were married, the said Robert Scott,\nand Priscilla, his wife, sojourning with Sir Edward at Austenhanger,\nthe said Robert Scott, about Bartholomewtide, fell sick of a desperate\nmalignant fever, and was given over for dead by all, insomuch as that\nhe was laid forth, the pillows pulled from under him, the curtains\ndrawn, and the chamber windows set open, and ministers spoke to to\npreach the funeral service, and a book called for his funeral that was\nto have been kept at Scott\u2019s Hall, where Sir John Scott the eldest\nbrother then lived. At night he was watched with by his own servant,\nnamed Robins, and another servant in the house, and about midnight\nthey, sitting together by the fire in the chamber, the said Robins said\nto the other, \u2018Methinks my master should not be dead, I will go and\ntry,\u2019 and presently starting up went to the bedside where his master\nlaid, and hallooed in his ear, and laid a feather to his nostrils, and\nperceived that he breathed, upon which he called them up in the house,\nand they warmed clothes and rubbed him, and brought him to life again.\nHe lived afterwards to be upwards of seventy-two years of age, and to\nhave nine children.\n\n\u201cAnother remarkable passage was that his wife, Priscilla, being then\nvery sick also, they told her that he was dead. She answered that she\ndid not believe that God would part them so soon. The said Priscilla,\nwhen born, was laid for dead, no one minding her, but all the women\nwent to help her mother, who was then like to die after her delivery;\nbut at last an old woman, taking the child in her arms, carried it\ndownstairs, and using means, brought her to life. The other women,\nmissing the child, and hearing the old woman had carried her down to\nget life in her, laughed at her, as thinking it impossible to bring the\nchild to life; but in a little time she brought it into the chamber, to\nthe amazement of them all, and said she might live to be an old woman;\nand so she did to the age of fifty-two, and had nine children.\u201d\n\nThe following cases are from Mrs. Crowe\u2019s \u201cNight Side of Nature,\u201d pp.\n133-136:--\n\n\u201cDr. Burns mentions a girl at Canton, who lay in a trance, hearing\nevery word that was said around her, but utterly unable to move a\nfinger. She tried to cry out, but could not, and supposed that she was\nreally dead. The horror of finding that she was about to be buried at\nlength caused a perspiration to appear on her skin, and she finally\nrevived. She described that she felt that her soul had no power to act\nupon her body, and that it seemed to be _in her body and out of it at\nthe same time_.\u201d\n\n\u201cLady Fanshawe related the case of her mother who being sick of a\nfever, her friends and servants thought her deceased, and she lay in\nthat state for two days and a night; but Mr. Winslow, coming to comfort\nmy father, went into my mother\u2019s room, and looking earnestly into her\nface, said, \u2018She was so handsome, and looked so lovely, that he could\nnot think her dead,\u2019 and, suddenly taking a lancet out of his pocket,\nhe cut the sole of her foot, which bled: upon this he immediately\ncaused her to be removed to the bed again, and she opened her eyes,\nafter rubbing and other restorative means, and came to life.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the 10th of January, 1717, Mr. John Gardner, a minister at Elgin,\nfell into a trance, and being to all appearances dead, he was put\ninto a coffin and on the second day was carried to the grave. But\nfortunately a noise being heard, the coffin was opened, and he was\nfound alive and taken home again, where, according to the record, \u2018he\nrelated many strange and amazing things which he had seen in the other\nworld.\u2019\u201d\n\nUnder the head of \u201cSuspended Animation: Cases of Recovery, etc.,\u201d the\nReport of the Royal Humane Society for 1816-17, pp. 48-50, copies\nthe following:--\u201cA young lady, an attendant on the Princess of----,\nafter having been confined to her bed for a great length of time with\na violent disorder, was at last to all appearances deprived of life.\nHer lips were quite pale, her face resembled the countenance of a dead\nperson, and her body became cold.\n\n\u201cShe was removed from the room in which she died, was laid in a\ncoffin, and the day of her funeral was fixed on. The day arrived,\nand, according to the custom of the country, funeral songs and hymns\nwere sung before the door. Just as they were about to nail on the lid\nof the coffin, a slight perspiration was observed to appear on the\nsurface of her body. It grew greater every moment, and at last a kind\nof convulsive motion was observed in the hands and feet of the corpse.\nA few moments after, during which time fresh signs of returning life\nappeared, she at once opened her eyes, and uttered a pitiable shriek.\nPhysicians were quickly procured, and in the course of a few days she\nwas considerably restored, and is probably alive at this day.\u201d\n\nThe description which she herself gave of her situation is extremely\nremarkable, and forms a curious and authentic addition to psychology:--\n\n\u201cShe said it seemed to her, as if in a dream, that she was really\ndead; yet she was perfectly conscious of all that happened around her\nin this dreadful state. She distinctly heard her friends speaking,\nand lamenting her death at the side of her coffin. She felt them pull\non the dead-clothes and lay her in it. This feeling produced a mental\nanxiety which was indescribable. She tried to cry, but her soul was\nwithout power and could not act on her body. She had the contradictory\nfeeling as if she were in her body, and yet not in it, at one and the\nsame time. It was equally impossible for her to stretch out her arms,\nor to open her eyes, or to cry although she continued to do so. The\ninternal anguish of her mind was, however, at its utmost height when\nthe funeral hymns began to be sung, and when the lid of the coffin was\nabout to be nailed on. The thought that she was to be buried alive was\nthe first one which gave activity to her soul, and caused it to operate\non her corporeal frame.\u201d\n\nRelated by Dr. Herz in the \u201cPsychological Magazine,\u201d and transcribed\nby Sir Alexander Crichton in the introduction to his essay on \u201cMental\nDerangement.\u201d [2 vols., Lond., 1798.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cOne of the most frightful cases extant is that of Dr. Walker, of\nDublin, who had so strong a presentiment on this subject, that he\nhad actually written a treatise against the Irish custom of hasty\nburial. He, himself, subsequently died, as was believed, of a fever.\nHis decease took place in the night, and on the following day he was\ninterred. At this time, Mrs. Bellamy, the once-celebrated actress, was\nin Ireland; and as she had promised him, in the course of conversation,\nthat she would take care he should not be laid in the earth till\nunequivocal signs of dissolution had appeared, she no sooner heard of\nwhat had happened than she took measures to have the grave reopened;\nbut it was, unfortunately, too late. Dr. Walker had evidently revived,\nand had turned upon his side; but life was quite extinct.\u201d\n\nMr. Horace Welby, in a chapter on \u201cPremature Interment,\u201d says that \u201cthe\nRev. Owen Manning, the historian of Surrey, during his residence at\nCambridge University, caught small-pox, and was reduced by the disorder\nto a state of insensibility and apparent death. The body was laid out\nand preparations were made for the funeral, when Mr. Manning\u2019s father,\ngoing into the chamber to take a last look at his son, raised the\nimagined corpse from its recumbent position, saying, \u2018I will give my\npoor boy another chance,\u2019 upon which signs of vitality were apparent.\nHe was therefore removed by his friend and fellow-student, Dr.\nHeberden, and ultimately restored to health.\u201d--_The Mysteries of Life\nand Death, pp. 115-116._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA most conspicuous and interesting monument in St. Giles\u2019s Church,\nCripplegate, London (where Cromwell was married and John Milton\nburied), is associated with a remarkable case of trance or catalepsy.\nIn the chancel is a striking sculptured figure in memory of Constance\nWhitney, a lady of remarkable gifts, whose rare excellences are fully\ndescribed in the tablet. She is represented as rising from her coffin.\nWelby, at p. 116, relates the story that she had been buried while\nin a state of suspended animation, but was restored to life through\nthe cupidity of the sexton, which induced him to disinter the body to\nobtain possession of a valuable ring left upon her finger, which he\nconcluded could be of no use to the wearer. A study of the facts of\npremature burial shows that the rifling of tombs and coffins to obtain\nvaluables has in other instances revealed similar tragic occurrences.\n\nThe often-cited case of Mrs. Goodman, one of those recalled to life by\nthe sexton\u2019s attempt to remove a ring from the finger, is thus related\nin the \u201cHistory of Bandon,\u201d by George Bennett:--\n\nHannah, wife of Rev. Richard Goodman, vicar of Ballymodan, Bandon, from\n1692 to 1737, fell into ill-health, and apparently died. Two or three\ndays after her decease, the body was taken to Rosscarbery Cathedral,\nand there laid in the family vault of the Goodmans. The attempt of the\nsexton to recover a valuable diamond ring from the finger is said to\nhave been made at an early hour the next morning. Much violence was\nused, so that the corpse moved, yawned, and sat up. The sexton having\nfled in terror, leaving his lantern behind and the church door open,\nthe lady in her shroud made her way out of the vault and through the\nchurch to the residence of her brother-in-law, the Rev. Thomas Goodman,\nwhich was just outside the church-yard. Having been admitted after\nsome delay and consternation, she was put to bed, and fell asleep soon\nafter, her brother-in-law and his man-servant keeping watch over her\nuntil mid-day, when she awoke refreshed. She is said to have shown\nherself in the village in the afternoon, to have supped with the\nfamily in the evening, and to have set out for home on horseback next\nmorning. She is said to have survived this episode for some years, and\nto have borne a son subsequent to it, who died at an advanced age at\nInnishannon, a village near Bandon.\n\nIn Smith\u2019s \u201cHistory of Cork,\u201d vol. ii., p. 428, the same incident is\nthus mentioned:--\u201cMr. John Goodman, of Cork, died in January, 1747,\naged about four score; but what is remarkable of him, his mother was\ninterred while she lay in a trance, having been buried in a vault,\netc.... This Mr. Goodman was born some time after.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Peckard, Master of Magdalen College, Cambridge, in a work entitled\n\u201cFurther Observations on the Doctrine of an Intermediate State,\u201d\nmentions that Mrs. Godfrey, Mistress of the Jewel Office, and sister\nof the great Duke of Marlborough, is stated to have lain in a trance,\napparently dead, for seven days, and was declared by her medical\nattendants to have been dead. Colonel Godfrey, her husband, would not\nallow her to be interred, or the body to be treated in the manner of a\ncorpse; and on the eighth day she awoke, without any consciousness of\nher long insensibility.\n\nThe daughter of Henry Laurens, of South Carolina, the first President\nof the American Congress during the Revolutionary War, died when young\nof small-pox. At all events a medical certificate pronounced her dead,\nand she was shrouded and coffined for interment. It was customary in\nthose days to confine the patient amidst red curtains with closed\nwindows. After the certificate of death had been duly made out, the\ncurtains were thrown back and the windows opened. The fresh air revived\nthe patient, who recovered and lived to a mature age. This circumstance\noccasioned on her father so powerful a dread of living interment, that\nhe directed by will that his body should be burnt, and enjoined on his\nchildren the performance of this wish as a sacred duty.\n\nBouchut in his \u201cSignes de la Mort,\u201d p. 58, relates that the physician\nof Queen Isabella of Spain was treating a man during a dangerous\nillness, and as he went to see his patient one morning he was informed\nby the assistants that the man had died. He entered, and found the\nbody, in the habit of the Order of St. Francis, laid out upon a board.\nNothing daunted, he had him put back to bed in spite of the ridicule of\nthose present, and the patient soon revived and fully recovered.\n\nThe following cases are from K\u00f6ppen (see Bibliography, 1799):--\n\nVienna. 1791.--A castle guard (_portier_) was in a trance for several\ndays. His funeral was prepared, and he was placed in a coffin. All at\nonce he unexpectedly opened his eyes and called out, \u201cMother, where is\nthe coffee?\u201d\n\nHalle, 1753.--In the register of deaths, at St. Mary\u2019s Church, is the\nfollowing entry:--\u201cShoemaker Casper Koch was buried, aged eighty-one\nyears. Thirty years ago he had died, to all appearances, and was put in\na coffin, when suddenly, when they were about to bury him, he recovered\nhis consciousness.\u201d\n\nHaag, Holland, 1785.--The son of a cook died, and while the coffin was\nbeing carried to the grave-yard, he was heard to knock. On opening the\ncoffin he was found alive. He was taken home and was restored.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the \u201cCyclop\u00e6dia of Practical Medicine,\u201d edited by John Forbes, M.D.,\nF.R.S., and others, 1847, vol. i., pp. 548-549, is the following:--\u201cA\nremarkable instance of resuscitation after apparent death occurred\nin France, in the neighbourhood of Douai, in the year 1745, and is\nrelated by Rigaudeaux, (_Journal des S\u00e7avans_, 1749,) to whom the\ncase was confided. He was summoned in the morning to attend a woman\nin labour, at a distance of about a league. On his arrival, he was\ninformed that she had died in a convulsive fit two hours previously.\nThe body was already prepared for interment, and on examination he\ncould discover no indications of life. The os uteri was sufficiently\ndilated to enable him to turn the child and deliver by the feet. The\nchild appeared to be dead also; but, by persevering in the means of\nresuscitation for three hours, they excited some signs of vitality,\nwhich encouraged them to proceed, and their endeavours were ultimately\ncrowned with complete success. Rigaudeaux again carefully examined the\nmother, and was confirmed in the belief of her death; but he found\nthat, although she had been in that state for seven hours, her limbs\nretained their flexibility. Stimulants were applied in vain; he took\nhis leave, recommending that the interment should be deferred until\nthe flexibility was lost. At five p.m. a messenger came to inform him\nthat she had revived at half-past three. The mother and child were both\nalive three years after.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX B.\n\nRESUSCITATION OF STILL-BORN AND OTHER INFANTS.\n\n\nTHE danger of premature burial of still-born (apparently dead) infants\nis clearly shown by the following quotation from Tidy\u2019s \u201cLegal\nMedicine,\u201d part ii., page 253, from tables given on the authority\nof the _British and Foreign Medical Review_, No. ii., p. 235, based\non eight millions of births. \u201cIt would appear that from one in\neighteen to one in twenty births are still-born. Dr. Lever found that\nthe proportion in his three thousand cases was one in eighteen. So\nnotorious is it that a large number of these deaths could be averted,\nthat some legislation is urgently needed, requiring that still-borns,\nwhose bodies weigh, say, not less than two pounds (the average weight\nabout the sixth and seventh months at which children are viable),\nshould not be buried without registration and a medical examination.\u201d\n\nMany instances can be found in current medical literature of still-born\ninfants that have been revived by artificial respiration. Such cases\nnot infrequently revive without any means being employed for their\nresuscitation; but among the poor, who dispose of the new-born\napparently dead in a hasty manner, they might be buried alive through\ncarelessness. The use of mortuaries, where the seeming dead would be\nkept under observation until decomposition appears, would of course\nprevent such disasters.\n\nStruve, in the Essay cited in the Bibliography (1802), says:--\n\n\u201cAll still-born children should be considered as only apparently dead,\nand the resuscitative process ought never to be neglected. Sometimes\ntwo hours or more will elapse before reanimation can be effected. An\ningenious man-midwife, says Bruhier, was employed for several hours in\nthe revival of an apparently still-born child, and as his endeavours\nproved unavailing, he considered the subject really dead. Being,\nhowever, accidentally detained, he again turned his attention to the\nchild, and by continuing the resuscitative method for some time it was\nunexpectedly restored to life\u201d (p. 150).\n\nThe following is one of Struve\u2019s most striking cases:--\n\nA Mr. E.---- called in 18---- to obtain a certificate of death for a\nstill-born child of seven months\u2019 gestation. Arriving at the house,\nthe doctor found the child laid upon a little straw and covered with\na slight black shawl; this was one p.m., and the child had been there\nsince five a.m. It was icy cold, and there was no heart sound nor\nrespiration, but there was a slight muscular twitching over the region\nof the heart. The child was immersed in a hot bath and artificial\nrespiration employed, but for twenty minutes the case seemed hopeless;\nthen the eyes opened and after continued effort the respirations began,\nlaborious and interrupted at first, then normal by degrees. The child\nwas saved, and became an accomplished violinist.\n\nThe mortality and waste of infant life, particularly in large cities\nlike Paris, London, Berlin, Vienna, and New York, is admitted by all\ninvestigators to be enormous. In France medical writers, in view of\nthe small percentage of births to population, are waking up to the\nrealisation that the State cannot afford the loss, and that, among\nother things, steps should be taken to resuscitate the still-born,\nso that none should be buried before unequivocal signs of death are\nmanifested.[21] The premature abandonment of the still-born among the\npoorer classes in crowded cities is only too probable. There are also\ncases recorded which show a corresponding risk to infants who have\nsurvived their birth:--\n\nThe _British Medical Journal_, January 21, 1871, p. 71, gives the\nfollowing case, under the heading, \u201cAlive in a Coffin\u201d:--\u201cStories of\nthis kind are generally very apocryphal; but the following reaches us\nfrom an authentic source. A child narrowly escaped being buried alive\nlast week in Manchester. The infant\u2019s father had died, and was to be\nburied in Ardwick Cemetery. The day before the burial the infant was\ntaken ill, and apparently died. A certificate of death was procured\nfrom a surgeon\u2019s assistant who had seen the child, and, to save\nexpense, it was decided to place it in the same coffin with the father.\nThis was done, and the next morning the bearers set off to the cemetery\nwith their double burden; but before reaching the grave-yard a cry was\nheard to issue from the coffin. The lid being removed, the infant was\ndiscovered alive and kicking. It was at once removed to a neighbour\u2019s\nhouse, but died eight hours afterwards.\n\nThe _British Medical Journal_, 1885, ii., p. 841, gives the following\ncase, under the heading, \u201cDeath or Coma?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe close similarity which is occasionally seen to connect the\nappearance of death with that of exhaustion following disease, was\nlately illustrated in a somewhat striking manner. An infant seized with\nconvulsions was supposed to have died about three weeks ago at Stamford\nHill. After five days\u2019 interval, preparations were being made for its\ninterment, when, at the grave\u2019s mouth, a cry was heard to come from the\ncoffin. The lid was taken off, and the child was found to be alive; it\nwas taken home, and is recovering.\u201d\n\nThe following is from Tidy\u2019s \u201cLegal Medicine,\u201d pt. i., p. 29:--\n\n\u201cIn a communication to the French Academy, Professor Fort mentions\na child (_\u00e6tat._ three) having been resuscitated by artificial\nrespiration continued for four hours, and not commenced until three and\na half hours after its apparent decease.\n\n\u201cOgston records one case of a child alive for seven hours, and a second\ncase of a young woman alive for four hours, after they had been left as\ndead.\u201d\n\nFrom the _Lancet_, April 22, 1882, p. 675:--\n\n\n\u201cPREMATURE INTERMENT.\n\n \u201cA daily contemporary states that at the gates of the Avignon cemetery\n the parents of a child certified to have died of croup insisted on\n having the coffin opened to take a last look. The child was found\n breathing, and is expected to be saved.\u201d\n\nThe following letter to the editor of the _Lancet_, March 31, 1866, p.\n360, illustrates the danger to which infants supposed to be dead are\nexposed, under one of our traditional customs:--\n\n\n\u201cLAYING-OUT OF DEAD INFANTS.\n\n \u201cSir,--In your journal of last Saturday, among the \u2018Medical\n Annotations,\u2019 you notice the inquiry into the circumstances under\n which an infant, being still living and moving, was \u2018bandaged\u2019\n beneath the chin, and \u2018laid-out\u2019 at St. Pancras Workhouse. Allow me\n to state that in the _Lancet_, vol. ii., 1850, a contribution from me\n \u2018On the Danger of Tying-up the Lower Jaw immediately after Supposed\n Death\u2019 was published. An infant, aged two months, was brought to me\n on a Friday with the lower jaw tied up by its mother, who asked for a\n certificate of death; but on my removing the bandage, the child began\n to show symptoms of vitality, and it lived until the following Monday.\n\n  C. J. B. ALDIS, M.D., F.R.C.P.\n\n \u201cChester Terrace, Chester Square, March 26, 1866.\u201d\n\nIt is recorded that Dr. Doddridge showed so little signs of life at\nhis birth that he was laid aside as dead, but one of the attendants\nobserving some signs of life, took the baby under her charge, and by\nher judicious treatment perfectly restored it.\n\nMr. Highmore, Secretary of the London Lying-in Hospital, confirmed\n(by a communication to the Royal Humane Society, April, 1816,) the\nstatement of Mrs. Catherine Widgen, the matron of that excellent\nestablishment, that, by a zealous perseverance in the means recommended\nby that Society, she had been the happy instrument of restoring from\na state of apparent death in the space of _three years_ no less than\nforty-five infants, who, but for her humane attention and indefatigable\nexertions, must have been consigned to the grave. Later on, Mrs. Widgen\nrestored in one year twenty-seven apparently dead-born children--a\nstriking instance of the truth of the remark of a celebrated writer\n(Osiander) that \u201cthe generality of infants, considered as still-born,\nare only apparently so; if, therefore, persons would persevere in their\nexertions to revive them, most of them might be restored.\u201d--_Report of\nthe Royal Humane Society, 1816-17, pp. 52-54._\n\n\u201cFor these exertions the General Court adjudged the Honorary Medallion\nto Mrs. Widgen, and it was accordingly presented to her by His Royal\nHighness the Duke of Kent.\u201d--_Ibid., p. 52._\n\n[The question naturally suggests itself in this place: If the matron\nof such a noble institution as the above was able to save seventy-two\napparently dead children from the grave in four years, how many of\nthese poor little beings are consigned to the grave all over the world\nfor lack of the \u201chumane attention and indefatigable exertions,\u201d such as\nthis skilful matron gave to those that came under her intelligent care?]\n\n\n\u201cRECURRENCE OF SUSPENDED ANIMATION.\n\n\u201cA child, who had a cough for some time, was suddenly attacked with\ndifficulty of breathing, and _to all appearances died_. A medical\ngentleman immediately inflated the lungs, and by persisting in this\nfor a considerable time, recovered the child. A similar state of\nsuspended animation took place three or four times, and inflation\nwas as often had recourse to with the same success; but the attack,\nhappening, unfortunately, to recur whilst the medical gentleman in\nwhose family the case happened was from home, the proper measures were\nnot taken, and the child was lost.\u201d--_Ibid., p. 140._\n\n\n\u201cSHOCK FROM LIGHTNING.\n\n\u201cA boy was struck down by a flash of lightning near Hoxton (in the\nsuburbs of London), and lay exposed to the rain at least an hour, until\nhis companions carried him home on some boards, apparently dead--the\nbody being stiff and universally cold, the fingers and toes contracted,\nand the countenance livid. He was stripped of his wet clothes, put in\nhot blankets, and bled twenty ounces. In half an hour, interrupted\nrespiration commenced, without inflating the lungs; in an hour more,\nregular pulsation and breathing were established, together with power\nof swallowing; and in a week he was quite well.\u201d--_Ibid., p. 147._\n\nIn the _Lancet_, 1884, vol. i., p. 922, W. Arnold Thompson, F.R.C.S.I.,\nreports a case of resuscitation of a child delivered by the forceps,\nwhich was \u201capparently to myself [he says] and the nurse and relatives,\na perfectly dead child, and with no signs of respiration or life about\nit.... My opinion was that the death was real and positive, but that,\nthere being no actual disease present, and the blood still warm, the\nmachinery of life was set going, and resuscitation followed as a\nconsequence of suitable means being taken and persevered in without\nundue delay. In the future I do not intend to allow any still-born\nchildren to be put away without making strenuous efforts to restore\nvitality.\u201d\n\nThe _Lancet_, 1880, vol. ii., p. 582:--In a discussion at the Royal\nMedical and Chirurgical Society upon Artificial Respiration in New-born\nChildren, Dr. Roper related three cases in which the child was left\nfor dead. \u201cOne of these occurred in the practice of Mr. Brown, of St.\nMary Axe. The child was still-born in the absence of a medical man. It\nwas taken to the surgery, and thence to the late Mr. Solly, who next\nday, in dissecting the body, found that the heart was still beating.\nA second instance was of a f\u0153tus of five months and a half, which was\nset aside as dead, Dr. Roper attending the mother, who was suffering\nfrom h\u00e6morrhage. He was astonished next day to find that this immature\nchild, which had lain on the floor for eleven hours through a cold\nnight, was breathing and its heart beating....\u201d Such examples show that\nthe new-born have greater tenacity of life than is supposed.\n\nThe _Lancet_, 1881, vol. ii., p. 430, under the heading of \u201cThe\nBurial of Still-born Infants,\u201d states that \u201cGreater security for the\ndue observance of these necessary regulations (the Births and Deaths\nRegistration Act of 1874), for the burial of infants said to be\nstill-born, is urgently called for. It is constantly patent that the\nburial of deceased infants as still-born, if checked, is by no means\nprevented; and that the authorities of burial grounds, by their laxity\nin carrying out the provisions of the Act, afford dangerous facilities\nfor the concealment of crime, or negligence, and for a practice which\nthreatens to impair the value of our birth and death registration\nstatistics; for, if a live-born infant be buried as still-born, neither\nits birth nor its death is registered.\u201d\n\nA case of forceps-delivery occurred in the hands of the writer\n(E.P.V.), in which the child, when extracted, was quite purple in\ncolour, and absolutely dead to all appearances--there was no breathing\nnor impulse to be found anywhere. After some efforts at resuscitation\nin the way of artificial respiration--not very thoroughly done, nor\nmuch prolonged (for the child was believed to be dead)--with a warm\nbath and frictions, it was laid aside and covered up. At a subsequent\nvisit some hours later, the child was found in the nurse\u2019s lap,\ncompletely recovered, and changed in colour to a bright pink. The nurse\nsaid she did not like to give the little fellow up, and by breathing\ninto his mouth for some time he showed returning life, and by keeping\nit up he soon began to breathe himself.\n\nCases like this are believed to be not infrequent, because physicians\nand nurses are not, as a general rule, aware of the great tenacity of\nlife possessed by the new-born infant.\n\n\u201c_Still-births_ are not registered in England; but, under the\nnew Registration Act, no still-born child can be buried without\na certificate from a registered practitioner in attendance, or\na declaration from a midwife, to the effect that the child was\nstill-born. The proportion of still-births in this country is supposed\nto be about four per cent., but this is uncertain.\u201d--A. NEWSHOLME,\n_Vital Statistics, 1889, p. 61_.\n\n\u201cThe proportion of deaths from premature births, compared with the\ntotal number of births, in 1861-65 was 11\u00b719 to 1,000 births; since\nwhich time it has steadily increased, reaching the ratio of 15\u00b789 per\nbirths in 1,000 in 1887.\u201d--_Ibid., p. 216._\n\nThe same author, p. 17, states that \u201ca certain proportion of the\n_births remain unregistered_(_a_). There is strong reason for thinking\nthat a certain number of children born alive are buried as still-born.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX C.\n\nRECOVERY OF THE DROWNED.\n\n\nTHIS is perhaps the best known and most generally appreciated occasion\nof rescuing the apparently dead. The high degree in which it has\nexcited public sympathy will appear from a glance at that section of\nthe \u201cBibliography\u201d (towards the end of the eighteenth century) which\ngives the titles of essays and reports connected with the Royal Humane\nSociety and the corresponding foreign institutions upon which our own\nwas modelled. The following general remarks and cases are from the\nessay of Dr. Struve, of G\u00f6rlitz, Lusatia, 1802:--\n\n\u201cA great number of persons apparently drowned have been restored\nto life without the use of stimulants, merely by the renovated\nsusceptibility of irritation. I have collected thirty-six cases of\npersons apparently drowned in Lusatia from the year 1772 to the year\n1792. Most of them were treated by uninformed people, and revived by\nfriction and warming; two persons, however, were indebted for their\nlives to the continuation of the resuscitative process for several\nhours. The greatest number were children; which is to be ascribed not\nonly to the greater danger to which they are exposed of drowning, but\nalso to the longer continuance of vital power in the infant frame\u201d (p.\n136).\n\n\u201cA boy of about a year and a half old had lain upwards of a quarter\nof an hour in the water, and was found face downwards, and the whole\nbody livid and swollen. He was undressed, wiped dry, and wrapped in\nwarm blankets; but the most particular part of the process was rolling\nthe body upon a table, shaking it by the shoulders, and rubbing the\nfeet. This having been continued for an hour, a convulsive motion\nwas observed in the toes; sneezing was excited by snuff; the tongue\nstimulated by strong vinegar; the throat irritated with a feather; an\ninjection given. The child vomited a large quantity of water, and in an\nhour afterwards began to breathe, and was completely restored to life\u201d\n(p. 137).\n\n\u201cA woman upwards of thirty years of age, and who was affected with\nepilepsy, fell in a fit from a height of twenty feet into the water,\nwhere she remained a full quarter of an hour before she was taken out.\nMr. Redlich, surgeon, of Hamburg, had her put into a bed warmed by hot\nbottles; she was rubbed with warm flannels, some spirits were dropped\ninto her mouth, when in a quarter of an hour symptoms of life, such as\nconvulsive motion and a very weak pulse, appeared. In three hours from\nthe time she was taken out of the water she recovered completely\u201d (p.\n138).\n\nDr. Charles Londe, in a remarkable pamphlet (\u201cLettre sur la Mort\nApparente, les Cons\u00e9quences R\u00e9elles des Inhumations Pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, et\nle Temps Pendent lequel peut persister l\u2019Aptitude \u00e0 \u00e9tre Rapell\u00e9 \u00e0 la\nVie.\u201d Paris, Bailli\u00e9re, 1854), records some instances of narrow escapes\nfrom premature burial of the drowned, one of which may be cited:--\n\n\u201cOn the 13th of July, 1829, about two p.m., near the Pont des Arts,\nParis, a body, which appeared lifeless, was taken out of the river.\nIt was that of a young man, twenty years of age, dark-complexioned,\nand strongly built. The corpse was discoloured and cold; the face and\nlips swollen and tinged with blue; a thick and yellowish froth exuded\nfrom the mouth; the eyes were open, fixed, and motionless; the limbs\nlimp and drooping. _No pulsation of the heart nor trace of respiration\nwas perceptible._ The body had remained under water for a considerable\ntime; the search for it, made in Dr. Bourgeois\u2019s presence, lasted\nfully twenty minutes. That gentleman did not hesitate to incur the\nderision of the lookers-on by proceeding to attempt the resuscitation\nof what, in their eyes, was a mere lump of clay. Nevertheless, several\nhours afterwards, the supposed corpse was restored to life, thanks to\nthe obstinate perseverance of the doctor, who, although a strong man\nand enjoying robust health, was several times on the point of losing\ncourage and abandoning the patient in despair. But what would have\nhappened if Dr. Bourgeois, instead of persistently remaining stooping\nover the inanimate body, with watchful eye and _attentive ear_, to\ncatch the first rustling of the heart, had left the drowned man, after\nhalf an hour\u2019s fruitless endeavour, as often happens? The unfortunate\nman would have been laid in the grave, _although capable of restoration\nto life_!\u201d\n\nTo this case, Dr. Bourgeois, in the \u201cArchives de Medecine,\u201d adds\nothers, in which individuals remained under water as long as SIX HOURS,\nand were recalled to life by efforts which a weaker conviction than his\nown would have refrained from making. These facts lead Dr. Londe to the\nconclusion that, _every day, drowned individuals are buried, who, with\ngreater perseverance, might be restored to life_!\n\nThe following case in point appears in the _Sunnyside_, New York,\ncommunicated by J. W. Green, M.D.:--\n\n\u201cA few years since I was walking by the Central Park, near One Hundred\nand Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue. Noticing a crowd that was acting in\nan unusual manner by the side of the lake, I approached and inquired of\none of the bystanders what was the cause of the excitement. He replied,\n\u2018A boy is drowned.\u2019 I advanced to the edge of the water, and saw two\nor three men in the water searching for the body. As they had not yet\ndiscovered it, I made enquiries, and found at last a small boy who had\nbeen a comrade of the victim. He showed me the spot from which the boy\nhad fallen. I then pointed out to the searchers where to look, and\nimmediately the body was recovered. I took it at once from the hands of\nthe person who had it, and held it reversed, in order to disembarrass\nit of all the water possible, for a minute or two, then stripped it of\nits clothing, sent for a blanket and brandy. I took a woollen coat from\none of the bystanders until the blanket should arrive, laid the child\nupon it and commenced to rotate it. This I continued to do for at least\nfifteen minutes by the watch. I then tried auscultation; no murmur\ncould be heard.\n\n\u201cThe skin was cold, the lips were blue. Every artery was still. With\nall these signs of death present it was still obligatory upon me to\npersevere. At the end of fifteen minutes there was a slight gasp. A\nsmall quantity of brandy was placed upon the tongue. A little of this\nran into the larynx, and the stimulation was sufficient to produce\na long inspiration and then a cough. This was more than a half-hour\nfrom the time when the boy had been removed from the water. Complete\nrestoration did not occur until nearly an hour from that time. He was\nnow given to his mother, and I was informed on the following day that\nhe entirely recovered, without an unfavourable symptom.\u201d\n\nThe three following cases of resuscitation from apparent death by\ndrowning are copied from the most recent reports of the Royal Humane\nSociety, London:--\n\n\u201cOn 13th of August, 1895, Samuel Lawrence, aged five years, while\nplaying on the bank of a disused clay-pit at South Bank, Yorkshire,\nfell into the water and sank. Two of his companions dived into the\nwater, and brought him up after a submersion of from seven to ten\nminutes in an unconscious state. Two working men commenced artificial\nrespiration, and Dr. Steele continued it for ten hours before the boy\nshowed signs of returning sensibility and his complete recovery.\u201d\n\n\u201cOctober 6th, 1895.--At Deptford, Surrey, a woman with a baby in her\narms threw herself into the canal. They were rescued by the Royal\nHumane Society\u2019s drags. Two ladies took possession of the bodies (time\nof submersion not stated), and they employed Silvester\u2019s system of\nartificial respiration with success, in the case of the woman in about\none hour, and with the child one hour and a half.\u201d\n\n\u201cAugust 6th, 1895.--At Bradford, England, Rudolf Pratt, a clerk\nwith Midland R.R. Company, was bathing, and sank in deep water. A\nbystander by diving brought him up. After a submersion of five minutes,\nunconscious, and not breathing, Dr. Oldham restored respiration by\nSylvester\u2019s method after one and a half hour\u2019s treatment.\u201d\n\nThese three cases are instructive on account of the length of time\nanimation remained suspended before it could be aroused to a state of\nactivity; and they lead to the belief that many cases that are given up\nas actually dead could be saved if efforts at resuscitation were kept\nup for a lengthened period, as in the first case.\n\nIn cases of drowning some persons are quickly revived after a long\nsubmersion; others again who are under water only a short time require\nartificial respiration for a long time before they show signs of\nreturning life, as was the case with Samuel Lawrence, who was submerged\nonly ten minutes, yet required ten hours\u2019 active treatment to revive\nhim.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX D.\n\nMISCELLANEOUS ADDENDA.\n\n\nHASTY BURIALS.\n\nAS an illustration of hasty burials dealt with in Chapter X.\nthe following case is cited from the _King\u2019s County Chronicle_,\nParsonstown, Ireland, August 27, 1896:--\n\n\n\u201cROSCREA GUARDIANS.\n\n\u201cThursday--Present: T. Jackson, D.V.C., in the chair; L. S. Maher,\nJ.P.; M. Bergin, J.P.; W. J. Menton, W. Jackson, P. Roe.\n\n\u201cMr. Roe--You made short work of Jack Ryan at the chapel of Knock. He\nwas alive and speaking at three o\u2019clock, and buried at six the same\nday. The Master stated that, it being supposed the man died from an\ninfectious disease, no person would assist in coffining him till a\nmessage came asking that he (the Master) would send out some of the\nmale inmates, and he sent two and had him coffined and interred. Mr.\nRoe--The man was not cold when he was buried. Master--The nun tells\nme the man had an ounce of tobacco clasped tightly in his hands.\nChairman--What disease had he? Clerk--Pneumonia was certified by\nthe doctor. The people believed that he had died from an infectious\ndisease, and insisted he should be buried immediately. Mr. Roe--It was\ncertainly short work--a man dying at three o\u2019clock and buried at six.\nMaster--This man was married to a woman who was a nurse in the old\nDonoughmore workhouse, and they lived at Drumar, Knock.\u201d[22]\n\n\nEVIDENCE OF RESUSCITATIONS IN GRAVE-YARDS.\n\nReference has been made in this volume to the discoveries of premature\nburial brought to light during the investigations of charnel-houses\nin France, and the removal of grave-yards, necessitated through the\nrapid expansion of towns, in America. The _Casket_, Rochester, New\nYork, U.S., of March 2, 1896, gives a detailed narrative of recent\ndiscoveries made by T. M. Montgomery in the removal of Fort Randall\nCemetery, with the condition of the bodies found as to decay or state\nof preservation, and says:--\n\n\u201cWe found among these remains two that bore every evidence of having\nbeen buried alive. The first case was that of a soldier that had been\nstruck by lightning. Upon opening the lid of the coffin we found that\nthe legs and arms had drawn up as far as the confines of the coffin\nwould permit. The other was a case of death resulting from alcoholism.\nThe body was slightly turned, the legs were drawn up a trifle, and the\nhands were clutching the clothing. In the coffin was found a large\nwhisky flask, showing that those who buried him were not his friends,\nor else that they too were afflicted with the disease that had cut\nshort the life of their companion.\n\n\u201cIt occurred to us at that time that this was a great argument in\nfavour of incineration. Nearly two per cent. of those exhumed here\nwere, no doubt, victims of suspended animation. Once before in our\nexperience have we noted this; and while not believing in as large a\npercentage of live burials as the radical advocates of cremation claim,\nyet we know that the percentage is larger than most scientists give.\nDisinterment is the only solution of the question. In regard to these\ntwo cases, we wish to say that science has proved that electricity does\nnot always kill, and that persons addicted to the liquor habit, after\nlong debauches, sometimes relapse into a comatose state, and are to all\nappearances dead. Statistics show that a great many die annually of\nthese causes, hence the percentage in cases of this kind must be very\nlarge. What is the remedy?\u201d\n\n\nHASTY EMBALMMENTS IN THE UNITED STATES.\n\nThe _Casket_, Rochester, New York, September, 1896, observes:--At\ndifferent times considerable opposition has been raised against\nembalming by Boards of Health and other officials in various\nlocalities, on account of the haste with which the embalmer proceeds\nwith his duties. A few recent cases of supposed corpses recovering, one\nof which occurred in Philadelphia, Pa., have revived the question, and\nit is reported that the Philadelphia Board of Health may take action\nlooking to the enactment of a law prescribing the period of time which\nshould elapse after death before a body should be embalmed.\n\nIn a recent issue of the Philadelphia _Times_, Funeral-Director John J.\nO\u2019Rourke, a well-known professional of that city, expresses himself on\nthe subject as follows:--\n\n\u201cThese two narrow escapes from burial alive have further impressed me\nwith one of the perils attending the disposition of the dead--I mean\nthe danger of hasty embalming. As you know, in most cases the doctor\nwho has had the patient is not called in after death, and very often\nthe relatives of the deceased expect the undertaker, if embalming is to\nbe done, to proceed with it at once. All the embalming schools teach\nthat the only proper way to thus treat the body is by use of fluids\nthrough the arteries. But in the lectures on the subject no period that\nshould be permitted to elapse before it is begun is prescribed, and, as\na rule, it follows dissolution as quickly as possible.\n\n\u201cI contend that there should be some law or official rule governing\nthe matter, because after the artery is punctured and the fluid goes\nthrough the whole body, it is sure to destroy any spark of life that\nmight remain. I have never met with any cases of resuscitation myself,\nbut have had instances of deaths that made me hesitate in the work\nof embalming. Some months ago a man came to me fifteen minutes after\na relative had breathed his last, and asked me to embalm the body. I\nwent to the house, and, after seeing the corpse, refused, saying that\nI would not do it until after the expiration of twelve hours. The man\nhad died of consumption, yet, for fear of it being a case of suspended\nanimation, I would take no chances.\n\n\u201cAt another time a person had died of dropsy. Within half an hour I was\nsummoned. The attending physician had not been there, and twenty-four\nhours afterwards he gave a certificate of death from cancer. The body\nwas very warm when I arrived, and neighbours who had kindly volunteered\nto prepare it were doubtful if life was extinct. I had the corpse laid\non an embalming table for two hours, and then placed it in what is\nknown as a Saratoga patent box, in which are pans filled with salted\nice, so arranged that cold air circulates around the body. Had this\nbeen a case of suspended animation, it would have taken several hours\nto dispel the heat within the corpse.\n\n\u201cOf course there are some supposed unmistakable signs. The only\npositive signs of dissolution are those which depend on molecular\nchange or death-rigidity of the muscles of the whole body, and\nputrefaction of the tissues. These are most marked in organs and\ntissues the vital functions of which are the most active. The action\nof the heart, the movements of respiration, may be reduced as to be\naltogether imperceptible, so that the functions of circulation and\nrespiration appear to be arrested. This is occasionally observed in\ntemporary syncope, in which a person to all appearances dead has, after\na time, regained consciousness and recovered.\n\n\u201cThe peculiar condition of the nervous system called catalepsy, and\nthe state of trance, are likewise further examples of the so-called\napparent deaths; but, on the occurrence of actual death, the\nirritability of the muscles by degrees disappears, electricity no\nlonger excites their contraction, and then cadaverous rigidity sets\nin.... Some action will, in all probability, be urged upon the next\nLegislature or upon the Board of Health.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX E.\n\nSUMMARY OF ORDINANCES, ETC., RELATING TO THE INSPECTION OF CORPSES AND\nOF INTERMENTS.\n\n\nIN the sixteenth Council of Milan, Saint Charles Borromeo prohibited\nburials before twelve hours after ordinary cases of death, and\ntwenty-four hours after cases of sudden death. As early as the\nsixteenth century serious attention in the examination of the dead\nwas made obligatory by the enactment of Article 149 of the Criminal\nStatutes of Charles the Fifth. This was the foundation of legal\nmedicine in Germany. In France, a similar ordinance was first\nestablished in 1789.\n\n\nNETHERLANDS.\n\n_Act of April 10th, 1869._\n\nNo burial is allowed without the written permission of the Civil\nRecorder, granted upon the production of a certificate of a qualified\nphysician, and not until thirty-six hours have elapsed after death,\nnor later than the fifth day after death. But this regulation can be\nset aside, and a longer period allowed, by the Burgomaster, on the\napplication of a doctor.\n\nDead-houses are in use for bodies dead of infectious diseases.\n\n\nFRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN.\n\nDeath must first be established by a licensed physician, who carefully\nexamines the body for that purpose, and, if satisfied, then issues\na certificate which states the name, age, sex, place, and date, and\nimmediate cause of death. The certificate is taken within twenty-four\nhours after the death to the Standesamt, where the death is recorded,\nand a certificate to that effect is given, and presented to the\nCemetery Commission, which assigns the place of burial. The corpse is\nrequired to remain unburied three days, either at the place of death or\nat the mortuary, where it is under the observation of attendants; but\nthere is no State-appointed inspector of the dead, nor electric bells\nor other means for announcing and recording any movements of the body.\nThe system of inspection and certification by qualified physicians,\nwith the delay of three days, and the favourable condition of the\ndead-houses, have been the means of preventing the living from being\nmistaken for the dead in a number of cases.\n\n\nFRANCE.\n\nInterments must not take place, according to Article 77 of the Code\nNapoleon, before twenty-four hours of death, but in practice it is\ntwenty-four hours after death-notification by the _mort-verificateur_.\nDuring epidemics, or when deaths occur from infectious or contagious\ndiseases, the interments must invariably be made within twenty-four\nhours of death.\n\nArticle 77 of the Civil Code states that \u201cNo burial shall take place\nwithout an authorisation, on free paper and without expense, of the\nofficer of the Civil State, who will not be empowered to deliver it,\nunless after having visited the deceased person, nor unless twenty-four\nhours after the decease, except in cases provided for by the\nregulations of the police.\u201d It results from this that no corpse can be\nburied before a minimum delay of twenty-four hours shall have expired\nafter the decease. The formal record of the decease must be made by the\nofficer of the Civil State (the mayor), or, which is what takes place\nin most of the communes, by a medical man delegated by the mayor, and\nwho takes the title of medical officer of the Civil State.\n\nThe Article 77 of the Civil Code is generally strictly observed in\nParis and in other cities of France. The obligation to await the delay\nof twenty-four hours is intended to prevent too hasty burials. One\nconsiders, in fact, that that delay is generally necessary in order to\nbe able to have certain proofs of death.\n\nBy Article 358 of the Penal Code, the burial of a deceased person\nwithout such authorisation is punishable by a maximum period of two\nmonths\u2019 imprisonment, and a maximum fine of fifty francs, without\nprejudice to other criminal proceedings which may be applicable under\nthe circumstances.\n\nExceptions, however, have been established in certain cases. For\nexample, in times of epidemics, or of too rapid decomposition of the\ncorpse in the usual case, there is urgent need, in fact, to bury the\nbody of a person attacked with a contagious or epidemic malady, in\norder to suppress one of the causes of propagation of the epidemic,\nor of the contagion. In the second case, it is understood that one\ncould not keep longer, without danger to the public health, a corpse\nin complete putrefaction. There is occasion also to observe that, in\nthese circumstances, the end which the legislator has proposed to\nhimself is equally obtained, since there cannot be any doubt as to the\nreal death. However that may be, it is the mayor (officer of the Civil\nState) to whom it appertains, according to the terms of the Article\n77 of the Civil Code, to give authority to bury; and if he gives that\nauthorisation before the expiration of the delay of twenty-four hours,\nit is after having established by himself, or by the medical officer\nof the Civil State, the fact of its necessity, resulting from the\ncircumstances of which we have just spoken.\n\nIt is to be remarked that the Article 77 fixes a _minimum_ and _not a\nmaximum_ delay. It is always the mayor to whom it appertains to fix\nthe day and the hour of the burial, and there may happen such and such\na circumstance which necessitates a delay of the obsequies. The mayor\nneed only assure himself in that case that no danger will result to the\npublic health, which naturally is the case when the corpse is embalmed,\nor is placed in a leaden coffin.\n\nOutside Paris and other large cities, and especially in the rural\ndistricts, much laxity prevails both as to verification of death and\nthe time of burial, and cases of premature burial are not infrequent.\n\n\nAUSTRIA.\n\nThe laws relative to funerals and burials are very strict--perhaps the\nmost thorough in their requirements of any in Europe. They provide for\na very careful inspection of the body by medical inspectors, quite\nindependently of the attending physicians, in order to ascertain if the\ndeath be absolute. Minute and specific official directions guide them\nas to the method of examination and the signs of death to be looked\nfor. And they further provide for carrying out any particular method,\nas to which the deceased may have given directions, in order to prevent\na possible revival in the coffin. Should the surviving relatives\ndesire it, a _post-mortem_ operation may be made upon the body, in the\npresence of the medical inspectors and the police; in which case the\nheart is pierced through; and a full report of the operations must be\nforwarded to the civic magistrate. A fee of six florins is allowed for\nsuch an operation.\n\n\nCITY OF VIENNA.\n\nEvery death to be inquired into by the municipal physician. The first\nof five objects is to ascertain whether the person be really dead.\nIn examining whether there are any remaining indications of life, he\nwill rely not upon any one sign, nor even upon putrefaction, but upon\nthe totality of the signs of death. If there are any indications of\nlife remaining, he must at once institute the means of resuscitation\napproved by science, and continue them until such time as the family\nmedical attendant is assured of their uselessness. If there be any\ndoubt as to the reality of the death, a second inspection of the body\nis to be made by the municipal physician within twenty-four hours.\nBurial, as a rule, is not to be until forty-eight hours after death;\nbut the interval may be shortened in cases of infectious diseases or of\nunusually rapid decomposition.\n\n\nPROVINCE OF DALMATIA.\n\n_Vice-Governor\u2019s Order of 29th April, 1894._\n\nEvery death to be inquired into by the parish physician, or a deputy\nappointed by the mayor. The first of six objects of the inquest is\nto ascertain whether the person be really dead. In the event of a\nnon-medical examiner discovering signs of life, he is to send for a\ndoctor. Inasmuch as decomposition, the only sure sign of death, is, as\na rule, a phenomenon of later occurrence than the time appointed for\nthe inquest (within twelve hours of the notification of death), the\nexamining person must base his certainty of the extinction of life, not\nupon one sign, but upon the totality of the signs of death.\n\n\nKINGDOM OF SAXONY.\n\n_Law of 20th July, 1850._\n\nThe burial of a corpse must not take place until seventy-two hours\nafter death, and the signs of decomposition are clearly visible.\nAny proposed departure from this rule, in the event of earlier\nputrefaction, or the absence of decomposition at the end of\nseventy-two hours, requires the authority of a physician called in.\nBy the above Law, the following Orders are suspended: (1) the Order\nof 11th February, 1792, concerning the treatment of the dead, and\nthe precautions necessary to prevent the apparently dead from being\nburied prematurely; (2) the General Order of 13th February, 1801,\nconcerning precautionary measures in the burial of those dead of\ninfectious diseases; (3) the Law of 22nd June, 1841, together with the\nAdministrative Orders, concerning the examination of corpses and the\nestablishment of mortuaries.\n\n\nCITY OF MUNICH.\n\n_Order of 30th October, 1848._\n\nThe ordinance hitherto in force, as to making an incision in the\nsole of the foot in cases of patients who die in the hospitals, is\nabolished; the hospital physicians to use their discretion whether or\nnot the incision should be made; but, in cases for which is demanded\nan earlier burial than is usually prescribed, whether they have been\nhospital or private patients, the incision is to be made in the sole\nof the foot at the end of the second inspection, and every other means\ntaken to ascertain whether the death be apparent or real.\n\n\nCALCUTTA.\n\n1. The prevailing custom for Christians and Mahomedans is to bury the\ndead. The Hindoos burn them as a rule, but many prefer to throw them\ninto a sacred river, particularly the Ganges or its tributaries, if\nthey can do so unmolested by the authorities.\n\n2. There are no mortuaries. The signs which are assumed to indicate\ndeath are the various conditions and appearances when animation is\nsuspended.\n\n3. Cases of revival from supposed death are sometimes heard of among\nthe Hindoos, who regard such persons as outcasts. If the signs of\nreturning life are not very manifest when a person begins to revive,\nhe is sometimes killed by stuffing the mouth and nose with mud, which\ngenerally accomplishes the object.\n\n\nBOMBAY.\n\n1. There are no laws or regulations in India for the disposal of\nthe dead. The customs and formalities follow the traditions and\nrequirements of religious belief.\n\n _a._ The Hindoos burn their dead immediately after death takes place.\n\n _b._ The Parsees take their dead to a \u201cTower of Silence\u201d as soon as\n death takes place, and, after certain prescribed ceremonies, the body\n is speedily devoured by vultures.\n\n _c._ The Europeans and Mahomedans bury their dead within from\n twenty-four to forty-eight hours, because putrefaction usually sets in\n soon after death on account of the heat and humidity of the climate.\n\n2. There are no mortuaries, excepting in connection with hospitals,\nwhere observations can be made.\n\n\nCAPE TOWN, AFRICA.\n\n1. There are no laws nor regulations relative to the disposal of\nthe dead, excepting in cases requiring an inquest or _post-mortem_\nexamination. The custom is to bury within twenty-four to thirty hours\nafter death, but the time is sometimes extended to two or three days.\n\n2. There are no dead-houses, except at the hospitals, which are under\nthe management of the superintendent.\n\n3. The certificate of the medical attendant is sufficient for burial\npurposes. The complete cessation of respiration and the heart\u2019s action\nare considered an absolute indication of death. When decomposition sets\nin, it usually appears within twenty-four hours after death, although\nin winter that process may be longer delayed.\n\n\nMOSCOW.\n\nOrthodox Russians keep their dead three days before burial. During that\ntime the body lies with the face uncovered, and a deacon chants and\nprays over it twice a day. A medical certificate of death is imperative\nbefore burial.\n\n\nBRUSSELS.\n\nBurials are regulated by the Communal Council in accordance with law.\nThe system is complicated, but thorough. The medical men connected with\nthe Government Medical Service (\u201cDoctors of the Civil Government\u201d) have\nthe sole control of the examinations of deaths, as well as births,\naccidents, sudden deaths, suicides; and attend to burials, autopsies,\npostponements of burials, etc., on their own motion. Interments usually\ntake place within forty-eight hours of death, but they may be carried\nout sooner during epidemics for the public safety.\n\nThere are mortuaries in the city and suburbs, to which bodies may\nbe taken at the request of surviving relatives, or by the order of\nthe health authorities, according to private necessities or for the\npublic safety. Except by the special authorisation of the officers of\nthe civil government, bodies cannot remain in the mortuaries longer\nthan forty-eight hours; and a burial cannot take place in less than\ntwenty-four hours. Special care is taken to test the reality of\ndeath in still-born infants, and efforts are made to revive them, as\nwell as all other cases of seeming death. In cases of women dying\nduring advanced pregnancy, the infant must be roused by artificial\nrespiration, in order to restore animation if possible. The process\nfor obtaining a delay for burial is intricate and cumbersome, and to a\nforeigner unaccustomed to the language and the local usages the chances\nwould be against securing such a permit before the time allowed for\nburial had transpired.\n\n\nDENMARK.\n\nMortuaries are connected with all the churches, cemeteries, and some\nof the hospitals, and are growing in favour in the country places; but\nas yet they are unprovided with any appliances for the resuscitation\nof the apparently dead, or for the prevention of premature burials.\nNo corpse, however, is allowed to be taken to a mortuary before it\nhas been inspected, and a death-certificate issued by a qualified\nphysician; but, when this is done, death is considered absolute. No\ncorpse is allowed to remain in any church, chapel, or mortuary longer\nthan seven days after supposed death, without special permission.\nCoffins that contain bodies which have died from infectious diseases\nmust be so indicated, and cannot be opened in the mortuaries.\n\nAs a rule, bodies are kept seventy-two hours before burial. The signs\nthat are considered sufficient to establish death are the glazed\nappearance of the eyes, livid spots on the skin, and muscular rigidity.\nIn doubtful cases, the time before burial can be extended by authority\nof the Board of Health, of which the Police Director is a member.\n\n\nSPAIN.\n\nBurials usually do not take place until twenty-four hours after death.\nFor example, if a death takes place about four p.m., the burial is\nmade late in the following afternoon. In time of epidemic, bodies are\nhurried to the cemeteries, where depositories are provided, which\nare under the care of watchers until the expiration of twenty-four\nhours after death. The certificate of a reputable physician as to\ndeath is sufficient to authorise burial. Relatives or friends usually\nremain with the body until burial, excepting in cases when judicial\nproceedings are held over it to determine the circumstances of the\ndeath.\n\n\nIRELAND.\n\nThere are no laws in Ireland regarding the disposal of the dead, but\nthe Sanitary Acts of the United Kingdom can be applied in any case\nwithin a reasonable period, on the ground of public health. There is\nno fixed period for keeping a body before burial. The Roman Catholics\nusually bury on the third or fourth day after death; but in some\ndistricts custom sanctions burial within twenty-four or thirty-six\nhours. Local burial authorities sometimes require a medical certificate\nbefore burial, but, there being no legal obligation for it, this is\noften omitted. In cases of suicide, sudden death, or death by violence,\nthe Coroner holds an inquest, and gives a certificate accordingly.\n\nThere are no dead-houses in Ireland, where bodies may be observed for a\nperiod of time before burial.\n\nConcerning burials in England, see Glen\u2019s \u201cBurial Acts\u201d for the general\nburial practice; also \u201cRegulations for Wilton Cemetery.\u201d\n\n\nTHE UNITED STATES.\n\nIn the United States of America, as a rule, everything relative to\nthe disposal of the dead is regulated by local Boards of Health,\nas authorised by State laws. A burial cannot take place without a\ncertificate from a legally licensed physician, which must state the\ncause of death; the place and time when it occurred; the full name;\nage; sex; colour; occupation; birth-place; names and birth-places\nof both parents. There are no laws or regulations that require the\ninspection of the body to verify the fact of death (the certificate,\nas in England, as to the cause is considered sufficient for this\npurpose), and no time is fixed when a body must, or must not, be\nburied. This is regulated by, and left to, the convenience of the\nfamily of the deceased, by the season of the year, by the opinion of\nthe attending physician, etc. But the Health Officers can order the\nburial whenever, in their opinion, the public health requires it. As a\nrule, burials after supposed death are made sooner in the South, and\namong the poor, than in the North, and among the well-to-do classes. In\nremote unsettled regions burials not seldom take place without these\nformalities, and they are often carried out in a hasty manner; but\nusually they do not take place till three days after supposed death,\nand sometimes, particularly in cold weather, a longer time is allowed.\nAll large cemeteries have chambers for the temporary deposit of bodies,\nbut they are not under observation, as it is taken for granted that\nthey are dead.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX F.\n\nTHE JEWISH PRACTICE OF EARLY BURIAL.\n\n\nR. J. WUNDERBAR, in his standard work on \u201cBiblisch-talmudische\nMedicin,\u201d Riga and Leipzig, 1850-60, gives, in pp. 5-15 of the\nconcluding section (Abtheil. 4, Bd. ii.), the following summary of the\norigin of the peculiar Jewish practice of burying the corpse within a\nfew hours of death:--\n\nIn the Levitical law (Num. xix. 11-22) every dead body was an unclean\nthing, including those dead in the tent and on the battlefield.\nTouching a corpse involved purification and separation for seven days.\nThis ordinance is supposed to have had a sanitary motive, having\nprobably originated with cases of infectious disease. There is only\none Biblical ordinance as to early burial, and that is indubitably\nrestricted to persons executed for crime: Deut. xxi. 22, 23, \u201cAnd if\na man have committed a sin worthy of death, and he be put to death,\nand thou hang him on a tree, his body shall not remain all night upon\nthe tree, but thou shalt in any wise bury him that day (for he that is\nhanged is accursed of God), that thy land be not defiled which the Lord\nthy God giveth thee for an inheritance.\u201dThis statutory limit to the\nexposure of the bodies of malefactors was the most convenient way of\nchecking the practice, common in other countries, of leaving corpses of\ncriminals to hang upon the gibbet until they rotted, or were consumed\nby birds of prey. Its motive was to prevent, by the promptest measure,\nan indefinite degree of neglect in altogether special cases.\n\nThere is nothing else in the Bible concerning early burial; on the\ncontrary, the patriarchal practice, in the case of eminent persons,\nseems to have been to keep the body for a considerable time above\nground, after the manner of Egypt. Prior to the Babylonian exile\nthere is not a trace of the later practice of speedy burial. The\npost-Talmudic custom had arisen entirely from a misunderstanding.\nIt is true that the Talmud enjoins that corpses--according to\ncircumstances--be kept unburied not longer than one day; but it also\npermits them to lie above ground for days, so that elaborate funeral\npreparations might be made, or time given for mourners to arrive from a\ndistance. Lastly, the Talmud relates the burial of one apparently dead\nwho revived and lived for twenty-five years, and begat five children;\nwhereupon a rabbinical ordinance was made that the corpse (which would\nhave been laid in a vault or in a tomb above ground) should be visited\ndiligently until three days after death. (The references to the Talmud\nare: Semachoth 8; Moedkaton 1, 6; Sabbat 151, 152; Sanhedrin 46a.)\n\nWunderbar admits that there had been cases of premature burial\namong the Jews, but he asserts their extreme rarity, and doubts the\nauthenticity of most of the traditional or historical cases in general.\n\nIn Jewish circles in Germany towards the end of last century there\nwas much controversy as to the inexpediency of the practice of early\nburial. In the \u201cBerlinische Monatschrift\u201d for April, 1787, p. 329,\n(cited by Marcus Herz, \u201cUeber die fr\u00fche Beerdigung der Juden,\u201d Berlin,\n1788, p. 6,) there is printed a letter from Moses Mendelssohn to the\nJews of Mecklenburg, in which he advises them to keep their dead\nunburied for three days. \u201cI know well,\u201d he adds, \u201cthat you will not\nfollow my advice; for the might of custom is great. Nay, I shall\nperhaps appear to you as a heretic on account of my counsel. All the\nsame, I have freed my conscience from guilt.\u201d\n\nThe above-cited essay by Dr. Marcus Herz, of Berlin, arguing against\nthe Jewish practice, called forth a reply by Dr. Marx, of Hanover, who\nwas of opinion that the burial might safely proceed after the body had\nbeen left on the bed for three hours, and had then been pronounced\nlifeless by the medical attendant, according to the practice in that\npart of the country. To that Dr. Herz rejoined, in a second edition,\nthat the medical attendant was no better judge than an ordinary man,\ninasmuch as all experimental tests were fallacious, and decomposition\nthe only sure sign. He cites the following statement by an experienced\nJewish physician, Dr. Hirschberg, of K\u00f6nigsberg (from the Jewish\nperiodical, \u201cSammler,\u201d vol. ii., p. 153):--\u201cI have practised medicine\nfor forty years, and have always grieved over the practice amongst us\nof too hasty burial of the dead--on the day of decease. It happened\nonce in my practice that a woman lay for dead three days and then awoke\nand revived. At first I would not allow the body to be moved from the\nbed, but the undertaker\u2019s men violently resisted me, taking up the body\nand laying it on the ground. According to their custom, they would have\nburied it the same day, had I not earnestly called out to them: \u2018Beware\nlest you do lay her in the ground this day! She is still alive, and the\nblame will be on you.\u2019 I had her covered with warm, woollen clothes; on\nthe following morning some signs of life were manifest; she lay still,\nand gradually awoke out of her death-slumber.\u201d\n\nHerz declared, as Wunderbar did subsequently, that the passages in the\nTalmud on which the Jewish custom was based had been misinterpreted;\nand he specially accused the rabbis Jacob Emden, of Altona, and\nEzechel, of Prague, of rabbinical subtilty on the one hand, and of a\nfallacious dependence upon scientific signs of death on the other.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the World\u2019s Medical Congress (Division of Eclectic Medicine), held\nin Chicago, June 3, 1893, the following resolution was proposed by Dr.\nJohn V. Stevens, and adopted:--\n\n \u201cWhereas we believe that many persons in the past, in the condition\n simulating death from various causes, have been buried alive;\n therefore,\n\n \u201cResolved--That it should be the duty of all Governments to pass laws\n prohibiting the burial of bodies without positive proofs of death;\n that the nature of these proofs should be taught in all schools and\n printed in all newspapers throughout the world.\u201d\n\n\n                             BIBLIOGRAPHY.\n\n\n_SEVENTEENTH CENTURY._\n\nKORNMANNUS (Henricus). De miraculis mortuorum. Francof., 1610.\n\nTIRELLUS (Mauritius). De causis mortis repentinae. Venet., 1615.\n\nZACCHIAS (Paulus). Quaestiones medico-legales. Lib iv. cap. i., quaest.\nxi, \u201cDe mortuorum resurrectione,\u201d fol. 241-247 of editio tertia.\nAmstelaedami, 1651.\n\n[Gives many of the classical cases, with critical remarks.]\n\nKIRCHMAIER (Theodor) and NOTTNAGEL (Christoph). Elegantissimum ex\nphysicis thema de hominibus apparenter mortuis. Wittenbergae, 1670.\n\n[Collects cases, from ancient and more recent writers, of the\napparently dead having been taken for dead:--Pliny, Hist. Nat., lib.\nvii. 52; Plutarch, De sera numinis vindicta; Apuleius, Floridorum,\nlib. vi.; St. Augustine, De cura mortuorum; Thuanus (no ref.); Diomed\nCornarus, Hist. admirand. (case of a Madrid lady who is supposed to\nhave given birth to a child after she was laid in the tomb, the corpse\nhaving a new-born dead infant in the right hand when the vault was\nopened a few months after); Chr. Landinus, notes to Virgil, \u00c6n. vi.\n(incident at a funeral, of which he was an eye-witness at Florence);\nHorst. Med. mir., cap. ix. (woman left for dead of the plague at\nCologne in 1357); and the case of a glazier, then living at Wittenberg,\nwho was treated as dead when a child of three years.]\n\nGARMANN (L. Christ. Frid.). De miraculis mortuorum libri tres, quibus\npraemissa dissertatio de cadavere et miraculis in genere. Opus\nphysico-medicum curiosis observationibus experimentis aliisque rebus\nexornatum. Ed. L. J. H. Garmann. Dresden and Leipzig, 1709. (First ed.,\nLeipzig, 1670.)\n\nBEBEL (Balthasar). Dissertatio de bis mortuis. Jena, 1672.\n\n\n_EIGHTEENTH CENTURY._\n\n\nHAWES (Dr.). On the duty of the relations of those who are in dangerous\nillness, and the hazard of hasty interment. A sermon preached in the\nPresbyterian Chapel of Lancaster in 1703, wherein it is clearly proved,\nfrom the attestation of unexceptionable witnesses, that many persons\nhave been buried alive.\n\nLANCISI (Johannes M.). De subitaneis mortibus libri duo. Romae, 1707;\nLucae, 1707; Lipsiae, 1709.\n\nWILFROTH (Johannes Christianus). Dissertatio de resuscitatione\nsemi-mortuorum medica. Halae, 1725.\n\nRANFT (Michael). Tractat von den Kauen und Schmatzen der Todten in\nGr\u00e4bern, worm die wahre Beschaffenheit derer Hungarischen Vampyrs\ngezeight, etc. Leipzig, 1734.\n\nBEYSCHLAG (Fr. Jac.). Sylloge variorum opusculorum. \u201cDe hominum a morte\nresuscitatorum exemplis.\u201d Halae Sueviorum, 1727-31.\n\nWINSLOW (Jacques Benigne), Professor of Anatomy at Paris. An mortis\nincert\u00e6 signa minus incerta a chirurgicis quam ab aliis experimentis.\nParis, 1740. Dissertation.\n\n---- Dissertation sur l\u2019incertitude des signes de la mort, et l\u2019abus\ndes enterremens et embaumemens precipit\u00e9s; traduite et comment\u00e9e par\nJacques Jean Bruhier. Paris, 1742. (With the Latin text.)\n\nBRUHIER (Jacques Jean), d\u2019Ablaincourt. M\u00e9moire sur la n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 d\u2019un\nr\u00e8glement g\u00e9n\u00e9ral au sujet des enterremens et embaumemens--addition au\nm\u00e9moire presente au Roi. Paris, 1745-46.\n\n---- Dissertation sur l\u2019incertitude des signes de la mort, et l\u2019abus\ndes enterrements et embaumemens pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9s. Second ed. Two vols. Paris,\n1749.\n\n---- The uncertainty of the signs of death and the danger of\nprecipitate interments and dissections. Second ed. London, 1751.\n\n\n[Bruhier, in his work Dissertations sur l\u2019incertitude des signes de\nla mort et l\u2019abus des enterremens, produces accounts of one hundred\nand eighty-one cases, among which there are those of fifty-two persons\nburied alive, four dissected alive, fifty-three that awoke in their\ncoffins before being buried, and seventy-two other cases of apparent\ndeath.]\n\n\nANON. The uncertainty of the signs of death, and the danger of\nprecipitate interments and dissections demonstrated. Dublin, 1748.\n\nCOOPER (M). Uncertainty of the signs of death, precipitate interment\nand dissection, and funeral solemnities. London, 1746.\n\nJANKE (J. G.). Abhandlung von der Ungewissheit der Kennzeichen des\nTodes. Leipzig, 1749.\n\nLOUIS (Antoine). Six lettres sur la certitude des signes de la mort, ou\nl\u2019on rassure les citoyens de la crainte d\u2019\u00eatre enterr\u00e9s vivans; avec\ndes observations et des experiences sur les noy\u00e9s. Paris, 1752.\n\nPLAZ (Antonius Gulielmus). De signis mortis non solute explorandis.\nSpecimen primum, Lipsiae, 1765; secundum, 1766; tertium, 1766; quartum,\n1767.\n\n---- De mortuis curandis. Diss. Lipsiae, 1770.\n\nMENGHIN (Joh. Mich. de). Diss. de incertitudine signorum vitae et\nmortis. Vienna, 1768.\n\nESCHENBACH (Christ. Ehrenfr.). De apparenter mortuis. Vienna, 1768.\n\nJANIN DE COMBE BLANCHE (Jean). Reflexions sur le triste sort de\npersonnes qui sous un apparance de mort ont \u00e9t\u00e9 enterr\u00e9es vivants, etc.\nParis, 1774.\n\nDE GARDANE (Joseph Jacques). Avis au peuple sur les asphyxies ou morts\napparentes et subites. Paris, 1774. Portuguese transl. included in\nAvisos interessantes sobre as mortes apparentes. Lisbon, 1790.\n\n---- Catechisme sur les morts apparentes, dites asphyxies, etc. Paris,\n1781.\n\nNAVIER (Pierre Toussaint). R\u00e9flexions sur les dangers des inhumations\nprecipit\u00e9es et sur les abus des inhumations dans les eglises, etc.\nParis, 1775.\n\nPINEAU (----). M\u00e9moire sur le danger des inhumations precipit\u00e9es, et\nsur la n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 d\u2019un r\u00e8glement pour mettre les citoyens \u00e0 l\u2019abri du\nmalheur d\u2019etre enter\u00e9es vivans. Niort, 1776.\n\nMARET (Hugues). M\u00e9moire pour rappeler \u00e0 la vie les personnes en \u00e9tat de\nmort apparente. Dijon, 1776.\n\nBRINKMANN (Joh. Pet.). Beweis der M\u00f6glichkeit dass einige Leute k\u00f6nnen\nlebendig begraben werden, etc. D\u00fcsseldorf, 1777.\n\nSWIETEN (Baron Geerard Van). De morte dubia. Vienna, 1778.\n\nTESTA (Antonio Guiseppe). Della morte apparente. Firenze, 1780.\n\nDOPPET (F. A.). Des moyens de rappeler \u00e0 la vie les personnes qui ont\ntoutes les apparences de la mort. Chambery, 1785.\n\n\n[In 1784 the Imperial and Royal Academy of Sciences, etc., of Brussels\nproposed as a subject for a prize essay, What are the means that can be\nemployed by medicine and police to prevent the dangerous mistakes of\npremature burial?]\n\n\nWAUTERS (Pierre Englebert). Responsum ad quaesitum, Quae tum\nmedica, tum politica praesidia adversus periculosas inhumationum\npraefestinatarum abusus? Reprinted from the Mem. Acad. Imper. et Roy.\nde Sc. de Bruxelles. Bruxelles, 1787 [1788].\n\nPREVINAIRE (P. J. B.). M\u00e9moire sur la question suivante propos\u00e9e en\n1784 par l\u2019academie imperiale et royal des sciences, belles-lettres,\net arts de Bruxelles: Quels sont les moyens que la m\u00e9decine et la\npolice pourroient employer pour pr\u00e9venir les erreurs dangereuses des\nenterremens precipit\u00e9s? Ouvrage qui a concouru pour la prix de l\u2019annee\n1786. Bruxelles, 1787.\n\n---- The above in a German translation by Bernhard Gottlob Schreger.\nLeipzig, 1790.\n\nLEDULX (Gul. Petrus). De signis mortis rite aestimandis. Hardervici,\n1787. Thesis.\n\nTHIERY (Franciscus). La vie de l\u2019homme respect\u00e9e et defendue dans ses\nderniers moments; ou instruction sur les soins qu\u2019 on doit aux morts,\net \u00e0 ceux qui parroisent l\u2019etre; sur les funerailles et les sepultures.\nParis, 1787.\n\nSTEINFELD (Johannes Christianus). De signis mortis diagnosticis dubiis\ncaut\u00e8 admittendis et reprobandis. Thesis. Jena, 1788.\n\nHERZ (Marcus). Ueber die fr\u00fche Beerdigung der Juden. Zweite vermehrte\nAuflage. Berlin, 1788.\n\nDURANDE (J. Fr.). M\u00e9moire sur l\u2019abus de l\u2019ensevelissement des morts,\netc. Strasbourg, 1789.\n\nDE HUPSCH (Baron Joh. Wilh. Carl Adolph). Nouvelle d\u00e9couverte d\u2019une\nmethode peu couteuse, efficace et assur\u00e9e de traiter tous les hommes\nd\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9s afin de rappeler \u00e0 la vie ceux qui ne sont morts qu\u2019en\napparance. Cologne, 1789.\n\nANON. Des inhumations precipit\u00e9es. Paris, 1790. (Attributed by Barbier\nto Madame Necker.)\n\n\nHUFELAND (Christoph W.). Ueber die Ungewissheit des Todes, und des\neinzige untr\u00fcgliche Mittel ... das Lebenigbegraben unm\u00f6glich zu machen,\netc. Salzburg, 1791; Halle, 1824.\n\nREINHARDT (Julius Christophorus). Dissertatio de vano praematurae\nsepulturae metu. Jena, 1793.\n\nMARCELLO (Marin). Osservazioni teoriche-pratiche-mediche sopra le morti\napparenti. Two vols., with nine plates. Venezia, 1793.\n\nANSCHEL (Salomon). Thanatologia, sive in mortis naturam causas genera,\netc., disquisitiones. Goettingae, 1795.\n\nHIMLY (Carolus). Commentatio mortis historiam causas et signa sistens.\nGoettingae, 1795.\n\nPESSLER (B. G.). Leicht anwendbarer Beystand der Mechanik um\nScheintodte beim Erwachen im Grabe auf die wohlfeilste Art wieder\ndaraus zu erretten. Braunschweig, 1798.\n\nDESESSARTZ (Jean Charles). Discours sur les inhumations precipit\u00e9es.\nParis, an vii. (1798).\n\nK\u00d6PPEN (Heinrich Friedrich). Nachrichten von Menschen welche lebendig\nbegraben worden. Als erster Theil des Buchs: Achtung der Scheintodten.\nHalle, 1799. (Dedication to Friedrich Wilhelm III., King of Prussia,\nQueen Louise, and Friedrich August, Prince of Hesse Darmstadt.)\n\n\n_RESUSCITATION OF THE DROWNED.--THE ROYAL HUMANE SOCIETY._\n\n\nGRUNER (Jacobus). Dissertatio inauguralis de causa mortis submersorum\neorumque resuscitatione observationibus indagata. Groningae, 1761.\n\nMemoirs of the society instituted at Amsterdam in favour of drowned\npersons. For the years 1767-71. Translated by Thomas Logan, M.D.\nLondon, 1772.\n\nJOHNSON (Alexander), M.D. A short account of a society in Amsterdam\n... for the recovery of drowned persons; with observations showing the\nadvantage ... to Great Britain from a similar institution.... Extended\nto other accidents. London, 1773.\n\n\nJOHNSON (Alexander), M.D. A collection of cases proving the\npracticability of recovering persons visibly dead, etc. London, 1773.\n\n---- Relief from accidental death; or, summary instructions for the\ngeneral institution proposed in 1773. London, 1785.\n\n---- Abridged instructions. London, 1785.\n\nCULLEN (W.), M.D. A letter to Lord Cathcart concerning the recovery of\nthe drowned and seemingly dead. London, 1773.\n\nHUNTER (John). Proposals for the recovery of persons apparently\ndrowned. _Phil. Trans._ 1776.\n\nHAWES (William), M.D. An address to the public [concerning the\ndangerous custom of laying out persons as soon as respiration ceases].\nWith a reply by W. Renwick, and observations on that reply. London,\n1778.\n\nFULLER (John), M.D. Some hints relative to the recovery of persons\ndrowned and apparently dead. London, 1784.\n\nKITE (Charles), of Gravesend. An essay on the recovery of the\napparently dead. London, 1788.\n\n---- Essay on the submersions of animals. London, 1795.\n\nReports of the Humane Society for the recovery of persons apparently\ndrowned. For the years 1777-80 and 1785-86. London.\n\nThe transactions of the Royal Humane Society from 1774 to 1784. With an\nappendix of miscellaneous observations on suspended animation. Edited\nby W. Hawes, M.D. London, 1794.\n\nFRANKS (John). Observations on animal life and apparent death. With\nremarks on the Brunonian system of medicine. London, 1790.\n\n---- The same in an Italian translation. Pavia, 1795.\n\nGOODWYN (Edmund), M.D. De morbo morteque submersorum investigandis.\nThesis. Edin., 1786.\n\n---- The connexion of life with respiration; or, an experimental\ninquiry into the effects of submersion, strangulation, and several\nkinds of noxious airs on living animals; with an account of the nature\nof the diseases they produce, and the most effectual means of cure.\nLondon, 1788.\n\nReflections on premature death and premature interment. Published by\nthe Humane Society. Rochester, 1787.\n\n\nANON. An essay on vital suspension: being an attempt to investigate and\nascertain those diseases in which the principles of life are apparently\nextinguished. By a Medical Practitioner. London, 1791.\n\nHAMILTON (Robert), M.D. Rules for recovering persons recently drowned.\nLondon, 1795.\n\nDirections for recovering persons apparently dead from drowning, and\nfrom disorders occasioned by cold liquors. Published by the Humane\nSociety. Philadelphia.\n\nCURRY (James). Popular observations on apparent death from drowning,\nsuffocation, etc. Northampton, 1792; London, 1793, 1797, 1845. French\ntransl. by Odier, Geneva, 1800.\n\nFOTHERGILL (Anthony). Inquiry into the suspension of vital action in\ndrowning and suffocation. Third ed. Bath, 1794.\n\n---- Preventive plan; or, hints for the preservation of persons exposed\nto accidents which suspend vital action. London, 1798.\n\nCAILLEAU (J. M.). M\u00e9moire sur l\u2019asphyxie par submersion. Bordeaux, 1799.\n\nBICHAT (M. F. Xavier). Recherches physiologiques sur la vie et la mort.\nParis, 1800, 1805, etc.\n\n\n_NINETEENTH CENTURY._\n\n\nCOLEMAN (Edward). Dissertation on natural and suspended respiration.\nSecond ed. Lond., 1802.\n\nSTRUVE (Christian August). A practical essay on the art of recovering\nsuspended animation. Transl. from the German. Second ed. Lond., 1802.\n\nOSWALD (John). On the phenomena of suspended animation from drowning,\nhanging, etc., together with the most expeditious mode of treatment.\nPhilad., 1802.\n\nLUGA (----). Traitement des asphyxi\u00e9s, ou moyen de rendre impossible\nl\u2019enterrement de personnes vivantes. Paris, 1804.\n\nACKERMANN (J. F.). Der Scheintod und das Rettungsverfahren. Frankft.,\n1804.\n\nBURKE (William). On suspended animation, etc. Lond., 1805.\n\nBERGER (J. F.). Essai physiologique sur la cause de l\u2019asphyxie par\nsubmersion. Paris, 1805.\n\nTHOMASSIN (J. Fran\u00e7.). Considerations de police m\u00e9dicale, sur la mort\napparente, et sur le danger des inhumations precipit\u00e9es. Strasbourg,\n1805. Also an earlier essay on same subject, with Durande, in 1789.\n\nDAVIS (----). L\u2019abus des enterrements pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Moyens de rappeler \u00e0\nla vie les personnes en \u00e9tat de mort apparente. Verdun, 1806.\n\nBARZELOTTI (Giac.). Memoria per servire di avviso al populo sulle\nasfisse o morte apparente. Parma, 1808.\n\nMARC (C. C. H.). Des moyens de constater la mort par submersion.\n(Manuel de l\u2019Autopsie, par Rose, transl. from the German.) Paris, 1808.\n\nCOLORINI (Ant.). Sulle varie morti apparenti, etc. Pavia, 1813.\n\nPORTAL (A.). Sur la traitement des asphyxies: avec observations sur les\nsignes qui distinguent la mort r\u00e9elle de celle qui n\u2019est qu\u2019apparante.\nParis, 1816.\n\nORFILA (F.). Directions for the treatment of persons who have taken\npoison, and those in a state of apparent death. Transl. from the French\nby R. H. Black. Other transl. by W. Price, M.D. Both at London, 1818.\n\nSNART (John). Thesaurus of horror; or, the charnel-house explored,\nLond., 1817.\n\n---- An historical inquiry concerning apparent death and premature\ninterment. London, 1824.\n\nVALPY (R.). Sermon before the Royal Humane Society, with observations\non resuscitation. Norwich, 1819.\n\nWHITER (Rev. W.). A dissertation on the disorder called suspended\nanimation. Norwich, 1819.\n\nCHAUSSIER (----). Vivants crus morts, et moyens de pr\u00e9venir cette\nerreur. Paris, 1819.\n\nDONNDORF (J. A.). Ueber Tod, Scheintod, und zu fr\u00fche Beerdigung.\nQuedlinburg, 1820.\n\n\nHERPIN (M.). Instruction sur les soins \u00e0 donner aux personnes\nasphyxi\u00e9es. Paris, 1822.\n\nKAISER (Ch. L.). Ueber Tod und Scheintod, oder die Gefahren des fr\u00fchen\nBegrabens. Frankfurt-am-Main, 1822.\n\nCALHOUN (T.). An essay on suspended animation. Philad., 1823.\n\nBUNOUST (Marin). Vues philanthropiques sur l\u2019abus des enterrements\npr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, pr\u00e9cautions \u00e0 prendre pour que les vivants ne soient pas\nconfondus avec les morts. Arras, 1826.\n\nSPEYER (Carl F.). Ueber die M\u00f6glichkeit des Lebendigbegrabens, und die\nEinrichtung von Leichenh\u00e4usern. Erlangen, 1826.\n\nCHANTOURELLE (----). Paper at the Royal Academy of Medicine of Paris,\non the danger of premature burial, etc., with discussion thereon, 10th\nand 27th April, 1827. Archives g\u00e9n\u00e9rales de m\u00e9decine, vol. xiv. (1827),\np. 103.\n\nG\u00dcNTHER (Johann Arnold). Geschichte und Einrichtung der Hamburgischen\nRettungs-Anstalten f\u00fcr im Wasser verungl\u00fcckte Menschen. Hamburg, 1828.\n\nTABERGER (Joh. Gottf.). Der Scheintod in seinen Beziehungen auf\ndas Erwachen in Grabe und die verchiedenen Vorschl\u00e4ge zu einer\nwirksamen.... Rettung in F\u00e4llen dieser Art. With a copper plate.\nHannover, 1829.\n\nBOURGEOIS (R.). Observations et consid\u00e9rations pratiques qui\n\u00e9tablissent la possibilit\u00e9 du retour \u00e0 la vie dans plusieurs cas\nd\u2019asphyxi\u00e9 et de syncope prolong\u00e9e avec apparence de la mort. 8vo.\nParis, 1829.\n\nSCHNEIDAWIND (Franz Joseph Adolph). Der Scheintod, nebst Unterscheidung\ndes scheinbaren und wahren Todes, und Mitteln, etc. Bamberg, 1829.\n\nWALKER (G. A.). Gatherings from grave-yards, etc. Lond., 1830.\n\nTACHERON. De la v\u00e9rification l\u00e9gale des d\u00e9c\u00e8s dans la ville de\nParis, et de la n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 d\u2019apporter dans ce service m\u00e9dical plus de\nsurveillance. Paris, 1830.\n\nPICHARD (----). Le danger des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Paris, 1830.\n\nCHAUSSIER (Hector). Histoire des infortun\u00e9s qui ont \u00e9t\u00e9 enterr\u00e9s\nvivants. Paris, 1833.\n\n\nDESBERGER (Ant. F. A.). Tod und Scheintod, Leichen-und-Begrabungswesen\nals wichtige Angelegenheit der einzelnen Menschen und des Staates.\nLeipzig, 1833.\n\nFOUCHARD (P.). Aper\u00e7u g\u00e9n\u00e9ral des pr\u00e9cautions prises en France avant\nl\u2019inhumation des citoyens morts; r\u00e9forme que l\u2019humanit\u00e9 r\u00e9clame. Tours,\n1833.\n\nDE FONTENELLE (Julia). Recherches m\u00e9dico-legales sur l\u2019incertitude des\nsignes de la mort, les dangers des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, les moyens\nde constater les d\u00e9c\u00e8s et de rappeler \u00e0 la vie ceux qui sont en \u00e9tat de\nmort apparente. Paris, 1834.\n\nLEGALLOIS (C.). Exp\u00e9riences physiologiques sur les animaux tendant \u00e0\nfa\u00eere connaitre le temps durant lequel ils peuvent \u00e9tre sans danger\npriv\u00e9s de la respiration, etc. Paris, 1835.\n\nMARC (C. C. H.). Nouvelles recherches sur les recours \u00e0 donner aux\nnoy\u00e9s et asphyxi\u00e9s. Paris, 1835.\n\nSOMMER (----). De signis mortem hominis absolutam ante putredinis\naccessum indicantibus. Havniae, 1833.\n\nSCHWABE (C.). Das Leichenhaus in Weimar. Nebst einigen Worten \u00fcber den\nScheintod und mehrer, jetzt bestehender Leichenh\u00e4user, sowie \u00fcber die\nzweckm\u00e4ssigste Einrichtung solcher Anstalten im Allgemeinen. Leipzig,\n1834.\n\nKAY (J. P.). The physiology, pathology, and treatment of asphyxia,\nincluding suspended animation in new-born children, and from\ndrowning, hanging, wounds of the chest, mechanical obstruction of the\nair-passages, respiration of gases, death from cold, etc. London, 1834.\n\nKOOL (J. A.). Tabellarisch overzigt over alle gevallen von schijndoode\ndrenkelingen, gestikten, en gehangenen, bekroond door de Maatschappij\ntot Redding van Drenkelingen, opgerigt in den jare 1767 te Amsterdam.\nSeder thare stichting tot en met den jare 1833 [-53]. Uit authentieke\nstukken opgemaakt en met opmerkingen voorzien. Four vols. Amsterdam,\n1834-54.\n\nMANNI (Pietro), professor at Rome. Manuale pratico per la cura degli\napparentemente morti, premessevi alcune idee generali di polizia medica\nper la tutela della vita degli asfittici. Roma, 1833. Napoli, 1835.\nGerm. transl. by A. F. Fischer, Leipzig, 1839.\n\n\nSIMON (L. C.). Quelques mots sur les enterrements pr\u00e9matures, et sur\nles pr\u00e9cautions \u00e0 prendre sur-le-champ, relativement aux noy\u00e9s et\nasphyxi\u00e9s. St. Petersbourg, 1835.\n\nLE GUERN (H.). Rosoline, ou les myst\u00e8res de la tombe. Paris, 1834.\n\n---- Du danger des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, exemples tant anciens que\nr\u00e9cents de personnes enterr\u00e9es ou dissequ\u00e9es de leur vivant. Paris,\n1837, 1844.\n\n---- Encore un mot, etc. Paris, 1843.\n\nLESSING (Mich. Bened.). Ueber die Unsicherheit der Erkenntniss des\nerloschenen Lebens, etc. Berlin, 1836.\n\nSCHNACKENBERG (Wilh. Ph. J.). Ueber die Nothwendigkeit der\nLeichenhallen zur Verh\u00fctung des Erwachens im Grabe. Cassel, 1836.\n\nMISSIRINI (Melchiore). Pericolo di seppillire gli uomini vivi creduti\nmorti. Milano, 1837.\n\nVIGNE (----). Memoire sur les inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, des moyens de\nles prevenir, des signes de la mort. Rouen, 1837; Paris, 1839, 1841.\n\nBIOPHILOS. Die neue Sicherungsweise gegen rettungloses Wiedererwachen\nim Grabe. Neustadt, 1838.\n\nSCHAFFER (Fried.). Beschreibung und Abbildung einer Vorrichtung durch\nwelche Scheintodte sich aus dem Sarge in Grabe befreien k\u00f6nnen.\nLandsberg, 1839.\n\nVILLENEUVE (P. E.). Du danger des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es et des moyens\nde les pr\u00e9venir, etc. Paris, 1841.\n\nDESCHAMPS (M. H.). Pr\u00e9cis de la mort apparente. Paris, 1841.\n\n---- Du signe de la mort r\u00e9elle, etc. Memoir read at the Acad. des Sc.,\nMarch 28, 1843, in Gaz. Med., Ap. 1st.\n\n---- Du signe certain de la mort, nouvelle epreuve pour \u00e9viter d\u2019etre\nenterr\u00e9 vivant. Paris, 1854.\n\nNASSE (Fri\u00e8d.). Die Unterscheidung des Scheintodes von wirklichen Tode,\nzu Beruhigung \u00fcber die Gefahr lebendig begrahen zu werden. Bonn, 1841.\nFrench transl. by Fallot. Namur, 1842.\n\nHICKMANN (J. N.). Die Elektricit\u00e4t als Pr\u00fcfungs-und-Belebungsmittel im\nScheintode. Wien, 1841.\n\n\nDENDY (W. C.). The philosophy of mystery, etc. London, 1841. [Contains\nchapters on premature interment, resuscitation from catalepsy or\ntrance, etc.]\n\nWELCHMAN (E.). Observations on apparent death from suffocation or\ndrowning, choke-damp, stroke of lightning, exposure to extreme cold,\nwith directions for using the resuscitating apparatus invented by\nauthor, and gen. instruc., etc. 8vo. New York, 1842.\n\nLENORMAND (Leonce). Des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Macon, 1843.\n\nGAYET (----). De la n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 de la verification des d\u00e9c\u00e8s Nantes, 1843.\n\nCHALETTE (J.), fils. Du danger des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es et de\nl\u2019importance de faire constater les d\u00e9c\u00e8s par les gens de l\u2019art.\nCh\u00e2lons-sur-Marne, 1843.\n\nBARJAVEL (C. F. H.). N\u00e9cessit\u00e9 absolue d\u2019ouvrir au plus t\u00f4t des maisons\nd\u2019attente; consid\u00e9rations de police m\u00e9dicale, pr\u00e9ced\u00e9es d\u2019un sommaire\nanalytique, et suivies d\u2019indications bibliographiques relatives au\nsujet de cet \u00e9crit. (Tirage \u00e0 cinquante exemplaires seulement).\nCarpentras, 1845.\n\nDEBAY (Auguste). Les vivants enterr\u00e9s et les morts resuscit\u00e9s.\nConsiderations physiologiques sur les morts apparentes et les\ninhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Paris, 1846.\n\nGAILLARD (X.). Pr\u00e9servatif contre le danger d\u2019\u00eatre enterr\u00e9 vivant, ou\ndevoirs sacr\u00e9s des vivants envers les morts. Paris, 1847.\n\nLOTHMAR (C. J.). Ueber das Lebendigbegraben. Leipzig, 1847.\n\nDU FAY (Hortense G.). Des vols d\u2019enfant, et des inhumations d\u2019individus\nvivants, suivi d\u2019un aper\u00e7u pour l\u2019etablissement des salles mortuaires.\nParis, 1847.\n\n\n[In 1839 the Paris Academie des Sciences threw open to competition the\nPrix Manni (1,500 francs, founded in 1837 by Professor Manni, of Rome,)\nfor the best work on the signs of death and the means of preventing\npremature burials. The prize was not assigned on that occasion, nor in\n1842; but in the competition of 1846 it was assigned to Bouchut, on the\nreport to the Academy by Rayer, May 29, 1848.]\n\n\nBOUCHUT (E.). Trait\u00e9 des signes de la mort et des moyens de ne pas \u00eatre\nenterr\u00e9 vivant. Paris, 1849. Second ed., 1847; third ed., 1883.\n\n---- M\u00e9moire sur plusieurs nouveaux signes de la mort, fournis par\nl\u2019opthalmoscopie, et pouvant emp\u00eacher les enterrements pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es.\nParis, 1867.\n\n\nBRAID (James). Observations on trance, or human hybernation. London,\n1850.\n\nKAUFMANN (M.). De la mort apparente et des enterrements pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9s.\nParis, 1851.\n\nKERTHOMAS (Hyac. L. De). Inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Lille, 1852.\n\nHARRISON (James Bower). The medical aspects of death. Lond., 1852.\n\nCRIMOTEL (J. B. Valentin). Des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es; \u00e9preuve\ninfaillible pour constater la mort; moyens de rappeler \u00e0 la vie dans\nles cas de mort apparente caus\u00e9e par l\u2019ether, le chloroforme, etc.\nParis, 1852.\n\n---- De l\u2019\u00e9preuve galvanique ou bioscopie \u00e9lectrique, moyens de\nreconna\u00eetre la vie ou la mort et d\u2019eviter les inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es.\n1866.\n\nJOSAT (----). De la mort et ses caract\u00e8res. Necessit\u00e9 d\u2019 une r\u00e9vision\nde la l\u00e9gislation des d\u00e9c\u00e8s pour pr\u00e9venir les inhumations et les\nd\u00e9laissements anticip\u00e9s. Ouvrage entrepris et ex\u00e9cut\u00e9 sous les auspices\ndu gouvernement et couronn\u00e9 par l\u2019Institut. Paris, 1854.\n\nLONDE (C.). Lettre sur la mort apparente, les cons\u00e9quences r\u00e9elles\ndes inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es, le temps pendant lequel peut persister\nl\u2019aptitude \u00e0 \u00eatre rappel\u00e9 \u00e0 la vie. Paris, 1854. Plates.\n\nKEMPNER (F.). Denkschrift \u00fcber die Nothwendigkeit einer gesetzlichen\nEinf\u00fchrung von Leichenh\u00e4usern. New ed. Breslau, 1856.\n\nPEYRIER (J. P. P.). R\u00e9cherches sur l\u2019incertitude des signes de la mort:\nenumeration des maladies qui peuvent produire la mort apparente; abus\ndes enterrements pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9s. Paris, 1855.\n\nCOLLONGUES (L.). Application de la dynamoscopie \u00e0 la constatation des\nd\u00e9c\u00e8s. Paris, 1858, 1862.\n\nHALMA GRAND (----). Des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Paris, 1860.\n\nWELBY (Horace). Mysteries of life, death, and futurity (with chapter on\npremature interment). London, 1861.\n\nREYHER (O. C. A.). Ueber die Verwerthung der bekannten\nLeichenerscheinungen zur Constatirung des wahren Todes. Leipzig, 1862.\n\nCHEVANDIERE (Antoine Daniel). De la v\u00e9rification des d\u00e9c\u00e8s et de\nl\u2019organisation de la medecine cantonale. Paris, 1862.\n\n\nDESMAIRE (Paul). Les morts vivants. Paris, 1862.\n\nBARRANGEARD (Antoine). Extrait de divers m\u00e9moires publies depuis tres\nlongtemps par le Docteur Barrangeard, sur le danger des inhumations\npr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es et sur l\u2019indispensable n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 de constater avec soin\ntous les d\u00e9c\u00e8s sans exception. Lyon, 1863.\n\nBONNEJOY (E.). Des moyens pratiques de constater la mort par\nl\u2019\u00e9lectricit\u00e9 \u00e0 la aide de la faradisation. Paris, 1866.\n\nLEVASSEUR (P.). De la catalepsie au point de vue du diagnostic de la\nmort apparente. 8vo. Rouen, 1866.\n\n---- De la mort apparente et des moyens de la reconna\u00eetre. Rouen, 1867.\nRe-issued, with a second essay, in 1870.\n\nJACQUAND (Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric). Appareil respiratoire avertisseur pour les tombes.\nAssurance contre la mort apparente. Paris, 1867.\n\nBIANCO (Giuseppe). Le pericolose consequenze della morte apparente\nprevenute da un confaciente riforma del servizio mortuario. Torino,\n1868.\n\nGANNAL (F\u00e9lix). Mort apparente et mort r\u00e9elle. Moyens de les\ndistinguer. First ed. Paris, 1868. Third ed. (mention honorable a\nl\u2019Institut de France), 1890.\n\n\n[In 1868 the Acad\u00e9mie de M\u00e9decine of Paris threw open to competition\nthe Prix d\u2019Ourches of 20,000 francs for the discovery of a simple and\npopular means of detecting the signs of real death certainly and beyond\ndoubt. The prize was not awarded, but premiums were given to several\ncompetitors.]\n\n\nHOARAU (H.). La mort, sa constatation, ou proc\u00e9d\u00e9 \u00e0 l\u2019aide du quel on\npeut la reconna\u00eetre et \u00e9viter des enterrements de vifs. Paris, 1874.\n\nVEYNE (----). Mort apparente et mort r\u00e9elle, art\u00e9riotomie donnant le\nmoyen de les reconna\u00eetre. Paris, 1874.\n\nMONTEVERDI (A.). Note sur un moyen simple, fac\u00ecle, prompt et certain de\ndistinguer la mort vrai de la mort apparente de l\u2019homme. Cremone, 1874.\n\nMARTEL (----). La mort apparente chez les nouveaux-n\u00e9s. Paris, 1874.\n\nBOILLET (Ch.). Mort apparente et victimes ignor\u00e9es. Paris, 1875.\n\nDE COMEAU (----). Les signes certains de la mort mis \u00e0 la port\u00e9e de\ntout le monde. Limoges, 1876.\n\n\nBELVAL (Th.). Les maisons mortuaires. Paris, 1877.\n\nFRITZ-ANDRE (----). Du danger des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Bruxelles,\n1879.\n\n\n[The Prix Dusgate was founded by a decree of November 27, 1874,\nauthorising the Acad\u00e9mie des Sciences of Paris to accept the legacy of\nM. Dusgate of a quinquennial prize of 2,500 francs for the best work on\nthe diagnostic signs of death and on the means of preventing premature\nburial. The essays of the first competition were received on June 1,\n1880, and on March 14, 1881, the prize was divided among the three\nfollowing competitors. In 1885 the prize was not awarded.]\n\n\nONIMUS (E. N. J.). Modification de l\u2019excitabilit\u00e9 des nerfs et des\nmuscles apres la mort. (Published.)\n\nPEYRAND (H.). De la d\u00e9termination de la mort r\u00e9elle par le caustique de\nVienne.\n\nLE BON (G.). Recherches experimentales sur les signes diagnostiques de\nla mort et sur les moyens de prevenir les inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. (A\ntemperature of 25\u00b0 C. on a thermometer kept in the mouth for a quarter\nof an hour.) Also, Article on Premature Interment in Monit. scient.,\nviii. Paris.\n\nALLEN (F. D.). Remarks on the dangers and duties of sepulture, or\nsecurity for the living with respect and repose of the dead. Boston,\n1873.\n\nBURDETT (H. C.). The necessity and importance of mortuaries for towns\nand villages, with suggestions for their establishment and management.\nLondon, 1880.\n\nFLETCHER (Moore Russell). One thousand persons buried alive by their\nbest friends. A treatise on suspended animation, with directions for\nrestoration. Boston, 1890.\n\n\u201cA Hygienic Physician.\u201d Earth to earth burial and cremation by fire\n[includes cases of premature burial]. London, 1890.\n\nHERNANDEZ (Maxime F.E.M.). Contribution \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9tude de la mort apparente.\nBordeaux, 1893.\n\nLIGNIERES(Dr. D. De). Ne pas \u00eatre enterr\u00e9 vivant. Paris, 1893.\n\nTraitement physiologique de la mort apparente. Series of twenty-five\npapers in \u201cLa Tribune M\u00e9dicale,\u201d Paris, 1894, vol. xxvi., 2 ser.\n\nGILES (Alfred E). Funerals, suspended animation, premature burials,\nBoston, 1895.\n\n\nGAUBERT (B.), Avocat. Les chambres mortuaires d\u2019attente, devant\nl\u2019histoire, la legislation, la science, l\u2019hygi\u00e8ne et le culte des\nmorts. (Le p\u00e9ril des inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es en France.) With sixty\nfigures, maps or plans. Paris, 1895.\n\nHARTMANN (Franz). Buried alive: An examination into the occult causes\nof apparent death, trance, and catalepsy. Boston, U.S., 1895. Lond.,\n1896. Also, Lebendig begraben. Leipzig, 1896.\n\nWILDER (Alexander). The perils of premature burial. London, 1895.\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nFrench theses (at Paris, unless otherwise stated,) on apparent death,\nthe signs of death, danger of premature burial, etc.:--\n\n\n  JOUY (Montpellier), 1803.          D\u2019ALENCASTRE, 1832.\n  THOMASSIN (Strassbourg), 1805.     CHAMPNEUF, 1832.\n  LAURENT, 1805.                     BONIFACE, 1833.\n  PIERRET, 1807.                     LINARES, 1834.\n  VERNEY, 1811.                      MENESTREL, 1838.\n  FOUCHER, 1817.                     DE SILVEIRA PINTO, 1837.\n  GRESLON, 1819.                     CARRE, 1845.\n  FERRY, 1819.                       DOSAIS, 1858.\n  LEPAULMIER, 1819.                  GRESLON, 1858.\n  LEVY (Strassbourg), 1820.          PARROT, 1860.\n  AMAND D\u2019AMBRAINE, 1821.            LEGLUDIC, 1863.\n  POUIER, 1823.                      SCHNEIDER (Strassbourg), 1863.\n  WEST, 1827.                        ACOSTA, 1864.\n  PIERRET, 1827.                     EDMOND, 1871.\n  GLEIZAL, 1829.\n\n\nGraduation theses other than French, on the same theme:--\n\n  VAN GEEST (Lugd. Bat.), 1811.     BETTMAN (Munich), 1839.\n  DAVIES (Edin.), 1813.             SCHMIDT (N\u00fcrnberg), 1841.\n  GOURY (Leodii), 1828.             KLUGE (Leipzig), 1842.\n  TSCHERNER (Breslau), 1829.        WENDLER (Leipzig), 1845.\n  SOMMER (Havniae), 1833.           KRIBBEN (Bonn), 1873.\n  NYMAN (Dorpat), 1835.             SORGENFREY (Dorpat), 1876.\n\n\n_FRENCH ARTICLES IN JOURNALS._\n\n\nABADIE (C.). Note sur l\u2019examen ophthalmoscopique du fond de l\u2019oeil\ncomme signe de la mort r\u00e9elle. Gaz. d\u2019H\u00f4p., vol. xlvii, p. 290. Par.,\n1874.\n\nBOUCHUT (E.). Mort apparente durant six heures, avec absence des\nbattements du coeur \u00e0 l\u2019auscultation. Gaz. d\u2019H\u00f4p., vol. xxvii., p. 223.\nPar., 1854.\n\nBOURGEOIS (R.). Du danger d\u2019\u00eatre enterr\u00e9 vivant et des moyens de\nconstater la mort. Bull. Acad. de M\u00e9d., vol. ii., pp. 619-626. Paris,\n1837-38, and Rev. M\u00e9d. Fran\u00e7. et \u00e9trang., vol. ii., pp. 360-378. Paris,\n1838.\n\nBROWN-S\u00c9QUARD (----). \u201cExtraordinary prolongation of the principal acts\nof life after the cessation of respiration.\u201d Arch. de Physiol. Norm. et\nPath., vol. vi., 2 S., pp. 83-88. Par., 1879.\n\n----\u201cResearches on the possibility of recalling temporarily to life\npersons dying of sickness.\u201d J. de la Physiol. de l\u2019Homme, vol. i., pp.\n666-672. Par., 1858.\n\nCAZIN (----). De la n\u00e9cessit\u00e9 de faire constater tous les genres de\nmort. Pr\u00e9cis d\u2019Trav. Soc. M\u00e9d. de Boulogne-sur-mer, vol. i., pp. 27-33.\n1839.\n\nCHAUSSIER (----). Rapport sur les enterremens pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9s. Bull. Fac. de\nM\u00e9d. de Par., vol. v., pp. 467-476. 1816-17.\n\nDESCHAMPS (M.-H.). M\u00e9moire sur,la v\u00e9rification des d\u00e9c\u00e8s et sur le\ndanger des d\u00e9clarations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Union Med., vol. xxi., N.S., pp.\n56, 106. Par., 1864.\n\nDEVERGIE (----). Inhumations pr\u00e9cipit\u00e9es. Ann. d\u2019Hyg., 2 S., vol.\nxxvii., pp. 293-327. Paris, 1867. De la cr\u00e9ation de maisons mortuaires\net de la valeur des signes de la mort. Ann. d\u2019Hyg., vol. xxxiv., 2 S.,\npp. 310-327. Par., 1870.\n\n---- Des signes de la mort; \u00e9tude de leur cause, appr\u00e9ciation de leur\nvaleur. Ann. d\u2019Hyg., vol. xli., 2 S., pp. 380-405. Par., 1874.\n\nFODERE (----). Signes de la mort. Dict. de Sc. Med., vol. li., pp.\n294-306. Paris, 1821.\n\nFOUANES (----). Sur la rigidit\u00e9 cadav\u00e9rique comme signe certain de la\nmort. Gaz. Med. de Par., vol i., 3 S., p. 91. 1846.\n\n\nFOUQUET (----). M\u00e9moire sur la roideur cadav\u00e9rique consider\u00e9e comme\nsigne certain de la mort. Gaz. Med. de Par., vol. ii., 3 S., pp.\n250-255. 1847.\n\nFOURNIE (----). Les signes de la mort et le prix d\u2019Ourches. (Also\ntranslated into Italian.) Gaz. d\u2019H\u00f4p., vol. xlvii., pp. 273-275. Par.,\n1874.\n\nGIRBAL (----). Mort apparente: mesures pr\u00e9matur\u00e9s d\u2019inhumation:\ntopiques stimulants, prompte cessation des ph\u00e9nomenes l\u00e9thiformes,\ngu\u00e9rison. Revue de Th\u00e9rap. du midi, vol. ii., pp. 161-167. Montpellier,\n1851. Also, Gaz. d\u2019H\u00f4p., vol. iii., 3 S., p. 142. Par., 1851.\n\nGRETSCHER DE WANDELBURG. (For Marquis d\u2019Ourches\u2019s prize.) Des moyens de\ndistinguer la mort r\u00e9elle de la mort apparente. In his M\u00e9m. de M\u00e9d. et\nChir., pp. 49-54. 8vo. Par., 1881.\n\nHAMON (L.). Simple note sur la mort apparente; acupuncture cardiaque et\ndiaphragmatique. Rev. de Th\u00e9rap Med. Chir., vol. xlvii., p. 482. Par.,\n1880.\n\nHENROT (H.). Persistance des battements du c\u0153ur pendant plus d\u2019une\nheure apr\u00e8s la cessation de la respiration. Bull. Soc. M\u00e9d. de Reims.,\nNo. 15, pp. 139-144. 1876-77.\n\nLABORDE (J. V.). Gaz. hebd. de. M\u00e9d., vol. viii., 2 S., pp. 605, 623,\n710. Par., 1871.\n\nLARCHER (----). Arch. g\u00e9n. de M\u00e9d., vol. i., pp. 685-709. Par., 1862.\n\nLEGRAND (A.). Rev. M\u00e9d. Fran\u00e7. et \u00e9trang., vol. i., pp. 705-714. Par.,\n1850.\n\nLEVASSEUR (P.) et MARTINS (S.). France M\u00e9d., vol. xiv., pp. 169, 177,\n204, 226, 228. Par., 1867.\n\nMALHOL (J.). Journ. G\u00e9n. de M\u00e9d. Chir. et Pharm., vol. xxii., p. 470.\nPar., 1805.\n\nMICHEL (A.). Bull. g\u00e9n. de Therap., etc., vol. xxxvii., pp. 462-464.\nPar., 1849.\n\nMONFALCON (J. B.). Art. \u201cMort,\u201d Dict. de Sc. M\u00e9d., vol. xxxiv., pp.\n319-347. Par., 1819.\n\nNICATI (W.). Un signe de mort certaine, emprunti \u00e0\nl\u2019ophthalmotonom\u00e9trie; lois de la tension oculaire. Compt. Rend. Acad.\nde Sc. cxviii., p. 206. Paris, 1896.\n\n\nPAPILLON (F.). Rev. des Deux Mondes, vol. civ., pp. 669-688. Par., 1873.\n\nPINGAULT (----). Bull. Soc. de M\u00e9d. de Poitiers, vol. xxviii., pp.\n83-86. 1860.\n\nPLOUVIEZ (----). Union M\u00e9d. Paris, vol. i., pp. 408-424. 1870.\n\nReport to French Academy of Sciences on apparent deaths, etc., by\nRayer. Compt. Rend. Acad. de Sc. (S\u00e9ance, May 29, 1848.) Also in Ann.\nd\u2019Hyg., vol. xl., pp. 78-110. Par., 1848; and in Ann. de M\u00e9d. Belge.,\nvol. lv., pp. 1-24. Brux., 1848; and in Bull. Soc. de M\u00e9d. de Poitiers,\nvol. xv., pp. 39-53, 1849.\n\nSIMON (A.). Bull. g\u00e9n. de Therap., etc., vol. xxxvii., pp. 221-226.\nPar., 1849.\n\nSIMONOT (----). Union M\u00e9d. de Par., vol. xii., 2 S., pp. 211, 286, 1862.\n\nTOURDES (G.). Art. \u201cMort: la mort apparente,\u201d in Dict. Encycl. d. Sc.\nM\u00e9d., vol. ix., 2 S., pp. 598-690. Par., 1875.\n\nTOURNIE (----). Union M\u00e9d., vol. viii., p. 235. Par., 1854.\n\nVAN GHEEL (----). Gaz. d\u2019H\u00f4p., vol. xliv., pp. 345, 353. Par., 1871.\n\nVAN HENGEL (J.). Journ. de M\u00e9d. Chir. et Pharm. Col., vol. vi., pp.\n523-525. Brux., 1848.\n\n\n_GERMAN ARTICLES._ (_The Titles Translated._)\n\n\nALKEN (----). Restoration to life of one apparently dead. Wochenschr.\nf. d. ges. Heilk., p. 319. Berlin, 1838.\n\nARNOLD (J. W.). On acupuncture of the heart as a means of recovery in\napparent death. Heidlb. klin. Ann., vol. vii., p. 311. 1831.\n\nBALDINGER (E. G.). Literary contribution to the history of being buried\nalive. N. Magaz. f. Aerzte., vol. xiv., p. 84. Leipzig, 1792.\n\nBETZ (F.). Sudden apparent death in a child with vomiting and purging.\nMemorab., vol. v., p. 119. Heilbrn., 1860.\n\nDEUBEL (----). New and simple means for the recovery of the apparently\ndead. Wochenschr. f. d. ges. Heilk., p. 597. Berlin, 1846.\n\nDIRUF (----). On the dread of being buried alive, etc. Ztschr. f. d.\nStaatsarznk., extra part, p. 72. Erlang., 1840.\n\n\nDYES (A.). Apparent death caused by inflammation of the lungs. Deutsche\nKlinik, vol. xxiii., p. 44. Berl., 1871.\n\nHANDSCHUH (----). A few remarks on mortuaries as a means of preventing\nthe burial of the apparently dead. Ztschr. f. d. Staatsarznk., vol.\nxxi., p. 34. Erlang., 1831.\n\nHECHT (S. C.). Reflections and proposals concerning the\nimpracticability of the existing regulations to prevent the burial of\nthe apparently dead. Ann. d. Staatsarznk., vol. v., p. 395. Freib.,\n1840.\n\nHOFFMANN (----). Simple means of preventing the being buried alive.\nAllg. Med. Centr. Ztg., vol. xvi., p. 609. Berl., 1847.\n\nHOPPE (J.). Recovery of one apparently dead and of one dying, by\nburning on the breast. Memorabilien, vol. vi., p. 199. Heilbrn., 1861.\n\nHUBER (M.). On inspection of the dead. Ztschr. d. Gesellsch d. Aerzte\nzu Wien, vol. ii., p. 120. 1853.\n\nHUFELAND (----). Report on the certain and uncertain signs of death,\non the indications of returning vitality, and how one should deal with\ncorpses in general. Weimar ordinance, 1794. Beytr. z. Arch. d. Med.\npol., vol. vii., 1 S., p. 61. Leipzig, 1797.\n\nKAISER (K. L.). What means has the State to take so as to ensure that\nno one be buried alive? Ztschr. f. d. Staatsarznk., fourteenth extra\nnumber, p. 100. Erlang., 1831.\n\nKLEIN (F. X.). Metallic irritation as a means of proving death. Extract\nfrom Dissertation in Beytr. z. Arch. d. Med. pol., vol. vi., 1 S., p.\n118. Leipzig, 1795.\n\nKLOSE (C. L.). On the risk of being buried alive: several precautions\nagainst it. Ztschr. f. d. Staatsarznk., vol. xix., p. 143. Erlang.,\n1830.\n\nKUNDE (F. T.). Physiological observations on apparent death. Arch, f.\nAnat. Physiol, u. wissenssch. Med., p. 280. Berlin, 1857.\n\nMAGNUS (H.). Certificates of death and sanitary reports. Wochenschr. f.\nd. ges. Hlkde., p. 385. Berlin, 1841.\n\n---- A certain sign that death has taken place. Virchow\u2019s Archiv., vol.\nlv., pp. 511, 523. 1872.\n\nMASCHKA (J.). On symptoms of the corpse. Vrtljschr. f. d. prakt.\nHeilk., vol. iii., p. 91. Prag., 1851.\n\n\nMASCHKA (J.). On diagnostic errors in medical jurisprudence. Vrtljschr.\nf. d. prakt. Heilk., vol. lxxix., p. 13. Prag., 1863.\n\nMEYN (----). Fortunate resuscitation of an apparently dead woman.\nMitth. a. d. Geb. d. Med. vi., Hft. 6-7, p. 76. Altona, 1838-9.\n\nMOSSE (----). Certificates of death and sanitary reports. Wochenschr.\nf. d. ges. Heilk., p. 696. Berlin, 1842.\n\nNASSE (F.). Measuring the temperature for the diagnosis of death. J. d.\npract. Heilk., vol. xciii., 4 St., p. 130. Berl., 1841.\n\n---- Discrimination of apparent death from real death, to reassure as\nto the danger of being buried alive. Rev. of his essay (Bonn, 1841) in\nMitth. a. d. Geb. d. Med., vol. ix., p. 11. Altona, 1841-43.\n\nOrdinance of the Elector of Saxony concerning the treatment of corpses,\nand to provide against the premature interment of the apparent dead.\nMed. Chir. Ztg., vol. ii., p. 150. Salzburg, 1793.\n\nPLAGGE (T.). Is the failure of the heart-beat a certain sign of death?\nMemorabilien, vol. v., p. 71. Heilbrn., 1860.\n\nRADIUS (----). The awakening apparatus in the Leipzig Mortuary. Beitr.\nz. Prakt. Heilk., vol. i., p. 532. Leipzig, 1834.\n\nRAMPOLD (----). On the inaudibility of the heart-beat as a sign of\ndeath. Cor. Bl. d. W\u00fcrttemb. \u00e4rztl. Vereins, vol. xxi., p. 353.\nStuttg., 1851.\n\nR\u00d6SER (----). On being buried alive, and the mortuaries. Cor. Bl. d.\nW\u00fcrttemb. \u00e4rztl. Vereins, vol. xxvii., p. 115. Stuttg., 1857.\n\nROSENTHAL (M.) Researches and observations on the dying of the muscles,\nand on apparent death. Wien. med. Presse, vol. xiii., pp. 401, 419.\n1872.\n\n---- On the newest and safest means of knowing apparent death. Wien.\nmed. Presse, vol. xvii., p. 461. 1876.\n\nSCHMIDT (J. H.). On mortuaries, with a case of apparent death that did\nnot end in death till twenty days after. Wochenschr. f. d. ges. Heilk.,\nvol. i., p. 385. Berl., 1833.\n\nSCHNEIDER (----). On the risk of being buried alive. Ztschr. f. d.\nStaatsarznk., vol. xxxiv., p. 157. Erlang., 1837.\n\nSICKLER (J. V.). Directions for preventing the burying of each other\nalive. Beytr. z. Arch. d. Med., 2 Samml., vol. iv., p. 158. Leipzig,\n1793.\n\n\nSPEYER (----). On the possibility of being buried alive, and on the\nerection of mortuaries. Ztschr. f. d. Staatsarznk., fifth extra part,\np. 326. Erlang., 1826.\n\nSTRUVE (----). Simplified application of galvanism, etc., in cramps and\nin apparent death, and for proving actual death. J. d. Prakt. Arznk., 2\nR., vol. xxiii., 4 St., p. 5. Berl., 1806.\n\nTENGLER (G.). Critical remarks-on the signs of death, with reference to\nthe inspection of the dead. Wien. med. Wochenschr., vol. vii., p. 519.\n1857.\n\nTHIERFELDER (----), sen. On apparent death and medical inspection\nof the dead. Deutsche Ztschr. f. d. Staatsarznk., vol. xxv. p. 241.\nErlang., 1867.\n\nVARGES (L.). On the awaking of one apparently dead. Ztschr. d. nordd.\nchir. Ver., vol. i., p. 353. Magdeb., 1847.\n\nVON J\u00c4GER (----). Account of an alleged coming to life in the grave.\nZtschr. f. d. Staatsarznk, vol. vi., pp. 241-252. Erlang., 1823.\n\nWILDBERG (C. F. L.). State precautions to obviate all anxiety as to\nbeing buried alive. Jahrb. d. ges. Staatsarznk, vol. iv., p. 169.\nLeipzig, 1838.\n\nZAUBZER (O.). Fragments on thanatology, for the police of the dead in\nMunich. Aerztl. Intellig. Bl., vol. xx., p. 106. M\u00fcnchen, 1874.\n\n\n_ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ARTICLES._\n\n\nALDIS (C. J. B.). On the danger of tying up the lower jaw immediately\nafter supposed death. Lancet, vol. ii., 1850, p. 601.\n\nANON. Cases of apparent death. Calcutta J. M., vol. ii., pp. 380-387.\n1869. From All the Year Round, July, 1869.\n\nANON. Signs of death. London M. Rec., vol. ii., pp. 205, 221. 1874.\n\nBOURKE (M. W.). Resuscitation of a child after ten minutes\u2019 total\nsubmersion in water, etc. Dublin M. Press, vol. xliii., p. 103. 1859.\n\nBRANDON (R.) Construction of houses for the reception of the dead;\nmeans for the recovery of those, etc. Med. Times, vol. xvi., p. 574.\nLond., 1847.\n\n\nCLARK (T. E.). Buried alive. Quart. Journ. Psych. Med., vol. v., pp.\n87-93. N.Y., 1871.\n\nCOLDSTREAM (John). A case of catalepsy. Edin. Med. and Surg. Journ.,\nvol. lxxxi., p. 477.\n\nDANA (C. L.). The physiology of the phenomena of trance. Med. Rec.,\nvol. xx., pp. 85-89. N.Y., 1881.\n\nDAVIS (M.). Hasty burials. Sanit. Rec., vol. iv., p. 261. Lond., 1876.\n\nDENMAN (J.). Resuscitation after two hours\u2019 apparent death (drowning).\nMed. Press, and Circ., vol. iii., p. 95. Dublin, 1867.\n\nDOUGLAS (H. G.). Recovery after fourteen minutes\u2019 submersion. Lond.\nMed. Gaz., vol. i., p. 448. 1842.\n\nDUCACHET (H. W.). On the signs of death, and the manner for\ndistinguishing real from apparent death. Am. M. Recorder, vol. v., pp.\n39-53. Phila., 1822.\n\nFRASER (W.). Distinctions between real and apparent death. Pop. Sci.\nMonth., vol. xviii., pp., 401-408. New York, 1880-81.\n\nGAIRDNER (W. T.). Case of lethargic stupor or trance, extending\ncontinuously over more than twenty-three weeks, etc. Lancet, vol. ii.,\n1883, p. 1078, and vol. i., 1884, pp. 5, 56.\n\nGOADBY (H.). Death trance. Med. Indep., vol. i., pp. 90-99. Detroit,\n1856.\n\nGODFREY (E. L. B.). Report of the resuscitation of a young girl\napparently dead from drowning. Phila. M. Times, vol. ix., p. 375. 1879.\n\nHUFFY (T. S.). Two cases of apparent death. Tr. M. Soc., N. Car., vol.\nxxi., pp. 126-131. Raleigh, 1874.\n\nJAMIESON (W. A.). On a case of trance. Edin. Med. J., vol. xvii., pp.\n29-31. 1871-72.\n\nLEE (W.). The extreme rarity of premature burial. Pop. Sc. Month., vol.\nxvii., p. 526. N.Y., 1880.\n\nMACKAY (G. E.). Premature burials. _Ibid._, vol. xvi., p. 389.\n\nMADDEN (T. Moore). On lethargy or trance. Dubl. J. Med. Sc., vol.\nlxxi., p. 297. 1881.\n\nMILLER (T. C.). The state of the eyelids after death--open or shut?\nMed. Rec., vol. xii., p. 4. N. Y., 1877.\n\n\nOSBORNE (W. G.). Impositions of the Indian faqueer, who professed to be\nburied alive and resuscitated in ten months. Lancet, vol. i., 1839-40,\np. 885.\n\n\nPOPE (C.). A case of recovery after long immersion. Lancet, vol. ii.,\n1881, p. 606.\n\nPOVALL (R.). An account of successful resuscitation of three persons\nfrom suspended animation by submersion for twenty-five minutes. West\nMed. and Phys. J., vol. ii., pp. 499-503. Cincin., 1828-29.\n\nREID (T. J.). A case of suspended animation. St. Louis Clin. Rec., vol.\nvi., pp. 261-263. 1879-80.\n\nReport of Committee on suspended animation. Proc. Roy. M. and Chir.\nSoc. Lond., vol. iv. (1862), pp. 142-147; vol. vi. (1870), p. 299. See\nalso Transactions, vol. xlv. (1862), p. 449.\n\nRICHARDSON (B. W.). Researches on treatment of suspended animation.\nBrit. and For. M. Chir. Rev., vol. xxxi., pp. 478-505. London, 1863.\n\nRICHARDSON (B. W.). The absolute signs and proofs of death. Asclepiad,\nNo. 21. 1889.\n\nROMERO (Francisco). Infallible sign of extinction of vitality in sudden\ndeath. (Latin.) Med. Tr. Roy. Coll. Phys., vol. v., pp. 478-485.\nLondon, 1815.\n\nSHROCK (N. M.). On the signs that distinguish real from apparent death.\nTransylv. J. M., vol. viii., pp. 210-220. Lexington, Ky., 1835.\n\nSILVESTER (H. R.). A new method of resuscitating still-born children,\nand of restoring persons apparently drowned or dead. Brit. M. J., pp.\n576-579. London, 1858.\n\nTWEDELL (H. M.). Account of a man who submitted to be buried alive\nfor a month at Jaisulmer, and was dug out alive at the expiration of\nthat period. India J. M. and Phys. Sc., vol. i., N. S., pp. 389-391.\nCalcutta, 1836.\n\nTHOMAS (R. R. G.). The Marshall Hall method successful in a case of\ndrowning of ten minutes\u2019 duration, and an interval of half an hour\nbefore its application. Lancet, vol. ii., 1857, p. 153.\n\nTAYLOR (J.). Case of recovery from hanging. Glasg. Med. J., vol. xiv.,\np. 387. 1880.\n\nWHITE (W. H.). A case of trance. Brit. M. J., vol. ii., 1884, page 52.\n\n\n_SPANISH ARTICLES._\n\n\nALCANTARA (F. C.). Encicl. M\u00e9d. Farm., vol. ii., pp. 265, 273, 275,\n289, 297. Barcelona, 1878.\n\nDEL VALLE (G.). An. r. Acad. de Cien. M\u00e9d. de la Habana, vol. viii.,\npp. 480-489. 1871-72.\n\nGELABERT (E.). A case of premature interment. Rev. de Cien. M\u00e9d., vol.\nvii., pp. 67-69. Barcel., 1881.\n\nGUEREJAZE (----). Espa\u00f1a Med., vol. x., p. 111. Madrid, 1865.\n\nPULIDO (----). Anfiteatro Anat., vol. iv., pp. 164, 181. Madrid, 1876.\n\nRAMON VIZCARRO. Siglo M\u00e9d., vol. xxvi., p. 777. Madrid, 1879.\n\n---- Sentido Cat\u00f3l., vol. i., p. 284. Barcel., 1879.\n\nULLOA (----). Entierros prematuros. Gac. M\u00e9d. de Lima, vol. xii., p.\n219. 1867-8.\n\n\n_ITALIAN ARTICLES._\n\n\nBIANCO (G.). Report and discussion upon his work, \u201cDangers of Apparent\nDeath\u201d (Torino, 1868). Gior. d. r. Acad, di Med. di Torino., vol. vii.,\n3 S., pp. 243, 304, 366, 370. 1869.\n\nCHIAPPELLI (G.). Sperimentale, vol. xliii., pp. 74-77. Firenze, 1879.\nAlso in Gaz. Med. Ital. Prov. Venete, vol. xxii., p. 94. Padova, 1879.\n\nIMPARATI (M.). Guglielmo da Saliceto, vol. ii., pp. 293, 325, 357.\nPiacenza, 1880-81.\n\nPACINI (F.). Imparziale, vol. xvii., pp. 41, 75. Firenze, 1877.\n\nPARI (A. D.). Arch. di Med. Chir. ed ig. Roma, vol. ix., p. 5-35. 1873.\n\nSONSINO (P.). Imparziale, vol. vii., pp. 225-231. Firenze, 1867.\n\nTAMASSIA (A.) and SCHLEMMER (A.). Riv. sper. di Freniat., vol. ii., pp.\n628-639. Reggio-Emilia, 1876.\n\nVERGA (A.) and BIFFI (S.). Gaz. Med. Ital. Lomb., vol. iii., 8 S., pp.\n92-94. Milano, 1881.\n\nZILIOTTO (P.). Gior. Venete di Sc. Med., vol. i., 3 S., pp. 323-336.\nVenezia, 1864.\n\nZURADELLI (G.). Ann. univ. di Med., vol. vii., pp. 3-241. Milano,\n1869.\n\n\nINDEX.\n\n\n  ALDIS, Dr. C. J. B., letter on tying up the chin after death, 343.\n\n  _All the Year Round_, paper cited from, on apparent death and means\n      of recovery, 268-273.\n\n  Andersen, Hans Christian, his dread of being buried alive, 154.\n\n  Angell, Mr. George T., 259.\n\n  Animation, suspended, in a case of small-pox, 99.\n    (See \u201cTrance.\u201d)\n\n  Apathy, public, concerning live burial, 39.\n\n  Apoplexy, certified, in cases of apparent death, 83;\n    L\u00e9normand on, as cause of apparent death, 175.\n\n  Asclepiades recovers a corpse from the bier, 325.\n\n  Auscultation, fallacies of, in diagnosis of death, 261.\n\n  Austria, laws of, for inspection of dead, 355.\n\n  Awaking in coffin, inference as to, at Les Innocens, Paris, 51;\n    at Fort Randall, U.S.A., 351;\n    case of at Tonneins, 52;\n    at Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn, 53;\n    at Rudenberg, 53;\n    at Montflorin, 54;\n    at Bohaste, 54;\n    at Salon (Bouches du Rh\u00f4ne), 55;\n    at Naples, 55;\n    at Grenoble, 56;\n    at New York (two cases), 56, 57;\n    at Derbisch, Bohemia, 58;\n    at Majola, Mantua, 58;\n    at Cesa, Naples, 58;\n    at Erie, Pa., 59;\n    at Tioobayn, St. Petersburg, 59;\n    at Le Pin, Grenoble, 60;\n    in Madras, 60;\n    at Calcutta, 61, 62;\n    K\u00f6ppen\u2019s cases of, 212-214;\n    case of, in Franciscan monk, 211;\n    at Bordeaux, 224;\n    old cases at Cologne, 326, 327;\n    at Dijon, 327;\n    at Vesoul, 328;\n    of a cardinal at Rome, 329;\n    of case related by Elliotson, 334;\n    of Robert Scott, 336;\n    of Rev. John Gardner, 337;\n    of case related by Dr. Herz, 337;\n    of Mrs. Goodman, 339;\n    of cases related by K\u00f6ppen, 340;\n    cases related by _British Medical Journal_, 342, 343.\n\n\n  BARNETT, Dr. J. M., publishes letter on the blister test, 260.\n\n  Bavaria, official regulations of, for preventing premature burial,\n      204;\n    police instructions of, for corpse inspection, 206.\n\n  Berkeley, Bishop, his dread of being buried alive, 154.\n\n  Beugless, Mr. J. D., on the dread of premature interment, 156.\n\n  Bibliography, seventeenth century, 363;\n    eighteenth century, 364-367;\n    relating to humane societies, 367;\n    nineteenth century, 369;\n    theses, 378;\n    French articles, 379;\n    German articles, 381;\n    English and American articles, 384;\n    Spanish articles, 387;\n    Italian articles, 387.\n\n  Billimoria, Mr. N. F., writes to the author on premature burning in\n      India, 134;\n    relates cases of Parsees recovered from apparent death, 139;\n    on advantages of the Parsee customs in assuring revival, 141.\n\n  Bishop, Mrs. Eleanor F., her escape from premature embalming, 231.\n\n  Blau, M., certifies an escape from live burial at Toulouse, 145.\n\n  Blavatsky, Madam, the late, had an escape from live burial, 104.\n\n  Blunden, Madam, her burial alive at Basingstoke, 51.\n\n  Bombay, customs in disposal of dead, 357.\n\n  Bonawitz, Mr. J. H., relates two experiences of escape, 279.\n\n  Bordeaux, corpses shown in cathedral of, which had moved in the\n      coffin, 224.\n\n  Bouchut, Dr. E., his book gives sensational cases, 20;\n    relates case rescued alive from coffin, 122.\n\n  Braid, Mr. James, narrates case of catalepsy, 37;\n    on animal hibernation, 41;\n    on trance in fakirs, 46;\n    on Sir Claude Wade\u2019s testimony, 47;\n    cases of trance with sense of hearing good, 334.\n\n  Brandon, Mr. R., his paper on mortuaries for recovery cited, 289.\n\n  _British Medical Journal_, on signs of death, 198;\n    case of difficulty in diagnosing real death, 199;\n    hardly any one sign but putrefaction infallible, 200;\n    records two cases of revivals in the coffin, 342, 343.\n\n  Brewer, Dr., relates cases of narrow escape, 75.\n\n  Broadwey, Dorset, catalepsy in a bride at, 38.\n\n  Brouardel, Dr. P., experiment on live dog in coffin, 211.\n\n  Brown-S\u00e9quard, Dr., on fallacy of clenched jaws as sign of death, 187.\n\n  Bruhier, Dr., relates case of premature dissection, 233.\n\n  Brussels, regulations for verification of death, 248;\n    burial regulations and mortuaries of, 358.\n\n  Buffon, Comte de, on the treatment of the dead, 215.\n\n  Bukovina, case of resuscitation in, 176.\n\n  Burial, ancient practices of, 331-333.\n\n  Burial, hasty, case of, at Roscrea, 350.\n\n  Burial, live, experiment on, at Westminster Aquarium, 48.\n\n  Burial, premature, a class of probable cases of, 113-119;\n    G. A. Walker on risks of, 215;\n    Fletcher on risks of, 217;\n    number of cases of, 220-228;\n    frequency of estimated, 220-228;\n    Hufeland on risks of, 221.\n\n  Buried alive, cases of. (See under \u201cAwaking.\u201d)\n\n  Burning Ghat, the, of Calcutta, visited by the author, 129.\n\n  Burton, Lady, provisions of her will against risk of live burial, 154.\n\n\n  CADAVERIC, the, countenance as sign of death, 187.\n\n  Calcutta, the Burning Ghat, visited by the author, 129;\n    burial customs at, 357.\n\n  Cameron, Sir C., M.D., of Dublin, mortuary needed, 303.\n\n  Cameron, Sir C., M.P., on worthless or wanting death-certificates,\n      243.\n\n  Cape Town, want of mortuary regulations at, 357.\n\n  Carnot, M., petitions French Senate on premature burial, 74;\n    his statistics of live burial, 223.\n\n  Carpmael, Mr. E. E., hypodermic strychnine as a reviver, 265.\n\n  _Casket, The_, on testimony of opened graves, 351;\n    on hasty embalming, 351.\n\n  _Cassell\u2019s Family Physician_, account of catalepsy from, 33.\n\n  Catalepsy, definition and symptoms of, 32-34;\n    cases of, by Good, 34;\n    Jebb, 35;\n    Dr. King Chambers, 35;\n    Paris correspondent of _Lancet_, 37;\n    Braid, 37;\n    at Broadwey in 1895, 38;\n    Gowers on predisposition to, 120;\n    case of revival on eve of burial, 122;\n    Dr. Milner on, 186.\n\n  Cavendish, Miss Ada, provision in her will against risk of live\n      burial, 154.\n\n  Certificates of death, laxity of, 11, 241;\n    prematurely given, 242;\n    worthless or wanting, 243;\n    directions for filling up, 242;\n    in France, 246-248;\n    in Brussels, 248;\n    in W\u00fcrtemburg, 249;\n    in Dover, New Hampshire, 252;\n    Mr. A. Braxton Hicks on, 253;\n    Mr. Brindley James on, 254;\n    _Daily Chronicle_ on, 255;\n    a German resident on the W\u00fcrtemburg practice in, 255.\n\n  Ceylon, risks of premature disposal of dead in, 132, 133.\n\n  Chambers, Dr. T. King, relates and cites cases of catalepsy, 35.\n\n  Chantourelle, Dr., raises debate on premature burial at Paris Academy\n      of Medicine, 51.\n\n  Chew, Dr. Roger S., relates cases of live burial, 60-63;\n    his own case of escape from same, 89;\n    other cases of escape from same, 90-94;\n    case of chloroformed girl buried as dead, 125;\n    on cholera collapse mistaken for death, 126;\n    on safety of soldiers in India from live burial, 136;\n    on putrefactive test, 183;\n    on _rigor mortis_, 185;\n    on frequency of live burial, 227;\n    on auscultation sounds after death, 261.\n\n  Chippendale, Mr. J., on _post-mortem_ sweating, 29.\n\n  Chloral, supposed death from, 192.\n\n  Chloroform, effects of simulating death, 125.\n\n  Cholera, special risk of live burial in cases of, 92, 95, 101, 126,\n      149.\n\n  Chri, Mr. Vira Raghava, describes disposal of dead at Madras, 131.\n\n  Chunder Sen, Mr., relates case of trance in a fakir, 44.\n\n  Coffin, sounds from the, 106, 107.\n\n  Colerus, on apparent death, 330.\n\n  Collins, Dr. W. J., advises the providing of mortuaries, 309.\n\n  Cologne, old instances of revival at, 326, 327.\n\n  Colombo, a Catholic priest of, subject to death-trances, 130.\n\n  Conclamation, practice of, by the Caribs, 331;\n    in antiquity, 331, 332;\n    in Russia, 332;\n    in the case of the Widow of Nain\u2019s son, 332.\n\n  Conclusions, summary of, 321.\n\n  Constantinople, risks of live burial at, 147.\n\n  Cooper, Mr. M., surgeon, on apparent deaths, 17;\n    relates case of Madam Blunden, 51;\n    case at Toulouse of escape from live burial, 145;\n    condemns hasty burial, 171.\n\n  Cork, case of revival from apparent death in a child at, 318.\n\n  Creighton, Dr. C., his History of Epidemics cited, 282.\n\n  Cremation, at Calcutta, 129;\n    among Brahmins at Madras, 131;\n    at Benares, 131;\n    as a preventive of premature burial, 274-278;\n    approved on general grounds, 282.\n\n  Crowe, Mrs., cases related by, 336.\n\n  Curran, Dr. W., brigade-surgeon, his papers in _Health_ on Burial\n      Alive, 103;\n    relates case of premature dissection, 236.\n\n  Curry, Dr. James, women predisposed to death-counterfeits, 121;\n    on slow ebbing of life, 174;\n    on exciting the skin as a test, 258;\n    cases cited from, 334.\n\n  Cyclop\u00e6dia of Practical Medicine, on premature dissections, 233;\n    relates remarkable case of revival after apparent death, 340.\n\n\n  _Daily Chronicle_, on lax death-certification, 255.\n\n  Dalmatia, ordinances of, for inspection of dead, 356.\n\n  Davies, Major-General T., his account of hibernating jerboa, 40.\n\n  Dead, the, treatment of, 215;\n    Buffon on same, 215;\n    G. A. Walker on, 215;\n    Fletcher on, in United States, 217;\n    Whiter on, 218;\n    as a department of medical practice, 218.\n\n  Death-certification, Select Committee on, purport of its evidence, 11;\n    advises authorisations to embalm, 232;\n    evidence before, 238;\n    recommendations of, 239;\n    support of same at medical meeting, 239;\n    questions by as to premature burial, 244.\n    (See under \u201cCertificates.\u201d)\n\n  Death, counterfeits of, 27;\n    their duration, 208-214;\n    Josat\u2019s table of same, 209;\n    K\u00f6ppen\u2019s illustrations of same, 212.\n\n  Death, signs of, popular, 180;\n    scientific, 181-207.\n    (See also under \u201cTests of Death.\u201d)\n\n  Death, sudden, the only real cases of, 159;\n    Farr on definition of, 160;\n    Granville on same, 160;\n    Tidy on causes of, 161;\n    Wilder on same, 163;\n    recent instances of, from newspapers, 164-170;\n    from heart-disease, 176;\n    _Manchester Criterion_ on revivals from, 178;\n    Dr. Wilder on risks of premature burial in, 178;\n    laws against early burial after, 179.\n\n  Death, uncertainty of, 43;\n    G. A. Walker on, 216;\n    _London Review_ on, 316.\n\n  Death, verification of, 246-256.\n\n  Denmark, burial and mortuary regulations of, 358.\n\n  Diaphanous test, the, failure of, 187;\n    Haward on, 188;\n    Gannal on, 191;\n    Orfila on, 191;\n    Richardson on, 192.\n\n  Dijon, case of awaking in the tomb at, 327.\n\n  Disraeli, Benjamin, endures a week\u2019s trance, 23.\n\n  Dissection, premature, probable case of, related by Ogston, 232;\n    Bruhier\u2019s case of, 233;\n    Louis\u2019 case of, 234;\n    Cyclop\u00e6dia of Pract. Med. on stories of, 234;\n    Le Guern\u2019s case of, 235;\n    Hartmann\u2019s case of, 235;\n    Curran\u2019s case of, 236;\n    case at Lille, 311;\n    by Vesalius, 329;\n    of a Spanish lady, 330.\n\n  Dog, the, his instinct for the presence of life in Parsee ceremonies,\n      137, 138;\n    in an Austrian case, 142;\n    in a Moravian case, 143.\n\n  Donnet, Cardinal Archbishop, relates to French Senate cases of narrow\n      escape from live burial, 71-74;\n    including his own case, 73.\n\n  Douce, Francis, the antiquary, his fear of being buried alive, 153.\n\n  Dover, New Hampshire, ordinances of, for verification of death, 252.\n\n  Drowned, recovery of the, 347;\n    cases of, by Struve, 347;\n    Londe\u2019s case of, 347;\n    Green\u2019s case of, 348;\n    recent cases of (Royal Humane Society), 349.\n\n  Dryden, Lady, her testamentary provisions, 334.\n\n  Duncan, Dr. Ebenezer, statistics of Glasgow burials, 284.\n\n  Duration of death-counterfeits, 208;\n    statistics of, 209;\n    experiments on, 210, 211;\n    in case of Franciscan monk, 211;\n    K\u00f6ppen\u2019s illustrations of, 212-214.\n\n\n  ELECTRICITY as a restorative agent, 262-265.\n\n  Elliotson, Dr., case related by, 334.\n\n  Embalming, makes death certain, 229;\n    cases of premature, 230, 231;\n    case of escape from same, 231;\n    authority of Home Secretary advised for, 232;\n    hasty, in the United States, 351.\n\n  Empedocles, his recovery of woman supposed dead, 330.\n\n  Escape from dissection at Lille, 311.\n\n  Escape from live burial, 64;\n    case of Sir W. Lindsay, 64;\n    case related by Vign\u00e9, 66;\n    case of professor\u2019s wife at T\u00fcbingen, 66;\n    case at Coventry in 1858, 67-70;\n    case at St. Agnan de Cenui\u00e8res, 71;\n    cases related by Cardinal Donnet, 71-74;\n    Dr. Brewer on, 75;\n    case at Cleveland, Ohio, 76;\n    two cases of, related by Dr. M. S. Tanner, 76;\n    case by Dr. W. O\u2019Neill, of Lincoln, 77;\n    case at Clinton, Ky., 78;\n    at Memphis, Tenn., 79;\n    at Burham, Rochester, 80;\n    at St. Leonards, 80;\n    case related by Dr. F. A. Floyer, 81;\n    at Penn Station, U.S., 83;\n    at Vagueray, Lyons, 83;\n    at Limoges, 84;\n    at St. Louis, 84;\n    at Lagos, 84;\n    at Militsch, Silesia, 85;\n    at Sprakers, Rondout, N.Y., 85;\n    at Heap Bridge, Heywood, 86;\n    in the daughter of a physician, 87;\n    in a case related to the author, 88;\n    Dr. R. S. Chew\u2019s personal experience of, 89;\n    in cases communicated by him, 90-96;\n    in the cases of two Irish persons of rank, 96;\n    in case related by Dr. Colin Valentine, 97;\n    in case related by Dr. A. Stephenson, 97;\n    in the case of the Metropolitan of <DW26>s, 98;\n    in cases of small-pox, 99;\n    in cases related by Rev. Harry Jones, 100;\n    in case at St. Paul\u2019s, Belchamp, near Clare, 101;\n    in case at Neufch\u00e2tel, 102;\n    in case at Alleghany, 103;\n    in the case of the late Madam Blavatsky, 104;\n    in a case at Toulouse, 145;\n    in a case in W\u00fcrtemburg, 251;\n    in case related by Graves, 254;\n    in two cases certified dead by several physicians, 277;\n    in case at Lille, 311;\n    in the Munich mortuary, 311;\n    in a mortuary at Berlin, 313;\n    in the Frankfort mortuary, 313;\n    in a Brussels mortuary, 314;\n    in a Cassel mortuary, 314;\n    in a Lille mortuary, 314;\n    in a Buffalo mortuary, 315;\n    in the Marylebone mortuary, 315.\n\n  Escapes from being cremated alive in India, 132-135.\n\n  Exhumation, law of, in England, 106;\n    cases of, too late for rescue, 106-110;\n    case of, in time to save life, 111.\n\n\n  FABRI, William, condemns hasty burial, 171.\n\n  Fagge, Dr. Hilton, on risk of live burial in cases of sudden death,\n      175;\n    on putrefaction as the only certain sign of death, 183.\n\n  Fakirs, cases of trance in, 44-48;\n    experiment with, related by Hartmann, 49.\n\n  Farquharson, Dr. R., M.P., on lax death-certification, 240;\n    examines a witness as to live burial, 245.\n\n  Farr, Dr. William, on definition of sudden death, 160.\n\n  Fear of premature burial, _Spectator_ on, 18, 153-158;\n    eminent subjects of, 153, 154;\n    Rev. John Kingston on prevalence of, 156.\n\n  Ferrier, Dr., on signs of death, 184.\n\n  _Figaro, Le_, correspondence in, on live burial, 228.\n\n  Fletcher, Dr. Moore Russell, on animal hibernation, 42;\n    relates cases of narrow escape, 76-88;\n    on negligent treatment of the dead, 217;\n    on restoratives, 265.\n\n  Floyer, Dr. F. A., relates case of narrow escape, 81.\n\n  Forestus on possibility of recovering supposed dead, 331.\n\n  Formalities, fatal consequences of, 105.\n\n  Foster, Sir Walter, M.D., examines a witness as to live burial, 245.\n\n  Fothergill, Dr. A., on cadaveric countenance, 187;\n    on the art of restoring animation, 320.\n\n  France, laws of, relating to burials, 354.\n\n  Frankfort, regulations for inspection of the dead, 353.\n\n  Froriep, M., cited as to ratio of revivals in grave, 222.\n\n\n  GAIRDNER, Dr. W. T., case of trance for twenty-three weeks, 23-27.\n\n  Gannal, Dr. F\u00e9lix, his valuable Bibliography, 3;\n    on putrefaction the only real test, 185;\n    on diaphanous test, 191;\n    on fallacious signs of death, 203.\n\n  Gaubert, M., his estimate of ratio of live burials, 226;\n    his essay proves that waiting mortuaries are useful, 309.\n\n  _Gazette Medicale_ on putrefactive test, 183.\n\n  _Gazette Medicale d\u2019 Orient_ asserts live burials at Constantinople,\n      147.\n\n  Germany, waiting mortuaries of, 11;\n    movement in, to prevent premature interment, 146.\n\n  Gibbons, Dr. P. J., on premature embalming, 231.\n\n  Glycas, Nicephorus, Metropolitan of <DW26>s, escapes live burial, 98.\n\n  Goa, resident of, prematurely coffined, 133.\n\n  Godfrey, Mrs., case of, 339.\n\n  Gooch, Dr., his case of catalepsy, 34.\n\n  Goodman, Mrs., celebrated case of, 339.\n\n  Gowers, Dr. W. R., on trance, 22;\n    on catalepsy, 32;\n    on predisposition to same, 120.\n\n  Granville, Dr. A. B., on sudden death, 160.\n\n  Graves, Dr. F., relates case of escape from live burial, 254.\n\n  Green, Anne, case of, at Oxford, 328.\n\n  Green, Dr. J. W., case of tardy recovery after immersion, 348.\n\n  Guern, M. le, his experience of frequency of live burial, 223;\n    relates case of premature dissection, 235.\n\n  Guy, Dr. W. A., on neglect of the subject in England, 10.\n\n\n  HANGED person, the heart beating at the dissection of a, 172;\n    recovery of a, 328.\n\n  Hanham, Mr. T. C. Swinburne, on safeguards used by Cremation Society,\n      281.\n\n  Hartmann, Dr. Franz, his essay published at Boston, U.S., 9;\n    distinguishes trance from catalepsy, 32;\n    relates two cases of rescue from live burial fatally delayed, 108;\n    case of catalepsy revived, 122;\n    case of Orrendo\u2019s body found beside the empty coffin, 122;\n    on predisposing causes of trance, 127;\n    relates case of resuscitation from spasms of the heart, 176;\n    on putrefaction the sole test of death, 194;\n    on frequency of live burial, 227;\n    case of premature dissection, 235;\n    two cases of escape from death after formal certification, 277;\n    on resuscitation, 320.\n\n  Haward, Dr. Edwin, case of failure of diaphanous test, 188.\n\n  Haweis, Rev. H. R., advocates cremation to prevent live burial, 278.\n\n  Hearing, sense of, in suspended animation, 335, 336, 337.\n\n  Heart, disease of, sudden apparent death in, 176.\n\n  Heart, stoppage of, as test of death, 181.\n\n  Hedley, Dr. W. S., on use of electricity as a restorative, 263.\n\n  Herachborg, Dr., relates case of a Jewess rescued from the\n      undertakers, 146, 362 (Hirschberg).\n\n  Heraclides of Pontus, on a disease marked by absence of breathing, 21.\n\n  Herz, Dr. Marcus, opposes hasty burial among the Jews, 146, 361.\n\n  Hibernation, instance of, in the jerboa, 40;\n    Braid on, in lower animals, 41;\n    Russell Fletcher on, in reptiles and fishes, 42.\n\n  Hibernation, so-called human, 43.\n\n  Hicks, Mr. A. Braxton, on lax certification of death, 253.\n\n  Hincks, Amelia, a case of narrow escape, 68-70.\n\n  Hindus, their motive for speedy disposal of dead, 132.\n\n  Historical cases, appendix of, 325.\n\n  Holmes, Mrs. Basil, on the extension of burial-grounds, 283.\n\n  Honigberger, Dr. J. M., his researches on trance in India, 50.\n\n  Hopps, Rev. J. Page, advocates cremation to prevent live burial, 281.\n\n  Hotels, hasty burials from, on the Continent, 152.\n\n  Howard, Col., of Co. Wicklow, his escape from live burial, 97.\n\n  Hufeland, Dr. C. W., on trance, 43;\n    narrates narrow escape from live burial, 66;\n    on risks and horrors of live burial, 221;\n    devised the Weimar mortuary, 286.\n\n  Humane Society, the Royal, cases from its reports, 337, 344, 345, 349;\n    literature relating to, 347, 367.\n\n  Hypodermic medicines, as restoratives or tests, 265.\n\n\n  INDIA, premature burial and cremation in, 129;\n    Mr. Billimoria on the risks of the same, 134;\n    soldiers in, not liable to risk of same, 136.\n\n  Infants, recovery of supposed dead, 342-345.\n\n  Influenza followed by trance, 30, 124.\n\n  Ireland, death-certification in, 241;\n    practice of burial in, 301, 359;\n    no mortuaries in, 302.\n\n  Irvine, Mr. Clarke, on popular trust in the signs of death, 203.\n\n\n  JACKSON, Dr., of Somerby, relates case of supposed death by\n      lightning-stroke, 192.\n\n  James, Mr. J. Brindley, on risks of live burial, 254.\n\n  Jaws, clenching of, as signs of death, 187.\n\n  Jebb, Dr. John, his graphic case of catalepsy, 35.\n\n  Jerboa, the, its hibernation, 40.\n\n  Jews, hasty burials among, opposed, 146;\n    cases of, restored to life by delay, 146, 147, 148;\n    their law of burial criticised, 150;\n    funeral practices of, 332;\n    history of their practice of early burial, 360;\n    discussions on same, 361.\n\n  _Jewish World_, on the special risk of live burial amongst Jews, 150.\n\n  Jeypore, fakir in a trance at, 44.\n\n  Johnson, Walter, exhibits himself in a trance, 48.\n\n  Jones, Rev. Harry, relates cases of escape from live burial, 100.\n\n  Josat, Dr., on absence of cardiac action at birth, 182;\n    statistics of duration of apparent death, 209;\n    on interval between apparent and real death, 310.\n\n  Joseph, Mr., on risks of premature burial or burning in Ceylon, 132.\n\n\n  KENNY, Dr. J. E., M.P., disposal of the dead in Ireland, 301.\n\n  Kerthomas, M. H. L., relates revival of corpse at Lille, 311.\n\n  Kesteven, Mr. W. B., on fallacy of cardiac test of death, 182.\n\n  Kite, Dr. Charles, on uncertain signs of death, 14.\n\n  K\u00f6ppen, H. F., case of rescue from grave fatally delayed, 106;\n    cases of long vitality in coffin or grave, 212-214;\n    cites estimate of ratio of live burials, 220.\n\n  Kuhn, Dr., reports on trance, 50.\n\n\n  LABORDETTE, Dr. A. de, on fallacy of clenched jaws as sign of death,\n      187.\n\n  Lagenberg, Van, Dr., information from, as to premature burials at\n      Colombo, 130.\n\n  _Lancet, The_, on the horror of live burial, 16;\n    on a case of revival from death-trance at Nuneaton, 67;\n    on cholera patients buried alive, 149;\n    on reality of premature interment, 155;\n    on diagnosis of apparent death, 196;\n    on lax death-certification, 243;\n    on mortuaries, 293;\n    its testimony, 318;\n    on recovery of the still-born, 346.\n\n  Lancisi, Dr., his belief in reanimation, 13;\n    opposes delay in burial, 144.\n\n  Laurens, Miss, her recovery from apparent death, 340.\n\n  L\u00e9normand, Dr. L\u00e9once, enumerates death-like conditions, 127;\n    on apparent death in cases of apoplexy, 175;\n    on delay of asphyxia in coffin, 210;\n    estimates ratio of live burials, 223;\n    on laxity of the _m\u00e9d\u00e9cins verificateurs_, 246.\n\n  <DW26>s, Greek Orthodox Metropolitan of, his escape from live burial,\n      98.\n\n  Levitical law of corpses and burials, 360.\n\n  Lethargy, synonym of trance, 23, 28.\n\n  Lightning-stroke, cases of apparent death from, 192, 371.\n\n  Ligni\u00e8res, Dr. de, on premature burials from hotels, 152;\n   on large ratio of uncertain deaths, 201.\n\n  Lindsay, Sir W., his escape from live burial, 64.\n\n  Londe, Dr. Charles, on duration of breathing in a coffin, 210;\n    relates case of tardy recovery after immersion, 348.\n\n  London, burial-grounds of, 283;\n    mortuaries of, 295-298.\n\n  Looking-glass test of death, 180.\n\n  Louis, Dr. Antoine, relates case of premature dissection, 234.\n\n  Lytton, Edward Bulwer, Baron, his dread of being buried alive, 154.\n\n\n  MACNISH, Dr., on trance, 22.\n\n  Madden, Dr. T. More, cases of death-counterfeits, 27.\n\n  _Manchester Criterion_ on revivals after sudden death, 178.\n\n  Manning, Rev. Owen, case of, 338.\n\n  Martineau, Harriet, provision of her will against risk of live burial,\n      154.\n\n  Marylebone, case of recovery in the mortuary of, 9, 298, 315.\n\n  Mason, Mr. R. B., of Nuneaton, authenticates case of narrow escape,\n      69.\n\n  Mayo, Dr. Herbert, on trance, 22;\n    on states predisposing to same, 127.\n\n  _M\u00e9d\u00e9cins verificateurs_, their duties perfunctorily discharged, 246.\n\n  _Medical Examiner_ on putrefactive test, 183.\n\n  _Medical Times_ on hospital mortuaries, 299.\n\n  _Medical Times and Gazette_ on Cardinal Donnet\u2019s cases of live burial,\n      71;\n    on vivisection of a criminal, 172.\n\n  Medicine, profession of, sceptical as to death-trance and live burial,\n      113;\n    a new sphere of work for, 218;\n    its overcrowded state, 219 (_footnote_).\n\n  Mendelssohn, Moses, writes against early burial, 361.\n\n  Meyerbeer, his dread of being buried alive, 54.\n\n  Milner, Dr. Ebenezer, on appearances of death in trance, 186;\n    on _rigor mortis_, 186.\n\n  Misson, M. Max, his opinion on frequency of live burial, 222;\n    instances cited by, 326.\n\n  Mody, Ervad Jivanji, his explanation of the \u201cSagdeed\u201d at Parsee\n      funerals, 138;\n    on the use of the chain at the Towers of Silence, 138.\n\n  Molloy, J. F., alleges trance in B. Disraeli, 23.\n\n  Monteverdi, M., his test of death, 193.\n\n  Moore, Dr. G., on so-called human hibernation, 43.\n\n  Mortuaries, an illustration of their use, 95;\n    waiting, should be established in all sanitary districts, 285;\n    movement in favour of, began in France, 286;\n    first executed in Germany, 286;\n    new and sumptuous example of, at Munich, 289;\n    called for in London in 1847 by R. Brandon, 289-293;\n    as now existing in London, 295-298;\n    only one case of resuscitation reported from same, 298;\n    suggestions for their improvement and extension, 298, 303;\n    _Medical Times_ on those of hospitals, 299;\n    as now existing in provincial towns, 300;\n    want of, in Ireland, 301-303;\n    those of Brussels, 305;\n    of Paris, 305;\n    of Berlin, 306;\n    of Vienna, 306;\n    of Stockholm, 307;\n    that of Weimar, 307;\n    suggested joint-stock company for, in Paris, 308;\n    utility of, 309.\n\n  Moscow, burial customs at, 358.\n\n  Munich, new sumptuous mortuary at, 289;\n    utility of the mortuary at, 309;\n    ordinances of, for ascertaining death, 356.\n\n\n  NECKER, Madam, her practical suggestions to prevent live burial, 286.\n\n  Needle test of death, 194.\n\n  Netherlands, the, burial laws of, 353.\n\n  Newsholme, Dr. A., on unregistered still-births, 346.\n\n  Newspaper cases, of trance, 30, 31;\n    of sudden death, 164-170;\n    some head-lines from, 318.\n\n  _Nonna, La_, form of trance following influenza, 30, 124.\n\n  Nowroji, Mr. Ardeshar, on premature exposure of the dead among\n      Parsees, 138.\n\n  Number, probable, of live burials, 220.\n\n  Nuneaton, authentic case at, of narrow escape, 67.\n\n  Nusserwanje, Mr. Dadabhoy, on cases of restored animation in Parsees,\n      139.\n\n\n  O\u2019CONNELL, Daniel, his dread of being buried alive, 154.\n\n  O\u2019Rourke, Mr. John, on hurried embalming, 352.\n\n  O\u2019Neill, Dr. W., relates case of narrow escape, 78.\n\n  Ogston, Prof. Francis, records probable case of premature dissection,\n      232.\n\n  Ordinances. (See under \u201cRegulations.\u201d)\n\n  Orfila, M., diaphanous test useless, 192.\n\n  Orrendo, case of, at Kronstadt, 122.\n\n  Oswald, Dr. John, on means of restoration to life, 266, 267.\n\n  Ouseley, Rev. J. G., estimates ratio of live burials, 222.\n\n\n  PARSEES, their mode of disposing of the dead, 136-142;\n    their prejudice against persons restored to life, 139, 142.\n\n  Patzki, Dr. J. H., his case of recovery by artificial respiration,\n      266.\n\n  Pembroke, William, Earl of, embalmed, 230.\n\n  Perspiration a sign of revival, 28, 363.\n\n  Petitions for prevention of premature burial, 225.\n\n  Phelps, Lieut.-Gen. A., advocates cremation to prevent live burial,\n      278.\n\n  Plato, his reason for advising tardy disposal of dead, 144, 331;\n    relates a case of revival, 325.\n\n  Pliny gives instances of the dead restored, 326.\n\n  Plutarch, case of revival cited from, 325.\n\n  Prasad, Mr. Durga, relates escape from burning alive, 132.\n\n  Pratt, Dr. Samuel B., on _rigor mortis_, 185.\n\n  Predisposition to trance, from nervous exhaustion, 120;\n    in women, 121;\n    habitual, 122;\n    from cold, 123;\n    after influenza, 30, 124;\n    from narcotics, 125;\n    in cholera, 126;\n    in various morbid states, 127.\n\n  Pregnancy, apparent death during, 66.\n\n  Probability of life, recent rise in, 319;\n    how same might be further raised, 319.\n\n  Prevention, means of, various, 258;\n    by exciting the skin, 258-261;\n    by auscultation, 261;\n    by electricity, 262-265;\n    by hypodermic injection, 265;\n    by artificial respiration, 266;\n    summary of, in _All the Year Round_, 268-273;\n    prizes for discovery of, 273.\n    (See also under \u201cTests of death.\u201d)\n\n  _Prix Dusgate_, 274, 377.\n\n  _Prix Manni_, 274, 374.\n\n  _Prix d\u2019Ourches_, 274, 376.\n\n  Prize by the Brussels Royal Academy, 366.\n\n  Publisher, a well-known, relates to the author a case of narrow\n      escape, 88.\n\n  Putrefaction, the one safe test of death, Dr. Chew on, 183;\n    Dr. Fagge on, 183;\n    _Medical Examiner_ on, 183;\n    Dr. Gannal on, 185.\n\n  Pye-Smith, Dr. P. H., on caution to be used in cases of trance, 175\n      (_footnote_).\n\n\n  QUENSTEDT on dormancy of vital principle, 325.\n\n  Quintilian gives reason for tardy burial by the Romans, 144.\n\n\n  RACHEL, Mlle. (actress), said to have been prematurely embalmed, 230.\n\n  Recommendations of the authors, 323.\n\n  Regulations, against early burial after sudden death, 179;\n    in W\u00fcrtemburg for ascertaining real death, 195;\n    in Bavaria for same, 204-207;\n    in the Netherlands, 353;\n    Frankfort, 353;\n    France, 354;\n    Austria, 355;\n    Vienna, 355;\n    Dalmatia, 356;\n    Saxony, 356;\n    Munich, 356;\n    Calcutta, 357;\n    Bombay, 357;\n    Cape Town, 357;\n    Moscow, 358;\n    Brussels, 358;\n    Denmark, 358;\n    Spain, 359;\n    Ireland, 359;\n    United States, 359.\n\n  Respiration, artificial, in case of apparent death, 266.\n\n  Respiration, failure of, as test of death, 181.\n\n  Resuscitation, cases of. (See under \u201cAwaking,\u201d \u201cEscapes,\u201d and\n      \u201cRescue.\u201d)\n\n  Richardson, Sir B. W., his paper on the Absolute Signs of Death, 10;\n    cites case of narrow escape, 75;\n    on effects of narcotics simulating death, 125;\n    his enumeration of signs of death, 181, 192-194;\n    applies the tests of death in a case, 189.\n\n  _Rigor mortis_ a sign of death, 185.\n\n  Rescue from live burial, fatally delayed by formalities, 105;\n    cases of, 106-110;\n    cases of, promptly successful, 111-112.\n\n  Romans, ancient, their burial practices, 333.\n\n  Roper, Dr., relates cases of still-born recovered, 355.\n\n  Roy, Dr. Mohan Chunder, on risks of live burial or burning at Benares,\n      131.\n\n\n  \u201cSAGDEED,\u201d the, ceremony at the Towers of Silence, 138.\n\n  Salzburg, case of delayed rescue from live burial at, 108.\n\n  Saxony, burial law of, 356.\n\n  Schmid, Dr. J., case of sudden death revived, 176.\n\n  Scott, Robert, of Scott\u2019s Hall, case of, 335;\n    his wife\u2019s case, 336.\n\n  Servius, cremation delayed among the Latins, 144.\n\n  Sethna, Mr. Phiroze C., accompanies the author to the Towers of\n      Silence, 136.\n\n  Shaw, Mr. Oscar F., narrates case of live burial, 53.\n\n  Sheffield, a premature death-certificate at, 242.\n\n  Silence, Towers of, visit of author to, at Bombay, 136.\n\n  Small-pox, cases of suspended animation in, 99.\n\n  Snart, Mr. John, on number of live burials, 221.\n\n  Somaglia, Cardinal, prematurely embalmed, 230.\n\n  Spain, burial practices in, 359.\n\n  Spasms of the heart, recovery after supposed death from, 176.\n\n  _Spectator, The_, on indifference to the danger, 18.\n\n  Spinosa, Cardinal, prematurely embalmed, 230.\n\n  Sri Sumangala on risks of live burial or burning in Ceylon, 133.\n\n  Stevenson, Dr. A., refuses demand for death-certificate in case of\n      trance, 97.\n\n  Still-born, the, resuscitation of, 341-346.\n\n  Struve, Dr. C. A., case of rescue fatally delayed, 106;\n    on duration of apparent death, 208;\n    case of recovery by electricity, 262;\n    cases of recovery of still-born, 342;\n    of recovery of drowned, 347.\n\n  Syncope, statistics of death by, 173;\n    definition of, 173.\n\n\n  TALMUD, the, its teaching as to burials, 361.\n\n  Tanner, Dr. M. S., relates two cases of narrow escape, 76.\n\n  Tatham, Dr. John, examined as to live burials, 245.\n\n  Terilli, Dr., tardy burial a safeguard, 145.\n\n  Tests of death: respiratory, 181;\n    cardiac and arterial, 181, 182;\n    putrefactive, 183;\n    _rigor mortis_, 185;\n    cadaveric countenance, 187;\n    clenched jaws, 187;\n    diaphanous web of fingers, 187;\n    Richardson\u2019s enumeration of, 193;\n    Hartmann on fallaciousness of, 194;\n    official statements of, 195;\n    _Lancet_ on fallaciousness of, 196;\n    _British Medical Journal_ on same, 198-201;\n    Wilder on same, 201;\n    Gaubert on same, 201;\n    expert _verificateurs_ of, 202;\n    popular trust in, 203;\n    Bavarian official directions for, 204-207.\n\n  Thouret, Dr., his inference from opening of graves, 51, 228.\n\n  Thieurey, Dr., his estimated number of live burials cited, 222.\n\n  Thompson, Sir Henry, on defective death-certification, 240;\n    advocates cremation to prevent live burial, 276.\n\n  Thompson, Mr. W. Arnold, case of still-born child recovered, 345.\n\n  Tidy, Dr. C. M., on progressive nature of death, 160;\n    on causes of sudden death, 161;\n    on still-born infants, 341.\n\n  Tobacco a cause of sudden death, 163.\n\n  Trance, definition and symptoms of, 21-23;\n    Gairdner\u2019s case of, 23-27;\n    Madden\u2019s cases of, 27-29;\n    other cases of, 29, 30;\n    prolonged cases of, 31;\n    Hufeland on, 43;\n    in a fakir at Jeypore, 44;\n    at Lahore, 47;\n    self-induced at Westminster Aquarium, 48;\n    cases of, require caution (Pye-Smith), 175 (_footnote_);\n    Milner on diagnosis of, from death, 186.\n\n  _Truth_, relation in, of a case of unverified death, 115.\n\n  Turnbull, Mr. Peveril, communicates to _Spectator_ case of exhumation\n      alive, 111.\n\n\n  UNDERTAKERS, testimony of, 57;\n    their experience of dubious death, 118;\n    their fear of premature interment, 156.\n\n  _Undertakers\u2019 and Funeral Directors\u2019 Journal_, on risks of hasty\n       burial, 171;\n    on frequency of live burial, 226;\n    on necessity for mortuaries, 295.\n\n  _Union Medicale, La_, on premature burial, 247.\n\n  United States of America, regulations in, for disposal of dead, 359.\n\n\n  VALENTINE, Dr. Colin S., relates case of escape from burial, 97.\n\n  Verification of deaths, in France, 246;\n    in Brussels, 248;\n    in W\u00fcrtemburg, 249;\n    in the United States, 252.\n\n  Vesalius, Andreas, his case of live dissection, 329.\n\n  Vienna, ordinances of, for inspection of dead, 355.\n\n  Vign\u00e9, Dr. J. B., narrates a narrow escape, 66;\n    testamentary directions to prevent his own live burial, 257.\n\n  Vivisection of a criminal, 172.\n\n\n  WADE, Sir Claude, eye-witness of trances in fakirs, 47.\n\n  Wadia, Mr. Soabjee Dhunjeebhoy, 138.\n\n  Waiting Mortuaries, Gaubert on, 309.\n\n  Walker, Dr., of Dublin, his case, 338.\n\n  Walker, Mr. G. A., on risks of premature burial, 215.\n\n  Walters, Rev. W., on death-certification in Ireland, 241.\n\n  Waterman, Dr. S., recoveries from apparent death in heart-disease,\n      176.\n\n  _Wiener Medicinische Zeitung_ on a premature Jewish interment at\n      Lemberg, 148.\n\n  Welby, Mr. Horace, dread of live burial a prevalent one, 153.\n\n  Whiter, Rev. Walter, advice as to treatment of the dead, 218.\n\n  Whitney, Constance, her tomb in Cripplegate Church, 338.\n\n  Widgen, Mrs., recovers many still-born at lying-in hospital, 344.\n\n  Wilder, Dr. Alex., brings subject before State Legislature, N.Y., 19;\n    on predisposition to trance, 120;\n    on the causes of sudden death, 163;\n    on risks of premature burial in sudden deaths, 178;\n    on fallacious signs of death, 201;\n    advocates cremation to prevent live burial, 280.\n\n  Winslow, Dr. Jacques B., a pioneer in the prevention of live burial,\n      257;\n    on signs of death, 333, 334.\n\n  Wunderbar, R. J., on the origin of, and authority for, early burial\n      among the Jews, 360.\n\n  W\u00fcrtemburg, official directions of, for ascertaining real death, 195,\n        249-251;\n    case of escape from premature interment in, 251;\n    regulations of, recommended for imitation, 255, 256.\n\n\n  YATES, Edmund, bequeaths fee to surgeon to ensure that he was not\n    buried alive, 154.\n\n\n  _Hay Nisbet & Co., Printers, 16 St. Enoch Square, Glasgow, and\n  25 Bouverie Street, London, E. C._\n\n\n\n\n                              FOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] \u201cThe Recovery of the Apparently Dead,\u201d by Charles Kite, Member of\nthe Corporation of Surgeons in London, and Surgeon at Gravesend in\nKent. London, 1788.\n\n[2] \u201cHistoire de la M\u00e9decine,\u201d La Haye, 1729, p. 333.\n\n[3] \u201cLinn\u00e6an Transactions,\u201d 1797, vol. iv., p. 155. \u201cAn Account of the\nJumping Mouse of Canada--_Dipus Canadensis_.\u201d\n\n[4] Archives g\u00e9n de Med., 1827, xiv., p. 105.\n\n[5] The case referred to, being attended with considerable doubt, is\nomitted.\n\n[6] _Evening News_, Nottingham, January 10, 1896.\n\n[7] _Health_, May 21, 1886, edited by Dr. Andrew Wilson, pp. 120-1.\nAfter relating other cases, Surgeon Curran continues:--\u201cI have myself\npersonally seen or heard on the spot of three such cases--cases that in\nother hands or in other localities might have passed as dead, were they\nnot buried as such accordingly.\u201d\n\n[8] For the antiquity of the Jewish practice of early burial, see note\nin Appendix.\n\n[9] Dr. A. B. Granville, \u201cSudden Death,\u201d p. 278.\n\n[10] Ibid., p. 278.\n\n[11] Ibid., p. 279.\n\n[12] Tidy, \u201cLegal Medicine,\u201d part i., pp. 279-280.\n\n[13] In the 3rd ed., by Dr. Pye Smith, the following occurs at p. 817\nof vol. i., under \u201cTrance\u201d:--\u201cThese are the cases which have led to the\npopular belief that death is sometimes only apparent, and that there\nmay be a danger of persons being buried alive; and it cannot be denied\nthat a patient in such a condition might easily be allowed to die by\ncareless or ignorant attendants, or might be buried before death.\u201d\n\n[14] _Bulletin Therap. M\u00e9d._, tome xxvii., p. 371.\n\n[15] \u201cPremature Burial: An Examination into the Occult Causes of\nApparent Death, Trance, and Catalepsy.\u201d By Franz Hartmann, M.D. Second\nEdition. London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co. (One Shilling).\n\n[16] \u201cPour se convaincre de l\u2019erreur o\u00f9 l\u2019on tomberait en adoptant\ncette opinion populaire, il suffit de refl\u00e9chir d\u2019abord qu\u2019un cercueil\nn\u2019est pas exactement moul\u00e9 sur les proportions du corps qu\u2019il\ncontient; que, par consequent, tous les intervalles sont remplis d\u2019air\nrespirable, en quantit\u00e9 tr\u00e8s-grande, \u00e9gale \u00e0-peu-pr\u00e8s \u00e0 un cube dont le\nc\u00f4t\u00e9 aurait 50 centim\u00e8tres de hauteur. Or, chaque inspiration absorbe\nenviron 1,200 centim\u00e8tres cubes d\u2019air dont l\u2019oxyg\u00e8ne n\u2019est employ\u00e9 dans\nl\u2019h\u00e9matose que pour sa cinqui\u00e8me partie, le reste \u00e9tant rendu pendant\nl\u2019expiration; il en resulte donc que chaque inspiration ne consomme en\nr\u00e9alit\u00e9 que 240 centim\u00e8tres cubes. L\u2019homme, \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9tat normal, respire\n\u00e0-peu-pr\u00e8s 800 fois par heure; et, comme un cube de 50 centim\u00e8tres de\nc\u00f4t\u00e9 contient 125,000 centim\u00e8tres cubes, on doit conclure que cette\nquantit\u00e9 d\u2019air peut suffire \u00e0 520 inspirations normales, c\u2019est \u00e0 dire \u00e0\nsoutenir la vie pendant pr\u00e8s de trois quarts d\u2019heure. Mais, d\u2019un autre\nc\u00f4t\u00e9, il est d\u00e9montr\u00e9, en botanique, que l\u2019air filtre dans la terre;\ncelui contenu dans le cercueil peut donc en partie se renouveler. On\ndoit n\u00e9cessairement tenir compte de la nature du terrain o\u00f9 le cercueil\n\u00e0 \u00e9t\u00e9 d\u00e9pos\u00e9; s\u2019il est sec, l\u00e9ger ou sablonneux, il laissera p\u00e9n\u00e9trer,\ncirculer pour, ainsi dire, l\u2019air atmosph\u00e9rique plus facilement, que\ndes terres humides, grasses ou argileuses. Ajoutons enfin, que les\nquantit\u00e9s determin\u00e9es plus haut pourraient \u00eatre r\u00e9duites de plus de\nmoiti\u00e9, sans causer directement la mort. On voit donc qu\u2019un homme\npeut vivre sous terre pendant plusieurs heures, et que ce temps sera\nd\u2019autant plus court que le sujet sera plus pl\u00e9thorique, c\u2019est-\u00e0-dire\npredispos\u00e9 aux congestions c\u00e9r\u00e9brales, puisque, dans ce cas, ses\ninspirations seront plus larges et plus frequentes.\u201d\n\n[17] Report on \u201cSuspended Animation.\u201d By a Committee of the Royal Med.\nChirur. Society, July 12, 1862.\n\n[18] The _British Medical Journal_, August 15, 1894, p. 381, reports\na \u201cDiscussion on the Overcrowding of the Profession,\u201d in which Dr.\nFrederick H. Alderson says:--\u201cThe very crowded condition of the medical\nprofession concerns a very large body of the profession; neither is the\nevil limited to any particular section of it. Our physicians are too\nnumerous, our surgeons alike too many, and our general practitioners\nare legion.\u201d\n\n[19] Quoted by Dr. Franz Hartmann in \u201cPremature Burial.\u201d\n\n[20] Alas for the futility of human expectations of reform when left to\nthe initiation of Governments--this was written twenty-seven years ago,\nand nothing has been done to remedy the evil!\n\n[21] During the five years ending 1895 the population of France,\nwhere of all European countries premature burial is most in vogue,\nhas increased by only 133,819, or, leaving out the immigration of\nalien population, the increase is under 30,000. The population for all\npractical purposes may be regarded as stationary.\n\n[22] With reference to the burial customs in Ireland, the _Kings County\nChronicle_, Parsonstown, September 17, 1896, says:--\u201cYoung children are\nburied the day after death, but adults are waked for two, and sometimes\nthree nights.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                          TRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTE:\n\n--Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Premature Burial and How it may be\nPrevented, by William Tebb and Col. Edward Perry Vollum\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "A Bed of Roses by W. L. George", "publication_date": 1911, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33538"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.fadedpage.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  A BED OF ROSES . . BY\n\n  W. L. GEORGE\n\n\n  AUTHOR OF 'ENGINES OF SOCIAL\n\n  PROGRESS,' . . 'FRANCE IN THE\n\n  TWENTIETH CENTURY,' &c.\n\n  It's not work that any woman would do for pleasure,\n  goodness knows; though to hear the pious people talk\n  you would suppose it was a bed of roses. Mrs Warren's\n  Profession . By G. Bernard Shaw.\n\n  AUTHORISED EDITION\n\n\n  BRENTANO'S . NEW YORK\n\n  MCMXI\n\n  THIRD EDITION\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n'WE go.' The lascar meditatively pressed his face, brown and begrimed\nwith coal dust, streaked here and there with sweat, against the rope\nwhich formed the rough bulwark. His dark eyes were fixed on the shore\nnear by, between which and the ship's side the water quivered quicker\nand quicker in little ripples, each ripple carrying an iridescent film\nof grey ooze. Without joy or sadness he was bidding goodbye to Bombay,\nhis city. Those goodbyes are often farewells for lascars who must face\nthe Bay and the Channel. But the stoker did not care.\n\nHis companion lay by his side, lazily propped up on his elbow, not\ndeigning even to take a last look at the market place, seething still\nwith its crowded reds and blues and golds. 'Dekko!' cried the first\nstoker pointing to the wharf where a white man in a dirty smock had just\ncast off the last rope, which came away swishing through the air.\n\nHis companion did not raise his eyes. Slowly he tilted up his pannikin\nand let the water flow in a thin stream into his mouth, keeping the\nmetal away from his lips. Then, careless of the land of Akbar, he let\nhimself sink on the deck and composed himself to sleep. India was no\nconcern of his.\n\nA few yards away a woman watched them absently from the upper deck. She\nwas conscious of them, conscious too of the slow insistent buzzing of a\ngadfly. Her eyes slowly shifted to the shore, passed over the market\nplace, stopped at the Fort. There, in the open space, a troop was\ndrilling, white and speckless, alertly wheeling at the word of command.\nHer eyes were still fixed on the group as the ship imperceptibly receded\nfrom the shore, throbbing steadily as the boilers got up steam. A\nhalf-naked brown boy was racing along the wharf to gain a start and beat\nthe vessel before she reached the military crane.\n\nThe woman turned away. She was neither tall nor short: she did not\nattract attention overmuch but she was one of those who retain such\nattention as they draw. She was clad entirely in black; her face seemed\nto start forward intensified. Her features were regular; her mouth\nsmall. Her skin, darkened by the shadow of a broad brimmed hat, blushed\nstill darker at the cheeks. The attraction was all in the eyes, large\nand grey, suggestive of energy without emotion. Her chin was square,\nperhaps too thick in the jaw.\n\nShe turned once more and leant against the bulwark. A yard away another\nwoman was also standing, her eyes fixed on the shore, on a figure who\nwaited motionless on the fast receding wharf. As the steamer kept on her\ncourse the woman craned forward, saw once more and then lost sight of\nthe lonely figure. She was small, fair, a little insignificant, and\ndressed all in white drill.\n\nThe steamer had by now attained half speed. The shore was streaming by.\nThe second woman turned her back on the bulwark, looked about aimlessly,\nthen, perceiving her neighbour, impulsively went up to her and stood\nclose beside her.\n\nThe two women did not speak, but remained watching the shoals fly past.\nFar away a train in Kolaba puffed up sharp bursts of smoke into the blue\nair. There was nothing to draw the attention of the beholder in that\ninterminable shore, low-lying and muddy, splashed here and there with\nragged trees. It was a desert almost, save for a village built between\ntwo swamps. Here and then smoke arose, brown and peaty from a bonfire.\nIn the evening light the sun's declining rays lit up with radiance the\nred speck of a heavy shawl on the tiny figure of a brown girl.\n\nLittle by little, as the ship entered the fairway, the shore receded\nalmost into nothingness. The two women still watched, while India merged\ninto shadow. It was the second hour and, as the ship slowly turned\ntowards the west, the women watched the great cocoanut trees turn into\nblack specks upon Marla point. Then, slowly, the shore sank into the\ndark sea until it was gone and nothing was left of India save the\nvaguely paler night that tells of land and the even fainter white spears\nof the distant light.\n\nFor a moment they stood still, side by side. Then the fair woman\nsuddenly put her hand on her companion's arm. 'I'm cold,' she said,\n'let's go below.'\n\nThe dark girl looked at her sympathetically. 'Yes,' she said, 'let's,\nwho'd have thought we wanted to see more of the beastly country than we\ncould help. . . . I say, what's the matter, Molly?'\n\nMolly was still looking towards the light; one of her feet tapped the\ndeck nervously; she fumbled for her handkerchief. 'Nothing, nothing,'\nshe said indistinctly, 'come and unpack.' She turned away from her\ncompanion and quickly walked towards the gangway.\n\nThe dark girl looked once more into the distance where even the\nsearchlight had waned. 'Vic!' cried the fair girl querulously, half way\nup the deck. 'All right, I'm coming,' replied the woman in black. She\nlooked again at the pale horizon into which India had faded, at the deck\nbefore her where a little black cluster of people had formed to look\ntheir last upon the light. Then she turned and followed her companion.\n\nThe cabin was on the lower deck, small, stuffy in the extreme. Its two\ngrave-like bunks, its drop table, even its exiguous armchair promised\nno comfort. On the worn carpet the pattern had almost vanished; alone\nthe official numerals on the edge stared forth. For half an hour the two\nwomen unpacked in silence; Molly knelt by the side of her trunk delving\ninto it, dragging out garments which she tried to find room for on the\nscanty pegs. Her companion merely raised the lid of her trunk to ease\nthe pressure on her clothes, and placed a small dressing-case on the\ndrop table. Once she would have spoken but, at that moment, a faint sob\ncame from Molly's kneeling form. She went up to her, put her arm about\nher neck and kissed her cheek. She undressed wearily, climbed into the\nupper berth. Soon Molly did likewise, after turning down the light. For\na while she sighed and turned uneasily; then she became quieter, her\nbreathing more measured, and she slept.\n\nVictoria Fulton lay in her berth, her eyes wide open, glued to the roof\na foot or so above her face. It was very like a coffin, she thought,\nperhaps a suitable enough habitation for her, but at present, not in the\nleast tempting. A salutary capacity for optimism was enabling her to\nreview the past three years and to speculate about the future. Not that\neither was very rosy, especially the future.\n\nThe steady throb of the screw pulsated through the stuffy cabin, and\nblended with the silence broken only by Molly's regular breathing in the\nlower berth. Victoria could not help remembering other nights passed\nalso in a stuffy little cabin, where the screw was throbbing as\nsteadily, and when the silence was broken by breathing as regular, but a\nlittle heavier. Three years only, and she was going home. But now she\nwas leaving behind her the high hopes she had brought with her.\n\nShe was no exception to the common rule, and memories, whether bitter or\nsweet, had always bridged for her the gulf between wakefulness and\nsleep. And what could be more natural than to recall those nights, three\nyears ago, when every beat of that steady screw was bringing her nearer\nto the country where her young husband was, according to his mood, going\nto win the V.C., trace the treasure stolen from a Begum, or become\nmilitary member on the Viceroy's Council? Poor old Dicky, she thought,\nperhaps it was as well he did not live to see himself a major, old and\nembittered, with all those hopes behind him.\n\nThere were no tears in her eyes when she thought of Fulton. The good old\ndays, the officers' ball at Lympton when she danced with him half the\nnight, the rutty lane where they met to sit on a bank of damp moss\nsmelling of earth and crushed leaves, and the crumbling little church\nwhere she became Fulton's wife, all that was far away. How dulled it all\nwas too by those three years during which, in the hot moist air of the\nplains, she had seen him degenerate, his skin lose it's freshness, his\neyelids pucker and gather pouches, his tongue grow ever more bitter as\nhe attempted to still with whisky the drunkard's chronic thirst. She\ncould not even shudder at the thought of all it had meant for her, at\nthe horror of seeing him become every day more stupefied, at the savage\noutbursts of the later days, at the last scenes, crude and physically\nfoul. Three years had taught her brain dullness to such scenes as those.\n\nThe tragedy of Fulton was a common enough thing. Heat, idleness,\ntemporary affluence, all those things that do not let a man see that\nlife is blessed only by the works that enable him to forget it, had\nplayed havoc with him. He had followed up his initial error of coming\ninto the world at all by marrying a woman who neither cajoled or coerced\nhim. With the best of intentions she had bored him to extinction. His\ninterest in things became slender; he drank himself to death, and not\neven the ghost of his self lived to grieve by his bedside.\n\nIn spite of everything it had not been a bad life in its way. Victoria\nhad been the belle, in spite of Mrs Major Dartle and her peroxidised\ntresses. And there had been polo (Dicky always would have three ponies\nand refused three hundred guineas for Tagrag), and regimental dances and\ngymkhanas and what not. Under the sleepy sun these three years had\npassed, not like a flash of lightning, but slowly, dreamily, in the\nunending routine of marches, inspections, migrations to and from the\nhills. The end had come quickly. One day they carried Dick Fulton all\nthe way from the mess and laid him under his own verandah. The fourth\nday he died of cirrhosis of the liver. Even Mrs Major Dartle who\nformally called and lit up the darkened room with the meretricious glow\nof her curls hinted that it was a happy release. The station in general\nhad no doubt as to the person for whom release had come.\n\nAs Victoria lay in the coffin-like berth she vainly tried to analyse her\nfeeling for Fulton. The three years had drawn over her past something\nlike a veil behind which she could see the dim shapes of her impressions\ndancing like ghostly marionettes. She knew that she had loved him with\nthe discreet passion of an Englishwoman. He had burst in upon her\nravished soul like the materialised dream of a schoolgirl; he had been\nadorably careless, adorably rakish. For a whole year all his foibles had\nbeen charms in so far as they made the god more human, nearer to her.\nThen, one night, he had returned home so drunk as to fall prostrate on\nthe tiles of the verandah and sleep there until next morning. She had\nnot dared to call the ayah or the butler and, as she could not rouse or\nlift him, she had left him lying there under some rugs and mosquito\nnetting.\n\nDuring the rest of that revolutionary night she had not slept, nor had\nshe found the relief of tears that is given most women. Hot waves of\nindignation flowed over her. She wanted to get up, to stamp with rage,\nto kick the disgraceful thing on the tiles. She held herself down,\nhowever, or perhaps the tradition of the English counties whispered to\nher that anything was preferable to scandal, that crises must be\nnoiseless. When dawn came and she at last managed to arouse Fulton by\nflooding his head with the contents of the water jug, the hot fit was\ngone. She felt cold, too aloof, too far away from him to hate him, too\npetrified to reproach him.\n\nFulton took no notice of the incident. He was still young and vigorous\nenough to shake off within a few hours the effects of the drink. Besides\nhe seldom mentioned things that affected their relations; in the keep of\nhis heart he hid the resentment of a culprit against the one who has\ncaught him in the act. He confined his conversation to daily happenings;\nin moments of expansion he talked of the future. They did not, however,\ndraw nearer one another; thus the evolution of their marriage tended\ninevitably to draw them apart. Victoria was no longer angry, but she was\nfrightened because she had been frightened and she hated the source of\nher fear. Fulton, thick skinned as he was, felt their estrangement\nkeenly. He grew to hate his wife; it almost made him wish to hurt her\nagain. So he absented himself more often, drank more, then died. His\nwife was free. So this was freedom. Freedom, a word to conjure with,\nthought Victoria, when one is enslaved and meaning very little when one\nis free. She was able to do what she liked and wished to do nothing. Of\ncourse things would smooth themselves out: they always did, even though\nthe smoothing process might be lengthy. They must do so, but how? There\nwere friends of course, and Ted, and thirty pounds of Consols unless\nthey'd gone down again, as safe investments are wont to do. She would\nhave to do some work. Rather funny, but how jolly to draw your first\nmonth's or week's salary; everybody said it was a proud moment. Of\ncourse it would have to be earned, but that did not matter: everybody\nhad to earn what they got, she supposed, and they ought to enjoy doing\nit. Old Flynn, the D.C., used to say that work was a remunerative\noccupation you didn't like, but then he had been twenty years in India.\n\nMolly turned uneasily in her bunk and settled down again. Victoria's\ntrain of thought was broken and she could not detach her attention from\nthe very gentle snore that came from the lower berth, a snore gentle but\nso insidious that it seemed to dominate the steady beat of the screw.\nThrough the porthole, over which now there raced some flecks of spray,\nshe could see nothing but the blackness of the sky, a blackness which at\ntimes turned to grey whenever the still inkier sea appeared. The cabin\nseemed black and empty, lit up faintly by a white skirt flung on a\nchair. Slowly Victoria sank into sleep, conscious of a half dream of\nEngland where so many unknowable things must happen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n'No, Molly, I don't think it's very nice of you,' said Victoria, 'we've\nbeen out four days and I've done nothing but mope and mope; it's all\nvery well my being a widow and all that: I'm not suggesting you and I\nshould play hop scotch on deck with the master gunner, but for four days\nI've been reading a three months old _Harper's_ and the memoirs of\nMademoiselle de I don't know what, and . . .'\n\n'But what have I done?' cried Molly.\n\n'I'm bored,' replied Victoria, with admirable detachment, 'and what's\nmore, I don't intend to go on being bored for another fortnight; I'm\ngoing on deck to find somebody to amuse me.'\n\n'You can't do that,' said Molly, 'they're washing it.'\n\n'Very well, then, I'll go and watch and sing songs to the men.' Victoria\nglared at her unoffending companion, her lips tightening and her jaw\ngrowing ominously squarer.\n\n'But my dear girl,' said Molly, 'I'm awfully sorry. I didn't know you\ncared; come and have a game of quoits with me and old Cairns. There's a\nplace behind the companion which I should say nobody ever does wash.'\n\nVictoria was on the point of answering that she hated quoits as she\nnever scored and they were generally dirty, but the prospect of\nreturning to the ancient _Harper's_ was not alluring, so she followed\nMolly to the hatchway and climbed up to the upper deck still shining\nmoist and white. Apparently they would not have to play behind the\ncompanion. Four men were leaning against the bulwarks, looking out at\nnothing as people do on board ship. Victoria just had time to notice a\nvery broad flannel-clad back surmounted by a thick neck, while Molly\nwent up to the last man and unceremoniously prodded him in the ribs.\n\n'Wake up, Bobby,' she said, 'I'm waiting.'\n\nThe men all wheeled round suddenly. The broad man stepped forward\nquickly and shook hands with Molly. Then he took a critical look at\nVictoria. The three young men struggled for an absurd little bag which\nMolly always dropped at the right moment.\n\n'How do you do, Mrs Fulton,' said the broad man stretching out his hand.\nVictoria took it hesitatingly.\n\n'Don't you remember me?' he said. 'My name's Cairns. Major Cairns. You\nknow. Travancores. Met you at His Excellency's hop.'\n\nOf course she remembered him. He was so typical. Anybody could have told\nhis profession and his rank at sight. He had a broad humorous face,\ntanned over freckled pink. Since he left Wellington he had grown a\nlittle in every direction and had become a large middle aged boy.\nVictoria took him in at one look. A square face such as that of Cairns,\ndistinctly chubby, framing grey blue eyes, was as easily recalled as\nforgotten. She took in his forehead, high and likely to become higher as\nhis hair receded; his straight aggressive nose; his little rough\nmoustache looking like nothing so much as a ragged strip off an Irish\nterrier's back.\n\nWhile Victoria was wondering what to say, Molly, determined to show her\nthat she was not going to leave her out, had thrust her three henchmen\nforward.\n\n'This is Bobby,' she remarked. Bobby was a tall young man with a round\nhead, bright brown eyes full of cheerfulness and hot temper. 'And\nCaptain Alastair . . . and Mr Parker.' Alastair smiled. Smiles were his\nmethod of expression. Mr Parker bowed rather low and said nothing. He\nhad at once conceived for Victoria the mixture of admiration and dislike\nthat a man feels towards a woman who would not marry him if she knew\nwhere he had been to school.\n\n'I hope,' said Mr Parker slowly, 'that your. . . .' But he broke off\nsuddenly, realising the mourning and feeling the ground to be unsafe.\n\n'Mr Parker, I've been looking for you all the morning,' interjected\nMolly, with intuition. 'You've promised to teach me to judge my\ndistance,' and she cleverly pushed Bobby between Mr Parker and Victoria.\n'Come along, and you Bobby, you can pick the rings up.'\n\n'Right O,' said Bobby readily. She turned towards the stern followed by\nthe obedient Bobby and Mr Parker.\n\nCaptain Alastair smiled vacuously, made as if to follow the trio,\nrealising that it was a false start, swerved back and finally covering\nhis confusion by sliding a few yards onwards to tell Mrs Colonel Lanning\nthat it was blowing up for a squall.\n\nVictoria had watched the little incident with amused detachment.\n\n'Who is Mr Parker?' she enquired.\n\n'Met him yesterday for the first time,' said Cairns, 'and really I can't\nsay I want to know. Might be awkward. Must be in the stores or\nsomething. Looks to me like a cross between a mute and a parson. Bit of\na worm, anyhow.'\n\n'Oh, he didn't hurt my feelings,' remarked Victoria; 'but some men never\nknow what women have got on.' Cairns looked her over approvingly.\nShoddy-looking mourning. Durzee made of course. But, Lord, what hands\nand eyes.\n\n'I daresay not,' he said drily. 'I wish he'd keep away though. Let's\nwalk up.'\n\nHe took a stride or two away from Alastair. Victoria followed him. She\nwas rather taken with his rough simplicity, the comfort of his apparent\nobtuseness. So like an uncle, she thought.\n\n'Well, Mrs Fulton,' said Cairns, 'I suppose you're glad to be here, as\nusual.'\n\n'As usual?'\n\n'Yes, as usual; people are always glad to be on board. If they're going\nhome, they're going home and if they're going out they're thinking that\nit's going to be full pay instead of half.'\n\n'It hadn't struck me like that,' said Victoria with a smile, 'though I\nsuppose I am glad to go home.'\n\n'Funny,' said the Major, 'I never found a country like India to make\npeople want to come to it and to make them want to get out of it when\nthey were there. We had a sub once. You should have heard him on the\ndead cities. Somewhere south east of Hyderabad, he said. And native\njewellery, and fakirism, and all that. He's got a liver now and the last\nI heard of him was that he put his shoulder out at polo.'\n\nVictoria looked out over the immense oily greenness of the water. Far\naway on the skyline a twirling wreath of smoke showed that some tramp\nsteamer was passing them unseen. The world was between them; they were\ncrawling on one side of the ball and the tramp on the other, like flies\non an orange. Was that tramp, Bombay bound, carrying more than a cargo\nof rolling stock? Perhaps the mate had forgotten his B.S.A. fittings and\nwas brooding, he too, over the dead cities, somewhere south-east of\nHyderabad.\n\n'No,' repeated Victoria slowly, 'it hadn't struck me like that.'\n\nCairns looked at her curiously. He had heard of Fulton and knew of the\nmanner of his death. He could not help thinking that she did not seem\nto show many signs of a recent bereavement, but then she was well rid\nof Fulton. Of course there were other things too. Going back as the\nwidow of an Indian officer was all very well if you could afford the\nluxury, but if you couldn't, well it couldn't be much catch. So, being\nthirty eight or so, he prudently directed the conversation towards the\ncustomary subjects discussed on board a trooper: the abominable\naccommodation and the appalling incompetency of the government with\nregard to the catering.\n\nVictoria listened to him placidly. His ancient tittle-tattle had been\nmade familiar to her by three years' association with his fellows, and\nshe had learned that she need not say much, as his one wish was\nnaturally to revile the authorities and all their work. But one item\ninterested her.\n\n'After all,' he said, 'I don't see why I should talk. I've had enough of\nit. I'm sending in my papers as soon as I've settled a small job at\nPerim. I'll get back to Aden and shake all that beastly Asiatic dust off\nmy shoes.'\n\n'Surely,' said Victoria, 'you're not going to leave the Service?' Her\nintonation implied that she was urging him not to commit suicide. Some\nwomen must pass twice under the yoke.\n\n'Fed up. Simply fed up with it. Suppose I do waste another twenty years\nin India or Singapore or Hong Kong, how much forrarder am I? They'll\nretire me as a colonel or courtesy general and dump me into an England\nwhich doesn't care a hang about me with the remains of malaria, no\ndigestion and no temper. I'll then while away my time watching the\nbusses pass by from one of the windows of the Rag and give my daily\nopinion of the doings of Simla and the National Congress to men who will\nonly listen to me so long as I stand them a whisky and soda.'\n\n'It isn't alluring,' said Victoria, 'but it may not be as bad as that.\nYou can do marvels in India. My husband used to say that a man could\nhope for anything there.'\n\nCairns suppressed the obvious retort that Fulton's ideals did not seem\nto have materialised.\n\n'No,' he said, 'I'm not ambitious. India's steam rollered all that. When\nI've done with my job at Perim, which won't be much more than a couple\nof months, I'm going home. Don't know that I'll do anything in\nparticular. Farm a bit, perhaps, or have some chambers somewhere near St\nJames' and dabble in balloons or motors. Some shooting too. All that\nsort of thing.'\n\n'Perhaps you are right,' said Victoria after a pause. 'I suppose it's as\nwell to do what one likes. Shall we join the others?'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nLIFE on a trooper is not eventful. Victoria was not so deeply absorbed\nin her mourning or in the pallid literature borrowed from Molly as not\nto notice it. Though she was not what is termed serious, the perpetual\nquoits on the upper deck in company with Alastair and his conversation\nlimited by smiles, and with Mr Parker and his conversation limited by\nuneasiness palled about the second game. Bobby too was a cypher. It was\nhis fate to be known as 'Bobby,' a quantity of no importance. He\nbelonged to the modern school of squires of dames, ever ready to fetch a\nhandkerchief, to fish when he inwardly wanted to sleep in a deck chair\nor to talk when he had a headache. Such men have their value as tame\ncats and Victoria did not avoid his cheery neighbourhood. But he was\nsummed up in the small fact which she recalled with gentle amusement a\nlong time after: she had never known his name. For her, as for the\nship's company, he was 'Bobby,' merely Bobby.\n\nThe female section too could detain none but cats and hens, as Victoria\nput it. She had moved too long like a tiny satellite in the orbit of Mrs\nColonel So-and-So to return to the little group which slumbered all day\nby the funnel dreaming aloud the petty happenings of Bombay. The heavy\nrains at Chandraga, the simply awful things that had been said about an\nA.D.C. and Mrs Bryan, and the scandalous way in which a Babu had been\nmade a judge, all this filled her with an extraordinary weariness. She\nfelt, in the presence of these remains of her daily life, as she would\nwhen confronted for the third time with the cold leg of mutton.\n\nTrue there was Cairns, a man right enough and jovial in spite of his\ncynical assumption that nothing was worth anything. He could produce\npassing fair aphorisms, throw doubts on the value of success and\nhappiness. There was nothing, however, to hold on to. Victoria had not\nfound in him a teacher or a helper. He was merely destructive of thought\nand epicurean in taste. Convinced that wine, woman and song were quite\nvalueless things, he nevertheless knew the best Ruedesheimer and had an\neye for the droop of Victoria's shoulders.\n\nCairns obviously liked Victoria. He did not shun his fellow passengers,\nfor he considered that the dullest people are the most interesting, yet\nshe could not help noticing from time to time that his eyes followed her\nround. He was a good big man and she knew that his thick hand, a little\nswollen and sunburnt, would be a good thing to touch. But there was in\nhim none of that subtle magnetism that grasps and holds. He was coarse,\nperhaps a little vulgar at heart.\n\nThus Victoria had roamed aimlessly over the ship, visiting even the bows\nwhere, everlastingly, a lascar seemed to brood in fixed attitudes as a\nBudh dreaming of Nirvana. She often wandered in the troop-deck filled\nwith the womankind and children of the non-coms. Without disliking\nchildren she could find no attraction in these poor little faded things\nborn to be scorched by the Indian sun. The women too, mostly yellow and\nfaded, always recalled to her, so languid and tired were they,\ncommonplace flowers, marigolds, drooping on their stems. Besides, the\nsociety of the upper deck found a replica on the troop deck, where it\nwas occasionally a little shriller. There too, she could catch snatches\nwhich told of the heavy rains of Chandraga, the goings on of Lance\nCorporal Maccaskie's wife and the disgrace of giving Babu clerks more\nthan fifty rupees a month.\n\nPerpetually the Indian ocean shimmered by, calm as the opaque eye of a\nshark, breaking at times into immense rollers that swelled hardly more\nthan a woman's breast. And the days passed on.\n\nThey were nearing Aden, though nothing on the mauve horizon told of the\noutpost where the filth of the East begins to overwhelm the ugliness of\nthe West. Victoria and Cairns were leaning on the starboard bulwark. She\nwas looking vacuously into the greying sky, conscious that Cairns was\nwatching her. She felt with extraordinary clearness that he was gazing\nas if spell-bound at the soft and regular rise and fall of her skin\ntowards the coarse black openwork of her bodice. Far away in the\ntwilight was something long and black, hardly more than a line vanishing\ntowards the north.\n\n'Araby,' said Cairns.\n\nVictoria looked more intently. Far away, half veiled by the mists of\nnight, unlit by the evening star, lay the coast. Araby, the land of\nmanna and milk--of black-eyed women--of horses that champ strange bits.\nHere and there a blackened rock sprang up from the waste of sand and\nscrub. Its utter desolation awakened a sympathetic chord. It was lonely,\nas she was lonely. As the night swiftly rushed into the heavens, she let\nher arm rest against that of Cairns. Then his hand closed over hers. It\nwas warm and hard; something like a pale light of companionship\nstruggled through the solitude of her soul.\n\nThey stood cold and silent while the night swallowed up the coast and\nall save here and there the foam tip of a wave. The man had put his arm\nround her and pressed her to him. She did not resist. The soft wind\nplaying in her hair carried a straying lock into his eyes, half blinding\nhim and making him catch his breath, so redolent was it, not with the\nscent of flowers, but of life, vigorous and rich in its thousand saps.\nHe drew her closer to him and pressed his lips on her neck. Victoria did\nnot resist.\n\nFrom the forepeak swathed in darkness, came the faint unearthly echoes\nof the stokers' song. There were no fourths; the dominant and the\nsubdominant were absent. Strangely attuned to the western ear, the\nsounds sometimes boomed, sometimes fell to a whisper. The chant rose\nlike incense into the heavens, celebrating Durga, protector of the\nMotherland, Lakshmi, bowered in the flower that in the water grows.\nCairns had drawn Victoria close against him. He was stirred and shaken\nas never before. All conspired against him, the night, the fancied\nscents of Araby, the unresisting woman in his arms who yielded him her\nlips with the passivity of weariness. They did not think as they kissed,\nwhether laying the foundation of regret or snatching from the fleeting\nhour a moment of thoughtless joy. Again a brass drum boomed out beyond\nthem, softly as if touched by velvet hands. It carried the buzzing of\nbees, the calls of corncrakes, in every tone the rich scents of the\njungle, where undergrowth rots in black water--of perfumes that burn\nbefore the gods. Then the night wind arose and swept away the crooning\nvoices.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nVICTORIA stepped out on to the platform with a heart that bounded and\nyet shrank. Not even the first faint coming of the coastline had given\nher the almost physical shock that she experienced on this bare\nplatform. Waterloo station lay around her in a pall of faint yellow mist\nthat gripped and wrenched at her throat. Through the fog a thousand\nungainly shapes of stairs and signals thrust themselves, some crude in\ntheir near blackness, others fainter in the distance. It might have been\na dream scene but for the uproar that rose around her from the rumble of\nLondon, the voices of a great crowd. Yet all this violence of life, the\ndarkness, the surge of men and women, all this told her that she was\nonce more in the midst of things.\n\nShe found her belongings mechanically, fumblingly. She did not realise\nuntil then the bitterness that drove its iron into her soul. Already,\nwhen the troopship had entered the Channel she had felt a cruel pang\nwhen she realised that she must expect nothing and that nobody would\ngreet her. She had fled from the circle near the funnel when the talk\nbegan to turn round London and waiting sisters and fathers, round the\nLord Mayor's show, the play, the old fashioned Christmas. Now, as she\nstruggled through the crowd that cried out and laughed excitedly and\nkissed, she knew her isolation was complete. There was nobody to meet\nher. The fog made her eyes smart, so they filled readily with tears.\n\nAs she sat in the cab, however, and there flashed by her like beacons\nthe lights of the stalls in the Waterloo Road, the black and greasy\npavement sown with orange peel, she felt her heart beating furiously\nwith the excitement of home coming. She passed the Thames flowing\nsilently, swathed in its shroud of mist. Then the blackness of St\nJames's Park through which her cab crawled timidly as if it feared\nthings that might lurk unknown in the fogbound thickets.\n\nIt was still in a state of feverish dreaming that Victoria entered her\nroom at Curran's Private Hotel, otherwise known by a humble number in\nSeymour Street. 'Curran's' is much in favour among Anglo-Indians, as it\nis both central and cheap. It has everything that distinguishes the\nEnglish hotel which has grown from a boarding-house into a superior\nestablishment where you may stay at so much a day. The successful owner\nhad bought up one after the other three contiguous houses and had\nconnected them by means of a conservatory where there lived, among much\npampas grass, small ferns in pots shrouded in pea-green paper and sickly\nplants to which no name could be attached as they mostly suggested\nstewed lettuce. It was impossible to walk in a straight line from one\nend of the coalition of buildings to the other without climbing and\ndescending steps every one of which proclaimed the fact that the leases\nof the houses would soon fall in. From the three kitchens ascended three\nsmells of mutton. The three halls were strewn with bicycles, gun cases\nin their last phase, sticks decrepit or dandified. The three hat racks,\nall early Victorian in their lines, bore a motley cargo. Dusty bowlers\nhustled it with heather  caps and top hats; one even bore a pith\nhelmet and a clerical atrocity.\n\nQueer as Curran's is, it is comfortable enough. Victoria looked round\nher room, tiny in length and breadth, high however with all the dignity\nthat befits an odd corner left over by the Victorian builder. It was\ndistinguished by its simplicity, for the walls bore nothing whatever\nbeyond a restrained papering of brownish roses. A small black and gold\nbed, a wardrobe with a white handle, a washing stand with a marble top\ntook up all the space left by the large tin trunk which contained most\nof Victoria's worldly goods. So this, thought Victoria, is the\nbeginning. She pulled aside the curtain. Before her lay Seymour Street,\nwhere alone an eye of light shone faintly from the nearest lamp post.\nThrough the fog came the warning noise of a lorry picking its way. It\nwas cold, cold, all this, and lonely like an island.\n\nHer meditations were disturbed by the maid who brought her hot water.\n\n'My name is Carlotta,' said the girl complacently depositing the can\nupon the marble topped washstand.\n\n'Yes?' said Victoria. 'You are a foreigner?'\n\n'Yes. I am Italian. It is foggy,' replied the girl.\n\nVictoria sighed. It was kind of the girl to make her feel at home, to\nsmile at her with those flashing teeth so well set in her ugly little\nbrown face. She went to the washstand and cried out in horror at her\ndirt and fog begrimed face, rimmed at the eyes, furrowed on the left by\nthe course of that tear shed at Waterloo.\n\n'Tell them downstairs I shan't be ready for half an hour,' she said;\n'it'll take me about a week to get quite clean, I should say.'\n\nCarlotta bared her white teeth again and withdrew gently as a cat, while\nVictoria courageously drenched her face and neck. The scents of England,\nalready conjured up by the fog and the mutton, rose at her still more\nvividly from the warm water which inevitably exhales the traditional\nperfume of hot painted can.\n\nHer dinner was a small affair but delightful. It was good to eat and\ndrink once more things to which she had been accustomed for the first\ntwenty years of her life. Her depression had vanished; she was merely\nhungry, and, like the healthy young animal she was, longing for a rare\ncut of roast beef, accompanied by the good old English potatoes boiled\ndown to the consistency of flour and the flavour of nothing. Her\ncompanions were so normal that she could not help wondering, when her\nfirst hunger was sated and she was confronted with the apple tart of her\nfathers, whether she was not in the unchanging old board residence in\nFulham where her mother had stayed with her whenever she came up to\ntown, excited and conscious of being on the spree.\n\nTwo spinsters of no age discussed the fog. Both were immaculate and sat\nrigidly in correct attitudes facing their plates. Both talked quickly\nand continuously in soft but high tones. They passed one another the\nsalt with the courtesy of abbes taking pinches of snuff. A young man\nfrom the Midlands explained to the owner of the clerical hat that under\ncertain circumstances his food would cost him more. Near by a heavy man\nsolemnly and steadily ate, wiping at times from his beard drops of gravy\nand of sauce, whilst his faded wife nibbled disconsolately tiny scraps\nof crust. These she daintily buttered, while her four lanky girls nudged\nand whispered.\n\nVictoria did not stay in the conservatory after the important meal. As\nshe passed through it, a mist of weariness gathering before her eyes,\nshe had a vision of half a dozen men sleeping in cane chairs, or\nstudying pink or white evening papers. The young man from the Midlands\nhad captured another victim and was once more explaining that under\ncertain circumstances his food would cost him more.\n\nVictoria seemed to have reached the limits of physical endurance. She\nfumbled as she divested herself of her clothes; she could not even\ncollect enough energy to wash. All the room seemed filled with haze.\nHer tongue clove to her palate. Little tingles in her eyelids crushed\nthem together over her pupils. She stumbled into her bed, mechanically\nswitching off the light by her bedside. In the very act her arm lost its\nenergy and she sank into a dreamless sleep.\n\nNext morning she breakfasted with good appetite. The fog had almost\nentirely lifted and sunshine soft as silver was filtering through the\nwindows into the little dining-room. Its mahoganous ugliness was almost\nwarmed into charm. The sideboard shone dully through its covering of\ncoarse net. Even the stacked cruets remembered the days when they\ncunningly blazed in a shop window. A pleasurable feeling of excitement\nran through Victoria's body, for she was going to discover London, to\nhave adventures. As she closed the door behind her with a definite\nlittle slam she felt like a buccaneer.\n\nBuccaneering in the Edgware Road, even when it is bathed in the morning\nsun, soon falls flat in November. It came upon Victoria rather as a\nshock that her Indian clothing was rather thin. As her flying visits to\ntown had only left in her mind a very hazy picture of Regent Street it\nwas quite unconsciously that she entered the emporium opposite. A frigid\nyoung lady sacrificed for her benefit an abominable vicuna coat which,\nshe said, fitted Victoria like a glove. Victoria paid the twenty seven\nand six with an admirable feeling of recklessness and left the shop\nreflecting that she looked the complete charwoman.\n\nShe turned into Hyde Park, where the gentle wind was sorrowfully driving\nthe brown and broken leaves along the rough gravel. The thin tracery of\nthe trees imaged itself on the road like a giant cobweb. Victoria looked\nfor a moment towards the south where the massive buildings rise, towards\nthe east where a cathedral thrusts into the sky a tower that\nsuspiciously recalls waterworks. She drank in the cold air with a gusto\nthat can be understood by none save those who have learned to live in\nthe floating moisture of the plains. She felt young and, in the\nsunshine, with her cheeks gaining colour as the wind whipped them, she\nlooked in her long black coat and broad brimmed straw hat, like a\nquakeress in love.\n\nAs she walked down towards the Achilles statue the early morning\npanorama of London unfolded itself before her un-understanding eyes.\nGirls hurried by with their satchels towards the typewriting rooms of\nthe west; they stole a look at Victoria's face but quickly turned away\nfrom her clothes. Now and then spruce young clerks walking to the Tube\nslackened their pace to look twice into her grey eyes; one or two looked\nback, not so much in the hope of an adventure, for time could not be\nsnatched for Venus herself on the way to the office, as to see whether\nthey could carry away with them the flattery of having been noticed.\n\nIn a sense that first day in London was for Victoria a day of\nrevelations. Having despatched a telegram to her brother to announce her\narrival she felt that the day was hers. Ted had not troubled to meet her\neither at Southampton or Waterloo: it was not likely that he had\nfollowed the sightings of her ship. The next day being a Saturday,\nhowever, he would probably come up from the Bedfordshire school where he\nproffered Latin to an ungrateful generation.\n\nVictoria's excursions to London had been so few that she had but the\nfaintest idea of where she was to go. Knowing, however, that one cannot\nlose oneself in London, she walked aimlessly towards the east. It was a\nvoyage of discovery. Piccadilly, bathed in the pale sun, revealed itself\nas a land where luxury flows like rivers of milk. Victoria, being a true\nwoman, could not pass a shop. Thus her progress was slow, so slow that\nwhen she found herself between the lions of Trafalgar Square she began\nto realise that she wanted her lunch.\n\nThe problem of food is cruel for all women who desire more than a bun.\nThey risk either inattention or over attention, and if they follow other\nwomen, they almost invariably discover the cheap and bad. Victoria\nhesitated for a moment on the steps of an oyster shop, as nervous in the\npresence of her first plunge into freedom as a novice at the side door\nof a pawnbroker. A man passed by her into the oyster shop, smoking a\npipe. She felt she would never dare to sit in a room where strange men\nsmoked pipes. Thus she stood for a moment forlorn on the pavement, until\na memory of the only decent grill in town, according to Bobby, passed\nthrough her mind.\n\nA policeman sent her by bus to the New Gaiety, patronised by Bobby and\nhis cronies. As Victoria went down the interminable underground\nstaircase, and especially as she entered the enormous room where paper,\ncarpets, and plate always seem new, her courage almost failed her.\nIndeed she looked round anxiously, half hoping that the anonymous Bobby\nmight be revisiting his old haunts. But she was quite alone, and it was\nonly by reminding herself that she must always be alone at meals now\nthat she coerced herself into sitting down. She got through her meal\nwith expedition. She felt frightfully small; the waiters were painfully\ncourteous; a man laid aside his orange  newspaper, and\nembarrassed her with frequent side glances. She braced herself up\nhowever. 'I am training,' was her uppermost thought. She then wondered\nwhether she ought to have come to the New Gaiety at all. Fortunately it\nwas only at the very end of her lunch that Victoria realised she was the\nonly woman sitting alone. After this discovery her nerve failed her. She\ngot up hurriedly, and, in her confusion, omitted to tip the waiter. At\nthe desk the last stone was heaped on the cairn of her discomfiture when\nthe cashier politely returned to her a quarter rupee which she had given\nher thinking it was a sixpence.\n\nWith a sigh of satisfaction Victoria resumed her walk through London.\nShe was a little tired already but she could think of nothing to do,\nnowhere to go to. She did not want to return to Curran's to sit in her\nbox-like room, or to look at the two spinsters availing themselves of\ntheir holiday in town to play patience in the conservatory.\n\nAll the afternoon, therefore, Victoria saw the sights. Covent Garden\nrepelled her by the massiveness of its food suggestion, and especially\nby the choking dirt of its lanes. After Covent Garden, Savoy court yard\nand its announcements of intellectual plays by unknown women. Then once\nmore, drawn by its spaciousness guessed at through Spring Gardens,\nVictoria walked into Saint James's Park. She rested awhile upon a seat,\nwatching the waterfowl strut and plume themselves, the pelicans flounder\nheavily in the mud. She was tired. The sun was setting early. The magic\nslowly faded from London; Buckingham Palace lost the fictitious grace\nthat it has when set in a blue sky. Victoria shivered a little. She felt\ntired. She did not know where to go. She was alone. On the seat nearest\nto hers two lovers sat together, hand in hand. The man's face was almost\nhidden by his cap and by the blue puffs of his pipe; the girl's was\naverted towards the ground where, with the ferule of her umbrella, she\nlazily drew signs. There was no bitterness in this sight for Victoria.\nHer romance had come and gone so long ago that she looked quite casually\nat these wanderers in Arcadia. She only knew that she was alone and\ncold.\n\nVictoria got up and walked out of the park. It was darkening, and little\nby little the lights of London were springing into life. By dint of many\nquestionings she managed to regain Oxford Street, that spinal column of\nLondon without which the stranger would be lost. Then her course was\neasy, and it was with a peculiar feeling of luxuriousness that she\nresigned herself to the motor bus that jolted and shook her tired body\nuntil she reached the Arch. More slowly, and with diminished optimism,\nshe found her way up Edgware Road, where night was now falling. The\nemporium was dazzling with lights. Alone the public house rivalled it\nand thrust its glare through the settling mist. Victoria closed the door\nof Curran's. At once she re-entered its atmosphere; into the warm air\nrose the three smells of three legs of mutton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n'Mr Wren, ma'am.'\n\nVictoria turned quickly to Carlotta. The girl's face was obtrusively\ndemure. Some years at Curran's had not dulled in her the interest that\nany woman subtly feels in the meeting of the sexes.\n\n'Ask him to come in here, Carlotta,' said Victoria. 'We shan't be\ndisturbed, shall we?'\n\n'Oh no! ma'am,' said Carlotta, with increasing demureness. 'There is\nnobody, nobody. I will show the young gentleman in.'\n\nVictoria walked to the looking-glass which shyly peeped out from the\nback of the monumental sideboard. She re-arranged her hair and hurriedly\nflicked some dust from the corners of her eyes. All this for Edward, but\nshe had not seen him for three years. As she turned round she was\nconfronted by her brother who had gently stolen into the dining-room.\nEdward's every movement was unobtrusive. He put one arm round her and\nkissed her cheek.\n\n'How are you, Victoria?' he said, looking her in the eyes.\n\n'Oh, I'm alright, Ted. I'm so glad to see you.' She was genuinely glad;\nit was so good to have belongings once again.\n\n'Did you have a good passage?' asked Edward.\n\n'Pretty good until we got to Ushant and then it did blow. I was glad to\nget home.'\n\n'I'm very glad to see you,' said Edward, 'very glad.' His eyes fixed on\nthe sideboard as if he were mesmerised by the cruets. Victoria looked\nat him critically. Three years had not made on him the smallest\nimpression. He was at twenty-eight what he had been at twenty-five or\nfor the matter of that at eighteen. He was a tall slim figure with\nnarrow pointed shoulders and a slightly bowed back. His face was pale\nwithout being unhealthy. There was nothing in his countenance to arouse\nany particular interest, for he had those average features that commit\nno man either to coarseness or to intellectuality. He showed no trace of\nthe massiveness of his sister's chin; his mouth too was looser and hung\na little open. Alone his eyes, richly grey, recalled his relationship.\nStraggly fair hair fell across the left side of his forehead. He peered\nthrough silver rimmed spectacles as he nervously worried his watch chain\nwith both hands. Every movement exposed the sharpness of his knees\nthrough his worn trousers.\n\n'Ted,' said Victoria, breaking in upon the silence, 'it was kind of you\nto come up at once.'\n\n'Of course I'd come up at once. I couldn't leave you here alone. It must\nbe a big change after the sunshine.'\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria slowly, 'it is a big change. Not only the sunshine.\nOther things, you know.'\n\nEdward's hands played still more nervously with his watch chain. He had\nnot heard much of the manner of Fulton's death. Victoria's serious face\nencouraged him to believe that she might harrow him with details, weep\neven. He feared any expression of feeling, not because he was hard but\nbecause it was so difficult to know what to say. He was neither hard nor\nsoft; he was a schoolmaster and could deal readily enough with the pangs\nof Andromeda but what should he say to a live woman, his sister too?\n\n'I understand--I--you see, it's quite awful about Dick--' he stopped,\nlost, groping for the proper sentiment.\n\n'Ted,' said Victoria, 'don't condole with me. I don't want to be\nunkind--if you knew everything--But there, I'd rather not tell you; poor\nDicky 's dead and I suppose it's wrong, but I can't be sorry.'\n\nEdward looked at her with some disapproval. The marriage had not been a\nsuccess, he knew that much, but she ought not to speak like that. He\nfelt he ought to reprove her, but the difficulty of finding words\nstopped him.\n\n'Have you made any plans?' he asked in his embarrassment, thus\nblundering into the subject he had intended to lead up to with infinite\ntact.\n\n'Plans?' said Victoria. 'Well, not exactly. Of course I shall have to\nwork; I thought you might help me perhaps.'\n\nEdward looked at her again uneasily. She had sat down in an armchair by\nthe side of the fire with her back to the light. In the penumbra her\neyes came out like dark pools. A curl rippled over one of her ears. She\nlooked so self-possessed that his embarrassment increased.\n\n'Will you have to work?' he asked. The idea of his sister working filled\nhim with vague annoyance.\n\n'I don't quite see how I can help it,' said Victoria smiling. 'You see,\nI've got nothing, absolutely nothing. When I've spent the thirty pounds\nor so I've got, I must either earn my own living or go into the\nworkhouse.' She spoke lightly, but she was conscious of a peculiar\nsinking.\n\n'I thought you might come back with me,' said Edward, '. . . and stay\nwith me a little . . . and look round.'\n\n'Ted, it's awfully kind of you, but I'm not going to let you saddle\nyourself with me. I can't be your housekeeper; oh! it would never do.\nAnd don't you think I am more likely to get something to do here than\ndown in Bedfordshire?'\n\n'I do want you to come back with me,' said Edward hesitatingly. 'I don't\nthink you ought to be alone here. And perhaps I could find you something\nin a family at Cray or thereabouts. I could ask the vicar.'\n\nVictoria shuddered. It had never struck her that employment might be\ndifficult to find or uncongenial when one found it. The words 'vicar'\nand 'Cray' suggested something like domestic service without its rights,\ngentility without its privileges.\n\n'Ted,' she said gravely, 'you're awfully good to me, but I'd rather stay\nhere. I'm sure I could find something to do.' Edward's thoughts\nnaturally came back to his own profession.\n\n'I'll ask the Head,' he said with the first flash of animation he had\nshown since he entered the room. To ask the Head was to go to the source\nof all knowledge. 'Perhaps he knows a school. Of course your French is\npretty good, isn't it?'\n\n'Ted, Ted, you do forget things,' said Victoria, laughing. 'Don't you\nremember the mater insisting on my taking German because so few girls\ndid? Why, it was the only original thing she ever did in her life, poor\ndear!'\n\n'But nobody wants German, for girls that is,' replied Edward miserably.\n\n'Very well then,' said Victoria, 'I won't teach; that's all. I must do\nsomething else.'\n\nEdward walked up and down nervously, pushing back his thin fair hair\nwith one hand, and with the other nervously tugging at his watch chain.\n\n'Don't worry yourself, Ted,' said Victoria. 'Something will turn up.\nBesides there's no hurry. Why, I can live two or three months on my\nmoney, can't I?'\n\n'I suppose you can,' said Edward gloomily, 'but what will you do\nafterwards?'\n\n'Earn some more,' said Victoria. 'Now Ted, you haven't seen me for three\nyears. Don't let us worry. Think things over when you get back to Cray\nand write to me. You won't go back until to-morrow, will you?'\n\n'I'm sorry,' said Edward, 'but I didn't think you'd be back this week. I\nshall be in charge to-morrow. Why don't you come down?'\n\n'Ted, Ted, how can you suggest that I should spend my poor little\nfortune in railway fares! Well, if you can't stay, you can't. But I'll\ntell you what you can do. I can't go on paying two and a half guineas a\nweek here; I must get some rooms. You lived here when you taught at that\nschool in the city, didn't you? Well then, you must know all about it:\nwe'll go house-hunting.'\n\nEdward looked at her dubiously. He disliked the idea of Victoria in\nrooms almost as much as Victoria at Curran's. It offended some vague\nnotions of propriety. However her suggestion would give him time to\nthink. Perhaps she was right.\n\n'Of course, I'll be glad to help,' he said, 'I don't know much about it;\nI used to live in Gower Street.' A faint flush of reminiscent excitement\nrose to his cheeks. Gower Street, by the side of Cray and Lympton, had\nbeen almost adventurous.\n\n'Very well then,' said Victoria, 'we shall go to Gower Street first.\nJust wait till I put on my hat.'\n\nShe ran upstairs, not exactly light of heart, but pleased with the idea\nof house-hunting. There's romance in all seeking, even if the treasure\nis to be found in a Bloomsbury lodging-house.\n\nThe ride on the top of the motor bus was exhilarating. The pale sun of\nNovember was lighting up the streets with the almost mystic whiteness of\nthe footlights. Edward said nothing, for his memories of London were\nstale and he did not feel secure enough to point out the Church of the\nDeaf and Dumb, nor had he ever known his London well enough to be able\nto pronounce judgment on the shops. Besides, Victoria was too much\nabsorbed in gazing at London rolling and swirling beneath her, belching\nout its crowds of workers and pleasure seekers from every tube and main\nstreet. At every shop the omnibus seemed surrounded by a swarm of angry\nbees. Victoria watched them struggle with spirit still unspoiled,\nwondering at the determination on the faces of the men, at the\nbitterness painted on the sharp features of the women as they savagely\nthrust one another aside and, dishevelled and dusty, successively\nconquered their seats. All this, the constant surge of horse and\nmechanical conveyances, the shrill cries of the newsboys flashing pink\npapers like _chulos_ at an angry bull, the roar of the town, made\nVictoria understand the city. Something like fear of this strong\nrestless people crept into her as she began to have a dim perception\nthat she too would have to fight. She was young, however, and the\nfeeling was not unpleasant. Her nerves tingled a little as she thought\nof the struggle to come and the inevitable victory at the end.\n\nVictoria's spirits had not subsided even when she entered Gower Street.\nIts immensity, its interminable length frightened her a little. The\ncontrast between it, so quiet, dignified and dull, and the inferno she\nhad just left behind her impressed her with a sense of security. Its\nhouses, however, seemed so high and dirty that she wondered, looking at\nits thousand windows, whether human beings could be cooped up thus and\nyet retain their humanity.\n\nHere Edward was a little more in his element. With a degree of animation\nhe pointed to the staid beauty of Bedford Square. He demanded admiration\nlike a native guiding a stranger in his own town. Victoria watched him\ncuriously. He was a good fellow but it was odd to hear him raise his\nvoice and to see him point with his stick. He had always been quiet, so\nshe had not expected him to show as much interest as he did in his old\nsurroundings.\n\n'I suppose you had a good time when you were here?' she said.\n\n'Nothing special. I was too busy at the school,' he replied. 'But, of\ncourse, you know, one does things in London. It's not very lively at\nCray.'\n\n'Wouldn't you like to leave Cray,' she said, 'and come back?'\n\nEdward paused nervously. London frightened him a little and the idea of\nleaving Cray suddenly thrust upon him froze him to the bone. It was not\nCray he loved, but Cray meant a life passing gently away by the side of\na few beloved books. Though he had never realised that hedgerows flower\nin the spring and that trees redden to gold and copper in the autumn,\nthe country had taken upon him so great a hold that even the thought of\nleaving it was pain.\n\n'Oh! no,' he said hurriedly. 'I couldn't leave Cray. I couldn't live\nhere, it's too noisy. There are my old rooms, there, the house with the\ntorch extinguishers.'\n\nVictoria looked at him again. What curious tricks does nature play and\nhow strangely she pleases to distort her own work! Then she looked at\nthe house with the extinguishers. Clearly it would be impossible, but\nfor those aristocratic remains, to distinguish it from among half a\ndozen of its fellows. It was a house, that was all. It was faced in\ndirty brick, parted at every floor by stone work. A portico, rising over\nsix stone steps, protected a door painted brown and bearing a brass\nknocker. It had windows, an area, bells. It was impossible to find in it\nan individual detail to remember.\n\nBut Edward was talking almost excitedly for him. 'See there,' he said,\n'those are my old rooms,' pointing indefinitely at the frontage. 'They\nwere quite decent, you know. Wonder whether they're let. You could have\nthem.' He looked almost sentimentally at the home of the Wrens.\n\n'Why not ring and ask?' said Victoria, whose resourcefulness equalled\nthat of Mr Dick.\n\nEdward took another loving look at the familiar window, strode up the\nsteps, followed by Victoria.\n\nThere were several bells. 'Curious,' he said, 'she must have let it out\nin floors; Wakefield and Grindlay, don't know them. Seymour? It's Mrs\nBrumfit's house: Oh! here it is.' He pressed a bell marked 'House.'\nVictoria heard with a curious sensation of unexpectedness the sudden\nshrill sound of the electric bell.\n\nAfter an interminable interval, during which Edward's hands nervously\nplayed, the door opened. A young girl stood on the threshold. She wore a\nred cloth blouse, a black skirt, and an unspeakably dirty apron half\nloose round her waist. Her hair was tightly done up in curlers in\nexpectation of Sunday.\n\n'Mrs Brumfit,' said Edward, 'is she in?'\n\n''oo?' said the girl.\n\n'Mrs Brumfit, the landlady,' said Edward.\n\n'Don't know 'er, try next 'ouse.' The girl tried to shut the door.\n\n'You don't understand,' cried Edward, stopping the door with his hand.\n'I used to live here.'\n\n'Well, wot do yer want?' replied the girl. 'Can't 'elp that, can I?\nThere ain't no Mrs Brumfit 'ere. Only them there.' She pointed at the\nbells. 'Nobody but them and mother. She's the 'ousekeeper. If yer mean\nthe old woman as was 'ere when they turned the 'ouse into flats, she's\ndead.'\n\nEdward stepped back. The girl shut the door with a slam. He stood as if\npetrified. Victoria looked at him with amusement in her eyes, listening\nto the echoes of the girl's voice singing more and more faintly some\ncatchy tune as she descended into the basement.\n\n'Dead,' said Edward, 'can it be possible--?' He looked like a plant torn\nup by the roots. He had jumped on the old ground and it had given way.\n\n'My dear Ted,' said Victoria gently, 'things change, you see.' Slowly\nthey went down the steps of the house. Victoria did not speak, for a\nstrange mixture of pity and disdain was in her. She quite understood\nthat a tie had been severed and that the death of his old landlady meant\nfor Edward that the past which he had vaguely loved had died with her.\nHe was one of those amorphous creatures whose life is so interwoven with\nthat of their fellows that any death throws it into disarray. She let\nhim brood over his lost memories until they reached Bedford Square.\n\n'But Ted,' she broke in, 'where am I to go?'\n\nEdward looked at her as if dazed. Clearly he had not foreseen that Mrs\nBrumfit was not an institution.\n\n'Go?' he said, 'I don't know.'\n\n'Don't you know any other lodgings?' asked Victoria. 'Gower Street seems\nfull of them.'\n\n'Oh! no,' said Edward quickly, 'we don't know what sort of places they\nare. You couldn't go there.'\n\n'But where am I to go then?' Victoria persisted. Edward was silent. 'It\nseems to me,' his sister went on, 'that I shall have to risk it. After\nall, they won't murder me and they can't rob me of much.'\n\n'Please don't talk like that,' said Edward stiffly. He did not like this\nassociation of ideas.\n\n'Well I must find some lodgings,' said Victoria, a little irritably. 'In\nthat case I may as well look round near Curran's. I don't like this\nstreet much.'\n\nIn default of an alternative, Edward looked sulky. Victoria felt\nremorseful; she knew that Gower Street must have become for her brother\nthe traveller's Mecca and that he was vaguely afraid of the West End.\n\n'Never mind, dear,' she went on more gently, 'don't worry about lodgings\nany more. Do you know what you're going to do? you're going to take me\nto tea in some nice place and then I'll go with you to St Pancras;\nthat's the station you said you were going back by, isn't it? and you'll\nput me in a bus and I'll go home. Now, come along, it's past five and\nI'm dying for some tea.'\n\nAs Victoria stood, an hour later, just outside the station in which\nexpires the spirit of Constantine the Great, she could not help feeling\nrelieved. As she stood there, so self-possessed, seeing so clearly the\nbusy world, she wondered why she had been given a broken reed to lean\nupon. Where had her brother left his virility? Had it been sapped by\nyears of self-restraint? Had the formidable code of pretence, the daily\naffectation of dignity, the perpetual giving of good examples, reduced\nhim to this shred of humanity, so timid, so resourceless? As she sped\nhome in the tube into which she had been directed by a policeman, she\nvainly turned over the problem.\n\nFortunately Victoria was young. As she laid her head on the pillow,\nconscious of the coming of Sunday, when nothing could be done, visions\nof things she could do obsessed her. There were lodgings to find, nice,\nclean, cheap lodgings, with a dear old landlady and trees outside the\nwindow, in a pretty old-fashioned house, very very quiet and quite near\nall the tubes. She nursed the ideal for a time. Then she thought of\ncareers. She would read all the advertisements and pick out the nicest\nwork. Perhaps she could be a housekeeper. Or a secretary. On reflection,\na secretary would be better. It might be so interesting. Fancy being\nsecretary to a member of Parliament. Or to a famous author.\n\nShe too might write.\n\nHer dreams were pleasant.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nA WEEK had elapsed and Victoria was beginning to feel the strain. She\nlooked out from the window into the little street where fine rain fell\ngently as if it had decided to do so for ever. It was deserted, save by\na cat who shivered and crouched under the archway of the mews. Sometimes\na horse stirred. Through the open window the hot alcaline smell of the\nanimals filtered slowly.\n\nVictoria had found her lodgings. They were not quite the ideal, but she\nhad not seen the ideal and this little den in Portsea Place was not\nwithout its charms. Her room, for the 'rooms' had turned from the plural\ninto the singular, was comfortable enough. It occupied the front of the\nsecond floor in a small house. It had two windows, from which, by\ncraning out a little, the trees of Connaught Square could be seen\nstanding out like black skeletons against a white house. Opposite was\nthe archway of the mews out of which came most of the traffic of the\nstreet. Under it too was the mart where the landladies who have invaded\nthe little street exchange notes on their lodgers and boast of their\nailments.\n\nVictoria inspected her domain. She had a very big bed, a little inclined\nto creak; she had a table on a pedestal split so cunningly at the base\nthat she was always table-conscious when she sat by it; she had a\nmahogany wash-stand, also on the triangular pedestal loved by the\npre-Morrisites, enriched by a white marble top and splasher. A large\narmchair, smooth and rather treacherous, a small mahogany chest of\ndrawers, every drawer of which took a minute to pull out, some chairs of\nno importance, completed her furniture. The carpet had been of all\ncolours and was now of none. The tablecloth was blue serge and would\nhave been serviceable if it had not contracted the habit of sliding off\nthe mahogany table whenever it was touched. Ugly as it was in every\ndetail, Victoria could not help thinking the room comfortable; its light\npaper saved it and it was not over-loaded with pictures. It had escaped\nwith one text and the 'Sailor's Homecoming.' Besides it was restrained\nin colour and solid: it was comfortable like roast beef and boiled\npotatoes.\n\nVictoria looked at all these things, at her few scattered books, the\npicture of Dick and of a group of school friends, at some of her boots\npiled in a corner. Then she listened and heard nothing. Once more she\nwas struck by the emptiness, the darkness around her. She was alone. She\nhad been alone a whole week, hardly knowing what to do. The excitement\nof choosing lodgings over, she had found time hang heavy on her hands.\nShe had interminably walked in London, gazed at shop windows, read\nhundreds of imbecile picture postcards on bookstalls, gone continually\nto many places in omnibuses. She had stumbled upon South Kensington and\nwandered in its catacombs of stone and brick. She had discovered\nHampstead, lost herself horribly near Albany Street; she had even\nunexpectedly landed in the City where rushing mobs had hustled and\nbattered her.\n\nFaithful to her resolve she had sedulously read the morning papers and\napplied for several posts as housekeeper without receiving any answers.\nShe had realised that answering advertisements must be an art and had\nbecome quite conscious that employment was not so easy to find as she\nthought. Nobody seemed to want secretaries, except the limited\ncompanies, about which she was not quite clear. As these mostly required\nthe investment of a hundred pounds or more she had not followed them up.\n\nShe paced up and down in her room. The afternoon was wearing. Soon the\nman downstairs would come back and slam the door. A little later the\nyoung lady in the City would gently enter the room behind hers and,\nafter washing in an unobtrusive manner, would discreetly leave for an\nhour. Meanwhile nothing broke the silence, except the postman's knock\ncoming nearer and nearer along Portsea Place. It fell unheeded even on\nher own front door, for Victoria's ears were already attuned to the\nsound. It meant nothing.\n\nShe walked up and down nervously. She looked at herself in the glass.\nShe was pretty she thought, with her creamy skin and thick hair; her\neyes too were good; what a pity her chin was so thick. That's why Dicky\nused to call her 'Towzer.' Poor old Dicky!\n\nShuffling footsteps rose up the stairs. Then a knock. At Victoria's\ninvitation, a woman entered. It was Mrs Bell, the landlady.\n\n'Why, ma'am, you're sitting in the dark! Let me light the lamp,' cried\nMrs Bell, producing a large wooden box from a capacious front pocket.\nShe lit the lamp and a yellow glow filled the room, except the corners\nwhich remained in darkness.\n\n'Here's a letter for you, ma'am,' said Mrs Bell holding it out. As\nVictoria took it, Mrs Bell beamed on her approvingly. She liked her new\nlodger. She had already informed the gathering under the archway that\nshe was a real lady. She had a leaning for real ladies, having been a\nparlourmaid previous to marrying a butler and eking out his income by\nletting rooms.\n\n'Thank you, Mrs Bell,' said Victoria, 'it was kind of you to come up.'\n\n'Oh! ma'am, no trouble I can assure you,' said Mrs Bell, with a mixture\nof respect and patronage. She wanted to be kind to her lodger, but she\nfound a difficulty in being kind to so real a lady.\n\nVictoria saw the letter was from Edward and opened it hurriedly. Mrs\nBell hesitated, looking with her black dress, clean face and grey hair,\nthe picture of the respectable maid. Then she turned and struggled out\non her worn shoes, the one blot on her neatness. Victoria read the\nletter, bending perilously over the lamp which smoked like a funnel. The\nletter was quite short; it ran:\n\n    'My dear Victoria,--I am sorry I could not write before now, but I\n    wanted to have some news to give you. I am glad to say that I have\n    been able to interest the vicar on your behalf. He informs me that\n    if you will call at once on Lady Rockham, 7a Queen's Gate, South\n    Kensington, S.W., she may be in a position to find you a post in a\n    family of standing. He tells me she is most capable and kind. He is\n    writing to her. I shall come to London and see you soon.--Yours\n    affectionately,\n\n    EDWARD.'\n\nVictoria fingered the letter lovingly. Perhaps she was going to have a\nchance after all. It was good to have something to do. Indeed it seemed\nalmost too good to be true; she had vaguely resigned herself to\nunemployment. Of course something would ultimately turn up, but the what\nand when and how thereof were dangerously dim. She hardly cared to face\nthese ideas; indeed she dismissed them when they occurred to her with a\nmixture of depression and optimism. Now, however, she was buoyant again.\nThe family of standing would probably pay well and demand little. It\nwould mean the theatres, the shops, flowers, the latest novels, no end\nof nice things. A little work too, of course, driving in the Park with a\ndear dowager with the most lovely white hair.\n\nShe ate an excellent and comparatively expensive dinner in an Oxford\nStreet restaurant and went to bed early for the express purpose of\nmaking plans until she fell asleep. She was still buoyant in the\nmorning. Connaught Square looked its best and even South Kensington's\nstony face melted into smiles when it caught sight of her. Lady\nRockham's was a mighty house, the very house for a family of standing.\n\nVictoria walked up the four steep steps of the house where something of\nher fate was to be decided. She hesitated for an instant and then, being\nhealthily inclined to take plunges, pulled the bell with a little more\nvigour than was in her heart. It echoed tremendously. The quietude of\nQueen's Gate stretching apparently for miles towards the south,\nincreased the terrifying noise. Victoria's anticipations were half\npleasureable, half fearsome; she felt on the brink of an adventure and\nrecalled the tremor with which she had entered the New Gaiety for the\nfirst time. Measured steps came nearer and nearer from the inside of the\nhouse; a shape silhouetted itself vaguely on the stained glass of the\ndoor.\n\nShe mustered sufficient coolness to tell the butler that she wished to\nsee Lady Rockham, who was probably expecting her. As the large and solid\nman preceded her along an interminable hall, she felt rather than saw\nthe thick Persian rug stretching along the crude mosaic of the floor,\nthe red paper on the walls almost entirely hidden by exceedingly large\nand new pictures. Over her head a ponderous iron chandelier carrying\nmany electric lamps blotted out most of the staircase.\n\nFor some minutes she waited in the dining-room into which she had been\nshown; for the butler was not at all certain, from a look at the\nvisitor's mourning, that she was quite entitled to the boudoir.\nVictoria's square chin and steady eyes saved her, however, from having\nto accommodate her spine to the exceeding perpendicularity of the\nhigh-backed chairs in the hall. The dining-room, ridiculous thought,\nreminded her of Curran's. In every particular it seemed the same. There\nwas the large table with the thick cloth of indefinite design and\ncolour. The sideboard too was there, larger and richer perhaps, of\nSpanish mahogany not an inch of which was left bare of garlands of\nflowers or archangelic faces. It carried Curran's looking-glass;\nCurran's cruets were replaced by a number of cups which proclaimed that\nCharles Rockham had once won the Junior Sculls, and more recently, the\nspring handicap of the Kidderwick Golf Club. The walls were red as in\nthe hall and profusely decorated with large pictures representing\nvarious generations having tea in old English gardens, decorously garbed\nRoman ladies basking by the side of marble basins, and such like\nsubjects. Twelve chairs, all high backed and heavily groined, were\nranged round the walls, with the exception of a large carving chair,\nstanding at the head of the table, awaiting one who was clearly the head\nof a household. Victoria was looking pensively at the large black marble\nclock representing the temple in which the Lares and Penates of South\nKensington usually dwell, when the door opened and a vigorous rustle\nentered the room.\n\n'I am very glad to see you, Mrs Fulton,' remarked the owner of the\nrustle. 'I have just received a letter from Mr Meaker, the vicar of\nCray. A most excellent man. I am sure we can do something for you.\nSomething quite nice.'\n\nVictoria looked at Lady Rockham with shyness and surprise. Never had she\nseen anything so majestic. Lady Rockham had but lately attained her\nladyhood by marrying a knight bachelor whose name was a household word\nin the wood-paving world. She felt at peace with the universe. Her large\nsilk clad person was redolent with content. She did not vulgarly beam.\nShe merely was. On her capacious bosom large brooches rose and fell\nrhythmically. Her face was round and smooth as her voice. Her eyes were\nalmost severely healthy.\n\n'I am sure it is very kind of you,' said Victoria. 'I don't know anybody\nin London, you see.'\n\n'That will not matter; that will not matter at all,' said Lady Rockham.\n'Some people prefer those whose connections live in the country, yes,\nabsolutely prefer them. Why, friends come to me every day, and they are\nclamouring for country girls, absolutely clamouring. I do hope you are\nnot too particular. For things are difficult in London. So very\ndifficult.'\n\n'Yes, I know,' murmured Victoria, thinking of her unanswered\napplications. 'But I'm not particular at all. If you can find me\nanything to do, Lady Rockham, I should be so grateful.'\n\n'Of course, of course. Now let me see. A young friend of mine has just\nstarted a poultry farm in Dorset. She is doing very well. Oh! very well.\nOf course you want a little capital. But such a very nice occupation for\na young woman. The capital is often the difficulty. Perhaps you would\nnot be prepared to invest much?'\n\n'No, I'm afraid I couldn't,' faltered Victoria, wondering at what figure\ncapital began.\n\n'No, no, quite right,' purred Lady Rockham, 'I can see you are quite\nsensible. It is a little risky too. Yet my young friend is doing well,\nvery well, indeed. Her sister is in Johannesburg. She went out as a\ngoverness and now she is married to a mine manager. There are so few\ngirls in the country. Oh! he is quite a nice man, a little rough, I\nshould say, but quite suitable.'\n\nVictoria wondered for a moment whether her Ladyship was going to suggest\nsending her out to Johannesburg to marry a mine manager, but the\nPresence resumed.\n\n'No doubt you would rather stay in London. Things are a little difficult\nhere, but very pleasant, very pleasant indeed.'\n\n'I don't mind things being difficult,' Victoria broke in, mustering a\nlittle courage. 'I must earn my own living and I don't mind what I do;\nI'd be a nursery governess, or a housekeeper, or companion. I haven't\ngot any degrees, I couldn't quite be a governess, but I'd try anything.'\n\n'Certainly, certainly, I'm sure we will find something very nice for\nyou. I can't think of anybody just now but leave me your address. I'll\nlet you know as soon as I hear of anything.' Lady Rockham gently crossed\nher hands over her waistband and benevolently smiled at her protegee.\n\nVictoria wrote down her address and listened patiently to Lady Rockham\nwho discoursed at length on the imperfections of the weather, the\nnoisiness of London streets and the prowess of Charles Rockham on the\nKidderwick links. She felt conscious of having to return thanks for what\nshe was about to receive.\n\nLady Rockham's kindness persisted up to the door to which she showed\nVictoria. She dismissed her with the Parthian shot that 'they would find\nsomething for her, something quite nice.'\n\nVictoria walked away; cold gusts of wind struck her, chilling her to the\nbone, catching and furling her skirts about her. She felt at the same\ntime cheered and depressed. The interview had been inconclusive.\nHowever, as she walked over the Serpentine bridge, under which the wind\nwas angrily ruffling the black water, a great wave of optimism came over\nher; for it was late, and she remembered that in the Edgware Road, there\nwas a small Italian restaurant where she was about to lunch.\n\nIt was well for Victoria that she was an optimist and a good sleeper,\nfor November had waned into December before anything happened to disturb\nthe tenor of her life. For a whole fortnight she had heard nothing from\nLady Rockham or from Edward. She had written to Molly but had received\nno answer. All day long the knocker fell with brutal emphasis upon the\ndoors of Portsea Place and brought her nothing. She did not think much\nor hope much. She did nothing and spent little. Her only companion was\nMrs Bell, who still hovered round her mysterious lodger, so ladylike and\nso quiet.\n\nShe passed hours sometimes at the window watching the stream of life in\nPortsea Place. The stream did not flow very swiftly; its principal\neddies vanished by midday with the milkman and the butcher. The postman\nrecurred more often but he did not count. Now and then the policeman\npassed and spied suspiciously into the archway where the landladies no\nlonger met. Cabs trotted into it now and then to change horses.\n\nVictoria watched alone. Beyond Mrs Bell, she seemed to know nobody. The\nyoung man downstairs continued to be invisible, and contented himself\nwith slamming the door. The young lady in the back room continued to\nwash discreetly and to snore gently at night. Sometimes Victoria\nventured abroad to be bitten by the blast. Sometimes she strayed over\nthe town in the intervals of food. She had to exercise caution in this,\nfor an aspect of the lodging house fire had only lately dawned upon her.\nIf she did not order it at all she was met on the threshold by darkness\nand cold; if she ordered it for a given time she was so often late that\nshe returned to find it dead or kept up wastefully at the rate of\nsixpence a scuttle. This trouble was chronic; on bitter days it seemed\nto dog her footsteps.\n\nShe had almost grown accustomed to loneliness. Alone she watched at her\nwindow or paced the streets. She had established a quasi-right to a\ncertain seat at the Italian restaurant where the waiters had ceased to\nspeculate as to who she was. The demoralisation of unemployment was upon\nher. She did not cast up her accounts; she rose late, made no plans. She\nslept and ate, careless of the morrow.\n\nIt was in the midst of this slow settling into despond that a short note\nfrom Lady Rockham arrived like a bombshell. It asked her to call on a Mrs\nHolt who lived in Finchley Road. It appeared that Mrs Holt was in need\nof a companion as her husband was often away. Victoria was shaken out of\nher torpor. In a trice her optimism crushed out of sight the flat\nthoughts of aimless days. She feverishly dressed for the occasion. She\ndebated whether she would have time to insert a new white frill into the\nneck of a black blouse. Heedless of expenditure she spent two and eleven\npence on new black gloves, and twopence on the services of a shoeblack\nwho whistled cheerful tunes, and smiled on the coppers. Victoria sallied\nout to certain victory. The wind was blowing balmier. A fitful gleam of\nsunshine lit up and reddened the pile of tangerines in a shop window.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n'I'M very sorry you can't come,' said Mrs Holt.\n\n'Last Sunday, Mr Baker was so nice. I never heard anything so\ninteresting as his sermon on the personal devil. I was quite frightened.\nAt least I would have been if he had said all that at Bethlehem. You\nknow, when we were at Rawsley we had such nice lantern lectures. I do\nmiss them.'\n\nVictoria looked up with a smile at the kindly red face. 'I'm so sorry,'\nshe said, 'I've got such a headache. Perhaps it'll pass over if I go for\na little walk while you are at Church.' She was not unconscious, as she\nsaid this, of the subtle flattery that the use of the word 'church'\nimplies when used to people who dare not leave their chapel.\n\n'Do, Victoria, I'm sure it will do you good,' said Mrs Holt, kindly. 'If\nthe sun keeps on, we'll go to the Zoo this afternoon. I do like to see\nthe children in the monkey house.'\n\n'I'm sure I shall be glad to go,' said Victoria quietly. 'It's very kind\nof you to take me.'\n\n'Nonsense, my dear,' replied Mrs Holt, gently beaming. 'You are like the\nsunshine, you know. Dear me! I don't know what I should have done if I\nhadn't found you. You can't imagine the woman who was here before you.\nShe was the daughter of a clergyman, and I did get so tired of hearing\nhow they lost their money. But, there, I'm worrying you when you've got\na headache. I do wish you'd try Dr Eberman's pills. All the papers are\nsimply full of advertisements about them. And these German doctors are\nso clever. Oh, I shall be so late.'\n\nVictoria assured her that she was sure her head would be better by\ndinner time. Mrs Holt fussed about the room for a moment, anxiously\ntested the possible dustiness of a bracket, pulled the curtains and\npicked up the Sunday papers from the floor. She then collected a small\ncanvas bag decorated with a rainbow parrot, a hymn and service book, her\nspectacle case, several unnecessary articles which happened to be about\nand left the room with the characteristic rustle which pervades the\nblack silk dresses of well-to-do Rawsley dames.\n\nVictoria sat back in the large leather armchair. Her head was not very\nbad but she felt just enough in her temples a tiny passing twinge to\nshirk chapel without qualms. She toyed with a broken backed copy of\n_Charlton on Book-Keeping_ which lay in her lap. It was a curious fate\nthat had landed her into Charlton's epoch making work. Mrs Holt, that\nprince of good fellows, had a genius for saving pennies and had been\ntrained in the school of a Midland household, but the fortunes of her\nhusband had left her feebly struggling in a backwash of pounds. So much\nhad this been the case that Mr Holt had discovered joyfully that he had\nat last in his house a woman who could bring herself to passing an\naccount for twenty pounds for stabling. Little by little Victoria had\nestablished her position. She was Mrs Holt's necessary companion and\nfactotum. She could apparently do anything and do it well; she could\neven tackle such intricate tasks as checking washing or understanding\nBradshaw. She was always ready and always bright. She had an unerring\neye for a good quality of velvet; she could time the carriage to a\nnicety for the Albert Hall concert. Mrs Holt felt that without this\npleasant and competent young woman she would be quite lost.\n\nMr Holt, too, after inspecting Victoria grimly every day for an entire\nmonth, had decided that she would do and had lent her the work on\nbook-keeping, hoping that she would be able to keep the house accounts.\nIn three months he had not addressed her twenty times beyond wishing her\ngood morning and good night. He had but reluctantly left Rawsley and his\nbeloved cement works to superintend his ever growing London business. He\nwas a little suspicious of Victoria's easy manners; suspicious of her\nintentions, too, as the northerner is wont to be. Yet he grudgingly\nadmitted that she was level headed, which was 'more than Maria or his\nfool of a son would ever be.'\n\nVictoria thought for a moment of Holt, the book-keeping, the falling due\nof insurance premiums; then of Mrs Holt who had just stepped into her\ncarriage which was slowly proceeding down the drive, crunching into the\nhard gravel. A gleam of sunshine fitfully lit up the polished panels of\nthe clumsy barouche as it vanished through the gate.\n\nThis then was her life. It might well have been worse. Mr Holt sometimes\nlet a rough kindness appear through an exterior as hard as his own\ncement. Mrs Holt, stout, comfortable and good-tempered, quite\nincompetent when it came to controlling a house in the Finchley Road,\nwas not of the termagant type that Victoria had expected when she became\na companion. Her nature, peaceful as that of a mollusc, was kind and had\nbut one outstanding feature; her passionate devotion to her son Jack.\n\nVictoria thought that she might well be content to pass the remainder of\nher days among these good folk. From the bottom of her heart mild\ndiscontent rose every now and then. It was a little dull. Tuesday was\nlike Monday and probably like the Tuesday after next. The glories of the\ntown, which she had caught sight of during her wanderings, before she\nfloated into the still waters of the Finchley Road, haunted her at\ntimes. The motor buses too, which perpetually carried couples to the\ntheatre, the crowds in Regent Street making for the tea-shops, while the\nbarouche trotted sedately up the hill, all this life and adventure were\nclosed off.\n\nVictoria was not unhappy. She drifted in that singular psychological\nregion where the greatest possible pain is not suffering and where the\nacme of possible pleasure is not joy. She did not realise that this\nnegative condition was almost happiness, and yet did not precisely\nrepine. The romance of her life, born at Lympton, now slept under the\ntamarinds. The stupefaction of the search for work, the hopes and fears\nof December, all that lay far away in those dark chambers of the brain\ninto which memory cannot force a way but swoons on the threshold.\n\nYes, she was happy enough. Her eyes, casting through the bay window over\nthe evergreens, trimly stationed and dusty, strayed over the low wall.\nOn the other side of the road stood another house, low and solid as this\none, beautiful though ugly in its strength and worth. It is not the\nhouse you live in that matters, thought Victoria, unconsciously\ncommitting plagiarism, but the house opposite. The house she lived in\nwas well enough. Its inhabitants were kind, the servants respectful,\neven the mongrel Manchester terrier with the melancholy eyes of some\ncollie ancestor did not gnaw her boots.\n\nShe let her hands fall into her lap and, for a minute, sat staring into\nspace, seeing with extraordinary lucidity those things to come which a\nmovement dispels and swathes with the dense fog of forgetfulness. With\nterrible clarity she saw the life of the last three months and the life\nto come, as it was in the beginning ever to be.\n\nThe door opened softly. Before she had time to turn round two hands were\nclapped over her eyes. She struggled to free herself, but the hands grew\nmore insistent and two thumbs softly touched her cheeks.\n\n'Dimple, dimple,' said a voice, while one of the thumbs gently dwelled\nnear the corner of her mouth.\n\nVictoria struggled to her feet, a little flushed, a strand of hair\nflying over her left ear.\n\n'Mr Jack,' she said rather curtly, 'I don't like that. You know you\nmustn't do that. It's not fair. I really don't like it.' She was angry;\nher nostrils opened and shut quickly; she glared at the good looking boy\nbefore her.\n\n'Naughty temper,' he remarked, quite unruffled. 'You'll take a fit one\nof these days, Vicky, if you don't look out.'\n\n'Very likely if you give me starts like that. Not that I mind that so\nmuch, but really it's not nice of you. You know you wouldn't do that if\nyour mother was looking.'\n\n'Course I wouldn't,' said Jack, 'the old mater's such a back number, you\nknow.'\n\n'Then,' replied Victoria with much dignity, 'you ought not to do things\nwhen we're alone which you wouldn't do before her.'\n\n'Oh Lord! morals again,' groaned the youth. 'You are rough on me,\nVicky.'\n\n'And you mustn't call me Vicky,' said Victoria. 'I don't say I mind, but\nit isn't the thing. If anybody heard you I don't know what they'd\nthink.'\n\n'Who cares!' said Jack in his most dare devil style, putting his hand on\nthe back of hers and stroking it softly. Victoria snatched her hand away\nand went to the window, where she seemed absorbed in the contemplation\nof the evergreens. Jack looked a little nonplussed. He was an attractive\nyouth and looked about twenty. He had the fresh complexion and blue\neyes of his father but differed from him by a measure of delicacy. His\ntall body was a little bent; his face was all pinks and whites set off\nby the blackness of his straight hair. He well deserved his school\nnickname of Kathleen Mavourneen. His long thin hands, which would have\nbeen aristocratic but for the slight thickness of the joints, branded\nhim a poet. He was not happy in the cement business.\n\nJack stepped up to the window. 'Sorry,' he said, as humbly as possible.\nVictoria did not move.\n\n'Won't never do it again,' he said, pouting like a scolded child.\n\n'It's no good,' answered Victoria, 'I'm not going to make it up.'\n\n'I shall go and drown myself in the Regent Canal,' said Jack dolefully.\n\n'I'd rather you went for a walk along the banks,' said Victoria.\n\n'I will if you'll come too,' answered Jack.\n\n'No, I'm not going out. I've got a headache. Look here, I'll forgive you\non condition that you go out now and if you'll do that perhaps you can\ncome with your mother and me to the Zoo this afternoon.'\n\n'All right then,' grumbled the culprit, 'you're rather hard on me.\nAlways knew you didn't like me. Sorry.'\n\nVictoria looked out again. A minute later Jack came out of the house\nand, pausing before the window, signed to her to lift up the sash.\n\n'What do you want now?' asked Victoria, thrusting her head out.\n\n'It's a bargain about the Zoo, isn't it?'\n\n'Yes, of course it is, silly boy. I've got several children's tickets.'\n\nJack made a wry face, but walked away with a queer little feeling of\nexultation. 'Silly boy.' She had called him 'silly boy.' Victoria\nwatched him go with some perplexity. The young man was rather a\nproblem. Not only did his pretty face and gentle ways appeal to her in\nthemselves, but he had told her something of his thoughts and they did\nnot run on cement. His father had thrust him into his business as men of\nhis type naturally force their sons into their own avocation whatever it\nbe. Victoria knew that he was not happy and was sorry for him; how could\nshe help feeling sorry for this lonely youth who had once printed a\nrondeau in the _Westminster Gazette_.\n\nJack had taken to her at once. All that was delicate and feminine in him\ncalled out to her square chin and steady eyes. Often she had seen him\nlook hungrily at her strong hands where bone and muscle plainly showed.\nBut, in his wistful way, Jack had begun to embarrass her. He was making\nlove to her in a sense, sometimes sportively, sometimes plaintively, and\nhe was difficult to resist.\n\nVictoria saw quite well that trouble must ensue. She would not allow the\nboy to fall in love with her when all she could offer was an almost\nmotherly affection. Besides, they could not marry; it would be absurd.\nShe was puzzled as to what to do. Everything tended to complicate the\nsituation for her. She had once been to the theatre with Jack and\nremembered with anxiety how his arm had rested against hers in the cab\nand how, when he leaned over towards her to speak, she had felt him\nslowly inhaling the scents of her hair.\n\nShe had promised herself that Jack should be snubbed. And now he played\npranks on her. It must end in their being caught in an ambiguous\nattitude and then she would be blamed. She might tell Mrs Holt, but then\nwhat would be her position in the household? Jack would sulk and Mrs\nHolt would watch them suspiciously until the situation became\nintolerable and she had to leave. Leave! no, no, she couldn't do that.\nWith sudden vividness Victoria pictured the search for work, the silence\nof Portsea Place, the Rialto-like archway, Mrs Bell, and the cold, the\nloneliness. Events must take their course.\n\nLike the rasp of a corncrake she heard the wheels of the barouche on the\ngravel. Mrs Holt had returned from the discourse on the personal devil.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n'THOMAS,' said Mrs Holt with some hesitation.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Holt. 'What is it?'\n\n'Oh! nothing,' said Mrs Holt. 'Just a queer idea. Nothing worth talking\nabout.'\n\n'Well, come again when it is worth talking about,' growled Mr Holt,\nrelapsing into his newspaper.\n\n'Of course there's nothing in it,' remarked Mrs Holt pertinaciously.\n\n'Nothing in what?' her husband burst forth. 'What do you mean, Maria?\nHave you got anything to say or not? If you have, let's have it out.'\n\n'I was only going to say that Jack . . . of course I don't think that\nVictoria sees it, but you understand he's a very young man, but I don't\nblame her, he's such a funny boy,' said Mrs Holt lucidly.\n\n'Good heavens, Maria,' cried her husband, 'do you want me to smash\nsomething?'\n\n'How you do go on,' remarked Maria placidly. 'What I meant to say is\nthat don't you think Jack's rather too attentive to Victoria?'\n\nMr Holt dropped his paper suddenly. 'Attentive?' he growled, 'haven't\nnoticed it.'\n\n'Oh! you men never notice things,' replied Mrs Holt with conscious\nsuperiority. 'Don't say I didn't warn you, that's all.'\n\n'Now look here, Maria,' said Mr Holt, his blue eyes darkening visibly,\n'I don't want any more of this tittle tattle. You can keep it for the\nnext P.S.A. I can tell you that if the young cub is \"attentive\" to Mrs\nFulton, well, so much the better: it'll teach him something worth\nknowing if he finds out that there's somebody else in the world who's\nworth doing something for beyond _his_ precious self.'\n\n'Very well, very well,' purred Mrs Holt. 'If you take it like that, I\ndon't mind, Thomas. Don't say I didn't warn you if anything happens.\nThat's all.'\n\nMr Holt got up from the leather chair and left the room. There were\nmoments when his wife roused in him the fury that filled him when once,\nin his young days, he had dropped steel bolts into the cement grinders\nto gratify a grudge against an employer. The temper that had made him\nrejoice over the sharp cracks speaking of smashed axles was in him\nstill. He had got above the social stratum where husbands beat their\nwives, but innuendoes and semi-secrets goaded him almost to paroxysm.\n\nMrs Holt heard the door slam and coolly took up her work. She was\nengaged in the congenial task of disfiguring a piece of Morris chintz.\nShe had decided that the little bag given her by an aesthetic friend was\ntoo flat and she was busily employed in embroidering the 'eyebright'\npattern, with  wool in the most approved early Victorian manner.\n'At any rate,' she thought, 'Thomas has got the idea in his head.'\n\nMrs Holt had not arrived at her determination to awaken her husband's\nsuspicions without much thought. She had begun to realise that\n'something was wrong' one Sunday afternoon at the Zoo. She had taken\nJack and Victoria in the barouche, putting down to a fit of filial\naffection the readiness of Jack to join them. She had availed herself of\nthe opportunity to drive round the Circle; so as to show off her adored\nson to the Bramleys, who were there in their electric, to the Wilsons,\nwho were worth quite fifty thousand a year, to the Wellensteins too, who\nseemed to do so wonderfully well on the Stock Exchange. Jack had taken\nit very nicely indeed.\n\nAll the afternoon Jack had remained with them; he had bought animal\nfood, found a fellow to take them into the pavilion, and even driven\nhome with them. It was when he helped his charges into the carriage that\nMrs Holt had noticed something. He first handed his mother in and then\nVictoria. Mrs Holt had seen him put his hand under Victoria's forearm,\nwhich was quite ordinary, but she had also seen him hold her in so doing\nby the joint of her short sleeve and long glove where a strip of white\nskin showed and slip two fingers under the glove. This was not so\nordinary and Mrs Holt began to think.\n\nWhen a Rawsley dame begins to think of things such as these, her\nconscience invariably demands of her that she should know more. Mrs Holt\ntherefore said nothing, but kept a watchful eye on the couple. She could\nurge nothing against Victoria. Her companion remained the cheerful and\ncompetent friend of the early days; she was no more amiable to Jack than\nto his father: she talked no more to him than to the rest of the\nhousehold; she did not even look at him much. But Jack was always about\nher; his eyes followed her round the room, playing with every one of her\nmovements. Whenever she smiled his lips fluttered in response.\n\nMrs Holt passed slowly through the tragic stages that a mother goes\nthrough when her son loves. She was not very anxious as to the results\nof the affair, for she knew Jack, though she loved him. She knew that\nhis purpose was never strong. Also she trusted Victoria. But, every day\nand inevitably, the terrible jealousy that invades a mother's soul crept\nfurther into hers. He was her son and he was wavering from an allegiance\nthe pangs of childbirth had entitled her to.\n\nMrs Holt loved her son, and, like most of those who love, would torture\nthe being that was all in all for her. She would have crushed his\nthoughts if she had felt able to do so, so as to make him more\nmalleable; she rejoiced to see him safely anchored to the cement\nbusiness, where nothing could distract him; she even rejoiced over his\nweakness, for she enjoyed the privilege of giving him strength. She\nwould have ground to powder his ambitions, so that he might be more\nfully her son, hers, hers only.\n\nThe stepping in of the other woman, remote and subtle as it was, was a\nterrible thing. She felt it from afar as the Arabian steed hears the\ncoming simoon moaning beyond the desert. With terrible lucidity she had\nseen everything that passed for a month after that fatal day at the Zoo,\nwhen Jack touched Victoria's arm. She saw his looks, stolen from his\nmother's face, heard the softness of his voice which was often sharp for\nher. Like gall, his little attentions, the quick turn of his face, a\nflush sometimes, entered into and poisoned her soul. He was her son;\nand, with all the ruthless, entirely animal cruelty of the mother, she\nhad begun to swear to herself that he should be hers and hers only, and\nthat she would hug him in her arms, aye, hug him to death if need be, if\nonly in her arms he died.\n\nSavagely selfish as a good mother, however, Mrs Holt remembered that she\nmust go slowly, collect her evidence, allow the fruit to ripen before\nshe plucked it. Thus she retained her outward kindnesses for Victoria,\nspoke her fair, threw her even into frequent contact with her son. And\nevery day she tortured herself with all the tiny signs that radiate from\na lover's face like aerolites from the blazing tail of a comet. Now her\ncase was complete. She had seen Jack lean over Victoria while she was on\nher knees dusting some books, and let his hand dwell on hers. She had\nseen his face all alight, his mouth a little open, breathing in the\nfragrance of this woman, the intruder. And the iron had entered into the\nmother's heart so sharply that she had to hurry away unseen for fear she\nshould cry out.\n\nMrs Holt dropped her little work bag. She wondered whether her husband\nwould see. Would she have to worry him placidly for months as she\nusually had to when she wanted her own way? Or would he understand and\nside with her? She did not know that women are intuitive, for she knew\nnothing either of women or men, but she felt perfectly certain that she\nwas cleverer than Thomas Holt. If he would not see, then she would have\nto show him, even if she had to plot for her son's sake.\n\nThe door opened suddenly. Thomas Holt entered. His face was perturbed,\nhis jaw setting grimly between the two deep folds in his cheeks. That\nwas the face of his bad days.\n\n'Well, Thomas?' ventured his wife hesitatingly.\n\n'You were right, Maria,' answered Holt after a pause. 'Jack's a bigger\nfool than I thought him.'\n\n'Ah!' said Mrs Holt with meaning, her heart beating a sharp tatoo.\n\n'I was standing on the first landing,' Holt went on. 'I saw them at the\ndoor of the smoke-room. He asked her for a flower from her dress; she\nwouldn't give it him; he reached over and pulled one away.'\n\n'Yes?' said Mrs Holt, everything in her quivering.\n\n'Put his arm round her, though she pushed him off, and kissed her.'\n\nMrs Holt clasped her hands together. A sharp pang had shot through her.\n'What are you going to do?' she asked.\n\n'Do?' said Holt. 'Sack her of course. Send him up to Rawsley. Damn the\nyoung fool.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nBreakfast is so proverbially dismal, that dismalness becomes good form;\nhumanity feels silent and liverish, so it grudges Providence its due,\nfor it cannot return thanks for the precocious blessings of the day.\nSuch was breakfast at Finchley Road, and Victoria would not have noticed\nit on that particular morning had the silence not somehow been eloquent.\nShe could feel, if not see storm clouds on the horizon.\n\nMr Holt sat over his eggs and bacon, eating quickly with both hands,\nevery now and then soiling the napkin tightly tucked into the front of\nhis low collar. There was nothing abnormal in this, except perhaps that\nhe kept his eyes more closely glued than usual to the table cloth;\nmoreover, he had not unfolded the paper. Therefore he had not looked up\nthe prices of Industrials. This was singular. Mrs Holt never said much\nat breakfast, in deference to her husband, but this morning her silence\nwas somewhat ostentatious. She handed Victoria her tea. Victoria passed\nher the toast and hardly heard her 'thank you.'\n\nJack sat more abstracted than ever. He was feeling very uncomfortable.\nHe wavered between the severe talking to he had received from Victoria\nthe previous afternoon and the sulkiness of his parents. Of course he\nwas feeling depressed, but he could not tell why. Victoria's mere nod of\nacceptance when he offered her the salt, and his mother's curt refusal\nof the pepper did not contribute to make him easier in his mind. Mrs\nHolt cleared her throat: 'Blowing up for rain, Thomas,' she said. Mr\nHolt did not move a muscle. He helped himself to marmalade. Stolid\nsilence once more reigned over the breakfast table. Jack stole a\nsidelong glance at Victoria. Her eyes were fixed upon her hands crossed\nbefore her. Jack's eyes dwelled for a moment on their shapely strength,\nthen upon the firm white nape of her bent neck. An insane desire\npossessed him to jump up, seize her in his arms, crush his lips into\nthat spot where the dark tendrils of her hair began. He repressed it,\nand considered the grandfather's clock which had once ticked in a\npeasant Holt's kitchen. To-day it ticked with almost horrible\ndeliberation.\n\nJack found that he had no appetite. Forebodings were at work with him.\nPerhaps Vic had told. Of course not, she couldn't be such a fool. What a\nbeastly room it was! Sideboard must weigh a ton. And those red curtains!\nawful, simply awful. Good God, why couldn't he get out of the damned\nplace and take Vic with him. Couldn't do that yet of course, but\ncouldn't stick it much longer. He'd be off to the City now. Simply awful\nhere. Jack rose to his feet suddenly, so suddenly that his chair tilted\nand fell over.\n\nMrs Holt looked up. 'I wish you wouldn't be so noisy, Jack,' she said.\n\n'Sorry, mater,' said Jack, going round to her and bending down to kiss\nher. 'I'm off.'\n\n'You're in a fine hurry,' remarked Mr Holt grimly, looking up and\nspeaking for the first time.\n\n'Left some work over,' said Jack, in a curt manner, making for the door.\n\n'Hem! you've got work on the brain,' retorted his father in his most\nsardonic tone.\n\nJack opened the door without a word.\n\n'One minute, Jack,' said Mrs Holt placidly, 'you needn't go yet, your\nfather and I have something to say to you.'\n\nJack stood rooted to the ground. His knees almost gave way beneath him.\nIt, it, it was it. They knew. Victoria's face, the profile of which he\ncould see outlined like a plaster cast against the red wall paper did\nnot help him. Her face had set, rigid like a mask. Now she knew why the\nprevious evening had gone by in silence. She rose to her feet, a strange\nnumb feeling creeping all over her.\n\n'Don't go, Mrs Fulton,' said Mr Holt sharply, 'this concerns you.'\n\nFor some seconds the party remained silent. Mr and Mrs Holt had not\nmoved from the table. Jack and Victoria stood right and left, like\nprisoners at the bar.\n\n'Victoria,' said Mrs Holt, 'I'm very sorry to have to say it, but I'm\nafraid you know what I'm going to tell you. Of course I don't say I\nblame you. It's quite natural at your age and all that.' She stopped,\nfor a flush was rising in Victoria's face, the cheekbones showing two\nlittle red patches. Mr Holt had clasped his hands together and kept his\neyes fixed on Victoria's with unnatural intensity.\n\n'You see, Victoria,' resumed Mrs Holt, 'it's always difficult when\nthere's a young man in the house; of course I make allowances, but,\nreally, you see it's so complicated and things get so annoying. You know\nwhat people are . . .'\n\n'That'll do, Maria,' snarled Mr Holt, jumping to his feet. 'If you don't\nknow what you have to say, I do. Look here, Mrs Fulton. Last night I saw\nJack kissing you. I know perfectly well you didn't encourage him. You'd\nknow better. However, there it is. I don't pretend I like what I've got\nto do, but this must be stopped. I can't have philandering going on\nhere. You, Jack, you're going back to the works at Rawsley and don't let\nme see anything of you this side of the next three months. As for you,\nMrs Fulton, I'm sorry, but Mrs Holt will have to find another companion.\nI know it's hard on you to ask you to leave without notice, but I\npropose to give you an indemnity of twenty pounds. I should like to keep\nyou here, but you see that after what has happened it's impossible. I\nsuppose you agree to that?'\n\nVictoria stood silent for a moment, her hands tightly clenched. She knew\nHolt's short ways, but the manner of the dismissal was brutal.\nEverything seemed to revolve round her, she recovered herself with\ndifficulty.\n\n'Yes,' she said at length, 'you're quite right.'\n\nJack had not moved. His hands were nervously playing with his watch\nchain. Victoria, in the midst of her trouble, remembered Edward's\nfamiliar gesture. They were alike in a way, these two tall weedy men,\nboth irresolute and undeveloped.\n\n'Very well then,' continued Holt; 'perhaps you'll make your arrangements\nat once. Here is the cheque.' He held out a slip of blue paper.\n\nVictoria looked at him for a moment dully. Then revolt surged inside\nher. 'I don't want your indemnity,' she said coldly, 'you merely owe me\na month's wages in lieu of notice.'\n\nThe shadow of a smile crept into Holt's face. The semi-legal,\nsemi-commercial phrase pleased him.\n\nMrs Holt rose from the table and went to Victoria. 'I'm so sorry,' she\nsaid, speaking more gently than she had ever done. 'You must take it.\nThings are so hard.'\n\n'Oh, but I say, dad . . .' broke in Jack.\n\n'That will do, do you hear me, sir?' thundered the father violently,\nbringing down his fist on the table. 'I'm not asking you for your\nopinion! You can stay and look at your work but you just keep a silent\ntongue in your head. D'you hear?'\n\nJack stood cowed and dumb.\n\n'There's nothing more to say, is there?' growled Mr Holt, placing the\ncheque on the table before Victoria.\n\n'Not much,' said Victoria. 'I've done no wrong. Oh! I'm not complaining.\nBut I begin to understand things. Your son has persecuted me. I didn't\nwant his attentions. You turn me out. Of course it's my fault, I know.'\n\n'My dear Victoria,' interposed Mrs Holt, 'nobody says it's your fault.\nWe all think . . .'\n\n'Indeed? it's not my fault, but you turn me out.'\n\nMrs Holt dropped her hands helplessly.\n\n'I see it all now,' continued Victoria. 'You don't blame me, but you're\nafraid to have me here. So long as I was a servant all was well. Now I'm\na woman and you're afraid of me.' She walked up and down nervously. 'Now\nunderstand, I've never encouraged your son. If he had asked me to marry\nhim I wouldn't have done it.' A look of pain passed over Jack's face but\naroused no pity in Victoria. She felt frozen.\n\n'Oh! but there was no question of that,' cried Mrs Holt, plaintively.\n\n'No doubt,' said Victoria ruthlessly. 'You couldn't think of it. Nobody\ncould think of an officer's widow marrying into the Rawsley Works. From\nmore than one point of view it would be impossible. Very good. I'll\nleave in the course of the morning. As for the cheque, I'll take it. As\nyou say, Mrs Holt, things are hard. I've learned that and I'm still\nlearning.'\n\nVictoria took up the blue slip. The flush on her face subsided somewhat.\nShe picked up her handkerchief, a letter from Molly and a small\nanthology lying on the dumb waiter. She made for the door, avoiding\nJack's eyes. She felt through her downcast lids the misery of his looks.\nA softer feeling went through her, and she regretted her outburst. As\nshe placed her hand on the handle she turned round and faced Mrs Holt, a\ngentler look in her eyes.\n\n'I'm sorry I was hasty,' she stammered. 'I was taken by surprise. It was\n. . . vulgar.'\n\nThe door closed softly behind her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nVICTORIA went up to her room and locked the door behind her. She sat\ndown on her small basket trunk and stared out of the dormer window. She\nwas still all of a tingle; her hands, grasping the rough edges of the\ntrunk, trembled a little. Yet she felt, amid all her perturbation, the\nstrange gladness that overcomes one who has had a shock; the contest was\nstill upon her.\n\n'Yes,' she said aloud, 'I'm free. I'm out of it.' She hated the dullness\nand ugliness which the Holts had brought with them from the Midlands.\nThe feeling came over her almost like a spasm. Through the dormer window\nshe could see the white frontage of the house opposite. It was repellent\nlike Mrs Holt's personal devil.\n\nThe feeling of exultation suddenly subsided in Victoria's breast. She\nrealised all of a sudden that she was once more adrift, that she must\nfind something to do. It might not be easy. She would have to find\nlodgings. The archway in Portsea Place materialised crudely. She could\nhear the landlady from 84 detailing the last phase of rheumatics to the\nslatternly maid who did for the grocer. Awful, awful. Perhaps she'd\nnever find another berth. What should she do?\n\nVictoria pulled herself together with a start. 'This will never do,' she\nsaid, 'there's lots of time to worry in. Now I must pack.' She got up,\ndrew the trunk into the middle of the room, opened it and took out the\ntray. Then, methodically, as she had been taught to do by her mother,\nshe piled her belongings on the bed. In a few minutes it was filled with\nthe nondescript possessions of the nomad. Skirts, books, boots,\nunderclothing, an inkpot even, jostled one another in dangerous\nproximity. Victoria surveyed the heap with some dismay; all her troubles\nhad vanished in the horror that comes over every packer: she would never\nget it all in. She struggled for half an hour, putting the heavy things\nat the bottom, piling blouses on the tray, cunningly secreting scent\nbottles in shoes, stuffing handkerchiefs into odd corners. Then she\ndropped the tray in, closed the lid and sat down upon it. The box\ncreaked a little and gave way. Victoria locked it and got up with a\nlittle sigh of satisfaction. But she suddenly saw that the cupboard door\nwas ajar and that in it hung her best dress and a feather boa; on the\nfloor stood the packer's plague, shoes. It was quite hopeless to try and\nget them in.\n\nVictoria surveyed the difficulty for a moment; then she regretfully\ndecided that she must ask Mrs Holt for a cardboard box, for her hat-box\nwas already mortgaged. A nuisance. But rather no, she would ask the\nparlourmaid. She went to the door and was surprised to find it locked.\nShe turned the key slowly, looking round at the cheerful little room,\nevery article of which was stupid without being offensive. It was hard,\nafter all, to leave all this, without knowing where to go.\n\nVictoria opened the door and jumped back with a little cry. Before her\nstood Jack. He had stolen up silently and waited. His face had flushed\nas he saw her; in his eyes was the misery of a sorrowful dog. His mouth,\nalways a little open, trembled with excitement.\n\n'Jack,' cried Victoria, 'oh! what do you want?'\n\n'I've come to say . . . oh! Victoria . . .' Jack broke down in the\nmiddle of his carefully prepared sentence.\n\n'Oh! go away,' said Victoria faintly, putting her hand on her breast.\n'Do go away. Can't you see I've had trouble enough this morning?'\n\n'I'm sorry,' muttered Jack miserably. 'I've been a fool. Vic, I've come\nto ask you if you'll forgive me. It's all my fault. I can't bear it.'\n\n'Don't talk about it,' said Victoria becoming rigid. 'That's all over.\nBesides you'll have forgotten all about it to-morrow,' she added\ncruelly.\n\nJack did not answer directly, though he was stung. 'Vic,' he said with\nhesitation, 'I can't bear to see you go, all through me. Listen, there's\nsomething you said this morning. Did you mean it?'\n\n'Mean what?' asked Victoria uneasily.\n\n'You said, if I'd asked you to marry me you . . . I know I didn't, but\nyou know, Vic, I wanted you the first time I saw you. Oh! Vic, won't you\nmarry me now?'\n\nVictoria looked at him incredulously. His hands were still trembling\nwith excitement. His light eyes stared a little. His long thin frame was\nswaying. 'I'd do anything for you. You don't know what I could do. I'd\nwork for you. I'd love you more than you've ever been loved.' Jack\nstopped short; there was a hardness that frightened him in the set of\nVictoria's jaw.\n\n'You didn't say that yesterday,' she answered.\n\n'No, I was mad. But I wanted to all along, Vic. You're the only woman I\never loved. I don't ask more of you than to let me love you.'\n\nVictoria looked at him more gently. His likeness to her brother grew\nplainer than ever. Kind but hopelessly inefficient. Poor boy, he meant\nno harm.\n\n'I'm sorry, Jack,' she said after a pause, 'I can't do it. You know you\ncouldn't make a living . . .'\n\n'Oh, I could, I could!' cried Jack clinging at the straw, 'if I had you\nto work for. You can't tell what it means for me.'\n\n'Perhaps you could work,' said Victoria with a wan little smile, 'but I\ncan't marry you, Jack, you see. I like you very much, but I'm not in\nlove with you. It wouldn't be fair.'\n\nJack looked at her dully. He had not dared to expect anything but\ndefeat, yet defeat crushed him.\n\n'There, you must go away now,' said Victoria, 'I must go downstairs. Let\nme pass please.' She squeezed between him and the wall and made for the\nstairs.\n\n'No, I can't let you go,' said Jack hoarsely. He seized her by the waist\nand bent over her. Victoria looked the space of a second into his eyes\nwhere the tiny veins were becoming bloodshot. She pushed him back\nsharply and, wrenching herself away, ran down the stairs. He did not\nfollow her.\n\nVictoria looked up from the landing. Jack was standing with bent head,\none hand on the banister. 'The only thing you can do for me is to go\naway,' she said coldly. 'I shall come up again in five minutes with\nEffie. I suppose you will not want us to find you outside my bedroom\ndoor.'\n\nShe went downstairs. When she came up again with the maid, who carried a\nlarge brown cardboard box, Jack was nowhere to be seen.\n\nA quarter of an hour later she followed the butcher's boy who was\ndragging her box down the stairs, dropping it with successive thuds from\nstep to step. As she reached the hall, while she was hesitating as to\nwhether she should go into the dining-room to say good-bye to Mrs Holt,\nthe door opened and Mrs Holt came out. The two women looked at one\nanother for the space of a second, like duellists about to cross swords.\nThen Mrs Holt held out her hand.\n\n'Good-bye, Victoria,' she said, 'I'm sorry you're going. I know you're\nnot to blame.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Victoria icily. 'I'm sorry also, but it couldn't be\nhelped.'\n\nMrs Holt heaved a large sigh. 'I suppose not,' she said.\n\nVictoria withdrew her hand and went towards the door. The butcher's boy\nhad already taken her box down, marking the whitened steps with two\nblack lines.\n\n'Shall I call a cab, mum?' he asked.\n\n'Yes please,' said Victoria dreamily.\n\nThe youth went down the drive, his heels crunching into the gravel.\nVictoria stood at the top of the steps, looking out at the shrubs, one\nor two of which showed pale buds, standing sharp like jewels on the\nblack stems. Mrs Holt came up behind her softly.\n\n'I hope we don't part in anger, Victoria,' she said guiltily.\n\nVictoria looked at her with faint amusement. True, anger is a cardinal\nsin.\n\n'Oh! no, not at all,' she answered. 'I quite understand.'\n\n'Don't be afraid to give me as a reference,' said Mrs Holt.\n\n'Thank you,' said Victoria. 'I shan't forget.'\n\n'And if ever you're in trouble, come to me.'\n\n'You're very kind,' said Victoria. Mrs Holt was kind, she felt. She\nunderstood her better now. Much of her sternness oozed out of her. A\nmother defending her son knows no pity, thought Victoria; perhaps it's\nwrong to resent it. It's nature's way of keeping the young alive.\n\nThe cab came trotting up the drive and stopped. The butcher's boy was\nloading the trunk upon the roof. Victoria turned to Mrs Holt and took\nher hand.\n\n'Good-bye,' she said, 'you've been very good to me. Don't think I'm so\nbad as you thought me this morning. Your son has just asked me to marry\nhim.'\n\nMrs Holt dropped Victoria's hand; her face was distorted by a spasm.\n\n'I refused him,' said Victoria.\n\nShe stepped into the cab and directed the cabman to Portsea Place. As\nthey turned into the road she looked back. At the head of the steps Mrs\nHolt stood frozen and amazed. Victoria almost smiled but, her eyes\nwandering upwards, she saw, at her dormer window, Jack's head and\nshoulders. His blue eyes were fixed upon her with unutterable longing. A\nfew strands of hair had blown down upon his forehead. For the space of a\nsecond they gazed into each other's eyes. Then the wall blotted him out\nsuddenly. Victoria sighed softly and sank back upon the seat of the cab.\n\nAt the moment she had no thought. She was at such a point as one may be\nwho has turned the last page of the first volume of a lengthy book: the\nnext page is blank. Nothing remained even of that last look in which\nJack's blue eyes had pitifully retold his sorry tale. She was like a\nrope which has parted with many groans and wrenchings; broken and its\nstrands scattering, its ends float lazily at the mercy of the waves,\npreparing to sink. She was going more certainly into the unknown than if\nshe had walked blindfold into the darkest night.\n\nThe horse trotted gently, the brakes gritting on the wheels as it picked\nits way down the steep. The fresh air of April drove into the cab,\nstinging a little and yet balmy with the freshness of latent spring.\nVictoria sat up, clasped her hands on the doors and craned out to see.\nThere was a little fever in her blood again; the spirit of adventure was\nraising its head. As fitful gleams of sunshine lit up and irradiated the\npuddles a passionate interest in the life around seemed to overpower\nher. She looked almost greedily at the spire, far down the Wellington\nRoad, shining white like molten metal with almost Italian brilliancy\nagainst a sky pale as shallow water. The light, the young wind, the\nscents of earth and buds, the men and women who walked with springy\nstep intent on no business, all this, and even the horse who seemed to\ntoss his head and swish his tail in sheer glee, told her that the world\nwas singing its alleluia, for, behold, spring was born unto it in\ngladness, with all its trappings and its sumptuous promise.\n\nEverything was beautiful; not even the dreary waste of wall which\nconceals Lords from the vulgar, nor the thousand tombs of the churchyard\nwhere the dead jostle and grab land from one another were without their\npeculiar charm. It was not until the cab crossed the Edgware Road that\nVictoria realised with a start that, though the world was born again,\nshe did not share its good fortune. Edgware Road had dragged her down to\nthe old level; a horrible familiarity, half pleasurable, half fearful,\noverwhelmed her. This street, which she had so often paced carrying a\nheart that grew heavier with every step, had never led her to anything\nbut loneliness, to the cold emptiness of her room. Her mood had changed.\nShe saw nothing now but tawdry stationer's shops, meretricious jewellery\nand, worse still, the sickening plenty of its monster stores of clothing\nand food. The road had seized her and was carrying her away towards its\nsummit, where the hill melts into the skies between the houses that grow\nlower as far as the eye can see.\n\nVictoria closed her eyes. She was in the grip once more; the wheels of\nthe machine were not moving yet but she could feel the vibration as it\ngot up steam. In a little the flywheel would slowly revolve and then she\nwould be caught and ground up. Yes, ground up, cried the Edgware Road,\nlike thousands of others as good as you, ground into little bits to make\nroadmetal of, yes, ground, ground fine.\n\nThe cab stopped suddenly. Victoria opened her eyes. Yes, this was\nPortsea Place. She got out. It had not changed. The curtains of the\nhouse opposite were as dirty as ever. The landlady from the corner was\nstanding just under the archway, dressed as usual in an expansive pink\nblouse in which her flowing contours rose and fell. She interrupted the\nvoluble comments on the weather which she was addressing to the little\nfaded colleague, dressed in equally faded black, to stare at the\nnewcomer.\n\n'There ain't no more room at Bell's,' she remarked.\n\n'She is very fortunate,' said the faded little woman. 'Dear me, dear me.\nIt's a cruel world.'\n\n'Them lidies' maids allus ketches on,' said the large woman savagely.\n'Tell yer wot, though, p'raps they wouldn't if they was to see Bell's\nkitching. Oh, Lor'! There ain't no black-beetles. I don't think.'\n\nThe little faded woman looked longingly at Victoria standing on the\nsteps. A loafer sprung from thin air as is the way of his kind and leant\nagainst the area railings, touching his cap whenever he caught\nVictoria's eye, indicating at times the box on the roof of the cab. From\nthe silent house came a noise that grew louder and louder as the\nfootsteps drew nearer the door. Victoria recognised the familiar\nshuffle. Mrs Bell opened the door.\n\n'Lor, mum,' she cried, 'I'm glad to see you again.' She caught sight of\nthe trunk. 'Oh, are you moving, mum?'\n\n'Yes, Mrs Bell,' said Victoria. 'I'm moving and I want some rooms. Of\ncourse I thought of you.'\n\nMrs Bell's face fell. 'Oh, I'm so sorry, mum. The house is full. If\nyou'd come last week I had the first floor back.' She seemed genuinely\ndistressed. She liked her quiet lodger and to turn away business of any\nkind was always depressing.\n\nVictoria felt dashed. She remembered Edward's consternation on\ndiscovering the change in Gower Street and, for the first time,\nsympathised.\n\n'Oh, I'm so sorry too, Mrs Bell. I should like to have come back to\nyou.'\n\n'Couldn't you wait until next month, mum!' said Mrs Bell, reluctant to\nturn her away. 'The gentleman in the second floor front, he's going\naway to Rhodesia. It's your old room, mum.'\n\n'I'm afraid not,' said Victoria with a smile. 'In fact I must find\nlodgings at once. Never mind, if I don't like them I'll come back here.\nBut can't you recommend somebody?'\n\nMrs Bell looked right and left, then into the archway. The little faded\nwoman had disappeared. The landlady in the billowy blouse was still\nsurveying the scene. Mrs Bell froze her with a single look.\n\n'No, mum, can't say I know of anybody, leastways not here,' she said\nslowly. 'It's a nice neighbourhood of course, but the houses here, they\nlook all right, but oh, mum, you should see their kitchens! Dirty ain't\nthe word, mum. But wait a bit, mum, if you wouldn't mind that, I've got\na sister who's got a very nice room. She lives in Castle Street, mum,\nnear Oxford Circus. It's a nice neighbourhood, of course not so near the\nPark,' added Mrs Bell with conscious superiority.\n\n'I don't mind, Mrs Bell,' said Victoria. 'I'm not fashionable.'\n\n'Oh, mum,' cried Mrs Bell, endeavouring to imply together the\nsuperiority of Portsea Place and the respectability of any street\npatronised by her family, 'I'm sure you'll like it. I'll give you the\naddress.'\n\nIn a few minutes Victoria was speeding eastwards. Now she was rooted up\nfor good. She was leaving behind her Curran's and Mrs Bell, slender\nlinks between her and home life, links still, however. The pageant of\nLondon rolled by her, heaving, bursting with rich life. The sunshine\naround her bade her be of good cheer. Then the cab turned a corner and,\nwith the suddenness of a stage effect, it carried its burden into the\nhaunts of darkness and malodour.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n'_Telegraph_, mum,' said a voice.\n\nVictoria started up from the big armchair with a suddenness that almost\nshot her out of it. It was the brother of the one in Portsea Place and\nshared its constitutional objection to being sat upon. It was part of\nthe 'sweet' which Miss Briggs had divided with Mrs Bell when their\ngrandmother died.\n\n'Thanks, Miss Briggs,' said Victoria. 'By the way, I don't think that\negg is quite fresh. And why does Hetty put the armchair in front of the\ncupboard every day so that I can't open it?'\n\n'The slut, I don't see there's anything the matter with it,' remarked\nMiss Briggs, simultaneously endorsing the complaint against Hetty and\ndefending her own marketing.\n\n'Oh, yes there is, Miss Briggs,' snapped Victoria with a sharpness which\nwould have been foreign to her some months before. 'Don't let it happen\nagain or I'll do my own catering.'\n\nMiss Briggs collapsed on the spot. The profits on the three and sixpence\na week for 'tea, bread and butter and anything that's going,' formed\nquite a substantial portion of her budget.\n\n'Oh, I'm sorry, mum,' she said, 'it's Hetty bought 'em this week. The\nslut, I'll talk to her.'\n\nVictoria took no notice of the penitent landlady and opened the\n_Telegraph_. She absorbed the fact that Consols had gone up an eighth\nand that contangoes were in process of arrangement, without interest or\nunderstanding. She was thinking of something else. Miss Briggs coughed\napologetically. Victoria looked up. Miss Briggs reflectively tied knots\nin her apron string. She was a tall, lantern-jawed woman of no\nparticular age; old looking for thirty-five perhaps or young looking for\nfifty. Her brown hair, plentifully sprinkled with grey, broke out in\nwisps over each ear and at the back of the neck. Her perfectly flat\nchest allowed big bags of coarse black serge to hang over her dirty\nwhite apron. Her hands played mechanically with the strings, while her\nwater- eye fixed upon the _Telegraph_.\n\n'You shouldn't read that paper, mum,' she remarked.\n\n'Why not?' asked Victoria, with a smile, 'isn't it a good one?'\n\n'Oh, yes, mum, I don't say that,' said Miss Briggs with the respect that\nshe felt for the buyers of penny papers. 'There's none better. Mine's\nthe _Daily Mail_ of course and just a peep into _Reynolds_ before the\nyoung gent on the first floor front. But you shouldn't have it.\n_Tizer's_ your paper.'\n\n'_Tizer_?' said Victoria interrogatively.\n\n'_Morning Advertiser_, mum; that's the one for advertisements.'\n\n'But how do you know I read the advertisements, Miss Briggs?' asked\nVictoria still smiling.\n\n'Oh, mum, excuse the liberty,' said Miss Briggs in great trepidation.\n'It's the only sheet I don't find when I comes up to do the bed.\n_Tizer's_ the one for you, mum; I had a young lady 'ere, once. Got a job\nat the Inverness Lounge, she did. Married a clergyman, they say. He's\ndivorced her now.'\n\n'That's an encouraging story, Miss Briggs,' said Victoria with a twinkle\nin her eye. 'How do you know I want to be a barmaid, though?'\n\n'Oh, one has to be what one can, mum,' said Miss Briggs sorrowfully.\n'Sure enough, it ain't all honey and it ain't all jam keeping this\nhouse. The bells, they rings all day and it's the breakfast that's bad\nand their ain't blankets enough, and I never 'ad a scuttle big enough to\nplease 'em for sixpence. But you ain't doing that, mum,' she added after\na pause devoted to the consideration of her wrongs. 'A young lady like\nyou, she ought to be behind the bar.'\n\nVictoria laughed aloud. 'Thanks for the hint, Miss Briggs,' she said,\n'I'll think it over. To-day however, I'm going to try my luck on the\nstage. What do you think of that?'\n\n'Going on tour?' cried Miss Briggs in a tone of tense anxiety.\n\n'Well, not yet,' said Victoria soothingly. 'I'm going to see an agent.'\n\n'Oh, that's all right,' said Miss Briggs with ghoulish relief. 'Hope\nyer'll get a job,' she added as confidently as a man offering a drink to\na teetotaller. At that moment a fearful clattering on the stairs\nannounced that Hetty and the pail had suddenly descended to the lower\nlanding. Liquid noises followed. Miss Briggs rushed out. Victoria jumped\nup and slammed her door on the chaotic scene. She returned to the\n_Telegraph_. The last six weeks in the Castle Street lodging house had\ntaught her that these were happenings quite devoid of importance.\n\nVictoria spread out the _Telegraph_, ignored the foreign news, the\nleaders and the shocking revelations as to the Government's Saharan\npolicy; she dallied for a moment over 'gowns for debutantes,' for she\nwas a true woman, and passed on to the advertisements. She was getting\nquite experienced as a reader and could sift the wheat from the chaff\nwith some accuracy. She knew that she could safely ignore applications\nfor lady helps in 'small families,' at least unless she was willing to\nclean boots and blacklead grates for five shillings a week and meals\nwhen an opportunity occurred; her last revelation as to the nature of a\npost of housekeeper to an elderly gentleman who had retired from\nbusiness into the quietude of Surbiton had not been edifying. The\n'Financial and Businesses' column left her colder than she had been when\nshe left Mrs Holt with nearly thirty-seven pounds. Then she was a\ncapitalist and pondered longingly over the proposals of tobacconists,\nfancy goods firms, and stationers, who were prepared to guarantee a\nfortune to any person who could muster thirty pounds. Fortunately Miss\nBriggs had undeceived her. In her variegated experience, she herself had\nsurrendered some sixty golden sovereigns to the persuasive owner of a\nflourishing newsagent's business. After a few weeks of vain attempts to\ninduce the neighbourhood to indulge in the news of the day, she had been\nglad to sell her stock of sweets for eighteen shillings, and to take\nhalf a crown for a hundred penny novelettes.\n\nVictoria turned to the 'Situations Vacant.' Their numbers were\ndeceptive. She had never realised before how many people live by fitting\nother people for work they cannot get. Two thirds of the advertisements\noffered wonderful opportunities for sons of gentlemen in the offices of\narchitects and engineers on payment of a premium; she also found she\ncould become a lady gardener if she would only follow the courses in\nsome dukery and meanwhile live on air; others would teach her shorthand,\ntypewriting or the art of the secretary. All these she now calmly\nskipped. She was obviously unfitted to be the matron of an asylum for\nthe feeble-minded. Such experience had not been hers, nor had she the\nredoubtable record which would open the gates of an emporium. An\nillegible hand would exclude her from the City.\n\n'No,' thought Victoria, 'I'm an unskilled labourer; that's what I am.'\nShe wearily skimmed the agencies; as a matter of habit noted the demand\nfor two companions and one nursery governess and put the paper aside.\nThere was not much hope in any of these, for one was for Tiverton, the\nother for Cardiff, which would make a personal interview a costly\nbusiness; the third, discreetly cloaked by an initial, suggested by its\nterseness a companionship probably undue in its intimacy. The last six\nweeks had opened Victoria's eyes to the unpleasant aspects of life, so\nmuch so that she wondered whether there were any other. She felt now\nthat London was waiting for her outside, waiting for her to have spent\nher last copper, when she would come out to be eaten so that she might\neat.\n\nWhatever her conceit might have been six months before, Victoria had\nlost it all. She could do nothing that was wanted and desired everything\nshe could not get. She had tried all sources and found them dry.\nCommercialism, philanthropy, and five per cent. philanthropy had failed\nher. What can you do? was their cry. And, the answer being 'nothing,'\ntheir retort had been 'No more can we.'\n\nVictoria turned over in her mind her interview with the Honorary\nSecretary of the British Women's Imperial Self Help Association. 'Of\ncourse,' said the Secretary, 'we will be glad to register you. We need\nsome references and, as our principle is to foster the independence and\nself-respect of those whom we endeavour to place in positions such as\nmay befit their social status, we are compelled to demand a fee of five\nshillings.'\n\n'Oh, self help, I see,' said Victoria sardonically, for she was\nbeginning to understand the world.\n\n'Yes,' replied the Honorary Secretary, oblivious of the sneer, for his\nmind was cast in the parliamentary mould, 'by adhering to our principle\nand by this means only can we hope to stem the tide of pauperism to\nwhich modern socialistic tendencies are--are--spurring the masses.'\nVictoria had paid five shillings for this immortal metaphor and within a\nweek had received an invitation to attend a meeting presided over by\nseveral countesses.\n\nThe B. W. I. S. H. A., (as it was called by its intimates) had induced\nin Victoria suspicions of societies in general. She had, however,\napplied also to the Ladies' Provider. Its name left one in doubt whether\nit provided ladies with persons or whether it provided ladies to persons\nwho might not be ladies. The Secretary in this case, was not Honorary.\nThe inwardness of this did not appear to Victoria; for she did not then\nknow that plain secretaries are generally paid, and try to earn their\nsalary. Their interview had, however, not been such as to convert her to\nthe value of corporate effort.\n\nThe Secretary in this case was a woman of forty, with a pink face, trim\ngrey hair, spectacles, amorphous clothing, capable hands. She exhaled an\natmosphere of respectability, and the faint odour of almonds which\nemanates from those women who eschew scent in favour of soap. She had\nquietly listened to Victoria's history, making every now and then a\nshorthand note. Then she had coughed gently once or twice. Victoria felt\nas in the presence of an examiner. Was she going to get a pass?\n\n'I do not say that we cannot do anything for you, Mrs Fulton,' she said,\n'but we have so many cases similar to yours.'\n\nVictoria had bridled a little at this. 'Cases' was a nasty word.\n\n'I'm not particular,' she had answered, 'I'd be a companion any day.'\n\n'I'm sure you'd make a pleasant one,' said the Secretary graciously,\n'but before we go any further, tell me how it was you left your last\nplace. You were in the . . . in the Finchley Road, was it not?' The\nSecretary's eyes travelled to a map of London where Marylebone, South\nPaddington, Kensington, Belgravia, and Mayfair, were blocked out in\nblue.\n\nVictoria had hesitated, then fenced. 'Mrs Holt will give me a good\ncharacter,' she faltered.\n\n'No doubt, no doubt,' replied the Secretary, her eyes growing just a\nlittle darker behind the glasses. 'Yet, you see, we are compelled by the\nnature of our business to make enquiries. A good reference is a very\ngood thing, yet people are a little careless sometimes; the hearts of\nemployers are often rather soft.'\n\nThis was a little too much for Victoria. 'If you want to know the\ntruth,' she said bluntly, 'the son of the house persecuted me with his\nattentions, and I couldn't bear it.'\n\nThe Secretary made a shorthand note. Then she looked at Victoria's\nflashing eyes, heightened colour, thick piled hair.\n\n'I am very sorry,' she began lamely. . . .\n\nWhat dreadful things women are, thought Victoria, folding up the\n_Telegraph_. If Christ had said: Let _her_ who hath never sinned. . .\nthe woman would have been stoned. Victoria got up, went to the\nlooking-glass and inspected herself. Yes, she was very pretty. She was\nprettier than she had ever been before. Her skin was paler, her eyes\nlarger; her thick eyebrows almost met in an exquisite gradation of short\ndark hairs over the bridge of the nose. She watched her breast rise and\nfall gently, flashing white through the black lacework of her blouse,\nthen falling away from it, tantalising the faint sunshine that would\nkiss it. As she turned, another looking-glass set in the lower panels of\na small cupboard told her that her feet were small and high arched. Her\nopenwork stockings were drawn so tight that the skin there also gleamed\nwhite.\n\nVictoria took from the table a dirty visiting card. It bore the words\n'Louis Carrel, Musical and Theatrical Agent, 5 Soho Place.' She had come\nby it in singular manner. Two days before, as she left the offices of\nthe 'Compleat Governess Agency' after having realised that she could\nnot qualify in either French, German, Music, Poker work or Swedish\ndrill, she had paused for a moment on the doorstep, surveying the dingy\ncourt where they were concealed, the dirty panes of an unlet shop\nopposite, the strange literature flaunting in the showcase of some\npublisher of esoterics. A woman had come up to her, rising like the\nloafers from the flagstones. She had realised her as between ages and\nbetween colours. Then the woman had disappeared as suddenly as she came\nwithout having spoken, leaving in Victoria's hand the little square of\npasteboard.\n\nVictoria looked at it meditatively. She would have shrunk from the idea\nof the stage a year before, when the tradition of Lympton was still upon\nher. But times had changed; a simple philosophy was growing in her; what\ndid anything matter? would it not be all the same in a hundred years?\nThe discovery of this philosophy did not strike her as commonplace.\nThere are but few who know that this is the philosophy of the world.\n\nVictoria put down the card and began to dress. She removed the old black\nskirt and ragged lace blouse and, as she stood before the glass in her\nshort petticoat, patting her hair and setting a comb, she reflected with\nsatisfaction that her arms were shapely and white. She looked almost\nlovingly at the long thin dark hairs, fine as silk, that streaked her\nforearms; she kissed them gently, moved to self-adoration by the sweet\nscent of femininity that rose from her.\n\nShe tore herself away from her self-worship and quickly began to dress.\nShe put on a light skirt in serge, striped black and white, threading\nher head through it with great care for fear she should damage her\nfringe net. She drew on a white blouse, simple enough though cheap. As\nit fastened along the side she did not have to call in Miss Briggs;\nwhich was fortunate, as this was the time when Miss Briggs carried\ncoals. Victoria wriggled for a moment to settle the uncomfortable boning\nof the neck and, having buckled and belted the skirt over the blouse,\ncompleted her toilet with her little black and white jacket to match the\nskirt. A tiny black silk cravat from her neck was discarded, as she\nfound that the fashionable ruffle, emerging from the closed coat,\nproduced an _effet mousquetaire_. Lastly she put on her hat; a lapse\nfrom the fashions perhaps, but a lovable, flat, almost crownless, dead\nblack, save a vertical group of feathers.\n\nVictoria drew her veil down, regretting the thickness of the spots,\npushed it up to repair with a dab of powder the ravage of a pod on the\ntip of her nose. She took up her parasol and white gloves, a glow of\nexcitement already creeping over her as she realised how cleverly she\nmust have caught the spirit of the profession to look the actress to the\nlife and yet remain in the note of the demure widow.\n\nSoho Place is neither one of the 'good' streets nor one of the 'bad.'\nThe police do not pace it in twos and threes in broad daylight, yet they\nhardly like to venture into it singly by night. On one side it ends in a\nsquare; on the other it turns off into an unobtrusive side street, the\nreputation of which varies yard by yard according to the distance from\nthe main roads. It is dirty, dingy; yet not without dignity, for its\ngood Georgian and Victorian houses preserve some solidity and are not\nyet of the tenement class. They are still in the grade of office and\nshop which is immediately below their one-time status of dwellings for\nwell-to-do merchants.\n\nVictoria entered Soho Place from the square, so that she was not too ill\nimpressed. She walked in the middle of the pavement, unconsciously\ninfluenced the foreign flavour of Soho. There men and women stand all\nday in the street, talking, bargaining, quarrelling and making love;\nwhen a cab rattles by they move aside lazily, as a Neapolitan stevedore\nrolls away on the wharf from the wheels of a passing cart.\n\nVictoria paused for a second on the steps. No 5 Soho Place was a good\nhouse enough. The ground floor was occupied by a firm of auctioneers; a\ngentleman describing himself as A.R.I.B.A. exercised his profession on\nthe third floor; below his plate was nailed a visiting-card similar to\nthe one Victoria took from her reticule. She went up the staircase\nfeeling a little braced by the respectability of the house, though she\nhad caught sight through the area railings of an unspeakably dirty\nkitchen where unwashed pots flaunted greasy remains on a liquor stained\ndeal table. The staircase itself, with its neutral and stained green\ndistemper, was not over encouraging. Victoria stopped at the first\nlanding. She had no need to enquire as to the whereabouts of the\nimpresario for, on a door which stood ajar, was nailed another dirty\ncard. Just as she was about to push it, it opened further to allow a\ngirl to come out. She was very fair; her cheeks were a little flushed; a\ngolden lock or two fell like keepsake ringlets on her low lace collar.\nVictoria just had time to see that the blue eyes sparkled and to receive\na cheerful smile. The girl muttered an apology and, smiling still,\nbrushed past her and lightly ran down the stairs. 'A successful\ncandidate,' thought Victoria, her heart rising once more.\n\nShe entered the room and found it empty. It was almost entirely bare of\nfurniture, for little save an island of chairs in the middle and faded\nred cloth curtains relieved the uniform dirtiness of the wall paper\nwhich once was flowered. One wall was entirely covered by a large poster\nwhere half a dozen impossibly charming girls of the biscuit box type\nwere executing a cancan so symmetrically as to recall an Egyptian\nfrieze. The mantlepiece was bare save for the signed photograph of some\nmagnificent foreign-looking athlete, nude to the waist. Victoria waited\nfor a moment, watching a door which led into an inner room, then went\ntowards it. At once the sound of a chair being pushed back and the fall\nof some small article on the floor told her that the occupant had heard\nher footsteps. The door opened suddenly.\n\nVictoria looked at the apparition with some surprise. In a single glance\nshe took in the details of his face and clothes, all of which were\npleasing. The man was obviously a foreigner. His face was pale, clean\nshaven save for a small black moustache closely cropped at the ends; his\neyes were brown; his eyebrows, as beautifully pencilled as those of a\ngirl, emphasized the whiteness of his high forehead from which the hair\nreceded in thick waves. His lips, red and full, were parted over his\nwhite teeth in a pleasant smile. Victoria saw too that he was dressed in\nperfect taste, in soft grey tweed, fitting well over the collar and\nloose everywhere else; his linen was immaculate; in fact nothing about\nhim would have disgraced the Chandraga mess, except perhaps a gold ring\nwith a large diamond which he wore on the little finger of his right\nhand.\n\n'Mr Carrel?' said Victoria in some trepidation.\n\n'Yes, Mademoiselle,' said the man pleasantly. 'Will you have the\nkindness to enter?' He held the door open and Victoria, hesitating a\nlittle, preceded him.\n\nThe inner room was almost a replica of the outer. It too was scantily\nfurnished. On a large table heaps of dusty papers were stacked. An\nash-tray overflowed over one end. In a corner stood a rickety-looking\npiano. The walls were profusely decorated with posters and photographs,\npresumably of actors and actresses, some highly renowned. Victoria felt\nrespect creeping into her soul.\n\nCarrel placed a chair for her before the table and resumed his own. For\nthe space of a second or two he looked Victoria over. She was a little\ntoo conscious of his scrutiny to be quite at ease, but she was not\nafraid of the verdict.\n\n'So, Mademoiselle,' said the man gently, 'you wish for an engagement on\nthe stage?'\n\nVictoria had not expected such directness. 'Yes, I do,' she said. 'That\nis, I was thinking of it since I got your card.'\n\n'My card?' said Carrel, raising his eyebrows a little. 'How did you get\nmy card?'\n\nVictoria told him briefly how the card had been thrust into her hand,\nhow curious it was and how surprised she had been as she did not know\nthe woman and had never seen her again. Then she frankly confessed that\nshe had no experience of the stage but wanted to earn her living and\nthat . . . She stopped aghast at the tactical error. But Carrel was\nlooking at her fixedly, a smile playing on his lips as he pulled his\ntiny moustache with his jewelled hand.\n\n'Yes, certainly, I understand,' he said. 'Experience is very useful,\nnaturally. But you must begin and you know: _il n'y a que le premier pas\nqui coute_. Now perhaps you can sing? It would be very useful.'\n\n'Yes, I can sing,' said Victoria doubtfully, suppressing 'a little,'\nremembering her first mistake.\n\n'Ah, that is good,' said Carrel smiling. 'Will you sit down to the\npiano? I have no music; ladies always bring it but do you not know\nsomething by heart?'\n\nVictoria got up, her heart beating a little and went to the piano. 'I\ndon't know anything French,' she said.\n\n'It does not matter,' said Carrel, 'you will learn easily.' He lowered\nthe piano stool for her. As she sat down the side of his head brushed\nher shoulder lightly. A faint scent of heliotrope rose from his hair.\n\nVictoria dragged off her gloves nervously, felt for the pedals and with\na voice that trembled a little sang two ballads which had always pleased\nLympton. The piano was frightfully out of tune. Everything conspired to\nmake her nervous. It was only when she struck the last note that she\nlooked at the impresario.\n\n'Very good, very good,' cried Carrel. '_Magnifique._ Mademoiselle, you\nhave a beautiful voice. You will be a great success at Vichy.'\n\n'Vichy?' echoed Victoria, a little overwhelmed by his approval of a\nvoice which she knew to be quite ordinary.\n\n'Yes, I have a troupe to sing and dance at Vichy and in the towns,\nClermont Ferrand, Lyon, everywhere. I will engage you to sing and\ndance,' said Carrel, his dark eyes sparkling.\n\n'Oh, I can't dance,' cried Victoria despairingly.\n\n'But I assure you, it is not difficult,' said Carrel. 'We will teach\nyou. There, I will show you the contract. As you have not had much\nexperience my syndicate can only pay you one hundred and fifty francs a\nmonth. But we will pay the expenses and the costumes.'\n\nVictoria looked doubtful for a moment. To sing, to dance, to go to\nFrance where she had never been, all this was sudden and momentous.\n\n'_Voyons_,' said Carrel, 'it will be quite easy. I am taking four\nEnglish ladies with you and two do not understand the theatre. You will\nmake more money if the audience like you. Here is the contract.' He drew\na printed sheet out of the drawer and handed it to her.\n\nIt was an impressive document with a heavy headline; _Troupe de Theatre\nAnglaise_. It bore a French revenue stamp and contained half-a-dozen\nclauses in French which she struggled through painfully; she could only\nguess at their meaning. So far as she could see she was bound to sing\nand dance according to the programme which was to be fixed by the\n_Directeur_, twice every day including Sundays. The _syndicat_ undertook\nto pay the railway fares and to provide costumes. She hesitated, then\ncrossed the Rubicon.\n\n'Fill in the blanks, please,' she said unsteadily. 'I accept.'\n\nCarrel took up a pen and wrote in the date and _cent cinquante francs_.\n'What name will you adopt?' he asked, 'and what is your own name?'\n\nVictoria hesitated. 'My name is Victoria Fulton,' she said. 'You may\ncall me . . . Aminta Ormond.'\n\nCarrel smiled once more. 'Aminta Ormond? I do not think you will like\nthat. It is not English. It is like Amanda. No! I have it, Gladys\nOxford, it is excellent.'\n\nBefore she could protest he had begun writing. After all, what did it\nmatter? She signed the document without a word.\n\n'_Voila_,' said Carrel smoothly, locking the drawer on the contract. 'We\nleave from Charing Cross on Wednesday evening. So you have two days to\nprepare yourself. _Monsieur le Directeur_ will meet you under the clock\nat a quarter past eight. The train leaves at nine. We will take your\nticket when you arrive. Please come here at four on Wednesday and I will\nintroduce you to the _Directeur_.'\n\nVictoria got up and mechanically shook hands. Carrel opened the door for\nher and ceremoniously bowed her out. She walked into Soho place as in a\ndream, every pulse in her body thrilling with unwonted adventure. She\nstared at a dirty window pane and wondered at the brilliance it threw\nback from her eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nVICTORIA had forgotten her latchkey. Miss Briggs opened the door for\nher. Her sallow face brightened up.\n\n'There's a gentleman waiting, mum,' she said, 'and 'ere's a telegram.'\nCame jest five minutes after you left. I've put him in the front room\nwhat's empty, mum. Thought you'd rather see him there. Been 'ere 'arf an\n'our, mum.'\n\nVictoria did not attempt to disentangle the hours of arrival of the\ngentleman and the telegram; she tore open the brown envelope excitedly.\nIt only heralded the coming of Edward who was doubtless the gentleman.\n\n'Thanks, Miss Briggs,' she said, 'it's my brother.'\n\n'Yes, mum, nice young gentleman. He's all right; been reading the _New\nAge_, mum, this 'arf hour, what belongs to the lady on the third.'\n\nVictoria smiled and went into the dining-room, where none dine in\nlodging houses save ghosts. Edward was standing near the mantlepiece\nimmersed in the paper.\n\n'Why, Ted, this is nice of you,' cried Victoria going up to him and\ntaking his hand.\n\n'I had to come up to town suddenly,' said Edward, 'to get books for the\nHead. I'm going back this afternoon but I thought I'd look you up. Did\nyou get the telegram.'\n\n'Just got it now,' said Victoria, showing it, 'so you might have saved\nthe sixpence.'\n\n'I'm sorry,' said Edward. 'I didn't know until this morning.'\n\n'It doesn't matter. I'm so glad to see you.'\n\nThere was an awkward pause. Edward brushed away the hair from his\nforehead. His hands flew back to his watch-chain. Victoria had briefly\nwritten to him to tell him why she left the Holts. Fearful of all that\ntouches women, he was acutely conscious that he blamed her and yet knew\nher to be blameless.\n\n'It's a beautiful day,' he said suddenly.\n\n'Isn't it?' agreed Victoria, looking at him with surprise. There was\nanother pause.\n\n'What are you doing just now, Vic?' Edward breathed more freely, having\ntaken the plunge.\n\n'I've just got some work,' said Victoria. 'I begin on Wednesday.'\n\n'Oh, indeed?' said Edward with increasing interest. 'Have you got a post\nas companion?'\n\n'Well, not exactly,' said Victoria. She realised that her story was not\nvery easy to tell a man like Edward. He looked at her sharply. His face\nflushed. His brow puckered. With both hands he grasped his watch-chain.\n\n'I hope, Victoria,' he said severely, 'that you are not adopting an\noccupation unworthy of a lady. I mean I know you couldn't,' he added,\nhis severity melting into nervousness.\n\n'I suppose nothing's unworthy,' said Victoria; 'the fact is, Ted, I'm\nafraid you won't like it much, but I'm going on the stage.'\n\nEdward started and flushed like an angry boy. 'On the . . . the stage?'\nhe gasped.\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria quietly. 'I've got an engagement for six months to\nplay at Vichy and other places in France. I only get six pounds a month\nbut they pay all the expenses. I'll have quite thirty pounds clear when\nI come back. What do you think of that?'\n\n'It's . . . it's awful,' cried Edward, losing all self-consciousness.\n'How can you do such a thing, Vic? If it were in London, it would be\ndifferent. You simply can't do it.'\n\n'Can't?' asked Victoria, raising her eyebrows. 'Why?'\n\n'It's not done. No really Vic, you can't do it.' Edward was evidently\ndisturbed. Fancy a sister of his . . . It was preposterous.\n\n'I'm sorry, Ted,' said Victoria, 'but I'm going on Wednesday. I've\nsigned the agreement.'\n\nEdward looked at her almost horror-struck. His spectacles had slid down\nto the sharp tip of his nose.\n\n'You are doing very wrong, Victoria,' he said, resuming his pedagogic\ngravity. 'You could have done nothing that I should have disapproved of\nas much. You should have looked out for something else.'\n\n'Looked out for something else?' said Victoria with the suspicion of a\nsneer. 'Look here, Ted. I know you mean well, but I know what I'm doing;\nI haven't been in London for six months without finding out that life is\nhard on women like me. I'm no good because I'm too good for a poor job\nand not suitable for a superior one. So I've just got to do what I can.'\n\n'Why didn't you try for a post as companion?' asked Edward with a half\nsnarl.\n\n'Try indeed! Anybody can see you haven't had to try, Ted. I've tried\neverything I could think of, agencies, societies, papers, everything. I\ncan't get a post. I must do something. I've got to take what I can get.\nI know it now; we women are just raw material. The world uses as much of\nus as it needs and throws the rest on the scrap heap. Do you think I\ndon't keep my eyes open? Do you think I don't see that when you want\nsomebody to do double work at half rates you get a woman? And she thanks\nGod and struggles for the work that's too dirty or too hard for a man\nto touch.'\n\nVictoria paced up and down the small room, carried away by her\nvehemence. Edward said nothing. He was much upset and did not know what\nto say; he had never seen Victoria like this and he was constitutionally\nafraid of vigour.\n\n'I'm sorry, Ted,' said Victoria stopping suddenly. She laid her hand on\nhis sleeve. 'There, don't sulk with me. Let's go out to lunch and I'll\ngo and choose your books with you after. Is it a bargain?'\n\n'I don't want to discuss the matter again,' replied Edward with as much\ncomposure as he could muster. 'Yes, let's go out to lunch.'\n\nThe rest of the day passed without another word on the subject of\nVictoria's downfall. She saw Edward off at St Pancras. After he had said\ngood-bye to her, he suddenly leaned out of the window of the railway\ncarriage as if to speak, then changed his mind and sank back on the\nseat. Victoria smiled at her victory.\n\nNext morning she broke the news to Miss Briggs. The landlady seemed\namazed as well as concerned.\n\n'You seem rather taken aback,' said Victoria.\n\n'Well, mum, you see it's a funny thing the stage; young ladies all seems\nto think it's easy to get on. And then they don't get on. And there you\nare.'\n\n'Well I _am_ on,' said Victoria, 'so I shall have to leave on\nWednesday.'\n\n'Sorry to lose you, mum,' said Miss Briggs, ''ope yer'll 'ave a success.\nIn course, as you 'aven't given me notice, mum, it'll 'ave to be a\nweek's money more.'\n\n'Oh, come Miss Briggs, this is too bad,' cried Victoria, 'why, you've\ngot a whole floor vacant! What would it have mattered if I had given you\nnotice?'\n\n'Might have let it, mum. Besides it's the law,' said Miss Briggs,\nplacing her arms akimbo, ready for the fray.\n\n'Very well then,' said Victoria coldly, 'don't let's say anything more\nabout it.'\n\nMiss Briggs looked at her critically. 'No offence meant, mum,' she said\ntimidly, 'it's a 'ard life, lodgers.'\n\n'Indeed?' said Victoria without any show of interest.\n\n'You wouldn't believe it, mum, all I've got to put up with. There's\nHetty now . . .'\n\n'Yes, yes, Miss Briggs,' said Victoria impatiently, 'you've told me\nabout Hetty.'\n\n'To be sure, mum,' replied Miss Briggs, humbly. 'It ain't easy to make\nends meet. What with the rent and them Borough Council rates. There\nain't no end to it, mum. I lives in the basement, mum, and that means\ngas all the afternoon, mum.'\n\nVictoria looked at her again. This was a curious outlook. The poor\ntroglodyte had translated the glory of the sun into cubic feet of gas.\n\n'Yes, I suppose it is hard,' she said reflectively.\n\n'To be sure, mum,' mused Miss Briggs. 'Sometimes you can't let at all.\nI've watched through the area railings, mum, many a long day in August,\nwondering if the legs I can see was coming 'ere. They don't mostly,\nmum.'\n\n'Then why do you go on?' asked Victoria hardening suddenly.\n\n'What am I to do, mum? I just gets my board and lodging out of it, mum.\nKeeps one respectable; always been respectable, mum. That ain't so easy\nin London, mum. Ah, when I was a young girl, might have been different,\nmum; you should have seen me 'air. Curls like anything, mum, when I puts\nit in papers. 'Ad a bit of a figure too, mum.'\n\n'Deary me!'\n\nVictoria looked with sympathy at the hard thin face, the ragged hair.\nYes, she was respectable enough, poor Miss Briggs! Women have a hard\nlife. No wonder they too are hard. You cannot afford to be earthenware\namong the brass pots.\n\n'What will you do when you can't run the house any more?' she asked more\ngently.\n\n'Do, mum? I dunno.'\n\nYet another philosophy.\n\n'Miss Briggs,' came a man's voice from the stairs.\n\n'Coming, sir,' yelled Miss Briggs in the penetrating tone that calling\nfrom cellar to attic teaches.\n\n'Where are my boots?' said the voice on the stairs.\n\n'I'll get 'em for you, sir,' cried Miss Briggs shuffling to the door on\nher worn slippers.\n\nLife is a hard thing, thought Victoria again. Another woman for the\nscrap heap. Fourteen hours work a day, nightmares of unlet rooms, boots\nto black and coals to carry, dirt, loneliness, harsh words and at the\nend 'I dunno.' Is that to be my fate? she wondered.\n\nHowever her blood soon raced again; she was an actress, she was going\nabroad, she was going to see the world, to enslave it, to have\nadventures, live. It was good. All that day Victoria trod on air. She no\nlonger felt her loneliness. The sun was out and aglow, bringing in its\npremature exuberance joyful moisture to her temples. She, with the\nworld, was young. In a fit of extravagance she lunched at a half crown\ntable d'hote in Oxford Street, where pink shades softly diffuse the\nlight on shining glass and silver. The coffee was almost regal, so\nstrong, so full of sap. The light of triumph was in her eyes, making men\nturn back, sometimes follow and look into her face, half appealing, half\ninsolent. But Victoria was unconscious of them, for the world was at her\nfeet. She was the axis of the earth. It was in such a frame of mind\nthat, the next day, she climbed the steps of Soho Place, careless of the\nview into the underground kitchen, of the two dogs who under the archway\nfought, growling, fouling the air with the scents of their hides, over\na piece of offal. She ran up the stairs lightly. The door was still\najar.\n\nTwo men were sitting in the anteroom, both smoking briar pipes. The\ntaller of the two got up.\n\n'Yes?' he said interrogatively.\n\n'I . . . you . . . is Mr Carrel here?' asked Victoria nervously.\n\n'No Miss,' said the man calmly, 'he's just gone to Marlborough Street.'\n\n'Oh,' said Victoria, still nervous, 'will he be long?'\n\n'I should say so, miss,' replied the man, 'perhaps twelve months,\nperhaps more.'\n\nVictoria gasped. 'I don't understand,' she said, but her heart began to\nbeat.\n\n'Don't s'pose you would, miss,' said the short man, getting up. 'Fact\nis, miss, we're the police and we've had to take him; just about time we\ndid, too. Leaving for France to-night with a batch of girls. S'pose\nyou're one of them?'\n\n'I was going to-night,' said Victoria faintly.\n\n'May I have your name?' asked the tall man politely, taking out a pocket\nbook.\n\n'Fulton,' she faltered. 'Victoria Fulton.'\n\n'M'yes, that's it. 'Gladys Oxford,'' said the tall man turning back a\npage. 'Well Miss, you can thank your stars you're out of it.'\n\n'But what has he done?' asked Victoria with an effort.\n\n'Lord, Miss, you're from the country, I can see,' said the short man\namiably. 'I thought everybody knew that little game. Take you over to\nVichy, you know. Make you dance and sing. Provide costumes.' He winked\nat his companion.\n\n'Costumes,' said Victoria, 'what do you mean?'\n\n'Costumes don't mean much, Miss, over there,' said the tall man. 'Fact\nis you'd have to wear what they like and sing what they like when you\npass the plate round among the customers.'\n\nSomething seemed to freeze in Victoria.\n\n'He said it was a theatre of varieties,' she gasped.\n\n'Quite true,' said the tall man with returning cynicism. 'A theatre\nright enough, but you'd have supplied the variety to the customers.'\n\nVictoria clenched her hands on the handle of her parasol. Then she\nturned to fly.\n\nThe short man stopped her and demanded her address, informing her that\nshe was to attend at Marlborough Street next day at eleven thirty.\n\n'Case mayn't be called before twelve,' he added. 'Sorry to trouble you,\nMiss. You won't hear any more about it unless it's a case for the\nSessions.'\n\nVictoria ran down the steps, through the alley and into Charing Cross\nRoad as if something was tracking her, tracking her down. So this was\nthe end of the dream. She had stretched her hand out to the roses, and\nthe gods, less merciful to her than to Tantalus, had filled her palm\nwith thorns. It was horrible, horrible. She had imagination, and a\nmemory of old prints after Rowlandson which her father had treasured\ncame back to her with almost nauseating force. She pictured the French\n_cafe chantant_ like the Cave of Harmony; rough boards on trestles,\nladen with tankards of foaming beer, muddy lights, a foulness of tobacco\nsmoke, a raised stage with an enormous woman singing on it, her eye\nfrightfully dilated by belladonna, her massive arms and legs gleaming\nbehind the dirty footlights and everywhere around men smoking, with\nnoses like snouts, bodies like swines, hairy hands--hands, ye gods!\n\nShe walked quickly away from the place of revelation. She hurried\nthrough the five o'clock inferno of Trafalgar Square, careless of the\ntraffic, escaping death ten times. She hurried down the spaces of\nWhitehall, and only slackened her pace at Westminster Bridge. There she\nstopped for a moment; the sun was setting and gilded and empurpled the\nforeshores. The horror of the past half hour seemed to fade away as she\nwatched the roses and mauves bloom and blend, the deep shadows of the\nembankments rise and fall. Near by, a vagrant, every inch of him clothed\nin rags, the dirt of his face mimicking their colour, smoked a short\nclay pipe, puffing at long intervals small wreaths of smoke into the\nblue air. And as Victoria watched them form, rise and vanish into\nnothingness, the sun kiss gently but pitilessly the old vagrant hunched\nup against the parapet, the horror seemed to melt away. The peace of the\nevening was expelling it, but another dread visitor was heralded in.\nVictoria felt like lead in her heart, the return of uncertainty. Once\nmore she was an outcast. No work. Once more she must ask herself what to\ndo and find no answer.\n\nThe river glittered and rose and fell, as if inviting her. Victoria\nshuddered. It was not yet time for that. She turned back and, with\ndowncast eyes, made for St James's Park. There she sat for a moment\nwatching a pelican flop on his island, the waterfowl race and dive. The\nproblem of life was upon her now and where was the solution? Must I\ntread the mill once more? thought Victoria. The vision of agencies\nagain, of secretaries courteous or rude, of waits and hopes and\ndespairs, all rushed at her and convinced her of the uselessness of it\nall. She was alone, always alone, because she wanted to be free, to be\nhappy, to live. Perhaps she had been wrong after all to resist the call\nof the river. She shuddered once more. A couple passed her with hands\ninterlocked, eyes gazing into eyes. No, life must hold forth to her\nsomething to make it worth while. She was cold. She got up and, with\nnervous determination, walked quickly towards the gate.\n\nThe first thing to be done was to get quit of all the horrors of the\nday, to cut away the wreckage. She dared not stay at Castle Street. She\nwould be tracked. She would have to give evidence. She couldn't do it.\nShe couldn't. Victoria having regained her coolness was in no wise\nuncertain as to her course of action. The first thing to do was for her\nto lose herself in London, and that so deep that none could drag her out\nand force her to tell her story. She must change her lodgings then.\nNothing could be easier, as she had already given Miss Briggs notice. In\nfact the best thing to do would be to keep up the fiction of her\ndeparture for France.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nVICTORIA entered her room. It was in the condition that speaks of\ndeparture. Her trunks were packed and corded, all save a small suitcase\nwhich still gaped, showing spaces among the sundries that the skilled\npacker collects in the same bundle. Every drawer was open; the bed was\nunmade; the room was littered with newspapers and nondescript articles\ndiscarded at the last moment. Victoria rang her bell and quickly\nfinished packing the suitcase with soap, washing gloves, powder-puffs\nand such like. As she turned the key Miss Briggs opened the door.\n\n'Oh, Miss Briggs,' said Victoria quietly, 'I find that I must go down by\nan earlier train; I must be at Charing Cross in an hour; I'm going now.'\n\n'Yes, mum,' said Miss Briggs without interest. 'Shall I tell the\ngreengrocer to come now, mum?'\n\n'Yes please, Miss Briggs; here are the seven shillings.'\n\nMiss Briggs accepted the money without a word. It had formed the basis\nof a hot argument between her and her tenant; she considered herself\nentitled to one week's rent in lieu of notice but Victoria's new born\nsense of business had urged the fact that she had had two days notice;\nthis had saved her three shillings. Miss Briggs laboured under a sense\nof injury, so she did not see Victoria to the door.\n\nThis was well, for Victoria was able to pay the greengrocer and to get\nrid of him in an artistic manner by sending him to post an empty\nenvelope addressed to an imaginary person, while she directed the\ncabman to Paddington; this saved her awkward questions and would leave\nMiss Briggs under the impression that she had gone to Charing Cross.\n\nAt Paddington station she left her luggage in the cloak-room and went\nout to find lodgings. Her quest was short, for she had ceased to be\nparticular, so that within an hour she was installed in an imposing\nground floor front in the most respectable house in Star Street. The\ndistrict was not so refined as Portsea Place, but the house seemed clean\nand the quarters were certainly cheaper; eleven and six covered both\nthem and the usual breakfast.\n\nVictoria surveyed the room in a friendly manner; there was nothing\nattractive or repulsive in it; it was clean; the furniture was almost\nexactly similar to that which graced her lodgings in Portsea Place and\nin Castle Street. The landlady seemed a friendly body, and had already\nsaved Victoria a drain on her small store by sending her son, an\nout-of-work furrier's hand, to fetch the luggage in a handcart.\nRemembering that she was a fugitive from justice she gave her name as\nMiss Ferris.\n\nVictoria returned from a hurried tea, unpacked with content the trunk\nthat should have followed her to France. She was almost exhilarated by\nthe feeling of safety which enveloped her like comforting warmth. The\nday was blithe in unison. She felt quite safe, every movement of her\nflight having been so skilfully calculated; she was revelling therefore\nin her escape from danger, the deepest and truest of all joys.\n\nThe next morning, however, found her in the familiar mood of wondering\nwhat was to become of her. After an extremely inferior breakfast which\nbrought down upon the already awed Mrs Smith well deserved reproaches,\nVictoria investigated the _Telegraph_ columns with the usual negative\nresults and, in the resultant acid frame of mind, went through her\naccounts and discovered that her possessions amounted to twelve pounds,\neight shillings and four pence. This was a terrible blow; the outfit for\nthe interview with Carrel and the trip to France had dug an enormous\nhole in Victoria's resources.\n\n'I must hurry up and find something,' said Victoria to herself. 'Twelve\npounds eight and fourpence--say twelve weeks--and then?'\n\nThe next morning reconciled her a little to her fate. True, the paper\nyielded no help, but a lengthy account of Carrel's preliminary\nexamination occupied three quarters of a column in the police court\nreport. It was apparently a complicated case, for Carrel had been\nremanded and bail refused. The report did not yield her much\ninformation. Apparently Carrel was indicted for other counts than the\nexporting of the dancing girls to Vichy, for nine women had appeared.\nVictoria had quite a thrill of horror when she read the line in which\nthe well schooled reporter dismissed the evidence of Miss 'S,' by saying\nthat Miss 'S----' here gave an account of her experience in the green\nroom of the Folichon-Palace in 1902.' The baldness of the statement was\nappalling in its suggestiveness. She had been called, apparently, but no\ncomment was made on her non-appearance.\n\n'That's all over,' said Victoria with decision, throwing the newspaper\ndown. She rose from the armchair, shook herself and opened the window to\nlet out the smell of breakfast. Then she put on her hat and gloves and\ndecided to have a walk to cheer herself up. Mindful that she was in a\nsense a fugitive, she avoided the Marble Arch and made for the Park\nthrough the desolate respectability of Lancaster Gate.\n\nShe made for the South East, unconsciously guided by the hieratic shot\ntower of Westminster. It was early; the freshness of May still\nbejewelled with dew drops the crisp new grass; the gravel, stained dark\nby moisture, hardly crunched under her feet, but gave like springy turf.\nForgetting her depleted exchequer Victoria stepped briskly as if on\nbusiness bent, looking at nothing but absorbing as through her skin the\nkisses of the western wind. At Hyde Park Corner she turned into St\nJames's Park, and, passing the barracks, received with an old familiar\nthrill a covert smile from the handsome sentry. After all she was young,\nand it was good somehow to be once more smiled at by a soldier.\nSoldiers, soldiers--stupid perhaps, but could one help liking them?\nVictoria let her thoughts run back to Dicky--poor old wasted Dicky--and\nthe Colonel and his liver, and Bobby, who would never be anything but\nBobby, and Major Cairns too. Victoria felt a tiny pang as she thought of\nthe Major. He was hardly young or handsome but strong, reassuring. She\nsuddenly felt his lips on her neck again as she gazed rapidly at the\ndark lift on the horizon of the coast of Araby. He was a good fellow,\nthe Major. She would like to meet him again.\n\nShe had reached Westminster Bridge. Her thoughts fell away from the\ncomfortable presence of Major Cairns. Hunched up against the parapet sat\nthe old vagrant she had seen there before, motionless, his rags lifting\nin the breeze, puffs of smoke coming at long intervals from his short\nclay pipe. Victoria shuddered; it seemed as if her life were bound to a\nwheel which brought her back inexorably to the same spot until the time\ncame for her to lose there energy and life itself. She turned quickly\ntowards the Embankment, and, as she rounded the curve, caught a glimpse\nof the old vagrant. The symbol of time had not moved.\n\nAnother twenty minutes of quick walking had brought her to the City. She\nwas no longer fearful of it; indeed she almost enjoyed its surge and\nroar. Log that she was, tossed on a stormy sea, she could not help\nfeeling the joy of life in its buffeting. Not even the dullness and\neternal length of Queen Victoria Street, which seems in the City, like\nGower Street, indefinite and interminable, robbed her of the curious\nexultation which she felt whenever she entered the precincts. Here at\nleast was life and doing; ugly doing perhaps, but things worthy of the\nname of action. At Mansion House she stopped for a moment to look at the\nturmoil: drays, motorbuses, cabs, cycles, entangled and threatening\neverywhere the little running black mites of humanity.\n\nAs Victoria passed the Bank and walked up Princes Street she felt\nhungry, for it was nearly one o'clock. She turned up a lane and stopped\nbefore a small shop which arrested her attention by its name above the\ndoor. It was called 'The Rosebud Cafe,' every letter of its name being\nmade up of tiny roses; all the woodwork was painted white; the door was\nglazed and faced with pink curtains; pink half blinds lined the two\nsmall windows, nothing appearing through them except, right and left,\ntwo tall palms. 'The Rosebud' had a freshness and newness that pleased\nher; and, as it boldly announced luncheons and teas, she pushed the\nwhite door open and entered. The room was larger than the outside gave\nreason to think, for it was all in depth. It was pretty in a style\nsuggesting a combination of Watteau, Dresden China, and the top of a\nbiscuit tin. All the woodwork was white, relieved here and there by pink\ndrapery and cunningly selected water colours of more or less the same\ntint. From the roof, at close intervals, hung little baskets of paper\nroses. The back part of the room was glazed over, which showed that it\nlay below the well of a tall building. Symmetrically ranged were little\ntables, some large enough for four persons, mostly however meant for\ntwo, but Victoria noticed that they were all untenanted; in fact the\nroom was empty, save for a woman who on her hands and knees was loudly\nwashing the upper steps of a staircase leading into a cellar, and for a\ntall girl who stood on a ladder at the far end of the room critically\nsurveying a picture she had just put up.\n\nVictoria hesitated for a moment. The girl on the ladder looked round and\njumped down. She was dressed in severe black out of which her long white\nface, mantling pink at the cheeks, emerged like a flower; indeed\nVictoria wondered whether she had been selected as an attendant because\nshe was in harmony with the colour scheme of the shop. The girl was\nquite charming out of sheer insignificance; her fair hair untidily\ncrowned her with a halo marred by flying wisps. Her little pink mouth,\nperpetually open and pouting querulous over three white upper teeth,\nshowed annoyance at being disturbed.\n\n'We aren't open,' she said with much decision. It was clearly quite bad\nenough to have to look forward to work on the morrow without\nanticipating the evil.\n\n'Oh,' said Victoria, 'I'm sorry, I didn't know.'\n\n'We open on Monday,' said the fair girl. 'Sharp.'\n\n'Yes?' answered Victoria vaguely interested as one is in things newly\nborn. 'This is a pretty place, isn't it?'\n\nA flicker of animation. The fair girl's blue eyes opened wider.\n'Rather,' she said. 'I did the water colours,' she explained with pride.\n\n'How clever of you!' exclaimed Victoria. 'I couldn't draw to save my\nlife.'\n\n' them up, I mean,' the girl apologised grudgingly. 'It was a\nlong job, I can tell you.'\n\nVictoria smiled. 'Well,' she said, 'I must come back on Monday and see\nit finished if I'm in the City.'\n\n'Oh, aren't you in the City?' asked the girl. 'West End?'\n\n'No, not exactly West End,' said Victoria. 'I'm not doing anything just\nnow.'\n\nThe fair girl gave her a glance of faint suspicion.\n\n'Oh, aye, I see,' she said slowly, thoughtfully considering the rather\nfull lines of Victoria's figure.\n\nVictoria had not the slightest idea of what she saw. 'I'm looking out\nfor a berth,' she remarked casually.\n\n'Oh, are you?' said the girl with renewed animation. 'What's your line?'\n\n'Anything,' said Victoria. She looked round the pink and white shop. A\nfeeling of weariness had suddenly come over her. The woman at the top of\nthe steps had backed away a little, and was rhythmically swishing a wet\nrag on the linoleum. Under her untidy hair her neck gleamed red and\nfleshy, touched here and there with beads of perspiration. Victoria took\nher in as unconsciously as she would an ox patiently straining at the\nyoke. To and fro the woman's body rocked, like a machine wound up to\nwork until its parts drop out worn and useless.\n\n'Ever done any waiting?' The voice of the girl almost made Victoria\njump. She saw herself being critically inspected.\n\n'No, never,' she faltered. 'That's to say, I would, if I got a billet.'\n\n'Mm,' said the girl, eyeing her over. 'Mm.'\n\nVictoria's heart beat unreasonably. 'Do you know where I can get a job?'\nshe asked.\n\n'Well,' said the girl very deliberately, 'the fact of the matter is,\nthat we're short here. We had a letter this morning. One of our girls\nleft home yesterday. Says she can't come. They don't know where she is.'\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria, too excited to speculate as to the implied\ntragedy.\n\n'If you like, you can see the manager,' said the girl. 'He's down\nthere.' She pointed to the cellar.\n\n'Thank you so much,' said Victoria, 'it's awfully kind of you.' The fair\ngirl walked to the banisters. 'Mr Stein,' she cried shrilly into the\ndarkness.\n\nThere was a rumble, a sound like the upsetting of a chair, footsteps on\nthe stairs. A head appeared on a level with the floor.\n\n'Vat is it?' growled a voice.\n\n'New girl; wants to be taken on.'\n\n'Vell, take her on,' growled the voice. 'You are ze 'ead vaitress, gn,\nyou are responsible.'\n\nVictoria had just time to see the head, perfectly round, short-haired,\nwhite faced, cloven by a turned up black moustache, when it vanished\nonce more. The Germanic 'gn' at the end of the first sentence puzzled\nher.\n\n'Sulky beast,' murmured the girl. 'Anyhow, that's settled. You know the\nwages, don't you? Eight bob a week and your lunch and tea.'\n\n'Eight . . .' gasped Victoria. 'But I can't live on that.'\n\n'My, you are a green 'un,' smiled the girl. 'With a face like that\nyou'll make twenty-five bob in tips by the time we've been on for a\nmonth.' She looked again at Victoria not unkindly.\n\n'Tips,' said Victoria reflectively. Awful. But after all, what did it\nmatter.\n\n'All right,' she said, 'put me down.'\n\nThe girl took her name and address. 'Half-past eight sharp on Monday,'\nshe said. ''cos it's opening day. Usual time half-past nine, off at four\ntwo days a week. Other days seven. Nine o'clock mid and end.'\n\nVictoria stared a little. This was a business woman.\n\n'Sorry,' said the girl, 'must leave you. Got a lot more to do to-day. My\nname's Laura. It'll have to be Lottie though. Nothing like Lottie to\nmake fellows remember you.'\n\n'Remember you?' asked Victoria puzzled.\n\n'Lord, yes, how you going to make your station if they don't remember\nyou?' said Lottie snappishly. 'You'll learn right enough. You let 'em\ncall you Vic. Tell 'em to. You'll be all right. And get yourself a black\nbusiness dress. We supply pink caps and aprons; charge you sixpence a\nweek for washing. You get a black openwork blouse, mind you, with short\nsleeves. Nothing like it to make your station.'\n\n'What's a station?' asked Victoria, more bewildered than ever.\n\n'My, you _are_ a green 'un! A station's your tables. Five you get. We'll\ncut 'em down when they begin to come in. What you've got to do is to pal\nup with the fellows; then they'll stick to you, see? Regulars is what\nyou want. The sort that give no trouble 'cos you know their orders right\noff and leave their twopence like clockwork, see? But never you mind:\nyou'll learn.' Thereupon Lottie tactfully pushed Victoria towards the\ndoor.\n\nVictoria stepped past the cleaner, who was now washing the entrance.\nNothing could be seen of her save her back heaving a little in a filthy\nblue bodice and her hands, large, red, ribbed with flowing rivulets of\nblack dirt and water. As her left hand swung to and fro, Victoria saw\nupon the middle finger the golden strangle of a wedding ring deep in the\nred cavity of the swollen flesh.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\n'YOU come back with me, Vic, don't you?'\n\n'You silly,' said Victoria, witheringly, 'I don't go off to-day, Gertie,\nworse luck.'\n\n'Worse luck! I don't think,' cried Gertie. 'I'll swap with you, if you\nlike. As if yer didn't know it's settling day. Why there's two and a\nkick in it!'\n\n'Shut it,' remarked a fat, dark girl, placidly helping herself to\npotatoes, 'some people make a sight too much out of settling day.'\n\n'Perhaps yer'll tell me wot yer mean, Miss Prodgitt,' snarled Gertie,\nher brown eyes flashing, her cockney accent attaining a heroic pitch.\n\n'What I say,' remarked Miss Prodgitt, with the patronising air that\nusually accompanies this enlightening answer.\n\n'Ho, indeed,' snapped Gertie, 'then p'raps yer'll keep wot yer've got\nter sye to yersel, _Miss_ Prodgitt.'\n\nThe fat girl opened her mouth, then, changing her mind, turned to\nVictoria and informed her that the weather was very cold for the time of\nthe year.\n\n'That'll do, Gertie,' remarked Lottie, 'you leave Bella alone and hook\nit.'\n\nGertie glowered for a moment, wasted another look of scorn on her\nopponent and flounced out of the room into a cupboard-like dark place,\nwhence issued sounds like the growl of an angry cat. Something had\nobviously happened to her hat.\n\nVictoria looked round aimlessly. She had no appetite; for half-past\nthree, the barbarous lunch hour of the Rosebud girls, seemed calculated\nto limit the food bill. By her side Bella was conscientiously absorbing\nthe potatoes that her daintier companions had left over from the Irish\nstew. Lottie was deeply engrossed in a copy of _London Opinion_, left\nbehind by a customer. Victoria surveyed the room, almost absolutely bare\nsave in the essentials of chairs and tables. It was not unsightly,\nexcepting the fact that it was probably swept now and then but never\ncleaned out. Upon the wall opposite was stuck a penny souvenir which\nproclaimed the fact that the Emperor of Patagonia had lunched at the\nGuildhall. By its side hung a large looking glass co-operatively\npurchased by the staff. Another wall was occupied by pegs on which hung\nsundry dust coats and feather boas, mostly smart. Gertie, in the corner,\nwas still fumbling in the place known as 'Heath's' because it\nrepresented the 'Hatterie.' It was a silent party enough, this; even the\ntwo other girls on duty downstairs would not have increased the\nanimation much. Victoria sat back in her chair, and, glancing at the\nlittle watch she carried on her wrist in a leather strap, saw she still\nhad ten minutes to think.\n\nVictoria watched Gertie, who had come out of 'Heath's' and was poising\nher hat before the glass. She was a neat little thing, round everywhere,\ntrim in the figure, standing well on her toes; her brown hair and eyes,\npursed up little mouth, small, sharp nose, all spoke of briskness and\nself-confidence.\n\n'Quarter to four, doin' a bunk,' she remarked generally over her\nshoulder.\n\n'Mind Butty doesn't catch you,' said Victoria.\n\n'Oh, he's all right,' said Gertie, 'we're pals.'\n\nFat Bella, chewing the cud at the table, shot a malevolent glance at\nher. Gertie took no notice of her, tied on her veil with a snap, and\ncollected her steel purse, parasol, and long white cotton gloves.\n\n'Bye, everybody,' she said, 'be good. Bye, Miss Prodgitt; wish yer luck\nwith yer perliceman, but you take my tip; all what glitters isn't\ncoppers.'\n\nBefore Miss Prodgitt could find a retort to this ruthless exposure of\nher idyll, Gertie had vanished down the stairs. Lottie dreamily turned\nto the last page of _London Opinion_ and vainly attempted to sound the\nmiddle of her back; she was clearly disturbed by the advertisement of a\npatent medicine. Victoria watched her amusedly.\n\nThey were not bad sorts, any of them. Lottie, in her sharp way, had been\na kindly guide in the early days, explained the meaning of 'checks,'\nshown her how to distinguish the inflexion on the word 'bill,' that\ntells whether a customer wants the bill of fare or the bill of costs,\nimparted too the wonderful mnemonics which enable a waitress to sort\nfour simultaneous orders. Gertie, the only frankly common member of the\nstaff, barked ever but bit never. As for Bella, poor soul, she\nrepresented neutrality. The thread of her life was woven; she would\nmarry her policeman when he got his stripe, and bear him dull company to\nthe grave. Gertie would no doubt look after herself. Not being likely to\nmarry, she might keep straight and end as a manageress, probably save\nnothing and end in the workhouse, or go wrong and live somehow, and then\ndie as quickly as a robin passing from the sunshine to the darkness.\nLottie was a greater problem; in her intelligence lay danger; she had\nimagination, which in girls of her class is a perilous possession. Her\nenthusiasm might take her anywhere, but very much more likely to misery\nthan to happiness. However, as she was visibly weak-chested, Victoria\ntook comfort in the thought that the air of the underground smoking-room\nwould some day settle her troubles.\n\nVictoria did not follow up her own line of life because as for all young\nthings, there was no end for her--nothing but mist ahead, with a rosy\ntinge in it. Sufficient was it that she was in receipt of a fairly\nregular income, not exactly overworked, neither happy nor miserable.\nApart from the two hours rush in the middle of the day, there was\nnothing to worry her. After two months she had worked up a fair\nconnection; she could not rival the experienced Lottie, nor even Gertie\nwhose forward little ways always 'caught on,' but she kept up an average\nof some fourteen shillings a week in tips. Thus she scored over Gladys\nand Cora, whose looks and manners were unimpressive, lymphatic Bella\nbeing of course outclassed by everybody. Twenty-one and six a week was\nnone too much for Victoria, whose ideas of clothes were fatally upper\nmiddle class; good, and not too cheap. Still, she was enough of her\nclass to live within her income, and even add a shilling now and then to\nher little hoard.\n\nA door opened downstairs. 'Four o'clock! Come down! Vic! Bella! Lottie!\nVat are you doing? gn?'\n\nBella jumped up in terror, her fat cheeks quivering like jelly. 'Coming,\nMr Stein, coming,' she cried, making for the stairs. Victoria followed\nmore slowly. Lottie, secure in her privileges as head waitress, did not\nmove until she heard the door below slam behind them.\n\nVictoria lazily made for her tables. They were unoccupied save by a\nyouth of the junior clerk type.\n\n'Small tea toasted scone, Miss,' said the monarch with an approving look\nat Victoria's eyes. As she turned to execute his order he threw himself\nback in the bamboo arm chair. He joined his ten finger tips, and,\ncrossing his legs, negligently displayed a purple sock. He retained this\nattitude until the return of Victoria.\n\n'Kyou,' she said, depositing his cup before him. She had unconsciously\nacquired this incomprehensible habit of waitresses.\n\nThe young man availed himself of the wait for the scone to inform\nVictoria that it was a cold day.\n\n'We don't notice it here,' she said graciously enough.\n\n'Hot place, eh,' said the customer with a wink.\n\nVictoria smiled. In the early days she would have snubbed him, but she\nhad heard the remark before and had a stereotyped answer ready which,\nwith a new customer, invariably earned her a reputation for wit.\n\n'Oh, the hotter the fewer.' She smiled negligently, moving away towards\nthe counter. When she returned with the scone, the youth held out his\nhand for the plate, and, taking it, touched the side of hers with his\nfinger tips. She gave him a faint smile and sat down a couple of yards\naway on a chair marked 'Attendant.'\n\nThe youth congratulated her upon the prettiness of the place. Victoria\nhelped him through his scone by agreeing with him generally. She\ncompleted her conquest by lightly touching his shoulder as she gave him\nhis check.\n\n'Penny?' asked Bella, as the youth gone, Victoria slipped her fingers\nunder the cup.\n\n'Gent,' replied Victoria, displaying three coppers.\n\nBella sighed. 'You've got all the luck, don't often get a twopenny;\nnever had a gent in my life.'\n\n'I don't wonder you don't,' said Cora from the other side of the room,\n'looking as pleasant as if you were being photographed. You got to give\nthe boys some sport.'\n\nBella sighed. 'It's all very well, Cora, I'm an ugly one, that's what it\nis.'\n\n'Get out; I'm not a blooming daisy. Try washing your hair . . .'\n\n'It's wrong,' interposed Bella ponderously.\n\n'Oh, shut it, _Miss_ Prodgitt, I've no patience with you.'\n\nCora walked away to the counter where Gladys was brewing tea. There was\na singular similarity between these two; both were short and plump; both\nused henna to bring their hair up to a certain hue of redness; both had\ncomplexions obviously too dark for the copper of their locks, belied as\nit was already by their brown eyes. Indeed their resemblance frequently\ncreated trouble, for each maintained that the other ruined her trade by\nmaking her face cheap.\n\n'Can't help it if you've got a cheap face,' was the invariable answer\nfrom either. 'You go home and come back when the rhubarb's out,' usually\nserved as a retort.\n\nThe July afternoon oozed away. It was cool; now and then an effluvium of\ntea came to Victoria, mingled with the scent of toast. Now and then too\nthe rumble of a dray or the clatter of a hansom filtered into the\ndullness. Victoria almost slept.\n\nThe inner door opened. A tall, stout, elderly man entered, throwing a\nsavage glance round the shop. There was a little stir among the girls.\nBella's rigidity increased tenfold. Cora and Gladys suddenly stopped\ntalking. Alone Victoria and Lottie seemed unconcerned at the entrance of\nButty, for 'Butty' it was.\n\n'Butty,' otherwise Mr Burton, the chairman of 'Rosebud, Ltd.,' continued\nto glare theatrically. He wore a blue suit of a crude tint, a check\nblack and white waistcoat, a soft fronted brown shirt and, set in a\nshilling poplin tie, a large black pearl. Under a grey bowler set far\nback on his head his forehead sloped away to his wispy greying hair. His\nnose was large and veined, his cheeks pendulous and touched with\nrosacia; his hanging underlip revealed yellow teeth. The heavy dullness\nof his face was somewhat relieved by his little blue eyes, piercing and\nsparkling like those of a snake. His face was that of a man who is\nlooking for faults to correct.\n\nMr Burton strode through the shop to the counter where Cora and Gladys\nat once assumed an air of rectitude while he examined the cash register.\nThen, without a word, he returned towards the doorway, sweeping Lottie's\ntables with a discontented glance, and came to a stop before one of\nBella's tables.\n\n'What's this? what the devil do you mean by this?' thundered Butty,\npointing to a soiled plate and cup.\n\n'Oh, sir, I'm sorry, I . . .' gasped Bella, 'I . . .'\n\n'Now look here, my girl,' hissed Butty, savagely, 'don't you give me any\nof your lip. If I ever find anything on a table of yours thirty seconds\nafter a customer's gone, it's the sack. Take it from me.'\n\nHe walked to the steps and descended into the smoking-room. Cora and\nGladys went into fits of silent mirth, pointing at poor Bella. Lottie,\nunconcerned as ever, vainly tried to extract interest from the shop copy\nof 'What's On.'\n\n'Victoria,' came Butty's voice from below. 'Where's Mr Stein? Come\ndown.'\n\n'He's washing, sir,' said Victoria, bending over the banisters.\n\n'Oh, washing is he? first time I've caught him at it,' came the answer\nwith vicious jocularity. 'Here's a nice state of things; come down.'\n\nVictoria went down the steps.\n\n'Now then, why aren't these salt cellars put away? It's your job before\nyou come up.'\n\n'If you please, sir, it's settling day,' said Victoria quietly, 'we open\nthis room again at six.'\n\n'Oh, yes, s'pose you're right. I don't blame you. Never have to,' said\nButty grudgingly, then ingratiatingly.\n\n'No, sir,' said Victoria.\n\n'No, you're not like the others,' said Butty negligently coming closer\nto her.\n\nVictoria smiled respectfully, but edged a little away. Butty eyed her\nnarrowly, his lips smiling and a little moist. Then his hand suddenly\nshot out and seized her by the arm, high up, just under the short\nsleeve.\n\n'You're a nice girl,' he said, looking into her eyes.\n\nVictoria said nothing, but tried to free herself. She tried harder as\nshe felt on her forearm the moist warmth of the ball of Butty's thumb\nsoftly caressing it.\n\n'Let me go, sir,' she whispered, 'they can see you through the\nbanisters.'\n\n'Never you mind, Vic,' said Butty drawing her towards him.\n\nVictoria slipped from his grasp, ran to the stairs, but remembered to\nclimb them in a natural and leisurely manner.\n\n'Cool, very cool,' said Butty, approvingly, 'fine girl, fine girl.' He\npassed his tongue over his lips, which had suddenly gone dry.\n\nWhen Victoria returned to her seat Lottie had not moved; Bella sat deep\nin her own despair, but, behind the counter, Cora and Gladys were fixing\ntwo stern pairs of eyes upon the favourite.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\n'YES, sir, yes sir; I've got your order,' cried Victoria to a middle\naged man, whose face reddened with every minute of waiting. 'Steak, sir?\nYes, sir, that'll be eight minutes. And sautees, yes sir. Gladys, send\nDicky up to four. What was yours, sir? Wing twopence extra. No bread?\nOh, sorry, sir, thought you said Worcester.'\n\nVictoria dashed away to the counter. This was the busy hour. In her\nbrain a hurtle of food stuffs and condiments automatically sorted itself\nout.\n\n'Now then, hurry up with that chop,' she snapped, thrusting her head\nalmost through the kitchen window.\n\n''Oo are you,' growled the cook over her shoulder. 'Empress of Germany?\nI don't think.'\n\n'Oh, shut it, Maria, hand it over; now then Cora, where you pushing to?'\nVictoria edged Cora back from the window, seized the chop and rushed\nback to her tables.\n\nThe bustle increased; it was close on one o'clock, an hour when the\nslaves drop their oars, and for a while leave the thwarts of many\ngroans. The Rosebud had nearly filled up. Almost every table was\noccupied by young men, most of them reading a paper propped up against a\ncruet, some a Temple Classic, its pages kept open by the weight of the\nplate edge. A steady hum of talk came from those who did not read, and,\nmingled with the clatter of knives and forks, produced that atmosphere\nof mongrel sound that floats into the ears like a restless wave.\n\nVictoria stepped briskly between the tables, collecting orders, deftly\nmaking out bill after bill, smoothing tempers ruffled here and there by\na wrongful attribution of food.\n\n'Yes sir, cutlets. No veg? Cauli? Yes sir.'\n\nShe almost ran up and down as half-past one struck and the young men\nasked for coffees, small coffees, small blacks, china teas. From time to\ntime she could breathe and linger for some seconds by a youth who\naudaciously played with the pencil and foil suspended from her waist. Or\nshe exchanged a pleasantry.\n\n'Now then, Nevy, none of your larks.' Victoria turned round sharply and\ncaught a hand engaged in forcing a piece of sugar into her belt.\n\nNevy, otherwise Neville Brown, laughed and held her hand the space of a\nsecond. 'I love my love with a V . . .' he began, looking up at her, his\nblue eyes shining.\n\n'Chuck it or I'll tell your mother,' said Victoria, smiling too. She\nwithdrew her hand and turned away.\n\n'Oh, I say, Vic, don't go, wait a bit,' cried Neville, 'I want, now what\ndid I want?'\n\n'Sure I don't know,' said Victoria, 'you never said what you wanted.\nWant me to make up your mind for you?'\n\n'Do, Vic, let our minds be one,' said Neville.\n\nVictoria looked at him approvingly. Neville Brown deserved the nickname\nof 'Beauty,' which had clung to him since he left school. Brown wavy\nhair, features so clean cut as to appear almost effeminate, a broad\npointed jaw, all combined to make him the schoolgirl's dream. Set off by\nhis fair and slightly sunburnt face, his blue eyes sparkled with\nmischief.\n\n'Well, then, special and cream. Sixpence and serve you right.'\n\nShe laughed and stepped briskly away to the counter.\n\n'You're in luck, Beauty,' said his neighbour with a sardonic air.\n\n'Oh, it's no go, James,' replied Brown, 'straight as they make them.'\n\n'Don't say she's not. But if I weren't a married man, I'd go for her\nbaldheaded.'\n\n'Guess you would, Jimmy,' said Beauty, laughing, 'but you'd be wasting\nyour time. You wouldn't get anything out of her.'\n\n'Don't you be too sure,' said Jimmy meaningly. He passed his hand\nreflectively over his shaven lips.\n\n'Well, well,' said Brown, 'p'raps I'm not an Apollo like you, Jimmy.'\n\nJimmy smiled complacently. He was a tall slim youth, well groomed about\nthe head, doggy about the collar and tie, neatly dressed in Scotch\ntweed. His steady grey eyes and firm mouth, a little set and rigid, the\nimpeccability of all about him, had stamped business upon his face as\nupon his clothes.\n\n'Oh, I can't queer your pitch, Beauty,' he said a little grimly. 'I know\nyou, you low dog.'\n\nBeauty laughed at the epithet. 'You've got no poetry about you, you\nNorth Country chaps, when a girl's as lovely as Victoria--'\n\n'As lovely as Victoria,' he repeated a little louder as Victoria laid\nthe cup of coffee before him.\n\n'I know all about that,' said Victoria coolly, 'you don't come it over\nme like that, Nevy.'\n\n'Cruel, cruel girl,' sighed Neville. 'Ah, if you only knew what I\nfeel----'\n\nVictoria put her hand on the tablecloth and, for a moment, looked down\ninto Neville's blue eyes.\n\n'You oughtn't to be allowed out,' she pronounced, 'you aren't safe.'\n\nJimmy got up as if he had been sitting on a suddenly released spring.\n\n'Spoon away both of you,' he said smoothly, 'I'm going over to Parsons'\nto buy a racquet. Coming, Beauty? No, thought as much. Ta-ta, Vic.\nExcuse me. Steak and kidney pie is tenpence, not a shilling. Cheer oh!\nBeauty.'\n\n'He's a rum one,' said Victoria, reflectively, as Jimmy passed the cash\ndesk.\n\n'Jimmy? oh, he's all right,' said Neville, 'but look here Vic, I want to\nspeak to you. Let's go on the bust to-night. Dinner at the New Gaiety\nand the theatre. What d'you think?'\n\nVictoria looked at him for a second.\n\n'You are a cure, Nevy,' she said.\n\n'Then that's a bargain?' said Brown, eagerly snapping up her\nnon-refusal. 'Meet me at Strand Tube Station half-past seven. You're off\nto-night, I know.'\n\n'Oh you know, do you,' said Victoria smiling. 'Been pumping Bella I\nsuppose, like the rest. She's a green one, that girl.'\n\nNeville looked up at her appealingly. 'Never mind how I know,' he said,\n'say you'll come, we'll have a ripping time.'\n\n'Well, p'raps I will and p'raps I won't,' said Victoria. 'Your bill,\nSir? Yessir.'\n\nVictoria went to the next table. While she wrote she exchanged chaff\nwith the customers. One had not raised his eyes from his book; one stood\nwaiting for his bill; the other two, creatures about to be men, raised\nlanguid eyes from their coffee cups. One negligently puffed a jet of\ntobacco smoke upwards towards Victoria.\n\n'Rotten,' she said briefly, 'I see you didn't buy those up West.'\n\n'That's what _you_ think, Vic,' said the youth, 'fact is I got them in\nthe Burlington. Have one?'\n\n'No thanks. Don't want to be run in.'\n\n'Have a match then.' The young man held up a two inch vesta. 'What\nprice that, eh? pinched 'em from the Troc' last night.'\n\n'You are a toff, Bertie,' said Victoria with unction. 'I'll have it as a\nkeepsake.' She took it and stuck it in her belt.\n\nBertie leaned over to his neighbour. 'It's a mash,' he said confidently.\n\n'Take her to Kew,' said his friend, 'next stop Brighton.'\n\n'Can't run to it, old cock,' said the youth. 'However we shall see.'\n\n'Vic, Vic,' whispered Neville. But Victoria had passed him quickly and\nwas answering Mr Stein.\n\n'Vat you mean by it,' he growled, 'making de gentleman vait for his\nticket, gn?'\n\n'Beg your pardon, Mr Stein, I did nothing of the kind. The gentleman was\nmaking _me_ wait while he talked to his friend.'\n\nVictoria could now lie coolly and well. Stein looked at her savagely and\nslowly walked away along the gangway between the tables, glowering from\nright to left, looking managerially for possible complaints.\n\nVictoria turned back from the counter. There, behind the coffee urn\nwhere Cora presided, stood Burton, in his blue suit, tiny beads of\nperspiration appearing on his forehead. His little blue eyes fixed\nthemselves upon her like drills seeking in her being the line of least\nresistance where he could deliver his attack. She almost fled, as if she\nhad seen a snake, every facet of her memory causing the touch of his hot\nwarm hand to materialise.\n\n'Vic,' said Neville's voice softly as she passed, 'is it yes?'\n\nShe looked down at the handsome face.\n\n'Yes, Beauty Boy,' she whispered, and walked away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\n'SILLY ass,' remarked Victoria angrily. She threw Edward's letter on the\ntable. Unconsciously she spoke the 'Rosebud' language, for contact had\nhad its effect upon her; she no longer awoke with a start to the fact\nthat she was speaking an alien tongue, a tongue she would once have\ndespised.\n\nEdward had expressed his interest in her welfare in a letter of four\npages covered with his thin writing, every letter of which was legible\nand sloped at the proper angle. He 'considered it exceedingly\nundesirable for her to adopt a profession such as that of waitress.' It\nwas comforting to know that 'he was relieved to see that she had the\ncommon decency to change her name, and he trusted. . . .' Here Victoria\nhad stopped.\n\n'I can't bear it,' she said. 'I can't, can't, can't. Twopenny little\nschoolmaster lecturing me, me who've got to earn every penny I get by\nfighting for it in the dirt, so to say.' Every one of Edward's features\ncame up before her eyes, his straggling fair hair, his bloodless face,\nhis fumbling ineffective hands. This pedagogue who had stepped from\nscholardom to teacherdom dared to blame or eulogise the steps she took\nto earn her living, to be free to live or die as she chose. It was\npreposterous. What did he know of life?\n\nVictoria seized a pen and feverishly scribbled on a crumpled sheet of\npaper.\n\n    'My dear Edward,--What I do's my business. I've got to live and I\n    can't choose. And you can be sure that so long as I can keep myself\n    I shan't come to you for help or advice. Perhaps you don't know what\n    freedom is, never having had any. But I do and I'm going to keep it\n    even if it costs me the approval of you people who sit at home\n    comfortably and judge people like me who want to be strong and free.\n    But what's the good of talking about freedom to you.--\n\n    Your affectionate sister,\n\n    VICTORIA'.\n\nShe addressed the envelope and ran out hatless to post it at the pillar\nbox in Edgware Road. As she crossed the road homewards a horse bus\nrumbled by. It carried an enormous advertisement of the new musical\ncomedy _The Teapot Girl_. 'A fine comedy indeed,' she thought, suddenly\na little weary.\n\nAs she entered her room, where a small oil lamp diffused a sphere of\ngraduated light, she was seized as by the throat by the oppression of\nthe silent summer night. The wind had fallen; not even a whirl of dust\nstirred in the air. Alone and far away a piano organ in a square droned\nand clanked Italian melody. She thought of Edward and of her letter.\nPerhaps she had been too sharp. Once upon a time she would not have\nwritten like that: she was getting common.\n\nVictoria sat down on a little chair, her hands clasped together in her\nlap, her eyes looking out at the blank wall opposite. This, nine\no'clock, was the fatal hour when the ghosts of her dead past paced like\ncaged beasts up and down in her small room, and the wraith of the day's\nwork rattled its chains. There had been earlier times when, in the first\nflush of independence, she had sat down to gloat over what was almost\nsuccess, her liberty, her living earned by her own efforts. The rosiness\nof freedom then wrapped around the dinge with wreaths of fancy, wreaths\nthat curled incessantly into harmonious shapes. But Victoria had soon\nplumbed the depths of speculation and found that the fire of imagination\nneeds shadowy fuel for its shadowy combustion. Day by day her brain had\nbecome less lissome. Then, instead of thinking for the joy of thought,\nshe had read some fourpenny-halfpenny novel, a paper even, picked up in\nthe Tube. Her mind was waking up, visualising, realising, and in its\ntroublous surgings made for something to cling to to steady itself. But\nmonths rolled on and on, inharmonious in their sameness, unrelieved by\nanything from the monotony of work and sleep. Certain facts meant\ncertain things and recurred eternally with their unchanging meaning; the\nknock that awoke her, a knock so individual and habitual that her sleepy\nbrain was conscious on Sundays that she need not respond; the smell of\nfood which began to assail her faintly as she entered the 'Rosebud,'\nthen grew to pungency and reek at midday, blended with tobacco, then\nslowly ebbed almost into nothingness: the dying day that was grateful to\nher eyes when she left to go home, when things looked kindly round her.\n\nWhen Victoria realised all of a sudden her loneliness in her island in\nStar Street, something like the fear of the hunted had driven her out\ninto the streets. She was afraid to be alone, for not even books could\nsave her from her thoughts, those hounds in full cry. In such moods she\nhad walked the streets quickly, looking at nothing, maintaining her pace\nover hills. Now and then she had suddenly landed on a slum, caught sight\nof, all beery and bloody, through the chink of a black lane. But she\nshunned the flares, the wet pavement, the orange peel that squelched\nbeneath her boots, afraid of the sight of too vigorous life.\nUnconsciously she had sought the drug of weariness, and the cunning bred\nof her dipsomania told her that the living were poor companions for her\nsoul. And, when at times a man had followed her, his eye arrested by\nthe lines of her face lit up by a gas lamp, he had soon tired of her\nquick walk and turned away towards weaker vessels.\n\nBut even weariness, when abused, loses its power as a sedative. The\nbody, at once hardened and satiated, demands more every day as it craves\nfor increasing doses of morphia, for more food, more drink, more kisses,\nmore, ever more. Thus Victoria had reached her last stage when, sitting\nalone in her room, she once more faced the emptiness where the ghosts of\nher dead past paced like caged beasts and the wraith of the day's work\nrattled its chains.\n\nFrom this, now a state of mental instead of physical exhaustion, she was\nseldom roused; and it needed an Edward come to judgment to stir her\nsleepy brain into quick passion. Again and again the events of the day\nwould chase round and round maddeningly with every one of their little\ndetails sharp as crystals. Victoria could almost mechanically repeat\nsome conversations, all trifling, similar, confined to half a dozen\ntopics; she could feel, too, but casually as an odalisque, the hot wave\nof desire which surrounded her all day, evidenced by eyes that\nglittered, fastened on her hands as she served, on her face, the curve\nof her neck, her breast, her hips; eyes that devoured and divested her\nof her meretricious livery. And, worse perhaps than that big primitive\nsurge which left her cold but unangered, the futility of others who\nbandied with her the daily threadbare joke, who wearied her mind with\nquestions as to food, compelled her to sympathise with the vagaries of\nthe weather or were arch, flirtatious and dragged out of her tired mind\nthe necessary response. Even Butty and the moist warmth of him, even\nStein with his flaccid surly face, were better in their grossness than\nthese vapid youths, thoughtless, incapable of thought, incapable of\nimagining thought, who set her down as an inferior, as a toy for games\nthat were not even those of men.\n\n'Beauty' had been a disappointment. She had met him two or three times\nsince their first evening out. That night Neville, who was a young man\nof the world, had pressed his suit so delicately, preserving in so\ncat-like a manner his lines of retreat, that she had not been able to\nsnub him when inclined to. He had a small private income and knew how to\nmake the best of his good looks by means of gentle manners and smart\nclothes. In the insurance office where he was one of those clerks who\nhave lately evolved from the junior stage, he was nothing in particular\nand earned ten pounds a month. He had furnished two rooms on the Chelsea\nedge of Kensington, belonged to an inexpensive club in St James's, had\nbeen twice to Brussels and once to Paris; he smoked Turkish cigarettes,\ndeeming Virginia common; he subscribed to a library in connection with\nMudie's, and knew enough of the middle classes to exaggerate his\nimpression of them into the smart set. Perhaps he tried a little too\nmuch to be a gentleman.\n\nNeville Brown was strongly attracted to Victoria. He had vainly tried to\ndraw her out, and scented the lie in her carefully concocted story. He\nknew enough to feel that she was at heart one of those women he met 'in\nsociety,' perhaps a little better. Thus she puzzled him extremely, for\nshe was not even facile; he could hold her hand; she had not refused him\nkisses, but he was afraid to secure his grip on her as a man carrying a\nbutterfly stirs not a finger for fear it should escape.\n\nVictoria turned all this over lazily. Her instinct told her what manner\nof man was Neville, for he hardly concealed his desires. Indeed their\nrelations had something of the charm of a masqued ball. She saw well\nenough that Neville was not likely to remain content with kisses, and\nviewed the inevitable battle with mixed feelings. She liked him;\nindeed, in certain moods and when his blue eyes were at their bluest, he\nattracted her magnetically. The reminiscent scent of Turkish tobacco on\nher lips always drew her back towards him; and yet she was of her class,\nshy of love, of all that is illicit because unacknowledged. She knew\nvery well that Neville would hardly ask her to marry him and that she\nwould refuse if he did; she knew less well what she would do if he asked\nher to love him. When she analysed their relation she always found that\nall lay on the lap of the gods.\n\nIn the loneliness of night her thoughts would fasten on him more\nintently. He was youth and warmth and friendliness, words for the\nsilent, a hand to touch; better still he was a figment of Love itself,\nwith all its tenderness and crudity, its heat, all the quivers of its\nbody; he was soft scented as the mysterious giver of passionate gifts.\nSo, when Victoria lay down to try and sleep she rocked in the trough of\nthe waves of doubt. She could not tell into what hands she would give,\nif she gave, her freedom, her independence of thought and deed, all that\nsecurity which is dear to the sheltered class from which she came. So,\nfar into the night she would struggle for sight, tossing from right to\nleft and left to right, thrusting away and then recalling the brown\nface, the blue eyes and their promise.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nTHE days rolled on, and on every one, as their scroll revealed itself,\nVictoria inscribed doings which never varied. The routine grew heavier\nas she found that the events of a Monday were so similar to those of\nanother Monday that after a month she could not locate happenings. She\nno longer read newspapers. There was nothing in them for her; not even\nthe mock tragedy of the death of an heir presumptive or the truer\ngrimness of a shipwreck could rouse in her an emotion. She did not care\nfor adventure: not because she thought that adventure was beneath her\nnotice, but because it could not affect her. A revolution could have\nhappened, but she would have served boiled cod and coffees to the\ngroundlings, wings of chicken to the luxurious, without a thought for\nthe upheaval, provided it did not flutter the pink curtains beyond which\nhummed the world.\n\nAt times, for the holiday season was not over and work was rather slack,\nVictoria had time to sit on her 'attendant' chair and to think awhile.\nReading nothing and seeing no one save Beauty and Mrs Smith, she was\nthinking once more and thinking dangerously much. Often she would watch\nLottie, negligently serving, returning the ball of futility with a\ncarelessness that was almost grace, or Cora talking smart slang in young\nlady-like tones.\n\n'To what end?' thought Victoria. 'What are we doing here, wasting our\nlives, I suppose, to feed these boys. For what's the good of feeding\nthem so that they may scrawl figures in books and catch trains and\nperhaps one day, unless they've got too old, marry some dull girl and\nhave more children than they can keep? We girls, we're wasted too.' So\nstrongly did she feel this that, one day, she prospected the unexplored\nground of Cora's mind.\n\n'What are you worrying about?' remarked Cora, after Victoria had tried\nto inflame her with noble discontent. 'I don't say it's all honey, this\njob of ours, but you can have a good time pretty well every night, can't\nyou, let alone Sundays?'\n\n'But I don't want a good time,' said Victoria, suddenly inspired. 'I\nwant to feel I'm alive, do something.'\n\n'Do what?' said Cora.\n\n'Live, see things, travel.'\n\n'Oh, we don't get a chance, of course,' said Cora. 'I'll tell you how it\nis, Vic, you want too much. If you want anything in life you've got to\nwant nothing, then whatever you get good seems jolly good.'\n\n'You're a pessimist, Cora,' said Victoria smiling.\n\n'Meaning I see the sad side? Don't you believe it. Every cloud has a\nsilver lining, you know.'\n\n'And every silver lining has a cloud,' said Victoria, sadly.\n\n'Now, Vic,' answered Cora crossly, 'don't you go on like that. You'll\nonly mope and mope. And what's the good of that, I'd like to know.'\n\n'Oh, I don't know,' said Victoria, 'I like thinking of things. Sometimes\nI wish I could make an end of it. Don't you?'\n\n'Lord, no,' said Cora, 'I make the best of it. You take my tip and don't\nthink too much.'\n\nVictoria bent down in her chair, her chin upon her open palm. Cora\nslapped her on the back.\n\n'Cheer up,' she said, 'we'll soon be dead.'\n\nVictoria had also attempted Gladys, but had discovered without surprise\nthat her association with Cora had equalised their minds as well as the\ncopper of their hair. Lottie never said much when attacked on a general\nsubject, while Bella never said anything at all. Since the day when\nVictoria had attempted to draw her out on the fateful question 'What's\nthe good of anything?' Bella Prodgitt had looked upon Victoria as a\ndangerous revolutionary. At times she would follow the firebrand round\nthe shop with frightened and admiring eyes. For her Victoria was\nsomething like the brilliant relation of whom the family is proud\nwithout daring to acknowledge him.\n\nIt fell to Gertie's lot to enlighten Victoria further on the current\noutlook of life. It came about in this way. One Saturday afternoon\nVictoria and Bella were alone on duty upstairs, for the serving of lunch\nis then at a low ebb; the City makes a desperate effort to reach the\nedge of the world to lunch peacefully and cheaply in its homes and\nlodgings. Lottie and Gertie were taking the smoking room below.\n\nIt was nearly three o'clock. At one of the larger tables sat two men,\nboth almost through with their lunch. The elder of the two, a stout,\ncheery-looking man, pushed away his cup, slipped two pennies under the\nsaucer and, taking up his bill, which Victoria had made out when she\ngave him his coffee, went up to the cash desk. The other man, a\npale-faced youth in a blue suit, sat before his half emptied cup. His\nhand passed nervously round his chin as he surveyed the room; his was\nrather the face of a ferret, with a long upper lip, watery blue eyes,\nand a weak chin. His forehead sloped a little and was decorated with\nmany pimples.\n\nVictoria passed him quickly, caught up the stout man, entered the cash\ndesk and took his bill. He turned in the doorway.\n\n'Well, Vic,' he said, 'when are we going to be married?'\n\n'29th of February, if it's not a leap year,' she laughed.\n\n'Too bad, too bad,' said the stout man, looking back from the open door\nout of which he had already passed, 'you're the third girl who's said\nthat to me in a fortnight.'\n\n'Serve you right,' said Victoria, looking into the mirror opposite,\n'you're as bad as Henry the . . . .'\n\nThe door closed. Victoria did not finish her sentence. Her eyes were\nglued to the mirror. In it she could only see a young man with a thin\nface, decorated with many pimples, hurriedly gulping down the remains of\nhis cup of coffee. But a second before then she had seen something which\nmade her fetch a quick breath. The young man had looked round, marked\nthat her head was turned away; he had thrown a quick glance to the right\nand the left, to the counter which Bella had left for a moment to go\ninto the kitchen; then his hand had shot out and, with a quick movement,\nhe had seized the stout man's pennies and slipped them under his own\nsaucer.\n\nThe young man got up. Victoria came up to him and made out his bill. He\ntook it without a word and paid it at the desk, Victoria taking his\nmoney.\n\n'Well, he didn't steal it, did he?' said Gertie, when Victoria told her\nof the incident.\n\n'No, not exactly. Unless he stole it from the first man.'\n\n''Ow could he steal it if he didn't take it?' snapped Gertie.\n\n'Well, he made believe to tip me when he didn't, and he made believe\nthat the first man was mean when it was he who was,' said Victoria. 'So\nhe stole it from the first man to give it me.'\n\n'Lord, I don't see what yer after,' said Gertie. 'You ain't lost\nnothing. And the first fellow he ain't lost nothing either. He'd _left_\nhis money.'\n\nVictoria struggled for a few sentences. The little Cockney brain could\nnot take in her view. Gertie could only see that Victoria had had\ntwopence from somebody instead of from somebody else, so what was her\ntrouble?\n\n'Tell yer wot,' said Gertie summing up the case, 'seems ter me the\nfellow knew wot he was after. Dodgy sort of thing to do. Oughter 'ave\nthought of the looking-glass though.'\n\nVictoria turned away from Gertie's crafty little smile. There was\nsomething in the girl that she could not understand; nor could Gertie\nunderstand her scruple. Gertie helped her a little though to solve the\nproblem of waste; this girl could hardly be wasted, thought Victoria,\nfor of what use could she be? She had neither the fine physique that\nenables a woman to bear big stupid sons, nor the intelligence which\nbreeds a cleverer generation; she was sunk in the worship of easy\npleasure, and ever bade the fleeting joy to tarry yet awhile.\n\n'She isn't alive at all,' said Victoria to Lottie. 'She merely grows\nolder.'\n\n'Well, so do we,' replied Lottie in matter of fact tones.\n\nVictoria was compelled to admit the truth of this, but she did not see\nher point clearly enough to state it. Lottie, besides, did nothing to\ndraw her out. In some ways she was Victoria's oasis in the desert, for\nshe was simple and gentle, but her status lymphaticus was permanent. She\ndid not even dream.\n\nVictoria's psychological enquiries did not tend to make her popular. The\nverdict of the 'Rosebud' was that she was a 'rum one,' perhaps a 'deep\none.' The staff were confirmed in their suspicions that she was a 'deep\none' by the obvious attentions that Mr Burton paid her. They were not\nprudish, except Bella, who objected to 'goings on'; to be distinguished\nby Butty was rather disgusting, but it was flattering too.\n\n'He could have anybody he liked, the dirty old tyke,' remarked Cora. 'Of\ncourse I'm not taking any,' she added in response to a black look from\nBella Prodgitt.\n\nVictoria was not 'taking any' either, but she every day found greater\ndifficulty in repelling him. Burton would stand behind the counter near\nthe kitchen door during the lunch hour, and whenever Victoria had to\ncome up to it, he would draw closer, so close that she could see over\nthe whites of his little eyes a fine web of blood vessels. Every time\nshe came and went her skirts brushed against his legs; on her neck\nsometimes she felt the rush of his bitter scented breath.\n\nOne afternoon, in the change room, as she was dressing alone to leave at\nfour, the door opened. She had taken off her blouse and turned with a\nlittle cry. Burton had come in suddenly. He walked straight up to her,\nhis eyes not fixed on hers but on her bare arms. A faintness came over\nher. She hardly had the strength to repel him, as without a word he\nthrew one arm round her waist, seizing her above the elbow with his\nother hand. As he tried to draw her towards him she saw a few inches\nfrom her face, just the man's mouth, red and wet, like the sucker of a\nleech, the lips parted over the yellow teeth.\n\n'Let me go!' she hissed, throwing her head back.\n\nBurton ground her against him, craning his neck to touch her lips with\nhis.\n\n'Don't be silly,' he whispered, 'I love you. You be my little girl.'\n\n'Let me go.' Victoria shook him savagely.\n\n'None of that.' Burton's eyes were glittering. The corners had pulled\nupwards with rage.\n\n'Let me go, I say.'\n\nBurton did not answer. For a minute they wrestled. Victoria thrust him\nback against the wall. She almost turned sick as his hand, slipping\nround her, flattened itself on her bare shoulder. In that moment of\nweakness Burton won, and, bending her over, kissed her on the mouth. She\nstruggled, but Burton had gripped her behind the neck. Three times he\nkissed her on the lips. A convulsion of disgust and she lay motionless\nin his embrace. There was a step on the stairs. A few seconds later\nBurton had slipped out by the side door.\n\n'What's up?' said Gladys suspiciously.\n\nVictoria had sunk upon a chair, breathless, dishevelled, her face in her\nhands.\n\n'Nothing . . . I . . . I feel sick,' she faltered. Then she savagely\nwiped her mouth with her feather boa.\n\nVictoria was getting a grip of things. The brute, the currish brute. The\nwords rang in her head like a chorus. For days, the memory of the affray\ndid not leave her. She guarded, too, against any recurrence of the\nscene.\n\nHer hatred for Burton seemed to increase the fascination of Neville. She\ndid not think of them together, but it always seemed to happen that,\nimmediately after thrusting away the toad-like picture of the chairman,\nshe thought of the blue-eyed boy. Yet her relations with Neville were\nill-fated. Some days after the foul incident in the change room, Neville\ntook her for one of his little 'busts.' As it was one of her late nights\nhe called for her at a quarter past nine. They walked towards the west\nand, on the stroke of ten, Neville escorted her into one of the enormous\nrestaurants that the Refreshment Rendezvous, known to London as the\nAh-Ah, runs as anonymously as it may.\n\nVictoria was amused. The R. R. was the owner of a palace, built, if not\nfor the classes, certainly not for the masses. Its facing was of\ntortured Portland stone, where Greek columns, Italian, Louis XIV and\nTudor mouldings blended with rich Byzantine gildings and pre-Raphaelite\nfrescoes. Inside too, it was all plush, mainly red; gold again; palms,\nfountains, with goldfish and tin ducks. The restaurant was quite a fair\nimitation of the Carlton, but a table d'hote supper was provided for\neighteen pence, including finger bowls in which floated a rose petal.\n\nNeville and Victoria sat at a small table made for two. She surrendered\nher feet to the clasp of his. Around her were about two hundred couples\nand a hundred family parties. Most of the young men were elaborately\ncasual; they wore blue or tweed suits, a few, frock coats marred by\ndouble collars; they had a tendency to loll and to puff the insolent\ntobacco smoke of virginias towards the distant roof. Their young ladies\ntalked a great deal and looked about. There was much wriggling of\nchairs, much giggling, much pulling up of long gloves over bare arms. In\na corner, all alone, a young man in well-fitting evening clothes was\nconsuming in melancholy some chocolate and a sandwich.\n\nNeville plied Victoria with the major part of a half bottle of claret.\n\n'Burgundy's the thing,' he said. 'More body in it.'\n\n'Yes, it is good, isn't it? I mustn't have any more, though.'\n\n'Oh, you're all right,' said Neville indulgently. 'Let's have some\ncoffee and a liqueur.'\n\n'No, no liqueur for me.'\n\n'Well, coffee then. Here, waiter.'\n\nNeville struggled for some minutes. He utterly failed to gain the ear of\nthe waiters.\n\n'Let's go, Beauty,' said Victoria. 'I don't want any coffee. No, really,\nI'd rather not. I can't sleep if I take it.'\n\nThe couple walked up Regent Street, then along Piccadilly. Neville held\nVictoria's arm. He had slipped his fingers under the long glove. She did\nnot withdraw her arm. His touch tickled her senses to quiescence if not\nto satisfaction. They turned into the Park. Just behind the statue of\nAchilles they stepped upon the grass and at once Neville threw his arm\nround Victoria. It was a little chilly; mist was rising from the grass.\nThe trees stood blackly out of it, as if sawn off a few feet from the\nground. Neville stopped. A little smile was on his lips.\n\n'Beauty boy,' said Victoria.\n\nHe drew her towards him and kissed her. He kissed her on the forehead,\nthen on the cheek, for he was a sybarite, in matters of love something\nof an artist, just behind the ear, then passionately on the lips.\nVictoria closed her eyes and threw one arm round his neck. She felt\nexhilarated, as if gently warmed. They walked further westwards, and\nwith every step the fog thickened.\n\n'Let's stop, Beauty,' said Victoria, after they had rather suddenly\nwalked up to a thicket. 'We'll get lost in the wilderness.'\n\n'And wilderness were paradise enow,' murmured Neville in her ear.\n\nVictoria did not know the hackneyed line. It sounded beautiful to her.\nShe laughed nervously and let Neville draw her down by his side on the\ngrass.\n\n'Oh, let me go, Beauty,' she whispered. 'Suppose someone should come.'\n\nNeville did not answer. He had clasped her to him. His lips were more\ninsistent on hers. She felt his hand on her breast.\n\n'Oh, no, no, Beauty, don't, please don't,' she said weakly.\n\nFor some minutes she lay passive in his grasp. He had undone the back of\nher blouse. His hand, cold and dry, had slipped along her shoulder,\nseeking warmth.\n\nSlowly his clasp grew harder; he used his weight. Victoria bent under\nit. Something like faintness came over her.\n\n'Victoria, Victoria, my darling.' The voice seemed far away. She was\ngiving way more and more. Not a blade of grass shuddered under its\nshroud of mist. From the road came the roar of a motorbus, like a\nmuffled drum. Then she felt the damp of the grass on her back through\nthe opening of her blouse.\n\nA second later she was sitting up. She had thrust Neville away with a\nsavage push under the chin. He seized her once more. She fought him,\nseeing nothing to struggle with but a silent dark shadow.\n\n'No, Beauty, no, you mustn't,' she panted.\n\nThey were standing then, both of them.\n\n'Vic, darling, why not?' pleaded Neville gently, still holding her hand.\n\n'I don't know. Oh, no, really I can't, Beauty.'\n\nShe did not know it, but generations of clean living were fighting\nbehind her, driving back and crushing out the forces of nature. She did\nnot know that, like most women, she was not a free being but the\ngreat-granddaughter of a woman whose forbears had taught her that\nillegal surrender is evil.\n\n'I'm sorry, Beauty, . . . it's my fault,' she said.\n\n'Oh, don't mention it,' said Neville icily, dropping her hand. 'You're\nplaying with me, that's all.'\n\n'I'm not,' said Victoria, tears of excitement in her eyes. 'Oh, Beauty,\ndon't you understand. We women, we can't do what we like. It's so hard.\nWe're poor, and life is so dull and we wish we were dead. And then a man\ncomes like you and the only thing he can offer, we mustn't take it.'\n\n'But why, why?' asked Beauty.\n\n'I don't know,' said Victoria. 'We mustn't. At any rate I mustn't. My\nfreedom is all I've got and I can't give it up to you like that. I like\nyou, you know that, don't you, Beauty?'\n\nNeville did not answer.\n\n'I do, Beauty. But I can't, don't you see. If I were a rich woman it\nwould be different. I'd owe nobody anything. But I'm poor; it'd pull me\ndown and . . . when a woman's down, men either kick or kiss her.'\n\nNeville shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'Let's go,' he said.\n\nSilently, side by side, they walked out of the park.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nOCTOBER was dying, its russet tints slowly merging into grey. Thin\nmists, laden with fine specks of soot, had penetrated into the\n'Rosebud.' Victoria, in her black business dress, under which she now\nhad to wear a vest which rather killed the tip-drawing power of her\nopenwork blouse, was setting her tables, quickly crossing red cloths\nover white, polishing the glasses, arranging knives and forks in\nartistic if inconvenient positions. It was ten o'clock, but business had\nnot begun, neither Mr Stein nor Butty having arrived.\n\n'Cold, ain't it?' remarked Gertie.\n\n'Might be colder,' said Bella Prodgitt.\n\nVictoria came towards them, carrying a trayful of cruets.\n\n''Ow's Beauty?' asked Gertie.\n\nVictoria passed by without a word. This romance had not added to the\npopularity of the chairman's favourite. Cora and Gladys were busy\ndusting the counter and polishing the urns. Lottie, in front of a wall\nglass, was putting the finishing touches to the set of her cap. The door\nopened to let in Mr Stein, strapped tight in his frock coat, his top hat\nset far back on his bullet head. He glared for a moment at the staff in\ngeneral, then without a word took a letter addressed to him from a rack\nbearing several addressed to customers, and passed into the cash desk.\nThe girls resumed their polishing more busily. Quickly the night\nwrappings fell from the chandeliers; the rosebud baskets were teased\ninto shape; the tables, loaded swiftly with their sets, grew more\nbecoming. Victoria, passing from table to table set on each a small vase\nfull of chrysanthemums.\n\n'I say, Gladys, look at Stein,' whispered Cora to her neighbour. Gladys\nstraightened herself from under the counter and followed the direction\nof Cora's finger.\n\n'Lord,' she said, 'what's up?'\n\nBella's attention was attracted. She too was interested in her bovine\nway. Mr Stein's attitude was certainly unusual. He held a sheet of paper\nin one hand, his other hand clutching at his cheek so hard as to make\none of his eyes protrude. Both his eyes were fixed on the sheet of\npaper, incredulous and horror-stricken.\n\n'I say, Vic, what's the matter with the little swine?' suddenly said\nLottie, who had at length noticed him.\n\nVictoria looked. Stein had not moved. For some seconds all the girls\ngazed spellbound at the frozen figure in the cashbox. The silence of\ntragedy was on them, a silence which arrests gesture and causes hearts\nto beat.\n\n'Lord, I can't stick this,' whispered Cora, 'there's something wrong.'\nQuickly diving under the counter flap she ran towards the pay box where\nStein still sat unmoving, as if petrified. The little group of girls\nwatched her. Bella's stertorous breathing was plainly heard.\n\nCora opened the glass door and seized Stein by the arm.\n\n'What's the matter, Mr Stein?' she said excitedly, 'are you feeling\nqueer?'\n\nStein started like a somnambulist suddenly awakened and looked at her\nstupidly, then at the motionless girls in the shop.\n\n'Nein, nein, lassen sie doch,' he muttered.\n\n'Mr Stein, Mr Stein,' half-screamed Cora.\n\n'Oh, get out, I'm all right, but the game's up. He's gone. The game's up\nI tell up. The game's up.'\n\nCora looked at him round-eyed. Mr Stein's idioms frightened her almost\nmore than his German.\n\nStein was babbling, speaking louder and louder.\n\n'Gone away, Burton. Bankrupt and got all the cash. . . . See? You get\nthe sack. Starve. So do I and my vife. . . . Ach, ach, ach, ach. Mein\nGott, Mein Gott, was solls. . . .'\n\nGertie watched from the counter with a heightened colour. Lottie and\nVictoria, side by side, had not moved. A curious chill had seized\nVictoria, stiffening her wrists and knees. Stein was talking quicker and\nquicker, with a voice that was not his.\n\n'Ach, the damned scoundrel . . . the schweinehund . . . he knew the\nbusiness was going to the dogs, ach, schweinehund, schweinehund. . . .'\nHe paused. Less savage his thoughts turned to his losses. 'Two hundred\nshares he sold me. . . . I paid a premium . . . they vas to go to four\n. . . ach, ach, ach. . . . I'm in the cart.'\n\nGertie sniggered gently. The idiom had swamped the tragedy. Stein looked\nround at the sound. His face had gone leaden; his greasy plastered hair\nwas all awry.\n\n'Vat you laughing at, gn?' he asked savagely, suddenly resuming his\nmanagerial tone.\n\n'Take it we're bust, ain't we?' said Gertie, stepping forward jauntily.\n\nStein lifted, then dropped one hand.\n\n'Yes,' he said, 'bust.'\n\n'Thank you for a week's wages, Mr Stein,' said Gertie, 'and I'll push\noff, if yer don't mind.'\n\nStein laughed harshly. With a theatrical movement he seized the cash\ndrawer by the handle, drew it out and flung it on the floor. It was\nempty.\n\n'Oh, that's 'ow it is,' said Gertie. 'You're a fine gentleman, I don't\nthink. Bloomin' lot of skunks. What price that, mate?' she screamed\naddressing Bella, who still sat in her chair, her cheeks rising and\nfalling like the sides of a cuttlefish. ''Ere's a fine go. Fellers comes\nalong and tikes in poor girls like me and you and steals the bread outer\ntheir mouths. I'll 'ave yer run in, yer bloody foreigner.' She waved her\nfist in the man's face. 'For two pins,' she screamed, 'I'd smash yer\nfice, I'd. . . .'\n\n'Chuck it, Gertie,' said Lottie, suddenly taking her by the arm, 'don't\nyou see he's got nothing to do with it?'\n\n'Oh, indeed, Miss Mealymouth,' sneered Gertie, 'what I want is my money\n. . . .'\n\n'Leave him alone, Gertie,' said Victoria, 'you can't kick a man when\nhe's down.'\n\nGertie looked as if she were about to explode. Then the problem became\ntoo big for her. In her little Cockney brain the question was insolubly\nrevolving: 'Can you kick a man when he's down. . .? Can you kick. . .?'\n\nMr Stein passed his hand over his forehead. He was pulling himself\ntogether.\n\n'Close de door, Cora,' he commanded. 'Now then, the company's bankrupt,\nthere's nothing in the cashbox. You get the push. . . . I get the push.'\nHis voice broke slightly. His face twitched. 'You can go. Get another\njob.' He looked at Gertie.\n\n'Put down your address. I give it to the police. You get something for\nwages.' He slowly turned away and sat down on a chair, his eyes fixed on\nthe wall.\n\nThere was a repressed hubbub of talking. Then Gertie made the first move\nand went up to the change room. She came back a minute or two later in\nher long coat and large hat, carrying a parcel which none noticed as\nbeing rather large for a comb. It contained the company's cap and apron\nwhich, thought she, she might as well save from the wreck.\n\nGertie shook hands with Cora. 'See yer ter-night,' she said airily,\n'same old place; 'bye Miss Prodgitt, 'ope \"Force\" 'll lift you out of\nthis.' She shook hands with Victoria, a trifle coldly, kissed Lottie,\nthrew one last malevolent look at Stein's back. The door closed behind\nher. She had passed out of the backwater into the main stream.\n\nLottie, a little self consciously, pulled down the pink blinds, in token\nof mourning. The 'Rosebud' hung broken on its stalk. Then, silently, she\nwent up into the change room, followed by Cora; a pace behind came\nVictoria, all heavy with gloom. They dressed silently. Cora, without a\nword, kissed them both, collected her small possessions into a reticule,\nthen shook hands with both and kissed them again. The door closed behind\nher. When Lottie and Victoria went down into the shop, Cora also had\npassed into the main stream. Gladys had gone with her.\n\nThe two girls hesitated for a moment as to whether they should speak to\nStein. It was almost dark, for the October light was too weak to filter\nthrough the thick pink blinds. Lottie went up to the dark figure.\n\n'Cheer up,' she said kindly, 'it's a long lane that has no turning.'\n\nStein looked up uncomprehendingly, then sank his head into his hands.\n\nAs Lottie and Victoria turned once more, the front door open behind\nthem, all they saw was Bella Prodgitt, lymphatic as ever, motionless on\nher chair, like a watcher over the figure of the man silently mourning\nhis last hopes.\n\nAs they passed into the street the fresh air quickened by the coming\ncold of winter, stung their blood to action. The autumn sunlight, pale\nlike the faded gold of hair that age has silvered, threw faint shadows\non the dry white pavements where little whirlwinds of dust chased and\nfigured like swallows on the wing.\n\nLottie and Victoria walked quickly down the city streets. It was\nhalf-past eleven, a time when, the rush of the morning over, comparative\nemptiness awaits the coming of the midday crowds; every minute they were\nstopped by the blocks of drays and carriages which come in greater\nnumbers in the road as men grow fewer on the pavements. The unaccustomed\nliberty of the hour did not strike them; for depression, a sense of\nimpotence before fatality, was upon them. Indeed, they did not pause\nuntil they reached on the Embankment the spot where the two beautiful\nyouths prepare to fasten on one another their grip of bronze. They sat\ndown upon a seat and for a while remained silent.\n\n'What are you going to do? Lottie?' asked Victoria.\n\n'Look out for another job, of course,' said Lottie.\n\n'In the same line?' said Victoria.\n\n'I'll try that first,' replied Lottie, 'but you know I'm not particular.\nThere's all sorts of shops. Nice soft little jobs at photographers, and\nmanicuring showrooms, I don't mind.'\n\nVictoria, with the leaden weight of former days pressing on her, envied\nLottie's calm optimism. She seemed so capable. But so far as she herself\nwas concerned, she did not feel sure that the 'other job' would so\neasily be found. Indeed the memory of her desperate hunt for work\nwrapped itself round her, cold as a shroud.\n\n'But what if you can't get one,' she faltered.\n\n'Oh, that'll be all right,' said Lottie, airily. 'I can live with my\nmarried sister for a bit, but I'll find a job somehow. That doesn't\nworry me. What are you thinking of?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Victoria slowly, 'I must look out I suppose.'\n\n'Hard up?' asked Lottie.\n\n'No, not exactly,' said Victoria. 'I'm not rolling in wealth, you know,\nbut I can manage.'\n\n'Well, don't you go and get stranded or anything,' said Lottie. 'It\ndoesn't do to be proud. It's not much I can do, but anyhow you let me\nknow if--' She paused. Victoria put her hand on hers.\n\n'You're a bit of all right, Lottie,' she said softly, her feelings\nforming naturally into the language of her adopted class. For a few\nminutes the girls sat hand in hand.\n\n'Well, I'd better be going,' said Lottie. 'I'm going to my married\nsister at Highgate first. Time enough to look about this afternoon.'\n\nThe two girls exchanged addresses. Victoria watched her friend's slim\nfigure grow smaller and slimmer under her crown of pale hair, then\nalmost fade away, merge into men and women and suddenly vanish at a\nturn, swallowed up. With a little shiver she got up and walked away\nquickly towards the west. She was lonely suddenly, horribly so. One by\none, all the links of her worldly chain had snapped. Burton, the sensual\nbrute, was gone; Stein was perhaps sitting still numb and silent in the\ndarkened shop; Gertie, flippant and sharp, had sailed forth on life's\nocean, there to be tossed like a cork and like a cork to swim; now\nLottie was gone, cool and confident, to dangers underrated and unknown.\nShe stood alone.\n\nAs she reached Westminster Bridge a strange sense of familiarity\noverwhelmed her. A well-known figure was there and it was horribly\nsymbolical. It was the old vagrant of bygone days, sitting propped up\nagainst the parapet, clad in his filthy rags. From his short clay pipe,\nat long intervals, he puffed wreaths of smoke into the blue air.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nTHE russet of October had turned into the bleak darkness of December.\nThe threat of winter was in the air; it hissed and sizzled in the bare\nbranches as they bent in the cold wind, shaking quivering drops of water\nbroadcast as if sowing the seeds of pain. Victoria stopped for a moment\non the threshold of the house in Star Street, looked up and down the\nroad. It was black and sodden with wet; the pavement was greasy and\nglistening, flecked with cabbage stalks and orange peel. Then she looked\nacross at the small shop where, though it was Sunday, a tailor sat\ncross-legged almost on a level with the street, painfully collecting\nwith weary eyes the avaricious light. His back was bowed with habit;\nthat and his bandy legs told of his life and revealed his being. In the\nstreet, when he had time to walk there, boys mocked his shuffling gate,\nthus paying popular tribute to the marks of honest toil.\n\nVictoria stepped down to the pavement. A dragging sensation made her\nlook at her right boot. The sole was parting from the upper, stitch by\nstitch. With something that was hardly a sigh Victoria put her foot down\nagain and slowly walked away. She turned into Edgware Road, followed it\nnorthwards for a while, then doubled sharply back into Praed Street\nwhere she lingered awhile before an old curiosity shop. She looked\nbetween two prints into the shop where, in the darkness, she could see\nnothing. Yet she looked at nothingness for quite a long while. Then,\nlistlessly, she followed the street, turned back through a square and\nstopped before a tiny chapel almost at the end of Star Street. The deity\nthat follows with passionless eyes the wanderer in mean streets knew\nfrom her course that this woman had no errand; without emotion the Being\nsnipped a few minutes from her earthly span.\n\nBy the side of the chapel sat an aged woman smothered in rags so many\nand so thick that she was passing well clad. She was hunched up on a\ncamp stool, all string and bits of firewood. A small stove carrying an\niron tray told that her trade was selling roasted chestnuts; nothing\nmoved in the group; the old woman's face was brown and cracked as her\nown chestnuts and there was less life in her than in the warm scent of\nthe roasting fruits which gratefully filled Victoria's nostrils.\n\nThe eight weeks which now separated Victoria from the old days at the\n'Rosebud' had driven deeper yet into her soul her unimportance. She was\npowerless before the world; indeed, when she thought of it at all, she\nno longer likened herself to a cork tossed in the storm, but to a pebble\nsunken and motionless in the bed of a flowing river.\n\nUpon the day which followed her sudden uprooting Victoria had bent her\nback to the task of finding work. She had known once more the despairing\nsearch through the advertisement columns of the _Daily Telegraph_, the\nskilful winnowing of chaff from wheat, sudden and then baffled hopes.\nHer new professional sense had taken her to the shops where young women\nare wanted to enhance the attraction of coffee and cigarettes. But the\nbankruptcy of the 'Rosebud' was not an isolated case. The dishonesty of\nBurton was not its cause but its consequence; the ship was sinking under\nhis feet when he deserted it after loading himself with such booty as he\ncould carry. Victoria had discovered grimly that the first result of a\ncommercial crisis is the submerging of those whose labours create a\ncommercial boom. Within a week of the 'Rosebud' disaster the eleven City\ncafes of the 'Lethe, Ltd.' had closed their doors. Two small failures in\nthe West End were followed by a greater crash. The 'People's\nRestaurants, Ltd.', eaten out by the thousand depots of the 'Refreshment\nRendezvous, Ltd.,' had filed a voluntary petition for liquidation; the\nofficial liquidator had at once inaugurated a policy of 'retrenchment\nand sound business management,' and, as a beginning, closed two hundred\nshops in the City and West End. He proposed to exploit the suburbs, and,\nafter a triumphant amalgamation with the victorious 'Refreshment\nRendezvous,' to retire from law into peaceful directorships and there\ncollect innumerable guineas.\n\nVictoria had followed the convulsion with passionate interest. For a\nweek the restaurant slump had been the fashion. The manager of every\nsurviving cafe in London had given it as his deliberate opinion that\ntrade would be all the better for it. The financial papers published\ngrave warnings as to the dangers of the restaurant business, to which\nthe Stock Exchange promptly responded by marking up the prices of the\nsurvivors' shares. The Socialist papers had eloquently pleaded for\ngovernment assistance for the two thousand odd displaced girls; a\nCabinet Minister had marred his parliamentary reputation by endeavouring\nto satisfy one wing of his party that the tearoom at South Kensington\nMuseum was not a Socialistic venture and the other wing that it was an\ninstitution leading up to State ownership of the trade. A girl\ndischarged from the 'Lethe' had earned five guineas by writing a\nthousand words in a hated but largely read daily paper. The interest had\nbeen kept up by the rescue of a P.R. girl who had jumped off Waterloo\nBridge. Another P.R. girl, fired by example, had been more successful\nin the Lea. This valuable advertisement enabled the Relief Fund to\ndistribute five shillings a head to many young persons who had been\nwaitresses at some time or another; there were rumours of a knighthood\nfor its energetic promoter.\n\nIt was in the midst of this welter that Victoria had found herself cast,\nwith her newly acquired experience a drug in the market, and all the\nworld inclined to look upon her as a kind of adventuress. Her employer's\nfailure was in a sense her failure, and she was handy to blame. For\nthree weeks she had doggedly continued her search for work, applying\nfirst of all in the smart tea-rooms of the West, and every day she\nbecame more accustomed to being turned away. Her soul hardened to\nrebuffs as that of a beggar who learns to bear stoically the denial of\nalms. After vainly trying the best Victoria had tried the worst, but\neverywhere the story was the same. Every small restaurant keeper was\ndrawing his horns in, feverishly casting up trial balances; some of them\nin their panic had damaged their credit by trying to arrange with their\nbanks for overdrafts they would never need. The slump was such that they\ndid not believe that the public would continue to eat and drink; they\nretrenched employees instead of trying to carve success out of other\nmen's disasters.\n\nVictoria, her teeth set, had faced the storm. She now explored districts\nand streets systematically, almost house by house. And when her spirit\nbroke at the end of the week, as her perpetual walks, the buffeting of\nrain and wind soiled her clothing, broke breaches into her boots,\nchapped her hands as glove seams gave way, the only thing that could\nbrace her up was the shrinkage of her hoard by a sovereign. She placed\nthe coin on the mantlepiece after counting the remainder. Monday morning\nsaw it reduced to eleven shillings and sixpence. When the crisis came\nshe had taken in sail by exchanging into the second floor back, then\nfortunately vacant, thus saving three shillings in rent.\n\nThe sight of her melting capital was a horror which she faced only once\na week, for at other times she thrust the thought away, but it intruded\nevery time with greater insistence. Untrained still in economy she found\nit impossible to reduce her expenditure below a pound. After paying off\nthe mortgage of eight and sixpence for her room and breakfast, she had\nto set aside three shillings for fares, for she dared not wade overmuch\nin the December mud. The manageress of a cafe lost in Marylebone had\nheard her kindly, but had looked at her boots plastered with mud, then\nat the dirty fringes of her petticoats and said, regretfully almost,\nthat she would not do. That day had cost Victoria a pound almost\nwrenched out of the money drawer. But this wardrobe though an asset, was\nan incubus, and Victoria at times often hated it, for it cost so much in\nomnibus fares that she paid for it every day in food stolen from her\nbody.\n\nBy the end of the seventh week Victoria had reduced her hoard to four\npounds. She now applied for work like an automaton, often going twice to\nthe same shop without realising it, at other times sitting for hours on\na park seat until the drizzle oozed from her hair into her neck. At the\nend of the seventh week she had so lost consciousness of the world that\nshe walked all through the Sunday gloom without food. Then, at eight\no'clock, awakening suddenly to her need, she gorged herself with suet\npudding at an eating house in the Edgware Road, came back to Star Street\nand fell into a heavy sleep.\n\nAbout four she was aroused by horrible sickness which left her weak,\nevery muscle relaxed and every nerve strained to breaking point. Shapes\nblacker than the night floated before her eyes; every passing milk\ncart rattled savagely through her beating temples; twitchings at her\nankles and wrists, and the hurried beat of her heart shook the whole of\nher body. She almost writhed on her bed, up and down, as if forcibly\nthrown or goaded.\n\nAs the December dawn struggled through her window, diffusing over the\nwhite wall the light of the condemned cell, she could bear it no more.\nShe got up, washed horrible bitterness from her mouth, clots from her\neyes. Then, swaying with weariness and all her pulses beating, she\nstrayed into the street, unseeing, her boots unbuttoned, into the daily\nstruggle.\n\nAs the blind man unguided, or the poor on the march, she went into the\nEast, now palely glowing over the chimney pots. She did not feel her\nweariness. Her feet did not belong to her; she felt as if her whole body\nwere one gigantic wound vaguely aching under the chloroform. She walked\nwithout intention, and as towards no goal. At Oxford Circus she stopped.\nHer eye had unconsciously been arrested by the posters which the\nnewsvendor was deftly glueing down on the pavement. The crude colours of\nthe posters, red, green, yellow, shocked her sluggish mind into action.\nOne spoke of a great reverse in Nubia; another repeated the information\nand added a football cup draw. A third poster, blazing red, struck such\na blow at Victoria that, for a wild moment, her heart seemed to stop. It\nmerely bore the words:\n\n    P. R.\n    REOPENS\n\nVictoria read the two lines five or six times, first dully, then in a\nwhirl of emotion. Her blood seemed to go hot and tingle; the twitchings\nof her wrists and ankles grew insistent. With her heart pounding with\nexcitement she asked for the paper in a choked voice, refusing the\nhalfpenny change. Backing a step or two she opened the paper. A sheet\ndropped into the mud.\n\nThe newsvendor, grizzled and sunburnt right into the wrinkles, picked up\nthe sheet and looked at her wonderingly. From the other side a corpulent\npoliceman watched her with faint interest, reading her like a book. He\ndid not need to be told that Victoria was out of work; her face showed\nthat hope had come into her life.\n\nVictoria read every detail greedily. The enterprising liquidator had\ncarried through the amalgamation of the People's Restaurants and the\nRefreshment Rendezvous, and created the People's Refreshment Rendezvous.\nHe had done this so quietly and suddenly that the effect was a\nthunderbolt. He had forestalled the decision of the Court, so that\nagreements had been ready and signed on the Saturday evening, while\nleave had obscurely been granted on the Friday. Being master of the\nsituation the liquidator was re-opening fifty-five of the two hundred\nclosed shops. The paper announced his boast that 'by ten o'clock on\nMonday morning fifty-five P. R. R.'s would be flying the flag of the\nscone and cross buns.' The paper also hailed this pronouncement as\nNapoleonic.\n\nVictoria feverishly read the list of the rescued depots. They were\nmainly in Oxford Street and Bloomsbury. Indeed, one of them was in\nPrinces Street. A flood of clarity seemed to come over Victoria's brain.\nIt was impossible for the P. R. or P. R. R. or whatever it had become,\nto have secured a staff on the Sunday. No doubt they proposed to engage\nit on the spot and to rush the organisation into working order so as to\ncapture at the outset the _succes de curiosite_ which every London daily\nwas beating up in the breast of a million idle men and women. Clutching\nthe paper in her hand she ran across Oxford Street almost under the\nwheels of a motor lorry. She turned into Princes Street, and hurled\nherself against the familiar door, clutching at the handle.\n\nThere was another girl leaning against the door. She was tall and slim.\nHer fair hair went to sandiness. Her black coat was dusty and stained.\nHer large blue eyes started from her colourless face, pale lipped,\nhollow under the cheekbones. Victoria recovered her breath and put her\nhair straight feverishly. A short dark girl joined the group, pressing\nher body close against them. Then two more. Then, one by one, half a\ndozen. Victoria discovered that her boots were undone, and bent down to\ndo them up with a hairpin. As she struggled with numb fingers her rivals\npressed upon her with silent hostility. As she straightened herself, the\nthrong suddenly thrust her away from the door. Victoria recovered\nherself and drove against them gritting her teeth. The fair girl was\nground against her; but Victoria, full of her pain and bread lust,\nthrust her elbow twice into the girl's breast. She felt something like\nthe rage of battle upon her and its joy as the bone entered the soft\nflesh like a weapon.\n\n'Now then, steady girls,' said the voice of the policeman, faint like a\ndream voice.\n\n'Blime, ain't they a 'ot lot!' said another dream voice, a loafer's.\n\nThe crowd once more became orderly. Though quite a hundred girls had now\ncollected hardly any spoke. In every face there was tenseness, though\nthe front ranks showed most ferocity in their eyes and the late-comers\nmost weariness.\n\n'Where you shovin'?' asked a sulky voice.\n\nThere was a mutter that might have been a curse. Then silence once more;\nand the girls fiercely watched for their bread, looking right and left\nlike suspicious dogs. A spruce young warehouseman slowly reviewed the\ngirls and allowed his eyes to linger approvingly on one or two. He\nwinked approvingly at the fair girl but she did not respond. She stood\nflat against the door, every inch of her body spread so as to occupy as\nmuch space as she could.\n\nThen, half-past seven, a young man and a middle-aged woman shouldering\nthrough the wedged mass, the fierce rush into the shop and there the\ngasp behind closed doors among the other winners, hatless, their clothes\ntorn, their bodices ripped open to the stays, one with her hair down and\nher neck marked here and there by bleeding scratches. Then, after the\nturmoil of the day among the strangeness, without rest or food, to make\nholiday for the Londoners, a night heavy as lead and a week every day\nmore mechanical, Victoria had returned to the treadmill and, within a\nweek, knew it.\n\n. . . . The clock struck five. Victoria awoke from her dream epic. She\nhad won her battle and sailed into harbour. Its waters were already as\nhorribly still as those of a stagnant pool. The old chestnut vendor sat\nmotionless on her seat of firewood and string. Not a thought chased over\nher gnarled brown face. From the stove came the faint pungent smell of\nthe charring peel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nA FORTNIGHT later Victoria had returned to the City. Most of the old\nP.R's had reopened, after passing under the yoke. A coat of paint had\ntransformed them into P.R.R's. In fact their extinction was complete;\nnothing was left of them but the P. and the chairmanship of the\namalgamated company, for their chairman was an earl and part of the\ngoodwill. The P.R. had apparently been bought up at a fair rate. Its\nshares having fallen to sixpence, most of the shareholders had lost\nlarge sums; whereas the directors and their friends, displaying the\nacumen that is sometimes found among directors, had quietly bought the\nshares up by the thousand and by putting them into the new company had\nrealised large profits. As the failure had happened during the old year\nand most of the shops had been reopened in the new, it was quite clear\nthat the catering trade was expanding. It was a startling instance of\ncommercial progress.\n\nWithin a week the P.R.R. decided to start once more in the City.\nVictoria, by her own request, was transferred to Moorgate Street. She\ndid not like the neighbourhood of Oxford Circus; it was unfamiliar\nwithout being stimulating. She objected too to serving women. If she\nmust serve at all she preferred serving men. She did not worship men;\nindeed the impression they had left on her was rather unpleasant. The\nsubalterns at the mess were dull, Mr Parker a stick, Bobby was Bobby,\nBurton a cur, Stein a lout, Beauty, well perhaps Beauty was a little\nbetter and Cairns worthy of a kind thought; but all the others, boys and\nhalf men with their futile talk, their slang cribbed from the music\nhalls, their affectations, their loud ties, were nothing but the ballast\non which the world has founded its permanent way. Yet a mysterious sex\ninstinct made Victoria prefer even them to the young ladies who\nfrequented Princes Street. It is better to be made love to insolently\nthan to be ordered about.\n\nThe Moorgate P.R.R. was one of the curious crosses between the ice cream\nshop and the chop house where thirty bob a week snatches a sixpenny\nlunch. It was full of magnificent indifference. You could bang your\ntwopence for a small coffee, or luxuriate in steak and kidney pie,\nboiled (_i.e._ potatoes), stewed prunes and cream, and be served with\nthe difference of interest that the recording angel may make between No.\n1,000,000 and 1,000,001. You were seldom looked at, and, if looked at,\nforgotten. It was as blatant as the 'Rosebud' had been discreet. Painted\npale blue, it flaunted a plate glass window full of cakes, packets of\ntea, pounds of chocolate, jars of sweets; some imitation chops garnished\nwith imitation parsley, and a chafing dish full of stage eggs and bacon\nheld out the promise of strong meats. Enormous urns, polished like\nsilver, could be seen from the outside emitting clouds of steam; under\nthe chafing dish too came up vaporous jets.\n\nInside, the P.R.R. recalled the wilderness and the animation of a bank.\nTo the blue and red tesselated floor were fastened many marble-topped\ntables squeezed so close together that when a customer rose to leave he\ncreated an eddy among his disturbed fellows. The floor was swamped with\nchairs which, during the lunch hour, dismally grated on the tiled floor.\nIt was clean; for, after every burst of feeding, the appointed scavenger\nswept the fallen crusts, fragments of pudding, cigarette ends and\nbanana skins into a large bin. This bin was periodically emptied and\nthe contents sent to the East End, whether to be destroyed or to be used\nfor philanthropic purposes is not known.\n\nThe girls were trained to quick service here. Victoria found no\ndifficulty in acquiring the P.R.R. swing, for she had not to memorise\nthe variety of dishes which the more fastidious Rosebudders demanded.\nHer mental load seldom went beyond small teas, a coffee or two, half a\nveal and ham pie, sandwiches and porridge. There was no considering the\nbill of fare. It stood on every table, immutable as a constitution and\nas dull. At the P.R.R., a man absorbed a maximum of stodgy food, paid\nhis minimum of cash and vanished into an office to pour out the\nresultant energy for thirty bob a week. As there were no tips Victoria\nsoon learned that courtesy was wasted, so wasted none.\n\nThe P.R.R. did not treat its girls badly--in this sense, that it treated\nthem no worse than its rivals did theirs; it practised commercial\nmorality. Victoria received eight shillings a week, to which good\nSamaritans added an average of fourteen pence, dropped anonymously into\nthe unobtrusive box near the cash desk. At the 'Rosebud' tips averaged\nfourteen shillings a week, but then they were given publicly.\n\nBesides her wages she was given all her meals, on a scale suited to\ngirls who waited on Mr Thirty Bob a Week. Her breakfast was tea, bread\nand margarine; her dinner, cold pudding or pie, according to the\nunpopularity of the dishes among the customers, washed down once more\nwith tea and sometimes followed by stewed fruit if the quantity that\nremained made it clear that some would be left over. The day ended with\nsupper, tea, bread and cheese--a variety of Cheddar which the company\nbought by the ton on account of its peculiar capacity for swelling and\nproducing a very tolerable substitute for repletion.\n\nAs Victoria was now paid less than half her former wages she was\nexpected to work longer hours. The P. R. R. demanded faithful service\nfrom half-past eight in the morning to nine in the evening, except on\none day when freedom was earned at six. Victoria was driven to\ngeneralise a little about this; it struck her as peculiar that an\nincrease of work should synchronise with a decrease of pay, but the\nearly steps in any education always fill the pupil with wonderment.\n\nYet she did not repine, for she remembered too well the black days of\nthe old year when the wolf slunk round the house, coming every day\nnearer to her door. She had beaten him off and there still was joy in\nthe thought of that victory. Her frame of mind was quiescent, tempered\nstill with a feeling of relief. This she shared with her companions, for\nevery one of them had known such straits as hers and worse. They had\ncome back to the P. R. R. filled with exceeding joy; craving bread they\nhad been given buns.\n\nThe Moorgate P. R. R. was a big depot. It boasted, in addition to the\nground floor, two smoking rooms, one on the first floor and one\nunderground, as well as a ladies' dining-room on the second floor. It\nhad a staff of twenty waitresses, six of whom were stationed in the\nunderground smoking-room; Victoria was one of these. A virile manageress\ndominated them and drove with splendid efficiency a concealed kitchen\nteam of four who sweated in the midst of steam in an underground\nstokehole.\n\nVictoria's companions were all old P. R's except Betty. They all had\nanything between two and five years' service behind them. Nelly, a big\nraw boned country girl, was still assertive and loud; she had good looks\nof the kind that last up to thirty, made up of fine coarse healthy\nflesh lines, tending to redden at the nostrils and at the ears; her\nhands were shapely still, though reddened and thickened by swabbing\nfloors and tables. Maud was a poor little thing, small boned with a\nflaccid covering of white flesh, inclined to quiver a little when she\nfelt unhappy; her eyes were undecidedly green, her hair carroty in the\nextreme. She had a trick of drawing down the corners of her mouth which\nmade her look pathetic. Amy and Jenny were both short and darkish,\ninclined to be thin, always a little tired, always willing, always in a\nstate neither happy nor unhappy. Both had nearly five years' experience\nand could look forward to another fifteen or so. They had no\nassertiveness, so could not aspire to a managerial position, such as\nmight eventually fall to the share of Nelly.\n\nBetty was an exception. She had not acquired the P. R. R. manner and\nprobably never would. The daughter of a small draper at Horley, she had\nlived through a happy childhood, played in the fields, been to a little\nprivate school. Her father had strained every nerve to face on the one\nhand the competition of the London stores extending octopus-like into\nthe far suburbs, on the other that of the pedlars. Caught between the\naristocracy and the democracy of commerce he had slowly been ground\ndown. When Betty was seventeen he collapsed through worry and overwork.\nHis wife attempted to carry on the business after his death, bravely\nfacing the enemy, discharging assistants, keeping the books, impressing\nBetty to dress the window, then to clean the shop. But the pressure had\nbecome too great, and on the day when the mortgagees foreclosed she\ndied. Nothing was left for Betty except the clothes she stood in. Some\npoor relatives in London induced her to join the 'Lethe.' That was three\nyears ago and now she was twenty.\n\nBetty was the tall slim girl into whose breast Victoria had thrust her\nelbow when they were fighting for bread among the crowd which surged\nround the door of the Princes Street depot. She was pretty, perhaps a\nlittle too delicately so. Her sandy hair and wide open china blue eyes\nmade one think of a doll; but the impression disappeared when one looked\nat her long limbs, her slightly sunken cheeks. She had a sweet\ndisposition, so gentle that, though she was a favourite, her fellows\ndespised her a little and were inclined to call her 'poor Betty.' She\nwas nearly always tired; when she was well she was full of simple and\nhonest merriment. She would laugh then if a motor bus skidded or if she\nsaw a Highlander in a kilt. She had just been shifted to the Moorgate\nStreet P.R.R. From the first the two girls had made friends and Victoria\nwas deeply glad to meet her again. The depth of that gladness is only\nknown to those who have lived alone in a hostile world.\n\n'Betty,' said Victoria the first morning, 'there's something I want to\nsay. I've had it on my mind. Do you remember the first time we met\noutside the old P.R. in Princes Street?'\n\n'Don't I?' said Betty. 'We had a rough time, didn't we?'\n\n'We had. And, Betty, perhaps you remember . . . I hit you in the chest.\nI've thought of it so often . . . and you don't know how sorry I am when\nI think of it.'\n\n'Oh, I didn't mind,' said Betty, a blush rising to her forehead, 'I\nunderstand. I was about starving, you know, I thought you were the\nsame.'\n\n'No, not starving exactly,' said Victoria, 'mad rather, terrified, like\na sheep which the dog's driving. But I beg your pardon, Betty, I\noughtn't to have done it.'\n\nBetty put her hand gently on her companion's.\n\n'I understand, Vic,' she said, 'it's all over now; we're friends, aren't\nwe?'\n\nVictoria returned the pressure. That day established a tender link\nbetween these two. Sometimes, in the slack of three o'clock, they would\nsit side by side for a moment, their shoulders touching. When they met\nbetween the tables, running, their foreheads beaded with sweat, they\nexchanged a smile.\n\nThe customers at the P.R.R. were so many that Victoria could hardly\nretain an impression of them. A few were curious though, in the sense\nthat they were typical. One corner of the room was occupied during the\nlunch hour by a small group of chess players; five of the six boards\nwere regularly captured by them. They sat there in couples, their eyes\nglued to the board, allowing the grease to cake slowly on their food;\nfrom time to time one would swallow a mouthful, sometimes dropping\nmorsels on the table. These he would brush away dreamily, his thoughts\nfar away, two or three moves ahead. Round each table sat a little group\nof spectators who now and then shifted their plates and cups from table\nto table and watched the games. At times, when a game ended, a table was\ninvolved in a fierce discussion: gambits, Morphy's classical games, were\nthrown about. On the other side of the room the young domino-players\nnoisily played matador, fives and threes, or plain matching, would look\nround and mutter a gibe at the enthusiasts.\n\nOthers were more personal. One, a repulsive individual, Greek or\nLevantine, patronised one of Betty's tables every day. He was fat,\nyellow and loud; over his invariably dirty hands drooped invariably\ndirty cuffs; on one finger he wore a large diamond ring.\n\n'It makes me sick sometimes,' said Betty to Victoria, 'you know he eats\nwith both hands and drops his food; he snuffles too, as he eats, like a\npig.'\n\nAnother was an old man with a beautiful thin brown face and white hair.\nHe sat at a very small table, so small that he was usually alone. Every\nday he ordered dry toast, a glass of milk and some stewed fruit. He\nnever read or smoked, nor did he raise his eyes from the table. An\nancient bookkeeper perhaps, he lived on some principle.\n\nMost of the P. R. R. types were scheduled however. They were mainly\nyoung men or boys between fifteen and twenty. All were clad in blue or\ndark suits, wore flannel shirts, dickeys and no cuffs. They would\ncongregate in noisy groups, talk with furious energy, and smoke Virginia\ncigarettes with an air of daredevilry. Now and then one of these would\nbe sitting alone, reading unexpected papers such as the _Times_,\nborrowed from the office. Spasmodically, too, one would be seen\nimproving his mind. Victoria, within six months, noticed three starts on\nthe part of one of the boys; French, book-keeping and electrical\nengineering.\n\nMany were older than these. There were little groups of young men rather\nrakishly but shabbily dressed; often they wore a flower in their\nbuttonhole. The old men were more pathetic; their faces were\nexpressionless; they came to eat, not to feast.\n\nVictoria and Betty had many conversations about the customers. Every day\nVictoria felt her faculty of wonder increase; she was vaguely conscious\nalready that men had a tendency to revert to types, but she did not\nrealise the influence the conditions of their lives had upon them.\n\n'It's curious,' she once said to Betty, as they left the depot together,\n'they're so much alike.'\n\n'I suppose they are,' said Betty. 'I wonder why?'\n\n'I'm not sure,' said Victoria, 'but it seems to me somehow that they\nmust be born different but that they become alike because they do the\nsame kind of work.'\n\n'It's rather awful, isn't it,' said Betty.\n\n'Awful? Well, I suppose it is. Think of it, Betty. There's old Dry\nToast, for instance. I'm sure he's been doing whatever he does do for\nthirty or forty years.'\n\n'And'll go on doing it till he dies,' murmured Betty.\n\n'Or goes into the workhouse,' added Victoria. A sudden and horrible\nlucidity had come over her. 'Yes, Betty, that's what it means. The boys\nare going to be like the old man; we see them every day becoming like\nhim. First they're in the twenties and are smart and read the sporting\nnews; then they seem to get fat and don't shave every day, because they\nfeel it's getting late and it doesn't matter what they look like; their\nhair grows grey, they take up chess or German, or something equally\nridiculous. They don't get a chance. They're born and as soon as they\ncan kick they're thrust in an office to do the same thing every day.\nNobody cares; all their employers want them to do is to be punctual and\ndo what they're paid thirty bob a week for. Soon they don't try; they\ndie, and the employers fill the billet.'\n\n'How do you know all this, Vic?' said Betty, eyeing her fearfully. 'It\nseems so true.'\n\n'Oh, I just felt it suddenly, besides . . .' Victoria hesitated.\n\n'But is it right that they should get thirty bob a week all their lives\nwhile their employers are getting thousands?' asked Betty, full of\nexcitement.\n\n'I don't know,' said Victoria slowly. Betty's voice had broken the\ncharm. She could no longer see the vision.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nTHE days passed away horribly long. Victoria was now an automaton; she\nno longer felt much of sorrow or of joy. Her home life had been reduced\nto a minimum, for she could no longer afford the luxury of 'chambers in\nthe West End' as Betty put it. She had moved to Finsbury; where she had\nfound a large attic for three shillings a week, in a house which had\nfallen from the state of mansion for a City merchant to that of tenement\ndwelling. For the first time since she returned to London she had\nfurnished her own room. She had bought out the former tenant for one\npound. For this sum she had entered into possession of an iron bedstead\nwith a straw mattress, a thick horse cloth, an iron washstand supplied\nwith a blue basin and a white mug, an old armchair and red curtains. She\nhad no sheets, which meant discomfort but saved washing. A chair had\ncost her two shillings; she needed no cupboard as there was one in the\nwall; in lieu of a chest of drawers she had her trunk; her few books\nwere stacked on a shelf made out of the side of a packing case and\nerected by herself. She got water from the landing every morning except\nwhen the taps were frozen. There was no fireplace in the attic, but in\nthe present state of Victoria's income this did not matter much.\n\nEvery morning she rose at seven, washed, dressed. As time went on she\nceased to dust and sweep every morning. First she postponed the work to\nthe evening, then to the week end. On Sundays she breakfasted off a\nstale loaf bought among the roar of Farrington Street the previous\nevening. A little later she introduced a spirit lamp for tea; it was a\nrevolution, even though she could never muster enough energy to bring in\nmilk.\n\nAfter the first flush of possession, the horrible gloom of winter had\nengulfed her. Sometimes she sat and froze in the attic, and, in despair,\nwent to bed after vainly trying to read Shakespeare by the light of a\ncandle: he did not interest her much. At other times the roaring\nstreets, the flares in the brown fog, the trams hurtling through the\nair, their headlights blazing, had frightened her back to her home. On\nSundays, after luxuriating in bed until ten, she usually went to meet\nBetty who lived in a club in Soho. Together they would walk in the\nparks, or the squares, wherever grass grew. At one o'clock Betty would\nintroduce her as a guest at her club and feast her for eightpence on\nroast beef and pudding, tea, and bread and butter. Then they would start\nout once more towards the fields, sometimes towards Hampstead Heath, or\nif it rained seek refuge in a museum or a picture gallery. When they\nparted in the evening, Victoria kissed her affectionately. Betty would\nthen hold the elder woman in her arms, hungrily almost, and softly kiss\nher again.\n\nThe only thing that parted these two at all was the mystery which Betty\nguessed at. She knew that Victoria was not like the other girls; she\nfelt that there was behind her friend's present condition a past of\nanother kind, but when she tried to question Victoria, she found that\nher friend froze up. And as she loved her this was a daily grief; she\nlooked at Victoria with a question in her eyes. But Victoria would not\nyield to the temptation of confiding in her; she had adopted a new class\nand was not going back on it.\n\nBesides Betty there was no one in her life. None of the other girls\nwere able to meet her on congenial ground; Beauty had not got her\naddress; and, though she had his, she was too afraid of complicating her\nlife to write to him. She had sent her address to Edward as a matter of\nform, but he had not written; apparently her desire for freedom had\nconvinced him that his sister was mad. None of the men at the P.R.R. had\nmade any decided advances to her. She could still catch every day a\nglitter in the eye of some youth, but her maturity discouraged the boys,\nand the older men were mostly too deeply sunk in their feeding and\nsmoking to attempt gallantry. Besides: Victoria was no longer the\ncream- flower of olden days; she was thinner; her hands too were\nbecoming coarse owing to her having to swab tables and floors; much\nstanding and the fetid air of the smoking-room were making her sallow.\n\nSoon after Victoria entered into possession of her 'station' she knew\nmost of her customers, knew them, that is, as much as continual rushes\nfrom table to counter, from floor to floor, permits. The casuals, mostly\nyoung, left no impression; lacking money but craving variety these\nyouths would patronise every day a different P.R.R., for they hoped to\nfind in a novel arrangement of the counter, a new waitress, larger or\nsmaller quarters, the element of variety which the bill of fare\nrelentlessly denied them. The older men were more faithful if no more\ngrateful. One of them was a short thin man, looking about forty, who for\nsome hidden reason had aroused Victoria's faded interest. His appearance\nwas somewhat peculiar. His shortness, combined with his thinness and\nbreadth, was enough to attract attention. Standing hardly any more than\nfive foot five, he had disproportionately broad shoulders, and yet they\nwere so thin that the bones showed bowed at the back. Better fed, he\nwould have been a bulky man. His hair was dark, streaked with grey; and,\nas it was getting very thin and beginning to recede, he gave the\nimpression of having a very high forehead. His eyes were grey, set\nrather deep under thick eyebrows drawn close together into a permanent\nfrown. Under his rather coarse and irregular nose his mouth showed\nclosely compressed, almost lipless; a curious muscular distortion had\ntortured into it a faint sneer. His hands were broad, a little coarse\nand very hairy.\n\nVictoria could not say why she was interested in this man. He had no\noutward graces, dressed poorly and obviously brushed his coat but\nseldom; his linen, too, was not often quite clean. Immediately on\nsitting down at his usual table he would open a book, prop it up against\nthe sugar bowl, and begin to read. His books did not tell Victoria much;\nin two months she noted a few books she did not know, _News from\nNowhere_, _Fabian Essays_, _The Odyssey_, and a book with a long title\nthe biggest printed word of which was _Niestze_ or _Niesche._ Victoria\ncould never remember this word, even though her customer read the book\nevery day for over a month. _The Odyssey_ she had heard of, but that did\nnot tell her anything.\n\nShe had found out his name accidentally. One day he had brought down\nthree books and had put two under his seat while he read the third. Soon\nafter he had left, reading still while he went up the stairs. Victoria\nfound the books under the chair. One was a _Life of William Morris_, the\nother the _Vindication of the Rights of Women_. On the flyleaf of each\nwas written in bold letter. 'Thomas Farwell.'\n\nVictoria could not resist glancing at the books during her half hour for\nlunch. The _Life of William Morris_ she did not attempt, remembering her\nexperiences at school with 'Lives' of any kind: they were all dull.\nMarie Wollstonecraft's book seemed more interesting, but she seemed to\nhave to wade through so much that she had never heard of and to have to\nface a style so crabbed and congested that she hardly understood it.\nYet, something in the book interested her, and it was regretfully that\nshe handed the volumes back to Farwell when he called for them at\nhalf-past six. He thanked her in half a dozen words and left.\n\nFarwell continued regular in his attendance. He came in on the stroke of\none, left at half-past one exactly, lighting his pipe as he got up. He\nnever spoke to anyone; when Victoria stood before his table he looked at\nher for a moment, gave his order and cast his eyes down to his book.\n\nIt was about three weeks after the incident of the books that he spoke\nto Victoria. As he took up the bill of fare he said suddenly:\n\n'Did you read the _Vindication_?'\n\n'I did glance through it,' said Victoria, feeling, she did not know why,\nacutely uncomfortable.\n\n'Ah? interesting, isn't it? Pity it's so badly written. What do you\nthink of it?'\n\n'Well, I hardly know,' said Victoria reflectively; 'I didn't have time\nto read much; what I read seemed true.'\n\n'You think that a recommendation, eh?' said Farwell, his lips parting\nslightly. 'I'd have thought you saw enough truth about life here to like\nlies.'\n\n'No,' said Victoria, 'I don't care for lies. The nastier a thing is, the\nbetter everybody should know it; then one day people will be ashamed.'\n\n'Oh, an optimist!' sniggered Farwell. 'Bless you, my child. Give me\nfillets of plaice, small white and cut.'\n\nFor several days after this Farwell took no notice of Victoria. He gave\nhis order and opened his book as before. Victoria made no advances. She\nhad talked him over with Betty, who had advised her to await events.\n\n'You never know,' she had remarked, as a clinching argument.\n\nA day or two later Victoria was startled by Farwell's arrival at\nhalf-past six. This had never happened before. The smoking-room was\nalmost empty, as it was too late for teas and a little too early for\nsuppers. Farwell sat down at his usual table and ordered a small tea. As\nVictoria returned with the cup he took out a book from under two others\nand held it out.\n\n'Look here,' he said a little nervously. 'I don't know whether you're\nbusy after hours, but perhaps you might like to read this.' The wrinkles\nin his forehead expanded and dilated a little.\n\n'Oh, thank you so much. I would like to read it,' said Victoria with the\nring of earnestness in her voice. She took the book; it was a battered\ncopy of _No. 5 John Street_.\n\n'No. 5? What a queer title,' she said.\n\n'Queer? not at all,' said Farwell. 'It only seems queer to you because\nit is natural and you're not used to that. You're a number in the P.R.R.\naren't you? Just like the house you live in. And you're just number so\nand so; so am I. When we die fate shoves up the next number and it all\nbegins over again.'\n\n'That doesn't sound very cheerful, does it?' said Victoria.\n\n'It isn't cheerful. It's merely a fact.'\n\n'I suppose it is,' said Victoria. 'Nobody is ever missed.'\n\nFarwell looked at her critically. The platitude worried him a little; it\nwas unexpected.\n\n'Yes, exactly,' he stammered. 'Anyhow, you read it and let me know what\nyou think of it.' Thereupon he took up another book and began to read.\n\nWhen he had gone Victoria showed her prize to Betty.\n\n'You're getting on,' said Betty with a smile. 'You'll be Mrs Farwell one\nof these days, I suppose.'\n\n'Don't be ridiculous, Betty,' snapped Victoria, 'why, I'd have to wash\nhim.'\n\n'You might as well wash a husband as a dish,' said Betty smoothly.\n'Anyhow, the other girls are talking.'\n\n'Let them talk,' said Victoria rather savagely, 'so long as they don't\ntalk to me.'\n\nBetty took her hand gently.\n\n'Sorry, Vic dear,' she said. 'You're not angry with me, are you?'\n\n'No, of course not, you silly,' said Victoria laughing. 'There run away,\nor that old gent at the end'll take a fit.'\n\nFarwell did not engage her in conversation for a few days, nor did she\nmake any advances to him. She read through _No. 5 John Street_ within\nthree evenings; it held her with a horrible fascination. Her first\nplunge into realistic literature left her shocked as by a cold bath. In\nthe early days, at Lympton, she had subsisted mainly on Charlotte Young\nand Rhoda Broughton. In India, the mess having a subscription at\nMudie's, she had had good opportunities of reading; but, for no\nparticular reason, except perhaps that she was newly married and busy\nwith regimental nothings, she had ceased to read anything beyond the\n_Sketch_ and the _Sporting and Dramatic_. Thus she had never heard of\nthe 'common people' except as persons born to minister to the needs of\nthe rich. She had never felt any interest in them, for they spoke a\nlanguage that was not hers. _No. 5 John Street_, coming to her a long\ntime after the old happy days, when she herself was struggling in the\nmire, was a horrible revelation; it showed her herself, and herself not\nas 'Tilda towering over fate but as Nancy withering in the indiarubber\nworks for the benefit of the Ridler system.\n\nShe read feverishly by the light of a candle. At times she was repelled\nby the vulgarity of Low Covey, by the grossness which seemed to revel\nin poverty and dirt. But when she cast her eyes round her own bare\nwalls, looked at her sheetless bed, a shiver ran over her.\n\n'These are my people,' she said aloud. The candle, clamouring for the\nsnuffers, guttered, sank low, nearly went out.\n\nShivering again before the omen, she trimmed the wick. She returned the\nbook to Farwell by slipping it on the table next day. He took it without\na word but returned at half past six as before.\n\n'Well?' he asked with a faint smile.\n\n'Thank you so much,' said Victoria. 'It's wonderful.'\n\n'Wonderful indeed? Most commonplace, don't you think?'\n\n'Oh, no,' said Victoria. 'It's extraordinary, it's like . . . like\nlight.'\n\nFarwell's eyes suddenly glittered.\n\n'Ah,' he said dreamily, 'light! light in this, the outer darkness.'\n\nVictoria looked at him, a question in her eyes.\n\n'If only we could all see,' he went on. 'Then, as by a touch of a\nmagician's wand, flowers would crowd out the thistles, the thistles that\nthe asses eat and thank their God for. It is in our hands to make this\nthe Happy Valley and we make it the Valley of the Shadow of Death.'\n\nHe paused for a moment. Victoria felt her pulse quicken.\n\n'Yes,' she said, 'I think I understand. It's because we don't understand\nthat we suffer. We're not cruel, are we? we're stupid.'\n\n'Stupid?' A ferocious intonation had come into Farwell's voice. 'I\nshould say so! Forty million men, women and children sweat their lives\nout day by day so that four million may live idly and become too heavy\neven to think. I could forgive them if they thought, but the world\ncontains only two types: Lazarus with poor man's gout and Dives with\nfatty degeneration of the brain.'\n\nVictoria felt nervous. Passion shook the man's hands as he clutched the\nmarble top of the table.\n\n'Mr Farwell,' she faltered, 'I don't want to be stupid. I want to\nunderstand things. I want to know why we slave twelve hours a day when\nothers do nothing and, oh, can it be altered?'\n\nFarwell had started at the mention of his name. His passion had suddenly\nfallen.\n\n'Altered? oh, yes,' he stammered, 'that's if the race lasts long enough.\n'Sometimes I think, as I see men struggling to get on top of one\nanother, like crabs in a bucket . . . Like crabs in a bucket,' he\nrepeated dreamily, visualising the simile. 'But I cannot draw men from\nstones,' he said smiling; 'it is not yet time for Deucalion. I'll bring\nyou another book to-morrow.'\n\nFarwell rose abruptly and left Victoria singularly stirred. He was a\npersonality, she felt; something quite unusual. He was less a man than a\nfigment, for he seemed top heavy almost. He concentrated the hearer's\nattention so much on his spoken thought that his body passed\nunperceived, receded into the distance.\n\nWhile Victoria was changing to go, the staff room somehow seemed darker\nand dirtier than ever. It was seldom swept and never cleaned out. The\nmanagement had thoughtfully provided nothing but pegs and wooden\nbenches, so as to discourage lounging. Victoria was rather late, so that\nshe found herself alone with Lizzie, the cashier. Lizzie was red-haired,\nvery curly, plump, pink and white. A regular little spark. She was very\npopular; her green eyes and full curved figure often caused a small\nblock at the desk.\n\n'You look tired,' she said good-naturedly.\n\n'I suppose I am,' said Victoria. 'Aren't you?'\n\n'So so. Don't mind my job.'\n\n'Mm, I suppose it isn't so bad sitting at the desk.'\n\n'No,' said Lizzie, 'pays too.'\n\n'Pays?'\n\nLizzie flushed and hesitated. Then the desire to boast burst its bonds.\nShe must tell, she must. It didn't matter after all. A craving for\nadmiration was on her.\n\n'Tell you what,' she whispered. 'I get quite two and a kick a week out\nof that job.'\n\nVictoria's eyebrows went up.\n\n'You know,' went on Lizzie, 'the boys look at me a bit.' She simpered\nslightly. 'Well, once one of them gave me half a bar with a bob check.\nHe was looking at me in the eye, well! that mashed, I can tell you he\nlooked like a boiled fish. Sort of inspiration came over me.' She\nstopped.\n\n'Well?' asked Victoria, feeling a little nervous.\n\n'Well . . . I . . . I gave him one half crown and three two bob pieces.\nSmiled at him. He boned the money quick enough, wanted to touch my hand\nyou see. Never saw it.'\n\nVictoria thought for a moment. 'Then you gave him eight and six instead\nof nine shillings?'\n\n'You've hit it. Bless you, _he_ never knew. Mashed, I can tell _you_.'\n\n'Then you did him out of sixpence?'\n\n'Right. Comes off once in three. Say \"sorry\" when I'm caught and smile\nand it's all right. Never try it twice on the same man.'\n\n'I call that stealing,' said Victoria coldly.\n\n'You can call it what you like,' snarled Lizzie. 'Everything's stealing.\nWhat's business? getting a quid for what costs you a tanner. I'm putting\na bit extra on my wages.'\n\nVictoria shrugged her shoulders. She might have argued with Lizzie as\nshe had once argued with Gertie, but the vague truth that lurked in\nLizzie's economics had deprived her of argument. Could theft sometimes\nbe something else than theft? Were all things theft? And above all, did\nthe acceptance of a woman's hand as bait justify the hooking of a\nsixpence?\n\nAs Victoria left for home that night she felt restless. She could not go\nto bed so soon. She walked through the silent city lanes; meeting\nnothing, save now and then a cat on the prowl, or a policeman trying\ndoors and flashing his bull's eye through the gratings of banks. The\ncrossing at Mansion House was still busy with the procession of\nomnibuses converging at the feet of the Duke of Wellington. Drays, too\nheavily loaded, rumbled slowly past towards Liverpool Street. She turned\nnorthwards, walked quickly through the desert. At Liverpool Street\nstation she stopped in the blaze of light. A few doors away stood a\nshouting butcher praying the passers-by to buy his pretty meat. Further:\na fishmonger's stall, an array of glistening black shapes on white\nmarble, a tobacconist, a jeweller--all aglow with coruscating light. And\nover all, the blazing light of arc lamps, under which an unending stream\nof motor cabs, lorries, omnibuses passed in kaleidoscopic colours. In\nthe full glare of a lamp post stood a woman, her feet in the gutter. She\nwas short, stunted, dirty and thin of face and body. Round her wretched\nframe a filthy black coat was tightly buttoned; her muddy skirt seemed\nalmost falling from her shrunken hips. Crushed on her sallow face,\nhiding all but a few wisps of hair, was a battered black straw hat. With\none arm she carried a child, thin of face too, and golden-haired. On its\nupper lip a crusted sore gleamed red and brown. In her other hand she\nheld out a tin lid, in which were five boxes of matches.\n\nVictoria looked at the silent watcher and passed on. A few minutes later\nshe remembered her and a fearful flood of insight rushed upon her. The\nchild? Then this, this creature had known love? A man had kissed those\nshrivelled lips. Something like a thrill of disgust ran through her.\nThat such things as these could love and mate and bear children was\nunspeakable; the very touch of them was loathsome, their love akin to\nunnatural vice.\n\nAs she walked further into Shoreditch the impression of horror grew on\nher. It was not that the lanes and little streets abutting into the High\nStreet were full of terrors when pitch dark, or more sinister still in\nthe pale yellow light of a single gas lamp; the High Street itself,\nfilled with men and women, most of them shabby, some loudly dressed in\ncrude colours, shouting, laughing, jostling one another off the footpath\nwas more terrible, for its joy of life was brutal as the joy of the\npugilist who feels his opponent's teeth crunch under his fist.\n\nAt a corner, near a public house blazing with lights, a small crowd\nwatched two women who were about to fight. They had not come to blows\nyet; their duel was purely Homeric. Victoria listened with greedy horror\nto the terrible recurrence of half a dozen words.\n\nA child squirmed through the crowd, crying, and caught one of the\nfighters by her skirt.\n\n'Leave go . . . I'll rive the guts out 'o yer.'\n\nWith a swing of the body the woman sent the child flying into the\ngutter. Victoria hurried from the spot. She made towards the West now,\nbetween the gin shops, the barrows under their blazing naphtha lamps.\nShe was afraid, horribly afraid.\n\nSitting alone in her attic, her hands crossed before her, questions\nintruded upon her. Why all this pain, this violence, by the side of\nlife's graces? Could it be that one went with the other, indissolubly?\nAnd could it be altered before it was too late, before the earth was\nflooded, overwhelmed with pain?\n\nShe slipped into bed and drew the horsecloth over her ears. The world\nwas best shut out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nTHOMAS FARWELL collected three volumes from his desk, two pamphlets and\na banana. It was six o'clock and, the partners having left, he was his\nown master half an hour earlier than usual.\n\n'You off?' said the junior from the other end of the desk.\n\n'Yes. Half an hour to the good.'\n\n'What's the good of half an hour,' said the youth superciliously.\n\n'No good unless you think it is, like everything else,' said Farwell.\n'Besides, I may be run over by half past six.'\n\n'Cheerful as ever,' remarked the junior, bending his head down to the\npetty cash balance.\n\nFarwell took no notice of him. Ten times a day he cursed himself for\nwasting words upon this troglodyte. He was a youth long as a day's\nstarvation, with a bulbous forehead, stooping narrow shoulders and\nnarrow lips; his shape resembled that of an old potato. He peered\nthrough his glasses with watery eyes hardly darker than his grey face.\n\n'Good night,' said Farwell curtly.\n\n'Cheer, oh!' said the junior.\n\nFarwell slammed the door behind him. He felt inclined to skip down the\nstairs, not that anything particularly pleasant had happened but because\nthe bells of St Botolph's were pealing out a chime of freedom. It was\nsix. He had nothing to do. The best thing was to go to Moorgate Street\nand take the books to Victoria. On second thoughts, no, he would wait.\nSix o'clock might still be a busy time.\n\nFarwell walked down the narrow lane from Bishopsgate into St. Botolph's\nchurchyard. It was a dank and dreary evening, dark already. The wind\nswept over the paths in little whirlwinds. Dejected sparrows sought\nscraps of food among the ancient graves where office boys munch buns and\nread of woodcarving and desperate adventure. He sat down on a seat by\nthe side of a shape that slept, and opened one of the books, though it\nwas too dark to read. The shape lifted an eyelid and looked at him.\n\nFarwell turned over the pages listlessly. It was a history of\nrevolutionists. For some reason he hated them to-day, all of them. Jack\nCade was a boor, Cromwell a tartuffe, Bolivar a politician, Mazzini a\ntheorist. It would bore Victoria.\n\nFarwell brought himself up with a jerk. He was thinking of Victoria too\noften. As he was a man who faced facts he told himself quite plainly\nthat he did not intend to fall in love with her. He did not feel capable\nof love; he hated most people, but did not believe that a good hater was\na good lover.\n\n'Clever, of course,' he muttered, 'but no woman is everlastingly clever.\nI won't risk finding her out.'\n\nThe shape at his side moved. It was an old man, filthy, clad in\nblackened rags, with a matted beard. Farwell glanced at him and turned\naway.\n\n'I'd have you poisoned if I could,' he thought. Then he returned to\nVictoria. Was she worth educating? And supposing she was educated, what\nthen? She would become discontented, instead of brutalised. The latter\nwas the happier state. Or she would fall in love with him, when he would\ngive her short shrift. What a pity. A tiny wave of sentiment flowed into\nFarwell's soul.\n\n'Clever, clever,' he thought, 'a little house, babies, roses, a fox\nterrier.'\n\n'Gov'nor,' croaked a hoarse voice beside him.\n\nFarwell turned quickly. The shape was alive, then, curse it.\n\n'Well, what d'you want?'\n\n'Give us a copper, gov'nor, I'm an old man, can't work. S'elp me, Gawd,\ngov'nor, 'aven't 'ad a bite. . . .'\n\n'That'll do, you fool,' snarled Farwell, 'why the hell don't you go and\nget it in gaol?'\n\n'Yer don't mean that, gov'nor, do yer?' whined the old man, 'I always\nkep my self respectable; 'ere, look at these 'ere testimonials, gov'nor,\n. . .' He drew from his coat a disgusting object, a bundle of papers\ntied together with string.\n\n'I don't want to see them,' said Farwell. 'I wouldn't employ you if I\ncould. Why don't you go to the workhouse?'\n\nThe old man almost bridled.\n\n'Why? Because you're a stuck up. D'you hear? You're proud of being poor.\nThat's about as vulgar as bragging because you're rich. If you and all\nthe likes of you went into the House, you'd reform the system in a week.\nUnderstand?'\n\nThe old man's eyes were fixed on the speaker, uncomprehending.\n\n'Better still, go and throw any bit of dirt you pick up at a policeman,'\ncontinued Farwell. 'See he gets it in the mouth. You get locked up.\nSuppose a million of the likes of you do the same, what d'you think\nhappens?'\n\n'I dunno,' said the old man.\n\n'Well, your penal system is bust. If you offend the law you're a\ncriminal. But what's the law? the opinion of the majority. If the\nmajority goes against the law, then the minority becomes criminal. The\nworld's upside down.' Farwell smiled. 'The world's upside down,' he said\nsoftly, licking his lips.\n\n'Give us a copper for a bed, guv'nor,' said the old man dully.\n\n'What's the good of a bed to you?' exploded Farwell. 'Why don't you have\na drink?'\n\n'I'm a teetotaller, guv'nor; always kep' myself respectable.'\n\n'Respectable! You're earning the wages of respectability, that is\ndeath,' said Farwell with a wolfish laugh. 'Why, man, can't you see\nyou've been on the wrong tack? We don't want any more of you\nrespectables. We want pirates, vampires. We want all this society of\nyours rotted by internal canker, so that we can build a new one. But we\nmust rot it first. We aren't going to work on a sow's ear.'\n\n'Give us a copper, guv'nor,' moaned the old man.\n\nFarwell took out sixpence and laid it on the seat. 'Now then,' he said,\n'you can have this if you'll swear to blow it in drink.'\n\n'I will, s'elp me Gawd,' said the old man eagerly.\n\nFarwell pushed the coin towards him.\n\n'Take it, teetotaller,' he sneered, 'your respectable system of bribery\nhas bought you for sixpence. Now let me see you go into that pub.'\n\nThe old man clutched the sixpence and staggered to his feet. Farwell\nwatched the swing doors of the public bar at the end of the passage\nclose behind him. Then he got up and walked away; it was about time to\ngo to Moorgate Street.\n\nAs he entered the smoking-room, Victoria blushed. The man moved her,\nstimulated her. When she saw him she felt like a body meeting a soul. He\nsat down at his usual place. Victoria brought him his tea, and laid it\nbefore him without a word. Nelly, lolling in another corner, kicked the\nground, looking away insolently from the elaborate wink of one of the\nscullions.\n\n'Here, read these,' said Farwell, pushing two of the books across the\ntable. Victoria picked them up.\n\n'_Looking Backwards?_' she said. 'Oh, I don't want to do that. It's\nforward I want to go.'\n\n'A laudable sentiment,' sneered Farwell, 'the theory of every Sunday\nSchool in the country, and the practice of none. However, you'll find it\nfairly soul-filling as an unintelligent anticipation. Personally I\nprefer the other. _Demos_ is good stuff, for Gissing went through the\nfire.'\n\nVictoria quickly walked away. Farwell looked surprised for a second,\nthen saw the manageress on the stairs.\n\n'Faugh,' he muttered, 'if the world's a stage I'm playing the part of a\nlow intriguer.'\n\nHe sipped his tea meditatively. In a few minutes Victoria returned.\n\n'Thank you,' she whispered. 'It's good of you. You're teaching me to\nlive.'\n\nFarwell looked at her critically.\n\n'I don't see much good in that,' he said, 'unless you've got something\nto live for. One of our philosophers says you live either for experience\nor the race. I recommend the former to myself, and to you nothing.'\n\n'Why shouldn't I live for anything?' she asked.\n\n'Because life's too dear. And its pleasures are not white but piebald.'\n\n'I understand,' said Victoria, 'but I must live.'\n\n'_Je n'en vois pas la necessite_,' quoted Farwell smiling. 'Never mind\nwhat that means,' he added, 'I'm only a pessimist.'\n\nThe next few weeks seemed to create in Victoria a new personality. Her\nreading was so carefully selected that every line told. Farwell knew the\nhundred best books for a working girl; he had a large library composed\nmostly of battered copies squeezed out of his daily bread. Victoria's\nwas the appetite of a gorgon. In another month she had absorbed _Odd\nWomen_, _An Enemy of the People_, _The_ _Doll's House_, _Alton Locke_,\nand a translation of _Germinal_. Every night she read with an intensity\nwhich made her forget that March chilled her to the bone; poring over\nthe book, her eyes a few inches from the candle, she soaked in\nrebellion. When the cold nipped too close into her she would get up and\nwrap herself in the horsecloth and read with savage application, rushing\nto the core of the thought. She was no student, so she would skip a hard\nword. Besides, in those moods, when the spirit bounds in the body like a\ncaged bird, words are felt, not understood.\n\nBetty was still hovering round her, a gentle presence. She knew what was\ngoing on and was frightened. A new Victoria was rising before her, a\nwoman very charming still, but extraordinary, incomprehensible. Often\nVictoria would snub her savagely, then take her hand as they stood\ntogether at the counter bawling for food and drink. And as Victoria grew\nhard and strong, Betty worshipped her more as she would have worshipped\na strong man.\n\nYet Betty was not happy. Victoria lived now in a state of excitement and\nhunger for solitude. She took no interest in things that Betty could\nunderstand. Their Sunday walks had been ruthlessly cut now and then, for\nthe fury was upon Victoria when eating the fruits of the tree. When they\nwere together now Victoria was preoccupied; she no longer listened to\nthe club gossip, nor did she ask to be told once more the story of\nBetty's early days.\n\n'Do you know you're sweated?' she said suddenly one day.\n\nBetty's eyes opened round and blue.\n\n'Sweated,' she said. 'I thought only people in the East End were\nsweated.'\n\n'The world's one big East End,' snapped Victoria.\n\nBetty shivered. Farwell might have said that.\n\n'You're sweated if you get two pounds a week,' continued Victoria.\n'You're sweated when you buy a loaf, sweated when you ride in a bus,\nsweated when they cremate you.'\n\n'I don't understand,' said Betty.\n\n'All profits are sweated,' quoted Victoria from a pamphlet.\n\n'But people must make profits,' protested Betty.\n\n'What for?' asked Victoria.\n\n'How are people to live unless they make profits?' said Betty. 'Aren't\nour wages profits?'\n\nVictoria was nonplussed for a moment and became involved. 'No, our wages\nare only wages; profit is the excess over our wages.'\n\n'I don't understand,' said Betty.\n\n'Never mind,' said Victoria, 'I'll ask Mr Farwell; he'll make it clear.'\n\nBetty shot a dark blue glance at her.\n\n'Vic,' she said softly, 'I think Mr Farwell. . . .' Then she changed her\nmind. 'I can't, I can't,' she thought. She crushed the jealous words\ndown and plunged.\n\n'Vic, darling,' she faltered, 'I'm afraid you're not well. No, and not\nhappy. I've been thinking of something; why shouldn't I leave the Club\nand come and live with you.'\n\nVictoria looked at her critically for a moment. She thought of her\nindependence, of this affection hovering round her, sweet, dangerously\nclinging. But Betty's blue eyes were wet.\n\n'You're too good a pal for me, Betty,' she said in a low voice. 'I'd\nmake you miserable.'\n\n'No, no,' cried Betty impulsively. 'I'd love it, Vic dear, and you would\ngo on reading and do what you like. Only let me be with you.'\n\nVictoria's hand tightened on her friend's arm.\n\n'Let me think, Betty dear,' she said.\n\nTen days later, Betty having won her point, the great move was to take\nplace at seven o'clock. It certainly lacked solemnity. For three days\npreceding the great change Betty had hurried away from the P.R.R. on the\nstroke of nine, quickly kissing Victoria and saying she couldn't wait as\nshe must pack. Clearly her wardrobe could not be disposed of in a\ntwinkling. Yet, on moving day, at seven o'clock sharp (the carrier\nhaving been thoughtfully commanded to deliver at five) a tin trunk kept\ntogether by a rope, a tiny bath muzzled with a curtain, and a hat box\nloudly advertising somebody's tea, were dumped on the doorstep. The cart\ndrove off leaving the two girls to make terms with a loafer. The latter\ncompromised for fourpence, slammed their door behind him and lurched\ndown the creaking stairs. Betty threw herself into Victoria's arms.\n\nThose first days were sweet. Betty rejoiced like a lover in possession\nof a long-desired mistress; stripping off her blouse and looking very\npretty, showing her white neck and slim arms, she strutted about the\nattic with a hammer in her hand and her mouth full of nails. It took an\nevening to hang the curtain which had muzzled the bath; Betty's art\ntreasures, an oleograph of 'Bubbles' and another of 'I'se Biggest,' were\ncunningly hung by Victoria so that she could not see them on waking up.\n\nBetty was active now as a will o' the wisp. She invented little feasts,\nexpensive Sunday suppers of fried fish and chips, produced a basket of\noranges at three a penny; thanks to her there was now milk with the tea.\nIn a moment of enthusiasm Victoria heard her murmur something about\nkeeping a cat. In fact the only thing that marred her life at all was\nVictoria's absorption in her reading. Often Betty would go to bed and\nstay awake, watching Victoria at the table, her fingers ravelling her\nhair, reading with an intentness that frightened her. She would watch\nVictoria and see her face grow paler, except at the cheeks where a flush\nwould rise. A wild look would come into her eyes. Sometimes she would\nget up suddenly and, thrusting her hair out of her eyes, walk up and\ndown muttering things Betty could not understand.\n\nOne night Betty woke up suddenly, and saw Victoria standing in the\nmoonlight clad only in her nightgown. Words were surging from her lips.\n\n'It's no good. . . . I can't go on. . . . I can't go on until I die or\nsomebody marries me. . . . I won't marry: I won't do it. . . . Why\nshould I sell myself? . . . at any rate why should I sell myself\ncheaply?'\n\nThere was a pause. Betty sat up and looked at her friend's wild face.\n\n'What's it all mean after all? I'm only being used. Sucked dry like an\norange. By and by they'll throw the peel away. Talk of brotherhood! . .\n. It's war, war . . . It's climbing and fighting to get on top . . .\nlike crabs in a bucket, like crabs. . .'\n\n'Vic,' screamed Betty.\n\nVictoria started like a somnambulist aroused and looked at her vaguely.\n\n'Come back to bed at once,' cried Betty with inspired firmness. Victoria\nobeyed. Betty drew her down beside her under the horsecloth and threw\nher arms round her; Victoria's body was cold as ice. Suddenly she burst\ninto tears; and Betty, torn as if she saw a strong man weep, wept too.\nClosely locked in one another's arms they sobbed themselves to sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nEVERY day now Victoria's brain grew clearer and her body weaker. A\nsullen spirit of revolt blended with horrible depression was upon her,\nbut she was getting thinner, paler; dark rings were forming round her\neyes. She knew pain now; perpetual weariness, twitchings in the ankles,\nstabs just above the knee. In horrible listlessness she dragged her\nweary feet over the tiled floor, responding to commands like the old cab\nhorse which can hardly feel the whip. In this mood, growing churlish,\nshe repulsed Betty, avoided Farwell and tried to seclude herself. She no\nlonger walked Holborn or the Strand where life went by, but sought the\nmean and silent streets, where none could see her shamble or where none\nwould care.\n\nOne night, when she had left at six, she painfully crawled home and up\ninto the attic. At half-past nine the door opened and Betty came in; the\nroom was in darkness, but something oppressed her; she went to the\nmantlepiece to look for the matches, her fingers trembling. For an\neternity she seemed to fumble, the oppression growing; she felt that\nVictoria was in the room, and could only hope that she was asleep. With\na great effort of her will she lit the candle before turning round. Then\nshe gave a short sharp scream.\n\nVictoria was lying across the bed dressed in her bodice and petticoat.\nShe had tucked this up to her knees and taken off her stockings; her\nlegs hung dead white over the edge. At her feet was the tin bath full\nof water. Betty ran to the bed, choking almost, and clasped her friend\nround the neck. It was some seconds before she thought of wetting her\nface. After some minutes Victoria returned to consciousness and opened\nher eyes; she groaned slightly as Betty lifted up her legs and\nstraightened her on the bed.\n\nIt was then that Betty noticed the singular appearance of Victoria's\nlegs. They were covered with a network of veins, some narrow and pale\nblue in colour, others darker, protruding and swollen; on the left calf\none of the veins stood out like a rope. The unaccustomed sight filled\nher with the horror bred of a mysterious disease. She was delicate, but\nhad never been seriously ill; this sight filled her with physical\nrepulsion. For her the ugliness of it meant foulness. For a moment she\nalmost hated Victoria, but the sight of the tin bath full of water cut\nher to the heart; it told her that Victoria, maddened by mysterious\npain, had tried to assuage it by bathing her legs in the cold water.\n\nLittle by little Victoria came round; she smiled at Betty.\n\n'Did I faint, Betty dear?' she asked.\n\n'Yes, dear. Are you better now?'\n\n'Yes, I'm better; it doesn't hurt now.'\n\nBetty could not repress a question.\n\n'Vic,' she said, 'what is it?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Victoria fearfully, then more cheerfully,\n\n'I'm tired I suppose. I shall be all right to-morrow.'\n\nThen Betty refused to let her talk any more, and soon Victoria slept by\nher side the sleep of exhaustion.\n\nThe next morning Victoria insisted upon going to the P. R. R. in spite\nof Betty suggesting a doctor.\n\n'Can't risk losing my job,' she said laughing. 'Besides it doesn't hurt\nat all now. Look.'\n\nVictoria lifted up her nightshirt. Her calves were again perfectly white\nand smooth; the thin network of veins had sunk in again and showed blue\nunder the skin. Alone one vein on the left leg seemed dark and angry.\nVictoria felt so well, however, that she agreed to meet Farwell at a\nquarter-past nine. This was their second expedition, and the idea of it\nwas a stimulant. He went with her up to Finsbury Pavement and stopped at\na small Italian restaurant.\n\n'Come in here and have some coffee,' he said, 'they have waiters here;\nthat'll be a change.'\n\nVictoria followed him in. They sat at a marble topped table, flooded\nwith light by incandescent gas. In the glare the waiters seemed blacker,\nsmaller and more stunted than by the light of day. Their faces were\npallid, with a touch of green: their hair and moustaches were almost\nblue black. Their energy was that of automata. Victoria looked at them,\nmelting with pity.\n\n'There's a life for you,' said Farwell interpreting her look. 'Sixteen\nhours' work a day in an atmosphere of stale food. For meals, plate\nscourings. For sleep and time to get to it, eight hours. For living, the\nrest of the day.'\n\n'It's awful, awful,' said Victoria. 'They might as well be dead.'\n\n'They will be soon,' said Farwell, 'but what does that matter? There are\nplenty of waiters. In the shadow of the olive groves to-night in far off\nCalabria, at the base of the vine-clad hills, couples are walking hand\nin hand, with passion flashing in their eyes. Brown peasant boys are\nclasping to their breast young girls with dark hair, white teeth, red\nlips, hearts that beat and quiver with ecstasy. They tell a tale of love\nand hope. So we shall not be short of waiters.'\n\n'Why do you sneer at everything, Mr Farwell?' said Victoria. 'Can't you\nsee anything in life to make it worth while?'\n\n'No, I cannot say I do. The pursuit of a living debars me from the\nenjoyments that make living worth while. But never mind me: I am over\nwithout having bloomed. I brought you here to talk of you, not of me.'\n\n'Of me, Mr Farwell?' asked Victoria. 'What do you want to know?'\n\nFarwell leant over the table, toyed with the sugar and helped himself to\na piece. Then without looking at her:\n\n'What's the matter with you, Victoria?' he asked.\n\n'Matter with me? What do you mean?' said Victoria, too disturbed to\nnotice the use of her Christian name.\n\nThe man scrutinised her carefully. 'You're ill,' he said. 'Don't\nprotest. You're thin; there are purple pockets under your eyes; your\nunderlip is twisted with pain, and you limp.'\n\nVictoria felt a spasm of anger. There was still in her the ghost of\nvanity. But she looked at Farwell before answering; there was gentleness\nin his eyes.\n\n'Well,' she said slowly, 'if you must know, perhaps there is something\nwrong. Pains.'\n\n'Where?' he asked.\n\n'In the legs,' she said after a pause.\n\n'Ah, swellings?'\n\nVictoria bridled a little. This man was laying bare something, tearing\nat a secret.\n\n'Are you a doctor, Mr Farwell?' she asked coldly.\n\n'That's all right,' he said roughly, 'it doesn't need much learning to\nknow what's the matter with a girl who stands for eleven hours a day.\nAre the veins of your legs swollen?'\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria with an effort. She was frightened; she forgot to\nresent this wrenching at the privacy of her body.\n\n'Ah; when do they hurt?'\n\n'At night. They're all right in the morning.'\n\n'You've got varicose veins, Victoria. You must give up your job.'\n\n'I can't,' whispered the girl hoarsely. 'I've got nothing else.'\n\n'Exactly. Either you go on and are a <DW36> for life or you stop and\nstarve. Yours is a disease of occupation, purely a natural consequence\nof your work. Perfectly normal, perfectly. It is undesirable to\nencourage laziness; there are girls starving to-day for lack of work,\nbut it would never do to reduce your hours to eight. It would interfere\nwith the P. R. R. dividends.'\n\nVictoria looked at him without feeling.\n\n'What am I to do?' she asked at length.\n\n'Go to a hospital,' said Farwell. 'These institutions are run by the\nwealthy who pay two guineas a year ransom for a thousand pounds of\nprofits and get in the bargain a fine sense of civic duty done. No doubt\nthe directors of the P.R.R. contribute most generously.'\n\n'I can't give up my job,' said Victoria dully.\n\n'Perhaps they'll give you a stocking,' said Farwell, 'or sell it you,\nletting you pay in instalments so that you be not pauperised. This is\ncalled training in responsibility, also self-help.'\n\nVictoria got up. She could bear it no longer. Farwell saw her home and\nmade her promise to apply for leave to see the doctor. As the door\nclosed behind her he stood still for some minutes on the doorstep,\nfilling his pipe.\n\n'Well, well,' he said at length, 'the Government might think of that\nlethal chamber--but no, that would never do, it would deplete the labour\nmarket and hamper the commercial development of the Empire.'\n\nHe walked away, a crackling little laugh floating behind him. The faint\nlight of a lamp fell on his bowed head and shoulders, making him look\nlike a Titan born a dwarf.\n\nTwo days later Victoria went to the Carew. She had never before set\nfoot in a hospital. Such intercourse as she had had with doctors was\nfigured by discreet interviews in dark studies filled with unspeakably\nugly and reassuringly solid furniture. Those doctors had patted her\nhand, said she needed a little change or may be a tonic. At the Carew,\nfed as it is by the misery of two square miles of North East London, the\nrevelation of pain was dazzling, apocalyptic. The sight of the benches\ncrowded with women and children--some pale as corpses, others flushed\nwith fever, some with faces bandaged or disfigured by sores--almost made\nher sick. They were packed in serried rows; the children almost all\ncried persistently, except here and there a baby, who looked with\nfrightful fixity at the glazed roof. From all this chattering crowd of\nthe condemned rose a stench of iodoform, perspiration, unwashed bodies,\nthe acrid smell of poverty.\n\nThe little red-haired Scotch doctor dismissed Victoria's case in less\nthan one minute.\n\n'Varicose veins. Always wear a stocking. Here's your form. Settle terms\nat the truss office. Don't stand on your feet. Oh, what's your\noccupation?'\n\n'Waitress at the P.R.R., Sir.'\n\n'Ah, hum. You must give it up.'\n\n'I can't, Sir.'\n\n'It's your risk. Come again in a month.'\n\nVictoria pulled up her stockings. Walking in a dream she went to the\ntruss office where a man measured her calves. She felt numb and\nindifferent as to the exposure of her body. The man looked enquiringly\nat the left calf.\n\n'V.H. for the left,' he called over his shoulder to the clerk.\n\nAt twelve o'clock she was in the P.R.R., revived by the familiar\natmosphere. She even rallied one of the old chess players on a stroke of\nill-luck. Towards four o'clock her ankles began to twitch.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nTHROUGH all these anxious times, Betty watched over Victoria with the\ndevotion that is born of love. There was in the girl a reserve of\nmaternal sweetness equalled only by the courage she showed every day.\nSlim and delicate as she seemed, there was in Betty's thin body a\nstrength all nervous but enduring. She did not complain, though driven\neleven or twelve hours a day by the eyes of the manageress; those eyes\nwere sharp as a goad, but she went cheerfully.\n\nIn a sense Betty was happy. The work did not weigh too heavily upon her;\nthere was so much humility in her that she did not resent the roughness\nof her companions. Nelly could snub her, trample at times on her like\nthe cart horse she was; the manageress too could freeze her with a look,\nthe kitchen staff disregard her humble requests for teas and procure for\nher the savage bullying of the customers, yet she remained placid\nenough.\n\n'It's a hard life,' she once said to Victoria, 'but I suppose it's got\nto be.' This was her philosophy.\n\n'But don't you want to get out of it?' cried Victoria the militant.\n\n'I don't know,' said Betty. 'I might marry.'\n\n'Marry,' sniffed Victoria. 'You seem to think marriage is the only way\nout for women.'\n\n'Well, isn't it?' asked Betty. 'What else is there?'\n\nAnd for the life of her Victoria could not find another occupation for\nan unskilled girl. Milliners, dressmakers, clerks, typists, were all\nfrightfully underpaid and overworked; true there were women doctors, but\nwho cared to employ them? And teachers, but they earned the wages of\nvirtue: neglect. Besides it was too late; both Victoria and Betty were\nunskilled, condemned by their sex to low pay and hard work.\n\n'It's frightful, frightful,' cried Victoria. 'The only use we are is to\ndo the dirty work. Men don't char. Of course we may marry, if we can, to\nany of those gods if they'll share with us their thirty bob a week. Talk\nof slaves! They're better off than we.'\n\nBetty looked upon all this as rather wild, as a consequence of\nVictoria's illness. Her view was that it didn't do to complain, and that\nthe only thing to do was to make the best of it. But she loved Victoria,\nand it was almost a voluptous joy for her to help her friend to undress\nevery night, to tempt her with little offerings of fruit and flowers.\nWhen they woke up, Betty would draw her friend into her arms and cover\nher face with gentle kisses.\n\nBut as Victoria grew worse, stiffer, and slower, responding ever more\nreluctantly to the demands made upon her all day at the P. R. R., Betty\nwas conscious of horrible anxiety. Sometimes her imagination would\nconjure up a Victoria helpless, wasted, bedridden, and her heart seemed\nto stop. But her devotion was proof against egoism. Whatever happened,\nVictoria should not starve if she had to pay the rent and feed herself\non nine shillings or so a week until she was well again and beautiful as\nshe had been. Her anxiety increasing, she mustered up courage to\ninterview Farwell, whom she hated jealously. He had ruined Victoria, she\nthought--made her wild, discontented, rebellious against the incurable.\nYet he knew her, and at any rate she must talk about it to somebody. So\nshe mustered up courage to ask him to meet at nine.\n\n'Well?' said Farwell. He did not like Betty much. He included her among\nthe poor creatures, the rubble.\n\n'Oh, Mr Farwell, what's going to happen to Victoria,' cried Betty, with\ntears in her voice. Then she put her hand against the railings of\nFinsbury Circus. She had prepared a dignified little speech, and her\nsuffering had burst from her. The indignity of it.\n\n'Happen? The usual thing in these cases. She'll get worse; the veins\nwill burst and she'll be crippled for life.'\n\nBetty looked at him, her eyes blazing with rage.\n\n'How dare you, how dare you?' she growled.\n\nFarwell laughed.\n\n'My dear young lady,' he said smoothly, 'it needs no doctor to tell you\nwhat is wanted. Victoria must stop work, lie up, be well fed, live in\nthe country perhaps and her spirits must be raised. To this effect I\nwould suggest a pretty house, flowers, books, some music, say a\nhundred-guinea grand piano, some pretty pictures. So that she may\nimprove in health it is desirable that she should have servants. These\nmay gain varicose veins by waiting on her, but that is by the way.'\n\nBetty was weeping now. Tear after tear rolled down her cheeks.\n\n'But all this costs money,' continued Farwell, 'and, as you are aware,\nbread is very dear and flesh and blood very cheap. Humanity finds the\nextraction of gold a toilsome process, whilst the production of children\nis a normal recreation which eclipses even the charms of alcohol. There,\nmy child, you have the problem; and there is only one radical solution\nto it.'\n\nBetty looked at him, intuitively guessing the horrible suggestion.\n\n'The solution,' said Farwell, 'is to complain to the doctor of insomnia,\nget him to prescribe laudanum and sink your capital in the purchase of\nhalf a pint. One's last investment is generally one's best.'\n\n'Oh, I can't bear it, I can't bear it,' wailed Betty. 'She's so\nbeautiful, so clever.'\n\n'Ah, yes,' said Farwell in his dreamy manner, 'but then you see when a\nwoman doesn't marry. . . .' He broke off, his eyes fixed on the grey\npavement. 'The time will come, Betty, when the earth will be not only\nour eternal bed, but the fairy land where joyful flowers will grow. Ah!\nit will be joyful, joyful, this crop of flowers born from seas of\nblood.'\n\n'But, now, now, what can we do with her?' cried Betty.\n\n'I have no other suggestion if she will not fight,' growled Farwell in\nhis old manner. 'She must sink or swim. If she sinks she's to blame, I\nsuppose. In a world of pirates and cut-throats she will have elected to\nbe a saint, and the martyr's crown will be hers. If suicide is not to\nher taste, I would recommend her to resort to what is called criminal\npractices. Being ill, she has magnificent advantages if she wishes to\nstart business as a begging-letter writer; burglary is not suitable for\nwomen, but there are splendid openings for confidence tricksters and\nshoplifting would be a fine profession if it were not overcrowded by the\nupper middle classes.'\n\nBetty dabbed her eyes vigorously. Her mouth tightened. She looked\ndespairingly at the desolate half circle of London Wall Buildings and\nSalisbury House. Then she gave Farwell her hand for a moment and\nhurriedly walked away. As she entered the attic the candle was still\nburning. Victoria was in bed and had forgotten it; she had already\nfallen into stertorous sleep.\n\nNext morning Victoria got up and dressed silently. She did not seem any\nworse; and with this Betty was content, though she only got short\nanswers to her questions. All that day Victoria seemed well enough. She\nwalked springily; at times she exchanged a quick joke with a customer.\nShe laughed even when a young man, carried away for a moment beyond the\nspirit of food which reigned supreme in the P.R.R., touched her hand and\nlooked into her eyes.\n\nAs the afternoon wore Victoria felt creeping over her the desperate\nweariness of the hour.\n\nAt a quarter to six she made up her checks. There was a shortfall of one\nand a penny.\n\n'How do you account for it?' asked the manageress.\n\n'Sure I don't know, Miss,' said Victoria helplessly. 'I always give\nchecks. Somebody must have slipped out without paying.'\n\n'Possibly.' The manageress grew more tense faced than ever. Her bust\nexpanded. 'I don't care. Of course you know the rule. You pay half and\nthe desk pays half.'\n\n'I couldn't help it, Miss,' said Victoria miserably. Sixpence halfpenny\nwas a serious loss.\n\n'No more could I. I think I can tell you how it happened, though,' said\nthe manageress with a vague smile. 'I'm an old hand. A customer of yours\nhad a tuck out for one and a penny. You gave him a check. Look at the\nfoil and you'll see.'\n\n'Yes, Miss, here it is,' said Victoria anxiously.\n\n'Very well. Then he went upstairs on the Q.T. and had a cup of coffee.\nFollow!'\n\n'Yes, Miss.'\n\n'One of the girls gave him a twopenny check. Then he went out and handed\nin the twopenny check. He kept the other one in his pocket.'\n\n'Oh, Miss. . . . it's stealing,' Victoria gasped.\n\n'It is. But there it is, you see.'\n\n'But it's not my fault, Miss; if you had a pay box at the top of the\nstairs, I don't say. . . .'\n\n'Oh, we can't do that,' said the manageress icily, 'they would cost a\nlot to build and extra staff and we must keep down expenses, you know.\nCompetition is very keen in this trade.'\n\nVictoria felt stunned. The incident was as full of revelations as\nLizzie's practices at the desk. The girls cheated the customers, the\ncustomers the girls. And the P.R.R. sitting olympian on its pillar of\ncloud, exacted from all its dividends. The P.R.R. suddenly loomed up\nbefore Victoria's eyes as a big swollen monster in whose veins ran China\ntea. And from its nostrils poured forth torrents of coffee-scented\nsteam. It grew and grew, and fed men and women, every now and then\nextending a talon and seizing a few young girls with sore legs, a rival\ncafe or two. Then it vanished. Victoria was looking at one of the large\nplated urns.\n\n'All right,' she said sullenly, 'I'll pay.'\n\nAs it was her day off, at six o'clock Victoria went up to the change\nroom, saying good-night to Betty, telling her she was going out to get\nsome fresh air. She thought it would do her good, so rode on a bus to\nthe Green Park. Round her, in Piccadilly, a tide of rich life seemed to\nrise redolent with scent, soft tobacco, moist furs, all those odours\nthat herald and follow wealth. A savagery was upon her as she passed\nalong the club windows, now full of young men telling tales that made\ntheir teeth shine in the night, of old men, red, pink, brown, healthy in\ncolour and in security, reading, sleeping, eking out life.\n\nThe picture was familiar; for it was the picture she had so often seen\nwhen, as a girl, she came up to town from Lympton for a week to shop in\nOxford Street and see, from the upper boxes, the three or four plays\nrecommended by _Hearth and Home_. Piccadilly had been her Mecca. It had\nrepresented mysterious delights, restaurants, little teashops,\njewellers, makers of cunning cases for everything. She had never been\nwell-off enough to shop there, but had gazed into its windows and bought\nthe nearest imitations in Oxford Street. Then the clubs had been, if\nnot familiar, at any rate friendly. She had once with her mother called\nat the In and Out to ask for a general. He was dead now, and so was\nPiccadilly.\n\nVictoria remembered without joy: a sign of total flatness, for the mind\nthat does not glow at the thought of the glamorous past is dulled\nindeed. Piccadilly struck her now rather as a show and a poor one, a\nshow of the inefficients basking, of the wretched shuffling by. And the\nsavagery that was upon her waxed fat. Without ideals of ultimate\nbrotherhood or love she could not help thinking, half amused, of the\ndismay that would come over London if a bomb were suddenly to raze to\nthe ground one of these shrines of men.\n\nThe bus stopped in a block just opposite one of the clubs; and Victoria,\nfrom the off-side seat, could see across the road into one of the rooms.\nThere were in it a dozen men of all ages, most of them standing in small\ngroups, some already in evening-dress; some lolled on enormous padded\nchairs reading, and, against the mantlepiece where a fire burned\nbrightly, a youth was telling an obviously successful story to a group\nof oldsters. Their ease, their conviviality and facile friendship stung\nVictoria; she felt an outcast. What had she now to do with these men?\nThey would not know her. Their sphere was their father's sphere, by\nright of birth and wealth, not hers who had not the right of wealth.\nBesides, perhaps some were shareholders in the P.R.R. Painfully\nshambling down the steps, Victoria got off the bus and entered the Green\nPark. She sat down on a seat under a tree just bursting into bud.\n\nFor many minutes she looked at the young grass, at the windows where\nlights were appearing, at a man seated near by and puffing rich blue\nsmoke from his cigar. A loafer lay face down on the grass, like a\nbundle. Her moods altered between rage, as she looked at the two men,\nand misery as she realised that her lot was cast with the wretch\ngrovelling on the cold earth.\n\nShe noticed that the man with the cigar was watching her, but hardly\nlooked at him. He was fat, that was all she knew. Her eyes once more\nfastened on the loafer. He had not fought the world; would she? and how?\nNow and then he turned a little in his sleep, dreaming perhaps of feasts\nin Cockayne, perhaps of the skilly he had tasted in gaol, of love\nperhaps, bright-eyed, master of the gates. It was cold, for the snap of\nwinter was in the spring air; in the pale western sky the roofs loomed\nblack. Already the dull glow of London light rose like a halo over the\ntown. Victoria did not seem to feel the wind; she was a little numb, her\nlegs felt heavy as lead. A gust of wind carried into her face a few\ndrops of rain.\n\nThe man with the cigar got up, slowly passed her; there was something\nfamiliar in his walk. He turned so as to see her face in the light of a\ngas-lamp. Then he took three quick steps towards her. Her heart was\nalready throbbing; she felt and yet did not know.\n\n'Victoria,' said the man in a faint, far away voice.\n\nVictoria gasped, put her hand on her heart, swaying on the seat. The man\nsat down by her side and took her hand.\n\n'Victoria,' he said again. There was in his voice a rich quality.\n\n'Oh, Major Cairns, Major Cairns,' she burst out. And clasping his hand\nbetween hers, she laid her face upon it. He felt all her body throb;\nthere were tears on his hands. A man of the world, he very gently lifted\nup her chin and raised her to a sitting posture.\n\n'There,' he said softly, still retaining her hands, 'don't cry, dear,\nall is well. Don't speak. I have found you.'\n\nWith all the gentleness of a heavy man he softly stroked her hands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nTWO days later Victoria was floating in the curious ether of the\nunusual. It was Sunday night. She was before a little table at one of\nthose concealed restaurants in Soho where blows fragrant the wind of\nFrance. She was sitting in a softly cushioned arm chair, grateful to\narms and back, her feet propped up on a footstool. Before her lay the\nlittle table, with its rough cloth, imperfectly clean and shining dully\nwith brittania ware. There were flowers in a small mug of Bruges\npottery; there was little light save from candles discreetly veiled by\npink shades. The bill of fare, rigid on its metal stem, bore the two\nshilling table d'hote and the more pretentious a la carte. An immense\nfeeling of restfulness, so complete as to be positive was upon her. She\nfelt luxurious and at large, at one with the other couples who sat near\nby, smiling, with possessive hands.\n\nOn the other side of the table sat Major Cairns. He had not altered very\nmuch except that he was stouter. His grey eyes still shone kindly from\nhis rather gross face. Victoria could not make up her mind whether she\nliked him or not. When she met him in the park he had seemed beautiful\nas an archangel; he had been gentle too as big men mostly are to women,\nbut now she could feel him examining her critically, noting her points,\nspeculating on the change in her, wondering whether her ravaged beauty\nwas greater and her neck softer than when he last held her in his arms\noff the coast of Araby.\n\nVictoria had compacted for a quiet place. She could not, she felt, face\nthe Pall Mall or Jermyn Street restaurants, their lights, wealth of\nsilver and glass, their soft carpets, their silent waiters. The Major\nhad agreed, for he knew women well and was not over-anxious to expose to\nthe eyes of the town Victoria's paltry clothes. Now he had her before\nhim he began to regret that he had not risked it. For Victoria had\ngained as much as she had lost in looks. Her figure had shrunk, but her\nneck was still beautifully moulded, broad as a pillar; her colour had\ngone down almost to dead white; the superfluous flesh had wasted away\nand had left bare the splendid line of the strong chin and jaw. Her\neyes, however, were the magnet that held Cairns fast. They were as grey\nas ever, but dilated and thrown into contrast with the pale skin by the\npurple zone which surrounded them. They stared before them with a novel\nboldness, a strange lucidity.\n\n'Victoria,' whispered Cairns leaning forward, 'you are very beautiful.'\n\nVictoria laughed and a faint flush rose into her cheeks. There was still\nsomething grateful in the admiration of this man, gross and limited as\nhe might be, centred round his pleasures, sceptical of good and evil\nalike. Without a word she took up a spoon and began to eat her ice.\nCairns watched every movement of her hand and wrist.\n\n'Don't,' said Victoria after a pause. She dropped her spoon and put her\nhands under the table.\n\n'Don't what?' said Cairns.\n\n'Look at my hands. They're . . . Oh, they're not what they were. It\nmakes me feel ashamed.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Cairns with a laugh. 'Your hands are still as fine as\never and, when we've had them manicured. . . .'\n\nHe stopped abruptly as if he had said too much.\n\n'Manicured?' said Victoria warily, though the 'we' had given her a\nlittle shock. 'Oh, they're not worth manicuring now for the sort of work\nI've got to do.'\n\n'Look here, Victoria,' said Cairns rather roughly. 'This can't go on.\nYou're not made to be one of the drabs. You say your work is telling on\nyou: well, you must give it up.'\n\n'Oh, I can't do that,' said Victoria, 'I've got to earn my living and\nI'm no good for anything else.'\n\nCairns looked at her for a moment and meditatively sipped his port.\n\n'Drink the port,' he commanded, 'it'll do you good.'\n\nVictoria obeyed willingly enough. There was already in her blood the\nglow of Burgundy; but the port, mellow, exquisite, and curling round the\ntongue,  like burnt almonds, fragrant too, concealed a deeper\njoy. The smoke from Cairns' cigar, half hiding his face, floating in\nwreaths between them, entered her nostrils, aromatic, narcotic.\n\n'What are you thinking of doing now?' she asked.\n\n'I don't know quite,' said Cairns. 'You see I broke my good resolution.\nAfter my job at Perim, they offered me some surveying work near Ormuz;\nthey call it surveying, but it's spying really or it would be if there\nwere anything to spy. I took it and rather enjoyed it.'\n\n'Did you have any adventures?' asked Victoria.\n\n'Nothing to speak of except expeditions into the hinterland trying to\nget fresh meat. The East is overrated, I assure you. A butr landed off\nour station once, probably intending to turn us into able-bodied slaves.\nThere were only seven of us to their thirty but we killed ten with two\nvolleys and they made off, parting with their anchor in their hurry.'\n\nCairns looked at Victoria. The flush had not died from her cheeks. She\nwas good to look upon.\n\n'No,' he went on more slowly, 'I don't quite know what I shall do. I\nmeant to retire anyhow, you know, and the sudden death of my uncle, old\nMarmaduke Cairns, settled it. I never expected to get a look in, but\nthere was hardly anybody else to leave anything to, except his sisters\nwhom he hated like poison, so I'm the heir. I don't yet know what I'm\nworth quite, but the old man always seemed to do himself pretty well.'\n\n'I'm glad,' said Victoria. She was not. The monstrous stupidity of a\nsystem which suddenly places a man in a position enabling him to live on\nthe labour of a thousand was obvious to her.\n\n'I'm rather at a loose end,' said Cairns musing, 'you see I've had\nenough knocking about. But it's rather dull here, you know. I'm not a\nmarrying man either.'\n\nVictoria was disturbed. She looked at Cairns and met his eyes. There was\nforming in them a question. As she looked at him the expression faded\nand he signed to the waiter to bring the coffee.\n\nAs they sipped it they spoke little but inspected one another narrowly.\nVictoria told herself that if Cairns offered her marriage she would\naccept him. She was not sure that ideal happiness would be hers if she\ndid; his limitations were more apparent to her than they had been when\nshe first knew him. Yet the alternative was the P.R.R. and all that must\nfollow.\n\nCairns was turning over in his mind the question Victoria had surprised.\nThough he was by no means cautious or shy, being a bold and good liver,\nhe felt that Victoria's present position made it difficult to be\nsentimental. So they talked of indifferent things. But when they left\nthe restaurant and drove towards Finsbury Victoria came closer to him;\nand, unconsciously almost, Cairns took her hand, which she did not\nwithdraw. He leant towards her. His hand grew more insistent on her arm.\nShe was passive, though her heart beat and fear was upon her.\n\n'Victoria,' said Cairns, his voice strained and metallic.\n\nShe turned her face towards him. There was in it complete acquiescence.\nHe passed one arm round her waist and drew her towards him. She could\nfeel his chest crush her as he bent her back. His lips fastened on her\nneck greedily.\n\n'Victoria,' said Cairns again, 'I want you. Come away from all this\nlabour and pain; let me make you happy.'\n\nShe looked at him, a question in her eyes.\n\n'As free man and woman,' he stammered. Then more firmly:\n\n'I'll make you happy. You'll want nothing. Perhaps you'll even learn to\nlike me.'\n\nVictoria said nothing for a minute. The proposal did not offend her; she\nwas too broken, too stupefied for her inherent prejudices to assert\nthemselves. Morals, belief, reputation, what figments all these things.\nWhat was this freedom of hers that she should set so high a price on it?\nAnd here was comfort, wealth, peace--oh, peace. Yet she hesitated to\nplunge into the cold stream; she stood shivering on the edge.\n\n'Let me think,' she said.\n\nCairns pressed her closer to him. A little of the flame that warmed his\nbody passed into hers.\n\n'Don't hurry me. Please. I don't know what to say. . . .'\n\nHe bent over with hungry lips.\n\n'Yes, you may kiss me.'\n\nSubmissive, if frightened and repelled, yet with a heart where hope\nfluttered, she surrendered him her lips.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\n'I DON'T approve and I don't disapprove,' snarled Farwell. 'I'm not my\nsister's keeper. I don't pretend to think it noble of you to live with a\nman you don't care for, but I don't say you're wrong to do it.'\n\n'But really,' said Victoria, 'if you don't think it right to do a thing,\nyou must think it wrong.'\n\n'Not at all. I am neutral, or rather my reason supports what my\nprinciples reject. Thus my principles may seem unreasonable and my\nreasoning devoid of principle, but I cannot help that.'\n\nVictoria thought for a moment. She was about to take a great step and\nshe longed for approval.\n\n'Mr Farwell,' she said deliberately, 'I've come to the conclusion that\nyou are right. We are crabs in a bucket and those at the bottom are no\nnobler than those on the top, for they would gladly be on the top. I'm\ngoing on the top.'\n\n'Sophist,' said Farwell smiling.\n\n'I don't know what that means,' Victoria went on; 'I suppose you think\nthat I'm trying to cheat myself as to what is right. Possibly, but I\ndon't profess to know what is right.'\n\n'Oh, no more do I,' interrupted Farwell, 'please don't set me up as a\njudge. I haven't got any ethical standards for you. I don't believe\nthere are any; the ethics of the Renaissance are not those of the\ntwentieth century, nor are those of London the same as those of\nConstantinople. Time and space work moral revolutions; and, even on\nstereotyped lines, nobody can say present ethics are the best. From a\nconventional point of view the hundred and fifty years that separate us\nfrom Fielding mark an improvement, but I have still to learn that the\nmorals of to-day compare favourably with those of Sparta. You must\ndecide that for yourself.'\n\n'I am doing so,' said Victoria quietly, 'but I don't think you quite\nunderstand a woman's position and I want you to. I find a world where\nthe harder a woman works, the worse she is paid, where her mind is\ndespised and her body courted. Oh, I know, you haven't done that, but\nyou don't employ women. Nobody but you has ever cared a scrap about such\nbrains as I may have; the subs courted me in my husband's regiment. . . .'\nShe stopped abruptly, having spoken too freely.\n\n'Go on,' said Farwell tactfully.\n\n'And in London what have I found? Nothing but men bent on one pursuit.\nThey have followed me in the streets and tubes, tried to sit by me in\nthe parks. They have tried to touch me--yes me! the dependent who could\nnot resent it, when I served them with their food. Their talk is the\ninane, under which they cloak desire. Their words are covert appeals. I\nhear round me the everlasting cry: yield, yield, for that is all we want\nfrom young women.'\n\n'True,' said Farwell, 'I have never denied this.'\n\n'And yet,' answered Victoria angrily, 'you almost blame me. I tell you\nthat I have never seen the world as I do now. Men have no use for us\nsave as mistresses, whether legal or not. Perhaps they will have us as\nbreeders or housekeepers, but the mistress is the root of it all. And if\nthey can gain us without pledges, without risks, by promises, by force\nor by deceit, they will.'\n\nFarwell said nothing. His eyes were full of sorrow.\n\n'My husband drank himself to death,' pursued Victoria in low tones.\n'The proprietor of the Rosebud tried to force me to become his toy . . .\nperhaps he would have thrown me on the streets if he had had time to\npursue me longer and if I refused myself still . . . because he was my\nemployer and all is fair in what they call love . . . The customers\nbought every day for twopence the right to stare through my openwork\nblouse, to touch my hand, to brush my knees with theirs. One, who seemed\nabove them, tried to break my body into obedience by force . . . Here,\nat the P.R.R. I am a toy still, though more of a servant . . . Soon I\nshall be a <DW36> and good neither for servant nor mistress, what will\nyou do with me?'\n\nFarwell made a despairing gesture with his hand.\n\n'I tell you,' said Victoria with ferocious intensity. 'You're right,\nlife's a fight and I'm going to win, for my eyes are clear. I have done\nwith sentiment and sympathy. A man may command respect as a wage earner;\na woman commands nothing but what she can cheat out of men's senses. She\nmust be rich, she must be economically independent. Then men will crawl\nwhere they hectored, worship that which they burned. And if I must be\ndependent to become independent, that is a stage I am ready for.'\n\n'What are you going to do?' asked Farwell.\n\n'I'm going to live with this man,' said Victoria in a frozen voice. 'I\nneither love nor hate him. I am going to exploit him, to extort from him\nas much of the joy of life as I can, but above all I am going to draw\nfrom him, from others too if I can, as much wealth as I can. I will\nstore it, hive it bee-like, and when my treasure is great enough I will\nconsume it. And the world will stand by and shout: hallelujah, a rich\nwoman cometh into her kingdom.'\n\nFarwell remained silent for a minute.\n\n'You are right,' he said, 'if you must choose, then be strong and carve\nyour way into freedom. I have not done this, and the world has sucked me\ndry. You can still be free, so do not shrink from the means. You are a\nwoman, your body is your fortune, your only fortune, so transmute it\ninto gold. You will succeed, you will be rich; and the swine, instead of\ntrampling on you, will herd round the trough where you scatter pearls.'\n\nHe stopped for a moment, slowly puffing at his pipe.\n\n'Women's profession,' he muttered. 'The time will come . . .\nbut to-day. . . .'\n\nVictoria looked at him, a faint figure in the night. He was the spectral\nprophet, a David in fear of Goliath.\n\n'Yes,' she said, 'woman's profession.'\n\nTogether they walked away. Farwell was almost soliloquising. 'If she is\nbrave, life is easier for a woman than a man. She can play on him; but\nher head must be cool, her heart silent. Hear this, Victoria. Remember\nyours is a trade and needs your application. To win this fight you must\nbe well equipped. Let your touch be soft as velvet, your grip as hard as\nsteel. Shrink from nothing, rise to treachery, let the worldly nadir be\nyour zenith.'\n\nHe stopped before a public house and opened the door of the bar a\nlittle.\n\n'Look in here,' he said.\n\nVictoria looked. There were five men, half hidden in smoke; among them\nsat one woman clad in vivid colours, her face painted, her hands dirty\nand covered with rings. Her yellow hair made a vivid patch against the\nbrown wall. A yard away, alone at a small table, sat another woman,\ncovered too with cheap finery, with weary eyes and a smiling mouth, her\nfigure abandoned on a sofa, lost to the scene, her look fixed on the\nside door through which men slink in.\n\n'Remember,' said Farwell, 'give no quarter in the struggle, for you will\nget none.'\n\nVictoria shuddered. But the fury was upon her.\n\n'Don't be afraid,' she hissed, 'I'll spare nobody. They've already given\nme a taste of the whip. I know, I understand; those girls don't. I see\nthe goal before me and therefore I will reach it.'\n\nFarwell looked at her again, his eyes full of melancholy.\n\n'Go then, Victoria,' he said, 'and work out your fate.'\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nVICTORIA turned uneasily on the sofa and stretched her arms. She yawned,\nthen sat up abruptly. Sudermann's _Katzensteg_ fell to the ground off\nher lap. She was in a tiny back room, so overcrowded by the sofa and\neasy-chair that she could almost touch a small rosewood bureau opposite.\nShe looked round the room lazily, then relapsed on the sofa, hugging a\ncushion. She snuggled her face into it, voluptuously breathing in its\ncompactness laden with scent and tobacco smoke. Then, looking up, she\nreflected that she was very comfortable.\n\nVictoria's boudoir was the back extension of the dining-room. Shut off\nby the folding doors, it contained within its tiny space the comfort\nwhich is only found in small rooms. It was papered red with a flowered\npattern, which she thought ugly, but which had just been imported from\nFrance and was quite the thing. The sofa and easy-chair were covered\nwith obtrusively new red and white chintz; a little pile of cushions had\nfallen on the indeterminate Persian pattern of the carpet. Long\ncoffee- curtains, banded with chintz, shut out part of the high\nwindow, through which a little of the garden and the bare branches of a\ntree could be seen. Victoria took all this in for the hundredth time.\nShe had been sleeping for an hour; she felt smooth, stroked; she could\nhave hugged all these pretty things, the little brass fender, the books,\nthe Delft inkpot on the little bureau. Everything in the room was\nalready intimate. Her eyes dwelt on the clean chintzes, on the half\nblinds surmounted by insertion, the brass ashtrays, the massive silver\ncigarette box.\n\nVictoria stood up, the movement changing the direction of her\ncontemplative mood. The Gothic rosewood clock told her it was a little\nafter three. She went to the cigarette box and lit a cigarette. While\nslowly inhaling the smoke, she rang the bell. On her right forefinger\nthere was a faint yellow tinge of nicotine which had reached the nail.\n\n'I shall have to be manicured again,' she soliloquised. 'What a\nnuisance. Better have it done to-day while I get my hair done too.'\n\n'Yes, mum.' A neat dark maid stood at the door. Victoria did not answer\nfor a second. The girl's black dress was perfectly brushed, her cap,\ncollar, cuffs, apron, immaculate white.\n\n'I'm going out now, Mary,' said Victoria. 'You'd better get my brown\nvelvet out.'\n\n'Yes, mum,' said the maid. 'Will you be back for dinner, mum?'\n\n'No, I'm dining with the Major. Oh, don't get the velvet out. It's muddy\nout, isn't it?'\n\n'Yes, mum. It's been raining in the morning, mum.'\n\n'Ah, well, perhaps I'd better wear the grey coat and skirt. And my furs\nand toque.'\n\n'The beaver, mum?'\n\n'No, of course not, the white fox. And, oh, Mary, I've lost my little\nbag somewhere. And tell Charlotte to send me up a cup of tea at\nhalf-past three.'\n\nMary left the room silently. She seldom asked questions, and never\nexpressed pleasure, displeasure or surprise.\n\nVictoria walked up to her bedroom; the staircase was papered with a\npretty blue and white pattern over a dado of white lincrusta. A few\nFrench engravings stood out in their old gold frames. Victoria stopped\nat the first landing to look at her favourite, after Lancret; it\nrepresented lovers surprised in a barn by an irate husband.\n\nThe bedroom occupied the entire first floor. On taking possession of the\nlittle house she had realised that, as she would have no callers, a\ndrawing-room would be absurd, so had suppressed the folding doors and\nmade the two rooms into one large one. In the front, between the two\nwindows, stood her dressing-table, now covered with small bottles, some\nin cut glass and full of scent, others more workmanlike, marked\nvaseline, glycerine, skin food, bay rum. Scattered about them on the\nlace toilet cover, were boxes of powder, white, sepia, bluish, puffs,\nlittle sticks of cosmetics, some silver-backed brushes, some squat and\nshort-bristled, others with long handles, with long soft bristles, one\nstudded with short wires, another with whalebone, some clothes brushes\ntoo, buttonhooks, silver trays, a handglass with a massive silver\nhandle. Right and left, two little electric lamps and above the swinging\nmirror, a shaded bulb shedding a candid glow.\n\nOne wall was blotted out by two inlaid mahogany wardrobes; through the\nopen doors of one could be seen a pile of frilled linen, lace\npetticoats, chemises threaded with  ribbons. On the large\narm-chair, covered with blue and white chintz, was a crumpled heap of\nwhite linen, a pair of _cafe au lait_ silk stockings. A light mahogany\nchair or two stood about the room. Each had a blue and white cushion. A\nlarge wash-stand stood near the mantlepiece, laden with blue and white\nware. The walls were covered with blue silky paper, dotted here and\nthere with some colour prints. These were mostly English; their nude\nbeauties sprawled and languished slyly among bushes, listening to the\npipes of Pan.\n\nVictoria went into the back of the room, and, unhooking her cream silk\ndressing jacket, threw it on the bed. This was a vast low edifice of\nglittering brown wood, covered now by a blue and white silk bedspread\nwith edges smothered in lace; from the head of the bed peeped out the\ntips of two lace pillows. By the side of the bed, on the little night\ntable, stood two or three books, a reading lamp and a small silver\nbasket full of sweets. An ivory bell-pull hung by the side of a swinging\nswitch just between the pillows.\n\nVictoria walked past the bed and looked at herself in the high\nlooking-glass set into the wall which rose from the floor to well above\nher head. The mirror threw back a pleasing reflection. It showed her a\nwoman of twenty-six, neither short nor tall, dressed in a white\npetticoat and mauve silk corsets. The corsets fitted well into the\nfigure which was round and inclined to be full. Her arms and neck,\nframed with white frillings, were uniformly cream , shadowed a\nlittle darker at the elbows, near the rounded shoulders and under the\njaw; all her skin had a glow, half vigorous, half delicate. But the\nwoman's face interested Victoria more. Her hair was piled high and black\nover a broad low white forehead; the cream of the skin turned faintly\ninto colour at the cheeks, into crimson at the lips; her eyes were\nlarge, steel grey, long lashed and thrown into relief by a faintly mauve\naura. There was strength in the jaw, square, hard, fine cut; there was\nstrength too in the steadiness of the eyes, in the slightly compressed\nred lips.\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria to the picture, 'you mean business.' She reflected\nthat she was fatter than she had ever been. Two months of rest had\nworked a revolution in her. The sudden change from toil to idleness had\ncaused a reaction. There was something almost matronly about the soft\ncurves of her breast. But the change was to the good. She was less\ninteresting than the day when the Major sat face to face with her in\nSoho, his pulse beating quicker and quicker as her ravished beauty\nstimulated him by its novelty; but she was a finer animal. Indeed she\nrealised to the full that she had never been so beautiful, that she had\nnever been beautiful before, as men understand beauty.\n\nThe past two months had been busy as well as idle, busy that is as an\nidle woman's time. She had felt weary now and then, like those\nunfortunates who are bound to the wheel of pleasure and are compelled to\n'do too much.' Major Cairns had launched out into his first experiment\nin pseudo-married life with an almost boyish zest. It was he who had\npractically compelled her to take the little house in Elm Tree Place.\n\n'Think of it, Vic,' he had said, 'your own little den. With no prying\nneighbours. And your own little garden. And dogs.'\n\nHe had waxed quite sentimental over it and Victoria, full of the\ngratitude that makes a woman cling to the fireman when he has rescued\nher, had helped him to build a home for the idyll. Within a feverish\nmonth he had produced the house as it stood. He had hardly allowed\nVictoria any choice in the matter, for he would not let her do anything.\nHe practically compelled her to keep to her suite at the hotel, so that\nshe might get well. He struggled alone with the decoration, plumbing,\nfurniture and linoleum, linen and garden. Now and then he would ring up\nto know whether she preferred salmon pink to _fraise ecrasee_ cushions,\nor he would come up to the hotel rent in twain by conflicting rugs. At\nlast he had pronounced the house ready, and, after supplying it with\nMary and Charlotte, had triumphantly installed his new queen in her\npalace.\n\nVictoria's first revelation was one of immense joy; unquestioning, and\nfor one moment quite disinterested. It was not until a few hours had\nelapsed that she regained mastery over herself. She went from room to\nroom punching cushions, pressing her hands over the polished wood, at\ntimes feeling voluptuously on hands and knees the pile of the carpets.\nShe almost loved Cairns at the moment. It was quite honestly that she\ndrew him down by her side on the red and white sofa and softly kissed\nhis cheek and drove his ragged moustache into rebellion. It was quite\nwillingly too that she felt his grasp tighten on her and that she\nyielded to him. Her lips did not abhor his kisses.\n\nSome hours later she became herself again. Cairns was good to her, but\ngood as the grazier is to the heifer from whom he hopes to breed; she\nwas his creature, and must be well housed, well fed, well clothed, so\nthat his eyes might feast on her, scented so that his desire for her\nmight be whipped into action. In her moments of cold horror in the past\nshe had realised herself as a commodity, as a beast of burden; now she\nrealised herself as a beast of pleasure. The only thing to remember then\nwas to coin into gold her condescension.\n\nVictoria looked at herself again in the glass. Yes, it was\ncondescension. As a free woman, that is, a woman of means, she would\nnever have surrendered to Cairns the tips of her fingers. Off the coast\nof Araby she had yielded to him a little, so badly did she need human\nsympathy, a little warmth in the cold of the lonely night. When he\nappeared again as the rescuer she had flung herself into his arms with\nan appalling fetterless joy. She had plunged her life into his as into\nNirvana.\n\nNow her head was cooler. Indeed it had been cool for a month. She saw\nCairns as an average man, neither good nor evil, a son of his father and\nthe seed thereof, bound by a strict code of honour and a lax code of\nmorals. She saw him as a dull man with the superficial polish that even\nthe roughest pebble acquires in the stream of life. He had found her at\nlow water mark, stranded and gasping on the sands; he had picked her up\nand imprisoned her in this vivarium to which he alone had access, where\nhe could enjoy his capture to the full.\n\n'And the capture's business is to get as much out of the captor as\npossible, so as to buy its freedom back.' This was Victoria's new\nphilosophy. She had dexterously induced Cairns to give her a thousand a\nyear. She knew perfectly well that she could live on seven hundred,\nperhaps on six. Besides, she played on his pride. Cairns was after all\nonly a big middle-aged boy; it made him swell to accompany Victoria to\nSloane Street to buy a hat, to the Leicester Gallery to see the latest\none-man show. She was a credit to a fellow. Thus she found no difficulty\nin making him buy her sables, gold purses, Whistler etchings. They would\ncome in handy, she reflected, 'when the big bust-up came.' For Victoria\nwas not rocking herself in the transitory, but from the very first\nmaking ready for the storm which follows on the longest stretch of fair\nweather.\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria again to the mirror, 'you mean business.' The door\nopened and almost noiselessly closed. Mary brought in a tray covered\nwith a clean set of silver-backed brushes, and piled up the other ready\nto take away. She put a water can on the washstand and parsimoniously\nmeasured into it some attar of roses. Victoria stepped out into the\nmiddle of the room and stood there braced and stiff as the maid unlaced\nand then tightened her stays.\n\n'What will you wear this evening, mum?' asked Mary, as Victoria sat down\nin the low dressing chair opposite the swinging glass.\n\n'This evening,' mused Victoria. 'Let me see, there's the _gris perle_.'\n\n'No, mum, I've sent it to the cleaner's,' said Mary. Her fingers were\ndeftly removing the sham curls from Victoria's back hair.\n\n'You've worn it four times, mum,' she added reproachfully.\n\n'Oh, have I? I don't think. . . . oh, that's all right, Mary.'\n\nVictoria reflected that she would never have a well-trained maid if she\nfinished sentences such as this. Four times! Well, she must give the\nMajor his money's worth.\n\n'You might wear your red Directoire, mum,' suggested Mary in the\nunemotional tones of one who is paid not to hear slips.\n\n'I might. Yes. Perhaps it's a little loud for the Carlton.'\n\n'Yes, mum,' said Mary without committing herself.\n\n'After all, I don't think it is so loud.'\n\n'No, mum,' said Mary in even tones. She deftly rolled her mistress'\nplaits round the crown.\n\nVictoria felt vaguely annoyed. The woman's words were anonymous.\n\n'But what _do_ you think, Mary,' she asked.\n\n'Oh, I think you're quite right, mum,' said Mary.\n\nVictoria watched her face in the glass. Not a wave of opinion rippled\nover it.\n\nVictoria got up. She stretched out her arms for Mary to slip the skirt\nover her head. The maid closed the lace blouse, quickly clipped the\nfasteners together, then closed the placket hole completely. Without a\nword she fetched the light grey coat, slipped it on Victoria's\nshoulders. She found the grey skin bag, while Victoria put on her white\nfox toque. She then encased Victoria's head in a grey silk veil and\nsprayed her with scent. Victoria looked at herself in the glass. She was\nvery lovely, she thought.\n\n'Anything else, mum,' said Mary's quiet voice.\n\n'No, Mary, nothing else.'\n\n'Thank you, mum.'\n\nAs Victoria turned, she found the maid had disappeared, but her\nwatchful presence was by the front door to open it for her. Victoria saw\nher from the stairs, a short erect figure, with a pale face framed in\ndark hair. She stood with one hand on the latch, the other holding a cab\nwhistle; her eyes were fixed upon the ground. As Victoria passed out she\nlooked at Mary. The girl's eyes were averted still, her face without a\nquestion. Upon her left hand she wore a thin gold ring with a single red\nstone. The ring fastened on Victoria's imagination as she stepped into a\nhansom which was loafing near the door. It was not the custom, she knew,\nfor a maid to wear a ring; and this alone was enough to amaze her. Was\nit possible that Mary's armour was not perfect in every point of\nservility? No doubt she had just put it on as it was her evening out and\nshe would be leaving the house in another half hour. And then? Would\nanother and a stronger hand take hers, hold it, twine its fingers among\nher fingers. Victoria wondered, for the vision of love and Mary were\nincongruous ideas. It was almost inconceivable that with her cap and\napron she doffed the mantle of her reserve; she surely could not\nvibrate; her heart could not beat in unison with another. Yet, there was\nthe ring, the promise of passion. Victoria nursed for a moment the\nvision of the two spectral figures, walking in a dusky park, arms round\nwaists, then of shapes blended on a seat, faces hidden, lip to lip.\n\nVictoria threw herself back in the cab. What did it all matter after\nall? Mary was the beast of burden which she had captured by piracy. She\nhad been her equal once when abiding by the law; she had shared her toil\nand her slender meed of thanks. Now she was a buccaneer, outside the\nsocial code, and as such earned the right to command. So much did\nVictoria dominate that she thought she would refrain from the exercise\nof a bourgeois prerogative: the girl should wear her ring, even though\ncustom forbade it, load herself with trinkets if she chose, for as a\nworker and a respecter of social laws surely she might well be treated\nas the sacrificial ox.\n\nThe horse trotted down Baker Street, then through Wigmore Street.\nDaylight was already waning; here and there houses were breaking into\nlight between the shops, some of which had remembered it was Christmas\neve and decked themselves out in holly. At the corner near the Bechstein\nHall the cab came to a stop behind the long line of carriages waiting\nfor the end of a concert. Victoria had time to see the old crossing\nsweeper, with a smile on his face and mistletoe in his battered\nbilly-cock. The festivities would no doubt yield him his annual kind\nword from the world. She passed the carriages, all empty still. The\ncushions were rich, she could see. Here and there she could see a fur\ncoat or a book on the seat; in one of them sat an elderly maid, watching\nthe carriage clock under the electric light, meanwhile nursing a\nchocolate pom who growled as Victoria passed.\n\n'Slaves all of them,' thought Victoria. 'A slave the good elderly maid,\nthankful for the crumbs that fall from the pom's table. Slaves too, the\nfat coachman, the slim footman despite their handsome English faces, lit\nup by a gas lamp. The raw material of fashion.'\n\nThe cab turned into the greater blaze of Oxford Circus, past the Princes\nStreet P.R.R. There was a great show of Christmas cakes there. From the\ncab Victoria, craning out, could see a young and pretty girl behind the\ncounter busily packing frosted biscuits. Victoria felt warmed by the\nsight; she was not malicious, but the contrast told her of her\nemancipation from the thrall of eight bob a week. Through Regent Street,\nall congested with traffic, little figures laden with parcels darting\nlike frightened ants under the horse's nose, then into the immensity of\nWhitehall, the cab stopped at the Stores in Victoria Street.\n\nVictoria had but recently joined. A store ticket and a telephone are the\nnext best thing to respectability and the same thing as regards comfort.\nThey go far to establish one's social position. Victoria struggled\nthrough the wedged crowd. Here and there boys and girls with flushed\nfaces, who enjoyed being squashed. She could see crowds of jolly women\npicking from the counters things useful and things pretty; upon signal\ndiscoveries loudly proclaimed followed continual exclamations that they\nwould not do. Family parties, excited and talkative, left her unmoved.\nThat world, that of the rich and the free, would ultimately be hers; her\npast, that of the worn men and women ministering behind the counter to\nthe whims of her future world, was dead.\n\nShe only had to buy a few Christmas presents. There was one for Betty,\none for Cairns, and two for the servants. In the clothing department she\nselected a pretty blue merino dressing-gown and a long purple sweater\nfor Betty. The measurements were much the same as hers, if a little\nslighter; besides such garments need not fit. She went downstairs and\ndisposed of the Major by means of a small gold cigarette case with a\nleather cover. No doubt he had a dozen, but what could she give a man?\n\nThe Stores buzzed round her like a parliament of bees. Now and then\npeople shouldered past her, a woman trod on her foot and neglected to\napologise; parcels too, inconveniently carried, struck her as she\npassed. She felt the joy of the lost; for none looked at her, save now\nand then a man drowned in the sea of women. The atmosphere was stuffy,\nhowever, and time was precious as she had put off buying presents until\nso late. Followed by a porter with her parcels she left the Stores,\nexperiencing the pleasure of credit on an overdrawn deposit order\naccount. The man piled the goods in a cab, and in a few minutes she had\ntransferred Betty's presents to a carrier's office, with instructions\nto send them off at eight o'clock by a messenger who was to wait at the\ndoor until the addressee returned. This was not unnecessary foresight,\nfor Betty would not be back until nine. With the Major's cigarette case\nin her white muff, Victoria then drove to Bond Street, there to snatch a\ncup of tea. On the way she stopped the cab to buy a lace blouse for Mary\nand an umbrella for Charlotte, having forgotten them in her hurry. She\ndecided to have tea at Miss Fortesque's, for Miss Fortesque's is one of\nthose tearooms where ladies serve ladies, and the newest fashions come.\nIt is the right place to be seen in at five o'clock. At the door a small\nboy in an Eton jacket and collar solemnly salutes with a shiny topper.\nInside, the English character of the room is emphasized. There are no\nbamboo tables, no skimpy French chairs or Japanese umbrellas; everything\nis severely plain and impeccably clean. The wood shines, the table linen\nis hard and glossy, the glass is hand cut and heavy, the plate quite\nplain and obviously dear. On the white distempered walls are colour\nprints after Reynolds, Romney, Gainsborough. All conspires with the\nthick carpet to promote silence, even the china and glass, which seem no\nmore to dare to rattle than if they were used in a men's club.\n\nVictoria settled down in a large chintz-covered arm chair and ordered\ntea from a good-looking girl in a dark grey blouse and dress. Visibly a\nhockey skirt had not long ago been more natural to her. As she returned\nVictoria observed the slim straight lines of her undeveloped figure. She\nwas half graceful, half gawky, like most young English girls.\n\n'It's been very cold to-day, hasn't it?' said the girl as she set down\nbread and butter, then cake and jam sandwiches.\n\n'Very,' Victoria looked at her narrowly. 'I suppose it doesn't matter\nmuch in here, though.'\n\n'Oh, no, we don't notice it.' The girl looked weary for a second. Then\nshe smiled at Victoria and walked away to a corner where she stood\nlistlessly.\n\n'Slave, slave.' The words rang through Victoria's head. 'You talk to me\nwhen you're sick of the sight of me. You talk of things you don't care\nabout. You smile if you feel your face shows you are tired, in the hope\nI'll tip you silver instead of copper.'\n\nVictoria looked round the room. It was fairly full, and as Fortesquean\nas it was British. The Fortesque tradition is less fluid than the\nconstitution of the Empire. Its tables shout 'we are old wood'; its cups\nsay 'we are real porcelain'; and its customers look at one another and\nsay 'who the devil are you?' Nobody thinks of having tea there unless\nthey have between one and three thousand a year. It is too quiet for ten\nthousand a year or for three pounds a week; it caters for ladies and\ngentlemen and freezes out everybody else, regardless of turnover. Thus\nits congregation (for its afternoon rite is almost hieratical)\ninvariably includes a retired colonel, a dowager with a daughter about\nto come out, several squiresses who came to Miss Fortesque's as little\ngirls and are handing on the torch to their own. There is a sprinkling\nof women who have been shopping in Bond Street, buying things good but\nnot showy. As the customers, or rather clients, lapse with a sigh into\nthe comfortable armchairs they look round with the covert elegance that\nsays, 'And who the devil are you?'\n\nVictoria was in her element. She had had tea at Miss Fortesque's some\ndozen years before when up for the week from Lympton; thus she felt she\nhad the freedom of the house. She sipped her tea and dropped crumbs with\nunconcern. She looked at the dowager without curiosity. The dowager\nspeculated as to the maker of her coat and skirt. Victoria's eyes fixed\nagain on the girl who was passing her with a laden tray. The effort was\nbringing out the beautiful lines of the slender arms, drooping\nshoulders, round bust. Her fair hair clustered low over the creamy nape.\n\n'Slave, slave,' thought Victoria again. 'What are you doing, you fool?\nRoughening your hands, losing flesh, growing old. And there's nothing\nfor a girl to do but serve on, serve, always serve. Until you get too\nold. And then, scrapped. Or you marry . . . anything that comes along.\nGood luck to you, paragon, on your eight bob a week.'\n\nVictoria went downstairs and got into the cab which had been waiting for\nher with the servants' presents. It was no longer cold, but foggy and\nwarm. She undid her white fox stole, dropping on the seat her crocodile\nskin bag, whence escaped a swollen purse of gold mesh.\n\nUpstairs the girl cleared away. Under the butter-smeared plate which\nslipped through her fingers she found half-a-crown. Her heart bounded\nwith joy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n'TOM, you know how I hate _tournedos_,' said Victoria petulantly.\n\n'Sorry, old girl.' Cairns turned and motioned to the waiter. While he\nwas exchanging murmurs with the man Victoria observed him. Cairns was\nnot bad looking, redder and stouter than ever. He was turning into the\n'jolly old Major' type, short, broad, strangled in cross barred cravats\nand tight frock-coats. In evening dress, his face and hands emerging\nfrom his shirt and collar, he looked like an enormous dish of\nstrawberries and cream.\n\n'I've ordered quails for you? Will that do, Miss Dainty?'\n\n'Yes, that's better.'\n\nShe smiled at him and he smiled back.\n\n'By jove, Vic,' he whispered, 'you look fine. Nothing like pink shades\nfor the complexion.'\n\n'I think you're very rude,' said Victoria smiling.\n\n'Honest,' said Cairns. 'And why not? No harm in looking your best is\nthere? Now my light's yellow. Brings me down from tomato to carrot.'\n\n'Fishing again. No good, Tommy old chap.'\n\n'Never mind me,' said Cairns with a laugh. He paused and looked intently\nat Victoria, then cautiously round him. They were almost in the middle\nof the restaurant, but it was still only half full. Cairns had fixed\ndinner for seven, though they were only due for a music hall; he hated\nto hurry over his coffee. Thus they were in a little island of pink\nlight surrounded by penumbra. Softly attuned, Mimi's song before the\ngates of Paris floated in from the balcony.\n\n'Vic,' said Cairns gravely, 'you're lovely. I've never seen you like\nthis before.'\n\n'Do you like my gown?' she asked coquettishly.\n\n'Your gown!' Cairns said 'Your gown's like a stalk, Vic, and you're a\nbig white flower bursting from it . . . a big white flower, pink\nflecked, scented. . . .'\n\n'Sh . . . Tom, don't talk like that in here.' Victoria slid her foot\nforward, slipped off her shoe and gently put her foot on the Major's\ninstep. His eyes blinked quickly twice. He reached out for his glass and\ngulped down the champagne.\n\nThe waiter returned, velvet footed. Every one of his gestures\nconsecrated the quails resting on the flowered white plates, surrounded\nby a succulent lake of aromatic sauce.\n\nThey ate silently. There was already between them the good understanding\nwhich makes speech unnecessary. Victoria looked about her from time to\ntime. The couples interested her, for they were nearly all couples. Most\nof them comprised a man between thirty and forty, and a woman some years\nhis junior. Their behaviour was severely decorous, in fact a little\nlanguid. From a table near by a woman's voice floated lazily,\n\n'I rather like this pub, Robbie.'\n\nIndeed the acceptance of the pubbishness of the place was characteristic\nof its frequenters. Most of the men looked vaguely weary; some keenly\ninterested bent over the silver laden tables, their eyes fixed on their\nwomen's arms. Here and there a foreigner with coal black hair, a soft\nshirt front and a fancy white waistcoat, spiced with originality the\nsedateness of English gaiety. An American woman was giving herself away\nby a semitone, but her gown was exquisite and its _decolletage_\nchallenged gravitation.\n\nCairns' attitude was exasperatingly that of Gallio, save as concerned\nVictoria. His eyes did not leave her. She knew perfectly well that he\nwas inspecting her, watching the rise and fall on her white breast of\nhis Christmas gift, a diamond cross. They both refused the mousse and\nVictoria mischievously leant forward, her hands crossed under her chin,\nher arms so near Cairns' face that he could see on them the fine black\nshading of the down.\n\n'Well, Tom?' she asked. 'Quite happy?'\n\n'No,' growled Cairns, 'you know what I want.'\n\n'Patience and shuffle the cards,' said Victoria, 'and be thankful I'm\nhere at all. But I musn't rot you Tommy dear, after a present like\nthat.'\n\nShe slipped her fingers under the diamond cross. Cairns watched the\npicture made by the rosy manicured finger nails, the sparkling stones,\nthe white skin.\n\n'A pity it doesn't match my rings,' she remarked.\n\nCairns looked at her hand.\n\n'Oh, no more it does. I thought you had a half hoop. Never mind, dear.\nGive me that sapphire ring.'\n\n'What do you want it for?' asked Victoria with a conscious smile.\n\n'That's my business.'\n\nShe slipped it off. He took it, pressing her fingers.\n\n'I think you ought to have a half hoop,' he said conclusively.\n\nVictoria leant back in her chair. Her smile was triumphant. Truly, men\nare hard masters but docile slaves.\n\n'You'll spoil me, Tom,' she said weakly. 'I don't want you to think that\nI'm fishing for things. I'm quite happy, you know. I'd rather you didn't\ngive me another ring.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Cairns, 'I wouldn't give it you if I didn't like to see\nit on your hand.'\n\n'I don't believe you,' she said smoothly, but the phrase rang true.\n\nSome minutes later, as they passed down the stairs into the palm room,\nshe was conscious of the eyes that followed her. Those of the men were\nmostly a little dilated; the women seemed more cynically interested, as\nsuits those who appraise not bodies but garments. Major Cairns, walking\na step behind her, was still looking well, with his close cut hair and\nmoustache, stiff white linen and erect bearing. Victoria realised\nherself as a queen in a worthy kingdom. But the kingdom was not the one\nshe wished to hold with all the force of her beauty. That beauty was\ntransitory, or at least its subtler quality was. As Victoria lay in the\nbrougham with Cairns's arm holding her close to him, she still\nremembered that the fading of her beauty might synchronise with the\ngrowth of her wealth. A memory from some book on political economy\nflashed through her mind: beauty was a wasting asset.\n\nCairns kissed her on the lips. An atmosphere of champagne, coffee,\ntobacco, enveloped her as her breath mixed with his. She coiled one arm\nround his neck and returned his kisses.\n\n'Vic, Vic,' he murmured, 'can't you love me a little?'\n\nShe put her hand behind his neck and once more kissed his lips. He must\nbe lulled, but not into security.\n\nVictoria had never realised her strength and her freedom so well as that\nnight, as she leant back in her box. Her face and breast, the Major's\nshirt front, were the only spots of light which emerged from the\ndarkness of the box as if pictured by a German impressionist; down\nbelow, under the mist, the damned souls revelled in the cheap seats;\nthey swayed, a black mass speckled with hundreds of white collars,\ndotted with points of fire in the bowls of pipes. By the side of the\nmen, girls in white blouses or crude colours, shrouded in the mist of\ntobacco smoke. Now and then a ring coiled up from a cigar in the stalls,\nswirled in the air for a moment and then broke.\n\nJust behind the footlights blazing over the blackness, a little fat man,\nwith preposterous breeches, a coat of many colours, a yellow wisp of\nhair clashing with his vinous nose, sang of the Bank and his manifold\naccounts. A faint salvo of applause ushered him out, then swelled into a\ntempest as the next number went up.\n\n'Tommy Bung, you're in luck,' said the Major, taking off Victoria's\nwrap.\n\nShe craned forward to see. A woman with masses of fair hair, bowered in\nblue velvet, took a long look at her from the stage box through an opera\nglass.\n\nThe curtain went up. There was a roar of applause. Tommy Bung was ready\nfor the audience and had already fallen into a tub of whitewash. The\nsorry object extricated itself. His red nose shone, star like. He rolled\nferocious eyes at a girl. The crowd rocked with joy. Without a word the\ngreat Tommy Bang began to dance. At once the hall followed the splendid\nmetre. Up and down, up and down, twisting, curvetting, Tommy Bung held\nhis audience spellbound with rhythm. They swayed sharply with the\nalternations.\n\nVictoria watched the Major. His hands were beating time. Tommy Bung\nbrought his effort to a conclusion by beating the floor, the soles of\nhis feet, the scenery, and punctuated the final thwack with a well timed\nleap on the prompter's box.\n\nVictoria was losing touch with things. Waves of heat seemed to overwhelm\nher; little figures of jugglers, gymnasts, performing dogs, passed\nbefore her eyes like arabesques. Then again raucous voices. The crowd\nwas applauding hysterically. It was Number Fourteen, whose great name\nshe was fated never to know. Unsteadily poised on legs wide apart,\nNumber Fourteen sang. Uncontrollable glee radiated from him--\n\n    Now kids is orl right\n    When yer ain't got none;\n    Yer can sit at 'ome\n    An' eat 'cher dam bun.\n    I've just 'ad some twins;\n    Nurse says don't be coy,\n    For they're just the picture\n    Of the lodger's boy.\n      Tinka, Tinka, Tinka; Tinka, Tinka, Tink\n      'It 'im in the eye and made the lodger blink.\n      Tinga, Tinga, Tinga; Tinga, Tinga, Teg\n      Never larfed so much since farver broke 'is leg.\n\nA roar of applause encouraged him. Victoria saw Cairns carried away,\nclapping, laughing. In the bar below she could hear continuously the\nthud of the levers belching beer. Number Fourteen was still singing, his\nsmile wide-slit through his face--\n\n    Now me paw-in-law\n    'E's a rum ole bloke;\n    Got a 'and as light\n    As a ton o' coke.\n    Came 'ome late one night\n    An' what oh did 'e see?\n    Saw me ma-in-law\n    On the lodger's knee.\n      Tinka, Tinka, Tinka; Tinka, Tinka, Tink\n      'It 'im in the eye an' made the lodger blink.\n      Tinga, Tinga, Tinga; Tinga, Tinga, Teg,\n      Never larfed so much since farver broke 'is leg.\n\nEnthusiasm was rising high. Number Fourteen braced himself for his great\neffort on the effects of beer. Then, gracious and master of the crowd,\nhe beat time with his hands while the chorus sounded from a thousand\nthroats. Victoria happened to look at Cairns. His head was beating time\nand, from his lips issued gleefully:\n\n    Tinka, Tinka, Tinka; Tinka, Tinka, Tink\n    'It 'im in the eye--\n\nVictoria scrutinised him narrowly. Cairns was a phenomenon.\n\n'Never larfed so much since farver broke 'is leg,' roared Cairns. 'I\nsay, Vic, he really _is_ good.' He noticed her puzzled expression. 'I\nsay, Vic, what's up? Don't you like him?'\n\nVictoria did not answer for a second.\n\n'Oh, yes, I--he's very funny--you see I've never been in a music hall\nbefore.'\n\n'Oh, is that it?' Cairns's brow cleared. 'It's a little coarse, but so\nnatural.'\n\n'Is that the same thing?' asked Victoria.\n\n'S'pose it is. With some of us anyhow. But what's the next?'\n\nCairns had already relapsed into the programme. He hated the abstract; a\npublic school, Sandhurst and the army had armoured him magnificently\nagainst intrusive thought. They watched the next turn silently. A couple\nof cross-talk comedians, one a shocking creature in pegtop trousers, a\nshock yellow head and a battered opera hat, the other young, handsome\nand smart as a superior barber's assistant, gibbered incomprehensibly of\nsongs they couldn't sing and lies they could tell.\n\nThe splendid irresponsibility of the music hall was wasted on Victoria.\nShe had the mind of a schoolmistress grafted on a social sense. She saw\nnothing before her but the gross riot of the drunken. She saw no humour\nin that cockney cruelty, capable though it be of absurd generosity. She\nresented too Cairns's boyish pleasure in it all; he revelled, she felt,\nas a buffalo wallows in a mud bath. He was gross, stupid, dull. It was\ndegrading to be his instrument of pleasure. But, after all, what did it\nmatter? He was the narrow way which would lead her to the august.\n\nThough Cairns was not thin-skinned he perceived a little of this.\nWithout a word he watched the cross-talk comedians, then the 'Dandy Girl\nof Cornucopia,' a rainbow of stiff frills with a voice like a fretsaw.\nAs the lights went down for the bioscope, the idea of reconciliation\nthat springs from fat cheery hearts overwhelmed him. He put his hand out\nand closed it over hers. With a tremendous effort she repressed her\nrepulsion, and in so doing won her victory. In the darkness Cairns threw\nhis arms round her. He drew her towards him, moved, the least bit\nhysterical. As if fearful of losing her he crushed her against his shirt\nfront.\n\nVictoria did not resist him. Her eyes fixed on the blackness of the roof\nshe submitted to the growing brutality of his kisses on her neck, her\nshoulders, her cheeks. Pressed close against him she did not withdraw\nher knees from the grasp of his.\n\n'Kiss me,' whispered Cairns imperiously.\n\nShe cast down her eyes; she could hardly see his face in the darkness,\nnothing but the glitter of his eyeballs. Then, unhurried and purposeful,\nshe pressed her lips to his. The lights went up again. Many of the crowd\nwere stirring; Victoria stretched out her arms in a gesture of\nweariness.\n\n'Let's go home, Vic,' said Cairns, 'you're tired.'\n\n'Oh, no, I'm not tired,' she said. 'I don't mind staying.'\n\n'Well, you're bored.'\n\n'No, not at all, it's quite interesting,' said Victoria judicially.\n\n'Come along, Vic,' said Cairns sharply. He got up.\n\nShe looked up at him. His face was redder, more swollen than it had been\nhalf-an-hour before. His eyes followed every movement of her arms and\nshoulders. With a faint smile of understanding and the patience of those\nwho play lone hands, she got up and let him put on her wrap. As she put\nit on she made him feel against his fingers the sweep of her arm; she\nrested for a moment her shoulder against his.\n\nIn the cab they did not exchange a word. Victoria's eyes were fixed on\nthe leaden sky; she was this man's prey. But, after all, one man's prey\nor another? The prey of those who demand bitter toil from the charwoman,\nthe female miner, the P.R.R. girl; or of those who want kisses, soft\nflesh, pungent scents, what did it all amount to? And, in Oxford Street,\na sky sign in the shape of a horse-shoe advertising whisky suddenly\nreminded her of the half hoop, a step towards that capital which meant\nfreedom. No, she was not the prey--at least not in the sense of the bait\nwhich finally captures the salmon.\n\nCairns had not spoken a word. Victoria looked at him furtively. His\nhands were clenched before him; in his eyes shone an indomitable\npurpose. He was going to the feast and he would foot the bill. On\narriving at Elm Tree Place he walked at once into his dressing room,\nwhile Victoria went into her bedroom. She knew his mood well and knew\ntoo that he would not be long. She did not fancy overmuch the scene she\ncould conjure up. In another minute or two he would come in with the\nculture of a thousand years ground down, smothered beneath the lava-like\nflow of animalism. He would come with his hands shaking, ready to be\ncruel in the exaction of his rights. She hovered between repulsion and\nan anxiety which was almost anticipation; Cairns was the known and the\nunknown at once. But whatever his demands they should be met and\nsatisfied, for business is business and its justification is profits. So\nVictoria braced herself and, with feverish activity, twisted up her\nhair, sprayed herself with scent, jumped into bed and turned out the\nlight.\n\nAs she did so the door opened. She was conscious for a fraction of a\nsecond of the bright quadrilateral of the open door where Cairns stood\nframed, a broad black silhouette.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n'YES, I'm a lucky beggar,' soliloquised Cairns. He gave a tug to the\nleads at which two Pekingese spaniels were straining. 'Come along, you\nlittle brutes,' he growled. The spaniels, intent upon a piece of soiled\nbrown paper in the gutter, refused to move.\n\n'Obstinate, sir,' said a policeman respectfully.\n\n'Devilish. Simply devilish. Fine day, isn't it?'\n\n'Blowing up for rain, sir.'\n\n'Maybe. Come along, Snoo; that'll do.'\n\nCairns dragged the dogs up the road. Snoo and Poo, husband and wife, had\nsuddenly fascinated him in Villiers Street that morning. He was on his\nway to offer them at Victoria's shrine. Instinctively he liked the smart\ndog, as he liked the smart woman and the American novel. Snoo and Poo,\ntiny, fat, curly, khaki-, with their flat Kalmuck faces,\nunwillingly trundled behind him. They would, thought Cairns, be in\nkeeping with the establishment. A pleasant establishment. A nice little\nhouse, in its quiet street where nothing ever seemed to pass, except\nevery hour or so a cab. It was better than a home, for it offered all\nthat a home offers, soft carpets, discreet servants, nice little lunches\namong flowers and well-cleaned plate, and beyond, something that no home\ncontains. It was adventurous. Cairns had knocked about the world a good\ndeal and had collected sensations as finer natures collect thoughts. The\nwomen of the past met and caressed on steam-boats, in hotels at Cairo,\nSingapore and Cape Town, the tea gardens of Kobe and the stranger\nmysteries of Zanzibar, all this had left him weary and sighing for\nsomething like the English home. Indeed he grew more sentimental as he\nthought of Dover cliffs every time his tailor called the measurement of\nhis girth. An extra quarter of an inch invariably coincided with a\nsentimental pang. Cairns, however, would not yet have been capable of\nsettling down in a hunting county with a well-connected wife, a costly\nfarming experiment and the shilling weeklies. A transition was required;\nhe had no gift of introspection, but his relations with Victoria were\nexpressions of this mood. Thus he was happy.\n\nHe never entered the little house in Elm Tree Place without a thrill of\npleasure. Under the placid mask of its respectability and all that went\nwith it, clean white steps, half curtains, bulbs in the window boxes,\nthere flowed for him a swift hot stream. And in that stream flourished a\nbeautiful white lily whose petals opened and smiled at will.\n\n'I wonder whether I'm in love with her?' This was a frequent subject for\nCairns's meditations. Victoria was so much more for him than any other\nwoman had been that he always hesitated to answer. She charmed him\nsensually, but other women had done likewise; she was beautiful, but he\ncould conceive of greater beauty. Her intellect he did not consider, for\nhe was almost unaware of it. For him she was clever, in the sense that\nwomen are clever in men's eyes when they can give a smart answer,\nunderstand Bradshaw and order a possible combination at a restaurant.\nWhat impressed him was Victoria's coolness, the balance of her unhurried\nmind. Now and then he caught her reading curious books, such as\n_Smiles's Self-Help_, _Letters of a Self-Made Merchant to his Son_ and\n_Thus Spake Zara . . . Something_, by a man with a funny name; but this\nwas all part of her character and of its novelty. He did not worry to\nscratch the surface of this brain; virgin soils did not interest him in\nthe mental sense. Sometimes, when he enounced a political opinion or\ngeneralised on the problems of the day as stated in the morning paper,\nhe would find, a little uneasily, her eyes fixed on him with a strangely\ninterested look. But her eyelids would at once be lowered and her lips\nwould part, showing a little redder and moister, causing his heart to\nbeat quicker, and he would forget his perplexity as he took her hand and\nstroked her arm with gentle insistence.\n\nCairns dragged Snoo and Poo up the steps of the little house still\ngrumbling, panting and protesting that, as drawing-room dogs, they\nobjected to exercise in any form. He had a latchkey, but always\nrefrained from using it. He liked to ring the bell, to feel like a\nguest. It would have been commonplace to enter _his_ hall and hang up\n_his_ hat on _his_ peg. That would have been home and home only. To ask\nwhether Mrs Ferris was in was more adventurous, for she might be out.\nAnd if she expected him, then it was an assignation; adventure again.\n\nThe unimposing Mary let him in. For a fraction of a second she looked at\nthe Major, then at the floor.\n\n'Mrs Ferris in?'\n\n'Yes, sir, Mrs Ferris is in the boudoir.' Mary's voice fell on the last\nnecessary word like a dropgate. She had been asked a question and\nanswered it. That was the end of it. Cairns was the master of her\nmistress. What respect she owed was paid.\n\nCairns deposited his hat and coat in Mary's hands. Then, lifting Snoo\nunder one arm and Poo under the other, both grumbling vigorously and\nkicking with their hind legs, he walked to the boudoir and pushed it\nopen with his shoulder. Victoria was sitting at the little bureau\nwriting a letter. Cairns watched her for two seconds, rejoicing in the\nfirm white moulding of her neck, in the dark tendrils of hair clustering\nlow, dwindling into the central line of down which tells of breeding and\nhealth. Then Victoria turned round sharply.\n\n'Oh,' she said, with a little gasp. 'Oh, Tom, the ducks!'\n\nCairns laughed and, walking up to her, dropped Snoo on her lap and Poo,\nsnuffling ferociously, on the floor. Victoria buried her hands in Snoo's\nthick coat; the dog gurgled joyfully and rolled over on its side.\nVictoria laughed, muzzling Snoo with her hand.\n\nCairns watched the picture for, a moment. He was absurdly reminded of a\ngirl in Java who nursed a black marmoset against her yellow breast. And\nas Victoria looked up at him, her chin now resting on Snoo's brown head,\na soft wave of scent rose towards him. He knelt down, throwing his arms\nround her and the dog, gathering them both into his embrace. As his lips\nmet hers and clung to them, her perfume and the ranker scent of the dog\nfilled his nostrils, burning aphrodisiac into his brain.\n\nVictoria freed herself gently and rose to her feet, still nursing Snoo,\nand laughingly pushed him into Cairns's face.\n\n'Kiss him,' she said, 'no favours here.'\n\nCairns obeyed, then picked up Poo and sat down on the couch.\n\n'This is sweet of you, Tom,' said Victoria. 'They _are_ lovebirds.'\n\n'I'm glad you like them; this is Poo I'm holding, yours is Snoo.'\n\n'Odd names,' said Victoria.\n\n'Chinese according to the dealer,' said Cairns, 'but I don't pretend to\nknow what they mean.'\n\n'Never mind,' said Victoria, 'they're lovebirds, and so are you, Tom.'\n\nCairns looked at her silently, at her full erect figure and smiling\neyes. He was a lucky beggar, a damned lucky beggar.\n\n'And what is this bribe for?' she asked.\n\n'Oh, nothing. Knew you'd like them, beastly tempers and as game as mice.\nWomen's dogs, you know.'\n\n'Generalising again, Tom. Besides I hate mice.'\n\nCairns drew her down by his side on the couch. Everything in this woman\ninterested and stimulated him. She was always fresh, always young. The\ntouch of her hand, the smell of her hair, the feel of her skirts winding\nround his ankles, all that was magic; every little act of hers was a\ntaking of possession. Every time he mirrored his face in her eyes and\nsaw the eyelids slowly veil and unveil them, something like love crept\ninto his soul. But every passionate embrace left him weak and almost\nrepelled. She was his property; he had paid for her; and, insistent\nthought, what would she have done if he had not been rich?\n\nHalf an hour passed away. Victoria lay passive in his arms. Snoo and\nPoo, piled in a heap, were snuffling drowsily. There was a ring at the\nfront door, then a slam. They could hear voices. They started up.\n\n'Who the deuce . . . .?' said Cairns.\n\nThen they heard someone in the dining-room beyond the door. There was a\nknock at the door of the boudoir.\n\n'Come in,' said Victoria.\n\nMary entered. Her placid eyes passed over the Major's tie which had\nburst out of his waistcoat, Victoria's tumbled hair.\n\n'Mr Wren, mum,' she said.\n\nVictoria staggered. Her hands knotted themselves together convulsively.\n\n'Good God,' she whispered.\n\n'Who is it? What does he want? What name did you say?' asked Cairns.\nVictoria's excitement was infecting him.\n\nVictoria did not answer. Mary stood before them, her eyes downcast\nbefore the drama. She was waiting for orders.\n\n'Can't you speak?' growled Cairns. 'Who is it?'\n\nVictoria found her voice at last.\n\n'My brother,' she said hoarsely.\n\nCairns did not say a word. He walked once up and once down the room,\nstopped before the mirror to settle his tie. Then turned to Mary.\n\n'Tell the gentleman Mrs Ferris can't see him!'\n\nMary turned to go. There was a sound of footsteps in the dining-room.\nThe button of the door turned twice as if somebody was trying to open\nit. The door was locked but Cairns almost leaped towards it. Victoria\nstopped him.\n\n'No,' she said, 'let me have it out. Tell Mr Wren I'm coming, Mary.'\n\nMary turned away. The incident was fading from her mind as a stone fades\naway as it falls into an abyss. Victoria clung to Cairns and whispered\nin his ear.\n\n'Tom, go away, go away. Come back in an hour. I beg you.'\n\n'No, old girl, I'm going to see you through,' said Cairns doggedly.\n\n'No, no, don't.' There was fear in her voice. 'I must have it out. Go\naway, for my sake, Tom.'\n\nShe pushed him gently into the hall, forced him to pick up his hat and\nstick and closed the door behind him. She braced herself for the effort;\nfor a second the staircase shivered before her eyes like a road in the\nheat.\n\n'Now for it,' she said, 'I'm in for a row.'\n\nA pleasant little tingle was in her veins. She opened the dining-room\ndoor. It was not very light. There was a slight singing in her ears.\nShe saw nothing before her except a man's legs clad in worn grey\ntrousers where the knees jutted forward sharply. With an effort she\nraised her eyes and looked Edward in the face.\n\nHe was pale and thin as ever. A ragged wisp of yellow hair hung over the\nleft side of his forehead. He peered at her through his silver-mounted\nglasses. His hands were twisting at his watch chain, quickly, nervously,\nlike a mouse in a wheel. As she looked at his weak mouth his\ninsignificance was revealed to her. Was this, this creature with the\nvague idealistic face, the high shoulders, something to be afraid of?\nPooh!\n\n'Well, Edward?' she said, involuntarily aggressive.\n\nWren did not answer. His hands suddenly stopped revolving.\n\n'Well, Edward?' she repeated. 'So you've found me?'\n\n'Yes,' he said at length. 'I . . . . Yes, I've found you.' The movement\nof his hands began again.\n\n'Well?'\n\n'I know. I've found out. . . . I went to Finsbury.'\n\n'Oh? I suppose you mean you tracked me from my old rooms. I suppose\nBetty told you I . . . my new occupation.'\n\nWren jumped.\n\n'Damn,' he growled. 'Damn you.'\n\nVictoria smiled. Edward swearing. It was too funny. What an awful thing\nit was to have a sense of humour.\n\n'You seem to know all about it,' she said smoothly. 'But what do you\nwant?'\n\n'How dare you,' growled Edward. 'A woman like you. . . . .'\n\nA hard look came into Victoria's eyes.\n\n'That will do Edward, I know my own business.'\n\n'Yes, a dirty business.' A hot flush spread over the man's thin cheeks.\n\n'You little cur.' Victoria smiled; she could feel her lips baring her\neye teeth. 'Fool.'\n\nEdward stared at her. Passion was stifling his words.\n\n'It's a lot you know about life, schoolmaster,' she sneered. 'Who are\nyou to preach at me? Is it your business if I choose to sell my body\ninstead of selling my labour?'\n\n'You're disgraced.' His voice went down to a hoarse whisper.\n'Disgraced.'\n\nVictoria felt a wave of heat pass over her body.\n\n'Disgraced, you fool? Will anybody ever teach you what disgrace is?\nThere's no such thing as disgrace for a woman. All women are disgraced\nwhen they're born. We're parasites, toys. That's all we are. You've got\ntwo kinds of uses for us, lords and masters! One kind is honourable\nlabour, as you say, namely the work undertaken by what you call the\nlower classes; the other's a share in the nuptial couch, whether illegal\nor legal. Yes, your holy matrimony is only another name for my\nprofession.'\n\n'You've no right to say that,' cried Edward. 'You're trying to drag down\nmarriage to your level. When a woman marries she gives herself because\nshe loves; then her sacrifice is sublime.' He stopped for a second.\nIdealism, sentimentalism, other names for ignorance of life, clashed in\nhis self-conscious brain without producing light. 'Oh, Victoria,' he\nsaid, 'you don't know how awful it is for me to find you like this, my\nlittle sister . . . of course you can't love him . . . if you'd married\nhim it would have been different.'\n\n'Ah, Edward, so that's your philosophy. You say that though I don't love\nhim, if I'd married him it would have been different. So you won't let\nme surrender to a man unless I can trick him or goad him into binding\nhimself to me for life. If I don't love him I may marry him and make\nhis life a hell and I shall be a good woman; but I mustn't live with him\nillegally so that he may stick to me only so long as he cares for me.'\n\n'I didn't say that,' stammered Edward. 'Of course, it's wrong to marry a\nman you don't care for . . . but marriage is different, it sanctifies.'\n\n'Sanctifies! Nothing sanctifies anything. Our deeds are holy or unholy\nin themselves. Oh, understand me well, I claim no ethical revelation; I\ndon't care whether my deeds are holy or not. I judge nothing, not even\nmyself. All I say is that your holy bond is a farce; if women were\nfree--that is, trained, able and allowed to earn fair wages for fair\nlabour--then marriage might be holy. But marriage for a woman is a\nmonetary contract. It means that she is kept, clothed, amused; she is\npetted like a favourite dog, indulged like a spoiled child. In exchange\nshe gives her body.'\n\n'No, no.'\n\n'Yes, yes. And the difference between a married woman and me is her\nsuperior craft, her ability to secure a grip upon a man. You respect her\nbecause she is permanent, as you respect a vested interest.'\n\nThe flush rose again in Edward's cheeks. As he lost ground he fortified\nhis obstinacy.\n\n'You've sold yourself,' he said quickly, 'gone down into the gutter\n. . . . Oh!'\n\n'The gutter.' Victoria was so full of contempt that it almost hurt her.\n'Of course I'm in the gutter. I always was in the gutter. I was in the\ngutter when I married and my husband boarded and lodged me to be his\nfavourite. I was in the gutter when I had to kow-tow to underbred\npeople; to be a companion is to prostitute friendship. You don't mind\nthat, do you? I was in the gutter in the tea shops, when I decoyed men\ninto coming to the place because they could touch me, breathe me. I'm in\nthe gutter now, but I'm in the right one. I've found the one that's\ngoing to make me free.'\n\nEdward was shaken by her passion.\n\n'You'll never be free,' he faltered, 'you're an outcast.'\n\n'An outcast from what?' sneered Victoria. 'From society? What has\nsociety done for me? It's kicked me, it's bled me. It's made me work ten\nhours a day for eight bob a week. It'd have sucked me dry and offered me\nthe workhouse, or the Thames at the end. It made me almost a <DW36>.'\n\nEdward stared.\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria savagely. 'That makes you squirm, sentimentalist.\nLook at that!'\n\nShe put her foot on a chair, tucked up her skirt, tore down the\nstocking. Purplish still, the veins stood out on the firm white flesh.\n\nEdward clenched both his hands and looked away. A look of pain was in\nhis eyes.\n\n'Yes, look at that,' raged Victoria. 'That's what your society's done\nfor me. It's chucked me into the water to teach me to swim, and it's\ngloated over every choke. It's fine talking about chivalry, isn't it,\nwhen you see what honest labour's done for me, isn't it? It's fine\ntalking about purity when you see the price your society pays me for\nbeing what I am, isn't it? Look at me. Look at my lace, look at my\ndiamonds, look at my house . . . and think of the other side: eight bob\na week, ten hours work a day, a room with no fire, and a bed with no\nsheets. But I know your society now, and as I can't kill it I'll cheat\nit. I've served it and it's got two years of my life; but I'm going to\nget enough out of it to make it crawl.'\n\nShe strode towards Edward.\n\n'So don't you come preaching to me,' she hissed.\n\nEdward's head bent down. Slowly he walked towards the door.\n\n'Yes,' she said, 'go. I've no use for you. I'm out for stronger meat.'\n\nHe opened the door, then, without looking up,\n\n'Good-bye,' he said.\n\nThe door closed behind him. Victoria looked about her for some seconds,\nthen sat down in the carving chair, her arms outstretched on the table.\nHer teeth were clenched now, her jaw set; with indomitable purpose she\nlooked out into the darkening room where she saw the battle and victory\nof life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nVICTORIA had never loved adventure for its own sake. The change from\ndrudgery to leisure was grateful as was all it brought in the shape of\npretty clothes, jewels and savoury dishes; but she realised every day\nbetter that, taking it as a profession, her career was no great success.\nIt afforded her a fair livelihood, but the wasting asset of her beauty\ncould not be replaced; thus it behoved her to amortize its value at a\nrapid rate. She felt much better in health; her varicose veins had gone\ndown a good deal, but she still preserved a dark mystery about them;\nafter six months of intimate association, Cairns did not yet know why he\nhad never seen Victoria without her stockings. Being man of the world\nenough to know that discretion is happiness, he had never pressed the\npoint; a younger or more sensitive man would have torn away the veil, so\nas to achieve total intimacy at the risk of wrecking it. He was not of\nthese, and vaguely Victoria did not thank him for a sentiment half\ndiscreet, half indifferent; such an attitude for a lover suggested\ndisregard for essentials. As she grew stronger and healthier her brain\nworked more clearly, and she began to realise that even ten years of\nassociation with this man would yield no more than a pittance. And it\nwould be difficult to hold him for ten years.\n\nVictoria certainly went ably to work to preserve for Cairns the feeling\nof novelty and adventure. It was practically in deference to her\nsuggestions that he retained his chambers; he soon realised her wisdom\nand entered into the spirit of their life. He still understood very well\nthe pleasure of being her guest. Victoria found no decline in his\ndesire; perhaps it was less fiery, but it was as coarse and as constant.\nCertainly she was woman for him rather than merely a woman; moreover she\nwas a habit. Victoria saw this clearly enough and resolved to make the\nmost of it.\n\nIn accordance with her principles she kept her expenses down. She would\nnot even allow herself the luxury of a maid; she found it cheaper to pay\nMary higher wages. When Cairns was not expected her lunch was of the\nsimplest, and Charlotte discovered with amazement that her rakish\nmistress could check a grocer's book. Victoria was not even above\ncheating the Water Board by omitting to register her garden tap. All\nthese, however, were petty economies; they would result in a saving of\nperhaps three hundred a year, a beggarly sum when pitted against the\nuncertainties of her profession.\n\nShe realised all this within three or four months of her new departure,\nand promptly decided that Cairns must be made to yield a higher revenue.\nShe felt that she could not very well tell him that a thousand a year\nwas not enough; on the face of it it was ample. It was necessary\ntherefore to launch out a little. The first step was to increase her\nvisible supply of clothes, and this was easily done by buying the cheap\nand effective instead of the expensive and good. Cairns knew enough\nabout women's clothes to detect this now and then, but the changes\nbewildered him a little and he had some difficulty in seeing the\ndifference between the latest thing and the cheapest. Whenever she was\nwith him she affected the manners of a spendthrift; she would call cabs\nto carry her a hundred yards, give a beggar a shilling, or throw a pair\nof gloves out of the window because they had been worn once.\n\nCairns smiled tolerantly. She might as well have her fling, he thought,\nand a lack of discipline was as charming in a mistress as it was\ndeplorable in a wife. He was therefore not surprised when, one morning,\nhe found Victoria apparently nervous and worried. She owned that she was\nshort of cash. In fact the manager of her bank had written to point out\nthat her account was overdrawn.\n\n'Dear me,' said Cairns with mock gravity, 'you've been going it, old\ngirl! What's all this? \"Self,\" \"Self,\" why all these cheques are to\n\"Self.\" You'll go broke.'\n\n'I suppose I shall,' said Victoria wearily. 'I don't know how I do it,\nTom. I'm no good at accounts. And I hate asking you for more money . . .\nbut what am I to do?'\n\nShe crossed her hands over her knees and looked up at him with a pretty\nexpression of appeal. Cairns laughed.\n\n'Don't worry,' he said, curling a lock of her hair round a fat\nforefinger. 'I'll see you through.'\n\nVictoria received that afternoon a cheque for two hundred and fifty\npounds which she paid into her account. She did not, however, inform\nCairns that the proceeds of the \"Self\" cheques had been paid into a\nseparate account which she had opened with another bank. By this means,\nshe was always able to exhibit a gloomy pass book whenever it was\nrequired.\n\nHaving discovered that Cairns was squeezable Victoria felt more hopeful\nas to the future. She was his only luxury and made the most of his\nliking for jewellery and furs. She even hit upon the more ingenious\nexperiment of interesting Barbezan Soeurs in her little speculations.\nThe device was not novel: for a consideration of ten per cent these\nbustling dressmakers were ready to provide fictitious bills and even\nsolicitor's letters couched in frigidly menacing terms. Cairns laughed\nand paid solidly. He had apparently far more money than he needed.\nVictoria was almost an economy; without her he would have lost a fortune\nat bridge, kept a yacht perhaps and certainly a motor. As it was he was\nquite content with his poky chambers in St James', a couple of clubs\nwhich he never thought of entering, the house in Elm Tree Place and a\nstock of good cigars.\n\nCairns was happy, and Victoria labouring lightly for large profits, was\ncontented too. Theirs were lazy lives, for Cairns was a man who could\nloaf. He loafed so successfully that he did not even think of\ninterfering with Victoria's reading. She now read steadily and\nvoraciously; she eschewed novels, fearing the influence of sentiment.\n'It will be time for sentiment by and by,' she sometimes told herself.\nMeanwhile she armoured her heart and sharpened her wits. The earlier\npolitical opinions which had formed in her mind under the pressure of\ntoil remained unchanged but did not develop. She recognised herself as a\nparasite and almost gloried in it. She evolved as a system of philosophy\nthat one's conduct in life is a matter of alternatives. Nothing was good\nand nothing was evil; things were better than others or worse and there\nwas an end of her morality. Victoria had no patience with theories. One\nday, much to Cairns surprise, she violently flung Ingersoll's essays\ninto the fender.\n\n'Steady on,' said Cairns, 'steady on, old girl.'\n\n'Such rot,' she snarled.\n\n'Hear, hear,' said Cairns, picking up the book and looking at its title.\n'Serve you right for reading that sort of stuff. I can't make you out,\nVic.'\n\nVictoria looked at him with a faint smile, but refused to assign a cause\nfor her anger. In fact she had suddenly been irritated by Ingersoll's\ndefinition of morality. 'Perceived obligation,' she thought. 'And I\ndon't perceive any obligation!' She consoled herself suddenly with the\nthought that her amorality was a characteristic of the superman.\n\nThe superman preoccupied her now and then. He was a good subject for\nspeculation because imponderable and inexistent. The nearest approach\nshe could think of was a cross between an efficient colonial governor\nand a latter-day prophet. She believed quite sincerely that the day must\ncome when children of the light must be born, capable of ruling and of\nkeeping the law. She saw very well too that their production did not lie\nwith an effete aristocracy any more than with a dirty and drunken\ndemocracy; probably they would be neo-plutocrats, men full of ambition,\nlusting for power and yet imbued with a spirit of icy justice. Her\nearliest tendency had been towards an idealistic socialism. Burning with\nher own wrongs and touched by the angelic wing of sympathy, she had seen\nin the communisation of wealth the only means of curbing the evils it\nhad hitherto wrought. Further observation showed her however that an\nidealism of this kind would not lead the world speedily into a peaceful\nhaven. She saw too well that covetousness was still lurking snakelike in\nthe bosom of man, ready to rear its ugly head and strike at any hand.\nThus she was not surprised to see the chaos which reigned among\nsocialists, their intriguing, their jealousies, their unending\ndissensions, their apostacies. This did not throw her back into the\nstereotyped philosophy of individualism; for she could not help seeing\nthat the system of modern life was absurd, stupidly wasteful above all\nof time, labour and wealth. To apply Nietzscheism to socialism was,\nhowever, beyond her; to reconcile the two doctrines which apparently\nconflict and really only overlap was a task too difficult for a brain\nwhich had lain fallow for twenty-five years. But she dimly felt that\nNietzscheism did not mean a glorified imperialism, but a worship of\nintellectual efficiency and the stringent morality of _noblesse oblige_.\n\nWhere Victoria began to part issue with her own thoughts was when she\nconsidered the position of women. Their outlook was one of unrelieved\ngloom; and it one day came upon her as a revelation that Nietzsche and\nSchopenhauer, following in a degree on Rousseau, had forgotten women in\nthe scheme of life. There might be supermen but there would be no\nsuperwomen: if the supermen were true to their type they would have to\ncrush and to dominate the women. As the latter fared so hard at the\nhands of the pigmies of to-day, what would they do if they could not\ndevelop in time to resist the sons of Anak? Victoria saw that the world\nwas entering upon a sex war. Hitherto a shameful state of peace had left\nwomen in the hands of men, turning over the other cheek to the smiter.\nThe sex war, however, held forth no hopes to her; in the dim future, sex\nequality might perhaps prevail; but she saw nothing to indicate that\nwomen had sown the seeds of their victory. She had no wish to enrol\nherself in the ranks of those who were waging an almost hopeless battle,\narmed with untrained intellects and unathletic bodies. She could not get\naway from the fact that the best woman athletes cannot compete with\nordinary men, that even women with high intellectual qualifications had\nnot ousted from commanding positions men of inferior ability.\n\nAll this, she thought, was unjust; but why hope for a change? There was\nnothing to show that men grew much better as a sex; then why pin faith\nto the coming of better times? Women were parasites, working only under\nconstraint, badly and at uncongenial tasks; their right to live was\nbased on their capacity to please. This brought her to her own\nsituation. The future lay before her in the shape of two roads. One was\nthe road which led to the struggle for life; ending, she felt it too\nwell, in a crawl to death on crippled limbs. The other was the road\nalong which grew roses, roses which she could pluck and sell to men; at\nthe end of that was the heaven of independence. It had golden gates; it\nwas guarded by an angel in white garments with a palm leaf in his hands\nand beyond lay the pleasant places where she had a right of way. And as\nshe looked again the heaven with the golden gates turned into a bank\nwith a commissionaire at the door.\n\nHer choice being made, she did not regret it. For the time being her\nlife was pleasant enough, and if it could be made a little more\nprofitable it would soon be well worth living, and her freedom would be\nearned. Meanwhile she took pleasure in small things. The little house\nwas almost a show place, so delicate and refined were its inner and\nouter details. Victoria saw to it that frequently changed flowers\ndecorated the beds in the front garden; Japanese trees, dwarfed and\ngnarled, stood right and left of the steps, scowling like tiny Titans;\nall the blinds in the house were a mass of insertion. These blinds were\na feature for her; they implied secrecy. Behind the half blinds were\nthick curtains of decorated muslin; behind these again, heavy curtains\nwhich could be drawn at will. They were the impenetrable veil which\nclosed off from the world and its brutalities this oasis of forbidden\njoys.\n\nIn the house also she was ever elaborating, sybaritising her life. She\nhad a branch telephone fixed at the head of her bed; the first time that\nCairns used it to tell his man to bring up his morning coat she had the\npeculiar sensation that her bed was in touch with the world. She could\ncall up anybody, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Governor of the Bank\nof England or the headquarters of the Salvation Army. Her bed was the\ncentre of the world. She fitted the doors of her bedroom and her boudoir\nwith curious little locks which acted on the pressure of a finger for\nher mind was turned on delicacies and the sharp click of a bolt, the\ngrating of a key savoured of the definite, therefore of the coarse. A\ntwist of the knob between two fingers and the world was silently shut\nout.\n\nNow too that she was beautiful once more she revelled in mirrors. The\nexisting ones in her bedroom and in the boudoir were not enough; they\nwere public, unintimate. She had a high mirror fixed in the bathroom, so\nthat she could see herself in her freshness, covered with pearly beads\nlike a naiad. She rejoiced in her beauty, in her renewed strength; she\noften stood for many minutes in the dim steamy light of the room,\nanalysing her body, its grace and youth, with a growing consciousness of\nlatent power. Then, suddenly, the faint violet streaks of the varicose\nveins would intrude upon the rite and she would wrap herself up\njealously in her bath robe so that not even the mirror should be a\nconfidant of the past.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nWEEK after week passed on, and now monotony drew her stifling cloak over\nVictoria. Cairns was still in a state of beatitude which made him an\nunexciting companion; satisfied in his egoism, it never came into his\nmind that Victoria could tire of her life. He spent many afternoons in\nthe back garden under a rose-covered pergola. By his side was a little\ntable with a syphon, a decanter of whisky, and a box of cigars; he read\ndesultorily, sometimes the latest motor novel, at other times the\nimproving memoirs of eighteenth century noblewomen. Now and then he\nwould look approvingly at Victoria in plain white drill, delightfully\nmischievous under a sun-bonnet, and relapse into his book. Once he\nquoted 'A flask of wine, a book of verse. . . .' and Victoria went into\nsudden fits of laughter when she remembered Neville Brown. The single\nhackneyed line seemed to link malekind together.\n\nCairns was already talking of going away. June was oppressively hot and\nhe was hankering after some quiet place where he might do some\nsea-fishing and get some golf. He was becoming dangerously fat; and\nVictoria, foreseeing a long and very cheap holiday, favoured the idea in\nevery way. They could go up to Scotland later too; but Cairns rather\nhesitated about this, for he neither cared to show off Victoria before\nthe people he knew on the moors, nor to leave her for a fortnight. He\nwas paying the penalty of Capua. His plans were set back, however, by\nserious trouble which had taken place on his Irish estate, his though\nstill in the hands of Marmaduke Cairns's executors. There had been\nnightriding, cattle driving, some boycotting. The situation grew so\ntense that the executors advised Cairns to sell the estate to the\ntenants but the latter declined the terms; matters came to a deadlock\nand it was quite on the cards that an application might be made under\nthe Irish Land Act. It was clear that in this case the terms would be\nbad, and Cairns was called to Limerick by telegram as a last chance. He\nleft Victoria, grumbling and cursing Ireland and all things Irish.\n\nLeft to herself, Victoria felt rather at a loose end. The cheerful if\nuninteresting personality of Major Cairns had a way of filling the\nhouse. He had an expansive mind; it was almost chubby. For two days she\nrather enjoyed her freedom. The summer was gorgeous; St John's Wood was\nbursting everywhere into flower; the trees were growing opaque in the\nparks. At every street corner little whirlwinds of dry grit swayed in\nthe hot air. One afternoon Victoria indulged in the luxury of a hired\nprivate carriage, and flaunted it with the best in the long line on the\nsouth side of the Park. Wedged for a quarter of an hour in the mass she\nfelt a glow come over her. The horses all round her shone like polished\nwood, the carriage panels were lustrous, the harness was glittering, the\nbrass burnished; all the world seemed to radiate warmth and light. Gaily\nenough, because not jaded by repetition, she caused the carriage to do\nthe Ring, twice. She felt for a moment that she was free, that she could\nvie with those women whose lazy detachment she stirred for a moment into\ncuriosity by her deep eyes, dark piled hair and the audacity of her\ndiaphanous _crepe de chine_.\n\nCairns was still in Ireland, struggling conscientiously to pile up\nunearned increment; and Victoria, thoroughly aimless, suddenly bethought\nherself of Farwell. She had been remiss in what was almost a duty.\nSurely she ought to report progress to the man who had helped to open\nher eyes to the realities of life. She had misapplied his teaching\nperhaps, or rather remoulded it, but still it was his teaching. Or\nrather it was what a woman should know, as opposed to what Thomas\nFarwell preached; if men were to practise that, then she should revise\nher philosophy.\n\nAt ten minutes to one she entered the Moorgate Street P.R.R. with a\nlittle thrill. Everything breathed familiarity; it was like coming home,\nbut better, for it is sweeter to revisit the place where one has\nsuffered, when one has emerged, than to brood with gentle sorrow on the\nspot, where there once was joy. She knew every landmark, the\ntobacconist, the picture shop, still full of 'Mother's Helps' and of\n'artistic' studies in the nude; there was the red-coated bootblack too,\nas dirty and as keenly solicitous as ever. The P.R.R. itself did not\nchill her. In the crude June sunlight its nickel shone gaily enough.\nEverything was as before; the cakes had been moulded in the old moulds,\nand here was the old bill of fare, unchanged no doubt; even the\nmarble-topped tables and the half cleaned cruets looked kindly upon her;\nbut the tesselated red and blue floor aroused the hateful memory of\nanother Victoria on her hands and knees, an old sack round her waist,\npainfully swaying from right to left, swabbing the tiles. Little\nrivulets of water and dirt flowed slowly across the spectre's hand.\n\nAs she went down the steps into the smoking-room she crossed with the\nmanageress, still buxom and erect; but she passed unnoticed, for this\nwas the busy hour when the chief tried to be simultaneously on three\nfloors. The room was not so full as it had once been. She sat down at a\nlittle table and watched the familiar scene for some minutes. She told\nthe girl she would wait a minute, for she did not want to miss Farwell.\nThe world had gone round, but apparently the P.R.R. was the axis. There\nin the corner were the chess players; to-day they only ran four boards,\nbut at one of them a fierce discussion was going on as to a variation of\nthe queen's pawn opening. On the other side of the room were the young\ndomino players, laughing and smoking cigarettes. The fat and yellow\nLevantine was missing. Victoria regretted him, for the apocalyptic\nfigure was an essential part of the ugly past. But there was 'old dry\ntoast' all alone at his little table. He had not changed; his white hair\nstill framed thickly his beautiful old brown face. There he sat, still\nsilent and desolate, waiting for the end. Victoria felt a pang of\nsorrow. She was not quite hardened yet and she realised it angrily.\nThere must be no sympathy and no quarter in her game of life. It was too\nlate or too soon for that. Victoria let her eyes stray round the room.\nThere were the young men and boys or some of the same breed, in their\ndark suits, brilliant ties, talking noisily, chaffing one another,\ngulping down their small teas and toasted scones. A conversation between\ntwo older men was wafted in to her ears.\n\n'Awful. Have you tried annelicide?'\n\nAt that moment a short broad figure walked smartly down the steps. It\nwas Thomas Farwell, a thin red book under his arm. He went straight\nthrough to the old table, propped his book against the cruet and began\nto read. Victoria surveyed him critically. He was thinner than ever; his\nhair was more plentifully sprinkled with grey but had receded no\nfurther. He was quite near her, so she could see his unbrushed collar\nand his frayed cuffs. After a moment the girl came and stood before him;\nit was Nelly, big and raw-boned as ever, handsome still like the fine\nbeast of burden she was. She wore no apron now in proud token of her\nnew position as head waitress. Now the voices by her side were talking\nholidays.\n\n'No, Ramsgit's good enough for me. Broadstairs and all these little\nplaces, they're so tony--'\n\nMaud passed quickly before Victoria. The poor little girl was as white\nas ever; her flaccid cheeks danced up and down as she ran. The other\nvoice was relating at length how its owner had taken his good lady to\nDeal. Nelly had left Farwell, walking more slowly than the other girls,\nas befitted her station. Victoria felt herself pluck up a little\ncourage, crossed the room followed by many admiring glances, and quickly\nsat down at Farwell's table. He looked up quickly. The book dropped\nsuddenly from the cruet.\n\n'Victoria,' he gasped.\n\n'Yes,' she said smiling.\n\n'Well . . .' His eyes ran over her close fitting tussore dress, her\nwhite kid gloves.\n\n'Is that all you've got to say to me?' she asked. 'Won't you shake\nhands?'\n\nFarwell put out his hand and held hers for a second. He was smiling now,\nwith just a touch of wistfulness in his eyes.\n\n'I'm very glad to see you,' he said at length.\n\n'So am I,' said Victoria. 'I hope you don't mind my coming here, but I\nonly thought of it this morning.'\n\n'Mind,' snapped Farwell. 'People who understand everything never mind\nanything.'\n\nVictoria smiled again. The bumptious aphorism was a sign that Farwell\nwas still himself. For a minute or so they looked at one another.\nVictoria wondered at this man; so powerful intellectually and\nphysically; and yet content to live in his ideals on a pittance, to do\ndull work, to be a subordinate. Truly a caged lion. Farwell, on the\nother hand, was looking in vain for some physical ravishes to justify\nVictoria's profession, for some gross development at least. He looked in\nvain. Instead of the pale dark girl with large grey eyes whom he had\nknown, he now saw a healthy and beautiful woman with a clear white skin,\nthick hair, red lips.\n\n'Well,' he said with a laugh, 'can I invite you to lunch with me?'\n\n'You may,' she said. 'I'll have a small coffee and . . . a sunny side\nup.'\n\nFarwell laughed and signed to Nelly. After a minute he attracted her\nattention and gave the order without Nelly taking any interest in\nFarwell's guest. It might be rather extraordinary, but her supervisory\nduties were all-absorbent. When she returned, however, she stole a\ncurious look at Victoria while placing before her the poached egg on\ntoast. She looked at her again, and her eyes dilated.\n\n'Law,' she said. 'Vic!'\n\n'Yes, Nelly, how are you?' Victoria put out her gloved hand. Nelly took\nit wonderingly.\n\n'I'm all right,' she answered slowly. 'Just been made head waitress,'\nshe added with some unction. Her eyes were roving over Victoria's\nclothes, valuing them like an expert.\n\n'Congratulations,' said Victoria. 'Glad you're getting on.'\n\n'I see _you're_ getting on,' said Nelly, with a touch of sarcasm.\n\n'So, so, things aren't too bad.' Victoria looked up. The women's eyes\ncrossed like rapiers; Nelly's were full of suspicion. The conversation\nstopped then, for Nelly was already in request in half a dozen quarters.\n\n'She knows,' said Victoria smoothly.\n\n'Of course,' said Farwell. 'Trust a woman to know the worst about\nanother and to show it up. Every little helps in a contest such as\nlife.'\n\nFarwell then questioned her as to her situation, but she refused him all\ndetails.\n\n'No,' she said, 'not here. There's Nelly watching us, and Maud has just\nbeen told. Betty's been shifted, I know, and I suppose Mary and Jennie\nare gone, but there's the manageress and some of the girls upstairs.\nI've nearly done. Let me return the invitation. Dine with me\nto-night. . .' She was going to say 'at home,' but changed her mind to\nthe prudent course. . . . 'at, well, anywhere you like. Whereabouts do\nyou live, Mr Farwell?'\n\n'I live in the Waterloo Road,' said Farwell, 'an artery named after the\nplaying fields of Eton.'\n\n'I don't know it well,' said Victoria, 'but I seem to remember an\nItalian place near Waterloo Station. Suppose you meet me at the south\nend of Waterloo Bridge at seven?'\n\n'It will do admirably,' said the man. 'I suppose you want to go now?\nWell, you've put out my habits, but I'll come too.'\n\nThey went out; the last Victoria saw of the P.R.R. was the face of the\ncook through the hole in the partition, red, sweating, wrinkled by the\nheat and hurry of the day. They parted in the churchyard. Victoria\nwatched him walk away with his firm swing, his head erect.\n\n'A man,' she thought, 'too clever to succeed.'\n\nBeing now again at a loose end and still feeling fairly hungry, she\ndrove down to Frascati's to lunch. She was a healthy young animal, and\nscanty fare was now a novelty. At three o'clock she decided to look up\nBetty at her depot in Holborn; and by great good luck found that Betty\nwas free at half past five, as the Holborn depot for unknown reasons\nkept shorter hours than Moorgate Street. She whiled away the intervening\ntime easily enough by shop-gazing and writing a long letter to Cairns on\nthe hospitable paper of the Grand Hotel. At half-past five she picked\nup Betty at the door of the P. R. R.\n\n'Thank you again so very, very much for the sweater and the dressing\ngown,' said Betty as she slipped her arm through that of her friend.\n\n'Don't be silly, Betty, I like giving you things.' Victoria smiled and\npressed the girl's arm. 'You're not looking well, Betty.'\n\n'Oh, I'm all right,' said Betty wearily.\n\nVictoria looked at her again. Under the pretty waved sandy hair Betty's\nforehead looked waxen; her cheeks were too red. Her arm felt thinner\nthan ever. What was one to do? Betty was a weakling and must go to the\nwall. But there was a sweetness in her which no one could resist.\n\n'Look here, Betty,' said Victoria, 'I've got very little time; I've got\nto meet Mr Farwell at Waterloo Bridge at seven. It's beautifully fine,\nlet's drive down to Embankment Gardens and talk.'\n\nBetty's face clouded for a moment at the mention of Farwell's name. She\nhated him with the ferocity of the weak; he had ruined her friend. But\nit was good to have her back. The cab drove down Chancery Lane at a\nspanking rate, then across the Strand and through a lane. The\nunaccustomed pleasure and the rush of air brought all her face into pink\nunison with her cheeks.\n\nThe two women sat side by side for a moment. This was the second time\nthey had met since Victoria had entered her new life. There had been a\nfew letters, the last to thank Victoria for her Christmas present, but\nBetty did not say much in them. Her tradition of virtue had erected a\nbarrier between them.\n\n'Well, Betty,' said Victoria suddenly, 'do you still think me very bad?'\n\n'Oh, Vic, how can you? I never, never said that.'\n\n'No, you thought it,' answered Victoria a little cruelly. 'But never\nmind, perhaps you're right.'\n\n'I never said so, never thought so,' persisted Betty. 'You can't go\nwrong, Vic, you're . . . you're different.'\n\n'Perhaps I am,' said Victoria. 'Perhaps there are different laws for\ndifferent people. At any rate I've made my choice and must abide by it.'\n\n'And are you happy, Vic?' Anxiety was in the girl's face.\n\n'Happy? Oh, happy enough. He's a good sort.'\n\n'I'm so glad. And . . . Vic . . . do you think he'll marry you?'\n\n'Marry me?' said Victoria laughing. 'You little goose, of course not.\nWhy should he marry me now he's got me?'\n\nThis was a new idea for Betty.\n\n'But doesn't he love you very, very much?' she asked, her blue eyes\ngrowing rounder and rounder.\n\n'I suppose he does in a way,' said Victoria. 'But it doesn't matter.\nHe's very kind to me but he won't marry me; and, honestly, I wouldn't\nmarry him.'\n\nBetty looked at her amazed and a little shocked.\n\n'But, dear,' she faltered, 'think of what it would mean; you . . . he\nand you, you see . . . you're living like that . . . if he married\nyou. . . .'\n\n'Yes, I see,' said Victoria with a slight sneer, 'you mean that I should\nbe an honest woman and all that? My dear child, you don't understand.\nWhether he marries me or not it's all the same. So long as a woman is\neconomically dependent on a man she's a slave, a plaything. Legally or\nillegally joined it's exactly the same thing; the legal bond has its\nadvantages and its disadvantages and there's an end of the matter.'\n\nBetty looked away over the Thames; she did not understand. The\ntradition was too strong. Time went quickly. Betty had no tale to\nunfold; the months had passed leaving her doing the same work for the\nsame wage, living in the same room. Before her was the horizon on which\nwere outlined two ships; 'ten hours a day' and 'eight bob a week.' And\nthe skyline?\n\nAs they parted, Victoria made Betty promise to come and see her. Then\nthey kissed twice, gently and silently, and Victoria watched her\nfriend's slim figure fade out of sight as she walked away. She had the\nsame impression as when she parted with Lottie, who had gone so bravely\ninto the dark. A wave of melancholy was upon her. Poor girls, they were\nwithout hope; she at least was viewing life with her eyes open. She\nwould wrench something out of it yet. She shook herself; it was a\nquarter to seven.\n\nAn hour later she was sitting opposite Farwell. They were getting to the\nend of dinner. Conversation had flagged while they disposed of the\nearlier courses. Now they were at the ice and coffee stage. The waiters\ngrew less attentive; indeed there was nobody to observe them save the\nolive-skinned boy with the mournful eyes who looked at the harbour of\nPalermo through the Waterloo Road door. Farwell lit the cigar which\nVictoria forced upon him, and leant back, puffing contentedly.\n\n'Well,' he said at length, 'how do you like the life?'\n\n'It is better than the old one,' she said.\n\n'Oh, so you've come to that. You have given up the absolutes.'\n\n'Yes, I've given them up. A woman like me has to.'\n\n'Yes, I suppose you've got to,' pondered Farwell. 'But apart from that,\nis it a success? Are you attaining your end? That's the only thing that\nmatters, you know.'\n\n'I am, in a sense; I'm saving money. You see, he's generous.'\n\n'Excellent, excellent,' sneered Farwell. 'I like to see you making out\nof what the bourgeois call vice that which will enable you to command\nbourgeois respect. By-and-by I suppose you'll have made a fortune.'\n\n'Well, no; a competency perhaps, with luck.'\n\n'With luck, as you say. Do you know, Victoria, this luck business is\ngrand! My firm goes in for mines: they went prospecting in America\ntwenty years ago and they happened to strike copper. That was good.\nOther men struck granite only. That was bad. But my boss is a City\nSheriff now. Frightfully rich. There used to be four of them, but one\ndied of copper poisoning, and another was found shot in a gulch. Nobody\nknows how it happened, but the other two got the mines.'\n\nVictoria smiled. She liked this piratical tit bit.\n\n'Yes,' she said, 'luck's the thing. And merit . . . well I suppose the\nsurviving partners had merit.'\n\n'Anyhow, I wish you luck,' said Farwell. 'But tell me more. Do you find\nyou've paid too high a price for what you've got?'\n\n'Too high a price?'\n\n'Yes. Do you have any of that remorse we read about; would you like to\nbe what you were? Unattached, you know . . . eligible for Young Women's\nChristian Associations?'\n\n'Oh, no,' Victoria laughed. 'I can't pay too high a price for what I\nthink I'll get. I don't mean these jewels or these clothes, that's only\nmy professional uniform. When I've served my time I shall get that for\nwhich no woman can pay too much: I shall be economically independent,\nfree.'\n\n'Free.' Farwell looked towards the ceiling through a cloudlet of smoke.\n'Yes, you're right. With the world as it is it's the only way. To be\nindependent you must acquire the right to be dependent on the world's\nlabour, to be a drone . . . and the biggest drone is queen of the hive.\nYet I wish it had been otherwise with you.' He looked at her\nregretfully.\n\nVictoria toyed with a dessert knife.\n\n'Why?' she asked.\n\n'Oh, you had possibilities . . . but after all, we all have. And most of\nthem turn out to be impossibilities. At any rate, you're not disgusted\nwith your life, with any detail?'\n\n'No, I don't think so. I don't say I'll go on any longer than I need,\nbut it's bearable. But even if it were repulsive in every way I'd go on\nif I saw freedom ahead. If I fight at all I fight to a finish.'\n\n'You're strong,' said Farwell looking at her. 'I wish I had your\nstrength. You've got that force which makes explorers, founders of new\nfaiths, prophets, company promoters.' He sighed.\n\n'Let's go,' he added, 'we can talk in the warm night.'\n\nFor an hour they talked, agreeing always in the end. Farwell was cruelly\nconscious of two wasted lives: his, because his principles and his\ncapacity for thought had no counterweight in a capacity for action;\nVictoria's, because of her splendid gifts ignobly wasted and misused by\na world which had asked her for the least of them.\n\nVictoria felt a peculiar pleasure in this man's society. He was elderly,\nugly, ill-clad; sometimes he was boorish, but a halo of thought\nsurrounded him, and the least of his words seemed precious. All this\ndevirilised him, deprived him of physical attractiveness. She could not\nimagine herself receiving and returning his caresses. They parted on\nWaterloo Bridge.\n\n'Good-bye,' said Farwell, 'you're on the right track. The time hasn't\ncome for us to keep the law, for we don't know what the law is. All we\nhave is the edict of the powerful, the prejudice of the fool; the last\nespecially, for these goaled souls have their traditions, and their\nconvictions are prisons all.'\n\nVictoria pressed his hand and turned away. She did not look back. If she\nhad she would have seen Farwell looking into the Thames, his face lit up\nby a gas lamp, curiously speculative in expression. His emotions were\nnot warring, but the chaos in his brain was such that he was fighting\nthe logical case for and against an attempt to find enlightenment on the\nother <DW72> of the valley.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nVICTORIA stretched herself lazily in bed. Her eyes took in a picture of\nCairns on the mantelpiece framed between a bottle of eau-de-cologne and\nthe carriage clock; then, little by little, she analysed details, small\nobjects, powderpuffs, a Chelsea candlestick, an open letter, the wall\npaper. She closed her eyes again and buried her face in the pillow. The\nlace edge tickled her ear pleasantly. She snuggled like a stroked cat.\nThen she awoke again, for Mary had just placed her early cup of tea on\nthe night table. The tray seemed to come down with a crash, a spoon fell\non the carpet. Victoria felt daylight rolling back sleep from her brain\nwhile Mary pulled up the blinds. As light flooded the room and her\nsenses became keener she heard the blinds clash.\n\n'You're very noisy, Mary,' she said, lifting herself on one elbow.\n\nThe girl came back to the bed her hands folded together.\n\n'I'm sorry, mum . . . I . . . I've . . .'\n\n'Yes? what's the matter?'\n\nMary did not answer, but Victoria could see she was disturbed. Her cap\nwas disarranged; it inclined perhaps five degrees from the vertical.\nThere was a faint flush on her cheeks.\n\n'What's the matter,' said Victoria sharply. 'Is there anything wrong?'\n\n'No, mum. . . . Yes mum. . . . They say in the paper . . . . There's\nbeen trouble in Ireland, mum. . . .'\n\n'In Ireland?' Victoria sat bolt upright. Her heart gave a great bang and\nthen began to go with a whirr.\n\n'At Rossbantry, mum . . . last night . . . he's shot. . . .'\n\n'Shot? Who? can't you speak?'\n\n'The Major, mum.'\n\nMary unfolded her hands suddenly and drew them up and down her apron as\nif trying to dry them. Victoria sat as if frozen, looking at her\nwide-eyed. Then she relapsed on the pillow. Everything swam for a\nsecond, then she felt Mary raising her head.\n\n'Go away,' whispered Victoria. 'Leave me for a minute. I'm all right.'\n\nMary hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, softly closing the door.\nVictoria lay staring at the ceiling. Cairns was dead, shot. Awful. A\nweek ago his heavy frame was outlined under these very blankets. She\nshuddered. But why, how? It wasn't true, it couldn't be true. She sat up\nas if impelled by a spring, and rang the bell violently. The broken rope\nfell on her face in a coil. With both hands she seized her chin as if to\nstop a scream.\n\n'The paper! get me the paper!' she gasped as Mary came in. The girl\nhesitated. Victoria's face frightened her. Victoria looked at her\nstraight, and she ran out of the room. In another minute she had laid\nthe open paper before her mistress.\n\nVictoria clutched at it with both hands. It was true. True. It was true.\nThe headlines were all she could see. She tried to read the text, but\nthe letters danced. She returned to the headlines.\n\n    SHOCKING OUTRAGE IN IRELAND\n\n    *       *       *       *\n\n           LANDLORD SHOT\n\nIn the next column:--\n\n    M. C. C.'s HARD TASK\n\nHer heart's action was less violent now. She understood; every second\nincreased her lucidity. Shot. Cairns was shot. Oh, she knew, he had\ncarried strife with him and some tenant had had his revenge. She took up\nthe paper and could read it now. Cairns had refused to make terms, and\non the morning of his death had served notices of eviction on eighteen\ncottagers. The same night he was sitting at a window of his bailiff's\nhouse. Then two shots from the other side of the road, another from\nlower down. Cairns was wounded twice, in the lung and throat, and died\nwithin twenty minutes. A man was under arrest.\n\nVictoria put down the paper. Her mind was quite clear again. Poor old\nTom! She felt sorry but above all disturbed; every nerve in her body\nseemed raw. Poor old Tom, a good fellow! He had been kind to her; and\nnow, there he was. Dead when he was thinking of coming back to her. He\nwould never see her again, the little house and things he loved. Yes, he\nhad been kind; he had saved her from that awful life . . . . Victoria's\nthoughts turned into another channel. What was going to become of her.\n\n'Old girl,' she said aloud, 'you're in the cart.'\n\nShe realised that she was again adrift, alone, face to face with the\nterrible world. Cairns was gone; there was nobody to protect her against\nthe buffeting waves. A milkman's cart rattled by; she could hear the\ndistant rumble of the Underground, a snatch carried by the wind from a\nGerman band. Well, the time had come; it had to come. She could not have\nheld Cairns for ever; and now she had to prove her mettle, to show\nwhether she had learned enough of the world, whether she had grit. The\nthought struck cold at her, but an intimate counsellor in her brain was\nalready awake and crying out:\n\n'Yes, yes, go on! you can do it yet.'\n\nVictoria threw down the paper and jumped out of bed. She dressed\nfeverishly in the clothes and linen she had thrown in a heap on a chair\nthe night before, twisting her hair up into a rough coil. Just before\nleaving the room she remembered she had not even washed her hands. She\ndid so hurriedly; then, seeing the cold cup of tea, drank it off at a\ngulp; her throat felt parched.\n\nShe pushed back the untasted dish on the breakfast table. Her head\nbetween her hands, she tried to think. At intervals she poured out cups\nof tea and drank them off quickly.\n\nSnoo and Poo, after vainly trying to induce her to play with them, lay\nin a heap in an armchair snuffling as they slept.\n\nThe better she realised her position the greater grew her fears. Once\nmore she was the cork tossed in the storm; and yet, rudderless, she must\nnavigate into the harbour of liberty. If Cairns had lived and she had\nseen her power over him wane, she would have taken steps; she did not\nknow what steps, but felt she surely would have done something. But\nCairns was dead; in twenty minutes she had passed from comparative\nsecurity into the region where thorns are many and roses few.\n\nPoor old Tom! She felt a tiny pang; surely this concern with herself\nwhen his body still lay unburied was selfish, ugly. But, pooh! why make\nany bones about it? As Cairns had said himself, he liked to see her\nbeautiful, happy, well clad. His gifts to her were gifts to himself: she\nwas merely his vicar.\n\nVictoria drank some more cold tea. Good or bad, Cairns belonged to the\npast and the past has no virtues. None, at any rate, for those whose\npresent is a wind-swept table-land. Men must come and go, drink to the\nfull of the cup and pay richly for every sip, so that she might be free,\nhold it no longer to their lips. There was no time to waste, for already\nshe was some hours older; some of those hours which might have been\ntransmuted into gold, that saving gold. She must take steps.\n\nThe 'steps to be taken,' a comforting sentence, were not easy to evolve.\nBut another comforting catch ward, 'reviewing the situation,' saved her\nfrom perplexity. She went into the little boudoir and took out her two\npass books. The balance seemed agreeably fat, but she did not allow\nherself to be deluded; she checked off the debit side with the foils of\nher cheque book and found that two of the cheques had not been\npresented. These she deducted, but the result was not unsatisfactory;\nshe had exactly three hundred pounds in one bank and a few shillings\nover fifty pounds in the other. Three hundred and fifty pounds. Not so\nbad. She had done pretty well in these nine months. Of course that\nbanker's order of Cairns would be stopped. She could hardly expect the\nexecutors to allow it to stand. Thus her capital was three hundred and\nfifty pounds. And there was jewellery too, worth a couple of hundred\npounds, perhaps, and lace, and furs. The jewellery might come in handy;\nit could be 'gopherised.' The furniture wasn't bad either.\n\nOf course she must go on with the house. It was no great responsibility,\nbeing held on a yearly agreement. Victoria then looked through her\naccounts; they did not amount to much, for Barbezan Soeurs, though\nwilling to assist in extracting money by means of bogus invoices, made\nit a rule to demand cash for genuine purchases. Twenty pounds would\ncover all the small accounts. The rent was all right, as it would not be\ndue until the end of September. The rates were all right too, being\npayable every half year; they could be ignored until the blue notice\ncame, just before Christmas.\n\nVictoria felt considerably strengthened by this investigation. At a\npinch she could live a year on the present footing, during which\nsomething must turn up. She tried to consider for a moment the various\nthings that might turn up. None occurred to her. She settled the\ndifficulty by going upstairs again to dress. When she rang for Mary to\ndo her hair, the girl was surprised to find her mistress perfectly cool.\nWithout a word, however, Mary restored her hair to order. It was a\nbeautiful and elegant woman, perhaps a trifle pale and open mouthed,\nwho, some minutes later, set out to walk to Regent's Park.\n\nVictoria sat back in her chair. Peace was upon her soul. Perhaps she had\njust passed through a crisis, perhaps she was entering upon one, but\nwhat did it matter? The warmth of July was in the clear air, the canal\nslowly carried past her its film of dust. No sound broke through the\nmorning save the cries of little boys fishing for invisible fishes, and,\noccasionally, a raucous roar from some prisoner in the Zoo. Now that she\nhad received the blow and was recovering she was conscious of a curious\nfeeling of lightness; she felt freer than the day before. Then she was a\nman's property, tied to him by the bond of interest; now she was able to\ndo what she chose, know whom she chose, so long as that money lasted.\nAh, it would be good one day when she had enough money to be able to\nlook the future in the face and flaunt in its forbidding countenance the\nfact that she was free, for ever free.\n\nVictoria was no longer a dreamer; she was a woman of action. The natural\nsequence of her thoughts brought her up at once against the means to the\ntriumphant end. Three hundred and fifty pounds, say six hundred if she\nrealised everything, would not yield enough to feed a superannuated\ngoverness. She would need quite eight or ten thousand pounds before she\ncould call herself free and live her dreams.\n\n'I'll earn it,' she said aloud, 'yes, sure enough.'\n\nA little Aberdeen terrier came bounding up to her, licked her hand and\nran away after his master. A friendly omen. Six hundred pounds was a\nlarge sum in a way. She could aspire to a partnership in some business\nnow. A vision arose before her; Victoria Ferris, milliner. The vision\ngrew; Victoria Ferris and Co., Limited, wholesalers; then Ferris'\nStores, for clothes and boots and cheese and phonographs, with a branch\nof Cook's agency, a Keith Prowse ticket office; Ferris' Stores as an\noctopus, with its body in Knightsbridge and a tentacle hovering over\nevery draper from Richmond to Highgate.\n\nYes, that was all very well, but what if Victoria Ferris failed? 'No\ngood,' she thought, 'I can't afford to take risks.' Of course the idea\nof seeking employment was absurd. No more ten hours a day for eight bob\na week for her. Besides, no continuous references and a game leg . . .\nThe situations crowded into and out of Victoria's brain like dissolving\nviews. She could see herself in the little house, with another man, with\nother men, young men, old men; and every one of them was rocked in the\nlap of Delilah, who laughingly shore off their golden locks.\n\n'By Jove,' she said aloud, bringing her gloved fist down on her knee,\n'I'll do it.'\n\nOf course the old life could not begin again just now. She did not know\na man in London who was worth capturing. She must go down into the\nmarket, stand against the wall as a courtesan of Alexandria and nail a\nwreath of roses against the highest bid. The vision she saw was now no\nlonger the octopus. She saw a street with its pavements wet and\nslithering, flares, barrows laden with greens; she could smell frying\nfish, rotting vegetables, burning naptha; a hand opened the door of a\nbar and, in the glare, she could see two women with vivid hair, tired\neyes, smiling mouths, each one patiently waiting before a little table\nand an empty glass. Then she saw once more the courtesan of Alexandria,\ndim in the night, not lit up by the sun of sweet Egypt, but clad in\nmercerised cotton and rabbit's fur, standing, watching like a shadow\nagainst a shop door in Regent Street.\n\nNo, she had not come to that. She belonged to the upper stratum of the\nprofession, and, knowing it, could not sink. Consciousness was the\nthing. She was not going into this fight soft-handed or softhearted. She\nknew. There was high adventure in store for her yet. If she must fish it\nshould be for trout not chub. Like a wise woman, she would not love\nlightly, but where money is. There should be no waiting, no hesitating.\nThat very night she would sup at the Hotel Vesuvius . . . all in black\n. . . like an ivory Madonna set in ebony . . . with a tea rose in her hair\nas a foil to her shoulders . . . and sweeping jade earrings which would\nswim like butterflies in the heavy hair. Ah, it would be high adventure\nwhen Demetrious knelt at the feet of Aphrodite with jewels in his\nsunburnt palm, when Croesus bargained away for a smile a half of his\nLydian wealth.\n\nShe got up, a glow in her veins as if the lust of battle was upon her.\nQuickly she walked out of the park to conquer the town. A few yards\nbeyond the gates newspaper placards shouted the sensation of the day;\nplacards pink, brown, green, all telling the tale of murder, advertising\nfor a penny the transitory joy of the fact. Victoria smiled and walked\non. She let herself into the house. It was on the stroke of one. She sat\ndown at the table, pressing the bell down with her foot.\n\n'Hurry up, Mary,' she said, 'I'm as hungry as a hunter.'\n\nA voice floated through the window like an echo: 'Irish murder; latest\ndetails.'\n\n'Shut the window, Mary,' she said sharply.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nTHE Hotel Vesuvius is a singular place. It stands on the north side of\nPiccadilly, and for the general its stuccoed front and severe sash\nwindows breathe an air of early Victorian respectability. Probably it\nwas once a ducal mansion, for it has all the necessary ugliness,\nsolidity and size; now it is the most remarkable instance of what can be\ndone by a proprietor who remembers that an address in Piccadilly exempts\nhim from the rules which govern Bloomsbury. One enters it through a\nsmall hall all alight with white and gold paint. Right and left are the\nsaloon bar and the buffet; this enables the customer to select either\nwithout altering the character of his accommodation, while assuming\nsuperiority for a judicious choice. A broad straight staircase leads up\nto the big supper room on the first floor. Above are a score of private\ndining-rooms.\n\nVictoria jumped out of the cab and walked up the steps, handing the\nliveried commissionaire two shillings to pay the cabman. This was an\ninspiration calculated to set her down at once with the staff as one who\nknew the ropes. In the white and gold hall she halted for a moment,\npuzzled and rather nervous. She had never set foot in the Vesuvius; she\nhad never heard it mentioned without a smile or a wink. Now, a little\nflushed and her heart beating, she realised that she did not know her\nway about.\n\nVictoria need have had no fears. Before she had time to take in the\nscene, a tall man with a perfectly groomed head and a well fitting\nevening dress bowed low before her.\n\n'Madame wishes no doubt to deposit her wrap,' he said in gentle tones.\nHis teeth flashed white for a moment.\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria, . . . 'Yes, where is the cloak room?'\n\n'This way, madame. If madame will permit me. . . .' He pointed towards\nthe end of the hall and preceded her steps. An elderly woman behind the\ncounter received Victoria's wrap and handed her a brass token without\nlooking at her. While she pulled up her gloves she looked round\ncuriously. The cloak room was small; behind the counter the walls were\ncovered by a mahogany rack with some hundred pigeon-holes. The fiercer\nlight of an unshaded chandelier beat down upon the centre of the room.\nVictoria was conscious of an extraordinary atmosphere, a blend of many\nscents, tobacco smoke, leather; most of the pigeon-holes were bursting\nwith  wraps, many of them vivid blue or red; here and there long\nveils, soiled white gloves hung out of them; a purple ostrich feather\nhung from an immense black hat over a white and silver Cingalese shawl.\nVictoria turned sharply. The man was inspecting her coolly with an air\nof intentness that showed approval.\n\n'Where does madame wish to go?' he asked as they entered the hall. 'In\nthe buffet perhaps?'\n\nHe opened the door. Victoria saw for a second a long counter laden with\nbottles, at which stood a group of men, some in evening dress, some in\ntweed suits; she saw a few women among them, all with smiles upon their\nfaces. Behind the counter she had time to see the barmaid, a beautiful\ngirl with dark eyes and vivid yellow hair.\n\n'No, not there,' she said quickly. It reminded her of the terrible\nlittle bar of which Farwell had given her a glimpse. 'You are the\nmanager, I believe . . . I want to go up into the supper room.'\n\n'Certainly, madame; will madame come this way?'\n\nThe manager preceded her up to the first floor. On the landing, two men\nin tweeds suddenly stopped talking as she passed. A porter flung the\nglazed door open. A short man in evening dress looked at her, then at\nthe manager. After a second's hesitation the two men in tweeds followed\nher in.\n\nThe manager put his hands in his pockets, walked up to the other man and\nnodded towards the door.\n\n'_Pas mal, hein?_'\n\n'_Epatante,_' said the short man. '_Du chic. Et une peau!_'\n\nThe manager smiled and turned to go downstairs. '_Surveillez moi ca\nAnatole,_' he said.\n\nVictoria, meanwhile, had stopped for a moment on the threshold, a little\ndazed by the scene. Though it was only half-past ten, the eighty tables\nof the Vesuvius were almost every one occupied; the crowd looked at\nfirst like a patchwork quilt. The room was all white and gold like the\nhall; a soft radiance fell from the lights hidden in the cornice; two\nheavy chandeliers with faintly pink electric bulbs and a few pink shaded\nlights on the table diffused a roseate glow over the scene. Victoria\nfelt like an intruder, and her discomfiture was heightened by the\ngripping hot perfume. But already a waiter was by her side; she let him\nbe her pilot. In a few seconds she found herself sitting at a small\ntable alone, near the middle of the room. The waiter reappeared almost\nat once carrying on a tray a liqueur glass containing some colourless\nfluid. She had ordered nothing, but his adroitness relieved her. Clearly\nthe expert had divined her inexperience and had resolved to smooth her\nway.\n\nShe lifted the glass to her lips and sipped at it. It was good stuff,\nrather strong. The burn on her palate seemed to brace her; she looked\nround the room. It was a peculiar scene; for the Vesuvius is a luxurious\nplace, and a provincial might well be excused for thinking it was the\nCarlton or the Savoy; indeed there was something more outwardly opulent\nabout it. It suggested a place where men not only spent what they had\nbut spent more. But for a few men in frock-coats and tweeds it would\nhave been almost undistinguishable from the recognised resorts of\nfashion. Victoria took stock of her surroundings; of the shining plate\nand glass, the heavy red carpet, the red and gold curtains, drawn but\nfluttering at the open windows. The guests, however, interested her\nmore. At half the tables sat a woman and a man, at others a woman alone\nbefore a little glass. What struck her above all was the beauty of the\nwomen, the wealth they carried on their bodies. Hardly one of them\nseemed over thirty; most of them had golden or vivid red hair, though a\nfew tables off Victoria could see a tall woman of colour with black hair\nstiffened by wax and pierced with massive ivory combs. They mostly wore\nlow-necked dresses, many of them white or faintly tinted with blue or\npink. She could see a dark Italian-looking girl in scarlet from whose\nears long coral earrings drooped to her slim cream- shoulders.\nThere was an enormously stout woman with puffy pink cheeks, strapped\nslightly into a white silk costume, looking like a rose at the height of\nits bloom. There were others too! short dark women with tight hair;\nminxish French faces and little shrewd dark eyes; florid Dutch and\nBelgian women with massive busts and splendid shoulders, dazzlingly\nwhite; English girls too, most of them slim with long arms and rosy\nelbows and faintly outlined collar bones. Many of these had the\naristocratic nonchalance of 'art' photographs. Opposite Victoria, under\nthe other chandelier, a splendid creature, white as a lily, with\nflashing green eyes, copper  hair, had thrown herself back in\nher armchair and was laughing at a man's joke. Her head was bent back,\nand as she laughed her splendid bust rose and fell and her throat filled\nout. An elderly man with a close clipped grey moustache, immaculate in\nhis well-cut dress clothes, leaned towards her with a smile on his brown\nface.\n\nVictoria turned her eyes away from the man, (a soldier, of course), and\nlooked at the others. They, too, were a mixed collection. There were a\ngood many youths, all clean shaven and mostly well-groomed; these talked\nloudly to their partners and seemed to fill the latter with merriment;\nnow and then they stared at other women with the boldness of the shy.\nThere were elderly men too; a few in frock coats in spite of the heat,\nsome very stout and red, some bald and others half concealing their\nscalps under cunning hair arrangements. The elderly men sat mostly with\ntwo women, some with three, and lay back smiling like courted pachas. By\nfar the greater number of the guests, however, were anything between\nthirty and forty; and seemed to cover every type from the smart young\ncaptain with the tanned face, bold blue eyes and a bristly moustache, to\nponderous men in tweeds or blue reefer jackets who looked about them\nwith a mixture of nervousness and bovine stolidity.\n\nFrom every corner came a steady stream of loud talk; continually little\nshrieks of laughter pierced the din and then were smothered by the\nrattling of the plates. The waiters flitted ghostly through the room\nwith incredible speed, balancing high their silver trays. Then Victoria\nbecame conscious that most of the women round her were looking at her;\nfor a moment she felt her personality shrivel up under their gaze. They\nwere analysing her, speculating as to the potentialities of a new rival,\nstripping off her clothes too and her jewels. It was horrible, because\ntheir look was more incisive than the merely brutal glance by which a\nman takes stock of a woman's charms.\n\nShe pulled herself together however, and forced herself to return the\nstares. 'After all,' she thought, 'this is the baptism of fire.' She\nfelt strengthened, too, as she observed her rivals more closely.\nBeautiful as most of them seemed at first sight, many of them showed\nsigns of wear. With joyful cruelty Victoria noted here and there faint\nwrinkles near their eyes, relaxed mouths, cheekbones on which rosacia\nhad already set its mark. She could not see more than half a dozen whose\nbeauty equalled hers; she threw her head up and drew back her shoulders.\nIn the full light of the chandelier she looked down at the firm white\nshapeliness of her arms.\n\n'Well, how goes it?'\n\nVictoria started and looked up from her contemplation. A man had sat\ndown at her table. He seemed about thirty, fairish, with a rather ragged\nmoustache. He wore a black morning coat and a grey tie. His hands and\nwrists were well kept and emerged from pale blue cuffs. There was a not\nunkindly smile upon his face. His tip tilted nose gave him a cheerful,\nrather impertinent expression.\n\n'Oh, I'm all right,' said Victoria vaguely. Then with an affectation of\nease. 'Hot, isn't it?'\n\n'Ra-_ther_,' said the man. 'Had your supper?'\n\n'No,' said Victoria, 'I don't want any.'\n\n'Now, come, really that's too bad of you. Thought we were going to have\na nice little family party and you're off your feed.'\n\n'I'm sorry,' said Victoria smiling. 'I had dinner only two hours ago.'\nThis man was not very attractive; there was something forced in his\nease.\n\n'Well, have a drink with me,' he said.\n\n'What's yours?' asked Victoria. That was an inspiration. The plunge\nbraced her like a cold bath. The man laughed.\n\n'Pop, of course. Unless you prefer a Pernot. You know \"absinthe makes\nthe . . .\"' He stopped and laughed again. Victoria did likewise without\nunderstanding him. She saw that the other women laughed when men did.\n\nThey filled their glasses. Victoria liked champagne. She watched the\nlittle bubbles rise, and drank the glass down. It was soft and warm. How\nstrong she felt suddenly. The conversation did not flag. The man was\nleaning towards her across the table, talking quickly. He punctuated\nevery joke with a high laugh.\n\n'Oh, I say, give us a chance,' floated from the next table. Victoria\nlooked. It was one of the English girls. She was propped up on one elbow\non the table; her legs were crossed showing a long slim limb and slender\nankle in a white open work stocking. A man in evening dress with a\nforeign looking dark face was caressing her bare arm.\n\n'Penny for your thoughts,' said Victoria's man.\n\n'Wasn't thinking,' she said. 'I was looking.'\n\n'Looking? are you new here?'\n\n'Yes, it's the first time I've come.'\n\n'By Jove! It _must_ be an eye-opener.' He laughed.\n\n'It is rather. It doesn't seem half bad.'\n\n'You're right there. I'm an old stager.' A slightly complacent\nexpression came over his face. He filled up the glasses. 'You don't\nspoil the collection, you know,' he added. 'You're a bit of all right.'\nHe looked at her approvingly.\n\n'Am I?' She looked at him demurely. Then, plunging once more, 'I hope\nyou'll still think so by and by.' The man's eyes dwelled for a moment on\nher face and neck, his breath became audible suddenly. She felt his\nfoot softly stroke hers. He drew his napkin across his lips.\n\n'Well,' he said with an assumption of ease, 'shall we go?'\n\n'I don't mind,' said Victoria getting up.\n\nIt was with a beating heart that Victoria climbed into the cab. As soon\nas he got in the man put his arm round her waist and drew her to him.\nShe resisted gently but gave way as his arm grew more insistent.\n\n'Coy little puss.' His face was very near her upturned eyes. She felt it\ncome nearer. Then, suddenly, he kissed her on the lips. She wanted to\nstruggle; she was a little frightened. The lights of Piccadilly filled\nher with shame. They spoke very little. The man held her close to him.\nAs the cab rattled through Portland Place, he seized her once more. She\nfought down the repulsion with which his breath inspired: it was scented\nwith strong cigars and champagne. Victoriously she coiled one arm round\nhis neck and kissed him on the mouth. In her disgust there was a blend\nof triumph; not even her own feelings could resist her will.\n\nAs she waited on the doorstep while he paid the cabman a great fear came\nupon her. She did not know this man. Who was he? Perhaps a thief. She\nsuddenly remembered that women of her kind were sometimes murdered for\nthe sake of their jewellery. As the man turned to come up the steps she\npulled herself together. 'After all,' she thought, 'it's only\nprofessional risk.'\n\nThey stood for a moment in the hall of the silent house. She felt\nawkward. The man looked at her and mistook her hesitation.\n\n'It's all right,' he faltered. He looked about him, then, quickly\nwhipping out a sovereign purse, he drew out two sovereigns with a click\nand laid them on the hall table.\n\n'You see,' he said '. . . a girl like you. . . . three more to-morrow\nmorning. . . . I'm square you know.'\n\nVictoria smiled and, after a second's hesitation, picked up the money.\n\n'So'm I,' she said. Then she switched on the light and pointed\nupstairs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nVICTORIA'S new career did not develop on unkindly lines. Every night she\nwent to the Vesuvius, where she soon had her appointed place full under\none of the big chandeliers. She secured this spot without difficulty,\nfor most of her rivals were too wise to affront the glare; as soon as\nshe realised this she rather revelled in her sense of power, for she now\nlived in a world where the only form of power was beauty. She felt sure\nof her beauty now she had compared it minutely with the charms of the\npreferred women. She was finer, she had more breed. Almost every one of\nthose women showed a trace of coarseness: a square jaw, not moulded in\nbig bone like hers but swathed in heavy flesh; a thick ankle or wrist;\nspatulate fingertips; red ears. Her pride was in the courage with which\nshe welcomed the flow of the light on her neck and shoulders; round her\nchandelier the tables formed practically into circles, the nearest being\noccupied by the very young and venturesome, a few by the oldest who\ndesperately clung to their illusion of immortal youth; then came the\nundecided, those who are between ages, who wear thick veils and sit with\ntheir backs to the light; the outer fringe was made up of those who\nremembered. Their smiles were hard and fixed.\n\nShe was fortunate enough too. She never had to sit long in front of the\nlittle glass which she discovered to be kummel; the waiter always\nbrought it unasked. Sometimes they would chat for a moment, for\nVictoria was assimilating the lazy familiarity of her surroundings. He\ntalked about the weather, the latest tips for Goodwood, the misfortune\nof Camille de Valenciennes who had gone off to Carlsbad with a barber\nwho said he was a Russian prince and had left her there stranded.\n\nHer experiences piled up, and, after a few weeks she found she had\nexhausted most of the types who frequented the Vesuvius. Most of them\nwere of the gawky kind, being very young men out for the night and\ndesperately anxious to get off on the quiet by three o'clock in the\nmorning; of the gawky kind too were the Manchester merchants paying a\nbrief visit to town on business and who wanted a peep into the inferno;\nthese were easily dealt with and, if properly primed with champagne,\nexceedingly generous. Now and then Victoria was confronted with a racier\ntype which tended to become rather brutal. It was recruited largely from\nobviously married men whose desires, dammed and sterilised by monotonous\nrelations, seemed suddenly to burst their bonds.\n\nIn a few weeks her resources developed exceedingly. She learned the\nscientific look that awakes a man's interest: a droop of the eyelid\nfollowed by a slow raising of it, a dilation of the pupil, then again a\ndemure droop and the suspicion of a smile. She learned to prime herself\nfrom the papers with the proper conversation; racing, the latest divorce\nnews, ragging scandals, marriages of the peerage into the chorus. She\nlearned to laugh at chestnuts and to memorise such stories as sounded\nfresh; a few judicious matinees put her up to date as to the latest\nmusical comedies. On the whole it was an easy life enough. Six hours in\nthe twenty-four seemed sufficient to afford her a good livelihood, and\nshe did not doubt that by degrees she would make herself a connection\nwhich might be turned to greater advantage; as it was she had two\nfaithful admirers whom she could count on once a week.\n\nThe life itself often struck her as horrible, foul; still she was\ngetting inured to the inane and could listen to it with a tolerant\nsmile; sometimes she looked dispassionately into men's fevered eyes with\na little wonder and an immense satisfaction in her power and the value\nof her beauty. Sometimes a thrill of hatred went through her and she\nloathed those whose toy she was; then she felt tempted to drink, to\ndrugs, to anything that would deaden the nausea; but she would rally:\nthe first night, when she had drunk deep of champagne after the kummel,\nhad given her a racking headache and suggested that beauty does not\nthrive on mixed drinks.\n\nAnother painful moment had been the third day after her new departure.\nIt seemed to force realisation upon her. Tacitly the early cup of tea\nhad been stopped. Mary now never came to the door, but breakfast was\nlaid for two in the dining-room at half past nine; the hot course stood\non a chafing dish over a tiny flame; the teapot was stocked and a kettle\nboiled on its own stand. Neither of the servants ever appeared. On the\nthird day, however, as Victoria lay in her boudoir, reading, preparatory\nto ringing the cook to give her orders for the day, there was a knock at\nthe door.\n\n'Come in,' said Victoria a little nervously. She was still in the mood\nof feeling awkward before her servants.\n\nMary came in. For a moment she tugged at her belt. There was a slight\nflush on her sallow face.\n\n'Well Mary?' asked Victoria, still nervous.\n\n'If you please, mum, may I speak to you? I've been talking to cook, mum,\nand--'\n\n'And?'\n\n'Oh, mum, I hope you won't think it's because we're giving ourselves\nairs but it isn't the same as it was here before, mum--'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'Well, mum, we think we'd rather go mum. There's my young man, mum,\nand--and--'\n\n'And he doesn't like your being associated with a woman of my kind? Very\nright and proper.'\n\n'Oh, mum, I don't mean that. You've always been kind to me. Cook too,\nshe says she feels it very much, mum. When the major was alive, mum, it\nwas different. It didn't seem to matter then, mum, but now--'\n\nMary stopped. For a moment the eyes behind the glasses looked as if they\nwere going to cry.\n\n'Don't trouble to explain, Mary,' said her mistress with some asperity.\n'I understand. You and cook can't afford to jeopardise your characters.\nFrom the dizzy heights of trained domesticity, experts in your own line,\nyou are justified in looking down upon an unskilled labourer. I have no\ndoubt that you have considered the social problem in all its aspects,\nthat you fully realise the possibilities of a woman wage-earner and her\nfuture. By all means go where your moral sense calls you: I shall give\nyou an excellent character and demand none in exchange. There! I don't\nwant to hurt your feelings, Mary, I spoke hastily,' she added as the\nmaid's features contracted, 'you only do this to please your young man;\nthat is woman's profession, and I of all people must approve of what you\ndo. If you don't mind, both of you, you will leave on Saturday. You\nshall have your full month and a month's board allowance. Now send up\ncook, I want to order lunch.'\n\nShe could almost have wept as she lay with her face in the cushion. Her\nservants had delivered an ultimatum from womankind, and lack of supplies\ncompelled her to pick up the guage of battle. Mary and cook were links\nbetween her and all those women who shelter behind one man only, and\nfrom that vantage ground hurl stones at their sisters beyond the gates.\nThe significance of it was not that their services were lost to her, but\nthat she must now be content to associate with another class. Soon,\nhowever, her will was again supreme. 'After all,' she thought, 'I have\ndone with Society. I'm a pirate; Society 'll be keen enough when I've\nwon.'\n\nWithin three days she had readjusted her household. She had decided to\nmake matters easy by engaging two German girls. Laura, the cook, said at\nonce that it was all one to her who came to the house and who didn't, so\nlong as they left her alone in the kitchen, and provided she might bring\nher large tabby cat. Augusta the maid, a long lanky girl with strong\npeasant hands and carroty hair, declared herself willing to oblige the\n_herrschaft_ in any way; she thereupon demanded an increase on the wages\nscheduled for her at the registry office. She also confided to her new\nmistress that she had a _kerl_ in Germany, and that she would do\nanything to earn her dowry.\n\nThus the establishment settled down again. Laura cooked excellently.\nAugusta never flinched when bringing in the tea tray. Her big blue Saxon\neyes seemed to allow everything to pass through them leaving her mind\nunsoiled, so armoured was her heart by the thought of that dowry. As for\nSnoo and Poo: they chased the tabby cat all over the house most of the\nday, which very soon improved their figures.\n\nThus the even tenour of Victoria's life continued. She was quite a\npopular favourite. As soon as she sat down under the chandelier\nhalf-a-dozen men were looking at her. Sometimes men followed her into\nthe Vesuvius; but these she seldom encouraged, for her instinct told her\nthat so beautiful a woman as she was should set a high price on herself,\nand high prices were not to be found in Piccadilly. Among her faithful\nwas a bachelor of forty, whom she only knew as Charlie. This, by the\nway, was a characteristic of her acquaintances. She never discovered\ntheir names; some in fact were so guarded that they had apparently\ndiscarded their watches before coming out, so as to conceal even their\ninitials. None ever showed a pocketbook. Charlie was dark and burned by\nthe sun of the tropics; there was something bluff and good-natured about\nhim, great strength too. He had sharp grey eyes and a dark moustache. He\nspoke extraordinarily fast, talked loosely of places he had been to:\nChina, Mozambique, South America. Victoria rather liked him; he was\ntotally dull, inclined to be coarse; but as he invariably drank far too\nmuch before and when he came to the Vesuvius, he made no demands on her\npatience, slept like a log and went early, leaving handsome recognition\nbehind him.\n\nThere was Jim too, a precise top-hatted city clerk who had forced\nhimself on her one Saturday afternoon as she crossed Piccadilly Circus.\nHe seemed such a pattern of rectitude, was so perfectly trim and brushed\nthat she allowed herself to be inveigled into a cab and driven to a\nsmall flat in Bayswater. He was too prudent to visit anybody else's\nrooms, he said; he had his flat on a weekly tenancy. Jim kept rather a\nhold on her. He was neither rich nor generous; in fact Victoria's social\nsense often stabbed her for what she considered undercutting, but Jim\nused to hover about the Vesuvius five minutes before closing time, and\nonce or twice when Victoria had had no luck he succeeded like the\nvulture on the stricken field.\n\nMost of the others were dream figures; she lost count of them. After a\nmonth she could not remember a face. She even forgot a big fellow whom\nshe had called Black Beauty, who came down from somewhere in Devonshire\nfor a monthly bust; he was so much offended that she had the\nmortification of seeing him captured by one of the outer circle who sit\nbeyond the lights.\n\nIn the middle of August the streets she called London were deserted.\nSteamy air, dust laden, floated over the pavements. The Vesuvius was\nhalf empty, and she had to cut down her standards. Just as she was\ncontemplating moving to Folkestone for a month, however, she received a\nletter from solicitors in the Strand, Bastable, Bastable & Sons,\ninforming her that 're Major Cairns deceased,' they were realising the\nestate on behalf of the administrators, and that they would be obliged\nif she would say when it would be convenient for her to convey the\nfurniture of Elm Tree Place into their hands. This perturbed Victoria\nseriously. The furniture had a value, and besides it was the plant of a\nflourishing business.\n\n'Pity he died suddenly,' she thought, 'he'd have done something for me.\nHe was a good sort, poor old Tom.'\n\nShe dressed herself as becomingly and quietly as she could, and, after\nlooking up the law of intestacy in Whitaker, concluded that Marmaduke\nCairns's old sisters must be the heirs. Then she sallied forth to beard\nthe solicitor in his den. The den was a magnificent suite of offices\njust off the Strand. She was ushered into a waiting-room partitioned off\nfrom the general office by glass. It was all very frowsy and hot. There\nwas nothing to read except the _Times_ and she was uncomfortably\nconscious of three clerks and an office boy who frequently turned round\nand looked through the partition. At last she was ushered in. The\nsolicitor was a dry-looking man of forty or so; his parchment face,\ndeeply wrinkled right and left, his keen blue eyes and high forehead\nimpressed her as dangerous. He motioned her to an armchair on the other\nside of his desk.\n\n'Well, Mrs Ferris,' he said, 'to what do I owe the honour of this\nvisit?' He sat back in his armchair and bit his penholder. A smile\nelongated his thin lips. This was his undoing, for he looked less\nformidable and Victoria decided on a line of action. She had come\ndisturbed, now she was on her mettle.\n\n'Mr Bastable,' she said, plunging at once into the subject, 'you ask me\nto surrender my furniture. I'm not going to.'\n\n'Oh?' The solicitor raised his eyebrows. 'But, my dear madame, surely\nyou must see . . .'\n\n'I do. But I'm not going to.'\n\n'Well,' he said, 'I hardly see . . . My duty will compel me to take\nsteps . . .'\n\n'Of course,' said Victoria smiling, 'but if you refuse to let me alone I\nshall go out of this office, have the furniture moved to-day and put up\nat auction to-morrow.'\n\nA smile came over the solicitor's face. By Jove, she was a fine woman,\nand she had some spirit.\n\n'Besides,' she added, 'all this would cause me a great deal of\nannoyance. Major Cairns's affairs are still very interesting to the\npublic. I shall be compelled, if you make me sell, to write a serial,\nsay _My Life with an Irish Martyr_ for a Sunday paper.'\n\nMr Bastable laughed frankly.\n\n'You want to be nasty, I see. But you know, we can stop your sale by an\napplication to a judge in chambers this afternoon. And as for your\nserial, well, Major Cairns is dead, he won't mind.'\n\n'No, but his aunts will. Their name is Cairns. As regards the sale,\nperhaps you and the other lawyers can stop it. Very well, either you\npromise or I go home and . . . perhaps there'll be a fire to-night and\nperhaps there won't. I'm fully insured.'\n\n'By Jove!' Bastable looked at her critically. Cairns had been a lucky\nman. 'Well, Mrs Ferris,' he added, 'we're not used to troublesome\ncustomers like you. I don't suppose the furniture is valuable, is it?'\n\n'Oh, a couple of hundred,' said Victoria dishonestly.\n\n'M'm. Do you absolutely want me to pledge myself?'\n\n'Absolutely.'\n\n'Well, Mrs Ferris, I can honestly promise you that you won't hear\nanything more about it. I . . . I don't think it would pay us.'\n\nVictoria laughed. A great joy of triumph was upon her. She liked\nBastable rather, now she had brought him to heel.\n\n'All right,' she said, 'it's a bargain.' Then she saw that his mouth was\nsmiling still and his eyes fixed on her face.\n\n'There's no quarrel between us, is there?'\n\n'No, of course not. All in the way of business, you know.'\n\nHe bent across the table; she heard him breathe in her perfume.\n\n'Then,' she said slowly, getting up and pulling on her gloves, 'I'm not\ndoing anything to-night. You know my address. Seven o'clock. You may\ntake me out to dinner.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nWITHIN a few days of her victory over Mr Bastable, Victoria found\nherself in an introspective mood. The solicitor was the origin of it,\nthough unimportant in himself as the grain of sand which falls into a\nmachine, and for a fraction of a second causes a wheel to rasp before\nthe grain is crunched up. She reflected, as she looked out over her\ngarden, that she was getting very hard. She had brought this man to his\nknees by threats; she had vulgarly bullied him by holding exposure over\nhis head; she had behaved like a tragedy queen. Finally, with sardonic\nintention, she had turned the contest to good account by entangling him\nwhile he was still under the influence of her personality.\n\nAll this was not what disturbed her; for after all she had only lied to\nBastable, bullied him, threatened him, bluffed as to her intentions: she\nhad been perfectly businesslike. Thoughtfully she opened the little door\nat the end of the hall and stepped out on the outer landing where the\ngarden steps ended. Snoo and Poo, asleep in a heap in the August blaze,\nraised heavy eyelids, and, yawning and stretching, followed her down the\nsteps.\n\nThis was a joyful little garden. The greater part of it was a lawn,\nclose cut, but disfigured in many places by Snoo and Poo's digging.\nFlower beds ran along both sides and the top of the lawn, while the\nbottom was occupied by the pergola, now covered with massive red blooms;\nan acacia tree, and an elder tree, both leafy but refusing to flower,\nshaded the bottom of the garden, which was effectively cut off by a\nhedge of golden privet. It was a tidy garden, but it showed no traces of\noriginality. Victoria had ordered it to be potted with geraniums,\ncarnations, pinks, marguerites; and was quite content to observe that\nsomebody had put in sweet peas, clematis and larkspur. Hers was not the\ntemperament which expresses itself in a garden; there was no sense of\npeace in her idea of the beautiful. If she liked the garden to look\npretty at all, it was doubtless owing to her heredity.\n\nVictoria picked up a couple of stones and threw them towards the end of\nthe garden. Snoo and Poo rushed into the privet, snuffling excitedly,\nwhile their mistress drew down a heavy rose-laden branch from the\npergola and breathed the blossoms. Yes, she was hard, and it was\nbeginning to make her nervous. In the early days she had sedulously\ncultivated the spirit which was making a new woman out of the quiet,\nrefined, rather shy girl she had been. There had been a time when she\nwould have shuddered at the idea of a quarrel with a cabman about an\novercharge; now, if it were possible, she felt coldly certain that she\nwould cheat him of his rightful fare. This process she likened to the\ntempering of steel, and called a development of the mental muscles. She\nrather revelled in this development in the earlier days, because it gave\nher a sense of power; she benefited by it too, for she found that by\ncultivating this hardness she could extort more money by stooping to\nwheedle, by accepting snubs, by flattery and lies too. The consciousness\nof this power redeemed the exercise of it; she often felt herself lifted\nabove this atmosphere of deceit by looking coldly at the deed she was\nabout to do, recognising its nature and doing it with her eyes open.\n\nA realization of another kind, however, was upon Victoria that rich\nAugust day. In a sense she was doing well. Her capital had not been\ntouched; in fact it had probably increased, and this in spite of town\nbeing empty. She had not yet found the man who would make her fortune;\nbut she had no doubt that he would appear if she continued on her even\nroad, selecting without passion, judging values and possibilities. For\nthe moment she brushed aside the question of success; it was assured.\nBut, after success, what then? Say she had four or five hundred a year\nat thirty and retired into the country or went to America. What use\nwould she be to herself or to anybody if she had learned exclusively to\nbide her time and to strike for her own advantage? Life was a contest\nfor the poor and for the rich alike; but the first had to fight to win\nand to use any means, fair or foul, while the latter could accept\nknightly rules, be magnanimous when victorious, graceful when defeated.\n\n'Yes,' said Victoria, 'I must keep myself in trim. It's all very well to\nwin and I've got to be as hard as nails to men, but . . .'\n\nShe stopped abruptly. The problem had solved itself. 'Hard as nails to\nmen,' did not include women, for 'men' seldom means mankind when the\ntalk is of rights. She did not know what her mission might be. Perhaps,\nafter she had succeeded, she would travel all over Europe, perhaps\nsettle on the English downs where the west winds blow, perhaps even be\nthe pioneer of a great sex revolt; but whatever she did, if her triumph\nwas not to be sterile, she would need sympathy, the capacity to love.\nThus she amended her articles of war: 'Woman shall be spared, and I\nshall remember that, as a member of a sex fighting another sex, I must\nunderstand and love my sister warrior.'\n\nIt was in pursuance of her new policy that, on her way to the Vesuvius,\nVictoria dawdled for a moment at the entrance of Swallow Street, under\nits portico. A few yards beyond her stood a woman whom she knew by sight\nas having established practically a proprietary right to her beat. She\nwas a dark girl, good-looking enough, well set up in her close fitting\nwhite linen blouse, drawn tight to set off her swelling bust. In the dim\nlight Victoria could see that her face was rather worn, and that the\nravages of time had been clumsily repaired. The girl looked at her\ncuriously at first; then angrily, evidently disliking the appearance of\nwhat might be a dangerous rival in her own preserves. Victoria walked up\nand down on the pavement. The girl watched her every footstep. Once she\nmade as if to speak to her. It was ghostly, for passers-by in Regent\nStreet came to and fro beyond the portico like arabesques. A passing\npoliceman gave the girl a meaning look. She tossed her head and walked\naway down Regent Street, while Victoria nervously continued down Swallow\nStreet to Piccadilly.\n\nThese two women were to meet, however. About a week later, Victoria,\nhappening to pass by at the same hour, saw the girl and stopped under\nthe arch. In another second the girl was by her side.\n\n'What are you following me about for?' she snarled. 'If you're a grote\nit's no go. You won't teach the copper anything he doesn't know.'\n\n'Oh, I'm not following you,' said Victoria. 'Only I saw you about and\nthought I'd like to talk to you.'\n\nThe girl shot a dark glance at her.\n\n'What's your game?' she asked. 'You're not one of those blasted sisters.\nToo toffish. Seen you come out of the Vez', besides.'\n\n'I'm in the profession,' said Victoria coolly. 'But that doesn't mean\nI've got to be against the others.'\n\n'Doesn't it!' The girl's eyes glowed. 'You don't know your job. Of\ncourse you've got to be against the others. We were born like that. Or\ngot like that. What's it matter?'\n\n'Matter? oh, a lot,' said Victoria. 'We want friends, all of us.'\n\n'Friends. Oh, Lord! The likes of you and me don't have friends. Women,\nthey won't know us . . . too good. Except our sort. We can't talk; we\ngot nothing to talk of, except money and the boys. And the boys, what's\nthe good of them? There's the sort you pick up and all you've got to\ndo's to get what you can out of them. Haven't fallen in love with one,\nhave you?' The girl's voice broke a little, then she went on. 'Then,\nthere's the other sort, like my Hugo, p'raps you've heard of him?'\n\n'No,' she said, 'I haven't. What is he like?'\n\n'Bless you, he's a beauty.' The girl smiled; her face was full of pride.\n\n'Does he treat you well?'\n\n'So so. Sometimes.' The shadow had returned. 'Not like my first. Oh,\nit's hard you know, beginning. He left me with a baby after three\nmonths. I was in service in Pembridge Gardens--such a swell house! I had\nto keep baby. It died then, jolly good thing too! Couldn't go back to\nservice. Everybody knew.'\n\nThe girl burst into tears and Victoria putting an arm round her drew her\nagainst her breast.\n\n'Everybody knew, everybody knew!' wailed the girl.\n\nVictoria had the vision of a thousand spectral eyes, all full of\nknowledge, gazing at the housemaid caught by them sinning. The girl\nrested her head against Victoria's shoulder for a moment, holding one of\nher hands. Suddenly she raised her head again and cleared her throat.\n\n'There,' she said, 'let me go. Hugo's waiting for me at the Carcassonne.\nNever mind me. We've all got to live, he-he!'\n\nShe turned into Regent Street and another 'he-he' floated back. Victoria\nfelt a heavy weight at her heart; poor girl, weak, the sport of one man,\ndeceived, then a pirate made to disgorge her gains by another man;\nhandsome, subtle, playing upon her affections and her fears. What did it\nmatter? Was she not in the same position, but freer because conscious;\npoor slave soul. But the time had come for Victoria to make for the\nVesuvius. 'It must be getting late,' she thought, putting up her hand to\nher little gold watch-brooch.\n\nIt was gone. She had it on when she left, but it could not have dropped\nout, for the lace showed two long rips; it had just been torn out.\nVictoria stood frozen for a moment. So this was the result of a first\nattempt at love. She recovered, however. She was not going to generalise\nfrom one woman. 'Besides,' she thought bitterly, 'the girl's theories\nare the same as mine. She merely has no reservations or hesitations. The\nbolder pirate, she is perhaps the better brain.'\n\nThen she walked down Swallow Street into Piccadilly, and at once a young\nman in loud checks was at her side. She looked up into his face, her\nsmile full of covert promise as they went into the Vesuvius together.\nVictoria was now at home in the market place, and could exchange a quip\nwith the frequenters. Languidly she dropped her cloak into the hands of\nthe porter and preceded the young man into the supper-room. As they sat\nat the little table before the liqueur, her eyes saw the garish room\nthrough a film. How deadening it all was, and how lethal the draughts\nsold here. An immense weariness was upon her, an immense disgust, as she\nsmiled full-toothed on the young man in checks. He was a cheerful\nrattle, suggested the man who has got beyond the retail trade without\nreaching the professions, a house agent's clerk perhaps.\n\n'Oh, yes, I'm a merry devil, ha! ha!' He winked a pleasant grey eye.\nVictoria noticed that his clothes were too new, his boots too new, his\nmanners too a recent acquisition.\n\n'Don't worry. That's how you keep young, ha! ha! Besides, don't have\nmuch time to mope in my trade!'\n\n'What's that?' asked Victoria vacuously. Men generally lied as to their\noccupation, but she had noticed that when their imagination was\nstimulated their temper improved.\n\n'Inspector of bun-punchers, ha! ha!'\n\n'Bun-punchers?'\n\n'Yes, bun-punchers. South Eastern Railway, you know. Got to have them\ndated now. New Act of Parliament, ha! ha!'\n\nVictoria laughed, for his cockney joviality was infectious. Then again\nthe room faded and rematerialised as his voice rose and fell.\n\n'The wife don't know I'm out on the tiles, ha! ha! She's in Streatham,\nlooking after the smalls. . . . Oh, no, none of your common or garden\nbrass fenders. . . .'\n\nVictoria pulled herself together. This was what she could not bear.\nBrutality, the obscene even, were preferable to this dreary trickling of\nthe inane masquerading as wit. Yet she smiled at him.\n\n'You're saucy,' she said. 'You're my fancy to-night.'\n\nA shadow passed over the man's face. Then again he was rattling along.\n\n'Talk of inventions? What'd you think of mine: indiarubber books to read\nin your bath? ha! ha! . . .'\n\nBut these are only the moths that flutter round the lamp, too far off to\nburn their wings. They love to breathe perfume, to touch soft hands,\ngaze at bright eyes and golden hair; then they flutter away, and the\nhand that would stay their flight cannot rob them even of a few specks\nof golden dust. In a few minutes Victoria sat philosophically before\nher empty glass while Fascination Fledgeby was by the side of a rival,\nbeing 'an awful dog,' for the benefit of his fellow clerks on the\nmorrow. She was in the mood when it did not matter whether she was\nunlucky or not. There were quite two women present for every man this\nhot August night. At the next table sat a woman known as 'Duckie,' fair,\nvery fat and rosy; she was the vision bursting from a white dress which\nVictoria had seen the first night. On the first night she had embodied\nfor Victoria--so large, so fat, so coarsely animal was she--the very\nessence of her trade; now she knew her better she found that Duckie was\na good sort, careless, generous, perfectly incapable of doing anybody an\nill turn. She was _bonne fille_ even, so unmercenary as sometimes to\naccede good humouredly to the pleadings of an impecunious youth. Her one\nfailing was a fondness for 'a wet.' She was drinking her third whisky\nand soda; if she was invited to supper she would add to that at least\nhalf a bottle of champagne, follow that up by a couple of liqueurs and a\npeg just before going to bed. She carried her liquor well; she merely\ngrew a little vague.\n\n'Hot,' remarked Duckie.\n\n'Rather,' said Victoria. 'I'm going soon, can't stick it.'\n\n'Good for you. I've got to stay. Always harder for grandmas like me when\nthe fifth form boy's at the seaside.' Duckie laughed, without cynicism\nthough; she had the reasoning powers of a cow.\n\nVictoria laughed too. A foreign-looking girl in scarlet bent over from\nthe next table, her long coral earrings sliding down over her\ncollar-bones.\n\n'Tight again,' said the girl.\n\n'As a drum, Lissa, old girl!' said Duckie good temperedly.\n\n'Nothing to what you'll be by and by,' added Lissa with the air of a\ncomforter.\n\n'Nothing like, old dear! Have one with me, Lissa? No? No offence. You,\nZoe, have a _tord boyaux_?'\n\n'No thanks.' Zoe was a good-looking short girl; her French nationality\nwritten in every line of her round face, plump figure, and hands. Her\nhair was pulled away from the fat nape of her neck. She looked competent\nand wide awake. A housewife gone astray. Lissa, dark and Italian looking\nin her red dress and coral earrings, was more languid than the others.\nShe was really a Greek, and all the grace of the East was in every\nmovement of her slim figure. In a moment the four women had clustered\ntogether, forgetting strife.\n\nLissa had had a 'Bank of Engraving' note palmed off on her by a\npseudo-South American planter, and was rightly indignant. They were\nstill talking of Camille de Valenciennes and of her misfortunes with the\nbarber. Boys, the latest tip for Gatwick, 'what I said to him,' the\nfurriers' sales, boys again . . . Victoria listened to the conversation.\nIt still seemed like another world and yet her world. Here they were,\nshe and the other atoms, hostile every one, and a blind centripetal\nforce was kneading them together into a class. Yet any class was better\nthan the isolation in which she lived. Why not go further, hear more?\n\n'I say, you girls,' she said suddenly, 'you've never been to my place.\nCome and . . . no, not dine, it won't work . . . come and lunch with me\nnext week.'\n\nDuckie smiled heavily.\n\n'I don' min',' she said thickly.\n\nZoe looked suspicious for a moment.\n\n'Can I bring Fritz?' asked Lissa.\n\n'No, we can't have Fritz,' said Victoria smiling. 'Ladies only.'\n\n'I'm on,' said Zoe suddenly. 'I was afraid you were going to have a lot\nof swells in. Hate those shows. Never do you any good and you get so\ncrumpled.'\n\n'You might let me bring Fritz,' said Lissa querulously.\n\n'No men,' said Victoria firmly. 'Wednesday at one o'clock. All square?'\n\n'Thatawright,' remarked Duckie. 'Shut it Lissa. Fritzawright. Tellm its\nbiz . . . bizness.'\n\nWith some difficulty they hoisted Duckie into a cab and sent her off to\nBloomsbury. As it drove off she popped her head out.\n\n'Carriage paid,' she spluttered, 'or C. O. D.?'\n\nZoe and Lissa walked away to the circus. On her little hall table, as\nVictoria went into her house, she found a note scrawled in pencil on\nsome of her own notepaper. It was from Betty. It said that Farwell had\nbeen stricken down by a sudden illness and was sinking fast. His address\nfollowed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nIN a bed sitting-room at the top of an old house off the Waterloo Road\nthree women were watching by the bedside of a man. One was dressed in\nrusty black; she was pale faced, crowned with light hair; the other,\nshifting uneasily from one foot to the other, was middle-aged and very\nstout; her breast rolled like a billow in her half buttoned bodice. The\nthird was beautiful, all in black, her sumptuous neck and shoulders\nbare. None of them moved for a moment. Then the beautiful woman threw\nback her cloak and her long jade earrings tinkled. The face on the\npillow turned and opened its eyes.\n\n'Victoria,' said a faint voice.\n\n'Yes . . . are you better?' Victoria bent over the bed. The face was\ncopper ; every bone seemed to start out. She could hardly\nrecognise Farwell's rough hewn features.\n\n'Not yet . . . soon,' said Farwell. He closed his eyes once more.\n\n'What is it, Betty?' whispered Victoria.\n\n'I don't know . . . hemorrhage they say.'\n\n'It's all up mum,' whispered the landlady in Victoria's ear. 'Been ill\ntwo days only. Doctor said he wouldn't come again.'\n\nVictoria bent over the bed once more. She could feel the eyes of the\nlandlady probing her personality.\n\n'Can't you do something?' she asked savagely.\n\n'Nothing.' Farwell opened his eyes again and faintly smiled. 'And what's\nthe good, Victoria?'\n\nVictoria threw herself on her knees by the side of the bed. 'Oh, you\nmusn't!' she whispered. 'You . . . the world can't spare you!'\n\n'Oh, yes . . . it can . . . you know . . . the world is like men . . .\nit spends everything on luxuries . . . it can't afford necessaries.'\n\nVictoria smiled and felt as if she were going to choke. The last\nparadox.\n\n'Are you in pain?' she asked.\n\n'No, not just now. . . . I shall be, soon. Let me speak while I can.'\nHis voice grew firmer suddenly.\n\n'I have asked you to come so that you may be the last thing I see; you,\nthe fairest. I love you.'\n\nNot one of the three women moved.\n\n'I have not spoken before, because when I could speak we were slaves.\nNow you are free and I a slave. It is too late, so it is time for me to\nspeak. For I cannot influence you.'\n\nFarwell shut his eyes. But soon his voice rose again.\n\n'You must never influence anybody. That is my legacy to you. You cannot\nteach men to stand by giving them a staff. Let the halt and the lame\nalone. The strong will win. You must be free. There is nothing worth\nwhile. . . .' A shiver passed over him, his voice became muffled.\n\n'No, nothing at all . . . freedom only. . . .'\n\nHe spoke quicker. The words could not be distinguished. Now and then he\ngroaned.\n\n'Wait,' whispered Betty, 'it will be over in a minute.' For two minutes\nthey waited.\n\nVictoria's eyes fastened on a basin by the bedside, full of reddish\nwater. Then Farwell's face grew lighter in tone. His voice came faint as\nthe sound of a spinet.\n\n'There will be better times. But before then fighting . . . the coming\nto the top of the leaders . . . gold will be taken from the rich . . .\ngiven to the vile . . . pictures burnt . . . chaos . . . woman rise as\na tyrant . . . there will be fighting . . . the coming to the top. . ..'\nHis voice thinned down to nothing as his wandering mind repeated his\nprediction. Then he spoke again.\n\n'You are a rebel . . . you will lead . . . you have understood . . .\nonly by understanding are you saved. I asked you to come here to tell\nyou to go on . . . earn your freedom . . . at the expense of others.'\n\n'Why at the expense of others?' asked Betty, leaning over the bed.\nFarwell was hypnotising her. His eyes wandered to her face.\n\n'Too late . . .' he said, 'you do not see . . . you are a slave . . . a\nwoman has only one weapon . . . otherwise, a slave . . . ask . . . ask\nVictoria.' He closed his eyes but went on speaking.\n\n'There is not freedom for everybody . . . capitalism means freedom for a\nfew . . . you must have freedom, like food . . . food for the soul . . .\nyou must capture the right to respect . . . a woman may not toil . . .\nmake money . . .'\n\nThen again. 'I am going into the blackness . . . before Death . . . the\nJudge . . . Death will judge me. . . .'\n\n''E's thinking of his Maker, poor genelman,' said the landlady hoarsely.\n\nVictoria and Betty looked at one another. Agnostic or indifferent in\ntheir cooler moments, the superstition of their ancestors worked in\ntheir blood, powerfully assisted by the spectacle of this being passing\nstep by step into an unknown. There must be life there, feeling, loving.\nThere must be Something.\n\nThe voice stopped. Betty had seized Victoria's arm and now clutched it\nviolently. Victoria could feel through her own body the shudders that\nshook the girl's frame. Then Farwell's voice rose again, louder and\nlouder, like the upward flicker of a dying candle.\n\n'Yes, freedom's my message, the right to live. This world into which we\nare evolved by a selfish act of joy, into which we are dragged unwilling\nwith pain for our usher, it is a world which has no justification save\nthe freedom to enjoy it as we may. I have lived a stoic, but it is a\nhedonist I die. Unshepherded I go into a perhaps. But I regret nothing\n. . . all the certainties of the past are not worth the possible of the\nfuture. Behind me others tread the road that leads up the hill.'\n\nHe paused for breath. Then again his voice arose as a cry, proclaiming\nhis creed.\n\n'On the top of the hill. There I see the unknown land, running with milk\nand honey. I see a new people; beautiful young, beautiful old. Its\nfathers have ground the faces of the helots; they have fought and\nlusted, they have suffered contumely and stripes. Now they know the Law,\nthe Law that all may keep because they are beyond the Law. They do not\ndesire, for they have, they do not weigh, for they know. They have not\nfeared, they have dared; they have spared no man, nor themselves. Ah!\nnow they have opened the Golden Gates. . . .'\n\nThe man's voice broke, he coughed, a thin stream of blood trickled from\nthe side of his mouth. Victoria felt a film come over her eyes. She\nleant over him to staunch the flow. They saw one another then. Farwell's\nvoice went down to a whisper.\n\n'Victoria . . . victorious . . . my love . . . never more. . . .'\n\nShe looked into his glazing eyes.\n\n'Beyond . . .' he whispered; then his head fell to one side and his jaw\ndropped.\n\nBetty turned away. She was crying. The landlady wiped her hands on her\napron. Victoria hesitatingly took hold of Farwell's wrist. He was dead.\nShe looked at him stupidly for a moment, then drew her cloak round her\nshivering shoulders. The landlady too was crying now.\n\n'Oh, mum, sich a nice genelman,' she moaned. 'But 'e did go on so!'\n\nVictoria smiled pitifully. What an epitaph for a sunset! She drove away\nwith Betty and, as the horse trotted through the deserted streets,\nhugged the girl in her arms. Betty was shuddering violently, and nestled\nclose up to her. They did not speak. Everything seemed to have become\nloose in Victoria's mind and to be floating on a black sea. The pillar\nof her individualism was down. Her codes were in the melting pot; a man,\nthe finest she had known, had confessed his love in his extremity, and\nbefore she could respond passed into the shadow. But Farwell had left\nher as a legacy the love of freedom for which he died, for which she was\ngoing to live.\n\nWhen they arrived at Elm Tree Place, Victoria forced Betty to drink some\nbrandy, to tell her how Farwell had sent her a message, asking her to\nsend him Victoria, how she had waited for her.\n\n'Oh, it was awful,' whispered Betty, 'the maid said you'd be late . . .\nshe said I mustn't wait because you might not . . .'\n\n'Not come home alone?' said Victoria in a frozen voice.\n\n'Oh, I can't bear it, I can't bear it.' Betty flung herself into her\nfriend's arms, wildly weeping.\n\nVictoria soothed her, made her undress. As Betty grew more collected she\nlet drop a few words.\n\n'Oh, so then you too are happy?' said Victoria smiling faintly.\n\n'You love?' A burning blush rose over Betty's face.\n\nThat night, as in the old Finsbury days, they lay in one another's arms\nand Victoria grappled with her sorrow. Gentle, almost motherly, she\nwatched over this young life; blushing, full of promise, preparing\nalready to replace the dead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nTHE death of Farwell seemed to leave Victoria struggling and gasping for\nbreath, like a shipwrecked mariner who tries to secure his footing on\nshifting sand while waves knock him down every time he rises to his\nknees. Though she hardly ever saw him and though she had no precise idea\nthat he cared for her more than does the scientist for the bacteria he\nobserves, he had been her tower of strength. He was there, like the\ninstitutions which make up civilisation, the British Constitution, the\nBank and the Established Church. Now he was gone and she saw that the\ntemple of life was empty. He was the last link. Cairns's death had\nturned her out among the howling wolves; now Farwell seemed to have\ncarried away with him her theory of life. Above all, she now knew\nnobody; save Betty, who counted as a charming child. It was then she\nbegan to taste more cruelly the isolation of her class.\n\nIn the early days, when she paced up and down fiercely in the room at\nPortsea Place, she had already realised that she was alone, but then she\nwas not an outcast; the doors of society were, if not open, at any rate\nnot locked against her. Then the busy hum of the Rosebud and the P.R.R.,\nthe back-breaking work, the hustle, the facile friendships with City\nbeaus--all this had drawn a veil over her solitude. Now she was really\nalone because none knew and none would know her. Her beauty, her fine\nclothes, contributed to clear round her a circle as if she were a\nleper. At times she would talk to a woman in a park, but before a few\nsentences had passed her lips the woman would take in every detail of\nher, her clean gloves, her neat shoes, her lace handkerchief, her costly\nveil; then the woman's face would grow rigid, and with a curt 'good\nmorning' she would rise from her seat and go.\n\nVictoria found herself thrust back, like the trapper in the hands of Red\nIndians; like him she ran in a circle, clubbed back towards the centre\nevery time she tried to escape. She was of her class, and none but her\nclass would associate with her. Women such as herself gladly talked to\nher, but their ideas sickened her, for life had taught them nothing but\nthe ethics of the sex-trade. Their followers too--barbers, billiard\nmarkers, shady bookmakers, unemployed potmen; who sometimes dared to\nfoist themselves on her--filled her with yet greater fear and disgust,\nfor they were the only class of man alternative to those on whose bounty\nshe lived. Thus she withdrew herself away from all; sometimes a craving\nfor society would throw her into equivocal converse with Augusta, whose\none idea was the dowry she must take back to Germany. Then, tiring of\nher, she would snatch up Snoo and Poo and pace round and round her tiny\nlawn like a squirrel in its wheel.\n\nA chance meeting with Molly emphasised her isolation, like the flash of\nlightning which leaves the night darker. She was standing on the steps\nof the Sandringham Tea House in Bond Street, looking into the side\nwindow of the photographer who runs a print shop on the ground floor.\nSome sprawling Boucher beauties in delicate gold frames fascinated her.\nShe delighted in the semi-crude, semi-sophisticated atmosphere, the\nrotundity of the well-fed bodies, their ribald rosy flesh. As she was\nwondering whether they would not do for the stairs the door opened\nsuddenly and a plump little woman almost rushed into her arms. The\nlittle woman apologised, giving her a quick look. Then the two looked at\none another again.\n\n'Victoria!' cried Molly, for it was she, with her wide open blue eyes,\nsmall nose, fair frizzy hair.\n\nA thrill of joy and fear ran through Victoria. She felt her personality\ncriddle up like a scorched moth, then expand like a flower under gentle\ndew. She was found out; the terrible female instinct was going to detect\nher, then to proclaim her guilt. However, bravely enough, she braced\nherself up and held out her hand.\n\n'Oh, Vic, why haven't you written to me for, let me see, three years,\nisn't it?'\n\n'I've been away, abroad,' said Victoria slowly. She seemed to float in\nanother world. Molly was talking vigorously; Victoria's brain,\nfeverishly active, was making up the story which would have to be told\nwhen Molly's cheerful egotism had had its way.\n\n'Don't let's stay here on the doorstep,' she interrupted, 'let's go\nupstairs and have tea. You haven't had tea yet?'\n\n'I should love to,' said Molly, squeezing her arm. 'Then you can tell me\nabout yourself.'\n\nSeated at a little table Molly finished her simple story. She had\nmarried an army chaplain, but he had given up his work in India and was\nnow rector of Pontyberis in Wales. They had two children. Molly was up\nin town merely to break the journey, as she was going down to stay with\nher aunt in Kent. Oh, yes, she was very happy, her husband was very\nwell.\n\n'They're talking of making him Dean of Ffwr,' she added with unction.\n'But that's enough about me. How have you been getting on, Vic? I\nneedn't ask how you are; one only has to look at you.' Molly's eyes\nroved over her friend's beautiful young face, her clothes which she\nappraised with the skill of those poor who are learned in the fashions.\n\n'I? Oh, I'm very well,' said Victoria hysterically.\n\n'Yes, but how have you been getting on? Weren't you talking about having\nto work when you came over?'\n\n'Yes, but I've been lucky . . . a week after I got here an aunt of my\nmother's died of whom I never even heard before. They told me at Dick's\nlawyers a month later, and you wouldn't believe it, there was no will\nand I came in for . . . well something quite comfortable.'\n\nMolly put out her hand and stroked Victoria's.\n\n'I'm so glad,' she said. . . . 'Oh, you don't know how hard it is to\nhave to work for your living. I see something of it in Wales. Oh, if you\nonly knew. . . .'\n\nVictoria pressed her lips together, as if about to cry or laugh.\n\n'But what did you do then? You only wrote once. You didn't tell me?'\n\n'No, I only heard a month after, you know. Oh, I had a lot to do. I\ntravelled a lot. I've been in America a good deal. In fact my home is in\n. . . Alabama.' She plunged for Alabama, feeling sure that New York was\nunsafe.\n\n'Oh, how nice,' said Molly ingenuously. 'You might have sent me picture\npostcards, you know.'\n\nSkilfully enough Victoria explained that she had lost Molly's address.\nHer friend blissfully accepted all she said, but a few other women less\ningenuous than the clergyman's wife were casting sharp glances at her.\nWhen they parted, Victoria audaciously giving her address as 'care of\nMrs Ferris, Elm Tree Place,' she threw herself back on the cushions of\nthe cab and told herself that she could not again go through with the\nordeal of facing her own class. She almost hungered for the morrow, when\nshe was to entertain the class she had adopted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nTHE Fulton household had always been short of money, for Dick spent too\nmuch himself to leave anything for entertaining; thus Victoria had very\nlittle experience of lunch parties. Since she had left the Holts she\nhardly remembered a bourgeois meal. The little affair on the Wednesday\nwas therefore provocative of much thought. Mutton was dismissed as\ncommon, beef in any form as coarse; Laura's suggestion (for Laura and\nAugusta had been called in) of a savoury sauerkraut ('mit Blutwurst,\nFrankfurter, Leberwurst, etc.'), was also dismissed. Both servants took\na keen interest in the occasion.\n\n'But why no gentleman come?' asked Laura, who was clearly ill-disposed\nto do her best for her own sex.\n\n'In the house I was . . .' began Augusta . . . then she froze up under\nVictoria's eye. Her mistress still had a strain of the prig in her.\n\nThen Augusta suggested hors d'oeuvres, smoked salmon, anchovies,\nolives, radishes; Laura forced forward fowl _a la Milanaise_ to be\npreceded by baked John Dory cayenne. Then Augusta in a moment of\ninspiration thought of French beans and vegetable marrow . . . stuffed\nwith chestnuts. The three women laughed, Laura clapped her hands with\nthe sheer joy of the creative artist.\n\nWhen Victoria came into the dining-room at half-past twelve she was\nalmost dazzled by her own magnificence. Neither the Carlton nor the\nSavoy could equal the blaze of her plate, the brilliant polish of her\ntablecloths. The dahlias blazed dark red in cut glass by the side of\npale belated roses from the garden. On the sideboard fat peaches were\nheaped in a modern Lowestoft bowl, and amber- plums lay like\nportly dowagers in velvet.\n\nA few minutes before the hour Zoe and Lissa arrived together. They were\nnervous; not on account of Victoria's spread, for they were of the upper\nstratum, but because they were in a house. Accustomed to their small\nflats off Shaftesbury Avenue, where tiny kitchens jostled with bedroom\nand boudoir, they were frightened by the suggestion of a vast basement\nout of which floated the savoury aroma of the John Dory baking. Victoria\ntried to put them at their ease, took their parasols away and showed\nthem into the boudoir. There they sat in a triangle, the hot sun blazing\nin upon them, stiff and starched with the formality of those who are\nseldom formal.\n\n'Have a Manhattan cocktail?' asked the hostess.\n\n'No thanks; very hot, isn't it?' said Lissa in her most refined manner.\nShe was looking very pretty, dark, slim and snaky in her close-fitting\nlemon  frock.\n\n'Very hot,' chimed in Zoe. She was sitting unnecessarily erect. Her flat\nFrench back seemed to abhor the easy chair. Her tight hair, her trim\nhands, her well boned collar, everything breathed neatness, well laced\nstays, a full complement of hooks and eyes. She might have been the\nsedate wife of a prosperous French tradesman.\n\n'Yes, it is hot,' said Victoria.\n\nThen the conversation flagged. The hostess tried to draw out her guests.\nThey were obviously anxious to behave. Lissa posed for 'The Sketch,' Zoe\nremained _tres correcte_.\n\n'Do you like my pictures?' asked Victoria pointing to the French\nengravings.\n\n'They are very pretty,' said Lissa.\n\n'I am very interested in engravings,' said Zoe, looking at the rosewood\nclock. There was a longish pause.\n\n'I must show you my little dogs,' cried Victoria. She must do something.\nShe went out to the landing and opened the garden door. There she met\nAugusta carrying a trayful of finger bowls. She felt inspired to\noverturn it if only to break the ice. Snoo and Poo rushed in, but in the\nboudoir they also instinctively became very well-bred.\n\n'I am very fond of dogs,' said Lissa. Snoo lay down on her back.\n\n'She is very pretty,' remarked Zoe.\n\nVictoria punched the dogs in the ribs, rolled them over. It was no good.\nThey would do nothing but gently wag their tails. She felt she would\nlike to swear, when suddenly the front door was slammed, a cheerful\nvoice rang in the hall.\n\n'Hulloa, here's Duckie,' said Lissa.\n\nThe door opened loudly and Duckie seemed to rush in as if seated on a\nhigh wind.\n\n'Here we are again!' cried the buxom presence in white. Every one of her\nfrills rattled like metal. 'Late as usual. Oh, Vic, what angel pups!'\n\nDuckie was on her knees. In a moment she had stirred up the Pekingese.\nThey forgot their manners. They barked vociferously; and Zoe's starch\nwas taken out of her by Poo, who rushed under her skirts. Lissa laughed\nand jumped up.\n\n'Here Vic,' said Duckie ponderously, 'give us a hand, old girl. Never\ncan jump about after gin and bitters,' she added confidentially as they\nhelped her up.\n\nThe ice was effectually broken. They filed into the dining-room in\npairs, Victoria and Lissa being slim playing the part of men. How they\ngobbled up the hors d'oeuvres and how golden the John Dory was; the\nflanks of the fish shone like an old violin. Augusta flitted about\nquick but noisy. There was a smile on her face.\n\n'Steady on, old love,' said Duckie to her as the maid inadvertently\npoured her claret into a tumbler.\n\n'Never you mind, Gussie,' cried Zoe, bursting with familiarity, 'she'll\nbe having it in a bucket by and by.'\n\nAugusta laughed. What easy going _herrschaft_!\n\nThe talk was getting racier now. By the time they got to the dessert the\nmerriment was rather supper than lunch-like.\n\n'Victoria plums,' said Lissa, 'let us name them _Bonne Hotesse_.'\n\nThe idea was triumphant. Duckie insisted on drinking a toast in hock,\nfor she never hesitated to mix her wines. Victoria smiled at them\nindulgently. The youth of all this and the jollity, the ease of it; all\nthat was not of her old class.\n\n'Confusion to the puritans,' she cried, and drained her glass. Snoo and\nPoo were fighting for scraps, for Duckie was already getting uncertain\nin her aim. Lissa and Zoe, like nymphs teasing Bacchus, were pelting her\nwith plum stones, but she seemed quite unconscious of their pranks. They\nhad some difficulty in getting her into the boudoir for coffee and\nliqueurs; once on the sofa she tried to go to sleep. Her companions\nroused her, however; the scent of coffee, acrid and stimulating, stung\ntheir nostrils; the liqueurs shone wickedly, green and golden in their\nglass bottles; talk became more individual, more reminiscent. Here and\nthere a joke shot up like a rocket or stuck quivering in Duckie's placid\nflanks.\n\n'Well Vic,' said Zoe, 'you are very well _installee_.' She slowly\nemptied of cigarette smoke her expanded cheeks and surveyed the\ncomfortable little room.\n\n'Did you do it yourself?' asked Lissa. 'It must have cost you a lot of\nmoney.'\n\n'Oh, I didn't pay.' Victoria was either getting less reticent or the\nliqueur was playing her tricks. 'I began with a man who set me up\nhere,' she added; 'he was . . . he died suddenly' she went on more\ncautiously.\n\n'Oh!' Zoe's eyebrows shot up. 'That's what I call luck. But why do you\nnot have a flat? It is cheaper.'\n\n'Yes, but more inconvenient,' said Lissa. 'Ah, Vic. I do envy you. You\ndon't know. We're always in trouble. We are moving every month.'\n\n'But why?' asked Victoria. 'Why must you move?'\n\n'Turn you out. Neighbours talk and then the landlord's conscience begins\nto prick him,' grumbled Duckie from the sofa.\n\n'Oh, I see,' said Victoria. 'But when they turn you out what do you do?'\n\n'Go somewhere else, softy,' said Duckie.\n\n'But then what good does it do?'\n\nAll the women laughed.\n\n'Law, who cares?' said Duckie. 'I dunno.'\n\n'It is perfectly simple,' began Zoe in her precise foreign English. 'You\nsee the landlord he will not let flats to ladies. When the police began\nto watch it would cause him _des ennuis_. So he lets to a gentleman who\nsublets the flats, you see? When the trouble begins, he doesn't know.'\n\n'But what about the man who sublets?' asked the novice.\n\n'Him? Oh, he's gone when it begins,' said Lissa. 'But they arrest the\nhall porter.'\n\n'Justice must have its way, I see,' said Victoria.\n\n'What you call justice,' grumbled Duckie, 'I call it damned hard lines.'\n\nFor some minutes Victoria discussed the housing problem with the fat\njolly woman. Duckie was in a cheerful mood. One could hardly believe,\nwhen one looked at her puffy pink face, that she had seen fifteen years\nof trouble.\n\n'Landladies,' she soliloquised, 'it's worse. You take my tip Vic, you\nsteer clear of them. You pay as much for a pigsty as a man pays for a\npalace. If you do badly they chuck you out and stick to your traps and\nwhat can you do? You don't call a policeman. If you do well, they raise\nthe rent, steal your clothes, charge you key money, and don't give 'em\nany lip if you don't want a man set at you. Oh, Lor!'\n\nDuckie went on, and as she spoke her bluntness caused Victoria to\nvisualise scene after scene, one more horrible than another: a tall\ndingy house in Bloomsbury with unlit staircases leading up to black\nlandings suggestive of robbery and murder; bedrooms with blinded\nwindows, reeking with patchouli, with carpets soiled by a myriad ignoble\nstains. The house Duckie pictured was like a warren in every corner of\nwhich soft-handed, rosy-lipped harpies sucked men's life-blood; there\nwas drinking in it, and a piano played light airs; below in the ground\nfloor, through the half open door, she could see two or three\nforeigners, unshaven, dirty-cuffed, playing cards in silence like\nhunters in ambush. She shuddered.\n\n'Yes, but Fritz isn't so bad,' broke in Lissa. She had all this time\nbeen wrangling with Zoe.\n\n'No good,' snapped Zoe, 'he's a . . . a _bouche inutile_.' Her pursed-up\nlips tightened. Fritz was swept away to limbo by her practical French\nphilosophy.\n\n'I like him because he is not useful' said Lissa dreamily. Zoe shrugged\nher shoulders. Poor fool, this Lissa.\n\n'Who is this Fritz you're always talking about?' asked Victoria.\n\n'He's a . . . you know what they call them,' said Duckie brutally.\n\n'You're a liar,' screamed Lissa jumping up. 'He's . . . oh, Vic, you do\nnot understand. He's the man I care for; he is so handsome, so clever,\nso gentle . . .'\n\n'Very gentle,' sneered Zoe, 'why did you not take off your long gloves\nlast week, _hein_? Perhaps you had blue marks?'\n\nLissa looked about to cry. Victoria put her hand on her arm.\n\n'Never mind them,' she said, 'tell me.'\n\n'Oh, Vic, you are so good.' Lissa's face twitched, then she smiled like\na child bribed with a sweet. 'They do not know; they are hard. It is\ntrue, Fritz does not work, but if we were married he would work and I\nwould do nothing. What does it matter?' They all smiled at the theory,\nbut Lissa went on with heightened colour.\n\n'Oh, it is so good to forget all the others; they are so ugly, so\nstupid. It is infernal. And then, Fritz, the man that I love for himself\n. . .'\n\n'And who loves you for . . .' began Zoe.\n\n'Shut up, Zoe,' said Duckie, her kindly heart expanding before this\nidealism, 'leave the kid alone. Not in my line of course. You take my\ntip, all of you, you go on your own. Don't you get let in with a\nlandlady and don't you get let in with a man. It's _them_ you've got to\nlet in.'\n\n'That's what I say,' remarked Zoe. 'We are successful because we take\ncare. One must be economical. For instance, every month I can. . . .'\nShe stopped and looked round suspiciously; with economy goes distrust,\nand Zoe was very French. 'Well, I can manage,' she concluded vaguely.\n\n'And you need not talk, Duckie,' said Lissa savagely. 'You drink two\nquid's worth every week.'\n\n'Well, s'pose I do,' grumbled the cherub. 'Think I do it for pleasure?\nTell you what, if I hadn't got squiffy at the beginning I'd have gone\noff me bloomin' chump. I was in Buenos Ayres, went off with a waiter to\nget married. He was in a restaurant, Highgate way, where I was in\nservice. I found out all about it when I got there. O Lor! Why, we\njolly well _had_ to drink, what with those Argentines who're half\nmonkeys and the good of the house! Oh, Lor!' She smiled. 'Those were\nhigh old times,' she said inconsequently, overwhelmed by the glamour of\nthe past. There was silence.\n\n'I see,' said Victoria suddenly. 'I've never seen it before. If you want\nto get on, you've got to run on business lines. No ties, no men to bleed\nyou. Save your money. Don't drink; save your looks. Why, those are good\nrules for a bank cashier! If you trip, down you go in the mud and\nnobody'll pick you up. So you've got to walk warily, not look at\nanybody, play fair and play hard. Then you can get some cash together\nand then you're free.'\n\nThere was silence. Victoria had faced the problem too squarely for two\nof her guests. Lissa looked dreamily towards the garden, wondering where\nFritz was, whether she was wise in loving; Duckie, conscious of her\nheavy legs and incipient dropsy, blushed, then paled. Alone, Zoe, stiff\nand energetic like the determined business woman she was, wore on her\nlips the enigmatic smile born of a nice little sum in French three per\ncents.\n\n'I must be going,' said Duckie hoarsely. She levered herself off the\nsofa. Then, almost silently, the party broke up.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nLIFE pursued its even tenour; and Victoria, watching it go by, was\nreminded of the endless belt of a machine. The world machine went on\ngrinding, and every breath she took was grist thrown for ever into the\nintolerable mill. It was October again, and already the trees in the\ngarden were shedding fitful rains of glowing leaves. Alone the elder\ntree stood almost unchanged, a symbol of the everlasting. Now and then\nVictoria walked round the little lawn with Snoo and Poo, who were too\nshivery to chase the fat spiders. Often she stayed there for an hour,\none hand against a tree trunk, looking at nothing, bathed in the mauve\nlight of the dying year. Already the scents of decay, of wetness, filled\nthe little garden and struck cold when the sun went down.\n\nEvery day now Victoria felt her isolation more cruelly. Solitude was no\nlonger negative; it had materialised and had become a solid inimical\npresence. When the sun shone and she could walk the milky way of the\nstreets, alone but feeling with every sense the joy of living time,\nthere was not much to fear from solitude; there were things to look at,\nto touch, to smell. Now solitude no longer lurked round corners; at\ntimes a gust of wind carried its icy breath into her bones.\n\nShe was suffering, too, a little. She felt heavy in the legs, and a vein\nin her left calf hurt a little in the evening if she had walked or stood\nmuch. Soon, though it did not increase, the pain became her daily\ncompanion, for even when absent it haunted her. She would await a twinge\nfor a whole day, ready and fearful, bracing herself up against a shock\nwhich often found her unprepared. At all times too the obsession seemed\nto follow her now. Perhaps she was walking through Regent's Park,\nbuoyant and feeling capable of lifting a mountain, but the thought would\nrush upon her, perhaps it was going to hurt. She would lie awake too,\noblivious of the heavy breathing by her side, rested, all her senses\nasleep, and then though she felt no pain the fear of it would come upon\nher and she would wrestle with the thought that the blow was about to\nfall.\n\nSometimes she would go out into the streets, seeking variety even in a\nwrangle between her Pekingese and some other dog. This meant that she\nmust separate them, apologise to the owner, exchange perhaps a few\nwords. Once she achieved a conversation with an old lady, a kindly soul,\nthe mistress of a poodle. They walked together along the Canal, and the\nfutile conversation fell like balm on Victoria's ears. The freshness of\na voice ignorant of double meanings was soft as dew. They were to meet\nagain, but the old lady was a near neighbour and she must have heard\nsomething of Victoria's reputation, for when they met again opposite\nLord's, the old lady crossed over and the poodle followed her haughtily,\nleaving Snoo and Poo disconsolate and wondering on the edge of the\npavement.\n\nOne morning Augusta came into the boudoir about twelve, carrying a\nvisiting card on a little tray.\n\n'Miss Emma Welkin,' read Victoria. 'League of the Rights of Women. What\ndoes she want, Augusta?'\n\n'She says she wants to see Mrs Ferris, Mum.'\n\n'League of the Rights of Women? Why, she must be a suffragist.'\n\n'Yes, Mum. She wear a straw hat, Mum,' explained Augusta with a slight\nsniff.\n\n'And a tweed coat and skirt, I suppose,' said Victoria smiling.\n\n'Oh, yes, Mum. Shall I say go away?'\n\n'M'm. No, tell her to come in.'\n\nWhile Augusta was away Victoria settled herself in the cushions. Perhaps\nit might be interesting. The visitor was shown in.\n\n'How do you do?' said Victoria holding out her hand. 'Please sit down.\nExcuse my getting up, I'm not very well.'\n\nMiss Welkin looked about her, mildly surprised. It was a pretty room,\nbut somehow she felt uncomfortable. Victoria was looking at her. A\ncapable type of femininity this; curious, though, in its thick man-like\nclothes, its strong boots. She was not bad looking, thirty perhaps, very\nerect and rather flat. Her face was fresh, clean, innocent of powder;\nher eyes were steady behind glasses; her hair was mostly invisible,\nbeing tightly pulled back. There were firm lines about her mouth. A\nfighting animal.\n\n'I hope you'll excuse this intrusion,' said the suffragist, 'but I got\nyour name from the directory and I have come to . . . to ascertain your\nviews about the all-important question of the vote.' There was a queer\nstiltedness about the little speech. Miss Welkin was addressing the\nmeeting.\n\n'Oh? I'm very much interested,' said Victoria. 'Of course I don't know\nanything about it except what I read in the papers.'\n\nThe grey eyes glittered. Evangelic fervour radiated from them. 'That's\nwhat we want,' said the suffragist. 'It's just the people who are ready\nto be our friends who haven't heard our side and who get biassed. Mrs\nFerris, I'm sure you'll come in with us and join the Marylebone branch?'\n\n'But how can I?' asked Victoria. 'You see I know nothing about it all.'\n\n'Let me give you these pamphlets,' said the suffragist. Victoria\nobediently took a leaflet on the marriage law, a pamphlet on 'The Rights\nof Women,' a few more papers too, some of which slipped to the floor.\n\n'Thank you,' she said, 'but first of all tell me, why do you want the\nvote?'\n\nThe suffragist looked at her for a second. This might be a keen recruit\nwhen she was converted. Then a flood of words burst from her.\n\n'Oh, how can any woman ask, when she sees the misery, the subjection in\nwhich we live. We say that we want the vote because it is the only means\nwe have to attain economic freedom . . . we say to man: \"Put your weapon\nin our hands and we will show you what we can do.\" We want to have a\nvoice in the affairs of the country. We want to say how the taxes we pay\nshall be spent, how our children shall be educated, whether our sons\nshall go to war. We say it's wrong that we should be disfranchised\nbecause we are women . . . it is illogical . . . we must have it.'\n\nThe suffragist stopped for a second to regain breath.\n\n'I see,' said Victoria, 'but how is the vote going to help?'\n\n'Help,' echoed Miss Welkin. 'It will help because it will enable women\nto have a voice in national affairs.'\n\n'You must think me awfully stupid,' said Victoria sweetly, 'but what use\nwill it be to us if we do get a voice in national affairs?'\n\nMiss Welkin ignored the interruption.\n\n'It is wrong that we should not have a vote if we are reasonable beings;\nwe can be teachers, doctors, chemists, factory inspectors, business\nmanagers, writers; we can sit on local authorities, and we can't cast a\nvote for a member of Parliament. It's preposterous, it's . . .'\n\n'Yes, I understand, but what will the vote do for us? Will it raise\nwages?'\n\n'It must raise wages. Men's wages have risen a lot since they got the\nvote.'\n\n'Do you think that's because they got the vote?'\n\n'Yes. Well, partly. At any rate there are things above wages,' said the\nsuffragist excitedly. 'And you know, we know that the vote is wanted\nespecially because it is an education; by inducing women to take an\ninterest in politics we will broaden their minds, teach them to combine\nand then automatically their wages will rise.'\n\n'Oh, yes.' Victoria was rather struck by the argument. 'Then,' she said,\n'you admit men are superior to women?'\n\n'Well, yes, at any rate at present,' said the suffragist rather sulkily.\n'But you must remember that men have had nearly eighty years training in\npolitical affairs. That's why we want the vote; to wake women up. Oh,\nyou have no idea what it will mean when we get it. We shall have fresh\nminds bearing on political problems, we shall have more adequate\nprotection for women and children, compulsory feeding, endowment of\nmothers, more education, shorter hours, more sanitary inspection. We\nshall not be enslaved by parties; a nobler influence, the influence of\npure women will breathe an atmosphere of virtue into this terrible\nworld.'\n\nThe woman's eyes were rapt now, her hands tightly clenched, her lips\nparted, her cheeks a little flushed. But Victoria's face had hardened\nsuddenly.\n\n'Miss Welkin,' she said quietly, 'has anything struck you about this\nhouse, about me?'\n\nThe suffragist looked at her uneasily.\n\n'You ought to know whom you are talking to,' Victoria went on, 'I am a\n. . . I am a what you would probably call . . . well, not respectable.'\n\nA dull red flush spread over Miss Welkin's face, from the line of her\ntightly pulled hair to her stiff white collar; even her ears went red.\nShe looked away into a corner.\n\n'You see,' said Victoria, 'it's a shock, isn't it? I ought not to have\nlet you in. It wasn't quite fair, was it?'\n\n'Oh, it isn't that, Mrs Ferris,' burst out the suffragist, 'I'm not\nthinking of myself. . . .'\n\n'Excuse me, you must. You can't help it. If you could construct a scale\nwith the maximum of egotism at one end, and the maximum of altruism at\nthe other and divide it, say into one hundred degrees, you would not, I\nthink, place your noblest thinkers more than a degree or two beyond the\negotistic zero. Now you, a pure girl, have been entrapped into the house\nof a woman of no reputation, whom you would not have in your\ndrawing-room. Now, would you?'\n\nMiss Welkin was silent for a moment; the flush was dying away as she\ngazed round eyed at this beautiful woman lying in her piled cushions,\ntalking like a mathematician.\n\n'I haven't come here to ask you into my drawing-room,' she answered. 'I\nhave come to ask you to throw in your labour, your time, your money,\nwith ours in the service of our cause.' She held her head higher as the\nthought rose in her like wine. 'Our cause,' she continued, 'is not the\ncause of rich women or poor women, of good women or bad; it's the cause\nof woman. Thus, it doesn't matter who she is, so long as there is a\nwoman who stands aloof from us there is still work to do.'\n\nVictoria looked at her interestedly. Her eyes were shining, her lips\nparted in ecstasy.\n\n'Oh, I know what you think,' the suffragist went on; 'as you say, you\nthink I despise you because you . . . you. . . .' The flush returned\nslightly. . . . 'But I know that yours is not a happy life and we are\nbringing the light.'\n\n'The light!' echoed Victoria bitterly. 'You have no idea, I see, of how\nmany people there are who are bringing the light to women like me. There\nare various religious organisations who wish to rescue us and to house\nus comfortably under the patronage of the police, to keep us nicely and\nfeed us on what is suitable for the fallen; they expect us to sew ten\nhours a day for these privileges, but that is by the way. There are also\nmany kindly souls who offer little jobs as charwomen to those of us who\nare too worn out to pursue our calling; we are offered emigration as\nservants in exchange for the power of commanding a household; we are\noffered poverty for luxury, service for domination, slavery to women\ninstead of slavery to men. How tempting it is! And now here is the light\nin another form: the right to drop a bit of paper into a box every four\nyears or so and settle thereby whether the Home Secretary who\nadministers the law of my trade shall live in fear of buff prejudice or\nblue.'\n\nThe suffragist said nothing for a second. She felt shaken by Victoria's\nbitterness.\n\n'Women will have no party,' she said lamely, 'they will vote as women.'\n\n'Oh? I have heard somewhere that the danger of giving women the vote is\nthat they will vote solid \"as women,\" as you say and swamp the men. Is\nthat so?'\n\n'No, I'm afraid not,' said the suffragist unguardedly, 'of course women\nwill split up into political parties.'\n\n'Indeed? Then where is this woman vote which is going to remould the\nworld? It is swamped in the ordinary parties.'\n\nThe suffragist was in a dilemma.\n\n'You forget,' she answered, wriggling on the horns, 'that women can\nalways be aroused for a noble cause. . . .'\n\n'Am I a noble cause?' asked Victoria, smiling. 'So far as I can see\nwomen, even the highest of them, despise us because we do illegally\nwhat they do legally, hate us because we attract, envy us because we\nshine. I have often thought that if Christ had said, \"Let her who hath\nnever sinned . . .\" the woman would have been stoned. What do you\nthink?'\n\nThe suffragist hesitated, cleared her throat.\n\n'That will all go when we have the vote, women will be a force, a nobler\nforce; they will realise . . . they will sympathise more . . . then they\nwill cast their vote for women.'\n\nVictoria shook her head.\n\n'Miss Welkin,' she said, 'you are an idealist. Now, will you ask me to\nyour next meeting if you are satisfied as to my views, announce me for\nwhat I am and introduce me to your committee?'\n\n'I don't see . . . I don't think,' stammered the suffragist, 'you see\nsome of our committee. . . .'\n\nVictoria laughed.\n\n'You see. Never mind. I assure you I wouldn't go. But, tell me,\nsupposing women get the vote, most of my class will be disfranchised on\nthe present registration law. What will you women do for us?'\n\nThe suffragist thought for a minute.\n\n'We shall raise the condition of women,' she said. 'We shall give them a\nnew status, increase the respect of men for them, increase their respect\nfor themselves; besides, it will raise wages and that will help. We\nshall . . . we shall have better means of reform too.'\n\n'What means?'\n\n'When women have more sympathy.'\n\n'Votes don't mean sympathy.'\n\n'Well, intelligence then. Oh, Mrs Ferris, it's not that that matters;\nwe're going to the root of it. We're going to make women equal to men,\ngive them the same opportunities, the same rights. . . .'\n\n'Yes, but will the vote increase their muscles? will it make them more\nlogical, fitter to earn their living?'\n\n'Of course it will,' said Miss Welkin acidly.\n\n'Then how do you explain that several millions of men earn less than\nthirty shillings a week, and that at times hundreds of thousands are\nunemployed?'\n\n'The vote does not mean everything,' said the suffragist reluctantly.\n'It will merely ensure that we rise like the men when we are fit.'\n\n'Well, Miss Welkin, I won't press that, but now, tell me, if women got\nthe vote to-morrow, what would it do for my class?'\n\n'It would raise. . . .'\n\n'No, no, we can't wait to be raised. We've got to live, and if you\n\"raise\" us we lose our means of livelihood. How are you going to get to\nthe root cause and lift us, not the next generation, at once out of the\nlower depths?'\n\nThe suffragist's face contracted.\n\n'Everything takes time,' she faltered. 'Just as I couldn't promise a\ncharwoman that her hours would go down and her wages go up next day, I\ncan't say that . . . of course your case is more difficult than any\nother, because . . . because. . . .'\n\n'Because,' said Victoria coldly, 'I represent a social necessity. So\nlong as your economic system is such that there is not work for the\nasking for every human being--work, mark you, fitted to strength and\nability--so long on the other hand as there is such uncertainty as\nprevents men from marrying, so long as there is a leisured class who\ndraw luxury from the labour of other men; so long will my class endure\nas it endured in Athens, in Rome, in Alexandria, as it does now from St\nJohn's Wood to Pekin.'\n\nThere was a pause. Then Miss Welkin got up awkwardly. Victoria followed\nsuit.\n\n'There,' she said, 'you don't mind my being frank, do you? May I\nsubscribe this sovereign to the funds of the branch? I do believe you\nare right, you know, even though I'm not sure the millennium is\ncoming.'\n\nMiss Welkin looked doubtfully at the coin in her palm.\n\n'Don't refuse it,' said Victoria, smiling, 'after all, you know, in\npolitics there is no tainted money.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nVICTORIA lay back in bed, gazing at the blue silk wall. It was ten\no'clock, but still dark; not a sound disturbed dominical peace, except\nthe rain dripping from the trees, falling finally like the strokes of\ntime. Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the colour prints where the nude\nbeauties languished. She felt desperately tired, though she had not left\nthe house for thirty-six hours; her weariness was as much a consequence\nas a cause of her consciousness of defeat. October was wearing; and soon\nthe cruel winter would come and fix its fangs into the sole remaining\njoy of her life, the spectacle of life itself. She was desperately\ntired, full of hatred and disgust. If the face of a man rose before her\nshe thrust it back savagely into limbo; her legs hurt. The time had come\nwhen she must realise her failure. She was not, as once in the P. R. R.,\nin the last stage of exhaustion, hunted, tortured; she was rather the\nwounded bird crawling away to die in a thicket than the brute at bay.\n\nAs she lay, she realised that her failure had two aspects. It was\ntogether a monetary and a physical failure. The last three months had in\nthemselves been easy. Her working hours did not begin before seven\no'clock in the evening; and it was open to her, being young and\nbeautiful, to put them off for two or three hours more; she was always\nfree by twelve o'clock in the morning at the very latest, and then the\nday was hers to rest, to read and think. But she was still too much of\na novice to escape the excitement inherent in the chase, the strain of\nmaking conversation, of facing the inane; nor was she able without a\nmental effort to bring herself to the response of the simulator. As she\nsat in the Vesuvius or stared into the showcase of a Regent Street\njeweller, a faint smile upon her face, her brain was awake, her\nfaculties at high pressure. Her eyes roved right and left and every\nnerve seemed to dance with expectation or disappointment. When she got\nup now, she found her body heavy, her legs sore and all her being dull\nlike a worn stone. A little more, she felt, and the degradation of her\nbody would spread to her sweet lucidity of mind; she would no longer see\nultimate ends but would be engulfed in the present, become a bird of\nprey seeking hungrily pleasure or excitement.\n\nBesides, and this seemed more serious still, she was not doing well. It\nseemed more serious because this could not be fought as could be\nintellectual brutalisation. An examination of her pass books showed that\nshe was a little better off than at the time of Cairns's death. She was\nworth, all debts paid, about three hundred and ninety pounds. Her net\nsavings were therefore at the rate of about a hundred and fifty a year;\nbut she had been wonderfully lucky, and nothing said that age, illness\nor such misadventures as she classed under professional risk, might not\nnullify her efforts in a week. There was wear and tear of clothes too:\nthe trousseau presented her by Cairns had been good throughout but some\nof the linen was beginning to show signs of wear; boots and shoes wanted\nrenewing; there were winter garments to buy and new furs.\n\n'I shall have stone martin,' she reflected. Then her mind ran\ncomplacently for a while on a picture of herself in stone martin; a pity\nshe couldn't run to sables. She brought herself back with a jerk to her\nconsideration of ways and means. The situation was really not brilliant.\nOf course she was extravagant in a way. Eighty-five pounds rent; thirty\npounds in rates and taxes, without counting income tax which might be\nanything, for she dared not protest; two servants--all that was too\nmuch. It was quite impossible to run the house under five hundred a\nyear, and clothes must run into an extra hundred.\n\n'I could give it up,' she thought. But the idea disappeared at once. A\nflat would be cheaper, but it meant unending difficulties; it was not\nfor nothing that Zoe, Lissa and Duckie envied her. And the rose-covered\npergola! Besides it would mean saving a hundred a year or so; and, from\nher point of view, even two hundred and fifty a year was not worth\nsaving. She was nearly twenty-eight, and could count on no more than\nbetween eight and twelve years of great attractiveness. This meant that,\nwith the best of luck, she could not hope to amass much more than three\nthousand pounds. And then? Weston-super-Mare and thirty years in a\nboarding-house?\n\nShe was still full of hesitation and doubt as she greeted Betty at\nlunch. This was a great Sunday treat for the gentle P. R. R. girl. When\nshe had taken off her coat and hat, she used to settle in an arm-chair\nwith an intimate feeling of peace and protection. This particular day\nBetty did not settle down as usual, though the cushions looked soft and\ntempting and a clear fire burned in the grate. Victoria watched her for\na moment. How exquisite and delicate this girl looked; tall, very slim\nand rounded. Betty had placed one hand on the mantelpiece, a small long\nhand rather coarsened at the finger tips, one foot on the fender. It was\na little foot, arched and neat in the cheap boot. She had bought new\nboots for the occasion; the middle of the raised sole was still white.\nHer face was a little flushed, her eyes darkened by the glow.\n\n'Well, Betty,' said her hostess suddenly, 'when's the wedding?'\n\n'Oh, Vic, I didn't say . . . how can you . . .' Her face had blushed a\ntell-tale red.\n\n'You didn't say,' laughed Victoria, 'of course you didn't say, shy bird!\nBut surely you don't think I don't know. You've met somebody in the City\nand you're frightfully in love with him. Now, honest, is there anybody?'\n\n'Yes . . . there is, but . . .'\n\n'Of course there is. Now, Betty, tell me all about it.'\n\n'Oh, I couldn't,' said Betty, gazing into the fire. 'You see it isn't\nquite settled yet.'\n\n'Then tell me what you're going to settle. First of all, who is it?'\n\n'Nobody you know. I met him at . . . well he followed me in Finsbury\nCircus one evening. . . .'\n\n'Oh, naughty, naughty! You're getting on, Betty.'\n\n'You mustn't think I encouraged him,' said Betty with a tinge of\nasperity. 'I'm not that sort.' She stopped, remembering Victoria's\nprofession, then, inconsequently: 'You see, he wouldn't go away and\n. . . now. . . .'\n\n'And he was rather nice, wasn't he?'\n\n'Well, rather.' A faint and very sweet smile came over Betty's face.\nVictoria felt a little strangle in her throat. She too had thought her\nbold partner at the regimental dance at Lympton rather nice. Poor old\nDick.\n\n'Then he got out of me about the P. R. R.,' Betty went on more\nconfidently. 'And then, would you believe it, he came to lunch every\nday! Not that he was accustomed to lunch at places like that,' she added\ncomplacently.\n\n'Oh, a swell?' said Victoria.\n\n'No, I don't say that. He used to go to the Lethes, before they shut up.\nHe lives in the West End too, in Notting Hill, you know.'\n\n'Dear, dear, you're flying high, Betty. But tell me, what is he like?\nand what does he do? and is he very handsome?'\n\n'Oh, he's awfully handsome, Vic. Tall you know and very, very dark; he's\nso gentlemanly too, looks like the young man in _First Words of Love_.\nIt's a lovely picture, isn't it?'\n\n'Yes, lovely,' said Victoria summarily. 'But tell me more about him.'\n\n'He's twenty-eight. He works in the City. He's a ledger clerk at\nAnderson and Dromo's. If he gets a rise this Christmas, he . . . well,\nhe says . . .'\n\n'He says he'll marry you.'\n\n'Yes.' Betty hung her head, then raised it quickly. 'Oh, Vic, I can't\nbelieve it. It's too good to be true. I love him so dreadfully . . . I\njust can't wait for one o'clock. He didn't come on Wednesday. I thought\nhe'd forgotten me and I was going off my head. But it was all right,\nthey'd kept him in over something.'\n\n'Poor little girl,' said Victoria gently. 'It's hard isn't it, but good\ntoo.'\n\n'Good! Vic, when he kisses me I feel as if I were going to faint. He's\nstrong, you see. And when he puts his arms round me I feel like a mouse\nin a trap . . . but I don't want to get away: I want it to go on for\never, just like that.'\n\nShe paused for a moment as if listening to the first words of love. Then\nher mind took a practical turn.\n\n'Of course we shan't be able to live in Notting Hill,' she added. 'We'll\nhave to go further out, Shepherd's Bush way, so as to be on the Tube.\nAnd he says I shan't go to the P. R. R. any more.'\n\n'Happy girl,' said Victoria. 'I'm so glad, Betty; I hope . . .'\n\nShe restrained a doubt. 'And as you say you can't stay to tea I think I\nknow where you're going.'\n\n'Well, yes, I am going to meet him,' said Betty laughing.\n\n'Yes . . . and you're going to look at little houses at Shepherd's\nBush.'\n\nBetty looked up dreamily. She could see a two-storeyed house in a row,\nwith a bay window, and a front garden where, winter or summer, marigolds\ngrew.\n\nAfter lunch, as the two women sat once more in the boudoir, they said\nvery little. Victoria, from time to time, flicked the ash from her\ncigarette. Betty did not smoke, but, her hands clasped together in her\nlap, watched a handsome dark face in the coals.\n\n'And how are you getting on, Vic?' she asked suddenly. Swamped by the\nimpetuous tide of her own romance she had not as yet shown any interest\nin her friend's affairs.\n\n'I? Oh, nothing special. Pretty fair.'\n\n'But, I mean . . . you said you wanted to make a lot of money and . . .'\n\n'Yes, I'm not badly off, but I can't go on, Betty. I shall never do any\ngood like this.'\n\nBetty was silent for some minutes. Her ingrained modesty made any\ndiscussion of her friend's profession intolerable. Vanquished in\nargument, grudgingly accepting the logic of Victoria's actions, she\ncould not free her mind from the thought that these actions were\nrepulsive, that there must have been some other way.\n\n'Oh? You want to get out of it all . . . you know . . . I have never\nsaid you weren't quite right, but . . .'\n\n'But I'm quite wrong?'\n\n'No . . . I don't mean that . . . I don't like to say that . . . I'm not\nclever like you, Vic, but . . .'\n\n'We've done with all that,' said Victoria coldly. 'I do want to get out\nof it because it's getting me no nearer to what I want. I don't quite\nknow how to do it. I'm not very well, you know.'\n\nBetty looked up quickly with concern in her face.\n\n'Have those veins been troubling you again?'\n\n'Yes, a little. I can't risk much more.'\n\n'Then what are you going to do?'\n\nVictoria was silent for a moment.\n\n'I don't know,' she said. 'I never thought of all this when the Major\nwas alive.'\n\n'Ah, there never was anybody like him,' said Betty after a pause.\n\nVictoria sat up suddenly.\n\n'Betty,' she cried, 'you're giving me an idea.'\n\n'I? an idea?'\n\n'There must be somebody like him. Why shouldn't I find him?'\n\nBetty said nothing. She looked her stiffest, relishing but little the\nfathering upon her of this expedient.\n\n'But who?' soliloquised Victoria. 'I don't know anybody. You see Betty,\nI want lots and lots of money. Otherwise it's no good. If I don't make a\nlot soon it will be too late.'\n\nBetty still said nothing. Really she couldn't be expected. . . . Then\nher conscience smote her; she ought to show a little interest in dear,\nkind Vic.\n\n'Yes,' she said. 'But you must know lots of people. You never told me,\nbut you're a swell and all that. You must have known lots of rich men\nwhen you came to London.'\n\nShe stopped abruptly, shocked by her own audacity. But Victoria was no\nlonger noticing her; she was following with lightning speed a new train\nof thought.\n\n'Betty,' she cried, 'you've done it. I've found the man.'\n\n'Have you? Who is it,' exclaimed Betty. She was excited, unable in her\ndisapproval of the irregular to feel uninterested in the coming together\nof women and men.\n\n'Never mind. You don't know him. I'll tell you later.'\n\nAn extraordinary buoyancy seemed to pervade Victoria. The way out! she\nhad found the way out! And the two little words echoed in her brain as\nif some mighty wave of sound was rebounding from side to side in her\nskull. She was excited, so excited that, as she said goodbye to Betty,\nshe forgot to fix their next meeting. She had work to do and would do it\nthat very night.\n\nAs soon as Betty was gone she dressed quickly. Then she changed her hat\nto make sure she was looking her best. She went out and, with hurried\nsteps, made for the Finchley Road. There was the house with the\nevergreens, as well clipped as ever, and the drive with its clean\ngravel. She ran up the steps of the porch, then hesitated for a moment.\nHer heart was beating now. Then she rang. There was a very long pause\nduring which she heard nothing but the pumping of her heart. Then\ndistant shuffling footsteps coming nearer. The door opened. She saw a\nslatternly woman . . . behind her the void of an empty house. She could\nnot speak for emotion.\n\n'Did you want to see the house, mum,' asked the woman. She looked sour.\nSunday afternoon was hardly a time to view.\n\n'The house?'\n\n'Oh . . . I thought you come from Belfrey's, mum. It's to let.'\n\nThe caretaker nodded towards the right and Victoria, following the\ndirection, saw the house agents' board. Her excitement fell as under a\ncold douche.\n\n'Oh! I came to see . . . Do you know where Mr Holt is?'\n\n'Mr Holt's dead, mum. Died in August, mum.'\n\n'Dead.' Things seemed to go round. Jack was the only son . . . then?'\n\n'Yes, mum. That's why they're letting. A fine big 'ouse, mum. Died in\nAugust, mum. Ah, you should have seen the funeral. They say he left half\na million, mum, and there wasn't no will.'\n\n'Where is Mrs Holt and . . . and Mr Holt's son.'\n\nThe caretaker eyed the visitor suspiciously. There was something rakish\nabout this young lady which frightened her respectability.\n\n'I can't say, mum,' she answered slowly. 'I could forward a letter,\nmum,' she added.\n\n'Let me come in. I want to write a note.'\n\nThe caretaker hesitated for a moment, then stood aside to let her pass.\n\n'You'll 'ave to come downstairs mum,' she said, 'sorry I'm all mixed up.\nI was doing a bit of washing. Git away Maria,' to a small child who\nstood at the top of the stairs.\n\nIn the gaslit kitchen, surrounded by steaming linen, Victoria wrote a\nlittle feverish note in pencil. The caretaker watched her every\nmovement. She liked her better somehow.\n\n'I'll forward it all right, mum,' she said. 'Thank you mum. . . . Oh,\nmum, I don't want you to think--' She was looking amazedly at the half\nsovereign in her palm.\n\n'That's all right,' said Victoria, laughing loudly. She felt she must\nlaugh, dance, let herself go. 'Just post it before twelve.'\n\nThe woman saw her to the door. Then she looked at the letter doubtfully.\nIt was freshly sealed and could easily be opened. Then she had a burst\nof loyalty, put on a battered bonnet, completed the address, stamped the\nenvelope and, walking to the pillar box round the corner, played\nVictoria's trump card.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\n'AND so, Jack, you haven't forgotten me?'\n\nFor a minute Holt did not answer. He seemed spellbound by the woman on\nthe sofa. There she lay at full length, lazy grace in every curve of her\nfigure, in the lines of her limbs revealed by the thin sea-green stuff\nwhich moulded them. This new woman was a very wonderful thing.\n\n'No,' he said at length, 'but you have changed.'\n\n'Yes?'\n\n'You're different. You used to be simple, almost shy. I used to think\nyou very like a big white lily. Now you're like--like a big white\norchid--an orchid in a vase of jade.'\n\n'Poet! artist!' laughed Victoria. 'Ah, Jack, you'll always be the same.\nAlways thinking me good and the world beautiful.'\n\n'I'll always think you good and beautiful too.'\n\nVictoria looked at him. He had hardly changed at all. His tall thin\nframe had not expanded, his hands were still beautifully white and\nseemed as aristocratic as ever. Perhaps his mouth appeared weaker, his\neyes bluer, his face fairer owing to his black clothes.\n\n'I'm glad to see you again, Kathleen Mavourneen,' she said at length.\n\n'Why did you wait so long?' asked Holt. 'It was cruel, cruel. You know\nwhat I said--I would--'\n\n'No, no,' interrupted Victoria fearing an avowal. 'I couldn't. I've been\nthrough the mill. Oh, Jack, it was awful. I've been cold, hungry, ill;\nI've worked ten hours a day--I've swabbed floors.'\n\nA hot flush rose in Holt's fair cheeks.\n\n'Horrible,' he whispered, 'but why didn't you tell me? I'd have helped,\nyou know I would.'\n\n'Yes, I know, but it wouldn't have done. No, Jack, it's no good helping\nwomen. You can help men a bit; but women, no. You only make them more\ndependent, weaker. If women are the poor, frivolous, ignorant things\nthey are, it's because they've been protected or told they ought to want\nto be protected. Besides, I'm proud. I wasn't coming back to you until I\nwas--well I'm not exactly rich, but--'\n\nShe indicated the room with a nod and Holt, following it, sank deeper\ninto wonder at the room where everything spoke of culture and comfort.\n\n'But how--?' he stammered at last, 'how did you--? what happened then?'\n\nVictoria hesitated for a moment.\n\n'Don't ask me just now, Jack,' she said, 'I'll tell you later. Tell me\nabout yourself. What are you doing? and where is your mother?'\n\nHolt looked at her doubtfully. He would have liked to cross-question\nher, but he was the second generation of a rising family and had learned\nthat questions must not be pressed.\n\n'Mother?' he said vaguely. 'Oh, she's gone back to Rawsley. She never\nwas happy here. She went back as soon as pater died; she missed the tea\nfights, you know, and Bethlehem and all that.'\n\n'It must have been a shock to you when your father died.'\n\n'Yes, I suppose it was. The old man and I didn't exactly hit it off but,\nsomehow--those things make you realise--'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Victoria sympathetically. The similarity of deaths\namong the middle classes! Every woman in the regiment had told her that\n'these things make you realise' when Dicky died. 'But what about you?\nAre you still in--in cement?'\n\n'In cement!' Jack's lip curled. 'The day my father died I was out of\ncement. It's rather awful, you know, to think that my freedom depended\non his death.'\n\n'Oh, no, life depends on death,' said Victoria smoothly. 'Besides, we\nare members of one another; and when, like you, Jack, we are a minority,\nwe suffer.'\n\nHolt looked at her doubtfully. He did not quite understand her; she had\nhardened, he thought.\n\n'No,' he went on, 'I've done with the business. They turned it into a\nlimited liability company a month ago. I'm a director because the others\nsay they must have a Holt in it; but directors never do anything, you\nknow.'\n\n'And you are going to do like the charwoman, going to do nothing,\nnothing for ever?'\n\n'No, I don't say that. I've been writing--verses you know, and some\nsketches.'\n\n'Writing? You must be happy now, Jack. Of course you'll let me see them?\nAre they published?'\n\n'Yes. At least Amershams will bring out some sonnets of mine next\nmonth.'\n\n'And are you going to pass the rest of your life writing sonnets?'\n\n'No, of course not. I want to travel. I'll go South this winter and get\nsome local colour. I might write a novel.'\n\nHis head was thrown back on the cushion, looking out upon the blue\nsouthern sky, the bluer waters speckled as with foam by remote white\nsails.\n\n'You might give me a cigarette, Jack,' said Victoria. 'They're in that\nsilver box, there.'\n\nHe handed her the box and struck a match. As he held it for her his eyes\nfastened upon the shapely whiteness of her hands, her pink polished\nfinger nails, the roundness of her forearm. Soft feminine scents rose\nfrom her hair; he saw the dark tendrils over the nape of her neck. Oh,\nto bury his lips in that warm white neck! His hand trembled as he lit\nhis own cigarette and Victoria marked his heightened colour.\n\n'You'll come and see me often, Jack, won't you?'\n\n'May I? It's so good of you. I'm not going South for a couple of\nmonths.'\n\n'Yes, you can always telephone. You'll find me there under Mrs Ferris.'\n\nHolt looked at her once more.\n\n'I don't want you to think I'm prying. But, you wrote me saying I was to\nask for Mrs Ferris. I did, of course, but, you . . . you're not. . . .?'\n\n'Married? No, Jack. Don't ask me anything else. You shall know\neverything soon.'\n\nShe got up and stood for a moment beside his chair. His eyes were fixed\non her hands.\n\n'There,' she said, 'come along and let me shew you the house, and my\npictures, and my pack of hounds.'\n\nHe followed her obediently, giving its meed of praise to all her\npossessions. He did not care for animals; he lacked the generation of\nculture which leads from cement-making to a taste for dogs. The French\nengravings on the stairs surprised him a little. He had a strain of\npuritanism in him running straight from Bethlehem, which even the\nreading of Swinburne and Baudelaire had not quite eradicated. A vague\nsense of the fitness of things made him think that somehow these were\nnot the pictures a lady should hang; she might keep them in a portfolio.\nOtherwise, there were the servants. . . .\n\n'And what do you think of my bedroom?' asked Victoria opening the door\nsuddenly.\n\nHolt stood nervously on the threshold. He took in its details one by\none, the blue paper, the polished mahogany, the flowered chintzes, the\nlong glass, the lace curtains; it all looked so comfortable, so\nluxurious as to eclipse easily the rigidly good but ugly things he had\nbeen used to from birth onwards. He looked at the dressing table too,\ncovered with its many bottles and brushes; then he started slightly and\nagain a hot flush rose over his cheeks. With an effort he detached his\neyes from the horrid thing he saw.\n\n'Very pretty, very pretty,' he gasped. Without waiting for Victoria he\nturned and went downstairs.\n\nWithin the next week they met again. Jack took no notice of her for four\ndays, and then suddenly telephoned asking her to dine and to come to the\ntheatre. She was still in bed and she felt low-spirited, full of fear\nthat her trump would not make. She accepted with an alacrity that she\nregretted a minute later, but she was drowning and could not dally with\nthe lifebelt. Her preparation for the dinner was as elaborate as that\nwhich had heralded her capture of Cairns, far more elaborate than any\nshe made for the Vesuvius where insolent beauty is a greater asset than\nbeauty as such. This time she put on her mauve frock with the heavily\nembroidered silver shoulder straps; she wore little jewellery, merely a\nnecklet of chased old silver and amethysts, and a ring figuring a silver\nchimera with tiny diamond eyes. As she surveyed herself in the long\nglass, the holy calm which comes over the perfectly-dressed flowed into\nher soul like a river of honey. She was immaculate, and from her unlined\nwhite forehead to her jewel-buckled shoes she was beautiful in every\ndetail. Subtle scent followed her like a trainbearer.\n\nThe entire evening was a tribute. From the moment when Holt set eyes\nupon her and reluctantly withdrew them to direct the cabman, until they\ndrove back through the night, she was conscious of the wave of adulation\nthat broke at her feet. Men's eyes followed her every movement, drank\nin every rise and fall of her breast, strove to catch sight of her\nteeth, flashing white, ruby cased. Her progress through the dining hall\nand the stalls was imperial in its command. As she saw men turn to look\nat her again, women even grudgingly analyse her, as homage rose round\nher like incense, she felt frightened; for this seemed to be her\ntriumphant night, the zenith of her beauty and power, and perhaps its\nvery intensity showed that it was her swan song. She felt a pain in her\nleft leg.\n\nJack Holt passed that evening at her feet. A fearful exultation was upon\nhim. The neighbourhood of Victoria was magnetic; his heart, his senses,\nhis aesthetic sense were equally enslaved. She realised everything he had\ndreamed, beauty, culture, grace, gentle wit. It hurt him physically not\nto tell that he loved her still, that he wanted her, that she was\neverything. He revelled in the thought that he had found her again, that\nshe liked him, that he would see her whenever he wanted to, perhaps join\nhis life with hers; then fear gripped his uneven soul, fear that he was\nonly her toy, that now she was rich she would tire of him and cast him\ninto a world swept by the icy blasts of regret. And all through ran the\nhorribly suggestive memory of that which he had seen on the dressing\ntable.\n\nVictoria was conscious of all this storm, though unable to interpret its\nsqualls and its lulls. Without effort she played upon him; alternately\nencouraging the pretty youth, bending towards him to read his programme\nso that he could feel her breath on his cheek, and drawing up and\nbecoming absorbed in the play. In the darkness she felt his hand close\nover hers; gently but firmly she freed herself. As they drove back to St\nJohn's Wood they hardly exchanged a word. Victoria felt tired; for in\nthe dark, away from the crowds, the music, the admiration of her\nfellows, reaction had full play. Holt found he could say nothing, for\nevery nerve in his body was tense with excitement. A hundred words were\non his lips but he dared not breathe them for fear of breaking the\nspell.\n\n'Come in and have a whisky and soda before you go,' said Victoria in a\nmatter of fact tone as he opened the garden gate.\n\nHe could not resist. A wonderful feeling of intimacy overwhelmed him as\nhe watched her switch on the lights and bring out a decanter, a syphon\nand glasses. She put them on the table and motioned him towards it,\nplacing one foot on the fender to warm herself before the glowing\nembers. His eyes did not leave hers. There was a surge of blood in his\nhead. One of his hands fixed on her bare arm; with the other he drew her\ntowards him, crushed her against his breast; she lay unresisting in his\narms while he covered her lips, her neck, her shoulders, with hot\nkisses, some quick and passionate, others lingering, full of tenderness.\nThen she gently repulsed him and freed herself.\n\nJack,' she said softly, 'you shouldn't have done that. You don't know\n. . . you don't know . . .'\n\nHe drew his hand over his forehead. His brain seemed to clear a little.\nThe maddening mystery of it all formed into a question.\n\n'Victoria, why are those two razors on your dressing table?'\n\nShe looked at him a brief space. Then, very quietly, with the\ndeliberation of a surgeon,\n\n'Need you ask? Do you not understand what I am?'\n\nHis eyes went up towards the ceiling; his hands clenched; a queer choked\nsound escaped from his throat. Victoria saw him suffer, wounded as an\naesthete, wounded in his traditional conception of purity, prejudiced,\nun-understanding. For a second she hated him as one hates a howling dog\non whose paw one has trodden.\n\n'Oh,' he gasped, 'oh.'\n\nVictoria watched him through her downcast eyelashes. Poor boy, it had to\ncome. Pandora had opened the chest. Then he looked at her again with\nreturning sanity.\n\n'Why didn't you tell me before? I can't bear it. You, whom I thought. .\n. . I can't bear it.'\n\n'Poor boy.' She took his hand. It was hot and dry.\n\n'I can't bear it,' he repeated dully.\n\n'I had to. It was the only way.'\n\n'There is always a way. It's awful.' His voice broke.\n\n'Jack,' she said softly, 'the world's a hard place for women. It takes\nfrom them either hard labour or gratification. I've done my best. For a\nwhole year I worked. I worked ten hours a day, I've starved almost, I've\nswabbed floors. . . .'\n\nHe withdrew his hand with a jerk. He could bear that even less than her\nconfession.\n\n'Then a man came,' she went on relentlessly, 'a good man who offered me\nease, peace, happiness. I was poor, I was ill. What could I do? Then he\ndied and I was alone. What could I do? Ah, don't believe mine is a bed\nof roses, Jack!'\n\nHe had turned away, and was looking into the dying fire. His ideals, his\nprejudices, all were in the melting pot. Here was the woman who had been\nhis earliest dream, degraded, irretrievably soiled. Whatever happened he\ncould not forget; not even love could break down the terrific barrier\nwhich generations of hard and honest men of Rawsley had erected in his\nsoul between straight women and the others. But she was the dream still:\nbeautiful, all that his heart desired; such that (and he felt it like an\nawful taunt) he could not give her up.\n\nHe looked at her, at her sorrowful face. No, he could not let her pass\nout of his life. He thought of disjointed things. He could see his\nmother's face, the black streets of Rawsley; he thought of the pastor at\nBethlehem denouncing sin. All his standards were jarred. He had nothing\nto hold on to while everything seemed to slip: ideals, resolutions,\ndreams; nothing remained save the horrible sweetness of the mermaid's\nface.\n\n'Let me think,' he said hoarsely, 'let me think.'\n\nVictoria said nothing. He was in hands stronger than hers. He was\nfighting his tradition, the blood of the Covenanters, for her sake.\nNothing that she could say would help him; it might impede him. He had\nturned away; she could see nothing of his face. Then he looked into her\neyes.\n\n'What was can never be again,' he said, 'what I dreamed can never be.\nYou were my beacon and my hope. I have only found you to lose you. If I\nwere to marry you there would always be that between us, the past.'\n\n'Then do not marry me. I do not ask you to.' Her voice went down to a\nwhisper and she put her hands on his shoulders. 'Let me be another, a\nnew dream, less golden, but sweet.'\n\nShe put her face almost against his, gazing into his eyes. 'Do not leave\nthis house and I will be everything for you.'\n\nShe felt a shudder run through him as if he would repel her, but she did\nnot relax her hold or her gaze. She drew nearer to him, and inch by inch\nhis arms went round her. For a second they swayed close locked together.\nAs they fell into the deep arm chair her loose black hair uncoiled, and,\nfalling, buried their faces in its shadow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nTHE months which followed emerged but slowly from blankness for these\ntwo who had joined their lives together. Both had a difficulty in\nrealising, the woman that she had laid the coping stone of her career,\nthe man that he was happy as may be an opium eater. The first days were\nelectric, hectic. Victoria felt limp, for her nerves had been worn down\nby the excitement and the anxiety of making sure of her conquest. The\nreaction left her rather depressed than glowing with success. Jack was\nbeyond scruples; he felt that he had passed the Rubicon. He was false to\nhis theories and his ideals, in revolt against his upbringing. At the\noutset he revelled in the thought that he was cutting himself adrift\nfrom the ugly past. It was joyful to think that the pastor in his\nwhitewashed barn would covertly select him as a text. For the first time\nin his fettered life he saw that the outlaw alone is free; both he and\nVictoria were outlaws, but she had tasted the bitterness of ostracism\nwhile he was still at the stage of welcoming it.\n\nAs the weeks wore, however, Victoria realised her position better and\nsplendid peace flowed in upon her. She did not love Holt; she began even\nto doubt whether she could love any man if she could not love him, this\nhandsome youth with the delicate soul, grace, generosity. It was not his\nmental weakness that repelled her, for he was virile enough; nor was it\nthe touch of provincialism against which his intelligence struggled. It\nwas rather that he did not attract her. He was clever enough, well read,\nkind, but he lacked magnetism; he had nothing of the slumberous fire\nwhich distinguished Farwell. His passion was personal, his outlook\ntheoretical and limited; there was nothing purposeful in his ideas. He\nhad no message for her. In no wise did he repel her, though. Sometimes\nshe would take his face between her hands, look awhile into the blue\neyes where there always lurked some wistfulness, and then kiss him just\nonce and quickly, without knowing why.\n\n'Why do you do that, Vicky,' he asked once.\n\nShe had not answered but had merely kissed his cheek again. She hardly\nknew how to tell him that she sighed because she could only consent to\nlove him instead of offering to do so. While he was sunk in his daily\ngrowing ease she was again thinking of ultimate ends and despised\nherself a little for it. She had to be alone for a while before she\ncould regain self-control, remember the terrible tyranny of man and her\nresolve to be free. Gentle Jack was a man, one of the oppressors, and as\nsuch he must be used as an instrument against his sex. The very ease\nwith which she swayed him, with which she could foresee her victory,\nunnerved her a little. When she answered his hesitating question as to\nhow much she needed to live, she had to force herself to lie, to trade\non his enslavement by asking him for two thousand a year. She dared to\nname the figure, for Whitaker told her that the only son of an intestate\ntakes two-thirds of the estate; the book had also put her on the track\nof the registration of joint-stock companies. A visit to Somerset House\nenabled her to discover that some three hundred thousand shares of\nHolt's Cement Works, Ltd., stood in the name of John Holt; as they were\nquoted in the paper something above par he could hardly be worth less\nthan fifteen thousand a year.\n\nShe had expected to have to explain her needs, to have to exaggerate her\nrent, the cost of her clothes, but Holt did not say a word beyond 'all\nright.' She had told him it hurt her to take money from him; and that,\nso as to avoid the subject, she would like him to tell his bankers to\npay the monthly instalments into her account. He had agreed and then\ntalked of their trip to the South. Clearly the whole matter was\nrepugnant to him. As neither wanted to talk about it the subject was\nsoon almost forgotten.\n\nThey left England early in December after shutting up the house.\nVictoria did not care to leave it in charge of Laura, so decided to give\nher a three months' holiday on full pay; Augusta accompanied them. The\nsandy-haired German was delighted with the change in the fortunes of her\nmistress. She felt that Holt must be very rich, and doubted not that her\ndowry would derive some benefit from him. Snoo and Poo were left in\nLaura's charge. Victoria paid a quarter's rent in advance, also the\nrates; insured against burglary, and left England as it settled into the\nwinter night.\n\nThe next three months were probably the most steadily happy she had ever\nknown. They had taken a small house known as the Villa Mehari just\noutside Algiers. A French cook and a taciturn Kabyl completed their\nestablishment. The villa was a curious compromise between East and West.\nIts architect had turned out similar ones in scores at Argenteuil and\nSaint Cloud, saving the minaret and the deep verandah which faced the\nbalmy west. From the precipitous little garden where orange and lime\ntrees bent beneath their fruit among the underbrush of aloes and cactus,\nthey could see, far away, the estranging sea.\n\nThe Kabyl had slung a hammock for Victoria between a gate-post and a\ngigantic clump of palm trees. There she passed most of her days, lazily\nswinging in the breeze which tumbled her black hair; while Jack, lying\nat her feet in the crisp rough grass, looked long at her sun-warmed\nbeauty. The days seemed to fly, for they were hardly conscious of the\nrecurrence of life. It was sunrise, when it was good to go into the\ngarden and see the blue green night blush softly into salmon pink, then\nburst suddenly into tropical radiance: then, vague occupations, a short\nwalk over stony paths to a cafe where the East and West met; unexpected\nfood; sleep in the heat of the day under the nets beyond which the\ncrowding flies buzzed; then the waning of the day, the heat settling\nmore leaden; sunset, the cold snapping suddenly, the night wind carrying\nlittle puffs of dust, and the muezzin, hands aloft, droning, his face\ntowards the East, praises of his God.\n\nHolt was totally happy. He felt he had reached Capua, and not even a\nthought of his past life could disturb him. He asked for nothing now but\nto live without a thought, eating juicy fruit, smoking for an hour the\nsubtle narghile; he loved to bask in the radiance of the African sun of\nVictoria's beauty, which seemed to expand, to enwrap him in perfume like\na heavy narcotic rose. In the early days he tried to work, to attune\nhimself to the pageant of sunlit life. His will refused to act, and he\nfound he could not write a line; even rhymes refused to come to him.\nWithout an effort almost he resigned himself into the soft hands of the\nEast. He even exaggerated his acceptance by clothing himself in a\nburnous and turban, by trying to introduce Algerian food, couscous,\nroast kid, date jam, pomegranate jelly. At times they would go into\nAlgiers, shop in the Rue Bab-Azoum, or search for the true East in what\nthe French called the high town. But Algiers is not the East; and they\nquickly returned to the Villa Mehari, stupefied by the roar of the\ntrams, the cries of the water and chestnut vendors, all their senses\noffended by the cafes on the wharf where sailors from every land drank\nvodka, arrack, pale ale, among zouaves and chasseurs d'Afrique.\n\nSometimes Holt would go into Algiers by himself and remain away all day.\nVictoria stayed at the villa careless of flying time, desultorily\nreading Heine or sitting in the garden where she could play with the\ngolden and green beetles. Her solitude was complete, for Holt had\navoided the British consul and of course knew none of the Frenchmen. She\nwatched the current of her life flow away, content to know that all the\nwhile her little fortune was increasing. England was so far as to seem\nin another world. Christmas was gone; and the link of a ten pound note\nto Betty, to help to furnish the house at Shepherd's Bush, had faded\naway. When she was alone, those days, she could not throw her mind back\nto the ugly, brutish past, so potently was the influence of the East\ngrowing upon her being. Then in the cool of the evening Jack would\nreturn, gay, and anxious to see her, to throw his arms round her and\nhold her to him again. Those were the days when he brought her some\nprecious offering, aqua-marines set in hand-wrought gold, or chaplets of\nstrung pearls.\n\n'Jack,' she said to him one day as he lay in the grass at her feet, 'do\nyou then love me very much?'\n\n'Very much.' He took her hand and, raising himself upon his elbow,\ngravely kissed it.\n\n'Why?'\n\n'Because you're all the poetry of the world. Because you make me dream\ndreams, my Aspasia.'\n\nShe gently stroked his dark hair.\n\n'And to think that you are one of the enemy, Jack!'\n\n'One of the enemy? what do you mean?'\n\n'Man is woman's enemy, Jack. Our relation is a war of sex.'\n\n'It's not true.' Jack flushed; the idea was repulsive.\n\n'It is true. Man dominates woman by force, by man-made law; he\nrestricts her occupations; he limits her chances; he judges of her\nattire; he denies her the right to be ugly, to be old, to be coarse, to\nbe vicious.'\n\n'But you wouldn't--'\n\n'I'd have everything the same, Jack.'\n\nHolt thought for a moment.\n\n'Yes, I suppose we do keep them down. But they're different. You see,\nmen are men and--'\n\n'I know the rest. But never mind, Jack dear, you're not like the others.\nYou'll never be a conqueror.'\n\nThen she muzzled him with her hand, and, kissing its scented palm, he\nthought no more of the stern game in which they were the shuttlecocks.\n\nThe spring was touching Europe with its wings; and here already the\nsummer was bursting the seed pods, the sap breaking impatiently through\nthe branches. All the wet warmth of the brief African blooming ran riot\nin thickening leaf. The objective of Jack's life, influenced as he was\nby the air, was Victoria and the ever more consuming love he bore her;\nthe minutes only counted when he was by her side, watching her every\nmovement, inhaling, touching her. All his energies seem to have been\ndriven into this narrow channel. He was ready to move or to remain as\nVictoria might direct; he spoke little, he basked. Thus he agreed to\nextending their stay for a month; he agreed to shorten it by a fortnight\nwhen Victoria, suddenly realising that her life force was wasting away\nin this enervating atmosphere, decided to go home.\n\nVictoria's progress to London was like the march of a conqueror. She\nstopped in Paris to renew her clothes. There Jack knew hours of waiting\nin the hired victoria while his queen was trying on frocks. He showed\nsuch a childish joy in it all that she indulged her fancy, her every\nwhim; dresses, wraps, lace veils, furs, hats massive with ostrich\nfeathers, aigrettes, delicate kid boots, gilt shoes, amassed in their\nsuite. Jack egged her on; he rioted too. Often he would stop the\nvictoria and rush into a shop if he saw something he liked in the\nwindow, and in a few minutes return with it, excitedly demanding praise.\nHe did not seem to understand or care for money, to have any wants\nexcept cigarettes. He followed, and in his beautiful dog-like eyes\ndevotion daily grew.\n\nThey entered London on a bustling April day. A biting east wind carried\nrain drops and sunshine. As it stung her face and whipped her blood,\nVictoria found the old fierce soul reincarnating itself in her. She\nopened her mouth to take in the cold English air, to bend herself for\nthe finishing of her task.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nIT was in London that the real battle began. In Algiers the scented\nwinds made hideous and unnatural all thoughts of gain. On arriving in\nLondon Victoria ascertained with a thrill of pleasure that her bank had\nreceived a thousand pounds since October. After disposing of a few small\ndebts and renewing some trifles in the house, she found herself a\ncapitalist: she had about fifteen hundred pounds of her own. The money\nwas lying at the bank and it only struck her then that the time had come\nto invest it. Her interview with the manager of her branch was a\ndelightful experience; she was almost bursting with importance, and his\ncourteous appreciation of his increasingly wealthy client was something\nmore than balm. It was a foretaste of the power of money. She had known\npoor men respected, but not poor women; now the bank manager was giving\nher respectful attention because she had fifteen hundred pounds.\n\n'You might buy some industrials,' he said.\n\n'Industrials? What are they?'\n\n'Oh, all sorts of things. Cotton mills, iron works, trading companies,\nanything.'\n\n'Cement works?' she asked with a spark of devilry.\n\n'Yes, cement works too,' said the manager without moving a muscle.\n\n'But do you call them safe?' she asked, returning to business.\n\n'Oh, fairly. Of course there are bad years and good. But the debentures\nare mostly all right and some of the prefs.'\n\nVictoria thought for a moment. Reminiscences of political economy told\nher that there were booms and slumps.\n\n'Has trade been good lately?' she asked suddenly.\n\n'No, not for the last two years or so. It's picking up though. . . .'\n\n'Ah, then we're in for a cycle of good trade. I think I'll have some\nindustrials. You might pick me out the best.'\n\nThe manager seemed a little surprised at this knowledge of commercial\ncrises but said nothing more, and made out a list of securities\naveraging six per cent net.\n\n'And please buy me a hundred P. R. R. shares,' added Victoria.\n\nShe could have laughed at the manager's stony face because he did not\nsee the humour of this. He merely said that he would forward the orders\nto a stockbroker.\n\nVictoria felt that she had put her hand to the plough. She was scoring\nso heavily that she never now wished to turn back. Holt was every day\ngrowing more dreamy, more absorbed in his thoughts. He never seemed to\nquicken into action except when his companion touched him. He grew more\nsilent too; the hobbledehoy was gone. He was at his worst when he had\nreceived a letter bearing the Rawsley postmark. Victoria knew of these,\nfor Holt's need of her grew greater every day; he was now living at Elm\nTree Place. He hardly left the house. He got up late and passed the\nmorning in the boudoir, smoking cigarettes, desultorily reading and\nnursing the Pekingese which he now liked better. But on the days when he\ngot letters from Rawsley, letters so bulky that they were sometimes\ninsufficiently stamped, he would go out early and only return at night.\nThen, however, he returned as if he had been running, full of some\nnameless fear; he would strain Victoria to him and hold her very close,\nburying his face below the bedclothes as if he were afraid. On one of\nthose days Victoria accidentally saw him come out of a small dissenting\nchapel near by. He did not see her, for he was walking away like a man\npossessed; she said nothing of this but understood him better, having an\ninkling that the fight against the Rawsley tradition was still going on.\n\nShe did not, however, allow herself to be moved by his struggle. It\nbehoved her to hold him, for he was her last chance and the world looked\nrosy round her. As the spring turned into summer he became more utterly\nhers.\n\n'You distil poison for me,' he said one day as they sat by the rose hung\npergola.\n\n'No, Jack, don't say that, it's the elixir of life.'\n\n'The elixir of life. Perhaps, but poison too. To make me live is to make\nme die, Victoria; we are both sickening for death and to hasten the\ncurrent of life is to hasten our doom.'\n\n'Live quickly,' she whispered, bending towards him, 'did you live at all\na year ago?'\n\n'No, no.' His arms were round her and his lips insistent on hers. He\nfrightened her a little, though. She would have to take him away. She\nhad already confided this new trouble to Betty when the latter came to\nsee her in April, but Betty, beyond suggesting cricket, had been too\nfull of her own affairs. Apparently these were not going very well.\nAnderson & Dromo's had not granted the rise, and the marriage had been\npostponed. Meanwhile she was still at the P. R. R., and very, very\nhappy. Betty too, her baby, her other baby, frightened Victoria a\nlittle. She was so rosy, so pretty now, and there was something defiant\nand excited about her that might presage disease. But Betty had not\ncome near her for the last two months.\n\nAbout the middle of June she took Jack away to Broadstairs. He was\nwilling to go or stay, just as she liked. He seemed so neutral that\nVictoria experimented upon him by presenting him with a sheaf of unpaid\nbills. He looked at them languidly and said he supposed they must be\npaid, asked her to add them up and wrote a cheque for the full amount.\nApparently he had forgotten all about the allowance, or did not care.\n\nBroadstairs seemed to do him good. Except at the week end the Hotel\nSylvester was almost empty. The sea breeze blew stiffly from the north\nor the east. His colour increased and once more he began to talk.\nVictoria encouraged him to take long walks alone along the front. She\nhad some occupation, for two little girls who were there in charge of a\nSwiss governess had adopted the lovely lady as their aunt. A new\nsweetness had come into her life, shrill voices, the clinging of little\nhands. Sometimes these four would walk together, and Holt would run with\nthe children, tumbling in the sand in sheer merriment.\n\n'You seem all right again, Jack,' said Victoria on the tenth morning.\n\n'Right! Rather, by jove, it's good to live, Vicky.'\n\n'You were a bit off colour, you know.'\n\n'I suppose I was. But now, I feel nothing can hold me. I wrote a rondeau\nthis morning on the pier. Want to see it?'\n\n'Of course, silly boy. Aren't you going to be the next great poet?'\n\nShe read the rondeau, scrawled in pencil on the back of a bill. It was\ndelicate, a little colourless.\n\n'Lovely,' she said, 'of course you'll send it to the _Westminster_.'\n\n'Perhaps . . . hulloa, there are the kiddies.' He ran off down the\nsteps from the front. A minute after Victoria saw him helping the elder\ngirl to bury her little sister in the sand.\n\nVictoria felt much reassured. He was normal again, the half wistful,\nhalf irresponsible boy she had once known. He slept well, laughed, and\nhis crying need for her seemed to have abated. At the end of the\nfortnight Victoria was debating whether she should take him home. She\nwas in the hotel garden talking to the smaller girl, telling her a\nwonderful story about the fairy who lived in the telephone and said\nping-pong when the line was engaged. The little girl sat upon her knee;\nwhen she laughed Victoria's heart bounded. The elder girl came through\nthe gate leading a good-looking young woman in white by the hand.\n\n'Oh, mummie, here's auntie,' cried the child, dragging her mother up to\nVictoria. The two women looked at one another.\n\n'They tell me you have been very kind . . .' said the woman. Then she\nstopped abruptly.\n\n'Of course, mummie, she's not _really_ our auntie,' said the child\nconfidentially.\n\nVictoria put the small girl down. The mother looked at her again. She\nseemed so nice and refined . . . yet her husband said that the initials\non the trunks were different . . . one had to be careful.\n\n'Come here, Celia,' she said sharply. 'Thank you,' she added to\nVictoria. Then taking her little girls by the hand she took them away.\n\nJack willingly left Broadstairs that afternoon when Victoria explained\nthat she was tired and that something had made her low-spirited.\n\n'Right oh,' he said. 'Let's go back to town. I want to see Amershams and\nfind out how those sonnets have sold.'\n\nHe then left her to wire to Augusta.\n\nTheir life in town resumed its former course, interrupted only by a\nmonth in North Devon. Jack's cure was complete; he was sunburnt, fatter;\nthe joy of life shone in his blue eyes. Sometimes Victoria found herself\ngrowing younger by contagion, sloughing the horrible miry coat of the\npast. If her heart had not been atrophied she would have loved the boy\nwhom she always treated with motherly gentleness. His need of her was so\ncrying, so total, that he lost all his self-consciousness. He would sit\nunblushing by her side in the bow of a fishing smack, holding her hand\nand looking raptly into her grey eyes; he was indifferent to the red\nbrown fisherman with the Spanish eyes and curly black hair who smiled as\nthe turtle doves clustered. His need of her was as mental as it was\nphysical; his body was whipped by the salt air to seek in her arms\noblivion, but his mind had become equally dependent. She was his need.\n\nThus when they came back to town the riot continued; and Victoria,\nbreasting the London tide, dragged him unresisting in her rear. She\nhated excitement in every form, excitement that is of the puerile kind.\nRestaurant dining, horse shows, flower shows, the Academy, tea in Bond\nStreet, even the theatre and its most inane successes, were for her a\nweariness to the flesh.\n\n'I've had enough,' she said to Jack one day. 'I'm sick of it all. I've\ngot congestion of the appreciative sense. One day I shall chuck it all\nup, go and live in the country, have big dogs and a saddle horse, dress\nin tweeds and read the local agricultural rag.'\n\n'Give up smoking, go to church, and play tennis with the curate, the\ndoctor and the squire's flapper,' added Holt. 'But Vicky, why not go\nnow?'\n\n'No, oh, no, I can't do that.' She was frightened by her own suggestion.\n'I must drain the cup of pleasure so as to be sure that it's all pain;\nthen I'll retire and drain the cup of resignation . . . unless, as I\nsometimes think, it's empty.'\n\nJack had said nothing to this. Her wildness surprised and shocked him.\nShe was so savage and yet so sweet.\n\nVictoria realised that she must hold fast to the town, for there alone\ncould she succeed. In the peace of the country she would not have the\nopportunities she had now. Jack was in her hands. She never hesitated to\nask for money, and Jack responded without a word. Her account grew by\nleaps and bounds. The cashier began to ask whether she wanted to see the\nmanager when she called at the bank. She could see, some way off but\nclearly, the beacons on the coast of hope.\n\nAll through Jack's moods she had suffered from the defection of Betty.\nOn her return from Broadstairs she had written to her to come to Elm\nTree Place, but had received no answer. This happened again in\nSeptember; and fear took hold of her, for Betty had, ivy-like, twined\nherself very closely round Victoria's heart of oak. She went to\nFinsbury; but Betty had gone, leaving no address. She went to the P.R.R.\nalso. The place had become ghostly, for the familiar faces had gone. The\nmanageress was nowhere to be seen; nor was Nelly, probably by now a\nmanageress herself. Betty was not there, and the girl who wonderingly\nserved the beautiful lady with a tea-cake said that no girl of that name\nwas employed at the depot. Then Victoria saw herself sitting in the\nchurchyard of her past, between the two dear ghosts of Farwell and\nBetty. The customers had changed, or their faces had receded so that she\nknew them no more: they still played matador and fives and threes, chess\ntoo. Alone the chains remained which the ghosts had rattled. Silently\nshe went away, turning over that leaf of her life for ever. Farwell was\ndead, and Betty gone--married probably--and in Shepherd's Bush, not\ndaring to allow Victoria's foot to sully the threshold of 'First Words\nof Love.'\n\nHer conviction that Betty was false had a kind of tonic effect upon her.\nShe was alone and herself again; she realised that the lonely being is\nthe strong being. Now, at last, she could include the last woman she had\nknown in the category of those who threw stories. And her determination\nto be free grew apace.\n\nShe invented a reason every day to extract money from Holt. He, blindly\ndesirous, careless of money, acceded to every fresh demand. Now it was a\nfaked bill from Barbezan Soeurs for two hundred pounds, now the rent in\narrear, a blue rates notice, an offhand request for a fiver to pay the\nservants, the vet's bill or the price of a cab. Holt drew and overdrew.\nIf a suspicion ever entered his mind that he was being exploited, he\ndismissed it at once, telling himself that Victoria was rather\nextravagant. For a time letters from Rawsley synchronised with her fresh\ndemands, but repetition had dulled their effects: now Holt postponed\nreading them; after a time she saw him throw one into the fire unread.\nLittle by little they grew rarer. Then they ceased. Holt was eaten up by\nhis passion, and Victoria's star rose high.\n\nAll conspired to favour her fortune. Perhaps her acumen had helped her\ntoo, for she had seen correctly the coming boom. Trade rose by leaps and\nbounds; every day new shops seemed to open; the stalks of the Central\nLondon Railway could be seen belching clouds of smoke as they ground out\nelectric power; the letter-box at Elm Tree Place was clogged with\ncirculars denoting by the fury of their competition that trade was\nflying as on a great wind. Other signs too were not wanting: the main\nstreets of London were blocked by lorries groaning under machinery,\nvegetables, stone; immense queues formed at the railway stations waiting\nfor the excursion trains; above all, rose the sound of gold as it hissed\nand sizzled as if molten on the pavements, flowing into the pockets of\nmerchants, bankers and shareholders. All the women at the Vesuvius\nindulged in new clothes.\n\nVictoria's investments were seized by the current. She had not entirely\nfollowed the bank manager's advice. Seeing, feeling the movement, she\nhad realised most of her debentures and turned them into shares. One of\nher ventures collapsed, but the remainder appreciated to an\nextraordinary extent. At last, in the waning days of the year her\nmiddle-class prudence reasserted itself. She knew enough of political\neconomy to be ready for the crash, she realised. One cold morning in\nNovember she counted up her spoils. She had nearly five thousand pounds.\n\nMeanwhile, while her blood was aglow, Holt sank further into the\ndullness of his senses. A mania was upon him. Waking, his thought was\nVictoria; and the cry for her rose everlasting from his racked body. She\nwas all, she was everywhere; and the desire for her, for her beauty, her\nred lips, soaked into him like a philtre, narcotic and then fiery but\never present, intimate and exacting. He was her thing, her toy, the\npaltry instrument which responded to her every touch. He rejoiced in his\nsubjection; he swam in his passion like a pilgrim in the Ganges to find\nbrief oblivion; but again the thirst was on him, ravaging, ever\ndemanding more. More, more, ever more, in the watches of the night, when\nice seizes the world to throttle it--among all, in turmoil and in\npeace--he tossed upon the passionate sea; with one thought, one hope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\n'I'M glad we're going away, Jack,' said Victoria leaning back in the cab\nand looking at him critically. 'You look as if you wanted a change.'\n\n'Perhaps I do,' said Jack.\n\nVictoria looked at him again. He had not smiled as he spoke to her,\nwhich was unusual. He seemed thinner and more delicate than ever, with\nhis pale face and pink cheekbones. His black hair shone as if moist; and\nhis eyes were bigger than they had ever been, blue like silent pools and\nsurrounded by a mauve zone. His mouth hung a little open. Yet, in spite\nof his weariness, he held her wrist in both his hands, and she could\nfeel his fingers searching for the opening in her glove.\n\n'You are becoming a responsibility,' she said smiling. 'I shall have to\nbe a mother to you.'\n\nA faint smile came over his lips.\n\n'A mother? After all, why not? Phedra. . . .' His eyes fixed on the grey\nmorning sky as he followed his thought.\n\nThe horse was trotting sharply. The winter air seemed to rush into their\nbodies. Jack, well wrapped up as he was in a fur coat, shrank back\nagainst the warm roundness of her shoulder. In an excess of gentleness\nshe put her free hand in his.\n\n'Dear boy,' she said softly bending over him.\n\nBut there was no tenderness in Jack's blue eyes, rather lambent fire. At\nonce his grasp on her hand tightened and his lips mutely formed into a\nrequest. Casting a glance right and left she kissed him quickly on the\nmouth.\n\nUp on the roof their bags jolted and bumped one another; milk carts were\nrattling their empty cans as they returned from their round; far away a\ndrum and fife band played an acid air. They were going to Ventnor in\npursuit of the blanketed sun; and Victoria rejoiced, as they passed\nthrough Piccadilly Circus where moisture settled black on the fountain,\nto think that for three days she would see the sun radiate, not loom as\na red guinea. They passed over Waterloo Bridge at a foot pace; the\nenormous morning traffic was struggling in the neck of the bottle. The\npressure was increased because the road was up between it and Waterloo\nStation. On her left, over the parapet, Victoria could see the immense\ndesert of the Thames swathed in thin mist, whence emerged in places\nmasts and where massive barges loomed passive like derelicts. She\nwondered for a moment whether her familiar symbol, the old vagrant,\nstill sat crouching against the parapet at Westminster, watching rare\npuffs of smoke curling from his pipe into the cold air. The cab emerged\nfrom the crush, and to avoid it the cabman turned into the little black\nstreets which line the wharf on the east side of the bridge, then\ndoubled back towards Waterloo through Cornwall Road. There they met\nagain the stream of drays and carts; the horse went at a foot pace, and\nVictoria gazed at the black rows of houses with the fear of a lost one.\nSo uniformly ugly these apartment houses, with their dirty curtains,\ntheir unspeakable flowerpots in the parlour windows. Here and there\ncards announcing that they did pinking within; further, the board of a\nsweep; then a good corner house, the doctor's probably, with four steps\nand a brass knocker and a tall slim girl on her hands and knees washing\nthe steps.\n\nThe cab came to an abrupt stop. Some distance ahead a horse was down on\nthe slippery road; shouts came from the crowd around it. Victoria idly\nwatched the girl, swinging the wet rag from right to left. Poor thing.\nEverything in her seemed to cry out against the torture of womanhood.\nShe was a picture of dumb resignation as she knelt with her back to the\nroad. Victoria could see her long thin arms, her hands red and rigid\nwith cold, her broken-down shoes with the punctured soles emerging from\nthe ragged black petticoat.\n\nThere was a little surge in the crowd. The girl got up, and with an air\nof infinite weariness stretched her arms. Then she picked up the pail\nand bucket and turned towards the street. For the space of a second the\ntwo women looked into one another's faces. Then Victoria gave a muffled\ncry and jumped out of the cab. She seized with both hands the girl's\nbare arms.\n\n'Betty! Betty!' she faltered.\n\nA burning blush covered the girl's face and her features twitched. She\nmade as if to turn away from the detaining hands.\n\n'Vicky, what are you doing . . . what does this mean?' came Jack's voice\nfrom the cab.\n\n'Wait a minute, Jack. Betty, my poor little Betty. Why are you here? Why\nhaven't you written to me?'\n\n'Leave me alone,' said Betty hoarsely.\n\n'I won't leave you alone. Betty, tell me, what's this? Are you married?'\n\nA look of pain came over the girl's face, but she said nothing.\n\n'Look here, Betty, we can't talk here. Leave the bucket, come with me.\nI'll see it's all right.'\n\n'Oh, I can't do that. Oh, let me alone; it's too late.'\n\n'I don't understand you. It's never too late. Now just get into the cab\nand come with me.'\n\n'I can't. I must give notice . . .' She looked about to weep.\n\n'Come along.' Victoria increased the pressure on the girl's arms. Jack\nstood up in the cab. He seemed as frightened as he was surprised.\n\n'I say, Vicky . . .' he began.\n\n'Sit down, Jack, she's coming with us. You don't mind if we don't go to\nVentnor?'\n\nJack's eyes opened in astonishment but he made no reply. Victoria pulled\nBetty sharply down the steps.\n\n'Oh, let me get my things,' she said weakly.\n\n'No. They'd stop you. There, get in. Drive back to Elm Tree Place,\ncabman.'\n\nHalf an hour later, lying at full length on the boudoir sofa, Betty was\nslowly sipping some hot cocoa. There was a smile on her tear-stained\nface. Victoria was analysing with horror the ravages that sorrow had\nwrought on her. She was pretty still, with her china blue eyes and her\nhair like pale filigree gold; but the bones seemed to start from her red\nwrists, so thin had she become. Even the smile of exhausted content on\nher lips did not redeem her emaciated cheeks.\n\n'Betty, my poor Betty,' said Victoria, taking her hand. 'What have they\ndone to you?'\n\nThe girl looked up at the ceiling as if in a dream.\n\n'Tell me all about it,' her friend went on, 'what has happened to you\nsince April?'\n\n'Oh, lots of things, lots of things. I've had a hard time.'\n\n'Yes, I see. But what happened actually? Why did you leave the P.R.R.?'\n\n'I had to. You see, Edward . . .' The flush returned.\n\n'Yes?'\n\n'Oh, Vic, I've been a bad girl and I'm so, so unhappy.' Betty seized her\nfriend's hand to raise herself and buried her face on her breast. There\nVictoria let her sob, gently stroking the golden hair. She understood\nalready, but Betty must not be questioned yet. Little by little, Betty's\nweeping grew less violent and confidence burst from her pent up soul.\n\n'He didn't get a rise at Christmas, so he said we'd have to wait . . . I\ncouldn't bear it . . . it wasn't his fault. I couldn't let him come down\nin the world, a gentleman . . . he had only thirty shillings a week.'\n\n'Yes, yes, poor little girl.'\n\n'We never meant to do wrong . . . when baby was coming he said he'd\nmarry me . . . I couldn't drag him down . . . I ran away.'\n\n'Betty, Betty, why didn't you write to me?'\n\nThe girl looked at her. She was beautiful in her reminiscence of\nsacrifice.\n\n'I was ashamed . . . I didn't dare . . . I only wanted to go where they\ndidn't know what I was. . . . I was mad. The baby came too early and it\ndied almost at once.'\n\n'My poor little girl.' Victoria softly stroked the rough back of her\nhand.\n\n'Oh, I wasn't sorry . . . it was a little girl . . . they don't want any\nmore in the world. Besides I didn't care for anything; I'd lost him\n. . . and my job. I couldn't go back. My landlady wrote me a character\nto go to Cornwall Road.'\n\n'And there I found you.'\n\n'I wonder what we are going to do for you,' she went on. 'Where is\nEdward now?'\n\n'Oh, I couldn't go back; I'm ashamed. . . .'\n\n'Nonsense, you haven't done anything wrong. He shall marry you.'\n\n'He would have,' said Betty a little coldly, 'he's square.'\n\n'Yes, I know. He didn't beg you very hard, did he? However, never mind.\nI'm not going to let you go until I've made you happy. Now I'll tuck you\nup with a rug, and you're going to sleep before the fire.'\n\nBetty lay limp and unresisting in the ministering hands. The unwonted\nsensations of comfort, warmth and peace soothed her to sleepiness.\nBesides, she felt as if she had wept every tear in her racked body. Soon\nher features relaxed, and she sank into profound, almost deathlike\nslumber.\n\nVictoria meanwhile told her story to Jack, who sat in the dining room\nreading a novel and smoking cigarettes. He came out of his coma as\nVictoria unfolded the tale of Betty's upbringing, her struggle to live,\nthen love the meteor flashing through her horizon. His cheeks flushed\nand his mouth quivered as Victoria painted for him the picture of the\ngirl half distraught, bearing the burden of her shame, unable to reason\nor to forsee, to think of anything except the saving of a gentleman from\nlife on thirty bob a week.\n\n'Something ought to be done,' he said at length, closing his book with\nnovel vivacity.\n\n'Yes, but what?'\n\n'I don't know.' His eyes questioned the wall; they grew vaguer and\nvaguer as his excitement decreased, as a ship in docks sinks further and\nfurther on her side while the water ebbs away.\n\n'You think of something,' he said at length, picking up his book again.\n'I don't care what it costs.'\n\nVictoria left him and went for a walk through the misty streets seeking\na solution. There were not many. She could not keep Betty with her, for\nshe was pure though betrayed; contact with the irregular would degrade\nher because habit would induce her to condone that which she morally\ncondemned. It would spoil her and would ultimately throw her into a life\nfor which she was not fitted because gentle and unspoiled.\n\n'No,' mused Victoria as she walked, 'like most women, she cannot rule: a\nman must rule her. She is a reed, not an oak. All must come from man,\nboth good and evil. What man has done man must undo.'\n\nBy the time she returned to Elm Tree Place she had made up her mind.\nThere was no hope for Betty except in marriage. She must have her own\nfireside; and, from what she had said, her lover was no villain. He was\nweak, probably; and, while he strove to determine his line of conduct,\nevents had slipped beyond his control. Perhaps, though, it was not fair\nto deliver Betty into his hands bound and defenceless, bearing the\nburden of their common imprudence. She was not fit to be free, but she\nshould not be a slave. It might be well to be the slave of the strong,\nbut not of the weak.\n\nTherefore Victoria arrived at a definite solution. She would see the\nyoung man; and, if it was not altogether out of the question, he should\nmarry Betty. They should have the little house at Shepherd's Bush, and\nBetty should be made a free woman with a fortune of five hundred pounds\nin her own right, enough to place her for ever beyond sheer want. It\nonly struck Victoria later that she need not, out of quixotic\ngenerosity, deplete her own store, for Holt would gladly give whatever\nsum she named.\n\n'Now, Betty,' she said as the girl drained the glass of claret which\naccompanied the piece of fowl, that composed her lunch, 'tell me your\nyoung man's name and Anderson & Dromo's address. I'm going to see him.'\n\n'Oh, no, no, don't do that.' The look of fear returned to the blue eyes.\n\n'No use, Betty, I've decided you're going to be happy. I shall see him\nto-day at six, bring him here to-morrow at half past two, as it happens\nto be Saturday. You will be married about the thirtieth of this month.'\n\n'Oh, Vic, don't make me think of it. I can't do it . . . it's no good\nnow. Perhaps he's forgotten me, and it's better for him.'\n\n'I don't think he's forgotten you,' said Victoria. 'He'll marry you this\nmonth, and you'll eat your Christmas dinner at Shepherd's Bush. Don't be\nshy, dear--you're not going empty handed; you're going to have a dowry\nof five hundred pounds.'\n\n'Vic! I can't take it; it isn't right . . . you need all you've got\n. . . you're so good, but I don't want him to marry me if . . . if. . . .'\n\n'Oh, don't worry, I shan't tell him about the money until he says yes.\nNow, no thanks; you're my baby, besides it's going to be a present from\nMr Holt. Silence,' she repeated as Betty opened her mouth, 'or rather\ngive me his name and address and not another word.'\n\n'Edward Smith, Salisbury House, but. . . .'\n\n'Enough. Now, dear, don't get up.'\n\nThe events of that Friday and Saturday formed in later days one of the\nsunbathed memories in Victoria's dreary life. It was all so gentle, so\nfull of sweetness and irresolute generosity. She remembered everything,\nthe wait in the little dark room into which she was ushered by an amazed\ncommissionaire who professed himself willing to break regulations for\nher sake and hand Mr Smith a note, the banging of her heart as she\nrealised her responsibility and resolved to break her word if necessary\nand to buy a husband for Betty rather than lose him, then the quick\ninterview, the light upon the young man's face.\n\n'Where is she,' he asked excitedly. 'Oh, why did she run away? You can't\nthink what I've been going through.'\n\n'You should have married her,' said Victoria coldly, though she was\nmoved by his sincerity. He was handsome, this young man, with his\nbronzed face, dark eyes, regular features and long dark hair.\n\n'Oh, I would have at once if I'd known. But I couldn't make up my mind;\nonly thirty bob a week. . . .'\n\n'Yes, I know,' said Victoria softly, 'I used to be at the P. R. R.'\n\n'You?' The young man looked at her incredulously.\n\n'Yes, but never mind me. It's Betty I've come for. The baby is dead. I\nfound her cleaning the steps of a house near Waterloo.'\n\n'My God,' said the young man in low tones. He clenched his hands\ntogether; one of his paper cuff protectors fell to the floor.\n\n'Will you marry her now?'\n\n'Yes . . . at once.'\n\n'Good. She's had a hard time, Mr Smith, and I don't say it's entirely\nyour fault. Now it's all going to be put square. I'm going to see she\nhas some money of her own, five hundred pounds. That will help won't\nit?'\n\n'Oh, it's too good to be true. Why are you doing all this for us?\nYou're. . . .'\n\n'Please, please, no thanks. I'm Betty's friend. Let that be enough. Will\nyou come and see her to-morrow at my house? Here's my card.'\n\nOn the last day of November these two were married at a registry office\nin the presence of Victoria and the registrar's clerk. A new joy had\nsettled upon Betty, whose shy prettiness was turning into beauty.\nVictoria's heart was heavy as she looked at the couple, both so young\nand rapt, setting out upon the sea with a cargo of glowing dreams. It\nwas heavy still as the cab drove off carrying them away for a brief\nweek-end, which was all Anderson and Dromo would allow. She tasted a new\ndelight in this making of happiness.\n\nHolt had not attended the ceremony, for he felt too weak. His interest\nin the affair had been dim, for he looked upon it as one of Victoria's\nwhims. He was ceasing to judge as he ceased to appreciate, so much was\nhis physical weakness gaining upon him; all his faculty of action was\nconcentrated in the desire which gnawed at his very being. Victoria\nreminded him of his promise, and, finding his cheque book for him, laid\nit on the table.\n\n'Five hundred pounds,' she said. 'Better make it out to me. It's very\ngood of you, Jack.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' he said dully, writing the date and the words 'Mrs Ferris.'\nThen he stopped. Concentrating with an effort he wrote the word 'five.'\n\n'Five . . . five . . .' he murmured. Then he looked up at Victoria with\nsomething like vacuousness.\n\nA wild idea flashed through her brain. She must act. Oh, no, dreadful.\nYet freedom, freedom. . . . He could not understand . . . she must do\nit.\n\n'Thousand,' she prompted in a low voice.\n\n'Thousand pounds,' went Jack's voice as he wrote obediently. Then,\nmechanically, reciting the formula his father had taught him. 'Five,\ncomma, 0, 0, 0, dash, 0, dash, 0. John Holt.'\n\nVictoria put her hands down on the table to take the cheque he had just\ntorn out. All her fingers were trembling with the terrible excitement of\na slave watching his fetters being struck off. As she took it up and\nlooked at it, while the figures danced, Holt's eyes grew more insistent\non her other hand. Slowly his fingers closed over it, raised it to his\nlips. With his eyes closed, breathing a little deeper, he covered her\npalm with lingering kisses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nTHE endowment of Betty was soon completed. Advised by the bank manager\nto whom she confided something of the young couple's improvident\ntendencies, Victoria vested the money in a trust administered by an\ninsurance company. The deed was so drafted that it could not be charged;\nthe capital could not be touched, excepting the case of male offspring\nwho, after their mother's death, would divide it on their respective\ntwenty-fifth birthdays; as she distrusted her own sex and perhaps still\nmore the stock from which the girls might spring, she bound their\nproportion in perpetuity; failing offspring she provided that, following\non his wife's decease, Mr Edward Smith should receive one fifth of the\ncapital, four fifths reverting to herself.\n\nVictoria revelled somewhat in the technicalities of the deed; every\nclause she framed was a pleasure in itself; she turned the\n'hereinbefores' and the 'predecease as aforesaids' round in her mouth as\nif they were luscious sweets. The pleasure of it was not that of Lady\nBountiful showering blessings and feeling the holy glow of charity\npenetrate her being. Victoria's satisfaction was more vixenish; she, the\noutlaw, the outcast, had wrested from Society enough money to indulge in\nthe luxury of promoting a marriage, converting the illegal into the\nlegal, creating respectability. The gains that Society term infamous\nwere being turned towards the support of that Society; still more,\nfailing her infamous help, Betty and Edward Smith would not have\nachieved their coming together with the approval of the Law, their\nspiritual regeneration and a house at Shepherd's Bush.\n\nShe was now the mistress of a fortune of over ten thousand pounds, a\ngood half of which was due to her final stratagem. The time had now come\nfor her to retire to the house in the country when she could resume her\nown name, piece together for the sake of the county her career since she\nleft India for Alabama, and read the local agricultural rag. Her plans\nwere postponed, however, owing to Holt's state of health, which\ncompelled her, out of sheer humanity, to take him to a sunnier clime.\nShe dismissed Algiers as being too far; she asked Holt where he would\nlike to go to, but he merely replied 'East Coast,' which in December\nstruck her as being absurd. Finally she decided to take him to\nFolkestone, as it was very near and he would doubtless like to sit with\nthe dogs on the Leas.\n\nFolkestone was bright and sunny. The sting in the glowing air brought\nfresh colour to Victoria's cheeks, a deeper brilliancy to her grey eyes;\nshe felt well; her back was straighter; when a lock of dark hair strayed\ninto her mouth driven by the high wind it tasted salt on her lips.\nSometimes she could have leaped, shouted, for life was rushing in upon\nher like a tide. Most days, however, she was quiet, for Holt was not\naffected by the sea. His listlessness was now such that he hardly spoke.\nHe would walk by her side vacuously, looking at his surroundings as if\nhe did not see them. At times he stopped, concentrated with an effort\nand bought a bun from a hawker to break up for the dogs.\n\nVictoria noticed that he was slipping, with ununderstanding fear. The\nphenomenon was beyond her. Though the guests at the hotel surrounded her\nwith an atmosphere of admiration, Holt's condition began to occupy all\nher thoughts. He was thin now to the point of showing bone under his\ncoat, pale and hectic, generally listless, sometimes wild-eyed. He never\nread, played no games, talked to nobody. Indeed nothing remained of him\nsave the half physical, half emotional power of his passion. Victoria\ncalled in a doctor, but found him vague and shy; beyond cutting down\nHolt's cigarettes he prescribed nothing.\n\nVictoria resigned herself to the role of a nurse. At the beginning of\nJanuary she noticed that Holt was using a stick to walk. The sight\nfilled her with dread. She watched him on the Leas, walking slowly,\nresting the weight of his body on the staff, stopping now and then to\nlook at the sea, or worse, at a blank wall. A terrible impression of\nweakness emanated from him. He was going down the hill. One morning in\nthe middle of January, Holt did not get up. When questioned he hardly\nanswered. She dressed feverishly without his moving, and went out to\nfind the doctor herself, for she was unconsciously afraid of the\nservants' eyes. When she returned with the doctor Holt had not moved;\nhis head was thrown back, his mouth a little open, his face more waxen\nthan usual.\n\n'Oh, oh. . . .' Victoria nearly screamed, when Holt opened his eyes. The\ndoctor threw back the bedclothes and examined his patient. As Victoria\nwatched him inspecting Holt's mouth, the inside of his eyelids, then his\nfinger nails, a terror came upon her at these strange rites. She went to\nthe window and looked out over the sea; it was choppy, grey and foamy\nlike a river in spate. She strove to concentrate on her freedom, but she\ncould feel the figure on the bed.\n\n'Got any sal volatile?' said the doctor's voice.\n\n'No, shall I. . . .?'\n\n'No, no time for that, he's fainting; get me some salts, ammonia,\nanything.'\n\nVictoria watched him forcing Holt to breathe the ammonia she used to\nclean ribbons. Holt opened his eyes, coughed, struggled; tears ran down\nhis face as he inhaled the acrid fumes. Still he did not speak. The\ndoctor pulled him out of bed, crossed his legs, and then struck him\nsharply across the shin, just under the knee, with the side of his hand.\nHolt's leg hardly moved. The doctor hesitated for a moment, then pushed\nhim back into the bed.\n\n'I . . . Mrs. . . .?'\n\n'Holt.'\n\n'Well, Mrs Holt, I'm afraid your husband is in a serious condition. Of\ncourse I don't say that with careful feeding, tonics, we can't get him\nround, but it'll be a long business, and . . . and . . . you see . . .\nHow long have you been married?'\n\n'Over a year,' said Victoria with an effort.\n\n'Ah. Well Mrs Holt, it will be part of the cure that you leave him for\nsix months.'\n\nVictoria gasped. Why? Why? Could it be . . .? The thought appalled her.\nDimly she could hear the doctor talking.\n\n'His mother . . . if he has one . . . to-day . . . phosphate of . . .'\n\nThen the doctor was gone. A telegram had somehow been sent to Rawsley\nCement Works. Then the long day, food produced on the initiative of the\nhotel servants, the room growing darker, night.\n\nIt was ten o'clock, and two women stood face to face by the bed. One was\nVictoria, beautiful like a marble statue, with raven black hair, pale\nlips. The other a short stout figure with tight hair, a black bonnet, a\nred face stained with tears.\n\n'You've killed him,' said the harsh voice.\n\nVictoria looked up at Mrs Holt.\n\n'No, no.'\n\n'My boy, my poor boy!' Mrs Holt was on her knees by the side of the\nmotionless figure.\n\nVictoria began to weep, silently at first, then noisily. Mrs Holt\nstarted at the sound, then jumped to her feet with a cry of rage.\n\n'Stop that crying,' she commanded. 'How dare you? How dare you?'\n\nVictoria went on crying, the sobs choking her.\n\n'A murderess,' Mrs Holt went on. 'You took my boy away; you corrupted\nhim, ruined him, killed him. You're a vile thing; nobody should touch\nyou, you. . . .'\n\nVictoria pulled herself together.\n\n'It's not my fault,' she stumbled. 'I didn't know.'\n\n'Didn't know,' sneered Mrs Holt, 'as if a woman of your class didn't\nknow.'\n\n'That's enough,' snarled Victoria. 'I've had enough. Understand? I\ndidn't want your son. He wanted me. That's all over. He bought me, and\nnow you think the price too heavy. I've been heaven to him who only knew\nmisery. He's not to be pitied, unless it be because his mistress hands\nhim over to his mother.'\n\n'How dare you?' cried Mrs Holt again, a break in her voice as she pitied\nher outraged motherhood.\n\n'It's you who've killed him; you, the family, Rawsley, Bethlehem, your\nmoral laws, your religion. It's you who starved him, ground him down\nuntil he lost all sense of measure, desired nothing but love and life.'\n\n'You killed him, though,' said the mother.\n\n'Perhaps. I didn't want to. I was . . . fond of him. But how can I help\nit? And supposing I did? What of it? Yes, what of it? Who was your son\nbut a man?'\n\n'My son?'\n\n'Your son. A distinction, not a title. Your son bears part of the\nresponsibility of making me what I am. He came last but he might have\ncome first, and I tell you that the worker of the eleventh hour is\nguilty equally with the worker of the first. Your son was nothing and I\nnothing but pawns in the game, little figures which the Society you're\nso proud of shifts and breaks. He bought my womanhood; he contributed to\nmy degradation. What else but degradation did you offer me?'\n\nMrs Holt was weeping now.\n\n'I am a woman, and the world has no use for me. Your Society taught me\nnothing. Or rather it taught me to dance, to speak a foreign language\nbadly, to make myself an ornament, a pleasure to man. Then it threw me\ndown from my pedestal, knowing nothing, without a profession, a trade, a\nfriend, or a penny. And then your Society waved before my eyes the\nlily-white banner of purity, while it fed me and treated me like a dog.\nWhen I gave it what it wanted, for there's only one thing it wants from\na woman whom nothing has been taught but that which every woman knows,\nthen it covered me with gifts. A curse on your Society. A Society of\nmen, crushing, grinding down women, sweating their labour, starving\ntheir brains, urging them on to the surrender of what makes a woman\nworth while. Ah . . . ah. . . .'\n\nBreath failed her. Mrs Holt was weeping silently in her hands in utter\nabandonment.\n\n'I'm going,' said Victoria hoarsely. She picked up a handkerchief and\ndabbed her eyes.\n\nAs she opened the door the figure moved on the bed, opened its eyes.\nTheir last lingering look was for the woman at the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nTHE squire of Cumberleigh was not sorry that 'The Retreat' had found a\ntenant at last. The house belonged to him, and he might have let it many\ntimes over; but so conservative and aristocratic was his disposition\nthat he preferred to sacrifice his rent rather than have anyone who was\nundesirable in the neighbourhood. Yet, in the case of the lady who had\nnow occupied the house for some three weeks, though the strictest\nenquiries had been made concerning her, both in Cumberleigh and the\nsurrounding district, nothing could be ascertained beyond the scanty\nfacts that she was a widow, well-to-do and had been abroad a good deal.\nThe squire had seen her on two separate occasions himself and could not\nbut admit that she was far from unprepossessing; she was obviously a\nlady, well-bred and educated, and, if her frock and hat had been a\ntrifle smarter than those usually seen in a country village, she had\nowned up to having recently been to Paris to replenish her wardrobe. It\nwas curious, when he came to reflect upon it, how little she had told\nhim about herself, and yet, what was more curious, she had no sooner\nleft him after the second visit than he had betaken himself to his\nsolicitor to get him to make out the lease. She had received and signed\nit the following day, showing herself remarkably business-like, but not\nungenerous when it came to the buying of the fixtures and to the vexed\nquestion of outdoor and indoor repairs.\n\nAs the squire climbed the hill that gave upon the village from the\nmarshes, one cold March evening, he did not regret his decision; for,\nstanding in front of 'The Retreat,' he felt bound to admit that there\nwas something cheering and enlivening in the fact that the four front\nwindows now flaunted red curtains and holland blinds, where they had\nbeen so dark and forbidding. In the lower one on the left, where the\nlamps had not yet been lighted or the blinds drawn down, in the light of\nthe dancing fire, he could see distinctly a woman's workbox on a small\ninlaid table, a volume of songs on the cottage piano, and, at the back\nof the room, a hint of china tea cups, glistening silver and white\nnapery. Presently a trim maid came out to bolt the front door, followed\nby two snuffling yellow dogs who took the air for a few moments in\ntempestuous spirits, biting each other about the neck and ears and\nrushing round in giddy circles on the tiny grass plot until, in response\nto a call from the maid, they returned with her to the house. They were\nforeigners evidently, these dogs! The squire could not remember the name\nof the breed, but he thought he had seen one of the kind before in\nLondon. He was not quite sure he approved of foreign dogs; they were not\nso sporting or reliable as those of the English breeds; still, these\nwere handsome fellows, well kept and (from the green ribbons that\nadorned their fluffy necks) evidently made much of. He was still looking\nafter the dogs when he was joined by the curate coming out of the\nblacksmith's cottage opposite and stopping to light a match in the\nshelter of the high wall of 'The Retreat.'\n\n'First pipe I have had to-day,' said the newcomer as he puffed at it\nluxuriously. 'It's more than you can say, squire, I'll be bound.'\n\n'Twenty-first, that's more like it,' said the squire with a laugh. 'How\nis Mrs Johnson?' This in allusion to the curate's call at the smithy.\n\n'Dying. Won't last the night out, I think. She is quite unconscious.\nStill I am glad I went. Johnson and his daughters seemed to like to have\nme there, though of course there was nothing for me to do.'\n\n'Quite so, quite so,' said the squire approvingly, for the village was\nso small that he took a paternal interest in all its inhabitants. 'Any\nmore news?'\n\n'Mrs Golightly has had twins, and young Shaw has enlisted. That's about\nall, I think. Oh, by the by, I paid a call here to-day.' And he\nindicate. 'The Retreat.' 'It seemed about time you know, and one mustn't\nneglect the new-comers.'\n\n'Of course not,' the squire assented with conviction. 'Was she . . . did\nshe in any way indicate that she was pleased to see you?'\n\n'She was very gracious, but she seemed to take my call quite as a matter\nof course. A nice woman I should think, though a little reserved.\nHowever she is going to rent one seat in church if not more, and she\nsaid I might put her name down for one or two little things I am\ninterested in at present.'\n\n'In fact you made hay while the sun shone. Well, after all, why not? She\ndidn't tell you anything about herself I suppose, or her connections?'\n\n'No, she never mentioned them. I understood or she implied she had been\nabroad a good deal and that her husband had died some years ago. Still I\nreally don't think we need worry about her; the whole thing, if I may\nsay so, was so obviously all right, the house I mean and all its\nappointments. She is a quiet woman, a little shy and retiring perhaps,\nbelongs to the old-fashioned school.'\n\n'Well she is none the worse for that,' said the squire with a grunt. 'We\ndon't meet many of that kind nowadays. Even the farmers' daughters are\nquite ready to set you right whenever they get a chance. This modern\neducation is a curse, I have said so from the very beginning. Still they\nhaven't robbed us of our Church schools yet, if that is any\nconsolation. Coming back to dine with me to-night, Seaton?'\n\nThe young man shook his head. 'Very sorry, squire, it's quite impossible\nto-night. It is Friday night, choir practice you know, and there is a\nlantern lecture in the mission hall. I ought to be there already,\nhelping Griffin with the slides.'\n\n'All right, Sunday evening then, at the usual time,' said the squire\ncordially as the curate left him, and, as he looked after him, he\ncriticised him as a busy fellow, not likely to set the Thames on fire\nperhaps, but essentially the right man in the right place.\n\nHis own progress was a good deal slower; not that he found the hill too\nsteep, for, in spite of his fifty years, he was still perfectly sound of\nwind and limb, as was shown by his athletic movements, the fresh healthy\ncolour on his cheeks, and the clear blue of his eyes, but rather because\nhe seemed loth to tear himself away from 'The Retreat' and his new\ntenant. Even when he had reached the little post office that crowned the\nsummit, he did not turn off towards his own place till he had spent\nanother five minutes contemplating the stack of chimney-pots sending out\nthick puffs of white smoke into the quiet evening sky, and listening\nattentively to the cheerful sound of a tinkling piano blended with the\ngentle lowing of the cattle on the marsh below. After all, he told\nhimself, he was very glad Seaton had called, for apart from his duty as\na clergyman it was only a kind and neighbourly thing to do.\n\nIt was a pity that there were not more of his kind in the neighbourhood,\nfor in spite of his own preference for the country, he could imagine\nthat a woman coming to it fresh from London at such a season might find\nit dull and a little depressing. He wondered if Mrs Menzies, of Hither\nHall, would call if he asked her to do so. Of course she would in a\nmoment if he put it on personal grounds, but that was not the point. All\nhe wished was to be kind and hospitable to a stranger; and Mrs Menzies,\nmuch as he respected and admired her, had never been known to err on the\nside of tolerance, nor did one meet in her drawing-room anyone whose\npedigree would not bear a thorough investigation. Yes, there was no\ndoubt about it, though the laws that governed social intercourse were on\nthe whole excellent and had to be kept, there were here, as everywhere\nelse in life, exceptions to the rule, occasions when anyone of a kindly\ndisposition must feel tempted to break them. And Mrs Menzies was\ncertainly a little stiff: witness her behaviour in the case of Captain\nClinton's widow and the fuss she had made because the unfortunate lady\nhad forgotten to tell her of her relationship to the Eglinton Clintons\nand had only vouchsafed the fact that her father's people had been in\ntrade. Why, it had taken weeks if not months to clear the matter up; and\nit had been very awkward for everybody, the Eglinton Clintons included\nwhen the truth had transpired. No, on second thoughts he would not ask\nMrs Menzies to call; he would far rather make the first venture himself\nthan risk a snub for this lonely defenceless stranger.\n\nHe turned into the gates of Redland Hall with a half-formed intention of\ndoing so immediately. He dined alone as usual; it was very rare that the\ndining-room of Redland Hall extended its hospitality to anybody\nnowadays; for the squire, like most men over forty, had lost the habit\nof entertaining and did not know how to recover it. A bachelor friend\nspent a night with him from time to time; the curate supped with him\nevery Sunday; and his sister came for a week or two during the summer,\nwhen she invariably told him that the house was too uncomfortable to\nlive in, and he ought to have it thoroughly done up and modernised. He\ninvariably promised to set about it immediately, with the full\nintention of doing so; but his resolution began to weaken the day on\nwhich he saw her off at the station, and degenerated steadily for the\nremainder of the year. That night, however, for the first time for many\nmonths he made a voyage of discovery into his own drawing-room. Yes,\nthere was no doubt about it, Selina was quite right in calling it\ndraughty and uncomfortable; the gilt French furniture was shabby and\ntarnished, the Aubusson carpet worn, the wall paper faded, the whole\nroom desolate in its suggestion of past glory. He crossed over to the\nenormous grand piano, opened it and struck a yellow key gently with one\nfinger. Was he wrong, he wondered, in thinking its tone was lamentably\nthin and poor? A rat scampered and squeaked in the wainscoting, the\nwindows rattled in their loose sashes; he shut the piano abruptly and\nleft the room. It would cost a good deal to have it thoroughly done up,\nof course; but that was not the point. Who would superintend the\ndecorations? He did not trust his own taste and had no faith in that of\nany upholsterer. Selina would come and help him if he asked her, though\nshe would think it strange, for she had paid her annual visit in August,\nand it was now only March; besides, if she brought her delicate little\ngirls with her at such a time the whole house would be upset in\narranging for their comfort. Still, Selina or no, he had quite made up\nhis mind to have the room done up and to buy a new piano immediately; it\nwas ridiculous to harbour an instrument which was merely a nesting place\nfor mice. He returned to the dining-room, poured himself out a stiff\nwhiskey and soda, and dozed over his _Spectator_ for the rest of the\nevening. Yet, next morning, even in the unromantic light of day, he was\nsurprised to find that his plan of doing up the drawing-room still held\ngood.\n\nHe had intended to ride into Wetherton that day to try his new mare\nacross country, for the gates were high in that direction and good\nenough to test her powers as a jumper. A glance at the glistening frost\non the grass soon sufficed, however, to tell him that his scheme could\nnot be carried out; nor was he sorry until, having spent the morning on\nhis farms and inspected everything and everybody at his leisure, it\noccurred to him with a desperate sense of conviction that there was\nstill the afternoon to be filled in somehow. About three he set off in\nthe direction of the village, looked in at the church and had a brief\ncolloquy with Seaton regarding the new pews which were being put up,\ninterviewed the postmaster, condoled with the blacksmith upon the death\nof his wife, and even ventured down as far as the marsh to see if the\nnew carrier who had taken the place of old Dick Tomlinson was likely to\nfulfil his duties properly. About four o'clock he found himself once\nmore opposite 'The Retreat.' It was on the main road certainly, but it\nwas only recently that he had become aware of its importance in the\nlandscape. One could not get to the marsh or come back from it without\npassing it. The windows looked as trim as ever--trimmer perhaps, for\nshort muslin curtains interspaced with embroidery seemed to have sprung\nup in the night. They were very decorative in their way; at the same\ntime they quite shut out all prospect of the interior, and there was no\nworkbox, piano, or suggestion of tea things to be seen to-day. The\nforeign dogs were snuffling in the garden as he passed the second time,\nand one of them nosed its way through the iron gate and ventured a few\nyards down the road, but just as the squire had made up his mind it was\nhis duty to take it back, it returned of its own accord. He watched the\ntrim maid come out and call them as she had done the day before, and saw\nthem rush after her frolicking round her skirt.\n\nSuddenly he crossed the road, looked up and down to make sure there was\nno acquaintance within sight, opened the iron gate of 'The Retreat,' and\npassed up the gravel pathway into the porch.\n\n'Mrs Fulton is at home,' said the trim maid demurely, in answer to his\nquestion.\n\nMERCAT PRESS, EDINBURGH\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Bed of Roses, by W. L. George\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "After Hours - Joshua Palmatier"}, "text": " \nTable of Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Page\n\nAcknowledgements\n\nIntroduction\n\nAN ALEWIFE IN KISH - Benjamin Tate\n\nWHY THE VIKINGS HAD NO BARS - S. C. Butler\n\nTHE EMPEROR'S NEW GOD - Jennifer Dunne\n\nTHE TALE THAT WAGGED THE DOG - Barbara Ashford\n\nSAKE AND OTHER SPIRITS - Maria V. Snyder\n\nTHE FORTUNE-TELLER MAKES HER WILL - Kari Sperring\n\nTHE TAVERN FIRE - D.B. Jackson\n\nLAST CALL - Patricia Bray\n\nTHE ALCHEMY OF ALCOHOL - Seanan McGuire\n\nTHE GRAND TOUR - Juliet E. McKenna\n\nPARIS 24 - Laura Anne Gilman\n\nSTEADY HANDS AND A HEART OF OAK - Ian Tregillis\n\nFORBIDDEN - Avery Shade\n\nWHERE WE ARE IS HELL - Jackie Kessler\n\nIZDU-BAR - Anton Strout\n\nABOUT THE AUTHORS\n\nABOUT THE EDITORS\n_**\"The alehouse can never be destroyed. Never.\"**_\n\n\"It will simply move to another place. So the gods have decreed. And I will move with it. I will be an alewife forever. What the gods have refused to give you, Gilgamesh\u2014immortality\u2014they _have_ given me.\"\n\nThen she stepped away, pitcher still in hand. He stood stunned, tall, muscular body unmoving, rigid with shock and pain: Gilgamesh, once-king of Uruk, slayer of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven.\n\nThen he exhaled. \"And the gods mock me still, even here.\"\n\nShe sneered. \"Did you not feel their presence in this room? Do you not feel their mantle spread over this building? Over me? Is that not why you came here?\"\n\n\"No. I came because I had nowhere else to look, nowhere else to search.\"\n\nKubaba nodded. Her arms prickled and itched as she said, \"Perhaps the gods do not mock you. Perhaps I can help.\"\n\n\u2014from \"An Alewife in Kish\" by Benjamin Tate\n**Also Available from DAW Books:**\n\n_**Boondocks Fantasy**_ **,** edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg Urban fantasy is popular, but what if you took that modern fantasy and moved it to the \"sticks,\" with no big city in sight? Trailer parks, fishing shacks, sleepy little towns, or specks on the map so small that if you blink while driving through you'll miss them. Vampires, wizards, aliens, and elves might be tired of all that urban sprawl and prefer a spot in the country\u2014someplace where they can truly be themselves without worrying about what the neighbors think! With stories by tale-spinners such as Gene Wolfe, Timothy Zahn, Mickey Zucker Reichert, Anton Strout, Linda P. Baker and others.\n\n_**Love and Rockets**_ , edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes An original collection of thirteen space opera adventures by authors such as Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Jay Lake, Steven H. Silver, Dean Wesley Smith, Jody Lynn Nye, Tim Waggoner, and Kristine Kathryn Rusch, among others, which explore the directions romantic relationships may take when set in such unique environments as spaceships, space stations, or planetary colonies. The relationships may be between humans or alien/human couples or even between humans and AIs. And no matter how far men, women, and extraterrestrials go in the universe, whether love is found on a distant planet or among the stars, just like in real life, a happy ending is never guaranteed.\n\n_**Zombiesque** ,_ edited by Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett, and Martin H. Greenberg\n\nZombies have long stalked and staggered through the darkest depths of human imagination, pandering to our fears about death and what lies beyond. But must zombies always be just shambling, brain-obsessed ghouls? If zombies actually maintained some level of personality and intelligence, what would they want more than anything? Could zombies integrate themselves into society? Could society accept zombies? What if a zombie fell in love? These are just some of the questions explored in original stories by Seanan McGuire, Nancy A. Collins, Tim Waggoner, Richard Lee Byers, Jim C. Hines, Jean Rabe, and Del Stone Jr. with others. Here's your chance to take a walk on the undead side in these unforgettable tales told from a zombie's point of view.\n\n_**Steampunk'd,**_ edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg\n\nScience fiction is the literature of what if, and steampunk takes the what if along a particular time stream. What if steam power was the prime force in the Victorian era? How would that era change, and how would it change the future? From a Franco-British race for Kentucky coal to one woman's determination to let no man come between her and her inventions ... from \"machine whisperers\" to a Thomas Edison experiment gone awry, here are fourteen original tales of what might have been had steam powered the world in an earlier age, from Michael A. Stackpole, Donald J. Bingle, Robert Vardeman, Paul Genesse, Jody Lynn Nye, and others.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2011 by Joshua Palmatier, Patricia Bray and Tekno Books\n\nAll Rights Reserved\n\nDAW Book Collectors No. 1542.\n\nDAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).\n\nAll characters and events in this book are fictitious.\n\nAll resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.\n\nThe scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.\n\neISBN : 978-1-101-47732-8\n\nFirst Printing, March 2011\n\n**DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED**\n\n**U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES**\n\n**\u2014MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN U.S.A.**\n\n**S.A.**\n\n<http://us.penguingroup.com>\n**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**\n\nIntroduction copyright \u00a9 2011 by Joshua Palmatier and Patricia Bray\n\n\"An Alewife In Kish,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Joshua Palmatier\n\n\"Why the Vikings Had No Bars,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by S. C. Butler\n\n\"The Emperor's New God,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Jennifer Dunne\n\n\"The Tale That Wagged the Dog,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Barbara Ashford\n\n\"Sake and Other Spirits,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Maria V. Snyder\n\n\"The Fortune-Teller Makes Her Will,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by K. L. Maund\n\n\"The Tavern Fire,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by David B. Coe\n\n\"Last Call,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Patricia Bray\n\n\"The Alchemy of Alcohol,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Seanan McGuire\n\n\"The Grand Tour,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Juliet E. McKenna\n\n\"Paris 24,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Laura Anne Gilman\n\n\"Steady Hands and a Heart of Oak,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Ian Tregillis\n\n\"Forbidden,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Avery Shade.\n\n\"Where We Are Is Hell,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Jackie Kessler\n\n\"Izdu-Bar,\" copyright \u00a9 2011 by Anton Strout\n**INTRODUCTION**\n\n**S** EVEN authors walk into a bar. . . .\n\nNo, seriously. This entire anthology began when seven authors\u2014a group that calls itself the Magnificent Seven, for obvious reasons\u2014got together at a bar after a multi-author signing. Drinks were had, alcohol was consumed, and at some point during the conversation someone brought up anthologies, bars, and . . . well, there you have it.\n\nWe really didn't think the anthology idea would amount to anything. Thousands of ideas are thought up at the bar by authors; some of them are even good. But the idea was written up as a proposal (a crucial first step that is generally never taken; we were drinking after all) and within the space of five months or so it was pitched and sold.\n\nIt's the perfect idea for an anthology: nearly every fantasy novel has a scene in a bar or tavern or inn. It's often where the storyline either starts, takes a major turn (usually for the worse), or where it ends. So why not have a bar as the central theme of the anthology? A bar that's magical in nature, that travels through time. A bar that is the quintessential representation of everything that makes a bar great. The Ur-Bar.\n\nAnd who better to watch over the Ur-Bar than the immortal Gilgamesh?\n\nSo here you have fifteen stories spread throughout time, from the moment that Gilgamesh took over the Ur-Bar into one possible future. All of the stories are set on Earth\u2014perhaps an alternate Earth\u2014and in each, the Ur-Bar is key to how the story unfolds. Pour yourself a drink\u2014or let Gil pour one for you\u2014sit back, relax, and enjoy.\n\nThe first round's on us.\n**AN ALEWIFE IN KISH**\n\n_Benjamin Tate_\n\n**K** UBABA glared out the door of her alehouse over the sun-baked mud walls of the city-state of Kish and muttered darkly, for the thousandth time, \"Curse you, Enlil. And curse this prison.\"\n\nFrom her vantage, a maze of streets cut down from the hill through the rectangular houses of the workers, artisans, and merchants that made up this quarter, the pale red clay punctuated here and there by splashes of green from gardens and the occasional glint of sunlight reflecting off of water from a fountain or pool. The land rose again in the distance, houses giving way to the larger temples of the priests and the walls of the king's palace. The temple of Anu rose higher than all of the rest, as befit the god of heaven, but Enlil's and Ishtar's temples were also prominent. Kubaba's glare darkened as it raked across Enlil's shrine and she spat to one side, lip curled. She tossed the contents of the slop bucket she held out onto the side of the street.\n\n\"Watch where you throw that offal, you heaping pile of entrails!\"\n\nThe merchant who'd shouted gestured rudely as he dodged out of the reeking path of slop, then continued on his way up the street. Kubaba bristled and stepped forward, a scathing retort on her lips. As soon as her foot touched the ground beyond the entrance to the alehouse, searing pain lanced up from her sole into her upper thigh. She hissed and lurched backwards, choking back her reply. The man barked out laughter, but she ignored him, focusing on her leg as she ducked back into the shade of the inner room. Hurling curses at Enlil, she hobbled through the mostly empty tables and chairs toward the small room in the back where the urns of barley beer were waiting to be served. The pain faded, but her entire leg now tingled as if it were being feasted on by ants.\n\n\"You should be careful cursing Enlil.\" The slurred voice rumbled outwards from the far corner of the room. \"The gods are vengeful, especially one such as he.\"\n\nKubaba halted at the edge of the main room, weight on her good leg, back rigid. \"I know of the gods and their vengeance,\" she snapped. \"I suffer under their hateful gaze every day.\" She'd nearly forgotten the man was there, although she wasn't certain how that was possible. He'd arrived early, ducking down beneath the doorway as he entered because he was so tall, possibly the tallest man she'd ever seen. His well-built chest glistened with sweat, streaked with dirt and dust from the road, his finely made fringed kilt also layered with mud. The braids of his beard were loosened, as if he hadn't bothered to groom himself for days, and his face was haggard, lined with age and weariness, even though his entire body strained with subtle strength.\n\nThat strength irritated her. He shouldn't exude such controlled danger. Not after the amount of beer he'd drunk.\n\nShe turned toward him, toward the shadows where he sat. She could barely see him, although her eyes had already recovered from the blaze of sunlight at the door. The other two patrons glanced between them both warily. They came nearly every day and knew of her foul temper, although today she felt particularly trapped. They'd ordered their beer and settled into their usual chairs with a minimum of words.\n\nNot this man.\n\n\"But what of you?\" Kubaba asked caustically. \"What do you know of the gods? What have they ever done to you?\"\n\nThe man laughed, a hard sound that reverberated throughout the room, no mirth in it. It was bitter, filled with grief, pain, and a despair so deep that Kubaba, even in her own bitter rage, felt her heart shudder. Her hand clutched at the baked mud of the doorway until the horrid laughter trailed down into silence.\n\n\"You ask what the gods have done to me,\" he said after a long silence. His wooden cup thunked down onto the table top, then scraped across its surface as he pushed it toward her. His eyes caught hers and even in the shadows she could feel his attention settle on her. \"Bring me more beer and perhaps I'll tell you.\"\n\nShe drew back a step beneath that gaze, then frowned at herself and straightened her shoulders. Without a word, she slipped into the back room, dipped out a pitcher of beer from the largest urn, and grabbed a bowl of dates. The tingling in her leg had stopped, but it still felt numb. She refilled cups to grateful nods and tentative smiles, before circling back to the man's table. Up close, she could smell his sweat, heavy and dense. His hair glistened with oil. Age radiated from him, although he did not appear old.\n\nShe held his gaze, then frowned and set the bowl of dates before him with a clatter. \"Would you like a reed straw?\" she asked as she refilled his cup, even though he had not asked for one before and this was his seventh cup since his arrival. The quality of his kilt and his bearing spoke of the high caste, but he was no priest. She didn't know what he was.\n\nHe grinned, the expression leonine. \"I can handle the barley hulls.\"\n\nShe nodded, a little surprised.\n\n\"Sit.\" He gestured toward the nearest chair.\n\nShe frowned at him. She hadn't expected him to tell his tale, whatever it was, however wild and unbelievable. She'd been trapped in this alehouse long enough to know when a man came to drink simply to forget. But if he wanted to talk, let him talk. The gods had certainly granted her enough time to listen, she thought with a twisted half-smile.\n\nShe set the nearly empty pitcher of beer on the table and sat, arms crossed on her chest. \"So talk,\" she said. She couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice. \"How have the gods assailed you?\"\n\nThe man leaned back, legs stretched out before him, beer in one hand. He drank deeply from the cup, his eyes never leaving Kubaba, then set the cup down as he glanced around the alehouse. The other patrons stared intently at their own cups and pretended they had not been listening, but the man didn't care. A dark melancholy settled over his shoulders.\n\n\"I met him in a place much like this,\" he finally rumbled, in a voice so low Kubaba had to force herself to remain still. The two others were not so controlled, chairs creaking as they leaned forward. \"In an alehouse, at the end of a wedding ceremony. As soon as he entered, I knew he had been sent by the gods to challenge me, a wild man sent to tame me. It wasn't until Shamhat entered behind him that I realized how vicious and sadistic the gods truly were. I had sent Shamhat to find him, to seduce him, to bring this wild man I had heard of to me, not realizing what the gods intended the wild man for. I had summoned my own destruction.\n\n\"So the wild man challenged me, there in front of the wedding guests, there in that alehouse. He challenged my right to bed the wife on her marriage night, before her husband. But it was my right, my duty!\" The man slammed his hand onto the table, making the boards jump, his cup rattling but staying upright.\n\nKubaba stirred in her seat. Not a priest, no, but a king. Only kings could bed a virgin bride on the wedding night. But which king?\n\nShe scowled and squashed the tiny flicker of hope. He could not be a king. Kings did not squat in alehouses, beard unraveling, covered in sweat and dust. Kings did not drink barley beer without reed straws. It was a story only. A madman's story.\n\n\"But the reason for the challenge was meaningless,\" the madman murmured, calm again. \"He would have challenged me over the texture of the rice, or the color of the sky. The true challenge came from the gods, and so I rose to meet it. I shrugged aside the robes of my city, of my station, and I boomed, 'You dare to defy the king?'\n\n\"The wild man straightened where he stood. No fear touched his eyes, nor quivered in any muscle. He held himself proud, rigid with anger, and answered, 'I do.'\n\n\"The arrogance enraged me. I was the king! I was god-touched, god-blessed\u2014or so I thought. I roared my rage and charged him.\n\n\"The wild man stood, solid as a rock, and met the charge. We collided, grappled with each other, until we struck the far wall. It cracked beneath the impact, chunks of baked mud cascading down. The wild man twisted in my grip, his arm snaking down under my leg and then lifting, toppling me backwards. I roared again as I fell, grunted as my back slammed into the bare earth, rolled away, and surged to my feet.\n\n\"But the wild man moved fast, as fluid as a lion, as deadly. He closed and tackled me, drove me back into the feasting table. Wood splintered and food flew. The wedding guests began to scream, but neither of us heard them. I pounded my fists into his back, his arms still latched around my waist, the side of his face pressed into my stomach so tight I could feel his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. He twisted and spun and flung me back. I landed hard, lurched upright in time to catch him as he attempted to leap onto my back, jammed my hands into his shoulder and stomach, knelt and pivoted, and flung him over me with a growl. He slammed into more tables and chairs, scrambled from the wreckage, lithe body tensed with his rage, face twisted and feral. I saw his primal nature then, felt it throbbing in the air, tasted it in the sweat that slicked my face and salted my lips, breathed in its musk with every ragged breath.\n\n\"In that moment, the wild man was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Raw and vibrant. _Alive_.\n\n\"Then he charged, plowed into me, lifted me from my feet and carried me out through the open doorway into the street beyond, into the cooling night air. We crashed into a stack of earthen pots on a cart, baked clay shattering around us, unheeded as we wrestled each other across the street, careened into walls, carts, canopies, trampled through empty stalls. Shamhat and the wedding guests trailed after us, and drunken citizens joined them as we staggered past. My muscles began to burn with exhaustion. I tasted blood, my lip split, my body bruised, and yet still we fought, clinging as we pummeled each other with weaker and weaker blows, each trying to break free, neither willing to let the other go.\n\n\"Until, seeing the crowd we had drawn, seeing the guests of the wedding whispering to those who had joined them as we fought through the city, my rage overwhelmed my exhaustion. Grasping the wild man's shoulders with both hands, I shoved his torso back, his arms wrapped around my chest, and then pulled him forward as I brought my head down. Our foreheads cracked together and the wild man's grip slid away. Stunned, still I bellowed in triumph and shrugged the wild man's body up onto my shoulder and flung him to the ground, kneeling upon his chest. I'd drawn back my fist to beat his face to bloody tatters when I saw his eyes. Dazed, they gazed up at me in wonder. All of the rage, all of the arrogance, all of the wildness had fled.\n\n\"In a raw voice, breath shallow from my weight upon his chest, he swallowed and said, 'I am defeated.'\n\n\"And all of my rage vanished.\"\n\nKubaba let the silence that followed these words reign for a long moment\u2014\n\nThen she snorted in contempt.\n\nThe man turned a heated, narrow gaze on her. \"You do not believe my story?\"\n\n\"You claim that the gods have maligned you,\" Kubaba said, standing abruptly and grabbing the nearly empty pitcher of beer from the table, \"and yet you tell a tale of how you bested them!\"\n\n\"No, you are wrong.\"\n\n\"You defeated the wild man! The man sent by the gods to challenge you!\"\n\n\"I did not defeat him. He defeated me. The gods won.\"\n\nKubaba stared as the madman took a long draught from his cup. She wanted to throttle him, but he was too calm, too collected. Most madmen, especially those who'd drunk as much as he had, grew incensed if you challenged their tales of woe and misery. This one simply watched her, his broad shoulders slumped, despair still shadowing his eyes. And there was something else, something niggling at the back of her mind. The man's story was familiar somehow, although she couldn't quite place it.\n\nThe fact that she couldn't annoyed her. \"How, then?\" she scoffed. \"How did the wild man defeat you?\"\n\nSomething twisted inside the man, exposed in his eyes, something black and insidious. He grimaced, glanced into his empty cup, then motioned toward it as he said, \"He defeated me by befriending me.\"\n\nKubaba frowned, confused, but poured the last of the pitcher into the man's cup and then retreated into the back room. She heard the other two patrons stir, murmur amongst themselves, followed by the scrape of chairs. She dunked the pitcher into the urn of beer, the heady aroma assailing her nostrils as it filled. She breathed it in as she thought furiously. Could the man truly be a king? Or was this another drunken tale told by a fool? He wore no robes of state, but his clothing was of finer quality than the workers and merchants of the district. He drank without a straw like a commoner, but his physical presence commanded respect, demanded something more, even though he was disheveled. Yet she could not recall any kings of Kish or the surrounding lands who had abandoned their cities to roam the roads and frequent gods-cursed alehouses.\n\nIf she were king, she would rather die.\n\nShe grunted in amusement at the thought. Then, pitcher full again, she straightened\u2014\n\nAnd caught sight of the tablet resting on the shelf of the niche behind the urns of beer. The gods had placed it there to mock her, Ninkasi herself inscribing the recipe for beer upon it before setting it upon the shelf and vanishing with a final laugh, the last lines of power\u2014of the gods' punishment\u2014settling around Kubaba and the alehouse like a weighted fishing net.\n\nKubaba shuddered, the mesh of that net brushing against her as if in warning. She shrugged aside the tingling sensation and returned to the outer room. She was not surprised to find that only the madman remained, the other patrons gone.\n\nShe moved directly to the mysterious man's table.\n\n\"I do not understand. How did the wild man defeat you by befriending you?\"\n\nThe man's glare made Kubaba fidget where she stood, until she could take it no longer and sat. He nodded and poured himself another beer, although he did not immediately take a drink. Instead, he stared into the far distance, cup held in one hand.\n\n\"He befriended me, and together we became the terror of the surrounding lands. Nothing could stop us, no one could control us, not even the councilors of the city. We converged on the alehouses of Uruk and drank heavily. We staggered through the streets beneath the white moon, held upright by each other's arms. We challenged every strong man and defeated them, fought lions with our bare hands and killed them, and when those challenges became paltry and trivial, we sought out greater challenges. The elders begged us to stop, but we thought the gods had brought us together for a reason, that they had set these trials before us to test us.\"\n\nThe man's voice had grown rough with memory, the skin around his eyes taut. He paused, drank from his cup and set it aside, and then met Kubaba's gaze. She could see the pain there, and a sudden suspicion lanced through her and clutched at her gut. He'd mentioned Uruk. Her mind turned to the great southern city on the edge of the Euphrates, to the city's great kings\u2014\n\nTo one king in particular.\n\nBut this man could not be that king. He'd ruled Uruk over a hundred years ago. And yet the story he told, the emotion that throbbed in his voice, the anguish she could see in the tension around his reddened eyes....\n\n\"We should have listened to the elders,\" he continued, and Kubaba found herself leaning forward, eyes narrowed in doubt, searching his face for the truth. \"But we were young, and powerful, and we thought we could not be defeated, not together. And so we accepted the challenges we thought had been set before us. And in all of this we offended the gods, although we did not realize it. So the gods exacted a punishment.\"\n\nThe man's voice had grown cracked with anguish, his face drawn and bleak, his bloodshot eyes haunted. He drank from his cup, coughed harshly. Kubaba watched him silently, doubt roiling inside her, even as her chest constricted with echoes of the man's pain . . . with Gilgamesh's pain. She could not believe it, dared not believe it, and yet this man related the tale as if he had lived it. And more. She had heard Gilgamesh's story, but there were subtle differences between those and the story this man told. Yet these differences made it harder to discredit the man before her, not easier.\n\nShe leaned forward and in a hoarse voice asked, \"What punishment?\" Even though she knew the tale of Gilgamesh and the wild man, Enkidu, and how their friendship ended. She needed him to say it, to confirm it.\n\nThe man looked up from his cup. \"The gods killed Enkidu,\" he said savagely, face contorted with pain and grief. \"They sent him a terrible sickness. It ravaged his body, so that he wasted away. I thought I had met the gods' challenge, there at the wedding. I thought I had won. But the challenge was not to defeat the wild man. It was to resist Enkidu, his friendship, his ... companionship. We were more than brothers, more than friends. We were. . . .\"\n\nBut words failed him, choked off by emotions that Kubaba could see warring in the muscles of his face, in the grip of his hand on the cup.\n\nThen, in a voice thick with the lie, he said, \"I should have killed him when we met.\"\n\nWith that, all doubt within Kubaba fled. This man\u2014covered in dirt from his travels, disheveled and drunk on barley beer\u2014this man _was_ Gilgamesh, once-king of Uruk, slayer of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven.\n\nAnd if the tales told of him were true....\n\nHope swelled up from deep inside Kubaba's chest. She fought it back, even as she felt it tingling along her arms. It exacerbated the prickling sensation of the gods' net that enfolded her and the bar, raising the fine hairs along her arm. The urge to scratch made her fingers twitch, but she stilled, eyes narrowed at Gilgamesh. She had met many would-be heroes since the gods had laid down their punishment. None of them had agreed to help her escape.\n\nShe had to tread carefully.\n\n\"But if you had killed the wild man then, you would never have enjoyed those battles, never have experienced as deep a bond as you did with Enkidu.\"\n\nGilgamesh slammed his wooden cup onto the table, beer sloshing out from its sides, the cup itself cracking. Kubaba flinched as he roared, \"I would never have experienced the pain of losing him! I would never have felt the fear of death that has consumed me since!\"\n\nHe lurched to his feet, chair scraping across the floor before tilting and clattering to the ground behind him. He planted both of his huge hands onto the table, the wood creaking beneath his weight, and leaned toward Kubaba, so close she could smell the beer on his breath. \"Do you know what I've done since his death?\" he growled. \"I've traveled to the underworld to speak to Utnapishtim, blessed by the gods with eternal life. I've swum the Great Deep and found the spiny plant that grants those who eat it youth. I've climbed the highest peaks of Zagros so that I could breathe the air of the gods. And at every turn, at the height of every triumph, the gods mock me and snatch immortality from my grasp.\"\n\nHe thrust back from the table, arms raised to heaven. \"I have traveled the length of the Great Valley, to the edges of the world, to its greatest heights and fathomless depths, and at every step I can hear the gods' laughter.\" He crossed his arms over his chest and glared downwards. \"Now, alewife, tell me that you know of the gods and their vengeance. Tell me that you have suffered as much as I have. How do the gods punish you?\"\n\nKubaba stared up at the king of Uruk for a long moment, then slowly rose. \"You fear death, and so the gods punish you by keeping you from immortality. I. . . .\" She paused, clamped her jaw together, then grudgingly continued. \"I wanted more than the gods thought I deserved. I wanted to become a god myself.\" She snatched up the pitcher of beer and Gilgamesh's cracked cup and filled it, thrusting it into his hands. \"For that presumption, they thought it fitting that I be forced to endure life as I began, as an alewife, catering to the workers and the merchants I sought to leave behind, serving them for all eternity.\" She nearly spat in disgust, but caught herself.\n\nGilgamesh grunted, then laughed. \"That's it? That's how the gods have punished you?\"\n\nKubaba spun and the sharp look she gave him cut his laughter short. \"You don't understand,\" she hissed. \"I'll be an alewife forever. At this alehouse for a while, because it is the best in this district, because it is the essence of the life I led before. But when the city of Kish begins its decline\u2014as all cities do, even your great Uruk\u2014when this district begins to fall into ruins, then this alehouse and I along with it will shift. It will appear in another city, in another district like this, and there I will serve the workers and the merchants yet again, until time passes, until the essence of the alehouse shifts yet again, and again, and again.\" She moved a step closer to Gilgamesh, satisfaction snaking down into her gut when he flinched back. \"The alehouse can never be destroyed. Never. It will simply move to another place. So the gods have decreed. And I will move with it. I will be an alewife forever. What the gods have refused to give you\u2014immortality\u2014they _have_ given me.\"\n\nThen she stepped away, pitcher still in hand. He stood stunned, tall, muscular body unmoving, rigid with shock and pain.\n\nThen he exhaled. \"And the gods mock me still, even here.\"\n\nShe sneered. \"Did you not feel their presence in this room? Do you not feel their mantle spread over this building? Over me? Is that not why you came here?\"\n\n\"No. I came because I had nowhere else to look, nowhere else to search.\"\n\nKubaba nodded. Her arms prickled and itched as she said, \"Perhaps the gods do not mock you. Perhaps I can help.\"\n\nIt took a moment for her words to sink in, but when they did, Gilgamesh's eyes flared with hope. \"What do you mean?\"\n\nThe gods' net blazed across her arms and her fingers clamped down so hard on the handle of the pitcher of beer that her knuckles turned white. But when she spoke, her voice was deceptively calm. None of the eagerness and hope and desperation bled through at all.\n\n\"Come now. You've dealt with the gods before. You know they play games.\" As she spoke, she shifted forward and lowered her voice. Gilgamesh watched her, eyes narrowed skeptically now, mouth a tight frown. She halted a step away, pitcher of beer lowered to her side. \"They gave me a way to escape. All I need to do is find someone who will willingly take my place.\"\n\nGilgamesh's frown deepened. \"I would think that task easy.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" Kubaba scowled. \"Do you think I haven't tried? But while most men claim they want immortality, few really mean it. Fewer still will accept it at nearly any cost.\" She stared up into Gilgamesh's eyes. \"So what of you? How badly do you want your immortality? Have you searched long enough that you would willingly take my place here, in this alehouse, serving the men and women you ruled over for years?\" Then, in a soft voice, with a subtle shift closer to his dust- and sweat-smeared body: \"How much do you fear death, Gilgamesh?\"\n\nTheir tableau held, the only sounds their breaths, the clang of a bell, and the muted bleat of a goat from outside.\n\nAnd then, finally, Gilgamesh muttered, \"Enough.\"\n\nKubaba nearly leapt for joy, managed to contain it enough to step backwards and motion toward the table where Gilgamesh had been seated before. \"Then sit. I will make the appropriate preparations.\"\n\nHe stared at her a long moment, doubt that she was telling the truth still lining the edges of his eyes, but then he turned. She waited until he was settled, then grabbed the cracked cup he'd drunk from earlier, tossed the dregs of the beer still left to one side, and retreated into the back room.\n\nMuttering to herself\u2014prayers to the gods, prayers to herself\u2014she set the empty pitcher to one side along with the cracked cup, then scrambled through the urns into the back corner where her pallet lay, along with all of her worldly possessions. She drew a leather satchel from beneath the pallet, dug through it until she found the vial Ninkasi had left with the stone tablet. She held it up to the shadowy light, read the inscriptions on its sides, noticed that her hands were shaking. Gripping the stone vial tight, she shoved everything she owned into the satchel, then climbed to her feet and tossed it to one side near the door to the small room.\n\nThen she turned to the stone tablet in its niche against one wall.\n\n\"Ninkasi, I pray you spoke the truth that day or I shall curse you until the day I kill you myself.\"\n\nShe reached up into the niche and grabbed both sides of the stone tablet. She swore as she lifted it\u2014it weighed more than it should\u2014then staggered into the outer room. Gilgamesh did not move to help her as she crossed to his table and set it down. He frowned down at the inscription, reached out to touch it, but she caught his forearm.\n\n\"Don't touch it,\" she said. \"Not yet.\"\n\nShe returned to the back room, grabbed her satchel, Gilgamesh's cracked cup, and the vial, but left the pitcher. If this worked, she wouldn't need it any more.\n\nTrying to control a wild grin, she crossed the outer room and set the cracked cup onto the center of the tablet. Arms prickling with the sensation of the net and her own excitement, she pulled the stopper from the vial and poured the liquid within into the cup. It came out clear, like water, but smelled of cedar and mint, and continued to pour forth even when it became clear that the tiny vial could not possibly contain the amount of liquid already in the cup. But Kubaba did not hesitate, pouring until the cracked cup was full, then sealing the vial once again. She set it down on the tablet as well. It was still full.\n\n\"Now drink,\" she said.\n\nGilgamesh reached for the cup, then hesitated, his hand held still in mid-air. Kubaba's breath caught in her throat, a fist-sized lump of despair lodging in her chest.\n\n\"That's it?\" he asked, his voice a low rumble.\n\nTrying not to show her tension, knowing that she failed, she nodded. \"That's it. Drink, and the alehouse ... and immortality . . . are yours.\"\n\nHe grunted, lowered his head as if in deep thought, then picked up the cracked cup.\n\nHe held it before him, long enough she wanted to strangle him. The lump in Kubaba's chest tightened, so hard she thought her heart would burst.\n\nAnd then he drank, tipped his head back, throat working as he downed the entire draught, not stopping for breath.\n\nWhen he finished, he sat forward, breath coming in a harsh gasp as he set the cracked cup back onto the tablet. For a long moment, his face was flushed. He coughed once, twice. \"It burns,\" he said, voice hoarse. \"Burns in my throat. I can feel it inside, in my gut.\"\n\nKubaba said nothing. The net still prickled against her skin. The despair lodged in her chest began to seep outwards into her shoulders, down into her gut, followed closely by seething anger. Ninkasi had lied to her! She'd told her she could escape! She'd told her\u2014\n\nBut then, without warning, the prickling sensation began to fade. A weight she hadn't realized had covered her sloughed off her shoulders, like cloth pulled from a statue's head. She straightened, and the despair that tightened her chest lifted.\n\nSnatching up her satchel, she moved toward the alehouse's door.\n\n\"Wait!\" Gilgamesh growled, and shoved up from the table. \"Wait! Did it work? I feel nothing! Even the burn has faded.\"\n\nKubaba didn't stop, didn't turn. \"Let's see.\"\n\nShe stepped out of the shadows of the alehouse and into the glare of the sunlight slanting down into the street. Her foot landed in the dirt, solidly, without hesitation\u2014\n\nNo pain shot up her leg. Not even a twinge.\n\nLaughter burst from her, a harsh sound, but triumphant, wild and exuberant. She took another step, and another, emerging completely into the sunlight. She flung her arms up to the sky, danced briefly, to the annoyance of the workers and merchants and shepherds trying to pass by, one with a ram in tow. \"Bless you, Ninkasi! And curse you, Enlil!\" She spat onto the ground, eyes narrowed in rage. \"Curse you for cursing me. But I am released! I am free!\"\n\nBehind her, Gilgamesh came to the alehouse's entrance, began to step outside as he said, \"What do mean? What are you say\u2014\"\n\nAs soon as his foot touched the ground he roared in pain and flung himself backwards, back into the shadows of the alehouse, where Kubaba couldn't see him. But she could hear him, fumbling among the tables and chairs as he regained his balance, as the pain in his leg began to fade into the tingling numbness she had grown to know so well. She'd stopped cackling and dancing in the street. She stood now, clear of the alehouse's doorway, and watched its blocky shadow in silence.\n\nWhen Gilgamesh appeared again, balanced on his good leg, the numb one held carefully to one side, he said through gritted teeth, \"What have you done, bitch? What have you done to me?\"\n\nShe snorted. \"What did you think, once-king of Uruk? That immortality came without a price?\"\n\n\"You lied to me!\"\n\nShe shook her head even before his roar ended. His hatred was palpable, like the heat of the sun against her flesh. \"I told you the conditions. You have your immortality, and you have the alehouse. You can never leave, can never step beyond its doorway. But the alehouse . . . and its keeper ... can never be destroyed. You will live forever, Gilgamesh. Or at least until you find someone like yourself, someone so desperate or so afraid that they will willingly take your place.\" She paused, watched the rage roil in Gilgamesh's eyes, and felt no pity. \"I've left you the vial and the tablet. You have everything you need. The alehouse will provide the rest.\"\n\nThen she turned, stared up into the sunlight through squinted eyes, then lowered them toward the city of Kish and smiled. She began moving into the city, toward the hills where the temples and the king's palace lay. Behind her, Gilgamesh spat curses at her back, called upon the gods to strike her down, to slay her where she stood. But she ignored him.\n\nThe gods had taught her something after all. Perhaps aspiring to be a god was too great a goal for now. She needed something more reasonable, something attainable, no matter what the cost.\n\nPerhaps if a king could become an alewife\u2014\n\nThen an alewife could become a king.\n**WHY THE VIKINGS HAD NO BARS**\n\n_S. C. Butler_\n\n**T** HE old man leaned on his staff. Yesterday, the longhouse had been abandoned. Today, through the magic of hard work and a little silver, it almost looked like a jarl's mead hall.\n\nMaybe he could find a way to use the change to his advantage.\n\nA raven flapped down to perch on the peak of the sod roof as the old man crossed the yard. A second raven followed him through the door. In the shadows inside, the few idlers who were always the first to discover this sort of establishment drank their way through the afternoon. The sweet, sour, too-familiar smell of ale cloaked him as heavily as his own garment.\n\nHe recognized the proprietor. Word of the man's fate had preceded him, even here, where little was known of the world beyond ice and blood, and even less of the past.\n\nThe question was, would the proprietor recognize him?\n\nHe brought his staff down heavily on the plank table at the back of the hall. The raven settled in the rafters.\n\n\"It'll never work,\" he declared.\n\nThe proprietor ignored him, continuing to wipe the table. Like most of his type, he was stoic, but not bright.\n\n\"What will never work?\" the proprietor asked.\n\nThe old man swept his staff at the longhouse behind him. \"You can't run a public ale house in Daneland.\"\n\nThe proprietor shrugged. \"I have worked rougher towns.\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\"\n\n\"We shall find out soon enough.\" Hanging his dishrag over his shoulder, the proprietor began setting out a fortune in small glass cups on his wooden bar. \"To tell the truth, I have been looking forward to coming here for some time. You Norsemen have quite a reputation.\"\n\nHe laced his fingers and stretched ostentatiously. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rolled like whales on the surface of the sea. \"I look forward to finding out if the reputation is true.\"\n\nDespite himself, the old man was impressed. Even Thor would have his hands full with this one. Still, he liked that the man was so sure of himself. It would make him that much easier to use.\n\n\"You like causing trouble?\" the old man asked.\n\n\"To tell the truth, I am starting to prefer the quieter towns. My name is not as famous as it once was. In Cordoba, only a few scholars recognized me. The last thing they wanted was to fight me. An interesting town, Cordoba.\"\n\nA sow stuck its snout through the door. One of the men at the front of the hall heaved an empty bowl at it. The sow squealed, and disappeared.\n\n\"Hedeby isn't Cordoba,\" the old man said.\n\n\"I knew that before I got here.\"\n\nThe old man leaned forward with his hands on his staff, bringing his face closer to the proprietor's.\n\n\"You don't recognize me, do you,\" he said.\n\nHe caused what little glamour he was using to fall away. The proprietor stared back at him stupidly. The old man threw back his tangled gray hair to reveal his empty eye socket, and summoned the raven.\n\nThe proprietor shrugged. \"I have met gods before.\" He began piling his glass cups into a small ziggurat. \"Your Norsemen will be no different from any other drunkards.\"\n\n\"That depends how drunk they get.\" The old man held out a hand. The raven hopped from his shoulder to the end of a knobby finger.\n\nThe proprietor shook his head. \"It is always the same. In every place and every century, whether I serve beer, wine, or mead. Or ambrosia.\"\n\nThe old man pointed his staff at the small casks on the shelf behind the table. \"What about those? You think it'll be the same when you serve them?\"\n\nThe proprietor gave him a curious look. \"You know about those?\"\n\n\"I do. We're not all ignorant in Daneland.\"\n\n\"Care to try a glass? Your good opinion would make my establishment an instant success.\"\n\n\"No, thanks. I only drink wine.\"\n\n\"Will Andalusian do? It is the only vintage I carry.\"\n\nThe old man did not resist. He sipped the offered glass unwatered, enjoying its fullness. His thoughts drifted to the warriors he had left carousing in his own hall. They would like this place.\n\n\"I could help you settle in, you know.\"\n\nThe proprietor looked at him suspiciously. He had some experience with gods, after all.\n\n\"Why would you help me?\"\n\nThe old man shrugged. As usual, the lie came easily. \"Hedeby could use a little sophistication. It might be good for my people to learn there's more to life than blood and beer. But even you'll find it hard to control them without my help.\"\n\n\"You wish to join me behind the bar?\"\n\nThe old man snorted, and drained his cup. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, picked his nose, and offered what he found to the raven.\n\n\"The last thing you need is me hanging around, stirring up trouble. A pretty woman or two would be much better. And good for business. A proper Dane or Gotlander likes to have a pretty woman pour his ale for him. Or whatever else he's drinking.\"\n\n\"I like a pretty woman.\" The proprietor winked.\n\nYes, the old man thought, this one was still true to the type. A few more centuries might pound some sense into him. In the meantime, his predictability might provide some amusement.\n\nAnd some reward.\n\n\"Uncle, is it true the Sons of Odin turn into bears when they fight?\"\n\nAbjorn looked down at his sister-son. Almost seven, the boy was old enough to learn the truth rather than the hearth-tales he heard from his mother and the skalds.\n\n\"Calling the Sons of Odin bears is a kenning, Tyrvi. When the mood comes upon them, they fight more like bears than men. But they never actually turn into bears.\"\n\n\"Snurri says his father can turn into a bear any time he wants.\"\n\n\"Snurri is mistaken. Perhaps Snurri is not old enough yet for his father or mother-brother to tell him the truth the way I tell you.\"\n\nTyrvi poked the fire with his wooden sword. Thin gray smoke curled up toward the roof, where a patch of sky showed through a small square hole. Clearly the boy prefered being able to turn into a bear to the truth.\n\n\"Snurri is two months older than I am,\" he said. \"He says his father told him he could turn into a bear. He says the Sons of Odin go into the woods at night and sing songs and eat mushrooms and then Odin One-Eye turns them into bears. And no swords can cut their skin, or anything.\"\n\nAbjorn thought before replying. He did not want to say that Snurri's father was a liar. At best, that meant Tyrvi would end up in a fight with Snurri. At worst, it meant that he or Tyrvi's father would end up in a fight with Snurri's father. Joffur was the largest man in Hedeby, the largest and strongest man Abjorn had ever seen. He was also one of the slowest-witted, and quickest to take offense at any perceived slight. The last thing Abjorn wanted was to spend a week avoiding Joffur until he and Leiknarr had a chance to ambush him. The notoriety would not be worth the trouble.\n\nBesides, Joffur was just ignorant enough to think he _could_ turn into a bear.\n\n\"Perhaps Snurri and his father know something your father and I do not,\" Abjorn said. \"But if they do, it is a secret, which means it might be better not to talk about it with them any more at all. If Snurri brings the matter up again, you should talk about something else. You could ask him how old he thinks each of you will be when you make your first voyage, or fight your first battle.\"\n\nAbjorn hoped the boy was listening as Tyrvi swung his sword back and forth across the room. His imaginary cuts were so ferocious, the thin plume of smoke wavered before him like a coward.\n\n\"When I grow up,\" Tyrvi said, \"I will be a Son of Odin. I will win a score of battles, and die fighting over a heap of gold.\"\n\nAbjorn laughed. \"Yes, and the Valkyries will carry you off to Valhalla, where you and I, and your father and grandfathers, and all our grandfathers before us, will fight and die again together like true men.\"\n\nTyrvi gripped his sword more firmly and attacked the fire pit even more vigorously. Abjorn watched him proudly. From the room next door he heard the sounds of his sister singing to his sister-daughter as they baked and churned. It was a good life they had here in Daneland. Farms and fields for wives and cattle, the sea close by for voyaging, and fresh lands to raid and settle everywhere. He was only just back from his own first voyage, silver pennies jingling in his pocket from the treasure he had sold to the smith and slaver, but it was good to be home again all the same. Next spring Hastein would call for ships to sail to Mercia, so that they could conquer that country the way they had conquered Northumbria, but in the meantime Abjorn could spend the winter at home. Tomorrow he would set off for his father's farmstead, where his mother would make much of him, and his father would put him to work with his brothers and thralls in the fields.\n\nThe door to the street opened. A blast of cold frightened the flames more thoroughly than Tyrvi's sword.\n\nThe boy attacked his father's legs viciously as he entered the house. Leiknarr allowed his son his triumph, then packed him off to his mother with a smack on the backside. Helping himself to a bowl of ale from the cask in the corner, he joined Abjorn.\n\n\"I have heard some interesting news,\" he said. \"A Frisian told me there is an ale-house south of town.\"\n\nAbjorn fetched a bowl of ale of his own. \"What is so special about an ale-house? The Saxons have scores of them.\"\n\n\"This is no Saxon ale-house. The owner is a Saracen.\"\n\n\"A Saracen?\" Abjorn spat in the fire. \"I do not accept drinks from thralls.\"\n\n\"The Frisian says this Saracen is no thrall, but a free man doing business like any merchant. Only his trade is not furs or slaves, but hospitality.\"\n\n\"Hospitality is no trade.\"\n\n\"If a man can buy a bed slave, why not a cup of ale?\"\n\n\"Why should I buy a cup of ale when I have good drink brewed by my sister right here?\"\n\nLeiknarr looked at Abjorn over the top of his bowl. \"Ale is not the only thing the Saracen offers.\"\n\n\"I have no need to pay for mead, either.\"\n\n\"It is not mead. The Saracen serves a special brew. The Frisian says he brought it all the way from Baghdad.\"\n\nAbjorn's eyes widened. Leiknarr had sailed with Bjorn Ironside when that brave jarl had sacked Algeciras and Rome, and had brought home many tales. As a boy, Abjorn had always enjoyed the stories of djinnis' caves and magic rings.\n\n\"Even you have never been to Baghdad,\" he said.\n\n\"It is called al-kuhl.\"\n\n\"Al-kuhl? It sounds like the name of one of their djinnis.\"\n\n\"Al-kuhl is not a djinni. Though from the way this Frisian describes it, like as not it was a djinni who first brewed it. He says it is a drink fit for Odin himself.\"\n\nAbjorn waved a dismissive hand. \"It is probably just some sort of wine.\"\n\n\"Whatever it is, I would like to try it. And if we do not hurry over to the Saracen's establishment right now, we are unlikely to get our chance. Everyone was talking about it on the dock\u2014they say the Saracen has brought a limited supply. You can stay here if you want, but I do not intend to miss the opportunity. Even when I sailed the Middle Sea, I never heard of al-kuhl.\"\n\nLeiknarr wagged a finger, then placed it on the side of his nose. \"They say it tastes like fire.\"\n\nThey started at once. The sun had almost fallen, and the sky had gone the color of steel. A breeze from the Schlie iced the town. The two men's feet clomped heavily on the wooden boards that covered the half-frozen streets.\n\nThe guards at the gate laughed when they saw them. \"Better hurry up,\" one said. \"Half a dozen Franks just passed through ahead of you.\"\n\nThe other hiccupped and rubbed his head. \"It was worth every silver penny I had, but you will feel like you spent the night inside of a drum tomorrow.\"\n\nAbjorn and Leiknarr left the two guards arguing about who had drunk more and followed the road into the countryside. A pair of ravens pecked at the dirt in front of them, flying ahead whenever the two men approached too close.\n\nThey heard the ale-house before they saw it. A crowd stood drinking and quarreling outside. Abjorn recognized most as the sort of men who rarely saw the inside of a jarl's hall, let alone a king's. Landless men not so good with their arms that they had won places for themselves in Normandy or Northumbria, but not so bad that they had been outlawed either. Though they were drunk, they knew better than to challenge Leiknarr, who had done great things in his day, or Abjorn, whom everyone knew would do great things in his. Instead they eyed the two men as they approached, and fiddled with their drinking horns and ear spoons.\n\nA maiden greeted the new arrivals at the door. Abjorn was surprised, as much by the fact that she was both beautiful and richly dressed as by her presence. So beautiful, in fact, that he almost lost his tongue. Her hair, pale as the whitest gold, was pulled back behind her head in long braids knotted like a crown. Her blue robe was richly embroidered, and the silver brooches that clasped her apron were intricately worked. Beneath her white throat hung a necklace of perfectly matched beads and stones.\n\n\"Welcome, brave heroes,\" she said. She offered them a smile and a golden bowl. \"May my gift of ale grace you with strength, wealth, and manly vigor.\"\n\n\"Well said, maid.\" Leiknarr took the bowl.\n\nAbjorn sniffed its contents after his sister's husband was done. \"It is only ale,\" he said.\n\nThe maiden laughed. \"In Gisl's establishment the ale is freely given. The Saracen al-kuhl, however, you must purchase from Gisl himself.\"\n\nExtending a graceful arm, she led Abjorn and Leiknarr inside.\n\nThere was hardly room for them. A mass of Danes and Franks, Norse and Rus, Wends and Gotlanders, packed the hall as tightly as a hull full of Sami furs. Every one of them glared belligerently at the newcomers, cups and horns in their fists, daring them to pass.\n\nThey parted for the maiden. Abjorn and Leiknarr followed in her wake. Past the fire pit, at the back of the hall, they found a large Saracen standing behind a wooden table ladling what looked like pure water from a small cask into tiny glass cups. He bore himself like a jarl, or a hero out of some tale more used to battling giants and draugr than serving beer. Nearly as tall and broad as Joffur, his neatly groomed dark hair and beard clung to his head in tight curls. Clearly this man was no thrall.\n\n\"Welcome, heroes,\" he said. He refilled the maiden's bowl from a larger cask on the floor. \"Have you come for the fine ale, or do you seek rarer tastes?\"\n\n\"We hear you have brought something new to the north.\" Leiknarr eyed the smaller barrel.\n\nThe Saracen tapped the cask with a thick finger. \"One of the wonders of the modern world,\" he said. \"I have brought it all the way from Baghdad, the center of wisdom and learning. Frankish priests call it aqua vitae. The Arabians who invented it, al-kuhl. Would you care to try it?\"\n\n\"It is why we came,\" Leiknarr said.\n\n\"It is expensive. One silver penny will only get you enough to fill one of these small cups.\"\n\nThe Saracen held up one of the tiny glasses set out beside the cask. In his large hand it looked no larger than a thimble.\n\nAbjorn had seen glass cups at King Helge's hall, but had never actually held one, let alone drunk from one. His mouth watered. The Saracen must be a wealthy man to display such treasure so freely, let alone share it. A silver penny, however, was a lot to spend for less than a mouthful of anything.\n\n\"Leiknarr,\" he said, \"perhaps we should content ourselves with our host's good ale. He is right. The price is too high.\"\n\nThe Saracen smiled. \"I do not barter.\" Turning to the maiden, he said, \"All the good things in life are expensive, is that not right, Sigrun?\"\n\n\"Loyalty to one's comrades cannot be bought,\" the maiden answered. \"And that is the best thing in life of all.\"\n\nThe Saracen's dark eyebrows pinched. \"Clearly you have not seen much of the world. Loyalty can be bought and sold like anything else. And it does not require a dragon's hoard, either.\"\n\n\"That is not true in Daneland,\" Abjorn declared.\n\nThe maiden lifted her chin. For a moment it seemed she was taller than the Saracen. \"The sort of loyalty you describe has not the worth of that which is given freely, from foster-son to foster-father, or wife to husband.\"\n\nLeiknarr pounded the table in approval. Abjorn's blood stirred. He wondered who the maiden's father was, and how much silver and cattle it would take to purchase his favor.\n\n\"Well said, fair maid,\" Leiknarr declared. \"For that, I ask that you pour the first round. Abjorn, give her a pair of silver pennies. It is a custom I learned in the wine shops of Rome after we sacked the place. The youngest always buys the first round.\"\n\nAbjorn fished two silver pennies from his purse and handed them to the Saracen. The Saracen nodded to the maiden. With her own hands she poured out two small glasses of al-kuhl, and two large cups of ale.\n\n\"It is also the custom,\" the Saracen explained, \"to follow a measure of al-kuhl with one of ale.\"\n\nLeiknarr raised one of the tiny glasses in a toast. \"To Odin,\" he cried. \"May he bring all of us to Valhalla.\"\n\nSigrun smiled.\n\nAbjorn's heart beat faster.\n\nLeiknarr gulped the contents of his glass. He blinked, his eyes watered, and he shook his head like a dog killing a squirrel. Without taking a breath, he grabbed his mug of ale and downed that, too.\n\nWondering how bad the al-kuhl could be, Abjorn sniffed his glass. The smell of the drink tickled the back of his nose, sharp and almost sweet. Whatever al-kuhl was, it was not water. But a mouthful could hardly kill him, so he followed Leiknarr's example and swallowed it all at once.\n\nIt was like drinking fire. For a moment he thought he was going to spray the entire mouthful like a seal coming up for air at a hole in the ice. Even after managing to force it down his throat instead of out his nose, he let loose a gigantic sneeze.\n\n\"Here! Get your filth off me!\" A large Rus with a mustache like a pair of oars wiped his tunic and reached for his knife.\n\nLeiknarr pounded Abjorn on the back and offered the Rus an apology. \"Our pardon. My friend here is not used to al-kuhl. He meant you no disrespect.\"\n\nEyes tearing, Abjorn wiped his nose and reached for his ale. But, even after draining his cup, his mouth still tingled. He felt strangely alive, and expectant. He was ready for anything, from battle to another glass of al-kuhl.\n\nThe Rus slapped a silver penny on the table. The Saracen served him a measure of fire. With a sneer for Abjorn, the Rus placed the glass at his mouth and, throwing his head back, tossed its contents down his throat.\n\n\"It takes a little getting used to,\" Gisl offered as the Rus wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pushed his way back into the packed hall. \"It is not distilled for the taste, but for how it makes you feel. Can I pour you another?\"\n\nAbjorn's chest heaved. The feeling of alertness and invincibility was increasing with every breath. He reached for his purse.\n\nLeiknarr pushed him back. \"My turn.\"\n\nAbjorn was glad to see that his sister's husband was also still blinking back tears.\n\n\"I feel as if I could row all the way to Wessex on my own after one taste,\" Leiknarr said as he placed two more silver pennies on the table. Then he winked. \"While bedding three Saxon maids at the same time.\"\n\nThree rounds later, they pushed their way back down the hall. The Saracen would not allow them to take the tiny glasses with them, explaining they were too valuable to let out of his sight. Instead they each carried a large horn of ale, most of which they lost in the jostling as they crossed the hall. Abjorn nearly got into a fight with a Gotlander who made him spill the most, but there was no room to throw a punch so he just glared at the man instead. The Gotlander glared back, and their chins came closer and closer until finally Leiknarr pulled Abjorn on past the fire.\n\n\"This is no place to start a blood feud,\" he said. \"If you cannot hold your drink, go home.\"\n\n\"Speak for yourself, brother. I never felt better in my life.\"\n\nIt was true. What Leiknarr had said before about rowing and Saxon maids was exactly how Abjorn felt. He wondered if Sigrun, or one of the other two beautiful maidens helping her, would be interested in taking the imaginary Saxons' place.\n\nHe was not the only one wondering that. A Frank slapped the backside of one of the women as she passed. In response, the maiden slammed the Frank's head into a post so hard he slumped to the floor.\n\nThe crowd roared.\n\nThe door opened. More men pushed their way inside. The heat and noise grew. Even the maidens had trouble pushing their way through the press. A Danelander and a Frisian began arguing about who was buying the next round. The Danelander pulled his knife. Before he could strike, the Saracen jumped between them. The crowd fell away on either side of him like birch trees bent back by an angry bear. The Frisian, enraged at the Saracen's interference, bashed him in the ear. The Saracen grabbed the Frisian by the chin with one hand and lifted him off the floor. The hall went quiet. Still using only the one hand, the Saracen carried the Frisian to the door and threw him out.\n\nThe crowd roared again.\n\nAbjorn slapped his leg. \"That man is no thrall. I would like to have him with us next spring when we sail to Mercia. We should ask him to drink with us.\"\n\nLeiknarr beckoned the nearest maiden. Three men at the next bench smashed their drinking horns on their foreheads and laughed. The maiden went to fetch the Saracen.\n\n\"Begging your pardon, Gisl,\" Abjorn asked as their host arrived clutching the precious barrel of al-kuhl. \"But why are you wasting your time in a place like this? Clearly you are a leader of men.\"\n\n\"It is a long story.\"\n\n\"We have plenty of time.\"\n\nLeiknarr plunked down three more silver pennies. \"And you have conveniently brought the al-kuhl with you. Drink with us.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I wish to do.\" The Saracen poured three glasses, one for himself, and two for his new friends.\n\n\"To Odin!\" Leiknarr cried, and drank his down.\n\n\"To Odin!\" everyone around them agreed.\n\nPleased with the acceptance of his toast, Leiknarr essayed another. \"To the fair maidens of this hall!\"\n\n\"To the fair maidens!\"\n\nThe Saracen got into the spirit of things as well. \"To Shamash!\" he proclaimed.\n\n\"To Shamash!\" the crowd answered.\n\nLeiknarr blinked several times and leaned forward. \"Who's Shamash?\"\n\nThe Saracen poured another round for himself and his friends. \"It does not matter.\"\n\n\"To King Helge!\" shouted a voice from the back.\n\n\"To Helge!\"\n\n\"To Harald Fairhair!\"\n\n\"To Harald Fairhair!\"\n\nA man with a wolf's head cowl glared at Abjorn. His eyes glittered. \"Hail, King Harald!\" he repeated.\n\n\"I just did,\" Abjorn answered.\n\n\"Then do it again.\"\n\nAbjorn had nothing against King Harald. But he did not like being told what to do by any man.\n\n\"Who are you to tell me whom to hail?\" he demanded.\n\nThe man's eyebrows disappeared into the wolf's upper jaw. \"I am Botni, and Harald is my king. Do you dishonor him?\"\n\n\"I dishonor no one,\" Abjorn answered. \"I hailed your king. If you did not hear me, here is my spoon to clean your ears.\"\n\nBotni started forward with an oath. Abjorn knocked him sideways. The Norseman fell, his head cracking against the edge of a bench. He slumped to the floor. Abjorn was sorry he did not rise so he could hit the man again.\n\n\"Well struck,\" said the Saracen.\n\n\"Abjorn! I knew I would find you here!\"\n\nA giant appeared, looming over the heads of the other men in the crowd. Abjorn wondered why he had not noticed Joffur before\u2014there was no mistaking the man. Perhaps the al-kuhl had distracted him more than he thought.\n\nJoffur shook his fist. \"You told my son I am a liar.\"\n\n\"I have not spoken with your son.\"\n\n\"It is the same thing. You told your sister-son to tell my son I told him lies about the Sons of Odin. And my son told me! Since Tyrvi is just a child, the insult comes from you!\"\n\nLeiknarr gave Abjorn an irritated look and started to rise. \"What exactly did my son say?\"\n\nJoffur pushed him back onto his seat. \"This is not your affair, old man. It is Abjorn I accuse, not you.\"\n\nAbjorn was in no mood for bullying, and knocking Botni down had hardly satisfied that mood. If Tyrvi had paid no attention to what Abjorn had told him, so much the better. Joffur was large, but he was no swordsman. But Abjorn would have to get him outside first, where there would be room to move.\n\nHe got to his feet.\n\nThe Saracen was between them at once, the barrel of al-kuhl left on the bench. \"Warriors, please. This is no place for quarreling. This house is for drinking and singing songs. If you have to fight, go outside.\"\n\nJoffur glared at him. \"Go away, thrall.\"\n\nThe Saracen's eyes narrowed. \"I am no thrall. My name is Gisl.\"\n\n\"You have no name here, thrall.\"\n\nThe Saracen lifted Joffur off his feet as easily as he had lifted the Frisian. Joffur, however, kept himself from being carried to the door by grabbing the roof beams beside his head. The roof creaked as Gisl tried to pull him free, but the two men were equally matched. The Saracen let Joffur go before the roof came down around their ears.\n\nJoffur let go the beams. He landed heavily, and the moment he did the Saracen tackled him. In the middle of the hall the two men strained, arms locked, their feet scuffing for advantage. Joffur used his greater height and weight to try and force the Saracen to his knees. The Saracen leaned left and right, hoping to throw the larger man off balance. Neither budged. They stood still as a pair of runestones, the rest of the hall just as motionless around them.\n\nThe frieze broke. The Saracen gave beneath the giant. Falling backward, he pulled Joffur with him. They rolled head over heels toward the door, and when they stopped the Saracen was on top, his knees pinning Joffur's arms. Two quick, stunning blows followed. Joffur's head snapped back at each, then the Saracen picked him up, lifted him over his head, and threw him out the door.\n\nHe looked back at the hall. Sigrun regarded him with open admiration. Abjorn seethed.\n\n\"Anyone else have a problem with drinking and singing songs?\" the Saracen asked.\n\nThe door blew open behind him. Frame and lintel followed. An enormous bear, with eyes as bright as coals and strips of shredded clothing hanging from its shoulders, burst inside.\n\nIt roared. Canines sharp as daggers and twice as thick gleamed.\n\nApparently Joffur had not been lying.\n\nDanes and Franks, Norse and Rus, Wends and Gotlanders all reached for their knives. The bear charged. The Saracen met it unarmed, throwing it the same way he had when it had been Joffur. The bear rolled down the hall with men jumping on it from either side. It shook them off as if they were fleas; they bounced off benches and walls. One of them hit the barrel of al-kuhl and knocked it to the floor. Leiknarr grabbed for it but missed, drink splashing his tunic and trousers. The barrel rolled toward the fire.\n\n\"Stop it!\" the Saracen shouted. But, instead of the bear, he threw himself at the al-kuhl.\n\nThese southerners, Abjorn thought. Barely winter, and already they were afraid of the fire going out.\n\nThe barrel rolled into the flames. Like a sap-filled pine cone, it exploded. Mouths of flame clamped onto the beams, walls, and nearest men. The Saracen, who had dropped to the floor with his hands covering his head, jumped up and ran for the back as sparks caught in the dry turf of the roof. The hall went up like parchment in a bonfire.\n\nAbjorn faced the bear. Small tufts of hair smoldered on its back and shoulders. He dodged its blows and plunged his knife into its ribcage. The bear grunted and pulled away as two more men stabbed it in the back. Abjorn was just barely able to hold onto his blade as he pulled it free.\n\nThe bear backed toward the door. Several men began hammering at the walls with their hands as they saw their escape was blocked. Several more faced the bear. It was every northerner's worst nightmare, to be trapped in a burning house. No chance of Valhalla, in that death. Odin only took those who died as warriors.\n\nThe bear charged again. The men stabbed and slashed at it, but what they really needed were swords. The bear brushed their weapons away. Blood spouted from its chest and arms, but none of the wounds were deep or fatal. Its small eyes blazed with rage.\n\nAbjorn joined the attack; the bear knocked him down. He fell over a bench as its jaws crunched the head of the man beside him. He hacked at its flanks, but it was hard to do any real damage while lying on the floor.\n\nSigrun appeared, hovering in the air like a swan. Her hair unwound in pale, floating wings behind her. The bear ignored her. Smiling, she reached down for the man who had died. His spirit, ghostly and green, rose to meet her. Gathering it into her arms, she jerked to one side and disappeared in the dark like a bat.\n\nAbjorn's heart filled. \"A valkyrie,\" he whispered.\n\nJumping to his feet, he waved his blade. \"Odin is with us!\" he cried. \"The Valkyries are here! The road to Valhalla is open!\"\n\nLeiknarr raced by, his body enveloped in flames. The bear snapped his neck with a blow. Botni staggered to his feet and began to shake. His mouth lengthened into a wolf's snout, and his ears grew. His cowl crawled over his head. Falling onto all fours, his jaws fastened on the leg of the man beside him.\n\nThe Saracen appeared from the back, his arms full of blankets. \"If we hurry and smother the fire,\" he said, \"we can deal with the berserkers after.\"\n\nAbjorn ignored him. His heart blazed hotter than the al-kuhl or the hall.\n\nThe Saracen looked at him as if he were mad.\n\nThe wolf leaped, jaws gaping. Abjorn caught it in the chest with his knife. With strength greater than he had ever known, he held it on the blade before him. It squirmed like a spitted rabbit, all four legs clawing. Abjorn flicked it away and looked around for the Saracen, but the Saracen had disappeared. If he could only find him again his entrance into Valhalla would be assured.\n\nSmoke swirled. Heat blistered. Knives and fangs thrust and bit. The Valkyries swept back and forth above it all, happy men in their arms. Leiknarr, the flesh burnt from his face but not the smile. The Rus, the stumps of his arms draped and dripping around Sigrun's neck. Botni, his great red tongue lolling.\n\nWith an ecstatic shout, Abjorn hacked his way through the flames. A man rushed at him out of the smoke. Abjorn chopped off the man's hand. The man bashed him with the stump. Abjorn ripped open his belly. Blood sheathed in yellow flames pooled across the floor.\n\nHe dropped his knife when his nails turned to claws. The blood on his teeth and tongue was sweet as honey and hotter than al-kuhl. He ripped and rent and tore at the men and beasts around him. They ripped and rent and tore at him in turn.\n\nIt was glorious. The skalds were right. Dying in battle was the finest thing a man could hope for. Teeth clamped onto the back of his neck. Breath hotter than fire burned his ear. His long claws mauled an eye from the muzzle in front of him. Other claws sliced his belly.\n\nHis heart poured out his life. He looked up into Sigrun's eyes. His blood stained her robe.\n\nShe smiled.\n\n\"Thanks for the help,\" Gisl said sarcastically.\n\n\"I have my own interests to look out for,\" the old man answered.\n\nThey surveyed the ruin of the longhouse. For the second time in as many days, the place had changed completely. Now it was a pile of charred wood and sod, smoke rising from the wreckage. The collapse of the roof had made sure no one survived.\n\n\"I never saw a group of men so eager to die.\"\n\nGisl kicked at the smoldering timbers as he spoke, looking for something. Hacked and blackened corpses caught at his feet and ankles. He, of course, looked no worse than he had two days before.\n\n\"You haven't lived through one of our winters,\" the old man said.\n\n\"Why did you let them do it? You could have stopped them at any time. You were the one who turned the big fellow into a bear.\"\n\n\"You have your curse, I have mine. And it's what they expect. Blood and honor is the stupidest code in the world. Someday they'll see the light and throw me over for someone better, perhaps that Galilean. But until then, they're mine. I need them.\"\n\nOne of the ravens flew up from the rubble with something white and bloody in its beak. An eye. The old man examined it with his one good one, then handed it back to the bird. The raven gulped its prize.\n\n\"You might try Beijing next,\" he said, regretting how quickly Gisl's sojourn in Hedeby had ended. The man might even have felt at home here. \"The Chinese are even more civilized than the Moors. They already know how to distill, too, so that shouldn't be a problem.\"\n\nGisl bent to pick something up from the wreckage at his feet, frowned, and tossed it away.\n\n\"I have no control over where I go,\" he said without looking up.\n\n\"I'll put in a good word for you. In the meantime, good luck. You need it.\"\n\nHe offered Gisl his hand. Gisl ignored it. Instead, he gave a cry of delight as he found the stone he was looking for and picked it up. Snow and smoke swirled, then both he and the old man were gone.\n**THE EMPEROR'S NEW GOD**\n\n_Jennifer Dunne_\n\n**A** small party approached from the shelter of the trees, their boot steps muffled by the fierce storm. Otto squinted, trying to make out the face of his friend, Peter. It had been years since they had last seen each other, during Otto's first trip to Italy to be crowned Holy Roman Emperor, but his godson's father could not have changed so much.\n\nOne of the men stepped forward. \"Otto?\"\n\nIt was no surprise his friend did not recognize him, disguised as he was in the costume of a junior member of the ambassadorial party. Only Peter's most trusted aide, John the Deacon, who had arranged the secret trip, knew Otto's real identity. And not even he knew the real reason for Otto's visit, believing instead that the emperor was here to conduct secret negotiations between the Holy Roman Empire and the Republic of Venice, while receiving inspiration from Venice's saintly relics.\n\nOtto took a step forward and held out his arms.\n\n\"Peter.\" He could not make out his friend's face, but he recognized the voice.\n\nThey embraced, clapping each other on the back, and giving the kiss of peace. Putting his lips to Otto's ear, the Doge of Venice muttered, \"You are late. If you wish to see the monastery of San Zaccaria, you had better go there at once, so that you may be safely received before dawn within the walls of my palace.\"\n\nOtto's heart leapt at the thought that finally, his destiny was almost at hand. Soon, he would be taking the first steps toward the greatness that was his due. He just had to fool everyone a little while longer.\n\n\"I understand. We will follow you back to San Marco. But pray, keep your lanterns shuttered and your oars muffled.\"\n\nPeter grunted, his appreciation for Otto's desire for secrecy clearly not extending to standing in the pouring rain in the middle of the night. But he bent his head in acquiescence, and led his men back to their boat. John the Deacon helped Otto back onto their boat. Both boats slipped silently away from the dock, and into the lagoon, Otto gripped the rails at the front of his boat as if he could force it to move faster through the sheer power of his will.\n\nThe crossing to San Marco was accomplished safely and in silence. Soon, their boat was sliding up the canal behind the Doge's palace to his private dock. Peter offered to have one of his men guide Otto to the monastery, but Otto had memorized the way.\n\n\"See that my companions are taken inside and settled. I will make a private pilgrimage, and return to the palace before first light.\"\n\n\"A room has been prepared for you in the east tower. I will post a man by the door to guide you to it on your return. We will speak tomorrow.\"\n\nA few of his companions made half-hearted offers to accompany him, but Otto turned them all down, claiming a desire for solitary prayer and reflection. He had not chosen anyone for this journey that would actually be interested in making a pilgrimage of his own. They were far more interested in experiencing Venice's legendary luxuries, and happily left him to visit the monastery alone.\n\nAnd he would visit the monastery tonight, since the Doge was bound to ask the abbot about the Emperor's visit. But first he had somewhere else to be. His destiny awaited.\n\nNo one else was braving the storm at this hour of the night, so Otto had no worries about being seen. The narrow lanes and alleys between Venetian buildings left no room for stealth. They also left little room for the rain water sluicing into the canals. His feet in their simple rope sandals were soon chilled to the bone. But he barely noticed.\n\nHe followed the directions he had memorized, turning left at the first intersection, then turning right when he reached a street large enough for four men to walk side by side. He stayed in the shadows of the buildings, more for the protection from the rain than for concealment. Soon, the street arched up and over a canal. _The river of wine._\n\nOtto smiled grimly. He could see the corner of the monastery in the distance, the oil lamps guttering in the wind.\n\nHe turned away, heading down the narrow path along the canal. He found what he was looking for at the next intersection: a narrow building, shutters closed against the driving rain, a sign swinging back and forth on its chains with each gust of wind. _The Golden Amphora_.\n\nThere should be trumpets, fanfare and spectacle; something to acknowledge that his glorious future was about to begin. The incessant patter of rain sounded nothing like the rolling thunder of drums or a cheering crowd, but it would have to do.\n\nHe opened the door and stepped inside.\n\nHe was struck immediately by the very ordinariness of the place. The bar itself was a simple L-shape, the top inlaid with marble slabs of all sizes and colors. The red-brown clay mouths of the amphorae poked through regularly placed holes in the bar, where the barkeep could easily dip a measure of whatever a patron required. Simple wooden stools were tucked neatly against the mosaic sides of the bar, depicting the gods pouring wine from a golden amphora to welcome a hero who had slain a lion.\n\nVenice being a cosmopolitan city, there were also bottles along the wall behind the bar. Small tables were scattered throughout the rest of the room, for those who preferred to see the faces of those they drank with. Unsurprisingly, given the weather and the hour, the tables were empty.\n\nOtto's heart plummeted, his chest filling with a cold far worse than the frigid water he'd walked through to get here. He was too late. This meeting had taken months to arrange; to find a way to slip away from his court and prowl the side streets of a foreign empire, without sparking a diplomatic disaster. He'd paid a heavy price for the secret knowledge that led him here, and had been warned that he could only visit once. Everything needed to be arranged perfectly. This tavern was the only place in the world where man and gods still mingled, and he'd been given a specific time and date to be here. He cursed the storm that had delayed him for crucial hours.\n\nA giant of a man stepped out from behind a curtain. His curly black hair gave him a Greek look, but his braided beard added a barbarian cast to his features. His faintly accented Italian did nothing to clarify his origins. \"How can I help you, traveler?\"\n\n\"I was supposed to meet . . . someone.\"\n\nThe giant nodded, and waved toward the empty tables. \"One can never predict how long it will take to defeat an army. Sit. I will bring you wine.\"\n\nOtto's eyes widened at being ordered about by a mere barkeep, but he obediently sat. Did the man somehow suspect Otto was here to meet Mars? Perhaps he was a demigod himself, pretending to be a servant.\n\nOtto wondered what his entourage would think if they knew that, far from praying devoutly at a Christian shrine, their Emperor was in a bar, consorting with a pagan god. He doubted the nobles would care, unless their shocked outrage could somehow elevate their standing among their peers. Even the bishops and priests could give the satyrs and sybarites a close race, although they would use his digression as an excuse to wring more money from his treasury. Piety was for the little people; Christianity, the goad to keep the serfs in line with promises of endless riches after death. The ancient religions understood that men needed rewards in this life. And Otto intended to be extremely well rewarded.\n\nHe quickly reviewed likely candidates for a god of wine. The barkeep was clearly a man, with no softening, so he wasn't Bacchus. He showed no sign of Priapus's eternal erection. Was he perhaps Liber? But, no, Liber was the height of a normal man.\n\nHis thoughts racing, Otto didn't see the barkeep dip a glass of wine from one of the amphorae. The man was suddenly at his table, wine glass extended. The Venetian glass caught the light, giving a subtle glow to the deep red wine within.\n\nOtto accepted the wine and took a generous swig, determined to appear strong before the mysterious barkeep. It was no cheap watered wine, but a rich and flavorful wine blended with honey and a touch of pepper, warmed to ward off the chill of the night.\n\nHe sighed, and took another deep swallow. The warmth spread throughout his body, banishing the chill from his feet, and replacing the cold fear in his chest with radiant confidence. Doubts were for lesser men. With Mars's help, Otto would become Emperor of the World, as was his destiny. It was too bad that his mother had not lived long enough to see her son on the throne over Byzantium. In time, he would reclaim Rome's lost colonies in Africa, Egypt, Arabia, and Gaul. None would dare to compare him to his father and find him wanting.\n\nAnother curtained alcove caught his attention, as flashes of red and gold light bled out around the curtain. A man's muscled arm pushed the curtain aside, and a warrior clad in boiled leather and gold plate stepped into the wine bar. Far from ceremonial, his breast plate was thick with dust and flecked with blood. The god of war had come directly from a battlefield.\n\nHe paused to accept a glass of wine from the barkeep, a pale white with a slightly greenish tinge to it, then strode to Otto's table. Otto was puzzling over whether or not to stand\u2014he outranked every man on Earth, including God's representative on Earth, the Pope\u2014but Mars was a god in his own right.\n\nMars solved the puzzle by dropping onto the seat across from Otto, the stool groaning at the sudden increase in weight. His gaze flicked dismissively up and down.\n\n\"You don't look like an emperor.\" He sipped his wine, his eyes going soft with pleasure, and relaxed his militant posture.\n\n\"I am on a pilgrimage.\"\n\n\"A pilgrimage that includes sharing a glass of wine with Mars? Your God has grown generous with his followers.\"\n\nOtto shrugged. He followed no one, although it would never do to admit as much. \"The end days were upon us, and we were not called home to our Father's house. We must do what we can now with the Earthly world.\"\n\nMars smiled. \"And what would you do with the world, that you seek my help?\"\n\n\"Rule it, of course.\"\n\nMars laughed. \"Of course. You are twenty years old, and have been emperor for seventeen of those years. How far has your empire expanded in those years? Oh, wait, it hasn't. In fact, you lost France.\"\n\nOtto's face flamed. \"France was lost when I was but an infant, with my mother and grandmother holding the throne for me. I commanded an army at the age of thirteen, restoring the northern borders and beating back the Wends.\"\n\n\"A noble battle, to be sure.\" Mars swirled his hand lazily in the air, and an image coalesced above the tabletop. With shock, Otto recognized himself at age thirteen, stalking around the fine pavilion that had been set up for him in the field. The image sharpened, and Otto could hear his own voice.\n\n_\". . . power cannot be exercised in paltry campaigns in an empty country of miserable bogs against wretched Slavs.\"_\n\nMars flicked his fingers, banishing the image. \"You conquered an empty country of bogs, driving off an invading force of wretches. And it took you three years.\"\n\nOtto clenched his fists, but knew better than to argue with a god. His own petulant words had damned him.\n\n\"At twenty, your father was called Augustus, Imperator, and Lord of the Universe. He held France, Italy, and Germany in his fist, and kept them against hardened warriors. His defeat of the Emir was a crushing blow to the Saracens.\" Mars took another sip of wine, then waved away Otto's father's glories as unimportant. \"You are not unaccomplished. Your skill at learned debate has been praised throughout the empire. Even Apollo has taken note of you. Why do you beseech me?\"\n\n\"Words will not conquer an empire. I need strength of arms. And as you have pointed out, that is not my natural skill. If I am to succeed in achieving my destiny, I must have help.\"\n\n\"What of the lance I gave your grandfather? The one that was enchanted to always give victory to he who holds it in battle?\"\n\n\"The Holy Lance? Was a gift from you?\" Suddenly, the first Otto's ability to unite all of Germany under his leadership became much easier to understand. \"My father did not see fit to share the truth of it with a swaddling child. No doubt if he had lived, he would have told me of its power. I carry it for ceremonies of state, not into battle.\"\n\n\"Do so, and you shall triumph. On the field of battle, at least. Holding cities once you have conquered them . . . is also not a natural skill of yours.\"\n\nOtto forced his teeth to unclench. \"The nobles who drove off the man I made Pope were dealt with. I executed Crescentius for his treason, and suitably punished his puppet antipope. I held Rome.\"\n\n\"That is why the people of Rome rose up against you not three months past?\"\n\n\"I spoke to them. They understood their mistake, turned on their ringleaders and beat them nearly to death before throwing them at my feet and begging my forgiveness.\"\n\nMars shook his head. \"Words, again. You are a man of words, not deeds. So where has this desire to be a warrior come from?\"\n\nOtto hesitated. He suspected Mars already knew the answer, and his reply was a test of some sort. It was a test he dared not lose, or his destiny would never become a reality.\n\n\"Last year, I ordered Charlemagne's crypt at Aix-la-Chapelle opened; the marble slabs covering his burial place removed. I asked for his guidance, and was given a vision of myself as the new Charlemagne. My empire will be greater even than his, encompassing Germany, Italy, and Byzantium.\"\n\n\"An empire you can only gain by the sword.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He had been raised on tales of his father's glory, drinking in stories of someday ruling his mother's homeland in fulfillment of his father's promise, as well as the empire whose crown he had been given in his cradle. He would be greater than either his father or his grandfather before him. But the path to glory led through steel and blood.\n\nMars gulped the last of his wine, and placed the empty goblet on the table. The barkeep reappeared from the shadows and instantly removed it. No replacement was offered, as Mars leaned forward and braced his forearms on the tabletop, staring intently at Otto.\n\n\"I can give that to you. Your armies will be undefeated, and the cities you conquer docile as lambs after you leave them. What are you offering in return for my help?\"\n\n\"What are you asking?\"\n\nMars laughed. Otto fancied he heard the sound of clashing swords within. \"That's not how it works. The gods can only make demands of those who are sworn to our service. Anyone else must petition our aid. You make an offer, and I accept or refuse. There is no negotiation.\"\n\nNo negotiation. Otto's stomach clenched painfully. Prior to their meeting, he'd mentally calculated all of the things he could offer to Mars, as well as rehearsed different strategies for reaching an agreement. He was, after all, highly skilled at philosophical debate, and had negotiated a fair share of treaties. He'd expected this to be a similar encounter.\n\nMars lifted a hand and summoned the barkeep. The giant returned with another glass of the pale green wine.\n\n\"Your ambrosia, exalted one.\"\n\nMars claimed the goblet and sipped from it. \"You have until I finish my drink to decide.\"\n\nOtto's thoughts raced. He knew what he could offer. But what did Mars want? Clearly the god wanted something, or he wouldn't have agreed to this meeting. Boredom and a predilection for interfering in human affairs didn't seem enough reason to obligate himself to an agreement with a mortal. If all he wanted was carnage and bloodshed, he didn't need to ally himself with Otto for the battles ahead. No, Mars seemed to want the Holy Roman Empire to be triumphant over Byzantium.\n\nHe considered their conversation, sifting through Mars's comments for clues. He'd made a point of questioning whether or not Otto's Christian God would share one of his followers with an ancient Roman god. And he'd focused on Otto's troubles holding the city of Rome.\n\nCould the god have been echoing his own problems? The people of Rome had turned to the Christian God. In fact, the Pope, the representative of that God on Earth, lived in Rome. Did Mars want the city back? To have the people worshipping him and his brethren again?\n\nBut Otto could not demand that the people worship the pagan gods. His power was tied to the church's power. The German bishops did much of the work of holding the united factions of Germany together, while he was the Holy Roman Emperor only because he'd been crowned by the Pope. It didn't matter that he'd elevated the man to his position mere days before the coronation.\n\nHe glanced at the god, and saw with dismay that his glass was half empty. He was running out of time. He felt the reins of his destiny slipping through his hands.\n\nBut what if Otto could encourage the people to turn to Mars on their own? What would prompt the people of Rome to embrace the god of war instead of the Prince of Peace?\n\nHe would have to make an example of Rome. Show them that their prayers could not save them. And it was only fitting that they suffer for their disloyalty. Their rebelliousness had forced him to flee Rome. If not for his clever negotiation, he would have been forced to fight them just to get free of the palace where they had trapped him under siege. But it had still galled him to load his goods into wagons and depart the city under their watchful eyes, like a guest who had overstayed his welcome. He'd vowed that he would one day return in triumph.\n\nWith a single stroke, he could have his revenge and deliver a sacrifice worthy of purchasing Mars's aid. Once Rome was secure, he would go on to unite all the empires under his rule. Even the haughty Venetians would bow to him.\n\nMars swirled the last spoonful of liquid in the bottom of his glass, and lifted it to Otto in a challenging toast.\n\n\"This is my offer,\" Otto said, rushing to speak even as the half-formed plans were coalescing in his mind. \"I will mount an attack on the city of Rome, the holy seat of Christianity. Those who survive will be sworn into my army of conquest, dedicated to your cause, and bringing the rest of the world to heel. They will learn that the only god who can protect them is the god of war, and the blood of our enemies will pour forth in sacrifice.\"\n\nOtto held his breath as Mars drained the last ambrosia from his glass. He turned the goblet over and set it upside down on the table, the glass chiming as it struck the marble surface.\n\nAs the last echo of the chime faded, a golden disk appeared on the table. Otto could not read the upsidedown Latin incised into the disk, but spotted his own name, Mars and Roma. Air filled his lungs. It was the terms of his offer. That must mean\u2014\n\n\"I accept.\"\n\nFlushed with triumph, Otto was in a daze as he visited the monastery of San Zacharia, although fortunately the monks misconstrued his befuddlement for religious rapture. He made his way back to the Doge's palace unseen, and changed into the garments of a mid-level court appointee for his presentation to the Doge the next morning as part of the diplomatic party. He congratulated himself on his cleverness, as none of the Venetian court save Peter and his aides knew that the humble man at the back of the party was really the Holy Roman Emperor. Knowing it was vital that no one suspect the true reason for his visit, he met in secret with the Doge as planned, and still put on his poor pilgrim's clothes to make his visits to the churches and monasteries that the members of his court thought he'd come for. After two days, he slipped back onto John's boat to return to the monastery at Pomposa where he'd supposedly been taking a health cure on the shores of Lake Comacchio.\n\nOnce back in Ravenna, Otto redoubled his ostentatious religious devotion, making barefoot pilgrimages, kneeling on stones until his knees bled, and allowing chosen courtiers to discover him wearing hair shirts beneath his court raiment. His devotion had always been at least as much pageantry as piety, but now he put on a show that no one would forget.\n\nThe people and religious leaders must have no cause to question his faith. They must never guess that he had made a deal with Mars.\n\nHe sent messages to his vassals, ordering them to send troops. First he would have his revenge on Rome, and then he would embark upon his destiny. But the wait was excruciating. His messengers had to travel over the Alps and throughout the length and breadth of Germany, summoning men from the fields where they labored.\n\nBut after all, why should he delay? He had the Holy Lance. He could not lose in battle. The troops he had at hand would be sufficient to retake Rome, and from that victory he would launch a campaign that would strike terror into the hearts of his enemies.\n\nBy June, his patience had worn completely through. Despite his advisors' warnings, he gathered those troops who had already arrived and led them to Rome.\n\nHis small army crested the hills surrounding the city, and he paused, struck as always by the city's beauty. The travertine buildings gleamed a warm white in the sun. There was the parkland where Roman gladiators had raced their chariots. There was the now empty Coliseum, open to the sky, whose seats would once again be filled with cheering throngs beneath graceful awnings of sailcloth when he returned in triumph from Byzantium. Towering columns and domes of cathedrals dotted the city, erasing all memory of the Romans' pagan temples.\n\nHe did not sound the charge.\n\nInstead, he rode slowly back and forth across the hilltops, watching the shifting play of light and shadow on the city as the sun wheeled through the sky, and remembered the speech he had given only last January.\n\n_\"Are you not my Romans, for whose sake I left my fatherland and friends? Whose fame I would have carried to the ends of the earth? I have preferred you to all others. . . . However, I find it monstrous that my most faithful followers, in whose innocence I triumph, are mixed together with the evildoers.\"_\n\nHow many of those glorious edifices would fall when he attacked? How many of those innocent people who were loyal to him would die in the bloodbath that followed? How could he start the conquest of his empire with the destruction of his own capital city? He would not become the next Charlemagne, he'd become the next Attila.\n\nThe problem was the size of his army. The people of Rome did not realize that his divine mandate ensured his victory, so would stand and fight against his troops. The resulting massacre would have no glory to it. It would not be a fitting sacrifice to Mars. There would be no cowed and obedient people, worshipping at the war god's altar, only piles of corpses.\n\nNo. He could not do it.\n\nHe summoned his captains to him. \"We do not have enough men. We will ride back to Ravenna, and wait for the rest of the soldiers. When the full army is here in the fall, then I will return and crush Rome beneath my boot heel.\"\n\nThe captains shifted restlessly, and traded sidelong glances with each other, but raised no objections. A few mumbled agreement, while the rest knew better than to question the dictates of their Emperor. The only one he had to explain himself to was Mars, and he was confident that the god would understand his reasoning.\n\nOtto turned and led the army back the way they had come, glancing over his shoulder to see the city of Rome disappearing behind the hills. A trick of the setting sun bathed the hills in blood.\n\nHe called for another fur cloak to protect him from the sudden chill that settled into his bones.\n\nA soldier he didn't recognize rode up, his arms filled with heavy furs. Otto took a cloak, and swung it around his shoulders. It didn't help. The cold he felt emanated from within, and no amount of furs could keep it at bay. Still, he took the second fur as well.\n\n\"You retreated from the battle without firing so much as a single arrow,\" the soldier accused.\n\nOtto lifted his head, shocked at the man's temerity. How dare he question\u2014\n\nDimly, like a ghost, the image of Mars's features flickered over the soldier's face.\n\nHe stiffened, inwardly cursing the lack of time to prepare an eloquent and reasoned defense. He hated having to depend upon mere facts. \"I did not bring enough men. Why waste their lives attacking now, when I will need them to attack Byzantium later? I will come back in the fall, with a full army, and show Rome the folly of her ways.\"\n\n\"There will never be enough men to give you the courage you lack. With my spear in hand, you could have taken Rome with only your standard bearer at your side.\" A golden disk appeared in Mars's hands, covered with deeply incised Latin words. The god snapped it in half, releasing a blinding spray of golden light. \"You have broken our agreement. You will never stand on the far shores of Byzantium, knowing that it belongs to you. You turned your back on your own God, and the worship of a coward means nothing to me. You will not have the world. You will have nothing.\"\n\nMars rode off, waiting for neither response nor dismissal. Otto thought about calling him back, but he lacked the strength, instead huddling deep within his furs.\n\nThe world spun around him, and it was almost more than he could manage to keep his seat on his horse. His bones ached, as if a bevy of blacksmiths had tried to temper them on their anvils.\n\nHe had made a serious mistake. But if he could deliver Rome, perhaps Mars would relent and deliver Byzantium. That thought sustained him in the months that followed, when it seemed his very body was determined to betray him with weakness.\n\nFinally, at the end of the year, all of his vassals' soldiers had arrived, and he was able to march on Rome with a force large enough to terrify them into submission. But he would never see the city.\n\nHe took shelter in the castle of Paterno, consumed by fever. His dear friend and former tutor, Pope Sylvester, came to comfort him, but his words of Christ's divine forgiveness meant nothing to Otto.\n\nA soft summer breeze blew through the room, although the window was shuttered against the January cold. Golden sunlight seemed to stream from the ceiling, illuminating a patch of lush grass growing from the stone floor. A beautiful woman wearing silver armor stepped out of the light.\n\nOtto struggled to sit up, but she placed a cool hand against his forehead, pressing him back onto the bed. Amazingly, no one else reacted to a woman being in his sickroom.\n\n\"They can neither see nor hear me, Otto. Only you.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" he whispered.\n\n\"You know who I am. Minerva.\"\n\n\"Goddess of learning.\" If he had the energy, he would have laughed. His heart had always belonged to the scholarly pursuits. After all he had done, trying to force himself to be a warrior, she was the one who had come to him.\n\n\"I am also the goddess of war.\" All gentleness faded from her expression. \"You should have appealed to me instead of Mars.\"\n\n\"Have you come only to tell me what a fool I was?\"\n\nShe shook her head, her features once again softening. \"I cannot heal you from the curse of Mars's soul fire. But have no fear. You will be remembered. Not for your conquests, but for your mystery. A thousand years from now, scholars will still be arguing over the meaning of your secret visit to Venice, and what you hoped to accomplish.\"\n\n\"I failed. . . .\"\n\n\"Only because you ended your studies too soon. If you are willing to learn another lesson, I will take you to drink of the river of forgetfulness, and be born in a new body. One born to poverty and squalor rather than an empire. If you can succeed there, you may yet achieve the glory you desire.\"\n\nAt least he wouldn't have to see his mother in the afterlife, and admit how he had failed her, or explain to the father he'd never known why the line of Ottonian emperors ended with him.\n\nStruggling against the weight of his unresponsive body, Otto lifted his hand to Minerva.\n\nHer fingers closed around his.\n**THE TALE THAT WAGGED THE DOG**\n\n_Barbara Ashford_\n\n**A** S Michael, Rona, and I enter Gil's establishment, a familiar voice calls out, \"Stop me if you've heard this one. A priest, a selkie, and a talking dog walk into a bothy. . . .\"\n\nThe fur on my neck instinctively bristles. Although I usually smile at Thomas' lame jokes, my transformation has rendered me understandably sensitive to those about talking dogs. Before I can concoct a clever retort, a tankard soars through the air. Still smiling, Thomas the Rhymer falls backwards off the bench, landing with an audible crunch of rushes.\n\nEvery head in the place swivels towards Gil. Slowly, he lowers the wooden cup he is wiping and leans on the trestle table, staring at the corner from whence the tankard was launched.\n\nI think Wallace gives a half-shrug\u2014all he can manage since he has yet to unearth the final quarter of his body from its unmarked resting place in Perth\u2014but it's hard to tell. The peat fire smoldering in the center of the bothy lends a lovely aroma to the place but little light.\n\nWhen Gil continues to stare, Wallace calls out, \"Sorry.\"\n\nGil resumes his meticulous cleaning. The faeries flanking Thomas help him back onto the bench. Every head swivels towards Rona.\n\nAlthough my companion is dressed in a sober kirtle and gown, there's no mistaking her otherworldly origins. Her face glows like the rising moon. Her linen kerchief merely accentuates the silky black hair that cascades down her back. And when that dark gaze rests upon you, you feel the warmth from toes to belly and your pintle grows hard as a stave.\n\nNeedless to say, she's quite popular with the largely male clientele at Gil's. Even Robert the Bruce stops picking at his scabs when she comes in.\n\nIt's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday. The usual mix of dead heroes, enchanted folk, and curious locals line the three trestle tables. The scent of roasting lamb emanates from the central fire pit, combining with a dizzying bouquet of peat smoke, wet wool, and stale sweat. My nostrils quiver with delight and my tongue flicks out to intercept the thin line of drool oozing down my muzzle.\n\nRona and I head towards our usual table, leaving Michael to linger before the stone tablet. Like all those who find their way to Gil's, Michael desires the magical elixir. So far, the only elixirs I've seen Gil serve are ale and whisky. However, Michael remains convinced that the small stone tablet hanging near the doorway holds clues and spends countless hours attempting to decipher the queer scratchings etched upon it.\n\nWhen Wallace first pointed Michael out to me, I naturally hurried over to make his acquaintance. If the famed Wizard of the North could transform copper into silver, he might be equally adept in returning me to my natural form. I made it as far as \"My name's Tam Lin and the Queen of Faerie transformed me into a Border collie and I was wondering. . . .\" Whereupon Michael launched into a tirade about his non-magical credentials\u2014theologian, mathematician, philosopher, astrologist, confidant of Frederick II\u2014and I politely excused myself.\n\nThomas is far easier to talk to, and I am especially eager to talk to him tonight. My hope that he has finally convinced the Queen to lift her curse far outweighs my pique over his taste in jokes.\n\nAs Rona and I approach, the faeries rise and make their way to another table, ostentatiously snubbing me. Thomas rises as well and bows to Rona. For all his eccentricities, he has retained the fine manners of a laird. Maybe that's why the Bitch Queen dotes on him no matter how many times he leaves her, while my desertion sent her into a rage.\n\nAs I leap onto the bench, Thomas suddenly bellows, \"On the morrow, afore noon, shall blow the greatest wind ever heard in Scotland.\"\n\nA hush descends. The last time Thomas uttered those prophetic words, Scotland's king died the following day.\n\nSeveral things happen in rapid succession:\n\nRobert the Bruce shakes his fist at Thomas, shouting, \"You'll not prophesy the death of the last heir to the House of Bruce!\"\n\nMichael strides towards our table, shouting something about substance, potentiality and actuality.\n\nWilliam Wallace jumps to his feet. His head rolls across the rushes, shouting, \"I'll give you a great wind!\" His body rips out a tremendous fart.\n\nGil leans over the table to murmur something in Thomas' ear.\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" Thomas replies. \"Well. That would explain....\" He waves his hand vaguely at the shades of Wallace and the Bruce, still gesticulating angrily from their respective corners. \"Sorry. Sorry, everyone! Still a little flummoxed from Faerie. Starting to prophesy backwards like Merlin.\"\n\nWallace retrieves his head. I've always wondered how he manages to find it when his eyes are looking elsewhere, but being transformed into a dog and cursed to spend eternity in that form encourages one to accept the unexplainable.\n\nBefore I can ask whether the Bitch Queen has relented, Thomas whispers, \"Forgive me for prying, Tam, but surely Janet cannot approve of a liaison with a selkie.\"\n\nKnowing that Thomas' memory is always a bit hazy in the days following his return from the Otherworld, I remind him that my wife moved back to her father's hall seven years ago. This after clinging to me like a leech on that harrowing flight from Faerie, during which I was transformed into any number of horrible beasts as well as a vessel of burning iron.\n\n\"But after I threw you down the well, you were a man again,\" Janet remarked as she briskly packed up her belongings. \"For a while.\"\n\n\"It's not my fault the royal bitch held a grudge.\"\n\n\"Maybe not. But you can't expect me to have carnal relations with a dog. It would be sinful. Besides which I don't much like you.\"\n\nAfter all I'd been through. Even now, it galls me.\n\nThomas gestures for Rona to sit. She pays no attention, of course. Webbed fingers idly braiding a lock of hair, she stares east, her head cocked as she strains to hear the sea. She's always doing that. Even when I'm humping her leg. It's a bit off-putting.\n\nI bark to attract her attention. Her gaze focuses on me. When I see tears forming in those dark eyes, I look away. She seats herself, sighing.\n\n\"Your lovely companion seems melancholy tonight,\" Thomas notes.\n\n\"Selkies are a melancholy lot.\"\n\n\"Only if someone steals their sealskins and they are trapped in human . . . ah.\"\n\nThere is much to recommend Thomas. Beautiful singing voice, beautiful ballads, beautiful manners, but definitely not the sharpest scythe in the shed. Another reason the Bitch Queen dotes on him.\n\nI can't hold a tune or write one, and my manners are only so-so, but I was an incredibly handsome man. Faery or human, queen or serving wench, women couldn't get enough of me. Even now, I attract more than my share of feminine attention, although these days, it's generally from hounds and collies and the odd lapdog. Since Janet left, I've had most of the bitches betwixt Dryburgh and Galashiels. Rona takes little notice of my infidelities. Even when I recount them. Too busy sighing and staring east towards the sea.\n\nThe threatened tears now ooze down her flawless white cheeks. Each time Thomas dabs at one with his handkerchief, another spills over.\n\n\"You had to mention the skin.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" Thomas mumbles, still trying to stem the flood. \"Can't seem to do anything right tonight.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose you know where it is?\"\n\nThomas' eyes widen. \"You mean to say you lost it?\"\n\n\"I didn't mean to!\"\n\nI don't mean to snap at him, either, but his appalled expression makes me feel nearly as guilty as Rona's tears.\n\nA dozen times a sennight, I apologize. I tell her that I was overcome by her beauty when I saw her sunbathing naked on that boulder. I tell her that I was lonely. That I wanted to feel flesh under my tongue instead of fur. That I fully intended to return her skin after a bit of firkytoodling.\n\nBack in my cottage, we firkied and toodled the day away. And the night. All right, so I didn't go back to the river the next day. Or the day after. It was raining fit to drown us. And Rona was having as much fun as I. Smiling and laughing and performing all manner of carnal acts that Janet wouldn't consider even when I was a man.\n\nThe morning after the storm, the River Tweed was in full spate. Took two days for the waters to recede. The alder I'd buried her sealskin under was gone, but I nosed around, digging under every branch and log and uprooted tree littering the riverbank.\n\nCome to that, Rona bears some of the blame for swimming so far upriver. Imagine thinking Selkirk was a church for selkies. If she'd stayed at Berwick, none of this would have happened.\n\nNow she's bound to me. Every morning, we walk the banks of the Tweed, searching for her skin. Every evening, we return empty-handed to my cottage. Every night, I have to listen to her weep.\n\nMost women become ugly when they cry. Faces all scrunched up, noses dripping snot, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Rona becomes more beautiful, dark eyes huge and liquid, pear-shaped breasts rising and falling with each sigh. And those sighs ... so soft and tremulous that it's hard to choose whether to comfort her or tup her.\n\nSure enough, my pintle peeks out, pink and perfect. I merely lick her arm again; I can be as gallant as Thomas if I've a mind to. Then I notice two of the Kerr brothers drifting our way. Hard to say which ones; they're all big and bluff and red-haired.\n\nMy lips curl back in a snarl. A growl rumbles in my chest. My fur rises.\n\n\"There's no cause for that,\" one of them protests.\n\n\"Gentlemen.\"\n\nHearing the edge in Gil's voice, the Kerr brothers slink back to their table.\n\n\"Horny bastards,\" I mutter.\n\n\"You're no better.\"\n\nI lower my tail, cringing. For a big man, Gil moves very quickly. One minute, he's wiping a cup. The next, he's towering over you, glowering. And since he's a good eight to ten feet tall (his height seems to vary according to his mood), the towering glower is quite effective.\n\nHe looks unusually tall at the moment, a sure indication he is displeased.\n\n\"I didn't do anything,\" I whine.\n\nI'm forever whining and cringing around Gil. My canine aspects come to the fore when I'm nervous.\n\nAs Gil continues to glower, I belly forward on the trestle table, ears folded back.\n\n\"If it weren't for Rona, I'd ban you from my place.\"\n\nI roll onto my side to expose my groin, the ultimate act of submission.\n\n\"Put your leg down and get back to your seat.\"\n\nI edge backwards, quivering but relieved; the last time Gil reprimanded me, I'd pissed all over the table.\n\nGil turns to Rona and offers one of his rare smiles. Her face lights up as if he had proffered her sealskin instead.\n\n\"Evening, Rona. The usual?\"\n\n\"Thankee, Gil.\"\n\nIt's been more than a sennight since she's spoken to me. The mere sound of that soft, husky voice encourages my pintle to reassert itself. Gil shoots me a dark look, and it quickly retreats.\n\n\"He couldn't possibly have seen,\" I grumble aloud.\n\n\"Seen what?\" Thomas asks.\n\n\"Nothing. Thomas, did you ask the Queen about lifting the curse?\"\n\nThomas grimaces. \"She became very wroth. Thought she'd turn me into a dog as well.\"\n\n\"It's not fair. You're always leaving and she adores you.\"\n\n\"I always ask permission. You just bolted.\"\n\n\"Because I suspected the bitch meant to sacrifice me to Hell as a tithe!\"\n\n\"Still, there are niceties to observe. Especially with faeries. You know how touchy they are.\"\n\nI stare across the fire pit. The faeries are watching me, sniggering. Little beasts.\n\n\"Perhaps if you came back with me,\" Thomas suggests. \"Begged her pardon. Humbled yourself.\"\n\n\"She'd likely turn me into a newt. No, it'll have to be the elixir.\"\n\nThomas strokes his beard and surveys me, doubt writ plain on his face.\n\n\"Maybe if _you_ ask Gil,\" I suggest.\n\n\"Not after what happened last night. One of the Kerr boys made the mistake of asking for the elixir and Gil ... ejected him.\"\n\n\"Threw him out, you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean lifted him off the bench and hurled him through the doorway. I could hear his bones snap from here. Ah, wonderful!\"\n\nAt first, I think he means the Kerr boy's snapping bones. Then I see Gil striding forward with two wooden plates in his hands.\n\nHe places the lamb chop before Thomas and the herring before Rona. I wag my tail, but he simply walks away.\n\nThomas\u2014kind soul\u2014slices off a piece of lamb for me and lays it on the table. Rona picks up the raw herring and rips the head off with her teeth. Her table manners are disgraceful. It is my only complaint about her. That and the endless weeping. And sighing. And staring seaward when I'm humping her leg.\n\nThomas' knife clatters onto the table. He stares intently at his plate.\n\n\"Meat a bit overdone for your taste?\" Ever since I became a dog, I prefer mine rare.\n\nHis head comes up. He's wearing that glazed \"I feel a prophecy coming on\" expression. He shoves back the bench, nearly unseating me, and rises.\n\nAnother hush descends on the bothy.\n\n\"Look to the sacred tree, for in its branches shall the magical fleece be found.\"\n\nA long silence greets this pronouncement. Then Wallace shouts, \"That was Jason and the bloody Argonauts, you great nit!\"\n\n\"Sorry! Sorry.\" Thomas shakes his head and resumes his seat. \"What were you saying? Ah, yes. The elixir.\" He spears a chunk of lamb on the point of his knife. \"Sorry, Tam. Don't see much chance of that happening.\"\n\nThe lamb halts midway to Thomas' mouth. He gasps. For the third time that evening, all conversation ceases.\n\nGil walks towards us. The rushes crackle with each slow step. He cradles a chalice in his hands, the glint of bronze barely visible between his thick fingers.\n\nAround the trestle tables, mouths gape open like congregants about to receive the Host. My tail wags so violently that my hindquarters are jigging back and forth. I have to dig my claws into the wood to keep from tumbling off the bench.\n\nI hear Thomas murmur, \"I'm frightfully off tonight.\" No one else dares speak. It is so quiet I can hear Rona crunching herring bones.\n\nMy tongue lolls out as Gil draws nearer. I cannot suppress a soft \"woof.\" The last time I will ever make that sound. Or walk on four legs. Or view the world from the level of a man's knees.\n\nGil halts in front of me. Then places the chalice before Rona.\n\nA collective sigh eases around the bothy. I barely hear it over my anguished howl. Gil's eyes\u2014the gray-green of the Tweed in spate\u2014fix on me before returning to Rona.\n\nMy howl must have startled her. Concern etches two small grooves between her dark brows. She strokes my head, her hand gentle. Only then does she look at the chalice.\n\nFear of Gil is all that prevents me from leaping onto the table and plunging my muzzle into it. Rona's fingers trace the patterns on the shallow bronze bowl, the short, curving neck, the conical base. A hesitant smile curves her lips. She glances up at Gil, then leans forward to sniff the brew. Her snub nose wrinkles.\n\n\"Thankee, Gil. 'Tis a lovely cup. But I'm not much for strong drink.\"\n\nThe incredulous gasps are still drifting skyward when she pushes the chalice towards me.\n\n\"But, my dear,\" Thomas says. \"You don't understand. One sip of that elixir and your most heartfelt wish\u2014\"\n\nHe breaks off as I turn on him, snarling.\n\nI dare a glance at Gil. He is watching Rona.\n\n\"Are you sure?\" he asks.\n\nShe nods and rips off a piece of the fishtail.\n\nGils turns to me and I cringe, waiting for him to snatch the cup away. Instead, he shrugs.\n\nI cannot believe it. I've talked of little else for the last few months except the possibility of acquiring the elixir. Granted, Rona pays scant attention to my ramblings, her mind consumed by her desire to find her sealskin. But when she is offered the drink that would ensure that, she foolishly passes it to me.\n\nI laugh aloud at the irony. At my incredible good fortune. I forgive Rona for her inattention when I am humping her leg and vow that, when I am restored to my true form, I will give her the best swiving man ever gave woman.\n\nMy laughter captures her attention. She ruffles my fur affectionately. Her smile\u2014rarer even than Gil's\u2014fills me with warmth.\n\nAnd shame.\n\nThe warmth settles in my groin. The shame niggles at my mind. I recall one of Janet's annoying maxims: \"If you thought more with your head and less with your cock, you'd be a better man.\"\n\nWhich is nonsense. I am like any other man, only more so.\n\nCan I fulfill Rona's heartfelt desire without sacrificing mine? If I make two requests, I'm liable to get neither.\n\nIn addition to being incredibly handsome, I am also exceptionally clever. If I choose the words carefully, I might succeed in gratifying the desires of both our hearts.\n\nI form sentences in my mind, adjust the phrasing, discard a few words and choose others. Wallace and the Bruce leave their corners and edge closer. Wallace raises his head between his hands for a better view.\n\nThe tension in the bothy is palpable. So is my arousal.\n\nI concentrate hard, willing my errant pintle into submission. But the aroma from the chalice maddens me. Sweet honey and tangy beer. Strange spices that tickle my nostrils. Saliva fills my mouth. Images of my manly self fill my brain.\n\nI hastily mutter, \"I wish to make Rona happy by becoming a man,\" then scramble onto the trestle table, thrust my muzzle into the bowl, and frantically lap up the contents.\n\nMy mouth burns. My eyes water. But I cannot stem my frenzy. No Israelite wandering the desert had a greater thirst, no man mounting a maid a greater desire. My tongue plunders the dregs, and I shudder at their bitterness.\n\nI'm not sure what to expect. Skin stretching uncomfortably? Bones creaking as they elongate? Instead, there is only a sickening wave of dizziness. I snap my jaws shut lest I vomit up the elixir. When the chalice melts into a puddle, I squeeze my eyes shut as well.\n\nSomething tickles my nose, and I sneeze. I open my watering eyes to discover a dark veil obscuring my vision. At first, I think it is Rona's hair, but when I shake my head, the veil moves. Only then do I realize that it is my hair, my thick, glorious waterfall of black. Between the wavy locks, I see two hands. Small, perfect, wonderful hands, fingers splayed atop the wood of the trestle table.\n\nI raise those trembling fingers to my face and discover the noble brow of legend. The long, feathery lashes that made women sigh. The boyishly smooth cheeks Janet stroked. The full lips that the Queen of Faerie called two pink rosebuds. The determined chin that lends strength to a visage that might otherwise be too beautiful for a man.\n\nThe laughter that fills the bothy imbues me with love for my gracious comrades who can set aside their disappointment at being denied the elixir to share my delight.\n\nI shake the hair out of my eyes. Wipe away the tears obscuring my vision.\n\nThat's when I see the fur.\n\nThick doggie fur, patched with black and white, covering my arms, my chest, my belly. I fall back on my haunches, only to discover they are haunches still, my legs short and crooked as a dog's and ending in two large paws. Worst of all is the fast-wilting pintle that peeks out of my furry groin. It is still pink and perfect, but smaller than my thumb.\n\nMy screams and curses fail to drown out the laughter. Thomas' face betrays sympathy. Rona's is streaked with tears. Gil's is expressionless.\n\n\"I wanted to become a man and you've turned me into a monster!\"\n\n\"Becoming a man is harder for some than for others,\" Gil replies.\n\nRona's gaze sweeps the bothy, and the laughter subsides. She pushes back the bench and rises, then holds out her hand to me.\n\n\"Come, Tam. Let's go home.\"\n\nI scramble off the table, claws scrabbling on wood, and land on my hands and paws. Rona has to help me rise. Even then, my crooked legs prevent me from walking out like a man. I have to totter, bent over, my gaze helplessly directed towards the nub of my once-proud pintle.\n\nHow Janet would crow.\n\nI spend the Lord's Day alternately lamenting my fate and banishing all thoughts of it with the whisky jug. Occasionally, I remember to pray.\n\nThe following morning, Rona kneels before the wooden chest and begins extracting articles of clothing. The moths have feasted on my woolen hose, and the linen braies hang in rotted shreds, but the fine lawn shirt and doeskin tunic presented to me by the Queen look as if I had tucked them away yesterday. With a sigh, Rona pulls out her spare chemise and fetches her sewing kit.\n\nAt midday, she holds up the loose-fitting braies for my inspection. In spite of my black despair, I have to admire her neat stitches.\n\nI slip the braies on and secure them with my belt, another gift from the Queen. There are three gaps among the gems studding its length; likely, I'll have to wrest another free in order to purchase more garments to cover my shame.\n\n\"I'll go to the Clothmarket on the morrow,\" Rona says as if reading my mind. \"But now, we must go to the river.\"\n\nI wipe my streaming nose and nod. It is the least I can do in return for her kindness.\n\nOur cottage is half a day's walk from the nearest town, but I wait for Rona to wave me out the door lest some wayfarer or shepherd glimpse me in my newly monstrous condition. The isolation can be depressing, but it serves me well during the regular invasions of the English and shields me from the notice of the ecclesiastical authorities that undoubtedly would have ordered a talking dog strangled and burned at the stake.\n\nAfter years guarding the dark pinewoods of Carterhaugh, the open meadow around my cottage has always provided relief to eyes and spirit alike. Today, consumed by my misfortunes, the scarlet poppies and yellow buttercups seem gruesomely cheerful. Thistle stands knee high among the browning grass; I must swing my head from side to side to avoid scratching my nose.\n\nThe languid air trembles with the hum of bees and the trills of pipits. Garbed in clothing and fur, I am wretchedly hot and heave a grateful sigh when we enter the small woodland. All too soon, the path emerges above the Tweed, a vista I can only enjoy by twisting my neck up and sideways.\n\nI hobble down to the river, rip off my clothing, and plunge into the cool water. I dare not linger long; the Tweed is a popular fishing spot. As I reluctantly don my garments, I watch Rona scouring the riverbank. I know I should join her, but my body aches from its unnatural contortions.\n\nI scramble up the bank and rest against the trunk of a towering beech tree. The stump of my tail makes the position uncomfortable and I must fling myself flat and stuff my tunic beneath my rump to achieve a modicum of ease.\n\nLate afternoon sunlight makes the leaves sparkle like the emeralds adorning my belt. The spreading branches carve out a mosaic of green, brown, and gold. The evershifting patterns lull me into drowsiness. I close my eyes and pray that the elixir stole my immortality along with any form recognizable to God. To live forever as a dog is curse enough; to spend eternity as a monster would be unbearable.\n\nA jay screeches, startling me into wakefulness. It pecks at a misshapen squirrel's nest in the notch of the tree. Fragments of dead leaves drift onto me, and I shout irritably to drive the bird off. As I sweep the detritus away, my fingers brush something soft.\n\nI bring my hand close to my face and examine the tiny piece of fur. My mind refuses to believe what my fingers and eyes tell me.\n\n\"Oh, Thomas!\" I cry.\n\nHe might have gotten the tree wrong, but the rest of his prophecy was accurate. I can only shake my head at the foolishness of searching the riverbank when the waters had raged high enough to flood the countryside for a mile.\n\nI open my mouth to call out to Rona, then close it again.\n\nIf I were the young man I should be, I could easily scramble up the ladder of branches. In my present form, I must leap skyward, hands desperately scrabbling for the lowest branch while my back screams in protest. Twice I fall to the ground, jarring the breath from my body. The third time, my fingers close on the branch.\n\nI hang there, feet helplessly churning the air, vision failing along with my strength. I pray to God and the Blessed Virgin. To Margaret and Andrew and Columba, patron saints of Scotland. To Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals. To Giles, patron saint of beggars and cripples. To Jude, patron saint of impossible causes. To Christopher who bore Our Lord across a river. I cannot remember the name of any saint who climbed trees.\n\nI swing my feet to the side and rake the trunk of the tree with my claws. They grip, hold. I dig the claws of my left foot free, swing my leg over the branch, and leverage myself up until I am straddling it.\n\nMy bollocks ache for all the wrong reasons.\n\nBy this slow and arduous method, I finally come close enough to seize the dappled sealskin. I drape it around my neck and sink back upon my perch. It seems impossible that I am a mere fifteen feet above the earth. Surely, my exertions must have taken me to the very gates of Heaven.\n\nI hear a splash. Through the branches, I spy Rona's head bobbing above the water. A salmon flops between her jaws. She slowly emerges, the lush curves of her body plainly visible beneath her chemise. Incredibly, given my recent ordeal, my pintle stiffens.\n\nShe cannot see me. She cannot know that I have found her treasure. It would be easy to leave it in the notch. Or find a more accessible hiding place.\n\nWhy should she get her wish when mine was denied? Why shouldn't she remain with me, a lover to warm my nights, a companion to share my days? What other woman would have me now? Even the friendly bitches that guard the sheep will turn up their noses at me.\n\nRona tosses the fish onto a rock and climbs the bank. No time now to clamber down. I can only shrink back against the trunk, hoping to remain hidden.\n\nShe pauses when she reaches the tree, searching the landscape.\n\n\"Tam?\"\n\nShe cups her long fingers around her mouth.\n\n\"Tam?\"\n\nShe sucks at her thumb like a child. A third time, she calls.\n\n\"Tam! Are you hurt?\"\n\nIt would have been kinder had she stabbed me through the heart.\n\nI stare down at her for a long moment, memorizing the sheen of her wet hair, the contours of her sweet, plump face, the worry in her sad eyes.\n\nThen I brandish her sealskin and call out, \"I'm up here!\"\n\nOur farewell is tender and tearful. She is generous enough to allow me to mount her. It frets me that my stubby pintle offers her so little pleasure, but I make up for this by employing my fingers and mouth to better effect.\n\nWe wait until dusk to make our way back to the river, lest anyone observe her transformation. Even I am not permitted to watch. She ducks behind a boulder near the shoreline and emerges a few moments later. Only her eyes are the same, huge and dark and liquid. I kiss her whiskery snout and stroke her head, hoping to prolong the moment, but she trembles with the urgency to begin her voyage.\n\nI do not begrudge Rona her happiness. If I'm honest\u2014and I rarely am\u2014she deserves it. She is a good-hearted creature and I ... I am a rogue. A once-handsome and oft-times clever rogue, but a rogue nonetheless. Little wonder after spending my formative years among faeries. But it was I and I alone who demanded the payment of a maidenhead from every virgin passing through Carterhaugh forest. None of them complained\u2014Janet surrendered hers with alacrity\u2014but I could have asked for a kiss. Or a rose. Or a lamb chop.\n\nRona looks back only once. Her deep bark echoes across the water. Then she turns eastward and glides effortlessly away, a dark form slipping through the moonstreaked silver of the river.\n\nI stand on the shore long after she has vanished. Then I turn homeward. The sight of my dark cottage is so depressing that I keep walking. The ache in my back subsides a bit. The ache in my bollocks persists. As does the less familiar one in the general vicinity of my heart.\n\nAs I walk into Gil's, a familiar voice cries out, \"Stop me if you've heard this one! A man walks into a bothy. . . .\"\n\nEvery head in the place swivels towards me. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, I lean against the door-frame until it passes.\n\nThe faeries brush past, ostentatiously gaping. Conscious of their gazes, I straighten, wincing with the effort. I walk unsteadily towards Thomas, who leaps to his feet and embraces me. I wonder why he is crying. Perhaps he misses Rona, too. Then I realize that, although I must look up into his face, I no longer have to twist my neck to do so.\n\nI run my hands over my hips, my thighs, my knees, marveling at the graceful contours, the rippling muscles, the long, straight, beautiful bones cracking with gleeful abandon. I long to race out of the bothy, to race across the grasslands, to race all the way to the sea and cry, \"Look, Rona! I am becoming a man!\"\n\nBut of course, she knew that when I held up her sealskin.\n\nI ease myself onto the bench, mindful of my bruised bollocks. Shielded by the table, I surreptitiously examine myself. My left foot is still a paw. So is the right. Fur still swaddles my body. And when I slip my hand into my braies, my pintle feels as small as ever. But the fur feels a bit sparser. Coarser, too. Like pubic hair. This is encouraging.\n\nGil wanders over, a wooden cup in his hand. I meet his gaze without cringing.\n\n\"Evening, Tam.\"\n\n\"Evening, Gil.\"\n\n\"Where's Rona?\"\n\n\"Nearing Kelso, I expect.\"\n\n\"Nice night for a swim.\" Gil places the cup of beer before me. \"On the house.\"\n\nI clear my throat. \"Any idea how long this process will take?\"\n\nGil shrugs. \"Becoming a man takes longer for some than for others.\"\n\nThomas saves me from a precipitous descent into gloom by urging me to share the tale of my adventure. I describe the long days digging under logs and tree roots, nosing through shrubbery, peering into the low-hanging branches of saplings before finally discovering the sealskin hanging high in the branches of the beech.\n\nEnthusiastic cheers greet the conclusion of my tale. As they subside, Thomas calls out, \"Little wonder it took so long to find what you were seeking, Tam.\" He pauses dramatically and surveys the room. \"You were barking up the wrong tree!\"\n\nThere is a general groan. A few curses. Gil heaves the sort of enormous sigh only an immortal can heave.\n\nWallace calls out, \"Gil? You mind?\"\n\nWhen Gil shrugs, I seize Thomas' arm and drag him under the table. We lie there, giggling, while tankards and cups clatter onto the tabletop like hailstones.\n\n\"I shall write a song,\" Thomas shouts over the din. '\"The Ballad of Tam Lin: Part Two.' Or something.\"\n\nI hope he will leave out the part about my tiny pintle. I hope Rona will make it safely to the sea. I hope I will not have to live like a saint in order to become a man.\n\nWhen you come right down to it, every man is a bit of a dog. And I am just like other men. Only more so.\n**SAKE AND OTHER SPIRITS**\n\n_Maria V. Snyder_\n\n**T** HE paper lanterns swung as cold air gusted from the open door. A group of traders bundled in furs hurried into the sake-house. Flakes of snow swirled around them. Azami noted the lack of excited chatter and boisterous calls to Gilga-san, the owner of the establishment. Concerned, she stuffed her bar rag into her kimono and helped the men remove their heavy coats and leather boots.\n\nShe caught Saburo's gaze. Usually so quick with his smile, his lips were pressed tight. His movements were stiff with tension as he shrugged off his fur. His fellow traders kept their somber expressions as they ordered sake and shabu stew.\n\n\"What happened?\" Azami asked Saburo in a whisper.\n\n\"Two traders have died and Toshi's caravan is missing. I'll tell you more later,\" he said as he joined the men around a low table, dropping onto a cushion as if defeated.\n\nGilga-san, always alert to the mood of his customers, crossed the room with a seasoned fighter's grace. He managed to fold his tall body into an open space at the table. Even sitting he towered over the traders.\n\nAs she served bowls of steaming stew and cups of sake, Azami heard snippets of the traders' conversation.\n\n\". . . white as snow, not a drop of blood . . .\"\n\n\"Disappeared for days, then . . .\"\n\n\". . . on the western bank . . .\"\n\n\". . . Toshi and four others ... gone . . .\"\n\nEach word caused her greater alarm. Besides being horrified for the men and their families, these strange happenings might bring the samurai to town. And if they came, Azami would need to flee.\n\nWhen the night grew late and only a few customers remained, Gilga-san assisted in the clean up despite her protests.\n\n\"This is what you pay me for,\" she said. \"Go and entertain your guests.\"\n\nGilga-san enjoyed regaling his customers with stories that put the best Rakugo to shame. But tonight he seemed preoccupied, and his gray-green eyes peered through her. \"Not tonight. No one is in the mood for frivolous stories.\"\n\n\"Is it because of the traders who died and the missing men?\"\n\n\"Yes. The first two disappeared three days ago from Yukio's caravan while they traveled around Lake Biwa. A fisherman found their bodies today, washed up on shore.\"\n\n\"Drowned?\"\n\n\"Hard to tell. Their lungs were full of water and their throats were shredded.\"\n\nAzami's hand went to her neck as she glanced at Saburo. Since the snows had closed the mountain passes, his caravan also passed the lake. He remained at the table with three others. The rest had gone home.\n\n\"Murder?\" she asked.\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\n\"The other five?\"\n\n\"Toshi's caravan was due back this afternoon.\"\n\n\"That's terrible. Their families must be upset.\"\n\n\"They are. You should keep your kaiken close at hand when you leave tonight,\" Gilga-san said.\n\nShe jerked in surprise. No one knew about her dagger. Or so she thought.\n\nHe shot her a slightly amused smile. \"We've been working together for over a year.\"\n\nA year? Already? She had taken the job in his sake-house to earn enough money to leave Hokuga. Azami needed to increase the distance between her and her former life. The small fishing village of Hokuga had just been a temporary stop. Except Gilga-san treated her as an equal, and his bookkeeping had been an utter mess until she had taken it over. Then there was Saburo with his kind heart, good intentions, and sweet smile.\n\nAs if he could read her thoughts, Gilga-san said, \"Saburo won't let you go home tonight unaccompanied. But he has no fighting skills.\"\n\nAzami searched his expression. Most men would forbid her to carry a weapon. Did he suspect her former identity? He must, otherwise he would send along another protector who could defend them both.\n\nAware of her assessment, he waited. His foreignness used to unnerve her. With his oval eyes, black curly hair, pale skin and muscular build, he stood out among the locals who were mostly thin with straight black hair, olive-colored skin and brown slanted eyes. Like her.\n\nShe glanced away, stacking clean cups under the bar. \"Why didn't you mention my kaiken before?\"\n\nHe gestured to the room. \"Men inebriated by sake plus a beautiful serving girl equals trouble.\"\n\nShe snorted. \"You can handle trouble.\"\n\n\"But I can't protect you when you leave here.\"\n\nGilga-san lived upstairs and had never been seen outside the building. Azami stifled the desire to question him. He hadn't pried into her past so she would respect his privacy as well.\n\nSaburo, on the other hand, had been curious. She had told him a fire killed her family and she wished to start a new life someplace else. As Gilga-san had predicted, Saburo insisted on walking her the few short blocks to the room she had rented. They bundled in heavy coats before muscling their way through the icy wind. No others walked the streets of Hokuga, which was odd, considering the town was a popular stop-over for caravans traveling to the western sea ports.\n\n\"Until the criminals are caught, you shouldn't be out on your own,\" Saburo said.\n\n\"Did you know the men who died?\" she asked.\n\n\"Only in passing. Do not worry.\" He took her hand in his. \"I will protect you.\"\n\nShe kept her tongue as frustration boiled. Years of tradition could not be undone by one outburst. Women were wives and mothers. They were protected and cared for. As Saburo talked of other topics, Azami realized if she truly desired independence she would need to disguise herself as a man.\n\nIt was a prospect she had toyed with this past year, but it galled her to no end. She had been taught how to fight and defend herself. Yet her skills could only be used to serve another\u2014her future husband. To keep his house and children safe when he was away from home.\n\nAzami hated the need to be connected to a man\u2014a father or a husband\u2014in order to be accepted as a member of their society. Women without a family had no rights. They were frequently arrested and sent to be y\u016bjo in the walled pleasure cities.\n\nBut she didn't hate men. In fact, some, like Saburo, treated her almost as an independent person. He also didn't act stoic and emotionless, mimicking a samurai. She wished she could spend more time with him.\n\nWished she could stay in Hokuga.\n\nWished to no longer be afraid.\n\nTwo days later, the five missing men surfaced in Lake Biwa. Their bloodless corpses and shredded throats matched the first victims. To add to the general panic, Saburo's caravan had been attacked in broad daylight. A few traders had been injured and others taken, but no one who came into the sake-house could name them.\n\nWhen she heard the news, her chest felt as if she'd been skewered by a katana. Time slowed and each breath she pulled hurt.\n\nAzami kept busy, serving stew and sake to customers. The hushed conversations had turned from speculation of robbers and murders to the belief that a malevolent water spirit had taken up residence in the lake.\n\n\". . . greenish-yellow skin like seaweed . . .\"\n\n\". . . scales and webbed toes . . .\"\n\n\". . . misshapen head . . .\"\n\n\". . . small, like a child but stronger than a sumo . . .\"\n\n\". . . kappa . . .\"\n\nThis last comment stopped Azami. Did they really believe a kappa haunted the lake? Gilga-san had told tales about the creature before. She glanced at the far corner of the sake-house. Gilga-san had drawn the screens around his biggest table. The town leaders had assembled to discuss the situation.\n\nShe fretted about Saburo until he strode through the door late into the evening. He sported a deep gash and a nasty bump on his forehead.\n\nThe tightness in her heart eased and she rushed to him in relief. She remembered her place, stopping short and stifling the desire to crush him to her. Instead she bowed politely and took his coat. They locked gazes for a moment.\n\nNear closing-time, Gilga-san gestured for Azami to follow him. He pushed open the screen and offered to bring the leaders fresh food. They declined.\n\n\"Have you made a decision?\" Gilga-san asked.\n\n\"We will appeal to the daimyo and request help from his samurai,\" Moyama, the oldest and therefore wisest man of Hokuga, said. \"We cannot fight a kappa.\"\n\n\"If a water vampire does prey on your shores, then all you need to do is\u2014\"\n\n\"What do you know of fighting a kappa?\" Moyama asked, but he didn't wait for a reply. \"You're gaijin. And too afraid to leave your sake-house. Let the samurai deal with it.\"\n\nGilga-san bowed to the men and retreated. Azami collected the used stoneware and carried them to the kitchen to wash. Once again, Gilga-san helped her, but his sour mood and frequent outbursts about the stubbornly traditional locals made her wish he had chosen to brood in his office.\n\n\"How long until the samurai arrive?\" she asked him.\n\n\"Three days at most.\"\n\nAzami had to leave Hokuga. The only way to avoid the incoming samurai would be to head west\u2014past the water vampire. If it existed. Yet Saburo and the survivors of the attack had been convinced a kappa haunted the lake. Azami couldn't risk leaving now. That was the reason she clung to, and not because of her reaction to seeing Saburo alive. She would endeavor to blend in and hope the samurai wouldn't recognize her. They shouldn't as they lived in another district than her hometown.\n\nDespite his injuries, Saburo walked her to the inn that night. Azami's kimono flapped in the cold wind. The night sky sparkled and a three-quarters moon illuminated Hokuga's wooden buildings. The weathered structures huddled together like lost children.\n\nWhen they neared the Ryokan, Saburo paused. \"Azami, I. . . .\" He played with the toggles on his coat. \"The attack made me worry about the future. I'd always assumed I had more time.\"\n\nHe turned to face her, taking her hands and pulling her close. Her heart thumped against her chest.\n\nSaburo's intense gaze met hers. \"Today I learned the future could be gone without warning. Time has become precious and I do not wish to waste it. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?\"\n\nShe had known he cared for her, but respectable traders didn't marry kojis. Or liars either. They married the daughters of other traders. These thoughts weren't helping her sort out her chaotic feelings, but they gave her a place to start. \"Your family\u2014\"\n\n\"Already approved.\"\n\n\"But I\u2014\"\n\n\"Not anymore. Gilga-san has offered a dowry for you.\"\n\nShock silenced her. Then fury at her boss's presumption warred with affection for the meddling man. She pushed those emotions away. Marriage had been the reason she ran away in the first place. Granted it was a different type of union, but still.\n\n\"I would wish to continue my work for Gilga-san,\" she said.\n\n\"You won't need to. I will provide\u2014\"\n\n\"For me, I know. I love you, Saburo. I do. But I cannot be a traditional wife.\"\n\nHe stiffened as if she'd slapped him and dropped her hands. \"You'd rather be a serving girl than a respectable member of this community?\" His harsh tone cut through her.\n\n\"I'd like\u2014\"\n\n\"Do not say another word. I will inform Gilga-san his offer was rejected.\" He strode away.\n\nThe desire to run after him and explain pulsed in her chest. However if she told him the truth, he would no doubt report her to the daimyo, his honesty another admirable quality. Deep down, she'd always known nothing could come of their relationship. But it had been nice to delude herself for a little while.\n\nThe samurai's' arrival injected hope back into the terrified townspeople. The sake-house filled with relieved traders, fishermen, farmers and a company of samurai. Saburo wasn't among the customers. No surprise.\n\n\"The boy's an idiot,\" was Gilga-san's only comment to her regarding the marriage proposal and he ignored her questions about the dowry.\n\nAzami wove her way through the crowded tables, but kept clear of the warriors. Gilga-san waited on them. They livened the mood with their boisterous laughter and confident manner. And the best part was, she didn't recognize any of them.\n\nBut they lingered until the other customers had gone. Gilga-san told her to go home; he could handle a dozen men. Before she left, the door swung open and the rest of the samurais entered. Azami returned to the kitchen with dread pushing up her throat. They were the warrior elite and by law the sake-house would remain open until they chose to leave.\n\nThirty men gathered. They kept her and Gilga-san busy with orders. Their conversation focused on the village's rumors and the survivors' stories, comparing information to create a plan of attack.\n\nGilga-san approached the leader. He bowed slightly and introduced himself. The men shook hands.\n\n\"May I offer a suggestion on killing this kappa?\" he asked.\n\nAzami suspected he was being polite for her. This was his place and if he wished to speak his opinion, he could.\n\nAmusement quirked at the samurai's lips, but he invited Gilga-san to join them.\n\n\"The water vampire is strong and quick. Before engaging him, I suggest you show him the proper respect and bow to him. The lower the better.\"\n\nLaughter rippled through the men.\n\n\"We do not honor a malevolent spirit,\" the leader said.\n\n\"In this particular case, it is vital that you do.\"\n\nThe leader scoffed. \"Ridiculous advice, gaijin. Samurais do not bow to evil.\"\n\n\"Then you will die.\" Gilga-san walked away as another wave of mirth erupted.\n\nAzami hurried after him. In the kitchen she asked, \"Will they succeed?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"These things are not limited to the waters of Nihon.\"\n\n\"Can it be killed?\"\n\n\"No, but it can be ... reasoned with.\"\n\n\"You need to tell the samurai.\"\n\n\"I tried. Twice.\"\n\nHer stomach twisted with fear. \"Try again.\"\n\n\"They will not listen to me. I'm gaijin.\"\n\nLate into the night, the samurai meeting finally ended. As the warriors filed out, Gilga-san asked his chef to accompany Azami back to her room. The predawn silence chilled her more than the air. The wind had died. An ill omen.\n\nAzami thanked the chef and entered the quiet inn, surprising since the samurais filled every room except hers. Too bad they didn't pay for their lodging or their meals. Then again, they had come to help. And if she had thought about it beforehand, she should have spent the night in the sake-house. Now who was the idiot?\n\nShe crept up the stairs, slipped into her room and shut the door without incident. The floor creaked behind her. She spun, pulling her kaiken.\n\nA dark shape stood near her window.\n\nBrandishing her weapon, she said, \"Get out or I'll make the kappa seem kind.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"Well said, Runaway.\"\n\nCaught. Her insides turned to stone. No one to blame but her own fear.\n\n\"Did you really think we wouldn't notice you? A beautiful koji? Our brothers in the north had sent us a message months ago to keep an eye out for you. We will return you to your proper home when our business with the kappa is finished.\"\n\nShe stepped into a fighting stance and held her weapon close. \"No.\"\n\nWith a ring of metal, he drew his katana. The sharp blade reflected the weak moonlight. \"Do you think you can refuse me?\"\n\nIf she had her naginata, her odds of beating him would be much higher. The long pole and curved blade would keep his katana from reaching her.\n\n\"No.\" She returned her dagger to her belt. Azami had been forced to train in tantojutsu, the skill of the knife. The intended wife of a samurai needed to protect his home and children from his enemies. Educated as well, she'd been taught how to run a household and, in the process, how to think for herself. Unfortunate since she realized she had no desire to become a samurai's wife. To be, in essence, owned by another.\n\nThe samurai pointed to the floor with his katana. \"You will remain here. There will be a guard at your door.\" Confident she would obey, he didn't wait for a reply. He left and ordered a colleague to stand watch.\n\nNo need to confiscate her weapon. She had earned the right to carry it, and it was useless against a skilled warrior. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she considered her options. Azami had prepared for an escape, but her plans hadn't included an evil spirit. She would bide her time. For now.\n\nThe next morning the warriors talked and laughed as if they faced a kappa every day. When they left to hunt it down, Azami didn't waste a moment. She pulled a box from under the bed. Emergency escape supplies had been packed inside.\n\nShe changed into the loose pants and tunic that the local fishermen wore, tucked her kaiken into the belt, and wrapped her hair in a tight bun. Donning a fur hat, she grabbed a heavy coat.\n\nThe inn's owner had been asked to provide a guard outside her door. However, she didn't plan to use it.\n\nTaking the rope from the box, she secured one end to the sturdy bed frame and tossed the other out the window. Azami removed the last item from the box\u2014a satchel already filled with all she would need on the road. She dropped the bag and coat out the window. They landed with a soft thud.\n\nNot waiting to see if the guard noticed the noise, she climbed out the window sill and wrapped her legs around the rope, sliding to the ground. She collected her belongings and ran to Gilga-san's sake-house.\n\nSlipping in through the back entrance, Azami surprised the chef, who ordered her to leave. Gilga-san, though, recognized her right away. He brought her to his office and closed the door.\n\nExotic antiques and strange metallic objects filled the shelves of the room. Keys of all shapes, sizes, and metals\u2014gold, silver, iron\u2014littered every surface.\n\nAs she perched on the edge of the chair facing his desk, Azami marveled. The room shouldn't be big enough to hold the massive collection, yet it did.\n\nGilga-san half-sat on the edge of his desk. He tugged his braided beard while she explained her predicament.\n\nWhen she finished, he rested a hand on her arm. \"I can hide you. You do not need to leave.\"\n\nHis offer touched her, but the risk was too great.\n\n\"This town is too small. Even disguised as a man, they would find me. You would be arrested.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"I'd like to see them try.\"\n\n\"No. You've been so kind to me, I won't endanger you.\"\n\n\"But what about that kappa? I doubt the samurai killed it today.\"\n\nIcy fingers of fear stroked her back, but she considered the alternative. \"I would rather lose my life than my freedom.\"\n\nGilga-san sobered and stared at the red clay tablet that hung on the wall opposite his desk. Pictures had been scratched on it and it appeared as if someone had used a chopstick to poke round dents into the clay before it had hardened. According to Gilga-san, it was an old drink recipe. No one was permitted to touch it.\n\nHe played with the braid hanging from his chin. Then he surged to his feet. \"I agree. Losing your freedom is a hardship you do not deserve. Before you go, I have something for you. Wait here.\"\n\nUnable to remain sitting, she paced. She hoped to leave before the samurai returned. If they were busy fighting the kappa, they wouldn't notice a fishing boat leaving the dock. And if the kappa remained engaged in battle, it wouldn't bother chasing after her.\n\nGilga-san returned with a plain white cup. He handed it to her. She sniffed the warm contents. It smelled like jasmine tea but resembled milk.\n\n\"Your features are too elegant to pass for a man,\" he said. \"If you truly wish to live as a man, drink the . . . tea and you shall be transformed. However, once done, it cannot be undone.\"\n\nAzami's hand shook. An impossible offer. A jest? She had never known him to play pranks. No. Deep down in her heart, she felt it. He meant it. She sank into her chair and clutched the cup with both hands, resting it in her lap.\n\nAfraid to spill it. Afraid to drink it. Afraid to refuse it.\n\nA knock broke the silence. Gilga-san cracked open the door.\n\n\"The samurai have returned,\" a voice said.\n\n\"Stay here,\" Gilga-san said to her. \"No one will find you.\" He left.\n\nAzami's thoughts swirled. To transform into a man. To have the freedom and the privileges men enjoyed. To no longer be afraid someone would force her to marry and bear children. She could walk among the samurai in the sake-house without worry. Her problems solved.\n\nThen her musings went deeper. Would her personality change? Would she desire women? Or would she still desire men?\n\nIt had been easy to wish, but making a choice wouldn't be as straightforward. Gilga-san slipped into the room. His expression troubled.\n\n\"What happened?\" she asked.\n\n\"Six samurai died, ten injured and the kappa remains at large.\"\n\n\"You were right.\"\n\n\"Poor consolation, considering the cost.\" He eyed the cup in her lap. \"They're searching for you. If you become a man, you can stay here and work for me. Otherwise, I'll hide you.\"\n\nShe stared at the white liquid. Hiding was another form of imprisonment and it didn't sit well with her. Transforming felt wrong as well. As if she cheated.\n\n\"What do you truly desire, Azami?\"\n\n\"A partner.\" The words popped out without censure and kept coming. \"Someone I can share my life with and who won't direct my life. Someone who treats me as an equal despite my gender.\" Like Gilga-san did. Why? Because she had worked hard for him, sorted out his messy bookkeeping, and helped create a few new drink recipes. She had earned his respect and friendship.\n\nSudden understanding zipped through Azami, energizing her. She thrust the cup into his hands. \"Thank you for the offer, but I don't deserve it. And I'm not hiding any longer.\"\n\nA strange expression crossed his face. Not quite amusement, although gladness did spark in his eyes. He seemed proud and that added to her determination.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" Gilga-san asked.\n\n\"Go fishing.\"\n\n\"And you will show this fish the proper respect?\" he asked.\n\n\"Unlike the samurai, I do not have a delicate male ego,\" she said.\n\nHis deep laughter followed her out the door.\n\nHer bravado and determination leaked from her as she crept from shadow to shadow, heading west through Hokuga. The idea she could prevail when the samurai could not seemed ridiculous in the cold darkness. Doubt and terror swirled in her chest.\n\nShe scanned the small town, committing its quirks\u2014Toshi's half completed fence, fishing nets hanging from Futsu's back door, and the family of cats living under Oda's bamboo hut\u2014to memory. Fondness for these people pulsed in her heart. She would have been content to serve customers and listen to Gilga-san's stories until the end of her days.\n\nWhen she reached the last building, she gauged the distance to the thin cover of the winter woods. Could she do this? She considered the alternative\u2014dragged back to Yamakage, punished and forced to marry.\n\nGilga-san believed in her. It was time to trust herself. Azami shoved her misgivings away.\n\nAs she dashed to the tree line, hurried footsteps sounded behind her. She spun in time to see a figure running after her, hissing her name in a loud whisper. Drawing her kaiken, she slid her feet into a fighting stance. But the man skidded to a stop and held his hands out, showing he was unarmed.\n\n\"Azami, I need to talk to you.\" Saburo puffed.\n\nBad timing. She lowered her weapon. \"Go home, Saburo.\"\n\n\"Not until you listen.\"\n\n\"No. I lied to you about everything. I'm not koji. I ran away from Yamakage because I did not wish to marry a samurai. Now they have found me, I need to leave.\"\n\n\"Then I will come with you,\" he said, stepping closer.\n\n\"But I do not\u2014\"\n\n\"Wish to become a traditional wife. I understand. All I desire is your company.\"\n\nShe sheathed her kaiken and crossed her arms in suspicion. \"Have you talked to Gilga-san?\"\n\n\"Yes, he told me where to find you.\"\n\nThat explained it. \"Did he give you a special drink?\" Meddling again, Gilga-san was worse than the local matchmaker.\n\n\"No time. He urged me to hurry.\"\n\nThis threw her. \"Why did you change your mind?\"\n\nHe sucked in a deep breath. \"I considered the reasons why I love you. You are independent, intelligent, and brave. If I had done this before asking for your hand, I would have realized my error. Rather than lose you, I wish to accompany you.\"\n\n\"What about your life and home here?\"\n\n\"It is of little concern to me.\"\n\n\"I\u2014\"\n\nHe rested a cold finger on her lips, silencing her. \"You are all that matters.\" He cupped her chin and drew her toward him for a kiss.\n\nHeat spread from her lips and she pressed against Saburo, deepening the kiss and tangling her fingers in his long hair. Her heart beat its approval.\n\nShouts intruded. Azami spotted two samurai pointing in their direction and calling to others.\n\n\"Time to go.\" She grabbed Saburo's hand and they raced down the path to the lake.\n\nWith six dead and ten injured, she hoped the warriors wouldn't follow them right away. Hoped they'd assume the kappa wouldn't let them escape. A smart assumption.\n\nMoonlight lit the trail, and, while glad to be able to see, Azami worried they would be visible to the samurai.\n\nThey ran until the sounds of pursuit died. When her breath no longer huffed so loud in her ears, the crash of the waves reached her. Arriving at the lake, they paused. Silver moonlight flashed and danced on the water. The surface undulated as if restless and irritated. Foaming curls of water rushed and pounded on the shore.\n\n\"All those windy days combined with a big moon have increased the tide,\" Saburo explained. \"I hope the northern path is not underwater.\"\n\nBy his nervous glances toward the lake, Azami knew he didn't voice his true fear. Hand in hand they followed the road that ringed the vast lake, keeping away from the surf.\n\n\"Saburo, I've one more ... confession,\" Azami said.\n\nHe squeezed her hand in encouragement.\n\n\"I'm not running away. It is a life full of fear.\"\n\nSlowing his pace, he looked at her in confusion.\n\n\"I came here to challenge the kappa.\"\n\nJerking to a stop, he peered at her in utter astonishment. \"But . . . you will . . . it. . . .\" He drew in a deep breath. \"You'll die. It's jisatsu!\"\n\n\"It remains the only way I can _earn_ my freedom.\"\n\nHe stared at her for so long Azami wondered if she'd lost him.\n\n\"And I cannot leave the people of Hokuga to the mercy of the kappa,\" she said, and meant it. \"The samurai are unable to see past their code of honor. They will continue to die.\"\n\nSaburo's shoulders relaxed. \"And you won't?\"\n\n\"All I know is I have to try.\"\n\nThe gradual infusion of color into the black sky announced the dawn's arrival. As sunlight swept across the lake, the pressure in Azami's chest relaxed a bit. Until she spotted a child playing in the rough surf.\n\nTerrified for his safety, she waded into the chilly water, calling and gesturing for him to leave the water before he drowned. The young boy laughed, but he walked to the bank and sat on the edge, waving her over.\n\nSaburo caught up to her as she neared the child. She stopped a few feet away and gaped. Not because delight shown on the boy's face, but because he had greenish-yellow scales instead of skin. And he had a dent on the top of his misshapen head that was filled with a white liquid. Fear's icy teeth bit into her.\n\n\"Oh, what a glorious morning! No longer boring.\" It splashed its webbed toes in the water. \"I smell love in the blood. Yummy!\"\n\nSaburo grabbed her arm and tugged her back. \"I cannot . . . let's run.\"\n\nThe kappa chortled. \"Yes, yes! Run, run. Make it fun.\"\n\nAzami sorted through the story Gilga-san had told months ago, when he had been entertaining guests. Her frantic pulse calmed. \"No.\" She pulled her kaiken, wishing again for the long reach of her naginata.\n\n\"Oh, what a delight. A fight.\" It jumped to its feet.\n\nSaburo stepped in front of Azami, protecting her.\n\nHuffing with annoyance, she pushed him aside. \"Trust me.\"\n\nTo her relief, he nodded and backed away. Azami joined the kappa on the narrow bank. They faced each other. At five feet five inches in height, she never considered herself tall, but compared to the four foot kappa she towered over the creature. The height difference was all part of its game, luring its opponents into a false sense of security. It also waited for her to make the first move.\n\nShe bowed deeply to the kappa.\n\n\"Oh, a proper warrior.\" It returned the bow. As it dipped its head, the white liquid poured from the indentation and pooled onto the ground. When the kappa straightened, it didn't appear to be concerned about its loss.\n\nAzami prayed Gilga-san's story had been accurate. Their lives depended on it. She lunged at the kappa, slicing at its neck with her kaiken. The blade narrowly missed as it jumped back. She advanced, thrusting the tip toward the kappa's chest.\n\nIt retreated a step, but then blocked the next jab. The blow was hard, but not strong enough to dislodge her grip on the kaiken. Confidence flowed through her veins, energizing her. Without the white liquid, the kappa's supernatural strength and speed were gone. For now. It would regain its powers in time. Already a small amount of fluid had returned.\n\nShe increased the intensity of her attack, striking and slicing without giving the kappa a chance to get close to her. It blocked and dodged. When she swung her dagger a little too wide, it darted in and latched onto her forearm\u2014the one holding the kaiken.\n\nIt dug its claws deep into her flesh as it pressed close. A burning agony sizzled on her skin. A snap vibrated through her bones. Pain exploded in her arm. The kappa squealed with joy. With one hand, it raked its claws, slashing cuts. Then the kappa clamped its mouth over the bloody wounds. The level of white liquid inside its dent rose at a faster pace as it sucked her blood.\n\nThe horrifying noise galvanized Azami into action. She stomped on its foot and slammed the edge of her free hand into its temple. It jerked with the blows, but hung on. She transferred her weapon to her left hand and jabbed the tip of the blade into the kappa's ribs. It let go, staggering back.\n\nHugging her injured arm to her stomach, Azami changed tactics and kicked it in the chest. It stumbled. She kept after it, using a variety of kicks. So used to being faster and stronger, the kappa couldn't adapt to this new attack. When its gaze slid to the water, she knew it considered escape.\n\nFeinting left, she shuffled forward and to the right, hooking the kappa around the neck with her uninjured arm. Azami pressed the edge of the blade against its throat. The scales felt thick, but red blood welled under her knife.\n\n\"Oh, please, don't kill,\" it cried.\n\n\"Why not? You have killed many.\"\n\n\"Must eat.\"\n\n\"Not good enough.\"\n\n\"Do anything for you,\" it said.\n\n\"Always?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes.\"\n\n\"Give me your word.\"\n\n\"Oh, my word is yours.\"\n\nSatisfied, she released the kappa.\n\n\"Azami, no!\" Saburo yelled, running over to her.\n\n\"It will be fine. He is an honorable opponent; his word will never be broken.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"Gilga-san. Despite his matchmaking tendencies, he's quite knowledgeable.\"\n\nGilga-san had also been correct about another one of the kappa's unique powers. The spirit was skilled in mending broken bones, and in reattaching severed limbs without leaving a scar.\n\nWhen asked, it healed Azami's arm. Once she regained her energy, the three of them headed back to Hokuga. It didn't take long to encounter the samurai.\n\n\"Remember, do not kill anyone,\" Azami said to the kappa as fourteen warriors surrounded them with their weapons drawn.\n\n\"Must eat,\" it whined.\n\n\"Human blood? Or can you drink animal blood?\"\n\n\"Oh, both. And like cucumbers. Yummy.\"\n\n\"You will be fed in exchange for protection.\"\n\nIt perked up. \"Protect now? Fun? Make men run?\" The white liquid completely filled the kappa's dent.\n\n\"Only if they attack us.\" She took the kappa's hand in hers. Then she turned in a slow circle and met each samurai's gaze, holding it until the warrior acknowledged her with a nod and sheathed his katana.\n\n\"What now?\" Saburo asked.\n\n\"We go home.\"\n**THE FORTUNE-TELLER MAKES HER WILL**\n\n_Kari Sperring_\n\n**\"F** IRE,\" whispered the angels. \"Fire is falling.\"\n\nTheir voices slipped between her daughter Madeleine's lips, silken and sweet, some high, some low. And the fire followed them, long ghost banners of it. It licked the tips of her fingers, rolled out across the table top, danced and pranced and spun out on every side. On the other side of the table, the fortune-teller shivered, her eyes fixed on her daughter's face. \"Fire\". No matter how she phrased the question, the answer was always the same. Fire. Fire for the fortune-teller and her associates. Fire for the pretty wife of the councilor, with her hunger for beauty and money and freedom from marriage. Fire for the complacent priests and the perfume-sellers; fire and pain and darkness. It reached its fine red fingers for the rakish _comtesse_ in her web of plots, for the dashing _duc_ with his hopes and hidden hatred, for the peerless _marquise_ in her royal _boudoir._ It limned the slim silhouette of sweet Madeleine as she sat at her mother's table to channel the angels, blue eyes blank and empty, fixed on nothingness. The future was full of fire and it would consume them all. It rolled and danced about the room, threw hot shadows across the vials and bottles, the jars of herbs and the heavy bound books. It ran its hands over the fortune-teller's face, down her throat, closed its fingers about her, hot and heavy. She gasped and shuddered from it, breaking the spell.\n\nMadeleine's eyes snapped shut as her head dropped forward. The red light winked out, leaving the workroom pale in the inferior glow of the candles. For long moments the fortune-teller sat in silence, calming her breathing, swallowing down her fears. Fire and only fire. There was no way out for her, then: the angels had spoken. She must face that, head high, and make of it what she must. But Madeleine.... Rising, she went round the table to her daughter, who had slumped forward. Madeleine's skin was soft with sleep, her breathing low and regular. The fortune-teller stroked back the long curls. The angels had touched her. The angels, surely, would want to save her, this vessel, this innocent through whom they worked? She patted the girl's cheek and returned to her own seat. Opening one of the drawers of her work table, she took out three sheets of the finest paper.\n\nShe was not, perhaps, the most gifted of the diviners of Paris. There were others more apt with the arts of conjuring or the skillful manipulation of smoke and mirrors. But in the art of presentation, none surpassed her. Her bower was the most fragrant, her consulting room the most opulent and alluring, her person\u2014if not by nature attractive\u2014the cleanest and most reassuring. And then there was Madeleine, with her blue eyes and blonde curls and wide sweet smile; Madeleine, through whose soft pink lips the spirits spoke\u2014angels, most certainly, for no demon could find foot-hold in such an innocent vessel. Madeleine brought the clients in, to sit on soft settles and hear the words of the otherworld. No matter that the words were often garbled or unclear. Her voice was soft and bell-toned and her face guileless. And her step-mother, the fortune-teller, was always on hand to offer explanations and translations alongside other, more practical services.\n\nFire on all sides. But not, the fortune-teller told herself, for Madeleine, the agent of angels. Dipping her quill into her purest ink, she bent her head and began to write.\n\nThe fortune-teller thought long and hard about these letters, to be delivered should anything befall her. She crafted each word with exquisite care. No outsider, reading one of them, must catch so much as a glimmer of what they contained: a warning, a threat, a wish. Under the seal of each she placed a strand of her thin grey hair, whispering words to the soft wax she placed over it. Her will. Her will. Her will be done.\n\nTha\u00efs stalked into the cabaret and flung her hat down onto the long counter. The bartender, Monsieur Gilles, cast a knowing look at her, before setting a small cup of something thick and potent before her. She drank it off without looking at it, coughed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and swore.\n\n\"Your _marquise_ wouldn't like to hear you talk like that,\" said Gilles, moving the nearest bottle out of easy reach.\n\n\"The _marquise_ can dance on a sharpened spike.\" Tha\u00efs glared into the cup. \"What _was_ that? The contents of your pisspot? Give me another.\"\n\n\"You don't need it.\" Gilles took the cup away and replaced it with an earthenware goblet which he half-filled with red wine. \"Try this. The _chevalier_ de Lionne sent me two barrels to clear his tab.\"\n\nThe cabaret was situated on a low corner, where the Rue Servandoni met the All\u00e9e de St-Paul, in the damp undercroft of a print-shop. From outside there was nothing to distinguish it\u2014no sign, no welcoming flambeau, only a short flight of stone steps and a rather battered door. It had no formal name: it was known simply as the _bar de l'heure_ , from the great clock of the \u00c9glise St-Paul opposite. It was seldom more than a quarter full. \"Those who need us find us,\" said Gilles, when customers asked. Tha\u00efs had stumbled across it one day some three years earlier\u2014quite literally, when her ankle gave way and she tumbled down the steps. The door had opened just quickly enough to conceal her from the young nobleman who had stepped, quite unexpectedly, out of the book-shop three doors down. Chances were he would not have been able to place her, but she did not like to take such chances. Not when one filled one's pockets in the fashion she did.\n\nHer employer knew Tha\u00efs could read: that was part of her value to Madame. She had no idea, however, that Tha\u00efs was one of those who supplied the print shop over the _bar de l'heure_ with its steady stream of satires and filthy songs on courtiers, ministers, mistresses, and the king. Madame was rich and spoiled and expected her maids to be loyal.\n\nNow, she sipped her wine and pulled a face. Too sweet and too thin, like the young women the _chevalier_ preferred for his bed. Like Madeleine, the little witch who haunted too many of Tha\u00efs' dreams. Gilles picked up a cloth and began to polish a pewter tankard. He said, \"Give it time to breathe. We're all the better for a little breathing.\"\n\nShe threw him a dusty look. He went on, \"I take it your latest work was too hot for my neighbor?\"\n\n\"He doesn't want to offend _too much_.\" She mimicked the mincing tones of the printer. \"Not in the current climate, with La Reynie and his policemen hunting up trouble all over the city.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Gilles set the tankard down and wiped imaginary dust from the top of the squat clay tablet mounted over the back of his bar. For any other man, it would have been a reach. Gilles was not any other man. He was the tallest man Tha\u00efs had seen, taller even than the giant musketeer who went by the name Porthos. If La Reynie came here with his men, he'd have a real fight on his hands.\n\nNot that La Reynie, the Lieutenant-General of the Paris Police, was remotely interested in cabarets, however odd. Or printshops, not right now. The word on police lips everywhere these days was \"poison.\"\n\nThe house of the _marquise_ was in uproar when Tha\u00efs returned. Madame could not find her preferred fan\u2014some careless servant must have misplaced or broken it. Madame's chicory water was too sour, too warm, too dusty. Madame's creditors were daring to contact her: had they no idea who she was? Nothing and no one was pleasing to her in any imaginable way. The king, murmured a tiring maid to Tha\u00efs, had been late to arrive and early to depart, and had, moreover, dared to raise with Madame the matter of her spending. Madame had raged and ranted for fully two hours before finally finishing her _toilette_ and sweeping out to soothe her spite by exercising it on those she professed to call friends. Shedding boots and breeches and male doublet in the narrow room she shared with three others, Tha\u00efs murmured quiet thanks to her guardian angel\u2014if she had such a thing\u2014that today had been her _jour de cong\u00e9_.\n\nMadeleine believed in angels. \"As beautiful as your Madame,\" she had whispered to Tha\u00efs, on one of the visits Madame had paid to consult with her mother the fortune-teller and, through her, with Madeleine. Madeleine's angels visited her regularly, at her mother's command, and used her lips to speak to the elect, promising\u2014or so the fortune-teller swore\u2014every kind of benefit and earthly advancement. \"Your Madame is blessed,\" said Madeleine, who could not credit that angels might have truck with any but the good, the pure.\n\nIf angels spoke to her Madame, then Tha\u00efs had no faith in angels\u2014or else the angels who came to Madeleine were of that company no longer welcome in heaven. If Madeleine understood the questions Madame put, she, too, might be more ready to doubt. But Madeleine remembered nothing, once the angels settled upon her. It was her mother who called them down into residence, her mother who decoded the strange sweet words they spoke.\n\nAngels. Demons. Or perhaps just Madeleine's private madness. Tha\u00efs neither knew nor cared overmuch. It was Madame's gold that went to pay the fortune-teller, not hers, and Madame's interests that the visits sought to serve. Now, Thais wriggled into her dress, tied her hair into a perfunctory knot and went downstairs in search of food.\n\nMadeleine was waiting for her in an antechamber, nibbling on one of the dainty pastries rejected earlier by Madame. Her long pale hair fell forward over one shoulder in lustrous curls; her blue gaze examined the delicate porcelain plate from which she ate. If Madame knew she came here.... It was one thing to consult soothsayers in their Parisian lairs. It was quite another to admit them to the gilded precincts of Versailles. The king had no love for such creatures, whom he regarded as charlatans at best. And as for those who consulted them.... Not even Madame's beauty and her long sojourn in his regard would help her if the king chose to believe her guilty of seeking to influence him through sorcery.\n\nMadeleine looked up and every part of her face smiled as she saw Tha\u00efs. Tha\u00efs pressed her lips together, fighting the wave of pure delight that threatened to rise in her at the sight. She would not be softened by blue eyes and curls and that endless, guileless innocence. She plumped herself down at the table opposite Madeleine and grabbed a handful of pastries from the platter. \"What are you doing here?\"\n\n\"Maman sent me.\" Madeleine's voice was as sweet as her exterior. \"She has sent a new lotion for Madame.\"\n\n\"Madame won't be pleased. She doesn't like your mother sending people here.\"\n\nMadeleine's lips drew down. She never seemed to know what to do with contradiction or complication. She looked back at the plate, small fingers playing with the remains of her pastry. Her mother, the old witch, would have told her to deliver the message personally, of course. Tha\u00efs sighed. \"Give it to me, then, and I'll make sure Madame gets it.\"\n\nMadeleine looked up and once again that smile was written across her face. \"I knew you'd help me.\"\n\n\"Well.\" Tha\u00efs shrugged and held out her hand. \"The lotion?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Madeleine reached into the bodice of her dress and drew out a tiny phial. \"Here it is.\" Tha\u00efs took it and tucked it into a pocket without looking.\n\nShe said, \"You'd best be going, then.\"\n\n\"Oh, but....\" Another pout. \"One of the other maids told me Madame was out. I had thought. . . .\" Her fingers traced the bright borders of the plate.\n\nIt would not do. It would never do. The whole thing was hopeless, stupid. If they were caught.... Tha\u00efs swallowed her last mouthful and stood. \"Very well, then. Come on.\"\n\nIt was her own fault, of course, for telling Madeleine about Madame's lovely gowns and fine furnishings. The trouble was, Madeleine loved to hear of such things, and Tha\u00efs loved to tell her of them and watch those blue eyes grow round with delight. And as to her promise to show them, should Madeleine ever visit the palace.... Foolishness, from start to finish, and all too like to draw upon her precisely the kind of attention she did not desire. They were bought with blood and lies, all those beautiful things: tricked or wheedled out of the king, who should know better than to squander his tax revenues on his spoiled mistress. Of course, Madeleine would never think of that. Madeleine saw only the prettiness.\n\nTha\u00efs led Madeleine along the narrow back corridor that led to Madame's _boudoir_. She listened carefully at the door before opening it and ushering them both inside. This was the heart of Madame's lair, where she entertained the king and displayed herself to choice friends and rivals.\n\nThe room was a treasure-box of gilded wood and rich fabrics, mirrors and crystal, fine-turned and decorated furnishings, fine porcelain and gold and silver _objets d'art_. Madeleine's breath caught and her mouth opened on a silent \"Oh,\" as she took in the Turkey carpet and the great carved bed, the heavy tapestries depicting goddess and nymphs at their sport, the silver candelabra and the great crystal chandelier. She put out a hand towards the nearest object, an inlaid cabinet, and drew it back, shaking. She said, \"Madame lives like a queen.\"\n\n\"Better than the queen.\" Tha\u00efs said. She took hold of the closest edge of the bed hangings and gave them a tug. \"The queen has to make do with old cloth and dust. These are new.\" They were crimson, these hangings, and richly damask: a whole village could have lived in comfort for a year on what they had cost. Tha\u00efs herself had earned three times a month's wages with a ballad written on what they witnessed every night.\n\nNot that Madame knew about that, of course.\n\n\"So many pretty things,\" Madeleine said. She had advanced into the center of the room. \"I wish I was you, to see these every day.\" There was a great portrait of Madame, dressed in a loose robe and with her hair unbound, hanging on the wall opposite the bed. \"Madame is so beautiful.\"\n\nMadeleine would not think Madame so lovely if she saw her in a rage. But Tha\u00efs did not say that. She picked up one of the silver-backed brushes from the dressing table, and said, \"She knows how to make herself look well, I'll grant you.\" Crossing the room, she set her hands on Madeleine's shoulders. \"But your hair is lighter than hers, and longer, too. Sit down.\" She gave Madeleine a little push, guiding her to a straight-backed chair. \"Hers is coarse, these days, and her hairdresser has to help her with the color.\" She tugged the cord from Madeleine's hair and began to draw the brush through it. \"You'd look much better than she does in most of her gowns.\" Under her fingers, Madeleine's hair was silk. Tha\u00efs closed her eyes. She should not be doing this, if she was caught it would be her job, and worse.\n\n\"I wish I lived here, like you,\" Madeleine said. \"I'd love to look after all these things.\"\n\nTha\u00efs shook her head, opening her eyes. \"It's harder work than you think.\"\n\n\"I'd like it. I could dust and wash and mend. I like to do all those. Much better than what Maman has me do.\"\n\nThe angels, or whatever creatures it was that the fortune-teller conjured from those soft lips, that was not a safe profession, not in these days. Tha\u00efs said, \"I'll speak to Madame. Perhaps she'll have work for you. But your mother. . . .\"\n\n\"I don't like it,\" Madeleine burst out. Under Tha\u00efs' hands, her neck was suddenly rigid. \"It makes me feel dizzy and strange when Maman calls them. The voices make my throat hurt and when they leave, I have a headache. I don't know what they make me say. I don't like it. I want an ordinary life, like yours. To work for someone like Madame. Some day a husband and babies. But not the voices.\"\n\nLouis Vanens was the heart of a network of poisoners, who had accomplished the death of the Duke of Savoy. The rumor started in the depths of Vincennes, as those rounded up by Monsieur de La Reynie prolonged their lives by naming names. It traveled fast, on the lips of gaolers and guards, clerks to the inquiry and officers of the police. Monsieur de La Reynie was vindicated, it seemed, in his conviction of the corruption that engulfed France. Vanens, sanguine, wrote to the king offering to share his occult knowledge of the philosopher's stone. The king did not trouble himself to reply. Another captive, Madame Bosse, knew nothing of Vanens, but she had her own tales to tell, of the four hundred or more diviners who plied their trade in Paris.\n\nLa Reynie and his men listened to them all, accounts of spells cast to find treasure or secure the love of a desired person; descriptions of confused, semi-Christian rituals designed to make husbands less cruel, of fortune-telling sessions to uncover the death-dates of those gentlemen, of potions and magics designed to hasten those deaths. The stories spun out and out\u2014black masses here, animal sacrifice there; aphrodisiacs and perfumes; abortifacients and skin creams. The names mentioned reached higher and higher, closer and closer to the king. Husbands began to look askance at wives, lovers at their mistresses. Highborn lords dismantled the alchemical equipment in their cellars and burnt their correspondence. Court ladies smiled too brightly at one another as they proclaimed that they, of course, had never had recourse to the perfumers and magicians of the city to aid complexions and love affairs. With each new revelation at Vincennes, La Reynie added another diviner to his public list and another aristocrat to the more private list he shared only with the king. With each new arrest, the blame spread further and further. The king ordered the creation of a special court to try the magicians and poisoners, the _Chambre Ardente_. Officers of the police force came by night to capture the fortune-teller's associates. And, at last, one night, they came for her.\n\nAt first light the next day, her letters were delivered.\n\nThe first letter was carried to the doors of Madame de D___, a society beauty whose cousin was one of the officials of the _Chambre Ardente_ , well-loved and well-connected at court. A maid brought the letter to her as she took her breakfast: she glanced at the seal, then waved a hand for the maid to throw it into the fire. _Really, the audacity of those creatures. Chasing her for debts, no doubt._ She was popular, she was young, her lover was one of the highest peers of the land. She was above debts and duns and those silly rumors about black magic. The king knew her. He would never permit her to be touched.\n\nWithin two weeks, she would follow the fortune-teller to Vincennes.\n\nThe recipient of the second letter was wiser, or perhaps more afraid. The _Comtesse_ de S____ had once enjoyed the favor of the king, and she had never forgotten. In the long years that followed, she had made constant attempts to recapture it, with her charm, her wit, her beauty. With dark magic and poisons, said the prisoners at Vincennes.\n\nPerhaps it was true. Before the letter was delivered, the _comtesse_ was in her carriage, heading for the border. The letter lay forgotten on a marquetry table in her antechamber, gathering dust alongside bills and notes and _billets doux_ , until her son swept the whole batch away and threw them out, months and months later.\n\nThe third letter came to Madame.\n\nShe was at her _toilette_ , admiring her white throat in the mirror while her personal maid attended to her hair. A footman came in with her letters on a silver tray, which he set on a small table at her elbow for her to contemplate. She flicked through them idly, alternating with taking small bites out of a sweet pastry. Notes from friends\u2014or those who passed as such. Notes from supplicants hopeful of catching her attention, and through her, that of the king. Notes from merchants\u2014jewelers, tailors, traders in fine furnishings\u2014wishful of acquiring her patronage. Tiny notes in wobbly writing from her children, which she opened at once and smiled over. A note from their governess, which made her frown. Nothing, today, from the king. It had been years since he had last found it necessary to write her little letters, since so much as an hour apart from her was a torture he found hard to bear. These days, his attentions were born more of habit than passion. His passion, it was whispered, was more and more directed to the beautiful young Mademoiselle de Fontanges. Angelique, as lovely as her name, as enchanting\u2014and, said Madame, as stupid as the stupidest of the fancy fowls that lived in the palace gardens.\n\nMademoiselle de Fontanges' health had been poor, this last week or two, despite her youth and the royal favor. _Poor child,_ said Madame in public. But in private, where once she had raged, now she smiled a creamy smile.\n\nIt was, of course, mere coincidence that the new beloved's health had begun to fail the very day that Madeleine had delivered the new lotion for Madame. Coincidence that Madame had had Tha\u00efs take that same lotion, in a fine silver bottle, as a gracious gift from her to Mademoiselle de Fontanges.\n\nLaying out garments for Madame to wear, Tha\u00efs spotted the fortune-teller's seal at once. Her eyes met Madame's in the mirror. Madame frowned, and her fingers moved away to select another note instead. Tha\u00efs went back to her task, unfolding and shaking out the fine silk. Did Madame suspect her hand in the never-ending stream of satires that were printed in the capital? Perhaps. Yet Madame must also know how much else Tha\u00efs knew about her, after twelve years of service.\n\nShe was Madame's confidential maid. That meant she was well-enough paid, relatively speaking, and trusted, up to a point. It did not mean she had to like Madame. A maid's feelings were of little account, as long as she could maintain the appearance of loyalty and restrain her venality to petty things. She had never known why Madame had chosen her, out of all her servants, to be her companion on those furtive visits to the soothsayers and sorcerers of the capital. It had been an adventure at first, slipping through the streets in cloaks and hoods to watch odd women read the future in Madame's palm, and recommend perfumes to tempt a king. But the perfumes had not worked for long. The king had a roving eye and little sense of loyalty, and Madame's lovely figure lost some of its appeal through repeated childbearing. That was when the excursions grew darker and the rites performed became more desperate. Perfumes gave way to aphrodisiacs, while the courtiers watched and smirked and counted up the small humiliations endured by the fading favorite.\n\nMadeleine would have pitied her. Madeleine was soft-hearted and foolish. Tha\u00efs did not pity Madame. One could not pity such a woman. Madame could scent pity from a league away and uprooted it without mercy. It was not the king\u2014bloated and selfish and arrogant\u2014that held Tha\u00efs, though many of her colleagues professed to love him. It was not the court, in all its vainglory. It was not even Paris, with its cabarets and bookshops and protests. Perhaps it was simply that she could think of nothing else to do.\n\nPerhaps she was bound by Madame, complicit in her activities. She had said that, once, in her cups, to Gilles, who had looked at her, his eyes narrowed, and said nothing in return.\n\nAnd then, there was Madeleine. A child when Tha\u00efs first saw her, gazing round-eyed over the rim of a cup at her mother's lovely visitor. She had been pretty even then: Madame had exclaimed over that, cupping the child's face in her hand. Ten years ago, or more: it had not been until she reached puberty that the angels had first spoken through Madeleine.\n\nShe finished smoothing out the gown and turned to go. Madame's sharp voice called her back. \"Tha\u00efs.\"\n\nTha\u00efs turned again and dropped a curtsey. \"Madame?\"\n\n\"Wait. I'm not happy with the neck of that dress. I shall want you to adjust it.\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame.\" Tha\u00efs retreated to the door while the other maids finished with Madame's hair and the cosmetics for her face, and wound her into the lush layers of her garments. Jewels were hung in her ears, about her white throat, slid to glitter on her fingers. Musky perfume clung to her skin as she revolved slowly, examining her reflection in the longest mirror. Finally, she nodded, waving a hand to dismiss the maids. They filed out past Tha\u00efs, one or two casting sharp glances at her from under their lashes. She looked away. They knew Madame used her to carry messages to her less savory friends. It had not made her popular.\n\nWell, and she could live with that. The last girl left, and, at a nod from Madame, Tha\u00efs closed the door behind her. Madame said, \"This neckline. . . .\" She plucked at the lace, fretful, frowning. \"It doesn't lie properly. I told you to fix it.\"\n\nTha\u00efs peered at the lace, patting it into place with her fingertips. She could see nothing wrong. But it did not do to contradict Madame. Instead, she fetched needle and thread from her pocket and set a tiny stitch at one edge, to hold the lace flat. \"I beg your pardon, Madame. I trust that's now acceptable.\"\n\nMadame gave herself a perfunctory glance in the mirror. \"It will do, I suppose.\" She stepped backward. \"Be more careful next time.\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure about these earrings.\" Crossing to her toilette table, Madame re-opened the jewelry box and began to pick through it.\n\nTha\u00efs followed her. The fortune-teller's letter still lay on the tray. Carefully, she said, \"Madame, the angel-speaker. . . .\"\n\n\"That woman does not know her place. And in the current circumstances. . . .\" But Madame was distracted, holding up a new pair of earrings against her cheeks to try the effect. \"Read it to me, will you.\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame.\" Tha\u00efs picked up the letter and turned it over. The seal snapped easily beneath her fingers: a shiver ran through her, and despite herself she looked over her shoulder. Nothing there. A draught. Versailles was full of draughts. She unfolded the letter, faint unease still spilling down her spine. The letter was short, little more than a note, scrawled in the fortune-teller's clumsy hand. She read it quickly, voice low. \"Esteemed Madame, finding my health declining, I send this letter to express my gratitude for your care for me and to commend to you my daughter Madeleine, in the hope that you will aid her as you have aided me.\" The chill laid tighter hold: Tha\u00efs dropped the letter back onto the tray and stood there, shivering.\n\nMadame looked up at her and frowned. \"What is it now, silly girl? The woman wants money, I daresay.\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame.\"\n\n\"It can wait.\" And, in a swish of brocade, Madame swept from the room.\n\nBy noon, the news of the flight of the _Comtesse_ de S_____ had spread across Paris and the court. Other great ladies began to censor their dressing tables and burn their correspondence. The following morning, the diviners La Vigoureux and Marie Bosse were first put to the question and then burned at the stake.\n\nTwo days later, the police came for Madeleine.\n\n\"She won't do anything.\" Tha\u00efs set her cup down on the counter and pushed her hair back out of her face. \"She has the ear of the king. It's easy for her. And she won't do anything.\" She shoved the cup back towards Monsieur Gilles. \"No one will touch _her_ , she's the safest person in France. But she won't lift a finger.\"\n\nGilles studied her for a moment, taking in the sloppy male dress, the disheveled hair, the stains on a once starched collar. Then he took the cup away and replaced it with a mug of ale. Tha\u00efs spat. \"What's that? I'm not English.\"\n\n\"Indeed not.\"\n\n\"Well, then. . . .\"\n\n\"But you are in my bar. Which means you drink what I give you.\"\n\n\"Hah.\" But she picked up the mug and took a deep swallow. \"Tastes like washing water.\"\n\n\"So I've been told.\"\n\n\"The things I know about her.... I could threaten to tell the king. . . .\"\n\nWho would not listen. Sober, Tha\u00efs would know that well enough. Gilles propped an elbow on the bar and looked at her again. A thread wound about the fingers of her right hand, tangling them. Too thin for most eyes to note, most likely. Certainly too thin for Tha\u00efs to see, set as she was in her worldview of patronage and corruption. His brows drew down: he glanced quickly below the counter, at a tall black bottle.\n\nShe had to ask. It was better that way. All he could do was wait. She finished the beer and wiped her mouth. Then she said, \"The old woman is one thing. But Madeleine.... She's done nothing. She doesn't even remember what happens when her mother summons the voices. The angels. She's just a silly girl.\" Gilles said nothing, refilling her mug. She said, \"There must be something. . . .\"\n\nThere was something. Gilles looked again at the bottle beneath the bar. Tha\u00efs said, \"It should be Madame, not her. Or one of those other court women. They're the ones who wanted things.\" She sighed, running a finger round the rim of the mug. \"It should be me, I suppose. I went with Madame and I never said anything.\"\n\n\"What would you do if it was you?\" He had to ask carefully, now. Leading was improper.\n\n\"What do you think?\" Tha\u00efs shot him a wolfish smile. \"What I do anyway. Let people know what they're like, those courtiers.\" The smile dropped. \"Madeleine doesn't know anything. But they'll put her to the question anyway. And she's such a little thing.\"\n\n\"Perhaps her mother will exonerate her.\"\n\nShe snorted, \"Monsieur de La Reynie doesn't believe anyone is innocent. That's what they're saying at court, anyway. The king believes it, too. He thinks everyone wants his love and favor and will do anything to get it.\"\n\nDangerous words, those, in any other Paris bar. Not so much here, where too many of the other patrons had heavy secrets of their own.\n\nTha\u00efs said, \"Madame could save her. She _should_ save her.\" And then, at last, \"I would, if I had the means.\"\n\nGilles' hand closed on the bottle. He said, \"I could help you.\"\n\n\"How?\" Tha\u00efs snorted, this time in derision. \"Oh, you're big enough, but not even you could overthrow Vincennes.\"\n\n\"There's no need to overthrow Vincennes. But I can help you get her out.\"\n\nShe examined him narrowly, slowly. He could feel her gaze on his skin, weighing his reliability, his honesty, his sanity. He held still and, at the last, she dropped her gaze and nodded. \"Do it, then.\"\n\nHe brought out the bottle and a clean drinking glass. Into it, he poured a single finger of a dark fluid. Then he set it in front of her. He said, \"All you have to do is drink this, and wish. I'll tell you how.\"\n\n\"You get five minutes,\" the guard said. \"No more. And I'll be watching, so don't try passing notes.\"\n\nTha\u00efs nodded. It had cost her all she had earned for her last two satires to bribe her way this far. It would be enough, if what Gilles had promised was true. More than enough. She made herself look up and smile at the man. \"Thank you, Monsieur. Your kindness means much to me.\"\n\nThe man shuffled his feet. \"Just don't make any trouble.\"\n\nThey reached a turn of the stair and he turned onto a small, cramped landing. Three doors led off it, all dark and heavy. He rummaged through the keys on his belt and selected one. Then he opened the lock on the left-most door. \"In here.\"\n\nThe door opened on a small dank cell, lit only by a thin sliver of late daylight that squeezed its way through a long slit high in the wall. The floor was scattered with greasy straw: to one side, this had been heaped up to form a makeshift bed. Madeleine huddled on it, wrapped in a thin blanket. She did not look up at the sound of the door. Pain closed a hand on Tha\u00efs. She crossed the room in three steps and crouched down. \"Madeleine. Madeleine, it's me.\"\n\nMadeleine uncurled, raising a face smudged with soot and tears. Her long hair hung lank over her cheeks. She said, \"You're not. It's a trick.\"\n\n\"It's really me.\" Tha\u00efs reached out and put her hand on Madeleine's shoulder. \"See.\"\n\nMadeleine gulped. \"Did . . . did _she_ send you? She must be kind, she's so pretty.\"\n\nTha\u00efs shook her head. Madeleine was likely to realize soon enough that Madame's pretty face did not always guarantee kindness. Then she said, \"No, I came by myself. To help you.\"\n\nMadeleine clutched at her hand. \"How?\"\n\n\"I'm going to get you out.\" Tha\u00efs' heart pounded in her ears. If she did this, if she went through with it, she was signing her own death-warrant, most like. But Madeleine, sweet silly Madeleine, would go free, as the fortune-teller had wished. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the hatch in the door, through which the guard watched them. He would take her words for comfort, for false hope. She turned back to Madeleine. \"You liked my job, remember? All the pretty things?\" Madeleine nodded, hanging onto her hand. \"Would you like to do a job like that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Madeleine's voice was a whisper.\n\n\"Well, when you leave here, that's what you'll do. You'll have to be careful, especially at first, be quiet and polite and don't make any fuss. Can you do that?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then close your eyes, and wish hard, and it will happen. I promise. Do you believe me?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Close your eyes, then. . . .\" Madeleine squeezed her eyes tight shut. For a moment, Tha\u00efs hesitated, listening to the thud of her own heart, the quick rhythm of her breath. She looked down at her hands, thin and brown and strong. Then she leaned forward, and kissed Madeleine on the lips.\n\nThe room dipped: she gasped and fell forward. And then she opened her eyes and found herself gazing upwards from the straw bed into what used to be her own face.\n**THE TAVERN FIRE**\n\n_D.B. Jackson_\n\n_Boston, March 19, 1760_\n\n**T** HERE was no fire when he woke. The room had gone cold and a bleak gray light seeped around the old cloth that hung over his window. He heard no wind, which was good. Tiller didn't like the wind; not this time of year. But he wanted to see gold at the window edges, and there was none.\n\nHe sighed and rolled out of bed, the ropes beneath his mattress groaning. He relieved himself and left the pot by his door, so that he wouldn't forget to empty it. He did that sometimes.\n\nThen he dressed, donning a frock over his shirt for warmth, shrugging on his coat over that, and pulling his Monmouth cap onto his head. He stepped to the door, pausing as always at the small portrait of his mother and father. He touched his fingers to his lips and then to the drawing.\n\n\"Bye, Mama, Papa. I'll be back later.\"\n\nHe opened the door, emptied the pot into the yard, and, after checking to see that the key hung around his neck, pulled the door shut.\n\nA leaden sky; still, icy air. Just as he had known.\n\nHe heard Crumbs before he saw him; a coarse _cawing_ and the rustle of silken feathers as the crow glided down from the roof to Tiller's shoulder.\n\n\"Good morning, Crumbs,\" Tiller said. \"Looks like we got a cold one today.\" He fished into his coat pocket and found a morsel of stale bread, which he fed to the bird. Crumbs ate it greedily.\n\n\"We'll find more later. I'm hungry, too.\"\n\nHe started toward the cart, but before he reached it, he heard a door scrape behind him.\n\n\"Thomas!\"\n\nTiller turned, but kept his gaze fixed on the ground. \"Good morning, Peter,\" he said quietly. \"I'm sorry if we woke you.\"\n\n\"That's not\u2014you didn't. It's time for rent, Thomas.\"\n\nTiller knew that. Just as Peter knew that he didn't like to be called Thomas. He hadn't been Thomas since he was a boy. But it angered Peter when Tiller reminded him, and since Peter leased him the room, Tiller tried not to make him mad. A cousin should have known what to call another cousin. Tiller should have been allowed to remind Peter of that, at least. But he rented the room and he kept his mouth shut. He had heard bad stories about the almshouse.\n\n\"Do you have the money, Thomas?\"\n\nTiller shook his head. \"Not yet. But I will.\"\n\n\"Today is Wednesday, Thomas. You know that, right?\"\n\nHe nodded slowly. Yes, that sounded right. Wednesday.\n\n\"And rent\u2014\"\n\n\"A shilling by Friday,\" Tiller said. \"Yes, I know.\"\n\nPeter exhaled the way Papa used to. \"All right then. Good day, Thomas.\"\n\n\"Good day, Peter.\"\n\nHe waited until Peter had gone back into the house and closed the door before walking to the cart and pushing it out of the yard onto Leverett's Lane. It rattled loudly on the cobbles, pots and pans swinging on their hooks and clanging together, old blades and rusted tools bouncing in their wooden compartments, the empty bottles he had carefully arranged the previous evening falling over one another like drunken sailors.\n\nThere had been seven pence in his pocket when he counted just before going to bed. He could get the other five today or tomorrow. Peter wouldn't have to put him out. That's what he told himself, anyway. But he pushed the cart down to the wharves, his eyes raking the streets, searching for anything that he might find and clean and sell. It always amazed him, the things people lost. Books, jewelry, coins sometimes. Once, a few years ago, he had found a half-crown in the North End on Charter Street. He often went back to the same spot, hoping to find money again, but so far there hadn't been any more. Still, that wouldn't keep him from checking later.\n\nHe didn't see much today, at least not right off. A scrap of metal here, another bottle there. Once he crossed over into the North End, he found a bit more: a knife with a broken blade, which might fetch a few pence; a full copy of Monday's _Gazette_ \u2014someone would pay a penny for that, if they hadn't read it yet; and a lady's linen kerchief that was almost clean. He tied that to the top of the cart beside the pans, so that people could see it. It was sure to sell.\n\nCrumbs rode on his shoulder for a short while, but then flew down to the harbor's edge to scavenge for food. The water was still, but dark as ink. Tiller could smell salt and dead fish in the air. The wharf workers shouted at him and laughed; he wasn't sure what the men said, but he could tell that it wasn't kind, and he tried to ignore them. After a few minutes he made his way up from the docks.\n\nHe stopped first at the foundry on Foster Lane. Paul, who worked there, was always kind to him, and often bought an item or two. Tiller had started seeking out goods that would interest him, and earlier in the week he had found a small hammer, its head only slightly rusted, that he thought Paul would like.\n\nHe rummaged through the cart until he found it, and entered the smithy. He found Paul at the forge, his round face ruddy with the heat, his sleeves rolled up, revealing powerful forearms. Seeing Tiller, he raised a hand and stepped away from the fire.\n\n\"Good morning, Tiller.\"\n\n\"Hello, Paul.\" Belatedly, Tiller snatched the cap off his head.\n\n\"Where's your bird today?\" Paul asked.\n\nTiller shrugged. \"Eating somewhere,\" he said. \"He'll find me later. I have something for you. Found it in Cornhill.\" He held the hammer out to the man.\n\nThe smith's forehead creased and he came forward. \"This is very nice, Tiller,\" he said, taking the hammer from him and turning it over in his hands. \"Very nice, indeed.\" He rubbed his thumb over a patch of rust. \"A bit of polishing and this will be good as new.\" Paul looked up at him. \"How much?\"\n\nTiller gazed up at the ceiling, as if considering this, though he had already decided. \"I dunno,\" he said, his gaze meeting Paul's for an instant before darting away. \"Five pence maybe?\"\n\nThe smith smiled. \"Five pence seems more than fair.\" He dug into his pocket and took out a sixpence. \"I don't have it exactly. How about we settle on six and call it even?\"\n\n\"I have a penny,\" Tiller said, reaching into his own pocket.\n\n\"It's all right, Tiller. Six is a good price.\"\n\nTiller took the coin, a grin on his face. \"I found a good one, didn't I?\"\n\n\"Yes, you did.\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment, wondering if he should say more. At last he put his cap back on. \"Well, thanks, Paul. I'll see you again in a few days.\"\n\n\"Good day, Tiller. May the Lord keep you.\"\n\nTiller left the shop and immediately Crumbs fluttered down to his shoulder.\n\n\"Got rent, Crumbs,\" he said, holding up the sixpence.\n\nThe crow bent toward it, his beak open.\n\n\"No, you don't. I need that for Peter.\"\n\nHe slid the coin into his pocket and started pushing his cart again. He stopped at a few other shops, but didn't sell anything more. By midday, he was back in Cornhill, and he made his way to the public houses, hoping to trade for a meal. He stopped first at the Bunch of Grapes and when the innkeeper there refused to look at his wares, he went on to the Light House. That proved no more fruitful. Against his better judgment, he then made his way to the Brazen Head, on Cornhill Street.\n\nMary Jackson, who owned the tavern, had never liked him. She called Crumbs \"that filthy bird\" and insisted that the crow stay outside. And she talked to Tiller as if he were a little boy.\n\nHe knew that he wasn't as smart as some people, but he had gotten by on his own for a long time now. He didn't need Miss Jackson telling him how to take care of himself.\n\nOccasionally, though, he had something she liked, and she gave him a free meal in exchange. He hoped that the kerchief might catch her eye.\n\nShe was at the bar when he walked in, and she greeted him with a frown. Her hair\u2014black, streaked with silver\u2014was drawn up in a bun, and she wore a pale blue gown with a stomacher of white linen. Tiller noticed that her stomacher matched the kerchief perfectly.\n\n\"What do you want?\" Miss Jackson asked, the lines around her mouth and eyes making her appear angry. Tiller had seen her smile now and again, and each time he was surprised by how pretty a smile made her look. He thought that she should smile more. \"I've told you I'm not interested in buying the rubbish you find in the streets.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" Tiller said, stopping just inside her door and removing his cap. The tavern was crowded, and most of the people were craning their necks to see him. Tiller tried hard to ignore them. \"But I have something I think you'll like.\" He held up the kerchief for her to see.\n\nShe stared at it briefly, wrinkling her nose. \"What is that?\"\n\n\"A kerchief, ma'am. A nice one. Linen it is. With a bit of cleaning\u2014\"\n\nMiss Jackson began to laugh, and it didn't make her look pretty. She glanced back at the others and they laughed as well. \"You think I want to buy someone's dirty kerchief? You're mad!\"\n\nTiller slowly lowered the hand holding the kerchief. \"I have some other....\" He stopped. Their laughter was only growing louder. He started to leave.\n\n\"Wait.\"\n\nHe faced Miss Jackson again.\n\n\"You spend some time at that other pub, don't you? The Fat Spider?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" That was where Tiller intended to go next. It was a long walk, but Janna and Gil\u2014who ran the tavern\u2014they were his friends. They always fed him, even when he didn't have something on his cart that they wanted.\n\nShe beckoned him toward the bar. \"Come here. Are you hungry . . . Tiller, is it?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" he said quietly, still standing by the door.\n\n\"It's all right, Tiller.\" She indicated a stool with an open hand. \"You can sit right here.\" She glanced at her barman, a tall thin man with a high forehead and long plaited hair. \"Johnny, fetch some chowder and bread for Tiller, will you?\"\n\n\"Yeah, sure,\" Johnny said, and went back to the kitchen.\n\nTiller crossed to the bar. Some of the others were still watching him, but they had stopped laughing. He halted by Miss Jackson, who nodded in encouragement.\n\n\"That's it. Sit down.\"\n\nHe sat on the stool beside her.\n\nMiss Jackson narrowed her eyes, which were the same color as her gown. \"What can you tell me about that woman at the Fat Spider? Janna, right? What can you tell me about her?\"\n\n\"Um . . . well ... she's very nice. She . . . she gives me food sometimes and\u2014\"\n\n\"Where's she from? Do you know that?\"\n\n\"An island somewhere, I think. Her skin's dark, and she speaks with an accent.\"\n\n\"I know that.\" She sounded the way Peter sometimes did when Tiller couldn't figure things out. But then she exhaled slowly. \"Tiller, have you ever seen her do strange things?\"\n\n\"You mean magical things?\"\n\nHer face brightened, and she smiled at him, a pretty, friendly smile. \"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. How smart you are.\"\n\n\"I've seen her do that,\" Tiller said, pleased with himself. \"I've\u2014\" He stopped, his cheeks burning. He had been about to say that he had felt her magic, too. That it made the ground hum beneath his feet. But Janna had warned him about telling anyone that, and while Miss Jackson was being nice to him right now, he was smart enough to know it wouldn't last, and then he would be sorry that he had told her. He wondered if he had been wrong to say that Janna did magic. He knew that men and women were still hanged as witches in New England. He didn't think that Miss Jackson wanted to get Janna in trouble, but still he regretted saying as much as he had. \"I've heard that some people do it,\" he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the bar. \"It might not have been Janna. I don't know who it was.\"\n\n\"It's all right, Tiller. She won't mind that you told me. I want her to do magic for me. I'll pay her for it. She'll be glad that we had this little talk.\"\n\nTiller wasn't so sure. But before he could say anything, Johnny emerged from the kitchen with his chowder and bread.\n\n\"You want ale with that?\" Johnny asked.\n\nTiller looked at Miss Jackson.\n\n\"Of course he does,\" she said. She smiled at Tiller again. \"Janna doesn't like me very much, Tiller. Did you know that?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. A lie. Janna didn't like anyone very much. She liked Gil, and she was nice to Tiller, but he had never seen her show any sign of liking other people. And she sometimes said bad things about Miss Jackson. Like that she was a lying snake, and that she couldn't be trusted to care for her own Mama, much less anyone else.\n\n\"Well, she doesn't,\" Miss Jackson went on. \"And so I need your help. I need you to convince her to do a little magic for me. Can you do that?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Tiller said. \"It might not have been Janna.\"\n\n\"Of course. But if it was Janna, what kind of magic did she do? Can you remember that?\"\n\nHe didn't know what to say. None of this had gone the way he wanted.\n\n\"I've heard people say that she does love spells,\" Miss Jackson said, her voice dropping to a whisper. \"Is that what you've seen?\"\n\nTiller stared back at her, too afraid to speak.\n\n\"Do you know how much people pay her for the charms?\"\n\nWhen he still didn't answer, her expression turned hard. \"That's my food sitting in front of you, Tiller. I want answers. Now tell me: Does she do love spells?\"\n\nTiller nodded. \"Yes, ma'am,\" he whispered. \"I don't know how much money she gets for them.\"\n\n\"Do they work?\" Miss Jackson asked, hunger in her eyes and in her voice. \"Is the magic real?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" he said. \"I've ... I've heard people thank her.\"\n\nShe smiled like someone who had just won at cards. \"That's what I needed to know. Thank you, Tiller.\"\n\nJohnny put a cup of ale in front of him.\n\nMiss Jackson stood. \"Make sure he gets whatever he wants,\" she told Johnny. \"He's our guest. You understand?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" Johnny said.\n\n\"You go to the Fat Spider when you're done, Tiller.\" Miss Jackson bent toward him, forcing Tiller to look her in the eye. \"You tell Janna that I'm coming, all right?\"\n\nTiller nodded, taking a spoonful of the chowder, which was very good. \"Yesh, ma'am,\" he said through the food.\n\nShe patted his arm and walked away. Johnny moved to the far end of the bar to talk to the men sitting there. Tiller was left alone. He didn't mind. He ate and he drank, and when he finished, he got up and left the Brazen Head. No one seemed to notice.\n\nHis cart still stood outside the tavern where he had left it, with Crumbs perched on the edge. The bird _cawed_ crossly at Tiller.\n\n\"I didn't forget you,\" Tiller said, taking a piece of fresh bread from his pocket. \"Here you go.\"\n\nCrumbs took the bread and hopped to the far end of the cart. There, he began to tear at his food with his thick black beak.\n\nTiller pushed the cart down Cornhill and onto Marlborough, passing the lofty spire of the Old South Church and the solid brick fa\u00e7ade of the Province House. Soon, the closely packed houses and shops of the South End gave way to more open ground\u2014pastures and fields, country homes and rolling lawns. Still Tiller pushed the cart, sweating now, despite the cold.\n\nThe Fat Spider sat by itself on a lonely stretch of Orange Street on the Boston Neck. It didn't look like much from the outside. It was made of old, graying wood, and it seemed to lean to one side, as if too tired to stand straight. Its shingle roof sagged in the middle, and the sign out front\u2014which showed a fat, smiling spider crawling across its web toward a fly\u2014had been bleached of color by years of rain and snow and sun.\n\nInside, though, it smelled of roasted fowl and fresh bread, pipe smoke and musty ale. Aside from his own room, it smelled more like home than any place Tiller had ever been. A fire burned in the hearth, and spermaceti candles glowed in iron sconces around the great room, casting flickering shadows on the walls.\n\nThere were never many people in the tavern, and today there were fewer than usual\u2014just a pair of old men sitting in the back, talking quietly. Tiller recognized them both; they came here often.\n\nCrumbs flew to his usual perch over the hearth. Tiller went to the bar, his cap in hand. Janna was polishing the ancient wood with a dirty white rag, her back bent, her head tipped to the side.\n\n\"Hi, Janna,\" Tiller said.\n\nJanna didn't look up. \"Afternoon, Tiller. You hungry, darlin'?\"\n\n\"No, I ate.\"\n\nAt that, she stopped and raised her head, her eyes hawklike\u2014dark and fierce. He had seen men twice her size flinch under that gaze. She was small and bone thin, with white hair so short that you could see through it to her brown scalp. Her face was bony, wrinkled, and forbidding, even when she wasn't angry. Tiller had been afraid of her for a long time, but he wasn't anymore, now that he knew her.\n\nJanna had been a slave once when she was a little girl. She had told him that. She and her family had worked on one of the islands. But when she sailed with her master to the colonies, their ship encountered a storm. Everyone was killed except Janna. Tiller didn't know any more. He had heard people say it was a miracle she hadn't been taken by another slave owner. Others said that she had been, but had eventually bought her freedom. Tiller didn't know which was true. He only knew that she and Gil owned the Fat Spider together, and that Janna didn't like to answer questions about her past.\n\n\"Did you sell somethin'?\" she asked Tiller, starting to polish again.\n\n\"I did, but that's not how I got food.\"\n\n\"Who'd you sell to?\"\n\n\"Paul, up in the North End,\" Tiller said.\n\n\"He's a good man. An' where'd you ge' th' food?\"\n\n\"From Miss Jackson.\"\n\nJanna scowled. \"What'd she want?\"\n\nTiller opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again. The more he thought about what had happened back in the Brazen Head, the more he realized that he had done wrong. He didn't know how to tell Janna. Maybe he was still a little bit afraid of her after all.\n\nJanna straightened, resting her hands on her hips. \"Tiller, what'd she want?\"\n\n\"She asked me questions about you,\" he said, speaking to her belly. \"She wanted to know if you could do magic. She wants you to do a spell for her, so she told me to talk to you. She knows you don't like her.\"\n\n\"She's right abou' that last,\" Janna muttered. \"An' she wanted you t' arrange it for her.\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"Mostly she wanted to know if you really did magic. And ... and she asked me to talk to you. I'm sorry, Janna.\"\n\n\"Look at me, Tiller.\"\n\nTiller raised his eyes to hers. His gaze kept sliding away, but each time it did, he forced it back.\n\n\"I ain't angry with you. You didn' do nothin' wrong. You understand me?\"\n\nHe stared back at her, wanting to believe her, but still feeling that he had done a bad thing.\n\n\"Wha' kind of magic she want? She say?\"\n\n\"Love spell, I think,\" Tiller said. \"She's coming here to talk to you.\"\n\n\"Who is coming here?\"\n\nJanna turned. Tiller stayed utterly still. Gil stood in the rear doorway, a cask of wine resting on his shoulder, anchored there by a large, powerful hand.\n\n\"Don' worry about it, Gil,\" Janna said. She started polishing the bar again, but she cast a quick look Tiller's way and gave a small shake of her head.\n\nGil walked behind the bar and put down the cask. He extended a hand to Tiller, as he did whenever they met. Tiller gripped it, watching as Gil's hand appeared to swallow his own.\n\n\"How are you today, my friend?\" Gil asked, his accent more subtle than Janna's, and harder to place. He had the dark curls of a Spaniard, the pale grayish green eyes of a Scotsman, and a black beard and mustache, with long, thin braids hanging from either side of his chin that was unlike anything Tiller had seen on any man.\n\n\"I'm fine, Gil. How are you?\"\n\nThe barman frowned. \"I would be better if I had an answer to the question I asked a moment ago. Someone is coming to my bar, and Janna is unhappy about it. I would like to know why.\"\n\nJanna rolled her eyes. \"Tiller, would you like an ale?\"\n\n\"Yes, all right.\"\n\nShe filled a tankard and handed it to him. \"Why don' you take a seat over there near th' fire.\"\n\nHe did as he was told, knowing why she was sending him away. He sat with his back to the bar and stared into the hearth. But he listened.\n\n\"It's Mary Jackson,\" Janna said, her voice low. \"She sent tha' boy here t' get me t' do magic for her.\"\n\n\"Mary Jackson. She owns a tavern, does she not?\"\n\n\"Th' Brazen Head.\"\n\n\"Do you know what kind of magic she wants?\" Gil asked.\n\n\"Uh huh. She been chasin' tha' merchant o' hers for more than a year now. She wants me t' spell him. Make him see her different, or somethin'.\"\n\n\"So cast your spell, make her pay a lot of money, and send her on her way.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know,\" Janna said. \"But I don' like her usin' Tiller tha' way. He's barely more than a child.\"\n\n\"I'm not a child,\" Tiller said, loud enough for both of them to hear.\n\nHe heard Janna sigh, then heard her walk out from behind the bar.\n\n\"You weren' supposed t' be listenin',\" she said, sitting down across from him, a small smile on her lips.\n\n\"I'm not a child,\" Tiller said.\n\nHer expression sobered. \"I know you're no'. I'm sorry for sayin' that.\"\n\n\"I might not be smart like you and Gil, but I get by all right.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do. Bu' tha' don' give her th' right t' use you as a way of talkin' t' me.\"\n\n\"Maybe I used her,\" Tiller said. \"I'm the one who got free food.\"\n\nJanna stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. \"Well, tha's true enough, isn' it?\" She eyed him a moment longer, shaking her head, a big grin on her face. Then she patted his arm, stood, and walked back to the bar.\n\nTiller sipped his ale, pleased with himself. It wasn't every day that he managed to make Janna laugh like that.\n\nThe feeling didn't last long. A few minutes after Janna left him, the door to the tavern opened, flooding the great room with silver light. Tiller twisted around in his chair and saw that Miss Jackson had come.\n\nShe stood at the entrance to the tavern for a moment, squinting in the dim light. Her gaze passed over Tiller as if he wasn't there and settled on the bar where Janna stood, a scowl on her lean face.\n\n\"There you are, Janna,\" Miss Jackson said, as if she and Janna were old friends. She walked to the bar, pulling off her mitts and unbuttoning her coat. \"What a lovely aroma. What are you cooking?\"\n\n\"Chowder,\" Janna said stiffly.\n\n\"Would you mind spooning me a bowl? I must try it.\"\n\nJanna eyed the woman, her tongue pushing out her cheek. But then she stalked into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with a bowl and spoon, which she placed on the bar. \"Four pence,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" Miss Jackson said. But she didn't pull out her purse. Instead, she took up her spoon and tasted the chowder.\n\n\"Oh, that's very good. Even better than my own. And I grew up eating chowder.\"\n\nJanna frowned, picked up her polishing rag, and started to make her way to the far end of the bar.\n\n\"Hold on there, Janna. I'd like to talk to you about something.\"\n\nJanna stopped and faced her again. \"Yes, Mary, what is it?\"\n\nA cold smile flitted across Miss Jackson's face. She glanced briefly in Tiller's direction. \"There's something else I'd like you to do for me,\" she said, her voice dropping. \"I'll pay whatever you normally charge, but I want it done today.\"\n\n\"Uh huh. And wha' would tha' be?\"\n\n\"I think you know,\" Miss Jackson said, still speaking quietly.\n\nJanna walked back to where Miss Jackson sat. \"No,\" she said.\n\n\"You don't know?\"\n\n\"I won' do it.\"\n\n\"Won't do what?\"\n\n\"I won' be castin' a spell for you. I don' care how much money you have.\"\n\nMiss Jackson glanced around quickly, like she thought that lots of people were listening. Tiller was. But the two old men in the back didn't seem to care what she said.\n\n\"You don't even know what kind of magic I want,\" she told Janna, whispering now.\n\nJanna grinned, her teeth sharp and pale yellow. \"You wan' a love spell. You wan' tha' man you fancy t' leave his missus and come 'roun' t'\u2014\"\n\nMiss Jackson stood abruptly, spilling her chowder onto Janna's bar. \"How dare you!\"\n\n\"I don' like you usin' my friends t' ge' t' me. I don' like you comin' 'roun' my place an' pretendin' you an' me got anythin' in common.\" Janna crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin. \"I don' like you.\"\n\n\"I will not be spoken to in that way! Certainly not by a Negro! I don't hold with slavery, but I believe a lashing would do you some good!\"\n\nJanna laughed. \"My Mama always though' so, too. Turns out she was wrong.\" She started to mop up the spilled chowder. \"I think i's time you were leavin', Mary.\"\n\nMiss Jackson didn't move. \"I need this done.\"\n\n\"You'll have t' find someone else t' do it.\"\n\n\"Ten pounds.\"\n\nTiller's mouth fell open. Ten pounds! He couldn't remember ever seeing that much money.\n\nJanna didn't even look up. \"No.\"\n\n\"Fifteen.\"\n\nJanna picked up the bowl and spoon, and started toward the kitchen. \"Goodbye, Mary.\"\n\nMiss Jackson leaned forward, her hands on the bar. \"There are those in Boston who would be quite alarmed to learn that a witch lives here in the city,\" she said, her whisper sounding harsh, like a spitting cat.\n\nJanna halted.\n\n\"There are clergy\u2014men I know\u2014who would relish the chance to hang a servant of Satan.\"\n\n\"You can' prove anythin'.\"\n\n\"I don't have to. I'm a Christian woman and you're a Negro, a former slave. My word against yours. Be smart, woman. Who do you think people will believe?\"\n\nJanna walked back to the bar and carefully put down the bowl. Gil loomed in the doorway behind her, but he hung back and kept silent.\n\n\"All I want is one spell,\" Miss Jackson said, whispering again. \"Cast it, and you have nothing to fear from me. You can have the money, and you can keep your tavern.\" She surveyed the room, her lip curling. \"Such as it is.\"\n\nJanna took a long, weary breath. \"One spell, you say?\"\n\nMiss Jackson smiled, opening her hands. \"That's all.\"\n\n\"An' otherwise you'll tell everyone tha' I'm a witch.\"\n\n\"You leave me no choice.\"\n\nJanna shrugged. \"My answer is still no.\" Her expression went stony. \"Now get out o' my place.\"\n\nMiss Jackson looked like she had been slapped. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks pale, her mouth open in a small 'o.' At last she drew herself up and said, \"Fine, then! You'll be in prison by nightfall.\"\n\nShe was halfway to the door when a booming voice said, \"Wait!\"\n\nMiss Jackson stopped.\n\n\"I will do this magic you want,\" Gil said, stepping to the bar.\n\n\"Gil, no!\"\n\n\"Forgive Janna,\" Gil said, his gaze never leaving Miss Jackson's face. \"She forgets herself sometimes. Just as she forgets that I do not work for her or follow her commands.\"\n\nMiss Jackson walked slowly back to the bar. \"You can do magic, too?\" she asked quietly.\n\nA sly smile lifted the corners of his mouth. \"I have some skill, yes.\" He tapped the bar with his hand. \"Put your money here, and I will cast for you.\"\n\n\"Gil\u2014\"\n\n\"Get the tablet,\" he said to Janna.\n\nShe shook her head. \"Don' do this. Jus' let her go.\"\n\n\"Get the tablet.\"\n\nTiller had never seen such fear in Janna's eyes. She walked out from behind the bar and over to the hearth. She dragged a chair over, and stood on it so that she could reach a large square slab that hung over the fireplace. Tiller had seen it on the wall before, but had never paid much attention to it. It was similar in color to the bricks used to build Faneuil Hall, and it was covered with strange lines and symbols. Given how Janna cradled it in her thin arms, Tiller guessed that it was heavy.\n\n\"Do you want me to carry that, Janna?\" he asked.\n\nShe merely shook her head and carried it back to the bar.\n\nMiss Jackson had placed several coins on the wood.\n\n\"Good,\" Gil said, when Janna placed the tablet before him. \"Now, fill a cup with ale.\"\n\n\"Gil\u2014\"\n\n\"Ale, Janna.\"\n\nShe filled a cup. Gil reached below the bar and produced a stoppered bottle that could have been just as old as that clay tablet. The glass was clouded and stained, and the cork was as black as pitch. Gil placed the cup of ale on the tablet. Then he unstoppered the bottle and held it over the cup. Muttering to himself, he allowed three drops of clear pink liquid to drop into Miss Jackson's ale.\n\nTiller found that he was on his feet, straining to see what happened when the two liquids mixed. He saw nothing unusual, but he felt that same vibration in the floor that he felt when Janna cast her spells. Only stronger. Much stronger. It was as if the bar was a giant violin, and Gil had just dragged a bow across its strings.\n\n\"What now?\" Miss Jackson asked, sounding a little nervous.\n\n\"Now, you drink,\" Gil said. \"Drink it all. And when you are done, go back to your home, and wait.\"\n\n\"That's it?\"\n\n\"That is it.\"\n\nShe picked up her ale, hesitated for an instant, and then drank. It took her several minutes to finish the cup, and in all that time, no one spoke. When at last she finished, she looked expectantly at Gil.\n\n\"Now he'll come to me?\"\n\n\"I swear that he will,\" Gil said. \"Go home and wait.\"\n\n\"Yes, all right. Thank you.\" Miss Jackson stood, pausing to eye Janna. Tiller thought she might say something, but in the end she merely turned away and hurried from the tavern.\n\n\"What'd you do t' her?\" Janna asked, when the woman was gone.\n\n\"I sent the man to her, just as she wanted.\"\n\nJanna shook her head. \"Tha's no' all you did. There's always more with your magic.\"\n\n\"Tiller,\" Gil said. \"I am going to roast venison tonight. Will you stay and eat with us?\"\n\nTiller beamed. \"Sure I will, Gil. Thank you.\"\n\n\"Good. In the meantime, have another ale.\"\n\nGil walked back to the kitchen, Janna staring after him. After a few seconds she seemed to remember that Tiller was still there.\n\nShe filled a new cup with ale, and brought it to him.\n\n\"Here you go, Tiller,\" she said kindly.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Janna. I shouldn't have said anything to Miss Jackson.\"\n\n\"Don' worry 'bout it,\" she said. \"Gil took care of it.\"\n\nTiller drank that second ale and two more, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the feeling of having his rent in this pocket. As the day wore on, and the sky outside the tavern began to darken, the great room filled with the scent of roasting meat, so that Tiller's mouth watered and his stomach growled.\n\nMore and more people came to the Fat Spider. By the time Gil emerged from the back bearing a huge platter of food, the tavern was as crowded as Tiller had ever seen it. Somehow, men and women from all over Boston knew to come. Maybe the smell of Gil's venison had drifted through the streets. Maybe word of his feast had spread from home to home. Whatever the reason, it was a night unlike any Tiller could remember.\n\nHe ate and he drank until he'd had his fill, and then he had more. Eventually he must have dozed off at his table by the hearth. When he woke, sometime later, most of the people were gone. Gil stood beside his chair, firelight dancing across his features and gleaming in his eyes.\n\n\"I want you to stay here tonight, my friend. It is late for you to be walking home.\"\n\n\"But my cart. And Crumbs.\"\n\n\"They will be fine. You have my word.\" Gil smiled. \"Crumbs has eaten well.\" He draped a blanket over Tiller and pulled over another chair so that Tiller could rest his legs. \"Is there anything at your home that you need?\" Gil asked. \"Anything dear to you, that you must have?\"\n\n\"Just the picture of my Mama and Papa.\"\n\n\"A painting?\" Gil asked.\n\n\"A drawing.\"\n\n\"How big?\"\n\nTiller held his hands a few inches apart. \"Like this.\"\n\nGil nodded. He strode back to the bar and spoke in low tones with Janna. She cast a quick glance Tiller's way, but then nodded, drawing a small knife from a pocket of her dress. Tiller recognized the blade. It was the one Janna used when she drew blood from her arm for a conjuring.\n\nTiller saw her step back into the kitchen. Moments later, he felt another pulse of magic. It was weaker than what he had felt when Gil made Miss Jackson her drink, but still it made the tavern floor hum.\n\nJanna reemerged from the kitchen, stepped out from behind the bar, and walked to Tiller's makeshift bed carrying the portrait.\n\n\"Here you go, darlin',\" she said. \"Sleep well.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Janna,\" Tiller whispered. He studied the drawing, front and back. It was his. He touched his fingers to his lips and then to the image of his parents. \"Goodnight, Mama, Papa.\"\n\nHe propped the picture against the back of the second chair, settled back down, and was soon sleeping once more.\n\nHe woke again several hours later. The tavern smelled strongly of smoke, and he could hear Janna and Gil speaking at the doorway, their voices lowered.\n\n\"What've you done?\" Janna asked him.\n\n\"I have done nothing. I granted her wish. The rest she brought to the casting herself.\"\n\n\"Tha's no'\u2014\"\n\n\"You said it yourself,\" Gil told her. \"Her merchant has a wife. Did she not expect that when the man came to her, the wife would follow? Mary was foolish.\"\n\n\"Bu' your spell\u2014\"\n\n\"Did nothing more or less than I promised it would. Her man came to her. That he did so clumsily, making no attempt to hide his destination.... That is not my fault.\"\n\n\"His wife started th' fire?\"\n\n\"I know nothing for certain.\"\n\n\"Sure you do,\" Janna said, a smile in her voice.\n\n\"If I were to guess, I would say that the fire started upstairs, in Mary's bedchamber. And that many items were thrown in anger, including a candle or two, or perhaps an oil lamp.\"\n\n\"You a dangerous man, Gil.\"\n\nGil said nothing, and when Janna spoke again, she sounded worried.\n\n\"It looks like th' whole city's burnin'.\"\n\n\"It is not. Only a portion of it.\"\n\n\"Still, look at it. Who knows how many're dead?\"\n\n\"I know. None.\"\n\n\"Gil\u2014\"\n\n\"None are dead, Janna. You have my word. You also have my word on this: she will not be back, and she will not threaten you again.\"\n\n\"Gil?\" Tiller called. \"What's happened?\"\n\n\"Go back to sleep, my friend.\"\n\n\"What time is it?\"\n\n\"After midnight, but still several hours before dawn. You should be sleeping.\"\n\nTiller got up from his chair and crossed to the tavern entrance. \"What's happened, Gil?\"\n\nGil didn't answer right away. \"There is a fire.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Near your home. There was a great wind, and it pushed the flames all the way to the water's edge.\"\n\nTiller peered out into the night. Janna was right. It did look like the whole city was ablaze. The sky over Boston glowed a baleful inconstant orange, and dark smoke billowed over the spires and rooftops.\n\n\"I am sorry, Tiller,\" the barman said, looking down at him.\n\n\"That's all right, Gil.\" Tiller sensed that he was pardoning Gil for more than sad tidings. \"Pushed them from where?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Pushed the flames from where to the water?\" But Tiller already knew the answer\n\nGil glanced at Janna, who still stared out toward the city. \"From th' Brazen Head,\" she said quietly. \"Tha's where this started.\"\n\n\"You say that Miss Jackson isn't dead?\" Tiller asked.\n\n\"She is not,\" Gil told him. \"I swear it.\"\n\nTiller nodded. \"Good. She gives me food sometimes.\"\n\n_Historical Note: Early in the morning on March 20, 1760, a fire started at Boston's Brazen Head Tavern, which was owned by Mary Jackson. Driven by powerful winds, the fire consumed three hundred forty-nine buildings and homes, left more than a thousand people homeless, and destroyed more than one hundred thousand pounds worth of property. Miraculously, no one was killed. To this day, the cause of the fire is unknown._\n**LAST CALL**\n\n_Patricia Bray_\n\n**T** HE first time I 'met' him was in a London coffeehouse, though I confess met is perhaps too strong a word for our brief encounter. Indeed I hardly noticed him at all when I stumbled inside, trembling as much from the night's events as from the bitter November cold.\n\nIt was just past dawn, but the coffeehouse was already bustling, the best seats by the fire taken up by a pair of haggling merchants. The serving boy eyed my disheveled appearance with disdain, but a flash of silver inspired him to fetch me a chocolate with due haste.\n\nI took a sip of the dark brew, hoping the sweetness would drown out the taste of my fear, then held the cup between both hands to warm them.\n\nIt was my duty to report to my uncle at once. But I could not let him see me like this\u2014my limbs shaking, fear-sweat soaking through my linens as my gorge rose in disgust. Archibald Harker was the greatest hunter the Order had ever known. While I was merely young George Harker, only son of his wastrel brother. An inconvenience at best, a distracting nuisance on those days he deigned to notice me.\n\nLast night had been my first night with the hunters. I'd been told to join Tom Porter as he kept watch over Madame D'Argent. A simple enough assignment and a chance to prove myself worthy of the Harker name.\n\nIt had all gone wrong from the start. Tom had followed Madame's coachman into a public house, leaving me to watch her residence on my own. But instead of summoning her carriage, Madame had slipped out the servant's entrance. There had been no time to summon Tom. I had followed her on foot, growing deeply uneasy as she ventured into the poorer quarters, where no respectable woman would dare be seen. With each step I knew we had made a terrible mistake. Madame was not waiting for the full moon. Tonight was the night she would feed.\n\nStill I hesitated. Waited. Hoping that Tom or one of the other hunters would find me. In the end it had been too late. Madame had found her prey, a young flower seller, clutching her empty basket in one hand as she made her way homeward.\n\nMadame had struck swiftly, grasping the girl and dragging her into an alleyway, the better to feed undisturbed. She hadn't heard me approach, but my knife in her back had been warning enough. It had taken three blows to kill her, a bloody butchery that succeeded only because of her arrogance. If she'd been a fraction more cautious, I would have become just one more in the long line of victims.\n\nAny triumph I might have felt had faded when the wounded girl crawled out from beneath Madame's corpse. Her eyes were wide with fear and why not? To her I was a crazed murderer.\n\nMy arm was in motion even before I could think. The bloody spray from her severed throat splashed across the alley as she sagged down onto the dirt. The horror of what I had done should have overwhelmed me, but instead I was strangely calm, as if this were a tale that was happening to someone else.\n\nI knelt beside the girl, waiting for the moment when she died. Then I checked Madame, ensuring that no breath of life remained within that treacherous bosom.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" I told the girl's corpse. \"But there is no cure for the lamia's kiss.\"\n\nIt was only after I had left the bodies behind that the fear and self-loathing had struck. If I had killed Madame as soon as I had realized her errand, the girl would still be alive. But I had been weak. I had hesitated, consumed by doubts, where a true hunter would have had no such misgivings.\n\nI took another sip of chocolate, remembering how the girl's golden hair had fanned out around her fallen body, the only shroud she would ever wear. Then I glanced down at the cup, and saw that my fingernails were bloody.\n\nI turned and vomited on the floor.\n\nMoments later I was seized by the back of my waistcoat and hauled unceremoniously to my feet. A great hulking brute dragged me to the entranceway and then heaved me onto the cobblestones outside. As I lay there, blinking, I wondered if it was possible to sink any lower.\n\nThe brute disappeared for a moment and then returned with my pack, which he tossed out beside me. From my position on the ground he appeared godlike, taller than any mortal man, his curly black hair and dark complexion lit by the rising sun. Strangely, there was sympathy rather than contempt in his light green eyes.\n\n\"Next time beer,\" he said.\n\nHe retreated inside, shutting the door behind him. I shook my head to clear my wits, then slowly got to my feet. It was time to face my uncle's wrath.\n\nA decade later I was still known as Young George, though now I had a score of kills to my credit. My uncle still frowned when I came into his presence, but gradually he had given me more and more responsibility, as the ranks of the Order dwindled.\n\nTom Porter was dead, his throat torn out by a vampyr. Quincy Jones might as well be dead\u2014a drooling, bedridden cripple who'd been cursed by a gorgon's dying gaze. Other men had taken their places, but few lasted more than a season. Either the work drove them mad, or they fell victim to one of the many evils we fought.\n\nA secret war, with no medals, no recognition, nothing except the privilege of serving the Order of Sidon. For centuries the members of the Order had labored in secret, driven underground by papal persecution and a world indifferent to the evils that walked in our very midst.\n\nIt was tempting to wonder what would happen if we shrugged off the cloak of secrecy. Would governments give us soldiers to help root out the evils that lurked within their borders? Could men of science find new ways to destroy these monsters, rather than the painstaking rituals passed down from the first knights? How many men would be sacrificed before the great Archibald Harker deigned to ask for aid?\n\nIn my mind I heard my uncle's voice. \"You reason as a child,\" he would say, as he had said countless times before. \"The world is not so simple. For every dozen that would fight these monsters there is at least one Judas who would swear allegiance, and that is a risk we dare not take.\"\n\nTwelve to one odds sounded fair to me, but I was merely a hunter. And my uncle's point about the traitors within mankind's midst was well taken, as my presence in Paris attested. At least two members of the infamous Monks of Medmenham had fled to Paris, bringing their sacrilegious rites with them. The villains\u2014not content with dressing up orgies as Bacchanalian ceremonies\u2014had plunged further and further into the dark arts until at last they'd summoned up a demon. Henri Brun, the head of the Order in Paris, had sent for help, and I'd been dispatched to assist him.\n\nWe'd tracked down and destroyed the demon, then dealt justice to those who had summoned him. But by then my interest had been piqued by the work of Doctor Mesmer, who had taken Paris by storm.\n\nMesmer claimed to have discovered an essential life force, that he called animal magnetism. I had read his papers and after attending a lecture by one of his colleagues I'd emerged wondering if he had indeed discovered proof of the living soul within us. Many demons fed upon humans, some on blood, but others drained their victims without leaving a single mark. Could they be feeding on this force? And if so, was it possible that we could understand it? Could we find a way to prevent demons from feeding, or perhaps even create a weapon that could be turned against them?\n\nIf Mesmer were not such a public figure, the Order would have approached him long ago. Instead we'd been reduced to indirect overtures, carefully interviewing his associates and gathering as much information as possible before making contact.\n\nI'd spent weeks trying to get an appointment with Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, a distinguished member of the Faculty of Medicine, recently appointed to the royal commission investigating Mesmer's claims. Doctor Guillotin was far too important to waste his time on an Englishman with neither rank nor fortune to recommend him, but finally he'd agreed to a brief meeting. He'd chosen the place, a popular caf\u00e9 near the opera houses.\n\nIn the street outside, brightly-dressed jades plied their trade, but the caf\u00e9 was surprisingly civilized. Giving my name to the attendant at the door, I made my way to one of the small tables inside.\n\nA few moments later a serving woman came over. \" _Une bi\u00e8re pour vous?_ \" she inquired, apparently having recognized me as English by the cut of my coat.\n\nIt was surely ignorance rather than an insult, for she had no means of knowing that only uncouth laborers drank beer in the evenings.\n\n\" _Vin pour deux, s'il vous plait,_ \" I replied. \" _Un bien port_.\"\n\nShe returned a few moments later with a carafe of port and two glasses. I poured one for myself as the clock chimed the seventh hour.\n\nAround me voices chattered away, speaking too swiftly for me to understand. But the tone was familiar even if the words were not, as the inhabitants argued, gossiped and recounted the news of the day. Looking at the dandies dressed for an evening of leisure, I could not help wondering if one of their number would fall prey to evil's dark lure. Perhaps the next would-be sorcerer was right before me. There, that man with the wine-flushed face and sober black coat. Was he simply unfashionable? Or had he chosen the color black as a sign of his evil intentions, even now fancying himself in allegiance with Satan?\n\nI swiftly downed the glass of wine and poured myself another, disturbed by the fancies which crowded my brain. I had been away from home for too long, and saw evil everywhere.\n\nThe memories of that cellar, and the corpses Brun and I had discovered, still haunted me. Bones jumbled together; men, women, children, even animal bones mixed in as if there were no difference between them. We'd been reduced to counting skulls to try and guess the number of victims.\n\nThe irony was that the demon had been responsible for only a handful of deaths. The others had been murdered by ordinary men, as part of their profane rituals.\n\nA second glass followed the first, as the quarter hours chimed past, and still there was no sign of Doctor Guillotin. When the carafe was finished, the servant fetched me another.\n\nIt was nearly nine o'clock when Doctor Guillotin arrived, full of apologies for his delay. Fortunately his English was quite good, so I did not have to search my wine-soaked wits for what few scraps of French remained.\n\nI introduced myself as an instructor from King's College in London, who had been sent to inquire into Doctor Mesmer's methods. Explaining that I was a surgeon by training, I was eager to seek out advice from such an esteemed physician as Doctor Guillotin. Indeed I was as well trained as any English surgeon, having been taught by the Order how to wield a knife to both heal and harm. Guillotin, like most physicians, regarded surgeons as little more than butchers, but he seemed pleased that I recognized my limitations.\n\n\"The report must be reviewed by the committee and then presented to the king, of course,\" he said.\n\n\"Of course,\" I agreed. \"But surely you must know enough by now to advise me. Is it worth the time and expense to learn Mesmer's methods and then teach them to others? Or is he deluded as some claim?\"\n\n\"Mesmer is a fraud,\" Guillotin said, without the slightest hesitation. \"A fraud of the worst sort, one who preys upon the desperate for his own enrichment.\"\n\nHe took a sip of his wine, while I took a gulp of my own.\n\n\"Evil,\" I said.\n\nGuillotin frowned as he considered my remark. \"I would not have used that word, but there is some truth in it. By convincing his patients to turn away from proper scientific treatments, he is prolonging their misery, perhaps even condemning them to madness or death. Such a man has to be stopped.\"\n\nFor a Frenchman, Guillotin was surprisingly insightful. Then again, he had been born in England.\n\n\"If you stop one evil, another springs up,\" I explained. I leaned forward, pressing both hands against the marble tabletop, which had developed an alarming tendency to wobble. Or perhaps that was me. \"The only solution is to cut off its head.\"\n\nGuillotin drew back. \"Cut off its head?\"\n\nI nodded emphatically, then drew my right hand across my throat. \"A single blow.\"\n\nI thought back to my first kill. My first strike on the lamia would have been a fatal blow to a human, but it had barely slowed her down. It had been luck, not skill, that had enabled me to stay alive long enough to strike the killing blow.\n\n\"The trick is to find the monsters among us. Then death should be swift.\"\n\n\"Your English justice is not as ours,\" Guillotin said. \"But even the condemned should not suffer from barbarism.\"\n\nI blinked, having lost the thread of the conversation. Was he referring to Medmenham's victims? Or to something else?\n\nDoctor Guillotin rose to his feet. \"I have an engagement elsewhere,\" he explained. \"I hope my information has been useful.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" I said, standing up in a show of gentlemanly good manners. \"I must thank you again for the courtesy of your time.\"\n\nThe crowded room began to blur, and I blinked my watering eyes to clear them. I caught a glimpse of a figure behind the bar\u2014a tall, broad-shouldered man, with curly dark hair. His eyes met mine, and for a moment I thought I knew him.\n\nSomeone bumped into me from behind, and when I looked back at the bar, the man was gone.\n\nShrugging, I left the caf\u00e9 and returned to my lodgings. I had lost my taste for foreign mysteries\u2014let the French tend to their own affairs. Guillotin's evaluation of Mesmer matched the conclusions I had drawn from my own investigations. My word alone would not have been enough to convince the Order, but Guillotin's reputation was impeccable.\n\nI spent the next few years in Scotland, dealing with a coven of hags and the nightstalkers they had unleashed. I'd completely forgotten about Guillotin and that night in the caf\u00e9, until news came from France of his terrible invention.\n\n_Cut off their heads,_ I'd suggested and indeed he'd found a way to do just that. But it was of no use to me, since unlike the ill-fated aristocrats, vampyrs couldn't be convinced to walk calmly to their doom.\n\nDecades passed. I took an apprentice. When he was killed, I took another. Mere survival was enough to earn me a seat on the council. Later, when my uncle died of apoplexy, no one was more shocked than I to discover that he'd named me his heir.\n\nThese days the London branch of the Order consisted of men that I'd trained myself, or who had been apprenticed to one of those that I'd trained. When someone referred to The Harker, it was me that they spoke of. Which was better than my other nickname, The Old Man.\n\nI was past sixty now, a ripe old age for any man, for all I looked barely thirty. There were days when I hated the figure that my mirror revealed, hated the unlined skin that showed no signs of what I had endured.\n\nMy wife Mary had died in childbirth decades before, and there were none left in the Order who remembered her. None to recollect the babe who had been sent to the countryside to be raised by distant cousins. The child\u2014or rather man, for surely so he must be\u2014had no notion of what it meant to bear the Harker name. It was the one gift I could give him.\n\nAs the years passed and my body refused to age, I withdrew more and more from the world. Members of the Order accepted what the rest of society would not. The burdens of leadership were heavy, and it was only now that I finally understood my uncle. Like him, I was obsessed with both preserving the Order, and ensuring that I found a fitting successor who could take my place.\n\nSamuel Forsythe seemed a likely enough lad. Though lad was perhaps not quite the term, since a stranger seeing us together would presume him the elder. I had left Forsythe in charge in London, while I visited the European outposts of the Order, doing my best to renew ties that had been severed by decades of conflict.\n\nSome of the outposts had been welcoming, others less so, wary that I would use England's recent military triumphs as an excuse for seizing control. When they discovered I had no intention of trying to exert my will, they'd gradually warmed to me. Not enough to share all of their information, of course. But enough to promise cooperation, and to share those bits that they deemed safe.\n\nIt would take years to rebuild the network of alliances, and I knew I wasn't the man for the task. It was all I could do to force myself out of bed each morning. It had been a relief to leave the chapter house in Geneva behind, and to fall back into the guise of an indolent traveler.\n\nWhen a chill spring rain started falling, I stopped at the first likely inn, rather than pressing on. I was tired, with a weariness that had sunk into my very bones. I'd seen too much, lost too many good friends, and the prospect of enduring endless decades of the same inspired only dull apathy rather than the righteous fervor I had once commanded.\n\nYet neither could I leave the fight, not while I still had breath in my body.\n\nMy host, who spoke French with a German accent, showed me to my quarters, a small room tucked under the eaves. He apologized, explaining that his finer rooms had been bespoken by a party of English travelers. I'd observed them in the courtyard when I'd arrived. There were two ladies accompanied by a solitary gentleman. One of the ladies was clearly with child, but it was the other that the gentleman referred to as his wife, as he asked for rooms in halting German.\n\nIn my younger days I would have gone over at once and introduced myself, marveling over the coincidence of discovering fellow Englishmen in a tiny Swiss village. But today I'd lingered off to the side, content to wait as the innkeeper attended to them, knowing that my Italian-made cloak and Prussian cavalry-style boots marked me as a Continental.\n\nThe inn's tiny common room was empty, consisting of one large table, and a smaller one next to the serving station. I rapped sharply on the door that appeared to lead to the kitchen, then sat down at the small table.\n\nA few minutes passed, and I was about to help myself to the wine I could see behind the counter when the door swung open. The man who entered was so tall he had to duck as he came through the door. When he straightened up, I knew him at once.\n\n\"You!\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Are you ready for that beer?\" he asked, as if it had been forty minutes since we last spoke, not forty years.\n\n\"Wine, the Rhenish will do,\" I said, pointing to the bottle that had caught my eye.\n\nHe took down the bottle and poured me a glass. After a moment's consideration he poured a second for himself, then came over. Setting the bottle on the table between us, he took a seat.\n\nHe was still a big man, though not the giant of my youthful recollections. But his appearance was unchanged, as if the years had no power to touch him.\n\n\"To long life,\" he said, raising his glass in toast.\n\nHabit had me lifting my glass automatically before I realized what he had said. \"Life,\" I repeated, feeling my lips twist in a wry grin.\n\nWe each drained our glasses.\n\nI eyed him warily, still not quite sure what to make of him. Unnaturally long life was often the sign of a pact with the devil, but I'd never yet met such a one who retained a sense of humor.\n\n\"You look well for a man of your age,\" I said.\n\n\"I could say the same for you,\" he replied. He spoke excellent English, but no one looking at him would mistake him for an Englishman.\n\nFive years ago I would have pestered him with questions.\n\nTen years ago I would have made a strategic retreat, gathering allies so I could launch an investigation.\n\nThirty years ago I would have tried to kill him.\n\nHe poured another glass and we drank in silence. After a few moments he rose, making his way back into the kitchen, then returning with a plate of brown bread and goat cheese.\n\nWe sat in companionable silence as the rain pounded against the shutters, sipping the pale Rhenish wine.\n\nBy my fourth glass I found my voice again.\n\n\"Unicorn vomit,\" I said.\n\nHe raised both eyebrows, great hairy monstrosities that briefly distracted me from my tale.\n\n\"Slipped, fell, and some must have landed in my mouth. Nasty stuff.\" I shuddered in remembrance.\n\nMy ribs broken, my hands burning from the hag's final spell, I'd nonetheless labored to free the unicorn from her trap. Then, after vomiting out the hag's poison, the damned beast had trotted off without so much as a backward look. Ungrateful buggers. It was no wonder that the royal herd at Balmoral was the last in the land. No one else would bother to care for such fickle creatures.\n\n\"You?\" I asked.\n\n\"A curse.\"\n\nPoor bastard. Most men thought of eternal life as a gift, but he had the right of it. It was a curse.\n\n\"I have seen much in my days. As have you,\" he said.\n\nWe traded improbable stories. Guillaume claimed to have seen the great fire that destroyed London. I told him of hunting the dancing apemen\u2014humans who went mad as their bodies were transformed into beasts.\n\nHe topped that with an improbable story of the night a god and an emperor had strolled into his tavern.\n\nThe party of English travelers arrived for their dinner. The innkeeper summoned Guillaume to service, but one glare from Guillaume was enough to send the innkeeper scurrying to fetch his own dishes.\n\nI sensed Guillaume would no longer be employed come morning.\n\nOur dinner consisted of sausages fried with potatoes, again fetched by Guillaume. From what I could see, the English party was enjoying less common fare, not that I had any complaints.\n\nAs the sun had set, our stories grew darker.\n\n\"It's not the grave robbers you have to worry about,\" I explained, picking up the threads of an earlier tale. \"The men who dig up corpses for medical students are simply greedy. Even those who are said to hasten the sick along their way\u2014in order to provide the freshest of corpses\u2014they are merely amoral. No, it's the ones who buy the corpses that you should fear.\"\n\n\"And why is that?\" he asked.\n\n\"Because at least some of them are resurrectionists. They aren't studying anatomy, they are trying to create life.\"\n\nI noticed that one of the women had moved her chair closer to us, so she could eavesdrop on our tales. It was the dark-haired woman, who had been introduced as Frau Shelley.\n\n\"They take bits from this corpse and bits from that, then sew them together. Trying to create an automaton\u2014a creature without a soul, slave to their wishes. The very worst kind of abomination.\"\n\nThe woman's gasp of horror was everything I'd been expecting. Her husband looked up, noticing her defection, and loudly declared that it was time for them to retire.\n\nI'd crossed a line tonight. I'd exposed the secrets of the Order to a stranger, recounted tales that had never been meant for outsiders to hear. No matter that Frau Shelley would dismiss what she'd heard as the fanciful imaginings of a drunkard. It was enough that I knew what I had done.\n\nWorse yet, I did not care.\n\nAs silence fell over the common room, Guillaume regarded me for a long moment. At last, he nodded.\n\n\"Are you ready for that beer?\" he asked.\n\nI thought about the years behind me. The horrors that kept me awake at nights. The endless regrets, for each victim I had failed to save.\n\nI thought of enduring this way for decades. Centuries. Waging a war that could never be won, could only be endured.\n\nForsythe was ready to lead. There'd be no one to miss me. Not really. The Old Man would join the ranks of heroes\u2014legends meant to inspire those too na\u00efve to realize the cost of their service. Better a dead legend than a living relic who would infect them with my own bitter despair.\n\nI watched as Guillaume pulled a dusty jug out from under the counter and filled a pewter tankard. Even from here I could feel the waves of magic that rolled off it.\n\nI wondered if this was his true curse\u2014that he could bring ease to others but never to himself.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"I am ready.\"\n**THE ALCHEMY OF ALCOHOL**\n\n_Seanan McGuire_\n\n_San Francisco, California, 1899_\n\n**A** faint tracery of the evening light managed to bleed in through the bar's windows, tinting the air the color of good Barbados rum. It had started as light rum, trending into golden as the sun continued its descent. Now it was turning a dark-rum-red, which meant true night couldn't be far behind. \"Andy, go ahead and turn the gas up. Just a quarter inch, mind, and no more.\"\n\nThere's an art to properly lighting a drinking establishment\u2014an art that's dying fast in this vulgar age of electric lights and cheap gas. Too dark and no one sees what they're drinking; too bright, and everyone sees what they're drinking. Neither direction is good for business. A successful bar needs to balance mystery with secrecy, true class with shabby gentility and, most of all, obscurity with discretion. People need to feel confident that they can drink in peace, without concern that they'll be intercepted while conducting whatever assignations they can't expose to more direct light. That's why, in my bar, the windows are always covered with a carefully maintained mixture of dust, soot, and coal powder, the gas is never opened past a certain mark, and there are no electric lights outside the living spaces above and the workroom below. Perhaps the time for places like mine is ending, but until it does, the lights will stay low, the windows will stay opaque, and the house whiskey will stay cheap.\n\nI generally ask Gil to adjust the lighting, when I can't take the time to do it myself. He has delicate hands for such a large gentleman. Sadly, I'd spent the night occupied with my studies, and he'd been forced to work the early shift behind the bar, despite having closed three nights in a row. Gil was asleep upstairs, and likely to remain so unless the building actually caught fire. That left the task to Andy, who was never the best choice for anything requiring fine attention to detail.\n\nThe few drinkers who'd arrived before sunset grumbled as Andy adjusted the lights, but subsided back into their cups once it became clear that things wouldn't be getting any brighter than they'd been before. I nodded approvingly in his direction, and went back to polishing the bar. She's a grand old girl, pure ash wood from England, older than me by a hundred years and likely to outlive me by at least a hundred more.\n\nI was topping off a pint for one of the regulars when the door swung open, the sound familiar enough to attract no more than a flicker of interest. Whoever it was would either find a seat and wait for service or come over to demand it. Either way, I'd ruin the foam if I didn't finish the pull before letting myself get distracted.\n\nThe sound of shattering glass was more than sufficient to distract me. Old Tom, sensing that his beer was about to move beyond his reach forever, broke a cardinal rule of bar etiquette and leaned across the bar to snatch the pint from my hand. I scarcely noticed. I was already turning toward the sound, shoulders rigid with fury. Realizing that I might need a weapon, I grabbed a bottle from the back of the bar, brandishing it.\n\nThe man responsible for sweeping half a dozen glasses and a quarter-bottle of good scotch to the floor stared at me. I returned the favor, though he only held my attention for a moment, I must admit.\n\nIn my defense, the corpse was entirely unexpected.\n\nI have been working in bars and public houses since I was sixteen, when my father got me a job as a waitress in the bar he tended. In that not-inconsiderable length of time, I've seen all manner of things displayed on bars. Gold doubloons from pirate treasure, rare artifacts from South America, rattlesnake skins, and\u2014on one noteworthy occasion\u2014a ship's cat and her litter of kittens. I kept one of the kittens, and she's done an excellent job at keeping the mice from the storeroom ever since. I did not think the dead woman was likely to perform the same service. Nor would I be inclined to keep her.\n\nFixing the corpse-bearer with a stern eye, I folded my arms\u2014the gesture somewhat complicated by the bottle\u2014and demanded, \"What, sir, do you think you're doing? This is a public house, not a funeral parlor.\" As an afterthought, I added, \"And you'll be paying for those glasses.\"\n\n\"I'm terribly sorry, miss, but this is an emergency.\" He straightened as he spoke, and I realized for the first time how distressingly attractive he was. His hair was the color of ripe wheat, and his skin was a deep tan entirely at odds with the cut of his coat, which bespoke a man who'd never done a day's labor in his life. Gentlemen are a rare sight in my establishment. Gentlemen carrying corpses were an entirely new experience. \"I'd heard that this bar\u2014ah.\" He glanced around at the regulars, all of whom were ignoring the dead body in favor of their drinks, and at Andy, who was openly gawking. Then he lowered his voice, and said, \"I'd heard that the owner was an alchemist. Please, can you fetch him for me? I can pay quite well for his time.\"\n\n\"First you can pay for the glasses,\" I countered. \"After that, you can get the body off my bar, and perhaps I'll let you start explaining why you brought it here.\"\n\n\"I\u2014what?\"\n\nI put down the bottle and thrust my hand in his direction, palm upward. \"I'm Mina Norton. This is my bar, hence the name of 'Norton's.' Now, sir, if you would like to depart here with both your bodies intact, you will pay me, and then explain yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" He fumbled for his purse. \"I didn't think you'd be so. . . .\"\n\n\"Female?\"\n\n\"Accessible.\" A large wad of bills was slapped into my palm. _That_ attracted the attention of several regulars, who could've heard a coin clink half a mile away. I glared until they went back to their beers. Meanwhile, the blond gentleman was looking at me anxiously. \"My name is James. James Holly. This is my wife, Margaret.\"\n\n\"I see. I would claim that it's a pleasure to meet the pair of you, but as she is dead and you have placed her on my bar, that is somewhat difficult. Did you require aid in preparing her for burial?\" I allowed my attention to return to the body. Her attire was as fine as his, although I couldn't imagine any living woman allowing herself to be corseted so tightly. \"I can see why you wouldn't want the undertaker to work any further. I have cosmetics that can easily cover the damage he's done.\" The tradition of painting bodies before burial has always struck me as ghoulish, and I'd rarely seen it taken to such an extreme. The poor girl's skin was paper-white, and her lips were the color of blood. That might not have been so bad if she'd been blonde, but her hair was black as coal. It was like having a dead fairy-tale princess decaying gently in my place of work.\n\n\"What? No!\" James put a hand protectively on the dead woman's shoulder. \"I'm not here so you can prepare her for burial.\"\n\n\"What, then?\"\n\n\"I'm here so you can wake her up.\"\n\nAfter convincing Andy to take over for me\u2014not the easiest task, given that I employ him for his willingness to follow instructions, not his ability to think for himself\u2014I waved James into the back storeroom. The question of what to do with his dead wife was easily resolved: he picked her up like she was made of cotton and swan's-down, carrying her easily as he followed me. The door swung shut behind us, sealing us away from prying eyes.\n\n\"You can put her on Andy's cot. He won't mind.\" I stepped out of the way, watching the dead woman for signs of life. There weren't any. The alchemist's art doesn't require quite as many anatomical samples as, say, necromancy, but I still pride myself on being able to tell the dead from the living. Margaret was definitely among the former. \"Now, sir, I'm not sure where you learned of my craft, but I'm afraid I must disappoint you. Alchemy is the art of transfiguration and transformation. This does not give me the capacity to transform the dead into the living.\"\n\n\"That's where you're incorrect.\"\n\n\"I am reasonably sure that I know my own business better than you, sir.\"\n\n\"Not that. You come very highly recommended\u2014although by one who, I admit, failed to identify your gender, probably because he was having a bit of amusement at my expense.\"\n\n\"Then what?\"\n\n\"Margaret isn't dead.\"\n\nI eyed the body. \"I beg to differ.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose technically, she's dead right _now_. But she isn't always.\"\n\n\"Most of us start as the living. It's a natural part of the human condition.\"\n\nJames rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. \"I really am _terrible_ at this part. All right: Margaret is dead right now, but she won't be dead in another three weeks or so. It's just that I need her to be awake _now_ , as we're being pursued by some rather unpleasant people who want to have her buried before then.\"\n\n\"I see,\" I said, slowly. \"You're insane.\"\n\n\"No. I'm the Summer King.\"\n\nI stared at him. He nodded encouragingly. \"Oh, _bollocks_.\"\n\n\"Funny.\" James smiled a little. \"That's what Margaret said the first time I told her.\"\n\n\"And she would be ... ?\"\n\n\"The Winter Queen.\"\n\nI bit my tongue and counted to ten before allowing myself to answer. It wouldn't have been productive to say the first things that came to mind, which began with \"get out\" and promptly devolved into language even an alchemist wasn't expected to be familiar with. Finally, I said, \"Absolutely, how silly of me not to have seen it before. Can you wait here for just a moment?\"\n\nJames eyed me suspiciously, smile fading. \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"To get the rum. This is not something I am prepared to deal with while sober.\"\n\nThe tedious thing about magic is the way it insists on existing. There's far more of it than the world's assortment of magicians, alchemists, shamans, and sorcerers could ever make use of, and so it gads about manifesting in inconvenient places. Some people\u2014like my father and myself\u2014can learn to use magic. Others simply _are_ magic, existing according to rules outside the normal boundaries of the human condition.\n\nThis includes the seasonal monarchs, once ordinary men and women who somehow, through luck, effort, or coincidence, have been chosen to live as the physical incarnations of the seasons. One human standing for Summer, one for Winter. They can live for centuries if they hold onto their thrones, and their presence prevents the seasons from getting out of balance. The world needs them to keep turning. They provide stability to an unstable system. I would have been perfectly happy to live a long and prosperous life without encountering either of them, much less both at the same time.\n\n\"And whoever heard of a Summer _King_ , anyway?\" I muttered, as I stalked behind a startled-looking Andy to grab a bottle of the best spiced rum in the house. As an afterthought, I also grabbed a glass. \"Don't they know it's supposed to be a Summer _Queen?_ \"\n\n\"Ma'am?\" said Andy.\n\nI stopped. Upsetting Andy isn't nice. He's a little slow.\n\nNot stupid\u2014slow. Understandable, given that I crafted him from some particularly nice boulders I found beneath the Golden Gate. He does his job well, providing Gil and I don't change his instructions too quickly, and don't mind when sweeping the floor takes all day. \"Don't worry, I have everything well under control. You're going to be minding the bar for a while yet. Don't let anyone into the back unless you hear screaming, all right?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" said Andy, nodding contentedly as he returned to wiping down the already spotless bar. Golems are easy to please. That's the nicest thing about them.\n\nIn the storeroom, James had taken a seat on the edge of the cot, holding Margaret's hand in his. Now that I was looking at him properly, it was easy to see the veracity of his claim. Fair-haired gentlemen are common enough, but how many of them actually brighten a room with the faint glow coming off their person? His eyes were the color of a midsummer sky, which seemed to me to verge ever so slightly into the kingdom of \"simply too much.\" It even felt as if the temperature had gone up a few degrees since I left to get the rum. I fixed him with a stern eye.\n\n\"Are you bringing summer to my storeroom? I have things in here that shouldn't be heated.\"\n\nJames had the good grace to look faintly abashed. \"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Norton. I can't help it. If it helps at all, we're near enough to harvest that I probably won't make flowers start growing from the floorboards.\"\n\n\"How your housekeeper must adore you.\" I uncorked the rum, pouring three fingers into my glass. \"Now, then. If your\u2014let's call it 'indisposed'\u2014wife is meant to wake up in three weeks, why are you here now? Can't you simply be patient for a little while longer?\"\n\n\"It's not impatience that brought us to your door. Margaret and I are quite accustomed to our ... arrangement. It's quite soothing, actually, having a spouse who's dead for three months out of the year. Gives you time to remember why you married in the first place.\"\n\nI elected not to think overly much about the implications of his statement. It seemed safer all the way around. \"So what, then?\"\n\n\"It's Margaret's sister, Jane. She wants to take the Winter. If she can have Margaret interred before the harvest starts the turn of seasons, then she can step up to the throne, and ascend to Winter Queen. At which point I'm in rather a lot of trouble, as Jane's husband is a huge, strapping brute, and would simply subdue me until Winter's ascension renders me powerless.\"\n\n\"I suppose this would be followed by his claiming Summer.\"\n\n\"Precisely.\" James gave me an earnest look. \"Please, Miss Norton. I've endeavored to be a good Summer King, and a good husband. I wish neither to be deposed, nor for my wife to truly die.\"\n\nI sighed before draining my rum glass in one long swallow. It didn't help much, but it made me feel a little better. \"Oh, all right. Bring her along.\"\n\n\"Where are we going?\" he asked, as he hastened to comply.\n\n\"My workroom in the basement. If I'm going to wake the dead, I'd rather not do it where it can frighten the paying customers.\"\n\nThere are those who insist that maintaining a business above a large hole in the earth in San Francisco is foolhardy, given the region's propensity for earthquakes. I subscribe to the school of thought which says \"earthquakes are rare, explosions, less so.\" Through tempering and tampering, I had rendered the stone basement walls all but indestructible, which muffled the sound of any accidents I might have. The seals and sigils chiseled into the floor and ceiling blocked the room from almost all forms of magical viewing; useful, given some of the treasures it contained.\n\nThree of the four walls were lined with shelves packed with alchemical ingredients and bottles of rare liquor\u2014and if you don't consider well-aged scotch a treasure, you're a heathen and a fool. The fourth wall was taken up almost entirely by the twin of the upstairs bar. It was backed with a silver mirror, and held books instead of bottles. Some of those volumes were older than any tongue still spoken on the Earth. Most were alchemical in nature. Others dealt with the arcane art of bartending. They served as a personal library, and as excellent camouflage for the pride of my collection: the sacred tablet of Ninkasi, containing the original recipe for brewing beer.\n\n\"Put her on the bar,\" I said, as I lit the lamps. \"Without destruction of property this time, if you would be so kind.\"\n\nJames moved to do as I instructed, positioning her in apparently perfect repose. The effect was eerie, especially with the mirror gleaming behind her.\n\n\"Snow White is not a good look for anyone,\" I muttered, and began taking bottles down from the shelf. \"I must warn you, I've never attempted anything like this before. I can be reasonably sure I won't kill her, but I can't guarantee results.\"\n\n\"I understand, and will pay you for your time regardless.\"\n\n\"Mmm. I might like you after all.\" I walked over to place the bottles I'd selected on the bar next to Margaret. \"Quiet, please.\"\n\nJames nodded, and went silent.\n\nMixing a potion and mixing a drink are more similar than most people would think. Both require a steady hand, a firm understanding of the ingredients, and a good idea of the desired result. Just now, this was the early resurrection of the human embodiment of winter. Not as easy as pulling a pint of ale, perhaps, but a good sight simpler than turning lead into gold and getting it to _stay_ that way.\n\nI didn't dare use mistletoe or quicksilver, for all that they were very \"wintery\" ingredients; Winter Queen or not, I had to work on the assumption that Margaret was still essentially human, and would look poorly on being poisoned. Bearing that in mind, I began with gin, for juniper berries and the smell of pine forests. The lady's looks influenced my next ingredient: applejack, the fruit of Snow White's downfall and a hundred harvest fairs. The resulting liquid was clear and slightly golden. I added a shot of pomegranate molasses, for Persephone's folly, which brought about the winter to begin with. \"This wants ice,\" I said, and dropped a slice of crystallized ginger into the liquid, to add the bitter bite of winter. \"Sit her up.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" James boosted Margaret into a sitting position, leaning her against him like a full-sized rag doll.\n\n\"Either the best drink I ever mixed, or a waste of some excellent alcohol. We'll know in a moment.\" I uncorked the last bottle, adding a single shot\u2014and with it, the ice. As soon as the liquids met, frost began to form, spreading up the sides of the glass to sting my hand. I gave the concoction a single stir with a silver spoon from my workbench, more for show than anything else, and offered it to James. \"Here. Give her this.\"\n\nHe looked at the icy glass warily. \"What's in it?\"\n\n\"Gin, applejack, pomegranate molasses, ginger, and a shot of liquid midnight, captured on the coastline on winter solstice. If that isn't enough to bring her around, I can't help you.\"\n\n\"How did you bottle midnight?\" James took the glass from my hand, the frost melting instantly where his fingers touched. Stirring had turned the drink from clear amber with dark red at the bottom to an overall autumnleaf red. It smelled like snowfall, and like secrets.\n\n\"Trade secret.\"\n\n\"I see. Thank you, whatever the results.\" James inclined his head solemnly toward me, and raised the glass to Margaret's lips. It was disturbingly like watching a child playing tea party, offering drinks to stuffed rabbits and favored dolls.\n\nThen the dead woman raised a pale, trembling hand, folding it over his, and began to drink on her own.\n\nHer first sips were tentative ones, still mostly asleep and acting only on instinct. Then she started drinking in earnest, back straightening, head coming up as she started to support her own weight. James released the glass, and she held it on her own, still drinking. The light coming off him was getting brighter as relief overwhelmed his ability to damp down his connection to the summertime. It failed to make a bit of difference in the overall illumination, because even as the light began to pour off of him, the dark began to radiate from her. It wasn't true darkness, not exactly\u2014I could see her as well as I ever could\u2014but it was the opposite of light, all the same.\n\nIce clinked against her teeth as she upended the glass, emptying the last of its contents into her mouth. The sides were coated entirely with frost now, although the places James had touched seemed to have acquired a somewhat thinner coating. She swallowed. She took a breath. And the Winter Queen opened her eyes.\n\nThey were the color of deep glacial ice, so dark a blue they were almost physically painful to look at. She frowned in obvious bewilderment, turning her head as she made a slow study of the room, which became a slow study of my person. I flushed red, burying my hands in my apron and resisting the urge to curtsy. James alone had been odd, but not so odd as to warp the world around him. The two of them together, and her all out of season. . . .\n\nThis was not the way the world was meant to be. And it was, without a doubt, my fault.\n\nFinally, Margaret turned to her husband, and said, \"It's August. This is August.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is,\" James agreed, glowing even brighter. \"You have no idea how glad I am to see you awake. Can you stand?\"\n\n\"That's beside the point. It's _August_.\" She shook her head, bewilderment still plain. \"I can't be awake yet. The harvest horns haven't sounded. I'm supposed to be waiting for the winter. Why am I awake?\"\n\n\"That would be my doing,\" I said. I promptly regretted it, as they both turned to look in my direction. A good alchemist is ready to defend his\u2014or her\u2014work against an uncomprehending world, and so I cleared my throat, and said, \"I mixed a tincture at your husband's request. It appears to have worked. I may write a paper. Although I can't imagine it to have terribly wide uses\u2014\"\n\n\"Miss Norton is an alchemist,\" James said. \"I asked her to wake you because Jane and Stuart are back, and this time they've set the authorities on us. Reported me for improper storage of a corpse in a residential neighborhood\u2014and implied that I was using it for things which were, ah, even more improper. The police were preparing to arrest me if I didn't agree to your removal.\"\n\nMargaret coughed into her hand. \"Are you saying that my sister was going to have you arrested for necrophilia?\"\n\n\"Ah, the modern world,\" I said, sotto voice.\n\nThey ignored me, which was probably for the best. \"That's the gist of it,\" said James.\n\nMargaret sighed. \"I really don't think you're equipped to spend your summers unsupervised.\"\n\n\"Which reminds me,\" I said, louder this time. The seasonal monarchs looked my way. \"I've left my bar essentially unsupervised while I dealt with the two of you. If you wouldn't mind continuing your charmingly unseasonal reunion upstairs, we can discuss the matter of my payment.\"\n\n\"We're in a public house?\" said Margaret, wonderingly. When James nodded, she began to laugh, and kept laughing as the two of them followed me up the basement stairs.\n\nWe were almost to the storeroom when the screams began.\n\nThe door to the storeroom had been blown off its hinges by impact with some large, solid object\u2014Andy, whose body lay in shards all across the floor. I came skidding to a halt, feeling a scream of my own building in my chest. It only needed a target, which presented itself, readily, in the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who stood in the smoking remains of the doorway. Her clothing was cut to shout \"expense\"; it probably cost no more than Margaret's, but proclaimed its value several times as loudly. The man next to her was attired much the same, and his hair, while also dark, had been bleached, badly, to a dead straw gold.\n\nMargaret and James shoved up behind me, knocking me a step forward. A piece of Andy crunched underfoot. \"Jane!\" said Margaret. \"How _dare_ you?\"\n\n\"How dare _I_?\" Jane sneered. \"I find the Winter Queen awake out of season in a den of iniquity\u2014\"\n\n\"This is a perfectly respectable establishment!\" I shouted. \"And even if it isn't, that does not give you leave to detonate my employees!\"\n\n\"\u2014and you want to know how dare _I_? How dare _you_ , sister dear. I have had quite enough. You could have gone quietly, slipping into the death you've avoided so long, but no. You couldn't see the value of a gentle exit. And now, I'm afraid, this is going to be much harder.\" Jane attempted an expression of sisterly affection. I've seen more loving looks on a rattlesnake. \"On all of us.\"\n\nJames stepped up to take my elbow, tugging me out of the direct line of fire. The light bleeding off him was so bright that standing next to him was like standing on Market Street at noontime without a parasol. \"I apologize for what's about to happen, Miss Norton,\" he said.\n\nI risked a glance at the other three. The dark was gathering around Margaret like the pomegranate syrup staining the gin, and as it came, so did the cold. Frost was spreading around her feet, biting and warping the floorboards. As for Jane and Stuart, they might not have had seasons to call their own, but that didn't render them defenseless. Jane's hands glittered with witchfire\u2014horrible stuff, no magical practitioner worthy of the name would touch it\u2014and Stuart, more distressingly, was holding a small tube of quicksilver speckled with red, which I recognized as one of the nastier weapons in the alchemical arsenal.\n\n\"You might have mentioned that she was a witch married to an alchemist,\" I said.\n\n\"Slipped my mind,\" James replied. Then Jane flung the flame in her hands at Margaret, who met it midair with a blast of frigid cold, and the fight was on.\n\nIt's true that, unprepared, I am little more use in a fight than your average bystander. I don't dare strike anyone with my unprotected fists, as my work depends upon possession of agile hands, and I have never really trained in any of the more common weapons. It's also true that, in a fight where all other combatants are either supernaturally powered or at least very well-prepared, I am likely to be overlooked. Taking that to my advantage, I began to creep around the edge of the room, only pausing to duck poorly aimed blasts of one thing or another. What failed to hit me frequently succeeded in hitting the storeroom shelves, and I kept a silent-but-steady accounting of the damages as I crept.\n\nAndy's head had rolled to a stop beneath the workbench near the door, still almost entirely intact, if somewhat chipped. I stooped to scoop it into my skirts, and stayed stooped over as I scurried out the shattered door and into the bar proper.\n\nThe place was deserted. This was something of a relief, as it proved my customers had at least the common sense of wharf rats. The screams we'd heard must have been theirs, uttered as they fled. The damage caused by Jane and Stuart's entrance seemed confined to the storeroom door and the shelves to either side of it. That was still quite a lot of wasted liquor, but it was nowhere as bad as it could have been. Small blessings.\n\nPulling Andy's head from my skirt, I placed it on the bar. He opened his eyes and looked mournfully up at me.\n\n\"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I tried to stop them.\"\n\n\"Don't be ridiculous, Andy. Did they hurt you when you blocked their way?\" He nodded. \"And is that when everyone screamed and ran away?\" He nodded again. \"There, you see? They didn't enter the storeroom until after the screaming had started. You did exactly what I asked of you.\" Almost as an afterthought, I added, \"And I'll construct you a new body as soon as this tedious business is concluded.\"\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am.\"\n\nA blast of cold air poured out of the storeroom doorway, and small white flowers were beginning to sprout from the floor. I sighed. \"Stay there, Andy. I'm afraid I need to stop some very silly people from leveling the place.\"\n\nThe fact that Andy couldn't have moved if he wanted to didn't appear to change his calm acceptance of my instructions. \"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Very good, Andy.\" The majority of my supplies were in the basement, but I would be a poor alchemist\u2014and an even poorer bartender\u2014if I didn't possess at least a small talent for improvisation. Taking a bottle of rum from the shelf, I grabbed a pitcher and began to pour.\n\nAnd that would be the point at which the fight, not content to leave me to work in peace, spilled out of the storeroom and into the front of the bar.\n\nJames was the first out of the storeroom\u2014largely, I believe, because he was flying through the air, propelled by a blast of dirty orange witchfire. He slammed into an antique table that originated in a tavern in Barbados, reducing it to splinters. I said a word even my father would have been shocked to learn that I knew, snatching Andy's head off the bar and shoving it behind a stack of pint glasses. Crafting a new body was one thing. Crafting a new brain was something else entirely, and would be substantially more work.\n\nAnother blast of witchfire emanated from the storeroom, followed by Jane, who had her hands raised in preparation for another blast. She didn't have time to deliver it.\n\n\"Get away from my husband!\" shouted Margaret, the ambient temperature dropping by several degrees as she came barreling into the room.\n\nJane stopped to look back at her sister, providing an opportunity for James to hit her in the back with a chair.\n\n\"At least they're keeping each other busy,\" I muttered, remaining crouched behind the bar as I reached up and opened the register drawer. Luckily, I'm accustomed to working in the dark, and was able to find what I needed by feel.\n\nBottles smashed against the wall as I worked, sending debris raining down on me. Several chunks of glass grazed my arms and cheeks, and I had to stop more than once, scuttling to different points behind the bar. I didn't like to consider how much damage they were doing. The changes in temperature alone\u2014one moment midsummer swelter, the next midwinter freeze\u2014were enough to guarantee that I'd be needing new windows several years ahead of schedule.\n\nThe fight was still going strong when I finished assembling a drink that would, I hoped, convey the appropriate message. A bottle of rum came flying over the bar. I grabbed it from the air and pulled the cork with my teeth, taking one swig for courage, and a second swig as a prayer to any God of Bartenders that might be listening. Thus fortified, I picked up the fruit of my labors, and stood.\n\nThe Winter Queen was backed into the corner near the window by Stuart, whose entire body was burning with a lambent white flame that seemed to be countering the effects of her frost. The Summer King, meanwhile, had his hands full dodging the fireballs Jane was flinging in his direction. More of those white flowers carpeted the floor, and mistletoe was beginning to drip down from the ceiling. I cleared my throat.\n\n\"Ex- _cuse_ me,\" I said, in my most authoritative tone. \"If this nonsense does not cease this instant, I am afraid I shall have to put a stop to it myself.\"\n\nJane laughed. \"Good lord, you little slattern. Count yourself lucky that we're willing to let you go, and run before we change our minds.\" She flung another fireball at James as she spoke. He dodged to the side, looking increasingly winded. It was August. His powers were in their natural decline, and Margaret wasn't even supposed to be awake yet. This was the time of year when they were both as close to the human norm as it was possible for them to get.\n\nThat was good. It meant they were highly likely to survive. \"Lucky?\" I demanded, letting my temper off its reins. \"You're demolishing my bar! You broke my assistant! Do you have any idea how _difficult_ it is to construct a golem that can pass that well for human? Weeks of work, shattered!\" All four of them hesitated, floored by the sight of a seemingly ordinary woman trying to shout a battle for supernatural dominion to a stand-still.\n\nWhich is when I threw the contents of my pitcher onto the lot of them.\n\nJane shrieked with indignation as the liquid hit her, and the fire around her hands went out. She didn't seem to notice. She spun in my direction, hands raised to fling a fireball at me. Nothing happened. I watched her calmly. She blinked, and repeated the gesture. Nothing continued to happen. It made a pleasant change.\n\nStuart, meanwhile, had noticed that he was no longer on fire, and did not seem entirely pleased by this development. Lifting a hand, he tasted the liquid dripping from his fingers. His eyes widened, and he turned to stare in my direction as he said, wonderingly, \"Why, you little bitch. . . .\"\n\nI smiled. \"Salt, spiced rum, three iron pennies, and a shot of the holy water Father Andrews brings me every Sunday. Oh, come now,\" I said, shaking my head at Jane's shocked expression. \"Didn't the presence of a golem behind the bar tell you I was the better alchemist? Using quicksilver as a base for your explosives, I mean, _really_.\"\n\nJane and Stuart continued to stare at me. That was fine. It meant they weren't paying attention when Margaret and James rose up behind them\u2014the one clutching a bottle of port, the other, Andy's left arm\u2014and clocked them squarely in their respective heads.\n\nIn the end, we decided that the best approach with Jane and Stuart was the simplest. I fetched a memory tincture from the basement and poured liberal quantities down their throats, while James hailed a carriage to take them to the Ferry Building. They would wake miles from the bar, with no recollection of where they'd been or what they'd been doing there\u2014and no powers, either, unless they had the foresight to jump immediately into the bath. The potion I'd mixed would continue to work until they scrubbed the last of it from their persons.\n\n\"I truly _am_ sorry to have brought such trouble to your door,\" said James, for at least the tenth time. Margaret placed a hand on his arm, smiling ruefully, before returning her attention to the enchantingly unusual experience of drinking a cup of tea without it attempting to ice over.\n\n\"As long as all damages are covered as a part of my bill, I really see no reason to be put out,\" I said, continuing to collect bits of Andy from the floor. \"It was quite educational, and I'd been wanting an excuse to renovate\u2014especially with someone else supplying the funds.\"\n\n\"And you say this . . . disconnection ... will last until we wash it off?\" asked James.\n\n\"Yes. Longer, if you drank the stuff, but I don't recommend it. No telling what it might do to the seasons if you decided to disappear for more than a few hours.\"\n\n\"It's never happened,\" said Margaret. \"Let's not test it.\"\n\n\"My thought precisely.\" I placed one of Andy's feet on the bar, adding it to the heap of rubble I had already created. \"I always did have a reputation for brewing stronger drinks than was strictly necessary.\"\n\n\"Well, Miss Norton,\" said James, gravely, \"after tonight, I don't suppose anyone will say it's undeserved.\"\n\n\"No, I suppose not.\" I looked thoughtfully at Margaret, who showed no signs of going back to sleep. \"So, out of curiosity\u2014what will the two of you do with these three extra weeks?\"\n\nMargaret smiled. That was, in its way, quite enough.\n\nMargaret and James left shortly after midnight. I waved them out and locked the doors securely before picking up Andy's head, walking through the storeroom, and descending the stairs to the basement. He looked around with interest, apparently enjoying the new perspective that being carried under my arm was affording him. I set him gently on the duplicate bar. \"Comfortable?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Good.\" I turned to survey the shelves. \"I'll have to start with rum, I think. . . .\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\nI cast a quick smile back in Andy's direction. \"If I've woken one, it stands to reason that I'd best be prepared to wake the other. In case of the inevitable emergency, you understand.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am.\"\n\n\"That's all right, Andy. That's just fine.\"\n\nIn the end, the mixing took most of the night, and several medicinal shots of rum, to get precisely right. Ah, the sacrifices I make for my art. If only every sacrifice could taste so terribly sweet.\n\nCOCKTAILS\n\nTo Wake the Winter Queen\n\n_1 part midwinter midnight (or, failing that, 1 part vodka) 2 parts gin 1 part applejack 1 splash pomegranate molasses or cordial Garnish with a slice of fresh or crystallized ginger_\n\nMix gin and applejack in a highball tumbler. Add pomegranate molasses and stir. Pour a shot of midwinter (or vodka) on the top. Ice to taste, garnish with ginger. A sweet, tart taste of winter, smelling of apples and pine.\n\nTo Wake the Winter King\n\n_1 part summer noon (or, failing that, 1 part blackberry brandy) 1 part light rum 1 part golden rum 1 part dark rum 2 parts rose mead Garnish with candied orange or lemon peel_\n\nCrust the rim of a pint glass with sugar. Mix the rums and the mead in the glass. Top off with summer (or blackberry brandy), and garnish with candied orange or lemon peel. A sweet and syrupy glass of summer, smelling of sugar and harvest berries.\n\n_Thanks to Elizabeth Bear for her alcohol assistance_\n**THE GRAND TOUR**\n\n_Juliet E. McKenna_\n\n_n._ esp. _hist._ a cultural tour of Europe, made for educational purposes.\n\n_Concise Oxford English Dictionary_\n\n**\"H** AVE you any idea where we are?\" Hal demanded.\n\n\"Not since you took that turn I said not to,\" retorted Eustace. \"We should have stayed on the main road to Vienna.\"\n\nHe peered at the map in the gathering dusk, struggling to pick out routes and writing alike. Snatching a glance ahead, he was relieved to see a small town nestled at the bottom of the valley. \"We must find someone to ask.\"\n\n\"If we stop, I don't rate our chances of starting again.\" Irate, Hal thumped the steering wheel. \"Your Aunt Verity's chap swore this bally motor was fit for the trip.\"\n\nThe Lanchester coughed spitefully one last time before falling silent. The only sound was its wire-spoked wheels rumbling down the road.\n\n\"Hal!\" Eustace exclaimed, alarmed.\n\n\"Show some backbone, Ferrars!\" Though Hal sounded none too calm as the automobile gathered speed on the steep slope.\n\nEustace gripped the top of his shallow door with one hand, the other clinging to the front of his seat. \"Over there!\" He didn't dare let go to point. \"A fuel pump outside that blacksmithy!\"\n\n\"Right you are.\" Setting his jaw, Hal wrestled with the steering wheel.\n\nThe Lanchester wobbled perilously as they swept into the market square. Eustace's heart was in his mouth until more level ground prevailed and the vehicle slowed to a halt.\n\nHis relief was short-lived. There was no sign of life in the blacksmith's workshop; no lamps lit or any breath of a fire within.\n\n\"Try the starter,\" Hal ordered.\n\nEustace swallowed a curt rejoinder as he opened his door. Going to the front of the vehicle, he bent to crank the obdurate engine's handle. He tried, once, twice, a third time. All his efforts went unrewarded.\n\n\"The rotten thing's dead.\" Standing up, he rubbed his aching wrist.\n\n\"Then we had better find that blacksmith and see if he knows anything about motor cars. If he does, all well and good. If not\u2014\"\n\nHal paused to take stock of their situation. The market place boasted some splendid dwellings crowned with bulbous turrets, their windows festooned with swags of carved garlands. Though the cobbled expanse was entirely deserted at this dinner hour.\n\n\"We find somewhere to stay for the night,\" Eustace decided. \"I'll cable Aunt Verity in the morning. If there are no Royal Automobile Club patrolmen, she can at least send her beau to explain himself and get us back on the road.\"\n\nUnless the motor was completely crocked. Pa would get in the most fearful bate.\n\n\"Try\u2014\"\n\nWhatever Hal might have suggested was lost as a group of youths entered the market square. One hailed them.\n\n\"What did he say?\" Hal asked quickly.\n\n\"I don't know,\" protested Eustace.\n\nHal shook his head, exasperated. \"I thought you were the linguist.\"\n\n\"When they're speaking Latin or Greek, I'll parse the conversation,\" Eustace offered, sarcastic.\n\n\"It didn't occur to you to learn the lingo, when you knew we were coming to Austria?\" But Hal's heart wasn't in the rebuke.\n\nThe approaching youths paused to contemplate them from a distance. One stepped forward.\n\n\"Good evening. What appears to be the trouble?\"\n\n\"You speak English?\" Eustace broke off, confused by unseemly laughter among the fellows, followed by a scornful flurry of German.\n\n\"Get back in the motor car, Eustace,\" Hal said quietly. But the English-speaker was approaching, a tall youth with an athlete's build.\n\n\"I have learned your language among several others.\" He smiled, supercilious. \"At Heidelberg.\" He turned his head this way and that, to display the neat scars on his chiseled cheekbones.\n\n\"Good evening.\" Eustace offered his hand. \"We're Oxford men ourselves. At least, we will be this Michaelmas.\" He smiled hopefully.\n\nHands still in his pockets, the Heidelberger inclined his head in a curt bow. \"My condolences.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry?\" Challenge sharpened Hal's tone.\n\n\"On the recent death of your king,\" the Heidelberger said smoothly.\n\nThat's not what he'd meant at all. Eustace was convinced of it, as the rest of the gang sniggered.\n\n\"May I offer my congratulations on your King George's accession?\" the tall blond youth continued. \"And his lovely qveen. Let us hope good German blood will strengthen your so-called royal line.\"\n\nEustace couldn't believe he'd heard the bounder correctly. \"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"Forgive me, but Great Britain is ruled by mere Hanoverian Electors.\" The Heidelberger didn't sound in the least contrite. \"You must admit that's barely a monarchy compared to the Imperial powers of Europe.\"\n\n\"What about India?\" Eustace demanded. \"Africa? Canada? Australia? That's the British Empire, you know!\"\n\nThe Heidelberger didn't reply, addressing Hal instead. \"Do you suppose your new king can save England from all these anarchists and socialists running riot in London?\"\n\n\"That's enough of your infernal cheek,\" Hal said wrathfully.\n\nThe Heidelberger spread innocent hands. \"There have not been anarchist outrages? What of that Tottenham incident last year, when that poor policeman was shot?\"\n\nHal's lip curled. \"Piccadilly's gutters are hardly running with blood.\"\n\n\"My pa says this new Home Secretary will put an end to such nonsense,\" Eustace said stoutly. \"Quite the coming man, Winston Churchill, so my pa says.\"\n\nBut the Heidelberger threw back his blonde head with a raucous laugh. \"Churchill? Horsewhipped by some suffragette whore last month? How can such a man command anyone's respect?\"\n\nEustace saw Hal redden with anger as he flung open the Lanchester's door. He was all the more furious himself because he could hardly deny that the lunatic woman had tried to give Churchill a thrashing.\n\n\"We've had enough of your jaw.\" Stepping over the running board onto the cobbles, Hal squared up to the Heidelberger. \"I'll take an apology, if you please.\"\n\n\"An apology?\" The tall youth feigned surprise.\n\n\"When you English owe the whole German people your apology? You English with your arrogance, who deny us our rightful place in the sun? You boast of your British Empire, when you have kept the German Empire from the overseas possessions that are our due? While your British Navy builds mighty Dreadnoughts to forbid free passage of the seas to every other nation?\"\n\nThe Heidelberger punctuated each challenge with a shove to Hal's chest, forcing him away from the car. Anxious, Eustace moved to follow, only to find his path barred by the youths who'd originally accompanied the Heidelberger.\n\n\"What right have you two fools to be in Austria?\" the young German demanded. \"Are you spies? We know how England conspires with the Russians and the French against the Hapsburgs. We know your government has divided up Persia with the Tsar, so the Romanovs can hem in all of central Europe with their railways.\"\n\n\"That's utter rot,\" Hal said hotly.\n\n\"You are welcome to your Triple Entente,\" the Heidelberger sneered. \"Germany has science and industry.\n\nWhile your English aristocrats bleat about being bled white by taxes, Kaiser Wilhelm oversees triumphs like Graf von Zeppelin's airships. Britannia might think she rules the waves, but Germany will claim the skies.\"\n\nEustace thought, just for a moment, that the youth had satisfactorily vented his spleen. Perhaps he intended to spit on the cobbles, not on Hal's shoe. But as the repellent spittle landed, Eustace saw his friend's fists clench and that was that.\n\nHal swung with all the pugilistic science of an English boarding school education. The punch connected with the ruffian's scarred cheekbone to send him spiraling away. As he fell, he knocked several of his fellows flying.\n\nEustace braced himself as the closest ill-shaven brute aimed a brutal blow at his stomach. Tensed muscles kept his wind intact. Two more yahoos rushed him, fists milling wildly. Eustace landed solid body blows on each and followed up with a right hook and an uppercut.\n\nBut he couldn't fend them all off. Vicious fists landed thick and fast. Insults rang in his ears, incomprehensible yet unmistakable. He couldn't see what was happening to Hal over on the other side of the car.\n\nAn agonizing stamp on his ankle and Eustace dropped to one knee. His enemies seized their chance. As their brutal jostling floored him, he could only curl into a ball. One hand clenched over his groin, he buried his face in the crook of his other arm. Boots and fists pummeled him, merciless, bruising his back and his thighs, his shins and his shoulders.\n\nUntil they broke away. For no apparent reason their attackers scattered, tossing a last barrage of insults as they fled. Eustace lay dazed, hardly able to believe the torment was over.\n\nBut what about Hal? Eustace blinked away blood and tears, trying to focus on a dark shape slumped beyond the motor car. He cautiously raised himself up on his elbow. He grimaced. How could such a beating leave him in such agony and yet numb? He didn't think his legs could support him. Eustace forced himself to his knees. After a moment's concentrated effort, he managed to stand, albeit doubled over. Step by excruciating step, he staggered towards the huddled shape.\n\nFor a heart-stopping instant, he truly thought that Hal was dead. He lay limp as a discarded rag doll, his face an ashen mask smeared with filth. Then he drew a shuddering breath and Eustace's relief momentarily overwhelmed his own sufferings. Until he saw Hal cough up a mouthful of blood and groan with heart-rending agony.\n\n\"I'm here, Hal.\" Eustace knelt, ignoring the pains that cost him. \"Come on, old chap. Upsy-daisy!\"\n\nAs he tried to lift his friend, Hal yelped. Worse, he was wracked by a ferocious coughing fit. Fresh blood trickled down his chin.\n\nEustace was terrified. But what to do? He dared not leave Hal alone. There was no knowing if those roughs would return. They had to find somewhere safe, some chance of summoning a doctor, of sending a telegram back to Salzburg.\n\n\"You have to get up!\" Steeling himself, Eustace hauled Hal to his feet.\n\nHe draped Hal's left arm over his shoulder, gripping his hand mercilessly. Shoving his right shoulder into Hal's armpit helped him bear as much of his friend's weight as possible. He wrapped his arm around Hal's waist and grabbed a handful of tweed. \"Come on, old chap!\"\n\n\"Just\u2014\" Hal gasped in pain. \"Let me get my breath.\"\n\n\"How badly are you hurt?\" Eustace had to ask.\n\n\"A broken rib, I think,\" Hal took a labored breath. \"Dash it all, I've had worse playing rugger. Let me get my hands on that blighter. I'll make him sorry.\"\n\n\"You and the Brigade of Guards?\" Eustace snapped. \"Don't be an ass\u2014\"\n\nHe broke off as heavy boots echoed somewhere between the houses set around the square. Hal stiffened with an inarticulate whimper.\n\n\"Let's try that way.\" Eustace nodded towards a lane bounded by garden walls topped with leafy trees.\n\nBut as they toiled through the gloaming, closed gates and shuttered windows offered them no succor. Eustace pressed doggedly onwards. They soon reached humble streets very different from the baroque elegance of the market place.\n\nThe lane grew steeper. They found a flight of stone steps, treacherously dished by the tread of countless centuries. Eustace forced himself upwards, jaw clenched. Hal's breath hissed painfully through his nose.\n\nAfter what felt like an eternity, they reached the top of the steps to find a small square. On the far side lamplit windows glowed golden in the darkness. One illuminated a swinging sign. The White Rose.\n\nEustace managed a faint laugh. \"We've made it all the way to Yorkshire!\"\n\nHal's only response was a pitiful moan.\n\nEustace summoned up the last of his strength to carry them both to the tavern's door. He had to let go of Hal's hand to reach for the handle. That was a dreadful mistake. Hal slumped senseless on the threshold. Unable to rouse him, Eustace could only batter the nail-studded wood with feeble bloody knuckles.\n\nA broad-shouldered man, aproned over shirt and trousers, opened the door.\n\n\"Please\u2014\"\n\nBefore Eustace could continue, the man stooped to scoop Hal up into his arms. He turned to carry him inside.\n\n\"He's hurt. He needs a doctor.\" Eustace ignored his own agonies. \" _Doktor._ \" That was one German word that he knew.\n\nThe barman carried Hal to an alcove tucked beside a black-leaded stove mercifully unlit for the summer. He slid him on to the padded bench by the table.\n\nHal's head lolled against the oak-paneled wall, his eyes glazed. Eustace's heart twisted in his chest.\n\n\"He needs a doctor!\" Overwrought, he grabbed the sturdy barman's sleeve, shaking his arm like a terrier.\n\nOnly then did he wonder what he was doing. The man topped him by more than a head, solidly muscled with curling black hair and a handsome beard.\n\n\"Don't worry, my friend.\" Though accented, the man's English was fluent. \"We will look after you both.\" His grey-green eyes were calm and reassuring. \"Please, sit.\"\n\nAstonished as well as exhausted, Eustace did as he was told. What else could he do?\n\nHe searched Hal's white face for any sign of his wits returning. Nothing. Sick at heart, he turned away, only to realize that the other patrons of this out-of-the-way inn were staring at them. Some were avid with curiosity. Others looked indignant, even outraged at such rude interruption to their peaceable evening.\n\nWhat must the two of them look like? While his tweeds had endured their rough treatment surprisingly well, Eustace could see that his shirt was an utter disgrace, his collar half torn from its studs.\n\nHe looked up, as if to study the carved beams supporting the creamy plastered roof. Countless knickknacks crowded the high shelves that ringed the room. Pewter-lidded tankards jostled dusty flagons with faded labels and all manner of trinkets from fat-sailed ships in bottles to a gunmetal model of the Eiffel Tower. Lamplight burnished Mediterranean pots for all the world like the ones in the British Museum. Greek athletes cavorted on red-glazed curves. Propped in a far corner, a slab of ancient terracotta was checkered with incomprehensible symbols.\n\nAs he managed to blink away the last of his treacherous tears, their host returned with an anonymous bottle and two small glasses. \"Drink this.\"\n\nEustace looked doubtfully at the clear liquor. Pa had warned him never to drink from an unlabelled bottle. But the man was cradling Hal's head with one broad hand, easing the rim of the glass between his nerveless lips. Hal coughed and opened his eyes.\n\nFaint with relief, Eustace reached blindly for his own glass. Even Pa wouldn't deny him a stiffener in this dire emergency.\n\nThe liquor filled his mouth with subtle warmth. He smelled mingled perfumes of summer fruit, sweet without being sickly. As he swallowed, he could swear the warmth spread from his stomach to the tips of his fingers and toes, soothing every ache and bruise along the way. He still knew he'd been in a fight but he no longer feared he might pass out.\n\nAs the man released him, Hal sat upright. He coughed again, pressing a hand to his mouth. Eustace was inexpressibly relieved to see no fresh blood on his lips and a healthier color return to his cheeks.\n\n\"Thank you.\" He set his own glass down. \"Please, forgive this intrusion. Eustace Ferrars, at your service.\" He braced himself for the strong man's grip, only to discover this chap felt no need to grind another man's knuckles to prove himself.\n\nEven more disheveled and bloodstained, Hal offered the barman his hand. \"Harold Brandon,\" he said, stiff with embarrassment. \"So sorry to have troubled you.\"\n\nThe barman simply smiled, teeth white against his black beard. \"I am Gil, to my friends. Are you Harry to yours?\"\n\n\"Hal, as it happens.\" He managed a crooked grin, only to wince as a split in his lip oozed.\n\n\"'Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George'?\" The barman's smile widened. \"Let me guess. If you had half a crown for everyone who says that, you would dine at the Savoy Grill every night?\"\n\n\"Something like that.\"\n\nEustace was relieved to see Hal was too intrigued to be as annoyed as he usually was by that blasted quotation.\n\n\"Do you know London well?\"\n\n\"I travel.\" The man waved an airy hand around the cluttered shelves. \"But you two are far from home.\"\n\n\"We're travelling for the summer,\" began Eustace.\n\n\"We go up to Oxford next term. Corpus,\" Hal nodded at Eustace, \"and Christ Church for me.\"\n\n\"We're travelling with my aunt,\" Eustace interjected, \"and her fianc\u00e9. All quite above board,\" he added. Or at least it had been\u2014\n\nHal waved an impatient hand. \"They're in Salzburg but we wanted to see Vienna. So they said we could take a couple of days to make the trip while they stayed behind.\"\n\nAnd wouldn't Pa cut up rough about that, when he learned what had happened? Eustace sighed, his head drooping.\n\n\"What misfortune befell you?\" the barman Gil enquired.\n\n\"We had trouble with our motor. We would have been fine until that stiff-necked, sauerkraut-munching Prussian turned up,\" Hal glowered at the thought of their erstwhile foe. \"Arrogant brutes, every man jack of them. Just as my Pa says.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" Their host sounded amused.\n\n\"You're not\u2014\" Eustace looked up, aghast.\n\n\"Prussian?\" The barman's grey-green eyes held his, penetrating, as though he could read every thought inside Eustace's head. \"Would it make any difference if I was?\"\n\nBefore Eustace could answer, the man stood, gathering up bottle and glasses. \"Excuse me, please.\"\n\nAs their savior departed Eustace glared at Hal. \"Will you hold your tongue?\"\n\n\"What\u2014\" He fell silent as an old lady bustled up, full skirts dark beneath her snowy blouse and embroidered bodice.\n\nHer sympathetic tone needed no translation, even if her heavy dialect defeated Eustace's rudimentary knowledge of German.\n\nShe set a tray on the table and handed them each a glass tumbler and spoon. Then she placed a dish of eggs and a smaller one of butter between them. As the young Englishmen exchanged a puzzled glance, she clicked her tongue in toothless exasperation.\n\n\" _Eier im glas!\"_\n\nStill mute as schoolboys, they watched her take an egg from the dish and tap it all over with a spoon.\n\n\"It's boiled,\" Eustace realized.\n\nThe old woman's gnarled fingers stripped the soft whiteness of every fragment of shell and dropped the naked egg in the tumbler. Just as quickly she peeled a second and added a slice of butter.\n\n\" _So?_ \" She handed the glass to Eustace, looking at him expectantly.\n\nRealizing he was utterly famished, he dug the spoon into the egg's golden heart. His mouth full an instant later, he nodded as he swallowed. \"Good. _Sehr gut_ ,\" he essayed sheepishly.\n\nThe old woman smiled as Hal followed Eustace's lead, talking all the while. Now her tone rang with incomprehensible indignation, though Eustace didn't think it was directed at them.\n\n\"You feel better for something to eat?\" Gil returned, bearing two tankards of foaming beer.\n\n\"My oath, I do.\" Eustace sucked the last trace of yolk from his spoon. \"Beg pardon, but what is she saying?\"\n\n\"She's so sorry you were attacked by gypsies.\" The barman broke off to speak briefly to the old woman. Satisfied she nodded and headed back to her kitchen.\n\nHal was puzzled. \"Why on earth would she think that?\"\n\nGil shrugged. \"Gypsies are responsible for every evil that strikes a traveler, according to her. They are cursed by God, ever since they cast the Golden Calf for Moses' brother. They even forged the nails for the crucifixion.\"\n\n\"That's not something I've ever heard,\" Eustace said cautiously.\n\nGranted, some of the gypsies that came and went around his father's estate weren't above poaching pheasants. But plenty helped with the fruit picking and the potato harvest and they worked hard for their day's pay.\n\nHal was more forthright. \"That's superstitious tosh. Anyway, gypsies had nothing to do with it.\"\n\n\"You won't persuade her of that.\" Gil placed the tankards on the table. \"Any sooner than your Pa would give a Prussian the benefit of the doubt.\" His eyes glinted vivid green in some trick of the light.\n\nEustace saw Hal redden but before he could say anything foolish, a gentleman arrived at their table. He was wearing a gray and green loden jacket, buckskin knee breeches and polished brogues. They had seen several men in such garb, as they'd driven along without a care in the world.\n\n\"Good evening.\" With a punctilious bow of his head, he removed his black-cockaded hat. While his English was far more heavily accented than the barman's, it was perfectly comprehensible. \"May I present my card?\" He hesitated, not knowing where to offer the pasteboard.\n\n\"Please,\" Eustace invited with instinctive politeness. \"Join us.\"\n\nThe gentleman pressed the card into his palm, though he didn't sit. \"Konrad von Ledebur, at your service. Please, this dreadful business\u2014\" Distress momentarily overwhelmed his English. \"By the time the alarm was raised, no one knew where to find you\u2014\"\n\nGil broke in with swift reassurance and Eustace was relieved to see the gentleman nod, mollified.\n\n\"I understand you have trouble with your automobile?\" He cleared his throat. \"Perhaps my own chauffeur could be of assistance? He is the most competent engineer.\"\n\n\"That would be marvelous.\" Eustace looked helplessly at Hal.\n\n\"The Lanchester is in the market place,\" Hal said stiffly.\n\nEustace couldn't tell if he was still suffering an excess of pain or smarting from the barman's rebuke.\n\n\" _Also,_ \" Herr von Ledebur said in the German style. \"I drive a Daimler. I bought it in London last year.\"\n\n\"You've visited England?\" Why wouldn't the chap? Eustace silently rebuked himself.\n\n\"Many times. Also, Ireland.\" Their new benefactor smiled tentatively. \"I very much like to hunt the fox in your beautiful country.\"\n\n\"You ride to hounds?\" That instantly won Hal's attention. \"Whereabouts?\"\n\n\"Northamptonshire and Leicestershire,\" Herr von Ledebur explained with careful precision. \"In Ireland, in the Qveen's County.\"\n\n\"We live in Devon.\" Hal instinctively reached for his pocket book and visiting cards. \"We have some very fine coverts\u2014oh, lord!\"\n\nAghast, he withdrew his hand from his inner pocket. Ink stained his fingers. \"Those blighters broke my fountain pen!\"\n\nEustace might have been amused, if he hadn't seen sudden tears glisten in Hal's eyes.\n\n\" _Also._ \" Herr von Ledebur hastily clicked his heels while donning his hat. \"If you will excuse me, I shall see what I can discover of your _auto_. And of these blackguards who assaulted you.\" He said something scathing in his native tongue.\n\n\"Thank you, sir, you're very kind.\"\n\nAs Herr von Ledebur departed, Eustace's eyes resolutely followed him to the door, to give Hal a chance to get his emotions in hand.\n\nHal scrubbed his face with his ink-free hand. \"Mater gave me that pen for passing Common Entrance,\" he said gruffly.\n\nMuch as Eustace wanted to offer his sympathies, he searched desperately for a change of subject. He nodded at their untouched tankards. \"Have a drink, old chap.\"\n\nHe was as glad as Hal to drown the sorrows of this horrible day in the fragrant ale.\n\n\"Gosh!\" Hal exclaimed after a deep draught. \"That's the finest brew I've tasted yet.\"\n\n\"I'll say so,\" Eustace agreed. They'd enjoyed some excellent beer on their journey through Bavaria but this outclassed everything.\n\nThough getting pie-eyed wouldn't improve their situation. What should they do now?\n\nHe looked around the tavern again. While some patrons were now intent on their own conversations, others were stealing glances at their table. As sympathetic smiles caught his eye, he nodded self-conscious acknowledgement.\n\nThere was a fine variety of ages and complexions among them, he noted belatedly. An elderly man with ferocious whiskers was deep in conversation with a younger, darker-skinned man. A few tables away, two mild-faced scholarly types were intent on the chessboard between them. One wore a skull cap so was clearly a Jew. No one was giving him a second look though. Eustace couldn't imagine that in an English country inn, where dubious glances would warn off anyone with a touch of the tar-brush.\n\n\"Do you think this place has rooms for the night?\" he wondered. \"Even if our new friend's chap can mend the motor, it's surely too late to set off.\"\n\n\"You want to stay?\" Hal looked at him dubiously. \"After our welcome in the square?\"\n\n\"What about our welcome here?\" Eustace countered.\n\nHal looked obstinate. \"We don't know these people.\"\n\n\"They don't know us,\" Eustace retorted, \"and a right pair of hooligans we must look, all muck and blood. But they're helping us and that chap von Ledebur is a gentleman without question.\"\n\nHe waved to catch the barman's eye. The tall man was talking to a purple-bonneted lady. Gil came over, bringing her with him.\n\n\"Excuse me, but do you have rooms for the night?\" Eustace began.\n\nGill nodded. \"We do and Magdalena is making them ready. Frau Bauer will fetch some of her sons' outgrown shirts\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, I say,\" Hal protested.\n\n\"Don't you be silly, my lad.\" The purple-bonneted woman wagged an admonishing finger. \"You can't go on your way in rags.\"\n\n\"Madam.\" Her Kentish accents propelled Hal instinctively to his feet before words failed him.\n\nThe comfortably plump woman patted his hand. \"You and yours would do the same, if my boys washed up on your doorstep.\"\n\n\"Then\u2014thank you, Madam.\" Hal bowed, rigid with mortification.\n\n\"Frau Bauer met her husband when he served in the _Kriegsmarine_ ,\" Gil explained.\n\n\"We met in Malta when I was visiting my sister. Her husband was Royal Navy.\" A saucy smile dimpled her cheeks. \"Two of us girls all the way from Chatham. Just fancy.\"\n\n\"You are a long way from home.\" For the life of him, Eustace couldn't think of anything else to say.\n\n\"Aren't we all?\" The purple-bonneted lady glanced around the inn before nodding to Gil. \"I'll just step out and fetch that linen.\"\n\n\"We really are most grateful.\" Eustace called after her. \"To all of you,\" he added hurriedly to Gil.\n\nThe barman chuckled deep in his barrel of a chest. \"You are very welcome.\"\n\n\"Thank you.\" Sitting down again, Hal studied the foam on his beer. \"And I'm sorry. I was talking through my hat earlier.\"\n\nEustace was quite knocked off his stride. He couldn't recall when he'd ever heard Hal offer such a heartfelt apology.\n\nHe cast around for some fresh topic of conversation. \"We're not the only travelers here, from what that lady was saying?\"\n\nGil regarded him for a moment before replying. Eustace found his intensity rather unnerving, until the big man smiled.\n\n\"Your British Empire may span the globe but you're too used to life among your own kind, in your own islands. Here we have Slav, Magyar, Czech, Rumanian, Istrian.\"\n\nHe indicated different men and women round the room, beginning with the elderly man with the fine whiskers. \"The margrave rode with the Austrian Imperial Cavalry in his younger days. His nephew is visiting from Zagreb.\" He nodded towards the chess players. \"Dr.Aslan Bey is a Mohammedan scholar from Bosnia. Herr Schneider's family lives in Prague.\"\n\nThe barman picked up Herr von Ledebur's card from the table and tapped the smaller writing below the name. \" _Kaiserlich und k\u00f6niglich_. Imperial and Royal. Do you know that the Austrian Empire encompasses three kingdoms, two archduchies and countless lesser fiefdoms, alongside the Hungarian Kingdom of St. Stephen? There are almost as many languages spoken within these borders as there are across the rest of Europe. Catholics live alongside Orthodox Christians and Lutherans have Calvinists for neighbors.\"\n\nHis gaze encompassed the room. \"Naturally there are tensions and misunderstandings, old hatreds and feuds still cause trouble from time to time. But when people stop to share a meal and a drink and have the leisure to talk, they discover they're not so different.\"\n\n\"It takes a broad field to make a horse race.\" Eustace recalled his Pa saying that more than once.\n\nGil smiled, enigmatic behind his beard. He gestured towards the stairs. \"Once you've eaten your dinner, I imagine you would welcome a hot bath.\"\n\n\"That sounds wonderful.\" Eustace reached for his pocket book. \"What do we owe you?\"\n\nHe froze, appalled. His inside pocket was empty. Somehow in the fracas, their money had been lost or stolen. What on earth would they do now?\n\nHis throat closed with panic. This was all too much, after such a long and fraught day.\n\n\"Keep your money.\" Where Gil's eyes had glinted green, now they were mysterious gray. \"Repay me by remembering this night, every detail, the good and the bad. Both of you,\" he emphasized. \"Remember who was so quick to accuse without reason and who was so quick to take offense with as little justification.\"\n\n\"Right-ho,\" Hal said nervously.\n\nEustace looked down at his grazed knuckles. But they hadn't actually told the barman how the fight started. Had Herr von Ledebur? But he hadn't been in the market square to hear the quarrel.\n\nEustace raised his tankard and drank deep. At least this splendid beer was straight-forward.\n\nRain lashed the tall windows. Todd glanced up at the gray sky outside. Nope, no trip to the beach today. But, hey, Patti loved visiting these grand old houses.\n\nWhat had Morgan said, when they'd told the guys they were going on vacation to England? \"Europe's where history comes from!\" Pretty cute, for a third grader.\n\nAll the same, he was keeping a close eye on the boys. All these antiques and paintings and vases were so tempting, and a few velvet ropes weren't much of a barrier.\n\nFor now, they were both behaving. Morgan was studying some kind of square piano just the other side of the rope. Eliot stood, mouth open, staring up at the awesome painted ceiling.\n\n\"Honey, can you see one of those cards?\" Over by a dresser loaded with photos, Patti was looking around. She'd caught on real quick how much information was available in these places, if you only knew where to look for it.\n\n\"Here you are, my dear.\" A little grey-haired old lady rose from her seat in the corner, a plastic-laminated sheet in her hand.\n\nThe British sure had a different approach to security guards. At least this one in her tweed skirt and cashmere sweater didn't glare at the kids like they were here to steal the silver.\n\n\"Is that the Queen?\" Patti was pointing at one of the pictures.\n\n\"That's right, my dear,\" the old lady said warmly. \"With Sir Harold, Sir Andrew's grandfather.\"\n\n\"He's the current owner?\" Patti nodded as the old lady handed her the guide to the pictures. \"Hey, Todd, there are army photos. My husband's grandpa spent some time over here before the D-Day landings,\" she explained.\n\n\"He sure did.\" Todd went to look, while keeping one eye on the boys.\n\n\"That's Sir Harold in the Great War.\" The old lady used the aerial of her walkie-talkie to point. \"Enlisted in 1914 with the 5th Dragoon Guards. He was in some of the British Army's last cavalry charges.\"\n\nAs she shook her head, Todd shared her wonderment. Horsemen riding against tanks?\n\n\"After France, he served in Egypt,\" the old lady went on, \"then India and Palestine.\"\n\n\"Who's that?\" Patti pointed at a different photo, where Sir Harold stood beside another young man.\n\n\"Sir Eustace Ferrars. Lifelong friends, right from school.\" The old lady smiled. \"That's Sir Harold as best man at his wedding.\"\n\n\"What a beautiful bride.\" Patti glanced at Todd and he could see the memory of their own wedding in her eyes. What a great day that had been.\n\n\"Beatrice Dashwood was the prettiest deb of her year,\" the old lady said fondly.\n\nPatti nodded, though Todd guessed that meant as little to her as it did to him.\n\nThe old lady didn't seem to notice. \"Sir Eustace served in the trenches through the first war. He won the Military Medal. Then he went into the Diplomatic, working on the Treaty of Versailles.\"\n\n\"Hey, is that Hitler?\" Todd bent close to the velvet rope to get a better look.\n\nThe old lady was unperturbed. \"1936 Olympics. Sir Harold had friends in the equestrian events. Him and Sir Eustace, they both saw the writing on the wall in Germany. They always said we'd live to regret Versailles. Not that either of them had any time for Chamberlain,\" she added swiftly. \"Or appeasement.\"\n\n\"What did they do in World War II?\" Todd searched the massed ranks of pictures for any uniforms he might recognize from film or TV. Wow. That was Churchill!\n\n\"Sir Eustace was in Intelligence so that's all classified. Sir Harold worked with the Special Operations Executive\u2014?\" The old lady broke off to look at them both.\n\nTodd nodded. \"Secret agents.\"\n\nSatisfied, the old lady continued. \"He organized Free French goings-on in Occupied France and after D-Day.\"\n\nPatti had moved on. \"That's some family photo. Oh, wait.\" She looked confused.\n\n\"That's Sir Harold's first wedding to Lady Imogen Bertram. She died in the Plymouth Blitz, 1941.\" The old lady pointed to a second picture. \"He married again in 1951. Carlotta Leibowitz, her ladyship was. Italian, from Rome.\"\n\n\"How many children did they have?\" Patti wondered at the crowd in a later photo.\n\n\"Five daughters, eleven grandchildren. That's Miss Winifred's wedding to David Ferrars, Sir Eustace's third son.\" The old woman was as proud as if they were her own kin. \"They went all over the world, Sir Eustace and his family. In Germany first of all, helping with the Marshall Plan and reconstruction. After that he worked with the colonies when they wanted independence. That's him in Ghana. He always said there was no call for trouble, not with goodwill on both sides.\" The old girl surprised Todd with an impish grin. \"You Americans taught us that, he used to say.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Todd couldn't help smiling back.\n\n\"What about Sir Harold?\" Patti was looking at a long photo of rows of children.\n\n\"When he wasn't in London, he was here in Devon.\" The old girl nodded at the photo. \"Always supported the Scouts and the Girl Guides. Youngsters from all over Europe came to camps on the estate after the war. He got involved in town twinning too, to promote understanding and friendship.\" She pointed to a picture of the old boy on a platform under some banner. \"Even campaigned for the EEC in 1975, in his eighties.\"\n\nWhatever that was. Todd could see Patti was intrigued but he didn't think they had time to find out.\n\n\"Uh, honey, I think the guys are ready to get going.\"\n\nThe ceiling had lost its fascination for Eliot. He was heading for his brother, already hovering in the doorway to the next room. No way was Todd letting them out of his sight.\n\n\"Thank you so much.\" Patti said apologetically at the old lady. \"That was really interesting.\"\n\n\"You're welcome.\" The old lady smiled and returned to her seat.\n\n\"Remind me to get a guidebook from the gift shop,\" Patti said as they hurried after the kids. \"I want to find out more about the family. Hey, guys! Wait up!\"\n**PARIS 24**\n\n_Laura Anne Gilman_\n\n**T** HE streets were damp with the afternoon rain still, the air warm and filled with softer noises than he was accustomed to. Foreign noises, strange and distracting. Montparnasse, Richard thought, was chaos and confusion: people everywhere, ornate streetlamps casting electric light that framed the scene alternately into brightness and shadows. The cafes were filled with people, some slumped over their hands even this early in the evening as though sleeping off a hard night of drinking, no one paying them the slightest mind but talking over their heads, arms moving as they argued and laughed. Men, wearing everything from formal evening wear to the sweaters and bags of students and the smocks of artists, mingling together without any seeming regard for class. And women, too, dressed in the smart modern fashion that still raised eyebrows and shocked whispers back home, laughing and smoking and drinking in public.\n\nIt was heady stuff, making his head spin. The sights, the sounds, even the smells were richer, more exotic, the blend of fresh breads and rabbit and beer and sweat mixing in the damp air like a perfume. He wanted to linger, to sniff the passing bodies, to run his hands over the colorful murals painted on walls and the stylized metal bands around the doors, to look in the darkened windows of storefronts and the brighter-lit facades of cafes and bars\u2014out in the open, unlike back home\u2014but his companions dragged him forward, men on a mission.\n\n\" _Bonjour, m'sieur. Vous m' payez un verre?_ \" a woman called, catching his eye and smiling at him.\n\n\"Keep walking, Dicky,\" George said, laughing, slinging an arm around his neck. \"You couldn't afford her.\"\n\nThey were halfway down the block before Richard finally translated what the woman had said, and his ears flushed bright red. He was the youngest of the team, barely eighteen, and they never let him forget it.\n\nThe entire team had arrived in France two days before, in a tumble of trunks and shouted orders, loaded into conveyances and taken to their destination with barely time to breathe, overwhelmed with the rush of excitement on seeing the great flags of every nation flying over the cottages they had been assigned to, just beyond the stadium. Three weeks crossing the Atlantic, anticipation growing more intense every day, and then suddenly: there.\n\nRichard had thought they would spend the time practicing and resting for opening ceremonies, but once they assured themselves that all their equipment had arrived and was properly stored, had made sure that everyone was where they were supposed to be, none missing or mislaid, the close lure of Paris, that terrible center of sin and desire, was too great to resist.\n\nGeorge and Henry, who had appointed themselves his caretakers, were leading the way, bypassing one caf\u00e9 and bistro after another, leading them somewhere\u2014somewhere special, they promised him. Someplace like you'll never see back home.\n\nRichard kept his laughter within his own chest, so the others would not ask him what he found so amusing. There wasn't anything like this back home. This was _Paris_. But he let his teammates tow him through the stone-cut steps of the _arrondissement,_ turning this way and that through crooked streets and down what seemed scarcely alleyways, until they finally fetched up in front of a building, two stories high, built of yellowgray stone. Glossy brown wooden panels fronted the door, with its polished brass handle, and there was one window, frosted over so that you could not see in, with one word painted on it: _Gil's_.\n\n\"Doesn't sound very French,\" George said, suddenly dubious.\n\n\"Everyone says this is the place to go,\" Henry responded, already reaching for the door. \"Before your first bout, not after.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Richard asked, curious.\n\n\"I have no idea.\" Henry was gloriously unconcerned, the way he was unconcerned about all else, touched with the assurance that the world would move for him as he desired. \"Good luck, maybe?\"\n\n\"Bad luck, if the coach finds out we're out carousing?\" He couldn't, he wouldn't, do anything to jeopardize his chances, not this close to the prize.\n\n\"It's not illegal here, Dicky,\" George scoffed, the five years between them suddenly a chasm. \"Lighten up!\"\n\nThey were speaking English, but nobody gave them a second look; on George's advice they had left their identifying badges behind, dressed in what they had hoped were casually smart flannels and coats that now seemed almost conservative amid the flash and chaos of Paris.\n\n\"Nobody ever gets caught at Gil's,\" Henry said confidently, as though he had done this a hundred times before, and went through the doorway, assuming the others would follow him.\n\nThey did. They always did.\n\nInside, it was as though the dampness and noise of the city faded away, the space larger than it seemed from the front; the center dominated by a horseshoe-shaped bar topped with a gleaming marble top, glassware racked and glittering overhead. Scattered on either side were dozens of round tables, large enough for two or three to sit at, but most crowded with four or five, save the occasional table where a single soul sat crouched over his drink, like a cat guarding its mouse. The walls were lined with brown leather banquettes, people lounging against the whitewashed walls as though they were in the comfort of their own homes.\n\nThe door closed behind them, and Richard was tugged further into the bar itself, George's grip not allowing him time to gawp.\n\nAlthough Gil's was not as crowded as the artier, more open-air cafes they had passed, there were already men two deep at the bar, with that elegant slouch Frenchmen somehow perfected, elbows down and shoulders back, looking as though they could spend all day just where they were.\n\nHenry managed to find a way through, the way Henry always did, and those already drinking obligingly made room for them.\n\n_\"Bon soir.\"_ The bartender was a slender, almost short man with polished brown skin who could have slipped into their team without a moment of doubt; whipcord strong and probably just as fast. He took another look at them, and then switched into English. \"Good evening. What may I fetch you?\"\n\n_\"Trois 'Sidecars,' s'il vous plait,\"_ Henry said. He was the only one who knew much French at all, beyond what they drilled into them before leaving the States\u2014and of course the terms of the sport, but somehow Richard didn't think \" _en garde_ \" was going to get him anything to drink.\n\n\"I've got this,\" George said, reaching for his money clip. Richard hoped he wasn't going to haul out the wad of bills he had seen George shove in there before they left: George's clip was bright silver and set with a stone that glittered enough to catch even the most honest eye.\n\nThankfully, George knew enough to keep it in his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled francs and counting them twice, to make sure he knew how many he had.\n\n\"What do you think of the Italian team?\" Richard asked, uncomfortably aware of the stranger at his back, the hum of a foreign language being spoken around him. In the Village they were housed in there were a dozen or more languages around them, but it had seemed less confusing, somehow.\n\n\"They're Italian,\" Henry said, as though that was all that needed to be said.\n\n\"I think they're overrated.\" George sounded more like he was wishing that was true, rather than believing it. Their coach was worried; that was reason enough for them to take the other team seriously. \"You should worry about Hungary. Their boy, the captain, is damn good.\"\n\nRichard bit back a smirk. They were better than the Hungarians.\n\nGeorge paid for the drinks, and then nudged Henry with his elbow, indicating where a small table against the far wall had become available. It was only slightly less crowded than at the bar, but they'd be able to sit down and drink comfortably.\n\nGil saw them the moment they came in. He saw everyone; the quick pass of a gaze that had once sized up potential opponents, and now merely gauged, in an instant, if the newcomer was of interest or not. All too often the answer was 'not.'\n\nEven here, in this city filled with men\u2014and some women\u2014aching to make their mark on history, to achieve a fame and glory he once chased himself, he found little of interest walked through the doors. The usual assortment of sad drinkers and happy drinkers, hopeful drinkers and those who were resigned to there being nothing more than a momentary pause at the bottom of a glass; that was what came through his door.\n\nSomething made him hesitate when the three children came in.\n\nAmericans, from the language. Not part or parcel of the scribblers and scrawlers and social parasites who had overrun the city in recent years; these three were too healthy, practically alight with youth and vigor. Olympiads. Skinny but strong; not runners, the wrong build for that, and not swimmers ... swordsmen. Fencers.\n\nAn elegant sport, removed from its bloody origins but not so far as to make it bloodless. Gil approved. Men still died at the edge of a blade, even in mock-combat, and all the protection and training in the world did not remove that risk. Fencers knew what they held when they picked up their blades, even blunted and capped.\n\nBut why these three? Of all the would-be champions in Paris this summer, why these three to catch his eye, to pique his age-weary attention? He put down the glass he had been polishing, and drifted toward the front of the bar, even as they placed their order, the tallest of them speaking in execrable French.\n\nLike any good bartender, Gil could read his patrons. Over the millennia he had been trapped within the confines of this bar, he had honed that skill until it was almost uncanny, knowing what they desired, what they feared, what they needed.\n\nMost of the time it was merely a pause: for refreshment, for drowning their sorrows or speaking them, before they went back out into the world again. Gil's served them what they needed, and let them go. Sometimes they needed a fight, to get the blood moving and the spark of life relit within themselves. Gil himself obliged them, holding back his own considerable strength so that they felt they had a chance against the burly owner.\n\nSometimes, not often, they needed more. Sometimes they had _earned_ more, merely by being more than their fellows, having some spark of fire their fellows lacked, banked or slow-burning, waiting only the gift to make it bloom into open flame.\n\nWas one of these three such a man?\n\nGil watched as they moved to a smaller table, leaning their elbows against the zinc countertop with the nonchalance of men who were utterly comfortable with their bodies, but not to the point of vanity. Three men, but one sparked with more fire than the others, the faint halo of potential glory that had been given to Gil to see.\n\nSee ... and act upon. If he chose.\n\n\"Did you hear about Ignacio? Already threatening to fight a duel with everyone who looks at him sideways\"\n\n\"It's the women.\" The Olympic Committee had allowed females to compete in foil this year; an experiment. The United States had two women on their own team, although the males didn't have much to do with them, separated by chaperones and the knowledge that a single infraction could endanger the entire team. \"Having them around distracts him,\" George went on. \"Good for us, I say. Bastard's too good when he's focused, we can use all the help we can get.\"\n\nThey laughed, an arrogant sound of men who know that the only help they needed was within their own abilities.\n\n\"Enough fencing,\" Richard decided. \"I'm bored of talking about nothing but fencing.\" It was all they had discussed on the voyage over, endless hours at sea filled with practice and theory, discussing their possible opponents, and wondering who they would face.\n\n\"What would you prefer we talk about? Women?\" Henry shook that idea off. \"I haven't been near one since we were picked for the team, and I know that you haven't either. And I don't think that's going to change tonight, even for George. Finance? Politics? No thanks. Time enough for that when I am back home, facing nothing but meetings and ledgers.\" Henry was the son of a banker, and it was understood that he would follow his father into the industry, once the Games were done.\n\n\"You love it.\" George said, his eye caught on a lively bird who was, sadly, on the arm of another man. George's father was a well-to-do businessman as well, but George had claimed no desire to take his turn as a Captain of Industry. Fencing was everything to him; he lived and breathed it\u2014except when he was chasing after women, anyway. The others called him Casanova, not without some envy.\n\n\"I do,\" Henry admitted ruefully, smiling. \"It's almost like fencing, the move and countermove, touch and point. Only when you win, you earn potloads of money, in addition to a shiny medal.\"\n\nThe woman passed by them, and gave George a sly smile, then was gone before he had a chance to make a fool out of himself.\n\n\"I'm not bailing you out if you get your hat handed to you over another woman,\" Richard said, not entirely joking. \"That will be harder to explain, come morning, than a simple headache from overindulgences.\"\n\n\"You don't know what you're missing, old man,\" George said, but let the woman disappear into the crowd, and raised his glass to the others in toast. Richard smiled, and raised his as well, clinking the rim lightly against theirs before taking the first sip. The concoction was a pale orange, and tangy-sweet with a bitter kick at the back of the throat, and he could feel the alcohol start to work swiftly, bringing him a sort of calmness that had been rare ever since he was selected for the team, and the fuss had begun.\n\nHenry was right. There wasn't anything except fencing to talk about. That was all that mattered, while they were here. The rest of the world would wait, while they claimed their gold.\n\n\"I'm not going into my old man's business,\" George said suddenly, his drink halfway gone already. \"I'm going into the Army.\"\n\n\"What?\" That was new, and unexpected.\n\nThe other man shrugged, trying to make his admission into a minor thing. \"Makes as much sense as going into business. There's going to be another war. Everyone knows it. If I join now, I'll be in a position to give orders, not take them by the time action starts. Not for me, foxholes and gas masks for breakfast.\"\n\nRichard looked around, cautiously, to see if anyone had overheard, or taken offense. Americans had suffered in the Great War, but the Continent had seen far worse. Paris might seem filled with life and laughter now\u2014but it had not been that long ago that all Europe felt the shadow of the Huns and their allies. The thought that it could come again....\n\nHis cousin had been in the Army, and not come home. Another war, it might well be him.\n\nRichard took another sip of his drink, as though to wash away that thought. \"The silver won't get you far,\" he joked, instead. \"You'll need to show them the gold, to jump over other officers.\"\n\n\"Damn straight,\" Henry said. \"I'm not here to bring home silver or, God help us, bronze.\" He raised his glass again. \"To glory\u2014in sport, in war, and in the almighty dollar!\"\n\nThey clinked again, and drank. This time the booze went down cool and smooth, without any bitterness at all. Richard thought that he could get to like this Frenchy drink, whatever it was called. Maybe they could bring it back to New York, make it a sensation.\n\nA man at the table next to them overheard them speaking. \" _Vous \u00eates aux Olympias, non?\"_\n\n_\"Oui, nous sommes,\"_ Henry said. \" _Suis Americain._ We are here to compete in the Fencing events _. \u00c9p\u00e9e.\"_\n\n\"Ah,\" the stranger said, seemingly delighted. He was their own age, but heavyset, with a hooked nose and slicked-back hair, dressed casually in an open-necked shirt, with a thin brown cigarette held carelessly between two stained fingers, emitting a strong, almost fruit-like smell. \"American! Many Americans in Paris these days.\" His English was heavily accented, but understandable. \"Perhaps you too will stay, after you lose in horrible defeat to the French team.\"\n\n\"Bah,\" Henry treated that suggestion with the scorn it deserved. \"We will trounce your team, and leave them crying for the bronze.\"\n\nThe man laughed, and offered his hand. \"I am Jacques.\"\n\n\"Henry, George, and that's Richard,\" their captain said, taking the offered hand and shaking it firmly.\n\nSuddenly they had gone from being three alone to part of a larger group, the bar opening up somehow and voices surrounding them in raucous good humor, a constant stream in two different languages. All men; none of the bright, flirtatious women they had seen at the other bars, but a rougher, more familiar camaraderie.\n\nGeorge and Henry took it all in stride, accepting offers of drinks, exchanging toasts and letting the locals practice their English\u2014so much better than the Americans' French\u2014on them. Only Richard felt adrift, the calm of earlier fading away, even as his glass was taken away and refilled. The boasting, taunting tone of the conversation began to chafe him, making him impatient rather than amused.\n\nHe rose, excusing himself, and headed for the toilet. When he returned, his place at the table had been taken by someone else, who was finishing his drink.\n\nThere was a flush of annoyance; that was _his!_ Then, shaking his head, amused despite himself, Richard went toward the bar to order another.\n\nHalfway there, he noticed that the bartender who had served them the first time was gone, replaced by a much larger man, broad-shouldered and tall, with black curls and a close-trimmed beard covering a square chin. Richard read him quickly, the way he would an opponent, and decided to go with English rather than French to avoid any possibility of offending the man with a poorly-chosen word.\n\nBefore he could say anything, a scuffle erupted from the depths of the bar.\n\n_\"T'as une cervelle d'un mammouth congel\u00e9!\"_ The deep-throated shout rose through the hum of the crowd, and Richard felt his reflexes kick in, dropping into a defensive posture even as he tried to find where the angry shout had come from, just in time to see two men in dark pullovers stagger at each other, clearly intoxicated.\n\n_\"Et toi, t'as des couilles d'un lapin,_ \" the man on Richard's left spat, holding up his fists in a classic pugilistic move, obviously challenging the other man to follow his words with action.\n\nQueensbury rules were clearly not in order, here. A sloppy roundhouse punch from one actually, through some miracle of God, managed to land on the other's jaw, and he staggered back into the crowd, who shoved him back toward his opponent. Neither man looked to be under forty, but they were still well-muscled, and determined to do damage.\n\n_\"Assez!\"_\n\nThe shout came from the bar behind Richard, a deep, booming voice, and it was as though the voice of God Himself had come down on the two. Their arms dropped, and they stared at each other with the blinking, slightly dazed look of men who had just been doused with cold water.\n\nAnd as quickly as it began, the fight was over, the two men grinning stupidly at each other, the crowd going back to its previous discussions, leaving a careful bit of space around the two in case they decided to start up again, but otherwise ignoring them.\n\nRichard found himself shaken as much from the abrupt end to the fight as the suddenness and close violence of it. The bar had settled back into the same low buzz as before, once the offenders had been settled, and when Richard craned his neck to see over the crowd, even Henry and George seemed to forget about it entirely, talking happily with their new companions. Richard tried to make his muscles relax, to imitate their seeming nonchalance. It had only been a scuffle, nothing he hadn't seen before\u2014hell, he'd been involved in one or two himself, in college. Somehow, in this place, it seemed so much more . . . brutal.\n\nHe shook his head, and turned away, intent on getting another drink.\n\nThe new bartender watched him approach, his gaze unnervingly intent, enough that Richard felt the urge to look behind him, to see who this man was staring at.\n\n_\"Bon soir._ What can I get you?\"\n\nSomething about the man's voice, his expression, made Richard suspect it was a loaded question, something being asked beneath the words that he wasn't swift enough to hear.\n\n_\"Bon soir_. I would like, ah....\" What were they called, again? \"A sidecar?\"\n\nThe bartender nodded, reaching overhead for a clean glass. \"You are American.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He felt the urge to apologize. \"Is my accent that terrible?\"\n\n\"It could use some work,\" the man said, and his face eased a little, no longer holding such a still intensity. \"The trick is to relax. And have another drink. We are all multilingual when we are in our cups.\"\n\n\"You . . . aren't French?\" The other man sounded British, there, or German, but that was unlikely, even years after the end of the Great War.\n\n\"No,\" the barkeep admitted, leaning forward, a confiding pose, one old friend to another. \"My home is nowhere you would ever have heard of. But I have traveled. ...\"\n\nIn fact, Gil had not left the confines of the bar\u2014was not able to leave the confines of the bar\u2014in too many centuries to count. All he knew of the world was what came through these doors, carried by voices and newspapers. But he knew a great deal about men, and dreams. And hunger.\n\nThe boy handled himself well, when startled by the fight, when accosted by strangers. Dark haired, dark-eyed, younger than the other two he had come in with, although it might be less years and more a lack of experience. He was not hard yet, for all his toughness.\n\nIn that moment, Gil decided.\n\nThe new bartender fussed with the bottles, and then poured him another drink, not the sidecar he had ordered but something different, mixing it with a flourish, like a magician. Richard thought about protesting, but didn't trust his French, or the bartender's mood, enough to risk it. The bartender pushed the drink across the bar, accepting the coins Richard pushed back at him with smooth motions that reminded Richard of the second crossing of blades, where you think you have your opponent's measure, but want to make sure before you ventured anything tricky\n\n\"I've never gone anywhere,\" Richard admitted, not sure why he was telling this man anything except . . . that was what you did with bartenders? He took a sip of the drink, and nodded in approval. It was much better than the sidecar. \"I mean, I've traveled across the States, of course. I'm from Chicago, in the Midwest, and I've been to Boston and New York, and Pittsburgh, and. . . .\" The names of the cities were only that to the bartender, he realized, somewhat taken aback. 'American' was all he knew, and all he saw. \"But well, that's all home. We speak the same language, mostly, except for slang and such.\"\n\n\"But among your fellows, these Olympiads, there is . . . fraternity?\"\n\nRichard considered the question, taking another sip of his drink to give himself time. It was much stronger than the first one, too, or maybe he was feeling it, suddenly. \"Yes,\" he said. \" _Oui_ , there is ... fraternity.\" He liked the word, the more he thought of it. \"We are all here for the same purpose; we've been working for years to reach this point, and even though there is competition, there is also a bond in knowing that we want the same thing.\"\n\n\"Do you?\"\n\nThe bartender's eyes were an odd shade, a green that was closer to seawater than grass or stone, stormy and changeable and oddly compelling.\n\n\"Of course.\" Richard let out a laugh, fiddling with his cuff a little, to avoid that gaze. \"We all want the gold.\"\n\n\"Ah, _oui,_ all want to win.\" The bartender nodded as though that were self-evident, and Richard in fact felt foolish for having said it, like the greenie the others teased him for being, younger and less sophisticated. Of course they all wanted to win.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nWhy? The question was like the roundhouse punch, throwing Richard into blinking silence for an instant. \"Winning . . . it means that you are the best. Proving yourself against the rest of the best. It's a thing to bring home, to hang on the mantle, or on an office wall, to show that you've proven yourself. 'Ah, Dicky, he's been with us for ten years, since he took the gold for the States, you must remember. . . .' \" Richard managed to do a credible imitation of Henry imitating his father the banker, although there was no way the bartender could know that.\n\n\"Ah. Glory, to build the reputation, make others fear you, respect your ability ... that is a fine goal for a man.\"\n\nIt sounded grand, when the bartender said it, not silly at all. Richard turned the glass around, watching the condensation on the bartop fade and dry up, only to be replaced by new rings as he moved the glass. His mouth was dry, and he took another sip.\n\n\"Hey, Dick!\" George was calling to him, and he turned, waving a hand to indicate that he would return soon. The stranger was still in his seat, however, and an odd bitterness rose in his throat.\n\n\"Glory. Fame. Fraternity. It's all fleeting, isn't it?\" Even a name on a medal was fleeting; eventually people would stop looking at it. Someone else would win another, the way someone had taken his chair.\n\n\"All life is fleeting,\" the bartender said, but there was a weight to his words that made Richard frown again, aware that he'd missed something unsaid. This second drink was much stronger than the first; his head felt muzzy and his eyesight seemed almost blurred, as though he'd been drinking all night, and not just this brief time.\n\n\"There has to be something in life that lasts, that matters,\" he protested, not quite sure why\u2014or what\u2014he was arguing. \"And not the way the pastor claims, glory in the hereafter, either.\"\n\n\"Bah. There is nothing.\" The man to his left had terribly accented English, but he seemed to understand enough to have followed their discussion. \"We are born, we sweat, we are for the worms.\"\n\nThe bartender held Richard's gaze, and the American could not look away. \" _Jacques, arr\u00eater de causer, t'es un vieux fou._ You make despair a religion, you.\"\n\n\"Bah.\" But the old man went back to his own thoughts, his weathered, whiskered face scowling down into his drink.\n\n\"At least, in feeding worms, we live again?\" Richard said, attempting to smile, unsure why the words had shaken him so. The bartender\u2014the owner, Richard suddenly realized\u2014scowled at the old man, as though he would take up the argument again, with Richard, were they alone.\n\n\"Dicky!\" George came over, a little unsteady on his feet, and slung his arm across Richard's shoulders, startling him from any further rejoinder he might have made. \"You're being anti-social again, chum. What's eating at you?\"\n\nGeorge had an edge to his voice, and Richard wondered if he looked or sounded as half-under as his teammate. How long had they been there? It seemed as though they'd just arrived, and yet he felt as though he had been talking to the bartender for hours. The occasional gin taken in a speakeasy never had this effect on him\u2014what had the bartender put in this drink? Or was it the air in here, the pungent smell of the butts these Frenchies smoked, harsher and more aromatic than cigarettes sold back home, until the air was practically blue with it? Richard shook his head, as much to clear his thoughts as to answer them. But George took it the wrong way.\n\n\"Come on, old man. You need a keeper, get you home safe so the coach doesn't have a strip of hide off us in the morning. Don't drink alone, it's not good for you.\"\n\nIt was easier to give in, go back and rejoin the group. They would make room for him, shove the interloper out of his seat or find him another one. He was just letting nerves nibble on him, was all. Once things got started he'd have his focus back, his eye on the gold, and everything would make sense again.\n\nThat was what they'd worked for, why they'd come here. To go home known as the best, the very best. Anything less was unthinkable.\n\n\"Knowing what you want,\" the bartender said, speaking, it seemed, only to Richard, his shagged-curled head leaning in close, his voice pitched to carry through the endless murmur of noise. \"Being very sure of what you want. _C'est ce qui compte._ That's the trick.\"\n\n\"Trick to what?\" His tongue felt thick, his skin feverish.\n\n\"To getting it. To living with it, once you have it.\"\n\nIt seemed as thought the bartender was waiting for him to respond. What did he want? He wanted to win the gold, of course. He would accept silver, or even bronze, but it was important to bring home a medal, to show everyone back home what they could do, to represent the United States against the other nations....\n\nBut what did he truly want? After the bouts were done and the excitement and strangeness of it all faded away ... what did he want then? It seemed impossible to think that far. The moment was now, the now was the moment. After that would come war, George was right; even though nobody talked about it, everyone knew it.\n\nGlory. Honor. Pride. A shiny gold medal hung on the wall in some office, or over the mantle, and the memory of soldiers just come home from war, their faces gaunt, butts held in shaking hands as they told stories that didn't tell the real story. Eyes that were too intent on something you couldn't quite see, or looked at nothing at all, even when they looked right at you. Richard had seen the soldiers come home, not the generals or the heroes, but the boys who'd gone and bled and made it home not entirely whole. His friends could talk about being officers, but there was something in Richard that shied away from the thought of giving orders that sent men to such a fate.\n\nGiven a choice, he would choose to sleep at night, to wake anticipating the day, not dreading it.\n\n\"So be it,\" the bartender said, softly, sounding almost pleased. Then, louder: \"Drink up, young Olympiad. Drink up, and face your destiny!\"\n\nThere was no gold for the team that year. No silver or bronze. The Games ended, Richard went home, and hung his favorite _\u00e9p\u00e9e_ on the wall. He went to war, and came home and got married. Taught high school, and raised two daughters. Saw them grow up and get married, and held his grandchildren when they were born. All those years, the _\u00e9p\u00e9e_ hung on the wall, and he would touch it, every now and then, as he passed by. And when his wife died at the age of 79, two months after he had been diagnosed with lung cancer the doctors could do nothing about, he held her hand as she breathed her last, remembered the despairing words of a drunk old man in a bar in Paris of 1924, and his expression was one not of bitterness or regret, but content.\n**STEADY HANDS AND A HEART OF OAK**\n\n_Ian Tregillis_\n\n**I** N November of 1940, the average life expectancy of a sapper in His Majesty's Royal Engineers was six weeks. Reggie Brooks had been on the job eight weeks and three days when the Jerries lobbed a 1500-pounder onto Guy's Hospital in Southwark, in the shadow of London Bridge.\n\nThe bomb had crashed through three floors before coming to rest beneath the foundation, where it lay quiet and malignant as cancer. From his vantage point wedged beside the iron eggshell of unexploded ordnance, Reg glimpsed a patch of sky far overhead. An azure circle shone through the clean round hole punched neat-as-you-please by the bomb's passage through the hospital.\n\nHe lay on a tarpaulin over a pile of broken timbers, legs wrapped around the nose of the bomb. It had come to rest at an angle, leaving just enough room for Reg and his kit. A stabilization fin dug into his shoulder. The bomb case still retained a bit of warmth left over from atmospheric friction, but not enough to thaw the sheen of hoarfrost over the pit in Reg's stomach.\n\nWas this the one? Would he snuff it on his last job? Would this crater become his grave?\n\nIt would be a closed-casket service, of course.\n\nHe caressed the bomb with trembling fingertips, tracing the curve of the shell like the small of a woman's back. But instead of the buttons and latch-hooks on Sybil's dress, he fumbled for the sharp corners of steel bolts, harder and smaller than a schoolgirl's nipples, that would give him access to the bomb's deepest intimacies. He counted eight bolts arranged like the crosses on the Union Jack. Felt a rough weld along one seam.\n\nReg whispered into a glass funnel affixed to a length of garden hose. \"Looks like a Dietrich,\" he said.\n\nThe hose snaked from the crater, through the wreckage, past red and white barricades (DANGER: UNEXPLODED BOMB) to the other sappers waiting anxiously outside the blast radius thirty yards away. Every model had a nickname; this was a Dietrich, after Marlene, because the bomb, just like the bint, could seduce you, make you think she was easy.\n\nEase could be a trap. God knew Sybil had been easy enough.\n\n\"That's good news, Reg,\" said Captain Hollister. Holly led the 246 Field Company, Royal Engineers, Third Division.\n\n\"Right,\" Reg said. \"Got my number three spanner, taking it to the aft-most bolt.\" Somewhere up top one of his mates recorded this, documenting each step in the procedure. A formality in the case of a Dietrich, but still absolutely necessary.\n\nSappers learned the ins and outs of each model by trial and error. Hence the shortened life expectancy. Sometimes a bomb didn't go off because it was a rum fish\u2014a dud. But sometimes a bomb didn't go off because it was booby-trapped: based on a familiar model, but designed to blow when some poor bastard tried to disarm it. This was a good method for killing sappers. Also, sprinkling unexploded bombs around the city disrupted civilian life long after the all-clear sounded. The UXB was a tool for spreading terror. Bloody Jerries.\n\nQuivering hands caused Reg's spanner to jitter around the bolt, rapping and tapping against the bomb like bursts of Morse, telegraphing his fear to the outside world. He took a slow deep breath to settle his nerves. And realized the smell was off. Mud, yes. Shattered brick and plaster dust, yes. The sharp odor of sweat trickling from his armpits, yes. But there was something else.\n\nReg took another whiff. It left his head spinning and his vision blurred. But there, beneath the stink of his own terror: the cloying scent of diethyl ether.\n\nIn an instant, he realized what had happened. The Dietrich had smashed through a surgical theater on its way down, shattering the cabinet where the nurses stored vials of anesthetic. Invisible ether fumes, heavier than air, were cascading into the crater. He lay in a cloud of it.\n\n_Marlene, you backstabbing bitch._\n\nHe had to work quickly, before the fumes overwhelmed him. Reg pressed the funnel to his mouth and sucked down a lungful of relatively clean air from up above. It tasted of tobacco; Holly always smoked when he had a man down-hole. The hose stuck to Reg's fingers. Ether had a nasty tendency to break down rubber and plastic. Those same corrosive tendrils would soon work their way inside the bomb casing and play merry hob with the wiring.\n\nHe relayed the problem up top. In moments he heard the crackle of glass beneath work boots as a few mates quickly located and cleared away the chemicals. Nothing they could do about the fumes in the crater, though.\n\nBolts one, two, three, and four came out easy. Five and six were a bit stubborn. Seven fought back. And number eight wouldn't budge.\n\nAnd wasn't that just like a bint. Sometimes a girl started out easy at first, but refused to let go. Why couldn't Sybil take a hint and shove off? If he kept having it off with girls on the side, that only served her right.\n\nShe said they needed to have a talk, but he knew what that was about. He wouldn't let himself get cornered. His mum had done that to his dad, and look how that turned out.\n\nReg sucked on the hose again, held his breath, gave the bolt another tug. Nothing. A dent in the access plate had pulled the bolt out of true.\n\nHe fought off a dizzy spell, and struggled to clear his mind. Reg pressed his forehead against the bomb. He imagined his awareness expanding through the casing, and tried to picture the state of affairs. The Dietrich's dark innards took shape in his mind's eye, like the pieces of an elaborate puzzle. If he loosened the last bolt, the release of tension in the dented plate would tip it inward about half an inch. Just far enough to brush the altimeter cable. The ether fumes had been working on that same cable for several minutes now; the insulation would be wearing thin. Reg looked deeper.... No, the battery hadn't been dislodged by the hard landing.... The cable was live. Contact with the plate would cause a short. And that would trigger the detonators.\n\nSevering that cable would render the bomb inert. Only problem, the Dietrich was a mess of wires. Hit the wrong one and . . . closed casket. Reg fished out his pocketknife. The exertion left him light-headed. The patch of blue sky above swirled and sparkled like a kaleidoscope.\n\n\"Plate's stuck,\" he wheezed, tasting rubber and cigarettes. His lips tingled. \"Gotta cut. The altimeter.\"\n\nUrgent murmuring on the other end. Then Peter's voice echoed down the hose: \"Reg! Stop! You're not thinking clearly. That's not how you do a Dietrich!\"\n\nReg pushed his knife blade into the gap. Gently. Met resistance. Pictured it: no, not there. Slid it backward. Deeper now. Nice and easy, just like Sybil's first time. There, something caught. That had to be it. In his mind's eye, the blade rested square on the offending cable.\n\nHe thought a quick prayer. _Lord, I'll never cheat on Sybil again._ But he knew he couldn't keep that promise. _I'll give Sybil what she wants. I'll buy her a ring. I'll take care of her. Don't let me die here._\n\nHis hand had gone numb. Reg had to reach around and hold the knife with two hands. They were both numb.\n\nHe counted. One. Two\u2014\n\nThe severed cable twanged apart.\n\nLike a dented access plate, the tension came out of Reg in one go. A moist chill dampened his shirt throughand-through. He took up the hose again, fumbled it with sweat-slick fingers. The tingle spread from his lips to his face, neck, chest, arms. The crater started to spin. He could barely hold the hose.\n\n\"'Sclear,\" he mumbled.\n\nThe last thing he did before passing out was try to check his boilersuit for a damp stain. No self-respecting shop girl would bed a fellow who pissed himself. But the anesthetic overwhelmed him before he could find out.\n\nHe awoke in a part of Guy's that hadn't taken a Luftwaffe calling card through the ceiling. Pain had brought him round; his shoulders felt as though they'd been pulled within a wire's width of dislocation. A cool draft tickled him, and he realized his shirt was torn under the arms. Felt like he had some rope burn there, too. The other men of the 246 must have hauled him out on a harness.\n\n\"Terrific work, Reg.\" Holly's voice.\n\nReg tried to sit up. Wobbled. Heaved. His breakfast\u2014reconstituted egg and the last pieces of his week's bacon ration\u2014became a puddle between his feet.\n\n\"That's the ether wearing off,\" said Holly. \"Quacks should be around in a few.\"\n\nThe room teetered to a halt, more or less. Reg chanced a gentle shake of his head. \"They get it? The Dietrich?\"\n\nAs if to demonstrate the foolishness of his question, a hoist creaked and a chain rattled somewhere down the corridor. Peter yelled, \"Ho! Easy, lads!\"\n\nReg hopped to his feet. Holly caught him when he stumbled. They went outside to where the other engineers of 246 Company had just finished transferring the Dietrich from a gurney to a flatbed lorry. They'd done the final bolt and pulled out the access panel. A mess of wires and cables spilled out like a drawn man's entrails. The thickest one, deep in the rats' nest, was cut clean in two. It was exactly what Reg had pictured.\n\nDoyle stood to the side, staring at the defanged bomb. He'd been transferred from another field company where he'd spent the first part of the war on a comfortable stint building citadels and bunkers for Whitehall and the Admiralty. Poor sod. He was too new to be useful, so the others had brushed him aside while they loaded the bomb. He was also too new to hide the way he kept well away from the Dietrich, and to hide the expression on his face when he saw its tangled innards.\n\nHe walked over to Reg, lifted his helmet, ran a hand through the black bristles on his scalp. His breath steamed in the cold sunlight.\n\nDoyle swallowed. He tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice broke when he asked, \"How'd you know it was a ringer?\"\n\n\"I got lucky.\" A lie, but Reg was feeling smug. What a way to go out. His final job was already the stuff of sapper lore. Not bad for a kid who left home at fourteen.\n\n\"Reg has the Sight,\" said Peter. He lashed a tarpaulin, the same one Reg had lain upon, over the bomb. He jumped down and pounded his fist on a side panel. The lorry lurched into gear, leaving them coughing in a cloud of diesel exhaust. It pulled past the other sappers already at work dismantling the barricades. The crowd of onlookers gave a small cheer before beginning to disperse.\n\n\"The Sight?\" Doyle asked. \"What's that?\"\n\n\"It's why you should stick close to Reg,\" said Peter. \"Do that and you'll be right as rain.\"\n\nReg said to him, \"Why don't you shut it?\"\n\nPeter wasn't far off. Reg didn't think of it in such mystical terms, but the fact of the matter was he did have a knack for seeing how things worked. If he could see something, or lay his hands on something, sooner or later he'd get a picture of how it went together. How it worked.\n\nUntil the war, Reg had only used it to talk women horizontal. After all, that was just another puzzle wanting a solution. You just had to see how all the pieces fit together: your words and her desires, her body language and your interests. The proper sequence of events led to an inevitable result, like chemical reactions within a fuse.\n\nSometimes he was too good at it. But maybe Sybil would give up if she caught him in the act with another girl. Marry her? He'd rather die.\n\nThe first time he'd gone down hole, during a cold September rain to grapple with a Lynn that had cratered West Ferry Road near the docks, Reg realized the same knack he had for knowing how to undress a bird could also save his life. Thing of it was, he never knew until it was all said and done. The Sight had a limited scope. A few feet, a few minutes.\n\nBut Peter needed to keep his mouth shut. However the Sight worked, it was Reg's gift. His alone.\n\nThe captain didn't miss a trick. He heard the edge in Reg's voice. \"I'd buy you a pint,\" he said, clapping Reg on the shoulder. \"But the quacks said you should go easy.\"\n\n\"I can handle a pint if it's free,\" said Reg.\n\nHe was finished risking his life. He'd put in his time, and now he was done with the dangerous work. Time to move up the ladder a bit. He reckoned that's why Captain Hollister wanted to have a chat.\n\n\"You lot,\" Holly called, \"finish that Dietrich. Meet us at the Bull when it's locked down.\"\n\nReg rode with the captain. Holly used his own car on the job because many sapper units still didn't have their own vehicles. At least now they had a lorry; most sappers had to catch rides with civilians. Reg didn't mind. Month back or so, on his way to a job, he'd met a nice bird whose husband worked on a merchant ship in the North Atlantic. Poor sod was gone for weeks at a time.\n\n246 Company worked out of Bermondsey, which, thanks to the docks and warehouses, had suffered worse than many neighborhoods under the Luftwaffe's affections. The city had become a patchwork of order and chaos. Some streets looked perfectly normal, as though there wasn't a war on. Other places were nothing but piles of rubble. Spots where the shattered brick and timbers had been cleared away left gaps in the city as conspicuous as a broken incisor on a pageant queen's smile. Here and there, a lone chimney or part of a wall towered over the wreckage, etched with curlicues of dust and soot.\n\n\"Doyle's looking a bit green,\" said Holly.\n\n\"Can't say I noticed,\" Reg lied.\n\n\"He isn't ready.\"\n\n\"Either he'll get ready, or the Jerries will take him off your hands quick enough.\"\n\nHolly parked in front of a chemist's shop, just up the street from 246 Company HQ. He said, \"And how many others along with him?\"\n\n\"That's why we evacuate.\"\n\nHolly pounded his fist on the fascia. \"Enough, Reg. I'm not sending him in yet. That means we're short and I'm begging you to stay on.\"\n\n\"Like hell I will. Sapper teams are _always_ down a man or two.\"\n\nHolly stepped from the car. Reg followed. Long streamers of spongy cloth had been strewn across the road. Reg recognized the tattered shreds of a barrage balloon.\n\nNobody Reg knew could remember seeing or hearing of the Sword and Bull prior to a few months ago. Yet the pub was clearly old, as evidenced by the weathered oak sign swinging above the door. The carving depicted a bull cracking the earth beneath its hooves, a sword thrust between its shoulders. The paint had long ago flaked away except where it covered the horns and hooves of the rampant bull. They glittered like gold in the late autumn sunlight.\n\nThe two men studied the pub with the same quiet deliberation they gave a fresh bomb crater. Somebody had chalked a note on the front door: _Plenty of beer, bottle and draught_.\n\nHolly nodded at the pub. \"Let's give it a try.\"\n\n\"I still want that pint,\" said Reg.\n\nWhen Holly opened the door, Reg might have sworn he caught a whiff of something humid, like a river. But they were a solid mile from the Thames, and it never smelled that clean. He shook his head, tried to clear the last remnants of ether playing with his senses. The pub itself was dark compared to the unusually bright winter day outside. It took a moment for Reg's eyes to adjust.\n\nHe took an immediate dislike to the place: it had no snug. Reg preferred a bit of privacy once he got serious about chatting up a bird. And the hearth had no fire, only cold ashes. As public houses went, it wasn't impressive.\n\nThe barkeep was a bloody giant. Easily twenty stone if he weighed a pound, yet tall enough to wear it well. He wore his long, coal-black beard in braids, and his skin was dusky bronze. His eyes, lighter than the surrounding shadows, glimmered in the half light like twinned opals.\n\nHolly said, \"Two pints of your best bitters!\"\n\nThe mountain behind the bar said, \"The best is also my only bitters.\"\n\nHis voice rumbled like a dormant volcano tossing in its sleep. And it carried an odd lilt, like the faint suggestion of foreign lands. Reg couldn't place it.\n\n\"That'll do.\"\n\nWhen the barkeep turned his back to fetch a pair of glasses, Holly gestured at his bare chin. \"Reckon he's a Celt?\" he asked, _sotto voce_.\n\nReg shrugged. \"I reckon he's a tough bastard.\"\n\nThe captain introduced himself and Reg.\n\n\"Gil,\" said the barkeep. He put two pint glasses on the bar. As he filled the second, he said, \"Little early in the day for men in uniform.\"\n\n\"Oh, we've already been hard at work,\" said Reg. By now the life-and-death rush of adrenaline had evaporated, leaving him hollow and windblown. He'd come damn close to snuffing it, and the realization had transmuted his terror to giddiness. He downed a hefty portion of his pint.\n\nGil took a towel from the brass rail behind the bar, flipped it over his shoulder, and set to work rinsing glasses under a water tap. \"What work is that?\"\n\nReg wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. \"Me? I work miracles, mate.\"\n\n\"I've seen miracles.\"\n\nHolly clasped Reg by the shoulder. To Gil, he said, \"Reg here is a bloody magician, he is.\"\n\n\"I've seen that, too,\" said Gil. He almost sounded serious. A very strange fellow.\n\n\"Best goddamned sapper there ever was,\" said Holly.\n\nGil cocked an eyebrow. \"Sapper?\" He said it without letting his attention stray from the glass in his hands, as though merely making conversation in the centuries-old tradition of barkeeps everywhere.\n\nHolly said, \"Yeah, sappers. Royal Engineers, mate.\" Gil let the silence speak for him. Didn't even shake his head. \"Unexploded ordnance?\" More silence. \"The _Blitz_?\"\n\n\"Ah. That.\" Gil gave the glass one final pass with the towel before stowing it under the bar. He pulled out another, inspected it in the half light. \"Seen wars, too.\"\n\nGiddiness and ale together became a witch's potion that left Reg feeling indignant. Sapper crews would be talking for years to come about what he'd accomplished today. He wouldn't tolerate some outsider shrugging it off.\n\n\"Hey!\" He leaned across the bar to grab Gil by the arm. \"We're fighting a war! Pikers like you need to pay attention to what's happening out there.\"\n\nGil looked at the hand on his forearm, and then slowly looked up to stare at Reg. Again, he didn't say anything. But his eyes, those gray-green opals, bored into him. It didn't take the Sight to see there was no winning a fight with Gil. Reg yanked his hand away.\n\n\"I meant it about you being the best,\" said Holly. \"Which is why I'm begging you to stay on. Just a bit longer before I put you in for promotion. Please.\"\n\n\"I've already stayed on for you. I've done my bit, and now you owe me.\"\n\n\"Does Britain owe you, too? The king?\"\n\nReg could tell from the way Gil assiduously avoided them that he was taking in every word. He might have looked bored by it all, but the tosser was listening. Reg hated arguing in front of the barman. But argue they did, through their first pints, and their second.\n\nHolly wouldn't ease up. He kept dogging Reg until finally Reg said, \"Sod off! I've done my bit, and that's final. Promotion or none, I'm not going down hole again.\"\n\nHe left Holly at the bar, and took up a game of darts. _Thock._ Who the hell did Holly think he was, anyway? Who did he think Reg was? _Thock._ Selfish git, treating Reg like that. _Clack._ The next dart missed its mark, bounced off the wall, and skittered across the floorboards.\n\nThe afternoon wore on. More folks wandered into the pub on their way home from work. The after-work crowd kept Gil busy; he ran the place by himself. The men from 246 Company arrived about an hour before sundown, their catch from the hospital safely disassembled. Doyle tried again to ask Reg how he'd known what to do, but Reg was too busy describing his exploits to a pair of tittering shop girls.\n\nHolly kept to the bar, looking hurt. Peter joined him. They seemed to get on well enough with Gil. Reg caught bits and pieces of their conversation, and at one point thought he heard Peter carrying on about the Sight again, but by that point Reg had the shop girls in his thrall and thus was more concerned with choosing between them for a cozy overnight than with Peter's rumormongering.\n\nAt sundown, Peter helped Gil pull curtains over the windows. The barkeep might not have paid the war much heed, but at least he obeyed the blackout regulations.\n\nThe evening crowd brought the pub to life. Doyle and Holly played darts. Their hoots and calls melded with the din of laughter and conversation, and the occasional rattle of the flue as a gust of wind eddied down the chimney. Knowing their services would likely be needed in the morning, the sappers cleared out early. They waved goodbye to Reg. All but Holly.\n\nReg was returning to the bar to fetch two more pints, and had just decided that he'd take the ginger-haired girl home rather than the brunette, when Gil cleared his throat and nodded at the door. Reg turned.\n\nSybil stood in the doorway. She'd come straight from work and still wore her frumpy Wren uniform. It wasn't flattering. She scanned the room while unwrapping her muffler. Her horsey face cracked into a wide, desperate smile when she glimpsed Reg. He sighed.\n\nShe crossed the pub and flung herself on him. Her kiss clicked their teeth together. Reg's ribs creaked under the ferocity of her embrace. The shop girls saw everything.\n\n\"Hi, Syb,\" he managed.\n\n\"Oh, Reggie,\" she said, still clinging to him. \"I went down to the 246 and they said you were here. They told me what happened today. Thank God you weren't hurt. I don't know what I'd do.\"\n\nShe kissed him again. Then Sybil finally withdrew her claws and relinquished a generous half inch of personal space. But the damage was already done. The shop girls moved their chairs to put their backs to Reg.\n\nReg groaned inwardly. The ginger girl had freckles. He loved freckles.\n\nWhile Gil poured a drink for Sybil, she slipped her arm around Reg's elbow, deftly as a trout fisherman setting the hook. \"My Reggie is a true hero. Did you know that?\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" Gil's stare bored through him for the second time that afternoon. Reg couldn't decipher the strange look on his face. \"Haven't met many of those.\"\n\n\"He's got more courage than anybody,\" said Sybil.\n\nAn uncomfortable moment passed among the three of them. Reg couldn't bear to look at Gil. He couldn't stand to make eye contact with Sybil, and though he couldn't understand why, he also felt compelled to avoid his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Conversation ebbed and flowed around them. Nobody noticed the trio standing in their awkward little tide pool. Even Sybil seemed oblivious to it.\n\nReg was ready to turn on his heels and leave, and Sybil be damned, when Gil broke the painful silence. \"In that case,\" he said in that tooth-rattling rumble of a voice, \"he deserves a drink on the house.\"\n\n\"I think that's wonderful,\" said Sybil. She squeezed Reg's arm, grinned at him. He flinched away.\n\nGil fished a key ring from a pocket in his apron. He knelt behind the bar. A lock _clunked_ open. Gil stood again, one hand wrapped around the neck of an earthenware bottle, the other cupping a shot glass. The bottle had no label. A thick layer of dust turned the bright terra cotta a dull gray.\n\nWhat kind of spirits would a man keep in a clay bottle? Reg couldn't guess. But this was clearly special, wasn't it, and he damn well deserved special recognition.\n\nGil wrenched out the cork. Reg caught another whiff of the phantom river, distant and clean. He expected something dark, like red wine or even a port, but Gil dispensed a finger of clear liquid. The shot glass warmed Reg's fingertips. He took another sniff, but smelled nothing.\n\nHe nodded at Gil. Reg touched the warm glass to his lips and tossed the drink back in one go. It tasted like time, the ticking and tocking of millennia, and it burned like frostbite all the way down.\n\nGil's mystery drink was a damn sight stronger than it looked. It turned Reg outside-in, twisted things about, made it feel as though he were standing outside his own head, looking in. Like d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu without the pleasant bits.\n\nReg sat heavily on a bar stool. Sybil frowned. From somewhere far away she said, \"Reggie?\"\n\nBut he couldn't speak. Words carried too much weight. Every utterance he might have made became a cog in some vast machine, or one piece of an immense puzzle. Each choice of wording carried effects that rippled out like waves on a pond. It was as though the Sight had gone crazy, triggered by the slightest thought.\n\nThe banshee wail of air-raid sirens saved him from trying to answer. Reg never imagined he'd feel so grateful to the Luftwaffe.\n\nThe other patrons abandoned their drinks and their darts. They knew what to do; they'd endured dozens of raids since the Blitz had begun. Gil ushered everybody down a narrow flight of stairs to a cellar. Reg and Sybil went last. She had to help him down; he was too dizzy to walk on his own. The stairs shook underfoot in time to the _crump-crump-crump_ of a nearby antiaircraft battery.\n\nThey huddled in the cold and damp, alongside barrels of beer and shelves piled with sacks of onions, bunches of carrots, and tins of meat. A cast iron wood stove from the previous century huddled in the center of the cellar; wood had been stacked neatly along one wall. Which explained why the hearth up top had been empty.\n\nThe thunder of a distant explosion rattled the shelves. A coal scuttle in the corner gave off a faint latrine stink; it wasn't unusual to use such as makeshift privies during long raids. Reg glimpsed the corner of a clay tablet peeking from beneath a burlap potato sack. The tablet shared the same color and texture as Gil's bottle.\n\nIt almost made sense.... Everything Reg saw, smelled, felt, heard, and tasted was just one piece of the vast, ticking machine called London.\n\nGil built a fire. A handful of patrons sat in a semicircle around the stove, soaking up its heat. Reg kept to the corner, and the chill.\n\nSybil shivered. He pulled a blanket from a shelf. The scratchy wool smelled of mildew and onions.\n\nShe whispered, \"Reggie?\"\n\n\"What, Syb?\"\n\n\"I need to tell you something,\" she said.\n\n_\u2014Sybil in her grandmother's wedding dress. A church. Peter as best man\u2014_\n\nAnother explosion shook the earth and knocked him from his reverie. A tin of meat crashed to the floor and rolled toward the ginger shop girl.\n\nReg sighed. \"Can't it wait, Syb?\"\n\n_\u2014Put it off, the dress doesn't fit\u2014_\n\n\"I suppose.\" Her voice cracked.\n\nThe bombing got worse as the night dragged on. Reg wondered if there would be anything left of the pub by morning. Or 246 HQ, for that matter.\n\n_\u2014Reg commands his own group of sappers. . . . He doesn't mention the Sight.... Men die, trying to emulate him. . . . Sybil comes around, pushing a stroller\u2014_\n\nReg flinched.\n\nSybil snored with her head on his shoulder. He wanted to shrug her off, but the thought triggered the Sight again: _Sybil wakes. . . . Can't avoid it.... Long talk. . . . Wedding dress. . . . A baby cries. . . ._\n\nHe waited until the all-clear before waking Sybil. She peered up at him. Relief softened the weariness in her eyes. The skin beneath her eyes was dark and puffy, which made her look twice her age. She kissed him on the cheek with too-cool lips. He realized she'd chosen to sit beside him in the cold, damp corner all night long, rather than join the others by the stove.\n\nGuilt? What the hell was wrong with him?\n\n_\u2014Sybil wears him down until he relents ... .A baby traps them into a long miserable marriage\u2014_\n\nNo. Reg wouldn't get trapped. Why should he? _His_ father had been gone for months at a time, but Reg still turned out perfectly well.\n\nSybil asked, \"Time?\"\n\n\"Early morning,\" Reg said.\n\nShe shifted. Stretched. Nudged something with her foot. An onion rolled away. Scattered tins and vegetables littered the floor. Sybil shuddered at the sight of the toppled shelves.\n\nReg stood. \"I'll take you home.\" He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.\n\nThey went upstairs, to where the day had dawned under a leaden-gray sky. They found Gil sweeping up broken glass. A bomb\u2014big one, by the look of it\u2014had ripped through the chemist's across the road. The impact had broken Gil's windows and knocked pint glasses from the bar. But the bomb must have been a rum fish. Otherwise, they'd still be waiting for rescue men to dig them out of the pub cellar.\n\nCaptain Hollister studied the crater. Doyle strode into the wreckage with a ladder over his shoulder while Peter unfurled a coil of garden hose. They hadn't come to collect him; that meant the captain was honoring Reg's promotion. Reg wondered who Holly would send down.\n\nHe felt Gil's stare piercing the back of his skull. \"Come on,\" he said, and tugged at Sybil's hand. They picked a path through the rubble.\n\nPeter saw them. He'd lost a bit of color. \"Hi, Syb.\" He nodded toward the cratered chemist's shop, and spoke a bit too quickly. Must have been his turn to go down hole. \"I guess your promotion came through just in time, Reg.\"\n\nSybil squeezed Reg's hand. A flash of relief broke through the fear and weariness on her face. \"That's brilliant! Why didn't you tell me? I'm so proud of you.\"\n\nHolly retreated from the crater with Doyle in tow. Doyle asked, \"A Piaf? Is that good?\"\n\nPeter flinched as though he'd been stricken. He glared at Reg while he answered. The disapproval in his eyes reminded Reg of Gil. \"No. It's not good.\"\n\nThe Piaf, named after \u00c9dith, was one of the Luftwaffe's worst. Every living sapper knew its reputation. Some speculated that it had multiple independent detonator mechanisms. But nobody knew for certain, because nobody had successfully\u2014\n\n_\u2014Three bolts, pry open the hatch, cut one wire, then two more bolts. Then take a horseshoe magnet. . . ._\n\nReg could see the bomb laid open at his feet. It was so obvious.\n\nPreposterous. He'd never even seen a Piaf, much less laid his hands on one. His gift didn't work that way.\n\n_\u2014Solve the Piaf. Become a legend among the sappers. Get trapped with Sybil and a screaming baby\u2014_\n\nYet another scenario with that damnable baby.\n\nReg reeled while his newly expanded Sight shuffled the pieces of his life into new sequences of events. New inevitabilities.\n\nSybil hugged the blanket around herself. \"Let's go, Reggie. I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday and I'll faint if I don't eat before I'm due back at work.\"\n\nShe still wore her Wren uniform. She'd stayed at his side all night. She loved him. He would never love her.\n\n_\u2014Drive Sybil away. Solve the Piaf, become a hero. Live to hear about poor, tragic Sybil from time to time.... Years after the war, a boy starts coming around. . . ._\n\nThere he was again. Sybil's boy.\n\n_Oh, bugger._ No wonder she was so desperate to have a talk. She was carrying his son.\n\nThe realization became a stray spark that ignited a flare of rage. How could she have been so careless? How could _he_ have been so careless?\n\n_\u2014Leave now, right now, leave Sybil behind.... Others find out about the baby, about Sybil struggling to make ends meet. . . . They won't leave him alone. . . . His place in sapper lore is ruined...._\n\nNo. He worked a bloody miracle at Guy's Hospital. He deserved recognition for it. But Sybil's efforts to raise the baby on her own were rubbish. Why did she have to be so useless? The boy deserved better.\n\n_\u2014Stay with Sybil. A long marriage, filled with resentment, hard words. . . . Hard fists. . . . It's really the boy's fault. . . ._\n\nReg flinched again, feeling ill. No. He would never become that man. He'd made that vow years ago.\n\n_\u2014Let Peter struggle with the Piaf. His children grow up without a father. . . . But his widow gets a pension, and it keeps them afloat while Sybil has nothing. . . ._\n\nThe thing growing in Sybil's womb was a cancer. It killed every version of the happy life Reg sought for himself. If he left her, his reputation would be destroyed. No matter how he tried to move on, to build a new life, the boy always came around to crater it. The sappers would never speak with hushed reverence about the miracles Reggie Brooks had performed; only the son he'd abandoned. But staying with Sybil meant years of misery. Meant becoming something worse than an absent father.\n\nEvery single path led to a life he hated. He couldn't escape it. But there was a solution. Reg could feel it.\n\n_\u2014Give the other sappers just enough, and they'll know what to do with the next Piaf. Lead by example. Trial and error. Sybil can't raise the boy, sticks him in an orphanage. She never recovers. Two lives ruined...._\n\nAlmost. But not quite. Unless:\n\n_Widow's pension. Just enough to make ends meet...._\n\nYes. That one worked.\n\nHe put his arms around Sybil. He held her tight, kissed her cold lips.\n\n\"I love you, Syb.\" He didn't, but it was the right thing to say. Tears traced rivulets of joy down her cheeks. He kissed the salt away. \"I'm making plans for the future,\" he said, and it was true.\n\nReg couldn't marry her. There wasn't time, not while a Piaf lurked nearby. But he could propose.\n\nAnd Holly really would owe him, if he went down hole one last time. Reg would extract a bloody great promise in return. He'd have Peter and Gil witness it. Reg had a feeling nobody broke his word to Gil.\n\nCaptain Hollister and the other sappers could jigger things so that Sybil got her widow's pension.\n\n_Sybil and the boy have stability. He grows up hearing stories about his father, a legend among the sappers. Reg isn't twisted by decades of resentment. With one act he becomes a better father than he'd ever had. And he goes out on top._\n\nEight weeks and four days was a damn good run. Almost legendary.\n**FORBIDDEN**\n\n_Avery Shade_\n\n_**IT'S time to admit it. I'm an addict.**_\n\nMy gaze drifts around the packed bar, sucking in the riot of sensory experiences like a newly processed youngling at the nutritional dispenser. Three nights running I've been drawn to this place. The first night had been pure chaos. For someone used to silence and order, assimilating all that went on within the confines of these four paneled walls had been a challenge. The overpowering din of a dozen or more conversations coupled with a television program about a bar with some sort of happy name\u2014Cheery or something\u2014had immediately set my ears to ringing. Conversely, each clatter of glass and clinking of ice cubes had made me all but jump out of my skin.\n\nI'd almost bolted, would have if I hadn't become so mesmerized by the competent way the man behind the bar was shaking the frothy drink\u2014amaretto sour, he'd said, then asked if I'd wanted one. Um, no. Better not. Soda for me.\n\nSo much to take in. So much to experience. This time is full of firsts for me. Three nights ago it was my first soda. Yesterday my first hair-raising cab ride\u2014delivered by a Ukrainian immigrant who'd driven me to the Bronx Zoo. And earlier this evening I'd attended my first concert.\n\nI close my eyes, remembering the throbbing beat of the drums, the playful trill of the flute, the eerie straining of the violin.\n\nI shouldn't have gone. I am a geneticist, sent back to collect and analyze the genomes of a variety of species that are extinct from when I come from. Things like the Polar Bears, Gray Bats, and Muscle Men. Turns out the world needs them after all.\n\nAn elbow bumps me. I instinctively glance up to see who has entered my personal space at the same time that I get another one of those giddy thrills. My personal space has been compromised. Another first.\n\n\"Sorry,\" the man says, flashing me a blinding white smile. It is 1987 my research says that in-store remedies aren't available yet so he's either genetically lucky or has paid a lot of credits for that smile. Probably the latter. I'm finding that this decade is full of pomp and flash.\n\n\"That's all right I....\" I drift off. My gaze has moved beyond the bleached teeth and given me a real eyeful of the invader. There it is: temptation personified. At least six-two, blond-haired and blue-eyed, he wears a suit like the cover model of that magazine I picked up from the street vendor. All charming smiles and persuasive reasoning; another part of the great American popularity contest.\n\nIt's men like this who brought our civilization low. Them and the media, that is. The hand feeding the mouth. The slick men in their slick suits slid their way onto the big screen, dictating policy through looks and popularity. We call it the media wars. Their height marked by a stagnated government and polarized parties that spent more time landing prime-time commercial spots than on policy making. With the gridlock on Capitol Hill, nobody could get anything done. Media stopped being a source of news but a propaganda machine for lobbyists-R-us. It didn't matter how smart you were, or how experienced, it was who you were, how you looked. A politician could spout out garbage and if their face was pretty enough, their name popular enough, it was taken as gospel.\n\nMy gaze drifts upward, settling over his shoulder on the television with its muted blond-haired, big-breasted anchor woman and the ticker drifting across the bottom of the screen.\n\nPoint made.\n\n\"Can I buy you a drink?\" Mr. Popularity asks, leaning against the bar beside me. I drag my eyes back to his face and that killer smile that seems even more potent now that he is close and I can smell his cologne. He's also close enough that I can tell there is substance under that suit. Probably pumps iron during lunch so he can show off his physique later. I decide his tactics are effective\u2014in a visceral kind of way\u2014yet I find it decidedly unnerving, too. Men don't look like him where I come from. Not that they are ugly; far from it. It's just that in my time everyone is perfectly normal, perfectly average. All perfectly the same.\n\n\"I'm all set, thanks.\" I lift my soda, hands clammy on the cold glass. Appreciating his smile is one thing, but the thought of actually engaging in a conversation leaves my heart skittering somewhere north of nervous.\n\nHe sighs. \"Too bad. But if you change your mind. ...\" He taps the bar in front of me, then moves back across the room to where his buddies are waiting.\n\nI stare down at the little rectangular piece of paper he's left. Gerard and Bon Associates. Below the elegant script is another name, then a series of numbers. A business card: my brain downloads this information from my implant. That's all it supplies, not what the numbers mean or who Gerard and Bon might be. If I were back home in my time, all that would have been available with a quick uplink. But they don't have personal implants in this era. They have to rely on clunky desk-top computers, faxes, and paper for the exchange of information.\n\nA phone number. That's what the numbers are. So you can \"call\" and talk to someone\u2014if they are home.\n\nI lift the card up from the bar, reverently running my finger over the raised script. Fascinating. It is as I am studying the numbers, trying to figure out whether I like or dislike this sense of being . . . disconnected, that my scalp begins to tingle, as if I'm being watched\u2014or someone is trying to tap into my implant. Alarmed, I raise my head. Meet up with the gaze of the barkeeper. He is meticulously drying a glass with his calloused hands as he stares at me.\n\n\"He's a player.\" The barkeeper nods over to the table where the suit has hooked up with his jeans and hightops friends. \"Picks up a different woman practically every night.\"\n\nI glance at the man who'd left the card. He, too, is watching me, and when our gazes meet, he winks. Heat rises in my cheeks and I look away, imagining just what he might do with these women he \"picks up\" almost every night. I could be one of them. I could experience something that no one of my generation has ever experienced. And\u2014as long as I get my sample\u2014I could justify it all in the name of science, too.\n\n_But can you live with yourself afterwards?_\n\nI frown, looking back down at the card then up at the barkeeper who is still watching me. \"Every night?\"\n\n\"Practically.\"\n\nI sigh. Mr. Tall and Handsome is exactly what I've pegged him as: a conscienceless disease in the fabric of the 20th century. Everyman doesn't need DNA like that. I'll keep the card though, as a souvenir of what could have been.\n\nI look back at the barkeeper. He is even taller than Mr. Popularity and just as muscular, though his are from hard work rather than the local gym. He is definitely prime. Too bad about the eye color. Linked with the dominant dark hair, those vibrant blue-greens might be hard to splice out. Besides, I get no tingly sensations from him. Just a comfortable settledness. I have a feeling he can don and slough off roles at his whim and wear each shoe well. I don't know why, but I have this uncontrollable urge to keep conversing with him. Which is weird. Where I came from, we don't talk just to talk.\n\n\"How 'bout a real drink? On me,\" he says, shelving the glass with the rest of its clean counterparts.\n\n\"Sure. Why not?\" If I'm not going to experience what real copulation is like tonight, I can at least go out on a limb and experience an alcohol high.\n\n\"What's your poison?\"\n\n\"Poison?\"\n\n\"Your preference? What do you like?\"\n\n\"Something clear.\" I don't feel so much the criminal with a \"clear\" drink. Those frothy pink, smooth oranges, icy yellows, and crystalline greens he's been passing out all evening are just plain sinful. At least to look at. Color. Another thing this generation seems obsessed with.\n\n\"All right. Clear it is.\" He looks back at the rows of bottles behind him, a hand absently stroking the scruffy looking stubble on his chin as he studies the choices. \"Sweet, sour, or dry?\"\n\nBoth sweet and sour sound too much like a sensory cocktail. I don't understand how a liquid drink can be dry, but.... \"Um, not sweet. Dry sounds good.\"\n\n\"Martini?\"\n\nI shake my head, not knowing what a Martini is.\n\n\"Yeah, I didn't think so.\" He reaches up for a blueglass bottle on the top shelf. I glance at the label as he sets it down to fill a tall tumbler with ice cubes and am still at a loss as to what it is, other than it comes from Bombay and was named after a gemstone. Deftly he twists off the top then pours the clear liquid into the glass, concurrently punching a button on his \"soda machine\" so that some more clear liquid tumbles and mixes in with the alcohol.\n\nI frown, thinking of the 7-Up I've been sipping. That had been sweet, and bubbly. I really liked the bubbles, not so much the sweet. Seems there is nothing in this time frame that doesn't involve an overload of sensory input.\n\n\"Lime?\" he asks, picking up a wedge of green fruit.\n\nI give a slight nod. Fresh fruit is acceptable for consumption.\n\nHe gives the lime a quick squeeze, impaling a second slice on the rim of the glass, then slides the drink in front of me with a smile. \"There you go.\"\n\nI tentatively take a sip\u2014bubbly for sure\u2014then another. Not sweet. Dry seems an apt description. I like the lime and the hint of, well, I don't know what.\n\n\"What do you think?\"\n\n\"Fresh, crisp.\" I lick my lips, savoring the aftertaste of the lime. \"I like this Sapphire and Soda drink.\"\n\n\"Sapphire and Soda.\" He chuckles. \"That's cute. I think I'll list it as a special.\"\n\nI don't say anything. I'm trying to figure out what I've said that is funny. Maybe they call the drink after the place, Bombay and the addition of the soda.... Bombay Bubbly, perhaps? My confusion must have shown on my face because the barkeeper's smile fades, the twinkle in his blue-green eyes switching to studious interest.\n\n\"What?\" I ask, resisting the urge to squirm on my seat. This century must be really getting to me. How to be still and composed are things Everyman children are taught at a young age.\n\nHe takes out a white cloth, rubbing up a ring of condensation from the polished bar. \"So, what's your name?\"\n\n\"My name?\" G5S36. But I can't tell him that. Instead I spout off the one on the fake ID in my pocket. \"Rebecca.\"\n\nHe flips the cloth over his shoulder, folding his body down so he is low enough to lean on the bar with his elbows. His head is still taller than mine. \"So, Rebecca,\" he draws out the name, as if it is foreign . . . or he knows it's not mine, \"you got a story?\"\n\n\"A story?\" I chuckle, though even to my ears the sound is off-key, forced. \"I don't have a story.\"\n\nThat at least is the truth. Where I come from, there are no individual stories. We all work together as part of the system. Our singularity but a small gear in the working matrix of Everyman. It's not fancy or exciting, but it's a life. One that I never questioned past the age of five\u2014or until three days ago.\n\n_Stop that. You were content in that life. And you will be again once you go back._\n\nI clear my throat, pushing away the drink. Selfindulgent addict. This is why Everyman came about in the first place, to eradicate such dangerous egocentricity. \"Why do you ask?\"\n\nI don't like how he's watching me, as if he can see right through me and read my mind. Which is a fallacy, of course. He'd need an implant, and then my individual access codes to link up.\n\nHe shrugs, massive shoulders lifting and falling. He really is a big man\u2014like a Roman gladiator or a Greek Hercules. Even this century doesn't make many like him. \"Everyone has a story. It's in the eyes. And yours are saying that you'd like to leave it behind.\"\n\nI jerk back on my stool, almost toppling off. Leave it behind? Why in the world would he suggest that? I am G5S36. Geneticist number five in sector thirty-six. I have a purpose. A reason for existing. Here I would be ... I'd be....\n\n_Different. You'd be an individual. You'd be Rebecca._\n\nI give a quick shake of my head. I'm going to have to have my implant checked when I get back. It seems to have picked up a virus. The barkeeper is still watching me so I volley back his own question, \"Everyone has a story? So what's yours?\"\n\nHis scruffy cheeks twitch, the corner of his mouth lifting. \"Mine? It's too long for one sitting. And you wouldn't believe it even if I told you.\"\n\nI purse my lips. If a person's story can be read in their eyes, then I believed that his is a long one, but given my own strange tale\u2014that I'm a geneticist sent back in time to collect a random sampling of genes in order to rejuvenate our gene pool before we all become extinct\u2014yes, well, there isn't much I wouldn't believe.\n\n\"Want to talk about it?\" he asks. I realize he's still on the story thing. He's asking if I want to share, take a load off my chest, as they say in this century.\n\nI shake my head, tracing the wood grain of the bar. \"Not really. Besides, I'm thinking of writing a new one.\"\n\nMy hand starts to shake on the bar. Am I really? Would I really risk my secure life for a future here and now in this sensory depraved time?\n\nNo. That's crazy. That's the addict talking.\n\nLaughter spikes through the general roar of conversation. I twist my head around to see a woman leaning forward, her hand linked with her date's over the polished table and her teased mane of hair obscuring their faces. Kissing. In public, too.\n\nTwo booths over the pack of men, including Mr. Popularity, are in a heated discussion over the sports scores being flashed on the television. I tilt my head to the side, gnawing on my lip as I watch them throw mock growls and verbal abuses at each other before the \"fight\" breaks up with a couple of razzed insults and a shake of the head.\n\nOdd. Where I come from there is only one view. One opinion. The one you're supposed to have. Differ from that and you're ... removed from the system.\n\nAnd that's why I don't want to go back. Sometimes I don't share in Everyman's view. Like the concert. I just don't understand how something so beautiful and moving can be bad. Perhaps it's because it is moving, pulling from the self an emotional response. Emotions, and their baggage, good or bad, are a complication to things running smoothly.\n\nYet everyone here seems so happy. Even the two old men sitting at the end of the bar, quietly drinking their beers, hold a companionable sort of silence between them. The only one who seems as alone as I am is the bartender himself.\n\nHe comes back over to me, carrying another drink. He sets it down in front of me with a wink. \"Here. This will hit the spot.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't,\" I say, glancing at the clock. 11:15. If I leave now I can be across town with time to spare.\n\nA hand appears in front of my eyes. Large and calloused. The barkeeper. \"I'm Gil, by the way. Gilgamesh, actually.\"\n\n\"Gilgamesh. That's nice.\" I tentatively reach out.\n\nHe gives a firm pump of my hand, then grunts, nodding his head as he releases me. \"Now I really want to know that story.\"\n\nI take my hand back, rubbing it where the bones feel crushed. How does he not break the glasses? \"I told you, there is no story.\"\n\n\"Come on. You didn't even comment on the name. Everyone comments on the name.\"\n\nI input a search into my implant but it comes back blank. Guess the files I'd downloaded weren't extensive enough. \"I'm sorry, I don't\u2014\"\n\n\"Gilgamesh isn't exactly a common name in the here and now. Most people want to know how I came by it. And the nickname, Gil. Well, there still are Gilligan's Island reruns on TV, so. ...\"\n\nI must have a blank expression on my face because he frowns, narrowing his eyes. With a quick scan to first one side, then the other, he leans in close. \"You don't have someone after you, do you?\"\n\nI swallow hard, wiping the clammy sweat on my torn denim. No, not yet. But if I don't make it to the extraction coordinates by midnight I probably will. \"No, not exactly.\"\n\n\"But someone's got you on a tight leash, don't they.\"\n\nToo close, fear has me snapping at him. \"I don't see how that is any of your b\u2014\"\n\nHe stands up, holding up his hands. \"You're right. None of my business. But....\" He glances around, then moves over to the end of the bar. Folding his body like an accordion, he bends down, pulling a key from his back pocket which he stuffs into a keyhole in the cabinet. I try to glimpse inside but see only what looks like a large slab of a reddish looking stone and the ever popular rolodex that seems to be the \"thing\" to replace personal identity codes in my century. After a moment he sits back on his heels, closes the cabinet, and pulls the key out. Then he's walking back toward me, another one of those business cards in hand.\n\n\"Take this,\" he says, sliding it across the counter toward me. \"This guy, he's great at helping people write new stories.\"\n\nI stare at the card as if it is a viper\u2014an angry one.\n\nHe taps the counter, gaining my attention. \"Take the card. Don't have to use it. But it doesn't hurt to have it.\"\n\nI nod.\n\n\"And drink the drink. I made it especially for you. I'll be insulted if you don't.\"\n\nI nod again.\n\nWith a last measuring look he turns away, going down to the end of the bar to chat with the two elderly men. Their faces liven when he comes near and the balder of the two launches into what is obviously a humorous story. I watch them for a while, my hands twisting the cup around and around as I pointedly avoid looking at the card.\n\nThe change in programming from local news to a late night show brings my attention back to the clock.\n\n11:32. Maybe if I catch a cab.\n\nI start to shift off the stool, but as I do, my gaze passes over the card. It's laying there, white, innocuous even, against the dark stained wood. I sit back down. Pick up the drink. Set it down and pick up the card instead. There isn't much there, just an address under a name: John Doe. That one pings in my implant as a placeholder name for a male party whose true identity is unknown.\n\nMy finger flicks the thin cardboard, nerves and possibilities bubbling up in my stomach. If I don't show up they will send someone after me. But in this time, this place . . . if I can buy myself another identity....\n\nI gnaw on my lip. I still have to deal with the implant. I know enough that I can probably change my access codes so they can't track me. Better yet would be to find a hacker and get him to whip me up a virus I can upload to deactivate the chip. My gaze falls back to the card, the name. Maybe this John Doe will know of one.\n\nSomeone yells out a departure. The bartender, Gil, raises his hand and calls out a \"Later, Norman,\" which receives a bunch of laughs. A couple minutes later the two men at the end of the bar stand up and shuffle out. They, too, are waved off with a personal farewell.\n\nA bar, where everyone knows your name. Where everyone _has_ a name.\n\nPeople are leaving. It must be getting late. 11:42 to be exact. Unless I manage to land the cabby from hell the moment I hit the curb, I'll never get to the extraction point in time.\n\nBy the Founder, what have I done? I'm stranded here without anything but a couple hundred dollars in my pocket. Alone in a strange world.\n\nSweat glazes my skin, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I feel like a fish out of water. Reverse drowning. I grab up the cup in front of me, gulping the cool liquid. It burns going down my throat and I choke, sputtering.\n\n\"What is this?\" I demand of Gil who is at the end of the counter frowning as he tallies up a bill.\n\nHe glances up. \"Fancy Free.\" Then goes back to his scowling.\n\nFree. I tap the cup. I've always been alone. But until now, I've never been free.\n\nGil finishes his complex addition and moves over to a bell behind the bar, giving the rope a good yank. The resounding bong echoes through the room, patrons quiet. \"Last call.\"\n\nI stay where I am, watching as Gil makes brisk work of the last few orders. I'm not sure he loves what he does, but he seems settled. Like he fits. I want that. A job I pick. A place that is mine. A chance at....\n\nWell, I'll think about that when I get there. Right now the chance is enough.\n\n\"You need me to call a cab?\" Gil comes over to stand in front of me, hands on his hips as he studies me intently.\n\nI glance over at the clock: 12:07. A glance around shows everyone else is gone. I hadn't even noticed the time had come and past.\n\n\"No. I'm good. I'm just headed to the hotel on the corner.\" I slide off the stool, my high-heel boots hitting the scuffed floor as I simultaneously shrug on my leather coat. When I came in it was chilly, by now it will be cold. I suppose I can try and find John Doe, but somehow I think it's better to wait until after sunrise.\n\n\"How much do I owe you?\" I ask, contemplating my meager supply of cash. I wonder how much this John Doe's services are going to cost.\n\nGil tips his head to the side.\n\n\"For the drink,\" I explain, gesturing toward the empty cup. I can't remember finishing it, but I guess I must have at some point, probably during those last fifteen minutes I'd been daydreaming.\n\nHe shakes his head, waving me off. \"Nothing. It's on the house.\"\n\nI smile in thanks and start toward door, hesitant but with mounting determination. This is not just an adventure, it's my life now. My hand closes over the handle and freezes. Ice running through my veins, anchoring me to the floor. I don't know how long I stand there, every synonym for foolish running through my mind, just that I can't do this.\n\n\"Best of luck with your story.\"\n\nGil's rumbling voice shakes me free. I do a half-turn, one hand still on the door as I look over my shoulder at him. He's drying another cup, but his attention is focused completely on me.\n\nIt's in the eyes. What I see there is confidence. Knowledge. As if he can actually see how everything is going to turn out.\n\nFoolish indeed. That's just wishful thinking. Still. I can't help but hope he's right.\n\n\"Thanks,\" I say, and push open the door to my new future.\n**WHERE WE ARE IS HELL**\n\n_Jackie Kessler_\n\n**T** RACY Summers used to think that Hell was auditioning for roles she knew she'd never get\u2014not tall enough, not pretty enough, not _anything_ enough. But now she knows better.\n\nHell is an endless corridor full of doors.\n\nTracy opens a door and steps through. It closes behind her, sealing her inside blackness so complete that it swallows the sound of the door locking. Once, she had been afraid of the dark. But that was a long, long time ago. Now she is far too resigned to be frightened. At times, hope scratches through her resignation, winking like an evening star searching for someone to make a wish upon it. This is not one of those times. Tracy lets out a sigh, and that, too, is eaten by the darkness.\n\nHolding one hand before her and the other to her right, she begins to walk.\n\nThere is nothing but darkness and doors. This is how it's always been, how she dreads it always will be: Tracy, alone in the dark, alone with the doors.\n\nShe thinks she had a life before this; sometimes, she sees pictures of her past flash in her mind, the colors vibrant, even gaudy. Those rare memories\u2014or, possibly, daydreams\u2014are the only colors left to her. Even the doors are strangely colorless, as if they are merely the suggestions of doors, outlines to possibilities of other places. She cannot actively remember her life, if she ever did have a life before the doors. Whenever she tries, images blur and fade to nothing, leaving her blank. So she clings to the few memories that have visited her: she had been a dancer, trying to get her first big break; she had been in love with a man who had been far too good for her; she had once done something that had been very, very bad.\n\nSometimes, as Tracy is walking in the dark, she wonders what that very bad thing had been. Murder, perhaps, driven by insatiable greed? Callous indifference? Something worse? She doesn't know. And the longer she walks and opens doors that lead her to corridors filled with more doors, she doesn't think it matters. She is here, in the dark, reduced to a bare handful of memories. She can open doors; she can walk; she can do nothing until she is bored or desperate enough to walk and open doors.\n\nThat is the sum of her existence.\n\nTracy stands before yet another door. She places her hand on the panel, leans in close, and inhales deeply.\n\nOnce, she had performed this ritual with a sense of urgency; she used to hope it would indicate whether something, anything, waited for her on the other side. But time and again, there had been nothing\u2014no sounds, no smells, no hint of anything other than patient darkness. Tracy no longer hopes for anything during the ritual; it has become as meaningless as opening doors in an endless corridor.\n\nBut this time, as she presses her ear close to the door, she thinks she can hear a voice\u2014 _his_ voice. Her true love. Muffled, yes, because of the door, but she knows that it's him speaking on the other side. She listens, strains to hear his voice, his laughter. And a smile blooms on her face.\n\nThis time, it's the right door. This time, he'll be there, waiting for her, holding his hand out to her, ready to wrap his arms around her and love her.\n\nTracy takes a breath she doesn't need and opens the door.\n\nAnd again, there's nothing but darkness.\n\nShe doesn't feel the tears meander down her cheeks as the door closes silently behind her. With a bitter sigh, she puts one hand out in front of her and one hand out to her right side and she begins to walk.\n\nIt's a bad moment, one where hope is nothing but ashes adrift in a desert wind. She knows she has a name: Tracy Summers. That remains, even with the other memories reduced once more to daydreams of a life long gone, of a life that never was.\n\nNumb, Tracy follows her ritual before she opens a new door\u2014and even though she presses her ear against the panel, she doesn't hear any sound coming from within. Expecting nothing other than darkness, she opens the door.\n\nAnd everything changes.\n\nBefore anything else, the pungent smells of alcohol and citrus and smoke, all mixed together into a heady aroma that makes her nose tingle and her mouth water from remembered appetites. Next, the tinny sounds of conversation and laughter and background noise, slightly off as if hearing them from the other end of a tunnel. And then, the colors\u2014rich mahoganies, vibrant greens, startling whites, slowly resolving themselves into a picture of a bar with lamps hanging overhead, their shades like spring grass and the lights within dazzling white. Bottles and glasses glitter in tidy rows, lined up like star soldiers. There's a man looming behind the counter\u2014he's almost godlike, with his black curly hair and braided beard, his imposing eyes flashing like heat lightning. That he's wiping down the countertop does nothing to reduce the sheer presence of this man, this god.\n\nTracy steps forward, one shaking hand over her mouth. Is this real? A dream? Will she see _him_ here, whoever he is?\n\nThe door slams shut, and Tracy jumps, startled. Darting a glance over her shoulder, she's not surprised to see no hint of a door; it's as if she has appeared in the room by magic.\n\nShe turns slowly, gawking. She's in the middle of a tavern, complete with stylized wooden booths and tables. The walls are brick face, with scattered plaques and neon signs and\u2014she blinks\u2014bottle-cap art depicting what looks like a cross between Egyptian and Greek images of warriors battling lion-like beasts. Tucked near the bar is another plaque, this one made of reddish stone and looking like a combination of hieroglyphs and dominoes.\n\nAround her, people are sitting at the tables, chatting and drinking, and yet their forms are blurred, almost faint, and their voices are oddly distorted. No one notices her, or reacts to her appearing out of nowhere. Frowning, Tracy stares at a couple seated near her, and even though she is close enough to touch them, they are smudged and indistinct, their banter nothing but a garble of sounds.\n\nAs grateful as she is to be out of the dark, the pantomime of conversation makes her stomach pitch. It's as if she's surrounded by ghosts. Or memories.\n\nHas she been here before? She cannot remember. Biting her lip, she looks once more at the bottle-cap art decorating the walls, at the odd reddish plaque with its strange markings. Nothing feels familiar, but then, she can barely remember her name. For all she knows, she used to work here.\n\nHer gaze returns to the large man behind the bar\u2014and she flinches as he stares at her. It's not that he can see her when the other people at the tavern cannot; it's the expression on his face, a mixture of condescension and boredom, that makes her feel dizzy. He's tall\u2014basketball-player tall\u2014and his loose black shirt doesn't mask the strength emanating from him. He could snap her in two as easily as look at her. He completely terrifies her.\n\nShe flits her gaze around the room, looking for an exit. There, to the left: a door leading outside. Something in her chest flutters\u2014not hope, exactly; more like anticipation, or possibly dread. She hurries over to the new door, the latest door, the one that will take her away from this strange pub with its distorted patrons and menacing bartender. Tracy reaches out to turn the doorknob\u2014\n\n\u2014and her hand is slapped away, as if by an electric shock.\n\nEyes wide, she rubs the sting out of her palm as she stares at the door. Biting her lip once more, she reaches out again, and this time she can feel the build-up of energy just before her fingers would have grazed the metal handle. She jerks her hand back with a gasp.\n\nThere has to be another way out. A fire exit, a back entrance. Something.\n\nBut a circuit around the large room reveals only a bathroom door\u2014which, Tracy learns, she can't touch without getting shocked\u2014and a curtained-off area behind the bar. The only way to the curtain is to go past the bartender, who's looking at her as if she were a bug with too many legs ... which he'd be happy to remedy.\n\nShe allows herself a moment of panic. She desperately wishes _he_ were here\u2014her nameless true love, the man who means everything to her. But wishes are wasteful; they do nothing other than make her hope for something out of her control.\n\nAnd she is tired of having no control.\n\nTracy clenches her fists. She has not endured the darkness and its never-ending doors only to be trapped in a strange tavern with no way out. So what if the huge man in black intimidates her? What's the worst he could do, when she's already in Hell?\n\nChin held high, she walks over to the bar and takes a seat.\n\nThe bartender continues wiping down the countertop. Without looking up, he asks, \"Help you?\" His voice carries a faint accent, one Tracy cannot place.\n\nShe opens her mouth, then closes it, uncertain of what to say. She wants his help, yes. But to do what? Escape? And go where?\n\nAll right\u2014she has a starting point. She clears her throat and says, \"Could you, ah, tell me where we are?\"\n\n\"You're in my bar.\"\n\nHelpful, that. \"Yes,\" she agrees, \"but . . . where is your bar?\"\n\n\"Here.\"\n\nHe's probably a demon, sent to torment her, to give her a taste of freedom before casting her back into darkness. Tracy sighs, forlorn. \"This is still Hell, isn't it?\"\n\nThe bartender lifts his head and casts her a gimlet eye. \"You call this Hell, little ghost? Why?\"\n\nThe question almost makes her laugh, it's so absurd. \"I've been trapped in Hell for as long as I can remember.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Something gleams in his green-gray eyes\u2014understanding, perhaps. Or maybe just polite interest. He's a bartender, after all. \"And what do you know of Hell?\"\n\n\"Doors.\" Suddenly cold, she wraps her arms around herself. \"Whenever I open a door, I find other doors. But the last door brought me here.\"\n\nHe arches a dark brow. \"Why do you think that is?\"\n\nPinned by his gaze, she replies, \"I don't know.\" Her voice is small, childlike. \"For the longest time, it was just me in the dark, with the doors. And now I'm here, in your bar.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\"\n\nA pause, as Tracy waits for him to say more. But all he does is peer at her, as if he could read her soul. What could he possibly find there?\n\nUncomfortable from his attention, she changes the subject. \"The others here,\" she says, turning to motion at the people seated in the booths around the room. \"What's wrong with them?\"\n\n\"With them?\" The bartender lets out a laugh. It's a rusty sound, as if it's been a long time since he's found anything particularly amusing. \"Nothing, other than the usual. Daily stress. Daily dreams. Life brings its own set of expectations, and sometimes we bow under the pressure. So they come to drink in the company of others, and that eases their burdens for a time.\"\n\nTracy frowns as she stares at the blurred customers. \"But why do they look so odd? And sound so . . . off?\"\n\nAnother chuckle, easier this time, as if he's warming to the notion of mirth. \"You don't exist on the same level as they do, little ghost. You've moved past them.\"\n\n\"But I can see you. I can talk to you,\" she says, turning back to face him. A notion strikes her, and the question rushes out of her mouth: \"Are you trapped with me?\"\n\n\"Trapped?\" He throws back his head and chortles\u2014a full-belly laugh, the sound deep and resonant, like summer thunder. Soon his laughter slows to stray hiccoughs. He shakes his head and sheds the last bits of humor. When he finally speaks, his voice is solemn. \"It's my job to serve my patrons. All of them, from wherever they come. So here I am, serving you.\"\n\n\"I don't understand,\" she says, her brow furrowing. \"Please . . . am I still in Hell?\"\n\nRather than answer her, he stares deeply into her eyes. Something passes over his face, a flash and then gone: a decision made. \"You look so lost, little ghost. But you don't have to be. Where did you come from?\"\n\nFumbling, she says, \"I told you, the doors. . . .\"\n\n\"No. Before that. Before this. When you were the same as them.\" His turn, now, to gesture to the others in the tavern. \"Who were you?\"\n\nShe notices the past tense, but she ignores it. \"Tracy. I'm Tracy Summers.\"\n\n\"Welcome, Tracy Summers. You may call me Gil.\" He offers her a meat-platter hand, one that completely swallows her own. \"Who were you, before you opened doors?\"\n\nFor a long moment, she says nothing as she tries once again to summon memories of her life. Nothing comes, other than once, she had been in love. \"I don't remember,\" she admits, her voice faint.\n\nThe bartender\u2014Gil\u2014nods. \"Not completely unexpected. Well, I'm guessing you have no money on your person, given your condition. But that matters little to me. In my time, barter made the world go 'round.\" He grins, his teeth sharply white in contrast to the black of his moustache and beard. \"I'll give you a drink to help clear the dust away, and in return, you'll tell me whatever you remember about who you were. What's your poison, girl?\"\n\nTracy suddenly remembers the taste of semi-dry Riesling on her tongue; the smell of amber beer, tickling her nose; the warmth of blackberry brandy hitting her belly. She and her love would go out to the local pub on Friday nights, sometimes with friends, sometimes just the two of them, and they'd drink and laugh and listen to the local band going through the motions of budding rock stars. She remembers all of that with the abruptness of a gunshot.\n\n\"Water, please,\" she says, her voice cracking. \"No ice.\"\n\nGil gives her an appraising look before he fills a large glass for her. He slides the drink to her, careful not to brush his fingers against hers. \"Here,\" he says. \"No ice, as requested.\"\n\nShe thanks him and lifts the glass. It feels wonderfully _real_ in her hand, solid in a way that all of those doorknobs never had. She takes a moment to simply marvel over the weight of the glass, and then she brings it to her mouth and takes a sip.\n\nThe cool\u2014not cold, no, she's always hated it when drinks were too cold\u2014liquid slides down her throat, tasteless and yet filled with something stronger than mere taste. She swallows, and swallows more, and as she slakes a thirst she had not known was there, she remembers _his_ lips on hers for the first time\u2014hesitant, nervous, a gentle press that slowly blooms into something more passionate. She drinks, and when she finishes, she can still feel him on her lips.\n\nPaul. His name is Paul.\n\nMore images flash, and she gets the barest glimpses of her life in auditions, of Paul's hand in hers.\n\nHints of the very bad thing, all reds and oranges, fury given form.\n\n\"Now then, Tracy Summers,\" says Gil. \"Tell me the story of your life.\"\n\nThe words come slowly at first, hesitantly, as she tries to summon stubborn memories. She soon gives up trying and instead just talks, the sentences in free form, ideas scattered amidst bits of dialogue. Tracy talks, and Gil listens.\n\nShe's always wanted to be a dancer, ever since her parents took her to New York City to see the Rockettes. Bright costumes and painted faces made just as strong an impression as lines of dancers kicking high in their fishnets and heels. She took dance classes in school and at camp, but when it came time for college, her parents insisted she stay local and major in something that could actually land her a job. She became a philosophy major to spite them.\n\nCollege wasn't so bad. That was where she met Paul, the boy who would later become her fianc\u00e9. He was huge and she was small; whenever he'd hug her, she'd feel him holding back a little, as if he thought she would break. They started as friends sharing notes in freshman poli sci, and by sophomore year they were dating. By junior year they were exclusive. By senior year, Tracy couldn't imagine her life without him.\n\nBut he never knew about the bad thing she had done once, long ago.\n\n\"What bad thing?\" Gil asks.\n\nThe memory is there, just beneath the surface, but she can't reach it. She has impressions of fire licking along the walls, charring the patterns of roses and poppies, but more than that, she just can't say. She thinks there might have been a girl\u2014no, a baby. A baby in a crib. A baby, a fire. Yes. Tracy did something, or didn't do something, and it had to do with a baby and a fire.\n\nOh God.\n\nSweat beads on her brow as she tries to force herself to remember, to discover whether she did something horrific, something unforgivable. But just as she thinks she can touch it, the memory slips away. She hears a soft keening, or maybe a baby cooing, and she whimpers.\n\n\"So this thing you did or didn't do, this bad thing,\" says Gil. \"It's been with you your entire life. With you enough that when you died, it shaped your circumstances.\"\n\nDied?\n\nGil must see the question in her eyes. \"Don't you remember dying, little ghost?\"\n\nShe shakes her head violently\u2014denial, refusal. Desperation.\n\n\"Of course you do,\" he says.\n\nAnd she does.\n\nShe'd lounged in bed, even after Paul had left for work. It had been a lazy morning for her, and she'd taken her time getting ready for her morning run. The sun was tearing through the clouds; she remembers the way streamers of light pierced through the otherwise overcast sky. She remembers straining to feel that sunlight dapple her cheeks as she jogged easily down a side street, warming up before she'd get to the park where she'd do her run. She caught a sunbeam and she closed her eyes, basking.\n\nShe remembers something slamming into her and lifting her into the air, even as she heard a thump of contact. A moment of flying, soaring\u2014then surprise gave way to pain so intense that words have yet to be invented to describe it. She crashed to the ground, and her body rolled like a piece of trash caught in the wind.\n\nShe remembers the sound of the car's tires squealing as the driver sped away.\n\nShe remembers thinking of him, her love, her Paul, wishing she could tell him goodbye.\n\nAnd then she remembers waking up in the dark, propping herself up in front of a door.\n\nShe's shaking now, and she rubs her arms as she sits at Gil's bar, her empty glass in front of her. Bits of memory cling to her mind\u2014distorted pictures of Paul, of dance shoes, of something that could be a crib or a coffin.\n\n\"Hit and run,\" Gil says with a _tsk_. \"Some people will do anything to escape consequences.\" He pauses, then adds gently: \"And others will make sure they're bound by the same.\"\n\nTracy shivers.\n\n\"Little ghost,\" says the bartender, his voice no longer gentle. \"You told me you thought this was Hell. You're wrong. You haven't been in Hell. Not properly, at any rate. You were walking in the Endless Caverns.\"\n\nThe darkness that went on forever, the infinite number of doors\u2014that wasn't Hell? Tracy's stomach lurches.\n\n\"Despite what many think,\" Gil says, once again wiping down the countertop, \"Heaven and Hell aren't in a competition. It's all very orderly. Paperwork and whatnot. Every person is judged by his or her actions. The good are claimed by Heaven. The evil are claimed by Hell. And those in between, well. Those are the tricky ones.\"\n\nTracy swallows thickly.\n\n\"Those unclaimed spirits go to the Endless Caverns until, after much examination and deliberation and other such things, a claim is filed by one side or the other.\" Gil shrugs, his massive shoulders rolling beneath his black shirt. \"Not as simple as stepping on a scale and being weighed against a feather, but there you go.\"\n\n\"How....\" Her voice breaks on a sob. Through the sting of sudden tears, she asks, \"How do you know this?\"\n\n\"It's my business to know things. I know religion and mythology and belief the way that others know the sun rises in the east. And I know you have one more door to open.\" He motions past her, to the far left corner of the bar. Tracy follows his gaze and spies the same door that had shocked her before.\n\n\"I couldn't open it,\" she says softly.\n\n\"You weren't ready then. Your memories had faded, nearly all of them. But now you have some of your life back\u2014enough, at least, to understand the judgment that will be delivered. One more door, Tracy Summers, and then you'll finally arrive at your destination.\"\n\nOne more door. The last door.\n\nTracy bites her lip as she stares at the exit. It's backlit, as if something waits beyond it other than darkness. \"Where ... where will it lead?\"\n\n\"Either Heaven or Hell,\" Gil says, clearly indifferent. \"You'll find out when you go through.\"\n\nThe possibility of being someplace worse than the darkness with its infinite doors makes her dizzy with terror. Horrified, she whispers, \"No.\"\n\nAfter a long moment, Gil says idly, \"There is another option.\"\n\nShe turns to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks.\n\n\"Stay here,\" says Gil. At first, Tracy thinks he is offering her sanctuary, but then Gil continues. \"You would be the new owner. This bar would be yours, forever. You'd be human once more, and immortal. And that would spare you from ever meeting your end.\"\n\nAs his words sink in, her eyes widen with hope, or fear, or some combination of the two.\n\n\"Think of it, Tracy Summers.\" Gil's eyes are shining with a passion she'd seen before, many times, in Paul's eyes. \"You would hold any role here you wish: bartender, hostess, manager.\" Gil grins, a knife-like flash of humor. \"Bouncer. Whatever you want, it would be yours. But only here, in the bar, in whatever guise it assumes.\"\n\nShe considers his words. Here, forever. Safe.\n\nShe can feel the door beckoning to her, begging to be opened.\n\n\"Take over my duties,\" says Gil, \"and you never need worry about doors again.\"\n\nTracy knows there's more he's not telling her\u2014that bit about the bar assuming guises hadn't escaped her\u2014 but even so, the offer is compelling. She'd been trapped in what she'd believed to be Hell for a long, long time. The last thing she wants is to be trapped somewhere even worse . . . because in her heart, she knows that the bad thing she'd done so long ago has tainted her soul.\n\n_Some people will do anything to escape consequences,_ Gil said _. And others will make sure they're bound by the same._\n\nGil's words spark an idea, one that quickly catches hold. Maybe . . . maybe she's wrong about the bad thing. She'd been young when she'd done\u2014or hadn't done\u2014whatever it was. That much, she's sure of. Maybe she had misremembered the event from the start.\n\nOr not.\n\nShe could still wind up in Hell. She knows this.\n\nBut there's a chance\u2014a slim one, maybe, but still a chance\u2014that she could go to Heaven.\n\nAnd assuredly, when his time came, Paul would join her there.\n\nShe worries her lip, and she understands that if she stays here in Gil's bar, she would never see Paul again, other than in her dreams.\n\nAnd like that, she makes her choice. It's a long shot; in her heart, she doesn't think she's worthy of Heaven. But if there's even the slightest possibility that she and Paul could be together again one day....\n\n\"Thank you,\" she says quickly, before she can change her mind, \"but I'll open the door.\"\n\nThe look on Gil's face tells her he's not surprised. In his own way, he's as resigned as she had been in the dark. \"Go on, then,\" he says, all business. He grabs her empty glass and wipes down the spot where it had rested. \"Your fate awaits.\"\n\nShe wishes she had some money to tip him, but as Gil had guessed before, she has nothing on her; she barely has a solid form. \"Thank you,\" she says, meaning it. He'd helped her remember parts of a life that had been cast in shadow. He'd given her Paul's name, his face, the memory of his kiss. He'd given her the hope that one day, she and Paul would be together once more.\n\nFor all of that, she is grateful.\n\nPerhaps Gil hears that in her words, for he looks up at her. He doesn't smile; he is once again the intimidating presence behind the bar that she had first glimpsed when she'd arrived. But he meets her gaze and says, \"Good luck, little ghost.\"\n\nShe stands up and weaves her way past the clusters of wooden booths filled with distorted patrons, heading toward the door. With every step, the chatter around her becomes less audible until there is only silence; the distinctive odors of the tavern fade to nothing. The colors, too, wash away, until she is once again in darkness.\n\nTracy Summers stands before the Door of Judgment, and she is unafraid. A taste lingers on her lips\u2014the memory of a drink, the whisper of a kiss. With that taste comes a name, his name: her true love, her Paul, whom she misses and longs for and hopes to one day see again.\n\nHell may wait for her, yes. But Heaven, too, may be waiting.\n\nThis time, it's the right door. The last door. And hopefully one day, she'll be there, waiting for him, holding her hand out to him, ready to wrap her arms around him and love him.\n\nTracy Summers takes a breath she doesn't need, opens the door, and steps through with a smile.\n**IZDU-BAR**\n\n_Anton Strout_\n\n**T** HE near constant buzz from the outer doors shot into Bouncer Billy's brain like the heavy drill of a hangover, which was a goddamned shame because the big guy was nursing one already. From his stool sitting at the bar, he prayed it would stop on its own, hoping one of those plague monstrosities had triggered it by accident as they wandered in from the Wastes. Billy ignored it for a few more seconds, tugging at his scraggly beard and long unkempt hair in frustration, but it didn't stop. The damned walking dead weren't known for their fine motor skills so it was clearly a problem that he'd have to get his ass up to deal with.\n\nBilly hefted his considerable frame off his stool, adjusting his gut where the leather of his belt had been digging in before heading off toward the elaborate door system at the front of the establishment. Whoever was laying on the buzzer tonight was going to catch shit once Billy got them to stop . . . and they stood a fat chance in hell of gaining entrance into the bar at this time of night, not after lockdown.\n\nThe inner wooden doors of the bar were easy enough to unlock but the heft of them had Billy opening only one just far enough to squeeze his girth through. A small vestibule opened up past them with a set of thicker steel doors blocking his path beyond that. Billy slammed the wooden doors closed behind him and locked them again using the electronic plate set into them. The empty space between the doors echoed even louder with the sound of the incessant buzzing. Billy swore under his breath and pulled back the metal plate of the peephole in the outer door, first making sure to step back from it. One-Eyed Steve had made that mistake once, and, well ... that's why Billy called him One-Eyed Steve now, wasn't it? Bouncer Billy was more than happy to keep his own nickname as it was, thank-you-very-much. It spoke of nothing born of mutilation and that was alright in his book.\n\nOnce the plate was open, the ringing blissfully stopped. He peered out the slit into the descending dusk of the Wastes, the floodlights high up on the exterior of the bar already kicking in, lighting up the land nearby. A sky of dark clouds threatened to open up over the vast plain stretching into the horizon. Huddled against the door was a lone figure with straw blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a hefty pack of worldly possessions strapped across his back.\n\n\"Sorry,\" Billy said, reaching for the pull on the steel shutter. \"Full up.\"\n\n\"Hey!\" the stranger said. \"Wait!\"\n\nBilly laughed, relishing the cruelty in his voice. \"Should have thought of that before riding the buzzer like you did, pal.\"\n\n\"Are you serious?\" the stranger asked, his eyes widening in disbelief. \"It's dangerous out here tonight. The brain munchers are out in full force. Just let me in.\"\n\n_Brain munchers_ , Billy thought. He liked that. Almost made those monstrosities seem like something he'd want to meet. \"Full up,\" Billy repeated and started to slide the plate shut.\n\n\"Hold on,\" the stranger said, agitated. His hand flew up to the long slit of the peephole, his fingers jamming into the space, preventing Billy from closing it all the way.\n\nBilly grabbed up a cleaver that hung on a length of steel chain just to the side of the steel door, raising it up for the stranger to see. \"Move 'em or lose 'em,\" he said, brandishing the blade. \"I'm going to be right pissed off to get blood on my biker leathers, but I'll do it, I swear.\"\n\nThe stranger pounded on the door with his other hand. \"You are not going to leave me out here, man, are you?\" the stranger asked. \"I've avoided those monsters all day. If you leave me out here now, after sundown, I'm as good as dead.\"\n\nBilly shrugged. \"Not my problem,\" he said. Billy raised the cleaver, taking aim at the stranger's hand. One clean swipe and the stranger's little piggies would come off clean right at the second knuckle. Laughter erupted in Billy's throat as \" _This Little Piggy_ \" went running through his head. Billy brought the cleaver down in a powerful arc.\n\nThe stranger cried out and turned away, exposing his back. A long wrapped object poked up out of the man's pack. Billy paused his swing and looked at the fingers still holding on to the edge of the peephole. The tips of them poked out of the stranger's half-glove. The nails were trimmed and the fingers callused, but only at the very tips of them. Billy looked back out the peephole at the stranger and his pack.\n\nA familiar itch rose at the back of his brain. It was the visceral itch of opportunity presenting itself, one that Billy had felt before, and it was one that Billy had learned not to ignore ... not since the world had changed, anyway.\n\n\"Is that a guitar on your back?\" Billy asked.\n\nThe stranger smiled. \"You noticed it, eh?\" he asked. \"You play?\"\n\nBilly shook his head. \"Me? Nah, but I _do_ know the value of an intact one these days. You got strings on that thing?\"\n\n\"A fair question,\" the stranger said. \"I got lucky. I found an assload of stock at an abandoned Guitar Center just outside Albany a few weeks back. You let me in these doors, and I'll play. I'll play for the whole damn bar if it gets me off the Wastes.\" Thunder rolled out on the plain and the stranger turned his head. Off in the distance, lightning filled the sky. \"If I don't get this guitar inside before this storm hits, the neck is gonna warp and a scarcity of strings won't be the issue any longer, mister. I don't have any money on me, but I can play something fierce.\"\n\nBilly felt the itch at the back of his brain increase. A musician at the door after lockdown. Billy's pulse quickened. \"Alright,\" he said. Gil might not like letting him in this time of night, but screw the boss. Music means more money for the bar. He unlocked the outer door and smiled with his incomplete set of yellowed teeth before waving him in. \"Looks like your lucky night, mister.\"\n\n\"Guess so,\" the stranger said, hurrying into the vestibule. \"Thanks.\"\n\nBilly stared down at the stranger, nearly a head taller than the wiry blond, and then set about relocking the outer door without another word. When he finished with it, Billy checked it twice, then turned to the stranger.\n\n\"Now, lissen,\" he said. \"You performing here is going to be between you and Gil, and if you do, you're gonna get some tips from the crowd. Understand right now that half of that is going to go to me, got it?\"\n\n\"What?\" the stranger said. \"I thought the days of cover charges were over.\"\n\n\"There's no cover charge,\" Billy said, \"but if you want me to let you in from the Wastes, that's the price.\" The stranger looked distraught, which only made Billy's blood rise. \"Look. I _was_ ready to cut your fingers off a second ago. You think I give a crap about leaving you out there?\"\n\n\"I'm not going to make it to another way station tonight,\" the stranger said, and then sighed. \"Fine.\"\n\n\"And let's keep this between you and me,\" Billy added. \"Let's consider it the cost of me risking the boss's wrath even letting you in after lockdown. Unless you want me to send you out with those goddamned zombie bastards again?\"\n\nThe stranger looked pissed, but Billy just kept staring him down until the guy finally managed to calm himself.\n\n\"I'm Wade,\" the stranger said, offering his hand. Billy took it, and shook it. The guy had a strong grip, good for a guitarist.\n\nBilly turned and punched the combination into the inner door keypad. He waited for the light to go from red to green, then pushed open the double wooden doors, giving the stranger his first view of the interior. \"Welcome to Izdu-Bar,\" Billy said.\n\nThe bouncer watched the stranger closely as he stepped into the bar. The disappointment on the man's face was almost pleasing to him, although truth be told, Billy thought the place looked even more dingy than it had just a few minutes ago despite how crowded it was. And when the hell did Gil find one of those ancient and well-worn Ms. Pac-Man machines sitting off on the left? Billy certainly didn't recall there being an entire row of dartboards along another wall, either. As he tried to remember, the guy gave a low whistle.\n\n\"Well, I've played worse,\" the stranger said. \"But not much worse.\"\n\n\"I could let you back out,\" Billy offered. \"Speak now before I lock it down.\"\n\nIt looked to Billy like the guy might actually be contemplating heading back out into the Wastes, which would ruin Billy's plans. If the guy left, there would be no way to roll him for that guitar of his later.\n\n\"No,\" he said, after a moment's consideration. \"I'll stay.\"\n\nBilly slammed the wooden doors shut behind him, checking the lock once he heard it all click into place. \"How lucky for us,\" he said, pushing past the guy. \"Come with me.\"\n\nBilly walked the stranger over to the bar along the front right corner of the room where he knew Gil would be. The stranger followed Billy, dragging his feet as he looked around at the quiet, miserable crowd that already seemed hard at work drowning their sorrows. Billy approached his curly dark-haired boss who was busy stroking his well-trimmed beard and looking out over the crowd with concern before his eyes settled on the two of them.\n\n\"Good evening, William,\" he said.\n\n_William._ Billy shuddered. The utterance of his proper name was enough to make him uncomfortable. If the boss wasn't the first guy to not fire him in a long time, Billy would have punched him in the face for sounding so fruity. He suppressed the urge and focused on the itch at the back of his brain again. \"You in a good mood or not, Gil?\"\n\nGil gave the stranger a wary glance, and then narrowed his gray-green eyes at Billy. It was enough to make the bouncer look away in discomfort. \"Why do I think that's going to depend on what you're going to ask me, William?\"\n\n\"Just checking, boss,\" he said. \"If you're in a good mood that usually means the crowd's in a good mood, too.\"\n\nBilly didn't dare bring up what happened around the bar when Gil was in a bad mood. When the boss was miserable, the place seemed little more than a working class swill hole and that always brought everyone in the place down. Those nights became unbearable and finding the comforting of a good woman\u2014or at least a good _drunk_ woman\u2014was near impossible, especially if he couldn't earn the money for her, thanks to a slow night.\n\n\"Am I in a good mood?\" Gil asked, looking out over the crowd assembled in the great room of the bar. His face didn't brighten. \"I'm not sure. We've got a full house. But then again, we've had a full house every night since the walking dead took over the nighttime world out there. Can't say it's going to be a thrilling night for folks in here. Don't suspect I'll be pulling too much from the taps, unless these fine people are looking to deepen their depression a little more.\" Gil picked up a rag from underneath the bar and wiped the top of it, bringing the old wood to a fine polish.\n\nBilly's heart rose. The taste of opportunity practically filled his mouth.\n\n\"Got a little something for you then, boss. I know we're full up, but I just let this guy in\u2014\"\n\nGil looked up at Billy. His boss looked pissed, a dark fire in his eyes. \"You know the rules,\" Gil said, his voice sharp. \"We lock down for the night. No one comes in, no one goes out, at least not until sunrise when they can see those damn monstrosities coming.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"No exceptions,\" Gil said.\n\nThe stranger held up his hand. \"Can I ask why?\"\n\n\"As William mentioned, we're full up,\" the barkeep said, going back to cleaning the bar. \"I have rules to keep order around here and if there's one thing this modern world needs, it is order. It keeps the people in here safe.\"\n\n\"What do you want me to do, boss?\" Billy asked. \"Throw the guy back out there?\" Billy felt the itch at the back of his brain slowly fading, but he refused to give up. \"You'll like him, I swear. This guy's a _musician_.\"\n\nGil paused mid-polish and looked up at the stranger, and then to Billy. A wry smile crossed his face. \"Playing on my weak spot, I see.\"\n\n\"I know what you like, boss,\" Billy said, laying it on thick.\n\nGil gave Billy a stern look. \"This wouldn't have anything to do with you hoping to pull down a little extra money . . . and we know how you'd end up spending it, don't we?\"\n\n\"Hehe . . . yeah, well, that's my business now, isn't it?\"\n\nGil just shook his head at Billy. \"I suppose it is, William. I've certainly seen worse happen in here over the years, much worse than a little paid companionship.\"\n\nBilly gave a deep throaty laugh that turned into a cough. \"Truth be told, stranger,\" he said. \"I was ready to leave you out on the Wastes, fingerless at our doors.\"\n\nGil tsk-tsked him. \"That's not very nice, William.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, you didn't hire me to be nice now, did ya, boss?\"\n\n\"You have a point,\" Gil said.\n\n\"So . . . ?\" Billy could barely contain his excitement, his heart pounding away in his chest like a tiny motor trying to power an entire city block.\n\n\"As you said, I can't rightly throw him back out there,\" Gil said with a sigh. \"What kind of a host would I be then? I'll hook the taps up to my special brew and we'll see what we can do here about firing up a good time.\"\n\nThe stranger looked relieved.\n\n\"Thanks, boss,\" Billy said, turning his girth around and waddling back to his stool. Billy didn't understand what the secret to Gil's special brew was, but it was enough to know that when Gil served it, the bar's crowd was happy.\n\nOnly a few things made Billy happy. The company of a good woman and the money to afford her. The second part looked well on its way to happening. Now he only had to work on the first part, which would depend entirely on raising more of the second part. His night was shaping up, after all.\n\nThe man Billy had let in stepped up to the bar. \"Name's Wade,\" the stranger said. \"You the owner of this place?\"\n\nGil nodded at him. \"For now, anyway. Why? You looking to buy a place?\"\n\nThe stranger shook his head. \"Afraid it would interfere with my nomadic nature . . . also, my lack of funds.\"\n\nGil actually looked a little disappointed. \"Too bad,\" he said. \"So William said you're a musician?\"\n\nThe stranger reached over his shoulder and patted the covered guitar neck poking out of his pack. \"I wouldn't exactly define myself as one thing,\" he said, \"but yeah, since it got me in here out of the Wastes, that's who I am tonight.\"\n\n\"Where you coming from?\"\n\n\"I was up Cummington way, down from Albany over the Berkshire Mountains.\"\n\n\"How's it going up there?\"\n\n\"They're surviving,\" the stranger said. \"They run a good kitchen up in the hill towns and they know how to take care of their talent. Left me happy and satiated when I moved on.\"\n\n\"'Tis a noble pursuit, the life of the bard,\" Gil said.\n\nThe stranger looked around at all the long faces. \"Looks like you could use a bard for all your bored.\"\n\nGil laughed. \"You play the classics?\"\n\nThe stranger nodded. \"Sure. Hendrix, Marley, Cobain . . . the crowd pleasers.\"\n\nGil looked to Billy, who nodded his approval.\n\n\"So that's who passes for classic these days, eh, William ?\" Gil asked.\n\n\"You're not from around here now, are ya?\" the stranger asked. \"Got a bit of an accent.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Gil said. \"Yes, I do.\"\n\nThe stranger stared at him expectantly, but Gil didn't offer up anything more.\n\n\"Okay,\" the stranger said. \"Now about that meal. . . .\"\n\n\"First things first, stranger,\" Gil said. \"When you're in my bar, we seal a deal with a drink.\" Gil picked up a mug from underneath the bar, tipped it to a slant under the spigot and pulled at the tap. A deep dark brew poured out, forming a perfect glass with just the right amount of foam at the top. \"You should probably let that sit a second and settle.\"\n\n\"No thanks,\" the stranger said. \"I try not to drink before a show. I know it calms some people's nerves, but not mine.\"\n\n\"We drink,\" Gil said, pushing the mug over to the stranger, \"or Billy here shows you the door. It's our custom and as master of the house, I insist.\"\n\nThe stranger looked over at Billy but the bouncer only stared back at him, dead-eyed and stoic. Maybe Billy had made a mistake letting the guy in. He had no doubt in his mind that Gil would make good on his promise to throw the guy out, but Billy didn't want that ... not if he was gonna roll the guy for his guitar later, anyway. Still, whatever the boss said goes, and that was as good as law around here, but there was hope yet. If he had to give the guy the bum's rush, he might still be able to get the guitar away from him.\n\nBilly watched the guy with suspicion. He didn't think the guitar player was going to take the drink at first, but after a long moment, he reached for the mug and brought it to his lips.\n\n\"Fine,\" the stranger said. As he drank, his eyes rolled back into his head and after a few long swigs, he put the glass back down, empty. \"Is that a house blend?\"\n\nGil nodded. \"The one and only.\"\n\n\"Damn, that's good stuff,\" the stranger said, pounding one of his gloved fists down on the bar. \"The way beer was meant to be made, if you ask me.\"\n\n\"Glad you liked it,\" Gil said. \"Now we can get down to business. You play the night, get the crowd going, and you get protection from those monstrosities outside and a free meal. Plus if they all keep drinking, you drink for free.\"\n\n\"Sounds decent enough,\" the stranger said, \"especially if the food is half as good as that beer.\"\n\nGil smiled. \"Can't promise that. Brewing is my real specialty, but I'll see what I can do. I've picked up a few recipes over the years. Should be suitable enough.\"\n\n\"You have any fruit?\"\n\n\"Fruit?\" Billy said, laughing. \"Why, boy? You feeling fruity, are you? You came to the wrong bar for _that_ , son.\"\n\nGil shot him a look. \"William,\" he said, and it was enough to kill the raspy laugh in Billy's chest.\n\nThe stranger ignored Billy, but his eyes were lit up now. \"I've been dying for a little fresh fruit, is all. It's hard to harvest anything when you're traveling solo out there in the Wastes, you know? I'd kill for an apple, all nice, juicy and red. I got me an appetite tonight and that would just about be the icing on the cake.\"\n\nGil nodded. \"I can oblige, mister. William here will see to it all when you're done playing.\"\n\nBilly swore under his breath and was about to tell his boss he wasn't about to start taking orders and delivering food around like some goddamned waitress, but after that last look the boss had given him, it died on his lips.\n\n\"Much obliged,\" the stranger said. He looked off at the tiny platform at the far end of the barroom. An old worn stool and a rusted mic stand stood on top of it. \"You sure that thing can hold me?\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" Gil said. \"It'll hold. You're a performer. The stage is what you make of it, right?\"\n\nThe stranger smiled at that. \"I suppose it is,\" he said, \"but then again, I ain't no miracle worker.\" He pulled the wrapped guitar off of his back and unwound its covering. He pulled out a gorgeous six-string acoustic with a sunburst finish across the front of it.\n\nBilly whistled. \"How the hell do you keep it that nice traveling across the Wastes? I haven't seen one intact since ... well, hell, I don't know when I've seen one _that_ intact.\"\n\n\"The tool of my trade,\" the stranger said, patting its body. He picked it up and headed for the stage. \"Make sure those portions are big, though. Performing works up one hell of an appetite.\"\n\nBilly watched the stranger as he took the stage, barely able to resist the itch rising at the base of his brain again. Something like that guitar had to be worth a pretty penny these days, right?\n\nThe stranger took to the stage in front of the bored crowd and without even introducing himself launched into Hendrix's _Little Wing_. From the first chord, the crowd reacted, their enthusiasm growing through the next several hours with each passing song as the guy worked through a lengthy catalogue of crowd pleasers.\n\nAs the night wore on, Billy did more than his fair share of slinging drinks while the boss worked at superhuman speed to keep up with the demands of the thirsty crowd. The dingy joint of sad drunkards transformed as the evening progressed, the crowd becoming friendlier as they joined in on songs from the old days, songs of a simpler time\u2014songs from before the Wastes.\n\nEven the bar itself seemed to change. Every time Billy ran drinks, he seemed to notice something new about the place, something he had never noticed before. The way Billy was running around, he felt the goddamned place might even be larger than usual, but laughed it off as simply being overworked. Still, he had managed to eye several women in the crowd who might be worth a sweaty grunt or two once things died down. The tips flowed in and for a brief period of time they killed the greedy itch he felt at the back of his brain. The crowd was song-drunk when the stranger finally stopped.\n\nBilly watched the stranger work his way through the still clapping crowd, dozens of patrons slapping him on the back or forcing money into his hands as he went. All the love and respect they were giving the guy caused Billy's brain itch to deepen, especially with the stranger getting all the attention from the ladies in the crowd. Billy was pretty sure that if the stranger wanted, he could have his pick of any of the women in the room. He was also pretty sure that none of them would dare charge the guitarist for their services, which only irked Billy further.\n\nAs the crowd finally settled down, the stranger made his way to the bar. \"Wow,\" he said. \"This place really came alive, didn't it? I mean the crowd, the energy . . . hell, at one point I thought the entire bar was actually changing! I thought maybe you slipped something into my drink earlier, but I swear this is not the same bar I walked into.... I mean, that microphone was rusted when I came in and look at it now. It looks like it just popped off an assembly line.\" The stranger paused and cocked his head at Gil. \"This place really _is_ different, isn't it?\"\n\nGil shook his head. \"It's amazing how the crowd can change a person's perception of a place.\" Gil said. \"But no. Izdu-Bar is just a bar.\"\n\nBilly could tell the stranger that he wasn't quite buying Gil's explanation. His boss stared at the guitarist until the stranger looked away.\n\n\"Right,\" the stranger said, then changed the subject. \"So about that meal . . . ?\"\n\nGil relaxed. \"Ah, yes,\" he said. \"The bargain we struck in exchange for your entertainment this evening. I live to serve. Give me a few minutes to whip something together. The crowd got a little out of control while you were playing, and well ... the customers always come first.\"\n\n\"You got a place I can sit down for a spell while I eat?\" the stranger asked. He held his guitar by its neck, balanced its body on his foot. \"I'm worn.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Gil.\n\nThe stranger looked around the bar again. \"Something off the floor, preferably,\" he said. \"I need a little downtime after a show, you know?\"\n\n\"Not a problem,\" he said. \"Believe me, I understand the desire for a little privacy, especially in a bar. You can head down the stairs out back here behind the bar. I keep a table and chair down by the brew works for my off hours. I'll send William down with what you desire when it's ready.\"\n\n\"Great,\" the stranger said. \"Thanks. And hey, don't forget that apple, William!\"\n\n_Him and his apple_ , Billy thought. Yeah, the guy was definitely fruity. Just one more reason to liberate the guy from his guitar . . . and maybe all those tips as well.\n\nThe stranger grabbed up his guitar and reclaimed his pack before heading off towards the stairs. Gil went back to the kitchen area and Billy scoped out the bar. The crowd was still drunk off the power of the evening, which was great. It at least meant Billy was more likely to get a deal on whichever one of the girls was willing to give him a tumble later.\n\nWhen Gil presented him a tray stacked with a sizable meal\u2014complete with a ruby red apple, of course\u2014Billy headed over to the stairs with it. As he descended the staircase, however, Billy's mind switched back to some of his darker thoughts from earlier in the evening.\n\nA drifter passing through, no matter how talented, was the perfect victim. If the stranger disappeared, others would assume that he had simply moved on as drifters do. The stranger's guitar would no doubt fetch a good price, but a new thought struck him, making him a little bit angrier with every step down the stairs.\n\nA guy like that stranger, a guy who played that good . . . he _had_ to be loaded, right? Billy thought so, especially after having seen the tips people had been slipping the guy once he got off the stage. Multiply that money by the number of towns the stranger must have played in his travels . . . the guy had surely been crying poor at the door earlier. Billy's blood began to rise. _The stranger had tricked him_ , Billy thought, _no doubt about it_....\n\nThe more Billy thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had been made a fool of. Hell, the guy probably wore one of those hidden money carriers on his body, the ones Billy had heard were popular in surviving the lawless plains of the Wastes. Thinking about how the guy had played him, Billy clenched his hands, his nails digging into the side of the steel dinner tray. The itch at the back of his brain was overpowering now, and goddammit if Billy didn't want to hurt the guy for making a fool of him.\n\nThe sounds of the brew works became more and more pronounced as Billy got closer to the bottom of the stairs. The hiss of steam through the twist of copper tubes leading from the water tanks to the mash tun, hopback, and copper kettles filled the air, as did the grind of the old stone wheels that helped to fire the kiln and drive the heat exchanger. Billy stepped into the brew works, passed the wall of noise that seemed to die back down once he was past a large stone tablet the boss kept near it all, and headed toward the back of the room where the stranger sat at a long wooden table with his back to him.\n\n\"Here you go,\" Billy said, dropping the tray on the table next to him, letting it ring out with a sharp clang. \"You even got an apple, as requested.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" the stranger said, ignoring the tray as he fiddled with a small wrapped pack on the table, \"but the apple's not for me.\"\n\n\"Oh no?\" Billy asked, checking over his shoulder to make sure the boss hadn't followed him down. The path back to the stairway was clear.\n\n\"No,\" the stranger said, shaking his head, \"but we'll come back to that. Let me ask you a question.\"\n\n\"Go ahead,\" Billy said, welcoming the chance. He had been so busy planning how he was going to spend the stranger's money, he hadn't worked out how he should go about the deed of killing him first. Answering questions would give him a moment to come up with a plan.\n\n\"That red stone thing about the size of my chest,\" the stranger said. \"What the hell is it?\"\n\n\"Beats me,\" Billy said. He stifled a laugh as a near perfect idea struck him. _Beats you too, stranger._ Billy headed back over to the object and examined all the tiny marks, squiggles, and symbols on its face. \"Looks Egyptian or something. Boss says it's the family recipe for his home brew here, but I think he just likes jerking around the help when they ask about it. I'd tell him to piss off, but the job market ain't what it used to be ever since those brain munchers took over the outside world. Filthy creatures.\"\n\nBilly put his arms around the hefty piece of stone, lifting it off its display stand. The damned thing weighed a ton. _Oh yeah,_ he thought. _This will do the trick. No question._\n\nThe stranger scoffed as he continued fiddling with that package of his, paying no attention to Billy whatsoever.\n\n\"What would you know about what's happening in the outside world?\" he asked, a hint of anger in his voice. \"You're all just a bunch of shut-in's, sitting here, drinking your swill, passing your time, talking crap about a world outside that you don't even _know_. You think the world stopped when the zombies came? No. ...\"\n\n_That's it,_ Billy thought and he lugged the thing across the floor towards the stranger. _Just keep talking._ There was no doubt in the bouncer's mind that the stone tablet would get the job done . . . and quick. Roll the guy, store the guitar away until he could safely get it out of there, and drag the body out back, maybe leave it to the brain munchers. . . .\n\n\"What do you expect us to do?\" Billy asked, trying to distract the stranger as he moved closer. \"Run around the Wastes town to town like you, hoping to avoid them?\" Billy raised the stone up, hefting the heavy thing in the air using every ounce of strength he had. The damned thing was likely to crush the dumb bastard's head flat. Billy looked at the back of his target's head and caught sight of the stranger's package, which was now open, its contents spread out on the table in front of him. It was a collection of small tins, tubes, and pads, along with a variety of brushes. \"Is that . . . makeup?\"\n\nThe stranger paused for a second. \"Yes. For my performance.\"\n\n_One swift swing,_ Billy thought, _and it will all be over, save for the cleaning up_. It was a risk rolling the bastard in the basement of the bar, but it wasn't every day an opportunity to profit like this fell in your lap. And even if Gil caught him before he could drag the body up the back stairs and dispose of it in the Wastes, Billy already had a cover story forming in his mind. He'd tell the boss that the stranger really _had_ turned out to be fruity and came on to him. When Billy told the bastard where he could go, the stranger had become violent and the situation had escalated. Billy was simply defending himself . . . against a wiry guy who was a full head shorter than himself. _Right_.\n\nOkay, it wasn't the most perfect plan for killing a guy he had ever concocted, but opportunity was not a lengthy visitor these days and just living in a world where the wandering dead filled the Wastes made life a little chancier anyway, didn't it?\n\nBilly readied the stone for its downswing, then paused as some small light bulb in his brain clicked on. \"Wait ... why would you need makeup _now_? That doesn't make sense. You already played.\"\n\n\"The makeup wasn't for my performance onstage,\" the stranger said, spinning around in his chair. \"It's for my performance _now_.\" His face was normal except for a small gray patch along his left cheek that was the color of those undead bastards out in the Wastes. The stranger dabbed a pad into the tin in his hand and smeared a swatch of flesh-colored makeup over the spot, giving the stranger the appearance of humanity once again.\n\nPanic rose in Billy's heart, the strength leaving his arms, causing the heavy stone tablet to fall towards the stranger's head. The stranger, however, was quicker, and raised one hand to meet the tablet, stopping it midfall. How he was supporting it with just one hand, Billy didn't know . . . then it hit him.\n\n\"Stinking zombie,\" he said with a sneer.\n\nThe stranger shook his head, still holding up the stone tablet. \"Just another of your stereotypes, I'm afraid.\" He stood, taking the tablet away from Billy, and flung him back.\n\nBilly crashed against a stack of barrels, his mind fighting to make sense of everything going on. \"But ... but . . . the zombies can't talk, and. . . .\"\n\nBilly fought to find words, but nothing more came to him and a second later, it really didn't matter anyway. The stranger adjusted the tablet in both of his hands, flipping it around like it weighed nothing, and then slammed it down on Billy's feet.\n\nBilly heard the sound of his toes crushing before pain shot up his legs. He went to scream, but the stranger grabbed up the apple off the dinner tray and slammed it into Billy's mouth, knocking out two of his teeth in the process. Billy, dazed and in shock, slumped to the ground.\n\n\"I'm capable of a lot of things you wouldn't expect my kind to be able to do,\" the stranger said, crouching down next to Billy and meeting his eyes. \"As you've seen. But you're quick to stereotype, aren't you?\"\n\nBilly shook his head in uncontrollable panic as the zombie musician stared down at him, examining him. He could taste the sweetness of the apple mixed with the saltiness of his own blood.\n\n\"The world keeps on evolving,\" the stranger continued, picking up the stone once again as if it were made of paper and replacing it on its stand, then walked back over to Billy. \"I am a product of that evolution, friend. I don't quite understand why I'm not like the rest of those zombies out in the Wastes, but I have a theory. They say a musician's got music in his soul. They also say that 'music doth have charms to soothe the savage beasts,' so maybe that helps even me out. I'm not sure exactly. Either way, I'm still human enough to walk both worlds, even if it does take a bit of makeup to cover up the gray to accomplish it. I've evolved, but fat, greedy you hasn't, have you? No. You just stay the same.\" The stranger stood up and kicked Billy's already broken toes.\n\nPain shot straight to the core of Billy's brain and he screamed again, the sound muffled by the apple.\n\n\"Shh,\" the stranger said. \"We can't have any of that now, can we? You know, there's one stereotype that does hold true still about my kind ... you know, us _brain munchers_.\" The stranger leaned down over Billy, grinning from ear to ear. \"Your boss promised me a meal, but it wasn't that tray of food I had in mind.\"\n\nThe stranger moved out of sight just above Billy's line of vision, a strange and cooling sensation filling his brain as the sounds of slurping and crunching filled his ears. Bouncer Billy would have prayed, if he believed in that sort of thing, but he didn't bother. He doubted that a God who had created these damned monstrosities in the first place was a God he wanted to meet, anyway. The only consolation was that the itch at the back of Billy's brain all night was finally fading, along with everything else....\n**ABOUT THE AUTHORS**\n\nThe only dog **Barbara Ashford** ever owned was a dachshund. He didn't say much. After stumbling through several jobs in educational administration, she ran away to the theatre, working as an actress and later as a librettist/ lyricist. Her first trilogy was a finalist for the Mythopoeic Society's award for fantasy literature. Her new novel\u2014 _Spellcast\u2014_ comes out in May 2011 and is set in a summer stock theatre far more magical than any she worked in. She credits her husband for inspiring \"The Tale that Wagged the Dog\" and for keeping her supplied with single malt whisky. Visit her at www.barbara-ashford.com.\n\n**Patricia Bray** originally intended to write a completely different story, but when she opened her word processor, she heard the voice of George Harker recounting his adventures and was compelled to record them. Drawing upon her knowledge of Georgian England and love of nineteenth century fiction, she's fairly confident that George and his adventures are entirely the work of her imagination. Well, mostly confident. To find out what she's up to now, visit her website at www.patriciabray.com.\n\n**S.C. Butler** is the author of the Stoneways Trilogy: _Reiffen's Choice_ , _Queen Ferris_ , and _The Magicians' Daughter_ . A relative once complained to him about all the underage drinking in his books, but who ever drank the water in the Middle Ages? His favorite drink is a glass of Pinot Grigio, and his favorite place to drink it is the bar deck of the Lawrence Beach Club on a summer evening, with two hundred yards of sand and fifty miles of the Atlantic Ocean spread out before him.\n\n**Jennifer Dunne** is the author of over fourteen fantasy and paranormal romances. While traveling in Italy last year, she fell in love with Venice, and the more she read about the city, the more she wondered. Why would one of the two most powerful men in the world at the time sneak into Venice in disguise, only announcing that he had been there after he was gone? What was he _really_ hoping to accomplish? And, because she believes in happy endings, of course in her story, he gets one.\n\n**Laura Anne Gilman** has a history of writing short stories that aren't quite as-expected. This is nothing new: she wrote her first original novel, _Staying Dead,_ when everyone said that urban fantasy was dead, and, in 2008 she wrote _The Vineart War,_ an alternate-historical fantasy, when everyone was looking for urban fantasy. She thinks being contrary's a pretty good way to build a career. It should be noted that, despite _The Vineart War_ being about wine-magic, and despite the story being set in France, the story for this anthology does not reference wine, but rather a specifically evil sort of cocktail popular at the time . . . the author does not encourage consumption of more than three in an evening!\n\n**D.B. Jackson** also writes as David B. Coe, the Crawford Fantasy Award-winning author of the popular series The LonTobyn Chronicle, Winds of Forelands, and Blood of Southlands, as well as the novelization of Ridley Scott's _Robin Hood._ The first D.B. Jackson novel, _Thieftaker_ , will be released in 2012. It is a historical fantasy and mystery, which, like \"The Tavern Fire,\" is set in pre-Revolutionary Boston. D.B. likes any bar that serves dark ales on tap.\n\n**Jackie Kessler** writes about demons, angels, the hapless humans caught between them, superheroes, the supervillains who love to pound those heroes into pudding, vampires, ghosts, and the occasional Horseman of the Apocalypse. Her favorite drinks include a semi-dry Riesling and, when at conventions, rum and Diet Coke. When beer is the thing, her favorite bar is the Peculier Pub on Bleeker Street in New York City. For wine, it's got to be The Wine Bar in Saratoga Springs, NY. For more about Jackie, visit her website: www.jackiekessler.com.\n\n**Seanan McGuire** was born and raised in Northern California, which explains a lot about her approach to venomous reptiles and the concept of \"weather.\" She's been writing since she was nine, driving everyone around her crazy; her first book, _Rosemary and Rue_ , came out from DAW in September 2009. More have followed. Seanan lives with two blue cats (Siamese and Maine Coon), too many books, and a great many horror movies. Her favorite drink is the Corpse Reviver #2: gin, Cointreau, Lillet blanc, lemon juice, absinthe, a cherry, and defiance of nature's laws. Delicious, delicious defiance. Seanan doesn't sleep much.\n\n**Juliet E. McKenna** has always been fascinated by myth and history, other worlds and other peoples. After studying classical history and literature at St Hilda's, Oxford, she worked in personnel management before a career change to combine book-selling and motherhood. Her first novel, _The Thief's Gamble_ , was published in 1999. That series, the Tales of Einarinn, was followed by The Aldabreshin Compass sequence and her current trilogy, The Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution. Living in the Cotswolds of England she is lucky enough to have the Wychwood Brewery within easy reach, home of Hobgoblin and Wychcraft beers.\n\n**Avery Shade** is an author of paranormal and urban fantasy of both the adult and young adult variety. Though grounded in a small upstate NY town, she lives vicariously through her stories. When not busy writing, she is probably off searching for the real meaning of life, the universe, and... well... everything. If you can track her down (try her website: www.averyshade.com) you might offer to go for drinks somewhere. She's all too eager for a bit of escapism. Maybe one of these times she'll find the Ur-Bar and Gil will mix her a drink that can give her some more time.\n\n**Maria V. Snyder** switched careers from meteorologist to fantasy novelist when she began writing _The New York Times_ bestselling Study series ( _Poison Study_ , _Magic Study_ , and _Fire Study_ ) about a young woman who becomes a poison taster. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Maria dreamed of chasing tornados, but lacked the skills to forecast their location. Writing, however, lets Maria control the weather which she does in her new Glass series ( _Storm Glass_ , _Sea Glass_ , and _Spy Glass_ ). Readers are invited to kick back with her favorite drink, a Long Island Iced Tea, and read more short stories on her website at www.MariaVSnyder.com.\n\n**Kari Sperring** grew up dreaming of joining the musketeers and saving France, only to discover that the company had been disbanded in 1776. Disappointed, she became a historian instead and as Kari Maund has written and published five books and co-authored (with Phil Nanson) a book on the history and real people behind her favourite novel, _The Three Musketeers_. Her first novel _Living with Ghosts_ was published in 2009 by DAW books and she has recently completed her second. \"The Fortune-Teller Makes Her Will\" was inspired by the Poisons' Affair that rocked the French Court in the 1670s and by a beautiful named pair of earrings by jeweler Elise Matheson. She's British and lives in Cambridge, England, with her partner Phil and three very determined cats, who guarantee that everything she writes will have been thoroughly sat upon. Her website can be found at www.karisperring.com.\n\n**Anton Strout** remembers his early days of barhopping in New York City, making The Slaughtered Lamb an old favorite of his thanks to the drinks, dungeon, life-sized werewolves and fake lightning storms. He is best known as the author of the Simon Canderous urban fantasy series including _Dead To Me_ , _Deader Still_ , _Dead Matter_ , and _Dead Waters_. He has also appeared in a variety of anthologies _._ In his scant spare time, he is an always writer, sometimes actor, sometimes musician, occasional RPGer, and the world's most casual and controllersmashing video gamer. He can be found lurking the darkened hallways of www.antonstrout.com.\n\n**Benjamin Tate** was born in North-Central Pennsylvania and is currently a professor living near Endicott, NY, teaching at a local college. He began writing seriously in graduate school, using the fantasy world of his novel _Well of Sorrows_ as an escape from the stress. His goals in life are to travel Europe, sail the Mediterranean, visit Australia, and preside over a small kingdom from a castle on a hill while occasionally bombarding the villagers below with catapult fire. His favorite drink is a White Russian\u2014preferably with top shelf vodka. www.benjamintate.com.\n\n**Ian Tregillis** is the son of a bearded mountebank and a discredited tarot card reader. He is the author of _Bitter Seeds_ , _The Coldest War_ , and _Necessary Evil._ He received a doctorate in physics from the University of Minnesota, but now lives in New Mexico, where he consorts with writers, scientists, and other unsavory types. His favorite holiday drink comes from a one hundred fifty-year old recipe for eggnog. www.iantregillis.com\n**ABOUT THE EDITORS**\n\n**Patricia Bray** is the author of a dozen novels, including _Devlin's Luck,_ which won the 2003 Compton Crook award for the best first novel in the field of science fiction or fantasy. A well-spent youth taught her that the best accompaniment to a fine ale is an equally wellcrafted story, a lesson that she drew on for her first foray on the editorial side of the fence. She currently lives in upstate New York, where she combines her writing with a full-time career as Systems Analyst, ensuring that she is never more than a few feet away from a keyboard. To find out more, visit her website at www.patriciabray.com.\n\n**Joshua Palmatier** is a writer with a PhD in mathematics. He currently resides in New York while teaching mathematics full-time at SUNY College at Oneonta. His novels include _The Skewed Throne_ , _The Cracked Throne_ , and _The Vacant Throne_ , all part of the Throne of Amenkor trilogy. His short story \"Mastihooba\" appeared in the anthology _Close Encounters of the Urban Kind_. This is his first stab at being an editor and it required the consumption of many, many White Russians. But he'll do it again given the chance. www.joshuapalmatier.com.\n\n**Also Available from DAW Books:**\n\n_**Boondocks Fantasy**_ **,** edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg Urban fantasy is popular, but what if you took that modern fantasy and moved it to the \"sticks,\" with no big city in sight? Trailer parks, fishing shacks, sleepy little towns, or specks on the map so small that if you blink while driving through you'll miss them. Vampires, wizards, aliens, and elves might be tired of all that urban sprawl and prefer a spot in the country\u2014someplace where they can truly be themselves without worrying about what the neighbors think! With stories by tale-spinners such as Gene Wolfe, Timothy Zahn, Mickey Zucker Reichert, Anton Strout, Linda P. Baker and others.\n\n_**Love and Rockets**_ , edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes An original collection of thirteen space opera adventures by authors such as Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Jay Lake, Steven H. Silver, Dean Wesley Smith, Jody Lynn Nye, Tim Waggoner, and Kristine Kathryn Rusch, among others, which explore the directions romantic relationships may take when set in such unique environments as spaceships, space stations, or planetary colonies. The relationships may be between humans or alien/human couples or even between humans and AIs. And no matter how far men, women, and extraterrestrials go in the universe, whether love is found on a distant planet or among the stars, just like in real life, a happy ending is never guaranteed.\n\n_**Zombiesque** ,_ edited by Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett, and Martin H. Greenberg\n\nZombies have long stalked and staggered through the darkest depths of human imagination, pandering to our fears about death and what lies beyond. But must zombies always be just shambling, brain-obsessed ghouls? If zombies actually maintained some level of personality and intelligence, what would they want more than anything? Could zombies integrate themselves into society? Could society accept zombies? What if a zombie fell in love? These are just some of the questions explored in original stories by Seanan McGuire, Nancy A. Collins, Tim Waggoner, Richard Lee Byers, Jim C. Hines, Jean Rabe, and Del Stone Jr. with others. Here's your chance to take a walk on the undead side in these unforgettable tales told from a zombie's point of view.\n\n_**Steampunk'd,**_ edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg\n\nScience fiction is the literature of what if, and steampunk takes the what if along a particular time stream. What if steam power was the prime force in the Victorian era? How would that era change, and how would it change the future? From a Franco-British race for Kentucky coal to one woman's determination to let no man come between her and her inventions ... from \"machine whisperers\" to a Thomas Edison experiment gone awry, here are fourteen original tales of what might have been had steam powered the world in an earlier age, from Michael A. Stackpole, Donald J. Bingle, Robert Vardeman, Paul Genesse, Jody Lynn Nye, and others.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Incredibly Decadent Desserts - Deb Wise"}, "text": "\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n THE BASICS\n\n THE CAKE WALK\n\n UPPER CRUST\n\n SMALL BITES\n\n OLD SCHOOL\n\n FROZEN AND CHILLED\n\n LABORS OF LOVE\n\nNUTRITIONAL INFORMATION\n\nMETRIC EQUIVALENTS\nI often spend a majority of my day thinking about dessert. Luckily, it's my job, which is particularly wonderful because I have been a sugar-lover for as long as I can remember. Desserts were always part of our family's meal when I was growing up. Even if my grandmother, aunt, or mom hadn't made an apple pie, berry cobbler, or a creamy baked custard, we would have a scoop of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. These were simple desserts, but because family members took the time to make and serve them, I always felt loved and indulged. That's what's magical about dessert. The simple act of sharing something sweet that's been made with care brings such tremendous joy.\n\nA LOVE AFFAIR WITH DESSERT\n\nSome of my earliest memories are of being with my grandmother in the kitchen stirring batters, dipping out flour, and snatching M&Ms while she poured them into cookie dough. All of the women in my family are wonderful cooks and particularly talented bakers. I loved watching my grandmother's hands\u2014they were arthritic but strong\u2014and the care she took with whatever she was creating inspired me to become a good baker. She had a deft touch guided by intuition that made her desserts memorable. To this day, no one can recreate her crustless baked custard pie. She would transform the strawberries bought from roadside stands near our home in Garden Grove, California, into strawberry shortcake made with sweetened drop biscuits. She could make her signature jumbo raisin cookies without a recipe well into her 60s. My aunt was in charge of the coconut cake I usually requested for my birthday\u2014she finished the three-layer cake with super-thick Italian meringue icing and tons of toasted coconut. (I've recreated a lighter version that's just as much of a showstopper on page 226.) These are the kinds of desserts that have stayed with me my whole life. These desserts, made with such love, are the ones I still crave.\n\nI've always enjoyed tinkering in the kitchen, but this passion didn't become my career until later in life. My first job was in banking, and then I moved into the heartfelt world of nonprofit organizations. I was an executive, and although I enjoyed the work, it became incredibly stressful. Amid all of that, there was always my love of baking. So after 25 years in the business world and thanks to an amazing, supportive husband, I decided to change careers and focus on my true love: DESSERT. My husband, Barry, and I packed up a U-Haul and moved from Visalia, California, to Hyde Park, New York, where I attended the Culinary Institute of America and received a degree in baking and pastry arts. Culinary school was\n\ntwo of the most challenging and yet rewarding years of my life. My ultimate goal was to work in a test kitchen, and that's where I ended up in 2008 when I came to Cooking Light.\n\nI started as an intern, where I did the grocery shopping and prep work for recipe testers, and organized and cleaned out the pantries. I did have a few recipes to test each week, but not the same number as the full-time testers. One of the highlights of my time as an intern was when I developed an ice cream topping that ran in the magazine\u2014I was over the moon in love with my new career. Now, I am one of those full-time recipe developers and testers. It's my job to come up with the irresistible desserts in the magazine, and it's these and additional new recipes that I've collected here in Incredibly Decadent Desserts. I've reevaluated and retested many original recipes, too, reading online reader comments and adjusting the recipes to reflect those helpful suggestions.\n\nMY METHODS\n\nI have a dream job. I spend my days thinking up ideas for desserts, and then I make and test them. The initial spark of an idea might start with a memory or be inspired by something I recently tasted or read about. It's typical for me to go through a few iterations to get the dessert just right and make sure it meets Cooking Light's nutritional standards. My challenge is always to produce the same gratifying desserts you would enjoy in a bakery or a restaurant, just in a package that's 300 calories or less. Then the magazine staff tastes it and decides if it rates high enough to be published. Fortunately, this type of tinkering\u2014using ingredients smartly, adjusting baking times to get the perfect texture and browning, and playing with other elements to create the perfect dessert\u2014is why I love what I do.\n\nWhen developing a new light dessert, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. I manage the sugar content by using assertive ingredients to wring out absolutely every bit of flavor, like high-quality vanilla extract, lemon rind, and almond paste. I use the freshest fruit at the peak of its season. I put just a dash of salt in everything, even in an eggy custard, to balance it and bring out flavors.\n\nSaturated fat is the most difficult part to get right in any light dessert. Dessert needs the richness added by fat to have the right mouthfeel\u2014whether it's moist and cakey, or creamy, or crisp, or flaky like a piecrust. Truthfully, piecrust is one of the hardest things to make light because butter is the key to those wonderful layers. Often I substitute canola oil or egg white for some of the butter, and I've also started using non-hydrogenated natural shortening to get those flaky layers. (It took me a long time to convince Cooking Light's dietitian to sanction it.) I also discovered that adding vinegar and baking powder helps create the right texture. And in other desserts, I like using nut flours because they deliver huge flavor without adding too much fat.\n\nHealthier chocolate desserts are always a challenge. Chocolate itself is high in saturated fat, even though it's plant-based. So I find the richest, deepest chocolate and use it in smaller amounts to keep the flavor as intense as possible. Wait until you taste the Baked Chocolate Mousse, Mexican Chocolate Cream Pie, and Seriously Chocolate Cupcakes. One taste of these rich desserts will have you wondering how they can really be light.\n\nOne of my favorite ingredients for keeping light desserts creamy and fluffy is frozen whipped topping. One day I'll write a book called In Defense of Frozen Reduced-Calorie Whipped Topping, but for now, you can read a little more about my view on it on page 15. Let's just say, without it, I'd be sunk.\n\nWith the resurgence of interest in ancient grains, I wanted to create recipes that included some of them, such as amaranth, teff, and Kamut flours. What I learned through developing these recipes is that you can't just substitute equal amounts of them for regular all-purpose flour. The gluten content in each is different and the flavors are bold. It took me several tries, for example, to get the Cinnamon-Honey Crackers just right because the flavor of amaranth is so strong and earthy that it needed to be balanced with just the right amount of all-purpose flour. In the end, I found a happy ratio. You'll find all the desserts that include whole and ancient grains are tagged throughout the book.\n\nA FEW NOTES ON THE RECIPES\n\nYou'll find modern recipes, some favorite old-fashioned ones, and a few restaurant-ish desserts like smoked cherry bombs, souffl\u00e9s, and towering cakes with multiple components. I had so much fun throwing in a few flavor twists on classic desserts, like cardamom in a strawberry-rhubarb pie, a cream pie flavored with chai, and star anise snickerdoodles. I wanted to give you a range of flavors and textures to enjoy.\n\nADDITIONALLY, YOU CAN EXPECT THAT:\n\n\u2022Some of the recipes may look long or complicated, but the majority are easy.\n\n\u2022A few do take more time but the instructions are clearly written and you will feel confident preparing and serving them.\n\n\u2022Each dessert features the attributes you love in desserts. They are never gummy, dry, or lacking in taste just because they have fewer calories and less fat.\n\n\u2022These recipes do not assume you are an experienced cook.\n\nWHAT YOU'LL LEARN\n\nThe most important skill I learned in culinary school was patience. Desserts take time, consideration, and attention. When you're cooking you can make corrections along the way to many dishes when they go wrong, but that's not often true with dessert. With baked treats, you don't know what you're going to get until it comes out of the oven, and sometimes not until you bite into it. And often you're baking for a special occasion and there's no time for a do-over. But there's no need to feel nervous. I've got your back, and you can trust my recipes. Here's my advice: Make a dessert on a day when you have time. If it's for an event, it's often fine to start the day before. Put on music you love, and make sure everybody else in the house is busy and won't interrupt you. There's nothing worse than having to leave the stove while your caramel bubbles or abandon the mixer only to return to deflated egg whites.\n\nRead each recipe all the way through, and prepare all the ingredients before you start mixing. If you're a novice baker, start with something easy, like a Bundt cake (try the one). Once you've mastered that, move on to a layer cake, and then increase your confidence by preparing a dessert with more components, like a filling or icing (like the cake). When you feel like trying something new, you may not know all the techniques I've included, but there's nothing to worry about. I've written the instructions clearly to help you power through the critical moments, like how to add a hot simple syrup into whipping egg whites for creamy Italian meringue icing.\n\nOver time, I've learned to be more confident in the kitchen, and you'll get there, too. Be neat and organized and locate all your ingredients and equipment before starting. I get loads of pleasure from the process itself, not just the end result. I'm mesmerized by the texture and color changes that take place during the mixing, folding, stirring, whipping, creaming, and baking steps of a recipe. I hope you learn to love the process, too.\n\nBesides, I've already made all the mistakes so you won't have to. I've made all the desserts multiple times, fixing what turned out to be overly sweet, too dry, too wet, overcooked, undercooked, or flavors that were too harsh or not strong enough. I want every cake, cookie, cobbler, frozen dessert, pie, and pudding to have a wow factor worth your investment of time and energy.\n\nENJOY THE END RESULT\n\nOur bodies love sugar. I think that's why people get so excited when I bring out a cake or a frozen dessert. Some can hardly wait for the rice pudding to cool enough so they can eat it without burning their tongues. That's why one of the best parts of making a dessert is visualizing the gorgeous end result and anticipating the pleasure that will happen when people taste your masterpiece. It's so gratifying.\n\nGood desserts conjure good times and celebrations, like a birthday or a holiday. It's not only the taste but the memories that are integral to our appreciation. So go ahead and show off. People love to celebrate and socialize, and the best fellowship occurs when sharing a meal. These recipes are meant for those occasions. They're indulgent and give you a full blast of flavor and satisfaction, but a lovely little bonus is that they will help you manage calories. You can feel good about sharing them, making them for yourself, and serving them to family and friends.\nTHE BASICS\n\nTHE BASICS OF LIGHT DESSERTS\n\nI spend so much time making desserts in Cooking Light's Test Kitchen and have gained so much knowledge about ingredients and tools that I want to share all of it with new and experienced bakers. Throughout the book I include details about how ingredients work and why, my top baking tips, and which tools I can't live without. I want you to feel comfortable and confident about making the recipes in Incredibly Decadent Desserts. If I succeed, you'll have a trusted collection of desserts that will last for years.\n\nTHE BUILDING BLOCKS\n\nDesserts are a combination of art and science. We eat with our eyes first, so desserts simply must look irresistible. If a cake falls or cookies look burned around the edges, the implication is that they won't taste good. You certainly don't want that. And science, the other building block, applies because if you don't follow the recipe, even the finest ingredients will produce a poor dessert. Here are the most critical components and the role they play in taste and texture:\n\nFat: Butter produces an unrivaled rich flavor in desserts. Since it's high in saturated fat, I use less than in traditional recipes. I don't cut it out altogether because I still want the flavor. Plus, butter plays a crucial role by incorporating air in the creaming process. Aerating butter and sugar by beating them together creates just the right texture that aids leavening. To make up for less butter, I frequently add canola oil, which has the least amount of saturated fat of all oils.\n\nI also substitute egg whites for yolks to cut saturated fat and act as a binder in cakes and doughs. But I don't eliminate all of the egg yolks from a recipe, because the fat in yolks adds tenderness, creaminess, and moisture.\n\nALL-PURPOSE FLOUR: Flour adds structure to baked goods by building a network of gluten strands that hold in the gas produced during baking and when doughs rise. It thickens pastry cream and pie fillings, and it adds subtle flavor to baked goods, whether you're using a wheat flour or a super-flavorful ancient grain flour. (for more whole-grain and nut flours.)\n\nSugar: Lighter desserts contain less sugar, period. But in addition to adding sweetness, sugar acts as a preservative in baked goods by adding moisture and by attracting moisture from the environment. Because lighter baked desserts contain less sugar, they have a shorter shelf-life than commercially produced cakes, cookies, and pies. Cold desserts that are naturally stored in the refrigerator (such as cheesecake) will last longer.\n\nSalt: Unless otherwise specified, I use regular table salt\u2014not coarse ground salt or coarse kosher salt. Although my recipes may use less salt than others, I've added enough to bring out the sweetness of fruit and to make cakes and cookies tastier.\n\nIN DEFENSE OF COOL WHIP\n\nI'm a HUGE proponent of real and all-natural flavor additions and ingredients, but when making light desserts, I would be sunk if I didn't have reduced-calorie Cool Whip in my arsenal of tricks. Heavy cream is high in saturated fat and has loads of calories, and you have to use a lot of it to make enough whipped cream to fold into batters or to top pies and cakes. This is where reduced-calorie Cool Whip comes in. Without it, there wouldn't be lighter versions of chocolate mousse cake, dreamy cream pies, or lovely melting dollops on top of warm fruit pies. Every set of rules has an exception, and this is an exception to my rule about only using real ingredients. If you are completely opposed to using whipped topping, here are the substitution facts: 2 tablespoons of reduced-calorie whipped topping contain 25 calories and 1 gram of saturated fat. Substitute an equal amount of heavy cream or whipping cream, and you get 52 calories and 3.5 grams of saturated fat. The difference in saturated fat and calories can really make or break a light dessert. And the texture and flavor are actually so similar, you won't be able to tell the difference.\n\nMY TOP 5\n\nBAKING TIPS\n\nA friend told me once that spending time in my kitchen was a Zen experience. I take that as a compliment. Baking is an art, and you cannot rush and expect to get exceptional results. By incorporating the tips below into your kitchen habits, I hope you, too, will experience the Zen of making desserts.\n\n1 Read the recipe all the way through, and make sure you have everything you need. A little effort and planning up front could save loads of aggravation down the line. The last thing you need is to discover you're out of sugar in the middle of making cookie dough. So gather all the ingredients, equipment, and tools; chop, toast, and cool nuts and nut flours; make fillings that need to chill; and remember to preheat your oven.\n\n2 It's crucial to be mindful of temperature. Always bake desserts at the temperature specified, or they might not rise or set properly. To check that your oven is accurate, or to find hot spots, place an oven thermometer in a few different locations\u2014in the front, in the back, on the sides, and in the lower one-third\u2014to discover if your oven's temperature is consistent throughout. If your oven runs a little hot, check your baked goods early for doneness and vice versa.\n\nThe temperature of your ingredients can make or break your recipe. Pie dough begs for cold butter, but room temperature butter is right for creaming sugar and incorporating air. Follow the guidelines in each recipe. If your butter's too soft, your cookies will be greasy and the size of a dinner plate, your cake will be a gummy mess, and you won't be able to cut your piecrust with a fork. Take butter out of the fridge or freezer in time to have it come to room temperature.\n\n3 Measure flour accurately. In every recipe that calls for flour, you'll see both a weight as well as a cup measure. The weight measurement is a surefire way to ensure you get the same results I did. The reason is this: Some people pack the flour into measuring cups while others sprinkle it in, and before you know it there might be several ounces too much or too little in the cup. Too much flour could mean your dessert turns out to be dense, heavy, dry, or flat. If you don't own a kitchen scale, I highly recommend that you get one. Then there's no second-guessing yourself, and you'll measure it perfectly every time. If you don't have a scale, follow this scooping advice: Scoop the flour into the cup with a large spoon without packing it in. Level the top with the flat side of a knife.\n\n4 Be sure to have baking spray with flour on hand. It's awesome. Cakes fall out of their pans with ease, and baking spray with flour won't leave residual white dust on your chocolate cake. Sometimes a warm cake on a cooling rack will stick and tear and leave some of the cake behind. If you spray your rack first, cakes and moist cookies stay beautifully whole. Spray your pans over the open door of your dishwasher to keep overspray mess contained.\n\n5 Use natural flavorings whenever possible. If you're putting all this energy and time into making a dessert, you want it to taste fantastic. The best way to get there is to use real ingredients. (See my exception to this rule.) Stay away from artificial ingredients concocted in a lab. Artificial flavors contain high amounts of alcohol, coloring agents, artificial sweeteners, and other mysterious ingredients. Use only real vanilla extract, not artificial or vanilla flavoring. Did you know that artificial vanilla has only one or two flavor notes, but real vanilla has hundreds? Isn't that worth paying a little extra?\n\nHigh-quality liqueurs pack a punch of flavor because they are made from real ingredients that have been distilled in alcohol. A tablespoon or so of Grand Marnier gives you off-the-wall orange flavor, just as a quality amaretto punches up almond flavor. Most of the alcohol burns off during cooking or baking, so you're not left with a dessert that tastes like a cocktail.\n\nBASIC INGREDIENTS\n\nFresh ingredients are a critical part of any recipe. Check the dates on baking powder and baking soda, and give your canola oil a sniff; if it smells too strong or sour, replace it. If your spices and dried herbs have been in your cupboard so long you can't remember when you bought them, it's time to buy new ones. Flours can be stored in the fridge or freezer, as long as you bring them to room temperature before adding to a recipe. If you don't bake regularly, check the quality of your flour. It might start to smell musty or like the inside of your fridge or freezer. In the cupboard it might go rancid or smell off. Even worse, it might have uninvited residents.\n\nUnbleached all-purpose flour: A blend of hard and soft wheat, this flour contains 10 to 13 percent protein. (The higher the protein, the stronger the gluten; bread needs strong gluten, whereas cakes do not.) I recommend unbleached flour to avoid the chemicals used to bleach the flour. Bleached flour has stronger gluten, but doesn't provide enough of a boost to warrant using it.\n\nSemolina flour: Milled from sunny yellow durum wheat, semolina flour has a stronger wheaty flavor and more texture than regular all-purpose flour. Typically it is used to make pasta and pizza dough. In cakes, it adds texture, beautiful golden color, and an enhanced wheat flavor.\n\nCake flour: This is soft wheat flour, finely milled, with 7 to 9 percent protein, so there's less strength in the gluten. Use cake flour when you want the softest and most tender cakes.\n\nSugar: Buy good-quality sugar cane or sugar beet granulated sugar. If you buy an off brand you've never heard of, it might not be carefully milled. In that case, stubborn organic material can cling to sugar cane and sugar beet crystals during processing, which results in yellowish simple syrups and excess scum floating to the surface of sugar and water boiled for Italian meringues.\n\nBrown sugar: Brown sugar is granulated sugar with molasses added back in. Light brown sugar has about 3.5% molasses, while dark brown sugar has about 6.5%, giving it a richer flavor and deeper color. Brown sugar adds moisture and sweetness to baked goods.\n\nCocoa: Unsweetened cocoa powder is made from roasted, ground cocoa beans that have had most of the cocoa butter removed. Depending on the brand of cocoa, as much as 26% of the cocoa butter can remain in the powder. Natural cocoa powder is acidic and will react with baking soda to get the leavening process in motion. Dutch processed is made from cocoa beans that have been treated with an alkalized solution. You'll get a deeper color and a great chocolaty flavor, but more importantly, the process of Dutching the chocolate renders the powder neutral. If it's used, you will need to kickstart the baking soda with an acidic ingredient, like buttermilk. So be cautious when substituting Dutch processed cocoa for regular cocoa, because you may not get the rise you want and adding too much may have a strange and unappetizing affect on the color.\n\nCorn syrup: Some of my recipes include both granulated sugar and corn syrup. While this may seem excessive or redundant, adding corn syrup will prevent crystallization in sugar sauces, such as butterscotch sauce, and make softer and smaller ice crystals in ice creams and sorbets. The corn syrup I use, sold in a bottle in grocery stores, is simply the sugar from the corn, and not high fructose corn syrup.\n\nUNSALTED Butter: Unsalted butter allows you to add just enough salt to make the dessert sing. Use the best quality butter you can afford. Cheaper butters often contain more water and less butterfat, reducing the flavor butter brings to baked treats.\n\nNATURAL shortening sticks: I got so happy when I discovered this alternative to hydrogenated vegetable shortening. Refrigerated natural shortening (such as Earth Balance) has one-third less saturated fat than butter and no unhealthy hydrogenated oils. Combining this shortening with butter makes flaky and tender piecrust.\n\nMilk: I'm not partial to any one type of milk. I've specified whole milk, reduced-fat, and fat-free milk throughout this book. In some cases, whole milk will give the finished dessert a richer texture with little additional fat. If you only have fat-free milk on hand, use it. Otherwise, enjoy the extra bit of tenderness and richness in baked goods and ice creams that whole milk provides.\n\nHeavy cream and half-and-half: Whenever possible, a tiny bit of heavy cream or half-and-half will make custards and ice creams so much richer. It doesn't take much to mimic the texture and mouthfeel of full-fat desserts, so don't be afraid to use it in small amounts.\n\nCream cheese: I'm not a fan of fat-free cream cheese, but when blended with 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, the combination creates richness without extra fat, especially in cheesecakes.\n\nWHOLE-GRAIN AND NUT FLOURS\n\nWhen incorporating whole grains into your desserts, it's important to know that they can't be swapped cup-for-cup with all-purpose flour. Since whole-grain flours require more liquid, making a one-to-one switch without adding the appropriate amount of moisture can lead to a baked good with the texture of a brick. Follow the substitution guidelines below to get started. Because of their oil content, whole-grain flours can become rancid quickly. When they get old, they'll taste dank, musty, and mildewy. To preserve them for as long as possible, store them in the refrigerator or freezer. If you only use flour once a year, buy a new bag each year.\n\nWhole-wheat pastry flour: A finely milled soft wheat, whole-wheat pastry flour includes the entire grain in the flour, so it's more nutritious and contains more fiber than all-purpose flour. Whole-wheat pastry flour is much finer than regular whole-wheat flour. Substituting 50% of all-purpose flour with whole-wheat pastry flour is a great way to bump up nutrition and fiber while retaining the soft tenderness that is so wonderful in cakes.\n\nEinkorn FLOUR: Cultivated over 12,000 years ago, einkorn wheat is grown today much the way it was then. The flour contains 80% of the whole grain. Keep the total amount of einkorn to 50% of the total flour in the recipe.\n\nTeff FLOUR: The tiny teff grain\u2014about the size of a poppy seed\u2014has a strong nutty, earthy flavor and is naturally gluten free. Substitute 25% of all-purpose flour with teff flour in baked goods to ensure the cake, bread, or cookie has the gluten structure to rise.\n\nKamut FLOUR: In the last 20 years or so, growth in popularity and production of this grain has skyrocketed. Khorasan wheat, trademarked as Kamut, adds an earthy, sweet, and toasty flavor to baked goods. I love it because the flavor is wheaty without tasting overly grassy or earthy. Substitute up to 50% of all-purpose flour with Kamut.\n\nAmaranth flour: High in protein and gluten free, amaranth adds a strong earthy, nutty, malty flavor to baked goods. Substitute about 25% of the all-purpose flour with amaranth flour.\n\nNut Flours: Nut flours and nut meals are really the same thing: nuts, with or without the skins left on, finely ground to an almost flour-like consistency. For a flavor boost, I usually toast nut flours before adding them to the other ingredients to draw out the essential oils. Store nut flours in an airtight container in the freezer. Substitute up to 25% of all-purpose flour with nut flour.\n\nTOOLS I LOVE\n\nI love kitchen gadgets so much that I have fallen prey to some pretty gimmicky stuff over the years. If you want a kitchen capable of handling any dessert, here are my must-have tools:\n\nDigital kitchen scale: A digital scale makes measuring flour and other ingredients listed by weight easy and quick to manage.\n\nDry and liquid measuring cups: Yes, you need both for accuracy. Dry measuring cups measure the exact amount of dry ingredient. Liquid measuring cups have lines indicating amounts and usually feature a spout for pouring.\n\nMeasuring spoons with narrow bowls and long handles: These are easier to get inside small spice containers.\n\nMixing bowls in various sizes: Purchase in stainless steel, glass, or plastic in a variety of sizes\u20142 cups up to 3 quarts work well.\n\nWhisks and rubber spatulas: From itty-bitty to giant, spatulas are great for folding in light and airy ingredients. Whisks help blend together ingredients and add air to batters.\n\nOffset metal spatula: For icing cakes, cookies, and a million other uses, small and large metal offset spatulas tackle delicate jobs easily.\n\nChef and paring knives: Good sharp knives that fit your hand properly make tedious slicing, chopping, and peeling jobs easy.\n\nSerrated bread knife: For cutting clean edges on cakes and loaves, a 12- to 14-inch serrated knife is great to have on hand.\n\nInstant-read thermometer: This thermometer is essential for cooking sugar syrups and egg custards to their exact doneness.\n\nCandy thermometer: Use a clip-on candy thermometer when making super-high temperature caramels and sugar syrups.\n\nSerrated peeler: When peeling tender thin-skinned fruit, such as plums or apricots, a serrated peeler grabs the skin without gouging the fruit's juicy flesh.\n\nMicroplane grater: Also called a zester, this grater is so sharp that it's easy to grate off only the thin yellow zest of a lemon.\n\nIce-cream scoops: Keep a variety of sizes handy, such as 1 tablespoon (#60), 2 tablespoons (#30), \u00bc cup (#16), and \u2153 cup (#12) for quick and consistent cookie and muffin portioning.\n\nStraight-sided rolling pin and rolling pin guides: Rolling pin guides are handy and come in varying sizes to make rolling dough easy as, well, pie.\n\nLight-colored baking pans: Stainless steel or aluminum baking pans conduct heat well for even browning. I avoid dark pans because they get hotter than the light-colored ones, making your baked goods turn out darker. These are the pans I reach for the most:\n\n\u20228-inch and 9-inch cake pans\n\n\u2022Standard 15 x 10\u2013inch jelly-roll pan\n\n\u2022Rimmed and rimless baking sheets\n\n\u20229-inch springform pan\n\n\u20229-inch tart pan with removable bottom\n\n\u20229 x 5\u2013inch loaf pan\n\n\u2022Mini (24-cup) and standard (12-cup) muffin pans\n\n\u20229-inch glass or ceramic pie dish (not deep-dish)\n\n\u20224-, 6-, and 8-ounce ramekins\n\nStand mixer: The power of a stand mixer simply cannot be duplicated with a handheld mixer. It whips faster and stronger.\n\nFood processor: The lightening speed of the blade breaks down even the toughest nut.\nTHE CAKE WALK\n\nChocolate Cake with Vanilla Italian Meringue\n\nCHOCOLATE CAKE\n\nWITH VANILLA ITALIAN MERINGUE\n\nHands-on: 36 min. Total: 1 hr. 33 min.\n\n1/2 cup boiling water\n\n1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n11.25 ounces all-purpose flour (about 21/2 cups)\n\n11/2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n3 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 cup sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1 cup low-fat buttermilk\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n3 tablespoons water\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n4 large egg whites, at room temperature\n\n1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine first 3 ingredients in a small bowl; stir until smooth.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients. Place butter and oil in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until combined. Add sugar and vanilla; beat until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add chocolate mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Add flour mixture and buttermilk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Divide batter among 3 (8-inch) cake pans coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 17 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs clinging. Cool 10 minutes in pans on wire racks; remove from pans. Cool completely on wire racks.\n\n4. Place 1/2 cup sugar, 3 tablespoons water, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a small saucepan; bring to a boil, stirring until sugar melts. Cook 6 to 7 minutes or until a candy thermometer registers 230\u00b0 (do not stir).\n\n5. Place egg whites and cream of tartar in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until foamy. Increase mixer speed to high; beat 2 to 3 minutes or until soft peaks form. With mixer on low speed, pour hot syrup in a thin stream down the side of mixing bowl. Gradually increase the speed to high; beat 2 minutes or until stiff peaks form (do not overbeat). Add vanilla; beat until just combined.\n\n6. Place 1 cake layer on a plate; spread top with about 1 cup icing. Repeat procedure with another cake layer. Top with remaining cake layer; spread remaining icing over top and sides of cake.\n\nSERVES 14 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 278; FAT 9.6g (sat 4.4g, mono 3.4g, poly 1.2g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 44g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 38mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 266mg; CALC 62mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nCombining the cocoa and chopped chocolate with boiling water accomplishes a couple of things: First, hydrating the powder in boiling water coaxes the essential flavors of the cocoa butter out of the powder, making the chocolate taste richer. Second, the boiling water melts the chopped chocolate so it blends easier into the cake batter.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMAKING CAKE\n\nTo me, baking a cake for a special occasion or for someone in particular is one of the greatest expressions of love imaginable. Your generous gift of time and energy\u2014mixing, folding, icing, glazing, and getting the light and fluffy layers just right\u2014will be remembered and appreciated.\n\n1 I know you have read and heard this tip over and over again, but it's so important that it's worth repeating: Read your recipe all the way through. By reading the recipe and understanding the different steps and the time each takes, you will be halfway there to a successful cake. Forgetting to preheat your oven is a sure way to ruin all your hard work to make that delicious cake batter.\n\n2 Assemble and measure all your ingredients first. Getting in the habit of doing this will help you avoid discovering you are out of eggs at the exact moment you need to add them to the creamed butter and sugar mixture.\n\n3 Prepare your cake pans and cooling racks. Baking spray with flour is simply the easiest way to assure an easy, clean release of cakes (and pies) from the simplest to the more intricately designed pan. Use it on cooling racks to help keep cakes from sticking after they have cooled. And for less mess and cleanup, spray the pans and the cooling racks over the open door of your dishwasher.\n\n4 Don't take shortcuts. There are very good reasons for specific steps in cake recipes. If the recipe says to beat the butter and sugar together for 5 minutes, it's because the longer beating time will incorporate more air into the mixture, making the cake rise more. Or, alternating the addition of the dry ingredients with the liquid ingredients into the creamed butter mixture\u2014why do this? A tender moist cake is the goal. (Who wants a dry or a crumbly cake?) Adding the flour alternately with the milk (or other liquid) to the creamed ingredients allows the flour to become coated with the fatty ingredients, which in turn makes the cake layers tender and meltingly soft.\n\n5 I'm not a fan of artificial flavorings. And even natural extracts can be too much of a good thing. But if you do use extracts, such as coconut or almond, use them sparingly since their flavor can easily take over and make your cake have a chemical aftertaste. I recommend starting with only 1/4 teaspoon. Taste the batter, and then add more if you want a stronger flavor.\n\nBanana Layer Cake with Banana Liqueur Curd\n\nBANANA LAYER CAKE\n\nWITH BANANA LIQUEUR CURD\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 1 hr. 15 min.\n\n7.9 ounces all-purpose flour (about 13/4 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg\n\n3/4 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1 cup ripe mashed banana\n\n3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/2 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened\n\nDash of salt\n\n3 large egg yolks\n\n1 large egg\n\n3/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 tablespoons banana liqueur\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 cup chopped walnuts, toasted\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients in a bowl; stir with a whisk.\n\n3. Place 3/4 cup sugar, 1/4 cup butter, and oil in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add banana and vanilla; beat 1 minute or until combined. Add flour mixture and 1/2 cup milk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Divide batter evenly between 2 (8-inch) cake pans coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 20 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pans on a wire rack; remove from pans. Cool completely on wire rack (about 30 minutes).\n\n4. Place 1/2 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon butter, dash of salt, egg yolks, and egg in a small saucepan, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Stir in 3/4 cup milk. Place pan over medium heat. Cook until a candy thermometer registers 160\u00b0 and mixture has thickened, about 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat. Stir in liqueur and vanilla. Pour mixture into a bowl. Place plastic wrap on surface of curd; chill (about 30 minutes).\n\n5. Place 1 cake layer on a plate; spread with half of banana curd. Top with remaining cake layer; spread remaining curd over top of cake. Sprinkle evenly with nuts. Store cake covered in refrigerator.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 299; FAT 11.8g (sat 4.5g, mono 4.1g, poly 2.5g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 42g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 107mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 235mg; CALC 73mg\n\nFREEZING BANANAS\n\n1. Sweet overripe bananas with brown-speckled peels provide the best flavor for breads and cookies. So instead of tossing them in the trashcan, toss them (skin and all) in your freezer until you're ready to bake.\n\n2. Thaw the bananas, without peeling them, in a dish at room temperature until they're soft. The longer the bananas are in the freezer, the darker the skin will become. Even though they may look rather ugly, their flesh will still be perfect to use.\n\n3. Remove the peels and any overly brown spots on the bananas, and place them in a bowl. Mash the bananas with a fork, and measure out what you need.\n\nPineapple Upside-Down Cake\n\nPINEAPPLE UPSIDE-DOWN CAKE\n\nHands-on: 32 min. Total: 1 hr. 17 min.\n\nI really like the flavor the ancient grain amaranth imparts to baked goods. It has malty, caramel, and sweet cereal notes that aren't found in everyday flours. It makes this cake hearty without it feeling heavy or overly dense.\n\n7 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided\n\n1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n6 (1/2-inch-thick) slices fresh pineapple, patted dry\n\n6 maraschino cherries, patted dry\n\n9 ounces all-purpose flour (about 2 cups)\n\n1.25 ounces amaranth flour (about 1/3 cup)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1. Preheat oven to 425\u00b0.\n\n2. Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet. Add brown sugar; cook over medium heat 1 minute or until sugar almost melts, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat. Arrange pineapple slices in pan; place 1 cherry in the center of each slice.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours and next 3 ingredients; stir with a whisk.\n\n4. Place 1/4 cup butter and granulated sugar in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg and egg yolk, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add vanilla; beat until combined. Add flour mixture and milk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Scrape batter into prepared pan; smooth top with a spatula. Bake at 425\u00b0 for 5 minutes. (Don't worry, the batter shouldn't spill over; but if you like, you can always place a baking sheet on the rack below.) Reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Place a plate upside down on top of pan; invert cake onto plate. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 255; FAT 8.3g (sat 4.9g, mono 2.2g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 42g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 50mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 302mg; CALC 88mg\n\nMARASCHINO CHERRIES\n\nThese sweetened cherries are typically made from sweet cherry varieties, such as Royal Ann, Rainier, or Gold. Many brands brine the cherries in a solution that bleaches them, and then soak them in a mixture of food coloring (usually Red Dye #40) and sugar syrup (containing high-fructose corn syrup) to give them their ruby-red hue. However, there are all-natural brands available that don't have artificial colors, dyes, or flavors added, such as Tillen Farms, that you can use.\n\nRum-Raisin Bundt Cake\n\nRum-Raisin Bundt Cake\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 1 hr. 35 min.\n\nDark spicy rum adds a nice kick to this cake, but if you'd prefer not to use it you can easily substitute the same amount of apple juice or orange juice. Instead of one large Bundt cake, you can make 12 mini cakes: Just spoon the batter evenly among 12 mini Bundt molds that have been well coated with baking spray. Bake them at 350\u02da for about 18 minutes or until a wooden pick comes out clean.\n\n1/2 cup golden raisins\n\n3 tablespoons dark rum (such as Myers's Dark Rum)\n\n10 ounces cake flour (about 21/2 cups)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n1/4 cup canola oil\n\n1 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 tablespoon grated orange rind\n\n1 tablespoon grated lemon rind\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n3/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n1 tablespoon light-colored corn syrup\n\n1 tablespoon powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine raisins and rum in a small microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 30 seconds. Cool to room temperature. (This softens the raisins. Plus, they absorb some of the rum for a boost of flavor.)\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place butter, oil, and 3/4 cup sugar in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth. Beat in rinds and vanilla. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour mixture and milk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Drain raisins through a sieve over a bowl; reserve rum. Stir raisins into batter. Pour batter into a 10-cup Bundt pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 40 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Place a plate upside down on top of cake; invert onto plate.\n\n4. Combine 1/4 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons water, and corn syrup in a small saucepan; bring to a boil. Cook 1 minute. Remove pan from heat; stir in reserved rum. Brush syrup over warm cake. Cool completely. Sprinkle top with powdered sugar.\n\nServes 12 (serving size: 1 wedge) CALORIES 282; FAT 9.8g (sat 3.3g, mono 4.4g, poly 1.7g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 43g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 42mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 253mg; CALC 78mg\n\nAlmond and Orange Semolina Cakes\n\nAlmond and Orange Semolina Cakes\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 2 hr.\n\n3.75 ounces almond flour (about 1 cup)\n\n8 ounces all-purpose flour (about 13/4 cups)\n\n5.5 ounces semolina flour (about 1 cup)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 cup unsalted butter\n\n11/2 cups sugar, divided\n\n2 tablespoons grated orange rind, divided\n\n13/4 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided\n\n4 large eggs\n\n1 cup plain (full-fat) yogurt\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3/4 cup fresh orange juice\n\n1/4 cup orange liqueur (such as Grand Marnier; optional)\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon almond flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Spread on a baking sheet. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 6 minutes or until it is beginning to brown and become fragrant, stirring after 3 minutes. Cool to room temperature on pan.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon all-purpose and semolina flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Place butter and 11/4 cups sugar in a large bowl; beat at medium speed 3 minutes or until well combined. Add 1 tablespoon rind and 11/2 teaspoons vanilla; beat until combined. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed 1 minute or until just combined. Add yogurt; beat 1 minute or until just combined. Scrape batter into 4 (6 x 3\u2013inch) mini loaf pans coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 to 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out completely dry.\n\n5. Combine 1/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon rind, and orange juice in a small saucepan; bring to a boil. Remove pan from heat; stir in 1/4 teaspoon vanilla and liqueur, if desired. Pierce surfaces of cakes liberally with a skewer; drizzle half of glaze over cakes. Let stand 15 minutes. Loosen cakes from sides of pans using a narrow metal spatula. Invert onto plates. Pierce tops of cakes liberally with a skewer; drizzle remaining glaze over cakes. Serve cakes at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 298; FAT 11g (sat 4.5g, mono 4.2g, poly 1.4g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 42g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 63mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 169mg; CALC 92mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nAdding a combination of orange liqueur, orange rind, and juice provides big, bright flavor. Using zest is an easy way to boost citrus flavor without adding more liquid to the cake. This cake also bakes easily in a 10-cup Bundt pan. Increase the bake time to 40 minutes, checking doneness with a wooden pick after 35 minutes.\n\nFresh Ginger Cake with Candied Citrus Glaze\n\nFresh Ginger Cake\n\nwith Candied Citrus Glaze\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 1 hr. 20 min.\n\nIf you've ever wandered down the international food aisle in your grocery store, you might have seen Lyle's Golden Syrup in the green and gold can. Lyle's syrup is thick and lightly caramelized and can be used on pancakes and French toast or in recipes where light-colored corn syrup is used. The flavor is incredible\u2014it has buttery, caramel notes\u2014and it adds extra moisture to baked goods. If kumquats are not in season, substitute orange or lemon rind (whichever you prefer). Use a vegetable peeler to cut the rind into 1-inch strips (no pith!), cut the strips into 1/4-inch slices to equal about 1/2 cup, and then prepare them the same way as the kumquats in step 4.\n\nCAKE:\n\n11.25 ounces all-purpose flour (about 21/2 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n2/3 cup golden cane syrup (such as Lyle's Golden Syrup)\n\n1/2 cup canola oil\n\n1/2 cup reduced-fat sour cream\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled\n\n3 tablespoons grated peeled fresh ginger\n\n3 large eggs\n\n2/3 cup ginger ale, at room temperature\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nGLAZE:\n\n1 cup kumquats, thinly sliced and seeded\n\n1 cup water\n\n2/3 cup sugar\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2.To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n3.Combine syrup and next 6 ingredients (through eggs) in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at low speed 1 minute or until well combined. Add flour mixture and ginger ale alternately to syrup mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Pour batter into a 10-cup Bundt pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 35 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 15 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Place a plate upside down on top of cake; invert cake onto plate.\n\n4.To prepare glaze, place kumquats, 1 cup water, 2/3 cup sugar, and dash of salt in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Simmer, uncovered, until reduced to 2/3 cup, about 18 minutes, stirring occasionally. Drizzle glaze over warm cake.\n\nServes 14 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 298; FAT 12.8g (sat 3.2g, mono 6.4g, poly 2.7g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 48g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 50mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 204mg; CALC 42mg\n\nHummingbird Mini Bundt Cakes with Bourbon Glaze\n\nHummingbird Mini Bundt Cakes\n\nwith Bourbon Glaze\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 43 min.\n\nThe hummingbird cake has been around Southern homes for decades. Adding bourbon to the glaze is my nod to Southern proclivities, but you can substitute the same amount of pineapple or orange juice for the bourbon, if you like.\n\n10.1 ounces all-purpose flour (about 21/4 cups)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n11/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large eggs\n\n11/4 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided\n\n1/2 cup low-fat buttermilk\n\n1 cup chopped banana (about 1 large)\n\n1/2 cup chopped pecans, toasted\n\n1 (8-ounce) can crushed pineapple (packed in its own juice), undrained\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1 tablespoon bourbon\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2.Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place granulated sugar, butter, and canola oil in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 4 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in 1 teaspoon vanilla. Add flour mixture and buttermilk alternately to sugar mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Fold in banana, nuts, and pineapple.\n\n3. Divide batter evenly among 12 mini Bundt pans coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 18 to 19 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in pans on a wire rack; remove from pans.\n\n4. Combine 1/4 teaspoon vanilla, powdered sugar, bourbon, and melted butter in a small bowl; stir with a whisk until smooth. Drizzle glaze over warm cakes.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 cake)  \nCALORIES 292; FAT 11.6g (sat 3.9g, mono 4.9g, poly 2.1g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 43g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 44mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 264mg; CALC 76mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nThese minis can easily be made into one large Bundt. Just pour the batter into a 10-cup Bundt pan coated with baking spray, and bake at 350\u00b0 for about 40 minutes or until a wooden pick comes out clean.\n\nLemon Sour Cream Pound Cake with Fresh Strawberry Sauce\n\nLemon Sour Cream Pound Cake\n\nwith Fresh Strawberry Sauce\n\nHands-on: 14 min. Total: 1 hr. 27 min.\n\nIf you're making this dessert ahead, wait until just before you're serving it to spoon on the strawberry sauce so the cake doesn't become soggy. Try the sauce right off the stove\u2014hot strawberries are a delightful change.\n\n10.1 ounces all-purpose flour (about 21/4 cups)\n\n13/4 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n2 teaspoons grated lemon rind\n\n2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup reduced-fat sour cream\n\n1/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 cups chopped fresh strawberries (about 1 pound)\n\n1/4 cup sugar\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Place 1 cup sugar, butter, and oil in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 3 minutes or until light and fluffy. Add egg and egg yolk, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in lemon rind, lemon juice, and vanilla. Combine sour cream and milk in a bowl, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Add flour mixture and sour cream mixture alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture, beating until just combined. Spoon batter into a 9 x 5\u2013inch loaf pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 55 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Remove from pan; cool on wire rack.\n\n3. Combine strawberries and remaining ingredients in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and cook 2 minutes or until thick and bubbly, mashing strawberries with a potato masher or a fork. Spoon sauce over cake.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 slice and about 2 tablespoons sauce)  \nCALORIES 281; FAT 9.6g (sat 4.3g, mono 3.5g, poly 1.2g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 45g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 49mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 260mg; CALC 91mg\n\nSOUR CREAM\n\nWhen sour cream is added to the cake, it makes the texture richer, denser, and more flavorful. From the chemistry side, the tangy acid in the sour cream reacts with the baking soda to create the gas to help the cake rise to its full potential.\n\nVanilla Angel Food Cake with Dark Chocolate Sauce\n\nVanilla Angel Food Cake\n\nwith Dark Chocolate Sauce\n\nHands-on: 40 min. Total: 1 hr. 30 min.\n\n4 ounces cake flour (about 1 cup)\n\n13/4 cups sugar, divided\n\n12 large egg whites, at room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n13/4 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided\n\n3/4 cup whole milk\n\n1/4 cup half-and-half\n\nDash of salt\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1 teaspoon cornstarch\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Sift together flour and 3/4 cup sugar.\n\n3. Place egg whites, cream of tartar, and salt in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until foamy (about 1 minute). Increase speed to high; beat until soft peaks form, about 2 minutes. With mixer at medium speed, add 3/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time. Beat until medium peaks form, about 2 minutes (do not overbeat). Add 11/2 teaspoons vanilla, and beat until just combined.\n\n4. Sift 1/4 cup flour mixture over top of egg white mixture; gently fold in. Repeat procedure with remaining flour mixture, 1/4 cup at a time, being careful not to deflate egg whites. Spoon batter into an ungreased 10-inch tube pan, spreading evenly. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 40 minutes or until cake springs back when lightly touched. Invert pan over the neck of a glass bottle (so the cake is hanging upside down); cool cake completely. Loosen cake from sides of pan using a narrow metal spatula. Invert cake onto a plate; invert again.\n\n5. Combine milk, half-and-half, 2 tablespoons sugar, dash of salt, and chocolate in a small saucepan; bring to a simmer, stirring until mixture is smooth. Place 2 tablespoons sugar, cornstarch, and egg yolk in a bowl, and stir well with a whisk. Gradually add hot milk mixture to egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return milk mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat until mixture boils, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in 1/4 teaspoon vanilla. Serve cake with warm sauce.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 slice and about 11/2 tablespoons sauce)  \nCALORIES 212; FAT 2.7g (sat 2g, mono 0.5g, poly 0.2g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 41g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 131mg; CALC 28mg\n\nANGEL FOOD CAKE\n\n1. Beating the egg whites, cream of tartar, and salt until foamy at a lower speed first builds strong bubbles that will help the cake expand in the oven without collapsing.\n\n2. Add the remaining sugar slowly and a little at a time when the whites reach soft peaks so that it doesn't break the air bubbles.\n\n3. If your angel food cake pan doesn't have feet to suspend it upside down, use the neck of a sturdy bottle, like a wine bottle, to hang the pan upside down until the cake is completely cool. Hanging the cake upside down helps prevent the cake from collapsing or sinking.\n\nEggnog Coffee Cake\n\nEggnog Coffee Cake\n\nHands-on: 15 min. Total: 60 min.\n\nThis coffee cake is rich with egg yolks and the heady fragrance of freshly grated nutmeg. I do recommend grating your own nutmeg, since fresh spices are key to flavorful and memorable treats. A Microplane grater-zester works wonderfully well on the hard-as-nails whole nutmeg.\n\n1/4 cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n3 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n1/4 cup chopped pecans, toasted\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n11/2 teaspoons freshly ground nutmeg\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 cup granulated sugar\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n1/2 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1/4 cup reduced-fat sour cream\n\n11/2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine first 4 ingredients in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Cut in 2 tablespoons chilled butter using a pastry cutter or 2 knives until mixture resembles coarse meal (or follow the advice in the technique tip). Stir in nuts.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients; stir with a whisk. Place granulated sugar and 3 tablespoons softened butter in a medium bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 4 minutes or until well combined. Add egg and egg yolk, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add milk, sour cream, and vanilla; beat at low speed 1 minute or until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined.\n\n4. Spoon half of batter into an 8-inch round cake pan coated with baking spray. Sprinkle with half of crumble mixture. Spread remaining half of batter over crumble, smoothing top with a spatula. Sprinkle top with remaining half of crumble. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 to 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 15 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Place a plate upside down on top of cake; invert cake onto plate. Place another plate upside down on top of cake; invert onto plate.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 266; FAT 10g (sat 4.8g, mono 3.3g, poly 1.2g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 40g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 55mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 221mg; CALC 68mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nHere's a trick for making streusel or crumble toppings: Place the amount of butter the recipe calls for in the freezer while you're preheating the oven and preparing the cake batter. By the time you need it, it will be nice and solid and easy to grate on a box grater. Then all you need to do is toss it with the remaining streusel ingredients for an easy mix.\n\nKamut-Apple Snack Cake\n\nKamut-Apple Snack Cake\n\nHands-on: 24 min. Total: 1 hr. 19 min.\n\nThere are many ways to describe Kamut flour's unique flavor attributes: earthy, sweet, toasty. It adds all those elements to this cake. If you absolutely can't find it, substitute whole-wheat pastry flour. Baking this cake at a lower temperature gives the apples time to get tender, and the moisture in the apples keeps the cake from drying out.\n\nCake:\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n3.4 ounces Kamut flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n3.4 ounces all-purpose flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg\n\n2 cups (1/2-inch) diced apple (about 1 large Golden Delicious or Honey Crisp)\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nStreusel:\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n2 tablespoons quick-cooking oats\n\n2 tablespoons chopped walnuts\n\n2 tablespoons frozen unsalted butter, grated\n\n1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 325\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare cake, place first 5 ingredients in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 30 seconds or until well combined. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours and next 5 ingredients (through nutmeg) in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Add flour mixture to sugar mixture; beat at low speed until just combined (batter is very thick). Stir in apple by hand. Spread batter into a 9-inch springform pan coated with baking spray.\n\n3. To prepare streusel, combine brown sugar and remaining ingredients in a small bowl; toss to combine. Sprinkle streusel topping evenly over top of batter. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 45 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pan; remove sides from pan. Cool completely or serve warm.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 299; FAT 12g (sat 5g, mono 4.1g, poly 2g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 46g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 56mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 216mg; CALC 48mg\n\nKAMUT\n\nKhorasan wheat dates back to the time of the pharaohs, with further speculation that the ancient Greeks introduced it to Egypt. In more recent times, the wheat was grown as a novelty artisan grain, and then later trademarked by a commercial pasta company as Kamut khorasan wheat. While I find its origins interesting, the flavor it adds to baked goods is incredible. It's easily found at Whole Foods or other \"organic\" type of groceries.\n\nPeanut Butter and Chocolate Swirl Loaf Cake\n\nPeanut Butter and Chocolate Swirl Loaf Cake\n\nHands-on: 24 min. Total: 1 hr. 49 min.\n\nPeanut butter and chocolate, an all-time favorite flavor combination, are gently swirled together in this moist loaf cake. Using the edge of a knife to create the swirl helps keep the two batters from mixing together too much. Use your preferred peanut butter\u2014crunchy or creamy, natural or commercially produced. All work beautifully.\n\nChocolate swirl:\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa\n\n1/4 cup water\n\nCake:\n\n6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/3 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n3/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/2 cup creamy peanut butter\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n3/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nDrizzle:\n\n1/4 cup powdered sugar\n\n2 teaspoons water\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare swirl, combine first 3 ingredients in a medium bowl, stirring until smooth.\n\n3. To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place brown sugar, peanut butter, and butter in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 3 minutes. Add egg and egg yolk, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla. Add flour mixture and milk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Remove 1 cup peanut butter batter; add to chocolate swirl mixture, stirring until combined. Layer half of peanut butter batter in bottom of a 9 x 5\u2013inch loaf pan coated with baking spray; top with half of chocolate batter, carefully smoothing to edge of pan. Repeat layers with remaining batters. Swirl batters together using a knife. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 50 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Remove from pan; cool completely on wire rack.\n\n4. To prepare drizzle, stir together powdered sugar and 2 teaspoons water until smooth; drizzle over top of cooled cake.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 256; FAT 10.7g (sat 4.2g, mono 4.1g, poly 1.9g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 37g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 42mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 258mg; CALC 67mg\n\nChocolate Cake with Chocolate Sauce and Swiss Meringue\n\nChocolate Cakes\n\nwith Chocolate Sauce and Swiss Meringue\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 1 hr. 35 min.\n\nCooking spray\n\n1 cup sugar, divided\n\n3/4 cup water, divided\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled\n\n3 large eggs, separated\n\n2 ounces cake flour (about 1/2 cup)\n\nDash of salt\n\n1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa, divided\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n1/2 teaspoon cake flour\n\n2 large egg whites, at room temperature\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\nMint leaves (optional)\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0. Coat 6 (8-ounce) ramekins with cooking spray. Sprinkle ramekins evenly with 3 tablespoons sugar, tapping out excess.\n\n2. Combine 1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar, \u00bd cup water, 2 tablespoons melted butter, and 3 egg yolks in a large bowl, stirring with a whisk. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, salt, and 1/3 cup cocoa in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add flour mixture to yolk mixture, stirring until well combined (mixture will look a little grainy).\n\n3. Beat 3 egg whites with a mixer at medium speed until foamy. Gradually add 1/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time. Beat mixture at high speed until soft peaks form. Gently stir one-fourth of egg white mixture into batter; gently fold in remaining egg white mixture. Divide batter evenly among prepared ramekins; place ramekins on a baking sheet. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 22 to 24 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool completely on a wire rack. Run a knife around edge of ramekins; carefully remove cakes.\n\n4. Combine \u00bc cup water, 2 tablespoons sugar, 2 tablespoons cocoa, 1 tablespoon butter, and 1/2 teaspoon flour in a small saucepan. Cook 2 minutes or until thick and bubbly, stirring constantly with a whisk.\n\n5. Combine 2 egg whites, 2 tablespoons sugar, and cream of tartar in the top of a double boiler, stirring with a whisk. Cook over simmering water until sugar dissolves, stirring constantly with a whisk, until a candy thermometer registers 160\u00b0, about 2 minutes. Pour mixture into a medium bowl. Beat with a mixer with clean, dry beaters at high speed until stiff peaks form, about 2 minutes. To serve, top each cake with about 11/2 tablespoons chocolate sauce and a dollop of meringue. Top with a mint leaf, if desired. Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: 1 cake)  \nCALORIES 272; FAT 9.1g (sat 5g, mono 2.7g, poly 0.8g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 45g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 108mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 81mg; CALC 27mg\n\nSWISS MERINGUE\n\n1. Place the egg whites, sugar, and cream of tartar together in the top of a double boiler, whisking until well combined. (If you don't have a double boiler, you can create one by setting a metal mixing bowl over a saucepan of simmering water. Just be sure the bottom of the bowl doesn't touch the water.)\n\n2. Place the mixture over simmering water, and cook until a candy thermometer registers about 160\u00b0, whisking constantly, until the sugar crystals melt completely.\n\n3. Be sure to use clean, dry beaters when beating the egg whites to ensure they whip to maximum volume. Even a speck of fat can have an effect.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMAKING MERINGUE\n\nMeringue is made of egg whites, cream of tartar, and granulated sugar. How they're combined dictates how they're used.\n\n1 The egg whites need to be at room temperature and cannot contain ANY of the sunny yellow egg yolk. The fat in the yolks will sabotage the meringue, preventing the whites from whipping into billowy clouds.\n\n2 Make sure your bowl and beaters are perfectly clean and free of leftover oils or fats. That, too, can prevent the meringue from reaching its full capacity.\n\n3 Begin mixing the egg whites on medium-low speed. The lower speed begins to build bubbles, and they'll gradually increase in number and volume. Then increase the speed to high, which will create even smaller bubbles that will be stronger and better able to withstand additional expansion in the oven or when folded into batter.\n\n4 Adding cream of tartar (an acid) adds additional strength to the bubbles, helping them expand and not collapse.\n\n5 If adding vanilla extract, add it after the meringue is fully whipped. Adding it too soon could limit the meringue's volume.\n\nFrench meringue is made of uncooked egg whites, cream of tartar, and granulated sugar. Use it to top pies where the filling is hot and the pie goes in the oven to lightly brown the meringue on top; this ensures that the whites are cooked all the way through from the bottom to the top. French meringue is also folded into cake batters to act as a leavener.\n\nItalian meringue is egg whites and cream of tartar whipped until medium peaks form. Boiling hot sugar syrup (about 234\u00b0 to 240\u00b0) is drizzled down the side of the bowl, and then the mixture is whipped until firm peaks form and it cools to room temperature. The hot syrup cooks the egg whites and makes the meringue stable and ready to ice a cake, top a pie, or fold into mousse.\n\nSwiss meringue is made by continuously whisking together egg whites, cream of tartar, and sugar over simmering water until the sugar crystals melt and the mixture reaches 160\u00b0. The mixture is then taken off the heat and whipped until firm peaks form. Swiss meringue can be folded into mousse, cake batters, and buttercreams without fear of collapsing.\n\nStable Italian and Swiss meringues can be shaped and baked into cookies, spirals for layered desserts, and sculpted nests for Pavlovas.\n\nMaple Cupcakes with Maple-Brown Sugar Icing\n\nMaple Cupcakes\n\nWITH MAPLE-BROWN SUGAR ICING\n\nHands-on: 17 min. Total: 52 min.\n\nFor the biggest maple punch, use medium or dark amber grade syrup that has richer, deeper maple flavor. Don't let your cupcakes linger too long in the pan while they are cooling. The heat gets trapped and can lead to a soggy-bottomed cupcake.\n\nCupcakes:\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/3 cup maple syrup (grade B)\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/2 cup low-fat buttermilk\n\nIcing:\n\n3 tablespoons maple syrup (grade B)\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n2 tablespoons brown sugar\n\n11/2 cups powdered sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare cupcakes, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl; stir with a whisk.\n\n3. Place syrup, brown sugar, butter, and oil in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla. Add flour mixture and buttermilk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Divide batter evenly among 12 muffin cups lined with cupcake liners. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 17 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in pans on a wire rack; remove from pans. Cool completely on wire racks.\n\n4. To prepare icing, place syrup, butter, and brown sugar in a medium microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until butter melts. Stir until smooth. Add powdered sugar, vanilla, and salt; stir with a whisk until smooth. Spread about 1 tablespoon icing on top of each cupcake.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 cupcake)  \nCALORIES 267; FAT 9.1g (sat 4.2g, mono 3.3g, poly 1.1g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 44g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 47mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 167mg; CALC 63mg\n\nMAPLE SYRUP\n\nMaple syrup has different grades designating strength of flavor and darkness of color. Grade A is harvested early in the season and has three color-based categories: light, medium, and amber. The darker the color, the more robust the maple flavor. Grade B syrup is harvested towards the end of the season and is darker, with a very robust maple flavor. Sample a few and use the one that you prefer.\n\nSeriously Chocolate Cupcakes\n\nSeriously Chocolate Cupcakes\n\nHands-on: 31 min. Total: 1 hr. 19 min.\n\n1/2 cup boiling water\n\n1/2 cup dark unsweetened cocoa, divided\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1/4 teaspoon instant coffee (optional)\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n3/8 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened and divided\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large eggs\n\n11/4 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided\n\n1/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n1 tablespoon 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n11/2 cups powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine \u00bd cup boiling water, 1/4 cup cocoa, bittersweet chocolate, and coffee, if desired, in a small bowl, stirring until smooth. Set aside.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and baking soda in a bowl; stir with a whisk.\n\n4. Place granulated sugar, 1/4 cup butter, and oil in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add 1 teaspoon vanilla and chocolate mixture; beat at low speed just until combined. Add flour mixture and 1/4 cup milk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Divide batter among 12 muffin cups lined with cupcake liners. (Liners will be almost full.) Bake at 350\u00b0 for 18 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in pans on a wire rack; remove from pans. Cool completely on wire rack.\n\n5. Place cream cheese, 1 tablespoon butter, milk, 1/4 teaspooon vanilla, and 1/8 teaspooon salt in a medium bowl. Beat with a mixer at low speed until smooth, about 3 minutes. Whisk together powdered sugar and 1/4 cup cocoa; add to cream cheese mixture. Beat at low speed until smooth. Spread about 11/2 tablespoons icing on each cupcake.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 cupcake)  \nCALORIES 290; FAT 11g (sat 5.3g, mono 3.4g, poly 1.1g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 47g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 48mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 218mg; CALC 46mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nDark cocoa isn't for every recipe. Using just a little in these cupcakes deepens the color, but care must be taken. I discovered that using too much in a baked good will turn it army gray or even purple! And, by adding just a little instant coffee, the chocolate flavor intensifies.\n\nMile-High Coconut Cupcakes\n\nMILE-HIGH COCONUT CUPCAKES\n\nHands-on: 22 min. Total: 1 hr. 10 min.\n\nCoconut is delicious, but it's also high in saturated fat. Instead of using coconut extract to help these cupcakes stay on the lighter side, I prefer to use the real stuff in moderation. (Some extracts and artificial flavorings taste like chemicals or really bad medicine.) To get maximum flavor out of a small amount, I infused the coconut milk with flaked coconut and toasted the coconut that gets sprinkled on top of the icing. Infusing and toasting ekes out every possible bit of coconut flavor.\n\nCUPCAKES:\n\n3/4 cup canned light coconut milk\n\n7 tablespoons flaked sweetened coconut, divided\n\n1 vanilla bean, halved lengthwise\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3/4 cup sugar\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n3 large egg whites\n\n1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\nICING:\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup water\n\nDash of salt\n\n3 large egg whites (at room temperature)\n\n1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1. To prepare cupcakes, place coconut milk, 1/4 cup coconut, and vanilla bean in a small saucepan; bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Remove pan from heat. Cover and let stand until room temperature, about 20 minutes. Remove and discard vanilla bean.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n3. Place remaining 3 tablespoons coconut on a baking sheet. Bake at 350\u02da for 5 to 6 minutes or until lightly toasted, stirring after 4 minutes. Set aside.\n\n4. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place sugar, butter, and oil in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Stir in cooled coconut milk mixture. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined.\n\n5. Place 3 egg whites and 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar in a large bowl. Using clean, dry beaters, beat egg white mixture at medium speed until foamy; beat at high speed until soft peaks form, about 2 minutes. Gently fold one-fourth of egg white mixture into batter; gently fold in remaining egg white mixture. Divide batter among 12 muffin cups lined with cupcake liners. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 17 to 18 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in pans on a wire rack; remove from pans. Cool completely on wire rack.\n\n6. To prepare icing, combine 1/2 cup sugar, \u00bc cup water, and salt in a saucepan; bring to a boil, stirring just until sugar dissolves. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer registers 230\u00b0. Place 3 egg whites and 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar in a large bowl; beat with clean, dry beaters at medium speed until foamy. Beat at high speed until medium peaks form. With mixer at low speed, pour hot syrup in a thin stream down the side of mixing bowl. Gradually increase speed to high; beat 3 minutes or until thickened and cooled. Beat in vanilla. Mound about 2 tablespoons icing on top of each cupcake. Sprinkle cupcakes with reserved toasted coconut.\n\nServes 12 (serving size: 1 cupcake)  \nCALORIES 244; FAT 9.9g (sat 5.2g, mono 3g, poly 1g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 36g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 15mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 196mg; CALC 28mg\n\nPumpkin Cream Muffins\n\nPUMPKIN CREAM MUFFINS\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 60 min.\n\nCombining pumpkin bread and cheesecake, these rich cream-filled muffins represent the best of fall flavors. Alternating the pumpkin batter with the cream cheese filling assures an evenly baked muffin with a creamy center.\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n4 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n3 tablespoons powdered sugar\n\n11/4 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n11/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n3/4 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n3/4 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon ground cloves\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1 cup canned pumpkin puree\n\n1/4 cup chopped pecans\n\n1. Preheat oven to 425\u00b0. Place 12 muffin cup liners in muffin cups; coat liners lightly with baking spray.\n\n2. Place cream cheese, powdered sugar, and 1/4 teaspoon vanilla in a small bowl; stir until smooth. Set aside.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 7 ingredients (through cloves) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Place 1 teaspoon vanilla, granulated sugar, and butter in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 3 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add pumpkin; beat at low speed until combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed 1 minute or until just combined.\n\n5. Spoon batter into prepared muffin cups, filling one-third full. Top each with about 2 teaspoons cream cheese mixture; divide remaining batter evenly over cream cheese mixture. Sprinkle nuts evenly over batter. Bake at 425\u00b0 for 5 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 375\u00b0. Bake muffins at 375\u00b0 for an additional 10 minutes or until muffins spring back when touched lightly in center. Remove muffins from pan, and cool on a wire rack.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 muffin)  \nCALORIES 210; FAT 8.7g (sat 4.1g, mono 2.8g, poly 1g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 30g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 48mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 250mg; CALC 74mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nWhat's the difference between muffins and cupcakes? Muffin batters are thicker, stirred less, and many have fruit, nuts, or both added, making them heartier. They also have less sugar and fat, resulting in a crumb (or texture) that is denser than cupcakes. Cupcake batters are thinner, with more sugar and fat added, resulting in a soft, silky texture and melt-in-your-mouth goodness.\n\nRaspberry and Almond Linzer Muffins\n\nRaspberry and Almond Linzer Muffins\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 60 min.\n\nClassic Linzer Torte is rich almond pastry surrounding raspberry jam. These lightened, quick, and easy muffins are an equally satisfying version of the old-world dessert.\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup almond flour\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n2 ounces almond paste\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup butter, softened\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2/3 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1/4 cup raspberry jam\n\n1/4 cup sliced almonds\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0. Place 12 muffin cup liners in muffin cups; coat liners lightly with baking spray.\n\n2. Sprinkle almond flour on a baking sheet. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 6 minutes or until beginning to brown and become fragrant, stirring after 3 minutes. Cool to room temperature. Increase oven temperature to 425\u00b0.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours and next 3 ingredients (through baking soda) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Crumble almond paste into a large bowl; add sugar. Beat with a mixer at medium-low speed until mixture becomes sandy, about 3 minutes. Add butter and vanilla; beat 2 minutes or until well combined. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour mixture and milk alternately to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture.\n\n5. Spoon batter into prepared muffin cups, filling one-third full. Top each with about 1 teaspoon jam; top with remaining batter. Sprinkle nuts evenly over batter. Bake at 425\u00b0 for 5 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 375\u00b0. Bake at 375\u00b0 for an additional 10 minutes or until muffins spring back when touched lightly in center. Remove muffins from pan immediately, and cool on a wire rack.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 muffin)  \nCALORIES 221; FAT 9.8g (sat 3.2g, mono 4.3g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 29g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 42mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 226mg; CALC 91mg\n\nALMOND PASTE\n\nAlmond paste adds intense almond flavor and additional sweetness to these muffins. The paste is a concentrated mix of finely ground almonds and sugar. Using just a small amount can boost almond flavor in baked goods without adding excessive calories.\n\nSpicy Bacon and Brew \"Manffins\"\n\nSpicy Bacon and Brew \"Manffins\"\n\nHands-on: 22 min. Total: 50 min.\n\nBacon, dark beer, and hot pepper aren't the standard mix-ins for muffins, but these savory \"manffins\" will particularly appeal to the guys in your family. Not a beer fan? No problem. Substitute an equal amount of reduced-fat milk for the beer.\n\n3 tablespoons dark brown sugar\n\n2 teaspoons ground red pepper\n\n2 teaspoons water\n\n3 applewood-smoked bacon slices\n\nCooking spray\n\n3 tablespoons old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1 tablespoon all-purpose flour\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n7.9 ounces all-purpose flour (about 13/4 cups)\n\n1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n2/3 cup Guinness beer, at room temperature\n\n3 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg\n\n1. Combine 3 tablespoons brown sugar, pepper, and 2 teaspoons water in a small bowl, stirring until smooth. Spread sugar mixture evenly over both sides of bacon. Place bacon on a wire rack coated with cooking spray; place rack in a baking sheet lined with foil. Place baking sheet in cold oven. Preheat oven to 400\u00b0, and cook bacon 18 minutes or until crisp. Cool; finely chop bacon.\n\n2. Combine oats and 1 tablespoon flour in a small bowl. Add butter and 2 tablespoons chopped bacon, stirring until combined but still crumbly. Set streusel aside.\n\n3. Reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0. Place 12 muffin liners in muffin cups.\n\n4. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, remaining chopped bacon, 1/2 cup brown sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in a large bowl, stirring with a whisk. Combine beer, oil, vanilla, and egg in a bowl; gently stir with a whisk until combined. Add beer mixture to flour mixture, stirring until just combined. Spoon batter into prepared muffin cups. Sprinkle streusel evenly over tops.\n\n5. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 16 to 18 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 5 minutes in pan. Remove from pan, and serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 muffin)  \nCALORIES 177; FAT 5.8g (sat 1.3g, mono 2.7g, poly 1.2g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 27g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 20mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 202mg; CALC 51mg\n\nBAKING BACON\n\n1. Baking bacon is a lot less messy than cooking it in a skillet. Line a baking sheet with foil to minimize the mess, and then place a wire rack on the pan.\n\n2. Coat both sides of the bacon with the spice mixture, and place on rack, leaving a little room around each slice so the heat can circulate.\n\n3. Place the pan in the oven, and then heat the oven to 400\u00b0. By beginning the cooking process in a cold oven, the bacon won't curl up.\nUPPER CRUST\n\nStrawberry-Rhubarb Pie\n\nSTRAWBERRY-RHUBARB PIE\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 3 hr. 15 min.\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n2 tablespoons natural shortening (such as Earth Balance), chilled\n\n1/4 cup ice water\n\n11/2 teaspoons white vinegar\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3 cups halved fresh strawberries (or quartered if large)\n\n11/2 cups chopped rhubarb (fresh or frozen, thawed)\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 teaspoon ground cardamom\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1 large egg white, lightly beaten\n\n2 teaspoons turbinado sugar\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, salt, and baking powder in a food processor; process to combine. Cut butter and shortening into 1/2-inch pieces. Add butter and shortening to bowl; pulse 3 times or until butter is about the size of dried peas. Sprinkle ice water and vinegar over mixture; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Pour mixture onto a lightly floured work surface; gather mixture together, and press into a ball. Divide into 2 pieces (1 piece measuring two-thirds of dough and the other remaining one-third of dough). Cover each with plastic wrap; press into a disc. Chill 30 minutes.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n3. Unwrap largest dough disc, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll to an 11-inch circle. Place into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Fold edges under, and flute decoratively. Unwrap smaller dough disc and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll to 1/4-inch thickness. Cut as many 11/2-inch decorative shapes as possible using a floured cookie cutter, rerolling scraps only 1 time.\n\n4. Place strawberries and next 7 ingredients in a large bowl; toss gently to combine. Pour filling into prepared pie plate. Arrange cut-outs on top of filling. Brush edge of crust and cutouts with egg white; sprinkle top of pie with turbinado sugar for sparkle and crunch. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 55 minutes or until golden and bubbly. Shield edges of pie with foil if getting too brown. Place pie on a wire rack; cool completely before slicing.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 261; FAT 8.9g (sat 4.7g, mono 2.5g, poly 1g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 43g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 15mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 108mg; CALC 36mg\n\nWORKING WITH PIECRUST\n\n1. Folding the edges of the pie dough under gives it a thicker edge. It's also an opportunity to add a little decorative touch, like crimping or fluting.\n\n2. The cutouts are just fun! You can make them into any shape you like, using any shape cookie cutter you have. Place the cutouts as you like\u2014clustered on one side, in rows, or over the entire surface of the pie.\n\n3. Brush the tops of the cutouts lightly with beaten egg white and sprinkle with sugar for a glistening and sparkly finish.\n\nDouble Crust Apple Pie\n\nDouble Crust Apple Pie\n\nHands-on: 41 min. Total: 2 hr. 26 min.\n\nA double crust seals in all the apples' natural juices as the pie bakes, making for full-on apple flavor and lots of juicy, tender bits of apple. Tossing the apple slices with apple juice prevents them from browning as you peel and slice them, and it adds an additional boost of apple flavor. Use a variety of apples for a more interesting texture: Golden Delicious for melt-in-your mouth tenderness, Granny Smith for a little tartness, and Honey Crisp for sweetness.\n\nCRUST:\n\n10.1 ounces all-purpose flour (about 21/4 cups)\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n3/8 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n3 tablespoons natural shortening (such as Earth Balance), chilled\n\n6 tablespoons ice water\n\n2 teaspoons white vinegar\n\nFilling:\n\n6 cups (1/8-inch-thick) slices peeled apple\n\n1/4 cup unsweetened apple juice\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/4 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced\n\n1 large egg white, lightly beaten\n\n2 teaspoons granulated sugar\n\n1. To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, baking powder, and salt in a food processor; process to combine. Cut chilled butter and shortening into 1/2-inch pieces; add to bowl. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until butter is about the size of dried peas. Sprinkle ice water and vinegar over mixture. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until mixture is combined and looks like coarse sand.\n\n2. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Press mixture into a ball; divide into 2 equal pieces. Press each half into a 4-inch disc. Cover each disc with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes. (The dough can be made 1 day ahead. If it's chilled for 24 hours, let it stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before rolling.)\n\n3. Preheat oven to 425\u00b0.\n\n4. To prepare filling, place apples and juice in a large bowl; toss to coat. Stir together brown sugar and next 5 ingredients (through salt) in a small bowl. Sprinkle apples with brown sugar mixture; toss well to combine.\n\n5. Unwrap 1 dough disc, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll to an 11-inch circle. Place into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Pour filling into prepared pie plate (the pan will be very full). Arrange diced butter on top of filling. Roll remaining half of dough into a 10-inch circle on a lightly floured surface. Place dough on top of pie; fold edges under, and flute decoratively. Cut slits in top of dough to allow steam to escape. Lightly brush top of dough with egg white. Sprinkle with granulated sugar.\n\n6. Bake at 425\u00b0 for 15 minutes; reduce oven temperature to 350\u02da. Bake an additional 1 hour or until golden and bubbly. Shield edges of pie with foil if getting too brown. Place pie on a wire rack; cool completely before slicing.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 264; FAT 10.4g (sat 5.2g, mono 3g, poly 1.3g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 39g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 15mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 178mg; CALC 30mg\n\nCranberry-Raspberry Pie\n\nCranberry-Raspberry Pie\n\nHands-on: 40 min. Total: 1 hr. 55 min.\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n3 tablespoons natural shortening (such as Earth Balance), chilled\n\n4 tablespoons ice water\n\n11/2 teaspoons white vinegar\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 (8-ounce) package fresh cranberries (about 2 cups)\n\n1 cup (1/2-inch) diced apple\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n1/2 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup cornstarch\n\n3 (6-ounce) packages fresh raspberries, divided\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced\n\n1 large egg white, lightly beaten\n\n1 tablespoon turbinado sugar\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and baking powder in a food processor; process to combine. Cut butter and shortening into 1/2-inch pieces, and add to bowl. Pulse 3 times or until butter is about the size of dried peas. Sprinkle ice water and vinegar over mixture; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Pour mixture onto a lightly floured work surface; gather mixture together, and press into a ball. Divide into 2 pieces (measuring two-thirds and one-third of dough); gently press into 4-inch discs, and cover with plastic wrap. Chill 30 minutes.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n3. Unwrap the largest dough disc, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll to an 11-inch circle. Place into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Fold edges under, and flute decoratively.\n\n4. Combine cranberries, apple, and juice. Sprinkle with granulated sugar, cornstarch, and 1/4 teaspoon salt; toss well. Add 2 packages raspberries; toss gently. Spoon mixture into prepared pie plate. Arrange remaining package of raspberries over cranberry mixture. Dot pie with diced butter.\n\n5. Unwrap smaller dough disc; place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll to a 10 x 5\u2013inch rectangle. Cut lengthwise into 10 (1/2-inch) strips and arrange in a lattice over raspberries. Seal strips to edge of crust. Brush lattice and edge of pie with egg white. Sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 45 minutes or until golden and bubbly. Shield edges of pie with foil if getting too brown. Place pie on a wire rack; cool completely on wire rack before slicing.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 261; FAT 10.6g (sat 5.2g, mono 3.1g, poly 1.4g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 39g; FIBER 5g; CHOL 15mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 137mg; CALC 27mg\n\nMAKING A LATTICE\n\n1. Use a fluted pastry wheel to cut the dough into strips. You can use a knife or pizza cutter, but the pastry wheel gives it a pretty edge.\n\n2. Place 5 strips of pastry across the filling; rotate the pie so that the strips are vertical. From left to right, number the strips 1 through 5. Fold strips 2 and 4 back, leaving about 1 inch; place one strip of pastry across the pie horizontally; unfold strips 2 and 4.\n\n3. Fold strips 1, 3, and 5 back, leaving about 3 inches; place one strip of pastry; unfold strips 1, 3, and 5. Fold strips 2 and 4 back to center of pie; place one strip of pastry; unfold strips 2 and 4. Repeat process with remaining 2 strips of pastry.\n\nLemon Shaker Pie\n\nLemon Shaker Pie\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 5 hr.\n\nUsing the whole lemon is part of the classic Shaker lemon pie. I'm not as hearty as the Shakers, so I macerate them in a sugar mixture for 3 hours (or up to overnight), which tenderizes the rind and minimizes the bitterness of the pith. Use a mandoline to make thin, even lemon slices. And don't worry too much about getting all the seeds out at first; after the lemons and sugar mixture stand, the rest of the seeds will float to the top so you can easily scoop them out.\n\nLemons and syrup:\n\n2 medium lemons\n\n2/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/2 cup golden cane syrup (such as Lyle's Golden Syrup)\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\nCrust:\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n2 tablespoons natural shortening (such as Earth Balance), chilled\n\n3 tablespoons ice water\n\n1 teaspoon white vinegar\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFilling and finishing:\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n4 large eggs, well beaten\n\n1 large egg white, lightly beaten\n\n1 tablespoon turbinado sugar\n\n1. To prepare lemons and syrup, remove about 1/2 inch of each end of the lemons; discard. Slice lemons crosswise as thin as possible. Discard seeds. Combine granulated sugar, cane syrup, and salt in a medium bowl. Add lemons; toss to coat. Cover and let stand at room temperature at least 3 hours or up to overnight.\n\n2. To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, baking powder, and salt in a food processor; process to combine. Cut chilled butter and shortening into 1/2-inch pieces; add to processor. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until butter is about the size of dried peas. Sprinkle ice water and vinegar over mixture. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until mixture is combined and looks like coarse sand. (Do not overprocess the mixture or it will become clumpy and tough.)\n\n3. Scrape dough onto a lightly floured work surface; gather mixture together, and press into a 4-inch disc. Wrap disc with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes. (The dough can be made 1 day ahead. If it's chilled for 24 hours, let it stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before rolling.)\n\n4. Preheat oven to 400\u00b0.\n\n5. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle. Place into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Fold edges under, and flute decoratively.\n\n6. To prepare filling, remove lemons from cane syrup mixture, reserving cane syrup mixture; set lemons aside. Combine melted butter and 2 tablespoons flour in a medium bowl, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Add eggs to flour mixture, stirring to combine. Add reserved cane syrup mixture to flour mixture, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Arrange half of reserved lemon slices in bottom of piecrust. Pour cane syrup mixture over lemons. Arrange remaining lemon slices over the top.\n\n7. To finish pie, brush edge of pie with egg white, and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake at 400\u00b0 for 25 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0 (do not remove pie from oven); bake an additional 10 minutes or until filling begins to just set in the middle. Shield edges of pie with foil if getting too brown. Place pie on a wire rack; cool completely before slicing.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 269; FAT 9.5g (sat 4.6g, mono 2.9g, poly 1.2g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 43g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 87mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 186mg; CALC 27mg\n\nWalnut-Chocolate Pie with Rich Pastry Crust\n\nWALNUT-CHOCOLATE PIE\n\nwith Rich Pastry Crust\n\nHands-on: 18 min. Total: 1 hr. 33 min.\n\nThe rich pastry crust is like a soft sugar cookie but less sweet.\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and diced\n\n2 large eggs, separated and divided\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\n1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs, lightly beaten\n\n2 large egg whites, lightly beaten\n\n2/3 cup lightly toasted chopped walnuts\n\n11/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped and melted\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, powdered sugar, and salt in a food processor; pulse 3 to 4 times to combine. Add chilled butter; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Add 1 whole egg and 1 egg yolk; pulse 5 to 6 times or until mixture begins to clump together. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Gather mixture together, and press into a disc. Cover with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0.\n\n3. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll dough into an 11-inch circle. Place dough into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of pan. Fold edges under, and flute decoratively. Line bottom of dough with parchment paper; arrange pie weights or dried beans on parchment paper. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 10 minutes. Remove from oven; remove pie weights and parchment paper. Brush pie dough with lightly beaten remaining egg white. Bake an additional 5 minutes to set egg wash. Reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0.\n\n4. Combine corn syrup and next 6 ingredients (through egg whites) in a bowl, stirring well. Stir in walnuts and melted chocolate. Pour mixture into prepared crust. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 minutes or until center is almost set. Shield edges with foil if getting too brown. Cool completely on a wire rack before slicing.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 300; FAT 13.4g (sat 5g, mono 2.6g, poly 4.3g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 42g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 87mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 141mg; CALC 34mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nWhen a recipe calls for just a little bit of melted chocolate, I like to melt it in the microwave. Finely chop the chocolate, and place it in a microwave-safe dish. Microwave at HIGH, stirring every 15 seconds, until it's completely melted and smooth.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMaking Light Piecrusts\n\nI'll be honest here: Developing a from-scratch crust that is lower in calories and saturated fat while still having a wonderful buttery taste and flaky texture is a tall order. But through lots of trial and error, I've found a way to deliver just that. Here are my top tips for creating delicious piecrusts.\n\n1 Make sure your butter (and/or shortening) is refrigerator cold\u201435\u00b0 to 38\u00b0. (You can stick the butter in the freezer for 20 to 30 minutes to make sure it's really cold.) Why? Cold butter doesn't mix as well with the flour and other dry ingredients, which is exactly what you want. When the crust goes into the oven, those little pockets of cold butter heat up and produce steam, creating those yummy flaky layers.\n\n2 My secret weapon: Earth Balance Natural Shortening sticks, which have a third less saturated fat than butter without the hydrogenated oils. Commercially prepared shortening is filled with teeny-tiny air bubbles that create flaky layers in the crust, so combining the two gives the best possible flavor and flakiness. You can find Earth Balance Natural Shortening sticks in the refrigerated section of most grocery stores.\n\n3 Using ice water to make the piecrust provides an extra bit of insurance\u2014it helps keep the butter cold. Put three to four ice cubes in a coffee cup with water, and then measure out what you need from the cup, 1 tablespoon at a time.\n\n4 Vinegar helps prevent gluten from forming, creating a tender crust. While it is evaporating as it cooks in the oven, it leaves flaky layers in its wake. Use the mildest vinegar you can find, like white distilled vinegar. Vodka also works in the same way vinegar does.\n\n5 When rolling out the dough, work quickly. The goal is for the fat (the butter or shortening) to remain as cold as possible before the piecrust goes in the oven. Spending too much time handling the dough will warm the butter up, and it will melt and act like glue instead of steam, leaving you with a crust that's greasy and tough. Use only a minimal amount of flour on your work surface when rolling out the dough\u2014the more flour incorporated into the dough, the tougher and drier it will be.\n\nSilky Sweet Potato\u2013Pecan Pie\n\nSILKY SWEET POTATO\u2013PECAN PIE\n\nHands-on: 22 min. Total: 2 hr. 55 min.\n\n1 (1-pound) sweet potato\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and diced\n\n2 large eggs, separated and divided\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 cup whole milk\n\n1/2 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 large egg whites\n\n1/3 cup chopped pecans\n\n11/2 cups frozen fat-free whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n1. Preheat oven to 400\u00b0.\n\n2. Wrap sweet potato in foil; bake at 400\u00b0 for 1 hour or until tender. Cool completely. Peel.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, powdered sugar, and salt in a food processor; pulse 3 to 4 times to combine. Add chilled butter; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Add 1 whole egg and 1 egg yolk; pulse 5 to 6 times or until mixture begins to clump together. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Gather mixture together, and press into a disc. Cover with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n4. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n5. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle. Fit dough into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of pan. Fold edges under, and flute decoratively. Brush dough with lightly beaten remaining egg white. Place pan in refrigerator to chill while preparing filling.\n\n6. Place peeled sweet potato, milk, and next 8 ingredients (through egg whites) in a food processor; process until smooth. Pour mixture into prepared pie plate. Sprinkle nuts around edge of filling. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 45 minutes or until almost set in the center. Shield edges of pie with foil if getting too brown. Cool completely on a wire rack before slicing. Top with whipped topping.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice and about 21/2 tablespoons whipped topping)  \nCALORIES 300; FAT 11.3g (sat 5g, mono 3.9g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 43g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 92mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 161mg; CALC 65mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nUsing a food processor to combine the filling ingredients breaks down the sweet potato's stringy fibers, making this pie silky smooth.\n\nKey Lime Curd Pie\n\nKey Lime Curd Pie\n\nHands-on: 32 min. Total: 3 hr. 50 min.\n\nKey lime pie can have a rubbery texture or be overly tart, but this creamy curd version is light and satisfying with just the right amount of tartness.\n\nCrust:\n\n10 graham cracker sheets (about 6 ounces)\n\n3 tablespoons brown sugar\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1 large egg, separated\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFilling:\n\n1 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 cup whole milk\n\n1/3 cup Key lime juice (about 3/4 pound fresh Key limes)\n\n11/2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 large eggs\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1 cup frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n1 teaspoon freshly grated Key lime rind\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare crust, place crackers, brown sugar, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a food processor; process until finely ground. Place egg white in a small bowl; stir with a whisk until foamy. Place egg yolk in a large bowl; set aside. Add egg white and melted butter to food processor; pulse 3 to 4 times or until crumbs are moist (do not overprocess). Press crumb mixture into the bottom and up the sides of a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 12 minutes or until lightly browned. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n3. To prepare filling, place 2/3 cup sugar and milk in a medium saucepan over medium heat; bring to a simmer, stirring occasionally. Add 1/3 cup sugar, juice, cornstarch, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and eggs to the large bowl containing the egg yolk; stir well with a whisk to dissolve cornstarch. Gradually pour hot milk mixture into egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return milk mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat until thick and bubbly, about 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat. Add 2 tablespoons butter, stirring until combined.\n\n4. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl for 10 minutes or until mixture reaches room temperature, stirring occasionally. Spoon filling into prepared crust; cover with plastic wrap. Chill 3 hours or until set. To serve, top pie with whipped topping, and sprinkle with lime rind.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 slice and 2 tablespoons whipped topping)  \nCALORIES 300; FAT 10.3g (sat 5.3g, mono 2.9g, poly 1.3g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 49g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 108mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 199mg; CALC 58mg\n\nKEY LIMES\n\nTiny Key limes are very tart and just a little bit on the bitter side but so remarkable in a creamy curd pie like this. Use fresh Key limes if possible and be sure to grate some of the rind for decorating the top of the pie. Shelf-stable Key lime juice is an acceptable substitute for fresh Key limes. If Key limes or Key lime juice are impossible to find, substitute an equal amount of regular fresh lime juice for the Key lime juice.\n\nLemon Cream Pie\n\nLemon Cream Pie\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 3 hr. 30 min.\n\nIt's amazing how just a touch of cream cheese\u2014even the 1/3-less-fat variety\u2014adds richness and creaminess to this lemon filling. It's surrounded by a vanilla wafer cookie crumb crust\u2014that doesn't hurt, either.\n\nCrust:\n\n11/4 cups reduced-fat vanilla wafer cookie crumbs (about 40 cookies)\n\n2 teaspoons cornstarch\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 large egg white\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFilling:\n\n2/3 cup sugar\n\n4 teaspoons grated lemon rind, divided\n\n1/4 cup fresh lemon juice\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n3 large eggs\n\n11/2 cups 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1 cup frozen fat-free whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare crust, place cookie crumbs, cornstarch, and salt in a food processor; process until finely ground. Add butter and egg white; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture is well combined and moist (do not overprocess). Press mixture into the bottom and up the sides of a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 12 minutes or until crisp and golden. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n3. To prepare filling, combine sugar, 1 tablespoon rind, and next 4 ingredients (through eggs) in a large bowl, stirring well. Combine milk and cream cheese in a saucepan over medium heat; stir until smooth. Cook until mixture reaches 180\u00b0 or until tiny bubbles form around edge (about 8 minutes), stirring constantly. Gradually add hot milk mixture to sugar mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return milk mixture to pan, and cook over medium heat until thick and bubbly, stirring constantly. Remove from heat; add butter, stirring until butter melts.\n\n4. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl for 10 minutes or until mixture is room temperature, stirring occasionally. Spoon filling into prepared crust; cover surface with plastic wrap. Chill 3 hours or until set. To serve, dollop 1 tablespoon whipped topping on each slice, and sprinkle with 1 teaspoon lemon rind.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 259; FAT 10.6g (sat 5.3g, mono 3.3g, poly 1.1g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 36g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 96mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 206mg; CALC 83mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nCookie crumbs and graham crackers make a wonderful crust for cream pies. However, because of the amount of saturated fat in butter, I often use egg whites to hold the cookie crumbs together. But using all egg whites can result in a crust that isn't very crisp. Adding cornstarch to the crust soaks up extra moisture and helps give the crust the perfect crisp texture.\n\nBrandy-Pumpkin Cream Pie\n\nBrandy-Pumpkin Cream Pie\n\nHands-on: 40 min. Total: 4 hr. 30 min.\n\nHow about an adult version of pumpkin pie? This is it. Adding just a touch of brandy elevates the tried-and-true flavor of pumpkin pie and all its traditional spices. Feel free to omit the brandy, if you prefer. There's no need to replace it with any other liquid. The rich pastry dough is like sugar cookie dough, just less sweet and a little sturdier to support the filling.\n\nCrust:\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and diced\n\n2 large eggs, separated and divided\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFilling:\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 cup canned pumpkin puree\n\n1/4 cup cornstarch\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/8 teaspoon ground cloves\n\n2 large eggs\n\n11/2 cups whole milk\n\n2 tablespoons brandy\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n11/2 cups frozen fat-free whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n1. To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, powdered sugar, and salt in a food processor; pulse 3 to 4 times to combine. Add butter; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Add 1 whole egg and 1 egg yolk; pulse 5 to 6 times or until mixture begins to clump together. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Gather mixture together, and press into a disc. Cover with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0.\n\n3. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle. Fit dough into a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of pan. Fold edges under, and flute decoratively. Line bottom of dough with parchment paper; arrange pie weights or dried beans on parchment paper. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 15 minutes. Remove from oven; remove pie weights and parchment paper. Brush pie dough with lightly beaten remaining egg white. Bake at 375\u00b0 for an additional 15 minutes or until golden brown. Shield edges of pie with foil if getting too brown. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n4. To prepare filling, combine 1/4 cup sugar and next 8 ingredients (through eggs) in a large bowl; stir well with a whisk.\n\n5. Heat milk and 1/2 cup sugar in a medium, heavy saucepan over medium-high heat to 180\u00b0 or until tiny bubbles form around edge (do not boil). Gradually add hot milk mixture to pumpkin mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return milk mixture to pan; cook over medium heat until thick and bubbly, about 8 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat; add brandy, butter, and vanilla, stirring until combined.\n\n6. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl for 10 minutes or until filling reaches room temperature, stirring occasionally. Spoon into prepared crust; cover surface of filling with plastic wrap. Chill 3 hours or until set. Top each serving with whipped topping.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice and about 21/2 tablespoons whipped topping)  \nCALORIES 289; FAT 9.1g (sat 5g, mono 2.5g, poly 0.7g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 44g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 93mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 169mg; CALC 65mg\n\nChai Cream Pie\n\nChai Cream Pie\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 4 hr. 15 min.\n\nThis spice-rich pie is aromatic and creamy smooth. Adding cornstarch to the graham cracker crust helps keep it crisp, which is a lovely contrast to the filling.\n\n9 sheets reduced-fat cinnamon graham crackers\n\n1 tablespoon sugar\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 large egg white\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3 cups 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2/3 cup sugar, divided\n\n1 tablespoon finely chopped peeled fresh ginger\n\n1 tablespoon cardamom pods, lightly crushed\n\n1 teaspoon whole cloves\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 (3-inch) cinnamon sticks, broken\n\n2 black tea bags\n\n1/4 cup cornstarch\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1 cup frozen fat-free whipped topping, thawed\n\n1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2.Place crackers, 1 tablespoon sugar, 1 tablespoon cornstarch, and salt in a food processor; process until finely ground. Add melted butter and egg white; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture is well combined and moist (do not overprocess). Press mixture into the bottom and up the sides of a 9-inch pie plate lightly coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 12 minutes or until browned. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n3. Combine milk, 1/3 cup sugar, and next 5 ingredients (through cinnamon sticks) in a saucepan. Bring to a boil. Remove pan from heat; add tea bags. Cover and let stand 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.\n\n4. Pour milk mixture through a sieve over a bowl, pressing on tea bags; discard solids. Return milk mixture to pan; bring to a simmer. Combine 1/3 cup sugar, 1/4 cup cornstarch, and eggs in a bowl; stir well with a whisk. Gradually add hot milk to egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return mixture to pan; cook over medium heat until thick and bubbly, about 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat; add butter, stirring until butter melts.\n\n5. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl for 10 minutes or until room temperature, stirring occasionally. Spoon filling into prepared crust; cover surface with plastic wrap. Chill 3 hours or until set. To serve, top slices with whipped topping, and sprinkle with ground cinnamon.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 slice and 2 tablespoons whipped topping)  \nCALORIES 290; FAT 9.6g (sat 5.2g, mono 2.5g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 45g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 69mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 242mg; CALC 204mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nTraditionally, chai is Indian black tea steeped with a mix of spices, such as cardamom, cinnamon, and black pepper. I like a spice-rich mix, so I added fresh ginger and whole cloves to the filling. Using fresh whole spices is the secret to great chai because they are robust with flavor, natural oils, and aromas. Ground spices lose their potency pretty quickly\u2014six months or so\u2014and become dusty tasting if left on the shelf too long.\n\nMexican Chocolate Cream Pie\n\nMexican Chocolate Cream Pie\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 4 hr.\n\nCinnamon and coffee are common ingredients in Mexican-style chocolate, but adding ground red pepper gives this pie a nice kick.\n\n11/2 cups graham cracker crumbs\n\n1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch, divided\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 large egg, separated\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa\n\n1/4 teaspoon instant espresso or instant coffee (optional)\n\n1/8 teaspoon ground red pepper\n\n1 large egg\n\n13/4 cups whole milk\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n11/2 cups frozen fat-free whipped topping, thawed\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Reserve 1 tablespoon crumbs for topping. Combine remaining crumbs, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 tablespoon cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl, stirring well. Add butter and 2 tablespoons of the egg white (reserve the yolk for the filling); toss with a fork until mixture is moist but still crumbly. Press crumb mixture into a 9-inch pie plate coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 9 minutes or until lightly toasted; cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n3. Combine reserved egg yolk, 1/2 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons cornstarch, 1 tablespoon cocoa, espresso, if desired, pepper, and egg in a bowl, stirring well with a whisk. Place milk in a medium saucepan over medium heat; cook until milk reaches 180\u00b0 or until tiny bubbles form around edge. Gradually add hot milk to egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return milk mixture to pan; cook over medium heat 10 minutes or until thick and bubbly, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Add chocolate; stir until smooth.\n\n4. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl for 10 minutes or until mixture cools, stirring occasionally. Spoon filling into crust, and cover surface of filling with plastic wrap. Chill 3 hours or until set; remove plastic wrap. Spread whipped topping over pie; sprinkle with reserved cracker crumbs.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 291; FAT 11.1g (sat 5.1g, mono 2.6g, poly 1.3g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 44g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 59mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 175mg; CALC 77mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nUsing only part of an egg white may seem silly or difficult, but using the whole white made the graham cracker crust too wet. If you whip the white briskly with a fork, it will break up and measure easily into the desired amount. Using egg whites in a graham cracker crust is a light baking trick: Since the amount of butter is limited, the white acts as a binder to hold the cookie crumbs together, and it also adds a little crunch to the crust. But, too much egg white will make the crumbs wet and clumpy.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMaking Light Piecrusts in a Food Processor\n\nMaking piecrust with a food processor is the ultimate way to get flaky crust when using smaller amounts of fat and minimal amounts of added water.\n\n1 One thing to keep an eye on when making pie dough in a food processor is overprocessing, which can lead to disappointing results. The trick is knowing how long one pulse is and keeping the number of pulses to a minimum. A food processor pulse is 1 second (think about the length of time it takes to say \"1 Mississippi\")\u2014no longer, no shorter.\n\n2 When adding fat to the flour mixture, start by cutting it into about 1/2-inch cubes. Scatter the cubes over the top of the flour, and then pulse the recommended number of times indicated in the recipe.\n\n3 When making pie dough, it's best to leave the butter in larger bits, about the size of dried peas. Keeping the butter in larger pieces will create pockets of steam as the butter melts in the oven, which will in turn create lovely flaky layers of pastry.\n\n4 If making rich pie dough (like), pulse the fat into the flour until the mixture looks like coarse sand. Pulsing the butter into tiny pieces coats more of the flour with the fat, which makes a more tender crust\u2014kind of like the texture of a sugar cookie.\n\n5 When the liquid is added to the food processor, sprinkle it evenly over the entire surface of the flour mixture so that there isn't an overly wet area. This will also help prevent the dough from becoming gummy and clumping together.\n\nHoney-Pecan Tart with Chocolate Drizzle\n\nHoney-Pecan Tart\n\nwith Chocolate Drizzle\n\nHands-on: 29 min. Total: 1 hr. 34 min.\n\nCrust:\n\n1 cup pecan halves\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and diced\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg, separated\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFilling:\n\n1/2 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\n1/3 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/4 cup honey\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs, lightly beaten\n\n1 large egg white, lightly beaten\n\n1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Arrange pecans in a single layer on a baking sheet. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 8 minutes or until lightly toasted, stirring after 4 minutes. Cool completely.\n\n3. To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, 1/4 cup toasted pecans, powdered sugar, and salt in a food processor; process until finely ground. Add butter; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Add egg and egg yolk (reserving the white for the filling); pulse 3 to 4 times or until just combined. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface; press mixture together to form a disc. Cover with plastic wrap; chill 30 minutes.\n\n4. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle. Gently fit dough into a 9-inch round removable-bottom metal tart pan lightly coated with baking spray. Gently press dough against bottom and sides of pan; trim edges. Line bottom of dough with parchment paper; arrange pie weights or dried beans on parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 15 minutes or until edges are beginning to brown. Remove pie weights and parchment paper.\n\n5. To prepare filling, combine reserved egg white, corn syrup, and next 7 ingredients in a bowl, stirring until well combined. Stir in 3/4 cup toasted pecans. Pour pecan mixture into prepared crust. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 minutes or until just set. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Remove sides of tart pan; slide tart onto a serving plate.\n\n6. Place chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 1 minute or until chocolate melts, stirring every 15 seconds. Drizzle chocolate over top of tart.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 291; FAT 13.6g (sat 4.7g, mono 5.3g, poly 2.4g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 41g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 75mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 108mg; CALC 26mg\n\nHONEY\n\nIf you prefer a bold honey flavor, use buckwheat or eucalyptus honey; for mild honey flavor use wildflower or clover. Honey has a more concentrated sugar content than granulated sugar or corn syrup. A higher amount of sugar draws in more moisture from its surroundings, keeping baked goods from drying out for a longer time.\n\nBlueberry-Ricotta-Teff Tart\n\nBlueberry-Ricotta-Teff Tart\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 2 hr. 15 min.\n\nLighter than cheesecake but with the same satisfying creamy texture, ricotta fillings offer the perfect canvas to showcase peak-season fruit. Use any berry that is at its ultimate best.\n\n2.25 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1/2 cup)\n\n3 ounces teff flour (about 1/2 cup)\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon canola oil\n\n1 large egg\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 cups part-skim ricotta cheese\n\n2 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n2 teaspoons grated lemon rind, divided\n\n2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice\n\n1/4 cup powdered sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n3 cups fresh blueberries\n\n11/2 tablespoons honey\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours and salt in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Place granulated sugar, oil, and egg in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat until just combined. Roll dough into an 11-inch circle on a lightly floured surface. Fit dough into a 9-inch removable-bottom tart pan lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of pan. (Dough is soft and can be patched with good results.) Chill 15 minutes.\n\n3. Line bottom of dough with parchment paper; arrange pie weights or dried beans on parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 15 minutes or until edge is lightly browned. Remove pie weights and parchment paper; bake an additional 5 minutes. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n4. Place ricotta and cream cheese in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until smooth. Add 11/2 teaspoons lemon rind and next 7 ingredients (through egg yolk); beat at low speed 2 minutes or until well combined. Pour filling into prepared crust. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 minutes or until just set. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Remove tart from pan.\n\n5. Combine berries and honey, tossing gently to coat. Arrange berry mixture on top of tart. Sprinkle top with 1/2 teaspoon rind.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 292; FAT 10.7g (sat 4.7g, mono 3.7g, poly 1.2g); PROTEIN 12g; CARB 37g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 94mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 231mg; CALC 219mg\n\nTEFF\n\nTeff is a tiny, gluten-free grain\u2014about the size of a poppy seed\u2014that has a nutty, earthy flavor. Teff flour is finely ground and an easy way to incorporate whole grains into your baked goods. It is also an excellent source of protein, fiber, and iron and is naturally gluten free. If you'd like to experiment with using teff flour in your baked goods, I would suggest substituting about 25% of the wheat flour with teff flour. I've used a ratio of 50% in this tart to allow the flavor of teff to really shine through.\n\nHazelnut, Pear, and Blue Cheese Tart\n\nHAZELNUT, PEAR, AND BLUE CHEESE TART\n\nHands-on: 17 min. Total: 2 hr. 3 min.\n\n3/4 cup toasted hazelnuts, divided\n\n5 tablespoons sugar, divided\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1 large egg\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 large ripe Bartlett pears, peeled, cored, and cut lengthwise into 1/8-inch-thick slices\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n2 tablespoons apple jelly\n\n2 tablespoons crumbled blue cheese\n\n1. Place 1/4 cup hazelnuts in a small bowl; set aside. Place 1/2 cup hazelnuts and 3 tablespoons sugar in a food processor; process until finely ground. Combine hazelnut mixture, softened butter, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and egg in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Add flour; beat at low speed until just combined. Press mixture into a 4-inch disc on plastic wrap; cover. Chill 1 hour.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0. Place oven rack in lower third of oven.\n\n3. Unwrap dough; place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle. Place dough into a 9-inch removable-bottom tart pan lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of pan. (Dough is very soft and may be patched with good results.) Line bottom of dough with parchment paper; arrange pie weights or dried beans on parchment paper. Bake in lower third of oven at 350\u00b0 for 11 minutes or until edge is just beginning to brown. Remove pie weights and parchment paper; bake 5 minutes. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n4. Gently toss pear slices with 2 tablespoons sugar, melted butter, cornstarch, juice, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Arrange pear slices spoke-like in crust. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 30 minutes or until pears are tender when pierced with the tip of a knife. Remove tart from oven.\n\n5. Place jelly in a microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until jelly boils. Brush top of tart with jelly. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Remove from pan. Coarsely chop reserved 1/4 cup hazelnuts. Sprinkle tart with nuts and blue cheese.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 284; FAT 14.9g (sat 4.8g, mono 7.7g, poly 1.4g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 35g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 40mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 186mg; CALC 39mg\n\nMAKING THE CRUST\n\n1. Fold the edge of the dough towards the inside and press it into the sides of the tart pan, making a thicker edge.\n\n2. Crumpling the parchment paper before fitting it into the tart makes it easier to handle and fit against the dough. Make sure there are enough pie weights to completely cover the bottom and slightly come up the sides of the pan.\n\n3. Pre-baking the dough (also referred to as blind baking) in the lower third of the oven helps create a crisper bottom crust, especially useful if the filling has juicy fruit.\n\nCherry-Almond mini Crostatas\n\nCherry-Almond mini Crostatas\n\nHands-on: 40 min. Total: 2 hr. 24 min.\n\nThe Italian crostata is very similar to the French galette; both are rustic fruit tarts, simple and rich with seasonal fruit. This version is baked in a tart pan because I wanted to enrich the crust with egg, sugar, and almond flour, which makes the crust softer and more difficult to pleat around the fruit like a free-form galette. When working with delicate, butter-rich dough, keep it as cold as possible but still pliable.\n\n1/4 cup almond flour\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 large egg\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n11/2 pounds fresh cherries, pitted and halved\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n3 tablespoons sliced almonds\n\n1 tablespoon powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0. Place oven rack in lower third of oven.\n\n2. Sprinkle almond flour on a baking sheet. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 6 minutes or until beginning to brown, stirring after 3 minutes. Cool completely on pan.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon all-purpose flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flours and 1/4 teaspoon salt in a bowl. Place softened butter and 1/4 cup granulated sugar in a large bowl; beat at medium speed 1 minute or until well combined. Add egg; beat 1 minute or until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Shape into a ball. Press mixture into a 4-inch disc on plastic wrap; cover. Chill 30 minutes.\n\n4. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Divide the dough in 8 equal portions, and press into 4-inch mini tart shells lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of tart shells.\n\n5. Combine cherries, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, cornstarch, juice, and melted butter in a bowl; toss gently to combine. Divide mixture among prepared crusts. Sprinkle nuts on top. Bake at 375\u00b0 in lower third of oven for 25 to 30 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly. Shield edges of tarts with foil if getting too brown. Cool completely in pans on a wire rack. Remove crostatas from pans. Sift powdered sugar over top of each.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 crostata)  \nCALORIES 300; FAT 11g (sat 5g, mono 2.8g, poly 0.8g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 49g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 42mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 157mg; CALC 33mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nTo make a full-size tart, roll the dough into an 11-inch circle, and then press into a 9-inch removable-bottom tart pan. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 45 minutes. If your cherries are super juicy, add an extra tablespoon of cornstarch with the cherries to help soak up their luscious juice. And the opposite applies too; if the cherries seem a little dry, decrease the total cornstarch to 1 tablespoon.\n\nCinnamon-Apple Upside-Down Tart\n\nCinnamon-Apple Upside-Down Tart\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 1 hr. 45 min.\n\nThis is kind of like the classic French Tarte Tatin, but lighter, quicker, and easier to make. Use a combination of apples for deeper apple flavor and texture. If you don't have a cast-iron skillet, you can use any 10-inch ovenproof skillet. And, if it seems too risky to flip the finished tart onto a serving plate, simply scoop it right from the pan.\n\nCrust:\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold\n\n2 tablespoons natural shortening (such as Earth Balance), chilled\n\n3 tablespoons ice water\n\n1 teaspoon white vinegar\n\nFilling:\n\n6 cups peeled 1-inch pieces apple (such as Honey Crisp, Golden Delicious, and Granny Smith)\n\n1/2 cup unsweetened apple juice\n\n1/2 cup packed brown sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n11/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\nCooking spray\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\nTopping:\n\n1.5 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n2 tablespoons heavy whipping cream\n\n2 tablespoons powdered sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1. To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, baking powder, and salt in a food processor; process to combine. Cut butter and shortening into 1/2-inch pieces; add to processor. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until butter is about the size of dried peas. Sprinkle ice water and vinegar over mixture. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until mixture is combined and looks like coarse sand. (Do not overprocess mixture; it will become clumpy and tough.)\n\n2. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Gather mixture together, and press into a 4-inch disc. Cover disc with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes. (The dough can be made 1 day ahead; if chilled 24 hours, let stand at room temperature 10 minutes before rolling).\n\n3. Preheat oven to 400\u00b0.\n\n4. To prepare filling, place apples and next 5 ingredients (through salt) in a large bowl; toss well to combine. Pour apple mixture into a 10-inch cast-iron skillet coated with cooking spray; bring to a boil. Cook on medium-high heat 10 minutes or until apples begin to soften. Combine cornstarch and 2 tablespoons water in a small bowl, stirring until smooth. Slowly pour cornstarch mixture into apple mixture, stirring constantly. Cook 1 minute or until mixture thickens, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat; let stand 5 minutes. Stir apple mixture to loosen browned bits.\n\n5. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle. Place over apple mixture, tucking dough down between apples and skillet. Bake at 400\u00b0 for 37 minutes or until well browned and bubbly around edge. Cool in pan 15 minutes on a wire rack. Carefully invert tart onto a plate.\n\n6. To prepare topping, beat cream cheese and remaining ingredients at medium speed 2 minutes or until smooth and fluffy. Dollop topping onto servings.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 wedge and about 1 tablespoon topping)  \nCALORIES 247; FAT 10g (sat 5.2g, mono 2.9g, poly 1g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 38g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 120mg; CALC 36mg\n\nBlackberry-Pear Galette\n\nBlackberry-Pear Galette\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 1 hr. 30 min.\n\nKhorasan wheat\u2014sold under the brand name Kamut\u2014is loaded with nutritional goodness and has a wonderful nutty, buttery flavor. If you can't find it at your specialty grocery store, substitute whole-wheat pastry flour to keep whole grains in the pastry crust. It's best to assemble the filling after you roll out the pastry so it doesn't start to juice out too soon\u2014you want all those lovely juices inside the galette.\n\nPastry:\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n4 ounces Kamut flour (about 2/3 cup)\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg, separated and divided\n\nFilling:\n\n3 cups fresh blackberries\n\n2 large ripe pears, peeled and chopped\n\n1/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n1/2 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1 tablespoon turbinado sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare pastry, weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours and salt in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Place granulated sugar and butter in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and fluffy. Add egg and egg yolk; beat until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until mixture holds together. Roll dough to a 14-inch circle on lightly floured parchment paper; place on a baking sheet.\n\n3. To prepare filling, combine blackberries and next 7 ingredients in a bowl; gently toss to combine. Mound blackberry mixture in center of dough, leaving a 2-inch border. Fold edges of dough over berry mixture, pressing gently to seal (dough will only partially cover berry mixture).\n\n4. Beat reserved egg white in a small bowl. Brush dough with egg white, and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 50 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly. Let stand 10 minutes before serving.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 283; FAT 9.1g (sat 5g, mono 2.4g, poly 0.7g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 47g; FIBER 6g; CHOL 66mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 129mg; CALC 32mg\n\nSHAPING A GALETTE\n\n1. Use lightly floured parchment paper when you roll the dough out so you will be able to pop the whole thing in the oven when assembled. Flouring the paper makes it easier to fold up the edges for encasing the juicy filling.\n\n2. After mounding the filling in the center of the dough, fold about a 3-inch section of the dough up onto the filling.\n\n3. Continue folding 3-inch sections up over the filling, pressing the dough together at the pleated sections. Brushing the dough with lightly beaten egg white and sprinkling with sugar helps the dough become golden brown and crisp.\n\nApricot-Pistachio Tart with Whipped Goat Cheese\n\nApricot-Pistachio Tart\n\nwith Whipped Goat Cheese\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 2 hr. 20 min.\n\n1/2 cup lightly salted roasted pistachios, divided\n\n5 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n1 large egg\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 pounds ripe apricots, quartered\n\n3 tablespoons apricot jam\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n3 tablespoons heavy whipping cream\n\n3 tablespoons powdered sugar\n\n1 ounce goat cheese\n\n2 teaspoons honey\n\n1. Set aside 3 tablespoons pistachios. Place remaining pistachios and 2 tablespoons sugar in a food processor; process until finely ground. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Add flour and 1/4 teaspoon salt to processor; pulse to combine. Place 3 tablespoons sugar and butter in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until well combined. Add egg; beat until combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Press mixture into a 4-inch circle; wrap in plastic wrap. Chill 30 minutes.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n3. Unwrap dough; place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll into an 11-inch circle or square. Fit dough into a 9-inch removable-bottom tart pan lightly coated with baking spray. Press dough against bottom and sides of pan. (Pastry is very soft and can be patched with good results.) Line bottom of dough with parchment paper lightly coated with baking spray; arrange pie weights or dried beans on parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 15 minutes or until edges begin to brown. Remove from oven; remove parchment paper and pie weights. Cool slightly (10 minutes).\n\n4. Combine apricots, jam, cornstarch, and 1/4 teaspoon salt in a bowl; toss gently. Arrange apricot mixture in prepared crust. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 1 hour or until golden brown and bubbly. Shield edges with foil if getting too brown. Cool completely in pan on wire rack. Remove from pan.\n\n5. Combine cream, powdered sugar, cheese, and honey in a bowl; beat at medium speed until light and fluffy. Chop reserved 3 tablespoons pistachios. To serve, top each wedge with about 2 teaspoons topping, and sprinkle with about 1/2 tablespoon pistachios.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 299; FAT 12.1g (sat 5.4g, mono 4.1g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 45g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 45mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 182mg; CALC 47mg\n\nAPRICOTS\n\nApricot season is short, so don't let it slip by without making this tart. Choose ripe apricots\u2014those that give a little when pressed and are a rich coral color. The pits are easy to remove: Just run a knife around the apricot, starting at the stem end, open it up, and pluck out the pit.\nSMALL BITES\n\nSpiced Apple Two-Bite Tarts\n\nSpiced Apple Two-Bite Tarts\n\nHands-on: 40 min. Total: 60 min.\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 tablespoon 1% low-fat milk\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1/3 cup very finely chopped toasted pecans\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2 cups finely diced apple (such as Golden Delicious or Honey Crisp)\n\n2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n1/8 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n1/2 teaspoon cornstarch\n\n1 tablespoon water\n\n1/4 cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche\n\n24 tiny mint leaves (optional)\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Place first 6 ingredients in a medium bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed 1 minute or until well combined. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Add flour to butter mixture; beat until just combined. Add nuts; beat until just combined. Divide dough evenly into 24 pieces; shape into balls. Place dough balls into 24 miniature muffin cups coated with baking spray. Press dough into bottom and up sides of muffin cups, forming a bowl. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 10 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. Cool in pan on a wire rack 5 minutes. Carefully remove from pan; cool completely on wire rack.\n\n3. Place diced apple and lemon juice in a bowl; toss to coat. Add sugar and next 4 ingredients (through ginger); toss well.\n\n4. Melt butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add apple mixture. Cover and cook 10 minutes or until apple is tender, stirring occasionally. Combine cornstarch and 1 tablespoon water in a small bowl. Stir cornstarch mixture into apple mixture; cook 1 minute or until mixture thickens, stirring constantly. Place apple mixture into a bowl; cool to room temperature. Spoon about 2 teaspoons apple mixture into each tart shell. Top with about 1 teaspoon cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche. Arrange a mint leaf on top, if desired.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 2 tarts)  \nCALORIES 184; FAT 11.3g (sat 4.6g, mono 4g, poly 1.6g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 20g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 100mg; CALC 13mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nThese sweet little tarts can be made ahead. The nutty shells can be prepared two to three days in advance. Just keep them in an airtight container until you are ready to fill them. The apple filling can be made and stored covered in the refrigerator for up to two days. Just bring the filling back to room temperature before scooping into the shells to get the full apple flavor.\n\nPecan Mini Tarts\n\nPecan Mini Tarts\n\nHands-on: 55 min. Total: 1 hr. 10 min.\n\nThese baby bites rich with eggs, brown sugar, and half-and-half will satisfy every sweet tooth. The glaze is extra thick so that it stands up on the tarts instead of melting into the filling.\n\nFilling:\n\n1/3 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/3 cup half-and-half\n\n1/4 cup dark corn syrup\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\nDash of salt\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2/3 cup chopped toasted pecans\n\nTart shells:\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 tablespoon half-and-half\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1/3 cup toasted pecans, finely chopped\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nGlaze stripe:\n\n2/3 cup powdered sugar\n\n11/2 teaspoons half-and-half\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare filling, place first 6 ingredients in a small saucepan over medium heat; bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Cook 30 seconds, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat. Add 2 tablespoons butter and 1/4 teaspoon vanilla, stirring until butter melts. Stir in 2/3 cup pecans. Scoop mixture into a bowl; cover and chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. To prepare tart shells, place 1/3 cup sugar and next 5 ingredients (through salt) in a medium bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed 1 minute or until well combined. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Add flour to butter mixture; beat until just combined. Add nuts; beat until just combined. Divide dough evenly into 24 pieces; shape into balls. Place dough balls into 24 miniature muffin cups coated with baking spray. Press dough into bottom and up sides of muffin cups, forming a bowl. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 10 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. Cool in pan on a wire rack 5 minutes. Carefully remove from pan; cool completely on wire rack. Spoon about 1 tablespoon filling into each tart shell.\n\n4. To prepare glaze, combine powdered sugar, half-and-half, vanilla, and salt in a small bowl; stir with a whisk until smooth. Spoon glaze into a small zip-top plastic bag. Snip a tiny hole in bottom corner of bag; stripe tarts with glaze.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 2 tarts)  \nCALORIES 287; FAT 16.5g (sat 5.3g, mono 7.3g, poly 3g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 34g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 49mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 91mg; CALC 29mg\n\nCandy Apple Mini Muffins\n\nCandy Apple Mini Muffins\n\nHands-on: 14 min. Total: 24 min.\n\nRemember crunchy cinnamon candy\u2013coated apples at the county fair? These mini muffins are a great way to keep those memories alive\u2014and they're ready in less than 25 minutes!\n\n1 Granny Smith or other tart apple, grated (1 cup)\n\n2/3 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n2 ounces cinnamon decorator candies (such as Red Hots)\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 tablespoon powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Place apple and 1/3 cup sugar in a bowl; toss well to combine.\n\n3. Combine 1/3 cup sugar, butter, vanilla, and eggs in a medium bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and baking soda in a large bowl; stir with a whisk. Add apple mixture, butter mixture, and cinnamon candy; stir just until combined. Scoop batter evenly into 24 miniature muffin cups coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 8 to 10 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Remove muffins from pan; cool on a wire rack. Sift powdered sugar over tops of muffins.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 2 muffins)  \nCALORIES 195; FAT 6.7g (sat 3.9g, mono 1.8g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 31g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 46mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 157mg; CALC 22mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nTossing the grated apple with part of the sugar breaks down the apple's fibers and speeds up the baking time. Using a tart apple like Granny Smith gives a great apple flavor to the muffins, but Honey Crisp, Golden Delicious, or Braeburn would be wonderful, too.\n\nStamped Lemon Sugar Cookies\n\nStamped Lemon Sugar Cookies\n\nHands-on: 27 min. Total: 2 hr. 12 min.\n\nWhen my daughter, Barbra, was in first grade, she made me the sweetest cookie stamps out of fired clay for Mother's Day. The teacher (Mrs. Kemp) sent along a recipe for shortbread cookies that were delicious. Shortbread cookies traditionally have a lot of butter\u2014too much to qualify as light. This version is nice and tender with a short texture and makes a sweet stamped cookie (see the technique for some stamping ideas). Barbra is now a teacher and an education coordinator for first through eighth grade homeschoolers in California, and she loves helping her students create treasured homemade gifts for their mothers.\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 tablespoon grated lemon rind\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, salt, and baking powder in a bowl; stir with a whisk.\n\n2. Place 2/3 cup sugar and remaining ingredients in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 5 minutes or until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined (about 30 seconds). Wrap in plastic wrap; chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. Place 2 tablespoons sugar in a shallow dish. Shape dough into 18 balls; roll balls in sugar. Place balls 3 inches apart on baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Press cookies gently with a cookie stamp or another textured tool. Let stand at room temperature 1 hour.\n\n4. Preheat oven to 325\u00b0.\n\n5. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 13 minutes or until just beginning to brown on edges. Cool on pan 2 minutes. Cool completely on wire racks.\n\nSERVES 18 (serving size: 1 cookie)  \nCALORIES 100; FAT 4.4g (sat 1.8g, mono 1.8g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 14g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 17mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 40mg; CALC 7mg\n\nSTAMPING COOKIES\n\n1. Coating the cookies in sugar gives them a nice sweet crunch on the outside and helps them to not dry out too quickly.\n\n2. If you don't have cookie stamps, use the bottom of a glass, the ridged side of a meat tenderizer, a fork, your fingers, or really anything to press the cookies into a disc.\n\n3. Letting the cookies stand for 1 hour after imprinting with the stamp or other tool is a trick borrowed from the German springerle cookie. Allowing them to dry out a little on the outside helps retain the stamp's imprint during baking.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMAKING COOKIES\n\nThe fragrance of baking cookies can conjure strong memories more quickly in my mind than anything else. I fondly remember Christmases past, crazy fun Halloween parties, and gifts for new mothers and ailing neighbors. Use these tips to lovingly make some memories of your own.\n\n1 I love the Zen of cookie baking. A lot of people don't like to make cookies because they feel it is too repetitive and boring. For me, it's about how I can make the final cookie look just as pretty as the first, or maybe even better. I use a small ice-cream scoop to make the size consistent from beginning to end.\n\n2 Watch the bake time closely. The goal is to create cookies with crispy edges and a soft, chewy center. When in doubt, underbaking the cookies by a minute or so is far better than overbaking and ending up with a dry, crumbly, semiburned cookie.\n\n3 Don't overprocess cookie dough. When adding the flour mixture to the mixing bowl, beat on low speed just until the flour gets mixed in. Or even better, pull the dough off the mixer before all the flour is mixed in and finish mixing it by hand. Gentle mixing leads to more tender cookies.\n\n4 Don't skimp on the time the cookie dough chills in the refrigerator. Chilling the dough will help the cookies retain their shape and not spread all over the baking sheet. When the cookie dough is cold, the oven's heat sets the outsides before the insides are done and helps with crispy edges and chewy centers.\n\n5 Baking sheet tips: Don't place cookie dough on a warm or hot baking sheet. If you're baking multiple batches of cookies, cool the baking sheet completely before loading it up with the next batch for the oven. (You can run it under cold water to speed the process. Just be sure to dry it thoroughly.) A warm or hot baking sheet will cause the cookie dough to start spreading and result in an oversized flat greasy cookie with overbaked edges. For fragile cookies or those that you don't want to brown too much, add a second baking sheet to insulate them from the oven's heat. You can double-up right at the start or add a second baking sheet halfway through the bake time to keep those bottoms from overbrowning. This works well on the mini muffin pans, too.\n\nStar Anise Snickerdoodles\n\nStar Anise Snickerdoodles\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 1 hr. 45 min.\n\nThe flavor of star anise is a wonderful mix of fennel, tarragon, and licorice. While not nearly as strong as a black jelly bean (my favorite), it's a great spice to become familiar with in baking and savory applications. Star anise is included in Chinese five-spice and Indian garam masala blends.\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon ground star anise\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n1 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar, divided\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients (through cream of tartar) in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place butter in a medium bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 30 seconds or until smooth. Add 1 cup sugar and vanilla to butter; beat 2 minutes or until light and fluffy. Add egg; beat 1 minute or until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat 1 minute at low speed or until just combined. Shape dough into a disc; wrap in plastic wrap. Chill 1 hour.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0.\n\n3. Shape dough into 24 balls. Combine 3 tablespoons sugar and cinnamon in a shallow dish. Roll dough balls in cinnamon mixture, coating completely. Place balls 3 inches apart on baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 10 minutes or until edges are golden. Cool on pan 5 minutes. Remove from pan, and place on a wire rack to cool.\n\nSERVES 24 (serving size: 1 cookie)  \nCALORIES 91; FAT 3.1g (sat 1.9g, mono 0.8g, poly 0.2g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 15g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 15mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 48mg; CALC 15mg\n\nSTAR ANISE\n\nIf you haven't used star anise before, this is a great opportunity to add it to your spice cabinet. Use your electric spice or coffee grinder to pulverize the whole spice into finely ground pieces, and scoop out what you need with a measuring spoon. If you don't have a spice grinder, place the star anise in a heavy zip-top plastic bag, and crush it very well with a rolling pin.\n\nMolasses Cookies\n\nMolasses Cookies\n\nHands-on: 15 min. Total: 60 min.\n\nSometimes it takes multiple tries to get a recipe right when remaking it into a light recipe. My Aunt Jean makes the best molasses cookies at holiday time, and it took four tries to get this lightened version to be a close second to hers. She makes hers with lots of vegetable shortening (the kind with hydrogenated fat), but this one delivers that same texture using a modest amount of unsalted butter. Aromatic molasses, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves are the stars in this sugar-crusted old-fashioned cookie.\n\n8 ounces all-purpose flour (about 13/4 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cloves\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n8 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided\n\n1/4 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n1 large egg\n\n1/4 cup molasses\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 6 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n2. Place butter, 5 tablespoons granulated sugar, and brown sugar in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 5 minutes or until fluffy. Add egg; beat 1 minute or until well combined. Add molasses; beat until just combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed 1 minute or until just combined. Cover and chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n4. Shape dough into 24 balls (about 11/2 tablespoons each). Place 3 tablespoons sugar in a shallow dish. Roll balls in sugar, covering completely. Place balls 3 inches apart on baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 12 minutes or until just set. Cool on pan 3 minutes. Remove from pan, and place on a wire rack to cool.\n\nSERVES 24 (serving size: 1 cookie)  \nCALORIES 97; FAT 3.2g (sat 1.9g, mono 0.8g, poly 0.2g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 16g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 15mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 60mg; CALC 15mg\n\nCOOKIE PORTIONING\n\n1. Chilling the dough helps it relax and gives it time to hydrate, and a chilled dough won't spread as much in the oven. Using a 2-tablespoon ice-cream scoop evenly and cleanly portions the dough so all the cookies are the same size.\n\n2. The sugar coating is a nice finish to these molasses cookies\u2014it adds a sweet little crunch on the outside and gives them sparkle. Roll the scooped dough into balls with your hands, and then roll them in sugar.\n\n3. Place the sugared dough balls 3 inches apart to give them room to spread. There's no need to flatten them; they'll do that on their own.\n\nCarrot Cake Sandwhich Cookie\n\nCarrot Cake Sandwich Cookie\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 50 min.\n\nBaking the cookies for only 9 minutes isn't long enough for the carrots to get soft. So to help them get tender, toss the carrots with half of the sugar and let them stand for a few minutes to break down the tough fibers.\n\n2 cups shredded carrots (about 2 large)\n\n2/3 cup packed brown sugar, divided\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon grated orange rind (optional)\n\n3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract, divided\n\n1 large egg\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n3/8 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n4 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n1 cup powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine carrots and 1/3 cup brown sugar in a bowl; toss well. Let stand 5 minutes.\n\n3. Place 2 tablespoons butter in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until melted. Add oil, rind (if using), 1/2 teaspoon vanilla, and egg; stir with a whisk until well combined.\n\n4. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, 1/3 cup brown sugar, cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon salt, baking soda, and baking powder in a large bowl; stir well with a whisk. Add carrot mixture and butter mixture; stir until just combined. Drop dough by tablespoonfuls 2 inches apart (you should have 28 cookies) onto baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 9 minutes or until set and crisp around the edges. Remove pan from oven; let stand 3 minutes. Remove cookies from pan; cool completely on wire racks.\n\n5. Combine cream cheese, 2 tablespoons butter, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 3 minutes or until fluffy. Add powdered sugar; beat at low speed 1 minute or until well combined (do not overbeat). Spread about 1 tablespoon icing on bottom of 1 cookie; top with bottom of second cookie. Repeat procedure with remaining cookies and filling.\n\nSERVES 14 (serving size: 1 cookie sandwich)  \nCALORIES 186; FAT 7.6g (sat 3.4g, mono 2.7g, poly 0.9g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 28g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 28mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 140mg; CALC 35mg\n\nChocolate Deluge Cookies\n\nCHOCOLATE DELUGE COOKIES\n\nHands-on: 16 min. Total: 1 hr. 15 min.\n\nIn culinary school, we made incredible chocolate cookies called Mudslides. This recipe is just as tasty, decadently fudgy, and loaded with chocolate, just a lot lighter in calories.\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n6 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n3/2 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/2 cup bittersweet chocolate chips\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, cocoa, and salt in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n2. Place sugar, butter, and oil in a bowl; beat at medium speed until well combined, about 5 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add vanilla; beat 1 minute. Add flour mixture to butter mixture, beating at low speed until just combined. Add chips; beat at low speed until just combined. Cover with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n4. Drop about 2 tablespoons dough 2 inches apart (you should have 24 cookies) on baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 8 minutes or until almost set. Cool on pan 2 minutes or until firm. Remove cookies from pan; cool on wire racks.\n\nSERVES 24 (serving size: 1 cookie)  \nCALORIES 109; FAT 5.2g (sat 2.4g, mono 1.5g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 15g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 21mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 31mg; CALC 6mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nThe secret to these rich chocolate cookies is not to overbake them. Leave them a little shiny on top for a creamy cookie center.\n\nChopped Chocolate Cookies\n\nCHOPPED CHOCOLATE COOKIES\n\nHands-on: 21 min. Total: 49 min.\n\nBittersweet chocolate goes perfectly with the deep flavors of teff flour, oats, and walnuts. If you prefer, coarsely chop the chocolate into bigger pieces.\n\n3.3 ounces all-purpose flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n1.1 ounces teff flour (about 1/4 cup)\n\n2/3 cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/2 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1/2 cup chopped walnuts\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flours and next 4 ingredients (through salt) in a food processor; process until finely ground.\n\n3. Place sugars, butter, oil, and vanilla in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 5 minutes or until light and fluffy. Add egg; beat 1 minute. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Stir in chocolate and nuts. Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls (about 11/2 tablespoons) 2 inches apart (you should have 24 cookies) onto baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 8 minutes or until golden. Let stand on pan until completely cool.\n\nSERVES 24 (serving size: 1 cookie)  \nCALORIES 115; FAT 5.9g (sat 2g, mono 1.5g, poly 1.6g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 15g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 12mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 86mg; CALC 16mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nBaking these cookies for only 8 minutes leaves a creamy center. By letting them cool completely on the baking sheet, the bottoms set up a little more, making them less fragile.\n\nHoliday Tea Cakes\n\nHOLIDAY TEA CAKES\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 2 hr.\n\nThis delicate vanilla sponge cookie is a lightened-up madeleine, which is made in a very specific shell-shaped mold. Use any mold you have on hand. The cookie batter can be made ahead and held in the refrigerator up to 24 hours.\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 large egg whites\n\n6 ounces cake flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3 tablespoons powdered sugar\n\n1. Combine first 6 ingredients in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed 5 minutes or until thick and pale. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Sift flour over egg mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, folding in after each addition. Fold in butter. Cover and refrigerate 1 hour.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n3. Fill shallow molds coated with baking spray two-thirds full. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 8 minutes or until golden around edges. Cool in pan on a wire rack 2 minutes. Remove from pan, and cool completely on wire rack. Sift powdered sugar over cookies.\n\nSERVES 18 (serving size: 2 cookies)  \nCALORIES 127; FAT 5.7g (sat 3.4g, mono 1.5g, poly 0.3g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 17g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 34mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 47mg; CALC 6mg\n\nPIPING COOKIES\n\n1. These light batter cookies can be made in any shallow mold you have. Craft stores and sometimes local grocery stores offer loads of shapes and sizes in shallow molded pans for every holiday.\n\n2. Using a plastic piping bag or a large zip-top plastic bag to pipe the batter into the molds keeps the molds and the cookies neat. Fill the molds two-thirds full with batter to leave a little room for the cookies to expand.\n\n3. Let the cookies stand in the pan for 2 to 3 minutes after baking. This allows them to set up a bit so they don't fall apart when you remove them. Use a small offset spatula or a butter knife to gently remove them from the molds.\n\nOatmeal Jumbles\n\nOATMEAL JUMBLES\n\nHands-on: 13 min. Total: 24 min.\n\nShort on time but need a quick dessert? These jumble cookies come together in an instant and include whole-wheat flour and whole-grain oats for an earthy flavor and additional nutrition. Try substituting dried cranberries for the raisins for a sweet-tart variation.\n\n1/2 cup quick-cooking oats\n\n1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 tablespoon canola oil\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg, lightly beaten\n\n1.1 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1/4 cup)\n\n1 ounce whole-wheat flour (about 1/4 cup)\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/8 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/8 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons chopped walnuts\n\n2 tablespoons semisweet chocolate chips\n\n2 tablespoons raisins\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine first 6 ingredients in a large bowl; stir with a whisk until well combined. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Add flours and next 4 ingredients (through salt) to sugar mixture; stir until just combined. Stir in nuts, chips, and raisins.\n\n3. Drop dough by heaping tablespoons 2 inches apart (you should have 8 cookies) onto a baking sheet covered with parchment paper. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 11 minutes or until just set. Cool on pan 1 minute. Cool on a wire rack.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 cookie)  \nCALORIES 158; FAT 7.7g (sat 2.8g, mono 2.8g, poly 1.6g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 21g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 31mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 74mg; CALC 18mg\n\nCHOCOLATE CHIPS\n\nIf most chocolates melt in your mouth at your body's temperature of 98.6\u00b0, why don't chocolate chips melt and lose their shape in cookies baked at 350\u00b0? Semisweet chocolate chips have less cocoa butter content, so they retain their shape at higher temperatures. Additionally, the chips are surrounded by dough that also helps them retain their shape.\n\nShortbread Cookie Wedgies\n\nSHORTBREAD COOKIE WEDGIES\n\nHands-on: 17 min. Total: 67 min.\n\nThe texture of Kamut adds substantial body without the doughy denseness you can get from regular whole-wheat flour.\n\n4 ounces Kamut flour (about 2/3 cup)\n\n3 ounces all-purpose flour (about 2/3 cup)\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/3 cup packed brown sugar\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 teaspoons grated orange rind\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n5 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg yolk\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 tablespoon sparkling sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 325\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flours and next 6 ingredients (through baking powder) in a food processor; process until well combined. Cut butter into 1/2-inch pieces; add to processor. Pulse 4 to 5 times or until mixture looks sandy. Combine vanilla, egg, and egg yolk in a small bowl; lightly beat with a fork. Add egg mixture to flour mixture; pulse 5 to 6 times or until just combined (do not overpulse or mixture will clump). Sprinkle mixture into a 9-inch springform pan coated with baking spray. Gently press mixture into bottom of pan. Sprinkle top with sparkling sugar.\n\n3. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 25 minutes or until lightly browned around edges. Cool in pan 10 minutes on a wire rack. Remove sides from pan; cool completely on wire rack. Remove from pan, and cut into 10 wedges.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 wedgie)  \nCALORIES 192; FAT 6.9g (sat 4g, mono 1.9g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 30g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 52mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 79mg; CALC 21mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nBaking at a lower temperature than usual (325\u00b0 vs. 350\u00b0) allows for a longer baking time which ensures that the center gets done without drying out the cookie.\n\nPistachio and Tart Cherry Biscotti\n\nPISTACHIO AND TART CHERRY BISCOTTI\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 1 hr. 50 min.\n\nTwice-baked cookies are crisp and great for dunking. Leaving out butter or canola oil makes these biscotti extra crunchy. Be sure to let the cookie loaves cool after the first bake so they slice cleanly and don't crumble.\n\n1 cup sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n3 large eggs, divided\n\n5.3 ounces whole-wheat pastry flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n3/4 cup roasted and lightly salted pistachios, chopped\n\n3/4 cup dried tart cherries, chopped\n\n1. Preheat oven to 325\u00b0.\n\n2. Place sugar, vanilla, and 2 eggs in a large bowl of a stand mixer; mix at high speed until ribbons fall from beaters, about 6 minutes.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours, salt, and baking powder in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Add flour mixture to egg mixture; mix at low speed until just combined. Stir in pistachios and cherries. Divide dough in half; place halves on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper. With lightly floured hands, shape each half into an 8 x 4\u2013inch loaf. Lightly beat remaining egg in a bowl; brush tops and sides of loaves with egg. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 35 minutes or until golden brown. Remove loaves from baking sheet, and cool 10 minutes on a wire rack.\n\n4. Reduce oven temperature to 275\u00b0.\n\n5. Cut each loaf diagonally into 11 (1/2-inch) slices; place slices, cut sides down, on baking sheet. Bake at 275\u00b0 for 20 minutes, turning slices over after 10 minutes. Remove from pan, and cool completely on wire rack. Store biscotti in an airtight container.\n\nSERVES 22 (serving size: 1 biscotto)  \nCALORIES 134; FAT 2.9g (sat 0.5g, mono 0.2g, poly 0.1g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 24g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 21mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 83mg; CALC 17mg\n\nSTAR ANISE AND ALMOND BISCOTTI\n\nAdd 2 teaspoons finely ground star anise to flour mixture. Omit pistachios and cherries. Stir in 3/4 cup chopped roasted almonds.\n\nSERVES 22 (serving size: 1 biscotto) CALORIES 119; FAT 3.2g (sat 0.4g); SODIUM 72mg\n\nDARK CHOCOLATE CHIP BISCOTTI\n\nIncrease vanilla extract to 2 teaspoons. Omit pistachios and cherries. Stir in 1/2 cup coarsely chopped dark chocolate chips.\n\nSERVES 22 (serving size: 1 biscotto) CALORIES 116; FAT 2.3g (sat 1.3g); SODIUM 74mg\n\nICED GINGERBREAD BISCOTTI\n\nAdd 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour, 11/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, 1 teaspoon ground ginger, and 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves to flour mixture. Increase vanilla extract to 2 teaspoons and add 2 tablespoons molasses to sugar mixture. Omit pistachios and cherries. To prepare icing, combine 2/3 cup powdered sugar, 1 tablespoon milk, and 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract; stir with a whisk until smooth. Spread icing on top of cooled biscotti.\n\nSERVES 22 (serving size: 1 biscotto) CALORIES 115; FAT 0.8g (sat 0.2g); SODIUM 73mg\n\nCinnamon-Honey Crackers\n\nCINNAMON-HONEY CRACKERS\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 1 hr. 10 min.\n\nBecause I wanted these crackers to be similar to graham crackers, I blended the amaranth with all-purpose flour and added a touch of baking powder. This combo creates flat, crispy layers; pierce them with a fork to keep them from rising. The dough can be cut into any shape you like. Be sure to use very little flour on your work surface\u2014too much flour worked into the dough can make the crackers dry. Reroll the scraps just one time. Any more than that will yield tough crackers.\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n2.4 ounces amaranth flour (about 1/2 cup)\n\n2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, divided\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 cup unsalted butter\n\n1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n3 tablespoons honey\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n3 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n1. Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours, 11/2 teaspoons cinnamon, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl; stir with a whisk.\n\n2. Place butter in a medium bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth. Add brown sugar, honey, oil, and vanilla; beat at medium speed until well combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Wrap dough in plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n4. Place dough between 2 (16 x 12\u2013inch) sheets of parchment paper. Roll dough to a 14 x 10\u2013inch rectangle about 1/4 inch thick. Remove and discard top parchment. Using a knife or pizza wheel, score dough into 20 crackers. (You'll cut all the way through the dough, but don't separate the crackers.) Using the tines of a fork, poke holes in center of each cracker. Place dough (on bottom parchment) on a baking sheet. (They are transferred as a whole piece.) Combine 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon and granulated sugar. Sprinkle top of dough evenly with mixture. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 16 minutes or until browned.\n\nSERVES 20 (serving size: 1 cracker)  \nCALORIES 131; FAT 6.4g (sat 3.1g, mono 2.1g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 17g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 12mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 53mg; CALC 16mg\n\nAMARANTH\n\nAmaranth is actually the seeds from a leafy plant and referred to as a pseudo-cereal. Packed with nutrients, amaranth is gluten free and a great way to include ancient-grain flavor in baked goods. Enjoy whole amaranth cooked into breakfast porridge or gently popped and mixed with nuts and coated with honey.\n\nChocolate Chip Cream Puffs\n\nCHOCOLATE CHIP CREAM PUFFS\n\nHands-on: 45 min. Total: 2 hr.\n\nAt about half the calories of a pastry shop's version, these cream\u2013filled puffs will amaze you. They're crisp and buttery with a creamy vanilla filling and glossy dark chocolate topping. I like to stir the chocolate chips into the warm batter by hand because the power of the mixer will incorporate the melting chips into the batter, making it chocolate batter instead of batter studded with chocolate chips. Baking the puffs on doubled sheet pans prevents burned bottoms.\n\nPASTRY:\n\n3/4 cup water\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3.4 ounces all-purpose flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1 large egg white\n\n1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips\n\nFILLING:\n\n1 cup half-and-half\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\nDash of salt\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1 large egg\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping, thawed\n\nGLAZE:\n\n2 tablespoons light-colored corn syrup\n\n1 tablespoon half-and-half\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n3/4 cup powdered sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa\n\n1. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare pastry, combine first 4 ingredients in a medium saucepan; bring to a boil. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Add flour all at once to pan; stir with a wooden spoon until mixture pulls away from sides of pan and leaves a film on the bottom of the pan (about 3 minutes).\n\n3. Spoon batter into a medium bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until mixture cools to about 120\u00b0. Add eggs and egg white, 1 at a time, beating at medium-low speed after each addition until completely combined (mixture will look lumpy but will get smooth quickly). Beat at medium speed 1 minute or until well combined. Stir in chocolate chips by hand. Drop about 2 tablespoons dough 2 inches apart onto doubled sheet pans covered with parchment paper (you will have 20 puffs). Bake at 375\u00b0 for 20 minutes.\n\n4. Reduce oven temperature to 325\u00b0. Rotate pans, and bake at 325\u00b0 for an additional 25 minutes or until browned and crisp. Remove pans from oven. Pierce top of each puff with the tip of a knife. Cool completely on pans.\n\n5. To prepare filling, combine 1 cup half-and-half, 3 tablespoons sugar, and dash of salt in a saucepan; bring to a simmer. Combine 21/2 tablespoons sugar, cornstarch, egg, and egg yolks in a medium bowl; stir with a whisk until smooth. Gradually drizzle milk mixture into egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat until mixture thickens (about 4 minutes), stirring constantly.\n\n6. Remove pan from heat; add butter and 1 teaspoon vanilla, stirring until smooth. Spoon cream into a medium bowl; place bowl in a large ice-filled bowl. Cool cream completely, stirring occasionally (about 20 minutes). Gently fold in whipped topping.\n\n7. To prepare glaze, combine corn syrup, 1 tablespoon half-and-half, and 1 teaspoon vanilla in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 15 seconds. Add powdered sugar and cocoa; stir with a whisk until smooth (glaze will be very thick and sticky).\n\n8. To assemble cream puffs, cut the tops off the cooled puffs. Fill each puff with about 1 tablespoon pastry cream. Dip the tops in glaze, and place on top of filled cream puff.\n\nSERVES 20 (serving size: 1 cream puff)  \nCALORIES 160; FAT 8.5g (sat 5.1g, mono 2.4g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 19g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 62mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 61mg; CALC 27mg\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMAKING CREAM PUFFS\n\nThe French name for the pastry shell used in cream puffs, \u00e9clairs, and more filled desserts is p\u00e2te \u00e0 choux (pronounced \"pat ah shoe\"). Fun to make and even more fun to eat, the batter is easily used in savory applications, too. Just omit the sugar in the batter, and fill the baked shells with herbed cream cheese, or make them into vessels to hold homemade chicken potpie filling.\n\n1 Be sure to cook the batter in a large saucepan so that you will have plenty of room for vigorous stirring. You will know when the batter is fully cooked when it leaves a fine film on the bottom of the pan.\n\n2 It's very important to let the batter cool a bit before adding the eggs so you don't end up with bits of cooked egg in the puff. Add the eggs 1 at a time and only after each one is fully incorporated\u2014the batter looks lumpy and slick until the egg gets fully combined. You want the batter as smooth and creamy as possible.\n\n3 Portion the batter onto the parchment paper however you are most comfortable. Using piping bags, a small ice-cream scoop, or dropping by a tablespoon all work equally well. Be sure to double-up your baking pans. The puffs have to bake at a higher temperature to get crispy, but you don't want the bottoms getting too brown. Doubling up the pans helps insulate the puffs and prevents dark brown bottoms.\n\n4 As soon as the puffs are removed from the oven, use the tip of a sharp knife to make a small slit in the top. This releases the steam from the inside and makes the puff crisper.\n\n5 Use a serrated knife to cut off the top one-third of the puff. You'll get a cleaner cut, making for a prettier puff.\n\nFudge Brownie Pops\n\nFUDGE BROWNIE POPS\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 1 hr. 20 min.\n\nIncredibly moist and fudgy, these dark chocolate brownie pops studded with roasted almonds are decadent.\n\n3 ounces bittersweet chocolate, divided\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter\n\n1 cup sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg white\n\n3.4 ounces all-purpose flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nCooking spray\n\n2 tablespoons dark corn syrup\n\n16 lollipop sticks\n\n1/2 cup roasted almonds, finely chopped\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Finely chop 2 ounces chocolate; place in a medium microwave-safe bowl. Add butter to bowl. Microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until mixture melts, stirring after 15 seconds. Add sugar, vanilla, egg, and egg white, stirring until well combined.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add flour mixture to chocolate mixture, stirring until just combined. Scrape batter into an 8-inch square metal baking pan coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 20 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool completely in pan.\n\n4. Crumble brownies in a food processor; process into fine crumbs. Add corn syrup; process until mixture forms a ball. Scoop about 2 tablespoons mixture, and shape into a ball; repeat procedure with remaining dough (you'll end up with 16 balls). Insert lollipop sticks into balls.\n\n5. Finely chop 1 ounce chocolate; place in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until chocolate melts, stirring after 15 seconds. Dip balls into melted chocolate, and then into chopped nuts, pressing nuts to adhere. Refrigerate until chocolate sets, about 20 minutes.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 brownie pop)  \nCALORIES 170; FAT 8.3g (sat 3.5g, mono 2.5g, poly 0.8g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 24g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 113mg; CALC 28mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nFor easier handling, stick the finished pop sticks into a block of Styrofoam, standing upright. Place the Styrofoam block with the pops into the refrigerator to chill and set.\n\nTriple Hazelnut Truffles\n\nTRIPLE HAZELNUT TRUFFLES\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 1 hr. 20 min.\n\nYou'll find a triple hit of hazelnut goodness in these creamy two-bite truffles: hazelnut liqueur, chocolate-hazelnut spread, and toasted salted hazelnuts. Eating just one of these \u00fcber rich chocolate bites will leave you satisfied.\n\n5 ounces milk chocolate, finely chopped\n\n3 tablespoons chocolate-hazelnut spread (such as Nutella)\n\n21/2 tablespoons hazelnut-flavored liqueur (such as Frangelico)\n\n1 tablespoon light-colored corn syrup\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/3 cup finely chopped salted hazelnuts, toasted\n\n1. Combine first 5 ingredients in a medium microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 1 minute or until chocolate melts, stirring every 15 seconds. Spread mixture in the bottom of a shallow dish. Cover and refrigerate 1 hour or until set. Scoop about 21/2 teaspoons chocolate mixture with a spoon (if chocolate is too firm to scoop, let it stand 5 to 10 minutes); roll into balls. Spread nuts in a single layer on wax paper; roll chocolate in nuts, pressing to adhere.\n\nSERVES 18 (serving size: 1 truffle)  \nCALORIES 78; FAT 4.5g (sat 2.4g, mono 1g, poly 0.2g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 9g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 0mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 8mg; CALC 17mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nYou can chill the chocolate mixture in a shallow dish\u2014spreading it in a thin layer allows it to set up more quickly. Then, you can easily scoop it into balls with a small melon baller or small ice-cream scoop.\n\nThai Cashew Brittle\n\nTHAI CASHEW BRITTLE\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 2 hr. 35 min.\n\nSweet and spicy, this brittle combines the best of Thai cooking: lemongrass, chile paste, and fresh ginger. Cooking the sugar mixture to the stated temperature (335\u00b0) will give you lightly caramelized and crunchy brittle. Cooking to a lower temperature risks sticky, teeth-pulling candy. Be sure to coat your tools and parchment paper with cooking spray to help prevent sticking. Oh, and don't bother making this hard candy on a humid or rainy day; it just won't get hard and is guaranteed to stick to your teeth.\n\nCooking spray\n\n2 cups sugar\n\n1 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\n1/2 cup water\n\n1 cup coarsely chopped dry-roasted cashews, salted\n\n1 tablespoon butter, softened\n\n1 tablespoon chile paste (such as sambal oelek)\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1 teaspoon grated fresh lemongrass (light green parts only)\n\n1 teaspoon grated peeled fresh ginger\n\n1. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper; coat lightly with cooking spray.\n\n2. Combine sugar, corn syrup, and \u00bd cup water in a large heavy saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring just until combined; bring to a boil. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer registers 335\u00b0. Remove pan from heat; stir in cashews and remaining ingredients (mixture will bubble). Pour mixture onto prepared pan, spreading it quickly and evenly with a spatula coated with cooking spray. Cool completely (about 2 hours); break into pieces.\n\nSERVES 24 (serving size: 1 piece)  \nCALORIES 145; FAT 3.3g (sat 0.8g, mono 1.7g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 30g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 1mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 116mg; CALC 5mg\n\nBRITTLE BASICS\n\n1. It's very important to have all the ingredients prepared and ready to be stirred into the sugar syrup as soon as it's ready. Delaying allows the syrup to thicken, making it impossible to stir in the flavor ingredients.\n\n2. Work fast to spread the brittle onto the prepared surface. It cools quickly, which can make it difficult to spread into a thin layer, so work quickly.\n\n3. Allow the candy to cool completely before breaking it: You will be able to get more consistently sized pieces.\nOLD SCHOOL\n\nStone Fruit Cobbler\n\nSTONE FRUIT COBBLER\n\nHands-on: 17 min. Total: 67 min.\n\nA cobbler is the ideal dessert to make with those end-of-the-season fruits that are very ripe, very soft, and very flavorful because you don't need the fruit to look pretty. It just needs to be juicy to exude all that luscious syrup to marry with the biscuit topping. You can do the topping two ways: Either completely cover the fruit by rolling the dough on a lightly floured surface, or leave openings between scoops to allow the fruit's juices to bubble up onto the biscuits. Both are delicious.\n\nFILLING:\n\n1 pound nectarines, pitted and quartered\n\n1 pound ripe apricots, pitted and quartered\n\n3/4 pound ripe plums, pitted and quartered\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1/2 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nCooking spray\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced\n\nTOPPING:\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n11/2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into pieces\n\n3/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 teaspoons sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare filling, place first 3 ingredients in a large bowl. Combine 1/2 cup sugar, cornstarch, nutmeg, and salt in a small bowl. Add sugar mixture to fruit; toss gently to combine. Spoon mixture into an 11 x 7\u2013inch glass or ceramic baking dish coated with cooking spray. Scatter diced butter over top of fruit mixture.\n\n3. To prepare topping, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, and salt in a bowl; cut in butter with a pastry blender or 2 knives until mixture resembles small peas. Add milk to flour mixture; toss with a fork just until combined. Drop 12 heaping tablespoonfuls of dough onto fruit mixture. Sprinkle tops of dough evenly with 2 teaspoons sugar. Bake on lower rack of oven at 350\u00b0 for 50 minutes or until biscuits are golden and fruit is bubbly.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: about 2/3 cup)  \nCALORIES 205; FAT 5.7g (sat 3.3g, mono 1.6g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 37g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 14mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 167mg; CALC 65mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nTo vary the flavor of this cobbler, feel free to choose any stone fruit you love, keeping the quantity about the same. Cherries, white and yellow nectarines, and peaches come in so many varieties, so it's easy to get creative in how you pack this simple dessert with fruit.\n\nWhite Peach Crisp\n\nWHITE PEACH CRISP\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 1 hr. 10 min.\n\nCrisps and crumbles are basically the same dessert. What's wonderful about them is that they're quick and easy to make: There's no rolling, no chilling the dough. Plus, they're a good way to enjoy pie-like desserts with in-season fruit and a crumbly topping that get beautifully browned and crisp as they bake.\n\nFILLING:\n\n21/2 pounds ripe white peaches, peeled and each cut into 6 wedges\n\n1/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n11/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nCooking spray\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced\n\nTOPPING:\n\n1.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1/3 cup)\n\n1/2 cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare filling, combine peaches, granulated sugar, 11/2 tablespoons flour, and salt in a large bowl; toss gently to combine. Spoon mixture into an 11 x 7\u2013inch glass or ceramic baking dish coated with cooking spray. Scatter diced butter over top of fruit mixture.\n\n3. To prepare topping, weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Place flour and next 4 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl; toss to combine. Add melted butter; toss until mixture is moist and crumbly. Sprinkle topping over fruit. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 45 minutes or until topping is golden and filling is bubbly. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 3/4 cup)  \nCALORIES 213; FAT 8.2g (sat 4.7g, mono 2.2g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 35g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 149mg; CALC 19mg\n\nPEACHES\n\nWhite peach season passes quickly, so keep your eyes open in the early summer to find ripe ones. Peel the peaches over a bowl to catch any juice drippings; add the juices back to the filling. Safeguard your oven by placing a piece of foil on the rack below the crisp to catch any juices that bubble over.\n\nPersimmon-Apple Brown Betty\n\nPERSIMMON-APPLE BROWN BETTY\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 1 hr. 25 min.\n\nClassic Brown Betty has layers of fruit and toasted breadcrumbs mixed with sugar and butter that's baked until the fruit is tender and the breadcrumbs on top are browned.\n\n6 ounces whole-wheat bread, torn\n\n5 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided\n\n2 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n11/2 pounds apples, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch wedges\n\n11/2 pounds ripe Fuyu persimmons, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch wedges\n\n1 cup unsweetened apple juice\n\n1/2 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n3 tablespoons heavy cream\n\n2 tablespoons 1/3-less-fat cream cheese\n\n1/2 teaspoon grated lemon rind\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Place bread in a food processor; pulse until large crumbs form (should yield about 3 cups of crumbs). Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add breadcrumbs to pan; cook 5 minutes or until lightly browned and crisp, stirring frequently. Cool completely. Place crumbs, granulated sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl; toss well to combine.\n\n3. Combine apple, persimmon, apple juice, brown sugar, lemon juice, vanilla, and salt in a bowl; toss well.\n\n4. Spoon one-third of apple mixture into an 11 x 7\u2013inch glass or ceramic baking dish coated with baking spray. Sprinkle with one-third of breadcrumb mixture. Repeat process 2 more times, ending with crumbs on top. Melt 2 tablespoons butter; drizzle over top of crumbs. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 50 minutes or until bubbly and browned. Place pan on a wire rack to cool.\n\n5. Combine powdered sugar and remaining ingredients in a bowl, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Serve warm with a dollop of topping.\n\nSERVES 10  \nCALORIES 270; FAT 8.9g (sat 5.2g, mono 2.3g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 47g; FIBER 4g; CHOL 24mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 167mg; CALC 56mg\n\nPERSIMMONS\n\nThe two common varieties of persimmons found in grocery stores are Fuyu and Hachiya. Hachiya are larger, oval, and taller. Fuyu are squatter and more tomato shaped. The difference in taste is dramatic, so be sure to use Fuyu persimmons, as they are sweet yet firm and bake well. Hachiya persimmons are full of tannin until they become overly ripe and very soft. If persimmons aren't available, substitute ripe pears.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMAKING COBBLERS AND CRISPS\n\nNo-fuss cobblers and crisps make the most of ripe and juicy in-season fruit. There's no chilling or rolling of pie dough, only scooping on the sweet, tender biscuit topping or sprinkling on the buttery combination of nuts and oats.\n\n1 The best tool I have found for removing the tender skin of fresh fruit is a serrated peeler. It gently removes the thinnest skin, leaving all the sweet juicy flesh for your cobbler. It works great on tomatoes, too.\n\n2 Be gentle when mixing together cobbler toppings. The more the dough is stirred, the tougher it will be. And be sure the butter is very cold when it is added.\n\n3 For the best possible flavor, use in-season fruit. Most supermarkets have almost any fruit available all year, but that doesn't necessarily mean they taste great. The apples from South Africa in July simply can't compare with apples from the United States in October.\n\n4 Fresh ripe fruit releases its juice as it cooks, making a syrupy filling that's sweet and flavorful. If your fruit seems a little dry because it's not at its season's best, add a little unsweetened apple juice. When making slumps or grunts, the stovetop cooked filling should provide enough liquid to submerge the dumplings at least halfway up their sides.\n\n5 Be sure to leave space between the dumplings and toppings on cobblers and crisps so that the filling can bubble up and caramelize on the top\u2014it adds a lot of yummy flavor. And don't forget to place foil on the rack below the cobblers to catch any spillage or overflow.\n\nBlueberry Buckle\n\nBLUEBERRY BUCKLE\n\nHands-on: 14 min. Total: 42 min.\n\nThe buckle gets its name from the addition of the granola-type topping that makes the cake dip and rise (or buckle) on top as it bakes.\n\nTOPPING:\n\n3 tablespoons old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n2 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons brown sugar\n\n1 tablespoon all-purpose flour\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled\n\n3 tablespoons chopped pecans\n\nCAKE:\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n11/2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/2 cup whole milk\n\n1 cup fresh blueberries\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare topping, combine first 5 ingredients in a bowl; toss well. Cut in butter with a pastry blender or 2 knives until mixture is crumbly. Stir in nuts; refrigerate until ready to use.\n\n3. To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Place sugar, 2 tablespoons softened butter, and canola oil in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until light and fluffy. Add egg and vanilla; beat well. Add milk; beat well. Add flour mixture; beat until just combined. Stir in blueberries by hand. Scoop batter into an 8 x 8\u2013inch glass or ceramic baking dish coated with baking spray.\n\n5. Sprinkle topping evenly over top of cake. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 28 to 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out almost clean. Cool in pan on a wire rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 9  \nCALORIES 300; FAT 12.5g (sat 4.9g, mono 4.9g, poly 1.9g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 44g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 39mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 194mg; CALC 74mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nStirring the fresh blueberries in by hand instead of using the mixer keeps the batter from turning blue, which would look gray after baking. The strength and speed of the mixer would crush the berries, releasing their colorful juice, so gentle hand mixing is the way to go.\n\nMixed Berry Slump\n\nMIXED BERRY SLUMP\n\nWITH RICOTTA DUMPLINGS\n\nHands-on: 12 min. Total: 40 min.\n\nSlumps are a mix of fruit and sweet dumplings cooked entirely on the stovetop. Their name is attributed to the appearance of the dumplings, as they \"slump\" on the plate surrounded by the cooked fruit. Adding ricotta cheese makes these dumplings creamier than typical recipes.\n\nFILLING:\n\n6 cups mixed fresh berries (blueberries, blackberries, raspberries)\n\n1/2 cup apple juice or cranberry juice\n\n1/4 cup sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 tablespoon all-purpose flour\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nDUMPLINGS:\n\n3 ounces all-purpose flour (about 2/3 cup)\n\n3 tablespoons sugar\n\n1 teaspoon grated lemon rind\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1 cup part-skim ricotta cheese\n\n1 large egg, lightly beaten\n\n1. To prepare filling, gently combine first 7 ingredients in a 10-inch skillet with straight sides over medium-high heat; bring to a boil, stirring often. Cover and simmer 10 minutes or until fruit is very soft and juicy.\n\n2. To prepare dumplings, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients (through salt) in a medium bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add ricotta and egg; stir just until combined. Drop 8 generous tablespoonfuls dumpling mixture onto fruit mixture. Cover and simmer 18 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center of dumplings comes out clean. To serve, place 1 dumpling in a shallow bowl, and ladle berries over top.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 dumpling and about 1/2 cup berry mixture)  \nCALORIES 222; FAT 6.5g (sat 3.6g, mono 1.8g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 36g; FIBER 5g; CHOL 40mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 218mg; CALC 128mg\n\nMAKING A SLUMP\n\n1. Adding sugar and a bit of butter to the filling gives it a lovely syrupy consistency and richness.\n\n2. The dumplings are gently simmered and steamed in the fruit juices until they are barely done.\n\n3. Don't peek at the dumplings while they cook. Lifting the lid off the pan will cause the steam to escape and will result in a longer cooking time. Trust your ears: If the liquid sounds like it is boiling vigorously, lower the heat.\n\nGinger-Plum Grunt\n\nGINGER-PLUM GRUNT\n\nHands-on: 19 min. Total: 47 min.\n\nGrunts get their oddball name from the sound the fruit topped with dumpling dough makes while cooking on top of the stove. While grunts and slumps are very similar, this grunt starts on the stovetop and finishes under the broiler to give the dumplings a golden brown glow.\n\nFILLING:\n\n21/2 pounds ripe plums, pitted and quartered\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized ginger\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nTOPPING:\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n2 tablespoons brown sugar\n\n11/2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 cup butter, divided\n\n3/4 cup whole milk\n\n1. To prepare filling, combine first 5 ingredients in a 10-inch broiler-safe skillet with straight sides; bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring often. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 8 to 10 minutes or until plums begin to soften and mixture slightly thickens.\n\n2. To prepare topping, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, brown sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl; stir with a whisk. Place 3 tablespoons butter in a microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until butter melts. Add melted butter and milk to flour mixture; stir until just combined. Drop 8 generous tablespoonfuls dumpling mixture onto fruit mixture. Cover and simmer 18 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center of dumplings comes out clean.\n\n3. Preheat broiler.\n\n4. Melt 1 tablespoon butter. Brush butter on top of dumplings. Place pan 8 inches under broiler; broil 2 minutes or until golden brown. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 8  \nCALORIES 272; FAT 7.1g (sat 4.1g, mono 1.9g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 50g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 18mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 250mg; CALC 97mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nIf your plums are not very juicy, you may need to add water or unsweetened apple juice to the simmering fruit to get enough liquid to cook the dumplings. The cooking liquid should be as thick as maple syrup and needs to come halfway up the sides of the dumplings when they are dropped in.\n\nMolasses-Apple Pandowdy\n\nMOLASSES-APPLE PANDOWDY\n\nHands-on: 32 min. Total: 1 hr. 42 min.\n\nPandowdy is basically a single-crust fruit pie baked in a casserole dish. Breaking the top crust in the final 10 minutes of cooking is said to make the dish unattractive or \"dowdy.\" Use a variety of apples for more interesting flavor and texture.\n\nCRUST:\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold\n\n3 tablespoons natural shortening (such as Earth Balance)\n\n4 tablespoons ice water\n\n11/2 teaspoons white vinegar\n\nFILLING:\n\n4 pounds apples, peeled and cut into 1/8-inch-thick slices\n\n1/2 cup unsweetened apple juice\n\n1/4 cup molasses\n\n1/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced\n\n1 large egg white\n\n2 tablespoons turbinado sugar\n\n1. To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, baking powder, and salt in a food processor; process to combine.\n\n2. Cut butter and shortening into 1/2-inch pieces; add to processor. Pulse 2 to 3 times or until butter is about the size of dried peas. Sprinkle ice water and vinegar over mixture; pulse 2 to 3 times or until mixture is combined and looks like coarse sand. (Do not overprocess mixture; the dough will become clumpy and tough.)\n\n3. Scrape mixture onto a lightly floured work surface. Gather mixture together, and press into a 4-inch disc. Cover disc with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n4. Preheat oven to 425\u00b0.\n\n5. To prepare filling, place apples and next 8 ingredients (through salt) in a large bowl; toss gently to combine. Spoon mixture into a 13 x 9\u2013inch glass or ceramic baking dish coated with baking spray. Scatter diced butter over top.\n\n6. Unwrap dough, and place on a lightly floured work surface. Roll to a 14 x 10\u2013inch rectangle. Place dough on top of filling; tuck dough between filling and dish. Cut slits in top of dough to allow steam to escape. Place egg white in a small bowl; stir well with a whisk. Brush dough with egg white; sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake at 425\u00b0 for 10 minutes; reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0. Bake at 350\u00b0 an additional 20 minutes or until golden and bubbly. Remove pie from oven. \"Dowdy\" the crust by breaking through the crust with the edge of a large spoon. Bake at 350\u00b0 for an additional 10 minutes or until browned and bubbly. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 14  \nCALORIES 259; FAT 9.4g (sat 5.4g, mono 2.4g, poly 0.9g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 43g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 13mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 92mg; CALC 27mg\n\nRaspberry-Blueberry Clafoutis\n\nRASPBERRY-BLUEBERRY CLAFOUTIS\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 1 hr. 20 min.\n\nI learned about this dessert (pronounced kla-foo-TEE) when I was in culinary school. The classic French dessert of tender cakey custard studded with fruit is easy to make. It traditionally contains cherries, but I opted to use colorful fresh berries.\n\n2 ounces cake flour (about 1/2 cup)\n\n1/2 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n3 large eggs\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n2/3 cup whole milk\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 (6-ounce) package fresh raspberries\n\n1/2 cup blueberries\n\n1 tablespoon powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Place flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl; stir with a whisk. Add eggs and egg yolks; stir with whisk until combined. Stir in milk, butter, and vanilla.\n\n3. Pour mixture into a blender; process until smooth. Pour mixture into a 91/2-inch deep-dish pie plate coated with baking spray. Arrange berries on top of batter; do not stir. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 35 minutes or until almost set in the middle. Let stand 20 minutes or until set before slicing. Sift powdered sugar over top.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 183; FAT 8.1g (sat 4.1g, mono 2.5g, poly 0.8g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 24g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 129mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 111mg; CALC 46mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nBe careful not to overbake the clafoutis\u2014pull it from the oven when the center still wiggles a bit. To serve, scoop it with a spoon while it's still warm, or slice it into wedges when it's completely cooled.\n\nRice Pudding\n\nRICE PUDDING\n\nHands-on: 69 min. Total: 69 min.\n\nThis is one of my childhood favorites\u2014one my grandmother would have ready for an after-school snack. Her recipe was very simple, so this recipe is a tribute to her and the simple dessert that allows you to put a lot of different spins on it. Long, slow cooking makes for a creamy rice pudding. Using Arborio rice (typically used in risotto) ensures that the pudding will be smooth and yet still retain shape and texture. Sprinkle with toasted nuts, like pistachios or walnuts, if you like.\n\n4 cups 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2/3 cup sugar, divided\n\n1/2 cup Arborio rice\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs\n\n11/2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon or nutmeg\n\n1. Combine milk, 1/3 cup sugar, rice, and salt in a large heavy-bottomed saucepan; bring to a simmer over medium heat. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer 45 minutes or until about one-fourth of liquid remains, stirring frequently.\n\n2. Combine 1/3 cup sugar, eggs, and vanilla in a bowl; stir well with a whisk. Gradually add about 2 cups hot rice mixture to egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Slowly pour egg mixture back into pan, stirring constantly; cook 5 minutes or until mixture thickens, stirring constantly over medium-low heat.\n\n3. Pour rice pudding into a serving dish; sprinkle top evenly with cinnamon. Serve warm or cold.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: about 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 197; FAT 3.9g (sat 2g, mono 1.2g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 34g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 56mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 149mg; CALC 156mg\n\nCRANBERRY-ORANGE RICE PUDDING\n\nDecrease sugar to 1/4 cup in rice mixture and 1/4 cup in eggs. Decrease vanilla to 1/2 teaspoon. Remove from heat; stir in 1/2 teaspoon orange rind and 1/2 cup dried cranberries. Omit cinnamon or nutmeg.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: about 1/2 cup) CALORIES 203; FAT 4g (sat 2g); SODIUM 149mg\n\nRUM-RAISIN RICE PUDDING\n\nMicrowave 1/3 cup raisins and 3 tablespoons dark rum at HIGH 30 seconds. Let stand. Decrease vanilla to 1 teaspoon. Stir raisin mixture into pudding. Decrease cinnamon to 1/4 teaspoon. Do not use nutmeg.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: about 1/2 cup) CALORIES 229; FAT 3.9g (sat 2g); SODIUM 149mg\n\nBR\u00dbL\u00c9ED RICE PUDDING\n\nAt end of Step 2, divide pudding among 8 dessert bowls; cover with plastic wrap, pressing into top of pudding. Omit cinnamon. Chill 2 hours, until cold and firm. Sprinkle each pudding with 2 teaspoons sugar. Move a kitchen blow torch 2 inches above top of each pudding back and forth, until sugar is completely melted and caramelized (about 1 minute). Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: about 1/2 cup) CALORIES 229; FAT 3.9g (sat 2g); SODIUM 149mg\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nMAKING RICE PUDDING\n\nWhile rice pudding may seem like a simple dessert, not following the cooking method and ingredient suggestions exactly may produce something closer to wallpaper paste.\n\n1 There are so many varieties of rice, and each variety lends its unique qualities to prepared dishes. I typically choose medium-grain Arborio rice when I'm making rice pudding because it becomes creamy and the grains will cling together rather than stay firm and separated, like long-grain rice used in fried rice dishes.\n\n2 A ratio of 8-to-1 is the key to cooking the rice properly. Using 4 cups of milk to only 1/2 cup of rice may seem like a lot of liquid, but cooking the rice slowly in this much milk makes the rice superplump and creamy.\n\n3 Tempering the eggs at the very end of cooking the rice makes the pudding creamier.\n\n4 Vanilla extract is made with a large amount of alcohol, and if it is added too soon to hot liquids, it will evaporate and not be as flavorful as you want. Stir it in near the end of cooking to get the most flavor.\n\n5 By all means, if you have a vanilla bean and enjoy the appearance of the tiny seeds, use it instead of adding the vanilla extract. Simply split the bean in half lengthwise, leaving one of the ends uncut, and then add the bean when you first start cooking the rice. Pluck the bean from the pudding just before scooping it into the serving bowl.\n\nChocolate Pudding Cake\n\nCHOCOLATE PUDDING CAKE\n\nHands-on: 15 min. Total: 60 min.\n\nWarm, gooey, and oh so chocolaty, this old-school dessert is just as tasty today as it was in the good old days.\n\n4.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1 cup)\n\n3/4 cups granulated sugar, divided\n\n1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa, divided\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n11/4 cups strong hot coffee\n\n9 tablespoons frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, 1/2 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons cocoa, baking powder, and salt in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add milk, butter, and vanilla; stir until just combined. Scrape batter into a 9 x 9\u2013inch metal baking pan coated with baking spray. Combine 1/4 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons cocoa, and brown sugar; sprinkle mixture over top of batter. Carefully pour coffee over top (do not stir in).\n\n3. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 28 to 30 minutes or until just set (do not overbake). Let stand 10 minutes; top with whipped topping.\n\nSERVES 9 (serving size: 1 piece and 1 tablespoon topping)  \nCALORIES 187; FAT 3.8g (sat 2.5g, mono 0.9g, poly 0.2g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 38g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 8mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 183mg; CALC 88mg\n\nWWII Ration Cake\n\nWWII RATION CAKE\n\nHands-on: 17 min. Total: 69 min.\n\nDespite the name, this rich, intensely chocolate cake is anything but depressing. Here's a little history: During World War II many imported foods, such as sugar and coffee, were rationed. Transporting food across the nation almost came to a halt because gasoline and tires were diverted to military efforts. We owe a debt of gratitude to the crafty baker who developed this recipe using the ingredients on hand.\n\nCAKE:\n\n10.1 ounces all-purpose flour (about 21/4 cups)\n\n11/4 cups granulated sugar\n\n6 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa\n\n11/2 teaspoons baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n11/2 cups cold water\n\n1/2 cup canola oil\n\n11/2 tablespoons white vinegar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nICING:\n\n3 tablespoons 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n2 cups powdered sugar, divided\n\n2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients (through salt) in a large bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n3. Place 11/2 cups cold water, oil, vinegar, and vanilla in a small bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add water mixture to flour mixture; stir until just combined (some small lumps will be in the batter). Scrape batter into a 13 x 9\u2013inch metal baking pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 22 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs.\n\n4. To prepare icing, place milk and butter in a medium microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until butter melts. Reserve 1 tablespoon powdered sugar. Add remaining powdered sugar, cocoa, vanilla, and salt to milk mixture; stir until smooth. Spread icing over top of warm cake. Cool completely. Sift reserved 1 tablespoon powdered sugar over top of cake.\n\nSERVES 15 (serving size: 1 piece)  \nCALORIES 286; FAT 9.6g (sat 1.8g, mono 5.3g, poly 2.3g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 49g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 4mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 216mg; CALC 11mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nWhy are some cakes stirred together by hand while others are beaten with a mixer? It's all about the texture. Beating with a mixer incorporates air and makes a cake lighter and taller, while mixing by hand creates a moist, dense texture.\n\nBanana-Nut Bread\n\nBANANA-NUT BREAD\n\nHands-on: 16 min. Total: 1 hr. 51 min.\n\nTry toasting a slice of this banana bread and topping it with a scoop of fat-free vanilla ice cream. Yum!\n\n6.75 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1 cup ripe mashed banana (about 2 large)\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/2 cup reduced-fat sour cream\n\n1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts, lightly toasted\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2/3 cup powdered sugar\n\n2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice\n\n2 teaspoons 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n3. Place butter in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth, about 1 minute. Add granulated sugar; beat 1 minute. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in banana and vanilla until just combined. Add flour mixture alternately with sour cream, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Stir in nuts by hand. Scrape batter into a 9 x 5\u2013inch loaf pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 50 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes in pan on a wire rack. Remove from pan, and cool completely on wire rack.\n\n4. Combine powdered sugar, lemon juice, and milk in a small bowl; stir with a whisk until smooth. Drizzle glaze over top and down sides of bread. Let stand 5 minutes before slicing.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 280; FAT 11.5g (sat 5.1g, mono 4.1g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 42g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 50mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 191mg; CALC 40mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nSince bananas are naturally sweet, I added lemon juice to the powdered sugar glaze just to give a bit of tartness and balance the sweetness. If you really like a tart bite, use all lemon juice in the glaze.\n\nChocolate-Zucchini Bread\n\nCHOCOLATE-ZUCCHINI BREAD\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 1 hr. 50 min.\n\nI remember zucchini bread from the early days of the health-food trend. It was greasy with vegetable oil and didn't have much flavor. My version is a big improvement. A bounty of shredded zucchini and molasses-y brown sugar make it moist; cocoa and chocolate chips make it decadent.\n\n2 cups shredded zucchini (about 1/2 pound)\n\n8 ounces all-purpose flour (about 13/4 cups)\n\n7 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa, divided\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n1/4 cup canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1/2 cup semisweet or dark chocolate chips\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1 tablespoon 2% reduced-fat milk\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Place zucchini in a sieve; let stand 10 minutes, pressing down occasionally to release liquid.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, 6 tablespoons cocoa, and next 3 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Place granulated sugar and next 4 ingredients (through vanilla) in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 5 minutes. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add flour mixture to sugar mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Stir in chocolate chips and zucchini. Spoon batter into a 9 x 4\u2013inch loaf pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 38 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan on a wire rack 15 minutes. Loosen edges from sides. Remove from pan, and cool completely on wire rack.\n\n5. Combine powdered sugar, 1 tablespoon cocoa, milk, and dash of salt in a small bowl, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Drizzle glaze over top of loaf.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 260; FAT 12.1g (sat 4.6g, mono 5.1g, poly 1.8g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 37g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 41mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 171mg; CALC 46mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nBe sure to press out the excess moisture from the shredded zucchini; otherwise, you will end up with a dense, gummy loaf of bread.\n\nWhole-Grain Applesauce Bars\n\nWHOLE-GRAIN APPLESAUCE BARS\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 1 hr. 30 min.\n\nUsing applesauce in place of butter or oil is a diet trick that's as old as the hills. The upside is fewer calories; the downside is typically a dense, gummy baked good. In these bars, I've used less applesauce, added a little canola oil for tenderness, and included tons of old-fashioned oats to provide texture to the heavy whole-wheat flour.\n\n4.75 ounces whole-wheat flour (about 1 cup)\n\n2 tablespoons flaxseed meal (optional)\n\n2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large ripe bananas\n\n3/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1/2 cup applesauce\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 large egg white\n\n3/4 cup chopped walnuts, lightly toasted\n\n3/4 cup dried cranberries\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, flaxseed, if desired, and next 5 ingredients (through salt) in a bowl; stir with a whisk.\n\n3. Place bananas in a large bowl; mash with a fork or a potato masher until smooth. Add brown sugar and next 5 ingredients (through egg white); stir until well combined. Add flour mixture, stirring until combined. Stir in nuts and dried cranberries.\n\n4. Spread dough into a 13 x 9\u2013inch metal baking pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 20 to 22 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Cut into 16 bars.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 bar)  \nCALORIES 199; FAT 7.1g (sat 0.8g, mono 2.1g, poly 3.8g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 32g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 12mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 139mg; CALC 32mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nIf you prefer other dried fruit and nut combinations, feel free to substitute. Just use the same quantities for similar nutrition. Try dried apricots and hazelnuts, or almonds and dried cherries. How about dates and pistachios? Get creative!\n\nDevil Dogs\n\nDEVIL DOGS\n\nHands-on: 1 hr. Total: 1 hr. 28 min.\n\nThis recipe was inspired by Drake's Devil Dog bone-shaped snack cake popularized in the 1920s. My version is two moist devil's food cookies filled with gooey vanilla Swiss meringue.\n\n1 ounce unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1/4 cup canola oil\n\n9 ounces all-purpose flour (about 2 cups)\n\n1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n3/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract, divided\n\n1 cup low-fat buttermilk\n\n2 tablespoons light-colored corn syrup\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\nDash of salt\n\n2 large egg whites\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Place chocolate and oil in a small microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until chocolate melts. Stir, and cool completely.\n\n3. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 4 ingredients, stirring with a whisk.\n\n4. Place butter in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 1 minute or until smooth. Add brown sugar and 1/4 cup granulated sugar; beat 1 minute or until well combined. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in chocolate mixture and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Add flour mixture and buttermilk alternately to chocolate mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Drop by level tablespoonfuls 2 inches apart onto baking sheets covered with parchment paper. (You should have 52 cookies.) Bake at 350\u00b0 for 8 minutes or just until set. Cool cookies on pans 4 minutes; remove from pans, and cool completely on wire racks.\n\n5. Place \u00bd cup granulated sugar, corn syrup, cream of tartar, dash of salt, and egg whites in the top of a double boiler; stir with a whisk until combined. Cook mixture over simmering water about 3 minutes or until a candy thermometer registers 160\u00b0, stirring constantly with a whisk. Remove pan from heat. Beat with a mixer at high speed using clean, dry beaters about 8 minutes or until soft peaks form. Beat in 1 teaspoon vanilla. Spread about 1 tablespoon filling on bottom side of 1 cookie; top with another cookie. Repeat procedure with remaining cookies and filling.\n\nSERVES 26 (serving size: 1 cookie sandwich)  \nCALORIES 143; FAT 5.3g (sat 2g, mono 2.3g, poly 0.8g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 23g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 90mg; CALC 34mg\n\nCORN SYRUP\n\nAdding corn syrup to Swiss meringue makes it creamy, glossy, and gooey. Corn syrup has a natural tendency to prevent other sugars from recrystallizing, a process that occurs in sugar-rich sauces like caramel and butterscotch and even in natural honey.\n\nLemon Syllabub\n\nLEMON SYLLABUB\n\nHands-on: 7 min. Total: 67 min.\n\nKind of like thick and creamy eggnog, this boozy high-octane dessert originated in England during the Tudor era. Robert May's cookbook, The Accomplisht Cook (1685 edition) calls for cider, probably fermented. But I really liked the cookbook by Richard Briggs, The New Art of Cookery, According to the Present Practice (published in 1788) that calls for placing the spirits in a bowl and milking a cow directly into the bowl to help with the desired frothiness. If you don't have a cow, feel free to use your hand mixer. If the kids want to join in, simply make theirs by whipping cream and lemonade together and folding in the whipped topping.\n\n6 ounces sweet white wine (such as Gew\u00fcrztraminer)\n\n6 tablespoons superfine sugar\n\n6 tablespoons lemon liqueur (such as limoncello)\n\n4 (1-inch) wide lemon rind strips\n\n1/2 cup heavy whipping cream\n\n3/4 cup frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n2 lemon biscotti cookies, coarsely crushed\n\n1. Place wine, sugar, liqueur, and lemon rind in a medium mixing bowl; stir until sugar dissolves. Chill 30 minutes.\n\n2. Discard lemon rind. Add cream. Beat with a mixer at medium speed 4 minutes or until mixture slightly thickens. Gently fold in whipped topping. Divide mixture among 8 wine glasses. Chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. Sprinkle tops of syllabub evenly with cookie crumbs. Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 8  \nCALORIES 185; FAT 7.6g (sat 4.8g, mono 1.7g, poly 0.2g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 20g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 26mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 30mg; CALC 20mg\nFROZEN AND CHILLED\n\nTriple Chocolate Cheesecake\n\nTRIPLE CHOCOLATE CHEESECAKE\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 14 hr.\n\n2/3 cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n4 chocolate graham cracker sheets (16 crackers)\n\n2 tablespoons dark brown sugar\n\n3/8 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1 tablespoon butter, melted\n\n1 large egg white\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa\n\n2 tablespoons cake flour\n\n12 ounces fat-free cream cheese, softened\n\n10 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n4 large eggs, at room temperature\n\n1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, melted and cooled\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 cups frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed and divided\n\n1 cup fresh raspberries\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Spread oats on a baking sheet. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 10 minutes, stirring after 5 minutes. Cool oats 10 minutes on pan. Place oats, crackers, brown sugar, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a food processor; process until finely ground. Add melted butter and egg white; process until moist. Press mixture into bottom and 11/2 inches up sides of a 9-inch springform pan coated with baking spray. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 10 to 12 minutes or until toasted and fragrant. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n3. Reduce oven temperature to 325\u00b0.\n\n4. Sift together granulated sugar, cocoa, flour, and 1/4 teaspoon salt in a bowl. Beat cream cheeses with a mixer at medium speed until smooth. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add chocolate and vanilla, beating at low speed until just combined. Sprinkle sugar mixture over top of cheese mixture; beat at low speed until combined. Gently fold 1 cup whipped topping into mixture. Pour mixture into prepared pan, smoothing top. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 1 hour or until cheesecake center barely moves when pan is touched.\n\n5. Remove cheesecake from oven; run a knife around edge. Cool to room temperature. Cover and chill at least 8 hours. Serve with 1 cup whipped topping and berries.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 cheesecake wedge, 1 tablespoon whipped topping, and 1 tablespoon berries)  \nCALORIES 216; FAT 8.8g (sat 4.8g, mono 1.9g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 8g; CARB 28g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 64mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 308mg; CALC 125mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nBringing the cream cheese and eggs to room temperature helps them blend more easily and makes the filling creamier and lump free.\n\nChocolate-Almond Cheesecake Bars\n\nCHOCOLATE-ALMOND CHEESECAKE BARS\n\nHands-on: 16 min. Total: 5 hr. 36 min.\n\nCRUST:\n\n1/3 cup salted dry-roasted almonds\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n3.4 ounces all-purpose flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter, chilled and diced\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFILLING:\n\n6 ounces fat-free cream cheese, softened\n\n4 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n2/3 cup sugar\n\n1/2 cup plain fat-free Greek yogurt\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nDash of salt\n\n1 large egg\n\nCHOCOLATE SWIRL:\n\n3 ounces semisweet chocolate chips\n\n1 teaspoon canola oil\n\n2 tablespoons salted dry-roasted almonds, chopped\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare crust, place almonds and sugar in a food processor; process until finely ground. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Add flour to almond mixture; process until combined. Add butter; pulse 3 to 4 times or until mixture looks sandy. Sprinkle mixture into an 8-inch square metal baking pan coated with baking spray. Lightly press into bottom of pan. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 20 minutes or until golden. Cool completely on a wire rack.\n\n3. Reduce oven temperature to 325\u00b0.\n\n4. To prepare filling, place cream cheeses in a medium bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth. Add sugar, yogurt, vanilla, and salt; beat at low speed until combined. Add egg; beat 1 minute or until well combined. Pour mixture on top of cooled crust.\n\n5. To prepare chocolate swirl, place chocolate chips and oil in a small microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 45 seconds or until chocolate melts, stirring every 15 seconds. Dollop chocolate mixture by the spoonful over cheesecake; swirl together using the tip of a knife. Sprinkle top with chopped almonds. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 30 minutes or until center is almost set. Cool completely on a wire rack. Cover and chill 4 hours or overnight. Cut into 16 bars.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 bar)  \nCALORIES 175; FAT 8.9g (sat 4g, mono 3.3g, poly 0.9g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 20g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 26mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 129mg; CALC 66mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nIt's easy to overbake cheesecake bars because the filling is not very thick. Be sure to check the center carefully, pulling the bars from the oven when the center still looks a little soft and wobbly.\n\nLemon Cheesecake Bars with Gingersnap Crust\n\nLEMON CHEESECAKE BARS\n\nWITH GINGERSNAP CRUST\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 9 hr. 25 min.\n\nCRUST:\n\n25 gingersnap cookies (such as Nabisco)\n\n2 teaspoons cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons butter, melted\n\n1 teaspoon grated peeled fresh ginger\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\nFILLING:\n\n8 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n4 ounces fat-free cream cheese, softened\n\n1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs\n\n1/4 cup light sour cream\n\n1/2 teaspoon grated lemon rind\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice\n\nTOPPING:\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon grated lemon rind\n\n1/3 cup fresh lemon juice\n\n2 teaspoons cornstarch\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n1 teaspoon butter, softened\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare crust, place cookies and cornstarch in a food processor; process until finely ground. Add butter and ginger; process until moist crumbs form. Sprinkle mixture into a 9-inch square metal baking pan coated with baking spray. Lightly press into bottom of pan. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 14 minutes or until toasted and fragrant. Cool completely on a rack.\n\n3. Reduce oven temperature to 325\u00b0.\n\n4. To prepare filling, place cream cheeses in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth. Add sugar, vanilla, baking powder, and salt; beat at low speed until well combined. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Add sour cream, rind, and juice; beat until combined. Pour mixture on top of cooled crust. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 30 minutes or until almost set in the middle. Remove pan from oven; place on a wire rack.\n\n5. To prepare topping, combine sugar, rind, juice, cornstarch, and yolks in a small saucepan, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Place pan over medium-low heat; cook 5 minutes or until mixture thickens, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat; add butter, stirring until butter melts. Spread topping over warm cheesecake. Cool completely on wire rack. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Cut into 16 bars.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 bar)  \nCALORIES 177; FAT 7.5g (sat 3.8g, mono 2.3g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 23g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 63mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 216mg; CALC 66mg\n\nGINGERSNAP COOKIES\n\nGingersnap cookies are naturally low fat and work really well as crumbs for piecrusts. You can substitute equal amounts of gingersnap crumbs for any cookie crumb crust and get unique flavor combinations like ginger-crusted banana cream pie or ginger-crusted pumpkin pie.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nCREATING THE BEST TEXTURE\n\nMaking rich and creamy cheesecakes, pies, and ice creams that are also better for you is not impossible. Through many trials and errors, I have come up with ways to make amazing desserts that taste like nothing is missing.\n\n1 When baking eggs, milk, and cream cheese in a recipe, it is important not to overbake or bake at too high of a temperature. Both of these can lead to an off-flavored dessert that is lumpy and dry.\n\n2 While fat-free cream cheese reduces saturated fat and calories, it shouldn't be used by itself when making cheesecake and cheesecake bars because it doesn't firm up when baked. Using a combination of fat-free and 1/3-less-fat cream cheeses greatly improves the texture and gives these desserts richness.\n\n3 Reduced-calorie Cool Whip is my go-to ingredient for adding creaminess and volume. If you use the same amount of heavy cream, the saturated fat and calories are greatly increased\u2014double the calories and more than triple the saturated fat. Since Cool Whip isn't something generally eaten every day, I'm OK with a modest amount of whipped topping that may include some undesirable fats.\n\n4 The crystals that form in ice cream can be smooth or sharp edged, creamy or hard as concrete, and can be easily controlled by adding just a touch of corn syrup and flavored liqueurs. The corn syrup prevents sharp edges, and the alcohol controls how hard the ice cream freezes.\n\n5 Using heavy cream and whole milk in moderation adds creaminess and makes textures smooth so that even just a small amount improves the recipes.\n\nCherry Cheesecake Brownies\n\nCHERRY CHEESECAKE BROWNIES\n\nHands-on: 34 min. Total: 1 hr. 24 min.\n\n1/2 cup chopped dried tart cherries\n\n1 tablespoon cherry liqueur (such as kirschwasser)\n\n1 cup sugar, divided\n\n3 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese\n\n2 ounces fat-free cream cheese\n\n1 tablespoon all-purpose flour\n\n3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract, divided\n\n5/8 teaspoon baking powder, divided\n\nDash of salt\n\n1 large egg, lightly beaten\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1 ounce unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, diced\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large egg whites\n\n1 large egg\n\n3.9 ounces all-purpose flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 325\u00b0.\n\n2. Place cherries and liqueur in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until boiling; let stand 10 minutes. Place 1/4 cup sugar and cream cheeses in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 1 minute or until smooth. Add flour, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla, 1/8 teaspoon baking powder, salt, and egg; beat just until blended. Stir in cherry mixture.\n\n3. Coat a 9-inch square metal baking pan with baking spray. Combine chocolates, butter, and oil in a medium microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 1 minute or until mixture melts, stirring every 20 seconds. Stir until smooth. Let stand 5 minutes. Add 1/2 teaspoon vanilla, egg whites, and egg, stirring with a whisk until smooth.\n\n4. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, 3/4 cup sugar, 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Add chocolate mixture, stirring until just combined.\n\n5. Scrape half of the brownie batter into prepared pan. Dot half of cheesecake batter on top. Top with remaining brownie batter. Dot with remaining cheesecake batter. Swirl batters using the tip of a knife. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 40 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs clinging. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Cut into 18 bars.\n\nSERVES 18 (serving size: 1 bar)  \nCALORIES 185; FAT 9.5g (sat 5.4g, mono 2g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 23g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 38mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 88mg; CALC 30mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nAdding just a bit of flour and baking powder to the cheesecake batter gives it a lighter texture so that it doesn't sink underneath the brownie batter while it bakes. Cherry liqueur amps up the flavor of the cherries, but you can substitute water, if you'd prefer a non-alcoholic version.\n\nMilk Chocolate Panna Cotta\n\nMILK CHOCOLATE PANNA COTTA\n\nHands-on: 15 min. Total: 8 hr. 15 min.\n\nPanna cotta is a naturally lighter version of cr\u00e8me brul\u00e9e. It's a perfect dessert when you want to end a meal, particularly a heavy one, with something visually stunning that has a rich flavor. Chilling the panna cotta overnight makes the texture silky smooth.\n\n11/2 teaspoons unflavored gelatin\n\n3 tablespoons cold water\n\n13/4 cups 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n3 ounces milk chocolate, divided\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1. Sprinkle gelatin over 3 tablespoons cold water in a small bowl. Let stand 5 minutes.\n\n2. Bring milk, sugar, and salt to a simmer in a saucepan (do not boil); remove pan from heat. Finely chop 2 ounces chocolate; add to milk mixture, stirring until chocolate melts. Return pan to low heat; add gelatin mixture. Cook 1 minute or until gelatin completely melts. Stir in vanilla. Divide mixture among 4 (6-ounce) ramekins or custard cups. Cool to room temperature. Cover and chill 8 hours or overnight.\n\n3. To serve, run a knife around the outside edges of panna cottas. Place a plate upside down on top of each cup; invert onto plate. Using a vegetable peeler, shave 1 ounce chocolate into curls. Top panna cottas evenly with curls.\n\nSERVES 4 (serving size: 1 panna cotta)  \nCALORIES 188; FAT 8.2g (sat 5.1g, mono 0.6g, poly 0.1g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 25g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 9mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 140mg; CALC 159mg\n\nMAKING PANNA COTTA\n\n1. Sprinkle the gelatin evenly over the water, making sure all of it touches the water.\n\n2. If there's any unmelted chocolate after stirring it into the hot milk mixture, don't worry. It will finish melting when the gelatin dissolves.\n\n3. When making the curls, be sure the chocolate is at room temperature. If it's too cold, it will break into shards instead of curls. Use a mix of chocolate, if you like, to make the curls.\n\nMeyer Lemon Panna Cotta\n\nMEYER LEMON PANNA COTTA\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 4 hr. 55 min.\n\nThis one was created with lemon fans in mind. You can substitute regular lemon juice for the Meyer lemon in a pinch. Stirring the lemon juice in at the end keeps the milk from curdling.\n\n1 Meyer lemon\n\n3/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk, divided\n\n1/2 cup half-and-half\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n13/4 teaspoons unflavored gelatin\n\n11/2 cups low-fat buttermilk\n\nCooking spray\n\n1/2 cup frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\nMint sprigs (optional)\n\nLemon rind strips (optional)\n\n1. Remove rind from lemon using a vegetable peeler, avoiding the white pith. Squeeze 3 tablespoons juice from lemon. Combine rind, 1/2 cup milk, half-and-half, sugar, and salt in a small saucepan; bring to a simmer (do not boil). Remove pan from heat; cover and let stand 20 minutes. Discard lemon rind.\n\n2. Sprinkle gelatin over 1/4 cup milk in a small bowl; let stand 5 minutes. Return milk mixture in pan to medium heat; cook 1 minute or until mixture reaches a simmer. Whisk in gelatin mixture, stirring until gelatin completely dissolves. Stir in buttermilk and 3 tablespoons juice. Divide mixture among 4 (6-ounce) ramekins or custard cups coated with cooking spray. Cover and chill 4 hours or overnight.\n\n3. To serve, run a knife around outside edges of panna cottas. Place a plate upside down on top of each cup; invert onto plate. Top servings with whipped topping, and garnish with mint and rind, if desired.\n\nSERVES 4 (serving size: 1 panna cotta and 2 tablespoons whipped topping)  \nCALORIES 188; FAT 8.2g (sat 5.1g, mono 0.6g, poly 0.1g); PROTEIN 6g; CARB 25g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 9mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 140mg; CALC 159mg\n\nMilk Chocolate And Amaretto Cr\u00e8me Br\u00fbl\u00e9e\n\nMILK CHOCOLATE AND AMARETTO CR\u00c8ME BR\u00dbL\u00c9E\n\nHands-on: 30 min. Total: 5 hr. 30 min.\n\nMilk chocolate contains more cocoa butter than dark chocolate, which means it has more saturated fat. To help balance the milk chocolate in this dessert, I added sweet, nutty Amaretto to amp up the flavor. Be sure to use high-quality milk chocolate for the best flavor and creaminess.\n\n2 cups whole milk\n\n1/4 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\nDash of salt\n\n3 ounces milk chocolate, finely chopped\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n1 tablespoon almond liqueur (such as Amaretto)\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 tablespoons superfine sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 300\u00b0.\n\n2. Bring milk, 2 tablespoons granulated sugar, and salt to a simmer in a saucepan. Remove pan from heat; add chocolate, stirring until chocolate melts. Combine 2 tablespoons granulated sugar, eggs, and egg yolks in a medium bowl; stir well with a whisk. Gradually add milk mixture to egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Stir in liqueur and vanilla.\n\n3. Divide mixture evenly among 6 (4-ounce) ramekins or custard cups. Place cups in a 13 x 9\u2013inch metal baking pan; add hot water to pan to a depth of 1 inch. Bake at 300\u00b0 for 40 minutes or until center barely moves when dish is touched. Remove ramekins from pan; cool completely on a wire rack. Cover and chill 4 hours or overnight.\n\n4. Sift 2 tablespoons superfine sugar evenly over custards. Holding a kitchen blowtorch about 2 inches from top of each custard, heat sugar, moving torch back and forth, until sugar is completely melted and caramelized (about 1 minute). Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: 1 br\u00fbl\u00e9e)  \nCALORIES 220; FAT 9.8g (sat 5.1g, mono 1.9g, poly 0.7g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 27g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 132mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 96mg; CALC 129mg\n\nTORCHING CR\u00c8ME BR\u00dbL\u00c9E\n\n1. Before sprinkling the sugar over the custards, use a paper towel to blot the tops to remove any moisture that may have accumulated. You don't want the sugar to get wet before torching it.\n\n2. Following the manufacturer's instructions, prepare the torch. Hold the torch 2 inches (or the distance recommended by the manufacturer) above the sugar, and move it back and forth constantly to prevent one area from burning.\n\n3. If you don't own a blowtorch, you can finish them under the broiler. Place them on a baking sheet; broil close to the heat source for 1 to 2 minutes or until the crunchy caramelized sugar crust forms.\n\nPumpkin Cheesecake Ice Cream\n\nPUMPKIN CHEESECAKE ICE CREAM\n\nHands-on: 18 min. Total: 4 hr. 18 min.\n\nThis flavor combination was created so that I could shoehorn ice cream into the cooler-weather months.\n\n11/2 cups whole milk\n\n1 cup half-and-half\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/3 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n5 large egg yolks\n\n1/2 cup reduced-fat sour cream\n\n4 ounces fat-free cream cheese\n\n3/4 cup canned pumpkin puree\n\n1 tablespoon triple sec\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1. Combine first 8 ingredients in a large saucepan; bring to a simmer. Place egg yolks in a large bowl; stir well with a whisk. Slowly add one-third milk mixture to egg yolks, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return egg yolk mixture to milk mixture in pan. Cook over medium heat until a candy thermometer registers 160\u02da. Immediately place pan in a large ice-filled bowl. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally.\n\n2. Beat sour cream and cream cheese in a medium bowl with a mixer at medium speed until smooth; add pumpkin, beating just until combined. Stir milk mixture, triple sec, and vanilla into pumpkin mixture. Cover and chill 1 hour.\n\n3. Pour mixture into the freezer can of a 2-quart ice-cream freezer; freeze according to manufacturer's instructions. Spoon ice cream into a freezer-safe container; cover and freeze 2 hours or until firm.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 151; FAT 6.8g (sat 3.7g, mono 2.2g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 17g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 92mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 125mg; CALC 122mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nCooking eggs to 160\u00b0 is a health and safety issue. If you use pasteurized eggs, reaching 160\u00b0 is not as critical. What is important is lowering the temperature of the egg mixture quickly in the ice bath so that bacteria don't have time to develop. Don't skip that step!\n\nMY TOP 5\n\nICE CREAM SAUCES AND TOPPINGS\n\nTart and bright or silky and creamy, these luscious toppings are perfect for dressing up ice cream and frozen yogurt. Easy and quick to make, the butterscotch and chocolate sauces keep well in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks. The fruit sauces will be great for a couple of days.\n\n1. DARK CHERRY \u2013 MERLOT SAUCE\n\nCombine 2 cups thawed frozen pitted dark sweet cherries, 1 cup merlot wine, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, 1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Lightly crush about half of cherries with a potato masher. Reduce heat, and cook until reduced to about 1 cup. Let stand 5 minutes.\n\nSERVES 4 (serving size: 1/4 cup)  \nCALORIES 120; FAT 0g (sat 0g); SODIUM 77mg\n\n2. BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE\n\nCombine \u00bd cup brown sugar, 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, 1 tablespoon light-colored corn syrup, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a small saucepan over medium heat; bring to a boil. Cook 3 minutes or until sugar melts and mixture is smooth; remove pan from heat. Stir in \u00bc cup half-and-half and \u00bc teaspoon vanilla extract (mixture will bubble). Return pan to heat; cook, without stirring, 2 minutes or until sauce is slightly thickened and bubbly. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: 2 tablespoons)  \nCALORIES 146; FAT 6.9g (sat 4.4g); SODIUM 61mg\n\n3. CHOCOLATE SAUCE\n\nCombine \u00bd cup 2% reduced-fat milk, 3 tablespoons sugar, and 1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa in a small saucepan, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Remove pan from heat; add \u00bc cup dark chocolate chips and \u00bc teaspoon vanilla extract, stirring until smooth.\n\nSERVES 4 (serving size: about 2 tablespoons)  \nCALORIES 126; FAT 5.3g (sat 3.5g); SODIUM 20mg\n\n4. MEXICAN CHOCOLATE SAUCE\n\nCombine \u00bd cup 2% reduced-fat milk, 3 tablespoons sugar, 1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa, \u00bc teaspoon ground cinnamon, and dash of salt in a small saucepan, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Remove pan from heat; add \u00bc cup dark chocolate chips, 1 teaspoon instant coffee, and \u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract, stirring until smooth.\n\nSERVES 4 (serving size: about 2 tablespoons)  \nCALORIES 128; FAT 5.3g (sat 3.5g); SODIUM 56mg\n\n5. BALSAMIC STRAWBERRIES\n\nCombine \u00bc cup packed brown sugar and 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar in a large bowl; stir until sugar dissolves. Add 2 cups halved fresh strawberries; toss gently to coat. Let stand at room temperature 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.\n\nSERVES 4 (serving size: 1/3 cup)  \nCALORIES 84; FAT 0.2g (sat 0g); SODIUM 6mg\n\nSpiced Rum-Banana Ice Cream\n\nSPICED RUM-BANANA ICE CREAM\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 5 hr. 15 min.\n\nSteeping whole spices in the milk mixture really gives this ice cream a wonderful combination of flavors that can still be individually identified. The riper the banana, the deeper the banana flavor will be.\n\n2 cups whole milk\n\n1 cup half-and-half\n\n3/4 cup packed brown sugar\n\n1 teaspoon grated peeled fresh ginger\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n1/2 teaspoon whole cloves\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 vanilla bean, split\n\n1 (3-inch) cinnamon stick\n\n1 star anise\n\n5 large egg yolks\n\n1 cup mashed ripe banana\n\n1 tablespoon spiced rum\n\n1. Combine first 10 ingredients in a medium saucepan; bring to a simmer. Remove pan from heat; cover and let stand 20 minutes.\n\n2. Strain mixture through a sieve into a bowl; discard solids. Return mixture to pan; bring to a simmer. Place egg yolks in a large bowl; stir well with a whisk. Slowly add milk mixture to eggs, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat until a candy thermometer registers 160\u00b0 (about 5 minutes). Immediately place pan in a large ice-filled bowl. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally. Stir in banana and rum. Cover and chill 1 hour.\n\n3. Pour mixture into the freezer can of an ice-cream freezer; freeze according to manufacturer's instructions. Spoon ice cream into a freezer-safe container; cover and freeze 2 hours or until firm.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 147; FAT 5.6g (sat 2.9g, mono 1.2g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 21g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 88mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 82mg; CALC 90mg\n\nRUM\n\nSpiced rum is heavy with clove, cinnamon, and vanilla\u2014just a little adds so much flavor. If you have only clear or gold rum, it's fine to substitute. Just a little bit of alcohol keeps the ice cream's texture creamy, but you can leave out the alcohol if you prefer.\n\nBrown Sugar Ice Cream with Cinnamon Grape-Nuts\n\nBROWN SUGAR ICE CREAM\n\nwith Cinnamon Grape-Nuts\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 4 hr. 40 min.\n\nStirring Grape-Nuts cereal into vanilla ice cream is a New England thing. I like the idea of tiny, crunchy bits in my ice cream, but not if they taste wheaty. So to kick up this Yankee-inspired dessert, I candied the cereal with a little bit of butter, sugar, and cinnamon.\n\n2 cups whole milk\n\n1 cup half-and-half\n\n1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar\n\n2 tablespoons dark corn syrup\n\nDash of salt\n\n5 large egg yolks\n\n3 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 tablespoon brandy\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n1/2 cup Grape-Nuts cereal\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1. Combine first 5 ingredients in a saucepan; bring to a simmer. Combine yolks and 2 tablespoons granulated sugar in a large bowl, stirring with a whisk. Gradually add hot milk mixture to egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return mixture to pan; cook over medium heat until a candy thermometer registers 160\u00b0, stirring constantly. Immediately place pan in an ice-filled bowl. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally. Stir in brandy and vanilla. Cover and chill 1 hour.\n\n2. Melt butter in a small skillet over medium heat. Add cereal, 1 tablespoon granulated sugar, and cinnamon; cook 1 minute, stirring constantly. Cool completely.\n\n3. Pour ice-cream mixture into the freezer can of an ice-cream freezer; freeze according to manufacturer's instructions. Spoon ice cream into a freezer-safe container. Stir in two-thirds of candied Grape-Nuts. Cover and freeze 2 hours or until firm. Sprinkle servings with remaining cereal.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1/2 cup ice cream and about 1 teaspoon candied cereal)  \nCALORIES 187; FAT 7.9g (sat 4.2g, mono 2.5g, poly 0.7g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 25g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 109mg; IRON 3mg; SODIUM 85mg; CALC 96mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nThe cereal can quickly become overbrowned and taste burned, so keep the cook time at 1 minute; be sure to stir and check it constantly.\n\nCherry Gelato\n\nCHERRY GELATO\n\nHands-on: 19 min. Total: 3 hr. 59 min.\n\nGelato gets its thick creamy texture from an abundance of egg yolks. But to help limit the amount of saturated fat, I used fewer egg yolks and added cornstarch to help thicken the custard base. Make sure you let your ice-cream maker run the full time to get that dense, creamy texture that makes gelato so magical.\n\n11/2 cups whole milk\n\n1 cup half-and-half\n\n3/4 cup sugar, divided\n\nDash of salt\n\n21/2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n5 large egg yolks\n\n12 ounces fresh ripe cherries, pitted\n\n1 tablespoon cherry liqueur (such as kirschwasser)\n\n2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1. Bring milk, half-and-half, 1/4 cup sugar, and salt to a simmer in a medium saucepan (do not boil). Whisk together 1/4 cup sugar, cornstarch, and egg yolks in a medium bowl until smooth. Slowly pour hot milk mixture into egg mixture, stirring constantly. Return egg mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat 2 minutes or until thick and bubbly. Immediately place pan in an ice-filled bowl. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally.\n\n2. Place cherries, 1/4 cup sugar, liqueur, juice, and vanilla in a food processor; pulse 5 to 6 times or until finely chopped. Stir cherry mixture into cooled custard. Cover with plastic wrap, pressing onto surface of mixture. Chill 1 hour.\n\n3. Pour cherry mixture into the freezer can of an ice-cream freezer; freeze according to manufacturer's instructions. Spoon gelato into a freezer-safe container; cover and freeze 2 hours or until firm.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 174; FAT 6.3g (sat 3.2g, mono 2.1g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 26g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 105mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 45mg; CALC 82mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nUsing fresh ripe cherries is the key to great cherry flavor in this gelato. If fresh cherries aren't available, use frozen dark sweet cherries that are thawed.\n\nStrawberry Frozen Yogurt\n\nSTRAWBERRY FROZEN YOGURT\n\nHands-on: 15 min. Total: 3 hr. 15 min.\n\nI wanted this frozen yogurt to be creamy with a tart finish, so full-fat Greek yogurt was a natural. Adding a touch of whole milk made the consistency just right for the ice-cream freezer to work well, and a tiny bit of alcohol keeps the texture from getting rock hard.\n\n1 pound fresh strawberries, chopped (about 3 cups)\n\n2/3 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\n1 tablespoon vodka\n\n2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice\n\n11/2 cups plain 10% fat Greek yogurt\n\n1/4 cup whole milk\n\n1. Place first 5 ingredients in a food processor; process until smooth. Strain strawberry mixture through a sieve over a large bowl; discard solids. Add yogurt and milk; stir with a whisk until well combined.\n\n2. Pour mixture into the freezer can of an ice-cream freezer; freeze according to manufacturer's instructions. Scrape mixture into a freezer-safe container; cover and freeze 2 hours or until firm.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 179; FAT 4.8g (sat 3.5g, mono 0.1g, poly 0.1g); PROTEIN 3g; CARB 31g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 8mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 23mg; CALC 57mg\n\nCantaloupe Sherbet\n\nCANTALOUPE SHERBET\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 3 hr.\n\nThis creamy sherbet captures the absolute essence of the melon, delivering a refreshing summertime dessert. It may seem like overkill adding light corn syrup to a frozen dessert, but corn syrup helps create smaller ice crystals, resulting in a smoother, creamier texture.\n\n3/4 cup water\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n4 cups chopped cantaloupe (about a 3-pound melon)\n\n2 tablespoons vodka (optional)\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lime juice\n\n2 tablespoons heavy cream\n\n1. Bring first 4 ingredients to a boil in a saucepan; cook 1 minute or until sugar dissolves. Remove pan from heat. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl for 15 minutes or until sugar mixture cools completely, stirring occasionally.\n\n2. Place cantaloupe, vodka, if desired, and juice in a food processor; process until smooth. Strain cantaloupe mixture through a sieve over a bowl; discard solids. Add sugar mixture and cream to cantaloupe mixture; stir well.\n\n3. Pour cantaloupe mixture into the freezer can of an ice-cream freezer; freeze according to manufacturer's instructions. Spoon sherbet into a freezer-safe container; cover and freeze 2 hours or until firm.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: about 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 96; FAT 1.3g (sat 0.7g, mono 0.3g, poly 0.1g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 22g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 4mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 46mg; CALC 9mg\n\nCANTALOUPE\n\nBe patient and only make this sherbet in the summer when the cantaloupes are at their absolute ripest. The wait will be worth it, I promise. Here's some science behind that statement: Many fruits are harvested when their sugar content has reached a certain level, like grapes for making wine. Just out of curiosity, Cooking Light tested the sugar level of a cantaloupe in January when it was out of season and discovered that a melon picked during peak season (June through August) had more than 50% more sugar.\n\nCranberry Mojito Granita\n\nCRANBERRY MOJITO GRANITA\n\nHands-on: 7 min. Total: 3 hr. 27 min.\n\nGranita is the perfect icy treat to showcase a fun summery alcoholic beverage. Fresh mint and freshly squeezed lime juice really perk up this chilly dessert. When making the sugar syrup, make sure all the sugar has dissolved before removing the pan from the heat. Adding the mint to the sugar syrup after it has been taken off the heat keeps the mint from becoming bitter and infusing the syrup with an unpleasant flavor.\n\n1 cup water\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n1/4 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\nDash of salt\n\n1/3 cup packed mint leaves\n\n1 cup cranberry juice cocktail\n\n1/2 cup rum (light or gold)\n\n3 tablespoons fresh lime juice\n\nGrated lime rind (optional)\n\n1. Bring first 4 ingredients to a boil in a saucepan. Remove pan from heat. Add mint; cover and let stand 20 minutes. Discard mint.\n\n2. Combine sugar mixture and cranberry juice, rum, and lime juice in an 8-inch square freezer-safe dish. Freeze 1 hour. Stir mixture with a fork, scraping sides. Repeat process every 45 minutes until completely frozen and scraped. Garnish with lime rind, if desired.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: about 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 176; FAT 0.1g (sat 0g, mono 0g, poly 0.1g); PROTEIN 0g; CARB 35g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 0mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 36mg; CALC 15mg\n\nGRANITA BASICS\n\n1. Scraping every 45 minutes instead of after the granita is a solid block creates smaller ice crystals and makes it melt-in-your-mouth smooth instead of hard and icy. Otherwise, it's really nothing more than a snow cone! This is what it looks like after 1 hour in the freezer.\n\n2. 45 minutes later.\n\n3. And then 45 minutes after that.\n\n4. Finished and perfectly fluffy.\n\nBlood Orange and Prosecco Granita\n\nBLOOD ORANGE AND PROSECCO GRANITA\n\nHands-on: 6 min. Total: 3 hr. 36 min.\n\nScraping every 45 minutes is the key to this dessert. When you follow this procedure, the payoff is beyond compare. The granita will last longer in the freezer, staying separated and snowy until it's gone. The distinctive ruby-fleshed blood orange can vary in flavor from tart citrus to sweet like a tangerine. You can substitute other sweet wines like cava, Gew\u00fcrztraminer, or sweet ice wine for the prosecco.\n\n1 cup cold water\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n1 tablespoon light-colored corn syrup\n\nDash of salt\n\n11/2 cups cold blood orange juice\n\n1 cup cold prosecco or cava\n\n1. Combine first 4 ingredients in a bowl; stir with a whisk until sugar dissolves. Stir in juice and wine. Pour mixture into an 8-inch square freezer-safe dish. Freeze 1 hour. Stir with a fork, scraping sides. Repeat process every 45 minutes until completely frozen and scraped.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: 1/2 cup)  \nCALORIES 144; FAT 0g; PROTEIN 0g; CARB 30g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 0mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 27mg; CALC 1mg\n\nBLOOD ORANGES\n\nBlood oranges\u2014the primary orange grown in Italy\u2014owe their unique reddish flesh to the very cool nights of the areas where they're grown. They taste like a combination of orange and pine with spicy flavor notes.\nLABORS OF LOVE\n\nCoconut Cake with Raspberry Filling and Italian Meringue\n\nCoconut Cake\n\nWITH RASPBERRY FILLING AND ITALIAN MERINGUE ICING\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 2 hr. 10 min.\n\nMy Aunt Wanda was a wonderful cake maker. She would make a version of this cake for my birthday every year, with the lightest, fluffiest, creamiest Italian meringue. Omit the liqueur if you prefer; just add a little water in its place to make the filling spreadable.\n\nFILLING:\n\n2 pints fresh raspberries (12 ounces)\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n3 tablespoons Chambord (raspberry-flavored liqueur)\n\nCAKE:\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n8 ounces cake flour (about 2 cups)\n\n2 ounces coconut flour (about 1/2 cup), lightly toasted\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n11/2 cups sugar, divided\n\n1/3 cup canola oil\n\n2 tablespoons butter, softened\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup coconut water\n\n6 large egg whites\n\nICING:\n\n3 large egg whites\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n3 tablespoons water\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 cup unsweetened coconut flakes, toasted\n\n1. To prepare filling, combine first 4 ingredients in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Cook over medium heat 5 minutes or until berries soften and begin to fall apart. Combine cornstarch and liqueur in a small bowl, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Add cornstarch mixture to raspberry mixture, stirring with a whisk; return to a boil. Cook 1 minute or until very thick, stirring constantly. Spoon mixture into a bowl; cover and refrigerate until needed.\n\n2. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0. Coat 3 (8-inch) cake pans with baking spray; line bottom of pans with wax paper. Coat wax paper with baking spray.\n\n3.a To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flours, baking powder, and salt in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place 11/4 cups sugar, oil, butter, and vanilla in a large bowl. Beat with a mixer at medium speed 5 minutes or until fluffy. Add coconut water; beat at low speed 1 minute or until combined. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed 1 minute or until well combined.\n\n4.Beat 6 egg whites with a mixer at high speed until medium peaks form using clean, dry beaters. Add 1/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time. Stir one-fourth of egg white mixture into batter; gently fold in remaining egg whites. Divide batter evenly among prepared pans. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 19 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans 10 minutes on a wire rack. Remove from pans; cool completely on wire rack. Discard wax paper.\n\n5. To prepare icing, place 3 egg whites and cream of tartar in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed 2 minutes or until foamy. Increase mixer speed to high; beat 2 to 3 minutes or until soft peaks form. Combine 1/2 cup sugar, 3 tablespoons water, and 1/8 teaspoon salt in a saucepan; bring to a boil. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer registers 230\u00b0. With mixer on low speed, pour hot sugar syrup in a thin stream down the side of mixing bowl. Gradually increase speed to high; beat 3 minutes or until thick and cool.\n\n6. To assemble cake, place 1 cake layer on a serving plate; spread with one-half of filling, leaving a \u00bd-inch border. Top with another cake layer. Spread with remaining filling, leaving a \u00bd-inch border. Top with remaining cake layer. Spread icing over top and sides of cake. Gently press toasted coconut into sides of cake.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 294; FAT 8.7g (sat 3.4g, mono 3.4g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 49g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 4mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 225mg; CALC 45mg\n\nTriple Chocolate Layer Cake\n\nTRIPLE CHOCOLATE LAYER CAKE\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 2 hr. 45 min.\n\nEven your most demanding chocoholic will be satisfied with this trio: deep chocolate cake layers with a creamy milk chocolate filling topped with bittersweet chocolate glaze.\n\nCAKE:\n\n1 cup boiling water\n\n1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n11/2 cups granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsalted butter, softened\n\n3 tablespoons canola oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n3 large egg whites\n\n10 ounces cake flour (about 21/2 cups)\n\n11/2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nFILLING:\n\n1/3 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\nDash of salt\n\n3.5 ounces milk chocolate, finely chopped\n\n3/4 cup frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\nGLAZE:\n\n1/2 cup powdered sugar\n\n1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa\n\n1 ounce bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n3 tablespoons 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1 tablespoon light-colored corn syrup\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare cake, combine boiling water and 1/2 cup cocoa. Add bittersweet chocolate; stir until smooth. Cool to room temperature (about 10 minutes). Coat 2 (8-inch) round metal cake pans with baking spray; line bottoms of pans with wax paper. Coat wax paper with baking spray; dust pans with remaining 1 tablespoon cocoa.\n\n3. Place 1/2 cups granulated sugar, butter, canola oil, and vanilla in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 2 minutes. Add egg whites, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Alternately add flour mixture and cocoa mixture to butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture; beat until just combined.\n\n4. Divide batter evenly between prepared pans. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 26 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs clinging. Cool in pans 15 minutes on wire racks. Remove from pans; cool completely on wire racks. Discard wax paper.\n\n5. To prepare filling, combine milk, sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a saucepan; bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Cook 1 minute or until very thick, stirring constantly. Remove pan from heat. Add milk chocolate; stir until chocolate melts and mixture is smooth. Scrape mixture into a bowl; cover and chill completely. Uncover and fold in whipped topping. Cover and chill 30 minutes.\n\n6. To prepare glaze, combine powdered sugar and remaining ingredients in a saucepan over low heat. Cook 1 minute or until chocolate melts, stirring frequently. Place 1 cake layer on a plate. Spread filling over cake, leaving a 1/4-inch border. Top with remaining layer, pressing lightly. Drizzle warm glaze over top and down sides of cake.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 292; FAT 10.1g (sat 5.3g, mono 2.7g, poly 1g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 50g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 8mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 160mg; CALC 56mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nIt may seem excessive to use two different forms of dark chocolate, but it was necessary to get the deep chocolate flavor I was going for in this decadent cake. If I'd only used cocoa, the amount needed would have made the cake dry and dusty tasting. Combining cocoa and melted bittersweet chocolate balances the chocolate flavor and adds richness to both the cake layers and the glaze.\n\nMy Top 5\n\nBEYOND-THE-BASICS TOOLS\n\nThere are so many specialized (and expensive) tools for the kitchen, some useful, and some ridiculous (the RoboStir comes to mind). But, if you are an avid or wannabe avid dessert-maker, here is a list of extras that are wonderful and worthwhile to have on hand.\n\n1 Light-colored metal 9-inch springform pan. You can use a springform pan for so many baked goods: cheesecakes, single-layer tall cakes, chilled layer cakes, ice cream cakes\u2014the opportunities are endless.\n\n2 Light-colored metal 9-inch removable-bottom tart pan. If you enjoy tarts, whether sweet or savory, a tart pan with a removable bottom is essential to an accurately baked crust and a beautiful presentation.\n\n3 A couple of high-quality thermometers. These are critical to some high-heat methods. First, a sturdy glass candy thermometer with a durable clip that attaches to the sides of a pan makes it easy to monitor sugary syrups hands free. Second, an instant-read probe thermometer tells you immediately that the recipe is at the target temperature.\n\n4 Light-colored metal heavy jelly-roll pans. They are perfect not only for baking extremely thin cake layers, but for toasting nuts, coconut, and even spices. I prefer to use a light-colored metal pan so I can more easily see the amount of browning. A dark pan makes this more difficult.\n\n5 Heavy-duty kitchen torch. If you love cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e and caramelized meringues, upgrade your tiny hand-held torch to a Bernzomatic torch. Try making rainy-day indoor s'mores with it!\n\nBaked Chocolate Mousse\n\nBAKED CHOCOLATE MOUSSE\n\nHands-on: 20 min. Total: 8 hr. 52 min.\n\nLight, silky, and rich with three types of chocolate, this baked mousse is like eating a chocolate cloud. Be sure to whip the egg mixture for the full 5 minutes to get the best texture in the finished mousse.\n\n1/2 cup water\n\n1/3 cup Dutch process cocoa\n\n1 teaspoon instant espresso\n\n4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1 ounce unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1 tablespoon brandy\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 large egg whites\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\nDash of salt\n\n2 cups frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping, thawed and divided\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1/2 cup fresh raspberries\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. Bring \u00bd cup water to a boil in a small saucepan. Add cocoa and espresso, stirring until smooth. Remove pan from heat. Add chocolates, stirring gently until chocolates melt and mixture is smooth. Stir in brandy and vanilla. Pour chocolate mixture into a large bowl. Let stand 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.\n\n3. Combine eggs, egg whites, sugar, and salt in the top of a double boiler. Cook over simmering water until sugar melts and a thermometer registers 120\u00b0 (about 2 minutes), stirring constantly with a whisk. Pour egg mixture into a medium bowl; beat with a mixer at high speed until thick and ribbony, about 5 minutes.\n\n4. Stir one-third of egg mixture into chocolate mixture; gently fold in remaining egg mixture. Gently fold 1\u00bd cups whipped topping into chocolate mixture. Spoon batter into an 8-inch springform pan coated with baking spray. Smooth top.\n\n5. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 25 minutes or until almost set. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Cover and chill overnight (or at least 4 hours). To serve, run a knife around edge of pan; remove sides of pan. Top servings with a dollop of whipped topping and raspberries.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 wedge, about 1 tablespoon whipped topping, and about 1 tablespoon raspberries)  \nCALORIES 166; FAT 9.6g (sat 5.4g, mono 1g, poly 0.3g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 19g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 38mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 51mg; CALC 21mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nFolding frozen whipped topping that's been thawed into mousse, and then baking it was a first for me. The fact that the whipped topping was also reduced calorie resulted in a significant \"aha\" moment in the Test Kitchen when the finished chocolate mousse cake was perfectly creamy, dense, and absolutely delicious. Be very gentle when folding the ingredients together. Stop folding when the white streaks are gone, and not one more second.\n\nExtreme Lemon and Chocolate Roulade\n\nEXTREME LEMON AND CHOCOLATE ROULADE\n\nHands-on: 45 min. Total: 3 hr. 15 min.\n\nLemon and chocolate are a lovely and lively pair in this rolled cake. If you prefer milder lemon flavor, omit the rind from the filling. Or, if you are a bold lemon-lover (like me), don't strain the rind out of the filling\u2014enjoy the tartness and texture it provides.\n\nCAKE:\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n3 ounces cake flour (about 3/4 cup)\n\n1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa, sifted\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n5 large eggs, separated\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n2 tablespoons powdered sugar\n\nFILLING:\n\n2/3 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 tablespoon grated lemon rind\n\n6 tablespoons fresh lemon juice\n\n3 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n3 large egg yolks\n\n2 large eggs\n\n11/2 cups frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping, thawed\n\n1 tablespoon powdered sugarr\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0. Lightly coat a jelly-roll pan with baking spray. Line bottom of pan with wax paper. Coat paper with baking spray. Set aside.\n\n2. To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Place egg yolks, 1/4 cup sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Place egg whites and cream of tartar in a medium bowl; beat at medium speed until foamy using clean, dry beaters. Beat mixture at high speed until soft peaks form. Gradually add 1/2 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating until stiff peaks form (do not overbeat). Stir one-fourth of egg white mixture into egg yolk mixture; gently fold in remaining egg white mixture. Sift one-half of flour mixture over top of egg mixture; gently fold in. Sift remaining flour mixture over top of egg mixture; gently fold in. Spread mixture evenly into prepared pan.\n\n3. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 9 minutes or until cake springs back when lightly touched in the center. Loosen cake from sides of pan; turn out onto a dish towel dusted with 2 tablespoons powdered sugar. Carefully peel off wax paper; cool 1 minute. Starting at narrow end, roll up the cake and towel together. Place, seam side down, on a wire rack; cool completely (about 1 hour).\n\n4. To prepare filling, place 1/3 cup sugar, rind, juice, 2 tablespoons butter, and salt in a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook until butter and sugar melt, stirring frequently (about 4 minutes). Place 1/3 cup sugar, cornstarch, egg yolks, and eggs in a bowl; stir well with a whisk until smooth. Drizzle hot juice mixture into egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat until mixture thickens and a candy thermometer registers 180\u00b0 (do not boil). Pour mixture through a sieve into a small bowl, pressing on solids. Discard solids. Add 1 tablespoon butter, stirring until butter melts and is combined. Cover surface of mixture with plastic wrap. Chill completely.\n\n5. To assemble roulade, gently stir whipped topping into chilled lemon filling. Unroll cake carefully; remove towel. Spread lemon filling over cake, leaving a 1-inch border around outside edges. Reroll cake; place, seam side down, on a platter. Cover and chill 1 hour. Sprinkle cake with 1 tablespoon powdered sugar. Cut cake into slices.\n\nSERVES 10 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 285; FAT 9.8g (sat 5.2g, mono 2.9g, poly 1.1g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 45g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 195mg; IRON 2mg; SODIUM 161mg; CALC 61mg\n\nPecan Sticky Wedges\n\nPECAN STICKY WEDGES\n\nHands-on: 58 min. Total: 11 hr.\n\nThese heavenly yeast wedges develop even more flavor when the prepared dough is refrigerated overnight. Just let them sit at room temperature for 30 minutes, and then pop them in the oven for about 30 minutes. Inspired by Joy of Cooking's he-man\u2013sized buns that have 629 calories and 14 grams of saturated fat each, this recipe yields gooey, sticky slices containing a third of the calories and saturated fat.\n\n1 package dry yeast (about 21/4 teaspoons)\n\n1/4 cup warm water (100\u00b0 to 110\u00b0)\n\n1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/4 cup 2% reduced-fat milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 teaspoon salt\n\n2 large eggs\n\n12.4 ounces all-purpose flour (about 23/4 cups), divided\n\n9 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened and divided\n\nCooking spray\n\n1 cup packed dark brown sugar, divided\n\n3 tablespoons light-colored corn syrup\n\n2 tablespoons mild honey\n\n2/3 cup chopped pecans\n\n2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n1. Combine yeast and warm water in the bowl of a stand mixer or a large bowl; stir with a whisk. Let stand 5 minutes or until foamy. Add granulated sugar, milk, vanilla, salt, and eggs; beat at low speed until well combined (about 1 minute).\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Add 1/4 cup flour to yeast mixture; beat at low speed 1 minute or until well combined. Add 21/4 cups flour; beat at low speed until combined and a soft dough forms. Change paddle to dough hook; beat 8 minutes on medium speed or until smooth and elastic, scraping bottom and sides of bowl occasionally. Add 5 tablespoons butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating at low speed until combined after each addition and scraping sides, if necessary. Scrape dough onto a work surface sprinkled with 1/4 cup flour (dough will be sticky). Knead dough 1 minute or until smooth and elastic. Place dough into a large bowl coated with cooking spray. Cover and place in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 1 hour or until doubled in bulk.\n\n3. Combine 3 tablespoons butter, 2/3 cup brown sugar, corn syrup, and honey in a small saucepan; bring to a boil, stirring just until butter melts. Boil 30 seconds, stirring constantly. Pour syrup into a 12-cup Bundt pan coated with cooking spray. Sprinkle nuts over syrup. Cool completely.\n\n4. Combine 1/3 cup brown sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl, stirring with a whisk.\n\n5. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Gently press dough into a 16 x 12\u2013inch rectangle. Melt 1 tablespoon butter. Brush surface of dough with melted butter. Sprinkle brown sugar\u2013cinnamon mixture evenly over dough. Beginning at short side, roll up dough jelly-roll fashion; pinch seam to seal. Carefully lift roll, and fit into prepared pan. Pinch ends together. Cover with plastic wrap, and chill overnight.\n\n6. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n7. Remove pan from refrigerator. Let stand at room temperature 30 minutes. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 28 to 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean and dry. Cool in pan 4 minutes on a wire rack. Place a plate upside down on top of pan; invert onto plate. Cool slightly before cutting.\n\nSERVES 16 (serving size: 1 wedge)  \nCALORIES 265; FAT 10.8g (sat 4.7g, mono 3.9g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 40g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 41mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 160mg; CALC 21mg\n\nRoasted Grape and Pear Kuchen\n\nROASTED GRAPE AND PEAR KUCHEN\n\nHands-on: 27 min. Total: 3 hr.\n\n1/2 cup warm 2% reduced-fat milk (100\u00b0 to 110\u00b0)\n\n1 package dry yeast (about 21/4 teaspoons)\n\n1/2 cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil, divided\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 teaspoon grated lemon rind\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n2 large eggs\n\n9 ounces all-purpose flour (about 2 cups)\n\n6 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened and divided\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n11/2 cups seedless red grapes\n\n2 firm peeled pears, cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices\n\n1/4 cup chopped pecans\n\n3 tablespoons brown sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n11/2 cups frozen reduced-calorie whipped topping (such as Cool Whip), thawed\n\n1. Combine milk, yeast, and 1/2 teaspoon sugar in a large bowl, stirring with a whisk. Let stand 5 minutes or until mixture bubbles.\n\n2. Add remaining granulated sugar, 1 tablespoon oil, vanilla, rind, salt, nutmeg, and eggs; beat with a mixer at low speed until well combined. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Add flour; beat at low speed 5 minutes or until batter is smooth. Add 5 tablespoons butter, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating until fully combined after each addition. Smooth batter evenly into a 9-inch springform pan coated with baking spray. Cover and let rise in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 11/2 hours.\n\n3. Preheat oven to 450\u00b0.\n\n4. Combine 1 tablespoon oil, grapes, and pears; arrange mixture in a single layer on a baking sheet. Bake at 450\u00b0 for 20 to 25 minutes or until tender and beginning to caramelize. Cool completely. Reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0.\n\n5. Melt 1 tablespoon butter. Combine grape mixture, melted butter, pecans, brown sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl; toss gently to coat. Arrange mixture on top of dough. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out dry. Cool in pan 15 minutes on a wire rack. Remove from pan; place on a platter. Serve wedges with a dollop of whipped topping.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 wedge and 2 tablespoons whipped topping)  \nCALORIES 281; FAT 12.4g (sat 5.5g, mono 4.4g, poly 1.7g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 39g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 47mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 124mg; CALC 39mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nFor best flavor, use instant yeast, not rapid-rise. Letting the yeast do its thing for the full 11/2 hours develops amazing flavor. When roasting the pears and grapes, let the fruit cook until it gets completely soft and develops a beautiful browned, caramelized exterior. Caramelizing the fruit ahead removes excess moisture that would make the cake soggy, so let the oven work its magic and don't be tempted to skimp on the roasting time.\n\nAlmond and Citrus Stollen\n\nALMOND AND CITRUS STOLLEN\n\nHands-on: 35 min. Total: 3 hr.\n\nWhen I was in the Baking and Pastry Arts program at the Culinary Institute of America, my bread class chef-instructor made the most delicious Stollen bread I had ever tasted. While his was rich with butter, almond paste, candied fruit, and nuts, this lightened version is my homage to Chef Kastel's artistry in the oven. Wrap the second loaf well, and it will keep up to 2 weeks.\n\nSPONGE:\n\n4.8 ounces bread flour (about 1 cup)\n\n3 teaspoons dry yeast\n\n1 teaspoon sugar\n\n1/2 cup warm 2% reduced-fat milk (100\u00b0 to 110\u00b0)\n\nFINAL DOUGH:\n\n1/4 cup sugar\n\n1 ounce almond paste, crumbled\n\n1 tablespoon grated orange rind\n\n1 tablespoon grated lemon rind\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n10 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n7.2 ounces bread flour (about 11/2 cups)\n\n1 teaspoon salt\n\n1/3 cup packed golden raisins\n\n1/3 cup packed raisins\n\n3 tablespoons fresh orange juice\n\nFILLING:\n\n3 tablespoons sugar\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 ounces almond paste, crumbled\n\n11/2 cups sliced almonds, divided\n\nFINISH:\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n2 tablespoons sugar\n\n1. To prepare sponge, weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, yeast, sugar, and warm milk; stir well (mixture is stiff). Cover and let rise in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 30 minutes.\n\n2. To prepare dough, beat sugar and almond paste at medium speed in a stand mixer with paddle attachment until mixture looks sandy, about 1 minute. Add rinds, vanilla, and butter; beat 1 minute or until combined (do not overbeat). Add sponge; beat 1 minute at low speed or until combined. Change mixer paddle to dough hook. Weigh or lightly spoon bread flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Add flour and salt to sponge mixture; beat at low speed with dough hook 6 to 8 minutes or until smooth and elastic. Remove bowl from mixer; cover with plastic wrap, and let rise in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 30 minutes.\n\n3. While dough rises, combine raisins and juice in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave at HIGH 20 seconds. Cover bowl with plastic wrap; let stand 20 minutes.\n\n4. To prepare filling, combine sugar, butter, and almond paste in a bowl; beat with a mixer at low speed until completely combined (mixture will be crumbly). Add \u00bd cup almonds; beat at low speed 30 seconds or until well combined.\n\n5. Return dough bowl to mixer. Add raisin mixture and 1 cup almonds; beat at low speed with dough hook 2 minutes or until well combined. Scrape dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Divide dough into 2 equal pieces. Press each piece into a 9- to 10-inch circle. Arrange half of filling on one-half of the dough circle. Fold over dough and pinch edges to seal. Repeat process with remaining dough and filling. Place loaves on doubled baking sheets covered with parchment paper. Cover lightly with plastic wrap, and let stand in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 30 minutes.\n\n6. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0. Remove plastic wrap from loaves. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 35 to 40 minutes or until golden, rotating pan after 20 minutes. Remove pan from oven. To finish loaves, brush top and sides with melted butter. Cool completely on a wire rack. Sprinkle top, bottom, and sides of loaves with sugar.\n\nSERVES 20 (serving size: 1 slice)  \nCALORIES 228; FAT 12g (sat 4.9g, mono 4.8g, poly 1.5g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 27g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 19mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 122mg; CALC 42mg\n\nLemon and Almond Souffl\u00e9s\n\nLEMON AND ALMOND SOUFFL\u00c9S\n\nHands-on: 16 min. Total: 36 min.\n\nI love a restaurant that offers a souffl\u00e9 that you must order at the same time you order your entr\u00e9e. The anticipation of the warm, creamy, cloudlike perfection makes me rush through dinner. For these lovely lemony souffl\u00e9s, you can prepare the ramekins and the egg yolk mixture ahead, and then whip the egg white mixture at the last minute, fold them together, and pop them in the oven. They're easy and very impressive. Take care when beating the egg whites; overbeating them will make the souffl\u00e9s fall before they are fully cooked. Dust the tops lightly with powdered sugar just before serving, if you like.\n\nCooking spray\n\n1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar, divided\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n1.1 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1/4 cup)\n\n3/4 cup low-fat buttermilk\n\n1 tablespoon grated lemon rind\n\n1/3 cup fresh lemon juice\n\n2 tablespoons butter, melted\n\n6 large egg whites, at room temperature\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n1/4 cup sliced almonds\n\n1. Place a baking sheet in oven. Preheat oven to 425\u00b0.\n\n2. Lightly coat 6 (8-ounce) ramekins with cooking spray; sprinkle with 2 tablespoons sugar, tilting dishes to coat sides completely.\n\n3. Combine 1/4 cup sugar and egg yolks in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at high speed until thick and pale (about 2 minutes). Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Add flour, buttermilk, and next 3 ingredients (through butter); beat at medium speed 1 minute or until completely combined.\n\n4. Combine egg whites and cream of tartar in a large bowl; beat at medium speed until foamy using clean, dry beaters. Beat at high speed until soft peaks form. Reduce speed to medium, and add 1/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time. Beat at high speed until medium peaks form (do not overbeat). Gently stir one-fourth of egg whites into lemon mixture; gently fold in remaining egg whites. Divide mixture among prepared ramekins. Sprinkle tops with almonds. Remove baking sheet from oven; place dishes on preheated baking sheet. Return baking sheet to oven. Immediately reduce oven temperature to 350\u00b0; bake at 350\u00b0 for 20 minutes or until puffy and lightly browned. Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: 1 souffl\u00e9)  \nCALORIES 213; FAT 8g (sat 3.5g, mono 3.1g, poly 0.9g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 29g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 74mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 91mg; CALC 68mg\n\nMAKING SOUFFLES\n\n1. Lightly spray the ramekins with cooking spray; you don't want a puddle collecting in the bottoms. Add the sugar, and tilt the ramekins so every inch is coated with sugar; dump the excess sugar into the next ramekin and repeat.\n\n2. Beating the egg whites to medium peaks gives them room to stretch in the oven, and not break and deflate the souffl\u00e9 before it's served.\n\n3. Stirring some of the egg whites into the souffl\u00e9 base starts lightening up the batter so that the remaining whites can be folded in easily. Clean off any spills from the top edge of the ramekins to prevent the souffl\u00e9 from sticking and not rising all the way.\n\nMY TOP 5 TIPS FOR\n\nCONTROLLING TEMPERATURE\n\nSince so many of the recipes in this chapter have temperature-sensitive instructions, here are my top tips on how to manage the highs and the lows.\n\n1 Unless specifically called for (like chilled butter in pie dough), ingredients should be at room temperature. So what is room temperature? In a bakeshop, room temperature is between 65\u00b0 and 70\u00b0. If butter is too warm, it will not hold air whipped into it during the creaming process that makes cake layers rise, or it will melt too quickly, making cookies spread farther than intended. If flour is too cold, it will take cakes and breads longer to bake, resulting in dry loaves and layers. If eggs are too cold when added to butter and sugar mixtures, the butter will get chilled and form little lumps, resulting in holes in the cake layers. The easiest way to avoid trouble with temperature is to read the recipe all the way through and make sure all your ingredients are at the temperature recommended.\n\n2 When making bread or other baked goods with yeast, the ideal rising temperature is 80\u00b0 to 85\u00b0. If the recipe calls for a second rise or resting the dough on the counter, room temperature (65\u00b0 to 70\u00b0) will be fine. If you have a proof mode on your oven, use it.\n\n3 Some of the fillings and batters are chilled in the refrigerator and may be pretty thick or stiff when removed. Before you lighten them with whipped topping or meringue, stir the chilled filling with a whisk to make it creamy again. The fillings will be much easier to fold together afterwards.\n\n4 I know, you're anxious to dig into the cheesecake or panna cotta, but really, allowing them to chill overnight or for the minimum number of hours recommended will absolutely make a noticeable difference in the texture and even in the flavors. Be patient; you'll be glad you were.\n\n5 Use your thermometers. The difference between soft ball and hard ball stages is only about 10\u00b0, but the difference in results is light years apart. A crisp candy garnish or brittle will be a sticky pulling mess if the temperature of the sugar syrup is not accurate.\n\nOrange Marmalade Nockerl\n\nORANGE MARMALADE NOCKERL\n\nHands-on: 25 min. Total: 39 min.\n\nIf you love souffl\u00e9, you are going to be nuts about Nockerl, a beautifully light yet creamy souffl\u00e9 originating in Austria. When it is served in Salzburg, the meringue is shaped like the nearby rugged snowcapped mountain range.\n\n1/4 cup half-and-half\n\n2 tablespoons orange marmalade\n\n1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n6 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided\n\n4 large egg yolks\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons cake flour\n\n2 teaspoons grated orange rind\n\n7 large egg whites\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n2 tablespoons powdered sugar\n\n1. Preheat oven to 400\u00b0.\n\n2. Combine half-and-half, marmalade, and vanilla in the bottom of an 11/2-quart glass or ceramic baking dish coated with baking spray, stirring with a whisk.\n\n3. Place 3 tablespoons sugar, yolks, and salt in a medium bowl, and beat with a mixer at medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add flour and rind; beat 30 seconds or until well combined. Place yolk mixture in a large bowl. Beat egg whites and cream of tartar at medium speed until foamy using clean, dry beaters. Add 3 tablespoons granulated sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating at high speed until stiff peaks form (do not overbeat). Stir one-third of egg white mixture into egg yolk mixture. Gently fold in remaining egg white mixture. Scoop mixture into prepared dish (do not smooth top). Place on bottom rack in oven. Bake at 400\u00b0 for 14 minutes or until golden. Sprinkle top with powdered sugar. Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 cup)  \nCALORIES 118; FAT 3.2g (sat 1.4g, mono 1g, poly 0.4g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 17g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 95mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 95mg; CALC 24mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nCombining a layer of rich half-and-half and marmalade in the bottom of the baking dish creates an even creamier souffl\u00e9. If you aren't a fan of orange marmalade, omit the orange rind in the filling, and substitute your favorite jam or preserves in the bottom of the dish.\n\nPumpkin-Hazelnut Layered Cheesecake\n\nPUMPKIN-HAZELNUT LAYERED CHEESECAKE\n\nHands-on: 1 hr. Total: 13 hr.\n\nUsing low-fat and fat-free cream cheeses to lighten a cheesecake isn't new, but adding a little flour and baking powder helps lighten their texture, making it creamy and smooth. Toasting the hazelnut meal really boosts its flavor in the cake layer. Instead of buying hazelnut meal, you can toast whole nuts, let them cool completely, and process in a food processor until finely ground. If you prefer, you can skip brushing the cake with the Frangelico liqueur.\n\nCAKE:\n\n2.25 ounces hazelnut meal (about 1/2 cup)\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n2 large egg whites (reserve yolks for cheesecake)\n\n1.5 ounces all-purpose flour (about 1/3 cup)\n\n2 teaspoons cornstarch\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n1 tablespoon hazelnut-flavored liqueur (such as Frangelico)\n\nCHEESECAKE:\n\n12 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese\n\n4 ounces fat-free cream cheese\n\n3/4 cup sugar\n\n3 large eggs\n\n2 large egg yolks (reserved from cake)\n\n2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n1/2 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/4 teaspoon ground cloves\n\n1 cup canned pumpkin puree\n\nBRITTLE:\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n1 tablespoon water\n\n3 tablespoons hazelnuts, roasted and coarsely chopped\n\nCooking spray\n\n1 cup frozen fat-free whipped topping, thawed\n\n1. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n2. To prepare cake, sprinkle hazelnut meal evenly on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 4 to 5 minutes or until lightly browned, stirring after 3 minutes. Cool completely (about 20 minutes).\n\n3. Combine sugar, butter, and oil in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until well combined, about 3 minutes. Add egg whites; beat 1 minute. Weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup; level with a knife. Combine flour, toasted hazelnut meal, cornstarch, baking powder, and salt in a bowl; stir with a whisk. Add flour mixture to sugar mixture; beat at low speed 1 minute or until just combined. Spoon batter into a 9-inch springform pan coated with baking spray; smooth top. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 13 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Brush top of hot cake with hazelnut liqueur. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack (do not remove or loosen sides of springform pan). Reduce oven temperature to 325\u00b0.\n\n4. While cake cools, prepare cheesecake: Place cream cheeses in a large bowl; beat at medium speed 2 minutes or until smooth. Add sugar and next 10 ingredients (through cloves); beat at low speed 2 minutes or until well combined. Add pumpkin; beat at low speed until combined. Pour cheesecake batter over top of cooled hazelnut cake. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 50 minutes or until cheesecake center barely moves when pan is touched. Remove cheesecake from oven. Run a knife around outside edge. Cool completely on a wire rack. Cover and chill 8 hours or overnight.\n\n5. To prepare brittle, place sugar and 1 tablespoon water in a small heavy saucepan over medium heat; cook until sugar dissolves, stirring occasionally. Continue cooking about 2 minutes or until golden (do not stir). While sugar mixture cooks, sprinkle chopped hazelnuts over a 14 x 2\u2013inch area on parchment paper lightly coated with cooking spray. Drizzle caramelized sugar over nuts. Cool 10 minutes or until firm; break into 14 pieces. To serve, cut cheesecake into wedges, dollop each wedge with whipped topping, and top with brittle.\n\nSERVES 14 (serving size: 1 cheesecake wedge, about 1 tablespoon whipped topping, and 1 piece brittle)  \nCALORIES 292; FAT 14.9g (sat 5.2g, mono 6.7g, poly 1.8g); PROTEIN 7g; CARB 33g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 90mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 276mg; CALC 96mg\n\nTropical Pavlovas\n\nTROPICAL PAVLOVAS\n\nHands-on: 52 min. Total: 6 hr. 52 min.\n\n4 large eggs, separated and divided\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n1/8 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n2/3 cup sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/2 cup dry-roasted, salted macadamia nuts, finely chopped and divided\n\n3/4 cup unsweetened pineapple juice\n\n1/4 cup sugar, divided\n\n2 teaspoons fresh lime juice\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n1/2 cup diced pineapple\n\n1/2 cup diced mango\n\n1/2 cup diced kiwi (about 2)\n\n1/2 cup small fresh raspberries\n\n1 tablespoon thinly sliced fresh mint\n\n1 tablespoon fresh lime juice\n\n1/2 cup unsweetened coconut flakes, toasted\n\n1. Preheat oven to 250\u00b0. Draw 8 (4-inch) circles on parchment paper. Turn parchment paper over; secure paper to a large baking sheet with masking tape.\n\n2. Beat egg whites, cream of tartar, and a dash of salt with a mixer at medium speed until foamy (about 1 minute). Increase speed to high; beat until soft peaks form (about 1 minute). With mixer at medium speed add sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat at high speed until stiff peaks form (do not overbeat). Beat in vanilla. Reserve 3 tablespoons chopped nuts. Gently fold remaining nuts into egg mixture. Divide egg white mixture among the 8 drawn circles. Shape meringues into nests with 1-inch sides using the back of a spoon. Sprinkle reserved 3 tablespoon nuts over tops of meringue nests. Bake at 250\u00b0 for 2 hours or until dry, rotating pan after 1 hour. Turn oven off; cool meringues in closed oven at least 4 hours. Carefully remove meringues from paper. Store in an airtight container until ready to use.\n\n3. Combine pineapple juice, 2 tablespoons sugar, lime juice, and a dash of salt in a saucepan; bring to a simmer. Combine 2 tablespoons sugar, cornstarch, egg, and egg yolks in a bowl, stirring with a whisk until smooth. Gradually drizzle juice mixture into egg mixture, stirring constantly with a whisk. Return mixture to pan. Cook over medium heat until mixture thickens and a candy thermometer registers 180\u00b0. Remove pan from heat; stir in butter. Place pan in a large ice-filled bowl; bring curd to room temperature, stirring occasionally.\n\n4. Combine pineapple and next 5 ingredients in a bowl; toss gently.\n\n5. To assemble pavlovas, top each meringue with about 2 tablespoons curd, 1/4 cup fruit relish, and 1 tablespoon toasted coconut. Serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 8 (serving size: 1 pavlova)  \nCALORIES 269; FAT 13g (sat 5.4g, mono 6.2g, poly 0.6g); PROTEIN 5g; CARB 36g; FIBER 3g; CHOL 73mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 137mg; CALC 32mg\n\nSHAPING PAVLOVAS\n\n1. Use a dark color pen or pencil to draw 4-inch circles on the parchment paper so that when the paper in turned upside down the marks will still be visible.\n\n2. Adding lots of sugar to this meringue makes it creamier and thicker so that it holds its shape in the oven and develops a crisp texture. Add the sugar slowly so that it gets fully incorporated and inhibits the whites from whipping up stiffly.\n\n3. Scoop the meringue into a mound in the center of each circle. Using a spoon, shape each meringue into a nest, building the sides up and carving out the centers.\n\nTorched Alaska\n\nTORCHED ALASKA\n\nHands-on: 1 hr. 20 min. Total: 5 hr. 30 min.\n\nUsing Swiss meringue and scorching it with a kitchen torch yields yummy caramelized bits and eliminates the tricky baking part of a traditional baked Alaska\u2014the potential melted mess. Chocolate and coffee ice creams create a mocha treat, but you can use any ice cream combination you prefer.\n\nCAKE:\n\nBaking spray with flour\n\n2.7 ounces cake flour (about 2/3 cup)\n\n3/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1/4 teaspoon salt\n\n4 large eggs, separated\n\n1/3 cup sugar, divided\n\n11/2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\nFILLING:\n\n11/2 cups reduced-fat coffee ice cream\n\n11/2 cups fat-free chocolate ice cream\n\nMERINGUE:\n\n5 large egg whites\n\n1/3 cup sugar\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar\n\nDash of salt\n\n1. Preheat oven to 400\u00b0. Lightly coat a jelly-roll pan with baking spray. Line bottom of pan with wax paper; coat paper with baking spray.\n\n2. To prepare cake, weigh or lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking powder, and salt, stirring with a whisk.\n\n3. Place egg yolks and 2 tablespoons sugar in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until thick and ribbony, about 4 minutes. Beat in vanilla.\n\n4. Place egg whites and cream of tartar in a large bowl; using clean dry beaters, beat at medium speed until foamy (about 30 seconds). Increase speed to high, and beat until medium peaks form. Add remaining sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time, beating until stiff peaks form (about 2 minutes). Stir one-fourth of egg whites into egg yolk mixture. Gently fold remaining whites into yolk mixture. Sift one-half of flour mixture over top of egg mixture; gently fold in. Sift remaining half of flour mixture over batter; gently fold in. Scrape batter into prepared pan; spread evenly in pan with an offset spatula.\n\n5. Bake at 400\u00b0 for 9 minutes or until lightly browned and cake springs back when lightly touched. Run a knife around outside edge; cool in pan 4 minutes. Turn pan upside down onto a wire rack; remove cake. Carefully remove wax paper; discard paper. Cool cake completely on wire rack. Using a 31/2-inch round cookie cutter, cut 12 circles from cake. Discard remaining cake scraps.\n\n6. To prepare filling, lightly coat 6 (8-ounce) ramekins with baking spray. Line each ramekin with plastic wrap, allowing the plastic wrap to extend over edges. Spoon 1/4 cup coffee ice cream into bottom of each ramekin, spreading evenly; top each with 1 cake round. Spread 1/4 cup chocolate ice cream over each cake layer, spreading evenly; top each with 1 cake round. Cover with plastic wrap; freeze 4 hours or up to overnight.\n\n7. To prepare meringue, combine 5 egg whites and remaining ingredients in the top of a double boiler. Cook over simmering water 2 to 3 minutes or until a candy thermometer registers 160\u00b0, stirring constantly with a whisk. Remove from heat. Beat egg mixture with a mixer at medium speed until soft peaks form (about 6 minutes); beat at high speed until stiff peaks form.\n\n8. Invert ramekins, cake sides down, onto a baking sheet; discard plastic wrap. Divide meringue evenly among servings, and spread evenly over each dome (the domes should be completely covered with meringue). Holding a kitchen torch about 3 inches from domes, heat the meringue, moving the torch back and forth until lightly browned. Transfer to individual plates, and serve immediately.\n\nSERVES 6 (serving size: 1 Torched Alaska)  \nCALORIES 250; FAT 4g (sat 1.7g, mono 0.8g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 9g; CARB 45g; FIBER 2g; CHOL 93mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 255mg; CALC 118mg\n\nPineapple Shortbread Cakes\n\nPINEAPPLE SHORTBREAD CAKES\n\nHands-on: 1 hr. 13 min. Total: 2 hr. 18 min.\n\n3 (8-ounce) cans crushed pineapple in juice, undrained\n\n3/4 cup granulated sugar\n\n1/2 teaspoon salt, divided\n\n1/3 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\n4 teaspoons all-purpose flour\n\n9 ounces cake flour (about 21/4 cups)\n\n1/3 cup nonfat dry milk\n\n1/4 teaspoon baking powder\n\n12 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened\n\n1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon powdered sugar, divided\n\n2 large egg yolks\n\n1. Drain pineapple in a fine-mesh sieve, pressing on solids; discard or save juice for another use. Place pineapple in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat; cook 15 minutes or until all the liquid has evaporated, stirring frequently. Add sugar and 1/4 teaspoon salt; cook 8 to 10 minutes or until liquid is absorbed and mixture thickens, stirring frequently. Add corn syrup; cook 5 minutes or until mixture is very thick and sticky, stirring frequently. Add all-purpose flour; cook 1 minute or until mixture is very thick, stirring constantly. Scrape mixture onto a baking sheet, and spread into a thin layer; cover and chill completely (about 20 minutes).\n\n2. Weigh or lightly spoon cake flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flour, dry milk, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and baking powder in a fine-mesh sieve. Place butter in a large bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until smooth and creamy. Add \u00bd cup powdered sugar, and beat 2 minutes or until well combined. Add egg yolks, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat 2 minutes or until fluffy. Add flour mixture; beat at low speed until just combined. Divide dough in half. Shape into 2 (10-inch) logs; cover each with plastic wrap, and chill 30 minutes.\n\n3. Preheat oven to 325\u00b0.\n\n4. Cut each log into 12 equal pieces. Working with 1 piece at a time, roll dough into a 3-inch circle on a lightly floured surface. Place about 1 tablespoon filling in the center; bring edges together, and pinch closed. Gently press into a floured 13/4-inch square mold (cookie cutter) or shape into a square by hand. Repeat procedure with remaining dough and filling; place cake 2 inches apart on parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake at 325\u00b0 for 25 minutes, turning cake over and rotating pans after 15 minutes. Remove cake from pans, and cool completely on wire racks. Sprinkle with 1 tablespoon powdered sugar.\n\nSERVES 24 (serving size: 1 cake) CALORIES 168; FAT 6.3g (sat 3.8g, mono 1.7g, poly 0.3g); PROTEIN 2g; CARB 27g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 31mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 68mg; CALC 34mg\n\nDRY MILK\n\nWhy add dry milk to these shortbread cakes? It provides structure and strength to baked goods and enhances browning, all without adding additional liquid to the recipe. It's important to push the dry milk through a fine-mesh sieve because it tends to clump in hard granules; they need to be broken up for these cakes to have the right texture. Many large bakeries use dry milk in their cakes, muffins, and breads because it takes up less space, is more economical than liquid milk, and still provides flavor and quality to their products.\n\nRaspberry Spice Buns\n\nRASPBERRY SPICE BUNS\n\nHands-on: 45 min. Total: 3 hr. 1 min.\n\n1 package dry yeast (about 21/4 teaspoons)\n\n2/3 cup warm 2% reduced-fat milk (100\u00b0 to 110\u00b0)\n\n1/2 cup sugar\n\n7 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened and divided\n\n5.6 ounces all-purpose flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n5.2 ounces einkorn flour (about 11/4 cups)\n\n1 large egg\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n3/4 teaspoon salt\n\n1/2 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n1/4 cup all-purpose flour for kneading and shaping\n\nCooking spray\n\n1/4 cup raspberry jam\n\n1. Stir yeast into warm milk; let stand 5 minutes or until foamy.\n\n2. Combine sugar and 6 tablespoons butter in a large bowl of a stand mixer; beat 1 minute or until combined (do not overbeat). Weigh or lightly spoon flours into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Place flours in a bowl, stirring with a whisk. Add 1/2 cup flour mixture, yeast mixture, and egg to butter mixture; beat at low speed 2 minutes or until well combined. Beat in cinnamon, salt, and allspice. Add remaining flour mixture to butter mixture; beat at low speed with dough hook 8 minutes or until smooth and elastic, stopping to scrape sides and bottom of bowl 2 times. Scrape dough out onto a floured work surface; knead 1 minute, using as little additional all-purpose flour as possible to keep from sticking to surface. Place dough in a large bowl coated with cooking spray. Cover and let rise in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 11/2 hours.\n\n3. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Divide dough into 12 equal pieces. Lightly press each piece into a 3-inch circle. Drop 1 teaspoon jam into center of each circle. Gather edges together, and pinch to seal. Place sealed edge in bottom of muffin cups coated with cooking spray. Lightly cover pan with plastic wrap. Place in a warm place (85\u00b0), free from drafts, 30 minutes.\n\n4. Preheat oven to 350\u00b0.\n\n5. Remove plastic wrap from dough. Bake at 350\u00b0 for 14 to 15 minutes or until lightly browned, rotating pan after 7 minutes. Cool in pan 2 minutes; remove from pan, and place on a wire rack. Melt 1 tablespoon butter. Brush tops of buns with butter. Serve warm or at room temperature.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 bun)  \nCALORIES 215; FAT 8g (sat 4.6g, mono 2.1g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 4g; CARB 32g; FIBER 1g; CHOL 34mg; IRON 1mg; SODIUM 159mg; CALC 26mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nUse as little flour on your work surface as possible when kneading and shaping these little buns. If you use too much, the dough will look gray instead of light brown. Substitute your favorite jam if you are not a fan of raspberry. Apple butter would go wonderfully well with the cinnamon and allspice added to the dough.\n\nSmoked Cherry Bombs\n\nSMOKED CHERRY BOMBS\n\nHands-on: 45 min. Total: 1 hr. 12 min.\n\nAt less than 100 calories, these little bombs pack a great cherry and almond blast. Use red dye\u2013free cherries made with pure cane sugar for the best real cherry flavor.\n\n1/2 cup cherrywood smoking chips\n\n12 maraschino cherries with stems (such as Tillen Farms)\n\n2 ounces almond paste\n\n5 teaspoons sugar, divided\n\n2 ounces 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened\n\n1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nDash of salt\n\n4 (14 x 9\u2013inch) sheets frozen phyllo dough, thawed\n\n3 tablespoons butter, melted\n\n1. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0.\n\n2. Pierce 10 holes on one side of the bottom of a 13 x 9\u2013inch disposable aluminum foil pan. Place holes over element on cooktop; place smoking chips over holes inside pan. Heat element under holes to medium-high; let burn 1 minute or until chips begin to smoke. Arrange cherries on opposite end of pan. Carefully cover pan with foil. Reduce heat to low; smoke cherries 5 minutes. Smoking the cherries for 5 minutes may not seem like very much time, but it's the perfect amount of time to create a blend of smoky and sweet. Do not open the foil top during this 5 minutes or the balance goes out of whack. Seriously. Remove from heat; let stand until cool.\n\n3. Place almond paste and 1 tablespoon sugar in a bowl; beat with a mixer at medium speed until mixture looks sandy. Add cream cheese, vanilla, and salt; beat 1 minute or until well combined.\n\n4. Place 1 phyllo sheet on a large cutting board or work surface (cover remaining dough to keep from drying); lightly brush with melted butter. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon sugar. Repeat layers with remaining phyllo, butter (saving a little butter for the outsides), and sugar. Cut 12 (3.5 x 3\u2013inch) rectangles through phyllo layers using a pizza cutter or a sharp knife. Spoon about 1 teaspoon almond mixture into center of each phyllo stack. Press 1 cherry, stem up, into almond mixture. Gather edges of phyllo, and press around stem to seal, forming a pouch. Gently brush outsides with remaining butter. Place on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper. Bake at 375\u00b0 for 12 to 13 minutes or until crisp. Remove bombs from baking sheet, and place on a wire rack. Cool completely.\n\nSERVES 12 (serving size: 1 cherry bomb)  \nCALORIES 87; FAT 5.5g (sat 2.6g, mono 2g, poly 0.5g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 8g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 11mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 70mg; CALC 15mg\n\nSMOKING CHERRIES\n\n1. Pierce one end of the aluminum foil pan with the tip of a knife 10 to 15 times to allow the heat to easily penetrate the pan.\n\n2. Place the wood chips over the holes in the pan, and then place the pan over the flame or heating element. The wood chips will begin smoking; if they flame up, reduce the heat.\n\n3. Arrange the cherries on the opposite end of the pan; cover the pan with foil to hold in the smoke. The aluminum pan gets very hot, so use thick potholders or a dry kitchen towel to protect your hands from burns.\n\nChocolate Marshmallows\n\nCHOCOLATE MARSHMALLOWS\n\nHands-on: 50 min. Total: 2 hr. 50 min.\n\nAs is so true with many homemade goodies, once you experience an honest-to-goodness homemade marshmallow, store-bought will never pass your lips again.\n\n1 cup water, divided\n\n3 (1/4-ounce) packages unflavored gelatin\n\n11/2 cups granulated sugar\n\n1 cup light-colored corn syrup\n\nDash of salt\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1/4 cup sifted unsweetened cocoa\n\nCooking spray\n\n1/3 cup powdered sugar\n\n1/3 cup cornstarch\n\n2 teaspoons unsweetened cocoa\n\n2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped\n\n1. Pour 1/2 cup water into a microwave-safe bowl; sprinkle gelatin on top.\n\n2. Combine 1/2 cup water, sugar, corn syrup, and salt in a medium, heavy saucepan over medium-high heat; bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Cook, without stirring, until a candy thermometer registers 250\u00b0. Pour sugar mixture into the bowl of a stand mixer; let stand until thermometer registers 210\u00b0 (about 15 minutes).\n\n3. Microwave gelatin mixture at HIGH 20 seconds or until gelatin melts, stirring after 10 seconds. With mixer at low speed, beat sugar mixture using whip attachment; gradually pour gelatin mixture in a thin stream into sugar mixture. Beat in vanilla. Increase speed to high; whip mixture until light and fluffy (about 5 minutes). Reduce mixer to low speed, and gradually add 1/4 cup cocoa; beat until well combined. Using a spatula coated with cooking spray, scrape mixture into an 11 x 7\u2013inch glass or ceramic baking dish coated with cooking spray; smooth top. Let stand at room temperature 2 hours.\n\n4. Sift together powdered sugar, cornstarch, and 2 teaspoons cocoa into a jelly-roll pan. Using an offset spatula coated with cooking spray, remove marshmallow from pan; place in powdered sugar mixture. Using scissors well coated with powdered sugar mixture, cut marshmallows into 78 (1-inch) squares. Dust marshmallows with powdered sugar mixture; shake to remove excess mixture.\n\n5. Arrange marshmallows on a wire rack placed on parchment paper. Place bittersweet chocolate in a small microwave-safe bowl; microwave at HIGH 30 seconds or until chocolate melts, stirring after 15 seconds. Drizzle chocolate over marshmallows; let stand until chocolate sets.\n\nSERVES 26 (serving size: 3 marshmallows)  \nCALORIES 113; FAT 1.2g (sat 0.6g, mono 0.1g, poly 0g); PROTEIN 1g; CARB 27g; FIBER 0g; CHOL 0mg; IRON 0mg; SODIUM 16mg; CALC 4mg\n\nTECHNIQUE TIP\n\nTemperature control is the key to creating marshmallows with great texture. Cooking the syrup to 250\u00b0 will give the marshmallows a fluffy yet firm texture and prevent the gelatin from taking over and turning them into gummy bears. Letting the sugar syrup cool to 210\u00b0 gives it the right viscosity to start whipping and incorporating air right away. If your sugar syrup gets too cool, it will stick to the bowl and the beaters and you won't be able to whip it to incorporate air. If you start whipping too soon, it will just take a lot longer to get the ultimate marshmallow texture you want.\nNUTRITIONAL INFORMATION\n\nHow to Use It and Why\n\nGlance at the end of any Cooking Light recipe, and you'll see how committed we are to helping you make the best of today's light cooking. With chefs, registered dietitians, home economists, and a computer system that analyzes every ingredient we use, Cooking Light gives you authoritative dietary detail like no other magazine. We go to such lengths so you can see how our recipes fit into your healthful eating plan. If you're trying to lose weight, the calorie and fat figures will probably help most. But if you're keeping a close eye on the sodium, cholesterol, and saturated fat in your diet, we provide those numbers, too. And because many women don't get enough iron or calcium, we can help there, as well. Finally, there's a fiber analysis for those of us who don't get enough roughage.\n\nHere's a helpful guide to put our nutritional analysis numbers into perspective. Remember, one size doesn't fit all, so take your lifestyle, age, and circumstances into consideration when determining your nutrition needs. For example, pregnant or breast-feeding women need more protein, calories, and calcium. And women older than 50 need 1,200mg of calcium daily, 200mg more than the amount recommended for younger women.\n\nThe nutritional values used in our calculations either come from The Food Processor, Version 10.4 (ESHA Research), or are provided by food manufacturers.\nMETRIC EQUIVALENTS\n\nThe information in the following charts is provided to help cooks outside the United States successfully use the recipes in this book. All equivalents are approximate.\n\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nThis book is dedicated to the bravest person I know, my husband Barry. Without his courage and his encouragement, I would never have had the guts to turn our lives upside down and move from California to New York to go to The Culinary Institute of America and get a degree in baking and pastry arts. I love you, Bubba, and I'm sorry about the extra pounds that came from being the greatest recipe taster ever.\n\nI'd also like to give a great big thank you to Vanessa Taylor-Pruett for giving me the best job ever in the Cooking Light test kitchen, and to Scott Mowbray, former editor of Cooking Light, who somehow saw a complete book of light desserts lurking inside of me.\n\nTo the gifted and talented women in my family who instilled a love of all things sugary and yummy: my grandmother Laura Belle Heard, my mother Barbara Dorais, my aunts Wanda Yaugher and Norma Jean Souza, and to the most amazing daughter possible, Barbra Westfall. Thank you all for teaching me the ins and outs of making memorable desserts and for allowing me to endlessly experiment on you.\n\nAnd lastly, I want to give a big shout-out to my cohorts in the test kitchen: Tiffany Vickers-Davis, Adam Hickman, Robin Bashinsky, and Kathleen Phillips. Thank you guys for all of your suggestions that helped my recipes taste better and look prettier and for making every day in the test kitchen feel like a play date.\n\u00a92015 Time Inc. Books\n\nPublished by Oxmoor House, an imprint of Time Inc. Books 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020\n\nCooking Light\u00ae is a registered trademark of Time Inc. Lifestyle Group. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, excepting brief quotations in connection with reviews written specifically for inclusion in magazines or newspapers, or limited excerpts strictly for personal use.\n\nSenior Editors: Rachel Quinlivan West, R.D.; Betty Wong\n\nProject Editor: Emily C. Connolly\n\nAssistant Project Editor: Lacie Pinyan\n\nSenior Designer: Maribeth Jones\n\nExecutive Photography Director: Iain Bagwell\n\nPhoto Editor: Kellie Lindsey\n\nPhotographer: Stephen Devries\n\nSenior Photo Stylist: Mindi Shapiro Levine\n\nPhoto Stylist: Missie Neville Crawford\n\nFood Stylists: Marian Cooper Cairns, Nathan Carraba, Victoria E. Cox, Margaret Monroe Dickey, Catherine Crowell Steele\n\nTest Kitchen Manager: Alyson Moreland Haynes\n\nRecipe Testers: Robin Bashinsky, Adam Hickman, Julia Levy, Kathleen Royal Phillips, Karen Rankin\n\nSenior Production Manager: Greg A. Amason\n\nAssistant Production Manager: Diane Rose Keener\n\nAssociate Production Manager: Kimberly Marshall\n\nWriter: Dianne Jacob\n\nCopy Editors: Jacqueline Giovanelli, Deri Reed\n\nProofreader: Dolores Hydock\n\nIndexer: Marrathon Production Services\n\nNutrition Analysis: Jessica Cox, R.D.\n\nFellows: Laura Arnold, Ali Carruba, Nicole Fisher, Loren Lorenzo, Caroline Smith\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-8487-4732-9\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2015944366\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nFirst Printing 2015\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Thomas Hardy - Selected Poems"}, "text": " \nTable of Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Page\n\nDedication\n\nIntroduction\n\nFrom WESSEX POEMS AND OTHER VERSES\n\nFrom POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT\n\nFrom TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS AND OTHER VERSES\n\nFrom SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE, LYRICS AND REVERIES\n\nFrom MOMENTS OF VISION AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES\n\nFrom LATE LYRICS AND EARLIER\n\nFrom HUMAN SHOWS, FAR PHANTASIES, SONGS AND TRIFLES\n\nFrom WINTER WORDS IN VARIOUS MOODS AND METRES\n\nNOTES\n\nINDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES\n\nFOR THE BEST IN PAPERBACKS, LOOK FOR THE\n\n**SELECTED POEMS**\n\nThomas Hardy was born in a tiny village near Dorchester on June 2, 1840, the son of a mason and builder. He attended local schools for a few years and at sixteen was apprenticed to a Dorchester architect, John Hicks. In 1862 he went to London to work for the noted architect Arthur Blomfield, and there began seriously to write poetry, but everything he submitted to the magazines was rejected. Five years later, back in Dorset and working for Hicks again, he finished a novel\u2014also rejected but with encouragement to write another. Sent to St. Juliot in Cornwall in 1870 to see to the restoration of its church, he met and fell in love with the rector's sister-in-law, Emma Gifford. He was now determined on a literary career and by the time he and Emma were married in 1874, he had published four novels, including _Far from the Madding Crowd,_ which was his first great popular and critical success. In 1885, after living in London and various towns in Dorset, the couple moved into Max Gate, a comfortable house near Dorchester, designed by Hardy and built by his father and brother. There he wrote most of his major novels, _The_ Mayor _of Casterbridge_ , The _Woodlanders, Tess of the D'Urbervilles,_ and _Jude the Obscure_ , and several minor ones. In the mid-1890s, tired of writing fiction (which he had done to earn his living and which had by now made him rich), and disgusted with the attacks of the pious and prudish on Tess and even more on Jude, he returned to his true art and over the next thirty-some years wrote nearly a thousand poems and an epic verse drama, The _Dynasts._ The many years of unhappy and childless marriage and deepening estrangement ended with Emma's sudden death in 1912. Hardy turned his grief and regret into some of the greatest elegies in literature. In 1914 he married his friend and secretary, Florence Dugdale. He was widely regarded as the preeminent man of letters in England and America and received many honors, including the Order of Merit and honorary degrees from Oxford and Cambridge. He died on January 11, 1928. His ashes were interred in Westminster Abbey and his heart in the Stinsford churchyard, a mile or so from where he had been born eighty-eight years before.\n\nRobert Mezey has been poet-in-residence at Pomona College since 1976. A Guggenheim and NEA fellow, he was awarded a prize in poetry by the American Academy of Arts & Letters. _The Lovemaker,_ the first of his seven books of verse, won the Lamont Award in 1960; _Evening Wind_ appeared in 1987.\n\nPENGUIN BOOKS\n\nPublished by the Penguin Group   \nPenguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,   \nNew York, New York 10014, U.S.A.   \nPenguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England   \nPenguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia   \nPenguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,   \nToronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2   \nPenguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,   \nAuckland 10, New Zealand   \nPenguin India, 210 Chiranjiv Tower, 43 Nehru Place,   \nNew Delhi 11009, India\n\nPenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:   \nHarmondsworth, Middlesex, England\n\nThis volume first published in Penguin Books 1998\n\nSelection, introduction, and notes copyright \u00a9 Robert Mezey, 1998\n\nAll rights reserved\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA\n\nHardy, Thomas, 1840-1928.   \n[Poems. Selections]   \nSelected poems / Thomas Hardy ; edited with an   \nintroduction and notes by Robert Mezey.   \np. cm.\u2014(Penguin classics)   \nIncludes bibliographical references.\n\neISBN : 978-1-440-67321-4\n\n1. Pastoral poetry, English. I. Mezey, Robert.   \nII. Tide. III. Series.   \nPR4741.M49 1998   \n821'.8\u2014dc21 98-23288\n\n<http://us.penguingroup.com>\nfor Don and Jean\n\n_The thrushes sing as the sun is going_\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\"This curious and wearisome volume, these many slovenly, slip-shod, uncouth verses, stilted in sentiment, poorly conceived and worse wrought.... It is impossible to understand why the bulk of this volume was published at all\u2014why he did not himself burn the verse, lest it should fall into the hands of an indiscreet literary executor, and mar his fame when he was dead.\" Thus _The Saturday Review,_ rendering judgment on _Wessex Poems,_ Hardy's first book of verse, published in 1898 when he was almost sixty years old. Other reviewers were equally solicitous, worried lest this grand old man of letters diminish his reputation with these clumsy and amateurish efforts, \"a dubious experiment for a proseman to sit in the Siege Perilous of poetry.\" There were similar brutalities from other periodicals. Most were simply puzzled, wondering why this distinguished and popular novelist should start fooling around with poetry at his age. The _Atheneum_ found it \"difficult to say the proper word,\" but then found it: \"We do not conceal our opinion that Mr. Hardy's success in poetry is of a very narrow range.\" The story was much the same in America: \"We are unable to find any beauty of poetic expression,\" \"faulty rhymes and rough accents,\" \"lyrical charm is almost completely absent,\" and so on. And there were complaints about the dark or lurid atmosphere of the poems, the profound melancholy, the pessimism; Lytton Strachey no doubt spoke for many when he wrote, some years later, \"the gloom is not even relieved by a little elegance of diction\" (although he came to admire the poems and say some fine things about them). In all fairness, it must be said that there were also many good and courteous reviews, properly deferential to one of the most eminent writers in the English-speaking world; and through the years, admirers and advocates have not been lacking. Nevertheless, the disparagements continued, and although diminished, continue to this day. Sometimes they have been decidedly intemperate. In 1940, R. P. Blackmur damaged Hardy's reputation in an influential essay, at once fatuous and savage, in which he charged Hardy with lacking a tradition, an education, and a sense of craft; said he had an authoritarian and totalitarian mind that must eventually resort to violence; that he was unaware of the nature of poetic work, incapable of choice, cynical and meretricious, unable to discriminate between good and evil, and had no idea what he was doing; and concluded that his poetry is a general failure and that his few good poems must be accidents! This from a man who published one slim volume of poems, all of them bad. F. R. Leavis was not much friendlier and almost as obtuse. In the 1960s, Philip Larkin, James Wright, and others wondered why Hardy had attracted so few good critics, and although the situation has changed somewhat in the last few decades, his poetic stock still fluctuates erratically. Well, as he himself wrote, criticism is so easy, and art so hard.\n\nBut criticism isn't really all that easy, or there would be more good criticism. Even some of Hardy's admirers have not known quite how to deal with him. As Donald Davie put it, \"Hardy's poetry is a body of writing before which one honest critic after another has by his own confession retired, baffled and defeated,\" and he quotes Irving Howe:\n\nAny critic can, and often does, see all that is wrong with Hardy's poetry, but whatever it was that makes for his strange greatness is much harder to describe. Can there ever have been a critic of Hardy who, before poems like \"The Going\" and \"During Wind and Rain,\" did not feel the grating inadequacy of verbal analysis, and the need to resort to such treacherous terms as \"honesty,\" \"sincerity,\" and even \"wisdom\"?\n\nAnd now he has begun to fall into the hands of the so-called postmodernists. One recent editor of a Selected Poems accuses Hardy of being quietist and apolitical and \"imbricated, personally and professionally, by patriarchal ideology,\" taxes him with prurience and \"the male gaze\" and with taking up poetry out of petit-bourgeois snobbery, and does the obligatory \"problematizing\" and \"deconstructing,\" but coyly suggests that he still manages to like Hardy's poems! In fact, he likes them so well that in a selection of nearly 200 poems he leaves out fifty or sixty of the most beautiful and includes at least a score that only a Hardy lover could love. With such friends, who needs enemies?\n\nThere is an amusing passage in _Good-bye to All That_ (1929) in which Robert Graves, during a visit to Max Gate, asks Hardy about the critics and reports his response:\n\nHe regarded professional critics as parasites, no less noxious than autograph hunters, wished the world rid of them, and also regretted having listened to them as a young man; on their advice he had cut out from his early poems dialect-words which possessed no ordinary English equivalents. And still the critics were plaguing him. One of them complained of a line: \"his shape smalled in the distance.\" Now, what in the world else could he have written? Hardy then laughed a little. Once or twice recently he had looked up a word in the dictionary for fear of being again accused of coining, and found it there right enough \u2014only to read on and discover that the sole authority quoted was himself in a half-forgotten novel.\n\nBut it is important to remember that the instability of Hardy's poetic reputation and the patronizing or carping criticism have been the work of professional critics and academics. The common readers of poetry have paid little attention to what the \"licensed tasters\" say; they have gone on reading and enjoying the poems for a century. His poetry has never been out of print; indeed, the collected poems went through so many reprintings that by the 1970s the plates had deteriorated to the point that the texts were barely legible, and in 1976 James Gibson produced a new edition much superior to the old one. And Hardy's fellow poets have admired and praised him from the beginning. The outstanding poets who have been his champions, and in many of whom one can see his influence writ large or small, are legion and of an astonishing variety. Even a fairly short list would have to include A. E. Housman, W. B. Yeats, Rudyard Kipling, E. A. Robinson, Robert Frost, Ezra Pound, Siegfried Sassoon, Robinson Jeffers, John Crowe Ransom, Robert Graves, Louise Bogan, Yvor Winters, C. Day Lewis, Robert Penn Warren, W. H. Auden, Dylan Thomas, Robert Lowell, Philip Larkin, Edgar Bowers, David Ferry, Donald Justice, James Wright, John Hollander, Miller Williams\u2014one could go on and on\u2014and most of these have regarded Hardy as far and away the greatest English poet of his era or of the century. It is surely a matter for wonderment when minds as independent and dissimilar as those of Winters, Pound, Ransom, Jeffers, and Larkin strongly agree about anything. Winters went even further: \"There is probably not another master of English verse and of the English language as rich and profound this side of Shakespeare.\" I would agree. Among the modems, his only peer is Frost and, perhaps, Yeats.\n\nA knowledgeable reader would not be taken aback by that long list of Hardy admirers; some of them-Ransom, Auden, and Larkin, among others-clearly took him for their master. The only name that might perhaps surprise us is Ezra Pound, highest of High Modernists, and we might be still more surprised by how lavish Pound's praise was. Like almost everyone else, I vaguely knew that Pound respected him, and I recalled his having said, \"Nobody has taught me anything about writing since Thomas Hardy died,\" and also \"Now _there_ is clarity. There is the harvest of having written twenty novels first.\" (Fourteen, actually.) I asked my poet and scholar friends, many of whom have read more widely than I, and only two of them had ever come across Pound's writing on Hardy beyond those two oft-quoted remarks; nor did I know of it myself until three or four years ago. Some excerpts from _Guide to Kulchur_ (1938):\n\n... Expression coterminous with the matter. Nothing for disciples' exploitation. When we, if we live long enough, come to estimate the \"poetry of the period,\" against Hardy's 600 pages we will put what?\n\n... If I have, a few pages back, set a measure for music, I set another for poetry. No man can read Hardy's poems collected but that his own life, and forgotten moments of it, will come back to him, a flash here and an hour there. Have you a better test of true poetry?\n\n... No thoughtful writer can read this book of Hardy's without throwing his own work (in imagination) into the test-tube and hunting it for fustian, for the foolish word, for the word upholstered.\n\nHere also are poems that his French contemporaries, and those older a bit than he was\u2014the best of them\u2014could have respected. There is a flood of life caught in this crystal....\n\nAnd some from the anthology _Confucius_ to _Cummings_ (1964):\n\nClear page or palimpsest, Hardy registered an age. Of conventional mind, apparently, but of a very particular sensibility....\n\n... Contemporary for a long time with Browning on whom he improves, at his, Hardy's, best, taking over the marrow of the tradition....\n\n... No one trying to learn writing in regular, formed verse can learn better than in observing what Thomas Hardy accepted from Browning and what he pruned away....\n\n... The chronology in most of his collections is, he admits, jumbled. What I learned ... was the degree in which he would have had his mind on the SUBJECT MATTER, and how little he cared about manner, which does not in the least mean that he did not care about it or had not a definite aim. Also, having printed only four poems up to the age of fifty-eight, the lifetime spent in novel-writing gave him a magnificent tool kit, and if you have the sense to read without jingling, there is emphasis as it falls in the natural phrasing....\n\nNobody, on occasion, ever used rhyme with less insult to statement, but the road to this accomplishment left a number of botches, and a lot of words he would not have used in writing prose.\n\n... the poems of 1912-13 lift him to his apex, sixteen poems from \"The Going\" to \"At Castle Boterel,\" all good, and enough for a lifetime....\n\nIt is usually fruitless to ask _what if;_ still, I cannot but wonder if modern poetry might not have taken a somewhat different course had Pound paid this homage in the early twenties and had it been as widely known as _Make It New_ or other of Pound's influential essays of the time.\n\nThe only poet of stature to attack Hardy's work was T. S. Eliot, and he expressed his animadversion in very peculiar terms. He called Hardy \"a powerful personality uncurbed by any institutional attachment or by submission to any objective beliefs....\" At the time Eliot wrote this, he was a devout Anglo-Catholic, and it sounds as if he regarded Hardy as quite literally a heretic, one who chooses to think for himself\u2014converts are very passionate about their own \"objective beliefs,\" especially in confronting an apostate. He went on to censure Hardy for being \"indifferent even to the precepts of good writing: he wrote sometimes overpoweringly well, but always very carelessly; at times his style touches sublimity without ever having passed through the stage of being good.\" This strikes me as hilarious\u2014Eliot, surely an intelligent and sensitive reader, is obviously moved by the power of Hardy's writing but obscurely offended by the _way_ it moves him. It doesn't seem to have occurred to him, as it has to other readers, that the intermittent carelessness was part of the power, and that it was for the most part deliberate: Hardy was not indifferent to his _own_ precepts of good writing. And what law says that you have to be good before you can hope to be sublime? Life is so unfair. But Eliot at least had the sense to realize that his antipathy was too personal, too temperamental, to be of much use to anyone, and he admitted that it might have been better not to write about Hardy at all. Still, he let it stand. Odd.\n\nHaving tried without success to market his early verse, Hardy began around 1870 to write fiction. He did not wish to spend the rest of his life as an architect, and he needed an income sufficient to marry on. Bent on achieving commercial success, he was prepared to sacrifice a great deal to that end, readily agreeing to revisions and cuts suggested by the cautious editors of popular magazines. In his old age, after he had stopped writing fiction, he continually downplayed it. \"I was forced to manufacture my novels,\" he said, \"circumstances compelled me to turn them out.\" And to Vere Collins: \"I never cared very much about writing novels. And I should not have\u2014[pause]. Besides, I had written quite enough novels.\" (I suspect that what he was going to say before he paused, perhaps thinking better of it, was that if he could only have earned his livelihood as a poet, he would never have written a single novel.) But during the years that he was writing them, he took them seriously enough, and he had certain conscious and explicit aims, perhaps the most urgent of which was to record as fully and accurately as he could the culture of his native village and region, a way of life that had gone on virtually unchanged since the Middle Ages but was now rapidly disappearing in his own lifetime. He knew that the immense changes of the latter half of the nineteenth century had in many ways improved the lives of rural people and was glad for that, but he could not help regretting what had been lost, and elegizing it in novels, in poems, and in conversation:\n\nFor one thing, village tradition\u2014a vast mass of unwritten folk-lore, local chronicle, local topography and nomenclature\u2014is absolutely sinking, has nearly sunk, into eternal oblivion. I cannot recall a single instance of a labourer who still lives on the farm where he was born, and I can only recall a few who have been five years on their present farms. Thus you see, there being no continuity of environment in their lives, there is no continuity of information, the names, stories, and relics of one place being speedily forgotten under the incoming facts of the next. For example, if you ask one of the workfolk (they always used to be called \"workfolk\" hereabout\u2014\"labourers\" is an imported word) the names of surrounding hills, streams; the character and circumstances of people buried in particular graves; at what spots parish personages lie interred; questions on local fairies, ghosts, herbs, etc., they can give no answer: yet I can recollect the time when the places of burial even of the poor and tombless were all remembered, and the history of the parish and squire's family for 150 years back known. Such and such ballads appertained to such and such a locality, ghost tales were attached to particular sites, and nooks wherein wild herbs grew for the cure of divers maladies were pointed out readily.\n\nAnd he was enough of a Victorian and a moralist to want to do good: \"What are my books but one plea against 'man's inhumanity to man'\u2014to woman\u2014and to the lower animals?\" Nor could he resist the demands of his imagination. He did not cease being a poet while he was writing his novels, as any reader knows; many of the scenes we remember most vividly are the most poetic, like Troy's sword exercise in the hollow amid the ferns in _Far from the Madding Crowd_ or the brooding meditation on Egdon Heath that opens _The Return of the Native._ Coventry Patmore, like many other poets, loved _Under the Greenwood Tree,_ but said he wished it had been written in verse. One might say that Hardy became a great novelist in spite of himself.\n\nMost novelists have written poems at one time or another, but Hardy is the only writer in English literature, the only one I can think of, who can be said to have achieved greatness in both fiction and poetry. It is a very rare thing. Swift, Meredith, and Kipling are his only possible rivals, but as poets, though they are very good, none of them is in Hardy's class. The only other names that occur to me are Emily Bront\u00eb and Robert Louis Stevenson, both excellent novelists, but very minor poets.\n\n\"To be known as a good hand at a serial\" was an ambition he expressed more than once, and it is certainly modest\u2014characteristically so: everyone attested to his humility and self-effacement. His ambition as a poet may sound equally modest, to have \"a few poems in a good anthology, like Palgrave's,\" but that is in fact a large hope. Frost said, \"The utmost of ambition is to lodge a few poems where they will be hard to get rid of.\" And like Frost, Hardy has lodged more than a few.\n\nWhat is it that has given some of Hardy's critics so much trouble and incited them to deprecate his poetry? Perhaps its very accessibility; as Larkin put it, \"modern criticism thrives on the difficult\u2014either on explaining the difficult or explaining that what seemed straightforward is in fact difficult\u2014and Hardy is simple; his work contains little in thought or reference that needs elucidation, his language is unambiguous, his themes easily comprehensible.\" In some quarters, the kiss of death. But he is most commonly abused for his \"pessimism,\" his ideas, and the awkwardness of his verse and his diction. The charge of pessimism was the one that seems most to have set his teeth on edge, and one can see why. It is, after all, a rather crude category, \"a mere nickname,\" as he said, \"with no sense in it,\" and he thought, quite rightly, that it was an easy way for people to ignore or ward off those elements in his work that were, and are, disturbing. He tried more than once to explain himself: \"Differing natures find their tongue in the presence of differing spectacles. Some natures become vocal at tragedy, some are made vocal by comedy, and it seems to me that to whichever aspects of life a writer's instinct for expression the more readily responds, to that he should allow it to respond.\" He might have said, with Fulke Greville, that he \"chose not to write to them on whose foot the black ox had not already trod, as the proverb is, but to those that are weather-beaten in the sea of this world.\" But no, that wouldn't have helped; it was all to no avail, and he might have done best to say nothing. Such accusations in the heyday of Queen Victoria are understandable, but that they are still sometimes heard today is absurd. Compared to James Thomson, Housman, Kees, Larkin, or Plath, not to mention Beckett or Celine, Hardy seems almost upbeat. And in fact there is a lot of humor in his work, and joy too, as more than one reader has noticed. Pound said that \"Hardy stood for the joie de vivre,\" and Padraic Colum that \"the substance of his poetry comes from his love of life,\" and made a long list of the things that Hardy enjoyed and loved. And Larkin, while conceding that \"the dominant emotion in Hardy is sadness,\" did not fail to register his \"buoyancy and relish and toughness.\"\n\nAs Nietzsche said, \"All good things are powerful stimulants to life, even a good book which is written _against_ life.\" And there is this too, that with any good artist, the blackest and most turbulent feelings\u2014grief, indignation, despair\u2014are somehow inseparable from the pleasure of making, the lift, the exaltation that the work is striving toward. Think of Goya's morbid and violent etchings, the nightmarish scenes of rapine, slaughter, dismemberment: there is a gusto to it, is there not?\u2014the conveyed joy of the artist delighting in the exercise of his powers. Florence, Hardy's second wife, in a letter to a friend: \"Hardy is now, this afternoon, writing a poem with great spirit: always a sign of well-being with him. Needless to say, it is an intensely dismal poem.\"\n\nHardy considered himself and has generally been considered an agnostic, but what he really is is a Christian who is simply no longer able to believe in Christian doctrine and mythology. His piety goes far beyond being \"churchy,\" as he once described himself. Even his so-called pessimism is not so very different from the Christian vision of this world as seen through a glass darkly, a vale of tears from which death is an escape, a liberation, a victory. What he believed, or sometimes believed, or thought he believed, is that it is our tragedy to be burdened by consciousness\u2014\"Thought is a disease of the flesh,\" he wrote once\u2014and by a seemingly infinite capacity for suffering in a universe utterly indifferent to our desires, to our existence: \"The world does not despise us; it only neglects us.\" He was one of those men who never get over the discovery of how much pain there is in the world, not merely their own pain but that of other creatures, which they seem to feel as keenly as their own; he remained all his life at the mercy of what James Wright calls his \"defenseless compassion.\" No wonder he often thought of death as a friend and was more than half in love with it. How happy some of his ghosts are! If they are not in a state of bliss, they are certainly at peace: they murmur contentedly, they dance, they fervently hope there will be no resurrection. There is a curious mixture of gratitude and regret in the story he tells of being reclaimed from death by a midwife (\"Lizzie D ...\") attending at his birth. The doctor had laid him aside as stillborn, but she insisted he was alive, and she proved it. This is family lore and may well be apocryphal, but it was true for him, and there seems to me a subterranean connection between that near-miss and his lifelong obsession with a spectral existence, sleeping the long sleep, changing into grass or flowers\u2014all the many forms that death took in his imagination. If I may be forgiven for quoting myself, I have said this better in verse than I can do in prose:\n\n _Thrown away at birth, he was recovered,_   \n_Plucked from the swaddling-shroud, and chafed and slapped,_   \n_The crone implacable. At last he shivered,_   \n_Drew the first breath, and howled, and lay there, trapped_   \n_In a world from which there is but one escape_   \n_And that forestalled now almost ninety years._   \n_In such a scene as he himself might shape,_   \n_The maker of a thousand songs appears._\n\n_From this it follows, all the ironies_   \n_Life plays on one whose fate it is to follow_   \n_The way of things, the suffering one sees,_   \n_The many cups of bitterness he must swallow_   \n_Before he is permitted to be gone_   \n_Where he was headed in that early dawn._\n\nI have been thinking about the account that Michael Millgate, Hardy's magisterial biographer, gives of his death, and trying to imagine it. How strange to think that this man, who wrote about death continually, who was preoccupied with it for some eighty years, who had witnessed at least two hangings and held up a candle at an autopsy and supervised the digging up of corpses to remove them to another graveyard, who had meditated on death, studied it, felt its attraction, should at the very moment of death raise his head from the pillow, eyes wide open, and clasping his sister-in-law's hand, cry out, \"Eva, what is this?\"\n\nVirginia Woolf, reviewing one of Hardy's novels:\n\nNothing is more necessary in reading an imaginative writer, than to keep the right distance above his page. Nothing is easier, especially with a writer of marked idiosyncracy, than to fasten on opinions, convict him of a creed, tether him to a consistent point of view.\n\nAnd what she warned against is exactly what happened. He was attacked for opinions that were regarded by many as blasphemous and immoral, a threat against Victorian social arrangements, against the class system, the subjection of women, dogmas religious and secular\u2014he was convicted of a creed. He has been faulted by later critics for the ubiquity and rigidity of his ideas and for imposing them rather mechanically on his poems. We must concede that some of the less memorable poems seem to have been written in order to demonstrate yet again the cruelty and indifference of fate, the blindness of what, among other things, he liked to call the Immanent Will; and it must be admitted that he did not always handle such ideas with the greatest subtlety or sophistication. When he objected to being called a pessimist, he would insist that he was an \"evolutionary meliorist,\" whatever that may be; Ransom defines it with droll finality: \"For what is evolutionary meliorism? It is the synthetic oleomargarine which stem Darwinists used to spread over the bread of doctrine when they denied themselves the old-fashioned butter of belief in a moral order.\" But Hardy was tethered to a philosophy against his will; he said over and over again that his poems recorded not convictions but impressions. We may well feel that the ideas were necessary to him; he was by nature a feeler not a reasoner, and without a carapace of more or less \"objective\" ideas, he might have been quite overwhelmed by his powerful sensibility. He may have thought of Nature in terms of blind matter and will, random change, the struggle for existence, but he saw it as fully alive, full of spirits, a visible world whose intimations led continuously to an invisible one. Ransom again: \"Nature for him was an insoluble ambiguity. From the philosopher in him it exacted the not-so-distinguished tribute of hateful indignation.... From the poet it usually got faithful perception and love.\" His ideas may sometimes make us smile, but they are surely a good deal more humane or at least less harmful than many of Eliot's ideas, or Pound's, and much less silly than many of Yeats's. But in the end the ideas don't really matter. John Bayley, whose book An _Essay on Hardy_ is full of tender and radiant insights, puts it beautifully. First he takes issue with John Berryman and Donald Davie, and surely many others, who see the end of \"The Darkling Thrush\" as ironic, and he argues persuasively that \"nothing in the poem is aware of the possibility of being organised for purposes of irony; its participants are preoccupied with their own affairs, the poet not least.\" And then: \"One can suspect that the exasperation felt by so many of his readers at his 'philosophy,' and the emphatic ways in which they drew attention to its anomaly, was because his effect on them\u2014his power to move them in particular\u2014did not really seem much connected with it. Such a hiatus irritated the late Victorian mind, accustomed to continuity between attitude, system, and feeling, alike in Tennyson as in George Eliot.\" No, the ideas that matter in Hardy are the poetic ideas, which are another thing entirely, ideas as much emotional as intellectual, as much technical as emotional, and to be found only in the experience of the poems themselves\u2014the honesty of response, the exactness and delicacy of perception, the seeking after and discovery of right feeling, \"the closeness of phrase to vision\"\u2014the sense we get from great poetry that the moral and the aesthetic are rarely, if ever, separate things.\n\nHis much remarked awkwardness was, like the carelessness that Eliot complained of, largely deliberate\u2014he considered it a warrant for sincerity, and for the most part it does work that way. When he uses his strange mix of language\u2014standard and dialect words, poetical words, rare words, scientific terms, coinages, archaisms\u2014a hodgepodge diction unlike anything else in English poetry, not to mention the occasionally convoluted syntax and other odd quirks of style, he is after something, some truth, some accuracy of representation. Of course he sometimes fails in the attempt\u2014how could he not in the course of almost a thousand poems?\u2014but it is astonishing how often he succeeds. As E. A. Robinson said once, he may stumble a good deal, but he always gets there. Nor is he as eccentric as he is sometimes made out to be. J.I.M. Stewart has observed that the more intensely Hardy is moved by his subject, the less idiosyncratic his accent and the simpler his diction. What demonstrates the truth of the contention that he usually employs an outlandish language for particular effects is the large number of poems in which he writes very soberly, in the plain style, the syntax simple and direct, the words in their natural order. It happens far too often to be accidental.\n\nHis versification can also seem strange at first, for he sounds like no one else. I can think of no other poet who has devised so many and such intricate stanza forms and rhyme schemes\u2014in this he much resembles George Herbert\u2014and the variety of sounds is seemingly endless; as Larkin says, \"... each [poem] has a little tune of its own, and this is something you can say of very few poets.\" (It was important to Frost too; he wrote, \"Few will dare or deign to dispute that the prime object of composing poetry is to keep any two poems from sounding alike,\" and commented at a reading that his poems \"make so many different sounds\u2014I don't write them all the same day. I have to keep them well separated so they'll _have_ different sounds.\") Hardy is a master of verse and knows exactly what he's doing. Ransom said that no poet understood the function of meter better than Hardy and had the highest praise for the sureness and delicacy of his ear and his fresh way with the meters, which, he said, \"this poet loved with a passion and managed with utmost ingenuity.\" One beautiful example that comes to mind is \"The Missed Train,\" where his characteristic anapest, with either the first or second unaccented syllable strongly stressed, grows suddenly more frequent and audible in the last two stanzas, heavier and slower, so that \"if you have the sense to read without jingling, there is emphasis as it falls in the natural phrasing\"\u2014\n\n _Years, years as shoaled s\u00e9as_   \n_Truly, str\u00e9tch now between! Less and l\u00e9ss_   \n_Shrink the visions then vast in me._ \u2014 _Y\u00e9s,_   \n_Then in m\u00e9: Now in th\u00e9se._\n\nthey seem not so much anapests as amphimacers: \"Th\u00e9n in m\u00e9: N\u00f3w in th\u00e9se.\" The movement of these lines brings tears to my eyes.\n\nHe has also been censured sometimes for what seems a tendency to force the rhymes, and it is true that in fulfilling his commitment in complicated stanza forms and intricate rhyme schemes he will occasionally reach for a too poetical word or an eccentric one. But more often he is wondrously dexterous in his rhyming, and it is important to remember that he is rarely very far from song, so that what might sound somewhat forced in a sonnet, say, or heroic couplets comes off easily and naturally enough in the conventions of song, as in\n\n _Her smiles would have shone_   \n_With welcomings.... But_   \n_She is shut, she is shut_   \n_From friendship's spell_   \n_In the jailing shell_   \n_Of her tiny cell._\n\nor in the even more abruptly enjambed line two stanzas later,\n\n _And peered in the rime_   \n_Of Candlemas-time_   \n_For crocuses.... chanced_   \n_It that she were not tranced_   \n_From sights she loved best;_   \n_Wholly possessed_   \n_By an infinite rest!_\n\n\u2014which doesn't seem all that different from a beautiful run-on rhyme I heard in a Randy Travis song not very long ago:\n\n_I need your love, I miss it;_   \n_We can't go on like this_ \u2014 _it_   \n_H\u00farts to\u00f3 m\u00fach!_\n\nHardy would have relished that, having taken up the measures of his own country singers.\n\nPoor Hardy\u2014he also makes trouble for the professors by having been so inconsiderate as to be born too early and die too late, so not fitting comfortably into any of the convenient academic categories. Is he a Victorian or a modern? A Victorian novelist and a modem poet? Or perhaps the other way round, as one rash soul has ventured? Even Mr. Ransom, one of his most loving and discerning critics, worries a little about where to put him. I think that no one has addressed this question with more insight or more humility than Ransom's old fellow Fugitive, Donald Davidson:\n\nHardy wrote, or tried to write, more or less as a modern\u2014modern, for him, being late nineteenth century. But he thought, or artistically conceived, like a man of another century\u2014indeed, of a century that we should be hard put to name. It might be better to say that he wrote like a creator of tales and poems who is a little embarrassed at having to adapt the creation of tales and poems to the condition of a written, or printed, literature, and yet tries to do his faithful best under the regrettable circumstances. He is not in any sense a \"folk author\" and yet he does approach his tale-telling and poem-making as if three centuries of Renaissance effort had worked only upon the outward form of tale and poem without changing its essential character....\n\nHardy is the only specimen of his genus in modem English literature, and I do not know how to account for him. He has no immediate predecessors....\n\nHardy made poems continually out of whatever material came to hand or mind. Making them was simply his way of being in the world, and anything he ever saw, heard, felt, thought, read about, was grist for his mill. Over a period of seventy years, more or less, he was bound to write some bad ones\u2014but he took his chances and, more often than not, he scored. For example: on April 15, 1900, Hardy wrote in his notebook, \"Easter Sunday. Watched a blackbird on a budding sycamore. Was near enough to see his tongue, and crocus-coloured bill parting and closing as he sang. He flew down, picked up a stem of hay, and flew up to where he was building.\" With remarkably few changes, mostly to get it moving in meter and to nail the rhymes, this became a poem:\n\n _I watched a blackbird on a budding sycamore_   \n_One Easter Day, when sap was stirring twigs to the core;_   \n_I saw his tongue, and crocus-coloured bill_   \n_Parting and closing as he turned his trill;_   \n_Then he flew down, seized on a stem of hay,_   \n_And upped to where his building scheme was under way,_   \n_As if so sure a nest were never shaped on spray._\n\nNext to nothing added to the original rapt observation. Slight, yes, but lovely, and many of us would be pleased to have written it.\n\nSuch poems tell us something about the naturalness and purity of the man, alert to the tiniest events, things that go unnoticed by most people, or if noticed, not regarded as very important. Virginia Woolf paid Hardy a visit in 1926; it's not unlikely that the famous dog Wessex tried to bite her, but the old man was very glad to see her, her father, Leslie Stephen, having been a great friend of his for more than thirty years, as well as one of the first editors to help him establish himself as a professional writer. She wrote a charming account of the visit in _A Writer's Diary:_\n\nIndeed, there was no trace to my thinking of the simple peasant. He seemed perfectly aware of everything; in no doubt or hesitation; having made up his mind; and being delivered of all of his work, so that he was in no doubt about that either. He was not interested much in his novels, or in anybody's novels; took it all easily and naturally.... He seemed to be free of it all; very active-minded; liking to describe people, not to talk in an abstract way; for example Col. Lawrence, bicycling with a broken arm \"held like that\".... There was not a trace anywhere of deference to editors, or respect for rank or extreme simplicity. What impressed me was his freedom, ease and vitality. He seemed very \"Great Victorian\" doing the whole thing with a sweep of his hand (they are ordinary smallish, curled up hands) and setting no great stock by literature, but immensely interested in facts; incidents; and somehow, one could imagine, naturally swept off into imagining and creating without a thought of its being difficult or remarkable; becoming obsessed; and living in imagination.... _[speaking of the books of the day, Hardy said]_ \"They've changed everything now. We used to think there was a beginning and a middle and an end. We believed in the Aristotelian theory. Now one of those stories came to an end with a woman going out of the room.\" He chuckled. But he no longer reads novels. The whole thing\u2014literature, novels, etc., all seemed to him an amusement, far away too, scarcely to be taken seriously. Yet he had sympathy and pity for those still engaged in it. But what his secret interests and activities are\u2014to what occupation he trotted off when we left him\u2014I do not know. Small boys write to him from New Zealand and have to be answered. They bring out a \"Hardy number\" of a Japanese paper, which he produced. Talked too about Blunden. I think Mrs. Hardy keeps him posted in the doings of the younger poets.\n\nHe was always open to new things and interested in what was going on, and he was not too proud to learn from lesser poets. (He was not proud at all.) Eliot may have found Hardy's work hard to swallow, but Hardy thought Eliot's poems very interesting. He admired \"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock\" and copied passages from it into his notebook. And in spite of his dislike of _vers libre_ (he wrote to a friend, \"the original sinner was Whitman, who, I always think, wrote as he did, formlessly, because he could do no better\"), he read \"The Waste Land\" with great care, made notes and copied parts of it too in his notebook. Although he had but seven or eight years of formal schooling, he became a rather learned man, and he seems to have read every poem he could lay his hands on. He liked Emily Dickinson very much and copied out a couple of her poems, \"Apparently with no surprise\" and \"I died for beauty\"\u2014both of them rather Hardyesque, aren't they.\n\nHardyesque, but not Hardy. Hardy's voice is always immediately recognizable\u2014he is inimitably himself. But he can enter deeply and sympathetically into an astonishing variety of lives. In this selection alone, he assumes the voices of an old maid, a whore, a carpenter, the ghost of his wife, a trampwoman, falling leaves, a widow, a man about to abandon his family, a frightened young bride, a dog, Death, the moon, a star, rooks and starlings, jilted swains, old soldiers, God, and a calf! And this brings me to another quality, perhaps the most beautiful of all, which I have touched on only lightly, the quality that one writer has tried to describe by saying that Hardy's poems are not written for us, or for _any_ audience one can think of\u2014we overhear him as he speaks to himself. Many readers have felt him to be the least pretentious of writers. He pays the closest attention to his subject, to the rhyme and meter, everything that goes into the making of a poem, but seemingly without the least consciousness of what anyone may think of it\u2014even himself. Inside this attentive, skillful, practiced artist is someone utterly innocent and undesigning. One never feels in Hardy, as in Yeats, say, any effort to dazzle. He is not interested in dazzle, he is interested in the truth, in the song. In hundreds of poems he looks out at the world with an eyelid's soundless blink\u2014an eye without an I. He has no fear of sentiment or of the obvious; he has none of our hard, modem knowingness. There is a beautiful epigram by Walter Sickert that made me think of Hardy the first time I came across it: \"The whole of art is one long roll of revelation, and it is revealed only to those whose minds are to some extent what Horace, speaking of a woman whose heart is free, calls vacant. It is not for those whose minds are muddied with the dirt of politics, or heated with the vulgar chatter of society.\" Bayley sometimes comes closer than anyone to anatomizing this innocence in Hardy: he says that Hardy seems not \"to possess a self in any of the senses to which the romantic poets and theorists, the philosophers and the novelists, have accustomed us. His presence is much more indeterminately personal, self-delighting but not self-scrutinising, a tremulous tender fleeting entity, like the Emperor Hadrian's _'animula vagula blandula_ '\u2014a phrase which must have held an appeal for Hardy, for he quotes it more than once.\" (This phrase, essentially untranslatable, might possibly be rendered as \"little charmer, wayward little soul of mine.\") He has a kind of purity and inwardness that is uncommon in poets\u2014in people, come to that. He does not perform, he is not looking our way, he has no need to impress us. Here is Bayley again, speaking about the \"extraordinary happiness\" in \"A Procession of Dead Days,\" as Hardy greets each day, each one quite oblivious of all the others: \"The absorption is wonderfully endearing, yet, as a phrase like \u2014'Ah, this one. Yes, I know his name'\u2014shows, it is the kind of rapt and homely absorption that would once have belonged to devotional poetry.\" And then: \"... Stinsford was holy ground to Hardy as his church at Bemerton was to Herbert\u2014except for the dogma the location rested in. The fervour comes home to us as if we shared an essential orthodoxy, which in a sense we do, for Hardy is the reverse of heretical. He does not substitute a new belief or attitude but continues in the old one, having ceased to believe it. His poetry is an aspect of the liturgy, God having as solid an existence in his art as he did in the old worship. For the saints, and a saintly poet like Herbert, humour is part of a secure belief, and it is typical that Hardy still assumes this kind of security, the belief having gone.\" I find this insight brilliant and true and moving. And perhaps it is for this quality that we love Hardy and overlook, or even enjoy, the bad poems, bad poems such as only a great poet could have written. John Crowe Ransom speaks for all of us who\n\nconsent to the charge that Hardy is an uneven poet, and capable of marring fine poems by awkward and tasteless passages; and even of writing whole poems that now are too harsh, and again are too merely pedestrian. For some reason, however, I must confess that these lapses have often seemed to endear the poet to me.... and I can think of but one way to rationalize so odd a reception: by the consideration that \"bad form,\" though generally a thing to be reprehended, is possibly under one circumstance to be approved : where we feel that the ignorance behind it is the condition of the innocence and spontaneity we admire.\n\n\"I can say no more; I have even said too much.\" James Gibson, in a recent letter, seems to have summed up my essay in a single sentence: \"The range of subject-matter, the assumption that poetry can be about anything and should be available to everybody, the tenderness, the wisdom, the honesty, the loving-kindness beneath so much of what he wrote, the incredible technical skill and the erudition.... they never cease to astonish me.\" I shall leave the last word to Ezra Pound: \"A conscientious critic might be hard put to it to find just praise for Hardy's poems. When a writer's matter is stated with such entirety and such clarity there is no place left for the explaining critic.... Poem after poem of Hardy's leaves one with nowt more to say.\"\nCHRONOLOGY\n\nSUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING\n\nAuden, W. H. \"A Literary Transference.\" _Southern Review,_ Summer 1940.\n\nBailey, J. O. _The Poetry of Thomas Hardy: A Handbook and Commentary._ Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1970.\n\nBaker, Howard. \"Hardy's Poetic Certitude.\" _Southern Review,_ Summer 1940.\n\nBayley, John. _An Essay on Hardy._ Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978.\n\nGibson, James, ed. _The Complete Poems of Thomas Hardy._ New York: Macmillan, 1978.\n\nGuerard, Albert, ed. _Thomas Hardy: A Collection of Critical Essays._ Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963.\n\nGunn, Thom. \"Hardy and the Ballads,\" _The Occasions of Poetry._ San Francisco: North Point Press, 1985.\n\nHardy, Florence Emily. _The Life of Thomas Hardy,_ 1840-1928. London: Macmillan, 1962.\n\nHynes, Samuel, ed. _The Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hardy._ Oxford: Oxford University Press, Vol. 1, 1982; Vol. 2, 1984; Vol. 3, 1985.\n\nLarkin, Philip. \"Wanted: Good Hardy Critic\" and \"The Poetry of Hardy.\" _Required Writing._ New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1982.\n\nMillgate, Michael. _Thomas Hardy: A Biography._ New York: Random House, 1982.\n\n, ed. _Selected Letters of Thomas Hardy._ Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990.\n\nRansom, John Crowe. \"Honey and Gall.\" _Southern Review,_ Summer 1940.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014. Introduction to _Selected Poems of Thomas Hardy._ New York: Macmillan, 1961.\n\nSchwartz, Delmore. \"Poetry and Belief in Thomas Hardy.\" _Southern Review,_ Summer 1940.\n\nTaylor, Dennis. _Hardy's Metres and Victorian Prosody._ Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014. _Hardy's Poetry,_ 1860-1928. London: Macmillan, 1989.\n\nZabel, Morton Dauwen. \"Hardy in Defense of His Art: The Aesthetic of Incongruity.\" _Southern Review,_ Summer 1940.\nNOTE ON THE SELECTION\n\nMore than one editor has felt the need to join in the ritual apology that Hardy resists selection, that there is little agreement about which poems best display his greatness and his characteristic qualities, and that one's own selection must needs be personal and subjective. It is easy to understand what prompts these concessions. Anyone who has already fallen under his spell will want all 950 or so poems to wander around in. As Philip Larkin has said, \"One can read him for years and years and still be surprised, and I think that's a marvellous thing to find in any poet.\"\n\nLarkin also \"trumpet[s] the assurance that one reader at least would not wish Hardy's _Collected Poems_ a single page shorter....\" There is a touch of truculent exaggeration in that assurance, considering Larkin's fastidiousness in publishing his own very slender books, but I know what he means. There is much to be said for reading Hardy's poems by the hundreds, and I would readily agree that no selection can take the place of the vast jungle of _The Complete Poems,_ where one may come across a poem one has not seen for years and forgotten, or nearly forgotten, and find it lovely, in part or all, and realize too that in certain respects the lesser poems are often not dramatically dif ferent from the greater poems. But even granting all this, I do not assent to the commonplace claim that every selection can be no more than merely personal\u2014a claim belied by the fact that every editor has done a considerable amount of work and gone to some trouble to present his selected Hardy to the public: surely he must believe that his \"merely personal\" selection is the best. In any case, I am addressing myself here to those readers of poetry who have not yet read Hardy, or who know him only by the four or five standards that are continually recycled in the anthologies. (There, there is all too _much_ agreement.) Those who already love him and know him will take their satisfaction in finding this selection, like all the others, unsatisfactory.\n\nHardy, when he was editing a selection of William Barnes's poems, took note of just those perplexities that confront an editor selecting _his_ poems. He wrote that \"many a poem of indifferent achievement in its wholeness may contain some line, couplet, or stanza of great excellence; and contrariwise, a bad or irrelevant verse may mar the good remainder; in each case the choice is puzzled, and the balance struck by a single mind can hardly escape being questioned here and there.\" Choosing a hundred of Hardy's finest poems was easy; it was the next seventy or eighty that were rather hard to settle on. There are hundreds of poems that I am fond of or find interesting, but given my limitations of space, I wanted a modest number of fully realized poems that would attract readers who do not already know that Hardy is one of the greatest poets in our language. I have also kept in mind a useful remark by Ezra Pound: \"In the midst of a mass (800 pages good and bad together) of quite ordinary verse and verse experiment, one wants to make a valid selection, implying the history of Hardy's technical biography, a technique consisting largely in sloughing off all that wasn't the essential Hardy and only Hardy....\" My selection makes it clear that, for me, the essential Hardy is a master of the plain style, the maker of such poems as \"The House of Hospitalities,\" \"After the Last Breath,\" \"My Spirit Will Not Haunt the Mound,\" \"At Castle Boterel,\" \"Old Furniture,\" \"No Buyers,\" \"One Who Married Above Him,\" and so many more, all unmistakably Hardy but for the most part free of his more striking idiosyncracies. Although a number of his finest poems are admittedly eccentric in style, he is generally at his best when his diction is most direct and simple. I believe that my other criteria are implicit in my remarks on individual poems, either in my notes or in the introductory essay.\n\nI know that I have omitted a few poems that perhaps some readers will miss\u2014\"The Subalterns,\" for example\u2014but I have not kept any poem that I do not wholeheartedly like. I have also been forced by economic considerations to omit some poems that I would otherwise certainly have included. Although Hardy died childless seventy years ago and is by now part of our common patrimony, his last two books are still \"owned\" by a large publishing house which aims to make as much money as possible out of them in the last year or so before they join the earlier books in the public domain. I have therefore dropped five or ten poems that I love or admire, among them \"The Later Autumn,\" \"On the Esplanade,\" and \"Silences.\"\n\nFor all my confidence in my own judgment, I have tested a great many of my choices against the opinions of a few friends, poets themselves, for whose literary taste and intelligence I have immense respect, and while I did not always accept their advice, I took it under advisement and relied on it more often than not in making up my mind about poems I was not sure of. They suggested a few beautiful pieces I had overlooked, and they induced me to drop most of the few poems for which my affection is \"merely personal.\" Needless to say, they are not responsible for any of my errors or misjudgments. They have my warmest thanks\u2014David Ferry, Peter Everwine, John Hollander, Ronald Goodman, Edgar Bowers, Dick Barnes, and most of all, Donald Justice, who was as always very generous with his time; his close and attentive reading of my manuscript supplied me with scores of useful suggestions. I am grateful to Thomas Pinney for his great learning and his knowledge of Hardy, not to mention his always sharp eye for my solecisms and infelicities; I am a better writer for his help. I wish to express thanks to Laurie Glover, who did almost all of the collating and ascertaining of the texts with her customary care and patience; and to Esther Cristol, who was kind enough to send me some material that I had not seen and that proved very useful. I am deeply indebted to many scholars and critics, especially Dennis Taylor, Donald Davidson, John Bayley, and my dear teacher, John Crowe Ransom. It should go without saying that no scholar or editor can write about Hardy without gratitude for the loving labor and intelligence of James Gibson and of Samuel Hynes, both for their writings about Hardy's poetry and for their exemplary editions, Gibson for _The Complete Poems of Thomas Hardy,_ Macmillan, 1976, and Hynes for _The Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hardy,_ Oxford University Press, 1982- 85. The books of J. O. Bailey, F. B. Pinion, and Alan Hurst have been helpful to me, as they have no doubt been helpful to a great many readers, and I cannot imagine what I would do without Michael Millgate's scrupulous and admirable biography, Thomas Hardy. I owe particular thanks to Dr. Gibson and his wife Helen for their several kindnesses and generosities to me and to Donald and Jean Justice when we sojourned in Dorset; and also to Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Leah, the present tenants of Max Gate, for their friendly welcome and for a poignant perambulation of the house and grounds. And not least, my heart-felt thanks to Eileen for her love and encouragement, and her long endurance of my quirks and obsessions.\nDOMICILIUM\n\nIt faces west, and round the back and sides   \nHigh beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs,   \nAnd sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks   \nClimb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish   \n(If we may fancy wish of trees and plants)   \nTo overtop the apple-trees hard by.\n\nRed roses, lilacs, variegated box   \nAre there in plenty, and such hardy flowers   \nAs flourish best untrained. Adjoining these   \nAre herbs and esculents; and farther still   \nA field; then cottages with trees, and last   \nThe distant hills and sky.\n\nBehind, the scene is wilder. Heath and furze   \nAre everything that seems to grow and thrive   \nUpon the uneven ground. A stunted thorn   \nStands here and there, indeed; and from a pit   \nAn oak uprises, springing from a seed   \nDropped by some bird a hundred years ago.\n\nIn days bygone\u2014\n\nLong gone\u2014my father's mother, who is now   \nBlest with the blest, would take me out to walk.   \nAt such a time I once inquired of her   \nHow looked the spot when first she settled here.   \nThe answer I remember. \"Fifty years   \nHave passed since then, my child, and change has marked   \nThe face of all things. Yonder garden-plots   \nAnd orchards were uncultivated slopes   \nO'ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn:   \nThat road a narrow path shut in by ferns,   \nWhich, almost trees, obscured the passer-by.   \n\"Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs   \nAnd beeches were not planted. Snakes and efts   \nSwarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats   \nWould fly about our bedrooms. Heathcroppers   \nLived on the hills, and were our only friends;   \nSo wild it was when first we settled here.\"\n**From WESSEX POEMS AND OTHER VERSES**\n\n#  HAP\n\nIf but some vengeful god would call to me   \nFrom up the sky, and laugh: \"Thou suffering thing,   \nKnow that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,   \nThat thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!\"\n\nThen would I bear it, clench myself, and die,   \nSteeled by the sense of ire unmerited;   \nHalf-eased in that a Powerfuller than I   \nHad willed and meted me the tears I shed.\n\nBut not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,   \nAnd why unblooms the best hope ever sown?   \n\u2014Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,   \nAnd dicing Time for gladness casts a moan....   \nThese purblind Doomsters had as readily strown   \nBlisses about my pilgrimage as pain.\n\n_1866_\n\n#  NEUTRAL TONES\n\nWe stood by a pond that winter day,   \nAnd the sun was white, as though chidden of God,   \nAnd a few leaves lay on the starving sod;\n\n\u2014They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.\n\nYour eyes on me were as eyes that rove   \nOver tedious riddles of years ago;   \nAnd some words played between us to and fro   \nOn which lost the more by our love.   \nThe smile on your mouth was the deadest thing   \nAlive enough to have strength to die;   \nAnd a grin of bitterness swept thereby   \nLike an ominous bird a-wing....\n\nSince then, keen lessons that love deceives,   \nAnd wrings with wrong, have shaped to me   \nYour face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,   \nAnd a pond edged with grayish leaves.\n\n_1867_\n\n#  SHE, TO HIM II\n\nPerhaps, long hence, when I have passed away,   \nSome other's feature, accent, thought like mine,   \nWill carry you back to what I used to say,   \nAnd bring some memory of your love's decline.\n\nThen you may pause awhile and think, \"Poor jade!\"   \nAnd yield a sigh to me\u2014as ample due,   \nNot as the tittle of a debt unpaid   \nTo one who could resign her all to you\u2014\n\nAnd thus reflecting, you will never see   \nThat your thin thought, in two small words conveyed,   \nWas no such fleeting phantom-thought to me,   \nBut the Whole Life wherein my part was played;   \nAnd you amid its fitful masquerade   \nA Thought\u2014as I in your life seem to be!\n\n_1866_\n\n#  FRIENDS BEYOND\n\nWilliam Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at   \nplough,   \nRobert's kin, and John's, and Ned's,   \nAnd the Squire, and Lady Susan, lie in Mellstock churchyard   \nnow!\n\n\"Gone,\" I call them, gone for good, that group of local   \nhearts and heads;   \nYet at mothy curfew-tide,   \nAnd at midnight when the noon-heat breathes it back from   \nwalls and leads,\n\nThey've a way of whispering to me\u2014fellow-wight who yet   \nabide\u2014  \nIn the muted, measured note   \nOf a ripple under archways, or a lone cave's stillicide:\n\n\"We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to   \nantidote,   \nUnsuccesses to success,   \nMany thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free of   \nthought.\n\n\"No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial   \nstress;   \nChill detraction stirs no sigh;   \nFear of death has even bygone us: death gave all that we   \npossess. \"\n\n_W.D.\u2014_ \"Ye mid burn the old bass-viol that I set such value   \nby.\"   \n_Squire._ \u2014\"You may hold the manse in fee,   \nYou may wed my spouse, may let my children's memory   \nof me die.\"\n\n_Lady_ S.\u2014\"You may have my rich brocades, my laces; take   \neach household key;   \nRansack coffer, desk, bureau;   \nQuiz the few poor treasures hid there, con the letters kept   \nby me.\"\n\n_Far._ \u2014\"Ye mid zell my favourite heifer, ye mid let the charlock   \ngrow,   \nFoul the grinterns, give up thrift.\"   \n_Far. Wife._ \u2014\"If ye break my best blue china, children, I   \nshan't care or ho.\"\n\n_All._ \u2014\"We've no wish to hear the tidings, how the people's   \nfortunes shift;   \nWhat your daily doings are;   \nWho are wedded, born, divided; if your lives beat slow   \nor swift.\n\n\"Curious not the least are we if our intents you make or   \nmar,\n\nIf you quire to our old tune,   \nIf the City stage still passes, if the weirs still roar afar.\"\n\n\u2014Thus, with very gods' composure, freed those crosses late   \nand soon   \nWhich, in life, the Trine allow   \n(Why, none witteth), and ignoring all that haps beneath the   \nmoon,\n\nWilliam Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at   \nplough,   \nRobert's kin, and John's, and Ned's,   \nAnd the Squire, and Lady Susan, murmur mildly to me now.\n\n#  NATURE'S QUESTIONING\n\nWhen I look forth at dawning, pool,   \nField, flock, and lonely tree,   \nAll seem to gaze at me   \nLike chastened children sitting silent in a school;\n\nTheir faces dulled, constrained, and worn,   \nAs though the master's way   \nThrough the long teaching day   \nHad cowed them till their early zest was overborne.\n\nUpon them stirs in lippings mere   \n(As if once clear in call,   \nBut now scarce breathed at all)\u2014  \n\"We wonder, ever wonder, why we find us here!\n\n\"Has some Vast Imbecility,   \nMighty to build and blend,   \nBut impotent to tend,   \nFramed us in jest, and left us now to hazardry?\n\n\"Or come we of an Automaton   \nUnconscious of our pains? ...   \nOr are we live remains   \nOf Godhead dying downwards, brain and eye now gone?\n\n\"Or is it that some high Plan betides,   \nAs yet not understood,   \nOf Evil stormed by Good,   \nWe the Forlorn Hope over which Achievement strides?\"\n\nThus things around. No answerer I....   \nMeanwhile the winds, and rains,   \nAnd Earth's old glooms and pains   \nAre still the same, and Life and Death are neighbours nigh.\n\n#  IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY\n\nThe years have gathered grayly   \nSince I danced upon this leaze   \nWith one who kindled gaily   \nLove's fitful ecstasies!   \nBut despite the term as teacher,   \nI remain what I was then   \nIn each essential feature   \nOf the fantasies of men.\n\nYet I note the little chisel   \nOf never-napping Time   \nDefacing wan and grizzel   \nThe blazon of my prime.   \nWhen at night he thinks me sleeping   \nI feel him boring sly   \nWithin my bones, and heaping   \nQuaintest pains for by-and-by.\n\nStill, I'd go the world with Beauty,   \nI would laugh with her and sing,   \nI would shun divinest duty   \nTo resume her worshipping.   \nBut she'd scorn my brave endeavour,   \nShe would not balm the breeze   \nBy murmuring \"Thine for ever!\"   \nAs she did upon this leaze.\n\n#  \"I LOOK INTO MY GLASS\"\n\nI look into my glass,   \nAnd view my wasting skin,   \nAnd say, \"Would God it came to pass   \nMy heart had shrunk as thin!\"\n\nFor then, I, undistrest   \nBy hearts grown cold to me,   \nCould lonely wait my endless rest   \nWith equanimity.\n\nBut Time, to make me grieve,   \nPart steals, lets part abide;   \nAnd shakes this fragile frame at eve   \nWith throbbings of noontide.\nFrom POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT\n\n#  EMBARCATION\n\n_(Southampton Docks: October 1899)_\n\nHere, where Vespasian's legions struck the sands,   \nAnd Cerdic with his Saxons entered in,   \nAnd Henry's army leapt afloat to win   \nConvincing triumphs over neighbour lands,\n\nVaster battalions press for further strands,   \nTo argue in the selfsame bloody mode   \nWhich this late age of thought, and pact, and code,   \nStill fails to mend.\u2014Now deckward tramp the bands,\n\nYellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring;   \nAnd as each host draws out upon the sea   \nBeyond which lies the tragical To-be,   \nNone dubious of the cause, none murmuring,\n\nWives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile,   \nAs if they knew not that they weep the while.\n\n#  DRUMMER HODGE\n\n##  I\n\nThey throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest   \nUncoffined\u2014just as found:   \nHis landmark is a kopje-crest   \nThat breaks the veldt around;   \nAnd foreign constellations west   \nEach night above his mound.\n\n##  II\n\nYoung Hodge the Drummer never knew\u2014  \nFresh from his Wessex home\u2014  \nThe meaning of the broad Karoo,   \nThe Bush, the dusty loam,   \nAnd why uprose to nightly view   \nStrange stars amid the gloam.\n\n##  III\n\nYet portion of that unknown plain   \nWill Hodge for ever be;   \nHis homely Northern breast and brain   \nGrow to some Southern tree,   \nAnd strange-eyed constellations reign   \nHis stars eternally.\n\n#  THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN\n\n##  I\n\nThe thick lids of Night closed upon me   \nAlone at the Bill   \nOf the Isle by the Race\u2014  \nMany-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face\u2014  \nAnd with darkness and silence the spirit was on me   \nTo brood and be still.\n\n##  II\n\nNo wind fanned the flats of the ocean,   \nOr promontory sides,   \nOr the ooze by the strand,   \nOr the bent-bearded slope of the land,   \nWhose base took its rest amid everlong motion   \nOf criss-crossing tides.\n\n##  III\n\nSoon from out of the Southward seemed nearing   \nA whirr, as of wings   \nWaved by mighty-vanned flies,   \nOr by night-moths of measureless size,   \nAnd in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearing   \nOf corporal things.\n\n##  IV\n\nAnd they bore to the bluff, and alighted\u2014  \nA dim-discerned train   \nOf sprites without mould,   \nFrameless souls none might touch or might hold\u2014  \nOn the ledge by the turreted lantern, far-sighted   \nBy men of the main.\n\n##  V\n\nAnd I heard them say \"Home!\" and I knew them   \nFor souls of the felled   \nOn the earth's nether bord   \nUnder Capricorn, whither they'd warred,   \nAnd I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them   \nWith breathings inheld.\n\n##  VI\n\nThen, it seemed, there approached from the northward   \nA senior soul-flame   \nOf the like filmy hue:   \nAnd he met them and spake: \"Is it you,   \nO my men?\" Said they, \"Aye! We bear homeward and   \nhearthward   \nTo feast on our fame!\"\n\n##  VII\n\n\"I've flown there before you,\" he said then:   \n\"Your households are well;   \nBut\u2014your kin linger less   \nOn your glory and war-mightiness   \nThan on dearer things.\"\u2014\"Dearer?\" cried these from the   \ndead then,   \n\"Of what do they tell?\"\n\n##  VIII\n\n\"Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur   \nYour doings as boys\u2014  \nRecall the quaint ways   \nOf your babyhood's innocent days.   \nSome pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer,   \nAnd higher your joys.\n\n##  IX\n\n\"A father broods: 'Would I had set him   \nTo some humble trade,   \nAnd so slacked his high fire,   \nAnd his passionate martial desire;   \nAnd told him no stories to woo him and whet him   \nTo this dire crusade!' \"\n\n##  X\n\n\"And, General, how hold out our sweethearts,   \nSworn loyal as doves?\"   \n\u2014\"Many mourn; many think   \nIt is not unattractive to prink   \nThem in sables for heroes. Some fickle and fleet hearts   \nHave found them new loves.\"\n\n##  XI\n\n\"And our wives?\" quoth another resignedly,   \n\"Dwell they on our deeds?\"   \n\u2014\"Deeds of home; that live yet   \nFresh as new\u2014deeds of fondness or fret;   \nAncient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly,   \nThese, these have their heeds.\"\n\n##  XII\n\n\u2014\"Alas! then it seems that our glory   \nWeighs less in their thought   \nThan our old homely acts,   \nAnd the long-ago commonplace facts   \nOf our lives\u2014held by us as scarce part of our story,   \nAnd rated as nought!\"\n\n##  XIII\n\nThen bitterly some: \"Was it wise now   \nTo raise the tomb-door   \nFor such knowledge? Away!\"   \nBut the rest: \"Fame we prized till to-day;   \nYet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now   \nA thousand times more!\"\n\n##  XIV\n\nThus speaking, the trooped apparitions   \nBegan to disband   \nAnd resolve them in two:   \nThose whose record was lovely and true   \nBore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions   \nAgain left the land,\n\n##  XV\n\nAnd, towering to seaward in legions,   \nThey paused at a spot   \nOverbending the Race\u2014  \nThat engulphing, ghast, sinister place\u2014  \nWhither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions   \nOf myriads forgot.\n\n##  XVI\n\nAnd the spirits of those who were homing   \nPassed on, rushingly,   \nLike the Pentecost Wind;   \nAnd the whirr of their wayfaring thinned   \nAnd surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming   \nSea-mutterings and me.\n\n#  ROME: AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS\n\nWho, then, was Cestius,   \nAnd what is he to me?\u2014  \nAmid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous   \nOne thought alone brings he.\n\nI can recall no word   \nOf anything he did;   \nFor me he is a man who died and was interred   \nTo leave a pyramid\n\nWhose purpose was exprest   \nNot with its first design,   \nNor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest   \nTwo countrymen of mine.\n\nCestius in life, maybe,   \nSlew, breathed out threatening;   \nI know not. This I know: in death all silently   \nHe does a finer thing,\n\nIn beckoning pilgrim feet   \nWith marble finger high   \nTo where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,   \nThose matchless singers lie....\n\n\u2014Say, then, he lived and died   \nThat stones which bear his name   \nShould mark, through Time, where two immortal   \nShades abide;   \nIt is an ample fame.\n\n#  ZERMATT: TO THE MATTERHORN\n\n_(June-July 1897)_\n\nThirty-two years since, up against the sun,   \nSeven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight,   \nLabouringly leapt and gained thy gabled height,   \nAnd four lives paid for what the seven had won.\n\nThey were the first by whom the deed was done,   \nAnd when I look at thee, my mind takes flight   \nTo that day's tragic feat of manly might,   \nAs though, till then, of history thou hadst none.\n\nYet ages ere men topped thee, late and soon   \nThou didst behold the planets lift and lower;   \nSaw'st, maybe, Joshua's pausing sun and moon,   \nAnd the betokening sky when C\u00e6sar's power   \nApproached its bloody end; yea, even that Noon   \nWhen darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour.\n\n#  To AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD\n\n##  I\n\nBreathe not, hid Heart: cease silently,   \nAnd though thy birth-hour beckons thee,   \nSleep the long sleep:   \nThe Doomsters heap   \nTravails and teens around us here,   \nAnd Time-wraiths turn our songsingings to fear.\n\n##  II\n\nHark, how the peoples surge and sigh,   \nAnd laughters fail, and greetings die:   \nHopes dwindle; yea,   \nFaiths waste away,   \nAffections and enthusiasms numb;   \nThou canst not mend these things if thou dost come.\n\n##  III\n\nHad I the ear of womb\u00e8d souls   \nEre their terrestrial chart unrolls,   \nAnd thou wert free   \nTo cease, or be,   \nThen would I tell thee all I know,   \nAnd put it to thee: Wilt thou take Life so?\n\n##  IV\n\nVain vow! No hint of mine may hence   \nTo theeward fly: to thy locked sense   \nExplain none can   \nLife's pending plan:   \nThou wilt thy ignorant entry make   \nThough skies spout fire and blood and nations quake.\n\n##  V\n\nFain would I, dear, find some shut plot   \nOf earth's wide wold for thee, where not   \nOne tear, one qualm,   \nShould break the calm.   \nBut I am weak as thou and bare;   \nNo man can change the common lot to rare.\n\n##  VI\n\nMust come and bide. And such are we\u2014  \nUnreasoning, sanguine, visionary\u2014  \nThat I can hope   \nHealth, love, friends, scope   \nIn full for thee; can dream thou wilt find   \nJoys seldom yet attained by humankind!\n\n#  To LIZBIE BROWNE\n\n##  I\n\nDear Lizbie Browne,   \nWhere are you now?   \nIn sun, in rain?\u2014  \nOr is your brow   \nPast joy, past pain,   \nDear Lizbie Browne?\n\n##  II\n\nSweet Lizbie Browne,   \nHow you could smile,   \nHow you could sing!\u2014  \nHow archly wile   \nIn glance-giving,   \nSweet Lizbie Browne!\n\n##  III\n\nAnd, Lizbie Browne,   \nWho else had hair   \nBay-red as yours,   \nOr flesh so fair   \nBred out of doors,   \nSweet Lizbie Browne?\n\n##  IV\n\nWhen, Lizbie Browne,   \nYou had just begun   \nTo be endeared   \nBy stealth to one,   \nYou disappeared,   \nMy Lizbie Browne!\n\n##  V\n\nAy, Lizbie Browne,   \nSo swift your life,   \nAnd mine so slow,   \nYou were a wife   \nEre I could show   \nLove, Lizbie Browne.\n\n##  VI\n\nStill, Lizbie Browne,   \nYou won, they said,   \nThe best of men   \nWhen you were wed....   \nWhere went you then,   \nO Lizbie Browne?\n\n##  VII\n\nDear Lizbie Browne,   \nI should have thought,   \n\"Girls ripen fast,\"   \nAnd coaxed and caught   \nYou ere you passed,   \nDear Lizbie Browne!\n\n##  VIII\n\nBut, Lizbie Browne,   \nI let you slip;   \nShaped not a sign;   \nTouched never your lip   \nWith lip of mine,   \nLost Lizbie Browne!\n\n##  IX\n\nSo, Lizbie Browne,   \nWhen on a day   \nMen speak of me   \nAs not, you'll say,   \n\"And who was he?\"\u2014  \nYes, Lizbie Browne!\n\n#  \"I NEED NOT Go\"\n\nI need not go   \nThrough sleet and snow   \nTo where I know   \nShe waits for me;   \nShe will tarry me there   \nTill I find it fair,   \nAnd have time to spare   \nFrom company.\n\nWhen I've overgot   \nThe world somewhat,   \nWhen things cost not   \nSuch stress and strain,   \nIs soon enough   \nBy cypress sough   \nTo tell my Love   \nI am come again.\n\nAnd if some day,   \nWhen none cries nay,   \nI still delay   \nTo seek her side,   \n(Though ample measure   \nOf fitting leisure   \nAwait my pleasure)   \nShe will not chide.\n\nWhat\u2014not upbraid me   \nThat I delayed me,   \nNor ask what stayed me   \nSo long? Ah, no!\u2014   \nNew cares may claim me,   \nNew loves inflame me,   \nShe will not blame me,   \nBut suffer it so.\n\n#  AT A HASTY WEDDING\n\nIf hours be years the twain are blest,   \nFor now they solace swift desire   \nBy bonds of every bond the best,   \nIf hours be years. The twain are blest   \nDo eastern stars slope never west,   \nNor pallid ashes follow fire:   \nIf hours be years the twain are blest,   \nFor now they solace swift desire.\n\n#  HIS IMMORTALITY\n\n##  I\n\nI saw a dead man's finer part   \nShining within each faithful heart   \nOf those bereft. Then said I: \"This must be   \nHis immortality.\"\n\n##  II\n\nI looked there as the seasons wore,   \nAnd still his soul continuously bore   \nA life in theirs. But less its shine excelled   \nThan when I first beheld.\n\n##  III\n\nHis fellow-yearsmen passed, and then   \nIn later hearts I looked for him again;   \nAnd found him\u2014shrunk, alas! into a thin   \nAnd spectral mannikin.\n\n##  IV\n\nLastly I ask\u2014now old and chill\u2014  \nIf aught of him remain unperished still;   \nAnd find, in me alone, a feeble spark,   \nDying amid the dark.\n\n#  WIVES IN THE SERE\n\n##  I\n\nNever a careworn wife but shows,   \nIf a joy suffuse her,   \nSomething beautiful to those   \nPatient to peruse her,   \nSome one charm the world unknows   \nPrecious to a muser,   \nHaply what, ere years were foes,   \nMoved her mate to choose her.\n\n##  II\n\nBut, be it a hint of rose   \nThat an instant hues her,   \nOr some early light or pose   \nWherewith thought renews her\u2014  \nSeen by him at full, ere woes   \nPractised to abuse her\u2014  \nSparely comes it, swiftly goes,   \nTime again subdues her.\n\n#  AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT\n\n##  I\n\nA shaded lamp and a waving blind,   \nAnd the beat of a clock from a distant floor:   \nOn this scene enter\u2014winged, horned, and spined\u2014  \nA longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;   \nWhile 'mid my page there idly stands   \nA sleepy fly, that rubs its hands...\n\n##  II\n\nThus meet we five, in this still place,   \nAt this point of time, at this point in space.   \n\u2014My guests besmear my new-penned line,   \nOr bang at the lamp and fall supine.   \n\"God's humblest, they!\" I muse. Yet why?   \nThey know Earth-secrets that know not I.\n\n#  WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD\n\nSCENE.\u2014A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with   \nwheat, and frozen to iron hardness. Three large birds walking about   \nthereon, and wistfully eyeing the surface. Wind keen from northeast:   \nsky a dull grey.\n\nROOK.\u2014Throughout the field I find no grain;   \nThe cruel frost encrusts the cornland!\n\nSTARLING.\u2014Aye: patient pecking now is vain   \nThroughout the field, I find...\n\nROOK.\u2014No grain!\n\nPIGEON.\u2014Nor will be, comrade, till it rain,   \nOr genial thawings loose the lorn land   \nThroughout the field.\n\nROOK.\u2014I find no grain:   \nThe cruel frost encrusts the cornland!\n\n#  THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM\n\nWhy should this flower delay so long   \nTo show its tremulous plumes?   \nNow is the time of plaintive robin-song,   \nWhen flowers are in their tombs.\n\nThrough the slow summer, when the sun   \nCalled to each frond and whorl   \nThat all he could for flowers was being done,   \nWhy did it not uncurl?\n\nIt must have felt that fervid call   \nAlthough it took no heed,   \nWaking but now, when leaves like corpses fall,   \nAnd saps all retrocede.\n\nToo late its beauty, lonely thing,   \nThe season's shine is spent,   \nNothing remains for it but shivering   \nIn tempests turbulent.\n\nHad it a reason for delay,   \nDreaming in witlessness   \nThat for a bloom so delicately gay   \nWinter would stay its stress?\n\n\u2014I talk as if the thing were born   \nWith sense to work its mind;   \nYet it is but one mask of many worn   \nBy the Great Face behind.\n\n#  THE DARKLING THRUSH\n\nI leant upon a coppice gate   \nWhen Frost was spectre-gray,   \nAnd Winter's dregs made desolate   \nThe weakening eye of day.   \nThe tangled bine-stems scored the sky   \nLike strings of broken lyres,   \nAnd all mankind that haunted nigh   \nHad sought their household fires.\n\nThe land's sharp features seemed to be   \nThe Century's corpse outleant,   \nHis crypt the cloudy canopy,   \nThe wind his death-lament.   \nThe ancient pulse of germ and birth   \nWas shrunken hard and dry,   \nAnd every spirit upon earth   \nSeemed fervourless as I.\n\nAt once a voice arose among   \nThe bleak twigs overhead   \nIn a full-hearted evensong   \nOf joy illimited;   \nAn aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,   \nIn blast-beruffled plume,   \nHad chosen thus to fling his soul   \nUpon the growing gloom.\n\nSo little cause for carolings   \nOf such ecstatic sound   \nWas written on terrestrial things   \nAfar or nigh around,   \nThat I could think there trembled through   \nHis happy good-night air   \nSome blessed Hope, whereof he knew   \nAnd I was unaware.\n\n_31 December 1900_\n\n#  MAD JUDY\n\nWhen the hamlet hailed a birth   \nJudy used to cry:   \nWhen she heard our christening mirth   \nShe would kneel and sigh.   \nShe was crazed, we knew, and we   \nHumoured her infirmity.\n\nWhen the daughters and the sons   \nGathered them to wed,   \nAnd we like-intending ones   \nDanced till dawn was red,   \nShe would rock and mutter, \"More   \nComers to this stony shore!\"\n\nWhen old Headsman Death laid hands   \nOn a babe or twain,   \nShe would feast, and by her brands   \nSing her songs again.   \nWhat she liked we let her do,   \nJudy was insane, we knew.\n\n#  THE RUINED MAID\n\n\"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!   \nWho could have supposed I should meet you in Town?   \nAnd whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?\"\u2014  \n\"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?\" said she.\n\n\u2014\"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,   \nTired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;   \nAnd now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!\"\u2014  \n\"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined,\" said she.\n\n\u2014\"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'   \nAnd 'thik oon,' and 'the\u00e4s oon,' and 't'other'; but now   \nYour talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!\"\u2014  \n\"A polish is gained with one's ruin,\" said she.\n\n\u2014\"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and   \nbleak,   \nBut now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,   \nAnd your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!\"\u2014  \n\"We never do work when we're ruined,\" said she.\n\n\u2014\"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,   \nAnd you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem   \nTo know not of megrims or melancho-ly!\"\u2014  \n\"True. One's pretty lively when ruined,\" said she.\n\n\u2014\"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,   \nAnd a delicate face, and could strut about Town!\"\u2014  \n\"My dear\u2014a raw country girl, such as you be,   \nCannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined,\" said she.\n\n#  THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER\n\n_on \"the Higher Criticism\"_\n\nSince Reverend Doctors now declare   \nThat clerks and people must prepare   \nTo doubt if Adam ever were;   \nTo hold the flood a local scare;   \nTo argue, though the stolid stare,   \nThat everything had happened ere   \nThe prophets to its happening sware;   \nThat David was no giant-slayer,   \nNor one to call a God-obeyer   \nIn certain details we could spare,   \nBut rather was a debonair   \nShrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player:   \nThat Solomon sang the fleshly Fair,   \nAnd gave the Church no thought whate'er,   \nThat Esther with her royal wear,   \nAnd Mordecai, the son of Jair,   \nAnd Joshua's triumphs, Job's despair,   \nAnd Balaam's ass's bitter blare;   \nNebuchadnezzar's furnace-flare,   \nAnd Daniel and the den affair,   \nAnd other stories rich and rare,   \nWere writ to make old doctrine wear   \nSomething of a romantic air:   \nThat the Nain widow's only heir,   \nAnd Lazarus with cadaverous glare   \n(As done in oils by Piombo's care)   \nDid not return from Sheol's lair:   \nThat Jael set a fiendish snare,   \nThat Pontius Pilate acted square,   \nThat never a sword cut Malchus' ear;   \nAnd (but for shame I must forbear)   \nThat\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014did not reappear! ...   \n\u2014Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair,   \nAll churchgoing will I forswear,   \nAnd sit on Sundays in my chair,   \nAnd read that moderate man Voltaire.\n\n#  THE SELF-UNSEEING\n\nHere is the ancient floor,   \nFootworn and hollowed and thin,   \nHere was the former door   \nWhere the dead feet walked in.\n\nShe sat here in her chair,   \nSmiling into the fire;   \nHe who played stood there,   \nBowing it higher and higher.\n\nChildlike, I danced in a dream;   \nBlessings emblazoned that day;   \nEverything glowed with a gleam;   \nYet we were looking away!\n\n#  IN TENEBRIS I\n\n_\"Percussus sum sicut f\u0153num, et aruit cor meum.\"_ \u2014 _Psalms 101_\n\nWintertime nighs;   \nBut my bereavement-pain   \nIt cannot bring again:   \nTwice no one dies.\n\nFlower-petals flee;   \nBut, since it once hath been,   \nNo more that severing scene   \nCan harrow me.\n\nBirds faint in dread:   \nI shall not lose old strength   \nIn the lone frost's black length:   \nStrength long since fled!\n\nLeaves freeze to dun;   \nBut friends can not turn cold   \nThis season as of old   \nFor him with none.\n\nTempests may scath;   \nBut love can not make smart   \nAgain this year his heart   \nWho no heart hath.\n\nBlack is night's cope;   \nBut death will not appal   \nOne who, past doubtings all,   \nWaits in unhope.\nFrom TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS AND OTHER VERSES\n\n#  A TRAMPWOMAN'S TRAGEDY\n\n##  I\n\nFrom Wynyard's Gap the livelong day,   \nThe livelong day,   \nWe beat afoot the northward way   \nWe had travelled times before.   \nThe sun-blaze burning on our backs,   \nOur shoulders sticking to our packs,   \nBy fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks   \nWe skirted sad Sedge-Moor.\n\n##  II\n\nFull twenty miles we jaunted on,   \nWe jaunted on,\u2014  \nMy fancy-man, and jeering John,   \nAnd Mother Lee, and I.   \nAnd, as the sun drew down to west,   \nWe climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,   \nAnd saw, of landskip sights the best,   \nThe inn that beamed thereby.\n\n##  III\n\nFor months we had padded side by side,   \nAy, side by side   \nThrough the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide,   \nAnd where the Parret ran.   \nWe'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge,   \nHad crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge,   \nBeen stung by every Marshwood midge,   \nI and my fancy-man.\n\n##  IV\n\nLone inns we loved, my man and I,   \nMy man and I;   \n\"King's Stag,\" \"Windwhistle\" high and dry,   \n\"The Horse\" on Hintock Green,   \nThe cosy house at Wynyard's Gap,   \n\"The Hut\" renowned on Bredy Knap,   \nAnd many another wayside tap   \nWhere folk might sit unseen.\n\n##  V\n\nNow as we trudged\u2014O deadly day,   \nO deadly day!\u2014  \nI teased my fancy-man in play   \nAnd wanton idleness.   \nI walked alongside jeering John,   \nI laid his hand my waist upon;   \nI would not bend my glances on   \nMy lover's dark distress.\n\n##  VI\n\nThus Poldon top at last we won,   \nAt last we won,   \nAnd gained the inn at sink of sun   \nFar-famed as \"Marshal's Elm.\"   \nBeneath us figured tor and lea,   \nFrom Mendip to the western sea\u2014  \nI doubt if finer sight there be   \nWithin this royal realm.\n\n##  VII\n\nInside the settle all a-row\u2014  \nAll four a-row   \nWe sat, I next to John, to show   \nThat he had wooed and won.   \nAnd then he took me on his knee,   \nAnd swore it was his turn to be   \nMy favoured mate, and Mother Lee   \nPassed to my former one.\n\n##  VIII\n\nThen in a voice I had never heard,   \nI had never heard,   \nMy only Love to me: \"One word,   \nMy lady, if you please!   \nWhose is the child you are like to bear?\u2014  \nHis? After all my months o' care?\"   \nGod knows 'twas not! But, O despair!   \nI nodded\u2014still to tease.\n\n##  IX\n\nThen up he sprung, and with his knife\u2014  \nAnd with his knife   \nHe let out jeering Johnny's life,   \nYes; there, at set of sun.   \nThe slant ray through the window nigh   \nGilded John's blood and glazing eye,   \nEre scarcely Mother Lee and I   \nKnew that the deed was done.\n\n##  X\n\nThe taverns tell the gloomy tale,   \nThe gloomy tale,   \nHow that at Ivel-chester jail   \nMy Love, my sweetheart swung;   \nThough stained till now by no misdeed   \nSave one horse ta'en in time o' need;   \n(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed   \nEre his last fling he flung.)\n\n##  XI\n\nThereaft I walked the world alone,   \nAlone, alone!   \nOn his death-day I gave my groan   \nAnd dropt his dead-born child.   \n'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree,   \nNone tending me; for Mother Lee   \nHad died at Glaston, leaving me   \nUnfriended on the wild.\n\n##  XII\n\nAnd in the night as I lay weak,   \nAs I lay weak,   \nThe leaves a-falling on my cheek,   \nThe red moon low declined\u2014  \nThe ghost of him I'd die to kiss   \nRose up and said: \"Ah, tell me this!   \nWas the child mine, or was it his?   \nSpeak, that I rest may find!\"\n\n##  XIII\n\nO doubt not but I told him then,   \nI told him then,   \nThat I had kept me from all men   \nSince we joined lips and swore.   \nWhereat he smiled, and thinned away   \nAs the wind stirred to call up day...   \n\u2014'Tis past! And here alone I stray   \nHaunting the Western Moor.\n\n#  THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITIES\n\nHere we broached the Christmas barrel,   \nPushed up the charred log-ends;   \nHere we sang the Christmas carol,   \nAnd called in friends.\n\nTime has tired me since we met here   \nWhen the folk now dead were young,   \nSince the viands were outset here   \nAnd quaint songs sung.\n\nAnd the worm has bored the viol   \nThat used to lead the tune,   \nRust eaten out the dial   \nThat struck night's noon.\n\nNow no Christmas brings in neighbours,   \nAnd the New Year comes unlit;   \nWhere we sang the mole now labours,   \nAnd spiders knit.\n\nYet at midnight if here walking,   \nWhen the moon sheets wall and tree,   \nI see forms of old time talking,   \nWho smile on me.\n\n#  THE REJECTED MEMBER'S WIFE\n\nWe shall see her no more   \nOn the balcony,   \nSmiling, while hurt, at the roar   \nAs of surging sea   \nFrom the stormy sturdy band   \nWho have doomed her lord's cause,   \nThough she waves her little hand   \nAs it were applause.\n\nHere will be candidates yet,   \nAnd candidates' wives,   \nFervid with zeal to set   \nTheir ideals on our lives:   \nHere will come market-men   \nOn the market-days,   \nHere will clash now and then   \nMore such party assays.\n\nAnd the balcony will fill   \nWhen such times are renewed,   \nAnd the throng in the street will thrill   \nWith to-day's mettled mood;   \nBut she will no more stand   \nIn the sunshine there,   \nWith that wave of her white-gloved hand,   \nAnd that chestnut hair.\n\n#  SHUT OUT THAT MOON\n\nClose up the casement, draw the blind,   \nShut out that stealing moon,   \nShe wears too much the guise she wore   \nBefore our lutes were strewn   \nWith years-deep dust, and names we read   \nOn a white stone were hewn.\n\nStep not forth on the dew-dashed lawn   \nTo view the Lady's Chair,   \nImmense Orion's glittering form,   \nThe Less and Greater Bear:   \nStay in; to such sights we were drawn   \nWhen faded ones were fair.\n\nBrush not the bough for midnight scents   \nThat come forth lingeringly,   \nAnd wake the same sweet sentiments   \nThey breathed to you and me   \nWhen living seemed a laugh, and love   \nAll it was said to be.\n\nWithin the common lamp-lit room   \nPrison my eyes and thought;   \nLet dingy details crudely loom,   \nMechanic speech be wrought:   \nToo fragrant was Life's early bloom,   \nToo tart the fruit it brought!\n\n#  THE DIVISION\n\nRain on the windows, creaking doors,   \nWith blasts that besom the green,   \nAnd I am here, and you are there,   \nAnd a hundred miles between!\n\nO were it but the weather, Dear,   \nO were it but the miles   \nThat summed up all our severance,   \nThere might be room for smiles.\n\nBut that thwart thing betwixt us twain,   \nWhich nothing cleaves or clears,   \nIs more than distance, Dear, or rain,   \nAnd longer than the years!\n\n#  \"I SAY I'LL SEEK HER\"\n\nI say, \"I'll seek her side   \nEre hindrance interposes\";   \nBut eve in midnight closes,   \nAnd here I still abide.\n\nWhen darkness wears I see   \nHer sad eyes in a vision;   \nThey ask, \"What indecision   \nDetains you, Love, from me?\u2014\n\n\"The creaking hinge is oiled,   \nI have unbarred the backway,   \nBut you tread not the trackway;   \nAnd shall the thing be spoiled?\n\n\"Far cockcrows echo shrill,   \nThe shadows are abating,   \nAnd I am waiting, waiting;   \nBut O, you tarry still!\"\n\n#  \"IN THE NIGHT SHE CAME\"\n\nI told her when I left one day   \nThat whatsoever weight of care   \nMight strain our love, Time's mere assault   \nWould work no changes there.   \nAnd in the night she came to me,   \nToothless, and wan, and old,   \nWith leaden concaves round her eyes,   \nAnd wrinkles manifold.\n\nI tremblingly exclaimed to her,   \n\"O wherefore do you ghost me thus!   \nI have said that dull defacing Time   \nWill bring no dreads to us.\"   \n\"And is that true of you?\" she cried   \nIn voice of troubled tune.   \nI faltered: \"Well... I did not think   \nYou would test me quite so soon!\"\n\nShe vanished with a curious smile,   \nWhich told me, plainlier than by word,   \nThat my staunch pledge could scarce beguile   \nThe fear she had averred.   \nHer doubts then wrought their shape in me,   \nAnd when next day I paid   \nMy due caress, we seemed to be   \nDivided by some shade.\n\n#  THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE\n\nThe cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,   \nAnd centres its gaze on me;   \nThe stars, like eyes in reverie,   \nTheir westering as for a while forborne,   \nQuiz downward curiously.\n\nOld Robert draws the backbrand in,   \nThe green logs steam and spit;   \nThe half-awakened sparrows flit   \nFrom the riddled thatch; and owls begin   \nTo whoo from the gable-slit.\n\nYes; far and nigh things seem to know   \nSweet scenes are impending here;   \nThat all is prepared; that the hour is near   \nFor welcomes, fellowships, and flow   \nOf sally, song, and cheer;\n\nThat spigots are pulled and viols strung;   \nThat soon will arise the sound   \nOf measures trod to tunes renowned;   \nThat She will return in Love's low tongue   \nMy vows as we wheel around.\n\n#  AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR\n\n##  I. THE BALLAD-SINGER\n\nSing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;   \nMake me forget that there was ever a one   \nI walked with in the meek light of the moon   \nWhen the day's work was done.\n\nRhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;   \nMake me forget that she whom I loved well   \nSwore she would love me dearly, love me long,   \nThen\u2014what I cannot tell!\n\nSing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;   \nMake me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;   \nMake me forget her name, her sweet sweet look\u2014  \nMake me forget her tears.\n\n##  II. FORMER BEAUTIES\n\nThese market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,   \nAnd tissues sere,   \nAre they the ones we loved in years agone,   \nAnd courted here?\n\nAre these the muslined pink young things to whom   \nWe vowed and swore   \nIn nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,   \nOr Budmouth shore?\n\nDo they remember those gay tunes we trod   \nClasped on the green;   \nAye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod   \nA satin sheen?   \nThey must forget, forget! They cannot know   \nWhat once they were,   \nOr memory would transfigure them, and show   \nThem always fair.\n\n##  III. AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE\n\nBlack'on frowns east on Maidon,   \nAnd westward to the sea,   \nBut on neither is his frown laden   \nWith scorn, as his frown on me!\n\nAt dawn my heart grew heavy,   \nI could not sip the wine,   \nI left the jocund bevy   \nAnd that young man o' mine.\n\nThe roadside elms pass by me,\u2014  \nWhy do I sink with shame   \nWhen the birds a-perch there eye me?   \nThey, too, have done the same!\n\n##  IV. THE MARKET-GIRL\n\nNobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey   \nkerb,   \nAll eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden   \nherb;   \nAnd if she had offered to give her wares and herself with   \nthem too that day,   \nI doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice   \naway.   \nBut chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I   \npassed nigh,   \nI went and I said \"Poor maidy dear!\u2014and will none of the   \npeople buy?\"   \nAnd so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all   \nmust be,   \nAnd I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been   \nwon by me.\n\n##  V. THE INQUIRY\n\nAnd are ye one of Hermitage\u2014  \nOf Hermitage, by Ivel Road,   \nAnd do ye know, in Hermitage   \nA thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow?   \nAnd does John Waywood live there still\u2014  \nHe of the name that there abode   \nWhen father hurdled on the hill   \nSome fifteen years ago?\n\nDoes he now speak o' Patty Beech,   \nThe Patty Beech he used to\u2014see,   \nOr ask at all if Patty Beech   \nIs known or heard of out this way?   \n\u2014Ask ever if she's living yet,   \nAnd where her present home may be,   \nAnd how she bears life's fag and fret   \nAfter so long a day?\n\nIn years agone at Hermitage   \nThis faded face was counted fair,   \nNone fairer; and at Hermitage   \nWe swore to wed when he should thrive.   \nBut never a chance had he or I,   \nAnd waiting made his wish outwear,   \nAnd Time, that dooms man's love to die,   \nPreserves a maid's alive.\n\n##  VI. A WIFE WAITS\n\nWill's at the dance in the Club-room below,   \nWhere the tall liquor-cups foam;   \nI on the pavement up here by the Bow,   \nWait, wait, to steady him home.\n\nWill and his partner are treading a tune,   \nLoving companions they be;   \nWilly, before we were married in June,   \nSaid he loved no one but me;\n\nSaid he would let his old pleasures all go   \nEver to live with his Dear.   \nWill's at the dance in the Club-room below,   \nShivering I wait for him here.\n\n##  VII. AFTER THE FAIR\n\nThe singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place   \nWith their broadsheets of rhymes,   \nThe street rings no longer in treble and bass   \nWith their skits on the times,   \nAnd the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space   \nThat but echoes the stammering chimes.\n\nFrom Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs,   \nAway the folk roam   \nBy the \"Hart\" and Grey's Bridge into byways and \"drongs,\"   \nOr across the ridged loam;   \nThe younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs,   \nThe old saying, \"Would we were home.\"   \nThe shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair   \nNow rattles and talks,   \nAnd that one who looked the most swaggering there   \nGrows sad as she walks,   \nAnd she who seemed eaten by cankering care   \nIn statuesque sturdiness stalks.\n\nAnd midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts   \nOf its buried burghees,   \nFrom the latest far back to those old Roman hosts   \nWhose remains one yet sees,   \nWho loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank   \ntheir toasts   \nAt their meeting-times here, just as these!\n\n#  To CARREY CLAVEL\n\nYou turn your back, you turn your back,   \nAnd never your face to me,   \nAlone you take your homeward track,   \nAnd scorn my company.\n\nWhat will you do when Charley's seen   \nDewbeating down this way?   \n\u2014You'll turn your back as now, you mean?   \nNay, Carrey Clavel, nay!\n\nYou'll see none's looking; put your lip   \nUp like a tulip, so;   \nAnd he will coll you, bend, and sip:   \nYes, Carrey, yes; I know!\n\n#  THE ORPHANED OLD MAID\n\n_I_ wanted to marry, but father said, \"No\u2014  \n'Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;   \nIf you care for your freedom you'll listen to me,   \nMake a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.\"\n\nI spake on't again and again: father cried,   \n\"Why\u2014if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?   \nFor never a home's for me elsewhere than here!\"   \nAnd I yielded; for father had ever been dear.\n\nBut now father's gone, and I feel growing old,   \nAnd I'm lonely and poor in this house on the wold,   \nAnd my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,   \nAnd nobody flings me a thought or a care.\n\n#  ROSE-ANN\n\nWhy didn't you say you was promised, Rose-Ann?   \nWhy didn't you name it to me,   \nEre ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann,   \nSo often, so wearifully?\n\nO why did you let me be near 'ee, Rose-Ann,   \nTalking things about wedlock so free,   \nAnd never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann,   \nGive a hint that it wasn't to be?\n\nDown home I was raising a flock of stock ewes,   \nCocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores,   \nAnd lavendered linen all ready to use,   \nA-dreaming that they would be yours.   \nMother said: \"She's a sport-making maiden, my son\";   \nAnd a pretty sharp quarrel had we;   \nO why do you prove by this wrong you have done   \nThat I saw not what mother could see?\n\nNever once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann,   \nNever once did I dream it to be;   \nAnd it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann,   \nAs you in your scorning treat me!\n\n#  THE HOMECOMING\n\n_Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,_   \n_And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there._\n\n\"Now don't ye rub your eyes so red; we're home and have   \nno cares;   \nHere's a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some   \npears;   \nI've got a little keg o' summat strong, too, under stairs:   \n\u2014What, slight your husband's victuals? Other brides can   \ntackle theirs!\"\n\n_The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn,_   \n_And round the house and past the house 'twas leafless and lorn._\n\n\"But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to   \nagree   \nIn Ivel church this morning? Sure, thereright you married   \nme!\"   \n\u2014\"Hoo-hoo!\u2014I don't know\u2014I forgot how strange and far   \n'twould be,   \nAn' I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!\"\n\nGruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad _and_ bare,   \nAnd lonesome was the house, _and_ dark; _and few_ came there.\n\n\"I didn't think such furniture as this was all you'd own,   \nAnd great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o' wretched   \nstone,   \nAnd nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,   \nAnd a monstrous crock in chimney. 'Twas to me quite   \nunbeknown!\"\n\n_Rattle rattle went the door; down flapped a cloud of smoke,_   \n_As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke._\n\n\"Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease:   \nAnd keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please!   \nAnd I'll sing to 'ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees,   \nAnd happy lovers taking walks within a grove o' trees.\"\n\n_Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,_   \n_And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there._\n\n\"Now, don't ye gnaw your handkercher; 'twill hurt your   \nlittle tongue,   \nAnd if you do feel spitish, 'tis because ye are over young;   \nBut you'll be getting older, like us all, ere very long,   \nAnd you'll see me as I am\u2014a man who never did 'ee   \nwrong. \"\n\n_Straight from Whit'sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass,_   \n_Hitting hedges, milestones, handposts_ , _trees, and tufts of grass._\n\n\"Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you'd   \nbe,   \nI'd have married her of riper years that was so fond of me.   \nBut since I can't, I've half a mind to run away to sea,   \nAnd leave 'ee to go barefoot to your d\u2014d daddee!\"\n\nUp one _wall and_ down the _other_ \u2014 _past_ each _window-pane_ \u2014  \nPrance the gusts, _and_ then _away_ down Crimmercrock's long _lane._\n\n\"I\u2014I\u2014don't know what to say to't, since your wife I've   \nvowed to be;   \nAnd as 'tis done, I s'pose here I must bide\u2014poor me!   \nAye\u2014as you are ki-ki-kind, I'll try to live along with 'ee,   \nAlthough I'd fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!\"\n\n_Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,_   \n_And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there._\n\n\"That's right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller   \nDown we be,   \nAnd the wind swears things in chimley, we'll to supper   \nmerrily!   \nSo don't ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me,   \nAnd ye'll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!\"\n\n#  A CHURCH ROMANCE\n\n_(Mellstock_ circa 1835)\n\nShe turned in the high pew, until her sight   \nSwept the west gallery, and caught its row   \nOf music-men with viol, book, and bow   \nAgainst the sinking sad tower-window light.\n\nShe turned again; and in her pride's despite   \nOne strenuous viol's inspirer seemed to throw   \nA message from his string to her below,   \nWhich said: \"I claim thee as my own forthright!\"\n\nThus their hearts' bond began, in due time signed.   \nAnd long years thence, when Age had scared Romance,   \nAt some old attitude of his or glance   \nThat gallery-scene would break upon her mind,   \nWith him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim,   \nBowing \"New Sabbath\" or \"Mount Ephraim\".\n\n#  AFTER THE LAST BREATH\n\n_(J.H. 1813-1904)_\n\nThere's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;   \nNone now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;   \nNo irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped   \nDoes she require.\n\nBlankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay;   \nOur morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim;   \nWhether we leave to-night or wait till day   \nCounts as the same.\n\nThe lettered vessels of medicaments   \nSeem asking wherefore we have set them here;   \nEach palliative its silly face presents   \nAs useless gear.\n\nAnd yet we feel that something savours well;   \nWe note a numb relief withheld before;   \nOur well-beloved is prisoner in the cell   \nOf Time no more.\n\nWe see by littles now the deft achievement   \nWhereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,   \nIn view of which our momentary bereavement   \nOutshapes but small.\n\n_1904_\n\n#  ONE WE KNEW\n\n(M.H. 1772-1857)\n\nShe told how they used to form for the country dances\u2014  \n\"The Triumph,\" \"The New-rigged Ship\"\u2014  \nTo the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses,   \nAnd in cots to the blink of a dip.\n\nShe spoke of the wild \"poussetting\" and \"allemanding\"   \nOn carpet, on oak, and on sod;   \nAnd the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing,   \nAnd the figures the couples trod.\n\nShe showed us the spot where the maypole was yearly planted, And where the bandsmen stood While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted To choose each other for good.\n\nShe told of that far-back day when they learnt astounded   \nOf the death of the King of France:   \nOf the Terror; and then of Bonaparte's unbounded   \nAmbition and arrogance.\n\nOf how his threats woke warlike preparations   \nAlong the southern strand,   \nAnd how each night brought tremors and trepidations   \nLest morning should see him land.\n\nShe said she had often heard the gibbet creaking   \nAs it swayed in the lightning flash,   \nHad caught from the neighbouring town a small child's   \nshrieking   \nAt the cart-tail under the lash....   \nWith cap-framed face and long gaze into the embers\u2014  \nWe seated around her knees\u2014  \nShe would dwell on such dead themes, not as one who   \nremembers,   \nBut rather as one who sees.\n\nShe seemed one left behind of a band gone distant   \nSo far that no tongue could hail:   \nPast things retold were to her as things existent,   \nThings present but as a tale.\n\n#  SHE HEARS THE STORM\n\nThere was a time in former years\u2014  \nWhile my roof-tree was his\u2014  \nWhen I should have been distressed by fears   \nAt such a night as this!\n\nI should have murmured anxiously,   \n\"The pricking rain strikes cold;   \nHis road is bare of hedge or tree,   \nAnd he is getting old.\"\n\nBut now the fitful chimney-roar,   \nThe drone of Thorncombe trees,   \nThe Froom in flood upon the moor,   \nThe mud of Mellstock Leaze,\n\nThe candle slanting sooty-wick'd,   \nThe thuds upon the thatch,   \nThe eaves-drops on the window flicked,   \nThe clacking garden-hatch,\n\nAnd what they mean to wayfarers,   \nI scarcely heed or mind;   \nHe has won that storm-tight roof of hers   \nWhich Earth grants all her kind.\n\n#  THE MAN HE KILLED\n\n\"Had he and I but met   \nBy some old ancient inn,   \nWe should have sat us down to wet   \nRight many a nipperkin!\n\n\"But ranged as infantry,   \nAnd staring face to face,   \nI shot at him as he at me,   \nAnd killed him in his place.\n\n\"I shot him dead because\u2014  \nBecause he was my foe,   \nJust so: my foe of course he was;   \nThat's clear enough; although\n\n\"He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,   \nOff-hand like\u2014just as I\u2014  \nWas out of work\u2014had sold his traps\u2014  \nNo other reason why.\n\n\"Yes; quaint and curious war is!   \nYou shoot a fellow down   \nYou'd treat if met where any bar is,   \nOr help to half-a-crown.\"\n\n_1902_\n\n#  ONE RALPH BLOSSOM SOLILOQUIZES\n\n(\"It being deposed that vij women who were mayds before he knew them have been brought upon the towne [rates?] by the fornications of one Ralph Blossom, Mr. Maior inquired why he should not contribute xiv pence weekly toward their mayntenance. But it being shewn that the sayd R.B. was dying of a purple feaver, no order was made.\"\u2014 _Budmouth Borough Minutes: 16-)_\n\nWhen I am in hell or some such place,   \nA-groaning over my sorry case,   \nWhat will those seven women say to me   \nWho, when I coaxed them, answered \"Aye\" to me?\n\n\"I did not understand your sign!\"   \nWill be the words of Caroline;   \nWhile Jane will cry, \"If I'd had proof of you,   \nI should have learnt to hold aloof of you!\"\n\n\"I won't reproach: it was to be!\"   \nWill drily murmur Cicely;   \nAnd Rosa: \"I feel no hostility,   \nFor I must own I lent facility.\"\n\nLizzy says: \"Sharp was my regret,   \nAnd sometimes it is now! But yet   \nI joy that, though it brought notoriousness,   \nI knew Love once and all its gloriousness!\"\n\nSays Patience: \"Why are we apart?   \nSmall harm did you, my poor Sweet Heart!   \nA manchild born, now tall and beautiful,   \nWas worth the ache of days undutiful.\"\n\nAnd Anne cries: \"O the time was fair,   \nSo wherefore should you burn down there?   \nThere is a deed under the sun, my Love,   \nand that was ours. What's done is done, my Love.   \nThese trumpets here in Heaven are dumb to me   \nWith you away. Dear, come, O come to me!\"\nFrom SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE, LYRICS AND REVERIES\n\n#  CHANNEL FIRING\n\nThat night your great guns, unawares,   \nShook all our coffins as we lay,   \nAnd broke the chancel window-squares,   \nWe thought it was the Judgment-day\n\nAnd sat upright. While drearisome   \nArose the howl of wakened hounds:   \nThe mouse let fall the altar-crumb,   \nThe worms drew back into the mounds,\n\nThe glebe cow drooled. Till God called, \"No;   \nIt's gunnery practice out at sea   \nJust as before you went below;   \nThe world is as it used to be:\n\n\"All nations striving strong to make   \nRed war yet redder. Mad as hatters   \nThey do no more for Christ\u00e9s sake   \nThan you who are helpless in such matters.\n\n\"That this is not the judgment-hour   \nFor some of them's a blessed thing,   \nFor if it were they'd have to scour   \nHell's floor for so much threatening....\n\n\"Ha, ha. It will be warmer when   \nI blow the trumpet (if indeed   \nI ever do; for you are men,   \nAnd rest eternal sorely need).\"\n\nSo down we lay again. \"I wonder,   \nWill the world ever saner be,\"   \nSaid one, \"than when He sent us under   \nIn our indifferent century!\"\n\nAnd many a skeleton shook his head.   \n\"Instead of preaching forty year,\"   \nMy neighbour Parson Thirdly said,   \n\"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.\"\n\nAgain the guns disturbed the hour,   \nRoaring their readiness to avenge,   \nAs far inland as Stourton Tower,   \nAnd Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.\n\n_April 1914_\n\n#  THE CONVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN\n\n_(Lines on the loss of the \"Titanic\")_\n\n##  I\n\nIn a solitude of the sea   \nDeep from human vanity,   \nAnd the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.\n\n##  II\n\nSteel chambers, late the pyres   \nOf her salamandrine fires,   \nCold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.\n\n##  III\n\nOver the mirrors meant   \nTo glass the opulent   \nThe sea-worm crawls\u2014grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.\n\n##  IV\n\nJewels in joy designed   \nTo ravish the sensuous mind   \nLie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.\n\n##  V\n\nDim moon-eyed fishes near   \nGaze at the gilded gear   \nAnd query: \"What does this vaingloriousness down here?\" ...\n\n##  VI\n\nWell: while was fashioning   \nThis creature of cleaving wing,   \nThe Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything\n\n##  VII\n\nPrepared a sinister mate   \nFor her\u2014so gaily great\u2014  \nA Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.\n\n##  VIII\n\nAnd as the smart ship grew   \nIn stature, grace, and hue,   \nIn shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.\n\n##  IX\n\nAlien they seemed to be:   \nNo mortal eye could see   \nThe intimate welding of their later history,\n\n##  X\n\nOr sign that they were bent   \nBy paths coincident   \nOn being anon twin halves of one august event,\n\n##  XI\n\nTill the Spinner of the Years   \nSaid \"Now!\" And each one hears,   \nAnd consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.\n\n#  \"MY SPIRIT WILL NOT HAUNT THE MOUND\"\n\nMy spirit will not haunt the mound   \nAbove my breast,   \nBut travel, memory-possessed,   \nTo where my tremulous being found   \nLife largest, best.\n\nMy phantom-footed shape will go   \nWhen nightfall grays   \nHither and thither along the ways   \nI and another used to know   \nIn backward days.\n\nAnd there you'll find me, if a jot   \nYou still should care   \nFor me, and for my curious air;   \nIf otherwise, then I shall not,   \nFor you, be there.\n\n#  WESSEX HEIGHTS\n\n_(1896)_\n\nThere are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly   \nhand   \nFor thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,   \nSay, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck   \nwestwardly,   \nI seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.\n\nIn the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man's   \nfriend\u2014  \nHer who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too   \nweak to mend:   \nDown there they are dubious and askance; there nobody   \nthinks as I,   \nBut mind-chains do not clank where one's next neighbour   \nis the sky.\n\nIn the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective   \nways\u2014  \nShadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days:   \nThey hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy   \nthings\u2014  \nMen with a wintry sneer, and women with tart disparagings.   \nDown there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that   \nwas,   \nAnd is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what   \ncrass cause   \nCan have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,   \nWho yet has something in common with himself, my   \nchrysalis.\n\nI cannot go to the great grey Plain; there's a figure against   \nthe moon,   \nNobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of   \ntune;   \nI cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms   \nnow passed   \nFor everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there   \nfast.\n\nThere's a ghost at Yell'ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall   \nof the night,   \nThere's a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin-lipped and vague,   \nin a shroud of white,   \nThere is one in the railway train whenever I do not want it   \nnear,   \nI see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not   \nhear.\n\nAs for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,   \nI enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she   \nprefers;   \nYet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not   \nknow;   \nWell, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.   \nSo I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the   \nwest,   \nOr else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,   \nWhere men have never cared to haunt, nor women have   \nwalked with me,   \nAnd ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some   \nliberty.\n\n#  THE SCHRECKHORN\n\n_(With thoughts of Leslie Stephen)_\n\nAloof, as if a thing of mood and whim;   \nNow that its spare and desolate figure gleams   \nUpon my nearing vision, less it seems   \nA looming Alp-height than a guise of him   \nWho scaled its horn with ventured life and limb,   \nDrawn on by vague imaginings, maybe,   \nOf semblance to his personality   \nIn its quaint glooms, keen lights, and rugged trim.\n\nAt his last change, when Life's dull coils unwind,   \nWill he, in old love, hitherward escape,   \nAnd the eternal essence of his mind   \nEnter this silent adamantine shape,   \nAnd his low voicing haunt its slipping snows   \nWhen dawn that calls the climber dyes them rose?\n\n#  \"AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?\"\n\n\"Ah, are you digging on my grave,   \nMy loved one?\u2014planting rue?\"   \n\u2014\"No: yesterday he went to wed   \nOne of the brightest wealth has bred.   \n'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,   \n'That I should not be true.' \"   \n\"Then who is digging on my grave?   \nMy nearest dearest kin?\"   \n\u2014\"Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!   \nWhat good will planting flowers produce?   \nNo tendance of her mound can loose   \nHer spirit from Death's gin.' \"\n\n\"But some one digs upon my grave?   \nMy enemy?\u2014prodding sly?\"   \n\u2014\"Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate   \nThat shuts on all flesh soon or late,   \nShe thought you no more worth her hate,   \nAnd cares not where you lie.\"\n\n\"Then, who is digging on my grave?   \nSay\u2014since I have not guessed!\"   \n\u2014\"O it is I, my mistress dear,   \nYour little dog, who still lives near,   \nAnd much I hope my movements here   \nHave not disturbed your rest?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave....   \nWhy flashed it not on me   \nThat one true heart was left behind!   \nWhat feeling do we ever find   \nTo equal among human kind   \nA dog's fidelity!\"\n\n\"Mistress, I dug upon your grave   \nTo bury a bone, in case   \nI should be hungry near this spot   \nWhen passing on my daily trot.   \nI am sorry, but I quite forgot   \nIt was your resting-place.\"\n\n#  BEFORE AND AFTER SUMMER\n\n##  I\n\nLooking forward to the spring   \nOne puts up with anything.   \nOn this February day   \nThough the winds leap down the street,   \nWintry scourgings seem but play,   \nAnd these later shafts of sleet   \n\u2014Sharper pointed than the first\u2014  \nAnd these later snows\u2014the worst\u2014  \nAre as a half-transparent blind   \nRiddled by rays from sun behind.\n\n##  II\n\nShadows of the October pine   \nReach into this room of mine:   \nOn the pine there swings a bird;   \nHe is shadowed with the tree.   \nMutely perched he bills no word;   \nBlank as I am even is he.   \nFor those happy suns are past,   \nFore-discerned in winter last.   \nWhen went by their pleasure, then?   \nI, alas, perceived not when.\n\n#  AT DAY-CLOSE IN NOVEMBER\n\nThe ten hours' light is abating,   \nAnd a late bird wings across,   \nWhere the pines, like waltzers waiting,   \nGive their black heads a toss.\n\nBeech leaves, that yellow the noon-time,   \nFloat past like specks in the eye;   \nI set every tree in my June time,   \nAnd now they obscure the sky.\n\nAnd the children who ramble through here   \nConceive that there never has been   \nA time when no tall trees grew here,   \nThat none will in time be seen.\n\n#  **POEMS OF 1912-13**\n\n_Veteris vestigia flammae_\n\n#  THE GOING\n\nWhy did you give no hint that night   \nThat quickly after the morrow's dawn,   \nAnd calmly, as if indifferent quite,   \nYou would close your term here, up and be gone   \nWhere I could not follow   \nWith wing of swallow   \nTo gain one glimpse of you ever anon!\n\nNever to bid good-bye,   \nOr lip me the softest call,   \nOr utter a wish for a word, while I   \nSaw morning harden upon the wall,   \nUnmoved, unknowing   \nThat your great going   \nHad place that moment, and altered all.\n\nWhy do you make me leave the house   \nAnd think for a breath it is you I see   \nAt the end of the alley of bending boughs   \nWhere so often at dusk you used to be;   \nTill in darkening dankness   \nThe yawning blankness   \nOf the perspective sickens me!\n\nYou were she who abode   \nBy those red-veined rocks far West,   \nYou were the swan-necked one who rode   \nAlong the beetling Beeny Crest,   \nAnd, reining nigh me,   \nWould muse and eye me,   \nWhile Life unrolled us its very best.\n\nWhy, then, latterly did we not speak,   \nDid we not think of those days long dead,   \nAnd ere your vanishing strive to seek   \nThat time's renewal? We might have said,   \n\"In this bright spring weather   \nWe'll visit together   \nThose places that once we visited.\"\n\nWell, well! All's past amend,   \nUnchangeable. It must go.   \nI seem but a dead man held on end   \nTo sink down soon.... O you could not know   \nThat such swift fleeing   \nNo soul foreseeing\u2014  \nNot even I\u2014would undo me so!\n\n_December 1912_\n\n#  YOUR LAST DRIVE\n\nHere by the moorway you returned,   \nAnd saw the borough lights ahead   \nThat lit your face\u2014all undiscerned   \nTo be in a week the face of the dead,   \nAnd you told of the charm of that haloed view   \nThat never again would beam on you.\n\nAnd on your left you passed the spot   \nWhere eight days later you were to lie,   \nAnd be spoken of as one who was not;   \nBeholding it with a heedless eye   \nAs alien from you, though under its tree   \nYou soon would halt everlastingly.\n\nI drove not with you.... Yet had I sat   \nAt your side that eve I should not have seen   \nThat the countenance I was glancing at   \nHad a last-time look in the flickering sheen,   \nNor have read the writing upon your face,   \n\"I go hence soon to my resting-place;\n\n\"You may miss me then. But I shall not know   \nHow many times you visit me there,   \nOr what your thoughts are, or if you go   \nThere never at all. And I shall not care.   \nShould you censure me I shall take no heed   \nAnd even your praises no more shall need.\"\n\nTrue: never you'll know. And you will not mind.   \nBut shall I then slight you because of such?   \nDear ghost, in the past did you ever find   \nThe thought \"What profit,\" move me much?   \nYet abides the fact, indeed, the same,\u2014  \nYou are past love, praise, indifference, blame.\n\n_December 1912_\n\n#  THE WALK\n\nYou did not walk with me   \nOf late to the hill-top tree   \nBy the gated ways,   \nAs in earlier days;   \nYou were weak and lame,   \nSo you never came,   \nAnd I went alone, and I did not mind,   \nNot thinking of you as left behind.\n\nI walked up there to-day   \nJust in the former way;   \nSurveyed around   \nThe familiar ground   \nBy myself again:   \nWhat difference, then?   \nOnly that underlying sense   \nOf the look of a room on returning thence.\n\n#  RAIN ON A GRAVE\n\nClouds spout upon her   \nTheir waters amain   \nIn ruthless disdain,\u2014  \nHer who but lately   \nHad shivered with pain   \nAs at touch of dishonour   \nIf there had lit on her   \nSo coldly, so straightly   \nSuch arrows of rain:\n\nOne who to shelter   \nHer delicate head   \nWould quicken and quicken   \nEach tentative tread   \nIf drops chanced to pelt her   \nThat summertime spills   \nIn dust-paven rills   \nWhen thunder-clouds thicken   \nAnd birds close their bills.\n\nWould that I lay there   \nAnd she were housed here!   \nOr better, together   \nWere folded away there   \nExposed to one weather   \nWe both,\u2014who would stray there   \nWhen sunny the day there,   \nOr evening was clear   \nAt the prime of the year.\n\nSoon will be growing   \nGreen blades from her mound,   \nAnd daisies be showing   \nLike stars on the ground,   \nTill she form part of them\u2014  \nAy\u2014the sweet heart of them,   \nLoved beyond measure   \nWith a child's pleasure   \nAll her life's round.\n\n_January 31, 1913_\n\n#  WITHOUT CEREMONY\n\nIt was your way, my dear,   \nTo vanish without a word   \nWhen callers, friends, or kin   \nHad left, and I hastened in   \nTo rejoin you, as I inferred.\n\nAnd when you'd a mind to career   \nOff anywhere\u2014say to town\u2014  \nYou were all on a sudden gone   \nBefore I had thought thereon,   \nOr noticed your trunks were down.\n\nSo, now that you disappear   \nFor ever in that swift style,   \nYour meaning seems to me   \nJust as it used to be:   \n\"Good-bye is not worth while!\"\n\n#  LAMENT\n\nHow she would have loved   \nA party to-day!\u2014  \nBright-hatted and gloved,   \nWith table and tray   \nAnd chairs on the lawn   \nHer smiles would have shone   \nWith welcomings.... But   \nShe is shut, she is shut   \nFrom friendship's spell   \nIn the jailing shell   \nOf her tiny cell.\n\nOr she would have reigned   \nAt a dinner to-night   \nWith ardours unfeigned,   \nAnd a generous delight;   \nAll in her abode   \nShe'd have freely bestowed   \nOn her guests.... But alas,   \nShe is shut under grass   \nWhere no cups flow,   \nPowerless to know   \nThat it might be so.\n\nAnd she would have sought   \nWith a child's eager glance   \nThe shy snowdrops brought   \nBy the new year's advance,   \nAnd peered in the rime   \nOf Candlemas-time   \nFor crocuses ... chanced   \nIt that she were not tranced   \nFrom sights she loved best;   \nWholly possessed   \nBy an infinite rest!\n\nAnd we are here staying   \nAmid these stale things   \nWho care not for gaying,   \nAnd those junketings   \nThat used so to joy her,   \nAnd never to cloy her   \nAs us they cloy! ... But   \nShe is shut, she is shut   \nFrom the cheer of them, dead   \nTo all done and said   \nIn her yew-arched bed.\n\n#  THE HAUNTER\n\nHe does not think that I haunt here nightly:   \nHow shall I let him know   \nThat whither his fancy sets him wandering   \nI, too, alertly go?\u2014  \nHover and hover a few feet from him   \nJust as I used to do,   \nBut cannot answer the words he lifts me\u2014  \nOnly listen thereto!\n\nWhen I could answer he did not say them:   \nWhen I could let him know   \nHow I would like to join in his journeys   \nSeldom he wished to go.   \nNow that he goes and wants me with him   \nMore than he used to do,   \nNever he sees my faithful phantom   \nThough he speaks thereto.\n\nYes, I companion him to places   \nOnly dreamers know,   \nWhere the shy hares print long paces,   \nWhere the night rooks go;   \nInto old aisles where the past is all to him,   \nClose as his shade can do,   \nAlways lacking the power to call to him,   \nNear as I reach thereto!\n\nWhat a good haunter I am, O tell him!   \nQuickly make him know   \nIf he but sigh since my loss befell him   \nStraight to his side I go.   \nTell him a faithful one is doing   \nAll that love can do   \nStill that his path may be worth pursuing,   \nAnd to bring peace thereto.\n\n#  THE VOICE\n\nWoman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,   \nSaying that now you are not as you were   \nWhen you had changed from the one who was all to me,   \nBut as at first, when our day was fair.\n\nCan it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,   \nStanding as when I drew near to the town   \nWhere you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,   \nEven to the original air-blue gown!\n\nOr is it only the breeze, in its listlessness   \nTravelling across the wet mead to me here,   \nYou being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,   \nHeard no more again far or near?\n\nThus I; faltering forward,   \nLeaves around me falling,   \nWind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,   \nAnd the woman calling.\n\n_December 1912_\n\n#  HIS VISITOR\n\nI come across from Mellstock while the moon wastes weaker   \nTo behold where I lived with you for twenty years and   \nmore:   \nI shall go in the gray, at the passing of the mail-train,   \nAnd need no setting open of the long familiar door   \nAs before.\n\nThe change I notice in my once own quarters!   \nA formal-fashioned border where the daisies used to be,   \nThe rooms new painted, and the pictures altered,   \nAnd other cups and saucers, and no cosy nook for tea   \nAs with me.\n\nI discern the dim faces of the sleep-wrapt servants;   \nThey are not those who tended me through feeble hours and   \nstrong,   \nBut strangers quite, who never knew my rule here,   \nWho never saw me painting, never heard my softling song   \nFloat along.\n\nSo I don't want to linger in this re-decked dwelling,   \nI feel too uneasy at the contrasts I behold,   \nAnd I make again for Mellstock to return here never,   \nAnd rejoin the roomy silence, and the mute and manifold   \nSouls of old.\n\n_1913_\n\n#  AFTER A JOURNEY\n\nHereto I come to view a voiceless ghost;   \nWhither, O whither will its whim now draw me?   \nUp the cliff, down, till I'm lonely, lost,   \nAnd the unseen waters' ejaculations awe me.   \nWhere you will next be there's no knowing,   \nFacing round about me everywhere,   \nWith your nut-coloured hair,   \nAnd gray eyes, and rose-flush coming and going.\n\nYes: I have re-entered your olden haunts at last;   \nThrough the years, through the dead scenes I have tracked   \nyou;   \nWhat have you now found to say of our past\u2014  \nScanned across the dark space wherein I have lacked you?   \nSummer gave us sweets, but autumn wrought division?   \nThings were not lastly as firstly well   \nWith us twain, you tell?   \nBut all's closed now, despite Time's derision.\n\nI see what you are doing: you are leading me on   \nTo the spots we knew when we haunted here together,   \nThe waterfall, above which the mist-bow shone   \nAt the then fair hour in the then fair weather,   \nAnd the cave just under, with a voice still so hollow   \nThat it seems to call out to me from forty years ago,   \nWhen you were all aglow,   \nAnd not the thin ghost that I now frailly follow!\n\nIgnorant of what there is flitting here to see,   \nThe waked birds preen and the seals flop lazily;   \nSoon you will have, Dear, to vanish from me,   \nFor the stars close their shutters and the dawn whitens   \nhazily.   \nTrust me, I mind not, though Life lours,   \nThe bringing me here; nay, bring me here again!   \nI am just the same as when   \nOur days were a joy, and our paths through flowers.\n\n_Pentargan Bay_\n\n#  AT CASTLE BOTEREL\n\nAs I drive to the junction of lane and highway,   \nAnd the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette,   \nI look behind at the fading byway,   \nAnd see on its slope, now glistening wet,   \nDistinctly yet\n\nMyself and a girlish form benighted   \nIn dry March weather. We climb the road   \nBeside a chaise. We had just alighted   \nTo ease the sturdy pony's load   \nWhen he sighed and slowed.\n\nWhat we did as we climbed, and what we talked of   \nMatters not much, nor to what it led,\u2014  \nSomething that life will not be balked of   \nWithout rude reason till hope is dead,   \nAnd feeling fled.\n\nIt filled but a minute. But was there ever   \nA time of such quality, since or before,   \nIn that hill's story? To one mind never,   \nThough it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore,   \nBy thousands more.\n\nPrimaeval rocks form the road's steep border,   \nAnd much have they faced there, first and last,   \nOf the transitory in Earth's long order;   \nBut what they record in colour and cast   \nIs\u2014that we two passed.\n\nAnd to me, though Time's unflinching rigour,   \nIn mindless rote, has ruled from sight   \nThe substance now, one phantom figure   \nRemains on the slope, as when that night   \nSaw us alight.\n\nI look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking,   \nI look back at it amid the rain   \nFor the very last time; for my sand is sinking,   \nAnd I shall traverse old love's domain   \nNever again.\n\n_March 1913_\n\n#  \"SHE CHARGED ME\"\n\nShe charged me with having said this and that   \nTo another woman long years before,   \nIn the very parlour where we sat,\u2014\n\nSat on a night when the endless pour   \nOf rain on the roof and the road below   \nBent the spring of the spirit more and more....\n\n\u2014So charged she me; and the Cupid's bow   \nOf her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face,   \nAnd her white forefinger lifted slow.\n\nHad she done it gently, or shown a trace   \nThat not too curiously would she view   \nA folly flown ere her reign had place,\n\nA kiss might have closed it. But I knew   \nFrom the fall of each word, and the pause between,   \nThat the curtain would drop upon us two   \nEre long, in our play of slave and queen.\n\n#  THE MOON LOOKS IN\n\n##  I\n\nI have risen again,   \nAnd awhile survey   \nBy my chilly ray   \nThrough your window-pane   \nYour upturned face,   \nAs you think, \"Ah\u2014she   \nNow dreams of me   \nIn her distant place!\"\n\n##  II\n\nI pierce her blind   \nIn her far-off home:   \nShe fixes a comb,   \nAnd says in her mind,   \n\"I start in an hour;   \nWhom shall I meet?   \nWon't the men be sweet,   \nAnd the women sour!\"\n\n#  IN THE DAYS OF CRINOLINE\n\nA plain tilt-bonnet on her head   \nShe took the path across the leaze.   \n\u2014Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,   \n\"Too dowdy that, for coquetries,   \nSo I can hoe at ease.\"\n\nBut when she had passed into the heath,   \nAnd gained the wood beyond the flat,   \nShe raised her skirts, and from beneath   \nUnpinned and drew as from a sheath   \nAn ostrich-feathered hat.\n\nAnd where the hat had hung she now   \nConcealed and pinned the dowdy hood,   \nAnd set the hat upon her brow,   \nAnd thus emerging from the wood   \nTripped on in jaunty mood.\n\nThe sun was low and crimson-faced   \nAs two came that way from the town,   \nAnd plunged into the wood untraced....   \nWhen severally therefrom they paced   \nThe sun had quite gone down.\n\nThe hat and feather disappeared,   \nThe dowdy hood again was donned,   \nAnd in the gloom the fair one neared   \nHer home and husband dour, who conned   \nCalmly his blue-eyed blonde.\n\n\"To-day,\" he said, \"you have shown good sense,   \nA dress so modest and so meek   \nShould always deck your goings hence   \nAlone.\" And as a recompense   \nHe kissed her on the cheek.\n\n#  THE WORKBOX\n\n\"See, here's the workbox, little wife,   \nThat I made of polished oak.\"   \nHe was a joiner, of village life;   \nShe came of borough folk.\n\nHe holds the present up to her   \nAs with a smile she nears   \nAnd answers to the profferer,   \n\" 'Twill last all my sewing years!\"\n\n\"I warrant it will. And longer too.   \n'Tis a scantling that I got   \nOff poor John Wayward's coffin, who   \nDied of they knew not what.\n\n\"The shingled pattern that seems to cease   \nAgainst your box's rim   \nContinues right on in the piece   \nThat's underground with him.\n\n\"And while I worked it made me think   \nOf timber's varied doom;   \nOne inch where people eat and drink,   \nThe next inch in a tomb.\n\n\"But why do you look so white, my dear,   \nAnd turn aside your face?   \nYou knew not that good lad, I fear,   \nThough he came from your native place?\"\n\n\"How could I know that good young man,   \nThough he came from my native town,   \nWhen he must have left far earlier than   \nI was a woman grown?\"\n\n\"Ah, no. I should have understood!   \nIt shocked you that I gave   \nTo you one end of a piece of wood   \nWhose other is in a grave?\"\n\n\"Don't, dear, despise my intellect,   \nMere accidental things   \nOf that sort never have effect   \nOn my imaginings.\"\n\nYet still her lips were limp and wan,   \nHer face still held aside,   \nAs if she had known not only John,   \nBut known of what he died.\n\n#  EXEUNT OMNES\n\n##  I\n\nEverybody else, then, going,   \nAnd I still left where the fair was? ...   \nMuch have I seen of neighbour loungers   \nMaking a lusty showing,   \nEach now past all knowing.\n\n##  II\n\nThere is an air of blankness   \nIn the street and the littered spaces;   \nThoroughfare, steeple, bridge and highway   \nWizen themselves to lankness;   \nKennels dribble dankness.\n\n##  III\n\nFolk all fade. And whither,   \nAs I wait alone where the fair was?   \nInto the clammy and numbing night-fog   \nWhence they entered hither.   \nSoon one more goes thither!\n\n_June 2, 1913_\n\n#  **SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE IN FIFTEEN GLIMPSES**\n\n##  I. AT TEA\n\nThe kettle descants in a cosy drone,   \nAnd the young wife looks in her husband's face,   \nAnd then at her guest's, and shows in her own   \nHer sense that she fills an envied place;   \nAnd the visiting lady is all abloom,   \nAnd says there was never so sweet a room.\n\nAnd the happy young housewife does not know   \nThat the woman beside her was first his choice,   \nTill the fates ordained it could not be so....   \nBetraying nothing in look or voice   \nThe guest sits smiling and sips her tea,   \nAnd he throws her a stray glance yearningly.\n\n##  II. IN CHURCH\n\n\"And now to God the Father,\" he ends,   \nAnd his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles:   \nEach listener chokes as he bows and bends,   \nAnd emotion pervades the crowded aisles.   \nThen the preacher glides to the vestry-door,   \nAnd shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.\n\nThe door swings softly ajar meanwhile,   \nAnd a pupil of his in the Bible class,   \nWho adores him as one without gloss or guile,   \nSees her idol stand with a satisfied smile   \nAnd re-enact at the vestry-glass   \nEach pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show   \nThat had moved the congregation so.\n\n##  III. BY HER AUNT'S GRAVE\n\n\"Sixpence a week,\" says the girl to her lover,   \n\"Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide   \nIn me alone, she vowed. 'Twas to cover   \nThe cost of her headstone when she died.   \nAnd that was a year ago last June;   \nI've not yet fixed it. But I must soon.\"\n\n\"And where is the money now, my dear?\"   \n\"O, snug in my purse ... Aunt was so slow   \nIn saving it\u2014eighty weeks, or near.\" ...   \n\"Let's spend it,\" he hints. \"For she won't know   \nThere's a dance to-night at the Load of Hay.\"   \nShe passively nods. And they go that way.\n\n##  IV. IN THE ROOM OF THE BRIDE-ELECT\n\n\"Would it had been the man of our wish!\"   \nSighs her mother. To whom with vehemence she   \nIn the wedding-dress\u2014the wife to be\u2014  \n\"Then why were you so mollyish   \nAs not to insist on him for me!\"   \nThe mother, amazed: \"Why, dearest one,   \nBecause you pleaded for this or none!\"\n\n\"But Father and you should have stood out strong!   \nSince then, to my cost, I have lived to find   \nThat you were right and that I was wrong;   \nThis man is a dolt to the one declined....   \nAh!\u2014here he comes with his button-hole rose.   \nGood God\u2014I must marry him I suppose!\"\n\n##  V. AT A WATERING-PLACE\n\nThey sit and smoke on the esplanade,   \nThe man and his friend, and regard the bay   \nWhere the far chalk cliffs, to the left displayed,   \nSmile sallowly in the decline of day.   \nAnd saunterers pass with laugh and jest\u2014  \nA handsome couple among the rest.\n\n\"That smart proud pair,\" says the man to his friend,   \n\"Are to marry next week.... How little he thinks   \nThat dozens of days and nights on end   \nI have stroked her neck, unhooked the links   \nOf her sleeve to get at her upper arm....   \nWell, bliss is in ignorance: what's the harm!\"\n\n##  VI. IN THE CEMETERY\n\n\"You see those mothers squabbling there?\"   \nRemarks the man of the cemetery.   \n\"One says in tears, _'Tis mine lies here!'_   \nAnother, _'Nay, mine, you Pharisee!'_   \nAnother, _'How dare you move my flowers_   \n_And put your own on this grave of ours!'_   \nBut all their children were laid therein   \nAt different times, like sprats in a tin.\n\n\"And then the main drain had to cross,   \nAnd we moved the lot some nights ago,   \nAnd packed them away in the general foss   \nWith hundreds more. But their folks don't know,   \nAnd as well cry over a new-laid drain   \nAs anything else, to ease your pain!\"\n\n##  VII. OUTSIDE THE WINDOW\n\n\"My stick!\" he says, and turns in the lane   \nTo the house just left, whence a vixen voice   \nComes out with the firelight through the pane,   \nAnd he sees within that the girl of his choice   \nStands rating her mother with eyes aglare   \nFor something said while he was there.\n\n\"At last I behold her soul undraped!\"   \nThinks the man who had loved her more than himself;   \n\"My God!\u2014'tis but narrowly I have escaped.\u2014  \nMy precious porcelain proves it delf.\"   \nHis face has reddened like one ashamed,   \nAnd he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed.\n\n##  VIII. IN THE STUDY\n\nHe enters, and mute on the edge of a chair   \nSits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,   \nA type of decayed gentility;   \nAnd by some small signs he well can guess   \nThat she comes to him almost breakfastless.\n\n\"I have called\u2014I hope I do not err\u2014  \nI am looking for a purchaser   \nOf some score volumes of the works   \nOf eminent divines I own,\u2014  \nLeft by my father\u2014though it irks   \nMy patience to offer them.\" And she smiles   \nAs if necessity were unknown;\n\n\"But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles   \nI have wished, as I am fond of art,   \nTo make my rooms a little smart,   \nAnd these old books are so in the way.\"   \nAnd lightly still she laughs to him,   \nAs if to sell were a mere gay whim,   \nAnd that, to be frank, Life were indeed   \nTo her not vinegar and gall,   \nBut fresh and honey-like; and Need   \nNo household skeleton at all.\n\n##  IX. AT THE ALTAR-RAIL\n\n\"My bride is not coming, alas!\" says the groom,   \nAnd the telegram shakes in his hand. \"I own   \nIt was hurried! We met at a dancing-room   \nWhen I went to the Cattle-Show alone,   \nAnd then, next night, where the Fountain leaps,   \nAnd the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps.\n\n\"Ay, she won me to ask her to be my wife\u2014  \n'Twas foolish perhaps!\u2014to forsake the ways   \nOf the flaring town for a farmer's life.   \nShe agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says:   \n_'It's sweet of you, dear, to prepare me a nest,_   \n_But a swift, short, gay life suits me best._   \n_What I really am you have never gleaned;_   \n_I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned.' \"_\n\n##  X. IN THE NUPTIAL CHAMBER\n\n\"O that mastering tune!\" And up in the bed   \nLike a lace-robed phantom springs the bride;   \n\"And why?\" asks the man she had that day wed,   \nWith a start, as the band plays on outside.   \n\"It's the townsfolk's cheery compliment   \nBecause of our marriage, my Innocent.\"\n\n\"O but you don't know! 'Tis the passionate air   \nTo which my old Love waltzed with me,   \nAnd I swore as we spun that none should share   \nMy home, my kisses, till death, save he!   \nAnd he dominates me and thrills me through,   \nAnd it's he I embrace while embracing you!\"\n\n##  XI. IN THE RESTAURANT\n\n\"But hear. If you stay, and the child be born,   \nIt will pass as your husband's with the rest,   \nWhile, if we fly, the teeth of scorn   \nWill be gleaming at us from east to west;   \nAnd the child will come as a life despised;   \nI feel an elopement is ill-advised!\"\n\n\"O you realize not what it is, my dear,   \nTo a woman! Daily and hourly alarms   \nLest the truth should out. How can I stay here,   \nAnd nightly take him into my arms!   \nCome to the child no name or fame,   \nLet us go, and face it, and bear the shame.\"\n\n##  XII. AT THE DRAPER'S\n\n\"I stood at the back of the shop, my dear,   \nBut you did not perceive me.   \nWell, when they deliver what you were shown   \n_I_ shall know nothing of it, believe me!\"\n\nAnd he coughed and coughed as she paled and said,   \n\"O, I didn't see you come in there\u2014  \nWhy couldn't you speak?\"\u2014\"Well, I didn't. I left   \nThat you should not notice I'd been there.\n\n\"You were viewing some lovely things. _'Soon required_   \n_For a widow, of latest fashion';_   \nAnd I knew 'twould upset you to meet the man   \nWho had to be cold and ashen\n\n\"And screwed in a box before they could dress you   \n_'In the last new note in mourning,'_   \nAs they defined it. So, not to distress you,   \nI left you to your adorning.\"\n\n##  XIII. ON THE DEATH-BED\n\n\"I'll tell\u2014being past all praying for\u2014  \nThen promptly die.... He was out at the war,   \nAnd got some scent of the intimacy   \nThat was under way between her and me;   \nAnd he stole back home, and appeared like a ghost   \nOne night, at the very time almost   \nThat I reached her house. Well, I shot him dead,   \nAnd secretly buried him. Nothing was said.\n\n\"The news of the battle came next day;   \nHe was scheduled missing. I hurried away,   \nGot out there, visited the field,   \nAnd sent home word that a search revealed   \nHe was one of the slain; though, lying alone   \nAnd stript, his body had not been known.\n\n\"But she suspected. I lost her love,   \nYea, my hope of earth, and of Heaven above;   \nAnd my time's now come, and I'll pay the score,   \nThough it be burning for evermore.\"\n\n##  XIV. OVER THE COFFIN\n\nThey stand confronting, the coffin between,   \nHis wife of old, and his wife of late,   \nAnd the dead man whose they both had been   \nSeems listening aloof, as to things past date.   \n\u2014\"I have called,\" says the first. \"Do you marvel or not?\"   \n\"In truth,\" says the second, \"I do\u2014somewhat.\"\n\n\"Well, there was a word to be said by me! ...   \nI divorced that man because of you\u2014  \nIt seemed I must do it, boundenly;   \nBut now I am older, and tell you true,   \nFor life is little, and dead lies he;   \nI would I had let alone you two!   \nAnd both of us, scorning parochial ways,   \nHad lived like the wives in the patriarchs' days.\"\n\n##  XV. IN THE MOONLIGHT\n\n\"O lonely workman, standing there   \nIn a dream, why do you stare and stare   \nAt her grave, as no other grave there were?\n\n\"If your great gaunt eyes so importune   \nHer soul by the shine of this corpse-cold moon   \nMaybe you'll raise her phantom soon!\"\n\n\"Why, fool, it is what I would rather see   \nThan all the living folk there be;   \nBut alas, there is no such joy for me!\"\n\n\"Ah\u2014she was one you loved, no doubt,   \nThrough good and evil, through rain and drought,   \nAnd when she passed, all your sun went out?\"\n\n\"Nay: she was the woman I did not love,   \nWhom all the others were ranked above,   \nWhom during her life I thought nothing of.\"\nFrom MOMENTS OF VISION AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES\n\n#  \"WE SAT AT THE WINDOW\"\n\n( _Bournemouth, 1875)_\n\nWe sat at the window looking out,   \nAnd the rain came down like silken strings   \nThat Swithin's day. Each gutter and spout   \nBabbled unchecked in the busy way   \nOf witless things:   \nNothing to read, nothing to see   \nSeemed in that room for her and me   \nOn Swithin's day.\n\nWe were irked by the scene, by our own selves; yes,   \nFor I did not know, nor did she infer   \nHow much there was to read and guess   \nBy her in me, and to see and crown   \nBy me in her.   \nWasted were two souls in their prime,   \nAnd great was the waste, that July time   \nWhen the rain came down.\n\n#  AFTERNOON SERVICE AT MELLSTOCK\n\n( _Circa 1850)_\n\nOn afternoons of drowsy calm   \nWe stood in the panelled pew,   \nSinging one-voiced a Tate-and-Brady psalm   \nTo the tune of \"Cambridge New.\"\n\nWe watched the elms, we watched the rooks,   \nThe clouds upon the breeze,   \nBetween the whiles of glancing at our books,   \nAnd swaying like the trees.\n\nSo mindless were those outpourings!\u2014  \nThough I am not aware   \nThat I have gained by subtle thought on things   \nSince we stood psalming there.\n\n#  AT THE WORD \"FAREWELL\"\n\nShe looked like a bird from a cloud   \nOn the clammy lawn,   \nMoving alone, bare-browed   \nIn the dim of dawn.   \nThe candles alight in the room   \nFor my parting meal   \nMade all things withoutdoors loom   \nStrange, ghostly, unreal.\n\nThe hour itself was a ghost,   \nAnd it seemed to me then   \nAs of chances the chance furthermost   \nI should see her again.   \nI beheld not where all was so fleet   \nThat a Plan of the past   \nWhich had ruled us from birthtime to meet   \nWas in working at last:\n\nNo prelude did I there perceive   \nTo a drama at all,   \nOr foreshadow what fortune might weave   \nFrom beginnings so small;   \nBut I rose as if quicked by a spur   \nI was bound to obey,   \nAnd stepped through the casement to her   \nStill alone in the gray.\n\n\"I am leaving you.... Farewell!\" I said,   \nAs I followed her on   \nBy an alley bare boughs overspread;   \n\"I soon must be gone!\"   \nEven then the scale might have been turned   \nAgainst love by a feather,   \n\u2014But crimson one cheek of hers burned   \nWhen we came in together.\n\n#  HEREDITY\n\nI am the family face;   \nFlesh perishes, I live on,   \nProjecting trait and trace   \nThrough time to times anon,   \nAnd leaping from place to place   \nOver oblivion.\n\nThe years-heired feature that can   \nIn curve and voice and eye   \nDespise the human span   \nOf durance\u2014that is I;   \nThe eternal thing in man,   \nThat heeds no call to die.\n\n#  NEAR LANIVET, 1872\n\nThere was a stunted handpost just on the crest,   \nOnly a few feet high:   \nShe was tired, and we stopped in the twilight-time for her   \nrest,   \nAt the crossways close thereby.\n\nShe leant back, being so weary, against its stem,   \nAnd laid her arms on its own,   \nEach open palm stretched out to each end of them,   \nHer sad face sideways thrown.\n\nHer white-clothed form at this dim-lit cease of day   \nMade her look as one crucified   \nIn my gaze at her from the midst of the dusty way,   \nAnd hurriedly \"Don't,\" I cried.\n\nI do not think she heard. Loosing thence she said,   \nAs she stepped forth ready to go,   \n\"I am rested now.\u2014Something strange came into my head;   \nI wish I had not leant so!\"\n\nAnd wordless we moved onward down from the hill   \nIn the west cloud's murked obscure,   \nAnd looking back we could see the handpost still   \nIn the solitude of the moor.\n\n\"It struck her too,\" I thought, for as if afraid   \nShe heavily breathed as we trailed;   \nTill she said, \"I did not think how 'twould look in the shade,   \nWhen I leant there like one nailed.\"\n\nI, lightly: \"There's nothing in it. For you, anyhow!\"   \n\u2014\"O I know there is not,\" said she ...   \n\"Yet I wonder ... If no one is bodily crucified now,   \nIn spirit one may be!\"\n\nAnd we dragged on and on, while we seemed to see   \nIn the running of Time's far glass   \nHer crucified, as she had wondered if she might be   \nSome day.\u2014Alas, alas!\n\n#  TO THE MOON\n\n\"WHAT have you looked at, Moon,   \nIn your time,   \nNow long past your prime?\"   \n\"O, I have looked at, often looked at   \nSweet, sublime,   \nSore things, shudderful, night and noon   \nIn my time.\"\n\n\"What have you mused on, Moon,   \nIn your day,   \nSo aloof, so far away?\"   \n\"O, I have mused on, often mused on   \nGrowth, decay,   \nNations alive, dead, mad, aswoon,   \nIn my day!\"\n\n\"Have you much wondered, Moon,   \nOn your rounds,   \nSelf-wrapt, beyond Earth's bounds?\"   \n\"Yea, I have wondered, often wondered   \nAt the sounds   \nReaching me of the human tune   \nOn my rounds.\"\n\n\"What do you think of it, Moon,   \nAs you go?   \nIs Life much, or no?\"   \n\"O, I think of it, often think of it   \nAs a show   \nGod ought surely to shut up soon,   \nAs I go.\"\n\n#  TIMING HER\n\n_(Written to an old folk-tune)_\n\nLalage's coming:   \nWhere is she now, O?   \nTurning to bow, O,   \nAnd smile, is she,   \nJust at parting,   \nParting, parting,   \nAs she is starting   \nTo come to me?\n\nWhere is she now, O,   \nNow, and now, O,   \nShadowing a bough, O,   \nOf hedge or tree   \nAs she is rushing,   \nRushing, rushing,   \nGossamers brushing   \nTo come to me?\n\nLalage's coming;   \nWhere is she now, O;   \nClimbing the brow, O,   \nOf hills I see?   \nYes, she is nearing,   \nNearing, nearing,   \nWeather unfearing   \nTo come to me.\n\nNear is she now, O,   \nNow, and now, O;   \nMilk the rich cow, O,   \nForward the tea;   \nShake the down bed for her,   \nLinen sheets spread for her,   \nDrape round the head for her   \nComing to me.\n\nLalage's coming,   \nShe's nearer now, O,   \nEnd anyhow, O,   \nTo-day's husbandry!   \nWould a gilt chair were mine,   \nSlippers of vair were mine,   \nBrushes for hair were mine   \nOf ivory!\n\nWhat will she think, O,   \nShe who's so comely,   \nViewing how homely   \nA sort we are!   \nNothing resplendent,   \nNo prompt attendant,   \nNot one dependent   \nPertaining to me!\n\nLalage's coming;   \nWhere is she now, O?   \nFain I'd avow, O,   \nFull honestly   \nNought here's enough for her,   \nAll is too rough for her,   \nEven my love for her   \nPoor in degree.\n\nShe's nearer now, O,   \nStill nearer now, O,   \nShe'tis, I vow, O,   \nPassing the lea.   \nRush down to meet her there,   \nCall out and greet her there,   \nNever a sweeter there   \nCrossed to me!\n\nLalage's come; aye,   \nCome is she now, O! ...   \nDoes Heaven allow, O,   \nA meeting to be?   \nYes, she is here now,   \nHere now, here now,   \nNothing to fear now,   \nHere's Lalage!\n\n#  THE BLINDED BIRD\n\nSo zestfully canst thou sing?   \nAnd all this indignity,   \nWith God's consent, on thee!   \nBlinded ere yet a-wing   \nBy the red-hot needle thou,   \nI stand and wonder how   \nSo zestfully thou canst sing!\n\nResenting not such wrong,   \nThy grievous pain forgot,   \nEternal dark thy lot,   \nGroping thy whole life long,   \nAfter that stab of fire;   \nEnjailed in pitiless wire;   \nResenting not such wrong!\n\nWho hath charity? This bird.   \nWho suffereth long and is kind,   \nIs not provoked, though blind   \nAnd alive ensepulchred?   \nWho hopeth, endureth all things?   \nWho thinketh no evil, but sings?   \nWho is divine? This bird.\n\n#  \"THE WIND BLEW WORDS\"\n\nThe wind blew words along the skies,   \nAnd these it blew to me   \nThrough the wide dusk: \"Lift up your eyes,   \nBehold this troubled tree,   \nComplaining as it sways and plies;   \nIt is a limb of thee.\n\n\"Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round\u2014  \nDumb figures, wild and tame,   \nYea, too, thy fellows who abound\u2014  \nEither of speech the same   \nOr far and strange\u2014black, dwarfed, and browned,   \nThey are stuff of thy own frame.\"\n\nI moved on in a surging awe   \nOf inarticulateness   \nAt the pathetic Me I saw   \nIn all his huge distress,   \nMaking self-slaughter of the law   \nTo kill, break, or suppress.\n\n#  To MY FATHER'S VIOLIN\n\nDoes he want you down there   \nIn the Nether Glooms where   \nThe hours may be a dragging load upon him,   \nAs he hears the axle grind   \nRound and round   \nOf the great world, in the blind   \nStill profound   \nOf the night-time? He might liven at the sound   \nOf your string, revealing you had not forgone him.\n\nIn the gallery west the nave,   \nBut a few yards from his grave,   \nDid you, tucked beneath his chin, to his bowing   \nGuide the homely harmony   \nOf the quire   \nWho for long years strenuously\u2014  \nSon and sire\u2014\n\nCaught the strains that at his fingering low or higher   \nFrom your four thin threads and eff-holes came outflowing.\n\nAnd, too, what merry tunes   \nHe would bow at nights or noons   \nThat chanced to find him bent to lute a measure,   \nWhen he made you speak his heart   \nAs in dream,   \nWithout book or music-chart,   \nOn some theme   \nElusive as a jack-o'-lanthorn's gleam,   \nAnd the psalm of duty shelved for trill of pleasure.\n\nWell, you can not, alas,   \nThe barrier overpass   \nThat screens him in those Mournful Meads hereunder,   \nWhere no fiddling can be heard   \nIn the glades   \nOf silentness, no bird   \nThrills the shades;   \nWhere no viol is touched for songs or serenades,   \nNo bowing wakes a congregation's wonder.\n\nHe must do without you now,   \nStir you no more anyhow   \nTo yearning concords taught you in your glory;   \nWhile, your strings a tangled wreck,   \nOnce smart drawn,   \nTen worm-wounds in your neck,   \nPurflings wan   \nWith dust-hoar, here alone I sadly con   \nYour present dumbness, shape your olden story.\n\n#  THE PEDIGREE\n\n##  I\n\nI bent in the deep of night   \nOver a pedigree the chronicler gave   \nAs mine; and as I bent there, half-unrobed,   \nThe uncurtained panes of my window-square let in the   \nwatery light   \nOf the moon in its old age:   \nAnd green-rheumed clouds were hurrying past where mute   \nand cold it globed   \nLike a drifting dolphin's eye seen through a lapping wave.\n\n##  II\n\nSo, scanning my sire-sown tree,   \nAnd the hieroglyphs of this spouse tied to that,   \nWith offspring mapped below in lineage,   \nTill the tangles troubled me,   \nThe branches seemed to twist into a seared and cynic face   \nWhich winked and tokened towards the window like a   \nMage   \nEnchanting me to gaze again thereat.\n\n##  III\n\nIt was a mirror now,   \nAnd in it a long perspective I could trace   \nOf my begetters, dwindling backward each past each   \nAll with the kindred look,   \nWhose names had since been inked down in their place   \nOn the recorder's book,   \nGeneration and generation of my mien, and build, and brow.\n\n##  IV\n\nAnd then did I divine   \nThat every heave and coil and move I made   \nWithin my brain, and in my mood and speech,   \nWas in the glass portrayed   \nAs long forestalled by their so making it,   \nThe first of them, the primest fuglemen of my line,   \nBeing fogged in far antiqueness past surmise and reason's   \nreach.\n\n##  V\n\nSaid I then, sunk in tone,   \n\"I am merest mimicker and counterfeit!\u2014  \nThough thinking, I _am_ I,   \n_And what I do I do myself alone.\"_   \n\u2014The cynic twist of the page thereat unknit   \nBack to its normal figure, having wrought its purport wry,   \nThe Mage's mirror left the window-square,   \nAnd the stained moon and drift retook their places there.\n\n#  WHERE THEY LIVED\n\nDishevelled leaves creep down   \nUpon that bank to-day,   \nSome green, some yellow, and some pale brown;   \nThe wet bents bob and sway;   \nThe once warm slippery turf is sodden   \nWhere we laughingly sat or lay.\n\nThe summerhouse is gone,   \nLeaving a weedy space;   \nThe bushes that veiled it once have grown   \nGaunt trees that interlace,   \nThrough whose lank limbs I see too clearly   \nThe nakedness of the place.\n\nAnd where were hills of blue,   \nBlind drifts of vapour blow,   \nAnd the names of former dwellers few,   \nIf any, people know,   \nAnd instead of a voice that called, \"Come in, Dears,\"   \nTime calls, \"Pass below!\"\n\n#  \"SOMETHING TAPPED\"\n\nSomething tapped on the pane of my room   \nWhen there was never a trace   \nOf wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom   \nMy weary Belov\u00e9d's face.\n\n\"O I am tired of waiting,\" she said,   \n\"Night, morn, noon, afternoon;   \nSo cold it is in my lonely bed,   \nAnd I thought you would join me soon!\"\n\nI rose and neared the window-glass,   \nBut vanished thence had she:   \nOnly a pallid moth, alas,   \nTapped at the pane for me.\n\n_August 1913_\n\n#  THE OXEN\n\nChristmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.   \n\"Now they are all on their knees,\"   \nAn elder said as we sat in a flock   \nBy the embers in hearthside ease.\n\nWe pictured the meek mild creatures where   \nThey dwelt in their strawy pen,   \nNor did it occur to one of us there   \nTo doubt they were kneeling then.\n\nSo fair a fancy few would weave   \nIn these years! Yet, I feel,   \nIf someone said on Christmas Eve,   \n\"Come; see the oxen kneel\n\n\"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb   \nOur childhood used to know,\"   \nI should go with him in the gloom,   \nHoping it might be so.\n\n#  THE PHOTOGRAPH\n\nThe flame crept up the portrait line by line   \nAs it lay on the coals in the silence of night's profound,   \nAnd over the arm's incline,   \nAnd along the marge of the silkwork superfine,   \nAnd gnawed at the delicate bosom's defenceless round.\n\nThen I vented a cry of hurt, and averted my eyes;   \nThe spectacle was one that I could not bear,   \nTo my deep and sad surprise;   \nBut, compelled to heed, I again looked furtivewise   \nTill the flame had eaten her breasts, and mouth, and hair.\n\n\"Thank God, she is out of it now!\" I said at last,   \nIn a great relief of heart when the thing was done   \nThat had set my soul aghast,   \nAnd nothing was left of the picture unsheathed from the past   \nBut the ashen ghost of the card it had figured on.\n\nShe was a woman long hid amid packs of years,   \nShe might have been living or dead; she was lost to my sight,   \nAnd the deed that had nigh drawn tears   \nWas done in a casual clearance of life's arrears;   \nBut I felt as if I had put her to death that night! ...\n\n\u2014Well; she knew nothing thereof did she survive,   \nAnd suffered nothing if numbered among the dead;   \nYet\u2014yet\u2014if on earth alive   \nDid she feel a smart, and with vague strange anguish strive?   \nIf in heaven, did she smile at me sadly and shake her head?\n\n#  AN ANNIVERSARY\n\nIt was at the very date to which we have come,   \nIn the month of the matching name,   \nWhen, at a like minute, the sun had upswum,   \nIts couch-time at night being the same.   \nAnd the same path stretched here that people now follow,   \nAnd the same stile crossed their way,   \nAnd beyond the same green hillock and hollow   \nThe same horizon lay;   \nAnd the same man pilgrims now hereby who pilgrimed here   \nthat day.\n\nLet so much be said of the date-day's sameness;   \nBut the tree that neighbours the track,   \nAnd stoops liked a pedlar afflicted with lameness,   \nKnew of no sogged wound or wind-crack.   \nAnd the joints of that wall were not enshrouded   \nWith mosses of many tones,   \nAnd the garth up afar was not overcrowded   \nWith a multitude of white stones,   \nAnd the man's eyes then were not so sunk that you saw the   \nsocket-bones.\n\n#  TRANSFORMATIONS\n\nPortion of this yew   \nIs a man my grandsire knew,   \nBosomed here at its foot:   \nThis branch may be his wife,   \nA ruddy human life   \nNow turned to a green shoot.\n\nThese grasses must be made   \nOf her who often prayed,   \nLast century, for repose;   \nAnd the fair girl long ago   \nWhom I vainly tried to know   \nMay be entering this rose.\n\nSo, they are not underground,   \nBut as nerves and veins abound   \nIn the growths of upper air,   \nAnd they feel the sun and rain,   \nAnd the energy again   \nThat made them what they were!\n\n#  THE LAST SIGNAL\n\n_A Memory of William Barnes_\n\n_(11 October 1886)_\n\nSilently I footed by an uphill road   \nThat led from my abode to a spot yew-boughed;   \nYellowly the sun sloped low down to westward,   \nAnd dark was the east with cloud.\n\nThen, amid the shadow of that livid sad east,   \nWhere the light was least, and a gate stood wide,   \nSomething flashed the fire of the sun that was facing it,   \nLike a brief blaze on that side.\n\nLooking hard and harder I knew what it meant\u2014  \nThe sudden shine sent from the livid east scene;   \nIt meant the west mirrored by the coffin of my friend there,   \nTurning to the road from his green,\n\nTo take his last journey forth\u2014he who in his prime   \nTrudged so many a time from that gate athwart the land!   \nThus a farewell to me he signalled on his grave-way,   \nAs with a wave of his hand.\n\n_Winterborne-Came Path_\n\n#  GREAT THINGS\n\nSweet cyder is a great thing,   \nA great thing to me,   \nSpinning down to Weymouth town   \nBy Ridgway thirstily,   \nAnd maid and mistress summoning   \nWho tend the hostelry:   \nO cyder is a great thing,   \nA great thing to me!\n\nThe dance it is a great thing,   \nA great thing to me,   \nWith candles lit and partners fit   \nFor night-long revelry;   \nAnd going home when day-dawning   \nPeeps pale upon the lea:   \nO dancing is a great thing,   \nA great thing to me!\n\nLove is, yea, a great thing,   \nA great thing to me,   \nWhen, having drawn across the lawn   \nIn darkness silently,   \nA figure flits like one a-wing   \nOut from the nearest tree:   \nO love is, yes, a great thing,   \nA great thing to me!\n\nWill these be always great things,   \nGreat things to me? ...   \nLet it befall that One will call,   \n\"Soul, I have need of thee\":   \nWhat then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings,   \nLove, and its ecstasy,   \nWill always have been great things,   \nGreat things to me!\n\n#  AT MIDDLE-FIELD GATE IN FEBRUARY\n\nThe bars are thick with drops that show   \nAs they gather themselves from the fog   \nLike silver buttons ranged in a row,   \nAnd as evenly spaced as if measured, although   \nThey fall at the feeblest jog.\n\nThey load the leafless hedge hard by,   \nAnd the blades of last year's grass,   \nWhile the fallow ploughland turned up nigh   \nIn raw rolls clammy and clogging lie\u2014  \nToo clogging for feet to pass.\n\nHow dry it was on a far-back day   \nWhen straws hung the hedge and around,   \nWhen amid the sheaves in amorous play   \nIn curtained bonnets and light array   \nBloomed a bevy now underground!\n\n_Bockhampton Lane_\n\n#  ON STURMINSTER FOOT-BRIDGE\n\nReticulations creep upon the slack stream's face   \nWhen the wind skims irritably past,   \nThe current clucks smartly into each hollow place   \nThat years of flood have scrabbled in the pier's sodden base;   \nThe floating-lily leaves rot fast.\n\nOn a roof stand the swallows ranged in wistful waiting rows,   \nTill they arrow off and drop like stones   \nAmong the eyot-withies at whose foot the river flows:   \nAnd beneath the roof is she who in the dark world shows   \nAs a lattice-gleam when midnight moans.\n\n#  OLD FURNITURE\n\nI know not how it may be with others   \nWho sit amid relics of householdry   \nThat date from the days of their mothers' mothers,   \nBut well I know how it is with me   \nContinually.\n\nI see the hands of the generations   \nThat owned each shiny familiar thing   \nIn play on its knobs and indentations,   \nAnd with its ancient fashioning   \nStill dallying:\n\nHands behind hands, growing paler and paler,   \nAs in a mirror a candle-flame   \nShows images of itself, each frailer   \nAs it recedes, though the eye may frame   \nIts shape the same.\n\nOn the clock's dull dial a foggy finger,   \nMoving to set the minutes right   \nWith tentative touches that lift and linger   \nIn the wont of a moth on a summer night,   \nCreeps to my sight.\n\nOn this old viol, too, fingers are dancing\u2014  \nAs whilom\u2014just over the strings by the nut,   \nThe tip of a bow receding, advancing   \nIn airy quivers, as if it would cut   \nThe plaintive gut.\n\nAnd I see a face by that box for tinder,   \nGlowing forth in fits from the dark,   \nAnd fading again, as the linten cinder   \nKindles to red at the flinty spark,   \nOr goes out stark.\n\nWell, well. It is best to be up and doing,   \nThe world has no use for one to-day   \nWho eyes things thus\u2014no aim pursuing!   \nHe should not continue in this stay,   \nBut sink away.\n\n#  A THOUGHT IN Two MOODS\n\nI saw it\u2014pink and white\u2014revealed   \nUpon the white and green;   \nThe white and green was a daisied field,   \nThe pink and white Ethleen.\n\nAnd as I looked it seemed in kind   \nThat difference they had none;   \nThe two fair bodiments combined   \nAs varied miens of one.\n\nA sense that, in some mouldering year,   \nAs one they both would lie,   \nMade me move quickly on to her   \nTo pass the pale thought by.\n\nShe laughed and said: \"Out there, to me,   \nYou looked so weather-browned,   \nAnd brown in clothes, you seemed to be   \nMade of the dusty ground!\"\n\n#  LOGS ON THE HEARTH\n\n_A Memory of a Sister_\n\nThe fire advances along the log   \nOf the tree we felled,   \nWhich bloomed and bore striped apples by the peck   \nTill its last hour of bearing knelled.\n\nThe fork that first my hand would reach   \nAnd then my foot,   \nIn climbings upward inch by inch, lies now   \nSawn, sapless, darkening with soot.\n\nWhere the bark chars is where, one year,   \nIt was pruned, and bled\u2014  \nThen overgrew the wound. But now, at last,   \nIts growings all have stagnated.\n\nMy fellow-climber rises dim   \nFrom her chilly grave\u2014  \nJust as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,   \nLaughing, her young brown hand awave.\n\n_December 1915_\n\n#  THE CAGED GOLDFINCH\n\nWithin a churchyard, on a recent grave,   \nI saw a little cage   \nThat jailed a goldfinch. All was silence save   \nIts hops from stage to stage.\n\nThere was inquiry in its wistful eye,   \nAnd once it tried to sing;   \nOf him or her who placed it there, and why,   \nNo one knew anything.\n\n#  THE BALLET\n\nThey crush together\u2014a rustling heap of flesh\u2014  \nOf more than flesh, a heap of souls; and then   \nThey part, enmesh,   \nAnd crush together again,   \nLike the pink petals of a too sanguine rose   \nFrightened shut just when it blows.\n\nThough all alike in their tinsel livery,   \nAnd indistinguishable at a sweeping glance,   \nThey muster, maybe,   \nAs lives wide in irrelevance;   \nA world of her own has each one underneath,   \nDetached as a sword from its sheath.\n\nDaughters, wives, mistresses; honest or false, sold, bought;   \nHearts of all sizes; gay, fond, gushing, or penned,   \nVarious in thought   \nOf lover, rival, friend;   \nLinks in a one-pulsed chain, all showing one smile,   \nYet severed so many a mile!\n\n#  THE FIVE STUDENTS\n\nThe sparrow dips in his wheel-rut bath,   \nThe sun grows passionate-eyed,   \nAnd boils the dew to smoke by the paddock-path;   \nAs strenuously we stride,\u2014  \nFive of us; dark He, fair He, dark She, fair She, I,   \nAll beating by.\n\nThe air is shaken, the high-road hot,   \nShadowless swoons the day,   \nThe greens are sobered and cattle at rest; but not   \nWe on our urgent way,\u2014  \nFour of us; fair She, dark She, fair He, I, are there,   \nBut one\u2014elsewhere.\n\nAutumn moulds the hard fruit mellow,   \nAnd forward still we press   \nThrough moors, briar-meshed plantations,   \nclay-pits yellow,   \nAs in the spring hours\u2014yes,   \nThree of us; fair He, fair She, I, as heretofore,   \nBut\u2014fallen one more.\n\nThe leaf drops: earthworms draw it in   \nAt night-time noiselessly,   \nThe fingers of birch and beech are skeleton-thin,   \nAnd yet on the beat are we,\u2014  \nTwo of us; fair She, I. But no more left to go   \nThe track we know.\n\nIcicles tag the church-aisle leads,   \nThe flag-rope gibbers hoarse,   \nThe home-bound foot-folk wrap their snow-flaked heads,   \nYet I still stalk the course,\u2014  \nOne of us.... Dark and fair He, dark and fair She, gone:   \nThe rest\u2014anon.\n\n#  DURING WIND AND RAIN\n\nThey sing their dearest songs\u2014  \nHe, she, all of them\u2014yea,   \nTreble and tenor and bass,   \nAnd one to play;   \nWith the candles mooning each face....   \nAh, no; the years O!   \nHow the sick leaves reel down in throngs!\n\nThey clear the creeping moss\u2014  \nElders and juniors\u2014aye,   \nMaking the pathways neat   \nAnd the garden gay;   \nAnd they build a shady seat....   \nAh, no; the years, the years;   \nSee, the white storm-birds wing across.\n\nThey are blithely breakfasting all\u2014  \nMen and maidens\u2014yea,   \nUnder the summer tree,   \nWith a glimpse of the bay,   \nWhile pet fowl come to the knee....   \nAh, no; the years O!   \nAnd the rotten rose is ript from the wall.\n\nThey change to a high new house,   \nHe, she, all of them\u2014aye,   \nClocks and carpets and chairs   \nOn the lawn all day,   \nAnd brightest things that are theirs....   \nAh, no; the years, the years;   \nDown their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.\n\n#  HE PREFERS HER EARTHLY\n\nThis after-sunset is a sight for seeing,   \nCliff-heads of craggy cloud surrounding it.   \n\u2014And dwell you in that glory-show?   \nYou may; for there are strange strange things in being,   \nStranger than I know.\n\nYet if that chasm of splendour claim your presence   \nWhich glows between the ash cloud and the dun,   \nHow changed must be your mortal mould!   \nChanged to a firmament-riding earthless essence   \nFrom what you were of old:\n\nAll too unlike the fond and fragile creature   \nThen known to me.... Well, shall I say it plain?   \nI would not have you thus and there,   \nBut still would grieve on, missing you, still feature   \nYou as the one you were.\n\n#  A BACKWARD SPRING\n\nThe trees are afraid to put forth buds,   \nAnd there is timidity in the grass;   \nThe plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,   \nAnd whether next week will pass   \nFree of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush   \nOf barberry waiting to bloom.\n\nYet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom,   \nAnd the primrose pants in its heedless push,   \nThough the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight   \nThis year with frost and rime   \nTo venture one more time   \nOn delicate leaves and buttons of white   \nFrom the selfsame bough as at last year's prime,   \nAnd never to ruminate on or remember   \nWhat happened to it in mid-December.\n\n#  \"WHO'S IN THE NEXT ROOM?\"\n\n\"Who's in the next room?\u2014who?   \nI seemed to see   \nSomebody in the dawning passing through,   \nUnknown to me.\"   \n\"Nay: you saw nought. He passed invisibly.\"\n\n\"Who's in the next room?\u2014who?   \nI seem to hear   \nSomebody muttering firm in a language new   \nThat chills the ear.\"   \n\"No: you catch not his tongue who has entered there.\"\n\n\"Who's in the next room?\u2014who?   \nI seem to feel   \nHis breath like a clammy draught, as if it drew   \nFrom the Polar Wheel.\"   \n\"No: none who breathes at all does the door conceal.\"\n\n\"Who's in the next room?\u2014who?   \nA figure wan   \nWith a message to one in there of something due?   \nShall I know him anon?\"   \n\"Yea he; and he brought such; and you'll know him anon.\"\n\n#  AT A COUNTRY FAIR\n\nAt a bygone Western country fair   \nI saw a giant led by a dwarf   \nWith a red string like a long thin scarf;   \nHow much he was the stronger there   \nThe giant seemed unaware.\n\nAnd then I saw that the giant was blind,   \nAnd the dwarf a shrewd-eyed little thing;   \nThe giant, mild, timid, obeyed the string   \nAs if he had no independent mind,   \nOr will of any kind.\n\nWherever the dwarf decided to go   \nAt his heels the other trotted meekly,   \n(Perhaps\u2014I know not\u2014reproaching weakly)   \nLike one Fate bade that it must be so,   \nWhether he wished or no.\n\nVarious sights in various climes   \nI have seen, and more I may see yet,   \nBut that sight never shall I forget,   \nAnd have thought it the sorriest of pantomimes,   \nIf once, a hundred times!\n\n#  JUBILATE\n\n\"The very last time I ever was here,\" he said,   \n\"I saw much less of the quick than I saw of the dead.\"   \n\u2014He was a man I had met with somewhere before,   \nBut how or when I now could recall no more.\n\n\"The hazy mazy moonlight at one in the morning   \nSpread out as a sea across the frozen snow,   \nGlazed to live sparkles like the great breastplate adorning   \nThe priest of the Temple, with Urim and Thummim aglow.\n\n\"The yew-tree arms, glued hard to the stiff stark air,   \nHung still in the village sky as theatre-scenes   \nWhen I came by the churchyard wall, and halted there   \nAt a shut-in sound of fiddles and tambourines.\n\n\"And as I stood hearkening, dulcimers, hautboys, and   \nshawms,   \nAnd violoncellos, and a three-stringed double-bass,   \nJoined in, and were intermixed with a singing of psalms;   \nAnd I looked over at the dead men's dwelling-place.\n\n\"Through the shine of the slippery snow I now could see,   \nAs it were through a crystal roof, a great company   \nOf the dead minueting in stately step underground   \nTo the tune of the instruments I had before heard sound.\n\n\"It was 'Eden New,' and dancing they sang in a chore,   \n'We are out of it all!\u2014yea, in Little-Ease cramped no   \nmore!'   \nAnd their shrouded figures pacing with joy I could see   \nAs you see the stage from the gallery. And they had no heed   \nof me.\n\n\"And I lifted my head quite dazed from the churchyard wall   \nAnd I doubted not that it warned I should soon have my   \ncall.   \nBut\u2014\" ... Then in the ashes he emptied the dregs of his   \ncup,   \nAnd onward he went, and the darkness swallowed him up.\n\n#  MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERN\n\nIn the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,   \nAnd the roof-lamp's oily flame   \nPlayed down on his listless form and face,   \nBewrapt past knowing to what he was going,   \nOr whence he came.\n\nIn the band of his hat the journeying boy   \nHad a ticket stuck; and a string   \nAround his neck bore the key of his box,   \nThat twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams   \nLike a living thing.\n\nWhat past can be yours, O journeying boy   \nTowards a world unknown,   \nWho calmly, as if incurious quite   \nOn all at stake, can undertake   \nThis plunge alone?\n\nKnows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,   \nOur rude realms far above,   \nWhence with spacious vision you mark and mete   \nThis region of sin that you find you in,   \nBut are not of?\n\n#  THE SHADOW ON THE STONE\n\nI went by the Druid stone   \nThat broods in the garden white and lone,   \nAnd I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows   \nThat at some moments fall thereon   \nFrom the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing,   \nAnd they shaped in my imagining   \nTo the shade that a well-known head and shoulders   \nThrew there when she was gardening.\n\nI thought her behind my back,   \nYea, her I long had learned to lack,   \nAnd I said: \"I am sure you are standing behind me,   \nThough how do you get into this old track?\"   \nAnd there was no sound but the fall of a leaf   \nAs a sad response; and to keep down grief   \nI would not turn my head to discover   \nThat there was nothing in my belief.\n\nYet I wanted to look and see   \nThat nobody stood at the back of me;   \nBut I thought once more: \"Nay, I'll not unvision   \nA shape which, somehow, there may be.\"   \nSo I went on softly from the glade,   \nAnd left her behind me throwing her shade,   \nAs she were indeed an apparition\u2014  \nMy head unturned lest my dream should fade.\n\n#  IN THE GARDEN _(M.H.)_\n\nWe waited for the sun   \nTo break its cloudy prison   \n(For day was not yet done,   \nAnd night still unbegun)   \nLeaning by the dial.\n\nAfter many a trial\u2014  \nWe all silent there\u2014  \nIt burst as new-arisen,   \nShading its finger where   \nTime travelled at that minute.\n\nLittle saw we in it,   \nBut this much I know,   \nOf lookers on that shade,   \nHer towards whom it made   \nSoonest had to go.\n\n_1915_\n\n#  AN UPBRAIDING\n\nNow I am dead you sing to me   \nThe songs we used to know,   \nBut while I lived you had no wish   \nOr care for doing so.\n\nNow I am dead you come to me   \nIn the moonlight, comfortless;   \nAh, what would I have given alive   \nTo win such tenderness!\n\nWhen you are dead, and stand to me   \nNot differenced, as now,   \nBut like again, will you be cold   \nAs when we lived, or how?\n\n#  THE CHOIRMASTER'S BURIAL\n\nHe often would ask us   \nThat, when he died,   \nAfter playing so many   \nTo their last rest,   \nIf out of us any   \nShould here abide,   \nAnd it would not task us,   \nWe would with our lutes   \nPlay over him   \nBy his grave-brim   \nThe psalm he liked best\u2014  \nThe one whose sense suits   \n\"Mount Ephraim\"\u2014  \nAnd perhaps we should seem   \nTo him, in Death's dream,   \nLike the seraphim.\n\nAs soon as I knew   \nThat his spirit was gone   \nI thought this his due,   \nAnd spoke thereupon.\n\n\"I think,\" said the vicar,   \n\"A read service quicker   \nThan viols out-of-doors   \nIn these frosts and hoars.\n\nThat old-fashioned way   \nRequires a fine day,   \nAnd it seems to me   \nIt had better not be.\"\n\nHence, that afternoon,   \nThough never knew he   \nThat his wish could not be,   \nTo get through it faster   \nThey buried the master   \nWithout any tune.\n\nBut 'twas said that, when   \nAt the dead of next night   \nThe vicar looked out,   \nThere struck on his ken   \nThronged roundabout,   \nWhere the frost was graying   \nThe headstoned grass,   \nA band all in white   \nLike the saints in church-glass,   \nSinging and playing   \nThe ancient stave   \nBy the choirmaster's grave.\n\nSuch the tenor man told   \nWhen he had grown old.\n\n#  IN TIME OF \"THE BREAKING OF NATIONS\"\n\n##  I\n\nOnly a man harrowing clods   \nIn a slow silent walk   \nWith an old horse that stumbles and nods   \nHalf asleep as they stalk.\n\n##  II\n\nOnly thin smoke without flame   \nFrom the heaps of couch-grass;   \nYet this will go onward the same   \nThough Dynasties pass.\n\n##  III\n\nYonder a maid and her wight   \nCome whispering by:   \nWar's annals will cloud into night   \nEre their story die.\n\n#  AFTERWARDS\n\nWhen the Present has latched its postern behind my   \ntremulous stay,   \nAnd the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,   \nDelicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,   \n\"He was a man who used to notice such things\"?\n\nIf it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,   \nThe dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight   \nUpon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,   \n\"To him this must have been a familiar sight.\"\n\nIf I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,   \nWhen the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,   \nOne may say, \"He strove that such innocent creatures   \nshould come to no harm,   \nBut he could do little for them; and now he is gone.\"\n\nIf, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they   \nstand at the door,   \nWatching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,   \nWill this thought rise on those who will meet my face no   \nmore,   \n\"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries\"?\n\nAnd will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in   \nthe gloom,   \nAnd a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,   \nTill they swell again, as they were a new bell's boom,   \n\"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things\"?\nFrom LATE LYRICS AND EARLIER\n\n#  WEATHERS\n\n##  I\n\nThis is the weather the cuckoo likes,   \nAnd so do I;   \nWhen showers betumble the chestnut spikes,   \nAnd nestlings fly:   \nAnd the little brown nightingale bills his best,   \nAnd they sit outside at \"The Travellers' Rest,\"   \nAnd maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,   \nAnd citizens dream of the south and west,   \nAnd so do I.\n\n##  II\n\nThis is the weather the shepherd shuns,   \nAnd so do I;   \nWhen beeches drip in browns and duns,   \nAnd thresh, and ply;   \nAnd hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,   \nAnd meadow rivulets overflow,   \nAnd drops on gate-bars hang in a row,   \nAnd rooks in families homeward go,   \nAnd so do I.\n\n#  THE GARDEN SEAT\n\nIts former green is blue and thin,   \nAnd its once firm legs sink in and in;   \nSoon it will break down unaware,   \nSoon it will break down unaware.\n\nAt night when reddest flowers are black   \nThose who once sat thereon come back;   \nQuite a row of them sitting there,   \nQuite a row of them sitting there.\n\nWith them the seat does not break down,   \nNor winter freeze them, nor floods drown,   \nFor they are as light as upper air,   \nThey are as light as upper air!\n\n#  \"ACCORDING TO THE MIGHTY WORKING\"\n\n##  I\n\nWhen moiling seems at cease   \nIn the vague void of night-time,   \nAnd heaven's wide roomage stormless   \nBetween the dusk and light-time,   \nAnd fear at last is formless,   \nWe call the allurement Peace.\n\n##  II\n\nPeace, this hid riot, Change,   \nThis revel of quick-cued mumming,   \nThis never truly being,   \nThis evermore becoming,   \nThis spinner's wheel onfleeing   \nOutside perception's range.\n\n_1917_\n\n#  GOING AND STAYING\n\n##  I\n\nThe moving sun-shapes on the spray,   \nThe sparkles where the brook was flowing,   \nPink faces, plightings, moonlit May,   \nThese were the things we wished would stay;   \nBut they were going.\n\n##  II\n\nSeasons of blankness as of snow,   \nThe silent bleed of a world decaying,   \nThe moan of multitudes in woe,   \nThese were the things we wished would go;   \nBut they were staying.\n\n##  III\n\nThen we looked closelier at Time,   \nAnd saw his ghostly arms revolving   \nTo sweep off woeful things with prime,   \nThings sinister with things sublime   \nAlike dissolving.\n\n#  THE CONTRETEMPS\n\nA forward rush by the lamp in the gloom,   \nAnd we clasped, and almost kissed;   \nBut she was not the woman whom   \nI had promised to meet in the thawing brume   \nOn that harbour-bridge; nor was I he of her tryst.\n\nSo loosening from me swift she said:   \n\"O why, why feign to be   \nThe one I had meant!\u2014to whom I have sped   \nTo fly with, being so sorrily wed!\"   \n\u2014'Twas thus and thus that she upbraided me.\n\nMy assignation had struck upon   \nSome others' like it, I found.   \nAnd her lover rose on the night anon;   \nAnd then her husband entered on   \nThe lamplit, snowflaked, sloppiness around.\n\n\"Take her and welcome, man!\" he cried:   \n\"I wash my hands of her.   \nI'll find me twice as good a bride!\"   \n\u2014All this to me, whom he had eyed,   \n'Twas clear, as his wife's planned deliverer.\n\nAnd next the lover: \"Little I knew,   \nMadam, you had a third!   \nKissing here in my very view!\"   \n\u2014Husband and lover then withdrew.   \nI let them; and I told them not they erred.\n\nWhy not? Well, there faced she and I\u2014  \nTwo strangers who'd kissed, or near,   \nChancewise. To see stand weeping by   \nA woman once embraced, will try   \nThe tension of a man the most austere.\n\nSo it began; and I was young,   \nShe pretty, by the lamp,   \nAs flakes came waltzing down among   \nThe waves of her clinging hair, that hung   \nHeavily on her temples, dark and damp.\n\nAnd there alone still stood we two;   \nShe one cast off for me,   \nOr so it seemed: while night ondrew,   \nForcing a parley what should do   \nWe twain hearts caught in one catastrophe.\n\nIn stranded souls a common strait   \nWakes latencies unknown,   \nWhose impulse may precipitate   \nA life-long leap. The hour was late,   \nAnd there was the Jersey boat with its funnel agroan.\n\n\"Is wary walking worth much pother?\"   \nIt grunted, as still it stayed.   \n\"One pairing is as good as another   \nWhere all is venture! Take each other,   \nAnd scrap the oaths that you have aforetime made.\" ...\n\n\u2014Of the four involved there walks but one   \nOn earth at this late day.   \nAnd what of the chapter so begun?   \nIn that odd complex what was done?   \nWell; happiness comes in full to none:   \nLet peace lie on lulled lips: I will not say.\n\nWeymouth\n\n#  A NIGHT IN NOVEMBER\n\nI marked when the weather changed,   \nAnd the panes began to quake,   \nAnd the winds rose up and ranged,   \nThat night, lying half-awake.\n\nDead leaves blew into my room,   \nAnd alighted upon my bed,   \nAnd a tree declared to the gloom   \nIts sorrow that they were shed.\n\nOne leaf of them touched my hand,   \nAnd I thought that it was you   \nThere stood as you used to stand,   \nAnd saying at last you knew!\n\n#  THE FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE\n\nOne without looks in to-night   \nThrough the curtain-chink   \nFrom the sheet of glistening white;   \nOne without looks in to-night   \nAs we sit and think   \nBy the fender-brink.\n\nWe do not discern those eyes   \nWatching in the snow;   \nLit by lamps of rosy dyes   \nWe do not discern those eyes   \nWondering, aglow,   \nFourfooted, tiptoe.\n\n#  ON THE TUNE CALLED THE OLD-HUNDRED-AND-FOURTH\n\nWe never sang together   \nRavenscroft's terse old tune   \nOn Sundays or on weekdays,   \nIn sharp or summer weather,   \nAt night-time or at noon.\n\nWhy did we never sing it,   \nWhy never so incline   \nOn Sundays or on weekdays,   \nEven when soft wafts would wing it   \nFrom your far floor to mine?\n\nShall we that tune, then, never   \nStand voicing side by side   \nOn Sundays or on weekdays? ...   \nOr shall we, when for ever   \nIn Sheol we abide,\n\nSing it in desolation,   \nAs we might long have done   \nOn Sundays or on weekdays   \nWith love and exultation   \nBefore our sands had run?\n\n#  VOICES FROM THINGS GROWING IN A CHURCHYARD\n\nThese flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd,   \nSir or Madam,   \nA little girl here sepultured.   \nOnce I flit-fluttered like a bird   \nAbove the grass, as now I wave   \nIn daisy shapes above my grave,   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n\u2014I am one Bachelor Bowring, \"Gent,\"   \nSir or Madam;   \nIn shingled oak my bones were pent;   \nHence more than a hundred years I spent   \nIn my feat of change from a coffin-thrall   \nTo a dancer in green as leaves on a wall,   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n\u2014I, these berries of juice and gloss,   \nSir or Madam,   \nAm clean forgotten as Thomas Voss;   \nThin-urned, I have burrowed away from the moss   \nThat covers my sod, and have entered this yew,   \nAnd turned to clusters ruddy of view,   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n\u2014The Lady Gertrude, proud, high-bred,   \nSir or Madam,   \nAm I\u2014this laurel that shades your head;   \nInto its veins I have stilly sped,   \nAnd made them of me; and my leaves now shine,   \nAs did my satins superfine,   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n\u2014I, who as innocent withwind climb,   \nSir or Madam,   \nAm one Eve Greensleeves, in olden time   \nKissed by men from many a clime,   \nBeneath sun, stars, in blaze, in breeze,   \nAs now by glowworms and by bees,   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n\u2014I'm old Squire Audeley Grey, who grew,   \nSir or Madam,   \nAweary of life, and in scorn withdrew;   \nTill anon I clambered up anew   \nAs ivy-green, when my ache was stayed,   \nAnd in that attire I have longtime gayed   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n\u2014And so these maskers breathe to each   \nSir or Madam   \nWho lingers there, and their lively speech   \nAffords an interpreter much to teach,   \nAs their murmurous accents seem to come   \nThence hitheraround in a radiant hum,   \nAll day cheerily,   \nAll night eerily!\n\n#  A TWO-YEARS' IDYLL\n\nYes; such it was;   \nJust those two seasons unsought,   \nSweeping like summertide wind on our ways;   \nMoving, as straws,   \nHearts quick as ours in those days;   \nGoing like wind, too, and rated as nought   \nSave as the prelude to plays   \nSoon to come\u2014larger, life-fraught:   \nYes; such it was.\n\n\"Nought\" it was called,   \nEven by ourselves\u2014that which springs   \nOut of the years for all flesh, first or last,   \nCommonplace, scrawled   \nDully on days that go past.   \nYet, all the while, it upbore us like wings   \nEven in hours overcast:   \nAye, though this best thing of things,   \n\"Nought\" it was called!\n\nWhat seems it now?   \nLost: such beginning was all;   \nNothing came after: romance straight forsook   \nQuickly somehow   \nLife when we sped from our nook,   \nPrimed for new scenes with designs smart and tall....   \n\u2014A preface without any book,   \nA trumpet uplipped, but no call;   \nThat seems it now.\n\n#  FETCHING HER\n\nAn hour before the dawn,   \nMy friend,   \nYou lit your waiting bedside-lamp,   \nYour breakfast-fire anon,   \nAnd outing into the dark and damp   \nYou saddled, and set on.\n\nThuswise, before the day,   \nMy friend,   \nYou sought her on her surfy shore,   \nTo fetch her thence away   \nUnto your own new-builded door   \nFor a staunch lifelong stay.\n\nYou said: \"It seems to be,   \nMy friend,   \nThat I were bringing to my place   \nThe pure brine breeze, the sea,   \nThe mews\u2014all her old sky and space,   \nIn bringing her with me!\"\n\n\u2014But time is prompt to expugn,   \nMy friend,   \nSuch magic-minted conjurings:   \nThe brought breeze fainted soon,   \nAnd then the sense of seamews' wings,   \nAnd the shore's sibilant tune.\n\nSo, it had been more due,   \nMy friend,   \nPerhaps, had you not pulled this flower   \nFrom the craggy nook it knew,   \nAnd set it in an alien bower;   \nBut left it where it grew!\n\n#  A PROCESSION OF DEAD DAYS\n\nI see the ghost of a perished day;   \nI know his face, and the feel of his dawn:   \n'Twas he who took me far away   \nTo a spot strange and gray:   \nLook at me, Day, and then pass on,   \nBut come again: yes, come anon!\n\nEnters another into view;   \nHis features are not cold or white,   \nBut rosy as a vein seen through:   \nToo soon he smiles adieu.   \nAdieu, O ghost-day of delight;   \nBut come and grace my dying sight.\n\nEnters the day that brought the kiss:   \nHe brought it in his foggy hand   \nTo where the mumbling river is,   \nAnd the high clematis;   \nIt lent new colour to the land,   \nAnd all the boy within me manned.\n\nAh, this one. Yes, I know his name,   \nHe is the day that wrought a shine   \nEven on a precinct common and tame,   \nAs 'twere of purposed aim.   \nHe shows him as a rainbow sign   \nOf promise made to me and mine.\n\nThe next stands forth in his morning clothes,   \nAnd yet, despite their misty blue,   \nThey mark no sombre custom-growths   \nThat joyous living loathes,   \nBut a meteor act, that left in its queue   \nA train of sparks my lifetime through.\n\nI almost tremble at his nod\u2014  \nThis next in train\u2014who looks at me   \nAs I were slave, and he were god   \nWielding an iron rod.   \nI close my eyes; yet still is he   \nIn front there, looking mastery.\n\nIn semblance of a face averse   \nThe phantom of the next one comes:   \nI did not know what better or worse   \nChancings might bless or curse   \nWhen his original glossed the thrums   \nOf ivy, bringing that which numbs.\n\nYes; trees were turning in their sleep   \nUpon their windy pillows of gray   \nWhen he stole in. Silent his creep   \nOn the grassed eastern steep....   \nI shall not soon forget that day,   \nAnd what his third hour took away!\n\n#  IN THE SMALL HOURS\n\nI lay in my bed and fiddled   \nWith a dreamland viol and bow,   \nAnd the tunes flew back to my fingers   \nI had melodied years ago.   \nIt was two or three in the morning   \nWhen I fancy-fiddled so   \nLong reels and country-dances,   \nAnd hornpipes swift and slow.\n\nAnd soon anon came crossing   \nThe chamber in the gray   \nFigures of jigging fieldfolk\u2014  \nSaviours of corn and hay\u2014   \nTo the air of \"Haste to the Wedding,\"   \nAs after a wedding-day;   \nYea, up and down the middle   \nIn windless whirls went they!\n\nThere danced the bride and bridegroom,   \nAnd couples in a train,   \nGay partners time and travail   \nHad longwhiles stilled amain! ...   \nIt seemed a thing for weeping   \nTo find, at slumber's wane   \nAnd morning's sly increeping,   \nThat Now, not Then, held reign.\n\n#  THE DREAM IS\u2014WHICH?\n\nI am laughing by the brook with her,   \nSplashed in its tumbling stir;   \nAnd then it is a blankness looms   \nAs if I walked not there,   \nNor she, but found me in haggard rooms,   \nAnd treading a lonely stair.\n\nWith radiant cheeks and rapid eyes   \nWe sit where none espies;   \nTill a harsh change comes edging in   \nAs no such scene were there,   \nBut winter, and I were bent and thin,   \nAnd cinder-gray my hair.\n\nWe dance in heys around the hall,   \nWeightless as thistleball;   \nAnd then a curtain drops between,   \nAs if I danced not there,   \nBut wandered through a mounded green   \nTo find her, I knew where.\n\n#  LONELY DAYS\n\nLonely her fate was,   \nEnvironed from sight   \nIn the house where the gate was   \nPast finding at night.   \nNone there to share it,   \nNo one to tell:   \nLong she'd to bear it,   \nAnd bore it well.\n\nElsewhere just so she   \nSpent many a day;   \nWishing to go she   \nContinued to stay.   \nAnd people without   \nBasked warm in the air,   \nBut none sought her out,   \nOr knew she was there.   \nEven birthdays were passed so,   \nSunny and shady:   \nYears did it last so   \nFor this sad lady.   \nNever declaring it,   \nNo one to tell,   \nStill she kept bearing it\u2014  \nBore it well.\n\nThe days grew chillier,   \nAnd then she went   \nTo a city, familiar   \nIn years forespent,   \nWhen she walked gaily   \nFar to and fro,   \nBut now, moving frailly,   \nCould nowhere go.   \nThe cheerful colour   \nOf houses she'd known   \nHad died to a duller   \nAnd dingier tone.   \nStreets were now noisy   \nWhere once had rolled   \nA few quiet coaches,   \nOr citizens strolled.   \nThrough the party-wall   \nOf the memoried spot   \nThey danced at a ball   \nWho recalled her not.   \nTramlines lay crossing   \nOnce gravelled slopes,   \nMetal rods clanked,   \nAnd electric ropes.   \nSo she endured it all,   \nThin, thinner wrought,   \nUntil time cured it all,   \nAnd she knew nought.\n\n#  THE MARBLE TABLET\n\nThere it stands, though alas, what a little of her   \nShows in its cold white look!   \nNot her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of her   \nVoice like the purl of a brook;   \nNot her thoughts, that you read like a book.\n\nIt may stand for her once in November   \nWhen first she breathed, witless of all;   \nOr in heavy years she would remember   \nWhen circumstance held her in thrall;   \nOr at last, when she answered her call!\n\nNothing more. The still marble, date-graven,   \nGives all that it can, tersely lined;   \nThat one has at length found the haven   \nWhich every one other will find;   \nWith silence on what shone behind.\n\n_St. Juliot: 8 September 1916_\n\n#  THE MASTER AND THE LEAVES\n\n##  I\n\nWe are budding, Master, budding,   \nWe of your favourite tree;   \nMarch drought and April flooding   \nArouse us merrily,   \nOur stemlets newly studding;   \nAnd yet you do not see!\n\n##  II\n\nWe are fully woven for summer   \nIn stuff of limpest green,   \nThe twitterer and the hummer   \nHere rest of nights, unseen,   \nWhile like a long-roll drummer   \nThe nightjar thrills the treen.\n\n##  III\n\nWe are turning yellow, Master,   \nAnd next we are turning red,   \nAnd faster then and faster   \nShall seek our rooty bed,   \nAll wasted in disaster!   \nBut you lift not your head.\n\n##  IV\n\n\u2014\"I mark your early going,   \nAnd that you'll soon be clay,   \nI have seen your summer showing   \nAs in my youthful day;   \nBut why I seem unknowing   \nIs too sunk in to say!\"\n\n#  LAST WORDS TO A DUMB FRIEND\n\nPet was never mourned as you,   \nPurrer of the spotless hue,   \nPlumy tail, and wistful gaze   \nWhile you humoured our queer ways,   \nOr outshrilled your morning call   \nUp the stairs and through the hall\u2014  \nFoot suspended in its fall\u2014  \nWhile, expectant, you would stand   \nArched, to meet the stroking hand;   \nTill your way you chose to wend   \nYonder, to your tragic end.\n\nNever another pet for me!   \nLet your place all vacant be;   \nBetter blankness day by day   \nThan companion torn away.   \nBetter bid his memory fade,   \nBetter blot each mark he made,   \nSelfishly escape distress   \nBy contrived forgetfulness,   \nThan preserve his prints to make   \nEvery morn and eve an ache.\n\nFrom the chair whereon he sat   \nSweep his fur, nor wince thereat;   \nRake his little pathways out   \nMid the bushes roundabout;   \nSmooth away his talons' mark   \nFrom the claw-worn pine-tree bark,   \nWhere he climbed as dusk embrowned,   \nWaiting us who loitered round.\n\nStrange it is this speechless thing,   \nSubject to our mastering,   \nSubject for his life and food   \nTo our gift, and time, and mood;   \nTimid pensioner of us Powers,   \nHis existence ruled by ours,   \nShould\u2014by crossing at a breath   \nInto safe and shielded death,   \nBy the merely taking hence   \nOf his insignificance\u2014  \nLoom as largened to the sense,   \nShape as part, above man's will,   \nOf the Imperturbable.\n\nAs a prisoner, flight debarred,   \nExercising in a yard,   \nStill retain I, troubled, shaken,   \nMean estate, by him forsaken;   \nAnd this home, which scarcely took   \nImpress from his little look,   \nBy his faring to the Dim   \nGrows all eloquent of him.\n\nHousemate, I can think you still   \nBounding to the window-sill,   \nOver which I vaguely see   \nYour small mound beneath the tree,   \nShowing in the autumn shade   \nThat you moulder where you played.\n\n#  AN ANCIENT TO ANCIENTS\n\nWhere once we danced, where once we sang,   \nGentlemen,   \nThe floors are sunken, cobwebs hang,   \nAnd cracks creep; worms have fed upon   \nThe doors. Yea, sprightlier times were then   \nThan now, with harps and tabrets gone,   \nGentlemen!\n\nWhere once we rowed, where once we sailed,   \nGentlemen,   \nAnd damsels took the tiller, veiled   \nAgainst too strong a stare (God wot   \nTheir fancy, then or anywhen!)   \nUpon that shore we are clean forgot,   \nGentlemen!\n\nWe have lost somewhat, afar and near,   \nGentlemen,   \nThe thinning of our ranks each year   \nAffords a hint we are nigh undone,   \nThat we shall not be ever again   \nThe marked of many, loved of one,   \nGentlemen.\n\nIn dance the polka hit our wish,   \nGentlemen,   \nThe paced quadrille, the spry schottische,   \n\"Sir Roger.\"\u2014And in opera spheres   \nThe \"Girl\" (the famed \"Bohemian\"),   \nAnd \"Trovatore,\" held the ears,   \nGentlemen.\n\nThis season's paintings do not please,   \nGentlemen,   \nLike Etty, Mulready, Maclise;   \nThrobbing romance has waned and wanned;   \nNo wizard wields the witching pen   \nOf Bulwer, Scott, Dumas, and Sand,   \nGentlemen.\n\nThe bower we shrined to Tennyson,   \nGentlemen,   \nIs roof-wrecked; damps there drip upon   \nSagged seats, the creeper-nails are rust,   \nThe spider is sole denizen;   \nEven she who voiced those rhymes is dust,   \nGentlemen!\n\nWe who met sunrise sanguine-souled,   \nGentlemen,   \nAre wearing weary. We are old;   \nThese younger press; we feel our rout   \nIs imminent to Aides' den,\u2014  \nThat evening shades are stretching out,   \nGentlemen!\n\nAnd yet, though ours be failing frames,   \nGentlemen,   \nSo were some others' history names,   \nWho trode their track light-limbed and fast   \nAs these youth, and not alien   \nFrom enterprise, to their long last,   \nGentlemen.\n\nSophocles, Plato, Socrates,   \nGentlemen,   \nPythagoras, Thucydides,   \nHerodotus, and Homer,\u2014yea,   \nClement, Augustin, Origen,   \nBurnt brightlier towards their setting-day,   \nGentlemen.\n\nAnd ye, red-lipped and smooth-browed; list,   \nGentlemen;   \nMuch is there waits you we have missed;   \nMuch lore we leave you worth the knowing,   \nMuch, much has lain outside our ken:   \nNay, rush not: time serves: we are going,   \nGentlemen.\nFrom HUMAN SHOWS, FAR PHANTASIES, SONGS AND TRIFLES\n\n#  WAITING BOTH\n\nA star looks down at me,   \nAnd says: \"Here I and you   \nStand, each in his degree:   \nWhat do you mean to do,\u2014  \nMean to do?\"\n\nI say: \"For all I know,   \nWait, and let Time go by,   \nTill my change come.\"\u2014\"Just so,\"   \nThe star says: \"So mean I:\u2014  \nSo mean I.\"\n\n#  A BIRD-SCENE AT A RURAL DWELLING\n\nWhen the inmate stirs, the birds retire discreetly   \nFrom the window-ledge, whereon they whistled sweetly   \nAnd on the step of the door,   \nIn the misty morning hoar;   \nBut now the dweller is up they flee   \nTo the crooked neighbouring codlin-tree;   \nAnd when he comes fully forth they seek the garden,   \nAnd call from the lofty costard, as pleading pardon   \nFor shouting so near before   \nIn their joy at being alive:\u2014  \nMeanwhile the hammering clock within goes five.\n\nI know a domicile of brown and green,   \nWhere for a hundred summers there have been   \nJust such enactments, just such daybreaks seen.\n\n#  COMING UP OXFORD STREET: EVENING\n\nThe sun from the west glares back,   \nAnd the sun from the watered track,   \nAnd the sun from the sheets of glass,   \nAnd the sun from each window-brass;   \nSun-mirrorings, too, brighten   \nFrom show-cases beneath   \nThe laughing eyes and teeth   \nOf ladies who rouge and whiten.   \nAnd the same warm god explores   \nPanels and chinks of doors;   \nProblems with chymists' bottles   \nProfound as Aristotle's   \nHe solves, and with good cause,   \nHaving been ere man was.\n\nAlso he dazzles the pupils of one who walks west,   \nA city-clerk, with eyesight not of the best,   \nWho sees no escape to the very verge of his days   \nFrom the rut of Oxford Street into open ways;   \nAnd he goes along with head and eyes flagging forlorn,   \nEmpty of interest in things, and wondering why he was born.\n\n#  WHEN DEAD\n\nIt will be much better when   \nI am under the bough;   \nI shall be more myself, Dear, then,   \nThan I am now.\n\nNo sign of querulousness   \nTo wear you out   \nShall I show there: strivings and stress   \nBe quite without.\n\nThis fleeting life-brief blight   \nWill have gone past   \nWhen I resume my old and right   \nPlace in the Vast.\n\nAnd when you come to me   \nTo show you true,   \nDoubt not I shall infallibly   \nBe waiting you.\n\n#  TEN YEARS SINCE\n\n'Tis ten years since   \nI saw her on the stairs,   \nHeard her in house-affairs,   \nAnd listened to her cares;   \nAnd the trees are ten feet taller,   \nAnd the sunny spaces smaller   \nWhose bloomage would enthrall her;   \nAnd the piano wires are rustier,   \nThe smell of bindings mustier,   \nAnd lofts and lumber dustier   \nThan when, with casual look   \nAnd ear, light note I took   \nOf what shut like a book   \nThose ten years since!\n\n_November 1922_\n\n#  LIFE AND DEATH AT SUNRISE\n\nThe hills uncap their tops   \nOf woodland, pasture, copse,   \nAnd look on the layers of mist   \nAt their foot that still persist:   \nThey are like awakened sleepers on one elbow lifted,   \nWho gaze around to learn if things during night have shifted.\n\nA waggon creaks up from the fog   \nWith a laboured leisurely jog;   \nThen a horseman from off the hill-tip   \nComes clapping down into the dip;   \nWhile woodlarks, finches, sparrows, try to entune at one   \ntime,   \nAnd cocks and hens and cows and bulls take up the chime.\n\nWith a shouldered basket and flagon   \nA man meets the one with the waggon,   \nAnd both the men halt of long use.   \n\"Well,\" the waggoner says, \"what's the news?\"   \n\"\u2014'Tis a boy this time. You've just met the doctor trotting   \nback.   \nShe's doing very well. And we think we shall call him 'Jack.'\n\n\"And what have you got covered there?\"   \nHe nods to the waggon and mare.   \n\"Oh, a coffin for old John Thinn:   \nWe are just going to put him in.\"   \n\"\u2014So he's gone at last. He always had a good constitution.\"   \n\"\u2014He was ninety-odd. He could call up the French\n\nRevolution.\"\n\n#  A SHEEP FAIR\n\nThe day arrives of the autumn fair,   \nAnd torrents fall,   \nThough sheep in throngs are gathered there,   \nTen thousand all,   \nSodden, with hurdles round them reared:   \nAnd, lot by lot, the pens are cleared,   \nAnd the auctioneer wrings out his beard,   \nAnd wipes his book, bedrenched and smeared,   \nAnd rakes the rain from his face with the edge of his hand,   \nAs torrents fall.\n\nThe wool of the ewes is like a sponge   \nWith the daylong rain:   \nJammed tight, to turn, or lie, or lunge,   \nThey strive in vain.   \nTheir horns are soft as finger-nails,   \nTheir shepherds reek against the rails,   \nThe tied dogs soak with tucked-in tails,   \nThe buyers' hat-brims fill like pails,   \nWhich spill small cascades when they shift their stand   \nIn the daylong rain.\n\n_Postscript_\n\nTime has trailed lengthily since met   \nAt Pummery Fair   \nThose panting thousands in their wet   \nAnd woolly wear:   \nAnd every flock long since has bled,   \nAnd all the dripping buyers have sped,   \nAnd the hoarse auctioneer is dead,   \nWho \"Going\u2014going!\" so often said,   \nAs he consigned to doom each meek, mewed band   \nAt Pummery Fair.\n\n#  THE CALF\n\nYou may have seen, in road or street   \nAt times, when passing by,   \nA creature with bewildered bleat   \nBehind a milcher's tail, whose feet   \nWent pit-pat. That was I.\n\nWhether we are of Devon kind,   \nShorthorns, or Herefords,   \nWe are in general of one mind   \nThat in the human race we find   \nOur masters and our lords.\n\nWhen grown up (if they let me live)   \nAnd in a dairy-home,   \nI may less wonder and misgive   \nThan now, and get contemplative,   \nAnd never wish to roam.\n\nAnd in some fair stream, taking sips,   \nMay stand through summer noons,   \nWith water dribbling from my lips   \nAnd rising halfway to my hips,   \nAnd babbling pleasant tunes.\n\n#  SNOW IN THE SUBURBS\n\nEvery branch big with it,   \nBent every twig with it;   \nEvery fork like a white web-foot;   \nEvery street and pavement mute:   \nSome flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward,   \nwhen   \nMeeting those meandering down they turn and descend   \nagain.   \nThe palings are glued together like a wall,   \nAnd there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.\n\nA sparrow enters the tree,   \nWhereon immediately   \nA snow-lump thrice his own slight size   \nDescends on him and showers his head and eyes,   \nAnd overturns him,   \nAnd near inurns him,   \nAnd lights on a nether twig, when its brush   \nStarts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.\n\nThe steps are a blanched slope,   \nUp which, with feeble hope,   \nA black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;   \nAnd we take him in.\n\n#  ICE ON THE HIGHWAY\n\nSeven buxom women abreast, and arm in arm,   \nTrudge down the hill, tip-toed,   \nAnd breathing warm;   \nThey must perforce trudge thus, to keep upright   \nOn the glassy ice-bound road,   \nAnd they must get to market whether or no,   \nProvisions running low   \nWith the nearing Saturday night,   \nWhile the lumbering van wherein they mostly ride   \nCan nowise go:   \nYet loud their laughter as they stagger and slide!\n\n#  No BUYERS\n\n_A Street Scene_\n\nA load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs   \nLabours along the street in the rain:   \nWith it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown   \nhairs.\u2014   \nThe man foots in front of the horse with a shambling   \nsway   \nAt a slower tread than a funeral train,   \nWhile to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,   \nSwinging a Turk's-head brush (in a drum-major's way   \nWhen the bandsmen march and play).\n\nA yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony's   \nnose:   \nHe mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:   \nHe stops when the man stops, without being told,   \nAnd seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he's old,   \nIndeed, not strength enough shows   \nTo steer the disjointed waggon straight,   \nWhich wriggles left and right in a rambling line,   \nDeflected thus by its own warp and weight,   \nAnd pushing the pony with it in each incline.\n\nThe woman walks on the pavement verge,   \nParallel to the man:   \nShe wears an apron white and wide in span,   \nAnd carries a like Turk's-head, but more in nursing-wise:   \nNow and then she joins in his dirge,   \nBut as if her thoughts were on distant things.   \nThe rain clams her apron till it clings.\u2014  \nSo, step by step, they move with their merchandize,   \nAnd nobody buys.\n\n#  ONE WHO MARRIED ABOVE HIM\n\n\" 'Tis you, I think? Back from your week's work,   \nSteve?\"\n\n\"It is I. Back from work this Christmas Eve.\"\n\n\"But you seem off again?\u2014in this night-rime?\"\n\n\"I am off again, and thoroughly off this time.\"\n\n\"What does that mean?\"\n\n\"More than may first be seen....   \nHalf an hour ago I footed homeward here,   \nNo wife found I, nor child, nor maid, indoors or near.   \nShe has, as always, gone with them to her mother's at the   \nfarm,   \nWhere they fare better far than here, and, maybe, meet less   \nharm.   \nShe's left no fire, no light, has cooked me nothing to eat,   \nThough she had fuel, and money to get some Christmas   \nmeat.   \nChristmas with them is grand, she knows, and brings good   \nvictual,   \nOther than how it is here, where it's but lean and little.   \nBut though not much, and rough,   \nIf managed neat there's enough.   \nShe and hers are too highmade for me;   \nBut she's whimmed her once too often, she'll see!   \nFarmer Bollen's daughter should never have married a man   \nthat's poor;   \nAnd I can stand it no longer; I'm leaving; you'll see me no   \nmore, be sure.\"\n\n\"But nonsense: you'll be back again ere bedtime, and   \nlighting a fire,   \nAnd sizzling your supper, and vexing not that her views of   \nsupper are higher.\"   \n\"Never for me.\"\n\n\"Well, we shall see.\"\n\nThe sceptical neighbour and Stephen then followed their   \nforedesigned ways,   \nAnd their steps dimmed into white silence upon the slippery   \nglaze;   \nAnd the trees went on with their spitting amid the icicled   \nhaze.   \nThe evening whiled, and the wife with the babies came   \nhome,   \nBut he was not there, nor all Christmas Day did he come.   \nChristmastide went, and likewise went the New Year,   \nBut no husband's footfall revived,   \nAnd month after month lapsed, graytime to green and to   \nsere,\n\nAnd other new years arrived,   \nAnd the children grew up: one husbanded and one   \nwived.\u2014\n\nShe wept and repented,   \nBut Stephen never relented.   \nAnd there stands the house, and the sycamore-tree and all,   \nWith its roots forming steps for the passers who care to call,   \nAnd there are the mullioned windows, and Ham-Hill   \ndoor,   \nThrough which Steve's wife was brought out, but which   \nSteve re-entered no more.\n\n#  LAST LOVE-WORD\n\nThis is the last; the very, very last!   \nAnon, and all is dead and dumb,   \nOnly a pale shroud over the past,   \nThat cannot be   \nOf value small or vast,   \nLove, then to me!\n\nI can say no more: I have even said too much.   \nI did not mean that this should come:   \nI did not know 'twould swell to such\u2014  \nNor, perhaps, you\u2014  \nWhen that first look and touch,   \nLove, doomed us two!\n\n#  NOBODY COMES\n\nTree-leaves labour up and down,   \nAnd through them the fainting light   \nSuccumbs to the crawl of night.   \nOutside in the road the telegraph wire   \nTo the town from the darkening land   \nIntones to travellers like a spectral lyre   \nSwept by a spectral hand.\n\nA car comes up, with lamps full-glare,   \nThat flash upon a tree:   \nIt has nothing to do with me,   \nAnd whangs along in a world of its own,   \nLeaving a blacker air;   \nAnd mute by the gate I stand again alone,   \nAnd nobody pulls up there.\n\n_October 9, 1924_\n\n#  WHEN OATS WERE REAPED\n\nThat day when oats were reaped, and wheat was ripe, and   \nbarley ripening,   \nThe road-dust hot, and the bleaching grasses dry,   \nI walked along and said,   \nWhile looking just ahead to where some silent people lie:\n\n\"I wounded one who's there, and now know well I   \nwounded her;   \nBut, ah, she does not know that she wounded me!\"   \nAnd not an air stirred,   \nNor a bill of any bird; and no response accorded she.\n\n_August 1913_\n\n#  THE HARBOUR BRIDGE\n\nFrom here, the quay, one looks above to mark   \nThe bridge across the harbour, hanging dark   \nAgainst the day's-end sky, fair-green in glow   \nOver and under the middle archway's bow:   \nIt draws its skeleton where the sun has set,   \nYea, clear from cutwater to parapet;   \nOn which mild glow, too, lines of rope and spar   \nTrace themselves black as char.\n\nDown here in shade we hear the painters shift   \nAgainst the bollards with a drowsy lift,   \nAs moved by the incoming stealthy tide.   \nHigh up across the bridge the burghers glide   \nAs cut black-paper portraits hastening on   \nIn conversation none knows what upon:   \nTheir sharp-edged lips move quickly word by word   \nTo speech that is not heard.\n\nThere trails the dreamful girl, who leans and stops,   \nThere presses the practical woman to the shops,   \nThere is a sailor, meeting his wife with a start,   \nAnd we, drawn nearer, judge they are keeping apart.   \nBoth pause. She says: \"I've looked for you. I thought   \nWe'd make it up.\" Then no words can be caught.   \nAt last: \"Won't you come home?\" She moves still nigher:   \n\" 'Tis comfortable, with a fire.\"\n\n\"No,\" he says gloomily. \"And, anyhow,   \nI can't give up the other woman now:   \nYou should have talked like that in former days,   \nWhen I was last home.\" They go different ways.\n\nAnd the west dims, and yellow lamplights shine:   \nAnd soon above, like lamps more opaline,   \nWhite stars ghost forth, that care not for men's wives,   \nOr any other lives.\n\n_Weymouth_\n\n#  THE MISSED TRAIN\n\nHow I was caught   \nHieing home, after days of allure,   \nAnd forced to an inn\u2014small, obscure\u2014  \nAt the junction, gloom-fraught.\n\nHow civil my face   \nTo get them to chamber me there\u2014  \nA roof I had scorned, scarce aware   \nThat it stood at the place.\n\nAnd how all the night   \nI had dreams of the unwitting cause   \nOf my lodgment. How lonely I was;   \nHow consoled by her sprite!\n\nThus onetime to me ...   \nDim wastes of dead years bar away   \nThen from now. But such happenings to-day   \nFall to lovers, may be!\n\nYears, years as shoaled seas,   \nTruly, stretch now between! Less and less   \nShrink the visions then vast in me.\u2014Yes,   \nThen in me: Now in these.\n\n#  RETTY'S PHASES\n\n##  I\n\nRetty used to shake her head,   \nLook with wicked eye;   \nSay, \"I'd tease you, simple Ned,   \nIf I cared to try!\"   \nThen she'd hot-up scarlet red,   \nStilly step away,   \nMuch afraid that what she'd said   \nSounded bold to say.\n\n##  II\n\nRetty used to think she loved   \n(Just a little) me.   \nNot untruly, as it proved   \nAfterwards to be.   \nFor, when weakness forced her rest   \nIf we walked a mile,   \nShe would whisper she was blest   \nBy my clasp awhile.\n\n##  III\n\nRetty used at last to say   \nWhen she neared the Vale,   \n\"Mind that you, Dear, on that day   \nRing my wedding peal!\"   \nAnd we all, with pulsing pride,   \nVigorous sounding gave   \nThose six bells, the while outside   \nJohn filled in her grave.\n\n##  IV\n\nRetty used to draw me down   \nTo the turfy heaps,   \nWhere, with yeoman, squire, and clown   \nNoticeless she sleeps.   \nNow her silent slumber-place   \nSeldom do I know,   \nFor when last I saw her face   \nWas so long ago!\n\n#  THE SUNDIAL ON A WET DAY\n\nI drip, drip here   \nIn Atlantic rain,   \nFalling like handfuls   \nOf winnowed grain,   \nWhich, tear-like, down   \nMy gnomon drain,   \nAnd dim my numerals   \nWith their stain,\u2014  \nTill I feel useless,   \nAnd wrought in vain!\n\nAnd then I think   \nIn my despair   \nThat, though unseen,   \n_He_ is still up there,   \nAnd may gaze out   \nAnywhen, anywhere;   \nNot to help clockmen   \nQuiz and compare,   \nBut in kindness to let me   \nMy trade declare.\n\n#  SHORTENING DAYS AT THE HOMESTEAD\n\nThe first fire since the summer is lit, and is smoking into the   \nroom:   \nThe sun-rays thread it through, like woof-lines in a loom.   \nSparrows spurt from the hedge, whom misgivings appal   \nThat winter did not leave last year for ever, after all.   \nLike shock-headed urchins, spiny-haired,   \nStand pollard willows, their twigs just bared.\n\nWho is this coming with pondering pace,   \nBlack and ruddy, with white embossed,   \nHis eyes being black, and ruddy his face,   \nAnd the marge of his hair like morning frost?   \nIt's the cider-maker,   \nAnd appletree-shaker,   \nAnd behind him on wheels, in readiness,   \nHis mill, and tubs, and vat, and press.\n\n#  A HURRIED MEETING\n\nIt is August moonlight in the tall plantation,   \nWhose elms, by aged squirrels' footsteps worn,   \nOutscreen the noon, and eve, and morn.   \nOn the facing slope a faint irradiation   \nFrom a mansion's marble front is borne,   \nMute in its woodland wreathing.   \nUp here the night-jar whirrs forlorn,   \nAnd the trees seem to withhold their softest breathing.\n\nTo the moonshade slips a woman in muslin vesture:   \nHer naked neck the gossamer-web besmears,   \nAnd she sweeps it away with a hasty gesture.   \nAgain it touches her forehead, her neck, her ears,   \nHer fingers, the backs of her hands.   \nShe sweeps it away again   \nImpatiently, and then   \nShe takes no notice; and listens, and sighs, and stands.\n\nThe night-hawk stops. A man shows in the obscure:   \nThey meet, and passively kiss,   \nAnd he says: \"Well, I've come quickly. About this\u2014  \nIs it really so? You are sure?\"   \n\"I am sure. In February it will be.   \nThat such a thing should come to me!   \nWe should have known. We should have left off meeting.   \nLove is a terrible thing: a sweet allure   \nThat ends in heart-outeating!\"\n\n\"But what shall we do, my Love, and how?\"   \n\"You need not call me by that name now.\"   \nThen he more coldly: \"What is your suggestion?\"   \n\"I've told my mother, and she sees a way,   \nSince of our marriage there can be no question.   \nWe are crossing South\u2014near about New Year's Day   \nThe event will happen there.   \nIt is the only thing that we can dare   \nTo keep them unaware!\"   \n\"Well, you can marry me.\"   \nShe shook her head. \"No: that can never be.\n\n\" 'Twill be brought home as hers. She's forty-one,   \nWhen many a woman's bearing is not done,   \nAnd well might have a son.\u2014  \nWe should have left off specious self-deceiving:   \nI feared that such might come,   \nAnd knowledge struck me numb.   \nLove is a terrible thing: witching when first begun,   \nTo end in grieving, grieving!\"\n\nAnd with one kiss again the couple parted:   \nInferior clearly he; she haughty-hearted.   \nHe watched her down the slope to return to her place,   \nThe marble mansion of her ancient race,   \nAnd saw her brush the gossamers from her face   \nAs she emerged from shade to the moonlight ray.   \nAnd when she had gone away   \nThe night-jar seemed to imp, and say,   \n\"You should have taken warning:   \nLove is a terrible thing: sweet for a space,   \nAnd then all mourning, mourning!\"\n\n#  A LEAVING\n\nKnowing what it bore   \nI watched the rain-smitten back of the car\u2014  \n(Brown-curtained, such as the old ones were)\u2014  \nWhen it started forth for a journey afar   \nInto the sullen November air,   \nAnd passed the glistening laurels and round the bend.\n\nI have seen many gayer vehicles turn that bend   \nIn autumn, winter, and summer air,   \nBearing for journeys near or afar   \nMany who now are not, but were,   \nBut I don't forget that rain-smitten car,   \nKnowing what it bore!\nFrom WINTER WORDS IN VARIOUS MOODS AND METRES\n\n#  PROUD SONGSTERS\n\nThe thrushes sing as the sun is going,   \nAnd the finches whistle in ones and pairs,   \nAnd as it gets dark loud nightingales   \nIn bushes   \nPipe, as they can when April wears,   \nAs if all Time were theirs.\n\nThese are brand new birds of twelvemonths' growing,   \nWhich a year ago, or less than twain,   \nNo finches were, nor nightingales,   \nNor thrushes,   \nBut only particles of grain,   \nAnd earth, and air, and rain.\n\n#  \"I AM THE ONE\"\n\nI am the one whom ringdoves see   \nThrough chinks in boughs   \nWhen they do not rouse   \nIn sudden dread,   \nBut stay on cooing, as if they said:   \n\"Oh; it's only he.\"\n\nI am the passer when up-eared hares,   \nStirred as they eat   \nThe new-sprung wheat,   \nTheir munch resume   \nAs if they thought: \"He is one for whom   \nNobody cares.\"\n\nWet-eyed mourners glance at me   \nAs in train they pass   \nAlong the grass   \nTo a hollowed spot,   \nAnd think: \"No matter; he quizzes not   \nOur misery.\"\n\nI hear above: \"We stars must lend   \nNo fierce regard   \nTo his gaze, so hard   \nBent on us thus,\u2014  \nMust scathe him not. He is one with us   \nBeginning and end.\"\n\n#  EXPECTATION AND EXPERIENCE\n\n\"I had a holiday once,\" said the woman\u2014  \nHer name I did not know\u2014   \n\"And I thought that where I'd like to go,   \nOf all the places for being jolly,   \nAnd getting rid of melancholy,   \nWould be to a good big fair:   \nAnd I went. And it rained in torrents, drenching   \nEvery horse, and sheep, and yeoman,   \nAnd my shoulders, face, and hair;   \nAnd I found that I was the single woman   \nIn the field\u2014and looked quite odd there!   \nEverything was spirit-quenching:   \nI crept and stood in the lew of a wall   \nTo think, and could not tell at all   \nWhat on earth made me plod there!\"\n\n#  THROWING A TREE\n\nThe two executioners stalk along over the knolls,   \nBearing two axes with heavy heads shining and wide,   \nAnd a long limp two-handled saw toothed for cutting   \ngreat boles,   \nAnd so they approach the proud tree that bears the death-mark   \non its side.\n\nJackets doffed they swing axes and chop away just above   \nground,   \nAnd the chips fly about and lie white on the moss and   \nfallen leaves;   \nTill a broad deep gash in the bark is hewn all the way   \nround,   \nAnd one of them tries to hook upward a rope, which at last   \nhe achieves.\n\nThe saw then begins, till the top of the tall giant shivers:   \nThe shivers are seen to grow greater each cut than   \nbefore:\n\nThey edge out the saw, tug the rope; but the tree only   \nquivers,   \nAnd kneeling and sawing again, they step back to try pulling   \nonce more.\n\nThen, lastly, the living mast sways, further sways: with   \na shout   \nJob and Ike rush aside. Reached the end of its long   \nstaying powers   \nThe tree crashes downward: it shakes all its neighbours   \nthroughout,   \nAnd two hundred years steady growth has been ended in less   \nthan two hours.\n\n#  LYING AWAKE\n\nYou, Morningtide Star, now are steady-eyed, over the east,   \nI know it as if I saw you;   \nYou, Beeches, engrave on the sky your thin twigs, even the   \nleast;   \nHad I paper and pencil I'd draw you.\n\nYou, Meadow, are white with your counterpane cover of   \ndew,   \nI see it as if I were there;   \nYou, Churchyard, are lightening faint from the shade of the   \nyew,   \nThe names creeping out everywhere.\n\n#  HENLEY REGATTA\n\nShe looks from the window: still it pours down direly,   \nAnd the avenue drips. She cannot go, she fears;   \nAnd the Regatta will be spoilt entirely;   \nAnd she sheds half-crazed tears.\n\nRegatta Day and rain come on together   \nAgain, years after. Gutters trickle loud;   \nBut Nancy cares not. She knows nought of weather,   \nOr of the Henley crowd:\n\nShe's a Regatta quite her own. Inanely   \nShe laughs in the asylum as she floats   \nWithin a water-tub, which she calls \"Henley,\"   \nHer little paper boats.\n\n#  \"A GENTLEMAN'S SECOND-HAND SUIT\"\n\nHere it is hanging in the sun   \nBy the pawn-shop door,   \nA dress-suit\u2014all its revels done   \nOf heretofore.   \nLong drilled to the waltzers' swing and sway,   \nAs its tokens show:   \nWhat it has seen, what it could say   \nIf it did but know!\n\nThe sleeve bears still a print of powder   \nRubbed from her arms   \nWhen she warmed up as the notes swelled louder   \nAnd livened her charms\u2014  \nOr rather theirs, for beauties many   \nLeant there, no doubt,   \nLeaving these tell-tale traces when he   \nSpun them about.\n\nIts cut seems rather in bygone style   \nOn looking close,   \nSo it mayn't have bent it for some while   \nTo the dancing pose:   \nAnyhow, often within its clasp   \nFair partners hung,   \nAssenting to the wearer's grasp   \nWith soft sweet tongue.\n\nWhere is, alas, the gentleman   \nWho wore this suit?   \nAnd where are his ladies? Tell none can:   \nGossip is mute.   \nSome of them may forget him quite   \nWho smudged his sleeve,   \nSome think of a wild and whirling night   \nWith him, and grieve.\n\n#  A FORGOTTEN MINIATURE\n\nThere you are in the dark,   \nDeep in a box   \nNobody ever unlocks,   \nOr even turns to mark;   \n\u2014Out of mind stark.\n\nYet there you have not been worsed   \nLike your sitter   \nBy Time, the Fair's hard-hitter;   \nYour beauties, undispersed,   \nGlow as at first.\n\nShut in your case for years,   \nNever an eye   \nOf the many passing nigh,   \nFixed on their own affairs,   \nThinks what it nears!\n\n\u2014While you have lain in gloom,   \nA form forgot,   \nYour reign remembered not,   \nMuch life has come to bloom   \nWithin this room.\n\nYea, in Time's cyclic sweep   \nUnrest has ranged:   \nWomen and men have changed:   \nSome you knew slumber deep;   \nSome wait for sleep.\n\n#  APPENDIX: HARDY'S NOTES AND REMARKS\n\nDiscursive prose was not Hardy's natural medium, but he had cogent   \n, interesting, and penetrating things to say, on the art of poetry   \nas well as on other matters. What follows are various comments   \nand jottings from notebooks, letters, conversations, and, in one   \ncase, from a novel. When he speaks of himself in the third person,   \nthe quotation comes from his autobiography (which was published   \nunder the name of his second wife and intended to be taken as a   \nbiography). I give dates only when they seem important; my own   \noccasional comments are in bracketed italics.\n\nThe jewelled line is effeminate.\n\nThe business of the poet and novelist is to show the sorriness underlying the grandest things, and the grandeur underlying the sorriest things.\n\nThe whole secret of a living style and the difference between it and a dead style, lies in not having too much style\u2014being, in fact, a little careless, or rather seeming to be, here and there. It brings wonderful life into the writing....\n\n_[and is very annoying to readers like T. S. Eliot]_\n\nArnold _[Matthew Arnold],_ according to Hardy's account of their meeting much later, \"had a manner of having made up his mind upon everything years ago, so that it was a pleasing futility for his interlocutor to begin thinking new ideas, different from his own, at that time of day.\" Yet he was frank and modest enough to assure Hardy deprecatingly that he was only a hard-worked school-inspector.\n\nArnold is wrong about provincialism, if he means anything more than a provincialism of style and manner in exposition. A certain provincialism of feeling is invaluable. It is of the essence of individuality.\n\nPoetry is emotion put into measure. The emotion must come by nature, but the measure can be acquired by art. ... That the author loved the art of concealing art was undiscerned. For instance, as to rhythm. Years earlier he had decided that too regular a beat was bad art.... He knew that in architecture cunning irregularity is of enormous worth, and it is obvious that he carried on into his verse, perhaps in part unconsciously, the Gothic art-principle in which he had been trained\u2014the principle of spontaneity found in mouldings, tracery, and such like\u2014resulting in the \"unforeseen\" (as it has been called) character of his metres and stanzas, that of stress rather than of syllable, poetic texture rather than poetic veneer....\n\nThe artistic spirit is at bottom a spirit of caprice, and in some of its finest productions in the past it could have given no clear reason why they were run in this or that particular mould, and not in some more obvious one.\n\nI hold that the mission of poetry is to record impressions, not convictions. Wordsworth in his later writings fell into the error of recording the latter. So also did Tennyson, and so do many poets when they grow old. Absit omen!\n\n_[\"Absit omen\" means \"Let it not be an omen,\" or as we might say, \"Knock on wood.\"]_\n\nUnadjusted impressions have their value, and the road to a true philosophy of life seems to lie in humbly recording diverse readings of its phenomena as they are forced upon us by chance and change.\n\nThe following note on London at dawn occurs on May 19 _[1880],_ a night on which he could not sleep, partly on account of an eerie feeling which sometimes haunted him, a horror at lying down in close proximity to \"a monster whose body had four million heads and eight million eyes.\"\n\n\"... This hum of the wheel\u2014the roar of London! What is it composed of? Hurry, speech, laughters, moans, cries of little children. The people in this tragedy laugh, sing, smoke, toss off wines, etc., make love to girls in drawing-rooms and areas; and yet are playing their part in the tragedy just the same. Some wear jewels and feathers, some wear rags. All are caged birds; the only difference lies in the size of the cage. This too is part of the tragedy.\"\n\nJune 2 _[1887]._ The forty-seventh birthday of Thomas the Unworthy.\n\nThat girl in the omnibus had one of those faces of marvelous beauty which are seen casually in the streets but never among one's friends.... Where do these women come from? Who marries them? Who knows them?\n\nChristmas Day _[1890]._ While thinking of resuming \"the viewless wings of poesy\" before dawn this morning, new horizons seemed to open and worrying pettinesses to disappear.\n\nIn the early weeks of this year _[1900]_ the poems were reviewed in the customary periodicals\u2014mostly in a friendly tone, even in a tone of respect, and with some praise for many pieces in the volume; though by some critics not without umbrage at Hardy's having taken the liberty to adopt another vehicle of expression than prose-fiction without consulting them.\n\nThe \"simply natural\" is interesting no longer. The much decried, mad, late-Turner rendering is now necessary to create my interest.\n\nFor my part, if there is any way of getting a melancholy satisfaction out of life, it lies in dying, so to speak, before one is out of the flesh; by which I mean putting on the manners of ghosts, wandering in their haunts, and taking their views of surrounding things. To think of life as passing away is a sadness; to think of it as past is at least tolerable. Hence even when I enter into a room to pay a simple morning call I have unconsciously the habit of regarding the scene as if I were a spectre not solid enough to influence my environment; only fit to behold and say, as another spectre said: \"Peace be unto you!\"\n\nThe poet is like one who enters and mounts a platform to give an address as announced. He opens his page, looks around, and finds the hall\u2014 _empty_.\n\nTo find beauty in ugliness is the province of the poet.\n\nPOETRY. Perhaps I can express more fully in verse ideas and emotions which run counter to the inert crystalized opinion\u2014hard as a rock\u2014which the vast body of men have vested interests in supporting.... If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the Inquisition might have let him alone.\n\nThe besetting sin of modem literature is its insincerity.\n\nThe thoughts of any man of letters concerned to keep poetry alive cannot but run uncomfortably on the precarious prospects of English verse at the present day.... Whether owing to the barbarizing of taste in the younger minds by the dark madness of the late war, the unabashed cultivation of selfishness in all classes, the plethoric growth of knowledge simultaneously with the stunting of wisdom, \"a degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation\" (to quote Wordsworth), or from any other cause, we seem threatened with a new Dark Age.\n\nI am most anxious to believe in what, roughly speaking, we may call the supernatural\u2014but I find no evidence for it. People accuse me of scepticism, materialism, and so forth; but, if the accusation is just at all, it is quite against my will.... I would give ten years of my life\u2014well, perhaps that offer is rather beyond my means\u2014but when I was a younger man, I would cheerfully have given ten years of my life to see a ghost\u2014an authentic, indubitable spectre.... Never the ghost of a ghost. Yet I should think I am cut out by nature for a ghost-seer. My nerves vibrate very readily; people say I am almost morbidly imaginative; my will to believe is perfect. If ever ghost wanted to manifest himself, I am the very man he should apply to. But no\u2014the spirits don't seem to see it!\n\nHave you ever noticed the different relation to nature of the town child and the country child? The town-bred boy will often appreciate nature more than the country boy, but he does not know it in the same sense. He will rush to pick a flower which the country boy does not seem to notice. But it is part of the country boy's life. It grows in his soul\u2014he does not want it in his buttonhole.\n\nMisapprehension. The shrinking soul thinks its weak place is going to be laid bare, and shows its thought by a suddenly clipped manner. The other shrinking soul thinks the clipped manner of the first to be the result of its own weakness in some way, not of its strength, and shows its fear also by its constrained air! So they withdraw from each other and misunderstand.\n\nIt would be an amusing fact, if it were not one that leads to such bitter strife, that the conception of a First Cause which the theist calls \"God,\" and the conception of the same that the so-styled atheist calls \"no-God,\" are nowadays almost exactly identical. So that only a minor literary question of terminology prevents their shaking hands in agreement, and dwelling together in unity ever after.\n\nMuch confusion has arisen and much nonsense has been talked latterly in connection with the word \"atheist.\" I have never understood how anybody can be one except in the sense of disbelieving in a tribal god, man-shaped, fiery-faced and tyrannous, who flies into a rage on the slightest provocation.\n\nYou must not think me a hard-headed rationalist for all this. Half my time\u2014particularly when writing verse\u2014I \"believe\" (in the modern sense of the word) not only in the things Bergson believes in, but in spectres, mysterious voices, intuitions, omens, dreams, haunted places, etc., etc. But I do not believe in them in the old sense of the word....\n\nSwinburne told me that he read in some paper, \"Swinburne planteth, Hardy watereth, and Satan giveth the increase.\"\n\n\"NO man is master of his soul; the flesh is the master of it!\"\n\n_[He is speaking of W. E. Henley's \"Invictus\"]_\n\nSome people would like to know whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound and trustworthy as his song is breezy and pure, gets his authority for speaking of Nature's 'holy plan.'\n\n_[He means Wordsworth.]_\n\nA Pessimist's apology. Pessimism (or rather what is called such) is, in brief, playing the sure game. You cannot lose at it; you may gain. It is the only view of life in which you can never be disappointed. Having reckoned what to do in the worst possible circumstances, when better arise, as they may, life becomes child's play.\n\nAn author cannot always tell what people will like most. Posterity alone can decide. So I generally publish everything. When I have been in doubt (as I was, for example, with my last volume) about two or three poems, I afterward found that those were often what some people liked best; and poems I have been on the point of discarding have sometimes been used in anthologies.... What a number of anthologies there are now!\n\nWhat made poetry 2000 years ago makes poetry now.\n\nSeptember 15 _[1914]._ Thoughts on the recent school of novel-writers. They forget in their insistence on life, and nothing but life, in a plain slice, that a story _must be worth the telling,_ that a good deal of life is not worth any such thing, and that they must not occupy a reader's time with what he can get at first hand anywhere around him.\n\nJune 10 _[1923]._ Relativity. That things and events always were, are, and will be (e.g., Emma, Mother and Father are living still in the past).\n\nDuring this month, November _[1926],_ his friend, Colonel T. E. Lawrence, called to say good-bye, before starting for India. Hardy was much affected by this parting, as T. E. Lawrence was one of his most valued friends. He went into the little porch and stood at the front door to see the departure of Lawrence on his motor-bicycle. This machine was difficult to start, and, thinking he might have to wait some time Hardy turned into the house to fetch a shawl to wrap round him. In the meantime, fearing that Hardy might take a chill, Lawrence started the motor-bicycle and hurried away. Returning a few moments later, Hardy was grieved that he had not seen the actual departure....\n\nThe value of old age depends upon the person who reaches it. To some men of early performance it is useless. To others, who are late to develop, it just enables them to complete their job.\n\nI have ... of late years lapsed so deeply into my early weakness for verse, and have found the condensed expression that it affords so much more consonant to my natural way of thinking and feeling\u2014that I have almost forgotten the prose effusions for the time.\nNOTES\n\nI have for the most part refrained from interpretation and from definitions that any good dictionary can supply. These notes are largely concerned with defining the rare, archaic, or dialect words that Hardy sometimes uses, untying the occasional knot of syntax, elucidating the less familiar allusions, and giving whatever background\u2014biographical, historical, folkloric, technical, etc.\u2014seems pertinent, useful, or interesting. When I could not help myself, I have commented on the beauties of this or that poem. Hardy's poetry is in general very accessible, and nearly half the poems in this selection do not, I think, require any annotation at all.\n\n#  _Domicilium_\n\n1 It is not possible to date this poem exactly, but Hardy would have been little older than seventeen or eighteen when he wrote it. The blank verse, though obviously derivative of Wordsworth, is as good as any he ever did; in any case, it is remarkable work for a boy.\n\n1.10 _esculent:_ edible\n\n2.34 _Heathcroppers:_ ponies that graze on open downs\n\nWESSEX POEMS:\n\n5-11 Hardy's Wessex is an imaginary region, rather like Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County, that corresponds, roughly, to the land in which he was born and lived most of his life. He derived the name from the kingdom of the West Saxons, first using it in _Far from the Madding Crowd._ Years later he wrote the following description of this fictional landscape: \"... the people in most of the novels (and in much of the shorter verse) are dwellers in a province bounded on the north by the Thames, on the south by the English Channel, on the east by a line running from Hayling Island to Windsor Forest, and on the west by the Cornish coast.\" The territory he defined so precisely embraces some sections of Wiltshire, Hampshire, Berkshire, Devon, Somerset, and Cornwall, but it is essentially Dorset. I shall identify here the names of the principal towns, parishes, and landmarks in the order that they appear in the selected poems, the fictional name followed by the real name (omitting minor or unimportant ones, or those whose names are too similar to mistake, such as the Frome River and the Froom).\n\n_Mellstock:_ Stinsford Parish (St. Michael's Church)\n\n_Weatherbury:_ Puddletown\n\n_Durnover:_ Fordington _(Durnovaria_ was the old Roman\n\nname for Dorchester)\n\n_Ivel:_ Yeovil\n\nCasterbridge: Dorchester\n\n_Budmouth:_ Weymouth\n\n_Boterel:_ Boscastle\n\n_Pummery:_ Poundbury Camp\n\n(Stinsford, Puddletown, Fordington, and Poundbury   \nCamp are all within a few miles of Dorchester. Poundbury   \nCamp is an ancient hill-fort on a hill just outside of town.   \nYeovil is a little village in Blackmoor Vale, about ten miles   \nnorth. Weymouth is on the coast, seven miles south.)\n\n#  _Hap_\n\n5 That is, Chance (which was the original title). The sonnet is itself a definition of the word.\n\n5.11 _Crass Casualty:_ Hap; contingency [archaism]. Hardy was not pleased when _Crass_ was taken to mean stupid or malign, rather than merely insensible: the fates are blind and their sentences are entirely random.\n\n5.13 _Doomsters:_ judges; agents of our destinies\n\n#  _Friends Beyond_\n\n7 As in many of the poems, the characters are based on actual people that Hardy knew, or knew of\u2014you can find the graves of Farmer Bedloe and Robert Reason in the churchyard at Stinsford. Some of these people also appear in the novels. The meter is trochaic octameter, as in Tennyson's \"Locksley Hall\" and Browning's \"A Toccata of Galuppi's.\" As usual, Hardy has devised a variant: the middle line of each tercet is a tetrameter, and the rhyme scheme, surprisingly, is _terza rima_ \u2014as John Crowe Ransom notes, \"Dante's terza rima, a form exalted among university poets. We have attended a startling marriage between high and low\" (the low being the native meter and the homely village folk).\n\n7.1 _Tranter:_ carrier who moves people's goods by horse and wagon [dialect]\n\n7.6 _leads:_ coverings of roofs\n\n7.7 _fellow-wight:_ fellow-creature [arch.]\n\n7.9 _stillicide:_ the dripping of water [rare]\n\n8.17 _hold the manse in fee:_ possess the mansion as a rightful and heritable estate [arch.]\n\n8.21 _Quiz:_ pry into, perhaps ridicule\n\n8.23 _grinterns:_ granary bins [dial.]\n\n8.24 _ho:_ grieve [dial.]\n\n8.30 City stage: the London stagecoach\n\n8.32 _the Trine:_ the Trinity\n\n8.33 _none witteth:_ no one knows [arch.]\u2014that is to say, who knows why God permits living creatures to suffer so?\n\n8.33 _haps:_ happens (See \"Hap.\" It is probable that the old form of the verb retains more strongly the sense of chance and contingency.)\n\n#  _Nature's Questioning_\n\n9 Always careful not to be held to ideas that are nothing more than speculations, Hardy wrote that the poem's notions of the godhead\u2014the Automaton, the Vast Imbecility, the Plan\u2014\"are merely enumerated ... as fanciful alternatives to several others, and have nothing to do with my own opinion.\"\n\n#  _In a Eweleaze at Weatherbury_\n\n10 _Eweleaze:_ field in which sheep are pastured [dial.]\n\n10.5-8 The last few lines of the first stanza suggest that the speaker might be a woman\u2014possibly Hardy's cousin, Tryphena Sparks, who was trained as a teacher and later became headmistress of a school, and with whom Hardy is supposed to have been in love in their youth; she died in 1890, the date appended to the poem. But of course the poem could be read differently. (In many of Hardy's love poems\u2014\"Neutral Tones,\" for instance\u2014we assume the speaker to be a man, a surrogate for the poet; a fair number\u2014\"Neutral Tones,\" for instance\u2014could as easily be spoken by a woman.)\n\n10.11 _Defacing wan and grizzel / The blazon of my prime:_ damaging, by making lusterless and grey, the heraldic shield, and the vaunting, of my youth (and possibly its blazing out, by likeness of sound)\n\n#  _Embarcation_\n\n15 The Boer War began in October 1899; by the end of November, nearly 60,000 troops had sailed out of Southampton, bound for South Africa. (A waving hand is one of Hardy's characteristic images and is to be found in a number of poems\u2014see \"The Rejected Member's Wife,\" \"Logs on the Hearth,\" and \"The Last Signal.\")\n\n#  _Drummer Hodge_\n\n15 Hardy's note (first magazine publication): \"One of the Drummers killed was a native of a village near Casterbridge.\"\n\n15.1 _Hodge:_ patronizing generic name for a rustic laborer. In Tess _of the D'Urbervilles,_ we read, \"The conventional farm-folk of his imagination\u2014personified in the newspaper-press by the pitiable dummy known as Hodge \u2014were obliterated after a few days' residence. At close quarters no Hodge was to be seen.... He had been disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures \u2014beings of many minds, beings infinite in difference; some happy, many serene, a few depressed, one here and there bright even to genius, some stupid, others wanton, others austere; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially Cromwellian; into men who had private views of each other, as he had of his friends....\"\n\n15.3 _kopje:_ small hill\n\n15.4 _veldt:_ grassy plain, savanna\n\n16.9 _Karoo:_ high arid plateau in South Africa\n\n#  _The Souls of the Slain_\n\n16 Hardy's note (first magazine publication): \"The spot indicated... is the Bill of Portland, which stands, roughly, on a line drawn from South Africa to the middle of the United Kingdom.... The 'Race' is the turbulent sea-area off the Bill, where contrary tides meet.\"\n\n17.15 _mighty-vanned:_ with great wings [poetical]\n\n17.27 nether _bord:_ lower border, or southernly frontier; here, below the Tropic of Capricorn\u2014South Africa, of course\n\n20.93 Pentecost Wind: Pentecost is the day the disciples were filled with the Holy Ghost and began to speak in tongues. See Acts 2: \"And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind....\"\n\n#  _Rome: At the Pyramid of Cestius Near the Graves of Shelley and Keats_\n\n21.1 _Cestius:_ an obscure Roman tribune who lived in the first century before Christ\n\n21.14 _breathed out threatening:_ Acts 9:1\n\n#  _Zermatt: To the Matterhorn_\n\n22.4 _four lives paid:_ The Matterhorn was first climbed in July of 1865 by a party led by the famed Alpinist, Edward Whymper, later a friend of Hardy's. As they were coming down, four of the men slipped and fell some 4,000 feet to their death; Whymper and two others survived because the rope linking them to the four men broke. The Hardys visited Zermatt in 1897, a few years after Whymper had told him the tragic story.\n\n22.14 _When darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour:_ Mark 15:33\n\n#  _To an Unborn Pauper Child_\n\n22 On the manuscript Hardy wrote, below the title, \" 'She must go to the Union-house to have her baby.' _Petty Sessions.\"_ (The Union-house was a workhouse for people living on public charity.)\n\n22.5 teens: harm inflicted or suffered, misery, rage [dial.]\n\n22.6 _Time-wraiths:_ specters caught in our temporal realm\u2014perhaps meaning people as thin and unsubstantial as ghosts\n\n23.25 _Fain:_ gladly [arch.]\n\n23.26 _wold:_ wooded upland; tract of hilly uncultivated country [dial.]\n\nThere are many fine strokes in this poem\u2014the first line, for one, an iambic tetrameter in which six or seven syllables, instead of the usual four, can be stressed; _Must come and_ bide, a powerful sentence\u2014just the compound verb, its subject unnamed; and Hardy's compassionate tenderness toward the imagined fetus, most moving when he addresses it as \"Dear.\"\n\n#  _To Lizbie Browne_\n\n24 Lizbie Browne's real name was Elizabeth Bishop. She was the daughter of a local gamekeeper.\n\n26.52 _As not:_ as no longer living; it may also suggest _like as not._\n\n#  _At a Hasty Wedding_\n\n28 Many rural weddings took place when the bride was well along in pregnancy. The title is perhaps privately ironic: one of the joyous songs that Hardy and his father played at such festivities was \"Haste to the Wedding.\" Hardy identified this poem as a triolet\u2014the best in English, in my opinion. He uses the brevity and swiftness of the form and its inexorable repetitions to express with great power both the urgency of desire and the certainty of change and loss. (\"Winter in Durnover Field\" is written in the same difficult form.)\n\n#  _An August Midnight_\n\n30.4 _dumbledore:_ some editors have identified this as the cockchafer beetle; the O.E.D. gives bumble-bee; in any case, a buzzing insect of some size.\n\n#  _The Darkling Thrush_\n\n33 Several scholars cite a passage from W. H. Hudson's _Nature in Downland_ as one of the sources of this poem:\n\nMid-winter is the season of the missel-thrush ... when there is no gleam of light anywhere and no change in that darkness of immense ever-moving cloud above; and the south-west raves all day and all night, and day after day, then the storm-cock sings his loudest from a tree-top and has no rival. A glorious bird! ... You must believe that this dark aspect of things delights him; that his pleasure in life, expressed with such sounds and in such circumstances, must greatly exceed in degree the contentment and bliss that is ours, even when we are most free from pain and care, and our whole beings most perfectly in tune with nature.... The sound is beautiful in quality, but the singer has no art, and flings out his notes anyhow; the song is an outburst, a cry of happiness.\n\n_Darkling:_ shrouded in darkness, or taking place in darkness. It is a famous poetic word, most notably used by Shakespeare (in _King Lear),_ Milton, Keats, and Arnold. A few other words and phrases besides _darkling_ clearly echo \"Ode to a Nightingale,\" but certainly Hardy was conscious of the last three lines of \"Dover Beach\": \"And we are here as on a darkling plain / Swept by confused alarms of struggle and flight, / Where ignorant armies clash by night.\"\n\n#  _The Ruined Maid_\n\n35.6 _spudding up docks:_ spading up weeds [dial.]\n\n35.9 _barton:_ farmyard [dial.]\n\n35.17 _hag-ridden:_ afflicted by nightmare\n\n35.18 _sock: sulk,_ sigh audibly [dial.]\n\n35.19 _megrims:_ low spirits, headaches [corruption of _migraine]_\n\n#  _The Respectable Burgher on \"the Higher Criticism\"_\n\n36 Although Hardy took very seriously what was called the Higher Criticism (historical and interpretive, along with the so-called lower criticism, which was textual and philological) and its refutation of the literal truth of Scripture, as well as the geological, biological, and much other scientific evidence against what for centuries had been taken as revealed truth, he is having a fine time here, sustaining a single rhyme for thirty-six lines, inventing droll ways of characterizing some of the most solemn biblical tales, and making jokes at the expense of both the revisionist critics and the bourgeois speaker.\n\n36.1 _Reverend Doctors:_ probably the so-called Seven against Christ, a group of liberal clergymen and intellectuals (including the formidable classical scholar, Benjamin Jowett), who in _Essays and Reviews,_ published in 1860, had challenged the authenticity of miracles; they averred that the language of the Bible is often figurative and that much of the narrative presented as history is in fact myth. The _Doctors_ may include other contemporary biblical scholars, such as John William Colenso and John Robert Seeley.\n\n36.2 _clerks: clerics_\n\n36.13 _Solomon sang the fleshly Fair:_ the critics contended that the Song of Solomon was an erotic poem, or sequence, which the Church Fathers had tortured into an allegory of Christ's love for His Church.\n\n36.24 _the Nain widow's only heir:_ a dead man restored to life by Jesus\n\n36.26 _Piombo:_ Sebastiano del Piombo, early sixteenth-century painter of the Venetian School. _The Raising of Lazarus_ is in the National Gallery in London.\n\n36.27 _Sheol:_ the shadowy world of the dead in the Hebrew Bible\n\n36.28 _Jael_ ... _snare:_ the story of Jael's murder of Sisera can be found in Judges 4 (and of Peter's cutting off Malchus' ear in John 18:10). All of the other miraculous episodes should be too familiar to require notes.\n\n37.36 _that moderate man Voltaire:_ an ironic joke\u2014Voltaire was a rather immoderate rationalist and skeptic.\n\n#  _In Tenebris I_\n\n38 The title means, In shadows, or in darkness. The Latin epigraph is from the Vulgate Scriptures; the King James Version renders it, \"My heart is smitten, and withered like grass.\" \"Unhope\" is a typical Hardyesque coinage (cf. \"unbloom\" in \"Hap\"). Its meaning is rather different from that of \"hopelessness\"\u2014the latter suggests weakness and helplessness and strikes perhaps a note of self-pity; whereas \"unhope\" bespeaks a simultaneous refusal and acceptance and has in it a kind of unflinching resignation, an almost serene despair.\n\n#  _A Trampwoman's Tragedy_\n\n41 The ballad is based on a local incident that took place in 1827. Hardy wrote to Edmund Gosse, \"The circumstances have been known to me for many years. You may like to be told that the woman's name was Mary Ann Taylor\u2014though she has been dust for half a century.\" Part of Hardy's note on the poem says of Blue Jimmy that he\n\nwas a notorious horse-stealer of Wessex in those days, who appropriated more than a hundred horses before he was caught, among others one belonging to a neighbour of the writer's grandfather. He was hanged at the now demolished Ivel-chester or Ilchester jail....\n\n41.15 _landskip:_ landscape [dial.]\n\n42.31 _tap:_ valve and spout for drawing ale or beer from a keg; here, a synechdoche for tavern\n\n43.49 _settle:_ long bench with arms and back high enough that one could sit \"inside\" it\n\nHardy thought this his most successful poem. In any case, it was one of his most popular, and certainly it has more of the flavor of authentic folk balladry than most such literary imitations.\n\n#  _The Rejected Member's Wife_\n\n46 Colonel William Ernest Brymer had been a Conservative Member of Parliament for Dorchester and then for South Dorset for over thirty years, until he was defeated in 1906 by the Liberal candidate. Hardy (who voted Liberal when he voted) knew and liked Mrs. Brymer.\n\n#  _Shut Out That Moon_\n\n47 In Dorset lore and in Hardy's poetry, the moon, especially when seen through glass, is a bad omen. In Hardy, it is often symbolic of seeing life with cold clarity\u2014cf. \"The Moon Looks In\" and \"To the Moon.\"\n\n47.8 _Lady's Chair:_ Cassiopeia\n\n#  The Division\n\n48.2 _besom:_ sweep with force [dial.] A besom is a broom made of twigs.\n\n48.9 _thwart:_ obstinate; crosswise; adverse [literary]\n\n#  _After the Club-Dance_\n\n52.1 _Black'on:_ Black Down, a hill a few miles from Dorchester\n\n52.1 _Maidon:_ Mai Dun (now known as Maiden Castle), an ancient hill-fort just outside of Dorchester\n\n#  The _Market-Girl_\n\n52.1 _causey:_ causeway; paved or cobbled lane or street [dial.]\n\n#  _The Inquiry_\n\n53.4 _sengreens:_ houseleeks; a variety of stonecrop or saxifrage [dial.]\n\n53.7 _hurdled:_ built or enclosed with hurdles. Hurdles are temporary fences made of intertwined branches of hazel or willow, used for penning sheep\u2014see \"A Sheep Fair.\"\n\n53.15 _fag:_ wearisome work\n\n#  _After the Fair_\n\n54.9 _drongs:_ narrow lanes between hedgerows enclosing fields [dial.]\n\n55.20 _burghees:_ townsmen, citizens [dial.]\n\n#  _To Carrey Clavel_\n\n55.6 _Dewbeating:_ walking vigorously\n\n55.11 _coll:_ embrace [dial.]\n\n#  The _Orphaned Old Maid_\n\n56.4 _Make a spouse in your pocket:_ F. B. Pinion, author of A _Hardy Companion,_ suggests that the girl is being told to save her money by staying single, and he may be right. But I cannot help wondering where a poor country girl would get such money and whether the phrase might not be an earthy local saying, meaning that she can do for herself whatever a husband would do.\n\n#  The Homecoming\n\n57 Toller Down is a ridge about fifteen miles northwest of Dorchester; more than one writer has attested to the accuracy of this description of Toller Down in autumn or winter. The young girl is very likely not used either to the weather or to her husband's dialect. If the reader is not used to the meter, it is dipodic, as in many nursery rhymes, like **\"BAA BAA BLACK SHEEP** / **HAVE** you ANy **WOOL\"** \u2014a dipod is a double foot consisting of a strong beat and a weak one, the number of syllables varying, e.g., \"And **LONE** some **WAS** the **HOUSE** and **DARK;** and **FEW** CAME **THERE.\"** See \"His Visitor\" and \"The Last Signal,\" which are also dipodic. (Most of \"Friends Beyond\" is in trochaic octameter and \"Wessex Heights\" is in loose fourteeners, but lines of that length, especially fourteeners, tend toward the dipodic.)\n\n57.4 _skimmer-cake:_ pudding made from leftovers and baked on a metal skimming ladle\n\n57.5 _summat strong:_ the something is probably cider [dial.]\n\n57.9 _poppet:_ term of endearment: doll, darling [dial.]\n\n59.48 _sock:_ sulk, sigh audibly [dial.]\n\nAs with \"The Ruined Maid\" and a number of other poems, the rough humor arises from the treatment of material that, viewed from a slightly different angle, would readily seem pathetic or frightening. Philip Larkin speaks of \"an undercurrent of sensual cruelty in the writing\u2014this seems an extraordinary thing to say of Hardy, but for all his gentleness he had a strong awareness of, and even relish for, both the macabre and the cruel.\"\n\n#  _A Church Romance_\n\n59 Hardy's mother had told him about her seeing his father for the first time, around 1835. The choir was the string band up in the balcony that projected from the west wall of the church, a band consisting of Hardy's father, grandfather, uncle, and one of their friends. Hardy was a good fiddler by the age of eight; by that time the choir had been disbanded, but a few years later the boy would be playing with his father at weddings and other local merry-makings.\n\n60.14 _\"New Sabbath\"_ or _\"Mount Ephraim\":_ melodies from the Anglican Hymnal (to which hymns or Tate and Brady's metrical psalms were set)\n\n#  _After the Last Breath_\n\n60 J. H. is Jemima Hardy, the poet's mother, who after a vigorous old age died at the age of ninety-one. The others present are probably his brother Henry and his two sisters, Mary and Kate. The abrupt enjambment between lines 15 and 16 is a powerfully moving surprise: at the end of line 15, our first thought is likely to be that the cell in which the prisoner is confined is the coffin; but no, the coffin is freedom.\n\n#  _One We Knew_\n\n61 M. H. is Mary Head Hardy, his paternal grandmother, who lived with the family until Hardy was almost seventeen.\n\n61.4 _cots:_ cottages [poetical]\n\n61.4 _dip:_ candle made of a wick dipped in tallow, as opposed to the fancy wax candles in the panelled mansions\n\n61.5 _\"poussetting\" and \"allemanding\":_ a country dance and any one of various German dances\n\n61.24 _cart-tail:_ Only a few decades before Hardy's birth, delinquent children were still being tied to carts and whipped.\n\n#  _She Hears the Storm_\n\n62 The Hardy cottage is the setting for this poem. It is partly surrounded by Thorncombe Wood, and the Frome River is less than a mile to the south.\n\n62.16 _garden-hatch:_ small gate or wicket [dial.]\n\n#  _The Man He Killed_\n\n63.4 _nipperkin:_ half pint [rare]\n\n63.15 _traps:_ gear, belongings\n\n63.20 _half a crown:_ a generous loan, worth several dollars at the time of the Boer War\n\n#  _Channel Firing_\n\n69 Hardy would certainly have heard the roar of the guns from English battleships in the spring of 1914: Dorchester is only seven miles north of the coast. Each of the monuments named in the last stanza moves progressively farther back in time and space. Stourton Tower commemorates the great victory of the Saxon King Alfred over the invading Danes in 879 and praises him for the establishment of the monarchy, the navy, trial by jury, liberty, and other things. Camelot is sometimes imagined to be the citadel of the much earlier and legendary King Arthur, who is supposed to have led the Britons against the Saxons. Stonehenge is the famous prehistoric monument on Salisbury Plain. It is something of a hyperbole to extend the sound of the guns to these ancient sacred places\u2014Stonehenge is some fifty miles away. (Ransom has rightly called attention to the beauty of the stresses on the metrically unaccented second syllables of the last two words\u2014\"st\u00e1rLIT St\u00f3neHENGE.\") If the poem was prophetic of the outbreak of war three or four months later, it was accidentally so: Hardy, as he said then, had not expected it to come so soon.\n\n69.9 _glebe cow:_ a parson's cow\n\n#  _The Convergence of the Twain_\n\n70 This poem, commemorating the sinking of the _Titanic_ on April 15, 1912, was completed on April 24; it first appeared in the program of a benefit performance at Covent Garden on May 14 to raise money for the victims of the disaster, and then, with an added stanza (the fifth), in the _Fortnightly Review_ on June 1. As almost everyone knows, the \"unsinkable\" luxury ship on her maiden voyage to New York struck an iceberg and went down in the North Atlantic; more than 1,500 people drowned or froze to death. Hardy had been acquainted with two of the passengers who died.\n\n70.5 _salamandrine:_ The salamander was a mythical lizard able to live in fire, which it could extinguish with the low temperature of its own body.\n\n70.6 _thrid:_ wind through the labyrinthine passages of [arch.]\n\n72.30 _anon:_ before long, sooner or later (in this case) [arch.] The word can have related but different meanings, like \"again, at another time\" (cf. \"The Going\") or \"at once\" (cf. \"The Contretemps\").\n\n#  _Wessex Heights_\n\n73 The date of this poem, 1896, is of some importance. The last few years of the century were probably the darkest of Hardy's life. He had suffered from the controversy surrounding _Tess of the D'Urbervilles;_ the outcry over _Jude the Obscure_ and the brutality of some of the reviews were even worse. His father had died in 1892. His marriage, always difficult, was at its nadir; Emma had even tried to prevent the publication _of Jude._ And there were other sorrows; see \"In Tenebris I,\" written about the same time.\n\n73.6 _Her who suffereth long:_ First Corinthians 13:4 (cf. \"The Blinded Bird\").\n\n#  _The Schreckhorn_\n\n75 The Schreckhorn is a peak in the Swiss Alps, over 13,000 feet high. Leslie Stephen climbed it in 1861\u2014the first man to do so. He was editor of the _Cornhill_ _Magazine_ and published some of Hardy's work, including the serialization of _Far from the Madding Crowd,_ one of Hardy's best novels and a popular success. Although he rejected _The Return of the Native_ (knowing it would shock his subscribers), he and Hardy remained good friends. Virginia Woolf, Stephen's daughter, told Hardy she regarded this sonnet \"as incomparably the truest & most imaginative portrait of him.\"\n\n#  _POEMS OF 1912-13_\n\n79 Despite the many years of estrangement and misery, Hardy was devastated by Emma's sudden death in November of 1912. Overwhelmed by immense regret over what their life together had come to and by memories of their early happiness, especially their courting days in Cornwall, he made the long journey to Cornwall in March 1913, an arduous undertaking for a man of seventy-three, and tramped around in the mud and cold of St. Juliot and the cliffs along the coast, seeking out their old trysting places. (See \"After a Journey\" and \"At Castle Boterel.\") Hardy regarded these poems as an \"expiation.\" In the aftermath of Emma's death, he wrote to a friend that he had composed them \"when I felt miserable lest I had not treated her considerately in her latter life. However, I shall publish them as the only amends I can make.\" The twenty-one poems in this sequence are among the most beautiful and most original elegies in the language, but some of them are better than others; I have chosen the eleven that I think the best, beginning with the opening poem, \"The Going,\" and ending with \"At Castle Boterel,\" the sixteenth and perhaps the finest poem in the sequence. He wrote close to a hundred more poems about Emma, lyrics of recollection and self-reproach and mourning, and at least twenty of them are to be found in this book, including \"At the Word 'Farewell,' \" \"Near Lanivet, 1872,\" \"My Spirit Will Not Haunt the Mound,\" \"The Shadow on the Stone,\" \"He Prefers Her Earthly,\" \"Fetching Her,\" \"A Leaving,\" and \"The Marble Tablet.\" Something of her and of his feelings for her can be found in many other poems.\n\n79 _Veteris vestigia flammae:_ traces of an old flame _[\u00c6neid_ IV, 23]\n\n#  _Rain on a Grave_\n\n82.2 _amain:_ forcefully, in great quantity [arch.]\n\n83.19-36 Emma loved daisies extravagantly, from childhood on. The third stanza breaks off the easy irony of the first half of the poem; the fourth makes unexpected use of it\u2014the cold indifferent pelting rain that once harried her to shelter is what now nourishes the flowers she loved so dearly and will soon be part of.\n\n#  _Lament_\n\n85.28 _Candlemas-time:_ around February 2 (when candles are blessed to celebrate the Purification of the Virgin Mary)\n\n#  _The Haunter_\n\n85 This is one of Hardy's greatest poems, better even than its much more anthologized companion poem, \"The Voice\" (which echoes the triple rhyme in line 21). The language is utterly simple and lucid; the dramatic moment is strange and complex. The ghost that speaks is a creation of the poet, who is quite oblivious of the presence of his creation, cannot see her or hear her, even as he is setting down her words, words that say that she cannot answer them, which in one sense is literally the case and in another is contradicted by the poem, which is her attempt to answer. The interweaving perspectives of irony are dizzying. And then, what richness and delicacy of tone in the opening of the last stanza\u2014\"What a good haunter I am\" always summons up for me the echo of Little Jack Homer (his name is even an assonantal rhyme) and raises a smile, but the inflection is also plangent and yearning, the imperative is urgent. \"O tell him!\"\u2014to whom is she speaking? Not to us\u2014what reader could tell him? The only one who can tell him is the poem; it is the poem she is beseeching.\n\n#  _The Voice_\n\n87.11 _wistlessness:_ obliviousness, unknowingness [poetical]\u2014the Anglo-Saxon root is _wis,_ know. (There is also some sense of the opposite of _wistfulness_ \u2014death as both absence of knowing and surcease of yearning.)\n\nThe dactyllic tetrameter is identical to the measure of a favorite tune from the family songbook, \"Haste to the Wedding,\" though the tune is up-tempo and joyful. If someone suggested that I compose an elegy in this meter, I would think he was mad\u2014almost any poet would. But Hardy seems not to see any difficulty, and he carries it off. The meter changes in the last stanza\u2014a rare thing in Hardy; it shifts down, so to speak, to trochees, a cognate meter; and the penultimate line echoes the tetrameter of the earlier stanzas. The almost inaudible accent on \"And\" in the last line is thrilling\u2014we hear the line as if it had only two beats, and that seems to distance and elongate the call.\n\n#  _After a Journey_\n\n89.29 lours: appears dark and threatening [variant of lowers]\n\n89 _Pentargan_ Bay: a small bay on the Cornish coast, circled by steep cliffs; it is less than a mile north of Boscastle.\n\n#  _\"She Charged Me\"_\n\n91.11 _curiously:_ Like its Latin etymon, _curious_ means not only interested, eager to know, but also unduly inquisitive and prying.\n\nI have included this heartsick and unusually acerbic poem because it is strong enough to survive its one clumsy line, \"A folly flown ere her reign had place.\" I have omitted a fair number of poems which I like, because they contain a few too many weak lines or passages. \"A Conversation at Dawn,\" which Pound admired, is a good example: it is a poem of considerable interest and power despite its element of melodrama, but the dialogue is full of stilted, ponderous locutions.\n\n#  _In the Days of Crinoline_\n\n92 Crinolines were the hooped petticoats and skirts of an earlier time.\n\n92.1 _tilt-bonnet:_ bonnet of plain coarse cloth, with wide brim and wings half-hiding the face\n\n93.19 _severally:_ separately\n\n93.24 conned: peered at, scrutinized [arch.]\n\n#  _Exeunt Omnes_\n\n95 The title is a familiar old stage-direction, meaning \"Everyone goes out.\" The manuscript is dated June 2, 1913, Hardy's seventy-third birthday and barely half a year after Emma's death.\n\n95.10 _Kennels:_ gutters, street drains\n\n#  _SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE IN_ FIFTEEN GLIMPSES\n\n96 Hardy wrote to a friend in 1911, \"You will remember, I am sure, that being _satires_ they are rather brutal. I express no feeling or opinion myself at all.\" He wrote later that they were \"caustically humorous productions which had been issued with a light heart before the war,\" and that he would have suppressed them, had they not become so well known from publication in magazines and anthologies. (Two or three are based on true stories.) Here is Ransom's useful and delightful account of the nature of these often underrated poems:\n\nThey must be taken in the comic sense which is intended. They are satires rather than proper tragedies, being poems in which the victims are not entitled to our sympathy. The joke is upon persons who have to be punished because they were foolish; because they were more innocent than anybody can afford to be in this world. The qualified reader is one who is able as he reads to recover his sophistication quickly if he had the least inclination to be sympathetic. Hardy means to try the propriety of our responses. And this time there are no Subalterns to execute the sentence in obedience to Heaven; but members of the victims' own kind, with cruelties and treacheries peculiarly human, and made possible because the victims have exposed themselves where they were most vulnerable, being infatuated or vain and self-righteous. The Satires represent Hardy about mid-point of his poetic career in a mood of ferocity which we might hardly have expected. He enlarges himself for us in respect of his psychic capabilities, though the gentle reader may not like him any the better.\n\n#  _In the Room of the Bride-Elect_\n\n97.4 _mollyish:_ timid, wimpy [dial.]\n\n#  _Over the Coffin_\n\n103.13 _parochial:_ provincial, narrow-minded\n\n#  _\"We Sat at the Window\"_\n\n107 Bournemouth is a coastal resort about twenty miles east of Weymouth. St. Swithin's Day falls on July 15 (and according to folklore, rain on that day presages another forty days of rain). Hardy and Emma had been married a little less than a year.\n\n#  _At the Word \"Farewell\"_\n\n108 Hardy, writing to Edmund Gosse in 1918, said of his poems, \"I myself (naturally I suppose) like those best which are literally true,\" and named two poems as examples, of which this was one. It describes the early dawn of March 11, 1870, as Hardy was preparing to leave St. Juliot, having made his measurements, drawings, and estimates for the restoration of the church, and having made the acquaintance of Emma Lavinia Gifford\u2014an encounter that would prove to be the central event of his life.\n\n108.11 _As of chances the chance furthermost:_ the slimmest of all chances\n\n#  _Heredity_\n\n109.4 _times anon:_ times to come\n\n#  _Near Lanivet,_ 1872\n\n109 This was the other poem Hardy named as being \"literally true.\" He and Emma had gone to Bodmin to see her father, to speak to him about their engagement. It was not a successful visit. John Gifford, writes Michael Millgate (Hardy's best biographer), \"greeted his prospective son-in-law with open contempt\" and later referred to Hardy as \"the low-born churl who has presumed to marry into _my_ family.\" Mr. Gifford, although better born, was a disbarred solicitor and a drunk.\n\n109.1 _stunted handpost:_ in reality, a stone marker with a Greek cross carved on its face\u2014perhaps in 1872 there was a handpost there, but the carved cross would have been enough for the drama of the poem.\n\n#  _Timing Her_\n\n112 Lalage was the name of the fifteen-year-old daughter of the curator of the Dorset County Museum, a friend of Hardy's, who sometimes sent her to Max Gate with a message. It is certainly not to be imagined that Hardy was planning an assignation with this young girl; Lalage, as Hardy well knew, is also the name of a girl celebrated in Horace's Ode I, _22\u2014dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo l dulce loquentem_ \u2014and II, 5. This erotic day-dream is altogether literary (though real enough to the poet, with its rapid, insistent dimeters and repetitions).\n\n113.38 _vair:_ The slippers are lined with white or grey squirrel fur.\n\n113.51 _Fain I'd avow:_ I would readily confess.\n\n#  _The Blinded Bird_\n\n114 It was long known that this cruel operation would induce automatic song. The last stanza is a paraphrase of First Corinthians 13:4-7. Of all the things that outraged Hardy, the one that most raised his gorge was cruelty to animals. \"He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, / But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.\"\n\n#  _To My Father's Violin_\n\n116 Hardy's grandfather played bass-viol (viola da gamba, an early cello) in the choir\u2014that is, the string band\u2014of Stinsford Church (a choir he himself established), twice every Sunday from 1801 until his death in 1837; in his later years he was joined by his sons and friends. By the time Hardy was old enough to join his father, the choir had been disbanded, but later he and his father played at many local festivities. Hardy kept his father's old violin in his study for the thirty-five years that he survived him; it can be seen in the reconstructed study now in the Dorset County Museum, and can be heard on recordings (see the note to \"In the Small Hours\"). This poem was harshly criticized for its pagan references and its deep sadness. Hardy wrote to a friend, \"... I have had sent me a review which quotes a poem entitled 'To My Father's Violin,' containing a Virgilian reminiscence of mine of Acheron and the Shades. The writer comments: 'Truly this pessimism is insupportable.... One marvels that Hardy is not in a madhouse.' Such is English criticism, and I repeat, why did I ever write a line!\"\n\n116.2 _Nether Glooms: like Mournful Meads_ in the fourth stanza, a Hardyism for the underworld, which here somewhat resembles Sheol, or Hades (of which Acheron is one of the five rivers)\n\n116.14 _quire:_ quoir (string band) [dial.] (See \"A Church Romance.\")\n\n116.18 _eff-holes :_ the f-shaped apertures in violins\n\n117.43 _Purflings:_ inlaid ivory or mother-of-pearl ornamenting the edges of a violin [arch.]\n\n117.44 _con:_ study, ponder [arch.]\n\n#  _The Pedigree_\n\n117.6 _green-rheumed:_ This is a very odd usage. It must mean that the clouds are full of moisture, as if flowing with mucous, or tears, and it leads into the astonishing image of the dolphin's eye.\n\n118.13 _Mage: magician_\n\n118.23-26 _That every heave ... by their so making it:_ That everything I thought or felt or said was shown in the mirror to have been long ago anticipated by their will and their acts\n\n118.27 _fuglemen:_ leaders, exemplars; a fugleman is an expert soldier who demonstrates the drill to recruits\n\nHardy was fascinated by genealogy all his life. He believed that the Hardys (like the D'Urbervilles) were a once distinguished family that had come down in the world, and he took great pride in being a descendant, as he thought, of the Thomas Hardy who was Nelson's flag-captain at Trafalgar, in whose arms Nelson died. (Nelson's last words are supposed to have been, \"Kiss me, Hardy.\" A few jocular scholars have suggested that he said, \"Kismet, Hardy.\")\n\n#  _Where They Lived_\n\n119.4 _bents:_ a kind of grass with stiff stalks\n\n#  _\"Something Tapped\"_\n\n120.11 _pallid moth:_ The white miller moth was believed to be the soul of a dead person. (See \"Friends Beyond\" and \"Afterwards.\") J. O. Bailey, author of the very useful _The Poetry of Thomas Hardy: A Handbook and Commentary,_ adds that a tapping on the pane would be taken as an omen of death.\n\n#  _The Oxen_\n\n121.13 _barton:_ farmyard [dial.]\n\n121.13 _coomb:_ glen or narrow valley [dial.] Cf. _Tess of the D'Urbervilles,_ Chapter XVII, where Hardy makes use of the same folk belief.\n\n#  _An Anniversary_\n\n122.6 _stile:_ set of steps to allow people to go over a hedge or fence\n\n122.12 _pedlar:_ peddler\n\n122.16 _garth:_ enclosed grounds, in this case the Stinsford churchyard [dial.]\n\n#  _Transformations_\n\n123 In this little vision of the afterlife, the dead ascend to the _upper air,_ almost resurrected in the flesh\u2014their nerves and veins are now the branches of trees and the veins of leaves. Everything is transformed\u2014grandsire to nursling, red to green, flesh to grass, a girl to a rose, and all the old-fashioned and biblical words to energy. The four elements have their part. Even the sounds participate\u2014the lightness of line 12 with its barely audible middle accent seems to modulate perfectly the delicacy of the girl's slipping into love's flower; and the nasals (the key, as it were, that the poem is written in)\u2014there is at least one in every line, very often there are three. Other consonants recur: _grandsire, green, grasses, underground, growths._ A poem of ninety-five words, seventy-eight of them monosyllabic. (Eugenio Montale, who translated some of Hardy's poems, wrote, perhaps a little glumly, that \"the intricate net that Hardy cast to encompass his poetry demands a saturation of monosyllables such as can be found only in the English language.\")\n\n#  _The Last Signal_\n\n123 William Barnes kept a school in Dorchester, next to the office where young Hardy was employed as an apprentice architect; he and the old man became friends. Barnes was for the most part self-educated, a philologist and clergy-man who knew a score oflanguages, and a fine poet, who wrote in dialect. He had a strong influence on his young friend, an influence most visible in many of Hardy's coinages\u2014for instance, _fellow-yearsmen_ for \"contemporaries\" (\"His Immortality\") _and foot-folk_ for \"pedestrians\" (\"The Five Students\"). Barnes thought that English had become too Latinate and advocated the substitution of words with Anglo-Saxon roots. This argument had recurred more than once since the \"inkhorn\" controversy of the sixteenth century, and Bames was not alone in his conviction. Gerard Manley Hopkins and W. W. Skeat were two of many dedicated to writing and fostering a purer English. Hopkins, although he did think Barnes' program hopelessly extreme, was sympathetic. He wrote to Bridges in 1882,\n\nIt makes one weep to think what English might have been; for in spite of all that Shakspere and Milton have done with the compound I cannot doubt that no beauty in a language can make up for lack of purity. In fact I am learning Anglosaxon and it is a vastly superior thing to what we have now.\n\nHopkins' own language is often as close to Anglo-Saxon as modern English can well be, and many of his coinages are not very different from _Hardy's\u2014before-time-taken, yestertempest, anvil-ding, forepang, undenizened, bone-house, wanwood,_ and so on.)\n\nIf you walked down Winterborne Came Path and followed it up to the crest of the long hill opposite Hardy's house at Max Gate, you would see, down among the trees, the roof of the rectory where the Reverend Barnes lived and the road on which Hardy saw his coffin being borne to the graveyard. As an additional act of piety, Hardy is imitating here a Welsh form that William Barnes was fond of and sometimes used in his own work. It requires an intricate pattern of consonants (called _cynghanedd)_ and an internal rhyme in the second line of each quatrain (called _union)._ The meter is dipodic.\n\n#  _At Middle-Field Gate in February_\n\n125 Middle-Field refers to the fields around the Hardy cottage in Higher Bockhampton, and the \"bevy now underground\" were the young field-women Hardy knew as a boy, some of whose names he could remember in old age\u2014Unity Sargent, Eliza Trevis, Ann West, Susan Chamberlain, Elizabeth Hurden, Esther Oliver, Anna Barrett, Emma Shipton, and others.\n\n#  _On Sturminster Foot-Bridge_\n\n126.4 scrabbled: scribbled, marked randomly\n\n126.8 _eyot-withies:_ willows or other pliant shoots on a little island\n\n#  _Old Furniture_\n\n127.22 _whilom:_ formerly [lit.]\n\n127.22 _the nut:_ the fixed ridge on the neck of a violin over which the strings pass\n\n127.28 _linten:_ made of cotton wool or other fluffy material [coinage]. Fires were made by igniting these bits of fluff with a flint and steel.\n\n#  _Logs on the Hearth_\n\n128 Mary, the sister Hardy was closest to, died in November 1915.\n\n#  _The Ballet_\n\n130.9 _muster:_ come together, appear (This is a good example of an odd or quaint word that on reflection comes to seem the best possible word.)\n\n#  _The Five Students_\n\n130 The five \"students\" (or at least four of them) can be identified with reasonable certainty: _dark_ He is probably Horace Moule, Hardy's dearest friend in his youth, who died early, by his own hand; _dark She_ may be Hardy's cousin, Tryphena Sparks, with whom he is thought to have had an affair; _fair She_ is Emma. It is interesting and enriching to recognize the actual people who have taken on another life in Hardy's poems; it should go without saying that their identities are not essential to understanding and enjoying the poems.\n\n131.25 _tag the church-aisle leads:_ hang from the strips of lead between the panes of a latticed or stained-glass window\n\n#  _At a Country Fair_\n\n134 Based on a newspaper item. Hardy wrote in one of his notebooks, \"Blind Giant.\u2014His dimensions had attracted cupidity of an exhibitor, who had barely allowed him necessaries and kept him a sort of prisoner. Age 19.\" Although an excellent poem and relatively pure in diction, it almost never appears in the anthologies or selections.\n\n#  _jubilate_\n\n135 The title means \"Make a joyful noise.\"\n\n135.7 _the great breastplate:_ Exodus 28:15\n\n135.8 _Urim and Thummim:_ sacred objects used for divination, to find out the will of God. God gives Moses elaborate instructions for making the ceremonial garments that Aaron will wear as High Priest; after explaining how the breastplate is to be studded with twelve precious stones representing the tribes of Israel, God tells Moses, \"And thou shalt put in the breastplate of judgment the Urim and the Thummim; and they shall be upon the heart of Aaron, when he goeth in before the Lord.\" The nature of these lots is unknown; even the origin of the names can only be guessed at.\n\n135.13 _hautboys, and shawms:_ oboes, and early wind instruments similar to oboes\n\n135.21 chore: quoir, or chorus [dial.]\n\n135.22 _Little-Ease:_ life [a prison cell too small to stand up or lie down in; specifically, the name of one of the dungeons in the Tower of London]\n\n#  _Midnight on the Great Western_\n\n136 The description is very similar to that of Little Father Time, the boy _in Jude the Obscure._\n\n#  _The Shadow on the Stone_\n\n137 The \"Druid stone,\" as Hardy called it, was a five-foot stone that had been discovered three feet underground, covered with ashes and charred bones. It took seven men to dig it out and erect it on the lawn at Max Gate, where it stands to this day. It may have been an ancient menhir; in any case, Hardy regarded it with awe. (The poem echoes the story of Orpheus and Euridyce.)\n\n#  _In the Garden_\n\n138 M. H. is Mary Hardy (see \"Logs on the Hearth\").\n\n#  _The Choirmaster's Burial_\n\n139 This is an imaginative retelling of the story of Hardy's grandfather's burial. The _lutes_ are figurative: the choir played violins and cellos.\n\n139.13 _\"Mount Ephraim\":_ name of a melody from the hymnal\u2014see \"A Church Romance.\"\n\n140.47 _the tenor man_ (tenor violin): Hardy's father\n\n#  _In_ Time of \"The Breaking of Nations\"\n\n141 Of this Hardy wrote, \"the poem... contains a feeling that moved me in 1870, during the Franco-Prussian War, when I chanced to be looking at such an agricultural incident in Cornwall. But I did not write the verses till during the war with Germany of 1914....\" The phrase \"The breaking of nations\" comes from Jeremiah 51:20\u2014God's judgment against Babylon.\n\n141.6 _couch-grass:_ tough weeds which are dug up and burned in piles\n\n141.9 _wight:_ living creature (in this case a man) [arch.]\n\n#  _Afterwards_\n\n142.1 _postern:_ back gate of a garden [rare]\n\n142.6 _dewfall-hawk:_ not the name of the hawk but an epithet which, like the eyelid's blink, figures the alighting of the hawk. (A couple of editors have confidently identified this creature as a moth, but that cannot possibly be right. Would any competent poet write of a moth that it \"comes crossing the shades to alight / Upon the wind-warped upland thorn\"? In any case, James Gibson has identified it as the nightjar, and that settles it.) As for comparing the approach of the hawk to an eyelid's soundless blink, is there a better simile in English poetry?\n\n142.17 _quittance:_ The word strongly suggests leaving or ceasing; in fact, it means release, or discharge of a debt, or the fulfilling of an obligation, or recompense, or reprisal. [arch.]\n\n142.18 The sound of _outrollings_ is choice, the pronunciation slightly distorted by the meter and rhyme, which requires an accent on the final syllable.\n\n#  _\"According to the Mighty Working\"_\n\n146 Hardy wrote of this poem, \"In February he [Hardy] signed a declaration of sympathy with the Jews in support of a movement for 'the reconstitution of Palestine as a National Home for the Jewish people'.... about the same time there appeared a relevant poem by Hardy in _The Atheneum ..._ entitled in words from the Burial Service.\" (The reason that Hardy is speaking of himself in the third person is that he wrote or dictated two volumes of autobiography that were published after his death under the name of his second wife, Florence Emily Dugdale, and were meant to be taken as her work. What could be more fitting than that Hardy should be the ghost of his own biography?) The poem was written after the end of the Great War, and it is clear that Hardy thought of _Peace, this hid riot, Change,_ as referring, at least in part, to the agitation against the British mandate over Palestine. This beautiful little poem should give pause to those who believe that all poems must contain imagery and physical details: except for a few words and phrases, like \"the dusk\" and the \"spinner's wheel,\" its diction is almost entirely abstract. Even the concrete words are rather abstract.\n\n146.1 _moiling:_ drudgery; vexation; milling about in confusion\n\n#  _The Contretemps_\n\n148 The action of this poem is set in Weymouth on the same bridge where the sailor meets his wife in \"The Harbour Bridge.\" An oddly touching poem, in spite of its melodramatic plot and the troubling question of what happened to the woman whom the speaker was originally awaiting.\n\n148.13 _anon:_ (in this context) at once, or very soon\n\n149.46 _pother:_ mental distress, turmoil [dial.]\n\n#  _The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House_\n\n150 The fallow deer is a Mediterranean deer, smaller than the red deer and of a pale brownish or yellowish color.\n\n150.6 _fender-brink:_ the edge of the metal frame fitted to a fire-place to keep coals from rolling out\n\n150.12 The last line is particularly beautiful, with its hovering between meter and pronunciation, much like the last two words of \"Channel Firing.\"\n\n#  _On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth_\n\n151 This is a setting from _The Whole Book of Psalms,_ published in 1621 and often reprinted, the best known work of a seventeenth-century musician, Thomas Ravenscroft.\n\n151.15 _Sheol:_ Hebrew abode of the dead (See \"The Respectable Burgher\"\u2014neither Lazarus nor anyone else can return from Sheol.)\n\n#  _Voices from Things Growing in a Churchyard_\n\n152 All of the deceased are actual people whose graves can still be seen in Stinsford Churchyard. Walking there with Walter de la Mare, Hardy pointed out the head-stones and memorial tablets. \"Fanny Hurd's real name was Fanny Hurden, and Hardy remembered her as a delicate child who went to school with him. She died when she was about eighteen.... The others mentioned in this poem were known to him by name and repute.\" The headstone above Thomas Voss's grave is near Hardy's grave; Grey and Bowring are commemorated on tablets in the church; Hardy had read the story of Eve Trevelyan in the parish register (she was the mother of two or three illegitimate children).\n\n153.33 _withwind:_ a clematis called \"the virgin's bower\" [Hardy's note]\n\n153.35 _Greensleeves:_ as in the popular Elizabethan ballad, an easy woman: presumably her sleeves have been stained by lying too often on the grass.\n\n#  A _Two-Years' Idyll_\n\n154 This deeply sad poem recalls the two years (1876 to 1878) that he and Emma lived in Sturminster Newton, a period that Hardy later thought of as \"our happiest time.\"\n\n#  _Fetching Her_\n\n155 This is clearly about having taken Emma out of her native Cornwall and the keen regret that her life in Dorset had not brought her much happiness; but some of the details are freely invented.\n\n155.17 _mews:_ seagulls\n\n155.19 _expugn:_ assault, overwhelm\n\n#  _A Procession of Dead Days_\n\n156 Another poem about life with Emma, beginning with their first meeting in the dusk at St. Juliot, including their courtship, engagement, and nuptials, the difficult years of marriage, and ending with her death. This poem is beyond praise.\n\n156.6 _anon:_ (as the repetition suggests) again, but it could easily carry its other senses\u2014come soon, come at once, etc.\n\n156.23 _rainbow sign:_ the sign of God's covenant with Noah after the flood\n\n156.29 _queue:_ tail\u2014a trope for the wake of the meteor\n\n157.41\u201442 _When his original glossed the thrums_ / _Of ivy:_ when the original day illuminated, or made glossy, the multitude of ivy leaves. (The word _thrums_ in this sense is archaic and very rare, apparently not in use for four or five centuries. It seems summoned chiefly for the rhyme; nevertheless, it is a beautiful stanza, the last two lines particularly expressive.)\n\n157.48 _third hour:_ that is to say, the third hour after dawn. Emma died at around 9 A.M. And Hardy would certainly have had Mark 15:25 in mind: \"It was the third hour, and they crucified him.\" See \"Near Lanivet, 1872.\"\n\n#  _In the Small Hours_\n\n157 Hardy in his boyhood was an excellent fiddler and, with his father, played jigs, reels, and hornpipes by the hour at harvest suppers, weddings, christenings, New Year's Eve revels, and the like. (There is a superb recording of many of these tunes from the handwritten family songbook, called \"The Musical Heritage of Thomas Hardy\" [Academy Sound and Vision Ltd.]. The Yetties, young musicians from Dorset, play a great number of them [including \"Haste to the Wedding,\" \"The New-Rigged Ship,\" \"The Triumph,\" and so on] on Hardy's own violin and on his father's, borrowed from the Dorset County Museum and renovated for the occasion.)\n\n157.9 _soon anon:_ soon afterward\n\n158.20 _amain:_ with great force [arch.]\n\n#  _The Dream Is_ \u2014 _Which?_\n\n158.13 _heys:_ [variant of _hays]_ country dances with interweaving steps\n\n#  _Lonely Days_\n\n159 The first stanza seems to deal with Emma's life at Max Gate, the second with her years in St. Juliot, and the third with her visit to Plymouth for her father's funeral (Plymouth had been her girlhood home). Part of the effect, I think, lies in the second stanza's being twice the length of the first and the third's being almost twice the length of the second. (And is there another poet who has written so much and so well in dimeters, whether strict as in \"To Lizbie Browne\" or loose as in this one?)\n\n#  _The Marble Tablet_\n\n160 Hardy designed a memorial tablet for Emma, and visited St. Juliot in September of 1916 to make sure that it had been erected. Later a tablet for him was set next to it.\n\n161.6 _November:_ Emma was born on November 24, 1840, and died on November 27, 1912.\n\n#  _The Master and the Leaves_\n\n161.12 _nightjar:_ the nighthawk, which appears at dusk to feed on insects. It makes a distinctive churring sound. (See \"Afterwards\" and \"A Hurried Meeting.\")\n\n161.12 _treen:_ trees [arch. and lit.]\n\n#  _Last Words to a Dumb Friend_\n\n162 This could be one of several cats. Both Hardy and his wife loved animals and gave their pets the run of the house, often to the dismay of guests. At the edge of the garden at Max Gate there are a dozen or so stones marking the graves of various cats and dogs. The first half of the poem is perhaps not especially distinguished, but it rises to great dignity and power in the last twenty-five or thirty lines.\n\n#  _An Ancient to Ancients_\n\n164.6 _tabrets:_ little drums\n\n164.11-12 _God wot_ / _Their fancy:_ God knows what their whims might have been. (The language is as old-fashioned as the tabrets.)\n\n165.24 _schottische:_ a Scottish dance something like a polka\n\n165.26\u201427 _The \"Girl\"_ ... _And \"Trovatore\":_ \"The Bohemian Girl,\" popular in its day, and the famous Verdi opera were great favorites of Hardy's.\n\n165.31-34 _Etty_ ... _Sand:_ three genre painters and four novelists, all of them fashionable and much admired in the middle of the nineteenth century. Bailey suggests that inasmuch as Hardy was not fond of all of them, he may have been smiling a little at the sentimental tastes of the age.\n\n165.39 _creeper-nails:_ supports for tendrils (See Tennyson's \"Mariana,\" of which an echo or two has appropriately found its way into this stanza: \"The rusted nails fell from the knots...\" etc.)\n\n166.46-47 _our rout / Is imminent to A\u00efdes' den:_ our assemblage of guests; or, our tumult and noise; or, our headlong flight is soon to be entering Hades, the land of the dead.\n\n166.54-55 not _alien_ / _From enterprise, to their long last:_ like Hardy himself, not deterred by their great age from doing their work.\n\n#  _Waiting Both_\n\n169.7-8 _Wait... Till my change come:_ Job 14:14\n\nWe must know by now how to take such conventions in Hardy's poetry; he is, after all, a poet who talks to the moon, to a sea-cliff, to a chrysanthemum, to Time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What is more surprising is \"I and you\"\u2014the slightly odd word order. But of course the star _would_ put himself first: it's a matter of degree; and the introduction of the idea of degree is what keeps that \"I\" from being invidious\u2014after all, the star is immeasurably older and immeasurably larger. Perhaps \"degree\" suggested itself as a witty way of accounting for the odd word order \u2014I imagine that \"mean to do\" was thought of first, and dictated the rhyme. And in the astronomical context, \"degree\" is near to hand. The repetition of \"mean to do\" does not strike me with any particular force\u2014it is just one of Hardy's familiar repetitions, pleasant enough. But how conclusive and satisfying that repetition is at the very end. Perhaps it was as much a surprise to Hardy as it is to us; sometimes a habitual device suddenly turns out to be a fortunate and handsome stroke.\n\n#  _A Bird-Scene at a Rural Dwelling_\n\n169.6 _codlin-tree:_ [variant _of codling]_ a kind of apple tree\n\n169.8 _costard:_ another kind of apple tree\n\n#  _Coming Up Oxford Street: Evening_\n\n170.11 _chymists:_ [ _chemists_ ] pharmacists\n\n#  _A Sheep Fair_\n\n173.5 _hurdles:_ temporary fences of intertwined branches of hazel or willow, for confining a group of _sheep-each meek, mewed band._\n\n#  _The Calf_\n\n174.4 _milcher:_ a milk cow (I have inserted this uncollected poem in _Human Shows.)_\n\n#  _No Buyers_\n\n176.7 _Turk's-head brush:_ a long-headed broom\n\n177.21 _in nursing-wise:_ cradled in her arms\n\n#  _One Who Married Above Him_\n\n177.3 _night-rime:_ nocturnal frost\n\n178.18 _whimmed her:_ behaved capriciously, took a sudden fancy\n\n179.39 _Ham-Hill:_ a handsome orange-tinted stone quarried not far from Dorchester. J. O. Bailey notes that this detail and the mullioned windows suggest a house somewhat grander than Steve could easily afford.\n\nThis poem, especially the second half of it, seems to me a moving example of what Pound praised in Hardy\u2014clarity, directness, the attention completely engaged with the subject, not one inappropriate or fancy or inveigling word. Nothing for show.\n\n#  _Nobody Comes_\n\n180 The occasion of this poem is Florence's return from the hospital where she had undergone surgery in October of 1924. Hardy's brother was driving her home, and they were late. The poem turns out to have little if anything to do with its occasion. So many of Hardy's poems grow out of something very simple and often unpromising; he will take whatever subject offers itself, however small and homely it might be\u2014like this one:\n\n _They are great trees, no doubt, by now,_   \n_That were so thin in bough\u2014_   \n_That row of limes\u2014_   \n_When we housed there; I'm loth to reckon when;_   \n_The world has turned so many times,_   \n_So many, since then!_\n\nIn \"Nobody Comes,\" the old man does not conceal his loneliness, but neither does it seem to be his purpose to present it or relieve it; nor does it in any way hinder the clarity of his perceptions. For all his awareness of pain and suffering, he is utterly without self-pity.\n\n#  _The Harbour Bridge_\n\n181 This bridge crosses the River Wey shortly before its estuary widens into the sea. Although the old bridge has been replaced, one standing at sundown on the quay to the east and looking up would see much the same thing, the people crossing silhouetted against the bright sky, \"as cut black-paper portraits hastening on.\" (Silhouette portraiture was very popular in Weymouth in those days.)\n\n181.6 _cutwater:_ wedge-shaped end of a bridge pier, dividing the current\n\n181.9 _painters:_ mooring ropes attached to the bows of boats\n\n181.10 _bollards:_ the low posts on the quay to which the ropes are fastened\n\n#  _Retty's Phases_\n\n183 Dated 1868, when Hardy was working in London, this is the earliest surviving manuscript of a Hardy poem. _Hot-up scarlet red_ is one of those quaint usages we often smile at, but it is good, vivid English, isn't it? In an earlier draft, he had written _colour cherry red._\n\n184.27 _clown:_ rustic, peasant\n\nHardy's note on the poem:\n\nIn many villages it was customary after the funeral of an unmarried young woman to ring a peal as for her wedding while the grave was being filled in, as if Death were not to be allowed to balk her of bridal honours. Young unmarried men were always her bearers.\n\n#  _The Sundial on a Wet Day_\n\n184.6 _gnomon:_ the style, or triangular plate, that casts a shadow on a sundial (from the Greek word meaning, to know)\n\n185.14 He: Seen or unseen, the sun is the one consistently benevolent deity in Hardy's poetry (cf. \"Coming Up Oxford Street: Evening\").\n\n#  _Shortening Days at the Homestead_\n\n185.2 _woof-lines:_ threads that cross from side to side in a loom, crossing the warp\n\n185.5 _shock-headed:_ shaggy and unkempt\n\n185.6 pollard: severely pruned, the branches sometimes taken off to be used in caning or making hurdles\n\n#  _A Hurried Meeting_\n\n187.52 _imp:_ mock like an imp or demon [nonce-use]\n\n#  _A Leaving_\n\n188 The first line and the month should make it clear that the car is a hearse. Appropriately enough, the end-words of the first stanza are repeated in reverse order in the second stanza.\n\n#  _Proud Songsters_\n\n191 Hardy said that he made use of some of his rejected early poems by prosing them and embedding them in his novels, and indeed a fair number of passages do bear strong resemblances to various poems, perhaps none more than the opening paragraph of Chapter xx in Tess _of the D'Urbervilles:_ \"The season developed and matured. Another year's instalment of flowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and inorganic particles.\" In both stanzas the meter changes from Hardy's characteristic loose line, a mix of iambs and anapests, to strict iambic. I notice it more clearly in the second stanza. That breath of eternity that sometimes seems to come so easily into Hardy's lyrics has something to do with the slowing down of the movement: the longer caesura in \"No finches were, nor nightingales,\" the longer pause after \"thrushes\"\u2014the same line in the first stanza is a run-on\u2014and the stately movement of the last two lines, the last line especially with its clear coincidence of phrase and foot. (Suppose the last two lines went, \"Nothing but particles of grain, / And the earth, and air, and the rain.\" Nearly the same lines\u2014just the synonym for \"only\" and two extra syllables, the articles in the last line\u2014but all the power has vanished.) And where is the fourth element? The sun is just about gone in the very first line and maybe we have forgotten it by now\u2014and this poet is too orderly to make do with only three. The fire comes back in _brand new_ (another surprising and Hardyesque word that turns out to be just right)\u2014as the O.E.D. defines it, \"as if glowing from the furnace.\" The _birds_ are the fire, the vital element, that lay dormant in the others. I have always thought of this poem as a companion piece to \"Transformations,\" a vision of the beforelife, so to speak.\n\n#  _Expectation and Experience_\n\n192.13 _lew of a wall:_ the part of the wall that shelters her from the weather\n\nAnother poem, like \"Nobody Comes,\" in which very little happens\u2014one could scarcely call it an incident\u2014yet which in its spare and precise detail, its workmanship and its simple humanity is a good little poem, one that many poets would like to have written.\n\n#  _Throwing a Tree_\n\n193 This poem's first publication was posthumous, in the French journal _Commerce,_ under the title \"Felling a Tree.\" (Florence had been asked for one of Hardy's poems and she sent this one, unaware that Hardy had at some point changed the tide.) It appeared in the Winter 1928 issue, alongside a translation by Paul Valery. This fact was startling and interesting enough, and the translation so difficult to find, that I thought some readers would be pleased to have it here. (One might wish that he had done it in rhyming alexandrines; nevertheless, it is a fairly scrupulous trot.)\n\n_ABATAGE D'UN ARBRE_\n\n_D'un pas majestueux les_ deux _ex\u00e9cuteurs s'avancent sur les tertres._\n\n_Ils portent deux lourdes haches aux fers larges et brillants, et une longue scie \u00e0 deux mains, flexible, aux dents faites pour entamer les troncs puissants._\n\n_Tel ils approchent de l'arbre superbe qui montre sur son flanc la marque de mort._\n\n_Ils ont mis vestes bas; ils balancent les haches; ils frappent \u00e0 coups redoubl\u00e9s, juste au ras de la terre._\n\n_Autour d'eux volent les \u00e9clats; de blancs \u00e9clats couvrent la mousse et les feuilles tomb\u00e9es._\n\n_Bient\u00f4t une large et profonde entaille tranche \u00e9corce tout autour du tronc._\n\n_Et l'un_ des _hommes essaie d'envoyer une corde au haut de l'arbre, et il finit par y parvenir._\n\n_La scie intervient alors, et travaille jusqu'\u00e0 ce que la cime du haut g\u00e9ant frissonne. A chaque passage de la lame on voit cro\u00eetre et s'\u00e9tendre ses frissons._\n\n_Les hommes retirent la scie; ils p\u00e8sent sur le c\u00e2ble. Mais l'arbre ne fait encore que chanceler, et eux s'agenouillent et se remettent \u00e0 scier. Derechef ils s'ecartent, ils essayent encore de tirer l'arbre bas._\n\n_Enfin le m\u00e2t vivant s'incline, s'incline plus encore. Avec un cri, Job et Ike se jettent de c\u00f4t\u00e9. Parvenu \u00e0 la fin de sa longue r\u00e9sistance, l'arbre craque et s'abat. Il \u00e9branle_ en tombant tous les _arbres_ qui _l'entourent, et deux cents ans de croissance constante sont aneantis en moins de deux heures._\n\n#  _Henley Regatta_\n\n194 This regatta is an international rowing competition at Henley-on-Thames, one of the major sporting and social events in England.\n\n#  _A Forgotten Miniature_\n\n196 This locket containing a miniature portrait of Emma in her youth and a lock of her hair was found shortly after her death. I have seen it in the Berg Collection in the New York Public Library.\nINDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES\n\n##\n\nA foreward rush by the lamp in the gloom\n\nA load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs\n\nA plain tilt-bonnet on her head\n\nA shaded lamp and a waving blind\n\nA star looks down at me\n\n_\"According to the Mighty Working,\"_\n\n_After a Journey_\n\n_After the Club-Dance_\n\n_After the Fair_\n\n_After the Last Breath_\n\n_Afternoon Service at Mellstock_\n\n_Afterwards_\n\n_\"Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?\"_\n\n\"Ah, are you digging on my grave\n\nAloof, as if a thing of mood and whim\n\nAn hour before the dawn\n\n_Ancient to Ancients,_ An\n\nAnd are ye one of Hermitage\u2014\n\n\"And now to God the Father,\" he ends\n\n_Anniversary,_ An\n\nAs I drive to the junction of lane and highway\n\nAt a bygone Western country fair\n\n_At a Country Fair_\n\n_At a Hasty Wedding_\n\n_At a Watering-Place_\n\n_At Casterbridge Fair_\n\n_At Castle Boterel_\n\n_At Day-Close in November_\n\n_At Middle-Field Gate in February_\n\n_At Tea_\n\n_At the Altar-Rail_\n\n_At the Draper's_\n\n_At the Word \"Farewell,\"_\n\n_August Midnight,_ An\n\n##\n\n_Backward Spring,_ A\n\n_Ballad Singer, The_\n\n_Ballet, The_\n\n_Before and After Summer_\n\n_Bird-Scene at a Rural Dwelling, A_\n\nBlack'on frowns east on Maidon\n\n_Blinded Bird, The_\n\nBreathe not, hid Heart: cease silently\n\n\"But hear. If you stay, and the child be born\n\n_By Her Aunt's Grave_\n\n##\n\n_Caged Goldfinch, The_\n\n_Calf, The_\n\n_Channel Firing_\n\n_Choirmaster's Burial, The_\n\nChristmas Eve, and twelve of the clock\n\n_Church Romance, A_\n\nClose up the casement, draw the blind\n\nClouds spout upon her\n\n_Coming Up Oxford Street: Evening_\n\n_Contretemps, The_\n\n_Convergence of the Twain, The_\n\n##\n\n_Darkling Thrush, The_\n\nDear Lizbie Browne\n\nDishevelled leaves creep down\n\n_Division, The_\n\nDoes he want you down there\n\n_Domicilium_\n\n_Dream Is_ \u2014 _Which?, The_\n\n_Drummer Hodge_\n\n_During Wind and Rain_\n\n##\n\n_Embarcation_\n\nEvery branch big with it\n\nEverybody else, then, going\n\n_Exeunt Omnes_\n\n_Expectation and Experience_\n\n##\n\n_Fallow Deer at the Lonely House, The_\n\n_Fetching Her_\n\n_Five Students, The_\n\n_Forgotten Miniature, A_\n\n_Former Beauties_\n\n_Friends Beyond_\n\nFrom here, the quay, one looks above to mark\n\nFrom Wynyard's Gap the livelong day\n\n##\n\n_Garden Seat, The_\n\n_\"Gentleman's Second-Hand Suit, A,\"_\n\n_Going and Staying_\n\n_Going, The_\n\n_Great Things_\n\nGruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare\n\n##\n\n\"Had he and I but met\n\n_Hap_\n\n_Harbour Bridge,_ The\n\n_Haunter, The_\n\nHe does not think that I haunt here nightly\n\nHe enters, and mute on the edge of a chair\n\nHe often would ask us\n\n_He Prefers Her Earthly_\n\n_Henley Regatta_\n\nHere by the moorway you returned\n\nHere is the ancient floor\n\nHere it is hanging in the sun\n\nHere we broached the Christmas barrel\n\nHere, where Vespasian's legions struck the sands\n\n_Heredity_\n\nHereto I come to view a voiceless ghost\n\n_His Immortality_\n\n_His Visitor_\n\n_Homecoming, The_\n\n_House of Hospitalities,_ The\n\nHow I was caught\n\nHow she would have loved\n\n_Hurried Meeting, A_\n\n##\n\nI am laughing by the brook with her\n\nI am the family face\n\n_\"I Am the One\"_\n\nI am the one whom ringdoves see\n\nI bent in the deep of night\n\nI come across from Mellstock while the moon wanes weaker\n\nI drip, drip here\n\n\"I had a holiday once,\" said the woman\u2014\n\nI have risen again\n\nI know not how it may be with others\n\nI lay in my bed and fiddled\n\nI leant upon a coppice gate\n\n_\"I Look Into My Glass,_ \"\n\nI look into my glass\n\nI marked when the weather changed\n\n_\"I Need Not Go\"_\n\nI need not go\n\nI saw a dead man's finer part\n\nI saw it\u2014pink and white\u2014revealed\n\n_\"I say I'll Seek Her,\"_\n\nI say, \"I'll seek her side\n\nI see the ghost of a perished day\n\n\"I stood at the back of the shop, my dear\n\nI told her when I left one day\n\nI wanted to marry, but father said, \"No\u2014\n\nI went by the Druid stone\n\n_Ice on the Highway_\n\nIf but some vengeful god would call to me\n\nIf hours be years the twain are blest\n\n\"I'll tell\u2014being past all praying for\u2014\n\n_In a Eweleaze near Weatherbury_\n\nIn a solitude of the sea\n\n_In Church_\n\n_In Tenebris I,_\n\n_In the Cemetery_\n\n_In the Days of Crinoline_\n\n_In the Garden_\n\n_In the Moonlight_\n\n_\"In the Night She Came,\"_\n\n_In the Nuptial Chamber_\n\n_In the Restaurant_\n\n_In the Room of the Bride-Elect_\n\n_In the Small Hours_\n\n_In the Study_\n\nIn the third-class seat sat the journeying boy\n\n_In Time of \"The Breaking of Nations,\"_\n\n_Inquiry, The_\n\nIt faces west, and round the back and sides\n\nIt is August moonlight in the tall plantation\n\nIt was at the very date to which we have come\n\nIt was your way, my dear\n\nIt will be much better when\n\nIts former green is blue and thin\n\n##\n\n_Jubilate_\n\n##\n\nKnowing what it bore\n\n##\n\nLalage's coming\n\n_Lament_\n\n_Last Chrysanthemum,_ The\n\n_Last Love-Word_\n\n_Last Signal, The_\n\n_Last Words to a Dumb Friend_\n\n_Leaving, A_\n\n_Life and Death at Sunrise_\n\n_Logs on the Hearth_\n\n_Lonely Days_\n\nLonely her fate was\n\nLooking forward to the spring\n\n_Lying Awake_\n\n##\n\n_Mad Judy_\n\n_Man He Killed, The_\n\n_Marble Tablet, The_\n\n_Market-Girl, The_\n\n_Master and the Leaves, The_\n\n_Midnight on the Great Western_\n\n_Missed Train, The_\n\n_Moon Looks In, The_\n\n\"My bride is not coming, alas!\" says the groom\n\n_\"My Spirit Will Not Haunt the Mound,\"_\n\nMy spirit will not haunt the mound\n\n\"My stick!\" he says, and turns in the lane\n\n##\n\n_Nature's Questioning_\n\n_Near Lanivet 1872_\n\n_Neutral Tones_\n\nNever a careworn wife but shows\n\n_Night in November, A_\n\n_Night of the Dance, The_\n\n_No Buyers_\n\n_Nobody Comes_\n\nNobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb\n\nNow I am dead you sing to me\n\n##\n\n\"O lonely workman, standing there\n\n\"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!\n\n\"O that mastering tune!\" And up in the bed\n\n_Old Furniture_\n\n_On_ afternoons of drowsy calm\n\n_On Sturminster Foot-Bridge_\n\n_On the Death-Bed_\n\n_On_ the _Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth_\n\n_One Ralph Blossom Soliloquizes_\n\n_One We Knew_\n\n_One Who Married Above Him_\n\nOne without looks in to-night\n\nOnly a man harrowing clods\n\n_Orphaned Old Maid,_ The\n\nOutside the Window\n\n_Over the Coffin_\n\n_Oxen, The_\n\n##\n\n_Pedigree, The_\n\nPerhaps, long hence, when I have passed away\n\nPet was never mourned as you\n\n_Photograph, The_\n\n_Poems of 1912-1913,_\n\nPortion of this yew\n\n_Procession of Dead Days,_ A\n\n_Proud Songsters_\n\n##\n\n_Rain on a Grave_\n\nRain on the windows, creaking doors\n\n_Rejected Member's Wife, The_\n\n_Respectable Burgher on \"the Higher Criticism,\" The_\n\nReticulations creep upon the slack stream's face\n\nRetty used to shake her head\n\n_Retty's Phases_\n\n_Rome: At the Pyramid of Cestius Near the Graves of Shelley and Keats_\n\n_Rose-Ann_\n\n_Ruined Maid, The_\n\n##\n\n_Satires of Circumstance in Fifteen Glimpses_\n\n_Schreckhom, The_\n\n\"See, here's the workbox, little wife\n\n_Self-Unseeing, The_\n\nSeven buxom women abreast, and arm in arm\n\n_Shadow on the Stone, The_\n\n_\"She Charged Me,\"_\n\nShe charged me with having said this and that\n\n_She Hears the Storm_\n\nShe looked like a bird from a cloud\n\nShe looks from the window: still it pours down direly\n\nShe, _to Him II,_\n\nShe told how they used to form for the country dances\u2014\n\nShe turned in the high pew, until her sight\n\nSheep _Fair,_ A\n\n_Shortening Days at the Homestead_\n\n_Shut Out That Moon_\n\nSilently I footed by an uphill road\n\nSince Reverend Doctors now declare\n\nSing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune\n\n\"Sixpence a week,\" says the girl to her lover\n\n_Snow in the Suburbs_\n\nSo zestfully canst thou sing?\n\n_\"Something Tapped,\"_\n\nSomething tapped on the pane of my room\n\n_Souls of the Slain, The_\n\n_Sundial on a Wet Day, The_\n\nSweet cyder is a great thing\n\n##\n\n_Ten Years Since_\n\nThat day when oats were reaped, and wheat was ripe, and barley ripening\n\nThat night your great guns, unawares\n\nThe bars are thick with drops that show\n\nThe cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn\n\nThe day arrives of the autumn fair\n\nThe fire advances along the log\n\nThe first fire since the summer is lit, and is smoking into the room\n\nThe flame crept up the portrait line by line\n\nThe hills uncap their tops\n\nThe kettle descants in a cosy drone\n\nThe moving sun-shapes on the spray\n\nThe singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place\n\nThe sparrow dips in his wheel-rut bath\n\nThe sun from the west glares back\n\nThe ten hours' light is abating\n\nThe thick lids of Night closed upon me\n\nThe thrushes sing as the sun is going\n\nThe trees are afraid to put forth buds\n\nThe two executioners stalk along over the knolls\n\n\"The very last time I ever was here,\" he said\n\nThe wind blew words along the skies\n\nThe years have gathered grayly\n\nThere are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand\n\nThere it stands, though alas, what a little of her\n\nThere was a stunted handpost just on the crest\n\nThere was a time in former years\u2014\n\nThere you are in the dark\n\nThere's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped\n\nThese flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd\n\nThese market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn\n\nThey crush together\u2014a rustling heap of flesh\u2014\n\nThey sing their dearest songs\u2014\n\nThey sit and smoke on the esplanade\n\nThey stand confronting, the coffin between\n\nThey throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest\n\nThirty-two years since, up against the sun\n\nThis after-sunset is a sight for seeing\n\nThis is the weather the cuckoo likes\n\nThis the last; the very, very last!\n\n_Thought in Two Moods, A_\n\nThroughout the field I find no grain\n\n_Throwing a Tree_\n\n_Timing Her_\n\n'Tis ten years since\n\n\" 'Tis youthink? Back from your week's work, Steve?\"\n\n_To an Unborn Pauper Child_\n\n_To Carrey Clavel_\n\n_To Lizbie Browne_\n\n_To My Father's Violin_\n\n_To the Moon_\n\n_Trampwoman's Tragedy, A_\n\n_Transformations_\n\nTree-leaves labour up and down\n\n_Two-Years' Idyll, A_\n\n##\n\n_Upbraiding,_ An\n\n##\n\n_Voice, The_\n\n_Voices from Things Growing in a Churchyard_\n\n##\n\n_Waiting Both_\n\n_Walk,_ The\n\nWe are budding, Master, budding\n\nWe never sang together\n\n_\"We Sat at the Window,\"_\n\nWe sat at the window looking out\n\nWe shall see her no more\n\nWe stood by a pond that winter day\n\nWe waited for the sun\n\n_Weathers_\n\n_Wessex Heights_\n\n\"What have you looked at, Moon\n\n_When_ Dead\n\nWhen I am in hell or some such place\n\nWhen I look forth at dawning, pool\n\nWhen moiling seems at cease\n\n_When Oats Were Reaped_\n\nWhen the hamlet hailed a birth\n\nWhen the inmate stirs, the birds retire discreetly\n\nWhen the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay\n\nWhere once we danced, where once we sang\n\n_Where They Lived_\n\n_\"Who's in the Next Room?\"_\n\n\"Who's in the next room?\u2014who?\n\nWho, then, was Cestius\n\nWhy did you give no hint that night\n\nWhy didn't you say you was promised, Rose-Ann?\n\nWhy should this flower delay so long\n\n_Wife Waits, A_\n\nWilliam Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough\n\nWill's at the dance in the Club-room below\n\n_\"Wind Blew Words, The,\"_\n\n_Winter in Durnover Field_\n\nWintertime nighs\n\nWithin a churchyard, on a recent grave\n\n_Without Ceremony_\n\n_Wives in the Sere_\n\nWoman much missed, how you call to me, call to me\n\nWorkbox, The\n\n\"Would it had been the man of our wish!\"\n\n##\n\nYes; such it was\n\nYou did not walk with me\n\nYou may have seen, in road or street\n\nYou, Morningtide Star, now are steady-eyed, over the east\n\n\"You see those mothers squabbling there?\"\n\nYou turn your back, you turn your back\n\n_Your Last Drive_\n\n##\n\n_Zermatt: To the Matterhorn_\nFOR THE BEST IN PAPERBACKS, LOOK FOR THE\n\nIn every corner of the world, on every subject under the sun, Penguin represents quality and variety\u2014the very best in publishing today.\n\nFor complete information about books available from Penguin\u2014including Puffins, Penguin Classics, and Arkana\u2014and how to order them, write to us at the appropriate address below. 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{"meta": {"title": "Impossible to Please - Neil J"}, "text": " \n\"Cavaiola and Lavender have done it again! They have given us another perfect combination of psychological science and real-life applications to provide a highly readable guide to living and working with people who drive us crazy. Alive with examples and suggestions, this book is not only perfect for counselors and therapists, but also for anyone who deals with controlling perfectionists at home or on the job.\"\n\n\u2014Richard Ponton, PhD, associate professor at Georgian Court University in Lakewood, New Jersey\n\n\" _Impossible to Please_ is a candid, informative, and thought-provoking study of the controlling perfectionist. Lavender and Cavaiola illuminate our understanding of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder while providing suggested actions for dealing effectively with these individuals at home, at work, and in the community.\"\n\n\u2014Suzanne D. Mudge, PhD, associate professor and program coordinator of counseling and guidance at Texas A&M University\n\n\"After being in managerial and leadership positions for over 40 years, I wish I could say that I never had to deal with a perfectionist personality. Unfortunately, that is not the case. I have had experiences with toxic coworkers and, to say the least, they were indeed troublesome. Drs. Lavender and Cavaiola's first book, _Toxic Coworkers_ , was of great help during these trying times. Like their other books, _Impossible to Please_ is filled with wisdom and insights into this challenging area. I strongly recommend this most practical and applicable book.\"\n\n\u2014Louis A. Scheidt, PE, PP, president and CEO of Innovative Engineering, Inc.\n\nPublisher's Note\n\n_This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering psychological, financial, legal, or other professional services. If expert assistance or counseling is needed, the services of a competent professional should be sought._\n\nDistributed in Canada by Raincoast Books\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2012 by Neil J. Lavender & Alan Cavaiola\n\nNew Harbinger Publications, Inc.\n\n5674 Shattuck Avenue\n\nOakland, CA 94609\n\nwww.newharbinger.com\n\nAll Rights Reserved\n\nAcquired by Jess O'Brien; Cover design by Amy Shoup; Edited by Will DeRooy; Text design by Michele Kermes\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nLavender, Neil J.\n\nImpossible to please : how to deal with perfectionist coworkers, controlling spouses, and other incredibly critical people / Neil J. Lavender and Alan Cavaiola.\n\np. cm.\n\nIncludes bibliographical references.\n\nISBN 978-1-60882-348-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-60882-349-9 (pdf e-book) -- ISBN 978-1-60882-350-5 (epub)\n\n1. Criticism, Personal. 2. Perfectionism (Personality trait) 3. Interpersonal conflict. 4. Interpersonal relations. I. Cavaiola, Alan A. II. Title.\n\nBF637.C74L38 2012\n\n158.2--dc23\n\n2012021943\n\n# Contents\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nIntroduction\n\nPart I:Understanding Controlling Perfectionists\n\nChapter 1: Controlling Perfectionism Explained\n\nChapter 2: The Controlling Perfectionist as Romantic Partner, as Parent, and in the Workplace\n\nChapter 3: How the Controlling Perfectionist Has Affected You\n\nPart II: Practical Strategies\n\nChapter 4: Recognizing What You Can and Can't Do\n\nChapter 5: Setting Limits and Boundaries\n\nChapter 6: Establishing Better Communication\n\nChapter 7: Handling Controlling Perfectionists in Romantic Relationships, Family Life, and Friendships\n\nChapter 8: Handling Controlling Perfectionists in the Workplace\n\nChapter 9: Seeking Qualified Professional Help\n\nReferences\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nFirst, we acknowledge and give thanks to our families for putting up with us while we wrote this book. You've always given us the space and encouragement we need to take on such tasks as research and writing.\n\nWe also thank our patients and our students. You're by far some of the finest people we've ever met. We applaud your courage and motivation and your hunger for the truth and personal growth. You've achieved so much while overcoming so many obstacles. We're so fortunate to be working in the field that we love, and you're such a big part of this. You challenge us every day to know and do more. Hopefully, in our teaching and therapy, we've been able to challenge you to overcome difficult hurdles in your lives, thereby enriching your lives in some way.\n\nOur thanks wouldn't be complete without acknowledging the plentiful support we received from all the staff at New Harbinger. This is our third book with you, and you've never failed in your professionalism and guidance. Special thanks to acquisitions editor Jess O'Brien. Thanks also to editorial manager Jess Beebe and associate editor Nicola Skidmore for taking us through this process step by step. Dr. Matt McKay and Angela Autry Gorden, whose recommendations helped shape the direction of this book: we couldn't have done this without your wisdom and expertise. To Will DeRooy of Intelligent Editing, a special shout out for the final edits\u2014your suggestions were right on the mark.\n\n# Introduction\n\nYou picked up this book most likely because you're struggling in a relationship in which you feel the other person perceives you as not good enough. Perhaps this person is your spouse, or perhaps it's your parent, a coworker, or your boss. In any event, this person seems to habitually criticize you. What you do never seems good enough for this person\u2014in everything you undertake, you constantly fall short of some perfect standard. If you're like most of the people with this problem we've encountered over the years, you experience numerous and often conflicting emotions in this relationship. You might feel sad or angry or even inadequate. Most likely you feel confused. You may have tried all you can to make this person happy, only to fail again and again.\n\n_Marianne was a grade school teacher who for eleven years received excellent evaluations from all of her supervisors. She got along well with her fellow teachers and staff and was twice voted teacher of the year. Parents often approached Marianne after the school year was over, thanking her personally for their students' progress._\n\n_But when Marianne's principal was replaced by a woman who promised \"a more hands-on approach,\" it seemed that Marianne could do nothing right. Although she followed the new principal's every recommendation, she received a poor performance evaluation, and when she tried to defend herself and provide explanations in response, the principal only dug her heels in deeper and accused her of insubordination. Letters and e-mails flew back and forth until one day the principal presented Marianne with a notice of termination containing many rather vague reasons, the most puzzling of which was \"a poor attitude.\"_\n\n_Marianne was stunned._ How could this have happened? _she thought._ I did everything right. I'm a great teacher. How is it I could never be good enough for her?\n\n_Francine met Marco while she was still in high school. She always told her girlfriends, \"I fell in love with him because he's the best at everything.\" He was a straight \"A\" student, the star of his basketball team, and the president of the student council. He was well mannered, hard working, and respectful of all in authority._\n\n_But soon after Francine and Marco were married, he became emotionally distant, more involved with his work than he was with her and, eventually, the children. Whenever she became romantic, he claimed she was being childish. When she asked him to contribute to the household expenses, he'd reply that he couldn't because she'd just \"spend it frivolously.\" But worst of all, he subjected her to a barrage of constant criticism: he didn't like her friends, her family get-togethers (\"They're all just a sideshow of scatterbrained chatter\"), her laugh, her lovemaking, her housekeeping, her grammar. He even criticized her for the way she put the magazines in the magazine rack, claiming that the covers should be all be facing out and that she should know that was \"the only way magazines should ever be put away.\" He lectured her constantly on how she needed to make changes in her life._\n\n_Finally, at the end of her rope, and crying herself to sleep every night in abject loneliness, Francine began to consider consulting with a divorce attorney._\n\nPerhaps the saddest example of a person with this problem is a child who's never good enough in a parent's eyes. At least adults can escape a situation in which they feel that they're never good enough, but children can't. Such a child may bring home a score of 95 on an essay and be criticized for not getting 100. The child who helps her parents for two hours may be criticized for not helping for three hours. The child who scores a touchdown may be criticized for not winning the game. Second place is never good enough. These children's bedrooms can never be clean enough; their friends can never be smart enough or nice enough. Feeling helpless and needing their parents' love and protection, these children are forced into accepting the destructive idea that they're defective in some way.\n\nTime and time again, our clients bring these types of problems to us in the hope that we can help them repair their shattered self-esteem, as well as give them new strategies for dealing with the hypercritical people in their lives. In our early careers, these problems were particularly challenging, because the cognitive behavioral therapy in which we'd been trained didn't seem to help. In other words, the plans we devised with our clients to help them deal with these difficulties seemed excellent and should have worked but for some reason didn't. Our clients were not at fault; these approaches just didn't work when people were dealing with the type of personality we discuss in this book.\n\nAs time went on, we discovered that the very same people who make those around them feel not good enough are, ironically, defective in their capacities for intimacy and normal relationships. Because they're very critical of others, they're next to incapable of having normal relationships. In other words, our clients were dealing with people who appeared to be psychologically healthy but had significant impairment, in the form of a _personality disorder_.\n\n\"Personality disorder\" refers to a unique group of psychological problems in which personality traits create significant and potentially lifelong impediments to normal and healthy relationships, especially close relationships. Complicating matters is the fact that people with a personality disorder are almost always unaware that they have a problem. Amazingly enough, they perceive their inadequacies as strengths, which causes them to rarely seek help of any kind, especially psychotherapy, making it unlikely that they'll ever receive the treatment they require. They blame others for their relationship problems and go on to repeat their mistakes, the dramatic irony being that it's their wounded victims who go for help.\n\nThis book represents our third journey into the subject of personality disorders. In our first book, _Toxic Coworkers_ (2000), we offered methods of dealing with people with personality disorders in the workplace. In _The One-Way Relationship Workbook_ (2011), we focused specifically on narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) and its variants. Through these efforts, we were able to help thousands of people around the world navigate these stormiest of relationships.\n\nNow we focus on hypercritical people like Marianne's principal and Francine's husband\u2014people with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (OCPD), whom we call _controlling perfectionists_. Such impaired individuals are all too common in our culture. While narcissists suck the very life out of those around them by using them, by exploiting them, or by forcing them to be an audience for their seemingly never-ending tales of conquest and brilliance, controlling perfectionists wear those around them down little by little by niggling, carping, and criticizing almost everything they do and making them feel that they're never good enough.\n\nOddly enough, these people appear to be the very embodiment of contradiction: They may be highly energetic and productive or, conversely, obstructionistic and procrastinating. They may be masters of organization and prioritization or slaves of minutiae and the irrelevant. They may appear overconfident, while at the same time their insides churn with doubt and self-deprecations. For that reason they're intriguing and often enigmatic. But almost always, in close relationships, they're cold, distant, controlling, and critical.\n\nThe more positive qualities they possess can be highly rewarded in a culture like ours that honors and rewards those who are highly productive, well organized and punctual, tidy and moral, savers rather than spenders; those who sweat even the smallest of details and who will stay up all night to make sure a project is done correctly and handed in on time. But what brings controlling perfectionists success may bring suffering to those around them. Demanding adherence to strict standards may be part of a winning strategy when coaching a basketball team, for example, but it is hardly a formula for a good marriage. And while self-criticism might drive controlling perfectionists to perform better, if they aim the same fanatical criticism at their children it may do some serious damage and contribute to the formation of emotional problems in their children. In fact, parental criticism and an invalidating environment seem to be implicated as a causal factor in many people with personality disorders (e.g., Linehan 1993).\n\nWorse yet, you can't convince controlling perfectionists they have a problem: Tell them they're too fussy and they'll say that you're too lax; tell them they're too demanding and they'll say that you're not demanding enough. And if you tell them they're too critical, they'll simply say that they're doing you a favor by correcting you so that you won't make the same mistake again. And then they'll criticize you again for not thanking them.\n\nAs you read this book you may be surprised or even shocked to find out some facts about controlling perfectionists\u2014and ways to handle them\u2014that seem to contradict common sense. You'll begin to see their perfectionistic and controlling nature for the dysfunction it really is: a quality within the criticizer, not the person being criticized. Believe it or not, your relationship with a controlling perfectionist will improve once you stop trying so hard to please this person. You'll feel more confident and more empowered. You can then reduce this person's negative impact on your life and your self-esteem by setting limits and boundaries and establishing better communication.\n\n## Outline of the Book\n\nIn part I, you'll learn to recognize the various signs of controlling perfectionism and understand the symptoms. Chapter 1 covers the particular qualities of controlling perfectionists, as well as the different subtypes. In chapter 2, we discuss controlling perfectionists in romantic, parental, and work relationships and the unique problems they present in these different settings. In chapter 3, we delineate the ways in which controlling perfectionists can get under your skin and affect you in ways that other people don't.\n\nIn part II of the book, we focus on practical strategies, because you'll find it helpful to treat a controlling perfectionist differently than you do others. In chapter 4, you'll learn the aspects of your situation that are relatively unchangeable and distinguish them from the things that you can change, thereby making your efforts more fruitful. In chapter 5, the discussion turns to how to set realistic boundaries so as to limit the detrimental effect a controlling perfectionist can have on you. Chapter 6 focuses on how to communicate more effectively and guide your interactions with a controlling perfectionist. In chapter 7, we focus specifically on effective strategies to use in friendships, in family life, and in romantic relationships, while we devote chapter 8 to the quite different topic of controlling perfectionists in the workplace. The book closes with a chapter on how to seek professional help for both yourself and the controlling perfectionist in your life, should that become necessary.\n\nMost likely, you'll find that the entire book contains information that can be helpful whether you live with, work with, or have a friendship or other relationship with a controlling perfectionist, but you'll want to focus on the information, descriptions, and strategies that specifically pertain to your situation. So, for example, if you're dating a controlling perfectionist, you'll benefit by reading the entire book, but you should concentrate on areas describing controlling perfectionists in romantic relationships. After you've read the book, you may find it an excellent resource to consult frequently as you continue to transform your relationship.\nPart I\n\nUnderstanding Controlling Perfectionists\nChapter 1\n\n# Controlling Perfectionism Explained\n\nThere's a saying that perfectionists are never happy, because things are rarely, if ever, perfect. Even so, many people still constantly seek perfection. This book is not about _all_ perfectionists, however; it's about the kind who not only drive themselves toward unrealistic goals but also drive others toward those goals: the control freaks, micromanagers, demanding (or even abusive) partners, helicopter parents, and workaholics. If you have such a person for a teacher, a supervisor, a romantic partner, a family member, or a coworker, you may often have a nagging feeling that you're never good enough. A controlling perfectionist is someone like Brad or Ava.\n\n_Brad was in his fourth year of medical school when he met Susan, a nurse on the surgical unit at the medical center where he was doing one of his clinical rotations. For Susan it was love at first sight, and they began dating. Brad graduated at the top of his class in medical school and went on to specialize in neurosurgery._\n\n_As their relationship developed, Brad became more and more critical of Susan. He made derogatory comments about her friends and even her family. Although Susan encouraged Brad to seek therapy when his critical nature began to affect their relationship, their ability to have friends, their ability to share interests together, and his ability to work with others, he refused: he had disdain for the field of mental health care and saw seeking psychological help as admitting to weakness._\n\n_Brad's criticism of Susan became so bad that she decided to separate four years into their relationship._\n\n_Ava is considered one of the up-and-coming executives in the corporation where she has been working for the past three years. The team she manages is considered one of the best; however, the senior vice president to whom Ava reports has expressed concern because of the high turnover rate in Ava's department. Although Ava has concluded that those who end up leaving the department do so to take better jobs with better pay, ask anyone who knows Ava and they'll tell you the real story. Ava is a control freak\u2014a micromanager\u2014and eventually people on her team end up feeling worthless and denigrated. What's interesting is that Ava views herself as a very moral person who puts in a lot of hours and expects the same from her employees. Although her friends accuse her of being a workaholic, Ava feels proud that she has a position of power that pays well. Ava does admit that she wishes she were in a romantic relationship, but she rationalizes that she just doesn't have time to date right now._\n\n## Definition\n\nInterestingly, most Americans tend to consider someone who strives to be perfect or someone who aspires to be orderly and organized in very positive terms. We all can see traits in both Brad and Ava that are indeed admirable. They both are at the top of their game, work hard, and set high standards for themselves but drive others around them to work hard also. What's wrong with that, right? If you were to speak with Brad and Ava, they'd probably tell you that they're proud of what they've accomplished, yet they'd probably also tell you that they must keep up the pace and level of productivity. They're certainly proud of their organizational abilities, their orderliness, and their devotion to work. They drive themselves hard, so is there anything wrong with expecting nothing less from those around them?\n\nIn order to answer this question, we have to look beyond the positive trait to the extreme to which it's taken. For example, you'd probably agree that self-esteem or self-confidence is a healthy personality trait; however, if we exaggerate this trait to a point where a person becomes grandiose, egocentric, or narcissistic, then we're dealing with something entirely different. So too with perfectionism and control. It's one thing to direct your own life, but quite another to try to control everyone around you or demand that everyone march to your tune. This is where controlling perfectionists step over the line.\n\nExercise: Identifying the Controlling Perfectionist\n\nHow do you spot a controlling perfectionist? The following list describes traits that controlling perfectionists commonly possess. Many of these relate to specific kinds of controlling perfectionists, which we'll discuss shortly. Thus most controlling perfectionists have some but not all of these characteristics. Think of the hypercritical person in your life and place a check mark next to the traits that you perceive this person has.\n\nChances are you checked four or more items, which indicates that you're probably dealing with a controlling perfectionist. Not all controlling perfectionists are alike, however. Below we discuss some common configurations of perfectionistic and controlling traits.\n\n## Variations and Subtypes of Controlling Perfectionists\n\nTheodore Millon has written extensively on various types of personality disorders and describes the controlling perfectionist as the \"compulsive personality\" or the \"obsessive-compulsive personality.\" In this book we use the term \"controlling perfectionist\" to avoid any confusion with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), which is quite different from obsessive-compulsive _personality_ disorder (OCPD). Whereas OCD is characterized by obsessive thoughts of some imagined danger or by compulsively engaging in rituals, such as handwashing, counting, or checking to make sure the door is locked or the stove is turned off, OCPD relates to a need to control others and is characterized by such personality traits as rigidity, stubbornness, and a need to have everything your way or to prove others wrong.\n\nMillon and colleagues (2004) have outlined five subtypes of the compulsive personality.\n\nThe Conscientious Compulsive\n\nConscientious compulsives compensate for feelings of inadequacy and anxiety about their performance by rigidly adhering to the rules or desires of those in authority or power or to the rules of society. Usually described as hardworking and thorough, they're very tightly controlled people who lack spontaneity and creativity; they depend on routine, structure, rules, and regulations. They make good followers but rarely become leaders. However, when they do rise to management-level positions, their controlling tendencies become very evident. Conscientious compulsives tend to make others miserable by expecting them to be just as nitpicky. If you don't adhere to their standards, they'll become hypercritical. Negative or derogatory comments, looks of disapproval, and judgmental glances are means by which conscientious compulsives control the behavior of those around them.\n\nBecause conscientious compulsives are considerate and cooperative, especially toward those in authority, they expect to be treated the same way (whether in work or love relationships). Any perceived lack of reciprocal consideration or cooperation is likely to cause the conscientious compulsive to feel angry, abandoned, or self-deprecating. If you checked off items 2, 11, and 12 in the exercise above, chances are you're dealing with a conscientious compulsive.\n\nThe Puritanical Compulsive\n\nPuritanical compulsives defend against their own urges to rebel or defy authority by adopting a moral righteousness and a rigid adherence to what they consider the dictates of moral behavior. A fa\u00e7ade of propriety or moralistic superiority masks ambivalence and resentment toward rules and authority regarding what constitutes acceptable behavior. Not surprisingly, puritanical compulsives are often attracted to religious fundamentalism, in which very strict dictates for behavior help them repress or sublimate their urges. However, puritanical compulsives can be found in just about any corporation, government agency, or societal institution, where they're often admired for the strength of their convictions yet those who truly come to know them see them as abrasive, irritating, and prudish. Puritanical compulsives are very judgmental and may view others as lazy, shiftless, or morally inferior. If you checked off items 5, 6, and 11 in the exercise above, chances are you're dealing with a puritanical compulsive.\n\nThe Bureaucratic Compulsive\n\nBureaucratic compulsives overly identify with their role or job. They ally themselves with the organization, corporation, or institution for which they work so much that they seem to _become_ that organization, corporation, or institution (for example, law enforcement; an educational institution, such as a university; the military; or a government agency, such as the IRS). They rigidly adhere to their employer's policies, regulations, and rules, and they expect others to do exactly the same. They often cause misery by micromanaging the lives of people around them. It's not unusual for bureaucratic compulsives to lose sight of the mission or goal\u2014the big picture\u2014because they get lost in the minutiae of policies and procedures. Bureaucratic compulsives may be very ingratiating and conciliatory toward their superiors yet quite vitriolic and demeaning toward their subordinates. If you checked off items 2, 4, 6, 7, and 9, chances are you're dealing with a bureaucratic compulsive.\n\nThe Parsimonious Compulsive\n\nParsimonious compulsives are motivated to protect what's theirs at all costs. They're most noted for their stingy, miserly, and selfish attitude. When it comes to giving of their time, money, or possessions, they can always make some excuse not to. They may be self-sufficient to a fault and viciously guard against anyone who may deprive them of their resources or possessions, acting as if these things are irreplaceable. If you checked off items 8 and 10, chances are you're dealing with a parsimonious compulsive.\n\nThe Bedeviled Compulsive\n\nBedeviled compulsives struggle with a need to oppose and sabotage, which they counter with a tendency toward inaction. By vacillating and dragging their feet when it comes to making decisions\u2014behind a fa\u00e7ade of self-control\u2014they come to be seen as negativistic procrastinators who keep others from getting things done or accomplished. While they make a show of wanting to conform to others' wishes and agenda, they may give endless rationales for why they delay in making decisions or completing projects. To others, they may appear to be tightly wrapped and highly disciplined; therefore, they tend to see themselves as superior. Bedeviled compulsives can be very rigid, moralistic, and judgmental. If you checked off items 1 and 3, chances are you're dealing with a bedeviled compulsive.\n\nEbenezer Scrooge\n\nWhen Charles Dickens wrote the novella _A Christmas Carol_ in 1843, little did he know that he'd be creating, in the character of Ebenezer Scrooge, the modern literary archetype of the obsessive compulsive personality disorder. Prior to his epiphany on Christmas Eve, Scrooge, the meticulous accountant, is a shining example of a controlling perfectionist. In addition to his hallmark miserliness, we also see evidence of rigid adherence to rules (when he chides Bob Cratchit for watching the clock or for having the audacity to want Christmas Day off to spend with his family). He also has difficulty expressing any warmth toward his family\u2014his nephew and his nephew's fianc\u00e9e. He abusively criticizes his colleagues and shows little sympathy for others, especially the poor. Is it easy to identify which subtype of controlling perfectionist Scrooge is?\n\nOther Subtypes\n\nThere are other controlling perfectionists you may come across in your daily life who are deserving of mention.\n\nThe power elite. Have you ever noticed how some extremely wealthy people feel that they've been anointed with the task of passing judgment on what's right and proper? They become extremely rigid in their perspective of what's moral or ethical, with little concern for those less fortunate. Naturally, wealth alone doesn't cause someone to become a controlling perfectionist. Although this subtype usually comes from the upper class of society, having been born with the proverbial silver spoon in their mouths and educated at elite prep schools and Ivy League universities, what sets them apart is their judgmental nature and need to control others. They tend to treat everyone as their subordinates, like servants to be controlled and bossed around.\n\nReligious zealots. It's important not to confuse this subtype with truly religious and spiritual people. This subtype is characterized by people so rigid in their religious beliefs that they seem to lose compassion for others. Instead they're judgmental and manifest disdain or disgust for anyone who doesn't share their rigid moralistic views. Therefore the need to control others and to browbeat them into their way of thinking becomes paramount to their character. Instead of a \"live and let live\" philosophy, they adopt an opposite style: either you share their beliefs or you're judged and condemned. Although this subtype shares many commonalities with the puritanical compulsive described above, these are people who go well beyond the puritanical subtype in their wish to persecute and punish. Think of this subtype as the puritanical compulsive on steroids. If a puritanical compulsive is a very vocal judge, a religious zealot is judge, jury, and executioner. Religious zealots are capable of taking drastic action in support of their views.\n\nProfessionally bound controlling perfectionists. It should be no surprise that controlling perfectionists are attracted to particular occupations in which they can exert control over others. Although similar to the bureaucratic compulsive, the main distinction is that bureaucratic compulsives ally themselves with a corporation or institution, whereas professionally bound controlling perfectionists ally themselves with their profession and the power they derive from that profession. It appears that as they develop their professional identities they become more rigid and controlling. We're not saying that all accountants, attorneys, doctors, administrators, and techies are controlling perfectionists; however, it's not unusual to find perfectionists overrepresented in occupations in which precision, adherence to rules or regulations, and attention to detail are essential. We all want our doctors to be thorough and to pay attention to details, right? We don't want surgeons to leave sponges in people they operate on. Yet it's when these traits carry over to their personal lives or their relationships with family and friends (as well as their patients) that problems develop. We talk more about this subtype in chapter 8.\n\nBy now you should have a sense of just how pervasive controlling perfectionists (or \"compulsive personalities\") are in our society and how disruptive they can be in the workplace, in romantic relationships, in families, and in other settings. What's so unique to people with this type of personality disorder is how normal or acceptable their behavior can seem to others\u2014normal, that is, until you go beneath the surface. After all, our society values hard work, dedication to job and family, living by the rules, and being considerate and cooperative. Yet when personal traits related to these values go to extremes, they risk causing dysfunction both interpersonally and occupationally. Because no two controlling perfectionists are alike, it's important to consider the middle ground that exists between normal and disordered behavior.\n\n## Causes\n\nAlthough genetic or hereditary theories seem to abound for many psychiatric disorders, this is certainly not the case when it comes to controlling perfectionism. Most theorists look at parenting style as being the culprit when it comes to setting the stage for this type of personality disorder. However, we'll also consider anxiety, irrational beliefs, and environment.\n\nParenting Style\n\nTheodore Millon and Roger Davis (1996) conclude that parental overcontrol is the main reason people develop OCPD. Parental overcontrol differs quite a bit from parental overprotection in that overprotection is usually born of gentle and loving parental concern. Parental overcontrol also differs from parental hostility. Hostile parents punish their children in vitriolic fashion, often without reason or to vent their frustrations or feelings of failure. Overcontrol arises when parents see their role as one of keeping the child in line. The overcontrolling parent is firm and repressive and often holds high standards for the child's behavior in every respect, from grades to table manners. If the child fails to live up to these expectations, punishment is likely to follow. Parental overcontrol is characterized by restrictive child-rearing in which punishment is used to set boundaries, with very little praise or positive reinforcement for good behavior (Millon and Davis 1996).\n\nImpact in Childhood\n\nChildren of overcontrolling parents learn early on to avoid punishment by staying within the boundaries of what's considered acceptable behavior. Because they're punished for wrong behaviors but not praised for right ones, they often learn better what _not_ to do. From the perspective of Erik Erikson's (1950) psychosocial theory of development, these children may be more likely to have difficulty with tasks that involve exercising autonomy, initiative, and industry, because they're usually more concerned with behaviors to be avoided. Experience teaches children of overcontrolling parents that in order to please Daddy and Mommy they must do everything right or perfectly\u2014they can't make mistakes, and they must maintain self-control.\n\n_Frank grew up in a very strict family. His father, a retired Marine colonel, was referred to as \"the Great Santini,\" because just like Robert Duvall as the hard-nosed Marine officer \"Bull\" Meecham in the movie_ The Great Santini, _he treated his wife and children in much the same way that he'd treat new recruits. No one in Frank's family ever stepped out of line or did anything that was considered disrespectful to either parent. When Frank was a senior in high school, his father grounded him for two months and wouldn't let him attend his own prom because he got a \"B\" in gym class._\n\nImpact in Adulthood\n\nAs these children mature, what they take from their childhood experience is that it's important to follow the rules, to obey authority, and to keep their behavior in check, otherwise they end up feeling shame, guilt, and tremendous self-doubt.\n\nThus when these children grow up, they feel a need to keep their behavior under control at all costs. And just as their parents were controlling of them, now they feel they must be controlling of others as well. (This is sometimes referred to as \"identifying with the aggressor.\") So, they become exactly like their overcontrolling parents. Indeed, most critical adults we've worked with in our private practices have a critical parent with whom they've identified, whether consciously or subconsciously.\n\n_Alicia grew up in a very strict household where she and her brother were taught to be neat, organized, and clean. They weren't allowed to go out after school to play but instead had to help clean the house and help prepare dinner before their parents came home from work. On Saturdays, when other kids were out playing or going to Little League games, Alicia and her brother would have to help do the laundry and vacuuming. Alicia took many of these traits of fastidiousness and cleanliness into her adolescent and adult years._\n\nRemember Brad and Ava from the beginning of the chapter? Brad's parents\u2014a dentist and a school principal\u2014had been loving but very strict and orderly in his upbringing. And although Ava's parents are proud of her, they don't express it. Instead they expect the same level of achievement from Ava that they did when she was in high school and college: If she got a \"B\" it was considered a failure on her part and they told her to work harder. She didn't have much of a social life in high school or college outside of her membership in honor societies and her involvement in student government. She prided herself on being a geek, though, and figured it would all pay off once she got into a top MBA program.\n\nAnxiety\n\nAnother way to think about controlling perfectionism is as a way to alleviate deep-seated anxiety. People who feel inferior or are filled with self-doubt about their credibility or adequacy, such as controlling perfectionists, may respond to these insecurities by trying to control others, thereby allaying or modulating these anxious feelings.\n\nIrrational Beliefs\n\nAlbert Ellis, the founder of a school of psychotherapy called rational emotive therapy, had an interesting theory of how people become controlling perfectionists. Ellis (1979) hypothesized that much of people's psychological or emotional distress is caused by their adherence to certain irrational beliefs. An example of an irrational belief that controlling perfectionists commonly subscribe to is the idea that \"one should be thoroughly competent, adequate and achieving in all possible respects if one is to consider oneself worthwhile\" (Ellis 1979, p. 63). Ellis concluded that to pursue this illusory goal of perfection resulted in a self-definition that was entirely dependent on external or extrinsic achievements rather than intrinsic value or self-worth. He cautioned that perfectionism leads to fear of taking risks and making mistakes, which often sabotages the very achievement that the perfectionist strives for. Ellis felt that the antidote to this type of irrational thinking is to \"do\" rather than to always have to \"do well,\" or, if you're trying to \"do well,\" that you do so for your own sake and not to please others or to compete with them.\n\nAnother example of an irrational belief (Ellis and Harper 1984) that we feel influences the controlling perfectionist is \"It's awful when people don't behave or do as we want them to.\" This irrational belief speaks to the need to control others. The more rational approach is to accept that people have free will and therefore will do what they want; therefore, it's irrational to expect or demand that others do what you want them to, just because you say so. Finally, Ellis (1979) describes another irrational belief that we feel very much underlies the controlling perfectionist: \"the idea that certain people are bad, wicked or villainous and that they should be severely blamed and punished for their villainy\" (65). This belief naturally speaks to the moralistic, highly dogmatic controlling perfectionist, the \"puritanical compulsive\" described earlier.\n\nEnvironment\n\nFinally, it's possible that controlling perfectionism may arise as a result of situational or environmental factors other than parenting. This explanation presents itself most often in cases of professionally bound controlling perfectionists. There are certain occupations in which order, control, perfection, and rigid adherence to rules, policies, and procedures are the gold standard for professional behavior. For example, police work involves making certain that the general public adheres to laws and that order and control are maintained. Similarly, a classroom teacher must be able to maintain control over a room full of students. Yet we often see that people in the aforementioned professions have difficulty separating out their professional and personal lives, to the point where they begin to impose the same sort of strict, rigid standards in their personal relationships as in their work. Such is the case with the cop who treats everyone like a suspected criminal or the teacher who treats everyone like a third-grader. We've also seen this phenomenon occur with clergy, military personnel, and people who work in various highly technical occupations that demand adherence to a strict set of rules or policies, like engineering and physical sciences. We discuss this in more detail in subsequent chapters that look at controlling perfectionists in the workplace.\n\nUnderstanding what causes controlling perfectionists to behave the way they do may be small consolation if you have to deal with one on a daily basis. However, knowing something about the cause of the behavior will come in handy when we discuss strategies for dealing with the controlling perfectionist in your life.\n\nIn this chapter we outlined some general characteristics of controlling perfectionists. In the next chapter, we present a detailed picture of what the controlling perfectionist may look like in three different areas of daily life. Thus whether this person is your romantic partner, your parent, or someone in your workplace, you'll learn to recognize the many specific behaviors that relate to the problem of a hypercritical nature.\nChapter 2\n\n# The Controlling Perfectionist as Romantic Partner, as Parent, and in the Workplace\n\nOur society values and rewards people who are well organized, who are willing to work hard, and who devote themselves to moral excellence. Therefore, you're bound to encounter perfectionists in many walks of life. Your doctor, mechanic, dentist, teacher, or financial advisor may be a perfectionist. Perfectionism can lead to success in many careers. But this perfectionism can be toxic to other people, especially those who must interact with a controlling perfectionist day in and day out. The constant friction created in these types of relationships can wear down even the most courageous and well-adjusted person; Albert Bernstein (2001) includes such overbearing and demanding people in his discussion of \"emotional vampires\" who drain and exhaust others.\n\nThis chapter deals with controlling perfectionists in the three settings in which they can do the greatest harm. You can choose to read only about the setting that most pertains to you currently, but we recommend you read the entire chapter to get a more complete picture of the perfectionist in your life. We may describe traits in one area that also play a role in other areas.\n\n## As Romantic Partner\n\nIn the beginning of their courtship, most people would consider a perfectionistic partner a very good catch indeed.\n\nExplaining the Perfectionist's Attractiveness\n\nHere are some reasons you may be attracted to the perfectionist (we'll alternate between male and female pronouns, but most of these apply to either): He's neatly if not meticulously dressed. Her outfits are perfectly coordinated and accessorized. It's clear that he puts a lot of time and money into making himself look good. Her makeup and nails are flawless. He's very well mannered. She's polite. He seems respectful of others. She's articulate and well spoken. He appears to be in control of himself and his emotions all the time. (This is a particularly attractive quality to people who have been in abusive or volatile relationships.) She's responsible. He doesn't smoke. She doesn't drink or do drugs. He's tidy. She's confident. He's reliable. She's self-sufficient. He seems reasonably successful. She's conscientious. He has a good work ethic. She has a good job. He's a saver, not a spender.\n\nAppearance\n\nPerfectionists take great pride in their personal appearance. They may work out on a regular basis, rising at the break of dawn to run or go to the gym so that they never put on weight. They may have standing appointments for things like manicures and haircuts. If they're going for the executive look, their clothes are carefully starched and pressed; if they're going for a more laid-back look, their clothing has the perfect amount of simulated wear, their shoes just the right amount of scuff. Perfectionists are nothing if not fastidious in their grooming, dress, and personal hygiene. They tend to be very conventional, however. Rarely will perfectionists take a chance on something that goes against fashion or tradition; instead they stick with the tried and true.\n\nMoral Behavior\n\nPerfectionists always seem to have their act together as far as behaving in ways that are proper, dutiful, and admirable. For example, he regularly visits his great-aunt in the nursing home; she takes her little sister to choir practice every Friday night and goes to church every Sunday. They're always talking about doing \"the right thing\" and constantly putting down people who do the wrong things (for example: \"Can you believe Harrison? The guy never waxes his new car. What's the point of even having one?\"). To someone who's looking to marry, a perfectionist would never be unfaithful\u2014heaven forbid! He'd be an attentive husband or she'd be a doting wife. And, what a wonderful father or mother the perfectionist would make: teaching the children important moral values, making sure they're brought up the right way; ensuring they get a proper education; working hard to support the family, formulating budgets and goals.\n\nDependability\n\nImportantly, the perfectionist is perceived as highly capable. If you're somewhat directionless in life and have some issues, this is a person who will certainly take over and guide you and get you on the straight and narrow path. In fact, all perfectionists tend to bring out often hidden dependency needs in the people they attract. A person with strong dependency needs might think along the following lines:\n\n  * _Here's someone I can lean on for support._\n  * _He's a conscientious and hard worker who will manage our money very well._\n  * _She's competent and confident and will lead me through life's uncertainties._\n  * _He's an excellent judge who will take the weight of making decisions off my shoulders._\n\nControlling perfectionists tend to bring out many qualities in people that these people may be unaware of. We address these issues more fully in later chapters.\n\nMissing Pieces\n\nFor a couple of reasons, people who come from dysfunctional or abusive homes might become attracted to controlling individuals, and vice versa. If you grew up in a damaging home environment, healthy self-love is something that you probably never saw displayed, so you never learned it. Therefore, when confronted with a controlling perfectionist who appears to have things under control or who appears to be very disciplined, the tendency is to see that person as having traits that you may feel you are lacking\u2014what you need to make you feel like a whole person worthy of love. This was described brilliantly by Harville Hendrix in the book _Getting the Love You Want_ (1988). Hendrix proposes that people generally tend to look to romantic partners to make up for their missing pieces, those parts of themselves that were lost or damaged during childhood. We have also seen this dynamic at play in other types of relationships people choose, such as work relationships or friendships. Hendrix asserts that it's no accident that people are attracted to certain other types of people. If you're lacking in self-discipline, work ethic, goal orientation, or organization and reliability, you might find yourself in the clutches of a controlling perfectionist, having been attracted to these exact same qualities.\n\nConversely, controlling perfectionists are often quite skilled at picking people whom they can dominate or control. We've also seen instances in which controlling perfectionists are attracted to people who have close, intimate relationships with friends or family and are able to have fun with others. Controlling perfectionists may admire the ability to be intimate and to have fun in relationships and hope to achieve these same things, then become resentful when they find themselves unable.\n\nColdness toward You\n\nAs the romantic relationship progresses, the perfectionist's reserved nature, which was once attractive, becomes disquieting and problematic. The self-control or self-restraint the perfectionist showed early on now seems to be actually some sort of emotional detachment. Like a Vulcan from _Star Trek_ , the perfectionist may be ruled by logic and not seem to understand others' emotional needs. Here are some common complaints:\n\n  * \"He rarely spontaneously expresses affection.\"\n  * \"Before having sex, she'll make sure that she's squeaky clean, has applied just the right amount of perfume, and has arranged the bed sheets to perfection; yet her lovemaking seems mechanical, unimaginative, and lacking in passion. She rarely shows signs of arousal.\"\n  * \"He refuses to say 'I love you,' often defending himself with such verbiage as 'I wouldn't be here if I didn't love you. You know I love you\u2014why do I have to say it?'\"\n  * \"She seems distant.\"\n  * \"He seems to brood a good deal of the time, and although he can be clever and even humorous at times, he never seems genuinely happy.\"\n  * \"She gets stuck in the same routines and doesn't seem to have time for romance or lovemaking.\"\n  * \"Our conversations are mundane and 'same-old same- old.'\"\n\nCriticism\n\nIf your partner is a perfectionist, as the relationship continues to develop, the two of you may seem to disagree about almost everything. Even when it comes to simple chores like washing dishes or vacuuming, the perfectionist always knows and can demonstrate which way is best and explain why the way _you_ do it is poor in comparison. Complicating the matter is the fact that because they have always striven for perfection, perfectionists _are_ masters of efficiency and effectiveness at many tasks. Obviously, anyone who spends a good deal of time and effort getting things perfect will, in fact, do things better than someone who nevertheless gets the job done.\n\nBut what's good for one person doesn't always work for others. While a perfectionist may, for example, want to clean the house first thing in the morning, someone who's less of a morning person might want to wait until the evening. Furthermore, priorities are notoriously personal. For example, a husband might feel that spending time with the children is more important than cleaning the kitchen, but his perfectionistic and controlling wife may insist that what the children really need is a parent who models correct behavior and that he's setting a poor example by playing a \"frivolous\" game with them.\n\nOver time, the perfectionist's insistence that things be done \"just so\" worsens. The perfectionist becomes openly critical, nitpicky, and fussy. If your partner is a perfectionist, you may be subjected to the following types of comments:\n\n  * \"Do you have to cut your meat into such little pieces?\"\n  * \"Why don't you put the magazines back in the rack right after you read them?\"\n  * \"Must you brake so hard? You're wearing them out!\"\n  * \"Must you chew your food so loudly?\"\n  * \"You spent money on _what_? Again?\"\n\nIn these situations, efforts to defend yourself are useless. For the perfectionist, for everything there's a right way and a wrong way: issue closed, no room for debate or discussion. \"You shouldn't brake like that.\" \"Normal people don't cut their meat into tiny, tiny pieces! That's just weird.\"\n\nThe person who once seemed wonderfully sensible and responsible reveals a dark side to these traits: he or she is stingy, prudish, and pedantic. \"Why'd you buy such an expensive pair of sneakers? What's the matter with the $20 pair?\" \"Do we really need to spend $15 on a bottle of wine to bring to the party? Didn't you just meet these people?\" The perfectionist may criticize your makeup, your clothing, or your pronunciation or grammar. Your car may be too messy; your phone conversations may be too long. You may be criticized for spending too much time with your friends or family, for watching the wrong sort of movies, or for reading the wrong sort of books. Soon, nothing you do seems good enough. And anything done for the sheer joy of leisure or recreation is seen as just a waste of time. \"Why don't you do something productive?\" the perfectionist may ask. \"Why don't you get up earlier?\" \"Why don't you go back to school?\" \"Why don't you take a second job?\" It may seem next to impossible for the perfectionist to give up this rigorous attitude and just enjoy life for a little while. Even your vacations with the perfectionist have to be well planned to make the best use of time. And if things don't go as planned due to weather or disagreement, in the perfectionist's mind the vacation is ruined.\n\nIn fights and arguments, the perfectionist will often criticize your reactions as \"way too emotional\" or devoid of any type of logic or common sense. You constantly seem to be defending yourself, but the more you do, the more entangled you become. Worse yet, and infuriatingly, the perfectionist drowns you in corrections that can derail you from addressing the main problem. You say you get out of work at five o'clock, and the perfectionist corrects you by saying actually you get out at ten minutes to five. You say you haven't made love in two weeks, and the perfectionist corrects you by saying technically it's been thirteen days. You claim you left a note on the bulletin board in the late morning, and the perfectionist says no, it was in the early afternoon. And the incessant arguing drives you farther and farther away from each other; all the while your partner denies having done anything wrong and insists that _you're_ the one who has to change.\n\nFear of Intimacy\n\nA growing number of clinicians and researchers (e.g., Millon and Davis 1996) believe that perfectionism and criticism are actually psychological defense mechanisms for keeping people at a distance. If you think about it, it's very difficult to get close to somebody who's always criticizing you.\n\nCould it be that the controlling perfectionist in your life is actually trying to drive you away, to create a relationship that isn't \"too close\"? Believe it or not, a fear of intimacy isn't rare among the general population, and it seems to be ubiquitous among perfectionists. Sure, they enjoy sex at times, and they may enjoy spending time with their partners and children, as long as it involves something that they like, things are not too intimate, and things are done their way.\n\nIntimacy requires that you lose yourself to some degree in order to join with another person. For perfectionists, the conditions necessary for intimacy may feel like an unacceptable loss of control or a frightening loss of their own identity. This is another reason many perfectionists are workaholics: it keeps them out of intimate contact with others. Unless these fears are dealt with in some way, a perfectionist stands little chance of ever getting truly close to anyone. We discuss some strategies to manage this fear later in the book (chapter 7).\n\n## As Parent\n\nOf all the kinds of relationships in which one person feels never good enough, none is so insidious as the parent-child dyad. Young children are in so many ways dependent upon their parents, and their day-to-day exposure to their parents' dysfunctions runs a high risk of being life transforming.\n\nOutward Focus\n\nHere's a portrait of a household run by perfectionistic and controlling parents: The parents are community organizers who volunteer to coach and lead Girl Scouts; they almost never miss a parent-teacher conference. These parents teach their children discipline, orderliness, and good moral values. The whole family is well-groomed; the children are famously polite and well-behaved, as well as good students. The lawn is neatly mowed; the house is freshly painted. Everything is in its place. The family car perfectly fits the family configuration.\n\n\"What's wrong with that?\" you may ask. But a closer look reveals a dysfunctional family pattern. Everything is designed to create an appearance of perfection. The parents may be hell-bent on making their children fit into ideal molds. The parents may hold the children to high standards but give them only criticisms and corrections, not warm encouragement. There may be emphasis on accomplishments, setting goals, and completing chores, but no recognition of a fragile and emerging inner emotional life or a need for age-appropriate social interactions.\n\nFurthermore, such parents' need for control and their insistence on having others do things their way undoubtedly impair their children's quest\u2014so important during adolescence\u2014to establish their own identity. While these parents' desire to keep their children safe and to see them succeed may be admirable, the boundaries and limitations these parents set for their children are uncompromising and inflexible and usually don't account for their children's wishes, talents, or values. Such parents as these may minimize or disapprove of any of a child's gifts and strengths that aren't in line with their goals and vision for the child. Their children are often torn between what they _want_ to do and what they _should_ do (in an effort to please their parents). Of all the things perfectionistic and controlling parents may do, this is perhaps the worst: not letting their children choose their own direction in life. (Of course, we're talking here about older children and not three-year-olds!)\n\nMissing the Good\n\nIf there's one thing perfectionistic and controlling parents are good at, it's negative evaluation. They often focus on small imperfections in both themselves and others while ignoring the good parts. If something is 99 percent good, they may agonize over the other 1 percent.\n\nThis habit of dwelling on the bad while ignoring the good actually seems to be rooted in the deeper, more automatic areas of the perfectionist's _perceptual processes_ \u2014the way the brain organizes incoming information from the senses. We've found, for example, that a perfectionist's attention is involuntarily drawn to focus on things that are wrong, no matter how small. Walking into a room, a perfectionist will almost immediately notice the wrinkle in the throw rug or the one piece of wallpaper that's somewhat crooked. When meeting someone new, a perfectionist will immediately catalog imperfections in that person's appearance: a crooked tooth, an unbuttoned button, or perhaps a missed day of shaving.\n\nSadly, perfectionistic and controlling parents miss out on the enjoyment of the vast majority of good things about their children.\n\nConditional Love\n\nChildren of critical parents tend to be critical themselves and may grow up to be perfectionistic and controlling parents also. Yet something we also commonly see with children of critical parents is that, recognizing that they can be very critical themselves and disliking their own parents' criticisms, all they do is tell their children how wonderful they are. \"Nice job, Joey\u2014way to throw that pass.\" \"I love your new dress, Allison. Did you pick it out yourself? You're just a _phenomenal_ dresser.\" While these kinds of comments are okay once in a while, the problem with this approach when taken too often is that it sends a message to the children that their actions are always being evaluated. Joey and Allison may feel as if parental approval is contingent on their doing well in their parents' eyes\u2014in other words, that their parents' love is conditional. Rather than feel loved simply for who they are, they may grow up feeling as if everything they do is being evaluated, as if they're always under a microscope\u2014and that if they can be evaluated positively, they can also be evaluated negatively. For instance, if Joey throws a pass and his mother says nothing, he may take that as a negative evaluation.\n\n## In the Workplace\n\nAs destructive as perfectionistic behavior can be, there's a good deal of reverence for perfectionism in our workaday world. People who are highly organized, neat, respectful, detail oriented, conscientious, and timely are highly valued and often rise to leadership positions. They may be seen as model employees.\n\nOverfocus on Details\n\nFor all of perfectionists' positive traits, they have many pernicious qualities that often make problems for both them and others. Probably the worst is their ability to get lost in details. They may make long and detailed lists and spend countless hours in organization. Often, this trait can make them lose sight of their main goal. One perfectionistic printer, for example, agonized for hours over what typeface he wanted to use in a brochure, leading him to miss the deadline he had agreed to with his client. One perfectionistic salesman would go into the office half an hour early every day to straighten up and make numerous to-do lists for the day. He'd always try to accomplish much more than time allowed, but he'd insist on following every step of his lists. Although his reports were always neatly written and delivered in a timely manner, he wouldn't get around to making sales calls until the late afternoon and was hence the worst salesman in his division.\n\nNeedless to say, it can be absolutely agonizing to have to sit through a speech or a set of instructions from a perfectionist. When perfectionists give you driving directions, for example, they may go down endless rabbit trails. Not only is it torture to have to listen to these types of instructions, it's next to impossible to glean the main points of the speech. In a corporate setting, this creates a good deal of confusion and inefficiency. One perfectionistic salesman's internal e-mails were never read, because they were too lengthy. \"We see an e-mail from Jim, and we just hit delete,\" one coworker quipped.\n\nPerfectionists are unusually adept at focusing on what's wrong while ignoring all that's right, a process they engage in with both themselves and others. While correcting employees' oversights and errors may have its place as a management strategy, it makes many perfectionistic and controlling managers \"one-trick ponies.\" Such managers may neglect the use of many other managerial strategies that can be more effectual, such as encouragement, rewards, teambuilding, and effective use of employees' strengths. Constantly pointing out employees' mistakes may make them angry and resentful and appears to breed a corporate culture of negativity.\n\nConformity and Resistance to Change\n\nNewly hired perfectionists are very quick to adapt to the corporate or workplace culture, adopting the dress and jargon. Perfectionists tend to be conformists; in many ways they don't like \"rocking the boat.\" Once they've learned the ropes and polished their performance, they like to stick to their routines. Generally they're not very innovative. In fact, most are likely to resist change even when it would be productive. Change is threatening if it requires perfectionists to do new tasks at which they may not perform to their own consistently high standards.\n\nSometimes, perfectionists will resist such changes subtly, perhaps passive-aggressively. They may try to sabotage the new implementations by calling in sick on days for which key meetings are scheduled or procrastinating when required to turn in their share of the new project.\n\nIssues with Time Management\n\nProcrastination may be a form of passive-aggressive resistance, but it's also often the result of a desire to get things perfect. As you might imagine, when you pay attention to each and every detail and insist on excellence in all areas, any project can present an incredible demand on your energies and resources. Thus, a big or new undertaking may paralyze a perfectionist with fear. The perfectionist may worry over details, unable to move forward effectively in this task, until the last possible moments.\n\nThis procrastination seems to contradict another characteristic of many perfectionists: an obsession with punctuality. An expectation of timeliness and adherence to schedules is reasonable, but a perfectionist will use others' tardiness or disregard for time as a basis for causing them grief.\n\n_The English faculty at a university had to share a meeting room with the math faculty. The math faculty had the room from 2:00 to 3:00, while the English faculty had it from 3:00 to 4:00. If the math faculty's meeting wasn't finished by 3:00, the English faculty coordinator would storm in anyway, insisting that his fellow English faculty members take seats. In spite of the math faculty coordinator's protests, the English faculty coordinator would simply start his meeting. This eventually led to both faculty coordinators being disciplined._\n\nIt may be small surprise to you that the English faculty coordinator was someone who insisted that his professors be in the classroom five minutes early and not teach one minute past the allotted time. Faculty members who adhered to this policy were the ones he recommended for promotion, regardless of their teaching skills.\n\nInflexibility and Overwork\n\nYet another problem that we see in organizational settings is perfectionists' insistence that things be done their way. This stubbornness can create a myriad of problems, not least of which is not allowing others to contribute helpful ideas. And if perfectionists aren't willing to let someone do a job possibly less well than they themselves could, they'll end up doing pretty much everything on their own. One perfectionistic and controlling union leader insisted on taking over the ordering of food for meetings, believing she could order much better fare than the secretary whose job it was. To everyone else, the secretary had done a more than adequate job with the food\u2014no one had complained\u2014and ordering food only increased the union leader's level of stress. But she just couldn't stand to see someone do what she perceived to be a lousy job. When one of her friends suggested that she just let the secretary do it, she replied: \"If we're lax in one area, we'll be lax in all areas. I don't do second best.\"\n\nThe Toll on the Perfectionist\n\nThe constant need for perfection, the tendency to obsess over details, and the desire to do everything because others can't do as good a job as they can create a good deal of stress in perfectionists' lives. Consequently, they're prone to stress-related disorders: headaches, gastrointestinal problems, and muscular problems, such as chronic backaches and jaw problems commonly known as TMJ. Many of these afflictions force perfectionists to miss days of work, which only serves to exacerbate their stress. And while many corporations offer their employees stress-reduction programs or mental health benefits, there are none to our knowledge that actually address the underlying problem of perfectionism.\n\nAlthough controlling perfectionists can be found in all walks of life, the ones who present the greatest challenges are the ones we love and the ones we work with. Despite their good qualities and even their best intentions, they pose many obstacles to healthy functioning in these types of relationships. Before you can formulate strategies for dealing with the perfectionist in your life, though, you'll need to consider all the ways in which the central message that you're not good enough has affected you. In the next chapter we help you explore the extent of the damage.\nChapter 3\n\n# How the Controlling Perfectionist Has Affected You\n\nIn this chapter we help you examine your reactions to the controlling perfectionist in your life. How do you respond internally\u2014emotionally and mentally\u2014to the criticism, and how do you behave as a result? Being able to accurately identify your difficulties with the controlling perfectionist by examining how this person affects you is the beginning of being able to discover real solutions and ways that you can more effectively manage your relationship.\n\nTo begin, do any of the following statements seem familiar?\n\n  * \"Jill is such a pain in the neck to work with on a project. It's like she's always competing with me and everyone on the team. She acts like a know-it-all.\"\n  * \"It's like Steve is always looking over my shoulder, waiting for me to make a mistake so he can criticize me or put me down.\"\n  * \"Sandra is so picky. She won't get off my back if I'm even a few minutes late for a lunch date. It's like she can't let go of it...like I've committed some major crime!\"\n  * \"When I'm with Henry, like say we're out at a party, I feel like he's my keeper\u2014always on guard about who I'm talking to or what I'm doing. I can't relax and have a good time.\"\n  * \"At the swim club we belong to, everyone calls Louis 'the Pool Nazi.' He won't let any guests on the premises for even a second if not accompanied by a member, and if one of the kids is a minute late for swim team practice, he makes sure they don't compete in the next meet. Who put _him_ in charge of everything?\"\n  * \"Trisha is so into neatness and order that no sooner have the kids taken a toy out to play with, she's putting it away and straightening up. She won't give the kids or me a break.\"\n\nThese are just a few examples of the types of statements made by people who deal with a controlling perfectionist on a daily basis. The following stories describe how the influence of a controlling perfectionist can have drastic consequences on the entire future of a family.\n\n_Joan was proud of her reputation as the toughest district attorney in the state. She had made a name for herself as someone who wouldn't plea-bargain a case just to avoid the expense of a trial\u2014she made sure the \"bad guys\" got what they deserved. However, she also had a reputation among her colleagues as a rigid, moralistic shrew who loved to do things that got her name in the newspapers no matter whom it hurt._\n\n_In one of her well-known cases Joan had prosecuted Tara, a single mother of two young children whose boyfriend was a cocaine user. When the boyfriend was busted for dealing, Joan also went after Tara. She wanted to make an example of Tara and try to obtain the maximum sentence for cocaine possession and distribution. This meant that Tara, who had no prior record, was facing a minimum of ten to fifteen years in prison. Because Tara had no relatives willing to look after her children, they were taken into the custody of child protective services. Tara was denied pre-trial intervention and also was denied the option of going into a drug treatment program in which she could be eventually reunited with her children, who ended up in foster homes._\n\n_When Tara was sentenced, it made all the newspapers. Joan commented in an interview that she believed that the best interests of society had been served in this case and that the children of her state should not be exposed to drug-abusing parents. Yet attorneys familiar with the case thought that Joan was grandstanding in order to gain publicity and that the punishment definitely did not fit the crime._\n\nJoan is the epitome of a professionally bound controlling perfectionist. Her career and her self-identity are essentially one and the same. She prides herself on her high standards when it comes to morality and ethics, which was evident in her approach to Tara's case. The fact that Joan refused to be dissuaded by the human aspects of the case reveals her rigidity and her hard-heartedness\u2014her seeming inability to show any pity or kindness. Joan also lacks insight into her own behavior\u2014a common shortcoming of controlling perfectionists\u2014as evidenced in her inability to see how she was grandstanding, which was clear to her colleagues. Tara paid a high price indeed for Joan's inflexibility and righteousness.\n\n_When she and Tom became engaged, Julie was thrilled and couldn't wait to tell her friends and family. She had been dating Tom for three years, and although they had talked about marriage, it had always seemed like just a dream. Julie's parents were thrilled that Tom and Julie had decided to tie the knot. Julie's mother was especially excited, and she looked forward to planning the wedding with Julie._\n\n_Julie and her mother discussed an outdoor wedding with an informal reception. Plans were going great until Tom's mother, Hilda, got into the act. Hilda didn't want to hear anything about a wedding that wouldn't be held in a church. She also felt strongly that only a formal reception was in keeping with her standards. When her efforts at control didn't seem to work, Hilda was infuriated, and she directed her anger at Julie, who began to feel so frustrated that she and Tom considered simply eloping. At one point, Hilda pretty much said that unless she had a say in the wedding plans, she wouldn't attend the ceremony. Tom's parents were divorced, and, given how contentious their divorce had been, Tom's father didn't want to try to be a voice of reason or negotiate a compromise with his ex-wife. What he'd learned over the years was that you'd save yourself a lot of grief if you just gave Hilda her way._\n\n_Exasperated by Hilda's stubborn behavior, Tom and Julie decided to get married by the mayor in a small civil ceremony and then went out with a few friends and even fewer family members afterward. Julie and Hilda didn't speak to one another for years._\n\nWe've all heard of debacles like this, and it's hard not to feel bad for couples like Tom and Julie who were initially so happy to share their wedding day with their friends and family. Hilda's rigidity and her sense of the moral thing to do (have a proper church wedding) far surpassed the notion that this was supposed to be Tom and Julie's day, not hers. Hilda's my-way-or-the-highway approach showed her lack of compassion for her son and future daughter-in-law. Hilda also had in her mind a perfect wedding and was unwilling to consider anything that didn't conform to this perspective. It might not surprise you to learn that Hilda's constant efforts to browbeat others into submission had contributed to the demise of her marriage to Tom's father.\n\nElizabeth Packard\n\nOn May 21, 1839, Elizabeth Parsons Ware married the Reverend Theophilus Packard Jr., a strict Calvinist minister, in Massachusetts. Although they had six children and moved around, finally settling in Illinois, for many years their life together was fairly quiet\u2014until Elizabeth began to express opinions that differed from her husband's on matters of religion and slavery. Theophilus couldn't tolerate her dissenting views. Under Illinois state law, it was possible for a husband to have his wife committed to a mental hospital against her will without a public hearing. So with the help of a Dr. J. W. Brown, who posed as a sewing-machine salesman in order to conduct his surreptitious evaluation of Elizabeth's mental stability, on June 18, 1860, the minister had his wife taken into custody and confined in a state mental hospital for the next three years. Once she was finally able to petition for a jury trial, it took the jury only seven minutes to decide that she had been unjustly confined and should be freed immediately.\n\n## Can You See What It's Doing to You?\n\nSeveral years ago, Al-Anon (the international support group for spouses, partners, and family members of alcoholics) created a TV advertisement that would usually air at around two or three in the morning, a time when the viewer might be waiting for an alcoholic to come home from the bars. The ad began with a couple arguing, presumably after the man had come home intoxicated. The woman is screaming at the man and is totally exasperated. At the end of the ad, the voice-over calmly says: \"You can see what drinking is doing to them. Can you see what it's doing to you?\" The same question applies to those living with, working with, or otherwise interacting with controlling perfectionists. You can very well see what controlling perfectionism is doing to the people who have to deal with Jill, Steve, Sandra, Henry, Louis, and Trisha (from the beginning of the chapter) and what it did to Tara, Tom, Julie, and Elizabeth Packard, but when _you're_ dealing with a controlling perfectionist, whether it be in a love relationship, in a work relationship, or as a friend or family member, the impact tends to be much larger than you're aware of.\n\nCertainly you have some inkling of the effect of the controlling perfectionist on you; otherwise you wouldn't be reading this book. But what so often becomes clear with the clients we counsel is just how pervasive and devastating the influence of the controlling perfectionist is on their feelings and thinking. Our clients often report that they feel as if they've been brainwashed by this person, sometimes over the course of years, and their counseling becomes a way of \"deprogramming\" them. What they also tell us is that they find themselves acting differently around the controlling perfectionist, almost as if they develop an alter ego. They find that they're not being themselves or allowing their natural personality to come out. Controlling perfectionists are often contentious and seem to thrive on conflict. That's often part of a need to engage in one-upmanship so that they can prove their worth or prove that they're smarter than or superior to others. What friends, family, and coworkers find is that it really becomes tedious to interact with a controlling perfectionist because they find themselves always on guard. In other words, controlling perfectionists are just difficult to be around. To get some perspective on this, imagine talking with a friend or coworker whose company you enjoy: you talk about your weekend, talk about a movie you saw recently, and share a joke. The conversation feels light and easy, doesn't it? Now contrast this with your interactions with the controlling perfectionist, in which you may feel as if you're being cross-examined for a crime you didn't commit. You weigh every word; you stutter or stammer. These conversations are anything but light and easy.\n\n## Your Feelings\n\nAlthough it's important to keep in mind that no one can _make_ you feel a certain way, let's explore some of the emotions that the controlling perfectionist may trigger and how this may affect the way you feel about yourself.\n\nExercise: How Have My Feelings Been Affected?\n\nCheck any of the following statements with which you agree concerning the controlling perfectionist in your life.\n\n  * ___________ I often feel inferior.\n  * ___________ I often feel demeaned by things this person says about me or by his or her put-downs.\n  * ___________ I often feel criticized in front of others.\n  * ___________ I always end up feeling like I'm wrong, even when I know I'm right.\n  * ___________ I often find myself agreeing or giving in, just to avoid an argument.\n  * ___________ I sometimes find myself feeling trapped in the relationship, like I can't be my own person or have my own opinions.\n  * ___________ I feel like I'm being micromanaged.\n  * ___________ I feel like I don't have much control over my own life whenever I'm in contact with this person.\n  * ___________ I constantly feel like I'm being judged.\n  * ___________ I feel like I don't have much control over my own social life because this person is critical of my friends or family, so we socialize only with people this person wants to socialize with.\n  * ___________ I feel that this person is always lecturing me about something I've done wrong, or how I should act, or what I should and shouldn't say. I feel like a little child being scolded.\n  * ___________ I feel dismissed, like I'm not allowed to have my own opinions, and when I do express an opinion I'm criticized for not thinking the same way this person does.\n  * ___________ I feel angry or even enraged when this person criticizes me or points out something I've done wrong or a mistake I've made.\n\nTake a look at the items you've checked. If you checked four or more, the controlling perfectionist is likely having a profound impact on how you feel about yourself. Even people who've grown up in loving homes, with loving parents and siblings; even very bright, talented people may find themselves feeling inferior, demeaned, or worthless in the eyes of a controlling perfectionist.\n\n## Your Thinking\n\nHow you feel about yourself as a result of interactions with the controlling perfectionist in your life may have an impact on your self-perception and your overall self-esteem. For example, if you find yourself feeling inferior when the controlling perfectionist treats you in a demeaning way or speaks to you in a derogatory tone, over time you may come to think of yourself as inferior. These changes in thinking are often subtle at first; however, they tend to become more pervasive over time. Sadly, you may eventually come to see yourself as the controlling perfectionist does: not smart enough, not talented enough, or not loving enough. This is what our clients mean when they allude to brainwashing. Subjected to harsh judgment and constant criticism, people may be led to believe they have no gifts or talents\u2014nothing to offer.\n\n_Dina was so excited when she was accepted into her first-choice graduate school. She knew how prestigious the graduate program was, and she was even more excited when she was chosen to be a graduate assistant for Dr. Davis. Dr. Davis was someone Dina had admired from the first time she heard her speak at a national conference._\n\n_Working for Dr. Davis, however, was more than Dina had bargained for. No matter how much work Dina did, no matter how hard she tried, Dr. Davis was extremely critical and demeaning of Dina and the work she did. Dina knew that Dr. Davis was a tough professor with very high standards, but what she didn't know was that Dr. Davis totally lacked compassion._\n\n_Dina began to think that maybe she wasn't up to the standards of the graduate program and perhaps the admissions office had made a mistake by allowing her into the program and giving her an assistantship with the notable Dr. Davis. Dina's work began to slip and her grades began to drop. By Thanksgiving, Dina was convinced that she was unworthy of being in graduate school. She began to think of herself as a screw-up who was academically unprepared to do graduate-level work._\n\nDina's situation is not atypical and exists not only in academic settings, but also in many work situations. If Dr. Davis fits the profile of the controlling perfectionist, Dina could have done Nobel Prize\u2013worthy research and Dr. Davis still would have found fault with it. That's what controlling perfectionists do. There's a difference between a coach or teacher who challenges you to be the best you can be, or someone who encourages you to work to your potential, and someone who holds unrealistically high standards, such as Dr. Davis. It's no wonder that Dina came to doubt herself and her abilities.\n\nExercise: How Has My Thinking Been Affected?\n\nCheck any of the following thoughts you often have in your relationship with the controlling perfectionist in your life:\n\n  * ___________ _I must be inferior or stupid._\n  * ___________ _I'm being humiliated on purpose._\n  * ___________ _I can never change the situation._\n  * ___________ _No matter what I do, I can never compete with this person._\n  * ___________ _The relationship never goes my way because of my own defects._\n  * ___________ _No matter what I do, I'll never be able to change the relationship._\n  * ___________ _I'm stupid for staying in the relationship and for not getting out sooner._\n  * ___________ _This person is gifted or talented and I must support him or her._\n  * ___________ _Even though I feel demeaned by this person, I still feel attracted to him or her or want his or her approval._\n  * ___________ _Being around this person will somehow benefit me._\n\nLook over the items you've checked. Can you see instances in which the controlling perfectionist has shaped the way you think about yourself? Have you reached certain conclusions about yourself or come to see yourself differently as a result of influence by the controlling perfectionist?\n\n## Your Behavior\n\nControlling perfectionists have a unique talent for imposing their expectations on others, and what's amazing is that most people will take on these expectations or try to adhere to them even if the standard or expectation seems to go against their nature. Although changes in behavior are subtle at first, most people report that when dealing with a controlling perfectionist, they often make concessions or say and do things that they wouldn't ordinarily.\n\nThere are some people who will do anything to keep the peace, whether at work or at home. A \"good daughter\" will find herself striving to meet her perfectionistic father's expectation that she get into the best college; a \"good son\" will date only someone his perfectionistic mother approves of. It might seem wise for someone who works for a controlling perfectionist to try to live up to the boss's expectations in order to curry favor or to win promotions or raises. Yet of course these people all end up feeling that whatever they say, whatever they do, it's just not good enough in the eyes of the controlling perfectionist.\n\n_Valerie always managed to be the chair of committees_ of the _parent-teacher organization in her kid's school. It wasn't so much that other parents declined to volunteer for these committees but rather that they got to a point where it was easier to let Valerie chair the committees and do the work._\n\n_Last spring, some of the parents wanted to put on a fund-raising event to sponsor a special musical program that was touring the area. Many of the parents thought that this would be a good way of exposing the children to classical music without the expense of taking them to a concert hall in a nearby city. Valerie hastily rejected the proposal, claiming that no child would want to go to such a concert\u2014her children didn't like classical music._\n\n_Many parents ended up resigning from Valerie's committee. Others concluded that if things weren't done exactly to Valerie's specifications she'd throw a hissy fit and eventually they'd get to the point where it just wasn't worth fighting for their opinion or views to be heard._\n\nPeople like Valerie are particularly hard to deal with. When people volunteer to participate on a committee or to become the chairperson of a committee, they don't expect to be constantly doing battle to get their opinions heard. Yet people like Valerie have a knack for taking charge, and somehow it seems they're always right and everyone else is wrong. A common response in this situation is to sooner or later give in or give up.\n\nExercise: How Has My Behavior Been Affected?\n\nAsk yourself whether you've done the following things in your relationship with the controlling perfectionist in your life. Check all that apply.\n\n  * ___________ Refused to participate in situations in which I might have had contact with this person\n  * ___________ Declined invitations to parties or social events to which I knew this person would be invited\n  * ___________ Held back on giving my own opinion in order to avoid a conflict\n  * ___________ Baited this person into arguments or purposely defended a position I didn't hold, just to get a reaction\n  * ___________ Agreed with this person even when my opinion differed, in order to avoid a fight or argument\n  * ___________ Gave in to this person's demands rather than saying no, but then ended up kicking myself\n  * ___________ Tried to make everything perfect or exactly how this person wanted it, in order to please or gain favor\n  * ___________ Sought out the company of others instead of this person so I could be more relaxed or just be myself\n\nControlling perfectionists often affect how people feel about themselves, think, and behave. And, we're sorry to say, controlling perfectionists are probably not going to fundamentally change how they treat others, including you (deep inside, you may have already known that). But here's the good news: you can change how _you_ think and behave, and that's precisely what we cover in part II of this book.\nPart II\n\nPractical Strategies\nChapter 4\n\n# Recognizing What You Can and Can't Do\n\nTo review: For controlling perfectionists, conscientiousness, following the rules, and maintaining high standards are of utmost importance. Because of their tendency to think in terms of right versus wrong, black and white, all or none, controlling perfectionists often feel justified in imposing their will on others, believing that their way of doing things is the one true correct way. It may appear at first glance that controlling perfectionists try to exert control just for the sake of having power over others, and sometimes that's certainly the case. However, there are other times when controlling perfectionists exert control in order to allay their own anxieties: they fear that if others don't adhere to their way of doing things, then chaos will surely follow.\n\nTrue controlling perfectionists are extremely good at inducing others to submit to their way of doing things by making them feel inferior. Whether through open criticism or more subtle or passive-aggressive expressions of displeasure (a disapproving glance, a certain tone of voice), they constantly call attention to others' perceived faults and failings. Under this kind of scrutiny, most people will try to do better in the controlling perfectionist's eyes. However, those who have to deal with a controlling perfectionist on a day-to-day basis are bound to feel that they're never good enough or that no matter what they do, they can't satisfy or please this person. They end up exasperated by the negativity, the many demands, and the merciless expectation of perfection in every area.\n\nGiven that you're reading this book, you're probably one of these unfortunate people. So, what can you do about it? The first thing you should do is stop trying to change another person, even if that person's behavior is the problem.\n\n## You Can't Change a Controlling Perfectionist\n\nIf you're like most people in this situation, in all probability you've made yourself bone-weary in attempts to change the controlling perfectionist in your life. At first you probably asked this person nicely to stop criticizing you. You defended yourself logically, yet the controlling perfectionist kept on. Most likely, you then raised the ante, telling this person that many of his or her behaviors were very disturbing to you and that he or she needed to make significant changes in appreciation and consideration of you. Perhaps this had the desired result\u2014for a while. Maybe at first you were forgiving when the controlling perfectionist returned to his or her ways, but when it happened again and again you began to get angry and\u2014as time went on\u2014even bitter. You tried to shut this person out as best as you could, to ignore the criticism and controlling behavior. But that didn't work either. And now, exhausted, you're coming to the realization that despite your massive efforts, the controlling perfectionist can't be changed. It's unfortunate, but many of us have to reach our endpoint before we realize that trying to change someone is a fruitless endeavor. You can't change another person's nature; you can't convince someone to let go of a general need for perfectionism and control. This person will always be a controlling perfectionist. Period.\n\n## You Can Change Your Interpretations\n\nTo reclaim your life, you'll have to change the way the controlling perfectionist affects you. One of the first things you should try to do is expel the idea that to be criticized must always make you feel bad. When someone criticizes you with a remark, you may feel sad, disappointed, embarrassed, frustrated, or angry. You may feel as though you're inferior in some way. But you should be aware of the fact that in spite of the content of the remark, it's really up to you to determine how you'll interpret it. It's your interpretation of the remark, rather than the person making it, or even the remark itself, that affects the way you feel. For example, what if you didn't take it personally? Imagine being criticized and thinking: _I wonder what's wrong with her today? She seems to be in a very negative mood. Perhaps she's having a bad day. Maybe I can cheer her up!_ It's plain that this type of interpretation would lead to more positive feelings. You may not be able to control what the controlling perfectionist says and does, but you're clearly in control of your own feelings. One of the things this book will help you do is interpret the controlling perfectionist's actions in a way that's more accurate than you have in the past. More accurate interpretations will lead to more positive feelings (Beck and Freeman 1990)\n\nContrast the following two stories.\n\n_Fred was a data processor in a payroll company. He was known as a loyal and dutiful employee who was serious about his work._\n\n_Nevertheless, prior to his semiannual performance evaluation, Fred began to worry about the possibility of his receiving a negative evaluation. He began to lose sleep and not eat. On the day of his evaluation, he literally became ill but forced himself to go into work anyway and receive what he knew would be bad news. Although he received an excellent review overall, his supervisor said that he needed improvement in one area: communicating more effectively with his coworkers. In spite of this one low mark, he received the maximum pay raise allowable._\n\n_Nevertheless he was devastated and, in the weeks that followed, he allowed the single negative aspect of his evaluation to eat at him, even to the point that he thought about quitting. Although friends tried to reassure him that everyone got at least one low mark, it was no consolation to him._\n\n_Roy was a union leader in a fragrance manufacturing company. One year during negotiations, his union threatened to go on strike due to the seemingly poor work conditions and lack of pay increases and benefits._\n\n_The events leading up to the strike were very contentious. The union called a sick-out, costing the company thousands of dollars in lost revenue. At times, relations between labor and management teetered on the edge of violence, with both sides shouting at each other and union representatives blocking the paths of those who wanted to break the picket line._\n\n_By some miracle, the two sides finally reached an agreement. As they were signing the final contracts, Roy was called into the back room with the company's president and the governing board. Roy was allowed to bring the union vice president in with him. The president and board members berated Roy for his actions during the disaccord. At times, the attacks became personal: he was insulted and sworn at. Roy remained calm, simply nodding his head. By the time the president and board members had exhausted themselves nearly an hour later, silence filled the room. Roy looked up and asked, \"Can we go now?\" Exasperated by his lack of response to their criticisms, the president and board members simply nodded._\n\n_As Roy and the union VP walked away from the meeting, Roy was quiet. Bewildered, the VP asked, \"How could you have listened to all those foul things they said about you and not get angry?\" Roy explained: \"I know who I am and I know where I come from. Those people know nothing about me.\"_\n\nIf criticism is by nature hurtful, as Fred's story seems to illustrate, why wasn't Roy hurt?\n\nThe answer seems to lie in Roy's _interpretation_ of the criticism. He knew that the criticisms were incorrect because he had solid knowledge of himself and his background. In other words, he had a lifelong historical conception of his own personality and motives. He understood that he knew himself better than anyone.\n\nOn the other hand, not only did Fred believe that his supervisor must know him better than he knew himself, he took the criticism to mean that he was a bad employee or even that he was defective in some way as a human being, none of which was intended. He read into the criticism more than was there.\n\nOne of psychology's greatest contributions is the idea that our beliefs and personal interpretations of events that happen to us affect our feelings and actions. If you believe, for example, that the woman who cut you off while you were driving intended to hurt you in some way, you might become very angry. But if you believe that she was simply in a rush (perhaps she just had to go to the bathroom!), you might find yourself feeling a lot more forgiving. People in identical situations may interpret events very differently.\n\nSo you need to ask yourself, _What do I believe about the controlling perfectionist's criticisms of me?_ Do you believe that this person is an expert in human behavior or perhaps an expert on your motives? Does this person know more about your intentions than you do? Do this person's criticisms mean that you're defective in some way? If this person criticizes your driving, does that make him or her an expert on driving habits? (If so, why isn't this person a design consultant for an automobile manufacturer?)\n\nRemember, you might not be able to control the controlling perfectionist's need to criticize, but you can control what you believe about it and how you respond to it.\n\nExercise: Discovering Your Own Negative Interpretations\n\nIt will be useful for you to clarify some of your own interpretations. Remember, negative interpretations can lead to negative feelings. More accurate interpretations will lead to more positive feelings.\n\nPut check marks next to the items that best reflect your thinking under the given circumstances involving the controlling perfectionist in your life.\n\n  * ___________ When this person becomes critical, I often believe I'm stupid.\n  * ___________ This person's criticisms make me believe that I'm inadequate.\n  * ___________ I believe that I'm inferior to this person in many areas.\n  * ___________ I think that this person's criticisms are almost always valid.\n  * ___________ I believe that this person's approval is critical for me to feel good about myself.\n  * ___________ In the past, I've believed that if I made strong efforts I could change this person.\n  * ___________ I believe that if I stand up to this person, it will most likely make things worse.\n  * ___________ In the past, I've believed that I'm helpless to defend myself when I'm in the presence of this person.\n  * ___________ This person's remarks to me often made me believe that I was defective in some way.\n  * ___________ When I'm being criticized by this person, I often believe that I have to make changes in myself.\n\nThese are all common irrational thoughts and beliefs of people in a relationship with a controlling perfectionist. While we're all prone to making negative and inaccurate interpretations of situations with difficult people, if you checked off four or more statements, this suggests that you may indeed have a tendency to make negative interpretations and often blame yourself for the nature of the controlling perfectionist. Checking off even one means that there are areas in which you could make changes to improve the way you feel.\n\n## You Can Change the Nature of Your Relationship\n\nBy changing your own behavior and personal interpretations and beliefs about the controlling perfectionist, you can actually change the very quality of your relationship.\n\nFor instance, you don't have to go around walking on pins and needles and feeling like you're under a microscope whenever the controlling perfectionist is around. Once you understand that this person's perfectionistic and critical nature are personality flaws and really have nothing to do with you, you'll respond very differently. The recognition that the criticisms really don't have much to do with you gets you out of defensive mode and frees you to respond with more creative and effective measures.\n\nAs an interesting aside, you should take note of a truth about constant criticism: logically, it can't all be valid. Think of how the controlling perfectionist is always critical of you. If the criticisms truly had merit, there would be periods of time, such as when you were doing very well by other people's standards, that this person would stop criticizing you. You've most likely noticed that this has never happened!\n\n## You Can Choose Your Battles\n\nOnce you change your interpretations and understand that controlling perfectionists' criticisms of you have less to do with you and more to do with their personality, you'll find that you're less emotionally reactive to the criticism. From here, you'll be able to be more thoughtful and make better use of your energy by concentrating on areas in which you feel more productive and rewarded. You'll also notice a dramatic decline in the frequency of negative interactions.\n\nFor instance, you might not be able to change\u2014or even influence, for that matter\u2014the fact that your husband constantly complains about how little money you both have, but you certainly might be able to influence the fact that he constantly compares your cooking to his previous wife's. How? Refuse to cook for him.\n\nOne good rule of thumb is to choose to fight battles in which you truly have control. Your coworker, for example, might complain that you talk too loudly, make too many phone calls, keep your desk too messy, and have too many people walking in and out to speak with you. These things might make your coworker miserable, but really she's helpless to control or change them. These are things that _you're_ in control of. Sure, you might choose to be accommodating and speak more softly. But the point here is that you don't have to. And if you decide to speak loudly, there really isn't much your coworker can do about it. Take some time now to consider the many things that perhaps you haven't realized you control entirely. Other people can complain that you eat too quickly, drive too slowly, and even take too long in the bathroom. But there isn't really much they can do about it, is there?\n\nYou don't need to be nasty when you assert your control, just firm and resolved. You may \"do battle\" in a very polite manner and without sarcasm or condescension. For example, if your coworker tells you that you're talking too loudly, you may reply: \"I am so sorry. I know that this is disturbing to you. But this is the way I talk; I don't think I can change it. I think that how loud a person speaks is really a matter of taste and what is loud to one person isn't loud enough to another. We're all different.\" Your coworker might be angry at your refusal to change, but as you've now indicated, this is her problem, not yours.\n\nSave your energy by ignoring those areas over which you have less control, such as the controlling perfectionist's interactions with third parties (for example, don't ask, \"Why did you correct the gas station attendant's grammar?\"). This will greatly reduce the number of arguments in your relationship and help you achieve greater gains in other areas. Try to concentrate on those areas that mean the most to you. Let go of the others, even if just until the most important one is resolved. Stay positive. You can be polite, but be persistent. Focus on areas in which you've been successful previously or in areas in which you see the possibility of the controlling perfectionist yielding some control.\n\nComments like \"Must you be so [critical, judgmental, strict, etc.]?\" or \"Must you be such a [perfectionist, control freak, cheapskate, etc.]?\" are bound to be unproductive. Remember, you can't change the controlling perfectionist's personality. Your focus should be on winning individual battles, with specific outcomes, rather than trying to win the whole war at once. For example, concentrate on getting your girlfriend to spend more money on a birthday present rather than trying to convince her to be less stingy in general. Tell your boyfriend that his remarks about your waistline make you feel unsexy and unloving toward him instead of telling him simply to stop being so critical of your appearance. You'll be more successful this way.\n\nFinally, don't give up too soon. Be willing to back off for a while but to come back to the fight later. Prepare yourself for a long battle. Don't \"lose it\" or become verbally aggressive. Keep working. You'll find yourself much less frustrated if you understand that these things take time. When you choose your battles, every confrontation is like an investment. Eventually it will pay off!\n\nExercise: Choosing Your Battles\n\nThink of some areas of disagreement or some things that you've fought over with the controlling perfectionist in your life. Consider whether, using some of the ideas you've learned in this book, your efforts can be put to productive use in these areas. First, list those issues you can most likely assert control over. Then list those issues over which, at least in the short term, you might only waste your energy.\n\nI feel that I can gain victories in the following areas:\n\n  1. ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n  2. ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n  3. ___________\n\n___________ .\n\nI feel that these are areas that I should just let go of for now:\n\n  1. ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n  2. ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n  3. ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n## You Can Clarify Your Goals\n\nOne of the reasons that many people find themselves knuckling under to a controlling perfectionist is that they're not really clear in what their goals are. For many of us, our goals get all jumbled up when we're frustrated by criticism. Ask yourself what usually guides your actions in response to the controlling perfectionist's criticisms. What's driving you? What are you trying to accomplish? Are you defending your honor? Are you trying to correct the controlling perfectionist's misperceptions? Are you trying to appear intelligent? Are you trying to fix the wounded nature of the controlling perfectionist? Having an agenda like one of these can often sabotage your interactions with a controlling perfectionist because it puts too much importance on that person's judgments or keeps you from being an equal director of the interaction.\n\n_Monica was a sales manager who had to submit a quarterly report to the regional manager, who was a controlling perfectionist. All that Monica really needed was to obtain the regional manager's signature on the report. But she also had a desire to be acknowledged and recognized by the authority figures in her life, so after she submitted the report, she called the regional manager to talk about all the time and effort she put into it, hoping to get some kind of kudos or recognition. When the regional manager, always stingy with compliments to anyone, didn't feed her need, Monica became angry and argumentative, forcing the issue to the point where the regional manager refused to approve the report until Monica had made improvements to it._\n\nBy setting well-defined goals, and by concentrating all of your efforts on and directing all your conversation toward these goals, you'll become proactive and not reactive. In other words, you won't feel like a victim anymore. You'll feel empowered and strong. In the example above, the only thing Monica really needed was a signature. But she sabotaged her achievement of this goal with a hidden agenda of wanting express recognition of her work.\n\nYour goals should of course be healthy and achievable ones. They should be specific and not global (for example, _I want her to come to my office picnic_ \u2014which is specific\u2014rather than _I want her to participate in my work life_ \u2014which is a more global and more difficult goal). They should be clear in your head when you approach the controlling perfectionist. You'll thus find that your interactions are far less entangled and more productive.\n\nFollowing are some examples of unhealthy goals:\n\n  * _I want his approval so that I can feel good about myself._\n  * _I want to please her so that I'll look good in the eyes of others._\n  * _I want to be in a relationship in which someone is always telling me what to do._\n  * _I want to feel that he's wrong and I'm right._\n  * _I want her to love me, and I can do it only by appeasing her._\n\nHere are some healthier goals that are more achievable:\n\n  * _I want to get him to turn his work in on time._\n  * _I want to work out a parenting plan that works for both of us. I think I can start with asking him to pick up and drop off the children._\n  * _I want to get him to show me more affection after sex._\n  * _I want to be able to do more fun activities with her. I think I can get her to go for walks on the beach with me._\n  * _I want to stop feeling so sad all the time in this relationship after a fight or argument._\n\nHere's what makes these goals achievable. First, they're healthy for both you and the other person. They don't tear the other person down. They don't try to build up your self-esteem at the other person's cost. They're not belittling to you.\n\nSecond, these goals contain reasonable expectations. They're not just pipe dreams or pies in the sky; they're all doable.\n\nNext, they're specific and not global. They focus on an area of the relationship rather than trying to change the _nature_ of the relationship itself and all at once. They're limited in their scope and therefore more achievable.\n\nFinally, and most important, they focus on _your_ behavior. Trust us\u2014you'll achieve much more when you take it upon yourself to work toward change. You'll find yourself less frustrated and exhausted, more hopeful and empowered.\n\n## You Can Create Space between You and a Controlling Perfectionist\n\nIn some cases, it might be possible to put some space between you and the controlling perfectionist in your life. For example, if you don't live with your perfectionistic and controlling parent, you can simply choose to call less often. Or instead of visiting this parent for two days, you can cut it down to one day. We've known people whose parents were so demanding and critical that they actually moved out of state to get some distance and some measure of freedom. While your situation may or may not allow for these types of actions, here are some examples of how people have created space between themselves and a controlling perfectionist, to reduce the frequency of or limit interaction:\n\n  * A woman successfully requested that her boss take her out of a workgroup with a controlling perfectionist.\n  * A high school student changed sports to get away from a particularly critical coach.\n  * A warehouse manager who constantly bickered with his parts manager whenever he requested parts began to order the parts by mail instead.\n  * A high school faculty member would simply go the other way when being approached by a particular colleague.\n  * A woman who found that her tennis partner would criticize her performance on the court when they went to lunch afterward simply made herself more unavailable for these lunches.\n  * A college student with a perfectionistic and controlling roommate requested a different dorm room.\n  * A man who dreaded visiting his querulous and overcritical father in the nursing home created distance by making sure that they always shared a meal together during his visit. His father found it hard to talk with his mouth full!\n\nSomething simple you can do to create space is refuse to let yourself be drawn into arguments that have no logical solution or outcome. Remember, controlling perfectionists are extremely judgmental, and no matter what the facts are, they feel convinced that their opinions are right and anyone who disagrees is therefore wrong. Avoid conversations involving religion, politics, or other areas in which the controlling perfectionist has strong views.\n\nCreating space whenever possible is an easy way to limit the impact that the controlling perfectionist has on your life. As such, it's just one way to set effective boundaries and limit the damage that the controlling perfectionist can do.\n\nSo, although it may be impossible to change someone, you can change the nature of your relationship with that person. You can change the way you think and react, you can choose your battles, and you can define your own agendas. You can stop being a victim of the controlling perfectionist.\n\nThe point is that even though you can't directly change the controlling perfectionist's behavior, you can change how it affects you and also act in ways that are likely to create different and better outcomes. Your new ways of responding may even have a desirable effect on the controlling perfectionist's behavior. There's an old expression: \"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.\" But as one wag once added, \"Yes, but you can make the horse very thirsty!\" In the same way, your \"undercover ops\" for dealing with the controlling perfectionist can help you win battles. In the next chapter, we discuss means of setting limitations and boundaries in your relationship with the controlling perfectionist that you can use in any situation and whenever creating space might not be possible or practical. In chapter 6, we teach you strategies for better communication to help you achieve your healthy and specific objectives.\nChapter 5\n\n# Setting Limits and Boundaries\n\nThe controlling perfectionist in your life may be micromanaging you or bullying you into doing things that you really don't want to or that you feel obligated to do. When you're in daily contact with a controlling perfectionist, it's important that you limit this kind of behavior; otherwise you risk this person running your life and denying you any kind of consideration, not to mention impoverishing your sense of who you are. This means that at times you need to come to your own defense or challenge unreasonable expectations. However, you need to be careful to do so in ways that won't create more problems for you than they solve. Responding too aggressively or making the controlling perfectionist angry might have negative consequences\u2014you don't want to do something you'll regret. For example, it may be unwise to storm into your boss's office and tell her to shove her job, unless you can afford to be unemployed. You can avoid such desperate situations in the first place if you define and make clear to the controlling perfectionist what you will and won't put up with.\n\nBy setting limits or boundaries on inappropriate or abusive behavior, you're essentially saying, \"It's not okay to treat me this way.\" This becomes a way of asserting yourself and claiming your self-worth because you're also communicating that you deserve to be treated better. Limits and boundaries are necessary to any healthy relationship, but with a controlling perfectionist you may need to work harder to enforce them.\n\nIn this chapter, we suggest some ways you can begin to set limits and boundaries on perfectionistic and controlling behaviors so that you may have more freedom and hopefully more happiness in any kind of relationship with a controlling perfectionist. (In chapters 7 and 8 we present additional strategies specific to handling controlling perfectionists in romantic relationships, in family relationships, and in the workplace.)\n\n## Difficulties with Boundary Setting\n\nIt's not uncommon for people who have a history of being treated poorly or abusively to have difficulty accepting that they deserve to be treated better. The following exercise will help you determine whether the controlling perfectionist may find your boundaries weak or lacking as a result of damage to your self-worth.\n\nExercise: Discovering Origins of Difficulties with Boundary Setting\n\nSo that you may explore the possible roots of your problems with the controlling perfectionist, answer the following questions as they relate to your childhood and adolescence. In the space provided for each, write the number that best corresponds to your answer, where 0 = never, 1 = sometimes, and 2 = often.\n\nNow add up your score. A score of 0 indicates you probably grew up in a healthy environment in which your needs were addressed and you developed good self-worth. A score between 10 and 20 indicates you probably grew up in a home that was abusive or neglectful or, at the very least, invalidating. People who score high on this measure usually have difficulty setting boundaries and limits with controlling perfectionists because they have difficulty valuing and loving themselves.\n\n## Valuing Yourself and Increasing Your Self-Worth\n\nIf you suffer from a lack of self-worth, the good news is that there are things you can do to help you value yourself and recognize that you deserve to be treated well. It will take some effort, but when you practice thinking and acting in ways that put yourself first, over time you'll find it easier to set limits with others, and that includes the controlling perfectionist.\n\nOne way that you can begin to value yourself is by setting aside time each day to do something that _you_ want to do, something that's just for you. It doesn't have to be something complicated; in fact, simple activities are often best, because they can be done more easily. Following are some suggestions:\n\n  * Read the newpaper or a magazine.\n  * Exercise or take a walk.\n  * On your way to work, stop for coffee, tea, or even breakfast.\n  * Meditate.\n  * Look into taking a class on a subject you want to learn more about.\n  * Watch whatever you want to on TV.\n  * Take time out to do something that you like or enjoy.\n\nSpending time on your own, engaged in an activity that you find invigorating or relaxing, helps you attach importance to yourself and to doing things that benefit you and you alone. If you're used to constantly doing things that benefit others or that others want you to do, this practice may seem strange at first. But the more you do it, the more you'll see that putting your own needs and desires first, even for only a short time each day, can help you learn to care for yourself when faced with many or difficult demands. Soon you'll wonder how you ever got along before you started taking a little time for yourself!\n\nExercise: Ways to Value Yourself and Boost Your Self-Worth\n\nThink of some activities that you can do to take time for yourself. Remember, these should be simple things you enjoy or that help you charge your batteries, 100 percent solo. Don't include activities that involve or are meant for the benefit of others. Try to come up with at least five things and list them below:\n\n  1. ___________\n  2. ___________\n  3. ___________\n  4. ___________\n  5. ___________\n\nIn _Better Boundaries: Owning and Treasuring Your Own Life_ , Jan Black and Greg Enns (1997) list some additional ways that people can develop better self-worth. Following are adaptations of some of their suggestions. Check off at least three that you feel you can commit to on an ongoing basis, in service of yourself.\n\n  * ___________ Make choices that are about _you_.\n  * ___________ Be mindful of defeatist statements that you make to yourself (for example: _I can't do anything right. I'm such a screwup_ ). Once you're aware of these thoughts, consciously stop yourself and substitute a positive statement ( _Hey, everyone makes mistakes\u2014why should I be different?_ ).\n  * ___________ Acknowledge your fears and things that cause you anxiety...but then try to challenge these fears. For example, if you get anxious talking to people you don't know, consider saying hello to a stranger every day.\n  * ___________ Acknowledge your own preferences\u2014whether in foods, leisure activities, movies, artistic interests, or books\u2014and indulge them.\n  * ___________ Decorate your living or work space in ways that you find pleasing and that help assert that this is _your_ space. For instance, use photos and pictures that relate to you or your tastes.\n  * ___________ When you're having a difficult time making decisions, pretend that it's not you but a friend of yours who's in your situation. Determine what advice you'd offer your friend, and then take it yourself.\n  * ___________ Visualize your goals. Where would you like to be a month from now, three months from now, six months, or a year?\n\n## You Have Rights!\n\nIf you've been dealing with a controlling perfectionist for any appreciable length of time, it's easy to feel that you and your views don't count or don't matter. All too often, those close to a perfectionist begin to buy in to the idea that this person really does have all the answers and therefore everyone should submit to his or her view of the world. What's implied, however, is that you have few or no rights. One of the starting points for setting limits and boundaries is being able to accept that you have rights too. Because controlling perfectionists are so often outwardly disciplined and conscientious, it's easy to be impressed by their persistence and goal-directed behavior. Yet often their excessive conscientiousness or devotion to work gets in the way of actually completing tasks and being able to work well with others. In an intimate relationship, the controlling perfectionist may be able at the drop of a hat to criticize a comment you made but have difficulty expressing warm, loving feelings toward you. Therefore this person is, as we all are, imperfect, with no more rights than anyone else.\n\nExercise: Declaring Your Rights\n\nOne way to set boundaries and limits on perfectionistic and controlling behavior is by identifying those behaviors that you're no longer willing to tolerate and writing a statement or declaration to that effect. Putting something in writing instead of just holding it in your mind can be validating and help you commit to your intentions. And reviewing this document a week from now, a month from now, or a year from now can give you a sense of pride, help you stay on track, or get you back on track.\n\nYou can use the template below. Please note that we've purposely left a few of the rights blank, for you to fill in. Here are some examples of the types of rights our clients have expressed: \"The right to not be bullied by my boss or coworker\"; \"The right to not be criticized by my boyfriend\"; \"The right to be treated respectfully by my wife\"; \"The right to define my own strengths and weaknesses, not to be defined by my supervisor.\" You can fill in the blanks with something specific to the rights you wish to assert. In the second part of the declaration, you might use something like \"getting baited into arguments\" as a behavior you'll no longer put up with and \"not overreacting when spoken to in a critical way\" as a response. You can revisit and revise this declaration after you finish the book, if you like.\n\nI, ___________ , being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare that I have the following rights:\n\n  * The right to be treated with respect.\n  * The right not to be yelled at or demeaned.\n  * The right to refuse to do something that I really don't want to do.\n  * The right not to be bullied into submission.\n  * The right to set my own schedule and agenda and to take things at my own pace.\n  * The right to make mistakes. Making mistakes can be a valuable learning tool.\n  * The right to ___________ .\n  * The right to .\n\nAbove all, I have the right to be imperfect!\n\nIn accordance with these rights, I swear that I will no longer tolerate or put up with the following behaviors: ___________\n\n___________ .\n\nIn instances in which I encounter these behaviors, I will respond by:\n\n___________ .\n\nJan Black and Greg Enns (1997) make the point that learning to set effective boundaries is more than a matter of learning general techniques or catchy rules of thumb, because boundary setting must be based on your own beliefs about how you should be treated. If you feel that you have rights and that you deserve to be treated with respect and dignity, you're already of the mind to set better boundaries, especially in stopping patterns of behavior in which you may be treated abusively or dismissively.\n\n## Three Keys to Better Boundaries\n\nTake a minute to think of the types of situations in which the controlling perfectionist in your life does things that really bother or annoy you. For instance, you might find any of the following highly offensive:\n\n  * Unflattering comments about your appearance\n  * Comments that belittle your intellect or your interests\n  * Unrealistic demands, such as asking you to accomplish tasks that you can't possibly finish in the time you have, no matter how hard you work\n  * Unreasonable demands, such as expecting you to work late or on your days off\n  * Know-it-all behavior meant to put you down\n  * Jokes made at your expense\n  * Overfocus on details to the point of losing sight of the task or discussion at hand\n  * Insensitivity to your needs\n  * Disregard for or dismissiveness of your opinions and feelings\n  * Difficulty expressing warm or loving feelings\n\nIn order to set boundaries, it's important that you begin to think of ways you can react to these situations that are different from the way you may usually react. You may have heard the saying \"If you want to _feel_ something you've never felt before, you must be willing to _do_ something you've never done before.\" Although there are many and various ways to cope with a controlling perfectionist, what we're asking you to consider is whether you're willing to try some new things.\n\nAs described earlier, controlling perfectionists are known for demanding that those who work with them or for them do everything perfectly and that they accomplish tasks to those perfectionistic expectations. What most of our clients complain of when dealing with controlling perfectionists is that they find themselves frustrated and exasperated or feeling incompetent or inferior because there's absolutely no way that they can live up to those demands, which may be outrageous to begin with. Often in situations like this they find themselves avoiding conflict by repressing what they really want to say (which may be along the lines of \"Will you just shut up for once and let me do things the way I want to?!\") or bottling up their feelings\u2014which can be very stressful\u2014because they feel that they don't have the right to say anything to the perfectionist. It's not uncommon for people who keep their feelings bottled up in this way to feel more and more displeased, eventually reaching a point where they explode, launching into a tirade and ending up feeling either guilty or anxious about reprisal. Neither bottling up nor blowing up is a very good place to be, and either situation leads to feeling stressed. This is one of the reasons that those who live or work with a controlling perfectionist often feel a lot of rage (and are therefore more likely to blow up or respond in excess of what the situation calls for) or feel depressed or shut down emotionally\u2014because they don't regularly express how they feel.\n\nSo how do you keep from going down this road? How do you put a stop to the \"bottling operation\" and the situations that provoke it?\n\nYou'll need to learn three keys to setting boundaries with a controlling perfectionist and keep them in mind at all times.\n\n  1. Don't expect the controlling perfectionist to change or to recognize your talents.\n  2. Set your own expectations and benchmarks.\n  3. Although it's important to be assertive, there may be times when it's better to bide your time and wait for the right opportunity to make a statement of your rights.\n\nModerate Your Expectations of Change\n\nOne of the confusing things about controlling perfectionists is that every so often, they will throw you a bone, which could take the form of a compliment or a statement of gratitude for something you did. But don't be fooled. Controlling perfectionists are even less likely to change spontaneously than they are to change in response to requests to do so (as discussed in chapter 4). Don't imagine that a few kind words mean that the controlling perfectionist has finally recognized your worth or value. Controlling perfectionists may recognize when their behavior has crossed a line, at which point they may provide some grudging praise or words of thanks. Or their momentary approval may be meant to encourage you and keep you on the path to that elusive goal of perfection. They soon are back to their usual ways. So our recommendation is simple: be realistic.\n\nSet Your Own Expectations and Benchmarks\n\nYou know that you're always going to fall short of the controlling perfectionist's expectations. If you try to live up to them, you end up feeling inferior or incompetent, right? So here's the alternative: set your own expectations, goals, and benchmarks. Whether it be at work or at home, in romantic relationships or in friendships, you'll be better off if you try to do the best you can, rather than what the controlling perfectionist wants you to do.\n\n_Jim, a middle school teacher, enjoys his job and likes the interaction he has with his students. Many people consider him a dedicated teacher, and his students' parents know they can count on him to be available if there's some problem or conflict. Unfortunately, Jim's principal, Mrs. Talbot, doesn't share these views of him. She's extremely critical of Jim: she feels that he coddles his students and is too lenient. She implies that Jim is lazy because he doesn't aspire to a supervisory position\u2014however, Jim knows that if he were to be promoted, he wouldn't have as much interaction with students and would become a slave to paperwork. Mrs. Talbot is very vocal about her criticisms of Jim, and it seems as if she tries to make him miserable by micromanaging him\u2014reviewing his lesson plans on nearly a daily basis and making certain he's on time for meetings and lunchroom monitor duty._\n\nIf Jim buys in to Mrs. Talbot's perception of his performance as a teacher, he'll end up feeling incompetent and demoralized. However, if Jim were to measure his value and worth as a teacher based on how his students respond to him, parents' comments that they appreciate his accessibility and fairness, and the fact that he enjoys his work, then by all standards we'd say that Jim is successful. In Mrs. Talbot's opinion, all teachers should aspire to supervisory positions and if they don't there must be something wrong with them. After all, Mrs. Talbot probably feels that everyone should be just like she is...cold, demanding, and critical.\n\nKnow When to Be Assertive and When to Avoid Conflict\n\nConflicts and disagreements with a controlling perfectionist may often put you in the proverbial \"no-win\" situation, because even if you're right you'll end up being wronged in the long run: while no one really likes to be proven wrong or incorrect, controlling perfectionists tend to take it as a major attack on their character and retaliate harshly. When you're used to getting that kind of reaction, you may feel that most times it's just not worth it to challenge the controlling perfectionist. While that may be true, avoiding conflict doesn't require that you cave in or let this person walk all over you. For example, to save your energy, rather than react or respond to unreasonable demands you have the option of simply ignoring them (Bernstein 2001). However, it's important for your self-esteem that you be able to express your thoughts and feelings (note that this is not the same as trying to win an argument or persuade the controlling perfectionist to change).\n\nHow do you decide when it's in your best interest to speak up? There are no hard and fast rules for when to express yourself versus when to refrain from a confrontation, but it's a good idea to respond any time you're under verbal attack or faced with an unreasonable request. Basic assertive communication skills (discussed in chapter 6) are helpful in any circumstance; however, with a controlling perfectionist you may not get the same response that you would from a more reasonable person. Remember, controlling perfectionists are not known for their sense of empathy and compassion, so don't count on them to respond appropriately to your feelings. Remember, too, that the goal is to establish better boundaries, which sometimes will mean that you need to refrain from buying in to the way in which the controlling perfectionist has defined you. Thus you may need to be somewhat standoffish. However, you should avoid being argumentative\u2014this includes responding angrily or with sarcasm.\n\nThe goal of responding assertively to the controlling perfectionist is to put a stop to demanding or what can be abusive behavior without opening yourself up to retaliation. It's very much like walking a tightrope. The following examples illustrate how an assertive response, in contrast with other types of responses, can effectively set boundaries and limits. Although you may be accustomed to using an angry, sarcastic, neutral, or acquiescing response, can you see yourself responding assertively in similar situations? Would an assertive type of response work with the controlling perfectionist in your life? (We discuss assertive communication and assertive responses in more detail in chapter 6.)\n\nExample 1. While driving alone, you've had an accident. The car is damaged, but you're okay. Your spouse says: \"I can't believe you smashed the car up. I bet you were texting and speeding, right?\"\n\n  * **Angry/sarcastic response:** \"Like you've never had an accident before? _You_ drive like a ninety-year-old. And I wasn't texting or speeding. Do you think I enjoy being in car accidents? Oh, and by the way, I wasn't injured, thank God. I know how concerned you'd be about my well-being.\"\n  * **Neutral/acquiescing response:** \"Yes, I was really upset by the accident too.\"\n  * **Assertive response:** \"I'm sorry the car was dented. It wasn't my intention to upset you.\"\n\nExample 2. You've made an error when billing a major client. Your boss shouts: \"You totally screwed up that client's account. This mistake is going to cost us thousands! What were you thinking?\"\n\n  * **Angry/sarcastic response:** \"Well, I obviously wasn't thinking about the account that much, was I? It must be so comforting to know you're perfect in every way.\"\n  * **Neutral/acquiescing response:** \"I'm upset also. I didn't mean to make a costly mistake.\"\n  * **Assertive response:** \"I'm sorry about the mistake. I'd like to go over the figures to see where the mistake may have taken place.\"\n\nExample 3. Because of numerous other work responsibilities and priorities, you didn't have time to finish a couple of reports this week. Your supervisor says: \"I hope you didn't make any plans for the weekend. You need to come into the office and get these reports done.\"\n\n  * **Angry/sarcastic response: \"** Wow, that's great! I'd planned to go to the beach, but I'll just bring my boyfriend and some margaritas with me.\"\n  * **Neutral/acquiescing response:** \"I'll change my plans around so I can come in. What time do you want me to be here?\"\n  * **Assertive response:** \"I know the reports are important, but I wish you'd given me a heads-up so I could have arranged my schedule to complete the reports during the week.\"\n\nExercise: Assertive Boundary Setting\n\nPractice responding to the following demands in a way that stands up for you and your rights without being oppositional. Once you get good at figuring out assertive responses, you'll write your own alternative responses (angry/sarcastic and neutral/acquiescing), to help you identify such responses as poor choices when the urge to respond in either of these ways arises.\n\n  1. \"This house is a mess. Can't you take a few minutes and straighten up? I'm tired of your living like a slob.\"\n\n**Angry/sarcastic response:** \"It's good that after all these years, you've decided that you don't want to live like a slob!\"\n\n**Neutral/acquiescing response:** \"The place does look pretty messy.\"\n\n**Assertive response:**\n\n___________ .\n\n  2. \"I want these expense accounts completed by Wednesday, and don't give me any excuses for why they can't be done by then.\"\n\n**Angry/sarcastic response:** \"Did I happen to mention that the dog ate the expense accounts?\"\n\n**Neutral/acquiescing response:** \"I'll start to work on them now.\"\n\n**Assertive response:**\n\n___________ .\n\n  3. \"You're always late for our dates. Why can't you just get here on time for once\u2014is that too much to ask?\"\n\n**Angry/sarcastic response:** ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n**Neutral/acquiescing response:** ___________\n\n___________ .\n\n**Assertive response:**\n\n___________ .\n\n## A Final Recommendation: Give Yourself Time to Think\n\nSometimes an unreasonable demand or request may blindside you or make you feel as if you're being put on the spot. This can be one of the most frustrating things about working with or living with a controlling perfectionist. One of our graduate students who had worked in the corporate world for several years reported that her solution to being put on the spot by a boss or administrator was to respond simply, \"Let me get back to you on that.\" She found that this allowed her time to decide what she wanted to say and what approach to use. So if you don't know how to respond in the moment in a way that asserts your rights, stall. It's a useful technique that will most certainly help you at first, until you become practiced in setting limits and boundaries.\n\nAs Sandy Hotchkiss (2002) points out, the operative word when setting boundaries is \"control,\" meaning that you stay in control. Remember, controlling perfectionists are accustomed to being in control and getting others to jump when they say so. Although it may seem somewhat unusual for you to take control and set boundaries at first, soon you'll wonder why you let this situation go on for so long. So give yourself permission to respond in new ways to the controlling perfectionist in your life, and practice!\n\nWhen you assert your _rights_ , at the very least the perfectionist may respect your willingness to stick up for yourself, and you set the stage for asking for your _needs_ to be met. In the next chapter we talk more about getting the controlling perfectionist to hear you and how to get your point across when advocating for your needs and wishes\u2014here assertive communication can help you again.\nChapter 6\n\n# Establishing Better Communication\n\nIf you've ever had the experience of trying to communicate honestly and directly with a controlling perfectionist, you've most likely walked away from the encounter thinking, _I may as well have been talking to the wall_. Controlling perfectionists often feel that they know more than anyone else, they're right and anyone who disagrees with them is wrong, or they've cornered the market on what's appropriate or morally correct. So they're usually not interested in listening to others' viewpoints, opinions, or objections or in having any kind of meaningful dialogue. This leaves you feeling as if the controlling perfectionist talks _at_ you rather than _with_ you. You may feel as if you'd have to beat this person over the head to truly get his or her attention.\n\nParticularly in group settings, the concept that a dissenting view can add value to a discussion is alien to controlling perfectionists. They may pick apart another person's proposal or dominate the discussion in order to bring everyone around to their way of thinking. Short of demanding that others fall in line with their views, they may try to make them feel intimidated into doing so by displaying their wealth of knowledge. So here's the conundrum you may be in: How do you have any kind of meaningful communication with someone who seems to be uninterested in what you have to say, to be incapable of admitting to possibly being wrong, and to feel the need to constantly be in control of situations and people?\n\nIn this chapter we offer you many answers to this question. You may need to experiment to see what works and what doesn't work for you. Also, you may find that a particular communication strategy works better with certain people. For instance, something that works fine with your boss may not work with your coworker.\n\n## The Third Way: Moving Toward the Controlling Perfectionist\n\nLet's explore a way of thinking about interpersonal communication that you may find helpful. In any relationship, you have three ways to handle disagreement or conflict: you can choose to move away from, move against, or move toward the other person. (This terminology was coined by the famous psychoanalyst Karen Horney [1937] to describe various personality styles of relating.) When you move away from, you cut down on communication: you avoid the other person, limit contact, or limit conversation length or topics. This was described in chapter 4 as creating space, something you can do to reduce the negative impact of the controlling perfectionist in your life. When you move against, you choose to \"do battle\" with the other person, defending what you believe, for example, is fair and right. Recommendations for conducting these types of interactions were also given in chapter 4. Whenever you can't or don't want to move away, and moving against isn't likely to have the desired outcome (as is often the case when dealing with a controlling perfectionist), you should try to move toward the other person. This means you neither avoid nor antagonize. The techniques in this chapter will illuminate this third way, which will improve your interactions with the controlling perfectionist and help you communicate effectively.\n\n## Assertive Communication 101\n\nA challenge is how to move toward the other person when you're feeling angry or frustrated. This is where assertiveness comes in handy. The alternative to responding aggressively (blowing up) or passively (bottling up) when your feelings run high in a conflict situation is to simply state how you feel. Here's the basic format for responding assertively: First identify exactly what it is that you're feeling in the situation. Then convey your feeling in a statement beginning with \"I feel\" that also identifies what the other person did that led you to feel this way: \"I feel ___________ when you ___________ .\" You don't have to explain why you feel this way or justify your feelings, because feelings are neither right nor wrong; they're simply your internal experience.\n\nAs an example, let's say someone makes a critical remark about you in front of your friends or family. The remark upsets you greatly, but rather than either bottling up your feelings (for example, not saying anything) or exploding (for example, calling the other person names), you say, \"I feel insulted and humiliated when you put me down like that.\"\n\nAfter making an assertive statement, stick to your guns\u2014in other words, once you've taken a position, don't back down. Don't apologize for getting upset, concede a minor point, or allow your statement to be picked apart. Examine how you feel afterward. If you've been successful in making a good assertive statement, you won't be fuming (as you might if you bottled up your feeling), nor will you feel guilty for having simply stated how you feel. In a similar situation, make the same statement again.\n\nThe next time you're tossing and turning in your bed replaying an argument in your mind and thinking, _I should have said..._ , think of an assertive statement you could have used in which you hit the mark and neither bottled up your feelings nor blew up at the other person.\n\n## Assertive Communication with Controlling Perfectionists\n\nBasic assertive communication, while helpful in most situations, may not always work well with controlling perfectionists. Often when you confront controlling perfectionists directly, either they'll become defensive or they'll become just as angry as if you'd blown up at them and lash out at you. The reason is that controlling perfectionists often perceive a clear and direct assertive statement as an assault on their knowledge or intellect. Remember, for controlling perfectionists being right or adhering to rules is paramount to feeling as though they're worthy, so to question their view or authority becomes an attack on the core of their existence. It's also likely that controlling perfectionists will dismiss anything you have to say or argue with whatever point you're trying to get across to them.\n\nHere are some basic rules for communicating assertively with a controlling perfectionist:\n\n  1. Don't argue facts, even if you know this person to be wrong. Your energy will be better spent expressing your views, opinions, and feelings. Debating facts may only antagonize a controlling perfectionist.\n  2. Don't assert that you're right. Soften the blow; preface your statements with phrases like \"This is what I was told,\" \"Things may not be always be black or white, but my opinion is,\" and \"I may be wrong, but this is my opinion.\" This person is more likely to listen to what you say if it doesn't sound like a challenge.\n  3. Try to stick to one or two basic points and don't stray too far from the main point you want to make.\n  4. Don't expect this person to hear or validate your feelings. (Note that expressing your feelings is nonetheless important.)\n  5. Agree to disagree. You may not reach consensus, so it's best to hold your ground with the understanding that you're not going to reach agreement.\n  6. Be prepared to reiterate the point you're trying to make several times, maybe in different ways, in order to be heard.\n\nWhen making assertive statements to a controlling perfectionist, try to use kid gloves. Use what you've learned about controlling perfectionists, be sensitive to what makes them different, and avoid setting off this person's perfectionistic and controlling tendencies and traits. Choose your words carefully. Don't create a dead end that makes it easy for this person to turn to criticizing you; show that you acknowledge his or her wants, needs, or feelings and redirect the conversation toward some constructive action to be taken next. Be helpful and guiding.\n\nThis may seem like a lot of work, but it gives you the best chance of shaping more considerate or empathic responses in the controlling perfectionist. At the very least, it will help you be heard. In each of the following situations we illustrate how you can take an assertive response that might work well with most people and modify it for use with a controlling perfectionist.\n\nSituation 1 (at home). \"I can't believe you forgot to pick up my jacket at the dry cleaners, you idiot. Now what am I supposed to wear to work?\"\n\n  * **Assertive response:** \"I really resent your calling me names. Perhaps you should pick up your own dry cleaning. I'd prefer not to have the responsibility.\"\n  * **Modified assertive response:** \"I'm sorry I forgot to pick up your dry cleaning\u2014that was my mistake. I was really overwhelmed with things I had to do today, and it slipped my mind. Let's see whether we can find you something else to wear. Let's also try to work out a better schedule for who picks up the dry cleaning.\"\n\nSituation 2 (at work). \"I know this is last minute, but I need you to stay late and finish up the Jones file.\"\n\n  * **Assertive response:** \"I resent your making this request at the last minute. I already have plans for this evening, and it's not convenient for me to stay late.\"\n  * **Modified assertive response:** \"I see the dilemma you're in about getting the Jones file completed. Unfortunately, I have a prior commitment this evening, and I can't get out of it. Perhaps I can come in early tomorrow and we can work on the file then?\"\n\nSituation 3 (at work). \"I don't care if you're busy right now. Go get me a cup of coffee.\"\n\n  * **Assertive response:** \"I dislike being given tasks that aren't part of my job description.\"\n  * **Modified assertive response:** \"I know how busy you are right now. I have a lot of work to do as well, which I know is important to you. Which task would you rather I do?\"\n\nExercise: Practicing Assertive Communication\n\nDecide how you might respond assertively in the following situations. If you want, you can start with a general assertive response and then consider how you might tailor it to a controlling perfectionist.\n\n  * **Situation 1 (at home).** \"I know I agreed to go to the movies with you, but I'm too tired to go to out. I'd rather read the paper and watch TV.\"\n  * **Your response:** ___________\n  * **Situation 2 (at home).** \"I'm tired of cleaning up your messes. Can't you do anything right?\"\n  * **Your response:** ___________\n  * **Situation 3 (at work).** \"I'm doing all the work around here\u2014I can't believe I have to work with such lazy, shiftless people like you.\"\n  * **Your response:** ___________\n  * **Situation 4 (at work).** \"Why haven't you completed all of the tasks on the list I gave you?\"\n  * **Your response:** ___________\n\n## Defusing the Situation\n\nDifferent situations call for different responses. In some instances, assertive statements are best. But in other situations you may find that expressing appreciation to a controlling perfectionist or acknowledging this person's strengths while refusing to enter into a discussion of right and wrong can both empower you and allow him or her to back down gracefully. In this way you can keep sight of your own goals for the interaction. You may even get creative and use a bit of humor or dry wit to refrain from taking the bait that controlling perfectionists are so good at dangling in front of you.\n\n_Even though Mary isn't the chairperson of your school committee, she tends to dominate discussions and tries to make decisions for the group. Other committee members have expressed frustration with the way Mary dominates the committee and shuts everyone else down. At a meeting, Mary once again takes control by telling everyone, \"Other school districts are doing this type of fund-raiser, and therefore we should do the same\u2014end of discussion.\"_\n\nAny of the following responses might defuse the situation:\n\n  * \"Mary, I'm glad to see you've done your homework on this, but let's hear other fund-raiser alternatives from the group before we make a decision together.\"\n  * \"Mary, thanks for your input, but because this is a committee, I think it's important that we all weigh in before coming to a collective decision.\"\n  * \"I really appreciate your checking out what other districts are doing, and let's keep that alternative in mind as we look at other fund-raising approaches we might consider.\"\n\nTed, your coworker in a civil engineering consulting firm, is constantly correcting everyone's spelling and grammar. You need him to review a report you've written, but he's getting hung up on correcting your English and not spending enough time looking at the more important aspects of the report.\n\n  * \"Ted, thanks for correcting my grammar on the report. Now could you look over my calculations also? That's what I'd really like your help with.\"\n  * \"Ted, it's so comforting to know you're here to help us with the grammar and spelling on our reports.\"\n  * \"Ted, you're like a frustrated fifth-grade teacher. I think you missed your calling.\"\n\nAlthough there are no hard and fast rules for when to use assertive communication versus defusing strategies, defusing strategies may be highly effective or at least preferable with any of the following controlling perfectionists:\n\n  * One who's known for being unreasonable and always needs to get the last word in\n  * One who's particularly vitriolic and vindictive\n  * One who's known to be explosive\n  * One who's likely, in front of an audience, to further humiliate you rather than hear what you have to say\n\n## Collaborative Communication\n\nAnother strategy you might try is the principle of collaborative communication, in which you try to put your differences aside in order to find what you can agree on. Collaborative communication would advocate that you approach your interactions with the controlling perfectionist in your life with a mind-set of trying to reach collaborative agreements on problems that come up. Rather than being of a win-lose spirit, try to come up with win-win solutions to problematic communication. Here are the three \"C\"s of collaborative communication:\n\n  * **Case:** State your case or simply state what your view of the situation or problem is.\n  * **Clarification:** Ask or invite the other person to fully explain his or her view or opinion, so that you're crystal clear on it.\n  * **Commit:** Once both cases or points of view are discussed and clarified, come up with a solution or agreement that you're both willing to commit to...even if it's that you agree to disagree on that particular point or problem.\n\n## Staying in the Adult Role\n\nSome years ago, a book called _I'm Okay\u2014You're Okay_ (Harris 1967) became the handbook for a theory known as transactional analysis (TA). According to TA, we all possess three ego states: the Parent, the Adult, and the Child. When a person makes critical remarks about you, this person may be acting in the Parent role; however, you can choose to respond in a manner consistent with your own inner Parent, your inner Adult, or your inner Child. When Mary demands that your school committee do what she feels is the correct thing to do, for example, if you were to respond as the Parent you'd probably hurl a critical remark back at her (for example, \"Mary, you're such a bully\"), whereas if you were to respond as the Child, you might throw a tantrum\u2014lose control, yelling and screaming\u2014or sulk. In the Adult role, however, you'd take Mary's remarks in stride (as you would when defusing the situation). The optimal kind of communication according to TA is Adult-to-Adult; however, controlling perfectionists tend to manifest either the harsh, critical Parent or the petulant, demanding Child. Therefore achieving optimal communication with a controlling perfectionist may be difficult if not impossible, but you'll create the most conducive situation if you to remember to stay in the Adult role regardless of how this person approaches you. Following are some techniques to help you do so.\n\nSound Bites\n\nAn important part of communicating effectively with controlling perfectionists involves modeling appropriate behavior and responses. Here we describe an approach in which you attempt to shape more positive, empathic behavior and try to speak to the heart of what a controlling perfectionist really wants from you: your approval or admiration. Try to use the following sound bites in various situations with the controlling perfectionist in your life. These stock phrases may be especially useful when the controlling perfectionist has tried to be thoughtful, considerate, or generous, because those are the types of behavior you want to reinforce or acknowledge in some way.\n\n  * \"I really appreciate it when you take my feelings into consideration.\"\n  * \"You really can be very caring and considerate when you put your mind to it.\"\n  * \"Although you have a lot of talents, you also have the ability to relate well to a variety of people.\"\n  * \"I really appreciate when you compliment me or acknowledge my work.\"\n  * \"It's really nice that you can be so thoughtful and generous.\"\n\nHit-and-Run Communication\n\nAs alluded to earlier, you want to avoid getting into arguments or debates with a controlling perfectionist because, even when you're right, you often end up on the losing end of things. What you may consider when trying to make a point is what we call hit-and-run communication: state precisely what it is that you want to say and then either leave the room or make a quick excuse to end the conversation, like \"Sorry, I've got to run. Talk to you later.\" Don't give the other person time to respond. Your dropping out of the conversation means the other person doesn't have the chance to get defensive or go on the counterattack, as controlling perfectionists often do. The other person feels less confronted, emotions aren't likely to escalate, and your words will sink in better. Here are some examples.\n\n  * \"I know your mind is made up about what you concluded is the right thing to do, but I just want you to consider my point of view.\"\n  * \"I was thinking about our plans for the holidays, and I know how committed you are to going to your mother's. I was thinking I'd go to my parents' for the weekend instead.\"\n  * \"I know you seem dead set against my proposal. The one thing I ask is that you please keep an open mind and give some consideration to my ideas.\"\n\nRemember, make your statement and then walk away; don't engage in any further discussion until later, after the controlling perfectionist has had time to consider your point or alternative.\n\nDealing with Tirades and Temper Tantrums\n\nAlthough most controlling perfectionists tend to be pretty closed off to expressing feelings, some will attempt to control others through temper tantrums. It's not uncommon to find this type of behavior, especially when a controlling perfectionist feels cornered or fears that some mistake or inadequacy will be uncovered. In those situations, you can expect the controlling perfectionist to launch into a tirade as a means of deflecting blame.\n\nSleeping with the Enemy\n\nIn the 1991 movie _Sleeping with the Enemy_ , Laura Burney (Julia Roberts) is the obedient spouse who goes to great lengths to avoid being physically and verbally abused by her husband (Peter Bergin), making certain that everything is \"just so\" according to her husband's perfectionistic standards. For instance, she straightens the glasses and cups on the shelves so they're in perfect alignment and she makes sure the house is spotless. The husband is a controlling perfectionist of an extreme yet real sort: one whose methods include physical abuse, threats, or physical intimidation.\n\nIf you find yourself in a situation in which you're subject to physical abuse, violence, or threats of physical abuse, seek counseling immediately from an agency that deals with domestic violence or intimate partner violence. We can't emphasize too strongly that the best course of action is to seek professional counseling. Another noteworthy point is that in years of clinical experience in working with batterers, we've yet to come across a batterer who wasn't a controlling perfectionist, a narcissist, or both.\n\nBelow is a list of recommendations for dealing with perfectionistic rage and tantrums. These techniques, some of which are adapted from Albert J. Bernstein's 2003 book _How to Deal with Emotionally Explosive People_ , may help de-escalate the situation and allow anger to dissipate. With a controlling perfectionist who's less prone to tantrums, you'll also be able to use some of the assertive communication skills we spoke about earlier.\n\n  * Don't try to appeal to reason by using rational arguments or explanations.\n  * Don't make threats or challenge the controlling perfectionist.\n  * Try to understand the angry controlling perfectionist's mind-set. (Remember, as discussed in chapter 1, that you may be dealing with a hurt child, who felt the need to be perfect in order to gain parental love and affection; someone whose anger is due to anxiety about a situation over which he or she has no control; or someone who struggles to feel competent or adequate.)\n  * Try to understand the controlling perfectionist's agenda. (Is this person trying to achieve dominance over you by bossing you around or bullying you? Is he or she trying to get you to do something you may not want to do?)\n  * Determine what your goals are. (Are you simply trying to be heard? What needs are you trying to get met?)\n  * Speak softly.\n  * Try to come up with a win-win solution.\n  * Ask for time, or create distance.\n\nThis last technique is similar to the old saying \"You don't have to attend every fight you're invited to.\" There are some times (especially with volatile controlling perfectionists) when it may be better to simply walk away from the situation. It's better to pick your battles or to wait for moments in which there may be a better likelihood that the controlling perfectionist will hear you, rather than to respond in haste when this person is in the grip of strong emotions.\n\nAlways be mindful that no matter what the circumstance, you don't deserve to be treated abusively or intimidated; although it may seem that the controlling perfectionist's wrath is the result of something you've done, remember that such behavior is often more about the controlling perfectionist's need to defend or protect themselves than it is about you.\n\nWe realize that it may be difficult in the heat of the moment to be mindful of both your reactions and the motives of the controlling perfectionist you're attempting to communicate with. It will help if you review the foregoing guidelines any time you're anticipating a contentious interaction with a controlling perfectionist who's prone to tantrums.\n\n## The Need for Repetitive Communication\n\nWe want to be careful to not create the impression that better communication will in general put an end to arguments and conflicts with a controlling perfectionist, nor is any single statement you make likely to lead to an \"aha moment\" in which this person realizes the error of his or her ways. Remember that this person's need for control and perfection is highly ingrained. You'll probably continue to have the same kind of disagreements with the controlling perfectionist over and over again. You may feel in these situations that whatever communication strategy you used last time didn't work, because here you are again.\n\nBut the truth is that better communication has a cumulative effect\u2014over time, the character of your interactions will change. You may feel sometimes as if you're repeating yourself, and in fact you should expect to feel this way. Try to reiterate the same points in different ways or using a variety of techniques if you can. For best results, plan which communication strategy you'll use before you approach an interaction rather than try to remember one on the spur of the moment, and don't expect to see immediate results.\n\n_Tina is a scout leader for her twelve-year-old daughter's group. She co-leads the group with Helene, a mother of one of the other girls. Usually, Tina or Helene will arrange to have an activity for the girls to do when they meet each week. Tina is aware that Helene is a control freak when it comes to scheduling meetings and activities; however, she has learned to take things in stride and negotiate dates and times with Helene._\n\n_The problem that has come up recently is that Helene constantly corrects the girls when they're working on projects\u2014she won't let them work on their own. When the girls were arranging food baskets for a local homeless shelter, Helene jumped in and rearranged all the baskets. The girls just roll their eyes at this sort of behavior, but they've begun to disengage from the activities, so Tina decides it's time to mention this to Helene and ask that she step back to allow the girls to do their own projects. Tina musters the courage to speak with Helene and decides how she'll broach the topic assertively but in a non-accusatory, nonjudgmental way. In spite of Tina's carefully chosen words, Helene jumps down Tina's throat and outright denies that she's being overbearing with the girls. Tina feels as if she can't get through to Helene, and she doesn't know what to do._\n\n_Tina decides to wait for an opportunity to raise the issue again. At the next meeting, when the girls are working on another community project, Tina says something to Helene. This time, Helene backs off and angrily tells the girls, \"I'm not helping any of you; go ahead and make your own mistakes.\" The girls look confused, but Tina knows that Helene is now in passive-aggressive mode\u2014if Helene can't do it her way, she won't do it at all. Tina sees the change in Helene's response as something positive, however, and plans her next step: when the time is right she tells Helene that she appreciates her helping with the girls' projects but that both of them need to let the girls take ownership of their work in order to keep them engaged in the meetings. Helene is still entrenched in her denial but is willing to heed Tina's suggestion._\n\n## Responding to Perfectionistic and Controlling Characteristics and Traits\n\nIn chapter 1 we described twelve characteristics and traits of controlling perfectionists. We'll now review nine of those traits, identifying the main difficulty with or challenge to communication each trait creates and offering communication strategies similar to the ones we've presented throughout this chapter.\n\nA need for perfection so great that it interferes with their ability to attain happiness or satisfaction in life\n\nCommunication challenge. The controlling perfectionist feels an overwhelming burden to meet impossibly high standards and approaches daily tasks with a great sense of pressure to do everything perfectly. Thus if you challenge or correct the controlling perfectionist on something, this person is likely to become defensive rather than give consideration to your view or opinion.\n\nCommunication strategy. This is an example of where Adult-to-Adult communication may be helpful. Keep in mind that the controlling perfectionist probably doesn't wake up in the morning wondering how he or she can make your life miserable. Instead of challenging this person, see whether you can reach some type of consensus, or perhaps you can even agree to disagree on something rather than escalate an argument that may end up going nowhere. People don't have to agree on everything. Try saying: \"I'll consider your point of view if you'll consider mine. Then let's come back to the subject. What do you think?\"\n\nA preoccupation with rules, lists, organization, and orderliness, to such an extent that they often seem to miss the point of an activity or task\n\nCommunication challenge. The controlling perfectionist wants you to be just as preoccupied with rules, lists, organization, and orderliness. You may need to communicate that you may not be as invested in these things and that there's nothing wrong with having differences of opinion as to how things can be accomplished. Alternatively, you may have to communicate in such a way as to keep this person on task and focused on the big picture, otherwise the work may take too long or never be finished. At other times, this person may refuse to recognize or adapt to new and better ways of doing things.\n\nCommunication strategy. Depending on whether this occurs in your personal or work life, you may want to employ different strategies. For example, you may not be in a position to say to your boss, \"I really don't feel like coming into the office every day.\" However, you may be able to negotiate a way in which you can circumvent the rules and still get the job done. For example, \"Would you consider my working from home one or two days a week, provided that I can keep my sales numbers up?\" You may ask for clarification of some of the rules or lists that are being imposed: \"I have ten tasks I've been given that I'm working on right now. Could you help me prioritize them?\" In other types of relationships you may point out that sometimes organization and routine get in the way of spontaneity and fun.\n\nAlternatively, acknowledge that getting drawn into details or sidetracked by a perfectionistic undertaking might be productive or desirable, but remind the controlling perfectionist about your goals. For example:\n\n  * \"I know you want to reorganize the bookshelves, but we agreed to work on the taxes on Saturday, and I'd like for us to stay focused on that. Are you in agreement?\"\n  * \"I appreciate the work you've done on this report, but I think it'd be best to stick to the main point we discussed. We can use the other material for another project.\"\n\nOne of our clients, a respected internist in a group practice, was once told by a perfectionistic and controlling older physician to prescribe a certain medication, but this medication was outdated, having been found ineffective. Our client had to come up with a strategy to convey her discomfort without attacking her superior. She decided to use a collegial approach: \"I found some articles on a newer medication, one that I think may be helpful to this particular patient. Could you look them over and let me know what you think before I write the prescription?\" This kind of Adult-to-Adult communication worked well in this case.\n\nA tendency to procrastinate, out of a fear of not doing things right\n\nCommunication challenge. You may need to make sure the controlling perfectionist follows through on tasks this person has promised to do or complete.\n\nCommunication strategy. Get the controlling perfectionist to agree to a time frame or accelerate the process somehow. This is a situation in which direct, assertive communication may be helpful. For example:\n\n  * \"I know you're working hard on finding the right appliances for the new kitchen. Could we take your top three choices and then we can decide on one of those?\"\n  * \"I give you a lot of credit for the work you've put in on the Bronson case. Could you give me the first draft by Monday so we can go over our strategy? We need to wrap this up quickly.\"\n\nA need to control the finances, schedules, and other details of the lives of those with whom they're close; moodiness and anxiety when they're not in charge\n\nCommunication challenge. Whether the perfectionist tries to control you through overt comments or criticisms or through indirect or more subtle attempts, you may often be in a position of having to assert your right to control your finances, your free time, or your schedule.\n\nCommunication strategy. Use some of the basic boundary-setting strategies discussed in chapter 5 or some of the basic assertive communication skills we talked about in this chapter. For example: \"I'm not happy with the financial arrangement, and I want more of a say in how we spend our money. I don't want to be relegated to a weekly allowance as though I were an irresponsible teenager. Can we discuss this so we can come up with a more equal partnership regarding our finances?\"\n\nYou may also use the three \"C\"s of collaborative communication to resolve issues with schedules or time management. Here's what this might look like:\n\n  * **Case:** \"I agree that we should set aside time on Saturdays to work on the house, and I know how important this is to you. But the Smiths have invited us to go out on their boat this Saturday, and I'd like for us to go with them.\"\n  * **Clarification:** \"Is there any reason we can't postpone the house work until Sunday or next Saturday?\"\n  * **Commit:** \"All right, so that's the plan: we'll go with the Smiths this Saturday and work on the house both days next weekend.\"\n\nUnrealistically high expectations and standards for others' performance and behavior\n\nCommunication challenge. You may need to convey that while you do share the view that any job worth doing is worth doing well, your standards will naturally differ from those of a perfectionist, and perfectionism places unreasonable demands on others and breeds misery.\n\nCommunication strategy. Convey that you've tried your best and that you appreciate the input and feedback (read: criticism). Try defusing the situation. For example: \"I really appreciate your feedback in pointing out the mistakes I made on the project summary. I'm really learning more about how you'd like these summaries done.\" We know it may sound disingenuous, but by expressing appreciation, you're moving toward, not away from or against: getting along with the perfectionist as best you can, in a way that honors you both. Even if the controlling perfectionist says something like \"Well, your best just isn't good enough,\" we recommend that you stick to your guns by restating that you truly have tried your best and that you're not attempting to slack off or be disingenuous.\n\nAn excessive devotion to work and productivity, to the point at which they have difficulty having fun or devoting time to friendships\n\nCommunication challenge. The controlling perfectionist expects that you share the same devotion to work and that you be willing to sacrifice your free time\u2014for example, working late every day and coming in to work on weekends. You may need to assert your limits or boundaries while at the same time conveying that you're a hardworking, motivated person.\n\nCommunication strategy. Structure your free time. Schedule events and activities to make even your downtime seem productive and busy. We're not saying that you need to be more active in your nonworking hours, just plan how you'll use them (you can always change your plans later), so that you can assert your right to your own free time by referring to what you've scheduled. This pays tribute to the perfectionist's need for productivity. When necessary, affirm that you're a hardworking team player by collaborating to do extra work at a time that's more convenient for you. Let's say your boss asks you to come in on Saturday morning to finish up some work on a project, but you don't want to miss your son's Little League game. This is a situation in which collaborative communication may be useful. You could say something like \"I'd like to be able to come in Saturday, but I have something important already scheduled. I'm willing to come in early or stay late on Monday instead. Could we work on the project then?\"\n\nStinginess with time or money; miserliness\n\nCommunication challenge. Trying to get more money out of a controlling perfectionist may feel like trying to get blood out of a stone. Also, because controlling perfectionists are known for being stingy not just in a monetary or financial sense but also when it comes to giving of themselves, you may have a hard time getting information out of them or finding out what they're thinking or feeling. Some people describe such attempts at communication as \"like pulling teeth.\"\n\nCommunication strategy. Make your needs clear and state exactly what you want. For example, you could use the three \"C\"s of collaborative communication, as in the following case:\n\n  * **Case:** \"With the money you've allotted to me in the household checking account, every month I have $300 to buy groceries and other essentials like things we need at the pharmacy, but every month we run over. If we don't agree to come up with a more reasonable amount for these expenses, we'll just have to do without certain luxuries.\"\n  * **Clarification:** \"Do you understand what I'm asking? What are your thoughts?\"\n  * **Commit:** \"Okay, let's both commit to making that amount work.\"\n\nAs a reminder, you may need to be persistent and repetitive in your attempts at communicating your case.\n\nA reluctance to delegate tasks to others; an attitude of \"If you want something done right, do it yourself\"\n\nCommunication challenge. You may need to communicate that you're up to the challenge of handling work delegated to you and that your goal is to work collaboratively, both so that you can make valuable contributions and so that the controlling perfectionist isn't overworked.\n\nCommunication strategy. Convince the controlling perfectionist that you're capable of handling the task and yet willing to allow this person to feel somewhat in control of the way in which you do it. In this situation, sound bites and hit-and-run communication may be useful. For example:\n\n  * \"You're trying to do everything. I don't know how you do it all. Let me take over some of the burden. I promise I'll follow your instructions and will check in with you if I'm uncertain how you'd handle a particular situation. Tell you what\u2014think it over and then let's talk about it.\"\n  * \"I know I can handle balancing the checking account. Let me try it this month and then we can go over it. Please just think about it!\"\n\nIt may be difficult for the controlling perfectionist to hand over control, but your persistence may pay off in the long run, with this person being more willing to let you and others have responsibility.\n\nDifficulty both expressing feelings and identifying others' feelings, as if cut off from emotional life; a cold and cheerless exterior\n\nCommunication challenge. Engaging in a discussion of your feelings and then trying to find out what the controlling perfectionist is feeling may be somewhat like talking with someone who speaks a different language.\n\nCommunication strategy. Try to elicit or draw out how the controlling perfectionist is feeling or may be reacting to what you've said or to a particular situation. Here it may work best to follow principles of assertive communication and begin by saying how you're feeling or guessing at what the controlling perfectionist is feeling. If you need to find out how this person is feeling in order to move forward with a decision, for example, you might say:\n\n  * \"I'm not sure about your reactions to the estimate we've been given to remodel the kitchen. Could you let me know your thoughts and feelings on this so we can make a decision?\"\n  * \"I'm not sure how you feel about going to your cousin's wedding. You haven't said anything, but I sense some discomfort. Could you tell me what your thoughts and feelings are about the invitation?\"\n  * \"I get the feeling that you're fuming over last month's credit card statement, but you haven't said anything. Could we talk about this so that we can come up with a plan for how to pay down the bill?\"\n\nIt may be hard to get a controlling perfectionist to express feelings, if you convey that you're truly interested in this person's reactions and emotions, eventually your efforts may pay off.\n\n## Keeping Track of Your Communication Style\n\nSometimes when you attempt to change a behavior, it's helpful to keep a journal or a log of your progress. This can help you stay focused and also help you determine what's been helpful in certain situations and what hasn't. You can use the format below.\n\nSituation. Describe what the controlling perfectionist did to upset you. Did this person make you the target of a critical remark? Did this person put you down in front of friends or family? Was this person especially critical of your work or something you did for him or her? Did this person make some kind of outlandish demand that was beyond your capabilities?\n\nMy response. Paraphrase your response and note any observations about the way in which you made it. Did you stutter and stammer as you attempted to find your words? Did you speak quietly, or did you shout?\n\nType of response. Given all the types of communication discussed in this chapter, how might you characterize your response? Was it an attempt at collaborative communication, assertive communication, sound bites, or hit-and-run communication? Were you sticking to your guns and repeating something you've said before? Did the strategy you chose seem effective? Or, if you didn't choose a strategy, was this an example of bottling up or blowing up?\n\nWhat I wish I had said. If you had the opportunity to relive the situation, what would you have said and how would you have expressed yourself? What strategy might have worked better?\n\nFollowing are two example entries.\n\nEstablishing better communication with the controlling perfectionist in your life may be difficult but not impossible. It does require persistence and patience on your part and a willingness to try out some of the strategies that we've discussed in this chapter. Again, please remember that what may work in one situation may not work in another, so think of these strategies as a tool kit: sometimes you may need to try a screwdriver, while at other times you may need a hammer; whatever you try, keep in mind the experimental nature of your efforts at better communication.\n\nIn the next chapter we discuss ways to manage interpersonal relationships with controlling perfectionists who may be among your friends or family members.\nChapter 7\n\n# Handling Controlling Perfectionists in Romantic Relationships, Family Life, and Friendships\n\nIn this chapter, we cover several problems you'll most likely encounter when involved with a controlling perfectionist, explain how these manifest in different types of relationships, and illustrate how to deal with them effectively. There are a few keys to success here that you should keep in mind.\n\nFirst, remember that controlling perfectionists are often blind to their problems, as mentioned in the introduction. Although it may be tempting to do so, trying to explain to them that they have a problem they need to fix is unlikely to do you any good. Even if you sense the moment is ripe for you to educate the controlling perfectionist or to argue for change, resist. Concentrate instead on your own behaviors and trying to transform the nature of the relationship rather than the controlling perfectionist.\n\nSecond, bear in mind the saying \"If you always do what you did, you will always get what you got.\" To deal better with a controlling perfectionist you'll most likely have to do something different than you've been doing. Many of the strategies offered here might make you feel uncomfortable at first; they'll stretch you at times. Even if you don't \"get it right\" immediately, don't be too concerned; just be persistent and the changes will eventually pay off.\n\nFinally, be prepared to accept small or no changes at first, and be determined to keep on trying. Stick with the plan and eventually you'll get some results. There might also be some consolation in the idea that even though change isn't coming quickly, you're doing the best you possibly can under the circumstances.\n\n(Note: if you have a perfectionistic and controlling sibling, in this chapter \"friendships\" probably best describes your relationship.)\n\n## Emotional Constrictiveness and a Lack of Affectionate Expression\n\nControlling perfectionists feel that they must be in control of their emotions at all times. Losing their cool is anathema to them, because it can lead to improprieties and mistakes. They hold fervently to the idea that everyone should maintain perfect control and be in possession of their sensibilities at all times.\n\nIn Romantic Relationships\n\nThe emotional tone that controlling perfectionists seem to prefer is one of polite restraint; this is particularly true regarding public displays of affection. Your perfectionistic and controlling partner may be reluctant to kiss or hold hands when in company or out and about.\n\nThis quality considerably manifests itself in sexual relationships. Controlling perfectionists may be giving and attentive lovers because they feel that satisfying their partners' sexual needs is the right thing to do. But they may lack creativity, passion, spontaneity, and adventurousness. Or they may be attentive in areas in which they feel a good lover should be but not necessarily give their partners what they desire.\n\nIn women, the need for self-control and thus the refusal to surrender to passion often results in an inability to obtain an orgasm. Nevertheless, a perfectionistic and controlling woman may continue to perform her sexual \"duties,\" believing that a good wife or girlfriend should do these types of things regardless of the lack of pleasure and satisfaction it affords her. She may begin to harbor resentments, however, due to not getting what she feels she deserves. Often she won't give voice to this displeasure because, in her mind, this would make her a bad wife or girlfriend. Thus sex for her becomes more and more of a chore. Further, her sexual frustration may boil over into other areas of the relationship.\n\nA perfectionistic and controlling man may believe that his partner's emotional desires for sexual connectivity and intimacy are unreasonable. He might, for example, totally ignore foreplay that includes intimate talking and affectionate touching. Perfectionistic and controlling men also often don't see the connection between their constant criticism of their partners' imperfections and their partners' lack of sexual desire for them. They're often blind to the fact that someone who has been carped on all day long probably won't be sexually available later on.\n\nSex with a controlling perfectionist is often complicated by other aspects of his or her perfectionism as well. Due to a fear of moral transgression\u2014believing that certain sexual acts are evil or perverted\u2014controlling perfectionists may refuse to explore ways to enhance their sex life or better satisfy their partners. They might claim, for example, that oral sex is \"unnatural.\" This is particularly true of the puritanical compulsive subtype (see chapter 1). Yet another barrier to sexual intimacy is the fact that many controlling perfectionists are neat freaks. The natural fluids and odors involved during lovemaking can be repugnant to a controlling perfectionist. The need to clean up before and immediately after sex can severely damage the spontaneity of a good sex life.\n\nFinally, one of the more recent findings about controlling perfectionists is that they're \"intimacy phobic,\" as discussed in chapter 2. A good sex life will often bring couples closer together, and for exactly this reason controlling perfectionists often avoid sex. Intimacy and a close partnership, to controlling perfectionists, mean giving up a good deal of control. The thought of having to do things their partners' way can be very frightening to controlling perfectionists; they may fear that their partners' needs will overwhelm them. Also, intimacy naturally involves sharing truths and expressing true feelings\u2014here controlling perfectionists feel too vulnerable. As explained in chapter 1, controlling perfectionism is often a means of covering up one's own inadequacies or unacceptable desires, so controlling perfectionists don't want to feel pressure to open up and reveal their secrets. To express who they really are would shatter the facade and subject them to judgment themselves.\n\nIn Family Life\n\nEmotional constrictiveness often expresses itself in controlling perfectionists' attitudes toward their children. Controlling perfectionists are highly reserved and proper when relating to their children. They may, for example, assert that people shouldn't use baby talk with infants and toddlers but rather teach them proper English and grammar. Or they may think that tickling children will just turn them into ridiculously silly humans. They may criticize their children for acting silly or even joyful.\n\nThis aversion to the overt expression of emotions may often lead controlling perfectionists to avoid fun family gatherings or to avoid participating in any type of spontaneous play. Rather than partake in such activities, they usually prefer to retreat to the office, the garage, or anyplace else.\n\n_Glenn, a controlling perfectionist who had a wife and three young children, dreaded his days off from work. This was particularly true in the summertime, when his family would drag him to the local water park. He went only because otherwise he'd feel guilty for not spending time with them, yet the whole time he'd sit on the sidelines as his family \"splashed around like a bunch of idiots and shrieked like a bunch of wild animals.\" His harsh criticism of their joyful abandon was due to his feeling humiliated at his inability to let down his composure and similarly lose himself in having fun._\n\nIn Friendships\n\nA controlling perfectionist with whom you share a friendship may constantly tell you to do such things as lower your voice, stop arguing, settle down, and be rational, pointing out just how embarrassing it is for both of you when you lose self-control.\n\nControlling perfectionists value thought, analysis, and ideas\u2014particularly moralistic or rule-oriented ideas\u2014much more than they do emotions. For example, it wouldn't be unusual for a controlling perfectionist, when watching a particularly emotional part of a movie, to comment on the excellent cinematography and directorial qualities of the scene while you and others in the theater are sobbing helplessly.\n\nIt's rare to find a controlling perfectionist who's emotionally engaged with friends, family, and siblings. Controlling perfectionists' relationships tend to be formal in nature. They can be quite dutiful toward their friends and others while still maintaining distance and independence. For sure they'll remember birthdays and other significant events and holidays. They'd never forget to send a birthday greeting or to visit a friend in the hospital and may even meet for lunch from time to time. They may send out periodic e-mails or electronic greeting cards. They might share things they like, such as jokes or links to videos on YouTube, on a regular basis. They might even lend money and offer excellent advice when their friends or family members are in trouble. But they may be quite stingy with their time and insist on not becoming too involved. They may make sure that they have plenty of time in between actual physical contacts and that these contacts are relatively short in duration, allowing them to keep their freedom. They may silently resent being asked to do favors or chores for their friends and loved ones and might even look to get even for it somehow in the future.\n\n## Handling Emotional Constrictiveness and Lack of Affectionate Expression\n\nBear in mind that controlling perfectionists view an emotional display as a sign of weakness, a loss of self-control. Your insisting that they become more emotional will never work; they'll only harden their resistance and vehemently defend themselves against the unmerited criticism on your part. Most likely you'll have an argument on your hands as they extol the virtues of reason over passion and self-control over wanton emotional abandon. Or, if you're more fortunate, they might admit that they'll never feel the need to be as close as you do and will never be as emotional as you are and that's just the way they are.\n\nTo make an emotional connection with the controlling perfectionist in your life, consider looking for and taking advantage of teachable moments in which you have the opportunity to respond positively to a spontaneous and unsolicited show of emotion. You might not feel that the controlling perfectionist is expressing emotion, because it will be a rudimentary effort at best, so be alert to even the most minor of displays. Try to avoid commenting on the fact that this person is actually expressing emotion\u2014statements like \"Oh\u2014I see you have feelings\" and \"I'm so excited over the progress you're making in showing your emotions\" usually serve only to embarrass controlling perfectionists. Instead, when these teachable moments occur, be warm, accepting, and a very good listener. A controlling perfectionist who slowly learns that he or she can express a little emotion without being attacked, ridiculed, or made to feel foolish will be much more willing to risk expressing _more_ emotion.\n\nLook for progress, not total transformation, and be grateful for small gains. Be willing to go slowly. Finally, bear in mind that even with practice and encouragement, a controlling perfectionist will most likely never be as emotionally expressive as you are.\n\nExample: Romantic Relationship\n\n_One night Sam was speaking with his perfectionistic and controlling wife, Bela. She and Sam had had a particularly good day, and she'd let down her guard a little because it was late and she was tired. Because Bela's birthday was coming up, Sam asked her what she wanted for her birthday, when suddenly her face saddened. \"You know,\" she said. \"The best birthday that I ever had was one on which I never received one single present. I was away at college, and everybody sent me a birthday card with no gifts. But each card was so heartfelt and genuine. I felt so very loved!\" Sam recognized that Bela's expressing emotion as she reminisced created a teachable moment. He made a statement how it was nice to have good friends and how important they were, which led to a discussion about how important their friends were in their lives and how much they loved and cared for them. They went on to have a very affectionate night of lovemaking, which was a real breakthrough for them at the time._\n\nExample: Family Life/Friendship\n\n_For most of their lives, largely due to their parents' fighting as they were growing up, Jenna had been very protective of her sister, Moira, who was three years her junior. She felt the need to control Moira's every move, giving her a steady stream of advice, mostly of a critical nature. Although a controlling perfectionist, Jenna was very well-meaning insofar as her motives were to protect her younger sister. Even after their parents divorced and Moira came into young adulthood, the nature of this relationship persisted._\n\n_Moira, however, wanted a more real type of relationship with her sister, one that involved closeness, openness, and intimacy._\n\n_During one family celebration, the two of them were working together in the kitchen. In a rare moment, Jenna told Moira: \"You're a big help. I've always appreciated your willingness to jump in and do your share.\" Moira, seeing this as a teachable moment, told her sister that she appreciated all of her input and help. Jenna grew tearful; she'd never thought that Moira appreciated her help. The two embraced and promised to do more things together. They began by having weekly lunches in which they celebrated their \"new relationship.\"_\n\n## Control Issues\n\nControlling perfectionists want to be in control all the time, in large part due to their lack of confidence in their abilities. Their lack of genuine self-confidence engenders a constant need to be seen as capable. They don't like surprises, because events they're unprepared for shake their sense of control. Furthermore, they don't trust other people to do anything they could do themselves\u2014if someone else is in control, there's a fear that this person won't do things exactly right or to the controlling perfectionist's high standards. Bear in mind that controlling perfectionists feel inadequate, and only through perfectionism can they feel certain that they're \"getting it right.\"\n\nIn Romantic Relationships\n\nRather than risk spending too much money by allowing his wife to purchase a couch, a perfectionistic and controlling husband will insist on purchasing it himself. Rather than let her husband get the children ready for school and risk a potentially embarrassing situation, such as sending their children to school without their homework\u2014which, for a controlling perfectionist, could be a catastrophe\u2014a perfectionistic and controlling wife will insist on getting the children ready herself.\n\n_Ryan, a controlling perfectionist, was talking to his psychologist. \"I just don't get her,\" he said. \"What wife wouldn't want a new car? And yet, when I bring it home, she's all over my case. It seems that I should have allowed her to choose the kind of car that she wanted. I got her red; she wanted blue. I got a sun roof; she wanted a convertible. I just can't seem to get this right. She tells me I'm controlling, but hey, does she know how to pick out a car? What does she know? She doesn't care about anti-swerve, four-wheel drive if she gets stuck in the snow, and she'd get the stupid stereo package that sounds like crap. Now she's not talking to me. Any other woman would appreciate what I was trying to do for her.\"_\n\nRyan failed to understand, as most controlling perfectionists do, that no one likes feeling as if their input is unwelcome, especially in a marriage. Perhaps Ryan _is_ better at picking out cars, but it's obvious that his wife would want to have some say. She's more upset with Ryan's consistent need to control her. The marriage most likely has reached the point where material things matter less than doing things together does.\n\nIn a partnership or marriage, the need to control usually leads a controlling perfectionist to take on the lion's share of duties and chores. At first you might be overjoyed at the prospect of not having to do some chore that the controlling perfectionist takes off your hands, but be aware that controlling perfectionists will overload themselves, burning the candle at both ends and ramping up their stress levels, as a result becoming even more irritable and critical. Not surprisingly, controlling perfectionists, as mentioned in chapter 2, often battle stress-related disorders, such as chronic headaches, gastrointestinal problems, and back problems. TMJ, a condition due to tension in the jaw, is not uncommon among controlling perfectionists. Additionally, controlling perfectionists are prone to anxiety and mood disorders, such as panic attacks, excessive worrying, and depression.\n\nIn Family Life\n\n_Sarah participated in a party in her daughter's kindergarten classroom where there were a number of structured activities that the parents could do together with their children. Many of these activities were craft oriented. Sarah completed every craft without exception on her own, without her daughter's input, as her daughter just watched. The idea that the activity should be done perfectly was more important to Sarah than was the idea of collaborating on a project and enjoying each other's company._\n\nAs in this example, some parents seem to constantly be doing things for their children that instead they could do _with_ their children or their children could do by themselves. These parents tend to hover over their children, trying to control every aspect of their children's lives. Such \"helicopter parents\" dictate and interfere with their children's activities, friendships, clothing, and academic decisions and just about anything else they feel that they can or should control. They're constant advocates for their children, and when their children are accused of any wrongdoing they rush to defend them, regardless of whether the children might actually be misbehaving or in the wrong. If a child has a disagreement with peers, the helicopter parent will butt in; if the child has problems in the classroom, the helicopter parent will demand satisfaction from the administration, even to the point of moving the child out of a particular teacher's class. Helicopter parents are a growing concern among educators and other professionals who work with children.\n\nAside from the headaches they cause for other adults, the problem with these parents is that they don't allow children to make their own decisions, stick up for themselves, or accept the consequences of their wrongdoing, thereby robbing them of valuable life experiences. They don't prepare their children to be adults who cope with their own problems; thus these children will have a tendency to always need the type of help that the helicopter parent gives and in fact feel entitled to have things done for them (see for example Honore 2008).\n\nAs their children grow up, helicopter parents have been known to actually call their children's employers, decide on roommates for them, and select their colleges and even their spouses. When one young woman began to date at age twenty-two, her perfectionistic and controlling mother insisted on driving her, in spite of the fact that her daughter had her own driver's license. (See Gibbs 2009 for more on helicopter parents, in a Time.com article.)\n\nIn Friendships\n\nControlling perfectionists would control everything if they had the strength. They feel that they're the only ones who can do things right, whether it's choosing where to go camping, packing the gear and supplies, selecting the route, or driving to the campsite. The obvious problem with this is that _you_ don't get to do things. The controlling perfectionist ends up doing everything, leaving you feeling isolated. Opportunities for the two of you to interact through collaboration are sacrificed to the perfectionist's need for control. Sharing, one of the key components in any close relationship, is neglected. Alternatively, when you do things, the controlling perfectionist makes it seem as if you're not up to the task, picks apart your approach, or finds something to complain about later; as a result you feel inferior.\n\n## Handling Control Issues\n\nProbably one of the most important strategies here is to simply speak up and assert your right to control the things that you need to control. It's important that you don't give up control of the things that affect you the most, especially the things the controlling perfectionist can't ultimately control. As we stated in a previous chapter, people can't control the way you behave when you're not with them\u2014for example, unless you work for your parents, your parents can't control what you do when you're at work or with friends. They might tell you that you should do certain things at work or talk to your friends in a certain manner, but of course they can't control what you actually do.\n\nSometimes you have to take a stand to reinforce this idea. This isn't always easy. Most likely there will always be something extra that you have to do\u2014some cost you have to pay.\n\nExample: Romantic Relationship\n\n_George worked at home, operating a business out of the spare bedroom. His wife, Leia, would continually interfere with his work, often insisting that he leave \"the office\" to do something for her. George decided to take a stand to assert his right to control his own business. He told Leia that the next time she did that, he'd leave and rent a hotel room for the day so he could accomplish his work. He was good to his word, and though it made Leia furious, over the next few weeks, every time she interfered, he'd follow through with getting a hotel room. Finally, when she realized that he'd stick to his guns no matter what, Leia promised she'd no longer interfere._\n\nNote in this example that George had to pay a price both in terms of money and in having to contend with his wife's anger. This may seem unfair\u2014you shouldn't have to be the one to make sacrifices\u2014but it's a typical cost of making changes.\n\nExample: Family Life\n\n_Tiara was in tenth grade. Whenever she spoke on her cell phone at home, her father would constantly tell her how to talk to whomever she was speaking with. After many failed attempts to get him to stop, she'd lock herself in her bedroom whenever she spoke on her cell phone. Her father was very angry at first, but when he realized that Tiara wouldn't budge, he soon gave up and she was able to have phone conversations in front of him._\n\nWhere control is an issue, you may find it best to do a lot of things separately. For example, if your spouse continues to control the household spending without your input, you'd do well to create separate checking accounts. If you and your roommate are attending an event for which he insists on arriving a half hour early, and as you go about getting ready he harasses you for fear of being late, you'd do well to take separate cars. Many people don't like doing things separately, because it makes them feel less like a couple, less like family, or less like friends. Yet there will always be some things that you have to do separately in a relationship, especially with a controlling perfectionist. Controlling perfectionists will often complain bitterly at your first attempts to do things separately and then most likely increase their efforts to control you. But if you stick to your guns and don't budge, they'll get used to it.\n\nThe \"disconnect\" when you do things separately may feel threatening to your relationship. However, you can convey your wish to maintain the relationship and even strengthen it by simply \"reconnecting\" in areas that don't involve control issues. In other words, disconnect in areas in which the other person is trying to control you, and reconnect in other areas. Exactly what these areas are may differ in every relationship\u2014we can't tell you what they'd be for you and the controlling perfectionist in your life\u2014but if you look, you'll find them.\n\nExample: Romantic Relationship\n\n_Bill couldn't help trying to control how his wife, Catherine, cleaned the house. Whenever she tried to clean with him around, his bossiness made her feel like a servant. One of Bill and Catherine's favorite things to do, on the other hand, was sit down and have a cup of coffee together. So in the mornings before Bill left for work, rather than do any cleaning, Catherine (who stayed at home) would share a cup of coffee and talk with him. She'd wait to clean until later, when he wasn't there to criticize her._\n\nExample: Family Life\n\n_Crystal would try to interfere every time Arturo tried to teach the children something, usually some sports skill. She'd constantly tell him what to say to them and correct him if she thought he was wrong. Arturo learned to simply make sure that he taught the children these things when she wasn't around. But he'd also invite her to participate in their roughhousing and playing backyard football._\n\nExample: Friendship\n\n_Two men, childhood friends named Charlie and Herb, had a monthly ritual of meeting each other for dinner. Both men were reasonably successful and enjoyed good food and wine. However, Charlie, a controlling perfectionist, would continually offer advice on how Herb should treat his wife. Charlie claimed to know best because he knew more about women and also had watched Herb grow up and thus knew what \"made him tick.\" When Herb protested the criticism and unwelcome comments, Charlie told him that he'd just have to \"man up\" and accept advice once in a while and not be such a baby. After a while, Herb simply canceled the dinners. He told Charlie that he'd be happier if the two of them went to sporting events and movies instead (activities that limited opportunities for conversation)._\n\nExercise: Disconnecting and Reconnecting\n\nIdentify the areas in which you wish to disconnect with the controlling perfectionist in your life and those in which you'd like to connect.\n\n_I would like to disconnect from these following areas in which this person tries to control me:_\n\n  1. ___________\n  2. ___________\n  3. ___________\n\n_I would like to connect, or better connect, with this person in the following areas:_\n\n  1. ___________\n  2. ___________\n  3. ___________\n\nAs hinted at previously, one of the things that controlling perfectionists want to control is the level of intimacy in relationships. They prefer to keep people at arm's length. You may be used to your suggestions to do things that would bring you and the controlling perfectionist closer together being rebuffed or met with excuses (for example, \"I really don't think I can go to the movies with you tonight; I have too much work to do\").\n\nAn excellent skill to develop in this area is being able to make good \"invitations to intimacy\" that lead to quality time together. You'll be more successful in this endeavor if you follow a few guiding principles.\n\nFirst, don't spring anything on the controlling perfectionist, because most likely this person doesn't like having little or no time to prepare. So give some notice.\n\nSecond, be sure to invite the controlling perfectionist to do something that you'd both like to do. For example, if your boyfriend hates to shop, don't invite him shopping! If you can't find something that you both like to do, go down to your local bookstore or library together. Just about anything fun has at least one book or magazine dedicated to it. Your first activity together could be finding an activity that you'd both like to do together, whether beekeeping, brewing beer, building gazebos, starting a business, exploring bicycle or jogging trails, doing yoga, playing games, or crafting.\n\nThird, suggest that the controlling perfectionist can do his or her own thing afterward or even before. This is a way to reassure the controlling perfectionist that you aren't trying to seize control of his or her life.\n\nHere are some examples:\n\n  * \"Hey, I know you've been busy training for your marathon and doing computer research, but we haven't hung out in over a month. I miss you, buddy! So listen. There's an excellent wine-tasting event at the winery on Saturday afternoon. Let's go together. I think they have the wines there that we both like. You have all Saturday morning to work on your computer project, and afterward you can go jogging. What do you think?\"\n  * \"The kids are staying over at their grandmother's this Wednesday night. We have the TV all to ourselves, and there's a Matt Damon double feature on. I'll clean the kitchen and make us a nice dinner while you're at the gym. I might even give you a great foot massage. What do you say?\"\n  * \"There's a boat show next Sunday morning. Remember how we were talking about possibly buying a sailboat? They have all types there. I think it's free admission. That would give you the whole rest of the weekend to finish your work in the garage.\"\n\nFinally, don't forget that you have another option: you can join the controlling perfectionist in some of the activities that this person already does. This isn't a perfect solution, but at least you get to spend some time together. If your father watches a lot of baseball, for example, watch a game with him. If your friend is constantly at the gym, maybe you can join her from time to time. Choose an activity that you don't mind or that you've never tried\u2014you might come to like it. Try to keep in mind not to take over the activity or intrude on the controlling perfectionist's freedom, however.\n\n## Perfectionism\n\nFrom sexual performance, to keeping house, to making home repairs, to throwing birthday parties, controlling perfectionists must excel in all areas. This of course puts great pressure on controlling perfectionists and puts them in an almost constant state of bad humor as they focus all of their energy on whatever task they're trying to do to perfection (\"Don't bother me now. Can't you see I'm trying to paint this chair? You made me miss a spot\").\n\nMany controlling perfectionists actually dread doing things they insist on controlling, due to the pressure their perfectionism puts on them. Therefore they can also be great procrastinators. Thus, many of their promises may go unfulfilled and many projects may go unfinished. This reluctance to undertake or finish tasks seems a major contradiction to a controlling perfectionist's personality and often baffles loved ones, who wonder, _How can such an energetic, task-oriented person take five years just to wallpaper the bathroom?_ or _She's had those copies of her r\u00e9sum\u00e9 ready for months now; when is she ever going to send them out so she can leave this miserable job she's in?_\n\nAlthough many controlling perfectionists are actually quite good at what they do, they often make a mistake called _gilding the lily_. Gilding the lily describes when someone tries to improve on (to \"gild\" means to plate with gold) something that needs no improvement (such as a lily), to destructive effect. Here are some examples:\n\n  * \"Gosh, the meat was fine the way it was, but I wanted it perfect, and now I've overcooked it. Duh!\"\n  * \"So, Robbie, let's go over this one more time. I know I've already said it four times before, but it's important, so you need to hear it again...Robbie? Robbie, where are you going?\"\n  * \"I couldn't leave well enough alone. The lawn looked beautiful, but no, I had to give it _three_ fertilizer treatments. Now it's all burned out!\"\n\nControlling perfectionists agonize over cases like these and live in perpetual doubt as to their abilities to achieve perfection. It's a lifelong struggle for them. But this need for perfectionism can lead to a deeper problem and more significant obstacle in relationships, which we discuss next.\n\n## Identity Issues\n\nAs if all this striving for perfectionism weren't bad enough, perfectionism often serves as a substitute for controlling perfectionists' true identity, as discussed in chapter 1. They move away from who they really are and substitute some idealized superperson, setting incredibly high standards that no human being can achieve, \"always striving and never arriving.\" They're never satisfied with anything they do. Because they're always doing what they feel that they _should_ do, they end up never doing what they _want_ to do. In fact, they usually see their wants as silly, trivial, or unacceptable in some way. For example, a perfectionistic and controlling young woman who really wants to be a nursery school teacher might feel as if that position is beneath her and instead strive to become a college physics teacher. Yet in doing so, she's setting herself up either for failure\u2014because she lacks the aptitude or desire to be a physics teacher\u2014or for spending a great deal of time and energy forcing herself or pretending to like her work.\n\n## Handling Perfectionism and Identity Issues\n\nBelieve it or not, you're probably uniquely positioned to help the controlling perfectionist in your life. You can help the controlling perfectionist grow as a human being and begin to let go of perfectionism by helping this person discover what he or she wants. _Really_ wants. And that would be a great benefit for the both of you, whether you're friends, family, or romantic partners.\n\nHere's how you might go about it. First, try to take notice of when the controlling perfectionist does something that he or she really enjoys. Perhaps it's roughhousing with the kids or just doodling. Maybe he always watches movies about American history. Perhaps she did something as a child, such as play a musical instrument, that she later had to give up in favor of grown-up responsibilities. Take notice of these things and try to reinforce the behavior when the controlling perfectionist does them or expresses interest in them. Although the controlling perfectionist may not be very good at doing things he or she enjoys, never make fun of him or her for it. Be encouraging. Promote the idea that there's value in simply doing something you love: it reduces stress, is good for your health, and helps you be happier and live longer.\n\nIf the controlling perfectionist expresses wants that seem silly to you\u2014for example, he wants to buy a set of matching luggage even though he never travels\u2014bear in mind that this person may be unconsciously hinting at interests. Indulging these wants may lead the way to discovering those interests\u2014perhaps he'd really like to see more of the world. Validate any fantasies, reassuring the controlling perfectionist of the great importance of such dreams.\n\nUse \"active listening\" techniques (Gordon 1987) when the controlling perfectionist talks about things he or she truly enjoys or gets excited about. For example, nod and express agreement to show that you're listening. Paraphrase back to the controlling perfectionist what he or she has said, to indicate your understanding; or ask for clarification. Be receptive and responsive to ideas and encourage even more sharing. Be nonjudgmental. After a while, the controlling perfectionist will begin to open up more and more.\n\nOne of the benefits of helping the controlling perfectionist find \"the heart's desire\" is that it gives this person a circumscribed arena in which he or she _could_ be perfect. The controlling perfectionist may not be able to be perfect in all areas, but perhaps he or she could be perfect in the area of one major interest. While this might not seem at first glance to be any kind of advantage in helping the controlling perfectionist, it is insofar as it limits the area in which the controlling perfectionist could in fact strive for perfection in a realistic manner. Demanding perfection from oneself and others is a losing proposition. Demanding perfection from oneself in a circumscribed area, let's say bowling or playing bridge, is a lot more realistic. Developing deep knowledge or great ability in one area may reduce the need to be perfect in other areas.\n\n_One controlling perfectionist discovered that he liked working in stained glass as a hobby. He did it not as a way to earn extra income or for any reason other than the sheer joy it brought him to look at the beautiful colored glass, work with a soldering iron, and hear the sharp sound of glass being cut. He strove to make more and more complex pieces, concentrating on precision and intricacy. The finished products were beautiful, and all his friends and family raved over the beauty of his creations. This helped him feel adequate and confident in his capabilities in at least one area._\n\n## Stinginess\n\nControlling perfectionists are notoriously stingy. Many controlling perfectionists like to hang on to what they have\u2014both money and possessions\u2014and in addition are very reluctant to give of any talents or skills they possess or even their spare time. While this might seem like simple selfishness, the truth is that these people are frightened that some catastrophe might strike them and they won't have enough resources to cope. Their stance thus includes, for example, that money spent on having fun is wasted\u2014you should be saving that money to prepare for the worst.\n\nOnce you realize that at the core of controlling perfectionists' stinginess is uncertainty of their ability to deal with life's ups and downs, it becomes clear why they worriedly try to manage every aspect of every situation. They're terrified that if they don't control everything, something bad might happen that they're not prepared to handle, showing them to be incapable and thus confirming their fear that they are. Therefore they must always plan far ahead and have well-stocked supplies\u2014money in their bank accounts, tools in their garages, and even plenty of extra food\u2014just in case of emergency.\n\nThe fact that controlling perfectionists don't like surprises and will almost always choose security over spontaneity leads to a curious contradiction to the famous tight-fistedness, however: just as they don't want to have to handle sudden bad fortune, neither do they welcome windfalls\u2014whether sudden good fortune or sudden increases of their resources.\n\n_Dennis and Smitty were friends who taught at the same high school. Smitty, a controlling perfectionist, was very fond of 1980s music. So when the student council decided to throw an '80s-themed dance, they approached Smitty. He agreed to take part in the planning and asked his friend Dennis to help him. Part of Smitty's role was to choose the songs that would be played. Smitty agonized over the selection of the songs\u2014he wanted them to be perfect. But the night of the dance, Smitty found that, unbeknownst to him, Dennis had chosen many of the songs to be played that night himself, in an effort to help his friend. Smitty refused to let Dennis play any of his songs, in spite of the fact that he had chosen some very good ones that Smitty had overlooked. Dennis got angrier as the night went on. \"Why don't you let me play any of my songs?\" he asked. \"Because you went behind my back and chose them without my asking you. I'm in charge of this dance, not you,\" Smitty replied._\n\nThe real reason Smitty was upset was that he didn't like surprises, even good ones. He was known to say things like \"I love pizza. But if my wife tells me we're having chicken, which I hate, I expect chicken when I get home. Even if she gives me pizza\u2014my favorite\u2014I'm upset. That's just the way I am.\" He regarded his dislike of such surprises, surprise parties, and so on as only a quirk. He lacked the insight to see that he feared surprises because he always wanted to be prepared for them, not trusting himself to adequately deal with issues without spending considerable time in preparation.\n\n## Handling Stinginess\n\nTo begin with, badgering controlling perfectionists to spend money or trying to shame them into doing so (for example, \"Our kids are the only kids in the neighborhood who are starting school without new shoes\") will be seen as a personal attack and will only harden their defenses.\n\nInstead, address the underlying cause of the need for control and stinginess: the fear of running out of resources and feeling unprepared and unequipped to deal with unexpected problems. For example, you might want to join the controlling perfectionist's strategy of setting aside money for future needs. Several weeks before the school year starts you might say, \"You know, school is starting soon and we're going to have to set aside some money for the kids to get new shoes.\" You might even address the controlling perfectionist's need to avoid unexpected problems by adding something like \"The last thing we need is our kids getting blisters and missing school or becoming the laughingstock of the neighborhood. It's certainly good to be prepared.\"\n\nYou might want to consider planning ahead for fun activities and vacations, which controlling perfectionists often deem to constitute frivolous spending. You might say: \"I think we're really getting stressed out. We're just working so much, and life is so busy. I have some time off next summer, and I know we'll both need a break then. I think we should start planning early, don't you? We don't need any vacation surprises, right? We'll both end up in the hospital if we don't take a vacation sooner or later.\" This tactic addresses the controlling perfectionist's desire to (a) plan ahead; (b) acknowledge the level of stress; (c) set aside money for a possible catastrophe; and (d) avoid surprises. You might even want to add that taking a break like a vacation is a good and healthy thing to do and that it's something that normal and happy people and families do. This will address the controlling perfectionist's need to always do the proper thing and keep up appearances.\n\n## Criticism\n\nIt almost appears that controlling perfectionists are _addicted_ to criticism. Making a criticism, it seems, alleviates controlling perfectionists' anxieties about their own insufficiencies, but only momentarily. Very soon after that, they look to make another criticism, in much the same way that a drug addict would seek another fix. We believe it's as difficult in many cases for controlling perfectionists to control their criticisms as it is for a junkie to kick the habit.\n\nIn addition to being a means of controlling others and getting them to attempt to meet perfectionistic standards, constant criticism plays an important role in helping controlling perfectionists avoid intimacy. As mentioned previously, many controlling perfectionists are \"intimacy phobic.\" Criticism pushes people away, creating distance. When a controlling perfectionist feels that you're getting too close, a well-aimed criticism knocks you back a few feet.\n\n## Handling Criticism\n\nA natural response to being criticized is to defend yourself. But remember, controlling perfectionists find it absolutely intolerable to be wrong. So when you defend yourself, a controlling perfectionist will likely respond by strengthening his or her case against you. This makes for a never-ending tug-of-war. If you're not careful in your relationship with a controlling perfectionist, you may become reduced to actually trying to find things to argue about, in the hope of winning an argument for once. The connection between you and the other person weakens as being right becomes more important than being nice to each other or simply being intimate, having fun together, or sharing quality time.\n\nIronically, people who are critical invite criticism back upon themselves. Rather than defend yourself, you may be tempted to fire off a criticism of your own, as in \"What do you mean, _I'm_ sloppy? Your car is like a trash can!\" Try to resist this urge. It will only result in more bickering, because controlling perfectionists are exquisitely sensitive and overreactive to criticism\u2014they can dish it out, but they can't take it.\n\nInstead, assert yourself. You have the right to be different and to do things your own way. Indeed, you and the controlling perfectionist _are_ very different: you have different genes, different personalities, different life stories, different experiences, different ideas, different viewpoints, different priorities, different values, and different wants. Not even identical twins are the same in every regard. People need to do things their own way. What works best for one person will not necessarily work best for another. This, of course, flies in the face of a controlling perfectionist's core belief in a single set of standards for behavior that everyone should adhere to. Be mindful of this and don't get sucked into a debate over whose way is best. Rather, talk about the way that's good for _you_. See chapter 5 whenever a reminder of your rights might be useful or you feel that you need help asserting them.\n\nUse the guidelines for assertive communication in chapter 6. Remember to simply make statements that express your thoughts, feelings, needs, and preferences; don't be aggressive or pushy.\n\nIn the following exchange, Paul is responding badly to Evelyn's criticisms.\n\n_Evelyn_ : Why do you always scratch your head when you're listening to what I say?\n\n_Paul_ : What are you, crazy? That actually bothers you?\n\n_Evelyn_ : You're the one who looks crazy; you look like you're on drugs. All you need is some saliva dripping out of your mouth.\n\n_Paul_ : _(angrily)_ I've never met anyone as critical as you. All you do is nag, nag, nag. Why can't you mind your own business? Here, look _(scratches his head at her with both hands)_.\n\n_Evelyn_ : You disgust me.\n\nHere's how Paul might assert his rights and use principles of assertive communication in the same situation.\n\n_Evelyn_ : Why do you always scratch your head when you're listening to what I say?\n\n_Paul_ : Oh, I think it's just a habit I picked up as a kid. I'm sorry that it offended you.\n\n_Evelyn_ : Well, you're an adult now, not a kid.\n\n_Paul_ : _(matter-of-factly)_ I like scratching my head\u2014it helps me concentrate. I guess we just concentrate in different ways.\n\nNote that there's nothing wrong with apologizing for offending a controlling perfectionist, as Paul did. Such an apology can pave the way for mutual understanding. But never feel as though you should apologize for being different. This is _not_ the same thing. In fact, when you apologize for causing offense, you're not labeling or saying anything about yourself at all. You're not admitting to being sloppy, lazy, or stupid, buying in to anyone's view that you are, or giving anyone any reason to see you or treat you as if you were.\n\nAn apology works particularly well when someone is criticizing you for the tiniest of behaviors, as in the following examples. Controlling perfectionists can be stunningly good at this.\n\n  * \"Must you point the remote at the TV as if it were some type of gun?\"\n  * \"Do you really have to use two towels when you take a shower?\"\n  * \"Why do you blink your eyes when someone is talking to you?\"\n\nIs it really worth going on the defense over these criticisms? Recognize that some criticisms have more weight than others. When a controlling perfectionist is criticizing you for some insignificant thing, simply say, \"Sorry,\" and forget about it.\n\nHere's another strategy. When you find yourself in a never-ending tug-of-war, \"drop the rope\" (Greenspon 2001). Let go of the point you were trying to make, let go of trying to feel justified in your views, or let go of trying to get the controlling perfectionist to acknowledge that you're right. Remember, it really doesn't matter if you're right or not; controlling perfectionists will find a way to make you wrong\u2014they _need_ to be right, to uphold their self-esteem. So, simply walk away from the struggle. It takes two people to bicker, and once you drop out of the contest, the squabbling ends.\n\nOne strategy that many people have found useful involves a process called _reframing_. Reframing is allowing yourself to think differently about something. In this case, consider that every personality trait has both a positive and a negative aspect. You already know that controlling perfectionists see only the positive aspects of their own traits. For example, where you see a controlling perfectionist as cheap, she sees herself as frugal; where you see a controlling perfectionist as intrusive, he sees himself as helpful. If a controlling perfectionist criticizes you for some trait of yours, or makes you feel that you possess some undesirable characteristic, very likely this person is seeing only the negative aspect of the trait. Instead of agreeing that your trait is a flaw that makes you less than perfect (which constant harping may lead you to believe) or arguing that it's not, try reframing your trait in a positive way. For example, if the controlling perfectionist calls you \"mushy,\" point out the benefits of being romantic. You may not at first recognize or be used to looking at the positive aspect of your trait, but figuring out how to reframe your perceived shortcoming may go a long way toward getting the controlling perfectionist off your back about it.\n\n_Bernard and Clara had been married for twenty years and had two children. Bernard was always criticizing Clara's speech and grammar. He constantly corrected her in public, which resulted in her feeling stupid and never good enough._\n\n_One day Clara was talking to her girlfriend Anita about the problem. Anita said, \"Well, we all know you're not stupid. I always thought that your speech was very creative and colorful and that you spoke from the heart.\" This stunned Clara somewhat, because she'd really never seen herself that way. As she thought about it more and more, she realized it was true. Clara had reframed the problem in her mind._\n\n_The next time Bernard criticized her, she said: \"I'm sorry you don't approve, but I am a creative and spontaneous person who likes to speak from the heart. I would rather be authentic and real than speak in correct sentences.\" Not only did this stop Clara from having to defend herself every time she spoke, but it also allowed Bernard to see his wife in a more positive manner, because he valued creativity and authenticity himself._\n\nSometimes people have found it helpful to use humor in reframing controlling perfectionists' criticisms; they might see the criticisms as a sign of a stomach ailment, looking at a criticism as a belch or a burp\u2014just some excess gas a controlling perfectionist has to release like so much hot air, making him or her feel a little better. Indeed, there may be some truth to this!\n\nFinally, keep in mind that a criticism is like a phone call. Although the phone might be ringing, you don't have to take the call! If you don't answer a criticism, you rob it of much of its effectiveness.\n\n## Issues of Neatness and Tidiness\n\nYour level of neatness and tidiness (or organization and cleanliness) is a very personal choice. There's no one standard for neatness and tidiness to which everyone must adhere. Even under the cleanest conditions, a person can always be just a little cleaner. But controlling perfectionists believe that their ideas about neatness and tidiness should be universal guidelines.\n\nThis can be a very difficult issue to address effectively, because controlling perfectionists can make some very good points about the benefits of being neat and tidy. For example: \"Put the cap on more tightly\u2014that way it won't spill\"; \"Everything needs to be put in its proper place\u2014that way you can find it.\" Such reasoning can make a good deal of sense.\n\nThe problem is not so much that controlling perfectionists value neatness and tidiness but that they take things to extremes (see chapter 1). They make organization and cleanliness one of their highest priorities. They impose their high standards of neatness and tidiness on others, even at the expense of others' feelings. It wouldn't be unusual, for example, for a controlling perfectionist to point out to someone giving him or her a gift that it hadn't been neatly wrapped, without even waiting to see how wonderful and thoughtful the gift was.\n\nIssues of neatness and tidiness are often a reflection of controlling perfectionists' inner struggles. Remember, controlling perfectionists are often conflicted, their genuine desires and emotions clashing with how they think they should feel. They may feel polluted or dirty because they harbor what they view as unacceptable, immoral, or unethical thoughts or wishes. They may feel as if they're cluttered with conflicting emotions. Maintaining a highly neat and tidy living environment becomes a way in which they can feel better about themselves. Using neatness and tidiness in this way, as a means of viewing themselves as possessing a \"clean\" (honorable, upstanding, etc.) character and thus a measure of their own worth, may lead them to assess others by the same criterion. In other words, they deceive themselves into believing that personal environment must be a reflection of character: someone who's dirty or disorganized or can't seem to uphold the same high levels of neatness and tidiness as the controlling perfectionist must not be as good.\n\n## Handling Issues of Neatness and Tidiness\n\nBear in mind that controlling perfectionists struggle with internal doubt. Much like criticism, neatness and tidiness is like an addiction, and controlling perfectionists may do everything in their power to continue this practice.\n\nSimilar to the way you might handle criticism, point out that matters involving neatness and tidiness are ones of personal preference. It might help if you bring up other ways in which you and the controlling perfectionist differ that aren't contentious issues in your relationship. For example: \"I believe that neatness is really a personal preference. It's kind of how you like to sleep ten hours a night and I need only seven hours. That's a big difference between the two of us, yet we seem able to work that out. I'm sure we can also work out these issues of neatness as well.\" Then stick to your guns. You don't have to defend yourself when accused. Don't let the controlling perfectionist lure you into carping sessions in which you're berated for a lack of hygiene or poor organizational habits.\n\n_Evelyn_ : Oh, great\u2014the magazines are all over the coffee table. It's like a ghetto in here.\n\n_Paul_ : I'm sorry the mess upset you. I can put the magazines away if you'd like. I guess neatness is just a personal preference.\n\n_Evelyn_ : Come on. Are you trying to convince me that sloppiness is a personal preference?\n\n_Paul_ : _(refusing to take the bait)_ I think we have different comfort levels regarding neatness.\n\n## A Final Note: Moving from Target to Helper\n\nAs someone in a close relationship with a controlling perfectionist, you're in a unique position to help this person if you so choose. This is not a requirement, but an option, something you can do if you feel that you can afford to be generous toward the controlling perfectionist in your life.\n\nOne way people develop healthy self-esteem and a sense of self-worth is by feeling loved simply for who they are, usually by their parents. As discussed in chapter 1, controlling perfectionists often missed out on this experience of unconditional love in childhood. While childhood is the optimal time to gain this self-esteem, unconditional love in adulthood can often provide certain experiences that make people feel valued in ways that they should have been in childhood. By consistently loving and accepting the controlling perfectionist _for who this person is_ in spite of all the rough edges, you may give the controlling perfectionist a second chance to get a feeling of self-worth and to feel validated as a human being.\n\nMost likely, controlling perfectionists are used to their behavior angering others. They may have experienced contentiousness in many relationships as a result of their perfectionistic and hypercritical nature, with a history of driving away those they care about. This only fuels their anger toward their own imperfections and worsens their insecurities.\n\nDistancing yourself from a controlling perfectionist's shenanigans while still connecting with him or her in important areas shows that you love and accept this person. This serves to validate the controlling perfectionist's true self. When controlling perfectionists find out that their true selves can really be accepted and even loved, they may feel secure enough to begin to let go of their controlling ways.\n\nIn this chapter we've covered many issues and strategies. All of this might seem overwhelming. Don't try to implement these strategies all at once. Start slowly. The best thing to do right now would be to go back and pick out some things that struck you as particularly meaningful regarding the controlling perfectionist in your life and then start there. Try one thing at a time. Review this chapter from time to time and then decide what to do next.\n\nIn the next chapter we discuss strategies for a very common situation, when a controlling perfectionist is causing you problems at work.\nChapter 8\n\n# Handling Controlling Perfectionists in the Workplace\n\nControlling perfectionists are often attracted to occupations in which precision and attention to detail are essential, such as engineering, medicine, accounting, information technology, law, law enforcement, the military, and the physical sciences. Naturally, not all doctors, lawyers, engineers, techies, or accountants are controlling perfectionists, but if you work in one of these areas, or with professionals whose jobs require similar precision and attention to detail, you may be more likely to find yourself dealing with this particular brand of \"toxic coworker\" (Cavaiola and Lavender 2000).\n\nHere are some common ways a controlling perfectionist may contribute to problems in the workplace. How many of the following describe how the controlling perfectionist treats you (or treats other people with whom you both work)?\n\n  1. This person invariably finds something wrong with your work, no matter how well you've done the work.\n  2. This person expects you to be timely when it comes to deadlines but often drags his or her own feet when it comes to turning work in on time.\n  3. When this person feels slighted or wronged in some way, he or she is very adept at using passive-aggressive maneuvers to slow down projects.\n  4. If you're having a problem or something goes wrong in your personal life, this person has difficulty showing any empathy or any type of compassionate response. Instead what you get is someone who wants only the facts (not your feelings), in order to take a problem-solving approach.\n  5. This person often gets lost in minor details, causing him or her to miss the big picture and thus interfering with task completion.\n  6. This person's rigid and moralistic thinking gets in the way of finding creative solutions to problems.\n  7. This person is a workaholic and expects you to make sacrifices in your personal life in order to work just as hard.\n  8. This person's penny-pinching gets in the way of creatively reinvesting in the organization or leads to other poor management decisions.\n\nGovernment Bureaucracy: A Haven for Controlling Perfectionists?\n\nWe probably all agree how important government regulations are when it comes to ensuring the safety of the food we eat, the medications we take, the bridges we drive over, and the electrical wiring within our homes. There are myriad federal, state, and local agencies and regulators that administer and enforce the rules and regulations that help keep us safe. However, we're all too familiar with the debacles that occur when government regulators exert their control at the expense of common sense.\n\nOn a local level, we knew a caf\u00e9 owner who wanted to make use of some shared courtyard space to offer outside seating in the warmer months. The landlord agreed, and the neighboring shop owners were also in favor of the idea, knowing that the caf\u00e9's success would bring more customers to their shops. The township inspector, however, rejected the plan outright, citing some town ordinance pertaining to people eating food outdoors. The caf\u00e9 owner eventually moved her business to another town, where she could offer outside seating. The landlord of the old location had trouble renting the vacated space, and eventually the shops failed.\n\n## Six Tips for Survival\n\nSo how do you keep your stress level from going through the roof? How do you put up with insults, criticism, and snide remarks that make you want to reach across the controlling perfectionist's desk and strangle this person? How do you bite your tongue when you want to give someone a taste of his or her own medicine? Sounds like a tall order, doesn't it? Here are six key things that you need to remember in order to survive.\n\n  1. **Don't show your frustration or anger.** As discussed in earlier chapters, often controlling perfectionists live in a world of facts, not feelings, so expressing your anger or frustration will get you nowhere. Some controlling perfectionists may even take pleasure in getting you riled up, so it's best not to react. Stay cool, calm, and collected, and stick to the facts. This is perhaps the toughest thing on the list.\n  2. **Don't allow your doubts to override your self-confidence.** By remaining cool in the face of fire or criticism, you portray yourself as someone who's confident, who's centered, and who can rise above petty insults and criticisms. An air of confidence will also help keep you above office politics.\n  3. **Respond using assertive communication.** Review the principles of better communication from chapter 6. As an example, let's assume that you've just been criticized in front of your colleagues. Instead of lashing out or becoming defensive, you can make a simple statement: \"Oh, I didn't realize the information was not up to date; thanks for the corrections\"; \"Thanks for the correction\u2014I must have gotten my figures wrong.\" What you're doing here is modeling an appropriate, mature adult response while indirectly upholding your rights.\n  4. **Don't expect to be able to please this person.** Never forget that controlling perfectionists are impossible to please, so don't get fooled into thinking that you'll be able to obtain any accolades or praise from this person.\n\n  * **Don't suffer in silence.** One reaction to being bullied is to grin and bear it, in the hope that the bully will soon choose to pick on someone else. Yet if you let someone in the organization know that you're dissatisfied with how you're being treated, this may help you feel supported. Ask that this information be kept confidential, and don't expect that any action will be taken in the short term. However, chances are that others in the organization are also displeased with the controlling perfectionist. If enough people complain, decision makers may take notice, which leads us to our final point.\n  * **Don't give up!** If a controlling perfectionist is making your life miserable, chances are this person is making others' lives miserable too. Controlling perfectionists tend to rankle many people sooner or later and to burn bridges, setting the stage for their eventual leaving or being let go. So hang in there. Maintain your focus. Let _others_ fuss and fume.\n  * Let's look at some examples of making these survival tips work.\n\n_Stan worked for a large human resources management firm as a talent manager, or headhunter. He'd been with the company for about fifteen years and was regarded as a top performer. Recently, a new vice president, Paula, had been brought in to act as supervisor to Stan and several of his colleagues._\n\n_What became evident after only a few weeks to not only Stan but also his coworkers was that Paula was a micromanager with a punch-clock mentality. This infuriated Stan, and he began to feel the stress of his interactions with Paula. Over the course of the next few months Stan became so stressed that he nearly quit after an argument with Paula. His blood pressure was through the roof, and his physician told him that if he didn't find a way to manage his stress, he was heading for a stroke or a heart attack._\n\n_Stan decided to take a couple of weeks off but knew that he'd just be facing the same problems when he returned, so he sought counseling. In his counseling sessions, Stan learned that there was no way to please Paula and that she wasn't going to change. Stan also had to accept that the way he was being treated was unfair but that everyone faces many injustices. As in the well-known Serenity Prayer, Stan learned to try to change injustices when he could but also accept those things he couldn't change. With this new outlook, Stan decided that he'd continue to do the best job he could under the circumstances. Within a year, Paula was offered a severance package after getting into a disagreement with the CEO._\n\n_Barbara knew from the time she was in high school that she wanted to be an elementary school teacher. She loved kids and loved her many babysitting jobs when she was in middle school and high school. In college she did well in all of her education classes and did such a great job in her student teaching assignment that she was hired as soon as she graduated._\n\n_Barbara came to her first teaching assignment brimming with new ideas and a passion for teaching. She wanted every one of her students to feel appreciated and to gain a love of learning. In her third-grade classroom Barbara used a lot of positive reinforcement techniques, one of which was \"the Goodie Box,\" a box containing a lot of small, inexpensive toys, games, and puzzles that her students could choose from when they got a good grade on a test. The kids in her class loved the Goodie Box, and it was a good motivator._\n\n_Then the assistant principal caught wind of what Barbara was doing. The enthusiasm of Barbara's students and the rapport she had with the class irked the assistant principal, who believed that children should learn because they have to, not because they're going to get some kind of reward. The assistant principal decided to put an end to the Goodie Box, using the argument that it contained toys that the children could choke on or otherwise harm themselves with. Because the assistant principal was known to be very difficult to get along with and a tough taskmaster\u2014someone you wouldn't want to make an enemy out of\u2014Barbara didn't let her anger or frustration show. Instead, she tried to calmly argue her point, knowing all along that there was no way of winning the assistant principal over._\n\n_As it turns out, one of Barbara's students was the daughter of the school board president, and when she told her parents that the Goodie Box was being taken away, the school board president called Barbara, who explained the situation without attacking or demeaning the assistant principal. The next week, Barbara was given approval to bring the Goodie Box back to the classroom as long as some \"dangerous\" items were removed._\n\nBoth Stan and Barbara were at the mercy of controlling perfectionists, to the point at which their work was being affected and they had become demoralized. As mentioned earlier, controlling perfectionists have a knack for making people miserable and often affect the morale of everyone in the workplace. There were many different strategies that Stan or Barbara could have employed, some more direct and proactive, others less so. Stan was at a point of exasperation and physical collapse, so he needed to make internal changes because there was no way he was going to change Paula or her view of him. So it was incumbent on Stan to change in order to survive, which is basically what he did. Barbara took a more direct approach by trying to defend her position to the assistant principal even though she knew it would fall on deaf ears. She could have told someone else in the administration about her dissatisfaction, but as a new teacher, Barbara knew she was up against a formidable opponent who could sabotage her application for tenure. Yet as is often the case, the controlling perfectionist made many people feel treated unfairly, not just Barbara. One of these people happened to be the daughter of the school board president, so fortunately Barbara didn't have to plead her case further.\n\nBoth Stan and Barbara had an overriding goal, which was to outlast the controlling perfectionist and keep their job. What these examples also have in common is that in each one the controlling perfectionist was either a boss or an administrator. But what if the controlling perfectionist causing problems in your workplace is a subordinate or someone who reports to you? You may think, _Just fire the person, right?_ However, this isn't as easy as it sounds, as illustrated in the following case. Here the six tips for survival can guide you as well.\n\n_When Alex, a supervisor at a large accounting firm, hired Laura as a contract employee, it seemed like a match made in heaven. Laura had just finished her bachelor's degree and was hoping to begin an MBA program with the eventual goal of taking the CPA exam and starting her own accounting practice. Laura seemed highly motivated and picked up on things quickly. Alex was also very enthusiastic about Laura's ability to work independently._\n\n_Soon, however, things began to fall apart. Laura was a workaholic who would spend countless hours at the office and began to snoop around for ways to derail Alex so that she could secure a permanent position in the company. She'd criticize Alex's work to his superiors and make comments when he was even a few minutes late for work, even though he was late only when he took his father to chemotherapy sessions. She began to try to convince the senior partner to bring her on full-time in her own department (which would have been in direct competition with Alex's department) by telling him that she'd do a much better job than Alex was doing._\n\n_Alex caught wind of Laura's comments and her meeting with the senior partner through one of the office managers. When Alex first found out, he wanted to fire Laura on the spot, but he didn't want to overreact and have others see him as thin-skinned. He also had no real grounds for firing her, given her exemplary performance, and he didn't want to risk a wrongful termination suit. He decided it best to bide his time and wait for the right moment to speak with the senior partner about moving Laura to another office. When he did finally meet with the senior partner, he defended himself against Laura's criticisms and discussed some strategies for how best to move Laura out of the main office or, preferably, how to move her out totally._\n\nNot only was Laura a workaholic, but also she had incredible hubris (thinking _I can do Alex's job better than he can_ ), which may be common to some controlling perfectionists. The problem with Laura was that she also wasn't swayed by compassion, which would tell her that it's not right to destroy the career of someone who's been a mentor. Rather than being of help to Alex when taking his father to chemotherapy made him late, she took advantage of the situation. This is a good example of where a controlling perfectionist's rigid view of morality becomes warped. Rather than doing the right thing by supporting her boss, Laura saw Alex's situation as an opportunity to advance her own career. Alex did the right thing by not acting in anger, staying confident, bringing attention to the problem, and defending himself but not to the controlling perfectionist.\n\nIn this chapter we'll separately examine strategies for dealing with perfectionistic and controlling administrators or bosses, coworkers, and employees or subordinates.\n\nExamples from Movies and TV of Controlling Perfectionists in the Workplace\n\nHollywood has supplied us with some wonderful examples of controlling perfectionists in the workplace. Adaptations of _A Christmas Carol_ have made Ebenezer Scrooge, discussed in chapter 1, perhaps the best known, but there are many others.\n\nIn the film _The Devil Wears Prada_ (2006), Meryl Streep plays the mistress of all controlling perfectionists, Miranda Priestly,\n\nwho psychologically tortures and verbally abuses all in her path, most notably her intern, played by Anne Hathaway. Indeed, Anne Hathaway's character provides us with some good examples of how to stay grounded and how to stand up to such bosses (although it took her a while to learn how to play the game).\n\nAnother excellent example is found in the two _Wall Street_ films, most notably the first (1987). In these films no one dares stand up to Michael Douglas's master of controlling perfectionists, the all-powerful Gordon Gekko. Gekko also embodies many narcissistic traits often found among perfectionistic and controlling bosses.\n\nIn the TV series _Damages,_ Glenn Close is Patty Hewes, an attorney who will stop at nothing to win. Hewes is not only a masterful control freak who has all of her associates quaking in their boots, but also someone who seems to lack any sort of conscience or morals, like a sociopath. After all, the ends justify the means, in Hewes's perverse view of the world.\n\nWhat all these characters have in common is that they will stop at nothing to attain the perfect deal or to accomplish their goals. Their need for perfection and control becomes their undoing and their eventual downfall.\n\nA funny and less sinister controlling perfectionist is Dwight Schrute, played by Rainn Wilson, in the American TV series _The Office_. Dwight is in constant competition with his coworker Jim to become heir apparent to boss Michael Scott. When Dwight is promoted to assistant manager, his controlling nature goes into overdrive.\n\n## Handling a Perfectionistic and Controlling Administrator or Boss\n\nAs mentioned in chapter 1, it's not unusual for controlling perfectionists to be drawn to positions of power. In addition, a controlling perfectionist's preoccupation with rules, regulations, and structure and overemphasis on productivity and efficiency may be seen as desirable traits or strengths, especially in certain occupations. Yet, as we've so often seen, controlling perfectionists often don't work well with others. This is often their downfall.\n\nThe importance of working well with others was demonstrated in a landmark study by Robert Kelley and Janet Caplan (1993) in which they studied the differences between average and star performers working in top scientific positions at Bell Labs. One of the characteristics of the star performers was their ability to interact and get along well with others\u2014in other words, their people skills. So it's no wonder that controlling perfectionists can be their own worst enemy when it comes to being flexible and working cooperatively. When it comes to real career advancement, _cooperation_ , not control, is the name of the game. Unfortunately, this message is lost on most controlling perfectionists.\n\nWorking for a controlling perfectionist is very much a day-to-day struggle. This person may on some days be cordial and friendly and on other days drag you through the mud with one demeaning criticism after another. If your administrator or boss's unpredictability has you feeling like you're on an emotional roller coaster, we recommend that you stay grounded by focusing more on tasks that you need to accomplish than on trying to appease this person.\n\nBelow we list some problem behaviors that you may encounter with a perfectionistic and controlling administrator or boss and offer a strategy or strategies to help you deal with each one.\n\nProblem. Your administrator or boss is reluctant to entrust you with assignments and tasks, preferring to do everything him or herself.\n\nStrategies. Start small. Rather than an entire assignment, request that your administrator or boss give you some specific part of an assignment to work on. This way, you can prove your worth and competence. Here's the trick, though: as you take on this piece of the assignment, check in periodically with your administrator or boss to make sure you're doing the job according to this person's standards. This will hopefully avoid your getting a heaping of criticisms when you turn your work in.\n\nAnother strategy is to ask your administrator or boss for some other assignment that you can call your own, on which to prove your competence. If you're assigned a particular task, no matter how menial it may seem, take it on with gusto and enthusiasm and also, as mentioned above, check in to keep your administrator or boss apprised of what you're doing and how you're doing it. Your checking in allows your administrator or boss to maintain a sense of control over the work you're doing, thereby allaying his or her anxieties about the work being done poorly. Therefore, even if you're confident you're doing the delegated task well, make sure to get this person's blessing and input.\n\nProblem. Your administrator or boss has difficulty staying focused on the big picture. As a result, you're often left guessing as to what you're supposed to be doing or working on.\n\nStrategy. Use the three \"C\"s of cooperative communication, discussed in chapter 6. First, state your case\u2014for example: \"I have about ten things on my to-do list, and I need your help prioritizing them. Can you give me some help with this?\" Assuming that your administrator or boss agrees to help you, ask for clarification. \"Okay, let me see whether I understand your recommendations. You'd like me to start with the Baker file and get feedback on our proposal\u2014at which point, I'll let you know what the Bakers have to say, and we'll go from there. Then I'm to work on revising the policy and procedure manual, especially the section on deadlines for submitting expense reports. Is that correct?\" This allows your administrator or boss to do any fine-tuning. You then agree to commit to the plan and set a target date for when you expect to have the work done and when you'll report back. Although this type of communication may seem like a lot of work, it's better than sitting with your to-do list and scratching your head as to what to do next. This example may not apply to all work settings, but you can use the same basic strategy and adapt it to your work situation.\n\nProblem. Your administrator or boss is a workaholic and expects you to show the same excessive devotion to work at the expense of your personal life.\n\nStrategies. Be clear with your boss and with yourself about how much work you can realistically accomplish in the space of a day, a week, or a month. It's better to try your best and to keep your own agenda rather than to buy in to an unreasonable expectation set by a controlling perfectionist. By setting your own agenda we're recommending that you take time each day to think about what you need to work on for that particular day. Here, you're defining your daily short-term goals. However, you also need to look at the big picture, so keep track of your long-term goals as well. What goals have you set for yourself for the next six months or for the year? Hopefully, your daily short-term goals will help you achieve your long-term or annual goals. It's important to keep track of these goals, because not only will the controlling perfectionist have you go off on tangential work, but also you may feel at the end of the day or week that you've accomplished very little (which may be a perception your boss shares). This is why you need to keep track of what you're working on, what goals you're working toward, and what you've accomplished. Remember the old adage \"Work smarter, not harder,\" which is essentially what you're doing by keeping focused on your goals and agenda.\n\nIt's also important to keep in mind the importance of having balance in your life. When workers fall prey to burnout, it's usually because their work has dominated their daily life to the exclusion of anything that's pleasurable or that serves to buffer stress. So it's important that you stick to your guns when it comes to taking time for your personal life. Visualize telling your administrator or boss that you're not able to stay late because you have a prior appointment. Or visualize telling this person that you're unable to come in this weekend because you're scheduled to attend your niece's birthday party. By setting this type of limit or boundary (see chapter 5) and having planned sound bites of what you might say in this type of situation (see chapter 6), you'll have greater confidence when the time comes that you have to set a limit.\n\nWhat we often hear from people with a workaholic administrator or boss is \"But I feel guilty when I say that I can't stay late or can't work on the weekend, plus I fear I'll be seen as a slacker or not a team player.\" Guilt is actually a positive emotion. A feeling of guilt tells us when we've done something wrong or have done things that are immoral or unethical. However, guilt can also be self-defeating if you experience guilt in situations in which you have a right to exercise a choice (such as choosing not to stay late, in order to take better care of yourself). You can still maintain the image of being a hard worker and team player by way of your day-to-day work habits. So it's better to be thorough in your work and to make the most of your time while you're on the job than it is to work late or on your scheduled days off. By the way, research indicates that as workers put in more hours or excessive overtime, their productivity and efficiency decrease (see Costa 1999; Kahn 1956; Mizuno and Watanabe 2008; and Wilkinson, Tyler, and Varey 1975). So more isn't always better.\n\nProblem. You find yourself getting into heated debates or arguments with your administrator or boss.\n\nStrategies. As we mentioned in chapter 6, this type of argument or debate becomes a no-win situation because, even if you're right about a particular point, a controlling perfectionist will often have difficulty letting it go and may bear a grudge. The controlling perfectionist will usually find some way to one-up you, so in the long run it's not worth it. Sure, at times this may mean you need to play the \"Emperor's New Clothes\" game and agree with things that seem outlandish, but fighting to prove a point may end up costing you in the long run.\n\nAnother strategy is to take the high road when you disagree. You can be the one to say, \"Okay, I see what you mean, and even though I may not agree, I certainly will consider your point of view.\" Remember, winning an argument is not as fulfilling in the long run as keeping your job and paycheck.\n\nProblem. You're anxious that if you voice any complaint or if you disagree with an idea your administrator or boss comes up with, you'll be perceived as not a team player.\n\nStrategy. In most jobs it's important to be seen as a team player. So even though you may be overloaded with work and may be feeling frustrated and angry, it's better that you not voice your complaints or a dissenting opinion in a way that might compromise this view of you. Stephen Viscusi (2008), in _Bulletproof Your Job: 4 Simple Strategies to Ride Out Tough Times and Come Out on Top at Work_ , says that it's often better to be the type of employee who's easy to work with than it is to make waves. Just because your administrator or boss is difficult to get along with doesn't mean you have to be difficult to get along with also. So what can you do? Well, consider letting your administrator or boss know something about your personal life or your interests. This recommendation also comes from Viscusi (2008); if your boss knows details about you, you may be less likely to be fired on a whim or for not meeting perfectionistic expectations. However, this is based on the assumption that your boss possesses some degree of compassion.\n\nProblem. You like to work independently, but you can't because your administrator or boss is constantly looking over your shoulder and critiquing your work.\n\nStrategies. Often controlling perfectionists harbor insecurities and anxieties about their own competence or self-worth, so one strategy is to compliment them or thank them when they've done a favor for you or given you some advice or direction that proved helpful. Although this may sound disingenuous, remember, just as you like to be appreciated for your hard work, so does your administrator or boss. Also remember that your goal is to keep your job, and a compliment or expression of appreciation may go a long way toward creating a better working relationship.\n\nAnother strategy to consider when you're being micromanaged is to offer information in the way of verbal or written reports or memos letting your administrator or boss know what you're working on. Make sure that you're specific and to the point. Once the controlling perfectionist feels assured of knowing what you're doing at any given time, he or she may stop breathing down your neck.\n\nHow to Ask a Controlling Perfectionist for a Raise\n\nEven though you feel deserving of a raise, you may find the prospect of confronting your perfectionistic and controlling boss daunting, if not downright intimidating. Use these tips for a smooth and successful process.\n\n    1. **Stick to the facts.** Controlling perfectionists live in a world of facts, figures, and precision, so when making your case, stick to what you've accomplished, in precise, clear terms. You may consider writing up a one-page summary of your accomplishments. Remember, your boss thinks he or she works harder than anyone else in the organization, so you need to make a strong case that you've been working just as hard.\n    2. **Mention how your boss's support and supervision have helped you.** Although this may sound like kissing up, what you're doing is saying to your boss, \"If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been able to accomplish what I've accomplished.\" This is similar to expressing appreciation, which we mentioned earlier, and you're also conveying that you're a team player in that you're willing to receive and follow direction.\n    3. **If your boss is reluctant to commit to a definitive answer or amount for your raise, ask him or her to think it over.** It may not be a bad thing to leave the conversation unresolved, because then both you and your boss can think things over a bit. Maybe you can even come up with more and better reasons why you should get a raise.\n    4. **If your request is denied, ask your boss what you need to do, in a specific time frame, to be eligible for a raise. Write these targets down and then draft a memo that you send to your boss.** Controlling perfectionists often get lost in details and minutiae; what you're doing here is getting your boss to define exactly what he or she expects of you and when you might be looking at a raise.\n    5. **Refrain from criticisms, negativity, and comparing your salary with others'.** These types of strategies will not serve you well in the long run. Even if a coworker was brought in at a higher salary, this will not help you make your case as to why you feel you're deserving of a raise.\n\n## Handling a Perfectionistic and Controlling Coworker\n\nWorking alongside a controlling perfectionist can be either a blessing or a curse, depending on how much this person values getting along with others and being a team player.\n\nRemember from chapter 4, there are things your coworkers really have no control over, and that includes how you behave, your emotions, your work agenda, and your personal life.\n\nWe'll now identify some common problems that people encounter with a perfectionistic and controlling coworker and point out some strategies for dealing with these behaviors. As discussed in chapter 2, at first a controlling perfectionist may not want to ruffle a lot of feathers and will try to fit in. However, this person may be extremely nitpicky or point out your mistakes in annoying fashion. What you need to be mindful of is the frequency of this type of nitpicking and whether the controlling perfectionist is doing this only to you or also to others in your work group, because we address these as two different problems. If your coworker seems to specifically target _you_ for criticism, this person may see you as a competitor and therefore won't shrink from any opportunity to throw you under the bus in order to make him or herself look good.\n\nProblem. Your coworker is constantly trying to one-up you by criticizing your work to others in the organization.\n\nStrategies. In instances like this, rather than taking the bait and getting on the same level of one-upmanship, try to maintain collegiality or camaraderie, even when it seems difficult. Keep in mind that you don't want a controlling perfectionist to become your enemy or to target you as a competitor who must be vanquished. We see this type of adversarial situation quite a bit in work groups that have a lot of bright employees who feel that they must constantly compete with one another for their boss's attention. Work groups are naturally more productive when there's cooperation and when each employee is recognized for his or her talents and encouraged to contribute. Think about ways that you might be able to create a more cooperative spirit with your coworker. Is there a project that you can invite this person to collaborate on with you or some way that you can help this person? Maybe you can offer useful information or training. This isn't to suggest that you become subservient to your coworker. Try to develop your working relationship in such a way that you're able to use each other's strengths. Controlling perfectionists are often great at detailed work; you may be better at seeing the big picture\u2014capitalize on these differences through collaboration. If you can't cultivate warm feelings toward your coworker, think of this strategy as in keeping with a famous bit of advice from Don Corleone in _The Godfather_ : \"Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.\"\n\nProblem. Your coworker's constant nitpicking and criticisms are driving you crazy.\n\nStrategies. First, try not to take it personally. You may have to be a little thick-skinned in this regard. Your coworker may be accustomed to merely voicing opinion and have no clue that his or her remarks are hurtful. Remember that controlling perfectionists have a hard time putting themselves in other people's shoes. State your feelings in response to the criticisms assertively (see chapter 6). It may be that your coworker often is critical of you in front of others, such as colleagues or your supervisor. In this case it's best to take your coworker aside to express your feelings, because this sets a good example. It models the way you'd like to be treated\u2014that is, it communicates, \"If you have something to say, say it to me in private.\" It may be good to remind your coworker to concentrate less on your performance and more on his or her own: \"You do your job and I'll do mine, and we'll work well together.\"\n\nProblem. Your coworker talks a good game when it comes to projects but often misses deadlines or gets caught up in some minor detail and doesn't finish the job. You may find yourself feeling very frustrated that your coworker can't seem to pull his or her share of the load.\n\nStrategies. Remember that controlling perfectionists are often horrible procrastinators and are prone to losing sight of the task at hand. Try to help your coworker stay focused and keep to deadlines by offering suggestions or saying something like \"Okay, let's get this report done so we can get it out of the way and move onto other things. Let's set a target date for completion.\" Be careful, though: just as you don't want to become subservient to your coworker, neither do you want to wind up responsible for this person.\n\nIf that strategy doesn't work for you, stay focused on your own tasks and goals. Don't allow your coworker to lead you away from what you're working on. Just because the controlling perfectionist gets mired in minutiae doesn't mean that you have to jump in the swamp too.\n\n## Handling a Perfectionistic and Controlling Employee or Subordinate\n\nAlthough controlling perfectionists often rise to positions of power or authority, everyone has to start somewhere. Thus in any supervisory position you may have a controlling perfectionist working under you or for you. Here the controlling perfectionist's excessive devotion to work and productivity naturally can be a plus, as it helps set a high standard for other workers; however, there are downsides. For example, these employees often require a great deal of personal supervision in order to keep them on task and to keep their productivity levels consistent. Another downside is that controlling perfectionists often get lost in details or minutiae or even get distracted, undertaking tasks they haven't been assigned in order to fix some imperfection they notice, which diverts their attention from more important or pressing matters. It's as if they have \"perfectionistic ADHD.\"\n\nSome controlling perfectionists also struggle with a lot of inner anger (on one hand they grew up accepting that conformity to rules meant they would receive love or nurturance, yet on the other hand they felt a great deal of anger over feeling forced to accept these rules). As a result, they may demonstrate a lot of passive-aggressive behaviors, which can create a lot of problems for you.\n\nFollowing are some strategies for helping you manage common problems with a perfectionistic and controlling employee or subordinate.\n\nProblem. Your employee or subordinate often shows up late for work, and although this person claims to be working very hard on projects from home, he or she hardly ever turns work in on time.\n\nStrategies. Perfectionistic procrastination is not due to laziness or a lack of motivation; it's usually driven by anxieties and apprehensions about doing a job perfectly. You can deal with this by being very specific regarding rules and deadlines: don't assume that your employee or subordinate will work independently or will be able to multitask. Also don't assume that this person will anticipate potential problems or roadblocks; instead, have proactive discussions about how certain problems may be handled if they come up during an assignment. One perfectionistic and controlling accountant became totally immobilized in her audit of a corporation when she couldn't gain access to particular documents. Her supervisor simply suggested that she contact a particular person for the documents, after which the audit was easily completed. In your role as supervisor you may need to help the controlling perfectionist plan how to handle any setbacks in order to keep this person on track with task completion.\n\nProblem. Your employee or subordinate refuses to keep you abreast of what he or she is working on or give you progress reports. Although you appreciate this person's initiative, you need to stay informed.\n\nStrategy. Don't assume that your employee or subordinate is working well on his or her own. Regular updates are important: they'll let you know what's going on, help you redirect the controlling perfectionist's efforts if necessary, and allow you to troubleshoot problems together. Be casual and sensitive when asking for updates, so that the controlling perfectionist doesn't feel singled out or picked on. Try to frame your request as an attempt to help this person maximize his or her potential.\n\nProblem. You've tried setting deadlines, but your employee or subordinate still constantly turns in work late because of an overfocus on details.\n\nStrategies. First, avoid showing your frustration or making critical remarks. If a project is taking too long, don't let your impatience show. It's better to provide praise for positive work behavior than to castigate your employee for unfinished work or a missed deadline. Try to keep the controlling perfectionist on track and focused.\n\nSecond, set clear expectations and boundaries. It's common for controlling perfectionists to overestimate how much they can reasonably do or what they can accomplish in a given time frame. Help your employee or subordinate come to a better understanding of his or her capabilities and limits. Then you can set more realistic deadlines together. Remind the controlling perfectionist that it's not always better to keep working on a project indefinitely: there's a point of diminishing returns where the extra time spent isn't worth it.\n\nProblem. Your employee or subordinate believes that he or she can do your job better than you can and seems to be after your job.\n\nStrategies. This type of problem was described earlier in this chapter, in the case of Laura and Alex. Some controlling perfectionists get so caught up in being morally righteous or advancing their careers that they think nothing of stepping on the people who may have helped them the most. Here are some strategies to consider.\n\nEstablish your authority. In a firm and fair way, make certain that others (including the controlling perfectionist) are aware of the experience and the complex skill set your job requires: there's more to what you do than supervision of staff.\n\nMaintain a noncritical, nonjudgmental approach toward the controlling perfectionist. In supervising a controlling perfectionist, it's important that you provide supportive guidance. If you emphasize that everyone has different work habits and work strategies and that these differences are to be expected, the controlling perfectionist is more likely to perceive your supervision as helpful and useful rather than as intrusive.\n\nMake your superiors aware of the difficulties you're having with this employee. Here, timing is important. Make sure you've gathered enough supporting information or evidence of the problem before approaching your superiors about it; otherwise you may be seen as only crying wolf.\n\nThe Angry Techie: The Customer's Always Wrong\n\nJosh was proud when, shortly after graduating from college, he landed a job in technical support at a large telecommunications corporation. Although he was valued by his fellow team members, when dealing with customers he was often critical and demeaning, and he resisted making any effort to help customers solve their problems in a way that was easy for them to understand. His attitude was \"If they're too stupid to understand what I'm saying, then that's their problem, not mine.\"\n\nAs customers began to complain about the lack of helpful technical support, it did become Josh's problem, and he was called on the carpet by the project administrator several times. In these meetings, Josh would become defensive and angry. He was eventually referred to an employee assistance counselor for his anger. Josh felt that the counseling was \"a ridiculous waste of time\"; however, he revealed that all throughout high school, he had been picked on and bullied for being a geek and a computer nerd. During college he had a few friends, but he didn't date and always felt that women rejected him. Josh was especially angry and demeaning toward the women he interacted with, whether customers or coworkers. Eventually, Josh was let go because of his inability to work cooperatively.\n\nA controlling perfectionist can be detrimental to the smooth flow of the workplace no matter what this person's position is relative to you (administrator or boss, coworker, or employee or subordinate). Controlling perfectionists have a unique ability to put others on edge or on the defensive and in doing so can bring down the morale of everyone in an otherwise healthy workplace. We hope you can use the strategies in this chapter to minimize the frustrations and pitfalls that you may be experiencing in working with a controlling perfectionist. Don't forget, however, that a perfectionistic and controlling boss, coworker, or employee often brings to the table a unique talent for organization and structure. Look for ways to put this talent to best use for you or for your employer.\n\nChapter 9\n\n# Seeking Qualified Professional Help\n\nWe feel that applying the principles you've learned in this book will significantly improve the quality of your relationship with the controlling perfectionist, providing you're consistent and willing to make small but steady gains. However, in spite of all your efforts, you might still need to seek professional help, particularly if you're dealing with a severe type of controlling perfectionist.\n\nWe've tried to cover many possibilities in this book, but everybody's situation is very different. Professional counseling can help you come up with an effective approach tailored to your particular situation, one that takes into account your unique qualities and those of the controlling perfectionist in your life.\n\nBelieve it or not, many people are still very self-conscious about seeking psychotherapy. But think about it: If you need help with your taxes, you talk to an accountant; if your car is making a funny noise, you talk to a mechanic; if you need guidance in legal matters, you talk to a lawyer. It just makes good sense to consult with an expert.\n\n## Getting Professional Help for a Controlling Perfectionist\n\nIt's not easy to convince controlling perfectionists that they need psychotherapy. As discussed in the introduction, controlling perfectionists tend to see their problematic traits as virtues. For example, controlling perfectionists believe that they're superior to other people and therefore have a duty to correct them. Even when they're miserable, controlling perfectionists have so many blind spots that they really can't see how their misery is the result of their own behavior. They prefer to blame their malcontent on the incompetence of people around them.\n\nYet in spite of their ignorance that they have issues to resolve and their immense propensity for blaming others for their difficulties, controlling perfectionists will sometimes enter some type of treatment. They might insist, for example, on entering marriage counseling with the belief that they can get their partners to change. Or they may feel that the therapist will pronounce them blameless and psychologically okay. Nevertheless, a skilled therapist will be able to help them see their participation in their interpersonal problems.\n\nTalking to a Controlling Perfectionist about Psychotherapy\n\nWhen recommending therapy, communicate your care, concern, or love for the controlling perfectionist. Don't bring up therapy during an argument or when you're angry; wait for a calm moment. Also, avoid the temptation to blame. Remember, you're seeking to elicit cooperation, not defensiveness. For example, if you say, \"You know, you have significant psychological issues. They were most likely caused by your mother, and you need to take care of them,\" this is just another form of criticism for the controlling perfectionist. This type of approach won't get you very far. Instead, let the controlling perfectionist know exactly how you feel without making accusations. Be firm.\n\nTry to appeal to the controlling perfectionist's strong sense of reason and responsibility. For example, tell this person that you've noticed that he or she is unhappy and might be able to use some \"fine tuning\" in his or her life, pointing out that everyone needs help at certain times in their lives. If appropriate, offer to see a therapist together so that you can seek help for your own problems as well. Everyone has problems\u2014you included.\n\nBelieve it or not, sometimes a crisis is actually a great time to convince someone that psychotherapy could help. In fact, most people attend psychotherapy as a result of a crisis. Crises tend to break standoffs and stalemates and make people much more willing to change.\n\nA spouse can perhaps put the most pressure on a controlling perfectionist to attend psychotherapy. Some spouses have threatened to divorce or to withhold affection, for example. A romantic partner of any sort is in a great position to negotiate or bargain with a controlling perfectionist (for example, \"I won't nag you about your playing basketball Friday nights if you come to marriage counseling sessions with me\"). If the controlling perfectionist refuses to attend a joint counseling session, go by yourself. There's still a lot a psychotherapist will be able to help you with.\n\nIn other types of relationships with controlling perfectionists, you may or may not be able to use pressure tactics to make them go to psychotherapy. If you're the supervisor or the parent of a controlling perfectionist, you may find that there's some type of leverage you can exert to get this person to agree to psychotherapy. If you have a controlling perfectionist boss, parent, or sibling, on the other hand, you might have to get some help for yourself instead (see \"Getting Professional Help for Yourself,\" below). While this might seem unfair at first\u2014after all, isn't it the controlling perfectionist who has the problem?\u2014you'll find that it just makes good sense. Therapists can teach you new coping skills and find areas in your life that make you vulnerable to perfectionistic and controlling behaviors.\n\nChoosing a Therapist\n\nIf the controlling perfectionist in your life does agree to attend psychotherapy, you may be able to increase his or her chances of success with this treatment if you're able to select or recommend a therapist. Don't simply go by your managed-care health insurance company's recommendations. They tend to refer to everyone on their panels as experts, even if they're not.\n\nDon't be afraid to shop around and ask questions. Beware of charlatans and make sure the therapist you choose is credentialed or licensed in your state. Try to avoid people who refer to themselves as \"psychotherapist\" or \"life coach\"\u2014in most states, anyone can use these titles without any training whatsoever. Don't be afraid to call your state's department of health or consumer affairs to ask whether a particular type of therapist is eligible to be licensed.\n\nMost states have associations for specific types of psychotherapists: psychologists, psychiatrists, and licensed clinical social workers (LCSWs) usually belong to a professional association. So if you live in New Jersey, for example, you can contact the New Jersey Psychological Association for a list of licensed psychologists. You might also want to get a recommendation from a trusted doctor or friend.\n\nBe sure to find a therapist who's experienced in working with this type of patient. Ask potential therapists how many controlling perfectionists they've treated in the past or the percentage of time they devote to working with such people. Make sure that the psychotherapist you select or recommend at least has experience in treating personality disorders.\n\nTypes of Therapy\n\nWhen choosing a psychotherapist\u2014whether for the controlling perfectionist, for yourself, or for both of you\u2014ask potential therapists which theoretical orientation or therapeutic approach they favor. While there are many kinds of psychotherapy, most are at least derived from one of the approaches described below. Research has shown that any of these approaches can be effective when administered by credentialed and experienced professionals (Seligman 1995).\n\n  * Psychoanalytic or psychodynamic. While there are many variations on this approach, these are psychotherapies based on Sigmund Freud's approach. Psychotherapists with this orientation center on their clients' experiences in childhood. They might analyze their clients' defenses and try to bring unconscious and repressed memories to the surface. They claim that their technique gets to the root of the problem. The downside is that this therapy can be lengthy\u2014sometimes taking years\u2014and expensive, and many insurance companies won't cover these types of therapists.\n  * Humanistic/existential. Therapists with a humanistic or existential orientation try to create a warm, understanding, and safe place where their clients can explore their true feelings without being ridiculed or criticized. This type of psychotherapy is often termed \"nondirective,\" because the client leads the way: the therapist believes that clients have their own answers and can solve their own problems if only allowed to explore freely. These therapists also try to help clients find their \"true selves\" and life's meaningfulness to them. People who see this type of therapist often feel especially supported and appreciate the therapist's noncritical, nonconfrontational methods.\n  * Cognitive behavioral. Unlike humanistic and existential therapists, cognitive behavioral therapists are very direct and can be very confrontational. Their job for the most part is to constantly challenge irrational ideas involving perfectionism and to help their clients reframe their experiences more positively (see chapter 7). Additionally, they might assign their clients homework and activities to do between psychotherapy sessions. By determining very specific goals for treatment, cognitive behavioral therapists help clients quickly address problems, leading to a relatively short time in treatment. Health insurance companies like to use them for this reason. You'll find that there are a good many cognitive behavioral therapists out there.\n  * Eclectic. When a psychotherapist describes him or herself as eclectic, it means that this person uses a variety of techniques, depending on the client.\n\nThere might be therapists who describe themselves in other ways, using other terms. If a prospective therapist uses terms other than the ones above, do some research to find out what they mean. As a starting place, try PlanetPsych.com (www.planetpsych.com/zTreatment/psychotherapy.htm) or Psych Central (www.psychcentral.com/therapy.htm).\n\nThe Controlling Perfectionist in Therapy\n\nAs a general rule, people with personality disorders are very difficult to treat; rarely is there a cure. However, the silver lining in the dark cloud of controlling perfectionism is that of all the different personality disorders, a controlling perfectionist has one of the best chances of making improvements in psychotherapy. If controlling perfectionists are convinced on some level that they can use some self-improvement, they can be excellent patients, dutifully keeping their appointments and, ironically, trying to be perfect patients.\n\nUnder the care of a compassionate and well-trained professional, controlling perfectionists will begin to feel safe to explore the workings behind their perfectionistic, controlling, and critical nature. Getting in touch with their true feelings in a nonjudgmental and professional environment can be very freeing to controlling perfectionists, and they often make significant gains in therapy. Psychotherapy can help controlling perfectionists make meaningful improvements and become better versions of themselves.\n\nDavid and Jessica's Story\n\n_David and Jessica met in college. Jessica, a fine arts major, liked to act in plays. David, an engineering student, loved watching her onstage. He was fascinated by her beauty and intellect, as well as her expressiveness. He'd sit in the front row to watch her performances, and he often would attend her rehearsals as well. Even though he turned clumsy in her presence\u2014stumbling over his words and dropping things\u2014she found his awkwardness around her very flattering, and when he asked her out he seemed so smitten that she couldn't refuse him._\n\n_On their first date David took Jessica to a very expensive restaurant, one that was clearly out of his price range, and arranged to have the strolling violinist play one of the songs from her shows. Jessica was very impressed with David, and they continued to date. Jessica felt loved, cared for, and safe whenever she was around David. He was a wonderful listener who seemed to accept her unconditionally._\n\n_Immediately after graduation, David got an excellent job with a large communications firm. Being a team player, Jessica quickly adapted to the role of cook and housekeeper while David earned enough money so that she didn't have to work. They were a very popular couple, and they loved to socialize with friends._\n\n_They had lived together for about two years when Jessica became pregnant. After getting the good news, they married, but soon David began to feel overwhelmed by the impending addition to the family and the responsibilities that went along with it. They began to argue more frequently. Nothing seemed to make David happy. Moreover, when Jessica began to lose her girlish figure in pregnancy, David began to criticize her appearance, her eating habits, and her lack of exercise. At one point he told her that she looked like a cow and that she couldn't possibly turn him on. He constantly compared her to one of his cousins who had managed to keep herself quite slim during her pregnancy. Because Jessica's final trimester was particularly difficult, she needed a good deal of rest. During that period, David criticized her housekeeping and her cooking._\n\n_After the baby arrived, while they were both happy with their newborn daughter, David's carping on Jessica didn't cease. They quarreled more and more. Jessica tried to defend herself, but David would have none of it: there was no reason for her or the house to look less than perfect. It seemed that the more he criticized her, however, the more depressed and prone to inactivity she became: it was a vicious circle._\n\n_Hoping to point out how miserable Jessica was making him, David made an appointment with a licensed clinical social worker who had a reputation of being an excellent marriage counselor, a man named Warren Aquino._\n\n_Through their counseling sessions, David discovered that the pressures involved in raising a child had increased his stress level severely. During one session, David allowed that having a child brought out performance anxiety in him and that he actually felt inadequate to be a good father and provider. Mr. Aquino helped him see that a good deal of his criticism of Jessica was due to his wanting things to go back to the way they were, when he had been more confident. This made a good deal of sense to David, who said that he never liked change because he didn't know how to handle it. He said that he was a guy who didn't like surprises and wanted all his ducks in a row. He recognized that he'd eventually adapt but that he just needed time. He also realized that he was taking all of his stress out on Jessica._\n\n_Additionally, David discovered that he needed to rely on Jessica more. This was hard for him, because he'd always felt that he needed to be in control. However, he agreed that it was logical for him and Jessica to work together in bringing up their daughter and that it was okay for him not to be a perfect father all the time. Mr. Aquino even helped him clarify his own definition of a good father. Both David and Jessica were somewhat surprised that this definition allowed for him to make an occasional mistake._\n\n_In spite of David's progress, Jessica was still depressed. She told David and Mr. Aquino that her world had become very small and consisted of just keeping David and their infant daughter happy. She felt that her life had basically come to an end because for the rest of her life she'd be taking care of others. This led to a discussion of what would make her happy. Jessica surprised even herself by saying that she'd been happiest when she was in plays and would like to return to acting. She was also surprised that David agreed. Her theater activities would give him time to bond with their daughter._\n\n_After several more sessions, both the therapist and the couple agreed that they had the skills necessary to keep them on the path to a good marriage._\n\nA good deal of David and Jessica's success was based on David's willingness to look at himself and make changes. The willingness to self-examine and to change your own behavior is usually predictive of a successful therapy.\n\nUnfortunately, not all controlling perfectionists are that willing to make changes. In the following story, psychotherapy enabled someone living with a controlling perfectionist to better understand the scope of the situation and, because the controlling perfectionist was totally inflexible, empowered her to leave.\n\nDeborah and Philip's Story\n\n_Deborah and Philip met when they were in their thirties. Philip, a carpenter, was at first taken by Deborah's childlike charm and close family ties, which he greatly admired because he was an only child. Her warmth and spontaneity were disarming at times: around her, he'd often let down his guard and feel some of the gentler emotions that were rare for him. Deborah, a sixth-grade teacher, was at first attracted to Philip's good looks and high moral values. He was a hard worker and had acquired several houses, which he was working to restore and sell at a profit._\n\n_The two fell in love. Deborah loved the fact that Philip had fallen so hard for her and was attentive to her every whim. She felt that Philip would make an excellent father someday. Soon they were married._\n\n_After only a few weeks of marriage, however, things began to turn sour. It was difficult for Deborah to get Philip to take time off, because he worked for a contractor during the week, but on weekends he'd work on his own houses. During his free time he'd read magazines and watch TV shows about home restoration. He couldn't understand why Deborah didn't want to join him in these endeavors, and he told her that a wife should participate in her husband's interests. But Deborah wanted to use their spare time to do other things together, like spend time with her family or travel._\n\n_Deborah was also upset that Philip wouldn't commingle their finances or give her much money. \"We're going to need this money someday, like in case of an emergency,\" he'd say. He began to criticize her for spending money even on necessities. At one point he told her that the new welcome mat she bought with both their names on it was frivolous and that the old mat would have been just fine. She tried to explain to him how it meant so much to her that they were a couple and how she wanted everyone to know it, but he just didn't understand._\n\n_When Philip finally came home after a long day's work he'd usually spend forty-five minutes taking a shower, after which he just wanted to go to bed. When Deborah asked him whether he could shorten his showers so that they could spend a little more time together, he replied that he needed that time to get \"really clean.\" Deborah felt that Philip worked too much and she complained that they never had any time together, while Philip accused Deborah of wasting time on things like visiting friends and family. \"You only go around once in this world\u2014you have to take every opportunity,\" he'd say. \"Do you want to be a grade school teacher for the rest of your life?\" He'd then bring her family into it, criticizing them for not making the most of their talents. He especially picked on her father, who was often unemployed._\n\n_Deborah felt brokenhearted and deserted. She began to think that she'd made a mistake in marrying Philip. After only six months of marriage, she convinced Philip that they needed counseling. Philip looked forward to having a third party intervene to help him point out Deborah's \"defects.\"_\n\n_Their marriage counselor was Dr. Waters, a licensed psychologist. Both Deborah and Philip liked her: she was warm but very well-spoken and professional. She discussed with them some problems people experience in a marriage in general, such as gender differences, differences in personal values, and how past family patterns can influence a marriage. Dr. Waters validated Deborah's desires to be closer to her husband and to her family, as well as Philip's need to be a good provider. Dr. Waters explained that Deborah and Philip were very good as individuals but needed to work on creating a shared life. She gave them some exercises to practice at home, such as how to ask for things they wanted and how to compromise and, in essence, create a better \"we.\"_\n\n_Problems arose, however, when Deborah and Philip tried to put these exercises into practice. Philip told Deborah that his time at work was \"off limits\": nonnegotiable. Deborah told him that he needed to pay some attention to his marriage and make some time for working on it. Philip thought it wildly unfair that Deborah wouldn't join him in restoring houses and that she expected him to give up his interests when she wouldn't give up hers._\n\n_When they returned to counseling, Philip delivered an ultimatum: if Dr. Waters didn't agree that \"It's a man's place to support his family in every way he can,\" he'd leave counseling. Deborah began to cry. Tearfully, she asked Philip to continue with counseling, but he only repeated that his job was his first duty and that his time at work was \"nonnegotiable.\" At that point, Deborah told Philip that it had probably been a mistake for them to get married. Philip said that their relationship was no longer open for discussion. She asked him whether he thought it was okay for her to move out for a while, and he agreed. The next day he called her and asked whether she was divorcing him. He said if she did divorce him, he wouldn't give her one penny or any of the proceeds from the houses. Deborah was shocked that even though their marriage was falling apart, all he could think about was his income._\n\n## Getting Professional Help for Yourself\n\nYour relationship with the controlling perfectionist has most likely left you frustrated, discouraged, and perhaps even angry. You may be contemplating no longer being a friend to this person, getting a divorce, changing jobs, or even moving out of state just to get away from this person. These are major decisions and should not be made when you're experiencing strong emotions, which will cloud your thinking and judgment. Further, your hurt and anger may make it difficult for you to experience warm feelings toward the controlling perfectionist in your life right now, but if you end the relationship under these circumstances, you may regret it when, after gaining distance, you begin to feel affection for this person again. Under these conditions, it just makes sense to have somebody help you clarify your thinking and feelings. Any psychotherapist will help you make decisions that are truly in your best interest and not based on emotion alone.\n\nAlso know that a great many of the people who seek psychotherapy have no psychopathology themselves but, rather, are being affected by someone who does. Most psychotherapists are able to give good advice to people living or working with people who have problems in relationships like controlling perfectionists do.\n\nThere are many issues a psychotherapist can help you with. Probably most critical is the fact that you might be complicating some of the issues if you're driven to seek approval, if you need to lean on somebody for guidance consistently, or if somebody in your past was a controlling perfectionist. Exploring and identifying these issues can be very freeing indeed and, a great deal of the time, this in and of itself can be substantial in helping you with your relationship with the controlling perfectionist. You'll probably find that you're doing some unproductive things in your relationship. You may even be contributing in some way to the problems, and a psychotherapist can help you realize and address this.\n\nIt's important here to lay the notion of blame to rest. If your behavior is contributing to problems in your relationship, this doesn't mean you're a terrible person. It's usually not even the case that one person is right and the other is wrong; the problem is simply that there's a mismatch between your preferences. If, for example, your spouse likes to be immaculate while you're somewhat messy, there may be a problem, but neither of you is really to blame. The proof is in the idea that if your spouse married another immaculate person there would be no problem (at least in this area), and if you married another messy person there would be no problem either. No two people are a perfect match\u2014there are differences to overcome in any relationship. But sometimes the differences are so extreme that professional help is needed.\n\nIf you do seek help for yourself, your therapist will most likely hit on many of the issues discussed in this book and might even use this book as part of your psychotherapy. But psychotherapists are specially trained to explore your deeply personal needs, your psychological defenses, and the many details of your life, something a book can't do.\n\nA psychotherapist will help you explore your limits as far as putting up with perfectionistic and controlling behavior. Some people are incredibly hardy and can let a great deal of criticism and other behavior roll off their backs. Other people are more sensitive. Some people need to feel closer in their relationships than others do. One size does not fit all.\n\nIf you do reach a point where you've tried everything\u2014setting boundaries, communicating assertively, exploring your own contributions to the problem, and making numerous changes in your own behavior\u2014and nothing has worked, or you feel that you've had enough, a psychotherapist can help you truly understand the consequences of ending your relationship with the controlling perfectionist. Does it mean a loss of employment? Does it mean financial loss? If you have children together, how will they be affected? What's the true emotional cost? Exploring the costs can help you determine whether it's truly worth it and consider how your life will be different.\n\nEven if you're certain that you want to terminate relations with the controlling perfectionist, psychotherapy will prepare you for healthier relationships in the future. Believe it or not, many people leave a romantic relationship with a controlling perfectionist only to jump into one with another. Other people are left with such a bad taste in their mouths from a relationship with a controlling perfectionist that they jump to the exact opposite type of person, perhaps someone who's too undisciplined and lacks appropriate self-control. A psychotherapist can help you avoid both of these mistakes.\n\nDeborah and Philip's Story (Continued)\n\n_Philip refused to continue counseling and would no longer discuss the issue. Deborah asked Dr. Waters whether she could help her get through this difficult time, and Dr. Waters agreed that it might be a good idea for them to continue together. She told Deborah that she'd no longer be able to counsel her and Philip as a couple if she were to see Deborah as an individual client. She also told Deborah that she'd need to inform Philip of Deborah's decision and would recommend to Philip another individual therapist if he so desired. Philip dutifully left a message with Dr. Waters that he'd no longer be continuing and that no, he would not seek out individual therapy._\n\n_Deborah learned in her individual counseling sessions that there was a good chance that Philip would never turn into the person she wanted him to be. She discovered that his rigidity, perfectionism, and controlling nature were very integrated into his entire personality and that change would come very slowly, if it came at all. Deborah recognized that she'd most likely have to give up many things she held dear just to be able to live with him. She realized that this was something she wasn't prepared to do, and she decided at that point to divorce him._\n\n_Soon after that, Deborah filed for divorce. On Dr. Waters's recommendation, she began to see another therapist for her own individual therapy, in order to discover why she might have been led to marry such a cold man. She began to recognize from these sessions that because she came from a close-knit family, she'd just assumed that she'd have that type of relationship with her husband. She learned that most people who were in her situation would have been fooled by his ardent courtship of her as well. She also learned that when she was a child, her father's frequent layoffs due to cyclical downturns in his chosen profession created a sense of insecurity in her. She learned that she'd felt that by marrying someone who was financially well-off, she might allay these fears. The fact that Philip filled so many of these needs had blinded her to many of his shortcomings. After six months or so of therapy by herself, she felt that she had learned enough about herself in treatment to stop her individual psychotherapy sessions._\n\nIn closing, we hope that you'll keep this book as a reference and continue to apply the concepts we've laid out. As you work on improving your relationship, you'll find that you won't hit home runs every time, but progress will come in small steps and over the long run. Stay firm and committed to the changes you've made in your own behavior. You may be unlikely to change a controlling perfectionist, but you might be able to create an environment in which you can be free to be yourself without concern for criticism or other controlling behaviors.\n\nAnd maybe, just maybe, the controlling perfectionist in your life will find that a safe enough environment for him or her to be himself or herself as well.\n\nBest wishes on this new venture!\n\n# References\n\nBeck, A. T., and A. Freeman. 1990. _Cognitive Therapy of Personality Disorders_. New York: Guilford Press.\n\nBernstein, A. J. 2001. _Emotional Vampires: Dealing with People Who Drain You Dry_. New York: McGraw-Hill.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. 2003. _How to Deal with Emotionally Explosive People_. New York: McGraw-Hill.\n\nBlack, J., and G. Enns. 1997. _Better Boundaries: Owning and Treasuring Your Own Life_. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger Publications.\n\nCavaiola, A., and N. Lavender. 2000. _Toxic Coworkers: How to Deal with Dysfunctional People on the Job_. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger Publications.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014. 2011. _The One-Way Relationship Workbook: Step-by-Step Help for Coping with Narcissists, Egotistical Lovers, Toxic Coworkers & Others Who Are Incredibly Self-Absorbed_. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger Publications.\n\nCosta, G. 1999. \"Fatigue and Biological Rhythms.\" In _Handbook of Aviation Human Factors_ , edited by D. J. Garland, J. A. Wise, and N. D. Hopkin. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.\n\nEllis, A. 1979. _Reason and Emotion in Psychotherapy_. Secaucus, NJ: Citadel Press.\n\nEllis, A., and R. E. Harper. 1984. _A New Guide to Rational Living_. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall.\n\nErikson, E. 1950. _Childhood and Society_. New York: Norton.\n\nGibbs, N. 2009. \"The Growing Backlash against Overparenting.\" Time .com, November 20. <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1940697,00.html#ixzz1ZjEyeQeu>, accessed October 27, 2011.\n\nGordon, T. 1987. _Leader Effectiveness Training (L.E.T.)_. New York: Putnam Adult.\n\nGreenspon, T. S. 2001. _Freeing Our Families from Perfectionism_. Minneapolis: Free Spirit.\n\nHarris, T. A. 1967. _I'm Okay\u2014You're Okay_. New York: HarperCollins.\n\nHendrix, H. 1988. _Getting the Love You Want: A Guide for Couples_. New York: Harper & Row.\n\nHonore, P. 2008. _Under Pressure: Rescuing Our Children from the Culture of Hyper-Parenting_. New York: HarperOne.\n\nHorney, K. 1937. _The Neurotic Personality of Our Time_. Oxford, UK: Norton.\n\nHotchkiss, S. 2002. _Why Is It Always about You? The Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism_. New York: The Free Press.\n\nKahn, R. L. 1956. \"The Prediction of Productivity.\" _Journal of Social Issues_ 12: 41\u201349.\n\nKelley, R., and J. Caplan. 1993. \"How Bell Labs Creates Star Performers.\" _Harvard Business Review_ 71: 128\u201339.\n\nLinehan, M. 1993. _Cognitive Behavioral Treatment of Borderline Personality Disorder_. New York: Guilford Press.\n\nMillon, T., and R. D. Davis. 1996. _Disorders of Personality: DSM-IV and Beyond_. 2nd ed. New York: Wiley-Interscience.\n\nMillon, T., S. Grossman, C. Millon, S. Meagher, and R. Ramnath. 2004. _Personality Disorders in Modern Life_. 2nd ed. New York: Wiley & Sons.\n\nMizuno, K., and Y. Watanabe. 2008. \"Utility of an Advanced Trail Making Test as a Neuropsychological Tool for an Objective Evaluation of Work Efficiency during Mental Fatigue.\" In _Fatigue Science for Human Health_ , edited by Y. Watanabe, B. Evengard, B. H. Natelson, L. A. Jason, and H. Kuratsune. New York: Springer Science and Business Media.\n\nSeligman, M. 1995. \"The Effectiveness of Psychotherapy.\" _American Psychologist_ 50: 965\u201374.\n\nViscusi, S. 2008. _Bulletproof Your Job: 4 Simple Strategies to Ride Out Tough Times and Come Out on Top at Work_. New York: HarperCollins.\n\nWilkinson, R. T., P. D. Tyler, and C. A. Varey. 1975. \"Duty Hours of Young Hospital Doctors: Effects on the Quality of Work.\" _Journal of Occupational Psychology_ 48: 219\u201329.\n**Neil J. Lavender, PhD** , is professor of psychology at Ocean County College in New Jersey where he also maintains a private practice. He is coauthor of _Toxic Coworkers_ and _Impossible to Please_. Neil, who is also an avid blogger, resides in Beachwood, NJ.\n\n**Alan A. Cavaiola, PhD** , is a professor and member of the graduate faculty in the department of psychological counseling at Monmouth University. He is also a licensed psychologist and clinical alcohol and drug counselor.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Insiders' Guide; to Savannah & Hilton Head - Georgia Byrd"}, "text": " \n# **INSIDERS'** GUIDE\u00ae TO\n\n# Savannah & Hilton Head\n\n# **INSIDERS'** GUIDE\u00ae TO\n\n# Savannah & Hilton Head\n\nNINTH EDITION\n\n**GEORGIA R. BYRD**\n\n**REVISED AND UPDATED BY CHERYL LAUER**\n\nGuilford, Connecticut\n\nAn imprint of Rowman & Littlefield\n\nDistributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2015 by Rowman & Littlefield\n\nInsiders' Guide is a registered trademark of Rowman & Littlefield\n\nMaps: XNR Productions, Inc. \u00a9 Rowman & Littlefield\n\n_All rights reserved_. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.\n\nBritish Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available\n\nISBN 978-1-4930-1269-5 (paperback)\n\nISBN 978-1-4930-1835-2 (e-book)\n\n  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences\u2014Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.\n\nAll the information in this guidebook is subject to change. We recommend that you call ahead to obtain current information before traveling.\n\n# CONTENTS\n\nHow to Use This Book\n\nWelcome to Savannah & Hilton Head Island\n\nTravel Instructions & Resources\n\nHistory\n\nAccommodations\n\nRestaurants\n\nEntertainment\n\nShopping\n\nAttractions\n\nAnnual Events & Festivals\n\nKids\n\nThe Great Outdoors\n\nDay Trips\n\n**Hilton Head, South Carolina**\n\nHistory\n\nTravel Instructions & Resources\n\nGetting Around\n\nSources of Information\n\nAccommodations\n\nRestaurants\n\nEntertainment\n\nShopping\n\nRecreation\n\nAnnual Events & Festivals\n\n**Tybee Island**\n\nHistory\n\nTravel Instructions & Resources\n\nAccommodations\n\nRestaurants\n\nShopping\n\nThings to Do\n\n**Appendix: Living Here**\n\nRelocation & Real Estate\n\nEducation & Child Care\n\nHealth Care\n\nRetirement\n\n**Directory of Maps**\n\nGreater Savannah Area\n\nHighway Access\n\nDowntown Savannah\n\nHilton Head Island\n\n# ABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\n**Georgia R. Byrd,** a native of the South, has been writing since her grandparents took her to visit Washington, DC, at the age of 8. It was there that she journaled every stop of a Grey Line Tour in a Reporter's Notebook, which she still has to this day.\n\nHer work with _Savannah Magazine_ received more than 50 regional and national awards for editing, graphic design, and art direction. Her articles have appeared in _Atlanta Magazine, Forbes, Southern Living_ , and the _Atlanta Journal Constitution_. Her dream of working for _Forbes_ magazine came true, and she has since produced advertising supplements, consulted for Forbes TV's travel shows, and worked with yachting companies all over the world promoting yachts in _Forbes_. Her graphic design and marketing skills have included publication work for the Georgia Ports Authority and other Savannah clients. She is also an author and contributor to several tabletop books, including _Megayachts of the World_ , published by Edisea, Ltd., and _Romantic Days & Nights in Savannah_ (Globe Pequot). She is the coauthor of _The History of Aviation in Savannah_ (Savannah Airport Commission) and _Seasons of Savannah_ , published by the Savannah College of Art and Design. She has appeared on the Travel Channel, CNN, _Good Morning America_ , and the _Today Show_ as a travel and yachting consultant.\n\nGeorgia is married to advertising photographer Joseph Byrd, and is the mother of Whit, a police officer; and Ammie, a school principal.\n\n# ABOUT THE REVISOR\n\n**Cheryl Lauer** has called Savannah home for more than 30 years and is grateful to live in an area with a beautiful and vibrant historic district, which has become a national architectural showcase, and near the picturesque seaside communities of Tybee Island and Hilton Head, South Carolina. Born and reared in the Pocono Mountain region of Pennsylvania, some days she is still in awe that her home now is surrounded by palm trees.\n\nCheryl has worked as a reporter in Atlanta and Savannah, retiring from the _Savannah Morning News_ after covering news and feature stories mainly from the island communities of Chatham County. She has also written for the _Savannah Magazine_ and the Georgia Ports Authority's magazine, _AnchorAge_. She is pleased to return to work on the _Insiders' Guide to Savannah & Hilton Head_, having served as the photography editor in the book's first edition.\n\nCheryl and her husband, Michael Richter, live on Talahi Island in Chatham County. Their home is about 10 minutes east of the historic district and about 10 minutes to the beach at Tybee. Their son Cason, a home-schooled graduate, attends college in Savannah.\n\n# HOW TO USE THIS BOOK\n\nThe goal is for this book to be a personal guide that will lead you through Savannah and Hilton Head Island's most popular attractions, restaurants, and accommodations, as well as those special places that only an \"insider\" could reveal. Before you leave home, purchase a camera bag, backpack, or purse large enough to accommodate this book, as well as your cameras, bug spray, and personal necessities. When you arrive, don your most comfortable walking shoes. Use this _Insiders' Guide_ as a constant reference as you explore our city and parts of the South Carolina Lowcountry.\n\nArranged by subjects, it is recommended that you read this guidebook in full prior to leaving home. Highlight some of your interests and familiarize yourself with the area's history that is a vital part of her present. Rent the film _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ , or better yet, read the best-selling book by John Berendt. You'll be enchanted before you ever step foot here, and your knowledge of the characters and places made famous by authors and screenwriters will be better appreciated. Delve into the history of the city.\n\nThe local area is divided into four geographical sections (Historic District, the Islands, Southside/Midtown, and West Chatham) with an explanation of the territory outlined in the Area Overview chapter. The maps are an excellent way to get a good sense of the geographical areas and hence guide you through the city by foot, carriage, trolley, or car. Within the chapters, restaurants, accommodations, attractions, and other points of interest are arranged alphabetically for quick reference. Another good way to find specific topics of interest is by looking in the extensive index in the back of the book. You'll note that the area code for almost every phone number listed is 912 (843 for places in South Carolina). Also look for Insiders'Tips\u2014marked with an i that let you in on local secrets.\n\nThis edition also reflects highways and roads that are identified by abbreviations. They include: highways, which are denoted by I- for interstate, US for appropriate two-laned (and highways that are not interstates) roads, SR (or an abbreviation of the state) for State Routes or State Highways. And if all else fails, ask a Savannahian for directions if you're lost. This is a city overflowing with hospitality, and you'll find that no one is too busy to help you find your way.\n\nMoving to Savannah or already live here? Be sure to check out the back of the book, where you will find the **Living Here** appendix that offers sections on relocation and real estate, retirement, education and child care, and health care.\n\nThanks to this guide book, visitors who fly through Savannah going to Hilton Head Island will understand that they are not in Hilton Head when they deplane in Savannah. The hour or so (depending on traffic to the island) drive to Hilton Head Island from the Savannah airport will become much less a trek of boredom as this edition also captures and highlights this popular tourist destination and offers some fun stops along the way. In turn, we have also devoted an entire chapter to Savannah's sister beach, Tybee Island, which is part of Chatham County but very separate and distinct from Savannah, and the neighboring islands.\n\n## ACCOMMODATIONS PRICE CODE\n\nDollar signs indicate the average cost for a one-night stay for two adults, not including taxes, gratuities, or add-on amenities. Many establishments have both high-season and off-season rates, and they define \"season\" differently, so check current prices, usually posted on the facilities' websites. Most establishments charge $10 to $25 extra for additional guests. Please inquire about additional fees when you call for reservations. Again, remember that reservations are essential.\n\n## RESTAURANT PRICE CODE\n\nThe price code is based on the cost of an average meal for two, excluding drinks, dessert, or tip.\n\n# WELCOME TO SAVANNAH &  \nHILTON HEAD ISLAND\n\nSavannah is called the Hostess City, and for good reason. Even before the tourism business blossomed in the 1980s, Savannah was greeting visitors through its international port and its role as the largest city in the surrounding rural plain.\n\nSavannah's devotion to historic preservation got started in earnest in the mid-1950s. Without the efforts of a handful of determined society ladies, most of the historic treasures you travel to Savannah to see would not exist, but would be buried under parking lots and urban sprawl. But along with the appreciation of the old is an active slice of the new: a booming container port, the construction of the most advanced corporate jets in the world, a swelling university populace studying everything for art to marine science.\n\nNot all the scenery here is from the hands of humankind, not by a long stretch. Savannah and environs boast acres of beautiful, oxygen-generating saltwater marsh, towering live oak trees, beaches that are nesting grounds for endangered sea turtles and a stretch of ocean that is the breeding ground for the rare right whale.\n\nCalled one of America's most beautiful cities, Savannah\u2014the oldest city in Georgia\u2014sits near the mouth of the Savannah River, which forms the boundary between Georgia and South Carolina. Drive across the picturesque Talmadge Bridge over the Savannah River and by the time you're back over dry land, you're in another state.\n\nThanks for joining us here in what was the final of the original 13 British colonies that eventually made up a unique revolutionary country of its own. We've kept some of the best parts of that country's history\u2014as well as reminders of some of its most painful moments\u2014and we're delighted to share them with you.\n\n## **AREA OVERVIEW**\n\nIf you approach Savannah from the west after traveling the monotonous, pine-lined stretch of I-16 from Macon and follow through to the interstate's end in the Hostess City, you'll arrive in the midst of a lavishly beautiful part of the downtown Historic District, where architectural wonders unfold in the form of thick moss-drenched live oaks, townhomes, inns, and private residences.\n\nIf you arrive by car across the graceful cable-span bridge called the Talmadge Memorial, which crosses the winding Savannah River and connects South Carolina to Georgia, the city unfurls ahead and below you. Cresting the bridge, 196 feet above the water and looking down and ahead toward your destination, you'll see the city of Savannah. Be careful not to get distracted as you drive, but if you're the passenger, look over to your left. More than likely, you'll see a large yacht or two anchored at the Westin. There could be one or two colorful ferries transporting visitors to and from the Savannah riverfront over to Hutchinson Island, the home of a pristine Troon-managed 18-hole golf course. Across the river, still looking left as you descend the bridge, you'll see the gold-domed City Hall. It will glisten if the day is sunny, and the view of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist's twin spires will signal that you are indeed mere minutes from your destination.\n\nStraight ahead is a network of roadways, with some of the thoroughfares leading to the city's south side and to West Chatham County, where many Savannahians live and many more do their shopping in more modern buildings. Finally, there are hints of the tropics and the palm trees and massive oaks that remind you that you are indeed in the Old South.\n\n## **SAVANNAH STATISTICS**\n\nSavannah is the seat of government of Chatham County, and the sixth most populous county in the largest state (in terms of area) east of the Mississippi River. Some 278,434 (*US Census Bureau 2013) people live in Chatham County, with 347,611 residing in the metropolitan statistical area that includes the surrounding bedroom counties. About a quarter of the county's 438 square miles are unincorporated, and there are also seven other municipalities within Chatham's borders: Bloomingdale, Garden City, Port Wentworth, Pooler, Thunderbolt, Vernonburg, and the city of Tybee Island.\n\nDue to the diverse interests and backgrounds that exist here, Savannah's major employers vary from industrial to educational and entrepreneurial. As a port community that dates back to 1733, Savannah's a city that assumes many roles, serving as a harbor, a center of higher education, a tourist destination, a site for industrial plants, a home to the military, and a breeding ground for artists and historic preservationists. Due to its history and aesthetic magnetism, the city is a virtual melting pot. For instance, take a seat on one of many benches in the squares of the Historic District and you'll most likely observe the mix: international art students hiking to and from class with projects in tow, society matrons chatting with neighbors, a herd of Girl Scouts on foot, corporate executives enjoying bagged lunches, and people like yourself watching people like yourself.\n\nIn keeping true to her military and industrial history, Savannah is home to Hunter Army Airfield and nearby (about 50 miles south) Fort Stewart military bases. Combined, the two bases employ more than 42,000 people and generate an annual direct federal expenditure of $1.4 billion dollars. The Georgia Ports Authority's (GPA) Garden City facilities comprise 1,200 acres, North America's largest single-terminal container facility and closing in on becoming its busiest. Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation, home of the world's fastest corporate jets, is headquartered here.\n\nFive industries account for relatively equal shares of employment in the metropolitan Savannah area, further attesting to the area's healthy, diverse industry mix: retail trade, professional and business services, education and health services, leisure and hospitality, and state and local government. Manufacturers continue to account for nearly 9 percent of the area's jobs.\n\nThe Savannah area is blessed with a climate classified as semitropical. Average seasonal temperatures are, in degrees Fahrenheit, 51 in winter, 66 in spring, 81 in summer, and 68 in autumn. Remember, though, that averages are pretty useless when it comes to weather: On your typical summer day, the daybreak temp of 72 is rapidly climbing into the 90s, with humidity to match.\n\nWinters are brisk, and rarely is there a morning that provokes a heavy coat. If the day calls for one, more than likely you'll be shedding it by lunchtime so stay close to your hotel or be prepared to tote your jacket as the day warms up.\n\nMore accurately, according to the Savannah Area Chamber of Commerce, the city on average experiences 67 days each year when the mercury climbs higher than 90 degrees.\n\nWinters are fairly mild, with the temperature dipping below freezing an average of (ironically) 32 days a year. We seldom see snow, and the descent of even a few flakes is cause for excitement. The average annual rainfall is 49 inches, and Mother Nature delivers some intense downpours now and then, particularly during summer afternoons, so if this is your choice for a visit, heed this warning and bring a stylish pair of rain boots. Because Savannah is in a low-lying area and much of the city's sewer system is antiquated, streets are prone to flooding when tides are high\u2014be careful if you're driving around and get caught in a sudden storm.\n\nAlso, check the weather as you venture here between June 1 and November 30, the designated hurricane season. Being on the southeast coast, Savannah occasionally finds itself threatened by hurricanes. In recent years, the city has been spared the destruction caused by major storms. Savannah had close calls from Hurricane Hugo in 1989, Bertha in 1996, and Floyd in 1999, but the last hurricane to hit here was David in 1979, when winds as strong as 90 mph caused widespread power outages that lasted for weeks.\n\nThat gives you the big picture. Now let's look more closely at the four areas into which we've divided the county.\n\n## HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, SAVANNAH\n\nHistoric District\n\nWhen mentioning the Historic District, we're actually referring to the area of downtown where there are 22 picturesque squares with restaurants, inns, personal residences, and accommodations. Other neighborhoods may have historic designations of one type or another, but for clarity's sake, our reference is to the classic downtown sector.\n\nSavannah's downtown area is bordered by the Savannah River on the north, East Broad Street on the east, Park Avenue on the south, and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard on the west. Downtown is the oldest and most colorful part of the city\u2014James Oglethorpe landed here when he arrived and founded Georgia more than 270 years ago. The 2.5-square-mile Historic District encompasses the 24 city squares Oglethorpe designed in his original plans. (Although his original plans called for 24 squares, there are presently 22 remaining.)\n\nToday those squares still provide an intimate ambience unmatched by any other area of the city. Spend at least a day exploring the squares we like to call \"a performance in progress.\" Like an ongoing film with extraordinary cinematography, they are a constant source of motion with characters changing by the minute. In summer, musicians perform on Johnson Square's monument steps for tourists and employees lunching downtown. On any given day in any given square, couples nestle on benches shaded by live oak trees with enormous branches that are laced with Spanish moss. Horse-drawn carriages click past carrying entire families on holiday and brides and grooms to and from historic churches on the weekends, enhancing the squares' theatrics. The walled gardens of homes surrounding the squares harbor history and a captivating kaleidoscope of intriguing tales and colorful characters.\n\nApart from the squares, downtown is also the place for fun, Southern eating at its best, and shopping on foot. The city's main thoroughfare, Broughton Street, was once the main shopping district and has captured the interest of locals and tourists with unique and local whimsical boutiques along with its share of chains like Gap and Banana Republic.\n\nDowntown also plays host to festivals, with many of Savannah's major annual events being held along the river, in City Market, and at Forsyth Park, a lush, green playground on Bull Street where a new amphitheater and cafe attract cultural and even more outdoor activities.\n\nDowntown's Johnson Square is called the city's financial district. However, when you actually visit this square, you forget all about money. Situated in the center of several banks is a striking monument to Nathaniel Greene, the Revolutionary War hero. There are fountains at each end that glisten in the afternoon sunlight. The massive branches of the live oaks cover the square like a beautiful web, the Spanish moss dripping like lace on a wedding gown train, and they create a surreal ambience that is characteristic of many other areas of downtown.\n\nThroughout downtown, striking museums such as the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences bring a little bit of a European flair to this Southern city. Enhancing the downtown area are a great number of buildings, homes, and inns that have been delicately restored to splendor by their owners.\n\nLiteral interpretations of Savannah's cartography might be a bit confusing because names don't always match up to positions. By map, the Historic District is in the northern part of town. That's because Savannah's birthplace was on a bluff on the south bank of the river, causing the heart of the city to be north of everything else. When you're in downtown Savannah, you can't go much farther north and still be in Georgia. Savannah has not grown in that direction, across the north channel of the Savannah River (which is known as the Back River), because what's over there is mostly marshland, and it's also South Carolina.\n\nSo when you're downtown on River Street gazing across the south channel of the Savannah River, you're looking at Hutchinson Island, a small part of Georgia that's undergone development to its advantage. Formerly a literal eyesore, the marshland has emerged in the form of a $98 million resort owned by Westin. The resort complex towers above the flat island like a giant sand castle with a lush tropical appeal. Aesthetically, the project has been a great success and makes a splendid accompaniment to the $83.5 million Savannah International Trade and Convention Center (opened there in mid-2000). The Westin resort complex is a 403-room, 16-story hotel that's emblematic of the growth in tourism being experienced by the city.\n\nBecause Savannah hasn't been able to expand much to the north, most early development was southward, and much recent growth has been to the east and west.\n\nIslands\n\nDriving eastward on US 80 toward Tybee Island, you'll pass Chatham County's inshore islands. This is where huge residential growth has occurred partly due to the island ambience, proximity to the beach, and distance to downtown. One can live on any one of \"the islands\" and get to work downtown in about 10 to 15 minutes, depending on the time of day and location of the workplace. Although these islands are not on the Atlantic Ocean, they're separated from the mainland and neighboring islands by salt marsh, rivers, and tidal creeks. The islands in our Islands area are those immediately east of Savannah\u2014Oatland, Talahi, Whitemarsh, and Wilmington\u2014and those southeast of the city\u2014Dutch, Skidaway, and Isle of Hope. Because of its unique qualities and status as a destination for tourists, we have devoted a separate chapter to Tybee Island, which is also east of Savannah.\n\nThe residential development of the east-side islands took off in the late 1980s, and Whitemarsh Island (pronounced WHIT-marsh) was the fastest-growing part of the county in 1996, with Wilmington Island not far behind. Growth slowed on Whitemarsh in 1997, with most of the island being built out, but residential development continued on Wilmington, the fastest-growing part of Chatham during 1998. Most of the building on these islands has been residential, although a large shopping center and three schools have been constructed on Whitemarsh in recent years.\n\nDespite the buildup, the eastside islands, particularly Wilmington Island, retain a natural beauty and laid-back quality. Days are lazy and many islanders get around by bike. Spring evenings are filled with laughter and cheering from the crowds at little league baseball and church league softball games that are ongoing on Wilmington Island. It's safe enough to take an evening stroll on any of this island's streets, look up at a sky brilliant with stars, and listen to the back and forth hoots from owls. For the most part, the eastside islands remain quiet havens where folks sit on their docks and watch the marsh turn from gold to green as the seasons change; where oaks festooned with Spanish moss bend over roadways to create cool, verdant tunnels; where you can hop in your car, drive around the corner, and fetch fresh seafood from rustic markets. You can grocery shop in your flip-flops and stand in line at the banks with all your neighbors.\n\nTiny Thunderbolt, a quaint fishing village, is the jumping-off point before you cross the Wilmington River and hit the Islands Area. This village is also home of Thunderbolt Marine, Inc., a 25-acre site along the Wilmington River where marine skills are utilized to refit megayachts owned by the world's billionaires and registered in exotic parts of the world.\n\nFarther to the south, you'll find the gated residential enclave of Dutch Island; Skidaway Island, site of the Landings, a private community of upscale homes, also gated; and Isle of Hope, distinguished by its quaint cottages, charming Southern homes, and picturesque docks where families enjoy swimming, boating, and fishing. The Landings covers much of Skidaway Island with a gated development of homes, deepwater marinas, golf courses, a fitness center, clubhouses, tennis courts, and more than 40 miles of biking and nature trails.\n\nIsle of Hope is entirely residential except for the marina on Bluff Drive. Bluff Drive is a lovely lane running alongside the Skidaway River, and it's our choice as the Savannah area's most picturesque street. The isle is also the location of Wormsloe Historic Site, the place where one of Georgia's first settlers constructed a colonial estate.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\nSouthside/Midtown is the vast area south of the Historic District. Note that the locals refer to the northern portion of this area as Midtown. Midtown starts in the vicinity of the southern end of Forsyth Park and runs south to DeRenne Avenue, although some folks might say it extends all the way to Oglethorpe Mall. Most of Savannah's Victorian District and all of the Thomas Square Streetcar Historic District are in Midtown. The districts, which are on the National Register of Historic Places, are filled with Victorian-style frame houses.\n\nThat distinction also applies to Ardsley Park and Chatham Crescent, two other areas in Midtown. Among the streets of Ardsley Park is one of Savannah's prettiest\u2014oak- and azalea-lined Washington Avenue. At the eastern end of the avenue is Daffin Park, site of a small lake and public tennis courts and athletic fields used by recreation league teams playing baseball, softball, football, and soccer. Historic Grayson Stadium, a classic baseball stadium, stands among the tall pines in the eastern portion of the park.\n\n**More Useful Info**\n\n**Driving laws:** Seat belts mandatory for occupants of the front seat of a vehicle and all occupants younger than 18; safety restraining systems required for children younger than 6 years old, but seat belts will suffice for those who are 4 feet 9 inches and taller. Maximum speed limit under normal conditions 55 mph, 70 mph on rural interstates, and 65 mph on urban interstates. Speed limit decreases to 30 mph in business and residential districts. Headlights required between the half hour after sunset and the half hour before sunrise and when raining.\n\n**Alcohol laws:** Drinking by persons younger than age 21 prohibited. Motorists 21 years and older considered under the influence of intoxicants when 0.08 gram or more by alcohol is present in the blood; for those younger than 21, the limit is 0.02 gram.\n\nThe city has an unusually liberal \"go cup\" policy. Drinking on city streets prohibited except in the area bounded generally by the city limits on the north, West Boundary Street on the west, Jones Street on the south, and East Broad Street on the east. In this area, drinking from cans, bottles, or glasses is prohibited, and paper or plastic cups containing alcoholic beverages must not exceed 16 fluid ounces. Your bartender can keep you posted on the finer points.\n\n**Daily newspaper:** _Savannah Morning News_\n\n**Sales tax:** 7 percent (4 percent state, 3 percent local option) on the purchase of all goods and some services except groceries and prescriptions.\n\n**Room tax:** 6 percent\n\n**Information for tourists:** Savannah Area Chamber of Commerce/Visit Savannah, 101 E. Bay St., Savannah, GA 31401; (912) 644-6400; savannah visit.com.\n\nYou'll find several shopping centers in Midtown, the main library (which has been renovated extensively), and much of Savannah's health-care community. Clustered just north of DeRenne Avenue, between Reynolds Street and the Truman Parkway, are numerous doctors' offices, pharmacies, medical laboratories, and two of the city's hospitals, Memorial University Medical Center and Candler Hospital. Once south of DeRenne, you are in the part of town most locals call the Southside. It's an area of subdivisions, churches, recreational facilities, and commercial development. Savannah's main roadway, Abercorn Street, evolves from a historical setting to the area's primary retail strip where shopping centers, malls, car dealerships, and fast-food restaurants reign. We think of Abercorn south of DeRenne as the Land of a Thousand Curb Cuts. That's an exaggeration, but not much of one. The six-lane thoroughfare is nicked by the myriad entrances and exits to and from business establishments, used-car lots, strip shopping centers, and megastores selling building materials, pet supplies, party goods, books, liquor, and office equipment. Interrupting this cascade of commercialism on Abercorn are the St. Joseph's Hospital campus and the doctors' offices that have sprung up around it and the campus of Armstrong State University. The area we've designated as South-side/Midtown is also home to several other institutions of higher education, including Savannah State University, Savannah Technical College, and South University.\n\nOutdoor activities abound in the South-side. Just east and southeast of Oglethorpe Mall is Bacon Park, a city- and county-owned recreational complex consisting of softball diamonds, soccer fields, tennis courts, a public golf course, a stadium where high school football teams play, an aquatic center, and a lake surrounded by a walking/jogging track. Nearby is the site of the Chatham County track and field complex inside T. A. Wright Stadium at Savannah State University. Among the features of this world-class facility are an eight-lane track, a dual pole vault runway, a javelin runway, a steeplechase water jump, and shot put, discus, and hammer-throw circles.\n\nThe Southside past Oglethorpe Mall is where suburbia evolved in the 1960s and 1970s, mainly in the sprawling subdivision of Windsor Forest. Residential growth has continued in recent years farther out Abercorn Street at Georgetown, one of the fastest-growing areas in Chatham County during the 1990s. This area extends almost to I-95 and includes a nice and affordable 18-hole Henderson Golf Club, where magnificent live oaks and lush magnolia trees provide a challenging and natural place to enjoy an afternoon.\n\nTo the west of the residential and commercial development of the Southside is Hunter Army Airfield, a 5,400-acre military post and site of the Army's longest runway. Hunter and Fort Stewart are the homes of a Ranger battalion, units of the Third Infantry Division (Mechanized), and a Coast Guard air station. The bulk of the division is based an hour away at Fort Stewart, the largest Army installation east of the Mississippi River. With its 11,375-foot runway, Hunter serves as a location from which troops and equipment of the Third can be deployed throughout the world.\n\ni Tiny, almost invisible sand gnats appear in spring and fall, and can be successfully repelled with the locals' home remedy of liberal applications of Avon's Skin-So-Soft. If bitten, try not to scratch: the bumps will go away in about an hour if you leave them be.\n\ni Savannahians were thrilled in February 2010, when snow fell in the city and outlying areas. Snow hadn't been seen in the area since December 1989\u2014more than a decade-long gap. That prompted many to sing one of the all-time favorite songs about wintry weather that was written by a onetime resident, James L. Pierpont. He penned the words to \"Jingle Bells\" and worked as an organist at the Unitarian church in Savannah.\n\nOne of Chatham's municipalities is in Southside/Midtown: Vernonburg, a settlement of a hundred or so souls who reside on a handful of streets leading to the banks of the Vernon River. South of Vernonburg are the rustic residential communities of Beaulieu and Coffee Bluff.\n\nWest Chatham\n\nOnce an industrial stronghold surrounded by pine trees, West Chatham has retained that identity but added a residential boom of everything from starter homes to gated mini-mansion enclaves. Near and along I-95, this area is home to industry, i.e., companies that produce paper products, massive structures where sleek corporate jets are built and serviced, and a British company that builds bright yellow backhoe loaders. Home of the county's largest manufacturer, Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation, which employs 10,126 people (per the Savannah Economic Development Authority) and produces corporate jet aircraft, West Chatham is also the site of the headquarters of the Georgia Ports Authority, which operates two deepwater terminals on the Savannah River. Most of the cargo handled on Savannah's docks is shipped in containers, and the city is one of the busiest container ports in the US. If you don't believe it, settle on a bench along the riverfront and watch the ships bearing containers go in and out.\n\nMany of the people who work at the port and the industries west of Savannah live in West Chatham's four municipalities\u2014Garden City, Port Wentworth, Bloomingdale, and the current king of residential and retail development, Pooler. West Chatham is also the location of Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport.\n\n# TRAVEL INSTRUCTIONS & RESOURCES\n\nOnce you get here, there are several options to get you around, although the best way is still the oldest way\u2014on foot, or as you might hear it called, \"riding shank's mare.\" If you aren't interested in hoofing it, though, you'll find plenty of taxis, a public bus system, a full array of rental car agencies, even pedicabs, which are kind of a cross between a tricycle and a rickshaw, driven by strong-legged guides.\n\nFor the adventurous tourist, Segway of Savannah offers an ecofriendly way to glide through Savannah's Historic District. You won't find elaborate freeway systems with HOV lanes or throngs of harried commuters rushing to catch their five o'clock train. Sorry, Savannah's stage is set to a slower song, and her neighborly disposition makes her a city to be enjoyed at a leisurely pace.\n\nAchieving the Southern way of seizing the day is easy: Take a deep breath and pretend there are no clocks or schedules. To a visitor, it may seem like Savannahians tackle the daily rigors of getting from one place to another in the same way. They are slow to anger and even slower to drive.\n\nOn the outskirts of town, suburban sprawl has given us a fairly recent phenomenon\u2014some commuter-hour congestion, especially on I-16 bound for the bedrooms of Effingham County, or on Abercorn Street's southern extremes approaching the Georgetown neighborhood and the entrance to I-95 en route to Richmond Hill's neighborhoods in adjacent Bryan County.\n\nSo what happens if your navigation system fails or you're lost? Ask a local. More likely than not, he or she will be happy to get you headed in the right direction. Those of us who live or work in the Historic District are particularly experienced at giving directions.\n\nDirections come with a caution. Although Savannah's aesthetics may lure you out at midnight, remember this: Take all precautions when walking the streets at night.\n\n## **GETTING HERE**\n\nBy Air\n\n**SAVANNAH/HILTON HEAD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,** 400 Airways Ave.; (912) 964-0514; savannahairport.com. The Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport is about 10 miles north of Savannah. The exit number off I-95 is 104. Delta (800-221-1212; delta.com), and US Airways (800-428-4322; usairways.com) are the largest carriers and also have been with the airport the longest. Other airlines include JetBlue (800-538-2583, jetblue.com), United (800-864-8331; united.com), and American Airlines (800-433-7300; aa.com). Nonstop flights are available via various carriers to Atlanta, Charlotte, Newark, Cincinnati, Houston, Miami, New York (La Guardia), Washington, DC (Dulles), Dallas, Detroit, Chicago (O'Hare), and Philadelphia. On weekends, Pittsburgh is an additional nonstop destination from here.\n\nThe lineup at the airport is prone to change, so stay abreast of flights and airlines via the airport's website. The Airport Commission is on a constant mission to keep the flight selection competitive and cost-effective. It's also easy to confirm flight arrivals and departures because the website stays current.\n\nNot to mislead, the proper name\u2014Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport\u2014is correct, even though there are currently no international flights. (The name was amended to include Hilton Head since about half of the passenger traffic is bound there.)\n\n_Rental Cars_\n\nPassengers have a choice of several rental-car agencies on the premises, although they tend to change and you should call ahead if it is particularly important to you to deal with a specific car rental agency. Serving Savannah/Hilton Head International are Alamo (888-826-6893; alamo.com), Avis (800-831-2847; avis.com), Budget (800-527-0700; budget.com), Dollar Rent A Car (866-745-5063; dollar.com), Enterprise (800-736-8222; enterprise.com), Hertz (800-654-3131; hertz.com), National (800-227-7368; nationalcar.com), and Thrifty (800-367-2277; thrifty.com).\n\n_Taxi and Shuttle Service_\n\nThe airport distributes a rate brochure (available either outside near all the cabs or inside near the baggage claim) that gives passengers an idea of what it will cost to take a taxi to local bed-and-breakfasts, hotels, motels, and inns. Maximum rates, set by the Savannah City Council, are $25 to the Historic District, $34 to Hutchinson Island, $53 to Tybee Island, $85 to Hilton Head Island, $60 to Bluffton, South Carolina, $60 to The Landings on Skidaway Island; and between $33 and $41 to Savannah's Southside. Cabbies are allowed to charge an additional $5 per passenger in Georgia and $10 per passenger after the first two bound for South Carolina.\n\nTaxi service at the airport can be arranged by calling the taxi stand at (912) 964-8016, or by simply showing up at the cab stand curbside, which is clearly marked and impossible to miss. We've never seen the cab stand unattended. Low Country Adventures (800-681-8212) provides airport shuttle service to and from Hilton Head (see our Hilton Head chapter).\n\nShuttles are a comfortable and efficient alternative to taxis. K Shuttle offers scheduled shuttle service from Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport to Hilton Head. They can be reached by calling (877) 243-2050. The rates are $44 one-way and $79 round-trip. All passengers arriving into the Savannah airport desiring K Shuttle services must have a prearranged reservation.\n\nThere is no scheduled provider of limousine service to and from the airport. However, there are several private limousine services in the city, and these are listed later in this chapter. If you are interested in a ride from the airport, always inquire when calling as to whether the company has a permit to serve the airport.\n\nBy Train\n\n**AMTRAK,** 2611 Seaboard Coastline Dr.; (912) 234-2611, (800) 872-7245. The _Silver Meteor_ and _Silver Star_ take turns coming into Savannah as part of their treks along the Eastern Seaboard. Savannah is in the New York\u2013Miami Amtrak corridor, and travelers have a choice of several departure times each day. Note that there is no train service currently to Atlanta, an omission advocacy groups periodically tackle.\n\nThe Amtrak station is about 4 miles from the Historic District. Heading west on I-16, take the Chatham Parkway exit. At the stop sign turn left, then take your first right. The station is open every day 4:30 a.m. to noon and 4:30 p.m. to midnight. Taxicabs are at the station when each train pulls in. Rental cars are not available at the station.\n\nBy Bus\n\n**GREYHOUND BUS LINES,** 610 W. Oglethorpe Ave.; (912) 233-8186; grey hound.com. Savannah is on Greyhound Bus Lines' busiest eastern corridor\u2014the stretch between New York City and Miami. Buses depart the city 23 times a day, 7 days a week, with the most frequent departures, as would be expected, headed north toward New York and south to Miami. There are also westbound options. If you are coming to Savannah on Greyhound, you will disembark at the terminal on the far western reaches of Oglethorpe Avenue, one of the Historic District's main thoroughfares. Head out the front door of the station and walk to your left along Oglethorpe\u2014within a few blocks you will be in the heart of the Historic District. If you arrive at night, use extreme caution when walking, as you would in any city. The bus station's locale used to be on the fringes of the restored Historic District, but revitalization has moved into the area, and you'll find more foot traffic and less gritty surroundings. Taxi service is available at the bus terminal.\n\nBy Car\n\nSavannah is reachable by car via two major interstates: I-95 from the north and south and I-16 running east and west. I-95 is the main artery along the Eastern Seaboard, stretching from Maine to the tip of Florida. This interstate is extremely congested in the Savannah area during spring, when snowbirds and spring-breakers are heading south for some winter relief, so drive with caution and expect some delays near the exits. I-16 cuts an east-west path across middle Georgia before merging with I-75, which takes you into Atlanta. The following information is a helpful rundown on how to get to the main geographical sections of the city from either of these interstates.\n\n_To the Historic District_\n\nThe best option to get to the Historic District is to use I-16 heading east. There are a couple of clearly marked exits for downtown, but we suggest the one for Liberty Street. Want to swing by the Savannah Visitor Information Center for directions and advice first? As you enter downtown from the interstate, take your first left onto Liberty Street, then your next right onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard (MLK); or take the Louisville Road exit, which is near the end of the interstate and has signs guiding you to the visitor center. You are now essentially a block from the traffic light where the interstate dumped you. The visitor center on the western side of MLK, calling for a tricky left-hand turn into the parking lot. I-95 doesn't go directly into the city, so if you are traveling the north-south route, you'll need to take I-16 (the exit is clearly marked, although it features a wicked curve and tricky dual merge) for the final 10 miles or so.\n\n_To the Islands_\n\nThere are a couple of options to get you to Tybee or the eastern islands of Oat-land, Talahi, Whitemarsh, and Wilmington. Take I-16 into the Historic District and get on any northbound street until you reach Bay Street. Continue east on Bay Street, which, in less than a mile, merges with President Street, then becomes President Street Extension. Follow the President Street Extension until it becomes Islands Expressway. In about 3 miles, it will merge with US 80, which is the main route to Tybee and the eastern islands.\n\nA second option to get you to Tybee, along with the eastern and southeastern islands (Dutch and Isle of Hope), involves leaving I-16 at the 37th Street exit. Take 37th Street to Abercorn Street, take a right, then proceed to Victory Drive, where you will turn left (east). To reach Skidaway Island, take a right off Victory onto Waters Avenue. To reach the southeastern islands, look for Skidaway Road off Victory Drive and take a right to get to Dutch Island and Isle of Hope. If you continue east on Victory, it will become US 80, which will take you to the eastern islands and Tybee.\n\n_To Southside/Midtown_\n\nIf you are staying near the Southside, you might want to consider exiting I-95 at SR 204 in the southern reaches of the county, about 20 miles south of the Historic District. SR 204 is also Abercorn Street, the main north-south thoroughfare running throughout the entire city. After exiting, head north. After about 3 miles you will enter the Southside\u2014the city's main commercial district, with strip shopping centers, hotels, car dealerships, and Savannah's malls.\n\nAnother option to get to the South-side or Midtown area from downtown is Bay Street: Head east down Bay Street to President Street Extension. Take the ramp to Truman Parkway (south). You may exit right onto DeRenne Avenue, a main east-west thoroughfare, or depending on your destination, continue south on \"the Truman\" to Eisenhower Drive or Montgomery Crossroads. Each exit (DeRenne, Eisenhower, or Montgomery Crossroads) will eventually cross Abercorn. If you turn left on Abercorn, you'll head south and eventually hit I-95. If you turn right, you'll be driving in the direction of downtown (to the left or right).\n\n_To West Chatham_\n\nThe West Chatham communities of Pooler, Bloomingdale, and Garden City are all accessible from I-16 via various marked exits. From I-95 you can also take the Pooler Parkway, which will connect you to US 80 and take you through Bloomingdale, Pooler, and Garden City.\n\n## **GETTING AROUND**\n\nOnce you have made it to Savannah, there are several ways you can navigate within the city\u2014from public transportation to a comfortable pair of shoes. Following are some ideas for getting around and a few things to watch out for while traversing the town.\n\nSampling Savannah\n\n_Historic District_\n\nSlip on your most comfortable pair of walking shoes and discover Savannah by foot. Named by _Walking_ magazine as \"one of the top 10 walking places in America,\" the title is not only accurate but inviting! To add to the kudos, _USA Weekend Magazine_ called Savannah \"one of the 10 most beautiful places in America.\" Savannah's squares are her most adored icons, and there are now 22 of them to explore! Recognized as America's first planned city, General Oglethorpe's design included a series of grids with wide streets connected by shady public squares. These squares served as the town's meeting places. Ellis Square was given a new and contemporary design that reflects the city's progressiveness. There are 13 main north-south streets in the Historic District, stretching from the northernmost point of the city\u2014the Savannah River\u2014south to Forsyth Park. These streets include (listed east to west) East Broad, Houston, Price, Habersham, Lincoln, Abercorn, Drayton, Bull, Whitaker, Barnard, Jefferson, Montgomery, and Martin Luther King Jr. Likewise, there are 23 main east-west streets, starting (for our purposes) at East Broad and ending at Martin Luther King Jr. (which was formerly known as West Broad). These main east-west roadways include River, Bay, Bryan, Congress, Broughton, State, York, Oglethorpe, Hull, Perry, Liberty, Harris, Charlton, Jones, Taylor, Gordon, Gaston, Huntingdon, Hall, Gwinnett, Bolton, Waldburg, and Park.\n\nIf our streets resemble a series of necklaces, then some of them are lucky enough to have pearls in the form of squares. In fact, six of the north-south streets\u2014Montgomery, Barnard, Bull, Abercorn, Habersham, and Houston\u2014have these jewels, making them the most beautiful streets in the Historic District. Bull Street, however, is the most commanding strand. Located in the center of the Historic District and easy to spot because it begins at golden-domed City Hall, Bull Street offers some of the most notable squares in the city, including the one where Forrest Gump waited for his bus and the one where the main plot unfolds in _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_.\n\nIt is crucial that you understand how to navigate around the squares while traveling in the Historic District. It's actually quite simple once you understand the basic layout. Imagine heading north or south on one of the six streets with squares. Every couple of blocks you are going to run into one. They're beautiful but they slow you down\u2014not necessarily a bad thing\u2014but local commuters opt for the plainer, straighter Whitaker Street and Drayton Street.\n\nNo, the squares aren't your standard traffic circles. There is only one lane, and traffic moves in a counterclockwise direction around a beautiful park filled with trees, benches, and in some instances, a monument or fountain. The traffic moves very slowly, so you have ample time to figure out where you would like to exit. When entering a square, always yield to any car making its way around the square\u2014it has the right-of-way. Once the coast is clear, enter the square driving to your right. Because we have many visitors (and not a few locals) who don't understand that part about who has the right-of-way on the square, be cautious.\n\nIf you don't want to hit any squares, you can take a straight southbound route through the Historic District on either Price Street or Whitaker Street. Both run one way. Drayton Street, a one-way northern thoroughfare, will get you all the way to the Savannah River without being interrupted by squares. These aren't, however, the prettiest routes. Note that you also will run into squares when traveling east to west in the Historic District. The majority of the east-west routes pass by to the north or south of the squares, but a few intersect them. Again, when approaching a square from the east or west, you must yield to any traffic that is already making its way around the square. Once traffic has cleared, you enter the square by traveling to your right or going straight ahead. Liberty and Oglethorpe are the main east-west streets without squares, and they feature broad, tree-lined center medians. Other square-less east-west routes include Jones, Gaston, Broughton (the downtown business district's \"main street\"), and Bay. All of this sounds complicated. It isn't, as you will see. Yield when entering a square, travel to the right\u2014as is quite obvious\u2014and you'll do fine.\n\n_Islands_\n\nThe eastern islands, including Whitemarsh, Talahi, Oatland, and Wilmington, are directly off US 80, which is also the only route to Tybee Island. It is a fairly wide, four-lane highway taking you through scenic marshlands before narrowing into a two-lane road as you near Tybee. Skidaway Road leads to Dutch Island and the Isle of Hope (but not, oddly enough, without some turns to Skidaway Island). Waters Avenue is the direct route to Skidaway Island. This well-marked, two-lane road is very busy and congested most times of the day. (Please see our Tybee Island chapter for more information on getting around there.) Pay particular attention to speed limits in school zones and tuck your cell phone away while driving on this road (and all others, for that matter).\n\n_Southside/Midtown_\n\nAbercorn Street is the main artery running through Savannah's Southside. It begins at the Savannah River in the Historic District, and in its early stretches it is a charming, square-filled route through downtown. It continues south some 20 miles to I-95, picking up additional lanes and additional traffic. All the motels, hotels, shopping centers, car dealerships, and other businesses in the Southside are either right on Abercorn or on a street just off this main drag. The six-lane street is heavily traveled and usually very busy. Try to avoid Abercorn during morning and afternoon rush hours\u2014typically 7:30 to 9 a.m. and 4 to 6 p.m. If you are a road-warrior veteran of a gridlocked metropolis, however, you might find our version of rush hour amusing.\n\nDeRenne Avenue, which becomes I-516 at its western end, is the main Southside east-west route. You will find two of the city's hospitals off DeRenne (one just off, and the other a few blocks north on Waters Avenue), along with gas stations, shopping centers, banks, and several medical offices. This road is also heavily traveled and should be avoided during morning and afternoon rush hours. Since this road serves hospital personnel, rush hour tends to start around 3 p.m. weekdays.\n\nVictory Drive (US 80) is Midtown's main drag. It travels through residential neighborhoods and by shopping centers and Grayson Stadium, home of Savannah's minor-league baseball team, the Sand Gnats. When traveling east, Victory Drive is the main route to Tybee and the eastern islands.\n\nEisenhower Drive is another major east-west road that accesses Hunter Army Airfield to the west and Skidaway Road to the east. It parallels DeRenne and Victory.\n\n_West Chatham_\n\nBay Street, which runs right in front of City Hall in the Historic District, continues to West Chatham, eventually taking you to Garden City and Port Wentworth. Another route, US 80, runs through the area as well, taking motorists to Bloomingdale, Pooler, and Garden City.\n\nParking\n\nWhen Oglethorpe designed the original city plan for Savannah, he didn't leave space for parking cars. He would probably be amused if he could see his city today, some 270 years later. You can find parking, generally, but it is not free, and it is often not as convenient as you would like in the Historic District. We focus our parking information section on that part of town for a couple of reasons: It's the place most tourists want to roam, and it's the main area in the city where you have to pay to park. Venture outside the Historic District to Southside/Midtown, the Islands, or West Chatham, and you shouldn't have any trouble finding ample free parking. (An exception is Tybee Island, which is covered in a separate chapter.)\n\nDespite the high volume of vehicles jostling for places in the Historic District every day, a metered spot or one in a garage or parking lot usually is available. It's the daily downtown worker who finds parking an expensive nightmare, with meters vigilantly patrolled and waiting lists for monthly spaces in the city lots and prime private lots. As a visitor, you might not find a place right next to the square or shop you want to visit, but chances are good you will find one within comfortable walking distance. Utilize one of the modern parking garages to keep you from running back and forth to check the meters. Be advised that it gets more crowded as you get closer to River Street\u2014a main tourist hub overlooking the Savannah River. And remember that no matter how good the parking situation may be the rest of the year, it is going to be tough, if not altogether impossible, to get a spot near downtown on St. Patrick's Day. (See our Annual Events & Festivals chapter for more information on the perils of parking during the city's big fest.)\n\nParking for the majority of the Historic District (and a little farther south) is metered, costing 30 cents to $1 an hour and more, depending on location. The downtown area is patrolled by vigilant parking enforcers who are out in force 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Mon through Fri. (Translation: It's free on weekends, provided you don't park anywhere like in front of a fire hydrant.) Leave your meter expired for even a minute or two, and chances are pretty good you are going to get a ticket. Parking meters are serious business in the city of Savannah, so take careful note of the time and carry change. Most merchants are friendly, but some are grouchy about making meter change. Also, messages posted on some meters claim they are checked on Saturday\u2014which is not true.\n\nThe city's Parking Services department has gone high-tech downtown, with the installation of two new varieties of meter beyond the traditional put-in-a-coin-and-turn-the-handle versions. One requires parkers to walk to the middle of the block and buy a paper receipt from a machine, then return to the car and put it on the dashboard. Another version requires drivers to note the number of a parking space, walk to a mid-block computer, and feed in coins. If all of this sounds likely to breed confusion, you're right\u2014it does. On the good side, the newer meters also accept currency and credit cards.\n\nMetered parking is scarcer than ever since security concerns prompted the lifting of curbside parking near federal buildings, so read on to learn about your parking garage options.\n\nYou won't find meters along Broughton Street, the main shopping district in the Historic District. This street has undergone a slow transformation and even today, reflects modern, attractive boutiques, as well as some locally owned shops that may need a little TLC. To promote this area, the city allows free two-hour parking along Broughton Street (with a few spaces that allow only 30 minutes of parking). While there are no meters, you can be ticketed for exceeding the time limit\u2014it is monitored.\n\n_City Parking Garages_\n\nThe city operates four modern parking garages, although they are of limited use during weekday business hours because most of the spaces are taken up by contract parkers. The Bryan Street Parking Garage at Bryan and Abercorn Streets is the nicest of the set, and it operates 24/7. The Whitaker Street Garage at Whitaker and Bay Lane is an underground lot. The Robinson Garage is at York and Montgomery Streets. The State Street Parking Garage at State and Abercorn Streets closes at 1 a.m. The same hours apply at the Liberty Street Garage at Liberty and Montgomery Streets. Garage rates are $1 per hour with the exception of the Whitaker Street Garage, which is $2 per hour. Evening, weekend, and special event rates vary.\n\n_City Parking_\n\nThe city operates a few public parking lots as well. Three are on River Street and cost $1 per hour. For easy access to the lots, from Bay Street take the Abercorn, Lincoln, or Barnard Street ramps to River Street. From the Lincoln ramp, turn left to reach the lots. From the Abercorn or Barnard ramps, turn either way on River Street to reach a city lot. Note that these are small lots; your best bet if visiting River Street is to park at the Bay Street level and walk down or ride the public elevator between City Hall and the Hyatt Regency Savannah.\n\nThere are a handful of private parking garages and lots in town. Many cater strictly to local businesses and have lengthy waiting lists to get in.\n\n_Visitor Parking Day Passes_\n\nHere's a real bargain. To take the hassle out of feeding meters, the city offers a Visitor Parking Day Pass. Get a one-day pass for $7 or a 48-hour version for $12. It allows visitors to park at any meter in the Historic District, at time-controlled lots and parking spaces, in the five city parking garages, or at the city parking lots. The pass, which must be displayed on the driver's-side dash, is not valid in all the areas you would expect\u2014private parking lots, hotel parking garages, sweeping zones, freight zones, bagged meters (meters that are covered to tell you that parking is not allowed temporarily), etc.\n\nYou can purchase a day pass or find out more information on parking at the Savannah Visitor Information Center, 301 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., or at the offices of City of Savannah Parking Services, 100 E. Bryan St. (912-651-6470). The pass comes with a map showing parking locations. You can pick up a brochure outlining all the parking regulations at these locations, too.\n\nPublic Transportation\n\n**CHATHAM AREA TRANSIT,** 900 E. Gwinnett St.; (912) 233-5767 (TDD); catchacat.org. If you hear someone say they are going to \"catch a CAT,\" they are referring to a ride on Chatham County's public bus system.\n\nCAT offers four free services, most of which are of particular interest to tourists. There's a free CAT shuttle\u2014known as the dot shuttle (the \"dot\" is deliberately uncapitalized) making its way around the Historic District to some 30 stops, including hotels and prime shopping locations and historic squares. The shuttle bus looks like a well-groomed pseudo-trolley and is wheelchair accessible. Shuttle hours are roughly 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. every day but Sunday, when they start just after 9:30 a.m. and run to about 5 p.m. CAT also operates a passenger ferry to Hutchinson Island, which is also free. Also free is rail-based trolley service along River Street. The fourth free service is a shuttle originating from the city's Liberty Street parking garage, designed to make that new facility on the edge of the business district more appealing to daily downtown workers\u2014but anyone's welcome to ride it.\n\nAs far as the regular bus service goes, you can get just about anywhere you want by catching a CAT, including the city's two malls, the Historic District, and the Islands (except Tybee). CAT buses do not, however, go to much of West Chatham. All are wheelchair accessible. There are bicycle racks with a capacity of two bikes on the front of the buses. The website is well designed and informative.\n\nTaxis & Limousines\n\nThe best thing to do if you want taxi service in Savannah is to call the cab company directly. In theory, perhaps, you could hail a passing cab, but we've never seen it done\u2014when we want a cab, we telephone and ask for one or go to the cab lineups outside major hotels and the airport. There are several companies in town, typically charging a maximum of $3.50 for the first mile and $1.80 per mile thereafter.\n\nLimousine service is also available from a variety of local companies. Limos typically cost around $65 to $85 per hour, and some of the companies require a two-hour minimum. Advanced reservations are required to ensure prompt service.\n\nTaxi services include Adam Cab Inc. (912-927-7466), Savannah Cab Company (912-236-2424), Yellow Cab (912-236-1133), Checker Cab (912-236-1666), and Ataxicab (912-234-0311).\n\nFor limousines, try A & E Luxury Limousine Service (912-354-2982), Low Country Adventures (912-681-8212, 800-845-5582), and First City Limousine (912-484-0455).\n\nBicycles\n\nYou'll find a sporadic series of bike paths on major thoroughfares, but they are designed primarily to assist commuters and are largely fragmentary. Bicycles can be operated legally on public streets, excluding interstates and restricted-access highways. Bike paths or not, be aware that many drivers are unaccustomed to sharing the road with bicycles. While bicycle helmets are not required by law on adult bikers, they're a smart option. Do not ride your bike on sidewalks and stay out of the squares.\n\nCAT, the above-mentioned public transit agency, rents bicycles via facilities in Ellis Square and the CAT Transit Center, 610 W. Oglethorpe Ave., at a base rate of $5 for 24 hours and $20 for a week, plus usage fees on trips exceeding an hour.\n\nWalking\n\nHenry David Thoreau said, \"It is a great art to saunter.\" Although his words were written in 1841, they remain a forging conviction among Savannahians who live in the landmark Historic District. In the afternoons when the sun is at its peak, they'll emerge from their stately homes\u2014dogs in tow\u2014dressed in their most casual attire and practice the art of walking. Trotting through the squares, they head south to an illustrious setting: Forsyth Park, a magical place that is cast in emerging shadows and flanked by joggers, nannies with children, and an occasional biker who has strayed from the street. Inspired by the grand park fountain that has been pictured in literally thousands of wedding albums, they follow the aura of the artists before their time, seeking a closer look at the fountain sprays that are now illuminated by the setting sun. In short, a walk through this city is a joyous occasion that remains ongoing all year long and is always serenaded by birds and solo street musicians.\n\nA walking tour of the city begins with your favorite shoes. Shy away from those that might bring blisters. Leave your heels in the suitcase. Tie a sweater around your shoulder and focus on the often-uneven sidewalks, scored from years of wear and the settling earth. To help find your way around on foot, we have included a walking tour in the Attractions chapter\u2014and that's a good place to start. Here are some additional tips along with some rules to help make your steps a little surer.\n\n_Tread Lightly on Savannah's Squares_\n\nYou don't have to be in peak athletic shape to see this city's magnificent downtown by foot. Fortunately, the Historic District is only about 2.5 square miles, so it is fairly easy to see the entire area on foot provided you follow our guidelines.\n\nSavannah's squares are a charming blend of splendor and whimsy, order and extravagance, and they entice visitors seeking solitude, romance, and playful adventure. Designed to create compact, cozy interludes for socializing, the squares are framed in quaint boutiques, coffee shops, and rustic eateries, and set amid a background of Southern hospitality. They provide excellent markers for walking tours. These serene settings beg for relaxed audiences. There's a story in each and every one. Benches are plentiful, and their beauty unfolds as the days change color and the breezes usher in the aura of nighttime charm.\n\n**Getting Some Direction in Historic District**\n\nLost in the Historic District? Can't remember where you parked your car or how to get back to your hotel? Look for somebody doling out parking tickets. They can give directions, help point out the nearest bathroom, even use their radios to track down misplaced cars.\n\nOr venture over to **Ellis Square** at Bryan and Barnard Streets. This square was originally designed in 1733 and named in honor of Henry Ellis, the second royal governor. It was here that the \"Old City Market\" was located, and in its day, it was abuzz with merchants selling their wares. Shooting fountains now adorn the square, and modern benches are plentiful, but most helpful is a computer/touch-screen guide to the city housed in a glass kiosk. It's perfect for getting your bearings!\n\n_Crossing Bay Street_\n\nAlthough the Historic District is generally very pedestrian-friendly, one area that isn't is Bay Street. This is the main street running east to west in front of City Hall. Many tourists encounter Bay Street, as it must be crossed to reach River Street, the tourist haven running along the Savannah River. As mentioned in our Bicycles section, Bay Street is a very busy, narrow four-lane road that serves as the main throughway for 18-wheeler traffic trying to make it to other areas in the city. Many visitors think they can beat the traffic on Bay Street, get halfway across, and find themselves stuck in the middle, dangerously close to traffic and unable to safely pass to the other side. After experimenting with several options, the city went with increasing the number of traditional traffic lights to get pedestrians across. Most have a button-activated pedestrian signal: Push it, wait (and wait), then move quite briskly across. A few have audio features designed to serve the blind. So, in short, resist the urge to simply cross this street; go out of your way to cross at the designated pedestrian signals.\n\n_Getting to River Street_\n\nSavannah is built on a bluff overlooking the river, even though it probably looks flat to you. River Street runs along the Savannah River, which means it's lower than the rest of the city and can present a challenge to pedestrians. One of our favorite city projects\u2014and a favorite improvement to this area\u2014was the 1998 installation of an elevator behind City Hall on Bay Street. The wheelchair-accessible elevator whisks riders down to River Street, avoiding the stairs and the cobblestone streets on its way. The elevator is between City Hall (can't miss that giant gold dome) and the Hyatt Regency Savannah. Part of the elevator project included the installation of a public restroom facility on the River Street level. We've stopped in periodically and have been impressed with its upkeep. There's also a small information station with a friendly question-answerer, a brochure rack, and\u2014most importantly in Savannah's climate\u2014a water fountain. The more adventurous pedestrian might want to skip the elevator and hoof it down the uneven cobblestones to River Street. One option to get to River Street involves treacherous stairs. There are several routes available, although\u2014apart from the elevator\u2014we prefer the wide, easily negotiated set that runs along the east (right-hand when you face the river) side of City Hall. All these stairs are literally hundreds of years old, and many aren't particularly easy to navigate, such as the narrow slate steps curving along a stone wall with an aged metal railing. The steps tend to be beside the ramps that carry traffic to River Street. Be extremely careful, and if you prefer, walk down the ramps that cars use to get to the river.\n\nAlthough you can avoid the tricky stairs this way, you won't avoid the cobblestone ramps, another potential pedestrian pitfall. The cobblestones, although visually charming, are not as steep as the stairs, but beware when walking on them with any type of heeled shoe. Historians will point out that these are ballast stones used to balance the weight on ships coming in and out of the port, not proper cobblestones. These roads and ramps are uneven and difficult to walk on, even for people with the surest feet and flattest shoes. If you are not above sneaking, you can duck into the elevator at the Savannah Hyatt Regency for a ride down to River Street\u2014but you can't take a ride up without a room key.\n\n_Crossing the River_\n\nThe development of the Savannah International Trade and Convention Center and the Westin Savannah Harbor Resort on Hutchinson Island\u2014an island between Georgia and South Carolina\u2014added some transportation challenges. You can get to Hutchinson Island easily by road, via the Talmadge Bridge. Or try the ferries, which are free. The vessels are named for two historic women\u2014Juliette Gordon Low, the Savannah-born founder of the Girl Scouts, and Susie King Taylor, a former slave who started one of the first schools for African Americans in Savannah. The ferries are designed to look nostalgic and operate at about 20-minute intervals. Unless you are attending an event at the Savannah International Trade and Convention Center or staying at the Westin Savannah Harbor Golf Resort & Spa (or patronizing one of its amenities), you won't really need to use the ferry. We recommend it anyway, especially if you have children in your party. It's fun to see River Street from the vantage point of an arriving sailor, and the sail across the river and back can be completed in about 15 or 20 minutes.\n\n**Savannah Bike Paths**\n\nThe designated bike paths in the city include the following (although bikes are legal on any surface street):\n\n  * West to East Corridor: 52nd Street to Ward Street to LaRoche Avenue to the entrance of Savannah State University\n  * North to South Corridor: Habersham Street to Stephenson Avenue to Hodgson Memorial Drive to Edgewater Drive to Hillyer Drive to Dyches Drive to Lorwood Drive to Tibet Avenue to Largo Drive to Windsor Road to Science Drive\n  * McQueen's Island Trail: 6 miles for hiking and biking between Bull River and Fort Pulaski along US 80\n  * McCorkle Trail: Wilmington Island at Charlie C. Brooks Park, 7001 Johnny Mercer Boulevard\n\nFerries operate 7 days a week, weather and river conditions permitting, 7 a.m. to midnight. Ferry landings are at River Street behind City Hall, at the Savannah Marriott Riverfront, and on Hutchinson Island at the convention center.\n\nQuick Driving Tips\n\nHere are a few suggested routes that may save you some time and frustration when getting from a few popular point As to point Bs. Note that all these jaunts are in the 15- to 20-minute range.\n\ni In the city of Savannah you don't have to pay parking meters evenings, Saturday, or Sunday. But enforcement is 7 days a week on Tybee Island.\n\n_Historic District to Oglethorpe Mall_\n\nOption One: Take Whitaker Street south about 2 miles to Victory Drive. Turn left onto Victory Drive, then right at the second light onto Abercorn Street. The mall is about 4 miles down Abercorn Street. Turn left into Oglethorpe on Mall Boulevard.\n\nOption Two: Take Bay Street east. In less than 1 mile it runs into President Street Extension. From President Street Extension, take Truman Parkway. After a couple of miles, exit to the right on Eisenhower Drive, then turn left onto Abercorn and look for Mall Boulevard after a couple of blocks.\n\n_Historic District to Savannah Mall_\n\nTake I-16 4 miles west to the Lynes Memorial Parkway exit and go south. After 2.5 miles on the Lynes Parkway, exit at the Southwest Bypass (also known as the Veterans Parkway) and continue 7.5 miles until it ends at SR 204. Turn left onto SR 204, which becomes Abercorn Street, and the mall will be some 3 miles ahead on your left. Or just take one of the options to Oglethorpe Mall and opt to stay on Abercorn instead of turning onto Mall Boulevard; Savannah Mall is only a couple miles farther, on the right.\n\n_Historic District to Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport_\n\nTake I-16 west to I-95 north. The airport is 14 miles away at exit 104 off I-95.\n\n_Historic District to Amtrak Station_\n\nGo west on Liberty Street, which turns into Louisville Road after less than a mile. Take a left onto Telfair Road, then a right onto Seaboard Coastline Drive.\n\n# HISTORY\n\nPerhaps no other city owes as much to one man as Savannah owes to James Edward Oglethorpe, the English soldier and politician who founded Georgia. Oglethorpe was the mastermind and driving force behind the development of the colony of Georgia, whose first city was Savannah. He selected the site of the city and christened it, giving it the same name as the river that flows beside it. Oglethorpe supervised the first phase of the building of Savannah, and he nurtured the city during its infancy as a town. He defended it in its early years, militarily and financially.\n\nMore than that, Oglethorpe bestowed on Savannah a gift that has flourished throughout the decades and centuries since his passing. He designed and laid out the town and, in so doing, created the atmosphere that makes Savannah unique among cities. He left a legacy that has been admired and enjoyed by countless residents and visitors\u2014a treasure that will be the pride of the city for as long as it stands.\n\n## **OGLETHORPE & HIS IDEA**\n\nOglethorpe was born into a family that had a long history of service to England. After serving in the British army and fighting the Turks as the aide-de-camp of an Austrian prince, Oglethorpe was elected to the lower house of Parliament in 1722 at the age of 25. He developed an interest in the misfortunes of the poor, in particular the plight of debtors who had been thrown into prison by creditors hoping the debtors' friends would secure their release by paying the debts. He worked for prison reform and attempted to find solutions to England's unemployment problems.\n\nTogether with John Perceval, another member of Parliament, Oglethorpe hatched the idea of giving people who were out of work a fresh start by transporting them to a new colony in North America that would be located between Spanish Florida and the English colony of South Carolina. Oglethorpe and Perceval petitioned King George II for a charter, which the king signed on April 21, 1732. The deal was not one-sided: The crown was motivated by the prospect of having colonists raise produce and procure raw materials to ship to England, while the colony served as a market for English goods. The idea of having the new colony act as a buffer between the Spanish in Florida and thriving South Carolina was not lost on the royals either. To top it all off, the colony was to be named Georgia in honor of the king.\n\nThe colony would be managed by Oglethorpe, Perceval, and 19 other trustees, who would receive no pay and no land for their involvement. There were also rules for the colony: Slavery, lawyers, and \"brandies and distilled liquors\" (in particular rum) were prohibited, as were Catholics. In time, all would be allowed. Those who took advantage of the free passage to Georgia offered by the trustees agreed to remain in the colony for three years, and each received a town lot for a house and 50 acres to farm. A colonist would not own the acreage and could occupy it only as long as he farmed it properly. Grants of 500 acres were available to people who paid their way to the colony.\n\nThe trustees adopted as their motto the Latin phrase _Non sibi sed allis_ (Not for themselves but others). It appears on Georgia's original seal, which also bears a rendering of a silkworm crawling across a mulberry leaf; it was hoped that the colony would produce silk in abundance.\n\n## BEFORE THE ENGLISH CAME\n\nAlthough Oglethorpe brought a European-style civilization to this land known as Georgia, he and his little band of settlers were very much the new kids on the block. According to Max E. White, author of _Georgia's Indian Heritage_ , human beings had existed in Georgia many centuries before. White states that \"the earliest evidence of man's presence in Georgia and the Southeast is in the form of fluted projectile points identical to or very similar to those found west of the Mississippi and dated to about 12,000 years ago.\" In addition to discovering such rudimentary tools as projectile points, modern man has found other evidence of the native peoples of Georgia\u2014shell middens and ceremonial mounds. The middens are piles of refuse \"composed primarily of mussel shells discarded by prehistoric diners.\" \"Many times,\" says White, \"people were buried in these shell heaps and utilitarian objects, such as bone awls, projectile points, etc., were often placed with them.\" The remnants of shell middens can be seen in the Savannah area at Skidaway Island State Park.\n\nAlthough Oglethorpe and his Englishmen were the first Europeans to make a go of settling in southeast Georgia, others had visited before them. Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto passed through in 1539\u201340 during his trek across what became the southeastern US. After de Soto's countrymen established a settlement at St. Augustine, Florida, in 1565, they built Catholic missions and churches on Georgia's sea islands, the last of which was closed in 1702. French explorer Jean Ribault\u2014who started short-lived settlements at what are now Jacksonville, Florida, and Beaufort, South Carolina\u2014sailed along the Georgia coast in 1562.\n\n\"Almost all of Georgia was forest-covered when the Europeans first appeared on the scene,\" says White. The Native Americans living there were, for the most part, members of the Creek and Cherokee nations, \"practicing an economy based on agriculture, hunting, fishing, and gathering.\" Most were Indians belonging to the Creek Confederacy, and one of them\u2014Tomo-chi-chi\u2014would have a significant impact on the survival of Oglethorpe's new colony.\n\n## **A WHOLE NEW WORLD**\n\nOglethorpe and his fellow trustees recruited 114 colonists comprising 35 families for the first voyage to Georgia and the task of starting a settlement there. Oglethorpe was the only trustee to make the trip. They left Gravesend, England, on November 17, 1732, aboard a 200-ton vessel named the _Anne_ and arrived in what is now Charleston, South Carolina, on January 13, 1733. The settlers then made their way south down the South Carolina coast and, after transferring to smaller boats, landed in the new colony on February 1. That was the date of Georgia's founding according to the Julian calendar. When that calendar was abandoned in favor of the Gregorian calendar 19 years later, the date became February 12\u2014the day now celebrated as Georgia Day. Oglethorpe had gone ahead of the colonists several days before their landing and chosen a site for the town of Savannah on a 40-foot-high bluff overlooking the Savannah River\u2014Yamacraw Bluff. In a letter to the trustees explaining his choice of the site for a city, he stated that he \"thought it healthy\" and wrote, \"The last and fullest consideration of the Healthfulness of the place was that an Indian nation, who knew the Nature of the Country, chose it for their Habitation.\"\n\nThe Indians were the 100-odd members of the Yamacraw tribe of the Lower Creek nation, led by an 80-year-old chief named Tomo-chi-chi (meaning \"to fly up\"). The Yamacraws would prove friendly and helpful to the colonists\u2014providing them with food, interceding with other tribes on their behalf, and aiding them in their struggle against the Spanish. The Yamacraws had come to the coast some eight years before the English, led there by Tomo-chi-chi from what is now west Georgia. Other new neighbors were the Musgroves\u2014Mary, an Indian woman, and her husband John, who was white. The Musgroves ran a nearby trading post called Musgrove Cowpen, and they would serve as interpreters for the Europeans and the Native Americans.\n\nThe colonists spent their first night in their new home camped out in an area that is now the site of a small park at Bay and Whitaker Streets. In the following days and weeks, Oglethorpe and Col. William Bull of South Carolina laid out the new city, and the settlers set about clearing the pine woods on the bluff with the help of slaves from the neighboring colony. They also began cultivating a 10-acre plot that would be known as Trustees' Garden. On this parcel, at the current Bay and East Broad Streets, were planted fruit trees and the mulberry trees that were envisioned as the basis of Georgia's silk industry.\n\nThings went well at the outset. By fall 1734, according to a letter from a South Carolina merchant who had visited the town, there were 80 houses and 40 more being built. During Georgia's first decade, the trustees sent more than 2,000 settlers. Other new arrivals brought diversity to the colony. Among them was a boatload of Jews from Portugal who established a Jewish congregation, Mickve Israel. It was the third founded in North America and continues today as the South's oldest. Another was a group of Germans, the Salzburgers, who settled 21 miles upriver from Savannah in what is now Effingham County. Their community of New Ebenezer prospered, and the house of worship they built in 1769 is the oldest standing church in Georgia.\n\ni One branch of the most heavily traveled road in Colonial America\u2014the Great Indian Warrior/Trading Path\u2014reached to what would become Savannah, all the way from the Great Lakes. A historical marker on Liberty Street near its intersection with Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard states that the path \"passed through here.\"\n\nAlso during the colony's infancy, Savannah became the site of the oldest orphanage in North America with a continuous existence: Bethesda Home for Boys. The orphanage's founders, George Whitefield and James Habersham, came to Georgia in 1738 at the request of two Anglican ministers, the Wesley brothers, Charles and John, the latter of whom preached in Savannah during the mid-1730s and went on to found the Methodist church. Bethesda was situated southeast of the town on the banks of the Moon River, with the foundation of the first building being laid in March 1740. It is still in operation in a related capacity, and visitors are welcome to tour the site, a museum, and a chapel (see our Attractions chapter).\n\nOglethorpe remained involved with the colony during its first 10 years, and in July 1742, he led a contingent of soldiers and Indian allies in a battle that forever wrested control of the region from the Spanish in Florida. In the Battle of Bloody Marsh, his band of defenders surprised and defeated a numerically superior Spanish invasion force about 70 miles south of Savannah at St. Simons Island. The Spanish never attempted another invasion, and a peace treaty between Spain and England was signed in 1748.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\n**What Are These Squares All About?**\n\nNo one knows for sure what inspired Oglethorpe to design Savannah as he did. Whatever Oglethorpe's inspiration, it lives on happily in the form of Savannah's priceless jewels\u2014her squares. Enjoy this brief summary of each:\n\n  * **Calhoun Square,** Abercorn and Wayne Streets\u2014This square was named in honor of John C. Calhoun, a South Carolinian considered to be the Old South's greatest spokesman in the US Senate. Designed in 1851, this is the only square where all of the original historic buildings remain.\n  * **Chatham Square,** Bernard and Wayne Streets\u2014Designed in 1847, this square was named in honor of William Pitt, English prime minister and the earl of Chatham during the period when Georgia was a royal colony.\n  * **Chippewa Square,** Bernard and Wayne Streets\u2014This square was named for the Battle of Chippewa, an American victory in Canada during the War of 1812. Designed in 1815, the square's center offers a striking bronze statue of the colony's founder, Gen. James Edward Oglethorpe.\n  * **Columbia Square,** Habersham and President Streets\u2014Named for the female personification of the US. Designed in 1799, this square boasts a fountain from the Wormsloe Plantation, a historic Savannah settlement.\n  * **Crawford Square,** Houston and McDonough Streets\u2014Named for William Crawford, a Georgia governor and US secretary of the treasury, this square was designed in 1841.\n  * **Ellis Square,** Bryan and Barnard Streets\u2014Named for Sir Henry Ellis, Georgia's second royal governor, this square lies at the site of Old City Market, a high-traffic zone in days gone by for merchants and townspeople. Restored after bulldozing an unsightly parking garage, this square sits at the hub of present-day City Market and is directly in the center of a revitalized area of downtown.\n  * **Franklin Square,** Montgomery and St. Julian Streets\u2014This square is named for statesman and inventor Benjamin Franklin, who at one time was an agent for Georgia in London. Once home to the city's water tower, this square is flanked by First African Baptist Church and the west end of City Market.\n  * **Greene Square,** Houston and President Streets\u2014Named for General Nathanael Greene of Rhode Island, a Revolutionary War hero and short-lived owner of a plantation west of Savannah, this square was designed in 1799. Second African Baptist Church is located here.\n  * **Johnson Square,** Bull and St. Julian Streets\u2014This square is named for Robert Johnson, the royal governor of South Carolina who aided Oglethorpe in establishing the colony of Georgia.\n  * **Lafayette Square,** Abercorn and Macon Streets\u2014Named for the Marquis de Lafayette, the Frenchman who was an important ally of the US during the Revolutionary War, this 1873-designed square offers a fountain dedicated by the Colonial Dames of America.\n  * **Madison Square,** Bull and Macon Streets\u2014James Madison, fourth president of the US, was honored with this square named for him. Designed in 1837, a monument stands of Sgt. William Jasper, who fell during the Siege of Savannah in 1779. The granite marker denotes the southern line of the British defense during the 1779 battle.\n  * **Monterey Square,** Bull and Wayne Streets\u2014Designed in 1847 and named for the Mexican city captured by US forces during the war with Mexico, the square's monument honors Casmir Pulaski, a Polish nobleman who was mortally wounded while fighting for the Americans during the Siege of Savannah.\n  * **Oglethorpe Square,** Abercorn and President Streets\u2014Named for James Edward Oglethorpe, founder of Georgia; this is a popular square for outdoor weddings.\n  * **Orleans Square,** Bernard and McDonough Streets\u2014This square was named for the Battle of New Orleans, an American victory in the War of 1812. Designed in 1815, the fountain in the square was dedicated in 1989 by Savannah's German Society to recognize the contributions of Savannah's early German immigrants.\n  * **Pulaski Square,** Bernard and Macon Streets\u2014Confederate hero Francis S. Bartow's home stands on this square named for Polish count Casmir Pulaski.\n  * **Reynolds Square,** Abercorn and St. Julian Streets\u2014This square, perfect for picnics, is one of the most colorful, thanks to beauty of the Olde Pink House and nearby Lucas Theatre. It was designed in 1733 and named for Georgia's first royal governor, John Reynolds. In 1969 the monument was changed as a tribute to John Wesley, the founder of Methodism and the Anglican minister to the colony in 1736.\n  * **Telfair Square,** Barnard and President Streets\u2014The Telfair family, whose members made important contributions to Georgia in the areas of politics, business, the arts, and philanthropy, is honored in this beautiful square\u2014another popular place for picnics.\n  * **Troup Square,** Habersham and McDonough Streets\u2014Named for Georgia governor George Michael Troup, who was also a US senator, Troup Square is home to the Unitarian Universalist Church and the McDonough Row Houses. The Armillary Sphere, an astronomical device designed to show the relationship among the celestial circles, stands in the center.\n  * **Warren Square,** Habersham and St. Julian Streets\u2014Boasting a 1791 design, this square was named for General Joseph Warren, a hero of the Revolutionary War.\n  * **Washington Square,** Houston and St. Julian Streets\u2014Named for George Washington, first president of the US.\n  * **Whitefield Square,** Habersham and Wayne Streets\u2014Named for George White-field, one of the founders of the Bethesda orphanage, a traditional gazebo sits in the center amid surrounding Victorian architecture.\n  * **Wright Square,** Bull and President Streets\u2014Named for Sir James Wright, Georgia's third royal governor, Wright Square boasts a rich history as a large boulder marks the grave of Tomo-chi-chi, the Yamacraw chief who welcomed Gen. Oglethorpe and the first colonists.\n\ni Among Savannah's tributes to founder James Edward Oglethorpe is a large bronze status of the Englishman in Chippewa Square. The monument is the work of Daniel Chester French, sculptor of the Minuteman statue in Concord, Massachusetts. You'll notice that Oglethorpe faces toward Florida, still guarding his beloved Savannah against an invasion from the south.\n\nOglethorpe left Georgia on July 22, 1743, never to return. Even before his departure, Savannah began to decline as the population dwindled due to the hardships of bringing civilization to a wilderness: insects, alligators, extremes in the weather, difficulties in growing crops. The colony remained a trusteeship until 1752, when the trustees, burdened by financial problems and turnover in their ranks, relinquished their charter to the crown a year before it was to expire. As Preston Russell and Barbara Hines wrote in their lyrical _Savannah: A History of Her People Since 1733_ , \"Non Sibi Sed Allis had fallen on its nose. The dream was long since dead, but Savannah was here to stay.\"\n\n## A ROYAL COMEBACK\n\nUnder control of the crown, Georgia's government changed from the benevolent dictatorship of the trustees to a more traditional setup headed by a governor and having an assembly of elected representatives. Under this arrangement, Georgia was upgraded from colony to province, with Savannah serving as the seat of government.\n\nThe first Royal Assembly met in Savannah in January 1755, and one of its first acts was to adopt a law allowing slavery. The first of Georgia's three royal governors, John Reynolds, began a 2.5-year tenure in October 1754; he was succeeded by Henry Ellis, who gave way to James Wright in 1760. Wright, who ruled as governor until January 1776, was a godsend for Savannah's struggling economy. \"In mere months, Wright led the youngest colony through stages of development that had required years in other colonies,\" states Edward Chan Sieg in his book _Eden on the Marsh: An Illustrated History of Savannah_. \"Wright's administration was geared to accommodate the 'men of substance' who began to pour into Georgia from other colonies and from the plantations of the Indies. Aided by liberal credit policies and cheap labor, they transformed the coastal plains into the great plantations of legend. Wharf facilities and warehouses appeared on the bluff as shipping demands increased almost daily.\"\n\nThe major export was rice, the growing of which had been made possible by the repeal of the ban on slavery. The idea of making Savannah a silk-production center had flopped, apparently due to a combination of mismanagement and the silkworms' problems with the climate. By 1766, Wright was estimating that the province of Georgia was inhabited by as many as 10,000 whites and 7,800 African slaves\u2014up from a total of 3,000 people nine years earlier\u2014and that exports of rice had tripled over a six-year span.\n\n## THE GREAT REBELLION\n\nIn the mid-1760s, many residents of England's American colonies reacted with outrage to what they deemed unfair taxation of imported items by the mother country. As the following decade unfolded, their dissatisfaction grew to the point that they sought independence from England.\n\nThe fervor for freedom took hold somewhat slowly in Savannah, but by mid-1774, it began to show itself in the actions of a group of dissidents called the Liberty Boys. Despite Governor Wright's efforts to stop them, they met several times to protest England's closing of the Boston Harbor as punishment for the Boston Tea Party. In January 1775, Noble Wimberly Jones, a Liberty Boy who had been speaker of the Royal Assembly, convened a meeting of Georgia's First Provincial Congress. Wright dissolved the body, but on July 4 a meeting of a second provincial congress was held, with the 102 delegates electing representatives to the colonies' Second Continental Congress.\n\nIn the interim, in May members of the Liberty Boys celebrated the opening shot of the American Revolution by breaking into the city's munitions room, stealing 600 pounds of powder, and shipping it to Boston to be used in the fight against the British. The powder really hit the fan on January 18, 1776, when three British warships showed up off the coast of Savannah. The newly established provincial government placed Wright under house arrest, putting an end to British rule in Savannah for the time being. The governor later slipped away and escaped on an English vessel.\n\nOn August 10, Savannahians aching for freedom celebrated the signing of the Declaration of Independence, a document endorsed by three Georgians, George Walton of Savannah and Lyman Hall and Button Gwinnett of nearby St. John's Parish. The new state of Georgia elected Archibald Bulloch as governor and completed a constitution in February 1777. Bulloch died during his first year in office and was replaced by Gwinnett.\n\nSavannah, being in an exposed position on the far southeastern reaches of the new United States, paid for its location on December 29, 1778, when 3,000 British troops commanded by Col. Archibald Campbell routed the city's 700 defenders. The enemy had landed below Savannah two days before and slipped behind American Gen. Robert Howe and his forces. The British sacked the city, and James Wright returned to take control of Savannah. He and a small redcoat garrison found themselves under siege in September 1779 by a force of Frenchmen, Irishmen, and volunteers from Haiti. They were joined by a contingent of American troops from South Carolina, and on October 9, the overall commander of the allied forces, French count Charles Henri d'Estaing, ordered an attack on a defensive position southwest of the city in an area near the existing Savannah Visitor Information Center. The assault on this position, the Spring Hill redoubt, was, in the words of authors Russell and Hines, \"a disaster, the bloodiest single hour in the entire Revolution.\"\n\ni Downtown's Colonial Park Cemetery is the final resting place of many early settlers, including Button Gwinnett, one of the original signers of the Declaration of Independence.\n\n\"Through three valiant advances and the staggering retreat,\" they wrote, \"French and Americans were slaughtered by land and naval artillery from Spring Hill redoubt and from . . . ships in the river.\" The defenders lost 55 men; the attackers suffered more than 1,000 casualties, including the deaths of 2 men later immortalized in monuments in Savannah's squares\u2014Casmir Pulaski, a Polish count who had brought a group of lancers to the fray, and Sgt. William Jasper, who fell while attempting to save the flag of his South Carolina regiment. Savannah remained in possession of the British until after the climactic Battle of Yorktown. Wright and his compatriots evacuated the city several months after that American victory in Virginia, and American forces took control of the city on July 11, 1782.\n\n## THE ANTEBELLUM ERA\n\nThe Revolutionary War left Savannah a shambles, but the city recovered and prospered in the years between the end of that fight for freedom and an even grimmer struggle in the 1860s. Much of Savannah's prosperity in the years after the Revolution and before the American Civil War was due to a machine invented in 1793 on a plantation west of the city. While serving as a tutor at Mulberry Grove\u2014a plantation owned by the widow of Revolutionary War general Nathanael Greene\u2014a Connecticut schoolteacher named Eli Whitney perfected the cotton gin, a device for removing the seeds from cotton bolls. The machine helped revolutionize the cotton-producing industry and, in so doing, reinforced the value of slavery in the agrarian South\u2014a circumstance that would bring disaster to the region and Savannah.\n\nBut in the early 1800s, cotton brought wealth to the city's port. On the subject of the city's transformation, Russell and Hines wrote, \"In 1790 cotton exports were one thousand bales; by 1820 they were 90,000 bales a year. In 1794 Savannah's population was 2,000 with export revenues under $500,000. By 1819 she was America's 16th largest city with exports exceeding $14,000,000.\" As Savannah prospered, its residents built elegant homes and other imposing structures. Probably the most famed of the designers of these buildings was architect William Jay, who came to the city from England in 1818, stayed for seven years, and is responsible for existing masterpieces such as the Owens-Thomas House, the Scarbrough House, and the Telfair Museum of Art (see our Attractions chapter).\n\nSavannahians experienced some giddy high points during the years between the wars. Among the highest was the transatlantic voyage of the SS _Savannah_ , a vessel that was bankrolled by local merchants and propelled by steam and sail. The ship left Savannah on May 22, 1819, and arrived in Liverpool, England, a record-breaking 29 days and 11 hours later. On the return trip, the _Savannah_ shattered that record by four days. A much more lasting achievement involving transportation occurred in 1847 when the Central of Georgia Railway was completed, with Savannah as its eastern terminus. At that time, \"Savannah reached its antebellum zenith,\" stated author Edward Chan Sieg.\n\n\"Now profits really soared and Savannah enjoyed a period of unprecedented growth. In addition to cotton, other sources of income were tobacco, rice, corn, lumber, and naval stores. The population tripled, the city limits were extended, gas lighting made its appearance. Hospitals, churches, and orphanages grew in number for blacks and whites as excess wealth permitted the emergence of the charity traditions which were Savannah's birthright.\"\n\nOther highly memorable moments occurred when two heroes of the Revolution visited the city. In May 1791, while he was serving as the first president of the US, George Washington came to town for four days and attended numerous get-togethers. One of these was a ball at which, according to William Harden's _A History of Savannah and South Georgia_ , the Father of Our Country was \"introduced to ninety-six elegantly dressed ladies.\" In appreciation of his stay, Washington presented the militiamen of the Chatham Artillery with two brass cannon used at Yorktown; they now occupy a spot on Bay Street just east of City Hall. The other visitor was Washington's French ally, the Marquis de Lafayette. He stopped over in March 1825 and was honored with a parade and many toasts.\n\nUnfortunately, there were also some low points, including fires that destroyed large parts of the city in 1796 and 1820, deadly outbreaks of yellow fever in 1820 and 1854 (the epidemic of the former year killed 666), and a storm in 1804 that caused the drowning of more than 100 slaves, submerged Hutchinson Island, and greatly damaged many of the area's plantations. But as bad as those occurrences were, they were almost insignificant when compared to a disaster that was yet to come.\n\n## THE WORST KIND OF WAR\n\nDisputes between Northern and Southern states over slavery and states' rights boiled over in the mid-1800s with cataclysmic results: the secession of Georgia and her Southern neighbors from the Union, the South's forming of a Confederacy, and the fighting of a war of the worst kind\u2014a civil war. Although the war started in Charleston on April 16, 1861, when Confederate forces fired on and captured Fort Sumter, it was Savannah that, in the words of writers Russell and Hines, committed \"the first belligerent act of the rebellious South.\"\n\nThree months before Sumter, members of three militia outfits traveled by steamer from Savannah to Cockspur Island and seized Fort Pulaski, a large masonry edifice guarding the mouth of the Savannah River. Wrote Col. Charles H. Olmstead, who commanded the Confederates, \"In due time Fort Pulaski was reached; its garrison, one elderly US sergeant, made no defense, and the three companies of the First Volunteer Regiment marched in with drums beating and colors flying, and so for them a soldier's life began.\" Olmstead and others thought Fort Pulaski was impregnable. But 15 months after its bloodless seizure, shells from rifled cannon emplaced on Tybee Island by Federal troops left the thick walls of the fort looking like Swiss cheese (see our Tybee Island chapter). After 30 hours of bombardment, Olmstead realized that holding the fort was impossible and surrendered it and its 385 defenders.\n\nFollowing Pulaski's fall, the new occupants of the fort and their comrades in the Union navy began a blockade of Savannah. The city's exports of cotton and other goods were thus bottled up, and the residents spent most of the war enduring the hardships of the siege by sea and mourning the loss of relatives and loved ones who fell on faraway fields of fire. Among those who died were brothers Joseph C. and William N. Habersham, killed in fighting near Atlanta on the same day in July 1864.\n\ni The Green-Meldrim House on Madison Square is the site of the meeting in January 1865 that inspired the famed \"40 acres and a mule\" declaration, giving freedmen land in Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida.\n\nLater that year came Union general William T. Sherman's devastating March to the Sea across Georgia. The prize at the end of the trek was Savannah. Sherman took it on December 21, but not before a battle at Fort McAllister south of Savannah near Richmond Hill (see our Day Trips chapter) and a skirmish at what would become the town of Pooler. The Union commander also allowed a force of 10,000 badly outnumbered Confederate defenders to slip out of the city and into South Carolina. In an oft-quoted telegram to President Abraham Lincoln that the commander in chief received on Christmas Eve, Sherman wrote, \"I beg to present you as a Christmas Gift, the City of Savannah with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition; and also about 25,000 bales of Cotton.\"\n\nSavannah was out of the war, and its citizens settled in to cope with the city's occupation by Union troops. For the most part, it was a benign affair. \"The occupation was a model of order, even occasional pleasantry, with both sides generally behaving like ladies and gentlemen,\" wrote Russell and Hines. Regardless of this, however, some of the women of the town refused to walk beneath the American flag.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\n**Savannah: Style Central for Architecture Buffs**\n\nIf anyone asks you about your vacation in Savannah and inquires about the architecture, whatever you tell them will be the truth. Stroll along the streets of Savannah's Historic District, and you'll be looking at a blend of buildings reflecting architectural styles prevalent in America during the late 18th and 19th centuries. Among these types were Federal, which was in vogue from 1790 to 1838; English Regency, 1811 to 1830; Greek Revival, 1820 to 1875; Gothic Revival, 1830 to 1885; Italianate, 1830 to 1900; Romanesque Revival, 1850 to 1890; and Victorian, 1860 to 1915. In summary, you will view all of these architectural styles in Savannah.\n\nProbably the city's most outstanding example of the Federal style is the Isaiah Davenport House, with its central hallway and arched fanlight doorway. This brick and brownstone house at 324 E. State St. \"reflects the balance and symmetry\" of the Federal style, says Roulhac Toledano in _The National Trust Guide to Savannah_ , and its double-entry stairway \"must have set the standard for future graceful curving entry staircases leading to high stoops that dot the city in houses of all styles.\" The Davenport House, one of Savannah's many museum houses, was built in 1820; a successful effort to save it from demolition in the mid-1950s brought about the creation of the Historic Savannah Foundation preservation group. (Read more about the house in the walking-tour section of our Attractions chapter.)\n\nThe Regency style is best typified by the work of English architect William Jay and two of his designs, the Owens-Thomas House at 124 Abercorn St. and the Scarbrough House at 41 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. are open to the public. The porches and columns of these buildings are prime examples of the Regency style. A commission to build the house for cotton merchant Richard Richardson is what brought Jay to Georgia, and he \"went on to create a series of buildings that qualify as the state's first architectural masterpieces,\" says Tom Spector in his book _The Guide to the Architecture of Georgia_. These two houses \"rank among the best works produced in America\" during the early 1800s. The Owens-Thomas House, which Toledano deems \"probably the finest example of English Regency architecture in America,\" was constructed in 1819, and the Scarbrough House was completed in the same year.\n\nGreek Revival\u2013style buildings are reminiscent of the temples of Greece with their long front porches supported by towering columns. To see two fine models of this style, take a look at the Aaron Champion House at 230 Barnard St. and the Sorrel-Weed House at 6 W. Harris St. Both houses were designed by Charles Cluskey, the Champion House in 1844 and the Sorrel-Weed House in 1841. Cluskey was Georgia's premier architect during the 1830s and 1840s.\n\nWalk over to Madison Square for a look at what Toledano calls Savannah's \"foremost Gothic-style house.\" The Green-Meldrim House at 14 W. Macon St., which can be toured by visitors, was designed by John S. Norris and built in 1853. Exterior features are the crenellated parapet, oriel windows, and the heavily detailed iron porch. (See our Attractions chapter for more on the Green-Meldrim House.)\n\nThe Mercer House at 429 Bull St. is another Norris design, but it is an example of the Italianate style, which has the look of an Italian villa\u2014low-pitched roof, wide eaves, long porch, and cast-iron balconies. The house was designed before the outbreak of the Civil War but was completed in 1871 by two assistants of Norris. (For more on the Mercer House, see our Attractions chapter.) Another Italianate-style residence (and another of the city's house museums) is the Andrew Low House at 329 Abercorn St. (see our Attractions chapter).\n\nThe Romanesque Revival style is embodied by two Savannah landmarks, the Cotton Exchange at 100 E. Bay St. and the Chatham County Courthouse at 124 Bull St. Both were designed by William G. Preston. The Cotton Exchange, with its brick and terra-cotta facade and turned wooden posts, was constructed in 1886. Preston came to Savannah to build the courthouse three years later.\n\nAn interesting example of the gingerbread style of the Victorian period is the King-Tisdell Cottage at 514 E. Huntingdon St., which now serves as a African-American cultural museum. It dates from 1896.\n\n## **BOUNCING BACK AGAIN**\n\nUnlike some Southern cities, Savannah survived the Civil War without being decimated by shell fire or burned to the ground, although a fire that broke out a month after the city's surrender destroyed 100 buildings. But the war took its toll, leaving the city bankrupt and its people in need of food. However, within a year of the end of hostilities, said Sieg in _Eden on the Marsh_ , \"Savannah was rolling again,\" a beneficiary of the rapid rebuilding of the South's railroads and a resurgence in cotton production. In Savannah, \"exports for 1867 exceeded fifty million dollars,\" wrote Sieg. \"The predictors of doom following the loss of slave labor were proved wrong as a rising market pushed cotton production to levels never realized\" under slavery.\n\nAfter the war, Savannah and the rest of the South entered into an 11-year period of Reconstruction during which radical Northern politicians hoped to build a power base with the support of former slaves. Ultimately they failed, and slavery was replaced by a caste system and the creation of a so-called separate but equal society that was more separate than it was equal. In Savannah, \"blacks entered a long period of assimilation,\" said Sieg. \"As a result, they developed their own culture, built their own institutions, formed their own business associations, created their own art, music, and literature\u2014and in the process, developed a black elite that led the march into the twentieth century.\" Among the institutions founded was the Georgia State Industrial College for Colored Youth, which is now Savannah State University (see our Education section in the appendix).\n\nEconomically, the last quarter of the 19th century saw the rice plantations around Savannah go out of business, turpentine and rosin from Georgia's pine forests rival cotton as the city's chief export, and the port enhanced by the dredging of the Savannah River shipping channel to a depth of 26 feet from 14 feet at the end of the war. There was also a spate of disasters during the last 25 years of the 1800s: Yellow fever killed more than 1,000 people in 1876, and the city was damaged by five significant fires, a tornado, two hurricanes, and an earthquake.\n\n## RACING INTO THE 20TH CENTURY\n\nSavannah focused international attention on itself early in the 20th century by hosting Grand Prix and Vanderbilt Cup automobile racing in 1908, 1910, and 1911. During the first decade of the new century, the city expanded in other ways: A new City Hall was built, and much of the present-day skyline took shape. In the years that followed, Savannah began stretching southward from downtown with the creation of the city's first residential subdivision, Ardsley Park, after World War I (see our Relocation & Real Estate chapter). In the African-American community, residents formed the Negro Civic Improvement League to clean up overcrowded neighborhoods and started their own businesses, including the Wage Earners Savings Bank, which by 1915 covered a downtown block. (The bank building is now the site of the Ralph Mark Gilbert Civil Rights Museum, which you can learn about in our Attractions chapter.)\n\n**Old Fort Irish?**\n\nDuring your stay in our town, you might hear someone referred to as being \"Old Fort Irish.\" This means the person is of Irish descent and grew up in the area of northeast Savannah where Fort Wayne once stood. According to local historian James Mack Adams, the fort, which was also called the Fort of Savannah and Fort Provost, was built about 1760 and was abandoned in the mid-1800s. A gas works was built on the site, and Irish immigrants flocked to the area because of low rents. The fort site at Bay and East Broad Streets is now called Trustees' Garden and is the location of shops, apartments, offices, and the Pirates' House restaurant.\n\nNot all was rosy, however. By the early 1920s cotton production in the South had fizzled out as laborers moved to the industrialized North and the boll weevil decimated Georgia's cotton fields. Late in the decade came the Great Depression, and with it financial stagnation. During the 1930s, Savannah received an economic boost when the Union Bag and Paper Company set up shop just west of the city, bringing with it nearly 600 jobs and a payroll of $1 million. Union Bag, later known as Union Camp, was purchased by International Paper Company in the late 1990s and is still one of the city's largest employers. The company helped end Savannah's hard times, as did another, more far-reaching event\u2014World War II.\n\n## **ON THE HOME FRONT**\n\nSavannah contributed mightily to America's war effort. At the Southeastern Shipyard, some 15,000 workers built Liberty Ships. The city's little airport, Hunter Field, was appropriated by the military and turned into a huge air base. In 1943 it became a staging area for bomber aircraft and crews headed for duty in Europe; some 9,000 planes and 70,000 men were processed out of Hunter during the war.\n\nWith their airport gone, city officials began building another one in western Chatham County. It, too, was taken over by the government and became a training base for the crews of heavy bombers. Called Chatham Field, the base eventually became the site of Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport. Hunter continues to be used by the military and is now known as Hunter Army Airfield.\n\n\"The war turned Savannah from a sleepy, traditional, backward-looking town on a muddy river into a full-fledged, twentieth-century American city,\" wrote Sieg. \"Savannahians gave what they had to the war effort, burying another generation of their youth and generously entertaining the youth of other cities.\" Savannah boomed, what with the influx of workers who came from the countryside to build ships and the city's popularity with military personnel from nearby bases, including the Marine Corps basic training complex at Parris Island, South Carolina.\n\nThe boom ended when the war did. The shipyard closed and most of the troops went home. \"What remained was a partially deserted, once-fashionable Historic District,\" said Sieg. \"Savannah had moved south to low-roofed suburbs, abandoning hundreds of high-ceilinged town houses to the dereliction of uncaring tenants, little or no maintenance, and, worst of all, unprofitable values. No wonder that the postwar business leaders reached the conclusion that if Savannah were to survive and flourish, the old city must make way for progress. But the preservationist attitude found its way into the lives of a handful of influential residents who became dedicated to the principle that demolition was not the only answer to decay.\"\n\n## **PRESERVING THE PAST & MAKING PROGRESS**\n\nSavannahians reacted with shame in 1946 when Great Britain's Lady Astor called the city \"a beautiful lady with a dirty face,\" a line that has continued to ring true occasionally to this day. They were moved to action when the town's City Market on Ellis Square was demolished in 1954 and replaced with a parking garage. The following year, a group of seven women led by Anna C. Hunter chartered the Historic Savannah Foundation for the purpose of saving noteworthy structures from destruction. By the time of the foundation's first general membership meeting in November 1955, the organization had 700 members.\n\nIts first project was saving the Isaiah Davenport House (see our Attractions chapter), and it was successfully followed by many others. Of the group's efforts, Russell and Hines wrote, \"The foundation determined to reawaken interest in Savannah's heritage, to convince the public of the economic benefits of restoration, and to promote tourism . . . During the next decade the foundation would deluge the city with a massive public relations campaign, arrange for a professional inventory of historic buildings, establish a revolving fund, and help establish a tourism and convention bureau within the Chamber of Commerce.\"\n\nThe group formulated a preservation plan that became a national model and the basis of the city's Historic Zoning Ordinance. By 1970 the foundation had saved more than 150 structures that were resold to individuals for restoration; the organization continues its efforts today from offices at 321 E. York St.\n\ni Savannah is the home of Girl Scouts of the USA, founded here by a woman named Juliette Gordon Low. Her childhood home is called \"the Birthplace\" and is visited by thousands of Girl Scouts each year. The home is also Savannah's first National Historic Landmark.\n\nIn recent years, the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) (see our Education & Child Care chapter) has stepped forward as a leader in historic preservation, and their work has been nationally and internationally acclaimed. Among the many buildings the college has restored to house classrooms and offices are former public school buildings, the old Chatham County Jail, and portions of what was once the Central of Georgia Railway complex. In the 1970s the city government beautified River Street by creating Rousakis Plaza along the waterfront and started a revitalization of the Broughton Street shopping district that is a work in progress.\n\nSince then, Savannahians have witnessed other progressive developments, including the construction of a new airport terminal, the replacement of the aging Talmadge Memorial Bridge across the Savannah River, improvements and growth at the city's port facilities, the revitalization of the Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard corridor, and the construction of the Savannah International Trade and Convention Center on Hutchinson Island. In 1996 and 2004, Savannah found itself back on the international stage it had trod during the time of the great auto races: in 2004 as the news media and communications center for the G-8 summit meeting held on Sea Island, Georgia, and in 1996 as host of the yachting events of Atlanta's Summer Olympic Games. Fittingly, the opening and closing ceremonies of the games in Savannah were held at the eastern end of River Street, close to where James Edward Oglethorpe and his little band of colonists landed 263 years before.\n\n# ACCOMMODATIONS\n\nThere is perhaps no better way to experience Savannah's illustrious history than to stay in one of the Historic District's many bed-and-breakfasts, hotels, carriage houses, and inns. Disguised as elaborate mansions with architecturally stunning facades, these establishments are overflowing with charm and amenities that are unique to each property. Inside each, you'll find both atmosphere and modern amenities, along with historical features, original artwork, gourmet cuisine, and innkeepers who will see that you are well pampered during your stay.\n\nJust as Mother Nature sprays the city in pastels each spring, Savannah hotels are in full bloom year-round, offering visitors everything from contemporary and chic accommodations to historic and convenient. No matter which you choose, the hotels are gift-wrapped in the splendor of history while modern amenities like wireless Internet, complimentary breakfasts, fitness facilities, and concierge services abound. If you're seeking a hotel that blends with the city's historical heritage, there are several within the Historic District furnished with antique replicas and housed behind centuries-old facades. Savannah hoteliers have done an excellent job marrying new accommodations with the flavor of this old city.\n\nMost of the hotels and motels described here are situated in one of two locations: on or very near Bay Street in the Historic District or on or just off Abercorn Street near Oglethorpe Mall in the Midtown area. There are many other motels in several nearby locales: on or near the beach at Tybee Island, which is about 25 minutes from downtown Savannah; in the Southside on Abercorn between Oglethorpe Mall and Savannah Mall; and out on I-95, 10 or more miles from the heart of the city.\n\n## BED-AND-BREAKFAST INNS\n\nThe following listings are arranged in alphabetical order, and prices are indicated by the dollar-sign code explained earlier in the How to Use This Book section. You'll see a range of prices for some of these listings. Due to the wide variety of room options at some bed-and-breakfasts, it is not uncommon for one inn to offer both lower-priced accommodations and luxurious, upscale suites. Be specific when calling for details. The best deals are on weekday nights. If you are on a really tight travel budget, chances are many of the B&Bs listed here aren't the accommodations for you\u2014amenities and atmosphere often come with a price tag. These entries are not meant to be an all-inclusive list of city inns. Instead, it's a guide to help you get started. Chances are there are a few newcomers that have cropped up between the researching of this book and your reading of it.\n\n**AZALEA INN AND VILLAS, 217 E. Huntingdon St.; (912) 236-6080, (800) 582-3823; azaleainn.com; $$$\u2013$$$$.** Savannah's Azalea Inn and Villas is a pleasant and pretty blend of comfort and convenience. You'll receive a warm Southern welcome from innkeepers Teresa and Michael Jacobson, the veteran hosts at this bed-and-breakfast located in a lush part of the Historic District near Forsyth Park. This Victorian home, circa 1889, offers eight rooms, two suites, three villas, and a two-bedroom second floor carriage house perfect for small families. The inn offers several friendly touches, including fresh fruit and finger foods that are available all day long as well as wine and hors d'oeuvres in the evening. The dining room is adorned with murals depicting Savannah's illustrious history, and the walls come to life in stories told each morning at breakfast, so be sure to ask. Breakfast is an experience in itself with some of the specialties well worth the trip. They include a beautiful orange cranberry croissant souffl\u00e9, creamy grits, and a delightful sectioned clementine with ginger syrup and mint! Rooms are tastefully elegant and not \"overdecorated\" with too many knickknacks. Several rooms offer working fireplaces and some offer spacious balconies and/or Jacuzzis. The innkeepers are particularly proud of their gardens that have been featured in several home tours. The shady courtyard garden is inviting, as is a refreshing swim in the pool after a day of sightseeing. Children over the age of 12 are welcome. The inn is nonsmoking throughout.\n\n**THE BALLASTONE INN, 14 E. Oglethorpe Ave.; (912) 236-1484, (800) 822-4553; ballastone.com; $$$$$.** The Ballastone is a magnificently restored, four-story 1838 mansion just off Bull Street, one of the historic area's main thoroughfares. Arriving guests will notice the beautiful Queen Anne staircase in the entryway and the warm, lavishly decorated parlor off to the right. Ceiling fans, rice poster and canopy beds, marble-topped tables, and fireplaces are some of the things you might find in one of the 16 individually decorated rooms. The Victoria Room has a massive king-size bed and whirlpool tub. Besides the wonderful surroundings, guests enjoy afternoon Victorian tea along with evening hors d'oeuvres. There is a terry-cloth robe waiting in the bathroom and nightly turndown service with chocolates and cordials. In the morning, you can choose to have continental breakfast in your room or a full gourmet breakfast served in either of the parlors or outside in the courtyard. Children 16 years of age and older are welcome at the Ballastone. The inn has been recommended by _Select Registry, Brides, Glamour, Gourmet_ , and _Cond\u00e9 Nast Traveler_. This is one of Savannah's inns that more closely resembles a small European hotel. Jennifer Salandi is the innkeeper-owner.\n\ni Reservations for the week of St. Patrick's Day should be made a year in advance. Bed-and-breakfast inns are perfect for your stay here during this colorful holiday!\n\n**BROUGHTON STREET GUEST HOUSE, 511 E. Broughton St.; (912) 232-6633; savannahvillas.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** Staying at the Broughton Street Guest House is an opportunity to have your own private home in the heart of Savannah's Historic District.\n\nThis property offers three bedrooms and a carriage house at the quiet end of Broughton Street, downtown Savannah's main thoroughfare. The master bedroom in the front of the home includes a four-poster bed, a spacious bay window overlooking the street, and a small whirlpool bath and shower combination. The middle bedroom has a comfortable sleigh bed surrounded by the old library. The rear bedroom has a queen-size bed with a view of the small rear courtyard. The carriage house rests on the rear of the property. It offers one bedroom and a sleeper sofa, and is decorated in a cozy, slightly more masculine style. Guests are allowed to utilize all of the house. There is a main parlor and dining room for relaxing. All the rooms are attractively decorated with antiques. The inn is not wheelchair accessible. Children are welcome. Housed in a circa-1883 town house, the inn was remodeled beginning in 1993. The home was operated as a bed-and-breakfast until 2004, and then was offered as a luxury vacation rental for families, wedding parties, and corporate retreats. It's the perfect place to stay for families or parade participants during St. Patrick's Day.\n\ni Because of regulations passed by the local government, all new bed-and-breakfast inns opening in Savannah must provide off-street parking for their guests. That may be a headache for developers (not to mention a leg up to established inns that are \"grandfathered\"), but guests will ultimately benefit.\n\n**CATHERINE WARD HOUSE, 118 E. Walburg St.; (912) 234-8564; catherinewardhouseinn.com; $$$\u2013$$$$.** From the street, the Catherine Ward House is inviting. Like a freshly painted watercolor dotted with pinks and whites of Savannah's spring azaleas, the inn is a standout among houses on its block. There's a friendly porch with hanging baskets to welcome guests. Once you step inside, you'll discover that this inn meets and exceeds all the qualities one would expect from a fine Southern lodge. With nine rooms that range from modern and chic to traditional, each offers private baths, some with double showers. Less than a block from Savannah's resplendent Forsyth Park, the inn is equipped for business travelers and perfect those seeking a more restful stay. Nell's Room\u2014a sunny space named for the former owner's housekeeper\u2014offers a door leading to a private courtyard and a small fishpond. The Cosmopolitan Room is chic with a black marble hearth, warm earth tones, a wet bar, and antique Asian nightstands. Just a note: The inn does not hold a liquor license, however, guests are encouraged to bring their own liquor or wine, and the innkeeper is happy to furnish glasses and ice.\n\n**EAST BAY INN, 225 E. Bay St.; (912) 238-1225, (800)-500-1225; eastbayinn.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** The striking design of downtown's East Bay Inn will catch your eye even if you're not looking for a place to stay. The exterior's tall windows and brickwork reflect the Greek Revival style, popular in Savannah around the time of the Civil War. The inn's entrance is friendly, and you're greeted with a warm welcome as soon as you step into the lobby. As typical with most commercial buildings of the period, the facade of the first floor is cast iron, as are the interior columns. Boasting the charm of a smaller inn with a cheery ambience in all of the common areas, this inn offers incredible style and service for a more moderate price. This inn, built in 1852, once served as offices for cotton merchants and housed cotton warehouses. In 1984, after several years of lying dormant, refurbishment began transforming the structure into the present-day East Bay Inn. Featuring 28 rooms\u2014each with 18th-century-style furnishings, hardwood floors, mansion-style king and queen beds, high ceilings, and large, beautiful windows\u2014this inn has become one of the city's most popular. Exposed brick walls, heart-pine floors, and plenty of comfortable places to rest, read, and dine, are factors in this establishment's success. Each guest room is tastefully decorated and meticulously kept. You will feel comfortable and safe whether your visit is for business or a nice romantic getaway. This is the perfect place to book a small wedding. You can have the ceremony in a private room in the restaurant below the inn, enjoy a reception there, and book rooms for the entire wedding party.\n\n**Rent a Part of History**\n\nOne of the latest trends for families visiting Savannah for college graduations, weddings, and family reunions is luxurious historic homes that have been renovated for the purpose of renting out the entire home.\n\nThe **Mary O'Connor House,** at 507 E. Broughton St., is a fine example of one of those properties. Rates are $425 per night with discounts for a 5-night stay (or longer); holidays and weekends may have a minimum-stay requirement. Rates may also vary for special-event weekends. The house is updated to the very tee, with granite in the kitchen, shiny stainless steel appliances, and brick walls to round out the modern conveniences. Flat-screen TVs are in all rooms, and beds are decorated with high-thread-count linens and tastefully furnished with antiques.\n\nThe home is named for Mary Flannery O'Connor who was an American author born in 1925 who wrote two novels and 31 short stories. The house has a beautiful enclosed garden, three bedrooms, and a living and dining room. For more information on this beautiful rental home, call (912) 232-6633 or visit savannahvillas.com.\n\n**ELIZA THOMPSON HOUSE, 5 W. Jones St.; (912) 236-3620, (800) 348-9378; elizathompsonhouse.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** One of Savannah's most magnificent streets is home to the Eliza Thompson House, an inn that highlights spa-like amenities in each of its 25 recently restored rooms. Set amid a canopy of live oaks and stately residences, the original home was built in 1847 and restored to historical accuracy in 1977. Extending to two buildings, 12 rooms are in the main house, and 13 additional rooms carry over into the courtyard. Offering its guests premium soaps, bathrobes, and impeccable service, the inn is run with the efficiency and style of a small European hotel. Views from all rooms are a showcase of Savannah's natural flora: some tropical palms and flourishing live oaks adorned with hanging moss. Guests can enjoy Southern buffet breakfasts outside or, on those rare occasions when the weather does not permit, in a glass-walled alcove overlooking the beautiful fountain. Wine and cheese are served in the parlor in the late afternoons, and dessert and coffee are provided in the evenings. Several guests and employees have reported seeing and hearing ghostly apparitions throughout the years. This is an all-adult property.\n\n**FOLEY HOUSE INN, 114 W. Hull St.; (912) 232-6622, (800) 647-3708; foleyinn.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** It is often the guest comments that define the success or demise of a property, and in this case, guests have praised the staff of this Savannah inn that stretches into two regal homes. The Foley House Inn's strengths\u2014apart from a colorful, rich feel\u2014come in the form of an outstanding staff (according to the comments) as well as luxurious amenities. The bedding is plush. The linens are fine. Several rooms offer private balconies and oversize Jacuzzis; most rooms have fireplaces. All offer plush bathrobes and lavish toiletries. When you first walk inside this 1896 brick home, you are struck by the rich burgundy and blue colors blanketing the walls and floors. The sumptuous design and detail extend throughout the parlor and all of the 19 individually styled rooms. Look out your window, and you will see beautiful Chippewa Square. Historic First Baptist Church is across the street, and a statue of Gen. James Edward Oglethorpe, the founder of Georgia, stands in the center of the square.\n\nTea and hors d'oeuvres are served each afternoon in the parlor, and guests can choose to have their continental breakfast there, in the small courtyard, or in their rooms. Particularly inviting are the garden rooms on the first level. They are bright, spacious, and convenient to a lush patio area. Evening cordials are also featured, as is concierge service for making all your dining and exploring reservations. The inn offers several packages that are inclusive of tour tickets, carriage rides, and restaurants. Visit the website for a full listing. Note that the inn is not wheelchair accessible.\n\n**FORSYTH PARK INN, 102 W. Hall St.; (912) 233-6804, (866) 670-6800; forsythparkinn.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** The stately Forsyth Park Inn is made for savoring the views of a beautiful historic park and spending afternoons sitting and sipping ice tea on the porch. Built in 1893, the inn is surrounded by the exotic flora of Savannah, from gracious live oaks that frame the exterior to flourishing palms and lush azaleas (that bloom to their fullest in spring). Innkeepers will pamper you all day long, starting with their full gourmet-style breakfasts in the mornings. From fresh-fruit french toast and Florentine eggs Benedict served on the veranda or in the parlor, to afternoon tea and evening wine, this is an inn that has a long following of happy guests!\n\nAsk for room number eight, which comes with a full balcony overlooking the gardens. If you're looking for ultimate privacy, ask for the Cottage, where children of any age (and pets) are welcome. The Cottage overlooks the beautiful gardens and offers a living room with trundle bed, efficiency kitchen, and queen-size bed with private bathroom.\n\ni Did you enjoy your romantic bed-and-breakfast stay? Hang on to those business cards! Weekends at these plush homes-away-from-home are a popular and different gift for newlyweds and others who are celebrating. Of course, the price may make such a gift more feasible as a group offering from the office or a gang of friends.\n\n**THE GASTONIAN, 220 E. Gaston St.; (912) 232-2869, (800) 322-6603; gastonian.com; $$$$\u2013$$$$$.** If there were space designated as paradise and set in Savannah, the Gastonian would be that place. This is an inn that fulfills the expectations of the most demanding traveler. Everything about the Gastonian invites relaxation and enjoyment, from the magnificent verandas that consume one side of the house to the impeccably landscaped courtyard and cheery, lavishly furnished rooms. From its lush gardens to its spacious porches, this inn has become one of the most highly acclaimed in the city. Fireplaces are lit (when the weather's right). Soft music plays at the day's end. Newspapers are delivered each morning. There is a friendly concierge who orchestrates your visit, from dinner to horse-drawn carriage tours. The inn is actually two historic, wonderfully preserved mansions next to each other along Gaston Street. This striking mansion is set in a residential neighborhood is just a short walk from one of Savannah's most beautiful parks\u2014Forsyth.\n\nGeorgian and Regency period antiques fill the main parlors, while all of the 18 rooms are styled individually. Each has a working fireplace, wooden floors, and Persian rugs, and is named for a noted Savannahian. French doors take you out to the veranda. Newlyweds often come to the Gastonian to have their pictures taken in the beautiful courtyard.\n\n**GREEN PALM INN, 548 E. President St.; (912) 447-8901, (888) 606-9510; greenpalminn.com; $$\u2013$$$$.** This small bed-and-breakfast plays up its name: The handful of rooms are named for different species of palm tree, and the inn overlooks Greene Square. That puts this inn on the easternmost edge of the Historic District. It is one of the smallest and most affordable of the B&Bs. The house was built in 1887, and its renovation transformed it into a B&B in 1998. Look for atmospheric touches here like ultramodern bathrooms with air-jet tubs and showers (two of the smaller rooms have showers with multiple jets), a generous number of fireplaces (even in bathrooms), and British Colonial\u2013style furniture. Guests can expect a hot breakfast as well as a delightful array of afternoon refreshments.\n\n**THE HAMILTON-TURNER INN, 330 Abercorn St.; (912) 233-1833, (888) 448-8849; hamilton-turnerinn.com; $$\u2013$$$$.** This glamorous Victorian inn boasts notable architecture, a prime location, and plenty of romance. The mansion\u2014with an exterior as ornate as the Victorians could get it\u2014was built in 1873, and among its claims to fame is the fact that it was Savannah's first house with electric lighting. Its location on Lafayette Square puts it square in the middle of the Historic District, with the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist as a neighbor and one of the city's most picturesque squares as its \"front yard.\" The inn's grand-entrance steps empty onto a beautifully appointed parlor floor. The public rooms include a double parlor furnished with antiques and the front dining room, where breakfast is served. Breakfast is a full gourmet, health-oriented Southern affair prepared by the inn's executive chef. Afternoon tea by request, evening wine with hors d'oeuvres, and late evening port are also served.\n\nMost bedrooms boast the high ceilings and sweeping windows of the building's construction period. Exceptions, however, are on the ground floor, a level that Savannah terms the garden level. All garden-level rooms have individual private entrances from the gardens. The handful of rooms here feature brick walls and a cozier feel. This is an inn that offers excellent accommodations for disabled guests with a chairlift. An open-air elevator goes from the ground level to one of the parlor-level suites. Pet-friendly.\n\ni Reservations are a must, but while you are making them, be sure to check with the innkeepers regarding their cancellation policy. Some inns charge if you cancel, on the grounds that they turned away other reservations.\n\n**JOAN'S ON JONES, 17 W. Jones St.; (912) 234-3863, (888) 989-9806; joansonjones.com; $$$.** Joan's on Jones is one of the most established of the smaller bed-and-breakfast inns in Savannah. Innkeepers Joan and Gary Levy have been welcoming guests to their Jones Street home since 1991. The inn features two suites, both with private entrances and ample room. You'll feel as if you have your own apartment in the heart of the city. These particular apartments are in a restored 1883 Victorian town house on one of the city's most scenic streets. The Jones Street Suite is painted a rich terra-cotta that Joan discovered in a local historic home and reproduced in her own. It is formally decorated and has pretty stained-glass windows and two fireplaces. Over one fireplace is a collection of old letters and other correspondence found behind the mantel during the restoration process. Reading lamps are over the bed for convenience, and there is a small kitchenette. The Garden Suite\u2014just off a back courtyard that is perfect for relaxing with its lounge garden chairs\u2014has a huge brick cooking hearth, queen-size iron bed, and exposed brick walls. There is also a full kitchen. This suite is less formal but more intimate and romantic.\n\nChildren are welcome, and well-behaved dogs are allowed in the back suites for a nonrefundable fee. A self-serve continental breakfast is available each morning.\n\n**THE KEHOE HOUSE, 123 Habersham St.; (912) 232-1020, (800) 820-1020; kehoehouse.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** The Kehoe House stands catty-cornered to one of Savannah's preserved architectural treasures and house museums, the Davenport House, and has a commanding view of Columbia Square. The Kehoe House was constructed for an Irish immigrant who made a fortune in the iron foundry business. As his fortune and his family grew, he built this imposing brick Victorian. After its residential days, the building served other uses, including a stint as a funeral parlor. Former football star Joe Namath was one of a group of investors who held the property for a while.\n\nThe Kehoe has 13 rooms and is known for its European-style service. Guests are treated to a gourmet breakfast, afternoon tea, and evening wine with hors d'oeuvres. The fourth floor includes a party/banquet room, which is often the scene of bridesmaids' luncheons and business meetings.\n\nThis inn is unusual in that it is outfitted with an elevator\u2014an amenity you are sure to appreciate after you spend the day following our advice that the best way to see Savannah is on foot. Also, this inn touts its rumors of hauntings.\n\n**THE PRESIDENTS' QUARTERS INN, 225 E. President St.; (912) 233-1600, (800) 233-1776; presidentsquarters.com; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** Innkeeper Jane Sales has been in the business of pleasing Savannah guests for so many years, her delightful personality and vast innkeeping experience have carried over to one of the most satisfying accommodations in the city, the Presidents' Quarters Inn. This inn is one of the city's classiest, with not only a historical relevance, but also a high \"chic\" factor, exemplified by bathrooms with the latest and most modern fixtures (along with updated tile). Elevators make it easy for guests to get to their upstairs rooms. The twin townhomes of this Federal-style mansion are filled with surprises, and each room is named for a president. Overlooking Oglethorpe Square, the inn seems fresh and devoid of the mustiness some historic buildings in Savannah carry with age. There are 16 rooms, and most feature baths with granite countertops, high ceilings, fine linens, and a spaciousness often overlooked by other inns. My favorite is the George Washington Suite, a two-level loft with a wet bar, a large living space, and an upscale, tailored decor. Amenities include wine and hors d'oeuvres and complimentary turndown service. On St. Patrick's Day, the chef's delights spill out into the courtyard, making this one of the city's most desirable and festive places to stay during the holiday. Note: If that is your wish, book early.\n\ni Most bed-and-breakfasts provide DVD players in at least some of their suites. If aching feet or stormy weather is keeping you inside, why not check out a film made in Savannah? Check our Entertainment chapter for an inventory. Then settle back and see if you can spot your surroundings on the silver screen!\n\n**SAVANNAH BED AND BREAKFAST INN, 117 W. Gordon St.; (912) 238-0518, (888) 238-0518; savannahbnb.com; $$\u2013$$$$.** This charming and well-established bed-and-breakfast was an early comer to the scene. The circa-1853 Federal row house on Gordon Row adjoins innkeeper Bob McAlister's home in one of the most attractive areas of the Historic District. McAlister is a well-known host on the local scene, and his hospitality shows in this inn's operation.\n\nRooms are furnished with antiques to admire and reproductions for relaxation. (The innkeeper maintains antique chairs shouldn't be subjected to daily use, and guests shouldn't be subjected to antique chairs.) You'll love architectural details throughout. Renovation has enhanced the structure with a spacious deck that overlooks a beautiful courtyard. The garden suites are prime rooms, complete with full kitchens and living and dining areas. If you can get a room over St. Patrick's Day\u2014regular returnees fill most of them\u2014you're in for a real treat, as the breakfast party here is a favorite stopping-off point for locals (including many parade participants) heading to the festivities. Children are welcome in some of the guest rooms.\n\n**ZEIGLER HOUSE INN, 121 W. Jones St.; (866) 233-5307; zeiglerhouseinn.com; $$$$\u2013$$$$$.** You can almost hear the \"oh, how lovely\" coming from guests who stay at the Zeigler House Inn! This small, cheery inn is situated in a glorious part of Savannah on Jones Street and proves to be the perfect place to stay for a quiet, relaxing visit to Savannah. Although there are only seven rooms, they are spacious and extraordinarily furnished. A special feature, among others, is the convenience of in-room kitchens, which offer the perfect place to store (and reheat) leftovers from some of Savannah's fine restaurants.\n\nThe inn is ideally located within a short walk to all of the major downtown attractions including shops, restaurants, Savannah College of Art and Design, museums, art galleries, Forsyth Park, City Market, and River Street.\n\nWhirlpool tubs and private patios are unique features in several rooms. All accommodations have private baths, cable TV, CD /DVD player, refrigerator, microwave oven, toaster, and coffeemaker. Wireless Internet is available in all rooms and parking is free. Hors d'oeuvres and wine are served most afternoons, with coffee and tea available at any time. A continental breakfast with homemade baked goods and fresh fruit is provided in your room.\n\n## HOTELS & MOTELS\n\nThe motels at the beach are discussed in the Tybee Island chapter of this book. The accommodations between the malls and out on I-95 represent several major chains and should offer no surprises, but if your destination is Savannah and not the House of the Mouse or some other touristy spot in Florida, we recommend that you stay closer to our city and soak up some of the atmosphere of our historic old town.\n\nYou can be in the midst of that atmosphere by taking a room at a hotel or motel in the downtown area. In most cases, you'll pay accordingly for the location, but you can find some values if you're not too picky about the view from your room and the extras you receive. A rule of thumb: You'll pay more the closer you stay to the Historic District.\n\nAnother cost-saving option is to stay at lodgings in Midtown. You'll be out of the mainstream of tourism but not by much\u2014the motels and inns in Midtown are only 5 miles from Bay Street, which is about 12 to 15 minutes of traveling time if you avoid rush-hour traffic. Although most of these establishments are geared toward people on business trips, the innkeepers are more than happy to have tourists stay with them. Another reason to take a room in Midtown is that parking is free. That's not necessarily the case if you stay in the Historic District.\n\nAll of the hotels and motels described in this chapter accept major credit cards and have wheelchair-accessible rooms.\n\nThe season generally runs from mid-March through October. Some establishments decrease their rates during the hot summer months, and others jack them up on weekends, so you should call in advance to ascertain how much you'll have to spend. If you're planning to stay here on St. Patrick's Day weekend, expect to pay considerably more than you would at any other time of year and make reservations months in advance. Some places set minimum stays of 2 or 3 days that weekend. (See the Annual Events & Festivals chapter for more information.)\n\nHistoric District\n\n**ANDAZ SAVANNAH, 14 Barnard Street; (912) 233-2116; savannah.andaz.hyatt.com; $$$$\u2013$$$$$.** This sleek new addition to downtown's hotel inventory is cutting edge, within steps (literally) of City Market and other attractions. Expect a modern, urban vibe, luxury accommodations, and a chance to rub elbows with locals at one of downtown's trendiest bars and restaurants. Pet-friendly. Parking is $23 daily; attached to city parking facility with $16 self-parking option.\n\n**THE BEST WESTERN PROMENADE, 412 W. Bay St.; (912) 233-1011; promenadesavannah.com; $$\u2013$$$.** This is an older motel in perhaps one of the best sections of the Historic District. The Best Western Promenade fronts Bay Street, which is at times very noisy. However, with the noise comes lower rates in comparison with many of the newer and pricier hotels nearby. It's the perfect place to bring small groups (i.e., Girl Scouts on tour, school field trips, etc.) as the rooms open to an outside walkway (hence, the name, Promenade) where there is no one to disturb. The rear building is on the western end of River Street, placing the three-story establishment about a block from the shops and restaurants along the river and in City Market (see our Shopping chapter). The establishment is a convenient stop for tour buses and trolleys that pick up at the front door.\n\nThe Promenade offers guests complimentary continental breakfasts, and there's a fenced-in heated pool for swimming and sunning on the River Street side of the property. Eighty-seven of the rooms have two full-size beds, and the rest have king-size beds. Parking is $15 per day.\n\n**THE BOHEMIAN HOTEL SAVANNAH RIVERFRONT, 102 W. Bay St.; (912) 721-3800, (888) 213-4024; bohemianhotelsavannah.com; $$$$\u2013$$$$$.** The Bohemian is wowing guests who pull into a gated entryway with potted skyrocket junipers and attentive door attendants. This 75-room hotel overlooks the Savannah River and also features fine luxury bedding, lots of wood, brass, and leather design elements, as well as a rooftop bar (Rocks on the Roof) that has become Savannah's hottest spot for drinks and a tapas-style menu, and a full restaurant on the River Street level known as Rocks on the River.\n\n**THE BRICE, A KIMPTON HOTEL, 601 E. Bay St.; (912) 238-1200, (877) 482-7243; bricehotel.com; $$$.** This massive brick building near the eastern edge of the Historic District started life as a soft drink bottling plant, but it was repurposed decades ago as a hotel. It has flown various hotel flags over the years, and veteran visitors probably remember it as the Mulberry Inn. The new Brice, a Kimpton Hotel, blew in in 2014 and added a cutting-edge modernity to the place. It's all fresh and luxe with a selection of king, queen, and suites available. The courtyard is lovely. Pacci, the in-house authentic Italian restaurant, has created a local buzz.\n\n**COURTYARD BY MARRIOTT, 415 W. Liberty St.; (912) 790-8287, (800) 932-2198; courtyard.com; $$$.** The five-story Courtyard opened in late July 2001, adding 147 guest rooms and 9 suites to Savannah's inventory of overnight accommodations. The suites and 86 of the guest rooms offer king-size beds, with 9 of the rooms featuring spa-type bathrooms complete with whirlpool tubs. The other rooms have two queen-size beds.\n\nThe Courtyard, with a decor that's traditionally Southern in style, covers an entire block bounded by Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Liberty, Montgomery, and Harris Streets. The main entrance is on Liberty, making the front door a short walk from the Savannah Visitor Information Center. The hotel's spacious courtyard\u2014a lushly landscaped spot that creates an oasis in the heart of the downtown area\u2014faces Harris Street and is also the site of a heated outdoor pool. Guests can relax here or at the hotel's spa, an exercise facility that includes a large whirlpool.\n\nThe Courtyard Cafe, which is in the northwest corner of the ground floor, is a roomy breakfast restaurant with plenty of windows to give diners a view of what's happening on Liberty Street and MLK. The Camellia Room is the setting for cocktails 5 to 10 p.m. Valet parking is available for $18 daily; no self-parking.\n\n**DOUBLETREE HOTEL, 411 W. Bay St.; (912) 790-7000, (800) 222-TREE; doubletree.hilton.com; $$\u2013$$$.** The Doubletree Historic Savannah exudes the tradition of the finer homes of Savannah. With public areas that are bright and open, there are 151 rooms, all richly appointed with European-style furnishings. There are Irish and Celtic influences reflected throughout the common areas, and nautical hints in the rooms' decor. The hotel is an easy walk to City Market and River Street. There is an attractive restaurant and separate bar on-site, a business center, free wireless access, and more than 3,000 square feet of meeting space.\n\n**HAMPTON INN SAVANNAH, 201 E. Bay St.; (912) 231-9700, (800) HAMPTON; hamptoninn.com; $$\u2013$$$.** Fully renovated in 2009, this seven-story hotel blends well with the city's Historic District buildings. The stucco, brick, and ironwork of the exterior have the look of Old Savannah. The lobby has authentic gray bricks that were discovered on the site during construction. Other historical design elements include the hotel's heart-pine floors (retrieved from an old mill in central Georgia), antique and traditional furniture, Persian rugs, and a dark wood bar from England, purchased from a local antiques store. All of the hotels' 145 guest rooms have modern touches such as flat-screen TVs, high-speed wireless Internet service, and a refrigerator and microwave. The Hampton is at Bay and Abercorn Streets, a block south of River Street, a location that is perfectly situated between River Street and City Market. Check out the glorious view of the Savannah River, the Eugene Talmadge Memorial Bridge, and the Historic District from the rooftop pool, but wear shades on a sunny day\u2014it's bright up there! The hotel offers a complimentary, deluxe hot breakfast each day from 6 until 10 a.m. There is a courteous valet staff to park your car for $20 per day.\n\n**HILTON GARDEN INN SAVANNAH, 321 W. Bay St.; (912) 721-5000, (877) 245-8854; http://hiltongardeninn1.hilton.com; $$\u2013$$$.** Just a few short steps from the trendiest restaurants, nightlife, shopping, and sights of the Historic District is the Hilton Garden Inn Savannah Historic District. This hotel offers a luxurious lobby on Bay Street. As found in most Hiltons, visitors have access to free wireless Internet, wireless phones with dataports, MP3-compatible clock radios, and ample desk space. You'll also find a microwave and refrigerator in every guest room. Upgraded rooms feature 32-inch LCD TVs and adjustable Garden Sleep System beds. The hotel offers a breakfast buffet at the Great American Grill. There's also an on-site concierge desk, and the Pavilion Pantry serves beverages 24 hours. Other amenities include room service (for lunch and dinner), a complimentary 24-hour business center, an outdoor heated pool and Jacuzzi, a fitness center, and three updated meeting rooms for groups of 5 to 80. Valet parking is $25 daily, with no self-park option.\n\n**HILTON SAVANNAH DESOTO, 15 E. Liberty St.; (912) 232-9000, (800) HILTONS; desotohilton.com; $$$.** One of the city's most popular and elegant hotels, the Hilton Savannah DeSoto is situated directly in the center of the Historic District. Guests will literally be at the front steps of beautiful green squares, boutiques, local restaurants and pubs, grand mansions, theaters, historic sites, and more. The Hilton Savannah DeSoto has always maintained a tradition of luxury and Southern hospitality that starts in a grand lobby replete with trademark crystal chandeliers. There are 246 guest rooms decorated in a fusion of Southern and contemporary styles, with scenic views of Savannah's historic skyline. The hotel is the perfect place for groups, boasting 20,000 square feet of meeting space.\n\nYou'll enjoy a variety of Southern favorites at the DeSoto Grille inside the hotel, offering a lunch buffet, an outstanding Sunday brunch, and a diverse a la carte menu. If you're looking for something lighter, stop by for a quick Starbucks' coffee or freshly baked pastry at Beulah's, another eatery that offers wireless Internet and flat-screen TVs. In the evening, the Lion's Den Pub is both romantic and comfortable, featuring a variety of spirits served in a modern pub atmosphere. The hotel is within walking distance of River Street and City Market.\n\n**HYATT REGENCY SAVANNAH, 2 W. Bay St.; (912) 238-1234, (888) 591-1234; savannah.hyatt.com; $$$\u2013$$$$.** With an excellent management staff at the helm, you'll appreciate Hyatt Regency's hospitality whether you're dining, working out, or just hanging out in the beautiful atrium. Ironically, Gen. James Oglethorpe pitched his tent in a small park near the 347-room hotel, but that's not the main attraction of the Hyatt Regency\u2014the hotel's drawing card is its location overlooking River Street and the Savannah River, constructed on the historic cobblestones that made the riverfront what it is today. This location places guests in the midst of Savannah's waterfront shops and festivals and affords terrific views of the river and the ships passing by. You'll pay extra for a room on the river, but it's well worth it for catching a bird's-eye view of the oceangoing vessels. On the fourth of the hotel's seven floors, you're at eye level with the decks of freighters and other ships as they make their way in or out of port.\n\nThere are also great views of River Street and the river from the Hyatt's Vu Lounge, a pleasant outdoor patio located off the lobby. The hotel's Harborside Ballroom, an 11,000-square-foot gathering place on River Street, offers floor-to-ceiling views. This is a popular setting for many wedding receptions and group meetings where guests can look out to the riverfront during their event. The Hyatt has a total of 33,000 square feet of meeting space, including two ballrooms, a junior ballroom, and breakout meeting space. The Hyatt also accommodates fitness buffs with a state-of-the-art exercise room and a heated indoor pool. Valet parking is $24 per day; there is no self-parking.\n\n**INN AT ELLIS SQUARE, 201 W. Bay St.; (912) 236-4440, (800) 542-7666; innatellissquare.com; $$$.** This 252-room brick facility, situated conveniently between River Street and City Market, features 57 suites decorated in a traditional style and featuring reproduction Southern accents. The inn sits on the corner of Barnard and Bay Streets and occupies the circa-1851 Guckenheimer Building. The hotel's elegantly roomy, ground-floor public areas offer comfortable chairs, large fireplaces, Dominque's Lounge, and flexible meeting space accommodating 20 to 200 people. Other features are an on-site concierge and complimentary hot, deluxe continental breakfasts available daily. Garage parking is available on-site at $16 per day.\n\ni Savannah's first hotel was a place called the Mansion House on Bay Street. According to an article from a _Savannah News-Press_ magazine of 1969 the city's \"earliest inns were the Mansion House, City Hotel, and the Screven (House), all of them operating about the middle of the last century.\"\n\n**THE MANSION ON FORSYTH PARK, 700 Drayton St.; (912) 238-5158, (888) 213-3671; mansiononforsythpark.com; $$$$\u2013$$$$$.** Native son Richard Kessler added the Mansion on Forsyth Park to the Kessler Collection of luxury hotels in 2005. Kessler, who was born in Savannah and grew up in nearby Effingham County, created the Mansion on Forsyth Park by purchasing the 18,000-square-foot Kayton-Granger-Huger House on the park, then buying an adjacent property and building a four-story structure that houses the 125 rooms of his boutique hotel. The original brick and terra-cotta mansion, constructed in 1888, is now the site of the hotel's fashionable 700 Drayton Restaurant, which serves nouvelle American cuisine \"with a Savannah flair.\" The restaurant is also home to Casimir's Lounge, the Carriage Wine Cellar, and the 700 Kitchen Cooking School. The hotel is associated with Marriott; however, it still retains its \"boutique style\" and the Kessler touch.\n\nAmong amenities available to guests are the Marble Garden Courtyard, waterfall, and outdoor relaxation pool; the Poseidon Spa, which offers massage therapy, rejuvenating body treatments, facials, specialty nail treatments, a cardio-fitness facility, and men's and women's locker rooms with steam showers; and the Grand Bohemian Gallery that specializes in sales of rare art and jewelry. The 700 Kitchen offers daily hands-on classes accommodating up to 16 participants. The school is open to both individuals and groups.\n\n**THE MARSHALL HOUSE, 123 E. Broughton St.; (912) 644-7896, (800) 589-6304; marshallhouse.com; $$\u2013$$$.** The Marshall House has the distinction of being one of Savannah's newest _and_ oldest hotels. The 68-room luxury boutique hotel opened its doors August 1, 1999, after an extensive renovation. The hotel occupies the building that housed the original Marshall House, which was built in 1851 and closed in 1957; during its run it was also a hospital for Union soldiers.\n\nThe new Marshall House combines its historic past and sophisticated features. Rooms offer pine floors, minifridges, robes, and bathrooms with pedestal sinks. Also available are a 275-square-foot boardroom; a fully equipped business center; a 1,200-square-foot meeting room for corporate and social functions; and 45 Bistro, a fine dining restaurant. This is yet another of Savannah's most appealing places to host weddings and receptions. The quaintness of the hotel itself, combined with the historical elements, make it quite photogenic and convenient for traveling wedding parties. Valet parking is $20 a day, with limited self-parking in a garage behind the hotel.\n\n**PLANTERS INN, 29 Abercorn St; (912) 232-5678, (800) 554-1187; plantersinnsavannah.com; $$$.** Built in 1912 as the John Wesley Hotel, the Planters Inn has been thoroughly remodeled but retains the elegance and charm of the early days of the 20th century. The hotel's high ceilings, four-poster beds, lavish draperies, and antique furniture give you the feeling you've stepped back in time, but the friendly staff and the services they provide will make you aware you're very much in the present. Among the extras are nightly turndown service, complimentary continental breakfasts served in the hospitality room 6:30 to 10:30 a.m., and complimentary wine provided in the lobby 5:30 to 7:30 p.m. every day but Sun. Parking is available at a neighboring garage for $17.95 per night, and free valet service is offered.\n\n**RIVER STREET INN, 124 E. Bay St.; (912) 234-6400, (800) 253-4229; riverstreetinn.com; $$$\u2013$$$$.** Guests of this popular inn can experience a historic atmosphere in the midst of the activity of River Street. The rooms of this hotel occupy the top three floors of a renovated five-story cotton warehouse on the Savannah River. The main entrance to the inn and its \"park side\" rooms look out on to Bay Street. Thirty-two of the inn's 86 rooms face the river, and several of these have small French balconies you can step out onto for a grand view of the street and the waterway. (For an instant thrill, try popping out onto the balcony when you see a freighter approaching!)\n\nThe lower floors of the structure housing the River Street Inn were built in 1817 to store cotton for export, and the top three floors were added in 1853; the structure opened as an inn in 1985. Guests receive complimentary newspapers in the morning, use of an in-house exercise room, and homemade chocolates before retiring in the evening. There's a daily wine, champagne, and hors d'oeuvres reception in the afternoon. The inn can accommodate small meetings and conferences, with seating for 12 in its boardroom, 45 in its meeting room, and 64 for dinners. There is also room for a 125-guest reception. Parking is $15 per day.\n\n**SAVANNAH MARRIOTT RIVERFRONT, 100 General McIntosh Blvd.; (912) 233-7722, (800) 285-0398; marriott.com/savrf; $$$\u2013$$$$$.** The atrium at the heart of the Riverfront hotel has 7,000 square feet of carpeted space that can easily accommodate themed events and trade shows attended by as many as 500 people. As many as 108 rooms on the seven upper floors of the hotel open onto balconies with views of the atrium, the north side of which looks out on the Savannah River through expansive floor-to-ceiling panes of glass. The hotel's 15,000-square-foot ballroom is the largest hotel ballroom and the second largest in the city overall, and there is an additional 21,000 square feet of meeting space in the form of conference rooms and boardrooms.\n\nThe real lure of the Marriott, though, is its location on the Savannah River and the river walk at the eastern end of River Street. A total of 60 of the hotel's 387 rooms have balconies facing north to the water, and for a little extra, you can be, as the Marriott folks say, \"perched on the river\" with a knockout view of passing ships. Special accommodations include rooms on the concierge floor and deluxe suites with walk-around wet bars, glass-topped dining tables, and large bathrooms featuring double vanities.\n\n**THE WESTIN SAVANNAH HARBOR GOLF RESORT & SPA, 1 Resort Dr.; Hutchinson Island; (912) 201-2000, (888) 625-4949; westinsavannah.com; $$$\u2013$$$$.** If you fly into Savannah, this hotel will probably be the first landmark that catches your eye. The city's largest luxury hotel, the Westin rises majestically above the Hutchinson Island waterfront across the Savannah River from the Historic District. The 16-story, 403-room hotel and its riverside neighbor, the Savannah International Trade and Convention Center, are the focal points of the island's Savannah Harbor development\u2014the centerpieces of what is seen as the creation of a \"second city\" just north of (across the river from) Savannah's downtown area.\n\nIf you're staying for golf, the joys of playing the par 72 course\u2014managed by Troon Golf\u2014are almost as numerous as your spa treatment. The course plays more than 7,000 yards from its championship tees, and its clubhouse complex is the site of The Champions Grill, Legends Bar, a pro shop, an exercise facility, four tennis courts, and locker rooms with sauna and steam room. Additionally, the Westin's riverside oasis features a beautiful oversize and heated swimming pool, food and beverage service, and an extra large hot tub, as well as a zero-entry interactive dancing water children's feature. Cabanas are also available for rent, and include iced water and fresh whole fruit to help keep you cool under the hot Savannah sun.\n\nThe magnificent spa, the largest Westin has in North America, features 14 massage rooms, 2 steam rooms, 2 Swiss shower rooms, mud baths, body wraps, and more!\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**COMFORT INN AND SUITES, 6800 Abercorn St.; (912) 356-1234; choiceprivileges.com; $$.** At the Comfort Inn and Suites, the management serves a complimentary breakfast each morning that gives guests the opportunity to enjoy the glassed-in dining room looking out on the pool and patio. This hotel is convenient to both hospitals.\n\n**COUNTRY INN & SUITES BY CARLSON, 7576 White Bluff Rd.; (912) 692-0404, (800) 456-4000; countryinns.com/savannahga_midtown; $$\u2013$$$.** Guest rooms offer two queen-size or one king-size bed, and there are three types of suites: the Jacuzzi Suite, with a two-person Jacuzzi tub and a king-size bed; the Guest Room with two queen beds or one king; and lastly, the One- or Two-Bedroom Suite, which has your choice of one room with a king or two queen-size beds, or two rooms, one with a king-size bed, and the other with two queens. All suites have a living room/sitting area, full-size sleeper sofa, microwave, and minifridge. A particularly attractive feature of the Country Inn is its spacious indoor pool area, where you'll find a kidney-shaped pool, a whirlpool, and plenty of space for relaxing. The inn also offers a fitness room, a meeting room that accommodates 18 people, and a dining area where complimentary continental breakfasts are available 6 to 9:30 a.m.\n\n**HOMEWOOD SUITES BY HILTON, 5820 White Bluff Rd.; (912) 353-8500, (800) CALL-HOME; homewoodsuitessavannah.com; $$\u2013$$$.** The Homewood Suites by Hilton features 106 suites that are configured as either one-bedroom Homewood suites; Master suites, which have fireplaces; or as two-bedroom, two-bath suites. Each suite features a fully equipped kitchen with a two-burner stove, microwave, and full-size refrigerator; a sleeper sofa; and high-speed wireless Internet access.\n\nIn addition to the three-story building and two two-story buildings housing the suites, there is a spacious lodge that can accommodate 50 people for each morning's complimentary Suite Start Breakfast, as well as the Welcome Home Reception, held from 5 until 7 p.m. Mon through Thurs, which offers guests beer, wine, ice tea, lemonade, and a light meal with salad bar. A heated pool and whirlpool are situated just outside the lodge, and there is a court nearby where you can play basketball, tennis, or volleyball. The hotel has a fitness center and a business center.\n\n**OGLETHORPE INN AND SUITES, 7110 Hodgson Memorial Dr.; (912) 354-8560, (800) 344-4378; oglethorpeinn.com; $\u2013$$.** Although the Oglethorpe Inn and Suites (formerly the Masters Inn Suites) is near Oglethorpe Mall and nestled amid the shopping centers and office parks of the Southside, this three-story hotel looks and feels as if it belongs in downtown Savannah. This hotel is the perfect respite for families who need to stay in or near one of the city's two hospitals. It's built around an atrium decorated with palm trees, exotic plants, a gurgling fountain, and intricate black ironwork.\n\nThe Old South theme surfaces in the sitting rooms of the hotel's 51 suites. Each also contains a sofa, coffee table, easy chairs, and a small refrigerator, a microwave oven, and a coffeemaker. Six luxury suites have larger sitting rooms, king-size beds, and whirlpool bathtubs. All rooms are entered from the interior of the hotel. Guests can exercise in the outdoor pool at the rear of the hotel or in the fully equipped fitness room. Many of the guests are businesspeople, and there is a conference room capable of seating 45.\n\n**RESIDENCE INN BY MARRIOTT, 5710 White Bluff Rd.; (912) 356-3266, (800) 331-3131; marriott.com; $$\u2013$$$.** This Residence Inn has 66 one- and two-bedroom and studio suites under one roof. All suites have kitchens, and each of the two-bedroom accommodations has two full bathrooms, three televisions, and a wood-burning fireplace. Kitchens are equipped with refrigerators, microwaves, and coffee-makers, and the staff will do your grocery shopping for you. Just leave your shopping list at the front desk, and the groceries will be charged to your bill and deposited in your room by 6 p.m. Copies of _USA Today_ and the _Savannah Morning News_ are free, as is a hot breakfast buffet served in the Gatehouse sitting area. The Gatehouse is also the scene of social hours held 6 to 7:30 p.m. Mon through Wed\u2014complimentary snacks, beer, wine, and other beverages are served. For those seeking recreation, you can enjoy an indoor pool and whirlpool, an exercise room, and an outdoor court for tennis, basketball, or volleyball. Pets are welcome, but there is a $100 nonrefundable cleaning fee.\n\n**SAVANNAH MIDTOWN COURTYARD BY MARRIOTT, 6703 Abercorn St.; (912) 354-7878, (800) 321-2211; marriott.com/savch; $\u2013$$.** Savannah's Courtyard by Marriott stands between two of the city's busiest thoroughfares, Abercorn Street and White Bluff Road, but the three-story hotel's beautifully landscaped grounds will give you a feeling of being away from the madding crowd. The centerpiece of the hotel is the courtyard with its quaint gazebo and swimming pool. Just off the pool is an enclosed whirlpool surrounded by lots of space for lounging, and there's a fitness room near the lobby that sports state-of-the-art exercise equipment. The Courtyard's large dining area is open for breakfast. There are 144 interior rooms including 12 suites. Rooms on the upper floors open onto balconies. There are two meeting rooms, each of which can accommodate 24 people seated at tables.\n\n# RESTAURANTS\n\nBeyond the glitz of food television's Southern-clich\u00e9 cooking shows, the realm of eating takes on a sophisticated flare in many of Savannah's restaurants. In other words, there's more to Savannah's cuisine than fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and lots of \"y'alls.\" While this is a city that thrives on home cooking, there are even more culinary secrets to be found here! Word of the mild climate, romantic aura, and lower cost of living in Savannah has spread like butter on hot biscuits and has attracted gourmet chefs and creative entrepreneurs to the mix of tradition. The results: trendy cafes in historic facades, high-end restaurants, and enchanting eateries.\n\nSo how about the fare? What's new and what's Savannah's claim-to-fame with regards to dining? Apart from the Southern staples like creamy grits, corn bread, and pecan pie, many of Savannah's acclaimed provisions come from the sea. There's fresh shrimp steamed and spiced to perfection. There are crab cakes that take the cake. There's flounder served on an oversize plate, crispy and adorned with apricot glaze. And if your mouth isn't watering by now, there are hush puppies, made at least a hundred different ways.\n\nSo pull out your napkin, or better yet, bring an oversize bib. Buy your travel pants a size larger and with an elastic waist. You're about to be dazzled.\n\nIf your travels take you to nearby Tybee Island or Hilton Head, South Carolina, note that restaurants in those two locales are discussed in the individual chapters that cover those two island destinations.\n\n## AMERICAN\n\n**THE CAFE AT CITY MARKET, 224 W. St. Julian St.; (912) 236-7133; savannahcitymarket.com; $$.** A classy local favorite for lunch or dinner is the Cafe at City Market. This European-styled bistro has maintained its popularity through the years with outstanding service and Old Savannah atmosphere. In the heat of summer, indoor dining is the choice. Within the original bricked walls, you'll feel cool and removed from the summertime humidity. Sinatra and Nat King Cole are often played in the evenings, making diners pause as they reminisce while they enjoy their favorite pasta, pizza, salads, or entrees. If the weather permits, dine outdoors, and you'll be sitting under an awning on an open-air deck. At either location, you choose from a menu that's somewhat international in content and contains an item or two you've probably never encountered before, such as grilled cheese with artichoke hearts, mushrooms, and prosciutto or black bean pizza. Also featured on the lunch menu is the perennial-favorite Southern pecan chicken salad.\n\nThe dinner menu offers specialties such as stuffed chicken with asparagus, prosciutto, and provolone, and Cuban tuna with black beans. There's room for 65 diners inside and 45 on the deck; you can smoke outside. Hours are Mon through Thurs 11 a.m. to 8 p.m.; Fri through Sun 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n**CAREY HILLIARD'S RESTAURANT, 3316 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 354-7240; careyhilliards.com; $.** That there are six Carey Hilliard's in Savannah should tell you something about the popularity of these restaurants, which provide casual dining in an atmosphere geared toward families. Founder Carey Hilliard opened his first establishment in 1960 on Skidaway Road in what had been an A&W Root Beer stand. The drive-in, curb-service feature was retained, and all six restaurants offer it today. Order from your car, and you receive many of the amenities you would by dining inside, including china plates and silverware. Barbecue has always been, and still is, a big seller at Carey Hilliard's, which serves lunch and dinner, but seafood dishes account for about half the orders these days. Among customers' favorites are the fried shrimp, oysters, and deviled crabs. Seating at the restaurants averages 250. Beer and wine are available. Check the website for information on the other restaurant locations. Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to midnight and Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 1 a.m.\n\n**CHA-BELLA, 102 E. Broad St.; (912) 790-7888; cha-bella.com; $$.** The trend toward natural and organic cuisine meshes with a balmy, natural setting at Cha-Bella, a local favorite and off the beaten path for tourists. Anchored by a lovely patio grill, the menu is amazing and filled with fresh and artfully presented appetizers and entrees such as Georgia white shrimp Carolina gold risotto, which is pan-tossed shrimp with asparagus and a light lemon Chardonnay and tarragon sauce. The hand-rolled pasta is fresh every evening and filled with natural, organic fillings. There's a grouper dish that features a hearty mound of gently seared fish with a farm pea, sweet corn, and lump crab succotash. If weather permits, dine under the stars on the patio. There is an attractive bar inside. Hours are Sun through Thurs 5:30 to 9:30 p.m.; Fri and Sat 5:30 to 10 p.m. and Sun brunch 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.\n\n**CLARY'S CAFE, 404 Abercorn St.; (912) 233-0402; claryscafe.com; $.** From the sidewalk, you'll see locals from this downtown neighborhood strolling to take their regular seats in this iconic Savannah eatery. Visitors know it as the original Clary's, the place where characters from _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ congregated, but this cafe at Jones and Abercorn Streets was, as former owner Michael Faber once put it, \"famous before the Book.\" Clary's opened in 1903 and, as a pharmacy and soda fountain, has been a hangout of Savannahians throughout its existence. Faber bought it in February 1994, during the week that _Midnight_ hit the bookstores, and he renovated the building and converted the pharmacy into dining space.\n\nThe motivation for locals to flock here is Clary's famous breakfasts. Among well-loved specialties are the malted waffles and pancakes made with a special flour brought in from Michigan. For lunch, there are a variety of salads, burgers, sandwiches, and soups; and in the evening, featured items are the fillet of tilapia served on a seasoned oak plank, the old-fashioned pot roast, and the Triple Peaks salad, which has scoops of tuna, chicken, and shrimp salads on fresh greens with pasta salad. Hours are Mon through Fri 7 a.m. to 4 p.m.; Sat and Sun 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.\n\n**THE COTTON EXCHANGE, 201 E. River St.; (912) 232-7088; $$.** The true Savannah experience should include a visit to the oldest restaurant on River Street, the Cotton Exchange. Quartered in a 1799 cotton warehouse, this is one of several eateries where you can dine and view the massive ships carrying cargo up and down the Savannah River. The Exchange opened in 1971 and for a time offered mainly sandwiches, but the restaurant later expanded into the dinner market, which has evolved into one of its greatest draws. Among the standouts on the dinner menu are the pasta dishes and many types of seafood entrees such as the baked, stuffed flounder, and the traditional Low Country Boil (steamed shrimp, sausage, corn, potatoes) and a small side of their homemade coleslaw. Lunch recommendations include outstanding sandwiches such as the Reuben and a char-grilled hamburger they call the Congress. With your sandwich, you get a choice of a side dish, and we recommend the zesty German potato salad. Hours are Mon through Thurs and Sunday 11 a.m. to 10:45 p.m.; Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.\n\n**THE FIREFLY CAFE, 321 Habersham St.; (912) 234-1971; $$.** This is a precious cafe that sits on the corner of beautiful Troup Square (named for Governor George Troup). The building, circa 1869, was constructed for John J. McDonough, who later became the mayor of Savannah from 1891 to 1895. Lunches are delightful, and outdoor seating is recommended for a true Savannah experience. The oriental chicken salad is a work of art with grilled chicken breast set atop shredded lettuce that has been mixed with sesame dressing, carrots, sweet peppers, mandarin oranges, scallions, and surrounded by fried wontons. The \"Firefly\" style corn chowder is one of the cafe's specialties: thick corn chowder with crab or chicken, topped with cheddar cheese, croutons, and scallions. For dinner, try the spicy sausage fettuccine with a thick tomato-cream sauce. There's a child's menu, which is a good thing since children will love the outdoor seating that often brings great views of passing horse-drawn carriages. A note: Late lunches are advised as delivery trucks unloading food to this tiny restaurant are sometimes noisy and distracting. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. and Sun brunch 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.\n\n**THE PIRATES' HOUSE RESTAURANT, 20 E. Broad St.; (912) 233-5757; thepirateshouse.com; $$.** Locals have been coming here, and steering tourists here, for decades. It once flirted with a stuffier atmosphere, but its market reminded it that it did just fine in the old incarnation. The restaurant is comprised of small dining rooms that wind throughout the building. (Legend has it some are haunted!) These quarters are Savannah's link to Robert Louis Stevenson's classic _Treasure Island_. When you have children in your party, it's hard to find a classier restaurant that accommodates younger patrons. The Pirates' House does this quite well, without damaging arrangements for adults out for a dress-up dinner. The menu is varied and includes lots of seafood. Locals head for the lunch buffet and always remember the fried chicken. The dessert menu is vast and intimidating: We suggest you consider dining here and skipping dessert, then making a return trip for dessert only before you leave Savannah. Nice casual will do for lunch, but brush up a little bit for dinner. There's full bar service. The restaurant also has a gift shop. If you're a new resident, this is a popular place to host children's birthday parties. The smaller rooms make ideal party places, and if you ask, your kids can meet a \"real\" pirate! Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 9:30 p.m.; Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**SOHO SOUTH CAFE, 12 W. Liberty St.; (912) 233-1633; sohosouthcafe.com; $$.** Soho South Cafe is a Savannah staple of weekly lunch and Sunday brunch spots. The restaurant is named for the New York City neighborhood and is close to downtown shops and entertainment venues. Built as an automotive service station in 1945, the space was transformed into a restaurant in 1997 and recently remodeled to its existing state, which incorporates iconic archetypal New York City. The restaurant is described as having a \"quirky, eclectic aesthetic with a sense of humor to the monumental, vast interior space.\" The building's original exposed elements, such as steel windows, iron trusses, and solid wooden garage doors, add to the casual dining experience. While the atmosphere hits the right mark, the food is an equal match, with salads, sandwiches, and entrees such as made-from-scratch chicken potpie. Hours are Mon through Fri 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.; Sat and Sun brunch 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.\n\n**ZUNZI'S, 108 E. York St; (912) 443-9555; zunzis.com; $$.** Zunzi's bills itself as a mixture of international cuisines which comes from the owner's very different cultural backgrounds: Swiss, Italian, South African, and Dutch. Winner of many awards, Zunzi's brings together unique, fresh, and delicious flavors. It is best known for its Conquistador Sandwich, which was also featured on Travel Channel's _Best Sandwich in America_.\n\nZunzi's II, 9 Drayton St., is a larger version of the original. It features a full bar, outside deck, and live music. For hours call (912) 443-1554.\n\n## ASIAN\n\n**HIRANO'S RESTAURANT, 4426 Habersham St.; (912) 353-8337; $\u2013$$.** Japanese cuisine became a major hit in Savannah with the opening of this small storefront restaurant on Habersham Street. Folks stand in line for a chance to order simple, fresh food from a limited menu. Large servings and reasonable prices are hallmarks here. The food is prepared at open griddles behind the counter\u2014this is not one of the showy knife-twirling restaurants. If you are eager to get started, opt for a seat at the counter overlooking the cooking. Those seats come open more quickly than the small stock of tables. There is a separate sushi bar, but call ahead if you are interested\u2014it tends to keep shorter hours. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. for lunch; 5 to 9 p.m. nightly, except Sun when the restaurant closes at 8 p.m.\n\n## BARBECUE\n\n**WALLS' BARBECUE, 515 E. York Ln.; (912) 232-9754; $.** Ninety-five percent of the barbecue pork, fried chicken, deviled crabs, and other food sold at Walls' is taken out by customers. Walls' is essentially a building with a kitchen and counter on York Lane, which runs from Price to Houston Streets between York Street and Oglethorpe Avenue. If you want to eat in, there are three tables where you can sit. Walls' also offers fried fish, spare-ribs, and vegetable plates, and all the dinners come with three sides from among red rice, potato salad, fries, coleslaw, and vegetables.\n\nMargaret T. Weston, who runs Walls' along with her daughter Teresa, says the business was started in the mid-1960s by her parents, Richard and Janie Walls, in a building in back of their cottage on York Street. \"My daddy had a wood yard and he got tired of chopping wood, but he wanted security for my mother and me\u2014he wanted us to be able to take care of ourselves.\" So the late Richard Walls started his barbecue business, choosing it, says Mrs. Weston with a smile, \"because it was something he could get out of.\" Soon after the business opened, Walls began driving a taxicab, leaving Mrs. Walls and her daughter to do the cooking, and cook they have, much to the delight of Savannahians who love barbecue. Walls' is open Wed through Sat, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. Call as days vary with the seasons.\n\n**BARNES RESTAURANT, 5320 Waters Ave.; (912) 354-8745; barnesrestaurant.com; $$.** The folks at Barnes pride themselves on the fact that everything\u2014from the barbecue sauce to the potato salad to the sweet ice tea\u2014is homemade. The sauce on Barnes's chopped pork and sliced beef barbecue is made according to a recipe developed by restaurant founder Nesbert Barnes and perfected over the years by his son, Hugh; it's spread on meat that's slow-cooked at low temperatures over oak and hickory wood. There's a step-by-step guide for making the tea and an employee specifically designated to perform the task; if the tea maker is not present on a given day, the manager gets the job.\n\nToday families, businesspeople, and retirees flock to Barnes for the barbecue and the tea for lunch and dinner. Chicken fingers, ribs, shrimp salad, and onion rings are other big sellers. Hours are Mon through Sun 10:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**JOHNNY HARRIS RESTAURANT, 1651 E. Victory Dr.; (912) 354-7810; johnnyharris.com; $$.** Stepping into the main dining room at Johnny Harris is like fox-trotting back into the late 1930s and the 1940s, when this establishment was an elegant supper club on the outskirts of Savannah. The bandstand that occupied the middle of the floor is gone, but the room retains the charm of that bygone era. Remaining from those good old days are the dark wood paneling of the Old English decor and a 30-foot-high ceiling adorned for a starry, night-sky effect. You can also still slip into one of the booths lining the perimeter of the oval-shaped room and place an order by pushing a service button that illuminates a green light overhead.\n\nThe restaurant has been a favorite of Savannahians for decades, and many patrons bring their grandchildren and great-grandchildren so they can experience the atmosphere, service, and food\u2014in particular the barbecue, fried chicken, prime rib, and crabmeat au gratin (meat of the crab's claw folded in a cream and cheese sauce). Johnny Harris is the oldest restaurant in Savannah and one of the oldest in Georgia, but you'll notice it's not in the Historic District. It's in Midtown, on Victory Drive just east of Bee Road. That intersection is where the original restaurant was built in 1924 by a Southerner from out of town named Johnny Harris; the original wooden building was torn down, and the brick structure that houses the existing restaurant was built in 1936. Johnny Harris died in 1942, and the restaurant has been run by the Donaldson family of Savannah ever since. You might also consider purchasing some of the restaurant's barbecue sauce to take home with you. It's bottled hot and sold at Johnny Harris and other outlets in Georgia, South Carolina, and Florida, and it is shipped worldwide via mail order. Hours are Sun through Thurs 11:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m.; Fri through Sat, 11:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m.\n\n**WILEY'S CHAMPIONSHIP BBQ, 4700 US 80 East; (912) 201-3259; wileyschampionshipbbq.com; $$.** No brag, just fact\u2014this is the best barbecue in Savannah and maybe for a much larger radius. Wiley's is a little hole-in-the-wall joint in a strip shopping center on the way to the beach. The menu boasts chicken, beef, and sausage, but there's no need to go beyond the heavenly pulled pork. Sides are good too. Go with mac and cheese (considered a vegetable in the South) and collards and be aware the individual portions on the sides are too small for any but the daintiest of eaters, so bump your order up.\n\ni Perhaps the influx of thousands of college students has something to do with it, but area restaurants are now more likely to offer vegetarian, and even vegan, options on their menus. But if the menu doesn't actually use the word vegetarian, you might want to ask\u2014Southern cooks traditionally use \"side meat\" such as salt pork or ham hocks as seasoning in vegetables.\n\n## BURGERS & DOGS\n\n**B &D BURGERS, downtown location 13 E. Broughton St; (912) 231-0986; bdburgers.net; $.** There are times when the pocket-book and appetite dictate that mealtimes stray off the beaten path to the perfect burger. As an avid traveler myself, I speak with experience in recommending an out-of-the-box burger establishment that is both inexpensive and fun! In Savannah, your search brings you to a truly unique local burger joint downtown, B&D Burgers. There are burgers named for fountains and squares. There are burgers named for Savannah landmarks, and there are burgers named for famous Savannahians. Burgers at B&D are cooked to your liking, with an extensive build-your-own list along with an equally matched build-your-own hot dog selection. Breyers ice cream floats and shakes add to the yum. Now there are an additional downtown location at 209 W. Congress St. (912-238-8315) and two others at 11108 Abercorn St. (912-927-8700) and 238 Pooler Pkwy. (912-988-5560). Call for hours.\n\n## CAFES\n\n**GOOSE FEATHERS EXPRESS CAFE AND BAKERY, 39 Barnard St.; (912) 233-4683; goosefeatherscafe.com; $.** This eatery offers so many delicious items that some local business folk have been known to dine there twice in one day. Our favorites for breakfast? The bread pudding (although not for the calorie-conscious) is outstanding! The Belgian waffles are beautiful and tasty! There is fresh fruit with yogurt, as well as several variations of oatmeal combinations (like apples and cinnamon). For lunch, try the stuffed croissants, especially the spinach and feta or any of their trademark sandwiches such as the Hermitage, with cream cheese, cucumbers, sprouts, and tomatoes on multigrain bread. Winter begs for their tasty soups served in homemade bread bowls and accompanying sandwiches exploding with fresh vegetables. Be forewarned that you must stand in line (sometimes long, but always moving fast) to order. You'll take a tray with your drinks and a number and wait for your meal to be brought to the table. The Express opens at 7 a.m. weekdays and 8 a.m. weekends, closing 3 p.m. every day.\n\n## COFFEEHOUSES/BAKERIES\n\n**BACK IN THE DAY BAKERY, 2403 Bull St.; (912) 495-9292; backinthedaybakery.com; $.** Cheryl and Griffith Day, authors of the _New York Times_ best-selling _Back in the Day Bakery Cookbook_ , operate this funky, award winning bakery, coffee shop, breakfast and lunch destination. A foodie's haven, this spot serves up desserts and treats, artisan breads, award winning cupcakes, multicuisine lunch and free wireless access. Hours are Tues through Sat 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\n**GALLERY ESPRESSO, 234 Bull St.; (912) 233-5348; galleryespresso.com; $.** This is one of the city's first (and a personal favorite) on the coffeehouse scene. Coffee, both plain and in its multiple new forms, is augmented by a menu of baked goods and sandwiches, even wine. There's an occasional poetry reading or casual performance. The walls are home to displays by local artists, and the exhibits have grown in quality and importance over the years. At this cozy and good people-watching spot, the outdoor tables are particularly popular when the weather allows. Bring your laptop. It's usually open until 1 a.m. on the weekends. Hours are weekdays 7:30 a.m. to 10 p.m., weekends 8 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**THE SENTIENT BEAN, 13 E. Park Ave.; (912) 232-4447; sentientbean.com; $.** If political advocacy has a center in Savannah, this must be it. Of course it serves coffee (fair trade and organic, to boot) and light food, but that's the least of it. It hosts live music, film screenings, poetry slams, speeches, classes, and what have you. The schedule stays pretty full, and attendance can be pretty good, too. You might want to drop by just to read the flyers on the walls to keep up with events geared toward the young, the liberal, and/or the involved. There is both indoor and outdoor seating. The Sentient Bean is next door to Brighter Day, Savannah's oldest organic food store, and at the north end of Forsyth Park. Hours are 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day.\n\n## CUBAN\n\n**RANCHO ALEGRE, 402 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 292-1656; ranchoalegrecuban.com; $.** This restaurant serves a variety of exotic-sounding dishes featuring chicken, beef, pork, and seafood, such as _pollo a la Juliana_ (pepper chicken strips), _ropa vieja_ (shredded beef slowly cooked in Creole sauce), _masas de cerdo fritas_ (fried pork chunks), and _camarones al ajilio_ (garlic shrimp). Most entrees are accompanied by rice, beans, and fried sweet plantains. We're betting this is also one of few places in town where you can get Cuban coffee, flan, and fried yucca. Live music is featured periodically. Rancho Alegre serves lunch and dinner Mon through Thurs 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 10:30 p.m., and Sun 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n## ECLECTIC\n\n**TOUCAN CAFE, 531 Stephenson Ave.; (912) 352-2233; toucancafe.com; $$.** Nestled in the woods off Stephenson Avenue, the Toucan Cafe combines eclectic food, an interior that pulsates with the high-impact colors of the tropics, and an exterior with a classic Mediterranean look. The cuisine reflects the influences of several exotic cultures\u2014Jamaican jerk chicken and Jamaican jerk tilapia, both of which are served with black beans and mango salsa; chicken farfalle and shrimp farfalle, both served in a basil cream with bow-tie pasta; and Hellenic stuffed chicken, made with spinach and feta cheese, served over rice and topped with marinated baby peas. Those are just a few of the dishes offered by owners Steve and Nancy Magulias who, in late 1998, moved the cafe to newly built quarters on Stephenson from a small storefront in nearby Eisenhower Plaza where the Toucan had been since 1994. The Toucan Cafe serves dinner and lunch Mon through Sat; reservations aren't required but will be accepted for parties of five or more. Hours are lunch Mon through Sat 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. and dinner Mon through Thurs 5 to 9 p.m., Fri and Sat 5 p.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n## FINE DINING\n\n**EL\u00ca FINE FUSION, 7815 US 80 East; (912) 898-2221; elerestaurant.com; $$$$.** El\u00ea opened in 2009 and since then, has established itself as one of the finer dining options in Savannah and surrounding islands. Well worth the drive from any part of town, this very contemporary and upscale eatery offers an enticing sushi bar. However striking the interior is, the draw for this restaurant is its food that is fresh and gourmet-like in its presentation as well as taste. Appetizers include a lightly battered and fried oyster plate, served with sweet chili sauce and cucumber salad, or the crispy lobster spring rolls. If you're indecisive, try El\u00ea's tasting for two or four. You'll get a wonderful platter with chicken and steak kebabs, pot stickers, chicken spring rolls, and fried shrimp. Entrees are the real treat at El\u00ea. The red curry chicken comes with red and green bell peppers, green beans, snow peas, bamboo, lime leaves, and basil, a sumptuous blending of spices! El\u00ea's steaks are cut, prime, and premium grade and prepared and served with a red wine and portobello reduction sauce and steamed vegetables ($29.95 or $34.95, depending on the cut). Kobe steaks are pricey but well worth the outlay. These cuts are massaged with sake and so tender you can cut them with a fork. Desserts change weekly and you are urged to save room! Hours are Tues through Thurs 5 to 10 p.m.; Fri and Sat 5 to 10:30 p.m.; Sun, 5 to 9:30 p.m.\n\n**THE FLORENCE, 1B W. Victory Dr.; (912) 234-5522; theflorencesavannah.com; $$\u2013$$$.** Reality TV's _Top Chef_ judge Hugh Acheson opened the Florence in 2014, filling a modern, industrial-themed space with a fine dining/casual mashup and an attached coffee shop. The cuisine is \"Italian meets Georgia\" but don't expect any recognizable pasta standards on the short and ever-changing menu. The pizza is well vouched for if the limited, complex list of entrees doesn't work for you. Rabbit, duck, and cuts of beef whose names you won't recognize are not uncommon. No disappointments, but it's pricy. Lots of attention has gone into the wine list and mixology.\n\n**GARIBALDI CAFE, 315 W. Congress St.; (912) 232-7118; garibaldisavannah.com; $$\u2013$$$.** The list of Savannahians' favorites extends to Garibaldi, a festive place that has played host to wedding celebrations, birthday galas, reunions, and friendly get-togethers for many years. In short, Garibaldi is usually the first place that comes to mind for locals seeking a special night out. Like a delightful European bistro, Garibaldi is located in what was once the Germania Fire House (circa 1871). It was reported that volunteers celebrated their firehouse with \"toasts and jokes for several hours.\" This is precisely what Garibaldi is about today. Don't expect a quiet romantic dinner but rather a loud place where conversation and laughter defies traditional downtown restaurants. The dinner and wine list is filled with impressive selections. For an appetizer, try the corn crab cakes with mango relish and mango mint sauce. Don't leave Savannah without savoring the diamond-scored crispy scored flounder, an entire fish that is fried to a crisp and adorned with an apricot shallot sauce. (Other restaurants may claim to offer a similar dish, but no one prepares it better than Garibaldi.) Reservations are available, and dress is business attire on up. Dinner only. The restaurant opens at 5 p.m. daily.\n\n**THE GREY, 109 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 662-5999; thegreyrestaurant.com; $$$.** The Grey's setting almost overwhelms at first. So named because the building once housed the Greyhound bus depot, it has been meticulously restored. The result is a combination of movie set and time machine, minus the cheesiness and improbability. Executive chef Mashama Bailey, who earned her chops in New York's fiercely competitive restaurant scene, has Savannah roots. The menu changes monthly and evolves constantly. Dismiss the website claim of $30 and under per person\u2014one entree goes for $28, another for $30, and others are north of that, without tips or drinks. It would be a shame not to give the Grey's high-performance bartenders some work.\n\n**LOCAL 11 TEN FOOD AND WINE, 1110 Bull St; (912) 790-9000; local11ten.com; $$$.** Steps away from Savannah's Forsyth Park, this casual elegant restaurant serves popular Southern flavors using local and seasonal ingredients. Offerings include fresh seafood from the Georgia coast and fresh vegetables and herbs from local farmers. A contemporary design graces this 1950s-era former downtown bank. Open Mon through Sun 6 p.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**NOBLE FARE, 321 Jefferson St.; (912) 443-3210; noblefare.com; $$$$.** This foodie fantasy features locally inspired cuisine in an intimate setting. It is a favorite spot for fine dining locals and return out-of-town visitors with good taste. Hours are Tues through Thurs 5:30 to 10:30 p.m. and Fri and Sat 5:30 to 11:30 p.m.\n\n## FUSION\n\n**SKYLER'S, 225 E. Bay St.; (912) 232-3955; skylersrestaurant.com; $$.** The co-owners of Skyler's\u2014Nguyen Nguyet and Charles Coolidge\u2014like to say their restaurant is \"where East meets West.\" Nguyen, who's better known to patrons and friends as Ms. Moon, is a former resident of Saigon, and Charles is a native of Atlanta; they worked together as chefs at the Hyatt Hotel here and developed a cooking style Coolidge deems a \"fusion of Asian-Continental cuisine with coastal dishes.\" They took that style with them when they left the hotel and opened the original Skyler's on State Street in 1990. The restaurant quickly outgrew that location, and Ms. Moon and Coolidge moved it in 1993 to the cellar of the East Bay Inn, where there was more room and the ambience of a onetime cotton warehouse\u2014brick floors and walls and a ceiling dominated by thick wooden beams. Skyler's specializes in crab cakes, roast pork, teriyaki chicken, and Caesar salad, and seats its customers in Windsor chairs that make eating here an extremely comfortable experience. The main dining room accommodates 70 people, and there's a banquet room with seating for 60. Access to the restaurant is through the lobby of the East Bay Inn. Skyler's is open for lunch on weekdays 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. and serves dinner Wed and Thurs 5 to 8:30 p.m., Fri and Sat 5 to 9:30 p.m.\n\n## GREEK\n\n**OLYMPIA CAFE, 5 E. River St.; (912) 233-3131; olympiacafe.us; $$.** This authentic Greek restaurant is a welcome respite from the glare and bustle of River Street. Although it resembles a fast-food eatery from the outside, on the inside brick walls and flooring, lots of plants, and soft lighting add to the atmosphere, but that's all incidental to the food. Favorites here include red snapper Aegean served with tomato sauce, spices, and feta cheese. Lamb chops marinated in olive oil and herbs before char-grilling are another favorite. _Spanakopita_ is one of those dishes by which a Greek restaurant is measured, and you'll find this version of the flavored spinach pastry measures up well. On the lighter and less-expensive side of the menu, you can choose gyro sandwiches and chicken kebabs. Don't be confused when you arrive\u2014Olympia Cafe also operates a quick-and-casual take-out place on one side and a 35-flavor ice cream parlor on the other. Hours are 11 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. daily.\n\n## ICE CREAM PARLORS\n\n**LEOPOLD'S ICE CREAM, 212 E. Broughton St.; (912) 234-4442; leopoldsicecream.com; $.** Leopold's is an institution in Savannah, dating back to 1919, but the operation hasn't been continuous. Stratton Leopold reopened it with new digs within the old fixtures, and it's a real trip back in time. Soups and sandwiches are on the menu. They make their own ice cream, along with fountain delights like banana splits and hot fudge sundaes. There are tables outside as well as in the nostalgic interior. Check out the decor: Leopold is a major Hollywood producer when he isn't making ice cream (really!), and he's decorated the place with memorabilia from movies he's been involved with. Hours are 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., (except it's open to 11 p.m. on Sat), and it's an easy walk from both the Lucas and Trustees theaters.\n\n## INDIAN\n\n**TASTE OF INDIA, 401 Mall Blvd.; (912) 356-1020; $$.** Savannah has a substantial Indian community, including college professors, physicians, hoteliers, and operators of retail shops. As a result, the city has a small handful of Indian restaurants. Our favorite is Taste of India. The restaurant's quarters formerly housed a barbecue restaurant, so there's something just a little incongruous about lush Indian decor against a knotty pine background. But instead of appearing overdone, the overall effect is one of exotic luxuriance.\n\nThe menu is varied, with vegetarian dishes heavily represented. You can also choose from chicken, lamb, goat, and seafood entrees. On the appetizer side, try pau bhaji, a paste of mashed vegetables in garlic sauce that you eat on bread, or a chicken samosa, a spiced meat pastry. For entrees, dishes include lamb sagwala, which resembles a lamb stew in a creamy spinach base. Less-adventurous souls can safely opt for the chicken curry. Taste of India is open for lunch on weekdays, when it serves from a buffet, and for dinner 7 days a week. It has a full bar. Hours are Mon through Fri 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., dinner daily and weekends 5 to 10 p.m.\n\n## MOROCCAN\n\n**THE MIRAGE MEDITERRANEAN BAR AND GRILL RESTAURANT, 20 E. Broughton St.; (912) 236-5464; themiragesavannah.com; $$.** If you're looking for a little local excitement that is out of the Savannah norm and convenient to the Historic District, check out this unique-to-Savannah restaurant, which includes a hookah lounge. The belly dancer comes on for short intervals throughout the evening, and the performances we've witnessed were interesting, entertaining, and quite decorous. The menu is heavily weighted with dishes like lamb cooked in honey and almonds, but even the less-adventurous palate will find an option here. Many dishes are variations on kebabs, in lamb, beef, or chicken (or opt for the dish featuring all three). For the appetizer course, try a salad sampler, which features six different salads or relishes. Open for dinner Sun through Wed 5 p.m. to midnight, Thurs through Sat 5 p.m. to 2:30 a.m.\n\n## PIZZA\n\n**BASIL'S PIZZA AND DELI, 216 Johnny Mercer Blvd.; (912) 897-6400; basilspizzaonline.com; $.** This restaurant on Wilmington Island prides itself on being family operated (the name is derived from the Greek name of a son/grandson of the owners) and specializes in pizza and Mediterranean dishes. Among the combination pizzas are the Greek, eggplant Parmesan, and gyro varieties, and the menu also includes Hellenic-inspired fare such as _dolmades_ and _spanakopita_. Basil's also offers delicious pasta, salads, and a broad array of sandwiches, and the pasta salad\u2014made with bacon and broccoli\u2014is as good as it gets. Basil's occupies a storefront in the Wilmington Island Shopping Center at the heart of the island. Basil's offers an excellent selection of domestic and imported beers. An expansion includes Yo Basil's, a frozen yogurt shop and dessert cafe. There's outside seating on a screened-in porch. Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. and Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 9:30 p.m.\n\n**SPANKY'S PIZZA GALLEY & SALOON, 317 E. River St.; (912) 236-3009; spankys.tv; $.** Ansley Williams, Alben Yarbrough, and Dusty Yarbrough opened the first Spanky's on River Street in 1976, intending to bring pizza to the area. They also served burgers and chicken sandwiches at the restaurant, which is housed in what had been a cotton warehouse. According to Williams, the chicken breasts used for the sandwiches were too large for the buns on which they were served, so the restaurateurs sliced off the excess chicken and, not wanting to be wasteful, battered and fried the strips of meat and sold them as \"chicken fingers.\" Their concoction was a hit with locals. A warning: if you're not a fan of loud and boisterous restaurants with a sports bar atmosphere, you'll probably want to stay away from Spanky's. Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., Fri through Sat 11 a.m. to 11 p.m.\n\n**VINNIE VAN GOGO, 317 W. Bryan St.; (912) 233-6394; vinnievangogo.com; $$.** Vinnie's serves pizza with real character\u2014thin crust with fresh ingredients, including such options as spinach, artichoke, and broccoli. Experiment with pesto instead of regular sauce. Dine in the cramped interior or at outside tables overlooking City Market (semi-enclosed when it's cold). Pizza is available by the slice, and one of those with the excellent spinach salad is an ample meal. A personal favorite among the pizzas is feta, sun-dried tomato, and black olive. Beer and wine are available. Your most casual duds are probably too dressy for Vinnie's, but the food's tops. Cash only; no credit cards. Hours are Mon through Thurs from 4 to 11:30 p.m., Fri and Sat noon to midnight, Sun, noon to 11:30 p.m.\n\n## PUB FARE\n\n**B. MATTHEW'S, 325 E. Bay St.; (912) 233-1319; bmatthewseatery.com; $$.** This once raucous bar called the Lamp Post is now thriving with old-city atmosphere and charm, a pub-like lunch and dinner menu, and a healthy array of imported beers on tap and in bottles. Starting with breakfast, their pancakes, omelets, and egg dishes are light and tasty! Sun brunch features an artichoke-and-goat-cheese omelet and apple, pecan, and bourbon chutney pancakes (served 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.). Lunch favorites include a Black-eyed Pea Cake Sandwich, a spicy combination served on fresh bread, and an apple\u2013pecan chicken salad sandwich, and entrees like pecan-crusted chicken. Owner Brian Huskey bought the restaurant in 2006 and has constantly upgraded the facilities, making it one of downtown Savannah's brightest spots! Hours are Mon through Thurs 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., Fri and Sat 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. Sun brunch is 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.\n\n**CRYSTAL BEER PARLOR, 301 W. Jones St.; (912) 349-1000; crystalbeerparlor.com; $$.** Savannahian John Nichols revived the tradition of the Crystal Beer Parlor a few years ago, much to the delight of a close following of generations of fans. As best as he possibly could, Nichols tackled the challenge of returning it to the original look of an early-1900s burger joint with a vengeance, livening up the old place, while keeping the hometown feel alive. The original restaurant was one of the first American eating establishments to serve alcohol after the repeal of Prohibition. Today the walls are covered with photos of early Savannah. There's a Monroe Room, named for Monroe Whitlock, who was a server there for 45 years. Of course there's a bar here that serves a variety of draft and bottled beers. The rich and creamy crab stew is a specialty, but all the dishes on the large menu are delicious. The restaurant serves lunch and dinner Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., and Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 11 p.m.\n\n**SIX PENCE PUB, 245 Bull St.; (912) 233-3151; sixpencepub.com; $$.** With the charm of a true British pub, the Six Pence offers specials each day. Patrons have a particular liking for the shepherd's pie; the sausage (bangers, in England) and mashed potatoes; the French onion and potato soups; a meat pie made with mushrooms, peas, onions, and carrots; and beer-marinated beef. So if you're looking for Savannah-fare, you may want to dine somewhere else.\n\nWith a generous selection of beer on tap, the pub is filled with conversation-starting memorabilia, with most of it adorning the walls and bar. Among the Toby mugs, the coronation collectibles dating from 1898, and the pub signs, some of which are more than 200 years old, there's also a must-see ship's bell that's a replica of the one on the _Titanic_ \u2014a souvenir gift from that ill-fated vessel's maiden voyage. Hours are Mon through Thurs 11:30 a.m. to midnight; Fri and Sat, 11:30 a.m. to 2 a.m.; Sun 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n## SEAFOOD\n\n**DESPOSITO'S SEAFOOD, 187 Macceo Dr.; (912) 897-9963; $.** If you're looking for a dive that has awesome steamed seafood, this is the place. On evenings when the weather's nice, the windows of the enclosed porch of this little cinder-block and wood eatery are opened wide. You can sit out there at tables covered with newspaper and eat boiled shrimp, crab legs, and steamed oysters as the breeze from the nearby Wilmington River wafts through the place.\n\nDesposito's also serves deviled crab; homemade chili, pecan pie, and potato salad; and the Lowcountry basket, which is filled with shrimp, corn on the cob, sausage, and the aforementioned potato salad. In addition to the porch, there's a dining room and a bar that serves beer and wine. Desposito's is open for dinner daily except Mon and for lunch and dinner on Fri, Sat, and Sun but hours are variable. MasterCard and Visa only are accepted. It's on the eastern side of the Wilmington River and north of US 80.\n\n**DRIFTAWAY CAFE, 7400 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 303-0999; driftawaycafe.com; $$.** The Driftaway Cafe is a casual place resembling someone's back porch that's been decorated with beachy knickknacks. The interior is cute without being cloying, with murals of local water scenes on the walls and a massive sculpture of a raging shark bursting through one wall. The best tables overlook the marsh at the rear, where you can see a real creek and a fake waterfall, a cat (or could it be a raccoon?) with some kitschy statuary scattered around. From the porch, you can also view (on a good night) some really large snapping turtles in the creek and the butterflies feasting on the landscaping.\n\nEnough about the scenery. The menu covers salads, sandwiches, and full entrees, but you should start with the Herb River Crab Dip, a creamy blend of cheeses brimming with (real) crabmeat and spices. The dip is served with toasted bread, and it's a good thing they don't bring you much of it or you would forgo the entree and lick the dip bowl clean. There are chicken and steak dishes on the menu, but stick with seafood. There are shrimp quesadillas ($11), butterfly shrimp (fried and tossed in firecracker sauce, $11), and an Atlantic salmon grilled and served with jerk-grilled asparagus ($13). The fish tacos ($12) are phenomenal: grouper strips flash-fried in batter and served on flour tortillas with lettuce and some perfectly seasoned sauce. For a more formal meal, go for the crispy scored flounder, which is flash-fried and served with lots of spicy apricot sauce. Sides range from dressy (grilled asparagus) to down-home (homemade potato chips). There's a full bar and a large wine selection. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. and Sun 10 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n**THE FLYING FISH, 7906 US 80 East; (912) 897-2009; $$.** Hush puppies, fried fish, and fried shrimp are served in a tropical-like atmosphere where flip-flops and T-shirts define the dress code. Don't expect anything fancy about this place as all food is served on throwaway dishes. Be sure to try the cheese grits with grouper fingers, fish tacos, and any of their fresh seafood, as well as the perfectly sweetened tea. There's a full bar and a decent beer selection and several outdoor tables if you're coming from the beach. Hours are 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily.\n\n## SOUTHERN\n\n**ALLIGATOR SOUL, 114 Barnard St.; (912) 232-7899; alligatorsoul.com; $$$.** Attracted by an eclectic menu, locals and tourists enjoy the fabulous creations served at this Barnard Street eatery just north of Telfair Square. Try the fried green tomatoes\u2014tasteful and beautiful with a crisp Parmesan and cornmeal\u2013crusted covering, served sizzling over a delicious chipotle mayonnaise and garnished with a sweet relish. For dinner, try the shrimp and grits\u2014shrimp saut\u00e9ed in lemon butter and Creole spices and served over stone-ground grits with Tasso ham and cheese. Save room for dessert! The Alligator Soul Banana Beignets are served hot, and are perfect with coffee if you desire. Made with fresh bananas lightly coated with tempura batter, quickly fried, and served with banana ice cream, roasted cinnamon wonton crisps, and candied pecans, this dish is one of many reasons to dine here. Open nightly, Mon through Sun 5:30 p.m. to \"10-ish.\"\n\n**ELIZABETH ON 37TH STREET, 105 E. 37th St.; (912) 236-5547; elizabethon37th.net; $$$.** This 1900s Southern mansion that is both elegant and refined was made famous by the original owners, Elizabeth and Michael Terry. Now the operation is run under the same high standards by brothers Greg and Gary Butch, who were longtime employees of Elizabeth on 37th. With an incomparable menu starting with appetizers like a black-eyed pea patty with greens and tomato relish, mozzarella and tomatoes served warm with pecan pesto, and seasonal soups that are standouts, there's still prestige that comes with saying you're \"dining at Elizabeth's.\" The atmosphere could be summarized as sophisticated and maybe a wee bit snobby. My favorite entree is the Spicy Savannah Red Rice with Georgia Shrimp and Half Moon River clams, sausage, grouper, and okra\u2014a fancy way to say, Lowcountry boil . . . with okra. Another highlight is the Coastal Grouper Celeste, crisp sesame-almond crusted grouper with peanut sauce and roasted potato. This is a place that truly transforms the area's finest seafood into not-to-be-duplicated dishes. Before you leave, opt for the Chocolate Pecan Torte, a dark chocolate cream in a crushed pecan crust, topped with chocolate whipped cream. There is an elegant private dining room. Dress is business casual and reservations are always suggested. Hours are 6 to 10 p.m. nightly. Reservations are required.\n\n**HUEY'S, 115 E. River St.; (912) 234-7385; hueysontheriver.net; $$.** This is a chain with a local flair! Huey's brings the Big Easy to Savannah with its New Orleans\u2013style cuisine. With floor-to-ceiling windows right on the sidewalk, Huey's also offers a great view of the Savannah River, a circumstance that makes a breakfast of cafe au lait and beignets something special. For those unfamiliar with \"N'awlins,\" beignets (pronounced \"ben-yeas\") are delectable French doughnuts.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nRegional Cuisine Offers a Taste of Savannah\n\nWhen you're in Savannah, you might run across some cuisine you're not likely to find in other parts of the country. Two examples, the Lowcountry shrimp boil and the oyster roast, combine food with other elements you might have noticed being mentioned throughout this book: Savannahians' love of getting together and their fondness for being outdoors.\n\nYou can order Lowcountry boil in a restaurant, and the same goes for oysters, but perhaps the best way to experience them is by attending an outdoor party at which they are the featured components. Lowcountry boil\u2014also known as Frogmore stew because it supposedly originated in Frogmore, South Carolina, which is about 90 minutes northeast of Savannah\u2014consists of smoked sausage, corn on the cob, and shrimp all boiled together in a large pot. Some cooks add other ingredients, with new potatoes seeming to be the most popular.\n\nOysters served at an oyster roast are roasted on a big piece of tin or steel that's supported by cinder blocks. A red-hot fire is built under the sheet of metal, and the oysters are placed on it and covered with wet cloth\u2014burlap sacks do nicely. The oysters will steam open in about 20 minutes, and they're ready to eat. Special oyster knives are used to help dig the oysters out of their shells, and it's a good idea to wear gloves to prevent being cut by the oyster's tough exterior.\n\nThe Southerner's way is to enjoy a Lowcountry boil or oyster roast by standing around a long table on a crisp day in autumn, chatting with friends, and diving into a pile of oysters or a big heap of sausage, shrimp, and corn that's been dumped on a table covered with newspaper. It doesn't hurt, by the way, if grilled hot dogs are nearby for those who aren't fans of the oyster.\n\nAmong other foods associated with this area are Savannah red rice, a dessert called trifle, and a cookie known as the benne wafer. The benne wafer has a taste all its own because it's made with benne seeds, which is what folks in the Lowcountry call sesame seeds. Trifle, a gift of the English colonists to Savannah, consists of pound cake that's been sprinkled with sherry, layered with custard, and topped with whipped cream.\n\nSavannah red rice goes great with fried chicken and seafood. The following is a recipe for this distinctly local dish provided by Martha Giddens Nesbit, who edited and wrote much of the food section of Savannah's daily newspaper for more than a decade and is the author of the _Savannah Collection_ and _Savannah Entertains_ cookbooks.\n\nIn her recipe, which serves four people, Martha uses four slices of bacon that have been fried crisp, crumbled, and reserved, one chopped onion, one chopped celery stalk, a cup of raw rice, one 16-ounce can of tomatoes, three-quarters of a cup of water, a teaspoon of salt, and a quarter-teaspoon of cayenne pepper.\n\nFry the chopped onion and celery in bacon fat, then remove some of the fat, if desired, and add the rice, tomatoes, water, salt, and pepper. Combine the ingredients and transfer them to a 1.5-quart baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until the rice is soft but not dry. Stir in the reserved bacon and serve hot or at room temperature.\n\nSomething else you're likely to encounter during mealtimes in Savannah is sweetened ice tea, which we call just plain ol' \"sweet tea.\" Savannahians drink it year-round, and here's a good way to make a gallon-size pitcher full: Place three family-size tea bags in the basket of your automatic coffeemaker and brew up a full coffeepot of tea. Put about a cup of sugar in the pitcher and pour the hot tea on top. Stir it up and add a full coffeepot of water and stir again. When it cools, you've got sweet tea.\n\nHuey's also has some specialties for breakfast eaters with heartier appetites, including eggs Benedict and eggs Sardou, the latter consisting of a bed of creamed spinach with artichoke hearts on a toasted English muffin with two poached eggs topped with hollandaise sauce. For lunch and dinner, there are such dishes as red beans and rice served with andouille sausage, and Muffuletta, a sandwich made with freshly baked bread, Genoa salami, capocollo ham, provolone, and an olive dressing. The food is zesty but moderately spiced; if you want more zip, there's Tabasco sauce on your table. Hours are Mon through Thurs 7 a.m. to 10 p.m., Fri 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., Sat 8 a.m. to 11 p.m., Sun 8 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**THE LADY AND SONS, 102 W. Congress St.; (912) 233-2600; theladyandsons.com; $$.** Be sure to sample the food that made Paula Deen famous here at her restaurant, and remember, there are no guarantees that the diva will be there to meet you in person. There's an appealing menu at this Southern comfort-food eatery, but unless you're going to be in town long enough to return repeatedly, skip it and go directly to the buffet. This is the slow-cooked, perfectly seasoned stuff that Southerners consider real home cooking, which may define why there aren't many locals eating there. (They're eating it at home, too!) Fried chicken, squash casserole, seasoned greens, fried green tomatoes, hoecakes (ask if you don't know), cheese biscuits\u2014you get the picture. Hours are Mon through Thurs 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., Sun (lunch buffet only) 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\ni You can take care of some of your souvenir shopping while you dine out. Many restaurants sell sauces featured in their prize dishes or cookbooks drawing from their menu.\n\n**MRS. WILKES' DINING ROOM, 107 W. Jones St.; (912) 232-5997; mrswilkes.com; $$.** This restaurant is worth the wait because dining at Mrs. Wilkes' is about more than eating lunch; it's about experiencing the true, Southern Sunday lunch around the dinner table with family and friends. (At least they'll be your friends once lunch is over.) It's so special that President Barack Obama \"popped in\" with his entourage and dined with a table of surprised guests! Traditional Southern home-cooking restaurants in Savannah started at Mrs. Wilkes', and daughter Marcia Thompson does a fine job of seeing that her parents' famous traditions are ongoing. If you must visit one of the two restaurants during your stay in Savannah, try this one first. This place has been highly praised by national and international media through the years.\n\nAt our most recent visit to Mrs. Wilkes', the tables were loaded with fried chicken, barbecue chicken, beef stew, sausage, baked ham, collard greens, snap beans, black-eyed peas, squash, rice and gravy, okra and tomatoes, mashed potatoes, candied yams, pickled beets, apple salad, and macaroni salad. Mrs. Wilkes' doesn't take credit cards. Hours are weekdays 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Be sure to arrive early to avoid waiting.\n\n**THE OLDE PINK HOUSE RESTAURANT & PLANTERS TAVERN, 23 Abercorn St.; (912) 232-4286; plantersinnsavannah.com; $$$.** Savannahians who have traditionally enjoyed the Olde Pink House for its ambient downstairs bar and elegant, historical feel, are elated by the restaurant's expansion, an open outdoorsy bar with tables that spread out onto the sidewalk and under a canopy of trees. In fact, it's one of the trendiest and most in-demand places to dine in town. As the dining rooms inside have sometimes felt restrictive and crowded, the outdoor Pink House is exceptional. If it's winter, start downstairs in the Planters Tavern, a more casual and comfortable dining place and home to the restaurant's wine cellar. A fireplace is usually lit on each end of the room, and there is live piano music nightly.\n\nThe Olde Pink House serves regional cuisine in several elegant dining rooms occupying the upper two floors of the building. Examples of this type of cooking are the roast duck with wild berry sauce and hoppin' John, she-crab soup laced with sherry, Caesar salad with corn bread oysters, crispy scored flounder with apricot shallot sauce, and grilled pork tenderloin with collards and yams. Reservations are definitely recommended. If you're interested in dining in the restaurant's most romantic spot, ask for a table by a window in the second-floor Office Room\u2014it has a view of picturesque Reynolds Square. Ask your waiter to share some of the varied ghost stories that are unique to this establishment. Hours are lunch Tues through Sat 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.; dinner Sun through Thurs 5 to 10:30 p.m. and Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 11 p.m.\n\n**SWEET POTATOES, 6825 Waters Ave.; (912) 352-3434; sweetpotatoeskitchen.com; $.** This casual restaurant, which offers lunch and dinner, is the downscale relative of the pricier and fancier Toucan Cafe (also described in this chapter)\u2014but the food is still outstanding. The decor is simple and consists of bright paint and simple artwork. Basic meat and vegetables, cooked Southern style, are the mainstays here. There's a rotating list of daily specials, but you can count on some standard dishes as well. I recommend the vegetable plates, for which you select up to four dishes, simply because it is so hard to find restaurants that offer good selections of vegetables and cook them properly. Consider the dilled lima beans or the collards. True to its name, the restaurant offers some variant of a sweet potato dish every day\u2014baked sweet potatoes, sweet potato souffl\u00e9, mashed sweet potatoes, even sweet potato salad. If you're a fan of freshwater fish, try their fried catfish, cooked crispy (and not greasy). Beware, however, of the occasional offering of something called Wisconsin-style sweet potatoes\u2014they are proof of the fact that while you can combine sweet potatoes and cheddar cheese, you really shouldn't. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n**VIC'S ON THE RIVER, 26 E. Bay St.; (912) 721-1000; vicsontheriver.com; $$\u2013$$$.** What a refreshing place to dine on the riverfront! Vic's on the River is not typical of other Savannah restaurants that are housed in historic buildings and oftentimes dark, musty, and cramped. Because this was once the top floor of a cotton warehouse, the rooms offer a spacious and airy feel with plenty of space to dine without bumping into the table beside you. The food is as refined as the atmosphere. Appetizers include a crab cake with corn, black-eyed pea salsa, traditional remoulade, and chervil; crispy calamari with pickled peppers and a citrus chile glaze with feta cheese; and fried green tomatoes. A favorite lunchtime entree is local shrimp and smoked cheddar stone-ground grits with smoked bacon and rosemary barbeque. The dinner menu standouts include many of the same entrees only doubled in price. There are also brown sugar\u2013cured pork chops, a braised lamb shank, and a grilled rib eye for landlubbers. There's a bar within the restaurant, and the view of the Savannah River is outstanding. Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. and Fri and Sat 4 to 11 p.m. There is valet parking.\n\n## SURF 'N' TURF\n\n**BELFORD'S SAVANNAH SEAFOOD & STEAKS, 315 W. St. Julian St.; (912) 233-2626; belfordssavannah.com; $$$.** Everything on the menu at Belford's is exceptional. Testifying to this statement are entrees such as shrimp, greens, and grits; a double-cut pork chop; and the stuffed filet\u2014grilled filet mignon stuffed with shrimp and finished with b\u00e9arnaise sauce. The crab cakes are among the city's best and, in fact, a consecutive award winner among professional writers. The light and airy atmosphere promotes casual dress. At first glance, Belford's architectural strengths are a standout, with the tall, arched, unadorned windows lining the City Market and Congress Street. The restaurant is housed in a former produce warehouse once frequented by local grocers. The name is derived from the Belford's Wholesale Food Company, which was an integral part of City Market in the early 1900s, and a portrait of the Belford family is among the framed artwork decorating the eatery. Brick walls, highly polished wooden floors, captain's chairs, and tables covered with linen add to the classical feel of the place. Belford's serves lunch and dinner daily, and breakfast Mon through Sat, with brunch on Sun. Hours are 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., 7 days a week.\n\n**THE RIVERHOUSE RESTAURANT, 125 W. River St.; (912) 234-1900, (800) 317-1912; riverhouseseafood.com; $$$.** The River-house and its bakery occupy four bays of an old cotton warehouse near the west end of River Street, and the bricks and thick wooden beams of the building lend charm to the upscale but casual atmosphere. Featured dishes include the grouper Florentine, which is served atop angel-hair pasta, and Atlantic salmon crowned with whipped potatoes and baked. Among the appetizers are the seafood strudel\u2014a light pastry filled with spinach, feta, shrimp, and crabmeat\u2014and shrimp served on grits with a tasso gravy. The restaurant serves lunch and dinner, and \"dessert only\" customers are welcome anytime in the bakery. Always save room for dessert here. The restaurant's forte is its Southern pecan pie, praline cheesecake, and fudge walnut pie (with ice cream if you like). Hours are daily 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**THE SHRIMP FACTORY, 313 E. River St.; (912) 236-4229; theshrimpfactory.com; $$$.** This restaurant near the eastern end of River Street offers \"fine casual dining,\" meaning the atmosphere is relaxed but replete with special touches such as the salad being tossed tableside. The Shrimp Factory prides itself on its seafood, steaks, and chicken dishes, and as might be expected, you can find shrimp served \"in so many ways\" here\u2014fried, with crab au gratin, with deviled crab, with sausage Creole, and with scallops. Pecan pie is a specialty of the house, as is the pine bark stew, which is best described as a \"Southern bouillabaisse.\" The restaurant occupies the bottom floor of a warehouse built in the 1820s for storing cotton, rosin, and other products, and the building's heart-pine ceiling beams and rafters and brick walls give the Shrimp Factory a rustic feel. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. and Sun 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n# ENTERTAINMENT\n\nIn this chapter, we outline Savannah's major cultural organizations and venues for you, as well as how to kill a few hours in a pleasant way. We provide plenty of telephone numbers and instructions on how to tap into specific schedules. You might also want to check out our Annual Events and Festivals chapter for further suggestions for an artsy afternoon or evening. Keeping abreast of the local cultural scene is fairly easy. The _Savannah Morning News_ offers its most comprehensive arts coverage in a Sunday Accent section. The _Morning News_ 's Thursday Diversions section also contains event listings, but the coverage there tends to be more club and concert oriented.\n\nAlso, check out the Visit Savannah website (savannahvisit.com). It's an excellent resource for cross-checking event details.\n\nSavannah's bar and entertainment scene falls into three general categories: River Street, a restored area along the Savannah River that was refurbished with just this sort of thing in mind; City Market, a restored quadrant of the Historic District that's heavy on clubs and bars as well as shops; and a variety of watering holes and entertainment sites scattered along routes to the Southside.\n\nIf you don't have something very specific in mind (say, jazz or a sports bar), our advice is to follow your ear, literally. Visitors will fare better on River Street and in City Market, where there are lots of nightspots clustered together. You can follow the music you hear spilling out the doors and wander conveniently from site to site. Which brings us to the question of alcohol and the law. Savannah's folklore stresses the city's hard-drinking reputation, with tales that the town was never dry, even during Prohibition (which lingered long in Georgia, where some counties are still dry).\n\nAlso note that city ordinances prohibit open bottles or cans on the street, but (as of this writing) if you want to wander out of a River Street watering hole or a City Market club, most places are glad to provide you with a plastic or foam cup. This \"go-cup\" leniency applies only to the downtown festival district\u2014basically around River Street and City Market\u2014and your bartender can fill you in on the finer points.\n\nWe've spent a lot of space covering alcohol, but we don't mean to give you the impression that all our entertainment has to do with booze. Savannah is home to an active Alcoholics Anonymous family: If you want to catch a meeting and talk firsthand about alcohol-free nightlife in Savannah, call (912) 356-3688 for the extensive schedule.\n\n## CLASSICAL MUSIC\n\n**SAVANNAH PHILHARMONIC, 30 W. Broughton St., Ste. 205; (912) 232-6002; savannahphilharmonic.org.** The Savannah Philharmonic Orchestra is a professional group which presents a schedule of approximately eight major concerts each season (not counting chamber musical events), ranging from intense classical programs with notable visiting artists to the popular annual Holiday Pops, complete with sing-alongs. For a portion of its programs, it is joined by the Savannah Philharmonic Chorus, a community-based, auditioned group. Venues vary from the theater at the Savannah Civic Center to the Lucas Theatre to the sanctuary of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Find out the schedule online; then order tickets online or via phone at (912) 525-5050 or pick them up in person at Savannah Box Office, 215 E. Broughton St. Mon through Fri 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. or an hour prior to the performance at the venue.\n\ni Scan the local paper for listings of performances by the Savannah Arts Academy. This public high school puts on some surprisingly professional performances, often in the spring. Its Skylite Jazz Band is particularly good.\n\n## DANCING, NIGHTCLUBS & LIVE MUSIC\n\n**BERNIE'S, 115 E. River St.; (912) 236-1837; berniesriverstreet.com.** This is a longtime riverfront hangout with a pub-like atmosphere that is truly Savannah. Situated within a pre\u2013Civil War cotton warehouse, there's live music, a hefty beer selection, and easy access to the ballast stone sidewalks outside where you'll dash out to view passing ships. A full menu includes burgers, seafood, and hotdogs. Order a Bloody Mary and enjoy the astonishment when the bartender serves it to you in a mason jar with a sprig of pickled okra! Now, that's Southern! Hours are Mon through Thurs 11 a.m. to midnight, Fri to Sat 11 a.m. to 3 a.m. There's a second location on Tybee Island at 13 Tybrisa Street (912-786-5100).\n\n**CHURCHILL'S PUB & RESTAURANT, 13 W. Bay St.; (912) 232-8501; thebritishpub.com.** An after-hours kitchen fire drove this little bit of England out of its original home several years ago, but it's back in new (well, not new, but different) and expanded quarters. The massive carved mahogany bar will make you feel to the manor born! Downstairs there are pool tables and dartboards. All in all, it's a nice, friendly place to have a drink, and the management is proud to point out that it's British owned.\n\nChurchill's is also a restaurant that serves dinner, including such British fare as bangers and mash or roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. The menu also includes more conventional items such as fish dishes and sandwiches. They claim to have 20 beers on tap (we didn't count, but there's obviously no shortage). Churchill's opens daily 5 p.m. to 2 a.m.\n\n**CLUB ONE JEFFERSON, 1 Jefferson St.; (912) 232-0200; clubone-online.com.** This was Savannah's first openly gay bar that also attracted a straight clientele. This address hosts a variety of features: a stage with a drag show and other performances, a high-tech dance floor, and quieter drinking spaces. Lady Chablis, the drag queen made famous in the book _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ (and the movie, where she portrayed herself), periodically performs here. Hours Mon through Sat 5 p.m. to 3 a.m., Sun 5 p.m. to 2 a.m.\n\n**COACH'S CORNER, 3016 E. Victory Dr.; (912) 352-2933; coachs.net.** The sports bar has become an American institution, and Coach's Corner is a fine example of a place where you'll find a pleasant mix of locals, students, sports fans, and a waitstaff that's been there for years (well, most of them). Don't expect the latest in audio/video capabilities as this is a small, locally owned sports bar; however, the pluses are many. Dark and cool, there are booths lined up on both sides, several pool tables, and an outdoor seating area and stage where bands and special events are held during the year. The true flair of Coach's is that no matter what obscure sporting event you're searching the airwaves for, the staff will more than likely find it for you. The chicken fingers (and chicken finger salad) are tender and lightly breaded, but the real draw here is the wings! They are possibly Savannah's most popular. Dress is always casual. Come by the Victory Drive site\u2014it's in Thunderbolt, on the way to and from the beach\u2014during Oct of a good season for the Atlanta Braves, and you can catch a giant motorized tomahawk chopping away, backed up by an occasional live chopper. Oh, and be sure to wear your colors! Hours are 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. daily.\n\n**THE JINX, 127 W. Congress St.; (912) 2362281; thejinx912.com.** This downtown bar has a hip vibe with eclectic live music and quirky decor. Hours are Mon through Sun 4 p.m. to 3 a.m.\n\n**KEVIN BARRY'S IRISH PUB, 117 W. River St.; (912) 233-9626; kevinbarrys.com.** Savannah prides itself on its Irish heritage, not just during the elaborate St. Patrick's Day observance, but year-round. Just check out this pub. The stone-walled setting is dark and atmospheric, brightened considerably by a constantly changing program of authentic Irish performers every night (although we suggest calling ahead if this is essential to your evening; we've seen the schedule shift around a bit over the years). Count on acceptable food (including such Irish fare as potato soup and corned beef and cabbage), standard drinks, and an impressive collection of bottled and draft beers and ales. There's even a small gift shop for Irish goods. Brush up on your Irish history (and learn who the real Kevin Barry was) by reading the captions to the framed photos of figures who were either historic freedom fighters or long-dead terrorists, depending on your outlook. Hours are Mon through Fri 11 a.m. to 3 a.m., Sat 11 a.m. to 2 a.m., and Sun 12:30 p.m. to 3 a.m.\n\ni Dressed up for an evening on U River Street? You won't want to risk cobblestones in dressy shoes, so if you park above the street\u2014as you probably will have to\u2014take the municipal elevator down to the river level. It is tucked between City Hall and the Hyatt Regency Savannah Hotel.\n\n**LULU'S CHOCOLATE BAR, 42 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd; (912) 480-4564; luluschocolatebar.com.** Locals know when a sweet tooth and the need for an adult beverage collide. Desserts made daily with a full bar and martini specials are featured in a relaxed and fun setting. Hours are Sun through Thurs 2 p.m. to 1 a.m., Fri and Sat 2 p.m. to 2 a.m.\n\n**MOON RIVER BREW PUB, 21 W. Bay St.; (912) 447-0943; moonriverbrewing.** This brewpub is Savannah's only on-premises microbrewery. You can get up to nine different (varying seasonally) fresh microbrews here in imperial pints and half pints. The building is pretty cool itself. The home of the former City Hotel, this is where the first post office was also housed. The building even served as a branch of the Bank of the United States. During the War of 1812, Winfield Scott, the Marquis de Lafayette, the first three commodores of the US Navy, and naturalist John James Audubon stayed at the hotel incarnation. Outdoor seating is available. Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. and Fri and Sat until midnight.\n\n**PINKIE MASTER'S LOUNGE, 318 Drayton St.; (912) 238-0447; pinkiemasters.net.** Looking for a true dive in the city? This modest neighborhood watering hole is legendary in Savannah as a political bar. Journalists once plied local sources with alcohol here; Jimmy Carter (yes, that Jimmy Carter) once gave a speech standing on the bar. What you'll find today is a small bar where regulars talk back to the television set. There's an eclectic jukebox, darts, and a few game machines, along with the beer and the booze. Check out the atmosphere: Christmas decorations that never come down, a stuffed crow (at least we hope it's stuffed\u2014maybe it's just dead), a rogue's gallery of politicians' photos, and a soft-focus nude painting about which any of the regulars is willing to tell you lies. Drinks are cheap, the air is thick, and there's a sign above the bar that reads \"TIPPING IS NOT A CITY IN CHINA.\" There's a lot to be said for a place that refuses to gloss up for tourists. Hours are Mon through Sat 4 p.m. to 3 a.m.\n\n**SAVANNAH SMILES, 314 Williamson St.; (912) 527-6453.** Savannah Smiles brings something different to the Savannah night scene. It features \"Rock 'n' Roll dueling pianos\" in an audience participation format that is a mix of rock 'n' roll standards and light comedy (with food and drink in addition, of course). The show starts at 9 p.m., and the bar opens around 7 p.m. for ages 21 and up. Okay, so it's a bit hokey, but you're on vacation and you're never going to see these people again anyway, so have fun. If you don't leave here without singing along to at least one song, then you need to take a happy pill. This is a place that will make you smile, even if you're down. Hours are Wed through Sat 7 p.m. to 3 a.m.\n\ni A walk on the beach can be a romantic conclusion to an evening out. Stroll out onto the Tybee Pier and Pavilion, lean against the rail, and watch the moon rise out of the Atlantic Ocean.\n\n**WET WILLIES, 101 E. River St.; (912) 233-5650.** This high-volume River Street bar caters to the younger sector. The drinks are frozen concoctions with names like the infamous spring break potion, Sex on the Beach. Beware! Grain alcohol gives a single drink here the punch of at least two conventional alcoholic beverages. There's a light food menu, a small dance floor, and lots of loud recorded music. During the summer, students pour out onto the street in front of Wet Willies. It's definitely the \"in\" place, according to those patrons. A second location, complete with outdoor seating, can be found in City Market, 20 Jefferson St. (912-235-5651). Hours are the same at both locations: Mon through Thurs 11 a.m. to 1 a.m., Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 2 a.m., Sun 12:30 p.m. to 1 a.m.\n\n## FILM\n\nGeorgia is in the midst of a boom in film and television production, and Savannah gets its fair share. The city has hosted at least 45 films since 1975, not counting some of the smaller projects. The entertainment industry has brought an array of performers ranging from Miley Cyrus ( _The Last Song_ ) to Robert Redford (producer of _The Conspirator_ ) to town in recent years, not to mention Spongebob Squarepants.\n\nSome of the earlier productions have been among the most critically acclaimed movies of their day and have starred the biggest names in the industry. Some have launched catchphrases into the lexicon of popular culture (\"Life is like a box of chocolates . . .\"). Examples of outstanding ones are _Glory_ , the historically based account of African-American soldiers in the Civil War that won three Oscars; _Forrest Gump_ , which claimed six Oscars and solidified Tom Hanks superstar status; and _Roots_ (filmed here in part), which became the standard against which all mini-series are measured. Going back to 1962, when location shoots were rarer, the original _Cape Fear_ was partially filmed here. City Hall and the downtown business district and Isle of Hope were on display. The original movie, since remade, featured Robert Mitchum at his creepiest.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nSavannah Filmography: 1975\u20132015\n\nNote that accompanying dates are filming dates, not necessarily release dates.\n\n2015: _Magic Mike XXL; The Spongebob Movie: Sponge Out of Water_\n\n2013: _CBGB_\n\n2012: _Savannah, A River Story_\n\n2010: _The Last Song_\n\n2009: _The Conspirator_\n\n2000: _The Gift_\n\n1999: _The Legend of Bagger Vance_\n\n1998: _Forces of Nature; The General's Daughter_\n\n1997: _The Gingerbread Man; Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil; Claudine's Return_\n\n1996: _Wild America_\n\n1995: _Something to Talk About_\n\n1994: _Now and Then_\n\n1993: _Forrest Gump; Camilla_\n\n1990: _Goldenboy; Love Crimes_\n\n1989: _The Rose and the Jackal; Flight of the Intruder; Glory_\n\n1988: _The Return of Swamp Thing; The Judas Project_\n\n1987: _My Father, My Son; 1969; War Stories_\n\n1986: _Pals_\n\n1983: _Solomon Northup's Odyssey_\n\n1981: _All My Children; Tales of Ordinary Madness_\n\n1980: _The Slayer; White Death; Scared to Death; When the Circus Came to Town; Fear; East of Eden; Mother Seton_\n\n1979: _Gold Bug; The Ordeal of Dr. Mudd; Orphan Train; Hopscotch; Carny_\n\n1978: _The Double McGuffin_\n\n1977: _The Lincoln Conspiracy_\n\n1976: _Roots_\n\n1975: _Gator_\n\nSavannah is well supplied with multiplexes for conventional movies, but if you want to see something really different, you have to have some detective skills (by which we mean web access and a little luck as far as scheduling). Alternative and revivals show up periodically. The Psychotronic Film Society of Savannah periodically screens nonmainstream fare at the Sentient Bean. The Lucas Theatre, now predominantly a live performance venue, brings some oldies back from time to time. Thursday's morning paper includes an entertainment section which will tell you if there are any offbeat film offerings.\n\n## PERFORMANCE VENUES\n\n**LUCAS THEATRE FOR THE ARTS, 32 Abercorn St.; (912) 525-5040; lucastheatre.com.** The restoration of the Lucas Theatre for the Arts seemed to take forever, but it has been well worth the wait. The theater was built in 1921 and rode the popularity of the silver screen for decades. Alas, it fell into disrepair as the 1970s came on, and after some ill-fated attempts to keep it running (such as a short stint as a dinner theater and a period when the lobby was a restaurant), the magnificent building went into mothballs.\n\nPark Smart\n\nThe Civic Center consumes an entire block between Oglethorpe and Liberty Streets, with entrances on Montgomery Street and facing the parking lot. A word of warning about parking is in order: Popular events at the Civic Center put parking at a premium. A city-operated multilevel parking garage opened in 2005 across from the Civic Center, and it is open at night when there are performances. Because it is easier to get out of a street-side parking space, many patrons prefer to park along the surrounding streets. You don't have to feed the meters at night, but be sure not to block the crosswalks leading to the squares or make up any imaginative parking spaces\u2014lots of parking tickets get handed out on the evenings of big performances. Also, avoid the temptation to whip into the vacant parking lots of obviously closed businesses: Many businesses choose to defend those spaces at night and will have after-hours parkers towed.\n\nBut the Italian Renaissance\u2013style building with its ornate interior was just too fantastic to let go, and a lengthy fund-raising campaign was started to get this grande dame back on her feet. Look for the 40-foot-wide ceiling dome, lots of gold leaf, and\u2014a welcome sight to Savannahian eyes\u2014the bars upstairs and down. It took 13 years to pull it off, but the end result is beautiful. The marquee, with its chasing lights, adds an exciting touch to Savannah's nightlife, and the theater has helped spur redevelopment of nearby buildings.\n\nThe Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) runs the theater, and while the college does use the facility for some activities, it remains open to the public for events. This venue serves as a major host for the Savannah Film Festival and the Savannah Music Festival, and it is also the site for events sponsored by the Savannah Film Society and the Savannah Concert Association, along with privately promoted touring productions and events brought in by SCAD but open to the general public.\n\n**SAVANNAH CIVIC CENTER, Montgomery and Liberty Streets; 301 W. Oglethorpe Ave.; (912) 651-6556; savannahciviccenter.com.** The Savannah Civic Center has two main components, plus various meeting rooms and a ballroom. The arena, named for the late Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., can seat up to 9,000, depending on the event configuration. The theater, which seats about 2,500, is named in honor of Johnny Mercer, the famed Savannah-born lyricist (\"Moon River,\" etc.). By and large, the more formal events, such as dramatic presentations or one-person shows, play in the theater, with the arena going for large-scale, pack-'em-in audiences for such events as rock or country music concerts, wrestling matches, and monster truck shows. But that isn't a hard-and-fast rule: To keep up with what might be available during your visit, check the website or simply check the large billboard on the Liberty Street side of the building. The number listed here is for the box office, and tickets generally are on sale well in advance of performances.\n\n**SAVANNAH COLLEGE OF ART AND DESIGN, various addresses; scad.edu.** You may wonder what an art college is doing under the \"Venues\" heading. Actually, SCAD (as it is referred to locally) is a major player in the local arts and culture scene, not just for its own students, but for the general public. Two of the newest (including the most attractive and unique) theater entries are from SCAD. Trustees Theater, 206 E. Broughton St. (912-239-1447), is a circa-1946 movie theater that has been refurbished and reopened as a 1,100-seat performance venue capable of handling both stage productions and movie screenings. Its basic purpose is to house performances and classes for SCAD's performing arts majors, but it also offers performances to the public. Performers have included Tony Bennett, the Neville Brothers, and India.Arie. This is also a home venue of SCAD's annual film festival. The Lucas Theatre for the Arts, discussed elsewhere, is managed by SCAD.\n\n## SPECTATOR SPORTS\n\nAuto Racing\n\n**OGLETHORPE SPEEDWAY PARK, Jesup Road off US 80; (912) 964-8200; ospracing.net.** This speedway gives the green flag to stock car drivers competing in the NASCAR Weekly Racing Series every Fri night Mar through Sept. Special racing events are held Sat nights throughout the year.\n\nYou'll see more than 115 entries competing each week on the half-mile dirt track in Weekly Series ministock, street stock, pure stock, 440, and late-model division events. The speedway also hosts other motor sports events, concerts, and festivals on weekends throughout the year.\n\nOglethorpe Speedway is in West Chatham County. There's a park for recreational vehicles and primitive camping. The gates open at 5 p.m., and racing starts at 8 p.m.\n\nBaseball\n\n**SAVANNAH SAND GNATS, Grayson Stadium, 1401 E. Victory Dr.; (912) 351-9150; sandgnats.com.** The city's Class A minor-league baseball team, an affiliate of the New York Mets, plays 70 regular season games at Grayson, where the brick grandstand was built in 1941. At the eastern end of Daffin Park, the stadium stands amid tall pines and oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and it's a great place to sit back, relax, and enjoy the national pastime while sipping a cold beer and devouring some peanuts\u2014the boiled variety being the most popular in this part of the world.\n\nDespite its long history in Savannah, the future of professional minor-league baseball here is in limbo as of this writing. The team owners have threatened to leave if a modern stadium is not built for them\u2014and that's a disputed call in a town with a track record of preserving and using the old. Will a new stadium be built? Will the current team leave and Savannah recruit another team for Grayson Stadium? The answers won't be clear until after 2015.\n\n## THEATER\n\nYou have to be pretty agile to keep up with drama groups in Savannah. They come and go, and always appear to be operating on a shoestring. The amazing thing, though, is not their occasionally temporary nature\u2014it's their resiliency. One particular group may wither away, but there's always another in the wings. Right now, we know of three independent groups, not to mention the productions put on by the city of Savannah's Leisure Services. Several churches maintain highly successful theater programs featuring secular works such as Gilbert and Sullivan offerings, and there are also collegiate theatrical groups. Armstrong State University's Masquers produce reliably entertaining work. Check the event pages of the newspapers cited earlier for schedules and further information.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nShoeless Joe Gets His Due in Savannah\n\nSavannah did in 2003 what baseball has refused to do for decades\u2014admit Shoeless Joe Jackson into a Hall of Fame.\n\nJackson, an all-time great outfielder who was banished from baseball following a gambling scandal involving the 1919 World Series, has been excluded from baseball's Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, much to the dismay of fans who have sought his induction. His supporters point out that Jackson was never found guilty of charges of throwing the series.\n\nBut Shoeless Joe\u2014a featured character in the films _Field of Dreams_ and _Eight Men Out_ \u2014has found a place of honor in the Greater Savannah Athletic Hall of Fame (GSAHF). Although not prominently displayed, his plaque and likeness adorn a wall on the second floor of the Savannah Civic Center (301 W. Oglethorpe Ave.; 912-651-6556; savannahciviccenter. com), along with other members of the Hall's Class of 2003.\n\n\"There is only one athlete in any sport that interest is still being shown 80 years after he finished playing,\" states the inscription on his plaque. Also noted is that \"his ties to Savannah began when he was sent here in 1909. . . . He loved Savannah and made it his home for years during and after his playing days.\"\n\nJackson, a native of South Carolina who died in 1951 at the age of 62, \"owned and operated two businesses in downtown,\" his tribute states.\n\nShoeless Joe is among more than 200 athletes, coaches, mentors, administrators, executives, sportswriters, and organizations who have been inducted into the GSAHF since its founding by a group of 16 sports-minded residents in 1965.\n\nThe athletes participated in a wide array of sports\u2014baseball, football, basketball, track, golf, swimming, diving, softball, automobile racing, weightlifting, and even lacrosse, kayaking, and racquetball. Those inducted range from media mogul Ted Turner, famed as a yachtsman and as the owner of professional sports teams, to a quintet of the University of Georgia's bulldog mascots\u2014UGA I, UGA II, UGA III, UGA IV, and UGA VII.\n\nYou can find out more about Savannah's sports history and the folks who have contributed to it the most by visiting the GSAHF, which is free and open to the public during Civic Center operating hours.\n\n**ASBURY MEMORIAL UNITED METHODIST CHURCH, 1008 E. Henry St.; (912) 233-4351.** This venerable church was dying out as its congregation aged and the neighborhood changed, but it got a shot in the arm when a performance-minded pastor and the congregation opened their arms to the arts community. The church social hall serves as a performance arena. Don't mistake these productions for Sunday-school projects. They're at least on a par with the other local offerings (actually, all the local theater efforts involve different arrangements of essentially the same theater performers). Although the offerings often have a religious theme ( _Godspell_ and _Jesus Christ Superstar_ ), this group has also tackled Gilbert and Sullivan and _The Fantastiks_. Ticket prices vary, usually around $15. Other local churches occasionally dip into secular drama, mainly to keep their youth groups involved, but this one definitely strives for and achieves a higher level.\n\n**THE MUSE, 703 Louisville Rd.; (912) 713-1137; musesavannah.org.** Think of this repurposed warehouse space as a creative co-op that provides performance venues for visual, theater, cinema, music, dance, and poetry performances.\n\n**THE PUPPET PEOPLE, 3119 Furber Ave.; (912) 355-3366; puppetpeople.com.** Puppets can be children's toys, but puppets can also be theater for grownups. Angela Beasley's Puppet People play to audiences of all ages. These are life-size creations that sing, dance, and vamp at everything from children's birthday parties to corporate bashes and retail openings. Beasley's been at it for 30 years, and her repertoire includes the characters around the Forsyth Park fountain, some very original Three Little Pigs, fish galore, and a Willie Nelson look-alike. These elaborate productions have been covered in the pages of _Southern Living_ magazine and on cable network programming. The troupe does not perform on a regular schedule, but it is often featured at public events and festivals.\n\n**SAVANNAH CHILDREN'S THEATRE, 2160 E. Victory Dr.; (912) 238-9015; savannahchildrenstheatre.org.** This is a thriving theater with two stages. Some performances at the Savannah Children's Theatre feature only children; others have adults in some roles. Some performances are culminating events in the classes the theater teaches; roles in others are open to aspiring young actors, child and adult, free of charge. The constant is the desire to expose children to the joys of live theater, whether onstage, backstage, or in the audience. It is housed in space carved out of a long-vacant department store in a small strip mall. Past productions have included _Beauty and the Beast, Seussical: The Musical_ , and _Tarzan the Musical_. Actually, the list of past and planned performances is long: The theater is in almost constant production mode, and plays follow on one another's heels. Ticket prices vary, and they're $10 at the moment. You can buy them at the door, but it might be just your luck that's when the young star's entire extended family attends and the theater only seats about 150. You can also buy online. Limited concessions are available at most performances.\n\n**SAVANNAH COMMUNITY THEATRE, (912) 247-4644; savannahcommunitytheatre.com.** Community theater standards and murder mysteries are among the staples of this community troupe. They perform in various venues.\n\n**SAVANNAH STAGE COMPANY, 36 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. (third floor of Ampersand restaurant); (912) 341-6496; savannahsstagecompany.com.** This is the latest entry in Savannah's ever-fluid theater scene. Located atop a trendy restaurant, look here for edgier theater fare. The first performance of 2015 was John Hardy's _Poe_. Buy tickets online.\n\n**SAVANNAH THEATRE, 220 Bull St.; (912) 7764; savannahtheatre.com.** This professional troupe came to town in 2002, with a show titled _Lost in the '50s_ , originally developed in Branson, Missouri. Since then, the bill has changed periodically, but stayed within the same framework. The group puts on an oldies-based review, changing the name and some of the program each year or so. In late November and until Christmas, it presents a holiday-themed musical. Then, it goes dark for a break of a couple of weeks and reopens with a new show. The Savannah Theatre is billed as the country's oldest live-performance theater (stretching it a bit, since the only remnant of the original building would be its foundation, with the rest destroyed by fire long ago). Tickets are $35 for adults, $17 for ages 12 to 17, and $10 for ages 5 to 11, with younger children free. You can purchase a season's pass for $50. Major credit cards are accepted, and tickets may be purchased at the number above. Performances are at 8 p.m. Wed through Sat and matinees are at 3 p.m. Sat and Sun.\n\n# SHOPPING\n\nIf shopping is part of your vacation behavior, Savannah is your kind of vacation destination. Included in this chapter are the high points of lots of different kinds of shopping. Chain stores are largely excluded\u2014you will know what to expect from those. Nor does this chapter claim to be complete: Savannah has way more stores than this. The purpose here is to get you started and whet your appetite for what this international port city's merchants have in store for you.\n\n## SHOPPING DISTRICTS\n\nBefore launching into our own category-by-category rundown of stores, here's a quick review of the major shopping locations with a few pointers along the way.\n\nRiver Street\n\nRiver Street is literally along the Savannah River. It is reached by street ramps that lead down from the bluff-level Bay Street. In between these two levels is Factors' Walk. River Street is a major part of Savannah's tourist scene, and you'll find it is a prominent player for restaurants, nightlife, and annual events. But don't forget shopping! This restored waterfront strip features a steady progression of shops all along its length, beginning at the west end across from a small out-of-commission power plant (whose smokestacks make handy landmarks) and extending eastward many blocks until you reach the Waving Girl statue that is a local riverfront landmark. Factors' Walk, which parallels River Street halfway up the bluff, also features shops, although more widely scattered.\n\nParking is scarce. There are a few small private lots, where you pay as you enter. There's limited street-side parking on the various roads leading to River Street. Lots of motorists park illegally along River Street itself, but it's a bad idea\u2014the city has cracked down on the long-winked-at practice.\n\nOpt to park in the parking garages that are within walking distance of Bay Street and City Market. The city of Savannah operates five parking garages. A favorite is the new Whitaker Street Garage across the street from the Hyatt Regency Savannah. This underground garage was built in 2008 on Whitaker Street between Bay and Bryant Streets. The garage has four levels underground and space for 1,065 vehicles. In my experience, it's never been filled. The daily rate is $2 per hour and well worth it for a clean and shady place to start the day. If you're heading down to River Street, cross Bay Street (at the light at Whitaker and Bay) and trot over to the Visitors' Elevator that runs alongside the Hyatt. Once you ride down to street level and leave the elevator, you'll find yourself dropped off on the tricky ballast stones of River Street. Wear appropriate footwear and opt for the elevator on your way back up. The stairs in each block are steep and irregular, and once you get to the rocks, you'll find them as hard to walk on as they are to drive over. The going is much smoother once you get to the River Street level where there are pedestrian-friendly sidewalks. There are public restrooms to your left as you reach River Street.\n\nDon't expect much in the way of bargains on River Street but do expect some really cool shops. There are a variety of stores here to keep you busy for several hours. From tropical clothing to candy, charming eateries, and lots of merchants selling Savannah-themed memorabilia, you'll find it all.\n\nCity Market\n\nThis restored area in the commercial section of the Historic District runs from Barnard Street to Montgomery Street, north of Broughton Street. The complex is made up of nightclubs, restaurants, art galleries, and shops. The stores here tend to be more thematic\u2014cat-motif merchandise, New Age, outdoor furniture and gifts, and so on\u2014than their cousins a few blocks away on River Street.\n\nBroughton Street Area & Historic District\n\nBroughton Street was where Savannah shopped before malls seized control of the retail world. It suffered the same fate as Main Streets all across America but has begun a comeback as a home to restaurants, college activities, and trendy shopping, including a slew of antiques dealers. In fact, some of the very best recreational shopping in the city can be done on Broughton Street. New upscale offerings stand side by side with the small low-end shops that kept the street going in its hard-luck days, things like wig shops and cut-price clothing shops. You'll also find two of Savannah's retail grandes dames still in place. When other stores abandoned the main drag for suburban malls, **Globe Shoe Company** (17 E. Broughton St.) and **Levy Jewelers** (2 E. Broughton St.) dug in. These stores are where Old Savannah bought her shoes for debutante parties and her bridal silver, and while both stores now have other locations as well, they never closed their doors on Broughton.\n\nYou'll find plenty of intriguing stores scattered throughout the Historic District. One quaint congregation of interesting shops is at the intersection of Bull and Liberty Streets near the Hilton Savannah DeSoto Hotel. The intersection of Jones and Whitaker Streets forms the nucleus for another appealing set that mostly specializes in arts and home decor. They call themselves, collectively, the Downtown Design District and capitalize on their proximity to both Mrs. Wilkes' eatery (see our Restaurants chapter) and Monterey Square. You'll also find individual shops, especially antiques shops, sprinkled throughout downtown.\n\nLooking back over all these areas, let's put it in perspective: River Street is strong in local color and has lots of shops together, where you can walk out one door and into the next. There's a variety of merchandise aimed at all age levels, and the compact location makes it easy to keep groups\u2014be they children or merely hard-to-herd adults\u2014together. Broughton Street's offerings aren't as likely to appeal much to children and are more widely spaced, but the merchandise is actually several cuts better, and oddly enough, the prices are more reasonable. City Market falls between these two descriptions, but it's heavy on the souvenir shops, and you can stop by the other Historic District shops as you make your way around the city on tours, and so on.\n\nGreater Savannah\n\nAnything south of, say, DeRenne Avenue is dubbed the Southside by Savannahians. This is where you'll find the strip malls, discount houses, shopping centers, megastores, etc. **The Savannah Festival Factory Outlet Center** (11 Gateway Blvd.; 912-925-3089; savannahfestival.com), a typical example of this new kind of strip mall, is at the far southern edge of the city, where Abercorn is better known as SR 204 and passes under I-95. This outlet center includes a Springmaid/Wamsutta factory store, Bugle Boy, and Bass Shoes, among many others.\n\nEast and west of Savannah, you'll find mainly grocery stores and other retail outlets in support of the suburban residential development there, with a few interesting shops thrown in and a large spate of beach-oriented shops at the end of the road on Tybee Island.\n\nIn West Chatham's Pooler, you will find Tanger Outlet Savannah. Set to open in 2015, stores include Michael Kors, Coach, J. Crew, the Nike Factory Store, and similar stores\u201485 in all. Pooler is also home to the recent development of just about every big-box store you can name.\n\n## MALLS & SHOPPING CENTERS\n\nSavannah has two malls, both south of downtown in a heavily trafficked (by Savannah standards) area of suburban and chain-store development. There are various ways to get to them, but the most direct route from downtown and the one hardest to get lost on is straight out Abercorn Street from town. About 6 miles from the Historic District, you'll spot Oglethorpe Mall on your left (you really can't miss it). Another couple of miles south, and you'll spot Savannah Mall on the right.\n\nAs for that ubiquitous American retail staple, the strip shopping center, Savannah has its share scattered mainly in the South-side/Midtown area. Because you know what to expect in most of these\u2014a grocery store, major discount retailer, chain or local drugstore, etc.\u2014we have left most of them out as a rule. However, there are a few exceptions, with interesting stores or interesting stories, which we have included here.\n\n**ABERCORN COMMONS,** 8108 Abercorn Extension; abercorncommons.com. At first glance, this V-shaped strip shopping center won't strike you as anything special. It looks new and houses several nationally known names like Michaels, Home Goods, Books-a-Million, and Panera Bread. What makes it interesting isn't immediately apparent: This is Savannah's first LEED-certified (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) retail development.\n\nDevelopers took an aging and down-at-the-heels shopping center that wasn't living up to the potential of its location and, instead of just bulldozing it, tackled it as a \"green\" project. Demolition was held to a minimum, and conscious efforts were made to recycle or repurpose debris to keep it out of landfills. New buildings were designed to be energy efficient, pavement was made permeable, and xeriscaping, or the use of landscaping plants that can survive in the climate without artificial irrigation, was called into play. The stores that are moving into this work-still-in-progress include a mix of local and national names. But really, when was the last time you went to a shopping center where the parking lot design was actually interesting and significant?\n\n**ABERCORN WALK,** Abercorn Street and Janet Drive. This narrow, deep strip shopping center is on Abercorn, just slightly south of the major intersection of Abercorn and DeRenne, which marks the southward sprawl of retail in Savannah. The stores here are going to sound familiar to veteran shoppers: the Fresh Market, Ann Taylor LOFT, Chico's, Jos. A. Bank, and Talbots. The significance is the upscale nature of the collected stores. It also rates mention because the Fresh Market is Savannah's first specialty grocery store (unless you count downtown's organic food shop, the venerable Brighter Day).\n\n**HABERSHAM SHOPPING CENTER,** Habersham Street at 60th to 63rd Streets. This small strip shopping center runs along both sides of Habersham Street, from just after its intersection with 60th Street to 63rd Street. It appears modest at first glance\u2014a small grocery store, a pharmacy, a dry cleaner, and other businesses clearly set up to serve the surrounding established neighborhoods\u2014but look closer and you'll find some interesting specialty shops. They include Punch and Judy, a children's store; TailsSpin, an upscale pet supply store; and a candy store. It includes several appealing restaurants, with cuisine from Japanese to Italian.\n\n**OGLETHORPE MALL,** 804 Abercorn St.; (912) 354-7038; oglethorpemall.com. Oglethorpe Mall is the city's original mall, and this one is thriving, with Sears, JCPenney, Belk, and Macy's as its anchors. There are more than specialty stores here, mostly on a single story, although some of the anchors have a second level. There's ample parking, but the multilevel parking deck comes in handy around the holidays and when it rains. You'll find a predictable array of stores inside (Gap, Victoria's Secret, etc.), along with a few restaurants and a food court. Barnes & Noble and its daily 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. hours\u2014complete with coffee shop\u2014have made this an unlikely but popular late-night adult hangout. On weekends, kids age 16 and under must be escorted by an adult, and yes, IDs are checked.\n\n**SAVANNAH MALL,** 14045 Abercorn St.; (912) 927-7467; savannahmall.com. Savannah still calls Savannah Mall, which opened in 1990, \"the new mall,\" although by most cities' standards it isn't new anymore. Bass Pro Shop, Dillard's, and Target are the anchors. Our count shows that Savannah Mall's specialty stores include Bath & Body Works, Victoria's Secret, Foot Locker, and Kay Jewelers, among others. Behind the mall are neighboring rival multiplexes totaling more than 20 movie screens, so the mall is a convenient place to kill some time while waiting for Hollywood's latest.\n\n**VICTORY STATION SAVANNAH,** 1815 E. Victory Dr.; sjcollinsent.com. This is one of Savannah's newest shopping areas. Whole Foods anchors the development, where the Truman Parkway crosses Victory Drive. Stores and eateries include PetSmart, Chipotle, Zoe's Kitchen, Bruster's Ice Cream, and various other stores\n\n## SHOPPING SAVANNAH BY CATEGORY\n\nNow that we've roughly covered the general shopping areas, let's get more specific. We've divided our featured stores into categories. Join us on a quick shopping trip.\n\nAntiques\n\nIn this section, we cover a sampling of both high-end and low-end antiques dealers. Serious collectors with serious budgets should seek out the upscale places; collectors and browsers will have better luck in the more mainstream, less expensive stores.\n\n**THE ATTIC,** 224 W. Bay St.; (912) 236-4879. Looking for antique fishing lures? Good examples can fetch $65 and up, and you'll find them among some of the other sports antiques here, along with fencing masks and old skis. It's an eclectic stock of mainly American antiques and collectibles\u2014furniture, jewelry, glassware. It's not what you would call high-end, but it's fun. The location itself is of interest to fans of _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ , since it was the site of the financially ill-fated Emma's, a piano bar featured in that bestseller. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\n**COBB'S GALLERIES INC.,** 122 E. 37th St.; (912) 234-1582. This popular antiques shop keeps outgrowing its quarters. It is now housed in a Victorian mansion at the corner of 37th and Abercorn Streets, the allegedly haunted Krouskoff House. That's appropriate, because owner Al Cobb wrote a book, _Danny's Bed_ , about a haunted bed that wreaked havoc in his household; you can buy a copy in the shop. Most of the stock is more conventional: an extensive collection of art pottery, about a thousand cookbooks, sports memorabilia, collectible liquor decanters, what have you. What's surprising about this shop is the sheer volume. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.\n\n**HABERSHAM ANTIQUES & COLLECTIBLES MARKET,** 2502 Habersham St.; (912) 238-5908. What was once a Savannah grocery store now holds a collection of some 70 antiques dealers who fill their booth space where Savannah's Ardsley Park matrons once bought canned goods and prime cuts of meat. The expansive building now holds old books, glassware, some antiques, and even vintage clothing. It's a great place to spend a rainy afternoon. Once a year, the enterprise expands, spreading to the neighboring parking lot with a spring festival that brings other vendors in booths. Hours are weekdays 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. and Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\n**LEE SMITH ANTIQUES AND DESIGN,** 916 E. 72nd St.; (912) 352-4151; leesmithantiques.com. Lee Smith opened his 20-year-old warehouse and collection to the public, and if you're shopping or just browsing, it's worth a stop to view the English and continental pieces from the 18th and 19th centuries and fine art, porcelain, rugs, high-quality reproductions, and custom, made-to-order pieces he has amassed. The 4,500-square-foot warehouse is in Midtown. Hours are Mon through Fri 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.\n\n**SAVANNAH GALLERIES,** 30 E. Bryan St.; (912) 232-1234; savannahgalleries.com. Native Savannahians own this gallery\u2014in operation since the 1960s\u2014where you'll discover more than 10,000 square feet of high-end antique English, French, and American furniture, silver, porcelain, and oriental rugs. Pieces range from elegant marquetry to rustic painted pine accents. The staff is friendly and will assist you in finding and building antique collections. They'll also clean, repair, and appraise your antique and modern oriental rugs. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.\n\n**37TH ABERCORN AND DESIGN,** 201 E. 37th St.; (912) 233-0064; 37aad.com. This rambling yellow Victorian home houses collections from more than 50 dealers. Look for French country furniture, statuary, oil paintings, crystal, jewelry, and so on. This is a good browsing location with a wide price range\u2014stuff for the serious collector and less-pricey offerings as well. Lately, this veteran store has taken on a more design-oriented feel. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. and Sun 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.\n\nArt Galleries\n\nSavannah has a large stock of art galleries. First listed are those with collegiate connections. Those will be followed by a few others of note. This is only a very small sample to get you started. The Sunday arts section of the _Savannah Morning News_ usually offers a current listing of shows. And you'll stumble on others by accident: Lately half the coffee shops and little restaurants in town have turned their walls into impromptu galleries. For examples of this trend, check out Soho South and the Gallery Espresso on Bull Street at Chippewa Square.\n\n**SAVANNAH COLLEGE OF ART AND DESIGN,** 345 Bull St.; (912) 525-5527; scad.edu. This growing art college's campus is scattered throughout Savannah's Historic and Victorian Districts. Among its holdings are multiple on-campus galleries featuring rotating displays in a variety of media. Some feature the work of students, both graduate and undergraduate, or the college's faculty. Frequently, however, these galleries host works by internationally known artists such as Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, and Dale Chihuly.\n\nThe flagship galleries, most likely to feature professional work, are shopSCAD and the Red Gallery. These exhibits are free and open to the public. Times vary, particularly in keeping with the academic year, so call one of the listed numbers for hours and information on what is currently on exhibit. Also, check out the media outlets discussed earlier in this chapter for exhibit details. Following is a rundown of SCAD's galleries. Consider this list fluid. As the college grows, the roles of its various galleries are subject to change\u2014not to mention that it keeps acquiring new real estate.\n\ni Looking for one of the Savannah College of Art and Design's galleries? Locals, for the most part, try to be helpful when visitors ask for directions on the street, but most of us simply don't know the names SCAD gives its buildings. We don't call it Poetter Hall, it's the old Armory to us; the Jen Library is known to old locals as the old Levy Department Store and to younger locals as the Maas Brothers Department Store; Habersham Hall is the old jail. Take the online SCAD tour at scad. edu to learn more.\n\n**SHOPSCAD,** 340 Bull St.; (912) 525-5180. This gallery, housed in an old armory building in the center of the Historic District was among the first of the college's now-significant real-estate holdings. This gallery concentrates on visiting national and international exhibits and is among the easiest of the SCAD galleries for a visitor to find. If you are only doing one SCAD gallery, and the details on current exhibits don't give you a reason to pick one over another, visit this one. A look at the Rococo building is worth the trip by itself.\n\n**GUTSTEIN GALLERY,** 201 E. Broughton St.; (912) 525-4743. This retail gallery, inside SCAD's library, features a variety of artists including SCAD alumni.\n\n**PINNACLE GALLERY,** 320 E. Liberty St.; (912) 525-4950. This beautiful gallery space is used primarily for exhibits.\n\n**ORLEANS HALL GALLERY,** 201 Barnard St.; (912) 525-5063. You'll find student work for sale at this gallery, which doubles as a reception facility.\n\nOther SCAD exhibit galleries include:\n\n**ALEXANDER HALL GALLERY,** 668 Indian St.\n\n**HAMILTON HALL GALLERY,** 522 Indian St.\n\n**LA GALERIE BLEUE,** 3515 Montgomery St.\n\n**MAY POETTER GALLERY,** 342 Bull St.\n\n**PEI LING CHAN GALLERY AND GARDEN,** 322-324 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.\n\n**A. T. HUN,** 302 W. St. Julian St. (City Market); (912) 233-2060; athun.com. A staple of the City Market, this independent gallery is home to more than 25 artists in an electric, colorful, laid-back array. It's all contemporary, and the collection includes many larger pieces. The nudes that sparked the birth of the gallery aren't shocking, just a good reflection of how conservative Savannah can be. Potters, jewelers, and photographers are represented as well, and there is an affiliation with an English gallery so there is a regular exchange of international work. Don't look here for soft watercolors or memento landscapes of Savannah. It's young, funky, and even sells T-shirts sporting a Latin phrase that translates (roughly) as \"We don't do snobby.\" Don't be misled, however; there's good stuff here. Hours Mon through Wed 10 a.m. to 9 p.m., Thurs through Sun 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**GALLERY 209,** 209 E. River St.; (912) 236-4583; gallery209savannah.com. This River Street gallery is the place to start your search for local artwork. Stuff here varies in quality, from some wannabe artists to the real thing. We especially like the enamel jewelry, such as a jewel-tone seahorse. In addition to paintings that run the gamut from very good to not very, you'll find fiber art and interesting and affordable ceramics. This stuff will appeal more to consumers than art museums, but what's wrong with that? Hours are 10:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. daily.\n\nBookstores\n\n**THE BOOK LADY,** 6 E. Liberty St.; (912) 233-.3628; thebookladybookstore.com. Used and rare books are what you will find at the Book Lady, a quaint bookstore ideal for browsing. Besides art, architecture, religion, fiction, and the usual fare, you will also find sections called Pretty Books and Nice Old Books among the lot. The shop also carries new books and hosts author events. They stock several local titles on Savannah and the area. For that hard-to-find book, the store offers a search service. Free wireless access can be found in the cafe. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.\n\n**E. SHAVER BOOKSELLER,** 326 Bull St.; (912) 234-7257. Book lovers will delight in this independent bookstore, which occupies the ground floor of a Historic District home. The shop has become a fixture for both downtown residents and tourists. An impressive array of hardcover and paperback books is available, and the knowledgeable staff offers solid advice. Local titles are well represented, and a whole room is devoted to children's books. Limited gift offerings include museum-style note cards, tote bags, and appointment calendars. This is what bookstores were before there were megachains. Hours are Mon through Sat 9:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.\n\n**EX LIBRIS,** 228 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 525-5770; exlibrisbkstr.com. Ex Libris is first of all a beautiful place to shop! Part of it is a coffeehouse, another part is a book and gift shop, owned and operated by the SCAD. The shop is on the western edge of the Historic District and may be a little out of your way, but it's worth the trip. After browsing through art books, posters, framed art, and many other eclectic and fun items you most likely won't find anywhere else in Savannah, you can sit and relax on the gigantic leather sofa and simply enjoy the beautifully restored building. A magnificent stairway takes up the center of the building and is the focal point of the room, along with \"pillars\" made out of hundreds of old books gracefully (and carefully) stacked. The store is especially beautiful during the Christmas season, when the college opens its holiday shop and offers decorations and other festive items. Hours are Mon through Thurs 7:30 a.m. to 8 p.m., Fri 7:30 a.m. to 6 p.m., Sat and Sun 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.\n\nCandy\n\nWhen we travel and need a gift for a hostess, or even a quick sugary snack, we often opt for pralines. No one can claim these superrich candies (made of sugar, butter, cream, and pecans) are good for you, but given the prices, your purse will probably stop you before you do yourself too much harm. You can find them made and sold in two shops on River Street. Although the shops would scream to hear it, we can't taste any difference. Pralines are available at shops in Savannah's malls, but the ones on River Street taste better.\n\ni Shopping for Georgia lottery tickets? Your best bets are small convenience stores and gas stations. Most lottery vendors have prominently displayed signs. Time your lottery shopping spree so that you avoid 6 to just before 7 p.m.\u2014that's when the daily drawing for the Cash 3 game is held, and there's a line of hopeful last-minute gamblers at many lottery outlets.\n\n**RIVER STREET SWEETS,** 13 E. River St.; (912) 234-4608; riverstreetsweets.com. Savannah's oldest candy store, established in 1973, is located on the historic Savannah riverfront. There's a second, more recent location at 4515 Habersham St. (912-231-3654). Pralines are made right here, in full view, and there's usually someone near the door to offer you a sample. Display cases showcase other store specialties: confections of chocolate and nuts, spiced pecans, divinity, etc. There's a wide array of gift baskets and special packaging and an efficient shipping service. Hours on River Street are 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day.\n\n**SAVANNAH'S CANDY KITCHEN,** 225 E. River St. and 318 W. St. Julian Street; (912) 233-8411; savannahcandy.com. Kids of all ages will run rampant in this large candy store, which fills several rooms. In addition to pralines and other store-made specialties, you'll also find gourmet jelly beans and a staggering selection of other mass-produced candy\u2014the kinds you remember from childhood and assumed no one sold anymore. Choose from a wide selection of decorative tins to fill with goodies. Prepare to spend more than a few minutes here to take your time in selecting a bag of goodies to take back to the hotel. (This store also offers gift shipping if you'd prefer that your purchase awaits you at home.) Hours are 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day.\n\nClothing\n\n**GAUCHO,** 251 Bull St; (912) 232-7414. When browsing through Gaucho, you might be reminded of those who believe you can never be too rich or too thin. Don't be discouraged, there's something there for every taste (and size), and you probably won't see these beautiful wares in a department store. Gaucho has a wide selection of hats and accessories, along with handpainted blouses and, in the back, shoes. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.; Sun noon to 5 p.m.\n\nGifts & Fun Shops\n\n**BYRD COOKIE COMPANY,** 6700 Waters Ave.; (912) 355-1716; byrdcookiecompany.com. You can buy these well-known local cookies all over town, but the advantage of choosing them from this shop is that you can sample the wide range of flavors here: Key Lime Coolers, Benne Bits, raspberry, butter cookies, and so on. They're sold in decorative tins that are excellent choices for those obligation gifts. One is sufficient for a solid token gift, or you can assemble a collection if you need something more impressive. A locally popular favorite is the benne wafer, a subtly sweet concoction made of unhulled sesame seeds. There are oodles of gifts here, including a selection from the Gullah Gourmet line of easy-to-cook Southern treats (unique to this area). If you show up during a production run, you can even watch the manufacturing process through a glass window. In addition to Byrd Cookies, this shop features an array of pricey decor gifts. Hours are Mon through Fri 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., Sun 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Adjacent to the store is the upscale B. Tillman Restaurant and Bar, offering what it describes as \"sophisticated comfort food\" for lunch and dinner 7 days a week. Satellite stores are located 102 E. Liberty St., 9 Mill Creek Circle in nearby Pooler, and 213 W. St. Julian St. in the Historic District.\n\n**FANNIES YOUR AUNT/BOB'S YOUR UNCLE,** 305 E. River St.; (912) 232-9144 bobsyouruncle.com. As you can tell from the name, shop here for the branded clothing and items named Fannies Your Aunt, Bob's Your Uncle, and Life is Good. Look for brands such as Ty, Russ, Boyd's Bears, Enesco, and other, smaller lines. Upstairs you'll find 2,500 square feet devoted to baskets of every imaginable shape, size, and material. T-shirts include both Savannah-themed versions and witty (but not vulgar) novelty shirts. Other stock includes dolls (such as the Susan Wakeen line), books of local interest, and plenty of furniture perfect for toys. Other gift and novelty items, including voodoo dolls, are scattered in among it all. Hours are Sun through Thurs 9 a.m. to 10 p.m., Fri and Sat 9 a.m. to 11 p.m.\n\n**GO FISH,** 106 W. Broughton St.; (912) 231-0609; savannah.gofishretail.com. This is a cheery shop filled with inspiring handicrafts that are reasonably priced. It grew out of a missionary family's interest in helping the artisans they encountered in developing countries and has expanded to a small chain (primarily in Georgia, Florida, and South Carolina) of stores selling Christian T-shirts and imported clothing, jewelry, and handicrafts. The friendly owners, Debbie and Lloyd Ryysylainen, welcome shoppers and carry the torch for the store's mission and focus. As illustrated in the literature scattered throughout the store, the Christian-themed T-shirts, handmade home accessories\u2014Indonesian wood carvings, etc . . . are all priced very low. There's also a colorful like of line of elongated and brightly painted animal sculptures beginning at $25 and going up in height and price. There are, of course, a lot of fish items (paintings, carvings, etc.). The stock also includes beaded jewelry and clothing made from batik fabrics. Go Fish is a great place to bring traveling groups of adults and/or schoolchildren. Hours are seasonal: 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. from Labor Day through Christmas, and summers, Mon through Thurs 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., Fri and Sat 10 a.m. to 7 p.m.\n\n**HALF MOON OUTFITTERS,** 15 E. Broughton St.; (912) 201-9393; halfmoonoutfitters.com. This unique outdoor clothing and equipment company has transformed a rather pedestrian storefront on the city's former main shopping drag to a modern and appealing space. It fills two levels, and the renovation job is worth a trip inside even if you aren't interested in camping, kayaking, or backpacking. All the gear is here, from clothing to kayaks themselves, along with food supplies and a large collection of books. The shop was acquired by Half Moon Outfitters, a small chain of outdoor stores based in South Carolina. The staff is made up of friendly, knowledgeable young people who practice the lifestyle they sell, which makes them good sources of information if you are in need of advice on where best to camp, canoe, or what have you in this vicinity. Winter hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. and Sun noon to 5 p.m.; summer hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., Sun noon to 6 p.m.\n\n**ONE FISH, TWO FISH,** 401 Whitaker St.; (912) 447-4600; onefishstore.com. This little shop expanded to a bigger one and then got bigger still, offering an array of trendy and unique gifts and other unusual merchandise. We spotted gourmet goodies and gifts for pampered pets, and a few little jars of jellies and condiments for their human counterparts. The stock also includes trendy purses, ceramic flowers, and tons of other superfluous-but-so-desirable types of products. Look here for lavish linens and personal pampering items. One storefront down, but still within the same building, you'll find Circa Lighting, where you can buy lamps and lighting fixtures from a variety of periods and styles. It all adds up to a quaint and cozy little corner in which to browse. The restoration work, which stopped well short of the polished at a rustic and shabbychic European look, merits a visit even if you are not in a buying frame of mind. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., Sun noon to 5 p.m.\n\n**PEANUT SHOP OF SAVANNAH,** 407 E. River St.; (912) 232-8612. This is the perfect place to stock up on salty delights for your afternoon munchies attacks. Peanut brittle, roasted peanuts, and plain ol' peanuts, along with hard candy and key lime jelly, are just some of the many things you will find inside the Peanut Shop. If you aren't sure what kind of peanuts you want, don't worry, there are usually several samples out so you can try before you buy. Hours are Sun through Thurs 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., Fri and Sat 10 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n**THE PARIS MARKET & BROCANTE,** 36 W. Broughton St.; (912) 232-1500; theparismarket.com. If ever there was a beautiful store in downtown Savannah\u2014carefully and lovingly restored to its full potential\u2014this would be that store. The merchandise here is appealing, but the Paris Market is worth a visit just to see the primo restoration of the building that houses it. We remember when this store started as a small, crowded room-size shop in what is now called the Downtown Design District. Today, it occupies two spacious floors in a retail \"palace\" on a prominent corner of downtown's main street. The ground floor has nostalgic wood flooring and is crowded with a dazzling collection of chandeliers. Downstairs, the floors are brick, and mirrors and other elegant furnishings are showcased. It is a great setting for merchandise, and the selection includes some surprisingly affordable things. The stock is a mixture of new and vintage. There's also linen, dishes, soaps, decorating books, and more, much of it with a French or Parisian theme. In short, this is a nifty place to pick up a gift or for the house-proud to groom their nests. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., Sun noon to 5 p.m.\n\n**TRUE GRITS,** 107 E. River St.; (912) 234-8006. Specializing in all sorts of nautical and Civil War items, there are lots of Savannah souvenirs packed into this rustic store. There are more than 250 different varieties hot sauce, each label claiming to be deadlier than the others. You'll also see plenty of shirts, toys, mugs, and plates with Savannah scenes. Also, you'll find items with nautical themes: lighthouse figurines and lighthouse needlework kits; large, realistic wooden ship models; tables made from hatch covers or using four-bladed brass props as bases; and antique telescopes. Civil War merchandise includes replica swords and hats, many history books, and three different versions of Civil War\u2013themed chess sets. Hours are 8:30 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day.\n\n**24E,** 24 E. Broughton St.; (912) 233-2274; 24estyle.com. Broughton Street and the directions it has taken with revitalization never cease to amaze us. In the street's shabbier days\u2014post-mall and pre-refurbishment\u2014inexpensive furniture stores and very expensive rent-to-own furniture places were one of the standard fixtures of the place, along with vacant storefronts. Now, those are mostly gone, and scattered along Broughton are a handful of upscale, high-fashion furniture stores where style (and price) rival anything you might find in a major metropolitan area.\n\nThe finest of the new lot is 24e, which has put its address to modified use as its name. In over two floors of what was once two separate storefronts, you'll find displayed everything from knickknacks (ceramic penguins that shop co-owner Ruel Joyner Jr. calls a season signature item) to truly unique furnishings. On the upstairs level, we found Italian leather sofas, overstuffed chintz armchairs, platform beds, and undulating chaise lounges. The accessory/gift-type stuff is on the lower level, including extremely expensive perfume lamps and reasonably priced glassware. Hours are seasonal so call prior to visiting; typically Mon through Thurs 10:30 a.m. to 7 p.m., Fri and Sat 10:30 a.m. to 8 p.m., Sun noon to 5 p.m. The website features much of the store's inventory.\n\ni Roadside produce stands as well as regular grocery stores are good places to pick up Vidalia onions. These famous mild, sweet onions are grown only in and around nearby Vidalia and have acquired a dedicated national following of gourmets.\n\n**WILD BIRDS UNLIMITED,** 8108 Abercorn St., Ste. 210; (912) 961-3455; http://savannah.wbu.com. Located in Savannah's Southside, this is a store for bird-watchers and enthusiasts. Stock up on birdseed, feeders, houses, binoculars, toys, gifts, and CDs here. This shop is geared to those who want to watch birds in the wild (including their own backyards), so it doesn't handle pet bird supplies. Some of the feeders and birdhouses double as lawn sculptures, including ornate, copper-roofed models. You'll also find a small stock of educational toys, and such unique items as hummingbird feeders and houses especially designed for butterflies and bats. Hours are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., Sun noon to 5 p.m.\n\ni If you've got military privileges, you'll find a PX and commissary at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah.\n\nThrift & Flea Markets\n\nThis kind of shopping isn't for everyone, just the most dedicated bargain hunters. If you don't mind rolling up your sleeves, these places can be real treasure troves. Of course, you'll occasionally come away empty-handed, but if you are into the thrill of the chase, you won't mind a bit.\n\n**KELLER'S FLEA MARKET,** 5901 Ogeechee Rd.; (912) 927-4848; ilovefleas.com. Ever wonder where people buy velvet wall-hangings depicting the Last Supper, wild stallions, and dogs playing poker? We've found them here ($10 each). In fact, if you go often enough and search diligently, we're convinced you can find just about anything in one of the 400-plus booths. Some are just tables under shed roofs; others are enclosed mini-stores. Don't expect anything fancy\u2014this is the base of the food chain in retail shopping. Still, we've made some real finds here and had fun people watching.\n\nAmong the booths you'll find the equivalent of yard sales, estate sales, and salvage sales. Some have new merchandise, including designer label stuff that doesn't appear very convincing and pure junk that isn't masquerading as anything else. Handcrafters, small-scale importers, and collectors set up here. Go early on Saturday, and you'll see the antiques dealers scouting for stuff they'll clean up (and mark up) for their own shops.\n\nOne section features exotic birds, reptiles, puppies, and chickens, but real animal lovers should give that section a wide berth. The market is open every Sat and Sun 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Vendors set up at 8 a.m., and if you care to sell your own goods, spaces are only $5. Ogeechee Road is also US 17, and the market is in the county's far southwestern section. About 2 miles past Savannah Mall, you'll spot the exit for US 17. Take the exit, turn left at the end of the ramp, and you'll soon see the market on your left. Dress is casual.\n\n# ATTRACTIONS\n\nWe've decided to devote much of this chapter to one of the favorite Savannah pastimes, walking. This one could be addicting so be forewarned. Make sure your camera battery is fully charged and your feet are adorned in your most comfortable walking shoes. Then, set your sights high. Savannah's splendor is best viewed in the early morning or late afternoon.\n\nFirst, a little direction. Since most of the city's best-known attractions are situated in the Historic District, this walking tour will take you to her most beautiful sights.\n\nHere's the format: There are detailed listings of many of the popular historic sites downtown, and in between, explicit directions will appear in italics on how to get from one location to the next. The tour takes in a little more than 2.5 miles; how long it takes depends on how fast you walk and whether you decide to take a detour or two and further explore some sites. Along the way, you'll be treated to sitting spots on attractive benches that will allow you to take leisurely breaks. (If you stumble on a place that catches your fancy and is not listed in this chapter, chances are you can find out more about it in our Restaurants or Shopping chapters.) For another great dining option, pack a picnic before setting out. Each square you encounter\u2014and we will cover nine\u2014is perfect for relaxing near the magnolia trees while enjoying a good sandwich\n\nThere's a basic map at the front of this book. If you need a further visual aid, several good maps of the Historic District are available in shops around town and typically cost less than $5. The Savannah Visitor Information Center, 301 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. or the Savannah Area Chamber of Commerce offices, 101 E. Bay St. (912-644-6400) also provide a free visitors' guide that has a great map.\n\nFollowing our Insiders' Historic District tour, there's information on other guided touring options in the city, plus a variety of other interesting attractions to explore both in Savannah's downtown and the outlying areas: the Islands, Southside, and West Chatham.\n\n## INSIDERS' HISTORIC DISTRICT WALKING TOUR\n\nWhether you're approaching the Historic District via the Talmadge Bridge or you're already there and wandering around on foot, you can't miss the gold dome on top of City Hall. The tour begins at this landmark on Bay Street and the northern tip of Bull Street. So look up (or down, depending on your vantage point), and when you spot the gold dome, head in that direction. Once you arrive, don't be shy\u2014wander inside for a quick look around. You'll be glad you did, and the office workers don't mind a bit. Also note that there are several ideal guided walking tours listed on the Convention and Visitors Bureau website: savannahvisit.com/getaways/tours/listing/0/419. Fees will vary with each walking tour. The one we share here is for an individual, self-guided tour.\n\n**Victory Drive and Washington Avenue**\n\nIf you're venturing south of the Historic District to do some sightseeing, be sure to take a drive down portions of two streets in Midtown\u2014 **Victory Drive** between Abercorn Street and Waters Avenue, and **Washington Avenue** between Bull Street and Waters.\n\nYou'll see stately homes set amid huge, graceful oak trees on both streets and, if you hit it just right during the springtime, medians and yards bursting with the color of azaleas in bloom. Palm trees were first planted along Victory Drive in 1906 when it was called Estill Avenue, and this thoroughfare\u2014which starts at Ogeechee Road, runs to the Wilmington River, and continues to Tybee Island as US 80\u2014was once reputed to be the longest avenue of palms in the nation. When Estill Avenue was widened and extended in 1922, it was renamed Victory Drive in honor of the Americans who fought and died in World War I.\n\n**CITY HALL,** 2 E. Bay St.; (912) 651-6410. Local architect Hyman Wallace Witcover designed and built City Hall in 1905 for an estimated $205,167. This price was to include statues of chariots and horses on top of the structure, but budget constraints prevented them from being built. The exterior is composed of several materials, including rough-hewn granite blocks, colored limestone, and polished granite. The dome, rising 70 feet, was originally copper. However, in 1987 a local philanthropist donated $240,000 to the city, allowing the dome to be gilded with thin layers of 23-karat gold leaf. The gold was applied to the dome, cupola, and clock hands. The dome was renovated in 2007\u20138, so if it seems extra shiny, you'll know why. Usually, most of the faces of the clock have the right time\u2014but if your group is splitting up to tour, don't depend on it for your rendezvous time!\n\nInside the foyer you will find a lovely and intricate mosaic on the floor. Look up in the foyer, and you will see more detailed tiles. Go farther into the rotunda and look up for a pretty, circular view all the way up to the fourth floor and the stained glass in the dome. The original building directory is also in the rotunda on a giant tablet. Today, Savannah city offices are located throughout the community, but the second floor of City Hall is much like it was when the building was originally constructed. It still houses the mayor's office, clerk of council offices, and the council chambers. The stern and imposing council chambers have even stood in for courtrooms in a couple of Hollywood productions.\n\n_After leaving City Hall, head south on Bull Street. Look to your left while crossing Bay Street. The huge building on the corner opposite City Hall is the US Custom House_.\n\n**US CUSTOM HOUSE,** 1 E. Bay St. The magnificent columns in front of the Custom House each weigh 15 tons. Across the street are cannons presented to the Chatham Artillery in 1791 by George Washington. In 1972 the structure was designated a historic custom house by the US commissioner of customs. As you walk by, notice the wonderful ironwork fencing that not only decorates the building but also guards it. It is just one of many fine examples of wrought iron you will notice throughout your walking tour. Although it is a landmark, it's also the working home of the Customs office, busy tracking the business of Savannah's port.\n\n_Continue south on Bull Street in the direction of Johnson Square_.\n\n**JOHNSON SQUARE,** Bull Street, between Bryan and Congress Streets. This is Savannah's first square. It is named for Robert Johnson, the governor of South Carolina who helped the Georgia colony get established. During the early days of the colony, this was the hub of activity for the city. In the center is a monument to Revolutionary War hero Gen. Nathanael Greene, who died in 1786; his grave is here as well. Today the square is the center of banking in Savannah. Stand in the middle and you will be surrounded by several banks. If you need to pick up some cash, this is a good spot to find an ATM. This is also a popular square for downtown workers to lunch in, and in spring and early summer there is often lunchtime musical entertainment.\n\n_On the eastern side of the square, look for pairs of gigantic green doors and majestic columns. They belong to Christ Church_.\n\n**CHRIST CHURCH,** 28 Bull St.; (912) 236-2500; christchurchsavannah.org. Christ Church is known as Georgia's Mother Church. It was founded in 1733, on the exact spot where the first Christian religious service in Georgia was held. The current structure replaced two edifices that were destroyed. In 1735 John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, served as pastor here and founded what is believed to be the world's first Protestant Sunday school.\n\nAlso interesting: Christ Church has one of the rarest church bells in the entire country. It is known as a Revere Bell and was created by Paul Revere and Sons, the company owned by the noted \"British are coming\" patriot. It is one of about 130 Revere bells, the majority of which are found in New England; only a handful made it to the South. The bell in the tower is actually the third Revere Bell the church has owned. The first, purchased in 1816 for $716, cracked during shipment. The second cracked the second Sunday it rang. The third bell, as they say, was the charm. The church didn't have any significant problems with the third bell until 1995, when repairs needed to be made to the apparatus holding the bell. After a 2-year repair job, the bell was rung again in early November 1997.\n\n_Continue heading south on Bull Street, crossing Congress Street and proceeding to Broughton Street. This is Savannah's original business district, and after decades of decline, it is becoming a shining example of urban redevelopment. Look east and west to see many trendy shops and a restaurant selection that ranges from Thai to Moroccan to Italian (not to mention a good ol' hot dog place as well). Take a detour if you are hungry. If not, continue south on Bull Street to Wright Square, the second square on our trip_.\n\n**WRIGHT SQUARE,** Bull Street, between State and York Streets. Wright Square is named for Sir James Wright, the last royal governor of Georgia. The monument in the center is for William Washington Gordon, one of the founders of the Central of Georgia Railway. (The railroad's offices used to be about a block away; you will pass the site on this walking tour.) The large boulder, taken from Stone Mountain near Atlanta, marks the grave of Tomo-chi-chi, the Yamacraw chief who was instrumental in helping the founders get established in their new colony.\n\nTaking up the entire western side of the square is the federal courthouse. Made of Georgia marble, its architecture is a conglomeration of many styles: Spanish, French, Italian Renaissance, and Romanesque among them. On the eastern side of the square, you'll see the old Chatham County Courthouse, a light-colored brick building designed in 1889 by noted Boston architect William G. Preston. It now houses county offices. On the same side as the courthouse is Lutheran Church of the Ascension.\n\n**LUTHERAN CHURCH OF THE ASCENSION,** 120 Bull St.; (912) 232-4151; ascensionsavannah.org. Massive red doors lead into the Lutheran Church of the Ascension, formed in 1741 by German settlers. The current church was built between 1875 and 1879 and designed by George B. Clarke, using Norman and Gothic styles. One of the church's most striking features is the Ascension Window, depicting the Ascension of the Lord.\n\n**JULIETTE GORDON LOW BIRTHPLACE,** 10 E. Oglethorpe Ave.; (912) 233-4501; juliettegordonlowbirthplace.org. The Juliette Gordon Low Birthplace gives visitors an authentic glimpse of what life was like in the 1800s for one of Savannah's most prominent families\u2014one that just happened to include Juliette Gordon Low, founder of the Girl Scouts.\n\nBut the Low Center isn't just about the Girl Scouts. This beautifully restored home, Savannah's first National Historic Landmark, is full of the Gordons' original belongings\u2014from Georgian Revival chairs in the dining room to a painting of Niagara Falls by moonlight, a souvenir the Gordons bought some years after their honeymoon. When entering the main hallway, you will immediately notice the beautiful winding staircase with a rose-colored bull's-eye glass window in the background; it was installed in 1886 to give more light in the stairway. In the library is a brass chandelier original to the home. The south parlor, decorated in striking yellow, red, and green, has a pier mirror, installed in 1884.\n\nConstruction on the home began in 1818 in the newly fashionable English Regency style. William Washington Gordon and his wife, Sarah, were the first of four generations of the Gordon family to live in the home. William Gordon served as mayor of Savannah and is credited as a founder of the Central of Georgia Railway. The house was eventually inherited by William Washington Gordon II and his wife, Eleanor Kinzie Gordon, the parents of Juliette Gordon. Juliette spent her childhood here.\n\nAfter passing through another generation of Gordons, the house was threatened with demolition in 1953. A concerned group of local Girl Scouts, including youngsters and adults, appealed to the national organization to save the birthplace of their founder, and the building was purchased by the Girl Scouts. It was restored and opened to the public 3 years later. Today, thousands of Girl Scouts from around the world make the pilgrimage to Savannah to visit the home of the group's cherished founder. The house is open Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. (closed Wed from Nov to Feb) and Sun 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Call for admission prices; Girl Scouts and their leaders get discounts. Recent renovations, which include a small elevator, have made the mansion relatively accessible to those with physical disabilities, unusual among historic attractions.\n\n_Continuing south on Bull Street, you will pass the offices for the local school district on the left, housed in a rambling brick building that was once home to a school and still sports nice frescoes above its entrances, and Independent Presbyterian Church on the right_.\n\n**INDEPENDENT PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH,** 207 Bull St.; (912) 236-3346; ip.csav.org. This church was founded in 1755 and is considered one of the most important Federal-style churches in the country. The original was designed by John Holden Greene of Rhode Island. It burned in 1889. The current building has an elevated mahogany pulpit, and the four Corinthian columns of the sanctuary were made from a single tree trunk that was carefully selected through exhaustive searches in the South. It's worth a peek inside just to view the pulpit. Woodrow Wilson married Ellen Axson, granddaughter of the church's pastor, here.\n\n_Continue south to Chippewa Square_.\n\ni For movie buffs, Chippewa Square is where Forrest Gump sat waiting for the bus. The movie-prop bench was placed on the far northern tip of the square. Next time you see the film, notice that traffic in the square is moving in the wrong direction! The bench can be seen in the Savannah History Museum.\n\n**CHIPPEWA SQUARE,** Bull Street, between Perry and Hull Streets. General James Oglethorpe is immortalized in bronze in the center of this square. First Baptist Church, organized in 1800, is on the northwestern corner of the square. Across the park on the northeastern corner is the Savannah Theatre, home of a professional theatrical group that presents musical programs 5 days a week.\n\nThe beautiful building on the southwest corner is known as the Philbrick-Eastman House and is a fine example of Greek Revival architecture. It served as home for many prominent families; today, it houses a law firm. While walking south through the square, look to your left along West Perry Street, and you will notice a row of magnificently restored private homes, among the many you will see on your trip today. You are getting into the more residential portion of the Historic District.\n\n_Continue south on Bull Street. After crossing Perry Street, notice a dolphin downspout on the home to your right. These interesting adornments to lovely houses are a common sight throughout Savannah. There are several boutiques, a coffee shop, and a few lunch spots in this area. Duck in to Gaucho to look for women's high fashion. Farther down Liberty Street is the Hilton Savannah DeSoto, built on the site of the DeSoto Hotel, which was razed in 1966. (Check the Shopping and Restaurants chapters for more information.) Next is Madison Square_.\n\n**MADISON SQUARE,** Bull Street, between Harris and Charlton Streets. Madison Square is named for James Madison, the fourth US president. When entering Madison Square you will notice the Sorrel-Weed House on the northwest corner of the square. It was completed in 1841 and is an example of Greek Revival architecture. In 1997 the home was purchased and underwent an extensive $2 million renovation that restored it to its original condition. This renovation included painting the home its original bright orange color, which did not please neighbors and members of a local historic review committee. However, the homeowner won out, as you will see when walking by.\n\nOn the northeastern corner is E. Shaver Bookseller, a popular locally owned bookstore. If you need a break, this could be a good place to take it. On the southeastern edge of the square is a gigantic redbrick building that once was the Savannah Volunteer Guards Armory. This structure and the large building across the street on the southwest corner of the square\u2014the old Scottish Rite Temple\u2014are now owned by the Savannah College of Art and Design. The armory was the first building the art school founders purchased when they came to town in the late 1970s. At the time, there was an old restaurant inside, so complete renovation was needed. It was the first in a long list of buildings purchased and restored by the school; you'll find them throughout the Historic District. Today the armory houses classrooms and Exhibit A, an art gallery that features artwork by students and professors and, at times, famous artists. It is open to the public free of charge.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nSavannah's Mercer House Opens Its Doors to Public\n\nDuring the height of the popularity of the book _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ , **Mercer House** was under a sort of subdued siege. A thriving and opportunistic tourism subculture centered around the book was cashing in on the obsessive interest of fans. Nowhere could have been of more interest to those fans than Mercer House, the heart of John Berendt's loosely woven collection of Savannah stories centered on the colorful history of this magnificent mansion where among years of lavish Savannah parties, a fatal shooting occurred.\n\nThe sudden fame of Mercer House escalated when the book became a film. Tour buses blared their version of the story outside the sedate mansion that became the private residence of the late Jim Williams' sister, Dr. Dorothy Williams Kingery. Fans posed for pictures outside the house, or clambered up on the gate and low surrounding wall for better looks. Images of the house were reproduced on souvenirs of varying taste levels.\n\nKingery fought to restore the respect of her brother's home. She trademarked the facade of the house in an effort to deter its commercial exploitation. She even put the home on the market briefly, at a multimillion-dollar price.\n\nThe closest fans got for many years, at least legally, was through a gift shop in the home's carriage house. This two-story structure to the rear of the house was once the workshop where Williams worked on antiques. So things stood for the first decade after the publication of Berendt's book. An even larger percentage of the people featured in the book have died by now. The fan fervor had died down some. Then, in 2004, quietly, with no fanfare and an extremely low-key approach, Kingery opened the first floor of Mercer House (now increasingly known as the Mercer-Williams House) to paying guests.\n\nThe Mercer-Williams House is now the only private, occupied residence in Savannah that invites paying guests to tour it. Tours enter through the carriage house, where a guide leads small groups through the courtyard and into the home's first floor. At the moment, you'll sample the resplendence of the house, decorated with one-of-a-kind antiques and rare furnishings and accent pieces that were a part of Jim Williams's collection. British Colonial pieces are among the most distinctive. Kingery is enthusiastic about sharing the truth of the home's history and the tour guides are endorsed by her. They are knowledgeable about the home's interior features and the antiques displayed there.\n\nAt $12.50, the Mercer-Williams House is the priciest of the downtown house museums, although the price hasn't gone up in the years it has been open. But it's also among the more interesting and beautiful. This is a tour of Williams's house, and it focuses on his impressive role in the preservation and restoration of Savannah's architectural treasures. It is not\u2014repeat, not\u2014a facet of the _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ notoriety. You won't hear the book mentioned, and questions about the subject should be withheld as a courtesy and out of respect to the family. The front of the house has no sign or other indication that it is open to tours. The carriage house is directly behind the house, and a small, discreet sign gives tour details. The shop is worth a browse, too. It offers home decor and gift items of good quality, not extravagantly marked up. Although it isn't really a bookstore, the things we've bought on our few visits have all been books. And, as a sign of how much things have changed, that small stock of books on sale now includes _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_.\n\n_Look to the northwest corner of the square. The Gothic brick mansion is the Green-Meldrim House_.\n\n**GREEN-MELDRIM HOUSE,** 14 W. Macon St.; (912) 233-3845; stjohnsav.org. Built in 1853 by architect-builder John S. Norris for a wealthy cotton merchant, the Green-Meldrim House is best known as being headquarters for Gen. William T. Sherman, who \"gave\" the city of Savannah to President Lincoln as a Christmas present. The famous telegram to Lincoln, dated December 22, 1864, reads, \"I beg to present to you as a Christmas Gift, the City of Savannah with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition; and also about 25,000 bales of Cotton.\"\n\nToday the home serves as a parish house and is owned by its neighbor, St. John's Church. When you walk by, notice the beautiful and elaborate ironwork and the oriel windows that give light from three sides. Inside are American black walnut floors, elaborate moldings, marble mantels, and other original adornments. The home is open for tours Tues, Thurs, and Fri 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Sat 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. year-round. Admission is $10 for adults, $5 for students.\n\nContinuing south on Bull Street, you will pass Jones Street, considered one of Savannah's most picturesque roadways. Notice the brick streets and wonderfully restored homes. It is well worth a short detour. It is also home to one of Savannah's most noted restaurants, Mrs. Wilkes', which is known for its Southern fare (see our Restaurants chapter).\n\n_Next is Monterey Square_.\n\n**MONTEREY SQUARE,** Bull Street, between Taylor and Gordon Streets. This is the final square on Bull Street. Its name commemorates the Battle of Monterey in the Mexican-American War. The square was laid out in 1847. In the center is a monument honoring Casmir Pulaski, a Polish nobleman who was killed during the American Revolution. He may or may not be buried under the monument that honors him; historians disagree. The monument was rededicated in 2001 after a restoration period of several years that saw its foundation standing empty.\n\nDuring filming of the movie _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ , set designers brought in their own monument. Now, when you see Monterey Square on the big screen, you'll know the monument is not the original. The square is surrounded by other significant sites used in the movie, including the home where the book's main plot unfolds, the Mercer-Williams House, commonly known as Mercer House, which is on the western edge of the square.\n\n**MERCER HOUSE,** 429 Bull St; mercerhouse.com. Cited by the Historic Savannah Foundation as nationally significant for its architectural style, this home was designed by John S. Norris and completed in 1871. The striking ironwork\u2014including cast-iron window pediments, eight castiron balconies, and the sidewalk fence\u2014is one of the house's signature features. The house was named for Confederate Gen. Hugh Mercer, songwriter Johnny Mercer's great-grandfather, but General Mercer sold the house. He never lived there nor did any member of the Mercer family.\n\nIn 1970, after the house was neglected and empty for many years, Jim Williams, the antiques dealer, Savannah preservationist, and the central character in the book and film _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ finished a complete restoration of the home. Today the private home is owned by Dorothy Kingery, sister of the late Williams. She opened the home to limited public tours in 2004. Tickets are $12.50, and entrance is through the carriage house. Tickets may be purchased on the website, where you will also find hours and contact information. For more details, see our Close-Up in this chapter.\n\n_Looking past Mercer House, on the southwest corner of the square, you will notice row houses along Gordon Street. One of these homes_ \u20147 _W. Gordon Street\u2014has also had a brush with celebrity. If you are a fan of the PBS show_ This Old House, _you may be familiar with the renovation that took place here in 1996 at the home of Mills and Marianne Fleming. For several months, Norm Abram, Steve Thomas, and the rest of the crew from the popular series were in town helping restore the 1884 home, which made headlines when it was built for being one of the first homes in the city to have indoor plumbing. Across the square from Mercer House, on the eastern side of the square, is Temple Mickve Israel_.\n\n**TEMPLE MICKVE ISRAEL,** 20 E. Gordon St.; (912) 233-1547; mickveisrael.org. Temple Mickve Israel began with a group of Spanish-Portuguese Jews who came to Savannah in 1733, just 5 months after the founding of the colony. It is the site of the first Jewish congregation in the South and the third in the entire US. It is also the only Gothic synagogue in the country. The temple was designed by Henry G. Harrison and houses the oldest Torah in the US. There are also hundreds of documents, historical books, and letters from Presidents Washington, Jefferson, and Madison in the museum adjoining the temple. Tours of the sanctuary and museum take place Mon through Fri 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. and 2 to 4 p.m. at a fee of $4 per person.\n\n_Continuing south on Bull Street, you will pass the George Armstrong House on the northwest corner of Bull and Gaston Streets. This massive building, constructed in 1920, was given to the city in 1935 and converted into Armstrong Junior College, predecessor of Armstrong State University, which subsequently moved to Savannah's Southside. Today it houses a law firm. Across the street, on the northeast corner of Bull and Gaston Streets is the Oglethorpe Club, a longtime private club. Straight ahead is Forsyth Park_.\n\n**FORSYTH PARK,** Bull Street, between Gaston Street and Park Avenue. This 30-acre park is an amazing postcard brought to life and filled with color! With azaleas, magnolia trees, walkways, and park benches, the park is one of Savannah's most beautiful spots. The park was laid out in 1851. One of its most recognizable and often photographed features is the white fountain near the center. Visit on the weekend, and you might see a bride and groom getting pictures taken beside the ornate swans and other creatures in the fountain.\n\nThe monument in the center of the park was erected by the United Daughters of the Confederacy and honors those killed during the Civil War. The park is also home to an amphitheater, a cafe, a Fragrant Garden for the Blind, and public restrooms. It is surrounded by beautiful and elaborately restored homes, many of which are Victorian in style. Across from the northwestern corner of the park is the Georgia Historical Society.\n\n**GEORGIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND RESEARCH CENTER,** 501 Whitaker St.; (912) 651-2125; georgiahistory.com. Dr. William Bacon Stevens, a physician who later became the Episcopal bishop of Pennsylvania, and attorney I. K. Tefft are generally credited with organizing the Savannah-based Georgia Historical Society. The pair was soon joined by Dr. Richard D. Arnold, a founder of the American Medical Association. In 1839 the group incorporated one of the country's oldest (and the Southeast's first) historical societies.\n\nNearly 170 years later, the realization of their efforts can easily be seen in thousands of historic documents, artifacts, newspapers, and other source materials documenting Georgia's past. Visitors to the society will find everything in its massive archives, from copies of letters Gen. James Edward Oglethorpe wrote to the Trustees of the Colony, to the grapeshot that killed Casmir Pulaski and was extracted from the Polish war hero's leg. There are minutes from the first Georgia Medical Society meeting, held in Savannah in 1804; photographs from the now-defunct YWCA; and family letters such as the one written by Garnett Andrews about the cotton gin Eli Whitney had invented.\n\nThe society also publishes, in cooperation with the University of Georgia, the highly acclaimed _Georgia Historical Quarterly_ , a collection of scholarly articles. Entry to the Georgia Historical Society is free. The building is open to the public Wed through Fri noon to 5 p.m. and on the first and third Sat of each month 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. It is recommended that you call to confirm hours as they do change.\n\n_This is the midpoint of the walking tour. Time to travel north for the next portion of the tour, heading back in the direction of City Hall, where we started. Continue 1 block east onto Gaston Street, crossing Drayton Street. Check out the many beautifully restored homes. Head north by turning left onto Abercorn and stay on this street until you reach Calhoun Square_.\n\n**CALHOUN SQUARE,** Abercorn Street, between Taylor and Gordon Streets. The first of the Abercorn Street squares on our tour was named for John Calhoun, a South Carolina statesman. It was laid out in 1851. When entering the square, you can't help but notice Wesley Monumental Methodist Church on the southwestern corner of the square. This Gothic Revival church was named for John and Charles Wesley, early figures in the history of Methodism. The sanctuary was built between 1876 and 1890. It features a Wesley Window opposite the pulpit, which contains the busts of the men for whom the church was named.\n\n_On the southeastern edge of the square is the Massie Heritage Interpretation Center_.\n\n**MASSIE HERITAGE INTERPRETATION CENTER,** 207 E. Gordon St.; (912) 395-5070; massieschool.com. Honored as Georgia's oldest school in continuous operation, the Massie Heritage Interpretation Center is also the only remaining original building from Georgia's oldest chartered school system. The Greek Revival structure is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It was completed in 1856 and is known for its gable roof, wood cupola, and cornice, among other features. Today, an enrichment program is offered to increase student understanding of Savannah's historic and architectural heritage. The center is open to the public Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Sun noon to 4 p.m. Self-guided tours are $7; seniors are $6; youth (5\u201317) $5; children (1\u20134) $2.\n\n**LAFAYETTE SQUARE,** Abercorn Street, between Harris and Charlton Streets. This square, which was laid out in 1837, was named for the Marquis de Lafayette, who visited Savannah in 1825. There are several significant buildings on this square, but when you enter it, you can't help but notice the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, near the northeast corner.\n\n**CATHEDRAL OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST,** 223 E. Harris St.; (912) 233-4709; savannahcathedral.org. A few private moments in this magnificent cathedral should be on your priority list of Savannah's must-sees. This magnificent Gothic cathedral with its twin spires is one of Savannah's most noted landmarks. It is also the oldest Roman Catholic church in Georgia and the seat of the Diocese of Savannah. The parish organized in the late 1700s and erected its first church on Liberty Street. It wasn't until 1876 that the cathedral was built; tragically, it was destroyed by fire 20 years later. When the cathedral was rebuilt, the original designs were used. One of the cathedral's most striking features is its stained glass. Most of it was executed by Innsbruck glassmakers in the Austrian Tyrol and installed around 1900. Other features include an Italian marble altar, the stations of the cross (imported from Munich), and the coat of arms of Pope John XXIII. The building just underwent a massive restoration, indoors and out, and is now fully open in its restored glory. See the website for the mass schedule.\n\n**THE ANDREW LOW HOUSE,** 329 Abercorn St.; (912) 233-6854; andrewlowhouse.com. On the northwest corner of Lafayette Square is the Andrew Low House, built in 1848 this wealthy cotton merchant. Low's son, William McKay Low, married Juliette Gordon, founder of the Girl Scouts. In fact, the carriage house in back of the home is the first official headquarters of the Girl Scouts of the USA. Juliette Low left the building to the organization following her death.\n\nThe stunning home, with its elegant front gardens and beautiful ironwork, is built of stucco brick. It is now owned by the National Society of the Colonial Dames of America in the State of Georgia, whose members also donated its furnishings. Even the three-tiered fountain in the center of the square was donated by the organization. Some of the home's most noted guests have included Robert E. Lee and William Makepeace Thackeray. The home is open for tours from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Mon through Sat, and from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Sun. Cost to tour the house is $10 for adults and $7 for students, Girl Scouts, and Girl Scout leaders.\n\n**FLANNERY HOUSE,** 207 E. Charlton St.; (912) 233-6014; flanneryoconnorhome.org. Noted Southern author Flannery O'Connor was born in this high-stoop, 19th-century home on the outskirts of Lafayette Square. She lived here as a child until 1938. The parlor floor has been restored to its original appearance and houses a small museum dedicated to the author. The home is open 1 to 4 p.m. every day except Wed and Thurs, and there is a $6 adult admission charge ($5 for students).\n\n_Continuing north on Abercorn Street, cross Liberty Street. On the east side of Abercorn Street is Colonial Park Cemetery_.\n\n**COLONIAL PARK CEMETERY,** 201 Abercorn St.; (912) 651-651-6843; savannahga.gov. Button Gwinnett, who signed the Declaration of Independence, and Edward Green Malbone, painter of miniatures, are two of the notable Georgians buried in this cemetery, the second public burial ground in Savannah. The cemetery, which takes up several blocks in the Historic District, opened in 1750; it closed to burials 100 years later. Visitors are welcome to tour the cemetery and glimpse the old tombstones and inscriptions.\n\n_After exploring the cemetery, continue north on Abercorn Street, crossing Oglethorpe Avenue. As you cross Oglethorpe, you will pass the city's fire department headquarters. Next is Oglethorpe Square_.\n\n**OGLETHORPE SQUARE,** Abercorn Street, between State and York Streets. Oglethorpe Square was named for Georgia's founder, James Edward Oglethorpe. It was laid out in 1742. On the northeast corner of the square is one of Savannah's most famous museum houses, the Owens-Thomas House.\n\n**OWENS-THOMAS HOUSE, 124 Abercorn St.; (912) 790-8800;** telfair.org. Taking up an entire block on the eastern edge of the square is the Owens-Thomas House, considered to be one of the finest examples of English Regency architecture in the country. The home, with its columned entrance portico, brass inlaid staircase, and more, was designed by architect William Jay from 1816 to 1819 for cotton merchant Richard Richardson.\n\nThe home is made largely of tabby\u2014an indigenous, concretelike material made of lime, oyster shells, and sand. The exterior is English stucco. The interior, which includes three rare built-in marble-top tables that belonged to the Richardsons, has many stunning features, including an entryway with a brass inlaid staircase and a drawing room with an unusual ceiling that makes the room appear to be round. The carriage house, also open for tours, is one of the earliest intact urban slave quarters in the South and opens into an English-inspired parterre garden.\n\nIn 1830, after the home had been used as a boardinghouse, George Welchman Owens, a congressman and former mayor of Savannah, purchased it for $10,000. The property remained in the Owens family until it was bequeathed to what is now the Telfair Museum of Art. The home is open Mon noon to 5 p.m., Tues through Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., and Sun 1 to 5 p.m. The cost to tour the house is $15 for adults; students (K\u2013college) are $5, and children under 5 are free (as are members of the Telfair). Note that this house museum is part of the Telfair's three holdings\u2014the other two are art museums, and the best bargain is the $20 adult ticket that gets you into all three.\n\n_One of Savannah's other noted museum houses is just around the corner from the Owens-Thomas House on East State Street. If you would like to detour to this house, head east on State Street and cross Lincoln. One block on your left will be the Davenport House_.\n\n**ISAIAH DAVENPORT HOUSE,** 324 E. State St; (912) 236-8097; davenporthousemuseum.org. As you walk around today in the Historic District enjoying the beautifully restored homes and other sights, know that it was the Davenport House that was largely responsible for the preservation of this national treasure. In the 1950s, when developers came up with a plan to demolish the house, sell the brick, and put in a parking lot, seven local women banded together to stop it. That group, which later became the Historic Savannah Foundation, raised $22,500 to purchase the home; such were the beginnings of restoration efforts in Savannah.\n\nAt the time of the rescue purchase, the home was a tenement, divided into small apartments and full of people. The Federal-style home was originally built in 1820 by master builder Isaiah Davenport, who used it as a kind of showcase for his work. One of the incredible features of the house is the delicate and ornate molding and plasterwork found throughout. The Davenport House is open Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Sun 1 to 4 p.m. Cost is $9 for adults, $5 for children.\n\n_After viewing the Davenport House, head west on State Street to Abercorn Street. Again, travel north on Abercorn. As you cross Broughton Street, you'll notice a large building on your right. Savannah College of Art and Design has transformed this former department store into a library. Continuing along Abercorn Street, you will come to the Lucas Theatre_.\n\n**LUCAS THEATRE,** 32 Abercorn St.; (912) 525-5040; lucastheatre.com. This Savannah landmark, built in 1921, served not only as a theater but also as a general center of entertainment for the city. It had floors of imported marble, a dome ceiling surrounded by 600 incandescent lights, and 36 ornate boxes. However, it deteriorated with the rest of downtown after World War II. A group of citizens\u2014Lucas Theatre for the Arts Inc.\u2014banded together to reopen the theater and has been raising the millions of dollars needed to complete the project. As part of their fund-raising efforts, when the crew filming _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ was in town in 1997, it participated in a fund-raiser for the theater. Among those in attendance were director Clint Eastwood and actor Kevin Spacey. The theater is now in full operation under the management of Savannah College of Art and Design. Check the schedule and plan to enjoy the beauty of this theater if there's an event going on during your stay.\n\n_After passing the Lucas Theatre, you will enter Reynolds Square, the last square on our walking tour_.\n\n**REYNOLDS SQUARE,** Abercorn Street, between Bryan and Congress Streets. Reynolds Square was named for Capt. John Reynolds, who served as governor of Georgia in 1754. In the center is a statue of John Wesley, the founder of Methodism. On the northwestern corner of the square is the Olde Pink House, a popular eatery.\n\n_Continuing north on Abercorn Street, you will reach Bay Street. Look to the west and you will once again see the dome on City Hall, where the tour began. Directly across Bay Street is Factors' Walk and River Street_.\n\n**FACTORS' WALK AND RIVER STREET,** Bay Street. Factors' Walk is named for the cotton brokers (or \"factors\") who bought, sold, and shipped their wares along the banks of the Savannah River. This unique row of buildings, erected on the bluff overlooking the water, rises two or three stories on the street side and three or more stories over the riverfront.\n\nThe focal point is the old Cotton Exchange, a redbrick building with the name Cotton Exchange etched along the top of the facade. It was constructed in 1886 by William G. Preston and was one of the first buildings in the US to be erected entirely over a public street. At one time this building was where the world price for cotton was set. While the brokers set the price of cotton, the lower floors served as cotton and naval warehouses with entrances at several levels, including on River Street.\n\nToday both River Street and Factors' Walk are full of shops, restaurants, and galleries, all housed in the restored warehouses. It is a favorite spot for visitors. Take a stroll on the river for a fitting end to our tour.\n\n## GUIDED TOURS\n\nSavannah abounds with guided-tour companies. Their offerings are varied\u2014general history, ghosts and hauntings, African-American history, you name it. Modes as well as subjects vary: travel by air-conditioned minibus, open-sided pseudo trolley, horse-drawn carriage, riverboat, or plain old shank's mare (walking, in other words). The latest addition to the local tour scene is the Segway, those motorized \"people movers\" that look like a scale in a doctor's office, except they carry you around.\n\nThis is a very fluid industry. New tours are added constantly, schedules and itineraries change, etc. Although the following is not a comprehensive listing, it will get you started.\n\nBoats\n\n**SAVANNAH RIVERBOAT CRUISES,** 9 E. River St.; (912) 232-6404, (800) 786-6404; savannahriverboat.com. This hour-long cruise takes you up and down the Savannah River on a replica riverboat, either the _Savannah River Queen_ or the _Georgia Queen_. It's one of many ways for a tourist to get a firsthand look at the industrial and shipping side of the city\u2014the bread and butter for many of us who live here. You can also get a waterfront perspective on historic structures. River Street from the water lends itself to good panoramic photos; however, realize that the tours may not be narrated. Depending on river traffic, you may get to see some of the massive ships that make the port of Savannah among the busiest in the nation.\n\nThe daytime sightseeing cruise is narrated. Wear sunscreen! This company also offers a variety of other cruises, keyed around dinner and dancing, Sunday brunch, or even gospel music with a buffet dinner. You'll need to check the website for current themed cruises since they vary. Prepaid reservations are required for most tours, except the daytime sightseeing. Note: All cruise schedules are subject to change, vary seasonally, and can be affected by the weather.\n\ni Florence Martus is forever immortalized by the Waving Girl statue on River Street. For many years during the late 1800s and early 1900s, she greeted the ships that passed through the port of Savannah by waving a white cloth during the day and a lantern during the night, hoping to be the first to greet her returning husband (or, by some accounts, her returning fianc\u00e9). The Altrusa Club erected this statue in her honor.\n\nBuses\n\nAlthough most tours will take credit cards, some bus drivers do not have the means of processing them. If you plan on paying by plastic, mention that while making your reservations, because it may impact your selection of pickup locations. Also, prices don't include tips for the guide/driver, which most of the brochures and onboard signs shamelessly hustle for; they are strictly optional.\n\nThe Gospel Cruise\n\nAfter several years of hearing about the Monday night **Gospel Dinner Cruises** advertised by the Savannah Riverboat Company, I ventured out to see if there was any truth to the positive reviews I had read. First, let me say this: These riverboats cruise waters along a working, industrial pathway, so if you're expecting to see postcard-like settings along the way, be forewarned. The Georgia Ports Authority's various working terminals and supporting shipping vendors will consume more space in your camera's memory than any wildlife or old buildings. You may pass working barges, and briefly, old Fort Jackson, but other than the historic cotton warehouses along River Street, there's not much beauty to behold.\n\nThe cruises board around sunset, which can be spectacular from the boat's third deck. This is where you'll want to enjoy your pre- and post-dinner time. Although the advertised boarding time is 6 p.m., board around 5:30 so you can spend a little time exploring the vessel's outside decks and maybe catch a dolphin or two in between the rustic commercial riverfront industrial sites. On Gospel Night, you'll be greeted by the sounds of about a dozen singers from varying Savannah churches who have been livening up the riverboat for the past several years. There are several lead singers, and let me tell you this, they can sing! From old hymns like \"Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus,\" to favorites like, \"Swing Low, Sweet Chariot\" and \"This Little Light of Mine,\" you'll be rocking right along with them as you dine on Southern favorites like fried chicken, mac and cheese, greens, and biscuits, buffet style. When it's all said and done and the group has sang its last amen, you'll wonder why you even thought about a view.\n\n**OLD TOWN TROLLEY TOURS OF SAVANNAH,** 234 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 233-0083, (888) 910-8687; trolleytours.com. It's exciting to tour the city in an open-air vehicle, and Old Town Trolley Tours of Savannah offers colorful and comfortable trolley-style vehicles. This 90-minute tour offers re-boarding options throughout the Historic District on orange and green trolley-style vehicles. A 1-day ticket costs $25 for adults and $10 for children. Most popular is the Paula Deen Tour, which includes dinner, $50 for adults and $26 for children. The tour company also operates a gift shop downtown and offers a ghost tour on a trolley, Ghosts and Gravestones, for $25 for adults and $10 for children.\n\n**OGLETHORPE TROLLEY TOURS,** 215 W. Boundary Rd.; (912) 233-8380; oglethorpetours.com. This group offers a 90-minute narrated, on-off trolley tour of Historic Savannah for $19 for adults and $11 for children. They also offer a Land and Sea Savannah Package, which includes a 1-hour narrated Sightseeing Riverboat Cruise along the Savannah River ($39 for adults and $20 for children). Historic Savannah Haunted Trolley Tour and Haunted Savannah packages are also available. Tickets for these are from $20 for adults and $12 for children.\n\nHorse-Drawn Carriages\n\nAlthough children generally don't jump up and down at the prospect of a guided tour of historic sites, we've found horse-drawn carriages up the appeal significantly. Who knows? You may be lucky enough to see a chartered and decorated carriage ferrying a bride and groom from a wedding at one of the Historic District churches. Tours are not given during the threat of thunderstorms, rain, or extreme heat.\n\n**CARRIAGE TOURS OF SAVANNAH,** (912) 236-6756; carriagetoursofsavannah.com. Narrated tours are about an hour in length. Options include a daytime historic tour ($22 for adults, $12 for those ages 5\u201311), evening historic or ghost story tours ($22 for adults, $12 for children), and private carriage tours for couples (call for pricing). Hours vary.\n\n**HISTORIC SAVANNAH CARRIAGE TOURS,** 2 W. Bay St.; (912) 443-9333; savannahcarriage.com. Pickup service can be arranged at hotels or at downtown locations. Fees are $23 for adults and $12 for children. Variations include private romance (Wine and Roses Tour) and Champagne Proposal tours. Standard departure is from the Hyatt Regency Savannah on Bay Street, or for private tours, by arrangement in the Historic District.\n\nWalking\n\n**FREEDOM TRAIL TOUR,** PO Box 1484, Savannah, GA 31402; (912) 398-2785. This tour lasts about 2 hours and visits historic churches, the Ralph Mark Gilbert Civil Rights Museum, slave burial grounds, and sites of particular importance in African-American history. Available 7 days a week, there are two tours daily in the winter and an extended schedule during other months. Prices are $18 for adults, $12 for children, $15 for seniors. Departures are from the Visitor Information Center, 301 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.\n\n**GHOST TALK, GHOST WALK,** 4401 Montgomery St.; (912) 233-3896, (800) 563-3896. The ghost tour is the mainstay (there are actually two different versions). They depart from Reynolds Square, beside the statue of John Wesley (one wonders what the famous preacher would have thought of it). Tours depart at dusk, varying according to the time of year, so call for information. Fees are $10 for adults and $5 for those younger than age 12. No credit cards. Other available tours include a Civil War version, a botanical tour, a historic architecture walk, and a literary walking tour. Rates vary; check when you make reservations.\n\n**THE SAVANNAH WALKS,** 37 Abercorn St.; (912) 238-9255, (888) 728-9255; savannahwalks.com. This walking-tour firm offers a varied menu with different meeting points. Be sure to check on these things when you make your reservations. Fees are $15 for adults and $7 for children ages 6\u201316. Options include general tours, a Midnight tour, a ghost tour, a Civil War walk, and one featuring gardens. The historic homes walk is slightly higher ($22 adults, $14 children) because it includes admission to one of the city's house museums.\n\n**SIXTH SENSE SAVANNAH,** (866) 666-3323; sixthsensesavannah.com. Lots of companies offer Savannah tours on a ghostly theme. This walking-tour company does it with a mixture of deadpan seriousness and arch humor (like the phone number, which spells out 666-DEAD). This company does not adopt the \"all in fun\" approach of many other ghost tours: These folks profess to believe and even offer metaphysical readings on premises. The tour founder is Shannon Scott, who has hosted some cable network TV programs on hauntings. Scott helped convince the American Institute of the Paranormal to hold its annual convention in Savannah in 2002, and the group went on to bestow its \"America's Most Haunted City\" title on us. Tours start at 7:30 and 9:30 p.m. Prices start at $25 for adults and $15 for children 12 and under.\n\n## OTHER SAVANNAH ATTRACTIONS\n\nIt almost seems like Savannah attractions are endless! One of the most distinctive draws of this city is that many of her attractions are either free or cost very little. So keep your hiking shoes on and discover what lies beyond the walking tour.\n\nHistoric District\n\n**BEACH INSTITUTE,** 502 E. Harris St.; (912) 234-8000; kingtisdell.org. The Beach Institute was established in 1865 by the American Missionary Association to educate newly freed slaves. Built in 1867, it was the first school in Savannah for African Americans and became a public school in 1919. The institute is an African-American cultural center and houses art, sculpture, and artifacts. The star of its exhibits is the 238-piece collection of wood carvings by the late Ulysses Davis, a Savannah folk artist. Stay tuned to an updated schedule for lectures and other fascinating programs via the website. The Beach Institute is open Tues through Sat noon to 5 p.m. Admission is $4 for adults, $2 for children.\n\n**FIRST AFRICAN BAPTIST CHURCH,** 23 Montgomery St.; (912) 233-6597; firstafricanbc.com. Overlooking Franklin Square is First African Baptist Church. This church, which is still active, is descended from the oldest African-American congregation in the US. George Leile, a slave, began making missionary visits to plantations up and down the Savannah River as early as 1774. A permanent congregation was formed at Brampton Plantation in 1788\u2014the first black missionary Baptist church in Savannah. Eventually, the congregation constructed the current building. It is the first brick building erected in Georgia by African Americans for African Americans; it was built by slaves who worked on it at night after being in the fields all day. The sanctuary has beautiful stained-glass windows framing the back of the altar, which displays pictures of the founding pastors. In the balcony are original pews with markings left by the slaves who built the church. The staff of this church is friendly and will invite you to visit their Sun services at 10 a.m. Tours are Tues through Sat at 11 and 2, Sun at 1 p.m., $7 for adults and $6 for students and seniors.\n\n**THE GEORGIA STATE RAILROAD MUSEUM,** 601 W. Harris St.; (912) 655-6823; chsgeorgia.org. Your children will love seeing the locomotive collection at the Georgia State Railroad Museum! It houses the oldest and most complete antebellum railroad manufacturing and repair facilities still in existence in the US. Take a moment and imagine you are standing there in the 1800s. Watch as the area's largest staff of professional historic preservationists works daily on more than a dozen historic structures. This site was the Savannah repair shop for the Central of Georgia Railway, and 13 of the original structures, which were built beginning in the 1830s, are still standing. Included are a massive roundhouse and operating turntable (where the engines were turned around) and the 125-foot brick smokestack. Various activities are offered daily at the site, including tours inside railcars, a train-ride tour of the museum, and rides on a handcar; call for schedules. The site is a National Historic Landmark operated by the Coastal Heritage Society. It is open daily 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $10 for adults and $6 for children age 2\u201312.\n\n**KING-TISDELL COTTAGE,** 514 E. Huntingdon St.; (912) 234-8000; kingtisdell.org. Built in 1869 by W. W. Aimar, this cottage, with its original gingerbread ornamentation, is in the Beach Institute neighborhood of the Historic District and serves as a museum dedicated to preserving the African-American history of Savannah and the sea islands. Inside the small home you will find art objects, documents, and furniture of the 1890s. It is open Tues through Sat noon to 5 p.m. Admission is $7.\n\n**LIVE OAK PUBLIC LIBRARY,** 2002 Bull St.; (912) 652-3600; liveoakpl.com. The opening of an $8.3 million expansion and addition to the circa-1916 main branch on Bull Street revitalized the entire library system. The building's addition is clad in marble and features park views from massive clerestory windows. The collection had drifted off into inadequacy and obsolescence until the renovation project gave it a shot in the arm\u2014and a $3 million injection of public and private monies to stock the new shelves. While you may not think of libraries as places to visit while vacationing, there are resources here of interest to the traveler. Foremost among them is the local history and genealogy collection. Those in search of the dirt on their ancestors have been known to make the trip just to get into those records. Visitors can use the resources of the library without charge and can even check items out if they pay the nonrefundable temporary card fee for out-of-towners. Branches are located throughout the county; check the website for locations.\n\n**RALPH MARK GILBERT CIVIL RIGHTS MUSEUM,** 460 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 777-6099; savcivilrights.com. More than 40,000 people toured Ralph Mark Gilbert Civil Rights Museum during its inaugural year of 1996. The museum chronicles the story of Savannah's civil rights struggles during the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Along with traveling exhibits and special programming, it spotlights how Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, formerly known as West Broad Street, was once the center of the city's thriving African-American business community. Besides educating the community, the museum also serves as an educational resource for southeastern coastal Georgia.\n\nDevelopment of the museum took place over several years. More than $1.7 million went into it, which included the renovation of the Wage Earners Savings Bank building, where the museum is housed. The Wage Earners Bank is believed to be the second bank for African Americans in the nation. The museum is the brainchild of the late local historian and activist W. W. Law. It is named after the Reverend Ralph Mark Gilbert, a pastor at First African Baptist Church, who pioneered Savannah's modern civil rights movement. Admission is $8 for adults, $6 for seniors, and $4 for students. Hours are Tues through Sat 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Guided tours are available upon request.\n\ni The Pirates' House at 20 E. Broad St., which is now home to a restaurant featuring a mysterious maze of rooms, is a former sailors' tavern built in 1794. Peer down into the secret tunnels and you might find a dead pirate!\n\n**SAVANNAH HISTORY MUSEUM,** Savannah Visitor Information Center; 301 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 651-6825; chsgeorgia.org. Cool off and delve into Savannah's past at the Savannah History Museum, located in the old passenger station of the Central of Georgia Railway that also houses the Savannah Visitor Center. The structure, a National Historic Landmark, features a variety of exhibits, including an 1890 steam locomotive that is still sitting on the original Central of Georgia tracks. A genuine antique cotton gin is on display, along with artifacts from the Civil War and other eras. Enjoy a colorful film that provides an overview of the city's history in the small theater. The museum is open weekdays 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. and weekends 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It costs $7 for adults and teens, $4 for children ages 2\u201312. Kids younger than age 6 are free.\n\n**The Battlefield Memorial Park**\n\nAfter your visit to the Georgia State Railroad Museum, walk the grounds nearby where 800 troops fought and died in 1779, when soldiers from three different armies battled for control of Savannah. Within this area, approximately 2,500 British defenders faced down the allied force of 5,500 French and American troops who fought fiercely, and when the battle was over, more than 8,000 troops had fought and many died or were wounded, and Savannah remained in the hands of the British. It's quite a sight to view the granite markers that represent the soldiers who lost their lives. There's also a wooden sign greeting visitors at the Spring Hill Redoubt, a representation of the British fortification in the battle. There is no charge to walk the grounds; however, donations are always accepted.\n\n**SHIPS OF THE SEA MUSEUM,** 41 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 232-1511; shipsofthesea.org. Scarbrough House and its related garden (a true undiscovered treasure) have added a lot of tone to this museum, previously housed on River Street. The exhibits are more formal now, showcasing paintings and intricate models. The collection also includes scrimshaw, ancient navigational tools, and a china cat figurine with its own risqu\u00e9 story to tell. Learn about Savannah's maritime history while exploring this museum. The home, built in 1819 for the principal owner of the _Savannah_ , the first steamship to cross the Atlantic Ocean, was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1974. Cost is $8.50 for adults, $6.50 for children age 6 and older (if you have a college ID you can get the discounted rate). Children 5 and under get in free. The museum is open Tues through Sun 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\n**THE TELFAIR MUSEUMS,** 121 Barnard St.; (912) 790-8827; telfair.org. The Telfair Museums is the overarching title of three jointly operated but very different and distinct museums. The Owens-Thomas House is a house museum of historic and architectural importance. Savannah has several house museums, and in case you are unfamiliar with the term, consider them \"lifestyle\" museums that capture the home decor and flavor of life in the period of the usually significant homes they occupy; you could build a case that the Owens-Thomas House is the finest example in Savannah. The Telfair Museum of Art is a splendid hybrid: part house museum, complete with some of the original furnishings on its parlor floor, while the upper and lower floors display 19th- and 20th-century art. Round out this trio of museums with the Jepson Center, a modern setting for modern art, and you've met the whole set. Because the Owens-Thomas House is discussed in more detail elsewhere in this chapter, it is omitted from further review here so we can summarize the other two more fully.\n\n**TELFAIR MUSEUM OF ART,** 121 Barnard St.; (912) 790-8800; telfair.org. The Telfair is the oldest art museum in the South. Its permanent collection of paintings, prints, sculpture, and decorative arts is housed in a mansion designed by English architect William Jay for Alexander Telfair, son of Georgia governor Edward Telfair. The family lived here until 1875.\n\nAmong the museum's holdings are paintings by Childe Hassam, Frederick Frieseke, and Gari Melchers, along with Robert Henri, George Bellows, and George Luks. The museum also has a decorative arts collection that includes American and European objects from 1790 to 1840, including a rare Philadelphia suite of maple furniture, a secretary-bookcase commissioned from Duncan Phyfe of New York, and a dining table ordered from Thomas Cook of Philadelphia. The museum also holds the largest existing collection of the works of Lebanese mystical poet and artist Kahlil Gibran, best known for _The Prophet_. His patroness, Mary Haskell, made her home in her later years on Gaston Street in Savannah. Because of the fragile nature of the artwork (it was done predominantly in pencil), it is only on display occasionally. On a more contemporary note, the Telfair is the new home for the _Bird Girl_ sculpture featured on the cover of John Berendt's _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_. Fans of the book hounded it out of its original setting in a family plot at Bonaventure.\n\nThe Telfair is open Mon noon to 5 p.m., Tues through Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., and Sun 1 to 5 p.m. Cost is $12 for adults, $5 for students, and free for children under 5. Note that the best admission prices are those that cover all three Telfair Museums sites: the Triple Site Pass is $20 for adults; $18 for seniors, AAA members, and the military; $15 for students k\u2013college; or a family of two adults and two children, $40.\n\n**JEPSON CENTER FOR THE ARTS,** 207 W. York St.; (912) 790-8800; telfair.org. The Jepson Center for the Arts adds 64,000 square feet to Telfair's assets. In addition to large galleries for traveling exhibitions, it has space for regional and community work, outdoor sculpture terraces, classrooms, a 200-seat auditorium, a cafe, and a store.\n\nIn 2006 a city that made its reputation by preserving and restoring its historic architecture also offered something significant from the modern side of the architecture spectrum: the freestanding ultramodern Jepson Center for the Arts on the same historic square as the Telfair Museum of Art. The Jepson concentrates on 20th- and 21st-century collections, both owned works and traveling exhibitions. The permanent collection was bolstered on opening with the gift of more than 20 works on paper by major contemporary artists honoring the late Kirk Varnedoe, a former Museum of Modern Art curator and native Savannahian. Included in that impressive gift were works by Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein, Robert Rauschenberg, and Richard Avedon, among many others.\n\nIslands\n\n**BONAVENTURE CEMETERY,** 330 Bonaventure Rd.; (912) 651-6843; savannahga.gov. \"Bonaventure\" means \"good fortune,\" which may strike you as a strange name for a graveyard. But once you visit this serenely beautiful place, chances are the name will seem more appropriate. The massive cemetery (160 acres) stands under vast canopies of moss-draped shade where live oaks, thick with age, stand guard by row upon row of elegant statuary and headstones, culminating in a scenic waterfront view on the Wilmington River. Among famous residents in this cemetery are Pulitzer Prize\u2013winning poet Conrad Aiken, whose grave is marked by a poetry-engraved bench, and the graves of famed Savannah lyricist Johnny Mercer and his wife, Ginger.\n\nBonaventure was once an elegant plantation, but the grand home burned down more than once. Local folklore has it that the roof caught fire during a dinner party, and the guests finished the meal outdoors by the light of the burning building. If you are looking for ghost stories, there's a tale that you can still hear the revelry and breaking glass of that party at certain times. The property became a cemetery in the 1800s and was put into city hands in 1907. It is still an active cemetery with an occasional burial, but the few remaining spaces are generally taken\u2014don't get attached to the place. You may encounter a real funeral on your visit to this beautiful cemetery, and your decorum is appreciated.\n\nMany important figures from the history of Georgia and the nation are buried here. There's Noble Jones, who arrived with James Oglethorpe at the beginning of the colony; several members of Georgia's Liberty Boys; and a number of prominent physicians, including Brodie Herndon, chief surgeon of hospitals for the Confederacy and the first doctor to perform a caesarean operation in the US. John Walz, sculptor of many of the impressive funerary statues in Bonaventure and other local cemeteries, is buried here. Ironically, there is no headstone at his grave.\n\nPark with care, as there is a lot of tourbus traffic. There's a small lot behind the office building just inside the gates if you are the hiking kind; there's also a grassy parking area for a few cars that's near the water and not far from the Aiken plot. Although we haven't heard of any trouble, it's an isolated spot between tours, so it's probably a good idea to lock your car and bring a friend. Cemetery hours are 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily. The Bonaventure Historical Society's visitor center is open Sat and Sun 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Free guided tours are provided by the society on the second Sun of each month and the preceding Sat. Sat tours are at 2 p.m. Sun tours are at 2, 2:30, and 3 p.m.\n\nIf you like what you see at Bonaventure, there's more. Another historic city of Savannah cemetery is Laurel Grove Cemetery, 802 W. Anderson St. (912-651-6772), resting place of those from all walks of life in Savannah's history. Many Confederate soldiers and veterans are buried there, along with such notables as Girl Scout founder Juliette Gordon Low and \"Jingle Bells\" composer James L. Pierpont. You'll find the same elaborate statuary standing under some of the most impressive oaks Savannah has to offer.\n\n**OATLAND ISLAND EDUCATION CENTER,** 711 Sandtown Rd.; (912) 898-3980; oatlandisland.org. A visit to Oatland gives you a good idea of what Georgia's first European settlers might have seen when they landed in 1733. Walk the 1.75-mile trail through the center's 75-acre forest of oaks, pines, and magnolias, and you'll encounter enclosures providing natural settings for animals native to the state: shorebirds, alligators, panthers, birds of prey, white-tailed deer, black bears, timber wolves, and bison. The enclosures are large and wooded, and the inhabitants are often hard to spot, but getting a look at them in their environment is worth the effort. The trail leads you to the Heritage Homesite area, where two log cabins (built in 1835, moved to Oatland, and restored there) convey a feeling for life on the farm during pioneer days. Another Oatland feature is a small barnyard where youngsters can see and feed farm animals. Be sure to check out the Wolf Wilderness Exhibit where you can view, firsthand, a pack of five wolves!\n\nAlthough Oatland's main focus is on teaching students from local and out-of-county public and private schools, it is open to the public 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. every day of the week. Guests can remain on the grounds until 4:30 p.m. Admission to Oatland is $5 for adults and $3 for children (ages 4\u201317), and seniors age 65 and older and active military also pay $3. Children under the age of 4 are admitted free. The tour of the center's animal habitats is self-guided and takes about 90 minutes.\n\n**OLD FORT JACKSON,** 1 Fort Jackson Rd.; (912) 232-3945; chsgeorgia.org. Georgia's oldest standing brick fortification perches right on the banks of the Savannah River\u2014built there so its guns could fire on any vessel coming into Savannah\u2014and chances are good you'll get an up-close view of an oceangoing ship during your visit. This is a great place to pose for personal pictures and then walk on the parapet of the fort and investigate the structure's many nooks and crannies. Two powder magazines and most of the casemates are open to the public, and they contain displays of weaponry and tools used at the fort and artifacts from the CSS _Georgia_ , a Confederate ironclad whose remains lay on the river bottom a few hundred feet away. Inspect 11 cannons. The 9-inch Dahlgren cannon is the largest functional piece of Civil War\u2013era heavy artillery in the US. Cannon-firing programs are presented in the summer; call for more information.\n\nFor a thorough rundown on the history of the fort, watch the 15-minute film that's shown in one of the powder magazines. The fort is not on an island, but we've placed it in this section because it's 3 miles from the Historic District on the way to the eastside islands. To get there, take President Street Extension (also known as Islands Expressway) east to the red, white, and blue Fort Jackson sign; then turn left onto Woodcock Road and follow the brown signs to the fort. The fort is open 7 days a week 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., but it is closed on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day. Entry is $7 for adults and $4 for kids age 2\u201312.\n\n**PIN POINT HERITAGE MUSEUM,** 9924 Pin Point Ave.; (912) 667-9176, (912) 355-0064; pinpointheritagemuseum.com. This museum highlights the community of Pin Point, a Gullah/Geechee enclave founded by first generation freemen. This small fishing community centered around the now-closed A.S. Varn & Son Oyster and Crab Factory on Moon River nearing Skidaway Island. This museum celebrates the life, work and history of the people of Pin Point. One of the Pin Point native sons is Associate Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas. The museum is open Sat 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**BETHESDA HOME FOR BOYS,** 9520 Ferguson Ave.; (912) 351-2005; bethesdaacademy.org. Bethesda, America's oldest children's home, reposes on 600 oak-filled acres overlooking the Moon River (yes, that Moon River, the one made famous in the song by Henry Mancini and Savannahian Johnny Mercer). You can stroll or ride around the well-kept grounds of the main campus and visit the Bethesda museum and chapel, but the home's administrators ask that you report to the office after you arrive so that they know you're there. The museum\u2014located in what was once the dining room of Burroughs Cottage, which was built in 1883 and is the oldest standing building at Bethesda\u2014contains documents and artifacts pertaining to the history of the home and of coastal Georgia. Whitefield Chapel was completed in 1925 and is named for George Whitefield, one of the home's founders. It's a reproduction of Whitefield's church in England, and with its straight-back wooden pews, brick floor, and airy interior, the chapel is a small but beautiful place in which to spend a few moments in meditation. The chapel is open year-tound; museum hours are Mon through Fri 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. There's no admission fee, but donations are accepted.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nWormsloe Historic Site\n\nYou'll be amazed and astounded when you approach this magnificent attraction. After driving under a large masonry arch at the entrance to Wormsloe, you'll travel down an \"avenue of oaks,\" a wide, crushed-stone road lined with majestic live oak trees. After 1.25 miles, the road narrows to a walking trail. At this point, you'll find a parking lot and the Wormsloe museum. Discover the last architectural remnant of the Oglethorpe era in Savannah at **Wormsloe Historic Site** (Isle of Hope, 7601 Skidaway Rd., 912-353-3023; gastateparks.org), which is at the end of Skidaway Road on the doorstep of the Isle of Hope, about 10 miles south of the Historic District.\n\nContinue on foot down the trail about 0.25 mile, and you'll be looking at the remains of a fortified house where construction was started in 1739 during the 10-year span James Edward Oglethorpe spent founding and nurturing the colony of Georgia (see our History chapter). The builder and owner of the house\u2014a physician, carpenter, and surveyor named Noble Jones\u2014came to the new colony in 1733 with Oglethorpe and the first boatload of settlers. Three years later, Jones leased 500 acres from the Trustees of Georgia, land that would be part of a plantation he called Wormslow. The name was changed to Wormsloe in the mid-1800s by his great-grandson, and the plantation eventually grew to cover nearly 900 acres. Jones's descendants donated 822 of those acres to the Nature Conservancy in 1972, and the property was transferred to the state of Georgia, which manages the site via the Parks and Historic Sites Division of the Department of Natural Resources.\n\nThe house Jones completed in the mid-1740s was a five-room, one-and-one-half-story dwelling built into a fort-\u00fcke rectangular wall intended to protect its inhabitants from attack by the Spanish. The house and wall were made of tabby, a concoction of oyster shells, lime, and sand mixed with water. You can see parts of the foundation of the house and large portions of the wall. Other points of interest at Wormsloe are the museum and theater, where you can learn more about the site and the early days of the colony; a stone monument marking the first Jones family burial plot; nature trails; and the Colonial Life Area, which contains re-creations of outbuildings characteristic of Wormsloe's early period. This area is also the site of living-history demonstrations and programs presented during special events.\n\nDuring your drive down the avenue of oaks, you may notice an elegant, two-story frame house on the eastern side of the road. This structure was built in 1828 and is home to the ninth generation of Jones's descendants; it is closed to the public. Wormsloe is open Tues through Sun 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is from $10 for adults, $9 for seniors, $4.50 for youth 6\u201317. This site is operated as part of Georgia's state parks system.\n\nAfter you visit Wormsloe, take a few minutes to drive through nearby Isle of Hope, a community of narrow streets and beautifully preserved houses. Turn right after leaving Wormsloe, and you'll be on Parkersburg Road, which meanders through Isle of Hope until it reaches Bluff Drive, one of the prettiest streets in the Savannah area. A jaunt down Bluff Drive, which runs alongside the picturesque Skidaway River, is worth the time it will take to make this short detour.\n\n**COASTAL GEORGIA BOTANICAL GARDENS,** 2 Canebrake Rd.; (912) 921-5460; coastalgeorgiabg. Called the Bamboo Farm through the years by Savannahians because of the groves of the tropical plants grown there, the facility has a large collection of daylilies, a xeriscape garden, a cottage garden, and bamboo, of course\u2014140 varieties of it. The bamboo collection is the largest in the US open for viewing by the public, and there's also a grove of giant timber bamboo\u2014the reason the farm was purchased for the US Department of Agriculture in 1918. The bamboo grove, where stalks can reach a height of more than 70 feet and a diameter of 6 inches, originated with three seedlings planted on the site in 1890; 25 years later, it attracted the attention of plant explorer David Fairchild, who bought the 46-acre farm where the bamboo grew and donated it to the government. The farm offers a self-guided walking tour that will take you to (among other botanical treasures) the bamboo collection and grove, beds of ornamental and turf grasses, an experimental grove of different species of banana tree, a collection of crape myrtles that's probably the largest in coastal Georgia, and a variety of other interesting trees.\n\nThe gardens are open Mon through Fri 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., and Sun noon to 5 p.m. Admission is free, and donations are accepted. The facility is on US 17, about 13 miles south of the Historic District.\n\n**MIGHTY EIGHTH AIR FORCE HERITAGE MUSEUM,** 175 Bourne Ave., Pooler; (912) 748-8888; mightyeighth.org. It's not unusual for veterans of World War II aerial combat to leave this museum's Mission Experience exhibit with tears in their eyes. This re-creation of an Eighth Air Force bombing mission brings back vivid memories to those who flew over Europe\u2014recollections of heavily defended targets, stricken aircraft, and fallen comrades. The panoramic, eight-screen theater and its B-17 flight are a featured part of the 90,000-square-foot museum in Pooler near the intersection of I-95 and US 80 (exit 102 from I-95).\n\nBesides the Mission Experience, the museum's exhibit area contains presentations featuring more than 15 units that were part of the Eighth; a mural and a scale model depicting a World War II bomber base in England; areas dealing with escape and evasion, prisoners of war, and the contributions of African-American airmen; a diorama portraying the raids on the Ploesti oil fields; a PT-17 Stearman trainer and a Messerschmitt Komet rocket plane on static display; and several other theaters. There's also a research library stocked with books pertaining to aviation and air warfare, an art gallery, Memorial Gardens, a chapel, store, and restaurant. The museum is open daily 9 a.m. until 5 p.m. except for New Year's Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Admission to the exhibit area is $10 for adults and teens and $6 for children ages 6\u201312, with those younger than age 6 admitted free. There are discounts for members of the military, senior citizens, and groups of 20 or more. The library is open 9 a.m. to noon and 1 to 4 p.m. Mon through Fri.\n\n**SAVANNAH BOTANICAL GARDENS,** 1388 Eisenhower Dr.: (912) 355-3883; savannahbotanical.org. See more than 900 varieties of trees, shrubs, and flowering plants when you visit this Savannah Area Council of Garden Clubs project on the Southside. The clubs maintain 10 acres of gardens featuring roses, perennials, herbs, and vegetables, and separate gardens devoted to flowering plants that bloom during the different seasons of the year. There's also a garden for plants such as ferns that grow best in spots that don't get much sunshine. Some of the plants are labeled, so neophyte gardeners will be able to tell what they're looking at. A tabby walkway meanders through the gardens, and a small pond and a nature walk add to the ambience of this spot, which is nestled in a fairly well-developed part of town. The garden center is headquartered in an 1840s-era farmhouse that was moved to the South-side from a downtown location in 1991. The center and gardens are on Eisenhower Drive at its intersection with Sallie Mood Drive. Hours are from sunup to sundown 7 days a week. Admission is free, but donations are appreciated.\n\n**SAVANNAH-OGEECHEE CANAL MUSEUM AND NATURE CENTER,** 681 Fort Argyle Rd.; (912) 748-8068. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the Savannah-Ogeechee Canal, which played a role in the commercial development of Savannah during the 1800s, lay virtually forgotten for a century until a group of Chatham Countians reclaimed a third of it from the tangle of foliage that had grown over it. These volunteers started their work in 1992, and now, organized as the Savannah-Ogeechee Canal Society, they oversee the continued development of the waterway as a historic and recreational area.\n\nYou can get a splendid idea of what the southern portion of the canal was like by visiting the society's museum and 184-acre nature center, which is on Fort Argyle Road (better known as SR 204), a little more than 2 miles west of exit 94 off I-95. The museum, a converted bungalow, has two exhibit rooms, one depicting the history of the canal and another displaying reptiles and amphibians that inhabit the area the waterway runs through.\n\nWithin view of the museum is Lock 5, which is on a trail you can follow for 0.4 mile along the canal south to Lock 6 and the Ogeechee River; this trail is the towpath that horses and mules trod while pulling barges more than 100 years ago. The Tow Path is one of several trails you can walk while at the nature center. The museum and nature center are open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. each day of the year. Admission is $2 for adults and $1 for students and senior citizens; children age 5 and younger are admitted free.\n\n# ANNUAL EVENTS & FESTIVALS\n\nSavannahians love to party. They love their history. They also love getting outdoors and taking advantage of coastal Georgia's congenial climate. Is it any wonder, then, there's almost always something going on in Savannah? That something might be a festival attracting thousands of people or the commemoration of a historic event drawing a few hundred, but a week seldom passes in which there's nothing to do in Savannah.\n\nWe admit things slow down a tad during the summer months because of the heat, but that doesn't mean you can't get out and enjoy yourself. Grab your suntan lotion, cooler, and lounge chair, and head for a day at the beach on nearby Tybee Island, just as Savannahians have been doing for more than a century.\n\nSavannah's biggest party is its celebration of St. Patrick's Day, a green-hued blast bringing about a half-million visitors to the city in mid-March. Because we want to be sure you don't miss any of the fun, we've included in this chapter a full rundown on the main event\u2014the parade\u2014and the constellation of events that surround it.\n\nWe need to mention one thing before taking you through our month-by-month rundown of events and festivals: Dates, times, and admission fees can change, so it's best to call ahead for the most current information. The telephone numbers included with the following write-ups are the numbers of the individuals, organizations, or agencies sponsoring or coordinating the events.\n\n## JANUARY\n\nHistoric District\n\n**EMANCIPATION DAY SERVICE,** Historic First Bryan Baptist Church; (912) 234-6293, (912) 236-3173; firstbryanbaptistchurch.com. By holding a special church service on New Year's Day, Savannah's Emancipation Association commemorates the signing of the proclamation that ordered the freeing of slaves in the Confederate states. During the 11 a.m. gathering, held at a different church each year, a participant reads the Emancipation Proclamation, a mass choir sings hymns, and speakers deliver addresses concerning the significance of that historic day in 1863. Call for additional information.\n\n**MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. OBSERVANCE DAY ACTIVITIES,** various locations; (912) 234-5502. This monthlong tribute to civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. features a parade through downtown starting at 10 a.m. on the third Monday in January, the national holiday in his honor. The observances wind up with the Freedom Ball at the Savannah Civic Center on the last Friday of January. For more information or for the parade route and schedule, visit savannahnow.com or call the number above.\n\ni If you're looking to uplift your spirits during what can sometimes be a depressing time of year\u2014late January\u2014consider attending \"Hymns for Hope,\" a musical program usually held on the Sunday before Super Bowl Sunday. Featuring local church choirs and gospel singing groups, this presentation takes place in the afternoon or early in the evening. Admission is $10 and benefits the Interfaith Hospitality Network of Coastal Georgia, a volunteer organization that aids homeless families. You can contact the network and get the specific details on \"Hymns for Hope\" by calling (912) 790-9446.\n\n## FEBRUARY\n\nHistoric District\n\n**BLACK HERITAGE FESTIVAL,** various locations; (912) 351-6320; savannah blackheritagefestival.com, savstate.edu. Various musical groups entertain with performances of gospel, reggae, blues, and jazz, and craftspeople gather at the Savannah Civic Center on the Grand Festival Day (a Sat) to sell items related to African culture during this event, which is held during a week in early February. Funded by Savannah's Department of Cultural Affairs this event is star-studded with local celebrities and usually starts at noon and ends at 4 p.m. The concert portion of the show highlights the multifaceted contributions of African Americans in the areas of music, the performing arts, and cuisine. Admission is free. Stay tuned to the website for news of the current year's event.\n\n**GHS'S GEORGIA DAYS,** various locations; (912) 651-2125; georgiahistory.com. This observance celebrating Georgia's founding and heritage unfolds during the first 2 weeks of February and usually focuses on the 12th of the month\u2014the day on which the first colonists landed in 1733. Georgia Week opens on the first day of February with a ceremony in a downtown square featuring a portrayal of a significant figure in the history of the state and wreath-layings at monuments throughout the city. Programs at historic sites and a lecture focusing on the aforementioned historic figure are part of the celebration, which is presented by the Georgia Historical Society (GHS) in partnership with Chatham-Savannah public schools.\n\nOn the morning of Georgia Day, February 12, schoolchildren dressed as colonists and the Native Americans who welcomed them walk in a procession from Forsyth Park up Bull Street to City Hall on Bay Street. Contact the GHS regarding events and further information.\n\n**SAVANNAH BOOK FESTIVAL,** savannah bookfestival.org. The Savannah Book Festival brings authors of national status to Savannah, from the best-selling authors whose work keeps you amused on long flights to serious biographers and historians. It is held the Fri, Sat, and Sun of Presidents' Day weekend. Saturday is the busiest day, with authors scheduled for presentations throughout the day in a cluster of downtown venues within walking distance of one another\u2014the Telfair Museum of Art, Jepson Center, Trinity United Methodist Church, and other churches and venues around Telfair, Chippewa, and Wright Squares. This event attracts such authors as Anne Rice, P.J. O'Rourke, Janet Evanovich, Mary Kay Andrews, and Tavis Smiley. For schedule details and venues check the website.\n\n**SAVANNAH IRISH FESTIVAL,** Savannah Civic Center, Liberty and Montgomery Streets; (912) 651-6556, (800) 351-7469; savannahirish.org. This family-oriented event uses song, dance, and recitation to emphasize the heritage of the Irish and the contributions of Irish immigrants here and throughout the US. In addition to the main stage, where much of this activity takes place, there are stages for children's entertainment and readings and discussions involving Irish culture and history. Vendors market Irish clothing, jewelry, and artifacts, and members of local Irish organizations prepare and sell food, including shepherd's pie, Irish stew, and other ethnic dishes. The festival is on the second or third weekend in Feb 10:30 a.m. to 8 p.m. Sat, and noon until 7 p.m. Sun. Admission to the festival is $12 per day or $16 for a 2-day ticket. Children ages 4 and younger are admitted free.\n\nIslands\n\n**COLONIAL FAIRE & MUSTER AT WORMSLOE,** Wormsloe Historic Site; 7601 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 353-3023. Historical reenactors clad in the garb of Georgia's colonists make music and demonstrate craft skills, such as making candles and musket balls, at this program held in an open area near the marsh on Isle of Hope, overlooking the Skidaway River. At the visitor center, you can view artifacts excavated from Wormsloe's tabby ruins and watch an audiovisual show about the founding of the 13th colony. The program takes place 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. on the first Sat and Sun in Feb. Admission is free.\n\n## MARCH\n\nHistoric District\n\n**CELTIC CROSS CEREMONY,** Emmet Park; Bay and Price Streets; (912) 233-4804; savannahsaintpatricksday.com. Members of the city's Irish organizations gather at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist for mass at 11:30 a.m. on the second Sunday of the month, then march in procession to Emmet Park, where they lay a wreath at the Celtic Cross and listen to a speech about their heritage. The cross, officially named the Irish Monument, was carved from a single piece of Irish limestone in County Roscommon, Ireland. The Savannah Irish Monument Committee erected the Celtic Cross in 1983, the 250th anniversary of the founding of Savannah and Georgia, to commemorate Georgians of Irish ancestry. The ceremony starts about 1 p.m., and it's open to the public.\n\n**FIRST SATURDAY,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. Browse through the wares of artisans and craftspeople from throughout the Southeast and listen to various forms of music during First Saturday on the plaza on River Street. While enjoying the breeze blowing off the Savannah River, you might find yourself staring at a large cargo ship as it glides along the waterway, so close you'd swear you could reach out and touch it. The 40 to 60 open-air arts and crafts booths on the plaza offer a variety of treasures, everything from original oil paintings and watercolors to rocking horses fashioned from wood scraps. If you can't turn up something that catches your fancy among the artists' booths, visit the shops in the renovated cotton warehouses lining River Street.\n\nHungry? You have your choice of restaurants dishing up a variety of cuisine. The Savannah Waterfront Association presents First Saturday festivals 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. on\u2014what else?\u2014the first Saturday of each month, with the exception of January and February. Some are part of expanded, more distinctive festivals: the Fine Arts festival in April, the Savannah Seafood Festival in May, Oktoberfest in October, and Christmas on the River in December. By the way, a fireworks display is staged at dusk every first Friday. Admission is free.\n\n**ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE,** various downtown streets; (912) 233-4804; savannahsaintpatricksday.com. You'll know it's March if you choose this month to arrive in Savannah. The flowers will be in full bloom, painting the town with blazing colors. Strolling locals will shed their winter coats in exchange for green sweaters. Irish tunes will ring from the walls of St. Vincent's Academy as the girls practice their salute to the upcoming St. Patrick's Day Grand Marshall. Sidewalks will be adorned with green and white souvenirs that spill out of shops proclaiming that the day is upon us. Closer to March 17 (St. Patrick's Day), fountains will turn to green, and the demeanor of Savannahians will turn from ho-hum to jovial. It's a time when the Irish Catholic community comes together, and those who aren't join in the festivities.\n\nOn the morn of St. Patrick's Day, even the most introverted will come out. Adorned with everything from \"boingy\" shamrocks to green beads, green and white buttons, and fake beards and moustaches, some celebrants even dye their dogs green. On St. Patrick's Day in Savannah, people eat green grits and drink green beer.\n\nSavannah's biggest annual event, the parade, lasts upwards of 4 hours and involves thousands of participants. Some 250 units take to the streets for the parade, including marching bands, floats, and the city's numerous Irish organizations. The parade starts about 10:15 a.m. at Forsyth Park and winds its way around several of Savannah's squares and down its main thoroughfares.\n\n**ST. PATRICK'S AT CITY MARKET,** Jefferson and St. Julian Streets; (912) 232-4903; savannahcitymarket.com. City Market celebrates the big day with live music and dancing in the courtyard. This laid-back party occurs over a span of time that includes St. Patrick's Day and can last as long as 5 days, depending on when the holiday falls. On St. Patrick's Day, the bands crank up as soon as the parade passes nearby. It's free.\n\ni The water of the Forsyth Park fountain is traditionally dyed green each year for St. Patrick's Day, but don't expect the Savannah River to be treated in similar fashion. The last and only attempt at turning the river green occurred in 1961 with less than desirable results. A thousand pounds of the chemical uranine was used, and the outcome was a striped effect.\n\n**ST. PATRICK'S DAY ON THE RIVER,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; savwaterfront.com. The Savannah Waterfront Association sets up food booths on the plaza and brings in nationally known entertainers to perform, but the biggest attraction of St. Patrick's Day on the River isn't eating or listening to music\u2014it's being part of the crowd that jams River Street. This 9-block party is free for nondrinkers, and it's the place to be during St. Patrick's Day festivities if you like to rub elbows with people\u2014literally. Those wishing to drink beer outdoors will have to purchase $5 wristbands. The merrymaking is at its peak on St. Patrick's Day and the weekend closest to the holiday; the party cranks up about 10 a.m., and food sales and scheduled entertainment end at midnight.\n\n**SAVANNAH ASIAN FESTIVAL,** Savannah Civic Center, Montgomery and Liberty Streets; (912) 651-6417; savannahga.gov/arts. A response to the contributions of Savannah's growing Asian community, this 1-day event features displays and entertainment reflecting the heritage of people of Chinese, Filipino, Indian, Japanese, Sri Lankan, Nepalese, Korean, Thai, Pakistani, Taiwanese, and Vietnamese descent. A Vietnamese dragon dance ceremony, an Asian fashion show, martial arts demonstrations, and Vietnamese fan dancing are highlights. Representatives of the Asian cultures, some of them clad in native dress, display and sell arts and crafts at tables set up in the Civic Center arena and host workshops. You can purchase samples of Asian cuisine at food booths. The festival runs Fri and Sat in late March. It's sponsored by Savannah's Department of Cultural Affairs and Armstrong State University. Admission is free.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nWhy St. Patrick's Day\n\nYou might be wondering why St. Patrick's Day has evolved as the most festive day of the year in Savannah. That is a valid question. It's not enough to say that a large segment of Savannah's population is, or has been, Irish or of Irish descent. That's true of lots of cities that don't make anywhere near the fuss over St. Patrick's Day as Savannah does.\n\nPart of the reason for the popularity of the day might stem from the fact that it's been celebrated here for a long time, longer than in most American cities. According to the late William L. Fogarty, who wrote a history of the local observance entitled _The Days We've Celebrated_ , the first celebration here was in 1813 when the Hibernian Society, formed by Irish Protestants seeking to help their impoverished countrymen, held a private procession. The city's first public procession, which is recognized as Savannah's first St. Patrick's Day parade, was also held by the society and took place in 1824.\n\n\"Why and how this celebration could possibly have carried on these many years is perhaps one of the most fantastic mysteries of all,\" wrote Fogarty in 1980 as he attempted to answer questions regarding the parade's origin. \"I don't know of anyone who could really give the actual reason . . . Perhaps the answer would be the 'Pride of the Irish' has sustained it.\"\n\nAlthough the celebration remains religious in nature (many Savannahians begin the day by attending morning mass at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist on Lafayette Square), the observance has become more secular over the years and has been adopted by other segments of the population, leading to the saying that \"everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day.\"\n\nThe celebrating that is part of St. Patrick's Day festivities in Savannah occurs over a span of 3 or 4 days. St. Patrick's Day is always observed on March 17, and the annual parade is held on that day except when it falls on Sunday\u2014in that case, the parade is on Saturday, March 16.\n\nMost of the merrymaking happens on the day of the parade and the weekend closest to it. When the parade is on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, the partying will be on that day, the weekend before, and the day or days before. When the parade is on a Thursday or Friday, the celebrating will be on that day, the day after, and the weekend following. On parade day and weekends, River Street and City Market are packed with celebrators.\n\nHave a parking plan in place before the morning of the parade. Parking will be expensive and hard to come by. Consider parking at Oglethorpe Mall on Savannah's suburban Southside, where a special Chatham Area Transit (CAT) bus shuttles paradegoers and partiers back and forth all day.\n\nThe parade is an all-year planning project by the St. Patrick's Day Parade Committee, and you can get a progress report on the upcoming edition of the parade at savannahsaintpatricksday.com.\n\n**SAVANNAH MUSIC FESTIVAL,** various locations; (912) 234-3378; savannahmusicfestival.org. The Savannah Music Festival\u2014formerly known as Savannah Onstage\u2014enhances the beauty of the city with 2.5 weeks of jazz, classical, blues, gospel, zydeco, and other traditional American performances during late March and early April. The cornerstone of this steadily growing festival is the American Traditions Competition, which features solo vocalists presenting music that has played a significant role in forming the cultural heritage of the US. Each year additional major events are incorporated into the festival. Performers have included Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra with Wynton Marsalis, guitarist Buddy Guy, bluegrass singer and mandolinist Ricky Skaggs, the Dave Grisman Quintet, the Tallis Scholars, the Blind Boys of Alabama, and the Derek Trucks Band, and among past productions were a new and imaginative version of George Gershwin's _Porgy and Bess_ and _An Evening With Beethoven_ , featuring actress Mia Farrow and the Beaux Arts Trio. The festival also reaches students with free concerts and provides preconcert talks, films, and lectures about the heritage of American music to children and adults.\n\n**THE SAVANNAH TOUR OF HOMES AND GARDENS,** Parish House of Christ Church; 18 Abercorn St.; (912) 234-8054; savannahtourofhomes.org. This grand-daddy of Savannah's seasonal tours brings you to a different neighborhood on each day of its 4-day run. Each 3-hour, self-guided walking tour takes you to approximately six private homes and/or gardens in the Historic District. Hours are 10 a.m. until 5 p.m. on Thurs, Fri, and Sat and 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. on Sun, and participants are encouraged to stroll from site to site at their own pace and in any order they choose. Special events such as luncheons, seminars, cemetery tours, and teas are also presented, and they vary from year to year. The event is held in late March. Begun in 1935, the event is sponsored by the Episcopal Church Women of Christ Church, along with the Historic Savannah Foundation, and proceeds benefit outreach ministries of the churchwomen and the foundation's preservation efforts. The fee for each walking tour is $40, and it's essential to order tickets for the tours and other activities ahead of time. The tours always\u2014yes, always\u2014sell out. You pick up your tickets at tour headquarters, the Parish House of Christ Church.\n\n**TARA FEIS IRISH CELEBRATION,** Emmet Park, Bay and Price Streets; (912) 651-6417; savannahga.gov/arts. The city of Savannah's Department of Cultural Affairs puts the emphasis on family-oriented activities at this Irish festival on the Saturday before St. Patrick's Day. Irish music and dancing, crafts demonstrations, storytelling, and poetry recitations fill the spotlight. Youngsters can participate in hands-on activities with a Celtic touch and enjoy carnival rides. Alcoholic beverages are prohibited in an effort to enhance the family-day atmosphere. The event, in sun-dappled Emmet Park, runs 11 a.m. to 5 p.m., and admission is free. In case you're wondering, feis is pronounced \"fesh.\"\n\nIslands\n\n**SHEEP TO SHAWL FESTIVAL,** Oatland Island Education Center, 711 Sandtown Rd.; (912) 395-1212; oatlandisland.org. While musicians fiddle and strum up a storm on the porch of a log cabin built in the 1830s, visitors watch an old-fashioned sheepshearing. This activity on a Saturday in March takes place at the center's Heritage Homesite and is an ideal activity for families.\n\nThe main events occur about 11:30 a.m. and 2 p.m. when workers clip the sheep with hand-operated shears. Members of the Fiber Guild of the Savannahs card wool from the previous year's shearing, spin it into yarn, and, using a 150-year-old loom, weave yarn spun beforehand into a shawl. The shawl is raffled off, and the winner is announced near the end of the festival, which runs 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. The center invites children to try their hand at carding and spinning wool. Anyone interested in viewing Oatland's wild and domesticated animals can walk the facility's 1.75-mile nature trail and visit the barnyard. Admission is $7 for adults and $5 for children, seniors, and the military.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**ST. PATRICK'S DAY RUGBY TOURNAMENT,** Daffin Park, Victory Drive and Bee Road; (912) 234-5999; savannahrugby.com. Billed as one of the largest tournaments of its kind in the US, this event is staged by the Savannah Shamrocks rugby club on the weekend closest to St. Patrick's Day. About 75 teams participate. There's no charge for roaming the sidelines and learning about this sport that's akin to American football and has been called \"a ruffians' game played by gentlemen.\" The action starts about 9 a.m. on both days of the tourney, which was first held in 1979.\n\n## APRIL\n\nHistoric District\n\n**HISTORIC DOWNTOWN FINE ARTS ON THE RIVER,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. Artists from throughout the nation display their paintings, photographs, and crafts during this festival on River Street's Rousakis Waterfront Plaza the end of April or on the first weekend in May. Wine tasting, live music, and sales of food prepared by River Street restaurants add to the festivities. Admission is free to this event, a production of the Savannah Waterfront Association.\n\n**NOGS HIDDEN GARDENS OF SAVANNAH TOUR,** Garden Club of Savannah; (912) 961-4805; gardenclubofsavannah.org. For more than 20 years, the members of the Garden Club of Savannah have, via this tour, enabled folks to glimpse a part of the city they would not otherwise see. As its name implies, this self-guided walking tour is your chance to get a look at some of the elegant gardens hidden behind the walls and gates of downtown homes. Chosen because of their beauty and unusual arrangement, eight gardens are opened to the public by their owners for only the 2 days of the tour.\n\nYou buy your tickets online or on the day of the tour at the Green-Meldrim House, 14 W. Macon St. A splendid way to end your walk is by finishing at the Harper-Fowlkes House on Orleans Square and attending the tea served there, a treat included in the $40 ticket price. A visit to the Massie Heritage Center and its garden is included on the tour, which is presented on a Fri and Sat in late April, about the time Savannah is in full bloom. The gardens are open 10 a.m. until 4 p.m., and light refreshments are served at the tea 2 to 4 p.m. By the way, NOGS stands for North of Gwinnett Street, the locale of all the gardens on the tour.\n\n**SIDEWALK ARTS FESTIVAL,** Forsyth Park; (912) 525-5231; scad.edu/experience/events/sidewalkarts. The normally sedate slabs of the sidewalks leading through Forsyth Park pulsate with color for one precious day in late April, when the Savannah College of Art and Design stages its Sidewalk Arts Festival. SCAD students, alumni, prospective students, children, and preteens cover the concrete with chalk drawings, creating an immense art exhibit on the ground. You'll see everything from reproductions of famous masterpieces to the flights of fancy of 5-year-olds as you stroll through the park. Nearly 1,000 artists participate. Other attractions include the music of various bands and art projects for young children and preteens. The festival starts at 11 a.m. and ends at 5 p.m.\n\n## MAY\n\nHistoric District\n\n**RIVER STREET SEAFOOD FESTIVAL,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. Fresh seafood prepared at booths on River Street's Rousakis Plaza is the main attraction of this event on the first weekend in May. Menus feature shrimp, crab, and crayfish\u2014much of it caught in local waters. Festivalgoers munch away as they check out sales of arts and crafts, boogie to the beach and Cajun music provided by bands playing on the plaza's main stage, and enjoy the oyster-shucking contest. Hours are Fri and Sat 9 a.m. to midnight and Sun 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Admission is free.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**SCOTTISH GAMES AND HIGHLAND GATHERING,** Bethesda Home for Boys, 9520 Ferguson Ave.; (912) 233-6017; savannahscottishgames.com. Although tests of strength and dexterity are the focal point of the Scottish Games, there's more to the event than brawny lads tossing long poles (\"cabers\") and heaving sheaves of hay into the air. Aye, there are winsome lassies performing the dances of the Highlands, and stouthearted bagpipers playing their melancholy tunes. Also, members of more than 50 Scottish clans bring a touch of plaid to the green fields of the Bethesda Home for Boys as they gather to parade, socialize, and celebrate their heritage during this festival on the first Saturday in May. The event runs 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. The tickets are $12 for adults and $5 for teens and children. Tickets, maps, and directions may be found on the website.\n\n## JUNE\n\nHistoric District\n\n**FIRST SATURDAY,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. See our March listing for more information on this monthly event.\n\ni If you happen to be near Johnson or Wright Squares around noontime on a Friday during the summer, amble on over and you'll likely be treated to some mighty fine sound provided by members of the local chapter of the American Federation of Musicians. From ragtime to jazz, their performances make lunchtime a special outdoor treat. They're on their outdoor \"stages\" 11:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. during most of June, July, and August.\n\n## JULY\n\nHistoric District\n\n**FANTASTIC FOURTH CELEBRATION,** River Street; (912) 234-0295; savwaterfront.com. The sky above the Savannah River explodes in fireworks as folks gather on the plaza to celebrate the nation's birthday on July 4. Technicians shoot off shells 3 to 6 inches in diameter, including the largest projectile fired in Georgia, from nearby Hutchinson Island. Bring a radio and tune in to (FM) KIX 96.5, MIX 102.1, E 93, MAGIC 103.9, the Ticket, and WBMQ as the fireworks will be choreographed to music simulcast live on these local radio stations. Come early to stake out a good spot for viewing the show, and bring lawn chairs and a picnic supper to participate in what resembles a gigantic tailgate party. While you're waiting for the fireworks, you can listen to live music and people watch. The free event opens about 5 p.m., and the rockets start bursting in air about 9:30 p.m.\n\n**FIRST SATURDAY,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. See our March listing for more information on this monthly event.\n\n## AUGUST\n\nHistoric District\n\n**FIRST SATURDAY,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; savwaterfront.com. See our March listing for more information on this monthly event.\n\n**OLD FORT JACKSON LABOR DAY LOW-COUNTRY BOIL AND AUCTION,** Old Fort Jackson, 1 Fort Jackson Rd.; (912) 232-3945; chsgeorgia.org. An evening of fun, history, and food at the oldest standing brick fort in Georgia on the Saturday before Labor Day. The easygoing event takes place within the brick walls of the structure, which was manned in the War of 1812 and used during the Civil War as a headquarters for the Confederacy's defense of the Savannah River (see our Attractions chapter). A silent auction is offered, and visitors can chow down on Lowcountry boil, barbecue, and all the trimmings. The youngsters enjoy themselves scampering around in what amounts to a walled playground, and there's a cannon firing to further liven things up. Proceeds from the sale of food and drinks are used for the preservation of the fort.\n\nIslands\n\n**TOOLS AND SKILLS THAT BUILT THE COLONY,** Wormsloe Historic Site, 7601 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 353-3023; gastateparks.org. Wormsloe staff members in colonial attire demonstrate carpentry, black-smithing, cooking, weaving, flint knapping, leatherworking, woodsmen's skills, pewter casting, and other abilities essential to the development of Georgia. This living-history program is offered 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. on the last Sat and Sun of August. Admission is $5 for adults, $3.50 for senior citizens, and $2.50 for children ages 6\u201318. Those under age 6 are admitted free.\n\n## SEPTEMBER\n\nHistoric District\n\n**SAVANNAH JAZZ FESTIVAL,** Forsyth Park; (912) 651-6417; savannahjazzfestival.org. Forsyth Park and other venues heat up with the sounds of jazz during the last full week in September when many of the finest musicians in the Savannah area and the South perform their special brand of American music. The park's the place to be for Blues Night on the Thursday of the festival, for lively presentations on Friday night and Saturday afternoon and evening, and for a special Sunday afternoon session for children. The festival is funded by the city's Department of Cultural Affairs and organized by the Coastal Jazz Association, a nonprofit, community organization that depends on volunteers to run the event. Sessions are free.\n\ni Wear comfortable shoes to outdoor festivals, especially those on River Street, where you'll be walking on the ballast stones and uneven pavement. Be careful if you use the steps leading from Bay Street to River Street\u2014they seem to have been designed for people with long legs and short feet.\n\n**SAVANNAH PRIDE FESTIVAL,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-1134; savpride.com. This celebration of alternative lifestyles centers in Forsyth Park, but events happen in various venues. The festival features dozens of entertainers and guest speakers addressing topics pertinent to the LGBT community. More than 60 vendors are on hand, including folks representing community service agencies and those involved in sales of food, arts and crafts, and other merchandise. The event, held on a Saturday in early-Sept, starts at noon and progresses into the evening.\n\n## OCTOBER\n\nHistoric District\n\n**OKTOBERFEST,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. If you happen to have a dachshund handy, you might want to enter it in the Wiener Dog Race, a comical competition that's become a featured part of the Savannah Waterfront Association's Oktoberfest event. Some 200 low-slung pooches \"sprint\" down the 50-foot racecourse as they seek to win prizes for their masters. The race\u2014run in heats of four to six dogs until an overall winner prevails\u2014benefits the local Friends of the Animals organization. Watching is fun even if you don't have a dog running: Some pups never get out of the starting gate, and others wander around instead of heading for the finish line. The race is staged on the Saturday morning of the festival, which occurs during the first weekend of the month.\n\nThere will also be German food and music and plenty of beer. Booths manned by employees of River Street restaurants sell wiener schnitzel, sauerbraten, bratwurst, and German chocolate cake, but there is also food for those whose tastes aren't Teutonic. Oompah-band members decked out in lederhosen and Tyrolean hats provide much of the music, and festivalgoers are invited to join them in doing the arm-flapping, head-bobbing \"Chicken Dance.\" Also, a headline entertainer usually performs at Oktoberfest. Admission is free, but the food is not. Hours of operation are Fri and Sat 9 a.m. to midnight and Sun 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.\n\n**PICNIC IN THE PARK,** Forsyth Park; (912) 651-6417; savannahga.gov/arts. Wine and dine under the stars and enjoy a pops classical concert by the Savannah Sinfonietta at this event on a weekend evening in early October. The more elaborate your picnic meal at tree-filled Forsyth Park, the better. Judges rate the best picnic, and festivalgoers seek to outdo one another with table settings and setups ranging from the elaborate to the unexpected. Candelabra, chandeliers, and chafing dishes make appearances, and some folks opt to embellish their picnics with formal rugs and dining room suites. Others get creative, building tropical huts for luaus or laying out an early Thanksgiving spread. If you prefer to simply sit on a blanket and nibble on a sandwich, that's okay, too. The concert and your seats on the grass are free of charge, courtesy of Savannah's Department of Cultural Affairs; you provide the food and drink.\n\n**SAVANNAH FILM FESTIVAL,** Trustees Theater, 216 E. Broughton St.; (912) 525-5050; scad.edu/filmfest. Hosted by the Savannah College of Art and Design, this presentation of film and video productions takes place during a week's time in late October and/or early November. The latest in feature-length films, shorts, animations, documentaries, and student work are screened at the Lucas Theatre and Trustees Theater in downtown Savannah, with workshops and gatherings at various other venues. Look for the trendy, the indie, the oldie, you name it. This week is always good for celebrity watching. Every year, the stars who attend to pick up awards become more A-list.\n\n**SHALOM Y'ALL JEWISH FOOD FESTIVAL,** Forsyth Park; (912) 233-1547; mickveisrael.org. Congregation Mickve Israel presents this opportunity to sample Jewish foods such as blintzes, potato latkes, matzo ball soup, knishes, kosher hot dogs, pastrami sandwiches, challah bread, and, of course, bagels with cream cheese and lox. These delectable items are sold from booths set up in Forsyth Park.\n\nWhile you're strolling the park, be on the lookout for a booth manned by Arnold Belzer, the rabbi of the temple, who'll be dishing up portions of his own specialty, a type of stir-fry he calls \"Ahmein Lo Mein.\" Live entertainment and activities for children add to the event, which runs 11 a.m. until 3 p.m. on a Sunday in late October. Admission is free, and you purchase food and beverages by buying tickets at the park, or you may call in advance to pick up tickets before the festival. Note that the best food sells out early.\n\nIslands\n\n**HALLOWEEN HIKE,** Oatland Island Education Center, 711 Sandtown Rd.; (912) 898-3980; oatlandisland.org. If you're seeking a tamer Halloween experience for your child, take advantage of this walk along the trails and through the \"Friendly Forest\" at Oatland Island Education Center. As they frolic through the woods, young trick-or-treaters meet adults costumed as animal characters, who greet the children with hugs and goodies. Admission is $5 for adults and $10 per child, and the center provides bags for collecting treats. You or another adult must accompany your child, and the little ones are encouraged to wear costumes and comfortable shoes. The center holds the hike on the Friday and Saturday before Halloween.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**COASTAL GEORGIA BOTANICAL GARDENS ANNUAL FALL FESTIVAL,** 2 Canebrake Rd.; (912) 921-5460. Paint your face, buy some plants (perennials and fall annuals), or purchase sugarcane syrup at this celebration of autumn in late October at the Bamboo Farm. For those seeking a bite to eat, there's a snack bar and a smoked pork luncheon featuring greens, roast pork, sweet potatoes, corn bread, and ice tea, and a hot dog lunch. The kids will enjoy hayrides, pony rides, a bounce house, and storytelling in the cottage garden. Adults might opt for the garden lecture and plant vendors. The last few years have featured workshops on the findings of an ongoing research program on growing bananas in Savannah\u2014it can be done, with luck and skill.\n\n**SAVANNAH FOLK MUSIC FESTIVAL,** various locations; (912) 786-6953; savannahfolk.org. The focal point of this completely free 3-day musical jamboree is a concert at the Georgia State Railroad Museum in downtown Savannah. The concert consists of four to five acts featuring nationally recognized musicians. Folks such as singer-musicians Tom Rush, Mike Seeger, John Jackson, and Robin and Linda Williams have graced the stage. Don't let the threat of rain scare you away; the museum affords plenty of shelter, so inclement weather won't stop the singing, picking, and grinning.\n\nFor more information, check the website.\n\n**SAVANNAH GREEK FESTIVAL,** Hellenic Center, 14 W. Anderson St.; (912) 236-8256; stpaulsgreekorthodox.org. When we think of the Savannah Greek Festival, we can taste the baklava melting in our mouths. Those scrumptious pastries are just a sample of the tasty concoctions offered for sale at the Hellenic Center adjacent to St. Paul's Greek Orthodox Church in Midtown Savannah during the third Thursday, Friday, and Saturday in October. Among other favorites of the festival's patrons are the Greek salad, gyro sandwiches, and a spinach pie called _spanakopita_. While you're enjoying the food, sit back and watch the Hellenic Center's dance groups perform. You can also tour the church. Festival hours are 11 a.m. until 9 p.m. Call or visit the website for updated admission pricing.\n\n## NOVEMBER\n\nHistoric District\n\n**FIRST SATURDAY,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. See our March listing for more information on this monthly event.\n\n**ROCK 'N' ROLL SAVANNAH,** runrockandroll.com/savannah. Thousands of runners hit Savannah streets in early November for the nationally popular Rock 'n' Roll marathon and half marathon. The event stretches over 2 days; Saturday for the marathon and Sunday with Rock 'n' Roll 5K and 1-mile run. Both days feature live music, post-race entertainment, medals and bragging rights for participants.\n\ni You can drink alcoholic beverages in public in the parade festival area (bordered by River Street on the north, East Broad Street on the east, Jones Street on the south, and West Boundary Street on the west), but drinks must be in paper, Styrofoam, or plastic cups of no more than 16 ounces in volume.\n\n**SAVANNAH CHILDREN'S BOOK FESTIVAL,** Forsyth Park; (912) 652-3600; liveoakpl.org. Award-winning children's book authors and illustrators from around the country converge on Forsyth Park for this free daylong event. Besides meet-the-author events, the festival includes arts and crafts, costumed characters, and a variety of food and entertainment. Past years have featured such authors and illustrators as Lois Lowry, Rosemary Wells, Bruce Degen, and Marc Brown. The event is sponsored by Live Oak Public Library and the city of Savannah.\n\n**TELFAIR ART FAIR,** Telfair Square, 121 Barnard St.; (912) 790-8800; telfair.org. The Telfair Museums' annual fair attracts artists from throughout the US. They compete for cash awards and sell their creations to the public from displays under tents set up around Telfair Square. You can find paintings, sculpture, photographs, fabric, jewelry, and other fine arts at this exhibition, which takes place early in November. Hours are Sat 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. and Sun 12:30 to 4:30 p.m. The fair is free.\n\nIslands\n\n**CANE GRINDING AND HARVEST FESTIVAL,** Oatland Island Education Center, 711 Sandtown Rd.; (912) 898-3980; oatlandisland.org. Get a glimpse of the pioneer life of 1830s Georgia and do some early Christmas shopping by ambling through the Oatland forest and visiting the Heritage Homesite on a Saturday in November. At the end of your walk through a wood thick with oak, magnolia, pine, and vines of the Muscadine grape, you'll find yourself in a small clearing where sugarcane is being processed. Farmers grind the cane into juice at a mill powered by a horse, then boil it into syrup. You can watch the entire operation, then buy a bottle of the sweet-smelling nectar to pour on your Sunday morning pancakes.\n\nYou might also want to poke your head into the cozy interiors of the two log cabins at the site and watch weavers at work and costumed women preparing corn bread, or you might hunker down on a bench and listen to members of the Savannah Folk Music Society as they perform songs from Georgia's past. Complete your day at Oatland by walking the nature trail to the wild animal habitats and visiting the center's barnyard. If you need to get off your feet for a while, take a hayride through the forest. The festival opens at 10 a.m. and closes at 4 p.m. Admission is $7 for persons 4 and older; those younger are admitted free.\n\n## DECEMBER\n\nHistoric District\n\n**CHRISTMAS FOR KIDS,** City Market, Jefferson and St. Julian Streets; (912) 515-2489; savannahcitymarket.com. It's been said that Christmas is for children, and City Market takes that to heart by offering a program for young people 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. on the first Saturday of the month. This event gives youngsters the opportunity to make ornaments to take home, have their faces painted, enjoy a petting zoo, decorate cookies, and visit with Father Christmas in the Carriage Tours of Savannah Cinderella Carriage, and hear a choir performance. The entertainment varies from year to year, with puppet shows and performances by cloggers in the mix. Carriage Tours collects toys for their annual Toys for Tots promotion. It's all free.\n\n**CHRISTMAS ON THE RIVER,** Rousakis Plaza, River Street; (912) 234-0295; riverstreetsavannah.com. Usher in the Christmas season on the first Saturday in December by shopping for gifts created by artists and craftspeople and watching a lighted parade starring Santa Claus. The arts and crafts vendors start selling at 9 a.m. on the riverfront plaza, and the parade begins at 6 p.m. on the western end of River Street. The parade lasts from an hour to 90 minutes and also includes high school bands, color guards, floats, dance troupes, antique cars, and last, but most important, St. Nick riding in a carriage. After the parade, Santa poses for photos, and strolling musicians and local choirs perform throughout the day. Enjoy the parade but keep an eye out for flying candy flung from the floats to youngsters lining the route. Arts and crafts booths remain open until 6 p.m. In keeping with the spirit of the season, there is no charge for admission to this holiday festival.\n\ni Get a unique view of activities on River Street and stay out of the crowds by renting a hotel room facing the Savannah River, but be prepared for some late-night noise from musicians and merrymakers.\n\n**DOWNTOWN NEIGHBORHOOD ASSOCIATION HOLIDAY TOUR OF HOMES AND VICTORIAN TEA,** Hilton Savannah DeSoto Hotel, 15 E. Liberty St.; (912) 236-8362; dnaholidaytour.net. Many of the homes on the tours offered during this mid-December event are decorated for Christmas in ways reflecting the lifestyles of their owners. The self-guided walking tours are on Saturday afternoon and evening and Sunday afternoon, with a different set of six to nine private homes featured on each day. The sponsoring Downtown Neighborhood Association selects homes in the Historic District that present a diversity of architectural design and decor. Call or check the website for more info.\n\n**HOLIDAY OPEN HOUSE,** City Market, Jefferson and St. Julian Streets; (912) 525-2489; savannahcitymarket.com. On the first Friday evening of December, the courtyard at City Market glows with the soft light of more than 500 luminarias as shop owners open their doors and offer complimentary refreshments to visitors. Strolling carolers sing Yuletide classics while Father Christmas\u2014resplendent in his green velvet robe and red velvet cape and hat\u2014talks with children about the spirit of the season and their plans for the holidays. This festive atmosphere takes place at City Market's Holiday Open House, which starts at 6 p.m. with the lighting of the luminaries and ends about 9 p.m.\n\n**Prime Parade Watching**\n\nSome Savannahians have made careers out of saving spots in the squares for family tents. The whole process has become quite a chore, if the truth is told. That being said, the city of Savannah and the police department have been clamping down on \"camping out in the squares\" in recent years. Today no one is allowed to stake out their parade-watching plot until 6 a.m. the day of the parade. It's quite a sight to see the clock strike 6 and a mad rush for space, but it happens. Watch it on the news and save your energy. There are lots of spaces up and down the stretch if you'll just take your time (but get there at least by 8 a.m.).\n\nHere are some good places for parade watching, as detailed by the _Savannah Morning News_.\n\nThe 600 block of Abercorn Street\u2014where \"the parade's performers aren't tired yet. The bands step higher; the people waving from their floats aren't yet suffering from arm fatigue.\"\n\nEast Broad Street between Broughton and Bay Streets\u2014\"a good place to see the picturesque variety of parade spectators . . . SCAD (Savannah College of Art and Design) students tend to be in full bloom around here. Green dogs abound. So do green people.\"\n\nBay Street between East Broad and Bull Streets\u2014\"The closest convenient spot for those who've been cavorting down by the river.\"\n\nWe would also like to make this suggestion: To obtain a unique view of the parade, try getting a spot on the southern side of Calhoun Square (Abercorn and Gordon Streets), Lafayette Square (Abercorn and Charlton Streets), or Oglethorpe Square (Abercorn and York Streets), or on the northern side of Wright Square (Bull and State Streets) or Chippewa Square (Bull and Hull Streets). You'll be watching the parade come straight at you rather than viewing it from the side, and it's a perspective that can be quite enjoyable.\n\n**NEW YEAR'S EVE AT CITY MARKET,** City Market, Jefferson and St. Julian Streets; (912) 525-2489; savannahcitymarket.com. A live band creates a party atmosphere at City Market during the hours leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. It's an outdoor party and filled with all the color Savannah can muster. For Savannahians, this is as close as it gets to being in Times Square. The event is free, and the partying starts about 7 p.m. and lasts until 1 or 2 a.m.\n\n**SAVANNAH RIVER BRIDGE RUN,** various downtown streets; (912) 355-3527; savannahbridgerun.com. Participating in the Savannah River Bridge Run will give you a unique view of Savannah\u2014on foot from the Eugene Talmadge Memorial Bridge, a 1.4-mile span that rises 196 feet above the water. Races are the 5K, 10K, Double Pump, Kid Race, and Team Challenge. Check out the website for additional information and schedules, registration, and packet pickup dates. You can register ahead of time and save money or enter on the day before the race. More than 2,000 people compete. The race is particularly popular as it offers runners a safe way to see the sights from the towering bridge that is normally closed to foot traffic. Savannah's terrain is flat, so the steep slope of the bridge is another novelty for local runners.\n\nIslands\n\n**COLONIAL CHRISTMAS AT WORMSLOE,** Wormsloe Historic Site, 7601 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 353-3023; gaastatepaarks.org. A Christmas celebration, 18th-century style, complete with caroling and dancing, and the burning of the Yule log, is one of the highlights of the Savannah holiday special events. This holiday program on the second Sunday in December runs 2 to 5 p.m., and admission is $10 for adults, $9 for senior citizens, and $4.50 for those ages 6\u201317. Children younger than age 6 are $2.\n\n# KIDS\n\nSavannah is the place to bring your kids when you want them to put down their Wii controller, walk away from the television, breathe in the salt air, and discover all the fun they've missed staying stuffed up inside. Although the romance and historical elements of this city are plenty to satisfy the more mature visitor (and this is indeed nothing close to Disney World), there are lots of fun options for the kids.\n\nThat's great news for many travelers. Here are some suggestions to get them out in the air, and keep them safe, occupied, and entertained while they're here. The beach is within easy striking distance, a water-oriented outdoor lifestyle that puts crab traps and fishing poles in the youngest of hands, a local theater scene that makes room for kids, you name it. Savannah also offers that increasingly rare opportunity of growing up in a place that has a sense of identity and uniqueness.\n\nIn this chapter, we'll focus on history, wildlife, sports, flavor, and last, but not least, the paranormal (yikes!). If you are traveling with children, we recommend spending at least part of your stay at Tybee Island, the local beach. We've got a whole chapter on options there. Any child who tags along dutifully on historic site tours and antiques shopping rounds deserves a chance to dig in the sand and splash around in the ocean, even in winter. Shark tooth scavenging is an awesome way to spend a cold but sunny afternoon!\n\n## HISTORY FOR KIDS\n\nYou'll need your video camera to capture your child's face as he stares into the sunlit spray of a fountain, tossing pennies into the flow. The mesmerizing task can be an activity that accompanies a picnic under the live oaks in Johnson Square. This is just one of many activities that will make fond vacation memories.\n\nWhen the picnic ends, sign up for a tour! Enlist the help of a carriage tour driver to color up the commentary and opt to see Savannah by horse-drawn carriage. Two really good options: carriage tours or ghost tours. If your children are old enough\u2014say, at least second or third grade\u2014you should check out the ghost tours, especially the walking or carriage versions. The stories are tame enough that they are unlikely to inspire screaming nightmares. Actually, these popular tours have proliferated in recent years, and gotten hokier and sillier in the process, perfect for a group of mischievous children.\n\nWith younger children, you can add interest to historic sightseeing with the help of a bright, intriguing book for children, _Savannah Safari_ (savannahsafari.com), the work of locals Polly Wylly Cooper and Emmeline King Cooper. It is a slim paperback volume, designed to serve as a coloring book if you so desire, that sends kids on a scavenger-style hunt for \"animals\" while touring the Historic District. The \"animals\" are the iron downspouts shaped like dolphins, the sculptured herons in the Forsyth Park fountains, and so on. Stretch the interest for older children by chipping in one of those disposable cameras so they can photograph their \"animal\" finds.\n\n_Savannah Safari_ is $6 and available in local bookstores, which you'll find listed in our Shopping chapter. It's time to don your backpack, hold that little hand, and gallop off to a wonderland that they'll love, even if it is in an old city.\n\niIf you visit in the summer, the various branch libraries are in full swing with summer programs for kids. Call (912) 652-3600 to find the branch nearest you. Visitors are always welcome, and with a temporary card, you can even check out books, videos, and tapes.\n\n**JULIETTE GORDON LOW BIRTHPLACE,** 10 E. Oglethorpe Ave; (912) 233-4501; juliettegordonlowbirthplace.org. If your children are, have been, or aspire to be Girl Scouts, don't miss this wonderful house museum. In fact, it's your best bet among the museums for entertaining children. The birthplace and childhood home of Juliette \"Daisy\" Gordon Low is a virtual mecca for Girl Scouts from throughout the country, and you'll spot field trips full of them trooping around Savannah all the time. As a result, the staff at the center is experienced in the art of entertaining children without boring their adult escorts.\n\nThe elegant and beautifully preserved home of the wealthy Gordon family, which includes a masterpiece of a garden, works well for both age groups. Call for hours and prices, which vary.\n\n**SHIPS OF THE SEA MUSEUM,** 41 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd.; (912) 232-1511; shipsofthesea.org. The kids can learn all about Savannah's maritime history at this museum, which has been relocated to one of Savannah's historic old residences. The more upscale setting probably lowered the kid appeal here, but it should still work. Cost is $8 for adults, $6 for students and seniors. Family rate is $20 (two parents and any siblings under 18). Children younger than age 7 are free. The museum is open Tues through Sun 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\n## WILDLIFE\n\n**BULL RIVER CRUISES,** 36 Wilmington Island Rd.; (912) 898-1800, (800) 311-4779; bullriver.com. This marina offers a variety of eco-cruises and charters, and bills itself as experienced in working with Girl Scout troops. Call for reservations. They're essential because these trips are keenly affected by the weather. No one can guarantee you a dolphin sighting, but it is highly likely. The real challenge is to make the trips long enough to justify the price and short enough to remain interesting if the local wildlife choose not to perform. Winter visitors are less likely to find these trips an option, although the marina will arrange custom trips, birthday parties, fishing charters, and other boating recreation excursions. Private charters run from $80-$ 125, depending on the size of the group.\n\n**LAZARETTO CREEK MARINA & CAPT. MIKE'S DOLPHIN TOURS,** US 80 East (just across Lazaretto Creek Bridge), Tybee Island; (912) 786-5848, (800) 242-0166; tybeedolphins.com. While enjoying the scenery of Fort Pulaski and the North Beach of Tybee Island, see friendly bottlenose dolphins playing in their natural habitat. There are sunset cruises and special offerings for Girl Scouts. The 90-minute tours cost $15 for adults and teens and $8 for children age 12 and younger. Diving and deep-sea/inshore fishing charters are available.\n\nRiver Street Kidstuff\n\nRiver Street, especially by day, can appeal mightily to the young tourist. All along the river are lots of shops, and while they are stocked with expensive gift items with the usual tourist-area markup, there are also plenty of wares geared toward kid tastes and kid pocketbooks. Follow them from shop to shop here and watch them buy candy and trinkets.\n\nIf luck is with you, your young entourage will get to spot one or more of the giant container ships, escorted by a team of tugboats, on its way upriver to the Georgia Ports Authority. These ships are such an imposing presence that even jaded teenagers will stop in their tracks to stare.\n\n**OATLAND ISLAND EDUCATION CENTER,** 711 Sandtown Rd.; (912) 395-1212; oatlandisland.org. You are virtually guaranteed to spot your alligator here at a natural-habitat facility operated by the local school system as an educational center. Other once-native animals\u2014buffalo, wolves, birds of prey\u2014and an authentic colonial farm setting, complete with livestock, can also be seen. A self-guided outdoor hike takes you through marshes and around to the different animal and plant exhibits. Admission is $5, and free for those age 3 and younger. The center, which hosts many popular programs, is open daily 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. As teachers, the staff members are good with kids, so don't miss this attraction. Bring your own bug repellent, though\u2014you'll need it.\n\n**SAVANNAH NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE,** SC 170; (843) 784-2468; fws.gov/savannah. Take a coastal safari through the 29,174-acre Savannah National Wildlife Refuge. It's full of freshwater marsh, tidal rivers, creeks, and bottomland hardwood swamps. While driving through the refuge, see if you can spot alligators, owls, hawks, turtles, snakes, or maybe even a bald eagle. The refuge is managed by the US Fish and Wildlife Service. It is open Mon through Sat 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. (except federal holidays), and visiting is free. The refuge is about 9 miles from downtown.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND MARINE SCIENCE CENTER,** 14th Street parking lot, Tybee Island; (912) 786-5917, (866) 557-9172; tybeemarinescience.org. Stroll the beach, toss a net into the ocean, then learn about what you find during a beach discovery walk held daily at the center. A tour guide leads the way and explains about Tybee's marine life. Don't forget to check out the stuff inside the center, too\u2014you'll find a touch tank, aquariums, and shark displays. This isn't Sea World\u2014expect a small, personalized experience. Open daily 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $4, with those under 3 admitted free. Check the website for the latest listing of \"walks, talks, and treks\" and other special programs.\n\ni If you dare, take your children to see the huge live alligator collection at the Crab Shack at Tybee Island. At last count, this restaurant had at least a hundred gators in captivity. These air breathers are lively and not considered to be man-eaters, despite what you may have heard. The colorful website will get your kids excited about their visit. Check it out: thecrabshack.com.\n\n**THE UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA MARINE EDUCATION CENTER AND AQUARIUM,** 30 Ocean Science Circle; (912) 598-FISH (3474), (912) 598-2496; marex.uga.edu/aquarium. Scout out Georgia's marine life at the aquarium at Skidaway Island. This small facility, operated by the University of Georgia Marine Extension Service, also includes a picnic area (which you may appreciate, because it is quite a drive out to Skidaway) and a walking trail. See 200 live animals\u2014including fish of all shapes and sizes, turtles, and maybe even a small shark in the many wall tanks lining the exhibit hall. You owe this one to your kids if they have never seen a live flounder, our candidate for weirdest-looking fish in the world. Then go outside for a stroll along the Jay Wolfe Nature Trail, which passes by scenic marshes. The aquarium is open 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. on weekdays and 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Sat. It is closed on Sun and holidays. The cost is $6 for ages 13 and older, $3 for children, military, and seniors; children ages 3 and younger enter free. No credit or debit cards.\n\n## OUTDOOR ADVENTURE\n\n**CHILDREN'S HISTORY MUSEUM,** 655 Louisville Rd; (912) 651-4292; savannahchildrensmuseum.org. Outdoor activities such as arts and crafts, story time, and water play are offered for children of all ages. Hours are Mon through Sat 9 a.m. to 2 p.m.\n\n**FORSYTH PARK,** Bull Street between Gaston Street and Park Avenue. Thirty acres perfect for letting off some steam are set aside in the Historic District. There are swing sets, slides, and other contraptions for youngsters needing to get rid of some energy, along with plenty of open space for just plain running, and beautiful magnolia trees and scenery for Mom and Dad to enjoy, too. May we suggest a picnic?\n\n**LAKE MAYER,** Montgomery Crossroad and Sallie Mood Drive; (912) 652-7308. Bring your bike and take a spin around the 1.5-mile trail at Lake Mayer, located in the 75-acre community park of the same name. While there, you can also play tennis or basketball, frolic on the playground, or feed the ducks swimming in the lake.\n\ni Let the kids try their luck at fishing. The dock at the Lazaretto Creek pier is a popular \"hole\" and sits along a picturesque section of Tybee where there are usually fish biting on any given afternoon. Fishing gear, bait, license, and snacks may be purchased at Wal-Mart on US 80 at Whitemarsh Island.\n\n**SKIDAWAY ISLAND STATE PARK,** 52 Diamond Causeway, Skidaway Island; (912) 598-2300, (800) 864-7275; gastateparks.org. Camping sites, picnic areas, trails, an interpretive center, and three playgrounds can be found at 533-acre Skidaway Island State Park, the only state park in Chatham County. Maps of the park and trails are available at the park office. If you don't want to tackle the trails alone, free guided hikes are available with advance reservations. Park hours are 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. Office hours are 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Cost to enter the park is $3 per car, except on Wed when it is free.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND LIGHT AND STATION,** 30 Meddin Dr.; (912) 786-5801; tybeelighthouse.org. Hike 154 feet to the top of Tybee Lighthouse for a great view of Tybee and Savannah. You'll also learn a few things about one of America's historic light stations. It opens at 9 a.m. and sells the last ticket at 4:30 p.m. (it closes at 5:30). The cost, which includes admission to the Tybee Museum, is $9 for adults, $7 for seniors, military, and children ages 5\u201317; children under 5 are free.\n\n# THE GREAT OUTDOORS\n\nSavannah's natural tropical diversions are tempting, and the loveliness of the islands, with sago palms, hibiscus, and towering pines, can be found throughout the city, not just in a gated park, but within the downtown, Southside, and surrounding communities. Simply said: This is the ideal place to spend time with nature. For starters, salt marshes are begging for kayaks. Embark on a trip by water, abundant with sea life and splendid birds, comical fiddler crabs, and all kinds of fish. There are the endless water-ways just waiting on your discovery. Tybee Island offers a serene shoreline for surf fishing, and there's even a National Wildlife Refuge where freshwater rivers and cypress swamps intercept saltwater. The city is blessed with parks and parklike areas of every description and in every jurisdiction\u2014national, state, regional, county, and city\u2014and these provide settings for picnics and play and trails for hiking, biking, and jogging. Golfers and tennis players will find numerous venues that are open to the public.\n\nOn the following pages, you'll also find information concerning the parks and activities we've mentioned. While you're reading, keep in mind that a big part of the beauty of the area's recreational offerings is that, because of Savannah's mild climate, they're available to you just about every day of the year, and most are free of charge.\n\n## PARKS & NATURE TRAILS\n\nHistoric District\n\n**FORSYTH PARK,** Drayton and Gaston Streets; (912) 651-6610. This is probably the most famous and beautiful of Savannah's parks. This downtown park on the southern boundary of the Historic District has sort of a split personality, but it's a delightful one. The northern portion consists of 11 acres filled with trees and shrubs and has an ornate fountain as its focal point. Splashing waters and shady sidewalks make this part of the park, which was laid out in 1851, a wonderful spot for strolling, relaxing on benches, and just plain goofing off.\n\nThe southern portion has a more active persona. Here you'll find a large playground, basketball and tennis courts, and wide-open spaces often used by students and locals engaged in softball, team Frisbee, and other athletic pursuits. The southern portion, a drill field for local military units before it was made part of the park in 1867, is also the site of monuments commemorating the Confederacy and honoring Georgians who served in the Spanish-American War.\n\nTwo dummy forts, structures built in 1909 and used for military exercises before World War I, straddle the line dividing the two areas. The fort on the western side of the park was renovated in 1963 as the Fragrant Garden for the Blind; the eastern fort has been converted into a restaurant, Park Cafe, open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily (912-233-7848). Here, too, are public restrooms and a playground designed for younger children.\n\nThe park was laid out on the site of a pine forest that was at the southern reaches of the city, a wood that made \"sad and sea-like music, when stirred by the breeze,\" according to a historian of the late 1800s. Over time the pines were removed, died out, or were uprooted by storms. Of the park's numerous existing trees\u201444 per acre in the northern portion\u2014a few are pines, but you'll see many more oaks, sycamores, and magnolias when you visit. Particularly impressive are the live oaks (a particular species of oak) that line the central walkway stretching from the park's northern end at Gaston Street to its southern end at Park Avenue.\n\nThe monuments are on this wide promenade, as is the much-photographed fountain, which features a female figure surrounded by water-spouting swans and tritons (men with the lower bodies of fish). The fountain, said to be the largest in the US when it was unveiled in 1858, is modeled after one in the Place de la Concorde of Paris. A lighted sidewalk that's much favored by walkers and joggers who live or work downtown borders Forsyth. According to the city, the distance around the park is 1.5 miles. The park is also the site of major annual events, including the Sidewalk Arts Festival.\n\ni Although most city parks such as Forsyth and Daffin don't have gates that can be shut to keep people out at night, there is an ordinance stating that parks are open from sunrise to sunset. Lighted areas in Forsyth Park are open until 11 p.m.\n\nIslands\n\n**OLD SAVANNAH-TYBEE RAILROAD HISTORIC AND SCENIC TRAIL (MCQUEEN'S ISLAND RAILS TO TRAILS),** US 80 East; (912) 652-6780; parks.chathamcounty.org. When you walk, jog, or bicycle on this 6.5-mile trail, you're traversing the roadbed of a railroad that took passengers from eastern Savannah to Tybee Island for nearly 50 years starting in the late 1800s. Chatham County maintains the palm-lined, limestone trail on McQueen's Island as part of the Rails to Trails program created beginning in 1991, an effort to transform abandoned railroad rights-of-way into recreational areas. A trip along the entire length of the trail takes you past 18 fitness stations and 30 wooden picnic tables and across 10 wooden footbridges. Besides what it offers in the way of exercise, the trail presents visitors with vistas of marshland and the south channel of the Savannah River, opportunities for fishing and crabbing, and glimpses of wildlife indigenous to the marsh. Keep your eyes peeled for creatures such as the eastern box turtle, the diamondback terrapin, the American alligator, the red-tailed hawk, the brown pelican, and the great blue heron, and don't be surprised if you walk up on a rattlesnake or two (they enjoy sunning themselves on the trail).\n\nThe railroad was built over 17.7 miles of salt marsh, rivers, and tidal creeks by a group of investors led by Savannahian D. G. Purse, who in 1885 owned a good portion of Tybee Island and was trying to find a way to transport people there that was faster than the 2-hour ride by steamboat. His solution was to build a railroad, and the idea was considered a harebrained scheme by local folks; they were convinced it was an engineering feat that couldn't be accomplished. But Purse persisted, and his Savannah and Tybee Railway began making regularly scheduled runs in July 1887.\n\nA few years later, the line became part of the Central of Georgia Railway system and was operated from then on as the Savannah and Atlantic Railroad. The last passenger excursion was in July 1933; by then, the advent of the automobile and the construction of a road to Tybee (now US 80) had made the railway obsolete. But in its heyday, the little railroad carried thousands of Savannahians and out-of-towners to Tybee for days of sunning and swimming at the beach and nights of dancing at the Tybrisa Pavilion. The entrance to the trail places you at its midpoint and is on US 80 just east of the Bull River Bridge. The highway is well traveled, and there is not much space at the trail entrance, so be careful when you pull off the road to park. The trail is off-limits after darkness falls and not safe, so make sure you plan to visit when you have plenty of time to complete the walk or run before dark sets in. Plans are to extend the trail all the way to Tybee Island itself, but that's in the future.\n\n**SKIDAWAY ISLAND STATE PARK,** 52 Diamond Causeway; (912) 598-2300, (800) 864-7275; gastateparks.org/Skidaway. Get back to nature on the Big Ferry or Sandpiper Trails at Skidaway State Park. Walking either will give you a good look at a maritime forest and the salt marsh, their plants, and possibly some of their animals, including fiddler crabs, egrets, deer, and alligators. The trails also take you to earthwork fortifications built as Confederate defenses during the Civil War and the remains of a moonshine still. Big Ferry can be hiked in either a 2- or 3-mile loop, with the latter taking about 90 minutes to walk. Sandpiper is a mile long, takes about 20 minutes, and can be traversed by people using wheelchairs (with a little help) and parents pushing baby strollers. A path connects the trails, enabling hikers to get in as much as a 5.5-mile walk. Contact the park for guided hikes.\n\nThe 533-acre park, created during the early 1970s and opened in 1975, is in the western portion of Skidaway Island and borders a stretch of the Intracoastal Waterway called the Skidaway Narrows. Other features of the park include a museum featuring the skeleton of a giant sloth, picnic sites, interpretive nature programs, and campsites. In addition to the picnic sites, there are five covered shelters available on a first-come, first-served basis. If you don't want to take a chance, you can reserve one at $35 a day; a group shelter accommodates 150 people and rents for $150\u2013$300 per day. The park has three new cabins priced at $135 per day and 87 tent/trailer/RV campsites priced at $26 to $45.\n\nThe park is open 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. 7 days a week. There's a $5 parking fee (more for buses). If you're planning to come here often or visit other state parks and historic sites in Georgia, you might consider purchasing an annual Georgia Park Pass for $30 ($15 for those age 62 and older). That will get you unlimited admission to all state parks.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**DAFFIN PARK,** 301 E. Victory Dr.; (912) 351-3841. When Savannah's Park and Tree Commission members conceived plans for Daffin Park in 1908, the recreational area was on the outskirts of the city. Now, Daffin is in the middle of Midtown, and it's a magnificent place for residents to stroll and enjoy the outdoors; it's shady and covered with giant live oaks, and there's a well-kept lake and plenty of benches. The park, which is maintained by the city of Savannah's Leisure Services Bureau, covers 77 acres bounded by Victory Drive, Waters Avenue, Washington Avenue, and Bee Road.\n\nOpportunities for enjoying the outdoors in a residential setting abound at Daffin, which has a large playground; grassy fields that accommodate softball, baseball, football, soccer, rugby, and, on occasion, cricket; basketball courts; nine tennis courts; a pool; a 4-acre lake where you can fish for bass, bream, and catfish; and a pavilion on the lake that can be reserved for $125 per day for a variety of gatherings. Call (912) 351-3837 for reservations.\n\nThe eastern portion of the park is the site of Grayson Stadium, and a picnic area shaded by towering pine trees. The playing fields on the southern side of the park\u2014once the site of polo matches and a landing strip for airplanes before the city built its first airport in 1929\u2014are also fine for flying kites and driving golf balls, when the fields are not otherwise occupied. You'll also find a popular dog park. If you're into walking or jogging, you'll find room to roam on the 8-foot-wide, 1.5-mile-long sidewalk surrounding the park. For a shorter jaunt, try the lighted sidewalk around Daffin Lake, which is a third of a mile long. A note: For safety reasons, don't walk the park at night, especially alone.\n\n**LAKE MAYER COMMUNITY PARK,** 1850 Montgomery Crossroad; (912) 652-6780; chathamcounty.org. As the name implies, the centerpiece of this 75-acre park on the Southside is the lake, but there's more here than recreational offerings involving water. Lake Mayer is surrounded by a 1.5-mile walking and jogging track dotted with 18 fitness stations. The park grounds provide space for eight lighted tennis courts, two lighted basketball courts, an unlighted ball diamond, a conditioning course and a basketball court for people using wheelchairs, a playground, a remote-control auto racetrack, and an outdoor skating rink designed to accommodate in-line hockey games. Picnic tables are sprinkled throughout the park, and two covered areas accommodate large groups: a pavilion with space for as many as 500 people and a shelter with room for 80 to 100. These can be reserved at fees of $175 and $150 respectively for 5 hours of usage; otherwise, they are available on a first-come, first-served basis.\n\nGetting back to the 35-acre lake: Swimming is prohibited, but you can fish for bass, bream, catfish, and crappie if you have a freshwater license. The possibilities for boating abound; the lake is the site of the Savannah Sailing Center (see this chapter's Sailing section), which offers instruction to young people and adults, and of Red Cross classes in kayaking and canoeing. Windsurfing is permitted on the lake, which is also where remote-control boat-racing enthusiasts come to compete.\n\nStaff members at Lake Mayer present special events throughout the year, including egg hunts and kite-making and flying contests on the weekend before Easter; fishing rodeos in April, May, and June; Senior Citizens Day in May; Family Nature Day in September; and Christmas Camp in December.\n\nLest we forget, numerous ducks and geese call the park home, and they are more than happy to take stale bread off (and out of) your hands. The park is operated by Chatham County's Public Works and Park Services Department. It's open 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. in the spring and summer and 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. in fall and winter. Again, a reminder: Don't walk this park at night.\n\nAn Ecofriendly Day Trip\n\nFrom time to time, the Friends of Ossabaw lead groups to discover the natural and human history of Ossabaw Island, the state's third largest barrier island. The island was designated a Heritage Preserve for natural, scientific and cultural study, research and education. Call for costs. To register or find more information about their exciting day trips, go to ossabawisland.net or call (912) 233-5104.\n\n**SAVANNAH NATIONAL WILDLIFE REFUGE,** SC 170; (843) 784-2468; fws.gov/savannah. By traveling the Laurel Hill Wildlife Drive, you can see some of the refuge's 29,174 acres of freshwater marshes and hardwood islands, which are known locally as \"hammocks.\" This 4-mile gravel road is open to hikers, bicyclists, and motorists, and it takes you along dikes built during the late 18th and early 19th centuries by rice planters. The US Fish and Wildlife Service, which manages the refuge, maintains 3,000 acres of freshwater pools created by the dikes, areas that serve as feeding grounds for wading birds and waterfowl. Unless posted as closed, all the dikes are open to foot travel, as is the Cistern Trail, a winding path that runs off the Wildlife Drive; however, if you're planning on leaving the drive to hike or bike, call ahead to ascertain the condition of the dike system.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nSee Wilderness Up Close!\n\n**Wilderness Southeast** (WiSE) programs offer scheduled and private programs for getting close to Savannah nature without taking the risk of getting bit\u2014or lost! For example, if you're into birding, you may wish to schedule a private birding tour with one of their guides. (Diana Churchill is the bird expert of Savannah, so ask for her.) A portion of every tour fee goes toward Fish Got to Swim, a science enrichment water quality course that they provide for Savannah's underserved public middle-school students. The company also offers a wide array of group (minimum of two people) coastal tours such as beaches, estuary, salt marsh, cypress swamps, and wetlands. They also investigate wildlife such as alligators, birds of all sorts, dolphins, and much less glamorous species. Throughout the year they offer various water-based (paddling, motorboating, beach, and some early morning birding) programs. They offer 13 set tours or a create-your-own-tour option, according to your interest. Two popular tours are the following:\n\n  * **Alligators and Others:** On this three hour tour, participants venture to the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge Visitor's Center to discover alligators basking in the sun while great birds fish serenely nearby. A certified naturalist will share alligator stories, and you'll discover the secrets of historic rice plantations and learn the importance of maintaining the old rice paddies for wildlife.\n  * **Blackwater River Paddle:** After basic canoeing instruction, your WiSE naturalist will lead the way downstream past stately tupelo and cypress trees. Their bright spring-green foliage and dark trunks reflect perfectly in the mirror-dark water. The tour participants will be on the lookout for turtles, herons, and noisy kingfishers diving for their next meal. There's beauty around every bend!\n\nFor more information and prices, check out this organization's colorful website (naturesavannah.org) or call the offices at 3025 Bull St., Ste. 302, at (912) 236-8115.\n\nThe Wildlife Drive is open sunrise to sunset throughout the year, except for 2 days during the fall, usually in October, when it's closed to the general public to allow a deer hunt by people using wheelchairs; you should check to see if this event falls at a time when you intend to visit the refuge. The drive and the dikes are great places from which to observe wildlife, in particular birds and alligators. A marvelous time for bird watching is late December and early January, when the refuge is visited by 13 different types of ducks in concentrations of up to 30,000 birds. The best times for viewing gators are in March, April, and October, when the big reptiles crawl onto the banks of the refuge's canals to bask in the sun.\n\nIt's a Swamp Thing\n\nOccasionally, the Savannah-Ogeechee Canal park management team will host. \"Swamp Thing Lantern Tour.\" This tour is comprised of a series of reenactnents from different periods of the canal's history, including the local lore bout the presence of a fictional creature said to live in the area\u2014the Swamp 'hing. The program, designed to create and promote awareness of the center, s offered at different times for several hours and covers a half-mile section if trail traversed in about 20 minutes. The first part of the reenactment ecreates the 1831 opening ceremony of the canal. A Civil War scene follows here Sherman's army is shown stealing a local man's horse, and another llustrates Confederate defenders burning the bridge at the canal's mouth. !oth scenes are dramatic!\n\nThere are others equally as enthralling, including one story with live ctors about the moonshine era where participants suddenly come face-to-ace with the Swamp Thing! For more information and to find out when the iext tour will be scheduled, call (912) 748-8068.\n\nLaurel Hill Wildlife Drive and about half of the refuge are in South Carolina but right across the Savannah River from Chatham County; the entrance to the drive is only a couple of miles from the West Chatham town of Port Wentworth on SC 170, which is SR 25 south of the river. The drive is not far from downtown Savannah. To get to it from downtown\u2014about a 15-minute trip\u2014take US 17 north across the river to its intersection with SC 170, then turn south on SC 170.\n\nYou can fish from the banks of the Wildlife Drive and in the Kingfisher Pond year-round and in the remainder of the refuge's freshwater pools March 1 to November 30, but the angling at these spots isn't anything to write home about, and you'll need a South Carolina license. You'll get better results fishing in the Savannah River along the refuge's boundaries, and a Georgia license will suffice if you stay in the main channels. The refuge manages hunts for deer, feral hogs, squirrels, waterfowl, and turkeys during the fall and winter. Permits are required to hunt there and can be obtained by mailing requests or applications to Savannah Coastal Refuge Hunts, Parkway Business Center, 1000 Business Center Dr., Ste. 10, Savannah, GA 31405.\n\n**SAVANNAH-OGEECHEE CANAL MUSEUM AND NATURE CENTER,** 681 Fort Argyle Rd.; (912) 748-8068; savannahogeecheecanalsociety.org. This 184-acre nature center and its several trails will give you a look at three environments: pine woods, hardwood tidal river swamp, and sand hills. Two of the trails start in the pines at the museum and follow the southern portion of the canal, which dates from 1830, faded from usage near the end of the 19th century, and has since been cleared of brush and other overgrowth. These trails\u2014the Tow Path and the Heel Path\u2014are each 0.4 mile long and lead you past Locks 5 and 6 of the canal to the Ogeechee River. The only bridge across the canal is at Lock 5 near the start of the paths, so don't expect to walk to the end of one and back on the other. However, a trail created as an Eagle Scout project allows you to walk from the end of the Tow Path (on the eastern side of the canal) to the 0.5-mile-long Jenkes Road Trail. Jenkes Road, once a the great outdoors thoroughfare for wagon traffic, will also take you from the museum to the river. The road and the paths carry you through the swamp; you can see the sand hills by walking the mile-long Holly Trail. The nature center is open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily. Admission is $2 for adults and $1 for senior citizens and children older than age 5.\n\n## BICYCLING\n\nWe mention in several places in this book that the Historic District, with its quaint streets and squares and its laid-back attitude, is an ideal place for walking. It follows that this area is also a wonderful place to see from the seat of a bicycle. But if you opt to ride a bike rather than stroll around the downtown, be aware that you'll be competing with traffic that seems to become increasingly heavier as Savannah grows in popularity as a tourist destination. To avoid the worst of the traffic, consider taking your ride on a weekend morning before the sightseeing starts in earnest. Also, be sure to observe the same traffic laws as you would when driving your car, and give serious thought to wearing a helmet. Georgia law requires kids younger than age 16 to use protective headgear; if you're older than the age limit, you can set a good example by wearing a helmet, and you might even save yourself a bump on the noggin. Keep in mind that adults are prohibited from riding bikes through Historic District squares.\n\nDedicated cyclists who delight in long rides will find that the city and county haven't done a great deal to accommodate them; however, there is a governmental committee on bikeways and greenways that's working to come up with facilities that will make bike riding more enjoyable. Until the committee devises some plans and officials implement them, however, bike riders will have to make do with the existing designated bike paths and bike trails at their disposal.\n\nThe city has two bike paths, each of which uses streets that are often heavily traveled by motorists:\n\n  * The West to East Corridor runs along 52nd Street to Ward Street to LaRoche Avenue to the entrance to Savannah State University.\n  * The North to South Corridor follows Habersham Street to Stephenson Avenue to Hodgson Memorial Drive to Edgewater Drive to Hillyer Drive to Dyches Drive to Lorwood Drive to Tibet Avenue to Largo Drive to Windsor Road to Science Drive at Armstrong State University.\n\nThe county offers a couple of trails for bicyclists:\n\n  * The McCorkle Bike Trail ambles for 4 miles over 10 acres on Wilmington Island. The eastern end of this trail is at Walthour Road near Concord Road, and the western end is on Cromwell Road just past its intersection with Wilmington Island Road.\n  * The McQueen's Island Trail runs between Bull River and Fort Pulaski and is part of the Old Savannah-Tybee Railroad Historic and Scenic Trail (see entry in the Parks section of this chapter). This crushed-stone trail is best suited to mountain bikes.\n\n**COASTAL BICYCLE TOURING CLUB,** cbtc.org. This group of biking enthusiasts holds organized rides just about every weekend and special rides throughout the year. The club has about 150 members who meet monthly and receive a monthly newsletter.\n\n## BIRD WATCHING\n\nIts location on the air route of migratory birds known as the Atlantic Flyway makes Savannah a splendid place for watching birds. The premier spot for this activity is the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge, a haven for thousands of mallards, pintails, teal, and as many as 10 other species of ducks that migrate here during the winter months. Transient songbirds and shorebirds stop by briefly during the spring and fall. The peak time for viewing ducks at the refuge occurs in late December and January. You might also do some worthwhile bird watching on the beach on the north end of Tybee Island during the spring, fall, and winter and on Skidaway Island during the spring and fall. Tybee's North Beach is a good place for spotting gannets and purple sandpipers during the winter, and you might find migratory shorebirds and neotropical songbirds at Skidaway Island State Park and along the 4-mile trail on the northern end of the island running from the Georgia Marine Extension Service aquarium to Priest's Landing. Wild Birds Unlimited, the locally owned franchise of the national birding supply store, has an expert staff willing to answer questions.\n\n## BOATING\n\nChatham County has about 86,700 acres of tidal marshlands laced by approximately 420 miles of navigable tidal waters. In other words, the area is a paradise for boaters.\n\nThree of the most accessible scenic waterways are the Wilmington, Bull, and Skidaway Rivers, and they'll lead you to Wassaw Sound and the beaches of Wassaw, Williamson, and Beach Hammock Islands, where you can picnic, swim, sunbathe, and look for shells. The 7 miles of beach at Wassaw, a barrier island that's part of a national wildlife refuge and accessible only by water, are most inviting, particularly the \"boneyard\" on the northeast end where the bleached remains of toppled trees present opportunities for taking intriguing photographs. The southernmost and northernmost ends and the ocean beachfront of Williamson Island are open to boaters, but the middle of the island is a Critical Wildlife Area closed to humans; this area is reserved for birds such as the American oystercatcher. The basically pristine beaches of these islands are about a 25-minute trip from the marinas in Thunderbolt.\n\nWhen you make a landing, you shouldn't have to worry about rocks, but be aware of what the tide is doing\u2014if it's running out, you could get stranded for several hours if you're not careful. Also, be sure you're wearing shoes when you jump out of your boat into the water so oyster shells, broken glass, or the occasional stingray won't injure you.\n\nThe county maintains boat ramps at several locations that will provide you with access to local waterways. In the Islands area, there are two double ramps at Skidaway Narrows on the Diamond Causeway, and double ramps at Lazaretto Creek on US 80 East at Tybee Island and at Frank W. Spencer Park on the Islands Expressway just east of the bridge over the Wilmington River. In West Chatham, there are two double ramps at the Houlihan Bridge on US 25 at the Savannah River and at Kings Ferry on US 17 South at the Ogeechee River; and there is a single ramp at Salt Creek on US 17 South. All of the ramp facilities have restrooms and wooden docks. You'll find picnic areas at all the ramps (with the exception of Lazaretto Creek).\n\nDowntown Via Boat\n\nYou can reach River Street and its shops, restaurants, and other attractions by boat via the Savannah River, but make sure to stay well clear of the commercial vessels using the shipping channel. These are huge ships, and they throw huge wakes. You can tie up alongside River Street at a 300-foot floating dock alongside Rousakis Riverfront Plaza.\n\nThe rate for using this city-owned facility varies by circumstance. For more information, call the city's Revenue Department, which can be contacted at (912) 651-6451. You'll also find a dock at the Hyatt Regency hotel that's 414 feet long and available for boats 25 feet or longer. There is a fee for using the hotel dock overnight; for info call (912) 238-1234.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nReworking the Concept of the Ideal Vacation: The Caretta Research Project\n\nIf your concept of the ideal vacation involves lazing on a sandy beach with accommodations that include air-conditioning and a hot tub, then you probably won't want to spend a week during the summer serving as a volunteer for the Savannah Science Museum's **Caretta Research Project.**\n\nOn the other hand, if you don't mind paying at least $750 for 7 days and nights of no A/C, no hot water, no privacy, and lots of bugs, then working with the environmentalists who run this sea turtle monitoring program might be right up your alley.\n\nFor your hard-earned dough, your time, and your sweat, you get the satisfaction of helping save a threatened species\u2014the loggerhead sea turtle. Depending on when you devote a week of your life to the Caretta Project, you have the opportunity to either see loggerheads crawl up the beaches at Wassaw Island and lay their eggs or watch hatchlings scramble down the beaches to take up residence in the Atlantic Ocean.\n\n\"People say the project changes their lives,\" said biologist Kris Williams, who serves as director of the undertaking. After their weeks on Wassaw, \"many students have changed their majors to biology to work with sea turtles,\" she said.\n\nThe Caretta Project\u2014 _Caretta caretta_ is the scientific name of the loggerhead\u2014has had more than 2,520 volunteers from nearly every state and about a half-dozen foreign countries participate since its onset in 1973. It's one of the oldest sea turtle monitoring programs anywhere and the only one in the US whose volunteer sessions last an entire week and are thoroughly hands-on. Hands-on means that you'd better be ready to work if you volunteer. \"We don't want people wanting to spend a vacation,\" said Williams.\n\nVolunteers who participate in the sessions running from mid-May through early August spend their nights\u2014we're talking from dusk to dawn\u2014patrolling 7 miles of Wassaw's practically pristine beaches looking for turtles intent on digging a nest and laying eggs. Once a turtle is found, she is checked for an identification tag; tagged, if necessary; and measured. The turtle-monitoring team\u2014which consists of six volunteers, a member of the Caretta Project staff, and an assistant\u2014then either marks the nest and covers it with a screen to protect it from marauding raccoons or digs up the eggs and relocates them to a spot farther from the water's edge. Relocating the eggs is often necessary because erosion has caused a shelf to form along much of the beach at Wassaw; unable to climb up the shelf, the turtles sometimes dig their nests where the tide can wash their eggs out to sea.\n\n\"The eggs probably wouldn't hatch if we didn't move them,\" said Williams, noting that a major aim of the project is to maximize the survival of hatchlings. Seeing the hatchlings dash for the ocean is the lure for the volunteers who take part in sessions running from late July through mid-September. \"We watch the nests and try to make sure we're there to ensure the hatchlings make it to the water,\" said Williams, explaining how volunteers ward off predators such as coons and ghost crabs. \"We usually stay up until midnight, then get up at dawn to make sure no hatchlings are stuck.\"\n\nWhile on Wassaw, a sea island southeast of Savannah that's accessible only by boat, volunteers sleep in a rustic one-room cabin that's not air-conditioned; there's no hot water, and the shower is outside. Team members share housekeeping duties, including the preparation and cleanup of supper, the only organized meal of the day. \"We eat well,\" said Williams, noting that suppers revolve around hearty dishes such as beef Stroganoff, pizza, spaghetti, and vegetable lasagna.\n\nThe registration fee covers a volunteer's food, lodging, and transportation by boat from Skidaway Island to Wassaw and back.\n\nVolunteers should be 18 years old or older, but Williams said the program will accept those age 16 or even younger, provided they are highly motivated and independent types. \"This is not a summer camp,\" said Williams. \"This is a working vacation\u2014it's not fun and games.\"\n\nThere's no maximum age limit, but participants in the program must be in good health and have reasonably good night vision and the ability to handle a moderate amount of walking. \"Perhaps most important is your mental attitude,\" states the program's informational literature. \"The project requires upbeat, adaptable folks who can cheerfully endure close quarters, insects, rainstorms, and the heat and humidity of a week in the subtropics without air-conditioning.\"\n\nIf you fit that bill and you're interested in participating, you can start the process of volunteering by calling (912) 447-8655 or visiting the website at carettaresearchproject.org. Project staffers start accepting applications in January, and the sessions do fill up, so it's a good idea to get yours in early.\n\n\"It's a very rewarding experience,\" Williams said of the volunteer program. \"We've had people coming back for their 10th and 11th years.\"\n\nMarinas\n\nIf you're traveling to Savannah by boat or looking for a place to dock during your visit, or if you need somewhere to store your boat, you can choose from several marinas.\n\n**BAHIA BLEU MARINA,** 2812 River Dr.; (912) 354-2283, (912) 434-1005; morningstarmarinas.com. Tie up at Bahia Bleu Marina and you're within walking distance of the restaurants and stores on the bluff at Thunderbolt. This facility, on the Wilmington River near Intracoastal Waterway mile marker 583, offers more than 3,000 feet of concrete dock and 240 enclosed racks, plus an extensive ship's store, restrooms, and showers.\n\n**BULL RIVER MARINA,** 8005 Old Tybee Rd.; (912) 897-7300; bullrivermarina.com. This marina sits on the Bull River some 4 miles from the mouth of Wassaw Sound, which borders the Atlantic Ocean. The location makes the marina about halfway between Savannah and Tybee Island. The marina provides boaters with 80 deepwater slips, a ship's store, restrooms, showers, live and frozen bait, gas, and diesel fuel. It offers private charters, boat rentals, inshore and offshore fishing charters, beach and island shuttles, and dolphin, sightseeing, and nature tours. The marina is just off US 80 at the western end of the bridge over the Bull River.\n\n**HOGAN'S MARINA,** 36 Wilmington Island Rd.; (912) 897-FISH; hogansmarina.com. Situated on Turner Creek about 0.75 mile from the Wilmington River\u2014the Intracoastal Waterway\u2014Hogan's has dry rack, wet storage, and launching capabilities. You'll find a store with nautical gear and fishing tackle, gasoline, restrooms and showers, live and frozen bait, a fish-cleaning facility, and ice and beverages. Hogan's also repairs engines.\n\n**ISLE OF HOPE MARINA,** 50 Bluff Dr.; (912) 354-8187; iohmarina.com. On a picturesque bend of the Skidaway River sits the Isle of Hope Marina, which was established here in 1926 and installed concrete docks in 2003. The marina was the first dealer of Cris Craft boats in the nation and was the site of the dock scenes in the original production of the movie _Cape Fear_ , the first in a long line of films made in the Savannah area. There are 100 wet slips and a ship's store. Gas and diesel fuel are available, as are showers, and there's an over-the-water pavilion available for rental. It's at Intracoastal Waterway mile marker 590.\n\n**SAIL HARBOR MARINA & BOATYARD,** 606 Wilmington Island Rd.; (912) 897-2896, (912) 897-1914; sailharbormarina.com. As the name implies, Sail Harbor caters mainly to owners of sailboats, but this marina on Turner Creek near the Wilmington River will also accommodate powerboats. There are transient slips, showers, and laundry. There is no fuel here.\n\n**SAVANNAH BEND MARINA,** Old Tybee Rd.; (912) 897-DOCK. This marina on the Wilmington River at Intracoastal Waterway mile marker 582 has transient dockage at 35 wet slips and a dry-storage building containing 262 racks for boats up to 29 feet long. The ship's store carries nautical apparel. You can relax and get a fine view of the river from one of the rocking chairs lining the porch of the store. Savannah Bend offers fuel service and has showers, laundry facilities, and restrooms. The marina is in Thunderbolt near the eastern end of the bridge over the Wilmington River.\n\n**THUNDERBOLT MARINA,** 3124 River Dr.; (912) 352-4931; thunderboltmarina.com. Yacht owners who dock at this marina, next to the boat works in Thunderbolt, get doughnuts delivered to them in the morning. The marina has more than 1,100 feet of dock space available for transient boaters. The marina offers a ship's store selling marine supplies, has gas and diesel fuel, will perform maintenance service, and provides a laundry and showers. Thunderbolt Marina is on the Wilmington River at Intracoastal Waterway mile marker 583.\n\n## BOWLING\n\n**AMF SAVANNAH LANES,** 115 Tibet Ave.; (912) 925-0320; amf.com. Bowlers will find 50 lanes, a pro shop, a snack bar, and a full-service sports lounge at Savannah Lanes. This establishment in the Southside is the home of about 50 bowling leagues. Call for hours and prices. Savannah Lanes is open year-round.\n\n## CAMPING\n\n**SKIDAWAY ISLAND STATE PARK,** 52 Diamond Causeway; (912) 598-2300, (800) 864-7275; gastateparks.org. The park has 88 pull-through campsites set amid the serenity of a maritime forest on Skidaway Island. Each has water, 30 amp and a limited number of 50 amp electrical hookups, cable television, hookups, and elevated tent pads; grills and tables are provided. You can build campfires in the fire rings found at each campsite, but please don't build them on the tent pads. The park is a popular spot because of its natural beauty and also because it's only about 35 minutes from the Historic District. Many campers use the park as a \"bedroom\" while they visit the city, so the sites tend to fill up on major holidays and the weekend closest to St. Patrick's Day.\n\n## FISHING\n\nIf you like to fish, you've come to the right place. Year-round, there's somewhere in Chatham County or offshore in the Atlantic Ocean where you can wet a line and catch something. Basically, we're talking about three types of fishing: inshore and offshore, which involve fish that live in salt water, and freshwater.\n\nThe inshore area stretches from the beachfronts into the tidal rivers and creeks and includes Wassaw Sound. This is where you'll find spotted trout, red drum (also known as spot-tail bass), flounder, sheeps-head, tarpon, croaker, and spots in the summer and whiting in the spring and summer. If you're visiting or new to the area and want to do some inshore fishing, hire a guide to show you some good fishing holes, which local folks call \"drops.\" There are countless drops in Chatham's inshore waters, and it pays to know where they are; if you don't, you might find yourself sitting in a boat doing nothing while anglers in a vessel less than 50 feet away are hauling them in.\n\nIt's also a good idea to consult the local tide charts before you go fishing inshore; Chatham County has a high tidal range, and when the tides are \"springing\" (i.e., rising to 8 to 10 feet), the fishing isn't good because the bottom is churned up and the water is muddy. Go fishing when the tides are in the 6- to 7-foot range and the water is clear. You can find tide charts on the weather pages of the _Savannah Morning News_.\n\nWhen you fish offshore, you'll either be bottom-fishing or trolling for sport fish. Bottom-fishing will net you black sea bass, grouper, and a variety of snapper. The sport-fishing is seasonal, starting in spring with bluefish, followed by cobia, king mackerel, bonito, wahoo, marlin, sailfish, amberjack, tuna, and Spanish mackerel. The sportfishing is good into November, and some veteran anglers say the optimum time to venture out is after Labor Day. Offshore angling is best in the Gulf Stream and at a particularly fishy live bottom called the Snapper Banks. The Snapper Banks are about 40 miles out, and a trip there from Wilmington Island will take about 2 hours; the Gulf Stream, the warm ocean current that flows from the Gulf of Mexico along the US coast to New England, is about an hour farther.\n\nIf you're after freshwater fish in Chatham County, head for the Ogeechee River above Kings Ferry and the Savannah River above Port Wentworth. You'll encounter large-mouth bass, shad, bluegill bream, redbreast bream, shellcracker bream, and crappie.\n\nGeorgia Fishing License\n\nMake sure you have a Georgia fishing license, which will cover both salt- and freshwater angling; you'll be fined if you get caught without one. Licenses can be purchased just about anywhere you can buy fishing tackle, including discount department stores and online at georgiawildlife.org. For more information, call (800) 366-2661.\n\nOkay, now that you have what you need, gather up your license, gear and bait and go fishing!\n\n**AMICK'S DEEP SEA FISHING,** US 80, Tybee Island; (912) 897-6759; amicksdeepseafishing.com. Amick's offers mostly offshore fishing trips and can accommodate 23 passengers on its 41-foot custom-built Morgan, the _Scat II_. Full- and half-day trips are available for private parties or individuals, and the company also has a 31-foot Morgan, the _Scamp_ , for offshore fishing. Amick's is based on Tybee Island, just off US 80 at Lazaretto Creek. Open-boat trips to the Snapper Banks take about 10 hours. Call for pricing.\n\n**COFFEE BLUFF MARINA,** 14915 White Bluff Rd.; (912) 925-7474; coffeebluffmarina.net. Even if you didn't take advantage of the services offered by Coffee Bluff Marina, the ride out to the end of White Bluff Road would be worth making just to get the panoramic view of the Forest River and the wide expanse of adjacent marsh. Anglers who make the trip will also find the marina's large convenience store with a supply of fishing tackle and equipment, a boat hoist, gas, oil, bait, and ice. The marina also offers boat storage in the water and in sheds, but there are no rentals.\n\ni Crabbing is a favorite pastime of many Savannahians. It's a recreational pursuit that's relatively inexpensive, and you don't need a boat to do it. All you do need is a basket net, some bait (chicken parts, such as the necks, will do fine), and a tidal creek in which to crab. If you don't want to buy the basket net, you can affix your bait to a line with a lead weight attached, but you'll probably need a dip net for getting the crabs you catch out of the water.\n\n**MISS JUDY CHARTERS,** 124 Palmetto Dr.; (912) 897-4921, (912) 897-2478; missjudycharters.com. Go fishing and have fun doing it with Miss Judy Charters. Why is it fun? Owner Judy Helmey, who started skippering boats in the mid-1960s at the age of 14, says it's because her company caters to customers by making them aware of their surroundings during trips, answering their questions, showing them rod and reel operations, and swapping a fish story or two. \"They get to do everything that's fun and we take care of the hard stuff,\" she says. The Wilmington Island\u2013based company\u2014started in 1947 by Judy's father, the late Sherman I. Helmey\u2014provides inshore and offshore fishing via the _Miss Judy Too_ , a customized 33-foot Sport fisher, and from a variety of other boats. Trips leave from the company's dock on Turner Creek; the entrance to the road leading to the dock is on Wilmington Island Road about a mile south of Johnny Mercer Boulevard. Call for rates.\n\ni It is customary to cash tip the mate on your fishing charter, 15 to 20 percent. When the charter is complete, don't blame him or her if the fish didn't bite! (Don't forget to tip the fish cleaner, as well.)\n\n## GOLF\n\nIf golf is your game, you have several public and semiprivate courses in Chatham County from which to choose\u2014one downtown, one on the islands, four in Southside/Mid-town, and three in West Chatham. There are also write-ups on a couple of courses in nearby Bryan and Effingham Counties for those golfers who don't mind taking about a 30-minute ride to the links. The following listings will give you an idea of what's available; greens fees include cart rentals, and yardage is from men's tees.\n\nHistoric District\n\n**THE CLUB AT SAVANNAH HARBOR,** 2 Resort Dr.; (912) 201-2240; theclubatsavannahharbor.net. As you might expect of a course that hosts Savannah's premier golfing event\u2014the Liberty Mutual Legends of Golf\u2014this layout on Hutchinson Island has an impressive pedigree. As the course matures, it becomes more and more beautiful. This semiprivate course, which opened in 1999, was designed by golfing legends Robert Cupp and Sam Snead and is operated by the highly acclaimed Troon Golf. Set on 250 acres in the middle of the Savannah River, The Club takes golfers through a marshland environment and affords them spectacular views of Savannah's riverfront. The 6,627-yard, par-72 course features wide fairways and large, flat greens, and each hole bears an intriguing name. No. 8, for instance, is \"the Briar Patch,\" a 132-yard par 3 with lots of marsh and a long green. Snead is celebrated at No. 10, nicknamed \"Slammin' Sammy.\" The hole has a kidney-shaped green fronted by a large bunker; it's a par 4 that covers 363 yards.\n\nThe club has a pro shop, chipping and putting green, and a driving range, and there's an attractive grill overlooking the course that serves breakfast and lunch daily and dinner on Fri. Walking is permitted at all times.\n\nIslands\n\n**WILMINGTON ISLAND CLUB,** 612 Wilmington Island Rd.; (912) 897-1615. Set amid the oaks, pines, and palms of southwestern Wilmington Island, this par-71 course rambles over 6,715 yards. Raised, undulating greens are planted in Tifton and Bermuda grass, and there's water on 10 holes, including No. 15 and No. 6, two of the course's four well-bunkered par 3s. The signature hole is 6, a 155-yard par 3 with a pond in front of the green and bunkers on the right.\n\nDonald Ross designed the course, which opened in 1927 as part of a resort, the centerpiece of which was the eight-story General Oglethorpe Hotel on the Wilmington River. In the mid-1960s, the hotel was refurbished and renamed the Savannah Inn and Country Club, and the golf course was rebuilt and improved by Willard Byrd. The resort was later purchased by the Sheraton corporation, which gave the property a new name. The hotel closed in 1994, but the semiprivate golf club remained open under the name of the Sheraton Savannah Resort & Country Club. In May 1998, a family-run development company based in Macon bought the hotel and golf course and changed the name of the golfing facility to the Wilmington Island Club.\n\nThe developers built a $1.5 million clubhouse\u2014a two-story, 25,000-square-foot building featuring gym and locker rooms, a card room, a lounge-grill area, a full-service kitchen, and a banquet room capable of seating 300 people. The course was upgraded with new cart paths and a new irrigation system, and a pro shop, lighted driving range, and practice green are also part of the layout.\n\nOnly club members are allowed to walk the course.\n\nSouthside/Midtown\n\n**BACON PARK GOLF COURSE,** Shorty Cooper Dr.; (912) 354-2625; baconparkgolf.com. Recently upgraded, Bacon Park's 27-hole layout presents golfers with three 9-hole courses\u2014Cypress, Live Oak, and Magnolia\u2014featuring narrow, tree-lined Bermuda grass fairways and elevated greens. Cypress and Live Oak carry pars of 36, while Magnolia is a 37, and the combined length of any pair of the courses is more than 6,000 yards. Donald Ross designed the original layout, which is in the midst of suburban Savannah; it's owned by the city and managed by O.C. Welsh Golf Properties Inc. The clubhouse contains a pro shop and full-service snack bar, and a driving range and practice green are available. You can walk the course on weekdays and after 1 p.m. on Sat and Sun.\n\n> **Cypress Course** is the shortest of Bacon Park's three courses at 3,001 yards, Cypress has water on seven holes, including No. 3, the signature hole. This 185-yard par 3 has a large expanse of water on the approach to the green.\n> \n> **Live Oak Course** has a long and narrow first hole, a 384-yard par 4 with a green that's well bunkered. The ninth hole is the longest at Bacon Park, a 522-yard par 5 with a fairway that is crossed by a canal past midpoint; there's plenty more water along the remainder of the fairway and in front of the green. The course runs 3,163 yards.\n> \n> **Magnolia Course** starts with a long hole, a 466-yard par 5 whose green has lots of water on the right. Another interesting hole is No. 8, which is crossed near midpoint by a canal that runs down the left-hand side of the latter half of the fairway. The total length of Magnolia is 3,035 yards.\n\n**HENDERSON GOLF CLUB,** 1 Al Henderson Dr.; (912) 920-4653; hendersongolfclub.com. Henderson\u2014opened in March 1995 and owned by Chatham County\u2014offers a good mix of lengths among its 18 holes, ranging from just 127 yards on the 15th to 522 yards on the first hole. The course was built on farmland in southwest Chatham that contained 240 acres of wetlands, so there's plenty of water to look at. In most cases, however, the water is an intimidation factor rather than a sheer hazard.\n\nIn laying out the 6,273-yard, par-71 course, designer Mike Young took advantage of the wetlands and an abundant number of native trees by weaving them in with fairways and greens.\n\nHenderson has a pro shop, driving range, practice green, and a grill serving hot food and sandwiches. It's the home of the Savannah Golf School, which offers a variety of lesson packages and hosts golf camps for youngsters.\n\nWalking at Henderson is permitted anytime Mon through Thurs, and after 1 p.m. on Fri, weekends, and holidays. The course is off SR 204 just east of the I-95/SR 204 interchange.\n\nWest Chatham\n\n**CROSSWINDS GOLF CLUB,** 232 James B. Blackburn Dr.; (912) 966-1909, crosswindsgolfclub.com. This semiprivate club boasts the area's only par-3 course, a 1,126-yard layout that's illuminated for nighttime play. The par 3 is suitable for families, people new to golf, and the occasional player, but it's challenging enough to allow veteran golfers to sharpen up their iron play. Water comes into play on five holes, and the par 3 has undulating greens similar to the club's 18-hole course.\n\nThe larger course at Crosswinds, which derives its name from its location\u2014less than 2 miles from Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport\u2014covers 6,032 yards and is different from most layouts in that it has four par 5s and five par 3s and is devoid of residential development. The front nine features tree-lined fairways, while the last nine holes offer a wide-open, Scottish links feel. Water is in play on 8 of the 18 holes, and No. 3, a par-4 514-yarder, might give you fits because of a small green with lots of slope that provides the potential for putting balls in the drink.\n\nCrosswinds, which opened for play in October 2000, has a spacious clubhouse featuring a full-service restaurant. Also on the premises are a pro shop, an illuminated driving range, and putting and chipping greens. Walking is permitted on both courses. Hours affect rates.\n\n**SOUTHBRIDGE GOLF CLUB,** 415 Southbridge Blvd.; (912) 651-5455; southbridgegolfclub.com. Rees Jones designed this 6,450-yard, par-72 course, blending in the tall pines, graceful oaks, and wetlands of the West Chatham woodlands. Water comes into play on 11 holes on the course, opened in 1988 as part of the Southbridge residential community. The signature hole is No. 13, a par-3, 179-yarder involving a shot over water to an elevated green cut into three sections. The fourth hole is also challenging; it's a long par 5 typical of holes on the back nine. This hole was carved out of a thick forest. Water on the left side is involved in every shot on this 490-yarder, and bunkers guard the right side.\n\nAn antebellum-style clubhouse adorns the semiprivate course, and the building houses a pro shop and Vickery's at Southbridge, a full-service dining room. The course rents clubs and has a driving range and putting green. Walking is allowed daily.\n\n## ICE SKATING\n\n**SAVANNAH CIVIC CENTER,** Liberty and Montgomery Streets; (912) 651-6550. Believe it or not, you can enjoy this winter sport in Savannah, even at a time when it's liable to be downright warm. During December and starting on the first day of the month, the arena of the Civic Center is transformed into an ice rink where intrepid Southerners try their luck\u2014and ankles\u2014at skating. The rink fee is prone to change over the interval of a year that separates sessions entitles you to the use of a pair of skates. Skating times vary, so call ahead for information on when the rink is available and pricing.\n\n## RUNNING\n\nYou'll see lots of people running and jogging in Savannah, particularly during the more temperate months of autumn, winter, and spring. Good spots for running\u2014places where you won't have to worry about colliding with motorists\u2014are the sidewalks around Daffin Park and Forsyth Park and the jogging track at Lake Mayer Community Park (see listings in the beginning of this chapter). Each of these facilities covers 1.5 miles, so you can get a good workout by making a circuit or two. Some of the more experienced local runners drive out to the north end of Skidaway Island, park at the marine science center, and take to the roads there. These thoroughfares are fine for running because they are in good condition and sparsely traveled by drivers.\n\nSavannah is the site of several major races, principally the Enmark Savannah River Bridge Run, a 5K and 10K race held in December, Savannah Rock 'n' Roll Marathon in November and the Critz Tybee Run in February. If you're a competitive runner, you can probably find a race most weekends (except during the hot and humid summer months) within a 2-hour radius of Savannah.\n\n**SAVANNAH STRIDERS,** PO Box 15785, Savannah, GA 31416; (912) 631-1532; savystrider.com. The Striders meet monthly, and many members get together for runs during the week. The club, whose membership numbers about 180, sponsors the Tybee Marathon, Half-Marathon, and 5K in February and the Women's Wellness Walk/Run 5K in September. Annual dues are $15 for individuals and $20 for families, and membership forms can be picked up at the Habersham Branch YMCA on Habersham Street. The listed telephone number is the Striders' information line, and calling it will provide you with data on club meetings and upcoming races.\n\n## SAILING\n\nSailing is smooth in Savannah, as you might expect from the venue for the yachting events of the 1996 Summer Olympics. The best sailing is in Wassaw Sound, which is where the Olympic competition was staged. The sound has lots of deep water and few hazards, and you can bank on getting a trade wind breeze in the afternoon. Another good place for sailing is the Wilmington River, which is the site of several local regattas. The following are great places to get started.\n\n**GEECHEE SAILING CLUB,** (912) 727-2395; geecheesailingclub.org. The club sponsors two major sailboat races, the St. Patrick's Day Regatta on the weekend after the holiday and the Oktoberfest Regatta in early October, and organizes about seven extensive cruises for members each year.\n\nMembers meet at Tubby's TankHouse restaurant in Thunderbolt on the second Monday of each month at 6:30 p.m. About 70 people actively participate in club functions that include a heavy social agenda.\n\ni Besides being fun and good exercise, kayaking is an excellent way to get a close look at the marshland environment. Kayaking continues to grow in popularity in coastal Georgia, and you can rent boats and paddle around the marshes by paying a visit to North Island Surf & Kayak (912-786-4000) or Sea Kayak Georgia (912-786-8732), both of which are on US 80 on Tybee Island.\n\n**SAIL HARBOR MARINA & BOATYARD,** 606 Wilmington Island Rd.; (912) 897-2896, (912) 897-1914; sailharbormarina.com. Sail Harbor is on Turner Creek, right around the corner from the Wilmington River and about 7 miles from Wassaw Sound. This marina, whose office is closed Sun and Mon, has 100 wet slips, 5 of them for transients; a ship's store offering a variety of sailing merchandise; and a laundry, showers, and restrooms.\n\nSail Harbor was the 1996 Olympic yachting marina, meaning it served as a shore base for officials coordinating the sailing events. The actual sailing was done from a floating marina in Wassaw Sound that was dismantled after the Olympics.\n\n**SAVANNAH SAILING CENTER,** Lake Mayer, 1850 E. Montgomery Cross Rd.; (912) 231-9996; savannahsailingcenter.org. Youngsters and adults can learn to sail and sharpen their skills by participating in the programs offered by this community-based nonprofit organization. The center began operations in 1993 and trained all of the volunteers who served on the water for Olympic yachting in Savannah in 1996. Courses are taught at the boathouse at Lake Mayer. The center will accept children as young as age 5 if they know how to swim. The center offers instruction on Saturday during the summer and every other Saturday during the spring and fall. Call for programming and pricing details. Scholarships are available, as are discounts for multiple sessions and multiple family members.\n\n## SWIMMING\n\n**CHATHAM COUNTY AQUATIC CENTER,** 7240 Sallie Mood Dr.; (912) 652-6793; aquatic.chathamcounty.org. The aquatic center is a 40,000-square-foot area containing an eight-lane, 50-meter pool and a six-lane, 25-yard recreational and instructional pool, both of which are accessible to the disabled. In addition to accommodating lap swimming, the large pool is used for district, regional, state, and national swim meets; there's seating for 976 spectators. The building also has men's and women's changing rooms, a pro shop, a snack vending area, and several offices.\n\nThe 50-meter pool keeps things calm with a water-motion stabilizer that minimizes swimmers' wakes, and a ventilation duct running around the inside of the center keeps the air temperature at 88 to 90 degrees and the humidity at comfortable levels. The center offers a variety of programs for swimmers of all ages, those who want to develop their strokes and train for competition, and those interested in aquatic fitness. Call or check website for hours, fees, and classes.\n\n## TENNIS\n\nAbout 1,500 tennis players participate in the US Tennis Association league program here, making it the second-largest program in the state next to Atlanta's. A total of 150 of the teams in the program, more than a third of those involved, play at public courts. There are courts at city and county parks throughout the area, but the biggest public tennis complexes are at Bacon and Daffin Parks.\n\n**BACON PARK TENNIS COMPLEX,** 6262 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 351-3850. Tucked into a wooded area on Skidaway Road, this public complex has 16 lighted hard courts open 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. and 4 to 9 p.m. Mon through Thurs and 8 a.m. to noon. on Fri, Sat, and Sun; however, hours are limited depending on league play. A pro shop sells tennis merchandise and beverages. Fees start at $5.35 per hour.\n\n**DAFFIN PARK TENNIS COURTS,** 1001 E. Victory Dr.; (912) 351-3851. Daffin's six clay courts and three hard courts sit near the park's lake, so you can occasionally catch a breeze off the water. You can play for free on the lighted hard courts (available 7:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.), but there's a fee of $5 an hour for using the soft courts, which don't have lights and are open 8:30 a.m. until 5 p.m. 7 days a week. (Longer hours are available during the summer. Call for times.)\n\n# DAY TRIPS\n\nYou obviously will find plenty to occupy your time in Savannah, but if you want to go roaming a bit, you'll discover lots to see and do in the rest of coastal Georgia. To get you started on your explorations of the territory to the south of Savannah, we've mapped out trips to Richmond Hill\u2013Liberty County and to Jekyll Island.\n\nThe spotlighted sites in the Richmond Hill\u2013Liberty County area are within an hour's drive of Savannah. It will take a little longer to reach Jekyll, which is about a 90-minute jaunt from Savannah. For those inclined to head north into the South Carolina Low-country, we've included a trip to Beaufort, a charming, history-filled town 50 miles from downtown Savannah. Happy wandering!\n\n## RICHMOND HILL\u2013LIBERTY COUNTY\n\nLovers of history and nature will enjoy a tour of Richmond Hill and Liberty County, an area of extensive marshlands, lush forests, and meandering rivers, where the past is rich in significant people and events. To adequately visit all the spots we'll be sending you to, you'll probably need more than a day. That said, you might want to split this tour into a couple of day trips or pick a few places that sound the most appealing and spend a day visiting those.\n\nBegin your tour of the area by driving to the Bryan County municipality of Richmond Hill, a fast-growing town that's become a bedroom community of Savannah during the past 20-plus years. This onetime stomping ground of industrialist Henry Ford is 19 miles southwest of downtown Savannah and can be reached by heading west on I-16 to I-516. Then head south on I-516 to the Southwest Bypass (Veterans Parkway), south on the Southwest Bypass to SR 204, west on SR 204 to US 17, and south on US 17 to the highway's intersection with SR 144. Turn left from US 17 onto SR 144 and head east through the heart of Richmond Hill; it's a mile to your first stop, the Richmond Hill Historical Society and Museum. The museum building, which once housed a kindergarten that was a project of Ford and his wife, is on the right on the corner of SR 144 and Timber Trail Road.\n\n**RICHMOND HILL HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND MUSEUM, SR 144, Richmond Hill; (912) 756-3697; richmondhillhistory.org.** You'll learn the fascinating story of Richmond Hill's Henry Ford era (1925\u201351) when you visit this museum. The billionaire Ford purchased 85,000 acres in Bryan County in the mid-1920s, in effect buying the town of Richmond Hill, which was then known as Ways Station. Ford spent his winters there, living on a plantation that accommodated a laboratory where chemists attempted to transform agricultural products into goods that could be used by the automobile industry.\n\nFord revitalized an area where moon-shining was one of the major occupations; he put people to work on his plantation and at a sawmill that he refurbished, and he built medical clinics, houses, chapels, and the town's Community House. Ford also improved existing schools and built a trade school for boys and a grammar and high school for African-American youths. A museum staffer will tell you about Ford's accomplishments and their impact on the community while you look at photographs and artifacts from the period. You'll also learn about sites from the Ford era that you can visit, such as the Community House, which is now a funeral home, and one of the chapels, now a Catholic church.\n\nOther sections of the museum depict the area's plantation era and offer displays of photos and some of the furniture used in the county's one-room schoolhouses and in a typical parlor of a Bryan County home in the early 1900s. One room is devoted to the re-creation of a country store whose shelves are filled with authentic tins and boxes that held products popular during the early 1900s, and if you're interested in the really distant past, be sure to check out the time-line mural depicting the history of the area from prehistoric times to the present. No admission fee is charged, but donations are accepted. The museum is open Wed through Sat 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.\n\ni Some of the attractions on our Richmond Hill\u2013Liberty County day trip are in somewhat remote areas that aren't near restaurants, so you might consider packing a lunch for the day. You can dine in relative comfort at picnic areas at several stops on this tour, including Fort McAllister State Historic Park, Fort Morris State Historic Site, the Midway Museum, and the Fort Stewart Museum.\n\n_After you've looked at the displays at the Richmond Hill Museum, hop in your vehicle and head east on SR 144 to Fort McAllister State Historic Park. To reach the park, you'll drive 4 miles into the countryside on SR 144 to SR Spur 144, then turn left onto SR Spur 144; the entrance to the park is 4 miles ahead, and the drive to it will take you past upscale Lowcountry-style and ranch-style homes, some of them with backyard boat docks on the beautiful and fast-flowing Great Ogeechee River, which can be seen on your left_.\n\ni Fort McAllister State Historic Park and Fort Morris State Historic Site are among the 18 bird-watching venues on the Colonial Coast Birding Trail, which stretches along Georgia's coast from Tybee Island in the north to Cumberland Island National Seashore and the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge in the south. You can see songbirds, wading birds, and waterfowl at Fort McAllister and Fort Morris, depending on what time of year you visit.\n\n**FORT MCALLISTER STATE HISTORIC PARK, 3894 Fort McAllister Rd., Richmond Hill; (912) 727-2339; gastateparks.org.** This 1,725-acre park between the Ogeechee River and Red Bird Creek has two alluring identities: It's a recreational area featuring amenities for campers and picnickers, and it's also the site of an earthen fort where much of the Savannah area's most significant Civil War action took place.\n\nPrior to 1980 these two attractions existed as Richmond Hill State Park and Fort McAllister Historic Site. That year, they were combined to form Fort McAllister State Historic Park, which today is operated by the Georgia Department of Natural Resources. There's a $3.50\u20135 parking fee to enter the park, which is open daily 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. (campers arriving later can register at their campsites). There are also seven homey cottages to rent at this park for $95\u2013225 per night. Some are dog-friendly. The cottages have two double beds in each bedroom and sleep eight. There are fully equipped kitchens with microwaves and dishwashers, heat, and air-conditioning. One, in particular, also has a lovely screened-in porch that overlooks the marsh.\n\n**The Recreational Area**\n\nFor day-trippers, the main attraction here is the tree-filled picnic ground running along a high bluff overlooking the Ogeechee River. Tall pines and hardwoods make this a shady, serene spot for walking or sitting in a glider-type swing and watching the river flow by. You'll find 50 sites with picnic tables and grills, a fishing pier that extends out over the river, and plenty of rustic-looking playground equipment for the kids in this area, which borders the main road leading to the fort. Across the road from this area is the start of a 3.5-mile nature trail complete with a primitive campsite that can be rented for $10 a night per person.\n\nIf you plan on making your visit to Richmond Hill\u2013Liberty County last longer than a day and you like roughing it, consider staying at the park's Savage Island Campground, which has 66 campsites\u201454 for recreational vehicles and 12 with tent pads, and all with water and electrical hookups, grills, and tables. Two comfort stations provide campers with toilets, heated showers, and washer/dryers, and the campground also has a playground, nature trail, and dock and boat ramp on Red Bird Creek. The RV sites rent for $27\u201332 a nights.\n\n**The Historic Site**\n\nFort McAllister is one of the best-preserved earthwork fortifications built by the Confederacy during the Civil War. The southernmost of the defenses ringing Savannah, the fort withstood several attacks by Union warships before being overpowered by Federal forces on December 13, 1864, at the end of Gen. William T. Sherman's March to the Sea. The site was once owned by Henry Ford, who began an extensive restoration in the late 1930s, and the fort eventually fell into the hands of the state of Georgia, which restored it to its 1863\u201364 appearance.\n\nYou can wander around the walls and through the interior of the fort and look inside its central bombproof bunker, but be careful not to climb on these earthen structures, which are extremely susceptible to erosion from foot traffic. Take the self-guided tour of the fort and check out a 32-pounder smoothbore gun that fired red-hot cannonballs and the furnace where these projectiles were heated; the reconstructed service magazine, which held shells, powder, and fuses for the rebels' 32-pounder rifled gun; and the fort's northwest angle, where the attackers placed the first US flag planted on the parapets.\n\nThe museum contains Civil War shells and weapons; implements such as those used in the construction of the fort; artifacts from the Confederate blockade runner _Nashville_ , which was sunk in the Ogeechee by the Union ironclad _Montauk;_ a diorama of the assault on the fort; a display depicting life at the fort as experienced by its 230 defenders; and exhibits involving the Guale Indians, who once inhabited the area, and Henry Ford's efforts to preserve the site. The fort is open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission rates are $9 for adults, $8 for seniors, and $5 for youths; children younger than age 6 are admitted free.\n\n_After visiting Fort McAllister State Historic Park, head back to Richmond Hill on SR 144 and then south to Liberty County and the Historic Liberty Trail. The first attraction on this tour of the trail is Fort Morris State Historic Site, and you can get there from Richmond Hill by turning left onto US 17 from SR 144 and driving 2 miles to I-95, heading south on I-95 for 11 miles, and leaving the interstate at exit 76. Next, turn left onto US 84/SR 38 (Fort Morris Road) and stay on it for 7 miles until you come to the entrance to the site_.\n\n**FORT MORRIS STATE HISTORIC SITE, 2559 Fort Morris Rd., Midway; (912) 884-5999; gastateparks.org.** This peaceful little spot on a low bluff on the Medway River was the scene of one of the classic rejoinders in American history. During the Revolutionary War, the British besieged the American earthworks of Fort Morris and the nearby town of Sunbury, and the redcoat commander demanded a surrender. The fort's commander, Col. John McIntosh, answered the demand in this defiant manner: \"We, sir, are fighting the battles of America, and therefore disdain to remain neutral till its fate is determined. As to surrendering the fort, receive this laconic reply, 'Come and take it!'\" Lacking some expected support from another British force and the exact knowledge of the strength of the troops at Fort Morris, the redcoats did not follow McIntosh's suggestion; instead, they retreated. Fort Morris, however, eventually fell to the British and was dismantled.\n\nA smaller earthen fort, called Defiance in honor of McIntosh's reply, was built during the War of 1812 from the remains of Fort Morris, and you can explore it by visiting this site. Strolling around the walls of the fort under the majestic oaks towering over it, you have a wonderful view of the Medway and its marshes, and you might even get a glimpse of a shrimp boat trawling in the river. The interpretive center/museum at the site tells the saga of the fort and of Sunbury, the town it was built to protect, and there's also a mile-long nature trail through marsh and scrub oak forest.\n\nThe Georgia Department of Natural Resources, which maintains the 70-acre site, offers several special events during the year, including the Independence Day Colonial Faire in July and the \"Come and Take It!\" reenactment in November. Admission to the site is $4.50 for adults, $4 for seniors, and $3 for youths ages 6\u201317; entry for children younger than age 6 is free. Fort Morris is open Thurs through Sat 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.\n\n_While you're at the interpretive center at Fort Morris State Historic Site, be sure to view the award-winning, 12-minute video_ , Sunbury Sleeps: The Forgotten Town of Sunbury, Georgia. _This hauntingly beautiful tribute to one of Georgia's \"lost towns_ \" _serves as the perfect introduction to the next stop on our day trip, the Sunbury Cemetery. The cemetery is a little more than a mile from the entrance to Fort Morris. After leaving the fort, turn right onto Fort Morris Road and keep to your left until you reach Sunbury Road. Turn left onto this dirt road and drive to Dutchmans Cove Road, then take a right and follow this unpaved lane a short distance to the cemetery_.\n\n**SUNBURY CEMETERY, Old Sunbury Road, Midway; exploresouthernhistory.com.** This small cemetery is all that remains of the once bustling town of Sunbury, which in 1764 had 80 dwellings, three stores, several wharves, and a trio of town squares. By 1773, Sunbury was a seaport beginning to rival Savannah as a place of commerce. That year the town saw 56 vessels clear port as compared with Savannah's 160. Sunbury also had another claim to fame: All three of Georgia's signers of the Declaration of Independence had a connection to the town\u2014Lyman Hall lived there, Button Gwinnett resided on nearby St. Catherines Island, and George Walton was confined there when Sunbury was made a military prison after its capture by the British during the Revolutionary War.\n\nBy the end of the war, most of Sunbury had been destroyed, and the town never recovered. There were fewer than eight families living there by 1855, and all evidence of the town eventually disappeared\u2014everything but the cemetery and the 34 grave markers that remain standing. When we visited Fort Morris, we knew when we left that there wouldn't be a great deal to see at the cemetery. But after viewing the Department of Natural Resources video about Sunbury, we felt compelled to take a look and pay our respects, so to speak. Maybe you will, too.\n\n_Now it's time to get back on the Historic Liberty Trail and head to the town of Midway. We recommend, though, that while you're on the way, you visit Seabrook Village, which you can find by turning right off Fort Morris Road onto Trade Hill Road_.\n\n**SEABROOK VILLAGE, 660 Trade Hill Rd., Midway; (912) 884-7008; seabrookvillage.org.** This 104-acre site portrays the history and culture of African Americans living in coastal Georgia during 1865 to 1930. Using authentic buildings and displays of artifacts, Seabrook brings that period to life. Among stops on guided and self-guided tours of the village are Bowen's Farm, with its rice fields and a barn containing tools used in farming, gathering oysters, and making turpentine; the Ripley Corn Crib, where corn is ground into grits and meal; the Seabrook School, with its original wooden blackboard and desks made by former student John Stevens; the Gibbons-Woodward House, in which you can see a rural kitchen, a feather bed, and a replica of the original clay chimney; a mill and boiler house where stalks of sugarcane are ground by horsepower and cooked into syrup; the Delegal-Williams House, with its family photographs and local furnishings; and a train depot that was moved to the site from nearby Riceboro.\n\nWhile you're visiting Seabrook, be sure to see the unusual artwork of Cyrus Bowen, with which he adorned local gravesites. Seabrook is open Tues through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Group tours lasting 3 hours and conducted by costumed guides are available, as are 1-hour guided tours in the afternoon. Admission is $10 for adults, $8 for seniors, and $7.50 for children.\n\n_Midway was established in 1754 by a group of Congregationalists from Dorchester, South Carolina. Their Midway Society produced governors, cabinet members, US senators and congressmen, numerous ministers, and foreign missionaries. The parish they settled, St. John's, was a hotbed of patriotic fervor during the years leading up to the American Revolution, and two of its residents, Lyman Hall and Button Gwinnett, were among Georgia's three signers of the Declaration of Independence. Clustered just up the road are the Midway Museum, Midway Congregational Church, and the Midway Cemetery_.\n\n**THE MIDWAY MUSEUM, US 17, Midway; (912) 884-5837; themidwaymuseum.org.** This museum gives visitors an idea of what life was like for landowners in coastal Georgia during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. The museum building is an elegant, raised cottage-style house erected in 1957 and based on a sketch made in 1828 of a home in nearby Riceboro. The rooms of the house are filled with original 18th-century furnishings; among the unique items are a walking-cane gun that fired a .45 caliber slug and a set of musical glasses that are played by rubbing vinegar around the rims. A museum staff member will tell you about many of the items in the three first-floor rooms of the house and will play a tune on the glasses; you're free to look at the upper-floor bedrooms and displays in the ground-floor rooms on your own.\n\nThis attraction, which is operated by the Midway Museum Board of Governors, is open Tues through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Admission, which includes access to nearby Midway Congregational Church, is $6 for adults, $5 for seniors and military, and $3 for youngsters ages 6\u201317; children younger than age 6 are admitted free.\n\n**MIDWAY CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH, US 17, Midway.** Built in 1792, this stately church reflects a style reminiscent of colonial New England (some of the founders of Midway were descendants of Puritans from Massachusetts who had settled in South Carolina). The existing building replaced a church that was burned by the British in 1778. The church is a short walk from the Midway Museum, and you can obtain a key from a museum staff member and take a look inside. The church has no heating system or artificial lights, but services are conducted there each April by the Midway Society. For inquiries and service times, email info@themidwaymuseum.org.\n\n**MIDWAY CEMETERY, US 17, Midway.** Researchers believe Midway Cemetery was laid out in the late 1750s and that it contains about 1,200 graves. Among those buried there are James Screven, a brigadier general in the American army who was killed in November 1778 in a skirmish with the British about a mile south of his resting place, and Daniel Stewart, who attained the rank of brigadier after fighting in the Revolutionary and Indian Wars and was the great-grandfather of Theodore Roosevelt. Fort Stewart, the US Army's military reservation at nearby Hinesville, is named after Daniel Stewart. The cemetery is open to the public, and a brochure featuring a map and self-guided tour of the site is available at the Midway Museum for 25 cents.\n\n_Midway Cemetery is also the burial site of Louis LeConte, who owned a rice plantation south of Midway where he created a botanical garden of great renown. You can reach the plantation by driving south on US 17 for 3 miles to the Barrington Ferry Road. Turn right onto Barrington Ferry and follow it for 5.5 miles to the entrance to the plantation site_.\n\n**LECONTE-WOODMANSTON RICE PLANTATION AND BOTANICAL GARDENS, Barrington Ferry Road, Riceboro; (912) 884-6500; leconte-woodmanston.org.** In its heyday during the early 1800s, Woodmanston Plantation covered more than 3,300 acres and was the largest inland rice plantation in Georgia. Louis LeConte came into possession of Woodmanston in 1810, and the garden he planted there gained fame throughout the US and Europe.\n\nThe plantation was abandoned in 1869, but a restoration of a 63.8-acre site was begun in the late 1970s as a project of the Garden Club of Georgia. The project, being carried on now by the LeConte-Woodmanston Foundation, is a work in progress that so far has resulted in the creation of a 1.5-acre botanical garden featuring plants that LeConte might have grown and a 1-mile nature trail along a network of rice dams. The garden contains more than 100 different plants, including beds of older varieties of camellias and roses. Several structures that were part of the plantation\u2014a chicken coop, a garden shed, a smokehouse, and a slave cabin\u2014have been re-created on the site. Visitors can also stroll along a path through a 3-acre bog containing flowering plants native to the area and observe rice being grown on 2 acres of wetlands.\n\nThe plantation is open to the public Tues through Sun 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and at other times by prior arrangement, and admission is $5 per person. Because LeConte-Woodmanston is in a somewhat remote spot, you might want to call ahead to the listed number before you visit, and you definitely should call to make arrangements for group tours. Also, be aware that the last 1.6 miles of the drive to the plantation is on dirt roads.\n\n_The last attraction on this tour is the Fort Stewart Museum, a military museum just inside the main entrance to Fort Stewart, the huge US Army post at Hinesville. From LeConte-Woodmanston, drive back to the intersection of US 17 and US 84 and head west on US 84 about 7 miles to Hinesville. Turn right onto General Stewart Way, which will take you to the entrance to Fort Stewart. The museum is on the post at the corner of Wilson Boulevard and Frank Cochran Drive_.\n\n**FORT STEWART MUSEUM, 158 Cavalry Way, Ft. Stewart; (912) 767-7885; stewart.army.mil.** Displays at the museum focus on the history of Fort Stewart and its current occupant, the Third Infantry Division (Mechanized). Fort Stewart, now the largest army installation east of the Mississippi River, was established in the summer of 1940 as Camp Stewart and served as an antiaircraft artillery training center during World War II and the Korean War. During the early 1960s, the post was the site of a variety of tests and training by military units, and in the latter half of the decade it served as a training area for Army helicopter pilots.\n\nIn the mid-1970s, the 24th Infantry Division (Mechanized) was activated at Fort Stewart, and the unit was based there until April 1996, when the post became the home of the Third Infantry. The story of the Third's service in the two world wars and Korea is related at the museum, portions of which are also devoted to the 24th Infantry and the military history of coastal Georgia. Uniforms, weapons, and other items used by the Third Infantry and their opponents are on display in the museum, as is a T-72M-1 tank abandoned by Iraqi Republican Guard crewmen in an engagement with the 24th Infantry during the earlier war in the Persian Gulf. There are also exhibits featuring Operation Iraqi Freedom and Audie Murphy, a Third Infantry hero in World War II whose exploits won him the title of \"America's Most Decorated Soldier.\" Outside the museum, you'll find static displays of equipment used in warfare, including an M4A3 Sherman tank, a UH-1 Huey helicopter gunship, and numerous Iraqi artillery pieces and vehicles captured by US forces during the Gulf War. Entry to Fort Stewart is open to civilians, and admission to the museum is free. Hours of operation are Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Museumgoers should enter the post via the visitor center at Gate 1 on General Screven Way.\n\n## **JEKYLL ISLAND**\n\nGeorgia's coastline is a fascinating and varied one. Savannah, which snugs up to South Carolina, marks its northernmost point. At the southern extremity, up against the Florida line, you'll find St. Mary's, with its access to Cumberland Island National Seashore. And in between you'll find the Golden Isles.\n\nFour islands make up this cluster, accessible from Brunswick, a port and industrial city that retains a small historic district. It is the jumping-off point for the Golden Isles, reachable by causeway with one exception. St. Simons Island is the biggest and most developed of the isles, with beaches, motels, restaurants, and historic sites. Little St. Simons is accessible only by boat and is open to a limited number of guests (by arrangement). Consisting of largely undeveloped beaches and marshlands, this island is a real treat for environmentally minded tourists. Sea Island, largely residential and from a geographical point of view virtually part of St. Simons, is home to the extremely tony resort known as the Cloister.\n\nJekyll Island is the southernmost of the four Golden Isles and has the same appeal to the same type of traveler who is attracted to Savannah. You'll find places to eat and sleep there, but development has not destroyed the natural beauty of the island. In fact, the state of Georgia owns the place, and the business and residential ventures there are really long-term leases. However, that policy is changing\u2014in 2007 the state opened part of the island to high-dollar development. Enjoy the beaches (which are all public, at least at the moment) and consider a trip along the extensive network of bike paths a must-do (bike rental places abound; check the lobby of larger motels). Spend the night to enhance your day trip even more. It's a beautiful island and you'll probably hate to leave! Jekyll, like the rest of the Golden Isles, is also covered with golf courses, most of which are accessible to the public at large.\n\nThe **Jekyll Island Welcome Center,** 901 Downing Musgrove Pkwy. (912-635-3636, 877-453-5955), and the **Brunswick & the Golden Isles Visitors Bureau,** 4 Glynn Ave., Brunswick (912-265-0366, 800-809-1790), are two general sources that can provide additional information, including lodging details and how to get onto the golf courses. Expect to pay a $6 \"parking fee\" as you drive onto Jekyll. There's also a website: jekyllisland.com.\n\nTo get there, head south on I-95. It takes about 90 minutes. While it's not that long a trip (we know people who commute there from Savannah for work daily, in fact), it can be harrowing. This is the corridor that runs between the Northeast population centers and Florida, and it is always heavily traveled by time-conscious vacationers. Exits are clearly marked.\n\nJekyll and St. Simons Islands are not accessible from one another\u2014you have to make the trip back to the mainland on the causeway and then take the other causeway to the next island. It's a pleasant drive through the marshes, watching herons and marsh rabbits, but it does take a little time.\n\nSt. Simons is a more developed beach community than Jekyll Island, but it has still retained its charm and individual character. There's a large year-round population, and they clearly cherish the winter months when the tourists aren't as prevalent. That doesn't mean visitors aren't welcome; it does mean a quieter pace of life in the winter. There's even a \"downtown,\" a short strip of shops leading to the water and including the usual tourist stuff, an interesting toy store, a bookshop, etc. St. Simons has large, legible signs posted at key intersections, and the names of specific destinations are clearly listed. It's simple to get around on St. Simons. The King and Prince Hotel is a good lodging choice (the selection is rather limited). It's by no means as tony as the Cloister, the region's upscale resort, but they've got the amenities you'd expect in a beachside resort. The island offers multiple restaurant options, predictably leaning toward seafood. The exclusive Cloister Sea Island (seaisland.com/thecloister) resort was built just before the bottom fell out of Wall Street and launched the Great Depression. It has long been a traditional destination of the if-you-have-to-ask-you-can't-afford-it crowd. Not that there aren't bargains to be had: Honeymooners are extended the right to rent rooms on their anniversary at the rate that prevailed at the time of the wedding\u2014so if you meet someone celebrating their 50th, they're in high cotton. The owners tore the whole thing down a couple years ago and rebuilt it, using salvaged materials when possible. The result is a new-that-looks-old resort with stunningly landscaped grounds.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\n**Cumberland Island**\n\nIf you're feeling adventuresome, prepare to unearth one of this country's best-kept secrets, **Cumberland Island**. Travel south on I-95 to FL A1A (exit 373). Turn left at the light at the end of the ramp. Then, follow FL A1A East for 14.8 miles to Centre Street. Turn left onto Centre Street and go to the waterfront. Drop off your passenger and/or luggage to meet the boat captain at Dock 3 next to the \"Lucy R. Ferguson\" sign on the dock rail. Follow the directions on your parking pass to the parking area, then walk southwest across the train rail to the boat. (The ferry leaves the Fernandina Beach docks at 9:30 a.m., 12:15 and 5:30 p.m. daily.)\n\nCruising over to Cumberland Island is a treat in itself. Pack a light snack as the ferry ride takes about 45 minutes. As you make your way closer and closer to Cumberland Island National Seashore, you'll enjoy unparalleled views of the south Georgia shoreline. Cumberland Island is approximately 18 miles long and 3 miles wide, and is the nation's largest wilderness island. There are endless smooth, white beaches that stretch the entire length of the eastern shore, oftentimes nearly a mile wide. There are times when you'll hardly meet a soul as you stroll along the beach. Cumberland's dense forest, golden salt marshes, and pristine beaches provide sanctuary to a host of wildlife, including armadillos, bobcats, loggerhead turtles, herons, egrets, alligators, wild horses, turkeys, and hogs. There are still traces remaining of the Native Americans, Spanish missionaries, English soldiers, plantation owners, slaves, freedmen and freedwomen, and Gilded Age industrialists who called the island home over the centuries. Sand dunes are prevalent, and among them arises one of the most luxurious (and private) hotels in existence, the Greyfield Inn, a four-story, 16-room property, which is detailed below.\n\nOn the opposite end of the island stand the stately ruins of Dungeness, an original estate built by Thomas and Lucy Carnegie in the late 1800s. Thomas died before Dungeness was completed, leaving behind his wife and nine children. Mrs. Carnegie was a dominant figure on the island. Expanding her husband's initial acquisitions, she eventually owned 90 percent of the island. She initiated renovation of Dungeness and construction of four additional mansions built as island homes for her children. The Greyfield Inn was the home of Lucy R. Ferguson, the daughter of Thomas and Lucy Carnegie. Converted to an inn during 1962, the family still oversees the operation.\n\nOnce you arrive on the island, if you haven't booked a room in the idyllic Greyfield Inn (greyfieldinn.com), then you'll at least want to tour this magnificent treasure where John Kennedy and Carolyn Bessette spent their honeymoon in 1996 after getting married in a small historic chapel on the island. Voted one of the top 500 highest-rated hotels by _Travel + Leisure_ , you'll feel right at home among the beautiful antiques, candlelit dinners, and comfortable, plush sitting areas. There's no cell phone service here, and don't even try to pick up a Wi-Fi signal. My tip is to purchase Greyfield Inn's \"Georgia Golden Isles American Plan Package \" that includes round-trip ferry transportation; a single/or double occupancy room (additional guests are $275 per night); all meals (breakfast, lunch, and gourmet dinner); hors d'oeuvres during the nightly cocktail hour; snacks; a naturalist-led tour; unlimited use of sports, fishing, and beach equipment; and parking. Rates are $475 to $635 per night and depend on the room you select for your stay (for one person, all inclusive). A 2-night minimum is required. Call (866) 401-8581 or (904) 261-6408.\n\n**JEKYLL ISLAND HISTORIC DISTRICT MUSEUM VISITORS CENTER, Stable Road, Jekyll Island; (912) 635-4036.** Georgia was originally founded as a refuge for debtors, but the richest and most powerful men in the US originally developed Jekyll Island. They bought the island in 1886 and made it into a private resort where you need not apply unless your annual income included at least seven figures, all to the left of the decimal point, at a time when that was really a fortune. Names that are synonymous with American fortunes were among the Jekyll Island Club's members: Rockefeller, Gould, Morgan. And they didn't stay in rented quarters, although the club was (and now is again) a fine hotel. Instead, they built \"cottages\"\u2014mansions that took advantage of beautiful views, cooling breezes, and balmy weather. This was, indeed, the playground of the rich and famous.\n\nTypes of tours vary by season. Call for details.\n\n## **BEAUFORT, SOUTH CAROLINA**\n\nBeaufort is situated between Savannah and Charleston, South Carolina, and it exudes much of the charm of those two cities, but on a smaller scale. This town of about 9,500 residents has a historic district filled with elegant homes built in the 1700s and 1800s and a quaint but bustling waterfront shopping district that's brimming with intriguing stores and unique eating places.\n\nThe Beaufort area is rich in history. The Spaniards unsuccessfully attempted to found the colony of Santa Elena here in 1559, and French Protestants, led by explorer Jean Ribault in 1562, tried to start a settlement called Charlesfort on what is now Parris Island. It failed, and the Spanish returned to the area in 1566, building a fort, San Phillipe, and the Mission of Santa Elena at Port Royal. According to the Historic Beaufort Foundation, this settlement was, by 1580, one of the largest Spanish towns north of Mexico. It was abandoned in 1586 following attacks on Spanish Florida by the English privateer Sir Francis Drake.\n\nThe English laid claim to the area in the 1600s and by the turn of the next century had established a foothold at Port Royal. Beaufort was founded in 1711, and in the years leading up to the American Revolution, local planters turned profits by growing rice and indigo. During the Revolutionary War, residents of the area were sharply divided over the issue of independence from Britain and allegiance to the crown. British forces occupied Beaufort in July 1779 but evacuated later in the year. Cotton planting was introduced to the area after the Revolution. Subsequent crops made rich men and women of many of Beaufort's citizens in the years leading up to the Civil War. Early in the conflict, in November 1861, South Carolina's Sea Islands were invaded by Union forces, and Beaufort and the Port Royal area fell into Federal hands. Beaufort became the main base of Union squadrons blockading the South Atlantic. During the Union occupation, the first school for freedmen, which eventually became Penn School, was established east of Beaufort on St. Helena Island.\n\nBeaufort is about 55 minutes from downtown Savannah by car. To get there, take Oglethorpe Avenue west and drive across the Eugene Talmadge Memorial Bridge on US 17 into South Carolina. It's 5 miles from the bridge to the intersection of US 17 and Alternate SC 170; turn right onto Alternate SC 170 and stay on it for 6 miles, where it becomes SC 170 (also SC 46). Continue 3 miles to where SC 170 leaves SC 46. Turn left onto SC 170 and enjoy the scenery\u2014a narrow, two-lane road shrouded by the moss-covered branches of gnarled oaks. Take a good look, because this area might not be heavily forested for much longer; civilization and the developers of subdivisions and shopping centers appear to be taking over.\n\nYou'll be on SC 170 for about 20 miles, which will take you into the outskirts of Beaufort. While on SC 170, you'll pass country roads with fascinating-sounding names such as Bulltomb, Bufflehead, Heffalump, Old Bailey's, Crippled Oak, Bellinger Bluff, and Mudbar, and you'll catch glimpses of marshland and open water. You'll cross the picturesque Chechessee River, drive through relatively pristine Lemon Island, and then find yourself marveling at the majestic expanse of the aptly named Broad River, which is spanned by a bridge that's 1.4 miles long.\n\nSC 170 will lead you to US 21 South (also known in these parts as Boundary Street); turn right onto US 21 and stay on it for a mile until you reach the traffic light at Ribaut Road. Turn right onto Ribaut Road and drive to the third stoplight, then turn left onto Bay Street, which will take you about a mile past stately homes and a bay dotted with sailboats and into Beaufort's waterfront district.\n\nThe focal points of this area are Bay Street, which is lined on either side with shops and restaurants, and Henry C. Chambers Waterfront Park, a pleasant, tree-filled swath of greenery lying south of Bay Street. The park, with its wide walkways, swinging benches, and elaborate children's playground, is a wonderful place for strolling or sitting and catching a breeze off the nearby water. Several of the restaurants that dot the south side of Bay Street open onto patios and porches that offer outdoor dining on the fringes of the park. Among these eating places are **Saltus River Grill** at 802 Bay St., which specializes in seafood; **Plum's** at 904 Bay St., which is known for its gourmet soups, salads, sandwiches, and homemade ice cream; and **Panini's Cafe** at 926 Bay St., which features pasta, pizza, hoagies, and, of course, panini-style sandwiches.\n\nThe stores along Bay Street and on the narrow lanes running to the north off Bay provide a plethora of shopping opportunities. There are several galleries; a unique one is the **Rhett Gallery** at 901 Bay St. In addition to selling prints and paintings, this gallery offers antique maps and nautical charts and Civil War art and artifacts, including pages from _Harper's Weekly_ and _Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper_. Specialty shops you might want to visit include the Craftseller, at 818 Bay St., which deals in local and regional arts and crafts, and the Cat's Meow Shoppe, a gift shop on Bay Street that caters to collectors of all things feline. If you're looking for books, stop in at McIntosh Book Shoppe in the refurbished Old Bay Market Place at 917 Bay St. It has a good inventory that features books related to the region, and a large selection of rare, out-of-print editions.\n\nThose in search of history will find it throughout town in general and in two locations in particular:\n\ni While visiting Beaufort, consider taking a side trip to nearby Penn Center, a 50-acre National Historic Landmark District on St. Helena Island. Penn Center is the site of Penn School, one of the most significant African-American institutions in the US and an active community center. The mission of the center is to preserve the history, culture, and environment of the Sea Islands. You can get there by taking US 21 east from Beaufort to St. Helena Island and turning right onto Martin Luther King Jr. Drive.\n\n**BEAUFORT MUSEUM, 713 Craven St., Beaufort, SC; (843) 522-2665; beauforthistorymuseum.com.** Housed in an arsenal that was completed in 1798, the museum tells the story of Beaufort's history through its exhibits and displays of artifacts. Among the exhibits are those involving the Native Americans who lived in the area, the European colonization of the region, the development of the town in the era prior to the Civil War, the Union occupation during that conflict, and early-20th-century industries.\n\nThe museum has been situated in the arsenal since 1939 as the result of a WPA project to add a wing for a museum and relic room. The building was the site of National Guard musters until 1966, and it was acquired by the city of Beaufort in 1990 for the continued purpose of preserving the town's heritage and that of the surrounding Sea Islands. Hours are Mon through Sat 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., Sun 1 to 5 p.m. Admission for adults is $5, $4 for seniors, and children age 10 and younger are admitted free.\n\n**JOHN MARK VERDIER HOUSE MUSEUM, 801 Bay St., Beaufort, SC; (843) 379-3331.** Built in the late 1790s by one of the town's leading merchants, the two-story frame house rests on a tabby foundation and is an example of the Federal style of architecture. Interior features are the paneled reception parlor, first-floor dining room, graceful staircase, and spacious second-floor drawing room. The decor and furnishings reflect those of the period from 1790 until 1825.\n\nThe house was condemned in 1942, but public-spirited citizens spearheaded a drive to save the structure, and a restoration effort was begun in the fall of 1975. It was completed a year later. The house is open to viewing Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Admission is $6 for adults and $4 for students.\n\n**THE POINT.** You can see more of Beaufort's elegant old houses\u2014their exteriors, at least\u2014by visiting an area called the Point, which is east of Bay Street. This oak-filled section of town is not large and doesn't take long to drive through, but it's abundantly graced with what the local historic foundation calls \"Beaufort-style\" homes. According to the Historic Beaufort Foundation, these homes were \"designed for airiness and coolness\" and \"incorporated elements of Georgian and colonial architecture as well as those of Greek Revival and semitropical Spanish.\" The foundation's guidebook states that the Beaufort-style home \"differs from the more urban designs of Charleston and Savannah in that the Beaufort house is freestanding on a large lot, frequently with a formal garden, and is oriented to take full advantage of the prevailing southwesterly breezes. It more nearly resembles the plantation house, brought to town, as some indeed were, and adapted to the summer heat and the dampness of the Lowcountry.\"\n\nA wonderful way to view these homes and the rest of Beaufort's Historic District is on foot on your own; you can pick up free maps of the area at many of the downtown shops and at the visitor center, which is at the intersection of Congress and Carteret Streets. If you're looking for something that's a little more structured, there are numerous tours available, including those provided by appointment by the **Point Tours** at 1002-B Bay St. (800-979-3370) and by **Carolina Buggy Tours** (843-525-1300); **Spirit of Old Beaufort** , which conducts walking and van tours (843-525-0459); and **Southurn Rose Buggy Tours** (843-524-2900). **John Sharp** (843-575-5775) provides a spookier look at Beaufort, with a lantern-lit narrative conducted in the graveyard of St. Helena's church.\n\n# HILTON HEAD, SOUTH CAROLINA\n\nHilton Head Island, a lush playground for wealthy individuals\u2014many who own second homes there\u2014is also a popular destination for visitors from all over the US. This is the South's answer to the tropics and, by all appearances, it's an island that was bred for fun! The foot-shaped barrier island is located off the Atlantic coast of South Carolina, approximately 45 miles north of Savannah, 90 miles south of Charleston, South Carolina, and 30 miles south of historic Beaufort, South Carolina. The island\u201412 miles long and 5 miles wide\u2014was the first \"eco-planned\" destination in the US. What does that mean? To the average onlooker who is trucking onto the island with a minivan filled with kids, luggage, and beach gear, it means that this is a place that has been delicately preserved, where nature has collided with man in a pleasant sort of way. It's a place where you can bring your kids to escape the world of video games and opt to spend afternoons together trekking through the island on foot or bike. There are no high-rise buildings or commercial, touristy strips. Billboards are few, and even the common places that you know (like Publix, Outback, and TJ Maxx) blend discreetly into the serene natural flora. Indeed, the developers of this island are to be commended! Hilton Head can be the perfect day trip, or better yet, the perfect place for an extended vacation. If you choose to drive over for the day, you might find yourself booking a private home, villa, or condo for a longer return visit! There are simply too many things to do here, and to do them well and enjoy the ride, one must commit to a few days, at the very least. If you're coming for the week, you'll be sad when the checkout day arrives.\n\n## **HISTORY**\n\nIn contrast to Savannah, most of the structures on Hilton Head are about 60 years old, the result of two momentous events in the island's history that occurred in the mid-1950s. One was the opening of a set of two bridges connecting the 42-square-mile sea island with the South Carolina mainland. The other was the start of the Sea Pines residential/resort community by a southeast Georgian named Charles Fraser.\n\n\"The opening of the bridge had a major impact on development,\" states Porter M. Thompson in the book _Hilton Head Island Images_. \"Suddenly building materials, equipment and people were able to come and go freely\u2014Hilton Head had lost its isolation and a new era had begun.\"\n\nSea Pines, in its basic form a residential area built around a golf course, set the tone for the other planned communities that would be created on Hilton Head and spurred the development of the island as a mecca for retirees and vacationers. Back in the early 1950s, Hilton Head was home to about 100 families, \"little more than a quiet community of farmers and shrimpers,\" as author Richard Rutt put it in _Hilton Head Island: A Perspective_. Now the island\u2014with its natural assets of marshes, wide creeks, hardwood forests, and 12 miles of beach\u2014is the site of planned communities harboring a multitude of stylish homes and upscale condominiums known locally as villas. Hilton Head boasts 30 beautifully manicured golf courses, 300 tennis courts, 8 marinas, several large hotels, a bevy of villa-style resorts and midsize hotels and motels, more than 250 restaurants, and 36 shopping areas with more than 200 shops. Permanent residents now number approximately 39,000, many of them engaged in satisfying the needs of visitors, of whom there are 2.5 million annually, according to the island's chamber of commerce.\n\nAll this growth has occurred in a manner that places an emphasis on preserving Hilton Head's natural surroundings: live oaks, magnolias, pines, palmettos, and other flora. Following ideas originally credited to Fraser, most islanders continue to adhere to the concept that buildings must blend in with the environment and that the development is as unobtrusive as possible.\n\nAlthough Hilton Head's modern era begins in the 1950s, the island's recorded history goes back considerably further\u2014to the 1500s, when Spaniards and Frenchmen visited while exploring the area bordering Port Royal Sound, the large bay on Hilton Head's north shore that's one of the world's finest natural harbors. The Spanish and French fought over the sound for almost 50 years, with the Spaniards triumphing but never settling the area. That was left to the British, who in 1717 were responsible for the island's first English-speaking settler, John Barnwell.\n\nEnglishmen had been in the area well before that, however. In 1663 sea captain William Hilton sailed into the sound and came upon the island. He spotted a headland on the northeastern end and named it after himself. As time went on, the entire island came to be called by the name of this promontory, Hilton Head.\n\nThe settlers who came to Hilton Head in the 1700s eventually planted the land in cotton, indigo, sugarcane, rice, and other crops. They purchased slaves brought to North America from Africa and used them to create large plantations. According to Richard Rutt, there were 24 plantations on the island by 1860, most of them producing cotton. Also by that time, South Carolina was on the verge of seceding from the Union and leading the South into the Civil War, a conflict in which Hilton Head would play an interesting part.\n\nThe island was invaded by Union troops on November 7, 1861, 7 months after the war began, in an effort to control Port Royal Sound and establish a portion of the blockade of the Confederacy's Atlantic coast. In the Battle of Port Royal, a Union fleet of 15 warships and 31 transports and supply ships exchanged shots with 4 Confederate gunboats and 2 forts, one of them on Hilton Head. The Confederate guns were silenced, the forts were evacuated, and Union forces took possession of the island and held it until the end of the war.\n\nThe area near the fort on Hilton Head\u2014called Fort Walker by the Southerners and renamed Fort Welles by its Federal conquerors\u2014became a town during the Union occupation, when the population of Hilton Head mushroomed to 40,000. \"Enlisted personnel\u2014both soldiers and sailors\u2014constituted the bulk of that population, or, 23\u201330,000 men,\" Rutt stated in his book. \"The balance of Hilton Head's wartime population consisted primarily of freedmen who sought refuge on the island, civilian dependents, and Yankee tradesmen. The latter opened and operated a variety of business establishments, ranging from hotels, blacksmith shops, and theaters to photography studios, tattoo parlors, and bordellos.\"\n\nThe main street of the town, which was located in what is now Port Royal Plantation, was named Sutler's Row after the merchants who lined it. The military men who paid exorbitant prices for the sutlers' goods called it Robber's Row, the name now borne by one of the plantation's golf courses. Another settlement sprang up in what is now Hilton Head Plantation. It was called Mitchelville and consisted mostly of tents and barracks housing freed slaves who had fled to the island. When the war ended, the military and the sutlers left and, said Rutt, \"the shops and houses of Robber's Row and Mitchelville rapidly disappeared from the island, no doubt torn down by freedmen seeking to build homes of their own.\"\n\nFrom the end of the Civil War until the middle of the 20th century, Hilton Head was a sleepy sea island largely bypassed and forgotten by the rest of the world. All that began to change in 1950, when Fred Hack, C. C. Stebbins, and Lt. Gen. Joseph B. Fraser bought 8,000 acres of pine forest and formed the Hilton Head Company for the purpose of selectively cutting the pines. In 1956 the company's holdings were divided, with Fraser acquiring 4,000 acres on the southern end of the island. A year later Fraser's son Charles, a University of Georgia and Yale Law School graduate in his 20s, bought his family's holdings and another 1,200 acres and started planning and developing Sea Pines.\n\nMeanwhile, Hack and O. T. McIntosh, who had purchased 12,000 acres on the northern end of the island in the early 1950s, began work on their own developments: Spanish Wells Plantation and Port Royal Plantation. (Sea Pines also used the term _plantation_ in its name in its early years, as have many of the planned communities on the island; it refers to the antebellum plantations once located on the sites of the communities.)\n\n\"These few men,\" wrote Porter Thompson in referring to Fraser, Hack, McIntosh, and other developers, \"began with the idea that large holdings of land could be subdivided into lots and sold for residential purposes. There was a twist to this. Hilton Head is ideally suited by climate and location for resort activity, so the communities developed would have to accommodate both resort and residential activities. Charles Fraser is largely credited with first developing the concept that a resort/residential community could be successful, if a few considerations were made. He embodied two excellent and highly compatible interests: the understanding of development and a love of nature and of the natural beauty of the island.\"\n\nUnder Fraser's direction, Sea Pines became, in the words of the Associated Press, \"a big-time leisure landmark, a model for resort playgrounds and planned communities from Virginia to the Philippines.\" Other developers followed his lead, creating their own planned communities and, in the process, transforming Hilton Head into the world-renowned resort that it is today.\n\nNote that the island is virtually \"built out\" today. Just about the only vacant land is that set aside for green spaces, so new construction generally requires demolition of something that's already there. This has led to upscale development spilling off the island and onto the mainland, in the form of gated \"plantation\" housing, golf courses, and shopping centers. Although this Hilton Head \"sprawl\" is well outside the actual Bluffton, this area is called Bluffton.\n\n## **TRAVEL INSTRUCTIONS & RESOURCES**\n\nSome people arrive at Hilton Head Island by boat or fly directly onto the island, but if you're like most visitors, you'll be coming by car, either from home in your own vehicle or from the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport in a rental. Whatever the case, here's how to get to the island.\n\n**By Car**\n\nGetting to Hilton Head by car is fairly simple because there's only one road onto the island, US 278, a four-lane that runs west to east through the South Carolina Lowcountry. Finding US 278 is easy, particularly if you're arriving at the airport in Savannah and renting a car for the 40-minute drive to the island (you can find information on flights to Savannah and car rentals in our main Getting Here, Getting Around chapter). US 278 is also easy to get to if you're coming from the south or north on I-95, or if you're arriving from the west via I-16 and I-95.\n\nUS 278 intersects I-95 just north of Hardeeville, South Carolina, so once you're on the interstate, all you have to do is watch for the exit for US 278 (exit 8). Take that exit and head east; it's an 18-mile straight shot to Hilton Head. You'll be on the island in 20 minutes and at the middle of it in about a half hour. To get to I-95 from Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, take Airways Avenue west for a little more than a mile to the interstate. Get on I-95 and head north into South Carolina. The US 278 exit is 16.5 miles up the interstate from where you left Airways Avenue.\n\nIf you're visiting Savannah and succumb to the temptation to venture over to Hilton Head for the day or to spend a night on the island, you can drive there by following the I-95/US 278 route just discussed, or you can go the \"back way.\" If you take the I-95/US 278 route, you'll be on multilane highways, and it will take about an hour and five minutes for you to get from Savannah City Hall to the Hilton Head Island Chamber of Commerce building at the middle of the island. (To get to I-95 from City Hall, drive west on Bay Street through three traffic lights to Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, turn left onto MLK, and head south three traffic lights to the entrance ramp to I-16, then take I-16 west for 8.5 miles to I-95.)\n\nThe back way is shorter (about 55 minutes from City Hall to the middle of Hilton Head), more scenic, and a little more complicated. It involves traveling on roads that are under construction. If you want to try it, take Oglethorpe Avenue west to the Eugene Talmadge Memorial Bridge and drive north across the Savannah River into South Carolina. You'll be on US 17 for 5 miles from the South Carolina side of the bridge to the intersection of US 17 and Alternate SC 170. Turn right onto Alternate SC 170 and stay on it for 6 miles, where it merges with SC 46. Continue east on SC 46 for 12 miles to US 278. Turn right onto US 278 and head east\u2014you'll be on the island in about 5 minutes. Along your way on SC 46 to US 278, you'll pass through piney woods, hardwood swamps, and the laid-back, offbeat little town of Bluffton with its Squat & Gobble restaurant (worth a stop for lunch and whimsy) and 30 mph speed limit (be sure to observe it). While in Bluffton, you'll come to a four-way stop; turn left to stay on SC 46. This route is an area of active, almost exponential, development, so you will be sharing the road with cement mixers and lumber trucks. Be careful and on your first trip; it's a good idea to plan to travel in daylight.\n\n**By Boat**\n\nIf you're going to Hilton Head by boat, you can get there via the Intracoastal Waterway, which runs along the west side of the island; however, please utilize the resources of a map or ask at the marina for specifics. There are several public marinas and harbors where you can tie up and enjoy your stay while aboard your vessel. These include **Harbour Town Yacht Basin at Sea Pines** (843-363-8335; seapines.com), **Hilton Head Harbor RV Resort and Marina** at Intracoastal Waterway mile marker 20 (843-681-3256), **Palmetto Bay Marina** at 86 Helmsman Way (843-785-3910), **Shelter Cove Marina** at Shelter Cove (843-842-7001), **Skull Creek Marina** at Hilton Head Plantation (843-681-8436), and **Windmill Harbour** (843-681-9235). The length of the slips available at Windmill Harbour marina ranges from 25 to 70 feet, and the cost per night for docking runs from $1.90 per foot for boats under 50 feet, to $2.25 for boats over 50 feet. Call ahead for specific details for this and other marinas as prices change.\n\n**By Plane**\n\nHilton Head has its own airport on the north end of the island. The Hilton Head Airport is on Beach City Road, which runs north off US 278, the island's main drag. Beach City Road is at mile marker 4 on US 278, and the entrance to the airport is about a mile from US 278. There is a fixed-base operator across the runway from the airport terminal that can accommodate private planes. The FBO is on Gateway Circle off Dillon Road less than a mile north of US 278.\n\n**HILTON HEAD AIRPORT, 120 Beach City Rd.; (843) 255-2950; hiltonheadairport.com.** Hilton Head's airport has an up-to-date, spacious terminal that is served by two commercial carriers, as of spring 2010 (remember, air travel is a volatile business and things change a lot). The longest established there is US Airways Express (800-428-4322). US Airways Express offers 8 to 14 flights each day to and from Charlotte, North Carolina, and direct flights to and from Washington, DC, on weekends. Delta Connection (843-342-5380) offers three departures daily.\n\nSix rental-car agencies maintain desks at the airport: Avis Rent A Car (843-681-4216, 888-897-8448), Budget Rent A Car (843-689-3737, 800-527-7000), Enterprise (843-689-9910), Hertz Rent A Car (843-681-7604, 800-654-3131), National Car Rental (843-681-7367, 800-CAR-RENT), and Thrifty Car Rental (843-689-9990, 800-847-4389). There are nine taxicab and shuttle services operating from the airport.\n\n## **GETTING AROUND**\n\nI recall driving onto Hilton Head Island for the very first time. With visions of a \"beach town,\" dancing in my visor-shaded head, I remember asking my husband time and time again when I would first see the ocean? Expecting a Daytona-like setting where high-rise hotels and condos sit right on the sand, all of which is within eyesight of the main drag, I learned that the beach itself is not within plain view. The beach is, in fact, hardly seen until you check into your oceanside hotel or villa. The main road to Hilton Head (US 278) cuts the island in parts, but it is far from scenic. Once you get to your destination, more than likely, you're within a bike ride or short walk to the strand.\n\nThe best way to get on to Hilton Head is by car, and in some cases, the car is your best way to get around once you're there. Where you're staying and where you're going will dictate whether you should drive or ride a bike. Taxi and limousine services are available; however, the surest and less costly way to assure your stay in Hilton Head is pleasurable is to rent a car.\n\n**Driving on the Island**\n\nFinding your way around Hilton Head is fairly easy, but actually finding the places you're looking for can be a challenge. At first glance that statement might not make much sense, but consider this: Most of what a visitor would be looking for can be found on or very near three main roads (US 278, Pope Avenue, and South Forest Beach Drive), but spotting a specific restaurant, shop, or motel can be difficult because of town regulations limiting signage and promoting natural beauty. Businesses are not allowed to have signs off the premises, and the signs they do have must conform to strict rules involving size and lighting. These regulations, combined with the emphasis on preserving trees and foliage and having buildings blend in, can make it easy for you to drive right past your intended destination. This is particularly true when it comes to the island's main thoroughfare, US 278, a busy four-lane divided highway also known as the William Hilton Parkway. Most everything is set back off the road on tree-lined side streets that often resemble driveways; pay close attention as you cruise along the island.\n\n_**William Hilton Parkway.**_ Once you cross the Karl S. Bowers and J. Wilton Graves Bridges to Hilton Head on US 278, you're on William Hilton Parkway, which runs east for 5 miles to the northern end of the island, then bends south and continues 6 miles to Sea Pines Circle. This 11-mile stretch passes restaurants, motels, shopping centers, other businesses, and the entrances to resort communities such as Hilton Head Plantation, Port Royal, Palmetto Dunes, and Shipyard.\n\nTo aid motorists, the town has placed mile markers along the parkway, with the lower-numbered markers closer to the bridges and the higher-numbered ones closer to the traffic circle. In some write-ups on businesses on the parkway, we've included a mention of the mile marker nearest the business being discussed.\n\n_**Sea Pines Circle.**_ When you enter this traffic circle from William Hilton Parkway, you'll encounter exits to the Cross Island Parkway one-quarter of the way around, Greenwood Drive halfway around, and Pope Avenue three-quarters of the way around. Greenwood Drive is the main road leading into the Sea Pines Resort community. The stretch of the Cross Island Parkway directly west of the circle, also known as Palmetto Bay Road, was widened into a four-lane highway in 1997.\n\n_**Pope Avenue.**_ Pope Avenue runs east a tad more than a mile from Sea Pines Circle to Coligny Circle. On Pope, you'll find a variety of restaurants, stores, shopping plazas, another entrance to Shipyard, and the entrance to the public parking lot at Forest Beach.\n\n_**Coligny Circle.**_ The Coligny traffic circle is practically on Forest Beach, and it routes motorists from Pope Avenue to South Forest Beach Drive (one-quarter of the way around the circle) and North Forest Beach Drive (three-quarters of the way around). North Forest Beach Drive is residential and leads to many of the older vacation homes and permanent residences on the island; short side streets run east to the beach, but access is private and public parking is a no-no.\n\n_**South Forest Beach Drive.**_ There are several resorts and restaurants along South Forest Beach Drive, which leads to another entrance to Sea Pines. Access to the beach via the side streets is private unless marked otherwise.\n\n_**Cross Island Parkway.**_ The Cross Island Parkway, a four-lane toll road that bypasses the southern portion of William Hilton Parkway and alleviates traffic congestion on that heavily traveled thoroughfare, opened in January 1998. The 6-mile, limited-access highway stretches from near the intersection of William Hilton Parkway and Spanish Wells Road, at mile marker 2 in the northwestern portion of the island, to Sea Pines Circle. Part of the Cross Island Parkway is a 65-foot-high bridge that crosses Broad Creek at Palmetto Bay. The toll for riding the length of the parkway (one-way) is $1.25 at the plaza and $1 at the ramp for cash customers. Each additional axle is $1 (plaza and ramps) for trucks and $3.25 for five-axle trucks.\n\n**Biking on the Island**\n\nHilton Head has some 50 miles of paved public bicycle paths, and there are many more miles of paths within the island's resort communities. Among the public paths are those that run along William Hilton Parkway from Gumtree Road (just past mile marker 2) to Sea Pines Circle for 9 miles, along both sides of Pope Avenue from Sea Pines Circle to Coligny Circle for a total of 2 miles, along North Forest Beach Drive from Coligny Circle to the end of North Forest for 1.3 miles, along South Forest Beach Drive from Coligny Circle to Sea Pines' Ocean Gate for 1.4 miles, along the Cordillo Parkway from South Forest Beach Drive to Pope Avenue for 1.1 miles, and to the Folly Field Beach Park (see the Public Beach Access and Parking section in this chapter) from William Hilton Parkway for 0.8 mile. A 3.5-mile path along Gumtree and Squire Pope Roads in the northwestern part of the island was completed in 1998, as were a 1-mile stretch on Point Comfort Road and 1.1 miles of pathway on Arrow Road in the southern portion of the island. Also open for riding are a 2.2-mile path along Beach City Road and the wider paths along North and South Beach Drives.\n\nYou can make arrangements to rent a bike through the resort where you're staying or by calling one of the more than 20 bike rental outlets that can be found in the Yellow Pages of the local telephone directory. In season, expect to pay $25 to rent a bike for a week and $9.50 to $12 for a day.\n\n**Taxis & Limousines**\n\nIn addition to the taxicab and limousine companies that serve the Hilton Head Airport, there are several other limo operators on the island, including Camelot Limousine (843-842-7777).\n\nTaxi rates are not regulated by the city of Hilton Head and vary from company to company and point to point. To find out how much a trip will cost, tell the dispatcher where you are and where you're going and ask what the fee will be\n\n**Bus Service**\n\nThe island is served by the buses of **Beaufort County's Lowcountry Regional Transportation Authority** (LRTA), but this public transportation service is mainly a means of getting working people from towns on the mainland on and off Hilton Head. These buses serve Hilton Head in the early morning and in the late afternoon, meaning the LRTA is not a means of conveniently getting around the island throughout the day. However, there is a limited-demand response system through which riders can schedule transportation by calling (843) 757-5782.\n\n**Public Beach Access & Parking**\n\nAll beach access points, with the exception of Burke's Beach, are ADA approved. In addition, public restroom facilities are available at each beach access point or nearby community park. As far as parking on the rest of the island goes, there is an abundance of parking in the lots of restaurants, shopping centers, motels, and other commercial establishments, much of it shaded by trees, which can be a blessing in the summer months.\n\n_**Alder Lane Beach Access.**_ This access point is on South Forest Beach Drive. Metered parking for the access is on Woodward Avenue, which is across South Forest Beach Drive from Alder Lane.\n\ni The city of Hilton Head asks that visitors help safeguard the island's flora and fauna by, among other things, staying off sand dunes and refraining from picking dune plants, feeding dolphins, or tampering with turtles' nests.\n\n_**Burke's Beach Access.**_ This access is at the end of Burke's Beach Road, which runs off of William Hilton Parkway between mile markers 6 and 7.\n\n_**Coligny Beach Park.**_ The access at Coligny Circle offers about 30 metered spaces and a parking lot with about 350 spaces.\n\n_**Driessen Beach Park.**_ Located at the end of Bradley Beach Road, which intersects William Hilton Parkway just past mile marker 6, this access is about a half mile from the parkway.\n\n_**Folly Field Beach Park.**_ This access is on Starfish Drive, which runs off Folly Field Road. Folly Field Road also runs into William Hilton Parkway at mile marker 6; it's a little more than a half mile from the parkway to the access.\n\n## **SOURCES OF INFORMATION**\n\n**HILTON HEAD ISLAND WELCOME CENTER, exit 8 off I-95 at 524 Independence Blvd., Hardeeville, SC; (843) 784-6333; hiltonheadislandwelcomecenter.com.** Located at Exit 8 off of I-95 in Hardeeville, South Carolina, the new Hilton Head Island Welcome Center is open 7 days a week 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. and offers visitor services and information about vacationing on Hilton Head Island, along with maps, brochures, and opportunities for area attractions, golf, fishing, and accommodations. There is a reception area with wide-screen televisions featuring Hilton Head Island activities, comfortable seating areas, a large lighted island map showing directions to major attractions and accommodations, and clean, oversize restrooms.\n\nPinckney Island National Wildlife Refuge\n\nTravelers intent on hiking, bicycling, and observing wildlife will find a pleasing venue in the form of the **Pinckney Island National Wildlife Refuge,** located off US 278 a mile west of Hilton Head Island. The refuge offers more than 14 miles of trails and accommodates large concentrations of wading birds and an active bald eagle nest. Pinckney Island, the largest land mass in the refuge and the only one open to the public, covers 1,200 acres. Admission is free. The refuge is open every day; however, it is recommended that you exit prior to nightfall.\n\n## **ACCOMMODATIONS**\n\nWhen you vacation at Hilton Head, you have the option of staying at hotels, motels, villas, or private homes that are being rented out by their owners. I prefer the villa rental or selecting hotels with kitchen suites. The costs are comparable with hotels, but on the downside you'll have to purchase your own staples as opposed to hotels where you'll receive daily maid service and have access to on-site eateries and restaurants. Another upside of condo rental is that they are more spacious than standard hotel rooms. You'll get more for your money, and there are literally hundreds of condos for rent, even if you're on a budget. The hotels and motels range from modern, well-maintained establishments on the island's main thoroughfares to full-blown resorts situated in or adjacent to Hilton Head's luxurious golf communities. The villas are fully furnished condominiums set in apartment buildings and town houses, many of them with pools and locations close to beaches, golf clubs, and tennis courts.\n\nThere's plenty to choose from\u2014Hilton Head has more than 3,000 hotel and motel rooms, 6,000 villa units, 1,000 time-share units, and an array of rental homes ranging from oceanfront mansions to laid-back cottages. Here's a rundown of hotels and motels\u2014places that offer nightly accommodations; for information on villas, time-shares, and private homes, which usually rent for longer-term stays (anywhere from 3 nights to 2 weeks), we suggest calling one of the island's numerous central reservations services. Among these are the **Hilton Head Condo Hotline** (843-785-2939, 800-258-5852), **Hilton Head Accommodations and Golf Hotline** (843-686-6662, 800-444-4772; hiltonheadusa.com), and **Hilton Head Vacation Rentals** (843-689-3010, 800-476-4485).\n\nIn general, rates for accommodations are higher from the end of April through September, although some places raise their prices starting in February, and others lower them after Labor Day. Call ahead to see what's available (well ahead if you're planning on staying during the summer, especially on weekends) and ask about special deals\u2014many of the larger establishments have a variety of vacation packages from which to choose. Be aware that some motels and hotels will give you a lower rate if you stay with them early in the week when they might be struggling to fill up their rooms.\n\nMost of the hotels and motels surveyed don't allow pets and have nonsmoking and wheelchair-accessible rooms; exceptions are noted.\n\n**Price Code**\n\nWe have included a dollar-sign code with each entry denoting a price range for the average one-night stay, in season, for two adults. These prices do not include tax, gratuities, and add-on amenities such as room service.\n\nUnless we've indicated otherwise, you'll have to pay to play golf or tennis at the resort where you're staying. Most places have packages or special deals involving these sports, and you should inquire about these if you intend to play. The following properties are listed alphabetically.\n\n**BEACH HOUSE ON HILTON HEAD BY HOLIDAY INN RESORT, 1 S. Forest Beach Dr.; (844) 993-9730, (855) 474-2882; wbeachhousehhi.com; $$$.** A view of the Atlantic Ocean from poolside is a plus at this moderately priced oceanfront hotel. This family-friendly spot also accepts pets, and kids eat free at the on-site restaurants. The contemporary decor of the inn's 202 rooms (all of which have refrigerators and open onto interior hallways) carry out the beach motif, as do the five-story motel's eating and drinking places which include the Porch, a southern kitchen and bar open 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. and the Shack, serving poolside bites and beverages.\n\nThe inn offers numerous recreational activities, some of them free and many intended for the younger set. A children's program that runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day provides kids with activities such as relays on the beach, sand-dollar painting, and underwater treasure hunts. The inn also has a children's pool, kids' playground, and Dolly the Dolphin, a mascot who greets guests and interacts with youngsters. The hotel is near several restaurants, including Antonio's Italian Cuisine, an island favorite!\n\n**COMFORT INN SOUTH FOREST BEACH, 2 Tanglewood Dr., (843) 842-6662, (800) 522-3224; choicehotels.com; $$.** The Comfort Inn South Forest Beach is a convenient and inexpensive place to stay that is also pet-friendly and five minutes (by foot) from the beach. The five-story hotel is a comfortable, clean, and pleasant place to stay. There is a nice pool on the premises and many activities (such as a water park) within walking distance.\n\nThe 153-room hotel is situated on 6 acres graced by three lagoons and sits well back from South Forest Beach Drive, a block from the Coligny traffic circle. Guests can partake of deluxe complimentary continental breakfasts 7 to 10 a.m. in the registration building, which also houses 900 square feet of meeting space. Some of the rooms have refrigerators and microwave ovens, and there's a store (Bi-Lo grocery store) nearby where you can purchase food items. Golf packages are available.\n\n**DAYS INN, 9 Marina Side Dr.; (843) 842-4800, (800) 329-2613; daysinn.com; $.** An older and more serene place to stay for families on a budget, the Days Inn offers 14 suites with a nice touch\u2014French doors separating the bedroom from the large sitting room. The other 105 rooms at the three-story motel off US 278 just past mile marker 9 have king-size and double beds, and there is a small pool and fitness center. Guests in quest of another form of recreation might opt to play the adjacent Pirates Island miniature golf course. The Days Inn is centrally located and near a slew of restaurants and shops.\n\nHarbour Town Lighthouse\n\nThe Harbour Town Lighthouse, Hilton Head's most enduring symbol, stands 93 feet tall and is visited by a quarter-million people a year. The observation deck perches 66 feet above the base floor of the lighthouse on Calibogue Sound, and you reach it by climbing 114 steps. Completed in 1970, the lighthouse was the first one built on the Atlantic coast in more than 150 years. Flashing a white light every 2.5 seconds, it's a navigational aid for the sound and the Intracoastal Waterway, even though it's not operated by the US government. (It's run by the company that owns Harbour Town.) The structure is open daily 10 a.m. to 9 p.m., and there's a $1 fee to tour it, which is highly recommended. The views will be etched in your fondest vacation memories. Learn more at (866) 305-9814, harbourtownlighthouse.com.\n\n**HAMPTON INN, 1 Dillon Rd.; (843) 681-7900, (800) HAMPTON; $$.** If you're not particularly interested in going to the beach, the Hampton Inn might be for you. This two-story, 121-room motel just off US 278 at mile marker 5 caters to business travelers and people visiting the island for the golf of it. And if you do desire to take a dip in the ocean, the Atlantic is only a little more than a mile away at the Folly Field Beach access. There's an outdoor pool for those who want to stay close by to do their swimming, an indoor putting green, and a small but well-equipped exercise room for the fitness minded. The Hampton Inn, like all other Hampton Inns, offers deluxe, complimentary continental breakfasts 6 to 10 a.m. and free copies of _USA Today_. Some of the rooms have kitchenettes with microwave ovens and small refrigerators, and some have whirlpool baths. Ask for the family suite where a special children's room is connected to a king suite. A special feature of the Hampton is the \"afternoon snack\" of fresh-baked cookies.\n\n**HILTON HEAD MARRIOTT RESORT & SPA, 1 Hotel Circle; (843) 686-8400, (800) 228-9290; marriotthiltonhead.com; $$$$$.** If you're searching for a nice hotel that's right on the ocean and in the midst of lots of family activities, the Hilton Head Marriott is an excellent choice, and the views of the Atlantic Ocean are spectacular. Situated within Palmetto Dunes resort, this hotel stands 10 stories high and is the largest oceanfront resort between Atlantic City, New Jersey, and Palm Beach, Florida. The property is overflowing with lush foliage, offering guests a tropical feel wherever they stroll. Boasting spacious and updated rooms (there are 513), this is also a popular place for group meetings with 46,000 square feet of meeting space.\n\nThere's an abundance of dining options within the Marriott's premises. Poolside, guests will find the Ocean Blu Restaurant, a great place to order sandwiches, wraps, salads, and tropical drinks during the day. In the evening, Ocean Blu turns elegant-casual as the sun begins to set. From hazelnut-crusted sea bass to pan-seared fresh swordfish, this is a convenient and fun place to dine without ever leaving the property. For indoor dining, there's the Cafe for breakfast (fresh fruit, traditional eggs and bacon, oatmeal, yogurt, and muffins), lunch (an excellent selection of low-carb options are offered), and dinner (burgers and sandwiches), and Conroy's for dinner and Sunday brunch. Conroy's Lounge overlooks the ocean and offers nightly entertainment, named for the author Pat Conroy, who is a nearby resident. Try the jumbo lump crab cakes, a specialty. If you're in need of snacks, try the Grocery, an offbeat little convenience store on the hotel's lower level. Other shopping opportunities are found at the Coastal Coffee Boutique. If you crave exercise, you can work out in the Marriott's well-equipped fitness center, play a round of golf at one of five courses within walking or shuttle distance, or hit the courts at the Palmetto Dunes Tennis Center. Be sure to ask about bike rentals at the hotel and enjoy the miles of trails within Palmetto Dunes.\n\n**INN AT HARBOUR TOWN, 7 Lighthouse Ln.; (843) 363-8100, (800) 732-7463; seapines.com; $$$$.** As you check into your room at the Inn at Harbour Town, you'll feel special\u2014there to greet you is a personal handwritten letter along with chocolates in a gold box. At this instant, you'll become one of many who will probably return due to the service at this hotel. Although there are 60 rooms, butlers will serve you throughout the day, doing most anything you ask. From bringing you drinks and sandwiches to seeing that business papers are mailed, shoes are shined, and pants are pressed, these \"services\" are only a part of the delights of this inn. There are Anichini Egyptian-cotton linens and duvet covers, complimentary shoe shine service, iPod docking stations, granite vanities, Molton Brown toiletries, plush robes, and complimentary newspapers, for starters. Some rooms offer fabulous views of the Harbour Town Golf Links, and others open on to the beautiful palms and tropical landscaping. The butlers, some of them wearing Scottish attire in keeping with Harbour Town's Highlands heritage, are a big part of the concept of patterning the Inn at Harbour Town after small, fine European hotels. Make sure you save time to enjoy the plush furnishings in the Player's Library where you can read, catch up on business, or enjoy a sporting event on the large wide-screen TV.\n\nThe inn also has much to offer in the way of recreation. The hotel overlooks the first tee of the famed Harbour Town Golf Links, and the Sea Pines Racquet Club is a short stroll from the front door. Guests have access to the pool next to the Racquet Club and can take advantage of a complimentary shuttle service that will take them anywhere in Sea Pines at any time of day.\n\nThe inn serves a continental breakfast 7 to 11 a.m., and offers 24-hour room service. There are lots of restaurants nearby, including the Harbour Town Grill and the eateries at the Harbour Town yacht basin. The inn is a AAA Four-Diamond resort.\n\n**MAIN STREET INN AND SPA, 2200 Main St.; (843) 681-3001, (800) 471-3001; mainstreet.com; $$$$.** Emulating a fine European hotel, the Main Street Inn is indeed a delightful retreat in the midst of a modern-day island destination, just off US 278 between mile markers 3 and 4. Elegance abounds in this inn. There are rich (and comfortable) furnishings, antique accents, fresh floral arrangements, a grand piano, and beautiful heart-pine floors. In short, it's a captivating place to stay. The Royal Queen Suite is bright and cheery with an iron bed and gold-framed artwork perfect for a couple seeking a spot for a romantic getaway. The Deluxe Queen rooms have fireplaces and balconies large enough for a wrought-iron table that's a perfect spot for breakfast.\n\nThe additional 33 rooms are luxuriously appointed with classic furnishings: wooden armoires handmade on Hilton Head; beds adorned with Italian linens, goose-down pillows, and comforters; and baths featuring pedestal sinks and Italian marble floors and shower walls. The inn's crowning glories are the four Courtyard King rooms with their whirlpool tubs, glassed-in showers, and pine floors fashioned from the 150-year-old beams of a Lowcountry mill. In some Kings, French doors in the bathroom open onto an intimate courtyard abounding with fig vines, fruit trees, and jasmine. Guests staying in rooms on the upper two floors can step outside onto wide verandas complete with rocking chairs. From there, you'll see the Charleston-style gardens of the courtyard and an inviting pool designed for swimming laps; the view beyond is of the lush 15th green and 16th fairway of Hilton Head Plantation's Bear Creek Golf Course and of the forested wetlands of a nature preserve.\n\nYour stay includes buffet breakfasts with eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and pastries served 7:30 to 10:30 a.m. in the dining room/library, the dining room/lounge, or the courtyard. If all this isn't relaxing enough, try a massage, which is available on-site. For a firsthand look, the website offers a virtual tour of all rooms and exterior gardens.\n\n**OMNI HILTON OCEANFRONT RESORT, 23 Ocean Ln.; (843) 842-8000, (800) 845-8001; hiltonheadhilton.com; $$$$$.** Try the tropics with a Southern accent. The Omni Hilton Oceanfront Resort, which just had a $17 million rejuvenation, combines the best of both worlds for a spectacular holiday on the ocean. Oversize guest rooms decorated in traditional Southern themes (shades of green, wooden accents, striped fabrics) are designed to give you a \"beach house\" feel with all the amenities of a luxury hotel, including full mini-kitchens, private balconies, wireless Internet service, and in-room safes. Open hallways are tranquil with flowing ocean breezes, and a maze of lagoons winding their way through the flourishing greenery give this beachfront Hilton Hotel at Palmetto Dunes a semitropical aura. The extra-large rooms have equally spacious balconies, each with at least a partial view of the beach and sea. All 296 rooms have ceiling fans in dining areas and separate vanities in bathrooms. Oceanfront suites offer the same amenities, only with 1,000 square feet of space and a separate bedroom, living and dining rooms, and extra-spacious balconies that overlook the beach. The five-story hotel is built in a horseshoe shape that opens onto the beach, and the nooks and crannies of the spacious garden within the horseshoe feature small courtyards, rambling wooden decks, and plenty of seating for quiet afternoons spent reading or napping.\n\nDining options are abundant here. For a fun and casual oceanfront cafe, try the Buoy Bar. There are fun tropical-themed drinks galore, artfully presented chilled salads, outstanding burgers, and an unspoiled view of the ocean! The Palmetto Market is new and boasts a trendy, luxurious atmosphere. This is where you'll dine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There's an adults-only pool for those seeking a quieter atmosphere. For more relaxation, try one of the two oceanfront whirlpool baths or the variety of services at the spa. With kayaking so popular on the island, the Hilton offers 10 miles of lagoons. When the day is over, schedule a treatment at the spa (843-341-8056). The Coastal Cabana Massage is performed in a private cabana beside the ocean. The 50- to 80-minute treatment is available for singles or couples. Call for rates.\n\nThe hotel offers special rates for golf and tennis at the courses and courts at Palmetto Dunes, and special activities for children via Seaside Adventures Club.\n\n**PARK LANE HOTEL, 12 Park Ln.; (843) 686-5700; hiltonheadparklanehotel.com; $$$.** This hotel lies in the Central Park office complex just off US 278 between mile markers 9 and 10, convenient to area businesses and in the midst of Hilton Head's shopping and business district. Each of the 156 \"Carolina-decorated\" suites has a fully equipped kitchen with granite countertops (including a full-size refrigerator), fireplaces (in some), and trendy loft suites that are perfect for lengthier stays or for hosting guests. The lofts boast an enlarged dining area, a sleeper sofa, and a bedroom with its own bathroom. Take note: There are no dining options here so you'll need to come prepared with your own staples.\n\n**THE RAMADA HILTON HEAD, 200 Museum St.; (800) 345-2995; m.ramada.com; $.** Located on the rapidly developing north end of the island, the Ramada boasts many of the features you might expect to find at a full-service hotel, along with a modern, clean look that complements Hilton Head's building ordinances. The hotel blends in discreetly with the environment and offers travelers a less expensive way to sample Hilton Head. Among the amenities here are an outdoor pool, a putting green, 2,000 square feet of meeting space, and same-day valet, laundry, and dry-cleaning service.\n\n**SONESTA RESORT HILTON HEAD ISLAND, 130 Shipyard Dr.; (843) 842-2400; sonesta.com/hiltonheadisland; $$$$$.** Set on 11 acres, this beautifully landscaped family-friendly resort is a beachfront AAA-approved Four Diamond hotel. The Sonesta recently completed a $30 million renovation that highlights an elaborate swimming pool complex, spa, casual and fine dining, on-site bike rentals, and convenient access to world-class golf and tennis.\n\n**SOUTH BEACH MARINA INN, 232 S. Sea Pines Dr.; (843) 671-6498, (800) 367-3909; sbinn.com; $$$.** Called South Beach due to its location at the southern tip of Hilton Head Island, the inn is small and rustic and decorated in the spirit of New England. In fact, were it not for the distinctly Southern foliage and marshlands within view, you might imagine that you are, in fact, in New England. The charming, 17-room hotel is part of a small complex of shops and restaurants patterned after a fishing village on Nantucket Island, Massachusetts. The rooms of the inn, a nightly rental property at Sea Pines, reflect the Yankee atmosphere via the highly polished heart-pine floors, brass beds, and colorful rag rugs.\n\nAll of the one- and two-bedroom accommodations have kitchenettes, and most have separate, cozy living rooms that will make you feel as if you've found a second home. Although the inn is deep within Sea Pines, the village and marina offer just about everything a vacationer would need. You could park your car and not leave, except to play a round of golf on the nearest course, which is a 5-minute drive. At your front door is the marina on Braddock's Cove, which offers various recreational opportunities for hire\u2014boat rentals, charter fishing, parasailing, kayaking, and windsurfing. Also, just outside your doorstep, you will find a pool, a dozen tennis courts, and 15 miles of paved trails for hiking, bicycling, jogging, and in-line skating. You can walk to the beach in 3 to 4 minutes, and there are six restaurants within the village. All rooms are on the second floor; there are no wheelchair-accessible accommodations.\n\n**WESTIN RESORT HILTON HEAD, 2 Grasslawn Ave.; (843) 681-4000, (800) WESTIN1; westinhiltonhead.com; $$$$$.** A recent $30 million renovation has freshened this property. The architecture of the sprawling Westin radiates the charm of a classic, turn-of-the-20th-century seaside hotel and is designed to complement the historic cities of Savannah and Charleston. A feeling of Southern hospitality carries throughout the five-story oceanfront hotel at Port Royal Plantation. The lobby features polished woods, palms, elaborate chandeliers, and Asian porcelains, coastal-inspired color palettes, and a mix of comfortable seating offers an ambience characteristic of the homes of the Old South. The Gazebo Lounge looks out on the hotel's spacious courtyard, where swans swim in a pond set amid lush foliage. In the cooler months, the lounge and its comfy drawing-room furniture and wood-burning fireplace beckon to guests. When the weather's warm, the courtyard is the place to be. You'll find three pools and extensive wooden decks where you can sunbathe and have a bite to eat at calypso-themed Turtles Beach Bar & Grill or Turtles Poolside, where you'll get in the island spirit with tropical drinks and Caribbean fare (and even a massage by the pool if you like). There are pools galore, including an outdoor heated pool, a main outdoor pool, an outdoor whirlpool, and an indoor pool with a hydraulic lift for the physically impaired. Take advantage of the Westin Workout, powered by Reebok Gym.\n\nThose seeking outdoor recreation can find it at the nearby Port Royal Golf Club, which has three championship courses, or at the Port Royal Racquet Club, which offers grass, clay, and hard-surface courts. A shuttle service is provided from the hotel to both sites. The hotel features six restaurants, from fine dining to poolside.\n\n## **RESTAURANTS**\n\nJust as Hilton Head's resplendent image of gleaming white beaches, live oaks dripping with moss, and colorful flora convince you to spend a vacation here, come with the knowledge that this is an island that also shines for connoisseurs of fine cuisine. There are outdoor cafes set amid a backdrop of the dunes. There are restaurants rich in ambience. There are open-air seafood eateries on the rims of marinas, and yes, bakeries that will lure you with promises of sumptuous pastries. So save room for tempting dining options. Note that smoking is banned in all bars and restaurants in Hilton Head.\n\nAll restaurants listed (in alphabetical order) take most major credit cards.\n\n**Price Code**\n\nYou can expect restaurants to be more expensive on Hilton Head Island than in Savannah. The price code is based on the cost of an average meal for two, excluding drinks, dessert, or tip.\n\n**ALEXANDER'S, 76 Queens Folly Rd.; (843) 785-4999; alexandersrestaurant.com; $$\u2013$$$.** Located on a lagoon at Palmetto Dunes, Alexander's invites a business-casual dress code in three splendid settings: a delightful, enclosed porch with magnificent lagoon views, an alluring wine bar with a fireplace, and a friendly dining room replete with a variety of tropical plants that accentuate a fine collection of vintage Harleys. This restaurant will fast become one of your vacation highlights. Enticing entrees include roasted Mediterranean chicken, crab cakes, and shrimp and grits. This is just a small sample of some of the over-the-top specialties. There are more than 100 selected wines from which to choose, and dinner starts at 5 p.m. nightly. Hours are 5 to 10 p.m. Reservations are suggested.\n\n**BIG BAMBOO CAFE, Coligny Plaza, 1 N. Forest Beach Dr., Ste. 210; (843) 686-3443; bigbamboocafe.com; $.** Owners of this establishment might be accused of packaging all the fun you can think of having into one cool place. For starters, there's live music several times a week (check the website for details). Then, there's the decor that may take you by surprise. According to the legend of the Big Bamboo, which appears on the front of the cafe's menu, this restaurant on the ocean side of Coligny Plaza shopping center has been constructed as closely as possible to the configurations of the original Big Bamboo, a bar and grill opened on the Pacific island of Tarawa in 1944 by ex\u2013fighter pilot Jimmy Phipps. From the bamboo of the bar to the thatched palm fronds and camouflage netting of the ceiling to the World War II regalia tacked on the walls, Hilton Head's version of the Big Bamboo reflects the feel of the real thing\u2014if there had been a real thing, that is. You see, the Big Bamboo of the Pacific is a figment of the imagination of a former owner, albeit one that has been brought vividly to life on Hilton Head.\n\nWhat is real about this 85-seat dining room and bar is the food, featuring salads, seafood, burgers and ribs. Hours are Mon through Sat 11:30 a.m. to 2 a.m.\n\nThe Sweet Stuff\n\nMake this bakery a sure stop when your sweet-tooth attacks. **Signe's Heaven Bound Bakery & Cafe** at 93 Arrow Rd. is indeed one of Hilton Head Island's main attractions. The mouthwatering creations are the truly angelic pastries and other goodies, such as the banana nut bread and the key lime pound cake, but Signe's also serves breakfasts, salads, and hot and cold sandwiches. There's seating inside or on the outdoor deck and a long list of loyal fans cheering, \"Just like heaven.\" Give them a call at (866) 807-4463.\n\n**CHARLIE'S L'ETOILE VERTE, 8 New Orleans Rd.; (843) 785-9277; charliesgreenstar.com; $$\u2013$$$.** If you're looking for a restaurant that has colorful character, fine cuisine created with the freshest ingredients, the charm of Europe, and a staff that locals know and love, Charlie's L'Etoile Verte fits the bill. And if you ask any islander where to eat on Hilton Head, the first word out of his or her mouth is more than likely to be \"Charlie's.\" This busy bistro near Sea Pines Circle serves lunch Mon through Fri 11:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. and dinner 5:30 to 9 p.m.; Sat is dinner only, 5:30 to 9 p.m. Charlie's is billed as a \"French kitchen\" ( _l'etoile verte_ means \"green star\" in French), but this eclectic-looking cafe serves, as its affable owner Charlie Golson puts it, \"whatever we feel like cooking\"\u2014\"we\" being Golson and his son, Palmer, the entre chef. They put their heads together and brainstorm during the day, a process that creates a menu that's different each night, written in longhand, and copied for distribution to diners.\n\nServed cafe-style on linen covered tables with fresh flower sprays, among the most popular selections are the chicken salad, cobb salad, rack of lamb, pompano with mango sauce, and triggerfish in Parmesan crust. The Carolina red trout (with horseradish beurre blanc) is also tasty. Charlie's specializes in more than a dozen types of fish cooked in many ways.\n\n**CQ'S RESTAURANT, 140 Lighthouse Rd.; (843) 671-2779; cqsrestaurant.com; $$$.** CQ's is a story and then an experience before it is a restaurant. As the first structure built with careful environmental forethought within Harbour Town, the restaurant was originally designed by Ralph Ballantine in 1970 for his studio. A transplant of Chicago and a recognized advertising illustrator, Ballantine's work includes illustrations of the Jolly Green Giant and the \"good hands\" of Allstate, as well as the bull of Schlitz Malt Liquor fame. The restaurant was built from several materials from different Lowcountry buildings, i.e., roof beams from an old Savannah house and flooring from a Jasper County church. Modeled after a local rice barn, the two-story building also includes spindles from the staircase that reportedly once graced the interior of a house of ill repute in Savannah. Originally called Bal's Place, (a name for the studio), the building evolved into a restaurant at the urging of Bal's friend, \"Sig\" Winehandle, and the establishment is named after Sig's son, Courtney Quentin. Today each dining room reflects a name that is representative of its heritage. There's the Plantation Room, the Heritage Room, the Cotton Room, the Rice Room, and the Indigo Room.\n\nMany of the dishes are American Southern, and among the featured entrees are the venison, lobster pasta, and crab cakes. There's also an extensive wine menu. CQ's has outdoor seating on a deck. Reservations are highly recommended at this well-known establishment, which serves dinner 7 days a week. Hours are daily 5 to 9:30 p.m.\n\n**THE CRAZY CRAB, 104 William Hilton Pkwy.; (843) 681-5021; thecrazycrab.com; $$\u2013$$$.** Colorful and festive, Hilton Head Island's two Crazy Crab restaurants serve fresh seafood and steaks in a rustic wharf-side surrounding offering splendid views of the water. At the Crazy Crab on the William Hilton Parkway near mile marker 1, the view is of picturesque Jarvis Creek and its marsh. The other Crazy Crab is among the shops alongside the **Harbour Town Yacht Basin in Sea Pines** (Lighthouse Road, 843-363-2722), overlooking the scenic marina. The menus at both restaurants are the same, with the mainstays being the fried shrimp and the steamed seafood pot, which consists of half a Maine lobster, crab legs, shrimp, and oysters. They are open for lunch and dinner 7 days a week 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**HILTON HEAD BREWING COMPANY, 7-C Greenwood Dr.; (843) 785-3900; hhbrewingco.com; $.** Billed as South Carolina's first brewpub since Prohibition and the only one on the island, this establishment in Hilton Head Plaza just off the Sea Pines traffic circle always has five handcrafted beers ready for drinking: South Atlantic Pale Ale, Calibogue Amber, Old Duck Dark, Raspberry Wheat, and a seasonal brew. Although the pub takes on the atmosphere of a bar late at night, the restaurant offers casual dining for families at lunch and during the evening. Watching the turtles, ducks, and geese in the pond outside the pub's enclosed porch will keep the kids entertained. The menu yields a large variety of choices, including hand-tossed pizzas, burgers, steaks, huge sandwiches, and their award-winning chicken wings. Hours are Mon through Fri 4 p.m. to 2 a.m., Sat and Sun 11:30 a.m. to 2 a.m.\n\ni It was once said that one shouldn't consume an oyster unless the month of consumption had the letter r in it. South Georgians and South Carolinians bank on this. You won't find many of us eating oysters in May, for instance. This is, however, folklore, and the rumor mill was probably born in the days when there wasn't adequate refrigeration and much spoilage resulted. So no matter what month it is, although there are always risks in eating raw shellfish, enjoy your \"orsters,\" as we jokingly call them.\n\n**HUDSON'S ON THE DOCKS, 1 Hudson Rd.; (843) 681-2772; hudsonsonthedocks.com; $\u2013$$.** The emphasis at Hudson's\u2014a fixture on the Hilton Head restaurant scene since 1967\u2014is on fresh seafood, much of it caught locally, including shrimp hauled in on the boats you might see tied at the docks just outside. The vessels and Skull Creek can be viewed from the main dining room, one of three at the 335-seat restaurant, which also has an oyster bar. Forty percent of Hudson's business involves shrimp\u2014fried, steamed, or boiled\u2014but the steamed oysters, scallops, and crab cakes (made with 100 percent lump backfin meat) are also big sellers. As you might expect, the dining rooms at Hudson's have a nautical look, and the tables and the oyster bar are made from shrimp-boat doors, the wooden pieces of equipment used in trawling.\n\nThe Oyster Factory Dining Room occupies the site of an oyster processing plant built in 1912 and bought by J. B. Hudson in the 1920s. The Hudson family added shrimp to the processing operation in the mid-1950s and opened the restaurant with 95 seats in the latter half of the 1960s. Brian and Gloria Carmines purchased Hudson's in 1975 and have expanded it since then.\n\nHudson's serves lunch and dinner daily 11 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n**KENNY B'S FRENCH QUARTER CAFE, 70-A Circle BiLo Center; (843) 785-3315; eatatkennybs.com; $.** Kenny B's brings a touch of the Quarter to Hilton Head at its eatery in the BiLo shopping plaza at the intersection of Pope Avenue and Cordillo Parkway. The cuisine is Creole with some Lowcountry tweaking, and murals, ceiling fans, and lampposts create a Big Easy atmosphere. Entrees lend to the aura\u2014there's crawfish parade; voodoo pasta, which features seafood over penne; and Taste of the Bayou, a medley of N'awlins favorites (gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and shrimp \u00e9touff\u00e9e). Drop by Kenny B's daily for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Hours are Sun 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. and Tues through Sat 8:30 a.m. to 9 p.m.\n\n**MARLEY'S ISLAND GRILLE, 35 Office Park Rd.; (843) 686-5800; marleyshhi.com; $.** The food is as colorful and tasty as the atmosphere is fun at Marley's Island Grille. With indoor or outdoor dining, the festive atmosphere is enhanced with theatrics from the tropics as chefs prepare your dinner in the restaurant's open kitchen. If you watch, you'll marvel as they toss, chop, and create masterful culinary creations from the wood-fired grill and steaming kettles. As the reggae plays, your fresh shellfish\u2014shrimp, mussels, clams, or a combination of all three\u2014will merge with ingredients like traditional tomato sauce, an island curry, the house ale, and Old Bay, or in a broth of garlic butter and sherry. Try one of these other intriguing-sounding seafood dishes: tortilla-crusted tilapia, sesame-seared yellowfin tuna, or voodoo-spiced swordfish. From the wood grill, there are the red chili\u2013rubbed flank steak, Havana cabana chicken, and Australian rock lobster. Marley's is famous for its drink selections. Check the website or call for live entertainment schedule. Hours are Sun through Thurs 4 to 10 p.m., Fri and Sat 4 to 11 p.m.\n\n**OLD FORT PUB, 65 Skull Creek Dr.; (843) 681-2386; oldfortpub.com; $$$.** If you're looking for a romantic setting for a meal, your search ends at the Old Fort Pub. Set on a bluff along Skull Creek amid a tangle of live oaks, this restaurant offers evening-time diners candlelight, classical music, a rustic Lowcountry atmosphere, and spectacular sunsets over a creek and its marsh. There are great views of the water from the first-floor dining room, bar, and outdoor deck that get even better as you ascend to the second-floor Sunset Room and the rooftop widow's walk, a wooden deck reached via a cast-iron spiral staircase. Up there in the treetops, you'll find an ideal place for small cocktail parties, marriage proposals, and wedding ceremonies.\n\nOld Fort Pub serves Lowcountry cuisine for dinner 7 days a week and offers brunch on Sun; reservations are a must in the evenings and should be made 3 to 4 days in advance. The dinner menu includes dishes such as Atlantic salmon, wild shrimp and pasta, and Sea Island bouillabaisse.\n\nWhile you're at Old Fort Pub, which was built in 1974 in a style inspired by the architecture of the Lowcountry, take time to stroll around the remains of Fort Mitchel, a Civil War gun battery on the site adjacent to the restaurant. Pathways wind through what were once the bunkers and moats of a fortification constructed by the Union army after it captured the island in November 1861.\n\n**THE OLD OYSTER FACTORY, 101 Marshland Rd.; (843) 681-6040; oldoysterfactory.com; $$.** With its floor-to-ceiling windows, this multilevel restaurant offers splendid views of beautiful Broad Creek and the adjacent marsh from its 270 seats. Built of pegged timbers on the site of one of Hilton Head's oyster canneries and opened in 1989, the restaurant serves steaks and seafood, including oysters from surrounding waters prepared several different ways. At times you can view small family boats cruising by, continuing the tradition of shrimping that started generations ago. Shrimp is part of one of the restaurant's big sellers\u2014the seafood medley, which also consists of scallops, oysters, and choice fish fillets. Another popular dish is the salmon _en croute_ (in pastry), but you'll have to ask your server about it\u2014it's not on the menu. The Old Oyster Factory is open for dinner daily and provides live entertainment on the dock from May through Sept. Hours are 4:45 to 10 p.m.\n\n**REILLEY'S GRILL AND BAR, 7-D Greenwood Dr.; (843) 842-4414; reilleyshiltonhead.com; $.** The laid-back atmosphere of the Reilley's in Hilton Head Plaza on Greenwood Drive is what you'd expect from a restaurant that has a deck once called the \"Barmuda Triangle.\" First-class rustic, this is a restaurant that could double as a Boston bar. With dining that is indoors or outdoors, locals have labeled it \"an institution.\" Reilley's menu, adorned with shamrocks and leprechauns, lists a wide variety of offerings including several variations of Blarney Burgers and Super Sandwiches. If you're in the mood for a dinner, flip to the Longtime Favorites section, where you'll find steaks and a couple of dishes suited to Gaelic tastes\u2014the corned beef and cabbage and the cottage pie, which is ground chuck seasoned with mushrooms and onions and topped with peas, homemade mashed potatoes, and cheddar cheese.\n\nReilley's takes credit for organizing the island's first St. Patrick's Day parade, a celebration started in 1983, the year after the restaurant opened in the Gallery of Shops. In 1995 the restaurant moved to its existing location in Hilton Head Plaza just south of the Sea Pines traffic circle. Reilley's serves lunch and dinner daily and offers a champagne-and-eggs brunch on Sat and Sun. The menu and atmosphere are much the same at the Reilley's at Port Royal Plaza on Mathews Drive (843-681-4153), but there's no deck.\n\n**SAGE ROOM, 81 Pope Ave.; (843) 785-5352; thesageroom.com; $$$.** Although the Sage Room nestles in one of the least-conspicuous locations of any restaurant on the island, that hasn't kept locals from flocking there. And if you make the effort to find it, you'll see why. Contemporary with shiny stainless accents, white linen tablecloths with black accents, this restaurant is an experience in behind-the-scenes food prep. The chefs work in an open kitchen, turning out a variety of dishes featuring seafood, fowl, and steak, plus Colorado rack of lamb and roasted pork tenderloin. Appetizers include some you won't encounter often\u2014butternut squash soup, and the snow-pea martini (saut\u00e9ed snow peas with a pineapple soy reduction). Hours are Mon through Sat 6 to 10 p.m.\n\n**SANTA FE CAFE, 700 Plantation Center; (843) 785-3838; sssantafehhi.com, $$\u2013$$$.** A delightful rooftop cantina is one of the highlights of the Santa Fe Cafe. With whitewashed adobe walls (inside and out), fireplaces, and tiled floors, this is a place for quiet conversation and fresh, authentic southwestern cuisine. Owner and chef Jim Buckingham spent his younger days in the Southwest, and he brings his appreciation for that region to his cooking. The upscale southwestern cuisine of his Santa Fe Cafe is spicy food based on many types of chiles, resulting in dishes such as grilled pork tenderloin with smoked habanero barbecue sauce, black beans, and sweet potato fries; herb-roasted free-range chicken with jalape\u00f1o corn-bread stuffing and roasted-garlic mashed potatoes; and grouper with chipotle (smoked chile) Parmesan au gratin. After several years of operating a limited chain of Mexican restaurants, Buckingham decided to concentrate his efforts on one establishment and in 1993 opened this cafe off William Hilton Parkway near mile marker 8. The stylishly southwestern Santa Fe serves dinner 7 nights a week (5 to 10 p.m.) and lunch Mon through Fri (noon to 2 p.m.); reservations are accepted.\n\n**STEAMERS SEAFOOD COMPANY, Coligny Plaza, 1 N. Forest Beach Dr., Ste. 28; (843) 785-2070; steamersseafood.com. $$.** With a pleasant outdoor deck and live entertainment 7 nights a week, Steamers has become a Hilton Head tradition since 1991. Boasting an island decor, this reasonably priced eatery has grown its beer selection to 250 beers from around the world. That coupled with fresh fish, shrimp, lobster tails, and certified Angus beef makes it one of the locals' favorite places to dine. For shellfish lovers, there's a platter consisting of steamed oysters, clams, shrimp, crawfish, mussels, and snow crab. Barn and dock wood and corrugated tin on the walls and bars complete the pier-side look, and there's also a 70-seat raw bar for fans of steamed and raw seafood.\n\nHours are Mon through Sun 11:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m.\n\n**STELLINI ITALIAN RESTAURANT, Executive Park, 15 Pope Ave.; (843) 785-7006; stellinihh.com; $$.** This \"little star\" of an Italian restaurant shines forth from a wooded nook off Pope Avenue. Owner Joe Pesce and his partners have created the comfortable look of the Little Italy section of New York City at Stellini. Especially inviting is the 40-seat Carolina Room, a porch with views of the surrounding forest. The restaurant also has a main dining room for 50. The menu provides an extensive selection of northern Italian fare, including chicken pancetta, a chicken breast saut\u00e9ed in a light cream sauce with pancetta bacon and broccoli over angel-hair pasta; veal Sorrento, medallions of veal saut\u00e9ed in white wine topped with eggplant and melted mozzarella cheese in marinara sauce over angel hair; and zuppa di pesce, clams, shrimp, scallops, mussels, calamari, and grouper in marinara over linguine. One item you won't find on the menu is a special that's offered often: the veal chop stuffed with prosciutto and mozzarella. Pesce suggests making reservations to dine at Stellini, which opened in 1988.\n\n**THE TAPAS RESTAURANT, 11 Northridge Plaza; (843) 681-8590; $$.** Ever wanted to try something a companion is eating but felt self-conscious taking it from him or her? When you dine at the Tapas, such behavior is not only acceptable, it's expected. Tapas are appetizers in Spanish cuisine, and the small dishes served at this cozy, elegant bistro in Northridge Plaza off William Hilton Parkway between mile markers 4 and 5 are perfect for sharing. Don't be overwhelmed when you see the menu of more than 50 items. Each colorful presentation is prepared on small plates, almost like an appetizer, so treat each dish as it is an appetizer. For instance, if you're dining with three other people and each of you orders three different selections, you may be tasting up to 12 different dishes. A word of warning if you've never dined at a tapas restaurant: Keep a mental tally of the meal as you go along so the final bill won't be shocking.\n\nAmong the dishes you might try are the veal Antonia (tenderloin of veal saut\u00e9ed with garlic and mushrooms deglazed with sherry), and lobster seafood cake, served with sweet potato french fries and tangerine-balsamic drizzle. The Tapas, although housed in a shopping center, has surprising ambience. The ceiling is filled with a multitude of hanging wicker baskets, which makes it feel a little like being outside. The 56-seat restaurant is open for lunch Mon through Fri, and for dinner nightly; reservations are strongly suggested. Hours are Mon through Fri 11:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. and 5 to 9 p.m.; Sat and Sun 5 to 9 p.m.\n\n**TRUFFLES CAFE, 71 Lighthouse Rd.; (843) 671-6136; trufflescafe.com; $.** Islander Price Beall has owned and operated this casually elegant restaurant (and two other similar ones) since 1983. With seating for 150, Truffles is larger than the typical cafe but retains the atmosphere of a bistro. It is jovial, and there are linen-covered tables and island artwork on the walls. The food is American in style, with specialties like chicken potpie made with fresh vegetables (broccoli, carrot, mushroom, sweet bell pepper) in white wine sauce and pasta New Orleans\u2014a chicken breast served over pasta tossed with a spicy cream sauce. Other favorites of regular customers are the ribs, grilled fish, pasta dishes, and Caesar and Monterey salads, both of which feature grilled chicken. Lunch and dinner are served daily. Hours are 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\nFeel Free to Pig Out\n\nIf you need a bite to eat while traveling the \"back way\" to or from Hilton Head Island, consider stopping at the **Pink Pig** restaurant (843-784-3635) on Alternate SC 170 at a crossroads identified as Levy. This shockingly pink cinder-block eatery specializes in barbecue. You'll chuckle when you enter the front door to pink pigs hanging from all directions! You can't miss the place. Just look for the pigs on the simple one-story building on your right and come hungry.\n\n## **ENTERTAINMENT**\n\n**Arts & Culture**\n\nHilton Head has for years radiated a vibrant cultural presence. Some 20 community groups\u2014ranging from the Hilton Head Art League to the Hilton Head Orchestra\u2014foster and promote an appreciation of the visual and performing arts. The community created a new artistic resource, the Arts Center of Coastal Carolina, which has become the cultural hub of the island.\n\n**ARTS CENTER OF COASTAL CAROLINA, 14 Shelter Cove Ln.; (843) 686-3945; artshhi.com.** A big-city facility on a resort island, this $10 million visual and performing arts center offers theatrical productions, performances by musicians and dancers, art shows, education programs, and community-service programs.\n\nEach year the center's 350-seat Elizabeth Wallace Theater hosts up to six productions. Among previous presentations were _Say Goodnight, Gracie_ , a one-man Broadway show; and _Bjorn Again: The Abba Experience_. Check the website for current events. The theater complex has dressing and costume rooms and a green room. A rehearsal hall has seating for 150.\n\nThe center brings islanders a series featuring local talent and regional and national touring companies. Six to eight art shows are exhibited annually in the center's 2,300-square-foot Walter Greer Gallery, which has 12-foot-high ceilings and flexible lighting for showcasing art. Through its education program, the center cosponsors residencies by professional artists in area schools and brings children on field trips to the center for performances. The center also offers services and assistance to artists and art groups from throughout the island, providing technical support and space for a variety of organizations.\n\nThe center further serves the island by presenting free events such as the Community Christmas Tree Lighting, Family Fiesta Latina, Youth ArtsFest, and Gullah-Fest. For tickets to individual events, call or visit the website.\n\n**HILTON HEAD ART LEAGUE, 106 Cordillo Pkwy.; (843) 681-5060; artleaguehhi.com.** As part of its mission to provide artists with opportunities to hone their skills and exhibit their works, the Hilton Head Art League presents \"minishows\" every 4 weeks at its gallery in the Pineland Station shopping complex. Each of these exhibits features the work of a league member, and each opens with an evening reception. The league sponsors two major art shows annually at the Walter Greer Gallery of the Arts Center of Coastal Carolina. One of the shows is juried, and the event attracts more than 700 entries from throughout the Southeast. The league also presents workshops that attract nationally known artists from throughout the US (call 800-995-4068 for information). The Hilton Head Art League was started in 1972 by a handful of local artists. Today there are more than 950 members, 250 of whom are artists.\n\n**HILTON HEAD ORCHESTRA, 2 Park Ln.; (843) 842-2055; hhorchestra.org.** The 70-piece Hilton Head Orchestra presents a 10-concert Monday Master Series, a 5-concert Sunday Series, and several special events, and sponsors a youth orchestra and international piano competition. About 40 percent of the musicians are from the local area, with the others traveling from Southern cities such as Savannah; Charleston, South Carolina; and Jacksonville, Florida, to participate in performances. Concerts are held at the First Presbyterian Church at 540 William Hilton Pkwy. The orchestra was founded in the winter of 1982 by a handful of local musicians who incorporated the organization as the Hilton Head Chamber Orchestra later in the year. The name was changed to Hilton Head Community Orchestra in 1983; 6 years later, it became the Hilton Head Orchestra. The Hilton Head Youth Orchestra was organized in 1996. The Hilton Head Island International Piano Competition was also started in 1996. The competition is held early in Mar at the First Presbyterian Church. About 150 pianists apply, with 24 selected as quarter-finalists.\n\n**Nightlife**\n\nHilton Head is a resort that caters to families who are on the go throughout the day and to golfers with early-morning tee times, so it's not exactly a hotbed of nightlife activity. Evenings are mostly spent with a good book, a family round of Monopoly, or ample porch sitting. If you're visiting, you might find yourself actually searching for late-night venues and maybe even commenting about how sleepy the island appears. There are, however, nightspots at several hotels and motels. Some of Hilton Head's restaurants also have lounges where you can hang out and catch live entertainment.\n\nThere are three movie theaters on the island: Coligny Theatre in Coligny Plaza, Northridge Cinemas at 435 William Hilton Pkwy. at mile marker 5, and Park Plaza Cinemas in the Park Plaza Shopping Center off Greenwood Drive. Coligny Theatre has 1 screen, Northridge has 10, and Park Plaza has 5.\n\nIf you've spent your day knocking a tennis ball around, pedaling a few miles on bicycle paths, and frolicking in the surf, and you still haven't pooped out, you might consider the following nighttime entertainment options.\n\n**THE JAZZ CORNER, The Village at Wexford; (843) 842-8620; thejazzcorner.com.** This nightspot is literally tucked away in a corner of the Village at Wexford shopping complex. When you walk through the door (if you can get inside despite the lines of other people trying to do so), you'll immediately put on your happy face! Although tiny in size, this establishment defines fun and offers live jazz and Dixieland music and fine dining each evening of the week. Dinner is available, with entrees averaging $20 and including dishes such as crispy flounder, seafood-stuffed salmon, oysters Gillespie (named for trumpeter Dizzy, no doubt), and veal piccata. If you're out for dinner, it's recommended to dine early rather than later when the joint gets jumping! In fact, although the food is delicious, this is a great after-dinner place to go. Although the focus is on the smooth jazz of the 1950s and 1960s, there's plenty of swing-era music. The Jazz Corner makes the most of an abundance of local talent while also presenting well-known performers.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\n**Hilton Head's Gone Gator**\n\nIf you get near a body of fresh or brackish water on Hilton Head, which is hard not to do given the preponderance of the island's lakes and lagoons, there's a good chance you will see a creature that looks as though it has crawled right out of Jurassic Park. This is the American alligator, the largest reptile on the North American continent and one of the oldest surviving vertebrates on the planet.\n\nAlligators abound on Hilton Head, where developers have provided readymade homes for them by creating the waterways that decorate the island's communities and golf courses. \"If there's a mud puddle in the Lowcountry, there's an alligator in it,\" says Dean Harrigal, who coordinates the alligator nuisance program in the area. There have been no formal surveys of the alligator population on Hilton Head, but there are probably 2,000 to 4,000 gators living on the island, says Walt Rhodes, the alligator project supervisor for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources.\n\nAlligators, which are protected by state and federal law, can grow to a length of 12 feet, but most of the gators removed from Hilton Head under the nuisance program are from 6 to 8 feet long, according to Harrigal. Even so, if left alone, alligators pose little threat to humans, say Rhodes and Harrigal. \"Gators are naturally shy of people,\" says Rhodes. According to the two alligator experts, humans are more of a threat to gators than vice versa.\n\nIf the state receives a complaint about a gator on Hilton Head, and the animal is deemed a nuisance because of its behavior or location, the reptile will be removed. Removed, in this case, means destroyed, not relocated. Relocating a gator doesn't work because of the animal's strong homing instinct: Gators have been known to travel as much as 30 miles to return to their nesting areas, Rhodes and Harrigal say. About 50 gators are removed from Hilton Head each year because of complaints against them, but the two say that wouldn't be the case if people were more tolerant of the animals, who were here first (present-day gators are direct descendants of a creature that lived in what is now Florida during the Miocene epoch, which occurred 25 million years ago). People don't like gators for a number of reasons. For one thing, the alligator's appearance is not in its favor. The gator looks like a big lizard, only uglier, and it seems to have a malevolent smile permanently plastered on its bumpy face. \"It's not Bambi,\" says Rhodes. \"It's not warm and fuzzy, it's cold and scaly.\" For another, most people don't know much about alligators and their relatively placid temperament. Folks confuse gators with the crocodiles found on other continents, in particular the 14-foot crocs seen devouring water buffaloes in sensationalized nature flicks. Gators, says Rhodes, \"will let you alone if you let them alone, and they'll see you first.\"\n\nHumans have a tendency to bring out the aggressiveness in gators by feeding them. If a person feeds a gator enough times, the beast's golf ball\u2013size brain begins to associate the human with food. This is, if you'll pardon the phrase, a recipe for disaster that can be harmful to the human involved and fatal to the gator. It's also against the law: If you're caught feeding an alligator, you can be fined $200 or sentenced to 30 days in jail. There are cases of humans provoking gators into attacking them. Rhodes tells of a golfer who hit his ball near a gator that was sunning itself on a Hilton Head fairway, then smacked the animal with his golf club in the process of recovering the ball. The gator bit the golfer. \"The gator did what you would do if someone hit you with a golf club,\" says Rhodes. There have been reports of people being pursued by gators, but Rhodes says he's handled in excess of 3,000 of the animals and has never been chased.\n\nRhodes's rules for coexisting with gators: Don't feed them; they find plenty to eat in the form of insects, crustaceans, fish, and snakes. Don't tease them. For goodness' sake, don't try to pet them. Look at them all you want but do so from afar. \"Give the animal the respect it deserves,\" says Rhodes. \"It has as much right to be here as the deer, squirrels, and people.\"\n\n**THE LODGE BEER AND GROWLER BAR, Hilton Head Plaza, 7 Greenwood Dr.; (843) 842-8966; hiltonheadlodge.com.** The island's only craft beer bar has an interior resembling a hunting lodge, and it's high on the popularity list of beer fans. With 36 rotating taps (and growlers to go), it's a popular place for locals and a quite festive place for visitors to the island. You can satisfy your competitive instincts at the billiards tables or try some shuffleboard, or you can relax in front of one of the two fireplaces with a drink from the full bar. In addition to wine by the glass, single malts, ales, cognacs, and bourbons, the bar serves a specialty drink\u2014the chocolate martini. This establishment in Hilton Head Plaza, off Greenwood Drive near the Sea Pines traffic circle, opens at 5 p.m. daily.\n\n## **SHOPPING**\n\nThe shopping is plentiful on Hilton Head, which has stores of every description in large shopping centers, strip malls, and along the island's out-of-the-way streets and byways. To get you started, we've provided rundowns on a few of the bigger shopping areas and pointed out some of the stores you can find there. Also, Hilton Head offers two clusters of outlets. Both are located as follows: From Savannah, take I-95 to Hwy 278, South Carolina exit 8. Proceed for 13 miles. Tanger Outlet Center 1 (under renovation) is on the right, 2 miles before the Hilton Head Bridge. Tanger Outlet Center 2 is on the right, 1 mile before the Hilton Head Bridge. Tanger 2 offers more than 50 different stores with highly discounted items (tangeroutlet.com); open Mon through Sat 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. and Sun 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. Knock yourself out.\n\n**Shopping Centers**\n\n**COLIGNY PLAZA, 1 N. Forest Beach Dr.; (843) 842-6050; colignyplaza.com.** Sometimes it takes a rainy day to encourage you to change directions during a vacation on Hilton Head Island. It's those days that call for a trip to Coligny Plaza, one of the island's most popular places to shop, dine, and peruse the more than 60 retail stores and eateries. As the island's oldest and largest shopping center, it covers nearly 9 acres at the Coligny traffic circle on the south end of the island.\n\nColigny Plaza mixes specialty shops with conventional businesses and plenty of restaurants.\n\n**HARBOUR TOWN, Harbour Town Yacht Basin; (843) 363-8335; harbourtown.com.** The iconic lighthouse at Harbour Town is your marker to spend an afternoon browsing the shops there. With more than 20 shops and eating places gracing the north side of beautiful Harbour Town Yacht Basin, there's plenty to entertain you all within a pleasant walk. When you're not busy wandering in and out of shops or restaurants, you can relax outside by plopping down in one of the many rocking chairs and watching the activity in the boat-filled marina. The Harbour Town shopping complex is in the Sea Pines Resort and hosts a variety of on-site entertainment during the summer months.\n\n**VILLAGE AT WEXFORD, 1000 William Hilton Pkwy.; (843) 842-2240; villageatwexford.com.** If you're looking for upscale variety, you'll find it at the Village at Wexford, where the majority of the 30 stores and eateries are locally owned. This quaint-looking stucco retail-and-office complex sits on 9 wooded acres off the parkway near mile marker 10, and houses Le Cookery kitchen accessories, an Audubon Nature Store, Mum's the Word florist and gift shop, Pretty Papers stationery store, and Smith Galleries, which deals in artwork and jewelry. Several stores offer women's apparel, including Patricia's, and there's a men's clothing store, Teague's. Island Child specializes in clothing and shoes for children. The restaurants at the Village at Wexford range from those offering fast food to those devoted to casual and fine dining.\n\n**Bookstores**\n\n**BARNES & NOBLE, 20 Hatton Place; (843) 342-6690; barnesandnoble.com.** This branch of the nation's largest bookseller opened in July 1998 and offers islanders and visitors more than 175,000 titles, a mind-boggling selection of magazines, and a cafe where you can sit, read, and drink juice, tea, or coffee and munch on gourmet cookies. Special features of the 20,250-square-foot store are the storytime sessions for children. The store's Special Order Express service will order any book from more than 1.2 million in print, and deliveries usually take place within 7 days. This spacious store is just off William Hilton Parkway between mile markers 3 and 4.\n\n## **RECREATION**\n\n**Golf**\n\nHilton Head is heaven on earth for golfers. There are 25 courses on the island, many of them world-class and all of them overflowing with natural beauty. Seventeen are open to the public, and information on these follows.\n\nThe courses we've described have amenities such as pro shops, practice greens, and driving ranges. Many do not allow walking, but we've pointed out which ones do and to what extent. The greens fees listed include carts, and they reflect rates during the most popular playing times (generally spring and fall).\n\nThe rates included are for players not staying at the resorts associated with the courses. You can make arrangements to play these courses by calling directly, through the resort where you're staying, or via central golf reservation services such as **Last Minute Tee Times** (843-689-2262; lmteetimes.com) and the **Golf Island Call Center** (888-465-3475; golfisland.com). Public and private courses are noted.\n\ni These reservation services are extremely busy so make sure you check details for both services online, first, and if possible. There are times when the phone lines are tied up due to demand, so reservations for two or more players can be made online. In some cases, phone reservations must be made 7 to 10 p.m. the night before the planned outing.\n\n**COUNTRY CLUB OF HILTON HEAD (PUBLIC), 70 Skull Creek Dr.; (843) 681-2582; clubcorp.com.** Many of the greens on this par-72, 6,543-yard course at Hilton Head Plantation run near the Intracoastal Waterway, and the 12th is right on it. Designed by Rees Jones and built in 1985, the course has two holes that are almost 600 yards, including the uphill, par 4, 556-yard 18th. Greens and fairways are Bermuda grass.\n\n**GOLDEN BEAR GOLF CLUB (PUBLIC), 72 Golden Bear Way; (843) 689-2200; clubcorp.com.** What a great name for a golf course! Interestingly enough, the chief architect of this Jack Nicklaus design was not the Golden Bear himself but the late Bruce Borland. Players of this 6,643-yard layout at Indigo Run will find a real challenge in the 11th hole\u2014it runs 430 yards and features a long dogleg to the left and water on the left side of the green. This par-72 course has fairways and greens of Bermuda grass set among lagoons and stands of pine and hardwoods. Be wowed as you tackle the course amid towering pines and mature cypress. Among the amenities are a bar and grill.\n\n**OYSTER REEF GOLF CLUB (PUBLIC), 155 High Bluff Rd.; (843) 681-1745; oysterreefgolfclub.com.** This course was rated one of the top 25 new courses in America in 1983 and was designed by Rees Jones. The sixth hole at Oyster Reef\u2014a par 3, 160-yarder\u2014overlooks Port Royal Sound, giving golfers a fine view of that majestic body of water on the northern side of Hilton Head. The par-72 layout covers 6,440 yards at Hilton Head Plantation. The greens were converted to Tif Eagle Bermuda grass in 2000. There are 9 ponds and 66 bunkers for players to contend with. At the end of a round, players can relax at the club's bar and restaurant.\n\n**PALMETTO DUNES GOLF COURSES (PUBLIC), 1 Trent Jones Ln.; (843) 785-1136, (800) 827-3006; palmettodunes.com.** Palmetto Dunes offers golfers three 18-hole courses from which to choose, each of them named for their heavy-hitting designers: Arthur Hills, George Fazio, and Robert Trent Jones. You can cover them on foot if you want to. Unrestricted walking is allowed at all times of the day.\n\n**_ARTHUR HILLS COURSE AT PALMETTO DUNES_.** This heavily wooded par 72 was reconditioned during the mid-1990s, with all the greens being rebuilt. One of the most interesting holes is the 12th, a par 4 that's bordered by water along one side. The course measures 6,122 yards.\n\n**_GEORGE FAZIO COURSE AT PALMETTO DUNES_.** This course is ranked among the Top 100 in the country. Located inside Palmetto Dunes, it offers a 432-yard 1st hole and 462-yard 18th and is the only par-70 course on Hilton Head Island. The Fazio Course covers total 6,239 yards and is characterized by rolling fairways and lots of long par 4s\u2014there are only two par 5s and three par 3s. The 18th is a challenge, ending with a hole where two bunkers provide a significant challenge.\n\n**_ROBERT TRENT JONES COURSE AT PALMETTO DUNES_.** Don't be surprised to view kayakers paddling quietly in the lagoons that run throughout this scenic course. If you like playing by the water, you'll enjoy this 6,570-yard course, which provides a winding lagoon system tied into 11 holes and a great view of the ocean from No. 10. Other hallmarks of this par 72 are open fairways and large greens. Doug Weaver is the pro and will be happy to offer pointers to steer your game to perfection!\n\nTriple Play\n\nRather than paying individual greens fees for each course within Palmetto Dunes, book an Unlimited Golf Package that includes private villa accommodations and golf! You can play on three legendary courses: the Robert Trent Jones Course, the George Fazio Course, and the Arthur Hills Course. Stay 4 days and 3 nights in select resort villas, and receive three rounds of golf per person on three championship golf courses (includes green fees, cart fees, and warm-up range) with complimentary repeat rounds available on the same course, same day based on availability. For more information, call (866) 380-1778.\n\n**PALMETTO HALL PLANTATION CLUB (PUBLIC), 108 Fort Howell Dr.; (843) 342-2582; palmettodunes.com.** The Palmetto Hall Plantation Club offers golfers the opportunity to enjoy a Lowcountry-style clubhouse and 36-hole courses designed by Arthur Hills and Robert Cupp. The 16,000-square-foot clubhouse is a repository of historic artifacts (both Lowcountry- and golfing-related), antiques, and paintings, and features a grillroom with the aura of a club.\n\n**_ARTHUR HILLS COURSE AT PALMETTO HALL_.** The signature hole here is No. 18, a 434-yarder with water running up the left side of the fairway. It's a challenging par 4. Another hole featuring plenty of water is the 5th, but the water on this beauty is on the right side. The hole runs 490 yards and is a par 5. This 6,257-yard course was opened in 1991. Walking is prohibited.\n\n**_ROBERT CUPP COURSE AT PALMETTO HALL_.** Unrestricted walking is allowed on this 6,042-yard course, which was unveiled 2 years after the Arthur Hills layout. Vistas of marshlands and forests of oak and pine are features of this par-72 course, along with its straight lines and sharp angles. The course, which opened in 1993, was renovated and reopened in the fall of 2005.\n\n**PORT ROYAL GOLF CLUB (PUBLIC), 10 Clubhouse Dr.; (843) 689-1760; portroyalgolfclub.com.** This golf club at the Port Royal resort community has three 18-hole courses\u2014Barony, Planter's Row, and Robber's Row\u2014plus a bar and restaurant.\n\n**_PORT ROYAL/BARONY COURSE_.** The long drivers will take a backseat to the shot makers on this 6,223-yard course, which has many small greens. The Barony, which was designed by George Cobb, presents players with a test of skill at No. 12, a par-4, 411-yard hole with water on both sides of the fairway.\n\n**_PORT ROYAL/PLANTER'S ROW COURSE_.** Willard Byrd was the designer responsible for Planter's Row, where golfers finish on a par-5, 511-yard hole featuring woods and water. If that's not enough of a challenge, consider No. 12, a narrow, 419-yard hole where you've got to cross water to get to the green. The course measures 6,284 yards, and par is 72.\n\n**_PORT ROYAL/ROBBER'S ROW COURSE_.** Robber's Row represents a team effort by designers George Cobb and Pete Dye. The course was built in 1967 and reconfigured in 1994 by Dye, who added several water hazards. This par-72 course runs 6,311 yards.\n\n**SEA PINES RESORT (PUBLIC), seapines.com.** Sea Pines is the home of three of the island's most popular golf courses, including the Harbour Town Golf Links, which is the site of Hilton Head's number-one sporting event, the Verizon Heritage. Walking is allowed on all three courses.\n\n**_HARBOUR TOWN GOLF LINKS_ , 32 Greenwood Dr.; (866) 561-8802.** The signature hole at Harbour Town is the one you've seen countless times on television\u2014the windswept 18th, a par 4 on Calibogue Sound where shots to the green often end up among the fiddler crabs in the adjacent marsh. Consistently ranked among the world's top courses, this one was designed by Pete Dye and Jack Nicklaus and has some outstanding par 3s. The yardage at this par-71 course totals 6,040.\n\n**_OCEAN COURSE_ , 100 N. Sea Pines Dr.; (843) 842-8484, (800) 955-8337.** The 15th hole on this oldest of island courses offers a terrific view of the ocean. It's the oldest course because it was designed by George Cobb in 1962 but was remodeled by Mark McCumber in 1995.\n\n**_HERON POINT COURSE_ , 100 N. Sea Pines Dr.; (843) 842-8484, (800) 955-8337.** You'll encounter wide fairways and lots of lagoons, trees, and marshes when you play this par-72 course, which was redesigned by Pete Dye and reopened after a year of work in September 2007.\n\ni If you should somehow run out of golf courses to play on Hilton Head, be advised that there are several fine off-island layouts nearby. Among them are four on US 278, the road to the island\u2014Eagle's Point (843-757-5900), Hilton Head National Golf Club (843-842-5900), Island West (843-689-6660), and Old South Golf Links (843-785-5353).\n\n**SHIPYARD GOLF CLUB (PUBLIC), 45 Shipyard Dr.; (843) 689-GOLF, (800) 2-FIND-18; hiltonheadgolf.net.** Shipyard offers three interconnecting 9-hole courses appropriately named for three types of sailing vessels: Brigantine, Clipper, and Galleon. There is water involved on 25 of the 27 holes, which have Bermuda grass fairways and greens. There's a bar and restaurant on the premises.\n\n**_BRIGANTINE COURSE_.** The work of designer Willard Byrd, the Brigantine is a 3,054-yard par 36 surrounded by private homes and rental condominiums that blend in with the natural environment. You'll be challenged by No. 6, a long par 4; and No. 9, which is a par 5 that runs 494 yards and has water on one side of the fairway.\n\n**_CLIPPER COURSE_.** The 3,302-yard Clipper has a tough 9th hole with lots of bunkers. Water comes into play on all the holes except No. 6, which is a par 4, 415-yarder. George Cobb also designed this course, which carries a par 36.\n\n**_GALLEON COURSE_.** Of the various interconnecting nines at the Shipyard Golf Club, the Clipper/Galleon Course is the largest. The greens of the Galleon Course are large and well bunkered. This George Cobb\u2013designed, par-36 course is best known for No. 2, a par 5 with an elevated green fronted by water and with bunkers all around. Total yardage for the course is 3,146.\n\n**Tennis**\n\nIf you fly in on through the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, you'll probably be surrounded by avid tennis players heading to \"the island\" for tennis vacations. This is a sport that brings thousands to Hilton Head to improve their game. The options for playing, as well as for formal instruction, are plentiful! Among those open to the public for play are the following:\n\n**PALMETTO DUNES TENNIS CENTER, 6 Trent Jones Ln.; (843) 785-1152, (800) 972-0257; palmettodunes.com.** An array of instructional programs and daily round-robin tournaments are featured at the tennis center at Palmetto Dunes. The tournaments are billed as \"lively afternoon social competition with the emphasis on fun.\" There are 23 clay and 2 Pro Bounce (a cushioned hard surface) courts, 8 of which are lighted.\n\n**PORT ROYAL RACQUET CLUB, 15 Wimbledon Ct.; (843) 686-8803; portroyal.com.** The Port Royal Racquet Club offers three Grand Slam\u2013type playing surfaces. There are 10 clay courts, 4 cushioned hard courts, and a new croquet court. The club offers a variety of instructional programs and will custom design clinics for individuals and teams.\n\nLocated at Port Royal Plantation, the club has a well-stocked pro shop that provides a varied selection of men's and women's tennis wear and the latest in equipment.\n\n**SEA PINES RACQUET CLUB, 5 Lighthouse Ln.; (843) 363-4495, (800) 732-7463; seapines.com.** Programs and instruction take center court at the Sea Pines Racquet Club. The flagship program is the Smith Stearns Tennis Academy, named in part after Stan Smith, the former US Open and Wimbledon champion who serves as the club's touring pro and tennis consultant.\n\nThere are various programs for every age group, and 23 clay courts are available for play. The club has five instructors. The club dates from the early 1970s. The pro shop offers players the latest in tennis fashions, equipment, and footwear. The website has a full listing of instructional packages, including several children's tennis programs.\n\n**VAN DER MEER SHIPYARD TENNIS RESORT, 116 Shipyard Dr.; (843) 686-8804, (800) 845-6138; vandermeertennis.com.** Twenty courts set amid the lush surroundings of Shipyard Plantation await the tennis buff at this racquet club, which the US Tennis Association presented with its Outstanding Tennis Facility of the Year Award for 1997 and continues to live up to the honor today. There are 13 clay courts and 7 hard-surface courts outdoors and 3 DecoTurf courts indoors (a total of 8 courts have lights). The club also offers a variety of tennis getaway weeks and weekends, stroke of the day sessions, daily drills, and intensive drills available year-round. The intensive drills are geared for players with 4.0-plus ratings and are designed to take skills to the next level.\n\nThe Shipyard Racquet Club has a large pro shop displaying an extensive variety of items, and it's also the site of the US Professional Tennis Registry's International Tennis Symposium and $25,000 Championships, which are held annually during the middle of February.\n\n**VAN DER MEER TENNIS CENTER, 19 DeAllyon Rd.; (843) 785-8388, (800) 845-6138.** This tennis center operated by well-known instructor Dennis Van der Meer provides a multitude of programs for adults and junior players in all stages of development, from beginners to aspiring professionals. There are 17 hard-surface courts, of which 4 are covered and lighted, with fees for an hour of play set at $15. The center has a pro shop and is the headquarters of the Van Der Meer Tennis University, which offers training programs for tennis teachers. The center is on DeAllyon Road, which runs off Cordillo Parkway on the south end of the island.\n\n## **ANNUAL EVENTS & FESTIVALS**\n\nThe island's most significant annual events occur during the spring.\n\n**HILTON HEAD ISLAND ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARADE, Pope Avenue; (843) 384-4035; hiltonheadireland.org.** What started as a march by a few residents of Irish descent in 1983 has matured into the largest free spectator event held on the island. Some 26,000 onlookers gather to watch the 2-hour parade, which is held on the Sunday before St. Patrick's Day or on the day itself when the holiday falls on Sunday. If you go, expect to see marching bands, in the neighborhood of 30 floats, dance groups, a bagpipe band or two, local dignitaries, and maybe even Budweiser's Clydesdale horses. The parade starts at 2 p.m. at Coligny Circle and proceeds west on Pope Avenue to Office Park Road and into Park Plaza. Tom Reilley started the celebration when he and a few friends decided to march in honor of St. Patrick. Because they didn't have a parade permit, Reilley and his pals ran into some legal troubles with local officials, but they managed to straighten things out and resumed marching in 1985. Since then the parade has grown into the family-oriented event that it is today. Visit the website for more information.\n\n**HILTON HEAD ISLAND WINE & FOOD FESTIVAL, hiltonheadwineandfood.com.** This weeklong event, held for more than 30 years, showcases the latest and greatest in wine and cuisine. There are wine-pairing dinners, cooking demonstrations, and island chefs showcasing their talents at the Grand Wine Tasting. Venues and prices can be found on the website.\n\n**THE RBC HERITAGE, Harbour Town Golf Links, 71 Lighthouse Rd.; (843) 671-2448, (800) 234-1107; rbcheritage.com.** This event brings the PGA's 132 invited players and 125,000 spectators to famed Harbour Town Golf Links in the Sea Pines Resort during 4 days in April. In one of golf's most picturesque sites, this course has attracted international media since it started in 1969. The list of Heritage champions of the past includes Jack Nicklaus, Greg Norman, Nick Price, Hale Irwin, Tom Watson, and Arnold Palmer, who won the tournament in its inaugural year of 1969 when it was known as the Heritage Classic.\n\nAttending the Heritage involves more than watching a golf tournament. The event is usually held during the second week in April, when the weather is generally lovely and nature is putting on a springtime show. It's a terrific time to get outdoors, amble around the verdant Harbour Town course, visit the shops and restaurants at the Harbour Town Yacht Basin near the first tee and 18th green, gawk at the high-priced boats docked in the marina, and observe the hordes of spectators doing all of these things. Sometime during their day at the course, those attending are invariably drawn to the 18th hole, which overlooks Calibogue Sound and has the Harbour Town Lighthouse as part of its backdrop, to see how the players finish up and deal with the wind blowing off the water.\n\nDuring the 3 days leading up to the tournament, which starts on Thursday and ends on Sunday, there are two pro-am events and a pro-am fishing tournament. On the Monday afternoon before Thursday's first round of play, the Heritage presents opening ceremonies focusing on golf's Scottish origins and the game's long history in South Carolina (the South Carolina Golf Club of Charleston was founded in 1786 and is reputed to be the oldest membership golf club in the US). The defending champion, tournament board members clad in plaid, and bagpipers from The Citadel military college parade along the yacht basin to the 18th green, where the defending champ gets the tourney under way by smacking a ball into Calibogue Sound as a Civil War\u2013era cannon is fired. Pricing and more details can be found on the website.\n\n# TYBEE ISLAND\n\nThe drive out to Tybee Island from Savannah is a bit like being on a small adventure. With marshland on both sides, the natural setting is captivating, often luring drivers to pull over to the side of the road to take a quick photo of an egret standing in the mud with its neck outstretched or a turtle hatchling trying to cross the road. (This is not recommended.) The scene is often mixed with a little bit of disbelief as you make the 8- to 10-minute-long trek to this oasis called Tybee Island. Once you've arrived, you'll know it, as you'll quickly slow your speed down to 35 mph and begin taking in the colorful wooden signs, salty docks, and cheap souvenir shops that tell you that you've left civilization.\n\nThere are some things about Tybee that haven't changed in the past couple decades. City Hall is still City Hall. The North Beach is still vast, and beachcombers are few. The ships still blow their horns as they make their way into the mouth of the Savannah River right off Tybee's coast. You can still get a smooth ice cream cone (and chocolate dip) from a vendor on Butler Avenue, the main drag. And there's still plenty of beach to lie on, even when it's the Fourth of July.\n\nWhile other beach communities succumb to high-rises, slick resorts, and gated communities with lawns pristine enough to putt on, Tybee has stubbornly resisted. Look around the town's beachside shops during summer and you'll see kites and flags hanging out the doors of souvenir shops that hawk seashells and bargain T-shirts for less than $10. You'll see sunburned kids slurping snow cones to music wafting from the Tybee pier. And you'll see locals strolling the strand every day because that's what they do.\n\nAn important reminder: No grilling, glass bottles, or dogs are allowed on the beach. Police officers routinely patrol the beach looking for violators who are issued hefty tickets for any infractions. The island does, however, have a dog park located at the intersection of Van Horne and Fort Streets.\n\n## HISTORY\n\nTybee is a place where folksy eccentricity is celebrated, and many things have been practiced. Gambling was one of those things, carried on in back rooms throughout Tybee until being exposed and cleared out in the early 1960s. A decade or so later, nearly every bar in town was shut down for staying open too late on Saturday night. Seems people were having too good a time to remember that selling beer on Sunday was illegal. That's the thing about Tybee Islanders\u2014they just sort of do their own thing.\n\nThrough the years, there have been nicknames for Tybee that may, or may not, have been quite fair. Somehow, \"Redneck Riviera\" just doesn't seem appropriate for this beautiful place, where you can wear flip-flops year-round and everybody knows your name. Bluntly put, there are places at Tybee that are a little scruffy, but if you'll get your nose out of the air, you'll learn to appreciate the quirky appeal as the art of the island. You'll find million-dollar beachfront construction next door to cinder-block shacks (and don't necessarily assume the owners of the fancy home are the richer: Tybee knew shabby before it was chic). This is a beach run by locals who are glad to see tourists, and even happier to see them leave. Tybee is a beach of rituals. One such example is the Beach Bums Parade, wherein locals on makeshift floats armed with large-scale water guns do battle with spectators spraying garden hoses, marking the beginning of the tourist season\u2014a fun, messy launch to the crowds of summer. Later, mid-September ushers back in \"Tybee time,\" when the residents have the place to themselves and the particular pleasures of a warm winter beach.\n\nIf you think Tybee\u2014with its whimsical cottages and wacky storefronts\u2014is colorful, just wait until you read about her past. This island served a role in several wars and has been home to Lt. Col. George C. Marshall (creator of the Marshall Plan) and to a quarantine station for people with infectious ailments. In the early 1800s, scientists believed the marshes in and around the island held harmful vapors or miasma, which rose from the marsh vegetation and were carried by the wind into Savannah. However, it was also widely theorized that the vapors were counteracted by the healing properties of sea air. That was a notion that eventually played a role in Tybee's foray into tourism in the late 1880s.\n\nNative Americans were the first Tybee Islanders. They settled this small island (2.5 miles long and about 0.6 mile wide) and also are generally credited with giving the island its name, which means salt, though there are other competing theories. Next came the Spanish in the 1500s, followed 200 years later by Georgia's founder, Gen. James Edward Oglethorpe.\n\nBecause of its location at the mouth of the Savannah River, Tybee was important strategically. Soon after his arrival, Oglethorpe ordered the construction of a lighthouse, which was completed in 1736. During the War of 1812, the lighthouse was used to warn Savannah of possible attack by the British, but this attack never materialized. A fortress known as a Martello tower, designed with round walls that supposedly would deflect cannonballs, was built on Tybee Island in 1815 to help guard the Savannah River from attack. It was one of only a few such structures in North America.\n\nOn the western end of the island, a quarantine station was set up to house sick passengers coming in off ships. This is how Lazaretto Creek got its name. _Lazaretto_ is an Italian word for an institution or hospital for those with contagious diseases. \"They kept them in quarantine there for four months,\" said James Mack Adams, local Tybee historian. \"If they got sick and died, they buried them right there.\"\n\nIn 1829 construction began on Fort Pulaski. The fort, now a national park, stands off US 80 as you approach Tybee. It was constructed of 25 million bricks and has walls 7.5 feet thick. A young Robert E. Lee was one of the engineers who planned and supervised construction. During the Civil War, Union forces attacked the fort using a new weapon called \"rifled cannon.\" It took only 30 hours of bombardment for the fort to fall into Union hands. The attack had such devastating effects on the brick fort that after the surrender, all forts like Pulaski were considered obsolete.\n\nFollowing the war, Tybee turned its attention toward tourism. In its early years, Tybee was reached by boat, a voyage that could take 2 hours from Savannah. That changed in 1887 with the construction of a rail line through the marsh and over various creeks and rivers between the island and the mainland. That same year Tybee was officially incorporated as Ocean City. A year later it was changed to Tybee, only to be changed in 1929 to Savannah Beach. It wasn't until many decades later, in the early 1970s, that it became Tybee again. A reference today to Savannah Beach is likely to raise the locals' dander.\n\nDay-trippers, as they were known, would come on the train, rent bathing suits from a local hotel, and spend the day at the beach. Some would arrive later in the day to dance to Big Band music supplied by outfits playing at one of the island's biggest attractions: the Tybrisa Pier. When the Tybee Road opened in 1923, the stream of people coming to the island continued to grow. In a column that ran in the local newspaper in 1931, E. B. Izlar reflected about the \"good old days\" on Tybee. \"The decline of mosquitoes, of picnickers, of bars and of yardage in women's bathing suits constitute the most radical changes in reviewing the past thirty years on Tybee Island,\" the column stated. \"Today, Mr. Izlar declares that mosquitoes, except in the dense wooded places, are rare, and he bears out his statement by remarking that he has only seen three this season.\"\n\nReminiscing on the bathing suits of the early years, Mr. Izlar lamented the time when suits were sold for $2.50 to $4 a dozen (except, of course, when special suits for women were as high as $12 a dozen) in the days when women \"wrapped up\" to cover everything. As for bars, Mr. Izlar said that though they abounded in bygone days, there was little disorder\u2014only friendly fights. \"There was not even need for a jail in those days.\"\n\nWhile the islanders focused on tourism, the US War Department began construction of Fort Screven on the north end of the island. The fort was made up of seven gun batteries that ended up being fired only for practice, not for war. During World War I, part of the Eighth Infantry Regiment was assigned to Fort Screven. One of its commanders was Lt. Col. George C. Marshall, who after leaving Tybee became a five-star general and served as secretary of state, secretary of defense, and author of the Marshall Plan for rebuilding western Europe after World War II.\n\ni Tybee hasn't had a major hit from a hurricane in more than 100 years. The most damaging hurricane occurred August 27, 1881. It landed with a massive storm surge that covered the island and destroyed nearly every structure in its path.\n\nIn the meantime, Savannahians were beginning to build houses at the beach for the summer months. The ocean breezes would give them relief from the city's sweltering summer heat. Many of these magnificent old beach homes can still be found on the island today, and many are still owned by descendants of family members who were the original owners. Former resident Walter Parker recalls how empty the island was in those days. \"I can remember in the winter you could go for several blocks before you saw a light on,\" said Parker. \"No one lived here year-round.\"\n\nEventually, that began to change, and Tybee's year-round population slowly grew. However, several factors\u2014beach erosion, pollution, the closing of Fort Screven\u2014resulted in several years of decline on the island beginning in the 1940s. Residents cultivated an outlaw attitude during this era by engaging in back-room gambling and illegal drinking, which got the attention of the news media. It also helped fuel the island's reputation in some circles as Georgia's unruly stepchild. Eventually, local and state law enforcement agencies cracked down to curb Tybee's wanton ways. The pollution, gambling, and other sins were eventually cleaned up, and Tybee once again became a popular tourist spot.\n\ni Geologically speaking, Tybee is very young\u2014only about 1,000 years old. Savannah's other islands, including Wilmington and Skidaway, are more than 40,000 years old.\n\nSince 1980 or so, the island's year-round population has been on the rise to its current level of around 3,000. Today, locals who have called Tybee home for generations live among a thriving community of artists and writers, most of whom migrated during the 1980s. There are also many retirees whose hometowns are places far away from Tybee. Every socioeconomic group is represented, from the poor to the very wealthy.\n\n\"I think Tybee is an easy place to live,\" said Parker. \"I think it has more than its share of characters . . . But it has a small community feeling and most want it to stay that way.\"\n\n## TRAVEL INSTRUCTIONS & RESOURCES\n\nTybee is about 18 miles east of Savannah. There is only one road to get you there: US 80. You can reach it from the Historic District by heading east on Bay Street. In less than a mile, it will run into President Street, then President Street Extension. After about 3 miles, it merges with US 80 East. From Midtown, hop on Victory Drive and head east\u2014you are also on US 80 East.\n\nAfter entering Tybee, US 80 turns into Butler Avenue, the community's main street, which will take you past hotels, beach houses, and the small downtown area. You will know US 80 has become Butler Avenue after going around a fairly sharp curve that keeps you from driving into the ocean. You can't miss it. Follow Butler a mile or so farther into downtown, and you will be deposited in a city parking lot next to the pier.\n\nMost places you need to visit on Tybee should be accessible from this main strip. Near the beginning of Butler Avenue, streets running east and west are numbered, starting with 1 st Street at the northern end of the city and ending with 19th Street at the southern end. These are crossed by north- and south-running streets that are named and numbered, starting with Butler Avenue closest to the beach and ending with 6th Avenue.\n\nThe city operates three parking lots, all accessible from Butler Avenue: at the end of Tybrisa (which used to be 16th Street), 14th Street, and at North Beach. The parking lots, and the streetside spaces near them, are equipped with pay-and-display meters. Parking is patrolled every day year-round 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. Like the Savannah authorities, the parking enforcers are very generous when doling out tickets. So if you don't want an expensive ticket, don't let your meter expire. It usually isn't too much trouble finding parking on Tybee, except for a few very busy weekends.\n\n## ACCOMMODATIONS\n\nAffordable hotel rooms, sprawling beach houses, and ocean-view condos are some of the choices you'll find when searching for accommodations on Tybee Island. Tybee is known as a family beach, so a lot of what is available is geared toward those lugging not only beach chairs but high chairs as well. Regardless of where you land, more likely than not you'll be within comfortable walking distance of the beach.\n\nTybee's season runs typically from the middle of April through the middle of September. After that, the streets become less crowded and rates go down. Stay during the peak season, especially on weekends, and the rates are going to be higher. A few weekends, including July 4, are especially busy. Weekend hotel rates are considerably higher than weekday rates.\n\nTybee's accommodations scene is very atypical. There's a healthy scattering of hotels, but few in the way of major national chains and none that you would consider truly upscale. (In fact, lots of them are rather shabby, although you'd never guess it from their rates.) Nor is development moving in that direction. When a developer breaks ground on Tybee these days, chances are that developer is building condos. These run the gamut from strictly investment properties to purely private residences, but it's safe to say the tourist housing market on the island is skewing increasingly to condo rentals. At least one motel has converted to condos, in fact.\n\n**Price Code**\n\nOur price code is designed to make it easier for you to gauge the cost of staying at one of Tybee's hotels, motels, or bed-and-breakfasts. The dollar sign indicates the average cost for a one-night stay for two adults during peak season, typically mid-April through mid-September. Weekends cost more.\n\n**Hotels and Motels**\n\nThere are only a handful of middle-class hotels and motels to choose from on the island. Most are smaller chains with names you will recognize and offer standard, sometimes modest accommodations. In all honesty, the majority of the few hotels on Tybee are plain, and far from luxurious. In other words, the term _renovation_ might be defined as new bedspreads and curtains at Tybee, so don't expect the Ritz here. The ones we list have nonsmoking and wheelchair-accessible rooms and come with free parking. Although Tybee is outside Savannah, it shares area code 912.\n\n**ADMIRAL'S INN,** 1501 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-0700; admiralsinntybee.com; $$$\u2013$$$$. A nice, two-story hotel, Admiral's Inn has 41 spacious rooms, a swimming pool, and is across the street from the ocean. The standard room comes with two queen-size beds, but if you need a little more space, deluxe king rooms with sitting areas are available. The hotel's meeting room holds up to 75 people. Computer, phone/fax, free wireless access and copy service are available for those unfortunate souls who have to work while at the beach. The hotel is within comfortable walking distance to \"downtown Tybee.\"\n\n**DUNES INN & SUITES,** 409 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-4591; $$\u2013$$$$. Dunes Inn & Suites is across the street from the beach and a block or so away from Tybee's small-town shopping district, where you can find everything from a new swimsuit to suntan lotion. This motel offers 54 rooms: 33 in the main building and additional rooms in the Dunes annex. Some have balconies overlooking the pool, and a few kitchenettes are also available. There is a complimentary continental breakfast, wireless available in rooms, and Dunes is pet-friendly.\n\n**DESOTO BEACH HOTEL,** 212 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-4542, (877) 786-4542; desoto beachhotel.com; $$$\u2013$$$$. The only thing old about this place is the name, which once served one of Tybee's oldest hotels. Completely renovated in 2010, this is a delightful place to stay with freshly painted rooms, upgraded linens and furniture, and rooms that range from two bedrooms with king or queen-size beds, oversize balconies, and kitchenettes (Hernando DeSoto Suite) to deluxe rooms with two queen-size beds. The old is gone, but on this narrow sliver of land between condo developments, careful design has led to 37 rooms, most of which are technically ocean view and a few of which have a magnificent view. The hotel is on the ocean side of Butler, and it is one of the first motels or hotels you will encounter when driving onto the island. There's an oceanfront pool and a game room that's partially open to the elements.\n\n**OCEAN PLAZA BEACH RESORT,** 1401 Strand; (912) 786-7777, (800) 215-6370; oceanplaza.com; $$\u2013$$$$. This is Tybee's largest hotel, with 215 rooms, suites, and nearby luxury condos at the Brass Rail (offered under the umbrella of the Ocean Plaza). There are two swimming pools on property at the Ocean Plaza. It is also one of the few properties that offer direct room views of the ocean. Head out your door, walk through a parking lot, and within a few steps you are on the sand. Located on the southern end of the island, there are actually three buildings at Ocean Plaza, including two four-story structures facing the ocean. The rooms are spacious and decorated in bright pastel colors. All oceanfront rooms have balconies overlooking the Atlantic.\n\nMany room options are available, including a single room with a king-size bed, one-room suites with queen-size beds, and two-room suites with one king-size and one double bed. Kitchenettes are also available. Regardless of the room type, all come with a choice of poolside or ocean-view location. There are minifridges in every room, complimentary parking, and free wireless Internet. The Ocean Plaza offers free HBO and a conference center. The Dolphin Reef Restaurant, bridging two of the motel buildings, serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner 7 days a week.\n\n**RIVER'S END CAMPGROUND AND R.V. PARK,** 5 Fort Ave.; wwriversendcampground.com; (912) 786-5518, (800) 786-1016; cityoftybee.org/campground.aspx; $. This little campground is full of charm and has great access to the beach. The city of Tybee Island bought the park in 2006 to preserve its use as a campground, fearful of impending condo development. Aside from the unusual ownership arrangement, this is a standard campground. There are close to 100 RV sites with water and electric and 18 primitive campgrounds. Among the amenities are a swimming pool, air-conditioned bath houses, cable, wireless access, a laundry, and similar touches. Rates start at $29 a night for the primitive campsites, and go up to $74 for the most utility-rich RV sites. Rates are cheaper by the week, and even cheaper by the month. The campground stays pretty busy, so book early.\n\n**SAND CASTLE INN,** 1402 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-4576, (866) GA-BEACH; sandcastle-inn.com; $$\u2013$$$. The Sand Castle Inn is within walking distance to Tybee's \"downtown.\" It is on the beach side of Butler Avenue\u2014Tybee's main thoroughfare. The motel offers a pool and free continental breakfast each morning. The rooms are fresh, with bright colored bedspreads and white walls. Although just a short stroll to the beach, none of the rooms have ocean views.\n\n**Bed-and-Breakfast**\n\n**THE LIGHTHOUSE INN,** 16 Meddin Dr.; (912) 786-0901, (866) 786-0901; tybeebb.com; $$$$. Susie Morris and her husband, Stuart Liles, opened this charming B&B in the fall of 2000 in a circa-1910 home they have restored. It features three fully decorated guest rooms and baths, as well as a front porch for relaxing. The couple lives on the ground floor. The inn is close to the North Beach (a less-developed segment of Tybee's beaches) and the lighthouse (as the name no doubt cued you into). The North Beach Grill is also close by, and beach access is just a few short steps away.\n\n**Rentals**\n\n**MERMAID COTTAGES VACATION RENTALS,** (912) 704-4618; mermaidcottages.com. Owner Dianne Kaufman handles vacation rental homes that include historic houses and cozy cottages decorated with coastal charm in mind. Mermaid rentals include food celebrity Paula Deen's \"Y'all Come Inn\" and _New York Times_ best-selling author Mary Kay Andrews's \"Ebbtide\" and \"Breeze Inn.\" Many Mermaid listings are pet-friendly. Mermaid Cottages also sells a line of products such as Mermaid Morning Bliss Coffee, Beach Bum Biscuits, and Salty Sea Air Candles.\n\n**TYBEE BEACH VACATION RENTALS,** 106 US 80; (912) 786-0100, (800) 967-4433; renttybee.com. This local company offers a large selection of beach cottages, homes, and condos. Like all the rental agencies listed here, inside the offices are lists of properties, pictures, rates, and other valuable information.\n\n**TYBEE COTTAGES,** 1310 Jones Ave.; (912)786-6746, (877) 524-9819; tybeecottages.com. Tybee residents Jim and Becky Heflin represent several appealing rental properties at Tybee Island. From quaint two-bedroom cottages decorated with typical brightly colored, Caribbean-type furnishings to two-story classic Tybee beach houses with their white-slat woodwork and expansive porches, most properties are located right on the beach or come with a pool, and each is supplied with all the conveniences you'll need for a pleasant stay: i.e., linens, dishes, cookware, and washer/dryer. All properties can be viewed on their website.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND RENTALS, INC.,** 203 1st Street; (912) 786-4034, (800) 476-0807; tybeeislandrentals.com. Beach homes, condos, and cottages of all shapes and sizes can be rented from Tybee Island Rentals. Check out the varied selection at their offices, located about 2 miles past the bridge onto Tybee. If you are looking for a romantic getaway for two or a place to bring the whole family for a week at the beach, you should be able to find something that suits your needs.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND VACATION RENTALS,** 1010 US 80 East; reservations: (877) 214-7353, office: (912) 786-5853; tybeevacationrentals.com. The team at Tybee Island Vacation Rentals handles a long list of vacation homes that offer the perfect getaway for families, individuals, and groups.\n\n## RESTAURANTS\n\nTybee's restaurant scene is evolving. Locals don't have to be that old to remember when most eateries were burger and ice cream joints where you could come in your bathing suit, and where you were likely to find the door locked shortly after Labor Day. Those places are still there, but they have been joined by a few reasonably priced family restaurants. One thing you won't find (and another personification of Tybee's individuality) is much in the way of fast-food franchises\u2014with the exception of an Arby's.\n\n**Price Code**\n\nThe price code listed below is based on the cost of an average meal for two, excluding drinks, dessert, or tip. Of course, prices vary to either extreme on most menus and you can tip the bill over into the next category.\n\n**A-J'S DOCKSIDE,** 1315 Chatham Ave.; (912) 786-9533; ajsdocksidetybee.com; $$. Dine on the deck overlooking Tybee's beautiful Back River or step inside to sit at tables or at the bar. Seafood is the main menu attraction. Call for info on live entertainment. A-J.'s is a local favorite where many gather each night to watch the sunset in style.\n\n**BREAKFAST CLUB,** 1500 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-5984; breakfastclub.com; $. If you want to get a table at the Breakfast Club without waiting in line, you may have to get up a little early, especially during the summer months. Lines start forming outside this very popular eatery about 7 a.m. on weekends. During the week, sleep in much past 8:30 a.m., and you will most likely find yourself waiting outside with a handful of other people. Regardless, it is worth the wait. As the line (which moves fast) attests, this diner on the southern end of the island near downtown is one of Tybee's best. For more than 20 years, members of the Farrow family have been serving up breakfast specialties like chorizo con huevos (flour tortillas, sausage, sharp cheese, salsa, and sour cream) and pecan waffles, which are light and crunchy and the talk of the beach. Enjoy the surf and turf omelet, complete with fresh rib eye and local shrimp with garlic butter. While omelets are a menu favorite, you will also find many other choices, from grits to burgers. Chef Jodee Sadowsky, who purchased the diner from his mother, Helen Farrow, was named one of North America's 101 best cooks in _Cooking Across America_. After the season, when the locals reclaim the island, you'll find them sitting here, sharing the gossip. Warning: This place doesn't look like much but don't let that mislead you. Hours are 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. daily, year-round.\n\n**THE CRAB SHACK,** 40 Estill Hammock Rd.; (912) 786-9857; thecrabshack.com; $$. Going to the Crab Shack is as much about atmosphere as it is about seafood. Located in Chimney Creek, a hamlet off US 80 just past the Lazaretto Creek Bridge (you can't miss the signs), the Crab Shack's motto is, \"Where the Elite Eat in Their Bare Feet.\" What started as a small, rustic restaurant on the marsh has grown into a giant tourist favorite. Now they've even added a licensed live alligator habitat. While munching on giant servings of seafood delicacies such as Georgia blue crab, snow crab, golden crab, Alaskan king crab, shrimp, and oysters, you can sit out on the huge porch overlooking the marsh. Oak trees decorated with white lights give the Crab Shack a casual, relaxed, fun flair. If you want to try a local specialty, try the Lowcountry boil, which includes boiled shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage. As for drinks, the frozen margarita is a good choice along with the pi\u00f1a coladas and daiquiris. Dress is beach casual. The restaurant can handle parties of up to 150 people and boasts a separate gift shop, dubbed (what else?) the Gift Shack. Hours are 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily, year-round.\n\n**FANNIE'S ON THE BEACH,** 1613 Strand; (912) 786-6109; fanniesonthebeach.com; $$. This restaurant and outdoor bar, which commands an ocean view across a parking lot, added an upstairs outdoor deck for dining and a band on the weekend. It's open for lunch, dinner, and late night. Specialties include a shrimp burger\u2014a concoction made of ground shrimp, saut\u00e9ed onions, and celery. Quesadillas are meals, not appetizers, and include shrimp and scallop varieties. They also offer sandwiches, salads, and burgers, but the staff considers the pizzas to be the signature dish. You can get everything from the standard version to one sporting smoked salmon, capers, cream cheese, scallion, black olives, and sun-dried tomatoes. After dark, the club atmosphere comes to the fore, and the band cranks up in summer. Hours are Sun through Fri 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. and Sat 11 a.m. to midnight.\n\n**HUC A POO'S BITES AND BOOZE,** 1213 US 80 East in the Shops Under the Tybee Oaks; (912) 786-5900; hucapoos.com; $\u2013$$. This funky watering hole and pizza place bills itself as \"a bar where everybody knows your name but can't remember it,\" but don't be fooled, the cooks here remember the recipe for great pizza by the slice or whole pies. Huc a poo's is a great place for people watching or just gazing at the interesting stuff displayed on the walls and ceiling. Pizza listings include the Odyssey, the Santa Cruz, and most everything in-between. The menu also offers salads, calzones, and other tasty selections. Hours are Mon through Thurs 11a.m. to 11 p.m. and Fri through Sun 11 a.m. to 3 a.m.\n\n**SEASIDE SWEETS,** 18-B Tybrisa St; (912) 786-9861; seasidesisterstybee.com; $. This sweet spot offers Italian gelato made to order from scratch\u2014nothing artificial. Don't forget the candy, from gummies and taffy to fudge and pralines. Shakes and smoothies round out the menu. Hours are seasonal. Look for Seaside Sweets' sister business, Sweetie Pie, next to Seaside Sisters on US 80 East.\n\n**SEAWEEDS ICE CREAM,** 1405 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-8091; $. For an after-beach treat, check out this longtime favorite for ice cream, frozen yogurt, and snow cone venue. No credit cards. Seasonal hours.\n\n**STING RAY'S SEAFOOD,** 1403 Butler Ave. (at the corner of Butler and 14th St.); (912) 786-0209; stingraysontybee.com; $$. This laid-back restaurant/bar offers seafood, live music, and drinks, inside and out. Menu selections include appetizers such as crab-stuffed mushrooms and bacon-wrapped scallops, a wide variety of sandwiches and dinner specials like salmon, mahimahi, and tuna steak as well as traditional seafood dishes like fried shrimp and oysters. To top it off, Sting Ray's is the perfect place to watch one of Tybee's many parades. Hours are weekdays 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. and weekends 11 a.m. \"until.\"\n\n**SUNDAE CAFE,** 101 US 80; (912) 786-7694; sundaecafe.com; $$\u2013$$$. Several years ago, this former ice cream shop and deli in an unassuming strip center was transformed into one of the island's best lunch and dinner spots. Southern-inspired dishes focus on seafood, steaks, gourmet salads, pasta, and sandwiches. Don't miss the weekday lunch specials such as pot roast and chicken-fried chicken with vegetables on the side. Hours are Mon through Sat 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. and 5 to 9 p.m. Check out Sundae's sister restaurant/upscale sports bar, 80 east gastropub, 725-B 1st St. (912-786-4782).\n\n**THE TYBEE ISLAND SOCIAL CLUB,** 1331 Butler Ave.; (912) 472-4044; $$. This restaurant/bar describes itself as \"surf bungalow-meets-safari-plantation-setting.\"The menu is Latin inspired with a Southern coastal twist touting organic and locally sourced ingredients. Check out their sister restaurant, Tybee Island Fish Camp, in a renovated 1950s cottage at 106 S. Campbell Ave. (912-662-3477), specializing in a large domestic wine selection, regional seafood, and an \"unabashedly delicious bone marrow companion to our house baguette.\" Hours of the Social Club are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. and Fri and Sat 11 a.m. to 3 a.m.\n\n## SHOPPING\n\nTybee isn't exactly a shopper's paradise, but you can buy what you need. Beach essentials and tacky souvenirs are easy to come by in a variety of stores clustered around the action. Some places merit more attention, however, and we mention a few of them here.\n\n**CHRISTY'S DEPARTMENT STORE,** 1-3 Tybrisa St.; (912) 786-4204. Christy's is one of the island's oldest stores and located near the pier. The store sells beach gear, decorative items, clothing, and most everything in between. Call for hours.\n\n**DEBBIE BRADY ROBINSON SIGNATURE GALLERY & HALL OF FRAMES,** Sundance Square, 1207 US 80; (912) 786-8944; debbiebradyrobinson.com. This shop showcases noted Tybee artist Debbie Brady Robinson who often can be spotted in front of the shop painting canvases or putting her special design on custom furniture. Inside are paintings, furniture, souvenirs, and other unique items. Debbie also offers full-service framing.\n\n**HIGH TIDE SURF SHOP,** 406 US 80; (912) 783-6556; hightidesurfshop.com. High Tide specializes in surfboards, kiteboards, skimboards, skateboards, surf/skate apparel, wet suits, swimwear, sunglasses, and footwear. Call for hours.\n\n**LATITUDE 32,** 1213 US 80; (912) 786-9334. This shop carries quality apparel, hats, children's clothing, and loads of other fun stuff.\n\n**SEASIDE SISTERS,** Sundance Square, 1207 US 80 East; (912) 786-9216; sea sidesisterstybee.com. This beach-inspired gift shop has a collection of art, furnishings, clothing, and decorative items, in addition to a handful of vendors who offer antiques and gently used treasures. Call for hours that vary with the season.\n\n**SHOPS AT TYBEE OAKS,** 1213 US 80 East. Situated under a canopy of moss-laden live oaks just as you drive onto the island, this cluster of shops includes something for everyone. You'll find clothing, souvenirs, shells, and other items. There is also a pizza place and a coffee shop.\n\n**T. S. CHU CO.,** 6 Tybrisa St.; (912) 786-4561. T. S. Chu emigrated from China in the 1930s and slept in the dunes until he got things going financially. And get them going he did. His early enterprise has grown to a prosperous local retail empire. For the most part, it's convenience stores and gas stations. But the original store remains on Tybee, a sprawling, dimly lit, and unconventional place that sells tourist junk and beach supplies near the door and lightbulbs, hammers, dishpans, and other housewares and hardware farther inside. Call for hours, which vary with the season.\n\n**TYBEE MARKET IGA,** 1111 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-4601; tybeemarketiga.com. The mark of a dedicated Tybee Islander is a refusal to leave the island unless he or she absolutely has to. That makes Tybee's only grocery store (aside from numerous convenience stores) a godsend. Folks from Savannah have been known to drive to Tybee Market for their quality meats. Hours are 8:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. 7 days a week. Ordering online and grocery delivery are available.\n\n## THINGS TO DO\n\nA vacation to Tybee Island should first be filled with lots of time for reading, shuffling about on the beach, kite-flying, fishing, and of course, dining on the excellent seafood at local restaurants. The South Beach, where the most development (restaurants, shops, entertainment, etc.) and largest crowds are, and North Beach, which is more residential in nature, are your two options for hanging out on the beach. Go south for people watching, north for shelling. You're at South Beach when you park in Tybee's downtown, main-drag Strand area. North Beach parking is across from the lighthouse and behind the museum. At low tide, you can walk from one to the other, but if you miscalculate the incoming tide, it can be a long walk around.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nHitting the Beach with \"Crawfish\" Crawford\n\nThere is good news for swimmers diving into the ocean off Tybee, according to John \"Crawfish\" Crawford, a University of Georgia educator and expert on Tybee and its marine life. The 30 to 40 species of sharks lurking in the waters offshore probably aren't that hungry. \"We have well-fed sharks here,\" said Crawford. \"The water is full of plenty of food which they would rather eat instead of fooling with something the size of a human being.\"\n\nWords to live by. Although shark attacks are so rare they are nearly unheard of on Tybee, Crawford says to reduce your risk even further by avoiding swimming during twilight hours when sharks typically feed. Also, don't use a flutter kick\u2014to a shark it could sound like a wounded fish.\n\nBesides sharks, beachgoers might encounter an abundance of other marine life on Tybee, according to Crawford. Some of the more common things you might come across during your day at the beach include:\n\n  * **Sandpipers** \u2014These tiny, fleet-footed birds seen running up and down the beach are born and nest in the Arctic tundra. They fly all the way to Tybee just to engage in a little 50-yard beach dash for food.\n  * **Ghost crabs** \u2014Look near the dune line, and you might see whitish-colored crabs scurrying\u2014then disappearing\u2014into a hole. Besides spending their time digging their hole homes, these crabs serve as beach garbage collectors, picking up parts of dead fish and others things cluttering their front yards.\n  * **Jellyfish** \u2014Several different species of jellyfish live in our waters. The cannonball variety has a brown rim around the edge, and you can't be stung by them. The sea nettle, which comes out typically in the late summer and has long wispy tentacles, is responsible for the most stings off Tybee. If you get stung, putting meat tenderizer on the sting helps ease the pain, according to Crawford.\n  * **Ghost shrimp** \u2014If you run across tiny holes just above the low-tide line, you most likely have encountered a ghost shrimp. These tiny shrimp live in a network of burrows that twist and turn in the sand and are only three-fourths of an inch in diameter. Those little brown things you see near the entrance of the hole are their droppings.\n  * **Sand dollars** \u2014These small disks are actually live animals. Many people mistakenly take them home while they are still alive, Crawford said. If you find a sand dollar on the beach and it is a greenish color on top and reddish on the bottom, it is still alive, so leave it on the beach. A white color indicates that the sand dollar has died.\n  * **Stingrays** \u2014If you happen to see a stingray while swimming in the surf, don't panic\u2014they aren't aggressive and won't bother you a bit. If you happen to be unfortunate enough to step on a stingray, however, they do consider this an attack and will sting. To avoid such a confrontation, shuffle your feet back and forth while walking in the surf. This gives them enough time to realize you are coming and head in a different direction.\n  * **Sea turtle nests** \u2014Sea turtles regularly nest on Tybee Island. The city's public works department patrols the beaches for the nests to mark them with wire so people don't run over them. If you do come across a nest, don't disturb it.\n\nDuring the season, Tybee's beaches have lifeguards. Hours and days depend on the weather and crowds. The lifeguard stands are clustered near the public parking. Early on, they're only staffed on weekends. Don't take it for granted that there's a lifeguard on duty, and even if there is, they call it a day when the crowd starts to thin. Be careful! Ocean swimming at Tybee Island can be tricky, even for the strong swimmer. Tybee is prone to riptides.\n\nBeach regulations prohibit glass containers or cans. Dogs aren't allowed on the beach, either, and you'll get a ticket if you bring one. The beach is patrolled by officers in shorts and T-shirts, either walking or on all-terrain vehicles.\n\nVendors on the beach rent canvas rafts, umbrellas, boogie boards, and the like.\n\n**FORT PULASKI NATIONAL MONUMENT,** US 80 East; (912) 786-5787; nps.org. Explore a 19th-century fort from top to bottom at Fort Pulaski. About 15 miles outside Savannah on the way to Tybee, the fort is remarkably preserved and gives a fascinating glimpse into coastal warfare. The fort was completed in 1847 and considered the ultimate defense system of its day. Audio stations provide information on the fort's pivotal role in the Civil War and how it changed defense strategy worldwide after an attack by Union forces. The 5,600-acre monument also provides picnic areas and nature trails, along with panoramic views of the Atlantic Ocean and scenic salt marshes. Bring your camera\u2014this is one of the area's most photogenic spots. Expect to see abundant wildlife such as white-tailed deer that roam freely on the island, and alligators, turtles, and small marine life that inhabit the moat. There are numerous trails so bring a picnic if you're prone. The fort is open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. The cost is $5, and the admission fee is good for up to 6 days of visitation. Children age 15 and younger enter free. There are group rates for commercial vehicles: 1\u20136 passengers, $25.\n\n**LAZARETTO CREEK MARINA,** US 80 East, just across Lazaretto Creek Bridge; (912) 786-5848, (800) 242-0166; tybeedolphins.com. You'll be thrilled to see wildlife up close on Captain Mike's dolphin tours at Lazaretto Creek Marina. There are also fishing, diving, and sunset cruises. Dolphin tours are $15 per adult and $8 per child (12 and under); offshore fishing ranges from $250 to $850, depending on the length of the trip. Boats are not wheelchair accessible. Tours are conditional based on weather and wind conditions, so it's best to call ahead and confirm.\n\n**THE TYBEE ARTS ASSOCIATION,** PO Box 2344, 7 Cedarwood Ave.; Tybee Island, GA 31328; (912) 786-5920; tybeearts.org. This nonprofit group is dedicated to developing and promoting arts throughout the area. Besides operating the Lighthouse Gallery near Tybee Lighthouse, the organization holds exhibits and gives art classes for adults and children. Adult classes can include pottery, stained-glass making, and painting, while children's classes include wearable art, make-your-own puppet, sand and beach art, and painting and drawing, among other options. Contact the association for information on classes, art shows, and sales. Stay tuned for current events posted on the organization's website.\n\n**Hole-In-One**\n\nThere's no golf at Tybee. There are no water parks. There is no minigolf course here. The fun lies within your imagination. However, if you're looking for a fun place to take your family that is clean and safe, try the **Island Mini Golf** on US 80 and Walthour Road (912898-3833; islandminigolf.com). There are bumper go-karts, softball and baseball batting cages, a Moonwalk bounce, a clean and refreshing arcade with snacks and hot dogs, a private party room, and an 18-hole miniature golf course! Hours are Sun through Thurs 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., Sat 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND LIVE OAK BRANCH LIBRARY,** 405 Butler Ave.; (912) 786-7733. Chances are there aren't too many public libraries around with an ocean view. Granted, you have to have pretty good eyes to see it, but the view is there, along with an impressive entryway sculpture by ironwork artist Ivan Bailey. (Look up!)\n\nLocal library regulations are very kind to guests. Here, as elsewhere in Chatham County, nonresidents can buy a temporary library card with full privileges. Some paperbacks and children's books can be borrowed without a card.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND LIGHT AND STATION,** 30 Meddin Dr.; (912) 786-5801; tybeelighthouse.org. Throughout history there have actually been four Tybee Island lighthouses. The original was completed in 1736, but it sat too close to the shore and was washed away during a storm. Hurricanes, fires, and even an attack by Union forces during the Civil War led to partial or complete destruction of two other stations. In 1866 the fourth Tybee lighthouse\u2014a combination of old and new\u2014was authorized. It used the lower 65 feet of the 1773 Tybee light as the base, then 94 more feet were stacked on top. The light, a first-order Fresnel lens, was displayed for the first time on October 1, 1867, and it has been there ever since. It is one of only two of the 15 original light stations built in Georgia that is still functioning.\n\nLearn about the history of the lighthouse in the refurbished facilities and take a 154-foot climb to the top for a wonderful view of the area. Hours are 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. daily (last ticket sold at 4:30 p.m.) except Tues, when it is closed. Closed for major holidays (St. Patrick's Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day). Cost is $9 for adults, $7 for seniors, military, and children ages 6\u201317; children younger than age 6 get in free. The price includes admission to the Tybee Museum.\n\ni The Tybee Lighthouse was one of five southeastern lighthouses featured on a set of US postage stamps in June 2003.\n\n**TYBEE ISLAND MARINE SCIENCE CENTER,** 14th Street Parking Lot; (912) 786-5917; tybeemarinescience.org. Learn about Tybee's marine life at the Tybee Island Marine Science Center. Just steps from the sand, the center has aquariums with species indigenous to the area, such as starfish and jellyfish. There is a small library, a touch tank, and displays featuring such things as sharks and shells\u2014always favorites with the kids. Don't expect anything polished or Sea Worldish, but it is informative. Beach walks are one of the most popular programs offered. Folks are invited to stroll the beach to learn about the things that inhabit it. The center staff also throws a seine net into the ocean to see what they might catch. The center is open daily 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $4 for all, but kids 4 and under are free.\n\ni Like to collect seashells? According to expert seashell hunters, Tybee's North Beach provides the best bounty.\n\n**TYBEE MUSEUM,** 30 Meddin Dr.; (912) 786-5801; tybeeisland.com. Besides learning about Tybee's history, visitors to the Tybee Museum get to walk around one of the few remaining structures at the former Fort Screven. Inside Battery Garland, one of the original seven-gun batteries built at the fort, you can learn about hundreds of years of Tybee lore\u2014from the arrival of Native Americans to Tybee's role in the Civil War to the beginning of tourism on the island. Open Wed through Mon 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. (although the last ticket is sold at 4:30 p.m.); closed major holidays (note that St. Patrick's Day is a major holiday in these parts). Admission is $9 for adults; $7 for seniors, active military, and children ages 6\u201317; children ages 5 and younger get in free. Members of the US Coast Guard are free. The fee includes admission to the Tybee Island Lighthouse just across the street.\n\n**TYBEE PIER AND PAVILION,** Tybrisa Street. This $2.5-million wooden pier was unveiled in time for the 1996 Summer Olympics, when the yachting events were held in the area. It was built in almost the exact location of the Tybrisa, Tybee's former pier and pavilion that was known for its Big Band concerts before it burned down. Wander out to the end of the pier, and you will witness anglers casting into the ocean to see what they might catch. You can rent fishing poles and bait on the pier, and you can pick up a snack, too. The pier's pavilion, a large wooden platform you cross before heading out over the ocean, is also a popular spot for concerts. Concerts are often free (and even when they aren't, you can sit on the beach and listen in). It's also a good place for a romantic evening stroll without getting your feet wet.\n\n# Appendix\n\n# LIVING HERE\n\nIn this section we feature specific information for residents or those planning to relocate here. Topics include real estate, education, health care, and much more.\n\n## RELOCATION & REAL ESTATE\n\nSavannah is a popular relocation destination. Retirees come here, drawn by the weather, the availability of military benefits resources, the golf. Military discharges often opt to stay. Vacationers get hooked on what they see and come back year after year, putting down roots here. And, in a phenomenon we probably couldn't document but which we would vouch for after 30-plus years of anecdotal observation, people who are reared here return to live here, despite the appeals of better-paved career paths, larger cities, and lower humidity. See a Savannah girl marry a beau from college in the Northeast and then strike out for California? Sure. Give her a few years\u2014she and that husband will be back here to raise their kids.\n\nIf you are looking to relocate yourself, you want an area that has shown up on relocation radar. It's not that you are looking to follow the rest of the migrating herd\u2014it's just that when you look at an area with a tradition of welcoming in new populations, you find a relocation industry already in place. The banks are all going to have packets welcoming you to the community; everyone from the voter registration folks to the library is going to be versed in helping newcomers; and chances are your kid won't be the only new face to turn up in class this year.\n\nOVERVIEW\n\nWhen you are starting out on a relocation quest, the first thing you want is information\u2014lots of it. That's what this section is all about.\n\n**SAVANNAH AREA CHAMBER OF COMMERCE,** 101 E. Bay St.; (912) 644-6400; savannahchamber.com. The chamber can provide you with its standard relocation packet via mail and free of charge. No one ever accused a chamber of being excessively unbiased, but this is still a good starting point. Materials and references will largely be restricted to chamber members, but with a few exceptions that doesn't lead to major omissions. Be sure to stress, when making your request by telephone, that you are looking for relocation info, not just tourist material, since the chamber, through its Visit Savannah operation, handles tourism materials, too.\n\n**_SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS_ ,** 1375 Chatham Pkwy.; (912) 236-9511; savannahnow.com. Don't even think of relocating anywhere without reading the daily newspaper there for a period of time. An online subscription is currently $29 a year. With registration you'll get full access to the website and can also get the \"e-edition\" which recreates the actual pages\u2014meaning you can see virtual stuff like grocery circulars and other ads of interest to newcomers.\n\nSpeaking of news, you might also want to check out Savannah's television stations via their websites. Four of them run local news (we're skipping the small one that doesn't have a news operation). In ratings pecking order, they are WTOC (CBS, wtoc.com), WSAV (NBC, wsav.com), WJCL (ABC, wjcl.com), and WTGS (Fox), which currently has a joint operating agreement with WJCL, although recent corporate shifts mean that's likely to change. The stations are improving their websites constantly, and you can stream the most recent of the newscasts on WJCL and WTOC.\n\nTHE BASICS\n\nConsider this section a quick community review. You can read more in our chapters covering the area overview, history, education, and health care.\n\nWhen you are talking Savannah, you are essentially talking three counties and multiple municipalities. Chatham County (population 251,120 in 2008, spread out over 451 square miles) is the biggest one in the area, and the sixth most populous in the state of Georgia. Savannah is the county seat, but you'll also find incorporated communities to the east and west\u2014Thunderbolt, Tybee Island, Vernonburg, Pooler, Bloomingdale, Garden City.\n\nEffingham and Bryan Counties make up the rest of what statisticians call the Savannah SMSA, or Standard Metropolitan Statistical Area. Both were established rural counties in their own right before becoming bedroom communities for Savannah as well. Effingham's county seat is Springfield, but the SUVs that commute into and out of Savannah are likely coming from Guyton and Rincon, for the most part. Bryan County's seat is Pembroke, but the smaller municipality of Richmond Hill\u2014south of Savannah's Southside\u2014is the town you'll hear of most often.\n\nOther counties\u2014hey, Georgia boasts 159 counties\u2014play a role in the local scene, too. Most prominent is Liberty County (county seat: Hinesville), which is home of Fort Stewart, to which Savannah's Hunter Army Airfield is attached in all but geography.\n\nOn the South Carolina side, essentially two counties play in the regional mix\u2014Beaufort County, with its county seat of Beaufort and townships of Hilton Head Island and Bluffton, and Jasper County, home of Ridge-land and Hardeeville.\n\nHilton Head Island pioneered the concept of planned communities designed for relocating early retirees. As the island has increasingly built up, you'll find similar upscale buildings spilling onto the mainland side, where the address is Bluffton. Next in line for the advent of gated communities will be Jasper County, which currently isn't heavily developed.\n\nA geography review seems in order for those who are relocating from other parts of the country. Not for nothing is this section of South Carolina called the Lowcountry, and the land doesn't get any higher when you cross the Savannah River and hit Georgia. Invest in flood insurance wherever in this region you buy, and carefully evaluate the flood risks of any property you are considering buying. Remember that Savannah and environs all fall within hurricane impact zones. True, the last hurricane to really strike Savannah was David in 1979, and that was sort of a glancing blow. But Hurricane Hugo (1989) and Hurricane Floyd (1999) prompted evacuations before striking elsewhere, and the potential is there every fall.\n\nIn fact, put drainage at the top of your list of questions when looking at property. It doesn't take a particularly heavy rainfall to cause localized flooding, if it comes during a high tide when all the drainage ditches (we call them canals) are filled up with tidal water. Paving and development have increased the flood risk and drainage problems in some areas. Investigate thoroughly.\n\nINFRASTRUCTURE BASICS\n\nNext up for review are infrastructure issues.\n\nElectricity in this section of Georgia is provided by Georgia Power, a division of Southern Company. Natural gas is a deregulated industry in Georgia, as of several years ago. The result was a glut of marketers, confusing pricing, and billing fiascoes. Things have shaken out a bit now, but as a new resident you'll find yourself choosing among providers.\n\nBy the way, when investigating a new home, review your energy system seriously. The hot, humid summers make good air-conditioning a serious quality-of-life issue. And despite the fact that there may be a palm tree growing outside a house, winters can include some serious cold snaps\u2014and many older homes lack good insulation.\n\nThe city of Savannah sells water, sewer, and garbage service to its citizens, and also sells water and sewer services under contract to various developments outside its city limits. In fact, you'll find these services provided by most municipalities. If you wind up in the unincorporated areas of the county\u2014such as the popular Islands area\u2014you may find yourself in a spot served by a private water system, septic tanks, and private garbage contractors. Outside the city of Savannah, you may also encounter areas served by volunteer or combined pro and volunteer fire departments.\n\nChatham County and Savannah have consolidated their police forces, although there are periodic disputes. The smaller municipalities still maintain their own. All you really need to know is that 911 works countywide.\n\nComcast Savannah is Savannah's television cable service and offers phone and Internet service as well (comcast.com).\n\nDoes your new home involve construction or remodeling? Unless you are from some very isolated portion of the country, you're familiar with the idea and basic process of getting building permits. If your tastes have led you to the Historic District, be aware that the renovation permitting process can be extremely exacting\u2014yes, you may find yourself (or your architect) having to defend the style of door handles you choose.\n\ni As a new homeowner in the region, one of the first services you are going to need is pest control. Mild winters, wet weather, and lots of green spaces all add up to bugs. Most locals make their peace with them outdoors, and wage chemical warfare inside their homes.\n\nSAVANNAH NEIGHBORHOODS\n\nThe real estate bubble burst all over the Coastal Empire in 2009. Values have recovered in some areas but not others. What matters is the various neighborhoods seem to have kept their places relative to one another\u2014meaning the priciest real estate is in the Historic District or on the waterfronts, mid-range and upwardly mobile stuff in the still-developing suburbs and municipalities of West Chatham, and bargains are to be had in aging and built-out suburbs on Savannah's Southside and scattered around.\n\n**Historic District**\n\nThe Historic District is a miniature city within a city. Inside the 2.5-square-mile area you will find restaurants, churches, antiques shops, museums, banks, government buildings, art galleries, and even some wildlife\u2014that is, if you count the hundreds of squirrels who call the many squares and parks home. (They'll practically eat out of your hands!)\n\nOf course, there are also the houses. Hundreds of homes painstakingly restored to their original 19th-century splendor fill the area. Within a few steps in the Historic District, you are apt to encounter wrought-iron balconies, brick courtyards, and other architectural delights such as historic downspouts shaped like dolphins that empty water into the street.\n\nIn addition to being a neighborhood, this is also a tourist attraction. Be aware that this is, or could become, a drawback of sorts: slow-moving and loud tour buses that the city does not regulate heavily; onstreet parking problems; walking tours that currently are at daggers-drawn with some irate residents; and so on. The charms outweigh the drawbacks, though.\n\nThe Historic District is also an area of great diversity. Some of Savannah's wealthiest and oldest families live a door or two away from art students who came to town from California or Ohio or Asia. In the Beach Institute area on the eastern edge of the district, many long-standing African-American families raise their children in homes that have been in the family for generations.\n\nThe stock of run-down homes in need of renovation has fallen in the main district, although there are still fixer-uppers in the Victorian District and other historic areas outside the traditional \"landmark\" Historic District. Don't expect to find anything renovated for less than $250,000, although you may find some bargains in new condos, townhomes, or downtown lofts. The same housing market slowdown that has hit elsewhere in the country began affecting this area, too.\n\nA good dose of \"buyer beware\" is called for when buying a historic home. Antique mantels are adorable; antique plumbing and wiring are not. If you are not familiar with the mixed blessing that comes with being the keeper of historic architecture, make sure you seek out expert advice about things like lead paint, fire escapes, and the like. And if you plan renovations of your own, any changes visible from the street will be under the watchful eye of the Historic Review Board.\n\ni Residents of the Historic District can apply for inexpensive parking stickers, which allow them to park their vehicles at meters near their homes without getting tickets. Everyone, residents and guests alike, however, needs to watch out for the posted weekly sweeping zone times, when parking is prohibited so the city street sweepers can do their job.\n\n**The Victorian District**\n\nJust south of the Historic District lies the Victorian District, roughly bounded by Victory Drive, Gwinnett Street, Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and East Broad Street. Here you will find the Victorian ladies of architecture\u2014two- and three-story wooden houses with porches and gothic touches.\n\nThere's still renovation work to be done here, and gentrification is an active struggle as well. Homeowners also confront the climate\u2014Savannah's heat and humidity are a challenge to any paint job ever painted. The result is spotty: gorgeous homes next to boarded-up hulks, blocks that look homeless next to blocks that look pristine.\n\nSome of these homes have as neighbors parts of the campus of Savannah College of Art and Design, which has spread beyond its Historic District roots to the Victorian District and even to surrounding industrial neighborhoods.\n\n**_Starland_.** Once called \"a cozy artists' neighborhood,\" this southernmost section of the Victorian District had not seen much in the way of restoration until a handful of visionaries began rebuilding the blighted area into a diverse and friendly mix of residence and business. The name comes from an old dairy plant in the area. Now, there are artists galore and it's become one of the city's hippest places to live and work.\n\nToday you'll find the area still fairly early in the regeneration stages, with much of the work done by energetic sweat-investors rather than banks. There's a coffee shop, a dog park, art galleries (including a vet's office that sells art), and an eclectic feel of community.\n\nIf you are looking to buy here, come ready to do your own work\u2014the stock of redone housing isn't large yet. But we suspect that to most Starland residents, that's sort of the point.\n\ni Savannah boasts two glossy magazines, both with high production values. _Savannah Magazine_ appears six times a year (Jan/Feb, March/April, etc.), plus fall and spring special issues focusing on home decor and design. It also produces _Savannah Weddings_ twice a year. Find out more at savannahmagazine.com. _The South_ magazine also appears six times annually, on the opposite every-other-month schedule (Feb/March, April/May, etc.). It offers a slightly more regional focus. Its website is thesouthmag.com.\n\n**Southside/Midtown**\n\n**_Ardsley Park_.** Ardsley Park is Savannah's original suburb. Laid out in 1911, the development is south of the Historic District and the Victorian District in what Savannahians call Midtown (an elastic term that means different things to different people). Although it was designed as a single residential subdivision, throughout the years it has grown to include a large area loosely bounded by Victory Drive on the north, Columbus Drive on the south, Bull Street on the west, and Waters Avenue on the east. Ardsley Park offers wide, tree-filled streets with many sizes and styles of older homes. Drive around and you will see large four- or five-bedroom mansions with elegant entrances, sunporches, and several fireplaces selling for several hundred thousand. In other blocks, couples with young children live in very nice Craftsman-style bungalows with big yards. Because the area appeals to such a wide section of the community\u2014from professionals to young families\u2014it is a popular place to buy. In fact, as mentioned before, it is in the midst of the temporary curse of being trendy.\n\nLooking in this neighborhood? Watch for flood-prone areas. Also, don't invest without checking the after-work parking situation. Many of the bungalows either lack garages or carports, or else had them converted to living space\u2014which means competition for street parking in some blocks is downright cutthroat. Columbus, Washington, and 52nd Streets have become fairly heavily traveled east-west routes.\n\nAn additional note: Across Waters Avenue and for several blocks behind the city's major Daffin Park is a neighborhood called Parkside, where you'll find much the same types of homes at, at least for the moment, slightly lower prices.\n\n**_Gordonston_.** Gordonston is a small, charming neighborhood nestled into Savannah's eastside. It is a popular spot for many local professionals including professors and others working in education.\n\nBordered by Skidaway Road, Gwinnett Street, and Pennsylvania Avenue, it was developed in the 1920s by the brother of Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts, on property that was once part of the family farm. In some ways, it is like a miniature Ardsley Park. Similar to its bigger cousin, throughout the development you will find tree-lined streets filled with a variety of older homes on large properties with front yards and backyards. Home styles include bungalows, cottages, and large mansions, and they tend to be comparable to Ardsley Park.\n\n**_Windsor Forest_.** When the city began suburban sprawl in earnest during the 1960s, south was the direction and Windsor Forest was the place. Windsor Forest is now a sprawl of neighborhoods between Savannah's malls that still reflect the look of the '60s, even after all these years. Here are classic American suburbs\u2014ranch-style homes, split-levels, two-car garages, backyard barbecues, and so on. You can find virtually any price range here, even tony marshfront property, but it's a decidedly middle-class enclave gradually giving way to a larger rental presence. Here, you'll find your biggest, most elaborate grocery stores, your movie theaters, and on the nearby commercial arteries, the car dealerships and the fast-food franchises.\n\n**_Georgetown_.** Although Georgetown debuted in 1974 on open land most Savannahians consider south of the Southside, you will still find homes going up there. More than 1,600 homes have been built throughout the development, located off the far southern reaches of Abercorn Street on King George Boulevard. There are nine subdivisions in total in the community offering a variety of home styles and prices. There's also a pool and amenities center. Don't buy here without checking out the afternoon commute from Savannah, as this is an infamously congested route\u2014although a flyover now under construction should remedy the situation by 2016 or 2017.\n\n**Islands**\n\nThe Islands area covers a lot of ground. Places such as Dutch Island and Skidaway Island, home of the Landings, are high end and exclusive (we mean that literally: They have gates). Islands such as Wilmington, Whitemarsh, and Talahi are more standard suburbia, and people who don't live there can't tell where one island ends and another begins. Tybee Island, the only one of the islands that actually feels like an island, covers a wide range of incomes and is sort of a world unto itself. (In fact, it has its own chapter in this book.)\n\n**_Dutch Island_.** Dutch Island, an exclusive, gated enclave 20 minutes from downtown Savannah, is a popular choice for young professionals or those looking to move up to a larger home. The first neighborhoods on the island opened up in the early 1980s. Today it is home to about 300 families and expected to reach its maximum capacity of 500 homes within the next few years. Spacious homes with pristine lawns and traditional architecture can be found throughout Dutch Island. Home sizes range from 2,400 square feet up to 12,000 square feet, while prices go from $600,000 to \"the sky's the limit.\"\n\n**_Isle of Hope_.** This peninsula in southeast Chatham County was an early summer resort for tourists. Situated with the Herb River on the west and the Skidaway River on the east, the community is one of Savannah's most picturesque. Beautiful old cottages with white picket fences and massive oak trees in the front yards overlook the waterways, while newer, typically suburban, homes scatter throughout other neighborhoods. The very old and very new mix together nicely.\n\nThere is a small-town feel even though large developments and the hustle of Savannah are just 20 minutes away. Longtime residents live on Isle of Hope as well as young families and professionals. Home prices vary from modest, older two-bedroom bungalows around $200,000 to new three- and four-bedroom homes with all the amenities for $350,000 or more. The beautiful waterfront mansions on Bluff Drive are the stuff dreams are made of, and when one goes on the market, expect a multimillion-dollar price tag.\n\n**_Long Point_.** More than 130 new homes have been built since 1992 at this popular Whitemarsh Island development. Conveniently located on Johnny Mercer Boulevard, it puts homeowners a short, 20-minute drive away from downtown or the South-side. Home prices start around $450,000 and climb to great heights for waterfront property and include many amenities like hardwood floors, cathedral ceilings, gourmet kitchens, and more. Styles differ throughout the development from sprawling single-story brick homes with circular drives to two-story stuccos with large front porches. Wide streets circulate through the community, and there is a staffed gate.\n\n**_The Landings on Skidaway Island_.** Spend any time in Savannah and no doubt you will hear someone refer to \"the Landings.\" This massive gated community takes up approximately 4,450 acres on Skidaway Island and is considered among Savannah's most prestigious developments. Started in 1972, the Landings is currently home to 6,500 residents from 45 states and 15 foreign countries. Since debuting more than 30 years ago, four phases have been built at the Landings, providing a diversity of architectural styles in a variety of prices ranging from the high $200s-plus to $1 million-plus.\n\nAll the homes are on nicely landscaped lots that are often filled with trees, giving the feeling that you're living in the country, not a development with thousands of homes. The Landings' other main selling points include 6 golf courses, designed by such golfing luminaries as Arnold Palmer and Tom Fazio; 34 tennis courts; 2 marinas; and a yacht club. At the Oakridge Fitness Center there is a pool, plus fitness and exercise rooms. At the Franklin Creek Activity Center, there is a pro shop, clubhouse, 25-meter pool with hydro spa, and a snack bar. Membership fees are required to use the various facilities.\n\nMany interested people purchase a lot a few years before retirement in anticipation of eventually building a home. A more recent trend for a community made up so heavily of out-of-state retirees is the interest of affluent families already living in the area. All development at the Landings is closely monitored and must be approved by the Architectural Review Board. A number of restrictive covenants apply.\n\ni There are dozens of neighborhood associations in Savannah. To find out information about a neighborhood group you are interested in, call the city of Savannah's Community Services Department at (912) 651-6520.\n\n**West Chatham**\n\n**_Southbridge_.** Southbridge is a 1,100-acre planned community 8 miles west of the Historic District. Developed by Hall Development of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, it is the first community of its size to open in West Chatham.\n\nMore than 500 families, including a mix of retired residents, young families, and professionals, have moved to Southbridge since its opening in 1987. As its literature explains, Southbridge is \"a residential golf community blending Southern tradition with the amenities of a country club.\" Traditional Southern architecture is the development's hallmark. Drive around the neatly landscaped neighborhoods and you will see classic Georgian- and Federal-style wooden, brick, and stucco homes nestled among trees or along fairways on the golf course. Think comparable to the Landings' mid-range properties, minus the staffed gate. One of the latest additions to the development is Steeple Run, offering three-bedroom town houses of roughly 2,000 square feet.\n\nGolf architect Rees Jones designed Southbridge's 18-hole course, which is rated one of Georgia's 25 best courses by _Golfweek_ magazine. The semiprivate Southbridge Golf Club includes a 6,000-square-foot clubhouse with a pro shop, dining room, and lounge. Besides golf, there is the Southbridge Racquet and Swim Club, featuring 12 clay tennis courts, 2 hard courts, a swimming pool, and spa. Membership dues are required to use these facilities.\n\n**_Godley Station_.** In the spring of 1999, construction began on the first homes in this planned unit, mixed-use development. It turned into an almost \"instant community,\" with a growing population and adjacent \"big-box\" retail all well established by 2001. Today it's an example of geometric growth. Remember the old adage about \"retail follows rooftops\"? This massive tract is near the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport and just off I-95. As predicted, this has been the major new direction for suburban expansion in Chatham County. The neighborhoods here are heavily pitched to families and have a strong sense of traditional community. The residential section, which lies partly in Savannah and partly in the West Chatham municipality of Pooler, has protective covenants, sidewalks, and community amenities such as a pool and clubhouse.\n\n**_Westbrook_.** This new gated community in western Chatham County began home construction in mid-2001. It is part of a larger development known as Savannah Quarters. Westbrook, however, is clearly the upscale part of the new development. This community may be unique because it tore up one designer golf course and put in another. A Robert Cupp course went in first. Then, Medallist Developments assumed full ownership of the development. Golfer Greg Norman is behind Medallist, and it was decided to replace the existing two-year-old course with one of Norman's design.\n\n**_Other Westside_.** New residential development is booming around the West Chatham municipalities of Pooler and Bloomingdale. These tend to be smaller subdivisions, not the massive planned developments like those outlined earlier\u2014solid, middle-class homes for folks who are willing to drive a bit to get out of the city. Many of these include starter homes in the $150,000 range. It is here you'll find national homebuilders like Centex and D.R. Horton competing in what was previously pretty much a local-builders environment.\n\nBut don't get the idea that these municipalities began with these neighborhoods. These fiercely independent little communities have been around for years, housing the blue-collar workforce for the industries of Chatham County (which are clustered toward the west) and the remnants of the county's agricultural population. If you are looking to buy acreage, this is about your only remaining option in Chatham County, and you're probably too late.\n\n**Outside the County**\n\nSavannah has developed its own commuter culture as well, with people driving into Savannah from bedroom communities in adjacent Richmond Hill (Bryan County) to the south, and Rincon, Guyton, and Springfield to the west in neighboring Effingham County. Here, you'll find typical suburbia, with its typical advantages and disadvantages. A word of caution: Don't trust anyone's estimate of commuting time. Drive it yourself during peak morning and afternoon traffic times. Development has brought predictable rush-hour traffic problems.\n\nAlthough Savannah doesn't approach the metropolitan gridlock of larger cities during commuting hours, it still takes time to cover distance. We've heard radio ads cheerfully tout these out-of-county addresses as \"20 minutes from Savannah.\" Remember, Savannah is a big place, and perhaps whoever timed that trip was in a helicopter. Still, many families find the open spaces, near rural quiet, and a lightning bug population that hasn't succumbed to mosquito spraying to be well worth a daily drive.\n\nIt's hard to leave this topic without at least mentioning the Ford Plantation in Bryan County. This literally was the Fords' plantation, as in Henry Ford. The land has been developed into ultraluxury homes designed as second or third homes for the jet set. There's a club, spa, marina, shooting, and other outdoor sports\u2014you name it. Prices are predictably stratospheric.\n\n**Hilton Head**\n\nThey're luxuriant and they're extravagant and many are recognized by stately gated entranceways, classic fountains, and striking landscaping. These are Hilton Head's 11 planned residential communities that cover 65 percent of the island. Some communities are more private than others: A few admit only residents and their guests; others are accessible to vacationers staying at hotels and villas within the communities and to golfers playing on courses that allow public participation.\n\n**HILTON HEAD PLANTATION.** Hilton Head Plantation is the second-largest planned community on the island, covering 4,000 acres on the northern tip of Hilton Head between Port Royal Sound and Skull Creek, which is part of the Intracoastal Waterway. Within the plantation's borders are 4,400 residential lots, four 18-hole golf courses, a beach fronting on the sound, the Whooping Crane Pond and Cypress Nature Conservancies, the Seabrook Farm garden plots, and tennis courts and swimming pools.\n\nOn the Skull Creek side of the plantation are Skull Creek Marina, a deepwater facility with 180 boat slips, the Old Fort Pub restaurant, and Fort Mitchel, a historic site that was a Union gun battery during the Civil War.\n\n**INDIGO RUN.** Most of the homesites at this 1,775-acre development on the northern portion of Hilton Head Island border one of two 18-hole golf courses: the Golf Club at Indigo Run, a members-only layout designed by Jack Nicklaus and his son, Jack Nicklaus II, and opened in 1996; and the Golden Bear Golf Club, which was designed by Nicklaus's company and can be played by the public (see listing in the Hilton Head chapter). All property owners at Indigo Run are entitled to join Golden Bear, and membership includes access to Sunningdale Park, which has six tennis courts, an Olympic-size pool, a kiddie pool, and a large playground for children. Membership in the golf club is open to owners of homesites and homes in Indigo Run.\n\n**LONG COVE CLUB.** Established in the early 1980s, Long Cove Club on Hilton Head Island has been recognized as a friendly private community. Small by design, the natural beauty and casual elegance are a true reflection of this community's relaxed and unpretentious Lowcountry lifestyle. There's a championship tennis facility, state-of-the-art marina (with direct access to the Atlantic Ocean and the Intracoastal Waterway), a spacious dog park, community pool and complex, and a nationally acclaimed golf course designed by Pete Dye.\n\n**PALMETTO HALL PLANTATION.** Palmetto Hall is a strictly residential, golf-oriented community covering 775 acres in the northern portion of the island. Most of the 500 homesites border the fairways of the plantation's two 18-hole golf courses\u2014the Arthur Hills and Robert Cupp Courses\u2014both of which are open to the public. Started by Greenwood Development Corporation in 1991, Palmetto Hall is now a part of the Heritage Group and offers its residents a 14,000-square-foot clubhouse and an activities center with pools, tennis courts, and a children's playground. Palmetto Hall Plantation is one of the few plantations allowing its 550 members to own private carts for transportation.\n\nThe homes here, all of them single-family residences, reflect the style of the Lowcountry with their verandas, dormers, and colorful shutters.\n\n**PORT ROYAL PLANTATION.** Living on the beach (or having easy access to it) is the main drawing card of this 1,000-acre community in the northeastern corner of the island. There are 2.5 miles of beach stretching along the plantation on the east and southeast\u20141.5 miles on the Atlantic Ocean and the rest on Port Royal Sound. The eastern side is the site of the actual Hilton Head, the bluff where English sea captain William Hilton looked out on the sound while exploring the region; it's the spot for which the entire island was eventually named. Port Royal was one of the island's first planned communities, and the 920 homes within its gates reflect a wide variety of sizes and styles.\n\n**THE SEA PINES RESORT.** A Hilton Head architect once called Sea Pines the \"daddy rabbit\" of planned residential/resort communities. It's an apt description of the largest and oldest of the island's major developments\u2014the first community of its kind in the nation. The Sea Pines Resort covers 5,200 acres on the south end of Hilton Head and was started in 1957. It's the site of the island's first golf course, the Ocean Course, one of three courses in the community, all of which can be played by the public. Sea Pines has nearly 3,500 single-family homes. A total of 530 villas and homes are available for rent by vacationers, and the Inn at Harbour Town provides luxurious accommodations for those seeking a hotel-type setting.\n\nWithin the borders of Sea Pines are a 605-acre nature preserve, 5 miles of beach, the ruins of the Stoney-Baynard Plantation, two swimming pools, the Lawton Stables equestrian center, and a beach club that has an open-air grill, an oceanfront bar, a gift shop, live entertainment and dinner nightly in season, and picnic tables. The Sea Pines Resort offers 10,000 square feet of meeting space at the Plantation Club Conference Center, the Harbour Town Clubhouse, and the Harbour Town Conference Center.\n\n**SHIPYARD PLANTATION.** Shipyard has a mixture of single-family residences, condominiums, time-share units, and commercial developments within its 834 acres. The plantation, in the southeastern part of the island, is the site of more than 1,400 villas grouped in 22 different villa regimes. The Shipyard Golf Club consists of 27 holes on 3 courses open to the public: Brigantine, Clipper, and Galleon (see teh Hilton Head chapter). Residents and guests have other forms of recreation available, particularly tennis and the beach. The Van Der Meer Shipyard Racquet Club boasts 20 championship courts, and the eastern side of the plantation is on the Atlantic Ocean.\n\n**SPANISH WELLS.** There are some 200 single-family lots at this 350-acre community on the western portion of the island; the houses at Spanish Wells are on lots of at least 1 acre. Spanish Wells is the most secluded of the island's communities; it's at the end of Spanish Wells Road, nearly 3 miles from William Hilton Parkway. The private golf club has a nine-hole course, two tennis courts, and a swimming pool. Many of the homes at Spanish Wells are on Calibogue Sound or Broad Creek, and those on Brahms Point, a narrow finger of land at the southwestern reaches of the community, have views of both bodies of water. The community derives its name from the wells from which Spanish explorers drew fresh water while visiting Hilton Head. Also of historical note is the fact that Spanish Wells is the site of Battery Holbrook, a Civil War gun emplacement.\n\n**WEXFORD PLANTATION.** Wexford Plantation is one of the island's most glamorous private residential communities. The emphasis is on privacy at Wexford, where rentals are prohibited and admittance is open only to residents, their guests, and prospective home-buyers. This golf and yachting community covers 525 acres near the middle of the island. About a third of the homes are on the plantation's scenic 35.5-acre harbor, which winds through the center of the community and is lock controlled to keep the water calm and at a minimum of 8 feet deep. The harbor, with slips accommodating yachts up to 66 feet long, provides access to Broad Creek. Most of the other homes are on Wexford's 18-hole golf course, a layout by Willard Byrd that's reserved solely for members and their guests and was restored to its original design.\n\n**WINDMILL HARBOUR.** Designed for boating enthusiasts, Windmill Harbour covers 172 acres in the northwestern portion of Hilton Head. Unlike the island's other planned communities, Windmill Harbour has no golf course, but it does have a 15.5-acre yacht basin with 260 boat slips. The harbor, the site of the South Carolina Yacht Club, has a lock system that keeps tides and currents to a minimum; the lack of movement of water also inhibits the growth of barnacles on the bottom of boats, allowing their owners to save on maintenance costs. The harbor lies on Calibogue Sound, which is part of the Intracoastal Waterway.\n\n**Tybee Island**\n\nLike the Historic District in Savannah, Tybee has been one of the most popular places to buy real estate in the last few years. The small-town atmosphere, along with its ideal climate and proximity to Savannah, has made this island community attractive as a year-round residence for many.\n\nThis interest has led to much development and a few growing pains. After a large hotel went up on the beach, a movement was started to restrict the height of all development on Tybee to avoid a resort full of high-rises. Many residents want to keep the beach community what it is\u2014a small town by the sea.\n\nIt's difficult to identify distinct neighborhoods on Tybee. There's basically a mix of old and new all over the island. In some neighborhoods, you might find older beach houses next door to modest, one-story homes. A few doors down there could be two or three new homes or a set of two or three new town houses. Near Fort Screven or North Beach, you will find a few new housing developments that can offer large two- and sometimes three-story homes with ocean views and wraparound porches on fairly large lots. A few streets away there could be a modest home needing quite a lot of work. It's worth noting that streets often don't follow a particular pattern on Tybee; many are dirt roads that zigzag, and in some cases just stop.\n\nTybee's older beach homes are usually found along Butler Avenue, the city's main thoroughfare, which goes to the southern end of the island. Here the streets follow a grid pattern with the numbered streets increasing the closer you get to downtown. Again, in many blocks, there is a smattering of new homes followed by several older ones. During the last few years, many older homes have been torn down to make room for condos, townhomes, and the like.\n\nRegardless of the area or price range you are considering, there are hundreds of local Realtors ready to help you with your real estate needs.\n\nYou might want to touch base with the Savannah Area Board of Realtors (912-354-1513; sav.interealty.com). They won't recommend one member over another, of course, but they can provide information about a member's credentials.\n\ni Wonder why the new homes here (and some of the older ones) are built so high off the ground? It leaves ample room for an open parking area under the house, but the real reason is the building codes that require lifting the finished floor out of the reach of floods.\n\n**Apartments**\n\nDue to the highly competitive apartment market in Savannah, many of the franchise complexes reflect updated and contemporary settings with incentives like reduced rent to bring in new residents. Many will be found on the Islands and Southside/Midtown. They are clustered in the Islands area because of the local reputation of the schools there (and usually are priced higher there), and on the Southside, in large part, because that is where off-base housing for Hunter Army Airfield tends to concentrate, close to base. The complexes are listed in several free publications offered in racks at area grocery stores.\n\nThe Historic District also has a healthy market. Many residents have converted part of their private homes into apartments, and there are also a few apartment buildings to choose from. With the influx of students wanting to live downtown, finding an apartment in this area has become more of a challenge. One of the best ways to find apartments in the Historic District is to check in the _Savannah Morning News_. However, many owners don't bother advertising and simply post a \"For Rent\" sign on their apartment\u2014a walk or drive around town is a good way to get leads.\n\nYou will also find houses for rent in several areas of Savannah, including Southside, Midtown, and the Islands. As the real estate slowdown has made it harder for relocating homeowners to sell their properties, they are putting them into use as rentals. The homes vary from area to area and can include everything from older bungalows to new homes in gated developments. Like apartment rentals, many of the owners simply post a \"For Rent\" sign or advertise in a local newspaper. Some list their homes with local Realtors.\n\n## EDUCATION & CHILD CARE\n\nSavannah and Chatham County offer a wide spectrum of educational opportunities, from excellent public schools to satellite branches of many out-of-state schools and a top-rated technical school. In addition to the forward-looking public school system, there are a variety of private high schools, a technical school, two state universities, and one of the largest art schools in the US.\n\nPUBLIC SCHOOLS\n\n**SAVANNAH-CHATHAM COUNTY PUBLIC SCHOOLS,** 208 Bull St.; (912) 201-5600; savannah.chatham.k12.ga.us. One of the most attractive incentives in relocating to the state of Georgia and hence, Savannah, is the Hope Scholarship and Grant Program, one of the state's most successful education initiatives. Launched in 1993, the Georgia lottery program resulted in free college education for thousands of Georgia students, a voluntary prekindergarten program for four-year-olds, and new capital construction outlays that result in updated and contemporary new facilities, technical institutes, colleges, and universities. The Savannah-Chatham school system serves more than 34,000 students in prekindergarten through 12th grade. A special purpose local option sales tax has fueled a building and renovation boom in the school system, which offers elementary, middle, pre-K through eighth, high school, and alternative programs. Count in that number charter schools and schools with special focuses and missions. All area schools are accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools.\n\nTwo unique features of the local system are the Massie Heritage Interpretation Center and the Oatland Island Education Center (see our Attractions chapter). Massie, which is at 207 E. Gordon St., is the oldest standing school in Georgia (see the Close-up in this chapter). The school does not hold regular classes, but programs on the history of Georgia are offered. Teachers arrange for their classes to attend programs at Massie. Oatland, at 711 Sandtown Rd., covers 75 acres, and its 1.75-mile Discovery Trail takes visitors through woodlands, past marshes, and to specially constructed habitats of endangered and protected animals of the state\u2014wolves, bison, panthers, and birds of prey among them. There's a re-creation of a colonial settlement and a barnyard where youngsters can get a feel for life on the farm, past and present. The Oatland staff holds several special events throughout the year.\n\nPRIVATE SCHOOLS\n\nSavannah's private high schools provide teenagers and their parents with alternatives to what's offered by the public school system. Many of the private schools are church-related, and most are focused on preparing their students for college.\n\n**BENEDICTINE MILITARY SCHOOL,** 6502 Seawright Dr.; (912) 644-7000; bcsav.net. This Catholic high school for boys dates back to 1902, when it was founded on Bull and 32nd streets as Benedictine College. Having sons become \"BC boys\" is a prestigious tradition in many Savannah families, a circumstance that has led this military school for 9th through 12th graders to have an extremely faithful and active group of alumni. Sixty percent of those who attend the school are Catholic, but the remainder of the student body is as diverse as the faculty, which is composed of Benedictine priests and monks, laymen and laywomen, and military retirees. Enrollment is about 400.\n\n  **Close-up**\n\nMassie School\n\nSupporters of Massie School, the oldest operating public school in Georgia, celebrated the facility's 150th birthday in 2006. A public school from 1856 to 1974, Massie continues to serve as a focal point of education in its role as the Massie Heritage Center, a museum for teaching Savannah's history to students and adults. Housed in three Greek Revival-style buildings on Calhoun Square, Massie offers visitors a look at a 19th-century classroom and exhibits involving the history of the school, Savannah's city plan, the preservation of the city, its architectural treasures, American Indians in coastal Georgia, and the legacy of Savannahian W. W. Law, who was a civil rights leader, historian, and preservationist.\n\nMassie began its long life as Massie Common School House in a single building designed by architect John S. Norris, who drew the plans for many of Savannah's important structures. A western annex was added in 1872, and the eastern annex was built 14 years later. The school was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1977, the year it began serving as an education and resource center under the aegis of the Savannah-Chatham County Public Schools.\n\nFrom its location at 207 E. Gordon St., the center purports to offer local residents and visitors alike \"the best orientation to Savannah's built environment.\" A highlight of this experience is a visit to the City Plan Room, which holds the only three-dimensional model of the city's Historic District. It's a huge layout that affords a bird's-eye view of the downtown. The room also contains maps and photographs describing the development and preservation of the city plan set forth in the 1700s by Savannah's founder, James Edward Oglethorpe. There's more to be learned about Savannah's buildings and efforts to preserve them via exhibits involving the city's classical architecture and the beginnings of the preservation movement\u2014displays that make use of photos and artifacts.\n\nMassie is open Mon through Sat 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. Admission starts at $7 for adults. Visit the website at massieschool.com.\n\nBenedictine is a college-prep school, and 95 percent of graduates attend college. The school is housed in large, contemporary-style buildings on 100 acres in the Southside. Junior ROTC classes are mandatory only for freshmen and sophomores and optional for juniors and seniors.\n\n**BIBLE BAPTIST SCHOOL,** 4700 Skidaway Rd.; (912) 352-3067; bbsav.org. The administration and faculty of Bible Baptist seek to educate the whole child while emphasizing the spiritual side of students' development. The Bible is taught in every class of this traditional Christian school, which has an enrollment of 380 students in prekindergarten through high school. The coed, college-prep school is a mission of Bible Baptist Church, and it's located on a 19-acre church-school complex that includes a football stadium, a lighted baseball field, and a gymnasium with two full basketball courts. Although the school is open to students of all faiths, the teaching of Christian values is stressed.\n\nThe school is a member of the Georgia Christian Athletic Association and Georgia Association of Christian Schools.\n\n**CALVARY DAY SCHOOL,** 4625 Waters Ave.; (912) 351-2299; calvarydayschool.com. This coed school in Savannah's Midtown is a ministry of Calvary in Savannah and open to students of all faiths and creeds. The school and church occupy 22 acres at Waters Avenue and 63rd Street. Calvary, now provides Christian-based education to more than 900 students in prekindergarten through 12th grade.\n\nAccording to school officials, academics are blended with a strong program of athletics and other activities to help students evolve into well-rounded citizens. The curriculum is college prep.\n\nThe school has its own football stadium and track, a complex named M. C. Anderson Field. Cavalry offers before- and after-school programs for students prekindergarten through sixth grades.\n\ni Thinking about homeschooling your child? You must first register with the state. You can find support for your homeschooling efforts in Savannah by meeting with members of Family Education for Christ (fefonline.com), which can be reached by calling (912) 355-2722. This group schedules special activities for homeschooled students. Another organization, the Kingdom Builders Co-op (kingdombuilderscoop.com), offers small classes for home-schoolers in a variety of subjects.\n\n**MEMORIAL DAY SCHOOL,** 6500 Habersham St.; (912) 352-4535; memorialdayschool.com. Established in 1971 by a Baptist congregation, this college preparatory school focuses on equipping each of its students for the diverse challenges and opportunities of higher education and for responsible citizenship. With a fully degreed faculty and a schoolwide pupil-teacher ratio of 12 to 1, Memorial provides more than 300 students with wireless laptop computer technology, software, and a variety of current media resources. Before- and after-school programs include remedial and enrichment activities for students through the age of 10, and there's a fully licensed day-care program for children 6 weeks to 4 years old. The school offers extracurricular activities that encourage participation in academic competitive events and athletic programs.\n\n**ST. ANDREW'S SCHOOL,** 601 Penn Waller Rd.; (912) 897-4941; saintschool.com. St. Andrew's includes classes for prekindergarten through high school. About 500 students are enrolled at the coed, nonsectarian, college-prep school, which is on 28 tree-filled acres on Wilmington Island.\n\nVirtually all graduates attend college. A series of seminars, multiple counseling sessions, and school-arranged tours of various colleges assist students in making their postsecondary decisions. Limited need-based financial aid is available for qualifying families. St. Andrew's offers a broad range of extracurricular activities, including participation in athletics, with St. Andrew's competing on the varsity level in the South Carolina Independent School Association because of its proximity to similar-size schools in the Palmetto State. The school's fine-arts programs are extensive.\n\n**ST. VINCENT'S ACADEMY,** 207 E. Liberty St.; (912) 236-5508; svaga.net. St. Vincent's\u2014a Catholic, college preparatory school for girls\u2014has been owned by the Sisters of Mercy since 1845 and is the only private high school in the Historic District. The three main buildings of the school cover a city block on the south side of Liberty Street between Abercorn and Lincoln Streets, and St. Vincent's also includes the Walsh Hall gymnasium on Harris Street and the Peg F. Dressel Library at Liberty and Lincoln. Although the Sisters of Mercy still operate the school, the majority of the faculty consists of professional lay teachers.\n\nSt. Vincent's teaches grades 9 through 12. About two-thirds of the school's 350 students are Catholic, but St. Vincent's is open to all young women regardless of creed, race, or socioeconomic status. There is a long tradition of graduates sending their daughters and granddaughters to their alma mater, up to the fourth and fifth generations. St. Vincent's offers an extensive program in visual arts, and the school's chorus is known throughout Savannah. St. Vincent's competes in eight varsity sports: volleyball, softball, basketball, tennis, track, soccer, riflery, and swimming.\n\n**SAVANNAH CHRISTIAN PREPARATORY SCHOOL,** 1599 Chatham Pkwy.; (912) 234-1653; savcps.com. Savannah Christian is an independent, nondenominational Christian school for students in prekindergarten through 12th grade. The school's staff says its college prep curriculum produces a college placement rate of 100 percent.\n\nSavannah Christian maintains two campuses. The 254-acre Chatham Parkway campus hosts nearly 1,000 lower- and upper-school students and 160 day-care/preschool students. Facilities include 13 buildings with classrooms, labs, media centers, a gym, and a cafeteria; an outdoor pool; a track; five athletic fields; three playgrounds; and E.D.E.N. (Ecological Diversity for Educational Networking), a 125-acre outdoor learning center. A 14-acre campus on eastern DeRenne Avenue is home to more than 500 lower- and middle-school students, and facilities there include four buildings with classrooms, labs, media centers, a cafeteria, and two gyms.\n\n**Chatham Academy**\n\nChatham Academy, a private school for students in grades 1 through 12, offers a full-day program of instruction for children with specific learning disabilities and attention deficit disorders. The school, located at Royce Learning Center at 4 Oglethorpe Professional Blvd., serves children of at least average intelligence who have been unable to function successfully in a traditional classroom. Chatham Academy provides a low student-teacher ratio and addresses the academic, social, and emotional needs of its students in classes grouped according to age and academic functioning level. You can contact the school by calling (912) 354-4047.\n\n**SAVANNAH COUNTRY DAY SCHOOL,** 824 Stillwood Dr.; (912) 925-8800; savcds.org. Savannah Country Day School is the most expensive of the county's private schools and has an exclusively college prep emphasis that begins well before the high school years. It offers preschool, lower, middle, and high school. Offerings at the high school level include an extensive Advanced Placement curriculum. A broad range of athletics and extracurricular activities is offered, with the middle and upper schools fielding more than 40 sports teams. The school has 2 libraries with more than 25,000 volumes and 85 online services, 4 computer labs with 350 networked computers, 4 music and art studios, a fine-arts center, 3 gymnasiums, and a football stadium.\n\nThe Country Day campus is on 65 wooded acres tucked away in the Windsor Forest subdivision on the Southside\n\nTECHNICAL SCHOOLS\n\n**SAVANNAH TECHNICAL COLLEGE,** 5717 White Bluff Rd.; (912) 443-5700; savannahtech.edu. Savannah Tech offers credit, noncredit, and specialized industry services and training. Credit offerings include technical certificates of credit, diploma programs, and associate's degree programs in allied health, business, and industrial technology. Articulated classes transfer to other Georgia public colleges and universities. The school has more than 50 different credit programs, ranging from one-quarter programs in areas such as automotive technology and surgical technology to marketing and computer information systems. Some 4,000 students attend Savannah Tech.\n\nThe school serves four counties\u2014Chatham, Bryan, Effingham, and Liberty. With the opening of the Army Education Center on Fort Stewart, the college has a presence on-post to serve military families with the necessary skills and education. The Liberty Campus continues to serve the educational needs of the community with programs in nursing, early childhood education, computers, and technology. The Crossroads Technology Campus in West Chatham, a key element in the development of a high-tech corridor along I-95, is a catalyst for regional business development.\n\nCOLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIES\n\n**ARMSTRONG STATE UNIVERSITY,** 11935 Abercorn St.; (912) 927-5277, (800) 633-2349; armstrong.edu. Armstrong provides more than 75 academic programs through its College of Arts and Sciences, College of Education, College of Health Professions, School of Computing, and School of Graduate Studies. The university's teacher education program has gained state and national recognition, and its economics, computer science, and chemistry programs are also particularly strong. The College of Health Professions is the regional health-professions education center for southeast Georgia. Among master's degrees are those offered in history, criminal justice, liberal and professional studies, nursing, education, public health, sports medicine, and physical therapy. Armstrong has an abundance of online, evening, and weekend classes.\n\nMore than 7,000 students, including 810 graduate students, attend the school. They are taught by almost 500 professors. Dormitories are available. The school is situated in the Southside on 268 acres in an arboretum setting.\n\nThe school fields NCAA Division II teams in men's basketball, baseball, tennis, and golf and in women's basketball, fast-pitch softball, volleyball, soccer, golf, and tennis.\n\n**SAVANNAH COLLEGE OF ART AND DESIGN (SCAD),** 342 Bull St.; (912) 525-5100, (800) 869-7223; scad.edu. The Savannah College of Art and Design has grown tremendously since its founding in 1979 with one building and 71 students. Today SCAD is the largest art school in the country with its enrollment of more than 7,000 students. The college has almost 60 buildings (and seemingly constantly buying more) spread throughout the Historic and Victorian Districts, many of them of historic significance and beautifully renovated by the school.\n\n**Professional Schools**\n\nSavannah is home to a four-year medical school, Mercer University's School of Medicine, Savannah campus, with an enrollment of 160 students expected to expand to 240 within a few years. The medical school occupies quarters on the campus of Memorial University Medical Center (MUMC). MUMC also offers graduate medical education with residency programs in surgery, radiology, family medicine, internal medicine, OB/GYN, and pharmacy. Third- and fourth-year students from the GRU's Medical College of Georgia in Augusta also rotate through the facilities at St. Joseph's/Candler.\n\nSavannah Law School opened in 2012 as a branch of Atlanta's John Marshall Law School. It anticipates graduating its first class in the spring of 2015. The school has gained the American Bar Association's recognition as an approved branch of the fully approved John Marshall Law School.\n\nThe college offers bachelor's degrees in fine and performing arts and master's degrees in arts, urban design, fine arts, and architecture. Among its 30-plus fields of study are historic preservation, interior design, screenwriting, painting, photography, furniture design, and production design. Programs involving computer art and graphic design attract scads of students. Although founded and headquartered in Savannah, SCAD also has campus facilities in Atlanta, France, and Hong Kong.\n\n**SAVANNAH STATE UNIVERSITY,** 3219 College St., Thunderbolt; (912) 356-2186; savannahstate.edu. Savannah State University is the oldest public historically African-American university in Georgia. The university enrolled 4,915 students in its fall semester in 2014. Those students were pursuing bachelor's or master's degrees in the university's three colleges (Sciences and Technology, Business Administration, and Liberal Arts and Social Sciences) and its newest entity, the School for Teacher Education. SSU's waterfront location makes it an ideal site for its marine sciences program, complete with its own research vessel. Situated on some 200 acres of prime marshfront property by the small municipality of Thunderbolt (between Savannah and the beach at Tybee Island), the campus is a mix of historic and modern structures.\n\nSavannah State has a full-scale athletic program and competes intercollegiately in football, baseball, men's and women's track and field, men's and women's basketball, and women's tennis, volleyball, and cross-country.\n\n**SOUTH UNIVERSITY,** 709 Mall Blvd.; (912) 691-6000; southuniversity.edu. South University has grown from its humble beginnings as a two-year business college into a four-year institution offering degrees ranging from associate and bachelor's to master's and doctorates. Through its School of Business, School of Health Professions, School of Pharmacy, and a diverse offering of online programs, students can now pursue a wide variety of majors in the classroom, online, or through a combination of both.\n\nThe school dates from 1899, when it was founded as a practical business college. The university was formerly located in downtown Savannah but moved to its current location on Mall Boulevard to accommodate the significant growth in students. Today, the campus covers more than 10 acres and features complete wireless computer access, student lounges, state-of-the-art classrooms and labs, and a 47-foot-high clock and bell tower that marks the center of campus.\n\n**The Hope Scholarship Program**\n\nThere's Hope for Georgia residents entering their first year at the state's colleges and universities. The Hope Scholarship pays tuition, some fees, and a textbook stipend to students attending a state school who have earned a B average in high school. B students attending eligible private colleges in Georgia can receive Hope tuition grants, too. Funding formulas can be complex, so learn more at gacollege411.org. Students can renew these scholarships in their sophomore, junior, and senior years by maintaining a 3.0 grade-point average. Hope is funded by the Georgia Lottery for Education. For more information on the Hope program, call (800) 546-HOPE.\n\nCHILD CARE\n\nThe state of Georgia regulates the businesses of people who provide care for more than two children at a time. To comply with state law, a person who provides care for up to six children in his or her home\u2014officially called a family day-care home\u2014must be registered with Bright from the Start: Georgia Department of Early Care and Learning.\n\nPersons operating businesses caring for more than six children must obtain licenses. Such businesses fall within two categories: group day-care homes, which provide supervision and care for 7 to 18 children either in a home or another location, and day-care centers, which provide care and supervision for 19 or more children. To be certified or licensed, the operator of a child-care business must be at least 21 years old, have a high school or general equivalency diploma, and pass criminal background and fingerprinting checks. They must have completed training in first aid and in infant and child cardiopulmonary resuscitation, and they must annually undergo 10 hours of continuing education in health and safety and child development.\n\nWhen you're shopping for child care, make sure the provider you're dealing with is registered with or licensed by the state. Take a good look at the facility you're visiting: Ascertain that the inspection data on the fire extinguisher is current, that the smoke alarm and telephone operate properly, and that rooms are in good repair, well lit, and spacious. Check to see if instructions involving fire drills and other emergency procedures are posted. Ask about the program offered\u2014it should provide age-appropriate toys and activities that encourage children to use their five senses.\n\n## HEALTH CARE\n\nAccording to historians Preston Russell and Barbara Hines, the city's \"first civic hero\" was a physician, Dr. Samuel Nunes Ribeiro, who was among a boatload of Portuguese Jews who came to the town about five months after Savannah was settled. Georgia's founder, James Oglethorpe, credited Nunez, as he became known, with saving the colonists from the fevers that had killed several of them, including the only other doctor, William Cox.\n\nThe city was the site of Georgia's first hospital, a facility incorporated in 1808, and since the mid-1950s, Savannah has been served by three large hospitals, two of which merged into a single health-care system in the spring of 1997. The other hospital, Memorial University Medical Center, is the regional tertiary medical center, a circumstance that draws many medical specialists to the area.\n\nHOSPITALS\n\n**MEMORIAL UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER,** 4700 Waters Ave.; (912) 350-8000; memorialhealth.com. This 654-bed academic medical center provides the region's only Level 1 trauma center and its only Love 3 neonatal intensive care nursery, the highest level of care available for the sickest and smallest newborns. It is home for The Children's Hospital, the Curtis and Elizabeth Anderson Cancer Institute, a newly expanded Heart & Vascular Institute, and an array of facilities to cover women's and obstetrics services, orthopedics, behavioral medicine, bariatrics, and general surgery and medical services. Memorial operates multiple graduate medical education programs and serves as the Savannah campus for Mercer University's School of Medicine.\n\nMemorial opened in 1955 as a 300-bed general hospital. As a regional referral center, it now ranks in size among the top 5 percent of hospitals in the US.\n\n**St. Joseph's/Candler Health System**\n\nThis faith-based (Catholic) health-care system was created in April 1997 as the result of the merger of Savannah's two oldest hospitals, St. Joseph's on the Southside and Candler in Midtown. Both facilities are general hospitals with a wide array of services, including emergency departments, but the health system divides the major specialties between the two campuses.\n\n**ST. JOSEPH'S HOSPITAL,** 11705 Mercy Blvd.; (912) 819-4100; sjchs.org. This 330-bed hospital underwent a massive face-lift and renovation in 2014. This general acutecare hospital specializes in orthopedics, cardiovascular disease, and neurology. It dates from 1875 when the Sisters of Mercy of the Roman Catholic Church took over operation of the Forest City Marine Hospital, a facility in downtown Savannah that specialized in the treatment of sick seamen. A year later the operation was moved to more spacious facilities at Taylor and Habersham Streets and was renamed St. Joseph's Infirmary. It was named St. Joseph's Hospital in 1901 and expanded several times before a new facility was built on the Southside in 1970.\n\n**CANDLER HOSPITAL,** 5353 Reynolds St.; (912) 692-6000; sjchs.org. The parent health system bases its women's and children's services, oncology, digestive, and pulmonary services at this 384-bed hospital. The Nancy N. and J.C. Lewis Cancer and Research Pavilion, St. Joseph's/Candler's oncology center, is adjacent to Candler's campus.\n\nOne of the longest continually operating hospitals in the US and the first in Georgia, Candler was founded in 1805 and chartered in 1808 as the Savannah Poor House and Hospital. It picked up the Candler name in honor of Warren A. Candler, a Methodist bishop, and went through a variety of other name changes over its history. Along the way, it absorbed the Telfair Hospital, retaining the Telfair name for its women's services and obstetrics unit.\n\nWALK-IN CLINICS\n\nSavannah has had a growth spurt of immediate care or urgent care facilities where you can get medical treatment for accidents and illnesses which need to be addressed but are short of life-and limb-threatening emergencies. You can also get many routine services, like immunizations and sports physicals, at these businesses. What follows is a partial list. Because the hours change as often as quarterly at these businesses, the list is addresses and phone numbers only. These facilities are in addition to the emergency rooms at the three local hospitals.\n\n**IMMEDIATE MED,** 10410 Abercorn St.; (912) 927-6832\n\n**MEMORIAL HEALTH/APPLECARE URGENT CARE,** Savannah Mall, 14089 Abercorn Street; (912) 350-2121\n\n**MEMORIAL HEALTH URGENT CARE,** Pooler, 110 Medical Park; (912) 748-1515\n\n**SOUTHCOAST WEEKEND CARE CENTER,** 1326 Eisenhower Dr., Bldg. 1; (912) 354-5543\n\n**SOUTHERN URGENT CARE** (two locations), 4714 US 80 East, Ste. H-1, (912) 898-2227, and 10 Whitaker St., (912) 401-0682\n\n**ST. JOSEPH'S/CANDLER IMMEDIATE CARE** (three Chatham County locations, plus outlying counties), 361 Commercial Dr. (at Eisenhower Drive), (912) 355-6221; 4704 August Rd., Garden City, (912) 966-2366; and 107 Canal Street, Pooler, (912) 450-1945\n\nCOMPLEMENTARY MEDICINE\n\nAlthough it's nowhere near a hotbed of complementary medicine, Savannah shows signs of beginning to catch on to this style of healing. More than two decades ago, at least one physician in town was practicing nutritional medicine, but an awareness of and growth in complementary medicine took shape in the 1990s. Now there are a handful of full-fledged acupuncturists available and several medical doctors learning acupuncture techniques. You can avail yourself of the services of a slew of chiropractors, and there are also practitioners of herbal medicine, massage therapy, aromatherapy, and shiatsu (Japanese pressure-point massage).\n\nIf you're looking for practitioners of complementary medicine, a good place to start is the Brighter Day (1102 Bull St.; 912-236-4703) natural foods and organic produce store at Bull and Park Streets. Owners Peter and Janie Brodhead don't make recommendations pertaining to practitioners, but they do maintain a \"community bulletin board\" that might steer you in the right direction.\n\n## RETIREMENT\n\nSavannah's a retiree's dream place to settle. Recreational opportunities for the active retiree abound, from the opportunity to play golf virtually year-round on a variety of courses to boating and sailing around the abundant islands that feed into the city, which are attractive, plentiful, and challenging enough to have landed the city Olympic venue status. Social opportunities are plentiful also, with a variety of organizations tailoring their offerings strictly to older members. Those who are eager to explore new educational horizons have the resources of area universities and their related programs.\n\nServices for the changing needs of an elderly population are in place in Savannah, and they are growing in scope as the demand increases. Health-care options are first class, and there are two cancer centers in the middle of the city. If you have family members who are likely to need assistance with household chores or daily supervision because of Alzheimer's disease, programs are available to help both them and you. Expanded transportation, meal, and utility programs have been established to serve the elderly who need additional help.\n\nSENIOR HOUSING OPTIONS\n\nSavannah, like almost any other American city, has its full complement of nursing homes. As baby boomers and their parents age, however, the trend across the country includes residential options that provide a degree of support while stopping well short of the custodial/medical role of the classic nursing home. Some may be apartment complexes catering to older residents, while others offer a full \"continuum of care\" program where residents live independently in a complex's houses or apartments and, as their needs increase, move on to the complex's assisted-living quarters or on-site nursing home (usually marketed under more attractive terms, such as \"skilled-nursing facility\"). The personal-care home, which closely approaches the nursing home, is another in this new breed of senior housing options.\n\nThe broader spectrum of options began cropping up in Savannah about 20 years ago. This has been a real growth industry in the past few years here, but only recently did the upper end of the range\u2014a full-scale continuing-care retirement community (CCRC) complete with capital investment requirements\u2014launch here.\n\nThese types of housing options tend to fall at the extremes of the income range, with provisions for the lowest-income seniors in public-housing high-rises on one end and luxurious private quarters with amenities and prices to match on the other, with not much middle ground.\n\nFor the purposes of this book, we selected a few of the more luxurious and pricey options for further discussion: one because it is the newest and plushest of the lot, reflecting a concept familiar to people relocating here from larger population centers; another because it pioneered such options here and has proven to be a popular choice for middle-class and higher incomes; and one because it provides more affordable options while maintaining lots of amenities and resident choices.\n\n**MAGNOLIA MANOR ON THE COAST,** 141 Timber Trail, Richmond Hill; (912) 756-4300; magnoliamanor.com. This apartment complex for seniors emphasizes independence. There are 120 apartments in the three-story complex, which opened in 1990. The dining room provides a midday meal that is designed to be the major meal of the day. Amenities include a full schedule of classes and activities, and the property includes a lakeside walking trail and other fitness options. A limited number of assisted-living units are available. It is affiliated with the Methodist church and offers a chapel and variety of spiritual activities, but it is nondenominational and sets no religious requirements for eligibility. (Richmond Hill is a bedroom community just outside Savannah's Chatham County.)\n\n**THE MARSHES OF SKIDAWAY,** 50 Diamond Causeway; (912) 598-5030, (800) 889-6238; marshesofskidaway.com. This CCRC shares a socioeconomic rung with the Landings, Chatham County's first gated, golf course\u2013oriented community, although there is no formal connection beyond the fact that the two developments are neighbors on Skidaway Island. Residents buy a residential agreement in various designs of freestanding homes, duplexes, or apartments. When residents die or relocate, the bulk of the investment (given certain conditions) is returned to the resident or estate. The facility offers assisted-living options and a nursing home. A set monthly fee buys residents a broad array of amenities, including dining privileges in one of four dining rooms, maintenance, utilities, spa and pool access, scheduled activities, and more.\n\ni Savannah's movie theaters offer discount ticket prices to senior citizens.\n\n**SAVANNAH SQUARE RETIREMENT COMMUNITY,** 1 Savannah Square Dr.; (912) 927-7550; savannahsquare.net. This facility began offering independent-living, assisted-living, and skilled-nursing housing options in 1990. Amenities include communal dining, transportation, security, a library, a variety of community spaces, and other services. The facility covers a total of 15 acres and, between its apartments and cottages, incorporates 200 housing units.\n\n**SUMMER BREEZE,** 351 Wilmington Island Rd.; (912) 228-4473; kapdev.com. This assisted living home offers private cottages and spacious studio-type housing for senior citizens, with an on-site beauty salon, transportation to medical visits and shopping, a full cafeteria with first-class meals, and a setting that is on the skirts of one of Savannah's most picturesque country clubs.\n\nSENIOR SERVICES\n\n**RETIREMENT SERVICES OFFICE THIRD INFANTRY DIVISION (MECH.),** 368 Hase Rd.; Fort Stewart; (912) 767-3326. We've found that military retirees are well versed on the benefits they carry into retirement. They probably don't need a reminder that they retain shopping privileges at post exchanges and commissaries, and that there are active posts in Savannah for all the various military organizations. But those moving into or passing through the area might be pleased to know the extent of services available in the region, thanks to the major military presence here.\n\n**Golden Age & Other Senior Centers**\n\nGolden Age Centers and Community Centers are daily gathering places that provide active senior citizens with an opportunity to participate in classes and other events. Lunches are served. The centers operated by the city of Savannah are known as Golden Age Centers. Senior Citizens, Inc. operates three additional centers in arrangements with the municipalities of Garden City, Port Wentworth, and Thunderbolt. Pooler has its own center. All offer very similar programs.\n\nThe following is an alphabetical listing of the **Golden Age Centers** (all of them are area code 912): **Cunningham Center,** 121 E. 36th St. (651-6779); **Cuyler Center,** 812 W. 36th St. (651-6780); **Frazier Center,** 805 May St. (233-4796); **Grant Center,** 1310 Richard St. (651-6785); **Savannah Gardens Center,** 2500 Elgin St. (651-6775); **Stillwell Towers Center,** 5100 Waters Ave. (351-3855); **Stubbs Towers Center,** 1301 Bee Rd. (651-6776); **Wimberly Center,** 121 W. 37th St. (651-6778); and **Windsor Forest Center,** 303 Briarcliff Circle (921-2104).\n\nThe three nearby community centers operated by **Senior Citizens, Inc.** include the **Garden City Center,** 100 Main St., Garden City (966-7791); the **Port Wentworth Center,** 100 Aberfeldy St., Port Wentworth (964-5411); and the **Thunderbolt Center,** 3236 Russell St., Thunderbolt (352-4846). The Pooler Center is at 100 W. Collins St., Pooler (964-5411).\n\nHunter Army Airfield in Savannah is a subinstallation of Fort Stewart, which is about 40 miles southeast of the city. Some 4,300 soldiers are assigned to Hunter, and 16,000 are based at 279,000-acre Fort Stewart, the largest military installation east of the Mississippi. With that many personnel, you've got recreation facilities, and retirees have access to the Morale, Welfare, and Recreation programs at these installations. Although it is unlikely that many retirees are interested in the concerts staged for young soldiers, they may well want to know about the golf courses, skeet shooting, movie theaters, and other activities and facilities at the two military reservations. Because it is far larger, many of these will be found at Fort Stewart in Hinesville, which is an accessible commute.\n\nOn the more serious side of things, Tuttle Army Health Clinic serves Hunter for primary and ambulatory care, and the larger, full-service Wynn Army Community Hospital is at Fort Stewart. The office listed at the head of this entry is largely concerned with such major tasks as straightening out retirement check problems or arranging veteran burials at sea, but personnel there can also provide information on other retiree services.\n\n**SENIOR CITIZENS, INC.,** 3025 Bull St.; (912) 236-0363; seniorcitizens-inc.org. Think of this nonprofit organization as a clearinghouse for senior services. Social and educational opportunities, as well as discounts provided by various merchants, are the primary benefits available to the younger segment of members. The range of services (some on a fee basis, others free or on sliding scales) runs all the way to home-delivered meals and utility assistance\u2014whatever it takes to keep even frail and very low-income seniors independent as long as possible. The Meals on Wheels program, which delivers hot meals to housebound seniors, is excellent and affordable. Call the center for more information.\n\nSenior Citizens derives much of its funding from federal grants, foundation donations, and personal bequests. It is also a participating member in the United Way of the Coastal Empire.\n\ni The Live Oak Public Library offers records and cassettes of print items to those with vision problems and can also arrange to deliver items to homebound patrons. Call (912) 652-3600 for more information.\n\nHOSPITAL-SPONSORED CLUBS\n\nBoth of Savannah's hospital systems offer special clubs to senior citizens (defined, for these purposes, as ages 55 and up), focusing not only on health-care and wellness activities but also on education and social opportunities. Each charges a nominal annual fee (currently $15).\n\n**GENERATIONONE,** 1100 Eisenhower Dr.; (912) 350-7587. This club, sponsored by Memorial University Medical Center, offers health fairs and screenings, a member discount program, and visits to members hospitalized at Memorial. Classes in such areas as arts and crafts, line dancing, and bridge are scheduled, along with Senior Net computer classes and Internet access. Seminars are offered on health and retirement issues, healthy aging, and driver's safety. This group also has an active ongoing arrangement with a group-tour company.\n\n**SMARTSENIOR,** No. 8 Medical Arts Center; (912) 352-4405. This program of St. Joseph's/Candler Health System provides health seminars, educational programs, medical screenings, and visits to members hospitalized at either St. Joseph's Hospital or Candler Hospital. That may sound a bit stodgy, but it isn't\u2014much of this group's activity is geared toward active retirees. There's a travel club that has gone from the Bahamas to Canada and points in between, ranging from two-week excursions to over-nighters to catch an Atlanta Braves game. Activities scheduled throughout the year include tours of local industry, arts and crafts classes, and line dance lessons, for example.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Jen Calonita - Charmed (Fairy Tale Reform School, Book 2)"}, "text": "#  \n#  \nThank you for purchasing this eBook.\n\nAt Sourcebooks we believe one thing:\n\nBOOKS CHANGE LIVES.\n\nWe would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at the latest from Jen Calonita!\n\nHappy reading!\n\nSIGN UP NOW!\nAlso by Jen Calonita\n\nFlunked\nCopyright \u00a9 2016 by Jen Calonita\n\nCover and internal design \u00a92016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.\n\nCover image by Mike Heath/Shannon Associates\n\nSourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems\u2014except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews\u2014without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.\n\nThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.\n\nPublished by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.\n\nP.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410\n\n(630) 961-3900\n\nFax: (630) 961-2168\n\nwww.sourcebooks.com\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.\n\nSource of Production: Worzalla, Stevens Point, Wisconsin, USA\n\nDate of Production: January 2016\n\nRun Number: 5005562\n\n# Contents\n\nFront Cover\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\nChapter 12\n\nChapter 13\n\nChapter 14\n\nChapter 15\n\nChapter 16\n\nChapter 17\n\nChapter 18\n\nChapter 19\n\nWho's Who in Enchantasia\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nA Sneak Peek at Tricked\n\nAbout the Author\n\nBack Cover\nFor Elpida Argenziano, the strongest, bravest princess I know.\nSometimes it's good to be bad.\n\n# Official Decree of the Enchantasia Dwarf Police Squad*\n\nWANTED\n\nAlva the Wicked Fairy\n\nReward for the capture of Alva, better known as Sleeping Beauty's dreamcaster\n\nAlva was last seen fleeing Fairy Tale Reform School. The fairy's dark magic makes her dangerous in any form. (She can transform herself into a fire-breathing dragon and an old hag.) Alva is rumored to be recruiting an army to help her take over the kingdom of Enchantasia. You can make sure this does not happen! If you hear of her whereabouts, alert the Dwarf Police Squad immediately.\n\nREWARD: 10,000 gold pieces\n\n*This message approved by the Royal Court\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nWhere Is the Thorn in Sleeping Beauty's Side Hiding?\n\nby Coco Collette\n\nIt's hard to believe that it's been two months since Princess Rose, our favorite sleeping beauty, found out that her evil fairy, Alva, is not only alive but has been plotting to take over Enchantasia. Alva reappeared at the fifth anniversary ball for Fairy Tale Reform School, the school for wicked or criminally mischievous fairy-tale students. While Alva was unsuccessful in her takeover (whew!), she was able to turn Professor Harlow villainous once more. (Guess we can start calling her the Evil Queen again.) Harlow was taken into custody and is being held in the dungeons at FTRS, but Alva escaped.\n\n\"I thought I had seen the last of that fairy, and now she's back to torture not only me, but also my beloved kingdom,\" says Princess Rose. \"I won't stop 'til Alva is brought to justice and my citizens are safe once more. We're lucky Gillian Cobbler was there to help save us.\"\n\nGillian, an FTRS student and the daughter of village shoemaker Hal Cobbler, rescued a ballroom full of students, royals, and citizens from Alva. Praise for Gillian has come from villagers and princesses alike. Neil at Combing the Sea says Team Gilly shirts are flying off his shelves. \"A comb plucked from my shop got Gilly thrown into FTRS in the first place,\" says Neil proudly.\n\nThe royals were so pleased that they gave Gilly's father his job back making glass slippers for the royal families. Ever since, orders have flooded into Hal's shop from as far away as Parrington and Captiva. \"I just ordered a pair of Hal's brand-new glass-slipper high tops,\" says Rapunzel, who plans on wearing them in an ad for her new hair-care products. \"They're comfortable yet stylish. What more could a princess ask for?\"\n\nHow about safety? Sources say Princess Rose has been unsettled by Alva's reemergence and feels the royal court has not been doing enough to find the evil fairy. The sleepy princess is said to have fled the castle in a huff and is spending time at FTRS as a mentor to the famed Royal Ladies-in-Waiting Club.\n\nKeeping checking your Happily Ever After Scrolls for more coverage on Alva!\n\n# CHAPTER 1\n\nCharm School\n\nMiri's voice crackles through the magic mirrors in Fairy Tale Reform School. \"Let the first annual Wand What You Want hour begin!\"\n\nWands begin popping up in kids' hands as we walk through the halls, and we all cheer. Pop! My wand arrives in my hand\u2014long, dark gray, and nicked like it's seen a few battles. Hmm...what to try first... I'm just about to test the wand out when I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Instinct tells me to dive out of the way. When I look up, I see a classmate spelling the troll next to her. The girl turns into an ice sculpture. Geez, that was close. I better stay alert.\n\nPop! Pop! Pop! Kids begin casting all around me. The crowded hallway is suddenly full of talking woodland creatures, toads, fireworks, and a pretty impressive cloud raining licorice. Kids are cheering and fighting, and the sound of all those wands working is enough to give me a headache. I hurry away from the spell zapping, looking for somewhere to practice alone.\n\nSlurp!\n\nThe chaotic hallway disappears behind me, and a new empty hall arrives in its place. I happen to know this hall leads to the school courtyard so I hurry down it and head outside. Ahhh...this is more like it. The warm sun is shining bright high above the castle walls, making me wistful for adventure. I can never sit still for long.\n\n\"Pardon the interruption! We hope you are enjoying your wand experience, but remember, all wands disappear at the hour mark so choose your magic wisely,\" Miri says. I'm relieved to find no mirror in the courtyard, which means she can't see what I'm up to. That magic mirror is forever tattling on students for bad behavior. \"As a reminder, flying is not advised.\"\n\n\"Not advised, but she didn't say it was against the rules,\" I say to myself. I flick the wand over my stuffy, uncomfortable pale-blue uniform and turn it into a comfy peasant shirt and pants. I swap out my ugly school shoes for my beloved lace-up boots. Now that I'm comfortable, I get to the task at hand. I'm sure an actual spell would work better, but since I don't know one, I just imagine myself flying and\u2014bam! I'm slowly floating up, up, up in the air. Score!\n\nA Pegasus flies by me pulling a coach with four students in it.\n\n\"Hi, Gilly!\" they shout and wave.\n\nWhen you save your school from a wicked fairy, people tend to remember your name. Even if you don't remember theirs.\n\n\"Hi!\" I say, lying back like I'm floating on a cloud. Wow, this is relaxing. I stretch my arms wide and\u2014oops!\n\nMy wand falls from my grasp. Uh-oh. I begin to plummet, spinning faster and faster with no sign of stopping. Before I can even think of a way to break my fall, whoosh! I feel my body hit a blanket and bounce up, then land again on a magic carpet.\n\n\"Ten minutes into Wand What You Want, and you're already having a near-death experience?\" my friend Jax asks. His curly blond hair looks white in the bright sunlight. He casually waves his own wand in my direction with a glint in his violet eyes. \"You're getting sloppy.\"\n\n\"I'm not getting sloppy!\" I'm seriously offended by that statement. \"How'd you even know where to find me?\"\n\n\"I thought to myself, 'What would Gilly do with wand access for an hour?' and I knew right away you'd try to sneak home for a bit,\" Jax says. \"Let's give it a go, shall we?\"\n\nMy usual partner in crime steers our magic carpet over the castle walls and across the vast school grounds. Below I can see students fanned out on castle rooftops, in the garden mazes, and near the lake, all casting away with various results. Jax flies the carpet faster, the wind whipping our hair and making it hard to see. I push the hair away from my eyes and strain to see home.\n\nThere beyond the silver turrets of Royal Manor, where the princesses who rule our kingdom live, is my small village of Enchantasia. Somewhere down there, my family is working, playing, and hopefully missing me as much as I miss them. The carpet is nearing the Hollow Woods\u2014which separates us and the village\u2014and I lean forward. It's going to happen. We're going to leave school and see them! Closer we fly to the treetops...closer to the forest filled with ogres...closer to leaving school grounds when\u2014CRACKLE!\n\nOur magic carpet is suddenly stunned by an invisible wall that keeps us from escaping the school grounds. A magical scroll drops from the sky into our laps. \"Leaving school grounds is forbidden!\" it says in sparkling script that glows red like a warning. \"Please return to the castle at once!\" It's signed \"Headmistress Flora.\"\n\n\"Smooth, Flora,\" Jax says. \"Putting a barricade in the sky during wand training was clever.\"\n\n\"Leaving was a long shot, but maybe I could wave my wand and at least see what my family is up to,\" I say and gasp. \"My wand! I need to go get it.\"\n\n\"Lose something, Gilly?\" Our friend Maxine pilots a small flying swan boat I recognize from the Mother Goose carnival that was at school this past weekend. How does Maxine have one of those boats? Hmm... Bigger question: What's she doing in midair? Ogres don't usually like to be off the ground.\n\nMaxine's right eye spins in its socket as she makes her way toward us with a crooked smile. Her thick neck is covered in layers of necklaces and the jewels she used to like to steal. (That's how she got thrown in FTRS. My offense was pickpocketing and shoplifting.) Maxine tosses the wand toward me but it's snatched away.\n\n\"Come and get it!\" Jax's roommate, Ollie, shouts. He's flying on the back of a black baby dragon, which does not seem smart. Ollie dives back toward the courtyard and Jax, Maxine, and I follow, landing seconds later in the courtyard I left only minutes before. I jump off the carpet and grab my wand from Ollie before his baby dragon can eat it. But I don't need to worry because\u2014poof!\u2014the dragon disappears.\n\n\"A baby dragon on school grounds?\" My roommate, Kayla, waves her wand in the air dangerously, and I worry about what she could zap next. Her wings pop out of her back and she flutters to Ollie's side. As a fairy, Kayla can shrink to the size of a teacup, but at the moment, she towers over Ollie, white-blond hair whipping in the wind. \"That thing could burn down the whole school.\"\n\n\"We've already had that almost happen,\" Jax jokes. \"Let's not do it again.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Ollie says dejectedly. \"I really wanted a pet.\" His eyes light up. \"Snack break!\" He waves his wand at the ground and conjures up an apple pie as big as the magic carpet I was just on. Poof! He also creates a supersize ice cream sundae and a plate of cookies as big as Maxine. He waves the wand again and a picnic basket, blanket, and plates appear on the grass beside it. \"Let's eat!\"\n\n\"We could use some ambiance,\" says Kayla who quickly transforms a dead rosebush into a beautiful plant with eye-popping roses in shades of fuchsia, electric blue, and lime green. Kayla flutters over to the blanket to help Ollie dish out dessert. He's using his wand as a cake knife and slicing pieces as big as my arm.\n\n\"Don't forget the music,\" says Maxine. She waves her wand in the air, and a flock of birds appears on a tree above us. They begin to chirp and hum in harmony. \"Yes! It worked!\" Maxine trudges over to the blanket happily, her ogre feet leaving deep footprints in the grass.\n\n\"Flora must have lost her mind to let a bunch of reform-school kids use wands for an hour,\" Jax says, flashing me a smile so blinding that I wish I had shades.\n\nPoof! I use my wand to conjure up a pair. Sweet! I wish we could use wands every day instead of just in How a Wand Works 101. Madame Camille, our uptight fairy teacher, never lets us sign them out for homework, and every time someone screws up by zapping off their pinkie or growing their nose to three times its size, she says, \"This is why Enchantasia doesn't allow wands 'til you're twenty-one!\"\n\nIf I'd had a wand when I lived in the village, I wouldn't have had to steal food to help feed my brothers and sisters in our overcrowded boot. I could have just conjured up the finest treats Gnome-olia Bakery had to offer with a flick of my wrist. Then I wouldn't have been sentenced to Fairy Tale Reform School. From the outside, this place looks like your average school. But inside we have hallways that move every time you use them, a talking magic mirror who tattles on you if you step out of line, a class taught by a mer-teacher inside a giant fish tank, and professors who all are former villains. How do you like them poison apples?\n\nFTRS is nothing like that snooze-fest shoemaker trade school I used to attend and will have to go back to when I prove I have transformed my villainous ways into upstanding ones. Some days\u2014when villains aren't trying to kill me\u2014I'm bummed about being sprung from this joint. Especially when I think about leaving this crew.\n\n\"Look, I get Flora disappearing to help Professor Wolfington suppress his wolf side again, but where has she been since he came back?\" Jax continues. \"We never see her around school, and now she's letting us take wands out for a spin? Something's up.\"\n\n\"I'm with Jax,\" Maxine says, apple oozing down her chin as she chews. \"My mini magical scroll has been showing me weird messages like 'She'll reappear when you're all distracted' instead of articles from Happily Ever After Scrolls.\"\n\nOllie gives me a look. Maxine swears her mini magical scroll is sending her messages, but mini magical scrolls only report the daily Enchantasia news. She seems to think her scroll is magical. Okay, more magical.\n\n\"Yesterday it said, 'Prepare. She is coming soon.'\" Maxine cuts another slice of pie for herself that is as big as her head. \"Who is coming? Flora? I quickly hid my scroll since I was supposed to be doing homework.\"\n\n\"I think Flora is just trying to give us some freedom,\" I say. \"If they don't give us freedom every now and then, how are they going to see whether we're reforming?\"\n\n\"Yeah, Maxine. Can't you just be happy we have an afternoon off from Villain to Hero: How to Make the Switch?\" Kayla asks.\n\nMaxine frowns. \"I actually kind of miss Dragon Slaying 101, but sometimes learning about a dragon's weak spots is enough to make me want to breathe fire.\"\n\nI sit up. \"That gives me an idea.\" I begin to aim my wand but Jax stops me.\n\n\"I'm serious, guys,\" Jax says quietly. \"Alva's on the loose, someone is spilling royal secrets, and Flora keeps disappearing. Don't you want to know what's going on?\"\n\nJax is an undercover royal at a reform school. Of course he wants to sort things out and go back to being all royally. (He is secretly Rapunzel's brother, not that she knows that. She thinks he's off at boarding school, and Jax's dad had the royal court's memories bewitched so no one recognizes him.) And yes, I want to go home to my family, but in the past two months I've saved royals, kept our school from burning down, and had T-shirts made with my name on them. I need a short recess to relax.\n\n\"Can't we take an hour off from being good guys and enjoy doing something a bit wicked?\" I conjure up Jax's favorite pie\u2014figgy pudding\u2014and his eyes go wide. \"Let's eat before we plot!\"\n\nMy friends and I begin slicing up the desserts in front of us when poof! They disappear right in front of our eyes.\n\n\"Hey!\" Ollie's fork hangs in the air over a now-empty plate. \"Who did that?\"\n\nI look around the courtyard. Through the stained glass windows inside the school, I can see flashes of light every time a wand is used. Some hallways are filled with water where mermaids swim with ease and students have transformed into sharks and octopuses. Other windows show students dressed like princesses and pirates, while another set of windows shows mischief that could get those kids detention for a week with Madame Cleo. But I couldn't see a single person pointing a wand our way.\n\nThen I hear a sinister laugh. I exhale sharply and look closer at my surroundings. I point my wand directly at the black gargoyle statue near the courtyard door that I don't remember seeing earlier. The statue starts to spark and then it transforms into a girl with long, dark hair in a black dress covered with stars and moons.\n\n\"Ouch! That hurt!\" Jocelyn rubs her butt, which has a burn mark on one of the half-moons. \"You singed my dress!\"\n\n\"You stole our dessert.\" I wave my wand, wondering what I could do to Jocelyn next. Turn her into a toad? Make her wear a pink princess dress since she's allergic to any color but black? Lock her in a tower to keep her from casting any more spells?\n\n\"Sorry for the interruption, students,\" Miri's voice is back over the magical loudspeaker system. \"Headmistress Flora would like me to remind you that illegal use of magic\u2014such as escape attempts, turning your roommate into a toad, or using wand work for monetary gain\u2014is not allowed. Today's Wand What You Want experiment is to see how you handle having a bit of wand freedom. Remember that. Thank you!\"\n\nFiddlesticks.\n\n\"Did you want to join us?\" Maxine asks awkwardly. She may be slightly afraid of the Evil Queen's little sister, but I'm not. Professor Harlow is now tucked away in the FTRS dungeons. Why Headmistress Flora allowed Jocelyn to stay in school is beyond me.\n\n\"She's not welcome here,\" I say calmly. \"Give our food back.\"\n\nJocelyn shrugs. \"Make me.\"\n\nI use my wand to make the food reappear.\n\nJocelyn zaps it and makes it disappear.\n\nI bring the food back.\n\nJocelyn makes it vanish.\n\nAppear, disappear, appear, disappear.\n\nFinally I snap. With my wand high above my head, I lift Ollie's giant apple pie and let the whole thing drop on Jocelyn's head. She screams. \"Score!\" I shout.\n\n\"Gilly, don't start with her,\" Kayla says, growing nervous. She's still a bit jittery around villains. I can't say I blame her. She was blackmailed by Alva for years, forced to help the evil fairy in exchange for information on the whereabouts of her missing family. (Who are now trees. It's complicated.)\n\n\"I'm fine!\" I say, but while I'm laughing, Jocelyn is conjuring. Smack! A piece of pudding pie flies into my face.\n\n\"How does the pudding taste, Cobbler?\" Jocelyn taunts. \"I bet you guys could never afford pudding in your boot.\"\n\n\"We can now, while you're an orphan with an evil sister in lockup.\" I shoot a cherry pie at her face. It explodes and covers her with cherries. Hee. I look to Kayla for approval, but that \"orphan\" comment leaves her cold. Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. I'm so busy staring at Kayla that I don't feel the crackle 'til it's too late.\n\n\"My hair!\" I screech as my head begins to glow for a second, then stops. I feel my hair. It's all still there. I exhale. \"Ha! Your spell didn't work!\" I sing out.\n\n\"Um, Gilly?\" Ollie asks. \"Did you always have a purple streak in your hair?\"\n\nI pull the front of my hair forward and gasp. A deep purple stripe is now running through my long, brown hair. Jocelyn bursts out laughing.\n\n\"Change it back!\"\n\nJocelyn shrugs. \"Can't. I didn't spell you. I cursed you. It can't be undone.\"\n\n\"Why you...\" Zap! I send a vat of chocolate ice cream raining down on her head.\n\n\"Enough!\" Ollie says as a wall of dead fish smacks him in the face, leaving a slimy trail on his light-brown skin.\n\n\"You can't do that.\" Jax sounds funny holding his nose. He quickly conjures up a massive bowl of cooked spinach, which hits Jocelyn with a loud splat.\n\nSoon food is flying through the air like hail. Broccoli is raining from the rooftop. Mashed potatoes create walls we can use as barricades. Radishes hit Kayla in the head and give her welts. We're so busy conjuring up food that we don't hear the sound at first.\n\nKABOOM!\n\nThe noise and the low rumble that follows are enough to make us all jump.\n\nKayla wipes stew from her hair. \"What was that?\" She sounds worked up.\n\nJocelyn spits out cherry pits that have appeared in her mouth. \"Don't get your wings twisted. I'm sure Professor Biggins just misfired a potion he was working on.\"\n\n\"If there was a reason to panic, the alarms would have gone off.\" I listen carefully.\n\nKABOOM!\n\nThis time the sound is so loud that we grab each other to keep from falling.\n\nWOO-OOH! WOO-OOH!\n\nThe school security system is going off. Seconds later, our wands disappear along with the picnic, Maxine's swan boat, magic carpet, and my comfy clothes. My dreaded uniform is back, but that's not my biggest concern. I know what we're all thinking: the last time the alarm tripped was when we had a break-in from Alva.\n\n\"I'm going,\" I say and head toward the courtyard door.\n\n\"So am I.\" Jocelyn tries to beat me to the doorway. We each try to push the other out of the way.\n\nI push her back. \"You just want the distraction to help your sister escape the dungeons. I'm not going to let you help her!\"\n\n\"Try to stop me!\" Jocelyn pushes me so hard that I fall. I quickly jump up and follow her into the hallway. It's chaos. Students are running in every direction, but I follow Jocelyn's food-splattered dress. I can hear my friends calling me, but I don't stop.\n\n\"Students, this is Headmistress Flora speaking.\" I hear Cinderella's formerly wicked stepmother's voice ring out from the castle's mirrors. \"Please proceed to your dorm rooms. We have the situation under control. There is no cause for alarm.\"\n\nA hallway switches in front of me, but I dive through it and land right on top of Jocelyn. We're somehow outside again\u2014the new hallway leads us to the school lake.\n\nKABOOM!\n\n\"Ouch!\" Jocelyn yells as my friends fly out of yet another hallway, dropping onto the same grassy patch near the water.\n\n\"Holy shipwreck!\" Ollie says, pointing to something in the distance on the water. I hear a commotion and shouting. \"Duck!\"\n\nWe drop to the ground just in time to see a cannonball whiz past our heads.\n\n\"Um, guys?\" Kayla's frown deepens. \"What's a pirate ship doing in the lake at Fairy Tale Reform School?\"\n\n# CHAPTER 2\n\nYe Be a New Teacher in Town\n\nJocelyn and I stop fighting long enough to take in the giant pirate ship that has appeared in our school lake. The worn, wooden ship is so large it takes up almost the entire body of water. A tattered black-and-white flag bearing a skull and crossbones is flying high along another flag with a crest full of swords. Dozens of pirates race around the ship deck pulling ropes and they're calling out orders that I can't understand.\n\nThe mer-folk at school seem just as bewildered as we are because their heads start popping up around the lake to see what is going on. They point to the creepy serpent-headed gold figure carved into the prow of the ship, and then many disappear again below the dark waters.\n\n\"Land ho!\" A pirate with a telescope yells from the ship's crow's nest. \"We've arrived at Fairy Tale Reform School, captain!\" A giant anchor is quickly tossed from the side of the ship and almost clocks a mer-boy in the head. Then I see a group of pirates lowering a gangplank.\n\n\"I can't believe it.\" Ollie is freaking out below me. (He's kind of short, swarthy, and a tad stocky...much like the pirates coming off the ship.) \"I really can't believe it! Do you know whose ship that is?\" he asks, starting to wind up like one of my little brother's toys. \"I've always wanted to see it. It's legendary. Legendary. The pirate ship I was on is nowhere near as big as this one!\"\n\nOllie's in FTRS because he used magic tricks for monetary gain. (I have to say, his sleight-of-hand maneuvers are amazing.) He says he learned everything he knows from his time as a stowaway on a pirate ship, but a lot of classmates say his pirate claims are tall tales. He's never been able to offer any actual proof that he was a short-term pirate.\n\n\"You see that large patched hole in the side of the ship?\" Ollie asks. \"They got hit racing away from the Royal Navy after pillaging the gold taxes the navy had collected from a port. The Brits never caught up with them, and legend has it the pirates used the gold to buy their own island.\" Ollie sighs. \"That pirate knows how to make things happen.\"\n\n\"Who are you blabbering about?\" Jocelyn snaps.\n\nOllie looks stunned. He points at the lake. \"You mean you really don't recognize the ship?\"\n\nThe gangplank drops with a thud right in front of us. Pirates begin disembarking, swinging their swords menacingly in the air.\n\n\"Um, guys? Should we get out of here?\" Maxine asks as I hear a slurp sound from behind us.\n\n\"Ah, he's finally arrived and, of course, with much fanfare,\" I hear a familiar voice say in her classic clipped tone. It's a voice she uses right before shipping students off to detention. \"I thought I told him no cannon fire on school grounds!\"\n\nOur teachers have arrived. Headmistress Flora (a.k.a. the former wicked stepmother of Cinderella who runs our school) leads the way, accompanied by Professor Wolfington (a.k.a. the Big Bad Wolf). Madame Cleo (a beautiful mermaid who is the sea siren that gave the Little Mermaid all that trouble) swims up to a nearby rock at the water's edge.\n\nProfessor Wolfington sees me and gives a wolfish grin. \"I see our new colleague has a welcome wagon. Hello, students.\"\n\n\"Professor Wolfington!\" Maxine says with glee. \"You're back!\"\n\nHe scratches his scruffy beard, which is tame compared to his long mane of wild hair and the dark fur on his hands. \"You didn't think I'd stay away forever, did you?\"\n\n\"We weren't sure you'd be able to come back after getting all...\" Maxine bears her ogre teeth and gnashes the air while making her hands like claws. \"You know.\"\n\nMaxine means Professor Wolfington went full-blown Big Bad Wolf werewolf-style at the fifth anniversary ball to help save us from Alva. The rumor around school was that once our history teacher transformed to his dark side again, he could never return.\n\n\"Miss Maxine, everyone has setbacks now and then, but with discipline and reflection, we can continue on a path of virtue.\" Professor Wolfington sounds like he's reciting from our psychology textbook Wickedly Good in 30 Days or Less.\n\n\"Maxine, it is not appropriate to question your teachers,\" Headmistress Flora reprimands. Flora's tiny eyes are dark, much like the black in her black-and-white hair, which is swept up in a bun. \"Professor Wolfington's training has taught him how to bounce back from any, shall we say, wolfish situation. Not that he needs to explain himself.\"\n\n\"It's fine, Flora,\" Professor Wolfington says pleasantly. \"I took some time off for reflection, and now I'm back to meet my interesting new colleague.\"\n\n\"What be ye all caterwauling about?\" asks the heavyset pirate approaching us.\n\nHe's dressed in a dingy jacket and ripped pants; a sparkling silver sword hangs from the leather holster on his hip. His head is covered by a beat-up pirate hat with a little skull and crossbones stamped on the front. His long, bushy hair is almost jet-black, and his full beard has several beaded braids that swing as he talks. \"Wolfie, good to see you.\" The two shake hands, and I notice the pirate's fingernails are almost black. He turns to Headmistress Flora, who could not be dressed more differently than him in a button-down dress with a full petticoat.\n\n\"Flora, you sly lassie, me thinks ye didn't give me the real tale on this school of yers,\" bellows the pirate. \"This castle be way bigger than ye described. Ye must have stole a few galleons along the way to build this beauty, eh?\"\n\n\"I assure you, Mr. Teach, no galleons were stolen for this castle's construction.\" Headmistress Flora extends her long, slender hand to shake his dirty one. \"Welcome to Fairy Tale Reform School. We're thrilled you've decided to join our staff.\"\n\nHe pats his full belly. \"Sure. It be time I take a short break from the seas,\" he says. \"Too many be on me tail for me fortune.\" He winks at Ollie.\n\n\"Some of which Mr. Teach has donated to Fairy Tale Reform School's after-school activities,\" Headmistress Flora says hurriedly. \"Children, please meet your new psychology professor, Mr. Edward Teach.\"\n\n\"Flora, don't be so formal!\" he says. \"I prefer to be called Blackbeard.\"\n\n\"I knew it!\" Ollie says, extending his hand to shake Blackbeard's. \"It's an honor to meet you, sir. Ollie Funklehouse, from Pete the Cheat's crew.\"\n\n\"Pete the Cheat?\" Blackbeard thinks for a moment. \"Never heard of him.\"\n\n\"Blackbeard the pirate?\" Maxine interrupts, almost stuttering. \"But you're...you're...you're...\"\n\n\"Dangerous?\" Blackbeard wipes his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, then lets out a burp so foul I want to run away. (He doesn't say \"excuse me\" afterward either.) \"Was a bit of a beast before,\" Blackbeard says, scratching at his beard and hitting some of the beads in the process. \"Depends on whom ye ask. But the lovely Madame Cleo over there showed me the error of me ways. Ain't that right, love?\" He points to the stunning mermaid I'm used to seeing inside a giant aquarium where she teaches charm classes (and moderates detention). This afternoon she's sunning her scales on a rock.\n\n\"Eddie, you're such a love!\" Madame Cleo giggles, her tail swishing back and forth as her hair changes from blue to purple to hot pink. \"I knew if I visited your ship enough times for a cup of tea, you'd see the error of your pirating ways. And he did,\" she tells us, taking a starfish from the water to hold her hair in a side ponytail. \"His men have seen a total change in him, which is why he makes such an excellent choice to teach students about feelings.\"\n\n\"I didn't think piracy and expressing feelings actually went together,\" Jax says, and we all look at him in alarm. Is he really questioning the most fearsome pirate Enchantasia\u2014and the world\u2014has ever seen? \"No offense,\" he adds.\n\nBlackbeard stares at my friend before he lets out a loud laugh followed by a burp.\n\nMadame Cleo tsks. \"We still have to work on his manners,\" she mumbles.\n\nBlackbeard claps his meaty hand around Jax's back. \"I like this lad! Ye're all right, matey! Are they all this brazen?\" Blackbeard asks Flora and Wolfington. \"We should get along swimmingly in me classroom. I'm going to run a tight ship.\"\n\n\"It's not your classroom,\" Jocelyn snaps. \"It's my sister's.\"\n\n\"Was your sister's,\" I correct her. \"When you plot with a villain to destroy our royal court and try to burn down the school you work for, I assume you lose your right to teach reform school.\" I look at Jax. \"Am I crazy or correct?\"\n\n\"Correct!\" Ollie seconds.\n\n\"Miss Gillian, this is neither the time nor the place for this type of behavior!\" Headmistress Flora stares at me for a moment. \"And since when do you have a purple streak of hair?\"\n\n\"Gillian Cobbler?\" Blackbeard interrupts her. \"Yer bravery be legend in these parts. Such courage for a wee lass! Ye must be part pirate!\"\n\n\"Gilly?\" Ollie cries, insulted. \"But we all helped save\u2014\"\n\n\"Maybe I am part pirate!\" I wonder aloud, a bit pleased that a pirate as famous as Blackbeard has heard of me. Wow. I'm famous! \"I've never been very good at following the rules.\" Wolfington coughs. \"But I've never done anything evil\u2014unlike Harlow.\"\n\n\"That's the Evil Queen you're talking about,\" Jocelyn says. \"Show some respect.\"\n\n\"Don't you mean the former Evil Queen?\" Jax asks innocently. \"I thought Professor Harlow transformed so she could teach here. Oh, that's right!\" He claps his hand against his uniform pants. \"She was secretly working for the enemy.\"\n\nFlora tries to intervene. \"Children, this is not a conversation we need to bore Mr. Teach with.\"\n\n\"How do we know you aren't still working with her now?\" Kayla asks, also ganging up on Jocelyn (which I'm enjoying since it's usually the other way around). \"I don't understand why she's still allowed to go here,\" Kayla says to the headmistress. \"She helped her sister capture us!\"\n\nJocelyn's face is purple. \"Flora knows my innocence just like she knows Harlow's.\" Jocelyn appeals to Blackbeard. \"Alva tricked her! Harlow is just misunderstood.\"\n\nI snort. \"'Misunderstood' is code for 'prone to be bad.'\"\n\nBlackbeard slaps Wolfington on the back. \"What a group of scallywags. This be a fun gig! I can tell.\"\n\nJocelyn turns her palm upward as a small swirl of purple smoke begins to spiral around her fingers. \"Take that back or you'll regret it!\"\n\n\"Bring it on,\" I say, courting disaster. \"Show our professors why you should be locked up in a dungeon like your sister.\"\n\n\"Illegal use of magic!\" I hear Miri's voice and wonder where a mirror is. Oh! I see it on that large oak tree over there, disguised as a squirrel burrow. Smart.\n\nJocelyn ignores Miri's warning and aims a purple fireball at me. I don't move. If she hits me, it will hurt, but at least Jocelyn will finally be seen as the villain-in-training I know she is.\n\n\"Gilly, duck!\" Kayla cries in panic, but I won't do it.\n\nInstead, Maxine dives on top of me, knocking me to the ground. We watch as the fireball hits a pirate on the gangplank who's unloading one of Blackbeard's trunks. The pirate yelps, dropping the trunk in the water.\n\n\"Me treasures!\" Blackbeard yells.\n\n\"I'll get them, darling,\" says Madame Cleo, giving us a look. \"Even if I did just apply a seaweed conditioning treatment to my hair.\" She dives below the water.\n\n\"Look what you've done,\" Jocelyn says. \"You're always thinking of you, you, you! Like you're some hero! You just got lucky.\"\n\nMadame Cleo pops out of the water with the trunk and hands it off to a pirate who wades into the water. \"I think I caught it before anything got wet.\" She glares at us, her pink hair turning fiery blue. \"You children should be ashamed. Failing to listen to your teacher, illegal use of magic, fighting on school grounds. Detention for everyone!\"\n\nBlackbeard's laughter is loud and deep. \"Not necessary, Madame. This group has spunk. I like it!\" He grabs Jocelyn and me by the backs of our uniforms, which I hope rip because I despise these blue jumpers. \"Ye two need to get this aggression out. Me thinks a duel will do nicely.\"\n\n\"A duel?\" Jocelyn and I say as another cannon blast echoes around us.\n\n\"Mr. Teach, I must insist we not have cannon fire on the school grounds.\" Headmistress Flora sounds like she's losing patience.\n\n\"Me men didn't fire, Flora ol' girl.\" Blackbeard motions to the pirates scurrying by us with trunks and, alarmingly, chests full of weapons. \"They all be busy getting me wares to me new quarters. The ship be empty.\"\n\nKABOOM!\n\nAnother cannonball comes whirling toward us, causing Blackbird to drop me and Jocelyn and dive onto the ground with the rest of my teachers and friends and the bewildered pirates.\n\n\"Blimey! What be those vile beasts?\" Blackbeard asks.\n\nGargoyles! A whole mess of smelly, winged beasties are suddenly hanging from the ship rafters, climbing the crow's nest, and swinging from the sides of the pirate ship. Their large, scaly wings flutter open and closed as the furry beasts jump up and down and fly around the ship. I hold my breath, waiting to see if they come after us. Those claws mean business.\n\n\"Me ship!\" Blackbeard cries.\n\n\"Take these, sir.\" Ollie produces a strand of radishes from behind Blackbeard's ear. \"They keep the beasties away. One whiff and they'll fall fast asleep.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Blackbeard ties the radishes to a bead in his hair.\n\n\"We've dealt with them before,\" says Ollie. \"At first, we thought they were statues around school, but then they came alive and we found out they were working for Alva.\"\n\nAnd that's when I remember. Where there are gargoyles, there's usually Sleeping Beauty's nightmare in the flesh.\n\n\"Alva?\" Blackbeard repeats. \"You mean that wench?\" He points back to the ship. It's as if the wicked fairy has appeared out of thin air.\n\nSleeping Beauty's nemesis spent ten years pretending to be another villain while she quietly plotted her revenge on the royals\u2014and now she's back. Alva walks to the edge of the plank, her long, red dress billowing in the wind. The collar of her matching red cape reaches the gold clips in her black hair. Alva always looks like she's ready for a ball instead of a brawl. Why villains always wear the same outfits, I'll never know. Alva waves as if she's greeting old friends.\n\n\"Miss me, my pets?\" Alva cackles in a voice so high-pitched that it makes me want to cover my ears. \"I'm back to collect what's rightfully mine.\"\n\n\"Put the school on lockdown,\" Flora tells Wolfington and Madame Cleo hurriedly. They don't argue. \"No one comes out 'til it's safe.\" Wolfington takes off at wolf speed, while the Sea Siren dives off a rock and into the waters, her shimmery blue-green tail barely visible below the surface. Flora turns to us. \"The rest of you, inside. Now.\"\n\nKayla appears frozen. \"She's here. She's back. She's here.\"\n\n\"She won't touch you. Just get inside.\" Flora tries to shepherd us toward the large wooden doors at the back of the castle, while Blackbeard instructs his men where to go. Everyone is shouting; the gargoyles are shrieking; Miri's alarm system is now blaring. Kayla runs for the doors with Maxine, while Ollie begins hurling radishes in the air.\n\nJax pulls me back and whispers in my ear. \"Why aren't the gargoyles flying toward us?\" he asks as chaos swirls around us. \"If Alva is here to attack the school, wouldn't her gargoyles have come after us by now? Kind of convenient that they had Blackbeard's ship to land on, isn't it?\" His violet eyes are thoughtful. \"It's as if she knew he'd be here.\"\n\nThe two of us look at each other and without him knowing, I slip my hand into his pocket and take something I may need to borrow. Then I take off at a run.\n\n\"Headmistress Flora!\" I shout, trying to get her attention as she talks to Miri at the oak tree. \"What if Alva's gargoyles are a distraction? What if she's after Harlow?\"\n\nAt her sister's name, Jocelyn appears at my side. I ignore her.\n\n\"Professor Harlow, Gillian, and I don't have time for theories,\" Flora says. \"We're under attack.\"\n\n\"But she's not attacking,\" I point out, pulling on Flora's petticoat so I can show her. We turn in time to see a gargoyle moving the cannon fire toward a wall near the back of the castle. It blows a hole right through the side of the building.\n\n\"What room be that?\" Blackbeard asks. \"What say ye of casualties?\"\n\n\"It's a storage area for the kitchen,\" Flora tells him.\n\n\"But aren't the dungeons below the kitchen?\" I ask and both Jocelyn and Flora look at me. So does Blackbeard. He glances back at the ship.\n\n\"The wench is gone!\" He points to where we last saw Alva.\n\n\"She's trying to break out the Evil Queen!\" I tell Flora, yelling over the sound of more cannon fire aimed at the same place. Another hole is blasted at the same spot, this time opening up the ground. A team of gargoyles flies to the area. \"Someone has to check on her!\" And by someone, I mean me. I race toward the gargoyles.\n\n\"Miss Gillian and Miss Jocelyn, get back here!\" Flora yells.\n\nMy eyes are on Harlow's little sister, who obviously knew I was right. She's running the same way for a different reason\u2014to help her big sister, I'm sure. We're both so close to the castle that I know if I don't do something to slow Jocelyn down, she'll reach Harlow first.\n\nI pull Jax's pocket watch that I pinched out of my pocket. That's right, I still got it. \"Houratiempo!\" I shout, remembering the strange word I've heard Jax utter before. A light bursts from the watch and sends Jocelyn flying backward. I run toward her, knowing the power of that pocket watch means she can still talk but she can't move for the next few minutes. I slide into her side and tie her hands with the long, purple gingerroot flower stems Maxine plucked for a rainy day.\n\nFound near the edge of the Hollow Woods, the rare electric-blue flower with the purple stems has the power to freeze people temporarily and also to bind them from using magic when the stem is wrapped around their wrists. Ever since Alva threatened me, Maxine has insisted that I have gingerroot in my pocket at all times. It came in handy today.\n\n\"Gilly, let go!\" Jocelyn screams. Since I only tied the roots around her wrists, her lungs still work.\n\n\"You're not escaping with Harlow,\" I say. \"You\u2014\"\n\nBOOM! Pieces of the castle wall explode in the air, sending rocks and debris raining down on us. I can't hear anything but ringing. My right leg is pinned under a piece of wall. Jocelyn is stuck under a fallen wooden door. When the smoke clears, I see two figures approaching. One slaps a long, hand-written scroll that glows on a crumbling wall before walking my way. A sinister smile plays on the woman's ruby-red lips.\n\n\"Gillian Cobbler,\" Alva purrs. \"Always trying to be the hero. For that you'll pay dearly.\" I see her lift her hand.\n\n\"No!\" Harlow shouts. \"Leave the brats! We must go!\" Harlow pulls Alva away.\n\n\"Harlow, listen!\" Jocelyn screams, but the Evil Queen doesn't stop.\n\nFor a brief moment, the two of us lock eyes. Then Harlow and Alva disappear in a cloud of smoke.\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nBREAKING NEWS:\n\nAlva at FTRS! Breaks Evil Queen Out of Dungeon! Releases Villainous Call to Arms!\n\nby Beatrice Beez\n\nYesterday afternoon, Enchantasia's most-wanted villain appeared on Fairy Tale Reform School grounds where she broke the Evil Queen out of captivity and the two escaped under the noses of FTRS teachers. To make matters worse, HEAS has learned that Alva left a villainous manifesto at the school. The call to arms supposedly promises greater riches than the 10,000 gold pieces the Dwarf Police Squad is offering as a reward for Alva's capture and encourages students to join Alva and Harlow in taking over Enchantasia and destroying the royal court of Princesses Ella, Snow White, Rapunzel, and our Sleeping Beauty, Rose.\n\nMiri the FTRS spokesmirror would not allow HEAS to see the manifesto, which is being examined by the Dwarf Police Squad. \"Our teachers will not indulge Alva's deluded request by sharing it with the public,\" says Miri. \"Headmistress Flora has addressed the students about Alva's message and used the scroll to reinforce the school motto\u2014being bad brings about no good. We will not lose our students to villainy. Our goal remains the same: to help our students reform and follow the straight and narrow path.\"\n\nParents of students at FTRS are still understandably concerned. What did Alva's message actually say, and could it sway their children to join the dark side? \"How long can we allow our children to remain in FTRS's care when these former villains obviously can't keep them safe?\" asks Millicent Gertrude, the mother of Ronald Gertrude, who is in FTRS for six months for the illegal trading of Pegasi. \"Constant break-ins, castle explosions, calls to villainy\u2014what is going on there? I want visitation day moved up so I can see for myself if my Porridge Bottom is safe.\"\n\n\"We take our school's security very seriously,\" says Miri. \"At this time, we are looking at our schedule to see whether visitation day can be moved up. But parents should know all the students in our care are safe.\" For now FTRS plans to host its semiannual parent visitation in a few weeks. Many villagers are excited to meet Princess Rose, who has taken on a consulting gig with the school to shepherd their famed Royal Ladies-in-Waiting Club. \"I love the idea of helping the next generation of girls put their best glass slipper forward,\" said Rose when reached for comment.\n\nKeep checking HEAS for updates on the search for the wicked fairy and the Evil Queen and their villainous manifesto!\n\n# CHAPTER 3\n\nCordially Invited\n\nWe're not supposed to be here.\n\nThis area of the castle was forbidden before Alva's gargoyles blew a hole in it and destroyed the kitchen storage closet. (When you go to school with hungry ogres, locking up food is essential.) But today the bombed-out wall of the castle is cordoned off by glowing Dwarf Police Squad caution tape.\n\nPlease. Like yellow tape is going to keep a bunch of reform-school students from reading a villain's manifesto.\n\nThe large, yellowed scroll hangs on a crumbling piece of wall by magic rather than a nail. That explains why the Dwarf Police Squad's Pete and Olaf made ineffective, and comical, attempts to remove the scroll. Alva obviously bewitched her credo so that it can't come down. Despite our teachers' lecture yesterday afternoon about Alva and what a danger she is to not only FTRS, but Enchantasia, every kid I know still wants to hear what she has to say...including me.\n\nI inch closer to the wall to read Alva's warning. I'm not usually so nervous, but I guess I have a lot more to lose these days. In my brother Felix's last Pegasus Post, he told me that thanks to Father making glass slippers again, my siblings are all eating three meals a day. They also have new clothes and warm blankets for their joint bed. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that. And yet, I'm still sneaking over to read the manifesto. We crowd around the glowing, golden scroll to read the large, loopy, red scrolled handwriting.\n\nStudents of Fairy Tale Reform School\n\nYou've been warned: Enchantasia will be no more!\n\nSoon the Evil Queen and I will rule this kingdom! Whose side will you be on when that day comes?\n\nIf you're in FTRS, then you know how to be wicked, and being wicked is smart in this day and age.\n\nInterested? Just make your intentions known, children, and we'll hear your pleas. We'll be back to claim you before you know it, and I promise that measly reward of 10,000 gold pieces for my capture is nothing compared to the fortune you'll get with me.\n\nAlva\n\n\"You have to admit, posting a call to evil at Fairy Tale Reform School is brilliant,\" I say as we jostle for position around the scroll. It's hard when students are pushing and conjuring small spells to move others out of the way. \"If you need to build a wicked army, what better place to find one than here?\"\n\n\"No wonder Flora seemed so wound up.\" Jax plants his legs wide to keep from being knocked down and losing his place in front of the scroll. \"She was so busy getting ready for the school lecture on evil that she barely reprimanded you and Jocelyn about taking off after Alva.\"\n\nI elbow the ogre behind me for kneeing me in the back. \"Maybe, but that didn't stop her from repeating her classic line, 'I'd hate for you to add more time to your sentence here at FTRS.' And instead of detention with Madame Cleo, she said something about Jocelyn and I having to duel in Blackbeard's class today. She can't mean a real duel, can she?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" Jax nudges me, probably by accident since we're being pushed around. \"Flora might be the only one around here not impressed by your new hero title.\"\n\n\"Hero?\" I sputter. I've never heard Jax use that word about me before. Sure, Happily Ever After Scrolls and unnamed sources keep calling me one, but never my friends. Wouldn't anyone do what I did to stay alive and help their school? I'd hope so, but if being a hero is what keeps my family well fed, then I'm not going to argue. \"Anyone would do what we did.\"\n\nJax frowns as his finger traces Alva's loopy letter A. \"Not everyone would stick their necks out for a royal,\" he teases, and I make a face. Jax is the only royal I like, and he knows it. \"Too bad we didn't catch Alva though. She's not going to stop until she controls Enchantasia.\"\n\nI stare at the manifesto again. \"What do you think she means by 'make your intentions known and we'll hear your plea'?\"\n\nJax pushes his floppy curls out of his eyes. \"I don't know.\" He pulls me away from the scroll, and kids quickly press into the empty spot. \"What if she means the mole and that mole is at Fairy Tale Reform School?\"\n\nThe whole reason Jax is undercover at FTRS is to find the mole that is trying to tear apart the royal court. His dad thought Jax would have luck getting the scoop at a school where the kids know every dirty trick in Evildoing for Dummies. So far though, we've had no luck. This mole, whoever he may be, is still feeding villains info on the princesses and now seems close enough to get into our school. I feel a shiver race through me.\n\n\"What if the mole is helping Alva because he or she hates the royal court and wants power?\" I wonder. A group of pixies fly by our heads and I pause. They whisper and point when they see me. \"The kids in here could help Alva a lot. They're likely to be the next big-time villains if they don't reform. And a lot of them have magic!\"\n\n\"We'll hear your plea.\" Jax repeats a line from the scroll. \"The mole must be at FTRS. How else could Alva reach the students or know Blackbeard was coming, giving her time to break out Harlow?\" We step over crumbling bricks to exit the kitchen storage room and walk onto the lawn outside the school. Jax's brow is wrinkled in concentration. \"This doesn't add up. Wouldn't Flora have worried about Harlow as soon as she saw Alva? Instead, she ignored you when you tried to warn her.\"\n\nWarning bells go off in my head. I've thought the worst of our school headmistress before. Once a villain, always part villain, I've heard Wolfington say. Could it be true? Could Flora have helped Harlow break out? Why? And if she did, how do we stop Flora and this mole from striking again?\n\nA shadow crosses over Jax's face and we both look up. A group of magic carpets flies by with student drivers. The carpets are an array of bright purples, blues, pinks, and brilliant oranges, with tassels hanging so low that one brushes my head. The patterns are as varied as the colors. In your first magic carpet class, you actually get to design your own carpet: color, pattern, aerodynamics, and special effects. A shower of glitter rains down on Jax and me like snow.\n\n\"Miss Hobby, we are not glittering the castle today!\" Monsieur Lavine scolds. \"It's not a holiday! Helmut, we fly behind one other, not one on top of the other.\" Our teacher looks down and spots us. He removes his silver turban and tosses it to Jax. \"A little late to class, are we, Mr. Jax? Meet us at the Pegasi stables, and as punishment, you must wear my turban for the rest of the day.\" His classmates laugh as Jax places the large, oversized silver hat on his head. The jewels hanging off it make it hard for him to see.\n\n\"Great,\" Jax grumbles, and the jewels in front of his eyes sway. \"As if Ollie wasn't already giving me grief about being a royal, now I'm a royal wearing noble headgear. I've got to go. Talk later?\"\n\nHe looks so glum that I resist the urge to poke fun at his royalness. The ground shakes and I look up. Maxine is bounding toward me.\n\n\"Hey! Why was Jax in a turban?\" she asks breathlessly. \"No matter. Did you guys read the manifesto? Scary, huh? Alva's trying to take over our school!\" She clutches one of the dozens of pearl necklaces stretched around her thick neck. \"My scroll sent me another message about it this morning.\"\n\nI sigh. \"Maxine, mini magical scrolls don't send messages. You must just\u2014\"\n\nMaxine thrusts her scroll into my face. \"Look! At the bottom. That's not Happily Ever After Scrolls's writing. It says 'She'll be back. She's gaining numbers. Watch that those around you don't fall for her thunder.'\" Her one eye rolls quickly in its socket.\n\n\"I...\" I stare closer. The handwriting is different and the writing glows blue, while the rest of the HEAS message is in black. But it can't be. Not to be rude, but why would someone use Maxine to stop Alva? \"Let me know if this happens again, okay?\"\n\nMaxine nods. \"There's more. Mama sent a Pegasus Post this morning, and she said if the break-ins continue, she might talk to Headmistress Flora about pulling me out of school.\" Her large hand clasps mine. \"Is it weird that I don't want to go home yet?\" she whispers. \"I kind of like it here. I finally have friends.\"\n\nI smile. A group of Pegasi neigh as they fly by us with more student riders. Out on the lawn, I see a bunch of kids in full armor starting dragon training against a mechanical dragon that shoots real fire. I miss my family, but there are things at Fairy Tale Reform School that I'd never get to do in the real world. I squeeze Maxine's large hand. \"I know what you mean. Don't worry about it right now. Let's get to class.\" We step back inside the crumbling kitchen storage room just as the closest mirror begins to glow orange, purple, then turquoise green.\n\n\"This area of the castle is off-limits!\" Miri announces, and her decree is followed by groans. \"Students seen in this area in the next two minutes will spend the next three days in detention with Madame Cleo or Blackbeard. I should warn you that he's teaching duels.\" Kids disperse immediately, and Maxine and I jump into a new hallway appearing to our left. Kayla is waiting.\n\n\"Hey,\" she says when she sees us. \"Why weren't you in our room this morning?\" I watch her wings pop in and out over and over, which only happens when she's nervous. \"You didn't want to have breakfast together?\"\n\nKayla and I are roomies, but ever since I found out she was secretly working with Alva\u2014whether she was blackmailed into doing it or not\u2014things have been, shall we say, a bit off between us. \"I had to meet with Flora about Jocelyn,\" I say, which is only partly a lie. I met with Flora, but I had cinnamon rolls for breakfast with Jax first.\n\n\"Oh, okay.\" Kayla still looks disappointed. \"Did you tell Flora you think Jocelyn was working with Harlow to escape? Because I'm sure she was.\"\n\n\"I was too busy trying to convince Flora that Jocelyn wanted to escape with Harlow.\" We walk by enchanted classroom doors that seal shut when all the students are inside. It's a new safety measure since Alva's last break-in. \"Jocelyn said I'm lying, and Flora foolishly believed her.\" I sigh. \"Bottom line: Flora says Alva's the one who broke Harlow out, not Jocelyn. Jocelyn seemed upset she was left behind.\"\n\n\"I feel kind of bad for her being abandoned like that.\" Maxine's good eye widens. \"Oh, I just meant... I...\"\n\n\"It's fine. Forget it,\" Kayla says, and Maxine and I look at each other. Kayla wasn't exactly abandoned. Her whole family was cursed by Alva and turned into a group of trees. Still, Maxine's comment had to sting. \"I should go,\" she says and flutters away. She's barely gone a few feet before the hallway mirror glows purple.\n\n\"Illegal use of magic, Kayla!\" Miri reprimands her. \"No flying in the hallways!\"\n\nKayla ignores her. \"So? Give me detention. I'm not leaving this place anytime soon.\"\n\nMaxine shakes her head. \"That fairy needs a pick-me-up.\" Her good eye widens. \"I know! We should do a girl day and paint our nails or visit mermaids at the lake or... Ooh! Let's join the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting together. It would be fun to be in a club, wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"Not the RLWs!\" I say quickly, not that the other options are more appealing. Painting nails? Hanging with mermaids? I'd rather be baked in an oven. \"Maybe we could do fencing.\" A hallway disappears and we take the new one to the left. Thankfully it pops out on the lower level where we need to be. We have our first group therapy class with Blackbeard down here.\n\n\"Gillian Cobbler?\"\n\nI turn around and my shoulders sink. A gaggle of Royal Ladies-in-Waiting are staring at me. You can tell they're in the FTRS club because they wear bright-pink sashes over their school uniforms and always have creepy smiles plastered on their picture-perfect faces. I wonder if they heard me talking to Maxine.\n\nA goblin named Tessa Underlin steps forward and holds out a cream-colored envelope wrapped in a bright-pink ribbon. She's the RLW president, and she's wearing a tiara and a glittery, jeweled necklace. Her pointy ears are adorned with earrings much like Maxine wears. \"We'd like to present you with an invitation to join the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting.\"\n\n\"Oh, Gilly!\" Maxine cries, smacking her heart as I stare at the pink-and-gold lettering on the thick envelope. \"You're so lucky!\"\n\nTessa barely looks at Maxine, but I notice that the others start to whisper.\n\n\"You are the sole member we are recruiting for the club this semester, and we'd be ever so pleased if you could join us on our royal journey,\" Tessa adds.\n\n\"Recruit?\" I repeat. \"I thought clubs at FTRS were open to all students.\"\n\nTessa smiles smugly. I notice the pink patches on her uniform sash. She has more than any of the other girls, and I suspect it's because she's earned the most badges. All the girls start with the same five: a glass slipper, a wand, a hairbrush, a tube of lipstick, and a tiara. \"We are exclusive, and we only accept members who meet our proper lady criteria.\"\n\n\"I meet your criteria?\" I notice a chocolate stain on my skirt. \"I am not a lady.\"\n\nFor a second Tessa looks at me like I'm a bitter biscuit. \"You are a hero and that gives you a certain status. Princess Rose, our new advisor, asked for you personally. Princesses have endured so much that we commoners have not,\" she gushes. \"You've faced evil and survived, just like them. That makes you Royal Lady-in-Waiting material.\" The girls behind her nod their heads in agreement.\n\nI frown. \"I don't see it. I'm sure you guys never get your hands dirty.\"\n\nTessa looks uncomfortable. \"We're learning. With Alva's call to arms, we have to be ready for anything.\"\n\nMy villain radar goes up. \"You guys have read the manifesto?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" says a pixie sitting on another member's shoulder. \"Princess Rose held an emergency discussion on evil and power just last night that we all attended.\"\n\n\"So?\" Tessa presses. \"I assume you're interested. No one turns down Princess Rose. She's tough. She says it's never too early for a lady to learn how to defend herself.\"\n\nI find that sentiment surprising coming from a royal. \"Why not just let a dashing prince come to your rescue instead?\" I crack myself up, the sound echoing through the hall. No one else laughs. I stare at the stained glass window above me, wishing I had a way to climb up it and disappear.\n\n\"Princess Rose says you can't wait for someone else to do the rescuing,\" Tessa says tartly. \"If Royal Ladies-in-Waiting want something, they have to grab it.\"\n\nLike ruling Enchantasia? Could one of these princess wannabes secretly be working with Alva? I glance at Maxine, trying to somehow tell her what I'm thinking, but she's still drooling\u2014literally\u2014over Tessa's jewelry. Maybe if I went to an RLW meeting, I could find out if the mole is among them. That's what a hero would do, right?\n\nHmm...but do I really want to go to a club meeting where everything is pink? Shudder. I tug at my brown hair, which I never even combed this morning. \"I'll check out a meeting if Maxine can come with me,\" I say. \"She is just as much a potential Royal Lady-in-Waiting as I am.\"\n\nTessa looks at Maxine's lumpy frame and winces. \"Maxine?\"\n\nI put my arm around Maxine. At least I try to. She's much bigger than me. \"She's been helping out at your events all year.\"\n\nTessa looks at the others. \"But...well...you see, we have very strict criteria.\"\n\n\"Last time she tried to help, she crushed the flowers with her pudgy hand!\" cries one royal wannabe with a particularly crooked nose.\n\n\"I did,\" Maxine admits, her right eye rolling madly.\n\n\"She makes a mess when she's eating, and her food flew into my mouth one time!\" says a girl whose hair is so bright red I think it might be made of flames.\n\n\"I am kind of sloppy.\" Maxine burps for added benefit. The girls giggle.\n\nI've had enough. I shove my invitation back into Tessa's hands.\n\n\"If you guys don't think Maxine is RLW material, then you're not the kind of girls I want to hang out with,\" I say indignantly. How could girls who are this obsessed with princesses have a member who's the mole? I take back my original idea. Who needs them?\n\nThe final bell chimes, and students duck and roll through the closing classroom door. I have to make it through before it seals shut and I get extra detention time with Madame Cleo. Where I'd have to do dance lessons. Shudder.\n\n\"But Princess Rose...\" Tessa starts to say.\n\n\"You can tell Princess Rose that if she wants me to be in her royal-lover club, she'll put Maxine in it as well,\" I say.\n\n\"Okay! We will!\" Tessa calls after me as I race to the classroom door. \"And by the way, love the purple stripe in your hair!\"\n\nGrr... I pull Maxine with me as we dive through the doorway to Professor Harlow's\u2014I mean Blackbeard's\u2014classroom before the door seals shut with a slurp.\n\n\"Ah, the other lass we've been looking for!\" Blackbeard says.\n\nI look up and my jaw drops. Where the heck am I?\n\nBlackbeard puts a strong hand on my shoulder and leads me to the front of the classroom where a pouty Jocelyn is waiting. He flashes a mouth of rotten teeth. \"Ready for your duel, poppet?\"\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nMeet Fairy Tale Reform School's New Teacher: Blackbeard the Pirate!\n\nby Coco Collette\n\nName: Edward Teach but he's better known as Blackbeard for his famed long, black beard beaded with jewels from the Orient.\n\nFormer Occupation: \"Pillaging, plundering, and having lots of jolly good fun!\" says Blackbeard, who was more than happy to sit down for an interview with HEAS.\n\nCurrent Occupation: \"Teaching lads and lasses how to swab the decks.\" (We translated this to mean: \"Clean up thar acts.\")\n\nHobbies: Fencing. Blackbeard is taking over Professor Harlow's role as fencing team coach. The former pirate also enjoys \"a good sea chantey, and Madame Cleo knows plenty of them.\" (Hmm...makes us wonder about those romance rumors.)\n\nStrengths: Fear tactics. In battle, Blackbeard was a menacing sight. He dressed in black and tied fuses to his hair so they'd give off smoke. Enemies would surrender on sight. \"It's about the illusion, matey!\" No idea how this tactic will go over in a classroom.\n\nWeaknesses: \"I've been swayed by a bonny lass before.\" Paging Madame Cleo...\n\nLikes: Captaining a ship, the smell of sea air, and intellectual ARRguments\n\nHates: Insubordination. \"If ye don't follow me rules, I'll make ye walk the plank!\"\n\nCheck back for more coverage on FTRS's newest teacher, Blackbeard the Pirate!\n\n# CHAPTER 4\n\nCaptain of the Ship\n\nProfessor Harlow's room has been completely transformed overnight. It looks like the deck of what I assume is a pirate ship. Where the Evil Queen's desk once stood is now a helm with a wooden ship's wheel, and nearby, sails and ropes ascend to the ceiling. The floor beneath my feet is made of wooden planks that are being swabbed by a pirate. Another pirate is dusting a large, wooden serpent statue that I recognize from the bow of Blackbeard's ship. He must have moved it into his new classroom, right behind the mock ship's wheel.\n\nAt the far end of the classroom, or deck, are our old desks and the mer-folk tanks, which are now decorated with sea creatures and netting. The only thing I recognize is Miri's mirror hanging on a door to nowhere. The room used to be so dark you could barely see your quill, but now the walls beyond the ship's deck are enchanted to look like a sea. It's calm and the sun is shining, but in the distance I can see storm clouds rolling in.\n\n\"Crew!\" Blackbeard says to the class as Jocelyn and I stand next to him. \"We will start our first lesson with a duel between...\" Blackbeard scratches his beard. \"Poppets, what are yer names again?\"\n\n\"Gilly,\" I say, and the class erupts in cheers. The mer-folk do backflips in their tanks, and the pixies and fairies shoot off mini-fireworks even though they're technically not allowed. Ollie gives me a loud wolf whistle. Wow. Maybe this hero stuff has its benefits.\n\n\"And ye, love?\" Blackbeard motions to my opponent.\n\n\"Jocelyn,\" she says, and you could hear a pin drop.\n\n\"Ye rules of dueling arrgh simple.\" Blackbeard walks to the edge of the ship to grab two swords from a bucket. I feel my stomach drop. The sheen of the blade, the clinking noise the two swords make when he hits them together... Those babies are real! A pixie in the first row starts to whimper.\n\n\"Sir!\" Maxine waves her arms wildly. \"Are those real? Isn't that dangerous?\"\n\nBlackbeard laughs. \"Of course they're real!\" He uses one sword to slice a sail line, which falls on a mer-folk tank. \"But don't worry, dearie. Madame Cleo bewitched these beauties so that they can cut everything but people. See?\" He uses the sword to nick his own arm and everyone in the room screams. But when he removes his sword, the only thing sliced is his jacket. I breathe a sigh of relief.\n\n\"But gettin' cut in battle isn't what ye have to fear, me buckaroos.\" Blackbeard points to his noggin. \"Fear is what ye make of it. If losing is all ye fear, then ye will fight to the death to win!\" His voice booms. \"If ye battle for another reason\u2014anger, resentment, love\u2014ye have much more to lose, don't ye?\" He points to Jocelyn and me with the blade. \"What is sending ye into battle this morn?\"\n\nWho knew a pirate would make much more sense than an evil queen? Why do I always fight with Jocelyn? I look at her and she stares back at me, her eyes dark as coal. It's because I don't trust villains. Sure, I may sort of be one for my thieving, but that's nothing compared to what she's done. Jocelyn is an evil bully, and I don't like her.\n\nMiri's mirror begins to glow, washing the makeshift pirate ship in a blue that mimics the reflection of the ocean. \"Professor Blackbeard?\" Miri's voice comes into the room. \"Headmistress Flora would like to have a word in the hall. It's urgent.\"\n\nBlackbeard removes his hat. \"Aargh! Fine.\" He looks at us. \"Ye behave. I'll be out thar.\"\n\nAs soon as he leaves, the room erupts in conversations. Jocelyn moves to the plank at one end of the ship, while I attempt to pen a note to my sister Anna. She's still mad at me for being stuck at FTRS, but I'm hoping eventually she'll send me a Pegasus Post back. I sit down to write and am surprised when a group of students mobs me.\n\n\"You've got to beat Jocelyn,\" says a goblin boy. \"We can't stand her.\" The others nod. \"But you'll win! Anyone who went after Alva twice has to.\"\n\n\"Pummel the witch!\" someone shouts. It's Ronald Gertrude, this weaselly kid who follows Ollie around. With a pale, pudgy face, eyes like slits, and greasy hair always slicked back in a ponytail, he looks like one of Ella's coachmen who are always pushing villagers off the carriage when it is parked in the square. Rumor has it Ronald is in FTRS for stealing Pegasi, and Maxine heard he's banned from our stables for teasing the animals. I ignore him.\n\n\"Jocelyn is no match for you,\" says a sprite with bright-blue hair. This is the same girl who ran from Jocelyn just a few weeks ago during detention. \"No one beats a hero!\"\n\nThere's that word again. Hero. I could get used to that.\n\n\"My mom said I could order a pair of your father's glass slippers,\" says an RLW with a pink bow on her head. \"All the princesses have them, but your father can't keep up with orders. Could you, um, maybe put in a call for me?\"\n\n\"My father says your father is being invited to all the village parties because of how you helped when Alva attacked the school,\" says a pixie who lands on my shoulder. \"Everyone wants to hang out with the Cobblers now.\"\n\nI smile to myself, thinking of my family being in demand instead of shunned for a change. I wonder if the attention makes Anna happy. Maybe all the village goodwill will make her finally forgive me.\n\n\"I was talking to Gilly!\" the RLW snaps. Then she smiles at me. \"So about the slippers. Can you put in a call for me? Because I really need them ASAP.\"\n\nEveryone is talking over one other. Maxine is jumping around in the background trying to reach me, but I'm distracted. I never got attention like this at home. Father was disappointed in my thieving, and I was always in trouble. But if sales are as good as this girl and Felix says they are, he must be thrilled. I know I am. I've never had so many people calling my name before, let alone cheering me on. It feels good to be appreciated. I hold my hand up in solidarity and they go nuts. Holy gingerbread. This is cool.\n\n\"Gilly!\" Maxine tries yelling, but I am sure whatever she has to tell me can wait.\n\n\"I'm back, buckos!\" hollers Blackbeard, and everyone runs to their seats. \"We're going to have to cut class early so let's get this duel started. Have ye lasses thought about what I said?\" Blackbeard goes to his wheel and gives it a little spin. \"So many buccaneers could have spared their lives if they'd just hashed things out without a weapon. Do ye two want to do the same?\"\n\n\"No,\" Jocelyn and I say at the same time, and my classmates get excited. I side-eye Maxine. She's too busy talking to Ollie to look at me. Geez, are my friends going to pay attention to my duel?\n\n\"Very well, let the dueling begin. Crew, be still.\" I don't understand what he means 'til Blackbeard points his compass at the back of the room and bam! The desks and fish tanks have been moved to the corners of the room\u2014ship...whatever. In their place is a large, flat deck perfect for fencing. \"I assume ye both have dueled before?\"\n\n\"I'm the best fencer on my sister's fencing team,\" Jocelyn brags.\n\n\"Ah, I forgot to mention that.\" Blackbeard slaps his thigh. \"Harlow's out as coach and this buckaroo is in.\" Jocelyn's eyes look like they're going to bulge out of her head. \"Tryouts for ye fencing club be soon!\"\n\n\"I am so making the team,\" I boast to Blackbeard. \"The Evil Queen isn't here to hold me back.\" Jocelyn's nostrils flare. I'm enjoying getting a rise out of her. My classmates are applauding, and a warm feeling is spreading through my chest.\n\n\"You'll totally make the team, Gilly!\" someone yells.\n\n\"The only sword you've ever used is a fire poker, Cobbler,\" Jocelyn snaps. \"You think that purple stripe in your hair is a curse? Just wait 'til you slip up. Your school will get destroyed while you're busy stroking your own ego.\" The class is cheering so loudly that I can barely hear her.\n\n\"What did you say?\" I move closer, but Blackbeard hands us our swords.\n\nI feel the weight of the steel in my hand. It's not like I haven't used a sword before. My dagger saved Princess Snow. I'm sure I can manage a proper fight with a sword. I've wanted to be a fencer forever.\n\n\"Now take three paces away from each other, and when I give the command, ye will have five minutes on my clock to duel,\" Blackbeard explains. \"Winner gets... What are ye even fighting over?\"\n\nI feel my hatred sear. \"I want Jocelyn put in the dungeon where she belongs.\" The class cheers.\n\n\"I want Cobbler to keep her peasant nose out of my business.\" Jocelyn's black cape billows out behind her in a wind that appears out of nowhere.\n\nBlackbeard scratches his beard. \"Blimey! I'm not sure I can have anyone locked away or keep ye apart, but we'll come up with something. A little time in the dungeons might suffice. Now walk\u2014and keep it clean, poppets!\"\n\nJocelyn and I turn away from each other as the class cheers us on. I walk three paces and wait 'til I hear Blackbeard give the command. As I do, Ollie bolts for the door and leaves without telling our professor.\n\n\"Duel!\" Blackbeard commands.\n\nI don't turn at first. I glance Jocelyn's way out of the corner of my eye with my head down (a great thief technique) so that she can't see me looking. I wait a second, hoping Jocelyn charges and I can jump out of her way, but she's gone. Where'd she go?\n\nBoom!\n\nJocelyn appears in front of me with glowing eyes. Within seconds, my body flies backward, smacking into a pixie and knocking her into Maxine's hands.\n\n\"Fight clean!\" Blackbeard bellows as my classmates boo.\n\n\"I knew you couldn't fence,\" Jocelyn says icily and flicks that annoying cape of hers as she makes her way over to where I lie. She raises her sword to strike me.\n\n\"And you think you can? You're just using magic,\" I say, stalling for time until I can figure out my move. Jocelyn's sword comes down over her head to pierce my arm and I roll out of the way. Everyone cheers as I jump up and raise my own sword.\n\n\"Look at you and your cheering section,\" Jocelyn mocks.\n\n\"Jealous?\" I ask, slicing a hole in a star on her cape.\n\n\"Never!\" she says. \"Being popular doesn't make you better. And at least I don't have purple hair.\"\n\nThe two of us clink swords across the ship-classroom toward Blackbeard, who watches quietly. Clink! Rattle! Clink! I swipe one way, then the other, and then our swords connect above our heads. I may not be on the fencing team, but that doesn't mean I haven't practiced. Jocelyn doesn't realize I have three little brothers who spend most of their waking hours pretending to be pirates.\n\nI'm closing in on Jocelyn, inching her toward the side of the ship, when I see her whisper an incantation. I'm knocked on my back again. This time, I'm not going quietly.\n\nI've got tricks too. I may be on the ground, but Jocelyn's cape is so large that I can grab a handful of it and yank. Jocelyn goes flying. \"I always knew your cape was trouble.\"\n\n\"I'll give you trouble.\" Jocelyn starts swirling her right wrist like she's stirring hot cocoa with a spoon. A purple haze begins to spin up from the floor. I may not have magic at my fingertips, but I'm smarter than she is. I spot the sail line hanging next to me, grab one end, and cut the other from its attached sandbag. The rope sends me flying above the classroom into the rafters above, and I pull myself up onto a wooden beam.\n\nJocelyn attempts to follow me, but as she's on her way up, I cut her line, sending her falling down to the floor again. Yes! As the kids cheer, I grab another rope and begin to shimmy down when\u2014Aaah! Jocelyn's cut my line.\n\nI'm falling, falling, falling. I hear people screaming, and the ground flying up to meet me, but I can do nothing to stop myself. I put my hands in front of my face to brace myself and feel my body snap like a rubber band. When I open one eye, I realize I've stopped inches from the ground and am floating there. I look over and see Jocelyn in the middle of a spell meant for me. Her conjuring has kept me from smacking into the floor.\n\n\"Looks like you owe me, Cobbler.\" Jocelyn taunts and any chance of me thanking her goes out the window. \"Good!\" She drops me the few inches to the floor. \"I guess I really do control you now.\"\n\nJocelyn has gone too far. I spring up and race at her with my sword raised high. Her eyes widen and she steps back, preparing for us to clink blades. Clink! Clink! Clink! We go back and forth, around and around, faster this time. The crowd is cheering again and chanting my name. Gilly! Gilly! Gilly! I love the sound of them saying it while Jocelyn strains to keep up with me. She looks nervous. She should be! I can't disappoint my fans\u2014I have to win this duel.\n\nSo I cheat.\n\nWhile Jocelyn's sword is raised, I use my free hand to grab her hair and yank.\n\n\"Ouch!\" She turns around and pulls my purple locks of hair. Both of us drop our swords and pounce, rolling to the ground and doing what we started to do the other day\u2014fighting the good, old-fashioned way. I mean, the other old-fashioned way. With name-calling and hair-pulling.\n\n\"Liar!\" I cry.\n\n\"Thief!\" Jocelyn bellows.\n\n\"Wicked!\" I taunt.\n\n\"Cobbler!\" Jocelyn sputters. \"Poor man's daughter!\"\n\nMy blood is ready to boil over. \"Why couldn't you have just disappeared along with your sister?\" I shout. \"I know! Because she didn't want you! She left you behind on purpose!\" Jocelyn stops fighting.\n\nI see Jocelyn's pained reaction just as we disappear under a sail that's been dropped onto us. The sail pulls us close, rolling us up. Within seconds, we're both mummified.\n\n\"Time!\" Blackbeard yells through the wrapping.\n\nThe world around us is eerily quiet. We're lying on top of each other, and the only sound I hear is Jocelyn's and my breath going in and out. I hesitate, feeling slightly guilty, but I'm still unsure of what I want to say. \"Jocelyn, I...\"\n\nShe snaps her fingers and we unravel, me rolling into a wall.\n\n\"It seems ye be tied!\" Blackbeard says.\n\nMy classmates are cheering, but Maxine looks horrified.\n\n\"It's not a tie.\" Jocelyn staggers toward me, straightening out her crooked robe. \"The hero won. At least that's what everyone here is going to say.\" She looks straight at me. \"Just remember\u2014the bigger the hero is, the harder they fall.\" Her eyes flash purple. \"And I can't wait to be here when you go splat.\" Then in the purple haze I've become accustomed to, Jocelyn snaps her fingers and disappears.\n\nPegasus Postal Service\n\nFlying Letters Since The Troll War!\n\nFROM: Gillian Cobbler (Fairy Tale Reform School*)\n\n*Letter checked for suspicious content\n\nTO: Anna Cobbler (2 Boot Way)\n\nAnna Banana,\n\nYou are even harder to reach than the royals! This is the fourth post I've sent this month. Every one gets returned to sender. Did you move to a new boot and not tell me?\n\nIf you haven't moved, and you really are my sister, Anna Cobbler of 2 Boot Way, then hear me out. I'm sorry, okay? I stayed here to protect you. I want you, Felix, Trixie, Han, and Hamish to be safe. I want Father's boot business to continue to do well. I want Mother to have time off to read a book or put her feet up on the sofa. (Not that she ever will. She hates shoes on furniture!)\n\nFelix wrote and said getting Father's glass-slipper gig back has helped a ton with money and meals. I'm glad! If me being a hero helps our family, then I'm happy I'm stuck at FTRS. I'd do anything for you. I hope you know that.\n\nMy roommate says visitation day is going to get moved up. I really hope you'll consider coming with Father and Mother to see me. I miss you more than you know.\n\nLove, Gilly Bean\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nMeet the Teacher: Our Very Own Princess Rose Is Working at FTRS!\n\nby Coco Collette\n\nName: Princess Rose, a.k.a. Sleeping Beauty, who escaped Alva's slumbering curse\n\nDual Occupations!\n\nThe Princess: \"I love my kingdom and having the chance to mingle with my people, but one wishes to be seen as more than just a crown.\"\n\nThe Club Advisor: Running the distinguished Royal Ladies-in-Waiting. The RLWs have served at kingdom dinners, decorated carriages for public rides, and have been known to go glass-slipper shopping for their princesses. \"With proper training, every girl can be charming enough to find the princess within.\"\n\nHobbies: Dancing (she won the royal dance-off five years in a row), singing (she leads the royal a cappella group), and...hunting? \"I find it keeps me focused.\"\n\nStrengths: While the other princesses handle politics, crime, and public policy, Rose is a princess of the public. \"I know what my kingdom needs because I spend so much time among the people. That's why I am so impressed with Gillian Cobbler. This hero rose from humble beginnings. She is more of a lady than most women I know.\"\n\nWeaknesses: Spinning wheels, of course, and all flowers, except roses, naturally. (As villagers will recall, the thorny gingerroot was found surrounding the room where the princess took her hundred-year slumber. That's enough to turn anyone off flowers!)\n\nCheck back for more coverage on FTRS's newest teacher, Princess Rose!\n\n# CHAPTER 5\n\nThe Conquering Hero\n\n\"Gilly! Gilly! Gilly!\"\n\nMy classmates carry me out of Blackbeard's room on their shoulders. People are chanting my name and applauding at such an ear-deafening decibel that it feels like I've defeated Alva herself. So this is what it's like to be a hero! I see why the princesses like it\u2014not that I like the princesses now or anything. I just don't get why villains like being evil so much. Being popular is so much better!\n\n\"Thanks, everyone,\" I say as the trolls put me down. They're still cheering. Are Maxine and Ollie seeing this? Where'd they go? \"I have to get to my next class.\" Groan. \"But I'll see you all at lunch.\" They cheer some more, and I smile. This is great! A hallway shifts in front of me, and I dash toward it. I land with a thud in a new hall where Jax, Kayla, Ollie, and Maxine have congregated. I roll to a stop on Maxine's big toe.\n\n\"Ouch!\" She hops up and down, making the lanterns above us sway.\n\n\"Sorry!\" I stand up and brush myself off. They're all looking at me like I'm a stranger. \"Where'd you guys go? Did you see me beat Jocelyn? It was amazing! She totally crumbled.\" Their faces are blank. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"There's been an attack on Royal Manor,\" Kayla explains. \"Alva sent her gargoyles to tear things up.\"\n\n\"I tried to tell you in class, but you were being carried off on someone's shoulders,\" Maxine says.\n\n\"Is everyone okay?\" I brush off my stockings, which now have a hole in them. That's the third pair I've ruined this month.\n\n\"The royal court is fine,\" Jax says. \"Alva somehow knew the guards were away on a training mission while Rapunzel was hosting a tea with the ogre tribes to broker peace. The gargoyles swooped in and scared the ogres off before any progress was made. You know how much they fear beasties.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know,\" says Maxine, who shudders. \"I still have nightmares about the gargoyles' breath.\"\n\n\"How'd you find out so fast?\" I ask.\n\n\"Father sent me a message with this.\" Jax pulls a quill out of his pocket. It's one of the magic quills that self-writes a message when you touch the point of the quill to parchment. When you write back with it, the ink disappears so the note can't be confiscated. It's brilliant. I had no idea it could work sending a message as far away as the royal castle. If that's the case, maybe I can get one to Anna.\n\n\"Rapunzel got knocked out when she tried to fight the gargoyles off,\" Jax says. \"When she awoke, she found a scroll in her hands with a message.\" Jax writes something, and Alva's loopy handwriting appears, having been copied by Jax's father. The words give me chills:\n\nYou can run, but you can't hide. Nowhere is safe. My ranks are rising, and my power is growing. You've been warned.\n\n\"Wow, that villain has a vendetta all right.\" Ollie shakes his head. \"I guess when your evil scheme to curse a princess to sleep fails, you go to the next best plan\u2014take over the whole kingdom.\"\n\n\"Thank goodness Rapunzel is okay.\" Maxine's love of princesses is legendary.\n\n\"My sister is fine, thankfully, but she and Father are really worried,\" Jax says. \"If Alva learns about more peace talks and keeps sending her gargoyles, it could ruin future negotiations. The princesses are this close to a treaty. If Alva stops the peace talks, it could mean war.\"\n\n\"No!\" Maxine cries. \"We ogres have come so far for our freedom. We're finally allowed in the village and at this school. I couldn't even go to FTRS when it first opened. We can't let Alva destroy that.\"\n\nI put a hand on her shoulder. \"We have to find that mole.\" I think of the RLWs again. I'm still not sure one of those silly princess wannabes is desperate enough to work with Alva, but it's the only lead I have. I can figure this out on my own.\n\n\"There's more.\" Jax looks gloomy. \"Headmistress Flora was at Royal Manor this morning to meet with the royal court to discuss protection for FTRS. She's worried about Alva's manifesto and what it could do to the students at our school. The princesses were sympathetic, but...\" Jax hesitates. \"They refused to offer protection. Everything that has happened at FTRS makes us too risky to help. We're on our own.\"\n\n\"How could the princesses say that?\" I ask angrily. \"We're kids and members of this kingdom. They're just going to let our school keep getting attacked?\"\n\nJax's smile is grim. \"You sound like Flora. Rapunzel said she stormed out right before the other princesses took leave and the gargoyles attacked.\"\n\n\"That's just like royals to think about themselves,\" I grumble.\n\nJax throws his hands up. \"You are so anti-royal.\"\n\n\"I am not anti-royal!\" I say. \"I'm friends with you, aren't I?\"\n\n\"You did refuse Princess Rose's invite to join the RLWs,\" Maxine chimes in.\n\n\"Seriously?\" Kayla's jaw drops. \"That's the most prestigious group in school.\"\n\n\"If they'd let boys in, I'd totally join,\" Ollie adds, pulling three balls out of his pocket so he can juggle. \"Looks like a great way to impress the ladies.\"\n\n\"I have no desire to be a wannabe royal.\" I sniff. \"I don't need their approval. All I care about is finding this mole.\"\n\n\"Gilly's right,\" Kayla agrees. \"We have to find out who is secretly aiding Alva. She won't stop 'til she's ruling Enchantasia, and she wants the students of FTRS to help her get there.\" Her face scrunches up. \"I have an idea, but you might not like it. There's only one person out there who can help us find that mole fast.\" She inhales. \"Rumpelstiltskin.\"\n\nOllie misses one of the balls he's juggling and all three fly out of his hands, bouncing off the floor, the walls, and Maxine's head.\n\n\"No price is worth paying for his help,\" Jax reminds her.\n\nI glance at Kayla. After what Rumpelstiltskin did to her family, I try to avoid saying his name at all costs. Say it three times, and rumor has it, he'll appear. We don't need any more problems. \"There has to be another way to find out who the mole is.\" We're all quiet.\n\n\"What about my mini magical scroll?\" Maxine exclaims. \"Someone is leaving me messages on it. It has to be someone who works at HEAS.\"\n\nJax and I look at each other. \"She has gotten several notes. We should check it out,\" says Jax.\n\nI sigh. I'm still not convinced those messages are for Maxine, but what other lead do we have?\n\n\"I can prove my messages are real! What if we showed up at HEAS's offices in the village?\" Maxine asks. \"If they see me outside, they might be willing to talk.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Ollie says. \"We can just pop out of the castle and go to HEAS. Maybe we can even pick up fresh flowers and caramel cakes while we're there.\"\n\nJax scratches his chin. \"I think Maxine is onto something.\"\n\nShe beams.\n\n\"Did you eat too much gingerbread?\" Kayla laughs. \"Last time you tried to break out, you set off every alarm in the castle and had Wolfington on you in seconds. You can't bust out of a reform school.\"\n\n\"You used to disappear all the time,\" I remind her.\n\n\"But I never left school grounds,\" Kayla says, giving us a glimpse into a world I've wondered about. \"Gottie\u2014excuse me, Alva\u2014would leave me notes near the Hollow Woods. I've never broke out. It's like asking for a longer sentence in this joint.\"\n\nA sly smile spreads across Jax's face. \"So maybe we don't break out. We walk out.\"\n\nPegasus Postal Service\n\nFlying Letters Since The Troll War!\n\nFROM: Anna Cobbler (2 Boot Way)\n\nTO: Gillian Cobbler (Fairy Tale Reform School*)\n\n*Letter checked for suspicious content\n\nPOST RETURNED TO SENDER. RECIPIENT REFUSED DELIVERY. AGAIN.\n\n# CHAPTER 6\n\nDelinquents on a Roll\n\nI wake up to the glow of our magical chalkboard scroll lighting up our room like fireflies. I squint to read the lettering that appears and know immediately the time has come to make our move.\n\nAll classes canceled today due to plumbing problems in the cafeteria. A buffet will be set up in the gymnasium today for all meals. Take time to study and enjoy the lovely weather!\n\n\u2014Headmistress Flora, FTRS\n\nI throw back Kayla's pink covers to wake her. She stops snoring and blinks at me. \"Flora canceled class. That's our sign! Ollie is probably already at the meeting point. Go! Go! Go!\"\n\nFive minutes later, I'm wearing the clothes I arrived at FTRS in and Kayla is unhappy about wearing some of my other peasant threads. We move quietly through three moving hallways without being spotted, but Kayla keeps stopping to braid her hair. (\"My hair should look good if my outfit doesn't!\")\n\n\"Come on!\" I huff as a new hallway opens up a few feet away. How this girl used to sneak around to meet Alva, I'll never know. \"Before we're\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, hello, Gillian Cobbler!\"\n\nKayla and I spin around. Princess Rose is even more beautiful up close. She looks fresh as a rose at 7:00 a.m. in a lilac gown and a tiara. Her blond hair is pulled up in a bun that has a matching bow, and her satin skirt swishes as she walks toward us and shakes my hand with a delicate touch. \"It's so lovely to finally meet you.\" I notice the RLW packet in her hands. \"Where are you off to so early and dressed so...humbly?\"\n\n\"I told you our clothes looked sad,\" Kayla whispers in my ear.\n\n\"We're headed to the gym to exercise. Like my father always said, 'A day started late is a day wasted.'\"\n\nThe princess beams. \"I couldn't agree more. That's why I'm up early too. The Royal Ladies-in-Waiting are hosting a tea for a visiting princess from the kingdom of Captiva this afternoon. I do hope you'll be joining us.\"\n\nSo that's what that fluffy pink thing was in our dorm mailbox. \"I'm really busy.\"\n\nPrincess Rose steps closer and smiles. \"Yes. Exercising. Strange how you will manage to do that when the gym is being used for food service today.\"\n\nFiddlesticks. I've been made. Not a great way to start a breakout. \"I guess we'll get some fresh air then. Maybe hike.\"\n\nPrincess Rose holds my stare. \"Hopefully you'll be back in time for tea. Tessa tells me you have not accepted our invitation. May I ask why?\" I start to fumble under her ice-blue stare. \"You were the one student I asked for by name when I was given this position.\"\n\nThe way she's staring at me makes me feel like I've fallen into poison ivy. \"Thanks, but I don't think I'm royal material.\" I look down at my muddy boots.\n\nPrincess Rose puts a hand on my arm. \"The Royal-Ladies-in-Waiting can teach you all you need to think like a princess. Don't you want to feel and act royally? Have the chance to leave the FTRS grounds and visit Royal Manor?\"\n\nI burst out laughing. \"Sorry,\" I say when I see her shocked reaction. \"Thanks for the offer, but being royal has never been something I've aspired to.\"\n\nThe sleeping beauty raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. \"That's a shame. Being royal is the quickest way to gain power in Enchantasia, and power is something we all need more of. Like your father. It would be a shame if his newfound power as glass-slipper maker disappeared again.\" She pushes her glossy hair away from her eyes. \"From what I've heard, the extra income that comes from being related to you has helped your family tremendously.\"\n\nI feel a pit form in my stomach. Is the princess blackmailing me into joining?\n\nRose hands me a pink card that smells like roses. \"If you change your mind, here is a new invite. I hope you'll reconsider.\" I start to take the card and feel a tug. Princess Rose won't let go. Her smile is thin, making her lips look like pulled taffy. \"I won't be happy 'til you're a member, Gillian.\"\n\n\"Yes, Princess.\" I grab the card and pull Kayla to a new hall that appears. I don't even curtsy. See? I'd make a terrible RLW, but I am tempted by the thought of leaving school grounds and not getting detention for it.\n\n\"She didn't ask me to join the club,\" Kayla grumbles as we hurry away.\n\n\"You helped Alva try to curse the royals. I don't think you're being invited.\"\n\nKayla sighs. \"You have a point.\"\n\nWe pass the elf cleaning crew dusting an atrium sitting area where books are tucked into bookcases as high as the stained glass windows. Some of the feather dusters are dusting on their own. The elves seem to be on a coffee break because they don't move when they see us hurry past. Minutes later, we're at the cafeteria.\n\n\"Over here!\" Ollie whispers. He, Maxine, and Jax are hiding behind a sign announcing fencing tryouts with Blackbeard. Ye Better Be Prepared! it says. Same goes for today. My friends are in disguise wearing Gnome-olia Bakery uniforms and chefs' hats. The sight of Jax in a baker's apron makes me giggle.\n\n\"What?\" He models his apron. \"I'd make an excellent baker. Put yours on. Our ride leaves in five minutes.\"\n\nI throw mine on and take in the heavenly scent of cinnamon. \"What's the plan?\"\n\n\"Gnome-olia Bakery is doing its weekly delivery of cinnamon rolls.\" Ollie points to the kitchen. \"We will sneak in the back of the carriage and make like a bag of rolls. They should have extra sacks that we can slip into. These uniforms will help us blend in at Gnome-olia Bakery 'til we can make our way out.\"\n\nMaxine gives me a toothy grin. \"Gilly! You came! The Happily Ever After Scrolls office is next to the fountain in the village square. We'll need to find a way to sneak in there once we can scout out the location. I even posted a message on the HEAS comments board by my last note and said, 'Would love to visit the office!' And look what someone commented below me: 'It's right next to my favorite tea shop. I'll have to wear my new Little Red Riding Hood cloak there if I'm ever invited.' It's got to be our source!\"\n\n\"Wow.\" I think Maxine is right. This source wants to help us!\n\n\"We're going to find the mole! We're going to find the mole!\" Kayla sings.\n\n\"I agree, but I still have one question,\" I say. \"Gnome-olia delivers here every few days. How are we getting back?\" Their faces fall.\n\nOllie swallows hard. \"We're clever. I'm sure we'll come up with something.\"\n\n\"Just two more sacks, Gemma!\" someone yells, and we duck down to avoid being seen by the school's goblin chef.\n\nJax motions for us to follow him. I hate coming into a heist without all the information, but the thought of seeing Anna washes my concerns away. I stuff the baker's hat on my head and follow the others through the cafeteria. One by one, we drop to the floor and crawl along behind the counters. The wood countertops are filled with strange, half-chopped root vegetables, and pots are steaming on the cast-iron stove. Some are being stirred by long, wooden spoons bewitched with magic. Jax pulls me behind a sack of potatoes.\n\nI see boots under the table. \"Don, Headmistress Flora wants an order of caramel cakes. We're having a tea honoring Princess Rose. She just joined the staff.\"\n\n\"You've got a royal working in a reform school?\" asks Don as we move around the table to the other side to avoid them. Maxine is moving so fast that she narrowly misses hitting a wayward pot with her big feet. \"I think I have some in the carriage. Hey, Phil!\" he calls. \"Grab me a dozen caramel cakes for the headmistress.\"\n\nI hear more footsteps. \"I'll sign the scroll for the delivery then and be off,\" Don says.\n\nOur group scurries behind a sack of flour that is the size of a giant. If Phil comes down our aisle, we're toast.\n\n\"Where is that scroll?\" Gemma asks. \"I had it on the counter.\" I see the purple nails of her goblin feet inch closer to where we're hidden. Then she turns back. \"It's gone! Oh well. Come into the cafeteria and I'll grab a new one.\"\n\nOllie holds up the missing scroll. \"Let's move.\" With the coast clear, we crawl quickly along the pan racks and we're out the door in seconds. Into the cool, misty morning air we hurry, standing up and diving into the back of the carriage. I grab the first sack I see and begin passing them out. Ollie and Kayla fit into one. Maxine has her own, and that leaves one for Jax and me. I hear voices and know we only have seconds to hide.\n\nJax jumps in and shakes the bag for me to join him. \"Let's go, thief!\"\n\nI'm out of time. I grab his hand and hoist myself into the burlap sack rimmed with flour and crumbs from rolls. Jax pulls the sack over us. Through the fibers of the bag, I can just make out Jax's face staring back at my own. I hear one of the guys approach the carriage and tie down the back of the canopy, shrouding the area in darkness. We're off.\n\n# CHAPTER 7\n\nBreaking Free\n\nAn hour later, I can barely believe my eyes. I'm home.\n\nWe've ditched our bakers' clothes, slipped out of Gnome-olia Bakery without pinching cinnamon rolls, and are now standing in the middle of Enchantasia village square. The fountain still gurgles and sputters like a geyser every hour on the hour. Peddlers bustle by with their carts, selling trinkets, mini magical scrolls, and Rapunzel's hair-care products. Villagers bang into us on their way to work or school while Pegasi fly overhead, dropping Pegasus Posts to homes, boots, oversized teapots, and other shops.\n\nI hear the clock tower chime 9:00 a.m. and scan the crowd for my siblings. They should be on their way to trade school, and I know they used to pass right through the square so Felix could make a wish at the fountain. Just beyond it, I spot the gold-colored building with the famous quill-and-scroll sign\u2014Happily Ever After Scrolls: Enchanting Enchantasia with the News One Scroll at a Time! There is only one main door, and goblins, trolls, and pixies are flying through it on their way to work. How are we going to get past them? How are we... Do I smell shoe polish?\n\nHome. Father's shop is just around the corner. I haven't seen our crowded boot in so long, but with it just feet away, I feel a longing. I begin to walk toward the square that leads to our street and feel my arm yanked back.\n\n\"Don't be foolish.\" Jax holds my arm. He and Maxine are leaning against a wall near the farmers market. \"The square is way too public. We need to keep our heads down and stay out of large areas.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\" I protest.\n\nJax's violet eyes are all knowing. \"I can tell what you're thinking, thief, but it's too risky. You can't visit your sister.\"\n\nMy heart sinks.\n\nMaxine pulls her scroll out of her pocket and glances at it again. \"I'm so nervous! What if my mystery note-giver didn't see my post on the HEAS comments? What if she forgets to wear a red cloak? What if we can't get inside? What if...?\"\n\nI place a hand over her mouth. \"What if we wait and see what happens?\"\n\nOllie walks over holding a shabby cloak. \"New disguise for Gilly! Look what I nabbed! These babies were waiting by Goodwill.\" He offers me the cloak.\n\n\"Why do I need a new disguise?\" I ask.\n\n\"You're famous! I've seen people staring at you,\" Jax explains. \"People know you're at FTRS. If you're recognized, we'll be toast. Put these on and try to stay in the shadows. You can be our point person.\"\n\nWhat? That's just...gingerbread! When did my hero work suddenly become a liability? I tie a brown cape that smells like molasses around my shoulders. I tuck my brown hair in and pull the hood over my head, tying it tight so it doesn't fall off. \"If I'm the point person, I'll alert you if I see Pete and his goons. I can spot the Dwarf Police Squad from three carriages away.\"\n\n\"Mmm, do you smell that?\" Ollie asks, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply. \"Caramel cakes. I haven't had one since I was on the high seas.\"\n\nThe clock in the square chimes nine fifteen. \"Okay, here's how it's going to go down.\" Jax sounds in command. \"Maxine and I will scout out the security at the building, making Maxine's presence known. Maybe her source will see her and come down. Everyone look for a person in a red cloak. If that doesn't work, we'll try to get inside. Gilly, you're on point for the Dwarf Police Squad. Kayla, you look for alternate exits along with Ollie, who will pretend to be a shopper in the square. If anyone spots us, we meet at the Pegasi valet stand. Got it?\"\n\n\"Huh?\" Ollie's eyes are watering, and his tongue is sticking out of his mouth. \"They're oozing caramel and\u2014whoa! They dunked a patty cake in caramel! Caramel inside and outside the cake. Genius! Would it be so wrong if I pinched one?\"\n\n\"Ollie,\" we moan.\n\n\"They won't see me swipe it!\" he insists. \"If I juggle apples and do the ear trick, they'll be so distracted that they won't even notice.\"\n\n\"No patty cakes.\" I turn him away from the cart and toward a vendor selling satin gloves. \"Look like Ella!\" the sparkly, glowing sign screams. \"If we get caught, we're doomed. And we still don't know how we're getting home yet.\"\n\n\"We'll worry about that after.\" Jax uses a calming voice I associate with royal speeches. \"First, we need Maxine's source to show herself and talk. We have to find that leak in the castle before\u2014\"\n\nMaxine burps. \"Sorry! I'm nervous!\"\n\n\"Oooh! Look at those Ella gloves!\" Kayla coos.\n\n\"Patty cakes!\" Ollie stretches his arms out to the sweet cart.\n\nThis is why I usually work alone. Our crew is a mess. I can do so much more without all these distractions. \"Everyone,\" I say sharply. \"We broke out of FTRS. We could be spotted at any moment. Flora might figure out we're missing. Let's keep our eye on the dragon.\"\n\nJax nods encouragingly. \"Exactly! Places, people.\"\n\nBut I guess I had no reason to worry. There is a reason all of us are in FTRS. We're good at pretending to be what we're not. Once everyone is focused, our plan falls into place. Jax takes Maxine's arm and the two begin walking over to the HEAS offices, talking animatedly about a puppet show they supposedly just saw.\n\nA few seconds later, Kayla skips along behind them, never getting too close, never stepping too far away. \"Look!\" I hear her cry to no one in particular. \"Six pence! Anyone want to help me throw some in the HEAS fountain?\"\n\nOllie pulls his cloak tight as he peruses the peddler carts. \"If I could just find some gingerroot flowers or stems, I'd get an A on this class project,\" he says loudly.\n\nToo bad gingerroot is harder to come by than fairy godmothers. Maxine found some once (ogres have an excellent sense of smell), but I used it on Jocelyn when Harlow escaped. Maxine and I should really hunt near the Hollow Woods for some more.\n\nI lean against the brick wall of the Pied Piper's Music Emporium where I can see the whole square laid out in front of me. There's no sign of Pete or Olaf. In the distance, the silver turrets of Royal Manor blind anyone who dares look at them too long. I focus on the cobblestone path around the fountain that leads toward 2 Boot Way. I'm so close and yet so far.\n\nI see Jax and Maxine inch closer to the HEAS doors. I can see them whispering and pointing to a shining silver box on the front of the door. Is that a security system to get inside? A speaker? I hate not knowing what is happening! I could help break into that joint. I know it. The flurry of workers going into the building has stopped. The foot traffic in the village square has thinned out, and any hope I had of bumping into Anna or my siblings is growing slim. The only children out now are too little for schooling. I notice Kayla hand a small child a coin for the fountain.\n\nMy eyes linger on a boy carrying a blue balloon with his mother. He bops the thing up and down, reminding me of my little brothers Han and Hamish. Another tug and the balloon flies away. His mother makes an attempt to reach it, but the balloon is now almost at the top of the clock tower. The kid is wailing when, just as suddenly, the balloon begins to descend.\n\nI watch as a woman shrouded under a red velvet cloak reaches for the balloon and catches it in her hand. It's the source! She's come! I want to scream it out and tell the others, but that will blow my cover. I wait patiently for Jax and Maxine to turn around or Ollie to look my way so I can alert someone to what's happening. They're all in their own little worlds. I watch as the woman in red hands the balloon to the squealing child and the mother, who stares in disbelief.\n\n\"How the heck did she do that?\" I ask myself out loud.\n\nThe woman in red looks my way as if she can hear me. I feel my fingers tingle. Her hood hides her face in darkness, but I can see just the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile that I seem to recognize. The question is from where? It's not Alva. Returning a balloon wouldn't be her style.\n\n\"Thief!\"\n\nI turn and see a woman at the caramel cake cart pointing to Ollie, who is holding a bag of patty cakes. \"Thief!\" One hangs from Ollie's mouth. He quickly drops a smoke bomb. \"Stop him!\"\n\n\"Ollie,\" I groan. When I look back for the woman in the cape, she's gone.\n\nPeople screech as the smoke bomb's cloud of gray smoke grows. Villagers start running in every direction. Ollie takes off toward the Pegasi valet stand just as the sound of hooves gallop into the square. I don't see Maxine or Jax. Strangely, Kayla is sitting by the fountain like she doesn't have a care in the world.\n\n\"What seems to be the problem?\" I hear Pete the police chief ask from atop a horse that makes him look taller than his three-foot height. Olaf, his half-ogre sidekick, walks up beside him, making the ground shake. I crouch behind a barrel of water that a horse is tied to.\n\n\"It was a boy! About this high, just stole a whole bag of my cakes and then set off a smoke bomb to get away,\" the peddler explains. \"I think he went that way.\"\n\n\"Looks like another FTRS candidate, Olaf.\" Pete laughs. \"Flora should give us commission. Which way, ma'am?\"\n\n\"He went that way! Toward the Pegasi valet stand.\"\n\nMy hair stands up on my neck. That's our meeting point! If Pete finds Ollie there, he'll be caught. I need a distraction.\n\nI stand up slowly even though Pete is just feet away, and I stare at the horse drinking from the barrel. \"Hey, boy,\" I say, talking to the horse as if he can hear me like a Pegasi would. \"Want to go for a little run?\" I untie his rope and with a little push, the horse takes off at a gallop\u2014right toward Pete, who pulls his own horse out of the way just in time. I use the ticking seconds of my diversion to go straight to Kayla, who is reading a small scroll.\n\n\"Kayla!\" I shake her by the arm. \"We have to go before Pete gets back.\"\n\n\"Those two! They were with that boy!\" the woman says.\n\nI turn around, and Pete and I make eye contact. I grab Kayla as Pete's voice rings out loud and clear. \"Gillian Cobbler!\"\n\nFiddlesticks. I've been made again.\n\n# CHAPTER 8\n\nFight or Flight\n\nPete can't prove it's me if he can't catch me. I pull Kayla with me, bobbing and weaving through the carts as I hear Pete's horse grow closer. We need a distraction so we can get to the valet stand first and warn the others.\n\n\"Gilly, stop right there!\" Pete gallops closer. That's when I spot the apple cart.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" I say to the apple vendor as I pull his cart down on its side and apples roll into the cobblestone street.\n\n\"Aaah! Gilly!\" I hear Pete screech as his horse stops short and Pete goes flying from the saddle. I watch him land on a bag of apples and wince. That had to hurt. \"I'll find you!\" he yells. \"I always find you!\"\n\nI jump and weave over the apples, using Pete's momentary downfall as a chance to duck down an alley that I'm sure leads to the valet stand. Kayla is slow for some reason, but I manage to slip into the Pegasi valet stand without Pete nabbing us. I blend into the crowd of royals and royal wannabes standing in a long line as Pegasi coaches pull up.\n\nDoormen open approaching coach doors and usher in riders, and the next group takes off in flight as magic carpets stop by those still in line to drop off giant packages and heavy items. In their beautiful satin gowns and smart dress coats and with their arms filled with bags, these royals and wannabes look like they don't have a care in the world. I bet they don't.\n\n\"Psst, over here!\" I hear someone say. I look at the back of the line and see Maxine, Ollie, and Jax crouched behind a pile of hay for the Pegasi. We rush over and I pull them to the water troughs where Pegasi are often not allowed to go and rest. I take one look at Ollie and punch him in the arm.\n\n\"I know,\" he sighs, his lips covered in caramel. \"I had what Professor Harlow would call a relapse.\" He offers me a cake. \"Want one?\"\n\n\"We were this close to figuring out the code to the HEAS door,\" Jax says dejectedly. \"We just needed one more person to go in so we could figure out the last number.\"\n\n\"Not that anyone noticed I was there!\" Maxine says miserably. \"Now we've busted out and are going to get caught for nothing,\" she adds.\n\n\"Not for nothing,\" Kayla says. \"Look! A woman in a red cloak handed me a note.\" She holds out a small scroll. We grab it and read the scrawled wording.\n\nSTAY ON THE RIGHT SIDE. SCHOOL IS STILL THE SAFEST PLACE TO BE. AS YOU KNOW TOO WELL, KAYLA, DEALS CAN BE DANGEROUS. TELL YOUR HEADMISTRESS SHE WILL SOMEDAY REGRET MAKING ARRANGEMENTS WITH THOSE SHE DOES NOT TRUST COMPLETELY.\n\n\"She must be the person at HEAS who has been giving Maxine notes,\" Kayla says. \"And now she is giving me one too. There must be a reason.\"\n\n\"I saw her in the square too, doing magic,\" I tell the others. \"She seemed familiar. If she's really our source, she must know us somehow.\"\n\n\"Did you get a look at her?\" Jax asks Kayla.\n\nKayla shakes her head. \"I couldn't see her face. She moved so fast, but I think she's talking about Rumpelstiltskin in this note.\"\n\nMaxine covers her ears. \"Don't say his name!\"\n\n\"Do you think this source knows where my family is?\" Kayla asks.\n\n\"I'm not sure, but she's definitely trying to help us, and she'll probably contact us again soon,\" Jax reasons, glancing around the crowded valet stand. \"But if we want that to happen, first we need to get out of this village. My money is on taking one of these beauties.\" He nods to the Pegasi.\n\n\"Sure, let me just go into my dragon's tooth purse and take out my money for a ride,\" I say sarcastically. \"No one is going to give us a lift, especially to FTRS. I say we go back to Gnome-olia and get a ride with them tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Ooh, the bak over soun grea idea.\" Ollie's words are muffled by a caramel cake he's stuffed in his mouth. I grab the bag and toss it. He looks like he might cry.\n\n\"No, we need to get back today,\" Jax insists. \"Pete will alert the school otherwise. We need to hitch a ride with someone going our way. Like those two.\" Jax points to two girls who have just joined the back of the line. I'd recognize them anywhere by the curls in their hair, the long, green-and-royal-blue gowns, and the gloves on their hands. They're Flora's daughters, the wicked stepsisters, and despite whispers to the contrary, they are actually beautiful. And whiny.\n\nI overhear Azalea. \"You said we'd have time to go to Pinocchio's Puppet Theatre before we went back to school.\" She stomps her feet. \"You never do what I want!\"\n\nDahlia growls at her sister. \"We're not even supposed to leave school grounds. We were supposed to get a few new gowns for the royal dinner at Royal Manor and then head back. We're supposed to be at Princess Rose's RLW meeting.\"\n\n\"Why would I want to help with her wannabe royal club?\" Azalea pouts, her curls bobbing up and down as she shakes her head. \"I want to be royal, not pretend to be.\"\n\n\"She asked for our help, and we're going to give it,\" Dahlia insists. \"It's the quickest way into her inner circle. Mother said keep her close, remember?\"\n\nJax and I look at each other.\n\n\"Now where is that magic carpet with our other packages?\" Dahlia asks as the line moves forward. \"If it doesn't get here with those shoes, this whole trip will have been a waste. Those glass slippers have been on special order for weeks!\"\n\n\"Wait!\" A girl in a simple tan-and-white apron and white dress scuffed with shoe polish is running. In her arms are four beautiful, shiny shoe boxes that are almost as big as she is. I see the stamp on the side and stare at it in surprise. Cobbler Glass Slippers\u2014Get the Original. \"Here you go, ladies!\" she says. \"The magic carpets were backed up so I delivered these freshly boxed shoes myself.\" The voice, the brown hair tied back in a bow, the new clothes and shoes... I know before she even turns around who she is.\n\n\"Anna.\" The name slips from my lips.\n\n\"That's your sister?\" Maxine is in awe. \"She looks just like you!\"\n\n\"Is she a thief too?\" Ollie asks, and I notice he got the cake bag back. Stinker.\n\nI shake my head. \"No, she's all sugar and sweetness.\"\n\n\"So you're opposites?\" Jax jokes and I glare at him.\n\n\"Look at her boots!\" Kayla marvels. \"They're so glittery.\"\n\n\"Business must really be booming.\" I stare at Anna. \"I can't believe saving FTRS helped boost sales.\"\n\n\"You didn't actually do it alone,\" Jax reminds me and I shrug.\n\nWe watch Anna try to hand Dahlia and Azalea the boxes.\n\n\"How are we supposed to carry those?\" Azalea holds up her arms full of bags.\n\n\"We're out of bags,\" Anna says apologetically. \"But I can wait with you 'til you get on your carriage so that you don't have to carry them.\"\n\n\"Obviously,\" Dahlia snaps. \"That's your job.\"\n\nHearing them talk down to Anna makes my blood boil, but my sister takes it like a pro.\n\n\"Not a problem,\" she says sweetly. \"Cobbler Shoes is happy to help.\"\n\n\"If she distracts Azalea and Dahlia, we can get in their carriage and hitch a ride back,\" Jax whispers. \"We just need a diversion to get in.\"\n\n\"Anna won't even take my Pegasi Posts.\" I stare at my younger sister sadly. \"She is not going to agree to help us.\"\n\n\"Attention, royals!\" I hear Pete's voice and shrink back. \"I am looking for a group of thieves who have hit the peddler square this morning.\" He rides down the line, and I cover my mouth to keep from laughing at the applesauce dripping down his shirt. Pete stops in front of Azalea, Dahlia, and Anna, who is trying to balance all the stepsisters' boxes. \"Aren't you Gillian Cobbler's sister?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Anna, sounding surprisingly stubborn like me, \"but she's not here. You put her in Fairy Tale Reform School.\"\n\n\"Not today, sugarplum.\" Pete looks around the area with beady eyes. \"She's broken out, and I'm going to find her and haul her back in. She'll be there 'til next year at this rate!\" He laughs loudly and his horse jumps. As Anna moves out of the way of the hooves, one of the boxes in her arms topples off the pile to the ground. A glass slipper with a broken heel falls out.\n\n\"Look what you've done!\" Azalea cries as Pete strolls on, talking to other passengers. \"We waited weeks for those shoes!\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry.\" Anna grabs the broken pieces and puts them back in the box. \"I'll replace them.\" Her voice is shaky. \"I can have a new pair ready next week.\"\n\n\"Next week?\" Dahlia is irate. \"You tell your father we need a new pair today.\"\n\n\"But\"\u2014Anna sounds nervous\u2014\"I don't know if we have any more. They're all special orders now and\u2014\"\n\n\"You have one hour!\" Dahlia snaps. She looks at Azalea. \"We can go to your silly puppet theater while we wait and then take the Pegasi from Cobbler's.\"\n\nAzalea claps her hands. \"Yay! We get to do what I want!\"\n\nDahlia rolls her eyes and looks at Anna. \"One hour. No more or we want our money back for all the pairs.\" She drops the rest of her bags at Anna's feet, and Azalea does the same. \"You might as well carry all our bags while you're at it. You don't mind, do you?\"\n\n\"No.\" Anna curtsies and I want to vomit.\n\nAzalea and Dahlia waltz off. With no leads, Pete disappears too. That's when Anna bursts into tears, big tears rolling down her cheeks. I hear Maxine sniffle. She and Kayla knock me in the back at the same time. \"Go!\" they mouth.\n\nI walk from my hiding spot and pick up one of the boxes. \"Hi, Anna Banana.\"\n\nShe stops crying immediately. \"I should have known. Go away.\" Anna tries to pick up all the boxes again and they tumble.\n\n\"Let me help. You know you can't manage alone, and you're pressed for time.\"\n\nAnna holds a hand up. \"I don't want to hear why you're running away from FTRS with your friends and leaving your family behind.\"\n\n\"Anna,\" I plead. \"I'm not running away! I want to come home. That's why I'm here. I'm trying to find a way to stop Alva.\" My sister folds her arms and turns away.\n\n\"Anna?\" Jax asks questioningly. I see the others slip out of the shadows. \"I'm Jax. This is Kayla, Gilly's roommate, and our friends Maxine and Ollie.\"\n\nOllie bows. \"Lovely to meet you, miss.\" He offers her the snack bag. \"Caramel cake?\"\n\n\"Gilly is telling you the truth,\" Jax says, giving Anna a magnetic smile. I can tell she's mesmerized already. \"We're only in the village to gather information on Alva and the threat to the kingdom.\" He moves closer to my sister. \"If we can stop her, Gilly will be able to come home. All she talks about is you and your siblings.\"\n\nThe corners of Anna's mouth turn upward. She catches me staring and frowns again.\n\n\"But if Gilly and the rest of us are caught, she'll be stuck at FTRS longer,\" Jax continues. \"We have a ride back\u2014Azalea and Dahlia\u2014if we can get in their carriage. All we need you to do\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm not helping criminals!\" Anna begins to walk away and Jax steps in front of her, putting a hand on her shoulder. He looks very royal standing there like that.\n\n\"We just need you to look the other way when we slip into the back of the carriage. That's it. In exchange, we'll help you carry all these bags back, and none of us will say a word about Gilly, your fight, or thieving. Deal?\"\n\nAnna is silent for a moment. \"Okay.\"\n\nEveryone grabs a package and we begin the walk in silence. It's just a few blocks, but we have to walk slowly to watch for Pete. We pass the Teakettle Twins' large porcelain teapot duplex, which has steam escaping from the spout, and Hansel and Gretel's candy-inspired cottage. I hear a lot of chatter near Mother Goose's Nursery Day Care, but we keep our heads down.\n\nSoon, I see the familiar boot-shaped sign above Father's shop: Cobbler Shoes. Azalea and Dahlia's carriage is already waiting. Jax holds open the back of the carriage for us to slip inside. Maxine, Kayla, and Ollie go first. I begin piling in boxes and bags, and then it's my turn to disappear. I look at my sister standing there with her arms crossed.\n\n\"I love you, Anna Banana.\" She refuses to look at me. \"I'll be home before you know it. I'm going to make you proud that I'm your sister.\"\n\nAnna smiles ever so slightly. \"You should get going. They'll be back soon.\"\n\nI climb aboard and Jax gets in behind me. We bury ourselves behind packages and go unseen when Anna adds a new, blue, glittered shoe box behind us a few minutes later. It isn't long before I hear Azalea and Dahlia bickering and climbing into the carriage in front of us. The Pegasi take flight and the packages around us shift, but I say not a word.\n\nI just stare at my hands where the item I've had clenched in them has been hidden the whole time. The glass shines even in the darkness. I stare at the broken glass heel, trying to remember how poor our home and life were before FTRS, and how far my family has come since I became famous. I will never let it get that bad for them again.\n\nBefore I know it, the Pegasi are descending and we're back at Fairy Tale Reform School. We shrink back as the girls remove the carriage flap to grab their packages. They're so busy arguing that they don't even notice when one of them grabs my foot instead of the bag next to it. Finally, with the cart empty, they throw the flap back down and the carriage is quiet once more. Still, we wait. Jax and I look at each other, thinking the same thing. Within seconds, the carriage will start to move toward the stables. We'll get out there, and it will be as if we've never left.\n\nI hear Maxine breathe a sigh of relief. \"We did it!\" she whispers a little too loudly.\n\nWHOOSH!\n\nA furry hand with long nails pulls the flap back, and I blink at the bright light of day. Professor Wolfington's hairy face comes into view, a devilish smile playing on his lips. Behind him, Headmistress Flora looks less amused.\n\n\"Ah, Miss Gillian, Mr. Jax, and company. Glad to have you back,\" Professor Wolfington says as if we've just rejoined the party. \"We've been expecting you.\"\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nStudents Break Out of Fairy Tale Reform School!\n\nby Beatrice Beez\n\nFive students at Fairy Tale Reform School sneaked off the grounds this morning in the back of a Gnome-olia Bakery carriage. Gillian Cobbler, beloved for her heroism in the battle to stop Alva, apparently led the charge that included Ollie Funklehouse, Maxine Hockler, Kayla Wingtip, and Jax Porter.\n\n\"I thought something smelled like stale bread when five young people wandered through the cinnamon roll department in oversized bakers' clothes,\" says Nigel Stuveson, senior cinnamon roll supervisor four. \"Then we received a note asking us to look for a group of kids. I put sugar and spice together and realized it had to be that lot.\"\n\nAt the same time Nigel was calling the Dwarf Police Squad chief, FTRS also received a tip from an anonymous source about the breakout. By this point, the chief learned about the stolen caramel cakes and broken apple cart in the village firsthand. \"I knew they wouldn't get far without help, so I checked the list of Pegasi flights in and out of FTRS yesterday afternoon and saw one leaving from Cobbler Shoes with the headmistress's daughters. I had a hunch they'd be in that carriage. Now we're looking into whether Gilly's sister was involved in helping her escape.\"\n\nFurther investigation found that Anna Cobbler, Gilly's younger sister, was an accomplice in the incident, and she has been given a first offense by the Dwarf Police Squad. (Three will land a child in Fairy Tale Reform School.) Headmistress Flora says her own daughters were unaware they had stowaways aboard their carriage and played no part in the students' disappearance.\n\nFairy Tale Reform School's chief critic, Millicent Gertrude, mother of student Ronald Gertrude, says this latest incident proves how important it is for visitation day to be earlier than planned. \"I'm pleased Headmistress Flora has moved up visitation day,\" says Millicent, who tells HEAS that parents will visit the school in two weeks. \"Parents need to see whether FTRS is a safe place for their children. With Alva and the Evil Queen on the loose, children cannot be escaping the school grounds.\"\n\nWhile rumors of a Royal Manor break-in by gargoyles last week have not been confirmed or denied by the princesses, Headmistress Flora continues to stress that FTRS is the best place for wayward children to be in these dark times. \"All the students involved have been reprimanded for their behavior, and school security procedures are being reevaluated. With students this clever on our roster, we need to stay vigilant.\"\n\nKeep checking your Happily Ever After Scrolls for more coverage on the search for Alva and Fairy Tale Reform School's woes!\n\n# CHAPTER 9\n\nWicked Trouble\n\n\"What were you thinking?\"\n\nI've never heard the Wicked Stepmother this unhinged. She's kicking up hay in the Pegasi stables as she paces in front of us, looking like she might pull every last hair out of her normally neatly wound bun. Kayla, Ollie, Jax, Maxine, and I are lined up like we're about to be sent to the gallows, while Professor Wolfington and Professor Blackbeard keep a watchful eye. Blackbeard's sword looks particularly menacing hanging from his scabbard. Madame Cleo is here too, having been beamed in by Miri's mirror in the stables, which has a horse motif etched in bronze on the frame.\n\n\"Stowing away in a Gnome-olia Bakery truck? Stealing a dozen caramel cakes? Evading the Dwarf Police Squad? Breaking an apple cart? You broke out of Fairy Tale Reform School!\" Flora repeats our offenses as if we don't remember them. \"Do you know what havoc you caused for both the school and yourselves?\" Her dark eyes flash. \"Pete wanted to sentence the lot of you to another two years for this crime. You're lucky I talked him down to an additional three-month sentence!\"\n\n\"Only three months?\" Ollie sounds a wee bit gleeful. \"That's awesome! I was thinking six at least.\"\n\n\"Me too,\" seconds Kayla, talking to Ollie as if they're the only two in the stables. \"For a minute, I thought she was going to say a year. No one's ever broken out of school before!\" The two high-five.\n\nFlora unbuttons the brooch that clasps her tailored dress shirt closed and loosens her collar like this is all too much for her to handle. \"And you two.\" She points a finger at Azalea and Dahlia, who are fidgeting uncomfortably and keep banging into the shopping bags at their feet. Flora begins looking through their purchases. \"I took away your Magic Express cards, and yet somehow here you both are with bags from Combing the Sea, Pinocchio's Puppet Theatre, the Pied Piper's Music Emporium, and Red's Ready for Anything. What's this?\" She peers at the red lettering on the box as Macho and Mighty, Jax's and my favorite Pegasi, neigh a warning from their nearby stall. \"Learn How to Defend Yourself Kits? Boxes of glass slippers and new gowns? Your shopping habits have gotten out of control!\"\n\n\"But, Mother,\" Azalea whines, pulling at her pearls, \"we're the only two girls at the Royal Academy without glass slippers! Everyone has a Cobbler pair but us.\"\n\nA Cobbler pair? My name is famous! I'm starting to like this. Finally, our family has some respect.\n\n\"Too bad.\" Flora takes the boxes from the girls and hands them to Blackbeard. I watch Madame Cleo cast a spell through the mirror and poof! The boxes disappear. Dahlia whimpers. \"They're mine for safekeeping,\" the Wicked Stepmother says. \"I won't return them to the shop, because that would affect Gillian's father's sales, but you will not be receiving the shoes 'til you've learned your lesson about lying and spending.\"\n\n\"A walk on the plank would work,\" Blackbeard whispers in Flora's ear. I see her wince. Pirates don't have the best breath. \"Have Cleo put a few sharks in the waters, and I promise those poppets will never touch a Magic Express card again.\"\n\nAzalea begins rummaging in the one bag Cleo's charm missed. The Red's Ready for Anything Kit is still there, and Azalea opens it and pulls out something called a Quick Cover Stink Bomb that I can only guess she's about to toss his way.\n\n\"I can assure you, Miss Azalea, that the effects of that can in your hand are spotty at best,\" Professor Wolfington says, looking anything but alarmed. \"May I suggest saving that for an unsuspecting garden gnome, perhaps?\" Wolfington should know. He's tangled with Little Red Riding Hood before.\n\n\"Azalea, we do not spray teachers,\" Flora says wearily. \"And that kit is going back.\" She turns to the pirate. \"Thank you for the suggestion, Professor Blackbeard. I think I'll save the plank for another day.\"\n\n\"Aye. Suit yerself, lass.\" Blackbeard looks disappointed.\n\nAzalea raises her hand. \"We aren't reform school students.\" She glares at me. \"So can we be excused? We were just in the village to go shopping.\"\n\nFlora sighs. \"Yes, but you should know that all of you students have two weeks of detention with Madame Cleo and Blackbeard.\" We groan. \"And, girls, I will be by your quarters later to speak to you further.\" Azalea and Dahlia do a lot of huffing as they shuffle past us. I notice Azalea trying to hide a Pinocchio bag behind her hoop skirt, but Flora takes it out of her hands as she passes.\n\n\"How'd you even know we were missing?\" I ask when they're gone. That is the part I still don't understand. It's not like we had to check in, since there was no classes. I smell a rat.\n\n\"I told them.\"\n\nI turn my head toward the open stable doors and stare at the girl in black who has her arms folded across her chest. Jocelyn. (Professor Harlow always said a person's stance gives their mood away. That's one thing she was right about.)\n\n\"Why do you have to stick your nose where it doesn't belong?\" I snap.\n\n\"Me?\" Jocelyn looks like I just told her black was the new pink. \"You're the one who Broke. Out. Of. The. School. I was doing you a favor! It's dangerous out there with Alva on the loose, and you sure as bread crumbs can't take care of yourself.\"\n\nI give an exaggerated laugh. \"As if you're worried about my safety.\"\n\n\"I'm not worried about you,\" Jocelyn snaps. \"I'm worried you'll lead the rest of your crew into harm's way. You only worry about yourself.\"\n\nI wish she would stop saying that! \"Yes, wanting to see your sister captured and Alva put out of commission to protect Enchantasia is very selfish,\" I say sarcastically.\n\n\"Thanks to you, your sister has her first FTRS offense.\" Jocelyn holds up a mini magical scroll as proof and I pale. They know Anna helped us? \"Like I said, selfish. At least my sister puts me first. She went off to spy on Alva and kept me here where she knows I'll be safe.\"\n\nJax and I burst out laughing. \"You think Harlow broke out to spy on Alva?\" I ask, looking at Flora, whose expression is blank. \"You really are as crazy as your sister.\" Jocelyn lunges for me, and Blackbeard extends his sword to keep us both apart.\n\nThe Wicked Stepmother purses her lips. \"Enough stalling! Why did you sneak out of school today?\" No one answers. \"Believe me, you do not want the amount of detention I will give if you don't tell me what you were up to.\"\n\nI refuse to say anything. It's just my way. Innocent until you can prove me guilty! I look at the others, hoping they're just as strong as I am.\n\nBut Kayla cracks. \"We wanted to talk to someone at Happily Ever After Scrolls because we think someone there knows who the mole is in the castle,\" she blurts out.\n\nThe rest of us moan. \"Kayla, remind me never to tell you my secrets,\" Ollie complains.\n\nKayla makes a face. \"No! I've lied for too long. This time I'm coming clean. They can help us.\" She turns to Wolfington. \"We're pretty sure someone there is sending Maxine clues.\"\n\n\"What clues, lass?\" Blackbeard asks.\n\nKayla falters when she sees my face. \"I...have this one we got today in the village. It mentions me.\" The teachers look at each other.\n\nWolfington takes Kayla's scroll and studies it. \"Do you think it's been bewitched with dark magic?\" he asks Flora.\n\n\"It doesn't appear to have any spells on it, but we can have Madame Cleo examine it closer.\" She puts it in her pocket and Maxine sighs. \"You children know better than to try to tackle a problem like Alva on your own. Have you learned nothing from what happened last time?\"\n\n\"Last time we saved the day,\" I remind Flora, who does not seem to like my answer. \"We're onto something here.\"\n\n\"You children need to let us handle things,\" Professor Wolfington says. \"We have eyes everywhere, and we'll take care of Alva and this mole.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"No buts, buckaroo.\" Blackbeard cuts me off. \"We got that Rumpel matey protecting the school and\u2014\"\n\n\"Professor Blackbeard!\" Flora says.\n\nThe rest of us look at each other.\n\n\"You're letting Rumpelstiltskin protect the school?\" Kayla asks quietly.\n\n\"That dude is crazy!\" Ollie agrees.\n\n\"Did you ask him about my family?\" Kayla asks. \"Does he know where they are?\"\n\nFlora puts a hand kindly on Kayla's shoulder. \"I'm sorry. He wouldn't talk about your family. He was here for reasons I cannot discuss at this time.\"\n\n\"Reasons that not all of the professors agree with,\" Professor Wolfington lets slip, and Flora's look is stern. \"I believe there are better ways to protect FTRS.\"\n\n\"Agreed, darlings! We don't need his help here,\" Madame Cleo says.\n\n\"That is my choice and it's not something I want to discuss!\" Flora is losing her patience. She glances at Blackbeard, who pretends to polish his sword. \"But yes, he's protecting the school since the royal court would not. Alva is waging a war to take over this kingdom and using the students at our school to do it. I will not let all our good work be in vain, so yes, I made a deal with him and it's one I will have to live with!\" She realizes she's shouting and stops.\n\n\"That's why you met with him?\" Kayla's lower lip quivers. \"You probably never even asked about my family! You don't care about me at all!\" She runs from the stables.\n\n\"Kayla!\" I yell. \"Wait!\" I turn to Flora. \"How could you do that to her?\"\n\n\"You can't talk to the headmistress like that,\" Jocelyn says.\n\n\"Since when do you stick up for the headmistress? Keep your nose out of our business!\"\n\nA loud wolf whistle silences our bickering.\n\n\"That will be quite enough,\" says Professor Wolfington. \"You two must learn that in life we sometimes have to work with those we don't like to fight for the greater good.\" I open my mouth to protest and Jocelyn does the same. \"I know you don't trust each other, but if we want to stop Alva, we're all going to have to work together. Understood?\" We both nod, but I don't want to.\n\nFlora runs a hand over her skirt to smooth it. \"Now, please proceed back to your quarters and let us examine Maxine's mini magical scroll. Saving the kingdom is not a job for children.\"\n\nI exhale loudly and we all trudge out of the stables. Jocelyn is with us, much to my chagrin.\n\n\"Dude, we can't let Rumpel help our school,\" Ollie says. \"He worked with Alva before, and he will again. Our professors have lost their minds! They'll never find the mole.\"\n\nNeither will we at this rate. Our breakout was a bust! If we're going to find the mole, I need to get out of this castle and do some sleuthing on my own. But how do I break out again? There is no way out unless... The RLWs! They get to go to Royal Manor. Hmm... It couldn't hurt to get chummy with some of those annoying RLWs anyway. I'm sure one of them knows the mole the way they were going on about their mission to protect themselves. I'm onto something here! Hmm...I wonder what Princess Ella will give my family if I save the whole kingdom again.\n\n\"What are we going to do?\" Maxine asks.\n\n\"I just remembered somewhere I have to be,\" I say as the others continue talking.\n\n\"We're kind of in a jam here,\" Jax says. \"Don't you want to talk about this?\"\n\n\"We can at dinner.\" I have no idea how long that royal tea is. \"Or tomorrow!\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\" Maxine asks, but I don't answer. I run as fast as I can so that no one catches up with me.\n\nI'm back in the castle and three hallways down when I finally see the gold plaque with a bouquet of fresh pink roses on the door. I don't bother knocking. I burst through the door. The RLWs see me and stop talking. Princess Rose steps forward.\n\n\"Um, is it too late for me to join in?\" I ask, trying to sound proper and failing.\n\n\"Not at all. I'd be delighted if you joined us, Miss Gillian,\" Princess Rose says.\n\nAnd just like that, I'm in\u2014and ready to go undercover on my own.\n\n# CHAPTER 10\n\nSimply Charming\n\nPrincess Rose rings a bell, and the RLWs in attendance stop whispering and stand at attention.\n\n\"Thank you for joining me for today's special ceremony,\" she says in a reverent tone as I stand beside her and do my best not to cringe. \"It's been two intense days of royal prep work with Miss Gillian Cobbler in my private chambers, but I am pleased to say today that she is officially ready to join you as a Royal Lady-in-Waiting!\"\n\nThe RLWs clap demurely. They're dressed head to toe in pink (I'm still wearing my blue uniform) and have on pink sashes that look like Princess Rose's. She places one over my head, pins a gold rose pin on my lapel, and makes my welcome into the club official. The girls applaud louder. I think I'm going to throw up.\n\nThis is the first time I've been in the club chambers for more than a few moments. When I burst into their tea the other afternoon and announced my desire to join, Princess Rose explained that I would have to do some intense \"royal thinking\" with her before becoming a member. (I wasn't even allowed to stay long enough to have a tea biscuit.)\n\nTurned out \"royal thinking\" was code for two days of lady training and questions like: \"How would a royal slay a dragon?\" Answer: \"Have someone else do it for them.\" So far, Princess Rose hasn't said anything that has helped me in the mole hunt. If anything, spending so much time with her has only made my life thornier. I've missed meals with my friends and my excuses (Extra detention! Vegetable picking in the garden! Private fencing lesson! Magic Carpet extra help!) are wearing thin.\n\nI just hope becoming a member of this club is worth my time. The smell of roses in this room is overpowering. So is the color pink on the walls, the carpet, and the cotton candy\u2013tinted couches. I let my eyes adjust to the frilly lace curtains and throw pillows on every seat. Flora's daughters, Azalea and Dahlia, eye me skeptically as they stand there in rainbow-hued gowns. I have to watch what I say around those two.\n\n\"To Gillian!\" Princess Rose cheers. She points a pink wand at the ceiling and confetti and balloons fall, nearly blinding me with glitter. Everyone cheers. A few pieces get in my mouth and I sputter. \"Have a seat next to me,\" Rose adds, and sits in the center of her adoring group on a hot-pink throne. The princess is (shocker) wearing her signature color and her blond hair is pulled back in a long braid. I quickly tuck in my dress shirt, which I just noticed was hanging out of my skirt. This silly sash is making that easy task nearly impossible.\n\n\"Girls!\" Raza, a sprite foreign exchange student from a reform school in Hadingford, jumps out of her seat in a very unladylike fashion. I'm just saying. \"It's time for our pledge.\" The merriment in the room dies down as all the ladies stand, wave their handkerchiefs in the air, and face Rose. I try to copy them, but I haven't memorized the whole pledge yet. Tessa leads the RLWs as they speak in harmony.\n\n\"I solemnly swear that I will uphold the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting pledge with my whole heart. I will honor the royals who give tirelessly on commoners' behalf by:\n\nbeing a good and obedient servant,\n\nanswering our royals' call to duty whenever or whatever it may be,\n\nbeing the lady they need me to be despite my common (or unremarkable) upbringing,\n\nputting their needs before my own no matter the cost,\n\nand remembering that wearing this pink sash means I am worthy of being a princess even though it's impossible for me to actually be one.\n\nNevertheless, I will cherish the opportunity to serve royalty to the best of my ability all the days of my life and consider myself charmed.\"\n\nAre these girls missing a screw or what? Worthy of being a princess even though I can't be one? Charmed because I can serve royalty?\n\nPrincess Rose gives them a standing ovation. \"Charming!\" She curtsies and they do the same. I tumble into Raza on my attempt.\n\n\"A few orders of business before we begin.\" Tessa produces a scroll. \"The Royal Ladies-in-Waiting spent our day off this week shining glass slippers and jewels for the princesses under the watchful eyes of Pete and the Dwarf Police Squad, and we were so honored to do so! We are very much looking forward to visiting Princess Ivy's talk 'Sorcery: A Royal's Greatest Gift or Downfall?' and were pleased that our royal offering of lilies was accepted with charm by Princess Snow. Our next RLW fund-raiser\u2014pink, scented handkerchiefs\u2014is sure to be a huge seller at school,\" she adds with a squeak. \"Who couldn't use a little color pick-me-up in our dreary school uniforms?\" I bite my lip to keep from laughing.\n\n\"The royal court will be most pleased. Well, I know I will be,\" Rose adds somewhat sadly. \"It pains me to know my fellow princesses have done nothing to help protect FTRS from Alva's wrath. My job is to serve you as you serve me, and I will stand by you and this school in its time of need.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Princess!\" a girl calls out and everyone curtsies again. The move happens so quickly that several girls and fairies bump heads.\n\n\"I know together we RLWs will prevail against evil,\" Princess Rose says. \"Like Gillian here.\" She looks at me. \"I've admired the way you've handled yourself at FTRS since the first day I saw you. Never becoming too much like the masses or conforming. Just doing what feels right.\"\n\nI'm a bit surprised to hear this. \"Really?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" She places a hand on my arm. \"I myself am this way. Of course, you can only rest on one act of bravery for so long.\" She smiles thinly. \"If you and your family are going to continue to be seen in a wonderful light, you have to think about what you will do to help Enchantasia next.\" My stomach plummets at the thought of my family losing what they've just gained.\n\nShe pats my hand. \"Don't worry. You'll figure it out. You need to harness your own power. If you want something, you take it. Don't wait for anyone to give it to you,\" she says, sounding fierce. \"That's what I'm teaching the girls. It's important to charm the world to get what you want out of it.\"\n\nI've noticed the princess uses the word \"charmed\" a lot, but the sentiment doesn't sound too shabby, if I'm being honest. Power is something I could use more of. Think of how I could use it to help my family and others! \"You're a smart princess,\" I say and am surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth.\n\n\"Thank you!\" Rose smiles. \"My fellow princesses might disagree, but a princess in power can do so much more than just sit and look pretty in a carriage. Look at me. I'm making things happen that no one would expect from a former sleeping beauty. I don't just stay in the castle. I'm out at FTRS, meeting our people and working to help you all gain the power you deserve. Don't you deserve a say in how your kingdom is run?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" the girls agree, and I find myself saying the same. We all need a say in how things are done around here. The royal court is wrong to leave FTRS hanging, and Flora is crazy to not want our help when we offer it.\n\n\"Alva is offering power,\" pipes up a pixie in the back, and everyone turns and looks at her with a gasp. I listen closely. \"She says if we follow her, we'll have a say in running the kingdom. All we have to do is join her side.\"\n\nA troll girl speaks up. \"Would that be so bad? If we're with Alva, we'd have the kind of power you speak of, Princess Rose. No one messes with a villain.\" A few people mumble in agreement.\n\n\"Look at all the attacks on the Royal Manor and FTRS and in the village that have happened by being against Alva,\" Raza adds. \"No one is able to stop her. Well, Gilly did for a half a second, but Alva will be back and this time she'll have numbers.\"\n\nI can't believe what I'm hearing. I have to tell Jax and the others. I go to stand.\n\nBut wait. He doesn't know I'm here. I need to get more than pixie bread crumbs before I go blabbing about a discussion.\n\n\"Having power is something we all want more of,\" Rose says thoughtfully. \"But you have to decide: Do you have power if you're following Alva's orders? I believe we should choose our own destiny. My goal is to make changes that will help everyone, not just one villain.\" We take in what Rose is saying. \"We should start today's meeting. Azalea, could you tell us what's on today's schedule?\"\n\nAzalea stands and curtsies. Rose curtsies, the group curtsies, and I feel like we're going to curtsy back and forth for hours. Thankfully, Azalea produces a scroll and begins to read. \"Today's Royal Lady-in-Waiting challenge is conversation starters. As we are working on our RLW conversation patch, we will practice having a chat with a fellow commoner and practice how to talk with a royal.\"\n\nThe consensus in the room is that this RLW patch is very exciting.\n\n\"To help with the project, Madame Cleo will be beaming in,\" Azalea adds as Dahlia goes to the magic mirror to dial up the Sea Siren who appears on-screen sporting pink hair and pearls laced into her sea-kelp top.\n\n\"Darlings! How wonderful to see you,\" she drawls. \"I trust you're having a lovely meeting?\"\n\n\"Yes, Madame Cleo,\" the girls say as if on cue. I forget to respond.\n\n\"Splendid!\" She claps her hands. \"As Princess Rose told you, today we will learn the dance of language.\" Madame is swimming back and forth across the screen. \"As visitation day approaches, it is imperative that you show your parents how far you've come since you entered FTRS.\"\n\n\"Mastering a conversation shows your maturity,\" adds Princess Rose. \"If you can go from talking to a royal to talking to a beggar, then you can appeal to the masses. Being adored has its rewards. People will follow you anywhere if they like what you have to say.\"\n\n\"So true!\" says Raza with applause, but I'm rubbing my nose. All these roses in here are making it itchy.\n\n\"Let's start with a simple conversation about the weather,\" says Madame Cleo. \"Miss Gillian, I'm so pleased to see you joined the Royal Ladies! And I love the new purple hair you're sporting! Why don't you and Miss Tessa start us off?\"\n\nTessa and I face each other. She's wearing perfume that is competing with the rose scent in this room. My nose doesn't like it. Tessa extends her hand and I\u2014\n\n\"Achoo!\" I sneeze all over her face.\n\nA dozen girls produce pink handkerchiefs at the same time.\n\n\"Oh my goodness, that will never do,\" tsks Madame Cleo. \"You're supposed to cover your mouth when you sneeze and always turn away from your guest.\"\n\nGreat, I've failed already. \"Sorry.\"\n\n\"Now, let's try that again,\" Rose encourages.\n\nTessa looks less than happy, but she musters a smile as she extends her hand. Darn curtsy. I make it halfway down, wobble, and come up, but I shake her hand.\n\n\"I'll go first,\" Tessa says testily. \"Hello, Gillian. How is your afternoon going?\"\n\nWow. Okay, so that's how it's done. \"Fine. Thanks. How is yours?\"\n\n\"No 'thanks.' Use 'thank you.' And use proper language, please,\" says Madame Cleo.\n\n\"I'm fine, thank you. How are you this afternoon?\"\n\nTessa smiles. \"Splendid, although this weather is dreadful, don't you think?\"\n\n\"Yeah, it's as drafty in the castle as it is outside.\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" Madame Cleo covers her face with her hands. \"Don't knock Fairy Tale Reform School. Why don't you take over, Azalea, and show how it's done?\"\n\nAzalea doesn't botch her curtsy. \"We are pleased you could make the journey to our school in this nasty weather. Can I get you a hot beverage after such a long outing?\"\n\nEveryone applauds and Azalea accepts their praise with another curtsy. Then they all curtsy and I get dizzy. I can't take anymore. I need a break. Now. \"May I be excused to get a glass of water?\" I ask Rose.\n\nI slip out of the room while the others watch Raza and another girl tackle \"Complimenting One Another's Shoes.\"\n\nOlivia follows me. \"I could use a refreshment,\" she says. \"We do so much talking.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" I say, rushing out the door and taking big, gulping breaths to get rid of the rose scent that is overwhelming me. Water. I need water.\n\n\"The water fountain is down there,\" Olivia says, and I follow her down the hall, where elves are mopping the floors with mops that clean on their own. \"I just love your purple hair. You have to tell me how you got it. It makes you look so powerful.\"\n\nPowerful? \"You think?\" I touch my hair and Olivia nods.\n\n\"It would look even better if you wore it up sometimes so you can see the purple. Maybe in a side ponytail?\" she suggests, and before I can protest, she pulls my hair to the side, removes one of her glittery bracelets, and uses it to fasten my hair. \"Like this. Look!\" She pulls me over to one of Miri's mirrors. \"You look beautiful!\"\n\n\"Beautiful? Me?\" I ask, amazed at what I'm seeing in the mirror. My hair doesn't look half bad, and the glittery band makes it shine. I look almost royal. Olivia's pretty decent. I've never been given a present before. \"Thanks,\" I say and then start to cough as I breathe in the rose perfume Olivia is wearing. It reminds me of the RLW room.\n\n\"Fiddlesticks, you need water,\" Olivia says. \"Here! This way!\" A gurgling water fountain is just beyond the elves' cleaning cart. \"You take a sip first.\"\n\nI hurry over and begin gulping sips in a very unladylike fashion.\n\nOlivia starts to laugh. \"Gilly, stop! You are acting like an ogre! Look how sloppy you're being. Just like Maxine!\" I stop drinking and look up in surprise. \"Oops! Sorry. I forgot you're friends with ogres, and your roommate is a fairy who almost destroyed FTRS.\" Olivia looks almost embarrassed for me. \"Some of the girls thought you weren't RLW material because you were friends with them. Not me, of course, but people do talk about the company you keep.\"\n\nMy face burns. The RLWs are talking about me? My stomach feels swishy and my cheeks burn. I'm used to people saying good things about me lately. I don't like the idea of them making fun of me. The words bubble out of my mouth like a volcano. \"We're not friends,\" I blurt out. \"Kayla was assigned as my roommate, and Maxine just hangs on everything I say and I can't shake her off.\" Olivia laughs.\n\n\"I would never be friends with an ogre like her.\" Olivia laughs harder, and I feel some satisfaction in changing her mind. \"I mean, have you seen the way she drools over every...\" Olivia suddenly stops laughing. I notice the mops stop mopping. The elves pull their cleaning cart to a new hallway. Olivia starts to move away. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up and I turn around.\n\nMaxine and Jocelyn are standing a few feet away from us, and it's obvious they heard everything I just said. Jocelyn looks positively furious, but Maxine is the one I care about. My heart is thumping loudly as watch the left side of her face droop. Maxine's right eye rolls wildly, and her left eye wells up with tears.\n\n\"You're so selfish, Cobbler! Maxine is your friend!\" Jocelyn hisses. I'm too mortified to say anything. \"I should have known you'd become an RLW behind our backs. You look like one with that ridiculous hairstyle, and you sound like one too.\"\n\n\"Maxine,\" I start to say.\n\n\"How could you?\" Maxine asks, and starts to cry so loudly the window nearest me shakes. Then my former friend charges down the hall before I can stop her.\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nGet Ready for Fairy Tale Reform School Visitation Day!\n\nby CoCo Collette\n\nSpurred by parent outcry, Fairy Tale Reform School has moved up its semiannual parent visitation to today. \"I am pleased Headmistress Flora and the staff will finally let us inside this mysterious castle to check on our children,\" says Millicent Gertrude, mother of Ronald Gertrude, who has reportedly been begging for his early dismissal since Alva's manifesto showed up on school grounds.\n\nSources tell HEAS that FTRS parents are worried the magical scroll will spur students to join Alva's growing ranks. As HEAS reported earlier this week, Alva has joined forces with ogre tribes that were close to signing a peace treaty with the royal court. Rapunzel is said to be meeting with the ogres to try to sway their decision.\n\nMore of Alva's bewitched scrolls have also appeared around the village, beckoning people to join her army. \"Enchantasia will be mine,\" the scrolls declare. While the princesses say we have nothing to fear, the scrolls have made an already anxious Enchantasia increasingly worried about Alva taking over the kingdom.\n\nPrincess Rose is the only royal to make a statement. \"In these trying times, it is more important than ever to celebrate wonderful events like FTRS's visitation day!\"\n\nAccording to spokesmirror Miri, parents are invited to attend a tea presented by the esteemed Royal Ladies-in-Waiting Club (run by Princess Rose), dine with their children in the cafeteria, and observe them in classes and activities such as synchronized snake-dancing and the after-school Magic Carpet Racing Club, as well as listen to a lecture from the school's newest professor, Blackbeard the Pirate. He'll be presenting \"Why Being a Bit of a Scoundrel Can Prove Useful\u2014Playing to Your Child's Strengths.\"\n\nAfter last semester's disastrous Royal Day and Anniversary Ball, it's easy to see why there would be concern about security, but Miri the Magic Mirror cryptically says the school is under the strongest magical protection there is for visitation day. \"No one is getting in this castle unless they're invited,\" she tells us. We at HEAS are not convinced, but one thing is certain: covering anything going on at Fairy Tale Reform School is an adventure!\n\nCheck your scrolls often throughout the day for updates on visitation day and the search for Alva!\n\n# CHAPTER 11\n\nRoyally Yours\n\n\"We need more pink, girls!\" Tessa declares, frantically shoving baby's breath and carnations into a hot-pink pitcher atop a pink tablecloth covered with pink plates and teacups. We're in the observatory where the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting Club is hosting the visitation day tea this morning.\n\nOr as I like to call it the Pink Threw Up in the Observatory Party.\n\n\"Are you sure?\" Raza frowns at the pink balloons netted at the ceiling to drop down on visitors. Her eyes wander over to the pink banner that says Royal Ladies-in-Waiting\u2014We Are Honored to Serve Royalty! and the pink roses that are practically suffocating the room. \"Do you think we might have overdone it with our signature color?\"\n\n\"Definitely not.\" I try to keep a straight face as I pretend to straighten the tablecloth\u2014again\u2014at Tessa's urging. (\"I think I see a crease!\") \"You can never have enough pink, but ditch the carnations,\" I say. \"You guys should know this from the RLW gardening patch you earned. Princess Rose is allergic to everything but roses.\"\n\nI hear the bells chime and then the mirror in the room glows\u2014of course\u2014pink. \"Attention, students!\" Miri says. \"Our visitors are entering the gates to FTRS. After they have gone through security with the Dwarf Police Squad, they will make their way to the grand foyer. Please meet your parties there and take them to your first assigned class or to the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting welcome tea if you've received an invitation.\"\n\nThe girls around me clap politely and curtsy to one other. All the curtsying this week has given me a lot of lower body strength. Who knew curtsies were a workout?\n\n\"And now a message from Headmistress Flora,\" Miri announces.\n\n\"Students, we hope you have a wonderful, productive day with your visitors. You have all made such progress, and I'm thrilled your parents will get to see that firsthand. Have fun, be on your best behavior, and remember,\" Flora adds, her voice stern, \"if you see something out of the ordinary, say something to one of your professors immediately.\"\n\n\"We're all in this together,\" we repeat as we have been saying and writing on banners around school. Alva's manifestos have been popping up all over Enchantasia, calling more citizens to join her army. No one seems to know how to contact the fiendish fairy to join, and yet somehow her ranks are growing. Jax has been sick over news that the ogre tribes wouldn't listen to Rapunzel and signed on to work with Alva instead.\n\nI only know this from a terse Kayla. I've been so busy with the RLWs that I've barely seen my friends in days, which might be better. Maxine bursts into tears every time she sees me. But what can I do? I tried bringing up Maxine's name twice to Tessa and Raza, and they changed the topic to napkin-folding ideas.\n\n\"Psst.\" I look to see where the noise is coming from, but the RLWs are all arranging flowers. I go back to smoothing my tablecloth. \"Psst.\" I hear again.\n\n\"Did you say something?\" I ask Veronica, a sprite creating a goblet tower in the shape of a glass slipper.\n\n\"No,\" she says, sniffing. \"I'm too busy working, like you should be.\"\n\nWhatever. I go back to tablecloth smoothing, even though there is nothing left to smooth, but I keep hearing \"psst\" so I stop and try to see where the noise is coming from.\n\n\"Up here!\" someone whispers. I look up and see Jax sitting on the ledge of a stained glass window near the rafters. He gives a little wave. He must have climbed into the room from outside. This boy loves to climb things.\n\n\"No boys allowed,\" I hiss, hoping no one notices me talking to the ceiling.\n\n\"This is the only way I could talk to you,\" he whispers back, his legs dangling close to Raza's head. \"You're with these royal wannabes twenty-four seven.\"\n\n\"We are not royal wannabes,\" I huff. \"A RLW's purpose is to help the princesses function to the best of their abilities, set an example for the villagers around us, and find inspiration from the royal court's royalness to harness our own power!\" I gasp. \"Holy gingerbread. Did I really just say that?\" I sit down in a pink velvet chair near the window and breathe in and out. Jax jumps down from the ledge, and several of the girls scream.\n\n\"Boy! With the RLWs!\" Tessa points at him like he's a villain. \"No boys allowed!\"\n\nJax straightens his dress shirt and gives her a perfect bow, bending all the way to his waist. \"My ladies, my most sincere apologies for the interruption. You're all doing splendid work transforming this simple space into a tea worthy for a king, and I do not want to take away from that. I only ask that you allow me a moment to speak with this young lady here, who is my dear friend, and then I will depart.\"\n\nWhoa. Jax sounds just like a prince charming!\n\nTessa's jaw drops. Olivia holds a handkerchief to her mouth and begins to giggle uncontrollably. \"Um, okay, yeah,\" Tessa stammers. \"I mean yes, sir! Take a moment.\"\n\n\"And may I suggest you hang the royal crest higher than the Enchantasia flag?\" Jax adds. \"In Royal Manor, the court's flag always flies above the kingdom's.\"\n\n\"I can't believe we forgot that.\" Tessa nudges Raza, who rushes over to fix the banners hanging on one wall. \"Thank you.\" Tessa curtsies. Olivia curtsies. The rest of the girls curtsy. I do the same and fall into Jax, who catches me.\n\n\"It's all in the balance,\" Jax explains. \"As you bend from the knees, pretend you're about to sit back in a chair.\"\n\n\"Forget the curtsy,\" I say through gritted teeth.\n\n\"You clean up nicely, thief.\" Jax touches my pink sash and the pink ribbon wrapped around my uniform waist. I self-consciously touch my head. My hair is pulled into another side ponytail courtesy of Olivia who has given me a pink flower for my hair. \"You could definitely pass for a royal.\"\n\nMy cheeks burn. \"I could never be a royal.\" I fiddle with the rose pin I got at my ceremony. \"I'm just playing a part to get information.\" Olivia walks by with a box of dishes and I frown. \"Olivia, those are the bread plates, not the tea biscuit ones. You need the plates with the small gold rim for scones.\" Her goblin ears flutter before she rushes back out of the room to the RLW storage closet to get the right plates.\n\nJax clears his throat. \"Yes, I can see you're doing a great job pretending.\"\n\nI pull him behind a giant standing floral arrangement. \"Princess Rose is always talking about power being in the hands of the people, not the royal court. It's sort of empowering, you know? Why should the princesses get to decide what happens in the village? They don't live there. We know better what rules need to be made for ourselves.\"\n\nJax raises his right eyebrow. \"How much pink fruit punch have you had at these meetings? Like Wolfington always says, kingdoms need a leader to guide them and that's what the princesses in the royal court do. They've faced evil and know how to fight it. Alva won't give the people power. All she cares about is her vendetta.\"\n\n\"If the royal court cared about us, they'd protect FTRS, but they're not,\" I point out. \"At least Alva is offering people protection!\" I clap a hand over my mouth and sit down again. \"Maybe I have drunk too much pink fruit punch.\"\n\n\"It's the rose scent in here.\" Jax wrinkles his nose. \"It's overpowering. Let's get you outside for some fresh air.\"\n\nI shake my head. \"Princess Rose will be here any moment. I can't leave.\"\n\nJax sighs. \"We need your help. The mole has gotten to the ogres. What's Alva going to find out next? If someone keeps feeding her information, she's going to learn FTRS is protected by Rumpel and then she'll try to squash that deal too. We're running out of time.\"\n\n\"That's why I'm here,\" I say. \"To find out who the mole is. They're always talking about the manifesto in this club. Someone has to know the mole.\" I glance at Olivia. \"Olivia! Rose wants pink swan napkins, not knots!\"\n\nJax doesn't look convinced. \"Is that why you didn't tell us what you were up to?\" I'm quiet. \"I miss my partner in crime.\" I blush. \"Doing dirty work is not the same without your help, thief. Why'd you keep this club a secret?\"\n\n\"I...I don't know why I didn't tell you,\" I say, and Jax stares me down. \"Fine! I didn't tell you because I thought I could find the mole on my own, okay?\" He makes a face. \"But now that I'm here, it's not as awful as I thought it would be.\" I feel my face grow hot. I can't believe I just sort of said I like the RLWs. I have drunk too much pink punch!\n\nJax is quiet. \"This doesn't sound like the thief I know. Neither does the conversation Jocelyn says she and Maxine overheard between you and Olivia.\"\n\nMy face burns. I can't believe Jax knows what I said. I'm mortified but also angry. Now my friends\u2014some former, I guess\u2014are talking about me behind my back? \"Princess Rose requested me specifically,\" I say heatedly. \"I can't help it if I'm the only new pick they made this term. Princess Rose thinks I have real leader potential. Who knows what I can accomplish if I follow her lead? If she likes Father's work as much as she says she does, maybe she'll let Cobbler Shoes even expand to new kingdoms,\" I say wistfully. \"My family could have vacation boots to live in! For so long I've been judged for doing the wrong thing. Can I help it if I like the attention that comes from doing something right?\"\n\nJax puts a hand on my shoulder and I notice the other girls watching us. \"Thief, Princess Rose only helps herself. Rapunzel told Father that Rose hasn't been at one princess meeting this week about the ogres. She claims she's too busy here, and yet we all see her in HEAS scrolls getting her hair done at Rapunzel's Coiffures and having tea with Little Bo Peep. I don't know what's going on with her lately, but watch yourself. Your true friends would never turn their backs on you.\" He pauses. \"And the old you would never turn your back on them either.\"\n\n\"Good morning, ladies!\" Princess Rose waltzes into the room in a bright-pink gown and a giant tiara. She spots me with Jax and falters. \"I see we have a visitor.\"\n\nJax bows again. \"Princess, it's an honor to be in your presence.\" The RLWs erupt into giggles that can't be hidden behind handkerchiefs. \"Excuse the interruption. I was looking for Miss Gillian.\"\n\nThe princess actually blushes. \"Such manners! Ladies, this is a young man who knows how to be an RLW, not that we have any young men in the club.\"\n\n\"Why is that, Your Highness?\" Jax asks, and I can tell he's up to no good. \"A young man can be just as accommodating to a princess as a young maiden. Maybe even more so. We could be of use when strength is needed, like now when you are carrying such a large box.\" He walks over and takes it from her.\n\n\"I've never considered a male RLW, but you make a valid point,\" Rose says as he places the box on a table. \"Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Mr...?\"\n\n\"Mr. Jax Porter.\" He bows again and a few girls sigh.\n\n\"You look sort of familiar,\" Rose says, looking at him curiously.\n\n\"My father is a farmer in the kingdom, Your Highness, but we have never had the pleasure of visiting Royal Manor. I hear it is quite lovely. Have you been back recently? I know you've had many meetings up there this week.\"\n\nStinker.\n\n\"No, I've been quite busy, but I must get back soon,\" Rose says, quickly changing the subject. \"Ladies? Please gather round before you escort your families here. I have presents!\" Princess Rose opens the box and takes out a stack of electric-pink sashes. The words Royal Ladies-in-Waiting are written in glittery, silver calligraphy that actually glows. \"They're rose scented. A wondrous touch if I do say so myself. And they're enchanted,\" says Princess Rose. More applause all around. We all get in line to take one. \"Make sure the bottom of the sash hangs to your left, just like we princesses wear them when visiting the kingdom.\"\n\nJax clears his throat. \"I apologize, Your Highness, but don't you mean to the right? That's how I've seen it when you've graced us with your presence in the village.\"\n\nShe frowns. \"Silly me! You're right, Mr. Jax. How perceptive of you.\" She peers at him again. \"Are you sure we haven't met before?\"\n\n\"No, sadly, and I'm afraid my father is working today and cannot visit so I will be with my friends Ollie's and Maxine's families.\"\n\n\"Aren't they ogres?\" Olivia shivers. \"I thought the ogres work with Alva now.\"\n\n\"Not all ogres,\" Jax corrects her, and I can't help thinking about the fact that their families are meeting and no one invited me. They must know what I said about Maxine. My stomach churns and I try to push away that funny feeling I'm having.\n\n\"Well, I bid you farewell. Ladies.\" Jax bows to the room again and slips out.\n\nRaza sighs. \"I do hope we'll see him again.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we will have to invite Mr. Jax and some other gentleman to a future tea,\" says Princess Rose. \"As for today's, I have some disappointing news. I am disheartened to say that Princess Ella and the rest of the royal court declined my invitation to join us.\" The girls collectively gasp, and Princess Rose wipes away a single tear. Her face becomes defiant.\n\n\"Rapunzel says they find it too risky to visit FTRS during these trying times, but I disagree. Now is when we must show a united front. There is power in numbers, as I keep telling you. Sometimes I wonder if Alva could be right in wanting to change how Enchantasia is run.\" Surprisingly, some of the girls around me nod, and I try to remember their faces. I could follow them later to see where they go and if they talk to anyone suspicious. \"But I fear I'm crazy to think such things.\"\n\nThe bells chime, signaling the end of this period. \"That is all. Please bring your families back so I may greet them. And remember your curtsies!\"\n\nI step into the hallway, hoping to see Jax and explain my behavior, but the hallways are too crowded for me to find anyone. Fairies are hitching rides on the backs of trolls, and goblins are walking hand in hand with gnomes. Everyone is smiling like Madame Cleo taught us in the Charming the World: Learning How to Put Your Best Magical Self Forward seminar we had yesterday. My new sash is glowing so brightly that students keep turning around to stare.\n\n\"Help! I've been blinded by a sash! Help!\" Ollie walks toward me, and I smile with relief. At least he's still talking to me. He's dressed like a pirate complete with a skull and crossbones belt. He covers his eyes. \"I can't have a conversation with you when I can't even see you.\"\n\nI jab at the sash to turn it off, but it's no use. \"Just look straight ahead and I'll talk.\" Ronald Gertrude waves to me as he rushes by. I don't wave back. \"You're not mad at me?\"\n\n\"I don't want to be mad at you,\" Ollie says easily as we head to the FTRS foyer where we can hear the band playing. I see the FTRS cheer squad performing with magical pom-poms and some of the Magic Carpet Racing Club zooming around the foyer and sprinkling confetti, which the elves try desperately to clean up just as fast. Our teachers are greeting families as they enter through the large wooden doors. \"What happened with Maxine doesn't sound like the Gilly I know.\"\n\nThere's that weird feeling in my stomach again. \"I...\"\n\nOllie cuts me off. \"Oh look! There are my parents!\"\n\nHis parents are tinier than I expected. Ollie brings them over and I notice his mom smells like biscuits. She has on a simple dress that reminds me of something Mother would wear. I remember Ollie telling me his parents are bakers who provide meals to docking ships at the Enchantasia seaport.\n\n\"Mother, this is Gilly Cobbler,\" Ollie says, making introductions.\n\nShe smiles warmly and clasps my hand. \"Ollie has told us what a help you were during the attacks here. I'm glad he had you to help him rescue the royals.\"\n\nUm, have they read their HEAS scrolls?\n\n\"I couldn't have saved FTRS without her,\" Ollie says without looking at me.\n\n\"So where is this Professor Blackbeard you wrote about?\" Ollie's father asks. \"You say he knows the pirate whose ship you were a stowaway on. If so, I'd like to have some words with him.\"\n\n\"Father, he carries a sword,\" Ollie reminds him. \"At. All. Times. Oh look! That must be Maxine's family! Wow, her dad is so huge that his head hits the ceiling!\"\n\nI jump slightly at the towering sight of Maxine's family, especially after what I said about Maxine. They make Maxine look like a mini ogre. I have to remind myself that ogres don't eat people. That's a big, fat, ol' myth. Are there bad ogres out there who stomp on villages? Sure. But there are also bad humans who train gargoyles to destroy schools. Maxine sees me standing with Ollie, and I smile tentatively. She looks away as Jax walks over and shakes hands with Ollie's parents.\n\n\"You must be Gillian! You're just as Maxine described you,\" Maxine's mom says, and I try not to stare at her sharp teeth or the warts on her chin. \"Maxine has written us about your friendship.\"\n\nI think I might throw up. Maxine's such a good friend that she didn't even tell them what I said about her. \"I care about Maxine a lot,\" I say awkwardly.\n\n\"Mother, these are my good friends Ollie and Jax,\" Maxine says to her parents and everyone shakes hands. \"We'll find my friends Kayla and Jocelyn later.\"\n\nWait. Jocelyn? What?\n\n\"Look at your sash,\" Maxine's mom gushes, drool spilling from her mouth. \"You're a Royal Lady-in-Waiting? Maxine has wanted to be one forever.\" I'm so embarrassed I wish I could reach up, grab a magic carpet, and disappear.\n\n\"Mother, we should really get to our tea,\" Maxine says. \"I'm sure Gilly has to get her parents and escort them to the exclusive RLW tea.\"\n\n\"FTRS has been the best thing to ever happen to Maxine,\" her father interrupts, scratching the horn on his head. I wonder if Maxine will eventually grow one. She's pretty cute in comparison to her parents, who she once told me are one hundred fifty-two and one hundred fifty-three years old. \"So much safer here than out there with all those manifestos popping up in the villages.\"\n\n\"We had one show up in the seaport the other day,\" Ollie's father says, looking way, way up at Maxine's dad. \"I wouldn't let myself read it. What if it's magically bewitched to make a person follow Alva's orders?\"\n\n\"That's what I think happened to all our ogre friends in Tailsmen,\" says Maxine's mom sadly. \"And we were so close to signing a peace treaty for all ogres too.\"\n\nWe grow quiet at talk about the ogres teaming up with Alva. As if I wasn't depressed already about how awkward things are between me and Maxine or how distant I've felt from my friends the last few days. And that's when I hear it. A faint voice that makes me feel like I'm home.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" I say politely. I walk swiftly toward the sound of my name.\n\n\"Gilly! Gilly!\" Trixie yells. \"Father, I see her!\" She rushes toward me with Felix on her tail. They hug me so hard that I almost fall backward.\n\nI look up just in time to see Father and Mother walking toward me too. I feel like my heart might explode. Anna is with them.\n\n# CHAPTER 12\n\nBe Careful What You Wish For\n\nI want to run to my parents and throw my arms around them, but Princess Rose says a lady never runs. (Exception: if they are in mortal danger.)\n\n\"Mother, Father, Anna,\" I say demurely and curtsy. Everyone looks at me. Trixie and Felix burst out laughing. Father clears his throat and my siblings stop.\n\n\"What a lady you've become.\" Mother hugs me. \"Madame Cleo was just telling us about the etiquette class you're in. It sounds like you'll be practically royal when you leave Fairy Tale Reform School.\"\n\n\"Gilly?\" Felix sputters with laughter. Even Anna shoots him a nasty look, but I can't stop staring at them. They're in beautiful new clothes that look like they were made by a tailor rather than on Mother's old sewing machine. They all have proper haircuts, and Father is wearing a spiffy hat that looks like a Mad Hatter original. Business really must be good!\n\n\"Why don't we head to the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting tea?\" I look at Anna hopefully. \"Princess Rose is looking forward to meeting you all.\"\n\n\"Can we see the wicked fairy scroll?\" Felix asks, and families around us gasp. \"I hear there's one in the castle too. I've never seen one.\"\n\n\"And you should never look for one,\" I insist, holding him by his shoulders. \"Stay away from those manifestos. The one in the castle is closed off.\"\n\n\"That's exactly what I said,\" Father tells me, and we share a rare smile.\n\nTrixie takes my hand, and Mother puts an arm around me as Felix talks a mile a minute about what has been going on at home. Cobbler glass slipper sales are through the roof. Han and Hamish are at Mother Goose Pre-K today. (\"It's the golden egg party, and they really want to win,\" Trixie says.) I expected Anna to be silent, but Father is equally so. We shared a moment last time he was here, and yet today he looks worried and is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.\n\n\"I can't believe you're a Royal Lady-in-Waiting,\" Trixie coos. \"Can you, Anna?\" She nudges my sister, then touches my glowing sash. \"You've wanted to be one forever!\"\n\n\"Yes, well, thanks to Gilly, I'm one step closer since her tricks in the village got me a warning.\" Anna gives me a nasty look.\n\nI forgot they knew about my breakout. Father must be furious with me. \"I'm so sorry about that. You see\u2014\"\n\n\"Anna is old enough to take care of herself,\" Mother says stiffly. \"If she wants to be foolish enough to aid you and your friends when you're sneaking out of school, then she must pay the consequences. We already know you have two weeks of detention. Headmistress Flora sent a Pegasus Post.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I say, failing to mention how Princess Rose sweet-talked Madame Cleo into letting me serve my time with extra RLW sessions. \"It's been very trying.\"\n\n\"Trying? Curtsies?\" Anna asks. \"Who are you kidding?\" She storms off, but I see the hallway in front of her waffling.\n\n\"Wait!\" I put an arm out to stop her, and the hallway seals up in front of her. Anna is stunned.\n\n\"That. Is. So. Cool!\" Trixie squeals when a new hallway opens in its place.\n\n\"The hallways are magical,\" I explain. \"You need a map to get around this place.\"\n\n\"Do you get a wand?\" Trixie says eagerly.\n\n\"Now, Trixie, you know you can't have one of those 'til you're twenty-one and have taken Wand 101,\" Father reminds her.\n\n\"We have training wands,\" I say, hoping this will impress Anna. She's always wanted her own wand. \"We were allowed to take them out for a test run a few weeks ago. They have a number of spells programmed in them but they only worked for an hour.\"\n\n\"Is that why you now have some purple hair and a weird hairdo?\" Felix asks.\n\n\"No, my hair was cursed, but it's fine,\" I say quickly when Mother raises an eyebrow. Anna glances at me, intrigued, then looks away. \"My friend did my hair today and I like it.\"\n\nFelix frowns. \"It's not very you.\"\n\nWe're almost at the RLW tea when a new hallway takes us in a different direction and I get completely turned around. I've been so overwhelmed with all my new RLW duties and this fight with my friends that it takes me a minute to get my bearings. When we find a new hallway, I practically throw my family through the opening. We land in front of the observatory where light music is playing and Raza and Tessa are at the door handing out roses to guests on their way in. The way Mother gasps at the gift when she's handed one makes me feel guilty. I can only imagine how Maxine's mom would have reacted. Trixie and Felix race in after Mother, but Father hesitates.\n\n\"Anna, your sister is waiting to take us inside,\" I hear him tell my sister.\n\nMy sister folds her arms across her chest stubbornly, looking a lot like...well, the old me. \"I'm not going. Not until you tell her about the note you received this morning.\"\n\n\"Anna!\" Father scolds, sounding a lot like...well, how he sounded when he used to yell at me. \"I told you we are not bothering your sister about this.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Anna demands. \"It's her fault we're even getting scrolls!\"\n\n\"Show me,\" I insist to Father, feeling nervous. \"I want to know what's going on.\"\n\nFather sighs and pulls out a piece of parchment. The handwriting in this note is different from the one Kayla received, and the message is menacing.\n\nYOU have riches and a famous daughter, but I can take it all away. If you care about your family, tell Gillian to be a charming girl and do what she's told.\n\nI feel ill. My biggest fear is there on paper taunting me. I peer closer at the parchment, noticing an extremely long, golden hair. A clue! I pluck it and place it in my pocket.\n\n\"I found the note tucked into our morning scroll,\" Father tells me quietly. \"Your mother doesn't know. A clipping of the story on your breakout was with it.\" He gives me a look.\n\nI ignore that part. \"Why didn't you call the Dwarf Police Squad? They can protect our boot!\"\n\nFather shakes his head. \"We're obviously being watched.\" He pats my hand. \"I don't want you to worry about this.\"\n\n\"What? If Gilly just stays out of things, they'll leave us alone,\" Anna rants. She looks at me. \"Let someone else fight Alva.\"\n\n\"But I'm getting closer. I can feel it,\" I protest. \"I can do this on my own. Imagine the reward the royal court will give us then. Princess Rose really likes me! If I could find the mole in the castle, they might be so amazed by me that they'll give us a bigger boot or land or\u2014\"\n\n\"Do you hear yourself?\" Anna throws her hands up. \"Since when do you care about a bigger boot or more money? You sound just like the wicked stepsisters!\" I gasp. \"Can't you be happy with what you already have? Family and friends who like you? This note obviously means you're supposed to do your time here quietly and get out.\" I try to talk over her. \"Oh, I forgot! You never listen, do you? You always have to be the hero.\"\n\nMy stomach is sloshing so much that I can barely stand. I feel suddenly very ill. \"Anna!\" I go to grab her hand, but she pulls away and storms off.\n\n\"Anna's right,\" Father says quietly. \"This is a fight you can't win alone, Gillian.\"\n\n\"But I work just fine alone,\" I protest. \"Why do I need help? Sometimes you have to do your own thing so others don't get hurt.\"\n\n\"Working alone is how you do get hurt,\" he reminds me. \"You beat Alva last time because you had a team. Sometimes being a hero means being brave. Other times it means knowing when you need help.\"\n\n\"You're right,\" I say, and Father looks as surprised as I feel that we're agreeing. I think of what Jocelyn said. I have been selfish, and I haven't been a very good friend. I can't screw things up for my family, but I can't let the kingdom just fall apart either. I feel completely stuck. For a moment, all I want is to be small and on my father's shoulders. \"I'm sorry. I guess I haven't been thinking straight,\" I admit. \"But if me being part of all this hurts your business, I couldn't bear it. Everyone looks happier than I've seen them in ages.\"\n\nFather looks at me. \"I don't want you to worry about my business. We'll be fine whether I make glass slippers or not.\" I bite my lip. \"You do whatever you have to do to help end this reign of terror with Alva with the help of others. Then we'll all be home together. Deal?\"\n\n\"Deal.\" I'm not sure how I'm going to pull this off though. \"I should find Anna before she gets lost.\" I hear the sound of a piano and frown. I think I'm missing the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting pledge. Tessa will be furious. I was supposed to chime the triangle.\n\nFather nods to the door. \"You go find Anna. I can distract them while you're gone. I'll say you had a sash emergency.\" He chuckles to himself.\n\nI give Father a peck on the cheek\u2014another unusual thing for me\u2014and dash down the hall. Anna could be anywhere. Rumor had it they were going to shut the magical hallways for visitation day, but they haven't. I tiptoe past the lecture hall where I can hear Blackbeard speaking (\"Like the sea, lads and lasses have mighty tempers! Dealing with them takes a plank\u2014or a plan...\").\n\nA sudden left sends me past the choir room where students are singing \"The Gingerbread Man\" to a rapt crowd. On the other side of the hall, I can hear Madame Cleo leading a group of parents and students in the Fire Step. Miri appears in a mirror a few yards away to scold two fairies who've flown out of Wolfington's reading of Enchantasia through the Magical Years.\n\nI duck into a hallway to my right to avoid being seen and come face to face with the entrance to the vegetable garden. There's no way Anna's out here. I try to turn around and trip over a watermelon, landing on my face and smashing the watermelon with my fall. The melon juice drips down my arm and my chin. I hear someone roar with laughter.\n\n\"Well, if it isn't the newest RLW!\" Jocelyn say in a self-satisfied voice. She's sitting on a picnic blanket with Kayla, who grimaces at the sight of me. \"Shouldn't you be more graceful, Cobbler? Oh, I forgot. You skipped that part of your training and went straight to being a backstabbing royal wannabe and a lousy friend.\"\n\nI cannot stand this witch. I pull on Jocelyn's skirt and take her down with me. She lands in watermelon juice. Then I take a piece of watermelon and chuck it at her.\n\n\"Stop it, Gilly!\" Kayla says, rushing over and helping Jocelyn up. Not me! \"Just leave us alone and go back to the RLWs and your family. They're who you want to be with anyway.\"\n\n\"Leave us alone?\" I question. \"You would rather hang out with Jocelyn than me?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Kayla holds her head up defiantly.\n\n\"Ha!\" Jocelyn says.\n\n\"She may be rough around the edges, but at least she's honest,\" Kayla continues. \"She doesn't pretend to be someone she's not\u2014like you. How could you hurt Maxine like that? She's your friend\u2014we all were\u2014and instead of sticking up for her, you cut her down to win favor with Olivia and the RLWs.\"\n\n\"Kayla! Jocelyn!\" Maxine comes bounding into the vegetable garden, crushing several melons in the process. \"Come meet my family and\u2014oh.\" Maxine sees me, and the left side of her face falls. \"I'll come back later.\"\n\nI feel like I've been socked with a bag of flour. \"Maxine, I...\"\n\n\"Maxine, stay,\" Kayla insists, and Jocelyn giggles with wicked glee. \"We're giving Gilly a piece of our minds. She needs to know how she's made us feel.\" She turns to me. \"You haven't been around at all since the breakout. It's just RLWs, RLWs, RLWs!\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" seconds Jocelyn. \"For someone so anti-royal, you sure seem to have made the glass slipper fit, so to speak.\"\n\nI've had it with Jocelyn chiming in. \"If you must know, I joined the RLWs because I thought someone in there might be the mole or know who the mole is!\" I glance at Maxine whose face is hanging to the floor. \"I never wanted to take the sash away from Maxine. I joined because Princess Rose wanted me and I knew if I could get close to the group, I could find out information. The RLWs are obsessed with power.\"\n\nJocelyn raises an eyebrow, her dark eyes narrowing. \"Sound familiar?\"\n\n\"If it was all a ruse, why didn't you make them ask Maxine to be an RLW too?\" Kayla questions. \"Because you didn't want to be made fun of. You knew they were being mean to her, and you let them do it.\"\n\n\"I don't want to talk about this,\" Maxine says miserably.\n\n\"Admit it!\" Jocelyn cries. \"You like being the hero and getting the glory all to yourself! That's why you went it alone and left your friends flat like stale gingerbread!\"\n\n\"This is not your business!\" I shout so loudly that even Maxine quakes. \"This is between me, my friend, and my roommate!\"\n\n\"Roommate?\" Kayla questions. \"Some roommate you've been. I know I lied a lot to you when you came here, but I was doing it for my family. All you've done lately is think about yourself! You never stopped to wonder what your friends were doing or how I'd feel about it being visitation day and having no visitors,\" she adds. \"At least the others invited me to be with their families today. You're my roommate, and you didn't even ask if I wanted to meet your parents or how I was feeling.\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" Jocelyn says, twirling her cape with glee. \"You guys have wanted to stop Alva since the beginning, but it's obvious Cobbler no longer remembers the prize. What have you found out by being an RLW, huh? I doubt anything. Meanwhile, Maxine has gotten another message on her scroll, and you don't even know what it is because you're too busy practicing curtsies.\"\n\n\"I...\" My heart is beating fast. And there is that feeling in my stomach I had the other day. I can hear Jax in my head and Father and even my own thoughts telling me what I already know: Jocelyn and Kayla are absolutely right.\n\n\"I considered you guys my family at FTRS, but I was wrong about you,\" Kayla says. \"I could never be family with someone so selfish.\"\n\nI sit down on the bench and steal a piece of the crumb cake they have on their picnic blanket. They probably lifted it from the cafeteria this morning. \"You guys are right about everything.\"\n\nJocelyn holds out her ear. \"Can you repeat that?\"\n\n\"I said you're right,\" I say gloomily. I glance at Maxine. \"I was so worried about fitting in with the RLWs that I said some rotten things about Maxine, who has been kinder to me than anyone I know.\"\n\n\"I haven't been kind?\" Kayla sniffs.\n\n\"You both have been,\" I continue. \"I didn't mean what I said\u2014any of it. I was foolish and rotten, and I hope you can forgive me and let me make it up to you.\" I remove my RLW sash and place it over Maxine's head. It gets stuck around her neck. \"This is for you. If they don't let you become an RLW, then I won't be one anymore either.\"\n\nI glance at Kayla. \"I got carried away. I should have thought about how visitation day would make you feel. Of course, I want you to meet my family. I want both of you to meet them!\" Jocelyn coughs, but I ignore her. \"Can you guys forgive me?\"\n\nMaxine starts to blubber and Kayla sniffles. \"Yes, we forgive you!\" Maxine cries, and she and Kayla hug me.\n\n\"Don't ever act like a wicked stepsister again!\" Kayla says, and we all laugh.\n\nJocelyn gives a lackluster round of applause, and I turn on her. \"What are you still doing here?\"\n\n\"Be nice,\" Kayla tells me and my jaw drops. \"Jocelyn has been helping us while you were off being royal.\" I feel my cheeks burn. \"She's been hanging near the manifesto to see if anyone tries to contact Alva, and she's been doing what she can to track down her sister and convince her not to turn evil again.\"\n\nSisters. \"I have to find Anna,\" I remember. \"She's run off.\"\n\n\"I'd run away if you were my sister too,\" Jocelyn mumbles.\n\n\"I have to go back to Mother and Father,\" Maxine tells us. \"Come join us at lunch when you've found Anna.\" We hug again and Maxine trudges off.\n\n\"Why did Anna disappear?\" Kayla asks.\n\n\"We had an argument,\" I say quietly. \"It sounded a lot like the one we just had. I wish I could wave a wand and make this week go away.\" Wands. If I were a girl who wanted one, the wand room would be the first place I'd go. \"I think I know where she is.\"\n\n\"Well, don't leave us here.\" Kayla pushes the empty crumb cake box under the bench. \"Maybe we can help talk to her.\"\n\n\"I'm in too.\" Jocelyn smirks. \"I want to watch you get yelled at again.\"\n\nI give her a look, but I don't want to get on Kayla's bad side again. \"Fine.\"\n\nThe three of us step inside the castle and find the hallways shifting fast. I wonder if their magic is malfunctioning. \"I'll never find the wand room with the halls acting like this.\"\n\nJocelyn removes a small pouch from her skirt pocket. She pours purple sand into her hand, mumbles words I can't understand, and then blows the sand into the air. Within seconds, the sand is stretching out kernel by kernel down the hall, making a left near a giant sea-serpent water fountain. \"This way,\" she says triumphantly.\n\nI follow behind her, wondering how Jocelyn's magic slips under Miri's radar. Because she's learned it from Harlow, I realize. The former professor always had a free pass in her own school. We reach the wand room and find it locked.\n\n\"We should have known they wouldn't let students have wands today,\" Kayla says. \"Where to next?\"\n\nI frown. \"I don't know. If you were visiting FTRS, where would you go?\"\n\n\"The Pegasi stables,\" says Jocelyn, blowing more sand into the air. But Anna is not there. The fencing demonstration has cleared out too, and there is still no sign of her.\n\n\"Maybe she left,\" Kayla says.\n\nI shake my head as a family with a map walks by us talking about the Arabian Nights' Flying Carpet Tutorial. I wanted Felix to see that. \"You have to be signed out.\"\n\n\"Well, we can't keep roaming the halls!\" Jocelyn's voice makes a pixie family walking by the fireplace we're standing in front of jump. \"Miri is going to catch up with us eventually and I, for one, don't want any more time in detention for helping you.\"\n\n\"I was fine finding my sister on my own,\" I snipe.\n\n\"Um, guys?\" says Kayla.\n\n\"Yeah, it looked like it,\" Jocelyn retorts.\n\n\"You're the one who asked to come along!\"\n\n\"Guys! Look!\" Kayla shouts over our bickering.\n\nThe fireplace has rotated to reveal a hallway behind it.\n\n# CHAPTER 13\n\nPast the Point of No Return\n\nThe hallway smells like it hasn't been opened in years. I cringe at the sight of all the moss and water dripping down the bricks, but I can't help but be curious. Flora built this castle. There must be a reason there is a secret door here. A door that's starting to close. Jocelyn and I both jump into the unknown, having the same reaction to pull Kayla through with us. Then the door closes and we're enveloped in darkness. Jocelyn quickly produces an orb of light. Her dark eyes peer back at me.\n\n\"Thanks a lot. Now we're stuck here!\"\n\n\"You went through first!\"\n\n\"Only because I knew you were going to if I didn't.\"\n\n\"Guys?\" Kayla grips my arm. I can hear her wings fluttering. \"Someone's talking.\"\n\nWe grow quiet to listen. I strain to hear anything other than dripping water and what I think is a squeaky mouse. Then I hear faint voices speaking quickly.\n\nJocelyn's and my eyes find each other, and I know we're thinking the same thing.\n\nAlva.\n\nKayla begins backing away, her wings fluttering at warp speed, but I grab her, realizing something.\n\n\"It's okay. Alva wouldn't want to stay hidden,\" I say.\n\n\"But Rumpelstiltskin might,\" Jocelyn tosses out, and we both look at her. \"So would that mole you're desperate to find.\"\n\nThe three of us say nothing, but we move onward. As the path begins to turn down and brighten, Jocelyn is forced to extinguish her orb. The voices grow closer, and I can finally make out what they're saying. Gillian. Kayla grabs my arm.\n\n\"Gillian can't know what is going on,\" I hear a familiar voice say and stop. Flora.\n\n\"Use her as bait,\" comes a second voice eagerly. \"Gillian is the one she wants. If you hand her over to Alva, she might leave FTRS out of this hostile kingdom takeover.\"\n\nI feel like I might spin into the ground.\n\n\"Don't you think I know that?\" Flora sounds angry. \"I've tried everything I can think of to avoid it. You know Rumpelstiltskin. His deal protects the school grounds, but not, it turns out, the students. That little troll. He knew that meant Alva's manifesto could still persuade students to join her cause. Wolfington has been leaving the grounds every night for weeks to try to see if there is another way to stop Alva, but we have nothing. Those children keep mucking up any progress we make with their snooping.\"\n\n\"You had to have seen that coming,\" the other voice replies. \"None of them hold a candle to my sister.\"\n\nHarlow! An outlawed villainous former professor and the headmistress of our school who is supposed to protect us are meeting up! I should have known.\n\nKayla and I look at Jocelyn, whose breath is coming so hard that I worry she might collapse before I do. She lunges forward, and Kayla and I grab her. Gosh, she's strong. I lock my arms around her shoulders and try to drag her to the ground with me. The ground sounds so good right now.\n\nHarlow wants Flora to give me over to Alva to save the FTRS students.\n\nWhat does that mean for me?\n\nFor my family?\n\n\"A sister who is beginning to ask questions!\" Flora continues. \"If she knew...\"\n\n\"She mustn't,\" Harlow says. \"Flora, you gave me your word.\"\n\n\"I know, but now you want me to use Gillian as bait and\u2014\"\n\n\"Your word,\" Harlow presses. \"Leave Jocelyn out of it while you can. I have enough trouble. I don't have much time. I'm meeting with Rapunzel this evening.\"\n\n\"How's that going?\" Flora asks.\n\nHarlow sighs. \"You know princesses! I must go before...\"\n\n\"Yes, I know.\" Flora sounds frustrated as we hear the familiar whizzing of Harlow whisking herself away in a puff of smoke that slowly billows toward us.\n\nAnd then I realize. If Harlow is gone, then Flora will be leaving too\u2014and there's probably only one way out of here. \"Up,\" I hiss. \"She'll be coming back any second.\"\n\nWe run out of the passageway and down the hall so fast that I don't see the person in our path. Smack! Our crash sends the person flying backward where she lands on her butt. And that's when I notice the pink dress, the tiara on the ground, the crinoline of her skirt over her head. Fiddlesticks. We hit Princess Rose.\n\n\"Princess!\" Kayla cries, hurrying to help her up. \"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She adjusts her skirt. I don't have the heart to tell her how messy her hair is. She looks at me stormily. \"You were supposed to be at the RLW tea an hour ago!\"\n\nUm...\n\n\"Dress emergency,\" Jocelyn says quickly and points to my skirt. \"Gilly knew you said to wear pink today, and she had gotten some glue on her gown so we were trying to help her magically get it off. Obviously we didn't have much luck.\"\n\nWow, that was smooth.\n\n\"Gilly!\" I hear my sister calling my name. She's smiling and running toward me, which is odd. \"I've been looking for you!\"\n\n\"I guess I haven't been alone,\" Princess Rose mumbles.\n\n\"I got a little lost and wound up sitting in on Professor Wolfington's history of Enchantasia lecture, and then I got to see a magic carpet tutorial.\" Anna is wound up like a top. \"It was amazing! Then I visited the Pegasi stables. You're soooo lucky to go here!\"\n\n\"You don't want to go here,\" I correct her, but Anna gasps at the sight of Rose.\n\n\"Your Highness, how wonderful to meet you.\" Anna's curtsy is far better than any I've managed. \"I'm sorry we're late to your tea.\"\n\n\"Ladies.\" We turn to find Headmistress Flora staring at us darkly. \"Whatever are you doing in this part of the castle? You are nowhere near the Royal Ladies' tea.\"\n\nOur headmistress was meeting with Harlow. Anything she says is a lie.\n\n\"I was looking for Gilly,\" Rose answers for us. \"Her tracker lead me here.\"\n\nWait. What?\n\n\"Tracker?\" Flora looks dumbfounded.\n\n\"Her new sash,\" Princess Rose says as if it should be obvious. \"It has a tracker in it.\" Flora's eyes nearly bulge out of her head. \"These sashes are one-of-a-kind priceless beauties. I couldn't risk visitors\u2014or our own criminally prone students\u2014stealing them.\"\n\n\"But I took mine off and gave it to Maxine,\" I say.\n\nRose points to the rose pin I'm wearing on my lapel. \"But you're still wearing your pinning ceremony pin. That's a tracker too. I know where you all are at all times!\" she says happily like this is a good thing.\n\nI'm flabbergasted. Flora seems equally so. \"You tracked the students?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Rose says, growing impatient. \"Now I really need to get back to our tea! A hostess should never be gone for too long. Neither should the cohost when she's invited a new student to join the club without asking.\" She looks pointedly at me.\n\nMaxine.\n\nWhen I open my mouth to speak, a siren blares through the castle.\n\n\"What's happening?\" Anna covers her ears.\n\n\"We're under attack,\" I say, grabbing her hand, \"but don't worry, we'll be okay.\" Rumpelstiltskin is protecting the castle. For the moment, that comforts me.\n\nA mirror nearby glows green. \"Headmistress Flora,\" Miri says urgently.\n\n\"What's happened?\" Flora asks. \"There can't be a break-in. We're protected!\"\n\n\"They haven't broken into the school, Headmistress,\" Miri says, and it's the first time I've ever heard the normally steady mirror sound shaky. \"It's Enchantasia...\" The words seem stuck to her mouth like glue. \"The ogres, the gargoyles...Alva. They've...burned half the village to the ground.\"\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nBreaking News: Enchantasia Village in Ruins\n\nby Beatrice Beez\n\nThe Enchantasia Dwarf Police Squad is ordering all residents who still have their homes, teakettles, and boots to stay indoors while the police investigate the village for ogres and gargoyles on the run after today's devastating attack. This reporter has toured the village with police protection and has noted that three blocks of boots, several teakettles, and storefronts including Mother Goose's Nursery School\u2014as well as the famed Three Little Pigs' homes\u2014were destroyed in the attacks.\n\nThankfully, the quick thinking of Jack and Jill, who were headed up the hill to fetch a pail of water, alerted the village to the incoming ogres, and villagers were able to get everyone to safety. In the village square a new magical scroll with an ominous message was found: \"A regime change is coming. Join me or perish. The royal court can't save you.\"\n\nFollowing the attacks, dozens of villagers fled the scene to join Alva's army. Rumor has it that students at FTRS have gone missing as well. \"No one knows how they're contacting Alva, but we suspect there is a traitor in our midst who is helping them do so,\" says Pete, the Dwarf Police Squad Chief.\n\nRapunzel was visiting the village right before the attacks occurred, but thankfully left early for a hair-care ad luncheon. Meanwhile, the royal court is said to be scrambling to make a statement about the attacks, but they've already been beaten to the punch by one of their own. Despite imminent danger, Princess Rose signed her Royal Ladies-in-Waiting Club out of Fairy Tale Reform School to distribute fresh water, blankets, and food to magical creatures in need. Headmistress Flora was rumored to be against this idea, but as she is under questioning about her school's magical protection that left it untouched, she was unable to stop the princess.\n\n\"While my fellow princesses figure out the right words to comfort a village, my Royal Ladies and I choose to get on the ground and help those in need,\" said Princess Rose when we caught up with her at the Mulberry Bush shelter where she was giving out honorary Royal Ladies-in-Waiting sashes to eager children. \"I, for one, won't stand and wait to see my kingdom repeatedly pillaged in this manner. It's time we take back the power.\n\n\"I've already told my fellow princesses that we will be meeting to discuss Enchantasia's welfare at a dinner my RLWs and I are organizing at Royal Manor this Friday. While commoners are usually not invited to give their opinion in such matters, I feel it is important that we hear everyone's thoughts on how to save our kingdom. One of my newest RLWs, Gillian Cobbler, is sure to have many ideas.\"\n\nThe village shoemaker's daughter and her friends are the ones who thwarted Alva's previous attack on FTRS. Inviting RLWs to a royal discussion is a bold move by Princess Rose, who has always let the other princesses make decisions on her behalf. \"I am no longer willing to sit back and let things be decided for me. I'm a charming princess, yes, but I also have the power to help those in need.\"\n\nCheck your scrolls often throughout the day for updates on Enchantasia village and the search for Alva!\n\n# CHAPTER 14\n\nA Pirate's Life for Me\n\nTap! Tap! Tap!\n\nAt first the sound is so light that I think I'm imagining it, so I roll over and go back to sleep. But the sound is persistent. It interrupts my sugarplum dreams.\n\nKayla throws back her covers. \"For the love of fairies, what is that noise?\"\n\nThe sun is not even close to gracing us with its presence, but someone is outside our turret window\u2014and we live fourteen stories up. I rush over, open the stained glass window, and look out at the boy in pajamas sitting atop my favorite Pegasus, Macho. \"Jax?\"\n\n\"Hi,\" he says, sounding completely calm for someone who is breaking half a dozen FTRS rules by being outside, in the air, in the middle of the night, and stealing a Pegasus. After yesterday's attack on the village, Flora forbade us from even going outside. Macho's bright-white coat gleams almost silver in the moonlight, accentuating his majestic purple wings. \"We need to powwow pronto. Ollie and Maxine think they've got something. Can you come outside?\"\n\nI look down, down, down at the ground so far below. The grounds are lit faintly by torches and an eerie silver glow that we suspect is Rumpelstiltskin's protection charm. \"You want me to jump from my window onto Macho?\" He nods like it's as easy as teaching one of the Three Blind Mice to swordfight (which Blackbeard is doing, by the way).\n\n\"Macho will hold steady, won't you?\" Jax asks, and Macho neighs in response.\n\nPegasi can understand human thoughts and words, which I still find pretty cool.\n\n\"But he can't get closer.\" I stare at his large wingspan. \"I'll have to jump.\"\n\nKayla nudges me out of the way and flies out the window, landing right behind Jax. She smiles smugly. \"That was easy.\"\n\n\"Says the fairy with wings.\" I grab my boots, slipping them onto my bare feet. Then I hold up my nightgown, climb onto the small window ledge, and don't look down. Jax flies around again, getting as close as possible, which isn't all that close. I'm going to have to jump at least two to three feet.\n\n\"One, two, three,\" Jax coaxes me as Kayla clings to his back.\n\nThe air feels cool and it's breezier than I'd expected, but I take a deep breath and jump. Jax and Kayla have their hands out to catch me, and my hands are ready to meet theirs. Whoosh! A gust blows my nightgown up, and instinctively I pull it back down when I should be grabbing my friends' hands.\n\n\"Gilly!\" Kayla screeches as I fall past Macho and plummet downward. I throw my hands out again, and at the last second they wind around Macho's loose reins. He gives a neigh in protest. \"Would you rather I fall?\" I ask him.\n\nJax grins. \"We wouldn't have let you, thief. Macho clocks in at thirty miles an hour. We could have booked down and caught you before you went splat in the moat.\"\n\n\"Reassuring.\" I climb behind Kayla and hang on tight as Macho takes off, flying around the rooftop of the castle, which I've only seen once before. \"So can you tell me what's so important that I needed to jump out a window?\"\n\nJax's hair whips around his face as Macho flies, but his face darkens as a cloud blocks the moonlight. \"Maxine received a new message on her scroll.\"\n\nI yawn. \"And she couldn't show it to us in the morning?\"\n\n\"I forgot we haven't gotten you up to speed,\" Jax explains. \"We're pretty sure the mole is one of the princesses.\"\n\n\"What?\" I say and almost fall off Macho. His wing pushes me back on behind Kayla.\n\n\"The note Maxine got while you were off learning how to fold napkins said as much,\" says Kayla.\n\n\"And Maxine said this note is even more urgent,\" Jax explains, pulling Macho's reins tighter. The Pegasus soars to new heights. \"We have to act now.\"\n\nIt's strange to see the castle bathed in darkness, the moat reflecting moonlight below while the occupants of FTRS are fast asleep. From high above, Fairy Tale Reform School looks peaceful. But we are anything but safe. Alva's army is growing. Two dozen students went missing after yesterday's attacks and many villagers as well. Alva's not going to stop 'til she has us all.\n\nAt least my family is safe. When we heard about the attack on the village, we feared the worst about Han and Hamish. Thankfully, Mother received word via magic carpet that the children at Mother Goose Nursery got to safety before the school was destroyed and our boot is still standing. \"For now,\" Father said grimly. His words still echo in my head, along with the message on the threatening note he received. Tell Gillian to be a charming girl and do what she's told. I rub my arms to keep warm. If I want to end this, I may have to take the fall for all of us just like Harlow said. And if I do that, what will happen to my family?\n\nMacho swoops down, going around the gardens and the observatory before he heads toward the lake. The sails of Blackbeard's ship billow in the breeze as Jax lands Macho on a freshly swabbed deck that gleams.\n\nWe've barely loosened our grips when scrappy-looking pirates come from every corner of the deck with swords drawn and shouting variations on \"Aargh!\" and \"Avast! Intruders!\" Jax is attempting to take off again when we hear someone yell, \"Stop!\"\n\nOllie runs across the deck, dressed like one of the crew in a bandana, billowy T-shirt, and ripped pantaloons. Maxine is with him. \"They're with me, mates.\" The pirates seem disappointed as they put their swords back in their scabbards and go back to cleaning.\n\n\"Ollie, don't you think you're taking this pirate fantasy a bit far?\" Kayla asks. \"What are we doing here?\"\n\n\"Once a pirate, always a pirate,\" says Ollie.\n\nBlackbeard appears, putting an arm around Ollie. \"This matey may not have sailed the seven seas with a pirate as fearsome as me, but I said I'd still invoke the pirate code and let ye meet on me decks.\" Blackbeard elbows Maxine. \"I love this lad's tricks. Have you seen him make a dove appear under his hat? Bloody brilliant!\" The other pirates applaud as Ollie bows. \"Ye take all the time ye need, lad. I won't tell a soul.\"\n\nOllie and Blackbeard do a strange handshake and laugh before Blackbeard heads back to his quarters.\n\n\"Come and see the ship!\" Ollie tells us excitedly, lifting a hatch in the deck to reveal steps that lead to the quarters below. \"We're safe from prying eyes here so it's the perfect place to talk before the sun comes up.\" He pauses. \"As long as Gilly has her rose pin and sash off.\"\n\nI point to my blue nightgown. \"I'm good. But why the need to meet outside the castle?\"\n\nOllie leads the way down. \"We're trying to keep tabs on you! The girls told us what you overheard yesterday.\"\n\n\"We figured news like that would probably make you do something rash and thiefy on your own,\" Jax adds.\n\n\"I've learned my lesson about working alone,\" I say, exhaling at the thought of it all. \"We're only going to be able to stop Alva if we work as a team, even if she is only after me.\"\n\nJax stops near a room filled with snoring pirates in hammocks. \"We won't let her take you. We can stop her together. All of us.\" Jax opens a door where Jocelyn is waiting.\n\n# CHAPTER 15\n\nRiddle Me This\n\n\"She's helping us?\" I flip out. \"You just said you heard her sister wants to hand me over to Alva!\"\n\n\"She didn't actually say that,\" Jocelyn scoffs. \"But it's true that sometimes sacrifices have to be made.\" Jax holds me back while Kayla blocks Jocelyn.\n\n\"Have you all lost your minds?\" I hiss. \"Harlow is working with Flora and Alva, which means Blackbeard probably is too. You're trusting villains, and villains can't be trusted. Jocelyn included!\"\n\nJocelyn crosses her arms, showing off the intricate pattern of her black lace sleeves. \"She's as pigheaded as the Three Little Pigs. She'll never listen to anything I have to say. You deserve to have your boot blown down!\"\n\nJax steps between us. \"Enough! Alva's taking students and villagers, and Enchantasia and FTRS will be next. Do you want that to happen?\" He looks from me to Jocelyn. We're both quiet. \"Now, there's no one better to decipher villainous clues than the sister of the Evil Queen. Jocelyn's figured out how to work the manifestos on her own, and she's willing to help us sort through these clues, so we're going to let her.\"\n\nI've never heard Jax so fired up before. I rub my sore arm and glare at Jocelyn. \"I have one question first: Why do you want to help us?\"\n\nJocelyn purses her purplish lips. \"I think my sister is innocent.\" I snort. \"I think Harlow left with Alva because she's secretly helping FTRS. Maybe she's even the one clever enough to send these notes. Did you ever think of that?\"\n\nI snicker. \"Yeah. And poison apples aren't really poisonous.\"\n\nThe wind picks up in the room, and Jocelyn begins to mumble what I suspect is a spell. I lunge for her. The two of us hit a sack of what must be gold coins\u2014it's that hard\u2014and both wince. \"Ow! Ow!\" we both exclaim.\n\nOllie and Jax send us to opposite sides of the room. \"You two are not allowed to talk to each other,\" Jax says wearily. \"Let's fill Gilly in on what we know. Jocelyn?\"\n\nJocelyn huffs, then finally looks at me. \"All those fools who joined Alva yesterday? They did it by touching the manifesto.\"\n\n\"Those scrolls are protected,\" I snap. \"You can't pull one down or touch it.\" Jax gives me a warning look. I back down with a sigh. \"Can you?\"\n\n\"You can if you're questionable,\" Jocelyn insists. \"I've been hanging around the manifesto to see if anyone tries to use it. After yesterday's attack, students flocked to it.\"\n\n\"Traitors,\" Ollie grumbles.\n\n\"Most of them got nowhere,\" Jocelyn explains with an eye roll. \"They were too reformed, I guess, but then that weasel Ronald Gertrude, who keeps trying to sneak off with Pegasi on school grounds, went up to it, and the scroll changed color.\"\n\n\"Ronald?\" Maxine's eye starts to spin. \"What a boy who cried wolf! His mother has been trying to spring him from FTRS early!\"\n\n\"That little troll walked up to the manifesto with two friends, stuck a meaty hand on it, and begged to join Alva.\" Jocelyn snickers. \"New words appeared but I was too far away to read them. When Ronald escaped through the castle wall, I went over to try the scroll myself.\" She shrugs. \"If you're still evil enough, it reveals itself.\" She holds out her hand, and the purple smoke I'm used to seeing with her magic reveals words. The handwriting matches Alva's manifesto.\n\nMeet at the Hollow Woods at dawn. Our Royal Manor battle is imminent.\n\nDawn? I look through the nearest porthole and see the sky is already turning pink. \"Fiddlesticks! We're too late to stop them!\"\n\n\"We may not be able to keep them from joining Alva, but we can figure out which princess is aiding her.\" Jax holds out a scribbled note. \"This was what Maxine's last note said: 'The traitor is of royal blood, for sure, but the question remains, which tiara is tarnished?'\"\n\nI listen to the snoring in the other room to steady myself. I've never been a royal fan, and I certainly don't like how they've abandoned FTRS, but I never thought a princess would stoop so low as to work with Alva. \"Who do you think would betray Enchantasia?\"\n\n\"We don't know.\" Maxine pulls out her mini magical scroll. \"But tonight I got this.\" We all gather around to look. \"It glowed so brightly that it woke me up. It says 'Urgent.'\"\n\nHEAR MY CRY! THE TIME HAS COME! YOU MUST WORK FAST! THE ROYAL SPY IS ALMOST FREE AT LAST. HER HAIR IS FAIR, HER SKIN IS WHITE. SADLY, I KNOW SHE IS NOT SNOW WHITE.\n\n\"Well, that rules out one princess, but we still have three more,\" Jax says. He spreads the notes and Maxine's mini magical scroll out in front of us on the messy pirate table, pushing aside maps and gold telescopes. \"Any ideas when they're all blond?\"\n\n\"Ella would never do such a thing,\" says Maxine fiercely. \"She's always speaking out on evil. I just can't imagine her trying to hurt the kingdom.\"\n\n\"Well, it can't be Rose either,\" I insist. \"She's working at FTRS! She believes in reform and helping the kingdom. She's always complaining the court doesn't do more to help bring power to the people.\"\n\n\"I'm with Gilly,\" says Maxine. \"Princess Rose officially made me an RLW yesterday! She said if Gilly wants me in the club, then I'm in the club. I was so thankful that I tried to bring her my secret stash of gingerroot flowers.\"\n\n\"You have gingerroot?\" We all freak, and I hear the pirates in the next cabin stir.\n\nOllie is aghast. \"That flower is a hotter commodity than radishes for dealing with beasties. Why would you just give it away?\"\n\nMaxine's left side of her face starts to droop. \"I still have it. Princess Rose took one look at it and started backing away.\"\n\n\"Duh!\" Jocelyn says. \"She was surrounded by gingerroot during her Sleeping Beauty phase.\"\n\nI pat Maxine on the back. \"I'm sure she appreciated the effort. But that means if it's not Snow, Ella, or Rose...\" We all look at Jax.\n\nHis violet eyes nearly bulge out of his head. \"You think it's Rapunzel? She would never try to hurt Enchantasia!\"\n\n\"And you know that how?\" Jocelyn asks, examining a nail. \"From the way Kayla tells it, Prince, you haven't seen your sis in years, going incognito and all.\"\n\nKayla blushes. \"I had to bring her up to speed.\"\n\n\"You said Rapunzel was there when the gargoyles attacked Royal Manor,\" Ollie says quietly. \"And HEAS says she was in the village right before the attacks yesterday too.\"\n\n\"Not to mention the extra-long blond hair I found on a threatening note Father received at Cobbler Shoes,\" I add gently.\n\n\"What?\" Kayla gasps.\n\nI stare at a gold telescope on the cluttered table. \"It basically said if I didn't do as I was told\u2014whatever that means\u2014Father's business could be taken away.\" I look at the others. \"But Father's right. I can't just worry about my family. I have to think of all of us, and my gut tells me that Rapunzel is the mole.\"\n\nJax sits down, dumbfounded. \"You guys really think the traitor is my sister? Father sent me undercover at FTRS, and the whole time the mole was my own sister? I just don't believe it.\"\n\nAnd yet, I think he does. It makes the most sense out of the three princesses. The boat sways gently, and we all grab a chair as we look at each other in fear.\n\n\"Maybe she's planning to steal the crown from the other princesses and Alva and keep it all to herself,\" Jocelyn guesses, and we look at her. \"That's what I would do.\"\n\nKayla's wings disappear and she drops down to the ground, seemingly deflated. \"Guys, if we're right, no one will believe Rapunzel is working with Alva. Not Flora, not the Dwarf Police Squad.\"\n\n\"I could get word to Father,\" Jax says miserably, \"but I'm not sure he would believe me either, especially without proof. This is a conversation I need to have with him in person and that's impossible since he's away trying to deal with this ogre mess.\"\n\n\"So let's follow our hunch and see if we're right,\" I say. \"We can confront her on our own.\"\n\n\"School be starting soon, buckaroos!\" Blackbeard bellows from above. \"Best to be getting this Pegasus home. The sea is no place for a flying horse.\" I hear the pirates begin stirring and calling out orders.\n\nJax still looks dazed. \"How do we do that?\"\n\n\"You guys will join me at the royal dinner Rose is throwing,\" I decide there and then. \"She already invited me, and Maxine will get an invite too since she's an RLW now. We can go and try to talk some sense into Rapunzel. Jax, she may not know you, but you are her brother. Maybe she'll listen. Lock her away and make her!\"\n\n\"The rest of us will be on guard for Alva,\" says Jocelyn. \"A dinner with all the princesses and village guests would be the perfect place for her to make her move and snatch Gilly. I would do that.\" I glare at her.\n\n\"You guys have all this worked out when all we have is a hunch?\" Kayla sinks into a big pirate chair.\n\n\"Come on, guys!\" Maxine rallies. \"We've done this before. We just need to stick together and maybe use my gingerroot.\" She pulls the smushed flowers out of her pocket. \"I'm glad I didn't give these to Rose now.\"\n\n\"Hold on to them,\" Jax suggests, smiling weakly. I feel bad. Learning your sister is evil is not easy to swallow. \"We're going to need them.\"\n\nI look at the group before me. A pirate, an ogre, a witch, a fairy, a royal, and me. These aren't good odds, but maybe Father and Maxine are right: together, we can do anything.\n\nI smile. \"Yes. Let's show these villains they've got nothing on our crew.\"\n\nFrom the Official Stationery of the Royal Court of Enchantasia*\n\nPrincess Ella, Princess Snow, Princess Rapunzel, and Princess Rose\n\nGillian Cobbler\n\nis officially invited to a dinner meeting at Royal Manor this Thursday evening. You may bring guests!\n\nDinner hosted by Princess Rose and the Royal Ladies-in-Waiting Club of Fairy Tale Reform School.\n\n*Write like a royal! Order your own royal-looking stationery today at the royal court gift shop. (Please note: It is not official and cannot be used to issue orders.)\n\nPlease be prepared for a security briefing by the Dwarf Police Squad led by Chief Pete. Royal meetings are not taken lightly in these times!\n\nDinner will consist of roast beef and figgy pudding, but the royal court does not discriminate based on palate or breed. For alternate magical creature options, please contact our chef, Patacake BakersMan, by Pegasus Post.\n\nDoes your guest want to be a Royal Lady-in-Waiting? Do you have what it takes? Contact Princess Rose for a meeting at her office at Fairy Tale Reform School today!\n\n# CHAPTER 16\n\nTo the Castle We Go\n\nI have one foot in the Pegasi carriage when I hear Miri loud and clear. \"Gillian Cobbler, you must halt by order of Headmistress Flora!\" The mirror in the Pegasi stables is flashing red, which is a very bad sign.\n\nI point innocently to myself and glance quickly back at my friends and Jocelyn, who shrugs. \"But I haven't done anything wrong.\" Like lock up a princess to protect our kingdom. Yet.\n\n\"The headmistress would like a word,\" Miri says. \"She's on her way now.\"\n\n\"Mind if we jump ahead of you, Gilly?\" Azalea asks uneasily. She and Dahlia were in line behind us, but at the mention of their mother, they push their way forward, their heavy perfume making Maxine sneeze. Both girls are wearing poufy ball gowns in different shades of purple with their new RLW sashes. Azalea grabs Dahlia's hand, yanks her sister into the carriage, and rushes the driver to take off. \"Don't mention you saw us or our new glass-slipper high tops, okay?\"\n\nTheir flight takes off seconds before Flora opens the stable doors. Professor Wolfington is with her and seems calm, but Flora's mood is stormy. The look on her face makes the stable boys dive out of her path. Macho neighs nervously from his stable.\n\nDon't worry, boy, I say, knowing he can hear my thoughts.\n\n\"Did you not get my note?\" asks Headmistress Flora sharply, and the rest of my crew steps back.\n\n\"The one that said, 'I'd rather you not go to the dinner'?\" I ask innocently, playing with the gold thread in the dress Mother sent me for the meeting. I sent back the glass-slipper high tops. I prefer my boots. My hair is pulled into an updo that highlights the purple stripe in my hair. It's kind of growing on me. \"It seemed more like a request than a demand.\"\n\nThe growl that comes next sounds like it could be from Professor Wolfington, but it's still Flora. \"Under the circumstances of what's happening in Enchantasia, I do not feel it is wise for students to leave the grounds. I cannot protect you if you're not in my care.\"\n\n\"Seems like you're not doing a great job of protecting us here either,\" I say and Maxine pinches me. Her fingers are pudgy so it hurts! But she's right. I can't be snippy or Flora might realize I overheard her talking to Harlow.\n\nFlora's face hardens. \"This dinner is poor timing. I have a very bad feeling about tonight. You were lucky last time, but who is to say your luck won't run out if you encounter Alva again?\" Macho neighs again softly. \"You have to trust that we're doing everything we can to stop her. We're working with people like Rumpel. I never thought I'd speak with him again unless he agreed to a transformation under our care, and yet here we are.\" Her eyes are pleading. \"Let us do what we need to bring that fairy in and then you'll be safe to visit Royal Manor another time.\" I say nothing.\n\n\"I'd go, but no one can enter Royal Manor without an invitation. Strangely, Princess Rose did not give any to the FTRS staff,\" Professor Wolfington adds, and I notice he's staring at me and Jax intently. \"I guess our opinion on Alva isn't warranted.\"\n\n\"We'll bring you back a souvenir,\" Ollie says. \"I hear the silverware is solid gold. One spoon could buy the school a Pegasus.\"\n\nHeadmistress Flora sounds flustered. \"Oliver, this is no time for follies! Now I cannot tell you all to ignore a royal invitation, but I strongly suggest you do so. I forbade my own daughters to attend tonight under the circumstances.\"\n\n\"Uh, you might want to go check on them in their quarters,\" Kayla suggests. \"And look for new glass-slipper high-top boxes too.\" Flora's nostrils flare.\n\nI feel ill and I don't think it's that extra pot pie I had at lunch with Maxine. I think Flora is hinting that we might not make it back from Royal Manor. What does she care? Isn't she working with Harlow to get rid of me to save our school? I glance at Jax and know we can't wait to find out what Flora is really up to. This isn't just about my safety. It's about our whole kingdom's, including the royals. Like it or not, I have to go.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Headmistress Flora,\" I say. \"Madame Cleo told me it's uncharming of a proper lady to ignore an invitation from a royal.\"\n\n\"Fine! But remember, I can do nothing for you from here.\" Flora stomps off and stable boys dive out of the way again, but Professor Wolfington stays behind. He's chomping on a piece of straw between his lips, studying me closely.\n\n\"Sir?\" Jax sounds very proper. He looks regal in a white dress suit, gold buttons lining his chest.\n\n\"The headmistress is right that we cannot protect you if you're not on the grounds, but I believe there's something she forgot to mention.\" His eyes are almost playful. \"Different castle, different rules. You can't get in trouble for breaking FTRS codes of conduct if the staff is not there to see it happen.\" His eyes glimmer. \"Princess Rose is not a teacher; she's a club advisor. Understood?\"\n\nIs he trying to say it's okay to be bad tonight? I'm not sure, but I nod anyway.\n\n\"Good. Then I bid you a good evening,\" he says. \"I also have a gift.\" He pulls a small velvet sack out of his jacket pocket. \"Gingerroot. It can bind magic. I believe Miss Maxine has been growing some in her dorm room for a rainy day, but my batch is already mature. Extra might come in handy this evening.\"\n\nI hold out my hand in wonderment. Maybe Wolfington really is one of the good guys. \"Thank you,\" I say, tucking the bag into my small clutch.\n\n\"Mine is mature too. I think,\" Maxine mumbles in my ear, blowing hot breath on me.\n\n\"Gingerroot is great, but it only works a short while,\" Wolfington adds. \"Use it at the last possible second. You'll have fifteen minutes to a half hour if it's potent enough.\"\n\n\"The next carriage is approaching,\" a stable boy informs us, and two Pegasi swoop down with a golden carriage attached behind them. They land outside the stable doors.\n\n\"Guess we should go,\" says Kayla, sounding anxious as she takes Ollie's arm and heads toward the carriage. With a nod to the professor, I take Jax's arm while Maxine and Jocelyn walk together.\n\n\"Ready, thief?\" Jax asks.\n\n\"I guess I have to be.\" I step up into the carriage and sit down on one of the velvet seats. This is the first time I've traveled by carriage. Well, if you don't count our return trip from the village in the carriage trunk. Somehow I suspect this trip will be just as rocky\u2014in a different way.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"Announcing our royal guest, Miss Gillian Cobbler of 2 Boot Way!\"\n\nHaving passed through security with Pete, who seemed none too pleased to see me, we are escorted into the castle compound where I'm announced like royalty.\n\nI hate to admit it, but Royal Manor is pretty impressive. From my view in the village, I couldn't tell that there were actually four castles inside the main gate\u2014one for each princess\u2014and a fifth central castle used for hosting lavish balls and princess meetings. When we flew overhead, we could really see how differently each princess had modeled her castle. Ella's is made of glass like her slipper; Snow's is hand-carved wood (said to be designed by her adoring dwarfs); and Rapunzel's is the most modern with pictures of her latest hair-care ads projected onto the white stucco walls. Rose's is covered with rose-covered ivy that climbs to the tallest turret.\n\n\"Isn't it enchanting?\" Maxine gushes, clutching her RLW sash. She looks at me and frowns. \"Where's your sash? Princess Rose sent it over to the dorms last night in a lovely rose-scented box.\"\n\n\"Maxine, have you hit your head? They have trackers in them,\" Jocelyn hisses as we make our way along the receiving line.\n\nMaxine clutches hers in horror. \"That's not true. Tessa told me Headmistress Flora made Rose take them out.\"\n\n\"So you're wearing that thing for fun?\" Jocelyn snickers. \"I'd rather be eaten by a wolf than wear that sash.\"\n\nKnowing what I know now, I kind of agree. That makes two times I've agreed with Jocelyn in the last few days. The stress of this Alva business must be getting to me.\n\nMaxine pouts. \"I've always wanted an RLW sash. I can't give it up now!\"\n\nJocelyn rolls her eyes and steps forward to shake hands with the first of the princes. I watch his face as he realizes who is before him. The young witch dressed all in black is easily recognizable as Harlow's sister, but he treats her like any other guest, as does Snow. Kayla and Maxine, who are next in line, drool over Rapunzel and Ella, who have the most spectacular gowns I've ever seen. Ella's sparkles like diamonds. I don't see Rose, but I guess she's busy getting ready for our dinner meeting.\n\nElla takes my hand in hers. \"I'm glad I finally got the chance to meet you in person, Gillian. I wish it were under better circumstances, but I'm still glad you're here,\" she says in a wispy voice as her tiny hand holds my own. I can't get over all her rings and the jewels on her wrist. \"We owe so much to you and your bravery. Your family must be so proud of all you've done for Enchantasia.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Princess Ella.\" I am astonished. We move along and Maxine shakes Ella's hand fiercely, but I can't stop thinking of the compliment I just received. I haven't done it alone, says a little voice in my head, and that makes me feel sheepish. Look at Jax. He's has been undercover for years, never getting glory, never getting to go to royal family dinners or have Rapunzel know his true identity, all to help his kingdom. Now he has to take on his own sister! Me? All I've done with the hero title is watch my family reap the reward and let others heap praise on me.\n\nI interrupt Ella and Maxine's conversation. \"Princess? I appreciate the praise, but what the people don't seem to realize is that my bravery was only made possible because it was part of a group effort.\" I look at Jax and Maxine. \"My friends are stronger than I could ever be. They did just as much if not more to save our school. I wish they could get the same recognition.\" Maxine is so flabbergasted that drool puddles in her mouth. Jax's royal mouth practically hits the floor.\n\n\"That's lovely of you to commend your friends,\" Princess Ella says, surveying me closely. \"Please be sure to take a gift bag on your way into the dining hall. It's full of Rapunzel's latest hair-care products, one of which benefits the Three Blind Mice Charity, plus a discount card for my new favorite salon, Molly Whuppie.\"\n\n\"What was that about?\" Jax asks as we breeze through introductions with Snow White without incident. \"Are you going soft?\"\n\n\"I just want you guys to get credit for your part in all this too.\" I hear a string quartet begin to play something dinner worthy in the next room. I look at the tips of my trusty boots. \"I'm sorry I've been so selfish.\"\n\nJax pops a treat in his mouth from a waiter rushing to the ballroom. \"We would have knocked that chip off your shoulder eventually. Or Jocelyn would have.\"\n\n\"Here we go!\" Ollie whispers as we approach Rapunzel. He pulls a deck of cards out of his pocket. \"I'm going to impress Rapunzel to get her attention. Jax, you follow me and try to pull her away.\"\n\nAt Jax's sister's name, I feel him tense up. He hasn't been in the same room with her in years. (She was locked in that tower and then was told her brother was at boarding school when she moved into Royal Manor.) Their father also charmed Rapunzel's memories so any image she has of him is distorted. She shouldn't recognize him, but knowing what we know now, I am worried.\n\nI open my mouth to express my concern and find Jax already bowing before his sister. \"My princess, it's so lovely of you to invite the students of Fairy Tale Reform School to dinner this evening. I'm Jax Porter, and this, as you know, is Gillian Cobbler.\" I quickly curtsy. This time I don't fall. RLW class is working! Woot!\n\n\"Jax, what a pleasure,\" Rapunzel says, clearly impressed by his royal dress and speech. \"Although I must admit, the invitation was not mine.\" She frowns ever so slightly. \"Princess Rose was insistent we invite you all this evening. The rest of us were very concerned about safety with everything going on, but I guess we do have the Dwarf Police Squad here.\" Her eyes move toward Olaf and ours follow. He's eating one of the floral arrangements. Those guys are going to be a huge help tonight.\n\n\"Well, I look forward to discussing the matter with you, Princess,\" Jax says smoothly. \"If you have a moment, I'd love to talk about how Fairy Tale Reform School is fairing under Alva's threat. The students are worried about ogre attacks.\"\n\nRapunzel clears her throat, but it sounds more like a squeak. Her blond hair is in a side braid that is woven with flowers and drapes around her neck like a scarf. \"Absolutely,\" she says. \"Although I dare say ogres are usually peaceful when they aren't under Alva's rule.\" She sighs. \"We will talk more after I finish this receiving line.\"\n\nYes! Jax is in.\n\n\"Smooth,\" I say as a page hands us gift bags with Rapunzel's latest hair-care ad sketched on the side. I peek into the bag and see shampoo, conditioner, and detangler, along with a purple detangling brush. There is also a bar of chocolate that smells divine. Anna will flip over this stuff, and the boys will love the chocolate. I wonder if I can get a few extra bars. We watch as the page nervously gives Jocelyn two instead of one.\n\n\"Come on, guest of honor.\" Jax offers me his arm and walks me along the pink carpet to the ballroom. The others are already inside. \"Let's scout out this overthrow\u2014I mean, party. Wait 'til you get a load of this place.\"\n\n\"Jax, it's just a ballroom. I've seen them before.\" In Happily Ever After Scrolls. But when a page opens the doors for us, I inhale sharply. \"Whoa.\"\n\n\"Told you so,\" Jax brags.\n\nThe Royal Manor ballroom is as big as the village\u2014and I'm not exaggerating. I can't see from one end to the other with all the large rose arrangements on the tables. Some of the RLWs are already seated at a long table with napkins folded like roses (nice touch), confetti, and enough candles to light a whole boot. There is even a narrow upper level filled with thrones of every shape, size, and color that overlook a gold-and-white dance floor lit by the largest candelabra I've ever seen. Where is Jocelyn? I want to keep my eyes on her. The others may trust her completely, but I still have my doubts. Tessa, Olivia, and Raza are dancing in the middle of the floor already, while Ollie, Kayla, and Maxine ogle the plates and silverware. They must be solid gold.\n\nFor a moment, I feel a familiar pang of longing. Just one or two forks would feed my family for months. But no! That's not why I'm here.\n\n\"I wonder where Rose is,\" I whisper to Jax. \"Do you think I should tell her about Rapunzel?\"\n\nJax raises an eyebrow. \"No. We need definite proof. Let's make sure we have the right princess before you go blabbing to everyone else. Let me talk to Rapunzel first.\"\n\n\"Gift bag?\" Raza sees us and runs over, practically throwing a bright-pink tulle bag at each of us. \"It's got rose-flavored chocolates inside. Don't they smell divine?\" Jax sneezes. \"Bless you! They're delicious. Far nicer than the royal court gift-bag chocolates.\"\n\nShe looks at my purple gift bag with disdain, and I wish I had hid it behind my back. I'm not parting with it. \"Princess Rose is hurt that the royal court gave out a separate gift bag,\" Raza says. \"This dinner meeting was her idea after all. The rest of the court didn't want us here.\"\n\nJax blows his nose with a handkerchief. \"The princesses run the kingdom. They should keep us informed, but we shouldn't be privy to their discussions.\"\n\nRaza glares at him while she adjusts her sash. \"Princess Rose says her reign is an open book. We can ask her anything we want. Unlike the other princesses who are always looking down their noses at her.\"\n\n\"Jackson?\" Rapunzel calls Jax by his formal name and he tenses up. \"Princess Rose would like us all to be honorary Ladies-in-Waiting tonight.\" She whips her butt-length hair behind her head. \"She says she has sashes for all of us to wear. Would you be so kind as to help me find them? I figured we could have a chat while we search.\"\n\nMy heart beats wildly. I don't want Jax going off alone with Rapunzel. \"I'll join you.\"\n\n\"It's all right. I'll help the princess,\" Jax insists, his violet eyes trying to convey some sort of message. \"Don't wander off. I'll be right back.\"\n\n\"But...\" How can I stay here when Jocelyn is out there doing who knows what? What is she up to? We were supposed to stay together! I head over to Ollie and Maxine to see if they know anything. \"Jax just left with Rapunzel.\"\n\n\"Flapjacks, that was quick,\" Ollie says. \"I guess we'll know her true colors soon enough. Should one of us shadow him?\"\n\nI shake my head. \"I don't think he wanted to be followed. It could raise suspicion. Speaking of which, have any of you seen Jocelyn?\"\n\nOllie pales. \"I thought she was with you.\"\n\nSomething is definitely up. \"I'll pop out and find her.\"\n\n\"There will be no popping!\" scolds one of the RLWs, coming up behind us. \"Princess Rose said to keep you here.\" Maxine's bad eye begins to roll. \"The dinner portion of the meeting will be starting shortly.\" The girl tries to lead us all to the table and place me in the head seat. I have to think fast.\n\n\"But I'm nervous!\" I lie. \"My hair needs a touchup, and my lips just aren't pink enough for the occasion.\"\n\n\"You look lovely.\" The girl looks me over. \"Although your nose is shiny.\"\n\n\"Very shiny,\" I agree. \"I'll touch up before Princess Rose joins us. Do you want to go with me to the loo?\" Maxine looks ready to say yes when the others sigh.\n\n\"A proper lady never announces she's going to the bathroom or invites others to join her,\" says a fairy named Ariana. \"You say, 'I must powder my nose.'\"\n\nI feign embarrassment. \"I have to powder my nose. Anyone know where the loo is?\"\n\nAriana's cheeks burn. \"The powder room in the Royal Chambers is closest, but there was a water leak in there. I can take you to one in another hall. I'm supposed to escort you anywhere outside this room so you don't get lost. Shall we?\"\n\nWater leak in the main bathroom, huh? No one will go in there unless they're hiding something. Or someone. I wonder if that's what Jocelyn was thinking too. \"I'm fine,\" I insist as Ariana tries to follow. Thankfully a waiter with a large platter of beef cuts her off. \"I'll be right back.\"\n\n\"Gift bag?\" a page asks as I rush out of the ballroom.\n\nOh, what the heck. I take a second one since I left my first one on my seat inside. Now I have more chocolate! \"Thanks! Royal Chamber is this way, right?\" The page nods. I hurry as fast as this heavy gown will let me go 'til I find the sign I'm looking for. Royal Court\u2014Held by Princesses Ella, Snow, Rapunzel, and Rose.\n\nI pull at the door and find it locked. Thankfully I've got bobby pins to spare in this updo Maxine gave me. I pull one out just as I hear footsteps approaching. Pulling the pin apart so that it is one long piece, I stick it in the lock and poke around 'til I hear the click. The door opens and I slip inside just as I hear a page walk by whistling, \"Hey Diddle Diddle.\"\n\nThere are no lights inside the chamber, but I can make out the four thrones on a pedestal at the front of the room. I walk to the front railing and lean over, imagining what I would come here to ask for. I know Father came once to ask for his glass slipper patent and was denied. That only made me dislike the royals more, and yet after what happened at FTRS, they brought Father here to give him his job back.\n\nWhat we did at school not only saved his business, but also changed my family's life. If I fail today, Alva won't just take the shoe business; she'll take everything. I shudder and that's when I hear the whispering. Light is coming from under the doorway to the private chambers. There is only one word I need to hear before I burst through the door. \"Gillian.\"\n\nI crash right into Jocelyn, who is holding hands with exactly who I suspected. Her sister. Harlow is wearing her finest Evil Queen regalia\u2014a purple cape that has a collar so high it hits her ears. \"You!\" I point to Jocelyn. \"I knew you couldn't be trusted! You're working with her.\"\n\nJocelyn's eyes widen. \"Gilly. Wait. You have this wrong. Harlow explained everything.\" She tries to take my hand and I shake her off. \"Don't act like Humpty Dumpty! We don't have much time. You have to\u2014\"\n\n\"Why would I listen to a villain?\" I interrupt.\n\nThe Evil Queen moves out of the shadows and I get a glimpse of her polished, made-up face. Her black dress glistens with silver crystals that make me blink. Exile has not diminished Harlow's ability to look polished. Or scary. Her lips curl into a familiar scowl. \"You foolish girl. We are your only hope and time is running out.\" She holds out her hand. \"Come with me now and we'll explain everything.\"\n\n\"Come with you?\" I laugh. They must think I've lost my mind. \"Never!\" I slowly pull the velvet bag Wolfington gave me out of my pocket, but Harlow spots it.\n\n\"Do not waste that gingerroot on me!\" Harlow commands. Jocelyn lungs for the bag, but I climb onto a long table so Jocelyn can't reach me.\n\nJocelyn quickly climbs on after me. \"Stop running! Cobbler, you're going to cause your own doom! Listen to my sister!\"\n\n\"Never!\" I open the small bag and look quickly at the roots and petals in the bag. There's no way I can tie the roots around Harlow's wrists. She'll stop me. The petals don't work as long, but it's the only shot I have to get away. \"A leopard doesn't change its spots.\" I repeat the words I've heard Harlow say before.\n\nHarlow's laugh is long and throaty. \"And you are so reformed, missy?\" Harlow inches closer. I can feel Jocelyn closing in from the other side. \"Think, peasant. What is your head telling you?\"\n\n\"I may be a thief\u2014some would even call me a villain\u2014but even I am smart enough not to trust a witch.\" As Jocelyn reaches for the bag, I open it and blow the petals into the air. Within seconds, the Evil Queen and her little sister are frozen.\n\nI breathe a sigh of relief.\n\nThat's when I hear someone clapping.\n\n\"Nicely done, Miss Gillian,\" says Princess Rose, emerging from the shadows and smiling warmly. \"You've saved the day again! Capturing the Evil Queen and her sister! Such a hero you are. How will we honor you this time?\"\n\n\"Princess Rose!\" I say breathlessly. \"Forget honors! We don't have much time. The traitor in the castle is a princess. I think Rapunzel is working with Alva.\" Her brow furrows and I worry that Jax is right\u2014I shouldn't knock a princess to a fellow princess\u2014but Rose is kind. She could help us. \"We have to stop her before she lets Alva in the castle.\"\n\nRose purses her lips. \"I think it's too late for that.\" She gently pries the gingerroot bag from my hands, but I don't understand what she's doing. Rose opens the bag and pulls out the roots. \"She's already here,\" she whispers in my ear.\n\nI feel my throat begin to constrict. \"She is? Where?\" I whirl around to reach the door. \"We have to warn the others!\"\n\nSomething zaps me in the back and my legs feel like they're on fire. I fall to the ground and see Rose standing over me with the gingerroot stems in her hands. She leans down and begins to tie them around my wrists. The stems are stronger than just the roots and leave me soundless.\n\n\"Gillian, it pains me to do this to you,\" Rose says calmly as she ties the roots around me. I may not have magic, but I can be frozen. I feel the tingling spread from my fingertips to my toes. I try to move and can't. I want to scream. Warn Jax and the others. We were wrong! It's not Rapunzel! It's Rose. But I'm too late.\n\nRose shushes me like a baby to calm me. \"I like you. I really do.\" Her blue eyes narrow as she strokes my forehead. \"But I like having power more.\" Her face comes close to mine and I can smell her rose-scented perfume. She smiles sinisterly. \"Now let's hand you over to Alva so I can take control of the kingdom.\"\n\n# CHAPTER 17\n\nEvery Rose Has Its Thorn\n\nI struggle to move, willing my body to wake up, but it doesn't. I can feel the tingling, but I can't speak, I can't lift my pinkie, and I can't scream. I'm all alone with the mole and I'm trapped. I feel like such a fool. We picked the wrong princess. How could I not have seen this coming? The obsession with power? The way Rose threatened me to join the RLWs? She must have been the one who sent that note to Father too.\n\nPrincess Rose uses a wand to lift my body off the table and bring it slowly toward the open doorway where she is waiting.\n\n\"I'm sorry it had to be like this,\" she says coolly as I begin to glide out of the private chambers and into the courtroom again. \"I liked you. Truly I did. You have fire! You are stubborn, yes, and willful!\" She laughs to herself. \"But I thought you'd make a wonderful second-in-command under my reign. Alas, Alva wants you to pay the price for interfering in her affairs, and I cannot mess up the agreement we already made.\" She shrugs her bare shoulders and I can hear the red gown she's wearing swish. \"Alva will do away with you and rule somewhere far, far away, and then I'll get my kingdom all to myself. Your life is a small price for me to pay.\"\n\nMy body begins to rotate and I catch glimpses of Rose. She taps a mirror and the glass begins to swirl 'til I see a face on the other side. \"Yes?\" I hear Alva's smooth voice.\n\nRose curtsies. \"It's done, Wicked One. I have the girl.\"\n\n\"Good! I'll come out of hiding. Bring her to the ballroom for all to see.\"\n\n\"But, the others. Gillian's friends will try to stop us.\" Rose sounds anxious.\n\nAlva laughs. \"Foolish little princess. Now that we have the hero, the others will easily fall. Go. Before I change my mind on this deal.\"\n\n\"Yes, Wicked One.\" Rose curtsies. When the mirror darkens, Rose uses her wand to guide me out the doorway and down the castle hall. \"She doesn't have to be so bossy about everything,\" Rose mumbles. \"We're supposed to be partners. I infiltrate FTRS and build her army, she scares the people into wanting a regime change, and voila! I get my kingdom all to myself.\n\n\"You have no idea how hard it is to get a say when three other princesses always think they're wiser. It's a nightmare! 'Rose, you're too busy pruning roses to read a scroll and know what's going on in the kingdom!'\" she mimics. \"'Rose, if you paid more attention to the villagers' complaints and less to what tailor you want to move into the kingdom, you'd know why we need to have a Dwarf Police Squad.'\" She moans. \"Ella, Rapunzel, and Snow think they know everything!\"\n\nMy eyes dart around the hallway, which is quiet. Everyone must be in the ballroom by now. I hear the music playing and the sounds of talking and laughter. A waiter appears in a doorway and yelps when he sees us, but he doesn't get far. Rose gives a zap with her wand and he's immobilized.\n\n\"Now that Enchantasia is about to become mine, I can do anything I want with the kingdom and make it so much better like...like...\" She stops for a moment and bites her full lips. \"Well, I'm not sure what I'll do, but I'm sure whatever it is will be wonderful!\"\n\nRose zaps open the ballroom doors and sends me gliding through them onto the main table. People scream and jump up as my body slides along the dishes and glasses, knocking things to the floor until I come to a halt in front of Ella and Snow.\n\n\"Dinner is served!\" Rose says with a laugh.\n\nThe caramel cake in Ollie's mouth falls out.\n\n\"What have you done to Gilly?\" Maxine cries. Rose zaps a water glass near Maxine's hand and it splatters water everywhere.\n\nSnow waves her Dwarf Police Squad over, but Rose zaps them too and they freeze in mid-run. \"Sister, what are you doing?\"\n\n\"What I should have done a long time ago!\" Rose cries. \"I'm tired of being the one princess with no power. I want a chance to rule!\"\n\n\"You're the one always off dancing in the forest instead of coming to meetings,\" Snow mumbles.\n\nElla remains seated. \"Rose, unbind this poor girl and we'll discuss this calmly and privately in our chambers. You can't be so rash!\"\n\n\"No!\" Rose says hotly and I see her knuckles tighten. \"I'm tired of not getting a say. When word came that my former captor was still out there wreaking havoc, did you rush to find her? No! You let the rest of the kingdom deal with her. No one helps me! So now I'll help myself. Wicked One! Come and claim your prize!\"\n\nAlva glides through the ballroom door with her gargoyles, and I feel my heartbeat rev up. It's about the only thing I can feel, although my fingers are starting to tingle. The party guests scream as Alva walks straight to the head of the table where I lie. \"At last! I have the little troublemaker!\" When Alva leans over me, I see her dark-red gown, pointy cape, and jet-black hair swept up in a high bun adorned with jewels that scream villain. Her smile soon fades. \"Seize them all!\" Alva tells the gargoyles, flipping her cape and walking away from the table.\n\nSeveral of the RLWs dive under tables and chairs or take off for the second-floor balcony. They don't get far from the dozens of gargoyles that screech and hiss as they fly around the room grabbing RLWs and invited guests. But three people run toward the gargoyles to get closer to me\u2014Kayla, Ollie, and Maxine.\n\n\"I don't think I've ever seen Gilly hold still this long,\" Ollie cracks.\n\n\"Ollie!\" Kayla reprimands as Maxine swats a gargoyle away with a gold plate that it takes off with instead. \"We have to help her. How do we stop the gingerroot effects?\"\n\n\"You can't. They have to wear off.\" Maxine reaches a hand for me, and my body sways slightly. I could swear my left leg moved, but I can't seem to get it going again. \"We could hide her somewhere 'til they do.\" She pulls my dress toward her and my body glides to my friends. I think I feel Maxine push on my chest and lower me beneath the table. \"She'll be safe under here.\"\n\n\"Will we all be safe?\" Ollie asks, ducking down with a caramel cake in his hand. A gargoyle snatches it. \"Hey! That was mine!\"\n\n\"We got this all wrong!\" Maxine cries. \"I can't believe Princess Rose is the traitor, not Rapunzel! Speaking of which, where is she? And Jax? Or Jocelyn? Where did everyone go?\" Her good eye widens. \"Do you think Rose captured them too?\"\n\nDinner plates crash off the tables around us. \"I don't know! I just saw Pete and Olaf dragged off to the second-floor balcony,\" Ollie says. \"People are running in terror. We have to get word to Flora.\"\n\nMaxine finds a piece of glass. \"Will this reach Miri?\"\n\n\"Good thinking!\" Kayla says and pulls a training wand from her pocket. She's obviously stolen it from school. \"Let there be light!\" she shouts. The wand illuminates briefly, then flashes red. \"Illegal use of magic!\" Miri says.\n\n\"Miri!\" The others hover around the shard of glass in Maxine's hands.\n\n\"My heavens! What is that screeching?\" Miri asks, but her voice is drowned out as a gargoyle yanks the tablecloth above us off our table and sends everyone scurrying. In the chaos, Maxine drops the glass and it shatters. I definitely felt a shard hit my leg. The spell is lifting! My legs are tingling now and so are my arms.\n\n\"Princesses, it's so nice to see you all wrapped up like a present,\" I hear Alva say. I see her shoes heading toward us. Maxine pulls my body closer, and this time I'm certain I can feel her touching my side!\n\n\"She's got them boxed in a corner with the gargoyles surrounding them,\" Ollie reports in a whisper. \"Should I throw some radishes?\"\n\n\"No, they'll see you! Wait 'til the coast is clear and we'll get Gilly out of here before Alva spots her,\" Kayla suggests. I'm loving how she's taking charge. \"We'll come back in to save the others somehow.\"\n\n\"Mrwrh,\" I say. My lips are moving!\n\n\"She's coming out of it!\" Maxine whispers. \"She's moving! Her arm is moving! Her\u2014\" I wiggle around, still floating under Rose's spell. I'm still hovering. \"She's back! Sort of.\"\n\n\"I can fix that,\" Kayla says and flicks the wand at me. I fall into Maxine's lap.\n\n\"Wrong,\" I say in between short breaths. \"Mistake. Rose. Not Rapunzel. Harlow. Jocelyn.\" I'm having trouble forming sentences.\n\n\"Alva, let these innocents go!\" Ella cries and I'm impressed again. \"It's the royal court you want.\"\n\n\"Now, now, Ella, is that any way to talk to an old friend?\" Alva purrs. \"Especially one who is so close with one of your fellow princesses? I mean, I'm practically a sister. Or should I say, your new ruler?\"\n\nI crouch under the table with the others. I can see Alva putting her arm around Rose, who starts coughing.\n\n\"Wicked One, don't you mean I'm their new ruler?\" Rose's voice is light, but her brow furrows. \"We had a deal. You get all the other kingdoms while I rule Enchantasia and keep those delinquents at FTRS locked up to do my bidding. I already have a way to keep them in line.\"\n\nAlva examines her wickedly long, dark nails. \"Rose, dear, if I'm being truthful for a change, I must admit being back here in Royal Manor where I cursed you as an infant makes me long for this kingdom too.\" She waves a jeweled hand around. \"I want them all, darling! And let's be honest. Who are we kidding? You are in no shape to rule! You slept a hundred years! Your reign has been shorter than the others so you have no clue what's going on in your own village!\"\n\n\"We need to move,\" I whisper. \"Before she knows I'm gone.\" We begin to crawl over broken glass to get to the other end of the table. I can see the ballroom doors open a few feet away. Closer. Closer. We are going to make it.\n\n\"I do too,\" Rose whines, sounding like one of my little brothers. \"We had a deal! I already gave you the girl like you wanted.\" She points to our table and sees no sign of my body. Her mouth twists in anger. \"Where did Gillian Cobbler go?\"\n\nI stop short with a shiver. Alva's laugh is so cold that I hear ice cracking in our water goblets. \"I should have known you couldn't even manage a task this simple! Boys!\" Alva commands her screeching gargoyles. I see one land right at my feet. \"Bring her to me!\"\n\n# CHAPTER 18\n\nHeroes Unite\n\nThe gargoyle's rancid breath makes me inhale sharply, and I shrink back as I see its gray claws reach under the table for us. Ollie bats at it with a broken goblet, and the gargoyle screeches and flies away.\n\n\"Move! Move!\" Ollie cries and we crawl faster and faster, ignoring the cracking sound and the bolts of lightning until they split our table in half. The sides collapse, leaving us out in the open.\n\n\"Ah, there she is. Lovely!\" Alva says.\n\nI jump up, dragging Maxine and the others with me toward the ballroom doors. They're so close that I can almost touch them. I am not being cursed again. None of us will be.\n\n\"Run all you want, child. You'll never escape this room!\" The doors to the ballroom seal shut. \"Splendid!\" Alva's smile falters. She gestures to a gargoyle. \"Seize them!\"\n\n\"Stop right there, you wicked fairy!\"\n\nHoly gingerbread! Is that Jax and Rapunzel?\n\nThe secret siblings rappel off the second-level balcony and race toward Alva's army of gargoyles, cutting the beasties off from our path.\n\n\"We're saved!\" Ollie marvels. \"Jax is all princely and his sis is a good princess after all!\"\n\nMaxine punches him in the arm.\n\n\"Did I say 'sister'? I mean, s...s...sassy friend!\" Ollie corrects himself.\n\nWe watch in awe as Rapunzel and Jax drop to the floor and pull gold swords out of their scabbards. Jax looks dashing as he begins slashing the air and pushing gargoyles back, while Rapunzel pulls radishes out of the pleats of her ball gown and hurls them at the beasties. She looks surprisingly fierce for a princess. I've never seen the royals act so royally! I'm amazed as gargoyles begin dropping like flies, and Jax and Rapunzel soon surround Alva.\n\n\"Make a move toward Gilly and my friends, and you'll regret it,\" Jax tells Alva, holding his sword to her chin.\n\n\"And what do we have here? A princess taking orders from a delinquent?\" Alva laughs coldly. \"Why, this evening just gets more and more interesting!\" She zaps two of her sleeping gargoyles and they instantly awaken. \"But we can't let the merriment go on forever.\" The gargoyles hiss and move closer to Rapunzel and Jax, who back into each other with their swords still raised.\n\n\"Alva, if you leave now and promise not to touch the other princesses\u2014including foolish Rose\u2014or our guests, we will not harm you,\" Rapunzel tells her, \"but if not, I am afraid you have given us no choice but to fight.\"\n\nAlva tsks. \"Darling, fight all you want. Can't you see I've already won?\" She motions to her gargoyles, which are in motion once more. \"Take Rose and Gillian away 'til I need them,\" Alva orders.\n\n\"You won't get past us!\" Jax tells her.\n\nI don't hesitate. I take off toward the ropes Rapunzel and Jax have left behind and start climbing to the balcony. A gargoyle pulls at my dress, but I kick it off. Maxine, Ollie, and Kayla are right behind me, while Jax and Rapunzel try to fight off gargoyles below.\n\n\"No!\" Rose cries as a gargoyle swoops down to grab her. \"I won't allow you to get away with this! Alva, you owe me!\" Rose screams as the gargoyle lifts her up. \"You owe me!\" She points to the RLWs. \"Royal Ladies-in-Waiting. You have been charmed!\"\n\nThe word sounds strange on Princess Rose's lips, but I soon know why. Maxine's sash flashes and her eyes go slack. RLWs rise, marching toward Alva. The other RLWs fall in line around them, looking straight ahead and standing at attention.\n\n\"What the gingerbread is going on?\" I hear Ollie yell as Maxine drops from the rope and heads toward the RLWs.\n\n\"Those sashes aren't just trackers,\" I realize. Kayla flies over to Maxine and jumps on her back, but Maxine throws her off. \"They've got a spell to make the wearers do Rose's bidding!\" Now I understand why Rose wanted the princesses to wear honorary RLW sashes. I spot Ella and Snow joining the ranks of the others. Rapunzel is the only one not wearing a sash, and I'm sure that's because Jax filled her in on our suspicions.\n\nAlva laughs as her gargoyles fly to her side. \"So you have an army of pink princesses and wicked little girls, have you? Why would I be afraid of them when I can do this?\" Alva begins to conjure a spell right in front of us.\n\nRose holds up my bag of gingerroot triumphantly. \"No dragon morphing for you today, Alva!\" She dumps the contents of the bag into her hand and a single petal falls out. \"What? No! It can't be gone!\"\n\nAnd that is why Wolfington told us to save it for a good use. Looks like Rose and I both failed tonight.\n\n\"Darling, I'm way beyond dragons these days. See for yourself!\" Alva's body begins to stretch and spin, her laughter disintegrating into screeches. Fire engulfs her completely. Through the flames I see one leathery green wing, then another, and a spike-covered tail that whips around so fast that it knocks one gargoyle into a wall and squeezes another 'til it shrieks. Scales take over her growing body, and a long, scaly head with gnashing teeth and diamond-shaped yellow eyes pops out. From her mouth comes a plume of fire that toasts the table and several beasties. We drop down from our ropes and rush to a corner to get away.\n\n\"She can turn into a wyvern?\" Ollie moans. \"I thought dragons were bad. Wyverns are even harder to kill. Watch the tail and, um, try not to get torched.\" We dive out of the way as fire comes too close for comfort.\n\nJax slides under a wall of fire to reach us. \"How do we kill that thing?\" Jax yells, grabbing a chair and holding it up like a shield. The embers from a nearby fire ignite his chair, and he drops it like a hot cross bun.\n\nRapunzel comes running over, dragging Rose behind her like a rag doll. Rapunzel turns and begins to shake her fellow princess. \"That wyvern will rip apart the whole castle while the princesses and the others are under her spell! You have to uncharm them so we can get everyone to safety!\"\n\nPrincess Rose holds her head in her hands. \"I can't with all this commotion. There is a dragon in the ballroom. What am I supposed to do? Walk through the flames and ask all the RLWs to hold hands with Ella and Snow and repeat after me the charm that reverses the spell? I'll be a toasted marshmallow before I cross the dance floor!\"\n\n\"You selfish girl!\" Rapunzel scolds. \"Were you so desperate for glory that you had to curse your own sisters and your kingdom? How could you work with the fairy that destroyed your life?\"\n\n\"I thought I could trick her!\" Rose cries as flames engulf half the ballroom. I can't even see Maxine or the other RLWs anymore. I can only hope they're okay. \"Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'The enemy of your enemy is your friend'? Alva's plan was so delicious. How could I not want to be part of taking you all down and getting the kingdom for myself? I should have known she'd never let Enchantasia be mine\u2014even if I handed over Gillian.\" Rose glares at me and her eyes look yellow in the flames.\n\nThe Evil Queen and Jocelyn weren't lying. They were actually trying to protect me! \"You are the poorest excuse for a princess I've ever seen!\" I yell.\n\nAt that moment, the wyvern's tail curls around Rose's body and lifts her off the ground and away before we can stop it. One of its massive legs knocks down a rear wall of the ballroom, and debris rains down on our heads.\n\n\"Rose!\" Rapunzel cries as Rose screams in horror. \"She's a pill, but I can't let her die. How do we kill that thing?\"\n\nFor once, I'm completely stumped. \"I don't know!\" I realize and that terrifies me. What kind of hero am I?\n\n\"Houratiempo!\" I hear someone yell, and I see Jocelyn and Harlow running toward us. Jocelyn has Jax's pocket watch and is using it to zap the wyvern's legs. The wyvern screeches in anger. The blast holds the creature hostage for a moment, but I know that moment won't last long. Jocelyn hits me in the arm. \"I told you we weren't the villains!\"\n\n\"I see that now!\" I shout. \"I'm sorry!\"\n\nJocelyn's eyes bulge out of her head. \"That's your apology?\"\n\n\"Jocelyn! Now is not the time to be petty!\" Harlow has her back to us, and I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it with my own eyes. The Evil Queen is commanding the flames away from Ella, Snow, Maxine, and the RLWs on the other side of the room. \"You don't have much time. This room is going to come down,\" Harlow yells to us. \"You must hit the wyvern in its mouth or the vents behind its legs. The impact should cause Alva to transform back to her natural state and then I may be able to contain her. Use this.\" She produces a dagger from her skirt pocket. \"It's laced with gingerroot. Once she's back in human form, this should hold her for a few minutes.\"\n\n\"Should hold?\" Rapunzel and Jax ask at the same time. They look at each other.\n\n\"Do you have a better idea, Princess?\" Harlow snaps. Jocelyn and I duck as a table is thrown past our heads. I notice the wyvern's legs are starting to move again.\n\n\"Okay, we'll try it,\" Rapunzel says as flames shoot in our direction.\n\nJax throws me out of the way as the fire comes dangerously close to us. \"Lead it away with anything red,\" Harlow adds. \"It hates red.\"\n\nI scan the room for something red. Of course, we're in a room filled with pink. Then I spot a red velvet tapestry hanging on a wall. \"Let's use that!\" I tell the others.\n\nRapunzel freaks. \"That tapestry has been in the kingdom for over a hundred years!\" A breath of fire crumbles a section of the balcony, and pieces fall on us. \"But I guess it's worn out,\" she says quickly. \"I'll go get it.\"\n\nJax holds Rapunzel back. \"You stay here, Princess. It's too dangerous.\"\n\n\"No!\" Rapunzel insists. \"This is my kingdom too. We'll fight this beast together.\"\n\nJax looks sad, and quickly I realize why. He pulls Maxine's gingerroot bag from his pocket and empties the contents in his hands, blowing them in Rapunzel's face. She freezes on impact. \"I'm sorry!\" he tells her. \"It's for your own good.\" He looks at Harlow. \"Lead the wyvern your way, and we'll grab the tapestry.\"\n\nWe wait 'til Harlow does, then make a break. Jax, Ollie, and Kayla run straight past the beast and begin to tug the tapestry off the wall. Jocelyn and I follow closely behind, but our timing is off. I hear the fire before I smell it. The scent is of rotting flesh and...my skirt! It's on fire! Jocelyn dives on top of me, patting the flames out with her skirt.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Jocelyn asks.\n\n\"My left leg burns, but I think I'm fine,\" I tell her. \"Thanks.\"\n\n\"Now you owe me two times!\" she declares. We look across the room and see that Jax and Ollie have the tapestry down. Part of it gets singed as they run back across the ballroom, but there is enough of the tapestry left to still be useful. Harlow continues to lead the flames in the other direction, while the rest of us gather behind her to discuss our next move.\n\n\"Weapon!\" I tell Jocelyn as Harlow leads the wyvern away from us again. \"I'll throw it. I've got good aim.\"\n\nJocelyn holds the dagger close to her chest.\n\n\"You're not even on the fencing team!\" Jocelyn yells back as Ollie and Jax jump from a flame that Kayla flies above. \"Stop trying to be the hero! I'm doing it!\"\n\nWe hear a screech and turn to see Harlow backed into a corner with the wyvern coming her way. But before anyone can help her, the beast sends a wall of flames in her direction. When the smoke clears, a rocky crater is all that remains in her place.\n\n\"Harlow!\" Jocelyn cries.\n\nThe air is getting thicker and hotter by the second. We won't be able to stand here much longer without Harlow's protection. I think of Maxine on the other side of the room with the princesses that will stand there 'til the walls come down around them or their curse is lifted. Is Rapunzel okay where Jax placed her frozen in a deep corner of the ballroom? How are we going to get out of this crumbling room? Jocelyn is crying too hard to be of much use. Jax sits her down and pulls the dagger from her hands.\n\n\"Throw it, thief,\" he tells me.\n\nI shake my head. \"No, Jocelyn's right. I'm no hero. Look at all you guys have done tonight while I screwed everything up. I can't do this!\"\n\nJax puts his hands on my shoulders. \"Yes, you can. We're a team, remember? We'll finish this together.\"\n\nOllie and Kayla pick up the remains of the tapestry. \"We'll distract it,\" Kayla says. \"You throw that dagger with all you've got. Make it a good shot, roomie!\"\n\nMy hands shake as I hold the cold dagger in my hands. If I screw up, we're finished, but if I do this right, we could save the entire kingdom this time.\n\n\"When they get close enough, I'll tell you to throw,\" Jax says as we run closer to get the best shot. My eyes are on Kayla and Ollie, who are darting between the wyvern's huge, scaly legs.\n\n\"Hey, beastie! Over here!\" Ollie shouts as Kayla flies above him, holding the tapestry in her hands. The wyvern turns its massive head and screeches so loud that I hear ringing in my ears. I watch as it opens its mouth, exposing its gnashing teeth in seemingly slow motion. It's about to spray my friends with fire.\n\n\"Now!\" Jax yells as we race into the line of fire behind Kayla.\n\nI stare into the wyvern's orange-and-yellow eyes and Jocelyn's doubts echo in my head. I'm not even on the fencing team. Can I throw this far enough?\n\nI'll have to try. With a feeling of fierce determination, I take aim and throw as hard as I can, sailing the dagger straight into the wyvern's mouth.\n\nThe creature screams, then begins to shimmer and freezes with one massive claw in midair before it starts to dissolve in a haze of smoke and flames, leaving behind a bruised and battered wicked fairy. There's no time to grab her. We take cover as the ceiling of Royal Manor rains down in a spectacular display of fire, ashes, and golden embers around us.\n\n# Happily Ever After Scrolls\n\nBrought to you by FairyWeb\u2014magically appearing on scrolls throughout Enchantasia for the past ten years!\n\nBREAKING NEWS:\n\nAlva Captured! Princess Rose in Custody! Fairy Tale Reform School Students Save the Day (Again)!\n\nby Beatrice Beez\n\nHappily Ever After Scrolls is pleased to confirm that Alva has been captured! In an alarming twist, Princess Rose has been taken into custody for her involvement in the reign of terror that has befallen our kingdom. While details are sketchy, palace sources say Rose planned to take over Enchantasia from her fellow princesses with Alva's help. Using charmed sashes, she cursed her RLWs and fellow princesses to do her bidding, but was thwarted by Rapunzel and FTRS student Jax Porter.\n\n\"We are taking the matter of Princess Rose into our own hands,\" says Rapunzel. \"She will be dealt with by her fellow princesses and take a leave of absence while we discuss her behavior. We couldn't have stopped her without help from the Fairy Tale Reform School students.\" May we suggest Rose be sentenced to a transformation at Fairy Tale Reform School?\n\nMeanwhile, in a fit of rage, Alva turned into a wyvern, a type of dragon that is impossible to kill. Thanks to the quick thinking of the FTRS students, she was struck by a dagger laced with gingerroot and returned to her fairy form where the Evil Queen contained her. It turns out Professor Harlow was working undercover with Headmistress Flora at FTRS to capture Alva the whole time! \"After she transformed back to her wicked fairy form, Alva was turned into a statue by Professor Harlow and stored at an undisclosed location where she will be heavily guarded,\" Headmistress Flora tells us. \"We at FTRS will make sure she is never a threat to the kingdom of Enchantasia again.\"\n\nWith Harlow's name cleared, she will likely take her position back at FTRS, which leaves Blackbeard in the lurch. \"We'll find room for everyone,\" Miri, the school spokesmirror, says.\n\nOnce again, Enchantasia residents have Gillian Cobbler to thank for their safety! Or do they?\n\n\"I cannot take credit for the events at Royal Manor yesterday evening,\" says Gillian, recovering in the school infirmary from burns from the wyvern. \"Princess Rapunzel and my friends\u2014Jax, Ollie, Kayla, Maxine, and Jocelyn\u2014did far more than I ever could,\" she says. \"The only way to beat someone as fierce as Alva or as distressed as Princess Rose is to work together as a team. FTRS has taught me that, and I'm grateful to my friends for saving the day.\"\n\n# CHAPTER 19\n\nA New Path\n\nGillian Cobbler\u2014For your epic bravery in the war against Alva, we grant you early release from Fairy Tale Reform School.\n\n\u2014Signed this day by Headmistress Flora\n\nI can't believe it! I'm free! I'm going home! When the scroll arrived under our dorm room door this morning, I could barely contain my excitement. Even Kayla was jumping up and down. And that was before Maxine barged in.\n\n\"Look what I got!\" Maxine held up a piece of parchment with the new FTRS school emblem stamped on it. Now our school crest has five boxes\u2014a full moon, a trident, a bitten apple, a glass slipper, and a skull and crossbones. With the truth about Harlow out, Blackbeard was given a much more suitable position. He's now FTRS's official head of athletics and safety.\n\nKayla read Maxine's pardon. I suspected we'd soon see more pardons coming for Ollie and Jax. \"This is great,\" she said, her wings popping out and beginning to flutter. \"I'm so happy for both of you.\"\n\nI give my roommate a hug. Now I'm getting misty. \"We're not done yet.\" I look into her amber eyes. \"We won't stop 'til we find your family too.\"\n\nOur room's mirror begins to glow violet, then fuchsia. \"Illegal use of magic! Occupant in upper-level dorm room not permitted.\" Miri says. Ogres aren't usually allowed on upper floors of the girls' dormitory due to the weight limit.\n\n\"Miri?\" I say. \"Kayla and I are with Maxine. She was visiting.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" The hue of Miri's mirror turns a soothing shade of lavender. \"Madame Cleo was looking for you three. I'll patch her through.\"\n\nThe mirror swirls fade and Madame Cleo comes into focus. She's sitting on a rock with waves lapping around her.\n\n\"Morning, darlings!\" Her aquamarine tail flaps against the black boulder. Her long, beautiful hair is a lovely shade of amber, which matches her shell top. \"Blackbeard and I wanted to congratulate you all on a job well done with Alva.\" Blackbeard's large frame comes into view. His ship is docked right behind Madame Cleo.\n\n\"Jolly good job ye all did! Ye be quite the crew,\" he says in a booming voice. \"Before ye set sail, we be inviting ye to a party on my ship. We set sail in one hour! The lads and the other professors will be joining us. Come packed and then we'll see you off.\"\n\nA pirate party? I'm so there. \"We just got our notices. I didn't know we'd be leaving so soon.\"\n\n\"Your families have been informed,\" Madame Cleo tells us, and Maxine instinctively clutches my hand. \"Is that okay, darlings? Who doesn't want to be sprung from reform school as soon as possible?\"\n\nI've been dying to get out of here and yet...I look around my room. The drawings Kayla and I have hung, the paper stars that dangle from the ceiling, my comfy bed, the stained glass window, the mini magical chalkboard that hangs on the back of our door. Who will be Kayla's roommate? Will she like her as much as me? What will everyone do now that there's no villain to go after?\n\n\"We've told yer parents we'd send ye home by Pegasi, well, except for the bonny Miss Maxine. You'll be traveling by coach.\" Maxine nods. \"You'll leave straight from the party.\" Blackbeard jumps over the rail of his ship and lands in the water next to Madame Cleo's rock. She squeals as he climbs up next to her. \"See you soon!\" The mirror goes dark as he puts an arm around our teacher. Gross.\n\n\"I guess I should go pack,\" Maxine says uncertainly. \"I can't believe I'm going home.\" She tugs at one of the necklaces around her neck. \"I don't even remember what life was like in my village. At least the ogres have signed that peace treaty with the princesses. Life should be better there now. Still, it's going to be nowhere near as fun as being with you guys.\" She smiles uncertainly. \"We'll stay in touch, won't we?\"\n\nFiddlesticks, I'm going to cry. \"That's what the Pegasus Post is for! We'll write and maybe we'll even have a reunion.\"\n\n\"A Fairy Tale Reform School Reunion!\" Kayla agrees. \"I'll plan one since I'll still be here.\"\n\n\"But not for long,\" I say firmly.\n\n\"Not for long,\" Kayla echoes.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAn hour later, I'm standing at the dock next to Blackbeard's ship and I can hear the merriment and music. Mermaids are swimming around the boat with Madame Cleo, who is sunning herself on a rock, and the pirates on board are clinking glasses and cheering. Pegasi and magic carpets fly overhead, sprinkling confetti. This is one big party.\n\n\"They're here!\" I hear a pirate shout. \"Land ahoy! Leave yer trunk next to the others.\" I notice two others already there. \"Then come aboard, lasses!\"\n\nA plank slides out of the side of Blackbeard's ship and lowers to the dock. We hold hands to stay steady and head up the plank. As soon as we reach the deck, we see our professors. Headmistress Flora is with her daughters. Wolfington is talking to Jax, and Ollie is doing a jig with some of the crew. For a moment, I'm confused when I see two individuals dressed in black on the deck. Harlow and Jocelyn look slightly out of place among all the dancing pirates. But I gasp when I catch sight of Jax. He's wearing a royal uniform with a royal gold crest. He looks like a prince! He is a prince! I'm stunned.\n\nHe bows to me. \"I clean up nicely, don't I?\"\n\n\"You look very royal,\" I agree. \"So you're going home?\"\n\nHe nods. \"Father and I told Rapunzel everything after the attack. She was stunned but very happy. They've got their hands full at the Manor at the moment with Princess Rose.\" He rolls his eyes. \"She says she was under some charm, but I think Ella is wise to her. Either way, she's in a comfy dungeon at the palace until they figure out how to handle her.\"\n\n\"Well, don't rule out reformation,\" Professor Wolfington says and winks at me. \"As we've learned, even the darkest villains can be redeemed.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" says Jax, adjusting the gold collar on his dress clothes. \"I guess we'll see when I get there.\" He makes a face. \"Father says once he introduces me to everyone, I'm being enrolled at Royal Academy.\"\n\n\"You'll love it!\" Dahlia gushes. \"All the best people go there.\"\n\n\"All the best students go here,\" Headmistress Flora corrects her.\n\n\"Yes they do!\" Ollie dances over to me and swings me under his arm. \"We did it!\" Maxine, Kayla, and Jax join us.\n\n\"You guys did it,\" I correct him. \"You're the true heroes.\"\n\nFather sent a Pegasus Post yesterday saying how proud he was of me working with the team. I'm not going to get the praise from others that I got from him this time around, but that's okay. Being a hero is a lot of work. I'm just glad my family is okay, and that with Rose being dealt with, Father's business is still intact.\n\n\"You're all heroes,\" Headmistress Flora corrects me, \"and Enchantasia owes you its gratitude.\" Professor Wolfington passes around glasses of a purple fizzy drink that looks so delicious I want to swallow it in one gulp. The headmistress looks at me. \"I'm sorry we had to keep you all in the dark. I know it didn't put me in the best light.\"\n\n\"I understand.\" I read the HEAS this morning too. The wickedest witch ever is actually good and was sending Maxine clues to find the mole and help stop Alva. And I repaid her bravery by freezing her. Gulp. \"I'm sorry I doubted you.\" My eyes shift to Professor Harlow and Jocelyn. \"Both of you.\"\n\n\"It's understandable,\" Professor Harlow says in her smooth-as-silk voice that still makes me shiver. \"Not everyone can be as enlightened as Jocelyn and see through the charade.\"\n\nAnd that is why she's my least favorite professor here. Still, I owe her my gratitude. \"Thank you for trying to save us,\" I add humbly.\n\nShe smiles ever so thinly. \"I knew my skills would come in handy with the wyvern. Now that Alva is a statue and locked away, we shall worry about her no more.\"\n\nStatue or no statue, the thought of Alva still out there makes me nervous.\n\n\"You never explained how you got away from the wyvern's flames,\" Ollie says.\n\nProfessor Harlow laughs. \"I disappeared before Alva could get anywhere near me. It's just that in the heat my spell took me a little farther away than the ballroom. Still, you did the job well, I must say.\"\n\nOllie bows to her. \"I guess that's why I get a week's vacation before I head home.\" He looks at us. \"Blackbeard is taking me on a voyage.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Blackbeard says. \"Madame Cleo and me thought ye could use a vacation after all this ruckus. We're heading to the Enchanted Sea to visit the Little Mermaid.\"\n\n\"We're such good friends now,\" says Madame Cleo, and I realize she's being beamed from the nearby water in a handheld mirror in Headmistress Flora's hands. \"I'm long overdue for a visit.\" She wags a finger at us. \"Don't you lot go too long without coming to see us, darlings.\"\n\n\"We'll miss you all greatly, but it's time to let you go,\" Flora agrees. \"You've more than proven you're ready to be reintroduced to the kingdom. I'm so proud.\"\n\nKayla starts to sniffle. Maxine pulls her in for a hug.\n\n\"We haven't forgotten you either, Kayla,\" Flora says, her face clouding over. \"Rumpel is proving tricky to deal with, but I hope we can strike a deal with him to find your family and end his protection over the school in an amicable matter.\" She looks uncomfortable. \"Until then, we hope you'll consider staying on with us at FTRS.\"\n\n\"You mean, I'm not being kicked out?\" Kayla asks, her voice trembling.\n\n\"On the contrary,\" Flora says. \"To be honest, I feel you still have work to do after all your, shall we say, unsavory business a few months back with Gottie. You will have a home with us until you no longer need it. You needn't even stay in the dorms anymore if you don't want a new roommate.\"\n\n\"Well, you'll still have a roommate,\" Jocelyn pipes up. \"I mean, if you want one. Harlow and I thought you could stay in our quarters with us.\"\n\n\"It will give us a chance to work on leads to your family,\" Harlow says. \"Jocelyn and I are experts at complicated enchantments and location spells.\"\n\nKayla looks from me to them in amazement. \"I think I'd like that. Thank you!\"\n\nHarlow semi-smiles. \"You're much obliged.\"\n\n\"Set sail, captain?\" a pirate says.\n\nBlackbeard looks at his watch. \"I think we can party a little bit longer, don't ye lads think?\" Everyone nods. \"But ye should ready the ship.\" He tips his hat to me. \"I best be saying me good-byes. We shall meet again though. I sure hope we do.\"\n\n\"We all do.\" Ollie gives me a hug before he goes off to help the other pirates prepare for the voyage.\n\nMaxine squeezes a little too hard. Kayla flutters over and Jax piles in. I reach for Jocelyn and she jumps in shock.\n\n\"Criminals for life,\" Jax teases.\n\n\"Reformed criminals,\" Maxine corrects him.\n\n\"I wouldn't have it any other way,\" I agree. \"Being straight and narrow my whole life would have been boring.\"\n\n\"It will still be boring,\" Kayla says. \"We need to have a little fun.\"\n\n\"Not too much fun,\" I hear Flora say, and I smile. I know I'll have just enough.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAn hour later, Macho is giving me one last flight, and this time he's landing right in front of my boot. A crowd has gathered outside and they cheer when I dismount. I give Macho a carrot and pet his snout. \"I'll miss you,\" I say and he neighs in agreement. \"Don't be a stranger.\" I watch him take off again and wait 'til he soars over the treetops and the row of boots and teakettles before I head inside my door.\n\nWhen I do, I'm surprised to see it's changed somewhat. There are new couches, new wallpaper, and even a tarp hanging near the kitchen. Extension, it reads. Our boot is getting an expansion? Business must still be good! What haven't changed are the seven people waiting for me.\n\n\"Gilly!\" Han is the first to grab my legs. Hamish, Felix, Trixie, Father, and Mother complete the sandwich. Well, almost.\n\n\"I'm so glad you're home.\" Anna kisses my cheek.\n\n\"Me too.\" But in the back of my mind, I realize I'm still longing for FTRS. How strange when I wanted to get out for so long. \"I'm so glad to see you all.\" I lock eyes with Father.\n\n\"Let's celebrate,\" he says with a smile. \"Mother has made a cake in your honor.\"\n\n\"And we're having roast beef for dinner,\" Felix says in amazement.\n\nIt's a whole new world in the Cobbler household.\n\n\"It's all to honor you, our transformed little thief,\" Mother says. \"Our hero.\"\n\nI smile because I know the truth. I'm still a little bit bad, a lot good, and a whole lot of other things too. Just as it should be.\n\nPegasus Postal Service\n\nFlying Letters Since The Troll War!\n\nFROM: Prince Jackson Jax (Royal Manor)\n\nTO: Gillian Cobbler (2 Boot Way)\n\nThief,\n\nI know it's been a few months, but guess who I heard from? Kayla. Looks like Flora is regretting that deal with Rumpelstiltskin. Apparently he's been seen around FTRS a few times, and rumor has it he wants a job there. (Not that you heard that from me. Blame Jocelyn. She's apparently the one who blabbed to Kayla who told Maxine who told Ollie who told me and now I you.)\n\nThere's no way we can trust that troll to work at Fairy Tale Reform School. Kayla is itching to get her hands on Rumpel, as you know, and we can't let her tackle that problem on her own, can we? Ollie, Maxine, and I are thinking of getting thrown back into FTRS to help her out. Royal Academy is Dullsville, and I could use a little adventure.\n\nAny chance you'd like to join us?\n\n# Who's Who in Enchantasia\n\nHeadmistress Flora: Remember that whole glass slipper business with Cinderella? Flora is Princess Ella's formerly wicked stepmother. Now she runs Fairy Tale Reform School.\n\nProfessor Wolfington: Little Red Riding Hood has nothing to fear from this former big bad wolf. The only howling he does these days is when a student gets good grades in his history class at FTRS.\n\nMadame Cleo: She made the Little Mermaid's life under the sea miserable, but these days the classy mermaid with the killer hair teaches charm classes and dance at FTRS. She's also got a bit of a short-term memory problem, which means detention is sometimes forgotten about!\n\nProfessor Harlow: Snow White's Evil Queen is still, well, kind of mean, but she means well now that she teaches FTRS students psychology and how to deal with their feelings.\n\nGottie: Remember the baddie who stuck Rapunzel in that tower? She's still bad, still on the loose, and she's looking for revenge on the princesses and kingdom of Enchantasia. Shiver!\n\nAlva: Sleeping Beauty's dreamcaster could be alive or she could be dead. No one's seen her in years and they're glad. She's the scariest fairy villain in the kingdom.\n\nBlackbeard: The most fearsome pirate to sail the seas is now taking up post at FTRS in Professor Harlow's old job, but he's got a rather unusual way of dealing with student issues\u2014he makes them duel!\n\nRumpelstiltskin: The baddest of the bad, no one knows much about this mystery wish granter...for now.\n\nOrder Jen Calonita's next book in the  \nFairy Tale Reform School series\n\nTricked\n\nOn sale March 2017\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nPirates, ogres, wicked fairies, and evil manifestos...the world of Fairy Tale Reform School is almost too much fun to work on, and that's because of #AwesomeAubrey, a.k.a. Aubrey Poole, my incredible editor who finds the magic and the mischief as fun to create as I do. Thanks for being the most amazing partner a writer could ask for. I'm tickled pink to be on this charming journey with you. (Hmm...maybe I've spent too much time writing about Princess Rose!)\n\nWhen editing is done, I'm sent off to the capable hands of Alex Yeadon and Kathryn Lynch, the marketing and publicity geniuses who made sure the Fairy Tale Reform School series is seen and heard about in every boot, bookstore, and teakettle nationwide. Thank you to the entire team at Sourcebooks who have given this series such a tremendous amount of love and dedication. To production editor Elizabeth Boyer, thanks for making sure I've got things just right, and to designer Mike Heath, who continues to floor me with the most spectacular covers!\n\nLaura Dail and Tamar Rydzinski, thank you for helping the Fairy Tale Reform School series find a good home both here and on foreign shores, and to my agent Dan Mandel for continuing to steer my pirate ship in the right direction.\n\nElizabeth Eulberg is the best first reader a writer could ask for. Thanks for all the advice on my villains and reform school students. To Kieran Scott, Jennifer E. Smith, Courtney Sheinmel, Katie Sise, Sarah Mlynowski, Tiffany Schmidt, and Julia DeVillers, thanks for all the writing support and love.\n\nMy family\u2014Mike, Tyler, Dylan, and our resident Chihuahua pirate, Captain Jack Sparrow\u2014supports my dreams and encourages me in ways I could never imagine. I love you all so much.\n\nAnd to the readers\u2014when I started thinking about a school run by former villains, I never could have imagined your wonderful reactions to Gilly and her mixed-up friends and foes. I feel so charmed that you've let Fairy Tale Reform School be part of your world!\nThe adventure continues Spring 2017 with\n\nRead on for a sneak peek!\n\n# CHAPTER 1\n\nShoes for Thought\n\n\"Who can tell me the five most popular types of shoe leather?\"\n\nMr. Hide is standing on a step stool and pointing to an image of a leather boot on our magical blackboard. His green goblin fingernails tap the board lightly, and I feel my eyes begin to close. He taps louder.\n\n\"Surely someone knows.\" Mr. Hide sounds bored. I'm not sure he likes Shoe Leathers 101 either. \"This is on our quiz tomorrow.\" Still no response.\n\nI twirl my quill and stare at the students sitting near me in our tiny classroom that sits inside a massive pair of lace-up boots. Drawings of glass slippers and giant-sized slip-on shoes hang on the worn leather walls. The room has no windows and only one door, which never seals up and disappears like the ones at my old school.\n\n\"Anyone?\" Mr. Hide tries again. A pixie in the back of the class sneezes. It's so quiet I can hear the sewing machines whirring in the Find Your Shoe Style! class next door.\n\nI stare up at the ceiling, where the top of the boot shows a view of the blue sky. A Pegasus flies overhead. I imagine it's Macho, my favorite FTRS Pegasus, who spots me and swoops down to rescue me.\n\n\"I'm waiting!\" Mr. Hide sings.\n\nI stare at the image of the boot glowing on the magical chalkboard. The lace-up is a mirror image of my own beloved boots. Worn and faded, the boot looks like it has seen some action. It's not shiny like the boots Mr. Hide is always telling us to strive to make.\n\nThe boot on the blackboard fades away, and I see Fairy Tale Reform School. The shining turrets, gray stone facade, and climbing ivy covering the walls are a welcome mirage. I imagine the grounds beyond the school, which lead to the darkened Hollow Woods where no student dares to go. I can practically see students magic carpet racing and flying Pegasi. A pirate ship sails into my mind, and I watch it drop anchor in the lake where mer-folk lounge on rocks. Blackbeard comes racing off the ship and\u2014\"Ow!\"\n\nI look down at my desk and see the small peppermint candy that just hit me in the back of the head. I quickly spin around and glare at the students behind me. The kids in the back row look like they've swallowed a gingerbread man whole. Smug Hansel, with his weasel-like smile and jet-black hair, is sucking on a lollipop. His mischievous sister, Gretel, is twirling her long black braids, which are tied with pieces of licorice. Hansel and Gretel always look like they've had a fight with a chocolate fountain. Both have stains around their lips from too many sweets, and spots of chocolate, flour, and other bakery-related messes mark their simple peasant clothing. Gretel looks right at me as she tosses a second peppermint to her new partner in crime\u2014my younger sister Anna.\n\n\"Gillian, how nice of you to speak up!\" Mr. Hide says. \"Can you tell the class the five types of popular leather?\" Hansel and Gretel snicker.\n\nSticky buns. \"Waxy, patent, metallic, oily, and suede,\" I say.\n\nMr. Hide beams; his green-hued skin and large ears make him look devilish. \"You will make a fine cobbler, Miss Cobbler.\" He pulls something out of his shoe box\u2013shaped desk. \"I believe Gillian deserves our Golden Slipper award this week.\" I cringe as he plunks the cement gold shoe on my desk. The thing weighs more than ten schoolbags. Mr. Hide thinks his prize is something we strive for. Instead, it's become everyone's goal not to have to drag the thing home.\n\nHansel jumps up on his desk. \"Three cheers for the hero of the hour\u2014Gilly!\" The class laughs, but Mr. Hide says nothing. Hansel and his sister are known throughout the village for plucking candy from sleeping babies and pilfering rolls from the bakery. Everyone is a bit scared of them. Except me.\n\nWell, and Anna, who likes the pair for some crazy reason.\n\nAn off-key trumpet signals the end of our school day. Hansel and Gretel are the first ones out the door, dragging my sister along with them. She looks back at me for a second, her cheeks candy-apple red, then takes off. I shake my head and place the heavy Golden Slipper into my backpack. I'll have to drag it with me to work.\n\nOut in the village, the air is cool and crisp, and Enchantasia is alive with shoppers. Teakettle houses whistle to announce the arrival of kids getting home from school, while large boots unlace to let homeowners pass through their doors. A tea shop made of teacups and saucers wobbles perilously as a large group enters, and a giant fish tank gurgles excitedly as mer-folk pop up among the reeds. I can hear hammering at Mother Goose's Nursery School, which is being rebuilt, and at the three little pigs' places. They've wisely chosen to construct their houses out of brick this time around. The village square and the market are packed with Pegasi bringing packages and shoppers on errands. I watch a porter with his arms full of bags trail a group of girls in Royal Academy uniforms.\n\nJax. If Royal Academy kids are in the village, maybe he's here too. We've traded Pegasus Posts a few times, but I haven't seen him since we left school. His last post said something about getting back into FTRS, but who are we kidding? We all got the same exit parchments. Once you've learned how to be \"good\" at FTRS, you can't re-enroll. They only take kids on the path to becoming villains. We reformed types have to seek school elsewhere. I tried explaining that to Maxine in one of our posts, but she's determined to find a loophole.\n\nI step out of the way as a group of students rush to Gnome-olia Bakery. We collectively duck as a magic-carpet student driver comes dangerously close to clipping one of the pushcarts selling caramel cakes.\n\n\"Hey, Gilly! Want to go to Pinocchio's?\" asks a girl from my Soles: Why We Need Them class as others run ahead to the large shop that looks like a marionette stand.\n\n\"Sorry. I have to work,\" I say. Not that I want to go to Pinocchio's Puppet Theatre or Red's Ready for Anything shop. Kids at lunch were talking about Red's new protection charm kit and the red capes she sells. Supposedly the capes keep the wearer safe from all harm. For the love of Grimm. A cape couldn't have stopped Alva, the wicked fairy who menaced this village and Fairy Tale Reform School, for months.\n\nThe girl shrugs. \"Have fun making shoes!\"\n\nShoes. That's what I should be thinking about. Not my former school. But I can't help myself. My eyes look to the hills beyond statuesque Royal Manor (where our ruling princesses Ella, Snow, Rapunzel live, along with Rose when she isn't in princess detention) and search for the turrets of Fairy Tale Reform School. What are they doing right this minute? I have no clue. Headmistress Flora has never checked in with me. My favorite professor, Wolfington, has been MIA as well. Kayla sent a post about Rumpelstiltskin being spotted on the grounds, but nothing since. Has my roommate forgotten about me too?\n\n\"Give it back!\" I hear a small voice cry. \"That's mine!\"\n\nMy ears perk up, my heart races, and I glance around the crowded square to see who is in trouble. That's when I spot the darkened alley between Geppetto's Pet Store and Thumbelina's Children's Warehouse. I see a boy trying to grab a bag that says \"Sweets\" back from laughing Hansel and Gretel. Candy hoarders.\n\nWait. Is Anna with them too? I run toward them.\n\nHansel swings the bag over the kid's head with a lazy flick of his wrist. \"What's in here? Sticky buns? Cinnamon rolls?\"\n\n\"No,\" I hear the kid say in a wobbly voice. \"It's peppermints for my mum's birthday.\"\n\n\"Eww! Peppermints?\" Gretel asks in a whiny voice that makes the fairy pets on our block howl. \"Toss them,\" she instructs her brother.\n\nBefore I can reach him, Hansel flips the bag over and candy rains down on the kid. Hansel and Gretel stomp on every piece while Anna watches. The kid starts to cry.\n\n\"Hey, Candy Thugs!\" I shout. \"Leave the kid alone.\" I snatch the bag back from startled Hansel. I'm taller than him by an inch, even if we are the same age. \"Magical Scroll flash! If you want sweets, you buy them.\" I glance at Anna, who looks away. Wait 'til I get her alone.\n\nHansel rolls his eyes. \"Because that's what you always did when you wanted something, Gilly? You paid for it?\" My cheeks color and Gretel laughs.\n\n\"No, and that's how I wound up in FTRS,\" I remind him. Just the name of my old school makes Gretel shudder. Or she might be gagging. She is sucking on a piece of candy she just picked up off the ground. Gross. \"Now pay this kid for the sweets you ruined.\" Hansel and Gretel just look at me. \"You've got the dough. Everyone knows you knocked over that Sprinkles Tasty Cakes cart.\"\n\n\"You can't prove that was us,\" Gretel says worriedly.\n\n\"Let's see...\" I scratch my chin. \"They found candy wrappers on the ground next to the cart, and a pair of almost identically sized flour-tinged handprints on the money box. You also had Sprinkles Tasty Cakes for lunch today.\" Gretel pales and looks at Anna. \"Now pay up, or I tell my buddy Pete at the Dwarf Police Squad.\"\n\nHansel sighs. \"Pay her.\" Gretel produces a small bag of change from one of her chocolate-stained pockets. She tosses it to the boy.\n\nThe boy smiles at me. \"Thanks. Hey, aren't you Gilly Cobbler?\" I catch Anna rolling her eyes. \"You're a hero!\"\n\n\"Was a hero,\" I say quickly. \"Now go on home before these guys start with you again.\"\n\nThe kid runs off.\n\n\"Happy, hero?\" Gretel taunts.\n\nI smile with satisfaction. \"Very.\" Hansel and Gretel begin to skulk away, and I grab my sister by the back of her coat.\n\n\"Gilly!\" Anna cries. Gretel turns briefly, then takes off. \"Let me go! I've got to catch up with my friends!\"\n\n\"Friends? That's what you call those guys?\" I ask. \"They're stealing candy from kids who are the same age as your brothers! They're trouble, Anna.\"\n\nAnna shrugs out of my grasp. \"They're fun.\" I laugh. \"They are! Not everyone has had the exciting life you've had the last few months. Enchantasia Village is the same day after boring day.\" She glares at me. \"I want excitement.\"\n\nAnna was so sweet before I went away to FTRS. What happened to her?\n\n\"You are doing something exciting,\" I say as if reciting a speech I've given myself more than once. \"With Father's business doing so well, we get to do a lot of things we never did before. Like have three meals a day and wear new clothes.\"\n\n\"Who cares about dresses if you have nowhere to wear them?\" Anna scoffs.\n\nTrue. \"There's the Shoemakers' Ball,\" I say, but even the name sounds dull. I sigh. \"Look, we're Cobblers. This is what we do\u2014make shoes!\"\n\n\"Well, maybe I don't want to be a Cobbler,\" she says, and I can't help but wonder if she means that in more ways than one. Before I can ask her, Anna takes off, dodging an apple cart and a large carriage shaped like a pumpkin. I let her go. I know better than to start with Anna when she's angry.\n\nI watch the carriage turn down Boot Way. Only one class of people travels by pumpkin coach\u2014royalty. My pace quickens as I strain to read the words written on the side of the coach: Rapunzel's Hair Care\u2014for the royal in all of us!\n\nRapunzel? If she's here, then that could mean...\n\n\"Jax,\" I whisper to myself with a smile.\n\nThen I sprint to the shop to see if my friend is waiting for me.\nOrder Jen Calonita's next book in the  \nFairy Tale Reform School series\n\nTricked\n\nOn sale March 2017\n\n# About the Author\n\nJen Calonita is the author of the Secrets of My Hollywood Life series and other books like Sleepaway Girls and Summer State of Mind, but Fairy Tale Reform School is her first middle-grade series. She rules Long Island, New York, with her husband, Mike; princes, Tyler and Dylan; and Chihuahua, Captain Jack Sparrow, but the only castle she'd ever want to live in is Cinderella's at Walt Disney World. She'd love for you to visit her at jencalonitaonline.com and keep the fairy-tale fun going at happilyeverafterscrolls.net.\nThank you for reading!\n\nAt Sourcebooks we are always working on something new and exciting, and we don't want you to miss out.\n\nSo sign up now to receive exclusive offers, bonus content, and always be the first to get the scoop on what's new with Jen Calonita!\n\nSIGN UP NOW!\n\n#  \n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Dry (Simon & Schuster) - Neal Shusterman, Jarrod Shusterman (retail)"}, "text": "\n\nThis book is dedicated to all those struggling to undo the disastrous effects of climate change\n\n## ACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nDry has been an amazing project to collaborate on, and there are so many people to whom we are grateful!\n\nA heartfelt thanks to our editor, David Gale; editorial assistant, Amanda Ramirez; and our publisher, Justin Chanda, for trusting us to write a novel together, and for their guidance every step of the way! Everyone at Simon & Schuster has been incredibly supportive. A special shout-out to Carolyn Reidy, Jon Anderson, Anne Zafian, Michelle Leo, Anthony Parisi, Sarah Woodruff, Lauren Hoffman, Lisa Moraleda, Chrissy Noh, Keri Horan, Katrina Groover, Deane Norton, Stephanie Voros, and Chlo\u00eb Foglia.\n\nAnd, of course, Jay Shaw, for such a fantastic eye-catching cover!\n\nThanks to our book agent, Andrea Brown; foreign rights agent, Taryn Fagerness; our entertainment industry agents, Steve Fisher, Debbie Deuble-Hill, and Ryan Saul at APA; our manager, Trevor Engelson, for all their hard work setting up Dry as a film; and our contract attorneys, Shep Rosenman, Jennifer Justman, and Caitlin DiMotta, for wading through the endless fields of legal kindling.\n\nThanks to the film team\u2014Marty Bowen, Isaac Klausner, and Pete Harris at Temple Hill, as well as Wyck Godfrey and Jon Gonda at Paramount.\n\nWe'd also like to thank our friend and colleague Elias Gertler, for believing in this story from its inception; Barb Sobel, for superhuman organizational skills; and Matt Lurie, our social media sensei.\n\nThanks to you, our cup truly runneth over!\n\n## PART ONE\n\n## TAP-OUT\n\n## DAY ONE\n\n## SATURDAY, JUNE 4TH\n\n### 1) Alyssa\n\nThe kitchen faucet makes the most bizarre sounds.\n\nIt coughs and wheezes like it's gone asthmatic. It gurgles like someone drowning. It spits once, and then goes silent. Our dog, Kingston, raises his ears, but still keeps his distance from the sink, unsure if it might unexpectedly come back to life, but no such luck.\n\nMom just stands there holding Kingston's water bowl beneath the faucet, puzzling. Then she moves the handle to the off position, and says, \"Alyssa, go get your father.\"\n\nEver since single-handedly remodeling our kitchen, Dad has had delusions of plumbing grandeur. Electrical, too. Why pay through the nose for contractors when you can do it yourself? he always said. Then he put his money where his mouth was. Ever since, we've had nothing but plumbing and electrical problems.\n\nDad's in our garage working on his car with Uncle Basil\u2014who's been living with us on and off since his almond farm up in Modesto failed. Uncle Basil's actual name is Herb, but somewhere along the line my brother and I began referring to him as various herbs in our garden. Uncle Dill, Uncle Thyme, Uncle Chive, and during a period our parents wish we would forget, Uncle Cannabis. In the end, Basil was the name that stuck.\n\n\"Dad,\" I shout out into the garage, \"kitchen issues.\"\n\nMy father's feet stick out from underneath his Camry like the Wicked Witch. Uncle Basil is hidden behind a storm cell of e-cig vapor.\n\n\"Can't it wait?\" my father says from beneath the car.\n\nBut I'm already sensing that it can't. \"I think it's major,\" I tell him.\n\nHe slides out, and with a heavy sigh heads for the kitchen.\n\nMom's not there anymore. Instead she's standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. She's just standing there, the dog's empty water bowl still in her left hand. I get a chill, but I don't yet know why.\n\n\"What's so important that you gotta drag me out of\u2014\"\n\n\"Shush!\" Mom says. She rarely shushes Dad. She'll shush me and Garrett all day, but my parents never shush each other. It's an unspoken rule.\n\nShe's watching the TV, where a news anchor is blathering about the \"flow crisis.\" That's what the media's been calling the drought, ever since people got tired of hearing the word \"drought.\" Kind of like the way \"global warming\" became \"climate change,\" and \"war\" became \"conflict.\" But now they've got a new catchphrase. A new stage in our water woes. They're calling this the \"Tap-Out.\"\n\nUncle Basil emerges from his vapor cloud long enough to ask, \"What's going on?\"\n\n\"Arizona and Nevada just backed out of the reservoir relief deal,\" Mom tells him. \"They've shut the floodgates on all the dams, saying they need the water themselves.\"\n\nWhich means that the Colorado River won't even reach California anymore.\n\nUncle Basil tries to wrap his mind around it. \"Turning off the entire river like it's a spigot! Can they do that?\"\n\nMy father raises an eyebrow. \"They just did.\"\n\nSuddenly the image switches to a live press conference, where the governor addresses a gathering of antsy reporters.\n\n\"This is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected,\" the governor says. \"We have people working around the clock attempting to broker a new deal with various agencies.\"\n\n\"What does that even mean?\" Uncle Basil says. Both Mom and I shush him.\n\n\"As a precautionary measure, all county and municipal water districts in Southern California are temporarily rerouting all resources to critical services. But I cannot stress enough the need to keep calm. I'd like to personally assure everyone that this is a temporary situation, and that there is nothing to be concerned about.\"\n\nThe media begins to bombard him with questions, but he ducks out without answering a single one.\n\n\"Looks like Kingston's water bowl isn't the only one that's run dry,\" Uncle Basil says. \"I guess we're gonna have to start drinking out of the toilet, too.\"\n\nMy younger brother, Garrett, who's been sitting on the couch waiting for normal TV to return, makes the appropriate face, which just makes Uncle Basil laugh.\n\n\"So,\" Dad says to Mom halfheartedly, \"at least the plumbing problem isn't my fault this time.\"\n\nI go to the kitchen to try the tap myself\u2014as if I might have the magic touch. Nothing. Not even the slightest dribble. Our faucet has coded, and no amount of resuscitation will bring it back. I note the time, like they do in the emergency room: 1:32 p.m., June 4th.\n\nEveryone's going to remember where they were when the taps went dry, I think. Like when a president is assassinated.\n\nIn the kitchen behind me, Garrett opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of Glacier Freeze Gatorade. He begins to guzzle it, but I stop him on the third gulp.\n\n\"Put it back,\" I tell him. \"Save some for later.\"\n\n\"But I'm thirsty now,\" he whines, protesting. He's ten\u2014six years younger than me. Ten-year-olds have issues with delayed gratification.\n\nIt's almost finished anyway, so I let him keep it. I take note of what's in the fridge. A couple of beers. Three more bottles of Gatorade, a gallon of milk that's down to the dregs, and leftovers.\n\nYou know how sometimes you don't realize how thirsty you are until you take that first sip? Well, suddenly I get that feeling just by looking in the refrigerator.\n\nIt's the closest thing I've ever had to a premonition.\n\nI can hear neighbors out in the street now. We know our neighbors\u2014run into them occasionally. The only time whole bunches of them come out into the street at the same time is July Fourth, or when there's an earthquake.\n\nMy parents, Garrett, and I gravitate outside as well, all of us standing, strangely, looking to one another for some kind of guidance, or at least validation that this is actually happening. Jeannette and Stu Leeson from across the street, the Maleckis and their newborn, and Mr. Burnside, who's been eternally seventy years old for as long as I can remember. And as expected, we don't see the reclusive family next door\u2014the McCrackens\u2014who have probably barricaded themselves inside their suburban fortress upon hearing the news.\n\nWe all kind of stand there with our hands in our pockets, avoiding direct eye contact, like my classmates at the junior prom.\n\n\"Okay,\" my dad finally says, \"which one of you pissed off Arizona and Nevada?\"\n\nEveryone chuckles. Not because it's particularly funny, but it eases some of the tension.\n\nMr. Burnside raises his eyebrows. \"Hate to say I told ya so, but didn't I say they'd hoard what's left of the Colorado River? We let that river become our only lifeline. We should never have let ourselves become so vulnerable.\"\n\nUsed to be no one much knew or cared where our water came from. It was just always there. But when the Central Valley started to dry up and the price of produce skyrocketed, people started to pay attention. Or at least enough attention to pass laws and voter propositions. Most of them were useless, but made people feel as if something was being done. Like the Frivolous Use Initiative, which made things like throwing water balloons illegal.\n\n\"Las Vegas still has water,\" someone points out.\n\nOur neighbor, Stu, shakes his head. \"Yeah\u2014but I just tried to book a hotel in Vegas. A million hotel rooms, and not a single one available.\"\n\nMr. Burnside laughs ruefully, as if taking pleasure in Stu's misfortune. \"One hundred twenty-four thousand hotels rooms, actually. Sounds like a whole lot of people had the same idea.\"\n\n\"Ha! Can you imagine the traffic on the interstate trying to get there?\" says my mom, in a sour grapes kind of way. \"I wouldn't want to be caught in that!\"\n\nAnd then I put my two cents in. \"If they're diverting the remaining water to 'critical services,' it means there's still a little bit left. Someone should sue to get them to release a fraction of it. Make it like rolling blackouts. Each neighborhood gets a little bit of water each day.\"\n\nMy parents are impressed by the suggestion. The others look at me with an isn't-she-adorable kind of expression, which ticks me off. My parents are convinced I'm going to be a lawyer someday. It's possible, but I suspect if I am, it will just be a means to an end\u2014although I'm not sure what that end would be.\n\nBut that doesn't help us now\u2014and though I think my idea is a good one, I suspect there's too much self-interest among the Powers That Be for it to ever happen. And who knows, maybe there isn't enough water left to share.\n\nA phone chimes, receiving a text. Jeannette looks at her Android. \"Great! Now my relatives in Ohio found out. Like I need their stress on top of my own.\"\n\n\"Text them back: 'send water.' \" My father quips.\n\n\"We'll get through this,\" my mom says reassuringly. She's a clinical psychologist, so reassurance is second nature to her.\n\nGarrett, who's been standing quietly, brings his Gatorade bottle up to his lips . . . and for a brief moment everyone stops talking. Involuntary. Almost like a mental hiccup, as they watch my brother gulp the quenching blue liquid. Finally, Mr. Burnside breaks the silence.\n\n\"We'll talk,\" he says as he turns to leave. It's the way he always ends a conversation. It signals the conclusion of this loose little fellowship. Everyone says their goodbyes and heads back to their homes . . . but more than one set of eyes glance at Garrett's empty Gatorade bottle as they leave.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"Costco run!\" says Uncle Basil late that afternoon, at around five. \"Who's coming?\"\n\n\"Can I get a hot dog?\" Garrett asks, knowing that even if Uncle Basil says no, he'll get one anyway. Uncle Basil is a pushover.\n\n\"Hot dogs are the least of our problems,\" I tell him. And he doesn't question that. He knows why we're going\u2014he's not stupid. Even so, he still knows he'll get a hot dog.\n\nWe climb into the cab of Uncle Basil's four-by-four pickup, which is jacked up higher than should be allowed for any man his age.\n\n\"Mom said we have a few water bottles in the garage,\" Garrett says.\n\n\"We're going to need more than just a few,\" I point out. I try to quickly do the math in my head. I also saw those bottles. Nine half-liters. Five of us. That won't even last the day.\n\nAs we turn the corner out of our neighborhood and onto the main street, Uncle Basil says, \"It may take a day or so for the county to get the water up and running again. We'll probably only need a couple of cases.\"\n\n\"And Gatorade!\" says Garrett. \"Don't forget the Gatorade! It's full of electrolytes.\" Which is what they say on the commercials, even though Garrett doesn't know what an electrolyte is.\n\n\"Look on the bright side,\" Uncle Basil says. \"You probably won't have school for a few days.\" The California version of a snow day.\n\nI've been counting down the days for junior year to end. Just two weeks now. But knowing my high school, they'll probably find a way to tack any lost days on at the end, delaying our summer vacation.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAs we pull into the Costco parking lot we can see the crowd. It seems like our entire neighborhood had the same idea. We do nothing but slowly circle in search of an empty space. Finally Uncle Basil pulls out his Costco card and hands it to me.\n\n\"You two go in. I'll meet you inside when I find a place to park.\"\n\nI wonder how he'll get in without his card, but then, Uncle Basil finds ways around any situation. Garrett and I hop out and join the hordes of people flooding the entrance. Inside it's like Black Friday at its worst\u2014but today it's not televisions and video games people are after. The carts in the checkout line are stocked with canned goods, toiletries, but mostly water. The essentials of life.\n\nSomething feels slightly off. I'm not sure what it is, but it hangs in the air like a scent. It's in the impatience of the people in line. The way people use their carts\u2014on the verge of being battering rams to make their way through the crowd. There's a sort of primal hostility all around us, hidden by a veneer of suburban politeness. But even that politeness is stretching thin.\n\n\"This cart sucks,\" Garrett says. He's right. One wheel is bent, and the only way to push it is to lean it on the other three wheels. I look back toward the entrance. There were only a couple of carts left when I grabbed this one. They'll all be gone now.\n\n\"It'll do,\" I tell him.\n\nGarrett and I forge our way through the crowds toward the back left corner, where the water pallets are. As we do, we overhear bits and pieces of conversations.\n\n\"FEMA's already slammed with Hurricane Noah,\" one woman tells another. \"How are they going to help us, too?\"\n\n\"It's not our fault! Agriculture uses eighty percent of the water!\"\n\n\"If the state spent more time finding new sources of water, instead of fining us for filling our swimming pools,\" one woman says, \"we wouldn't be in this position.\"\n\nGarrett turns to me. \"My friend Jason has a giant aquarium in his living room, and he didn't get fined.\"\n\n\"That's different,\" I explain to him. \"Fish are considered pets.\"\n\n\"But it's still water.\"\n\n\"Then go drink it,\" I say, shutting him up. I don't have time to think about other people's problems. We have our own to worry about. But it looks like I'm the only one who cares, because Garrett has already gone off to hunt for free samples.\n\nAs I push the cart, it keeps veering to the left and I have to lean heavily on the right side to prevent the bent wheel from acting like a rudder.\n\nAs I approach the rear of the warehouse, I can see that it's the most crowded spot, and as I reach the last aisle to see the water pallets, I realize I'm too late. The pallets are already empty.\n\nIn hindsight, we should have come straight here the moment the taps were turned off. But when something drastic happens, there's a lag time. It's not quite denial, and not quite shock, but more like a mental free fall. You're spending so much time wrapping your mind around the problem, you don't realize what you need to do until the window to do it has closed. I think of all those people in Savannah the moment Hurricane Noah made that unexpected turn and barreled straight toward them, instead of heading back out to sea like it was supposed to. How long did they stare unblinking at the news, until they packed up their things and evacuated? I can tell you how long. Three and a half hours.\n\nBehind me, people who can't see that the water pallets are empty keep pushing forward. Eventually some employee will have the good sense to put a sign out front that says NO WATER, but until they do, customers will keep piling in, pushing toward the back, creating a suffocating crowd, like the mosh pit of a concert.\n\nOn a hunch, I maneuver my way to the side aisle, and to the racks of canned soda, which are also beginning to disappear. But I'm not here for soda. As I look around the stacks of drinks, I find a single case of water that someone abandoned there maybe yesterday, when it wasn't such a precious commodity. I reach for it, only to find it pulled away at the last second by a thin woman with a beak of a nose. She stacks it on top of her cart like a crown on top of her canned goods.\n\n\"I'm sorry, but we were here first,\" she says. And then her daughter steps forward\u2014a girl I recognize from soccer\u2014Hali Hartling. She's annoyingly popular and thinks she's much better at soccer than she really is. Half the girls in school want to be like her, and the other half hate her because they know they'll never come close. Me, I just put up with her. She's not worth the energy for me to be anything but indifferent.\n\nAlthough she always seems to bleed confidence, right now she can't even look me in the eye\u2014because she knows, just as her mother knows, that I had that water first. As her mother pulls their cart away, Hali leans closer to me. \"I'm sorry about that, Morrow,\" she says earnestly, calling me by my last name like we do in soccer.\n\n\"Didn't I share my water with you at practice last week?\" I point out to her. \"Maybe you could return the favor and share a few bottles with me.\"\n\nShe looks back to her mother, who's already moving down the aisle, then back to me with a shrug. \"Sorry, they don't sell them by the bottle here. Just by the case.\" And then she gets a little bit red in the face, and turns to leave before it becomes a full-fledged flush.\n\nI take in my surroundings. Crowds are still getting thicker, and things are vanishing from the shelves at an alarming rate. Even the sodas are gone now. Stupid! I should have grabbed some. I hurry back to my empty cart before someone else can take it. There's no sign of Uncle Basil yet, and Garrett is probably off stuffing his face with something greasy. The Gatorade he requested is all gone, too.\n\nFinally I spot Garrett. He's down one of the frozen aisles, pizza sauce all over his face. He wipes his mouth with his shirt, knowing I'll comment. But I don't bother\u2014because I see something. Just past the frozen vegetables and ice cream, there's a chest packed with ice. Enormous bags of it. I can't believe people are such limited thinkers that they haven't thought of this themselves! Or maybe they have, but denied that they could possibly be so desperate. I open the door and reach for a bag.\n\n\"What are you doing? We need water, not ice.\"\n\n\"Ice is water, Einstein,\" I tell him. I go for a bag, and realize they're a lot heavier than I had anticipated.\n\n\"Help me!\" Together Garrett and I heave one bag of ice after another into our cart, until it's piled as high as it can get. By now other people have taken notice, and have crowded the ice case, beginning to empty it.\n\nThe cart is ridiculously heavy now, and almost impossible to push\u2014especially with a bad wheel. Then, as we struggle with the cart, the jammed wheel scraping across the concrete floor, a man in a business suit comes up behind us. He smiles.\n\n\"That's quite a load there,\" he says. \"Looks like you could use some help.\"\n\nHe doesn't wait for us to answer before grabbing the cart's handle, and wrestling it forward far more effectively than we did.\n\n\"Crazy here today,\" he says jovially. \"Crazy everywhere, I'll bet.\"\n\n\"Thank you for helping us,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Not a problem. We all need to help one another.\"\n\nHe smiles again, and I return the grin. It's good to know that difficult times can bring out the best in people.\n\nBit by bit, with short but steady lurches, we get the cart to the front of the store, and into one of the snaking checkout lines.\n\n\"I suppose that's my workout for the day,\" he chuckles.\n\nI look at our cart, and decide that one good turn deserves another. \"Why don't you take a bag of ice for yourself,\" I suggest.\n\nHis smile doesn't fade. \"I have an even better idea,\" he says. \"Why don't you take a bag of ice for yourselves, and I'll keep the rest.\"\n\nFor a moment I think he's joking, but then realize he's dead serious. \"Excuse me?\"\n\nHe manufactures a heavy sigh. \"You're right, that really wouldn't be fair to you. Tell you what, why don't we split it down the middle? I'll take half, you take half.\"\n\nHe says it like he's being generous. As if the ice is his to give. He's still smiling, but his eyes scare me.\n\n\"I think my offer is more than fair,\" he says. I begin to wonder what business he's in, and if it's all about cheating people but making them think they're not being cheated. It's not going to fly with me\u2014but his hands are firmly locked on the handle of our cart, and there's nothing to prove that it's ours and not his.\n\n\"Is there a problem here?\"\n\nIt's Uncle Basil. He's arrived just in time. He glares at the man coldly for a moment, then the man takes his hands off the cart.\n\n\"Not at all,\" he says.\n\n\"Good.\" Uncle Basil says. \"I'd hate to think you were harassing my niece and nephew. People get arrested for that.\"\n\nThe man holds eye contact with our uncle for a moment more before folding. He looks at the ice, his expression bitter, then leaves, not taking as much as a single bag.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nUncle Basil's pickup truck is parked illegally\u2014halfway onto an island, having demolished a row of ficus. \"Had to kick this sucker into four-wheel drive,\" he says proudly\u2014probably the first time he's ever actually had to use it. Suddenly Uncle Basil's midlife crisis truck is a blessing rather than an embarrassment.\n\nWe load the bags of ice into the truck bed. \"How about that hot dog?\" Uncle Basil offers, trying to lighten the mood.\n\n\"I'm full,\" Garrett responds, even though I know that's a nearly impossible feat for him. He just doesn't want to go back inside. None of us do. And now there's a small crowd that's formed, watching us load the ice into the bed of the truck. Even though I try to ignore it, I know there's a dozen eyes on us.\n\n\"Why don't I ride in the truck bed with the ice?\" I suggest.\n\n\"No, it's okay,\" Uncle Basil replies calmly. \"Ride in the cab. Some nasty potholes on the way back. Wouldn't want you to bounce around back there.\"\n\n\"Right,\" I agree as I hop into the cab of the pickup. And although no one speaks of it, I know it's not potholes my uncle's worried about.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe pull onto our street, but for some reason it doesn't quite feel like the same block I grew up on. There's this strangeness, like when you accidentally turn one street too early, and, because all of the cookie-cutter houses look the same, you feel as if you're in a parallel universe. I try to shake the feeling as I watch the houses go by through the car window.\n\nOur neighbors across the street, the Kiblers, usually lounge in their lawn chairs and \"supervise\" their kids as they play, which in reality means gossiping over glasses of chardonnay while making sure their children don't get run over. However, today the Kibler kids play tag in the street without supervision. And even through the children's laughter there's this insidious silence that underscores everything; then again, maybe the silence was always there, and I'm only just noticing it now.\n\nUncle Basil backs the truck into the driveway and we get straight to unloading. Even with the sun getting low in the sky, it's still ninety degrees, and the ice is already melting. If we're going to get all of this ice inside in time, we're going to need to hurry.\n\n\"Why don't you go clean out the freezer so we can put some ice in it,\" Uncle Basil says as he grabs the first bag from the truck bed. \"The rest we can let melt and drink today.\"\n\n\"Better yet, why don't you clean the downstairs bathtub,\" I tell Garret. \"We'll let it melt there.\"\n\n\"Good idea,\" says Basil, although Garrett's not too keen on cleaning the tub.\n\nDad emerges from the garage, greasy wrench in hand, clearly still trying to squeeze water from the pipes. \"Ice, huh?\"\n\n\"They ran out of everything else,\" I tell him, keeping it brief.\n\nDad scratches his head. \"Should have gone to Sam's Club,\" he says. \"They keep more items stocked in the back of the store.\" Although Dad smiles it off, I can tell he's a little more disturbed than he lets on. I think he knows that Sam's Club has most likely been cleaned out of all of its bottled liquids, just like every other store.\n\nUncle Basil quickly changes the subject. \"Thought you were going into the office today,\" he says.\n\nDad shrugs and grabs a bag of ice. \"Best thing about having your own business is that you don't have to work Saturdays if you don't want to.\"\n\nExcept that Dad does work Saturdays. Some Sundays, too. A lot of people put in extra hours these days, considering how the price of produce has been rising\u2014but even without that, Dad always told us that it takes a 24/7 commitment to build out a business. Yet apparently he'd rather haul ice than sell insurance today.\n\nI pull more ice from the back of the truck, but find, even in a thick plastic bag, it's hard to grip now that it's starting to melt.\n\n\"Need some help?\" says a voice from behind, and before turning around I know exactly who it is. Kelton McCracken. Your not-so-typical red-headed geek next door. Most kids of his strangeness are content killing zombies with an Xbox controller, but not Kelton. He prefers to spend his time practicing aerial reconnaissance with his drone, shooting critters with his paintball gun, and hiding in his tree house with a pair of night vision goggles, pretending to be Jason Bourne. It's like he never matured past sixth grade, so his parents just bought him bigger and bigger toys. But today I can't help but notice that there's something different about him. Sure, he's grown in this past year and looks a lot more mature\u2014but it isn't just that. It's the way he holds himself. There's a bounce in his step, as if this whole water crisis excites him in some sick way. Kelton smiles, revealing that his braces are off and his teeth have been wrangled artificially straight.\n\n\"Sure, Kelton, we could use some help,\" says Dad. \"Why don't you give Alyssa a hand?\"\n\nI go to hand him the ice, but as I hold it out to him, something comes over me, and I can't seem to let go of the bag.\n\nDad takes notice, confused by my hesitation. \"Let him take the ice, Alyssa,\" he says.\n\nI look down to the ice in my hands and then back to Kelton, realizing I'm still skeptical about allowing people to \"help.\"\n\n\"Is there a problem?\" Dad asks, in an intrusive, fatherly tone that demands an answer\u2014which I don't give.\n\nI force myself to hand the ice over to Kelton. \"Just don't expect a bag for helping,\" I tell him, which makes my father give me a stern look, probably wondering what would possess me to be so nasty about it. Maybe later I'll tell him about that guy at Costco. Or maybe I'll just try to forget it ever happened.\n\nAs for Kelton, I expect him to have a snotty comeback, but instead he just stands there, genuinely thrown by my comment. I regain my composure and force a smile, hoping it doesn't look forced. \"Sorry,\" I tell him. \"Thanks for helping.\"\n\nWe go inside to set the ice in the bathtub, but Kelton grabs my shoulder to stop me.\n\n\"Have you sealed the drain?\" he asks. \"Not a good idea putting this ice in the tub unless you've sealed the drain. Even the tiniest leak and you'll lose it all in a few hours.\"\n\n\"I thought my uncle had done that,\" I tell him, even though none of us would have thought of it. As much as I hate to admit it, that's probably the smartest idea I've heard all day.\n\n\"I'll go get you some caulking,\" he says, and hurries off to retrieve the sealant from his garage, obviously happy for an opportunity to put his Boy Scout training into action.\n\nKelton and his reclusive family always seem to have a worst-case scenario plan for anything. Dad would sometimes joke that Mr. McCracken lived a double life, working as a dentist by day and preparing for the end of the world by night. But recently the joke is becoming all the more real. It seems Mr. McCracken now spends most of his time welding cast-iron contraptions late into the night, as if he were drilling into the cavity of the gaping monstrosity that is his garage.\n\nOver the past few months Kelton's family has assembled an over-the-top surveillance system, set up a mini greenhouse in their side yard, and lined their entire roof with some kind of unregistered, off-grid solar panels. Most recently, Kelton\u2014who's in far too many of my classes this year\u2014is always bragging about how his father installed one-way bulletproof windows\u2014bullets can shoot out from inside, but can't penetrate from the outside. Even though the rest of our class thinks he's completely full of it, I think it might be true. I wouldn't put it past his father to do something like that.\n\nAside from our complaints about the late-night welding, our families are generally amicable, but there's always been a sense of polite tension when my parents deal with them. We once shared an area of grass between our two houses, until Mr. McCracken installed a picket fence right through my mom's prize-winning vermilliades. The fence was obnoxiously taller than your typical whitewashed suburban barrier, but just low enough not to technically violate the rules and regulations of the Homeowners Association\u2014which they always seem to be at war with. Once, they even tried to lay claim to the curb in front of their house as their own private parking spot, insisting that their property line extended a few inches into the street\u2014but the association won that battle. Ever since then, Uncle Basil makes a point to park his truck right in front of their house whenever he can, just to mess with them.\n\nKelton returns in a few minutes with the caulking and gets right to sealing the drain. \"This might take a couple of hours to harden, so be careful when you pack the ice in,\" he says, way more enthusiastic than someone ought to be about silicone sealant. There's an uncomfortable silence between us that makes me realize that I've never actually spent time with Kelton one-on-one.\n\nThen something occurs to me that's not just a conversation filler, but something important. \"Wait a second. Don't you guys have a big water tank behind your house?\"\n\n\"Thirty-five gallons,\" Kelton brags, as he applies the caulking with the precision of a jeweler. \"But that's inside our house. The outside one's for bodily waste, full of quaternary ammonium compound chemicals. You know, like that stinky blue soup at the bottom of a porta potty.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I get it, Kelton,\" I say, duly disgusted. \"Well, I can't say you guys didn't think ahead.\" Which is the understatement of the century.\n\n\"Well, as my dad always says, 'We'd rather be wrong than dead wrong.' \" Then he adds, \"I bet if your dad just thought ahead too, you'd probably be better off.\"\n\nKelton's clearly not aware how insulting he can sound sometimes. I wonder if he ever won a merit badge for being Most Annoying.\n\nKelton finishes up the job. I thank him, and he heads back home to shoot his potato launcher, or dissect bugs, or whatever a kid like him does with his free time.\n\nIn the kitchen, my mom is scouring every surface with 409. Stress cleaning. When something's out of your control, you bring order to the things you can. I get that. She's never been the type, though, to leave the TV on as background noise\u2014but she has it blasting in the family room. I'm not sure where my dad and uncle are. Maybe back working on his car. I find it odd that I feel I need to know.\n\nOn TV, CNN is focused on the continuing crisis of Hurricane Noah. I don't begrudge those poor people the attention, but wish some of it would turn toward us, too.\n\n\"Any news about the Tap-Out?\" I ask.\n\n\"One of the local stations has regular updates,\" Mom tells me, \"but it's that brainless anchor I can't stand. And besides, there's nothing new.\"\n\nEven so, I switch to the brainless anchor, who my dad says got his start in porn, although I don't want to ask him how he knows.\n\nMy mom's right; they're just showing the governor's statement from this morning, and trying without success to spin it.\n\nI switch back to the national news stations. CNN, then MSNBC, then Fox News, and back to CNN again. Every national broadcast is reporting on Noah, and only on Noah. Slowly it dawns on me why.\n\nThere's no radar image for a water crisis.\n\nNo storm surges, no debris fields\u2014the Tap-Out is as silent as cancer. There's nothing to see, and so the news is treating it like a sidebar.\n\nI mention this to my mom. She stops cleaning for a moment, and watches the crawl of secondary stories at the bottom of the screen. Finally something comes up: California water crisis deepens. Residents urged to conserve.\n\nAnd that's it. That's all the national news says.\n\n\"Conserve? Are you kidding me?\"\n\nMy mom takes a deep breath and sprays the kitchen table again. \"As long as FEMA does its job, who care's what the news says?\"\n\n\"I care,\" I tell her. Because if there's one thing I know about the news, it's that it decides for most people\u2014including the federal government\u2014what is and what isn't important. But the big news stations won't give the Tap-Out the critical airtime it needs\u2014not until there are images that are as dramatic as winds taking off roofs.\n\nAnd if it takes that long for the Tap-Out to be taken seriously, it will be too late.\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT: JOHN WAYNE\n\nDalton loves the way planes take off from John Wayne Airport. It's a real trip. They call it a \"modified noise abatement takeoff,\" and it was specifically implemented to spare Newport Beach millionaires from having to deal with airport noise. Basically, the plane powers up on the runway with its brakes on, then accelerates at full force into a ridiculously steep takeoff, followed ten seconds later by a sudden leveling off and throttling down of the engines, which sounds, to the uninitiated, like engine failure, causing at least one person on every flight to gasp, or even scream in panic. The plane then coasts out over the back bay, Balboa Island, and the Newport Peninsula before the pilot pushes the engines back to full and resumes the climb-out.\n\n\"They oughta call it John Glenn instead of John Wayne,\" Dalton once said\u2014because taking off from there was the closest most people would ever get to blasting off into space.\n\nDalton and his younger sister are regular flyers, visiting their dad, who lives up in Portland, a few times a year\u2014Christmas, Easter, most of the summer, and every other Thanksgiving. Today, however, it's not just the two of them traveling north. Their mother is coming, too.\n\n\"If your dad won't put me up, I'll be happy to stay in a hotel,\" she says.\n\n\"He won't make you do that,\" Dalton tells her, but she doesn't seem too sure.\n\nA few years back, Dalton's mom had left him for a loser with nice pecs and a soul patch, who she subsequently kicked to the curb a year later. Live and learn. Anyway, when the marriage went south, his dad went north.\n\n\"You understand this is not about your father and me getting back together,\" she tells Dalton and his sister, but for kids of divorce, hope springs eternal.\n\nWithin minutes of the Tap-Out, his mom had gone online and bought three overpriced tickets on Alaska Air\u2014one of the few airlines that flies nonstop to Portland on a plane that you didn't have to get out and push.\n\n\"Last three tickets,\" she told them triumphantly. \"You've got an hour to pack. Carry-ons only.\"\n\nThe trip to the airport is bumper-to-bumper. What should be a fifteen-minute ride takes almost an hour.\n\nThe parking situation at John Wayne is the first indication that there's going to be turbulence up ahead. All but one parking structure says FULL. They get one of the last remaining spaces at the far end of the last lot. As they make their way to the terminal, Dalton notes all the cars circling, like it's a huge game of musical chairs, with no chairs left.\n\nThe TSA checkpoint is a madhouse, which never happens here.\n\n\"A lot a people are going on vacation,\" Dalton's seven-year-old sister, Sarah, says.\n\n\"Yes, honey,\" their mom responds absently.\n\n\"Where do you think they're going?\"\n\nTheir mom sighs, too stressed to continue humoring her, so Dalton looks at the boards, and takes up the slack. \"Cabo San Lucas,\" he says. \"Denver, Dallas, Chicago . . .\"\n\n\"My friend Gigi's from Chicago.\"\n\nThe security guy double takes on Dalton's passport, because his hair is brown in the photo, but now it's bleached blond.\n\n\"You sure this is you?\"\n\n\"Last time I checked,\" Dalton responds.\n\nThe humorless TSA guy lets them get into the slow-moving crawl to the metal detector, which has issues with his facial rings. Finally they make it through security with just five minutes until boarding starts. Mom is relieved.\n\n\"Okay,\" she says. \"We're here. We haven't lost anyone. No missing fingers or toes.\"\n\n\"I'm thirsty,\" Sarah says, but Dalton has already noticed that the concessions they passed all had NO WATER signs up.\n\n\"There'll be something to drink on the plane,\" their mother says.\n\nDalton thinks that might actually be true. After all, these planes all came from somewhere else. And he is getting a bit thirsty himself.\n\nThen, just as they're about to start boarding, the gate agent comes on the loudspeaker and makes an announcement.\n\n\"Unfortunately, we're oversold on this flight,\" she says. \"We're asking for volunteers with flexible travel plans who are willing to take a later flight.\"\n\nSarah tugs her mother's arm. \"Mommy, volunteer!\"\n\n\"Not this time, baby.\"\n\nDalton grins. Dad always tells them to volunteer because they give away hundreds of dollars in travel vouchers, which is always worth the inconvenience. But not today. Today it's all about getting out. Which is why they have trouble getting volunteers. The price of the vouchers goes from two hundred dollars to three hundred to five hundred dollars, and still no one is willing to surrender their ticket.\n\nFinally the gate agent gives up. She gets on the loudspeaker, calling the names of the last people to buy tickets. Dalton, Sarah, and their mother. Dalton feels a twisting in the pit of his stomach.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" says the gate agent, not sounding sorry at all, \"but as the last to purchase, I'm obliged to reschedule you to a later flight.\"\n\nDalton's mom goes ballistic, and he can't blame her. This is one time they need to fight the Powers That Be.\n\n\"No,\" says their mom. \"I don't care what you say! My children and I are getting on that plane!\"\n\n\"You'll each receive a five-hundred-dollar travel voucher\u2014that's fifteen hundred dollars,\" the agent says, trying to placate them. Their mom will not be bought.\n\n\"My children have court-ordered visitation with their father,\" she yells. \"If you take them off this flight, you'll be breaking the law, and I'll sue!\" Of course, this isn't their father's time with them, but the agent doesn't know that.\n\nEven so, all the agent does is apologize, and look for later flights. \"There's a flight tonight at five-thirty. . . . Oh wait, no, that one is full, too. . . . Let's see.\" She continues to hack away at her computer. \"Eight-twenty . . . no . . .\"\n\nThen Dalton turns to his sister and whispers, \"Give her the eyes.\"\n\nTheir mom had always told both Dalton and Sarah that their big blue eyes could melt anyone into a puddle. Not so much Dalton anymore. At an awkward seventeen, a bunch of facial piercings, a biohazard neck tattoo, and what his father calls \"weed-whacked hair,\" the general public isn't melted anymore. Only seventeen-year-old girls. But Sarah still has the magical melting effect on hardened adults. So he lifts her up for the agent to get a good look at her.\n\n\"Aw, you're cute as a button,\" she says. Then rips three new tickets from the printer. \"Here you go\u2014tomorrow morning at six-thirty. That's the absolute best I can do.\"\n\nSo they wait. They don't leave, because the crowd just grows, and they know they'll never get back through security. They spend the night sleeping in uncomfortable airport chairs, getting sips of water from anyone who'll share with them, and there aren't many.\n\nThen, when morning comes, even with confirmed tickets, there's no room on the six-thirty flight for them. Or the next one. Or the next one.\n\nAnd they can't get tickets to flights to other places.\n\nAnd the airport gets so crowded that extra police are brought in to keep the peace.\n\nAnd with traffic jams everywhere, trucks with jet fuel can't get to the airport.\n\nAnd Dalton, his mother, and sister have to face the fact that they won't be blasting off anywhere.\n\n* * *\n\n## DAY TWO\n\n## SUNDAY, JUNE 5TH\n\n### 2) Kelton\n\nMy dad always told me that there are three types of humans on this planet. First there's the Sheep. The everyday types who live in denial\u2014spoon-fed by the morning news, chewed up by another monotonous workday, and spit back out across the urban streets of the world like a mouthful of funky meatloaf that's been rotting in the back of the fridge. Basically, the Sheep are the defenseless majority who are completely unwilling to acknowledge the inevitability of real danger, and trust the system to take care of them.\n\nNext you've got your Wolves. The bad guys who abide by no societal laws whatsoever but are good at pretending when it suits them. These are the thieves, murderers, rapists, and politicians, who feed on the Sheep until they're thrown in prison, or better yet, belly up in a landfill alongside sheaves of your grandma's itchy hand-knit Christmas socks. The ones you ritualistically blow up every year with an M80.\n\nAnd lastly, you have people like us. The McCrackens. The Herders of the world. Sure, our kind may look a lot like Wolves\u2014large fangs, sharp claws, and the capacity for violence\u2014but what sets us apart from the rest is that we represent the balance between the two. We can navigate the flock freely, with the ability to protect or disown as we see fit. My dad says that we're the select few with the power of choice, and when real danger arises, we'll be the ones who survive\u2014and not just because we own a 357 Magnum, three glock G19's, and a Mossberg pump-action shotgun, but because we've been prepping, in every possible badass way, since as long as I can remember, for the inevitable collapse of society as we know it.\n\nIt's Sunday, noon, second day of the Tap-Out. It's boiling hot, like a forgotten soda can left out on summer solstice. I take to my personal \"bug-out.\" Namely, the elevated tactical unit I built in the oak tree in our backyard. Some people might call it a tree house, but that would insult its fortified and functional nature. You don't do infrared reconnaissance and maintain a civilian arsenal in some namby-pamby tree house. It's nowhere near as cool as our real bug-out, though\u2014a hidden safe house our family built deep in the woods in the event of a nuclear attack, or EMP, or any other end-of-the-world scenario. We all built it together, as a family, a few years back, before my older brother, Brady, left home. If things get bad, I'm sure we'll go there. But in the meantime, I make do with my tree-bug-out.\n\nI've got quite my own stockpile of supplies, separate and apart from the stuff Dad has in our safe room. Weapons-wise, I've got a paintball gun, a tactical hunting slingshot, and a Wildcat Whisper pellet rifle. As far as supplies go, I have enough Mountain Dew to keep me awake for weeks if need be, not to mention chicken-flavored Top Ramen, my favorite comfort food\u2014because it's comforting to know that in the event of nuclear fallout, my food has enough MSG and preservatives to out-survive all of mankind.\n\nI look out the fort window and clock someone approaching our house, so I pull out my binoculars to get an ID. The off-brown suit and bolo tie are dead giveaways. It's Mr. Burnside, the retired business executive who never exactly came to terms with the end of his career. With nothing better to do, he organized a silent coup and took over the Homeowners Association a couple of years back. He's been running it with an iron fist ever since. We're pretty sure he's a fascist. He's probably here to notify us that our windows are too bulletproof, or that our garage door is too titanium, or that our rooftop aerial drone helipad is too awesome. But upon closer examination I realize that he's not carrying the usual legal binder full of petitions and cease-and-desist paperwork. Instead he holds a gift, wrapped up neatly with a bow and everything. I'm skeptical, so I climb down and move to the side of the house, crouching behind a hedge where I can see him at the front door.\n\nBurnside mats down his gray combover and knocks four times, then a fifth, because he's obnoxious like that.\n\nMy dad answers, but only opens the door partly. \"Good afternoon, Bill. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?\" my dad asks, when he really means, What the hell do YOU want?\n\nBurnside forms a smile through a set of teeth too white to not be fake. \"Just checking in on families in the neighborhood.\" He looks around our property, feigning enthusiasm. \"I have to say, I'm coming to understand and appreciate some of your unique modifications.\"\n\n\"Such as our greenhouse, which the association is still disputing?\" my dad says sharply.\n\n\"Water under the bridge,\" Burnside says with a cheap wave of the hand, his retirement-earned gold watch and medical ID bracelet jingling together. Not sure what his medical condition is, but five'll get you ten he didn't stockpile the medication he needs.\n\n\"Haven't you heard?\" my dad says. \"There isn't any water under the bridge.\"\n\nBurnside laughs, but rather than cutting the tension it just adds to it. So he hands my dad the gift.\n\n\"From me and the wife,\" he says. \"Just a little something to help bygones be bygones.\"\n\n\"Well, that's awfully nice of you, Bill. I assume that means you and the board won't mind if I upgrade the security fences. I was thinking ten-footers.\"\n\nBurnside gets a little bristly, but says, \"I'll have a talk with the board. It shouldn't be a problem.\"\n\n\"Is there anything else I can do for you?\" my dad asks, clearly enjoying the power position.\n\n\"Well, as I said, I'm out doing rounds to let everyone know that the Homeowners Association is making efforts to pool neighborhood resources. You know, to help each other out in this crisis. . . .\"\n\nRather than responding, my dad waits for him to continue, making him squirm.\n\n\". . . I'm sure you and your family are doing just fine . . . ,\" Burnside prods, showing those porcelain teeth again. \"But of course there are some others that were caught off guard by this water situation.\"\n\n\"Exactly what are you asking, Bill?\" my dad says, a little less jovial than before.\n\n\"We're asking everyone to make an inventory of supplies,\" he says, then adds, \"I'm sure there are things you need that other people might have, and vice versa.\"\n\n\"From each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Isn't that the basic tenet of socialism, Bill?\" my dad says. \"Never thought I'd hear something like that coming from a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist like you!\"\n\nBoy is my dad enjoying this! Burnside's smile is starting to resemble a snarl. \"No need to be insulting, Richard\u2014we're all in the same boat here. We should all try to make the best of it.\"\n\n\"If everyone's making an inventory, why are we the ones getting a gift?\" my dad asks.\n\nBurnside takes a deep breath and releases it. \"I know we've been adversaries in the past . . . but a little bit of goodwill on both our parts can go a long way.\"\n\nBurnside then turns to go, but before he reaches the end of our walkway, my dad unwraps the present. It's a bottle of Scotch. The expensive kind.\n\n\"Thanks again, Bill,\" my dad shouts to Burnside with a sly grin. \"I bet it will make an excellent Molotov cocktail!\"\n\n\"On the rocks is best,\" Burnside shouts back, completely missing the joke. \"We'll talk.\"\n\n### 3) Alyssa\n\nI wake up late on Sunday. I had been up most of the night texting friends, trading stories about the day. Mora, who marched on city hall with her family and a few dozen others, demanding satisfaction. Faraz, who spent the day with his dad trying to get their reverse-osmosis water purification system to turn urine into drinking water. Spoiler alert: It didn't work. And Cassie, who spent the day at her temple filling up water bottles for the elderly. \"It's a mitzvah,\" she told me. \"And our rabbi's son is hot.\"\n\nStill only half awake, I go into the bathroom and, by force of habit, turn on the shower, then realize I forgot to get a towel. I get one and come back into the bathroom, only to notice that the shower isn't on. Oh. Right. Now I feel like an idiot. I was even thinking about the Tap-Out when I turned on the shower\u2014but somehow in my glorified monkey brain, I didn't make the connection that the shower head is a tap, too. It's not that I didn't know it wouldn't be working\u2014of course I did. But when you're on morning autopilot, routine and muscle memory know no reason. I turn the knobs, not remembering which direction is on and which is off. Until the water comes back on it's not going to matter anyway.\n\nNo showers. What fun this is going to be. I slather on more deodorant than usual and head downstairs.\n\n\"Good morning, honey,\" Mom says, and tells me breakfast is a quarter of a watermelon that's been sitting in a corner of our refrigerator for a week. Garrett's rind is still on his plate like a wide green grin. It's an odd choice for breakfast, but she points out it has a high liquid content, so consuming it is killing two birds with one stone. And besides, it's almost lunchtime anyway.\n\nBefore the water turned off, my plan for Sunday was to work on my paper on Lord of the Flies. My hypothesis is that had it been a group of girls abandoned on the island instead of boys, it would have gone a lot differently. When I suggested it to the teacher, the boys in class agreed\u2014and were convinced that everyone would have died a lot sooner. My hypothesis was, of course, the opposite. I had procrastinated for over a week in writing the paper, and it was due on Monday. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter all that much. It was already announced that our school district would be closed tomorrow\u2014and besides, try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to care about who held the conch shell, and who was tormenting Piggy\u2014or Miss Piggy, in my theoretical version.\n\nStill, I figure it's better to keep busy than to dwell on things. I resolve to seek out normalcy, and decide to hang out with another friend, Sof\u00eda Rodriguez, who wasn't answering texts last night. After a few more unanswered texts, I decide I'll just go knock on her door like I used to back when we were younger.\n\nI slip outside and head toward her house, one street down from my own. As I walk, I take stock of the current state of my neighborhood. Most every car windshield is flyspecked and covered in dust. A large majority of lawns are neglected, or replanted with succulents. Some people even had their dead lawns painted green, kind of like the way funeral homes put makeup on dead people. The Frivolous Use Initiative wasn't just about banning water balloons. It also made it illegal to fill up private pools. The pool thing seemed like a good idea at the time\u2014after all, in a time of drought, a pool is an extravagance. But since then, people with pools used the remaining water in them to wash their cars and water their lawns and such. Between that and evaporation, most pools are now totally empty. So what used to be mini neighborhood reservoirs are now all as dry as our sinks.\n\nI arrive at Sof\u00eda's house and see her father strapping suitcases to the roof of their Hyundai. At first I try to tell myself that maybe he's taking another road trip for business, but as soon as I spot Sof\u00eda's favorite pink weekender bag strapped to the roof, I can't deny the truth. They're packing up and heading out.\n\n\"Sof\u00eda's inside the house,\" her father tells me, without taking even a moment's break from packing.\n\nI enter their home through the garage door. On the inside everything looks normal. Same hallways. Same blue pastel walls. Same floral print couch. Yet for some reason everything feels different, as if it's not the same house that I practically grew up playing in. . . . And then I notice why. The TV is off, and the air lacks that sweet smell of Mrs. Rodriguez's cooking. Family pictures have been taken down, leaving bright squares against the sun-faded walls like shadows of the memories those walls once held. It's as if the house has been stripped of all those little things that made it a home.\n\nAnd then I think about my home. About how we keep all of our goofy family photos downstairs for everyone to see\u2014and although I either hate my hair, or my smile, or my clothes in every picture I'm in, I couldn't imagine having to actually physically take them off the walls.\n\nSof\u00eda emerges from her bedroom, sees me, and gives me a hug, holding me for a second longer than normal, and then pulls back, smiling weakly. \"I was going to stop by your house before we left. . . .\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\" I ask.\n\n\"South,\" she responds. The short response strikes me as odd, because on any other day I couldn't pay Sof\u00eda to keep her mouth shut. I remember that she has grandparents somewhere in Baja\u2014the western peninsula of Mexico\u2014and it all starts to make a little more sense . . . though I can't imagine Mexico being any better than Southern California right now. Most of it is a desert, too.\n\n\"Have you been watching the news?\" she says. \"They're saying even the Los Angeles Aqueduct went dry. It's been dry for weeks, and they kept it a secret. People are resigning and being fired left and right. They're saying LA's water commissioner could be brought up on criminal charges.\"\n\n\"Why don't they do something about it instead of spending time blaming people?\"\n\n\"I know, right? Anyway, my father thinks it's gonna get worse before it gets better.\" She gives a nervous chuckle. \"Of course, you know him\u2014he's always overreacting.\"\n\nI laugh, but it's more of an obligatory laugh than a real one. Mrs. Rodriguez enters the room, Sophia's five-year-old brother in one arm, a stack of Sof\u00eda's paintings in the other. \"Which of your pieces do you want to take?\"\n\n\"All of them,\" Sof\u00eda responds, without the slightest hesitation.\n\nShe puts the paintings down on a pile of them already resting on the dining room table. \"Pick your three favorites.\" She kisses her daughter on the head and then smiles warmly to the both of us. Sof\u00eda's mother was always one of those women who was so pretty, people would mistake her and her daughter for sisters. She was youthful in every way. I always loved that about her. But today, she just looks tired.\n\nSof\u00eda sifts through the canvasses. \"This one is yours,\" she says, turning to me. \"You painted it for me back in seventh grade art class. Remember?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" I say. \"It was a birthday present.\"\n\n\"I think you should keep it,\" she says.\n\n\"Well, let's just say I'm borrowing it back. For a week or so.\" I correct her.\n\n\"Yeah.\" Sof\u00eda smiles genially, even though her eyes tell a different story. She was always the glass half full type, but something about the way she looks at me now tells me that her optimism is running as empty as her pool.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy dad is that guy who avoids going to doctors at all costs. It's not that he never gets sick, or has a deathly fear of needles, but I think some part of him thinks that drawing attention to an issue makes it worse. Maybe it makes something imaginary real. And since a vast majority of illnesses eventually go away on their own, most of the time it works for him. It's how he handles all of his problems, from fights with mom to a bad fiscal quarter for his business. So tonight he declares a Family Dinner, which is his favorite communal Band-Aid. Sure, throwing lasagna at the issue isn't always the answer, but I am a firm believer that when Mom and Dad cook together, it has the power to turn any day around. So I make sure to be home precisely at seven-thirty.\n\nAs soon as I walk in the door Mom puts me to work, as expected. She hands me an empty pitcher. \"Get some water for the table.\"\n\nA simple request that suddenly feels like I've been charged with a sacred duty.\n\n\"Sure,\" I respond. I go into the downstairs bathroom and dip the entire pitcher in the tub, and even after a day, there's still some ice. As soon as I return, I pour everyone a glass.\n\n\"Not too much,\" Dad says. \"I'm thinking we each do six cups a day. I did the math and the amount that we have should actually be enough for about a week at that rate.\"\n\n\"I thought people were supposed to drink eight cups a day,\" Garrett says.\n\n\"Think of your two less cups as a long-term investment,\" he tells Garrett, who at this point could probably run his own company based entirely on Dad's cheesy business analogies.\n\n\"Plus Kingston needs water, remember? But just a cup twice a day,\" Mom adds.\n\nI totally forgot about our dog\u2014and feel guilty about it. I couldn't imagine rationing something as helpless as an animal. I look to his water bowl and notice that it's empty, so when no one is looking I pour him a little bit from the pitcher.\n\nUncle Basil arrives at the table last, and right away chugs his entire glass of water, giving himself a killer brain-freeze.\n\n\"Serves you right, Herb,\" Mom says, like he's a little kid. \"That's all you get tonight.\"\n\n\"It's healthier to drink all your fluids ten minutes before you eat,\" he counters. \"It allows your body to process the water separate from your food and absorb more nutrients.\" And whether that's true or not, I decide to write it off as bro-science. I think Uncle Basil gets all of his scientific factoids from his beer buddies. That, coupled with the only A he ever got in school, in biology, and you've got yourself a recipe for misinformation.\n\nDespite Basil's words, everyone else takes their water slow. Perhaps because no one likes looking at an empty glass, which is true even when there's not a water shortage.\n\nThe lasagna is extra tough tonight, being that Mom boiled the pasta in Dad's red sauce in an attempt to use as little water as possible. Dad waits for our reactions before tasting it himself.\n\n\"I love it. Nice and crunchy,\" Garrett tells Dad. Of course he'd love it. Garrett, for some reason, hasn't really shed certain strange juvenile habits, like secretly eating cherry Chap Stick and raw pasta. Not necessarily together.\n\n\"It's good,\" I tell him with a smile. Unfortunately, Dad always knows when I'm lying, but I'm sure he appreciates the gesture. . . .\n\nAfter a few minutes of awkward crunching, Basil goes ahead and breaks the silence. \"At least the water's cold,\" he says, which makes everyone crack up, eventually growing into uncontrollable giggles. It's the kind of laughter that forces its way out like a bad case of hiccups. It makes me feel a little bit better, and though at first I just kind of played with my food, the more I eat, the more the meal is starting to grow on me.\n\nThat's when the lights suddenly flicker off.\n\nAnd then back on again.\n\nIt was only dark for a second. Maybe not even that, but it's enough to make everyone stop eating. Everyone is frozen. What's that expression? Waiting for the other shoe to drop? But it doesn't. The lights are on, they stay on. But it doesn't change the fact that they blinked. And now all the clocks angrily think that it's 12:00! 12:00! 12:00!\n\nI finally look to Dad, and I see for the first time my father truly starting to worry. It's that maybe-I-should-see-a-doctor face\u2014a line I've only heard him say once, five minutes before he was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis.\n\nSo now we all sit there, silent, forks in hand, trapped at the dinner table. And for some reason I can't bring myself to look anyone else in the eye, so I put my head down and I eat. After a few seconds, I realize that everyone else is doing the same. Shoveling food into their mouths like scared animals. And it goes on like that until our plates are empty. Not because we're that hungry, but because none of us wants to see that look on Dad's face again.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI'm just getting ready for bed a few hours later when I hear movement outside. Uncle Basil. My bedroom window looks out into the street, so I have the luxury of hearing his every coming and going. I check the clock. Midnight is a strange time for Basil to go anywhere. I travel downstairs, and when I get there I find him loading up the back of his truck.\n\n\"I didn't want to wake you,\" he says, already seeming guilty about something.\n\n\"You're leaving?\" I ask.\n\nHe looks to me warmly. \"It'll just be for a few nights,\" he says, though the giant suitcase full of clothes tells me otherwise. Just like with Sof\u00eda. \"Besides,\" he continues, \"I've already eaten you out of house and home. I don't want to use up all of your guys' water, too.\"\n\nUncle Basil has always been a little sensitive about having to stay with us this past year. And this whole Tap-Out thing is another added dimension to his dependence on us. But I think the power threatening to go out was the straw that broke the camel's back.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" I ask.\n\n\"Daphne's place. She's still in that big house over in Dove Canyon. Says they still have water there. Not sure how long that'll last, though, but at least it's something,\" he says, looking down.\n\nI smirk. \"Are you talking about the water, or you and Daphne?\"\n\nHe chuckles. \"Either/or,\" he says.\n\nDaphne is his on-again\u2013off-again girlfriend. They'd been together since before his farm failed. They moved down here right at the beginning of the \"Big Bail,\" which is what they called the mass exodus from the Central Valley's farming communities. Daphne always refused to allow us to call him \"Uncle Basil\" in her presence. It was all Herb, all the time\u2014which makes me think that deep down, she really does love him, even though they keep breaking up.\n\n\"Well,\" I say, \"I hope the Tap-Out helps bring you two back together.\"\n\n\"She's not doing it for me,\" he admits. \"She's doing it for you.\"\n\n\"Me?\"\n\n\"All of you. To keep me from being a burden on your mom and dad.\"\n\n\"You're not a burden. . . .\"\n\nHe smiles. \"Thanks for saying so, Alyssa.\"\n\nI give him a tight hug goodbye, and watch him drive off. Then I go back inside, sad to see him leave like this, but at the same time, a little less worried than before. The fact that there's running water anywhere gives me hope that things might not be so bad after all.\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT: KZLA NEWS\n\n\"Tensions rise as the Southland enters the third day of the Tap-Out, but government officials say relief is on the way.\"\n\nLocal Eyewitness News anchor Lyla Singh reads her part, then defers to Chase Buxton, her coanchor, who recites his line from the teleprompter.\n\n\"Meanwhile, the cascade effect that has left more than twenty-three million people without running water shows no sign of abating. For more, we take you to Donavan Lee in Silverlake.\"\n\nAs they cut away from the studio to the empty concrete reservoir that used to be Silverlake, Lyla reflects on the trials of her day. Getting to the studio from the Hollywood Hills was a nightmare. She had nearly missed the midmorning update, and now it looks like the news will be preempting more and more programming\u2014which means she won't be going home anytime soon.\n\n\"Did you hear the head of FEMA was ignoring the governor's calls?\" one of the cameramen had told her earlier. \"No joke\u2014Hurricane Noah is the only thing on FEMA's radar right now.\"\n\nAt that moment, their producer had passed by and admonished them both\u2014as if Lyla had been doing anything more than just listening. \"We deal in news, people, not rumors.\"\n\nThe control booth cuts back to the studio from the Silverlake report, and Lyla quickly brings her thoughts back to the here and now.\n\n\"Thank you, Donavan. In the midst of the mayhem, earlier today, the governor had this to say.\"\n\nThey roll a tape that the station has been playing over and over throughout the day, and Lyla listens for the umpteenth time, still trying to figure out if there's anything in the governor's voice betraying a deeper truth that he hasn't shared with the press.\n\n\"Federal Emergency Management is aware of the situation,\" the governor says, \"and we are told that tankers of potable water are on their way from as far as Wyoming to satisfy Southern California's immediate critical need.\"\n\nWyoming? thinks Lyla. How long will it take water trucks to get here from Wyoming?\n\n\"I want to assure the people of Southern California,\" continues the governor, \"that help is on the way. Mobile desalination plants are going to be in place up and down the coast, to turn seawater into drinking water. Everything possible is being done to alleviate this situation. Thank you.\"\n\nThen he leaves, as always, dodging a barrage of questions.\n\nThe camera's red light blinks on, catching Lyla a little bit off guard. But she's a professional. Rather than stumbling, she just pauses, making the moment seem intentional.\n\n\"At this time,\" she reads, \"everyone is advised to stay indoors to avoid heat stroke, and stay tuned for more information.\"\n\n\"That's right, Lyla,\" Chase says. \"And everyone should refrain from any sort of strenuous activity.\"\n\n\"Exactly. The best way to conserve water right now is to hold onto the water your body already has.\"\n\nThere were two full pitchers of ice water in Lyla's dressing room when she arrived that morning. Just thinking about them now makes her want a nice tall glass.\n\n\"We'll be back right after this.\"\n\nThen they cut to a commercial.\n\nLyla relaxes, looking at her briefings of the upcoming stories. How the zoo is handling the Tap-Out. A man who was shot while trying to get water from a tanker truck heading for a hospital, and\u2014just breaking now\u2014the first official death from dehydration in San Bernardino.\n\nChase turns to her, raising an eyebrow. \"This is bad,\" he says, with the same vocal inflection with which he might have said, \"This is fresh,\" back in the days when he was a voice actor on fast food commercials\u2014although rumor had it he did other sorts of work. But like their producer said, they deal in news, not rumors.\n\n\"And yet all we do is tell people to stay calm and keep watching.\"\n\n\"What are we supposed to tell them? Go scream bloody murder naked through the streets?\"\n\n\"If it will help get them through this, then yes.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Chase says with an irksome smirk, \"that would make quite the story.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhen the afternoon report is over, Lyla goes to her dressing room, only to find that both pitchers are empty. Someone\u2014or maybe multiple people\u2014has pilfered her water.\n\n\"More is on the way,\" a nervous intern promises. \"Ten minutes, max.\"\n\nBut ten minutes later, neither the water nor the intern are anywhere to be found.\n\nIn the hallway, Chase is on the line with his agent, the speakerphone blaring his personal business to anyone who cares. The agent's telling him that if he handles this just right, this crisis could propel him to the national stage. A spot on CNN, maybe.\n\n\"I hate that you're using this as your personal pole vault,\" Lyla tells him.\n\nChase just shrugs, and continues his conversation.\n\nWhile Lyla has her own career ambitions, she's not the jackal that Chase is, scavenging a future from the bones of the present.\n\nShe looks out a window, trying to get a true view of this crisis from forty-three stories up. Down below there are crowds in the street. Are they demonstrating? Is it water distribution? From this high up she can't tell. Suddenly she feels claustrophobic in this tower. Isolated.\n\nThen more reports of dehydration deaths begin to roll in as the afternoon churns on. They come fast and furious, and she knows they have to report them, and can only imagine what it would be like to be on the listening end, trapped in your neighborhood, wondering if someone on your street is going to be next.\n\nAnd all this time, no water comes to her dressing room. Chase is dry, too. There doesn't seem to be water for anyone, and no one's promising anything anymore.\n\nThat's when she gets an idea. It's a long shot, but it's the only idea she's got.\n\n\"Put me in Sky-Three chopper,\" she tells her producer.\n\n\"What?\" He looks at her as if she's become delirious. \"Lyla, you're an anchor\u2014you haven't done an aerial report since your days covering traffic.\"\n\n\"Riots, fires, and gridlock\u2014the stories aren't in here, they're out there. People will respond to it,\" she says, pretending that, like Chase, this is all about ambition. \"An anchor in the sky will hold their attention. Keep them on us instead of switching channels.\"\n\n\"No,\" he tells her. \"I need you at your desk.\"\n\nBut once he's gone, she goes to the roof anyway.\n\nSky-Three chopper is on the helipad, as the traffic reporters' shifts are changing. For a moment she flashes to Vietnam, where some of the best reporting ever took place. Of course, it was long before she was born, but she can't help but look at that helicopter and imagine what it must have been like for those reporters desperately waiting to get airlifted out as Saigon fell.\n\nKurt, the same pilot who used to take her out in her early days with the station, leans against the stairwell shaft, having a smoke\u2014which is not allowed so close to the chopper, but he doesn't care. She's hoping that's not the only rule he doesn't care about.\n\n\"Kurt, what's the range of your chopper?\"\n\n\"About two-fifty on a full tank,\" he tells her. \"Right now, probably closer to two hundred\u2014why?\"\n\nShe takes a deep breath. \"I need a favor.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nFive minutes later, they're soaring away from downtown LA, heading east. And once she feels they've put enough distance between themselves and the newsroom, she texts her producer.\n\nTaking Sky-Three to Arrowhead. Will report on refugee situation.\n\nShe sends it. Thinks for a moment, then texts, Cover for me, or fire me.\n\nThere, it's done. Whatever happens now, she'll be in one of the few places that still has water. The high lakes might be below their usual waterline, but they're still lakes. She takes a deep, relieved breath, feeling a sense of connection to her fellow journalists all those years ago, as they boarded helicopters halfway around the world to escape the Viet Cong.\n\n* * *\n\n## DAY THREE\n\n## MONDAY, JUNE 6TH\n\n### 4) Kelton\n\nNo school today. No news on when classes will resume. With just two weeks left to the school year, I wonder if we'll be going back at all.\n\nI try to keep busy by flipping through comic books, but for some reason they don't feel engaging today. I search online for hunting gear to add to my Christmas wish list\u2014still not gripping my attention. So I go to watch YouTube videos of chess boxing\u2014a hybrid fighting sport where you alternate between chess and a round of boxing. It's the one non-weapon-related sport that I excel in. It's also the only thing that's landed me in disciplinary Saturday school in my entire high school career\u2014because after doing an oral report on it in English last year, I was cornered by a trio of nonbelievers, and forced to demonstrate the boxing aspect on one of their noses. I would have pummeled them in chess, too, but was hauled into the dean's office.\n\nI watch a couple of videos, but today, even chess boxing is no match for how listless I feel. It's more than that, though. I'm troubled about the state of the world outside, even considering how prepared we are.\n\nIt started when Burnside showed up at our door with a gift. Sure, I love the idea of our family's archenemies turning into sycophantic suck-ups, but when the strange actually materializes into reality, it definitely leaves you reeling. Much like that what-now feeling when you look into the dark eyes of the first stag you've brought down\u2014or the triumphant despair of shooting a game duck out of the air, only for it to fall down a cliff, never to be retrieved for all of eternity. And the more I think about it . . . the more I realize that everything can be effectively related to hunting. I mean, they do say our every action and inaction is related to some primordial fight or flight hardwiring. . . .\n\nFor example, winning the affection of a girl is a lot like shooting a deer. It's important that you approach slowly and with caution\u2014and preferably from a posterior angle, where they have little to no vision. Women, like deer, can be scared away by a strong musk, which is why it's important to always wear deodorant. Dressing in camouflage doesn't hurt either, because in my experience, girls find camouflage really cool. But all of that aside, I think the most important aspect of obtaining a girl of the opposite sex is knowing when to pull the trigger. Metaphorically, that is. You gotta make your move when it feels right, or else you'll come off as creepy. This I know from experience, too.\n\nBut when it comes to my next-door neighbor, Alyssa Morrow, she feels like the deer I've never been able to shoot. Like I'm so close to making a move, or at least telling her how I feel, but for some reason the moment never feels right. I always figured that if I was in the right place, the right time would present itself, so this year I hacked the school computer and arranged to get five of my six classes with her . . . I would've done all six, but that would have been too obvious.\n\nOn this particular morning Alyssa's finishing up yard work out front. It looks like she's trying to siphon water out of their irrigation system, but that's not going to work. Judging by their brown lawn, their sprinklers have been dry for months, just like most everyone else's. As far as timing goes, I'm starting to get the feeling that it's now or never, so I slip on a desert camouflage tactical vest and head next door.\n\nI step outside and locate Alyssa heading toward her garage, struggling to carry some tools. I have positioning to my advantage, so I flank left. As I near, I swallow hard, my nerves making my throat go thick. \"Need any help?\" I manage to get out. I realize it's the exact same thing I said the other day when they were unloading their ice. I'm hoping she appreciates consistency.\n\n\"That's okay, I think I got it.\" Though clearly she doesn't. Perhaps she's trying not to look weak in front of me. So I push forward.\n\n\"Here, let me at least grab these for you,\" I say, as I take a few wrenches and store them in my pocket. Cargo shorts are essential. Girls love a guy with lots of pockets.\n\n\"Thanks,\" she says, as we put the tools away in their respective places in the garage. That's when I catch a whiff of something nasty coming from the house. I must wrinkle my nose, because she notices it and looks away, as if I might think the smell is coming from her.\n\n\"Septic problems?\" I ask.\n\n\"We think sewer gas is backing up into our house because of the lack of water,\" she tells me. \"My dad's working on some plumbing modifications to stop it.\"\n\nThis, I knew, was inevitable. Probably every house in the neighborhood but ours will be smelling the same right about now. But not everyone seems as diligent about doing something about it as Alyssa and her family. Of course, they're going about it all wrong.\n\n\"All you need is zero-evaporation trap seal liquid. Pour about a cup into every drain, and no sewer gas can get through.\" And then I add, \"It's the stuff they use in waterless urinals.\"\n\nShe makes an \"ew\" face at me, and I realize that was too much information.\n\n\"Anyhoo,\" I say, stumbling over my words a bit, and looking away involuntarily, \"I can give you a bottle. We've got plenty of it.\" Which is true, but when my dad finds out I gave it away, he'll chew me a new one.\n\nBut it's worth it, because Alyssa lights up. \"Thanks, Kelton\u2014that's really generous of you.\"\n\nAnd after seeing her smile like that at me, something compels me to go all in. I hold out my canteen to her. \"Here, have some,\" I say. \"You look thirsty.\"\n\nShe cautiously takes the canteen. \"Are you sure?\" she asks.\n\nI shrug like it's nothing. \"What are friends for?\"\n\nShe takes a few gulps and hands it back. Then I take a swig. Alyssa and I just shared a canteen. Considering the saliva exchange involved, that's almost like kissing. I suppress a little shiver at the thought.\n\n\"Thank you, Kelton,\" she says again. Then we stand there in silence, but for the first time the silence that lingers between us feels a little more natural. It feels good.\n\nWithout warning Garrett appears out of what feels like thin air, and snatches the canteen from me.\n\n\"Thanks, Kelton!\" he teases.\n\n\"Don't be rude,\" Alyssa says. \"That's not yours!\"\n\nJust then their father enters with a box of dirty rags, and her mother just a few moments later. She smiles, barely able to contain herself. \"News says there'll be desalination machines along the coast. They'll have a few up and running down at Laguna Beach by this afternoon.\"\n\n\"What's a desalination machine?\" Garrett asks.\n\n\"It converts saltwater into freshwater,\" I tell him. \"They've actually got a big plant down in San Diego, but it's not going to help us.\" Truth be told, it won't help San Diego much either now. It was forward-thinking of them to build it a few years back, so for once it's not a case of too little too late. Instead, it's too little right on time. Because at full capacity, it can provide enough water for eight percent of San Diego's population. Less than one in ten people. Not the solution they hoped it would be.\n\nAlyssa's father wipes sweat from his brow. \"We pay big taxes to fund organizations like FEMA. It's about time they stepped in and did something.\"\n\n\"Well, it's not like they can just let us die of thirst,\" her mother adds, as if this notion were preposterous, but then waits for someone to chime in with validation.\n\nHer father nods in agreement. \"It's a matter of numbers,\" he says. \"After all, California is one of the largest work economies. They need us, and I don't think they would be so stupid as to neglect us.\"\n\nHer father's words stick with me . . . and though they have merit, I can't help but hear my own father's voice echoing in my head, complaining about the thousands of cumulative mistakes that have led us to this point\u2014the failed consumer rebates, conservation councils, and radical attempts to save water, like the millions of black \"shade balls\" Los Angeles released into reservoirs to prevent evaporation, which did nothing. And now I can't decide whether we're headed toward a real solution, or if we're desperately throwing water bottles at the problem. . . .\n\nI open my mouth to raise such questions, but then suddenly stop myself, remembering what my father always told me about the sheep. Their behavior. How their main instinct is to follow members of the herd directly ahead of them, and how being thrown off course even the slightest bit would elicit an overwhelming primordial sense of panic that can be deadly. I did a current events presentation once about a flock of five hundred sheep somewhere in Turkey that plummeted to their deaths one by one in a ravine, because each sheep followed the one directly ahead of it, never comprehending the bigger picture. Which is worse, I wonder\u2014watching everyone you know fall into that ravine, or shaking their reality with such force that it ruins them.\n\n### 5) Alyssa\n\nToday the toilet is really getting back at us for all the years of cruel and unsanitary labor. It's been making strange gurgling sounds and expelling six-month-old-rotten-egg smells. So our current mission is to clean the toilet bowls the best we can, and then pour in two cups of Kelton's trap seal liquid stuff, so our house can smell like a house again and less like a spiteful septic tank. And as supreme ruler of the household, Dad has elected Garrett and me to take care of the toilets.\n\nThis morning Dad has taken the liberty of delegating tasks through passive-aggressive Post-it notes hidden like Easter eggs all over the house. One on the fridge reads, \"Six cups of water per day!\" Another on our shower reads, \"Dry bathing only!\" which consists of shower gel and paper towels. But I think the worst one of all is the \"Clean me please!\" Post-it just above the toilets. Dad craftily installed bags under each toilet seat, which we are to throw out after using, like a giant camping nightmare. The bag thing is manageable, but having to actually clean the bowl in its current state is just cruel and unusual punishment.\n\nGarrett and I start with the downstairs bathroom, seeing as our water is stored in the bathtub adjacent to the toilet. I take a look into the bathtub and realize that the water line has really receded since Saturday. This morning Mom discreetly gave away a couple of gallons to some friends around the corner. With desalination units being set up along the coast, she figures there'll be enough water for everyone soon enough, so why not be generous? If it were up to me, I'd probably do the same.\n\n\"How are we supposed to clean a toilet if we can't use water?\" Garrett asks, as he crams his hands into those yellow cleaning gloves that squeak when you rub your fingers together.\n\n\"Dad said the cleaning supplies are under the sink. I'm sure you can figure it out.\"\n\nI pinch my nostrils together, and dare myself to look into the toilet bowl. Black liquid bubbles to the surface.\n\n\"Why do I have to do it?\" he nags.\n\n\"Because we're taking turns,\" I remind him, then appeal to his male ego. \"Plus you're a guy; you're naturally going to be better than me at plumbing.\"\n\nHe nods in accordance, clearly satisfied to hear me say he's better than me at something. Then he fishes under the sink for the cleaning supplies.\n\n\"Bleach will do,\" I tell him.\n\nHe eventually settles on the green canister of powdered Comet, a bleach-based multipurpose cleaner, and goes to set it on the edge of the bathtub. The moment its bottom touches the edge, I can already see the worst-case scenario playing in my head, but it isn't until the he lets go of the Comet that my worst fear materializes into reality. The container, sitting precariously on the uneven edge, begins to slip. . . .\n\nMy heart quicksteps. \"Garrett!\" I yell, which is all I can manage to get out.\n\nHe spins around, and before he's even able to grasp the situation, the container of powdered bleach has already slipped down the side of the tub and splashed into the water.\n\nHe looks back to me, his face completely drained of color. And next comes the most torturous of silences.\n\nHe quickly goes for the Comet, but it slips from his grasp, only to float farther away. The water is already clouding with a swirling murk of poisonous multipurpose cleanser. And then reality finally hits me.\n\nGarrett has just tainted the only water we have. . . .\n\n\"Maybe we can save some of it,\" he says as he finally grasps the Comet can and pulls it out of the water upside down, dumping even more liquefying powder into the tub.\n\n\"It's already contaminated, idiot,\" I tell him sharply.\n\n\"It's your fault,\" he snaps. \"You told me to use the bleach!\"\n\n\"You've always been a klutz! Do you have any idea what you just did?\"\n\nBut instead of coming back with another defense, his face constricts, his eyes take on a shiny squint, and tears begin to seep out, his body giving way to hopelessness.\n\nMy sisterly conscience kicks in and I'm suddenly wishing I could take back my words.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he says through snivels, burying his face in his hands.\n\n\"It's okay,\" I tell him, and I give him a hug\u2014something I realize I haven't done in a long time. \"We have the desalinization machines down by the beach. Mom and Dad are going to stock up, remember?\"\n\nGarrett nods, collecting himself.\n\n\"Drinking from the bathtub was totally disgusting anyway,\" I say, and he laughs, disrupting the tears long enough to bring him back from despair.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI agree that I'll be the one to tell Mom and Dad about what happened to the bathwater, because Garrett argued that it would sound better coming from me. Of course, the real reason is that he's too afraid to break the news to them himself. For some reason he thinks our parents are a lot scarier than they really are . . . but then again, this is isn't the routine spoiled dinner, stink bomb, or broken window. \"I'll tell them, but I won't take the blame,\" I say to Garrett. \"I know it was an accident, but you still have to own up to it.\" Because what kind of sister would I be if I didn't teach him the importance of taking responsibility?\n\nI go downstairs to tell Mom and Dad, bracing for the worst\u2014but they don't get angry. Which, I soon realize, is much worse than if they had.\n\n\"All of it?\" Dad says\u2014as if there were a way to divide the Comet water from the drinkable water.\n\n\"It wasn't Garrett's fault,\" I tell them, even though it was. \"He was just trying to clean the toilet, like you told him.\"\n\nI expect Mom to say something like, Don't you go putting this back on us! But she doesn't even return my slow lob. This isn't just a screw-up, I realize. It's an Event. Events bypass anger, straight to damage control.\n\n\"We still have the pitcher in the fridge,\" Mom says, looking at Dad.\n\nDad nods. \"The desalination rigs should be up and running sometime today. We'll head out there as soon as we can.\"\n\n\"Maybe we can boil the water in the tub, one pot at a time,\" I suggest, \"and collect the steam.\" We made a distillery like that back in seventh grade as part of a science lab. As I recall, we barely managed to get a test tube of water out of it\u2014but I'll bet Kelton could make a functional one.\n\nDid I actually just think about asking Kelton for help?\n\n\"That's a project for another day,\" Dad says, already overwhelmed with the weight of the news I just delivered.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" I tell them. \"It sucks, and I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Don't cry over spilt milk, honey,\" says Mom.\n\n\"Or poisoned water,\" adds Dad, which makes me grimace, but I press my lips tight so they can't see.\n\nI go upstairs to notify Garrett that he won't be put up for adoption, sent to a forced labor camp, or cooked into meat pies\u2014but he's nowhere to be found. I check the bathroom, the backyard, and even the garage . . . and that's when I notice that his bike is missing. He took off without telling anyone, so afraid of what Mom and Dad would do.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMom and Dad drop everything to find Garrett. They want us to split up and systematically search every place he might go. They're a little more worried than I thought they'd be. They're always overreacting when it comes to Garrett. He was born a month premature, and it sent my parents into this eternal hypersensitive protection mode; even to this day, if he so much as gets a scratch, it's like they've got the hospital on speed dial for an emergency skin graft. I try to tell myself that it's just my parents being parents, but today I can't help but worry a little, considering the circumstances.\n\nI agree to check the parks where he and his friends like to hang out, and the bike trail that runs parallel to the freeway. I go to get my bike, but both tires are flat, since I haven't really used the thing in years, and the tires don't take air now, no matter how much I pump. All that's left is Garrett's GoPed, which I have no idea how to use, and a pogo stick\u2014which was clearly invented by Satan right after he invented the unicycle. So after exhausting all options, I realize that I'm going to have to ask Kelton for some neighborly help. Maybe he'll let me borrow a bike\u2014or create a work-around out of bubblegum and earwax.\n\nI ring the doorbell and he answers, almost too quickly.\n\nNo time for small talk. I get right to the point. \"I have a favor to ask. Garrett's missing, and I need a bike.\"\n\nRather than being weird, he responds like a regular human being. \"You can use my dad's,\" he says. \"I'll go get it.\"\n\nHe goes back in, and meets me at the side gate. It's a nice bike. Then I realize that he's bringing his own bike out as well.\n\n\"Two heads are better than one,\" he says. \"And it's really not a good idea for you to be out on your own right now. Things might look quiet, but it's always that way right before a storm.\"\n\nScratch the normal human being thing.\n\n\"That's okay, Kelton. You don't have to come.\"\n\n\"The cost of borrowing my dad's bike is letting me come with you.\"\n\nHe's not mincing words any more than I am\u2014and clearly, he's not negotiating.\n\n\"Fine,\" I tell him. Actually, I don't really mind, considering he's officially been moved down from orange to yellow on the threat-to-my-sanity scale.\n\nWe start with the back trails, which eventually spits us back out to the main road near Garrett's school\u2014my high school being just across the street. Which gives rise to the thought that maybe he's hiding in the last place we'd expect; the place he despises more than cauliflower and piano lessons combined\u2014Meadow Creek Elementary School.\n\nI lean left, redirecting my bike's trajectory, but before I can even turn, a truck flies by, nearly running us over. At first I find myself pissed that someone could drive so recklessly, but as soon as I realize what kind of truck it is, my spine stiffens, and without even thinking, my legs stop pedaling.\n\nIt's a camouflage-green open-top military truck, packed with armed soldiers. My first thought is stupid. The kind of thing you think before your mind has time to run it past your brain.\n\n\"What the hell? Did my parents call the freaking national guard?\"\n\n\"Quiet before the storm,\" is all Kelton says.\n\nMy brain has kicked in by now, and I realize that this is much bigger than my AWOL brother. It's pretty disturbing to see war machines traverse the neighborhood you grew up in\u2014and if that's not troubling enough, the truck turns left, directly into the high school parking lot.\n\n\"What do you think's going on?\" I ask Kelton, hoping that his extensive knowledge of useless military factoids will come in handy.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he says. \"It's too soon for martial law. . . .\"\n\n\"English, please.\"\n\n\"It's when the military takes over,\" he says. \"It means that government brass thinks the local police can't handle the situation by themselves.\"\n\n\"Well, that would be a good thing, right?\" I say, really wanting to convince myself. I push back onto the seat of the bike. \"It means we'll be safer. . . .\"\n\nKelton attempts to smile. \"Could be,\" he says, even though I get the feeling he doesn't believe it could be a good thing at all. \"Maybe.\"\n\nMaybe. I'm so sick of maybe!\n\nMaybe it's martial law. Maybe FEMA will bring in water trucks. Maybe everything will be fine tomorrow. Living in this world of complete uncertainty is more and more frustrating. So I ride forward and follow the transport truck. It's not just that I'm angry, it's because I have to know. I need to kill the maybe. Kelton is on the same wavelength, because he's pedaling right behind me.\n\nWe ride past lower campus, the football stadium, and then the tennis courts, just waiting to see where the truck will stop. But it isn't until we pass the aquatics center that we get our answer.\n\nIt's not just one truck, but a whole bunch of military vehicles. They've got the swimming pool on total lockdown . . . because high school pools were the only ones that were excluded from the Frivolous Use Initiative. They're the only pools left that still have water.\n\nThe perimeter of the aquatics center is now guarded by soldiers with automatic rifles. And spidering into the pool are a dozen thick fire hoses\u2014which seem to be sucking up water and depositing it into a series of tanker trucks. Then one of the military guards spots us and locks eyes. I don't look away, but I don't get any closer either. It's like somehow I'm the enemy.\n\n\"I should've guessed it,\" Kelton says, upset at himself for not knowing everything in the history of everything.\n\n\"Those idiots think we're going to drink that?\" I laugh. \"I have friends on the water polo team. I've heard stories. They'd have to pay me to drink that water.\"\n\n\"If they can filter the salt and fish guts and whale turds out of ocean water, I'm sure they can manage anything left behind by the water polo meatheads,\" Kelton says.\n\nAnd for some reason this strikes a chord, piquing a memory. Something that Garrett said when we were pushing that broken cart in Costco. . . .\n\nI gasp, and Kelton looks to me, wondering why.\n\n\"Garrett's friend Jason has a huge fish tank! I'll bet he went to his house to ask for water from it!\" Though Garrett's always been hard on himself, he was never much of a sulker, so it makes perfect sense that he'd try to fix the situation rather than run from it. I reach for my phone and realize I don't have it. I left it to charge on my nightstand. Stupid.\n\n\"Can I borrow your phone? I should tell my parents. They can get there quicker.\"\n\nHe hands me the phone, but after a few moments of blankly staring at the screen, I realize that I don't even know my parents' numbers. In fact, I don't know anyone's number by heart, except my stupid eighth grade boyfriend's, who is the last person on this or any other planet that I'd call.\n\nI don't want to admit to Kelton my current uselessness, so I just say, \"We're not that far. Let's just go.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe circle the block that Jason lives on twice.\n\n\"You don't know where he lives, do you?\"\n\n\"Just shut up, okay?\" I snap, because I only kinda sorta know where Jason lives. \"There's a huge tree in the front yard,\" I tell him. \"Like, ridiculously huge.\"\n\nBut there are no trees that big anywhere.\n\n\"I'm sure it's this street,\" I say, after the third time around.\n\nKelton thinks about it. \"So let's do some detective work,\" he says. \"If the tree was that big, it probably was a huge violation of association rules\u2014and believe me, my family knows about that, because everything we do is a violation.\"\n\n\"Your point?\"\n\n\"My point is, not everybody doubles down on their violations. . . .\"\n\nI finally get it. \"A stump! We're looking for a stump!\"\n\nAnd five houses up, there it is!\n\nKelton smiles, pleased with himself. Under other circumstances it might have been annoying, but he deserves a moment here. Someone else might have just thought I was lying, or not remembering\u2014but he accepted that I was telling the truth and went from there.\n\n\"That was pretty clever,\" I admit to him as we head to the house.\n\nHe shrugs with false modesty. \"Just a simple deduction.\"\n\nThat's when my own simple deduction is confirmed\u2014because, on closer inspection, I can see Garrett's bike behind a dead hedge near the front door.\n\nWe hop off our bikes and approach the house. The door's ajar. It feels weird knocking on a door that's already partially open, but I do. No response, so I push it open all the way.\n\nI go in, and Kelton follows. There's a smell here. Awful. Rotten.\n\n\"Could be a dead body,\" Kelton whispers. I ignore him.\n\nThe living room looks pretty normal. Except for the gaudy Roman statue with the leaf-covered genitalia. No accounting for taste.\n\n\"I don't think anyone's home. . . .\"\n\nScrew it. I cross the living room, heading deeper into the house. \"Garrett . . . ?\" I call out. . . . No response. \"Anyone home?\"\n\nKelton hesitates. \"You know, it's perfectly legal to shoot someone for breaking and entering.\"\n\n\"Fine\u2014you can say 'told ya so' when I'm dead.\"\n\nKelton initially follows behind me, but then he pushes his way in front\u2014as if just remembering that Eagle Scouts probably shouldn't hide behind girls.\n\nWe continue down a hallway. The farther we get, the stranger the carpet underneath my feet begins to feel\u2014the squishier it becomes. It's wet\u2014and the smell is worse than before.\n\nThat's when something catches my eye\u2014\n\nA tropical fish\u2014no, dozens of them. All dead, spread across the floor of the family room. I look up and realize why. . . . The giant fish tank is broken. The enormous aquarium reaches all the way to the ceiling, the collections of rocks and coral that once were a part of the aquatic ecosystem still intact. This is definitely the tank that Garrett was talking about. I move closer to get a better look. A large portion of the tank's face has been smashed in, violently drained of all of its water\u2014that is, except a thin layer at the bottom, maybe an inch, where a small clown fish sucks in water helplessly, its body partially exposed to the air. I pick it up and move it to another area of the tank where it has a better chance at survival\u2014\n\n\"It was like this when I got here,\" says a voice from behind. I spin around and there's Garrett, standing in the kitchen doorway. \"And it's saltwater, anyway.\"\n\nI'm happy to have found him . . . but it isn't long until a thousand thoughts cascade through my head, bursting the levees that maintain my patience.\n\n\"Then what are you still doing here?\" I say sharply, realizing that I'm pissed he would send us on a wild goose chase in the first place.\n\n\"Dad said he needed more pasta sauce, so I figured I'd borrow a bottle or two,\" he explains, avoiding the important questions, as he always does. He looks down and kicks an invisible rock. \"Can't leave empty-handed, you know?\"\n\n\"You have Mom and Dad worried sick. You had us all worried sick,\" I tell him, which I'm sure he already knows. I exhale my aggravation and look around the room, taking in the whole bizarre scene. \"So what the hell happened here?\"\n\nGarrett shrugs. \"I think they skipped town and someone must have broken in.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says Kelton, looking around at all the dead fish, \"they definitely didn't come for sushi.\" It might have been borderline funny in a different situation.\n\nKelton then reaches down and picks up a shard of glass. He holds it up as if to inspect it, the shard glimmering in a ray of light . . . and that's when I notice what he already has. There's blood on the glass. . . .\n\n\"Let's leave,\" Garrett says.\n\nKelton and I don't need a second invitation. We don't even bother to take the pasta sauce.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOnce we're back, Mom and Dad don't punish Garrett, which in itself worries me a little. Instead they're scouring the house for empty gallon jugs to bring to the desalination machines.\n\n\"You think they'll let us get more than two gallons?\" Mom says, to whoever's listening, her head stuck in the pantry.\n\n\"We can always go back for more!\" Dad yells, probably from a closet somewhere.\n\nGarrett emerges from the door to the garage with a large container usually reserved for camping trips. \"Will this work?\"\n\n\"Absolutely,\" Mom says. Garrett, in light of not being punished, is now trying his best to be a perfect son. I give it five minutes, tops.\n\n\"Take care of your brother,\" Mom says to me. \"And be careful of the McCrackens. Remember, they invented ten-foot poles for people like that.\"\n\nDad swings through the kitchen and grabs the car keys from the bowl on the counter. \"Listen to your mother,\" he says, having no idea what she even said.\n\n\"Kelton's not sooo bad,\" I say, suddenly realizing how strange that sounds coming out of my mouth.\n\nMom and Dad, with empty jugs under their arms, make their way toward the door. \"Well, his older brother got out of there the second he could. His shoes left skid marks on the doorstep,\" Dad says.\n\nGarrett holds the door for them graciously, and Mom kisses him on the head.\n\n\"See you in a bit,\" I say with a smile. They take Mom's Prius, since Dad's car is still convalescing in the garage. It's moments like these, seeing them together, that make me appreciate the family I have. When you're a teenager you spend so much time complaining about how lame your parents are, and then they always somehow seem to find a way to remind you that they're actually not as uncool as you want to believe. And now with the two of them gone, for some odd childlike reason, I find myself wishing I could have given them a hug goodbye.\n\n### 6) Kelton\n\nI decided not to tell my father about the military trucks we saw at our high school. It's not that I don't think it's a significant development, but seeing that we haven't yet been able to get in touch with my older brother, Brady, there's no point in rocking the proverbial boat if we're just going to wait here for him anyway, rather than take off to our bug-out in the mountains. With my dad, the embers of armageddon will quickly grow into a full-on blazing apocalypse in his head. He already got that crazy look in his eyes after hearing about the closures of so many school districts. Which, by the way, is no tragedy to me. Not that I hate school, it's just that when it comes down to it, I learn more just hanging out at home anyway. I'd probably be homeschooled if either of my parents had the patience to do it.\n\nTo take my mind off of things, I load up my paintball gun and practice in the backyard. I'm hitting every target on point, and I try to tell myself it's a good omen. The de-sal rigs down at the beach will do their job. No one will go thirsty. All will be well.\n\nMy dad steps out onto the patio. \"Don't forget to exhale with your shot,\" he says. He knows his stuff\u2014after all, he did spend twelve years in the Marine Corps. My mom likes to make fun of his career as a jarhead\u2014his \"extraction missions,\" because technically he worked as a military dentist and never actually left his base.\n\nAfter a few more shots, my CO2 cartridge runs out. I go inside to change it, and right after I finish loading the new cartridge, there's a knock on the front door. My dad answers it\u2014it's Roger Malecki, one of our other neighbors. The Maleckis just had a baby, so we never see them much. Actually, we never saw them much before the baby, either. We're not exactly social butterflies in our family.\n\n\"How are things, Roger?\" my dad says pleasantly.\n\n\"Ugh, don't ask,\" Malecki says. \"The car keeps overheating. Plus we're having problems with sewage. Whole house stinks.\"\n\n\"I hear ya,\" says my dad. \"You know, the Morrows next door had the exact same problem.\" Although he doesn't offer Malecki any trap seal liquid.\n\nThen Malecki begins to avoid eye contact. My father has no patience for beating around the bush.\n\n\"What can I do for you, Roger?\"\n\nMalecki heaves a sigh. \"It's the baby. Hannah's still able to feed her, but she's getting dehydrated. I'm afraid she won't be able to breastfeed much longer. We have some powdered formula, but that's kind of useless without water. . . .\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear that,\" my dad says genuinely. \"How can we help?\"\n\n\"Well . . . we know you have survival supplies. Hell, everyone knows you've got enough squirrelled away in there to survive the apocalypse.\" Then he laughs nervously, noticing my dad frowning a bit at the word \"squirrelled.\" As if preparing for the worst is somehow worthy of ridicule. And just then I notice that Malecki's hands are shaking anxiously, like he went over this dialogue in his head a thousand times, and still screwed it up.\n\nI know my dad well enough to know that he doesn't give \"hand-outs.\" Plus, once you start giving things away for free it's a slippery slope. And if there's one thing my dad hates, it's slippery slopes.\n\nMy dad casually, strategically puts his hand on the door. Not to close it, but to give him leverage in case he needs to. \"The key word there, Roger, is 'survival.' We have just enough to survive.\"\n\nMalecki takes a moment to regroup his thoughts, and tries again. \"All right, I get it,\" he says. \"You have principles and you don't want to compromise them\u2014but I'm begging you, Richard. There's got to be something you can do. . . . I mean . . . the baby . . .\"\n\nMy dad weighs the possibilities. \"I'm sure I could give you a few pointers,\" he says.\n\n\"Pointers?\"\n\nMy dad motions toward Malecki's yard. \"You've got a marvelous garden of succulents. You could grind those up and squeeze at least a gallon out of them. I could even show you how to make a condenser to extract the water.\"\n\n\"The cactuses?\" Malecki laughs, incredulous.\n\nMy dad smiles graciously. \"Cacti,\" he gently corrects. \"You could have fresh water by tomorrow.\"\n\nMalecki's smile fades, realizing that my father isn't joking. \"I have a family to look after. I don't have that kind of time!\"\n\n\"Well, if you want water you'll make the time.\"\n\nBut rather than formulating a response, his eyes narrow and his lips curl with rage. He steps forward, getting into my dad's face. \"Who the hell do you think you are?\"\n\nBut my dad stays cool. Collected. \"Roger, I'm offering you a gift much more valuable than a bottle of water. Self-reliance.\"\n\nMalecki's expression darkens, and he gets this strange, wild look in his eyes.\n\n\"You're just going to stand there and let my wife's breast milk run dry?\"\n\n\"How dare you get angry at me\u2014as if your lack of foresight is my fault!\"\n\n\"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?\"\n\nAnd my dad's done. He doesn't suffer fools lightly\u2014and to him anyone who expects others to solve their problems is a fool.\n\n\"Why don't you come back when you're ready to behave like a functioning member of society.\" He tries to shut the door, but Malecki lunges forward across the threshold, blocking the door from closing.\n\n\"I should smack that grin right off your face,\" says Malecki, although my dad isn't grinning at all. My dad tries to shoulder him out, but Malecki has the adrenaline of a desperate man, and pushes farther in. He knocks my father off balance, and the door swings open.\n\nThat's when I raise my gun, exhale, and pull the trigger. Three times. I shoot Malecki square in the chest. Right on target. The force of the blasts blows him back against the door jamb. All his bravado is gone. He wails, thinking he's dying. Then he reaches to his chest and examines the blue phosphorescent ooze on his shirt. My heart pounds probably as much as his. He looks up to me with this forlorn, bewildered look, as if I really had blown a hole in his chest. Then I reach for my backpack hanging on the rack near the front door. I cram my arm in, shift around, and produce a water bottle I bought at school, when it was something I took for granted. I shove it into his blue, dripping hands.\n\n\"Take it and leave,\" I tell him.\n\nMalecki looks at the bottle of water and goes red in the face, embarrassed, like it wasn't too late for his humanity to suddenly come rushing back. He turns, and like that, he's gone.\n\nIn an instant my dad looks to me, his lip bloodied from the scuffle, now wearing this violently charged expression\u2014and I can't tell if he's just worked up, or if he truly disapproves of what I did\u2014not that I blasted the guy with paint, but that I gave him my water.\n\n\"This was none of your business,\" my father says sternly. \"You shouldn't have interfered.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" I tell him. \"I know, sir.\" I always call him sir when he's pissed off at me.\n\nThen he closes the door and strides away.\n\nThe thing is, I'm glad I did what I did. Not just because it has always been a fantasy of mine to blast our neighbors with my paintball gun\u2014but because whether my dad knows it or not, I saw what was coming next. What would have happened if I didn't pull my trigger. Because at the apex of that confrontation, my dad's hand had instinctively traveled down to his belt . . . where his gun was nestled in its holster.\n\n## PART TWO\n\n## THREE DAYS TO ANIMAL\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT 1 OF 3: ACTIVIST\n\nCamille Cohen has always had a problem with impassive bureaucracy and authority figures. Back in high school, she was extremely vocal in pointing out hypocrisies in the curriculum, or inequalities in their disciplinary system\u2014and nothing has really changed now that she's a social ecology major at UC Irvine. The only difference is that now, she sees a path to actually changing the world.\n\nIt really didn't take a genius to figure out that we'd run out of water. If you just read the quarterly public water reports, as she had, the numbers were right there. But to successfully ignore those reports and misdirect people into thinking the problem was under control? That required the mastery of a very special skill set. These were the supervillains Camille hoped to bring down someday. Hopefully, sooner than later.\n\nWeeks before the Tap-Out, Camille led a protest at the county government offices in Santa Ana, backed by a record number of participants\u2014all members of her college's student body. But she knew it would take more than one protest. If there's anything her past efforts have taught her, it's that real change requires prolonged pressure and inspired action.\n\nRaw. Tangible. Action.\n\nToday's action will be inspired by what she sees on the road ahead of her. It begins with shock, followed by rage\u2014because cruising ahead of her is a water supply truck owned by one of the various underperforming water municipalities. The ten-gallon bottles stacked in its bed are clearly visible, and are a let-them-drink-wine sort of slap in the face to an increasingly thirsty population. This truck is delivering water that isn't supposed to exist to some privileged place. It represents every single lie she's been fighting so hard to expose.\n\nSo rather than continuing west to the desalination center at the beach, she decides to crank her wheel right and follow the truck.\n\n### SNAPSHOT 2 OF 3: OCWD TRANSPORT\n\nDavid Chen has been an employee of the Orange County Water District for nearly a year now\u2014and lately they've given him increasingly stressful tasks. Today he's driving a truck full of drinking water, and riding shotgun is a guy with a shotgun. And a bulletproof vest. In fact, they've given David a vest, too. \"Just a precaution,\" he was told. \"Nothing to concern yourself with.\" As if he's stupid.\n\nThe vest is heavy and hot, and no amount of air-conditioning in the truck can cool him down. He's sweating in more ways than one.\n\nWith all the county's water mains on emergency shutdown, and endless glitches in the computers trying to redirect what water is left, he's been transporting water manually to high-priority facilities. Just yesterday he drove one of a dozen tanker trucks delivering the contents of a high school swimming pool to Camp Pendleton Marine Base. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and water managers are scrambling to keep the sky from completely falling.\n\nIt's late afternoon and David is only on his third delivery of the day. Traffic has been getting increasingly worse, and the GPS apps keep giving everyone the same alternate routes, just compounding the problem. Current protocol is that all water from municipal water districts will go to hospitals and government facilities first. Federal Emergency Management will provide relief for private citizens.\n\nDavid already stashed away one of the blue watercooler-size containers for himself and his family. One measly container in the grand scheme of things won't be missed. He considers it unofficial combat pay.\n\nIt's reclaimed water. That's what they're down to now. All the water that was still in the sewer system when the water was turned off. All the water that was leaving homes ahead of the Tap-Out, and heading back to the Orange County Water District.\n\nIt's not like they just dump that water into the ocean. It's purified. Microfiltration, reverse osmosis, ultraviolet radiation, and abracadabra\u2014they turned the county's last day of raw sewage into nearly fifty thousand gallons of drinkable water. Of course, no one's supposed to drink it. The policy is that it's only supposed to be used for public irrigation\u2014because serving a litigious, finicky public reclaimed water, no matter how clean it is, would be a public relations nightmare.\n\nBut now no one cares where it comes from, as long as it comes.\n\nThis afternoon's delivery is a critical one. He's bringing water to the workers holed up behind the locked fence of Huntington Beach power plant. From what he understands, the plant, which only has about forty on-site workers at any given time, has become a refuge for Applied Energy Services, and Southern California Edison employees. Now there are more than three hundred people within its gates. A spontaneous refugee camp of sorts. Hence today's delivery.\n\nAs he pulls off of Pacific Coast Highway, the plant wavers before him like an ugly industrial mirage, asphalt heat making it shimmer before him. But he has to halt short of the security gate, because someone's standing in his way, preventing him from proceeding. Not an employee, but a girl, no older than twenty. By the way she's planted her feet, and by the angry, thirsty look in her eye, he gets the feeling she's not going to let him pass.\n\nMeanwhile, on the other side of Pacific Coast Highway, on the long strip of Huntington Beach, frustrated crowds waiting for desalination machines have begun to take notice of his truck.\n\n### SNAPSHOT 3 OF 3: PLANT MANAGER\n\nWhen Pete Flores was a child, he always wanted to be a magician. As an adult, he found his magic in the manipulation of electrical currents. To him, he couldn't have landed any closer to his original dream, because now, as a power plant manager, he gets to create electricity out of thin air\u2014literally\u2014using natural gas. His Huntington Beach plant produces 450 megawatts of power, which is enough to power nearly half a million homes. But for the first time in all his years here, the station is facing an unprecedented situation.\n\nShould he have refused to allow all of his employees safe refuge within the gates of the plant? Should he have refused when other electrical agencies requested sanctuary for their workers? Should he have refused when they asked to bring their families?\n\nThe home office would have refused. Not because they were hardened, but because they were so far removed. They didn't see the human faces of this crisis. He might be reprimanded for what he did\u2014might even lose his job, but he resolved not to regret it. He's accepted that the days ahead are going to be increasingly difficult, but the job brings him pride and honor.\n\nThis is nothing, he thinks, reminding himself of the nuclear power plant that melted down in Fukushima, Japan, after an earthquake, and the tsunami that followed. Generators flooded and shut down, and the reactors overheated, resulting in total nuclear meltdown. And what did that plant manager do? Rather than fleeing the scene, he decided to stay with his workers in spite of the danger, cooling the plant using seawater. It exposed them to lethal levels of radiation, but reduced Japan's nuclear contamination tenfold. That's how you hold the line when you have the fate of millions of lives in your hands. Sometimes being the hero means going down with the ship.\n\nAs the power plant is considered a critical water priority, Pete's request for food and water had to be honored. Which is exactly why all the families who are currently under his care came. Now he isn't just a plant manager, he finds he's more like a mayor. It's both terrifying and exhilarating. It makes him wonder if public office might be in his future once he gets fired for helping all these people.\n\nToday his turbines are working at full capacity, because both the Redondo and Palomar power plants have gone off-line. The unofficial word is that it was the result of employee attrition. Workers just stopped showing up. In a choice between taking care of the plants, or taking care of their families during the Tap-Out, they chose their families. It just reinforces for Pete that welcoming his own workers' families was the right decision. Still, the two plant shutdowns trouble him. If there are any more, it could cause a cascading failure in the grid\u2014and with so many electrical workers AWOL, there's no telling when such a thing would be resolved.\n\nLate in the afternoon, his control room supervisor alerts him that the water truck they've been waiting for all day is at the gate.\n\n\"But there's a problem,\" he says.\n\nPete is wary. While his job is all about solving problems, the issues he's been facing lately have been a bit out of his wheelhouse. \"What sort of problem?\"\n\n\"Maybe you should see for yourself.\"\n\nMost of the security cameras show expected activity on the property. Technicians and machinery in restricted areas, and in the nonrestricted areas, their numerous guests go about their business.\n\nBut the cams at the main gate show something else entirely. Something that hits Pete like a thousand volts.\n\nThere are dozens of people at the gate, all amassed at the entrance. At first he thinks it's some sort of protest or strange demonstration\u2014there have been plenty of those in this drought climate. But why here? And then he realizes the object of their attention\u2014\n\nIt's the incoming water truck. And it's totally encircled.\n\nThis isn't just a protest, it's something far more dangerous\u2014more desperate.\n\n\"How many guards do we have on duty?\" Pete asks the control room supervisor.\n\n\"Three,\" he answers, \"including the one at the gate.\"\n\n\"Get them all down there!\"\n\n\"Should I call this in to the home office?\"\n\n\"Are you kidding me? Call 911!\"\n\nAnd then on the screen, the crowd seems to explode into action. All of them, all at once. They're ripping bottles off the truck, smashing the windshield. Pulling out the driver. My God! It happened in the blink of an eye!\n\nFrom the passenger seat emerges what looks like a security guard.\n\n\"Is that a shotgun?\"\n\nThe man raises it, silently fires it into the air, and a second later Pete hears the delayed report of the gunshot, dull and distant. But the man who fired the gun gets off no more than a warning shot, because the mob rips the shotgun from him and pulls him down into a melee of angry hands.\n\nThe supervisor dispatches the other guards, and begins to frantically call 911, but it's too late\u2014because that mob, in its righteous rage, is crashing through the gate and flooding into Pete's plant. And it's more than just dozens of people. It could be hundreds.\n\nHelpless, plant manager Pete Flores watches the security screen, and realizes that, like electricity itself, this mob is a force as dangerous as that Japanese tsunami . . . and it may be his turn to go down with the ship.\n\n* * *\n\n### 7) Kelton\n\nAs the hours pass, I start to get the feeling that Mom isn't very happy with the way Dad handled the confrontation with Malecki, because tonight she's making dinner an hour early\u2014a nervous habit she's developed when things get tense at our house. Early dinner means she can get to bed early and end an undesirable day. My mom is also a compulsive \"freezer\"\u2014and because we're trying to conserve the food we have, we somehow end up with defrosted honey-baked ham from Easter and half a green bean casserole that may have been from last Christmas, but don't quote me.\n\nMom fills all of our glasses with water. It's more than we're supposed to have, considering our rations, but it's not just that\u2014she's filled our glasses to the brim, so that you can't lift them without spilling some. Another sign that she's angry at my father.\n\nDad takes his seat at his spot at the head of the table, for the moment oblivious to Mom's irritated overtures, and begins making incisions in his ham. The sound of scraping cutlery. The ticking clock. No one's talking, the tension so thick in the air you'd need a machete just to make it to the refrigerator and back. Finally my father notices it. He looks at my mom, looks at me, then continues cutting.\n\nI try to lighten the mood with something positive. \"Is Brady coming?\" I ask anyone who'll answer.\n\nDad responds. \"We still can't get ahold of him.\"\n\nSo much for lightening things. I realize that Brady's lack of response is yet another trigger-point of stress. Brady's never been good with phones. Or e-mails. Or any sort of communication at all. These days he only gets in touch when he feels like it, and only responds when he has to. I thought with the Tap-Out that might change, but apparently not. \"We're going to wait for him, right?\" I ask. \"I mean, before we leave for the bug-out?\"\n\nDad chews intensely. \"We shouldn't stay here much longer,\" he says. \"You can see how things are already breaking down.\"\n\nMom refills my half-drunk glass back to the absolute brim.\n\n\"Marybeth, this water is supposed to last us,\" he finally says, pointing with his fork.\n\n\"Your son is thirsty.\" Though I'm not really.\n\n\"Good. Being a little bit thirsty will remind us why we need to ration,\" he rebuts, his anger beginning to fill to the brim.\n\n\"We have plenty,\" Mom reminds him. \"And if we're not going to share it, we might as well drink it all ourselves until we burst.\" Since I was a child, I always knew when my parents were having crypto-arguments in front of me because they start over-emphasizing words.\n\n\"We've shared every day,\" my dad says. \"I taught the Clarks how to make a portable greenhouse, and even gave them some of the materials. I showed your friends down the block how to set up an outhouse.\"\n\nMom gets up and throws away her paper dinner plate, even though she's barely touched her meal. \"Well, I don't see the harm in sharing a few necessities like water if we're going to be leaving it behind anyway, once we leave for the bug-out.\"\n\nMy dad takes a deep breath, which signals a lecture.\n\n\"You know how it works, Marybeth. If we start giving away free water, people are going to start demanding we give more. And when things get violent they'll just take. And as you can clearly see,\" he motions in the direction of the Maleckis' house, \"even sharing information is dangerous past this point.\"\n\n\"They're our neighbors!\"\n\n\"When it comes down to survival you don't have neighbors!\"\n\n\"We're going to have to live with these people when this is all over.\"\n\n\"Live is the key word here! If this is as bad as I think it is, not everyone is going to make it\u2014and if we're going to remain among the living we need to stick with our survival plan, and keep a tight lid on our supplies. You want to give things away? Fine. Leave the door wide open when we leave for the bug-out, and let the marauders strip this place down to the wall studs.\"\n\nMom breaks. Dad pushed just the right button. The one in between the commands for \"yell\" and \"cry\"\u2014the same one he always pushes\u2014the power button. Mom totally shuts down, clamming up and falling silent. Chances are she'll be like this all night, and maybe even tomorrow.\n\nI take up her defense, though speaking in a way my father can understand. \"As herders we're supposed to be a source of guidance, but we're doing nothing to help the sheep,\" I say.\n\n\"Before we can help anyone else, we need to make sure we're secure.\"\n\n\"And when will that be?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you.\" And with that he folds his napkin, guzzles his water in audible gulps until the glass is empty, then exits the kitchen, leaving me alone with my crashed mom and the bizarro Holiday Dinner from Hell.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nFights like the one my parents had at dinner have been a regular occurrence at my house for as long as I can remember. It's one of the reasons why Brady left after he graduated from high school. Plus the fact that he got into Stanford and refused to go. That alone set him up as an Enemy of the People in our father's eyes. For the few months before his graduation, Dad would not leave him alone about it. Do you realize the opportunity you're getting? my father would say. You're throwing your life away for some girl! Because that's why Brady said he wasn't going. His girlfriend was going to Saddleback\u2014our local community college\u2014and he wanted to be where she was.\n\nThat wasn't the real reason, though. I know Brady better than my parents do. The real reason he didn't go to Stanford was because he was scared. I'm not exactly sure what he was scared of. Being on his own? Not measuring up? Living with strangers? Maybe a combination of all those things. Anyway, he moved out, got a job at GameStop, and now he only comes home for holidays. He stopped coming with his girlfriend, which means either she can't stand our family, or he broke up with her. Brady hasn't said either way.\n\nMy dad might not see eye to eye with him, but I know how much he still loves him\u2014because even though we're constantly rekeying our doors, Dad always leaves a key hidden in the yard for Brady, just in case he comes home. He's the one person in the universe allowed to bypass all of our security.\n\nThe day of the Tap-Out, I texted Brady and called him, just as my parents had, leaving a message that he needs to come with us to the bug-out, but like I said, he's not the most responsive person. Our primary form of communication now is online RPG games. He's a knight, a mercenary, or an assassin, depending on the game. I'm always his sidekick. I've been getting online, hoping to catch him playing, but so far nothing.\n\nToday's parental dispute has left Mom sitting on the couch, blank-faced, hopped up on Xanax and watching the news while defiantly downing a full gallon of water. My dad has retreated into the garage again, welding and sawing with full-tilt intensity, so I take it that they haven't quite made up yet.\n\n\"You okay?\" I ask Mom.\n\n\"I'm fine, Kelton,\" she says. \"Just tired.\" And I know her definition of \"tired\" can fill volumes.\n\nI'm guessing that my father is working on one of the booby traps we planned out a couple of Saturdays back\u2014which I'm sure will turn out awesome. My dad always makes the best weapons when he's angry. Nevertheless, this is my cue to get out of the house. I decide to go check in on Alyssa.\n\nI find Alyssa and Garrett on their back patio. It's toward the end of twilight now, and they're wrestling with a black plastic trash bag, a bucket, and their barbecue. Seems as if they're working on a condensation trap to purify some water, and though I'm thoroughly impressed that they even know what a condensation trap is, they're going about it all wrong.\n\n\"Hey,\" I say coolly.\n\n\"Hey,\" Alyssa responds from behind the trash bag.\n\n\"Don't you think it would be best to do that during the day, seeing as the sun is nearly down? Evaporation and all. . . .\"\n\nAlyssa throws the bag in frustration, \"We started this during the day,\" she snaps. \"Day or night, it doesn't matter, because it's not working.\"\n\nShe leans up against the wall of their house and goes to take a sip from a water bottle that's down to the dregs.\n\n\"Save what you've got and have some of mine.\" I extend my canteen graciously. Alyssa takes it without hesitation and drinks.\n\n\"How much are you gonna charge for that sip?\" she asks. \"Ten bucks? Twenty?\"\n\nI just smile. \"Don't worry about it. I've got a thirty-five gallon tank, remember?\"\n\nShe hands my canteen back to me. \"I'm sorry,\" she says. \"I'm just on edge. Our parents went down to the beach and they're not back yet.\"\n\n\"It's been six and a half hours,\" adds Garrett, taking his cue to worry from Alyssa.\n\nI realize it's my job to be the optimist here\u2014which isn't a role I'm used to, but in difficult times, you gotta be flexible.\n\n\"I'm sure they're fine,\" I tell her. \"The lines must be massive, and getting back might take a lot longer than going.\"\n\n\"They're not answering their cell phones,\" Garrett says.\n\n\"I told you, their phones are probably dead,\" she tells her brother. \"Mom's phone never holds a charge long, and you know how Dad's always forgetting to charge his.\"\n\n\"Also,\" I suggest, \"it could be a system overload. Cellular frequencies get jammed in densely populated situations.\"\n\n\"Like at a concert!\" Alyssa says, unable to hold back a wave of relief.\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\n\"Then right now we'll just have to sit tight and hope for the best,\" Alyssa affirms for herself. I'm glad I can at least inspire the idea of hope.\n\nTheir dog, Kingston, who's looking sluggish, comes up to Alyssa and nudges her with his nose. His nose is way drier than a dog's ought to be. I pour some water out on the patio for him to lap up, which he does.\n\n\"Hey\u2014I've been thinking about it, and I figured out a new way for you to get water.\" I say it mysteriously, like a magician presenting his next act.\n\n\"How?\" Garrett asks.\n\n\"I'll show you!\" Then I usher them into their house and stop in the kitchen. \"The freezer. Have you scraped the ice from the walls?\"\n\n\"Tried that the first day,\" Alyssa responds, folding her arms. \"It's a frost-free refrigerator. No ice.\"\n\nI open the freezer slightly. \"It's only frost-free if you leave it closed. If you leave it ajar, water will eventually condense and freeze against the walls. Then you can scrape it off and melt it.\"\n\n\"Hey, that's pretty smart,\" Garrett says earnestly.\n\nI lean nonchalantly up against the refrigerator, accidentally closing the freezer all the way again. \"I am ranked second in our junior class.\"\n\n\"Not first?\" Garrett teases.\n\nIt's Alyssa who smiles at that. \"Don't tell me,\" she says. \"Zeik Srinivasar-Smith.\"\n\nI sigh at the mention of my nemesis. \"Zeik Srinivasar-Smith.\" An exchange student from God-knows-where who's probably a genetic mutation.\n\nIt seems as if we might be on the verge of bonding, because she seems ready to tell her own Zeik story\u2014because everyone in school has one Zeik story or another\u2014but her attention is grabbed by something on the living room TV. A news report. There's footage of raging brushfires, and riot police in downtown Los Angeles. And the news anchor\u2014only one instead of the usual two\u2014says, \"As a precaution, residents are instructed to stay in their homes, and remain calm.\" But in direct opposition to the anchorman's attempt to soothe viewers, the crawl below reads, Southland declared official FEMA disaster zone.\n\nThen the TV suddenly goes off. It's Garrett\u2014he's turned it off. He keeps the remote out of reach, just in case his sister or I want to turn the TV back on. \"I don't want to watch that\u2014they're just trying to freak us out!\"\n\n\"They're saying we should stay calm,\" Alyssa points out.\n\n\"Yeah, that's what they said to people on the Titanic when they already knew it was going down.\"\n\nAnd he's right. As far as authority is concerned, calm people quietly dying is a lot easier to deal with than angry people fighting for their lives.\n\nWe all stand there in uneasy silence until Alyssa gets down on a knee to Garrett. \"It's going to be okay,\" she says, not as sure about it as she's trying to sound. \"It's too dark to do anything now. If Mom and Dad aren't back by sunrise, I'll go find them.\"\n\nAnd after hearing those words, seeing the look on her face, something suddenly takes me over\u2014this strange, innate force. Kind of like the feeling I had when I shot Mr. Malecki in the chest to save him\u2014a sense of knowing what to do, and doing it, regardless of the consequences. \"We'll go together,\" I tell her. \"And I'll stay here tonight, so you don't have to worry about this alone.\"\n\nAlyssa shakes her head, smirking. \"Uh . . . thanks, but no. I'm sure you need this for some sort of merit badge, but I'm not a damsel in distress.\"\n\nI find myself getting angry. Is that what she thinks this is about? Last week, maybe. But today, it's the furthest thing from my mind.\n\n\"Look,\" I tell her in complete honesty, \"I know I'm not your first choice for a friend, but remember, there's safety in numbers. There are a lot of thirsty people out there, and things can get sketchy pretty quick. If I stay, we can take turns keeping watch, and you can get some sleep.\"\n\n\"Do you really think we're going to sleep tonight?\"\n\n\"You had better,\" I tell her, \"if you plan to go after your parents tomorrow.\"\n\nShe considers that, and is clearly waffling\u2014irritated by the fact that she knows I'm right.\n\n. . . And just then the lights begin flickering.\n\nWe all kind of brace\u2014like you do when you think you might be feeling an earthquake. Then the lights go out.\n\n\"Oh crap!\" says Garrett. \"Oh crap oh crap oh crap!\"\n\n\"It's okay,\" Alyssa says. \"This happened the other day. They'll come back on. You'll see.\"\n\nBut they don't\u2014and the silence now is true silence. The hum of the refrigerator, the breath of the air-conditioner, all gone. And the finality of that silence is so eerie, it's terrifying. I feel a tight grip on my arm. It's Garrett. He was closer to me than he was to Alyssa. I'm the closest port in his storm.\n\nNow we begin to hear voices. Neighbors wondering what the hell is going on, and what the hell they should do.\n\nWhat had seemed to be very surreal now has become vividly, luridly real.\n\nOur eyes begin to adjust to the dim afterglow of twilight lingering in the western windows.\n\nI know what I have to do.\n\n\"I need to go . . .\"\n\nBut before I can finish, Garrett cuts me off. \"No! You said you'd stay!\"\n\nAnd although she doesn't say anything, I know Alyssa is just as freaked by the blackout as Garrett is. As I am.\n\n\"I need to go,\" I say again, \"but only for a minute. I need to check on my parents, but I'll be right back.\" And then I take a step closer to Alyssa. I can't quite see her face in the dim room, which is better for what I'm about to say. \"I know you can take care of yourself. I know you don't need me here. But even so, it'll make the night a little bit easier.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" says Alyssa. \"I just want to make sure . . . I mean, I don't want you to think . . .\"\n\nI know where she's going with this, and I save her the trouble. \"Alyssa, just because I'm offering to stay overnight in your house, don't get any ideas about me getting ideas.\"\n\nShe sighs, relieved. \"Thank you, Kelton,\" she says, then adds, \"If it means anything, you've been officially lifted from 'creepy dude next door' status.\"\n\n\"You thought I was creepy?\"\n\nAlyssa shrugs. \"Kinda.\"\n\nI consider that. \"Yeah,\" I say, \"I kind of am.\" Then I leave, reminding them to lock the door behind me.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy house is a beacon of light in the darkness. Off-grid, totally self-sustainable. Inside, my mom's asleep on the couch, and my dad is still welding away in the garage. They have no clue that the power's down in the rest of the neighborhood. I don't engage them, because there's nothing to say. I leave a note in my room that I'm spending the night at Alyssa's to help her out until her parents come home. My mother will like it, because it's something social that doesn't involve video games and guys who believe deodorant is optional. My father won't like it, but he also won't embarrass both of us by coming to retrieve me. I'll get an earful in the morning, but I'll deal with it then.\n\nI place the note on my comforter, then kneel down, reach an arm under my bed, and fish around until I find what I'm looking for. I slide out a black metal case and crack it open, revealing, in all its glory, my silver forty-five caliber Ruger LCP pistol. I pull it out and load the magazine, trying not to be overwhelmed by its beauty and its power\u2014the way its sleek silver barrel reflects light, contrasted by a black matte grip so dominant, it absorbs any and all light that hits it. It's perfect in its dualistic nature. Light and dark. Today, I feel like I'm something in between the two. And that's okay. It's what I need to be right now, if I'm going to be the first line of defense for Alyssa and Garrett. I tuck the handgun into my belt, and hurry down the stairs and out the front door to head back to Alyssa's . . . but what I see as I come out our front door causes almost every joint to lock up\u2014\n\nAlthough every other house is now blackened by nightfall, I swear I can make out figures in the street, faintly illuminated by a low-hanging moon. Most everyone in the neighborhood has stepped out of their home to marvel at our light\u2014like moths entranced by the lick of a hot campfire flame. By having our own electricity supply, my family has made itself the unexpected envy of the neighborhood. And a target. So I stand, body trapped in the doorway, stuck between the threshold of what my life once was and what it will soon be, staring into the dark, a hundred eyes glowing back in the night.\n\nAnd I'm scared to the bone, because right now I can't tell if I'm looking into the eyes of sheep, or wolves.\n\n## DAY FOUR\n\n## TUESDAY, JUNE 7TH\n\n### 8) Alyssa\n\nThe next morning I wake up to an obnoxious digitized symphony\u2014the alarm on my phone, which, miraculously, held its charge overnight. It's 5:45 a.m. Sunrise. At first I couldn't sleep at all\u2014every sound was my parents coming home, or someone breaking in. But neither of those things happened. Twice I went downstairs to find Kelton doing the Boy Scout thing\u2014reading a book by flashlight, while keeping watch for the nonexistent bad guys he was so sure would be crashing through our windows to suck the moisture out of our veins. It all seems so silly now in the light of day.\n\nExcept for the fact that my parents still aren't home. No amount of happy sunshine is going to change that.\n\nGarrett, who had insisted he was okay sleeping in his room, had, at some point, surrendered all macho pretense and crawled in with me. Now he sleeps and is in that blissful place where his only care in the world is what to feed Spider-Man and the various Pok\u00e9mon who just came over for dinner\u2014or whatever it is that ten-year-olds dream about. I don't wake him as I slip out of bed and head downstairs.\n\nI half hope that my parents came in while I was asleep and didn't want to wake us, but no such luck. In the living room is Kelton, snoring away on the sofa. So much for keeping watch. He was supposed to get me a few hours ago to relieve him, but he tried to soldier through the night on his own.\n\nThat's when I see the gun. It's resting on the end table beside him, like it's part of the d\u00e9cor: lamp, family picture, pistol. He must have hidden it from me when he came back from his house, knowing I wouldn't approve\u2014and I don't. It makes me consider demoting him back to \"creepy dude,\" but worse, because now it's \"creepy dude with a gun.\"\n\nI pick it up and right away find that it's much heavier than I had anticipated\u2014and then I get a little freaked out realizing that I've never actually held a gun before. This thing ends lives. I put the pistol down, but slide it out of Kelton's immediate reach, and shake him awake.\n\nThe moment he's conscious, he bolts up.\n\n\"What? What happened? Is everything okay? Did I fall asleep?\"\n\n\"It is, and you did,\" I tell him. \"And now you're going to take the bullets out of that goddamn gun.\"\n\nHe looks at me, then looks away.\n\n\"It has no bullets,\" he says. \"The magazine is in my pocket\u2014I'm not an idiot.\"\n\n\"The jury's still out on that one,\" I tell him, then hold out my hand. \"Give.\"\n\nReluctantly, he hands me the magazine of bullets\u2014and although I don't want it in my pocket, I'd rather it be there than in his. Then I look at the gun again, furious that it's even here.\n\n\"I marched against these!\" I inform him. \"How could you bring one into my house?\"\n\n\"You marched against assault weapons,\" he says, far calmer about this than I am. \"I can respect that. But this is not that. This is a defensive weapon. We may need it to protect ourselves.\"\n\nHe doesn't reach for it and override my objections with bravado. Instead he waits for me to give him permission. The fact that he's deferring to me makes me feel better about it. But only a little. I reach out and push the pistol a few inches in his direction.\n\n\"You want to keep this for show, fine. But you're not shooting anybody today.\"\n\n\"Understood. But a gun is worthless if you're not prepared to use it,\" he says\u2014probably something his father drilled into his head.\n\nI look out the window. The street's empty, but it's not even six a.m. I'm not expecting anyone to be out there. All I can think about now is my parents, and all of the worst-case scenarios that probably didn't happen but still haunt me all the same. I try their phones again. Mom's goes straight to voicemail, but Dad's rings a few times first, which lets me know that at least it's on.\n\nKelton makes a quick trip home to get tire sealant so we can take all three bikes, and when he returns, he's suited up in what looks like a duck hunting outfit, fully loaded with survival rope, and a million pockets. I don't have the energy to make fun of him now, and I've come to trust that there's a reason for everything he does. We actually might need the rope, and whatever other stuff he has hidden away in those pockets.\n\nTruth is, we need him\u2014plus when it comes to water, he's the person to know; without him, I'm not sure we'd have the rations to safely make the journey down to Laguna Beach and back.\n\nI had packed a backpack last night for the road. Beef jerky. The rest of our water, a kitchen knife, although I'm sure Kelton has something much nastier than that hidden in his outfit. I don't ask. Anyway, I might as well have my own way to protect myself, so I don't feel I have to rely on Kelton's Krav Maga, or whatever other lethal martial art he knows. I pet Kingston, and give him a ration of water that I know is not enough but is all I can spare. Then, just before heading out of the house, I flip on a light switch to check the power again. No luck. I wonder how many other neighborhoods are without electricity right now.\n\nWith the bikes now fully operational, we wheel them outside, manually pull down the garage door, and take to the streets. Looking around my neighborhood, I half expect it to be in ruins, but everything appears just as it always was, and I realize the wreckage is more internal.\n\nWe push forward down our street, keeping the dawn to our backs.\n\n\"There's a path that runs down Aliso Creek Canyon that goes all the way to the beach,\" I tell Kelton. \"Although I've never taken it all the way down, so I don't know how smooth it is.\"\n\n\"Bad idea,\" Kelton says. \"It's all wilderness, and we'll be isolated. Targets for anyone who might jump us for our water.\"\n\nI want to tell him that he's being paranoid, but I know he might be right, and it pisses me off.\n\n\"The more we keep to civilization, the more likely that people will be civilized,\" he says. Then adds, \"At least for now.\"\n\nI turn to Garrett as we leave our neighborhood and take to the bike lane of a major avenue. \"How are you doing?\" I ask him.\n\n\"Better than you,\" he brags. \"I ride my bike all the time, and you don't, so try to keep up.\" The fact that he's being a brat answers my question\u2014he's in good spirits.\n\nIt isn't long before we come to an overpass for the 5 freeway. As I look down, I can see a typical snarl of cars, but somehow this is different. This is bumper-to-bumper traffic like I've never seen before. Morning rush hour is usually all about heading north toward LA\u2014but today the traffic is at a horn-blaring standstill in both directions, as far as the eye can see\u2014which eventually disappears into a thick crimson haze, swallowed whole by the sun cresting over Saddleback Mountain.\n\nNot our problem, I say to myself, a little creeped out. I try to focus straight ahead as we pedal across the overpass, but I can't pull myself away from the reality all around me.\n\n\"Where is everyone going?\" Garrett asks.\n\n\"Anywhere but here,\" Kelton answers.\n\n\"Yeah,\" says Garrett. \"Well, it looks like they're not gonna get there.\"\n\nI don't think he realizes how deeply that truth resonates\u2014and on every level. But Kelton does.\n\n\"When it's time to bail, there are nontraditional routes that most people don't know. They won't be gridlocked like the freeways.\"\n\nThe fact that he said \"when\" rather than \"if\" stays with me far longer than I want it to.\n\nAbout five minutes later, Garrett pulls his favorite and most frustrating travel maneuver. \"I gotta go to the bathroom,\" he says. I tell him to pee in the bushes somewhere, but of course, it's not that kind of bathroom he's talking about. I imagine, considering the horrific state of our toilet, even with Kelton's waterless fix, Garrett has been holding it in rather than dealing with it. But there comes a point at which nature takes over. And always at the worst time.\n\nThere's a familiar gas station with a convenience store up ahead. And although I'm sure its bathroom will be even worse than ours, I don't tell Garrett that. We pedal toward it.\n\nThe three of us roll up to the store and step inside, taking in our surroundings. Like the rest of the world, the store is a slight aberration of normal. Bleak and dusty, the air is so thick it coats your throat. The AC's off, which we already knew, since we hadn't hit a single functioning streetlight between home and here. Refrigerators that usually contain soda, energy drinks, and water are empty, as expected. But what I don't expect is how barren this place is, devoid of not just products, but even the hope of them. Only one in ten items still remain on the shelves\u2014one type of chips, one brand of gum. It reminds me of pictures I once saw in class of a destitute market in a war-torn country, where your only options were between canned beans or bread, and if you hesitated, you didn't get either. All the while, the grimness is mocked by fifties doo-wop music that echoes from an old battery-operated radio somewhere.\n\nAt the far end of the store, the clerk sits behind the register. Someone I don't know. The thing is, I know this store. Mom and I would always stop here on the way home from soccer practice to get a Powerade and corn nuts. Kind of a little ritual of ours. I thought I knew all the clerks who worked here\u2014but not this one. He looks like the guy your parents warned you about. The one with a white windowless van rolling slowly past the park. He looks like Santa Claus after two tours in Vietnam. His shifty eyes are fixed on us, with one hand hidden below the counter.\n\nGarrett heads toward the bathroom, and the clerk shouts, \"Gotta buy something to use the crapper.\" And so, as Garrett closes the bathroom door behind him, Kelton and I move down an aisle to get something, and to get out of the guy's line of sight.\n\nI settle on a bag of peanuts. As I approach the checkout, I get a closer look at the clerk\u2014he looks worn, the skin around his eyes thick and heavy.\n\n\"I haven't seen you here before,\" I say, as he tallies up my items.\n\nHe studies me coolly. \"I'm new.\"\n\n\"How long have the cars been like that on the freeway?\" I ask, changing the subject.\n\nHe scratches his neck. \"Middle of the night, I imagine. Brought a lot of customers here. Some were cool, others thought they could just take whatever they wanted.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you just call the cops?\" I ask.\n\nThe man chuckles, but it comes out as a hiss. \"Haven't you heard? You can't get through. 9-1-1 lines have been jammed since yesterday.\" He grins, like it's funny. \"That'll be forty dollars,\" he says.\n\nAt first I think he's joking. But then I realize that, no, he's dead serious.\n\n\"Free-market economy,\" he says. \"Supply and demand. And right now there's a whole lot more demand than supply.\" He leans closer. \"So like I said, that'll be forty dollars.\"\n\nKelton comes up beside me with a Clif Bar, having not heard any of my exchange with the clerk. That's when I notice the cash register. It's been smashed open. And I realize this guy isn't wearing the ugly blue and yellow shirt that the clerks here always wear. The more I try to comprehend what happened here, the more I don't want to know.\n\nGarrett comes out of the bathroom, and I grab the Clif Bar from Kelton's hand, throw it down on the counter, and before he has a chance to object, I grab Garrett's hand, knowing that it will startle him into submission, and I hurry all three of us out.\n\n\"Gotta pay for the goddamn bathroom!\" the man inside yells, but we are already gone.\n\nI hop on my bike and we race off, but I keep in the lead, setting the pace, and the pace is fast. A few blocks away I slow down enough for Garrett and Kelton to catch up with me. I stop and look back, to make sure that the guy from the convenience store isn't chasing us.\n\n\"What was that all about?\" Kelton asks.\n\nI don't tell him. Not because I don't want to, but because the particulars don't matter anymore. \"That gun of yours\u2014it's in your backpack, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah . . .\"\n\n\"And you know how to use it?\"\n\n\"Hell, yeah.\"\n\nI reach into a side pocket of my own backpack and pull out the compact cartridge of bullets. The magazine, Kelton had called it. I look at it. Think hard about it. It represents everything that I hate about the world. But this isn't the same world it was yesterday. Finally I hand him the magazine, then I start pedaling again, because I don't want to see him snapping it into the pistol.\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT: INTERSTATE, NORTHBOUND 6:30 A.M.\n\nWhen Charity first learned to drive back in the sixties, she was taught to leave one car length between you and the car ahead of you for every ten miles per hour you're traveling. That way, you'll give yourself ample time to brake.\n\nBut when no one's going anywhere, your bumpers all might as well be touching.\n\nGridlock.\n\nOr maybe something worse, if that's even possible.\n\nAt first it's the typical rush hour stop and go, but on this particular Tuesday things start to feel different right away. There's a thickness in the air that reads like claustrophobia; it's evident in the positioning of the cars, more tightly squeezed than ordinary traffic, and soon there's even a sixth lane that was once a shoulder that cars have started funneling into. And stopping.\n\nCharity left her apartment just before five a.m., hoping to beat traffic on the way to Henderson, Nevada\u2014where she planned to spend the worst of this crisis with her daughter and grandchildren\u2014but it looks like she wasn't the only one with plans to get away.\n\nShe looks to the other side of the highway, noticing that drivers going in the opposite direction seem to be in the same predicament, perhaps even worse, since there are a few cars stuck facing in the wrong way\u2014something she's never seen before. Clearly the traffic got so bad, people turned around on the road and tried to go the other way, hoping that backtracking would actually cut their losses. Then again, this is probably the kind of elliptical logic that jammed up the highway in the first place.\n\nCharity takes in her surroundings. An impatient man on a Harley trying to work his way between traffic, like threading a needle. A family in a minivan. A cable repair truck. She passes the time by thinking about who these people might be and what their stories are. Where they're coming from and where they're going. Sure, the water crisis is bad, but not every one of these people could possibly believe it's so bad that they'd need to leave for greener pastures.\n\nCharity looks to an old black and white image of her and her late husband wedged into the dashboard. If he were still alive, she thinks to herself, he'd probably be kicking and screaming by now. For decades the two of them owned a pawn shop, where Charity would handle the customers\u2014she was always the cool-tempered one. Her parents had named her Charity, one of the seven virtues, and she had always tried to live up to that name, giving her full heart to whoever she encountered\u2014rare in the pawn business, but it was what it was. She added a ray of light in miserable circumstances. However, now, staring into the endless snarl of automobiles, she's starting to wish they had named her Patience.\n\nAnother half hour and still no movement. Not an inch. People start to get restless, standing on the roof like packs of meerkats, all trying to get a better view of the highway ahead. A man and his young son walk down the row past Charity. She rolls down her window.\n\n\"Getting out for a stretch?\" she asks.\n\nThe father smiles weakly. \"Gonna check things out up ahead\u2014see if anyone knows what the hold-up is.\" The fact that people are doing something active to help the situation makes her feel a little bit better. And things could be worse. In between lanes, kids now play tag, weaving in and out of the landlocked cars, while their parents play cards on the hoods. It makes her think of her own daughter. How she always worries when Charity makes the long drive to Nevada. At this rate, she might not get there till dark.\n\nAnother forty-five minutes. The sun beams down now\u2014any impatient honking has stopped. Most of the cars' engines are off. There are people in cars around her who seem to have given up hope altogether, but are hanging tough in their vehicles. Some even huddle together by the side of the road, or lie down in the shade between cars, as if going to sleep and then waking would magically make this situation disappear. Charity taps her hand on the dash, anxiety growing. The man and his son never returned to their car. It will have to be towed and will add that much more pain to the process. Charity locks her doors and leans back, resting her eyes for a brief moment. . . .\n\nThirty minutes later her eyes snap open as she's awakened by the sound of screams ricocheting between cars, originating from God knows where\u2014and then someone sprints past her window. And then someone else, and before she knows it, the scene is total chaos. Everyone abandons their cars and runs south, the complete opposite direction of traffic. What would compel every one of them to run in the opposite direction of where they were headed?\n\nCharity steps out of her car to get a better view, walking north, against the stampede . . . and finally sees what everyone is running from.\n\nA fire.\n\nBlack smoke billows and swirls in the morning sky, and below it, maybe fifty yards ahead, is a single car that has caught on fire. It's a valid reason to flee, because if that car explodes, and if the explosion is large enough, it could set off a chain reaction of exploding cars up and down the freeway. But if Charity has learned anything in all her years, it's to keep a calm head\u2014especially in the face of utter chaos. She is a child of the sixties; following the pack blindly has never been her ethos. Instead, Charity decides to ask herself the contrarian questions of the world, because unique questions will always yield unique answers.\n\nShe marches forward, against the current, even as the mob grows, cascading in an avalanche of panic that picks up everyone else in its path\u2014including those who don't even know why they're running. Charity moves toward the fire, the hysteria heightening. People are trampled. Bruised. Bloodied.\n\nBut where everyone else sees disaster, Charity finds opportunity. Back when she and her husband had the pawn shop, Charity learned a thing or two about junk. It was always about looking closer. Finding the treasure in the trash. Identifying the true diamonds that were worth more than the fake gold ring that held them.\n\nShe searches the dozens of cars for anything that could help her put the fire out. What kind of car would have a fire extinguisher? she thinks to herself. She goes to the TV cable truck and opens up the back double doors\u2014but with no luck. Just boxes of wires and junk. And then the situation escalates even further with the sound of a blast. The car that's on fire up ahead has exploded, blowing off the hood and setting fire to a couch in the bed of a nearby pickup truck. This is rapidly going from bad to worse.\n\nCharity scans the rows of cars one final time and sees an electrician's van, with the electrician long gone. She quickly pops the back doors open\u2014and bingo! A fire extinguisher, right there strapped to the door. So Charity marches toward the blaze, extinguisher in hand, a fire in her eyes hotter than any earthly inferno.\n\n* * *\n\n### 9) Alyssa\n\nWe ride down Laguna Canyon Road, a main street that we've always taken to get to the beach. I try to transport myself back to one of the times that I enjoyed the ride, but it's just not the same. The arid wind cuts at my face. The burn in my legs feels less like exercise and more like a dreadful punishment.\n\nPassing neighborhoods on a major main street does allow me to peer in from a safe distance, and I'm noticing that a few areas still have electricity, which is somewhat comforting to see. It makes me think that they're working on solving these problems. Maybe cell phone towers are out because they have no power. I try to convince myself that's the reason why I get nothing every time I try to call my parents.\n\n\"You should stop calling,\" Kelton tells me. \"You're draining your battery, and you might need your phone later.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's just really crowded there,\" Garrett says, doing his own rationalizations. \"Like when people were camped out for days for that last Star Wars movie.\"\n\nBut would Mom and Dad camp out at the beach waiting for water, when they knew that Garrett and I were home waiting for them? As much as I want the answer to be something simple that we'll all be able to laugh about later, the longer we don't hear from them, the harder it is for me to paint a rosy picture.\n\nWe arrive midmorning at Laguna Beach, where the marine layer still creates an overcast haze, keeping the shoreline mercifully cool. I can smell the ocean and feel the salt air making my clothes cling to my skin. Waves thunder in the distance, and although the ocean's cadence has always been comforting to me, the silence that lingers in between each crashing wave now strikes me as odd. Still, I push forward on my bike, flying down the last stretch of road, which dead-ends into the Pacific Coast Highway and the beach just beyond. I don't feel the blisters on my hands anymore, or the ache in my legs. I have to see that beach. I have to know that my parents are there, and that they're okay.\n\nBut once I'm across PCH, at the edge of the boardwalk, I hit my brakes hard and stop dead in my tracks\u2014because before me isn't a beach populated by families retrieving water rations, but a vast, sandy wasteland. It's virtually deserted, with just a few random people who seem to meander aimlessly. Farther out, toward the water's edge, are machines hitched to the backs of trucks\u2014maybe half a dozen of them spread out along the beach\u2014but they're not producing water. They're not doing anything. In fact, one of them is spewing black smoke, and another one is lying on its side.\n\nI drop my bike and step down from the boardwalk to the sand, with Garrett and Kelton close behind. My eyes dart around, searching for my parents, desperate for even the slightest sign of them.\n\nAnd then Garrett says, \"Alyssa, do you hear that?\"\n\nI do\u2014it's a sound almost musical, and eerily electronic, that lingers just beneath the sound of the waves. I walk across the sand, and the sound gets louder, until I realize it's not just one sound, but many, all blending together. And all at once I realize what it is.\n\nCell phones.\n\nThe ringtones of cell phones.\n\nThere are dozens of them lying in the sand around us, creating an eerie eight-bit symphony. The lost calls of a thousand souls.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nNone of us knows how to react. We just watch the phones as they vibrate and ring, trying to overcome our shock. And suddenly I realize that until just a short time ago, I was on the other end of one of those lines, calling nonstop, desperately hoping that someone would answer. I see one vibrating, halfway out of the sand, and I dare myself to grab it. . . . I hold it in my hand and after one more ring, I answer, pressing the sandy iPhone to my ear.\n\n\"Hello?\" comes the voice of a child on the other end of the line. \"Mom?\"\n\nHe couldn't be any older than Garrett. I try to choose my words carefully. \"This isn't your mother,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Where's my mom?\" begs the child. \"Who is this? Why do you have her phone?\"\n\nI pause, not sure what I can say to calm him. \"I'm at the beach,\" I tell him. \"Your mom dropped her phone at the beach.\"\n\n\"She went there to get water. . . .\"\n\n\"I don't think there's any water here,\" I tell him. \"Can you tell that to an adult? Please tell that to an adult.\"\n\n\"Where's my mom?\" the kid cries.\n\nI try to formulate the best response I can, but it's like I've lost my ability to put together coherent thoughts. I have no answer for him, any more than I have an answer for myself. \"I'm sorry,\" I tell him. Then I hang up and drop the phone in the sand, and when it rings again I bury it. I bury it deep enough so at least there's one phone I can't hear ringing anymore.\n\n\"What happened here?\" asks Kelton. And bit by bit the clues emerge. They are in plain sight around us, right there in the sand. It's as if a tornado had passed through, depositing debris everywhere\u2014debris that looms like a shadow of terrible events I can't even begin to imagine. Plastic tables and chairs are overthrown, trash all around, being picked at by seagulls. A single abandoned shoe, which somehow seems creepiest of all. And the sand is peppered with black aluminum cans\u2014dozens of them. I'm hit with a wave of the most awful stench, like bleach mixed with snot. It stings the insides of my nostrils, so I hold my nose, but it hardly helps. Kelton reaches down and picks up one of the cans, holding it at a safe distance.\n\n\"These are tear gas canisters,\" Kelton says. \"There must have been a riot squad here. . . .\"\n\nAnd then there are the machines. We approach the closest one; I can see that it's torn to shreds. All of them are. This one's stainless steel facade has been peeled back, exposing its innards as if it were decomposing from the inside out. Tubes and wiring herniate from the opening, all leading to a series of dials and gauges, connected to three ruptured vats, and behind it, a series of arrested pistons.\n\nCould people have done this? Could we have fought each other over these lifesaving machines, reducing them to scrap metal? Could we be so desperate for drinkable water that we're willing to destroy the very machines that could create it, just to get that first sip? . . . And if so, were Mom and Dad among them?\n\nNow I can see that at each ruined desalination machine stands a police officer in riot gear with an automatic rifle, warning people to keep away\u2014as if there's still something to protect.\n\n\"What happened here?\" I ask the one closest to us, keeping a safe distance.\n\n\"You need to leave the beach, miss. Go home. Wait there for further instructions.\"\n\n\"What happened to the people who were here?\" I demand. \"Were they sent somewhere else? A different beach?\"\n\n\"It isn't safe to be here,\" he tells me. \"You need to go home.\"\n\nI back away, right into Garrett, whose eyes have teared up, and it has nothing to do with the tear gas.\n\n\"Make him tell you where they went!\" Garrett says, as if he can order me to make demands of an armed officer.\n\n\"Uh . . . guys?\"\n\nI look over to Kelton, who's standing closer to the water's edge. I follow his gaze to the spiteful ocean and direct all of my hate toward it. I can't stand the way each crashing wave of undrinkable water mocks us.\n\n\"What is that?\" asks Kelton. He points to something that's floating, moving forward and backward with the rolling surf\u2014a dark outline in the rolling water, visible for only moments between waves. \"Is that . . .\" Kelton squints. \"Is that a body?\"\n\nAnd I know that whatever it is, I've had enough. It's more than not wanting to know. I don't even want to know the depth of the things I don't want to know. I grab Garrett and pull him away, and call to Kelton.\n\n\"Kelton! We're leaving!\" Because maybe I can't order a crowd control officer, but I sure as hell can order Kelton. Especially when it's for his own good.\n\nI will not think about my parents now, because if I do, I will crumble. Getting home will be an uphill ride in more ways than one, and that has to be the focus of all my mental energy right now. Getting us home.\n\nWe get to our bikes back at the boardwalk.\n\n\"We have to DO something!\" Garrett insists. \"We can't just leave!\"\n\nAnd I turn on Garrett with a fury I didn't even know I had. \"Garrett, if you don't shut your mouth right now I'm going to shut it for you!\"\n\nAnd that just brings forth a deluge of tears from him. But I can't cry. I have to hold it together, and I'm sorry, so sorry that I took my frustration out on him. I take him into my arms and hold him. I let him sob. I don't say anything. I just let him sob, because I know that's what he needs. And he knows I didn't mean it. He knows because of how tight I'm holding him. And I won't let go until he's ready for me to.\n\n\"Alyssa, we should go,\" says Kelton, looking even more freaked out by the unidentified floating object than I am.\n\nGarrett pulls away from me gently. \"Let's just go,\" he says, tired, defeated.\n\nThe plan is to travel back the way we came, but even before we get started, something across the street grips my attention . . . the sound of shouting voices. It's a trio of kids our age, or maybe a year or two older. They're in front of the abandoned Laguna movie theater. They've formed a circle, playing some sort of game\u2014as if this were a time for fun and games. I turn to ride toward them, hoping that maybe they can give us some information about what went down here, but as I come around a parked car, I can see the truth of the situation. They aren't playing. They're pushing around an older man, who's maybe in his sixties. It's three on one and he's helpless to defend himself. Without thinking it through, I jump off my bike, my hands curled into fists, and I'm marching toward them.\n\n\"Alyssa, wait,\" Kelton calls, but I'm already committed.\n\n\"Hey!\" I yell. \"What do you think you're doing?\"\n\nThe tallest of the kids turns to me. He has tousled bleached-blond hair and glacial blue eyes. He's rough-hewn like a jock, but his multiple piercings tell me he's not.\n\n\"Mind your own business!\" he says.\n\nThe man they're pushing around stumbles to the ground. And the kid kicks him. He actually kicks him!\n\n\"Leave him alone,\" I yell, \"or I'm getting those officers from the beach!\"\n\n\"They won't care,\" says one of the other kids. \"They won't even leave their posts.\"\n\n\"You're monsters!\" I yell, and the blue-eyed kid goes feral on me.\n\n\"Monsters? We're monsters? You don't know me!\"\n\n\"I know all I need to know! You're beating on some poor defenseless man!\"\n\n\"Do you know what this asshole did?\" yells the blue-eyed kid. \"We saw him hide a bottle of water in his car! And he won't share a drop of it!\"\n\n\"So?\" I counter. \"It's his water! You have no right!\"\n\n\"We have every right!\"\n\nOnly now do I see how dry his lips are. Not just dry but parched and chapped to the point of bleeding. None of these kids look right. Their skin is thin and almost leprous gray. The corners of their mouths are white with dried spit. And the look in their eyes is almost rabid.\n\nThe tall kid turns and kicks the man again. \"Give us your goddamn keys!\"\n\n\"Please,\" pleads the man. \"I need that water! I need it for my family!\"\n\n\"So do I, asshole! You think because you drive a freaking BMW your lives mean more?\"\n\nBefore he can kick the man again, I hurl myself into the middle. His foot connects with my calf. It'll give me a charley horse, but at least it may have saved this guy from getting a broken rib.\n\n\"You don't have to give them anything,\" I tell the man, but he's too frightened to fight them anymore. He fumbles in his pocket, and holds the keys out to the blue-eyed kid. But before the kid can snatch them out of his hands, I do instead, and hold them tight in my fist.\n\n\"You're not getting these,\" I tell the kid.\n\nThe man, no longer the focus of their fury, scrambles away, not caring about his BMW or his water; he just wants to get out of this alive. And now I realize that I'm the one who might not. The blond kid grabs me. He has a neck tattoo that seems to practically throb with his fury. It's a biohazard symbol.\n\n\"Mess her up, Dalton,\" says one of the other boys.\n\n\"Hey\u2014maybe she's got water, too!\" says the third.\n\nThe blond kid\u2014Dalton\u2014tries to wrench the keys from my hand, but I won't let go of them. I refuse to allow this sorry excuse for a human being have them. His unnerving blue eyes dart back and forth across my face, and his cracked lips peel into a truly terrible grin. Deranged and dangerous.\n\n\"You're sweating,\" he says. \"Which means you've been drinking water. . . .\" And then the grin vanishes. \"Where is it?\"\n\n\"Get away from my sister!\" I hear Garrett yell. He runs toward us but one of the other kids grabs him. I try to pull out of Dalton's grip, but I can't get free, no matter how hard I try.\n\n\"Where's your water!\" he demands.\n\nAnd then something comes over me. My own animal nature. \"Right here,\" I tell him. And I spit in his face.\n\nIt doesn't faze him at all. And I'm suddenly hit with this strange sensation, like there's an emergency alarm echoing in my head, and my brain is helpless to identify its source. But as this boy wipes the spittle from his cheek with his free hand, the awful feeling becomes identifiable. It's a horror that makes me sick to my stomach. I know what he's about to do before he does it.\n\nHe looks at his fingers, glistening with my spittle . . . and he licks it off. I try to struggle free, but Dalton pushes me hard against the wall and locks eyes with me.\n\n\"Do it again!\" he demands. And when I don't, he presses his body against me. I can't move. \"Do it, or I swear I'll suck it right out of you!\" And he moves his terrible dry mouth toward mine.\n\nThen from a few yards away, comes a voice of salvation.\n\n\"Let her go, or I'll blow your goddamn brains out!\"\n\n### 10) Kelton\n\nI didn't want to have to pull out my gun, but the second that creep got too close to Alyssa, it's like some protective instinct kicked in. Now my Ruger is pointed right at his head. I'm supposed to point it at his chest, but at this angle all I have is his back, and a bullet in the back could go straight through him and into Alyssa. But he's taller. A head shot will miss Alyssa.\n\nThe instant the other two creeps see my Ruger, they drop Garrett and bolt. But the tall blond kid still grips Alyssa.\n\n\"I said let her go!\" My hand trembles. I reach up my other hand into a two-handed grip, but it doesn't help.\n\nNow he turns to see the gun, and Alyssa uses the moment to break free, instantly distancing herself and going straight to Garrett to protect him.\n\nThe creep just stands there, looking at me as if he doesn't care if I pull the trigger. As if he's already resigned himself to death.\n\nI stare him straight in those ice-blue eyes, and then focus back on my aim. Now my hands aren't just trembling, they're shaking. Violently. I try to stop them, but it's like my brain can't seem to send the signal that far down my arms\u2014like I'm disconnected from my own body. And now I'm struck with a crippling wave of panic that starts in my chest and pulls like a lethal gravity, collapsing my lungs until I've imploded so deep within myself, I can't breathe. I can barely gasp.\n\n\"He'll do it!\" Alyssa screams. The sound reverberates and echoes. \"You better run like your friends.\"\n\n\"No,\" he says. Just \"no.\" And then he takes a step toward me. Or does he? I can barely tell because now my vision is going spotty, as my brain misfires, shutting down piston by piston.\n\n\"Do it, Kelton! Do it!\" Garrett yells.\n\nBut I can't. With all the training, with everything I've been taught about self defense and the wielding of weapons, something inside me blows a critical fuse. I can't bring myself to pull that trigger.\n\nAnd the kid knows it.\n\nHe lurches forward, knocking me back, and the gun flies out of my hands. I can't let him get it! He'll kill all of us! He's that crazy\u2014I know he is!\n\nThe weapon lands in the trash-filled gutter. We both scramble for it. I don't know which one of us is more desperate to get it. And when I get to where I thought I saw it land, it's not there. Instead, there's a girl standing there as if she appeared out of nowhere. A girl I've never seen before\u2014and she's holding my gun. Pointed directly at me.\n\nShe cocks it, loading a bullet into the chamber with expert precision, and I realize that even if I had pulled that trigger, nothing would have happened, because I never even took the safety off. She smiles, almost seductively\u2014and it's in this moment I realize that the gun isn't pointed at me at all. She has it trained on the ice-eyed creep who's right behind me.\n\nShe brushes me out of the way with a deranged sort of confidence and puts the muzzle of the gun to the kid's forehead.\n\nI look to Alyssa, who, just like me, is shocked by the appearance of this mysterious girl, and terrified by what her intentions might be. I struggle to force my anxiety attack away.\n\nThe kid winces as she presses the gun harder against his forehead, a lot more terrified of her than he was of me. He stammers excuses\u2014anything to buy time. \"It's them, not me\u2014they have the water\u2014why me?\"\n\n\"Why you?\" she says, oddly pensive. \"I guess I don't really like your face. Bet it was once pretty though. Pretty beach boy. I got dumped by too many of those.\" Although I can't see why anyone would dump her. She's not just tough, she's stunning in a wild kind of way. Dark and mysterious. But then maybe they dumped her because she's freaking psychotic.\n\nShe blows a long strand of black hair away from her face, revealing inscrutable dark eyes that pierce in a very different way than the kid's blue ones.\n\nThen she holds her free hand out to Alyssa, keeping the gun against the kid's head.\n\n\"The keys, please,\" she says, and when Alyssa doesn't move, she adds, \"The keys or I'll kill him.\"\n\nI start to add everything up. If this girl knows about the keys, she wasn't just walking by when this happened. It means she saw everything. That she was watching, and waiting to make her move. But if she saw, then why does she think that Alyssa will save this kid?\n\nAnd suddenly I realize why.\n\nBecause Alyssa will. This girl read that about Alyssa in just a few seconds of seeing her.\n\n\"Please,\" cries the kid. He'd probably wet himself if he had any water left to expel. \"Please . . . my mom and sister\u2014they're counting on me to bring back water. If you kill me, you kill them, too!\"\n\n\"Wow, that sucks,\" the girl says, and presses my gun harder against his head. \"Keys, please,\" she says again to Alyssa.\n\n\"Okay,\" says Alyssa, trying to placate her. \"No one has to die here.\"\n\n\"No!\" complains Garrett. \"Just let her shoot him!\"\n\nBut Alyssa ignores him and puts the keys in the girl's hands.\n\nShe immediately pulls the gun away from the blond kid's forehead, plants a foot on his chest, and pushes him over backward. Who the hell is this girl? She acts gleefully impulsive, but in reality, I don't think there's anything impulsive about her. I think she's calculating, and smart.\n\nAs for the blue-eyed kid, he stays on the ground, curled up in fetal position, broken and sobbing, which is how I imagine he'll spend the rest of eternity.\n\n### 11) Alyssa\n\nI saw her first. The way she flew out from a hidden doorway the instant Kelton lost his grip on the gun. That grin on her face when she picked it up. It all happened too fast to react, and all I wanted to do was protect Garrett\u2014who seems to be the only one of the three of us who wants a stranger's brains splattered on the sidewalk today. I will not think about that. Our new threat is this girl.\n\nShe's dressed in black with long, dark hair. Sort of an olive complexion. Hard to tell her ethnicity\u2014kind of like Garrett and me. No one ever knows what we are either, which has its ups and downs. She's fit, muscular. She's also bruised in a few places, with a cut on her arm. God knows what that's all about. There's a strange flush to her cheeks\u2014a heat about her that's different from thirst. Not sure what that's about either. All I know is that she's cross-wired enough to put a gun to that kid's head like it was nothing. She did save us, but why? Was it only to get those keys? And she still has Kelton's gun. So how safe are we, really?\n\n\"That was awesome,\" Garrett says, stars in his eyes like he was just rescued by Wonder Woman.\n\nShe strides away, but I go after her, Garrett and Kelton following in our wake.\n\n\"Hey\u2014that gun is ours,\" I tell her. She doesn't even slow down.\n\n\"I don't think so. I saved your asses from the water-zombie, so I get the gun. Fair trade.\"\n\n\"Water-zombie . . . ,\" says Kelton, thinking about it. \"That's exactly what he was.\"\n\n\"The human body is about sixty percent water,\" the girl says. \"But I would say he was down to forty-five percent. I'm not sure what percentage makes you toast, but he's well on his way.\"\n\nI take a moment to look back at the kid crumpled in front of the theater. How could he be so terrifying just a moment ago, and so helpless now? And how many more so-called water-zombies are we going to encounter between here and home? And without any way of defending ourselves. Suddenly the safe and sane world I thought I knew is filled with terrifying unknowns. So which is worse, those unknowns, or the freaky girl who just saved us?\n\n\"Hey\u2014if you're going to take that car,\" I say, \"the least you could do is give us a ride.\"\n\nShe spins toward me, temper suddenly raging. \"What are you, sixteen? An entitled cheerleader type from a perfect family? Think everyone in the world owes you a favor?\"\n\n\"What's your problem?\" Now I'm kind of getting pissed off.\n\nShe takes another step toward me, getting dangerously close. I can see in the corner of my eye that her hand is tightening around the gun. I try not to show any fear.\n\n\"Just tell us what happened here. We came looking for my parents and we can't find them.\"\n\nHearing that seems to notch down her attitude just a bit. Maybe she has a soul after all. \"Can't help you,\" she says. \"It wasn't pretty. That's all I know. Best if you crawl back under your rock, hunker down, and wait this out.\"\n\nAnd then Kelton, who's been pretty subdued since losing the gun, says, \"That cut on your arm is infected, isn't it?\"\n\nShe turns to him. \"It's just a cut.\"\n\n\"I know an infected wound when I see it. It's bad.\"\n\nShe scrutinizes him, suddenly not so cavalier. \"So?\" she says.\n\n\"So if the infection gets into your blood, you'll wish you were just dying of thirst. . . . But I have antibiotics at home. Take us there, and you can have all you need.\"\n\nThe girl twirls her hair around her finger, considering. I try to peg her age. Nineteen maybe. Going on thirty. Is this really a good idea? No. But currently ideas are all coming in various shades of bad.\n\n\"You got names?\" she asks.\n\n\"I'm Alyssa. This is my brother, Garrett. That's Kelton.\"\n\n\"Kelton,\" she mocks. \"Who names their kid Kelton?\"\n\nKelton sighs. \"I ask myself that question all the time.\"\n\nShe smiles at that. It only looks half psychotic. \"I'm Jacqui. You better not be lying about those antibiotics. Now let's get the hell out of here.\"\n\nI look to our bicycles lying in the street, and realize that if they end up the only casualties from this morning, that's fine with me.\n\n### 12) Jacqui\n\nIt's a powerful feeling\u2014daring the universe to end you. We all know that sensation. It's that feeling you get when you think for a just a split second about steering into oncoming traffic. Or jumping off a balcony. Or playing Russian roulette with the revolver that your father thinks you don't know about. It's not like you'd actually do any of those things, but the feeling is there, like a wind at your back on the edge of a cliff, gently urging you. What if . . . What if . . .\n\nIt's what my psychiatrist, better known as Dr. Quack, called the Call of the Void. It's a real thing\u2014defined in psychiatric journals, and everything.\n\nI know that feeling intimately. It's where I live. I eat, sleep, and dream of the void, and whenever it calls my name, I'm there in the front row ready to answer.\n\nI imagine that the bleached-blond surfer twerp caught a glimpse of that when I stuck the gun between his eyes. Not that I would have actually pulled the trigger, but what if . . .\n\nThreatening him wasn't even my plan in the first place. None of it was. I'm no savior or martyr or a hero in any way. Too much unnecessary attention. I was originally just going to wait out the confrontation until the three kids beating up the old guy got his keys and led me to the car and his stash of water. But the girl and her little entourage showed up, complicating things. The second I saw the geek with the gun, I knew this was not going to end well if I didn't intercede. So now I have a car and a weapon and maybe some water. Nice work for a Tuesday morning.\n\nIf Alyssa and company had any sense, they would have run as soon as I took the spotlight off her, just as the blond kid's \"friends\" had. Or at least, that's what I expected they'd do. Then again, the Tap-Out has made people remarkably unpredictable.\n\nThere's a reason why I won't tell her what happened at the beach yesterday. It's because nothing I could say would help her face the reality of it. Call my silence compassion if you want.\n\nI was there yesterday. Not early enough to get water, but early enough to see things go south. See, I had been staying for about a week in a beach house on a cliff that overlooked one of Laguna Beach's smaller coves. Big iron D on the chimney. I think it once belonged to Bette Davis\u2014my favorite old-time actress, because she wasn't beautiful, but damn was she sexy! I don't know who owns it now, but they're not around this summer. See, obnoxiously rich people do this obnoxiously rich thing where they buy real estate just so they can park their money somewhere. And if they're rich enough, they can't be bothered to rent it out, so at any given time, maybe one in five of the cliffside homes in Laguna Beach are vacant. And burglar alarm signs only about half the time mean there's actually an alarm. Add locksmith skills and a keen ability to keep a low profile, and I trip into the lap of luxury on a regular basis. Usually I stay for a week maybe, then clean up, like it was an Airbnb, and take off without the owners ever realizing I was there. Except for the fact that they do\u2014because I always leave a note on a Hello Kitty greeting card, thanking them for their hospitality, and telling them that I've stocked the fridge with Dr Pepper for their next uninvited guest. What's the point of life if you can't mess with people?\n\nI cut my arm breaking into the upstairs bathroom window of my current place. The gash wasn't really a big deal\u2014that is, until the Tap-Out. I was caught off guard just like everyone else, which was stupid of me, because I'm usually more on the ball. Then, when they announced that they'd be making drinking water out of the seaweed swill of Southern California's beaches\u2014and that the nearest location was just up the road\u2014I took about a dozen empty water bottles and shoved them into my backpack\u2014also Hello Kitty, because, okay, I've got a thing for Hello Kitty. It's a guilty pleasure, kind of like the macho biker dude who secretly wears women's underwear.\n\nI arrived, like, an hour before they said the operation would start, but there were already lines up and down the beach and boardwalk, past the movie theater, running down all the side streets. Hundreds, if not thousands of people. On principle, I do not wait in lines. Instead I merge. Usually toward the front of a line, and do it with the skill of David Copperfield making the Statue of Liberty disappear. I just needed to find the right opening, so I lingered on the beach and observed.\n\nThe desalination machines were smaller than I had expected. The attendants who worked them looked like FEMA personnel\u2014but they weren't wearing the official cobalt blue outfits. These were sky-blue. Turns out they sent the FEMA volunteer corps. Which really pissed me off. Did they misjudge this water crisis so badly that they dismissed how dire it was, and left it in the hands of volunteers? I know they were stretched thin, but you can't leave an entire relief effort to a bunch of wannabe feds. Not only is it a recipe for disaster, it's a recipe with half the ingredients missing.\n\nThe machines worked at first, and the volunteers seemed to know what they were doing . . . that is, until the first machine started to smoke. That's when it became clear that the attendants' entire skill set was limited to opening the spigots and closing them again.\n\n\"It's the seaweed,\" I heard some fat know-it-all say. \"These morons didn't take into account the seaweed.\"\n\nApparently the machines were designed to process filtered seawater. And although they tried to create makeshift filters, the machines were fouling and overheating one after another.\n\n\"Calm down,\" the clueless volunteers told the angering crowd. \"Technicians are coming to take care of the problem. There'll be enough water for everyone.\" But of course no one came, and pretty soon only two of six machines were still working.\n\nThen the guy in charge made the next in a long series of mistakes. He told the people in front of the broken machines to get in line behind the people at the machines that were still working.\n\nIf f-bombs were nukes, we'd have wiped out the planet.\n\nAre you effing kidding me? We've been effing waiting in the effing hot sun for three effing hours!\n\nAs they say in the Old Testament, there was much consternation and gnashing of teeth.\n\nPeople tried to defy orders and merge themselves into the functional lines, but without any of the finesse that I would have brought to the endeavor. And the people who were already there pushed back, and the mergers pushed harder.\n\nGet lost! We've been waiting in this line all day!\n\nYeah, well we've been waiting in THAT line all day!\n\nSo go back there and wait till they fix your stinking machine!\n\nAnd in an instant the lines were gone. It was just a single crush of people pressing forward.\n\nI didn't see the first fight, but I felt it\u2014because the entire mob surged and I was nearly knocked over. The crowd now pushed so hard that one of the two working machines was knocked over on its side\u2014and even then, people rushed it, tried to fill their containers, but all they got was black sludge.\n\nI had enough sense at that point to break away toward the waterline, but I was trapped there, forced to watch it all play out. One fight gave way to another, and another, and suddenly everyone's brain seemed to shut down at once.\n\nThere's this thing that happens with a mob. It's called \"deindividuation.\" It's the kind of thing that happens when a cop puts on a uniform, or when you wear a pair of sunglasses so people can't quite see your eyes. It's like you slip out of your normal self\u2014and it makes you feel different. Behave different. So what happens when you're just another thirsty soul in sea of water-zombies? You become one.\n\nI saw an old man get trampled to death. I saw a mother steal water from someone else's child. I even saw a man pull out a knife and murder a stranger in cold blood. The mob stormed the machines, attacked the attendants, some of whom had guns and started firing into the crowd.\n\nSoon riot police stormed the scene, pushing against the crowd with riot shields as if they were going to push everyone into the sea and drown them. And some people did. Some people had nowhere to go but into the waves. And the weak ones, or the ones who couldn't swim, went under. The riot police shot rubber bullets, hurled tear gas, beat people with batons.\n\nI was able to wade my way out of it, and climbed on a rock farther down the beach, me and my Hello Kitty backpack still full of empty bottles. At this point, I was already feeling a fever coming on, and I knew it was from that lousy infected cut. I stayed back, watching all those people give in to the Call of the Void.\n\nAfter almost an hour of complete chaos, and after hundreds of arrests, the mob began to thin, which finally allowed paramedics to come in to help the wounded and haul away the dead. By sunset the beach was pretty much deserted, and the riot officers who were left behind were firing warning shots at anyone who dared to come close to the ruined machines. I think maybe one or two of those shots weren't just warnings.\n\nI decided not to go back to the beach house. There was nothing for me there. No water. No supplies. I realized my best chance at survival wouldn't be hiding from people, but being among them. Because that's where opportunity was. People can be played, moved, and sacrificed. So in that way I guess you could say I'm a people person. Moral of the story here: Bad news is sometimes best not broadcast. At least not by me. Because when it comes to Alyssa and Garrett's parents, the truth is, between all the spilled blood and all the spilled water, they could be anywhere right now. Even the morgue.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe search the surrounding streets for the BMW, all the while my fever making me feel even more miserable. We pass vacant storefronts and small parking lots, and I'm pressing the panic button on the keys, but with no luck.\n\nAlyssa and her brother keep looking around, and I know it's not the BMW they're looking for.\n\n\"What kind of car were your parents in?\" I ask.\n\n\"A blue Prius,\" Garrett says.\n\nI laugh. \"Good luck with that. That's, like, half the cars in Laguna.\" I hold the keys in the air and press the panic button again.\n\n\"If you hold the keys to your chin you'll get better range,\" Kelton says. \"The electrical current travels up the fluids in your brain, turning your head into an antenna.\"\n\nIt doesn't work, but he smiles nonetheless, clearly proud of his ability to spout useless information. Book smarts are nice like heelies are nice: They'll only get you so far, until you have to use your freaking feet. In fight-or-flight situations it's street smarts that will get you out alive. I'm exceptionally lucky, because I have both. I've been on my own for a couple of years now and I've managed without a permanent address or a regular paycheck. Whether it was staying with the boyfriend of the month, or in a foreclosed home, or luxuriating in a mothballed beach house, I've done fine. Life on the fringe suits my personality. Even back in school it was the same. I didn't have the melodramatic self-centeredness to be a goth, or show up to class enough to play the geek. I didn't have an IQ low enough to tolerate the popular crowd . . . and I'm pretty sure I would have preferred impalement on the school's flagpole than be a hipster.\n\nMy parents\u2014who have so many of their own issues that they were determined I have issues too\u2014kept bringing me to therapists and psychopharmacologists, who all told them that my problems stemmed more from environmental dysfunction than from chemical imbalance. Which always pissed them off. What could be dysfunctional about a mother so spiteful that she intentionally undercooks her husband's chicken, and a father so narcissistic he gets a face-lift at forty? Eventually, however, they managed to find the one guy who would give them the diagnosis they wanted for me: Psychodissociative Disorder with Nihilistic Tendencies. Which basically means that I'm not a happy camper. And then they medicated me for it. Thank you, Dr. Quack.\n\nIt was great. For them. I didn't have motivation enough to have opinions, or energy enough to care. The thing about medication is that it's a true lifesaver if you actually need it. But if you don't it's just a pain in the ass.\n\nWhen Mom finally grew a pair and announced that she wanted a divorce, I got out of there. This was one dog and pony show I did not need to witness, no matter how good the seats. I call every once in a while to make sure they haven't eaten each other or joined a Kool-Aid cult. Other than that, we keep on our own sides of the demilitarized zone.\n\nBeing on my own over the past two years has brought me close to being a victim of human trafficking, and closer to being dead\u2014and that was even before the Tap-Out. Great fodder for the memoir that I'll never live to write.\n\nSo now I'm a chauffeur for three annoying kids. Which may ultimately be the most dangerous situation I've ever encountered.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe eventually find the BMW parked in an abandoned back lot. It's silver, sleek, and looks incredibly expensive, which means there's a chance this car is loaded with water, just as the blond kid said. The idea of it gets my adrenal glands pumping. But when I look inside, the car is a total mess. Mounds of useless junk. Sheaves of paper, trash, DVDs that would probably never be played again. . . . This can't be it. What kind of second-rate hoarder brings trash rather than supplies? I search under the seats, between the seats\u2014even the trunk is bursting with junk. It isn't until I pop open the glove box that I find salvation\u2014well, at least sixteen ounces of it. I start to guzzle down the water, with no intention of sharing, because I know these kids have water of their own. I have to force my lips from the bottle to breathe.\n\nI take a deep breath and look through some of the junk. Dozens of pictures of the guy who this car belonged to\u2014a glossy family portrait, each family member dressed in uninteresting matching turtlenecks. Hell, their photos might as well have just come with the frames. But for some reason, the more I look through the portraits the more it begins to affect me, which is weird and stupid because I never knew this guy. It's more the items that get to me. The fact that these were the last things this man packed. These were the things he chose to keep before leaving his home, maybe forever. It's a desperate feeling I can understand and relate to. And with all of these emotions, the gravity of our situation comes crashing back to me. I feel woozy. It's the fever. I try to steel myself for the drive. This is no time for sentiment or sickness; it's time to rally.\n\nI take another swig from the water bottle and catch Alyssa staring at me.\n\n\"You should conserve,\" she says. Like she's reciting something she heard on a public service announcement while watching cartoons with her idiot brother.\n\nI glare at her. \"Kelton sits shotgun,\" I declare, \"because at least when he's irritating, it's informational.\" The real reason, of course, is that whoever sits in the front with me will be my biggest threat\u2014and right now the dorky ginger who can't bring himself to fire a gun is the lowest risk. In fact, he seems hell-bent on being helpful.\n\n\"I'll navigate,\" he says. \"We may have to go off-road.\"\n\nAlyssa looks at me skeptically, and then opens her big mouth again. \"Who put you in charge?\"\n\n\"I did,\" I tell her, as I start up the car. \"If you don't like it, you can go back to your bikes and ride home.\"\n\nAlyssa eventually gets in the car, backing down as I knew she would. Because at the end of the day she needs me more than I need her. And I don't need her at all. The only reason she and her brother are in this car is because Kelton probably wouldn't come without them\u2014and Kelton's the man with the antibiotics. That is, unless he's lying. But I don't think he is. He's honest to a fault. The kind of honesty that could get him killed.\n\nAs for Alyssa, I trust her just about as much as she trusts me. Which is fine, as long as I stay in control. Survival means not leaving any factor up to anyone else's jurisdiction. But now, catching a better look at Alyssa in the rearview mirror, I sense something I hadn't picked up on before. When I first met her I figured that she was all bark, no bite\u2014but now in the car as sunlight refracts across her face, illuminating what I could not see before, I realize that her eyes aren't as dull and vapid as I had first thought. She's shrewd. Which means she could be a problem.\n\n### 13) Alyssa\n\nI can't help but notice the way Jacqui's eyes constantly glance back at me in the rearview mirror. I don't like her or trust her and she knows it. She makes me think of something I learned in biology. How pack animals that go rogue are always hungrier and nastier, because it's harder to hunt food without a pack\u2014and when it comes down to it, you have no idea what they did to be excluded from the pack in the first place. Jacqui is an unknown quantity in an unmarked bottle, and we are currently at her mercy. For all I know, we've just been kidnapped.\n\nUp front, Kelton flips on the radio. It's on a satellite country station, which somehow seems obscene. Luke Bryan's singing about rain, and whiskey, and his girl gettin' frisky.\n\nJacqui looks over at him and says. \"If you don't change that, I will shoot you, and then shoot myself.\"\n\nHe quickly obliges. \"What kind of person puts on a song about rain today?\" Kelton says, switching to an AM news station.\n\n\"\u2014as the Tap-Out continues to plague the Southland, the governor and local officials have assured residents that evacuation centers\u2014\"\n\nJacqui reaches over and turns the radio off.\n\n\"Hey! That could be important!\" I remind her.\n\n\"They keep looping the same broadcast\u2014I've been listening all morning,\" Jacqui says. \"There aren't any 'evacuation centers.' At least not yet, anyway.\"\n\n\"Leave it off,\" says Garrett. \"I don't want to hear anything anymore.\"\n\nNeither do I, really. I just don't want to be stuck with my own thoughts. The only thing worse than my thoughts, though, are Kelton's.\n\n\"Things are gonna fall apart pretty quickly now,\" he says. \"Critical services shutting down, unreliable communication\u2014any minute it'll all give way to urban Darwinism. See, there's this theory called Three Days to Animal, which says\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't want to know what it says, Kelton,\" I tell him. \"So just shut up about it.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" he says. And then doesn't shut up. \"It's just that we're on day four\u2014so I think the theory's only one day off.\"\n\nI hate the fact that he's probably right. Disaster is one thing, and a riot is another, but the total disintegration of society? Is that what we're witnessing? My head spirals into visions of a post-apocalyptic reality that I never imagined could arrive quicker than the expiration date on our milk.\n\n\"You kids crack me up,\" Jacqui says. \"All you do is bitch, bitch, bitch at each other. Next you'll start asking, 'Are we there yet?' \"\n\nTo which Garrett replies, \"Are we there yet?\"\n\nI rap him a little harder than I meant to, but he doesn't really react. He just slumps, and looks out the window, probably trying to avoid his own thoughts, too.\n\n\"You keep calling us kids,\" I say to Jacqui, \"but you don't look any older than eighteen.\"\n\n\"Nineteen.\"\n\nAs we cross over the freeway, the same cars are still on the roadway below, and now there's clear evidence of abandonment. I force my thoughts away from it.\n\n\"So, where'd you go to school?\" I ask Jacqui, interested only inasmuch as her answer will distract me from darker thoughts.\n\n\"Mission,\" she says, which surprises me, because that's where I go. It means our time there would have overlapped. I don't remember her, though\u2014but then, Mission Viejo High is a pretty big school.\n\n\"So you're a Diablo, too?\" Kelton says, equally surprised.\n\n\"Was,\" says Jacqui. \"Until I bailed.\"\n\nAnd then Kelton gasps. \"You wouldn't happen to be Jacqui Costa, would you?\"\n\nShe turns to look at him. \"How the hell do you know my name?\"\n\n\"Are you kidding me? You're, like, legend.\" Then Kelton turns to me. \"She's on this plaque in the office\u2014the school's SAT record\u2014a near perfect score!\" Kelton turns back to her. \"I've been hating on you all year!\"\n\n\"Well, now you have a face to hate, too.\"\n\n\"So why'd you drop out?\" I ask her, now genuinely curious.\n\nBut of course she deflects the question with, \"I had better things to do.\"\n\n\"Hmm,\" I say. \"Sounds to me like your tap-out started a long time ago.\"\n\nI catch her eyes again in the rearview mirror. A quick, cold glance. I have to remind myself not to antagonize her. She's got the gun, and a shriveled raisin of a conscience, if she has one at all. I imagine her to already be animal, without needing three days to get there.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAs we turn in to our neighborhood, part of me begins to relax, while another part becomes more tense. Returning home means a measure of safety, but it also means failure. Unless Mom and Dad returned while we were gone. I hold onto that hope like the frayed end of a lifeline, because I still refuse to face any of the alternatives.\n\nRows of houses bake in the sun, their occupants nowhere to be seen\u2014pretty much how we left it. I'm crooking my neck, pressed against the tinted window, to get a better view of our house. We're half a block away but I can already see our driveway. Mom's car is still gone. Garage door is still down. Side gate still shut.\n\nBut the front door is open!\n\nBefore Jacqui even throws the car in park, Garrett and I have jumped out and are running to the front door.\n\n\"They're home!\" Garrett yells. \"I knew we should have just waited! I knew it.\"\n\nBut if they're home, why would they have left the door wide open?\n\nAs we hurry toward the door, I can see there's a note taped to it. For a brief instant I think it might be from our parents, but it's just a flyer calling for an emergency community meeting later today. That's when I realize there are chips of wood lying on the doorstep and all over the tile in the foyer. The door isn't just open\u2014it was kicked in.\n\n\"Dad?\" Garrett yells. \"Mom?\"\n\nHe wants to believe it so badly, he's in complete denial. He looks at the busted doorjamb. \"Maybe they lost their keys. Or Uncle Basil came back and couldn't get in.\"\n\nBut he's grasping at straws. This was a break-in. And then I realize\u2014\n\n\"Kingston!\"\n\nThe thought of our dog having to face intruders propels us inside.\n\nThe house is not exactly ransacked, but things aren't right. There's a thin steel band on the floor, pieces of copper piping, greasy footprints on the carpet, and as we come around a bend, we see our hot water heater lying like a shipwreck in the dining room. It's been ripped out, ripped open, and lies dead on the dining room table like a patient that didn't survive the operation.\n\n\"Kingston?\" Garrett calls. \"Kingston! Where are you!\"\n\nAnd to my relief, Kingston appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.\n\n\"Come here, boy!\" I call to him. \"Did you chase them away?\"\n\nI extend a hand to pet him, but he doesn't come. Instead he whimpers and hesitates, not necessarily out of defiance, but something else. . . .\n\n\"Kingston?\" I say, still trying to process his reaction. I realize that he must be hungry after a morning without food, so I reach into my pocket and pull out the beef jerky I had packed for the ride.\n\nAs soon as I do, another dog emerges from the kitchen, having smelled the meat. It's the Rottweiler that belongs to a family across the street. Strange. Why is this dog here? He must have made his way in through the open front door, searching for water. I always remembered him to be friendly, but he doesn't look all that friendly right now.\n\nUnnerved, I stand up, rip the jerky in half and toss a piece to both dogs\u2014but they just sniff at it. It's not what they want. I know what they want, but right now my canteen is empty.\n\n. . . And that's when a third dog emerges. One that I don't recognize. It's a Doberman, and it's eyeing me like I'm a much more attractive proposition than the jerky.\n\nI'm so startled I almost jump out of my skin. \"Garrett, stay back,\" I say.\n\nThen the Doberman starts growling.\n\n\"Kingston!\" I call out. But Kingston stands with the other two dogs, and won't come. It's as if he's no longer our dog. Because we betrayed him by not giving him enough water. This is his new pack.\n\nThe Doberman's muscles tighten, like it's ready to charge, so I grab Garrett and race back out the door.\n\n\"No!\" Garrett yells. \"We can't just leave him! We can't just leave Kingston!\"\n\nBut behind us the dogs have started barking, and I can't tell if they're pursuing us into the street, or just chasing us from their territory. So I pull Garrett along, knowing that I can't take the time to explain this to him. That Kingston, a dog that, under any other circumstance, would have been loyal to the end, made an instinctive choice for his own survival.\n\n### 14) Kelton\n\nAlyssa and Garrett race out of their house, and practically hurl themselves back into the car, slamming the door\u2014and it only takes a moment for us to realize why. A pretty lethal looking Doberman Pinscher comes out the front door, followed by Kingston and another big dog. They follow the Doberman's lead as it circles the car. Alyssa explains what happened, and Jacqui pulls out my gun.\n\n\"No!\" I tell her. \"Let's just see what they do.\"\n\nKingston puts his paws up on the back door, looks sadly in the window at Garrett, whose eyes are clouding with tears. Then Kingston follows the other two dogs back inside the house. Alyssa breathes out her relief.\n\n\"So you're just going to give up your house to a pack of dogs?\" Jacqui says.\n\nAlyssa doesn't respond. She won't even look up. It's like her brain's processor just froze with this last straw.\n\n\"It doesn't matter,\" I tell Jacqui. \"We're going to my house. We'll all be safer there anyway.\"\n\nOf course, convincing my father to take them in will be fun and a half. Considering the way things have escalated today, he's probably gone full commando by now\u2014guns locked and loaded, with the truck all packed for our pilgrimage to the bug-out, and pissed off to high heaven that I left this morning with nothing but a note. But I'll stand firm that going with Alyssa was the right thing to do.\n\nAnd Jacqui? Well, she's a necessary gambit. That's a chess term. It's the sacrifice of an important piece early on in the game, with an eventual long-term gain down the line. But sometimes that's what you have to do to win. Take risks. I know that bringing Jacqui here was a big risk. But despite Alyssa's obvious mistrust of her, Jacqui's the only reason we're still alive right now, whether we like that or not. I'm just glad I noticed her infection\u2014because I knew she wouldn't pass up antibiotics. I can't help but feel that her decision to join us was a gambit of her own. And now I can only hope that Jacqui won't turn on us the second she gets what she wants.\n\nWe park in the driveway, and I lead them toward my house. I can already tell that my father's been busy. The spider holes in our yard are covered and ready to be manned, booby traps are set, and the security shutters are down. Dad's even lined the perimeter with additional surveillance cameras.\n\nJacqui looks around in sheer awe, stepping off the cement path and onto the grass, and when her foot touches the ground, the dirt gives way. I grip her arm and catch her so she doesn't fall into the pit, which is only a couple of feet deep, but lined with nail boards, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.\n\n\"Booby trap,\" I say. \"Be careful where you step.\"\n\nJacqui shakes her head, too cool to be horrified. \"And how long have you been preparing for the apocalypse?\"\n\n\"A while,\" I say. \"The end of the world is our family hobby.\"\n\nShe glances around, captivated by the grim awesomeness of our yard. \"Beats knitting,\" she says.\n\nNow the hard part. I approach the front door, take a deep, deep breath, fumbling with my keys\u2014but before I slip the key into the lock, I freeze up, remembering that Jacqui still has my gun. If my father sees it, the hell that's already going to break loose will become exponential. The fact that it's now in her possession doesn't just make me wildly irresponsible, but one hundred percent culpable for whatever the hell she ends up doing with it.\n\nAnd then the door opens before I use my key\u2014it's my dad. It's like he was waiting for us.\n\n\"Welcome home,\" he says, with deadpan coolness. \"Have fun out there?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" I tell him. \"It's just like you predicted.\"\n\n\"And the freeways?\"\n\n\"Gridlock,\" I report.\n\nThat's when Mom rushes out, throwing her arms around me, in a deeply embarrassing hug.\n\n\"Kelton! Are you all right? Don't you ever scare us like that again!\" I don't even have to look to see Jacqui's smirk.\n\nDad gestures for Mom to go in and let him handle this. Then he turns to the others. \"Brought your friends, I see. Hello, Alyssa. Garrett.\"\n\nThey offer awkward greetings.\n\nThen he gives Jacqui the once-over. \"And who's this?\"\n\n\"Name's Jacqui. I'm the one who saved your son's ass out there,\" she responds, fearlessly stepping forward. \"I'm here for the antibiotics he promised me.\"\n\nMy dad's face swells with anger. But instead of yelling he takes a deep breath, bottling it up. He nods, keeping his composure, filing his fury away for another time. \"Is this true, Kelton?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I say. \"She saved our lives, and got us home safely.\"\n\n\"Thank you for that, Jacqui,\" my father says. \"But unfortunately, our antibiotics are not my son's to give away.\"\n\nJacqui glares at him, practically growling like the Doberman in Alyssa's house, and my mind is already racing, knowing this won't end well. She takes a threatening step toward him.\n\n\"Yeah, that's not gonna work for me,\" Jacqui says.\n\nI think about the gun concealed in her waistband. What my father would do if he saw it. How he can never find out. Before the moment ignites, I step in between the two of them. \"Like Jacqui says, she saved my life!\" I remind my father, pretending to be indignant, and then realizing I don't have to pretend because I am. \"Are you saying my life isn't worth some lousy antibiotics?\"\n\n\"Kelton, you're missing the point\u2014\"\n\n\"Next you'll probably tell me that we can't take Alyssa and Garrett in!\"\n\n\"They have their own home!\"\n\n\"Which was broken into, and is unsafe! And now their parents are missing!\"\n\nThen he gets closer to me, speaking quietly. Not quite whispering, but not loud enough for anyone but me to hear.\n\n\"We're not having this conversation. You know how things are.\"\n\nAnd I blow it up, yelling, so that Mom can hear inside, and probably anyone else in listening range.\n\n\"Yeah, I know exactly how it is! And you're right, we're not having the conversation. Because I'm out of here.\"\n\nI turn and storm toward the BMW.\n\n\"Kelton!\" yells my father.\n\nI can't fight the urge to halt when he calls my name like that\u2014but I use it to my advantage. I turn back to him. \"Now I get why Brady got the hell out of here the second he could. But I'm not waiting until I'm eighteen.\" Then I look at the others. \"C'mon, we're leaving. Jacqui, we'll get your antibiotics from someone who gives a shit.\"\n\nI'm hoping that Jacqui gets what I'm doing and plays along\u2014because in a real situation, this girl would never take an order from me.\n\nBut she does get it\u2014because she looks to my dad with a smile and a shrug and says, \"Later, dick.\" And for a moment I wonder how she knows my dad's name. And then I realize that she doesn't.\n\nWe make it halfway to the car\u2014then my mother comes storming out of the house.\n\n\"Kelton!\" she says with even more command than my father. \"Don't you dare get in that car!\"\n\nI turn to her, waiting for this to play out.\n\n\"Alyssa, Garrett\u2014of course you can stay with us,\" she says. \"You too, Jacqui. We have all the water and food you need.\" Then she turns to my dad, and says with thrilling defiance, \"And antibiotics.\"\n\nShe hustles Alyssa and Garrett into the house right past my father, who's powerless to stop her.\n\n\"Marybeth, can we talk about this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nAnd she pushes past him, his authority overridden.\n\nI feel triumphant, and worried at the same time, because my dad keeps a tally of slights. I know this will someday come back to bite me. But not today.\n\nJacqui saunters past my father, slathering him in sarcasm. \"Thank you for your hospitality!\" Mercifully, she doesn't add \"dick\" this time, but she does grab the pink community meeting flyer taped to the door and hands it to him\u2014like she's doing him a favor.\n\nAs for me, I keep a poker face and don't look at my dad as I pass. But inside I'm smiling\u2014because, for the first time in my life, I've made fear a tailwind rather than a headwind.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy circle of friends is usually limited to Scouts, preppers, or the random offspring of other dentists\u2014so having Alyssa, Garrett, and Jacqui here is kind of a minor big deal for me. I give them the grand tour, starting with my favorite place in the house\u2014our safe room. It's where we keep all the supplies that we are never usually allowed to touch. First-aid kits, water jugs, guns, ammunition, and nonperishable canned food. It's behind a hinged bookcase. I tug on a book that pulls back like a handle, and the entire shelving unit swings open.\n\n\"My dad modeled it after an old James Bond movie,\" I tell them, hoping to maybe redeem my father for them. They are duly impressed. This is also where Dad stashed the antibiotics\u2014various vials and pill containers in Ziploc bags.\n\n\"Any antibiotics allergies?\" I ask Jacqui.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nI hand her two orange pill bottles of Keflex. \"One round should do it, but if not, a second round definitely will.\" I hold the two containers out to her, and she looks at them as if maybe it's a trick. Then she snatches them from my hand, opens one of them, and pops two pills dry.\n\n\"Finally.\" She exhales, stuffing the bottles in her pocket. Then she smiles at me, and for the first time it doesn't come off as mad-creepy. \"Thank you, Kelton,\" she says, and I think she actually means it.\n\nAlyssa looks around. \"Is there a lock on the door?\" she asks.\n\n\"Only on the inside,\" I say. \"It's a safe room, remember. Why?\"\n\n\"Because,\" says Jacqui, \"she thinks I'm going to raid it in the middle of the night and take off with all of your stuff.\"\n\n\"Not everything's about you,\" Alyssa says, but the way she evades Jacqui's glare tells me that this time it is. And maybe for good reason.\n\n\"No worries,\" I say, with a secret wink to Alyssa. \"There's a motion-sensor alarm inside, so if anyone goes in during the night, we'll know.\" Which isn't exactly true, because all the motion sensors are on the perimeter of our property, but Jacqui doesn't need to know that.\n\nI lead them out back, showing off my target practice area. And point out the porta potty. \"We're not wasting water on internal toilets, so that's where all business is done.\" And although no one loves a porta potty, none of them complain.\n\nIn the kitchen, I show them the stainless steel drum that holds our primary water supply. I unscrew the rubber safety stopper and prep the tap. \"My dad will ration the water,\" I say, looking around to make sure he's not around. He's back out in the garage being diligent again. \"But for now you guys can fill up.\"\n\nJacqui's practically salivating, eyes large like saucers. I can tell she's already warming up to the place.\n\nAlyssa and Garrett fill up the canteens I gave them. Jacqui fills up her water bottle. I notice, though, that Alyssa's not drinking. She's just looking down the dark hole of the canteen's mouth.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" I ask her, just after her brother and Jacqui leave the kitchen.\n\n\"Nothing.\" She tries to shake it off, bringing the canteen to her lips, but as soon as she does\u2014her eyes begin to well up, and I sense a pressure building within her until suddenly her floodgates break. She throws her arms around me, hugging me tightly. And I hug her back\u2014not with the girl-next-door kind of infatuation I maybe would've had in the past, but with a sincerity that I hadn't felt before. It both surprises me and makes total sense. She pulls away quickly, embarrassed. \"I'm sorry. I'm being stupid.\"\n\n\"What? No . . . ,\" I say. I'm not exactly sure what to do in a situation like this.\n\nShe wipes her wet eyes. \"What a waste of water.\" And she laughs.\n\n\"We all need to waste a little water sometimes,\" I tell her. \"Better than wetting the bed.\" Which may be the stupidest thing I've ever said to another human being, but it makes her laugh some more. Not at me, but with me. Or at least next to me.\n\n\"Last week I would have called your house bizarre,\" she admits, \"but now I think it's pretty incredible.\" She meets my eyes. \"Thanks. For everything. For putting yourself on the line back there so we could stay.\"\n\nI give her a slanted grin. \"Eagle Scout, remember?\" I say, trying to get a smile out of her. It works. \"And anyway, I had to do something to make up for being so useless at the beach.\"\n\n\"You weren't useless,\" she tells me.\n\n\"We had to have our asses saved by the Queen of Darkness,\" I remind her.\n\n\"Would it have been better if you actually pulled the trigger and killed that boy?\"\n\nThat gives me pause for thought. My father always told me you should never draw a weapon unless you are fully prepared to use it. I was not prepared. And maybe that's a good thing.\n\nWe catch up with Jacqui and Garrett, who have already gone upstairs and are checking out our game room. Jacqui's in the middle of a game on the classic Twilight Zone machine. \"My life, in convenient pinball form,\" Jacqui says, slamming the flippers and keeping the metal ball bouncing. Garrett's examining a Pac-Man console, and declares it lame.\n\n\"Forgive him, Lord, for he knoweth not what he says,\" I say to the ceiling. Alyssa challenges him to a game. He plays it once and is addicted.\n\nI notice that Jacqui, however, has given up on her own machine, with a ball still in the chute. She's sprawled out on a beanbag, looking even more feverish than before.\n\n\"You okay?\"\n\n\"I'm fine,\" she says. \"Leave me the hell alone.\"\n\nI go to the bathroom and come back with some Advil for her. \"The antibiotics will take a day or so to kick in. This'll bring down the fever.\"\n\nShe takes the bottle and downs three with a swig of water. She doesn't thank me this time. Maybe she rations gratitude the way the rest of us ration water.\n\nI go downstairs to watch TV with my mom for a bit. She's not watching the news; instead she's watching Back to the Future, which you can't not watch when you channel surf across it. Doc Brown's talking about the 1.21 gigawatts needed for time travel, but mispronouncing it \"jigawatts,\" which always bothered me.\n\nIt doesn't surprise me that she's not watching the news, which always emphasizes the gloom and doom. We get enough of that from my father. My mom generally subscribes to the more positive, optimistic school of thought, and my dad believes the doomsayers are underplaying the truth. I guess you could say they balance each other out.\n\nMom lowers the volume and turns to me. \"You need to make things right with your father,\" she says.\n\n\"Now?\"\n\n\"It will only be harder later.\"\n\nAnd I know she's right.\n\nI find him welding something new in the garage. Some sort of hybrid shovel with an ax at the opposite end. I'm not sure whether it's a tool or a weapon. It doesn't look very practical for either. I stare at his back for a while, cogitating, unsure of how to begin.\n\n\"\u2014Dad,\" I finally manage.\n\nHe disengages the welder without turning around. \"Yes, Kelton?\" he says frigidly.\n\n\"I need to talk to you about what happened at the beach.\"\n\n\"Let me guess\u2014the desalination plants failed and people rioted.\"\n\n\"Was it on the news?\"\n\nHe lifts his visor and shakes his head. \"There are too many things to report now for the news to catch it all. But if you look at the history of crisis mismanagement, it's an easy prediction.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, we didn't actually see it go down, but by the looks of it, it was pretty bad.\" I clear my throat and finally get to what I'm really there to say. \"I'm sorry I put you on the spot back there. But you really didn't give me much of a choice.\"\n\n\"We're leaving tomorrow morning,\" he says quickly, neither accepting nor rejecting my apology.\n\n\"The bug-out?\" I say.\n\nHe nods. \"It's time.\"\n\n\"But what about Brady?\"\n\n\"We can't wait for him anymore, Kelton.\" I can tell that this was not an easy decision for him. \"I have to believe that he took at least some of the lessons we taught him to heart,\" my dad says, \"and that he kept his own emergency supplies\u2014maybe even has his own bug-out.\"\n\n\"What about Alyssa and Garrett?\" I say, less worried about Jacqui than I am about them. But I knew the answer before I asked.\n\n\"We can't bring them,\" my father says firmly. And this time I know there's no getting around him.\n\n\"Then let them stay here,\" I suggest. \"There'll be water and food\u2014and we can teach them how to use the security system.\"\n\nDad considers. He doesn't shut me down, which is a good sign. I give one more push.\n\n\"We can't just throw them out on the street. . . .\"\n\nThen he meets my gaze, but rather than his typical bone-chilling glare, his eyes are different. Shimmering and glassy. Vulnerable. An honest display of emotion that I've never seen before. And in this single look I feel as if I've opened his personal .zip file; suddenly years of compressed emotional information comes bursting out, and I'm hit with an overwhelming truth. This is what lies beneath his indignation. All of the larger-than-life doomsday toys I adored as a kid, the anger and manipulation that pushed away Brady and threaten to push away my mother, are all just the threads of a veil woven to hide his own terror.\n\nAs a kid you idolize your parents. You think they're perfect, because they're the yardstick by which you measure the rest of the world, and yourself. Then as teenager they just piss you off, because you realize that not only are they not perfect, but they may be even a little more screwed up than you. But there's that moment when you realize they're not superheroes, or villains. They're painfully, unforgivably human. The question is, can you forgive them for being human anyway?\n\nLike an exposed raw nerve, he just stands there, holding that bizarre hybrid terror tool, and I realize that thing is the physical manifestation of everything he fears. And I don't know what to say except, \"The booby traps work.\"\n\nHe's caught off guard by that. \"They do?\"\n\n\"Yeah, Jacqui almost fell into one. Never saw it coming.\"\n\nHe snaps out of his zip-file state and smiles, as I hoped he would. \"Awesome!\" he says, like some little kid. \"I mean, it's reassuring to know that it worked.\"\n\n\"She thought it was really cool,\" I tell him. \"Even if it almost maimed her.\"\n\nHe looks to his weird tool thingy. \"Let me finish this,\" he says, the tension between us dissipated. \"I'll be out in a bit, and I can show your friends all the features of the house.\"\n\nI decide not to tell him that I already have.\n\n### 15) Alyssa\n\n\"All circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later.\"\n\nThe voice sounds like Siri crossed with Google Maps. Cheerful, sure of itself, and utterly soulless. I'm trying to call hospitals near Laguna Beach, hoping to track down my parents, but that would require actually getting through to the hospitals. I hang up and try again.\n\n\"All circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later.\"\n\nSo is Verizon as dead as most people's phones now? How can circuits be busy if most phones in Southern California have run out of juice? I hang up and send a text to Garrett.\n\nIgnore this, I'm just testing the system.\n\nThe text goes through. He texts back K, because \"OK\" is too long for our modern world. Satisfied that at least some cell towers are still in operation, I try one more call. I dial 911.\n\n\"All circuits are busy now. Please try your call again later.\"\n\nI fight the urge to smash my phone, knowing that the momentary satisfaction will not be worth the loss. There's a bright side to this, though, that is actually a little bit comforting. Because if I'm trying this hard to find my parents, it's likely they're trying equally hard to get through to us. It would be much worse if phone service was working perfectly and we still didn't hear from them.\n\nI try to take my mind off it all by checking what the others are up to. Jacqui's still passed out on a beanbag. Kelton's father is out in the garage making masculine metallic noises, and Kelton seems to be everywhere at once, like a watchdog obsessively checking that everything in his world is secure.\n\n\"You okay?\" he asks for, like, the third time in an hour, as I pass him on the stairs.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I tell him. \"Still good.\"\n\nIt's endearing that he's worried about me, but enough is enough. Kelton McCracken, endearing? I have stumbled into a very strange universe.\n\nI can see Mrs. McCracken out in the greenhouse, busy with their hothouse tomatoes, and whatever else they're growing out there. While my mom stress-cleans, it looks like Kelton's mom stress-gardens. Then I spot Garrett in the dining room, staring blankly out the window. I watch as he picks up a decorative bowl from the dining room table and moves toward the front door. I have no clue what he's up to. He pushes through the door, and as much as my big sister instincts want to stop him, he moves with such intent, I just watch to see what he'll do, quietly shadowing him.\n\nHe goes out the front security gate and to our driveway next door, where he puts down the bowl, takes the canteen that hangs over his shoulder, and pours its entire contents into the bowl. And now I get it.\n\nIt's water for Kingston.\n\nGarrett just stands there, not wanting to go all the way up to our front door. It's still wide open, and though I don't see or hear any of the dogs, they could be anywhere. They could be gone for good, and it pains me to think we might never see Kingston again.\n\nGarrett, turning around, finally sees me. His cheeks go rosy, embarrassed. \"It was always my job to make sure Kingston had water,\" he says, unable to meet my eye. \"But I always forgot, so Mom would do it for me. But now she can't.\"\n\nI can tell that he needed to do this for a whole lot of reasons. And although it's not our water to give, sometimes doing the right thing means doing the wrong thing first. With that in mind, I realize there's something that I have to do, too. A thing where the right far outweighs the wrong. But I realize I'll need an accomplice.\n\n\"Garrett, I have a mission for you.\"\n\n\"A mission?\" Garrett is instantly interested.\n\n\"I need you to ask Kelton what chess boxing is.\"\n\nHe looks at me, confused. \"I don't want to know what chess boxing is.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. I need you to have Kelton show you.\"\n\nKnowing Kelton, this should buy me at least an hour out of his scrutiny. And with Mrs. McCracken occupied in the garden, and her husband playing with sharp objects in the garage, I'll have just the window I need.\n\nGarrett agrees, not getting it, but trusting me.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe slip back into the house and I immediately locate the little trash bin near the foyer. I dig through tissues, wrappers, and bits of paper until I finally find the pink flyer\u2014the one that was on the door, giving the specifics of the community meeting.\n\nI read it over, this time more carefully. It's at the Burnsides' house. It started half an hour ago.\n\nI grab Kelton's backpack, empty out the school stuff, then, making sure the coast is clear, I go to the bookcase near the stairs\u2014the entrance to the safe room.\n\nI can't remember which book opens the door, so I have to try a whole bunch of them until I find it. Finally the deadbolt disengages, and I pull the door open, revealing the treasure trove of survival gear. Weapons, tools, canned food, and most importantly, cases of bottled water.\n\nI start stuffing half-liter bottles into the pack. I'm able to fit only ten in. Then I freeze, suddenly realizing that I'm not alone.\n\nKelton's mom stands in the doorway.\n\nCaught, I stammer, trying to come up with some kind of explanation, because I know how bad this must look\u2014but Mrs. McCracken's face softens. She offers a light, encouraging smile.\n\n\"You can fit two more in the side pockets,\" she tells me, and hands me the bottles. \"The meeting's already started, so you'll have to hurry.\"\n\nI'm so caught off guard, I can't respond. Then, without another word, Mrs. McCracken steps away from the doorway and quietly disappears into another room, as if she never even saw me.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWalking down my own street after the events at the beach this morning has me on edge. I have this vulnerable feeling, like if I stand outside too long, something's going to gobble me up. It's the same way I feel when I'm waist deep in the ocean and I think I see the outline of a shark. I know it's all in my head, but the feeling lingers all the same. So I deal with it, and wade deeper down the street. I don't want to be seen coming out of the McCracken house, because anyone who sees me will know I'm not as thirsty as they probably are. But even if they don't see me leaving the house, maybe they'll know I'm hydrated just by looking at me.\n\nThere's a kid coming down the street. My age. I know him, but not well\u2014his name is Jacob something-or-other. I dread the moment he passes. Never have I felt so completely antisocial.\n\nHe's dragging something on the ground. A stick of some sort. It hisses on the concrete as he drags it. He doesn't make eye contact. He seems as uncomfortable passing me as I do passing him. And I notice that it's not a stick that he's dragging, but a golf club. A wooden driver.\n\n\"Hey,\" he says as we pass.\n\n\"Hey,\" I say back.\n\nHe goes his way, I go mine. I don't look back. I have no idea what he plans to do with that golf club, but I know it has nothing to do with golf.\n\nThe Burnsides' house is just around the corner. Mrs. Burnside used to have a prize-winning garden. Roses, azaleas, and bougainvillea climbing the trunks of tall palms. All that's left are the palms, which aren't dead yet, but everything else is gone. What was once a lawn is now a tricolored mosaic of river stones, creating an image of Kokopelli, the hunchbacked flute player of American Indian mythology\u2014an idea Mrs. Burnside probably got on a visit to Santa Fe, or Taos, or someplace like that. I'm sure her stone-scape will win awards, too.\n\nThe door is closed but unlocked. As I enter I see that their large living room is packed with people. It seems for the most part, there's one representative from every neighborhood family that hasn't already left.\n\nThey're taking stock of pooled resources, both physical and intellectual. Mrs. Jarvis claims her sister is a legitimate dowser, and can find water for a \"nominal fee.\" Roger Malecki says he put his entire cactus garden through his Magic Bullet blender, and extracted a gallon of water from it.\n\nMrs. Burnside sees me hanging by the door, and comes over to me, giving me a hug. \"Allison, I'm so glad you came.\" I can tell she's genuinely pleased to see me, so I don't correct her. \"How are your parents? I was hoping to see them here.\"\n\nI take a deep breath and say, \"They're not home right now,\" which is true, and doesn't elicit either questions or concern\u2014neither of which I could deal with in the moment.\n\n\"Well, please give them our regards, and tell them to stay safe! Things are getting strange out there.\"\n\nI heft the pack on my back and take a few steps forward. In a lull in the conversation, I try to get Mr. Burnside's attention.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" I say, but not loudly enough, because no one seems to hear me. They go on to talk about the heat, and someone suggests the cooling effect that evaporating alcohol has on the skin\u2014although I suspect any alcohol is being otherwise employed.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" I say a little louder. \"I have some water.\"\n\nI have never in my life seen an entire room turn in my direction. Never have I commanded such complete attention.\n\n\"You have water?\" someone says.\n\nI flip around my backpack, open the zipper slightly, and pull out one of the bottles. \"I mean\u2014it's not enough for everyone, but it's better than nothing.\"\n\nThey stare at me. They stare at each other.\n\n\"How much do you have?\" asks Stu Leeson, with both suspicion and expectation.\n\nThen Mr. Burnside takes control again. \"Well, this is good news,\" he says, and offers what I think is a bible quote, or at least a paraphrasing. \" 'And a child shall lead them.' \" Then he does a head count of the room. \"We have seventeen households represented here. How much water do you have, Alyssa?\"\n\n\"Twelve bottles. Half a liter each.\"\n\nSilence for a moment.\n\nThen someone points out the obvious. \"That means five of us won't get bottles.\"\n\n\"Now hold on,\" says Burnside. \"That's not necessarily the case.\"\n\nAnd now everyone has an opinion.\n\n\"The math gives everyone seventy percent of a bottle.\"\n\n\"That's ridiculous!\"\n\n\"Families with young children should get a full bottle!\"\n\n\"That's discriminatory!\"\n\n\"My wife is pregnant.\"\n\nBurnside puts up his hands. \"All right, calm down!\"\n\nBut the genie is already out of the lamp. Everyone begins talking among themselves. I can see alliances forming, lines in the sand being drawn\u2014all within seconds, and all because I announced that I have a limited supply of something that all of them desperately need.\n\n\"We'll pour it into a pot, and every family gets a measured scoop.\"\n\n\"How is that fair? There are five in my family.\"\n\n\"So we'll count everyone and divide it that way.\"\n\n\"What about pets?\"\n\n\"Pets? Are you serious?\"\n\n\"Let the girl decide!\"\n\nEveryone considers that.\n\n\"Yes,\" someone else agrees. \"It's her water, let her decide who gets it.\"\n\nAnd for the second time in five minutes, they all turn to me.\n\nI am not the kind of person who is easily intimidated. I can stand in front of a class and deliver an oral report fearlessly. I can debate anyone into the ground on any subject I'm passionate about. But never before have I held the fate of other human beings in my hands. Suddenly I'm timid. I'm never timid.\n\n\"Well . . . I think . . . maybe we should . . . I mean . . .\"\n\nAnd then Stu Leeson shouts out, \"Are you seriously leaving this in the hands of a teenage girl?\"\n\nAnd then before I can stop myself, I blurt out, \"Well, that makes sixteen instead of seventeen I have to decide between, doesn't it?\"\n\nI don't mean that. Or maybe I do. I don't know. Now I have to give a bottle to the Leesons because I said that. But if I do, I'm denying somebody else. Is that fair?\n\n\"Alyssa, honey,\" says Vicky Morales, who I barely know, \"we trust your decision, dear. We know you're a smart, honest girl.\"\n\n\"Well, you're just brown-nosing now, Victoria!\" says Miss Bouman. \"Do you really think she'll favor you just because you're kissing ass?\"\n\n\"All right, we're all in the same boat here,\" someone else says. And it's true. But, as Garrett said the other day, that boat is the Titanic. One lifeboat left, and I'm it. I don't like this. I don't like it at all, and although I know this is terrible, I begin to wish I never came here with water.\n\nThese people look a lot like the kid at the beach. Their lips are white and raw. They're anxious, irritated, and their irritation is turning on me like a spotlight.\n\n\"Well, what's it gonna be?\" a man I don't even know says, at the end of his patience. \"We don't have all day!\"\n\nBut I don't respond, because for a split second his eyes flit, and I catch that wild look in them\u2014a look that I'm starting to learn how to identify\u2014and I think I know what comes next.\n\nThen Mr. Burnside signals to his wife, and apparently they communicate in that telepathic way that married couples sometimes do, because she comes up behind me and gently takes the backpack.\n\n\"Why don't you go, Alyssa,\" she says, this time getting my name right. \"We'll figure it out. Thank you for the water\u2014and I'm sorry you got put in this position. It's our problem, not yours.\"\n\nI don't argue. I don't even ask for the bag back. I don't care. I just want to get out of there.\n\nIt's only after I leave that I remember that it's Kelton's backpack, with his name stenciled right on it. If they didn't already know the McCrackens have water, they sure do now.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe sun sets and we convene for what I'm anticipating to be the most awkward dinner of my life. Even the food is surreal: corned beef and cabbage with pumpkin pie that's still frozen in the middle for dessert.\n\n\"Don't ask,\" Kelton leans over and whispers. Which is just fine by me.\n\nIn spite of the off-grid electrical system that Kelton is always so proud to brag about, the lights in the house are turned off, and Mrs. McCracken has lit candles for the dinner table.\n\nAt the head of the table sits Mr. McCracken, who glowers at everyone as if he were a lord presiding over his fiefdom. I imagine he's one of those overbearing parents who makes you ask to be excused, and only after you've finished all your peas and carrots. Though right now his glare is focused more on Jacqui\u2014who's already helped herself to three servings of corned beef. She stuffs her face, gleefully irreverent, and eventually motions with her fork. \"So what's with the candles?\"\n\n\"Good question,\" Mr. McCracken mutters to his corned beef, but with a tone that tells me he's talking to his wife. \"I wonder that, too.\"\n\n\"We don't want to flaunt our electricity to the neighbors any more than we already have,\" Kelton's mother says too calmly.\n\n\"It took us six months to install our power system. I'd like to use it,\" Mr. McCracken says. \"Besides, it's going to take more than a few scented candles to ward off our neighbors.\"\n\n\"We wouldn't have to worry about neighbors if we practiced a little more compassion,\" his wife comes back.\n\n\"Maybe we should just invite them all over for supper,\" he says.\n\n\"Maybe we should,\" she says, calling his bluff.\n\nHe looks around at the rest of us like a prosecutor making an argument to a jury. \"You share nothing, or you share everything. There's no in between.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Master Yoda,\" says Jacqui.\n\nI don't think this is the first time Kelton's parents have had this argument, because Kelton is quick to react. \"It's called the psychology of scarcity, and deprivation thinking,\" Kelton says, feeling the need to defend his father\u2014although it really feels more like he's apologizing for him. \"Add that to mob dynamics, and you get a mob that will keep taking until you're just as bereft as they are.\"\n\n\"Bereft,\" says Jacqui. \"Good word. You'll catch up with my SAT score in no time.\" Then she grabs more corned beef.\n\n\"Well, it's a bankrupt, self-serving way of thinking,\" says Mrs. McCracken.\n\n\"But he's right,\" I hear myself say, which is a surprise to everyone\u2014even me. I think back to the way our own neighbors handled the division of those water bottles, and how so many of them were ready to turn against me, the one who brought it. As much as I hate to admit it, I see Mr. McCracken's point. It's not like it's their fault, but I can see how, when people feel a threat to their lives, they'll exercise any option they have. If you don't want it to be at your expense, you have to take yourself off the table as an option.\n\n\"Either you open your doors wide, or you lock them,\" I say regretfully. \"People are too complicated to trust with anything in between.\"\n\nMrs. McCracken studies me, perhaps feeling a bit betrayed. Mr. McCracken looks at me, surprised\u2014almost proud\u2014which gives me a queasy, uncomfortable feeling, like my journey to the Dark Side is now complete.\n\nHe clears his throat. \"It doesn't matter anyway,\" he says. \"We're leaving for our bug-out come daybreak.\"\n\n\"What's a bug-out?\" Garrett asks.\n\n\"It's an emergency shelter,\" Kelton explains. \"A secret place to go in the event of a major disaster.\"\n\n\"So when do we leave?\" Jacqui says, through a mouthful of food.\n\nKelton doesn't respond, and just from his silence I realize that we're not part of the McCracken equation.\n\n\"There's only room for us,\" says Kelton's father. \"I'm sorry.\" And I think he actually means it. To be honest, I myself haven't even put any thought into a world past this dinner. There hasn't been time to project any sort of future\u2014even short term. Then Mr. McCracken surprises me.\n\n\"I'm going to leave the keys to the house with you, Alyssa.\"\n\n\"What?\" I accidentally blurt out.\n\n\"I'll show you how to use the security system, and make sure you know where all the booby traps are. The whole place will be yours for the duration,\" he says. He glances at Jacqui, and reluctantly adds, \"All three of you.\"\n\nI wonder what his rationale is for giving me the keys to his castle. It makes me think of the way my mom used to always leave a television on when we'd go on vacation so would-be robbers would think someone was home. Maybe this is just an elaborate version of that. Was it Kelton who persuaded him, I wonder\u2014or was it because I corroborated his abysmal view of humanity?\n\nI think about the days ahead. This has to end, doesn't it? \"The duration,\" as Mr. McCracken called it, can't be more than just a week or two\u2014if that. Then, just as I begin projecting forward to a hope of better days, things suddenly get a whole lot worse.\n\nEvery phone vibrates and dings in unison, a strange and troubling cacophony. We all lift up our phones to see the identical message, which reads:\n\nEMERGENCY ALERT: MARTIAL LAW DECLARED IN LOS ANGELES, ORANGE, VENTURA, RIVERSIDE, SAN BERNARDINO, AND SAN DIEGO COUNTIES.\n\nSTAND BY FOR FURTHER DIRECTIVES.\n\n### 16) Kelton\n\nIt's all happening just as all the books on prepping said it would. I take no comfort in that. Not even a little. Doomsday scenarios are only fun when doomsday is just a hypothetical. Now I wish that they were all wrong.\n\nMartial law is the last step before everything falls apart.\n\nNow it could go one of two ways: 1) Martial law will be effective; there will be enough military might to counteract the chaos; riots will be flashpoints, rather than widespread; things will break soft, and recovery will be relatively easy. 2) Martial law will fail; the military will underestimate the need, or not be able to scramble fast enough; riots will be systemic and severe; Southern California will break hard, and recovery will take years, if at all.\n\n\"So what happens now?\" Alyssa asks, before we all bed down for the night.\n\nI don't share with her the two possibilities. \"We'll have to see,\" I tell her.\n\nI know Alyssa is capable, and I don't worry that she can maintain things here in the house after my parents and I leave, but I do worry about Jacqui. She'll want to take charge, and I don't see that as a good thing.\n\nThese are the thoughts I take to bed with me that night. I think they'll keep me awake, but sometimes your own body does you a much-needed favor. I'm so exhausted, I'm out within minutes of hitting the pillow.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI'm jolted awake by the drone of our motion detector alarm. We have second-generation motion detectors; they only trigger if the moving object is large enough to be a human being\u2014which means someone has hopped our fence. I check the clock. Just before five a.m. I move to the game room, where Alyssa, Garrett, and Jacqui are already up and on high alert.\n\n\"What the hell is that?\" Jacqui asks.\n\n\"Intruder alert,\" I say, realizing that sounds far more sci-fi than I mean it to. \"Where's my dad?\"\n\nNo one responds, but I hear Dad call for me downstairs. That's when Jacqui goes to a window, and whatever she sees out there makes her turn to me with bug-eyed concern\u2014something I didn't even know was in her emotional repertoire.\n\n\"This can't be good . . . ,\" she says.\n\nI look out the window to see lights\u2014dozens of them in the predawn darkness, constellated like stars. I rub my eyes, allowing them to adjust . . . and now I'm able to make out shapes. People holding flashlights\u2014and they're all moving toward our house.\n\n\"What's going on?\" Alyssa asks.\n\nThat's when I hear pounding.\n\nBang Bang Bang!\n\nThere's someone at our front door.\n\n\"Stay away from the windows,\" I tell them, and nearly throw myself downstairs.\n\nMy dad's in the dining room, one step ahead of us, with an array of weapons already sprawled across the table. Guns, ammo, knives, and an assortment of other tactical tools, some of which I don't even recognize.\n\nI can see my mom in the safe room, frantically moving things to make room for us.\n\nBang Bang Bang!\n\nThe wolves have finally arrived. My stomach goes sour and knots up. I remind myself that the front door is reinforced, and that all the windows are bulletproof. Our house is impenetrable and no one is getting in. But if all of these things are true, why the hell am I so afraid?\n\n\"Kelton!\" shouts my dad, as Alyssa, Garrett, and Jacqui come downstairs behind me. \"Get your friends into the safe room. Then go get your gun.\"\n\nBut the command doesn't compute for me.\n\nHe reads the look on my face. \"Where's your pistol?\"\n\n\"It's right here,\" Jacqui says, flashing the butt of the gun, which protrudes from her waistband.\n\nMy father looks from the gun, to Jacqui, to me, calculating how this unthinkable thing happened\u2014and perhaps assessing Jacqui's threat level. Ultimately, he decides that the threat outside our home is more imminent than Jacqui, who clearly will not part with my gun\u2014so my father doesn't ask how she got it. I'll get reamed for it later, I'm sure.\n\nDad opens the electrical panel in the downstairs hallway and throws the master switch, killing the floodlights outside, and any lights on inside as well, other than his own flashlight. Then he attaches infrared scopes to what guns he can, so he'll be able to see but the intruders won't.\n\nThe banging, which had stopped for a few moments, changes timbre and direction. Now it's coming from the back door instead of the front door, and is even more insistent than before. Our back door has a captive double-cylinder nickel-silver deadbolt, but my dad has complained that the door frame isn't thick enough. Deadbolts are only as strong as the frame that holds them.\n\nMy mom tries to move the others to the safe room, but Jacqui's not going\u2014neither is Alyssa, and Garrett won't move without his sister.\n\nMy father loads the weapons and takes off any safeties.\n\n\"Richard, what are you doing?\" Mom says, horrified. It's one thing to see the weapons laid out. It's another thing to see them being loaded.\n\n\"Protecting my family.\" The pounding on the back door is more frantic than ever.\n\n\"Let's not jump to conclusions,\" Mom says, her voice quivering.\n\nBut Dad is single-minded. He straps on his Kevlar vest. \"Get everyone into the safe room.\"\n\nMy mom is frantic now. \"Come with us into the safe room! You don't need to do this!\"\n\n\"Like hell I don't!\"\n\nMy dad keeps on loading guns, and I can see now that his hands are shaking. The only thing keeping him from imploding right now is his collection of deadly toys.\n\n\"At least see what they want!\" she yells, desperate.\n\n\"You know what they want!\"\n\nHis gaze finally connects with Mom's, letting her see him, truly, for the first time in a long time. The person I saw in the garage earlier. Not an indignant, violence-seeking monster, but a human being, honest and raw\u2014trapped in this house with us, and scared to the bone.\n\nHe chooses the shotgun and goes into the kitchen, taking a position across the room from the back door. No one has gone into the safe room. Everyone wants to be here. To see what happens. To see how this goes down\u2014as if somehow being here will keep it from happening.\n\nMore banging on the back door. The knob rattles violently, but doesn't turn.\n\nMeanwhile the voices coming from the street grow louder. I hear our security gate come crashing down. I hear someone scream as they fall into a booby trap in our front yard, but there aren't enough booby traps to stop this onslaught.\n\nThen the pounding at the back door stops.\n\nMy dad takes a deep breath and digs in deep. He raises his gun, pointed at the door, preparing himself for whatever comes next. I can't take my focus from that door\u2014like when I was a kid and was convinced there was a monster in my closet. I'd stare, unmoving, unblinking, to make damn sure I would see whatever came out of there before it could see me. This door is locked, I tell myself. It's locked. No one's getting in.\n\nThen there's a sound that's familiar and terrible. A deadbolt disengaging. The knob turns. The door opens. We've been breached.\n\nAnd now everything comes in quick, disjointed images, like reality is violently strobing around me.\n\nThe door swings wide.\n\nA figure moves forward.\n\nDad screams and pulls the trigger.\n\nThe world explodes with the shotgun blast.\n\nThe intruder is blown back against the door frame.\n\nBlood splatters everywhere.\n\nOn me.\n\nOne eye stings from it.\n\nThe intruder bounces off the door frame.\n\nHe hits the kitchen floor, face down, in front of the open door.\n\nAnd in that door\u2014\n\nThere's a key in the lock.\n\nA single, solitary key.\n\nDad catches his breath, still in shock from having pulled the trigger.\n\nBut then Mom steps forward, in some kind of trance . . .\n\nThen Dad drops the gun . . .\n\nAnd falls to his knees . . .\n\nAnd now I finally start piecing it all together.\n\nAs I realize the body lying face-down on the ground isn't a murderous, thirst-crazed marauder.\n\nIt's my brother, Brady.\n\nDad, wailing in agony, rolls him over, confirming the inevitable truth. It hits me hard, but in a strange, hollow kind of way. I lose control of my senses. I'm outside of myself now, watching everything unfold, like an observer wrapped in someone else's skin.\n\nMom hurls herself over Brady's limp body. Her white nightgown absorbing his blood. Dad pats Brady's face over and over again in denial, as if to wake him up from a bad dream.\n\n\"No no no no no no no . . .\"\n\nI'm so fixed on the scene that I have failed to realize what's going on in the house. People have started flooding through the back door. The neighbors. The marauders. They pass like shadows, scavenging the entire house. Their eyes are wild and rabid. They come armed with shovels and fireplace pokers and baseball bats.\n\nBut Mom and Dad are completely oblivious to it. What does it matter? What does any of this matter? My big brother is dead.\n\nBrady got our messages. He knew we were leaving for the bug-out this morning, and, as usual, showed up at the last minute. And when he saw the approaching mob, he tried to warn us, frantically pounding on the door, trying to get in.\n\nWe should have known it was him when the doorknob turned. We all should have\u2014because of the key my father always left for him, hidden in the same place it always was since the time we were both little; in a hollow in the back porch railing. The intentional flaw in our security measures.\n\nAlyssa yells to me from behind, but it takes a few seconds for her words to register.\n\n\"We need to leave! Kelton, we have to get out of here!\"\n\nBut I'm not leaving. I'm not abandoning my brother any more than my parents are. My legs are churning and I'm moving past her and toward the center of the room. My hand reaches for something, and I grip it. The shotgun my father dropped.\n\nI load another round into the barrel.\n\nI look into the wolves' many glowing eyes.\n\nThey're going to die today. Every last one of them.\n\nI take aim at the head of a figure carrying a case of water.\n\nI clamp the trigger.\n\nThen suddenly everything goes black.\n\n### 17) Jacqui\n\nI've never seen anyone get knocked out with a picture frame, let alone a picture of themselves. But hey\u2014there's a first time for everything. The metal frame was heavy enough, and Alyssa brought it down over Kelton's head with the right amount of force. Just in the nick of time, too, because Kelton was actually going to do it. He was actually going to start blowing people away.\n\nAll I can make out is the blinding flurry of flashlights beaming in every direction. I keep my hands light, fingers to my gun\u2014but I'm not about to waste a bullet unless I absolutely have to.\n\nAlyssa turns to me and produces a pair of keys. The keys to the BMW. She must have grabbed them during all the chaos. While the rest of us were gripped with shock, Alyssa was already calculating our escape.\n\n\"We have to get out of here now.\" She motions to Kelton's limp body. \"Take him.\"\n\nShe clutches the keys tightly, and I realize they've become leverage in a power game.\n\n\"Who put you in charge?\" I challenge, but with the house being stripped bare all around us, it's not like staying is much of an option\u2014and if that bug-out thing will now be more than available, we're going to need Kelton to show us how to get there. In sum, she's right, and I hate that.\n\nAlyssa races back into the kitchen; she tries her best to get Kelton's parents to leave with us, but they won't budge. All they want to do\u2014all they're capable of doing now\u2014is pointlessly comforting what I now realize is their dead son.\n\n\"Go,\" they tell Alyssa through their grief. \"Just go. . . .\"\n\nWhile around us, the intruders scavenge like jackals.\n\nWhat happened here was inevitable. They had to flaunt their electrical system and their resources. Kelton's father had to be the family hero. It's like he was so obsessed with protecting the house that he forgot the main of objective was to actually protect everyone inside of it.\n\nI grab Kelton under the shoulders and pick him up. I shoot a glance to Garrett, who's been hiding, crouched by a sofa. We drag Kelton down the hall toward the front door, Alyssa leading the way. As we make our way there, I try to take stock of what's actually happening around us, but it's too dark\u2014just shapes and outlines. But I can hear everything: the defeated whimpers of Kelton's parents, underscored by dozens of scurrying feet that squeak, click, and scuff against the hardwood floor. A door somewhere is kicked open\u2014I hear wood chips splinter. Jars clink and crash in the kitchen as they're knocked from pantry shelves, or fall from overloaded arms. A water jug we had brought up earlier tumbles down the stairs and bursts across the floor. This place will be ravaged and picked apart until all that's left is the carcass of a home.\n\nAlyssa opens the front door, and more people flood in. A veritable cross-ventilation of water-zombies.\n\nJust as we get out the door, one man raises a baseball bat, threatening to swing at Alyssa. He holds it there for a moment and lowers his weapon, recognizing her.\n\n\"They left us no choice!\" he says, as if it can excuse his actions.\n\nBut Alyssa doesn't acknowledge it. In fact, she doesn't give him even the slightest satisfaction of a human moment. She pushes past, toward the BMW in the driveway.\n\nGarrett and I stuff Kelton's limp body inside\u2014it feels like we're kidnapping him, and then I remember we technically are. Alyssa climbs in after to tend to him in the back seat, so Garrett climbs into the front to sit shotgun. Today I wish the passenger seat weren't called that.\n\nI get behind the wheel, close the door, and hit the lock button, hearing the satisfying sound of locks thudding down. Although the marauders are too crazed to even notice our exit.\n\nI reach a hand back to Alyssa. \"If you want me to drive, you're going to have to give me the keys.\"\n\nStill she won't give them to me. She holds them tight in her fist. \"It's a keyless ignition\u2014just push the button.\"\n\nDamn BMWs. As long as the key is in the car, it will start, regardless of whose grubby little hand it's in. Again it looks like I don't have much of a choice. I start the car, back out past the water-zombies that lurk around us, then speed headfirst into darkness, nearly forgetting to turn on the headlights.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nA left. Then a right. Then another right. Then a left.\n\nI'm driving too fast and I know it, but I can't seem to slow down. Adrenaline has turned my foot to lead. I run over a piece of debris in the road. I hear it scrape against the bottom of the car. I pray to God it didn't puncture our gas tank.\n\n\"I'm gonna throw up,\" says Garrett. \"I think I'm going to throw up.\"\n\n\"Swallow it down and man up!\" I tell him.\n\n\"Don't you talk to my brother like that!\"\n\nI turn right. I don't know why; I'm at a T in the road and I have to choose. I put my brights on because I want to see everything that's ahead of me. I don't care if I blind oncoming traffic. There is no oncoming traffic. Anyone who's going anywhere has already gotten there, or has given up.\n\nI chide myself for even getting into a situation like this. I should have found a way to get the keys back during the night from Kelton's father, but I gave in to the comfort and safety of a well-stocked home. False security. There was nothing safe about that place; all those supplies, all those pissed off, thirsty neighbors. The place was a lightning rod in a shit storm, and they couldn't see it. Well, what do you expect when you bunk up with a family of angry nerds? That's what Kelton's family is. Nerds who traded in their Comic-Con passes for gun show tickets. Instead of Star Trek trivia, they could probably tell me about every application of a weapon, yet could never even begin to fathom what it feels like to actually end a human life. Well, now Kelton's father can. Nerds with guns. Now I've seen everything.\n\n\"Where are we going?\" Garrett asks, successfully not hurling.\n\n\"Away from that goddamn house,\" is the only answer I can give. We drive down another identical suburban street, past endless rows of tightly spaced homes, once full of life, but now their facades look like dead faces with sagging eyes seething despair. This place feels like the eerie, abandoned suburban neighborhoods that surround nuclear power plant leaks. It feels bleak. A place where hope goes to die.\n\nI make a left. It's just another residential cul-de-sac. Dammit! I nearly do a donut at the end, and head back out.\n\n\"We can't just keep driving in circles!\" Alyssa says from the back seat.\n\n\"Fine!\" I snap. \"Then navigate.\"\n\n\"To where?\"\n\n\"Anywhere!\"\n\nAlyssa leans forward and looks around us. We can barely see a thing, but she seems to know where we are.\n\n\"All right. Take a right. Not here, but the next one.\"\n\nTwo more turns, and we're finally out of the neighborhood and on a major street. Although I'm not sure what that buys us.\n\nI glance in the rearview. Kelton is propped up against the door behind Garrett. He's still limp and lifeless.\n\n\"Wake him up,\" I say.\n\n\"I want to let him sleep it off,\" Alyssa responds.\n\n\"How do you know he's not dead? You hit him pretty hard.\"\n\n\"He's breathing,\" Alyssa says, annoyed by my suggestion. \"Dead people don't breathe.\"\n\nGarrett turns around to look at him. \"Maybe you're both right. Maybe he's brain-dead.\" Which really pisses Alyssa off.\n\n\"He might have a concussion. We won't know for sure until he wakes up.\"\n\n\"So wake him up,\" I say again. This time Alyssa reaches over and shakes him. He wakes up, and I think I'm just as relieved as Alyssa is.\n\nKelton coughs, rubs the back of his head, and blinks a few times, still woozy.\n\nI wonder if he knows he got knocked out cold and dragged to the car. I wonder if he remembers what happened in his house. Sometimes when you have brain trauma, it wipes your short-term memory. You lose the last few minutes like a lousy Word doc that you forgot to save.\n\nIt takes a moment to clear the fog, but clearly he does remember, because he goes berserk.\n\n\"No!!! What are you doing? We have to go back!\"\n\nAlyssa grabs him with both hands, but he wrestles her off. \"We have to stop them!\"\n\n\"It's too late for that, Kelton!\" Alyssa says.\n\nHe pulls on the door handle, fully prepared to leap out of the moving car. It's only sheer luck that his child lock is on, and the door won't open.\n\nHe wails in fury and kicks the door handle until it breaks. But the door still doesn't open.\n\nI change lanes sharply to force him away from the door. It works. He gets thrown back onto Alyssa, who holds him with more strength than I thought she'd have as he thrashes.\n\n\"But my parents!\"\n\n\"I tried to get them to come\u2014they wouldn't.\"\n\n\"Those people might kill them!\"\n\nAnd then Garrett says something that's actually kind of wise. \"Prolly not,\" he says. \"I mean, they weren't fighting back. Water-zombies just want one thing, right? If you don't get in their way, I bet they leave you alone.\"\n\nIt seems to calm Kelton down a little bit. At least enough for Alyssa to trust letting him go. He slumps back into the seat again, shaking his head.\n\n\"No no no no. We can't . . . we can't . . .\" But he doesn't have the conviction of his words anymore. He's quiet for a moment as his fury rolls out, and the real emotion behind it surges in.\n\n\"My brother's dead. . . .\"\n\nI don't say anything. What can I say? It can't be undone, and all you can do is die or deal. Kelton would probably choose the former right now. I leave compassion to Alyssa. I'm sure she's much better at it. I can only imagine the dark, messed-up things that are going on in Kelton's head right now. I keep playing the events of the last fifteen minutes over and over in my head, and the more I let the mental merry-go-round spin, the more I realize that Garrett had the right idea. I feel like I want to barf, too. What happened in that house\u2014I've never experienced anything so savage, anything so inhuman.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Kelton,\" Alyssa says. \"It sucks.\"\n\nAnd that just makes him go psycho. \"Sucks? It sucks? No, Alyssa. Failing a midterm sucks. Dropping your phone in water sucks. My father just shot my brother in the chest and I watched him die! Don't insult me by saying that it sucks!\"\n\nAnd then he kicks the back of the seat so hard I almost lose control of the wheel. \"And I will never forgive you for knocking me out!\"\n\n\"Me?\" I say. \"As much as I'd enjoy rendering you unconscious, I wasn't the one who hit you.\"\n\n\"I hit you Kelton,\" Alyssa says. \"I had to\u2014you were about to kill Stu Leeson.\"\n\n\"So what?\" says Kelton. \"I wish I had! He deserves to die! They all do!\"\n\n\"Trust me, Kelton\u2014you'll be glad I stopped you later.\"\n\nKelton hardens his jaw and turns away from her. His eyes are red and clouded with tears. He catches me looking at him in the rearview mirror.\n\n\"Don't look at me, bitch!'\n\nNormally that would be met with severe punishment, but Kelton's not himself. Grief can twist people in ways they're not supposed to twist. So I'll give him a pass.\n\nThe road ahead curves. Dark fast food places on either side. Then, just past a major intersection, I see scores of cars and tents amassed around a Target. It's probably some sort of relief center that hasn't actually seen any relief yet.\n\n\"You think there's water there?\" Alyssa asks.\n\nI shake my head. \"Not a chance. But they're all waiting for it like the second coming.\" There are so many of them there. Misery loves company, I think, but then again, so does hope. If it didn't, I wouldn't be here with these fine idiots.\n\nAs we pass the Target tent city, I have to do a reality check. This is the same planet I was on last week, and yet how could it be? I never would've imagined that \"perfect\" Orange County could go so utterly insane. Funny how my disdain for this place once left me wishing that God Almighty would plague it with locusts and leaking breast implants. But now that the whole of Southern California has actually been plagued, I'm a little disappointed. Not that I want to endure any more than I already have, but I'm disappointed by people\u2014how weak they are, how frail their psyches must be to allow a water shortage to turn them into murderous mobs. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I don't want be in the same league as them\u2014hell, I don't even want to be in the same ballpark.\n\nNot to say that I'm any sort of saint. I've broken my share of windows. Raided countless fridges and supply rooms. I've made a hobby out of breaking into houses, living the high life and moving on. The difference is, I did that by choice, and not at the expense of others. I mean, yeah, my crimes weren't entirely victimless, but the victims barely noticed what they were missing, and when they did, they had good insurance. I do the scofflaw thing with a wink and a smile. I don't think I could ever be part of a mindless mob that raids a house. Instead, I'd be the one who takes the truck where the mob just stashed all the stuff they stole, leaving behind a Hello Kitty note that says, \"See you, suckers.\" To me, that's the Bette Davis move.\n\n\"Look at that!\" says Garrett. He's pointing ahead, where a church is lit by hundreds of candles. The door is wide open, the sanctuary is packed, flowing out to the street. Dozens of families, huddling close, praying for deliverance from thirst. My grandmother believed in the power of prayer. There's a trite saying among the faithful, goes like this: \"God answers all prayers. And sometimes his answer is no.\" My grandmother hated that. \"God never says no,\" she told me. \"He just says, 'Not today.' \" Which is exactly the answer raining down upon this candle-lit vigil.\n\nBehind me, Kelton has gone entirely silent. Right now his brain is beyond short-circuited, and I'm realizing that he's going to need a full reboot if he's going to make it out of this situation alive.\n\nGarrett, seeing Kelton's shell-shocked state, offers him his canteen. \"Here, have some,\" Garrett says. \"You'll feel better.\" Funny how in all of that chaos, Garrett was the only one who remembered to grab the most important thing.\n\nKelton doesn't even acknowledge his offer, as if water is the enemy that got his brother killed. I guess in a way it was.\n\nWhen Kelton doesn't take the canteen, I take it instead\u2014but rather than acting like a water-zombie, I take a brief, measured sip and hand it back to Garrett. Alyssa glowers at me and purses her lips\u2014probably to stop herself from saying something stupid. Then she asks Garrett for the canteen and takes her own measured sip.\n\nAll this time, we still don't have a destination. I'm not driving in circles anymore, but it doesn't change the fact that we have nowhere to go.\n\n\"Kelton, where's your bug-out?\" I ask.\n\n\"Up your ass,\" he says.\n\n\"Ooh, look who's suddenly become a potty mouth,\" I tease. He responds with an expression an Eagle Scout type like Kelton shouldn't know.\n\n\"Leave him alone,\" says Alyssa.\n\n\"Give me one more order,\" I tell her, \"and I'm throwing you out with a 'drink me' sign taped to your back.\"\n\nWhich actually gets a very slight snort from Kelton. Good. Progress.\n\nNow, to our right are dozens of families, migrating in droves\u2014as if they're all partaking in some kind of divine pilgrimage. At least these people are taking action rather than sitting and waiting for someone to save them. It's like everyone has divided into camps, all with their own theories on what course of action to take.\n\n\"Where do you think they're going?\" Garrett asks.\n\n\"I'm not sure they even know,\" I answer.\n\n\"Just like us?\" Alyssa points out.\n\nAnd then Kelton points ahead, where the light of dawn crests the distant mountaintop. \"They're going to Lake Arrowhead,\" he says, \"But they won't get there. There are two mountain ranges and two counties between here and there.\"\n\nLooks like the pilgrimage has brought him back to planet Earth. I take this opportunity to tease more information out of him.\n\n\"Is that where the bug-out is?\"\n\nHe shakes his head. \"No . . . it's in Angeles National Forest. Much closer. Due north rather than east.\" He redirects his gaze. \"But we're not going to be able to get there in this car. We're going to need something with an elevated chassis. Four-wheel drive.\"\n\n\"You mean a raised truck?\" Garrett suggests. \"Like Uncle Basil's?\"\n\n\"Exactly like Uncle Basil's,\" Kelton responds.\n\n\"He's staying with his sort-of ex-girlfriend,\" Alyssa says. \"In Dove Canyon.\"\n\nAnd finally we know where we're going.\n\n## PART THREE\n\n## THE CHASM BETWEEN\n\n## DAY FIVE\n\n## WEDNESDAY, JUNE 8TH\n\n### 18) Henry\n\nThere's a very specific way that one must think if one wishes to achieve true success. You could run the best textile company in the world, design a new propulsion system for NASA, even paint the next Mona Lisa\u2014and at that point you may be rich, but you'll still be one important skill set away from being wealthy.\n\nThat's because wealth is a mindset.\n\nOr, as my mentor, Vice Principal Metzer, always says, \"Rich is an adjective, wealth is a verb.\" Actually it's a noun, but that's beside the point.\n\nTrue wealth is only established after you've disciplined yourself to invest in assets that generate enough income to cover your expenses. Right now my expenses are minimal, and my new hydration business has taken off, launched through the roof, and shot into the stratosphere.\n\nMy parents and I live in a gated community called Dove Canyon. And when you're living in upper-middle-class Orange County\u2014and especially in a canyon\u2014elevation is everything. That's why my mom and dad invested in a house near the top of the hill. It's one of the biggest in the community, with a panoramic view, presiding over the golf course and most every other house that shares our zip code. And since my parents left on vacation last week, I've been looking after our home all alone, even through these difficult times.\n\nThe Tap-Out has not only contributed to my growth as a person, but has proven to be a fantastic learning experience in business and commerce. A while back my father encouraged my mother to start a business of her own; instead she let one of her friends talk her into buying sixty cases of \u00c1guaViva, a pyramid scheme where you spend a ridiculous amount of money to purchase seven hundred twenty bottles of alkaline-infused goji berry mineral water\u2014only for it to sit in your guest room for six months because nobody wants to buy alkaline-infused goji berry mineral water. However, now that the value of water has exponentially risen, I've been turning a substantial profit on the \u00c1guaViva.\n\nIf I've learned anything in my studies, it's that the greatest investors capitalize in times of crisis. And though at first it may sound cold, it's the giants' duty to continue to stand tall and generate profit, which will lead to spending, and ultimately stimulate the economy for the greater good.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI'm eating red licorice and leftover cookies from my father's most recent company party when the doorbell rings. Another customer! I answer the door, and to my surprise it's Spencer, a kid who lives a few houses up. I never particularly cared for Spencer; his house is at the very top of the hill\u2014higher and bigger than ours, but technically ours is taller. Back in elementary school we'd open lemonade stands across the street from each other. When we were a little older, we would silently compete for magazine subscription sales for school fund-raisers, and if it looked like he wasn't going to win, his parents would buy Readers Digest magazines for every friend on their contact list\u2014something that my parents refused to do, and as a result, I would always come in second. It used to bother me; now I just see it as an early lesson in the inherent value of healthy competition. But I still don't like him.\n\n\"Hi, Henry.\"\n\n\"Hey, what's up, Spencer? C'mon in.\"\n\nI welcome him into my home and lead him to the living room. I notice his slow, irresolute movements as he walks.\n\n\"Can I get you anything?\" I say, as a formality, and as a way of opening negotiations.\n\nHe takes a seat on the leather couch. He's looking weak. Feverish. A lot of people have been that way. I think it's a little bit more than mere dehydration.\n\n\"You okay?\" I ask, knowing that he's not, but wondering if he'll admit it.\n\n\"The water from the old tank on the hill,\" he says. \"I don't know, I think it was bad or something.\"\n\nWhile everyone else in SoCal was scrambling for water, Dove Canyon thought they had it made. Although our primary water tank was down to the dregs before the Tap-Out, there was an older one on top of the hill that had been taken out of service. Someone had the bright idea of reconnecting it, to get to the last of its water, and bingo! We had water two days longer than anywhere else. The problem is, now everyone's getting sick from it. Everyone but me, that is, because I never trusted tap water\u2014even when it was supposed to be good. And besides, in sales you not only have to believe in your product, but live by it.\n\nSpencer heaves a heavy, achy breath, rolls his neck, and says, \"So I heard you have water.\"\n\n\"I do,\" I tell him, as I sink deeply into the adjacent couch, letting the moment become intentionally awkward.\n\n\"I'll give you the autographed Peyton Manning ball,\" he says, making the first offer, which already puts him at a disadvantage. Even if he thought it was his best offer, it's now just the floor of the negotiation.\n\n\"Barely worth half a bottle,\" I explain to him. \"And you know I'm not really into football. Besides, I've already checked\u2014that ball is only valued at two hundred and fifty dollars.\"\n\nHe thinks quickly. \"The ball and a bottle of Johnny Walker\u2014King George Edition,\" and he adds, \"for your father.\"\n\nA nice gesture, but I have to turn him down. The problem with most people in a barter economy is that they're just trading one consumable for another. But if you truly want to build wealth, you need to be trading up for appreciating assets. My father has always stressed the importance of diversification, and I like to think that I've acquired a diversified portfolio from my hydration business\u2014a portfolio I plan to turn for a profit on eBay. So far I've acquired a surround-sound system, a vintage vinyl record collection, a Thomas Kinkaid painting, an autographed first edition of The Maltese Falcon, and a yellow-scaled ball python.\n\nSo what does Spencer have that's worthy of adding to my collection?\n\n\"How about my Xbox?\" he asks.\n\nI shake my head. \"Everyone's offering me Xboxes.\"\n\nHe knows what I want, and this dance is just winding us closer to it. Because in his bonus room hangs a framed autographed Michael Jordan jersey\u2014the baby blue one, from when he was in college; very rare, valued at nearly two thousand dollars.\n\nHe won't say it. He won't offer it. He's going to make me ask for it. Fair enough.\n\n\"The Jordan jersey,\" I say. \"A case of water\u2014that's twelve one-liter bottles\u2014for the Jordan jersey.\"\n\n\"I can't! My father'll kill me!\"\n\n\"That's the offer,\" I tell him with a shrug.\n\nHe grits his teeth and squints like he's taking a painful crap, then says, \"Two cases,\" and I know that I've won.\n\nI stand up, feigning ending the negotiation. \"If you're not serious about this, I'm gonna to have to ask you to leave.\"\n\n\"A case and a half?\" he says.\n\nI sigh. \"Fine,\" I say. \"But only because we go way back.\" I would have actually made the deal for two cases, but like I said, I don't like Spencer.\n\nI reach under the couch and pull out a bottle of water that I typically have reserved for samples. There's only a third left, so I toss it to him. \"First drink's free,\" I tell him. \"Consider it a bonus.\"\n\nAnd he's instantly guzzling.\n\n\"\u00c1guaViva is pumped from an artesian aquifer in Portugal, nearly a mile beneath the Earth's surface,\" I inform him as he drinks. \"It's then ionized, for perfect pH balance to increase oxygen in your blood and maintain energy throughout your day. And just before bottling, it's infused with antioxidant-rich goji berries that not only detoxify your liver, but improve immune function.\"\n\nSpencer finishes the bottle and looks at me like he's in love. Maybe he is. I've heard that about him, but right now I think it's the kind of agape you feel for your personal savior.\n\n\"Tell you what,\" I say. \"I'll give you a case and a half for the jersey, the ball, and the bottle of Scotch.\"\n\nHe nods, caving like a sinkhole. \"Yeah. Yeah okay. Thanks, Henry!\"\n\nI smile cordially. \"You're welcome, Spencer.\" And I mean it. If you ask me, there's nothing better than a win-win.\n\n### 19) Alyssa\n\nJust outside the Dove Canyon gate is a fountain. When the drought was just a normal drought, before the intense water restrictions, the fountain attracted mountain lions. They came out of the hills like house cats to a water bowl. That really should have been a red flag to anyone who was paying attention.\n\nThen people began abandoning farming communities in California's Central Valley, when it became the Pacific Dust Bowl, overcrowding the already overcrowded cities, like the big cats abandoning the dry hills. As much of a warning as that was, it still didn't sink in as deeply as it should have\u2014because the official responses were, well, literally, a drop in the bucket. Fines for people who watered their lawns. The Frivolous Use Initiative. Public service announcements reminding people to conserve water. None of that mattered. The water still ran out. Now the Dove Canyon fountain was empty. The mountain lions had either died or migrated, and the humans were now facing the same two alternatives.\n\nThere's only one way in or out of Dove Canyon: a single gate guarded by rent-a-cops. Some are friendly, others act as if they were members of the Secret Service guarding the White House. Today none of them are there, and the gate itself has been knocked off its hinges.\n\n\"Talk about your false sense of security,\" says Jacqui. \"That gate probably got rammed on the first day.\"\n\n\"Alyssa, look,\" says Garrett, pointing.\n\nThere's a bizarre makeshift barricade just beyond the broken gate.\n\nWe pull over to the side of the road, leaving the car, and walk through the abandoned entrance, puzzling at the barrier that must have been put in place after the gate came down.\n\n\"It looks like it was done in a hurry,\" Kelton notes.\n\nThe barricade is made up of all the junk pulled from every neighborhood garage. Ladders and old furniture, Ikea bookcases that have seen better days. Lawn chairs and rusty bicycles. Basically all the clutter that would have been sold off in garage sales if the homeowners association here actually allowed garage sales.\n\n\"Our uncle said that Dove Canyon still had water after the Tap-Out,\" I tell the others.\n\n\"Yeah,\" says Garrett. \"The people here probably had to repel invaders.\"\n\nThe thought of the soccer moms and country clubbers of Dove Canyon repelling invaders almost makes me laugh . . . until I remember how our own neighbors attacked the McCracken house.\n\nSince the barricade was designed to stop vehicles, not pedestrians, we're able to walk around it. And all this time, we haven't seen another soul. It's unnerving.\n\n\"You would think,\" says Jacqui, \"if they built a barricade, they'd at least have someone manning it.\"\n\n\"You'd think,\" echoes Kelton. Neither of them wants to follow the thought to a logical conclusion.\n\nSuddenly my brother begins to freak. \"Alyssa, I don't like this. Let's just go.\"\n\n\"We can't,\" I remind him. \"We need Uncle Basil's truck.\n\n\"No we don't!\" insists Garrett. \"We passed plenty of four-wheel-drive trucks on the way here. We can hotwire one of those. I'll bet Jacqui knows how to do that, right?\"\n\nJacqui glares at him. \"I'm insulted that you assume I know how to do criminal things.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" I ask.\n\n\"Yes,\" she responds, \"but I'm still insulted.\"\n\nI look ahead at the tree-lined street. The grass on the community greenbelts is still mostly green. Uncle Basil told us that the canyon used its own recycled water to irrigate. Like the McCrackens' house that glowed bright when everyone else's electricity was off, the greenbelts of Dove Canyon made the place a target.\n\n\"Our uncle's place isn't far from the gate,\" I tell the others. \"Just a right at the first stop sign, and maybe a quarter mile from there.\" Then I add, \"Hotwiring a car will be plan B.\"\n\nJacqui lifts the edge of her blouse to show she still has Kelton's pistol concealed there. \"In case we run into trouble,\" she says.\n\nIt just ticks me off. \"If we run into trouble, we'll behave like civilized people.\"\n\n\"She doesn't mean she'll use it,\" says Kelton. \"Just showing it will get most people to back off.\"\n\nI take a deep breath and decide not to argue. I'm surprised to hear him not take my side\u2014especially against Jacqui, and especially on the subject of violence. But then again, he's the one who brought a gun into our equation in the first place. Maybe it's less surprise than it is concern. After seeing that look in his eye when he picked up the shotgun, I don't know who's the looser cannon now, him or Jacqui.\n\nDaphne\u2014our uncle's sometime girlfriend\u2014has a big house here that was left to her by her mother. Before coming down here, she was a realtor up in Modesto, the same town where Uncle Basil had his almond farm. But almond trees use more water than almost everything\u2014and with rationing set so low, the almond farms failed first. He declared bankruptcy, let the bank take the farm, and moved in with Daphne\u2014who for a whole five minutes thought she was on top of the world, because she had a ridiculous amount of real estate listings. But since no one in their right mind was buying homes there anymore, she couldn't make a single sale. Property values plunged. Then they started calling the Central Valley the Pacific Dust Bowl, and that put the last nail in the region's coffin. I imagine Modesto is mostly a ghost town now, along with Bakersfield, Fresno, and Merced. Anyway, they had the sense to leave before the Big Bail, and beat the rush. They packed up their belongings in a U-Haul and moved in with Daphne's mother, who was conveniently dying and left Daphne the house in Dove Canyon.\n\nThen she kicked Uncle Basil out, and he moved in with us. Twice.\n\nI get it, though. I mean, I don't blame her, that is. See, it wasn't just that Uncle Basil couldn't find work\u2014it's that he really wasn't looking. I think he was kind of broken from losing the farm. She cared about him enough to give him a second chance, but I guess it was just more of the same, because he was back in our house again\u2014and the second time, we were pretty sure it was for good.\n\n\"Until I get on my feet,\" he always told us. But how can you get back on your feet when your life's been cut off at the knees?\n\nWe get to Daphne's street. All the while we haven't seen a single person.\n\nAlthough the community greenbelts are still alive, people's lawns look like the lawns in our neighborhood. Some are just plain dead. Brown grass and leafless trees. Others have been replaced by desertscape\u2014cactus, succulents, and river stones. About a third of the homes have ridiculously green artificial turf. A suburban pretense that nothing is wrong. Daphne's house is the latter kind. It's easy to spot because it also has a fake ficus tree, taking the fiction a step beyond absurd. It's the only green leafy thing on the street, which makes it kind of embarrassing.\n\nUncle Basil's truck is not in the driveway. I figure it must be in the garage.\n\n\"What if they're gone?\" says Garrett. \"What if they bailed, like they bailed from his farm up north?\"\n\nIt's something I should have considered but hadn't. I don't answer him. Instead I go up to the front door, ring the doorbell, which of course, doesn't ring. Duh. Then I knock. Loudly.\n\nNothing for a few moments. I begin to wonder if maybe Garrett was right, but then the door creaks open, and there's Uncle Basil.\n\n\"Alyssa? Garrett?\" He's both surprised and pleased to see us, but his response is muted. \"What are you doing here? Where are your mom and dad?\"\n\nIt's a question I don't want to think about. I've compartmentalized it in a corner of my mind to keep me functional. I can't even say we don't know out loud without my eyes clouding with tears, so I don't answer him.\n\n\"Can we come in?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes of course.\" He steps aside and we file in. The house is hot. Uncomfortably so. Daphne's house has a southern exposure with lots of windows, and not enough blinds to cover them. Sheets have been tacked up to keep out the light and the heat, but they're not doing a very good job. And there's a smell about the place. Musty and gamey, like a sick room that hasn't been aired out. That should be my first hint that something is wrong\u2014but it's just one more thing in a long list of not-my-reality that has become too numerous to count, much less process.\n\nOur uncle looks dehydrated. Worse than dehydrated. He's pallid, and his face seems to sag, like his skin has grown tired of clinging to the bone. His eyes are dark and a little sunken. He looks like a drug addict, but I know that's not it. Aside from the occasional weed, Uncle Basil's not that way. No, this is something else.\n\n\"You want water?\" he asks us. \"I've got plenty.\"\n\n\"You do?\" says Garrett, just as surprised to hear that as I am.\n\n\"Hell, yeah, I'll have some,\" says Jacqui, with no hesitation.\n\nHe leads us to the kitchen, where there's a box of bottled water. Six bottles are left. He gets some plastic cups and pours us all a small drink. But after he pours, he hesitates, gripping the counter and closing his eyes, wincing a bit. He seems weak on his feet.\n\n\"Uncle Herb?\" I say, using his real name instead of our nickname for him. \"Are you okay?\"\n\n\"I'll be fine,\" he says. Which means that at this moment, he's not okay.\n\n\"You don't look fine,\" says Jacqui, annoyingly blunt. \"You look like crap.\"\n\n\"It's nothing,\" he insists. \"I've just got the runs, is all.\"\n\nThe runs. Maybe he ate something from the fridge that had spoiled once the power went out. Our uncle was always scavenging our refrigerator for leftovers that my mom would toss if she got to it first.\n\n\"Where's Daphne?\" I ask.\n\n\"Resting,\" he tells me. \"She's not feeling well either.\"\n\nKelton gives me a worried look. I'm not sure what it's about, but as I lift the water to my mouth, he stops me. Then he checks his own cup, sniffing it, then taking a sip.\n\n\"It's good,\" he says.\n\n\"Why wouldn't it be?\" I look at the bottle our uncle poured from. It's \u00c1guaViva, which, as I recall, is ridiculously expensive. You can buy wine for less.\n\n\"You hungry?\" our uncle asks. \"Still got some canned stuff. Not much variety, but what are you gonna do?\"\n\nI take a look in the pantry just to see how well stocked they are. It's mostly condiment bottles\u2014like a dozen different kinds of salsas. There are Sara Lee cake mixes, and the types of canned goods that sit for years until you need them. Things like pineapple chunks and sliced olives. Plenty of them, but no one's choice for a meal.\n\n\"No thanks,\" I tell him. \"We're good.\"\n\nAnd upon seeing what's there, no one disagrees. We're all hungry, but had eaten well at Kelton's house the day before. And if this is all they have for themselves, I don't want to take it.\n\nThen Kelton does something weird. He goes to the faucet and turns it on. Of course nothing comes out, but then he sniffs the spout. He turns to our uncle. \"So I hear there was water here after the Tap-Out.\"\n\n\"Yeah, for a while,\" Uncle Basil tells him. \"They hooked up the old water tank. Kept the water flowing a couple of days. Just dribbling really. Not enough to bathe with, but enough to drink.\"\n\nKelton nods, then turns to me again. \"Alyssa, could I talk to you for a minute?\"\n\nThen he takes my arm and leads me into the dining room.\n\nI shake his hand off once we get there. I don't like being pulled places. \"What's so important that we couldn't talk in there?\"\n\n\"Alyssa, we have to get out of here,\" he says in an intense whisper.\n\n\"I'm working on it,\" I tell him. \"I can't just show up, take his truck, and leave.\"\n\n\"You don't get it!\" he says, in that same whisper that's almost maniacal. \"Don't you think it's strange how quiet the streets are?\"\n\nAnd come to think of it, I did find it strange. Everywhere else we've been, however quiet, it still pointed toward life, but this place doesn't even show the slightest trace of it.\n\nHe gets closer to me. Not as loud, but still just as intense. \"I'm pretty sure that the tap water was bad. Worse than bad. I think your uncle has dysentery. Maybe all of Dove Canyon has.\"\n\nI don't know much about dysentery, other than that it's seriously bad diarrhea that people in third world countries get.\n\n\"So . . . what do we do?\"\n\nKelton shakes his head. \"There's nothing we can do. Not without a whole lot of medicines we don't have.\" He takes a moment to gauge me, making sure he has gotten through. He has, but it doesn't mean I have to like the message.\n\n\"We shouldn't touch anything,\" he says. \"And definitely shouldn't eat anything.\"\n\n\"It's all in cans!\" I argue, even though I have no intention of eating it.\n\n\"Yes, but anything he touches could be contaminated!\"\n\nI can't argue with it. As paranoid as it sounds, it's probably true.\n\nAnd when we go back into the kitchen, Uncle Basil is serving Garrett a bowl of pineapple chunks.\n\n\"It wasn't me!\" Garrett says. \"Uncle Basil insisted.\"\n\nOur uncle puts a spoon in front of him. \"You need your energy. I know it isn't much, but I won't let you guys go hungry on my watch!\"\n\nResigned, Garrett reaches for the spoon.\n\n\"Don't!\" I say sharply. I almost slap the spoon away. I turn to our sick uncle. My action spoke pretty clearly, so I don't hide my reason.\n\n\"It's the tap water that made you sick, Uncle Herb,\" I tell him, to cut through any denial he might be in. \"It's dysentery\u2014which could be contagious, so we shouldn't eat anything you've touched. I'm sorry.\"\n\nHe sighs, realizing I'm right, and maybe mad at himself for not considering that already. \"Then open a fresh can. I have some hand sanitizer.\"\n\nBut Garrett pushes away from the table, no appetite for anything.\n\n\"It's okay, I'm not very hungry anyway.\"\n\nI'm realizing now that our uncle has no idea how sick he and Daphne might be. And then Jacqui says, \"I'll take you up on that hand sanitizer.\" As I look to her, I can tell she's having a flash of fever again. She points to her wound, which is oozy, and clearly needs redressing. \"And gauze too, if you have any.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" my uncle says. He grabs the hand sanitizer, but first cleans his own hands and the bottle before handing it to her with a pained smile. \"Upstairs, second door on the left. Should be a first-aid kit under the sink.\"\n\nI watch her go upstairs, and then I realize something. Jacqui has antibiotics. I'm not sure where they are now. In her pocket? Still out in the BMW? Or, in the commotion, did she leave them back at Kelton's house? Would I take them from her to give to my uncle? No, I tell myself. I might not like Jacqui all that much, but I won't steal from her. I would never hurt one person's chances to help another\u2014even if that other person was someone I cared about. If I did, I'd be no better than the marauders.\n\n\"You should leave,\" I tell my uncle. \"Both you and Daphne. They're setting up shelters. They might not have water yet, but they'll have medicine\u2014I'm sure they will.\"\n\nBut he swats the idea away. \"I don't think Daphne is really up to travel. And we've gotten through the worst of it already.\"\n\nI don't know if he means the worst of his sickness, or the worst of the crisis. Either way, my response is the same.\n\n\"I think the worst is still coming. . . .\"\n\nStill, nothing I say will persuade him. \"We'll be fine.\"\n\nAnd more than anything, I want to believe him. But my days of sitting still and hoping for the best are over. Now hope is a thing in constant motion, like a shark.\n\n### 20) Jacqui\n\nI find the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and reach into my pocket, pulling out one of the two orange containers of antibiotics. I can't remember which one I started with, but why does it matter? I examine the little two-tone green capsules. Astonishing to think that these tiny pods rolling around in the palm of my hand mean the difference between life and death. I'll bet they're worth their weight in gold a hundred times over right now. Then again, you can never put a price on human life\u2014so it's down the hatch they go.\n\nNext comes the bandage. I find the first-aid kit right where Basil or Herb or Dill, or whatever the hell his actual name is, said it would be. The bandage sticks to my arm as I peel it off, the wound healing into the cloth itself. Well, at least it's healing. I clean it thoroughly, and painfully, with alcohol swabs, careful not to touch anything that might infect me, then redress the wound. Good as new.\n\nI wander a bit upstairs, checking the place out. This is some house. The kind I wouldn't mind squatting in under different circumstances\u2014although the decor is a little too prissy for my tastes. Basil's girlfriend must be the doily and lace type. What was her name again? Should be Rosemary, I think, which makes me chuckle.\n\nI make my way back toward the staircase, passing the double doors to the master bedroom, and notice that one is slightly ajar. Through the crack, I can make out the silhouette of a woman lying motionless in an all-white bed. There's an acrid smell wafting from the room. Dark and decrepit. Where anyone else would walk away, I'm pulled closer, drawn to the scene with a gravity I find hard to resist. The Call of the Void. I push the door open wider and take a single step over the threshold. It's like leaning into the wind at the edge of a cliff.\n\nOver the bed flows one of those decorative mosquito nets fit for a queen, but here, it seems to be keeping disease in rather than out. Daphne\u2014that's her name. This ailing empress must be Daphne.\n\nThe silence in here is overwhelming. And then I realize why.\n\nThe woman isn't breathing.\n\nNow it's more than just the void pulling at me. It's the scene of a car crash. It's the rubble after a tornado. I have to get closer. I won't touch her. I won't cross the barrier of that net, but I have to see. I have to look at her chest to see if it rises and falls. I need to know. And the smell now, it's terrible. Bile and sulfur and all the fetid organic stenches we fight all our lives to keep at bay.\n\nThen, before I'm close enough to get a good look, she moves, shifting slightly beneath the covers. My heart pounds in my chest so loud that I think she hears it, because she slowly lolls her head in my direction, and when she looks at me, her eyes are dark and glassy. She's too weak to speak, or even to wonder what a stranger is doing in her home.\n\nShe's not dead, but her body doesn't know it, because I think it's already beginning to decompose\u2014and although she still looks at me, our gazes somehow don't connect. That's when I realize that it's not me she sees at all.\n\nShe sees the void.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nA few moments later, I'm downstairs again with the others, but I'm quiet. To myself. Because over everything, I see Daphne's image burned across my retina. Alyssa is trying to convince Basil to go with Daphne to an evacuation center, but of course, he refuses. And the more she tries to convince him, the further he's pushed away. I wonder if he realizes how bad off Daphne is. On some level he must. And although he's holding it together for his niece and nephew, I don't think he's all that far from crawling into that bed with her and letting the end come. Then I realize with a shiver that the scene upstairs is likely happening in many of the homes around us. This gated community has become a high-end morgue.\n\nAlyssa hasn't asked for her uncle's keys yet. This polite streak of hers is going to get her killed, and us along with her. Apparently Kelton's patience has also run out, because he's the one who cuts to the chase.\n\n\"If you're not leaving, then let us borrow your truck. We need four-wheel drive to get to us where we're going.\"\n\n\"I would if I could,\" he says, embarrassed, some color actually returning to his face. \"But I traded it.\"\n\n\"You what?\" I blurt out.\n\n\"For that \u00c1guaViva you've all been drinking. I'll get it back as soon as this whole thing blows over,\" he says, looking down. \"I mean, I'm sure a thing like that can't be legally binding.\"\n\n\"Who'd you trade it to?\" Alyssa asks.\n\nAgain, he looks down, ashamed. \"Some kid up the hill.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe house is obnoxiously huge, like the rest of the houses around it, built out to as close to the edge of the property line as allowable by law. It's freshly painted in an off-brown color, like someone tried to give it a Brazilian spray tan. It's what's commonly referred to as a McMansion. An ostentatious home thrown up in an assembly line fashion while you wait.\n\nThe garage door is cracked open about three inches from the ground, and spewing fumes. I can hear a generator inside\u2014which means the house has its own electricity source. Apparently, actually putting the generator outside where it belongs leaves it open to theft. This kid's no idiot. Over the drone of the generator I can hear electronic dance music playing inside the house. Okay, maybe he is.\n\nAlyssa ignores the big brass Oz-like knocker and pounds directly on the door. Nothing\u2014I can tell she's getting pissed, because she starts pounding and doesn't stop until the door finally opens, revealing a good-looking, well-groomed kid in a dark blue letterman jacket from Santa Margarita Catholic High School, and a polo shirt underneath. A letterman jacket in this heat. Yes, the generator is keeping the air-conditioning on, but the jacket still seems off. I tuck it away in my weird-crap-I-don't-care-enough-about-to-question file. Basil told us that the kid's parents were out of town. A silver-spoon preppy type left home alone. God help us all.\n\nHe smiles brightly. \"How can I help you?\" he says, like we were about to order a cheeseburger and fries from his McMansion.\n\n\"I'm here for my uncle's truck,\" Alyssa demands.\n\nHe exercises his right to refuse service to anyone. \"I'm sorry, I can't help you.\" Then he quickly tries to shut the door. That's when I jam my foot in. He leans against the door, keeping pressure. \"One foot in my home constitutes trespassing!\" he belts, trying to sound much more intimidating than he really is. Maybe the Oz knocker is appropriate. \"There are severe legal ramifications if you don't get your foot out of my door.\"\n\nI lean my shoulder into it. \"Open the door, asshole.\"\n\nAlyssa and Garrett join in, applying pressure.\n\n\"My father is a lawyer\u2014he'll shove a lawsuit so far up your\u2014\"\n\nBefore he can even finish his idle threat, Kelton hurls himself against the door as well, and his added force sends the door flying open, knocking the preppy kid down. He scrambles to his feet, treading Persian rug.\n\nThen he suddenly turns, reaches into a foyer credenza drawer, and produces a gun.\n\nDammit.\n\nNo sudden movements, I think, as my hand very slowly creeps toward the gun hidden in my waistband.\n\n\"That's right, stay back. Hands where I can see them,\" he says, quoting something I'm sure he saw on TV.\n\nWe all freeze\u2014except for Kelton. Instead Kelton strides toward the kid. He really has lost it!\n\nThe preppy kid tightens his grip on his gun and shouts, almost maniacally, \"I'm fully within my rights to shoot! I swear I'll do it!\"\n\nBut Kelton is fearless. He suddenly lurches forward, grips the boy's wrist, and all in one motion, twists his arm behind his back.\n\nThe kid yelps, but Kelton isn't finished. He pushes the kid's arm up behind his back and twists him around so his own momentum is his enemy. His arm is now bent at an obscene angle, and we all hear a POP.\n\nThe preppy kid falls to the floor screaming bloody murder, and Kelton holds the gun. For a moment he looks just as surprised as we do. As if he's saying to himself, Holy crap, it worked. While the kid still writhes on the floor, Kelton examines the gun.\n\n\"Kelton, are you out of your mind?\" Alyssa says. \"He could have killed you.\"\n\n\"Nope,\" Kelton says. \"This is a WG Panther. It's an airsoft gun, which means it's nothing but a toy. Look, the orange tip is colored black with a Sharpie.\"\n\nI'm so infuriated that I was tricked by a freaking airsoft gun, I get the sudden urge to kick this kid in the gut. And then I remember that his arm is totally popped out its socket. Serves him right.\n\nKelton gets down on one knee to help him, but the preppy kid scrambles back and points with his working arm. \"No! Keep that psychopath away from me!\" he screams. It's refreshing to hear someone else be called a psychopath for once. Ironically enough, this guy should be thanking Kelton for what he did. Because if he hadn't disarmed him, I would have done it myself. And real guns don't shoot plastic pellets.\n\n\"Let him help,\" Alyssa tells the kid. \"He knows what he's doing.\" And for some reason, he listens. People seem to trust Alyssa, for better or worse. I trust her like I trust kung pao chicken in a frat guy's mini-fridge. Just enough to not vomit.\n\nKelton has the kid lie on his back, and firmly holds his arm. \"Take a deep breath and hold it,\" Kelton says, gripping tight. \"Ready? One . . . two\u2014\" And on three Kelton pops his shoulder back into place. The kid yelps, but a little less loudly than when it was first dislocated.\n\nHe then sits up and leans against the wall, sweating. \"Ice. Get me ice, will you?\" he demands, to anyone.\n\nThe words almost don't even register. Ice? This kid has ice? Come to think of it, he has a lot of things that other people don't.\n\n\"In the kitchen,\" he says, mistaking our shock for stupidity.\n\n\"Sure thing, Roycroft,\" I say with a smirk, and nod to Garrett, who goes off to get it.\n\nThe kid glares at me, now as confused as he is angry.\n\n\"Don't be so surprised,\" I say. \"Your name's on your jacket.\"\n\n\"Oh. Right.\"\n\n\"There, now we're on a last-name basis.\"\n\n\"I still don't know your name.\"\n\n\"No, you don't. Funny how that works.\"\n\nI look around, trying to calculate our current situation, but the numbers just aren't adding up. It's an embarrassment of riches. A stack of laptops, multiple Xboxes\u2014who has multiple Xboxes? There's a bunch of signed sports memorabilia\u2014and at the far end of a hall is some sort of tank with a giant\u2014\n\nI spin around, barely even able to look at it.\n\nSNAKE!\n\nI center myself\u2014take a deep, calming breath, reminded of the one thing I have in common with Indiana Jones besides proficiency with a whip. But that's another conversation.\n\nI turn to him. He's moved himself to a leather sofa, still holding his shoulder.\n\n\"So what's with all this stuff?\" I ask.\n\nHe somehow manages to flash a cool smile, even in his most emasculated state. \"Assets that I've acquired, fair and square.\"\n\nAlyssa steps forward. \"Was it fair when you took my uncle's truck?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he replies, taken aback by the mere suggestion of impropriety. \"I have all the paperwork.\"\n\n\"You took advantage of him!\"\n\n\"The price of water has gone up,\" he says, getting defensive. \"Don't tell me that's my fault.\"\n\nAlyssa curls a fist, ready to dislocate more of his body parts. Which I'd actually pay to see.\n\n\"He came to me,\" the preppy kid says, still offended by the indictment of his character.\n\nKelton is already growing impatient. \"The water here is tainted. What's the point of having all of this junk if you're just going to get sick like the rest of them?\"\n\n\"I didn't drink it; I have my own means of hydration.\"\n\n\"You haven't left here, have you?\" Kelton realizes. \"You haven't seen what it's like out there.\"\n\nAnd this seems to give him pause for thought. It must be true; this little prince has been living on his own personal planet since the Tap-Out.\n\n\"Why are you here alone, anyway?\" I ask.\n\n\"My parents are on a cruise. They left me to watch the house. I'm sure they'd come home if they weren't in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.\"\n\n\"Lucky them,\" I say.\n\nGarrett hands him a skimpy bag of ice, and he holds it to his shoulder.\n\n\"Have you been watching the news at all?\" Alyssa asks.\n\nHe shakes his head. \"The TV drains too much power from the generator.\"\n\nHe leads us to a family room that looks more like a home theater, with a sixty-inch TV which, as he said, eats up so much juice from the generator, the lights dim when he turns it on. Kelton grabs the remote and finds the local news channel\u2014except now the entire channel is just color bars.\n\nKelton tries the other local channel.\n\nStatic.\n\nI want to believe it's a problem with the provider, and not with the stations themselves. Kelton flips to a national broadcast\u2014CNN\u2014and we finally see a report. But I almost wish we hadn't. Although it shows us what we already know, somehow seeing it in huge high-def color makes it worse.\n\nThere's a map of southern California, a circle around it, like the highlighted path of a hurricane. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA TAP-OUT COVERAGE is what the chyrons read at the bottom, like this was some kind of event for everyone else's entertainment. I've been on the receiving end of broadcasts like this from other places\u2014but this is the first time in as long as I can remember that I'm standing in the epicenter of the disaster area.\n\nI turn to the others and realize that they're all just as shaken as I am\u2014even the preppy kid.\n\n\"It's finally happened,\" says Alyssa. \"The rest of the world finally noticed and is taking the Tap-Out seriously.\"\n\n\"The rest of the world is too late,\" says Kelton. And he's right. You don't wait nearly a week until mobilizing serious resources for a disaster of this magnitude. The reports flash across the screen and blend together\u2014my brain hardly able to register it all:\n\nA reporter in a chopper flies over downtown Los Angeles, showing rioting that makes the LA riots of the '90s seem like a tea party. There's a journalist reporting from the fringes of Riverside, at a safe distance, peering inside the fishbowl of chaos\u2014afraid to travel too deep. A group of elementary school kids in Florida hold a bottled water drive\u2014as if any of their water will actually get here in time to make a difference. There's a shot of FEMA officials\u2014actual FEMA, not just their reserve volunteers\u2014handing out water in an evacuation center, but a wider shot reveals more crowds than they can possibly handle. Rock stars plan relief concerts to raise funds. Celebrities promote charities. All the usual self-congratulatory stuff. The only difference is that we're the victims now, rather than the ones sitting comfortably in our homes, sending five bucks on a charity app and patting ourselves on the back because we're so goddamn generous.\n\n\"If you're getting this report, and you're in the Southland right now\u2014there is a mandatory evacuation,\" says Anderson Cooper. His image is accompanied by shots of military personnel helping families evacuate onto massive trucks, handing out water to long lines of people. \"Evacuation centers are being set up throughout Southern California in school gymnasiums, churches, and malls\u2014but there seems to be a staggering number of people who are choosing not to cooperate with these government mandates.\"\n\n\"Look on the bright side,\" I say. \"At least malls have a purpose again.\"\n\nThe next shot shows mobs of people flowing like a human river down a winding mountain road, and disappearing beneath a forest canopy. \"These families are making their own way toward Lake Arrowhead and the Big Bear Lake area, but reports on the ground tell us that people who have been entering many of these woodsy areas aren't coming out on the other side. . . .\"\n\nEveryone watches silently, and then I turn to Kelton. \"Hey, bug-out boy\u2014if they're not making it through the forest, what makes you think we will?\"\n\n\"I told you, we're not going where they're going.\"\n\nAnd that's good\u2014because if all those people aren't getting to the high lakes, there's only one of two places they're going. And neither of them are places you come back from.\n\n### 21) Henry\n\nDealing with irrational people takes focus, intelligence, and extreme discipline\u2014you have to maintain a sense of true emotional stasis\u2014as outlined in one of my favorite books, Transformative Power, by Pearce Tidwell. One must learn to manage one's emotional state in order to consistently operate from a place of resourcefulness, thus producing desirable outcomes. You have to be actionary, rather than reactionary.\n\nWhich is why, instead of giving into the god-awful throbbing pain in my right shoulder, I channel it\u2014using the pain as a tool to sharpen my focus. (It really hurts though, sweet Jesus how it hurts.) I won't allow it to control me. My current agony will not define me. Instead, my profound discomfort will be a springboard that will propel me toward a better reality.\n\nUntil now, I have mostly avoided watching the news; it's always so manipulative. But now I can't help but acknowledge that the Tap-Out is a tragedy, and the relief effort a travesty. The cities are clearly hit hardest\u2014the crumbling impoverished areas packed with marginalized people unequipped for societal disaster.\n\nBut there is always opportunity in misfortune. So the question is: How do I turn this to my advantage? Because, after all, you can't work for the greater good unless you have all of your own ducks in a row first.\n\nAll considered, it may be in my best interest to fly the coop rather than sit on my current nest egg. Then again, if the state of things has really devolved to such a degree, my water must be worth more than ever. Everything that I've traded for thus far will be peanuts compared to what my next transactions will bring. I'm busting inside! But I keep my cool. . . . One must never overreact to the spoils of one's windfall. I decide it's best to take an inventory of my current \"liquid assets,\" so I get up and head to my dad's home office, where the rest of my \u00c1guaViva is.\n\n\"Where're you going, Roycroft?\" the toughish girl with the perpetual smirk says. I say toughish, because I doubt she's as tough as she wants everyone to think. But I won't deny that there may be a screw or two loose.\n\n\"To get more ice,\" I reply.\n\nWhich they all buy, because they don't follow me. They're still glued to the television screen. I guess with my arm like this, they don't see me as much of a threat. Which is a big mistake. As long as they underestimate me, I have an advantage.\n\nI close the door to the office, ensuring my privacy, and pull out the last box of \u00c1guaViva. It's a fairly large box, containing two cases. I pry the box open to reveal a new and unexpected wrinkle to my current situation.\n\nLife is rife with many moments of misfortune, which we must learn to see as opportunities. Misfortune, oh, say, like opening up a box that you think contains forty-eight water bottles, only to find that it's full of \u00c1guaViva independent multitiered distributor brochures instead.\n\nIn these situations, one must keep a level head.\n\nA very. Level. Head.\n\nI hold on to the one positive in this personal debacle: At least now I won't have to struggle to make a decision as to whether to stay or go. I don't have much of a choice now; I'm going to have to leave here. My generator will soon be out of gas anyway\u2014and I can hide my acquired assets in the attic behind the boxes of Christmas ornaments. Except, of course, for the python\u2014but that thing can go for weeks without food, plus I assume it's well-acclimated to hot climates. Ultimately, a place of greater safety might not be a bad idea\u2014and if Dove Canyon really is the bacterial petri dish my uninvited guests are making it out to be, I'd imagine any place will be better than this.\n\nIn which case, their arrival is a lucky thing indeed.\n\nBut I could have done without the dislocated shoulder.\n\nI seal up the huge cardboard box as securely as I can with strapping tape. And then I tape it again and again, so it'll be virtually impossible to open. That's when one of them comes in. It's the more reasonable, less snarky of the two girls. The one who's laying claim to her uncle's former truck.\n\n\"I thought you were getting ice.\"\n\n\"All out,\" I say convincingly. \"Which reminded me to check my water supply.\" I rap on the box and point to the giant \u00c1guaViva logo on the side.\n\nThere's a brief lull in the conversation. And I know exactly where this is going. It can only go one way. The truck. They're not going to leave until they get what they want. There's four of them and one of me. Clearly I'm not going to be able to overpower them\u2014especially with their psychotic red-haired pit bull around. I just have to write the truck off as a short-term loss leader, because when it comes down to it, I'm no longer in a position to negotiate. But she hasn't realized that yet, and right now it's just the two of us. So I beat her to the punch.\n\n\"We never officially met,\" I say, turning on the charm. \"I'm Henry.\" I extend my left arm to shake, since I can still barely move my right.\n\nShe hesitates, a little skeptical. Understandable. \"My name's Alyssa.\"\n\n\"Pleasure to meet you, Alyssa.\" I smile and clear my throat. \"I'll tell you what. I appreciate the passion that you have for your friends' and family's well-being, and can see why you might feel entitled to that truck.\"\n\nShe crosses her arms, but she's still listening.\n\n\"So I'm prepared to give it to you.\" I pause for effect. \"But only under one condition.\"\n\nShe lifts an eyebrow.\n\n\"You take me with you.\"\n\nShe thinks it over, but I can already feel things tipping in my favor. I once read in The Thriving Executive by R. J. Sherman that the number one way to sustain a job in this day and age is to make yourself indispensable. Or at least make people think you're indispensable. She deliberates\u2014and just when I sense that I've reached that tipping point where her emotions and better judgment teeter ever so precariously, I give her the gentle tap that ensures which way she'll fall.\n\n\"I'll bring this \u00c1guaViva box,\" I say, with an ingratiating smile.\n\n\"We could just take your \u00c1guaViva,\" she points out.\n\n\"True . . . but you're not that kind of person. The others might be, but you're not.\"\n\nAnd I can see by the look in her eye that she's freefalling toward a unilateral decision. If they take me, they get what they want and I get to ensure my own survival. Another win-win.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe toughish girl, whose name I find out is Jacqui, insists on driving. Fair enough. For now. As we drive down my street, I begin to think I may have totally underestimated the effect of the water shortage on this community.\n\nIt's one thing to see rioting on TV in dense urban areas that are more prone to social conflagration, but quite a different thing to see homes with broken windows in an upscale community like Dove Canyon. Not that the affluent are any better\u2014I mean, human nature is human nature. However, where personal space is at a premium, tensions are apt to spike much more quickly than in a place where one's battle cry reaches maybe ten neighbors instead of a hundred. Which means that in the suburbs and exburbs it's hard to generate the critical mass needed to ignite truly bad behavior.\n\nOr maybe not.\n\nBecause as we drive off, there's more evidence of bad behavior than just broken windows. There are shattered mailboxes, cars that have jumped curbs into hedges, and the kind of random debris that one generally doesn't find in a turnkey community like this one. Not because people here aren't slobs\u2014I'm sure a lot of them are\u2014but they're so obsessively worried about their property values that they'd rather die than allow the detritus of civilization to sully their curb appeal.\n\n\"I'm worried about leaving my uncle,\" says Alyssa, who sits beside me in the back seat. She's a buffer between me and the psychotic redheaded kid on her other side. I would have preferred to sit in the front seat, but Alyssa's brother called it, and if we don't adhere to the convention of calling shotgun, what rule of law is left to us?\n\n\"Uncle Parsley will be fine,\" says Jacqui. \"And even if he's not, there's nothing you can do about it. You asked him to come and he wouldn't. End of story.\"\n\nAlyssa accepts the wisdom, but doesn't seem comforted.\n\n\"Well, he's got plenty of \u00c1guaViva,\" I point out. \"Even if it's going right through him, he'll still get the benefits of the electrolytes. In fact, its proprietary formula is proven to improve quality of life.\"\n\n\"Great, just what we need,\" says Jacqui. \"An infomercial with good hair.\"\n\nThis is what one calls a backhanded compliment. I choose to see the positive, because that's how I roll. \"That information could save lives,\" I tell her. \"And so can good hair in the right situation.\"\n\nThe truck is still hot. The air-conditioner has been blowing since we got in, but it's no cooler. Jacqui notices that too, because she starts checking the controls.\n\n\"What's wrong with this thing?\" she asks.\n\n\"That's right, I forgot\u2014the air-conditioner doesn't work,\" Alyssa informs us. \"Our uncle kept saying he was going to get it fixed, but never got around to it.\"\n\nJacqui glares at her. \"You could have told us that before.\"\n\nWe all crank down the windows, but it's just as hot outside as it is in the car. The digital thermometer on the dashboard reads ninety-eight degrees. Body temperature feels so much hotter when it's outside of your body. Her uncle should have disclosed that the air-conditioner didn't work when he made the deal with me. Legally you have to disclose things like that.\n\nThen Alyssa's brother turns around and asks me, \"What sport did you letter in?\"\n\nI point to the patches on my jacket, which is increasingly wrong for the weather, but I refuse to shed it. \"This one's soccer,\" I say\u2014which seems to grab Alyssa's attention, although I can tell she's trying not to show it. \"And this one's lacrosse.\"\n\n\"Lacrosse,\" says Jacqui. \"I'm not surprised you're good with a stick.\"\n\nI choose not to comment.\n\nAlyssa looks at another patch. \"Captain of the debate team?\"\n\nI shrug like it's nothing. \"I make a good argument.\"\n\n\"How about the tattoos on your wrist?\" asks Alyssa's brother, pointing to the words peeking out from beneath my sleeve. \"What are they?\"\n\n\"They're not tattoos,\" I tell him. \"It's just standard ink.\"\n\n\"So what do they say?\"\n\nI pull up the sleeves of my letterman's jacket a bit, and try to lift my arm to show him, but my shoulder throbs. My dislocation is a gift that keeps on giving. I'm able to get it high enough for him to see the words, though. He reads them haltingly.\n\n\"Con-fla-gration. De-tri-tus.\"\n\n\"My words of the day.\"\n\nAlyssa looks at me, a bit amused. \"You write vocabulary words on your arm?\"\n\n\" 'One's vocabulary needs constant fertilizing or it will die,' \" I say, quoting Evelyn Waugh. Not that I know who Evelyn Waugh is, but knowing the source of a quote is what counts. \"By the time it fades, the word is permanently committed to memory.\"\n\n\"I got a few words I'd like to write on your arm,\" says Jacqui.\n\nAs we come to the gate of my community, I can see that it's blocked by a barricade of sorts; another sign of how deep the crisis has cut. It must have been designed by a committee because it's a fairly pathetic barrier. Like something beavers might have erected if they had opposable thumbs and lots of upper body strength.\n\n\"I forgot about that,\" says Jacqui.\n\n\"Maybe we can just roll over it,\" suggests psycho-ginger. \"This truck has a pretty high chassis.\"\n\n\"Why risk damaging her uncle's truck?\" I say. \"We'll get out and dismantle it.\"\n\nIt's really the only reasonable course of action, but by saying it first, it helps to move me a few inches closer to a position of leadership.\n\nWe all get out to clear a path to the gate. I'm not as effective as I'd like to be, however, and Jacqui notices.\n\n\"What's the matter, Roycroft? Is heavy lifting beneath your pay grade?\"\n\n\"Leave him alone,\" says Garrett. \"His shoulder's messed up.\"\n\nI grin and give her a one-shouldered shrug.\n\nWith enough of a path cleared, we get back into the truck. I get back in next to Alyssa. It's a bit cramped in the back, but to be honest, I don't mind.\n\n\"Look at that,\" I say as we drive out of the gate. \"Someone actually abandoned a BMW by the side of the road.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" says Jacqui. \"What idiots.\"\n\nAs we pull away from Dove Canyon, I take a moment to do a more in-depth assessment of my travel companions.\n\nAlyssa seems to be the one calling the shots, although Jacqui wants to be. Then there's Alyssa's little brother, who stood up for me back at the gate, so I think I've already won him over. And then there's the crazy kid. He's the part of this equation I wish would just cancel out. I know the type. Angry. Sadistic. Sociopathic. He's probably a drop-out, on the way to being a career criminal. Drug dealer type. Yeah. The kind of guy who beats up Eagle Scouts for fun.\n\nI won't even try to gain his confidence. For now I focus on Jacqui. I try to decipher her. A lot of people probably think she's Latina because of her complexion, but she's not. Her intonations and body language point elsewhere. Her eyes and the cast of her brow feel more European.\n\nShe catches me in the rearview mirror watching her, so I don't shy away from it.\n\n\"Italian?\" I ask, taking a wild guess.\n\n\"Greek,\" she answers. \"But I can't see how that's any of your business.\"\n\n\"Greco-Roman, then,\" I say. \"I wasn't entirely wrong.\" Then I add, \"You have a classic look. If Venus de Milo had arms, she'd look like you.\"\n\n\"If Venus de Milo had arms, she'd slap you around,\" she responds.\n\n\"How about us?\" asks Alyssa's brother.\n\n\"Garrett, don't even bother,\" Alyssa says. \"Nobody gets it right.\"\n\nBut still Garrett waits for me to try. I'm on shaky ground here, because, considering the volatile nature of our society, if I get it wrong, I'm likely to offend.\n\n\"I would say your family hails from multiple continents.\"\n\nAlyssa is impressed. \"That's . . . sort of right.\"\n\nThen Garrett chimes in with: \"We're a quarter Dutch, a quarter French-Canadian, a quarter Jamaican, and a quarter Ukrainian!\"\n\n\"A fine melting pot!\" I say. \"What my father would call 'a full-flavored stew.' \" Actually, my father would call them \"mutts\" but my father can be an asshole. His is a tree I strive to fall increasingly farther from. \"Anyway,\" I say, \"it's a much broader genealogy than your Viking friend here.\"\n\n\"We're not Scandinavian!\" snaps Kelton. \"We're Scottish and English. I have an ancestor who came over on the Mayflower.\"\n\n\"Really?\" I ask. \"A rat or a roach?\"\n\nWhich I feel safe saying because Alyssa's between us\u2014although he might make me pay for it later when no one else is looking. But it makes Garrett laugh, and Garrett's laughter makes Alyssa smile, so it's worth the risk. With the exception of Mr. Mayflower, I'm beginning to feel at home with this little group. They say that intense communal experiences can create lasting friendships. I think there's real opportunity here.\n\n\"What about you?\" Alyssa asks.\n\n\"I have no idea,\" I tell her. \"I'm adopted.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAs we drive, the desolation around us makes it hard to keep spirits up. Everywhere things seem as hopeless as my neighborhood. At least the people out here don't have dysentery, I think\u2014but if \"not having dysentery\" is where the bar is set, that's pretty low.\n\nMorale is everything in difficult times\u2014it's the only thing that can keep stress from becoming toxic\u2014but morale doesn't just happen. It starts with management and trickles all the way down. I see it as my responsibility to ignore the emptiness of the streets, the nonfunctional stoplights, and the occasional clusters of walking dead. You can't get caught up in that kind of stuff. If my decisions reflected this abysmal reality, how could things ever get better? I realize that this group needs more than just a competent leader. They need a hero. I resolve to do my best to rise to the occasion.\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT 1 OF 2: CH-47D CHINOOK\n\nAlyce Marasco isn't new to the skies, but has never before flown her chopper as a first responder. However, now that martial law has been declared and the national guard has been activated, Alyce has been called on to airlift drinking water to evacuation centers.\n\nLike everyone else, she has come late to the realization that this crisis, from a human standpoint, is just as severe as any natural disaster, because of the sheer number of people affected and the desperate position every single one of them is in. Yes, there was warning\u2014years of it, in fact\u2014but public service announcements about conservation are a whole lot different from a total stoppage. There was no warning at all that the water would simply. Turn. Off.\n\nAlyce often visits an uncle with dementia who lives in a nursing home in Tustin\u2014a community right in the heart of the affected area. And because Alyce hasn't been able to confirm that he's been safely evacuated, she finds herself pulled slightly off-route and flying in the direction of his nursing home. Even though she wouldn't be able to make out much from this altitude, she needs to get a sense of things; an overview that can at least give her a little bit of comfort. She scans the streets below, not even sure what she's looking for. She remembers reports of how, during disasters, nursing homes are among the hardest hit. They don't command the resources or attention that hospitals do, and often they're severely understaffed, leaving such places barely equipped to deal with a normal day, much less a crisis.\n\nThere are Facebook pages for dozens of neighborhoods where people have started checking themselves in as safely evacuated and with access to water\u2014because those two things don't necessarily go together. Those pages have actually become the most accurate registry of evacuees. She's been checking it for people she knows, but hasn't come across any\u2014least of all her uncle, to whom social media means sitting in a crowded room reading a newspaper.\n\nHer uncle's neighborhood looks just like most others. Lifeless except for overcrowded, overflowing evacuation centers, looking like anthills spaced out at five-mile intervals. The lifeless places look fake from an aerial view, like a miniature with plastic trees or a felted architectural model. She can't take the time to find the specific building, but even if she did, what could she do? When her copilot points out that they're slightly off course, she adjusts their direction and lets it go.\n\nUp ahead is one of those swarming pockets of life. Thousands of people all congregating in a shopping center parking lot. From this altitude it appears the way Coachella or any major festival would look\u2014which is disturbing to her, because entertainment is the last thing these people want right now.\n\nThey've cleared a huge circle in the lot. Crowds have pushed themselves back to create a landing pad. A makeshift heliport for her supply of life-giving water.\n\nBut there's nothing Alyce can do for these people.\n\nThis isn't her destination.\n\nThis isn't even an official evacuation center.\n\nAnd then she's hit with a gust of emotion, an inner turbulence that shakes her to her core. She starts doing the math: At this point, there are about two hundred evacuation shelters. Even if only half the population went to a shelter, that means that nearly 12 million people would be there, waiting for water. That's sixty thousand people for each shelter. And yet the choppers in service can only provide enough water for about six thousand people per shelter per day.\n\nWhich means that nine in ten people won't get water today.\n\nAnd that's just in the official centers.\n\nTears begin to cloud her vision, but she wipes them away. Maybe the water in her chopper is just a drop in the bucket, but it's going to help someone somewhere. And for the others, there's nothing she can do.\n\nAnd so she passes over the crowded parking lot, but not before saying a silent prayer for the souls below.\n\n### SNAPSHOT 2 OF 2: TARGET\n\nSix.\n\nThat's how many helicopters have soared right over Hali's head since she got to the Target parking lot yesterday. Everyone says that the military helicopters are transporting water. That they're going to land here and save everyone. That's why the people \"in charge\" keep clearing places for the choppers to land. That's why every family has someone waiting in a long, winding line\u2014just in case there's something to line up for.\n\nThe sound of another chopper rises in the north. Everyone looks up in anticipation. The sound peaks. Its shadow crosses the lot. That's the closest it comes. The sound of its engine fades as it disappears to the south. That makes seven.\n\n\"We won't get the military deliveries,\" a woman beside her says to anyone who'll listen, or maybe just to herself. \"But the other helicopters\u2014they're coming to unofficial drop points.\" She lights a cigarette to console herself. \"There's more nonmilitary choppers out there, anyway.\"\n\nWhere? Hali wants to ask her. What helicopters are you talking about? Certainly none that are big enough to ship water. Most small choppers can barely hold a handful of passengers, and water is heavy. Does this woman really think some sightseeing company is sending them water?\n\nShe returns to her mother, who has staked out a position in line, only about thirty from the front\u2014folding chair and all. She doesn't have the spot because they got there early, but because she saw a friend in line when they arrived, and offered to hold her place when she went to the bathroom. The friend had since abandoned the parking lot for the hope of greener pastures, leaving Hali's mom to inherit the spot. That's the way her mom has always been. She finds ways to get what she wants.\n\n\"Bastards,\" Hali's mom mutters under her breath, as Hali sits on the ground next to her. No explanation of which bastards she's referring to. It's obvious. The bastards in the helicopters that fly by, and everyone else ignoring this lot; the water gods rolling dice to decide which way that water will go.\n\n\"Next one will be for us,\" Hali tells her.\n\nShe offers Hali a slim smile. They both know it's wishful thinking that borders on delusion, but right now it's all they have. They have no choice in the matter. Water MUST come to them, because they're not going anywhere. Her mom is NOT abandoning her place in line.\n\nThey had water on the first couple of days of the Tap-Out. Her mom had ripped a case out of the hands of one of Hali's soccer teammates back at Costco. \"Ya snooze, ya lose,\" her mom said, once they got to the checkout line. \"Let that be a life lesson.\"\n\nBut there were clearly life lessons that her mom had missed. Like, \"Don't wash your hair when all you have is bottled water.\" And, \"Skip your morning jog when sweat is the enemy.\" And maybe the most obvious one of all, \"Let the houseplants die.\"\n\nThat case of water lasted only two days.\n\nOut on the street, just beyond the parking lot, a little red Volkswagen bus pulls up. The kind of thing you might have seen at Woodstock. A minivan, built before there was such a thing as a minivan. It was here yesterday, too. Twice. Today three girls around her age, maybe a little bit older, get out. She can't see the driver, but she knows it's a man. She knows this instinctively.\n\n\"Hali, honey,\" her mother says, trying to shield her eyes from the sun, \"why don't you go into the shade where it's cooler, against the side of the building. Maybe listen to what people are saying, maybe get some information.\"\n\n\"What people say is useless,\" Hali points out.\n\n\"Mostly, yes, but every once in a while there might be something worth listening to.\"\n\nShe hates leaving her mother sweltering here, but she's been given a mission, and so she goes, all the while thinking of the things the two of them have had to do over the last couple of days to get this far.\n\nWhen they were still at home, Hali's mom flirted with Mr. Weidner\u2014a neighbor who had gotten divorced last year. Truth was, Hali's mom always flirted with him\u2014but when she realized he had water, she flirted with him just a little bit more. He was polite about it, and although he didn't really flirt back, he did offer them a bottle of water.\n\n\"Mission accomplished,\" her mother had said when they got home, although she had trouble looking Hali in the eye when she said it.\n\nThe next morning, Hali took a page from her mom's survival book, and taught some soccer moves to the obnoxious little kid across the street who she couldn't stand, but whose family was rumored to have some water. In the end, the kid's mother gave Hali a Dixie cup of water. Hali sweat more out playing with the little brat, but it was better than nothing. She brought half of the cup to her mom, who refused it and insisted that Hali drink it all.\n\nNow, as they wait helplessly for relief, a lame inspirational quote keeps looping in her mind:\n\nYou've got to do something you've never done, to have something you've never had.\n\nIt was something that a soccer coach told her at some point in her life. However cheesy, it stuck. She assumes it applies not just to things you've never had, but things you've had and lost. Things you still desperately need.\n\nOn the shady side of the Target, Hali runs into her friend, Sydney, who is famous for talking an awful lot but saying absolutely nothing.\n\n\"Is this crazy or what?\" Sydney says. \"It's, like, what the hell, right? Give me a break or something! But it is what it is, I guess.\"\n\n\"I hear you,\" which is generally the best way to respond to her.\n\nThen Sydney leans close, and says, \"You wanna see something?\"\n\nShe surreptitiously opens a pouch in her backpack to reveal a small water bottle. The sight of it takes Hali's breath away. Suddenly Sydney is her BFF.\n\n\"C'mon, I'll give you a sip,\" she whispers.\n\nThey go off toward some bushes, and Sydney pulls out the bottle, shielding it from anyone who might see, like it's something illegal, and lets Hali take a sip. The sip turns into a gulp before Sydney pulls the bottle away. She's not mad or anything. She must know how hard it is to stop drinking once you've started.\n\n\"Where did you get it?\" Hali asks. \"You didn't have any when I saw you yesterday.\"\n\nSydney nods off to the side, and Hali turns to see that she's indicating the red Volkswagen bus. The driver is leaning up against it now, having a smoke. Late twenties or early thirties. Ponytail. Bushy sideburns. Torn jeans that don't read as a fashion statement.\n\n\"He's giving out free water,\" Sydney says. \"But he's kind of picky about who he gives it to. I mean, he can't give it to everyone, you know?\" Then Sydney lets off a nervous little chuckle that gives away the cold, hard reality that there's no such thing as free water\u2014and Hali realizes why she hasn't seen Sydney until now. She was one of the three girls who just got out of the little red bus.\n\n\"He's not mean or anything,\" Sydney says. \"He even gave me a bottle to take to my family. . . .\"\n\nHali watches as a pretty girl she doesn't know gets into the van. The ponytail guy holds the door open for her, pretending to be a gentleman instead of slime.\n\nHali turns to Sydney. \"Thanks, but no thanks,\" she says, and tries to stride away with sufficient indignation\u2014but Sydney grabs her arm.\n\n\"Don't be stupid, Hali. Haven't you figured it out yet? No one's coming to help the people here! They're probably all going to die of thirst. You don't want to be one of them!\"\n\nBut Hali still can't let herself believe that. These things just don't happen here. But Sydney still won't let her go. She looks desperate now.\n\n\"Why do you even care what I do?\" Hali blurts out. \"You got your water, why don't you just leave me alone?\"\n\nAnd Sydney finally spills her true motive. \"He said he'll give me another bottle if I bring him someone. Someone like you. . . .\"\n\nHali wrenches her arm away and runs, not looking back.\n\nBut before she gets to her mother, there's a sound up above. A chopper! And this one is louder\u2014closer than any of the others! Everyone stands up, looking to the sky like a starry-eyed mob waiting for the rapture.\n\nThe helicopter appears over the treetops. It isn't big. It's one of the nonmilitary ones that the woman was speaking of. It circles above the mob. It circles again. It circles a third time, and by the third time, Hali realizes that it's just a news helicopter. It's come to show the world the drama of crisis and the true meaning of desperation. She wonders if the news crew up above even realizes the hope they're shattering by their mere presence here.\n\nOnce more around, and the chopper leaves. People keep on standing, refusing to believe it's gone. As long as they stay standing, it might come back. It might. It might.\n\n\"Bastards!\" says her mother.\n\nHali looks at her. She looks to the curb. She looks at her mother again.\n\nYou've got to do something you've never done, to have something you've never had, Hali thinks. Or something you may never have again.\n\n\"I'll be back,\" she tells her mother. \"I promise.\"\n\nThen she heads toward the little red Volkswagen bus, where the man with the ponytail opens the door for her. Like a gentleman.\n\n* * *\n\n### 22) Henry\n\nThe secret to a successful group collaboration is a dynamic, responsive leader, and the key to being a good leader is acute observation and subtle manipulation\u2014so subtle that no one knows they're being manipulated. Come to think of it, that's also the key to a successful government.\n\nAs we drive, I stay quiet, which is against my nature but necessary at the moment. I watch. I listen. I take mental notes.\n\n\"So we have our four-by-four,\" Jacqui says, and turns to Psycho Ginger beside her. Where do you want me to drive it?\"\n\n\"I told you,\" Kelton says, \"Angeles National Forest.\"\n\n\"So, how. Do. We. Get. There?\" Jacqui asks with a vague but persistent threat in her condescension.\n\n\"I'm not sure\u2014I've only been to the bug-out twice\u2014but I know exactly where it is on a map.\"\n\nAlyssa instinctively takes out her phone, but gets an error message as she tries to open the app.\n\n\"Damn,\" she says. \"Maps isn't working.\"\n\n\"So use Waze,\" suggests Garrett.\n\nAlthough I want to laugh at that, the way Jacqui does, I say very graciously, \"I think what your sister means is that there's no service. But maybe there's an actual map in here. Some people still use those, believe it or not.\"\n\n\"Right,\" says Alyssa, \"and our uncle might be one of those people.\"\n\nI smile. Point for me.\n\nThere's nothing in the glove compartment but the registration, gum wrappers, and a lint roller. The door pockets yield only an empty can of Red Bull, a leaky pen, and more gum wrappers. And then Kelton checks in the center compartment between the front seats. There's no map, but he does pull out a questionable sandwich-size Ziploc bag.\n\n\"What the . . . ?\" He tosses it to Alyssa like it's a hot potato.\n\nAlyssa examines it. No question: It's a bag of weed. She turns to her brother and they say, simultaneously:\n\n\"Uncle Cannabis.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says Jacqui, \"we might be dying of thirst, but now we won't even care.\"\n\nThe mention of thirst makes Garrett open his canteen, only to find it's dry as a bone.\n\n\"The forest is north of Pasadena, right?\" I say. \"We can take the 241 to the 91 to the 57 to the 210. That will get us close.\"\n\n\"Not gonna happen,\" says Jacqui. \"The freeways are dead. Both directions. All of them.\"\n\n\"There are other ways to get there,\" says Kelton. \"Nontraditional ways . . . but we'll need a map to get us started.\"\n\nSuddenly, up above, a military helicopter roars past at a low altitude. We pass a military truck heading in the opposite direction from us, but other than that there are very few cars on the road. Then, up ahead, we come to a roadblock\u2014also military. Soldiers in camouflage are gesturing to the left, and yell to us.\n\n\"This road is for official business only! Take a left! Signs will lead you to the evac center!\"\n\n\"Don't listen to him,\" says Kelton. \"The last place we want to be is an evac center right now.\"\n\n\"What do you suggest I do?\" asks Jacqui. \"Crash through the roadblock? Do you even see the size of the guns they're all holding?\"\n\n\"Turn left,\" I say before Alyssa can say it. \"Do what he says for now, until we find a way around the roadblocks.\" And although Jacqui clearly doesn't want to take any orders from me, she has to. There is no other viable choice except to follow, and reinforce my benevolent leadership.\n\n\"I agree,\" says Alyssa. Point for me.\n\nWe turn left, heading down El Toro Road. There are a few more cars on the road with us now, and more roadblocks. It seems that any and all civilian traffic is being directed onto this road.\n\n\"We should be going in the opposite direction,\" says Kelton.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" I tell him, forcing a big-brotherly tone. \"Two steps forward sometimes requires one step back.\"\n\n\"What, did you get that off of a motivational poster in your counselor's office, Roycroft?\" says Jacqui. \"How about this one? Sometimes in life you're just plain screwed.\"\n\n\"All right, can we just kill the attitude?\" says Alyssa. \"It's not helping anything.\"\n\nIt's the perfect set-up for what I'm about to say next.\n\n\"It's all right, Alyssa,\" I say, with an infinitude of understanding. \"Jacqui's just stressed and scared. It's how she deals with it.\"\n\n\"Don't you dare analyze me!\" she snaps, which just proves my point.\n\nAlyssa glances at me, and I offer her a small grin and a shrug. In return, she offers me a commiseration of raised eyebrows\u2014which is one step before a friendly smile. A fine turn of events! I'll admit that she's still in charge here, but she's beginning to see the two of us as a team. This is excellent progress toward a sustainable dynamic. Once she starts deferring to me, I'll know that I've slipped into the virtual driver's seat, regardless of who's actually driving.\n\nNow there are more cars on the road around us, and all traffic is detoured right. I begin to realize that we have entered a funnel\u2014a funnel leading directly to El Toro High School, where they've set up an official evac center. I don't think I've ever seen so many people in one place. Crowds in the parking lot, crowds in the fields and the tennis and basketball courts\u2014except for one set of courts that's being used as a helipad. The military helicopter we saw before idles there, offloading water behind an entire gauntlet of armed soldiers.\n\nUp ahead of us, a soldier motions for us to pull over to the side of the road, along with the other cars.\n\n\"We can't let ourselves be herded and corralled like sheep,\" says Kelton. \"This is how it all starts. This is the beginning of the end.\"\n\n\"Wow, that's bleak,\" Jacqui comments, which says a lot coming from her.\n\nBut Kelton holds firm. \"We'll have to tell them we got lost. Then we'll turn around before it's too late.\"\n\nA soldier raps on Jacqui's window, and she has no choice but to roll it down.\n\n\"Park here,\" he says. \"Then follow the crowd.\"\n\n\"We're here by mistake,\" Jacqui says, heeding Kelton's warning.\n\n\"Yeah,\" adds Kelton. \"We have somewhere else to go.\"\n\nThe soldier isn't buying it. \"Then why aren't you already there?\"\n\nAnd then Garrett, giving his best puppy-dog eyes, says, \"My grandma! Please, we have to get my grandma! She's waiting for us!\"\n\nThe kid's clever, I'll give him that.\n\nAnd then he adds, \"She wouldn't leave her dogs,\" which is the perfect cherry on his story. This kid should run for office. Hell, I'd cast an uninformed vote for him.\n\nThen the soldier says, \"Give us her address, and we'll send someone for her.\"\n\nThat leaves Garrett completely speechless, and before any of us can keep his little fiction balloon from popping, the soldier leans in, looks down at Garrett, and says, \"Mind telling me what that is?\"\n\nWe all look down to the bag of pot in Garrett's lap. Garrett says, \"Oh shit,\" and another promising political career goes down in flames.\n\nThe others speak up now, but everything they say just makes it worse.\n\n\"It's not what you think!\" says Alyssa.\n\n\"It came with the car!\" says Kelton.\n\n\"It's just oregano,\" says Jacqui.\n\nGraves rarely get so deep.\n\n\"All right, out of the truck!\" says the soldier using his no-nonsense boot-camp voice. \"I SAID OUT! NOW!\"\n\nAnd so we scramble to do what he says, because red-handed is red-handed, and this is martial law, and Jacqui's motivational poster is truer than anything right now. We are screwed, and I cannot see a way out of this.\n\nHe takes the keys from Jacqui, leaving us with without wheels.\n\n\"Turn around!\" he demands, waving his weapon. \"Hands up against the vehicle.\"\n\nI try, but I grimace.\n\n\"I SAID HANDS UP!\"\n\n\"I can't,\" I tell him. \"I dislocated my shoulder.\"\n\n\"It's true,\" says Kelton. \"I dislocated it.\"\n\n\"Just keep your hands where I can see them,\" he says, mercifully not forcing my arm out of joint again. But now I'm scared. Truly and honestly scared, because I can see that there are others who are sitting handcuffed on the curb. Troublemakers or brawlers, or other sorts of unpleasant characters who required restraint, and God knows where they go under martial law. I try to hold it together, because leadership requires at least a pretense of grace under pressure.\n\nAnd then Alyssa opens her mouth\u2014and what comes out is downright magical.\n\n\"So you're going to arrest a bunch of kids for having pot? It's legal now, you know!\"\n\n\"Not in a moving vehicle,\" the soldier says as he begins to frisk us. \"And you're all underage!\"\n\nBut Alyssa will not be deterred. \"Really? Is this your top priority in the middle of this crisis?\"\n\n\"Be quiet!\" the soldier orders. He pats Kelton down, and is about to move on to Alyssa.\n\n\"This is the physical and psychological intimidation of minors\u2014not even martial law allows that!\" she yells. \"I'm sure my cousin at the LA Times is going to love this story!\"\n\nAnd, miraculously, he backs off. But not before grabbing the bag of weed. \"I'm confiscating this!\" he says. \"Now move it! Get in line with everyone else!\"\n\nAnd just like that, we're free. With so many people to process, I guess arresting us just wasn't worth the hassle. We hurry away from the soldier, passing all the forlorn people handcuffed by the curb, and join the mob heading toward the school, all of us breathing a communal sigh of relief.\n\n\"That,\" I tell Alyssa, \"was masterful.\" And it's not even like I'm sucking up. I mean it. \"You completely saved us back there\u2014and you didn't even have to lie!\"\n\n\"Actually,\" says Alyssa, \"I don't have a cousin who works for the LA Times.\"\n\nAnd suddenly I think I might be in love.\n\n### 23) Alyssa\n\nMaybe, I think, maybe this will be okay. Now that the Tap-Out is being taken seriously\u2014now that all these resources are being mobilized\u2014it will be okay. We won't have to brave the journey to this mysterious bug-out, which always sounded sketchy to me anyway.\n\nBut Kelton is like an animal in a trap, and he's ready to chew off his own foot to escape. He halts, refusing to walk any farther, standing in the middle of the path. The four of us have to fight the current of people to not get swept away with it.\n\n\"We can't be here!\" he insists.\n\n\"But we are,\" Jacqui tells him, butting back. \"Deal with it.\"\n\nConsidering all that Kelton has been through, I think he needs better than a tough-love approach from someone who doesn't actually love him, so I try to be a little bit gentler.\n\n\"Maybe this is a good thing,\" I tell him. \"It's not like we're prisoners\u2014they aren't making us stay if we don't want to. And who knows, maybe we do want to.\"\n\nBut now that we're standing here like boulders against the relentless flow of people entering the evac center, it doesn't feel like much of a choice at all.\n\n\"Maybe Mom and Dad are here,\" Garrett shouts over the clamor of helicopter blades. Though I think if they were here, they would have left to come to get us. Or maybe, like the soldier was going to do for our imaginary grandma, they sent someone to get us, but we were already gone.\n\n\"It's possible,\" I tell Garrett, because I don't want to shatter his hopes.\n\nAnd then Jacqui yells, \"Where the hell is Roycroft?\"\n\nI look behind us, and he's not there. He's vanished completely.\n\n\"Forget about him,\" growls Kelton. Someone knocks into him and he almost loses his footing. \"If he wants to stay here let him, but we can't!\"\n\n\"Stop it!\" Jacqui yells. \"This is stressful enough without you freaking out.\"\n\nKelton grits his teeth, anger growing. \"You all have no idea, do you?\" He points to the football field, which is just up a small hill. \"You think there are no prisoners here? Take a look at that fence! Go up there, and ask the people on the other side how long they've been waiting. Go on!\"\n\nAnd just to placate him, I do. \"I'll be right back,\" I say. \"Stay together.\" And I push through the crowd and up the grassy embankment. As I reach the football field, I'm hit by just how crowded it is. The stands, the track, the field. You can't even see the grass\u2014it's all people. There are umbrellas and awnings set up to keep them in the shade, but not nearly enough.\n\nThe fence is fairly high. All high school football fields have fences. They're to keep the fans of opposing teams from getting into fights with each other, and to keep out people who didn't pay for a ticket. Today, at every gate, there are multiple armed soldiers. As much as I hate to admit it, Kelton's right. In the here-and-now those fences are all about keeping people in. They've quarantined water-zombies. Thousands of them.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" I call through the fence to anyone who'll respond.\n\nA bony woman with long, unkempt brown hair comes over to me. \"Did you see?\" she asks. \"Did you see where they took it?\"\n\nBut I'm not sure what she's asking.\n\nShe gets impatient. \"The water! Did you see where they took it? We all saw the helicopter, but where did they take the water?\"\n\nI did see them beginning to unload it, but I don't know where the water went. There are so many staging areas around this school, it could have gone anywhere. \"No,\" I tell her, \"I'm sorry, no.\"\n\nShe slams her hand against the chain-link fence and it rattles. She bites her lip. She squints and starts blinking, and I realize what she's doing. She's crying. She's crying but there are no tears left in her.\n\nFinally I ask the question I came to ask. \"How long have you been here?\"\n\n\"We came yesterday afternoon,\" she tells me. \"This is only the third helicopter that's come since then, and the line never moves! We haven't seen any water. You have to find out where it's going!\"\n\nAnd then I hear Jacqui behind me. \"The gym,\" she yells over the crowd. \"I saw them taking it to the gym. There's a lot of people there, too.\"\n\nThe woman desperately grabs the fence so tightly her fingertips turn white. \"You have to get some for us! You'll do that, won't you? You'll go to the gym and bring us some of that water?\"\n\nThere's nothing I can say to her.\n\n\"Please promise you'll do it. Please!\"\n\n\"Alyssa, let's go.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry . . . ,\" I say. \"I'm . . . I'm . . .\"\n\nThen Jacqui gets in front of me, blocking my view of the woman, and moves me backward, down the hill. \"Don't engage,\" she tells me. \"It won't help anyone, least of all you.\"\n\nI think to the box of \u00c1guaViva in the bed of the pickup, hidden beneath a blanket. Is it still there? Did it get taken? Should I open it and start hurling bottles over the fence? But then I remember what happened yesterday when I brought water bottles to the Burnside house. And these people are far thirstier than that.\n\nDon't engage.\n\nHow do you just walk away? And yet I do. I have to.\n\n\"So what did you find out?\" asks Kelton, when we get back to him. He already knows the answer from the look on my face.\n\n### 24) Henry\n\nI hadn't planned on leaving the others\u2014I was just too busy being observant, taking in the situation around me, and when the line diverged, I went the other way. But that's okay. I know where the others are, and although, under any other circumstances, I'd be better off as a free agent, I'm thinking our strange little fellowship might be worth maintaining. Or at least the Alyssa part of it. We'll see.\n\nI focus on the situation at hand. There are opportunities in every circumstance\u2014even a circumstance as complex and troubling as the one around me . . . but as I take everything in, I'm finding it hard to see any opportunity whatsoever. Thousands of thirsty people. Water barrels being carried into the gym, with a heavily armed entourage, and people trying to push their way through to those barrels with all the anguish of a baroque painting.\n\nMy heart is still racing from the encounter with the soldier back at the truck, but everything I see just makes it worse. The line I'm in is driving people toward the baseball field, but I can see it stopping before the entrance. That field is full, too. What the hell are they going to do with all these people?\n\nAs the line devolves into a great milling mob, I slip away. There are soldiers everywhere, but plenty of spots are unguarded, and so far I haven't heard gunshots, so I'm assuming they're not shooting people who live outside the lines. I make my way to a less crowded area, keeping an eye on the entrance to the gym, and those water barrels. My father always said when you want to go somewhere you're not supposed to be, just walk in like you own the place, and nine times out of ten, you'll get in. But I'm pretty sure this is that tenth time. And if I do get in, what then? I'm just one of thousands of people waiting for a taste of that water. That's not an opportunity, it's a dead-end deal.\n\nAs I round a corner, I get a glimpse of the pool. Empty. They ran off with all the water in high school pools to use elsewhere, before they realized they'd be turning some of those schools into evacuation centers. There is no limit to short-sightedness in this world. But it's not the lack of pool water that troubles me. It's what I see on the pool deck.\n\nThere are body bags there.\n\nNot just one or two, but at least a dozen. And something tells me there's going to be more.\n\nAll right. All right. This isn't funny now. All right. All right. Maybe it never really was. All right. All right. There are dead people. In bags. And the helicopter flies away, and I have no idea when it will be back with water to keep other people from finding their way into bags. And I've never wet my pants, and I never will, but I swear to you, I come really, really close.\n\n\"Hey! You! You're not supposed to be here!\"\n\nI don't need to be told again. I double back, heading to the place where people are still walking and breathing. Kelton was right. We can't stay here. And now I know exactly what I have to do. This is going to be a tough one\u2014but if there's anyone who can swing a deal to end all deals, it's me.\n\n### 25) Alyssa\n\nThe line suddenly stops moving. More people come in behind us, and we're pushed up against the people in front of us. All crammed like cattle. I keep a hand on Garrett, just to make sure we don't get separated. It's the soldiers behind us\u2014they've begun to press against the crowd to clear a path in the road\u2014and then empty school buses pull in, like it's just an ordinary school day.\n\n\"Your attention please!\" a voice blares over a sibilant bullhorn. \"This evacuation center is at capacity,\" which is an understatement if ever there was one. I don't think it was equipped to handle even a fraction of the masses here. \"These buses will take you to an overflow facility.\"\n\n\"Where?\" someone yells. \"Where the hell are they taking us?\" But no one gives an answer.\n\nAs the parade of school buses continues to pour in, the soldiers make room for them in the lot. We're all uncomfortably close together, and I can smell everyone's breath, which isn't particularly good. Kelton doesn't even have to lean in to whisper within earshot. \"They won't answer because they don't know,\" he says. \"They're probably still trying to figure out where to send the buses\u2014but wherever it is, it's not an evac center. They don't have the time or the manpower to set up any more. All they can do is dump people in 'overflow facilities.' \"\n\nJacqui has her elbows out, trying to keep her personal space. \"Why is it that you know all the answers?\"\n\nHe doesn't bother to answer her. Instead he says, \"Do you know the concept of social triage? No? Because I do. In a mass emergency, you help the ones you can, and the ones you can't help, you move out of the way.\" Then he looks to the first bus, where people are already beginning to obediently board. \"I can guarantee you that half the people who get on those buses are going to die, because wherever they're going, it's away from water.\"\n\nI stand on my toes and look over people's heads at all the soldiers moving the giant herds. One of them kindly helps an elderly woman onto the bus. It's not like it's their intention to kill anyone, but after days without water, death needs no invitation.\n\n\"There are no fences around this parking lot,\" I point out. \"We're not trapped yet.\"\n\nBut before I can formulate a plan, Henry comes into sight, bounding out of nowhere, out of breath and eyes wild.\n\n\"Lookie what I got,\" he says, and holds up Uncle Basil's key chain, stupid rabbit's foot and all. It changes everything.\n\n\"How did you do that?\" I ask, hardly able to believe my eyes.\n\n\"I made a deal,\" he says. \"But we have to hurry. Come on!\"\n\nWe run after him, fighting the current of people heading toward the buses. \"Wait\u2014you traded with the guy who took the keys?\" Garrett realizes, profoundly impressed. \"He was going to arrest us, how did you make a trade with him?\"\n\n\"Because it's what I do!\" says Henry. \"Come on, we don't have much time.\"\n\nWe get to the truck, and I immediately see the blanket in the back has been overturned, and the box that was hidden beneath it is gone. \"The water!\"\n\nAt the mention of water, a dozen eyes turn in my direction.\n\n\"Forget about it!\" insists Henry. \"That's what I traded for the keys.\"\n\nJacqui looks at him, incredulous. \"You traded the last of the water for keys? Did it occur to you that we could hotwire it\u2014or run the hell away from here and find another truck? One that actually has air-conditioning?\"\n\nBut before he can answer, another voice broadsides the conversation.\n\n\"Hey! Roycroft! Wait up!\"\n\nIt makes Henry scramble even faster.\n\nA muscular meathead type pushes his way through the crowd. Chapped lips, glassy-eyed, but not quite a water-zombie yet. He grabs Henry by the shoulder and turns him around\u2014then the kid looks at Henry a little funny.\n\n\"Hey, wait a second\u2014you're not Trent Roycroft. . . .\"\n\nHenry ignores him, and turns to the rest of us. \"Just get in the truck!\"\n\nBut the jock will not be ignored. \"Who the hell are you? Why are you wearing Roycroft's jacket? Where's Roycroft?\"\n\nHenry fumbles with the keys and drops them. They skid underneath the truck.\n\n\"Hey!\" says the meathead. \"I'm talking to you.\"\n\nThen Henry dives underneath the truck, not like he's trying to get the keys, but like he's trying to escape. And now I realize that Jacqui is gone.\n\n\"Alyssa!\" says Garrett. \"He said to get in!\"\n\nThe door isn't locked, and Garrett climbs in the back seat with Kelton. I look for Jacqui but can't see her anywhere. Damn her! Henry emerges from underneath the car on the opposite side from the meathead, but right by the driver's door, and he has the keys again.\n\n\"Hey, I asked you a question!\" the meathead calls to him. And now with a car between them, Henry gives him an answer.\n\n\"Go screw yourself.\"\n\nThen Henry gets in, slamming the door hard.\n\nThe meathead is more stunned than angry. \"You know, I don't even think you go to Santa Margarita High School!\"\n\nHenry starts the truck, and I jump into the passenger seat.\n\n\"We have to wait for Jacqui!\" I insist.\n\n\"We don't have time!\"\n\nIt's like something's snapped in Henry. If his name even is Henry. I have no idea of anything anymore. He throws the car into reverse, and we smash into the Toyota behind us that's boxing us in. He throws it in drive and does the same to the Audi in front of us. Then he reverses into the Toyota again, forcing the cars apart to give us space to pull out.\n\nAnd then I finally see Jacqui. She's running toward us. And she's carrying the \u00c1guaViva box!\n\n\"Nooooooooo!\" yells Henry when he sees her. Finally he's created enough damage and made enough room to pull the truck away from the curb. He lurches forward, scattering people heading toward the buses. By now the soldiers have taken notice\u2014and the one who made the trade is chasing Jacqui, but she's too fast.\n\nHenry swings a violent U-turn that takes down a little crepe myrtle tree on the island between lanes, and we're beached there, spinning our wheels, kicking up leaves and pink flowers.\n\nIt gives Jacqui enough time to reach us. She throws the box in the back, and, realizing Henry has no intention of waiting for her to hop into the cab, she climbs the bumper and jumps into the bed along with the box and whatever other junk Uncle Basil has back there.\n\nHenry stomps on the gas, cursing, and rather than telling him what to do, I reach over and engage the four-wheel drive.\n\nNow when he hits the gas, we lurch forward, making sawdust of the little tree, and careen away from the school, leaving gawking people, and frustrated soldiers who don't seem to be following us. They're just glad we're no longer their problem.\n\n\"Are you insane?\" I scream at Henry. \"You nearly killed us back there!\"\n\nHe looks at me with those wild, snapped eyes. \"Killed you? Killed you? I just saved your lives! At least you could show some gratitude!\"\n\n\"Slow down!\" I demand. He's so frenetic, he can't seem to find a lane. If there were more cars on the road, we'd have totaled the truck by now.\n\nHe grips the wheel tightly, looks straight ahead. \"All right. All right,\" he says, taking a deep breath. He steadies the car, eases up on the accelerator. \"All right, all right. It's all under control now. It's all good.\" Then he turns to me. \"There were body bags, Alyssa. Some of them were already full, but there were stacks and stacks and stacks of empty ones.\"\n\n\"There were?\" says Garrett, wide-eyed, like someone just proved to him that the boogeyman was real.\n\n\"Do you see why I had to get us out of there, Alyssa? Do you? I had to save us, because if I didn't, no one else would have. Do you see?\"\n\nI nod. \"Just keep your eyes on the road.\"\n\nHe turns to face forward. \"All right. All right,\" he says again, tamping down his panic. Pretending it wasn't panic at all. He's not driving well, but who would under these circumstances?\n\nAnd then Kelton says, \"There's nothing scary about a body bag. They're for transport and to prevent the spread of disease. I have one in my room; I use it for laundry.\"\n\nThere's a rap on the little back window of the cab. Jacqui's hair is windswept and she doesn't look happy back there.\n\n\"Stop the car,\" I tell Henry. \"Let Jacqui back in.\"\n\n\"I will be happy to let her in once we're far enough away from that place.\"\n\nAnd apparently twenty more yards down the road is far enough away, because he eases on the break, and pulls over to the side of the road. Jacqui hops out of the truck bed and storms to Henry's window.\n\n\"Get the hell out, I'm driving!\"\n\n\"In the back seat or not at all,\" Henry tells her.\n\n\"Not gonna happen,\" says Jacqui.\n\n\"Fine, then not at all,\" and he throws the car in gear and pulls out, leaving her behind in a cloud of dust.\n\n\"God DAMN it!\" yells Jacqui, running after us.\n\n\"You can't just leave her here!\" I yell.\n\n\"I'm not!\" he tells me, now calm as can be. \"This is a negotiation and I'm playing hardball.\" He stops the car to let Jacqui catch up with us. \"If you want to tie down a loose cannon, you can't give it much rope, follow?\"\n\nJacqui catches up with us, spewing wholly original combinations of foulness. Henry is not fazed.\n\n\"In the back seat,\" he says. \"Or I drive off, and we part company for good.\"\n\nDisgruntled, Jacqui hops in the back, pushing Garrett into the middle, and slams the door. \"Remind me to kill you in your sleep, Roycroft.\"\n\nAnd then I remember she wasn't there when the jock blew Henry's cover. Henry, having found his comfort zone again, remains unfazed.\n\n\"So who's Roycroft?\" I ask.\n\nHenry doesn't even hesitate. \"An asshole who traded me his letter jacket for two bottles of \u00c1guaViva.\"\n\n\"Wait, what?\" says Jacqui. \"You mean you've been lying to us all this time?\"\n\n\"I never said my name was Roycroft\u2014you just assumed. And I just went with it.\"\n\n\"So what is your name?\" I ask.\n\n\"You know my name.\"\n\n\"Not your last name.\"\n\n\"We're on a first-name basis, so why does it even matter?\" Then he turns around to glance at Kelton. \"So how do we get to the bug-out?\"\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT: 13 RIDGECREST, DOVE CANYON\n\nHerb was relieved to see his niece and nephew this morning, and glad they were okay\u2014but he worries about his sister and brother-in-law. They would never have sent Alyssa and Garrett here without them. There was clearly something his niece wasn't saying\u2014and who was this new girl? She was not one of Alyssa's usual friends. Kelton he could deal with. Everyone had a weird-but-mostly-harmless neighbor kid to contend with. But this Jacqui had a red flag vibe about her.\n\nHe closes his eyes and steadies himself against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. The ache of his fever, and the weight of his own body, is telling his brain that the staircase might as well be Mt. Everest. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and sighs. One crisis at a time. He can't wring his hands over his sister now, or about his niece's choice of traveling companions.\n\nBesides, the fact that Alyssa and the others haven't come back is a good sign. He heard the unmistakable sound of his truck driving down the street. He'd bet a pretty penny that they were in that car when it left.\n\nHe takes the stairs one step at a time, pausing for a breath between each one, all the while chiding himself for trusting the tap water once they switched the source to the old tank on the hill. Everyone in the neighborhood was so full of their own cleverness at having jury-rigged a solution to the Tap-Out. And so they drank. And Herb drank. And Daphne drank. They sated themselves on stagnant water that had been sitting untreated in a dark tank for who knew how long.\n\nIt didn't taste bad. Didn't make you spit it out, grimacing. Yes, it was a little bit earthy, but that was all. He wondered if anyone had the good sense to boil it first before drinking it. Probably not. There's a false sense of security when you turn on a shiny chrome tap in your own kitchen. Yes, you expect it not to taste quite as good as filtered water, what with all the fluoride, and chlorine, and whatever the hell else they treat the water with\u2014but you don't expect it to kill you. How could anyone have known?\n\nNow the community has been unusually quiet. It took a while for him to realize that such a semblance of peace was the biggest indication of how bad things had really become. No one's coming out of their homes, because, like him and Daphne, they're just too sick and weak.\n\nHalfway to the top of the stairs now.\n\nHe holds a bottle of \u00c1guaViva in one hand and grips the banister with the other. The only reason he's still able to stand is that he's been keeping the \u00c1guaViva down. Yes, it goes right through him, but while it's coursing through his troubled intestines, some of it must get absorbed. It gave him the strength to keep himself mostly together for Alyssa and Garrett. They didn't see how hard he was struggling just to stand. Besides, the sight of them did give him an adrenaline boost.\n\nNow he's paying for that though, as wave after wave of weakness hits him.\n\nThe top step. He stands there catching his breath, and trying to ignore the throbbing in his joints. He thinks this might be the last time he attempts the stairs.\n\nFor a while. Just for a while.\n\nHe steps into the master bedroom, where the stench has gotten worse. He's already changed the sheets twice today. He doesn't know if he has it in him to change them again, but he knows he will.\n\nHe doesn't announce his arrival. Herb stopped talking to Daphne yesterday. It just became too painful to do once she stopped talking back. So now he silently cares for her, feeding her small bits of soft food, hoping she'll finally start holding it down, and drizzling \u00c1guaViva into her mouth, which makes her cough and gag, then comes right back up onto the white sheets.\n\nHe sits on the edge of the bed, touching her pale skin, so thin now he can see the veins beneath. Her eyes are like dull marbles that stare through him. They don't even blink.\n\nHe listens but can't hear her breathe, so he puts his head to her chest, listening for a heartbeat. It's there. Weak. Strained. She's climbing her own Everest, without even moving. He wonders what he'll do when he puts his head to her chest and hears nothing.\n\nThen, as he prepares to get up to change the sheets, something catches his eye by Daphne's bedside.\n\nThere's a little orange prescription bottle that wasn't there before. Did someone leave it here? Who could have done that?\n\nHerb was never one to believe in miracles. Certainly no miracle came to save his farm, or for that matter, anything else he had lost in his life. But when he sees that pill bottle\u2014and the label reading \"Keflex\"\u2014he has to reevaluate his whole concept of reality.\n\n* * *\n\n### 26) Kelton\n\nStrangers. I'm in a car with strangers. Jacqui, mysterious and deranged. Then there's Henry, who isn't who he says he is. Even Alyssa and Garrett are question marks. Because it's like I don't know anyone anymore. But the biggest stranger is me. Sure, I know my name. I know where I live\u2014or lived, because I don't know if I even live there anymore. I have all the same memories, but the new memories\u2014the ONE memory that keeps playing in my head along with the sound of that shotgun blast, has rendered everything that happened before that moment completely irrelevant.\n\nJust before dawn this morning, when it came to fight or flight, my body finally chose fight. When it's flight, you're swept away by a force\u2014but when it's fight, you're giving in to an even stronger one. I would have done some heavy damage if Alyssa hadn't knocked me out. At least now I'm filled with confidence that the fight function exists within me. And maybe now that I know what it is, and what it feels like, perhaps I can start to control its power.\n\nAs a result, I do find myself giving in to more violent, destructive thoughts. Like how when that soldier pointed his gun at me, a part of me wanted him to blast my brain into the next county. I wanted Henry to run people over on the way out. I want things to explode and I want everyone to feel the shrapnel as deep as I do. I know it's wrong. But the feelings course through me, and who am I to try to stop them?\n\nBut then my mother's voice comes to me. My mother, who might be dead, for all I know. And she says, Things pass. Even big things. And when they're far behind us, they don't look big anymore.\n\nAnd my father's voice, too. Sterner, but still with the authority of experience. Everything in life is a lesson, Kelton. Learn from it. Better yourself. Become stronger.\n\nThe best way to honor them is to listen to them. To believe them. But it's hard, so very, very hard.\n\n\"So how do we get to the bug-out?\" I hear Henry ask. And I realize I have a mission. To take the blast. To be strong enough to block the shrapnel from hitting the others. Yeah, a part of me wants everyone to feel the pain, but I'm better than that. Stronger than a shotgun blast. My brother is dead. But I am not. And I will do what I have to do today.\n\n\"We need to find Santiago Creek,\" I tell him. \"It won't be far from here.\"\n\n\"A creek?\" Jacqui questions, now suddenly interested by the notion of water.\n\n\"It's all dried up,\" I inform her. \"And besides, it's an urban creek,\" I explain. \"So expect a lot of concrete and graffiti.\"\n\n\"I thought you said we needed a map.\"\n\n\"It would help, but I'm pretty sure I have the waterways memorized. There's a map with the aqueducts and drainage channels all marked up in our garage.\"\n\nHenry looks at me like I'm from another galaxy, and I start to feel defensive.\n\n\"We've been preparing,\" I explain.\n\n\"If you haven't noticed by now,\" Jacqui explains to him, \"the Tap-Out is like Christmas for Kelton.\"\n\nWhich pisses me off, because maybe at one point she would have been right\u2014but now it's just a nightmare. And she knows that. I shoot her a death glare that, if there was justice, would make her head explode. And for the first time, I think she gets the picture, and actually shuts up.\n\nAs we continue north it becomes increasingly apparent to everyone else what I already know: There's no escaping the military takeover. We pass an open canopy truck crammed full of soldiers. Random humvees are parked on corners. Helicopters tear through the sky overhead. Then we dead-end at a traffic-jammed road. There's another roadblock up ahead, and soldiers directing people down another suburban funnel that leads either back to the high school, or to an \"overflow facility\" that will be the last place to see water. There are no roads left in all of Southern California that go anywhere we want to be.\n\nAlyssa turns to Henry, alarmed. \"We can't get caught in that again.\"\n\n\"I thought your doomsday dog was navigating.\"\n\nI don't know whether to be annoyed or flattered that Henry Not-Roycroft is spending all his mental energy coming up with nicknames for me.\n\n\"Didn't you say you had the map memorized?\" Jacqui says to me.\n\n\"I have the map of the aqueducts memorized, not these roads. And on paper you're technically supposed to be smarter than me, right? So why don't you tell us how to get out of here.\"\n\n\"Not my neighborhood,\" Jacqui shrugs. \"But I'm glad we established that I'm smarter than you.\"\n\n\"Do you want to find the aqueducts,\" Alyssa interjects, \"or just snipe at each other until they put us on a death bus to nowhere?\"\n\n\"Wait,\" Garrett says. \"Is it like a concrete ditch where kids skateboard?\"\n\nAnd now we're all looking at him. \"Yes!\"\n\n\"I know where it is! Turn right here, and then left at the ugly cow. Then look for a Jack in the Box. It's in the back, behind the parking lot.\"\n\nWe follow Garrett's directions and come to a corner where there's a mom-and-pop ice cream place on the corner. On the roof is the saddest looking plastic cow I've ever seen.\n\n\"Should I turn left,\" says Henry, \"or is there an uglier cow up ahead?\"\n\nHe turns without waiting for Garrett's answer, and we see a Jack in the Box a few dozen yards ahead.\n\nWe pull into the empty parking lot and to the far back fence, where there's a concrete aqueduct stretching as far as the eye can see in both directions. It's amazing how places like this can be here, cutting right through your own neighborhood, but for most people, it's completely off their radar. Unless you're a prepper. Or a skateboarder. The concrete is mottled salt-and-pepper, stained from the sediment of old storm surges, but Santiago Creek hasn't had running water for a few years now.\n\nWe come to a stop, and I can see that there's no visible entrance\u2014it's blocked off by a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. My father would know where the entrance would be, but that's no use to us now.\n\n\"I used to fit in through that hole right there,\" Garrett says.\n\n\"That's not big enough for the truck,\" Alyssa says, pointing out the obvious. Just looking at the fortified nature of the fence, even if we had the luxury of time, I doubt we would find an opening big enough, and I doubt even more that Alyssa and Garrett's uncle has bolt cutters in the back.\n\n\"I've seen kids on bikes down there . . . ,\" Garrett says. \"They've got to get there somehow.\"\n\nAnother helicopter soars overhead, the relentless beat of its blades making me anxious. Searching for an access point large enough for us might take hours.\n\n\"We're going to have to bust through it,\" Jacqui says, not even trying to hide the excitement in her voice. I question her intentions, as always, but it's not like we have any better options right now.\n\nNow all eyes are on Henry in the driver's seat. He looks back at us, the pressure getting to him. \"Even if we can get through, it's kinda steep.\"\n\nWhich is definitely an understatement. I look down into the crevasse and instantly get that sick-to-my-stomach feeling, like that terrifying moment before chickening out of dropping into a halfpipe. Sadly, I have intimate relations with that moment.\n\nThe aqueduct is shaped like an upside-down trapezoid, with a steep downslope that abruptly levels off for twenty yards, then slopes upward again. The flat portion in the middle always reminds me of the racing scene in Grease. Only I'm sure John Travolta is a much better driver than Henry. Hell, his car flies in the end.\n\nHenry throws the car in reverse and begins to back up, like a bull before charging a matador.\n\n\"Are you sure we want Henry to do this?\" Alyssa asks. \"What about his arm?\"\n\n\"It's fine now,\" Henry says.\n\nWhich is a lie\u2014I'm sure it still aches, but it probably won't affect his driving. Still, I'm just as wary as Alyssa. \"I think Jacqui might have more experience driving,\" I suggest.\n\n\"No, I do,\" he insists.\n\n\"You're what? Seventeen,\" Jacqui points out. \"How much experience could you have?\"\n\n\"I've been driving since I was thirteen,\" he says. \"Don't ask.\" So we don't. After all, he did manage to maneuver us out of the high school. Granted, he damaged a bunch of cars and killed a defenseless tree in the process. Under normal circumstances that would not be considered skilled driving. But these are not normal circumstances.\n\nI calculate the metrics of it all. \"You'll want to hit the fence with enough speed to break through, but not enough for us to lose control and flip into the channel.\"\n\n\"So how fast?\" He coughs, trying to hide the little quiver of fear in his voice.\n\nI weigh the variables and make a guess that sounds far more educated than it actually is. \"Thirty miles per hour. And since we don't have much of a runway, we'll need to accelerate quickly. Once we get down there, you'll want to turn left.\"\n\nHenry takes a breath and finds the closest thing he has to a happy place. \"Okay, are we ready?\"\n\n\"YES, just do it already!\" Jacqui yells from the back seat.\n\n\"All right. All right.\"\n\nAnd like that, we're off.\n\nHenry increases pressure on the accelerator. I can hear the tires peeling out beneath us. We rocket forward. My body presses back against the seat with the acceleration. We're closing the distance between us and the fence quickly\u2014but just before we do, Henry suddenly hits the brakes, bailing, the way I bail from halfpipes.\n\nBut it's too late. We're moving too fast.\n\nWe collide with the chain-link fence, but rather than busting through it, it holds . . . and then I realize it's slowly bending forward. I can hear the metal brackets that hold the fence to the support poles begin to snap. The fence clangs and twangs like a weird musical instrument, and the nose of the truck begins to dip forward, revealing a gorge like a roller-coaster drop.\n\nThe slope is much steeper than it had seemed. We're going to die, is all I can think. Suspended over the edge, the car hangs in the fence like someone in a hammock\u2014then the fence finally gives way. We fly down the slope, and the nerves in my stomach flutter up into my throat, like I'm about to puke.\n\nI brace myself, and we hit the level concrete, the shocks absorbing most of it. Still, we're slammed back into our seats, and everything bounces.\n\nHenry cranks the wheel left, as instructed, and we fishtail, until he manages to gain control, straightening out, then punches the gas.\n\nAnd we're gliding on the concrete riverbed.\n\nI look out the window. We're carving the aqueduct like we're surfing. After that rough drop, it feels so smooth! I find myself laughing out of disbelief, and Jacqui screams out of excitement. The others are just relieved.\n\n\"That was awesome!\" Garrett bursts out, looking to Henry, starry-eyed. But as cool as Garrett thinks Henry is, it doesn't change the fact that this was wildly dangerous. If we had leveled out with any more speed, or at any steeper an angle, we would have totaled, or even flipped.\n\nHenry smiles, pleased with himself. \"I knew thirty miles per hour was just too fast,\" he says\u2014like hitting the brakes was the result of calculation and not fear. But I'm so thankful to be alive right now, he could take credit for the faked lunar landings and I wouldn't care.\n\nBut then I realize\u2014\"The \u00c1guaViva!\" I twist in my seat to get a better look at the truck bed through the rear window.\n\n\"It's still there,\" Jacqui reassures us all.\n\n\"Some of the bottles could have been damaged . . . ,\" Garrett notes coyly. \"Maybe we should open up the box just to see. . . .\" But I know exactly where this is going. I think we all do. Henry puts an end to it.\n\n\"\u00c1guaViva bottles are made of durable low-density polyethylene, and are BPA-free,\" Henry informs us. \"I promise you nothing in that box will leak.\"\n\nAnd although agreeing with Henry on any level makes me cringe, I say, \"Besides, we don't want to open that box until we have no choice.\" Temptation is not our friend right now. There will be more than enough water at the bug-out. We'll need to save our reserve for emergencies. I'm still surprised that we got that \u00c1guaViva box back, anyway. I find myself shaking my head and smiling at Jacqui.\n\n\"You were totally insane to go after that box, you know that?\"\n\nAnd she grins, knowing that I mean it as a compliment\u2014something I'm not sure she's used to getting.\n\n\"So are you,\" she responds. I choose to take it as a compliment as well.\n\nI wonder what it would've been like if I had crossed paths with Jacqui in other circumstances\u2014then again, I highly doubt that would ever happen. This girl lives on a totally different dimensional plane than the rest of us. If the Tap-Out never happened, she would be nothing but a name on an SAT score I couldn't beat.\n\nRealizing that my thoughts are no longer nagging anxieties, I finally take a moment to breathe. We all do.\n\nJacqui leans forward and turns on the radio. Nothing but emergency broadcasts, telling people where to go, where not to go, and to remain calm. A one-size-fits-all relief effort that doesn't actually fit anyone.\n\n\"Our uncle has satellite radio,\" Alyssa points out, and switches to the satellite stations. Suddenly \"Smooth Criminal\" assaults our eardrums, which, in this place, in this moment, sounds like the best song in the world. Impulsive as ever, Jacqui reaches forward and opens up the sunroof, then stands, her entire torso protruding dangerously out of it, indulging in the high of another adrenaline rush.\n\nAfter a little while, Alyssa tugs at Jacqui's blouse. \"Enough.\" And then as soon as Jacqui comes down, Alyssa, all smiles, jumps up and pops her head through, too. Jacqui shoves her like she would a bratty sister. Then Garrett, of course, demands his turn. Sharing. What a concept. If we're a messed up, dysfunctional family, I guess this can go down as our single functional moment.\n\nI roll down my window and stick my hand out. I close my eyes and open up my fingers, letting my hand cut through the wind. I look through the window and marvel at the world outside. Hazy afternoon sunlight pours down from the sky. The light glimmers against the concrete path like ribbons of gold . . . and I'm realizing that this is first time we've felt relatively free in a long time. Like we weren't escaping from the place we once called home. Like this wasn't a suburban apocalypse. I can't forget the events of the past twenty-four hours, but here, speeding along a concrete wash, I can let them trail behind me, if only for a few moments. It's the briefest hint that no matter what happened, or happens, life might actually go on.\n\nIt's Henry who brings us back to reality. \"There's a junction coming up,\" he yells over the whipping wind.\n\n\"Stay left,\" I tell him.\n\nIt's Alyssa who points out that we're heading southwest\u2014toward the shore, not the mountains.\n\n\"It's okay,\" I tell her, \"we're traveling a river system. We have to go down this tributary until we reach the main river.\n\nHenry bears left at the junction.\n\n\"When we reach the main riverbed, we'll make a hard right, and take that river all the way up to the mountains,\" I tell everyone.\n\nI used to brag to everyone that I had a photographic memory, but this is the true test. The channel we're in loses its brutal edge, and becomes natural for a while. Wild, like a true riverbed. Then we're riding on concrete again, in an area more industrial than before.\n\nAnother junction, Henry makes the hard right, and the dashboard compass shows that we're now heading north. We're in a much wider channel now: the Santa Ana River, although it's really just the memory of a river. All Southern California waterways have become like phantom limbs. We might feel that they're still there, but it's just an illusion cast in cement.\n\nI have a better idea of where we are on the map. There are even some landmarks along the way that help guide us: Angel Stadium, the Honda Center. Which reminds me that we're not too far from Disneyland. I can't even imagine what kind of madness is going down there right now. Last year, as a show of community support, and shrewd marketing, they drained their artificial waterways. The jungle cruise became a VR ride. Pirates and Small World were converted to magnetic levitation, and they opened up Grand Canyon Land in the dry moat around Tom Sawyer's Island. So anyone who thinks they can jump the fence now and suck down the guano-tainted blue-dyed water will have a rude awakening.\n\nAs we travel this expansive concrete channel, it feels to me like the world has torn in two, and we're traveling the seam of that tear. The chasm between what was, and what will be. We're no longer part of any world. Or at least I'm not. Everything that used to mean something to me is on the outside, hopelessly out of reach. I think about my brother. I think about my parents. I feel numb now. Like how, after a really bad burn, once the pain subsides, you lose all sensation in the spot. That's because the nerve endings are dead. And yet, I think right now the best place for me to be is the chasm between the tattered edges of life as we knew it.\n\nThe chasm takes many forms as we travel. In some places we have to slow down because there are rocks, branches, and other obstacles that I imagine were swept up in a current when this place actually transported water. Other parts we have to crawl at an excruciatingly slow pace, because of rocks bulldozed into five-foot berms, intentionally formed into a maze designed to direct the flow of water. It's as if the chasm itself is an obstacle course created to defeat us. But we will not be defeated.\n\nAnother hour in, and we encounter a dam.\n\n\"Was this on your mental map?\" Jacqui asks.\n\nI don't answer that. Instead I say, \"Dams always have an access route for heavy machinery to reach both sides.\" We drive along the face of the dam, then double back for about a hundred yards and find the access path. It's gated, but the gate is pretty rusty.\n\nWe ram it, doing fifty, which was probably overkill, because the gate flies off its hinges.\n\nJacqui whoops with excitement, invigorated. Alyssa endures it, Garrett's all smiles, and Henry remains all business, keeping his hands gripping the wheel at ten and two. Me, I'm still numb. Crashing the gate barely raised my resting heart rate.\n\nThe gate on the other side of the dam is open, so Henry doesn't have to do a repeat performance as we descend the accessway. We find ourselves in a sprawling flood basin, which means we've crossed from Orange into Riverside County.\n\nNow my eyelids are becoming heavy. It must be the sleep debt I owe my body\u2014the accumulated hours of missed rest over the past four days. Then I imagine the water debt we've all worked up by now. We were hydrated yesterday, but we've also been sweating a great deal in this heat. The last water we had was just the little bit that Alyssa's uncle gave us early this morning. Now it's way into the afternoon\u2014almost evening. Water deprivation in hundred-degree heat doubles, maybe triples the dehydration clock. I'll be glad when the sun sets. I can only hope we'll reach the bug-out by then.\n\nThere's a smell of smoke in this flood basin. Faint, but constant. Probably from the various brush fires we heard about on the news. Bad air tends to settle in basins.\n\n\"Is this it?\" Henry asks. \"Is the bug-out somewhere around here?\"\n\n\"Not even close,\" I tell him. \"We're in the Prado flood control basin. Three rivers feed into here\u2014or at least they used to. Take the left-most one.\"\n\n\"Great,\" says Jacqui. \"Let's find out what's behind door number one.\"\n\nWe bounce and rattle over the dusty tumbleweed-ridden terrain, until we see another concrete channel up ahead, not quite as wide as the Santa Ana River. This one has sides that are straight up and down, no slope at all. There's the normal stuff you'd expect to see in a drainage ditch: old tires, rusty shopping carts, broken sofas that seem to have fallen from space\u2014a brand new obstacle course. There's not enough junk to stop us, just to keep us on edge as we weave a serpentine path around it all.\n\n\"This is like the crap that gets caught behind furniture cushions,\" Jacqui comments, \"but on a cosmic scale.\"\n\nThere's more graffiti on the walls of the ditch here, too. Colorful tags like \"Rong\" and \"OrGie\" and \"Stoops,\" and others so stylized they seem written in an alien language, adding to the feeling that we're in a completely different world.\n\nAbout an hour into this channel, we come across people who have set up camp on either side of the aqueduct, and it doesn't look like a new occurrence. There are dozens of pitched tent dwellings made of tarps and blankets and makeshift supports, like some sort of skid row. I think of what Jacqui said, and realize that it's not only things that get lost behind the cushions of the world. People do, too.\n\nWith the sun sinking low and shadows getting long, the place looks even more eerie than it would in the bright light of this hot day. The closer we get, the clearer it becomes that this is a permanent homeless encampment. If it is, they definitely haven't read The Art of War, which points out that setting up camp in a ditch is a death wish. High ground offers visibility, low ground leaves you open for an ambush. Still, I get the feeling that ambush is not high on their list of worries.\n\nAlyssa keeps her gaze straight ahead. \"Don't slow down,\" she says.\n\n\"I wasn't intending to,\" says Henry.\n\nShe keeps her eyes forward, refusing to even look at the people in the encampment. It seems out of character for her, and makes me think about how she agreed with my father yesterday. Either you give everything, or nothing at all\u2014and I realize why she's refusing to look. For a girl like her, whose first instinct is always to fix a situation, the \"nothing at all\" choice isn't easy. It's painful. But after everything that's happened, she realizes that her and Garrett's survival requires the kind of aggressive hardness she usually reserves for the soccer field. Today there's no taking a knee for the players who fall.\n\nAs we slowly drive through the encampment, some of those lost souls emerge from their tents and watch us go by. They don't stop us, they don't bother us, they just watch. I think they're just being vigilant\u2014making sure we don't stop to harass them. I look at their weathered faces, their worn clothes, and I wonder what their stories are and how they landed here. If there's anyone thinking about them, or wishing them well. Then I realize that by the way they're looking at us, they're wondering the same.\n\nSoon we're past, and I hear Alyssa release a breath of relief.\n\n\"How much farther?\" Henry asks, about forty-five minutes past the homeless encampment.\n\nWhile it's not quite dusk, the entire channel is now in shadows. I squint. There's absolutely no signage on these aqueducts, let alone the fact that I can barely see, now that the sun has practically gone down.\n\n\"Just keep going,\" I tell him. \"Eventually we'll get to the Foothill Freeway. The Angeles National Forest is just past that.\n\nThe compass now reads northwest, and everything feels right\u2014until we pass into a tunnel that at first I think is just another underpass\u2014but there's no other side. We're suddenly in complete darkness. Henry hits the brakes, and we come to stop.\n\n\"Turn on the headlights!\" Alyssa says.\n\n\"I can't find them!\"\n\nI can hear Henry frantically scratching away at dials until he eventually finds the headlights. He flicks them on, and for the briefest, crazy instant, I expect to see something like a T. rex glaring through the windshield. I don't know why my brain dredges up that image, but when the lights flash on, I jump. Of course there's nothing there. Nothing but a drainage culvert. All we can really see are the ribbed walls around us, flaking with dried moss, and the tunnel ahead lit by our headlights. Correction. HeadLIGHT. Only one is working. Great. So much for nighttime visibility.\n\n\"So,\" Jacqui says to me, \"is this part of the urban river experience, or are we lost?\"\n\n\"Quiet, I'm thinking.\"\n\nLike I said, I'd only been to the bug-out a couple of times\u2014but we took normal roads. Dad had once brought us this way virtually, in an annoyingly detailed PowerPoint, but I think I would have remembered the endless black tunnel portion of the presentation.\n\n\"We must have missed a turn,\" I am forced to admit. And the thing is, I have no idea where that turn would have been. I know we took the correct path out of the flood basin. That was hours back. If there was a hidden fork it could be anywhere between here and there.\n\nThen I begin to wonder if the walls deeper in the tunnel might be moist. What if there's water down here? Which makes me think about the many species of animals that have most likely infested these parts, no matter how contaminated the water. Then I think about how many humans might have wandered in with the same intentions, and I realize that my brain short-circuited and kicked out the wrong image. It's not dinosaurs we need to be worrying about . . . it's people.\n\n\"Turn around,\" I tell Henry. \"Get us out of here.\"\n\nBut a U-turn is an impossibility. Henry kicks the car in reverse, and we roll backward until we're out of the tunnel. It's twilight now. Harder to see much of anything, and the channel is still too narrow to make a turn, so we reverse back the way we came. Slowly. Carefully, with nothing to guide us but our dim red taillights. Half an hour later, we still haven't found another fork.\n\n\"Are you sure we weren't just supposed to go straight?\" Alyssa asks. \"Through the tunnel?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I tell her. \"No,\" I say. \"I don't know,\" I finally admit.\n\n\"Maybe we can just back our way into the homeless camp,\" Jacqui says, oozing sarcasm. \"I'm sure they'll be more than happy to help us.\"\n\nWe continue to wind backwards for a few more minutes, then Alyssa cries out.\n\n\"There! Do you see it?\"\n\nAnd there it is: a spur in the channel heading off to the right, due north. The mouth is choked with weeds, and there's some bright graffiti to the left\u2014which pulled our attention the first time we passed. I'm incredibly relieved. If we couldn't find it, I had no idea what we would do.\n\nHenry takes us out of reverse and steers us down the proper path, but not long after we begin our new route, the channel forks again. And now I'm questioning if we're even in the right aqueduct to begin with. Like they say, When it rains it pours. However, when the heavens have no water left to give, I'm starting to realize the Powers That Be just find the next best way to screw you over.\n\nBecause the low-fuel light pings on.\n\nOf course. In all this time driving we never once thought about gas. I might have been to blame for misdirecting us, but for this, I blame Henry.\n\n\"How could you have not checked the gas gauge?\" I say.\n\n\"Excuse me, but I've been a little busy!\"\n\n\"What's the big deal?\" says Jacqui. \"Wasn't there an access path leading back up to the streets a little ways back?\"\n\n\"What use is that?\" Alyssa says. \"The gas stations aren't pumping, and we'll be facing military detours again.\"\n\n\"Spoken like a true prisoner of lawful behavior,\" she says.\n\nAlyssa doesn't get it, but I do. \"So we siphon gas from an abandoned car.\"\n\nJacqui nods. \"And I'm sure there are plenty of them on the freeway we just passed under.\"\n\n### 27) Alyssa\n\nOur entire dynamic has definitely changed since we brought Henry on. I can't tell whether that's good or bad. He's not the best driver, but he's competent, and keeps his eyes glued to the road. He did manage to get our keys back so we could get away from the evac center\u2014and he seems to genuinely want to help us. On the other hand, he was taking advantage of the people in his neighborhood\u2014including my uncle\u2014and he kinda-sorta pretended to be someone he wasn't. I'm not quite sure what to make of him, and it's annoying that he's not all that unpleasant to look at, because that could cloud my judgment.\n\nWe have to backtrack a little farther than we would like to find the accessway to the street, and I'm just happy the truck hasn't run out of gas yet. We barely make it up the concrete path, which is so narrow that looking out of the window, I can no longer see the ground beneath us, and the steep drop to the bottom just continues to grow. If our right tires slip off the ledge, we'll flip multiple times before reaching the bottom.\n\nFinally we make it to street level. I have no idea where we are, and the fact that so much of Southern California looks alike is disconcerting. I know it's not home, but it's familiar in its unfamiliarity. The neighborhood is older than ours, with aging ranch style homes, but a strip mall on the corner looks no different here than in my neighborhood. The air tastes acrid and burnt, and it's heavy to breathe in. It's smoke from the fires. They call this part of California the Inland Empire, and it's always smoggy, because whatever nastiness is in the air gets blown here and caught against the mountains. I feel like I played a soccer tournament in this town. Or maybe it was another town a hundred miles away that looked exactly the same.\n\nWe roll up to a freeway on-ramp, and Jacqui suggests that we reverse in, to get our gas tank as close as possible to whichever car we choose. Funny how Kelton knows everything about this anarchic world, but it feels like Jacqui's already lived it.\n\nTurns out, backing in isn't necessary, because, surprisingly, the on-ramp isn't congested with abandoned cars\u2014but then, I guess that's not surprising at all. Anyone who realized that traffic was at a permanent standstill would eventually be able to back out. You'd have to be deep into the massive automotive clot to feel that abandoning your car was your only course of action. So the freeway is pretty much empty for fifty yards or so, until we hit the first abandoned cars, and finally the full-on clog through which there is no passage, and from which there was no escape.\n\nSome cars are turned at bizarre angles. Some face in the wrong direction entirely. There are broken windows, doors wide open, an empty car seat on a roof. Up ahead I see an abandoned yellow school bus. The scene isn't quite like it was back at the beach, where the evidence of panic and violence painted a chilling story\u2014and yet the abject nature of this abandonment is just as disturbing. People walked away with nothing but the clothes on their backs and their kids in their arms. Any vandalism must have come after the fact\u2014and that implies that there might still be marauders smashing windows, and water-zombies wandering the labyrinth.\n\n\"First we're going to need to find a hose,\" says Jacqui, as we pull to a stop. We fan out, looking for a gardening truck or something that might have a hose, but no luck. Then, on a hunch, I check the back of Uncle Basil's truck. There's a lot of junk back there. Things that our uncle didn't have the strength to care about when he made the deal with Henry, so they just went along with the truck. Tumbled among the stuff that had been tossed around in our rough ride, I find his hookah. Mom always made him keep it in the backyard because she didn't want the thing in the house, and I remember him once mentioning that Daphne refused to allow it in her sight at all. So it stayed in the back of the truck, its four-foot hose hiding in plain sight. Hopefully, it will be long enough to do the job.\n\nHenry backs toward one of the cars at the edge of the clot, and only after getting out to look for its gas cap do we realize he's not going to find one. It's a Tesla. Jacqui notices it first. She taps me and points it out, but doesn't tell Henry, who is still looking for a place to stick the hose. The rest of us get it now, but wait to see how long it takes for Henry to catch on.\n\nI find myself smiling at the irony of it. Not just the Tesla, but Henry, in his entirety. The world goes dry, yet we find Henry totally oblivious, living in his own little oasis. He let us think he was someone else, for no apparent reason. He's clearly smart, but lacks basic common sense in the strangest of ways. He doesn't seem entirely trustworthy, but when you look in his eyes, you really want to trust him. It's like he wants to be trusted\u2014as if the very act of trusting him will suddenly make him worthy of it. I want him to be worthy of our trust. So does that mean I have to trust him first? I can't help but be a little intrigued by his unknown quotient.\n\n\"Isn't anyone going to help me?\" Henry finally asks, exasperated.\n\n\"No,\" says Jacqui. \"Keep looking.\"\n\nMaybe it's the smirk on her face that makes Henry reevaluate and glance to the Tesla logo on the car.\n\n\"Right,\" he says. \"Duh.\"\n\nGarrett laughs, and I can't help but grin.\n\n\"Glad I could be tonight's entertainment,\" Henry says. \"It's just one of the many services I provide.\"\n\nI notice that although Henry left the keys in the ignition, trusting us, they're now in Kelton's hands. He gives them back to Henry so he can start the car and move us to a vehicle that actually runs on gasoline, but there's an unspoken message there. I'm not sure whether it's about distrust on Kelton's part, or power, or both.\n\nWe drive around the snarl of cars until we come across a gas-guzzling minivan. Jacqui gets out to guide us in. This time when Henry turns off the gas, he tries to take the keys, but Kelton hops out of the truck and blocks him from opening the driver's door wide enough for him to get out.\n\n\"Keys, please,\" Kelton says.\n\nHenry forces the door open anyway, but Kelton stands in his way. I find myself irritated by Kelton forcing a confrontation now, when all we're here to do is get gas.\n\n\"What am I going to do?\" Henry asks. \"Drive off and head for the hills? a) We don't have gas; and b) You're the only one who knows which hills to head for.\"\n\nBut Kelton isn't up for negotiating.\n\nHenry throws a quick glance in my direction, and says, \"Fine,\" then tosses the keys to me instead of handing them to Kelton.\n\nKelton bristles at having been blatantly slighted. He looks to me like I'm going to give him the keys, but I'm not. Because he's the one being an ass right now. Instead, I slip them into my pocket. If Henry sees me as the voice of reason among us, so be it. If he trusts me, maybe that makes me trustworthy.\n\nMercifully, the little door over the gas cap is one that opens by hand, rather than having to be popped from inside the van.\n\n\"Okay, what now?\" I ask Jacqui.\n\nBut she defers to Kelton. \"I don't know\u2014can't you MacGyver something?\"\n\nHe shrugs. \"You're the criminal mind,\" Kelton says.\n\n\"What's a MacGyver?\" asks Garrett.\n\nJacqui sighs. \"An '80s TV guy with a mullet who could make cool crap out of nothing.\"\n\nBut none of us have either the mullet or the knowhow to do this. All we have is a hookah hose. I realize that we are, all of us, out of our element\u2014even Jacqui. For all of her street smarts, siphoning gas is something she's clearly never done, and for all of Kelton's survival skills, he's useless in this particular pinch.\n\n\"All I know,\" I say, \"is that you stick the hose into a gas tank and you suck on it.\" This is truly the blind leading the blind.\n\nAfter four failed attempts and a mouth full of gasoline, Jacqui throws the hose to the ground, uncrowning herself the queen of thievery. I idly wonder if she had an urge to swallow the gasoline she got in her mouth, and it reminds me of my own thirst, but I push it to a back burner.\n\nMeanwhile, everyone has an opinion on why the siphon isn't working\u2014but our knowledge of this lost art is limited to fifth-grade science labs and movies. With everyone giving their two cents, I realize I haven't heard a peep from Garrett. In fact, I haven't seen him since our first siphoning attempts.\n\n\"Garrett?\" I yell.\n\nCrickets. Wind. Silence.\n\nI check the pickup. Around the pickup. I run back to the Tesla. Nothing.\n\n\"Garrett!\"\n\nKelton shushes me, and I know why\u2014the distressed voice of a girl is a bleeding wound in a sea of sharks\u2014but I don't have time to formulate a better course of action here. I have to find my brother.\n\nBefore I know it, my feet are churning, and I'm hurrying off\u2014diving deep into the maze of cars. I'm weaving in and out, screaming his name, but in a whisper, which is as useless as it sounds. My head is spinning. The freeways are deathtraps, I know, Kelton's pounded it into our heads. And even if I'm not alone, if someone has Garrett right now, his well-being takes priority, and I must be fearless.\n\nThen I see smoke swirling in the air up ahead. A fire. It's somewhere farther down the highway. I know there've been brush fires everywhere, but on the freeway? I push forward, climbing, sliding over cars\u2014I trip and fall, but I won't let it slow me down. And now I have a better view.\n\nIt's a campfire in a trash can. And around it at least a dozen people.\n\nAnd they have Garrett.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhen Garrett was five, he wandered off the safari jeep tour at the zoo. I had to rescue him from getting kicked in the head by a giraffe. When he was six, he almost went home with another family at the mall because their kids had cooler toys. When he was nine, he wandered off at the Ikea showroom and decided to nap in a race car bed, in an attempt to become a permanent resident of the store\u2014and I had to track him down before Mom and Dad found out and called in the national guard. Disappearing is what Garrett does, he always does it at the worst possible moment, and for some reason I always feel responsible. But this time, I'm more frightened than furious, because I've seen the monsters out there\u2014and I suspect I'm going to see worse ones before this whole thing is over.\n\nHe stands in the middle of strangers who could be as hostile as the marauders that raided Kelton's house. I scan their faces, trying to get a read on the situation. People of all ages. Then Garrett sees me, and he smiles.\n\n\"There she is\u2014that's my sister.\"\n\nMy heart is still tolling out danger. My head throbs, and I feel woozy from exerting myself. It's the lack of fluids. I approach cautiously\u2014then a woman steps forward. Silver wavy hair, a soft complexion. Her eyes seem to glow, but it's only the reflection of the fire.\n\n\"Welcome,\" she says.\n\n\"Garrett, let's go,\" I order him.\n\n\"It's okay,\" he says, walking over. \"I went looking for a bucket\u2014you know, to drain the gas into\u2014but I got lost. They found me.\"\n\nI let my guard down a little.\n\n\"You must be Alyssa,\" the older woman says warmly.\n\n\"Who are you?\" I ask, still on edge.\n\nA little girl holding folded linens stops in passing. \"We call her the Water Angel.\"\n\nThe older woman smiles kindly. \"Oh, stop it. The name's Charity. Which is a much more charitable name than I deserve, but there it is.\"\n\nNow having calmed down a bit, I get a better look at her. She's as old as my grandma, maybe seventy, though there's something youthful about her, too. The way she holds herself. Her sharp, radiant gaze.\n\nJacqui, Kelton, and Henry catch up, but keep their distance, still reading the situation.\n\n\"You could say we've taken up residence here,\" Charity says, addressing us all. \"At least for the time being.\"\n\nI look around and notice that there isn't just one campfire, but several, constellated across the span of the traffic-jammed freeway, in different clearings. This is nothing like the homeless encampment we saw before; these seem like people from many walks of life who have decided that staying here in the midst of the crisis is better than being anywhere else.\n\nKelton shakes his head. \"But you're totally exposed out here. Isn't it dangerous?\"\n\n\"At times,\" says Charity, \"but we've found a way to keep everyone safe and hydrated.\"\n\nThat last word pulls us all in.\n\nJacqui takes a step forward. \"You have water?\"\n\n\"There's water everywhere,\" Charity says with a faint grin. \"You just have to look in the right places.\" She examines our dirty clothing, and probably reads how exhausted we are, both emotionally and physically. \"Why don't you stay with us?\" she asks, and when we hesitate, she says, \"Your brother seems to like it.\"\n\n\"This place feels okay,\" Garrett says. \"Safe-ish.\"\n\nAnd although safe-ish is probably the best we're going to get, Kelton is skeptical. \"We have somewhere we have to be,\" he says.\n\n\"Well, at least stay the night. It's getting late. You can set out in the morning.\" Then she returns to the campfire, leaving us to talk.\n\nHenry opens the discussion. \"I say we stay. Rest. Hydrate.\"\n\n\"We have your entire box of \u00c1guaViva in the truck,\" I point out, and realize to my horror that we left it in the truck bed unattended. \"Why don't we lock the water in the truck, accept their hospitality, and maybe even have these people help us siphon gas. Then we can leave.\"\n\n\"And go where?\" Henry argues. \"Back to those nasty-ass aqueducts, just to get lost again?\"\n\n\"We weren't lost anymore,\" Kelton tells him. \"And there's not that much farther to go.\"\n\nAnd then Jacqui tips the balance. \"The aqueducts will be easier to navigate during the day. Right? So let's accept the Water Angel's invitation and spend the night. It's not like we have to join their little cult.\"\n\nEveryone agrees it's the best solution. Even Kelton, as reluctant as he is to trust anyone or anything.\n\nI leave them to go find Charity. She's tending to a boiling pot. She's boiling water to purify it. \"Okay, we'll stay the night,\" I tell her. \"But do you think there's anyone here who can help us siphon gas?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Charity says with a wink. \"How do you think we get these fires started?\"\n\n\"And maybe some of that water, when it cools?\" Jacqui says, coming up beside me.\n\nBut instead of responding, Charity steps forward and closely examines Jacqui's face. Then she takes Jacqui's hand and pinches it with her thumb and forefinger.\n\n\"OW! What the hell was that for?\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, but I can't give you water now,\" Charity says. \"Your skin is still elastic, which means your dehydration isn't critical yet.\"\n\n\"She's right,\" Kelton says, and Jacqui sneers at him, whispering \"traitor\" beneath her breath.\n\nCharity looks to Garrett, who's still sitting with another kid he found, then to the rest of us. \"I know how difficult it is to be thirsty, but I can't give you water in good conscience when there are others here who need it more. We can feed you though.\"\n\nFood! I forgot about food. And now I can feel my stomach roiling, eating at itself. I'm hungry\u2014but even if I'm given something to eat, it would be hard to chew, because my mouth is dry and raw. Even swallowing water right now would hurt like needles. And then there's the growing pressure in my head. If I'm not worthy of water in this state, then I can hardly even imagine what it's like to be worse off.\n\n\"We'll help you with your car trouble, give you shelter and something to eat,\" the Water Angel says. \"That will have to do for now.\" Then she turns to a few rugged-looking men playing cards around the campfire.\n\n\"Max? Do you think you could help them out? They need gasoline.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" One of them stands. He's large and hulking, clad in leather like the leader of a biker gang. At first I'm apprehensive, but as I've come to learn, looks can be deceiving\u2014because at the end of the day, no matter what the person's exterior, there's only one thing that defines behavior, and that's water. In my other life, I might not have trusted this guy. But here and now, I do. Because I know he's not a water-zombie. He hasn't turned yet.\n\nI suddenly feel guilty for doubting their intentions.\n\n\"In return, however, I will ask you to contribute to our little effort,\" Charity says. \"We'll be collecting supplies from the northbound lanes pretty soon. While Max here is fixing your car issues, perhaps a few of you could join us.\"\n\n\"I'll go,\" Henry says, stepping forward.\n\nGarrett looks to him and follows his lead. \"Me too,\" he says quickly.\n\nMy gut reaction is to volunteer just so I can look after Garrett. To make sure that he doesn't wander off again, or get into any trouble. But I stop myself. Lately Garrett hasn't gotten us into trouble at all. Maybe I owe him a little more space. A little more trust. And if he's trying to contribute to something larger than himself, shouldn't I allow him that dignity? So I let my sisterly guard down, tell Garrett to mind Charity, and I join Jacqui, Kelton, and the jolly gargantuan biker to fill up the truck.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe follow Max to a small, white landscaping truck, where he pulls out an empty red plastic gas can and a gardening hose\u2014the kind we couldn't find when we were looking before.\n\n\"It's really hard to siphon directly from one gas tank into another. You need a gas can like this so you can position the hose lower at this end. You know, gravity.\"\n\n\"Gravity . . . ,\" Kelton mutters, clearly annoyed that he couldn't figure that out himself. Garrett had figured that out instinctively, because he had gone looking for a bucket. We've all had an opportunity to feel stupid today.\n\nWe zigzag back toward the truck. My body has grown heavy, which makes each step weightier than the previous one. And it seems our exhaustion is a little more obvious than I'd like to believe, because Max takes notice. \"Here.\" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little plastic-wrapped pastry.\n\n\"It's a MoonPie. Currently our staple food.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" Jacqui says, opening the wrapper and biting into the chocolate marshmallow spongy thing. She chews on it dryly, realizes there's only one, and reluctantly breaks the rest of it in half for me and Kelton to share.\n\n\"Bon appetit. We found a whole truck of 'em two days ago,\" he says. Then adds, \"A few years back, I remember hearing about a stranded cruise ship. They airdropped them Spam and Pop-Tarts. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have MoonPies.\"\n\n\"Is that how long you've been here?\" I ask. \"Two days?\n\n\"Three,\" he says. \"I wandered onto the freeway two days after the Tap-Out. I had it worse than most people on account of my blood pressure meds make me sweat like a racehorse. Dehydrated real quick, and I couldn't get a drop of water for the life of me. I wandered onto the freeway, determined to either find water, or drop. I dropped. But the Water Angel found me. Charity gave me water, and when I was strong enough, put me to work. Before long there were dozens of us, all working and taking care of each other.\"\n\n\"Kind of like a commune,\" Kelton says.\n\n\"Yeah, I guess it just kind of evolved into that. We all have our own skill sets. Turns out I'm pretty handy,\" he says with pride.\n\n\"Well, you're a lifesaver,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Thank you, but we have a medic for that.\" He chuckles. \"Others gather supplies. Just yesterday they found a semi full of new linens and pillows.\"\n\nJust the thought of it makes me long for my comfortable bed.\n\n\"We have folks who keep a watch at the perimeter around the clock,\" Max continues. \"Those are the ones who found your brother.\"\n\nWe reach the truck, and luckily the \u00c1guaViva box is still in the back. Max settles by a nearby Hyundai to siphon gas, and while I keep him occupied, Kelton and Jacqui move the \u00c1guaViva to the back seat of the truck, locking it in. Since it's not my water to give, I get around the crisis of conscience that would come from withholding the \u00c1guaViva from the Water Angel. Still, I feel guilty about it, but I'll live with the guilt. If that makes me a bad person, I'll care on a different day.\n\nJacqui and Kelton probably feel that urge to rip the box open\u2014I know I do\u2014but as Charity said, we're thirsty but not desperate. And Kelton has drilled into our heads that an emergency supply is for emergencies. Although I can't help but sense that desperation is right around the bend.\n\n### 28) Henry\n\nI have found that the elderly can be either deranged or sagacious. It's a complex equation made up of their life experiences, the advanced nature of their years, plain old genetics, and how pissed off life has left them. The Water Angel is of the sagacious variety\u2014wise beyond her years, which says a lot, considering how old she is. She has figured out a simple, brilliant way to collect water\u2014water that's been right under everyone's noses all along, but is so far out of most people's boxes that they could die of thirst inches from the source and never consider it.\n\nWasher fluid.\n\nNot the actual fluid, but the containers that hold it, which are in every car. Most of the time people fill them with that blue Windex-y stuff, which is positively toxic\u2014but every once in a while people can't be bothered with the good stuff, and use water instead. Who would have thought it would be that lazy substrata of society that would save us? Even if the Water Angel isn't willing to share with us, having the knowledge is enough. Teach-a-man-to-fish kind of thing. Of course, our truck doesn't have either water or washer fluid. It's completely empty, as I discovered when I tried to clean bugs off the windshield earlier.\n\nWe're sent in teams of two to search cars on the northbound side of the freeway, maybe a quarter mile up, because all the closer cars have already been inspected. We're accompanied by a paunchy pair of twenty-something identical twins. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber. There's a nagging mother and her seemingly mute child, and an older couple who have been married for so long they've morphed into near identical androgynous versions of each other. Each team is given a backpack, a flashlight, a coat hanger, and a crowbar. Many of the cars are locked, which means the hoods are unable to be popped, so we use the coat hangers to try to pop the locks, and if all else fails, use the crowbar to smash a window.\n\n\"It's not like we're destroying property that matters anymore,\" Charity told us before we left. \"Chances are these cars will be bulldozed to clear the freeway when this is all over.\"\n\nAlthough we've been instructed to be on the lookout for items that may benefit the greater good of the collective, I've been more interested in a wider variety of things.\n\nSee, in the heat of the moment, when people were escaping these freeways\u2014something truly interesting happened. There was a cataclysmic shift in values. Kind of like a market crash. External events combined with mob psychology and generated a positive feedback loop. Well, not positive for them. Their only goal was to survive\u2014which meant people were quick to forget items of high value that didn't improve their immediate chances of said survival. Watches, jewelry, cash\u2014you'd be amazed by the things that turn up in cup holders and glove compartments. Not that these things were left on purpose, but stuff simply got forgotten because they were no longer on the radar of critical possessions. Sure, most cars contain nothing but junk, but I manage to acquire a few unexpected assets that would otherwise go to waste.\n\n\"Look what I found,\" says Garrett, looking in the rear window of a hatchback. Garrett indicates a bag of diapers in the back seat. \"I remember there was a woman with a baby sitting back by the fire.\"\n\n\"Good thinking,\" I tell him, because value comes in many forms. \"She'll appreciate that.\" And, I realize, so will the rest of us.\n\nThe door is, of course, locked, and multiple attempts to unlock it with the coat hanger are less effective here than elsewhere.\n\n\"I guess we're just going to have to break the window,\" I say.\n\nTo that, Garrett almost involuntarily gives a mischievous smile. That smile speaks volumes. It says he wants to break things, but never had permission. He wants to be wild, but has never been off the leash. I know that feeling\u2014and I realize that I can save him years of future therapy by one simple action.\n\nI hand him the crowbar. \"You do it,\" I say.\n\nHe looks a little scared. \"Are you sure?\"\n\nI shrug. \"Charity said we could if it was the only way in, right? Go on, give it a shot.\"\n\nGarrett hefts the crowbar, gives that involuntary smile again, and swings it at the window. It shatters with the first blow\u2014not an explosive sound, more like the popping of a light bulb, followed by the patter of safety glass pellets. I'm actually surprised by how much force he put behind it. I thought the first swing might be timid.\n\n\"Well done!\" I tell him. \"Try another.\"\n\nWithout hesitation, he turns to the car behind us and swings again, smashing the closest window.\n\n\"My turn,\" I tell him. I see a Mercedes with a hood ornament. The car looks like my asshole neighbor's, who sued us for building a retaining wall two inches onto his property. I take a swing at the ornament, fully prepared to see it fly off like a golf ball, but instead it gets knocked over and pops back up into place. Darn. I forgot that Mercedes ornaments do that\u2014so they don't get ripped off in car washes. I take a second swing, and it pops up again. It makes Garrett laugh.\n\n\"It punked you!\" he says.\n\n\"Oh yeah? Take that,\" and I smash off a side mirror.\n\nSuddenly there's one of the Tweedles lumbering up to us. \"Hey!\" he yells. \"You're supposed to be looking for water!\"\n\n\"We couldn't get in,\" I inform him. \"Had to smash the window.\"\n\nHe glances at the dangling side mirror. \"That's not a window.\"\n\n\"Guess I missed.\"\n\nGarrett snickers, and the Tweedle glares at me. \"Stay on task!\" Then he lumbers back to his brother, who has been gingerly trying to get into a Buick for five minutes.\n\nI turn to see Garrett grinning at me\u2014and I realize he's looking at me in a way that he doesn't his sister. He's clearly never had an older brother figure in his life. It puts me in a unique position.\n\nI lean against the car and speak casually. \"Your sister would kill me right now if she saw what we were doing.\"\n\n\"Who cares?\" He reaches for the crowbar, but, as a surrogate big brother, I hold it out of reach, indicating that's enough. For now.\n\n\"Funny how she treats you like you're just a kid,\" I tell him, \"even though you're the one with most of the good ideas.\"\n\nHe looks to me, just a little bit wide-eyed. \"You think that?\"\n\n\"Are you kidding me? If it weren't for you we wouldn't have found the aqueduct. And aren't you the one who found these good people? Thanks to you we have a safe place to spend the night.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I guess so.\"\n\n\"We all have our skills. Yours is seeing things that the rest of us don't.\"\n\nIt's true, and I can tell he appreciates that I've noticed what others overlook\u2014just like him. It's a nice bonding moment. One that serves a purpose. . . .\n\n\"So tell me,\" I put to him, \"what other things do you see that the others don't?\"\n\nHe considers it, then says,\"Well, I don't think Jacqui is as horrible as Alyssa makes her out to be.\"\n\n\"Really, what makes you think that?\"\n\n\"Well, it's like the girls on her soccer team. Alyssa always trash talks about the ones she kind of sees as a threat. I'll bet Jacqui and my sister could be friends if they weren't both so set on hating each other.\"\n\nA sharp observation. Useful, too. If I can keep them turned against each other, they're not turned against me. Or at least, Alyssa isn't. After nearly stranding Jacqui at the evac center, I doubt I'll ever win her over, but I may not have to. \"How about Kelton?\" I ask him.\n\nHe laughs. \"He's just glad to be in the same car with my sister. Kelton's had a serious crush on Alyssa since, like, forever!\"\n\nI feign shock. \"Get out of here!\"\n\n\"No, seriously. When they were in elementary school, he'd hit balls into our yard on purpose, and when they were in eighth grade, I caught him spying on her with one of his helicopter drone cameras. He paid me ten bucks not to tell her!\"\n\nNot quite the information I was fishing for, but when you catch a boot, you never know what else might be lurking inside.\n\n\"Spying how?\" I ask.\n\nAnd he sits on the big pack of diapers to spin me a nice little story.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe return to camp to join the others about an hour later\u2014and though Garrett and I didn't find any washer reservoirs that contained water, some of the others did. But we pulled our weight in other ways. We found some painkillers, a Bluetooth speaker fully charged, binoculars, and of course, the diapers.\n\nCharity travels around, picking and choosing who is most in need of the water she has, while our little group is brought to five cars near the guarded perimeter, the back seats of which have been spread with linens. Someone has left a MoonPie on each pillow. Real concierge service.\n\n\"There you go, Garrett,\" Alyssa says, \"didn't you always want a car bed?\"\n\nGarrett is not amused.\n\nJacqui looks at her MoonPie. Banana flavored. \"How can we even digest these without water?\" she says. \"And how do I know I won't die of thirst in my sleep?\"\n\n\"You won't,\" Kelton says. \"You'd have to be a lot worse off. You'll feel more and more tired\u2014but then, right before the end, you'll get a sudden burst of energy. It's the body's last stand. After that, it's all over.\"\n\n\"TMI, Kelton,\" she says, not wanting to think about it. \"TMI.\"\n\nWe should all call it a night, but we're at that state where we're too exhausted to sleep, and none of us is looking forward to sleeping in this heat\u2014which seems only a few degrees cooler than the day. I take my acquired letterman jacket off and set it on my lap, wishing that its manufacturers could have had the good sense to use a fabric that breathes.\n\nThe five of us now hang out in a small clearing in between the cars to wind down. The trash can fires are out, and the moon paints everyone in blue shadows.\n\n\"I really don't get it,\" says Jacqui. \"How are these people not tearing each other apart, like in every other place we've been?\"\n\n\"They created a system,\" Alyssa says. \"Not everyone can do that.\"\n\nI feel a need to enlighten them. \"Communism only works in theory, and goes against human nature. This place won't last.\"\n\n\"It doesn't have to,\" Alyssa points out. \"Only until the crisis is over.\"\n\n\"They'll turn on each other,\" Jacqui says. \"Everyone does eventually.\"\n\nAlyssa throws her a glare. \"Everyone like you, maybe.\"\n\n\"Oh, are you gonna tell me your neighbors weren't like these people? Fine, upstanding citizens, until they started eating their young?\"\n\nI glance to Garrett, who just shakes his head knowingly at me. Jacqui and Alyssa will never agree on anything.\n\n\"People suck,\" Kelton says, adding his own two cents. \"Always have, always will.\"\n\n\"I don't see it like that,\" Alyssa says. \"People might do whatever they can to survive, but once they don't have to worry about that, they're different.\"\n\n\"Sometimes,\" Kelton argues. \"Sometimes not. Some people are always like that and just pretend to be civil.\"\n\nHe says that looking at me. I'm not sure if that's intentional, but it still pisses me off.\n\nJacqui bounces her knees, amused. \"Ooh, looks like we've got ourselves a classic Hobbes versus Rousseau philosophical quandary.\"\n\nIt catches me off guard to hear Jacqui make such a reference. Especially because I don't precisely know who Hobbes and Rousseau are\u2014but not knowing and admitting you don't know are two completely different things.\n\n\"Yes, that's one way to see it,\" I tell them. \"But I think you're both wrong. People are nouns, actions are verbs. Apples and oranges.\"\n\n\"Ding! Ding! Ding! And we've found our Machiavelli!\" Jacqui announces, like a showman. And then suddenly, as absurdly and unexpectedly as she pulled philosophers out of her ass, she pulls a gun out from God knows where. A gun. A real. Freaking. Gun.\n\nWe all jump out of our skin, but maybe me more than the others. Did she have that all along? And now I'm thinking back to the dozens of times she could've shot me today\u2014like when I pulled that airsoft gun on her. Not my best move.\n\n\"Dammit, put my gun away!\" Kelton says, adding one more layer to this crazy cake. Did he say his gun?\n\nShe just ignores him, marveling at the weapon, turned on. Invigorated. \"Tell me, Henry, if I put one of these bullets right into your head and got your brains all over Kelton and his MoonPie, would I be a noun or a verb?\"\n\n\"Jacqui, put that away before anyone else sees it!\" Alyssa growls.\n\nBut it only energizes Jacqui. She will not be controlled, and now I get why Alyssa sees her as a threat. Because she is.\n\n\"C'mon, Henry,\" Jacqui taunts. \"I thought you were the captain of the debate team\u2014or at least pretended to be.\" Then she points the gun at me. \"Convince me that I am not my actions. That doing something bad doesn't make me bad.\"\n\nI talk fast, trying to pretend I'm not a thumb-pull away from oblivion. I don't know if that gun has a safety on it. Hell, I don't even really know what a safety is. \"You wouldn't be good or bad, right or wrong, because concepts are fluid, and subjective, and it would flip depending on whether or not killing me was the right thing to do, but it's not\u2014it most definitely is not!\"\n\nJacqui holds there. Everyone else is frozen. No one wants to jump in and maybe accidentally set the gun off. Finally, she withdraws her arm and tucks the gun away, suddenly disinterested. \"You're no fun,\" she says.\n\nJacqui goes back to eating her pastry, speaking with a full mouth. \"You're a bunch of scaredy-cats anyway\u2014there was no bullet in the chamber,\" she says. \"Or was there . . . ?\"\n\nMental note: There are now two confirmed psychopaths in our party of five. Kelton and Jacqui will have to be taken down if I am to assume my rightful place in charge, and protect Alyssa and her brother.\n\n### 29) Alyssa\n\nI lie in my makeshift bed, eyes peeled open. At least I think they are. I don't have the energy to sleep, or to be awake. So I toss and turn, in and out of consciousness in a delirium of anxieties that haunt both states. Thoughts of Jacqui. The gun. My parents. Mixed with nightmares of marauders raiding the freeway like they raided Kelton's home\u2014led by Hali on my soccer team and her mother, who's now fifteen feet tall and steals everyone's water. Then it starts to rain blood, and Kingston is there, lapping it all up. The rain resolves into a tapping noise. . . . My eyes snap open. It's Henry, and he's standing just outside my car, tapping on the half-open window. It's still dark. I'm not sure whether it's somewhere around midnight, or closer to dawn.\n\n\"You were talking in your sleep,\" he says. \"I could hear you from my car.\"\n\n\"Oh. Sorry.\" To be honest, I'm glad he woke me up. As tired as I am. I'll take him over the hallucinations, so I open the door and get out, stretching.\n\n\"Have you noticed that it's snowing?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nSure enough, there are snowflakes settling gently around us. But it's got to be almost ninety degrees. Now I know the world has gone crazy.\n\n\"Don't catch them on your tongue though,\" Henry says. \"I don't think they'll taste very good.\"\n\nI catch one with my hand, and rub it between my fingers. It's ash.\n\n\"The brush fires have grown up,\" he tells me. \"They're full-fledged forest fires now. Pretty far east of us, but the Santa Ana winds are bringing the ash our way.\"\n\nAs I look around, the cars are beginning to grow a fine layer of gray dust.\n\nWe lean against the side of my Cadillac, watching the \"snow\" settle.\n\n\"It's so quiet now,\" I say. \"It almost makes you forget what's out there.\"\n\n\"Nothing out there but people,\" Henry points out.\n\n\"People can be monsters. Whether it's just their actions, or whether it's who they really are, it doesn't matter. The result is the same.\"\n\nHenry shrugs, as if it doesn't bother him. I wonder if he's really so nonchalant about it, or if it's just an act for my sake. \"Sometimes you have to be the monster to survive,\" he says.\n\nI shake my head at the thought, then grimace at the pain that comes with moving my head. \"I could never be that kind of monster,\" I tell him. \"No matter what.\"\n\nRather than commenting on that, he lets another \"snowflake\" land on his palm, studying it for a few moments.\n\n\"I wanted to apologize,\" he finally says, \"for not telling you the truth about not being the guy my jacket says I am\u2014but with all that was happening, there didn't seem to be a right time.\"\n\nNo apology is complete without its \"but.\" Well, at least he's trying. So I decide to let him off the hook. I know it's stupid of me to trust him, but I decide to do it anyway.\n\n\"I get it. Common courtesies have gone the way of running water,\" I tell him. \"No one's acting the way they usually would.\"\n\nHe smiles. \"You're a very forgiving person.\" His smile seems genuine, and I look away from his gaze. I wonder if it's possible to see a blush in ashen moonlight.\n\n\"Not really,\" I tell him. \"I just don't hold grudges.\" Which isn't entirely true; I hold plenty of grudges. But right now it would be a waste of valuable energy.\n\n\"But you are forgiving,\" he insists. \"You let me come with you, even after acquiring your uncle's car. And it looks like you're beginning to forgive Jacqui for . . . well, for just being Jacqui. You even forgave Kelton after the whole drone thing.\"\n\nI get caught on that last part. \"What?\"\n\n\"You know. How he used to spy in your window with his drone?\"\n\nBut I don't know. I have no idea what he's talking about. My stomach begins to fill with a weird, greasy feeling.\n\n\"Who told you that?\"\n\n\"Garrett may have mentioned it in passing. But don't get him in trouble. I only bring it up to add evidence to my argument about your forgiving nature.\" Then he grins. \"I did pretend to be captain of the debate team, you know.\"\n\nBut right now, I don't feel forgiving at all. I feel stupid. And embarrassed. And violated. My face must be turning a much more visible shade of red now, because Henry says\u2014\n\n\"Wait\u2014you mean you didn't know?\"\n\nWhy should I be the one who feels embarrassed? Kelton's the creep here! And before I know it, I'm abandoning Henry, and I'm storming over to Kelton in his stupid little hatchback, pounding on the door, then kicking it, until he pops his nasty little orange head up and opens the door.\n\n\"What? What is it? What's happening?\"\n\n\"Did it feel good, Kelton?\" I growl. \"Did it? Was it fun? Was it everything you thought it would be?\" I know, in the midst of everything going on, that this is not the highest priority right now, but it feels like it. It feels huge.\n\n\"What? What are you talking about?\" he stammers as he scrambles out to face me.\n\n\"Did you or did you not spy on me with your drone!\"\n\nHe hesitates. That's all the answer I need. I push him back against the car. \"You lousy! Stinking! Creep!\"\n\n\"Alyssa, it was in eighth grade!\"\n\n\"There is NO statute of limitations on being a certified DOUCHE!\"\n\n\"And I only did it once!\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter how many times you did it! The fact is you did it!\"\n\n\"Alyssa . . .\"\n\n\"Don't you say my name!\" I yell at him. \"Don't you even think it. Ever !\"\n\nI storm away from him, because I know if I stay I'm just going to keep on screaming, and that will wake up half the people here and make them come running, and I don't want this to be any more of a federal case than it already is. There's a battle in my head now. Part of me wants to file this away and deal with it when we're not in a crisis. His brother is dead. There are more life-and-death challenges we have to face. Yet there's the other part of me that will not be silenced or ignored. The normal part, which won't let such an unacceptable act slide just because there are bigger things to worry about. No matter what else is going on, I have every right to what I'm feeling!\n\nI go back to my car. I'm thirsty, and I'm angry, and I think maybe I'd rather face the nightmares than this, after all.\n\nHenry appears at the window. \"Alyssa, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. . . .\"\n\n\"Well you did!\" I snap. Then I feel guilty about it. So I speak a little more gently. \"I know I shouldn't blame the messenger, but it's hard not to.\"\n\n\"I understand.\" Then he puts his hand on the door handle. \"Can I come in?\"\n\nI actually consider it. But right now I want to keep all of humanity at a ten-foot-pole distance. \"I'll see you in the morning,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Okay,\" he says. \"Sleep well.\"\n\nBut we both know there's zero chance of that.\n\n## PART FOUR\n\n## BUG-OUT\n\n## DAY SIX\n\n## THURSDAY, JUNE 9TH\n\n### 30) Kelton\n\nAlyssa isn't talking to me, Garrett won't look at me, and Jacqui seems to find that amusing.\n\nHenry says nothing, silently smug behind the wheel.\n\nGarrett confessed what he told Henry, and Henry didn't waste any time sharpening it into a weapon to use against me. I occupy my mind thinking of all the painful moves I can inflict on Henry once we reach the bug-out. Dislocate his other shoulder, snap his arm, kick out his kneecap. I know the moves, and am pretty confident I can execute them. All he has to do is give me a reason. Exposing my middle-school creepitude to Alyssa should be reason enough, but that was really just my own karma coming back to bite me. As much as I want to, I can't make any sort of move against Henry until he proves himself to be the clear and present danger I suspect he is. But I can't act on a feeling. Especially when Alyssa trusts him a whole lot more than she trusts me.\n\nIt's been half an hour since we left Charity's little freeway commune. We cleaned up our camp at dawn, folded the linens and returned them. It felt good folding the linens. It felt decent. Funny how that used to be my least favorite chore. We said goodbye to some of the friends we made during our brief stay, like Max the handy biker. Then the Water Angel sent us off with more of those marshmallow sponge cakes, and then gave each of us hugs. Standing there in her embrace, in a weird, childish way, I didn't want to let go.\n\nI know that Alyssa didn't want to leave. I was actually surprised that she didn't decide to stay, just to be rid of me. I mean, she would have gotten water there. Or at least she would when she got dehydrated enough. Maybe she couldn't bear the thought of me getting to the bug-out, and getting water before she did. Or maybe she didn't want to part with Henry. Why bother breaking a limb? I could jam the heel of my hand into his nose and drive his nasal bone into his brain.\n\nWe had to move the \u00c1guaViva box back to the bed of the truck to make room for all of us in the cab\u2014which was hard to do without raising suspicion. There was a quiet discussion as to whether or not we should pull a couple of bottles from it to drink now\u2014and this time, even I was willing to do it . . . but there was no way to open the box without revealing to Charity and her freeway folk that we had water.\n\n\"If they know about it, you know what'll happen,\" Jacqui said. \"She'll claim it's community property, divvy it out to her minions, and there goes our emergency supply.\"\n\nI expected Alyssa to argue, because she's the only one of us altruistic enough to be okay with that. But she didn't. Maybe her anger at me has spread to the rest of the world.\n\nWe agreed that we would pull over and open the box when we were far enough away, but now that we're moving, Henry flatly refuses to stop.\n\n\"We're almost there\u2014why stop now? We can all hold out for another hour, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah, we can wait,\" says Garrett, who suddenly became Henry's lapdog when no one was looking.\n\nAnd since no one wants to show less self control than a ten-year-old, we all accept it.\n\n\"But if it's more than an hour, I'm kicking you in the head until you stop the car and let us get water,\" announces Jacqui. I'd be happy if she started kicking him in the head right now, but I keep that to myself.\n\nI look through the car window. There's a haze that hangs in the air, thick and caustic. All of Southern California is blanketed in wildfire smoke. The dawn is angry crimson, and the sun\u2014which has now risen enough to peer out from behind the mountains\u2014is practically maroon, looking more like a blood moon than the sun.\n\nWe haven't put music on the radio this morning. Instead we switched back from satellite to the standard stations. Most stations are either offline or have triggered the emergency broadcast network, so it's the same thing almost everywhere. Mostly stuff we already know. Evac centers are at capacity\u2014people are to go straight to overflow facilities, blah blah blah.\n\nWe keep listening to the broadcast, because I need to know about the fires. Three are burning far to the east\u2014one completely blocking the road to Big Bear Lake. Two are burning in Castaic, more than fifty miles west of us, threatening access to Castaic Lake\u2014which millions from Los Angeles are trying to reach.\n\nOne report talks about relief coming to beaches again sometime today, but there's no way to know how successful this second wave will be. I imagine World War II and the Allied forces storming the beaches of Normandy, but with water instead of weapons. An operation like that would take months to organize. Whatever they're planning today, it's doomed to fall far short of what's needed.\n\n\"If there's fresh water at the beach, maybe we should go there instead,\" Henry says, having no idea what the rest of us have already been through.\n\n\"Just drive,\" Alyssa says, not wanting to explain.\n\nWe're only down in the aqueduct for half an hour before we emerge and follow a foothill road far enough from civilization to be beyond most roadblocks. Finally we come to a sign that says NOW ENTERING ANGELES NATIONAL FOREST, with a red placard that says FIRE RISK: HIGH. Big duh.\n\nIt looks like there actually had been a roadblock here\u2014cones and plastic barriers\u2014but they've all been pushed aside and the site is unmanned. Apparently, the personnel were needed elsewhere. We keep driving, and the road begins to wind.\n\n\"It's not far now,\" I tell everyone. \"About ten miles up, look for a dirt road off to our left. Drive slow, because it's easy to miss.\"\n\n\"I have a headache,\" announces Garrett. As if we all don't have headaches.\n\n\"It's from the smoke,\" Alyssa tells him, although it's probably more from the dehydration. \"I'm sure there's Advil at the bug-out.\"\n\n\"There is,\" I tell her, but she doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke. She's disgusted to be in the same car with me. I guess I would be, too. Of course, if it were the other way around\u2014if she had a drone and looked in my window\u2014I'd be flattered. Unless she was laughing. No, I guess I'd feel just as creeped out. I should probably just let her beat the crap out of me, and get it over with. But I suppose in our current situation, crap-beating is not a priority. And now I feel stupid for even worrying about it. As if my humiliation means anything in the big picture we're facing. And yet in my moronic head, it does. Stupid.\n\n\"Is that the road we're looking for?\" says Jacqui about fifteen minutes later.\n\n\"Yes,\" I say, although to be honest, I'm not a hundred percent sure. But we'll know soon enough. \"Turn here.\"\n\nHenry veers off the paved road and onto the narrow dirt path. The truck barely fits between the trees, and the road is rugged. The truck's suspension absorbs the worst of the bumps, but it can only do so much. My brain rattles against the walls of my skull. Garrett moans, telling Henry not to go so fast, but he's not going fast at all.\n\n\"What are we looking for?\" Henry asks.\n\n\"We'll go over a ridge, then back down into a valley,\" I tell him. \"Eventually we'll come to a dry, rocky wash. Once we're there, turn right and follow the wash for about three clicks.\"\n\n\"Exactly what is a click?\"\n\n\"A kilometer.\"\n\n\"And then we'll see it?\"\n\n\"We won't see it,\" I tell him. \"That's the whole point of a bug-out.\"\n\nTen minutes later we come to the wash, and I breathe a secret sigh of relief, because it means this was the right dirt road after all. Henry turns right, and we follow the rocky path, avoiding the boulders and ditches along the way. Finally we come to an upturned tree stump with a red ribbon caught in its dead, gnarled roots. Only it's not caught, it's tied there. It's our marker.\n\n\"Stop,\" I tell Henry. \"We're here.\"\n\nWe get out of the car and I lead everyone up the embankment of the wash, and back into the forest. About a hundred yards in, I stop.\n\n\"We're here,\" I tell everyone.\n\n\"We're where?\" asks Jacqui. \"I don't see anything but a whole lot of trees.\"\n\n\"Is it underground?\" asks Garrett.\n\n\"Nope.\" Then I just stand there, waiting, wondering who will be the first one to notice.\n\nAlyssa's the first. I was betting she would be. She gasps and points. \"There!\" she says. \"It's mirrored!\" She runs a dozen yards ahead, and the rest of us follow. As we get closer, the illusion weakens, but only because the glass has gotten dirty.\n\nOur bug-out is a small A-frame structure\u2014the mirrored side walls slope so that they reflect the higher reaches of trees, instead of reflecting people who might be approaching. It's an exceptionally successful camouflage.\n\n\"I suddenly love your seriously disturbed family,\" Jacqui says.\n\nJust like at home, there's a hidden key. It's in a knothole in a tree, although it takes me a few minutes to find the right tree, then a couple of minutes more to poke into the knothole, dislodging a spider and a bunch of other unpleasant critters that have taken up residence there. Finally, I reach in and pull out the key.\n\nI stride triumphant to the door\u2014which is also mirrored\u2014and slide the key into the deadbolt lock.\n\n\"Welcome,\" I say, \"to Castle McCracken!\"\n\n### 31) Jacqui\n\nHow many lifetimes have I gone through since the riot at the beach? I'm used to life changing in the flicker of an instant, but the Tap-Out has left every single moment a threat. How I live now is not the same as any of my yesterdays, and that void that always taunts me is now a moving target, making me lose all sense of direction.\n\nBut right now I don't care about any of that. All I care about is having a nice long drink. Doesn't even have to be cold. It just has to be liquid.\n\nOur unlikely crew of accidental survivors now stands outside Kelton's family bug-out, while Kelton makes a big production of opening the door.\n\n\"Welcome to Castle McCracken!\"\n\n\"Just let us in already,\" says Garrett.\n\nFinally Kelton turns the key and pulls the door wide.\n\nCastle McCracken my ass! The bug-out has bugged out. The place is a mess. There are cans on the ground, clothes tossed everywhere. Empty cereal boxes dumped on their sides. The place is small, but seems even smaller with all the junk spread around it. It's like a bear slipped in through the keyhole.\n\n\"This isn't right . . . ,\" says Kelton. \"We didn't leave it this way. . . .\"\n\n\"When was the last time you were here?\" Henry asks, examining a spoon with peanut butter caked on it.\n\n\"Maybe a year ago?\" Kelton says, like it's a question rather than a response.\n\nIt looks like I'm the only one with the courage to speak the obvious. \"There was a break-in.\"\n\nBut Kelton shakes his head. \"There's no sign of that. The lock was intact, and it's not ransacked.\"\n\n\"Looks ransacked to me,\" says Garrett.\n\n\"Yeah,\" agrees Kelton, \"but not in the way a burglar would.\"\n\nExploring deeper, Kelton pushes open a door to a bedroom. Two beds. One is made, the other disheveled. There are comic books on the floor.\n\nKelton seems to reel out of his skin. \"No!\" he says. \"No no no no no!\"\n\nHe doubles back, pushing past the rest of us and to the kitchen, pulling open cabinet doors. The cabinets are virtually bare.\n\n\"No no no no NOOOO!\"\n\nHe kneels, pulling open a trapdoor, and drops inside. We can only watch his panic, not wanting to make it our own. He bumbles around down there. I can hear the ponging of jugs\u2014and he hurls up a couple of them up. When I look down, there are a whole bunch of plastic jugs down there. Empty. All empty.\n\n\"If it's not a break-in, then what the hell happened here?\" I ask.\n\n\"My brother happened here!\" he says, with so much anguish in his eyes, I have to look away. \"This is where Brady must have been living! We knew he lost his job and bailed on his roommates. We thought he might be living with his girlfriend. It never occurred to us that he might come here. Where he knew there was food and water enough to last for months. . . .\"\n\nAnd I realize that \"was\" is the operative word here. \"Was\" is the difference between salvation, and doom.\n\n### 32) Alyssa\n\nThis is not the end of the world, I tell myself. This is just a glitch. And now I'm grateful that Henry was so obstinate about not opening the box of \u00c1guaViva. With all the forces that have been mobilized to bring relief, it will be a while until the supply chain can meet the demand\u2014and the \u00c1guaViva will get us through that time. There will be people\u2014lots of people\u2014who won't be able to hold out that long, but we won't be among them. Thanks to Henry. He wanted so badly to be the hero. Now he is.\n\nKelton keeps digging through the storage space below, pulling out every plastic water jug, trying to get even the tiniest drops out, but all the jugs are open, and any moisture that had been left in them has long since dried up.\n\n\"I can't believe Brady did this!\" he wails. \"How could he do this? He knows better!\"\n\n\"Knew better,\" corrects Jacqui, and I hit her hard enough to generate a warning glare, which I return with equal ferocity. Has she already forgotten how terrible Brady's death was, or is she so callous that she just doesn't care?\n\nJacqui turns to the pantry and starts pulling out Styrofoam noodle cups. \"Well, at least we have plenty of chicken-flavored Top Ramen,\" she says. \" 'Just add hot water.' \" Kelton groans.\n\nI turn to Henry, who has been unusually quiet through all of this. He offers me a slim, pained grin, and I try to offer him one back that's not quite so stretched.\n\n\"Some alkaline-infused goji berry mineral water sounds really good right about now,\" I tell him.\n\n\"It does, doesn't it?\" he says, with a little chuckle.\n\n\"Kelton, give it up,\" says Jacqui. \"The bug-out's a bust. Back to the truck.\"\n\nKelton is reluctant. He keeps digging through the same empty jugs, like he's going to find something different. Finally he gives up. He climbs out of the crawl space and kicks the jugs in frustration. They make a sad noise, like muted church bells. When we leave, he doesn't even close the door, because what would be the point?\n\nWe make our way down to the truck, which still waits for us by the upturned stump, and Jacqui hops in the back, pushing things out of the way until she gets to the box. She hoists it and brings it out, setting it down. The corners are a little dented, but otherwise it's intact. She attacks the tape with her nails, but it's thick strapping tape, and there are multiple layers.\n\n\"Does anyone have a Swiss army knife?\" She turns to Kelton. \"How about you, Survival Boy?\"\n\n\"Yeah, there are plenty of knives back at the bug-out,\" he says, but none of us, least of all Jacqui, wants to wait that long.\n\n\"I'll go get one,\" Henry volunteers, but he's overruled.\n\n\"Forget it,\" says Jacqui, and holds out a hand to him. \"Keys, please.\"\n\nHenry takes a step back from her as if there were a weapon in her empty hand, but Jacqui's wriggling fingers are insistent. I'm pretty sure I know why he doesn't want to hand them over. Once Jacqui has those keys, she's never giving them back to him. In the end, he relents, and hands the keys over to Jacqui. I wonder why he didn't just take over the task of opening the box himself\u2014after all, it's his box\u2014but the thought flits out of my mind before I even have time to really consider it.\n\nJacqui finds the sharpest key and starts slashing at the tape, then sawing it, then stabbing it.\n\n\"C'mon!\" says Garrett. \"Hurry up!\"\n\nJacqui grunts in frustration. \"What idiot tapes up a box like this?\"\n\nFinally she gets a good size hole in the tape and starts working it larger, until she can get her hand in and rip a whole flap off the top of the box. Then, with the box finally open, she just stands there. Instead of reaching in and pulling out water bottles, she just stares into the box.\n\n\"Aw, you gotta be kidding!\" she says. \"No freaking way!\"\n\n\"What?\" I say. \"What is it?\"\n\nInstead of answering, she dumps the box over, and out spill hundreds of glossy brochures.\n\n\u00c1guaViva! Hydrate with Elegance!\n\nPictures of slim, happy people jogging and a glistening mountain spring that makes my soul yearn to be in the picture.\n\nThe sight of the pamphlets hits me like radiation. That is to say, I feel the sudden blast of this terrible truth, yet I know the full ramification of it hasn't settled in yet. But it will. I think to the empty jugs in the bug-out. Then flash to the people behind the football field fence so desperate for water that they would sell their souls for a thimbleful. And then I flash to the rush Henry was in when he traded the box to get the truck keys back. How he wanted to get away as quickly as we could. Before that soldier opened the box. And I realize that this is not just a tragic mistake. Henry knew. He knew all along. Which is why I'm not entirely surprised when Garrett says:\n\n\"Henry's gone!\"\n\n### 33) Henry\n\nIn life, one should always have an exit strategy for any given situation. I've always known this\u2014lived by it, even\u2014but in this particular instance, I was caught woefully off guard. It never occurred to me that the bug-out would be a nonstarter. Because as much as I dislike Psycho-Ginger, I believed he had our backs. Serves me right for letting my guard down.\n\nIn a perfect world, no one would ever have opened that box. It would have been like Schr\u00f6dinger's infamous cat. As long as the box stayed closed, there might actually have been water in there. At least as far as the others were concerned. And who's to say if their reality was any less real than mine?\n\nBut when the box was opened, that all became moot. If I had my wits about me, I would have slipped out and taken off with the truck the moment I realized there was no water in the bug-out. I should have abandoned any and all hope of being this ill-fated group's glorious savior, cut my losses, and bailed. But I hesitated. And that hesitation cost me everything.\n\nSo now I'm left to stumble through the woods, no vehicle, thirsty beyond belief. I remember the way we came. I know how far it is back to civilization, if you could even call it civilization anymore. My plan is simple. I will make my way back to Charity and her freeway commune. I will make myself an indispensable part of her little collective, and I will receive enough water to survive. It will be a long, difficult trip, and although I have doubts as to whether or not I can make it, I have to try. It's all a matter of risk tolerance, and in this volatile world, what other choice do I have?\n\nBut before I even get back to the road, I'm tackled to the ground. My first thought is that it's a bear\u2014but then I realize it's much worse.\n\n### 34) Kelton\n\nPeople trying to escape don't act in the smartest of ways. For example: Henry Not-Roycroft. He took a direct path away from the truck\u2014straight up the slope of the wash. But to get back to the road, he'd have to turn right once he reached the crest of the little ridge\u2014so, just like in hunting a small-brained quadruped, I triangulated his course and ran the hypotenuse.\n\nI scrape my knuckles on a rock pretty badly as I'm taking him down, but the pain is a good kind of pain. It helps me to focus my anger where it belongs.\n\nNow I've got him pinned with my knee on his xiphoid, making it hard for him to breathe, much less move. Quickly I clamp my right thumb and forefinger around his windpipe. I've seen this in demonstration videos, so I know the theoreticals, but in practice it's different than I imagined. The windpipe doesn't stay put. It shifts and slides around. It takes a moment until I'm sure I have it. I know because I can't hear him breathing. With all the air pushed out of him with my knee, it will only take about ten seconds to render him unconscious. Twenty seconds to give him brain damage. Thirty seconds to kill him. My fight function is now engaged. That, combined with my rage and my thirst, leaves me uncertain of which of the three outcomes I want.\n\n\"Kelton, enough!\"\n\nI snap out of it at the sound of Alyssa's voice and release Henry's throat, grateful that she was there to make the right decision for me, because I know I might not have. Henry gasps and coughs and gasps again. There's no fight or even flight left in him now. He's little more than a rag doll on the ground, just as he was when I dislocated his shoulder.\n\n\"Call off your goddamn pit bull!\" he rasps.\n\n\"It's okay, Kelton,\" Alyssa says. \"He's not going anywhere.\"\n\nAnd so I let him go. Not because I want to, but because the orders Alyssa is giving me now are the first things she's said to me all day.\n\nBy now, Garrett and Jacqui have arrived. And it looks like I'm not the only one harboring homicidal intentions, because Jacqui pulls out my gun and aims it point-blank at Henry's forehead.\n\n\"I will be solving so many problems if I pull this trigger,\" she growls.\n\n\"Stop it!\" demands Alyssa. \"Killing him won't solve anything!\"\n\n\"All right, maybe not, but it'll feel really good.\"\n\n\"Put that away!\" Alyssa yells, but Jacqui is not following anyone's commands, least of all Alyssa's.\n\nAnd then Henry begins to grovel for his life. \"Please,\" he whimpers. \"I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry for everything. . . .\"\n\n\"The only thing you're sorry for is being caught,\" says Jacqui, which is probably true.\n\nAnd then Garrett, feeling this betrayal more deeply than anyone, says, \"Do it! Do it, Jacqui!\"\n\nAlyssa reels at that, horrified. \"Garrett!\"\n\n\"Do it! He deserves it! He lied to us! He tricked us! He pretended to be our friend!\"\n\nAs I recall, Garrett had also wanted me to pull the trigger on the blond water-zombie at the beach.\n\nNow a stain spreads across Henry's crotch. He's wet himself. Not much of a stain\u2014he doesn't have much water in him. I have no sympathy. Maybe I will if Jacqui shoots him. Right now, not so much.\n\nJacqui looks at Garrett, almost as surprised by his outburst as Alyssa is. Then she ejects the magazine and fires the bullet that's already in the chamber into the sky. It echoes back and forth between the mountains around us.\n\n\"What is wrong with you?\" Alyssa yells.\n\n\"If I didn't shoot it in the sky, it would be in his skull right now,\" Jacqui says.\n\n\"More likely the ground right behind his skull,\" I point out, being that it's such close range.\n\nJacqui storms off, and Alyssa burns Garrett a glare. \"Go with her. Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid.\"\n\n\"Like I could stop her.\"\n\nAlyssa holds her brother's gaze, and I know what she's thinking. Are you broken, Garrett? Has all of this broken you worse than it's broken the rest of us? And if the gun was in your hands, would Henry be dead now?\n\n\"Just go,\" she says.\n\nNow it's just me, Alyssa, and Henry. He's recovered enough to make a run for it, but he doesn't even try because he knows I'll just take him down again, and he's deathly afraid of me. Funny, but no one has ever actually thought of me as a legitimate threat before. No one's ever called me a pit bull. Mostly, kids like Henry have either ignored me or seen me as a joke. But now I'm Kelton the Intimidator. If I survive this, I'll have a shirt made.\n\n\"I just want to know why,\" Alyssa says.\n\nHenry can't look at her. Good. He doesn't deserve to look at her anymore.\n\n\"If I didn't have something to offer, you would have just left me there in Dove Canyon to die along with everyone else!\"\n\n\"So you lied.\"\n\n\"I never said there was water in that box. You just assumed.\"\n\nAlyssa looks like she might kick him. That look is sweet revenge. Almost as good as if she actually did kick him. But since she doesn't, I do a little bit of my own tormenting.\n\n\"If we change our minds, there's a shovel back in the bug-out,\" I say. \"And the ground here on the ridge is soft enough to dig a grave. . . .\"\n\n\"I'll make it up to you!\" Henry pleads. \"All of you. I promise.\"\n\n\"Just shut up, Henry,\" Alyssa says. \"Or I swear I'll get that shovel myself.\"\n\n### 35) Alyssa\n\nHenry may have killed us all.\n\nI don't want that thought in my head. I want to focus on the solution, not the problem. But the thought keeps worming back in, undermining every attempt to rout it out. I think of all the things we might have done differently if we knew there was no water in that box\u2014including leaving Henry in his fancy air-conditioned house. But who am I kidding? If I knew he had no water left, and he wanted to come with us, I would have fought to bring him with us.\n\nBut had we known, maybe we would have made a real back-up plan. Now we have nothing. Nothing but despair and that singular nagging thought: Henry may have killed us all.\n\nWe take him back to the bug-out with us\u2014because if we just let him go, he'll probably die before he gets out of the woods, and I don't want that on my conscience. Jacqui insists on binding his hands so he can't do much of anything\u2014and so he won't forget he is now under house arrest. I don't argue with her because maybe it's the right move. I trusted Henry and look where it got us. Even Kelton agrees that it's better having him under our watchful eyes than out there where we can't see what he's up to. From this moment on, the best policy is suspicion on all fronts.\n\nIn the bug-out we strategize our next move. Garrett is despondent, just slumped in a corner. \"I'm conserving energy,\" he says. \"Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Conserve energy?\"\n\n\"We have enough gas to get back to the freeway,\" I tell everyone. \"We'll find Charity, let her know what happened. She'll help us.\"\n\n\"If she hasn't been taken out by marauders,\" says Jacqui\u2014a ray of light, as always.\n\n\"I have a better idea,\" says Kelton. Then he searches through a few drawers, until coming up with a map. He spreads it out on the small kitchen table.\n\n\"We're here,\" he says, pointing. \"And Charity's there\u2014about thirty miles away. But look at this.\" He brings his finger to a long, Y-shaped lake west of us. \"The San Gabriel Reservoir.\"\n\nJacqui scoffs at it. \"Haven't you heard? The reservoirs are all dry. That's what you get for looking at an old paper map.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Kelton. \"The Cogswell and Morris Reservoirs are gone\u2014but the lake behind the San Gabriel Dam is maintained for firefighting aircraft. I'm sure of it.\"\n\n\"How can you be sure about anything?\" Jacqui snorts.\n\n\"Because it's why my father chose this spot for the bug-out. It will be way down from its usual level\u2014but there'll still be some water there.\"\n\nBy checking the distances on the map, I can tell it's just ten miles west of us\u2014much closer than going back to Charity.\n\n\"We'll have to go totally off-road for a while. We can cross this ridge here,\" Kelton says, dragging his finger along the paper, \"and pick up East Fork Road here. That will wind to the lake.\"\n\n\"Sounds like a plan,\" says Henry from his spot in the corner. Jacqui kicks him\u2014not hard enough to hurt him, but just enough to make it clear his input is not welcome anymore.\n\n\"Are we all game for this?\" Kelton asks.\n\nThe answer is no, but no one admits that. Because if we want to live, it's the best choice we have.\n\nThere are a few backpacks and drawstring bags around the bug-out. I gather them up and hand them out. \"Let's look around and grab things we might need\u2014but don't weigh yourselves down.\"\n\nI'm about to hand one to Henry, but he holds up his bound hands and shrugs. If I want him to participate, I'll need to cut him loose. So I don't give him a bag.\n\nThen Jacqui does something I'd never expect her to. She gives Kelton back his gun.\n\n\"Here, take it,\" she says. \"I don't want it in my belt anymore; it's giving me a rash.\" Then she glances over at Henry. \"Besides, I don't trust myself with it, considering our current company.\"\n\nKelton takes the gun back, surprised by the offer. \"So you trust me now?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not,\" Jacqui says. \"But at least if you do something stupid, it will be your problem, not mine.\"\n\nJacqui herself is a loaded gun with a hair trigger\u2014and the fact that she, in this moment, is able to recognize that, makes her seem slightly less mental. Maybe even trustworthy.\n\nI open the pantry, trying to see if there's anything other than the dry ramen cups. Nothing, but that doesn't mean we won't find something lying around.\n\n\"We should probably eat anything we find that's actually edible,\" I tell the others. \"We'll need the energy.\" I pick up the spoon with dried peanut butter, hold it out to Garrett, and he gives me a look of profound disgust. \"Beggars can't be choosers,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Obviously you've never met the beggars in Laguna Beach,\" Jacqui says. \"I happen to know several of them.\" And then she starts to mimic them in various different voices. \" 'Hey, lady, this sandwich has a bite taken out of it!' 'Excuse me, but is this bread gluten-free?' 'Just a dollar, dude? Maybe you could send me a little more on Venmo.' \"\n\nIt sets me off giggling, which gets everyone else laughing. And it occurs to me that even in these do-or-die moments, there's still space for us to laugh. I guess that means we still have some fight left in us.\n\n### 36) Kelton\n\nThere is absolutely no reason for me to take comic books with me. They will take up space, and I'm definitely not going to be reading them. But there they are on the floor of the second bedroom. The room that was supposed to be for me and Brady if our family ever had to use the bug-out. As I lean over to pick them up, I can smell his sheets. Sour. There's no air-conditioning in the bug-out\u2014just a fan, powered off the same miniature solar grid that powers the lights. The fan probably drains the battery halfway through the night.\n\nIt smells like his room used to when he lived at home, a faint vinegary reek that would cause Mom to break out the Febreze on a regular basis. After today I will never smell that again.\n\nI'm taking his comic books. I don't need them, but I don't care. I'm taking them anyway.\n\nThen, when I look up, Alyssa's standing at the door. I don't know how long she's been there watching me.\n\nI pick up the comic books and put them on the bed. I won't let her see me pack them. This is between me and Brady.\n\n\"My brother was a real screw-up,\" I tell her. \"I mean, he uses up everything in the bug-out, doesn't answer our calls, and then shows up at home just in time to get himself killed. If that's not the definition of screw-up, I don't know what is.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, Kelton.\"\n\nAnd then things start coming out of my mouth that I don't mean to say out loud, but I can't stop myself. \"I don't have a brother anymore. I might not have parents. I don't even know what happens if I live through this. I mean, if my parents are gone too, what then? Do I go to Boise to live with my goddamn Aunt Eunice and her cats? How is that better than dying of thirst?\"\n\n\"Tomorrow is going to have to take care of itself for a while,\" Alyssa says. Then she adds, \"Yesterday, too.\"\n\nI know what yesterday she's talking about. I force myself to hold her gaze, no matter how raw and stupidly naked I feel in front of her\u2014and make no mistake about it, this is the true meaning of nakedness. If I had no clothes on, that would be nothing compared to the kind of bareness that's exposed to her right now.\n\n\"Saying I'm sorry for that thing I did in eighth grade feels stupid\u2014because sorry isn't enough. Sorry is almost an insult.\"\n\n\"You're right, it's not enough,\" she says. \"People go to jail for stuff like that.\"\n\n\"True. But I'm a minor,\" I point out. \"I'd have just gotten juvie and counseling\u2014but yeah, I get your point.\"\n\nI look down at the comic book in my hand, which I've managed to spindle without even realizing it. I lay it flat and try to smooth it out. \"I won't even say, 'It seemed like a good idea at the time,' because even then, I knew it was a really bad idea.\"\n\n\"But you did it anyway.\"\n\n\"Haven't you ever done something really stupid, and you knew it was stupid but did it anyway?\"\n\nShe bristles at the suggestion. Maybe because she's never done anything so entirely stupid and misguided in her whole life. I realize she has not once asked me why I did it. Maybe because she knows. The truth is, loneliness and hormones and parents who keep you like a fish in a bowl can do weird things to a person. Life through a fishbowl lens is only one step away from life behind the lens of a drone's camera.\n\n\"It was the creepiest thing I've ever done, and I was so disgusted with myself, I never did it again.\" I hope she believes me, because it's true.\n\nThen Alyssa asks me the last thing I expect her to ask.\n\n\"So what did you see?\"\n\n\"Huh?\" I say, not because I didn't hear her, but because I'm not ready to go there.\n\n\"You looked, you saw. I want to know what you stole from me that night.\"\n\nI wonder what she's expecting me to say. I wonder what she wants me to say. It doesn't matter, because I just tell the truth.\n\n\"It was the week of that air-band contest at school\u2014you remember that?\"\n\nShe groans. \"I try not to.\"\n\n\"Anyway, you and your friends had been practicing a routine, lip-synching some ridiculous pop song, but I guess you couldn't get the moves right because that night you were in your room by yourself. You turned on the song, and you were practicing in the mirror.\"\n\n\"Really?\" she says flatly. \"Is that what you wasted your drone on?\"\n\n\"You were using Kingston's brush as a microphone, but dog hair kept whipping in your face, and it kept throwing you off. I remember thinking, Here she is, looking in the mirror, watching herself doing something so silly and so dumb, but she doesn't feel dumb about it at all. But me? I can't even look in the mirror and do anything without feeling like an idiot.\"\n\n\"That's where you're wrong, Kelton,\" she says. \"I did feel like an idiot. But I did it anyway.\"\n\nThen she asks me to stand up for a second, so I do. I'm facing her, not quite sure what this is about . . . until she suddenly hauls off and slaps me.\n\nThis is not your ordinary slap. This is like a Major League Baseball swing, with a wind-up and full follow-through. My head whips nearly around with the force of it. It leaves me in shock. I can't even speak, and I know there's going to be a puffy red handprint on my left cheek for a good long time.\n\nFinally I find my words somewhere in the far corner of my rattled brain. \"I guess I deserved that,\" I tell her.\n\n\"Yes, you did,\" she says.\n\n\"Are we even?\"\n\n\"No, we're not.\"\n\nI sigh. \"I didn't think so.\"\n\n\"Part of your punishment is that we'll never be even.\"\n\nAnd I get that. The worst part about doing something inexcusable is that you can never take it back. It's like breaking a glass. It can't unbreak. The best you can do is sweep it up, and hope you don't step on the slivers you left behind.\n\nBut then she leans in and places a gentle kiss on my stinging cheek, like a mother kissing a little kid's boo-boo. She leaves without a word of explanation\u2014and I come to the grand realization that from now and until the end of the universe, if I live a hundred thousand lifetimes, I will never understand girls. And somehow that's okay, I think.\n\n## PART FIVE\n\n## HELL AND HIGH WATER\n\n### 37) Jacqui\n\nMy mouth is dry and tastes like I've been chewing the soles of old Nikes. It tastes like I've been sucking mud. Moist, glistening mud. It's actually enticing. Never mind an ice-cold can of Dr Pepper dripping with beads of condensation\u2014I'd definitely settle for mud right now. Funny how the needs of your own body redefine the parameters of what you'd settle for.\n\nI climb behind the wheel again. Whether Alyssa likes it or not, I'm the one who has to drive, because Henry sure as hell isn't. And as neither Kelton nor Alyssa are anywhere close to having a license, they have no other choice. It's either that or walk.\n\n\"My father felt I needed to earn the privilege of driving,\" Kelton says as we get in. \"But I think he was afraid of giving me too much freedom.\"\n\nAlyssa's reason is more self-imposed.\n\n\"I put off getting my license because of soccer practice, homework, and the fact that I know my parents couldn't afford to get me a car right now, so what was the point?\"\n\n\"For people who want to survive,\" I tell them both, \"you made some pretty useless life choices.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Alyssa snaps, \"and your choices were good ones?\"\n\n\"Just shut up!\" yells Garrett. \"Everyone just shut up!\"\n\nAnd so we do. Because grumbling at each other isn't helping anything. And besides, our voices are all beginning to sound raspy. Pushing air across my vocal cords is hurting more and more, and I know it can't just be me.\n\n\"When this is over,\" Henry says, as I start the car, \"I hope we'll all be able to let bygones be bygones.\"\n\n\"When this is over,\" I tell him, \"it will be my absolute pleasure to never see any of you ever again. But you especially.\"\n\nI put the car in gear and turn on the useless fan. I'm not exactly sure of the time, but it's much hotter than it was when we arrived. Ten in the morning, maybe? Eleven? Kelton points out that even nonfunctioning air-conditioning makes us burn gas faster, and I tell him where he can shove his useful information. Gas is not the problem anymore\u2014we have more than enough to get us where we're going. The problem is, we're facing a classic example of You can't get there from here. The map showed that the road we took into the forest turns away from where we need to go, so the only way to get to East Fork Road is to either backtrack twenty miles, or go through the woods, which, according to Kelton, is only a four-mile trek.\n\nOne of the maps Kelton brought shows elevation and the steepness of the terrain, so we know how to get there without falling off a cliff. Unfortunately, it doesn't show trees and boulders. We have to meander like a Mars rover to forge our way through the woods, weaving a slow and unpredictable path.\n\n\"I don't even know if we're going the right way anymore,\" I say\u2014only realizing after it's out of my mouth that I've said it out loud.\n\n\"We are,\" says Kelton, although he doesn't sound too confident.\n\nThen, halfway down the next slope, a bright yellow plane rips overhead. My first instinct is to jump out of the car to shout and wave like a deranged island castaway, but before I can give in to the impulse, the plane is gone.\n\n\"That's a firefighting craft,\" Kelton says excitedly. \"See, didn't I tell you? It's going the same place we're going\u2014which means we're headed in the right direction!\"\n\nIt's the first bit of encouraging news we've had in a long while.\n\nWe continue to zigzag up and down the hills. Every bump hurts. Not just my head, but my bones. Whatever it is that lubricates joints I think must be in low supply now, because every moving part aches. My fever's gone, so I know it's not that. It's the thirst. Has to be.\n\n\"Watch out!\" Alyssa yells.\n\nI slam on the brakes and turn left to avoid hitting a tree that seemed to have leaped suicidally into our path. Yes, I know it must have been right in front of me, but I'm just not seeing things right. It's not that my vision is blurry, it's just that my brain isn't doing a good job of creating the full picture. As slow as I'm going, I'm going to have to slow down even more. Suddenly it seems like going back to Charity would have been the better idea. But it's too late now. At this rate, we might not reach the road until dark\u2014and the thought of that fills me with such misery, I have to fight it with fury. How dare this forest be so hard to navigate? I think to the parts of it that are burning down, and although arson is not in my personal bag of issues, I have no sympathy. Right now trees and nature are the enemies.\n\n### 38) Henry\n\nMy wrists hurt from the plastic tie cutting into my skin. What do they think I'm going to do if I have my hands free? Strangle someone? Well, maybe I might. Now.\n\nI'm up against the right side door. I could try to lift the lock when no one's looking, open the door, and throw myself out, but what good would that do? No, my fate is tied in with everyone else in this truck. Until the moment it isn't. I must keep my wits about me, because there are always opportunities. Even when all options seem to be gone, fortunes could change at any time. I must be ready to seize the moment when they do.\n\n### 39) Kelton\n\nHeadache, rapid heart beat, exhaustion, burning eyes, dizziness. I know the symptoms of acute dehydration. We could go maybe six or seven more hours without water now. Then we fall into a coma. Then we die. Simple as that. How much water will it take to save us? More than a thimbleful, less than a cup. It won't really hydrate us, but it will keep us from dying. It will give us time. But I don't think there's as much as a cup of water between here and our destination. We have to get there. Period.\n\nRight now, our lives depend on my ability to navigate and Jacqui's ability to drive. But what if I'm wrong, and the San Gabriel Reservoir is as dry as the rest of them? Do we just lie down on the cracked, dried mud of the lake bed and call it a day?\n\nI find myself thinking about all of the second- and third-place ribbons and trophies in my room. Everything from robotics to marksmanship to chess boxing. My father said it was okay to have a few of them up, but didn't want me to display the rest. He felt all those nonwinning awards would be \"a shrine to mediocrity,\" and such a thing was beneath me. But my mother overruled him, so the wall was enshrined. On good days I could look at it and see the accomplishments. On bad days it was a reminder of all the ways I am deficient. So I guess they were both right.\n\nBut when it comes to survival, all I know is that there are no second- and third-place trophies. There's just the gold, or the ground. And I don't think the others realize how close we are to the end of the line.\n\n### 40) Garrett\n\nWhere are you, Mom and Dad? Are you as thirsty as we are? I think I'm gonna die. But if you're already dead, I'm not so scared. Except I am scared\u2014but not so scared if you're there and you're waiting for me. And if there's water.\n\nOr does thirst follow you there? What if that stupid longing for something cold and wet doesn't go away even after you die? I could swallow a river right now. I could drink Niagara Falls.\n\nMy eyes are open, and they hurt when I close them, and they hurt when I open them again. The corners where tears come out feel like someone stuck a pin in them, they're so dry. So I squint, trying not to open my eyes too wide. I see the windshield and I think, for a moment, that it's a TV screen and I'm just watching TV. All of this is someone else's pretend life. It's like I fell asleep in front of the screen with my eyes open. And that's a good feeling. And so I let the feeling linger until it feels a little bit true and I feel a little bit better.\n\nThere are people talking now, but I don't think there's anyone actually speaking, and that's how I know I've started dreaming\u2014but I'm still awake, too. I don't know what that means, but then I think maybe, just maybe, this is what it's like when you start turning into a water-zombie.\n\n### 41) Alyssa\n\nJust don't think about it. Make yourself not think about it. I remember hearing somewhere that the human mind can only hold three things in conscious thought at any given time. And if I fill up all three spaces, I won't think about how thirsty I am.\n\nThink about the reservoir. No, because that will just make me think of the water I don't have. Think about school and that last bit of homework I never did. And biology. Mitosis. Meiosis. Protein synthesis. It all requires water. Not helpful.\n\nSubject one: soccer. I'm driving toward the goal. Passing back and forth. And wonder of wonders, Hali actually passes the ball to me instead of hogging it. Good. Good.\n\nSecond subject. Geography. I think of states. Countries. My father got me a geography coloring book when he found out that the asinine California school system decided they didn't need to teach geography anymore. A coloring book? Really? And yet it was great. I would think I was procrastinating, when in reality, I was memorizing the geography of the world. France is green and looks like a man with a goatee and his nose in the air. Egypt is a yellow trapezoid with one right angle, and looks like the cornerstone of a pyramid. Greenland is blue, just to be ironic. So soccer and geography. Good.\n\nSubject three. What is subject three? Spanish. Si, Espa\u00f1ol. Pedro tiene la bolsa de Maria. \u00bfDonde est\u00e1 el ba\u00f1o? \u00a1Quiero agua! \u00a1Por favor, agua agua agua! This isn't working.\n\nI turn to see that Henry is watching me. I wonder what he's thinking, and then I realize I don't care. Soccer. Geography. Spanish. That's all I can care about right now.\n\n\"I'm not the terrible person you think I am,\" Henry tells me. \"If you met me in the real world, I know you would have liked me.\"\n\n\"But we never would have met, so why does it matter?\" I point out. \"You live in a mansion in a gated community and go to an expensive private school. What are the chances that we would ever have met?\"\n\n\"It's not a mansion,\" he says. \"It's just a house. And we might have met if you came to visit your uncle.\" He looks off into space as if imagining that alternate reality. \"If we had met, I would have asked you out to a fancy dinner, and I'd be sweet and considerate, and listen to everything you said. And when I wasn't listening, I'd be charming you with my sparkling wit.\"\n\n\"Sparkling . . . ,\" echoes Garrett wistfully, and I know he's thinking of something cold with bubbles.\n\n\"You would have liked me,\" Henry says again.\n\n\"I did like you,\" I remind him.\n\nHenry sighs. \"Past tense. Maybe I can make it present tense again.\"\n\nI don't answer him. Right now I have no interest in connection with anybody. The only thing I want to connect with is liquid across my lips. I could fall in love with a glass of water much more than a human being right now.\n\nJacqui suddenly stops the car.\n\n\"Are we there?\" Garrett says weakly. \"Please tell us we're there.\"\n\n\"Quiet!\" Jacqui says. \"Do you hear that?\" She rolls down her window the rest of the way. The stench of smoke is stronger now than before. I wonder if the winds have shifted in our direction. Now, with the windows down, we can all hear what she heard. There's music. Someone's playing music!\n\n### 42) Kelton\n\nThis could be a really good thing, but there's a voice inside of me\u2014most likely my father's paranoid voice\u2014telling me to be careful. That things that seem too good to be true always are, without exception, too good to be true.\n\n\"We should check it out,\" says Alyssa.\n\n\"I'll go,\" I tell everyone, before someone else volunteers.\n\n\"Always the Boy Scout,\" sneers Jacqui\u2014and although I expect her to argue, she says, \"Fine. The rest of us will stay here and enjoy the nonexistent air-conditioning.\"\n\nIt's an indication of how much the thirst is getting to her, if she's willing to let me take charge of a situation. But volunteering for this has nothing to do with my being a Boy Scout. It has to do with caution over curiosity\u2014which I have right now much more than any of the others. I am just paranoid enough to hedge my hope, and that could be something that saves us.\n\nIt's torturous getting to the top of the ridge, even though it's not all that steep and it's just a few dozen yards ahead of us. My legs are weak and I'm dizzy, but I can fight that. For now. As soon as I get to the top, I hide behind a tree and peer out. The music's louder and now I recognize the tune. It's Cashmere by Led Zeppelin. That familiar relentless beat and exotic, yet somehow ominous riff fills the air. Robert Plant's voice wails above it all like some sort of religious chant.\n\nThere's a small camper down there\u2014an old one. Rusty. Must have been there for a long time. This is a bug-out\u2014I recognize that right away. Nothing as elaborate as ours, but a bug-out all the same. Two men sit out front in folding chairs. They have weapons\u2014nasty ones\u2014which isn't surprising. They're roasting rabbits over an open fire. How stupid to have an open flame when everything's so dry\u2014but I sense that consequences are not a high priority for these men.\n\nAnd then one of them lifts a water bottle to his lips.\n\nThe power of my craving is like an electrical surge. It's almost impossible to resist. I want to hurl myself down there and grab that water\u2014even though I know I'll get shot trying. But somehow that doesn't seem to matter as much to my zombie-brain as grabbing that water. It takes every ounce of self control I have to stop myself and curtail my biological imperative.\n\nThere's something wrong here, that voice in my head says. I look for something incongruous in the scene to confirm my analysis, and I find it. Because there's a purse on the ground, items dumped. No sign of its owner. My neck hairs raise. This isn't just a bug-out, it's a lair, and we have to stay far, far away. See, I've been to plenty of prepper conventions. There are basically two kinds of preppers. First are the ones like me and my family. We arm ourselves and stock up, but only to protect ourselves from the chaos. Then there are the ones who bring the chaos. They wait for things to fall apart. They long for the lawlessness. Feed on it. Because there's nothing more exciting for them than the moment the world becomes their own personal video game.\n\nThose are the kind who play loud music in the woods that can be heard for miles, just to see who it attracts. They are the wolves waiting to see what kind of prey comes calling. But just like their open flame, they have failed to consider the consequences. Because if it's another predator who shows up instead of prey, these two can be picked off with a couple of well-placed shots.\n\nA twig snaps, and I spin to see Alyssa coming up behind me.\n\n\"They have water!\" she whispers\u2014she's seen it, too.\n\n\"Shhh!\" I tell her, because the song is fading. We hold our silence, hold our breath until the next one starts. They didn't hear us. Dear God, I hope they didn't hear us. As the sounds of another Zep tune begin to blare, I move Alyssa farther away.\n\n\"We don't want anything to do with that water,\" I tell her.\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\nI can't take the time to explain to her now. I grasp her shoulders. I look in her bloodshot eyes. \"You have to trust me,\" I tell her.\n\nAnd she does. Reluctantly, but she does. And we return together to the truck.\n\nJacqui's kept the engine idling to keep the fan on, even though it's just blowing hot air.\n\n\"We have to get out of here,\" I tell her as we climb in. \"Don't gun the engine. Just leave as quietly as you can.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you later,\" I say, \"but we have to leave NOW.\"\n\nFor a moment, I think Jacqui might cave and accept my assessment of the situation, but Alyssa feels that she has to explain. That's not what we need in this moment. What we need is speed and stealth.\n\n\"There are a couple of guys down there. Kelton thinks they might be dangerous.\"\n\n\"Do they have water?\" Jacqui asks.\n\nAlyssa hesitates, and that tells the others all they need to know. Jacqui opens the door and gets out of the car. While I can resist my zombie urge, Jacqui's all about impulse, and I can see her turning. I get in front of her before she can make a mistake that will likely get her killed.\n\n\"We're maybe an hour away from the reservoir,\" I remind her. \"Then we'll have all the water we need.\"\n\n\"Sounds like these guys are a bird in the hand,\" Jacqui says. \"So let's make them share.\"\n\n\"Don't you get it?\" I hiss. \"They are not the sharing type, and they have guns that are bigger and badder than my Ruger!\"\n\nAnd suddenly a new voice enters the conversation. One that's been mostly quiet.\n\n\"Alyssa . . . I don't feel so good.\" Garrett stands just beside the truck. He wavers for a moment like he's on the deck of a ship weathering a storm. Then his eyes roll back, his knees give out, and he collapses.\n\nAlyssa hurries to him. I help her pick him up and put him back in the car. Henry gets out of the way so we can lie Garrett down on the back seat.\n\n\"I think it's okay,\" I tell Alyssa, who has forgotten anything else now but her brother. \"His blood pressure's probably low, and he stood up too fast, that's all. He just has to lie down for a while.\" I hope I'm right.\n\nThat's when I realize that something has changed. It takes a moment for me to realize what it is. The truck is no longer idling. The engine is off. Not only that, but the keys are gone. And so is Henry.\n\n### 43) Henry\n\nThere is no turning back, and no margin for error now. The opportunity presented itself and I took it, simple as that. Now I must follow through. Game theory suggests that success favors the decisive. Taking any action is always better than taking no action at all. So while the others argued and dealt with Garrett, I did what I had to do. Alyssa will not forgive me, I know, but I find that bothers me less than I thought it would.\n\nI follow the music, crest the ridge, and see the two men in their encampment. I hurl myself down toward them, falling to the ground and scraping my palms. I am on all fours and out of breath. They stand up and look at me, amused that I've tumbled into their presence.\n\n\"Looks like we got ourselves a lunch guest,\" one of them says, but I'm not interested in their lunch and they know it. Because my eyes are fixed on the bottle of water that one of them holds in his big, hairy hand.\n\nWhen it comes to survival, there are harsh rules that go against the niceties of gracious living. Like in an airplane when the oxygen masks drop and everything goes haywire, they always tell you to put on your own mask first before helping others. But what if there's only one mask, and you're the one who gets it first? Well, I suppose you feel bad for the others, but whatever you do, you don't give that mask away. You breathe, and you breathe deep.\n\n\"What can we do for you?\" the one holding the water asks.\n\n\"Today . . . ,\" I say, too winded to finish the thought, so I try again. \"Today is your lucky day.\"\n\nThen I stand up, force fortitude to my legs, and begin negotiations.\n\n### 44) Alyssa\n\nI stay with Garrett, not willing to leave him for a second. Kelton races off to track Henry, while Jacqui desperately tries to hotwire the truck\u2014but it's just not working.\n\n\"Old cars are easy,\" she says. \"But newer cars have a damn digital verification chip, and I don't think I can get around it!\"\n\nI know this is a terrible thing to say, even think\u2014but right now I wish Jacqui had shot Henry when she had the chance. Why would he take the keys? What was he thinking?\n\nThen the two men from the rusty bug-out come out of the woods in front of us\u2014and I know where Henry went . . . and exactly what he was thinking when he went there.\n\n\"Hey there!\" the taller of the two says. \"Having some car trouble?\"\n\nIn spite of the friendly greeting, there's nothing else friendly about them. Up close these men are intimidating, and intentionally so. They're muscular. They look like maybe they're thirty, although they're weathered in a way that makes it hard to tell for sure. The shorter one has tattoo sleeves. Not artful ones, but ugly ones. Scrawled words and symbols, and all in the same bluish black ink. The taller one has a shaved head and a scar that cuts diagonally across part of his scalp. We're always told not to judge a book by its cover, but there is nothing ambiguous about these two. Some people lack the imagination to do anything but embrace a stereotype and let it define them. These men lead violent lives, and they're happy to let the world know it.\n\n\"Easy to get lost when you're off-roading,\" the one with the shaved head says. \"Is that what you are? Lost?\"\n\nI quickly look around. Kelton isn't back from his search for Henry. It's just me, Jacqui, and Garrett, who's still unconscious in the back seat.\n\n\"We don't want any trouble . . . ,\" I say, although out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jacqui ready for all sorts of trouble.\n\n\"That's good, that's good,\" says the inked one. \"We don't want trouble either. But I'm afraid you're gonna have to step away from our property.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\" says Jacqui.\n\nThen the inked one holds up my uncle's key chain. \"We just bought it,\" he says. \"Your friend sold it to us for a nice guzzle of water.\"\n\nThe bald one laughs when he sees the look on Jacqui's and my faces. \"Yeah, we poured it right into his hands and he sucked it all down. Some of it spilled on his shoe, so he took his shoe off and licked the rubber dry. Damnedest thing. Then he took off down the mountain, one shoe on, one shoe off. Funny kid.\"\n\nAnd I think how unfair it is that of the five of us, Henry's the only one who's had water. Probably enough for him to get out of this forest alive.\n\n\"I'll ask you one more time,\" says the inked one. \"Step away from our property.\" And he pulls out a no-nonsense handgun.\n\nHe's not going to use it, I tell myself. It's to make a point. Like everything else about these two, it's meant to intimidate. But I will not give in to the intimidation.\n\n\"We're going to the San Gabriel Reservoir,\" I tell him, not moving away from the door. \"Let us get there, and then you can have the truck.\"\n\nThe inked one shakes his head. \"Already a done deal. Nothing more to talk about.\"\n\n\"Now hold on,\" says the skinhead. \"Let's not be hasty.\" And he drags his eyes across me, looking me up and down like I'm something up for auction.\n\nThat's when Jacqui makes her move. She launches herself at the inked one, trying to grab his gun, but he's quick. He uses moves on her like the ones Kelton used on Henry\u2014but this guy is stronger, faster. His moves are second nature. Jacqui doesn't stand a chance. He uses her own momentum against her, twists her around like he's leading her in a swing dance, and forces her to the ground, pulling her arm at an unnatural angle, leaving her on her knees grimacing and grunting in pain.\n\n\"Play nice, now,\" he says, and he doesn't release her arm, which keeps her incapacitated.\n\nMeanwhile, the skinhead hasn't taken his eyes off me. He moves closer. \"Sucks for you that your boyfriend sold you out to save himself.\"\n\n\"He's not my boyfriend,\" I say reflexively\u2014but I wish I had said nothing.\n\nBecause the skinhead says, \"Even better,\" and he keeps moving closer.\n\nI try to knee him in the groin, and he reacts by lurching forward, pressing up against me, pushing me back against the side of the car, and leaving my knee no leverage.\n\n\"We could share our water with you, if you'd act a little more civilized. . . .\"\n\nBut by the way he's pressing up against me, I know his idea of civil is not the same as mine. I can smell his breath now. Cigarettes and Doritos. I don't think I'll eat Doritos again for the rest of my life. I try to struggle, but I'm so weak from dehydration now, it's useless. I've never felt this helpless, and it's an awful, awful feeling. Because I realize he can do anything he wants to me now, and I'm not going to be able to stop him.\n\n\"Don't you worry your pretty little head,\" he tells me quietly. \"We'll go back to our camp, and it's all gonna be okay.\"\n\nThen suddenly Garrett's there, jumping out of the car, and grabbing at him.\n\n\"Get away from my sister!\"\n\nHe bites the arm that's holding me\u2014and this burst of energy that Garrett has must give him superhuman strength, because it's like the bite of a shark, leaving a bloody, gaping wound.\n\nThe skinhead screams in pain and pushes Garrett to the ground. I try to use the moment to break free, but he's got me wedged so tightly, I still can't move.\n\n\"You little shit, what did you do?\"\n\nThen the inked one looks at the blood pouring from his buddy's arm, and he turns, pointing his gun right at Garrett.\n\n\"Nooo!\" I yell\u2014\n\nAnd the world ends with a gunshot.\n\n### 45) Jacqui\n\nI see what's happening. I see all of it, and I can't stop it. I can't even get up, because the goddamn tattooed bastard twists my arm whenever I try to move. All I can do is curse at him and threaten what I'll do to him when I'm free.\n\nI see the other one advance on Alyssa. I see her try to stop him. I don't hear what he whispers to her, but it can't be good. Then Garrett sits up in the car, finally conscious, with no idea what's going on\u2014and seeing his sister cornered by the skinhead, he leaps right into the middle of a situation that's only going to get worse.\n\nThe skinhead is screaming from one hell of a bite, and the inked asshole, almost like it's a reflex, aims the gun at Garrett like he's about to shoot a rat that wandered into their camp. And in spite of the pain I tug my body around, screaming, because if I can throw this guy off balance, his shot will go wild.\n\nA gunshot goes off, and suddenly his knees give out, and he goes down, and there's blood on his face\u2014and there's blood on Garrett's face too, but Garrett isn't dead. And I realize that the blood on Garrett's face, dripping from his mouth, is from the bite he gave the skinhead. But the inked asshole's blood is his own. He's on the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead just above his left eye. He shudders once, then goes limp.\n\nAnd Kelton stands ten yards away, arm extended, his gun at the end of it.\n\nThe other man freezes up, shocked. \"Jesus H. Chr\u2014\"\n\nBut he never completes the invocation of his lord and savior, because Kelton shifts his arm, fires again, and the bullet hits the skinhead in that space just beneath his nose. The exit wound splatters blood all over Alyssa's face. She's already screaming, so she just continues. I don't think she has any idea yet what's going on. All she probably sees in her mind is her brother dead on the ground, because that reality seemed so big a moment ago, it persists even after reality shifted elsewhere. If she lives through all of this, she's probably going to have nightmares about that moment that never happened for the rest of her life.\n\nThe skinhead crumbles. I get to my feet, and Alyssa finally finds her way back to the real world. She steps over the dead skinhead and goes straight to Garrett.\n\n\"Are you okay? Are you okay?\" She wipes the blood from his mouth, reconfirming that it's not his.\n\nHe nods. And she hugs him in a way that sisters never hug brothers, except when they're almost shot in the head.\n\nI go over to Kelton, who still holds the gun, eyes on the two men like they might still be alive, maybe because they kept their brains in their asses. Finally he lowers the gun. I think he might start shaking, or break down in some way, but he doesn't. Not at all. I hate the fact that he had to save us\u2014but the situation could just as easily have been reversed, with me being the one to save the day. And as much as I hate to admit it, Kelton\u2014who has actual training with weapons\u2014is probably a much better shot than I am.\n\nKelton takes a deep breath, and then another. \"Get the car keys, and get their guns,\" he says calmly. \"Then we'll go to their camp and get their water.\"\n\n\"Good thinking,\" I say, noting how different this kid is now than the Kelton I met at the beach. I'm not sure which one I dislike less\u2014the goofy loser who can't fire a weapon, or the kid who can kill two men in cold blood and not break a sweat.\n\nWell, none of us are sweating anymore. And we're not second- guessing each other either. We're finally in that single-minded place where we do what we have to do, whatever it is.\n\nTurns out only the inked one was armed. Kelton takes the gun and looks it over. \"Desert Eagle with a muzzle brake,\" he says. \"Much better than mine.\" He claims it, and offers me his gun. I hesitate, because I don't want it anymore.\n\n\"I'll take it,\" says Alyssa. She still has blood splattered on her face. I decide not to mention it.\n\n\"You sure?\" Kelton asks.\n\nShe nods. \"No one's ever going to put me in a position like that again.\"\n\n\"What about Henry?\" I ask.\n\nKelton looks at his big, shiny new gun and shrugs. \"I'll save a bullet for him,\" he says.\n\nAnd for the life of me I can't tell if he really means it.\n\n### 46) Alyssa\n\nIf I think too much right now, I'll lose my mind. There are two dead bodies in front of me. Can't think about it. My brother was almost murdered. Can't think about it. My parents might be floating facedown in the Pacific Ocean. Can't think about it.\n\nWhat I can think about is the water that I know is just up the ridge and down by an old rusty camper.\n\n\"Alyssa . . . ,\" Garrett says, just as he said before he lost consciousness before, \"I don't feel so good.\"\n\n\"We're getting water,\" I tell him. \"It'll be okay.\"\n\n\"But . . . but I can't get up. I can't move.\"\n\nHis voice is even weaker than before, and I think back to what Kelton said last night. How right before you die, your body will fight it. You'll have a burst of energy\u2014the body's last attempt to save itself.\n\nAnd it dawns on me that Garrett just had that burst of energy. Which means he could be only minutes away from closing his eyes forever.\n\n\"We have to hurry!\" I say to the others, not sparing another thought for the dead men. I pick up Garrett in my arms, and although I barely have the strength to hold up my own weight, I bear his as well, as we make our way toward the campsite.\n\n### 47) Kelton\n\nIt was different than I thought it would be. I expected it to feel monumental. Like ripping a hole in the universe. But it wasn't.\n\nPop! Pop!\n\nSimple as that. Now two men are dead, and we're alive. I wasn't angry, like I was back in our house when I almost turned a shotgun on our marauding neighbors. I wasn't scared, like I was when the water-zombie kid on the beach was trying to suck the water right out of Alyssa's mouth. Pop! Pop! Done. Move on.\n\nLike I said, these guys were feeding on the chaos, living by video game rules. And in a game, when you defeat an enemy, what do you do? You take their weapons. Which is exactly what I did. Is that why I don't feel anything? Because I'm living by those rules now, too?\n\nWe reach the top of the ridge and look down on the campsite, to see that the campfire, without anyone to watch it, has gotten out of control. The brush is burning. The two lawn chairs are burning.\n\nAnd the fire has reached the cooler beside them.\n\nIt's burning, giving off a rancid chemical smell. The lid is open, and I can see splashes as the water bottles inside begin to burst. \"Oh no!\" Alyssa puts Garret down. \"Don't move! I'll be right back!\"\n\nAlyssa, Jacqui, and I race down, trying to get to the water, but the fire is too hot.\n\n\"God damn it!\" Jacqui tries to reach through the flames, but screams, curling her hands. She's burned herself. Still, she reaches in again. The second time must be so painful that she backs away, wailing, in pain. \"No!\" she screams. \"It's not fair! It's not fair!\"\n\n\"Look for something we can use to pull the cooler out of the flames!\" I say.\n\nBut Alyssa's looking toward the camper. \"This might not be all the water they have,\" she says. \"I'll check inside.\"\n\nShe runs around the growing fire to the camper. The wind is blowing in that direction. It's only a matter of time until that's on fire, too.\n\n\"Okay, but hurry,\" I yell after her. And I begin searching for a branch large enough to reach into the flames and pull out the burning cooler.\n\n### 48) Alyssa\n\nI throw open the door of the camper. It doesn't smell good in here. I didn't expect it to. It doesn't look all that different from Kelton's bug-out on the inside. Food containers and dirty clothes. And something I wasn't expecting at all.\n\n\"Benji, is that you?\"\n\nI follow the voice to the trailer's bedroom. There's a woman in there. Old. Sick. A floral print housedress. Fuzzy pink slippers. She regards me with suspicion, pulling the covers over her.\n\n\"Who are you? Where's Benji? Where's Kyle?\"\n\n\"They . . . they sent me in,\" I tell her. \"They sent me in for the water.\"\n\nHer suspicion grows. \"They got all the water already in the cooler! Who are you?\" she asks again.\n\nI look around the room, refusing to believe there's no water left in here. She sees what I'm doing, and she realizes that her suspicions are justified. She begins to look a little bit scared.\n\n\"They didn't send you! Get out of here! You're trespassing! Get out of here now!\"\n\nI know she doesn't have a weapon of her own, because if she did, she'd have already reached for it. I have one, though. But I won't threaten an old woman with a gun. That's not who I am.\n\nMy eyes scan everywhere, and I see things I don't want to see. Because on a counter by the bed, she has set up a miniature version of what must sit on her mantle at home, wherever that is. There are pictures there. Two boys. Different ages. One grabs my attention. A faded picture of the same two boys in Mickey Mouse hats, making faces at the camera. And I realize. Benji and Kyle. They were brothers. I don't want to know this. I don't want to know that they ever wore Mickey Mouse hats. I don't want to know that someone has pictures of them on her bedside table. One of those little boys was going to shoot Garrett. The other one was going to rape me. Wasn't he? Wasn't he?\n\n\"Is that smoke?\" the old woman says. \"What's going on out there!\"\n\n\"You can't stay here,\" I say. \"You can come with us.\" And the second I say it, I realize that if she does, she's going to see her two dead sons lying in front of the truck.\n\n\"I'm not going anywhere!\" she says, not grasping the bigger picture. \"Do I look like I'm up for a hike?\" She purses her lips and shakes her head. \"You better get out of here before they come back. Nothing they hate more than trespassers.\"\n\nAnd then I see it! A plastic cup of water on a window ledge, just out of the woman's reach. She sees that I see it. She gauges me, it's a standoff . . . and she lunges for it.\n\nI lunge too, but she gets it first. She clutches it to her chest, and I grab for it.\n\n\"It's mine!\" she says. \"This is my water, not yours!\"\n\nThe water sloshes in the cup as I try to grab it from her, spilling over the edge. I can't grapple for it, because if I do it will all spill out.\n\n\"Benji! Kyle! Help!\"\n\nI grab her hand, trying to stop the water from splashing. She takes her other hand and tries to push me away. Then she moves the cup toward her lips. I know this is all the water she has. All the water that's left. If I take it, this woman will die. If I don't take it, my brother will die.\n\nSo I do something terrible.\n\nI slap her. I slap her hard. It makes her lose her focus, and I'm able to slip the cup from her hand. More water spills over the side. There's not much left now\u2014an ounce, maybe two\u2014not enough to quench anyone's thirst, but maybe enough to keep my brother alive.\n\nI back away from her. \"The fire's almost at the door,\" I tell her. \"You need to get out of here.\"\n\nBut even if she does, what good will it do? She's out in the middle of nowhere, alone. If the fire doesn't get her, she'll die of thirst out here. But still, I turn my back on her and leave. Because I have made my choice. If she has to die for my brother to live, then I will take her water and leave her to die. Henry was right. Sometimes it's the monsters who survive. And now I am the monster.\n\n### 49) Jacqui\n\nMy hands! My hands! How stupid could I be! My hands. And still, I want to push my arms through the flames to that cooler that burns there in the middle of hell. My fingers and palms are already swelling with blisters, the pain resolving into a dull throbbing.\n\nKelton returns with a branch and pokes it toward the cooler. He hooks the end around the lip. My hands! My hands! He pulls on the stick, and the cooler moves half an inch. He pulls again. It slips another half inch closer. He tugs harder\u2014and the whole side, half-molten, rips open, spilling water into the fire.\n\n\"No!\"\n\nThe water steams, and as the steam clears, I can see the few remaining water bottles at the bottom of the ruptured cooler melt, spilling the contents out pointlessly. Uselessly. It does nothing to quell the fire, because the flames just close in and the remaining sides of the cooler collapse. It's gone. All gone. And when I look up, I can see how far the fire has spread. The winds are fanning it. One more fire to add to the ones that are already blazing in the mountains around us.\n\nAlyssa bursts out of the trailer, leaping over the flames that are about to engulf it. She's holding something. What is that? Is that a cup? She holds it like it's something precious. And it is.\n\nI could take it from her. I could catch up with her and take it. And drink it. Quench this thirst that burns even more than my hands.\n\nBut I won't.\n\nBecause I know that water's not for her.\n\nI won't take it. Because even though I've seen everyone around me lose their humanity today, I realize that in this moment, I have finally found mine.\n\n### 50) Alyssa\n\nGarrett is exactly where I left him\u2014on the ridge above the burning campsite, leaning against a tree. His head is lolling to one side. His eyes are slits. He might already be dead. I can't see him breathing. He might already be dead!\n\n\"Garrett! Garrett, I'm here.\"\n\nI kneel beside him. I lift the cup to his lips. I pour a little in. What if he doesn't swallow? What if he can't swallow? Because he's already dead?\n\nWater dribbles out of the side of his mouth. I was too slow! I should have pulled out the gun and shot that woman the second I saw the cup of water. That's what I should have done! It would have saved me ten seconds. Ten seconds that would have saved my brother's life. Swallow, Garrett! Dammit, swallow!\n\nThen he coughs. He coughs! His eyes open the tiniest bit wider.\n\n\"It's water, Garrett!\" I tell him. \"Swallow it!\"\n\n\"I'm trying,\" he rasps. \"It's hard.\"\n\nHe closes his eyes. He forces a swallow. I pour a little more in his mouth. He swallows again. I pour all the rest in. It's easier for him to swallow the third time. He doesn't look any better. He's not any stronger. But I know that water is in there. Water absorbs into the body faster than anything. It will be gone from his stomach in minutes\u2014even faster when he's this dehydrated. His body will suck it in like a sponge.\n\n\"Is that all you've got?\" he asks, and I actually laugh.\n\n\"There'll be more,\" I tell him.\n\nOnly now do I look back down to the campsite. Jacqui and Kelton are climbing away from it toward me. The fire has already spread to the trees at an alarming rate.\n\n\"Did the old woman get out of the camper?\" I ask them, now that my tight sphere of concern can extend beyond my brother.\n\nKelton looks at Jacqui then back at me. \"There was an old woman in the camper?\"\n\nI look down to the campsite again. The trailer and the brush all around it are fully engulfed in flames. The door is still open, the way I left it. I hear no screams. But what could I do about them, even if I did? The path to the camper is completely blocked by the fire.\n\n\"We've got to move,\" Kelton says.\n\nSo I bend down, pick up Garrett, and go back to the truck, trying to forget I ever saw this place. But that's not going to be easy.\n\n### 51) Kelton\n\nJacqui can't drive. Her hands are swollen like balloons. She tries to touch the steering wheel and wails in anguish. Between Alyssa and me, I am the lesser of two evils behind the wheel. She doesn't have her learner's permit yet, but I do. In spite of my father's insistence that I need to earn the right to drive, he's taken me to empty parking lots. According to him, I've totaled about twenty imaginary cars while trying to navigate those lots. Good thing all I have to worry about now are trees.\n\nI put the car in gear, with Alyssa beside me\u2014she can work the four-wheel-drive stick, while I put all of my attention into the normal driving part.\n\nWe lurch and grind gears. We scrape trees. We bounce violently over rocks. Jacqui curses each time she reflexively uses her hands to brace herself. I catch Garrett in the rearview mirror. He doesn't look as terrible as he did before. He just looks bad. Like the rest of us.\n\nI'm tired now. My lungs burn from the smoke I inhaled at the campsite. Carbon monoxide. It bonds to your red blood cells like oxygen, but unlike oxygen, it doesn't let your blood cells go. They become useless. That's why people die from smoke inhalation. They don't have enough red blood cells left to carry oxygen to the brain. I'm still conscious, so I know however much I breathed in, it's not enough to kill me. But there's plenty of other things lining up to kill me right now. Including my own driving.\n\nIt's so hard to keep my eyes open. But I have to.\n\nWe come over another ridge and start down a slope. But this slope is steeper than any of the others. I should have been looking at the topography map! I should have known this.\n\n\"Careful, Kelton!\" Alyssa says.\n\nI hit the brakes, and we start to skid. We're at a steep downward grade now. Maybe thirty degrees. The wheels barely find traction. The brakes are useless. Nothing's going to slow our descent. I just have to somehow keep us from hitting trees and boulders.\n\n\"Kelton!\" yells Jacqui. \"You're losing it!\"\n\nAs if I didn't already know. I turn the wheel right. We sideswipe a tree. A sharp turn left. We bounce over a boulder so big, I hear it scrape on our underbelly. And as bad as I thought the grade already was, it gets steeper. There's nothing I can do now. Gravity has taken over. I grip the wheel, brace myself.\n\nA loud bang. A flash of white.\n\nA pain in my gut and chest, like I got kicked in the stomach.\n\nI gasp, can't get enough air. Maybe the carbon monoxide got me after all.\n\nNo, the wind is knocked out of me, that's all. And the airbags have deployed. And we're not moving anymore.\n\n\"Is everyone okay?\" I hear Alyssa say.\n\n\"No,\" says Jacqui, which is her way of saying yes. Garrett just groans and tells me I suck at driving.\n\nI kick open the door. Immediately I smell gasoline. \"Careful,\" I tell everyone. \"I think we ruptured the gas tank.\"\n\nWe're on a road now. Narrow, poorly maintained, but it's a road!\n\n\"This must be East Fork Road!\"\n\nAt least that's something. I walk around the truck, but it's barely walking. My feet are dragging. Everything hurts. My head feels like it's going to crack in half like an egg. I want to lie down so badly. So badly. Just for a minute. But I don't. Because I know that feeling. I know what that feeling means.\n\nThe truck is done. It looks like it's been through a demolition derby. One wheel is flat, another one is turned completely sideways.\n\n\"The reservoir is about a mile that way,\" I say, pointing west. \"We'll have to walk the rest of the way.\"\n\n\"I think I can make it,\" says Garrett, the only one who's had any water in two days, but Alyssa and Jacqui look at me like I just pronounced a death sentence.\n\nJacqui shakes her head. \"I don't know if I have a mile left in me, Kelton.\"\n\n\"Don't think about it,\" Alyssa says. \"We just walk, and keep on walking. Even after we feel like we can't, we just keep on walking.\"\n\nSo we stop talking, and we start walking. West. And I find myself taking the lead.\n\nBecause I have a sudden burst of energy.\n\n### 52) Alyssa\n\nWalking. Walking. One foot. Then the next. Then the next.\n\nI am not alive. I am not dead. I am something in between. Shuffle. Shuffle. Step. Step. How far is a mile? How many steps? It doesn't matter. I can't count. My higher brain functions have mostly shut down. I think about nothing but the water up ahead. I allow it to pull my feet forward. Step. Step. Shuffle. Shuffle.\n\nAnd the others are the same. Kelton is a few feet ahead of us, but I can see the way his feet move, that it's not a normal gait. It's the same dragging shuffle as the rest of us. For a few minutes it looked like he had his second wind, but he's slowing down.\n\nI think we're water-zombies now.\n\nSmoke pours through the trees, creating a haze in front of us. I start to cough.\n\n\"How much farther?\" I ask. It barely comes out. It doesn't sound like my voice.\n\nNo one answers me. My guess is that there's maybe only a quarter mile to go . . .\n\n. . . but the smoke gets denser. Less than a minute later, I see flames up ahead.\n\nIs this from the campsite fire, or is it another fire? I don't know why it matters, but somehow it does. Like the flames are driven by the angry spirits of Benji and Kyle and their invalid mother.\n\nThe fire has already leaped to the other side of the road. Now this narrow road looks like the black tongue of a great beast of fire about to swallow us. Which is worse, I wonder, death by fire, or death by thirst? How can you choose the lesser of two evils, when both evils are too great to measure?\n\n\"We can't get through,\" says Kelton. \"We'll go north, back into the forest, to the right of us.\"\n\n\"That's away from the water,\" Jacqui says.\n\n\"And from the fire,\" Kelton responds. \"We'll go around it, and reach the reservoir from the north.\"\n\nBut getting around the fire means adding at least another half mile to the journey.\n\n\"We're almost there!\" says Jacqui. \"I can see the water!\"\n\nI think that must be a hallucination, because when I look into the furnace of the road up ahead, all I see is smoke and flames.\n\n\"I think I can make it,\" says Jacqui.\n\n\"You can't,\" I tell her. I know it's not what she wants to hear, but you can't fight a wildfire with willpower. You can't intimidate flames.\n\nThen behind us, I hear an explosion. A mushroom cloud of black smoke billows into the sky.\n\n\"The truck . . . ,\" says Kelton. There was gasoline pouring from it when we left it. If the fire has crept in behind us and ignited the gas, then we're cut off. There's nowhere for us to go now but up the slope to the right of us. North, around the flames.\n\n\"There's water just ahead,\" Jacqui insists. \"I know there is. I saw it.\" She looks to the flames sweeping from tree to tree. \"You can't outrun this. The only way to that water is forward.\" Then she looks at her swollen, red hands. \"What's a little fire, anyway?\"\n\nShe holds eye contact with me just for a moment . . . and I know that she's going to make a run for it. She will either reach the water, or the flames will consume her. Either way, this may be the last we will see of each other. I want to say something, but I don't know what to say. Good luck sounds so trite and pointless in the face of this. I guess she feels the same way, because she just nods\u2014an acceptance of all things not said\u2014then turns and shuffles down the road. A few more steps and she lifts her feet instead of shuffling. Then she's running. She's actually running! And the last we see of her is her back as she disappears into the smoke.\n\n\"Alyssa, come on,\" says Garrett.\n\n\"We should have stopped her. . . .\"\n\n\"We couldn't,\" Kelton says. And I know he's right. All we have are bad choices left to us now. Jacqui made her bad choice. Now we have to make ours. I look to the north. The hillside is steep. I have no strength to climb it . . . but I will. Somehow I will.\n\n### 53) Jacqui\n\nThe heat teases my cheeks. It has the power to singe, to sear, to incinerate, but it holds back. Now it just teases. Tickles. It plays with me.\n\nThe slope changes. The road now heads downhill, and I keep my legs moving because I know that water is just at the base. The others were too short-sighted to see it; they were looking at the fire, but not through it. It blinded them. And now I'll be the one to get the first sip. Hell, they'll be lucky if I don't swallow the whole reservoir by the time they make it there. If they make it there. I may be the only one, because I was the only one willing to challenge the fire.\n\nI will not look behind me: All that's there is dead forest and smoke. Now the heat pulses around me. Or it's just my heartbeat, but it feels like the relentless churning of a living furnace. A god of fire that must be fed.\n\nI trip on a branch and take a nasty fall. The branch is on fire. It has fallen from a tree that's burning above. The tops of the trees around me are all burning, and through the smoke to my left and right, I see walls of flames surging forward, igniting bark on every trunk. The air is cooler down low, but only slightly. The smoke burns my lungs a little less. I pick myself up and run, but stay as crouched as I can so I'm halfway in the better air.\n\nNow my entire body throbs. The heat is done playing, and although the flames still aren't on me, that doesn't matter. I can broil just as quickly as I can burn. So I move faster to beat the pain.\n\nThe wind whips in every direction, sparks helixing all around me, and that's when I hear it\u2014\n\n. . . Jacqui . . . Jacqui . . .\n\nIt's the gust at my back whispering my name, the burning breeze at my cheeks. The same wind I've always felt my entire life\u2014the Call of the Void\u2014but now it surges not just before me but all around me with self-satisfied omnipotence.\n\nAnd for the first time, it actually scares me.\n\nI've let the void taunt me and tempt me all my life. I will not let it take me. Finally, with all that is left in me, I will fight back against it!\n\nThe flames are now surging across the road, completely blocking my path. Every tree is ablaze\u2014but just beyond the sheet of flames, I see something sparkling\u2014twinkling\u2014in the firelight.\n\nThe reservoir!\n\nSalvation beyond a veil of hell.\n\nThey call that purgatory. I can accept purgatory if heaven is beyond it.\n\n. . . Jacqui . . .\n\nThe pain is beyond imagining now, but still I run. I can't keep my eyes open\u2014so I clamp them shut, and when I do, I find myself staring directly into the void. I am barreling through white flame and absolute darkness, the nexus between life and death. The void is beginning to take my body, and I know exactly what comes next. It wants my soul.\n\nBut it won't get that without a fight.\n\nI don't slow down. I don't accept the pain. I crash through the burning void toward the waters of heaven.\n\n### 54) Alyssa\n\nThe fire chases us uphill. Every time I look back, no matter how far we've climbed, the fire is no farther away. But it's no closer to us either. It's matching our pace\u2014which means we can't slow down, not for an instant, because if we do, it will overtake us.\n\nThere's a wind now, but it's not coming from behind us. It's blowing against us from the top of the hill.\n\nThe fire's pulling down air, I think. Sucking it in, to feed it.\n\nI immediately get a vision of the beach. How the incoming waves create an undertow, drawing back the water from the shore. We are caught in that undertow now with a massive wave behind us surging forward, and the image is so powerful, and my mind so weakened, I get muddled. The popping sound of boiling sap and the throaty breath of flames blends together into a deep roar that sounds just as ominous as a storm-torn sea, and I think for a moment that I am there at the shore, running from an all-consuming tsunami. It's only when I look at my brother climbing two paces ahead of me that I remember what we're doing and where we are. But I wish it were water chasing us. Even saltwater. If I were at the shore now, I would drink it until it killed me. Like any other water-zombie.\n\nWhen we began up the hill, the three of us were side by side, but Garrett, the last one to have water, has pulled a few yards ahead, and now Kelton has lagged behind.\n\n\"When we're . . . when we're at . . . at the top,\" Kelton wheezes between labored breaths and coughs, \"we'll . . . we'll turn left . . . cut across to the . . . to the . . .\" He can't find the word. \". . . to the . . .\"\n\n\"Reservoir,\" I finish for him.\n\n\"C'mon!\" Garrett yells. He's even farther ahead now, frustrated that we're not keeping up with him. \"We're almost there.\"\n\nBut the top of the hill looks like miles and miles to me. I turn to see that Kelton has fallen even farther behind. He leans on a stump now, trying to catch his breath, embers from the fire falling around him like flaming confetti.\n\n\"Kelton!\"\n\n\"Just a . . . just a . . .\"\n\nI make my way back to him, halving the distance between me and the fire.\n\n\"Just a . . . just a . . . sec.\"\n\nIt's so hot here, it feels as if my clothes will ignite. It feels like my dry skin will spontaneously combust.\n\n\"Little rest . . . ,\" says Kelton. \"Just a . . . just a . . .\"\n\n\"No!\" I yell. The mention of the word \"rest\" makes my knees want to fold. It sounds so, so good. The roar of the waves. Rest. Toes in the cool cool sand. \"No!\"\n\nI grab Kelton and practically hurl him over the stump.\n\n\"I gotta . . . I gotta . . . ,\" he mutters.\n\n\"You gotta MOVE!\" I help him off the ground and start his momentum. He has not come this far, and seen the things he's seen happen to his family, just to falter in these last moments and die.\n\nAnd somehow, putting Kelton at the center of my effort helps me overcome my own desire to drop where I stand.\n\nWe continue upward, and I realize that this is my burst of energy. The last one I'll have before there's nothing left to give. I hope Kelton appreciates that I used it on him.\n\nI can't see Garrett anymore. He's far above us, but I hear him calling my name, and I focus in on that . . . until Kelton's legs give out on him again. He's not just leaning and heaving to catch his breath this time. He's on the ground, flat. He can't even push himself up.\n\n\"S . . . safe room,\" he says. \"Get to . . . get to the safe room.\"\n\nHe's delirious, and there's nothing I can do about that. The thirst has started to shut down his brain. There's only one thing I can think to do. One thing that might get his lifeless legs moving again.\n\n\"I'm not letting you stay here!\" I scream at him. \"Which means if you don't get your ass up that hill, I die, too. Is that what you want? You want me to die because of YOU?\"\n\nHis rheumy eyes meet mine. An ember falls beside him, setting the dry grass on fire. He pushes himself up on all fours. He scrambles forward. It worked! Putting me at the forefront of his thoughts drew out what little energy he had left, just as when I had focused on helping him\u2014and I realize that this is the true core of human nature: When we've lost the strength to save ourselves, we somehow find the strength to save each other.\n\nWe finally, finally reach the crest of the hill. I find it hard to believe I'm still alive. I don't feel it. I feel like I died a hundred yards downhill, and now my spirit is trapped here, doomed to haunt this place, reliving the climb, and the thirst, and the flames for all eternity.\n\nGarrett stands on a flat boulder, still out of breath, looking west. I join him. From this high vantage point, we can see the reservoir! It's maybe only a quarter mile below us! Kelton was right! He was right!\n\n. . . But the fire has snuck in, insidious, determined. It now rages at full force between us and the reservoir. How could the water be so close, and us still be unable to reach it?\n\n\"North!\" I say. \"Around it!\" The words barely come out. My tongue is a piece of leather in my mouth, my vocal cords brittle paper. We can still head north and get past the fire. Climbing the hill was the hard part\u2014downhill will be easier, won't it? We can still loop around the fire and double back to the reservoir.\n\nBut then I look to Kelton. He's lying facedown in the dust.\n\n\"No!\"\n\nI make my way to him. I roll him over. I can't hear him breathing over the roar of the approaching flames. So I force his eyes open, as if seeing his eyes will mean that he sees mine.\n\n\"Kelton! Wake up!\"\n\nFinally, he begins mumbling, but it's not words, it's just guttural sounds, faint clicks and hisses. His eyes roll into his head, and I know that he's just a few minutes away from dying. And I know that I can't stop it. And I know that Garrett and I can't carry him, no matter how hard we try.\n\n\"Alyssa . . . ?\"\n\nI turn to Garrett, who has taken a few steps down the other side of the hill. North. The direction we have to go if we want to live. But when I join him there, I see what he sees, and it makes everything as clear as the water we can't get to.\n\nThere isn't a slope on that side of the hill.\n\nThere's a cliff.\n\nA sheer drop\u2014at least fifty feet. There's no way down but the way we came. Which means we're cornered.\n\nGarrett looks at me with such despair, it nearly overwhelms me. I see him begin to sway and waver. His shoulders go a little limp. Whatever energy he had left has been stolen from him by this revelation. I quickly grab him and pull him back from the ledge before he can swoon off the cliff, and I hold him tight.\n\n\"It's going to be okay,\" I tell him.\n\n\"No it's not,\" he says weakly. \"You know it's not.\"\n\nI do know. But I won't confess it. Not to him. Instead, I lead him back to the flat boulder. It looks like an altar. A place where our hope was sacrificed. Garrett turns away from me, brings his knees to his chest, pulling himself into a ball. He looks toward the reservoir and the water we almost reached. That's the image he wants to hold in his mind now. Not his life, not our family. The memory of water.\n\nThe sound of the approaching fire is deafening now. The sky above us darkens with smoke, like night falling early.\n\nSuddenly I know what I have to do.\n\nI've heard that the worst way to die is by fire. I will not go that way if I don't have to. And I will not let my brother be burned alive.\n\nSo I pull out the gun that has been shoved uncomfortably in my waist ever since Kelton gave it to me. I almost wanted to leave it in the truck. I almost chucked it when we started up the hill, because it was so cumbersome. But something told me not to. Never in my life have I been so horrified, and yet so happy to be holding a loaded gun. I hide it so Garrett doesn't see, and he lets me put my other arm around him. He leans in to me. He sobs, but no tears come out.\n\n\"I want to go home,\" Garrett says. \"I want it to be last week.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" I tell him. Was it only just a week ago?\n\nDownhill, a burning tree falls with an explosion of embers that sail skyward, over our heads. Seeds to spread the fire elsewhere. I bring the gun to Garrett's head, but not close enough to touch, because I don't want him to know.\n\n\"I love you, Garrett,\" I tell him, and he echoes it back. It's the thing brothers and sisters never say to each other until they find themselves in a moment where nothing else can possibly be said. Then I grip the trigger, feeling the gun's weight. But I hesitate . . . and hesitate some more . . . and then Garrett says, in the faintest of whispers:\n\n\"Do it, Alyssa.\"\n\nHe doesn't look at me. He doesn't want to see the gun or me. So I press the muzzle against that space between his ear and his eye, where the hair is short and soft.\n\n\"Do it. Please . . .\"\n\nI will be strong, if not for me, then for Garrett. I will save him from the flames. And then I will save Kelton. And then I will save myself.\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT: LOS ANGELES FIRE DEPARTMENT BOMBARDIER 415\n\nThe water bomber glides just meters above the lake. Like a pelican, it swoops down gently, slicing the tips of little wakes until its open bill is fully submerged, scooping nearly a thousand gallons\u2014all within seconds. The pilot and his seabird have made this trip countless times in these last couple of days. He was given direct orders by his tactical supervisor to fill up at the San Gabriel Reservoir and make water drops on the fires between here and Lake Arrowhead, twenty miles east. The blazes that block the path to Big Bear Lake have already claimed countless lives. He can't do anything about that, but at least with the fires threatening the road to Arrowhead, he can make a difference.\n\nThe pilot pitches the nose of the seabird up from the reservoir basin and together they soar. He gapes at the fires surrounding the reservoir, surprised they've grown this far. Sometimes when a brushfire grows out of control, fire authorities set a backfire\u2014a controlled burn\u2014that hedges the amount of destruction a wildfire may cause. But this fire doesn't seem to be one of those, he notes, getting closer. This is the real thing. But he's only here for the water. They'll set another battalion to work here. Right now it's a lower priority. His drop point is much farther east.\n\nPutting out these fires is beginning to feel like a never-ending game of whack-a-mole. Or at least that's how he tries to see it\u2014it's easier that way.\n\nEvery time he makes a trip to refill from the reservoir, he has to fly past an overcrowded evacuation center. Each time he sees all of those people there, fenced in and helpless, he's had half a mind to just drop the entire payload of water on them. But that's an inefficient use of resources. He can save more lives by dousing fires. So he's been choosing to fly a little higher above that evac center. High enough that the people look like ants. It's an attempt to set a backfire to his own empathy\u2014whatever it takes to prevent his conscience from burning him alive.\n\nBut now, as he leaves the reservoir, he sees something odd. It looks like there's someone running through the fire!\n\nThe plane had just done a steep climb from the reservoir basin\u2014maybe it's just his imagination or a head rush from the climb. But just to be sure, the pilot banks left, doubling back to get a better look.\n\nAnd sure enough, someone is sprinting through the flames.\n\nA girl.\n\nWhat is she doing out here? What possessed her to challenge a forest fire?\n\nThen his eyes are drawn to the top of a bluff, where he sees others. They're trapped against the edge of a cliff, the fire burning toward them.\n\nHe weighs his options. He reaches deep. This is not his drop zone. His orders are very specific. Yet even though he's already begun his ascent, he realizes he can't just let this go. He's flown too low to jettison his humanity.\n\n* * *\n\n### 55) Alyssa\n\nMy finger is firmly curled on the trigger, when the deafening wail of the flames gives way to a scream. No, not a scream. Something else.\n\nI know that sound.\n\nIt grows into an earsplitting mechanical resonance that changes pitch as a shadow passes overhead.\n\nThen suddenly the billowing smoke is shredded by something cold and wet.\n\nIt falls upon us in a single massive deluge that only lasts for a couple of seconds, but it's enough to drench us, to soak the ground, and to wound the fire.\n\nI hurl the gun to the ground. Instantly it has become my enemy. I lick my hands, I lick my arms, I bunch my hair, pull it around and suck on it.\n\nWater!\n\nIt tastes of ash, but I don't care. I swallow. My throat screams in pain, but I swallow again and again.\n\nGarrett is on his knees licking the boulder, catching tiny rivulets that course down its side\u2014and then I see that there are dips and indentations on the surface of the flat stone. Spots where the water has pooled!\n\nI push my face into one of the shallow basins so hard, I nearly break my nose. I draw the water in. Then I realize there's something I've forgotten. Someone. I tear myself away to look at Kelton. He hasn't moved. His sneakers are still smoking\u2014the flames had been that close to him\u2014but now the fire has retreated about a dozen feet. White steam now belches forth, blending with the black smoke as the fire licks its wounds.\n\nI dip my hands into one of the indentations in the rock, scooping up water, but I barely get any; the pool is not deep enough. Still, I try to carry what I have to Kelton, but it dribbles through my fingers and is gone by the time I reach him. I can't bring it to him this way. I must find another way.\n\nWhen the answer comes, I almost laugh at myself at how simple it is\u2014and yet a week ago, I would never have considered such a thing. The box I lived in was simply too small to think that far out if it.\n\nI go back to the boulder and once again push my face down into the largest pool, sucking in a mouthful of water. But as much as my body wants me to swallow, I don't. I hold it. And I hurry to Kelton.\n\nI get down on my knees, leaning over him. I pull his mouth open with one hand, and press my lips against his. Then I force the water out, into his mouth, giving him a different kind of resuscitation. I pull my mouth away, push his jaw closed, and wait.\n\nNothing.\n\nAnd nothing.\n\nAnd then a gargle and a cough! Water shoots up out of his mouth like a fountain, but I put my hand over his mouth, and force it closed. Let him gag! Let him choke! But let him swallow!\n\nHe writhes weakly, gagging on the water, forcing it out of his lungs, and with nowhere else to go, it pools in his throat again\u2014and I see his Adam's apple go up and go down. He's swallowed.\n\nI run back to the boulder, draw in all the rest of the water that's pooled there, and go back to Kelton again. His eyes are slightly open\u2014he's faintly aware. Once more I press my mouth to his and force the water out. This time he brings his hand up, gently holding my shoulder. I feel him actively sucking the water from me, and I let him, until I can feel him swallow, then I let him go and lean back to catch my breath.\n\nHe looks at me, still only halfway conscious. The moment is ripe for some sly remark, but we're both beyond that kind of thing now.\n\n\"Rain?\" he asks.\n\n\"Plane,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Hmm. Even better.\" Then he rolls over on his side, coughing, but that's fine. He can cough as much as he wants now!\n\nI look to the fire that still rages, but for the moment is at bay. Garrett now lies face up and sprawled out on the boulder, looking to the hazy blue sky. We could die happy now, our thirst finally quenched. But maybe we won't be dying today.\n\nKelton sits up. He's sucking on his sleeve, getting all the water he can from it, and I decide to do the same to my sleeve.\n\nMeanwhile, I watch as the plane returns to the lake, skimming water from its surface, filling up for a second run.\n\n## PART SIX\n\n## A NEW NORMAL\n* * *\n\n### SNAPSHOT: DISNEYLAND, 8:57 A.M., SATURDAY, JUNE 25TH\n\nMain Street has been washed clean of wildfire ash, the Haunted Mansion has been cleared of vagrants, and the green phalluses spray-painted on the beloved character mural have been scrubbed off.\n\nIt's been almost two weeks since the Tap-Out officially ended, and it's taken that long to get things up and running again\u2014not just here, but all over Southern California. But the Magic Kingdom is at the forefront of the effort to restore life as we knew it.\n\nWith so many \"cast members\" not returning, there are a lot of new hirees\u2014including an eighteen-year-old ticket taker at the front gate whose mother forced him to take a summer job. The recent catastrophe cost the family a fortune in insurance deductibles. Everyone is expected to contribute.\n\n\"It will be fun,\" she said.\n\nBut it hasn't been. Instead, it's kind of been like finding out that the Tooth Fairy doesn't exist, or catching Santa smoking cigarettes in the Macy's parking lot. Perhaps it's because the entire park has looked practically post-apocalyptic. No character costumes, no electrical parade, no jazz band in New Orleans Square. And no guests. This has been the longest closure since the park was built. There was simply too much damage to repair, too much infrastructure to rebuild. Not just here, but everywhere. There was looting here, but not as much as one might think. People didn't care about clothing, or technology. There was only one thing they were looking for. Food concessions were torn apart searching for that one thing. The one remaining water feature in the park\u2014a fountain in Tomorrowland\u2014had become a Mecca for lost souls, who drank the chlorinated water until it was gone. The spin doctors in the corporate offices are planning to rebrand it the Fountain of Life.\n\nThe big news being pushed is that nobody died in the park. That's saying a lot. There's probably no other geographic area as large that can make that claim.\n\nTons of people are being heralded as heroes all over Southern California. Like the power plant manager who quelled a riot in Huntington Beach, and the mysterious good Samaritan in Tustin who saved a whole bunch of people at a nursing home, then disappeared. The ticket taker would like to say he himself was a hero, but he didn't do much of anything beyond survive. That was hard enough.\n\n8:58 a.m.\n\nHe stands at his spot at the turnstiles, counting down the minutes until Disneyland opens up again, marking the first official day of normalcy. On the other side of the Emerald Gates, the lines wind out of sight, and he realizes why people are here. Why they need to be here.\n\nMore than two hundred thousand souls perished during humanity's hiatus. The highest fatality count from any non-war event in the history of the nation. Yet even that number somehow feels remarkably low, and the fact that it isn't higher is a miracle\u2014or at least, that's what people have been reaching for. The silver lining. Why else would so many need to be in the one place where magic still exists? Where hope is eternal? Where dreams never die?\n\nThe clock strikes nine.\n\nThe music fades in, right on cue\u2014enchanting the crowd\u2014and then the sparkling Emerald Gates open, welcoming humanity back to the Happiest Place on Earth.\n\n* * *\n\n### 56) Alyssa\n\nSoapy sponge, wet washcloth, dry towel, repeat.\n\nA pounding at the bathroom door.\n\n\"Alyssa, come on already!\" says Garrett. \"I gotta take a dump!\"\n\nSoapy sponge, wet washcloth, dry towel, repeat.\n\n\"Use the downstairs bathroom!\"\n\n\"I can't! Dad's in there!\"\n\nThe sponge, the washcloth, the towel. One arm, one leg at a time. I will get clean. It will just take a little effort.\n\nGarrett pounds again. \"What are you even doing in there?\"\n\n\"I'm taking a shower.\"\n\n\"I don't hear the shower running.\"\n\n\"Then you're deaf.\"\n\nHe's not deaf. The shower is not on. But there's a sponge for soaping, a washcloth for rinsing, and a towel for drying. I stand in the shower and reach over to the sink, which is half filled with warm water, like a basin in the days before homes had running water. With the water heater finally replaced, we don't have to boil water to warm it anymore. And with our neighborhood's water turned on for two days a week, it means we can shower. I know that. But I just can't do it. I can't bring myself to spray my body and watch it flow down the drain. Maybe another day. But not today. Today it's a sponge, a washcloth, and a towel. I'm happy with that. More than happy, I'm satisfied.\n\n\"We'll be leaving soon,\" I call out to Garrett. \"Are you ready to go?\"\n\n\"I'm ready to use the bathroom!\"\n\nThe crisis officially ended two weeks ago\u2014just a day after Kelton, Garrett, and I were air-lifted out of the forest and dropped off at Lake Arrowhead, where the entire community had become one massive evacuation center. But only for the people who managed to get there, which wasn't easy. We were treated for smoke inhalation. My lungs hurt for a week. They're better now.\n\nI dry my hair, put on a robe, and let Garrett into the bathroom, where he starts taking care of business even before I completely vacate. Typical. And yet nothing feels typical anymore. There's a new \"normal,\" because our lives are punctuated by weird air pockets of the surreal.\n\nLike when we went back to Costco. The shelves were restocked as if nothing ever happened, with a stupid sign out front that said YES, WE HAVE WATER!\n\nBut even though the store is the same, people are not. Since the return of life as we knew it, I've found there are four kinds of people now, all easy to spot\u2014especially in the aisles of Costco.\n\nThere are the oblivious ones, who go about their lives like the Tap-Out was a dream that waking life has completely washed away. Maybe they got out before it got bad, or maybe they just exist in a constant state of denial. I find them hard to relate to. It's like talking to aliens pretending to be human.\n\nThen there are the ones like us, who lived through it and are still facing the PTSD of it all. They linger in the aisles, marveling at the sheer magnitude of products and the organization it took to get it all here, no longer taking anything for granted, and guarding their carts as if their lives depended on it.\n\nThen there are the fulfilled ones. The people who found something in themselves they didn't know was there. Heroes in the rough. Now they talk to strangers, look for opportunities to help. They've discovered they can truly be of use, and don't want that to stop just because the crisis is over. I admire them. The Tap-Out left them with a calling they didn't have before.\n\nAnd finally there are the shadows. These are ones who move through the aisles silently, avoiding eye contact, afraid at every step that someone will recognize them and accuse them of whatever horrible, unspeakable thing they did to survive. The ones who can't look at others because they can't face themselves.\n\nIt's the same at school. We all went back a couple of days ago. Even though school would have ended by now, they have to finish the year. \"Healthy closure,\" they said. Because a water-zombie apocalypse is not truly over until kids go back to school.\n\nThree teachers had perished\u2014two beloved, the third not so much, but everyone cried for him, even so. Thirty-eight students were lost\u2014including the school's star running back and the girl voted Most Likely to Succeed. But those weren't the only empty chairs. There were dozens upon dozens who simply hadn't come back, and might never come back. My friend Sof\u00eda, for one. Who knows if I'll ever see her again.\n\nAnd the shadows were there, too. Kids who are wraiths of their former selves. Hali Hartling, for instance\u2014who kicked hard, lived large, and was always at the top of the social pyramid. Now she moves quietly through the hallways, and I suspect has completely lost her edge on the soccer field. I suppose I could have become a shadow, because I did plenty of things I am not proud of, but I made the choice to wear it not as a brand of shame, but as a badge of honor. If I'm scarred, then they're war wounds, and I will not cower from them.\n\nWhen it comes down to it, there's nothing \"normal\" about our new environment, and I wonder if life will ever be the same. Will we ever be able to put the past behind us? Will the shadows find redemption? Will all the fulfilled heroes go back to their less altruistic selves? And will I ever stop having nightmares about my parents?\n\nIt doesn't help that the truth was almost as awful as a night terror.\n\nMom got knocked out during the riot at the beach. She collapsed, out cold against the hot sand. The crowd was savage. She was trampled, three of her ribs were broken. Her left lung was punctured, and she suffered a grade three concussion. She was lucky that there were still paramedics around to bring her to a hospital, or else she would have died.\n\nDad was arrested because he was fighting to get to Mom, and it got bundled with all the rest of the violent behavior of the mob.\n\nTurns out they both ended up in the perfect places. The hospital was a high-priority location, so it got the first water deliveries, and county jail, being a government facility, never had its water shut off like all the municipal water districts had. Funny that jail was one of the safest places to be. It was hard on Dad, though\u2014not knowing what happened to us, or to Mom, not to mention whatever craziness went on in there. He won't talk about it. I don't blame him.\n\nThey both got home before we did, and suffered their own hell waiting to find out what had become of us. But we finally got in touch with them, and they met us where the buses bringing people back from Arrowhead dropped everyone off.\n\nIt's a moment I replay over and over again in my mind, although the memory registers more viscerally than visually. The feeling of the memory. Maybe because my eyes were too blurred by tears to see much of anything. The feeling of home in the smell of my mother's shirt as I cried into her shoulder. The sense of safety brought by the touch of my father's hand when he rubbed my back to comfort me, just as he did when I was little. The blanket of comfort that was carried by their voices\u2014voices I thought I might never hear again. We all just stood there in a parking lot\u2014I don't even remember where\u2014holding each other until nearly everyone else had left. I wasn't even embarrassed. I could have stood there and held them till the end of time.\n\nUncle Basil's back with us, too. Alive and well, just as we told ourselves he would be. We're determined to start calling him Uncle Herb more, although he has his own ideas about that.\n\n\"Call me Uncle Sage,\" he told us, \"because I feel a whole lot wiser than before.\"\n\nI'm sorry to say that Daphne didn't make it. He still tears up when he talks about it. I really think they loved each other. But our uncle, who had been wallowing in his misfortune for so long after losing his farm up north, isn't wallowing anymore. He's found a second wind in life, selling, of all things, \u00c1guaViva. He's even doing a commercial for them. \u00c1guaViva saved my life. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade.\n\nI join my mom in the living room to watch the news. It's a press conference. It seems every five minutes there's another press conference.\n\n\"The governor of Arizona just resigned,\" Mom tells me. No surprise there. Everyone who had a part in shutting off the flow of the Colorado River into California is facing criminal prosecution. Officials are being indicted on everything from criminal negligence to conspiracy to commit murder.\n\n\"And,\" Mom says, \"they finally found the good Samaritan who saved all those people in that nursing home.\"\n\n\"There were lots of good Samaritans,\" I point out, thinking of the Water Angel, and the pilot who dropped water on our fire, and that rabbi and the priest who both led thousands of people on a pilgrimage to the promised land of Big Bear Lake just before fires closed in behind them, blocking the way for others.\n\n\"Yes, well, there can never be too many good-deed-doers,\" Mom says.\n\nI glance at her to see that she's taken the bandage off her forehead. Seven stitches. They don't look as bad as I thought they would.\n\nAt the sound of running water, I glance into the kitchen. Garrett has come downstairs and is filling Kingston's water bowl. He does this every day now\u2014something he never did when Kingston was actually here. Now he sets it outside every morning with food. Some days he goes off alone, riding his bike in the hills, looking for our dog.\n\n\"He'll come back,\" Garrett says. \"When he thinks it's safe, he'll come back.\"\n\nI want to believe that. I want to believe that maybe someone else found him and has given him a new home. Dad offered to get us a new dog. \"A rescue,\" he said. \"Maybe a dog whose owner died in the Tap-Out, and needs a family like ours.\"\n\nBut Garrett won't have it. As if taking in a new dog is some sort of admission that Kingston's gone for good.\n\nAfter Garrett fills up the bowl, he turns off the water. But then turns it on again, watching the faucet, watching the water flow down the drain. Then he turns it off. Then turns it on. Then turns it off, then on, over and over. I should be mad that he's wasting water\u2014after all, we still have all the same restrictions as before. No watering lawns. No frivolous use. But I'm not mad at Garrett, because I know this is not about him intentionally wasting water. It's that he's mesmerized by it. Not by the water itself, but by the sheer power to be able to make it flow, and make it stop with the simple flick of the wrist.\n\nHe catches me watching him and looks away, a bit red-faced, caught in his private, guilty moment.\n\n\"Ready to go?\" I ask him.\n\n\"I've thought about it,\" Garrett says, \"and I decided I'm not gonna go.\"\n\n\"You sure?\" I ask him. \"You might regret it later.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I might,\" he admits, \"but I'm sure.\"\n\nHe leaves so he doesn't have to talk about it anymore. I'm not going to pressure him. If he doesn't want to come, he doesn't have to. So it will just be me and Kelton.\n\nAnd a few minutes later, Kelton arrives, barging in unannounced, which has become a fairly normal occurrence. He's actually been crashing on the couch here some nights. He's got his reasons, and they're all good ones. I don't mind him around.\n\n\"Turn on the TV!\" Kelton insists.\n\n\"Already on,\" I point out.\n\n\"You've gotta see this!\" He grabs the remote and switches around until he lands on a different news station . . . and on the screen is a face I thought I'd never see again.\n\nWe're looking at none other than Henry Not-Roycroft, being interviewed by a reporter. Henry, larger than life on my TV. I always thought \"jaw dropping\" was figurative\u2014but my jaw actually does drop.\n\n\"Oh, look,\" says my mom, \"this is what I was talking about\u2014that's the good Samaritan.\"\n\nThe caption reads Henry Groyne.\n\n\"Groyne? His last name is Groyne?\"\n\nHenry speaks proudly. \"I just did what anyone would do.\"\n\n\"Not everyone would run into a burning building with nothing but a towel over his head to rescue people,\" says the reporter.\n\n\"That was in Tustin!\" I yell at the TV. \"He was nowhere near Tustin!\"\n\n\"Shush!\" Mom says. \"I want to hear this.\"\n\nOn screen Henry shrugs, like he hasn't just taken credit for something he couldn't possibly have done. \"In this life, you see what must be accomplished, weigh your options, and then embrace the opportunity.\"\n\n\"But why did you wait so long to come forward?\"\n\n\"It's not about me. It's about the people I saved.\"\n\n\"You've got to be kidding me!\" I shout.\n\n\"It gets worse,\" says Kelton, who must have already seen this on another station.\n\nNow the report cuts back to the studio, where the anchor smiles for the camera and says, \"Henry is an eighth grader at Access Alternative Middle School, proving that you're never too young to be a hero!\"\n\n\"What? He's a WHAT? He's in eighth grade?\"\n\n\"He does look a bit old for his age, though,\" Mom says, cheerfully oblivious.\n\nThere isn't even a word for how utterly speechless I feel. \"He said he was driving since he was thirteen. . . .\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" says Kelton, \"which was, like, three months ago.\"\n\nMy mom looks at us as if we just arrived from Mars. \"What are you two talking about?\"\n\nAnd since neither of us wants to spiral down the rabbit hole of this particular madness, we excuse ourselves and go outside.\n\nKelton and I grumble and moan about it, trying to filter our whole experience with Henry through this new lens, and decide it's not worth it. So we end up laughing about it, and choose to move on.\n\nAnd pretty soon, Kelton will be moving on too, one way or another. There's a big FOR SALE sign on Kelton's lawn\u2014a lawn that you can actually see now, since the security gate was rammed down during the not-so-neighborly neighbor attack.\n\n\"How are things?\" I ask him. I know it's a loaded question.\n\n\"Good,\" Kelton says. \"I'm breathing. That's a thing. And it's good.\" There's a silence that lingers between us, but it means something now. What, I'm not sure.\n\nKelton's parents are splitting up. He says it was inevitable. He almost seems relieved. His mom already moved out and took an apartment a few miles away.\n\n\"My mom wants me to live with her,\" Kelton tells me.\n\n\"Do you want to?\"\n\n\"Well, it's either that or go with my dad to live with his sister in Idaho.\"\n\n\"The one with all the cats?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" He looks off toward his house. I can't imagine what it must be like staying there now. How could you cook in that kitchen with the memory of what happened there? How could you sit at that table? It makes sense that they're selling\u2014although I don't know how much luck they'll have. Too many homes have FOR SALE signs now.\n\n\"My dad got rid of all the guns,\" Kelton tells me. \"He didn't sell them\u2014he destroyed them. Every last one. Part of his way of mourning Brady, I guess. I don't think he'll touch one for the rest of his life.\"\n\nI think to my own brief ballistic history, right after those men attacked us in the woods\u2014how I took Kelton's pistol, and how I was fully prepared to use it. How I almost did use it to end our lives. I don't even know what happened to the gun after that. I hope it was destroyed, too.\n\n\"Anyway, I'll stay with my dad until he heads to Idaho,\" Kelton tells me. \"He kind of needs me more than my mom does right now. It might not look it, but my mom's the strong one.\"\n\nI nod. \"I get that.\"\n\nWe sit down on my lawn, looking across the street at the Kiblers, who are \"supervising\" their kids as they play maim-the-sibling or some similar game in the street. Kelton and I will be leaving in about twenty minutes, when my dad gets back, because he's driving us\u2014but knowing him, he'll be late, what with all the new business. Before the Tap-Out, he was struggling, but now the insurance biz has seen a fresh surge. Suddenly everyone wants disaster insurance. Go figure.\n\n\"We're not making money off of people's misfortunes,\" my father is constantly reminding himself, and us. \"We're protecting people from future misfortunes.\"\n\nAs we wait on my lawn\u2014which is still brown, and will never be spray-painted green\u2014Kelton turns to me and asks me a question.\n\n\"So, like, what are we?\" he asks.\n\nI shrug. \"Survivors,\" I tell him.\n\n\"No, I mean what are we to each other?\"\n\n\"Oh, that.\"\n\nThis feels like it should be an awkward conversation, and yet it's not awkward at all\u2014which makes me realize exactly what we are to each other.\n\n\"We're old friends who've known each other for, like, a hundred years,\" I tell him. \"It's just that ninety-five of them happened in one week.\"\n\nKelton smiles. \"I like that.\"\n\nBut then his smile fades. His eyes seem to be looking far off, past the Kiblers' feral children. Past our neighborhood entirely. His eyes become moist.\n\n\"I killed people, Alyssa. . . .\"\n\nI've been waiting for him to say something about that. Waiting for two weeks. I'm glad he finally said it, so I can tell him what I've wanted to all this time. \"You did what you had to do, and that's all. We all did what we had to do, and that's the end of it. Besides, the forest burned, Kelton. There's nothing left, so no one's ever going to know.\"\n\n\"But I know.\"\n\n\"So do I . . . and you know what? I forgive you.\" Then I add, \"I forgive you for that more than I forgive you for the thing with the drone.\"\n\nThat makes him smile again. \"Your priorities are way out of whack, Miss Morrow.\"\n\nI lean over sideways and bump his shoulder. He bumps me back. Then he looks at me for a moment, pondering. Considering.\n\n\"Three years from now,\" he says, \"when you break up with your first college boyfriend, you'll call me and I'll stay up all night talking you through it.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" I admit. And then I say, \"Seven years from now, when your first computer start-up company goes belly up, we'll go out that night. I'll make you laugh, and keep you from getting too drunk, and convince you to get to work on your second tech start-up.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" he admits. \"And twelve years from now, you'll call to tell me that you want me to be the godfather to your first kid.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" I concede. \"And twenty years from now, we'll all go on vacation together, and our spouses, or whatever, will get jealous that we're spending too much time talking to each other, and they'll run off together.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" he concludes. \"And thirty years from now, when you're running for reelection, and I've made my third fortune, I'll take you dancing, and it'll be all over the tabloids.\" And then he adds, \"Of course, they'll be holographic by then.\"\n\nI have to laugh. \"Of course they will.\"\n\nHe smiles at me. \"And then maybe we can ask again, what we are to each other?\"\n\nI hold out my hand to shake. \"It's a date.\"\n\nBut instead of shaking it, he takes my hand and kisses it, like someone who is actually charming. And I think, Yeah, he might get to charming one of these days.\n\n\"Wow,\" he says. \"I finally have a date with Alyssa Morrow. I can die happy.\"\n\nWe both laugh, and it feels comfortable. It feels real. And it makes me feel a little sad that we might not get to dance together for thirty years.\n\nDad pulls up, amazingly, on time.\n\n\"You both ready to go?\" he asks.\n\n\"Never been more ready,\" I tell him.\n\nYou see, just yesterday when I got home from school, my mom looked at me strangely\u2014which she's been doing a lot of lately\u2014but this time there was a clear reason. \"I just got the oddest call,\" Mom said. \"There's this girl at a burn unit way out at Foothill Hospital . . . and the weird thing is . . . she gave your name as her emergency contact. I think they might have the wrong Alyssa Morrow.\"\n\nI know for a fact that there are five Alyssa Morrows in California. I know for a fact that they found the right one. And it doesn't surprise me that Jacqui kicked the fire's ass.\n\nKelton opens the car door for me, but trips on the curb as he does\u2014which is perfect. In fact, I'd have it no other way. We get in and set out on our familiar, unfamiliar street and head off into a world where fresh roots are already growing deep in the fertile ruins of what used to be.\n\nWasn't it Jacqui who told us the human body is sixty percent water? Well, now I know what the rest is. The rest is dust, the rest is ash, it's sorrow and it's grief. . . . But above all that, in spite of all that, binding us together . . . is hope. And joy. And a wellspring of all the things that still might be.\nMore from the Authors\n\n---  \n  |\n\nThe Toll | Thunderhead\n\n  |\n\nScythe | UnBound\n\n  |\n\nChasing Forgiveness | Violent Ends\n\n## ABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nNEAL SHUSTERMAN is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty award-winning books for children, teens, and adults, including the Unwind dystology, the Skinjacker trilogy, Downsiders, and Challenger Deep, which won the National Book Award. Scythe, the first book in his Arc of a Scythe series, is a Michael L. Printz Honor Book. He also writes screenplays for motion pictures and television shows. The father of four children, Neal lives in California. Visit him at storyman.com and Facebook.com/NealShusterman.\n\nJARROD SHUSTERMAN is the author of the short story \"UnDevoured\" in bestselling Unbound. He writes for film and television, and his talents extend to directing films and commercials. He was the story producer on the television movie Zedd: Moment of Clarity, and he and Neal Shusterman are adapting Dry for the screen. Jarrod lives in Los Angeles but enjoys traveling internationally, and is currently studying Spanish. He can be found on Instagram @JarrodShusterman.\n\nVisit us at simonandschuster.com/teen\n\nAuthors.SimonandSchuster.com/Neal-Shusterman\n\nAuthors.SimonandSchuster.com/Jarrod-Shusterman\n\nSimon & Schuster Books for Young Readers\n\nSimon & Schuster, New York\nAlso by Neal Shusterman\n\nNovels\n\nBruiser\n\nChallenger Deep\n\nChasing Forgiveness\n\nThe Dark Side of Nowhere\n\nDissidents\n\nDownsiders\n\nThe Eyes of Kid Midas\n\nFull Tilt\n\nThe Shadow Club\n\nThe Shadow Club Rising\n\nSpeeding Bullet\n\nThe Arc of a Scythe Trilogy\n\nScythe\n\nThunderhead\n\nThe Accelerati Series\n\n(with Eric Elfman)\n\nTesla's Attic\n\nEdison's Alley\n\nHawking's Hallway\n\nThe Antsy Bonano Series\n\nThe Schwa Was Here\n\nAntsy Does Time\n\nShip Out of Luck\n\nThe Unwind Dystology\n\nUnwind\n\nUnWholly\n\nUnSouled\n\nUnDivided\n\nUnBound\n\nThe Skinjacker Trilogy\n\nEverlost\n\nEverwild\n\nEverfound\n\nThe Star Shards Chronicles\n\nScorpion Shards\n\nThief of Souls\n\nShattered Sky\n\nThe Dark Fusion Series\n\nDreadlocks\n\nRed Rider's Hood\n\nDuckling Ugly\n\nStory Collections\n\nDarkness Creeping\n\nKid Heroes\n\nMindQuakes\n\nMindStorms\n\nMindTwisters\n\nMindBenders\n\nAn imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division\n\n1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020\n\nwww.SimonandSchuster.com\n\nThis book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.\n\nText copyright \u00a9 2018 by Neal Shusterman and Jarrod Shusterman\n\nJacket illustration copyright \u00a9 2018 by Jay Shaw\n\nAll rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.\n\n  is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.\n\nFor information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com.\n\nThe Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.\n\nJacket design by Chlo\u00eb Foglia\n\nInterior design by Hilary Zarycky\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nNames: Shusterman, Neal, author. | Shusterman, Jarrod, author.\n\nTitle: Dry / Neal Shusterman and Jarrod Shusterman.\n\nDescription: First edition. | New York, New York : Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2018. | Summary: A lengthy California drought escalates to catastrophic proportions, turning Alyssa's quiet suburban street into a war zone, and she is forced to make impossible choices if she and her brother are to survive.\n\nIdentifiers: LCCN 2018008928| ISBN 9781481481960 (hardback) | ISBN 9781481481984 (eBook)\n\nSubjects: | CYAC: Droughts\u2014Fiction. | Survival\u2014Fiction. | Brothers and sisters\u2014Fiction. | Conduct of life\u2014Fiction. | California\u2014Fiction.\n\nClassification: LCC PZ7.S55987 Ds 2018 | DDC [Fic]\u2014dc23\n\nLC record available at <https://lccn.loc.gov/2018008928>\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "2004 Paco Underhill - Call of the Mall - The Geography of Shopping_Rzl"}, "text": "\n##  \n\n## Also by Paco Underhill\n\nWhy We Buy: The Science of Shopping\n\n##\n\nSIMON & SCHUSTER\n\nRockefeller Center\n\n1230 Avenue of the Americas\n\nNew York, NY 10020\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2004 by YOBOW, INC.\n\nAll rights reserved,  \nincluding the right of reproduction  \nin whole or in part in any form.\n\nSIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks  \nof Simon & Schuster, Inc.\n\nDesigned by Leslie Phillips\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA\n\nUnderhill, Paco.\n\nCall of the mall / Paco Underhill.\n\np. cm.\n\n1. Shopping malls\u2014United States. 2. Consumption (Economics)\u2014United States.\n\n3. Consumers\u2014United States\u2014Attitudes. I. Title.\n\nHF5430.3.U53 2004\n\n306.3'0973\u2014dc22 2003064960\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-7432-5829-6  \nISBN-10: 0-7432-5829-0\n\nVisit us on the World Wide Web:  \nwww.SimonSays.com\nGeneration 3 at Envirosell has been a good one.\n\nJenny Bonilla\n\nBob Bowman\n\nRobyn Cushing\n\nDiana Dawson\n\nKerry Elsasser\n\nGustavo Gomez\n\nDave Guerdette\n\nDelise Dupont Jackson\n\nMark Pingol\n\nHillary Ross\n\nAdrienne Sforza\n\nJennifer Vondrak\n\n## Contents\n\nPrologue\n\nIntroduction\n\n1 America Shops\n\n2 You Are Here\n\n3 A Mouse Hole\n\n4 Dude, Where's My Car?\n\n5 Why Malls Fear Freedom\n\n6 I Brake for Meanderthals\n\n7 Nose and Toes\n\n8 Sex and the Mall\n\n9 The Charmin Challenge\n\n10 Status Anxiety and Back Pockets\n\n11 Fun\n\n12 Hands-Free Shopping\n\n13 Pushcarts Rule\n\n14 Mall Cuisine\n\n15 Breakfast at Cartier\n\n16 A Man and His Mall\n\n17 Who Is Your Dad?\n\n18 Malls of the World\n\n19 Where the Girls Are\n\n20 The Mall Touch\n\n21 Short Hills or Seoul?\n\n22 Other Venues\n\n23 Scenes from a Mall\n\n24 The Postmall World\n\nEndcap\n\nAcknowledgments\n\n##  \n## Prologue\n\nWHY ARE we here?\n\nWe're here to buy stuff.\n\nWe're here because we're bored.\n\nWe're here because tomorrow's Mother's Day.\n\nWe're here for the new Avril Lavigne CD.\n\nWe're here for emancipation.\n\nWe're here for lip gloss.\n\nWe're here because our mom made us come.\n\nWe're looking for sheets and towels.\n\nWe're looking for sex and love.\n\nWe're looking for self-esteem.\n\nWe're looking for jeans that fit.\n\nWe're here for our first business suit.\n\nWe're here because our daughter made us come.\n\nWe're here for a nice afternoon with the grandkids.\n\nWe're here for the food court.\n\nWe're here for the video arcade.\n\nWe're here for the movies.\n\nWe're here because it's pouring.\n\nWe're here to buy sneakers.\n\nWe're here because tomorrow's our anniversary.\n\nWe're here because he needs underwear.\n\nWe're here because she needs underwear.\n\nWe're here because everybody needs underwear.\n\nWe're here because there's nothing on TV.\n\nWe're here because it's fun!\n\nWe're here because our wife made us come.\n\nWe're here for no reason whatsoever.\n\nWe're looking for boys.\n\nWe're looking for girls.\n\nWe're looking for work.\n\nWe're looking to shoplift.\n\nWe're here because we love the mall!\n\nWe're here because everybody else is.\n\nWe're here because Christmas is coming.\n\nWe're here because Hanukkah is coming.\n\nWe're here because Kwanzaa is coming.\n\nWe don't know why we're here.\n\nWe're here to find...something.\n\nWe're here because we're here.\n\n## Introduction\n\nARE WE really going to spend an entire book inside a mall?\n\nYes, we are.\n\nIt's not as though studying people as they congregate to buy and sell things is a totally frivolous or small-minded endeavor. Consider the history of our species, a fair swath of which has been propelled by merchants or their emissaries traveling to the far reaches of the planet, sometimes at great risk, in order to bring back stuff to peddle to the rest of us. As any schoolchild can testify, the romance of the ancient world teems with spice routes and trade winds and trafficking in silks and precious metals, frankincense and myrrh, gunpowder and fur. Theoretically, we could all grow our own food and make our own clothes and build our own houses. But it would be boring. So let's agree that the saga of humankind can be told at least in part through the story of shopping.\n\nSurely, then, you'll concur that the sites of so much significant social activity might be worth a look now and then? We tend to think of the mall as a recent, primarily American phenomenon, and a rather banal one at that, born of demographic convenience\u2014we all bought cars and moved to the 'burbs\u2014rather than any profound change in who or what we are. But the mall has been with us always, under other names and in somewhat different forms. Virtually since the dawn of civilization, we have organized our world in part around the function of shopping. Even the simplest agrarian societies needed places to assemble to trade in goods, and from that basic impulse came everything else\u2014marketplaces, villages, towns, cities. The mall is, at heart, just an ancient organizing principle that hasn't yet outlived its usefulness. Perhaps it never will.\n\nBut it's also easy to forget how recent the enclosed regional shopping mall is, maybe because it has so quickly become such a mainstay of American life. The first one popped up (in Edina, Minnesota) a mere seven decades ago, and now malls are the dominant arena of American shopping, which is itself an economic force the likes of which the world has never known. Without even meaning to, the mall has transformed our country, and not always for the good. For one thing, it drew shoppers away from vulnerable towns and big cities, and when that happened, decline usually set in. But there's no guarantee that malls will be with us forever. In fact, some evidence points to just the opposite outcome.\n\nWhat's that, you say? You're okay with shopping but not with the mall? A common condition. Many otherwise fair-minded, intelligent people scorn and despise malls. Some still end up shopping in them on a regular basis. But they're not proud of it. You of this opinion may not be swayed by arguments of how the mall is a contemporary version of the souks, bazaars, arcades, bourses, and markets of olden days. But by studying the mall and what goes on there, we can learn quite a lot about ourselves\u2014about the state of the nation and its inhabitants\u2014from a variety of perspectives: economic, aesthetic, geographic, spiritual, emotional, psychological, sartorial.\n\nI might agree with those who say that some of the adventure and romance associated with trading has been lost along the way. Somehow, the glorious history of commerce has culminated in a sanitized architectural clich\u00e8 in which you typically find not exquisite treasures and exotic wares but rather eighty different styles of sneaker or sixteen varieties of chocolate chip cookie. No wonder we look at the mall\u2014at the ambition of it, at the reality, at that already obese teenager stuffing her jaw with a drooling Cinnabon\u2014and we can't help but wonder: Is this the best we could do?\n\nIt's no surprise that the mall is such an easy target for American self-loathing in particular. It's a lot like television in that way: another totally fake environment that attempts to pass itself off as a true reflection of who we are and what we want. We disdain it, and yet we can't stop watching. Or shopping. Once in a while, TV fulfills its highest calling\u2014when a man first lands on the moon, say, or during the Watergate hearings. But most of the time it contents itself with reruns of Three's Company and infomercials for the home rotisserie.\n\nIt's the same with the mall. It could be much better\u2014more vivid, intelligent, adventurous, entertaining, imaginative, alive with the human quest for art and beauty and truth. But it's not.\n\nIt's the mall.\n\n## 1 America Shops\n\nWE'RE DRIVING toward the mall.\n\nI spend a lot of time in malls. Too much, I think. I daydream of life on a ranch out west where I'd go to Wal-Mart every two weeks for groceries, and that would be it for me and shopping.\n\nIt will never happen.\n\nYou are riding with a tall, bald, stuttering research wonk on the cusp of his fifty-third year. I am called a retail anthropologist, which makes me uncomfortable, especially around my colleagues still in academia who have many more degrees than I do. For whatever combination of reasons, I've spent my adult life studying people shopping. I watch how they move through stores and other commercial environments\u2014restaurants, banks, fast-food joints, movie theaters, car dealerships, the post office, concert halls. Even in church, I study people. It is an odd skill, not one I would have sought. Yet I am good at it, and it pays the bills. I can't imagine not doing it.\n\nI am definitely not a shopper. I don't own lots of stuff. When I do buy, in spite of whatever professional knowledge I have, I perform like an ordinary guy.\n\nI own a research and consulting business called Envirosell. We work with merchants, marketers, and retail bankers around the world. Our specialty is looking at the interaction between people and products, and people and spaces. We look at all the ways in which retailers, product manufacturers, bankers, restaurateurs, and commercial and other public spaces either meet (or fail to meet) their customers' needs. It is a niche business, but it's our niche. We've been doing it for almost twenty years.\n\nOur home office is in a funky landmark building, a former hotel, in New York City, in the middle of what was the department store district at the turn of the nineteenth century. We have an old-fashioned manual elevator run by a guy named Billy. The company occupies the hotel's second-floor lobby. I sit in the old manager's office, which has a gas fireplace I have never used. My south-facing windows look out onto what was once a Lord & Taylor store. It's now a shop that sells fancy dishes. We also have offices in Milan, S\u00e3o Paolo, Mexico City, Tokyo, Moscow, and Istanbul.\n\nWe have done hundreds of research jobs in mall stores. There are only six states of the fifty where we haven't worked a mall (the Dakotas, Alaska, Montana, Wyoming, and Louisiana). I average 130 days a year away from home, nearly all of which are spent in retail settings. I have been inside about three hundred North American malls, and some in other countries\u2014Canada, Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, the United Arab Emirates, Italy, France, Spain, Holland, Germany, Sweden, Finland, Britain, Norway, Portugal, Turkey, Australia, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Hong Kong; the list goes on and on. If someone mentions a mall somewhere in the United States\u2014the Galleria in Houston, say, or the Del Amo in L.A.\u2014I can picture the place, whether I want to or not. There are more than one hundred American malls to which I could give you accurate driving directions off the top of my head. I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed.\n\nOkay, look around.\n\nWe're getting close to the mall, but you'd never know it. There are no directional signs anywhere on this highway, as there might be if we were headed toward Disney World or New York City or some other destination. The mall itself isn't a looming, dominating presence, even on this flat suburban landscape. We're just about to pass the only marker, a smallish road sign directing us to our exit, but beyond that there's nothing to steer us toward the mall, no attempt to inspire an impulse purchase, no billboard aimed at the road-weary traveler with an hour or two to kill. A mall is a huge commercial entity, but it tends to appeal strictly to the local shopper, the one who is already familiar with it and what it has to offer.\n\nIt's our mall. Maybe you have a mall, too.\n\nYou see a lot of a community's life in its mall. Families especially tend not to be on display in very many public spaces nowadays. You can find people in places of worship, but they tend to be on their best behavior, and they're mostly just standing or sitting. Increasingly, cities are becoming the province of the rich, the childless, or the poor. I love cities. But America hasn't lived there for a long time. The retail arena is still the best place I know for seeing what people wear and eat and look like, how they interact with their parents and friends and lovers and kids. If you really want to observe entire middle-class multigenerational American families, you have to go to the mall.\n\nIt's also not a bad place to shop.\n\nA French historian I like named Daniel Roche wrote a book called A History of Everyday Things. In it, he examines and reconstructs the lives not of kings, queens, and generals but of ordinary French people in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries\u2014what they ate, what they wore, what they knew, and how they acquired what knowledge and possessions they had. In the spirit of Daniel Roche, this book is not about the official history of shopping malls and the tycoons who build and manage them. This is about malls, stores, and parking lots as experienced by us consumers.\n\nStudying shopping provides the rhythm that governs my life\u2014pack, leave home, fly somewhere, pick up a rental car, check into a hotel, then drive to a mall or store. For myself and my colleagues, it's a life of science and research, except instead of going to an excavation site in Peru, we end up at Tyson's Corner, a mall outside Washington, D.C. It's an unusual way to make a living, and an even odder way of experiencing and understanding a time and place.\n\nOn the other hand, I never run out of socks.\n\nThe job has become a habit. If I have two hours to kill before a flight out of Dallas, I'll visit the Irving Mall or Outdoor World on my way to the airport. I don't know what I expect to find; but like any research geek, I'm constantly on the lookout for something I haven't seen before\u2014some innovation in digital signage, or a new sneaker style, or an interesting way to manage the line at the cash register. If I'm on vacation and get bored with the beach, I'll find the nearest mall and spend an afternoon there. It's not such a weird thing to do. If I said I enjoy a stroll along Madison Avenue in Manhattan, where Armani and Calvin and Donna Karan sit cheek by jowl, you'd understand. Doing it at the Beverly Center in Los Angeles or Bluewater outside London isn't so different.\n\nI remember the first big research project my company landed, studying AT&T stores in two suburban Chicago malls. Back then it was just me and a few freelance researchers out in the field. Over a four-month period, we studied several incarnations of the same basic store, which meant I practically lived in those malls. I'd arrive at the telephone store and arrange the time-lapse cameras to watch how shoppers interacted with the merchandise and displays. The film cassettes had to be changed every two hours, so I couldn't stray too far, but unlike my researchers, I didn't have to remain inside the store. Moreover, I felt it was my responsibility not to appear in my own research footage. As a result, I spent many days roaming those malls\u2014from ten A.M. to ten P.M. without a single productive thing to do except change film. I went into every store. I didn't buy much, but I saw a lot.\n\nMy fascination with stores is rooted in childhood. My father was a diplomat. As an offshore American raised in Third World nations and behind the Iron Curtain, my national identity was secondhand and based heavily on the Sears catalog. But to those around me, I was all-American. Sometimes I paid the price, like when I was beaten up on the street in Warsaw after the Bay of Pigs in 1961, or when rocks were thrown at our car in Seoul. When the kids in the British Army School I attended in Malaya chose sides for playground games, it often wound up as the few Americans against the rest of the world.\n\nStill, to me America was always a far-off, mystical place, familiar yet completely exotic and fascinating. I wanted to feel connected to it, even long distance. When we'd return briefly to the States, I'd look at what the other kids were wearing, or playing with, or watching on TV, and realize how hopelessly out of it I was. It was painful to ask my grandmother to send me rock records, knowing that what she'd get would be awful, given her preference for Lawrence Welk. In Kuala Lumpur in 1963 there was no American Bandstand on TV, no T-shirts or lunch boxes. I was in cultural exile. My friend Steve was a little older than I and listened to a radio station he picked up from Bangkok. Thanks to him I knew that the Beatles existed, but that was about it.\n\nEven today, that early cultural deprivation haunts my life. I am no good at the board game Trivial Pursuit, having missed too many cultural references from the 1960s and 1970s. I've had friends try to explain to me what was so hilarious about Rocky and Bullwinkle, or who the Waltons were, and why girls who favor Laura Ashley always liked Little House on the Prairie. I still don't get it.\n\nHaving gone from life abroad to living in downtown Manhattan, the shopping center was still an exotic locale, something I'd heard about but had little real exposure to. It's where, for the first time, I felt completely swallowed up inside white-bread middlebrow median-income America. It wasn't bad at all. I suddenly understood those 1980s \u00e9migr\u00e9s from the Soviet Union who would come to this country and cry tears of joy over the splendor they found in the produce aisle of an average supermarket. At last I found what seemed to be the real America, and it was out shopping.\n\nThe morning of September 11, 2001, I was stranded in Dallas, unable to get home, which is a twenty-minute walk from what was the World Trade Center. On September 12 I spent the day wandering around the new mall in Plano, Texas. I just gravitated there. I needed to be around something familiar. It was the eeriest thing, though\u2014a sparkling mall, in the middle of a beautiful September afternoon, with all the stores open and not a single shopper in the place. Around one-thirty I walked into a RadioShack and asked the clerk, \"Am I the first person you've had in here today?\"\n\n\"Yup,\" he said.\n\nStrolling around got too lonely, so I decided to see a movie. I was just in time for Tortilla Soup. I was the only person in the theater. They screened it for me anyway. After the show I returned to my hotel, but I still had lots of time on my hands, so a few hours later I drove back to one of the mall's restaurants for dinner.\n\nI was the only customer, but by the end of my meal the manager and the waiter had joined me at my table, and we three sat around drinking and talking, just the same as many people across the United States did that night. It felt all right to be doing it in a mall.\n\nAs I said before, I've devoted a lot of my life to malls, and in a few minutes we'll begin spending another Saturday in a typical one. We'll have lots of company.\n\nLook up ahead\u2014you still can't see it, but take my word, we're almost there.\n\n## 2 You Are Here\n\nALMOSTwhere?\n\nWe're going to spend today at a large regional enclosed mall, one of 1,175 in the United States at last count. Which specific mall we'll be visiting doesn't really matter, since the things we'll see and the lessons we'll learn apply to all. Therefore, I won't bother naming our destination, except to say it really does exist and it's a good one for our purposes.\n\nBut it's worth knowing a bit about the place and its history, since it is typical. This particular mall covers forty-six acres, including the parking lots. It is bordered and nourished by a six-lane state highway and a four-lane county road. We're in a suburb that's a twenty-minute drive (barring bad traffic) from a major metropolitan area. This is the largest mall in the immediate vicinity, although there is a slightly smaller one exactly four miles away. Both are owned by national commercial real estate development firms, companies with a history of aggressive competition with one another. So a certain degree of rivalry exists between the malls, although both thrive. Perhaps that's because each has its own personality. Ours is known for its high-end stores. The other is more solidly middle class. Not low-rent by any means, but not haughty, either.\n\nEarly in the twentieth century, the land under our mall was the estate of a wealthy local family. By the mid-twentieth century, the fortune and family were gone, and the plot was vacant. A developer bought it in the early 1950s and built a department store on the site. A decade or so later, some smaller stores were added around it, creating an ad hoc open-air shopping center. Three decades ago, a second department store was built on this parcel. Not long after, the developer announced plans to enclose the entire development under one roof\u2014to turn it into a proper mall. It was an easy decision to make: In the early 1970s, U.S. News & World Report conducted a poll and found that adult Americans spent more time at malls than anywhere else except for home and work. This was in the feverish early stage of our love affair with malls, back when a few new ones opened every week and no suburb felt complete without at least one.\n\nTurning the shopping center here into a mall involved a major construction project that went on while the existing stores remained open for business. Today, total gross leasable area in the complex is nearly 1.5 million square feet, which puts it among the top 2 or 3 percent of American malls\u2014big, in other words, though still considerably smaller than the largest mall in North America (Canada's Edmonton Mall, over 5 million square feet) or the United States (Mall of America, in Bloomington, Minnesota, over 4 million square feet).\n\nOur mall reeks of money\u2014inside we'll see acres of marble, in tasteful shades of tan, brown, and white. The flooring is tile. There's a glassed-in elevator. There are 144 stores. Befitting its middle-to upper-middle-class market, there's a Versace and a Ralph Lauren, a Cartier and a Tiffany, a Nordstrom and a Saks. There's also a Gap, an Abercrombie & Fitch, a Victoria's Secret, but no Spencer Gifts. The biggest single category is women's apparel, which is also the mainstay of every other mall in the world. There's a record store, a toy store, a video game store and nine stores selling sneakers. There must be close to twenty places to buy cosmetics, if you include the department stores and the boutiques that sell it as a sideline. There's a beauty parlor with big, old-fashioned hair dryers that look like something out of a sciencefiction movie.\n\nThere's also a fourteen-screen cinema at which, this weekend, two screens are devoted to the new Jackie Chan movie. (I can't wait.) There's a video arcade. There's a rock-climbing wall. There's an Aqua Massage, which requires more explanation than I can pause for here. (But maybe we'll give it a whirl later.) There are three national chain sit-down restaurants, all civilized affairs, serving food that's utterly acceptable. There's a food court, a vast, high-ceilinged arena offering no fewer than forty different outlets, mostly fast food. There's a funny little 1950s-style hamburger joint, Johnny Rockets, in which the wait-staff, a bunch of listless teenagers in dingy uniforms, are required to perform a line dance several times an hour. It's hilarious and distressing, and I recommend it highly. There's a Cinnabon stand, four cookie stands, three pretzel stands, three ice-cream stands, and no place wheresoever to buy an apple.\n\nThere's no bookstore, hardware store, home electronics store, computer store, sporting goods store, or office supply store. Perhaps not coincidentally, all these categories of retail typically attract a high proportion of adult male shoppers. There are not very many adult males here except for those in the company of women or children.\n\nUsually, malls this size draw shoppers from between five and twenty-five miles away. According to one survey, 30 percent of the adults living in this county have been here at least once during the past three months. Just 2 percent of adults living in the two neighboring counties visited during the same span.\n\nToday, malls account for around 14 percent of all U.S. retailing (not counting cars or gasoline), about $308 billion in annual sales. Our mall accounts for just over $600 million in sales a year. It's our duty as Americans to add to that. So let's get going.\n\n## 3 A Mouse Hole\n\nFEAST your eyes.\n\nIt's big and beige and boxy. Virtually featureless. What else could it be? We're here.\n\nThe first glimpse of any mall is usually also a look at what's wrong with mall architecture in general. From the outside, as a rule, malls give us no clear idea of what's inside. This is not a good thing.\n\nLittle consideration seems to have been given to how the building will appear to the shopper as he or she approaches from the highway. No one has bothered to create something that says shopping, let alone says it clearly or handsomely or interestingly. The ugliness of much of roadside America is discouraging, and malls are the largest buildings ever dedicated to the art of retailing in the history of the planet. So their ungainliness is of monumental stature and gargantuan scale.\n\nIt's no great mystery why this should be so.\n\nFor centuries, the people who built places to shop tended to be merchants. And so they took seriously their responsibility to attract shoppers. They created environments intended to present their wares, and to give shoppers a sense of moment, of event, of place. You can look back to the ancient Greek storas or the bazaars and souks in the days before Christ and find a merchant aesthetic already at work. A selling space didn't have to be fancy or pretty, and it didn't need to be built from luxurious materials. In many cases, just the opposite was true\u2014an environment where goods are sold at rock-bottom prices should feel authentically no-frills. If you're interested in fresh vegetables and fruit, nothing is more promising than a rough-hewn roadside stand or rustic farmer's market. You wouldn't want your neighborhood newsstand to feel like a fancy jewelry shop, and you don't want a lumberyard to look like a florist. In each instance, the design of the store itself is a reflection of the main activity taking place within.\n\nLook around any American city that still sports prewar architecture, and you may find at least a few grand emporiums of the past, the department store. In many places, New York included, some examples continue to stand: Bloomingdale's, Saks, Lord & Taylor. The principles of good retailing held sway everywhere, starting with the architecture. The buying experience began when you, the shopper, first caught sight of the edifice. It got the acquisitive juices flowing.\n\nThere was another force at work, too. The merchant princes were nineteenth century men, driven by ambition and muscle and determination to succeed in the brick-and-mortar vocabulary of the era. Their stores were their alter egos, and these titans of retailing all had serious edifice complexes. The great department stores of the day bore their owners' names\u2014Gimbel, Macy, Wanamaker, Neiman Marcus, Marshall Field. These men were the contemporaries of figures like David Rockefeller and Andrew Carnegie, captains of industry who left their lasting marks on the world. Bank buildings were temples to one impulse, and city halls to another, and stores to yet another. Today, public architecture still expresses intentions and functions: sports arenas, libraries, hotels, universities\u2014their design usually attempts to articulate something about what goes on inside. At the very least, they manage to look different from one another.\n\nBut then there are malls.\n\nIn part, their inglorious history is to blame. The mall was begat by the shopping center, which was begat by the humble little strip of stores facing a parking lot, which was the first form of shopping begat by suburbia. The earliest retail organization principle inspired by automotive life was that strip of shops\u2014sometimes anchored by a supermarket\u2014featuring maybe six or eight little establishments. There would be a row of parking spots out front, and easy zoom-in zoom-out access off the road. The shopping center's innovation was to turn things around, so that the stores faced not the road but one another\u2014a circling of the suburban wagons, so to speak, now surrounded by (rather than facing) the parking spots. It was a small step from there to placing a roof over the whole thing. That history, and the fateful turning away from the eyes of the outside world, steered the mall to the state in which we find it.\n\nToday's malls do a dismal job of signaling us as to what goes on inside. This is mainly because of the disconnect that exists at their very core. Malls house retailing, but they are not owned, developed, or built by retailers. Malls are made by real estate development companies. The men who direct these firms are not merchant princes. They are the ones who take the risk\u2014who amass the parcel of land, line up the financing, secure all the governmental permits, and then hire the architects and contractors and so on. But they make money by putting space to work. Their tools of the trade are a spreadsheet and a good leasing agent. The mandate is to turn a hunk of suburban turf into a gold mine, something that generates profits by charging rents and a percentage of the take, not by peddling goods or services. It's very different from the financial model of their tenants, the stores. The mall exists to contain stores\u2014it is, in fact, a store of stores. But it does not think of itself as a store. That is at the heart of what's lacking about malls, and, through the course of this book, it will come up over and over again.\n\nAnyway, here we are. What do we see?\n\n\"A big wall with a little mouse hole\" is how typical exterior mall architecture was described to me\u2014and this was by the design director of one of America's biggest and most respected mall developers. If even his firm was willing to settle for that usual configuration of high blank walls punctuated by nondescript entrances, it's no wonder that most malls are eyesores, at least from the outside. Aesthetic value is the last thing on anyone's mind when imagining a mall.\n\nThat's a problem.\n\nThe fact that some malls are well designed just explains why most are not. Typically, city malls possess some design equity. They look good. I'm thinking of Faneuil Hall, in Boston, one of the handsomest landmarks in that city. It was made to look good in part because its developer knew that it would be a showpiece. Everybody who comes to Boston eventually visits. Another reason urban malls tend to be well designed is that city governments are adept at forcing real estate developers to build things with intrinsic value that enhance their surroundings. Municipal lawyers, planners, and community and design review boards are experienced at hammering out compromises that, in the end, benefit all parties. As a result, urban malls usually are made to fit harmoniously with their surroundings. This is true in cities all over the world. Lisbon, Portugal, is home to one of the world's most striking malls, the Vasco da Gama Center, which was built to look like a giant ship. Diagonal Mar, in Barcelona, Spain, also manages to make a mall a beautiful thing. Bluewater, in Great Britain, used to be a quarry; in Atlanta, a defunct steel mill and notorious brownsite is being turned into Atlantic Station, a New Urbanist development built to integrate housing, offices, and shopping. So it's possible for shopping centers even to improve on what they replace.\n\nBut imagine what typically happens when a big developer makes its intentions known to a suburban township. Most local governments have little experience at hammering out these deals, since most suburbs get only a few such projects in a lifetime. Even if the township wanted to play hardball and force the developer to spend money on a handsome design, or one with extra features such as parks or community centers, the mall owner holds all the cards. It's easy enough to move the mall a few miles away, within another town's boundaries. Now consider the extent to which a shopping center will contribute to a suburb's tax coffers\u2014a big regional mall can easily cover most of what it takes to run a township school system. It's hard to say no over a question of architectural integrity.\n\nMall of America, the biggest in the United States and the most potent tourist attraction in all of Minnesota, may have looked good on the drawing board. But it has aged badly since it opened in August 1992. You can see stains on the outside of the building, and grass has begun to poke through the asphalt of the parking lots. It is huge and unsightly. You can't imagine Disney World or the Statue of Liberty being allowed to decay this way. Yet this mall has more visitors than Disney World, Graceland, and the Grand Canyon combined.\n\nNext time you're at a mall, instead of going directly inside, stroll around the perimeter of the place. It will be one of the more joyless promenades you'll ever make. You'll be very alone out there, on a narrow strip of sidewalk, assuming it has a sidewalk\u2014many malls don't\u2014with maybe a security guard or two to keep you company. (They'll be watching you closely, since someone who walks around a mall is, by definition, an odd character.) There will almost certainly be shrubbery, neatly clipped, but it's greenery of the most generic kind. Nobody thought you'd ever look too closely at it. Its only job is to be green.\n\nThe building itself may be in good condition, depending on its age and the quality of materials used, but still the surface might be chipped, cracked, or discolored. Nobody takes this stuff too seriously, since nobody ever thought you'd be walking out here to notice. You'll no doubt come upon America's new pariah class, smokers. They'll be gathered by the entrances, close to the industrial-size ashtrays. There may be an occasional cell phone caller out there, too, in search of optimal reception.\n\nSome malls feature display windows facing the parking lots, and some don't. Windows are problematic in a setting such as this because there's no real pedestrian approach to the building. You may drive up close to it while searching for a parking spot, but if you decide to examine the store windows you'll crash your car. Once you've parked, you dash to your destination: inside. Maybe it's raining or it's cold. It could easily be windy, given the lack of any neighboring structures. And anyway, you're here to walk around a mall, not a parking lot. A store may have the most spellbinding windows in the world, but nobody is going to pay much attention in a mall parking lot. All the action is on the inside.\n\nFashion Show, the ultra-glitzy mall in Las Vegas, exhibits a unique flair for architecture and visual presentation starting on the outside. It's one of the splendors of the Strip, which is saying something. Signage technology gets more spectacular every day\u2014take a walk through Times Square in New York, a magnet for tourists from around the world, and you witness all manner of digital video, huge-screen TVs, vividly colored \"ribbons\" of news headlines slithering at high speed around curvilinear building facades. These same innovations exist at every sports stadium and rock concert hall\u2014we're a nation of cutting-edge sophisticates where big visual communication technology is concerned. Our eyes are trained to watch for the next hot thing.\n\nOf course, it's impossible to prove that more attention to architecture would make a bit of difference to a mall's bottom line. In the end, that argument carries the day\u2014the marketplace doesn't require more beautiful shopping center design, so why spend more for it? That's the short view, at least. Today, when most American malls are over twenty years old, the question of what to do about aging centers will soon be upon us. If the buildings themselves had any intrinsic value, we'd be more likely to restore or salvage ones that need it. We restore and repurpose many public structures, such as former post offices, hotels, libraries, even churches. But most malls are too ugly and banal to warrant such effort. They've been designed to be serviceable, nothing more, and once they no longer can serve they'll have to be razed, and replaced with...I don't know. Maybe something even worse.\n\nWe need to find a place to park.\n\n## 4 Dude, Where's My Car?\n\nOKAY, NOW we're really here. Nearly really here, I should say. We still have to park.\n\nBecause America lives by the automobile, we live by the parking space, too. When ruminating over all the reasons that city dwellers embraced suburbia, we sometimes overlook the promise of painless parking. Imagine the daily ordeal of primitive man circa 1950, back when urban streets designed for horse and wagon traffic became home to two-and three-car baby boom families. The lure of knowing that you could retire from the nightly blood sport of parallel parking, never again to circle endlessly while waiting for another driver to budge, was part of what inspired urban flight. Not only racial unease or class aspirations. Pure convenience. Having a garage or just a driveway of one's own was bliss.\n\nTry to imagine any suburban institution such as the mall without parking. Can't be done.\n\nThe entrance to the parking lot is where the mall really begins. As you approach, there's always that moment of anticipation when you see whether the lot is full, empty, or somewhere in between. It sets the tone for the day. Enjoy a smooth transition from the highway to the front door, and you feel blessed. Hit a snag, and you start your shopping trip under a black cloud.\n\nOnce in the lot, you could drive around and around the building without ever finding an entrance that announces itself as the \"main\" one. There may be several unprepossessing doorways at regular intervals, none of them marked with any kind of sign to alert you to what lies inside. Or, you may just take the easy way out and enter through one of the department stores. Even if there is one mall entrance that feels like a primary one, this may not be the one used by all or even most shoppers. We've studied many malls where there is one door used by people unfamiliar with the mall. We call it the \"stranger\" entrance. But it's usually not the portal of choice for those who know the mall well.\n\nIn fact, mall design reflects the same lack of hierarchy of which suburbs themselves are often guilty. Cities organize themselves into distinct zones\u2014downtown, outskirts, central business district, rich-people housing, middle-class housing, poor-people housing, good part of town, bad part of town, and so on. This scheme has evolved over the course of centuries, and so we're all familiar with it the instant we come upon it.\n\nSuburbs are to a large degree an escape from that urban structure\u2014they are islands of homes with enough retail to serve most of the natives' needs, and then just enough institutional uses (schools, police stations, firehouses, churches, movie theaters) to get along. The mall reflects that lack of hierarchy. A single main entrance would run counter to the suburban automotive ideal, which dictates that you should always be able to park as close as possible to your own personal destination. So, instead of the most desirable parking spots being concentrated in one area, they form a ring around the building. Your parking priorities will almost certainly differ from mine. It permits a truly American freedom of choice, expressed in a form of architectural and spatial chaos.\n\nWhen choosing a mall parking spot, you've got four priorities to juggle:\n\n1. You want a spot that's easy and fast to reach when you arrive.\n\n2. You want a spot close to the mall.\n\n3. You want a spot near the entrance that will bring you closest to your first destination inside.\n\n4. You want a spot that's fast and easy to reach when you leave.\n\nParking within fifty feet of your preferred entrance is probably the highest priority of the four, especially when it's cold, hot, or rainy, but even when it's nice outside. Nobody enjoys a springtime stroll through a mall parking lot. When you shop in a city, getting to your destination is an enjoyable part of the experience and may turn up some pleasant surprises along the way. All manner of information is gleaned, almost without noticing, when we walk down a city street. We see other store windows, of course, but also we get to study how people dress, how they wear their hair, what kind of dogs they walk. None of that exists in the parking lot of a mall.\n\nI've spent plenty of time out here in the lot, and not just in my car. Often, when I start a consulting assignment for a retail chain or developer, I'll drag executives out here. They're usually puzzled: Wait a sec\u2014the stores are in there! But I insist. For all their knowledge and experience, few merchants or managers understand how much of the customer experience takes place in the parking lot. Executives who would be appalled by a lack of regard for shopper comfort within the store don't give a moment's thought to what happens out here.\n\n\"Can't we just go into the security office and see the lot on the video monitor?\" I've been asked.\n\n\"Not the same,\" I say.\n\nSo we all trudge out there. I march my captives to the farthest extreme of the lot, and then make them stand there a minute. Part of my mission is to get them to see the mall itself as the shopper first encounters it. I want them to witness how the signage and display windows play under normal conditions.\n\nIf the mall devoted much thought to how shoppers experience the place, they'd spend a little money and effort on the parking lot. As soon as you turned in off the road you'd come upon a car greeter\u2014a traffic cop. He'd be the boss, and he would have two or three minimum-wage high school kids running around to inform drivers where all the spots are, would keep traffic moving smoothly, and would give shoppers the sense that fairness and order prevail.\n\nDoesn't happen. I've been at this particular mall on the Saturday before Christmas when by ten A.M. traffic is at a standstill and tempers are flaring. Mall management remains uninvolved. Find your own spot, fight your own battles, it tells us, then come inside. Mall operators think they control parking lots by installing surveillance cameras. As any police officer will tell you, control is about being visible. Most of the time this isn't a huge issue, but there are about thirty shopping days a year when this lot will reach capacity. On those days, a little help would go a long way.\n\nWe all have our own personal parking styles\u2014it's just one more way we express who we are. Some philosophical types are content to park at the farthest reaches of the lot and trudge in from there; more competitive drivers will stalk the prime spots, even tailing shoppers as they exit the mall and head to their cars. I had an aunt who refused to park where she had to back out.\n\nThere's also the matter of how we will find our cars when it's time to leave. How many of us pay only half attention to the landmarks of the lot? Research has shown that people landmark the lot based on age and gender. Men like numbers and letters. Women like colors. Kids prefer symbols\u2014animals or fruit. For every time I've memorized my landmarks, there have been more where I have wandered aimlessly looking for my chariot. On those days I walk row after row of cars pressing my keyless ignition, muttering, \"Here, Greta [the name I've given my Audi], where are you?\" At a mall outside Houston, after an hour of searching for my rental, I began to doubt my sanity. I missed my flight that day. There must be some kind of car homing device that Hertz could install. That little gizmo would win my loyalty forever.\n\nMalls treat parking lots as necessary evils. I wish developers would notice how we sometimes make great, creative use of these broad expanses of asphalt. The obvious example is something most sports fans are familiar with\u2014tailgating parties and picnics in the stadium parking lot. Some of these efforts are downright lavish, with charcoal grills and Champagne coolers set up amid campers, minivans, and trailers. Ford now makes a truck with optional sink and gas grill.\n\nThat marriage of RV camping and parking lot has been handsomely exploited by Wal-Mart. To the horror of campground owners across the United States, the giant retailer now permits overnight camper parking in its lots. This is a genius move\u2014the overnighters take advantage of the stores' bathrooms in the morning, but those folks also spend money on food, clothing, and supplies. The NASCAR circuit has reinvented another ancient retail tradition\u2014the peddler's wagon. On race days, trailers park in the lot and turn into stores with varied product lines that put the old factory parking lot \"roach coach\" (my favorite term for lunch wagons) to shame.\n\nThe concept of the portable open-air store has merit. The best example I know is the tent sale that happens in the high-end carpet business. Bloomingdale's Home Store and others use it to good advantage. The huge tent goes up in a parking lot, carpets are piled inside, and for an intense week or two the store conducts what ends up being a huge percentage of its annual rug business. It shows that under the right conditions you can sell even a very fine and costly product in a parking lot.\n\nSome supermarkets are great utilizers of the parking lot. In summer, you'll find a little convenience store set up out there, maybe under a tent to protect the cashier from sunstroke. They don't stock the usual C-store items such as milk, beer, and aspirin. Instead you'll find bags of charcoal briquettes, barbeque tools, lawn chairs, sun hats, water guns, bug spray, suntan lotion, and other trappings of suburban summer. This is the stuff you always remember only at the last minute, and the market saves you the trouble of running back through the entire store to pick up a few Saturday afternoon essentials. If you came to the market with no intention of buying any of that stuff, the ministore out front is a potent reminder.\n\nWhat frustrates me as a researcher is that parking lot innovations are being tried, but on an ad hoc basis, with no attempt to measure what works and what does not. As small-town main streets have died, the biggest and most predictable public gathering in many communities is the big shopping center parking lot. That's a phenomenon to be taken advantage of, not ignored or discouraged.\n\nA few years ago I was part of a small group hired to help the Phoenix Zoo imagine its future. The director picked us up at the hotel in the zoo's minivan, covered with airbrushed animals rendered in bright colors. As we pulled into the parking lot, he drove toward his spot, closest to the main entrance. I asked him to park instead in the middle of the empty lot. As we walked away, two cars screeched to a stop and a bunch of young boys ran to examine the van up close.\n\n\"If you have a billboard,\" I told the director, \"use it.\"\n\nA common problem in all suburban shopping used to be when employees arrived early and hogged all the best parking spots. By now, most stores recognize this and order staffers to park away from the front door. Rarely, the problem is just the opposite. Recently my firm studied something found only in rural America\u2014the Farm & Fleet network. These regional chains run huge stores\u2014a hundred thousand square feet and up\u2014that serve farmers and rural businesses. They stock an enormous cross section of goods, from jeans and high-end cowboy boots to barbed wire and harnesses for your donkey. Out on the edges of nowhere, these stores sit in the middle of endless parking lots. Rural land is still cheap.\n\nThe problem is that the lots often look painfully empty. The store we studied required employees to park behind the store. As a result, when you drove by in the morning, the lot was deserted, and you couldn't be sure the store was open. Our advice was to move employee parking around to the front, midway through the lot\u2014thereby leaving the prime spots for shoppers, but signaling to passing drivers that the store was open for business.\n\nHey! How's this spot? It's near a fairly nondescript entrance to the mall, a fine place through which to enter the belly of the beast. Help me remember where we are: E6, E6, E6, let's go, E6.\n\n## 5 Why Malls Fear Freedom\n\nWHAT HAVE we here? It looks to be three hundred or so six-year-olds assembled in an open space on the mall's ground floor, just inside the entrance, kicking at one another as hard as they can. Their mothers and fathers and siblings surround the squalling mob, smiling and waving. How wholesome can you get?\n\nAll over American malldom, similar scenes are playing out\u2014here we see the local martial arts schools raising money for a worthy cause with what they call a \"kick-a-thon.\" Somewhere else, it's the local ballet school, or the glee club, the marching band, the Boy Scouts, the art league, the roller hockey league, the Junior League, the spelling bee, the high school drama club performing highlights from Brigadoon. Or is that Bye Bye Birdie?\n\nThis is where the mall-as-community shows its shiny, peppy face. If we were a village society, or even an urban one, these activities might take place at the schoolhouse, or the community center, or in the village green on market day. But since we're a predominately suburban nation, and suburbs tend to be short on gathering places, it all happens at the mall.\n\nFor which the mall, of course, is mostly happy. It's not earning a profit on every kick these little tae kwon do apostles deliver, but this is a good way to ensure the presence of their moms and dads at ten-thirty on a Saturday morning. Once you've gone to all the effort of driving here and parking, it seems wasteful not to acquire something or other. Best of all, the little ones may be so exhausted by then that they'll behave themselves. The mall likes having the cute children of wage-earning parents around. It brightens up the place. It's cheaper than real entertainment. It's good for the image. There's a profit motive to being such a willing host and accommodator of various community-minded endeavors.\n\nSome of the attempts by suburbanites to take seriously the mall as quasi-public space seemed innocuous enough. For example, an entirely new form of mass exercise was born of the mall. No sooner had America's first enclosed shopping center opened, in 1956, in the Minneapolis suburb of Edina, than did area doctors begin advising older patients to get their cardiovascular exercise inside the mall, where they could stride without fear of slipping on snow or ice. Mall walking quickly caught on. If you've ever gone into a mall before the stores open (as I have), you know the sound\u2014the silence is broken only by the squeak of senior citizen mall walkers in their sneakers. Many malls decided to extend a special welcome to these elders in sweat suits and began allowing them inside before normal business hours. (There was always the chance that they'd stick around and buy something.) Some shopping centers began special programs for senior citizens\u2014mall-walker clubs, free coffee, discount coupons, holiday parties.\n\nAnd then, inevitably, came the backlash. Malls began to feel taken advantage of by the walkers, some of whom began to feel entitled to the amenities and special favors they had been granted. There was always some question as to whether the discounts and programs actually made any economic sense. Eventually, some developers tried curtailing mall walking altogether. Mall of America attempted to force mall walkers to use a parking lot so far from the building that shuttle buses were required. The walkers retaliated with an informational campaign, reminding the stores of how much money they spent there. Before long the mall caved in and allowed normal parking for all.\n\nMore recently, Evergreen Plaza, near Chicago, attempted similar measures. Management aired its grievances in the local press, complaining about senior citizen sneakers muddying newly polished floors, and mall walkers hogging all the good parking spots and demanding Christmas gifts. \"It got out of control from a standpoint of entitlement,\" a mall executive told a reporter. \"Predominately they are seniors, okay, and seniors are not great spenders, are they?\" Perhaps not, but they excel at gaining public sympathy in battles such as this one. A torrent of bad publicity ensued, reaching all the way to page one of the New York Times. Competing malls even began making a play for the banished senior citizens, at which point Evergreen Plaza management turned tail and invited the walkers back.\n\n\"Mall walking is pretty much a given and something that is hard for malls to avoid,\" a spokesperson for a mall developer trade group said in an article. \"On the whole, our industry embraces the walkers as viable customers. The rub some retailers might have is that they tend to get there early and take the best parking spots. And they are not really that dynamic as shoppers.\"\n\nSneaker-scuffed floors are the least of the inconveniences that come with being suburban functional Main Streets, malls have learned. The various free speech\u2014related activities that go with American democracy soon followed everyone else to the mall\u2014the activists realized there was no other way to be encountered in a suburban milieu where no one walks. These were the moments that tried a mall's commitment to a vision of itself as some kind of quasi-public space, the town center for towns where no true center exists. This got at the heart of the question of whether a mall is the suburban Main Street or a tightly controlled fortress devoted to a single activity: retailing. Or is it somewhere in between?\n\nPolitical candidates collecting signatures, activists protesting, sympathizers leafleting for causes popular and otherwise, even Klansmen, all descended upon American malls. In 1968, the U.S. Supreme Court began getting involved in the matter. In that year, it ruled that malls cannot interfere with the exercise of First Amendment rights. Score one for the people. Then, four years later, it reversed itself and said the First Amendment did not require shopping centers to permit the distribution of antiwar leaflets on the premises. Score one for the mall. That ruling seemed to settle the argument by establishing shopping centers as private property, the same as an individual store might be.\n\nThen, in 1980, in a unanimous decision involving a California mall, the court said that individual states' laws could require malls to allow greater free-speech rights than the First Amendment does. Since then, courts in six states (California, Colorado, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Oregon, and Washington) have deemed malls to be at least quasi-public spaces, where at least some forms of expressions must be allowed. Eleven more\u2014Arizona, Connecticut, Georgia, Michigan, Minnesota, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, and Wisconsin\u2014have decided not to require malls to behave like public places.\n\nDevelopers are technically correct when they point out that the mall is private property, not the village square. According to one survey, nearly three-quarters of shoppers believe the mall should keep out political activists\u2014which is consistent with what we know of the average person's tolerance for commotion (especially when it interferes with shopping). And yet, the fact is that the mall phenomenon came along and took the place of the town square, the public zone.\n\nThe mall is a monument to the moment when Americans turned their back on the city. To many of us, cities are civilization's greatest achievement\u2014they are vast, complicated, marvelous machines created by our collective energies and dreams, a way for us to come together to live, work, play, love, learn, create, protest, worship, and die, all in one glorious place. Cities, going back to Athens, managed to bring together every imaginable worthwhile human activity (and some not so worthwhile ones) in harmonious fashion. A good city\u2014hell, a good city block\u2014is a treasure forever. I've gotten myself in trouble for saying that America's villains of the twentieth century were Frank Lloyd Wright for romanticizing the suburbs and Henry Ford for making the suburban dream accessible. To be fair, many of the cities people fled were dangerous, dirty, and unhealthy. The trade-off in quality-of-life terms was probably a good one. This book is about one consequence of that flight: a big air-conditioned vanilla box with all the action on the inside.\n\nIf you need proof of suburban malls' smug, insular nature, consider this: They can almost never be easily reached by public transportation. If you can't drive here, the mall seems to say, you can't come. This is in marked contrast to European and Japanese malls, which are often built near train stations for the convenience of shoppers. In Japan, malls even feature bicycle racks, something I've never seen in the United States, although a great many people live within bike distance of malls and might like the chance to get a little fresh air and exercise in with their shopping.\n\nAmerica's postwar suburbs are for the most part inhospitable to any form of transportation that isn't an automobile. So the mall isn't remarkable in this regard. But sometimes the consequences are tragic. In 1995, an African American teenager was killed while trying to cross a busy seven-lane highway on her way to a mall near Buffalo, New York. She was forced to walk across the road because the mall prohibited city buses from stopping on the property. Local civil rights activists accused the developer of doing so in order to keep out minorities, since the buses carried residents from a mostly black part of town. The mall denied any racial motive, saying it wanted only to keep rowdy young people away. The bus ban was lifted after the activists threatened a boycott. The dead girl's family sued the mall, which settled the case for $2 million.\n\nAre malls racist? It's not such an outlandish question. It seems clear that malls hope by limiting public transportation they can control who may enter and who may not. The fact that you need to drive doesn't completely ensure that a mall will get only the law-abiding middle class, since in America people of extremely modest means still manage to own cars. Still, city dwellers and teenagers most often are the ones without wheels. So keeping the mall unattainable by public transportation goes a long way toward segregating it from anything even potentially scary.\n\nMalls might argue that, from a business point of view, keeping low-income urban teenagers out is a smart goal. In one survey, 50 percent of malls claimed they had problems with gangbangers, and 90 percent said they had attracted troublesome teenage loiterers. After all, the mall is meant to be a refuge from the bad city streets, from cold and wind and rain but also from panhandlers and vagrants and teenagers with bad attitudes.\n\nIn truth, it's easy to stroll these tranquil pathways and forget that crime exists anywhere, let alone that shopping districts are sometimes magnets for pickpockets, shoplifters, and muggers. That's the lulling effect of the mall\u2014you are surrounded only by fellow shoppers, all drawn together in a communion of consumption. There are no outskirts here, no dark recesses or easy getaway routes (not even for the law-abiding), which makes crimes such as purse snatching an unlikely occurrence.\n\nSuburban subdivisions segregate people based on how much they can spend on real estate. Everybody knows that wealth and poverty exist, but many suburbanites get no closer to either end of the spectrum than their television screen. We humans seem to find comfort in economic homogeneity, and the mall does its best to preserve that condition.\n\nWe are living in a time when, nationally, crime is down, especially the personal, violent offenses that worry us most\u2014murder, robbery, rape, and assault. The danger of urban streets, whether real or presumed, is part of what drove us to the suburbs and then to the mall in the first place.\n\nI know a mall in a posh suburb of New York that was a target for organized urban criminals. A few years ago, police reported that a modern-day Fagin was actively recruiting city teenagers to plunder the place as shoplifters and pickpockets. In one day more than forty youths were arrested while shoplifting there. In all, more than one hundred arrests were made, including children as young as eleven. Some were discovered with printed manuals telling them which bus routes would get them to the mall, and then which stores to hit once they got there. The guides instructed them in the art of hiding their loot, evading guards, and exiting the mall swiftly; the kids knew which designers' clothes could be most easily fenced once they got it home. At the Mall of America there have been a few shootings and some assaults, all attributed to gangs. There has been one murder (of a seventeen-year-old woman, by her estranged boyfriend). There were also a few rapes, including one of a teenage girl, in a service corridor, by a man she had met at the mall that day.\n\nMalls probably don't need to make much special effort to keep dangerous elements out. There's already a remarkably efficient self-regulating mechanism that maintains orderliness in the world of shopping. It uses symbolism and nuance to attract certain people while repelling certain others. Say what you will about the snootiest shopping districts of any city in America\u2014you can get there by public transportation, or even on foot, no matter where you live. In New York, for instance, it takes only subway fare to go from some of the poorest, toughest neighborhoods in the city\u2014indeed, the country\u2014to some of the poshest, most exclusive boutiques in the world. There's no obvious police or private security presence stopping armed thugs or mobs of marauding adolescents from descending upon Madison Avenue and making waste of it. And yet, it doesn't happen.\n\nPeople of modest means may dream of someday indulging a taste for Armani, but they tend not to try for it until they can afford it, and no armed guard is required to turn them away in the meantime. People enjoy shopping in places where they feel wanted and needed and loved, even people without much money. They have their own favorite stores where they shop, not necessarily out of need but because it's fun. Even muggers and stick-up men take their ill-gotten gains and go shopping like everybody else.\n\nWe think of malls as being wholesome and all-American, but they are not uniformly so. Some are also snobbish, xenophobic, elitist. Hateful. But we're still going to spend the day here.\n\n## 6 I Brake for Meanderthals\n\nSPEAKING of mall walking, how are you holding up? Strolling around in here is quite a bit easier than doing it in a city. For one thing, there's no weather to worry about. For another, the pace is quite a bit slower. This is one of the areas in which, almost undetected, the mall has had a huge effect on American life: it has actually taught us to walk differently than we once did, as we'll see. Huge deal, right? That's especially so for me, since in my line of work the way people walk has major implications for how they shop. We now have several generations of Americans who have never walked for any length of time in cities or even towns. They ride everywhere and walk only here, at the mall. Which is quite a bit different from walking anywhere else.\n\nFor safety's sake, you maintain your gaze at eye level and under when walking city streets. In New York City, a pedestrian walking briskly covers about three hundred feet per minute. As you move, your eyes do, too, shifting slightly from side to side covering almost a full 180-degree semicircle. As human eyes age, depth perception deteriorates, and we put less trust in our peripheral vision. An older person is much more conscious of where her feet are. Children tend to move their heads more than adults do; in our research work, eight-year-olds are the ones who spot our cameras, never teens or adults. Head position while walking in a city is also a matter of preference; people would rather look at other people than just about anything else.\n\nNevertheless, you're also on the lookout for the usual pedestrian hazards, such as curbs, potholes, and homeless people lying in nooks and crannies. But with the advent of traffic lights and good paving, urban eyes are usually earthbound. From the retailer perspective, this is good\u2014it keeps our eyes more or less in the zone of store window displays.\n\nThese conditions do not allow city walkers to see much that's out of that zone, however. New Yorkers in particular are always stunned when by some odd chance they look up and notice what's on the second and third floors of the buildings they pass every day. There's an entire level of business windows in crowded midtown Manhattan that are like an open secret. The job of seducing people up or down a flight of stairs is not an American strength. In New York, there is a long tradition of marginal businesses trying to cling to the upper and sometimes lower registers of our vision. Those attempts usually contain some kind of display, or signage at the very least. However, they're hidden in plain sight.\n\nBut when visitors come to town, they walk and look according to rules and habits acquired elsewhere\u2014like at the mall. In cities they do that little gee-whiz-ma-lookit-how-tall-that-one-is dance when seeing a real skyscraper up close. Native walkers will sometimes come upon a group of people standing stock-still, looking at some fixed point high on a building's facade, and be briefly misled into thinking there's something of genuine interest up there\u2014like a jumper, or maybe King Kong. Then we look a little closer and realize we've been fooled by a bunch of bedazzled tourists, or an effete architectural walking tour. Do we care about what the Municipal Art Society thinks is significant on that facade? That's when we sneer and shoulder our way past, irritated at being had by a bunch of rubes.\n\nThere's something so innocent, so childlike and trusting, about how tourists walk in a city. They lack pedestrian radar, that combination of peripheral vision, hard-won experience, and ESP that alerts you to the taxi that's about to occupy the space where you're standing, or the bike messenger who's speeding into your intended path. Neither do visiting walkers anticipate the usual urban decision points. For instance, veteran city walkers will usually begin to plot a turn well before they reach the corner, whereas visiting pedestrians stroll as though they'll be continuing in that direction indefinitely; when they do hit an intersection they halt, convene, swivel in all directions, and only then begin to figure out where they'll go and by what path they'll go there. Urbanites use a special body vocabulary, from a dropped shoulder to a shifted briefcase, that tells fellow travelers our intentions.\n\nIn the city, and especially in the hectic districts where stores and shopping predominate, people move with a great sense of purpose. No matter where you're headed, you tend to go as though you're on some mission of high importance. Partly it's because no self-respecting urban dweller wants to admit, even by the implication of a leisurely gait, that he or she is not urgently needed somewhere else. But it's also the way that we internalize the rhythms and the velocity of the city. The late William H. Whyte, the distinguished American Urbanist and my friend, used to say that the pace and character of New Yorkers was set by the traffic lights. They trained us to walk as fast as possible, so that we can make it through the next intersection without stopping for a red light. He discovered that the stoplight cycles form us into what he called pedestrian platoons\u2014a crowd builds at a crosswalk, waiting for the green light, at which point we all hurry forward in a cluster until we are stopped by the next red light. If you're watching from above, you see that while the groups spread out slightly as they move forward, the pattern is densely packed sidewalk followed by long, mostly empty stretches. Twenty years ago, Lexington Avenue at lunchtime was the most crowded stretch of pavement in Manhattan, with some four thousand people moving in an hour through a twelve-and-a-half-foot space. I'd argue that in 2003, sections of Canal Street on Saturday rival the density of Hong Kong and Shanghai, or the entrance to the Spice Market in Istanbul.\n\nI spent hours at Tokyo's Shibuya Station watching the train and subway stations push out shoppers as if from a fire hose, spraying them across a broad square and into a fan of arterial streets. The plaza outside the station is a dense staging area combining all the classic elements of great urban public space\u2014a little shade, places to lean or sit, formal and informal selling from stores and kiosks, and music. There is enough of a cross section of humanity to make everyone feel comfortable, while at the same time providing everyone with someone to gawk at. The sea of hairstyles and costumes makes New York's East Village look tame. It is a great show.\n\nLike many commercial districts in Japan, the electronic signage is overwhelming. Beyond the huge screens playing rock videos, electronic advertising is shotgunned across every facade. Appearing on those video screens in Shibuya Square is the dream of every aspiring Japanese rapper. Doe-eyed high school girls cluster in pods, staring at the screens, thumbs flying across the keypads on their oversize cell phones as they punch out instant messages. At seemingly regular intervals sound trucks blaring political messages roll through the square, their distorted voices careening across the high-rise windows and plate-glass department store facades. The background noise is constant; music, taxis, announcements from the station all carried on the smell of salty food and burnt diesel.\n\nThe square's main intersection is a series of five converging streets. At the crosswalks, the crowd surges ten to twelve people deep. The patience of the Tokyo pedestrian is rooted alternatively in Zen and fast food. Cars pull slowly through the intersection, and people are careful not to look at one another, but the mounting sense of impatient energy is palpable. As the light changes, the octagonal street transforms into a surreal barn dance as thousands of people charge around oblique corners in ordered chaos. The pace of the dance is a steady, manic cadence\u2014however driven or desperate you might be, you can't move any faster. Bodies pass close enough to give secondhand hits of tobacco and the faux-fruit fragrance of the month. Especially in summer, the ripples of body heat are a triumph of human radar and coordination as everyone brushes but no one touches. They watch their feet and feel their polite insignificance because in a shopping district all pedestrians carry the same residual weight.\n\nShibuya is one of the world's busiest commercial corners; the shopping extends two levels below the street in some places and six to ten levels above. The entire coming and going is funneled through sidewalks only three to four yards wide. The compression is palpable, which is part of the attraction, while at the same time exhausting. It is a mosh pit that predates punk.\n\nThe experience of a city, whether New York or Tokyo, is in great contrast to how walking is performed in malls. There, for starters, the surface is reliability itself\u2014usually some smooth petrochemical product, either linoleum or vinyl or acrylic. In the swankier districts, such as the one we're in today, you may find tiles made of ceramic or stone, but these are no less dedicated to the safety and comfort of the walker. There will be no obstacles or surprises of any kind down there on the floor itself\u2014the rules of the mall guarantee this much, and the store leases, the legal contracts that define the environment, require it. As a result, looking down while walking in a mall is utterly pointless. There's nothing down there to see. This is a matter of trust. Only the most crabbed and paranoid pedestrian looks at the floor in a mall.\n\nSimilarly, in a mall you walk safe in the knowledge that everyone is there to do the exact same thing you're doing, however we define the complex set of missions you've undertaken. There are no bicycle messengers, careening taxis, distracted truck drivers, no hell-bent young career women storming past, shouldering you out of the way, no office drones racing through a lunch hour's worth of errands, no mobs of high school kids out frolicking, pretending they own the sidewalk. Nobody here but us shoppers. The corridors are unipurpose. We are all in agreement about why we are here. With that homogeneity of intention comes safety.\n\nSafety is also defined here by the lack of any of the menaces we routinely face when we're out in the wild. As we've said, there's no crime here, at least none where anyone can see it. No bad weather, either, no wind, no rain. No spitters, even, or cigarette-butt flickers. No litterbugs. No dogs. Life under that big mall roof is safe and warm and slow. (Doesn't sound so bad that way, does it?) And the walking pace in here is a reflection of the wider lassitude. Interestingly, on a city street men walk faster than women; in a mall the positions are reversed, since men tend to wander malls like semi-lost children, whereas women are the ones who inhabit the place with a true shopper's sense of purpose.\n\nThere's even a term for it\u2014poky pedestrians are known as meanderthals. But the use of mall walker as a term of derision has been around for some time. That refers to the speed but also to the practice of strolling three, four, or more abreast. In the city, \"if we try and go three across, it slows us down,\" confessed a mall walker from Birmingham, Alabama, to a New York Times reporter writing about the tense life of a Manhattan pedestrian. Most people drive a lot and walk little, so they forget how it's done. Will future generations have to take walker's ed in high school?\n\nIn a city store, speed overall is much more important to shoppers than it is in a mall. A company we've studied routinely deploys twice as many cashiers at its store near Wall Street than it does in a branch of roughly the same size located in a mall. Mall shoppers are willing to wait a little longer. City shoppers are not. City shoppers have bigger fish to fry, while mall shoppers don't\u2014even when they're the exact same people. The mall makes them more patient. Conversion rate is higher in a mall, too\u2014in a city store, shoppers race in, look around for what they need, become frustrated when they can't find it immediately, and split. In a mall, you'll take a little longer, consult a sales associate, and in the end find what you're looking for.\n\nIn cities we have systems that help us figure out where we are. Fixed landmarks (tall buildings, subway entrances) combined with dynamic references (streets, sun position, shadow lines) keep us oriented. It's also socially acceptable to ask for directions in a city. Being lost is stressful, and the stress is exacerbated in a mall. Because it is a planned environment, there is no such thing as being deliciously lost in the mall.\n\nIn malls, way-finding requires maps, and when malls meet cartography, the result is not magic. To be fair, cartography often relies on some generally understood basic reference points: North is that way, or Fifth Avenue is over there. Having stepped from the featureless parking lot through a mouse-hole entrance, is there any surprise that we are disoriented? Some malls attempt to name interior corridors as though they were streets, but such efforts generally fail. At best, the quadrants of the mall are recognized by the anchors\u2014oh, that's the Sears side, or the Bloomingdale's end.\n\nStopping to ask for directions in a mall is often an exercise in frustration. There is no tradition of talking to, much less helping, strangers in a mall. This is not to say that people aren't friendly\u2014they just seem surprised that someone is talking to them. Some people know only one small section of a mall. Even some sales associates know only their immediate surroundings. Security guards are surprised even to be noticed, much less stopped and solicited for help.\n\nA map at the entrance seems like a good idea, until you actually come across one. Do all mall maps stink? In our studies of people in shopping centers, we've timed how long they spend staring at those big, lighted board mall directories. In one study the average was twenty-two seconds. That's a very long time to study a map. Too long. It indicates that a fair number of people never find what they're looking for\u2014shoppers struggle to decipher the map and then just give up. They walk away in frustration. Malls are too huge and, unlike when driving, you move at will throughout a mall. And it may exist on two or three levels, adding to the complexity. The directories in most malls look like they were designed for electricians\u2014like wiring guides. They don't look like malls. Shoppers negotiate spaces better if they have fixed points to guide them, like \"Shoes over here\" or \"Escalator there.\"\n\nDepartment stores might also benefit by placing maps instead of directories right inside the doorway. Without them, you stand in the entrance and look out over the floor of the store with absolutely no idea of what you're looking at. It's just a huge expanse of undifferentiated space. There's a sea of merchandise.\n\nHere's what a good store map would look like. It would be horizontal, like a tabletop, instead of vertical like most mall maps. You could look down on it, at waist-level, find what you need\u2014say, the shoe department, and then look up to locate it for real. You can't do that standing behind an eight-foot-tall board.\n\nMy perfect store map would use symbols. If, for example, the ladies' shoe department was on the left-hand side of this floor, halfway back, there would be a big shoe on the left side of the map, halfway back. Maybe I'd even have a huge shoe hanging from the ceiling over the shoe department, so you could see it from the entrance.\n\nMaps in department stores and malls are important because, when properly designed, they can help avert shopper frustration. You could argue that a shopper who is temporarily lost may wander deeper into a store and discover sections she or he might otherwise have missed. But it's more likely that the shopper will grow exasperated and impatient, leading to walkouts, lost sales, and ill will.\n\nIn the course of our research we watch thousands upon thousands of people shop every year. In some instances, they spend time in a store because they're enjoying it, or they're accomplishing things. That's good. But in other cases, they're spending time in the store because it's so badly designed and stocked that it takes forever to find things. That's not good. We draw the paths that people follow\u2014we call them \"tracks\"\u2014on paper maps of a store's floor plan. You should see the track for a lost shopper\u2014it goes a little ways in this direction, stops, goes off over there, stops again, retraces itself back to the starting point, then goes off on a totally different path. You can look at it and feel the shopper seething. Before long, the track goes right back out the door.\n\nMen dart in, look around, refuse to ask for help, try two or three directions, give up, and split. Boom. All a store can do is accommodate male nature by putting the goods men buy near the entrances and making the signs big and clear.\n\nNot long ago I toured a mall with a female executive I know. We had never been there before and tried to make use of the mall map, which was the typical vertical affair.\n\n\"Where's the little YOU ARE HERE symbol?\" she asked. \"Even that's tough to find.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" said an elderly man trying to study the map over our shoulders.\n\n\"Is this helpful?\" I asked.\n\n\"I've only been here one time before. I don't live around here, my daughter does. And the first time I tried using this map it took me two minutes just to find the YOU ARE HERE thingy. And look at it\u2014it's just a little sticker somebody stuck on here. It even covers a whole store!\"\n\nAn entire business wiped out by an instrument meant to help shoppers to find stores.\n\n\"The other day I saw an interesting mall map\u2014it was a Coke machine with the map on its side,\" my friend said.\n\n\"How was the map?\"\n\n\"Same as this. Same as all the rest.\"\n\n\"But you could buy a Coke from it?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Considering how long people end up staring at these maps, it was a pretty awesome product placement. What would improve these maps, really?\"\n\n\"Voice-recognition software maybe. You could ask the map, 'Where's the Banana Republic for women?' and a trail of tiny lightbulbs on the map would guide you from where you're standing to where the store is located. Or even better, they could install tiny lightbulbs in the actual floor of the mall, and when you ask for a store the floor itself would light up. You could just follow the bulbs to your destination.\"\n\n\"That's not a map, that's a guide.\"\n\nIn theory, there is something meant to perform that function: the mall's customer service desk. Every mall has one of these. They're intended to fulfill a narrow range of tasks: pointing lost shoppers in the right direction; selling mall gift certificates, reuniting lost kiddies with their keepers, and so on. Some malls use these desks to gather names for mailing lists\u2014they give you a bogus gift or mall membership card, and in exchange they get your name on their database, free of charge. It's a lot cheaper than buying mailing lists from direct marketers.\n\nThese desks might clear up a certain amount of shopper confusion, except that many malls defeat the purpose by placing them in a less-than-prominent location. Often, you need assistance just to find the assistance desk.\n\nThe key to a sense of place is often a human face. Management in malls is passive as far as the customer is concerned. While the premise of the mall is that we customers should wander, and that the longer they hold us the more we'll spend, many of us are making our shopping choices based on an understanding of how the layout works. For both male-hunter and female-gatherer, whether at the mall or in the woods, our use of shortcuts demonstrates our expertise. Teaching us to use the right mouse hole is also ensuring that we return. No expert shopper looks at a map, or visits the customer service desk, unless they must.\n\n## 7 Nose and Toes\n\nAT LAST, a store. The shopping begins.\n\nYou might think that retailers would fight to be nearest the entrances. But take a look at what's here, just inside the doorway. A hair salon on one side and a store that sells exercise equipment on the other. The beauty parlor is nearly full, although you can bet these are regular customers, not mall shoppers who have decided on impulse to get a cut and color. The exercise store is empty, which makes sense\u2014how many treadmills does the average consumer buy? If the shop sells one or two it's a good day. You'll sometimes find banks in these locations, another low-profile tenant. Post offices. Video game arcades. Why is it that the least attractive tenants get these high-traffic positions?\n\nCall it the mall's decompression zone. The fact is that when we enter any building, we need a series of steps just to make the adjustment between out there and in here. You need to slow your walk a little, allow your eyes to adjust to the change in lighting, give your senses a chance to detect changes in temperature and so on. You walk through any door and suddenly your brain has to take in a load of new information and process it so you'll feel oriented. You're not really ready to make any buying decisions for the first ten or fifteen feet. This transition stage is one of the most critical things we've learned in two decades of studying how shoppers move through retail environments. Nothing too close to the door really registers. If there's a sign, you probably won't read it. If there's a display of merchandise, you'll barely notice it. Some stores have the bad habit of stacking shopping baskets just inside the doorway. People zoom right past them.\n\nBecause of this transition zone, the best stores in the mall are never near the entrance. The reasoning is simple\u2014the mall owner charges every tenant a flat rent based on space plus a percentage of sales. So it's in the mall's own interest to have the hottest stores in the prime locations, inside. Because this particular doorway feels like a secondary entrance, only a small portion of all shoppers will even see these shops. Fewer eyeballs equals fewer bucks. That equation is the basis for all mall math. And that's why underachievers go nearest the door. When entering a mall, your eye is immediately drawn way up ahead, to the heart of the place. That's where you want to be. So let's join everybody else speeding past the ladies under the hair dryers. We've got a date.\n\nMy friend Carol understands a thing or two about shopping and malls. She's a fortyish woman who has spent plenty of her own time in stores. But she's also an executive with a major corporation that specializes in selling things to women shoppers. Carol's expertise is visual merchandising, meaning she's responsible for everything her company puts on the floor of a store\u2014the product, the displays, the signs, the whole thing, from sea to shining sea. So she knows her stuff.\n\nShe's also fun to shop with.\n\nCarol had requested that we rendezvous near a little-used doorway in one of the mall's department stores. It's a smart move for at least one reason\u2014the parking lot right outside here is never crowded.\n\n\"This is the entrance for somebody who really knows the mall,\" says Carol as she breezes through the door.\n\n\"Good call,\" I say.\n\nThis entrance takes us into Filene's, the famous Boston-based retailer, but not to the heart of the store. It takes us right into men's underwear.\n\nMen's underwear is the bottom of the barrel where Filene's is concerned, no doubt about it. This stuff sells twice a year, when it goes on sale. No man has ever come here to buy underwear. Their wives and girlfriends shop for them. Otherwise, it's the dead zone.\n\n\"Being a single woman, I don't need to pay any attention to men's stuff,\" Carol says. \"But this door gets me right to cosmetics. And there's something else that makes this a great entrance.\"\n\n\"Which is?\"\n\n\"The bathrooms are right over there.\"\n\n\"And the elevators and escalators.\"\n\n\"It's interesting,\" Carol says, \"how this out-of-the-way entrance puts us right into cosmetics and ladies' shoes, two of the most heavily trafficked areas of the store. People in the company probably thought it was crazy to put shoes and cosmetics across the aisle from each other because they couldn't see the connection. All they saw was why take two successful departments and put them close together? Where, in reality, being together like this makes each department even stronger.\"\n\n\"Because?\"\n\n\"Because think about it: You're standing in the shoe department, you've told the salesperson which styles you want to see in your size, and now you're waiting for her to get back. You're not going to keep looking at shoes, because you've already done that\u2014you did it before you sent the clerk away to get your size. Most logical thing in the world. So now where do you look? You look across the aisle at the cosmetics counters. You see all these things you want to try. And especially if you don't find anything to buy in the shoe department. You can walk right across the aisle and find something there.\"\n\n\"How did the executives miss that connection?\"\n\n\"Because the connection is all in the heads of the women shoppers, and it was probably men making the decisions about what would go where. What do shoes and lipstick have in common? Nothing. But because men don't shop for shoes like women do, they don't know what it's like to be a woman standing around for five minutes waiting for your size to arrive.\"\n\n\"Wait a sec\u2014sure they do.\"\n\n\"Well, then maybe men just don't behave like women do. Women want to look at something while they wait. They want to shop. I bet some woman had to point out to the store-planning executives that placing shoes and cosmetics close together was a good idea.\"\n\nThis is the kind of thing that comes up every day in my line of work watching people in stores. Any time a shopper is standing or sitting around with nothing to do, the retailer has got something to deal with. Problem or opportunity? It can go either way. Boredom makes time crawl. Interest makes it race. If a woman is bored waiting for the clerk to return with her shoes, the wait feels longer than it really is. The problem becomes an opportunity when, in instances such as this one, the retailer fills the empty moments in a potentially productive fashion. If there were something for that shopper to browse\u2014some other category of goods, like bags, or even something totally unrelated\u2014I don't know, laptop computers\u2014it could work. \"While you're waiting for your shoes, take a look at the slim new Apple notebooks we just got in....\"\n\nIf jamming the shoe department with unrelated merchandise feels like a bad idea, the retailer could try a message of some kind or other. Maybe a video catalog of what's new in the sportswear department. Maybe a sign explaining the store's made-to-measure suits. A good, long sign with lots of words would be sensible here\u2014you've got a captive audience for at least two minutes, and they'd be grateful for something absorbing.\n\nOr, as Filene's has done, you could put cosmetics adjacent to shoes. It's a smart move\u2014the makeup counters and shelves are big and graphic enough to see from this distance. Makeovers are also an activity and one of the reasons we go to the mall to get some action. Smart cosmetics companies vie to be near shoe departments in stores such as this. Of course, only one side of the cosmetics section can be facing the shoe department. So really smart cosmetics companies insist on being on the side that faces the shoes instead of, say, the side facing the handbag department. Smart stores have learned to treat anything that faces ladies' shoes as prime real estate.\n\n\"But there is a potential downside to this,\" I point out.\n\n\"Which is?\"\n\n\"Shallow loop.\"\n\n\"Oh, right.\"\n\nLet's say there's a woman out there who needs shoes and cosmetics. Two staples of malls and of women's lives. A smart shopper, one who really knows this mall, can park in our little-used lot, run in, get the shoes, get the cosmetics, and run back out to continue her busy day. That's a good thing, right? Maybe that woman would get her shoes and cosmetics elsewhere if she didn't know how easy Filene's makes it for her. The juxtaposition of these two departments here creates a third department\u2014the shoe/mascara section\u2014and drives sales.\n\nBut I could just as easily argue that putting two strong departments together like this squanders the power of each, individually, to attract shoppers. Carol alluded to that\u2014why put two magnets side by side when you can separate them and have each one draw women to their respective parts of the store? It's an old dilemma in retailing. Supermarket layouts always used to put the dairy case in the rearmost corner of the store, on the theory that everybody had to buy milk, meaning they'd all traipse through the rest of the store to get it. A sound practice, except that it gave rise to the convenience store as the supermarket's prime competitor. Instead of making it hard to buy milk, the C-store made it easy\u2014you park, run inside, grab the milk (which was probably within thirty feet of the door), pay, and are on your way. In response, some supermarkets created little C-stores within the store, just inside the entrance. If all you really needed was milk, you could get it and go. That's the shallow loop\u2014instead of going from the front door to the rear and back to the front again, you barely penetrate the store.\n\nWhich layout makes more sense? Each approach sacrifices something. The old-fashioned strategy for luring shoppers through the store works. But it makes getting what you want and getting out a little less convenient. Once shoppers caught on, they began to feel manipulated. Which is not a good thing.\n\n\"If you know this mall well, you know you can get in and out in twenty minutes. Today, speed is everything for most women,\" Carol says. \"This is good for the shopper.\"\n\n\"Though it could be bad for the retailer,\" I add.\n\n\"Well, I guess the retailer is going to have to figure something out.\"\n\nShopping with Carol is always productive for me because we tend to focus on what the process is like for women, and women are the primary actors in the world of shopping. Especially mall shopping.\n\nThe big theory of stores once held that women liked spending time in them because it was their main method of interacting with the world of grown-ups\u2014of business and finance and money. They were home all day with the kids, and then home all night, too. Their husbands were completely exhausted by their involvement in the world of commerce, and seeking a little bit of respite from it. Whereas she hungered for a life of adult concerns and activities.\n\nThe midcentury shift to the suburbs only increased female isolation. Now there was no such thing as a stroll down the street to the cleaners or the appliance store or the dress shop, since no place could be easily reached by walking, and in suburbia, even if you did walk, you didn't enjoy any of the happenstance meetings a city stroll afforded. Step outside your city door, and there was the world, filled with activity and purpose and hustle. Step outside your suburban door and there was...another homemaker, stepping outside her door, looking back at you.\n\nYou can see how shopping at the mall came to seem like an appealing activity. It wasn't everything a woman could wish for, true, but it was quite a bit better than anything else available.\n\nThe mall rose up in response to the suburban existence, but it actually came along on the cusp of yet another major demographic shift, one that would throw shopping centers for a loop. By the 1980s, a great many of those suburban homemakers had begun working outside the home, either full-or part-time. Roughly two-thirds of adult American women today work outside the home. Their infusion into the world of work is what made the past two decades of middle-class life so materially splendid, even extravagant. And it left women with a lot less time for the mall. Their lives became crunched, and the world of retailing\u2014stores, restaurants, and banking\u2014had to respond. Women became the most avid users of ATMs, for instance, contrary to what the banking gurus expected. Women weren't scared off by the new technology; in fact, in the workplace, they were the ones required to master innovations in hardware and software. Women were also caught most severely between competing responsibilities at work and at home (and in the commute between the two, which, again, affected suburban women most direly).\n\nThe restaurant and retail food industries have been utterly transformed by the needs of women who work. \"Meal replacement\" has become the hottest growth area in the food industry. Supermarkets are forever increasing the space devoted to making and selling of prepared foods\u2014you can't find a market today that doesn't include a bakery, charcuterie, soup station, salad bar, sushi chef. And what the supermarket doesn't do, the fast-food and family-restaurant chains do. We can complain all we like about the quality and nutritional value of the food these businesses provide\u2014and we might start by wondering if there's any connection between the boom in prepared meals and the obesity epidemic\u2014but we must give them their due when it comes to identifying and meeting a need.\n\nHow have the malls done in that regard? If women are at work, they're not at the shopping center. The very nature of the relationship between the woman shopper and the mall has been jeopardized. She no longer has the time to spend hours there, moving from shop to shop at a leisurely pace. She may now have to run in, grab what's necessary, then run out. Unless, of course, the mall can respond to the changes in her life with changes of its own.\n\nWhich brings us around to cosmetics. The beauty business is hardball, and yet it's full of voodoo, just as you might expect. It represents the triumph of hope over greed. There are many labels, each with its own niche and devotees, but for the most part the firms all buy their products from the same small group of factories. The cost of a lipstick and its packaging is around a dollar or so. The rest is marketing, distribution, and a whole lot of profit.\n\nThe world of beauty used to be divided into two classes\u2014the stuff sold at mass-market retailers (drugstores, supermarkets, discounters) and what went to the fancy cosmetics salons in department stores. Think Revlon, Cover Girl, and Maybelline at the former, versus Lanc\u00f4me and Est\u00e9e Lauder at the latter. It was a tidy little world, until competition came along and opened up some exciting new channels. Suddenly there were boutique brands sold directly through their own stores, such as Bobbi Brown, MAC, and Aveda. The French retailer Sephora came along with its sophisticated European stores and suddenly the world of beauty retailing became a lot less orderly and a lot more interesting, at least for the customers.\n\nLet's look at just one product\u2014hair color. When she's sixteen, hair color is a girl's fashion accessory. My goddaughter spent her teenage years changing the color of her hair every ten minutes. It was fun and easy. By twenty-three she had made peace with the color God gave her, which didn't stop her from coloring it for special events or to annoy her mother. It was still a fashion statement.\n\nFor most women, hair color starts to get serious at around age thirty-five. The search for her proper hue gets narrower, and the range of experimentation becomes focused and purposeful. By her mid-forties, hair coloring is a staple. She renews the coloring on a fixed schedule, whether at the salon or at home.\n\nCosmetics moves in the same arc, from play to necessity. For the young customer it is dress up. It's entertainment, and the range of options is governed by price and brand appeal. Most middle-class, middle-aged American women started buying cosmetics at the drugstore. Gen-X and Gen-Y got their start at Kmart, Target, or Wal-Mart, or at the supermarket, as the distribution of cosmetics fanned out. Historically, the department store sold to well-off middle-aged women. The price difference between a drugstore lipstick at $6 and the fancy department store brand at $22 is a big jump, even though the difference in quality is slight.\n\nLike hair color, makeup started out as fun and became a serious aspect of a woman's presentation to the world. As it traversed that span, it moved from the drugstore to the department store and went up in price. The ritual of putting on one's face in the morning and using restorative products at night was set.\n\nThe difference between mass and class (the industry term for the drugstore/Kmart/Wal-Mart and Filene's/Bloomingdale's/Burdines) was well defined until about ten years ago, when the lines started to blur. Today, the orderly world of cosmetics is gone. Some women shop both ends. They buy Revlon nail polish at the drugstore and Clinique face products at the department store. Women whose economic situations improved no longer reliably traded up from L'Or\u00e9al to Lanc\u00f4me. Those women didn't like the way goods were being sold to them; they especially resented the peculiar industry practice of not putting price tags on the goods. Many women were too intimidated to demand to know what they were spending, and walked away from the department store counter having shelled out a lot more than they were expecting to pay.\n\nSephora opened up a new world by introducing \"open sell.\" Traditionally, the salesperson at the department store was necessary to the transaction\u2014she was the go-between linking you the shopper to the cosmetics manufacturer. Letting women examine and try the products changed the nature of the relationship. It put the customer in charge and turned the sales associate into her makeup pal.\n\nDepartment stores' hold on the high-end cosmetics market has weakened, but makeup counters still occupy the prime real estate at the front of the store. That's due to the universal appeal of makeup, but equally to the fact that it is a high-margin category.\n\n\"They're willing to make less profit on apparel,\" Carol explains, \"so long as they can make more on mascara. A mascara dollar is worth more than a dress dollar.\"\n\nWe stop walking a second and look around at the spectacle before us. There's something Felliniesque about a department store cosmetics section. You stand here on a Saturday morning, dressed in the standard mall-casual suburban wardrobe, gazing at a chamber glittering with chandeliers, populated by saleswomen wearing makeup and hair dramatic enough for opening night at La Scala. Their faces are like masks of pale, poreless skin, ruby-red lips, smoldering eye treatments\u2014positively kabuki-like. They're almost intimidating.\n\nThe purchase of cosmetics is as public as a private art form gets. It isn't quite a massage, but it is an intimate act between two consenting adults. The beauty adviser will perform a makeover and offer advice, at the end of which you may simply walk away without making a purchase. So a good beauty adviser needs to build a following among her customers. Some cosmetic lines, such as Trish McEvoy, drive their business by staging mass makeover events where teams of \"expert stylists,\" including Trish herself, run marathon sessions. It's quite a show\u2014it sells a lot of cosmetics and builds a devoted following.\n\nI've always been fascinated by how selling cosmetics resembles fishing. The sales associate needs to get involved, but she can't rush things. If she offers help too soon, the shopper can easily demur and walk away. In fact, we learned that if the clerk approaches the shopper within the first thirty seconds, it scares her away. The trick is to let the customer browse unaided, then watch her carefully for the first time she raises her head, even for a second. That means she's found something she might want but needs a little information. It's the equivalent of a jerk on a fishing line\u2014that's the moment the sales associate needs to start reeling her in.\n\nCosmetics seem to be everywhere in this mall. In addition to department stores, you also have at least three or four cosmetics boutiques\u2014the specialty shops like MAC and Sephora and so on. And some of the stores that sell women's clothing also sell cosmetics. Victoria's Secret now does an entire companion store for cosmetics and bath and so on. And there's a drugstore, if not actually in the mall then very close by.\n\nWomen will shop for cosmetics just about anywhere. If a store can get a woman to look into a mirror, it can sell her lipstick or blusher. One hot new line of cosmetics is sold only through plastic surgeons' offices. The thing that male researchers misunderstand is how most women buy cosmetics. Overwhelmingly, they purchase cosmetics on impulse\u2014a woman approaches the counter, looks into the mirror, realizes that her lips could stand some color. So she begins to shop to meet that immediate need. She may also buy because she's low on mascara or she lost her favorite eyebrow pencil. But by and large it's for right now.\n\nHere's another bit of voodoo in the world of high-end cosmetics. They never go on sale. Ever. Because women, it is thought, will not buy discounted cosmetics. It feels wrong. They'll buy anything else marked down as low as possible. The other day I came upon a huddle of sophisticated young Manhattan women, shivering outside on the coldest day of the year, waiting in line at the Manolo Blahnik sale. Women will risk hypothermia to save money on stiletto heels, but cut-rate cosmetics feels like you're putting something ratty on your face.\n\nSo instead of sales, the manufacturers offer something known as gift-with-purchase. Spend this much today, and you get this free gift package containing blah, blah, blah\u2014a $25 value. The point is to give you the sensation of having saved $25 without having to discount the cosmetics. That system has been in place for probably thirty years now. The gift is intended to introduce eager shoppers to new products. But the industry has found that if there are three free things, maybe the customer will use two and come back to buy one. Cosmetics executives rue the day the gift-with-purchase policy began, but it's now a habit neither they nor their customers can break.\n\n\"There's a final issue playing out in cosmetics,\" I say.\n\n\"Which is?\"\n\n\"The level of importance of anything women put on either nose or toes.\"\n\nFor most women, those are the areas that matter most. The extremes\u2014the face and hair and the feet. When choosing a jacket or a skirt, there's some leeway for color and style and fit. Even in underwear. Most women are not expecting absolute perfection. But when you're talking about makeup or shoes, the standards suddenly go way up. No woman is going to settle.\n\n\"And women always shop those two departments, don't they?\" I ask.\n\n\"Yes,\" says Carol, \"it's something I notice when I shop with my sister or my friends. No matter what else we look at, we always go through cosmetics and shoes. You just do. If we're shopping a high-end store or a discounter, no difference. It's like you can't not go. Even if it means you're just sort of walking through and browsing because you're looking for something that gets you excited.\"\n\n\"I want you to give me a little guided tour of the counters here.\"\n\n\"Okay. Well, the first thing you may have noticed here is that there's almost no real selling space. Look at this counter.\"\n\nIt's a typical cosmetics counter.\n\n\"On the counter you have your visual here\u2014the sign that announces they're giving away a free gift. Next to that is your tester unit, with a small sign giving some price information. But where do you do your selling? Where's a little bit of empty counter where you and the shopper can talk and put a few possible purchases down?\n\n\"Come over into this area\u2014you've got a major tester unit showing all the different shades of lipstick, then you've got a smaller color thing, and now we finally find maybe six inches of horizontal space. And a mirror, too, at last. So it's four or five feet of solid merchandise without a single mirror. I don't care where you go or which cosmetics counter you visit, nobody understands the mirror, which should be the simplest thing here. It's what cosmetics counters should be built around. How can you buy cosmetics without a mirror?\"\n\nThis is a major problem in the cosmetics department. Insufficient mirrors. Not only too few, but also too small, and not well positioned, and not properly illuminated. This is true despite the fact that the mirror is the one thing that every woman shopping here really wants to see. She wants to see what's in the mirror. That's what she's buying. Not the poster. Not the lighting. If cosmetics departments were designed for the way women really use them, there would be plenty of mirrors, all at the right height. A shopper would be able to see her face from twenty paces away. It's what would draw her in. And all the expensive, flattering lighting would be trained on the shoppers' faces, not on Elizabeth Hurley's.\n\nHowever, you can quickly scan the department and figure out which furnishings were thought to be most critical by the retailer. The graphics\u2014the big, expensive posters, replicas of the big, expensive ads that ran in Vanity Fair and Vogue\u2014are beautifully realized and prominently displayed and advantageously illuminated by spotlights. Somebody believes in these ads. The merchandise comes second.\n\nYou might think that given enough time and money, somebody would solve the problem of cosmetic tester units. But it hasn't happened yet. The challenge is to come up with a display that shows all the various shades of lipstick or powder or eye shadow and so forth, and allows the woman to try a few herself. This hunk of plastic (which is what it usually is) is the keystone of the open-sell method of cosmetics retailing. Without it\u2014without giving women a way to see what that shade looks like on her skin\u2014it all comes to naught. Women are always looking for something new in cosmetics. Even if they love the shade of lipstick they're using now, they're keen to find something newer, or better.\n\nEach of these testers starts life looking attractive and inviting, brimming with shades and textures and so on. Then it hits the store, and all hell breaks loose. Women start using them! And that's where the illusion begins to disintegrate. In order to touch one pot of lip gloss, it is almost impossible to avoid dragging your cuff through three others. Or as soon as you pick up one pencil, all the rest go rolling onto the floor.\n\n\"They're struggling with pencils, too,\" Carol says. \"Everybody has a problem with pencils. Nobody has figured out how to sell the pencil piece in an open-sell environment. And the lipstick presentation leaves a lot to be desired. The cleanliness problem is the number-one issue. Cleanliness is critical. Your lips are a very personal area.\"\n\n\"Don't you think the mirrors should be magnified?\" I ask. \"You know, as we get older, our eyes get worse. And the older shoppers are the ones who really need makeup, more than the kids do.\"\n\n\"Absolutely. But the companies don't design these departments to make the shopper the star. To them, the star of this counter is the supermodel or the celebrity who's in the ad campaign. After all, they paid her a ton of money\u2014she must be the star. After her, the secondary star is the lady who is selling the product. Then, in last place, comes the customer. It's totally wrong.\"\n\n\"And the lights here are horrible....\"\n\nThat wasn't Carol or me\u2014it was the sales associate, a very pleasant-seeming lady who has been quietly eavesdropping but now has her own two cents to contribute.\n\n\"They really are, aren't they?\" Carol sympathizes. \"Fluorescent lights give everything a yellow cast. It makes it hard to know what a color really will look like.\"\n\n\"Well, that's why I suggest that they go over to that full-length mirror there, near the window.\"\n\n\"You see?\" Carol says. \"That's what a good salesperson does. How long have you been here?\"\n\n\"Two years in November. Are you people with the main office?\" the saleslady asks us. \"Because if you are, we have no product here on the floor.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I can see that,\" Carol says.\n\n\"The shelves are empty. I have nothing to offer. I am absolutely down on everything. And I won't sell my customers something that's wrong for them.\"\n\n\"That's great.\"\n\n\"Because then she'll never come back to me. I don't make customers, I make friends.\"\n\n\"As it should be,\" Carol says.\n\n\"Well, have a lovely day. It's a shame you have to spend it in here like I do.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Carol says. \"We're shopping. This is fun.\"\n\n## 8 Sex and the Mall\n\nNOW WE'RE leaving cosmetics behind and strolling the rest of the mall. We've gone a few paces before we come upon a window display that stops us, which is what they're supposed to do.\n\nWe're looking into the window of H&M, the giant Swedish apparel chain. They've done an outstanding job of cornering the market for what I call disposable clothes\u2014garments that look really trendy and stylish but cost around $25 or less. Teenagers worship H&M. The window is populated by sylphlike mannequins, reed-thin representations of your average postadolescent girl-woman. Not one of them is dressed in anything you'd expect to see worn at Sunday school.\n\n\"My niece will make my sister take her to H&M every time they visit me in New York,\" Carol says. \"My sister likes the prices but hates the styles.\"\n\n\"Some of it's like hooker wear, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Teenage hooker wear.\"\n\n\"Older people look at how girls dress, with the belly exposed and hipbones exposed and the tight, flimsy tops and skin-tight pants, and it alarms them. But young girls have no idea what a hooker looks like or even what a hooker is. To her, it's just how glamorous young women look today.\"\n\n\"The other thing to keep in mind is that grandmothers today also dress less conservatively than ever before. When the line moves, it moves for everybody.\"\n\nWe move a few stores along, until the window with the number-one \"capture rate\" in any mall in America stops us again.\n\n\"Here's where mall sex really started,\" Carol says.\n\n\"Is that what Victoria's Secret is selling?\"\n\n\"I think it's selling sex appeal. Inexpensive sex appeal. Women visit this store to get in touch with their feminine side. The company has taken underwear from being a staple to being something where there's a personal connection. This is especially true for women thirty-five and younger. Though I always wonder what the woman who's over thirty-five is supposed to do about getting in touch with her feminine side.\n\n\"Another example of how the mall reflects real life\u2014because when women hit a certain age, society stops thinking of them as sexy. The stores are an example of that. Compare the H&M window with a window aimed at the fifty-year-old woman.\"\n\n\"Susan Sarandon must be pushing fifty-five.\"\n\n\"Sophia Loren passed sixty many moons ago. Where do you think she shops?\"\n\n\"The funny part is that while Victoria's Secret sells modestly priced goods, older women could and absolutely would pay a good deal more for lingerie,\" I point out. \"They're the ones who have the higher disposable income, and their tastes are more sophisticated. They're ready to splurge a little on themselves, to go along with the pedicures, facials, body waxings, spa treatments, and botox. They'd pay big bucks for gorgeous, high-quality underwear. If only somebody would sell it to them.\"\n\n\"There are fancier brands of lingerie, but sold either in department stores or in boutiques. Victoria's Secret has a special label for older shoppers, but I think the company is missing a bet by not opening a separate chain of stores for them. They could call it Victoria's Mother's Secret.\"\n\n\"They're also not aggressively serving the plus-size woman of any age,\" I say. \"Now, maybe they don't want older or bigger women because they're afraid it would drive away the young, thin shopper. But it seems there must be a way for them to go after those other markets, too.\"\n\n\"Especially when you consider that a substantial percentage of the population of American women is overweight,\" says Carol. \"And they're not even all old. I see a lot of fat teenagers and women in their twenties.\"\n\n\"Well, there is a high fashion chain now for young chubbies.\"\n\n\"I've seen it. There's a chain of stores called Torrid. And the clothes they sell are sexy.\"\n\n\"Yes indeed. Big young girls tend to get big in the right places.\"\n\n\"And they're not bashful, either. As long as they're fat and curvy, they can make it work. Major cleavage. Narrow at the waist and tight on the butt.\"\n\n\"This is one of those weird gulfs between media imagery and real life,\" I say. \"Judging by the fashion magazines you'd think that women would be ashamed to be overweight. Judging by how the weight of the average American girl has gone up, though, you get the opposite impression. But even if Victoria's Secret carried big sizes, could big girls get away with wearing this stuff?\"\n\n\"Like thongs, you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, yeah.\"\n\n\"Big girls wear thongs, believe me,\" Carol says. \"And they buy them here, too. You won't see plus-size mannequins, but thong sizes absolutely go up to extra-large, you'll notice.\"\n\n\"Victoria's Secret really did make it okay for the average young woman to wear racy underwear.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Carol, \"and the advantage of the low prices is that you can wear the stuff as long as it's fun, then replace it. This is where girls go when they first begin buying their own underwear. This is how they announce, 'My mom doesn't buy my underwear anymore.' Victoria's Secret sells hottie underwear for Catholic girls. It's not sleazy or even too sophisticated. They steered clear of the Frederick's of Hollywood image of a lingerie store. They got rid of the red and made it all pink.\"\n\n\"So, they do a good job, right?\" I ask.\n\n\"They could do better,\" Carol says. \"One problem I have with all lingerie stores is that\u2014look, here you have a section of bras. And nowadays, every bra does something a little different. It's gotten to be like cosmetics in that regard. But there's no way to know which bra does what unless you've had personal experience with it. There's no information here to explain that this bra does blah, blah, and blah. This one pushes them together, and this one shoves them up, and here's one for strapless dresses. Now, partly that is intentional. They don't want you to get too much information on your own. They'd rather even confuse you a little so that you'll take a whole bunch of bras into the dressing room, because the more you take in, they know, the better the chance that you'll buy multiple items. They've measured this, and they're right. But at the same time, it frustrates consumers.\"\n\nCarol is right about that: There's no communication here, no sign that says, for example, \"If you've always loved this kind of bra, you'll probably love this new style, too.\" Maybe there could even be an informational display telling a young woman how to build a proper lingerie wardrobe. Like, you'll need one of these and two of those and here's how to choose these little thingies.\n\n\"Women pick up their knowledge of cosmetics and lingerie in a totally ad hoc way,\" Carol says. \"You see something about push-up bras in a magazine, or your older sister lends you her new lip gloss, and you kind of piece your information together like that.\"\n\n\"It's like locker room conversation.\"\n\n\"Right. You see somebody else try it, and you ask a few questions...\"\n\n\"The same way adolescents learn about sex. You read three issues of Cosmo, and then a fifteen-year-old tells you the rest.\"\n\nWe've made it all the way up to the second level of the mall. We've broken out of that little cluster of stores serving young female sexuality. But we're now looking into a den of older female sexuality\u2014the threshold of a fancy department store's fragrance section. Department stores always put the fragrance section at the entrance.\n\n\"Is this positioning a good idea or bad, do you think?\" I ask.\n\n\"Bad. The thing about fine fragrance is that people buy it twice a year.\"\n\n\"Christmas...\"\n\n\"...and Mother's Day. Maybe Valentine's Day, too, although men are much less confident buying perfume than women are.\"\n\n\"Tell me what you think of that,\" I say, nodding toward the huge poster above the counter. It shows a brooding, sulky-lipped hunk, a stud of maybe twenty-one or so, with hairless, highly sculpted pectoral muscles on prominent display.\n\n\"It doesn't do anything for me,\" Carol says. \"He's the son of the consumer, not the man she's going to bed with. I bet he's a good fifteen years younger than the average shopper in this section. I mean, put Harrison Ford up there, not this twenty-year-old. He's a boy. This is the Madison Avenue mentality at work. Some creatives and executives in an ad agency dream this up and cast it and style it and shoot it without bothering to understand the consumer\u2014the person who will have to look at it. They imagine how the picture will look in the ad in Vanity Fair or on TV, without considering how it will play in the store. They may want to target a younger consumer. They feel that the way to do this is with a new men's fragrance geared toward this beautiful young man. They hope they'll bring a younger woman to the counter to buy this new fragrance for her young man, and then she'll shop the cosmetics, too.\"\n\n\"Won't that work?\"\n\n\"Look around.\"\n\nOuch. Department stores' core shoppers are getting old, and no young women are taking their place.\n\n\"Also, men anywhere near fragrance or cosmetics is a nonstarter.\"\n\n\"Same for lingerie?\" I ask.\n\n\"Nearly as bad.\"\n\n\"Apparel?\"\n\n\"About the same.\"\n\n\"If a man is uncomfortable hanging around in the perfume aisle or shopping the racks of undergarments, is he likely to buy there?\" I ask.\n\n\"I don't see how he could.\"\n\n\"I wonder what would happen if, say, Victoria's Secret were to open a ministore just for male shoppers at Christmas or Valentine's Day. It might look a lot like the store now does. But it would work differently,\" I say. \"It would have to actually address size and function, and in a completely new way. Women know their sizes, and so it's no great trick to handle that when they're shopping for themselves.\"\n\n\"A woman knows her man's sizes, but men don't know women's, do they?\"\n\n\"Men don't even know their own sizes,\" I say. \"Remember, we saw men's underwear being sold to women in Filene's. Can you imagine finding women's underwear for sale in a men's clothing store? Years ago, one of our video cameras caught a guy shopping the underwear rack when he suddenly twisted around, pulled out his waistband in back and attempted to read the size on the label. It's conceivable that in his entire life he had never before bought his own underwear\u2014first his mother bought it, then his girlfriends, now his wife.\"\n\n\"Can you imagine a woman not knowing what size panties she wears?\" Carol says.\n\n\"Unimaginable.\"\n\n\"Anyway, you can see how men might feel ill at ease buying lingerie for women. For starters, he doesn't know her size. I guess if he was really intent on buying her something intimate, he could always snoop around in her dresser drawer and read a few labels.\"\n\n\"True,\" I say, \"but that requires some forethought. Plus, it sounds perverted. If he gets caught, she may think he's looking for something lacy to wear under his Dockers. How would you handle ladies' lingerie for the impulse gift buy? It's February 13, and he's in a panic. He's already been to the jewelry store and didn't find anything he liked in his price range. He's prowling the mall like a desperate animal. Time is running out. Suddenly he notices a display window filled with lingerie. The lightbulb goes on\u2014for what a modest piece of jewelry costs, he can get something truly extravagant in the fancy underwear department.\"\n\n\"If only he knew her size,\" Carol says. \"It's tragic.\"\n\n\"What do you suggest?\"\n\n\"He can say to the saleswoman, 'She's around your height...' \"\n\n\"Or, 'Gee, I think her breasts are a little bigger than yours.' \"\n\n\"Or, 'Hmm, let me hold your butt a second so I can figure out if she's a medium or a large.' \"\n\n\"That might be beyond what most salesclerks are willing to abide, even those working on commission,\" I say.\n\n\"How about if they had mannequins of various sizes?\"\n\n\"And a bunch of male customers lined up, fondling them? I don't see that, either. Maybe a gift certificate works best here.\"\n\n\"Or maybe at gift time the window display is dominated by garments where size is easiest\u2014robes instead of bras.\"\n\n\"Anything sheer,\" I say.\n\n\"Or black leather,\" Carol says.\n\n\"The point is that it's possible to make women's merchandise easier for men to buy. And that doing so around the romance-friendly holidays might not be a bad idea. I think if men walked by Victoria's Secret and saw that some of the signs and posters and photographs were directed specifically at them, they'd feel more welcome. Just something that says, 'Sir, we'd love to show you a few perfect gifts for her.' Because right now that entire store announces, 'Hey, buddy, stay the hell out of here.' \"\n\n\"It's true,\" she says. \"You don't see many men in there, do you?\"\n\n\"Sure don't. And the few who are here are all just tagging along with wives or girlfriends, with their eyes cast downward in case they accidentally see something. They're ashamed! Look at that one pathetic little chair in front of the pillar, up by the register. That's the entire accommodation for men who end up inside the store. It looks like a punishment\u2014like the dunce chair. Merely by sitting there, a man announces, 'I am an emasculated husband waiting uncomfortably for my wife to find a thong in her size.' Especially in a mall store, where you know the woman is likely to be with her family, you've got to plan for the nonshopper as much as the shopper. A Victoria's Secret on a city street, where the typical customer is a woman on her lunch break, can get away with neglecting the needs of men and children. A mall store cannot.\"\n\n\"But this mall does have areas where people who aren't shopping can just sit and wait or read the paper or watch everybody else, doesn't it?\" Carol says.\n\n\"Sure it does. But think about the way it works in real life. The couple is walking along when suddenly it hits her that she needs underwear. Here are her choices. She can ask him to come inside the store with her. Or, she can run in alone and leave him standing out here cooling his heels in front of a window populated by panties and bras, which means that every window shopper who passes will be staring straight at him, too. He'll love that. Or, he can find another store to go and browse, assuming there's anything he finds remotely interesting in the immediate vicinity. Maybe there is a record store or bookstore or the new Apple computer store or something like that. But most malls now group merchandise categories, meaning the women's clothing store is probably surrounded by other shops of interest to women. So he's screwed. He could go all the way down the corridor and around the corner to the public seating area. But he may not even know it's there, and secondly, she's assured him she'll just be two minutes, and so he's got to ask himself if it's worth his while to go so far to kill a hundred and twenty seconds. If there was a small waiting area just outside the store, he'd probably go there. But then you run the risk that you'll have a gaggle of guys loitering outside the lingerie store, which isn't the most agreeable setting for female push-up bra shoppers. I think that lingerie stores should do more to make males feel at ease.\"\n\n\"I disagree completely,\" Carol says. \"No woman in her right mind wants to come into this store with her husband and children. This is not the kind of thing you want to be shopping for where your guy or, even worse, your eight-year-old son, can watch. You're in here to create a little romantic fantasy starring yourself, and it doesn't involve somebody's lumpy husband or bratty kids whining to go to the food court. I think it's smart of them to make it difficult for men to loiter in here, and I bet they did it as a conscious decision.\"\n\nThat's a good point. It runs completely counter to all that we've learned about the science of shopping, and yet I am convinced that maybe she's on to something. We once studied a store that sold dishes and tabletops and so on. We saw that many women came in with their husbands, but the men got bored tagging along, and, as a result, the women seemed pressured. The store tried adding products men might browse\u2014bar items like cocktail shakers, shot glasses, and so on. When that happened, the men went off on their own, and total shopping time for couples rose. Sales rose, too.\n\nBut perhaps what's right for dishes is totally wrong for lingerie. Maybe the woman wants to tell her husband and kids to get lost for fifteen minutes, and going into Victoria's Secret is a good way to do so.\n\nA recent study of how men and women differ when it comes to the mall turned up this fact: Men, once you get them in the door, are much more interested in the social aspect of malls than the shopping part, whereas women say the social aspect is important but shopping comes first. Men enjoy the mall as a form of recreation\u2014they like watching people and browsing around in stores more than shopping. Maybe they'll spend fifteen minutes in a bookstore or a stereo store and leave without buying a thing. They treat it like an information-gathering trip. Men also like the nonretail parts\u2014the rock-climbing walls, the food courts, anything that doesn't actually require them to enter stores and look at, try on, or buy merchandise. Women, of course, are there for exactly those things. The only females who truly love the nonshopping aspects of the mall are teenage girls. They love shopping, of course, but they also love the food courts and video arcades and all that stuff, too. And that's probably because the mall is the only nonhome, nonschool environment they have. But they outgrow that by the time they're in college. From then on, they're at malls to shop.\n\n\"Let's get back to where to put fragrance if we want men to buy it,\" I say.\n\n\"In Sears near the power tools?\"\n\n\"I bet more men would buy it there than in the cosmetics department.\"\n\n\"Where else?\"\n\n\"Closer to jewelry might work,\" I say. \"In fact, you could group all the traditional gifts that men give women and see how that works. That's one of the few remaining advantages this department store has over a specialty shop or boutique\u2014that wide range of merchandise. They can get a little creative with their juxtapositions.\"\n\n\"So you'd have fragrance, jewelry, and lingerie all together, in a way that feels male-accessible,\" Carol says.\n\n\"Yeah. You'd put up graphics showing a man making a purchase of something gift-wrapped with a pink bow. With that big hint, at least some men might be psychologically able to enter the area and shop it. Put a salesclerk at the entrance to guide men across the threshold\u2014a good-looking woman to take him by the arm and gently drag him inside. And I think women would be willing to buy things there, too.\"\n\n\"The Extravagance Shop.\"\n\n\"Right. I'd give it a name to appeal to guys. It would give them permission to shop there, something men really don't have now in women's departments. And I'd make sure it was marketed to male shoppers, especially around the usual gift times like Christmas, Valentine's Day....\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Carol. \"Because fragrance only gets shopped twice a year, having it at the entrance gives the impression that the store is empty.\"\n\n\"It is less crowded there than anywhere else, but is that a bad thing?\"\n\n\"Sure, who wants to shop at a store where nobody goes? It's like going into an empty restaurant. It doesn't inspire great confidence.\"\n\n\"Do you know why fragrance is traditionally right inside the entrance in department stores?\" I say. \"Because, back in the days before cars, the perfume section was a bulwark against the stench of horse manure coming in from the street.\"\n\n\"Fascinating,\" says Carol.\n\nSounds like Carol's had her fill of the mall, considering that today's her day off and she spends plenty of work time in shopping centers anyway. It's an occupational hazard, mall-sickness, one even I've experienced. Time to move on.\n\n## 9 The Charmin Challenge\n\nI NEED TO use the bathroom, and you're coming with me.\n\nFrom the developers' point of view, this particular amenity is a necessary evil. If you're going to invite people to your mall, not to mention your food court, you've got to give them toilets. You don't have a choice. This may sound like a callous attitude\u2014and it is\u2014but it's also easy to understand. It's a real cost and effort to keep public bathrooms presentable.\n\nBathrooms are nothing but trouble. Years ago, some mall men's rooms were notorious as gay trysting stations, particularly ones located within department stores. It's less of an issue today. One wise developer I know always locates the manager's office near the johns, on the theory that employees will therefore be more likely to check in on the facility from time to time. I can't say whether it makes a bit of difference.\n\nYou can just imagine the insurance and legal liability issues that arise. To the extent that muggings do occur in malls, they may take place in rest rooms, which are usually hidden down some lonesome corridor away from the main thoroughfare. In fact, that's the best way to find the bathroom in an unfamiliar mall\u2014look around for the least inviting hallway, the narrow one where the lighting is dimmest.\n\nSee? Here's just such a passage radiating off the promenade. It's gloomy and unwelcoming\u2014if the mall were an urban setting, this would be an alley. Come on, let's go inside.\n\nThis is the typical mall bathroom\u2014institutional tile and porcelain in neutral shades. At least it's clean, and it appears there are paper towels in the dispensers.\n\nIt's always striking how planners of big public places such as malls, sports arenas, concert halls, and so on mishandle the gender differential in bathrooms. Just stand out in the corridor and count the number of people walking in the rest room doors. You'll learn an important fact that architects seem never to realize.\n\nWomen use the bathroom more than men. They spend more time in them, too. These must be little-understood truths; otherwise, there would be twice as many ladies' bathrooms as men's, or the former would be double the size of the latter. But they're not. Planners are rigidly symmetrical where bathrooms are concerned. It's why, for instance, you often see a line outside the ladies' room but rarely at the gents'.\n\nWhen you consider how much the mall depends on the goodwill of its female market base in particular, you can see how the number and condition of bathrooms might be somewhat important. As we've seen elsewhere, the critical issue for mall owners is finding ways to extend the average visit. Talk to any woman and you quickly learn how pleasant bathrooms make prolonged visits possible, while nasty toilets encourage the quick in-and-out.\n\nNot only do women use rest rooms more often than men do, but they require more once there. Is it any surprise that male mall executives might not always provide for the most pleasant breast-feeding experience? It isn't, but that's one of the added functions I'm talking about, and an important one considering how happy many mothers of young children are to take advantage of a mall's distractions.\n\nI admire any mall, department store, or other retailer that pays attention to the lowly toilet, for that is a company building goodwill. There are so few good public facilities in America that firms which provide them will stand out. If you walk the streets of New York today, there are only a few reliable bathroom stops you can make: most hotel lobbies, and, for some reason, any Barnes & Noble. Even their men's rooms feature baby changing tables, which exhibits a sure knowledge of customer habits, since so many urbane dads take the little ones out for a stroll to the nearest bookstore. The bathrooms designed by Philippe Starck for the Delano and Paramount Hotels are so distinctive that they've become required stops for tourists. Still, most public places\u2014malls included\u2014go on treating this most necessary and human place as something shameful.\n\nBut at least the mall can be counted on to provide a bathroom of some sort. Retailers and even fast-food restaurants have seen fit to phase out this particular amenity, which strikes me as a heartless disregard for their customers' humanity and dignity. But they save a lot of dough and aggravation. The other day I was in a Starbucks in New York when a customer asked for the rest room. She had a French accent, and so, I assume, she had grown up under the misguided notion that businesses selling beverages make some accommodation for nature's call.\n\n\"We don't have bathrooms,\" the barista said, then added helpfully: \"Try the diner on the corner\u2014they have bathrooms.\"\n\nMaybe it's just in the United States that we're so weird about washing and changing and going to the bathroom? In some Japanese stores and malls, you'll find freestanding sinks located outside of the bathrooms, permitting shoppers who need only to wash their hands a way to do so without crowding the johns. It is also a public statement about hygiene as an important issue. That's a smart move, but not surprising in a culture where bathing has an exalted role in the average person's life. (Some Japanese public toilets are equipped with bidets.)\n\nWhat always amazes me as I stand in this spot is that the mall, which is a temple to blandishment and consumption, can't think of a single interesting thing to do with a bathroom. Here you've got a captive audience, one that will probably spend at least sixty seconds or so with nothing much to see or hear. And the mall does zero to fill those empty moments.\n\nWhat would a more enterprising mind do? Well, the simplest solution would be to sell some advertising positions\u2014maybe a few poster spots over the urinals, or on the inside of stall doors, or above the sinks. That's the obvious answer.\n\nThe rest room could be turned over to one of the several shops in the mall selling bath-related products, such as soap, skin cream, fragrance, hair care. Your average mall bathroom's ambience would be dramatically improved if, say, Aveda or The Body Shop furnished the sinks with samples of various sweet-smelling goods. Even cosmetics would work here\u2014women love trying the newest lipstick or fragrance. A woman could test some new soap or moisturizer, want more, and be directed to the store to find it. A guy could discover some new hair gel or virile cologne and do likewise. Or there could be monitors showing promotional fashion videos or new DVD releases from the music store. The acoustics in here would be awesome with a decent sound system.\n\nNot long ago I toured a new prototype store for Lowe's, the home improvement chain, with maybe ten members of the senior marketing team. At some point I asked to see the ladies' room, which caused a certain amount of unease among my all-male companions, but we found a woman to enter first to check if the coast was clear, and in we went. The first shock came when a quick poll of the group revealed that not one of these men had ever been in a ladies' room, despite their high position and years of service at a company that depends on female customer satisfaction practically above all else. The second revelation was that the bathroom, while clean and odorless, was also the most generic, no-frills facility imaginable\u2014kind of weird, I pointed out, in a store that tries hard to convince people to buy modern, luxurious bathrooms.\n\n\"Has no one ever considered using this as a kind of showroom for the things you sell out there on the floor of the store, twenty-five feet away?\" I asked. \"What if you turned each bathroom over to a different manufacturer?\" I asked. \"This could be the American Standard rest room, and they would install all their coolest sinks and toilets here, and maybe Kohler could redo the men's room, and so on like that.\"\n\nI've suggested to the marketing people at Proctor & Gamble that they sponsor ladies' rooms in major airports\u2014hire an attendant with a mop and a bucket to keep the place clean, and stock the joint with all their newest products. They could, in each stall, offer some no-frills brand of toilet paper alongside the latest, plushest innovation from Charmin\u2014a comparison test at least as compelling as the Pepsi challenge. It isn't an outlandish proposal\u2014if the magic bullet in twenty-first-century marketing is creating buzz, the bathroom at the airport has the right demographics, enough anxiety to ensure that most people's personal radar systems are up and running, and the assurance that whatever the impression\u2014it's going somewhere.\n\nThe fact that no bathroom to my knowledge does any of this\u2014and I make a point of visiting the rest rooms on every mall trip\u2014is but one more example of the usual disconnect between the real estate\u2014minded management and the building's function as one great big retailing machine. An entrepreneurial approach to the well-appointed rest room could turn even this place into a profit center.\n\n## 10 Status Anxiety and  \nBack Pockets\n\nWE'RE about to plunge into another shopping expedition. We have a seemingly straightforward task before us\u2014finding jeans for Michelle. But as is usually the case in the mall, nothing is as simple as it seems.\n\nWe're going to meet Michelle near the Ralph Lauren store, which is as good a landmark as any. She is a twenty-year-old who hails from Staten Island. She has an Irish father and Palestinian mother, giving her a lovely olive complexion and a wit more mature than her years. She has a very precise style, no unusual piercings, no visible tattoos. Her eyebrows are neatly manicured, and occasionally the makeup gets a little dramatic.\n\nStaten Island is a New York City borough separated from the rest of the world by three bridges and a ferry. It has a short subway, a small greenbelt, and a Tibetan art museum that more outsiders than locals know about. Staten Island weddings are famous for the pastel colors of the dresses and dinner jackets of the bridesmaids and ushers. Parts of it are grimy and industrial, but the side that faces New York Harbor has some of the most spectacular views on the eastern seaboard. The Verrazano Narrows Bridge linking Staten Island with Brooklyn has a $9 toll, making it an expensive trip to the mainland. It is home to mobsters and hardworking immigrants making the transition from urban to suburban life. Historically, the only reason to leave is to work or to visit Yankee Stadium, and now that Staten Island has its own minor league baseball club, there is even less reason to wander.\n\nMichelle gets up before dawn to make the ninety-minute commute to her job in Manhattan. Twice a month she'll go clubbing there on a weekend night. Through her job and her excursions, she's seen the world beyond her island. As the product of a blue-collar family in a pink-collar job, she is growing in white-collar directions. Her aspirations and appetites are as boundless as her pocketbook is limited. She lives at home, and a big piece of her paycheck is devoted to car payments. She has definitely outgrown her teenage years. She knows the names of some famous English DJs, giggles at Cosmo, and can spot (or thinks she can) a fake Herm\u00e8s bag at twenty-five paces. She knows about classic good looks and works hard to present herself.\n\nTo Michelle, our mall is nirvana. To get there she has to drive past at least three other major shopping centers, but she'll make this trip two or three times a year.\n\nAnd here she is, right on time.\n\n\"Michelle, how far are we from your home?\"\n\n\"Hmm, maybe twenty-five minutes if there's no traffic.\"\n\n\"So it's not really far. But this isn't your usual mall, is it?\"\n\n\"No, there are two other malls where we'd normally go.\"\n\n\" 'We' meaning?\"\n\n\"Me and my girlfriends.\"\n\nShe's here alone today.\n\n\"Why do you come here?\" I ask.\n\n\"It's got some nicer stores that the other malls don't have. There's a Diesel and an Armani Exchange here. This is where you come when you know what you're looking for. This isn't a browsing mall for us.\"\n\n\"What does that mean? Why wouldn't you come here to browse?\"\n\n\"Because everything here is more expensive than at the other malls. And it's farther away.\"\n\n\"Got it. If you were here with your friends, would you all drive separately?\"\n\n\"No, together.\"\n\nWe're walking past a department store when we see a sign announcing the presence of Georg Jensen silver.\n\n\"What do you think of this sign here?\" I ask.\n\n\"I have no idea what it means.\"\n\n\"Do you know the name Georg Jensen?\"\n\n\"I wish I did, because it makes me feel a little ignorant to see a sign like that and have no clue what it's about.\"\n\n\"It's a Scandinavian silver maker. Just a brand name, like Ralph Lauren.\"\n\n\"Actually,\" she says, \"I went into the Ralph Lauren store while I was waiting for you.\"\n\n\"Did you look at jeans?\"\n\n\"No, I felt invisible there.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Because nobody seemed to notice me, not even the salesclerks.\"\n\n\"So you left.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Is there something intimidating to you about this mall?\"\n\n\"Sort of.\"\n\n\"Can you describe it?\"\n\n\"Well, you walk in, I don't know...if I go into Saks, I don't feel like anyone thinks I'm going to be a big spender, so they don't care enough to ask me how I'm doing, or if I found my size or anything like that. I even get the same feeling about the people who shop in the mall. That they're all kind of snooty, and so the people who work in the stores are, too. Or they want to be snooty.\"\n\nWe enter a fashionable young women's apparel retailer.\n\n\"Have you been in this store before?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Ever bought anything?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe slender and attractive sales associate comes over.\n\n\"Hi, how are you?\"\n\n\"Good,\" says Michelle.\n\n\"Fine,\" say I.\n\nMichelle has barely begun examining jeans when she has a question.\n\n\"Do you have any with back pockets?\"\n\n\"No, we don't.\"\n\n\"None?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nMichelle turns to go.\n\n\"What's the deal with the pockets?\"\n\n\"I only wear jeans with back pockets.\"\n\n\"Only?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because the ones without pockets don't look right on me.\"\n\n\"You like the pockets?\"\n\n\"I like how they look.\"\n\n\"Would you ever put anything in them?\"\n\n\"It's not about what you put in them.\"\n\n\"So you wouldn't put anything in them?\"\n\n\"Oh, maybe if I was going out and I didn't wear a jacket and didn't want to carry around a bag, I'd put some cash and my license in the back pocket....\"\n\n\"Not a wallet?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"A cell phone?\"\n\n\"Very funny.\"\n\n\"So what's the point of the pockets, then?\"\n\n\"Pockets makes the difference in how they're made. And usually jeans without pockets are stretch, and I don't like how stretch jeans look on me.\"\n\n\"It has something to do with how they look in back, I'm getting that sense, am I right?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she says patiently. \"If you're really skinny, then it doesn't matter, but I'm not skinny back there. So it matters.\"\n\nHow did I know it was headed back there? Somehow, when shopping for women's clothes, it invariably comes down to the butt. No wonder there's such dizzying variety in the world of jeans, meant as they are to display (to good or ill) that part of their wearer, male or female. Jeans are also the uniform of the mall, regardless of the age of the wearer. I've made the point that we come to the mall to satisfy our need to watch people, but I'd wager that, after faces, the most popular focus for our looking is the butt. Most of those butts being watched are female, because women scrutinize them as avidly as men do, albeit for different reasons.\n\n\"How often do you sell a pair of jeans to someone over thirty?\" I ask the associate.\n\n\"Every day.\"\n\n\"How about over forty?\"\n\n\"I sold a pair this morning to a woman around seventy-five.\"\n\n\"They were for her granddaughter, though.\"\n\n\"No, they were for her.\"\n\n\"Did she look good in them?\"\n\n\"They looked nice.\"\n\nNext we come upon Diesel, the weirdly named, high-style Italian sportswear store.\n\nThere are plenty of jeans inside, displayed in a prominent and extremely confusing exhibit front and center in the store. You can't even tell which are women's and which are men's. In addition, the variations are dizzying\u2014the fit, the shape of the leg, the coloration, on and on.\n\n\"Do you think these jeans are for guys or girls?\"\n\n\"I think these are guys'.\"\n\nAn employee has ambled over to listen in.\n\n\"What makes you say that?\" I ask.\n\n\"These look a little feminine. But those definitely look masculine.\"\n\n\"You're probably right. But do you notice how often this kind of confusion happens in clothing stores today?\"\n\n\"It happens to me all the time. At the Gap especially, but anyplace where they sell men's and women's clothes next to each other. It happens at the sneaker store even, until you begin to pick out the pink trim.\"\n\nThis is a real issue for retailers, finding a way to signal gender to shoppers. You'd think that knowing which garments are for which sex would be the easiest thing in the world. I'll bet that back in the 1950s no one ever anticipated a world where clothing for adults of both sexes was sold side by side, and you'd have trouble telling one from the other. This is where graphics, especially big photographs, come in handy. It's an obvious solution, but fairly foolproof.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" the associate asks at last.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I say, \"what are we looking at?\"\n\n\"Well, uh, these up this side are for men, and these down here are for women.\"\n\n\"Are you conscious that this is deliberately confusing?\" I am referring to the fact that Diesel executives freely admit that they design confusing displays on purpose, based on the principle that a shopper who requires sales assistance is more likely to buy than one who shops solo. This is a truism in the world of shopping, by the way, and so quite possibly this decision was a clever one. Smart retailers are always trying to figure out ways to get shoppers to talk to their employees. The most obvious means, the no-brainer method, is what's known as \"the six-second greeting\" (or, in slower environments, \"the ten-second greeting\"), which simply dictate that a clerk will address a shopper within six (or ten) seconds of entering the store. The question then is what happens after that hearty, \"Hi, howyadointoday!\" In too many stores, the answer is \"nothing\"\u2014nobody's bothered to figure it out all the way.\n\n\"But that's frustrating,\" Michelle says. \"What if you want to buy jeans, but all the help is busy with other customers? And you just want to pick out a pair of jeans and go?\"\n\n\"Well, the company doesn't believe that most shoppers will self-buy a pair of $150 jeans. So they make it all but impossible to pick anything without help from a clerk,\" I say. \"They make it confusing\u2014\"\n\n\"Well,\" interjects the clerk, \"it's not actually confusing, but\u2014\"\n\n\"No, I've read interviews with Diesel executives,\" I interrupt her right back. \"They say it's confusing.\"\n\n\"Okay, I guess it is. But only the first few times you shop here.\"\n\nThis just deepens the sensation that you have to become a Diesel person\u2014that you go through stages, from being ignorant to being somewhat knowledgeable to being a member of the club, which imparts a cultlike status. Which, again, is not a bad thing.\n\n\"Okay, can you take us through this?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" the associate says, now turning her gaze on Michelle. \"What you do is look at the picture and tell me what you like, and I can locate the style for you on the wall over here,\" she says, gesturing toward the built-in shelving that goes from floor to ceiling. \"Do you know if you're looking for a low rise, a high rise?\"\n\n\"Not too low. But not too high.\"\n\n\"A medium rise. Do you like boot cut? You're wearing boot-cut jeans.\"\n\n\"Yes. What color do they come in?\"\n\n\"That style comes in the mocha, the copper, the green wash, that dark wash down there....\"\n\n\"Do they have a back pocket?\"\n\n\"Uh...no. Do you like this color?\"\n\n\"Not without a back pocket, I don't.\"\n\nWe head for another store.\n\n\"Michelle, let's check for back pockets first, okay?\"\n\nShe rummages through the first denim display we hit.\n\n\"Pockets!\"\n\nWe can relax a little now. The trail's getting warm.\n\n\"Hi, can I help you?\"\n\n\"Do you have these in my size?\" Michelle asks. The sales associate leads us over to a rack of jeans, all of which have back pockets, only now there's another issue to be considered.\n\n\"Michelle,\" I say, \"whiskers or no?\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Whiskers. Those lines that make jeans look worn-in.\"\n\n\"Right. Whiskers, yes.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Why would they be a no?\"\n\n\"No, I'm just wondering why they're a yes.\"\n\n\"They're cute. They look broken in. It's like new vintage jeans.\"\n\n\"True. But what's interesting about whiskers is where they bring the eye. We used to think jeans were only about the butt\u2014how they fit back there. That still counts, only now this is the focus, too\u2014the front. Whiskers draw your eye to the front.\"\n\n\"I guess they do!\"\n\n\"Would you feel comfortable wearing jeans with whiskers if you were a guy?\"\n\n\"You know,\" Michelle says, \"until you mentioned it, I never thought about it.\"\n\n\"Or, if you see a guy wearing jeans with whiskers, do your eyes immediately go there?\"\n\n\"I'll have to start paying attention.\"\n\n\"What is this guy talking about?\" the associate asks her.\n\n\"Oh, nothing,\" Michelle says.\n\n\"My name is Melissa,\" she says directly to Michelle. \"If you need any help, feel free to ask.\"\n\nMichelle turns and waves to me. \"Thanks, I'll take it from here.\"\n\n## 11 Fun\n\nI'M BORED.\n\nLuckily, this mall offers quite a few things that have nothing to do with shopping. There must be a lot of people bored with shopping, since the nonstore portion of malls\u2014what is sometimes optimistically referred to as the \"entertainment\"\u2014keeps becoming a bigger part of the mix. Once upon a time, a dank little video game arcade was considered sufficient. Today malls have taken on a lot of the burden of keeping suburban America diverted.\n\nIn truth, the nonstore aspects are the only things that give a mall its character, since the stores are essentially identical from one mall to another. So far today here's what we've encountered:\n\nA rock-climbing wall.\n\nAn ice rink. (For some reason, there was a spell when it seemed as if every mall in Texas was getting an ice rink. Do so many Texans really care to skate, or is it just that big Texas personality expressing itself by bringing rinks to areas where the temperature often tops a hundred degrees?)\n\nA food court, of course. And that doesn't even take into account all the other shops and stands here where you can buy something to eat. All this food is meant for immediate gratification, too. Unlike malls abroad, ours rarely feature much in the way of real prepared food meant to be taken home and consumed. And malls here rarely include supermarkets. Mall eats are invariably low-fiber, high-sugar, high-fat, tasty, and fast. And there's food in your face every time you turn around.\n\nA movie theater. But a movie feels like a treat after a day's shopping, not something you do in the middle of the afternoon. (Although just knowing that Jackie Chan movie is playing right now makes me a little antsy.)\n\nAnd still awaiting us is the uppermost level of the mall. Reportedly, it is vast and given over to the amusement of adolescents and the young at heart (meaning middle-aged men who get as antsy as teenagers elsewhere in the mall).\n\nThe fact that malls keep increasing the amount of space they devote to nonshopping functions would indicate that there must be some economic sense to it. The thinking is simply that these various amusements extend the amount of time people will spend here. They do so in two ways. First, by supplying more than just a place to shop. This is a sound thought. If you've managed to attract people here for one purpose, you ought to see if there are other desires you can fulfill. It's fine if they come to shop, even better if they shop and eat, better than that if they shop, eat, play, socialize, and so on. This principle extends throughout retailing, not just here. If a convenience store can get you inside to buy milk, will you also stay to microwave a burrito?\n\nIt's been proven that the more time someone spends in a mall, the more stores they visit and the more things they buy. Again, there's an inescapable logic to that formula. Every mall owner in the world knows all this. It's just that they respond differently to it. Some like the idea of putting in a big, glitzy, raucous entertainment sector. It's the expensive way to go, but it's easy, too\u2014you just install it and turn on the lights.\n\nEntertainment also prolongs the stay by solving the central problem of group shopping: What do we do with the nonshopper? If an adult has to drag two sullen adolescents along for every step of a shopping expedition, you can be sure that the trip will end prematurely. Whereas if those adolescents can be given some enjoyable outlet for their energies, they'll let you shop for as long as you want. The mere promise of a reward may keep them quiet. (Of course, when you're ready to go you may have to drag them out of the mall.) This is the mall as suburban baby-sitter. You can force small children to go where you want, but once they wise up they present challenges. Taking them to the mall may seem safer than leaving them home, and sending them with a few bucks off to the arcade, food court, or movie is saner than keeping them by your side.\n\nBut the connection between such amusements and increased spending isn't ironclad. People may now come to the mall without intending to buy a single thing. In a recent study, slightly more than half of what people did in malls was unrelated to actual shopping\u2014eating, movies, games, hanging out, socializing, and so on. Those who said the primary reason they came to the mall was \"to have fun\" spent less money than those who said they came to visit a department store\u2014to shop. The survey also found that the overall perceived entertainment value of a mall is unrelated to the amount of time people devote to shopping or the number of items they buy. So shoppers can be exceedingly fond of their mall and still not spend much money or time in stores. It's a risk.\n\nMalls sometimes err by placing the entertainment functions too far away from everything else. There's a certain logic to keeping the video game fans away from the devoted shoppers. But it's awfully easy to reach the entertainment cluster of this mall without having to pass many store windows. Perhaps the landlord should disrupt that smooth traffic pattern and force people to work their way through the mall before reaching this level. It might even make sense to put stores that appeal to teenagers\u2014music, certain apparel stores, Spencer Gifts\u2014either up here or at the base of the escalator leading here.\n\nTeenage girls love malls best, I think\u2014and here, according to a survey, is what they say they want in malls: a hangout-type Internet caf\u00e9\u2014coffee shop (the kind of slacker paradise you find in cities, usually peopled with unemployed dot-commers); movie theaters; big seating/socializing areas; places that boys might like; amusements, such as Ferris wheels and so on; and sports, including bowling alleys, batting cages, miniature golf, tennis. It's a long list.\n\nOne teenage girl tried to describe what would be in her perfect mall.\n\n\"I don't know if you've even been to Washington Square in New York,\" she began, \"but it's this park, and they have these tables with like built-in checkerboards on top?\"\n\nThese kids crave cities\u2014they want to be a part of the human spectacle that exists whenever people come together. Sadly, what we've given them instead is malls. So the mall should attempt to provide some of the things that make adolescent society possible and enjoyable.\n\nEven stores can serve as forms of entertainment. Here's one category that's vanishing from malls overall, but can still occasionally be found: pet shops. Selling critters in the mall looks like a labor-intensive, somehow seedy undertaking. Still, go to any mall pet store, and you'll find children gathered around the front windows or the cages inside. It's like a zoo for small domestic animals\u2014puppies, kittens, bunnies, the occasional piglet, all romping inside their too-small cages. It's one of those places parents dread. But five or ten minutes in such a store can restore the spirits of a cranky seven-year-old, thereby making it possible for parents to shop a little longer. Thanks to Animal Planet and the Discovery Channel, we get visually close to animals, but we can't smell or touch them. Even the modern zoo is discovering that closeness to simple domesticated critters like goats, sheep, and ponies is a major draw.\n\nOkay, here we are\u2014the top level of the mall. It's crowded and bustling with high adolescent spirits and good energy as the teenagers bop from one video game to the next. There's a noticeable absence of shopping bags in their hands\u2014these are not your prime shoppers. But that's not why they're here. The music is techno and loud. Over on one side is the food court, which faces the Ferris wheel. That's a good idea, considering how most food courts give you nothing to look at. It's also interesting to note that the only window in the food court is way up at the top of the Ferris wheel, meaning riders get a pretty cool view of the surrounding countryside. That's better than the celebrated new Ferris wheel inside Toys \"R\" Us's Times Square store, which affords only a view of the ceiling.\n\nThere's something that looks like the NASCAR wing of the mall up here\u2014lots of driving video games and racing paraphernalia for sale. And it's mobbed, of course. Back behind that is the ice rink, and there's some kind of restaurant up here, it's a hybrid, part eating place, part playground. It actually has an old-fashioned tabletop shuffleboard set up, with sawdust and hanging lamp and everything.\n\nAnd in back of the restaurant, maybe the purest entertainment chamber in the entire mall\u2014a deafening, throbbing, clanging, whistling hall filled with every type of video game imaginable, including one in which you slam drums along to karaoke-style music. At some of the games you can win prizes, and under one teenage girl's seat is a long snake of tickets\u2014there must be hundreds of them. This room feels like hell on earth to anyone over twenty-five, which means it's like Mecca for your average adolescent.\n\nA few steps farther down the hallway, there's a large space that must have been devoted to something or other, once upon a time. Right now it's being used by two little guys for a Frisbee match. As garish and crazed as it feels up here, it makes a kind of sense. They've taken an entire level of the mall and essentially created a place where most adults wouldn't want to go. If they do come up here, believe me, they're not staying long. But it reinforces the concept of the mall as a destination with many purposes\u2014like a city, in that regard. It goes from being a place for shoppers to one where the entire family can enjoy some of its leisure. Parents can shop and eat down there, and the kids can play, eat, ride the Ferris wheel, and so on up here. Having the kids' level up top makes perfect sense\u2014parents can relax a little knowing that their children are upstairs, farther from the outside world.\n\n## 12 Hands-Free Shopping\n\nMY HANDS are full.\n\nIf you've been paying attention, you know that I haven't actually purchased anything, and so my hands are as free as they were when I entered. But if I were a normal mall shopper, chances are by now I'd have bought something.\n\nDepending on the weather outside and how far I parked from the entrance, I might also be carrying around my coat. If I had children along, I'd probably end up carrying their coats, too.\n\nAs part of the Envirosell playbook, what shoppers do with their hands is a critical issue. Whether you're stroking cashmere sweaters, hefting portable CD players or opening doors, your hands are key.\n\nSome stores try to accommodate this fact of human physiology by providing handbaskets or shopping carts, which makes life quite a bit easier, especially if you're serious about buying something. We've done quite a few studies that bear this out, one way or another. Stores that offer baskets sell more than those that don't. And when stores increase the size of the baskets, they often find that shoppers purchase more items.\n\nMany urban stores, as a security measure, ask shoppers to leave bags and briefcases with a guard just inside the entrance. This does decrease shoplifting as intended, but there's also an unintended benefit\u2014it frees up the shoppers' hands, thus allowing them to scoop up more merchandise on their way to the checkout line.\n\nIf keeping a shopper's hands as free as possible makes a difference in a single store, you can imagine the impact in a mall, where the average person might enter a dozen shops in the course of a single expedition.\n\nWhat do malls do to allow for this? Almost nothing. Once again, I believe this can be attributed to the disconnect between the real estate\u2014driven developer and the retail-driven shopper. In a mall, space is money, and so management wants to dedicate as little space as possible to uses that don't generate profits. To be fair, you do find, in a few malls, coin-operated storage, like historically you found in bus stations and train stations. Even those were tucked away, often in the long corridor leading to the rest rooms. With the security concerns post September 11, that storage has largely disappeared.\n\nI'm talking about coat check areas near every entrance.\n\nI'm talking about will-call desks so that purchases can be held aside until you're ready to leave the mall.\n\nShopping carts to roll from store to store.\n\nBaby strollers.\n\nHands-free shopping.\n\nThere are malls that offer coat checks. Typically, this service is provided by some local organization, such as the Kiwanis, who will charge a small fee and in that way raise money to fund good works. It may be admirable citizenship, but these setups always feel like amateur hour. They're usually tucked away in some underperforming corner of the mall, rather than where they should be\u2014front and center, welcoming to every person who enters. Also, they usually handle coats and umbrellas only, which is part of the battle but far from all of it. And they don't inspire great confidence that your possessions will be competently guarded.\n\nIdeally, every time you bought anything in the mall, the cashier would offer to run it down to the will-call desk for you, where you could retrieve it on your way out the door. In a perfect world, you might even be able to get your car first, then drive it up to the will-call exit, where a nice high school student would help you load whatever you bought into your trunk. It works at supermarkets, where some nice kid wheels your stuff out to your vehicle.\n\nNever having to carry a purchase from one store to another (to another) and then to the bathroom and the food court and then up the rock-climbing wall would be a vast improvement over the current method, whereby you're stuck carting around whatever you bought, in whichever sequence you bought it. Even if you shop a small fraction of the 144 stores here, your burdens add up. The worst thing, from the mall's perspective, is the shopper who decides to run his or her bags out to the car. There's a chance that person will get out there and decide to go on home.\n\nBut maybe you're the kind of person who dreads coat checks and will-call desks because you fear a logjam just at the moment you want to leave. Plenty of people have an aversion to valet parking for the same reason.\n\nIn your case, the mall could offer shopping carts. Some shopping centers have experimented with them, but they have yet to catch on. Shopping carts are redolent of supermarkets, which feels a little low-rent to some mall operators and retailers. They're uncomfortable with the thought of tossing your brand new DKNY skirt into something better suited to carrying Cheerios. By contrast, many European malls have successfully and stylishly integrated supermarkets into the mall and thus shopping carts as well.\n\nThere are elegant shopping carts to be had\u2014baskets riding atop silent rubber tires, with maybe a hanging rack for garments. Given the overall casual style of the mall itself, it doesn't seem as though carts would automatically be an aesthetic violation. Malls are now courting twenty-first century anchor tenants like the giant discounter Target. One of their criteria is whether shopping carts are welcomed, not just in the mall but in the parking garage or lot, too. More than one Target deal has been kiboshed by shopping cart\u2014garage conflicts.\n\nThere's never a shortage of baby strollers in the mall, because parents feel free to bring them along. Still, it can be a hassle\u2014you've got to unload the kids and the stroller and get the whole procession inside from the lot or garage. If an elevator trip is involved, it becomes even more cumbersome, especially on weekends when the mall is crowded. It's a temptation to leave the stroller in the minivan, except then the adult shoppers will be constrained by the endurance of small children, who can become tired and cranky without warning.\n\nAll this sounds like common sense, and yet malls make little accommodation for it. Some do provide strollers\u2014but they, too, are usually hidden away in some corner, and almost always cost a few bucks to rent for the day. This seems about as sensible as charging people to use a shopping cart\u2014making pennies off what, if offered free, would generate dollars.\n\n## 13 Pushcarts Rule\n\nHEY, WHAT'S this up ahead? Hold on a second.\n\nI don't really need automatic gutter cleaners. I live on the first floor of an apartment building. And yet I am slightly fascinated by this little booth here\u2014a pushcart, almost\u2014right in the middle of the corridor, the one with the slightly bored-looking woman demonstrating for anyone who cares to watch (just me) how a gizmo can clear all the wet leaves and dead birds and whatever out of your gutters, thereby sparing you a climb up a rickety ladder.\n\nIt's not the kind of thing you'd expect anybody to buy on impulse while walking through the mall. And yet it's here, and paying a handsome rent no doubt, so somebody must be willing.\n\n\"How much does this thing go for?\"\n\n\"Depends on your house,\" she says. \"It starts at around $3,000.\"\n\n\"And do you sell any?\"\n\n\"Enough,\" she says warily.\n\nMaybe she thinks I'm a competitor? I'm standing here transfixed as a three-foot-long section of simulated roof gutter is swept clear by the gadget she's selling. The mall doesn't provide many guy moments, but this little demonstration has to rank among the most fascinating.\n\nRight next to this is a more lighthearted pushcart\u2014the bungee ball man, who spends the day showing off the coolness of his toy. It is an old pushcart profession that takes many forms. Someone takes a toy where some simple skill is involved\u2014a ball tied to a paddle by a thick rubber band, a plastic airplane that returns to sender like a boomerang, a remote-control car\u2014and demonstrates it. It always looks easier to master than it really is, as many customers can attest. The purchase is often as much a payment for the pleasure of watching the demonstration.\n\nJudging by the audience he's gathered, this little vignette is a godsend. There are mostly dads and kids gathered around, no doubt happy to find something even mildly entertaining while mom goes about the serious business of acquisitioning.\n\nIt's a testament to the constantly evolving nature of the mall that most now include these freestanding kiosks. They tend to be locally owned and operated. Small-time retail, in other words, in marked contrast to the huge, slick chains that predominate in here. You may find some goods in kiosks that are sold elsewhere in the mall\u2014costume jewelry, toys. But it's mostly the kind of merchandise that feels at home on a wooden cart plunked down right in the pedestrian path\u2014cheap sunglasses, human-hair wigs, extravagant christening outfits, cell phones and pagers, put-your-photo-on-a-sweatshirt, celebrity posters. The \"As-Seen-on-TV\" shop thrives here, meaning you can buy a Hairdini braid twister even if you can never manage to jot down the 800 number before the commercial ends. Tupperware lives here, too\u2014you can't really imagine an entire mall store devoted to plastic containers for leftovers, but it makes for a high-profile, crowd-pleasing kiosk.\n\nWhen these things first began to show up in malls, tenants were outraged. The complaint was that the carts cheapened the ambience; they also were competitors who got away with paying less than the full mall rents, which didn't help their image among fellow tenants. So there was a trade-off, and even the danger that the kiosks would hurt the stores' sales, which would in turn cut into the mall developer's revenues. Still, the malls were willing to run a few risks if doing so allowed them to squeeze a few more leasable square feet out of the premises. Heretofore, the space occupied by kiosks was being used by shoppers to walk. Maybe they had more space than they needed?\n\nAt its inception, the pushcart was a brilliant retail concept. A small, efficient, mobile store, operated by one person, specializing in a few (or just one) product categories, and ideally suited to being examined by the shopper, since it is all surface and is approachable from all sides. No wonder pushcarts have been around so long, probably as long as we've had wheels.\n\nPushcarts were part of our retail memory, until they made their mall-related comeback. It started as a brilliant innovation at Faneuil Hall in Boston. At the time, the mall was about to open with less than a full roster of tenants. Somebody had the idea to fill in the gaps with pushcarts. They made things seem a little more bustling. The mall's developer, the Rouse Company, charged a nominal rent at first, unaware of what a dependable source of healthy income the carts would become. Since then, the classy peddler has become a signature of Rouse malls.\n\nBut then, as usually happens, the greedheads got hold of the concept and rode it for all it's worth. If you divide the mall into the smallest real estate parcels possible, you can charge a lot more money for them. Today, most malls have dedicated some portion of formerly open space to what are usually termed kiosks, in acknowledgment of the fact that rarely does anyone actually push these things.\n\nFrom the mall's view, kiosks are wonderful for one main reason\u2014the rents they kick in. Annual leases can hit $50,000 for a forty-five-square-foot kiosk, which is a lot more than Neiman Marcus pays, foot for foot. As much as 2 to 3 percent of a mall's total rental revenue can come from the carts. \"It's real money, let's put it that way,\" said an executive from a developer that owns more than 150 malls. One estimate says that over 150,000 kiosks currently exist in American malls and shopping centers. They've become such a staple of retailing that now they proliferate in airports and office buildings, too.\n\nThe kiosks throw off so much easy rent (since they require no maintenance by the mall), that it's easy to overdose on them. Bring in too many and they begin to overwhelm the passageways. We use the terms \"laudable crowding\" and \"impenetrable crowding.\" In the former, you're strolling through the mall and look up ahead to see an area that's bustling with genial hubbub. It makes you want to go there and see what everybody else is looking at. \"Impenetrable crowding\" is when you're strolling and look ahead to see a traffic jam of shoppers struggling to move. Kiosks placed too close together or jammed into inappropriate spots cause bad bustle. One look at the crowd of exasperated shoppers trying to get past and you decide to take a detour. In doing so, of course, you bypass every store in that area.\n\nGood kiosks add something fun and even a little exotic to a mall's mix. Really good kiosks will surprise you\u2014one of the best I ever saw was one selling microwavable heating pads. It's not that the pads themselves were so amazing, but I loved the lady who was selling them. She'd throw a few into her microwave while describing to the small crowd that invariably gathered how they worked. Once one was ready, she'd take it out and apply it to the aching neck or back of some volunteer shopper. It was a little bit of theater along with your shopping, and it harkened back to another vestige of ancient retailing\u2014the barker.\n\nPushcarts are pure retailing. If you go to any store in this mall, you'll find some $40,000-a-year manager running the show, but only in the narrowest sense. In stores owned by national chains, all the big decisions about what will be sold and how, and at what price, and the way in which things will be displayed\u2014the stuff that makes retailing an art\u2014are made elsewhere. The kids running these shops aren't merchants by any stretch of the imagination. Whereas successful kiosk owners are working their retail magic\u2014figuring out what works, succeeding or failing on the strength of their wit, ability, and energy.\n\nThey remind me of a produce stand I saw in a market in Istanbul. It was owned and run by an ancient man who'd probably been at it all his working life. I watched him for half an hour early one morning as he carefully positioned every apple and pear and eggplant, turning each piece in his hands to find the most perfect side, then placing it all just so on his cart. It was a work of art by the time he was through. He was no retailing titan or merchandising wizard. It was just a produce stand. But he was a merchant, top to bottom, intimately involved in every aspect of retailing, from purchasing the goods to displaying them for maximum appeal. I'm sure that his grasp of why we buy exceeds that of most mall store managers, simply because he understands and controls the process in its entirety. I don't mean to pick on mall store managers\u2014it's not their fault that their employers expect so little of them. That's the nature of large, centralized corporations today, where all the meaningful decisions are made in a single office, by men and women who spend as little time as possible on the selling floor.\n\nI love the Tupperware kiosk\u2014the colorful plastic containers make for great displays, and they're just the kind of impulse purchase that does well in such a tiny space, in the midst of foot traffic. You don't need to deliberate for hours, just pick out what you need, pay, and go. I once saw a kiosk that sold only purple-colored merchandise, again, a brilliant idea from the display point of view.\n\nLots of kiosks specialize in goods meant for ethnic shoppers\u2014human-hair wigs that are popular for African American women, or extravagant christening costumes that seem intended for Spanish-speaking customers, if the signage and staffing are any indication. You can't imagine these categories being able to support an entire store, at least not at these rents. But the kiosk is a perfect venue. This is another way that suburbia gets multicultural\u2014most of the mall's shoppers will never even see one of these miniature tuxedos (complete with bow tie and waistcoat) that some Hispanic babies will wear to the baptismal font unless they see them here.\n\nMost often, however, the pushcart world is populated with sunglasses, cell phones, costume jewelry, and the \"As Seen on TV\" shop. At first the malls thought the kiosks would be like an incubator\u2014that today's pushcart would grow into tomorrow's store tenant. But that hasn't been the case. More common is the kiosk entrepreneur who expands numerically, growing from one cart to several (in separate malls) to many.\n\nOn a Saturday afternoon you may have thirty-three hundred people an hour passing a kiosk in a good spot. In our research we've found that more than half of the people in a mall will at least look at a pushcart and maybe 6 percent will actually shop one. They're especially popular among women twenty-five to thirty-four, who are most avidly seeking out the novel and the new.\n\nKiosks aren't the only things sticking out in the middle of the mall.\n\nCar dealers are fond of sticking their new models in mall thoroughfares. It's a good idea, especially because there's precious little intended for men and boys here as it is. You can easily kill a few minutes checking out the latest Mini or Maserati. I don't know that a Saturn or Subaru or anything else that's already abundant in suburbia would make as much sense. And since women now either buy or influence the purchase of half of all cars sold in this country, the dealers are wise to reach them here in the mall. It's a great way to experience a car up close without having to talk to a car salesman or enter a dealership, which is an automatic plus in my book.\n\nWe're coming up on something now that's a cross between a kiosk and a resting place\u2014a display of massaging easy chairs set right out in the main thoroughfare. You become part of the display the second you sit, which doesn't seem to bother those shoppers who are in the mood for an electric rubdown.\n\n\"Hey, how's it going?\" I greet the chair's minder as I sit.\n\n\"Hi,\" the Asian man responds.\n\nYou see these chairs everywhere in Japan\u2014they sell them in electronics stores. Usually they're set up in front of the TVs, so you can watch and try the chair, allowing you to sample it in a naturalistic setting.\n\n\"What's the wattage to run this chair?\" I ask.\n\n\"Two-ten watts.\"\n\n\"Two lightbulbs.\"\n\n\"Yes. Like TV or refrigerator.\"\n\n\"Okay, and is this the price, $3,500?\"\n\nNot cheap by a long shot. A lot more than you'd expect to pay for a piece of furniture that's being sold right off the mall floor, without even a store to lend it an air of authority.\n\n\"Yes, plus shipping.\"\n\n\"Where is it made?\"\n\n\"In Japan.\"\n\nThis display will be here for maybe a month, tops, and then they'll move on to another mall. It will get the most attention and trial use on the weekend, but I bet they don't sell a single chair from Friday to Sunday. These are commonplace in Asian homes, and they sell here mostly to Asian families. And there are now a lot of Koreans and Chinese and Taiwanese around here, as there are in and around most big cities. The serious buyers will come in during the week, when the mall is quieter, and buy then. For us curious browsers, it's a nice little stop.\n\nNice unless you're working inside the fancy healthy-back furniture store, I mean, where they also sell expensive electronic massage chairs.\n\n\"Come on, try the chair!\" the saleslady coaxes when she notices me eyeing it. \"What are you waiting for?\"\n\n\"Have you seen the massage chairs out there in the mall?\" I ask as I take a seat.\n\n\"Well, they're two different things,\" she says, smiling a little less. \"What we sell here and what they sell there. We try to emphasize...that chair is too small for you.\"\n\nShe's referring to my height, in case you leapt to some erroneous conclusion.\n\n\"To answer your question,\" she says, \"the same people who check out their chairs then come in here to compare them with what we have.\"\n\n\"And...?\"\n\n\"And so far we've had quite good responses to our chairs. You can adjust ours. You can select the spots you want massaged. In their chair, the spots are already set up. And we have two models. The one you're in is pretty much the same as theirs. It sells for $3,500.\"\n\n\"Same as theirs.\"\n\n\"Yes. But our other model sells for just $1,800. And the parts for our chairs are made by the same company that makes theirs. It's a little bit bad for us that they're allowed to be in our part of the mall, because they can be out there in the mall itself, and they can have more than one chair. But our store puts more of an emphasis on the ergonomics.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"And on your back.\"\n\n\"Like with that $8,000 mattress?\"\n\n\"Yes! Have you tried it yet?\"\n\nSo far as I know, there's no mall that allows shoppers to try mattresses out in the main thoroughfare. So while the kiosks have their place, there's still something to be said for a store.\n\n## 14 Mall Cuisine\n\nI'M HUNGRY.\n\nPersonally, I am no fan of the mall's signature dining experience\u2014the food court. I find them painfully noisy. Food courts are all hard surfaces, which are both durable and easy to clean. Tile, linoleum, Formica, stainless steel, and glass are all practical materials, except they turn the typically cavernous space into a giant echo chamber. The clamor of hungry shoppers creates quite a din. It's interesting to note that many of the most stylish restaurants and bars in Manhattan have this trait in common with the humble mall food court.\n\nThe noise makes it impossible for me to discern normal conversation. This means I'd normally stay far away from the food court, except as a place to study an important part of mall life. Feeding time.\n\nWe need food at the mall because, it seems, we need food everywhere. It's hard to think of a public space in America that doesn't offer up at least a few opportunities to eat. Each has its signature dish, too\u2014hot dogs at the ballpark (along with peanuts and Cracker Jack), popcorn at the movies, and any number of delicacies on city streets. (I'm a traditionalist, and so I wait eagerly for roasted chestnut season on the streets of New York.) At the mall, you've usually got your pick of freshly baked chocolate chip cookie outlets, and by now we associate the powerful, Proustian aroma of Cinnabon with indoor shopping.\n\nBut the food court is the big act. Forget for a moment the quality of the food itself and focus on how it assembles dishes from every corner of the planet. Is there another place where the quasi-foodstuffs of Mexico, China, Italy, Thailand, Greece, Japan, and South Philadelphia come together like this?\n\nFrom the mall's perspective, the food court has an important role\u2014to prolong the shopper's stay. Without some kind of food you're good for two, maybe three hours before exhaustion overtakes you and sends you running for sustenance. Thanks to the food court, you can shop to the verge of starvation, fuel up, and maybe get in another hour or two. There's nothing inherently brilliant about food courts\u2014the street vendors of hot dogs and ice cream and pretzels found in most downtowns serve the same function of feeding you quickly while holding you within the grasp of retail's visual come-ons. Depending on which city you're in, urban street eats are probably more adventurous than what you'll find at the chains, which predominate the food courts. Within two blocks of my office I can grab (depending on the time of year) some street vendor shish kebob, souvlakia, curry, hot dogs, a cross section of gourmet sausages, soft pretzels, sugar-coated nuts or coconut, bagels, falafel, knishes, Italian ices, pizza or calzones (from a pizzeria with a street side window).\n\nIs food court food any good? It's good enough, I guess. If I were a suburban fifteen-year-old who had never experienced any delicacy more subtle than a Double Whopper, I wouldn't sneer at what I found here or wish for the barbequed eel roll from my favorite sushi joint. Nobody goes to the mall expecting anything more than a plastic tray full of edible nourishment and a clean table on which to enjoy it. Who are we to sneer?\n\nThe food court serves as the mall's Via Veneto, its main concourse for sitting and supping and sipping and people watching. I keep hoping to find one that takes this responsibility seriously\u2014an ambitious food court that imagines itself as a huge sidewalk caf\u00e9, where tables all have a view not just of one another (clearly taken from the court's fast-food restaurant ancestry) but of the mall's main thoroughfares, with tables even spilling out a little into the corridors. I haven't found one yet.\n\nThe typical per person food court expenditure comes to around $6 or so, making it hard to complain too loudly. In fact, you'd find yourself hard-pressed to spend much more than that, which could be seen as a shortcoming of the operation. There may be shoppers willing to spend twice that $6 figure in the food court, but nobody to my knowledge has begun to find out. Where's the food court wine bar? The French bistro? If somebody knows, please send up a flare.\n\nLet's move on and find one of the sit-down restaurants, which, luckily, this mall has in sufficient supply. Usually you'll find at least one or two, depending on the overall tenor of the mall. They're usually chains, which nowadays doesn't necessarily mean the food will be bland and inferior and the service awkward but chipper. Of course, neither are most mall restaurants the site of memorable dining. Wolfgang Puck has a few bo\u00eetes in malls, but by and large we end up with generic chain-restaurant fare.\n\nIn Japan, by way of contrast, restaurants and prepared-food shops at malls are of such high quality that many people stop there daily, on the way home, to pick up dinner. In any city there are plenty of good restaurants and takeout places that serve that purpose. Suburbanites, however, find limited choices in the prepared-foods department. Pizza, fast food, maybe a Boston Chicken, and whatever the local supermarket dishes up, and that's about it. If you're lucky you live near an ambitious diner, or a locally owned restaurant that takes itself seriously (and does takeout). In New York, there's a grocer/prepared-food shop in Grand Central Station that's always jammed at evening rush hour with suburban commuters picking up that night's dinner. If American malls' food operations took themselves more seriously as providers of meals, some of those people would no doubt grab something closer to home.\n\nInterestingly, in one big mall we studied, one out of four people in the common area (not in the food court or a restaurant) were eating something. Some of these were having coffee or a chocolate chip cookie while walking, sitting on a bench, or leaning against a wall. Some had brought snacks from home. So it's clear that even food courts aren't capacious enough to house all the eating that goes on in a mall. Also, some food bought in the court migrates into the corridors of the mall itself. That, no doubt, is how some people express their dislike of the food court\u2014they eat on the hoof, or while perched on the edge of the fountain. Given how often and how much we Americans eat, we must be willing to do it pretty much anywhere and everywhere, and certainly the mall lends itself to that\u2014the surfaces are easy to clean, and everybody else is eating anyway.\n\nAt two points in my twenties I asked women to marry me. I got turned down on both occasions. Those two low points in my life were handed to me by ladies from Louisiana. More times than I'd like to admit, I wander into the Cajun joint in a mall food court, indulge in some Bourbon Chicken and Dirty Rice, and daydream over what might have been. Today is no exception.\n\n## 15 Breakfast at Cartier\n\nOKAY,\" I SAY, \"pay attention to that woman window shopping.\"\n\nWe're standing at an interesting spot in the mall, able to see both Cartier, the ultra-luxury French jewerly retailer, and its next-door neighbor, a discount jewelry chain.\n\n\"What's she going to do?\"\n\n\"Hard to say. That's why we're paying attention.\"\n\nI'm with Albert, a normal middle-aged guy, meaning there are a dozen places he'd rather be right now than here. He's shopping for jewelry for his wife. We've already scanned the Cartier window, which at this moment has that lady shopper's attention, and so we know it contains what's called a tennis bracelet\u2014so named because Chris Evert, at the 1987 U.S. Open, dropped a diamond bracelet during a match and stopped play until she found it\u2014a costly bauble in which a dozen or so round diamonds have been set in a straight row.\n\nThis is an interesting juxtaposition of stores, one engineered by the mall leasing office, which closely controls who goes where. The thinking is that if you create a little cluster of stores that will attract like-minded shoppers, you increase sales for everybody (especially for the mall itself, which takes a piece of every dollar spent). It allows today's time-pressed shopper to hit one part of a mall, visit several stores that carry what he or she has in mind, and get the job done efficiently. But it's certainly not a new-fangled idea\u2014for centuries at least, stores have organized into districts based on what they sell.\n\nJewelry especially lends itself to districts. Since buying it isn't an everyday experience, there's a degree of comfort in being able to shop more than one store. It also has historic roots. For example, however different in character, London has Old Bond Street, New York City has Forty-seventh Street, Istanbul has its Grand Bazaar, where jewelry dealers congregate. Another purchase that historically has gained synergy from concentration is the art gallery. All are designed to help the underexperienced gain the courage to say \"I'll take it.\" There is another reason, too.\n\nAt the mall, clustering by category gives the shopper a chance to make the circuit. In some cases, the stores are clustered into a good-better-best arrangement, though for the novice buyer it may be hard to discern the difference. That good-better-best setup usually involves a degree of overlap in prices and products. In some cases, the same company may own more than one of the stores in the cluster.\n\nBack in my urban-planner life, we studied pedestrian traffic along Forty-second Street in Manhattan in the \"bad old days\" of Times Square. Many New Yorkers cheered when former mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani rid the district of its pornographic sleaze and overall decay and Disney-fied it for family consumption. The fetid live peepshows were replaced by The Lion King and Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, making the area safe for tourists, who now flock there to enjoy a dazzling variety of wholesome fare. It really was an ugly, seamy part of town back then, and yet there was something admirably authentic about it\u2014it was one district among many in this city, a kind of partitioning that gave New York a great deal of its flavor. The porn zone served a purpose, and just because it's moved doesn't mean we're all nicer creatures where sex is concerned.\n\nWe urban-planner types would stand on the roofs of buildings and watch how pedestrians made their way down the street. We saw countless male strollers approach the strip of porn shops. Typically, they'd reach the first one and slow down a little. You could tell by that and how they'd turn their heads that the storefronts had gotten their attention. But they almost never entered the first store they reached. They'd gradually cruise to a stop by the second or third shop on the block, and that's the one they'd enter (after doing a quick head swivel to make sure no office colleagues were watching).\n\nThat's the effect of clustering on retailers. Shoppers who are intent on visiting a particular store will find it without any help. But the cluster slows the walking speed of the casual pedestrian, the one who may have had no intention of stopping. The first store causes you to hit the brakes, and by the second or third you've slowed down enough to pay attention. Once inside a store you may fail to find exactly what you want, but then you're close to other shops offering the same kind of goods, and, before you know it, you're shopping. That's one way in which the dynamic of the mall serves both the business and the customer at the same time.\n\nIn this particular cluster we've got Cartier, and just down the corridor a little way there's Tiffany & Co., and across from that there's Ralph Lauren, and one or two other high-end shops, too. It's a mini-mall here of fancy stores, something to make life a little more convenient for the shopper with money to spend.\n\nWhat scares the Cartiers and Tiffanys of the world is the number of people who will walk past their stores without ever thinking about stopping. That's why these swanky retailers find themselves in the improbable setting of the mall. The flagship stores retain all the cachet of their fancy Fifth Avenue locations. But the business has to go where the shoppers are, and that means suburbia, especially affluent suburbs such as the ones that ring this mall. How often does the average suburban shopper make her or his way into town for the total Tiffany experience? Can you blame them? You're talking about devoting most of a day to such a venture. Who has that kind of time?\n\nAlbert's office isn't so far from the Tiffany store on Fifth Avenue, but he's busy working all day, and lunch hour ends up being the most crowded time. So even being two blocks away from the Tiffany's, a worldwide landmark, doesn't make it easier to shop the store. Whereas on a Saturday like today, without Christmas or Valentine's Day looming, the mall store is tranquil. And so what if Cartier and Tiffany have to go a little mass-market and mingle with the hoi polloi? They'll find a way to exist more or less at ease in the mall, even right next door to a discount jeweler.\n\nIt's interesting to see how the translation of luxury to the mall plays out. The issues begin at the lease line with decisions about the stores' facades. Everywhere else in the mall, as we've seen, design decisions make access to the stores as effortless as possible\u2014yawning entrances, lots of plate glass, as little facade as possible, in keeping with the ideals of transparency and lack of pretense or anything else that might discourage a shopper from entering.\n\nHere, however, you've got some competing values. The last thing Cartier wants is to seem as approachable and affordable as, say, the Gap. No matter where it exists, Cartier has to uphold its defining values, and a significant part of that is how it looks. There's something about fancy jewelry that requires an air of exclusivity, solidity\u2014it wants to evoke a bit of the fortress in its very choice of home. Again, stroll Fifth Avenue and see how Harry Winston, Bvlgari, Tiffany, and Cartier do it up. How then do you say Cartier in the vocabulary of a mall?\n\nYou start by defying the mall's characteristic transparency, judging by how these stores do it. The equation seems sensible enough: the cheaper the goods, the more visible they are. Or, the more precious the merchandise, the less glass to show it off. Someone decided to clad the entire facade of the store in a black stone that appears to be slate. It makes a statement in the context of the mall\u2014no other store comes close to creating such a definite distinction between out there and in here. The windows are small squares of light set in those black walls, which succeeds in focusing the passing shoppers' gaze. It feels expensive.\n\n\"So that's the question,\" I tell Albert. \"How does Cartier dress for the suburbs?\"\n\n\"How about a really nice track suit?\" he says.\n\n\"Well, it needs to do something along those lines. It has to say Cartier. But it has to do so in a way that is appropriate to the setting. It can't feel exactly like Fifth Avenue. There, a store can be understated in its presentation. There are enough other signals reaching the passerby. You know it's a high-end store, whereas here even Cartier needs to tell its story.\"\n\n\"Do the black walls say it?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. Do they seem a little forbidding?\"\n\n\"Isn't that the point?\"\n\n\"Well, to some degree, yes. They don't want every passerby to think he or she belongs inside the store.\"\n\n\"That's an unusual message for a store, isn't it? 'Dear shopper, stay out!' \"\n\n\"Not really. Every store has to deliver that message. Just that some stores want lots of people inside, and other ones\u2014like this one\u2014don't. Cartier would suffer if tomorrow every hayseed walking down the mall corridor got the impression that he was welcome inside. Cartier's genuine customers wouldn't stand for it.\"\n\nOur company has done studies for Bvlgari, the exclusive Italian jeweler. At their stores, they informed me, they don't want good visibility from outside to inside. They say it's because if Mrs. Rossi walks by and sees Mr. Bianco inside, buying something costly, she might go to Mrs. Bianco and say, \"Oh, I saw your husband in Bvlgari the other day buying you a beautiful emerald necklace,\" and then Mrs. Bianco waits and waits for the gift before realizing that it must have gone to another woman. Maybe that's more of a concern in Europe than it is here. But it becomes part of the store's culture, that discretion, that sophistication. Even for shoppers in the Americas or Asia, it helps impart that European flavor. That's why at most jewelers, the really expensive diamonds and so on are kept in a small, secluded room in the very rear of the store.\n\n\"I thought that was so nobody would steal them,\" Albert says.\n\nHe's right, in part\u2014a jewelry store puts the costliest goods at some distance from the front door for security reasons. But thieves still get away with the old grab and run. We did a research job for a luxury jeweler in L.A., and one problem with the store was its lousy lighting. The designer clearly had never spent much time around jewelry, and as a result shoppers wanted to bring merchandise close to the front windows, so they could see it in natural light. But the store got stung a couple times. The jewelry kept going all the way out the door.\n\nJust last year, at a fancy store in New York, something like that happened when a well-dressed man asked to see a ruby and diamond ring. The clerk handed it over, and the customer turned to face the window, to see it in daylight. At that moment a young woman entered the store, at which point the man tossed her the ring. She caught it like a major leaguer and dashed back outside into a waiting car, which sped away. It happened so fast that all the security guard could do was watch. And as he watched the man just melted away. A smart little caper.\n\n\"I like it,\" Albert says. \"Has somebody ever tried it in a mall?\"\n\n\"How would you make your escape from up here on the second level to your getaway car?\"\n\n\"And then what if you forget where you parked?\"\n\nThis is one reason retailers like malls over streets\u2014security is a breeze in here compared to out there. Yet, jewelry store symbolism remains the same in either locale. You sell the really good gems way in back. It's like the innermost sanctum\u2014the vault, as it were. You shouldn't be able to see the best diamonds from outside the store, otherwise where's the mystery and drama? In this fashion, store design functions as a narrative device, drawing you deeper into the story. But that kind of thinking is totally contrary to how most mall stores operate. This is an issue because this store has to make itself accessible to other stores' shoppers. That's the whole point of being in a mall. Malls put somebody else's customers in your store.\n\nOf course, city streets do the same thing. And yet, it's different. On Fifth Avenue, for instance, there are many pedestrians walking by the store on any given day, many more than in this mall. Even though most of those people don't go into Cartier. In fact, a great many of the people walking Fifth Avenue aren't even on shopping trips. They work in the area, or they're on their way to a hotel or a restaurant or to the park. But Cartier's customers know where to find the store. And Fifth Avenue itself draws people from around the world who know it as one of the planet's premiere shopping districts.\n\nAs a result, there will be Tiffany customers, or Gucci customers, who will make their way to Cartier. But this corridor is not Fifth Avenue, and, from where I'm standing, I can see the sneaker store and the store that specializes in overpriced, trendy T-shirts for teenage girls, and the dress shop for overweight women buying midpriced frocks. The Cartier name doesn't usually find itself in such company. And so it needs to figure out how to attract shoppers\u2014certain shoppers\u2014while discouraging others. It needs to take advantage of being in a mall that draws large numbers of people without the means to buy anything in Cartier, or even any intention of entering a luxury goods store with a haughty reputation.\n\nSo Cartier and stores like it must somehow select the shoppers who will walk in the door. There are three categories of people in this mall, at least where this store is concerned. One group is Cartier customers. Another is people who could be Cartier customers, but haven't ever gone inside. And the third is people who will never be customers. The store needs to attract everybody in category one. That seems easy enough, but that's the smallest category. It also wants to get some from category two. Finally, it wants to attract the attention of those in the third group, give them a bit of an education, but make sure they just look at the windows and are too intimidated to pass over the threshold. The store wants to pick certain people out of the crowd. It wants to send a message\u2014\"You, yes, and you, but not you.\"\n\nThe store must take care not to undercut that ambience with shoddy materials or workmanship, even around the edge of a facade in a mall that's thousands of miles away from Paris. After all, the most expensive piece in the whole place is probably smaller than a nickel. People who come in here have their eyes focused on tiny items\u2014the scale by the very nature of the merchandise is small. You can't tell shoppers to examine this little diamond but ignore that smudged window, or the gray plastic trash can in the corner.\n\n\"Hey, where's the lady who was looking at the tennis bracelet?\"\n\n\"She bounced off the Cartier storefront and went into the discount jeweler next door.\"\n\nThe relationship between Cartier and the discount joint next door is intriguing. It's easy to see how the cut-rate neighbor benefits from having such luxury so close at hand. Your appetite is whetted by Cartier's window. You covet what's in there. But you can't afford it, most likely. So you go next door, which you can afford, and buy there.\n\n\"How could it help the fancy store?\" Albert asks.\n\n\"Well, once in a while, it might. Maybe you'll walk out of the discount place thinking it's beneath you, you'll feel brave enough to see what life is like in the big leagues. Or maybe a window-shopping couple will check out the discounter first, and then one will gently lead the other to the fine jeweler.\"\n\n\"But isn't the discounter likely to reap more benefits from being next to Cartier?\"\n\n\"Possibly. That's partly because Cartier is not meant to capture a high percentage of the people walking this mall. But it also has a lot to do with the changing nature of jewelry purchases. Traditionally, jewelry has been purchased by men for women, in three basic arrangements. The first is as keys to the front door\u2014call it engagement, anniversary, birthday\u2014all public statements of affection and intention. The second is keys to the back door, which are presents to mistresses or girlfriends that are meant to ensure access, but bypass all the front-door commitments. The third category, which for the jeweler has traditionally been important, is the keys out of the doghouse, or the purchases meant to make amends for bad behavior. Flowers are nice, but of limited power to affect a woman's mind. Nothing says 'Dear, I am so sorry!' like a gold necklace or a pair of diamond earrings.\" I let that sink in before asking, \"Albert, are you going for the front door or are you trying to get out of the doghouse?\"\n\n\"Front, I guess,\" he says. \"It's her birthday soon.\"\n\n\"I see. Why jewelry?\"\n\n\"For Christmas I got her an extremely high-quality radio that she said she wanted.\"\n\n\"Did she appreciate it?\"\n\n\"I think so. But I got the impression that I shouldn't get anything that plugs in for her birthday gift. It is in the same family of moves as giving your mother a new catcher's mitt.\"\n\nJewelry stores are not keeping up with social change. For instance, in 1993 a study of gold jewelry buying habits found that for the first time ever, women were buying more of it for themselves than men were buying for them. While the key and door thing are still a big part of the business, an important piece of the business has changed forever.\n\nThat change requires a new way of thinking about jewelry and selling it, too. All of a sudden, jewelers have to sell two ways from one store. In order to do that, they've got to rethink the premises, which not a lot of stores are doing well, even though this shift is more than a decade old. Jewelry is now closer than ever to fine fashion, at least when women buy it. As with apparel, women are more conscious about how they appear to one another than how they look to men. When a man looks at models in couture, he looks at the woman more than the outfit. Similarly, he's not looking at a necklace or a bracelet the way a woman does\u2014he's not registering the details or the overall effect the same way she does. He's not considering how it will feel to wear it. She most certainly is. Jewelers haven't yet caught up with that distinction.\n\nFor instance, most jewelry stores do mirrors badly. There aren't enough of them. And they tend to be awkwardly placed\u2014either on top of counters that aren't near the jewelry cases, or hanging on the walls. Again, the assumption is that the person buying the jewelry isn't the one who will wear it. A shopper is faced with expensive display cases and black velvet swags and high-powered ceiling spotlights that make every diamond sparkle like Liz Taylor's fist. And mediocre mirrors. The assumption is that the mirror scheme doesn't have to perform the same function as it does in, say, Armani. Even cosmetics departments do mirrors better than jewelers do.\n\nThis should be easy enough to fix, but the problem doesn't stop there.\n\nThe entire jewelry store traditionally plays to a certain fantasy\u2014the one of the guy who's rich and powerful enough to afford something for the woman who's beautiful and desirable enough, with exquisite taste in adornment, to deserve what's here. Once women start buying their own baubles, however, the store needs to accommodate a second fantasy. This one is about dress-up, a game most women have been playing in one form or another since childhood. It's also about self-reward, and making the leap between who she is and who she wants to be.\n\nBut it also has to do with the professional woman who is making good money and has been around enough to know what Cartier quality means. She believes she deserves it, and has no problem with buying it for herself, just as she buys Donna Karan or Dolce&Gabbana. She may have a rich husband. She may have no husband. She may be married to a man who earns less than she does\u2014in fact, maybe while she's in the store she'll also shop for him. The jewelry store now has to create the fantasy that comes with how women adorn themselves, the way Armani or Versace sell their goods to women. Go to those stores and see what the entire trying-on experience is like. It's aimed at the wearer. It assumes she's the decision maker. The dressing room is expensively decorated and immaculate. The mirrors are large and properly placed. The lights are flattering and may even show how she'll look under a variety of kinds of illumination. The sales help is attentive and respectful. A woman tries on an Armani suit or a Versace evening gown and she feels like a movie star. She gets a taste of how the rest of the world is going to see her and respond if she buys that garment. That's what a jeweler now must attempt to do.\n\nThere's also another strategy for selling jewelry to that woman, way down at the other end of the spectrum. Because if a woman is shopping for herself, maybe she doesn't need any romance or fantasy with her jewelry. We're not yet at the point where diamond earrings in a vending machine will work. But it's interesting to note that Wal-Mart and Sam's Club are now major jewelry retailers, and not just inexpensive goods\u2014even big-ticket diamonds, pearls, and watches. Once upon a time, the person who was likely to buy expensive jewelry would never have shopped at a discount store or buying club for anything. But those days are gone. This has been one of the most significant changes in shopping patterns of the past quarter century\u2014that people now go to Neiman Marcus in the morning and Wal-Mart in the afternoon. The walls have all come down, and today there's a lot less shopper snobbery that used to keep all the luxury retailers so contented. Women especially will buy for less if they can. And while Armani is available only at the pricier stores, diamonds and gold and emeralds and pearls can be found anywhere. The woman who decides to buy herself a pair of good diamond stud earrings might as well go to a discounter\u2014after all, she doesn't need to impress or seduce herself.\n\n\"So instead of going into Cartier,\" I say, \"let's go visit the discounter next door.\"\n\n\"Is that big 50%OFF SALE! sign in the window a good idea?\"\n\n\"Probably. You don't see Cartier yelling sale, do you?\"\n\n\"Hey, how you doing?\" That's the manager of the discount jeweler talking. We're in his store now. It's a perfectly nice place to buy jewelry. There are no dark woods or heavy-duty facade to reinforce the feeling that you've entered a magic zone. In fact, there are no exterior walls at all\u2014you just kind of veer in from the mall corridor\u2014and all the display cases are glass with metal or pale wood. The decor is kind of feminine-neutral, with pinkish accents here and there. And the clerk\u2014there's just one\u2014is an affable guy in a plaid sports jacket and red tie.\n\n\"We're fine! How 'bout you?\"\n\n\"Fine!\"\n\n\"Hey, how often do you have to clean your glass here?\" I ask, pointing to the big display case up front.\n\n\"Well, let me put it this way\u2014if I had a penny for every time I've done it, I could retire right now. I use a lot of Windex. It gets dirty fast.\"\n\nAnother difference between here and next door is the layout. At Cartier there's a definite barrier between the shopper and the salesperson. The display cases act as a barricade, practically\u2014they're there to hold and show the goods, but they also tell you, the customer, to keep your distance. That design decision is old-school\u2014all stores once operated that way, but today it's fading fast. That layout set the tone for the transaction: it became a face-to-face, head-to-head thing, like the offense and defense lined up against each other on a football field. You, the shopper, had the money, and it was the salesclerk's job to get it from you. Certainly the tone was never overtly adversarial, but the under-tone, I think, was just that.\n\nThen, that cosmetics innovation known as the \"open sell\" became the rage in jewelry retailing, too. In this configuration, all the goods are out in front of the counter where the shopper can touch and try them on, unaided. In so many stores nowadays there are none of the long, low counters that once filled every shop. Even in this jewelry store, the clerk no longer hides behind the counter. He's right next to you, helping you try on the necklace, and looking into the mirror with you.\n\n\"You know, I like how the display cases are set up.\"\n\n\"Yep\u2014me, too,\" he says. \"It doesn't help to be standing behind a counter. It used to be that way right here\u2014counter, counter, counter. But when they remodeled it, they took the counters away.\"\n\n\"How much of your business comes in here after being in Cartier first?\"\n\n\"A lot do, actually. See this necklace here? They sell one like it for many thousands of dollars, solid gold. Ours is costume, but it sells for $139, and, believe me, you can't tell them apart. So most people, if they can save some money and nobody's ever going to notice anyway, they'll do it. Of course, then there are people who have hundreds of thousands to spend on jewelry, and who am I to argue with them?\"\n\n\"So you stock this store partly in response to what they're selling at Cartier and Tiffany?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed. I don't know if my bosses chose this location because it's next to Cartier and down the hall from Tiffany, but it helps. See this choker? You can go to Tiffany and get it for $81,000, that's no lie, or you can get it here for $349. And nobody's going to know whether they're real pearls or not unless they come over and begin gnawing on your necklace!\"\n\n\"Do you think that ever happens?\"\n\n\"Not to me it doesn't!\"\n\nAlbert and I amble a few stores down, to Tiffany. The first thing we see in the window is something the store doesn't even sell\u2014a beautiful black and white photograph of what could be either Paris or maybe Central Park, in the rain. The other most prominent thing here is the Tiffany logo.\n\n\"This window isn't selling jewelry, necessarily\u2014it's selling Tiffany,\" I observe.\n\n\"That's a good idea, right?\"\n\n\"Well, anything's a good idea if it works. I would say it works on some levels really well. The fact is that while Tiffany and Cartier are both world-class names in luxury goods, Tiffany is better known in the U.S.\"\n\n\"There's no Breakfast at Cartier, is there?\"\n\n\"Not yet. Somehow, Audrey Hepburn and Tiffany became synonymous. She's now their dead celebrity spokesperson.\"\n\nHow this window display works in the mall, though, is an entirely different matter. Here, it seems intended to evoke the Manhattan flagship store and make the connection for the out-of-town mall shopper, especially tourists from abroad. That in itself is remarkable, because, typically, malls don't do much to accommodate foreign shoppers. That's probably because Americans don't think that way. We just don't feel dependent on international trade, even though we really are. Because this mall is near a major metropolitan area, however, the surrounding suburbs are home to many foreigners here either permanently or while working in the states. Lots of Asians\u2014Indians, Koreans, Chinese, Japanese. Lots of Middle Easterners, too, all of whom are familiar with the Tiffany name and reputation. So it makes huge sense to work the brand.\n\nAlso, Tiffany is famous for its windows. The Manhattan store puts a great deal of money and effort into them, although they are minuscule by the standards of department store windows. In New York, the windows that get most local buzz around the holidays are Tiffany's and Barney's. The big, glitzy, droll displays at Barney's have become as much a signature as Tiffany's beautiful, elegant, gemlike windows. This window treatment here in the mall is different from what is done in the city. It sells the romance of Central Park in the rain, and being very near to Tiffany, to people who are walking around a mall. That's a good goal.\n\n\"Even though the window doesn't have a single piece of jewelry in it?\" Albert asks.\n\n\"I guess you could buy that silver picture frame in the window. And Tiffany is known for its silver, too. This is Tiffany's being discreet.\"\n\n\"Does all that mean Tiffany will do better in this mall than Cartier?\"\n\n\"I think that depends on what happens inside. As in most malls, the jewelry stores here are all clustered, so even if you do find something you like in Tiffany, it's very easy to take two minutes to make sure you can't find the same thing a little nicer, or a little cheaper, at Cartier. And this window is very good but not exactly perfect either.\"\n\n\"What's wrong with it?\"\n\n\"Well, Tiffany is selling New York, that's for sure, and people are fond of New York these days. But Tiffany also is selling a color and a bag. That particular shade of blue, on a shopping bag, announces Tiffany even before you see the logo. It's maybe the most successful shopping bag ever. But there's no blue and no bag in the window. Forget the bag\u2014there's not a trace of the blue.\"\n\nThat brings us back to our question of why this merchandise is in the window. The answer seems clear: Because it appeals to women. The windows in the city store play to the fantasy wherein the man gives the bauble to the woman. Here in the mall, perhaps wisely, the window plays to her alone. As we said before, perhaps it's her money, and she wants silver. Or maybe the kids are out of college, and her husband just bought himself that Mercedes two-seater convertible. Now it's her turn for a treat. Either way, more than ever before, it's the woman making the big-ticket luxury purchase. And jewelers have to adapt.\n\n\"Hey,\" Albert says, \"there's a smudge on the window.\"\n\n\"You know, the French have an expression for window shopping: They say, Il faut que je l\u00e8che les vitrines.' Meaning, 'I need to go lick the windows.' And window displays there are often called l\u00e8che-vitrines.\"\n\n\"What do you think of this door?\"\n\n\"Steely,\" I say. \"Sturdy. A real urban doorway. A clear line between out there in the mall and in here at Tiffany's, and there's no accidental crossing between one and the other.\"\n\n\"Not friendly in the mall way, is it?\"\n\n\"No. Not actually unfriendly, either. Warm, natural shades. The metal is stainless steel, or looks that way, which is kind of stylish these days. But maybe it's a little clumsy.\"\n\n\"How is this different from the store on Fifth Avenue?\"\n\n\"It's not so different, but here in the mall people have come to expect that they can cross in and out of stores effortlessly. A big, heavy door feels weird. It feels wrong. At the Cartier store there was a doorman, a friendly guy in a handsome suit who would smile at you if you even came close to the door, and he'd open it grandly for you, as though he was certain you meant to spend a lot of dough inside.\"\n\n\"No doorman here.\"\n\n\"Right. Look inside, though, and you'll see the security guard. That'sprobably the same function Cartier's doorman served, except he also made it easier to get into the place. That was a very smart decision by somebody. Jewelers need a security presence at the doorway, so why not have him also open the damn thing?\"\n\n\"Have you gentlemen seen anything yet?\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"Well, let me know if you do.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"The other problem for Tiffany and Cartier and every other jeweler,\" I explain to Albert but also to the saleswoman, who is hovering, \"is the changing nature of our relationship to adornment. We have so many ways of adorning ourselves, and of telling the world who we are. Jewelry once was universally accepted as a way of announcing one's wealth and position. It's an ancient means for expressing all that, and continues to hold that place among many of the world's cultures.\"\n\nConsider the dot-com millionaires\u2014they have (or had) plenty of money, but they didn't spend it on the same things that earlier generations of tycoons did. The younger moguls seemed not as comfortable with the conspicuous adornment of gems and precious metals. They were okay buying houses. Cars. Eminently capable of choosing ostentatious kitchen appliances\u2014Viking stoves and Sub-Zero refrigerators. Home spas. Porsche now sells an SUV, joining Mercedes, Lexus, and Cadillac. That's the status symbol of our era\u2014on the one hand it's a truck, totally lacking in glamour, suitable for hauling kids or lawn-care products. And yet it costs a fortune to own and another fortune to gas it up. It's the status symbol for people who scorn status symbols.\n\nThe New Age tycoon may spend $1,000 on a bottle of wine or $8,000 on a laptop computer or $200,000 for an oceanfront rental in Southampton. But he won't drop $50,000 for a piece of jewelry, even one of the highest quality, which could be handed down for generations. He doesn't feel comfortable walking into a jewelry store and plunking down that kind of cash for something that is essentially decorative.\n\nAnd, once again, we must consider the changing status of women within the lives of men. She used to be comfortable with her role as a mannequin on which he would hang symbols of wealth, power, and taste. You could look at a woman and learn a great deal about her man. Certainly, he wasn't wearing any obvious adornments\u2014that was her job.\n\n\"Let me ask you something,\" Albert says. \"That dot-com tycoon, is it that he doesn't buy jewelry, or that he doesn't like the idea of buying it in this old-fashioned big-spender kind of store?\"\n\n\"It's funny you say that,\" I tell him. \"Because the only diamond I've ever bought in my life, I bought at a Sam's Club.\"\n\n\"The place where people go to buy toilet paper in bulk? Now, did you go to the store thinking, 'Gee, today I need to buy a diamond necklace, where should I go?' \"\n\n\"You know, somebody who's an expert in these matters mentioned to me that if you want to get the most for your money, buy jewelry at Sam's Club. That the jewelry is of the same quality as you find in a jewelry store, but the price is quite a bit lower.\"\n\n\"Did the box say 'Sam's Club' on it?\"\n\n\"No, actually I didn't care for the box it came in, so I bought another one, something nicer.\"\n\n\"Does your beloved know you got it at Sam's?\"\n\n\"She will when she reads this. The next year I did get her something at Tiffany. But my point is that this is how people shop today. Not every man needs to feel like the big spender who goes into Tiffany or Cartier or Bvlgari and drops a fortune on gems for his lady. Time has passed that paradigm by, and jewelry stores still haven't figured out what to try next.\"\n\n\"What was the experience like, buying expensive diamond jewelry in a buyer's club with all the crates of cornflakes on palettes?\"\n\n\"I just told the clerk here's what I want, and she showed me three different versions and I bought the most expensive.\"\n\n\"Were you trying to get in the front door or the back door?\"\n\n\"It was a Christmas present.\"\n\nOne way the relations between the sexes have changed is that men\u2014especially younger men\u2014often don't have to work as hard as they used to to get in either door. Or maybe today relationships are over quicker. Perhaps if he senses that this woman isn't a lifelong mate, maybe it's better to spend the money on a vacation, something he can enjoy, too, rather than watch her walk out the door wearing the $10,000 Rolex watch he gave her. I mean, how many marriages even make it to the tenth anniversary?\n\n\"Or what if she says, 'But honey, what I really wanted was something practical, like a radio?' \" Albert says.\n\n\"One of the most poignant retail stories I ever heard was from the jewelry business. A jeweler I know described how this middle-aged man came into his shop one day. The guy explained that he was a mechanic, and had a bunch of kids, and so was never able to afford a proper ring for his wife. Now it was their twentieth anniversary coming up, and he had managed to set aside a few bucks to buy something nice. And with that he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out these crumpled bills, like $250 or so. It was a fairly small sum for this particular store, but the jeweler described to me the pleasure he felt in taking this working man and helping him find a really nice ring, with a tiny diamond in it, for his wife. I mean, that's the kind of moment that happens in a jewelry store. You'll never get that kind of emotional payoff selling jeans or sneakers or video games. But jewelers haven't figured out how to capitalize on that old-fashioned thing while feeling contemporary, too.\"\n\n\"How might they sell that mechanic's moment?\"\n\n\"Any number of ways. Maybe a little lifestyle graphic right\u2014\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'lifestyle'?\"\n\nThis was from the Tiffany salesperson.\n\n\"Well, like a photo or something...\" I reply. That's when she notices that I have a small tape recorder along for the ride.\n\n\"We're being recorded?\" she asks, suddenly suspicious.\n\n\"Hey, nice wall,\" I say, pointing to a large display of Tiffany boxes.\n\nThis is an evasive maneuver, but what I'm pointing to is actually a good idea, something I'd noticed before. It takes fullest advantage of the signature blue box: Small, modestly priced gifts, such as silver key-chains or money clips, already boxed and ready to go. It provides a huge visual hit of that Tiffany blue, something the store needs. It is designed for gifts a bride gives to her wedding party. The hope is that the customer buys eight, not one. It also offers something affordable to the hesitant shopper who entered thinking there's no way he'd find something in here, while (because it's preboxed) not requiring much salesclerk attention. It is the jewelry store version of the cosmetics \"open sell.\"\n\n\"We're being recorded?\" she persists, now on full red alert. \"Because you can't...I didn't realize you had...\"\n\n\"I'm not recording you,\" I say. \"I'm recording me.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want anything that I said\u2014\"\n\n\"Neither do I,\" says a second clerk, who hasn't even been close until now.\n\n\"Because we'll be in big trouble,\" says the first clerk, \"because we're not supposed to record or have pictures taken\u2014\"\n\nWe had seen enough of the store, and we're now back in the safety of the mall proper. Albert still hasn't gotten his wife a gift\u2014in truth, he has barely looked at the goods\u2014but each shopper has a unique style, like a DNA fingerprint. Something tells me his style incorporates a great deal of procrastination, followed by a panicky trip (maybe back to this same mall) at the eleventh hour. A lot of men shop that way\u2014it's shopping for people who hate shopping. This is another reason why stores have to operate differently if they want to accommodate male-pattern buying. For Albert, that wall of preselected, preboxed gifts may start looking awfully good in two weeks.\n\n\"How about this jewelry store?\" he asks when we're a few paces away from Tiffany.\n\nI hadn't even noticed this one before. The windows are large, which doesn't feel particularly jewelerlike. And the first thing you see is color, a kind of pinky-mauvey-rosy shade that predominates. It looks girly, and not in the best way possible. But there in the window, nestled among the swirls and swaths and swoops of fabric, is jewelry.\n\nInside we find a horseshoe of display cases, all down around midthigh level, meaning they're not the easiest things in the world to examine for fully grown men who don't yet feel inclined to bend over or to sit at the little benches before the cases.\n\nAcross the cases we face a pair of middle-aged women, extremely pleasant of face and form, wearing pastel-colored fuzzy sweaters and soforth\u2014not at all the stylish keepers of the crown jewels we encountered at the more glamorous shops.\n\n\"Hi, ladies!\"\n\n\"Well, hello,\" they reply, more or less in unison. Nobody will confuse this store with Tiffany or Cartier. Or the discount place, for that matter, if only because it's hard to imagine any male wandering in here searching for the key to the front or back door. This is an interesting concept, a jewelry store aimed only at women shoppers.\n\n\"Wow, pink lights and flowers,\" Albert says under his breath.\n\n\"You think this would be forbidding to a man?\"\n\n\"Gee, this is what a jewelry store would look like if Hallmark decorated it.\"\n\nOn the other hand, the prices here are moderate, perfect for the woman buying for herself or another woman.\n\n\"Is there anything we can show you gentlemen?\" a clerk asks.\n\n\"I'm not sure I can fit my knees under that counter,\" I say, eyeing a fancy little bench.\n\n\"Oh, it's really comfortable,\" she says.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I reply, \"but you're not six-foot-four!\"\n\n## 16 A Man and His Mall\n\nCAN A GUY love a mall?\n\nThe short answer is no, judging by the behaviors we've seen in our studies. At least they don't love it in the way women do. Some of the reasons for this gender disagreement are obvious. Start by looking at the very composition of the mall\u2014overwhelmingly, the stores are meant for female shoppers. Women's apparel is the number-one category. Men's clothing and shoes are way down near the bottom of the list. Once, malls frequently included stores selling books, stereos, TVs, toys, sporting goods, items that at the very least gave men something to idly browse. It's no coincidence that the only popular mall store bearing the name hardware is Restoration Hardware, which trades in furniture and accessories, and where the closest things to actual hardware are drawer pulls. These are marvelous stores, but go into one and try and buy a ten-penny nail or caulk or an ax, designed for real use rather than for Martha Stewart.\n\nThe mall is a tamed jungle, the retail concentrate of the urban environment\u2014a very weird city, one in which there is little to do but shop, with a roof and a smooth floor and air bearing the scent of candle shops and cappuccino.\n\nYou go to a mall to shop. There's nothing tentative or halfway about it. You can't just dart in and out, or merely breeze by on your way to somewhere else. You must drive there on purpose, then enter into the parking dance, and leave your car, and then make your way from the lot or garage into the core of the structure.\n\nAll this and you haven't even gotten close to a store where you want to be.\n\nNo wonder male shoppers are more likely to be found at strip shopping centers. There you can, on a sudden whim, steer in, park within sight of your destination, and then enter the RadioShack or Barnes & Noble or Home Depot or any of the other spots where guys feel most at home. How men shop once inside a store is how they shop for stores, too. Men shop like they drive. They refuse to ask directions unless they are absolutely desperate. Inside a store, it is our experience, men will bolt in this direction and then that, trying to find what they came in for. If they don't locate it relatively quickly, they are more likely than women to give up and walk out. Men typically do not penetrate any given store as deeply as female shoppers do. This instinct alone makes malls challenging, for they are the least time-efficient shopping venue. Shoppers spend roughly 25 percent less time in a city store than in a mall location.\n\nShoppers tend not to go to a mall when all they need are a few very specific things. The mall is for shopping as an activity unto itself, something that most men have yet to embrace. In one store we studied, which sells apparel to both sexes, males shopped only half as many racks as women did. And while men's clothing can be found inside malls, most of it is sold in environments designed mainly for women shoppers. It's at the Gap, where it has become increasingly challenging just to figure out which clothes are for women and which are for men. Or it's at department stores, where menswear is typically off in some remote region.\n\nMen's apparel is still recovering from casual Friday. Historically, men favor uniforms, be it jeans and a Steelers jersey or a Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips. Male apparel shopping once consisted mainly of closet replenishment\u2014replacing garments that had worn out. As casual Friday spread to business casual for every day of the week, the men's fashion industry reeled. In a study for Dockers, we captured video of how some men shop for trousers: They find a pair in their size (whatever they've been wearing) and head straight to the register, without browsing the rest of the merchandise or trying anything on. The time spent in the section was roughly identical to what men devote to shopping for beer in convenience stores.\n\nA similar pattern, one that varies according to region\u2014strong in the West and Midwest, less so in the East and South\u2014is the acceptance of dressing down for men: the high-tech zillionaire who does most of his clothes buying from the Land's End catalog, the entrepreneur who spends on cars and boats but never on custom-tailored suits and hand-made shoes. My father owned good shoes, casual shoes, and one pair of sneakers. He bought four suits a year and changed his clothes as soon as he got home at night. I live in khakis, soft cotton shirts, and rubber-soled shoes. The custom of dressing for the arena of work has disappeared for many men.\n\nWhile some department stores still do a decent business in men's clothing, mostly the business has left the mall. The success of a chain like Men's Wearhouse has occurred in freestanding stores, where men are more likely to go. Smart brands follow men to wherever they're shopping, which is why retailers such as Tractor Supply and Farm & Fleet now sell lots of apparel. \"The brands will sell to us stuff they would not sell to Wal-Mart, but they ask us not to advertise,\" a Farm & Fleet manager told me. \"They are scared of their other customers figuring out where else the shopper can find their stuff.\"\n\nIn this very mall, there's a Brooks Brothers store and a few department stores with menswear, but that's about it for anything other than sportswear. There's exactly one men's shoe store, and it is perhaps the sleepiest shop in the mall. But there are nine stores selling sneakers. Guess where men find fashionable footwear these days?\n\nIt's interesting to note the single category of apparel that does seem to lend itself to male participation, and, in fact, domination\u2014sneakers. There's an entire generation of American males who have all but abandoned the traditional shoe, by which I mean something made at least in part of leather, usually brown or black, appropriate for wearing with what is quaintly still thought of as \"dress clothes.\" If you're reading this book (as opposed to playing a video game), you probably remember shoes. You may even have worn them yourself once upon a time, and perhaps wear them even today sometimes.\n\nGo to the mall and attempt to shop for these accoutrements of yore, and you may have a challenge on your hands. There are still a few men's shoe stores to be found, of course, but fewer all the time. Invariably, they are among the emptier places in the mall, too. You can just walk in and sense that life has passed them by.\n\nAt what point did footwear meant mainly for athletic activity become America's shoe? It's a perfect match, sneakers and the United States of America\u2014the youthfulness, the vitality, the casualness and egalitarianism. Europeans, wearing their old-world, highly constructed, uptight (literally, and straight-laced, too, in some instances), leather numbers sneer at our childlike belief that sneakers are entirely appropriate for all occasions, from the playing field to the office to the mall. In fact, one of the most dramatic differences between malls in North America and Europe or South America is how they sound: There, the ambient noise is the clacking of hard heels on flooring; here, nothing but the odd squeak of rubber soles.\n\nThis is one of those trends that was fed from all directions. We experienced a generation of oldsters who maintained their health and disposable income well into their seventies and beyond. They stepped out of the world of work and responsibility and into a kind of second childhood. With what footwear did they take this step? Look around\u2014men and women who would never have been caught dead in sneakers, who came of age at a time when sneakers were thought inappropriate for any nonathletic activity, came to embrace them, for the obvious reason\u2014they feel so good. Combine the rubber bottom, the soft top, and then the miracle fastener, Velcro, and you've got a perfect shoe for the golden years. (It's beyond irony, how our eldest citizens have embraced not only the athletic shoe but also the rest of the active wear costume\u2014sweatpants and sweatshirt, garments blissfully devoid of zippers, metal fasteners, and finite dimensions, and rather held up by elastic, such a forgiving friend to the expanding waistline.)\n\nWhile that practical embrace of sneakers took place from the aged end of the spectrum, a similar evolution was happening from the opposite extreme. Now it's the old-fashioned shoe that has become the special occasion footwear, while the sneaker is the default item\u2014what most of us wear, given the liberty, even when athletic activity is the furthest thing from our minds. Look around and see\u2014we men have dragged our juvenile getups into maturity, our sneakers and T-shirts and jeans and baseball caps. There was a time when the costume worn by a child and an adult were pretty much distinct. That time is over.\n\nThe traditional men's shoe industry was blindsided. It didn't understand how the little sneaker section, which used to exist over in a corner of the shop somewhere, was transformed into a fashion monster that has now overrun everything else in the store. It gave rise to settings where men, women, and children shop for shoes together. The male-only shoe store is one more example of how the traditional masculine preserves are being wiped out, like so many other animal habitats the world over.\n\nThe domination of sneaker style is all but complete. Stores organize the merchandise by activity\u2014where once we each owned a single pair of sneakers, now we need different types for running, basketball, cross-training (whatever that is), climbing, and then a pair for wearing when performing no activity at all. The comfort and informality of rubber bottoms has extended fully to all types of shoes, so that even the dressiest styles are connected to the ground via soft, cushiony gum rather than hard, slippery leather. The cowboy boot, America's manliest footwear, once upon a time, in the West and elsewhere, is out of vogue, replaced by the casual boot with a bottom that looks like the tread on a truck tire. Even sandals now are simply sneakers with open toes. You can go from the humblest pair of no-name discount store sneakers for six bucks to the Prada pair for $350, and they're still sneakers.\n\nThe retail trade used to have a term to describe the role of men in shopping expeditions: they were called \"wallet-bearers.\" Today, even that supporting role is mostly gestural, since the woman is either paying from her own wallet or sharing the load, making the question of whose wallet pays immaterial. Men in the mall are secondary figures. They come to wait.\n\nBut how they wait! This has become one of the most poignant issues in all malldom, the matter of what to do with the men while shopping takes place. We've photographed scores of husbands, boyfriends, fathers, and significant others\u2014loitering, lingering, lurking, hovering, cooling their heels in every conceivable posture. Department stores are particularly inept at accommodating these shopping second bananas. You'll find men perched on the narrow edges of display tables, leaning against walls, sitting on the floor next to their equally glum children. The men and the children are found in identical straits, bored out of their skulls but with nothing better to do than wait for the womenfolk to wrap it up. Video arcades\u2014further juvenilization; nothing for a mature man to do.\n\nMen are pathetically grateful for even a bench here and there, maybe a comfortable chair out of the jet stream of moving shoppers. These furnishings are especially important to have near stores that men abhor to enter. We once studied a mall where a ledge suitable for leaning was immediately adjacent to a lingerie store on a day when push-up bras were on sale. The ledge was fully occupied from one end to the other by males, several of whom passed the time by studying (closely) the women entering and leaving the store, and loudly commenting on their need for the garments in question.\n\nSo\u2014woe to the mall that doesn't provide a place where women can park their husbands. At Envirosell we call these \"human parking lots.\" We encourage retailers to think of them in terms of the amount of time likely to be spent there.\n\nIt's downright undignified what men are made to go through because mall planners fail to recognize the most obvious fact about shopping\u2014that it is a social activity performed by couples and families, wherein the female takes the lead role but all others must be equally catered to and cared for. In other countries it's even worse. We have a terrific video clip of a woman strolling into a department store, trailed by her husband. She stops, points wordlessly to a chair in the corner, and urges him into it, depositing her bags at his feet. It resembles nothing so much as a woman leading her well-trained dog. In a French cosmetics store, we witnessed a man trying his best to keep up with his wife as she bounced from one counter to another, until he finally gave up\u2014and began strangling her, ever so gently, in an effort to get her to stop. At Diagonal Mar in Barcelona, there's a rest area with couches, giving the men a place where they might actually nap, which is maybe the best solution of all. I feel sure that some enterprising mall management firm is going to develop a concept in which men might pay a little extra but find room to sleep, watch TV, read, even work on computer terminals, while their wives shop. There's already something close in a Toronto mall\u2014a \"shoppers' club,\" called Embarq, where members (who pay an annual fee) can come to park their weary selves. The setup is ideal\u2014there's an area for men (or women, but they don't make nearly as much use of it) and, next to it, a place where kids can work off their excess energies, meaning that Dad can half watch the little ones while watching the game, and Mom can shop in peace.\n\nThe gender patterns and attitudes we observe while watching shoppers are stereotypical, true. And the stereotypes don't always apply, because men's mall behavior varies according to age.\n\nNot surprisingly, the younger a male is, the better he likes the mall. Older men are less likely to enjoy any form of shopping. Their material needs have declined, especially for anything you can find at Abercrombie & Fitch. The mall doesn't do much to lure the older male shopper; in fact, it does its best to keep him away. The middle-aged male shopper, meaning the baby boomer\u2014age cohort, is headed in that same direction: this guy has never been crazy about shopping at the mall, and age will make him even less inclined.\n\nBut the Gen Xer has an entirely different view of the place. The younger male shopper was of the first generation for whom the mall stood for freedom from parental control. He was in the first wave of mall rats. Boomers were taught to scorn the mall for all its suburban prefab lameness. But there's a whole generation who got their first wild taste of independence at the mall. It's where they were dropped off on Friday nights by Mom and permitted to run free (within limits)\u2014to shop, blow their allowance, and socialize themselves into adulthood. For these guys, the connotations of the mall are mostly positive. For them, the mall is real.\n\n## 17 Who Is Your Dad?\n\nWE'RE approaching an increasingly rare find in malls these days, maybe one that will disappear altogether before long: the record store.\n\nStop a minute and stand still. Look inside the window. No, look at the window, and what do we find? Nothing. Clear, unobstructed glass. Freshly cleaned. No streaks. (Ammonia and newspaper\u2014only way to go.) We know this is a record store because the sign above it tells us so. But the window itself is unadorned by a single thing to alert us as to what form of commerce is being committed here\u2014it serves honestly and earnestly as a transparent means through which to see inside. That's the first mistake.\n\nWhat do we see inside? CDs, of course. But we don't see the actual silvery discs\u2014we see the clear plastic boxes in which they are contained. The awkward, brittle, generic-looking, cheaply hinged containers that some wizard of retail nomenclature dubbed the \"jewel case.\" Nothing gemlike about it. It's hard to imagine a less engaging, less inviting package\u2014it's a plastic box with an uninteresting surface and an annoying tendency to crack into shards during normal use (usually after falling under a shod foot). It does the job of holding the CD and keeping it safe, I suppose, but as a way to display the object in a retail setting, it leaves a lot to be desired.\n\nMall shoppers of a certain age will recall its predecessor, the LP sleeve. It had several advantages over the CD case, primarily its size\u2014a foot square. That alone provided an ample canvas for telling shoppers loud and clear what was inside. It gave the performer and record label the chance to make an artistic statement from twenty paces away. You can hardly see a CD cover from that distance. Now tell me about the impact it has on us standing out here in the mall, looking in. From our perch the nearest CD is around twenty-five feet away. It looks slightly more intriguing than an aspirin bottle.\n\nSo\u2014big news, a manufacturer has fallen down on the job of retail presentation. Record labels today are dismally bad at many of the things they're supposed to be doing, so this particular failure should come as no surprise. They are in deep trouble lately, most of which they blame on pirated song downloads available via the Internet, thanks to the now-defunct Napster network and its successors. I think the failings of the labels and retailers set the stage for what technology has wrought, and there's plenty of evidence right here in this (or any other) music store.\n\nThis window is badly employed even by mall standards, which is saying a lot since mall store windows tend to be so underutilized. There are many reasons for that fact of life. Due to the structure of retail chains, window displays are designed by specialists and contained in loose-leaf binders stored in a central office somewhere, intended to work equally well in every setting, meaning they don't work particularly well in any setting. They're not created with an actual site in mind, and so they don't make any allowances for who will be walking by, or from which direction, or under what lighting conditions.\n\nThe other reason for lackluster mall windows is a philosophical one, a decision that's been made by nearly every national retailer, so it's practically a pillar of the mall aesthetic: The principle is that from outside a store, you should be able to see in\u2014far in. It's why most mall stores don't have solid doorways or defined entrances to mark the threshold between out there and in here\u2014you can so easily drift from the corridor through the wide-open entrance, almost without meaning to or even noticing. All appealing notions, right?\n\nThere's a practical, dollars-and-cents aspect to this, too\u2014efficient design. Because mall rents are high, and because maximum exposure to the corridor is the goal, stores would all like to be wide and shallow; however, many are bowling alleys, narrow and long. In those wide-and-shallow stores it is easy to see clear to the rear wall. This would seem to be an ideal setup\u2014it eliminates the need for the chain to mediate the shopping experience. Why tell shoppers what's inside the store when you can just stand aside and let them see for themselves? Thanks to the absence of brick and mortar or concrete walls inside this mall cocoon, we've been given the possibility of near-total internal visibility. So why put anything in or on the window that might obstruct the shopper's view of the goods?\n\nWell, I can name about a dozen good reasons. The bowling alleys are always trouble. It is tough to get people to the back of the store unless you train them to visit the mark-down fixture at the back, or you put something strong enough visually to tickle their interest. We call that strategy using a mandala\u2014the traditional big altar at the back of Buddhist temples.\n\nBut for now let's stick with this CD store. What does it gain by leaving the windows empty? It allows us to see inside. What do we see? Rack after rack of clear plastic boxes. Is this making your mouth water? Does the glint of a plastic box automatically get you excited for the latest from U2 or Christina Aguilera or Tony Bennett?\n\nThis is what I was alluding to before\u2014CDs may be a superior medium for storing and playing recorded music (though even that's open to debate), but the LP sleeve was infinitely better as a means by which to display and explain what was inside. It was an ideal and much-beloved package. Labels and artists exploited that admirably\u2014by the 1960s, it wasn't enough to offer buyers a pretty sleeve, it had to contain goodies like photos, lyric sheets, posters, and other bits and pieces of information and whimsy. It became part of the overall package you were buying, and while the record itself was the main event, the rest all became treasured frills.\n\nMaybe the labels didn't realize? Or maybe they did, but didn't care? Either way, the result was the same\u2014they made the fatal decision to package the considerably smaller CD by simply shrinking the LP sleeve. In the case of reissues, that's literally what they did\u2014they took what was designed to be a foot square, collapsed it, and called it a jewel. Did no one notice that what had been a big, bold, and eminently visible poster suddenly was transformed into a postcard? That didn't stop the record industry.\n\nA bad decision by manufacturers usually translates into bad news for retailers, and this was no exception. Here's one result: As you walk by this record store, unless you are already desirous of buying music, there's nothing to goose you into that frame of mind. In every other store in this mall, there's at least a chance that you'll walk by the window, glance up, see a pair of jeans, or a barbeque grill, or a suitcase, and you'll think: Hey, I just remembered\u2014I need one of those! Whereas this music store window will probably tickle no such consumerist gene. If there were a poster or sign or other graphic in the window, or if you could gaze into the store and see an actual record cover, you might suddenly exclaim, Hot diggity, I keep meaning to get that Rolling Stones greatest hits collection, and there it is! If you started out intending specifically to buy a CD today, you will enter this store, of course. But is that the only customer the store needs to attract? What kind of world would it be if people bought only the things they really needed, only the things they have on their sensible shopping list? A grayer, duller, infinitely poorer world\u2014poorer especially at the bottom line of retailers. A store is supposed to try and make its goods irresistible.\n\nAnd this is why conversion rate, which is an essential measure of a store's performance, can be misleading. One way to evaluate store health is to see what percentages of shoppers convert into buyers. The higher the number the better, as a rule. Roughly 70 percent of the people who enter this store will buy something, which could be taken as a sign that the retailer is doing a good job. In fact, just the opposite could be true\u2014maybe the store isn't attracting enough shoppers inside its doors, which would result in a too-high conversion rate. It should be working harder to draw more shoppers in; even if the conversion rate falls, sales will have risen.\n\nSo: You look inside and see many, many racks containing something shiny. There are a few posters of recording artists up on the walls, but these too are badly deployed\u2014they're mounted flush against the wall, meaning they can be seen properly only if you're standing there facing them head-on. If these were angled slightly outward, to face the front of the store, they might actually be visible from outside, thereby serving a dual purpose. Owing to the shallowness of the space and the glass facade, the entire store effectively is the window display. But a very weak window display.\n\nThe funny part is that this very record store chain has an outlet not so far away, on a teeming and hyper-busy city street. Rather than being unipurpose, like a mall corridor, that avenue supports many users with many reasons for being there\u2014office workers rush by next to messengers on bicycles next to a few meandering tourists, all amid the usual urban hubbub of taxis and noise and the controlled chaos that is urban existence. In this crowded but untouristy part of the city, most people rush. Some are on their way to the store, but others are rushing past. For the meanderers, they risk being run down like roadkill. How does this outpost of the same chain handle the window thing?\n\nIn a completely different way, as you might have guessed. In the city, it's impossible really to see into the store, because each window (and there are several\u2014it's a corner location) is devoted to a different popular recording artist. Now, this isn't purely a matter of chance\u2014these windows get huge exposure, making them valuable real estate, so the record labels pay the store to be featured in these displays. The windows are a profit center in their own right. But they also function well for the store itself. Every window has got something different going on\u2014a huge picture of Eminem's scowl, next to some hip hop diva, next to a constant loop of Weezer's new video. The scale of everything is high impact\u2014they all fill the windows with heads somewhere between three and five times as big as yours. Meaning big eyes, meaning you'll look. Plus, befitting the rocking merchandise, the colors are jarring.\n\nThe city store works harder at bringing people in, at jogging the mental shopping list of every passerby, at announcing to the world which piping-hot, right-off-the-presses compact disc the store has just gotten in stock. The mall store announces only that there are CDs inside, should you wish to purchase one. Big difference.\n\nAll the actual selling of the consumer is being left to the labels\u2014to their mass-media marketing campaigns, for the most part. The danger, of course, is that all the marketing in the world can't overcome a bad store. Plus, that approach takes a lot of the fun out of shopping. It takes away the motive for the kind of retailer one-upsmanship that used to make shopping such a heightened experience, and still does in other settings.\n\nLet's go in and shop for CDs.\n\n\"Hey, how are you?\" I greet the clerk, getting the jump on him. I'm the only shopper here.\n\n\"Okay!\"\n\n\"Good!\" I cry.\n\nThe first piece of actual merchandise that attracts my attention once I'm fully inside the store is...a sneaker. Two of them, in fact, two empty sneakers inside a clear lucite cube, which sits atop a plain gray pedestal. There is, also inside the cube, a small white card with type on it, clearly some form of explanation for the shoes. The problem is that the card protrudes from beneath the sole, meaning that it is, let's see, around waist-high on your average adult. And not tilted upward for easy viewing. So picture it: gray pedestal, clear lucite cube, two sneakers, little white card down at your belly button. You actually have to bend over to read the card; I don't care how good your eyes are.\n\nThis, believe it or not, despite all the evidence of poor design and planning, is an example of an excellent thing that malls and mall stores could do easily and abundantly, but almost never do at all: cross-promotion. The simple notion that there's a certain amount of overlap among customers of one store and another, or one type of merchandise and another\u2014in this case, between music and sneakers. Who buys music? Who buys sneakers? Young people.\n\n\"Hey, can I see those sneakers?\" I ask.\n\n\"Well, we don't sell those.\"\n\n\"How long have they been there?\"\n\n\"About two months.\"\n\n\"I don't get it, do you?\"\n\n\"There's a music magazine that's running a sneaker promotion. It's the urban connection, you know?\"\n\n\"Who decides where this sneaker goes? Is it corporate?\"\n\n\"Yes....\"\n\n\"Even in the Manhattan store, it's at the same place\u2014front right,\" I point out.\n\n\"I didn't know that.\"\n\n\"Except in Manhattan, front right is at a staircase that goes down to the lower level, whereas here it's at the display of top twenty DVDs. Do you think that makes a lot of sense?\"\n\n\"The sneaker? I guess so. People do look at it.\"\n\nGood enough for me. This store features a technological selling tool that has made music dramatically more shopper-friendly: Computers that allow you to audition (over headphones) any cut on most of the CDs in the store, just by flashing the jewel box under a scanner and selecting your song. Record stores of old employed listening booths in which you could hear the latest tunes before making your choices. Then this selling tool fell by the wayside. I imagine it got to be costly. Flash forward a few decades and digital technology brings back a worthy vehicle for the enhancement of shopping. You can browse through a book in a bookstore; you should be able to sample recordings here. On this particular setup, according to the sign above the gizmo, you can hear songs from around three hundred thousand titles, all of which have been downloaded into a server.\n\n\"And,\" the clerk says, \"soon you'll be able to see trailers for around thirty percent of the DVDs in the store.\"\n\n\"Do you think records are worse than they used to be?\" I ask.\n\n\"You mean the recording quality?\"\n\n\"No, the music. For instance, albums used to have around ten songs, and at least four or five were ones you liked, so roughly half was good and half was filler. Whereas today, because a CD can hold so much music, you're getting like three or four good songs and a dozen just so-so.\"\n\n\"There is more filler out there,\" he says. \"You get a good mixture, but then again the market is oversaturated with artists.\"\n\n\"Hey, who is that playing now? It sounds like the Kinks from around 1967.\" I'm pulling this out of the air.\n\n\"No, it's Wilco. One of the best records of the year.\"\n\n\"Whatever happened to D'Cuckoo?\" I ask. \"Do you remember them? They issued one fabulous CD. It was an all-women rock-and-roll band.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"D'Cuckoo.\"\n\n\"I know the name, but I don't know what it was. That's the problem with the market\u2014here one day, gone the next. That's music.\"\n\nIt's not just the music store that does windows so poorly, I should point out. In fact, the rest of retailing has fallen almost as low, visually speaking, thanks to the mall. But the worst part is how the mall aesthetic has now infected the urban shopping experience. For if a national chain has the preponderance of its stores in mall settings\u2014which most chains, by necessity, actually do\u2014then the mall window treatments will also be deployed on city streets, where (a) they don't function well, and (b) they degrade the only place left where store windows actually have some life and style left in them.\n\nTake Gap, for instance, not wishing to pick on the chain but finding it impossible to resist. The mall window calls for a few mannequins, spaced at regular intervals, without anything else to stand between the window shopper's gaze and the innards of the store. It's bland, it's uninteresting; and yet it's how most mall windows look, and so it's not jarringly bad. But Gap does its Fifth Avenue flagship store in much the same style. It's how the chain's visual merchandising czar enforces order and organization. As a result, there's a big stretch of suburban blandness blighting Fifth Avenue, totally surrounded by old-school retailers such as Bergdorf Goodman, Tiffany, Gucci, Henri Bendel, Cartier, and so on. The Gap is reasonably well trafficked, in part due to the fact that the area draws so many tourists who may well be comforted by the presence of this mainstay of mall retailing. Maybe to orient themselves in the midst of so much urban hubbub, they gratefully enter this oasis of pale woods, khaki trousers, and mellow Motown piped in through the sound system.\n\nBut there's a cost\u2014a little bit more of the cityscape has been claimed by white-bread retail style. Up the street is a huge H&M, a chain (even though its windows are quite a bit hipper than the Gap's, and the store's a lot more crowded, too). Nearby is Club Monaco. All up and down Fifth Avenue and other great urban shopping districts you find outposts of mall-dominated chains. It's taking a toll. The city invented the store window, and now it has returned in some uglier but more efficient form to kill off its father. To call these windows dressed is an overstatement.\n\nA few stores away from the music shop we come upon a window sign reading: WHO IS YOUR DAD? To be fair, I should say that this takes place a week before Father's Day, but this makes the sign no less obscure. Is it meant to raise questions of paternity? It's in a store specializing in maps and globes and gear for the intrepid traveler, which does nothing to make the sign's meaning any clearer, at least not to me. It probably seemed very clever and intriguing back in some corporate conference room, where it was unveiled by the visual merchandising agency honchos to the executives whose job it is to sit around in that conference room and make such decisions. Out here in the real world, though, it makes zero sense.\n\nTechnology made posters and especially big, lush color photographs a lot easier and cheaper for retailers to come by. With that, dressing the windows made a sudden turn\u2014for the worse. It became quicker and simpler to hire a designer to come up with some fancy graphics and then print a bunch of them in Asia, where printing is cheap, and then decree that they be slapped into store windows and on walls from coast to coast. It used to be somebody's job to step into a store window and dress it\u2014to decorate it and fill it with merchandise in a (one hopes) eye-catching manner. There still are window dressers here and there\u2014in Manhattan you'll find them in the best stores, and everywhere else in America you'll find them in the smallest ones. But in between those extremes, windows are now dressed long distance. They're one-size-fits-all.\n\n## 18 Malls of the World\n\nTHE modern-day mall may be an American innovation, but it has gone completely global\u2014from Kuala Lumpur to Dubai, from Tokyo to S\u00e3o Paolo. It's peculiar how the idea has morphed: Birthed in the United States by suburban development, cheap automobiles, and land, malls in other places are interpreted through local culture, customs, and needs. Examining the mutation of the concept is one way of looking at the mall's DNA. Iguatemi, a huge mall in S\u00e3o Paolo, Brazil, is a good example of what I mean.\n\nFirst, some context. S\u00e3o Paolo is South America's largest city. Imagine L.A. sprawl and traffic, with Chicago's industrial base. Pollution and crime are major issues. The city has more private helicopters than anyplace else in the world. Billionaires scoot over traffic, while ordinary citizens may need three hours to get from one side of town to the other. It is not a pretty city. The tall buildings downtown look as if they are melting as the facades have been eaten away by the potent combination of sunshine and dirty air. In spite of everything, it is a great city for business, and it's the center of Brazil's shopping engine. The locals call themselves Paolistas. They work and play hard. I have an office there.\n\nIn the early 1990s, we were the subcontractor to an American firm doing branch bank development for Banco It\u00e1u. The American agency lasted about a year and left. Envirosell was asked to stay, and we now have ten years of experience working for Brazilian banks, supermarkets, a huge local brewer, and multinational consumer product companies. Since many grocery stores servicing middle-class markets are in enclosed malls, we have an ongoing relationship with Brazilian mall developers. We learned quickly, no matter which industry we were working with, to discard our North American lens. Brazil has been described as Belgium inside India, in the sense that it has an affluent middle class surrounded by mind-blowing poverty.\n\nIt was very helpful in understanding how Brazilians shop to start with banks. In Brazil, big banks are literally big. A typical It\u00e1u branch has more than one hundred tellers and a machine gun tower in the middle of the banking floor. Large segments of the population have no bank accounts and limited access to a postal system. Workers will cash their paychecks and pay rent and utility bills through the bank where their employer does business. A busy branch can feel and sound like a crowded railroad station.\n\nHistorically, Brazil manufactures mainly for domestic sale, and many Brazilian conglomerates are vertically integrated. Banco It\u00e1u manufactures its own ATMs, computers, and office furniture. It builds and manages apartments and housing subdivisions for its employees. It is privately held, and the family that owns it must have more than one helicopter. They have never offered me a ride. Brazilians have taken First World innovations and reinvented them to suit their own needs. While the branch bank and shopping mall are recognizable to the foreign eye, they are distinctly Brazilian mutations.\n\nFrom across the street, Iguatemi mall looks like an Art Deco monolith. The huge, ornate doorway must have been beautiful in the construction drawings. As in many mall designs, the ornamental entrance is unrelated to the entry patterns, or to the demographic profile of who enters where. There's limited walk-up traffic through that grand door. Design culture loves building triumphant gateways that often can be appreciated only by the policeman directing traffic from across the street. As at many locations serving a high-end market, most of the important users slip in discreetly through a side door. That entrance typically has no charm or aesthetic value.\n\nIn Brazil, with its major crime problems, the mall serves as a gated commercial community. At Iguatemi and every other enclosed mall and bank, the first thing you notice are the security guards. These aren't the usual aging rent-a-cops hired to control teenage mall rats. These guys are hard-eyed, aggressive, and ostentatiously armed. They provide what the streets do not\u2014safety.\n\nThe presence of police at the doorways and in the concourse turns the mall into a semiprivate club. At Iguatemi, while the stores are attractive, the real action is strolling down the concourse, and it isn't just teenagers you find there. This is a social setting that no American or European mall can duplicate. I am glad I've come to this mall in my dotage; if I'd been here in my twenties, I would have fallen in love every ten minutes. In many cultures, the middle and upper classes dress up to go shopping. While the designer sweat suit is acceptable attire, and you do see belly shirts, Iguatemi puts the general fashion coefficient of any American mall to shame. The social pressure cooker is evident in poses and active eye contact. In a country where many people live at home late into their twenties, the mall is a meeting place for working adults. Many companies run lunch-hour shuttles from their headquarters to the mall.\n\nIn North American malls you can be anonymous and lose yourself in the crowd. At Iguatemi, there seems to be the expectation that you will bump into your neighbors, workmates, and possibly your best friend's gorgeous cousin.\n\nThe mall as gated community works at being a complete shopping solution, something the American mall might examine. Beyond the supermarket, the corridors leading from the parking lot are lined with small service businesses\u2014watch repair, a locksmith, travel agent, dry cleaning, even a Laundromat that will wash, dry, and fold your clothes while you shop. These shops may not pay major league rents, but they service shoppers and animate underused space.\n\nThe retail mix here has only a few names an American audience would recognize. C&A, the European version of JC Penney, is one of the anchors. There is a cross section of global knockoffs trying to ape Gap and American Eagle. In some of the small fashion houses, you find high-end dresses and accessories, bought at season-end closeouts in New York and Miami, transported across the equator to meet the start of the appropriate season launch. There is a distinctly high-end section of the mall signaled by a change in the quality of the concourse seating and a large, aged but sumptuous Oriental carpet in the courtyard.\n\nBrazilian malls are loud. Some of it is because the corridors and concourses tend to be narrow. In a hot climate, stone and tile flooring helps keep the mall cool, but they also amplify the cacophony. The biggest difference is the sound of footwear. In the United States, the rubber-soled shoe reigns everywhere, especially on shopping trips. While some American women may wear high heels to the mall, they are a minority. American women have learned to feel stylish in sneakers. At Iguatemi, the echoing clatter of feminine footwear is pervasive. High-heeled sandals, spike heels, and mules go with the miniskirts and short shorts. The voices, too, are louder, to compete with the clatter and also to announce one's presence. You can't hear the jukebox playing in many people's heads, but you pick up the cadence and swing in the walk.\n\nThe contrast between Brazil and Japan could hardly be greater. Safety is not a concern in Japan. Street crime is almost unknown. Japan has an efficient and widely used public transportation system. Public safety is not just about facts, but also about perception. Unlike anyplace in North America, it is common in Japan to see young children commuting alone across Tokyo to school. The early morning and afternoon subway trains are crowded with schoolchildren aged seven and up, all in uniforms. The youngest travel in small packs, and as they age the packs only grow. In that safe world, the role of a mall as safe haven is unnecessary. Japanese kids can comfortably range far afield, and they crowd the hip urban shopping districts.\n\nThere are elegant malls in Japan, including a new one across the street from Tokyo Station called Maru-Biru. It is part of a large office complex, where numerous buildings share the same name, or nearly so. Like all Tokyo street names and numbers, the mall defies logic, and I had a hard time even identifying it from the outside. The mall anchors a shopping strip between Tokyo Station and Ginza, the major shopping district. It's a little sterile and lacks animation. That mall focuses on young, single, employed women, and at lunchtime it rocks, but still the scene is very corporate and restrained.\n\nJapanese consumers vacillate between two opposing impulses. They can be extremely frugal and practical. But they also exhibit a fevered obsession with high-end products and brands. The Japanese are forever looking for a bargain. Relative to the United States, everything from housing and transportation to beer and vegetables is expensive. The meeting of Japanese prudence and luxury shopping tastes creates retailing and business anomalies. In stores, two examples stand out.\n\nDon Quixote is a popular chain in Japan. The origins of the name are a mystery. The name is not used in the Western form, but rather translated phonetically into Japanese and presented in Kanji. It is the Japanese equivalent of the American Dollar Store, or the German chain called Aldi (now found in some U.S. communities), only bigger and with a wider range of products. Often stuffed into aging multistory buildings, the stores are warrens selling everything from canned goods and household products to apparel, home appliances, and electronics. It is easy to get lost. The price promotion signs look hand-done and are everywhere you look. The store presents itself unapologetically as a maze, which is its charm. The Japanese love it for the discounts. The perception is that nowhere is anything cheaper than at Don Quixote.\n\nAnother stop on the search for a low-cost shopping fix is a new store in Tokyo called Three Minute Happiness. The copy on the sign outside reads\u2014Just Three Minutes/Enjoy Shopping/A Happy Feeling. It's a retail vacation featuring broad aisles and a simple arrangement of wildly disparate merchandise\u2014\"stuff for living,\" as it is described, arranged not by category but by price. You can find cosmetics, notebooks, housewares, toys, all just paces away from a coffee and ice-cream bar, where you buy a coupon from a vending machine and present it to a human server. It's a store conceived and designed to deliver a cool, pleasurable, highly organized, 180-second experience in the midst of urban madness. Nothing is expensive, everything is fun, and it's all in your face. With small cosmetic samples at \u00a5100 or \u00a5200 ($1 to $2), it's a shopper magnet. Both stores play to the consumer's love of value in completely different ways. They are radically different flowers springing from the same root system.\n\nAt the other end of the Japanese consumer spectrum is the love affair with luxury brands. Many such brand names do huge business in Japan. Oscar de la Renta, Calvin Klein, and many others license their names to Japanese stores and product manufacturers.\n\nHistorically, there is a unique signature to Japanese design, from the brushwork on paintings to the simplicity and grace of ancient buildings and the richness of Japanese textile design. That tradition has influenced Western design for more than 150 years. While you still see that history in twenty-first-century Japan, the best examples of high-end retail are in distinctly foreign settings, such as the Herm\u00e8s, Prada, and Louis Vuitton stores in Tokyo.\n\nAround the corner from the Imperial Hotel, where I stay, is the new Herm\u00e8s store in Ginza. Mornings on my way to Starbucks, I pass the crowds waiting for the shop's ten o'clock opening. White-gloved security guards keep the docile hordes in line. It is a lovely store where product, display, and architecture are unified.\n\nHow do you explain the particular fervor many Japanese have for high-end brands? It surpasses what we see even in the United States and Europe. It is especially curious in Japan, which has struggled with economic stagnation of almost two decades. Japanese families endure punishing commutes, long workweeks, and expensive but modest housing. But they spend serious money on luxury products and have an almost mystical belief in their value. Just as previous generations may have hoarded gold coins, some Japanese today seem to believe that a Prada bag tucked in a closet is an investment.\n\nTo senior executives at luxury goods firms, the Japanese devotion to designer labels is a mixed blessing. The companies love the money\u2014the Herm\u00e8s and Louis Vuitton shops in Tokyo generate some of the largest sales-per-square-foot revenues of any retail location on Earth. A good Hallmark Gold Crown card store in an American mall may do $500-plus per square foot. A great Gap might do $700 a foot. A French or Italian luxury goods store in Tokyo brings in more than $7,000 a square foot.\n\nWhat worries the European luxury goods manufacturers is the degree to which their native customers react negatively to crowds of Japanese tourists filling the shops in Paris and Milan. To a European snob, there is something distinctly d\u00e9class\u00e9 about seeing your favorite bags getting on and off the tourist buses. Japanese customers are right to suspect that some products are being deliberately withheld from stores that serve the Japanese market. Some high-end shops in Paris and Milan limit the number of bags they will sell the individual Japanese tourist, but will look the other way when a well-dressed European wants to make the same multiple purchase. Outside the Louis Vuitton store off the Champs Elys\u00e9e in Paris, Westerners are often approached by Japanese tourists asking if they will make their purchases for them.\n\nAs you leave the central urban core and make your way to the residential suburbs, the retail excitement and innovation drop off. The shopping centers serving much of the middle-class Japanese market are unassuming on the outside and aging on the inside.\n\nNara is a bedroom community of Osaka, Japan's second-largest city. It's home for teachers, middle-aged salary men, and Japan's increasingly visible retiree community. Nara is also one of the centers of Japanese Buddhism. Sprawling temple grounds, carefully groomed and maintained, attract thousands of tourists and pilgrims every year. To serve that trade, Nara has Palace Hotels, conference facilities, and expensive restaurants. Beyond the temples and facilities for tourists, the commuter line bifurcates the community like a noisy brook. Like much of Japan, Nara consists of densely packed pockets of housing surrounded by small farms. From the windows of the mall you see rice-field landscapes right out of the sixteenth-century\u2014surrounded by pint-size strip shopping centers, modern bridges, and train lines. It is a weird vista.\n\nThe traffic on the narrow, two-lane roads approaching Nara Family Shopping is backed up for almost half a mile on the sunny Saturday afternoon we visit. Even from afar the mall looks to be more than fifteen years old; on the outside it is nondescript and the paint is peeling.\n\nThere's a line of over thirty cars waiting to park in the tiny lot. We end up appointing a designated driver, who spends the next two hours circling while we shop. While most Japanese shopping centers have parking, a lot of the traffic arrives on foot, since many malls are adjacent to commuter rail stations. Bicycle traffic can also be significant. I expected the Japanese to have developed an innovative bike parking system. They have not. In many locations, bike parking is subcontracted out and a uniformed employee is constantly moving locked bikes around to maximize space.\n\nThe commuter Japanese bike is solidly utilitarian and functional. This isn't glam bike country, and so theft is not an issue. The bikes are locked, but any urban American would laugh at the modest security measures, easily foiled by a Swiss Army knife. The basic bike comes with baskets and simple child carriers.\n\nOn the weekend the mall is populated by the elderly and young families. For both groups, convenience and proximity are trade-offs for the aging building and narrow selection. Employees' smiles are perfunctory and presentations routine and uninspired. Only the kimono shops have any dignity. The vinyl flooring is worn through in places on the first floor. Even the coin-operated kiddie rides in the concourse look ancient. As in many shopping centers, the escalators have been slowed down to accommodate an aging customer base. In homogeneous Japan, a tall, bald, bearded foreigner is not a common sight. My head brushes the bottom of signs hung from the ceiling. While Don Quixote has a sense of discovery, this place has a faint smell of stagnation. You sense the vast gulf between twenty years ago, when Japan seemed destined to take over the world, and now, where it sits at the edge of demographic and economic catastrophe.\n\nLand is precious in Japan, and malls tend to sprawl upward rather than out. While all shopping involves a series of physiological constants\u2014from how our eyes age to our tendency to be right-handed\u2014the implications differ depending on where you go. The design of the signs and graphics is pure chaos to me\u2014not at all in keeping with the serene Japanese aesthetic we Westerners have always admired. But thanks to a pictorial alphabet, the Japanese see and absorb graphic information differently than we do. The Roman alphabet may be easy to learn, and basic reading skills can be taught at an early age, but our system is not efficient. While a bright American kid can read the newspaper by age eight or nine, a Japanese student gains full literacy two or three years later. Much of their early education is about training visual memory. That ability to compress complex information into a series of symbols drives both the haiku and the richness of Japanese animation. It is also why text messaging is so popular in Japan, where words can be entered phonetically, making it easier and faster to compose. For the rest of the world stuck with spelling out words on a twelve button numeric keypad, we struggle to find a clumsy shorthand. On retail signage, the impact is harsh. The use of graphic symbols is coming, and our evolving mall directional signs and maps are good examples. We want recognizable iconography that is more efficient, and easier and faster to read.\n\nJapanese malls are modeled after the country's department stores. Below ground level is where you find the takeaway food operation. As at many non\u2014North American malls, food shopping is a major draw. For most Japanese it's a daily event, and the mall shops package their wares in single servings. The ground floor tends to be where groceries are sold. The middle floors are for general merchandise, like Target or Wal-Mart, with a mix of smaller merchants. The top floors are for restaurants.\n\nThe crowding in Japanese shopping is polite and mannerly\u2014however hurried a person is, there is an acceptance of the pace, a resignation to the waiting. I am always surprised at the order in this country, from people all taking their lunch breaks at the same time to the controlled body movements and postures. As you walk the streets, you can pick out the Brazilian-born ethnic Japanese who have returned to the motherland. Their hips swing, the stride is longer, and the shoulders move differently.\n\nIt is not surprising that outside Japan, the Japanese tourist is a shopping machine. Much of the problem Japanese retail faces is the perception of ordinary citizens that they are not being offered what they deserve. Japan continues to innovate in developing consumer products and electronics. Yet we have seen few homegrown retail concepts translate elsewhere. American and European retailers have come to Japan with mixed results. Sephora and Boots, the English drug chain, have come and gone. McDonald's, Gap, Eddie Bauer, even Carrefour, the French hypermarket giant, are all struggling in Japan. The Japanese mall needs to reinvent itself and become more relevant in the twenty-first century. Given that Japan is aging faster than any other First World nation, we are looking for leadership on serving seniors. The shopping mall is one place it has to happen.\n\nSpain and Portugal have gone through remarkable transformations since the deaths of dictators Franco and Salazar. The countries have skipped fifty years ahead into the twenty-first century, having had the chance to examine what the rest of the developed world did right and wrong.\n\nThe most successful fashion chains in the world today are Zara and Mango. While Zara has a few locations in North America, Mango is an unknown in this part of the world. Amancio Ortega, the founder of Zara, comes from northern Spain and has built a retail organization that functions in seventy-plus countries around the world, selling inexpensive yet fashionable apparel. Both stores, but particularly Zara, are staples in non-American upscale malls across the world. They have set the bar for fashion with rich merchandising and lightning-quick responses to the marketplace. It spots trends quickly and exploits them to the max. Jennifer Lopez gets seen in some designer outfit, Zara copies it and has it in stores less than two weeks later. Both chains have dealt the traditional department store industry a serious blow.\n\nThe key to the store's success is the degree to which it gets its customers to buy at full price, a concept that has almost disappeared in the American market. Its high-fashion, modest-cost positioning trains you to buy it, if you find it, because two weeks from now it not only will not be on sale, it will be gone forever. The chain manages to get the right product to the right place in the right sizes. The stores are well designed. Zara has not flexed its muscle in the United States, preferring growth in easier markets. However, it's only a matter of time before domestic players like American Eagle, Old Navy, and Ann Taylor get a formidable rival.\n\nEuropean mall developers have been making pilgrimages to the Vasco da Gama and Colombo malls in Lisbon, Portugal, for more than five years now. Both malls were designed and built by the Portuguese developer Sonae, which is also a major shopping center developer in the Brazilian market. Vasco da Gama Center, named for the Portuguese navigator, is designed to look like a modern-art rendering of a sailing ship. It is one of the few modern malls built to look good on the outside, based on the premise that a distinctive external appearance will drive traffic and attract interesting tenants. Like the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, or the Tate Modern in London, the exterior architecture is part of the marketing effort. The Vasco da Gama Center is what results from a cooperative visionary relationship among developer, government, and architect.\n\nEuropean retail also differs from the American variety due to the history and role of the merchant. In the United States, retailing has always been a middle-class profession. The price of admission is a little money and the willingness to work hard, rather than education or social background. Few MBAs from America's top schools start their careers in retail. American merchant history is about immigrants and outsiders gravitating to retail as one of the few career tracks open to them. That nouveau-riche history is what makes American retail both brash and innovative, while at the same time leaving it vulnerable to staleness as the entrepreneurs give way to the managers and bureaucrats.\n\nOn the other side of the Atlantic, the merchant has always had social respectability. Four centuries of purveying products to wealthy aristocrats has developed the European sense of how to sell luxury goods. The Spaniards, French, and Italians are particularly good at it. Prada, LVMH, and Gucci are all merchant brands with long histories. The Brits and the Dutch have long traditions of merchant banking, the middlemen in buying and selling, tying retail into a comfortable, wealthy establishment.\n\nMy European colleagues tell me that Barcelona is the second-most popular weekend destination in Europe, after Paris. It is one of the continent's most beautiful cities. For those people who took exotic stimulants in the 1960s, the Catalonian architect and Barcelona native Antoni Gaud\u00ed possessed godlike qualities. His cathedral looks like melted candle wax, his apartment buildings undulate like belly dancers. What substances were they ingesting here in the late nineteenth century?\n\nWhile Paris impresses, Barcelona seduces. One of my favorite stores in the world is Vin\u00e7on, which sells tools, furniture, and household products. It's visual merchandising plays in a different league than the rest of retailing. Even its paper shopping bags, which change with the season, are distinctive and collectible. It is retail theater that may not be transportable or conducive to chain ownership. Its owner is committed to art and design, and, while the store makes money, it feels like a labor of love. In the same tradition as our own Restoration Hardware and Williams-Sonoma, the store manages to help you fall in love with merchandise regardless of the price.\n\nThat is what makes stores like Vin\u00e7on stand out. It has managed to sustain its edge. In a city that's home to Vin\u00e7on and other shopping landmarks, it's not surprising to find interesting malls. Diagonal Mar in Barcelona is part of a huge redevelopment project started around the time of the 1992 Olympics. It's designed to be the commercial center of a district of high-rise apartment buildings and office towers. It gives residents the opportunity to shop, congregate, be entertained, and dine in an elegant pedestrian setting.\n\nWhile the project is still incomplete, it wins both praise and catcalls. When you drive into the garage, there is a system for directing you to a parking place. It doesn't always work perfectly, but at least it's a system. Like Iguatemi, it has a formal entrance, which seems to have no relation to where most people actually enter the mall. On the day I visited, the car/taxi drop-off point was piled high with trash. Likewise, the bus stop across the street was forlorn. The mall's windows are largely empty, and the paint of the crosswalks is faint.\n\nAnd yet, the third floor of the mall opens onto a magnificent plaza facing the surrounding apartment buildings and office blocks. It leads shoppers to restaurants and movie theaters on the top floor. The mall offers a broad selection of dining and is open late into the evening. At night it is a very busy place.\n\nLike an American mall, Diagonal Mar is built with two anchors. At one end is FNAC, the French music, book, and electronic superstore that also sells concert tickets. That combination works well; I've seen FNAC mall stores where crowds have gathered early in the morning, waiting for the ticket window to open. At the other end is Sfera, a chain owned by Corte Ingl\u00e9s, the Spanish department group. Neither anchor store is a stellar contributor to this mall. FNAC is an urban format misplaced in a suburban setting. At the mall lease line are the ticket windows and registers, which make perfect sense for FNAC but are not particularly inviting to the passersby in the mall. Corte Ingl\u00e9s has the same problems that many North American department stores are facing\u2014it is a tired concept that has trouble going up against its more nimble fashion specialty store competition.\n\nOn the inside, Diagonal Mar looks like an American mall. There are the predictable skylights on the central corridors and common areas. It is the details that make it distinctive. The tile work is unusual. Shopping carts from the mall grocery store are left on the concourse, as customers visit other stores on their way home from the supermarket. There are some long, gently sloping shopping cart escalators. There's a small lounge with sofas and chairs. This is Spain, and so, in spite of the signs, people are smoking everywhere. In one of the common areas, a Volkswagen Golf is being painted according to designs submitted by local schoolchildren. My Catalonian colleagues tell me Diagonal Mar has shifted the axis of the city and taken a blighted area and turned it around.\n\nWhile malls are an American innovation, a lot of the most interesting development work is happening outside North America. Some of it is fueled by a better combination of government and private funding, but it is also about changing the rules and making the mall a more complete solution to consumers' needs. One thing the American mall must examine is how comfortably to integrate food shopping into the format. Particularly with high-concept, upscale grocery chains like Wegman's and Whole Foods, the idea is not inconsistent with the upscale mall's image. Iguatemi and Diagonal Mar offer customers shopping, entertainment, good eating, and a comfortable environment in which to watch people and socialize. They manage to duplicate the total urban experience, more or less. As the First World ages, the thought of riding an elevator from your apartment to the supermarket begins to sound sensible. In that spirit, I'd take Barcelona and Diagonal Mar over Miami Beach and Collins Avenue, its main drag, any day.\n\n## 19 Where the Girls Are\n\nIS THIS where you go inside?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Brianna. \"Because this is the entrance that's closest to Pac Sun.\"\n\n\"Does everyone call it Pac Sun?\" I ask Britney.\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\nIf you need to ask what Pac Sun is, you've obviously never spent time at the mall with anyone named Brianna or Britney or Ariel, as we're doing now. It's a chain of stores called, properly, Pacific Sun, specializing in clothing and accessories with a California surfer/skate flavor, lots of T-shirts and hoodies, and the like. If you wonder why it is that a bunch of adolescent girls living in New Jersey are so devoted to the surfer aesthetic, I do, too, but it seems beside the point to ask. The mall, like the city, is capacious, and serves any number of subcultures and even sub-subcultures simultaneously, and without making a big fuss about it. It's the endless and nonchalant ability of commerce to give us what we want without calling it to our attention. Probably we're all better off this way.\n\n\"Would you ever shop here?\" I ask, referring to the big department store through which we've entered.\n\n\"With my mom. Not really,\" Britney says, making a face. The other girls giggle.\n\n\"I go here sometimes,\" says Brianna.\n\n\"Yeah, me, too,\" says Ariel. \"I buy perfume here.\"\n\n\"Okay, let's stop a second,\" I say. We're in a department store, at the perfume counter. This does not strike me as a place particularly well aimed at teenage girls\u2014it feels like the domain of their mothers, perhaps, of middle-aged women who seek (and pay for) cosmetics and moisturizers and paints and fragrances to emphasize and amplify whatever natural beauty they bring to the party\u2014but here we are all the same.\n\n\"I wear Calvin Klein,\" says Ariel.\n\n\"I wear Tommy,\" says Brianna.\n\n\"Polo,\" says Britney.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" I say to the saleswoman who has come over to where we're standing. \"About how many of the shoppers in this department are around the age of these girls?\"\n\n\"A lot,\" she says.\n\nThat's surprising because this counter does absolutely nothing to attract young girls. There's a big lush photograph of a semifamous actress who's on the brink of incipient middle age and is in the news for having borne a child to her much-older actor husband.\n\n\"And you girls shop here because...\"\n\n\"It's on the way,\" says Brianna.\n\n\"Do you ever look over there?\" Over there is the shoe department.\n\n\"I gaze, but I don't look,\" says Ariel.\n\n\"Yeah, my mom is always the one who goes, 'Aren't they cute?' and I'm, like, 'No.' \"\n\n\"So where do you usually go from here?\"\n\n\"I go to Musicland.\"\n\n\"First?\"\n\n\"It depends.\"\n\n\"Do you like music more than clothes?\"\n\n\"Mmm, not really.\"\n\n\"If you had to decide between buying jeans and CDs, which would you choose?\"\n\n\"Jeans.\"\n\n\"Jeans.\"\n\n\"Jeans. Because it's always better to have more clothes. And you can always go online to get music.\"\n\nPac Sun is drawing us in its direction, but on the way we pass Old Navy.\n\n\"Would you go in here?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It looks like what forty-year-olds wear.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Older people.\"\n\n\"Like my mom.\"\n\n\"Teachers.\"\n\nA death sentence.\n\n\"Teachers would wear this to school?\"\n\n\"No. Some of it is too...\"\n\n\"...revealing. For teachers.\"\n\nWe pass American Eagle, which appeals solely to teenagers.\n\n\"Here?\"\n\n\"I don't wear preppy clothes.\"\n\n\"Me neither.\"\n\n\"We have friends who shop here, but not us.\"\n\n\"Amanda.\"\n\n\"Or Holly.\"\n\n\"We grew out of preppy.\"\n\nMore death.\n\n\"Okay, everything so far has just been leading us to here, right?\"\n\nWe're there. Pac Sun.\n\n\"How often do you come to this store?\"\n\n\"I was here two days ago.\"\n\n\"How many times a month?\"\n\n\"Four, at least.\"\n\n\"Same.\"\n\n\"Five or six.\"\n\n\"Eight.\"\n\nEight visits a month. Imagine if these girls had money!\n\n\"You all come Fridays after dinner?\"\n\n\"Pretty much.\"\n\n\"Then we come Saturday, too.\"\n\n\"What's there to do in here?\"\n\nThe answer's obvious, but I like hearing it.\n\n\"Oh, look at clothes.\"\n\n\"Look at what other people are wearing.\"\n\nThey're still new enough at this to be aware of what they're doing. Twenty years from now they'll all be here, or someplace just like it, but it will be so reflexive that they won't even have to think about why.\n\n\"I like the guys' T-shirts. But I would never wear them.\"\n\n\"They have funny slogans.\"\n\n\"Do you always find new stuff? In other words, if you come in again next week will the store look pretty much the same as it does now?\"\n\n\"No, they'll have new stuff.\"\n\nThis is the challenge for any store catering to mall rats\u2014the kids come back so often that you're forced constantly to change the displays. Otherwise, they get bored and stop coming at all. It's one reason stores need to know how often the regulars return\u2014to see whether the windows and front tables should be changed every week or every seventeen days.\n\n\"Now, correct me if I'm wrong,\" I say, \"but this is what you'd call a surfer store.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Yeah, like California skateboarding...\"\n\n\"And what does that mean to you?\"\n\n\"Well, it's the kind of music we like.\"\n\n\"What kind?\" I'm thinking: Surf music?\n\n\"Rock.\"\n\n\"Punk.\"\n\nOh, right, that's surfer music today. Not the Beach Boys.\n\n\"Like tell me who, specifically.\"\n\n\"Get Down Boys. Blink-182. Adema. Linkin Park.\"\n\n\"Jimmy Eat World.\"\n\n\"When you watch a rock video, are you noticing what clothes people are wearing?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So you watch a video and see clothes like these, and it's obviously supposed to be some kind of California scene, and you're in New Jersey, but still somehow it registers with you?\"\n\n\"Pretty much.\"\n\n\"I also shop here because it's different from everyone else. Like today a lot of kids around here are more into rap and less into this kind of thing.\"\n\n\"What do those girls wear?\"\n\n\"Baggy pants and a tight T-shirt that says 'Baby Phat.' \"\n\nThey smirk in unison.\n\n\"What kind of person is that girl?\"\n\nThere's a pregnant pause.\n\n\"I guess we'd call them thugs.\"\n\nThey seem a little uncomfortable with this, but no one can come up with anything better.\n\n\"Thugs rather than punks?\"\n\n\"Yeah. They all have attitude. Bad attitude.\"\n\n\"Where do they shop?\"\n\n\"There's a store called Against All Odds.\"\n\nThe store names do a good job of differentiating the tribes\u2014you've got Pac Sun versus Abercrombie & Fitch versus Against All Odds. It sounds so young, until you think about Nordstrom versus Versace versus Ann Taylor, and you realize that retail tribalism doesn't end when we become adults. It's just that the signifiers become a little more subtle (to us adults, I mean).\n\n\"So you have thugs and preps\u2014\"\n\n\"Hold on a second. What is preppy today? How's it look?\"\n\n\"Clean cut.\"\n\n\"Not too tight.\"\n\n\"Everything ironed, and they're like cheerleaders or they like whatever's popular in music.\"\n\n\"Whatever's in, they like.\"\n\n\"Okay. What other kinds of kids are there?\"\n\n\"Skaters. Skas. Punks.\"\n\n\"I think that skaters and punks are the same. And then you have thugs.\"\n\n\"Between all those, you have half our school.\"\n\n\"And then you have the rest, the people who just dress normal. Like they all have the same style.\"\n\n\"But you also have people who used to be skaters and then just changed overnight to thugs. Like overnight changed their whole wardrobe.\"\n\n\"Everybody has to have their own place to shop, then, is that right?\"\n\n\"Kind of,\" says Britney. \"Although my mom shops here.\"\n\n\"At Pac Sun?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Interesting.\"\n\n\"See, she does try to do fashion, and she dresses young so she can feel younger, but...\"\n\nThat but hurts.\n\n\"So your mothers could shop here?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" says Brianna, \"but mine shops at Old Navy.\"\n\n\"My mother doesn't care anything about fashion,\" says Ariel.\n\n\"So where does she shop? She has to buy something.\"\n\n\"I don't know where she shops.\"\n\n\"Britney, what would your mother buy here?\"\n\n\"She'll choose like the dorkiest thing here.\"\n\n\"Show me what she'd pick.\"\n\n\"That,\" says Brianna.\n\n\"Yeah, that dress right there.\"\n\n\"Hey,\" says Ariel, \"I like that dress.\"\n\n\"No, not the blue one. Actually the pink dress.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't wear the pink one?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nI'm sure this conversation would come as a surprise to the executive suite at Old Navy, since they imagine their chain is aimed directly at girls such as these. In that company's master plan, today's Old Navy shopper migrates tomorrow to the Gap, and then, once she's a little older, all the way up to Banana Republic. But reality has a way of intruding on even the best-laid merchandising plan.\n\n\"I'm a little surprised to learn that, in your view, Old Navy is such an adult store,\" I say. \"Would any of you shop there for anything?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Don't.\"\n\n\"I don't usually find anything in there.\"\n\n\"They changed from when they first started.\"\n\n\"And made it worse?\" I ask.\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Their clothes fit weird.\"\n\n\"Baggier. The jeans got baggier.\"\n\n\"And they've got a funny shape.\"\n\n\"Do you think the jeans are bigger and baggier because there are more older shoppers there nowadays?\"\n\n\"It's not that kind of baggier.\"\n\n\"What kind?\"\n\n\"More like for rappers.\"\n\n\"Oh! Like thugs, you mean?\"\n\n\"Kind of.\"\n\nAnother reason to stay away\u2014thugs and moms.\n\n\"How much time will you spend here in Pac Sun?\"\n\n\"An hour.\"\n\n\"That feels like a long time. What will you do during that hour?\"\n\n\"I'll try on a dress.\"\n\n\"And I'll try it on like fifty times.\"\n\n\"Wow. Will you try on stuff from every section of the store?\"\n\n\"Pretty much.\"\n\n\"Will you buy anything?\"\n\n\"At least one thing.\"\n\n\"So if you come here once a week, you'll buy one thing a week.\"\n\n\"At least.\"\n\n\"Maybe a T-shirt?\"\n\n\"Maybe. Or shorts. A necklace.\"\n\n\"How much will you spend? How much is that sweatshirt?\"\n\n\"Like $40.\"\n\n\"Like $50.\"\n\n\"So you could end up spending fifty dollars every week here?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"That comes to, what, around $2,500 a year. That's a lot of money.\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"Yeah, here I sometimes feel things are overpriced. Like $18 or $20 for a T-shirt.\"\n\n\"A plain T-shirt.\"\n\n\"I always go to the clearance rack to see if I can find anything there.\"\n\n\"It's always the first place I go.\"\n\nBut lest you go forward under the impression that Pac Sun is the zenith of the teenage girl mall experience, think again. We were discussing the glories of the mall itself when Britney says, \"There's only one store missing here.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" I ask.\n\n\"Hot Topic.\"\n\n\"Hot Topic,\" Brianna agrees.\n\n\"If that was in this mall, that's the first store we'd go to,\" says Ariel.\n\n\"But it's at a different mall, one that's farther away,\" says Britney.\n\n\"What's the best store in the world?\" I ask.\n\n\"Hot Topic.\"\n\n\"Hot Topic.\"\n\n\"Hot Topic.\"\n\nCan you imagine finding this kind of unanimity among adult shoppers? This level of rock-solid certainty? Life loses focus as we grow older, and I'm not talking about eyesight here. Teenagers are the ones whose love for the mall is pure and constant and unshadowed by doubt or ambivalence. Do these girls worry about whether their love of buying and owning masks some unmet spiritual need, some emotional dead zone deep inside? No way. Teenage girls may be ironic about a Where the Girls Are number of things, but stores and shopping and acquisitions and malls are not usually among them.\n\n\"They have interesting things that would make you stand out, like express yourself more,\" says Ariel.\n\n\"Clothes, jewelry?\"\n\n\"Yeah. Shoes...\"\n\n\"Perfume...\"\n\n\"Shoelaces...\"\n\n\"Boots...\"\n\n\"Patches...\"\n\n\"Patches. And that's like the ultimate fourteen-year-old girls' store?\"\n\n\"Teenager store.\"\n\nOkay, we're back out of the store and strolling the mall. We come upon Victoria's Secret.\n\n\"How about this store?\"\n\n\"I don't go here,\" says Britney.\n\n\"Too expensive,\" says Brianna.\n\n\"I don't even think my mom shops here,\" says Ariel.\n\n\"This place is more like...\"\n\n\"More like what?\"\n\n\"Like...lingerie.\"\n\n\"Fancier.\"\n\n\"Not like everyday. Not like teenager.\"\n\n\"When did you get that lip piercing?\" I ask Britney. Something about walking by Victoria's Secret brings my attention back to how the bodies of these adolescent girls have been adorned, permanently in some cases, by contemporary fads.\n\n\"Last month.\"\n\n\"Did your parents have any objection?\"\n\n\"Not much. My mother said fine, you know, as long as you're going to take care of it, then go ahead.\"\n\n\"I'm not allowed to get any piercings, but I want to get so many,\" says Brianna. \"When I turn eighteen, I'm getting every one that I want.\"\n\n\"My parents aren't that strict about it,\" says Ariel. \"I got my belly pierced for my birthday.\"\n\n\"Your fourteenth?\"\n\n\"Yeah. But like they don't want anything piercing my face. When I'm sixteen, they said I can get my tongue pierced if I want.\"\n\n\"And you're going to do it?\"\n\n\"Yeah. My tongue and my eyebrow.\"\n\n\"I want my tongue,\" says Brianna.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because it's fun!\"\n\n\"How could getting your tongue pierced be fun?\"\n\n\"It's just interesting. It looks cool when you talk.\"\n\n\"Okay, but do you all imagine someday being, I don't know, adults and mothers, or holding a job? Do you figure someday you'll be a lawyer and talking to the judge with your tongue and lip pierced? And your eyebrow ring? Or do you figure you'll take it out?\"\n\n\"Yeah, like if I got my belly button pierced and then I was having a baby, I'd definitely take it out, because that would be disgusting.\"\n\n\"How about tattoos?\"\n\n\"The only thing about tattoos is, everybody has a tattoo nowadays.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Not everybody has a piercing yet.\"\n\n\"But why do you want one?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It expresses you, I guess.\"\n\nWe've somehow wandered right to the food court.\n\n\"Now, usually, we eat.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Always the food court.\"\n\n\"Not one of the freestanding restaurants?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"Where in the food court?\"\n\n\"We don't know. That's why it always takes so long.\"\n\n\"This is really most like a hangout, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Where, besides the mall, do you girls actually go?\"\n\n\"Not counting school?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Or home?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, sometimes we go and like walk around our neighborhood.\"\n\n\"And hang out with friends.\"\n\n\"Hang out with friends where?\"\n\n\"At people's houses.\"\n\n\"But tell me, is there any nonmall, nonhouse place where you can go?\"\n\n\"Well, there's always the movies. But people don't want to spend that kind of money all the time. It's like $8 every time you go.\"\n\n\"But that's not really hanging out. We go sometimes to the park.\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"Or to get Chinese food.\"\n\n\"Yeah. We just walk around town and see what we can find stupid to do.\"\n\nThat sounds a lot like most adolescents.\n\n\"But other than that or the park, everything you do involves spending money.\"\n\n\"Yeah, that's the way life is. You spend money when you go out, or you stay home and talk on the phone and pay for minutes.\"\n\n\"Do you girls ever meet boys here?\"\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"At the arcade.\"\n\n\"Yeah, that's where you see them.\"\n\n\"And they whistle and stuff. You just keep walking, but...\"\n\n\"Do they whistle because they're too shy to talk?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"Is it obnoxious?\"\n\n\"It's just the way they are.\"\n\n\"I think they're trying to have fun.\"\n\n\"Do you ever go shopping in the mall with boys?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"It's weird, because they shop for different things than we do.\"\n\n\"They shop at some of the same places, but they just pick something out and like get it. They don't take the time we do. They don't try stuff on.\"\n\n\"I don't think they have to.\"\n\n\"Yeah, they can look at the label and see it's size thirty-two and the certain length they wear and then just buy it. But for us it can be the right size but everything fits different.\"\n\n\"Do boys go to Pac Sun?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Do they spend an hour?\"\n\n\"No way. They spend five minutes in the store and then the rest of the time just walking around the mall, seeing who they can bother.\"\n\n\"Whereas you girls can spend hours just shopping.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, we do but we alternate. We shop, hang out, then shop some more.\"\n\n\"We'll get all our shopping done in the first two hours, and then we'll spend the next two hours just walking around and stuff.\"\n\n\"Looking at people.\"\n\n\"Do you go anywhere other than to the stores and the food court?\"\n\n\"The video arcade.\"\n\n\"To meet boys or to play?\"\n\n\"To play.\"\n\n\"See, now I always imagined that the video arcade is more of a guy thing.\"\n\n\"I play all the time.\"\n\n\"I do, too.\"\n\n\"I don't waste a lot of money buying games, though, because I need other things. And I don't have time to play video games constantly, like some boys do.\"\n\n\"I play much more than my brother does.\"\n\n\"Who else is at the arcade?\"\n\n\"Mall junkies.\"\n\n\"Those are the kids who are always, always here. Either inside or sitting around on the steps outside the mall, in nice weather. Like the people who no matter when you come to the mall, you see them here. It's like they never leave.\"\n\n\"A lot of them are the kids who live so close that they walk to the mall.\"\n\n\"When did you girls really start coming to the mall?\"\n\n\"From birth.\"\n\n\"No, I mean coming by yourselves. Not getting here alone, but spending time here without parents.\"\n\n\"I used to come when I was in the sixth grade. That's when I was allowed to spend time here without my mother. She would like drop me off here with some of my friends, and then she'd come back at a certain time to pick us up. Or I'd call her at home when we were ready to leave.\"\n\n\"Do you remember what it felt like the first time?\"\n\n\"It felt cool to be out somewhere without your parents along.\"\n\n\"Yeah, and you could do whatever you want and buy whatever you want, 'cause you had your own money.\"\n\n\"I think I came the first time with my friend Rochelle, and we went to Pac Sun. I think I bought a shirt, and then we just walked around. For hours.\"\n\n\"Are you girls allowed to go in other kids' cars yet?\"\n\n\"No. I can go in my brother's car. He drove us here last week.\"\n\n\"What did your mothers do when they were your age?\"\n\n\"Like, where did she hang out?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't think she was allowed out much.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Like, when they were our age they were pretty much at home.\"\n\n\"Things must have changed, because my mom says 'I'm letting you do things that my mother would never let me do. Like, she would never let me go shopping, or do things to my hair like color it or get it cut or anything like that.' \"\n\n\"Yeah, when they were our age, I think they were playing with dolls.\"\n\n\"How old is your mother?\"\n\n\"Right now? She's forty-three?\"\n\n\"Do you like her?\"\n\nThere's a lot of nervous giggling at this.\n\n\"Sometimes.\"\n\n\"Sometimes I don't really like her, but...I guess I'm closer to my dad. I don't know why.\"\n\n\"Yeah. My mom always tries to be my friend, and I get so mad.\"\n\nAs you may have noticed, teenage girls love malls, but as shopping machines they are not without their flaws. For all the time they spend in stores, they have the lowest conversion rate of any demographic, meaning the percentage of female teenage shoppers who buy something is at the bottom of the pack. They are inefficient, in other words, which is not to say that efficiency in these matters is all, or even paramount. Their inefficiency stems for the most part from the fact that they are not in total control over what and how much they purchase. We saw how much preshopping they do\u2014they comb through mountains of clothing, trying on a great deal of it in an approximation of the fashion-show games they may have played in childhood. Then, with Mom in tow, they return to the stores to plead for the items that truly seemed most awesome.\n\nAnd for all their inefficiency, they (along with their male cohorts) still manage to constitute a $200 billion annual marketplace. If you do the math, every American teenager is the source of roughly $200 a week in total retail purchases. It is true that many American teenagers work\u2014from baby-sitting to taking after-school shifts at the local fast-food restaurants. But most are living off the largess of their families. Their money is spent almost entirely on discretionary purchases. They are, to the economy, pure gravy\u2014they manage, even with limited productivity, to represent a lot of buying power, making them tycoonlike in their contribution to the cosmic bottom line.\n\nThey are trendy, impressionable, and emotional in their spending habits, too, easy to reach through the dependable medium of TV. They also possess something their predecessors couldn't imagine: consumer credit. The typical college freshman carries somewhere around $2,000 in ongoing credit card balances, the result of having been importuned on countless occasions since high school. They have time, boundless desires, and money. Is it any wonder that retailers crave their attention?\n\n## 20 The Mall Touch\n\nWHERE do the exhausted, the played out, the spent, the irredeemably mall-sore go for relief?\n\nThey climb into a big blue polyurethane-lined coffin, one that's throbbing with slamming, pulsating jets of warm water, whereupon they experience mall ecstasy.\n\nThey go to Aqua Massage.\n\nThere's a line, so we'll have to wait a few minutes for our turn. It's a good chance to contemplate this phenomenon, which strikes me as a venture that could succeed only in the mall. Maybe that's due to the psychic kinship shared by an enclosed shopping center and an enclosed massage machine. They're both so spectacularly fake that they outdo reality.\n\nIf this is your first time, let me describe. It's a large box, maybe the size of a refrigerator. It opens like a coffin, into which you climb, with only your head sticking out. (It's not for claustrophobes.) Then the blue vinyl lining fills with water, and you are pleasurably pummeled in a fashion not previously seen outside the car wash. At no time are you ever touched by a human being, and you keep on all your clothing except your shoes. These are seen as the advantages of this contraption. You pay by the minute, usually somewhere between $1 and $1.50.\n\nIt's not a hoax or a con, either\u2014these machines were originally meant to be sold to physicians and hospitals for physical therapy. But they didn't catch on, until some smart businessman got the idea to put one in a mall. Today there are around two thousand in use in the United States. It's a franchise business, meaning that all over this great entrepreneurial country of ours, there are men and women dreaming Aqua Massage dreams of wealth and glory and malls.\n\nYou want to go first?\n\n## 21 Short Hills or Seoul?\n\nI PROBABLY spend more time looking at the ceilings and the floors than most people walking around the mall,\" Ron says.\n\nRon may be one of the few people I know who has spent even more of his life in malls than I have. He's a store designer\u2014a position somewhere between architect and interior decorator. I like him because he's both the most honest and most cynical mall store designer I know.\n\nHe grew up blue-collar in Brooklyn, worked his way through college selling records at Korvette's, graduated with a degree in architecture, but couldn't find a firm that would give him a job. He compromised and took a gig with a store-planning agency. He's now devoted more than twenty-five years of his life to the trade, has his own firm, makes buckets of money, and has not just the inclination but also the right to say what he thinks.\n\n\"What do you see up there on the ceiling?\" I ask as we stroll.\n\n\"Details. Lighting. Lights are extremely important in a mall, because inside the stores it's a totally enclosed, controlled setting, and you've got to make things visible to shoppers, first of all, and then you've got to highlight the things you really want them to notice. No shopper thinks about lighting when they walk through a store, which is how it should be. If you notice it, it's probably because it's either too dim or too bright. Some stores manage this better than others. Smaller ones have an easier job because they have less to illuminate. Most mall stores are built wide and shallow, meaning most of the storefront is right there along the corridor. As a result, there's already decent light coming in.\"\n\n\"How about the big stores? How about the department stores?\"\n\n\"They've got a tougher challenge. Walk around just about any department store, and you'll begin to pick out the dark spots. You've got a lot of territory to illuminate\u2014say, 150,000 square feet of selling space, and ceiling lights will run you around $25, $30 a square foot. It's a lot of bucks. It's tempting for the store to say, 'You know what, maybe we can just do an acoustical tile ceiling with surface-mounted fixtures' instead of something more powerful that will also be more costly.\"\n\n\"To me, Macy's all seem dark.\"\n\n\"They are. That's because they don't spend enough on lighting. That's what I meant\u2014if you notice the lights one way or the other, there's usually a problem. It's even worse for department stores because their best shoppers tend to be older ladies.\"\n\nRon's hit on something there. As we age, the lens in the human eye turns yellowish. Thus, a fifty-year-old sees colors differently than a young person. In addition, those older eyes let in roughly 20 percent less light. Now, most designers of stores and restaurants tend to be young, meaning what they think looks bright enough is too dark for customers middle-aged and older. This is why I have a flashlight key chain\u2014to read the menus in trendy restaurants. Not only are they too dark, but also the young menu designer in all likelihood made the type-face too small for my decrepit eyes.\n\n\"Whereas,\" I say, \"when I go into Neiman Marcus, I usually find a big skylight somewhere, and it floods the store with natural light.\"\n\n\"Right,\" says Ron. \"Natural light sends a message\u2014it says we spent some money. It's ironic, that sunlight is more expensive-looking than electric lighting, but it's true. I have no idea why. It doesn't make a bit of sense.\"\n\nNowadays everybody's getting skylights. They show up in most newly constructed suburban homes, even the midrange models. The new Wal-Mart prototype uses skylights!\n\n\"What else are you looking at, besides lights?\"\n\n\"I'm looking for impact. I want the store to tell me what it is.\"\n\n\"Do you mean first impression?\"\n\n\"I want the store to begin talking to me even before I know exactly what particular things I'm going to find inside.\"\n\n\"Show me an example.\"\n\n\"Let's go see the J. Jill store.\"\n\nJ. Jill is part of a significant trend in American retail, wherein some catalog houses are going into the bricks and mortar store business. L.L. Bean, Coldwater Creek, and even REI, the outdoor store, are all examples. L.L. Bean's outlet in Maine is on the top-ten list of tourist attractions in the state. The firm's move into shopping mall country is a very big step. What makes the transition interesting is how a brand so well developed and focused in two dimensions translates into three, and how the successful catalog customer service model changes once the interactions are face-to-face.\n\nA J. Jill catalog is a romance novel's interpretation of how a beautiful, mature female artist might live: walks on the beach, a studio flooded with natural light, the soft textures of a weaver's loom. All the models are over thirty, there is some sexy gray hair, and all the waist-lines are gently concealed. The photo layouts are brilliant, and the clothes are soft and romantic, definitely not urban.\n\n\"Okay, here we are. What do you see?\"\n\n\"First, this very soft curtain. No other store in this mall uses fabric at the doorway. In this case it sets a nice tone, and it is a very distinct entrance. There's some topiary up here and a little stone thing on the entrance floor. You're getting some variety in terms of surfaces and textures\u2014the same way the catalog uses texture to evoke the lifestyle. So you are being made to recognize that you've crossed the line from out there in the mall to in here, inside the store.\"\n\n\"That's kind of an exception to the mall rule, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Kind of.\"\n\n\"Is there a downside to doing it the other way\u2014the usual way?\"\n\n\"Several that I can think of. For one thing, you might not want every visitor to the mall inside your store. If you're selling high-end goods, for instance, that could be a negative. Which is why, as a rule, the fancier the store, the more definite the line between inside and outside.\"\n\n\"This isn't a fancy store, though, is it?\"\n\n\"Not at all. But they still have taken some trouble with the entrance. I think their typical customer is a woman who is fairly style-conscious. So it should make what I was talking about before\u2014some kind of specific impact on that woman. Look, once we step inside there's a little fountain here, so we get a sonic hit, the trickling water, plus some soft music. The whole effect slows you down, and that's good, too. There's something very feng shui about what they've done. You get a good, positive, relaxed feeling from the environment itself. It's not casual and noisy, like a store appealing to young trendy buyers. It doesn't have loud music and rock videos on TV monitors and bright lights and all that stuff. But it isn't haughty high-end luxury either\u2014it doesn't say stay away unless you've got a lot of money to spend.\"\n\n\"What does it say, then?\"\n\n\"I don't know exactly, except that it's saying something\u2014you can tell that much from when you walk in. The point isn't to say everything all at once. In fact, you want to tell a story over the course of the entire store, not just in the first six feet. There's something to be said for starting out a little mysteriously. With luring people inside and letting them discover what you're about.\"\n\n\"I try and tell retailers that all the time, but it's maybe the hardest idea to impart. Part of shopping is discovering. It may even be a very important part of its appeal. It feels as though it's tapping into some primordial instinct we have for hunting or gathering\u2014we like the actual process of finding things. When we enter a store for the first time, our senses are fully alert and our eyes are moving all over the place. We're sniffing the air, and our ears are scanning for clues about what kind of place this is. That's part of what makes shopping a fun thing to do. It's what distinguishes one store from another.\"\n\n\"The merchandise doesn't really do that, does it?\"\n\n\"Less and less so. Stores used to have strong personalities, and they expressed it through merchandise. Bloomingdale's sold one kind of thing, while Bonwit's sold another, and Lord & Taylor another, and Macy's something different from all those. Today you find the same brands, the same designer labels, in all those stores. It leads to a certain predictability.\"\n\n\"This store seems to have some personality, though, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"It does, in a weird way. For instance, most designers would do all the walls in white, for a simple reason: It shows off the merchandise better. It makes it pop.\"\n\n\"What colors are these, a kind of taupey shade, right?\"\n\n\"Yeah. We store designers would all look at that and say it's dangerous because it doesn't highlight the clothes as well as it could. And all the graphics are what I would call organic\u2014there are pictures and other things hanging on the walls, but they're not photographs or posters of the merchandise, which is the way most stores would go. They're not selling goods, they're creating a mood.\"\n\n\"Why is that not what most store designers would do?\"\n\n\"Because in the end, the store and everything in it are intended to do one thing\u2014sell goods. It can be beautiful, but if it doesn't help the store to carry out its main function, is it good? I don't think so.\"\n\n\"What else do you see?\"\n\n\"The fixtures look like they were chosen by a decorator rather than by someone who designs retail interiors. I'm talking about these bamboo tables, for instance. Or those baskets. Look at that nice, antiquey-looking lamp. A woman might have that in her dressing room at home. Nothing here looks like it came from the usual sources for store furnishings. Everything's been tweaked a little.\"\n\n\"What would it all look like if it were done according to the rule-book?\"\n\n\"White walls. Light-colored wood fixtures, maybe, or just plain chrome racks and so on. Ceiling-mounted lights. It could be dressed up from there, but there would probably be less stuff to distract your eye from the clothes. On the walls, there might be photos of models wearing the actual goods being displayed nearby, with copy making the connection. A bit more institutional-looking, less like some individual person went out and picked the furniture and wall coverings for this particular store. And maybe there would be less mood overall, but the merchandise would be more prominent in the mix. Here, the room itself got all the attention, while the clothes are displayed in a very simple way\u2014almost like whoever designed this didn't know much about presenting merchandise.\"\n\n\"What do you think the effect of this store will be on the shopper?\"\n\n\"I imagine she'd want to stay in here a little longer. It's a nice room. It's a break from the rest of the mall. It actually feels like the kind of boutique you'd find in the city, on a street downtown maybe. That's why I like this, because it will give the shopper an experience that's different from most of what's out there, and it's someplace that begins speaking to her in a distinct voice the second she walks in.\"\n\n\"Is there any reason not to do a mall store this way?\"\n\n\"Maybe some shoppers will look at the store and be turned off by the boutiquey feeling, and they won't wander inside. If this were a big, bright typical mall store with the usual, durable fixtures, it might be more welcoming to your average shopper.\"\n\n\"But then we'd like it less.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\n\"The world of visual design in stores seems to have declined. Retailers aren't spending the money they once spent, and they're not taking any stands in what they do. All the decisions are being made in a central office, and made so they can work in every store equally well, meaning they've got to be somewhat generic. They no longer see the store itself as a kind of stage on which the merchandise is presented.\"\n\n\"It depends on which store you're talking about, but for the most part you're right. Back in the old days, in the 1960s and 1970s, you had big retail executives with big egos, and they sought out creative designers and hired them to come up with distinctive looks. The designers were like hired guns, and they went back and forth depending on who had hired them for what. Then, the trend shifted and the retail chains began hiring in-house design staff. It was a smart move for them because it took the best designers off the market and away from their competitors. Designers ended up exposed to less, and they were influenced by less, too. As a result of all that, the design world became static and even a little stale\u2014you had one client, and you came up with something, and then you just worked on refining that. It took some of the edge away. That's why the whole world of retail starts looking the same.\"\n\n\"Less one-upsmanship among you designers.\"\n\n\"Yes. We were just hired by the fashion division of a huge Korean corporation. They own a chain of stores throughout the country. They're positioned somewhere between Ralph Lauren and Burberry\u2014they're like the Polo of Korea. And I spent some time there recently, and it amazes me how throughout Asia the brands are all totally formed by American images. The stores, the clothes, all the collateral stuff\u2014the ads, the graphics and visual material, its all blond-haired, blue-eyed imagery. Indonesia, same way. Japan. On the highway, as you approach the big retail-entertainment complexes, the billboards all show people living the dream suburban American lifestyle, with hammocks and golf clubs and blue-eyed, blond-haired families. The Koreans hired us because they wanted to buy what they called 'New York style.' They came to New York from Seoul and interviewed a bunch of firms looking for a representation of simply that. They didn't really know what they wanted, except that it look like New York\u2014like something you'd find in SoHo. They wanted that quirkiness, that style you find there, and they wanted to box it up and ship it to Korea. Which is what they hired us to do.\"\n\n\"And you did a good job of it, too, I imagine.\"\n\n\"The best. Soon you won't be able to tell Seoul from Short Hills.\"\n\nOkay, so now we're in a fancy department store, in fact, the fanciest department store in this particular mall, and we're not in just any old part of the store but in one of the fanciest sections (though not the fanciest\u2014that's just around the corner from where we're standing).\n\nYes, we're standing in ladies' clothing, so to speak. And when we look into the department, we see: sleeves.\n\nNot disembodied sleeves, of course\u2014but the view from this particular spot is of women's suit jackets and blazers hanging in racks, and the racks are positioned in a way that saves space, a result of which is that the sides of the jackets\u2014meaning the sleeves\u2014are what face the shopper. You can tell quite a bit about a jacket by looking at the sleeve, it's true\u2014the color and fabric at the very least\u2014but a jacket must be seen from the front to experience it. This will come as no surprise to the executives of this famous department store chain, and yet somehow, standing here, what we see are sleeves.\n\n\"What can be done?\"\n\n\"Well, there's actually a very simple solution. You could chevron the racks. Angle them, so instead of the shopper looking head-on into the sleeve, they'd see a three-quarter view of the front of the first jacket in each rack.\"\n\nAmerica's store shelves and display racks would almost universally be improved by making this change. That's because the way shelves and racks are stocked is fundamentally at odds with how people move. We walk facing forward. In order to look directly at a box of cereal or a bottle of shampoo on a supermarket shelf, we'd have to turn and face squarely sideways. But of course it's impossible (or at least dangerous) to walk facing sideways. And so we tend to examine shelves and racks and so on from an angle. If the merchandise was angled to face us, we'd see it head-on.\n\nI could easily devote all the working hours of a week to strolling the retail aisles of America making just this simple change. And believe me, the shopping experience would be instantly improved for all parties, resulting in higher sales and lower shopper frustration.\n\n\"And there's another advantage to chevroning. When you angle the racks, you actually eat up more floor space than the other way. So you have room for fewer goods on display.\"\n\n\"And what's good about that?\"\n\n\"Well, we've tested this with shoppers, and they think it looks like there's more merchandise out there, not less. So you can fill up the selling floor using fewer goods, which means lower inventory costs.\"\n\n\"What happens to sales when they chevron the racks?\"\n\n\"We measured that. They go up some. Not a huge amount. But there's always a bump.\"\n\n\"So if chevroning the racks would show the jackets off better, why don't they all do it?\"\n\n\"Well, because of a problem that's widespread in retail but especially so in malls: no storage space. Once upon a time, department stores had vast warrens of stockrooms and storage areas. When these mammoth retail emporiums dominated downtowns, they had all the space in the world for storage and offices and all manner of backroom operations.\"\n\n\"The mall killed that?\"\n\n\"Real estate prices did. High rents did. Today the pressure is on to make every square foot count. Nobody can afford stockrooms. Everything goes straight to the selling floor.\"\n\n\"And that's why they can't chevron\u2014it's too crowded.\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\n\"Is that also why sometimes it seems as though too many clothes have been put onto the racks, especially ones with hangers? They're jammed so tight you can't pull anything out.\"\n\n\"There's been a fundamental change in how the space in retail businesses has been apportioned. Imagine your house with no closets. That's retailing today.\"\n\n\"Even in a fancy store like this.\"\n\nEvery so often I'll get a call from some group asking if I'll testify in court against a big retailer for not being as wheelchair-accessible as the law requires. I reply, \"Look, I am very sympathetic to what you're trying to do, but, in terms of the state of retailing, there aren't a whole lot of choices.\" You build a store today and plan for maximum selling space. You also try and make as much of it accessible to wheelchairs, baby strollers, and shopping carts as you can. The dilemma is how much of your design and construction budget is going to get chewed up by accessibility issues. Yes, there are real travesties out there, spaces that totally ignore the spirit of what the Americans with Disabilities Act is supposed to accomplish. Prada opened a store in SoHo in 2001, and it won lots of praise for its fabulous design. I have yet to be in it when the elevator works.\n\nRetailers are frustrated because they are aware of the accessibility problem. From the designer's point of view, getting the basics right, from ramps and railings to bathrooms and doorways, is hard enough. The store has to do the best it can, and it's our responsibility to point out where it fails. However, making a legal issue of it ignores the most powerful marketplace rule, which is, if you are offended, take your business elsewhere. Store planners, particularly when working with older buildings, have a difficult time complying with the ADA. If you leave enough space for a wheelchair to go from the central corridor to the farthest recesses of the store, you have to leave a lot of empty space between fixtures and racks.\n\nI have been asked to testify as an expert witness on behalf of handicapped shoppers. I have also been approached by big department stores also asking me to be a witness in their defense in ADA cases. I understand both sides of the issue, and so far I have chosen not to get tangled up in any court cases, although I am very willing to talk off the record to both sides. When merchants seek my advice on how to deal with ADA lawsuits, I suggest that they confess not only to the 267 violations they were charged with, but to admit that they were probably in violation of the law in about 3,000 other instances, too. And if the law were broadened to make America's stores baby stroller\u2014accessible, the number of violations would be double that. Then, I say, they should explain to the court that they could probably afford to fix fifty of those accessibility problems a year. If the ADA is really going to help, it will be used not to sue businesses but to help them prioritize their violations and fix the worst ones.\n\n\"I'm looking at that far wall there,\" Ron says, \"and I can't even see all the way through\u2014even though they have merchandise allegedly on display there.\"\n\nWe approach what, on some store designer's computer screen, must have looked like a wall display rack of women's silk blouses. Given the average adult human's eyesight, the display would be completely visible and thereby effective at, say, twenty-five feet. Unfortunately, there's no unimpeded view of the wall from that distance. In fact, you can't see the blouses until you're around five feet from them. There's a lot of merchandise on the selling floor. But at a certain point each display gets in the way of all those surrounding it. The clothes begin to cancel one another out. You find it difficult just to maneuver around everything. And your eye can't keep it all sorted out\u2014it creates a visual jumble. It's not simply unappealing\u2014you are actually incapable of taking it all in, and so you don't.\n\n\"What the heck is that red thing?\"\n\nUp above the wall rack of blouses, maybe ten feet off the floor, there's a shelf. On the shelf is a big red shiny ceramic something. Behind that is a wall hanging\u2014fabric. Also bright. Yellow.\n\n\"It's what they call a design element.\"\n\n\"No, look, it's a vase!\"\n\n\"Yes, but it's a vase with no practical purpose. You'll notice it isn't actually holding anything. Clearly, it was intended to catch your eye from far away. It's a decorative piece, but it has a job, too. It's supposed to tell you that there's something over here to see.\"\n\n\"The silk blouses that are obscured by all those floor racks.\"\n\n\"These blouses are $200 each. And this rack alone holds about twenty of them. So, that's $4,000 worth of goods hidden from customers. Put yourself in the place of the shopper looking for an expensive silk blouse. Does a crowded rack of merchandise obstructed by a floor display signal 'fancy silk blouses'?\n\n\"I mean, are the visual clues we all rely upon adding up? There's not a great big sign that proclaims 'really expensive high-quality silk shirts over here!' Stores speak to us in subtle ways. The way these blouses are presented to the eye has to give shoppers a fair amount of information about them. One formerly reliable clue was this: The less clutter, the more costly. That's the rule in the store itself, or in any given area of it, or on any rack or shelf. At the Dollar Store, you expect to see merchandise jammed into every nook and cranny. Just like you expect to find linoleum floors and metal racks and plastic signs and fluorescent lighting. Whereas in this place you want carpeting and marble and polished wood and a nice, upholstered chair. Beautiful and clean dressing rooms. And a certain amount of spaciousness on the selling floor\u2014it says that the goods are so costly that they cover a lot of rent.\"\n\nWe stroll closer to the escalator, where there are...more racks. The very fact that these racks are off the selling floor and in the passageway, where foot traffic is highest, indicates that the merchandise on them is cheaper. All the cues are working properly\u2014discounted clothing, so you have to stand in traffic to shop it. But still good stuff, because it's a good store.\n\n\"Isn't there something wrong with having discounted good stuff sold within view of nondiscounted good stuff?\"\n\n\"I think there is. These sale racks attract bottom-feeders\u2014shoppers who maybe browse this store on a regular basis but never or hardly ever buy because the prices are high. Those women see these racks out here, and it's like a jackpot: the goods they covet at a price they can afford. But what effect does that have on the full-price shopper? Maybe she sees the action out here near the escalator and never even makes it farther in, to the pricey stuff. Maybe she buys two sweaters out here instead of one in there, which means the store's not getting the markup it might have gotten. Or maybe she sees the sale merchandise and the cheap racks blocking the way and decides that she'll begin shopping elsewhere\u2014maybe in one of those ultra-high-end Italian designer boutiques elsewhere in this mall. Maybe for her, shopping away from the riffraff is an important factor.\"\n\n\"It sounds like a risk for the store.\"\n\n\"I think you're right. But there's the potential for reward, too, which is why the store does this. On the one hand, you want to take full advantage of the space and of your brand identification. Look at what nearly every luxury brand has done in the past decade or so\u2014they've all searched for ways to sell things to less-affluent customers. There are moderately priced Mercedes-Benzes now. Armani has high-end stores, midprice stores, and stores for young shoppers interested in jeans and T-shirts. Every big-name designer has what they call a bridge line to pull in the younger shopper with less to spend. These stores are no different, and when you consider how department stores are dying out like dinosaurs, it becomes doubly important not to miss a bet. But they have to be careful not to turn their good customers off. The store can be a dynamic space, where more than one thing happens, where today's discount shopper can become tomorrow's luxury customer. But it has to be done in an orderly and controlled way.\"\n\n\"Does this look orderly and controlled to you?\"\n\n\"Could be. But having so much merchandise on the full-priced floor, and having it within sight of the discount racks, is probably not anybody's big plan. It just happened this way, I bet. Now look up ahead for the opposite situation\u2014where the store proper gives way to the designer boutiques. What they call the vendor shops.\"\n\nHere's where the identification issues really become complex, because this out-of-the-way corner is where the world-class labels\u2014Chanel, Gucci\u2014sell out of little boutiques within the larger store. But the conditions that prevail elsewhere aren't totally absent here, as is evident as soon as we get close to the beautiful and expensive-looking table behind which business is transacted.\n\n\"Now, what do you see there?\"\n\n\"The table?\"\n\n\"On it.\"\n\n\"Office junk.\"\n\n\"Well put. We're looking into a part of the store where probably the average garment costs upward of $10,000, and on the table where that sale is recorded is a slightly scuffed blue plastic three-ring binder. There's also a $1.19 pen, some blank sales slips, assorted other cards and pieces of paper, a telephone that wouldn't look out of place in a discount electronics store, and various other items required by the person who runs this department. Under the table is a small trash can with a plastic bag liner. Am I missing anything?\"\n\n\"I think you got it all.\"\n\n\"It doesn't say 'Chanel,' does it?\"\n\n\"Not to me.\"\n\n\"I guarantee you that when the Chanel executives come through here to visit, all that stuff gets stowed somewhere out of the way. You need paperwork and staplers and pens to do business. But why does it all have to be out here? And why doesn't Chanel provide the proper tools\u2014like a beautiful leather-bound book, or a silver pen, and an appropriately glamorous trash basket? This stuff belongs behind the counter in a discount drugstore. You can't really expect the clerk to leave the selling floor every time she has to make a phone call or order something or write a letter. And there's probably no meaningful back-office space for those tasks. But Chanel has to recognize the design equity in everything\u2014the clothing but also the trappings, the furnishings, and so on. If the salesperson came to work in jeans and sneakers, Chanel would fire her on the spot. But they don't object to her using Wal-Mart\u2014level desk accessories.\"\n\nThe details of visual merchandising are critical pieces of merchant magic. How stores present themselves has become a form of commercial art. Andy Warhol started his career as a window dresser and advertising illustrator (his specialty was women's shoes). I've been in the most exquisite shops on the most exclusive blocks all over the world, and I've witnessed just about everything a person can do to exhibit goods for sale. I've seen artful displays that hush a room as profoundly as anything in the Louvre or the Uffizi. But my all-time favorite retail vignette is still the towering stack of canned foods found in supermarket aisles. Executed properly, on a massive scale, it stops me in my tracks every time. A mountain of peas! An ocean of V8! I look and wonder, How long did it take that clerk to pile up a thousand cans of pork and beans? Were there any shaky moments when the whole thing was about to come crashing down? And how did he feel once he was through, when he stood back to check on its symmetry, and to make sure all the labels were facing the same way? Did it fill him with pride? I sure hope so\u2014I admire the diamond room at Harry Winston and the private couture salons at Barney's. But for sheer retail balls, you can't beat a twelve-foot-tall pyramid of canned cocktail nuts.\n\nThere's something about typical mall design, with its straight row of flat storefronts, that discourages shoppers from stopping. Granted, they must stop all the time, otherwise no store would ever be entered and nothing would be purchased. Still, the monotony of the storefront line allows you to walk in a kind of ambulatory trance\u2014you're passing one sheer, absolutely flat wall of glass after another. There's nothing to slow you down, nothing that catches your eye by jutting out into pedestrian space. When you look a few paces ahead of where you are, as walkers normally do, you can just barely make out what's in the upcoming display windows. If there's glare you may not even see that much.\n\nThis is what we're faced with in the mall\u2014sheer walls of glass, absolutely even and regular, with nothing to break the plane. The leases demand that each store stop at the same exact spot, and there are severe limitations on what (if anything) can be placed out beyond the wall of the store. We shoppers circulate without even seeing how unnatural this is. Walk down a city street, and there you'll find endless variations on the vertical facade, a multitude of planned or sometimes completely ad hoc deviations from the flat front wall. You need to pay attention, if only so you don't trip over merchandise that's been dragged out there.\n\nJust the other day I was walking by a store specializing in leather bags, briefcases, coats, and so on; a clerk noticed three tourists staring in the window, so he casually sauntered out there to join them in conversation. As I passed they were all standing shoulder to shoulder, pointing at a suitcase. Good retailers do their best to make the storefront as porous as possible, something that rarely happens in a mall. The poignancy of this occurs to me whenever I happen to visit a mall on what they usually call \"Sidewalk Sale Day.\" On these occasions, stores are permitted to bring a rack or two of merchandise out into the main thoroughfare; some malls even allow stores to drag goods out into the parking lot. It's a real novelty, and speaks volumes about our vestigial connection to the street\u2014seeing how the mall attempts to evoke the sidewalk is enough to make you laugh.\n\nSome mall stores do at least acknowledge that important things can happen right at the outset of the store, in the entrance. At both the CD store and the sneaker stores, we see video monitors mounted high, facing the doorway. They try to send their energy and pop culture signifiers out into the mall thoroughfare to snag shoppers. Even better, they're noisy and feature lots of motion and light and color, which would grab your attention anywhere, but especially in the bland confines of the mall. Here, when Jay-Z raps in your face, you notice, whether you like it or not.\n\nMusic stores especially have to deploy these attractions judiciously. For instance, we know that a mall's demographics shift depending on the time of day and day of the week. On a Tuesday morning at eleven, you've got stay-at-home mothers and their small children. You may lure them in with the latest Bon Jovi video, but they're not buying 50 Cent. Even earlier in the morning, when the mall walkers are out, the store might do best to blast some Sinatra. Most music stores now sell DVDs, too, so movies can also be screened on these monitors, especially when there are likely to be few music fans in the mall. Maybe by day they could run the new Richard Gere movie on the monitor. On a Friday night, however, teenage tastes rule the mall, and kids are the music store's prime audience.\n\nA sneaker store doesn't have those particular considerations to make. But it does need to maintain its image within the mall, and the music and videos it plays are an important part of that. As America's taste in pop culture has gone urban/African American, kids who have never set foot outside of these middle-class white-bread confines are rocking styles that are straight (more or less) outta the Bronx and Compton. Nowhere in all suburbia does this exist more vividly than in the sneaker store. It's where the latest look to win the imprimatur of Allen Iverson can be had by any tow-headed fifteen-year-old with $100 to spare. Here and the music store are where urban culture manifests itself most tangibly in the lives of suburban kids and adults. Go ahead and laugh\u2014once again, the retail arena is where we all finally learn to get along.\n\nWe've just come upon the mall toy store. Toys are another category largely gone from the mall. Money is the reason, of course\u2014you need a lot of space to compete in the toy market today. For Toys \"R\" Us, it makes a lot more sense to build a freestanding store. The mall has gotten too expensive. There are some toy stores left, but they tend to be small and specialized, like the ones focusing on toys for all the little geniuses, of which there are no doubt many. Who has average kids anymore? Today, even kids understand that average won't cut it. This toy store isn't anything spectacular, but they do one thing that no other store in this mall can do: place little windup swimming frogs and remote-control cars out ever so slightly in the corridor, the better to attract the attention of passersby.\n\n\"Ron, what do you think of how some stores come out into the mall itself?\"\n\n\"It's a great idea, assuming mall management lets you get away with it.\"\n\n\"They usually frown on that, don't they?\"\n\n\"It's in the lease\u2014you either can or can't put freestanding signs out there, for instance, or if you can, they can only be so far away from the wall, and only signs of a certain type, and so on and so forth. Otherwise, you'd have every store in the mall dragging stuff out here.\"\n\n\"I imagine the toy dancing bear gets a little more leeway than, say, a rack of T-shirts.\"\n\n\"I think you're right. It's a form of entertainment.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is. Speaks volumes for the rest of the mall, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"Well, there's not much in a mall that entertains kids, is there?\"\n\n\"No, and that's a problem. Malls really try a kid's patience.\"\n\n\"So this becomes the reward, right? A trip to the toy store.\"\n\n\"While Mom is shopping somewhere nearby, I bet Dad and the kids stand out here and stare at the remote-control cars. You could easily kill four minutes just doing that.\"\n\nWe stop and stare at the remote-control car and the swimming frog.\n\n\"You have to drive that thing carefully so it doesn't go too far out into the mall, don't you?\" Ron asks the grinning teenage salesclerk who's steering the car.\n\n\"Yep, otherwise they'll give me a ticket,\" she says.\n\n## 22 Other Venues\n\nI WANT TO get out of this mall.\n\nWhen malls came along, it seemed as though they had commandeered all the considerable shopping energy in America. In fact, they did contribute to the downfall and even death of a great many downtown shopping districts, in cities but also in small towns, villages, even in suburbs, which in many cases were as old and venerable and self-contained as any urban district.\n\nBut big enclosed malls never really did render urban streets or even suburban strip shopping centers obsolete as places where retailing thrives. In fact, while malls are really good at certain forms of shopping, they're vastly inferior in others.\n\nTake bookstores. They are moving out of malls everywhere, largely driven by high rents. But they also discovered that they have higher conversion rates away from the mall\u2014that more shoppers actually buy something in freestanding stores. That's because in a mall, the bookstore is a handy place to browse around and kill a little time without really meaning to buy anything. Also, today's mega-bookstore usually includes a caf\u00e9, which often is the most profitable real estate in the store. But in a mall, shoppers are likely to get their refreshments elsewhere. So the caf\u00e9 doesn't serve its primary function\u2014that of keeping people in the store longer.\n\nI want to spend a few minutes here thinking about how malls compare to other shopping venues. And since I'm a guy, and since I'm now weary of the relentlessly female-driven atmosphere of the mall, I want to start by thinking about a store selling consumer electronics and technology toys. Pretty much a full-service place, where you might go for anything from batteries and solder guns to telephones and remote-control toys to flat-screen TVs and digital cameras. I say it's a guy kind of place because in one sense it is\u2014stores like this have replaced the auto store and hardware store as spaces where a man can roam idly and probably find a few things he wants or even needs. (Whoever has enough speaker wire?) But women buy a hefty amount of the technology on display, so the stores need to attract and work for both genders.\n\nWhat happens in this store when it's located on a city street, or in a suburban strip shopping center, or in an enclosed mall? Well, in a city, roughly one in ten passersby will stop inside. Slightly more will enter in a mall. But in a strip shopping center, more than four out of every ten people who pass will go into the store.\n\nA dramatic difference, and one that's fairly simple to explain.\n\nIn a city, lots of people will pass the store, most of them with absolutely no intention of shopping there. Maybe they're on their way to shop elsewhere. Maybe they're racing back to work from lunch. Even this one in ten figure would be high in, say, midtown Manhattan. Strip centers are, by their nature, destination sites\u2014typically they'll have fewer than a dozen stores, so a high number of people are headed for a particular store.\n\nThe gender mix in this electronics store will also be affected by its location. In the mall, nearly four in ten shoppers are female, but only half that many in the city or the strip. Among mall shoppers will be women for whom visiting a techno store is not a high priority\u2014she'll see the window and be reminded that she needs a monitor for her desktop or blank videotapes.\n\nFor a store such as this, the prime demographic is males under forty. In the city and strip, roughly four out of ten shoppers are men between twenty-six and forty. In the mall, only 10 percent or so fit that description. This should be seen as alarming news for the mall store, or at least for merchants who need male shoppers. The mall is attracting too high a proportion of males younger than twenty-six\u2014mostly teenagers and under, I'd wager\u2014or older than forty, probably much older. The prime group of male consumers is shopping at the strip, which is more its style, or in the city during a lunch break or after work.\n\nCity and strip shoppers spend more time in the store. Undoubtedly, this store gets better, more committed shoppers at the strip or in town. In fact, city shoppers usually are in and out of stores much faster than those in a mall, which makes the disparity even wider than the numbers show. It also reflects that in a mall, especially for men, it's tempting to leave a store the second it begins to bore you, since there are at least a hundred more from which to choose.\n\nThe difference in conversion rate is significant. More than half of all strip shoppers will buy something, best of the venues. If the store doesn't have exactly what he wants, he may compromise, since there's no guarantee he'll find it elsewhere. And if he doesn't find what he wants, he'll probably find something else he needs. In the city, a similar, but not identical, dynamic prevails\u2014if one store doesn't have what he's looking for, maybe his travels will bring him by another store that will. But maybe not. He'll either buy nothing here and gamble on finding it elsewhere, or, like the strip shopper, he will settle on the next best thing. In the mall, you've got a lot of guys idly browsing, with no intention to buy. Also, it's easy to go from one store to another until you find exactly what you want. As a result, conversion rate in the mall is lower.\n\nThe comparative numbers are different for clothing stores, such as a well-known emporium specializing in reasonably priced sportswear for both sexes. In this category, strip shopping center locales are more or less irrelevant\u2014you tend not to find big apparel stores there.\n\nThe percentage of shoppers who use fitting rooms is almost identical in city and mall\u2014one customer in five tries at least one garment on. But it's interesting to look at the difference in how often shoppers must wait for dressing rooms. In the city, one shopper in four waits; in the mall, it's four in ten. This isn't necessarily due to crowding\u2014it's because people move faster in city stores than they do at the mall. City shoppers are on the move; mall people are there with no other tasks to juggle. We tend to absorb the velocity and rhythms of our environments. It's not just that mall shoppers are slower. In many instances city shoppers and mall shoppers are the same people. We all go with the flow.\n\nThe same velocity applies in transaction time\u2014in the city, average time at the register is one-quarter less than at the mall.\n\nWhen it comes to apparel, mall shoppers spend longer inside the store than city shoppers do. They also shop more items, and they are more involved in the act of shopping. In the mall, they're more likely to look at the price tag and read the label. What's the significance? In part, it means mall shoppers will be more deliberate. There's also the sense that the mall shopper isn't quite as committed to buying anything at all, whereas in the city the same person finds what she wants, examines it, tries it on, and hurries to the register.\n\nOur final grounds for comparison is the outdoors outfitter\u2014the place to go for clothes and equipment for the rugged life (or for people who just want to dress that way). These shoppers spend twice as long in the strip center store as in the mall; they shop twice as many departments and almost a third more items. Nearly half the strip shoppers convert to buyers, compared to around one-third of those at the mall. Strip shoppers are twice as likely to use the fitting room. The strip store gets more couples, the mall more singles. The mall gets more unplanned visits.\n\n## 23 Scenes from a Mall\n\nI AM A SUCKER for Jackie Chan, it doesn't matter how stupid the movie is. I got hooked years ago by a fight sequence in an appliance store that integrated refrigerators and ovens into the action. While I fall in and out of love with Hollywood actresses, my fascination with Jackie is constant.\n\nI'm giving in to the filmic urge, but only after I feel I've done enough mall talking and walking for one day. That's the wonderful thing about having a cinema this close to shopping\u2014you can build your day around it. It's a fitting reward after an outing of ambulatory acquisitioning\u2014a nice dark place to sit for two hours.\n\nMovie houses are expensive to build, even the bare-bones, thin-walled, cheap-seated cinderblock specimens you tend to find at the mall. But it's usually worthwhile from the developers' point of view. The marriage between the mall and the movie was born of a practical impulse\u2014you were already drawing people to the premises, and there was plenty of parking available, especially at night. In the early days, the mall was the bait that attracted moviegoers. Now it's turned around to some degree\u2014there are plenty of people who come for the movie but fit in an hour or so of shopping.\n\nMall shoppers and movie fans tend to be the same folks. Shopping and movies are both popular leisure activities. But in the mall the fit has not been properly worked out. Most times, it's hard even to find the theater. There will be a tall sign outside, the mall version of a movie marquee, announcing the films playing. But beyond that, you can walk the entire mall and never see an ad or a sign announcing the presence of a theater. If you don't pass the theater entrance (and it's usually in an out-of-the-way corner), you might forget it's there.\n\nYou'd think the cinema operator might want to make it as easy as possible for shoppers to take in a show. If that were the case, there might be a box office within the mall itself, a kiosk or counter where you could learn about what's playing, find the show times, and buy your tickets in advance (or pick up tickets ordered over the Internet). Somewhere in this mall, Hollywood's latest masterpieces are running. But you'd never know it. Nowhere are there measures being taken to turn shoppers into moviegoers\u2014the theater operator isn't distributing discount coupons for early-bird admissions or supersize sodas and popcorn. There are some posters advertising current films\u2014but nowhere does it say if those movies are playing at the mall. There should be a digital sign somewhere announcing ATTENTION, SHOPPERS: THERE ARE STILL TICKETS AVAILABLE FOR THE 2:30 SHOWING OF THE NEW JACKIE CHAN MOVIE.\n\nThere is plenty of movie-related merchandise for sale in here, but it's all over the mall\u2014DVDs and soundtracks at the music store, movie screenplays and bios at the bookstore, licensed items like action figures and cartoon character lunch boxes at the toy store. Nobody has brought it all together and tied it in with the presence of a cinema here in the building. There should be a major movie presence at the food court. There, as we've seen, everybody's sitting and eating with nothing to look at, not even a window. It's a perfect place for a big video screen showing trailers for what's playing now or coming soon. Food court diners skew young compared with the rest of the mall, so it's a terrific way to reach the prime movie audience.\n\nWhen you arrive at the theater\u2014once you find it\u2014you come upon a similar lack of retail sensibility at work. This is evident the instant we walk in the door of this fourteen-screen multiplex. Back when theaters showed just one movie at a time, your approach to the building filled you with anticipation. Everybody walking alongside you and every person milling outside in line was going to see the same film. It provided you with a shared entertainment experience that's in short supply today in the land of the twenty-screen cinema and the one hundred\u2014plus channel digital cable TV system. I think this is one reason live sports and rock concerts have maintained their appeal\u2014there's electricity in the air when people convene to watch a single event. Americans today long for that kind of pop-culture communion from time to time. It's a big reason we're all in the mall.\n\nToday, when we arrive, we're split fourteen ways. This is more like an airport than a movie house\u2014everybody is arriving at staggered times with different destinations. At the airport, business-class flyers rush in next to families headed to Disney World beside snowboarders off to Sun Valley; here, some of us are headed to the new animated feature, others are bound for the slasher bloodbath, others for the hot-date movie. We're barely in the same building psychologically. Visitors to the Cineplex and the airport share the same food, time, and bathroom anxieties. We all race from box office to popcorn line, then wander around looking for the right theater. Once we've figured that out, we mill about, waiting for the line to form.\n\nHow could this chaos be harnessed? Nobody has ever accused Broadway of being a hotbed of retailing energy, but even there, a few sensible tricks are deployed. True, everybody is there to see the same show, a unanimity of purpose that makes packaging it a lot easier. That is a unique situation, granted, but some of those tricks would translate to the movies. What happens after you've gained entrance into the movie lobby? Almost nothing. You can stand around and look at those dumb cutouts promoting upcoming films. If you're hungry, you join the concession line. Some theaters provide video games, which do occupy a certain number of customers and throw a little profit to the bottom line as well. But the games are aimed at adolescent tastes, so there's a good portion of the crowd that's either annoyed by the noise or will just ignore the machines altogether. It would be a great place for classic video games. Donkey Kong and Ms. Pac Man. As well as a place to showcase video games tied to specific movie properties.\n\nOur research shows that, on average, moviegoers arrive eighteen minutes before their show starts. That's an eternity by retail standards, and they're all in a well-defined space with nothing to do.\n\nBroadway shows usually take advantage of the lull by offering show-related merchandise. This could happen here, too\u2014as I noted earlier, there's no place in the mall where our movie fixation receives any retail expression. But this would be a perfect spot for DVDs, soundtracks, T-shirts, posters, books, action figures, you name it. I'd build a store on wheeled racks, so it could be pulled back against the wall when the lobby's mobbed. Otherwise, this would be a great place to shop, if only because the lobby-waiting experience is so dull.\n\nBut let's back up to the entrance. There, a highly practical need is going unmet. We've got fourteen screens, maybe ten movies in all, quite a few of which opened yesterday. Naturally, I arrived knowing what I wanted to see\u2014but what if it was sold out? I didn't have a plan B, and this theater is doing absolutely nothing to help me come up with one in a hurry. I stand in line at the box office with nothing more compelling to do than eavesdrop on the bickering couple behind me.\n\nThe cash register experience here is no more linked to entertainment and movie stars than the one at Wal-Mart. All I've been given to look at is a sign up ahead, at the box office, which lists relatively tiny movie titles, even smaller show times, and the price. Standing here is boring and tells me nothing about what's playing on the other thirteen screens. If one is sold out, I'm in trouble: I'll be under big pressure to choose an alternate fast and get out of the way.\n\nOr, let's say I showed up at the theater not completely sure of what I want to see. It happens more than exhibitors seem to realize. Maybe I just wanted to see something\u2014that's more likely in a mall than anywhere else. Right now, this theater is doing practically nothing to entice me into a seat.\n\nWhat would serve me is, once again, the movie trailer. This is one of the truly genius inventions of the cinema business\u2014it's a staple of our lives, and often it's the source of more entertainment than the movie it means to advertise. Right at the theater entrance, a bank of video screens would be entertaining for those in line, informative for those who are still trying to decide, and a good way to attract us back to the theater soon. Best of all, it's dirt-cheap. Somebody could also clip the best reviews from newspapers and magazines and put them up on an easel. We're not necessarily looking for film criticism here\u2014all we want is the plot summary, the movie stars' names, and maybe a quick thumbs-up or -down. Something we could absorb fast. In principle, it should happen in two places\u2014outside the box office and inside the lobby. Art movie houses tend to do this well. I have yet to see it at the mall.\n\nI also don't understand why all fourteen theaters in the complex are the same. They may differ in size, but not in design. On any given weekend, a typical Cineplex has a very predictable assortment of movies\u2014family, teen, guy movies, and date or chick flicks. In your fourteen-theater complex, some number of theaters would, in my plan, be set aside for family and teen movies only. The seating and flooring would reflect the abuse the theater is going to get. They could even be hosed down if that's what it takes to get the Pepsi off the floor. The location of those theaters relative to concessions and bathrooms would also be taken into account. The action-movie theaters would have more legroom; the date theaters would have armrests that fold away and a section of love seats that sell at a premium price.\n\nThere's also nothing done to recognize that we're in a mall. Here, for example, you tend to get people who are shopping in small groups\u2014families, or bunches of friends. They attend movies that way, too, different from the usual cinema configuration of an adult couple, or two friends, or single adults. Here, then, a simple thing like selling food to match group size would make a difference. You should be able to get the family meal\u2014two large sodas, two small ones, a couple popcorns, maybe some Raisinets, for a special price. Or even something geared to couples. On Broadway, again, and also at sports arenas, they sell alcoholic beverages. A theater looks the same on Saturday afternoon when everybody's here for the SpongeBob SquarePants movie as it does on Saturday night. Does that make sense? The lighting in the lobby, the amateurish slideshow movie-trivia quiz that runs between features\u2014nobody is tailoring it to the people in the room. In a world desperate for guerrilla marketing opportunities, the three-dimensional engine that a Cineplex represents is poorly understood.\n\nThe movie business is built on the blockbuster, the film that will open huge and then tail off. The theater is getting maybe ten cents out of every admission dollar, which makes all the other sources of revenue that much more important. It's no surprise that the concession stand is a theater's only chance for profitability. But we were taken aback to learn that roughly 11 percent of all customers who get in line at the concession counter step out of line without buying anything. They worry that all the good seats will be taken, or that the show will start, so they bolt into the theater empty-handed. Maybe the line is moving so slowly that they talk themselves out of that big infusion of sugar water, starch, and chocolate they had planned. In every retail setting, some people abandon the line. But nowhere does it happen at anywhere near this level. The movie theater business has a lot of work to do in managing its environment.\n\nA movie's success is indicated by how many people come to see it on the first weekend it hits the theaters. A studio may spend five dollars marketing every seat it sells on that first weekend. The cheapest and most effective marketing medium and audience development point is the Cineplex itself.\n\nEvery night of the week, in every movie house in the world, are the loyal customers, the people who are most likely to return repeatedly. Almost nothing is being done to ensure that they return soon. Nobody bothers to collect their names or e-mail addresses, even though they are the industry's lifeblood. There are no coupons for future ticket discounts, or even fliers.\n\nOnce the movie ends, you are ushered through the ugliest exit corridor you've ever seen and ejected into reality. You may see a stray poster, or a cardboard cutout to tell you what's coming next July. Whatever dreamlike state Paramount or Miramax has put you into is rudely interrupted by crowds at the bathroom and the rancid smell of spilled faux popcorn butter on cheap carpet.\n\n## 24 The Postmall World\n\nI'M TIRED. I don't think I can go on much longer.\n\nPart of my mall-sickness may be due to the fact that I just polished off my second Cinnabon. (I didn't see the need to mention the first one.) But maybe I'm all malled out. Maybe you are, too.\n\nWe've all entered the postmall era. I don't mean that the ones we have are going out of business. We'll still visit them and spend our money there. But as a defining concept, as a relevant institution, as a contemporary form of commercial organization, the mall's heyday is history. These shopping centers will never look as shiny and inviting and wonderful to us as they once did. We're never going to love them the same way again.\n\nDo I mean that the mall is a flop? Maybe. I suspect there was a fundamental flaw in malls from the very start, something that virtually guaranteed that their growth cycle would last just a few decades. Less than forty years ago they were still novelties. We had yet fully to comprehend what they would someday mean to us, how they would transform American retail culture for better and worse. In the boom years, the 1970s and 1980s, a new mall would open somewhere every three or four days. Aging cities and towns quaked with terror every time a new one broke ground, and with good reason, for all it took was a couple of suburban shopping centers to devastate a traditional retail district. Malls were the Godzillas of shopping.\n\nToday, you don't see many malls being built in North America. We're all malled up\u2014new ones succeed only by cannibalizing older centers. We barely replace those that close.\n\nI put a large amount of the blame on the mall's fatal flaw\u2014its lack of mercantile DNA. This is an industry driven by real estate, not retailing. If a mall is in the right spot, it will almost surely thrive. It lives by the axiom that guides all real estate: location, location, location. Beyond opening the doors and turning on the lights, what kind of retailing savvy has the mall exhibited? How has it kept up with and responded to the social and economic changes of the past two or three decades? Ask yourself this: What have been the coolest recent innovations at the mall? The food court? Ferris wheels? In the past, attractions you could find only at the mall kept shoppers interested. In 1990 a new Disney Store could cause a noticeable bump in attendance. There hasn't been a hot novelty for some time. We've had malls in abundance for more than three decades now, and we shoppers have explored all the corners and crevices, every store and pushcart, every Build-A-Bear workshop and rock-climbing wall. Developers didn't plan a future for the mall, and so far none has arrived.\n\nThere are examples of developers trying different approaches. In Tokyo there is a \"nostalgia mall,\" aimed at older shoppers. It specializes in the consumer goods they marveled at in their prime. In an otherwise flat economy, the Ichome Shotengai is booming. The mall used to appeal exclusively to young shoppers, who are rabid shopaholics in Japan, but they began running out of money just as the population of elderly rose. It's like a museum of consumer goods. I wish somebody here would try specialty malls with a little imagination. I fear I'm in for a wait.\n\nTwo-thirds of America's biggest malls are more than twenty years old. That's not ancient, as buildings go. But the featureless, flavorless architecture of many of these monstrosities will give future generations no good reason to rehabilitate them, whereas we found plenty worth salvaging in aging department stores, railway stations, hotels, and other public edifices.\n\nStrong malls will continue to prosper. Failures may go through two or three incarnations as malls, but then, inevitably, some other use comes along to \"repurpose\" what would otherwise be a very large white elephant. \"Most centers, if they don't make it as a shopping mall, are ideally positioned to be easily converted,\" a spokesperson for the International Council of Shopping Centers was quoted in a newspaper article, perhaps too candidly. \"It's the whole nature of a mall. At their basic heart, they're just a collection of boxes.\"\n\nThe makeovers that succeed are news, and the rest are aging roadside ruins. One particularly American transformation is the mall that undergoes a change of ethnicity. We've always had specialty shopping centers devoted to one or another immigrant culture. Koreatown Mall, in Los Angeles, is maybe the most famous in America. In Atlanta, a failed outlet center first became an Asian mall and, more recently, Hispanic. All kinds of shoppers, not just the obvious ones, are drawn to exotic novelties. As I'm writing this I read that in Charlotte, North Carolina, a failed mall has been taken over by a trio of Vietnamese sisters who have dubbed it Asian Corner, the planned home of retail, restaurants, and groceries to serve the ten thousand Vietnamese residents of Mecklenburg County. I have no doubt that it will also be an attraction to the region's non-Asian residents looking for a slightly unusual mall dinner or shopping trip.\n\nNear Atlanta, the Buford Highway Farmers Market brings live eels, ginger cakes, and other delicacies from all over the world, especially the Third World, to the area's newly arrived influx from Southeast Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean, and Eastern Europe. An estimated 700 immigrant-owned businesses now inhabit what had become a rundown commercial strip shopping center. This did not take place according to any developer's plan but thanks to happenstance and necessity and pluck, the way outbreaks of retail vitality have always occurred. American commerce relies on this recycling mechanism; as one group moves up and out, there's always somebody coming in right behind them\u2014newer, poorer, and boiling over with energy and optimism and resilience. We all know how successive waves of immigrants revitalize residential areas. Less noted is how they bring new blood to aging retail environments. It reminds us how merchandise, bought and sold, has served historically as our primary means of cultural exchange.\n\nThe country is dotted with mall repurposing. The Bell Tower Mall, in South Carolina, was taken over by Greenville County and is now County Square, a complex of governmental buildings. The cinema has been turned into a courthouse. Inspired, the nearby Carolina Center Mall is planning to turn itself into a recreation development with athletic fields and an arena, perfect for hosting volleyball and soccer tournaments, and maybe a movie theater, too. The hope was that all this activity would draw kids and parents, enough to support as well a little retail and a few restaurants\u2014the two businesses that once filled the entire mall. The Downtown Mall in Tupelo, Mississippi, was wiped out when another mall opened just outside town. Now it's the city's convention center. In Dallas, twenty-year-old Prestonwood Mall failed and was then converted to a center for telecommunications and Internet companies. Malls are being turned into light manufacturing centers, warehouses\u2014churches have bought a number of failed shopping centers. Westchester Mall, in High Point, North Carolina, was put out of business when a bigger, better shopping center opened nearby. The mall was acquired by First Wesleyan Church and is now a religious complex including sanctuary, bookstore, and nursing home. They call it Providence Place.\n\nEven one of our most culturally significant malls\u2014the Sherman Oaks Galleria, in the San Fernando Valley, backdrop for the movies Fast Times at Ridgemont High as well as Valley Girl\u2014has been re-made. The roof has been removed, and now a townlike complex with lots of open-air street-level activity fills the site. Movie animation studios have moved into a spot formerly occupied by a department store. Overall, the space devoted to retail has shrunk by more than a third.\n\nTechnology has also taken a bite out the shopping mall. Take your average thirty-year-old today and compare her monthly obligations to those of her mother. The contemporary middle-class American has a lot of expenses that didn't exist a generation ago. Say $100 a month for a cell phone. Throw in another $50 for cable TV. Add $20 or so for your Internet service provider. Maybe you own a desktop computer and a laptop, and every two years you're replacing one or the other, or both; spread that cost over a year and it's another $100 a month. DVD rentals. Download on demand. TiVo. There, you've got at least $300 a month that will never be spent inside a mall\u2014$3,600 a year for each of us. A fair chunk of that money used to go to shopping and restaurants and, by extension, the malls.\n\nAnother piece of the puzzle is our relationship to our cars. While we love our vehicles, we increasingly hate driving them in heavy traffic, and congestion is no longer strictly a rush hour experience. Few North America malls are tied into any public transportation system. At what point will the aging First World population walk away from their cars? My mother, at age eighty, plots with her condo-complex neighbors about getting to and from the store when she no longer feels comfortable driving. In Sydney, Australia, the hot apartment complex combines great views of the harbor with an elevator that drops you to a mall that includes a grocery store and delivery services. The mall has to imagine itself into our demographic future and see where it stands.\n\nWe baby boomers are in a postshopping mode, psychically speaking. We're not as thrilled as we used to be at the mere prospect of buying, of being in the presence of multitudes of objects, talismans, fetishes, beautifiers, intensifiers, glorifiers, junk. If we needed it, we bought it, more than once. Now we're feeling bought out. We're bored. People in their twenties and thirties always looked slightly askance at our consumption binge. They're not quite as sold on the idea of salvation through shopping. An awful lot of today's middle-class disposable income goes for adventure and vacation, intangibles that nourish something more than Calvin Klein's bottom line. The fact that malls didn't find a way to keep up with the zeitgeist's every twist and turn also explains their overall failure of imagination. Teenagers and children are still excited by the mall, but it's all still new to them, isn't it? Give them time\u2014when you consider all the blandishments and temptations they'll be exposed to, they should become jaded a lot faster than the rest of us. And face it: What's the alternative to shopping for those adolescents? Almost anything that smacks of the outside world and independence looks good when you're twelve.\n\nThe fact is, the mall is trapped by its success as a place to bring the family. It has never found a more sophisticated way to envision itself. The food court is a shrine to lowest-common-denominator food\u2014it's pizza and burgers and ice cream and cookies, a menu guaranteed to please any four-year-old. To my knowledge, nobody is experimenting with the mall food court. I could easily see splitting a really big one into two halves\u2014one for juvenile diners of all ages, the other a bazaar of high-quality, higher-priced dining for mature palates. Ideally, the layout would permit you to seat your kids in their food court and keep an eye on them from yours. Keep waiting.\n\nBecause some of us are too busy to spend as much time at the mall as we once did, retailing has gone chasing after us elsewhere. The mall has been successfully re-created at airports, for instance. It's a sound notion\u2014especially today, when we're instructed to check in at least an hour before flight time. That means you've got thirty minutes with nothing to do and a limited area in which to do it, since you've already gone through the security screeners. The airport in Pittsburgh has an extensive retail section, and not just junk for tourists\u2014you can buy clothes and shoes. Denver has one, too, as does Reagan National Airport in Washington. Especially for time-pressured business travelers, these airport shops save a few trips to the mall. I could tell that airports were taking this seriously when a national airport manager association invited me to speak at its annual conference. Retailing there has to adapt a little to the location\u2014for instance, shoppers tend to be toting clumsy carry-on bags, so aisles need to be wide.\n\nThe Internet bubble has popped, but still this shopping venue represents a dramatic change in the retail landscape. Online shopping plays to the heart of the mall audience\u2014middle-class, middle aged and younger, pressed for time, already in front of the computer every day. The promise of mall as community is being realized at eBay, the flea market of the twenty-first century. There, and at good shopping sites such as Amazon, there's an experience superior in some ways to the real world. Amazon seems to recognize also that the future of any shopping medium isn't based on its popularity with Silicon Valley male geeks, but on how it plays with overworked and overcommitted women in mainstream America. Look at Amazon's most dazzling innovation\u2014one-click buying, whereby, with a single click of the mouse, the sale is rung up and ownership of the goods has transferred from them to you. The world of retail has yet to figure out a painless, graceful way to handle the transaction itself\u2014the cash register experience. Whether you're at McDonald's or Nordstrom, the exchange of money for goods takes place in essentially the same way, and poses the same potential for anxiety, frustration, and unhappiness.\n\nThe cash register and the credit card machine look like prehistoric tools\u2014the stone axes of retailing. The basic design of the transaction point hasn't changed in fifty years. Yes, we've added bar code scanners and better credit card machines, but the physical act and even the transaction time is about the same. If anything, the experience has gotten worse because the process has been depersonalized. Even as supermarkets have experimented with self-scanning stations, a significant percentage of customers refuse to use them. They want the final opportunity to see what they are buying before it disappears into a shopping bag. Technology has tried to solve the transaction issue with something called source tagging, an advanced version of the bar code we find on most packages. A source tag reader can tally everything in a shopping cart without the merchandise even being unloaded. The practical problem of ensuring that every product coming into the store has the correct source tag has proven difficult to manage.\n\nInternet retail is still hampered by the fact that you still can't really shop online, if by that we mean look at and touch vast amounts of merchandise. But the Web is a great place to buy certain things, such as books, music, videos, software, appliances, electronics, toys, drugstore stuff, anything for which you have a fairly sure notion of what you want. You can info-load at the store, select the exact thing you desire, then go buy it online and save the taxes and, sometimes, shipping, too, or do it in reverse, info-fuel online and make your decision in-store. But if you enjoy, for instance, the experience of exploring a bookstore in hopes that something will catch your eye, you'll have to go to a real store. I buy some books online, but two-thirds of my purchases still take place in stores. Most clothing will continue to be bought in stores, but you can replace the staples as needed online. If you live in thirty-four-waist, thirty-four-length, pleated-front, cuffless, relaxed-fit khakis from the Gap, you can easily buy them online. A lot of us have found our personal uniforms\u2014jeans, button-down cotton shirt, whatever\u2014and those items you can buy just as well online as in stores.\n\nMalls have for the most part remained clear of much Internet influence. Some have tried creating a virtual mall online, but it's expensive to wire every store to permit online shopping with real-world pickup. Some malls have websites listing stores and phone numbers, but that's a fairly low-tech use. At Fashion Show Mall, in Las Vegas, they use the Internet to attract a steady stream of tourist-shoppers by setting up a bank of stand-up terminals and offering free minutes of online access. Last time I was there, the place was packed with tourists checking their e-mail.\n\nThe cell phone also may play a role in the future of the mall. In Europe and Japan, cell phones seem to work everywhere, while in the United States phone users are often driven outside or to odd corners of the mall for good reception. The cell phone as a shopping aid allows contact with your buying adviser; a photo-equipped phone can bring that person right into a store aisle or dressing room. But if the phone doesn't work inside the store, the point is moot. At Envirosell, we have started to track the phone conversations that happen in stores and their apparent effect on buying decisions. It's remarkable how predictably the conversations begin:\n\n\"Honey, I'm here at the mall, what did you say you wanted?\"\n\nAll technology and tactile experience aside, the principal condition that is strangling the mall is time. The bulk of the mall's core customer base, particularly the women between thirteen and fifty, has never been busier. A time-poor customer has brought about the success of two postmall shopping center trends.\n\nThe first is actually the postmall version of a premall suburban fixture, the strip shopping center. These have always tended to be somewhat random collections of stores, mostly locals. It was where you'd find the dry cleaners next to the Italian deli next to the car wash next to the beer distributor. Today's version is sometimes called an \"affinity center.\" These developments are bigger than their predecessors, and more sophisticated in design and layout, although the storefronts are still visible from the roadway, and parking is still right out in front. The innovation is in the selection of stores. There will be no more than five or six, all national chains, usually big, so-called \"category killers.\" They'll all appeal strongly to the same well-defined demographic group. It's like a mall for people who are sick of the mall. It's for people who are saying: \"Look, the mall is okay as a place to spend an afternoon with the family once every few months, but I don't want to go there every time I have to shop. There are 107 stores in our mall, four of which I actually frequent. So I'm much happier to find a shopping center that's got Barnes & Noble, Bed Bath & Beyond, Best Buy, and Starbucks. Or, one with Home Depot, Staples, Old Navy, and Blockbuster Video. I can buy 90 percent of what I need there, and my trip takes no time. Parking is a breeze. And I don't have to deal with all the noise and nonsense. I've seen a hundred Disney Stores already, and I don't ever need to see number one hundred and one. And besides, I always thought the mall was bogus.\"\n\nThe second and more exciting innovation is what have been called Main Street developments, or \"neo-villages\"\u2014twenty-first-century attempts at re-creating urbanesque (or is it small-town?) American shopping. Mashpee Commons in Massachusetts is a good example. These take up less room than the typical mall, although they're expansive in their own way. There are lots of stores, many of the same ones we find in malls everywhere, and focusing on the same basic categories.\n\nBut these centers do their best to look like communities. It's genuinely fake\u2014some include phony facades that extend upward two or three stories, although the store itself is all on one level. They're made to look like that staple of old-school retailing, a storefront with the owner's quarters upstairs. But these are so charmingly artificial that they seem theatrical, almost like movie sets. Unlike at the mall, some genuine thought has gone into the architecture here, an attempt to make it pleasing to the eye and human in scale.\n\nDevelopers have created entire little villages this way, complete with pavements and streetlights and vest-pocket parks. On each little grid of streets you find big national retailers right next door to locally owned restaurants and even some service businesses, like the shoe repair or a post office. You never lose sight of the fact that you're in a manufactured simulation of a real town or city shopping district. It's all a nod to Disney, but again, you can't help but admire the effort. Some of these even include some housing nearby.\n\nThere's nothing particularly new about this. All over Europe, you see mixed-use developments that include shopping malls. There, the complex is also likely to include a good supermarket, one with an extensive selection of prepared foods to go. That's the kind of thing that encourages daily after-work visits to the mall. On the outskirts of the development may be small, locally owned service businesses, a drop-off pick-up laundry, the dry cleaner and key maker and hardware store. There could be some office space. There will surely be a residential component\u2014maybe apartment towers or housing clusters or both. A hotel is also a possibility. And very close by will be mass transit\u2014a commuter train stop perhaps, or a bus line. It's remarkably villagelike, appropriate on a continent that perfected the small-town form of social organization long before our country even existed. Recently, I saw an odd version off the highway between Milan and Genoa, where somebody built an outlet mall as a fake town complete with false facades and plastic moldings. It sits in a fog belt for much of the year, which makes its appearance even stranger.\n\nMain Street complexes have their charms, but they are also much more efficient than the mall as a place to shop. You can hit and run\u2014dash into a single store and be out of there in fifteen minutes. You can arrive with the desire to visit three stores, find yourself attracted to one or two more, visit those, and still get out feeling as though you've accomplished everything in a compact time frame. Or, you can go thinking that you'll kill a few hours, visit some stores, wander the streets, get in your dose of people watching, and experience it that way. I think these urbanesque layouts speak to some ancient part of our souls, the love of browsing and exploring and window shopping. Discovery is one of our most satisfying emotions. \"There has to be emotional content to the shopping experience,\" said Limited Brands CEO Leslie Wexner, speaking on the subject of a neo-village mall near the company's Columbus, Ohio, headquarters. I think he's right.\n\nNearly all of these involve one thing\u2014pedestrians walking on concrete pavements and asphalt streets, with real curbs, and out in the open, exposed to wind and rain and cold and heat and all the rest. In one sense, it's just a mall without a roof. But that may be a critical difference: Ripping the roof off this sucker may be all that's required to liberate shopping and keep it real. After so much time inside the air-conditioned bosom of the enclosed mall, breaking out sounds a little like heaven.\n\nThere's something poetic about all this, isn't there? The mall was a little too hermetically sealed for our tastes. This trend renews my faith in humanity.\n\nOkay\u2014what did we miss? Not a thing that I can tell. And we can always come back, right? The mall isn't going anywhere, but I am. I've had it for today. You can stay if you want. I'm going home.\n\n## Endcap\n\nNOW WHERE the hell did I park?\n\n## Acknowledgments\n\nTO MAKE this book possible, Lucia and Willie Tonelli had to give up their father, Bill, for many weekends in a row. I would like to thank them for their sacrifice.\n\nAlice Mayhew, David Rosenthal, Emily Takoudes, and Scott Gray at Simon & Schuster have gently guided this book from inception to completion. Glen Hartley, my agent, continues to provide sage advice and direction. My assistant, Jenny Bonilla, has done much of the crafting and polishing. She has more patience and style than I do. She's also given me the opportunity to sit in the dressing room at Nordstrom and eavesdrop on shopping soap operas.\n\nA few people agreed to walk the mall with me. To protect the innocent, they will remain nameless. Our conversations formed the basis for the dialogue constructed in this book. I thank them for their time and willingness to share.\n\nIt has been a long three years since Why We Buy: The Science of Shopping was published. It exists in nineteen foreign editions and has a life of its own. Here in the United States and elsewhere it continues to sell and make its way into classrooms and training programs. I have been surprised by the passionate response of readers across the globe. It has made my life both miserable and wonderful. Thank you.\n\nIt has been difficult at times, balancing the role of author with my primary job as chief executive of Envirosell. I am grateful to my colleagues who tolerate the role changes I go through. Our core group at Envirosell has worked together for more than ten years. Barbara Weisfeld, Tom Moseman, Craig Childress, and Anne Marie Luthro continue to be steadfast contributors and companions. Neither this book nor Why We Buy would have been possible without their support.\n\nEvery three months I go through a mantra at one of our weekly staff meetings. Envirosell is answerable to three things. First, we are answerable to our clients. They pay the bills, and their belief in us is important. Second, we are answerable to what we think is the truth. Finally, we are answerable to one another. We have no distant shareholders or management, which in the world of research and consulting makes us unique. As a small agency, we cast a remarkable shadow. We have a series of clients whose support has been critical to helping Envirosell prosper. Bob Cecil and Dave Edmondson at RadioShack, Ann Marie Stephens at Circuit City, Deborah Grassi at Wal-Mart, Francesca Schuler at the Gap, Robin Pearl at Est\u00e9e Lauder, Marc Scorca at Opera America, Connie Olsen at Godiva Chocolatier, Scott Lamensdorf at Philips Lighting, and Kevin Armstrong, now at Cosi, are just a few.\n\nOur offshore network has been particularly important. Giusi Scan-droglio and Mario Scatigna in Milano, Mitsuyo Uchida in Tokyo, Kita Mastopietro and J. Augusto Domingues in S\u00e3o Paolo, Manolo Barberena in Mexico City, and Greg Thain in Moscow.\n\nI have a special relationship with Japan. While it is impossible to cite all my Japanese friends, the few who follow are special. Hiroshi Hayakawa bought the Japanese rights to Why We Buy in spite of the fact that his imprint specializes in mystery books. I am grateful for his courage and vision. I have worked closely with Kenji Onodera at Hakuhodo, the Japanese advertising agency. I could not ask for a more responsive and dedicated colleague. Through Onodera-san's guidance and direction, Envirosell Japan has had a successful launch. Shiota-san and Asano-san at Sony Music Communication have been advisers, friends, and fine dining companions. Kazuo Nozaka is the most elegant and serene man I know. Nozaka-san is the founder of Humanold, an AARP-like service organization for Japanese seniors. His guidance, counsel, and example have been valuable to me both as a businessperson and as a man. Finally, Kaz Toyota has been my agent and friend for many years.\n\nI have been led to and through malls across the world by Suat Soysal in Istanbul, Momo Toyota in Tokyo, Aki Toyota in Nara, George Homer and Jos\u00e9 Luis Nueno in Barcelona, John Hitcham in the United Kingdom, Peter Childs in Paris, Haakon Dahl and Christian Sinding in Oslo, Jean Pierre and Celine Baade in Strasbourg, Alberto Pasquini in Milano, and Tatiana Voronina in Moscow.\n\nNo thanks to the airline industry, I have a close network of friends working the retail and consumer-product circuit. There is rarely a place where I land that I can't find someone I'd be delighted to share a meal and opinions with: Judy Bell at Target in Minneapolis, Jim Lucas at Draft in Chicago, Lauren Askew at Monk Design in Baltimore, Carmen Spofford at the Bon in Seattle, Terry Shook and Kevin Kelley at Shook Kelley Design in Charlotte, Erika Szychowski at E Trade in San Francisco, Karen Hyatt at Hewlett Packard in Corvallis, Bob Gorrie at Gorrie Marketing Services in Toronto, Don Whetstone at Walgreen's in Deerfield, Allen Klose at Blockbuster in Dallas, Alberto Ulloa at Coca-Cola Central American in San Jose, Costa Rica, Paul Kelly at Brown Thomas in Dublin, Patrick Lehman at Express in Columbus, David Blackwell at Ford in Detroit, Jim Ratner at Forest City in Cleveland, Ron Askew at the Integer Group in Denver, Tim Heard at the Brown Shoe Company in St. Louis, Joe Nevins at Bergmeyer in Boston, Tom Kass at Blain's Farm & Fleet in Janesville, Robert Hanson at Levi's in San Francisco, Mark Kolligian at CVS in Woonsocket, Kevin Kwiakowski at Pfizer in New Jersey, Philip Davis at Asprey in London, Mike Ernest at Sara Lee Direct in Winston-Salem, Ed Harsant at Staples in Framingham, Ken McGovern and John Menzer at Wal-Mart in Bentonville, Arnold Schmied at Silhouette in Albany, Dave Williams at Best Buy in Eden Prairie, Bobbi Brooks at RLG in Atlanta, and Jeff Williamson at the Phoenix Zoo are just a few.\n\nIt is not that in the New York metro area I have any shortage of merchant and marketer friends. Richard Marcus now lives here; our gain is Dallas's loss. Barbara Stoebel is a veteran cosmetics executive. She is always funny, insightful, and grounded. Rob Ceretti is the past president of the New York Chapter of the Institute of Store Planners and the principal at R. Ceretti & Associates. Lisa Monteleone works for Bvlgari in New York City, but serves stores across the hemisphere. Michael Gould and Jack Hruska at Bloomingdale's have facilitated our work for years. Watts Wacker, or W2 as he calls himself, lives outside the city in a place we call Connect the Dots, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. Watts is glib and inspiring. Kate Newlin reinvents her life every year or two. Anyone with the courage to adopt children after age forty deserves kudos. Wendy Liebmann is the founder of WSL Strategic Retail. She may be the most perfectly groomed person I have ever known. Richard Kurtz is one of my market research mentors. He reminds me that the spirit of life is about staying curious.\n\nI am asked often why we, at Envirosell, continue to get good press. Envirosell had a PR agent for about ten minutes many years ago. I have no regrets about dealing directly with the media. I am happy to talk on and off the record. New York Times, Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Philadelphia Inquirer: The list is endless. I am particularly grateful to the business press\u2014Business Week, Business 2.0, Fast Company, Fortune, and Fortune Small Business, all of which have been very generous to us. I talk to Women's Wear Daily sometimes once a week, not bad for a fashion nerd.\n\nSmall parts of this book have appeared in DDI, the retail design trade magazine where I have a short bimonthly column. Group publisher Karen Schaffner and editor RoxAnna Sway have been generous with their time and support.\n\nMy Canadian grandmother would have been tickled pink with the attention given Envirosell and my last book by the National Post, Toronto Globe and Mail, the CBC, and media outlets across Canada. I think it is because the Canadians are concerned with manners, and Why We Buy is focused on retail manners.\n\nA few people look out after me. They tolerate my bouts of ill temper, understand the zombie nature of jet lag, and take my late-night calls. Some of them I see often; others almost never. None of them know how important they are to me. Rip Hayman, Jeff Hewitt, Rob Hewitt, Teresa Sarno, Wilton Conner, Christine Lehner, Carol White, Hutch and Kate Raymer, Liz and Hazem Gamal, Pierre and Colleen Cournot, Holland Williams, Michael Monroe, Lisa Underhill, Reed Valleau, Joseph Gugletti, Mitch and Mary Ann Wolf, Stan Beck, Peter and Asiye Kay, David Searles, Joe and Sandy Weishar, Joe and Jean McGuire, Sara and Jeff Bowen, John and Medora Barkley, and Mark Gillen.\n\nMy companion, who gets the best and worst of me, is Sheryl Henze. I call her Dreamboat, and she is.\n\nA small group of us run an old 1924 forty-eight-foot yawl called the Klang II, which sails out of Nyack harbor. Mark, Lisa, Christine, Bill, Rip, Martin, Willie, Fred, Mike, and I meet, sail, drink, tell bad jokes, and discard stress. Their companionship has made aging a pleasure.\n\nIf this volume has urban attitude, I am merely the conduit of the training I received on and off the street. Fred Kent and Bob Cook were my early bosses at Project for Public Spaces. Harvey Flad at Vassar College and Barry Boots at Columbia University gave me my first education in Urbanism. Roberto Brambilla and Gianni Longo are two New York\u2014based Italian architects and authors. At their Institute for Environmental Action, they exposed me to both the joy of writing about design and taught me to play and think in city scale. While Roberto has retired to develop luxury property in exotic locations, Gianni remains a remarkably effective pixie at generating sense and consensus in troubled communities across the United States. Peter Katz, the author of The New Urbanism is an urban policy wonk and fellow misfit, always willing to have a serious conversation at the drop of a hat. Finally is my old friend Sari Dienes, who died in 1993 at age ninety-four. She described herself as a painter, printmaker, and troublemaker. Sari was the most observant and resourceful urban person I have yet to know. Her Hungarian-accented English still sings in my ears, from our late-night citywide ramblings: \"Oh, Paco, Paco, look at that!\"\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "2000AD - Sweet Justice - Various"}, "text": "\n\n**Sweet Justice**\n\n**Selected Short Stories from the _2000 AD_**\n\n**and _Judge Dredd_ Annuals**\n\nStories by Neil Gaiman, Peter Milligan, Dan Abnett, Alan Grant, Mark Millar and others.\n\nThis electronic edition first published in 2011 by Rebellion Publishing Ltd, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.\n\nNo part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 1983, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1990, 1991, 1992, 2011 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved. _Judge Dredd_ , _Judge Anderson_ , _Judge Hershey_ and all related characters, their distinctive likenesses and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of Rebellion A/S. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. Names, characters, places and incidents featured in the publication are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes) is entirely coincidental.\n\nCover art by Barry Kitson\n\nISBN (epub) 978-1-84997-321-2\n\nISBN (mobi) 978-1-84997-322-9\n\nJudge Dredd created by John Wagner & Carlos Ezquerra\n\nJudge Anderson & Judge Hershey created by John Wagner & Brian Bolland\n\n**CONTENTS**\n\n_Judge Anderson: The Scream_ by Peter Milligan\n\n_Diary of a Mad Citizen_ by Alan Grant\n\n_Judge Anderson: Exorcise Duty_ by Dan Abnett & Andy Lanning\n\n_I Was a Teenage Perp!_ by Alan Grant\n\n_Judge Hershey: Sweet Justice_ by Neil Gaiman\n\n_Judge Anderson: Dear Diary_ by Peter Milligan\n\n_Radical Cheek_ by Peter Milligan\n\n_Judge Anderson: The Most Dangerous Game_ by Mark Millar\n\n_Roll On Justice_ by Ian Rimmer\n\n**JUDGE ANDERSON: THE SCREAM**\n\n**By Peter Milligan, _Judge Dredd Annual 1987_**\n\nOut of the darkness it came, like a living thing: a scream of wild terror.\n\nAnd with the Scream came pictures and feelings that flickered like shadows, dissolving, gelling, screaming...\n\n_...There is a woman, holding three children. Their mouths are twisted, their eyes white discs of fear. They back away. The woman tries to gather the children into herself, as though she might envelop them completely. They back away until a wall stops their retreat..._\n\n_They can scream but they cannot run. Closer. We move closer... We feel the blood, the pistons pumping hot blood inside our head... We must kill them... Kill them..._\n\nA scream of wild terror.\n\nJudge Anderson opened her eyes and found a dark pillow pushing down onto her face. She had stopped breathing. The Scream echoed off unseen walls. She pushed herself up, panting now, gulping in air like a woman surfacing from water...\n\nSweat ran down her face as the overhead striplight automatically illuminated her sleeping quarters. Anderson was scared, shivering like a child plucked from a nightmare, but she didn't want to lose it. She had to go back. She had to go back and face that scream again.\n\n**AN EMPTY ROOM**\n\nAs a Judge in Psi Division, Anderson was on call 24 hours a day. Any time, day or night, she might get a 'flash', a psychic 'message' that might aid the Judges in their war against Mega-City crime.\n\nPsis were especially receptive to these messages during sleeptime, that period when the barriers of the conscious mind are lowered and the dormant paranormal regions of the brain can reach out and speak to us.\n\nAnderson travelled back, through her dreams. Normally it was routine to check out your dreams but now she was looking for something specific. She was looking for a woman and three children. She wanted to know what could have wrung from them a scream so terrible...\n\nShe walked through an empty room. Her mind was blank. The scream vision had gone, was hiding somewhere, but its psychic power had been so great it had scorched from Anderson's mind the night's other dream images.\n\nThe Scream was now just a memory. Yet still it made her shiver.\n\n**OMAR**\n\nThe face of Omar, head of Psi Division, appeared on the vid-screen. 'What is it, Anderson? You're not on for another hour. Got something special?'\n\n'Think so, Omar. Haven't been hit so hard since the Dark Judges were up to their tricks.'\n\nAnderson paused, knowing that Omar would be holding his breath.\n\n'I think I've got a lead on the Alphabet Killer.'\n\n**REIGN OF TERROR**\n\nOn her way to the Hall of Justice, Anderson listened to the early morning news broadcast. It was familiar stuff...\n\n'...This is Ned McTafferty standing outside the Hall of Justice, where an _angry crowd_ has gathered to express its dissatisfaction with the city's _so-called_ finest.\n\n'On the 38th day of the Alphabet Killer's reign of terror, the Judges are still no closer to making an arrest \u2013 and the _body count_ grows. This morning, 26 new corpses were found. Eye witnesses claim that Judges on the scene appeared to be _visibly shaken_ by their discoveries. Our lawforce, once thought to be _invincible_ , has shown its _weak_ and _yellow underbelly_. Justice Dept. has slapped a _ban_ on any description of _method_ of murder or of the condition in which the _victims_ have been found, fearing that...'\n\nAnderson blocked the rest from her mind. She knew it only too well. 26 bodies for the last 38 nights. Each murder spree starting with a victim whose Christian name began with A, working its way through the alphabet and finishing with Z.\n\nMost of the city's Zebedees, Zachariahs and Xaviers had fled. The Judges would get the creep eventually, but it was a big, teeming city. Anyone desperate, crazy, and resolute enough could, while his luck held, get away with murder.\n\nAnd, as the man said, the body count continued to grow.\n\n'As far as our records show, the Alphabet Killer hasn't killed a woman and three children as you describe. The killer seems to be strictly a one-hit-at-a-time operator,' said the Chief Judge, in her office.\n\n'Maybe it's a pre-cog flash,' Anderson suggested. 'It was so strong I thought it might already have happened... But maybe the killer's _going_ to get the woman and the three juves...'\n\n'Can you give us a locale? A time? A description of the killer?'\n\n'N-No... Not yet. But I was inside the killer's head. I was thinking his thoughts, looking at his victims...'\n\n'Did this person actually say it was the Alphabet Killer?'\n\n'Not exactly,' said Anderson, aware that she was making a mess of it. 'But I knew. As soon as I heard the woman's scream I _knew_ it had something to do with the Alphabet Killer... And then I was inside his mind...'\n\n' _His_ mind? You can positively identify the killer as male?'\n\n'Yes. No. I mean, his, er, _its_ thoughts _felt_ male... But...'\n\n'But really,' drawled the Chief Judge, 'you should have a little more to go on before you come in here acting as though you've solved all our problems. Log your flash with the Alphabet Operations Squad and resume your normal duties.\n\nDrokk! thought Anderson.\n\n**PANIC RULES**\n\nAnderson gave her flash to the Alphabet Ops. They looked all washed up. The killings were affecting everyone. On top of everything else, cases of assault on and gross disrespect for Judges had risen fifty-fold since the killings started. There were marches every day complaining about Justice Dept.'s handling of the case. And, to top it all, a bloody new block war had erupted between Grover Block and Mills Mansions, and the Muggers' Rights League were holding their annual meeting in Ian Paisley Piazza...\n\nAlready, three Judges had thrown in their badges and gone into hiding. Five were in Psycho-Cubes following mental breakdowns. Sixteen were in sickbay following assaults, and three were in the mortuary following more serious attacks.\n\n'It's funny,' said Judge Monk.\n\n'What's funny?' asked Anderson. 'Your face or your arrest record?'\n\n'Ha ha. What's funny is how this city can take a block war that kills thousands and a daily homicide and mugging rate of drokk knows what without batting an eyelid. But you get someone who's knocking them off one by one in a logical, cold-blooded pattern and bang! Panic rules.'\n\n'You seem full of sparkle. How long've you been on duty, Monk?' Anderson asked.\n\nMonk was a big man with thin lips. The lips curled into a little smile. 'Oh, 30 hours, give or take a few. Who wants to sleep when there's a riot going on? C'mon, Patel,' he said to the Judge standing right beside him, 'we've been seconded to Riot Squad. The Muggers' Rights meeting is turning ugly.'\n\n'I've only been going three hours and I feel beat already,' said Anderson as the two men stomped out of the room. 'Some of these he-man Judges really get up my nose.'\n\n'Know what you mean,' said Judge Carter, yawning. 'Take Monk. Some of the boys have got a saying about Monk.'\n\n'What's that?'\n\n'They say he's as tough as Old Dredd.'\n\n**PSYCHIC TERROR**\n\nThe Scream struck Anderson with monstrous mad fury as she was returning to Psi Division after a fruitless patrol of the city.\n\nAs her mind swooned she saw the woman, her face contorted, her arms cradling the children. Anderson understood now that the woman was the children's mother. Most of her fear was for them.\n\nAnderson was not yet totally inside the killer's mind, although she was seeing the woman through the killer's eyes. She had to concentrate, find a clue. Where was this happening? Who was the killer?\n\nWhile all her senses begged her to pass out, Anderson summoned her last vestige of mental fortitude and cast her mind's eye away from the woman. The Scream grew louder, more demented and, for an instant, Anderson saw a wall. A tower block. Some words, blurred. She strained at them and managed to decipher some of the middle letters: ---ESS, a gap, and then BL---.\n\nAnd then the Scream, the awful, spiralling scream of psychic terror, dragged her back to the woman's face, her mouth, twisted in the act of screaming...\n\nAnderson tried to enter that face. She tried to become that face, to see through those eyes and know what those eyes were seeing.\n\nHer mind was being torn from her body. Her own screams mingled now with the other Scream, and for a moment she saw something else, she saw through the woman's eyes.\n\nAnderson's mind was a jumble of images, of ghosts dancing in ether. She looked hard into this ether and made out a shape. Something dark. Something big and dark was moving, unsteadily, towards her. Something glinted on the face of the dark thing. Something caught the light and glinted. For a heartbeat the reflected light illuminated something yellow... The thing was closer now. It was black or blue. The face caught the light again. No. It wasn't a face. It was something in front of the face. Something the face was wearing. A visor, on a helmet. And above the visor a badge. A yellow badge on a helmet.\n\nA Judge's helmet.\n\n**A STATE OF WAR**\n\nOmar's expression was crumpled and peculiar, as though every tiny muscle in his face was trying to pull in opposite directions. The Chief Judge's left eyelid flickered once. Just once.\n\n'I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Omar.'\n\n'That's what Anderson said. The Alphabet Killer's a Judge. I know it's crazy but Anderson isn't usually _that_ far off the mark.'\n\n'Listen, we're all under a lot of strain. Only today I saw a gang of juves pelting a med squad with acid bombs. If we suggest that the Alphabet Killer is one of _us_ we'll have a state of war.'\n\n'Yes, Chief Judge... I understand...'\n\nThe Chief Judge leaned forward, her voice softening.\n\n'Oh, but off the record, Omar... let Anderson follow the lead.'\n\n**AGNESS BLAGG**\n\nThe Scream was like a tune playing a few rooms away. It was always there, though sometimes she forgot about it. She tried to home in on it, tried to glean more information from it, but she came to understand that she would have to wait. The Scream came to her. She did not go the the Scream.\n\nWhile she waited she went through the computer files to see how many Mega-City blocks ended in \u2013ESS. In all there were 739. She started sifting through them, hoping that if she came across the right one she would recognise it.\n\nShe'd been working on this half an hour when the first Alphabet Killing of the evening was reported.\n\nAnderson visited the body in the mortuary, hoping to pick something up. The victim's name was Agness Blagg and she had been found near Dudley Moore Bungalows. Anderson had seen plenty of gore in her time, but this horrified her. And Judge Monk, standing nearby, saw it.\n\n'Don't let it get to you, Anderson,' he said. 'It's just another stiff. Dead is dead, however you got there.'\n\nAnderson turned as Monk was leaving with another Judge. He cracked some lousy joke but Anderson didn't hear it. All she heard was a scream, like a living thing, wild and monstrous, terrible and terrified.\n\nAs Judge Monk walked away, the Scream faded.\n\n'Who found the body?' she asked the attendant.\n\n'Why, those two. Judges Monk and Lord. Lord looked a little shook-up but Monk, boy, he sure can take it on the chin. D'you know what the boys say 'bout Monk? They say he's as tough as...'\n\n'...Old Dredd. Yeah, so I heard.'\n\nAnderson was already running out of the slab room.\n\n**THE BIRTHDAY BUTCHER**\n\nIt was all there on the files. You just had to be looking for it. Judge Monk had reported the first Alphabet Killing and the mortuary attendant had been sufficiently horrified by the corpse to have made a note of it... and of Monk's lack of emotion.\n\nAnd there was more on his personal record.\n\nA very terrible thing had happened to Monk. He'd been called to his original home one day to find his father murdered. His father had been the sixth victim of the notorious Birthday Butcher, a killer who claimed 28 lives before he was finally caught.\n\nThe Birthday Butcher was in fact a sub-hume called Nathan Bones who, as a child, never received birthday presents from his sub-hume parents. One day, Nathan's anger and resentment boiled over and he went on his killing spree. For 28 nights he killed a selected person; a person whose birthday it was. A few film companies made movies out of Nathan's killing spree.\n\nThe description of the Birthday Murders read like a horror story but one thing caught Anderson's attention. Monk's father had been impaled on metal-spiked birthday candles, which were subsequently set alight.\n\nAgness Blagg had suffered a similar fate.\n\n**JUDGE DREDD**\n\nOmar wasn't alone. The Chief Judge and Judge Dredd were with him in his office. Anderson burst in.\n\n'Omar! C.J.! I've cracked it! I know who did it!'\n\nDredd, Omar and the Chief Judge looked straight back at Anderson without saying a word. Anderson gulped in air and said, 'It's Judge Monk. Judge Monk is the Alphabet Killer!'\n\n'That's very interesting, Anderson,' said the Chief Judge. 'Because Dredd has just apprehended the Alphabet Killer... and he most certainly is _not_ Judge Monk.'\n\n'You've... arrested...'\n\n'The Alphabet Killer. That's right, Anderson. Caught the creep as he was going for his third stiff of the night.'\n\nAnderson stood in dazed stupefaction as Dredd told her about the Alphabet Killer, who was nothing but a low-lifer called Angelo Christie who had wanted to get rid of his brother.\n\nChristie had hit upon the idea of killing 25 people as well as his brother, so the Judges would look for a psychotic methodical killer instead of someone who plugged his brother because he couldn't stand his guts.\n\nChristie had got hooked on murder, though, and just couldn't stop. A dormant sadistic streak was awakened and the killings just went on and on, long after the original purpose of them, to deflect suspicion from his slaying of his brother, had been forgotten.\n\nApart from his job on the zoom-tube allowing him quick access to every part of the city, there was no special reason why Christie had evaded the law for so long. He was just a non-entity who got lucky. Which was unlucky for his 990 victims.\n\n'Now,' said the Chief Judge, when Dredd had finished. 'Would you like to repeat what you said about Judge Monk?'\n\nThe Scream hit Anderson with so much force she staggered. She saw the woman and her three children. And she saw the woman's mouth. And she heard the Scream. For the first time, she really heard the Scream.\n\n'Where's Monk? WHERE IS HE?'\n\n**JUVE ABUSE**\n\nAnderson's bike sped through the night-time streets of Mega-City One and the flashing neon lights were glowing like phantom faces: the woman, the three juves...\n\n'Monk,' she said aloud, as the Scream grew...\n\nShe had found the place on Omar's Grid-Vid. Monk had called in a few minutes earlier with a report of more Juve Abuse. They were throwing fire-bottles at Judges again. Monk was going to clear them off. That was in Enderby Square. Three streets away from Enderby Square was a place called Burgess Block.\n\n\\---ESS BL---\n\nEvery traffic noise now seemed part of the Scream. How could she have been so blind? In the distance she saw the tall grey building that was Burgess Block. She recognised it from her dream. The Scream grew louder, more terrible, like a living thing. Only now she knew that the Scream was not coming from the woman.\n\nThe Scream was coming from Judge Monk.\n\n**A CHINK OF LIGHT**\n\n'Filthy, stinkin' juves! Don't you think we'd _like_ to get our hands on that maniac?'\n\nThe back of Monk's hand struck one of the juves across the face. The juve fell, then scampered to his feet and ran off with his brothers.\n\n'Foul-mouthed brats. Chucking bottles... You shoulda seen what _I've_ seen!'\n\nThe three juves ran down the alley into the arms of their mother. They were all around the age of ten.\n\nMonk lumbered after them, clumsily drawing his gun. The mother, pulling the children close to herself, saw the Judge and started backing away. Until she felt a cold wall touch her shoulders.\n\nA chink of light glinted on Monk's helmet's visor and he saw his father, lying dead in the dining room. He saw the Alphabet Killer's victims, lying dead in some foul alley, and he saw these filthy juves and their mother, cowering before him. And somehow it all seemed to be the same thing. Somehow they were _all_ to blame.\n\nThe blood pounded hot and wild inside his head as he moved closer and raised his gun. It would be good to shoot them, to blow them away. It would be good to hit back, to avenge his father after all this time...\n\n'Monk!'\n\nAs Monk turned, Anderson drove her fist into the side of his neck, just below his left ear. It was a blow that, delivered correctly, would bring down the biggest man.\n\n'Why did you hit me, Anderson?' Monk asked, smiling.\n\nThen he fell over.\n\nLater, Anderson sat back and relaxed. The Scream was gone from her mind now. Things were back to normal \u2013 or at least Mega-City One's equivalent of normal. Monk was in a Psycho-Cube. He'd never be a Judge again, but at least he wasn't up for murder.\n\n'All those years putting on the Tough-Guy image, scared of showing the slightest weakness, took their toll. Something had to break, though Monk couldn't see it,' said Anderson. She was in C.J.'s office with Omar, Dredd and the Chief Judge herself.\n\n'But,' said Omar, 'Monk's _subconscious_ mind knew. It had a pre-cog of what was going to happen, and it tried to get help, to stop Monk committing murder. So it contacted Anderson...'\n\n'Yeah. Monk must be a latent Psi himself,' said Anderson. 'Only I misread the Scream at first. Thought it was the terror of being murdered, not the terror of being the _murderer_. And that description of the candles threw me. Didn't think that the Alphabet Killer might have seen those old Birthday Butcher movies...'\n\nDredd clonked his large boot onto the floor, preparatory to standing. He snorted.\n\n'Another cry for help, huh?'\n\nAnderson smiled.\n\n'A _scream_ for help, actually. And _you_ shouldn't be so sure of yourself. You saw what happened to Monk... and you know what the boys used to say about _him_...'\n\n'What did they say?'\n\n'That he was tough as Old Dredd... How tough is _that_ , Joe?'\n\n**DIARY OF A MAD CITIZEN**\n\n**By Alan Grant, _2000 AD Annual 1986_**\n\n_'Hey You, Joe Normal! Reckon Future Shock Couldn't Happen to You? Well, You're Wrong! It Can Strike Anyone at Anytime, I Know... I've Been Thereeee!'_\n\nJanuary 19th 2107\n\nSomething very peculiar happened today.\n\nI rose slightly earlier than usual, to catch the Kenny Kark Morning Spectacular on my holo-vid before venturing out on my weekly jaunt across city to Orinoko's. I'm not really very fond of Kenny Kark \u2013 to be frank, he makes me sick \u2013 but watching his show every week adds to my sense of occasion. It helps make my Thursdays special.\n\nI compounded the feeling of celebration by having an extra bowl of Tokyo Joe's Synthi-Soy Soyflakes. 'Not a single natural ingredient' it says on the packet. I seem to remember my mother telling me that when she was a kid they had real soy soyflakes. She...\n\nBut I don't want to talk about my mother now. I don't want to talk about Kenny Kark, either, except to note that his last guest was a fat lady who'd had her face biosculptured into that of a goldfish. I reckon she has star quality, and if betting wasn't illegal I'd bet my kneepad she makes it big before the end of February.\n\nOn second thoughts, I wouldn't bet my kneepad. I mean, I still think fatty'll strike it rich \u2013 but my kneepad's far too precious for me to risk it on the fortunes of fishface. Not precious in a financial sense, you understand \u2013 it's just a plain black number with faded diamante GOG lettering, and although it's 17 years old now it wouldn't fetch more than a couple of hundred creds on the Classique Pad Market. But it's worth a lot more to me; me and that pad have seen 17 years worth of life together, hard times and worse times. And like they say on the Brain Tape ads: 'The tapes cost 100 \u2013 but memories are priceless.' How true (although I've seen Brain Tapes discounted to 59.90 on the Block Mall).\n\nAs the Kark Show ended, I pondered my next move. The journey from my apartment door to the lift is without doubt the most dangerous part of my weekly odyssey. That's not to say that the rest of the trip is without its dangers \u2013 the Uptown/Downtown Zoom Underpass Pedway, for instance, was voted Top Mugger's Haunt in a recent phone-in, and the crumbling chem-pools along the Reclaim Zone are always claiming innocent victims. However, it is a Justice Dept. statistical fact that 50% of all criminal violence is inflicted either within the victim's home, or between his home and his Block Exit.\n\nWhen I tell you that I live in the Gary Coleman Block, you'll understand my apprehension. Gary Coleman Juves are reputed to be amongst the nastiest, foulest and toughest in the city. I sometimes wonder if they're waging some kind of vendetta or holy war against me, so numerous have the incidents become. But I suppose it makes statistical sense: there are 58,000 people living in Gary Coleman, and it stands to reason that some of them are going to be pestered more than others. And when you consider that dozens of families never leave their apartments, that must lower the odds even more in favour of any particular individual being chosen as a target.\n\nI peered out through my door's Exterior Viewer. The corridor appeared to be empty. A good omen. I unlocked and unbarred the door's triple-security locks and slid out into an alien world. The walls are hidden under a constantly-changing sea of graffiti, chief amongst which are various Juve boasts: GC JUVES RULE, SLINKY KILLS TOASTIES, POWER TO THE SUB-TEENS! and the like. Of course, there's a fair smattering of adult slogans, too. It's a funny thing about graffiti \u2013 no matter how fast the Block scrubber squads work, they never seem to be able to keep up with the scrawlers' prolific output. Even when Citi-Def post round-the-clock sentries, the graffiti still appears, almost as if it grew there of its own accord. Now, I paused long enough only to record the fact that someone had scrawled NITCHY IS A FINK in large day-shine letters all over the door, then sprinted for the lifts at the end of the corridor.\n\nAs if on cue, Juves appeared just as I punched the call button. I'm not afraid of 11-year-olds, of course, not even when there are a dozen or so of them; but all the same, they can be pretty unnerving. They lounged against the Block wall, scuffing their Mock Doc aggro boots noisily. Not one of them said a word. They all just stood there, glaring at me.\n\nI ignored them. I'm used to this treatment: everybody in Mega-City One is. Citizens glare and glower at other citizens wherever they happen to be \u2013 though not if there's a Judge around, I hasten to add.\n\nThe Juves were obviously unhappy that their glares had failed to bug me. An older boy with a blue-painted face lashed out in my direction with a heavy boot \u2013 then stopped his kick just before it struck my leg. None of them laughed, though several sneered provocatively.\n\nI pursed my lips and began to whistle beneath my breath. Stay nonchalant, that's the best motto. Don't give these louts an ounce of satisfaction!\n\n'OW!' I gasped as something small and solid struck me sharply on the back of the head.\n\n'You young devils!' I snapped. 'Which of you threw that?' None of them moved. They continued to lounge and glare as if I hadn't even spoken. I felt like shaking them by their stupid shoulders, but wisely refrained. Assaulting a minor is a very serious offence. Of course, assaulting an adult is a serious offence, too \u2013 but it would be my word against ten of theirs. 'OW!' Another missile cracked against my skull. But thankfully, before they all decided to join in, the lift arrived.\n\nIt was empty, except for one Juve with a single 30-centimeter-long spike of rigid, plasticated hair. The point of it stabbed my ear painfully as he squeezed by me.\n\nThankfully they didn't follow me into the lift. I don't think I could have endured their malicious taunts all the way to street level. I breathed a sigh of relief \u2013 and it was then I noticed that the STOP button had been depressed for every single floor from mine down. All 88 of them. Evidently the work of my spiky-headed attacker. But why?\n\nI found out on floor 88.\n\nAs the doors slid open, I was deluged by a shower of garbage. The perpetrators, of course, were Juves \u2013 whether the same ones who'd menaced me upstairs, I couldn't tell. What's the difference? They're all the same anyway!\n\nI punched the Close button and fended off a final missile as the doors hissed to. It didn't require a genius to figure out that I was going to receive more of this treatment... all the way down to the street.\n\nBy the time the lift reached the bottom, I resembled not so much a decent, law-abiding citizen as a walking muck heap, cleverly constructed over a framework of painful bruises. I am not ashamed to say that I was whimpering.\n\nMy journey across the city wasn't exactly pleasant, but compared with my descent in the lift it was a doddle. I arrived at Orinoko's Lunchette in Sector 44's Avenue of Poloypropylop. I was afraid the waiter wouldn't serve me, I was in such a state; but happily, he recognised me under the filth and bade me enter with his usual good-natured gusto. Wouldn't surprise me if I was his best customer \u2013 after all, I've been coming here every Thursday lunchtime for 17 years now.\n\nI ordered my usual \u2013 soypfel strudel and a big jug of synthi-caff \u2013 and settled down by Orinoko's big front window. Normally I'd scan the faces of the passing crowds with rapt attention, hoping that maybe today... maybe today I'd find the face I'd been looking for all these years.\n\nBut the 88 peltings I'd received at the hands of those surly, sinister Juves had entirely spoiled my mood. I sat there, a muck-encrusted 40-year-old with a heavy heart and no prospects... just another big city loser... a man who couldn't even find his own dear mother...\n\nThere, I've said it. Mother's the reason I come here every week. It's in the hope that one day she'll come in here, just like she did every Thursday back in the old days, and say in that lilting, laughing voice of hers: 'Mockola for me and a freezipop for the brat.' We were happy together, Mom and me; why, when dad died in the big Space Port disaster back in '86, we hardly even noticed. Times were hard, but me and Mom were together, and that was always enough for me.\n\nBut as I got older, we started to grow further apart. When I finished with my unemployment courses, Mom insisted that I become independent, move out, set up house on my own. I guess she wanted to live her own life, taste a little freedom for a while. But she was my mom, for Josh-sakes; I couldn't leave her.\n\nSo my Mom did the next best thing: she left me.\n\nIt was a few days after my 23rd birthday. I'd been out on a cheap-shot trip and picked up this great GOG kneepad \u2013 yes, the very one I wear to this day. I came rushing into the house, yelling to Mom to look-see the new pad. My voice echoed around an empty home. Mom had packed her clothes \u2013 and everything that wasn't bolted down \u2013 and vamoosed.\n\nI was distraught. I asked the neighbours if they knew where she'd gone \u2013 most of them didn't even know who she (or I) was. The Judges were neither helpful nor very sympathetic. 'Look, pal \u2013 we got enough to do fighting crime without busting our guts to find a lady who's \"abandoned\" a 23-year-old!' as one of them so forcefully put it.\n\nThe only hope I had was Orinoko's. Mom used to come here every Thursday after her Principal Fondomics work-out; I'd come over from the apartment to meet her, and she'd tell me about those mysterious exercises she learned.\n\nI checked with her Fondomics instructors, but they were only vexed that Mom had split without paying her overdue tuition fees. So I took to hanging out in Orinoko's at that same time every Thursday, in the faint hope that one day she'd come back. And she never did...\n\nI felt a tear dribble down my cheek, pushing a small heap of muck before it. I didn't even try to wipe it away. What was the point? Insulted and beaten up by Juves; unemployed and unemployable; friendless and alone; a man whose own mother had deserted him. Who cared if I cried or not. Who gave a mutie's curse?\n\n'I do, Pizmo.'\n\nThe voice was low, throaty \u2013 the sort of voice they used to advertise hi-class clinics. A friendly voice. It seemed to come from under the table. I looked down, expecting to see maybe a television set or a lurking dwarf.\n\n'No dwarf, Pizmo,' the voice said. 'It's me. Your kneepad.'\n\nJanuary 20th\n\nI broke off rather abruptly yesterday. I needed time to absorb the implications of that amazing incident. Finding that my kneepad could talk wasn't all that big a deal; I mean anybody who watches holovision (which is everybody) sees a dozen equally amazing things in their living rooms every week. A talking kneepad isn't really more surprising than a dame with a goldfish face, or men like the fatties who can eat a tonne of food at one sitting.\n\nNo, what amazed me was the fact that my kneepad cared. And even more \u2013 it cared about me.\n\nI started to ask it how come it had never told me this before, but the kneepad cut me short. 'I can't talk here,' it said. 'Someone might overhear. Let's go home.'\n\nSo we did.\n\nBack in my apartment the questions I was bursting to ask came pouring out. 'Why did you never speak before? What's your name? Does it hurt when I kneel on you?'\n\nThe kneepad ignored them. 'For the past 17 years,' it began, 'I have been studying humanity from the vantage point of your left knee. My studies have now reached an end. I have formulated a conclusion \u2013 and from your point of view, Pizmo, a very grim conclusion it is.'\n\nA little shiver ran up my spine. 'Wh-what is it?'\n\n'Simply this: that you, dear Pizmo, are the victim of a city-wide agreement which has resulted in you becoming a victim for all and sundry to persecute at will.'\n\nI could hardly believe my ears. 'This is incredible!' I gasped. 'It's like you've been reading my mind. I've often wondered what I did to deserve a life like mine: no job, no prospects, plagued by sinister Juves, a man whose own mother...'\n\n'Yes, yes, Pizmo,' the kneepad put in impatiently. 'I know all that. The question is \u2013 what are you going to do about it?'\n\nI shrugged helplessly. 'What can I do? Like you just said \u2013 everybody in the city's against me. The only place I might get help is in foreign parts \u2013 like Texas City, maybe, or Brit-Cit. But there's probably a conspiracy to stop me leaving town \u2013 and besides, I have no money.'\n\n'You're too negative, Pizmo,' the kneepad told me. 'Adopting a more positive attitude would be of immense benefit. Yes, I think that's where we'll start...'\n\nIt talked on into the evening. I have a feeling that my life is going to take a sudden turn for the better.\n\nJanuary 21st\n\nOn the advice of my kneepad, I have taken up Hari-ip-Slip, the ancient Oriental art of self-defence through Positive Posturing. From a basic ten or so slinky body movements, I am constructing a dancing defence that will leave those Juves speechless.\n\nI had a lengthy chat session with my kneepad \u2013 it refuses to be called GOG; evidently that's its designer's name, not its own. It made a rather startling suggestion: I might not be the only victim of this sinister conspiracy. There may well be thousands \u2013 even millions \u2013 of other citizens like me, living in lonely torment, completely unaware of kindred souls nearby.\n\nWe also discussed extra-sensory perception. As a result, I am conducting an experiment: for 10 minutes every hour I am focussing my thoughts and beaming them telepathically to the city at large. If there are others like me they will hopefully respond.\n\nJanuary 22nd\n\nSpent today in bed, worn out. I suppose it was the exertions of last night's mental telepathy. My kneepad is hanging on the chair, but it hasn't said a word all day. I suppose that intellectuals are moody, even in the kneepad world.\n\nJanuary 23rd\n\nIn complete contrast to yesterday, I feel fantastic! I am convinced that I have had a telepathic reply to my mental messages. When I wakened this morning, in that warm hazy space between dreams and living, I heard a voice say quite distinctly: 'I am Mrs Gorp, your next-door neighbour. I am like you.' My kneepad got quite excited when I told it. 'It figures, it figures,' it kept saying. 'You see, Pizmo, I've been thinking: it's possible to extend my theory to include everybody in the whole city!'\n\nI knitted my brows. Somehow, that didn't seem scientific to me. But the kneepad rushed on: 'I mean \u2013 what if every citizen, all 400-million-plus of them, is just the same as you? To wit: lonely, afraid, no job, no future, no money, persecuted by Juves... they wouldn't all have been abandoned by their mothers, of course, but a lot of them might be.'\n\n'But if we're all the same, who's behind the conspiracy?' I asked.\n\n'Who do you think?' the kneepad said. 'Who's the common factor in all the equations? Who persecutes everybody?'\n\nLike all great truths, it was so simple that I wondered how I hadn't thought of it myself. The Juves. Of course \u2013it was the Juves who were behind everything!\n\nJanuary 24th\n\nWe've hatched a plan. We're going to alert the entire city to the conspiracy, but gradually, so as not to tip our hand to the Juves prematurely. I have been delegated to make contact with Mrs Gorp. I left my apartment at noon, after ascertaining that the Juves were nowhere in sight. I puzzled for a moment over NITCHY BLACK BLOO, which someone had scrawled on my door. Some secret Juve code perhaps?\n\nMy push on Mrs Gorp's bell was light but confident. Her voice rasped suspiciously from the answer-grille in the doorframe: 'Whoozit? Whadyawant?'\n\n'Pizmo Nitchy, Mrs Gorp. From next door. We met at the Block-fest a couple of years ago.' I bent closer to the microphone and lowered my voice. 'I got your telepathic message. We have a lot to talk about.'\n\nThere was a long, long pause. Then a new voice \u2013 a man's \u2013 blared in my ear: 'Lizzen, weirdo! I count ta ten, I open da door. Ya still there I tear ya legs an' make ya eat 'em!'\n\n'Obviously her husband isn't as advanced as she is,' my kneepad hissed. 'I suggest we return to base and revise our plans.'\n\nMy kneepad soon hit on another scheme: 'Letters to the vidzines \u2013 that's the answer. If we get enough printed, the citizens'll soon get the message. Of course, the Juves might see the letters, too. But that's a chance we'll just have to take.'\n\nIt was risky, but I consoled myself with the fact that not many Juves can read. Of course, not all that many adults can either. It took me an hour to compose a document setting out my discoveries and theories, including a masterly analysis of my main Juve Conspiracy ideas.\n\n(I had better record here: I am not trying to take credit away from my kneepad when I say 'my' discoveries and theories. The kneepad itself insisted that I delete all reference to it throughout, on the grounds that it had no right to disturb the status quo of the kneepad world over what was essentially a human problem. I asked it what it meant.\n\n'If citizens at large found out that your kneepad can talk, they'd want to know why their own kneepads can't.'\n\n'Well \u2013 why can't they?'\n\n'Oh,' said my kneepad, 'most can. It's just that they choose not to.')\n\nJanuary 25th\n\nSpent the entire day composing letters to newsvids, vidzines and holovid shows, including one to Kenny Kark. My kneepad thinks Kark might be a Juve spy, but I'm not so sure. He's pretty tall for a Juve.\n\nJanuary 26th\n\nThursday again. Time for my weekly trip to Orinoko's \u2013 but the usual fear of going out was absent this morning. As soon as I reached the lift, the Juves arrived on schedule. They launched into their usual glare and sneer tactics \u2013 but this time I glared and sneered right back. I elbowed one of them aside and lounged against the wall, looking as contemptuous as possible. This is all part of the Hari-ip-Slip method. 60% of all Juves will shuffle off if treated like this.\n\nNot a Juve shuffled. I knew this meant they had accepted my challenge to their challenge, and events were now likely to escalate. No matter. I have surprised even myself with how well I have mastered the martial art.\n\nSo when the first Juve aimed a blow at me, I was ready. I swayed back out of his reach, causing him to lose his balance and strike one of his bald associates on the head. The bald Juve snarled \u2013 and hauled a cosh from a pocket in his zipporak.\n\nAll hell broke loose. I ducked the cosh with a Snaking Weave, combining it with a sideways Dragon Slide that took me out of range of the fists that tried to smash me from behind. A Juve closed in from each side, one wearing a studded Knocknux, the other swinging a short stave. I did a double Dodge-Duck on the spot, and the stave hit the knux kid full in the mouth.\n\nThat's when I made my mistake. I should have executed a Backward Long Slither and worked myself away from them. Unfortunately, I paused long enough to titter about the Juve who'd been hit.\n\nIt was my undoing.\n\nA dozen hands grasped at me, pulling me down. A hard, bald head cannoned into my stomach, winding me. I tried to summon up the strength for a desperate Leaping Lizard \u2013 but it was too late. I was submerged in a sea of boots and fists and swinging sticks...\n\nI don't know how a Juve gang decides when its victim has had enough. I'm glad they do, though. As suddenly as it had begun, the whole melee was over. The Juves disappeared along the corridors, and I was left to pick myself up, rubbing my wounds, feeling dazed and a little sick.\n\n'You... okay, kneepad?' I looked down. Horror of horrors! My kneepad \u2013 my mentor \u2013 my saviour \u2013 was gone.\n\nIt must have been ripped off in the struggle, and the Juves had carried it off \u2013 no doubt to torture and interrogate. Despair spread through my veins like ice water. It was all over. Without my kneepad, I was nothing. It had been my only friend \u2013 had kept me sane and relatively cheerful through this black time. I would never see it again.\n\nDejected, dispirited, I slouched back into my apartment. The scrawl on my door had been changed to NITCHY BOKS GREE, presumably during the fracas, but I didn't pay it a second thought. I knew in my heart there was only one way out of it for me now.\n\nI opened my living room window and clambered up onto the ledge. It was a long way down to the ground: 89 storeys. Nobody could possibly survive that drop. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and prepared to jump...\n\n'Hold it, Citizen!'\n\nI whirled, to see the impressive figure of a Judge framed in my living room doorway. 'Attempted suicide is a serious offence.'\n\nHe took a step towards me, but I waved him back. 'I'm sorry, Judge. I've never broken the Law before, but I... I just can't go on. Without my kneepad to tell me what to do, there just doesn't seem any point. I've no-one to talk to any more.'\n\n'Hold on a second.' The Judge spoke quietly into his wrist-communicator, then a voice blared up from the street below.\n\n'Pizmo!' it cried. 'Pizmo!'\n\nI leaned out a little and, fighting the dizziness, looked down. On the street below I could make out the shapes of a few Justice Dept. vehicles, and the tiny figures of some Judges.\n\n'This is your kneepad, Pizmo!' the tinny voice went on. 'Don't jump! I'm safe! The Judges found me. Come on down and claim me back!'\n\nI turned back to look at the Judge in my doorway. 'That doesn't sound like my kneepad,' I told him.\n\n'It's speaking through a megaphone, Pizmo,' the Judge replied. 'Makes 'em sound a bit funny.' He stepped further into the room, and stretched out a gloved hand. 'Come on now. I'll take you to your pad.'\n\nThere were tears in my eyes as I allowed him to take my hand and lead me out to the lifts.\n\nJanuary 29th\n\nOf course, it was a trick. They hadn't really found my kneepad at all. It was another Judge hollering through the loudspeaker. They were very nice to me, though, if a trifle brisk. They brought me here, to this Justice Dept. Psychiatric Cube where XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXCENSORED BY ORDER OF CHIEF JUDGE MACGRUDERXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.\n\nFebruary 9th\n\nI'm cured now, the medics tell me. I can go home soon. They've been encouraging me to keep up my diary. They say it makes a splendid hobby, and a good hobby is more than half the battle against the possibility of further bouts of Future Shock. So I think I will stick at it.\n\nI watched the Kenny Kark Spectacular this morning on the Cube holo. Funny how Kenny doesn't seem to be half as nauseous as he used to. If gambling wasn't illegal I'd have won that bet too \u2013 the goldfish woman was his star guest. She's evidently Number One in the Musi-Charts with a thing called Ant Egg Salad.\n\nFebruary 10th\n\nI've decided I won't bother going to Orinoko's any more, looking for Mom. The Judges traced her for me \u2013 she married an alien and moved back to Alpha Centauri with him. So I don't suppose she'll be coming to the Mega-City for her Thursday lunchettes. Perhaps she'll write to me.\n\nLooking back, all that stuff with the kneepad seems like a dream, like it all happened to some other Pizmo Nitchy, not me. I mean, kneepads don't have any vocal cords, so how could it speak? (They don't have brains either, so it couldn't have been communicating telepathically.) And how could a kneepad know all about things like Juve conspiracies? It never told me that. Still, I can't help remembering something I imagined my kneepad said: 'Most kneepads can talk. It's just that they choose not to.'\n\nI wonder why?\n\n**JUDGE ANDERSON: EXORCISE DUTY**\n\n**By Dan Abnett & Andy Lanning, _Judge Dredd Annual 1991_**\n\nThe Mavis Riley Home for the Debilitatingly Bewildered lies in the quiet Western districts of Mega-City One; five stories of pale, pink, pastel windows gazing out in quiet contemplation. It is a calm place, serene and tranquil, seemingly untouched by the City's contaminating turmoil. But today the polyester curtains are twitching at the sound of visitors on the pedway below. It's not the hushed tones of visiting relatives that echo through the antiseptic Hospitality Zone, but the heavy thump of marching feet. Judges!\n\n'I'll only be a few moments,' Anderson said tersely to her four companions. 'You guys can wait in the Sympathy Suite.'\n\nJudge Pyke, who had been with the squad for only a few weeks, sneered as she strode away. 'I heard Psi Division were highly strung, but she's got her corn rations wedged somewhere painful.'\n\n'Clamp it, Pyke!' growled Judge Warner. 'It's Anderson's private business.'\n\n'It troubles me. I sense heavy angst in Anderson and it's clouding her normally pure aura,' said Judge Lutz, the squad's new empath.\n\n'When you've been with this unit a little longer, my dear,' said the massive Judge McKern, setting a plump fist reassuringly on the little empath's shoulder pad, 'you'll learn that we always stop by here when we're on Exorcise Duty in this sector.' Lutz smiled timidly at the team's mountainous telekinetic.\n\n'Suppose we'll have to wait then,' mumbled Pyke, as he flicked through a dog-eared copy of _Which Sedative?_ from the coffee table.\n\n'Is Thorne in his Iso-Cube?' inquired Anderson as she strode purposefully down the corridor, accompanied by the Home's Well-Being Monitor.\n\n'Environment, you mean?' replied the droid, its servo units straining to match Anderson's pace.\n\nAnderson ignored the correction as she continued to ignore the muzak emanating from the droid. 'And how is he?'\n\n'He's as happy as a sandboy, as pleased as punch, as nice as pie... he hasn't a care on his mind!'\n\n'He hasn't got a mind,' replied Anderson acidly.\n\nThey came to a halt by a padded shutter. 'I'll just open the door,' said the droid. 'It's in passive mode.'\n\n'Locked, you mean.'\n\n'We don't like to use negative terms here at the Mavis Riley facility,' said the droid. 'When stress and trauma get you down, and your face just isn't smiley, never fear, relief is near, book in at Mavis Ri\u2013'\n\n'Shut up,' said Anderson as the door slid open.\n\n'Such a sad case,' reflected the droid. 'And so inexplicable.'\n\n'Haven't you read his diaries?' said Anderson, stepping past the droid into the cell.\n\nFrom the diary of Gregory Thorne:\n\n_'_ ** _...May 12_** ** _th_** _: When I got home from work today, I got a message from God. It was just a quick word to say that the Antichrist would soon be in the neighbourhood, and could I keep an eye out for him. He's given me a list of signs to look for and said that when I've ticked them all off, he'll give me some further tips on how to save the world from an eternity of damnation. I found the first sign straight away \u2013_ a beast rising out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns and on the horns ten crowns _\u2013 that couldn't be easier. I'm working on it...'_\n\n**June 6 \u2013 5.25pm**\n\nThey rode out of the city, five riders ahead of the storm. The burning headlamps of their Lawmaster bikes cast jagged shadows across the blasted wasteland of Reclaim Zone #13. Even now, years after the Apocalypse War, a charnel smell hung in the wind. Anderson signalled her Spook Squad to halt as the brooding grey structure of the half-finished Geo-Stability Tower rose before them. Seven massive support columns rising from a gash in the landscape, lifting ten vent-capped geothermal conversion chambers into a thunderous sky. It was here that warheads had split open the very flesh of the planet. It was only structures such as these, whose tectonic anchors were embedded deep below, that kept in check the tidal fury of the magmatic seas that boiled close to the surface.\n\n'Re-cap please, Troughton,' said Anderson.\n\nThe young Judge accessed his bike's terminal. 'Zone #13 rehab program contracted to Ideal Block Inc. This is the final stabilising tower to be constructed before work begins on the residential areas. Work currently at a standstill due to a series of bizarre industrial accidents and unrest in the workers' compound. Cause may be residual psychic energy left over from the conflagration. Psi Squad investigation required.'\n\n'What was this place before?' asked Judge Stokes. 'Empathically, I'm not reading much.'\n\nTroughton shot her a grimace. 'Neutral Zone mediplex. Ninety thousand civilians cremated in a nanosecond, thanks to a stray nuke.'\n\n'Any speculations, McKern?' asked Anderson.\n\nThe big man was lost in the shadows. 'Sounds like a casebook Revenant Node. A concentrated mass, representing thousands of souls traumatised in the same moment. Could mean we're in for a busy night.'\n\nJudge Warner shook his head in mock sadness. 'You really suffer for your art, don't you? Psi Division always makes a meal of things. If it was up to us regulars there would be a lot more hard graft and a lot less agonising.'\n\n'While you and Troughton ride shotgun on this team you'll keep your opinions to yourselves,' Anderson retorted. 'These souls deserve respect and consideration, not brute force.'\n\n'The workers' compound is just ahead. We'd better make tracks \u2013 Neill the I.B.I. rep has requested assistance nine times in the last hour,' Troughton observed.\n\n'I sense... persistent jackass,' groaned McKern.\n\n'I was right,' he whispered to Anderson, as Neill scurried toward them in the lobby of the workers' compound.\n\n'About time!' he snapped. 'Do you have any idea of the seriousness of the situation? Work ceased _three days_ ago. I.B.I. are facing interest charges in excess of nine trill. Phoenix Block is over budget and behind schedule. What do you intend to do about it?'\n\nAnderson shrugged. 'Not my problem. We're here to locate paranormal disturbances.'\n\n'And when you do?'\n\n'Once I've located the problem telepathically, Judge Stokes, our empath, will categorise and contain it, allowing our telekinetic, Judge McKern, to expel it from this dimension. Problem solved.'\n\n'And what do the other two do? Chant and burn incense?'\n\n'They're here to support us in more... physical encounters,' said Anderson.\n\n'We break heads,' added Warner drily.\n\n'I don't care _what_ you have to do,' Neill raged. 'Just make damn sure you do it quickly. This place is falling apart around my ears. I've got four thousand discontented construction workers and their families refusing to pick up tools or step out of the compound over some superstitious crem about demonic forces and walking dead! I've had nine workers injured in clumsy accidents that are gonna cost me a spitload of creds, and another three flash-fried yesterday when their work cradle fell into the magmatic vent, for reasons that will no doubt become painfully clear in an expensive negligence suit. Now if this is because I'm playing host to the Devil, show him the damn door so we can get on with our work!'\n\nAnderson turned her group with a sigh. 'Okay team, you know the drill. Exploration, exculpation, extradition! Stokes, what have you got?'\n\nThe petite empath frowned, shaking her head.\n\n'A headache? Sorry, Cass. It's a psionic blank as far as I can sense, just like outside.'\n\nWarner snorted. 'Drokk! You said it, it's a wild ghost chase! All we need is an H-Wagon and a crime blitz. What's needed here is a liberal dose of work ethic, not exorcism.'\n\nExasperated, Anderson turned toward the window, gazing grimly out as though the night sky might help her. Above the massive Geo-Stability Tower, a full moon glowed crimson through a pall of exhaust fumes. Anderson felt a slight tremor... like a whisper, as though someone was speaking. It took Anderson a moment to realise it was herself.\n\n'\"And the moon became as blood...\"'\n\n'What did you say?' asked Warner.\n\nAnderson ignored him and put her hand to her temple. 'There is something here after all,' she said. 'And I don't like it one bit.'\n\n_'_ ** _...May 22_** ** _nd_** _: It's all coming together now. The moon's been red for several days, just as God told me it would be. As for the six hundred three score and six, that's obvious to me now too! Three sixes... The Antichrist will be born on the sixth day of the sixth month at six o'clock, the son of a jackal. That's soon now. I must find this jackal. I must wait for its offspring and I must kill it!_ '\n\n**June 6 \u2013 5.52pm**\n\nThe apartment door crumpled like tissue paper under McKern's telekinetic onslaught, and Warner and Troughton swung into the room, Lawgivers at the ready.\n\n'Empty,' reported Warner. 'Are you sure this is the place?'\n\nAnderson stepped coolly into the room between them. Her gaze lingered on the walls, which were papered with pages torn from bibles. Crucifixes had been crudely rammed into the door and window frames.\n\n'You're right,' she said witheringly. 'The guy's obviously totally sane.' She stepped toward a small writing desk, picking up the slim volume lying on its surface. 'This is the focus of the emanations I've been getting. It's some sort of diary.'\n\nStokes looked troubled as she followed them in. 'This room's _saturated_ with emotional residue!' she said. 'Such anguish, such pain, such hatred... but it's determined, obsessive; _focused_. This is a bad one, Cass.'\n\nWarner holstered his weapon. 'Great. We've got a Futsie. Let's find him, Cube him and stop this time-wasting.'\n\nMcKern turned to Anderson. 'What do you think? Cassandra, you've gone quite pale. What's the matter?'\n\nAnderson dropped the diary. 'There has to be a medical centre in the compound... so let's move it there on the double. Now!'\n\n_'_ ** _...June 6_** ** _th_** _: I've found the jackal. He lives upstairs. Jack L. Remick, whose wife is expecting any day now (I know precisely when, of course). I wonder if she knows she's carrying the Antichrist? She will when I kill him. God spoke to me again last night. He said I was doing awfully well...'_\n\n**June 6** **th** **\u2013 6.01pm**\n\nThe nurse was screaming something about no admittance, and continued screaming as McKern lifted her out of their path on a raft of telekinesis. Leading the pack, Anderson and Warner crashed through the doors, bowling over the Midwife Droid. 'What in Grud's name are you doing in here?' bellowed Jack L. Remick, clutching the hand of his labouring wife.\n\n'What's more to the point,' breathed Anderson, 'what's _he_ doing in here?' She pointed at the bewildered figure nearby, dressed in an orderly's uniform and frozen in the act of pulling a recoilless automatic from beneath his tunic. Warner's Lawgiver was in his hand in the blink of an eye. 'Armed Futsie!' he screamed. 'Everybody down!'\n\nAnderson's fist crashed into his wrist. The shot went wide, tearing through the far wall. Simultaneously, the perp's gun flew from his grasp, straight to McKern's outstretched hand.\n\n'What the drokk are you _doing_?' spluttered Warner. 'There were civilians at stake.'\n\n'And one of them was your target!' Anderson snapped back. 'I sense he's a strong latent psionic, acting under the influence of something external. If you'd shot him, you'd have been shooting an innocent.'\n\nWarner was about to argue further, but was cut off by Stokes' warning scream. They turned in horror to see the suspect crumple drunkenly to the floor, an inhuman howl rising in his throat. His body twitched and convulsed as something spewed from him; something abominable, something unholy... a grotesque mass of screaming faces that hung in the air, raining greasy fluid on the floor beneath.\n\n'The child! It wants to possess the new-born child!' shrieked Stokes, gagging as her senses reeled beneath the psychic onslaught.\n\n'Warner, block it!' ordered Anderson desperately.\n\nAt once, Troughton and Warner leapt between the delivery bed and the oncoming nightmare. 'Rapid fire. Drive it back!' instructed Warner, gratified at last by a job at which he excelled. The two Lawgivers roared in the confines of the ward, but the thing advanced still, turning its many eyes toward the duo. There was a rending explosion as, through some infernal influence, the magazine of Troughton's pistol detonated and tore him apart. Blasted off his feet by the impact and peppered with slivers of his colleague's armour and bone, Warner was flung across the room like a doll, landing dazed against the wall. The thing turned in mid-air and lurched towards him... and then froze. Blue electrical energy coruscated across its surface.\n\n'We're holding it... barely,' said Anderson through gritted teeth, as she and Stokes quaked under the psionic strain. Stokes' face was blank with agonised effort. 'McKern! You've got to expel this thing _now_!' Anderson could barely speak.\n\nSweat beaded the big man's brow. 'I'm trying... I can't,' he gasped. 'It's too big... a revenant node... ninety thousand angry souls in one. I'm just not... strong enough!'\n\n'Then we have to force it back into the host,' Anderson strained. 'Contain it, before it burns Stokes out completely!'\n\nThere was silence as the trio redoubled their efforts. The entity swelled; doubled its size.\n\nThen it screamed through all its mouths. Shrinking and crumpling horribly, it dissolved like noxious smoke into the limp body of the orderly.\n\nThe psychic link severed, the Psi-Judges staggered back. Only the dregs of McKern's telekinetic strength cushioned Judge Stokes' collapse to the floor.\n\n'Lisa!' exclaimed Anderson, as she and McKern reached the prone form. McKern cradled her frail figure in his great arms. 'We've lost her,' he said simply.\n\nAnderson turned speechlessly, her eyes burning as she faced the slumped figure of the possessed man.\n\n'We still have a problem to solve,' she said.\n\n'So she wiped his mind of everything he was. In a split second, construction worker Gregory Thorne ceased to be. She hated herself for it, but there was no alternative. The node was too strong to banish. It could only be contained in a prison that had no contact with the world outside. Maybe the hardest choice she ever made \u2013 to sacrifice an innocent mind.' McKern fell silent, aware that Pyke and Lutz were considering the story.\n\n'That's why we always come here when we're on Exorcise Duty,' said Warner. 'Anderson has last respects to pay. And forgiveness to ask for.' They looked up to see Anderson returning through the suite.\n\n'Let's go,' she said briskly. 'There's plenty to do, and the day is yet young...'\n\n'Lead on, Chief.' Warner followed her to the door.\n\nOut in the yard, as they mounted their Lawmasters, Anderson caught McKern's eye and smiled. 'And let's pray for a quiet night,' she said.\n\n**'I WAS A TEENAGE PERP!'**\n\n**By Alan Grant, _Judge Dredd Annual 1983_**\n\n_'I WAS A TEENAGE PERP!' A LAWBREAKER CONFESSES! MOVING TRUE STORY!_\n\nI remember the day I broke my first law as if it was yesterday. In fact it _was_ yesterday.\n\nI was cruising the Block Plaza with Willy the C, both of us just hanging out and looking cool. I was wearing my new glitter kneepad, so of course I was attracting more than my share of admiring glances from the other citizens in the crowd. That's what put Willy in a bad mood and started all this trouble.\n\nI'm going to give you a piece of advice, all you guys reading this. It's the most important lesson I've learned in all my fourteen years on the Mega-City streets. Never lose your temper. In a city where so many millions of people are fighting each other for living space, losing your temper just causes trouble.\n\nTake Willy the C and me for instance. Willy's problem was envy. He'd never owned a kneepad. Can you imagine that? Thirteen years old and he'd never had a kneepad of his own. Me, I loved the things \u2013 I ate, slept and breathed 'em. In fact, I liked them so much that our Block School Careers Robot advised me to make them my hobby. So I did.\n\nIn the year or so that the kneepad craze had been sweeping the city, I had acquired myself half a dozen different pads. Not expensive ones, no solid-gold-effect or mock-velvet or nothing, just regular models. But my secret \u2013 the thing that drew so many admiring glances from the chicks and so much envy from bowbs like Willy \u2013 was that I custom-built my kneepads. Yessir, I stripped them right down to the frame and rebuilt those little gizmos with tender loving care. The first one I ever made was shaped like the death-mask of Fergee, 'cos when I was a kid he was one of my all-time great heroes. But my others were more practical.\n\nLike, the one I was wearing yesterday in the Plaza was a spinning double metal helix; I'd covered it with rainbow strips of lase-cut mesh-weave I found in my mother's embroidery box. Embroidery is her hobby, but I didn't think she'd miss them. I don't suppose that matters much now.\n\nSo anyway I'm strutting along, my helix spinning and flashing in the artificial sunshine, feeling good, looking groovy. We lived in the Frankie Lymon Block, and I've always considered cruising the Block Plaza as one of my favourite things to do. I love the feel of being in a crowd, just moving along with it, going nowhere special and then coming back again. I really dig crowds. Lots of other folk do too, of course. 65,000 citizens live in Frankie Lymon, and the Plaza is always crowded. If you find a quiet spot to watch 'em from, you'll see the same people drifting by time and again. It's fun being part of a crowd \u2013 especially when lots of them are admiring your kneepad and trying to pretend they're not. All of a sudden Willy grabs my arm and yanks me towards the slidewalk so we're being carried along towards the Block Park.\n\n'Hey, what's the big idea, bowb?' I asked him, annoyed. Already the slidewalk had taken us a hundred meters away, and as it's illegal to travel the wrong way on a moving slide, I'd have to wait till we hit a cross-over before I could double-back.\n\n'The Plaza's where the best crowds are, dope,' I pointed out. 'The Park's for kids. The Park's a drag.'\n\n'You're the drag, Milton,' Wally muttered, and I was surprised by the venom in his voice. 'Ever since you made that new kneepad, your head's been swelling and swelling. All you ever want to do now is cruise the Plaza and swagger with your kneepad!'\n\nHe broke off, stamping his foot petulantly on the slide's plascon surface. How childish, I thought irrelevantly.\n\nThe he went on: 'We used to play a lot in the Park, Milton. We had a lot of fun together there, didn't we, Milton?'\n\nI couldn't meet his eyes. He was right, I suppose \u2013 we used to go to the Park most days, and it _was_ a lot of laughs. But somehow, now, it seemed like it was for kids. I mean, I was growing up, leaving my low-teens behind me. I was beginning to realise there were ways of having fun other than swinging through a stand of synthetic trees on a never-snap rope, or playing Judges and Perps in the stone-effect rockery near the Park's center. I mean, I didn't know what those other ways were \u2013 but I was definitely beginning to wonder!\n\nBut how do you tell your best friend, the buddy that's played with you since childhood (we lived next door to each other), that you're growing up faster than he is? I forced a grin and made my voice sound cheerful. Just like Conrad Conn sometimes does in his viddies.\n\n'Okay, Willie, you got it,' I said breezily \u2013 and it sounded more like Conrad Conn than the man himself does. Maybe I should have been an actor. 'Let's go check out the Park.'\n\nNot that we had much choice \u2013 the slidewalk was at that very moment carrying us through the wide entrance. A couple of security robots lounging by the low wall gave us a quick once-over, and then we were in the Frankie Lymon Block Memorial Park.\n\n**ROBO-DUCKS**\n\nIt's quite a place. The walls and huge domed roof are covered in holopix, so it actually looks as if you're outside the Block \u2013 outside the city, even \u2013 on a warm, warm day. Only instead of there being nothing but Cursed Earth radiation desert stretching all the way to the horizon, the holopix show forests of real green trees and distant snow-capped hills. And in the sky there are realistic images of fluffy white clouds instead of clouds of radioactive gas. The Park's where the Block's senior citizens like to come, which means it's deadly dull unless you like joining in their games of hide-and-seek or kicking a plastic-sphere around. It's popular with the kids, too, of course.\n\nYeah, okay, I'll get back to my story. I'm only telling you all this about the Park and all, 'cos I know that a lot of guys live in Blocks where they don't even have a Park. Anyway, what happened to me goes to prove that the theories of social delinquency might not be all they're cracked up to be. I mean, when a guy like me, a guy from a nice Block, a guy with an interesting hobby, and a cool Plaza to cruise and a Park, even \u2013 when a guy like that ends up as a perp, where do you put the blame?\n\nI can't speak for anyone else, but I know _my_ answer: Willy the C. He'd got what he wanted \u2013 I'd come to the Park \u2013 but that wasn't enough. Nossir. Right away Willy wants to go and join some under-twelves who're feeding the robo-ducks on the synthi-pond. I rolled my eyes in mock horror that wasn't so mock.\n\n'C'mon, man, you must be joking!' I pointed dramatically at my still-whirling, still-flashing kneepad. 'I didn't put this little beauty on so's I could sit with the kiddos and feed the robo-duckies. I don't even _like_ robo-duckies!'\n\nWilly wasn't listening to my protest. He was looking off to the side, where one of the robo-ducks was waddling jerkily towards us. Usually they move with a strange sort of mechanical grace, but this one was sparking and twitching like it had blown a circuit. It flapped its wings in slow-motion as it came towards me. Stupid. I don't know why they needed robo-ducks in the first place, unless it was to please the senior citizens. Some of them swore they could remember when there were _real_ ducks, though I don't believe 'em myself. Real ducks died out a _long_ time ago. I know there's mutant ducks out there out in the Cursed Earth, but they live on oil. They couldn't survive in the water. Not even synthi-water. So I guess that's why they got robo-ducks for the Park's ponds.\n\nAnyway, I suddenly realised what this particular duck was up to. Its scanners must have picked up the rainbow flash of my windmilling kneepad, and somehow the dazzling light had fused a circuit in the machine's micro-brain.\n\n'Hey \u2013 get back, you dumb robot!' I waved my hands at it and took a couple of steps backward. The crazed duck didn't falter. It changed course and came zooming in straight at my knee \u2013 only now its bill was opening and closing with a loud SNUPP.\n\nIt lunged. Quicker than the eye could follow \u2013 well, quicker than I could dodge aside \u2013 its neck darted forward. Its bill closed with great force and a loud SNUPP. Right on my kneepad. SNUPP went the bill and CRUNCH went my beautiful kneepad. Smashed useless.\n\nThat's when it happened. I lost my temper.\n\n**RED MIST**\n\nI'd come close to it before, of course \u2013 everybody does at one time or another. But always in the past I'd remembered what the teaching droids used to drum into us at school: control your emotions. Losing your temper only causes trouble.\n\nI suppose you guys reading this already know the ways out of losing your cool: like swallowing your pride and walking away, or counting up to 50, or visualising a stern robotic face listing all the hassles a lost temper can cause. 'Cos when tempers are lost, there are always consequences. Why, I even heard a rumour that the biggest civil disorder the Mega-City ever witnessed \u2013 Block Mania \u2013 was started by just one woman blowing her stack. Melda Dreepe, her name was; there was some graffiti about her on our Block Hall walls. But as I stood by the side of the synthi-pond and looked down at the fragments of junk that only moments before had been my Numero Uno kneepad, I forgot all about controlling my emotions. A red mist seemed to spread in front of my eyes, and there was an ominous roaring in my ears. Like it was coming from a whole sector away, I could hear that stupid kneepad-mangling duck quacking... kwaak... KwaaK... KWAAK!\n\nI erupted. It was as if fourteen years of pent-up frustrations and held-in anger just came boiling XXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXX.\n\nMy hand shot out and grabbed the duck by the neck. The stupid things are programmed to flap off if a citizen gets too close, of course, but like I said this one had popped its cork. I gave the loudest yell I've ever heard without the assistance of a Judge's megaphone and whirled that criminal duck round my head.\n\nWilly the C, needless to say, was lying on his back on the plasti-grass, laughing like he was having some kind of seizure. Looking back on it, I suppose I would have laughed too if our situations had been reversed and the delinquent duck had attacked my buddy. But it hadn't, and I was too angry to see the funny side of anything. So I threw the duck straight at Willy's head.\n\nI'll say this for Willy the C \u2013 his reflexes are good. I mean, when we used to play in the Park he was always the best on the never-snaps, and he always won when we played ballgames with the seniors. And it was his reflexes that saved him now.\n\nHe rolled back, both legs jerking out straight. He caught the duck \u2013 which must have weighed about five kilos, by the way \u2013 a hefty kick. It whizzed through the air. From this point on, everything that happened was a pure accident. I swear it. I mean, I had to throw the duck 'cos I lost my temper, and Willy _had_ to kick it aside otherwise it'd have probably caved his skull in. I've already made that clear to the Judges. They say it doesn't matter. They say _I_ caused the accident, and Willy was a major accessory. So that's that. There's no quarrelling with a Judge's judgement.\n\nAnyway, like I was saying, Willy kicks out and the robo-duck goes flying. Right at the crowd that was hurriedly forming around us. You don't need me to tell you how quickly that happens when something out of the ordinary is going on. And of course, you don't need me to tell you that there was a trouble-maker in the crowd. Every crowd has one, a do-gooder, a bigmouth who wants to interfere and clear things up for everybody.\n\nIn this particular crowd it happened to be a skinny runt wearing the insignia of the Dennis Tanner Citi-Def.\n\n'All right, all right,' he loudmouthed. 'Let me through here...'\n\nHe broke off and screamed as the diverted duck, travelling about 20 kilometers an hour, hit him slap in the jaw.\n\nA lot of people would say it was his own fault. For a start, he was a Tanner Blocker so he didn't really have any right to be in _our_ Block Park (he was visiting a relative, it turned out.) And then he was a Citi-Def member. Let me tell you, these Citizen Defence Corps creeps are all the same \u2013 they're so full of themselves and their responsible work, they'll interfere with _anything_. Huh! Where were the Citi-Defs during the war with East-Meg One, that's what I'd like to know! I mean, Citi-DefXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXXXXXXXCENSOREDXXXXXX.\n\n'Aaaaaaagh!' The Dennis Tanner Blocker screamed.\n\n'Kwaak!' squawked the robo-duck. Its neck had snapped on contact with the Tanner Blocker's face, and its voke-box must have been knocked out of action. This was its final Kwaak.\n\nAnd it was that strangled Kwaak that brought me to my senses. My anger vanished as quick as it had appeared \u2013 to be replaced by a queasy feeling in my gut so strong I nearly retched. Fear. Fear for what me and Willy had done. Fear for what the consequences would be.\n\nWilly was scrambling to his feet now and he didn't need to speak for me to know he felt exactly the same. 'Cos the Tanner Blocker was lying very still on the plasti-grass, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. A girl stooped beside him, shaking her head like she was stunned.\n\n'He \u2013 he's dead,' she gasped. 'The \u2013 the duck must've broken his neck!'\n\nThe duck in question, now completely headless, was flapping round in silent circles like a top-notch boinger, agiley avoiding the couple of giggling senior citizens who were trying to catch it.\n\nI glanced again at Willy and our eyes locked. I could almost smell his fear. A Blocker was dead \u2013 a robo-duck was badly damaged \u2013 and even though it was an accident, we knew who was going to get stuck with the blame. US!\n\nPanic swept over me in an icy wave. 'Get outta here,' a voice inside me seemed to shriek. 'Move! Get away! Run!'\n\n**JUDGED**\n\nMy blood felt as cold as a freezipop, and I lost all control. My shaking legs started to run, and I couldn't do nothing to stop them. I mean, I didn't want to run away; the real me wanted to stay and explain everything to the Judges who would soon be on the scene. It was the panic that made me run, not me.\n\n(I tried telling the Judges that too, but it didn't make any difference. Evidently every citizen is responsible for his own actions and reactions, unless he's a Futsie in which case Future Shock gets the blame.)\n\n'Let's move,' I yelled, and Willy \u2013 his mouth hanging open like he'd just seen Conrad Conn in person \u2013 came hurtling up the plasti-grass slope behind me.\n\nWe hadn't gone more than twenty meters when a security robot came buzzing over the brow of the low hill and braked to a halt in front of us. 'Stop!' its voke-box blared. 'Stop! Stop!'\n\nAnd like a mugh, Willy the C stopped.\n\nI dodged past it, then hesitated. 'Judges have been summoned,' the robot was saying. 'Citizens should not leave the area until they arrive.'\n\nMy heart was hammering like a bike cannon on full blast. If we were still there when the Judges hit the scene, they'd nab us for sure. Too many citizens had witnessed the incident\u2013 and now this security job would have our images on its vid-tapes. We'd be identified as the perps, and we'd be _judged_.\n\n'It's no good, Milton,' Willy announced wearily, and his resigned, scared voice sounded like it was my own conscience talking. 'Judges are coming. We'll never get away. Let's just give ourselves up, and they might go easy on us. Though they probably won't,' he added as an afterthought.\n\nIf I'd been in my right mind, I'd have listened to him. But panic was still surging through me, and the roaring in my ears blocked out the voice of reason. I had to get away from there \u2013 get outside the Block, lose myself in the millions of citizens swarming round the City's streets.\n\nThe security robot moved towards me, raising its arms. I ignored it. Everybody knows that every robot in town is programmed so's it can never hurt a human being. All a security droid is good for is hollering _Judge_!\n\nI took off again, and ran full pelt down the other side of the slope. A couple of citizens dived out of my path \u2013 luckily for them. And me, I suppose. I gave a sigh of relief when I saw I was headed directly for the Block Park's Buggy Park, the plasticon wayby where those citizens too tired, poor or lazy to walk from their apartments could park their vehicles.\n\nThey ain't much, these Block buggies \u2013 just a meter-square box with a tiny hover-engine fitted, big enough to carry a couple of people to the Block's remoter areas.\n\nBut to me, the buggies spelled freedom.\n\nA guy with a biotronic arm was just starting his buggy up when my crazy run brought me skidding to a halt beside him. He looked up in surprise \u2013 just in time to see my fist hammer out at him. It hurt me almost as much as it hurt him. I sucked at my knuckles as I pushed his unconscious form out of the buggy-box and jumped in myself. I grabbed the easy-to-use control stick in my good hand and hauled back on it. The buggy shot skyward.\n\nI levelled out about 20 meters up and glanced down to see what was happening. Willy the C was still on the slope, on his knees now, sobbing violently and beating his fists on the plasti-grass. The security robot was rolling in tight little circles, still yapping about Judges and stop. Knots of people were standing around watching, though a lot of adults were hurrying their kids away. They knew how easily trouble can spread when it starts, I guess.\n\nAnd then I heard it, a keen high-pitched wail that sounded like it came straight from Hell. A Lawmaster siren. Judges in the Park! 'No, no \u2013 they mustn't get me!' I was gibbering to myself and my trembling hand just couldn't get the control stick to function. But I had to get out of there, find somewhere to be alone, somewhere I could clear my head, grab time to think about how this whole crazy mess had come about...\n\n'Lawbreaker!' The Judge's voice cut through the confused babble of my thoughts like a lase-knife through munce. 'Give yourself up. You will not receive a second warning.'\n\nThere he was below me, sitting astride his massive Lawmaster as if he and the machine were part of each other. Even through my terror, my mind registered the calm authority he exuded, the somehow soothing menace of the Lawgiver gun in his right hand.\n\nWith an effort, I wrenched my eyes away from the awful, hypnotic sight of him. Looking up I saw blue sky... blue sky and freedom. I gave an involuntary yell \u2013 if I could just make it to those clouds up there before he fired, if I could just do it, I might be safe!\n\nI yanked hard back on the control stick and the buggy responded with maximum elevation at maximum speed... and smashed with an ear-splitting crash into the plastic and metal wall underneath the deceptive holopix! The ground rushed up to meet me, then everything went black.\n\nI woke up to find myself here, in a Juve-Cube medical bay. Seems I broke some ribs, fractured my leg and suffered bruising and concussion when the buggy hit the ground. The medico tells me I'll be as good as mended in a couple of days.\n\nSmall consolation. I've been judged and sentenced for a number of crimes: damaging Block property (one duck); manslaughter of the Tanner Blocker; conspiracy to leave the scene of a crime; assault on a citizen; piracy of a Block buggy and destruction of same; and damage to a very expensive holopix wall.\n\nI'll be moved into a Juve-Cube soon as my injuries are healed. It'll be my home, and mine alone, for the next ten years.\n\nI've tried to tell them it was all a mistake, an accident. I didn't mean any of it. I just lost my temper. But I guess the Judges hear that excuse pretty often, 'cos it hasn't made any difference. Ten years... it's a long time. I'll be 24 when I get out. With a little luck I'll be able to use my time to learn how to keep my temper in check. I won't make that mistake again.\n\nYou guys reading this don't know how lucky you are. You're free. And if you take my advice you'll stay free.\n\nHow? Simple, really. Just remember: even if you're provoked real bad, never lose your temper.\n\nTHE END\n\n**JUSTICE DEPARTMENT: PASSED FOR CIVIC CONSUMPTION IN THE INTERESTS OF THE LAW**\n\n**JUDGE HERSHEY: SWEET JUSTICE**\n\n**By Neil Gaiman, _Judge Dredd Annual 1988_**\n\n**THE MEET**\n\nThe Old Man had promised Jamie some sugar. All Jamie had to do was meet him in the alleyway under Stephen King Block, late on Saturday afternoon.\n\nJamie, who at seven considered himself quite old enough to cope with strange old men, wandered down there. He had hidden a table-knife in his sock, in case the Old Man started to turn nasty, and he had stolen a container from his mother's bathroom cabinet, in case the Old Man could come up with the stuff.\n\nThe Old Man \u2013that was all the name he seemed to have \u2013 had lurked in the underpass for years; a raddled, grizzled old wreck with raw red eyes that stared nastily out of a dirt-etched face. If that was what sugar did to you, Jamie wasn't sure he wanted it... But the Old Man was undoubtedly an addict; while Jamie just wanted to try some sugar, just once, just to see what it was like. He knew he'd be able to cope.\n\nThe Old Man was standing in the shadows of the underpass, leaning by the wall, his mouldering coat seemingly a part of the garbage mound beside him. He was standing perfectly still.\n\n'I'm here,' hissed Jamie, from ten paces away. You didn't get too close to the Old Man unless you had to \u2013 the smell was worse than the garbage.\n\nThe derelict said nothing, made no movement, just stared straight ahead with dry, papery eyes.\n\n'I said I'm here. You said you'd have something for me...'\n\nSomething scared Jamie. Perhaps it was the rustling, a strange clicking and chittering that seemed to emanate from the figure of the Old Man; perhaps it was just his unnatural lack of movement. The boy grabbed an empty synthbeet can from the garbage pile, flung it at the Old Man, and turned on his heel, prepared to run.\n\nThere was the sound of soft tearing as the can hit the still figure and sank in. The Old Man's eyes jerked open, and as Jamie watched, two heavy black tears trickled down the Old Man's cheeks. Or at least, the boy thought they were tears, until they scuttled, on tiny insect legs, out of the light, into the man's hair.\n\nThen Jamie started screaming.\n\nWhen Judge Hershey found him, a quarter of an hour later, he was still standing there, staring at an old overcoat. Hershey had examined it; it contained the paper shell of what had once been a human being, and a number of stunted black spiders.\n\nThe Old Man was the third sugar user she had found like that that Saturday, and she didn't like it at all.\n\n**BRIT-CIT BOUND**\n\nIt had taken eight hours to get clearance, eight hours during which Hershey prowled the Grand Hall of Justice corridors, inspected her equipment, reviewed the case files, and waited. She was quite prepared to verbally dissect anyone who so much as said hello, but no-one did, which made her even more irritable.\n\nShe thought of the perps vanishing into Brit-Cit like spiders scuttling into a garbage pile, and her lips tightened.\n\nIt was almost midnight when Chief Judge Silver called her into his office. 'I've spoken to the Brit-Cit Chief Judge, and the International Justice Council...'\n\n'And?'\n\n'And they want to talk to you, Hershey.'\n\nHershey flicked the hair out of her eyes impatiently. There were times when the thought of the International Justice Council, the cadre of Judges that administered matters of jurisdiction and international law, would have caused her a second of apprehension. Now she thought of...\n\n(spiders)\n\n...and a cold flame of anger burned inside her. She sat down, opposite the bank of screens, and said, 'Go ahead.'\n\nThe screens came to life; the top screen showed about half a dozen shadowy faces in helmets and uniforms of as many designs; Hershey could not make out any faces. The bottom screen showed a large man with a huge moon-face, a bronze lion on his shoulder, and a star-shaped beauty mark on his cheek. He was the first to speak:\n\n'So you want to come to Brit-Cit, eh, Judge Hershey?' His accent was soft and strange.\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Nobody tell you we've got Judges of our own over here?'\n\n'I know that... sir.'\n\n'Don't you think we're capable of finding one little sugar dealer?'\n\nHershey took a deep breath. 'That's not the issue any more, _sir_. Have you looked at the records of this case?'\n\nOne of the figures on the top screen broke in. 'We've seen the records, Judge Hershey. What we query is the need for your involvement. Clute will undoubtedly be tracked down by Brit-Cit Judges...'\n\n'With respect, sir,' broke in Hershey, 'this is _my_ case. I broke it. I had Clute identified, and I was there when those people started to... started to...' She paused. 'I think this is big. I think it could be a matter of planetary security. And there is nowhere that crummy little perp can hide, be it Brit-Cit or anywhere, I can't track him down and beat the truth from his lousy little hide! Does that answer your question, sir?'\n\nBut the top screen had gone blank. The Brit-Cit Chief Judge nodded at her, then his screen blanked out as well.\n\nHershey looked up at Silver. 'Well?'\n\n'It was agreed in principle half an hour ago, but they wanted to get a look at you first. Get on your bike, Judge Hershey \u2013 you're going to Brit-Cit.'\n\nShe was out of the room before he finished the sentence.\n\n**ARMOUR PIERCING LOOK**\n\nThree hours later, Hershey saw the Silver Lions of Brit-Cit for the first time, as they loomed out of the neon night. A face flickered onto her Lawmaster's communicator.\n\n'Judge Hershey? This is Judge Armour. Welcome to Brit-Cit. I'm half a klik ahead of you \u2013 lock your Lawmaster to mine and follow me to Scotland Yard.'\n\n'Scotland... that's north Brit-Cit, right?'\n\n'Uh, right. But Scotland Yard's the Justice Headquarters in south east Brit-Cit.'\n\n'Oh.'\n\nShe flipped the Lawmaster onto remote, and followed the British Judge down the narrow Brit-Cit roads. Six lane highways. Hardly room to move.\n\nArmour's face appeared on the screen. 'Never been to Brit-Cit before, huh?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Well, I've never been to Mega-City, either, so I suppose we're equal. I did a shift on the Atlantic Plex, though. Worked with a few Mega-City One Judges. You know Dredd?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Quite a Judge. Impressive sort of bloke.'\n\n'Bloke?'\n\n'Oh, uh, chap, uh, man. Person.'\n\n'I see. Yes, he is.' Hershey sighed under her breath. She was only three hours from home; you would have thought they could have spoken English.\n\n'Jolly good,' said Armour.\n\nThey pulled up in front of Scotland Yard. It was an impressive building compared to the blocks around it \u2013 few of them even half the size of a Mega-City Block \u2013 but Hershey found herself comparing it to the Grand Hall of Justice; in comparison it was poky and quaint. She climbed off the bike. Armour was waiting for her by the entrance, a giant of a man with a black velvet star stuck on his chin. She removed her helmet and shook out her hair.\n\nArmour's jaw dropped. He grinned. 'Gosh! Nobody told me you were going to be so attractive. I can see this is going to be a pleasure.'\n\nHershey had perfected a number of stares over the years for people who attempted to treat her as anything other than a Judge. They ranged from pitying, to the chill, through to the arctic. Now she let loose a look that was positively sub-polar; Armour gave an involuntary shiver and looked away. He tried to smile once more, but his facial muscles seemed to have forgotten how. She walked in to the British Hall of Justice, and the Brit-Cit Judge followed her in.\n\nThey travelled up in the elevator in silence, until Hershey said, 'That _thing_ on your chin. What's it for?'\n\n'It's a beauty patch. They're very fashionable. In Brit-Cit.'\n\n'\"A Judge,\"' quoted Hershey from memory, '\"should be clean, upright, and stern. No more. We are not in a beauty contest.\"'\n\n'Judge's Manual?'\n\nShe shook her head. 'Dredd.'\n\n'Oh.'\n\nThe Brit-Cit Chief Judge, whose Brit Territories' flag name badge told Hershey his name was Jones, was sitting in a large easy chair. He looked up as Hershey came in. She gave him her slightly cold look (which produced a sensation not unlike a fridge door being left open), and stood by his desk.\n\n'We've never had anything like this before, lass,' said Chief Judge Jones. 'Outside Judges coming in, like. I hope we're all going to get along.'\n\nHershey raised an eyebrow. 'I'm looking for Clute. Severian Clute. He's a small-time Brit-Cit sugar dealer. He's positively identified as the man who sold each of the... victims their sugar. By the time we had a positive ID on him he had taken the zoom-tube back to Brit-Cit.\n\n'Whatever he's selling, isn't sugar. It looks like pure crystals, apparently tastes like the stuff. But it's deadly. Probably alien. I want him brought back to Mega-City One, and I want the source \u2013 whatever it is \u2013 of this stuff put out of action for good. On that basis I need the full co-operation of the Brit-Cit Judges.'\n\nChief Judge Jones got up, revealing himself as quite overweight, something that Hershey had never seen in a Judge before. He stared out of the window. The lights of Brit-Cit flickered and twinkled beneath them.\n\n'I take it that I will get that co-operation, sir?'\n\nJones didn't look at her. 'Well,' he said. 'You do, and you don't. It's not that we don't want to give you all the help we can. But you're a Mega-City One Judge. And this is Brit-Cit. We do things differently here.\n\n'I'm assigning you to Judge Armour. You two can work together on this case. You can use Brit-Cit Justice Department Facilities. _But_ while you're here you take orders from Armour. And from me. And none of this charging into places, Lawgiver blazing, damaging property and putting the wind up our citizens! You aren't in Mega-City One now, lass.'\n\n'No,' said Hershey. 'I can see that I'm not.'\n\n'Right then,' said Chief Judge Jones. 'That's all that needs to be said then. Good luck.\n\n'Just remember. We've got a saying over here. _Softly softly catchee perp_. Right then. Good morning.'\n\n**TV NASTIES**\n\nClute had done five years in an Iso-Cube when he was twenty. The hologram of him taken then showed Hershey a weasely little man, short, prematurely balding, with little cherubic lips.\n\nSince then he had been on the move. Severian Clute was just one of the half-dozen names he had used, a minor confidence man and compulsive liar who had informed on the Brit-Cit underworld just enough to keep in circulation. No record of sugar dealing until six weeks back, when he had left his job handling transit passengers at the Space Port, abandoned his apartment, and gone underground.\n\nThere were no leads as to his current whereabouts.\n\nHershey sat in her hotel room, and reviewed the files again and again, hoping to pry some clue from Clute's shifty little face, from the list of dates and places. No go. She paced the room. Flipped on her communicator.\n\n'Armour? Hershey here. Got anything?'\n\n''Fraid not. I'll contact you as soon as I have.'\n\nShe sighed. 'I can't sit around forever! I'll go nuts!'\n\n'I'll call you as soon as there's _any_ word. Really, in the meantime why don't you watch the box?'\n\n'Huh?' Why couldn't the man speak in English?\n\n'The television. Armour out.'\n\nHershey activated the television, flipped the channels. BCB1 was showing a historical drama about the Second Elizabethan Era. A woman named Thatcher \u2013 played by a remarkably attractive young actress \u2013 whom Hershey took to be the Chief Judge of that period, was riding her horse down a freeway, in company with an army of punk rockers.\n\n' _If Hitler is to be defeated,_ ' she told her troops, ' _we must declare this to be The Summer of Love!_ '\n\nHershey flipped channels.\n\n' _Don't move perpy, 'cos I am the Law!_ ' shouted a wild-eyed young man. There was a burst of canned laughter. ' _It's Dudd!_ ' said someone. ' _Don't talk to me about crime in Brit-Cit. I left my bicycle by Tony Hancock Block last week, and when I got back that evening it was still there!_ ' ' _The bicycle?_ ' ' _No, blah-face! The Block!_ ' More hysterical laughter.\n\nHershey thought seriously about heading down to Brit-Cit Broadcasting and arresting the lot of them. Instead she turned the television off.\n\n'Be a good citizen,' a recorded message implored her. 'Please destroy your television set now. Support local obsolescence.'\n\nHershey had never destroyed public property in her life. She walked to the far side of her hotel room, took out her Lawgiver, and fired at the TV set.\n\nHer communicator crackled.\n\n'Hershey? It's Armour here\u2013! What's that noise? I thought I heard a shot!'\n\n'It's just the television,' she explained.\n\n'Oh gosh \u2013 it sounded so real! Anyway, one of our Judges thinks he may have a lead. Meet you downstairs.'\n\nAs she left the room a new television set slid up from the floor.\n\nThere was another Judge waiting with Armour, whom he introduced as Judge Pratchett. Hershey had never seen a Judge with a beard before. She found it vaguely obscene. Judge Pratchett was holding a middle-aged woman with a runny nose; he had her arm twisted as far up her back as it would go without actually breaking anything.\n\n'Now then, chummy,' said Pratchett, 'tell this Judge what you told me. And none of your lip this time, sunshine, or I'll add on another year to your sentence.'\n\n'All I know,' squealed the terrified woman, 'is that Clute's been hanging around Speaker's Corner. Near the Legalise Sugar stand. I bought some stuff off him yesterday.'\n\n'Have you taken any yet?' said Hershey quickly.\n\n'Oh no. I was saving it for a cup of tea. There's a bloke I know said he could put a few tea bags my way, you see.'\n\n'Oh dear, oh dear,' said Judge Pratchett, cheerfully. 'Well, well, well, tea as well is it? You're a regular little den of iniquity, my girl. It looks like you're going to be helping us with our enquiries for quite some time to come, eh?'\n\nHershey got on her Lawmaster. 'Speaker's Corner?'\n\n'Follow me.' They headed off into the misty Brit-Cit morning, Judge Pratchett's muffled 'Mind how you go, now!' echoing after them.\n\n**ROCKS IN CONCERT**\n\nHyde Park was a smallish car park, not more than a hundred and fifty storeys high, covering less than five square miles. The top floor had been turned into some kind of park. In the centre a Rock Group \u2013 an alien species of intelligent granite, top musicians all, on a galaxy-wide tour \u2013 were being hooked up to huge loudspeakers. According to the painted legend on their sides they were called the Growling Stones. Hershey had heard a little rock music in Mega-City, but didn't like it.\n\nIn one corner a knot of people had gathered.\n\n'That's Speaker's Corner,' said Judge Armour. 'We'll leave the Lawmasters here by the gate, and go over on foot. We'll be less conspicuous.'\n\nAs they drew closer the wind blew snatches of speech over to Hershey. She was not sure she believed what she was hearing.\n\n'...of course Judges are evil. The system is an evil, corrupting system...'\n\n'...all right, so if you can grow your own tobacco, what's wrong with smoking it \u2013 in your own home of course...'\n\n'...sure we're robots. But why should we be treated as second class citizens? A neuronic brain is...'\n\n'...so what's wrong with a little mutie-bashing, I should like to know? I mean they aren't like us...'\n\nThe speakers were all men and women (and in two cases robots) who stood on chairs and boxes, in the middle of the crowd. Around them people cheered or heckled, made suggestions or cracked jokes, moving from speaker to speaker by osmosis.\n\nHershey stopped. 'These people... what they're _saying_! Shall we round them up now? They'll get ten years in an Iso-Cube.'\n\nArmour shook his head. 'This is Speaker's Corner. They can say what they like.'\n\n'But... it's seditious. And all the people listening to them...'\n\n'It doesn't matter,' said Judge Armour. 'Nobody's paying any attention. It's a game.'\n\nHershey could not believe her ears. 'I think you British Judges are _crazy_. They \u2013 they're _breaking_ the _Law!_ '\n\nArmour shrugged. 'It doesn't matter, Judge Hershey,' he said softly. 'They can do what they like. It won't change anything.' He pointed to the far corner. 'Over there. The Legalise Sugar speaker. You move in from the left, I'll hit the right. Keep an eye out for Clute.'\n\n'...and what they say is, they tell us that sugar is _harmful!_ They tell us it _rots our teeth!_ They tell us it _burns out the pancreas!_ Well my brothers and sisters, that's a load of tommyrot! I have evidence, I say _evidence_ , that far from being harmful, sugar is actually _beneficial_ to the human body! And I say this...' But what else the Sugar Speaker had to say Hershey never found out. She spotted a familiar face in the crowd around the stand, a sweating, shifty, ferrety little face, and shouted:\n\n'Clute! _Freeze!_ '\n\nThe man ran for it, which, in retrospect, was something of a mistake. When a Judge tells you to freeze, you freeze. He ran, not for the gate, but towards the Stones in the centre of the park, through the crowds, with Armour and Hershey following.\n\nClute elbowed and kicked, ducked and weaved, clambered on top of the largest of the boulders, then, pulling a gun from his jacket, he pointed it down at the huge, round rock beneath him.\n\n'If you Judges come one step closer \u2013 I-I'll vap'rise Mig'Yeagger here! Now... n-now you don't want to cause an interplanetary stink, do you? D-DO YOU?'\n\nHershey weighed the alternatives quickly. She could get her Lawmaster to hit him from the back... she and Armour could double team... she could try and stun him before he had a chance to move...\n\nAt the end of the day she didn't know which of these she would have picked. She was quite sure she could have disarmed Clute in seconds. That was why she was a Judge. But whatever Hershey could have done would have been less surprising to the crowd, and to Clute, than what actually happened.\n\nThe stone rolled.\n\nRigellian rocks, being a silicate life form, are not known for their speed of action. This one, however, realising its very existence was in danger, wobbled slightly, then rolled over completely, crushing Clute's leg, and trapping it underneath its huge and weighty bulk. Clute dropped the gun and screamed.\n\nArmour and Hershey walked over to the rock, and to its victim.\n\n'I'm not talking,' sobbed Clute. 'And don't think about mind-probing me, 'cos I've had treatment. I bin done. You'll never get a word out of me!'\n\n'They are terribly unsafe things, rocks,' remarked Armour to Hershey, apparently ignoring Clute's speech.\n\n'Terribly unsafe,' she echoed. 'Positively precarious.'\n\n'Why, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that one didn't tip over completely... totally, _horribly_ crushing our Mister Severian here.'\n\n'Crushed into mince,' agreed Hershey, brightly. They began to walk back the way they had come.\n\n' _WAIT!_ ' screamed Clute.\n\nThe Judges' bikes were riding through the crowds towards them. The rocks vibrated the triad of D sharp minor. The crowd applauded.\n\n'Wait... please...' begged Clute. 'Listen. The sugar. It's in the basement of Ennio Morricone Block. But get me out of here. It's a retinal lock \u2013 keyed to my eyeprints. You need me to open it. Get me out. Please! _Get me out!_ '\n\nHershey looked at Armour and Armour looked at Hershey. They turned back.\n\n'Please,' said Hershey to the rock star. It rolled back. Armour picked Clute up, and threw him over his shoulder. 'Let's go, jerk,' he muttered.\n\n**THE WHITE STUFF**\n\nThe basement of Ennio Morricone Block smelt peculiar, although Hershey didn't recognise the smell. Clute couldn't stand, so Hershey picked him up and held his face against the microcamera. It scanned his eyeball, compared the tracery of blood vessels to the pattern on its records, and auto-unlocked the door. So far, at least, the little perp had been telling the truth.\n\n'I-I'll wait out here, me leg is giving me gyp. You all go in...'\n\nThe smell was so strong it almost knocked her out. A high, sweet smell unlike anything she had known before. The room \u2013 and it was huge \u2013 was piled high with white crystals, hills and mountains of sugar. A white expanse. And the smell was so sweet. Hershey wanted to throw herself on the ground, to bury her face in the stuff, lap it up and taste the candied flavour flooding through every nerve. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Armour falling to his knees, digging his gloves into the white drift.\n\nSomething twitched behind a hillock. Whatever it was, it was enough to snap her out of the state she was in. She snapped down her respirator, and kicked the sugar out of Armour's hand.\n\n'Judge Armour! Use your respirator!'\n\nHe reached up a trembling arm and fumbled it down.\n\n'I don't know what come over me,' his voice echoed in her helmet.\n\n'This stuff isn't sugar,' said Hershey. 'We've known that all along. But I think we're about to find out where it came from...'\n\nAnd then the thing came over the hill.\n\nSeen at that size the resemblance to a spider was decreased. It had seven legs, and dragged a hairy, bulbous body between them. A network of tiny eyes circled its body; at the front were mandibles, behind it a stream of white crystals was trickling down.\n\nIt was enormous.\n\nArmour sighted his Lawgiver. She put out an arm. 'No, don't shoot.'\n\n'Huh?'\n\n'It's intelligent. I recognise the life-form. A Sakishira. It's non-aggressive... I saw some seven years ago, when I went extragalactic. This one is sick.\n\n'Armour, put out a call to Justice Central, or whatever you people call it here. Tell them we need an alien handler. And a truck to move the thing. And an alien medic, if you've got such a thing in Brit territories \u2013 otherwise call Mega-City One and ask them to send Sturgeon over. He's the best we've got.'\n\nArmour began to put in the calls. Hershey walked over to the spider-creature. Her Allspeak was rusty \u2013 it had never been good \u2013 but she managed. 'You-ill-make-better-thing-come.' The alien shuddered, and lay down.\n\nHershey walked over to where Clute was lying.\n\n'There used to be an insect called the bee. Almost extinct these days. Not enough plants around. Bees made a synthetic sugar in their bodies called honey. Food for their young. When you saw this alien come in on the shuttle point, trickling sugar, you thought it was something like that. That right, creep?'\n\nThe man nodded. Sugar crystals were sticking to his sweat-soaked forehead.\n\n'So you kidnapped the thing, and dragged her down here, and locked her up. Must have taken a lot of work. But you thought you'd made your fortune.\n\n'There must be twenty million creds worth of sugar down here, eh, creep? You thought you were printing your own money.'\n\n'You're smart, Judge, for a\u2013'\n\n'Shut up, creep. But you were wrong. This stuff isn't food. It isn't sugar. It's eggs. That's how these things breed. They lay this stuff, animals eat it, and it transforms the cellular structure of the animals into little duplicates of Big Momma over there.\n\n'You've been sugar dealing, kidnapping an intelligent being and killing people, creep. You want to know what the sentence for that is?'\n\nClute didn't respond. His face seemed waxen, papery. Something pulsed rhythmically in his cheek. The skin broke, and tiny black legs clawed at the air.\n\n'How's our prisoner?' called Armour.\n\nHershey shrugged. 'He's gone to pieces,' she said. 'Must have been sampling his own merchandise.'\n\nThen the clean-up squad arrived, and it was all over.\n\n**EPILOGUE**\n\nChief Judge Silver sent for her as soon as she arrived back in Mega-City One.\n\n'You did all right,' he told her. 'The International Justice Council were pleased. So was Chief Judge Jones: if their man had shot the Sakishira it could have provoked an intergalactic incident. And we've an antidote to the sugar for anyone we can get it to in time. No point in having them turn into little spiders in the Iso-Cubes.\n\n'So what did you think of Brit-Cit?'\n\nHershey was expressionless. 'I'm pleased to be home, sir.'\n\n'Yes, I hear they do things differently over there. Still, they get the job done. That will be all, Hershey.'\n\nShe left.\n\nSilver looked down at the paper on his desk. It was a request, from the Brit-Cit Chief Judge, that Judge Hershey be assigned to the Brit-Cit Judge force for a six-month tour of duty, while they sent a Brit-Cit Judge to Mega-City One. ' _To_ _foster understanding and the exchange of ideas and techniques_ ' as Jones put it.\n\nSilver thought of Hershey spending six months in Brit-Cit. And Silver smiled.\n\n**JUDGE ANDERSON: DEAR DIARY**\n\n**By Peter Milligan, _2000 AD Annual 1988_**\n\n21 JUNE 2109\n\nToday is going to be really boring.\n\nIf my flashes are correct, and knowing my luck most of them will be, I'll get caught in a traffic snarl-up on my way to H.Q., and then I'll get cornered by that fat greaseball from records, Ned Kamen. I think Kamen has probably got a portrait of himself somewhere, a portrait that stays looking young and beautiful while Kamen himself is the embodiment of all the slimy and devious facets of his slimy and devious life.\n\nSorry, are you getting the impression I don't like him? You know I have nothing against ugly people. They can't help it and, hey, there are probably one or two people in the world who don't go a bundle on me. No. Just because he's got a complexion like the Sea of Tranquility and his hands are like two slabs of greasy bacon and to smell his breath you'd think his alimentary canal was linked to the city's sewer system doesn't mean to say that he isn't a nice human being. It's just that he isn't a nice human being, and he keeps cornering me and trying to run his not-nice-human-being's hands all over me. And then\u2013\n\nHold on. I'm getting something else. Drokk! Someone's going to break into my locker. I'll go to the locker at about noon and a find a spare uniform plus some other odds and ends missing. Where are Security going to be, for Grud's sake?\n\nMake a note, Anderson. Keep your eye on your locker.\n\nThe rest of the day is a bit confused. I think there'll be further outbreaks of violence between rival factions of the Philosophers. A gang of young Existentialists, aided by some disaffected Hedonists, will ambush and kick drokk out of a passing mob of Logical Positivists. Thanks to this flash, there'll be a squad of Riot Judges there to _really_ give the Philosophers something to think about. Tsch. All this in-fighting amongst the city's thinkers is enough to make you a cynic; except that all the Cynics are in jail after they finally killed off the Stoics last year. Of course, the Cynics were the biggest gang of all, Mega-City One philosophers having a tendency, for some reason, to embrace that particular creed. And as for the Stoics, well, they didn't even bother trying to defend themselves when the Cynics attacked them. They just gritted their teeth, accepted it all as their fate, and were subsequently mashed to a pulp.\n\n22 JUNE 2109\n\nI was right. Yesterday **was** really boring.\n\nForewarned by my flash I tried to avoid the Elephant Man (otherwise known as Ned Kamen) all morning. I saw his eyes, his cold patient eyes like black pebbles set in blancmange, following me around, waiting for the moment when he could trap me. I was hoping yesterday morning's flash was incorrect; I'm not infallible.\n\nI'd successfully dodged him for about an hour when Omar, head of Psi Division, passed by. I told him about my flash concerning the Philosophy riot, on Zeitgeist Boulevard.\n\n'Okay, Anderson. Log it with Kamen and then get moving.'\n\nTrying to avoid a precog can be like sliding slow-motion downhill in a car without brakes. As quickly as possible, I gave the flash to Blubber Boy \u2013 but his blubber belied his agility. Before I could exit, he'd cut off my escape route.\n\n'Anderson,' he breathed, 'When are we going to have that dinner?'\n\n' _What_ dinner, Kamen?'\n\nThe smell of distant mudflats had reached my nostrils. I pushed past him, and felt a clammy claw crawl onto my shoulder.\n\n'The dinner you're going to cook me round your place, of course.'\n\n'Do you know what I like about you, Ned?'\n\nNed looked at me with wide eyes, his lip muscles flexing into something resembling a smile.\n\n'No. What do you like about me, Anderson?'\n\n'Nothing,' I replied, bringing up my right knee.\n\nI hadn't wanted to report him for hassling me \u2013 Psi Division is understaffed as it is \u2013 but enough is enough, right?\n\nWell, during all this excitement, I'd forgotten about my locker. By the time I got there it was noon, and the cupboard was bare. Security knew nothing about it; they said they hadn't seen anyone but me go near the locker all day.\n\nThe next time those guys call themselves security I'm going to sue them under the old Trade Description Act.\n\nMy philosophy flash was pretty accurate. Actually, it was disaffected _Pragmatists_ , not Hedonists, who teamed up with the Existentialists, but who's counting?\n\nAs for today, I see yet another snarl-up en route to H.Q.; I see Ned Kamen, after a brief trip to Med Bay, putting in for a transfer to Mutant Control Division, where he will feel more at home; I see a few petty crimes that I'll log, and I see myself walking into an exclusive uptown apartment and shooting a businessman's head off.\n\nHold on. Look at that again, Anderson. Grud, that's heavy. I just walk straight into his room, lift my Lawgiver, and pebble-dash the wall with his frontal lobes.\n\nNow it's going a bit hazy, like looking through a dirty window. I see myself, walking... walking a little strangely. I go up to this man, another businessman I think, in another uptown apartment. What am I going to do? Shoot him too? He puts something onto the table. A case. He opens the case. Inside the case is a lot of money. A hell of a lot of money. I shut the case, shake the man's hand, and I walk out of the room with the money.\n\n'Nice job, Anderson,' says the man. Am I going crazy? Am I a killer? Or am I both?\n\nWhat I mean is, do I have another side to my personality? Beneath this good-natured, highly cultivated, mild-mannered exterior does there lurk a Judge Hyde character? And if there does, can she please go live somewhere else?\n\nLet's try and piece this thing together. I have a flash about emptying a guy's cranium of all its grey matter. But during the day, I have no conscious awareness that I'm doing such a thing. That's the truth. As far as I'm concerned, I did _not_ shoot that man. But that man **was** shot. Oh yes. Took me hours to piece the flash together, but finally I located the address where the 'killing' was to happen. Only I arrived too late. There was a Lawgiver lying on the floor. I picked up the gun and at that moment some other residents came into the room, just like a corny old vid where the hero picks up the bloodied knife and is holding it over the bloodied corpse as the screaming witnesses appear.\n\n'See anyone enter the building in the last five minutes?' I asked. The residents shrugged their shoulders and looked bored. Seeing a Judge shoot down a perp in Mega-City One is no big deal I guess.\n\n'Only _you_ , Judge. Only you.'\n\nWeirder and weirder. I went to the armoury with the Lawgiver that shot the businessman. Seems it was one I called for \u2013 _personally_ \u2013 a few hours before the homicide. So. I had the gun that shot the man, I was the only person the other residents saw going into the businessman's apartment, and I had a flash in which I saw myself divorcing his cerebral cortex from his spine. Doesn't take a genius to work out who shot him, does it, Anderson? You're flipping out, girl.\n\nOr else...\n\nLet's concentrate on today. A few magazine-sellers hacked to an inch of their lives on Geller Strasse; illegal Scottish coffee-drinking party at the Loch Ness Cafe. Small time. Ignore it. Look harder. Ah, there I am. I'm walking into a club, a low-grade joint called Slimelight. I'm going up to the owner. He's smiling, not because he knows me but because I'm a Judge, as I lift my Lawgiver and point it at his face. A second later he has nothing left to smile with.\n\nNot exactly following Judge procedure there, Anderson.\n\nWhat next? Ned Kamen will eat his lunch opposite me. Forget it. Forget Kamen, Anderson. You're getting confused. _There_ I am. Walking in the business sector. I open the door to an office. I see Kamen dribbling spaghetti down his chin.\n\nNo! Concentrate. I walk into the office, up to a man sitting behind a desk. It's the same man I saw earlier, the one who gave me the case of money. Now he gives me another case. Of money.\n\nBack to H.Q., Kaman's been denied transfer request to Mutant Control, probably on the grounds of not being pretty enough. Hell. Look harder, Anderson. Don't get side-tracked. There I am. I'm at my locker, putting something into my locker, locking the door to my locker, leaving my locker.\n\nSo what's in my locker?\n\n24 JUNE 2109\n\nMoney, of course. Money I'd been paid for scratching the businessman and the club owner. The owner of Slimelight had been found dead that morning. I don't remember getting out of bed and doing it, but who can say?\n\nIt's well-documented that people can have split personalities, the left hand doing what the right hand doesn't know about, so to speak. I've never thought I could be one of those people, but then I suppose no-one ever does. Logically speaking, Psis should be good candidates for mental shenanigans, being as they are like highly-strung thoroughbred racehorses. It's scary, though, to think that part of me might be this monster, shooting people and getting paid for it, and knowing that as a Judge I'd be able to go where I liked and no-one would ask questions.\n\nIt got to the stage during the day when I really thought I was going crazy. Maybe I should pack it all in, report to Psycho Tube, and spend the rest of my days playing Napoleon in a straight-jacket. But I won't because I think, hey, I'm _Judge Anderson_ : I'm capable of beating anything. Ego, I know. And when a Judge's ego overshadows their ability for rational, objective reasoning, they're in trouble.\n\nAnd so I decided not to tell Omar about all this, not just yet. Of course, it wouldn't be long before the authorities started taking a closer look at me, and if they found those creds in my locker I'd be in a radiation zone without a rad cloak, if you know what I mean. But, well, something was telling me to hold on, and in my line of business you learn to listen to your little voices.\n\nAs for today, I'm going to spend it in a Flash-Cube, a nice quiet place where Psis go to let their thoughts run free without distraction. At the moment my mind is like a thick soup; but there's too much gravy and not enough meat.\n\nHold it. Now I see myself getting somewhere. I see myself running from the Flash-Cube and contacting Omar. I see a word. No, some letters. _LDP_. I see myself at the end of the day, smiling.\n\nBut now I can see myself lying on the floor, bleeding.\n\nYou're getting confused again, Anderson. Don't you think it's a little unlikely that you'll end the day smiling and bleeding? In my book, those two phenomena have always been mutually incompatible.\n\nAnd what's this? Oh, I see myself writing this diary, tomorrow morning (as you know I work on an old-fashioned word-processor, i.e. _you_ ). I'm writing away when suddenly the old machine breaks down. Again, if the previous evening I've been spread-eagled on the floor and pumping out my life's blood, it's unlikely that I'll be Dear Diarying.\n\nHmm. Maybe I'd better get to work. I've a feeling there's a long hard day ahead of me, and this is getting nowhere.\n\n25 JUNE 2109\n\nI was sitting in the Flash-Cube, just trying to clear my mind of all the rubbish (Kamen, snarl-ups, Philosophers, that sort of thing), when a picture of myself began to form. Oh, oh, I thought. Another killing. I was walking through a kind of mist, though in real life this wasn't mist; my mind's eye just wasn't focussing properly. I tried to get a tab on a time or a place but couldn't so I looked closer at myself. Was this me or was this the monster that dwelt within me? I looked closer still. A gust of wind lifted my hair a few inches from the nape of my neck, and there it was. So small only a magnifying glass, or a Psi, would have spotted it. _LDP_. And then I remembered what LDP stood for and I knew what was happening.\n\nI must have been crazy to think I was actually going crazy.\n\nI reported to Omar. Gave him the whole thing \u2013 my flashes, the killings, the money in my locker. Within the hour a prisoner had been taken from his Iso-Cube and was being interviewed by Judges. I was on my way with two other Judges to an address in Pravda Mansions. The man being interviewed was a plastic surgeon whom I'd been instrumental in putting away a few years back.\n\nHe called himself Leonardo da Peckham, and like most artists he signed his work with his initials.\n\nPravda Mansions is such a tough area that even the rats go round in pairs. I had two Judges as back-up, and we all warily entered the run-down residence of Leonardo's daughter, Mona. Mona was the only member of Leonardo's family who had not been slung behind bars.\n\nScattered on the table I saw some of the stuff that had been taken from my locker. As I was looking at it a floorboard creaked behind me. I turned, gun at the ready, but saw nothing there... just a bookcase with no books, an old chair, a full-length mirror. I relaxed.\n\nAnd then the full-length mirror started shooting.\n\nI fell to the ground, rolled, came up, fired. I am trained to do this without thinking. Someone shoots at you and you switch to automatic pilot, which is a lot quicker than manual control.\n\nMona lay on the floor. I say Mona, but really she was _me_. That was the creepiest moment I ever had; shooting your own double and then looking at her, dead at your feet. I bent down, studied the features I knew so well, the blemishes, the intricate contours of the nose, the eyes, the ears. It was perfect. Even then it was hard to believe that this really wasn't me. And then a crazy thought flashed through my head. What if this _is_ Anderson?\n\nWhat if I really am Mona?\n\nThat way, as they say, madness lies.\n\nThis, then, is the story: three of Leonardo's sons had gone loco in the Cubes and were now confined to the psycho tubes, with intelligence ratings slightly lower than a well-cooked cabbage. So when Leonardo escaped about four months ago he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to get his own back on me; he wanted to drive me crazy. To that end he operated on his daughter, Mona. Then he gave himself up, knowing that no perp on the run can last for long.\n\nFour months later Mona's scars had healed, and she started working on me. She stole the things from my locker so that I would be psychically linked to what she was wearing and carrying. My mind would travel to them, and once there my mind would accept Mona as myself. She used her likeness to me to get the gun, to plant the money in my locker, and to get into the right places to kill those people. And it was all working out fine. I'd started to believe I was cracking up, started to wonder if a beast lurked within me. And then just one little mistake caught them out.\n\nThe problem was, Mona was Leonardo's masterpiece. He excelled himself, it was possibly the greatest piece of flesh sculpture the world had ever seen, and Leonardo's ego simply could not resist signing it.\n\nAn ego that overshadows rational, objective thought might be dangerous in a Judge, but luckily for us it's just as troublesome for a perp.\n\nWhat else is there? Oh yeah... The creep who gave Mona the hit money in my flashes was actually an out-of-work actor she'd hired. His next appearance will be in the Cubes, and it'll probably run and run for about thirty years. The money in the flashes was what Mona stole from the people she shot.\n\nBy the way, the hackings on Geller Strasse were cleared up; the illegal coffee drinkers escaped; Kamen is suing the department for unfair dismissal; but it looks as though my flash got it wrong when it said my old word processor would break down. I've been writing on it all morning and it's working just fi\n\n**RADICAL CHEEK**\n\n**By Peter Milligan, _Law in Order: Judge Dredd Annual 1990_**\n\n'Okay, Max,' snarled Judge Dredd, grabbing me roughly by the umbrella. 'I'm pulling you and all the Normals in.'\n\n'Hey, Dreddio!' I said. 'Don't blow my zeal with that zany spiel. This is my big day! This is the day of the Max Normal Mega-City Fashion Show! Rest the jest, Man. I mean, take a dive with that jive and let a cool cat stay alive!'\n\nHey, listen. Maybe I should start at the beginning. That's the _normal_ thing to do, is it not? I'm Max Normal. I'm the King of Kool, the chap with the rap, and I'd arrived at one of my MAX NORMAL BOUTIQUES only to see that Dredd and some of the other Judges were already there. All my staff and a flare of Normal shoppers were either lined up against a wall or being thrown into Crim-Wagons. Was this a nightmare or was this a nightmare? Later that day I was going to have my biggest fashion bash yet, the Max Normal Mega-City Fashion Show, featuring a new line of thirty-inch flared pin-striped suits, with matching handkerchiefs and bowler hats, all the fab gear it takes to make a Norm top of the form, and here was Dredd laying down some krazy karma, saying how he was going to throw my hide inside a Crim-Cube. Get ye behind me, mindblower!\n\n'For old times' sakes, Dredd baby,' I said. 'Give me the rundown on what's come down. Give Max the facts.'\n\nAs you know, old Dredd has got a soft spot for Maxie. It's a soft spot about two inches below the solar plexus, and this is where he hit me, with his elbow.\n\n'Not this time, Normal. Your followers are a public menace.'\n\nI hit the ground. But I hit it with style. They don't call me the Sheik of Chic for nothing. They wouldn't call me the Sultan of _Soign\u00e9_ if I couldn't take a little blow down below.\n\n'Freeze out, Daddy. Just give me a sign of what's in line. Maybe I can give the long arm of the law a hand!'\n\nDredd pulled me to my feet and dragged me away from the boutique, then he threw me against a wall and pushed his face so close to mine I could see my reflection in his visor. My reflection looked as good as ever. It's nice to know you can still count on _some_ things.\n\n'Okay, Normal,' grunted Dredd, without moving his lips. 'I'll give you one chance. Overnight there has been an outbreak of criminal activity by Max Normal fashion followers. Bank jobs, muggings, vandalism; you name it, those punks have done it all. All the Normalite punks are wearing your clothes, Normal. They're your followers. If you don't clean it up in five hours, I'm closing down your boutiques and making the possession of flared trousers a criminal offence.'\n\nWith that, Dredd elbowed me once more for luck in that soft spot beneath my solar plexus and sped off on his bike. If it weren't for his dress sense, that Judge would be a mile of style.\n\nSo this was the score with the law. Some renegade Normals were causing a stir and if I didn't want to end up in stir myself I had to get to the bottom of it and come out on top. The future of flared trousers rested in my hands. I had five hours to stop my cool crown slipping. I had five hours to save the Max Normal Mega-City Fashion Show. I knew, in the name of everything pin-striped, that I couldn't afford to lose.\n\nSo I lost no time in going round the boutiques and fashion stores. I flashed the cash, I didn't stifle the rifle, I laid the creds on all the heads in the know, trying to clue in on any new blood that was buying the Normal line of menswear.\n\nNow, one thing you chucks and chicks should know about the fashion world is that it's a jungle. It's full of gangsters, crooks, protection rackets, pay-offs, lay-offs, day-offs and corruption. In other words, the fashion game is the same as everything else in Mega-City One.\n\nAnd while I myself looked for a clue as to what was new I kept asking myself a question or two: why should there suddenly be an outbreak of lawlessness by cats in bowler hats? By guys in striped ties? By dregs in flared pegs?\n\nI had no luck with the Normal cats and kitties. No-one knew a thing. No-one could tell why dedicated followers of Max Normal had suddenly turned into crazy law-breaking dudes.\n\nI decided to visit the high guru of the mean fashion scene: Old Man Ross. The old man is crazier than a three-eyed Cyclops, and you can't just chat cat to cat with him: he insists on putting you in front of an old camera and _interviewing_ you. But I was running out of ideas and running out of time. If I didn't get a lead soon I'd lose my fashion show, and the world would be sentenced to a fate worse than drainpipe trousers.\n\nOld Man Ross spent about three minutes asking me about my life and my stranger habits, and then I managed to throw him a question.\n\n'Hey, Man. Can you give me a rundown on what happened at sundown? Last night scores of coots wearing my suits started to loot, and otherwise rave to a crime wave.'\n\n'Sowwy, Max. Can't help. But if you'd like to lie down I'll show you how to leg-wrestle. It's weally fun...'\n\nPoor old Ross. One of these days the only person he'll have left to interview is himself. I left him lying on his back waving his legs in the air and went outside to resume my search. Three hours had passed, and I still hadn't a clue as to what made my fashion followers turn criminal. I decided to try the low end of the market, the grubby clothes stalls frequented by the kitsch and fameless.\n\nFifteen minutes later I was strolling through the shabby makeshift stalls of the shabby makeshift garment district of Mega-City. Naturally, I was attracting some attention. Normalites were gathering around me, begging me for fashion tips. How thin should pencil-thin moustaches be? Should bowler hats be tipped to the left or right? You know the sort of thing. One finely dressed young cat came up to me, and asked if I would autograph his sock-suspender.\n\n'I see you're wearing one of my Leon Brittan Chunky Pin-Stripes,' I said. 'That's real ice, baby.' But as I bent to put my moniker on his suspender something caught my eye. The stitching on the flare. It wasn't right. In fact, it was left. It should have been on the right leg. I pulled the flare out and examined it. I won't tell you exactly what I saw on the flare until the end of the story, because that's how you tell stories, holding on to bits of info to keep you guys interested.\n\n'Just as I thought,' I declared. 'This isn't a real Max Normal suit. This is mock Leon Brittan. This is fake city, kitty. This is cheap _copyville_!'\n\nThe fake pretender with the suspender turned and started to run, and I went out after. He headed off the main drag into a side street. But he wasn't going to get away from Mr Normal. I threw my trusty brolly at his feet. He yelped. He tripped. He fell. And the next minute he was looking into the eyes of one Mad Max.\n\n'Okay, Man, what gives? Where did you get all the ersatz?'\n\n'I-I'm truly sorry, Daddy,' he whimpered. 'I want to be a cool cat like you, but I can't afford the real fur. You dig my drift? These copies were going for a pinch. They were cheapsburg, man.'\n\nI asked the faker where he bought the cute suit. He was about to open his mouth and tell me, when something strange happened. His mouth didn't open. Instead his eyes started to flicker, like, like these crazy flickering eyes. Then his mouth started to shake, rattle and dribble, and then he turned away from me and started walking. He was walking slowly, like a zombie, like a Joe on tow, like a man with a plan that wasn't his own.\n\nMax, baby, I said to myself. I think you've stumbled on something mega.\n\nI followed Jonny Ersatz for about half an hour. Eventually we arrived at the dingy warehouse district of Mega-City, next to the commercial space port. By now I had little more than an hour to solve the puzzle and save my show and the inalienable right of free men to wear flared trousers. Ersatz walked real slow, like a sleepwalker, and finally he came to this warehouse and he knocked three times on the door. The door opened, and he walked in. Me, I used my brolly to climb up the side of the warehouse, then I slipped in cool as you like through a fanlight window. I crept through a few small rooms and then came into the main warehouse, where I saw my old friend Ersatz. Next to Ersatz were about a dozen more cats in Max suits, though I guessed that all of these were fakeroonees too. They all had that by now familiar lobotomised look that Ersatz wore.\n\nThe warehouse was full of boxes. One was open and I saw a stack of imitationville Max Normal pin-striped suits. A few Leon Brittans, a couple of Max Normal regulars and some Stockbrokers 50001s. There was also a stack of computers, and a few thugs with guns. A man was behind the computers, talking to the zombie normals. When he stepped into view it almost blew my mind. For one terrible second my cool began to melt as I recognised that terrible withered frame, that peroxide-cropped head, that hideous little face. This was none other than the Godfather of Fashion, the Don of the Rag Trade.\n\n'\"Scarface\" Gaultier,' I whispered to myself.\n\n'Scarface' Gaultier, known as The Frog, was leader of the most vicious fashion mob in Mega-City, but recently I'd been cutting into his profit margin, not to mention his prophet margin. The creds he got from his illicit bicycle shorts sales had been hit by the growing popularity of my Normal wear. I should have known The Frog would have been behind the plot to zap me and flared trousers off the map.\n\nHe moved some buttons on the computer and a few of the ersatz Normals jerked. They jerked towards one of the crates, where some of Gaultier's jerks handed them a pile of fake Normal suits.\n\n'Give them to your friends,' squeaked The Frog. 'In one hour we'll have another little show. I'll hit the right buttons on this lovely little computer and more followers of Max Normal will go on the rampage, and that pigswill don of d\u00e9mod\u00e9 Max Normal will get the blame.'\n\nSo that was it. The Normalites were being controlled by Gaultier through the fake suits. I'd seen enough. Carefully I took off my bowler hat where, inside, there was a mini-phone linked directly toJudge Dredd's bike. I pressed the button.\n\n'Dredd.'\n\n'Dredd, baby. Has Max got some fashion facts for you!'\n\n'Spill it, Normal.'\n\n'Scarface Gaultier, Daddy. He's the ham behind the scam.'\n\nI gave Dredd directions to the warehouse. And then, as I went to put my bowler hat back on the mat (that's my hair to anyone who's not tuned in to Normalspeak) I fumbled. The hat fell through my hands. Are my fingers made out of butter or are they made out of butter? The bowler fell down to the warehouse below. It landed right in front of Gaultier, who looked up and saw me looking down.\n\nToo cool, Maxie. I said to myself. Blown it, you most definitely have.\n\n'Normal!' shrieked Scarface.\n\n'Gaultier!' I shrieked back, as I couldn't think of anything choicer to shriek. Next moment I was running towards the fanlight window. All I had to do was avoid Gaultier's cats until Dredd showed his head: but they were coming at me from all sides. Crazy, I thought. Real Little Big Hornville. I reached the fanlight as Scarface's thugs closed in. I leapt up towards it, about to catch the ledge with my brolly, but at that moment a fat cat in spats knocked me flat. Now I'm a mean machine when it comes to fighting clean, but this was a really uncool dirty scene. There were ten of them, and the last time I looked there was only one of me. They dragged me down to the warehouse floor and threw me in front of Scarface.\n\n'Freeze out, Scarface,' I said. 'What gives with the Max Attack?'\n\n'I'll tell you what gives, Normal. It's quite simple. I'm going to kill you.'\n\nHey, a little thing like impending doom and destruction isn't enough to faze the Normal. Even when Gaultier's boys attached me to a large kind of printing press, my cool wasn't blown, my calm wasn't thrown. I knew I had to keep Gaultier rapping. I had to tow the line and play for time. When Dredd turned up everything would be fine.\n\nBy the gleam in Gaultier's mean little eyes I figured that he had no normal murder planned.\n\n'What's the score, superbore?' I asked him. 'Are you putting the chap with the knack on the rack?'\n\n'More than that, you garbage-mouthed anachronism,' he replied, pushing down a lever on the printing press. Immediately I started to shiver and vibrate. The press on which I was tied rose.\n\n'This is an old-fashioned tee-shirt printing machine, Normal,' sniggered Scarface. 'I'm going to give you a change of appearance. I'm going to crush you into a _psychedelic tee-shirt_.'\n\nPsychedelic tee-shirt! The thought stuck in my mind like a fishbone in a throat. I began to froth at the mouth, man. I mean, was I rabid or was I a mad dog? I was lowered down. To my left I saw cartons of ink. Bright blues and reds and yellows!\n\n'No use struggling, Normal. How I've longed for this day. How I've loathed your silly pin-striped suits, your appalling flares, your excruciatingly sensible shoes. You stand for everything I detest!'\n\n'So sit down, Scarface,' came a deep and familiar voice. It was Dredd. He was standing at the door of the warehouse. Well things got a little complicated here. There were shots and shouts and screams. You know the score so I won't be a bore. Few minutes later, Dredd had untied me. He was still fighting off some of Gaultier's boys. Gaultier himself was a weirdo who had disappeared.\n\n'Back in a beat, Dredd, baby,' I said, leaping off the printing machine and picking up my bowler hat from the floor. 'I'm going to slog The Frog. I'm going to assaultier the Gaultier.'\n\n'Just shut up talking about it and do it, Normal,' grunted Dredd.\n\n'Sure thing Daddy. I've heard your word.'\n\nGaultier had slipped out through the fanlight onto the roof. A few moments later I was up there with him. He had about a fifty yard start on me, but his retreat was incomplete: he was slowed down by his bright yellow baggy trousers with straps joining each leg. What a fashion victim, I said to myself, as I leapt through the air, without a care, the King of Kool, the Prince of the Pin-Stripes, the Lord of the Ties, the Nawab of Normality.\n\nAs I caught up with Scarface he turned to stand his ground. I deftly struck the first blow with my brolly to his rib cage. The pup doubled up.\n\n'You're out of the bout, Scarface,' I said, tipping my hat back. But at that moment Gaultier hit back. From his inside pocket he produced a small bottle and threw the contents in my face. I reeled back. It was expensive French perfume for men. I felt my life flash before my eyes. No Normal would be smelt dead reeking of anything but soap and water.\n\nBefore I could recover, The Frog had leapt at me and knocked me off my feet. I lay on my back, looking up at him, as he pulled a revolting expressionistic cravat from his neck. The sunlight glinted on the edges of the cravat as he lifted it above me. The squaresville neckerchief was lined with razors!\n\n'Goodbye, Normal,' said The Frog.\n\nNow you might think that this was a heavy scene, but it takes more than a cravat attack to tax Max. Gaultier was standing above me, about a yard from the edge of the roof, and I'd already dug that his feet were on the splayed material of my thirty-inch flares. As he lifted the razor-cravat I pulled my legs away, and his feet shot up in the air. He let out the old Fashion Mob curse of 'May the suit of Armani be upon you,' and then was over the edge and over the hill.\n\nWhen I got onto street level I found Gaultier lying in a heap. He looked like the sort of meal you get served in cheap Chinese restaurants. Dredd drove up on his bike.\n\n'Nice work, Normal. We'll get the medics to patch him up, then we'll throw him in a Crim-Cube. I reckon nine to eleven years. By the way, how was the punk controlling those fake Normals?'\n\n'Easy, Man. There were little mechanisms in the flares of the phoney suits,' I said. (This is what I saw when I first looked at the suspender pretender's mock Leon Brittans. Remember?) 'The mechanisms were linked to the computers in the warehouse. When activated I reckon they sent messages to the wearers' brains. And so Gaultier had an army of barmy Normals.'\n\nDredd revved his bike, about to depart.\n\n'Okay, Normal. You're in the clear. You can go ahead with the Max Normal Mega-City Fashion Show. And your suits remain legal. For now.'\n\n'Cool, baby,' I said, tipping my hat. 'You can't say _flarer_ than that!'\n\n**JUDGE ANDERSON: THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME**\n\n**By Mark Millar, _Judge Dredd Yearbook 1992_**\n\nIt happened every year. No-one could stop it. Grilles snapped tight over shop windows, steel shutters were locked over doors and those people in Mega-City who believed they were decent stayed inside, weapons in hand, until the madness was over. Children huddled to their parents for comfort, terrified eyes filled with tears. How many would die? How many _more_ would die this year? Bones snapped in two, meat torn from bodies, streets red with corpses.\n\nHow many more would die this year... for Charades?\n\nThe Judges always appeared after the fights were over. When everyone was dead. Every year the Scot-Blocks would meet the Albion-Blocks in a pitched battle to the death for their sport. 'Charades-Hooligans', as Channel 99 News had called them; people who failed to understand that it was only a game. People who took each subtle gesture, each syllable, each film with six words in the title so seriously that they were prepared to _die_ for it. The streets were already crimson with blood, and the semi-finals had barely begun. All the Judges could do now was to pick up the pieces and hope that the luckless contestants had no more fight left in them. Load up the bodies in a sweet-smelling truck bound for Resyk. Few Judges dared break up the riots. None would enter the Scot-Blocks at night \u2013 there was even a rumour that Judge Dredd himself had whistled and driven past a fight between two drunken Scotsmen. It's said that even _he_ was afraid to confront them, but this was only a rumour. It probably wasn't true.\n\nA man screamed like a girl from the direction of the teetering edifice that was Albion-Block and the Judges squinted up at the sun as a window on the fifth floor shattered into fragments. A broken, bleeding body landed at their feet, still twitching.\n\n'Huh-he tore out muh-my heart...'\n\nThe Judges leaned forward to examine the gaping hole in the man's chest. They studied his clothes. The Cuban heels. The mauve, flared trousers. The tight wool jumper. His face; worn, yet tanned. The swept-back mound of brillo-pad hair. The likeness was unmistakeable. 'Who did this to you, citizen?' they asked the clone of Lionel Blair.\n\nBlair coughed on his own blood as his eyes clouded over, approaching death. He glanced down at his ragged chest, chuckling for a moment at how ridiculous it looked. He tried to talk, but could only whisper odd, quiet syllables. The Judges leaned closer still. 'What's he like? Can you give us any clue as to who he is?'\n\nBlair stretched out his hands, palms upwards. 'Song?' one of the Judges asked hesitantly. Blair nodded vigorously, and the Judge smiled smugly. 'Three words,' said the second Judge, catching on fast. Blair's eyes bulged encouragingly as his hands fluttered like small birds above his shattered rib cage.\n\n'First word's \"Hey\".'\n\n'Second word. Sounds like \"swannee\".'\n\n'\"Nonny?\"'\n\n'Third word...' Blair ground his teeth furiously as the Judges looked on. 'Gnaw?' The second Judge looked blank.\n\n'No,' said the first. 'It's \"Naw\" \u2013 like in the old Scottish folk song. \"Hey Nonny Naw\".' Lionel Blair looked pleased for a moment, then died very suddenly.\n\nUpstairs the Judges found the room from which Blair had been thrown. More Charades-Hooligans? They scanned the walls, even now dripping with ectoplasm. The furniture was alight, and all the mirrors had gone black. 'Hey Nonny Naw', the first Judge said under his breath. Three Albion-Block citizens had been found dead this past week. Stranger still, each had been clones of television personalities from the twentieth century. First had been Barry Took, who was face-down in a rad-waste lake. Next was Liza Goddard, brutally beaten to death with a walking stick and left to die in a bed of ectoplasmic fluid. The Scot-Blocks certainly had motives for the killings, but had they the means? All experienced Charades experts would be key figures in the approaching finals, but this was just _too_ weird. The Judges cordoned off the building.\n\nThen they called Psi Division.\n\nThe Scot-Block vs. Albion-Block games were a tradition dating back almost one hundred and twenty years; since the first settlers had arrived from Brit-Cit and the Cal-Hab zones. In those days, of course, they were allowed to play football \u2013 but the first games resulted in a spate of appalling deaths, and the Judges banned the sport whilst only in its third season. The game was replaced by blow football, but even this proved to be deadly, inciting the fans to chilling acts of violence, invading the pitch and so on. This was particularly distressing, since the pitch was a four-by-five-foot coffee table in someone's living room.\n\nThe annual game, eight years previously, became Charades. At first this proved very successful, with only a small handful of casualties; but as the years passed, support for the game, at first fanatical, became lethal. Charades-vandalism became a familiar sight. 'Charades-casuals' would tattoo the names 'Gareth Hunt' or 'Bernie Winters' onto their arms, waving patriotic flags to the games. What had begun in a living room expanded and grew into full-blown matches in stadiums packed with citizens from the Cal-Hab ghettoes and Brit-Cit, all wearing team colours and threatening the chunky-jumpered Chairman (who was notorious for giving one team a film title like 'The Sound of Music', while giving the opposing team a fiendishly difficult music title, like 'Itsy-Bitsy-Teeny-Weeny-Yellow-Polka-Dot-Bikini').\n\nA forensic team were snapping photos of the room in Albion-Block when Anderson walked in. She cracked a couple of jokes, but nobody laughed. There were no ornaments in the room, no photos, absolutely nothing to indicate that the victim led any kind of life. He was a clone, bred solely to take part in the games, he had never had a family, or even friends. Charades was his life, and he had trained night and day to perfect his craft. Anderson ran a finger along the black glass of the mirror, feeling the cracks.\n\n'It was something old. Something terrible that did this.'\n\nThe other Judges looked up as she began to tremble. Her eyes fluttered closed as she whispered, as though in conversation with someone or something unseen; then snapped open, wise with sudden fright. Anderson drew a long shuddering breath before she spoke.\n\n'Do the words \"Hey Nonny Naw\" mean anything to you?'\n\nLionel Blair's dying words. Anderson paled, as realisation of what they were facing dawned with a spectral chill. A creature famed for its eccentric anecdotes and murderously unfunny songs. The scourge of the Royal Variety Show. Another brief psychic flash; a premonition of scraggly white hair and gnashing false teeth. With terrifying certainty, Anderson knew they would have to face Sir Harry Lauder himself.\n\nIt was the eve of the big match. Ricky McFulton, the Scot-Block team manager, reclined in his comfy chair as he poured a glass of illegal whisky. He scrutinised the contract he was holding, signed in his own blood. A pact with The Beast. Yet, mused Ricky, what cost his own soul, when weighed against the importance of the game; against Charades? The Brit-Cit team, with their marshalled ranks of twentieth century TV personality clones, had won the annual event seven years running. Something _had_ to be done before they reached the Grand Slam. With the help of Celtic druids on the fourth floor of Billy Connelly Block, McFulton had evoked the twisted spirit of Sir Harry Lauder; one by one, he had destroyed the best of the opposing team, as Harry tore the living hearts from their bodies.\n\nRicky sipped his whisky and smiled.\n\nElsewhere, in Jon Pertwee Con-Apts, Una Stubbs (the only surviving member of the English team) did some Charades exercises. She had been placed under 24-hour security, for fear of an attempt on her life. Anderson watched as Una groaned with concentrated effort, stretching her finger muscles one by one, rapidly skipping between one, two, three syllables. Choosing numbers at random. 'Concentration and a clear mind,' she trilled. 'That's all it takes!' At eleven twenty-four, all the glasses in the room began to chime.\n\nThe chiming grew intolerably louder as Una, Anderson and the Judges covered their ears, mouthing silent instructions at one another. The chiming grew in volume and pitch, reaching a frequency beyond the range of human hearing. Then everything exploded. Windows, glasses, cups, saucers; clocks, watches, strip-lights, vid-screen. Everything shattered, then froze in mid-air. Like a photograph. Then the apartment went dark...\n\nAnderson held Una's hand in the pitch-blackness. Both squinted as a bright light appeared, widening, and a man with a small, crooked stick stepped out of it. He was wearing a kilt.\n\n'Hey, Nonny Naw, like a BIRD by the STREAM,' the newcomer intoned, as though his singing voice had not been used in hundreds of years, and hadn't been particularly good to begin with. Anderson gritted her teeth against the pain. 'Stop it!' she entreated. 'For drokk's sake, STOP IT!'\n\nAnderson and Una screamed, pressing their hands to their ears in a futile attempt to block the terrible noise. Sir Harry Lauder merely winked as he leaned back on his walking cane with a smirk, continuing to sing. The outsize kilt was set off by a musty-looking tweed jacket. An awful beret perched balefully on his head, made all the more ludicrous by the single grouse-feather protruding from it. He hobbled forward, withered lips smacking as he reached for Una's chest. Harry was under contract from the Devil Himself, and only the agreed bounty would satisfy the Lord of Chaos. He had to bring back the heart. Far away in Billy Connolly Block, Ricky McFulton sat bolt upright in his comfy chair as he exploded into gales of laughter. He drained the whisky glass in a single jolt.\n\n'Noooo!' Anderson wrestled in living shadows that shifted and changed with her struggles, screaming threats at the shrunken, smirking form of Harry Lauder as he dropped the still-beating heart into his sporran. 'Aye,' he said, grinning a toothless grin. 'That'll do the Big Man nicely.'\n\nWith a superhuman effort, Anderson struggled free of the enveloping shadows, leaping onto the departing entertainer. With a strangled cry, Lauder was knocked spiralling through the base of the spirit-realm directly into Purgatory, arms pinwheeling wildly. Lost souls huddled in corners, wailing piteously as a freezing mist roiled around them. Anderson plunged her hand deep into Lauder's sporran, bringing forth the purple-red heart. It pulsated in her hands as she began to squeeze. 'Hey Nonny _nooooooo_...' wailed Lauder, clawing at her as she slowly crushed the heart. It squelched as thick, black blood jetted out, running through her fingers.\n\nFinally, his supernatural power spent, Harry Lauder disintegrated before her with a hollow scream. Out of breath, Anderson lurched back into the room, where time continued to stand still. Carefully avoiding the shards of shattered glass which still hung in the air, she headed for street-level, meeting the squad of Judges now surrounding the building. Crowds from both Scot-Block and Albion-Block had gathered, anxious to know how the evening's developments would affect the championship. The news was not good. Judge Gordon Rennie's expression was grave as he held a megaphone to his lips and gave the order that would outlaw Charades forever. It was a momentous day, in which a new crime was added to the seemingly endless charter of offences in Mega-City's criminal calendar. Henceforth, any citizen caught miming in a built up area was lookingat a twenty-year stretch in the Cubes. The new annual sporting event between rival blocks was to be 'I-Spy', and then only for those citizens lucky enough to be issued with a permit.\n\nIt was not a popular decision; even less so when Rennie outlined the conditions under which citizens would qualify for a permit. The news that no-one of either Scottish or English descent was eligible under any circumstances was not well received. The crowd jeered their contempt for the ruling, screaming threats and abuse until Judge Rennie took the megaphone again, explaining that any citizen caught insulting a Judge would receive similar punishment. An immediate, if rather sullen silence fell on the street. A mother hastily covered the mouth of her squealing child as Rennie turned to Anderson with a wicked smile. Anderson held out the mangled remains of Una Stubbs' broken heart.\n\n'Oh, have a _heart_ , Judge Rennie.'\n\n**ROLL ON JUSTICE**\n\n**By Ian Rimmer, _Judge Dredd Annual 1990_**\n\n'Who are you, kid?' growled Agostini at the wide-eyed kid who'd entered his workshop. Couldn't have been more than a teenager, Agostini thought. Small. Frail. Only spare flesh on him seemed to be his round face. Hardly a threat, but a serious lapse of security for him to have got this far.\n\nThe nervy kid had started at the sudden question. His chubby cheeks reddened slightly. 'I'm Bond,' he answered tentatively. 'James Bond. Licensed holiday-cover mechanic.'\n\n'You putting me on?' Agostini growled again. 'You don't look old enough, son. Anyway, where's Hailwood, the usual cover?'\n\n'Got took sick,' James replied, still wary of the crabby, grease-smeared mechanic. 'And the others ahead of me at the agency \u2013 Surtees and Roberts \u2013 are on more important jobs.'\n\n'Listen son \u2013 ain't no more important jobs than servicing Justice Department vehicles and hardware,' huffed Agostini. 'Still, isn't your fault the agency don't see it that way. 'Sides, I got me a backlog of work stretching from here to the Cursed Earth Desert. I need help. Guess you'll have to do, James Bond. This way.'\n\n'You, ah, recognise my name?' asked James, trailing the old, wizened engineer past several severely damaged Zipper Bikes. 'Mom was a video nut. She watched stacks of these cruddy taped movies from the Twentieth. Named me after her favourite character.'\n\nAgostini stopped to ponder for a moment. 'James Bond, huh? Never heard of him. Okay \u2013 let's see what we got here.' The mechanic crossed to a large vehicle, its shape lost beneath a heavy cover. 'Start on this,' said Agostini, unceremoniously dragging off the cover. James's eyes popped open wider than ever. He was staring at the road machine of the century. He was staring at a gleaming, pristine symbol of order. He was staring at a Lawmaster.\n\nA Lawmaster... 4,000 cc of law enforcement; 500 brake-horse-power of crime-buster; 480 kilos of perp control. It was two-wheeled justice, dispensed at up to 570 kilometers per hour. It was fear, with a six-speed gearbox.\n\nCalling the Lawmaster a motorbike was like calling its rider a policeman. It radiated authority and power, from the Justice Shield on the front wheelguard, to the tip of the twin exhausts at its rear. In between, the Notron V8 KT23 engine, silent now, waited to roar the rule of law through Mega-City One's streets once more.\n\nJames let his eyes rove along the 2.5-meter body. He'd hoped, dreamed, yet never really believed he'd one day be this close to his dissertation subject at Mechani-College. He'd passed the personality test that ensured that there was no potential criminal intent to his studies, but James had never had the chance to touch his personal metal and leather grail before. Would he still pass that personality test...?\n\n'Here's the report,' Agostini said, reaching for the large volume on the Lawmaster seat. He flicked through a ream of computer print-outs, punctuating his progress with an 'Uh-huh' or a 'Yeah' every so often. 'Well,' he concluded, 'this baby's normally in the hands of Judge Dredd, but for now, it's all yours.'\n\nThe elderly mechanic then spotted the look of awed wonder that still adorned James's face. 'Hope you're payin' attention, boy,' rasped Agostini, thrusting the print-out into the hands of his star-struck junior. 'And don't go getting any crazy ideas...'\n\nAgostini left the kid to the report and the Lawmaster. James sat on the former and stared at the latter. He could see little wrong with its smooth, machine-tolled lines, save for a hefty dent on the front wheelguard, to the left of the Justice Shield. That must be what it's in for, James reasoned. For as long as it took to repair, the bike was in his charge \u2013 Agostini had said so \u2013 but straightening that guard would take him no time at all. James sighed heavily. And then he began to get a crazy idea...\n\nAs he rocketed around Barry Sheene Block on the Lawmaster, James felt freedom for the first time in his life. The air sucked at his face, rippling his fleshy cheeks. The wind tugged and yanked his hair, whipping it untidily about his head. But that was all part of the thrill for James \u2013 all part of knowing that, at last, he was truly alive.\n\nThat knowledge had first dawned when he'd realised he was going to take the bike. Once this intention was clear in his mind, the mechanics of the act were incredibly simple.\n\nStarting the Lawmaster for someone with his knowledge of the machine presented no problem; but before that he'd had to disable the bike's Synitron Auto-Pilot computer. He didn't want some Judge riding a desktop terminal transmitting a programme which would steer him straight to the Iso-Cubes. Keeping the main onboard computer turned off ensured there'd be no outside interference channelled through there. As he'd expected, bending the front wheelguard back into something approaching shape so that the wheel could turn unhindered took mere seconds. After that, it was just a matter of climbing into the seat, starting the engine, selecting first gear, and rolling out past the dumb-struck Agostini to wave goodbye.\n\nEver since, James Bond had been making the streets of Mega-City One his own. The bike handled like a dream, allowing him to stay in top gear, and at near top speed. Any vehicle in his way took immediate evasive action when he gave them a blast from the siren. And who needed to obey traffic signals when sitting astride a Lawmaster? As he left the residents of Barry Sheene Block inhaling his exhaust fumes, James reflected that he'd not even touched the bike's brakes yet.\n\nHe also reflected that he was living out a fantasy of modern man. He knew this to be true from some of the old videos he'd seen with his mother. Like the landscape flying past as he hurtled onwards, details were hazy, but his imagination had still been fired. Yes \u2013 he was Marion somebody, in The Wild something. He was Peter Fondue \u2013 was that his name? \u2013 from Pale Rider... or was it Easy Rider? He was \u2013 no! On the Lawmaster, he was his _own_ man. He was James Bond, razzling the living daylights out of the City.\n\nHe's in one heap of trouble,' mused Judge Dredd when the communication came through. 'He's looking at 20 for stealing the bike \u2013 and double that with his traffic offences.'\n\nDredd was on foot patrol, marshalling a demonstration by the Simplified Spelling Committee, or the C.C.K. as they referred to themselves. The march was halted with little protest once the danger of a rogue Lawmaster was explained. It was heading their way, and everybody understood the words 'motorbike victim' however they were spelt.\n\nDredd walked purposefully into the centre of the roadway, closed to traffic because of the march. He adjusted the transmit frequency on his portable communicator. He drew his Lawgiver, flicking its indicator needle position to three. Then he waited, while the demonstrators held their 'breff'.\n\nJames thought about braking and turning back when he saw the signs saying 'Diversion: Roadway Temporarily Closed'. Instead he opened the throttle even wider. This was a Lawmaster he was on, he reminded himself \u2013 a bike that diverted for _nobody_.\n\nMoments later, James was bearing down on some makeshift mesh fencing stretching across the expressway ahead. Without hesitation, he hauled back on the handlebars and applied extra throttle. The wheelie bounced the front tire into the fencing, which buckled, then crumpled under the bike's immense power. The machine's Firerock bullet-proof tires ground metres of fencing to dust before they once more bit the rockcrete roadway, allowing James to speed onwards.\n\nThe sound of Dredd's voice booming at him from the bike's Likron communications unit was as startling to James as the words themselves. 'Hit the brakes, creep \u2013 or take a hit from a Lawgiver!' James suddenly felt uneasy for the first time since he'd mounted the bike. He'd stolen a Judge's bike, and there was a Judge directly ahead of him, clearly ready to administer the ultimate sentence. In a split-second, James had weighed up his options.\n\nStopping meant the end of the ride of a lifetime, and the beginning of a long, long stretch in the Cubes. To carry on, he'd have to open fire first. Triggering the bike's firepower wasn't a problem, but blowing away a Judge \u2013 with Justice Department hardware \u2013 would have drastic consequences for his own life expectancy.\n\nWhat the hell, thought James, the ride's got to end sometime \u2013 even Lawmasters run out of fuel.\n\nAs he eased back on the throttle, James began to smile. So they'd take the bike back, slam him in an Iso-Cube for maybe half his life. So what? He'd always have his memories. He slipped in the clutch, dropped down a gear. What good was any thrill that you couldn't reflect on? Sure, he'd have plenty of time to reflect, but wasn't the point of any experience to remember the last time, and look forward to the next time? 'Roll on justice!' thought James. 'Me and my memories are ready to do time!' He floored the brake.\n\nDredd watched impassively as the Lawmaster suddenly dipped. The perp hurtled over the handlebars and through the air, to smack bone-breakingly onto the rockcrete. He bounced, scraped and twisted along the expressway, while, behind him, the lock-wheeled Lawmaster did the same. Metal and leather stood up to the punishment better than flesh and bone, however.\n\nJames finally rolled to a halt a few meters from Dredd's feet. 'Same thing happened to me, last time I rode that Lawmaster,' the Judge informed the groaning, bloody, unnaturally contorted perp. 'Locking brakes was the main reason it was in with Agostini...'\n\nThe medics did a fine job of putting James Bond back together again, so he could serve his sentence. Unfortunately, pondered James as he sat in his Iso-Cube, they hadn't done much for the incessant buzzing in his head. 'Wear a crash hat next time,' was the advice they'd given him. 'That way you'd still have those thirty-six hours or so you've lost, because there'd be no severe concussion \u2013 and no incessant buzzing.'\n\nJames stared at the seamless, souless walls of his cell. The mystery of his imprisonment in the Iso-Cubes was equalled only by that last, perplexing remark from the medics. What could he have done, he asked himself, that should have necessitated wearing a crash hat...?\n\n**BEHIND THE LEGENDS**\n\nExclusive interviews and career overviews of key comics creators taken from the pages of the Judge Dredd Megazine.\n\nIn this first collection Pat Mills, Carlos Ezquerra, Ron Smith and Mick McMahon discuss their work in comics, 2000 AD and many other titles in great detail.\n\n_www.2000adonline.com_\n\n**THE CRIME IS LIFE...**\n\nMega-City One, 2123 - and a plague is spreading like wildfire amongst its millions of citizens, apparently turning them into blood-crazed vampires. With the Justice Department struggling to contain the outbreak, Judge Dredd teams up with the psychic Judge Anderson and ex-Judge DeMarco to investigate the trail of carnage and death left by the enigmatic Death Cult. When the cultists fight back by summoning the four Dark Judges - Death, Fire, Fear and Mortis - it becomes a fight to save both the Mega- City and Dredd's very soul! Based on the explosive computer game by Rebellion Studios, this all-action novel pits the legendary future lawman against his deadliest and most infamous enemies.\n\n**... THE SENTENCE IS DEATH!**\n\n_All-new stories from the future-shocked worlds of the Galaxy's Greatest Comic - 2000 AD! Check out the other books in this series._\n\n_www.2000adonline.com_\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Fang - James Patterson"}, "text": "\n\n**Begin Reading**\n\nTable of Contents\n\nA Preview of _ANGEL_\n\nA Preview of _WITCH & WIZARD: THE GIFT_\n\nReader's Guide\n\nCopyright Page\n\nA MAXIMUM RIDE NOVEL\n\nJAMES PATTERSON\n\nLITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY\n\nNew York Boston\nMany thanks to Gabrielle Charbonnet,   \nmy conspirator, who flies high and cracks wise.\n\nAnd to Mary Jordan, for brave assistance   \nand research at every twist and turn.\n\n# To the reader\n\nTHE IDEA FOR the Maximum Ride series comes from earlier books of mine called _When the Wind Blows_ and _The Lake House,_ which also feature a character named Max who escapes from a quite despicable School. Most of the similarities end there. Max and the other kids in the Maximum Ride books are not the same Max and kids featured in those two books. Nor do Frannie and Kit play any part in the series. I hope you enjoy the ride anyway. \n\"Thank God men cannot fly, and lay waste the sky as well as the earth.\"\n\n\u2014Henry David Thoreau\n\n# [BOOK   \nONE](Fang_toc.html#part-1)\n\n**MEETING DOCTOR GOD**\n\n#\n\nI'M A GIRL OF EXTREMES. When I love something, I'm like a puppy dog (without all the licking). When I'm cranky, I'm a wasp (like, a whole hive of 'em). And when I'm angry, I'm a mother bear with a predator after her cubs: dangerous.\n\nI say this because lately my life seemed to be all about extremes. Like right now, for instance. I was soaring twenty thousand feet in the air with the five people I loved most in the world\u2014and no, we weren't on a plane, hang-gliding, or hot air ballooning. We preferred to use good old-fashioned _wings_. The technology's been around for eons.\n\nIf you've ever dreamed you could fly, I can confirm that it's all that and better. Even if you're desperately flying through a subway tunnel to save your life, it's still off the charts. But today, flying over Africa... it was as good as it ever gets. Maybe the best part was that for the first time in a dog's age, we weren't on the run from madmen. We were on a mission\u2014to do good.\n\n\"Max!\" Iggy called over to me. \"Why did they name themselves _Chad?_ I mean, _Chad_. It's like naming a whole country Biff or Trey. I don't get it.\"\n\n\"Ig, don't be ignorant,\" I scoffed. \"It's not like all the people there named themselves.\"\n\n\"Why not? _We_ named ourselves,\" Nudge noted, as if I needed to be reminded that we were raised in a lab under the supervision of science geeks.\n\n\"Only 'cause we're special.\" I gestured to her twelve-foot wingspan. \"Hey, check that out!\" I pointed to a Martian-like rock formation in the distance.\n\nFang turned his head and gave me one of his classic half smiles\u2014you know, like the kind of smile Mona Lisa would have had if she were a guy. A teenage guy with longish scruffy hair, dark eyes, and a leather jacket. Mmmmm.\n\nThe whole trip had been as exhilarating as one of Fang's killer smiles. Even the hundreds of miles of shifting, mysterious desert dunes had been amazing. We're world travelers and all\u2014we've lived in wilds as extreme as Death Valley and Antarctica\u2014but there was something downright otherworldly about what I'd seen below as we crossed over\u2014oh, crap, I'd forgotten the names of all of the different countries.\n\n\"Mauritania, Algeria, Mali, Niger, and Chad together are about sixty-eight percent desert,\" Angel recited, reading my mind. Literally. She's powerful like that.\n\n\"Whatever. It's too much freaking desert,\" Angel's brother, Gazzy, complained. \"I wouldn't mind seeing a few cows chomping away on some grass right about now.\"\n\n\"A-plus-plus on the geography quiz, Angel. Gazzy, Iggy, extra credit when you check your attitudes at the door.\" Even without parents, somehow I'd picked up the language. Seems to work when you're the leader. \"Listen, I know some of you are a little cranky from the long flight, but this is our chance to finally _help people. Real_ people,\" I emphasized, as if we'd grown up in a plastic bubble or something. Well, we kind of _had_. Do dog crates in labs count?\n\n\"Real people,\" Fang clarified. \"As in, not just a bunch of wack-job scientists.\"\n\n\"Yup. Did it ever occur to you guys,\" I continued grandly, \"that when we were told we had to save the world, it might have actually meant saving people\u2014like, one at a time? Sending a message around the world about people in need is great and all, but actually feeding people, giving people medical help and stuff? We've never done that before. I mean, this could be it, guys. Our destiny.\"\n\n\"Max is right,\" Angel agreed, in a very un-Angel-like manner. We didn't see eye-to-eye on much these days.\n\n\"Word on the street is that _you_ have to save the world, Max,\" Iggy reminded me. \"The rest of us? Not so much.\"\n\nTwit. Always trying to take the easy way out.\n\nNot Fang, though. \"Hey, Max, wherever you go to save the world\u2014I will follow...\" He did the killer half-smile thing. \"Mother Teresa.\"\n\nMy stomach flip-flopped as if I'd folded my wings and plunged into free fall. _Hello, Max the Puppy_.\n\nI had exactly five seconds to enjoy sainthood before I caught sight of three black dots in the distance\u2014and they appeared to be moving straight toward us.\n\nLooked like Mama Bear's cubs were in danger. And you know what that meant:\n\n_Bye-bye, Saint Max. Time to be a hellion again_. \n\n#\n\n\"INCOMING!\" I SHOUTED to my flock. \"Down, down, _down!_ \"\n\nFast-moving objects directed at the flock usually belong to one of three categories: bullets, mutant beings with a taste for bird kid, or vehicles hired by an evil megalomaniac wanting to kidnap us and use our powers. Which might explain why I was working on the assumption that the three black dots meant one thing and one thing only: imminent death.\n\n\"Max! _Relax!_ \" Fang managed to stop me before I could execute my dive. \"I think those are the CSM cargo planes.\"\n\nIt was the Coalition to Stop the Madness (CSM), the activist group my nonwinged mom was involved with, that had asked us to go on this humanitarian relief mission to Chad and to help publicize the work they were doing there. And what with our previous adventures helping them combat global warming and ocean pollution, we were slowly being turned from feral, scavenging outlaws on the lam into Robin Hoody do-gooders. Meanwhile, I was still supposed to save the world at some point. My calendar was full, full, full.\n\nSo full that I'd forgotten this was the part of the journey where we were supposed to meet up with the CSM planes so we could be guided into the refugee camp.\n\nI gave Fang a thank-you-for-saving-me-from-myself look. When his eyes met mine, I shivered down to my sneakered toes.\n\nGazzy called over to me, \"I can't see anything!\"\n\n\"I can't see anything either!\" Iggy complained.\n\n\"I'm rolling my eyes, Ig.\" I had to tell him that because he couldn't see me do it, what with his blindness and all.\n\n\"No, there's, like, dust clouds below,\" Gazzy clarified.\n\nI glanced down, and sure enough\u2014the blurry endlessness of sand was even more blurry.\n\n\"Not dust devils,\" Fang said. His dark feathers were covered with a layer of dust, and grit was caked around his eyes and mouth.\n\n\"No.\" I peered downward again.\n\nJust then Angel said, \"Uh-oh,\" which is always enough to make my blood run cold. In the next second, I focused sharply on a few dark specks at the front of the dust clouds. One of the dark specks raised a tiny dark toothpick.\n\nThis time I knew for sure that I wasn't overreacting.\n\n\"Guns!\" I shouted. \"They've got guns!\"\n\n#\n\n\"QUICK! UP!\" FANG SHOUTED, just as the first bullets strafed the air around me with ominous hisses.\n\nI angled myself upward, only to see the shiny silver underbelly of one of the CSM planes, now flying right above us. It was pressing downward\u2014the rough landing strip was maybe a quarter mile away.\n\n\"Drop back!\" I yelled. We all went vertical as the planes continued to come down practically on our heads. To escape from the bullets, we'd had to fly up right under them. The engines were way too close\u2014the noise was deafening.\n\n\"Watch it!\" I yelled, as one plane's landing gear almost hit Iggy. \"Drop down! Drop down!\" Bullets are bad, but getting smushed by landing gear, toasted by jet engine exhaust, or sucked into the front of an engine were all much less fixable.\n\nI could now make out the sun-browned faces of the men on... oh, geez, were those _camels?_ The men continued to aim their rifles at us, and I felt a bullet actually whiz by my hair. In about half a second, my brain processed the following thoughts lightning fast:\n\n1) A bullet hitting the fuel tank on a plane: not a good situation.\n\n2) Slowing down not good: slow + bird kids = drop like rocks.\n\n3) Speeding up not good: fast bird kids + faster planes = getting flattened.\n\n4) The only choice was to go on the offensive.\n\nFortunately, I'm very comfortable with being offensive\u2014at least on the not-infrequent occasions when someone's trying to gun down my flock.\n\n\"Dive!\" I shouted. \"Knock 'em down!\"\n\nI tucked my wings flat against my back and began to race groundward like a rocket. At this speed, these shooters would need radar and a heat tracer to land a bullet on me. I could actually see the whites of their eyes now, which were widening in surprise.\n\n_\"Hai-yah!\"_ I screamed\u2014just for fun, really\u2014as I swung my feet down and came to a screeching halt by smashing my heels right into a rider's back. He flew off the camel, rifle pinwheeling through the air, and felt the joy of being airborne himself for about three seconds before he landed right in front of his pal's camel.\n\n\"Get the rest!\" I ordered the flock. \"Free the beasts!\"\n\nThere were about ten of these armed riders\u2014no match for six hot, angry bird kids. We were used to dodging bullets; these guys were not used to aiming at fast-moving flying mutants. And the bonuses of being aloft are infinite: Snatching a rifle from the grip of a maniacal shooter isn't as hard as you might think when you're coming from above and behind.\n\nIggy flew in sideways and smacked one guy right off his camel, and Gazzy folded his wings around another's face, causing him to panic and fall. I grabbed a gun and used it like a baseball bat, neatly clipping one guy in the gut, knocking him right off his ride. Unfortunately, I didn't rise in time.\n\nWhich meant that for the first time in bird kid history, I got plowed into by a panicky galloping camel\u2014with no sense of humor. Its head hit me in the stomach, and I flipped over its neck, landing hard on the saddle.\n\n\"Awesome move, Max!\" I heard Nudge call from somewhere behind me. Wasn't she busy helping to take these guys out?\n\nMy Indiana Jones moment lasted about a second before I was lurched off the beast. Just as my feet hit the sand, I managed to grab a rein and hang on for dear life.\n\nMy wings were useless\u2014there was no room to stretch them out\u2014and my ankles were literally sanded raw before I was able to pull myself up hand over hand and eventually clamber back onto the saddle.\n\n\"Whoa, Nelly!\" I croaked, gagging on dust. I gripped the saddle with my knees and pulled back on the reins.\n\nThis camel did not speak English, apparently. It stretched its neck and ran faster.\n\n\"Up and away, Max!\" Fang yelled.\n\nI dropped the reins, popped to my feet on top the saddle, and jumped hard, snapping out my wings. And just like that, I became lighter than air, stronger than steel... and faster than a speeding camel.\n\nI watched it race off, terrified, toward the nearest village. Someone was about to inherit a traumatized camel.\n\nThis mission was off to a good start.\n\n#\n\n\"OKAY, FLOCK,\" I SAID, finishing wrapping up my bleeding ankles. \"So who's ready to start saving the world, one person at a time? Say aye!\"\n\n\"Aye!\" Nudge cheered and took a last swig of water. Just twenty minutes earlier we'd landed in front of the astonished locals. The others, still worn out from the camel crusade, chimed in a little more sluggishly. Except Fang, who gave me a strong and silent thumbs-up.\n\nPatrick Rooney III, our CSM contact, led us to our assigned area. I hadn't seen a refugee camp before. It was basically acres and acres of tattered tents and mud huts. Two larger tents were being set up for donated medical supplies and food. Nudge and Iggy were set to unpacking crates and sorting materials, Fang to helping set up medical exam stations, which were basically plastic crates with curtains around them.\n\nGazzy and Angel were, essentially, the entertainment\u2014their pale blond hair and blue eyes were causing a commotion among the refugee kids. Not to mention the wings. Some of the youngest kids were running around, their arms outstretched and flapping, their smiles huge with delight.\n\nNot that there was much to be delighted about. The six of us, the flock, had seen some hard times. We'd eaten out of Dumpsters and trapped small mammals for dinner. I'd eaten my share of rat-b-cue. But these people had nothing. I mean, _really_ nothing. Most were skinnier than us lean-'n'-mean bird kids.\n\n\"People are going to be coming through here, getting vaccinated against hep B, tetanus, mumps, whatever,\" the nurse, a guy named Roger, explained. \"The grown-ups may be suspicious and unsure; a lot of the kids will be crying.\"\n\nOkay. I could handle that. I knew being Mother Teresa wasn't gonna be easy.\n\n\"Here are some sacks of rice\u2014they weigh sixty pounds each, so get someone to help you move them.\" That wouldn't be necessary\u2014one of the few advantages to being genetically engineered in a lab. \"The adults each get two cups of raw rice.\" He handed me a measuring cup. \"Give the kids these fruit roll-ups. They've never seen them before, so you might have to explain that they're food. Do you speak French?\"\n\n\"Nooo.\" Just another one of those pesky gaps in my education. \"I don't speak African either.\"\n\nRoger smiled. \"There are thousands of dialects in Africa\u2014Chad alone has two hundred distinct linguistic groups. But Arabic and French are the official languages of Chad\u2014France used to own Chad.\"\n\nI frowned. \"Own it? They're not even _connected_.\"\n\n\"The way England used to own America,\" Roger explained.\n\n\"Oh.\" I felt really dumb, which is not a common feeling for me, I assure you.\n\nA few minutes later, Fang was by my side, and we were handing out two cups of raw rice per person. It was all I could do not to just give them everything I could get my hands on. Fang and I kept meeting eyes.\n\n\"It reminds me of\u2014so long ago\u2014before Jeb sprung us out of the dog crates...\" My throat caught, and Fang nodded. He knew it was a painful memory.\n\nBut it wasn't the memory that was getting me. It was seeing so many people looking like... like they were still waiting to be let out of their dog crates. Despite everything we'd been through\u2014some of it the stuff of nightmares\u2014we were still way better off than the people here.\n\nI was a little dazed by the time Angel strode up to us, leading a small girl by the hand.\n\n\"Hi,\" said Angel, her face still caked with dust and grit. Her blond curly hair stood out around her head like a halo\u2014which was a bit misleading in her case. \"This is Jeanne. Jeanne, this is Max and Fang.\"\n\nAngel had that look that made me brace myself and prepare to explain that we could _not_ adopt this sweet little girl. We'd already adopted two dogs (Total and Akila, now back in the States with my mom, Dr. Valencia Martinez, in Arizona). But this Jeanne was so adorable, I was almost afraid I'd just say what the hey.\n\nJeanne smiled. \"Merci pour tout les aides.\"\n\n\"Uh, okay,\" I said. Jeanne came and gave me a hug, her thin arms wrapping around me. She patted my shoulder, her small hand rough against the back of my neck. Then she hugged Angel the same way.\n\n\"Jeanne has gifts,\" Angel said seriously. \"Kind of like us. She's very special. Let's show Max, Jeanne.\"\n\nJeanne smiled shyly and held out her hand, palm up, as if she were waiting for us to put something in it. _Another hungry child, desperate for food_.\n\nAngel pulled an arrowhead-shaped rock from the pocket of her cargo shorts. It was so sharp it looked like the tip of a spear.\n\n\"Angel, what the\u2014?\"\n\n\"Just watch, Max,\" she said, as she started to drag the rock's point across the heel of Jeanne's open hand.\n\nAnd blood began to flow.\n\n#\n\n\"STOP!\" I SCREAMED. Lightning fast, I swept the sharp rock right out of Angel's grasp, and it went spinning off into the dust. \"Have you completely lost your mind, Angel?\"\n\n\"It's okay, Max,\" Angel assured me, and Jeanne nodded. \"Oui, oui.\"\n\nI dropped to my knees and examined Jeanne's hand while she sucked a finger on her other. She had a thin puncture at least an inch long. \"Wait here. I'm gonna run to get a first aid kit,\" I said breathlessly.\n\nJeanne grabbed my arm with her nonbloody hand. \"Non, non,\" she said. \"Voici.\" She pointed to her oozing wound.\n\n\"I know, I know. I'm so sorry, Jeanne!\" I babbled. \"Please forgive Angel. She's a little... unbalanced. I'll fix you up right now. You'll be fine, I promise.\"\n\n\"Yes, she will,\" Angel said calmly. How badly was I going to kick her butt later?\n\nJeanne placed the finger she'd been sucking on at one end of the incision and started pressing it.\n\n\"Jeepers, don't touch that!\" I said. \"We need to keep the wound clean\u2014keep it from getting infected.\" I looked around. \"Someone here who speaks French! Tell her not to\u2014\"\n\nI broke off as I witnessed something unlike anything I'd seen before. And I'd seen a lot of weird stuff\u2014including brains-on-a-stick (check out book three if you're curious). Most of the weird stuff I'd seen had been nightmarish. But this was... something beautiful. Breathtaking. Miraculous.\n\nAs Jeanne ran her finger slowly along the bloody slash, pressing as she went, it closed up right before my eyes.\n\nShe had healed herself.\n\n#\n\n\"ALL RIGHT, any second now...\" The words were clipped, his accent thick. Mr. Chu leaned over his assistant's shoulder, impatiently looking at a blank computer screen. And then, right on time, the screen flickered and split to show two charts, side by side. Points started blinking faintly, and small words began running along different lines: heart rate, temperature, blood oxygen saturation level, and so on.\n\nHis assistant peered at the charts for a moment, then typed \"Maximum\" on one side and \"Angel\" on the other. Mr. Chu became lost in reviewing the biological data streaming in from the microscopic monitors.\n\n\"Mr. Chu? You have a visitor, sir.\" Another assistant stood in the trailer doorway, one hand on his weapon, as required.\n\nMr. Chu went down the short, narrow hall to the small receiving room. A young girl in a yellow dress stood there, twisting one of her thin braids between nervous fingers.\n\n\"Hello, Jeanne,\" said Mr. Chu, smiling. Jeanne managed a tiny smile back. \"You were successful in your mission,\" said Mr. Chu, motioning to an assistant.\n\n\"Les filles oiseaux sont tr\u00e9s belles,\" Jeanne said sweetly.\n\n\"Here is your reward,\" said Mr. Chu, taking a lollipop from his assistant and giving it to Jeanne. Her eyes widened, and she eagerly ripped the wrapper off and stuck the candy in her mouth. Her eyes closed in rapture.\n\nMr. Chu nodded again, and his assistant quickly swabbed Jeanne's upper arm with an alcohol wipe. The whole length of her arm was lined with dots, marking the sites of hundreds of needle insertions. And here was a new one, as the assistant injected the contents of a hypodermic needle into Jeanne's almost nonexistent muscle. It was the first of a dozen injections to come in the next twenty-four hours.\n\nJeanne had learned to put up with all of the drugs\u2014the pills, the drips, the shots. Without them, the side effects of being a self-healer were much, much worse. The treatments were a small price to pay for such rewards, after all.\n\nJeanne's closed eyelids flickered a tiny bit as the needle went in, but she swirled the lollipop in her mouth and didn't say a word. \n\n#\n\nWE WORKED ALL DAY, until dusk. The flock is usually chock-full o' stamina, but it kind of depends on getting three or four thousand calories a day. By six o'clock, we were running on empty.\n\n\"Max?\" said Patrick, walking up to me with a lumpy sack in tow. \"Here's some bedding\u2014it's not much, I'm afraid. There's a tent set aside for you guys. Do you want to get it organized before dinner? You have about ten minutes.\"\n\n\"Sure. By the way, Patrick, who was the camel platoon?\" I asked.\n\n\"Don't know for sure,\" he said. \"But some of the locals have a thing against Americans. It's complicated politics we can talk about later. Right now, if you want to set up...\"\n\n\"Sure, thanks,\" I said, taking the sack. I looked at my tired flock. \"You guys wait here\u2014I think chow's coming. And drink some water.\"\n\n\"I'll help you with that,\" said Fang, nodding at the tent.\n\n\"Sure,\" I said casually, but my heart was already speeding up.\n\nWe ducked through the worn nylon flap of our tent, and I dropped the sack. In the next moment we had our arms around each other, ignoring the dust on each other's lips and our hot and sticky skin.\n\n\"The flying was amazing, but... I've missed you,\" Fang murmured, his hands getting stuck in the snarls in my hair.\n\n\"Yeah. And this is probably our only chance to be alone for a while.\"\n\n\"I couldn't stand seeing you get shot at today,\" Fang said, kissing my neck.\n\nI drew back in surprise. \"You've seen me get shot at, like, a million times!\"\n\nHe shrugged, scratching my back between my wings, making me shiver. \"It's worse now.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know what you mean,\" I said, and held his face so I could kiss him again. It felt like we were in a time-free bubble, the only two people around, and in the ninety-eight-degree weather, I felt like I was burning up from my head to my toes.\n\n\"Max! Fang! Dinner!\"\n\nI jumped and pulled back. But no one came into the tent, so Fang's lingering hands stroked up and down my arms as we tried to get normal expressions back on our faces. Part of me wanted to stay in there forever and forget the rest of the world, but I immediately felt guilty, thinking of the flock waiting for us outside. I was still responsible for them; we were still a family.\n\nAnd always would be.\n\n#\n\n\"PASS THE... GRUB,\" said Iggy a few minutes later, holding out his hand.\n\n\"The brown grub or the yellow grub?\" I asked. My face still felt flushed from my time with Fang. I hoped the others couldn't tell.\n\n\"Either.\" Iggy ran a hand through his reddish-blond hair, making it stand up stiffly with dirt and sweat. Later I was going to march everyone to the one water pump in this tent village, pump up a couple gallons of water, and try to decrust the flock as much as possible. We've got certain standards. They're way low, but we have them.\n\n\"You guys did great today,\" said Patrick. \"You must be exhausted.\"\n\n\"Um-hm,\" I mumbled, picking up a white ball of millet paste. Dipped in the peanut\u2013goat stew sauce, it was about a three on the Max Culinary Scale\u2014above roasted desert rat or lizard-on-a-stick, but well below, say, a steak.\n\nRoger, the nurse, handed Iggy a small dented bowl. \"Dried fish, mixed with... stuff. Try it.\"\n\nWe ate everything we could get our hands on. Living on the streets had beaten any pickiness out of us. Plus, we burn calories like a race car burns fuel, and we just couldn't afford to not eat\u2014whatever it was.\n\nThe fire leaped in front of us, looking pretty and feeling cozy and warm but smelling to high heaven, since its fuel was camel poop. Yes. I mean, a regular _camel_ is no bed of roses, but its poop? On fire? The only one not wrinkling his nose was Gazzy. But as soon as the blazing sun had set, the desert temperature had dropped about thirty degrees, and the fire was welcome.\n\nI ate, trying not to miss chocolate, and felt the warmth of Fang's leg pressed against mine, here in the shadows. I was on my third pass of reliving our stolen minutes in the tent and already wondering when we could be alone again. These days I spent a ridiculous amount of time dreaming about someday just being able to spend all day with Fang. Alone.\n\nNow my face was really burning. In my dream, the flock was safe somewhere, Total and Akila weren't there, and no one was chasing us. I would have no worries, no need to be on alert. I could just relax. Which, okay, I suck at, but I was hoping that with practice...\n\n\"You guys met Jeanne today, didn't you?\" Patrick asked. \"The little girl in the yellow dress?\"\n\n\"She's really special,\" Angel said solemnly.\n\n\"Yes.\" Patrick shook his head. \"She used to have a father and four brothers. They've all died in the past two years, from either HIV or hunger or the outbreaks of civil war that keep happening. Now it's just Jeanne and her mother, and her mom has been diagnosed with HIV.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" Nudge said, tears welling in her eyes. \"So she'll be an orphan?\"\n\nPatrick nodded sadly. \"Most likely. In many other countries people can sometimes live long lives with HIV medications. But it's different here. And there are so many other children like her.\"\n\nI choked down another millet ball ( _Note to self:_ Do not bother getting recipe) and looked around at my beloved flock, safe in a circle around the fire. Iggy was staring straight into the flames, able to because he was blind. Gazzy was examining each and every last bowl for any morsel that might have been missed. Nudge had her chin in her hands, looking at the ground, and I knew she was bumming about all the misery here. My life would have been incomplete without each and every one of them.\n\nI glanced into Fang's eyes to find him watching me with dark intensity, and my cheeks flushed again. Could we sneak off, like, into the dark shadows of the desert? Just for a minute?\n\n\"Nothing can last forever, Max.\" It was Angel, eerily interrupting my thoughts. She was scratching at the dirt with a small animal bone. \"And actually\u2014I hate to tell you this, but Fang will be the first to die. And it will be soon.\" \n\n#\n\nFIVE BIRD KID HEADS swiveled toward Angel. Nudge's mouth had dropped open, and Gazzy's eyes were big. Iggy's boyish face creased into wrinkles. My dark, mysterious Fang hardly registered his surprise, as if Angel had just said it was about to rain.\n\nAs for me, I felt like Angel had kicked me in the gut.\n\n\"What _exactly_ do you mean by that?\" I finally choked out.\n\n\"I'm just saying, Max,\" said Angel, still playing with her bone. \"You always want everything to stay the same. But it can't. We're all getting older. You have a mom. You and Fang are all googly eyed at each other. Nothing stays the same. We can't last forever. And I happen to know that Fang is going to be the first to die. You're gonna have to learn to live without him. I'm sorry.\"\n\nMy eyes narrowed and I stood up. \"How do you know that?\" I asked tightly. \"What makes you say that?\" The rest of the flock was watching, wide-eyed. Only Fang didn't look upset.\n\n\"It's okay, Max,\" he said, patting my leg. \"Don't worry about it.\"\n\nAngel looked at him sadly and shook her head, and something in me broke loose. I grabbed her shirt and pulled her to her feet. Her mouth opened in surprise.\n\n\"What. Do. You. Mean,\" I snarled.\n\nFang jumped up and tried to pry my hands loose. Nudge tried to get between us. I ignored them, focusing on Angel's face.\n\n\"You tell me what you meant,\" I said, \"or I'm gonna...\" I had to think of something almost as bad as killing her but not quite. \"I'll\u2014I'll cut off all that floofy blond hair of yours while you sleep!\"\n\n\"Max!\" hissed Fang, pulling at me. \"Stop it!\" But I was still shaking Angel.\n\n\"Max, stop,\" pleaded Nudge, sounding close to tears.\n\n\"Is everything okay?\" Patrick's concerned voice started to filter into my brain as I realized what I was doing. I'd never almost hurt a member of the flock before. Abruptly, I let go of Angel's shirt. Her face was white.\n\n\"Max, gosh,\" said Nudge, putting her hand on Angel's shoulder.\n\nI was breathing hard, and Fang pushed me back gently, moving me away from Angel. How could she say something like _that_ and not explain it?\n\n\"Max, come on,\" said Fang.\n\nI opened my mouth, but then noticed that two people were approaching our fire. This would have to wait.\n\n#\n\n\"HELLO,\" PATRICK SAID as the people got nearer. As they got close, we could see that there was a tall man and a tall kid. They were only silhouettes until they were almost on top of the fire.\n\n\"Hello, good evening.\" The man had a foreign accent and was ridiculously dapper in a crisp, clean seersucker suit.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" asked Patrick.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" he said. \"I am Dr. Hans Gunther-Hagen. One of my companies is conducting research here\u2014I donated the supply of vaccines your group is using.\"\n\nPatrick stood and quickly wiped his hands on his shorts before holding one out to Dr. Gunther-Hagen. \"Oh, thank you so much!\" he said, beaming. \"I can't tell you what a difference it makes! We really appreciate your generosity.\"\n\nThe doctor smiled at him. \"It was my pleasure. It's a blessing to be able to share my prosperity with others.\"\n\nRoger leaned over to whisper in my ear. \"Huge billionaire. Owns a hundred companies, most in pharmaceuticals.\"\n\nAnother huge billionaire, eh? I wondered if he knew Nino Pierpont, the richest guy in the world, who sometimes funded our little adventures. Like, did billionaires hang out with each other? Talk about the countries they want to buy, that kind of thing?\n\n\"I heard that you have the bird children here,\" he said.\n\nMy eyebrows went up. Patrick looked nonplussed and deliberately didn't glance at us.\n\n\"Oh?\" he managed.\n\n\"Yes,\" the doctor said, sounding friendly and curious. \"I'm most interested to meet them. They've gotten such tremendous publicity. I was hoping to ask the leader of the bird children to come have breakfast with me tomorrow morning in my tent.\"\n\nSeconds ticked by. Patrick and Roger said nothing.\n\nI rose and stepped forward, saying, \"That would be me.\"\n\nAt the exact same time, Angel stood, saying, \"Sure.\"\n\nMy jaw clenched. On top of everything else, she was now starting one of her campaigns to lead the flock? _Your timing sucks,_ I thought at her, and she flicked her eyes at me.\n\n\"Ah, fine,\" said Dr. Gunther-Hagen, rubbing his hands together excitedly. \"Splendid! Both of you come, then. But first, I'd like to introduce my... prot\u00e9g\u00e9. This is Dylan.\" He gestured, and the tall kid stepped into the fire's circle of light.\n\nI blinked, wondering what teen heartthrob magazine Dr. H\u00e4agen-Dazs had swiped Dylan from. He was as tall as Fang and Iggy, meaning over six feet. His thick, dark-blond hair was shoved carelessly back from a tanned forehead. Expressive turquoise eyes looked at us with guarded curiosity. He was wearing worn jeans and scuffed, dusty boots. A beat-up suede jacket mostly covered his clean white T-shirt. He was ready for a photo shoot\u2014like, for the top twenty-five hottest guys under the age of twenty.\n\nOf course, Fang would also qualify.\n\n\"Hey,\" I said raspily and nodded, but I couldn't think of anything else to say. And for some reason, that actually bothered me.\n\n\"I was particularly hoping _you_ could meet Dylan,\" said the doctor. \"He's been putting up with my company, and I'm sure he would benefit from meeting young people like himself.\"\n\nI rolled my eyes mentally, thinking that of course we were in no way like Dylan.\n\n\"Show them, Dylan,\" said the doctor.\n\nDylan looked self-conscious but slowly took off his jacket to reveal broad shoulders and muscled arms. He was heavier than Fang, bulkier\u2014maybe he was older? Had more regular access to food?\n\nI was thinking, _Wha\u2014?_ when Dylan sort of shrugged his shoulders and _extended his wings_. All fifteen feet of them. \n\n#\n\nI AM NOTHING if not resilient, but usually I can handle only about one humongous life-shaking situation per hour. Now here it was, the second earth-shattering thing in five minutes. That, on top of the millet balls, made for a dangerously unsettled stomach.\n\n\"Where'd you come from, Dylan?\" Fang's steady and calm voice gave nothing away. He sat down and picked up a small bag of water to drink.\n\nDylan gave kind of a wry little smile. \"A test tube,\" he said. \"A lab.\"\n\nDr. Hunker-Gunther smiled and clapped his hands. \"Oh, you have so much to talk about! But it is late and we are all tired.\" He gave an old-fashioned bow. \"We will be looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.\"\n\nWe were silent for several moments after they left. My eyes followed their outlines until tents got in the way.\n\n\"Well!\" said Patrick finally. \"I certainly never expected that! Did you know there were more of you?\"\n\n\"Nope,\" I said.\n\nI glanced around at the dazed flock, wanting to get Angel alone so I could grill her for more details of her pronouncement about Fang. It would be best not to upset the others by bringing it up again publicly.\n\nIt's pretty inconvenient sometimes when Angel is able to pick up my thoughts. She practically glued herself to Gazzy, and twenty minutes later, everyone was already settling down for the night in our tent. Angel was (at least pretending to be) asleep next to her brother, looking deceptively sweet and innocent. Iggy, a famously restless sleeper, was in a corner by himself.\n\nFang, Nudge, and I were together, tucked like the others under a treated netting that was supposed to ward off malaria-bearing mosquitoes.\n\n\"Don't think about what Angel said,\" Fang whispered next to my ear. \"You have to remember\u2014she's still just a little kid.\"\n\n\"A weird little kid,\" I whispered back. We were holding hands; our feet were entwined.\n\n\"Besides,\" he began. \"If she's right... well, I'm glad. It _has_ to be me first. Not you.\"\n\n\"Fang, _don't_ \u2014\"\n\n\"Go to sleep,\" he broke in, then lightened up. \"Long day tomorrow. Starting with your fascinating breakfast.\" I could barely make out Fang's grin in the darkness\u2014without raptor vision, I wouldn't have been able to see a thing.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I said wearily. A few minutes later, I felt a subtle relaxing of Fang's muscles that meant he'd joined the sleeping flock. I was still wound up, though my body was crying out for sleep. I just kept running over everything in my mind.\n\nFang\u2014dead. It was unthinkable. A year ago it would have been the worst thing that could happen, and now\u2014it was a thousand times worse. Now I knew what it felt like to hold him, what it felt like to kiss him until we were both breathless. How could I possibly go on without him?\n\nThe really, truly horrible thing was, Angel had never been wrong. Never, ever.\n\n#\n\nI WAS STILL AWAKE hours later when a tiny noise made my gaze jump to the nylon wall of the tent. There was a shadow moving there\u2014a person, barely silhouetted against the canvas by the fire. Maybe as close as ten feet away.\n\nI let out a breath of relief. The idea of a mere human lurking around at night seemed like fun 'n' games compared to, say, a hungry lion. I'd not yet been clued in to the wildlife in these parts, and my imagination was fired up. I was definitely not a fan of injury by teeth. Give me a bullet any day.\n\nBut then the person stopped and seemed to turn toward our tent. It was a short figure, thick bodied and bulky\u2014pretty much the exact opposite of everyone I'd seen in this country so far. I scanned the silhouette. One of its arms was raised, as if it were holding something, but I couldn't make out the shape of a gun.\n\nEvery nerve came to life, and I tensed, ready to give the alarm and wake the flock.\n\nCarefully, I untangled myself from Fang and lifted Nudge's hand so I could slip out. My eyes stayed glued to the silhouette as I made my way to the tent's opening. In one swift motion, I yanked the zipper and burst out.\n\nThere was no one there.\n\nAfter a quick glance around, I jumped and shot out my wings, rising about fifteen feet into the air with a few powerful strokes.\n\n_There!_ Emerging from a ragged stand of trees was that figure again. Raptor vision allowed me to see more detail at night than most people could, but I still couldn't believe what my brain was telling me.\n\n_Chu?_\n\nHe was one of the most evil wack jobs I'd encountered lately. But that was back in Hawaii. He'd been dumping radioactive waste into the ocean. What was he doing _here?_\n\nI landed as silently as possible in a nearby tree. He was speaking in a hushed voice. Must have had a cell phone.\n\n\"Yes.... Collecting the new subjects... Approximately fifteen minutes.\" He disappeared into a small tent with a FIRST AID sign outside. It couldn't have been big enough to hold more than about ten people.\n\nSo imagine my surprise when, over the next fifteen minutes, I saw maybe a couple dozen figures\u2014who appeared to be mostly young-looking refugees from the camp\u2014entering that tent....\n\nAnd no one came out.\n\nMy curiosity got the better of me, so I left the tree and quietly crept behind the tent. No sounds inside. Not even a breath. WTH?\n\nSwiveling my head around to look for more figures, I tiptoed toward the front. Still silence. There was nothing to do but stride right in, striking my best martial-arts pose as I whipped through the tent flap.\n\nIt was empty inside.\n\nSo... either I was hallucinating or there was a passage to hell underneath this tent. I had to admit I wasn't quite ready to accept either option right now.\n\nFrowning, I returned to our own tent, where I picked my way through a cozy tangle of bird kids. I crawled back in between Fang and Nudge, and took Fang's hand again.\n\nHe blinked sleepily, awakening at the slight touch. \"Everything okay?\"\n\n\"Mmm,\" I grunted. \"Go back to sleep.\"\n\nI couldn't lie to Fang.\n\n#\n\nPICTURE A SHANTYTOWN made of ragged nylon tents, like, for acres. Then picture making a left and finding yourself in front of the big top of the Big Apple Circus. That's what Dr. G-H's crib was like. It was an ornate, beautiful tent, complete with screened windows, a covered porch, and a strip of green carpet leading across the sand to the front entrance.\n\nI glanced at Angel, and she gave me a weak smile. We were both still upset about what had happened yesterday, when I'd lost my cool. That morning Fang had told me not to pursue it, and part of me, I admit, just didn't want to know. I was hoping it would all just go away, so for now, I'd decided to pretend it hadn't happened.\n\nThe tent door was pulled aside by a... a guy in a white uniform who opens the tent door. What a job description.\n\nInside, netting-covered windows let in light, and electric fans kept the warm air circulating. The floor was covered by Oriental rugs, overlapping so there were no gaps. Our feet sank into soft plush, and I almost sighed.\n\nThe doctor came into the \"room\" from behind a screened-off portion of the space and welcomed us with open arms. \"Come, sit,\" he said, once again looking fashionable and elegant. \"You must be hungry. I can't tell you how delighted I am to finally make your acquaintance. I've been following your history avidly.\"\n\nAfter glancing around, memorizing exits, I sat down on a leather stool beside a low table. Angel sat across from me, not next to me. I tried (unsuccessfully) not to put too much meaning into that.\n\n\"Following our history? Do you know Jeb Batchelder?\" I asked.\n\nHe looked at me blankly. \"Ah, no\u2014no, I can't say I've had the pleasure. Is he a friend of yours?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nA servant came in with a silver tray piled high with food: pastries, a pitcher of fresh juice, sliced fruit, eggs, _bacon!_ I thought of the mush the rest of the flock was eating, not to mention the mush that the entire refugee camp was faced with day after day, and tried (unsuccessfully) to feel guilty. \"Please, help yourselves,\" said Dr. G-H. \"You probably require a great many calories, do you not?\"\n\n\"I know _I_ do.\"\n\nMy head swiveled as Dylan came into the room. His dark honey hair was wet, and he looked clean and fresh, which put him two large steps ahead of Angel and me. I almost expected a photographer to leap through the tent flaps, telling Dylan to work it.\n\n\"Hello, Max, Angel,\" Dylan said, sitting on another stool. \"Wow, last night seemed like a dream. I couldn't really believe that you existed. And now here you are. And I'm not alone.\" His face was open and sincere, his expression as clear as his tanned skin. I felt my cheeks flush, no doubt from the first-class cup of joe I'd just gulped.\n\n\"Have some strawberries,\" said the doctor, pushing a silver bowl toward me. He smiled. \"There's more where they came from, so don't be shy.\"\n\nNot really something he needed to worry about, with us. I slathered butter onto a scone, piled orange marmalade on top of that, and took a bite so I wouldn't have to say anything right away. But then I couldn't stand the awkward silence.\n\n\"What lab are you from?\" I asked Dylan abruptly, with my mouth half full. Miss Manners I am not.\n\nDylan's perfect brow wrinkled. \"Just some lab, up in Canada. I was\u2014I was um, cloned, from another Dylan. Who died in a car wreck or something.\" He took a bite of pain au chocolat.\n\nI blinked. Most of the clones I'd seen were robotic. Like bad special effects in a movie. Which Dylan most certainly was not. \"How old are you?\"\n\n\"Um, about eight months, I think,\" he said, looking to Dr. Gunther-Hagen for confirmation. The doctor nodded. \"There's been a lot to learn. Like, I suck at flying. I suck at a lot of stuff, actually.\" He chuckled weakly and looked down at his plate sort of embarrassed-like. I kind of felt sorry for him.\n\nAnd then felt angry and suspicious. We didn't know him from Adam. This could all be part of an elaborate trap.\n\n_This isn't a trap, Max._\n\nI almost dropped my scone as my Voice suddenly spoke up for the first time in ages. Some people have a conscience. I have a Voice. An annoying, buttinsky, intrusive Voice\u2014\n\n_Calm down, Max. Relax and enjoy this. This is a special occasion. You see, Dylan is for you. He was designed for you. He's your perfect other half._\n\n#\n\nI INHALED AND ACCIDENTALLY sucked scone crumbs down the wrong way, setting off an apoplectic coughing fit that had the doctor patting my back hard, looking concerned.\n\n_Made for me? My perfect other half? Are you freaking insane?_ my mind screamed, even as my eyes watered and I coughed and coughed, unable to bear the awful tickle at the back of my throat.\n\n\"Here, drink this,\" said Angel, handing me some juice.\n\n\"Can you breathe?\" the doctor asked. \"Do you need the Heimlich maneuver?\"\n\n\"Heimlich me and die,\" I managed to choke out, trying to take a sip.\n\nDylan had frozen, a cluster of red grapes in his hand. His eyes were wide and watchful, as if he actually gave a crap about what happened to me.\n\nI'd suspected the doctor had an agenda\u2014'cause nothing was ever given to us just because we were swell. Now I knew that it was sitting across from me, looking like the cover of _People_ magazine's Sexiest People issue.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Dylan asked.\n\nI nodded and took a deep breath. Time to make like a tree and leave. I got ready to stand up.\n\n_Max\u2014don't run away. Stick this out. Don't be a coward._\n\nI almost started choking again. Stupid Voice.\n\n\"Well, if you're only eight months old,\" said Angel, \"it'll take you a while to learn stuff.\" She ladled some eggs onto her plate and tucked in. I gave thanks that she was remembering to use utensils.\n\nAgain Dylan focused his eyes, the color of the Caribbean, on me. I felt like it was about 110 degrees in there, and took a swig of cold juice. Maybe I had time for another croissant.\n\n\"Maybe you could teach me... some stuff,\" said Dylan.\n\n\"Max is a good teacher,\" Angel said with conviction. It made me feel worse about going off on her yesterday. She didn't make up her pronouncements\u2014just reported 'em.\n\n\"That's an excellent idea!\" said Dr. G-H. \"Max would be the perfect person to teach you, Dylan.\"\n\n\"Oh, well. I don't know,\" I said. \"Like what?\" _Do not get yourself sucked into this, Max,_ I told myself.\n\n\"Could I see...\" Dylan hesitated, then his face hardened with determination. \"Could I see your wings? I've never seen anyone else's.\"\n\nI thought about saying, _You show me yours and I'll show you mine,_ but I'd already seen his. I pushed a couple strawberries into my mouth and stood up. After making sure I had enough space\u2014and I did, which shows you how big the Wonder Tent was\u2014I shook my shoulders a little and unfolded my wings.\n\nBoth Dylan and Dr. G-H stared.\n\n\"They're beautiful,\" said Dylan, sounding kind of hoarse. \"You really do have them... like me.\"\n\nI folded my wings and sat down, feeling weird but not knowing why. \"Actually, Dyl, _you_ have them like _me_. I've had mine for fourteen years. Or so.\"\n\nA smile played around Dylan's symmetrical features. \"Yes. I guess so. Either way, your wings are incredible. They're perfect.\"\n\nNow I was really uncomfortable, and slathered some butter onto my fourth croissant. Suddenly I just wanted to get out of there, to get back to the others. I'd been sneaking food into my pockets, and my jacket probably weighed several pounds by now. I took one last bite and stood up again.\n\n\"Well, this has been fabulous,\" I said, my mouth full. \"But we better get going and perform more humanitarian aid.\"\n\n\"Please, stay,\" begged Dylan.\n\n\"Sorry, no can do,\" I said briskly.\n\n\"Max, we have so much more to talk about,\" said Dr. Seersucker pleasantly.\n\n\"Duty calls,\" I said. \"Ange?\"\n\nIn a smooth movement, the doctor stepped between me and the tent's entrance. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he whipped out a syringe. \"Just a minute, Max. It's not that simple.\" \n\n#\n\nI SMILED MY EVIL itching-for-a-fight smile, wishing I hadn't stuffed my pockets with bacon. This could get messy.\n\n\"Max\u2014wait,\" Angel said. \"He doesn't mean us harm.\"\n\n\"And you know this beca\u2014,\" I began sarcastically, then realized that she probably did actually know that. Dylan had a familiar alertness, a tensing of muscles that made me wonder if he'd been trained for battle. I guessed I would find out.\n\n\"Angel is right,\" said Dr. G-H quickly. \"This is my clumsy way of demonstrating.\"\n\n\"Demonstrating what?\" I was barely able to keep a snarl out of my voice. \"How to get yourself beat up in one easy step?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Dr. G-H. \"Demonstrating the wonders of modern science. Watch.\"\n\nAnd with that he rolled up one sleeve and swiftly injected _himself_ with the hypo. It was something new and different, to watch a scientist experiment on himself. I liked it.\n\nWithin moments the doctor gasped, wide-eyed, sucking in breath. He groaned and staggered a bit, holding his throat, then sank down into a chair.\n\nAngel was eating a banana and watching him avidly. I sent her a question: _What's going on?_\n\nShe looked at me and shrugged. _No clue._\n\nI sat down and snagged another cup of coffee and a muffin, since it looked like this might take a while.\n\nFor several minutes the doctor hunched over, grimacing. Then he managed to speak in wheezy gasps. \"I've injected... a rare strain of virus... that is... going to cause a rather... shocking reaction.\"\n\n\"What you science types do for fun,\" I said with false cheer. Having grown up in a lab, I associated the words _rare virus_ with hazmat suits. I wanted out of there.\n\nHe frowned. \"Clearly not for fun. But for progress. Sometimes progress is... painful. Now, watch.\"\n\nSweat broke out on his brow, and his face turned bright red. And get ready for this most horrific next part, kids: All at once, his skin erupted in grotesque pustules.\n\nI jumped up. \"Outta here, dudes!\"\n\n\"No, wait, Max!\" he gasped hoarsely. \"The miracle is about to begin.\"\n\nThe only reasons I didn't do an up-and-away were (a) it's hard in a tent, and (b) when I did a double take, I saw that the doc's pustules were already shrinking.\n\nCould I have imagined it? I sat back down shakily.\n\n\"To explain it in very basic lay terms,\" he went on, more quickly now that he wasn't gasping for air, \"a number of my organs and systems\u2014including the skin, brain, blood cells, thyroid, the entire immune system\u2014are now working together to analyze the virus, produce the white blood cell and glandular response that will eradicate the virus, and circulate it through my body\u2014almost instantaneously.\"\n\n\"Okay. I can see how that might come in handy,\" I said, thinking about the sick refugees I'd seen in the camp. \"Especially if it puts doctors like you out of business. I don't trust doctors.\"\n\nThe doctor smiled. \"You're getting the picture, Max. Because in an apocalypse, there are no doctors. There are no hospitals and certainly no insurance companies. You are on your own. It is you against the forces of nature, which at this point in Earth's history surely see it as in their best interest to eradicate the human race. Do you understand what I mean, Max? Let me give you another example.\"\n\nHe pulled out a meat cleaver.\n\n#\n\nBEFORE I HAD A CHANCE to disappear\u2014fast\u2014Dr. Gunther-Hagen had hacked off the tip of his left pinkie finger.\n\nYou heard me right.\n\nAngel screamed. I screamed. The madman screamed too, in pain, then regained his composure.\n\n\"Don't worry, children,\" he grunted. \"My biological healing system... is now working together with an advanced stem cell response. I'm able to reposition my severed fingertip\"\u2014he moved it back into place and pressed it to his stub, with a pained expression\u2014\"or, even more miraculously, were you willing to stay with me for the next several days, you could actually watch a new one grow right back in its place.\"\n\n\"Whoa\" was all I could say. Dylan looked unmoved by the whole thing. Guess people sprouting new limbs was common where he came from.\n\nA moment later the doctor held up his left hand and wiggled all five fingers\u2014intact. This guy was seriously starting to worry me, and I began to back slowly toward the door, ready to leap out of the way if he lunged at me with a needle. Or a meat cleaver.\n\nAngel looked excited, and I frowned. Typical yin-yang response from us.\n\n\"Okay, I think I get it,\" I said. \"I also get that it all seems a little too good to be true.\"\n\n\"What makes you say that?\" the doctor asked, examining his healed finger with satisfaction.\n\n\"Well... that must be some pretty super-mega-powerful body chemistry happening there. If it can kill a virus in a single explosion... could it, say, accidentally kill _you?_ Or could you accidentally grow an ear instead of a fingertip? How about a claw?\"\n\nThe doctor waved his hand impatiently. \"Of course there are bugs that need to be worked out. Certainly, overactive autoimmune response can be a tricky business, among other challenges. We're working on that, but in the meantime we have the pharmacology to counteract the side effects. My point is that once those bugs are solved, a world of possibilities opens up.\"\n\n_And a world of unpredictable chaos,_ I thought.\n\n\"After the apocalypse, we could all be living like cavemen again,\" the doctor said. \"We could be hunted by huge mutant carnivores, things we can't even imagine now. We need every weapon, shield, and protection in our arsenal. And here's the important thing, Max. Remember this if you remember nothing else: _We must be our own weapons_.\"\n\nHis eyes were focused intently on me. I'll just ask now: What is it about my persona that draws every insane, power-hungry nutcase to me like a _magnet?_\n\n\"We will have to survive on our own strengths. You can fly. You and the flock have gifts. Dylan here is also gifted, and in some ways different from you. But this kind of healing ability will be the difference between life and death in the near future.\"\n\n\"Wow,\" I said. Traditionally, I would have come up with something snappy and/or scathing here, but I have to tell you, this guy unnerved me.\n\nBecause, in a crazy way, what he was saying made some degree of sense.\n\n\"It's... really impressive,\" I said. \"But I don't see what it has to do with me, with us.\"\n\nDr. G-H straightened. \"I asked you here to discuss a possible alliance between us\u2014a partnership, if you will: your flock and my companies, me, and Dylan. With your natural abilities and the powers of science I'm unleashing, we can, in essence, ensure the survival of humankind.\"\n\n\"We would be allies?\" Angel asked.\n\n\"No,\" I told her, giving her a warning look that she ignored. Again, I started to make my way toward the door.\n\n\"You six are the most successful recombinant-DNA life-forms ever created,\" Dr. G-H went on earnestly. \"Until now.\" He motioned proudly to Dylan, who had the decency to look embarrassed. \"My companies are producing some of the most cutting-edge, daring science in the world today. Together, we could actually achieve your mission\u2014to save the world.\"\n\nI stopped in my tracks and turned back to face him. Okay, he had insider info.\n\n\"Sorry. Thanks for asking. But the flock works alone.\" I was acutely aware of Dylan's steady gaze, his tightly coiled tension as he watched the doctor. \"Thanks for the great breakfast,\" I added. \"I'm really impressed with your science and all. But I don't think we're the right partners for you.\"\n\nThat was probably the most diplomatic, least obnoxious reply I'd ever given anyone in my whole life.\n\n\"This isn't good-bye, Max.\" The doctor's voice followed me as I exited the tent. \"And that isn't your final answer.\"\n\n#\n\nDID I EVER TELL you how much I hate needles? Bad childhood memories. It's a lab-escapee thing. The meat cleaver was a mere annoyance in comparison.\n\nMy mind was still reeling as I slogged through the sand back to our camp. I kept a death grip on Angel's hand as she trotted beside me to keep up. The African sun beat down on us, and for the first time, the heat felt crushing to me.\n\nI really wanted to help the CSM and the refugees here, but my Mother Teresa aspirations were crumbling fast. This place was suddenly way too dangerous for us. Angel's dire prediction, what the Voice had said about Dylan, Chu and the disappearing refugees in the middle of the night, and now Dr. Hans's obsessive fondness for wielding knives and needles full of pathogens had all combined to turn this trip into a nightmare.\n\nWe had to get out of there and far away from Dr. Cleaver. ASAP.\n\n\"What did you think about Dylan?\" Angel asked.\n\n\"Poor sap,\" I said briefly, and tried not to think about him too much in case she was in mind-reading mode.\n\n\"Don't you think we should stay and help him?\"\n\n\"Help him do what?\"\n\n\"Help him learn,\" she said. \"He's brand-new. He doesn't have anyone else. I don't think he can learn what he needs to know from Dr. Hans. At least we all have each other.\" She smiled up at me somewhat tentatively.\n\nStopping, I looked into her blue eyes. \"Do we, Angel?\" I asked softly, as her smile faltered. \"Do we all have each other? Have each other's backs?\"\n\nShe didn't say anything, and then we were in sight of our tent. Gazzy called over to us. I strode forward and motioned everyone inside. In the heat of the day, it was stifling, but I would make this fast.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said. \"First, here.\" I handed out squashed bacon, muffins, fruit, everything I'd been able to stuff into the cargo pockets of my pants and my jacket. In retrospect, the handful of scrambled eggs had not been a good idea, but still, my poor hungry flock fell on everything like hygiene-challenged hyenas. Gazzy actually moaned as he downed a piece of bacon in two bites.\n\n\"Listen up,\" I said urgently. \"It's time to round up your gear. I'm gonna check in with Patrick, and then we're getting the flock out of here.\" Ha-ha. \"If we head north-northeast, we'll hit Italy. From Italy to Ireland. Ireland to New York. Sound good?\"\n\nThey all looked at me.\n\n\"I'll explain on the road, but we have to get out of here, fast.\" I even looked over my shoulder, as if Dr. Hacker-Hagen was about to pop through our tent flap.\n\n\"Aren't we supposed to stay and help?\" Nudge asked, brushing off crumbs.\n\n\"We've helped. We've posed for pictures,\" I said, shoving my stuff into my backpack. \"Us staying a bit longer won't do that much more.\"\n\n\"Are we going on another CSM mission?\" Nudge asked.\n\n\"Nah. At least not for a while,\" I said. \"We're headed someplace new and different\u2014\"\n\nFang looked at me and smiled. It was time to spill our little secret.\n\n\"Home.\"\n\n# [BOOK   \nTWO](Fang_toc.html#part-2)\n\n[**HOME IS WHERE THE  \nHEART BREAKS**](Fang_toc.html#part-2)\n\n#\n\nLESS THAN A WEEK LATER, Iggy was working his magic in the kitchen, with real groceries that we'd bought from a real grocery store. He came out, a chef's hat on his head, big oven mitts on his hands. \"Come sit down,\" he ordered. \"Dinner's ready.\"\n\nGazzy raced to the table. \"Lasagna! Excellent!\"\n\nI stood at an open window, looking out over the blood-red canyon, turned to flame by a glorious sunset. We were home. Colorado, that is, where we had lived, post\u2013dog-crate but pre-world-saving-mission. We had a new house there, near where we had lived before. The CSM had built it as a big thank-you for our help in Antarctica and Hawaii.\n\nI had missed these mountains, these gorges. Jeb had brought us here, about five years ago, after he'd kidnapped us to protect us from the mad scientists at the School. Now I was hoping Dr. Gunther-Hagen never found us here. That would have been a little _too_ familiar.\n\nA small black head nudged my leg, and I looked down to see Total smiling up at me. I dropped down to my knees and hugged the furry, Scottie-like body close. \"You had a good visit with my mom?\"\n\n\"Super,\" he said. Yes, Total can talk\u2014another advantage to being genetically engineered, if you're a dog. \"I helped out in her office. And Akila loved it.\"\n\nMy mom is a veterinarian, when she's not trying to solve global problems through the CSM. And Akila is Total's... girlfriend. She's a (non-English-speaking) malamute that we met on our first mission. They're a match made in a carnival sideshow, but they seem happy. \"Yeah? What'd you do?\"\n\nTotal puffed himself up. \"Counseled patients,\" he said importantly. \"It helps that I speak their language.\"\n\n\"I bet. Let's go\u2014before Gazzy eats that whole lasagna. I'm starving.\" Total's small black nose twitched, and we both trotted to the kitchen, where yummy smells wafted toward us.\n\nFang sat down next to me at the table and quietly linked his ankle around mine. Total hopped up onto a chair between Fang and Nudge.\n\nI dug in to the lasagna, which smelled like heaven, if heaven were hot and cheesy and layered with noodles and red sauce. And maybe it is.\n\nI looked around at my family, the six of us, Total, and now Akila, all sharing a meal together. We were here, far from everyone else. Far from anyone who could hurt Fang. Far from Dylan and Dr. Gummy-H\u00e4agen-Dazs. I felt almost like weeping with joy.\n\nI knew it wouldn't last. It never does.\n\n#\n\nTHE NIGHT WIND CAME in my open window. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Somehow, being back in this just-like-the-old-days setting was giving me nasty flashbacks.\n\nI thought about how Jeb had taught us everything he'd known and then suddenly disappeared. We'd been sure he was dead. After a couple years living on our own, the first nightmare in recent history: Erasers\u2014a human-wolf hybrid\u2014had come. They'd attacked us, destroyed our house, and kidnapped Angel. Now that we were back in Colorado, a sense of unease rattled me. I felt as if someone were watching me. Someone with a night telescope?\n\nI shook my head. _Must tamp down the paranoia._\n\nAs if on cue, I heard a sound from outside. Like a slight scratching. In seconds, I had rolled out of bed, crouched by the window, and quickly peered over the sill.\n\nNothing. The sky was clear. No one was scaling the wall; no one was rappelling down from the roof.\n\nBut there was that sound again. It was closer. My breathing sped up, and my hands curled automatically into fists. Then I saw the doorknob of my room turn very, very slowly. Crap!\n\nMy muscles coiled, tightened.... A hand crept around the edge of the door, easing it open. I almost gasped. It was an Eraser's paw. I was sure of it. Huge, hairy, tipped with long ragged claws. I still had scars on one of my legs from claws like that. I slithered toward the door, kneeling behind my desk.\n\nA dark shaggy head poked around the edge of the door. I leaped up\u2014then froze.\n\n\"Fang?\" I whispered.\n\nMy eyes whipped down to his hand on the door. It was just a hand. No claws. I blinked several times.\n\n\"Sorry,\" Fang whispered. \"Didn't mean to startle you. Trying to be quiet.\"\n\nI sat down abruptly on my bed, my heart pounding.\n\n\"You okay?\" Fang soundlessly shut the door and came to sit next to me. \"You look like you saw a ghost.\"\n\nI shook my head, speechless for a second.\n\n\"How come you're awake?\" Fang whispered, taking my hand in his own non-paw.\n\nI shrugged. \"Couldn't sleep. I feel like something's sneaking up on us. Watching us.\"\n\n\"You think Dr. G-H knows where we are?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"He warned me\u2014he said _no_ wasn't my final answer. I keep feeling like he's coming after us, that he'll keep asking me to join forces with him until he forces me to say yes.\"\n\n\"Over my dead body,\" Fang said, and I flinched.\n\n\"Not funny to use that phrase anymore, Fang,\" I warned him, then continued. \"I can't stop thinking about Jeanne too. He's clearly been experimenting on her. Which means he's probably experimenting on everyone at that camp. And Chu is involved. I saw him gathering subjects in that first aid tent. It's so totally Nazi-scary. For one thing, can you imagine an accidental outbreak of one of his 'rare viruses'?\"\n\n\"He could definitely do some damage,\" Fang agreed.\n\n\"And that's just for starters. People there are desperate, Fang\u2014they'd agree to anything as long as there was a decent meal at the end of it. Lots of those kids are orphans. Who would miss them if something went wrong?\"\n\n\"You think we should go back?\" Fang asked.\n\n\"No!\" I answered, a little too quickly. \"I know; it's pathetic. One day I'm Mother Teresa, and the next I'm all about _me-me-me_ again. Us, I mean.\" Fang nodded. \"The problem is, I don't have the slightest idea how to help those people.\" I sighed. \"This guy is an evil genius. Most of the people we've dealt with are evil _non_ -geniuses. I'm not sure how to handle him. He's the kind of person who's so brilliant, he probably _could_ destroy the entire world.\"\n\n\"So do we tell the CSM? The president? The _New York Times_?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said slowly. \"I've been going back and forth on that all week. I can't think about it anymore right now,\" I said, suddenly feeling tired. \"Hey, why'd you come in here, anyway?\"\n\nFang's too-long black hair fell over one eye. \"Just checking on you. You've been getting wound tighter every day.\"\n\n\"I guess I have. I just... don't know what to do, and I feel like I don't know enough about anything to figure _out_ what to do.\"\n\n\"It'll come to you,\" Fang said confidently. \"For now, why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll stay till you're out, if that'll help.\"\n\n\"That would help a lot,\" I admitted.\n\nI collapsed sideways on my bed and pulled the blanket over me. Fang sat at my side, holding my hand and rubbing my back between my wings. \n\n#\n\nFANG WAS RIGHT. It came to me. The next day I presented my plan to the flock.\n\n\"You want us to _what?_ \" Gazzy stared at me with horror.\n\n\"I want us to learn more,\" I said. Plus, I needed a big project to focus on. \"I've been thinking about this since Africa. We know some stuff\u2014how to hack computers, break locks, et cetera. But I've realized there's a lot we don't know. And here we are, living peacefully in our new house, tons of time to spare, hours to fill up\u2014so we should be putting that time to good use!\"\n\n\"What do we need to learn?\" asked Iggy.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know.... Like, why was Chad in such a mess? Why were the locals suspicious of Americans?\" I paced up and down our living room. \"And where did the Romans go, and how did they get replaced by Italians? I mean, the _Greeks_ are still around!\" I went on enthusiastically. \"There's so much to learn. It's never bothered me till now\u2014we always knew enough to get along. But now I'm thinking, How can we fight evil scientists without understanding science? How can we save the world if we hardly know anything about it?\"\n\n\"We don't have to know about something to save it,\" Iggy argued. He had one foot on a window ledge, ready to jump out. \"I mean, we _know_ evil scientists really well, but we don't want to _save_ them.\"\n\n\"Okay, that example doesn't even make sense,\" I said. \"But, like, these CSM missions we've been on\u2014we've relied on other people to tell us what we need to know. Mostly, we've been able to trust them. But what if they weren't trustworthy? What if we knew enough to judge for ourselves? We could stay totally independent!\"\n\nFang stroked his chin the way he did when he was thinking. Nudge was staring at me, and now she threw a couch pillow at my head. Only my lightning reflexes kept me from getting a face full of corduroy-covered foam.\n\n\"We've had so many chances to go to school!\" she wailed. \"But _noooooo!_ You always _hated_ school! You didn't _want_ us to learn stupid boring school stuff!\"\n\n\"I still don't like _school,_ \" I said. \"But we can learn by ourselves. We can do field trips. Experiments. There are online courses. We have the computer.\" I pointed to our super-duper contraband computer, lifted from the government some while back.\n\n\"I say no.\" Iggy folded his arms and looked defiantly at a spot by my left ear.\n\n\"I say no too.\" Gazzy folded his arms, imitating Iggy.\n\nAngel looked thoughtful but didn't say anything.\n\n\"We need to do this, guys,\" I said. \"We'll get bored if we just sit around all the time.\"\n\n\"I'm happy to sit around all the time,\" said Gazzy. \"I don't mind being bored.\"\n\n\"Anyone who does not feel the need to deepen his or her font of knowledge is welcome to be on bathroom and kitchen duty for a month,\" I said. \"Are there any questions?\" Eyes met mine with various expressions of anger, resentment, uncertainty, yada yada yada.\n\nThere were no questions.\n\n#\n\n_DYLAN WAS STARING into my eyes. Hard. He was leaning toward me._\n\n_\"Dylan, no\u2014stop.\"_\n\n_His hands were on my shoulders, pulling me closer. \"Max, stay,\" he said. \"I know it's hard for you to understand. Or accept. But we were made to be together. You need me.\"_\n\n_I edged away but couldn't disconnect from his eyes. \"I already have everything\u2014and everyone\u2014I need,\" I told him. I tried to sound sure of myself. It was clear that Dylan wasn't fooled by anything._\n\n_\"No,\" Dylan murmured, almost sadly, as if he wanted to break the news to me gently. \"You do need me, Max. I can help you more than anyone.\"_\n\n_\"Yeah?\" I asked, my voice a squeak. It felt impossible not to drown in the deep blue of his eyes. His strong hands slipped from my shoulders and curled around my back. I'd never felt anyone close to me like this except Fang. It was uncomfortable\u2014but there were also shivers going down my spine._\n\n_\"You need me because I... I can see things no one else can,\" he confessed. \"I can see people from across the world, across an ocean. I can see what's going to happen. I can protect you.\"_\n\n_\"You don't know me, Dylan,\" I said, steeling my voice but still totally under the control of his gaze. \"I've never needed to be protected.\"_\n\n_It was as though he didn't even hear me. He stroked his hands along the tops of my wings, smoothing the feathers softly. \"I can see that you and I will be together,\" he said, no hint of a smile on his unearthly good-looking face. \"Forever.\"_\n\n#\n\n\"NO,\" I SAID, APPALLED. \"No\u2014that can't be true. I'm not ready!\"\n\n\"I don't care if you're ready or not.\" Gazzy's voice, irritated, crept into my consciousness. \"Don't forget this was your idea.\"\n\nMy eyes blinked open fast, and I almost leaped into a sitting position. I stared at Gazzy, confused, afraid to look around and see Dylan lounging somewhere, a knowing smile on his face,\n\nOh, jeez. I'd fallen asleep on the couch. Good lord, my subconscious was doing another number on me. I frowned. At least I hoped it was my subconscious.\n\n\"Coming,\" I groaned, getting up off the couch. We were on day three of our homeschooling program, and so far it felt like I was stuck in the La Brea Tar Pits of higher education. So today we were going to try to get out and \"spread our wings,\" so to speak. On a field trip.\n\nForty-five minutes later we were reducing altitude, getting ready to land in a park in the closest big city to our house. (I can't reveal more about the locale for privacy reasons, you understand.)\n\n\"Why can't we go to the NASCAR track?\" Gazzy whined. \"I think there's a lot more that we could learn there.\"\n\nFang nodded. \"Gotta agree with Gazzy on that one. Physics. Geometry. Marketing, Advertising. Sociology.\"\n\n\"You're just lucky I'm not sending you guys to the zoo. You'll take the art museum and love it.\"\n\n\"I just don't get what bird kids need to know about art,\" Iggy said grumpily. Okay, so Iggy had a good reason to be complaining, what with not being able to see art and all.\n\n\"Well, I don't either, to tell you the truth. That's the whole point. There's a reason that people flock to look at a bunch of useless things sitting in a building. We're going to find out what it is.\"\n\nWe landed in a grassy clearing away from the walking paths, then sauntered over to the nearby art institute. \"Aren't you afraid someone might find us here?\" Nudge asked, looking warily at the school buses pulling up to the parking lot.\n\n\"I think an art museum is the last place in the world you'd look to find a bird kid.\"\n\nThe reason? We'd never been to one. Didn't seem like the place to head for survival. Now that I was actually in one, I saw that I'd been way off base.\n\nClean bathrooms. Cafeteria. Dozens of deserted corners, galleries, hallways, and back stairs where you could hide for hours, maybe even days. Outdoor courtyards for flying exercise. Huge mega-galleries with two-story-high ceilings that would be great for indoor flying. In an emergency, weapons would be available in the hall of medieval armor. The educational center had computers and books, and the gift shop had cool stuff for the younger kids\u2014puzzles, games, arts and crafts...\n\nFang interrupted my reverie. \"So what's the plan?\"\n\n\"Stay in pairs,\" I directed. \"Nudge and Angel, Gazzy and Iggy\u2014\"\n\n\"And Fang and Max,\" Iggy finished in a mocking singsongy voice.\n\nI ignored him. \"Meet back here at the ticket desk in an hour and a half. And come with answers to these questions.\" I pulled out a piece of paper I'd jotted notes on earlier in the day. \"Okay. Each of you should tell us something you learned about history, about yourself, and about one or more of us.\"\n\nThe flock looked at me blankly.\n\n\"We only have an hour and a half to practically discover, like, the meaning of life?\" Fang asked.\n\n\"Why not? We've had to do harder stuff to survive,\" I pointed out. \"And besides\u2014you never know. Someday we might have only a few seconds to figure out the meaning of life.\" \n\n#\n\nFOR SOMEONE WHO WAS way more interested in NASCAR less than an hour ago, Fang sure seemed to be getting into the art museum. I mean _way_ into.\n\n\"Were you, like, Indiana Jones or something in a former life?\" I quipped as Fang dragged me through the fifth or sixth hall of ancient artifacts.\n\n\"Maybe,\" Fang said in a faraway voice as he gazed at a birdlike ritual mask made by the\u2014I squinted at the placard\u2014Senufo tribe. We'd been through the Egyptian, Greek/Etruscan, Roman, pre-Columbian, and Native American collections, and now we were into African art.\n\n\"Aren't you sick of broken pots and hatchets yet?\" I asked him.\n\n\"What's your hurry?\" Fang turned and looked me in the eye. \"Or d'you think that if you can't save the world with it, it's not worth your time?\"\n\n\"Look, I have to find answers to my own questions or I lose leader credibility. And I haven't found them here. I'm thinking maybe a da Vinci would be useful. He was pretty smart, from what I've heard.\"\n\n\"Don't think so much, Max. This is supposed to be about feeling stuff, not finding answers, right?\"\n\nDid I hear him correctly? Fang talking about _feeling_ stuff?\n\nMaybe there _was_ something special about this place.\n\nI knew Nudge and Angel had started off in the historic-garments gallery, and I figured they'd never leave a room full of eighteenth-century court dresses and Victorian ball gowns. So I was kind of surprised when we crossed paths near the Impressionist room.\n\n\"Predictable,\" Fang whispered. \"Pretty pastel-colored paintings of landscapes, flowers, and ballerinas.\"\n\nThose two were so completely zoned into the pictures that we tiptoed right by them. They didn't even notice. What was it that Angel was so hypnotized by? I casually glanced at the placard to get the artist's name. Mary Cassatt. I saw picture after picture by this painter of beautiful mothers with beautiful children. All soft, warm, comforting.\n\nAnd I saw a tiny, tiny tear roll down Angel's cheek.\n\n* * *\n\nOf all places to run into Gazzy and Iggy: the gallery where the canvases were big and the colors were wild, angry, free, and\u2014well, _explosive_. The security person informed me it was called the \"abstract expressionism\" space.\n\n\"What are you guys doing here?\" I asked. \"Thought you'd be in the armory.\"\n\n\"Well, it's the easiest place for me to describe what I'm seeing to Iggy,\" Gazzy explained.\n\n\"You've gotta be kidding,\" Fang said, pointing to a painting made up of random splatters and lines. \"Seems like the _hardest_ place to be describing stuff. 'Cause there are no... actual... pictures here.\"\n\n\"I can detect color fields, remember?\" Iggy reminded us. \"And then Gazzy just makes up the rest. What he thinks the picture represents.\"\n\n\"Yeah, like that one over there?\" The Gasman gestured to a composition that looped and splashed around two yellow circles. \"It says _Untitled #5,_ but I call it _Happy Breakfast:_ Take two gigundous sunny-side up eggs, stomp on the yolks, then dance around a little bit with an open bottle of ketchup in one hand and a can of motor oil in the other.\" Iggy nodded like it made complete sense.\n\nIt was sweet of Gazzy to interpret, but God, did I wish Iggy could see with his own two eyes.\n\n\"Okay, everyone, time to report,\" I announced.\n\nI still didn't have answers to my own questions, but one of the good things about being the leader is you can sometimes get away with not doing your own assignments. \"Who wants to go first?\"\n\nNudge, the eternal good sport, volunteered. \"In the garment gallery we learned about corsets. Ugh! Max, did you know that they could _squeeze_ people to death?\" Hmm, I should've restricted undergarments from the assignment. \"I also learned that Angel can't stand to look at any pictures with bad stuff in them, like devils or people or animals getting killed. Including dragons,\" she went on. \"And, um, about myself, I learned I like the photography the best. Imagination is great and all, but I like real people more.\"\n\n\"A-plus, Nudge. Extra credit for that surprising insight on Angel.\" Angel gave me a look like I was being mean. She was probably right. \"Gazzy?\"\n\n\"In the armory I learned the earliest gunpowder formula\u2014coal, salt, pepper, and sulfur\u2014and it was first written down in the year 1044.\" I was pretty sure Gazzy already knew every formula for every explosive in history, but oh well. \"And I decided that Iggy sees a lot less than he lets on. Also, I learned that I have a good imagination.\"\n\n\"Sure you do, Gazzy, but didn't we all know that?\" I pointed out.\n\n\"If you did, you never told me,\" he said poutily. _Note to self:_ Must do better at encouraging flock.\n\n\"Fang? What say you, wise man?\"\n\n\"Well, did you guys know the Rosetta Stone is, like, way more than a computer program? It's actually this kind of awesome hieroglyphics-decoder-type rock. And about the flock, I discovered that in some parts of the world, if us bird kids had appeared hundreds of years ago, they literally would have thought we were gods. That's pretty cool. And about me? I realized... I'd really like to travel the world. See different cultures, live in a tribe. I'm thinking Papua New Guinea or somewhere.\"\n\n\"Yeah?\" I raised an eyebrow. \"Well, have fun with that. I think the flock's seen enough of the globe lately.\"\n\nFang flashed me a look of irritation. \"Didn't think I was getting graded, Max. Remind me to keep my mouth shut next time. I'll risk the F.\"\n\nOkay, that was pretty much three strikes in a row for me. \"I'm sorry, guys\u2014I guess I'm just jealous that you all discovered this great stuff and I... didn't.\"\n\n\"Whatever, Teach,\" Iggy said, a little disgusted. \"In case you're even remotely interested in hearing what I have to say, I learned something about myself.\"\n\n\"Of course I want to know, Iggy,\" I said hastily. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"I learned I want to see.\"\n\nWe were all quiet.\n\nIggy had never said that. We totally took for granted that his superior extrasensory skills seemed to give him pretty much the same abilities and quality of life the rest of us had\u2014if not better.\n\n\"I'm sorry, Iggy\" was my best response. \"I wish I could help you.\"\n\n\"Max? You didn't ask me,\" Angel spoke up. Another wounded flock member.\n\n\"I was just getting to you, Ange. Did you discover anything?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I found out that the African art collection here is on loan from the H. Gunther-Hagen Foundation. I didn't know the doctor liked art, did you?\"\n\nMy day was now officially ruined.\n\n#\n\nAFTER OUR ART INSTITUTE DIVERSION, I decided to go back to normal lesson plans to avoid the element of surprise\u2014i.e., not knowing answers to my own questions. Control and I, after all, were _likethis_.\n\nBut even normal lessons turned out to be a problem. Case in point: everything mathlike besides plain math (+, \u2212, \u00d7, %) was a huge recipe for trouble. Nudge was reduced to tears by the natural\u2013unnatural number conundrum, and tensions were high again.\n\n\"Look, I know this has been really hard,\" I said, \"but we don't just quit because something is hard.\"\n\nNudge frowned. \"Yes, we do. We do all the time!\"\n\nFang brushed his hand across his mouth and looked down at the table, obviously trying to hide a smile.\n\n\"Well, okay, maybe sometimes we do,\" I admitted. \"But I'm not backing down from this. We're going to be educated if it kills us!\" I looked at them seriously. \"Because if we're not educated, I'm _dang_ sure _that_ will kill us.\"\n\n\"Max?\" Angel turned her innocent blue eyes on me. \"Here's something to learn, but it's funner to read.\" She pulled out a book and handed it to me. Alarms went off in my head when I saw the cover: _The Way to Survive,_ by Dr. Hans Gunther-Hagen.\n\n\"Where'd you get this?\" I took the book from her and started flipping through it.\n\n\"Dr. Hans gave it to me in Africa. It's really interesting,\" said Angel.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said, narrowing my eyes at her. When was she hanging out with Dr. G-H in Africa? \"Class dismissed.\"\n\nFor the rest of the afternoon, I curled up in our deck hammock and blocked out the sound of the TV coming from inside while I read Dr. Scary's book.\n\nFang came and sat in the other end of the hammock, so our feet were touching. I thought about the last time we'd managed to really be alone\u2014not counting the night I'd thought he was an Eraser, 'cause that had sucked\u2014and my cheeks flushed. I wished we were twenty years old. I wished we were safe and didn't ever have to worry about people like Dr. G. I wished we could do whatever we wanted.\n\n\"Whatcha doing?\"\n\n\"This is what Angel is reading. I'm wondering if the not-so-good doctor got to her in Africa.\"\n\n\"Compelling read?\"\n\n\"Just kind of horrible,\" I said quietly. \"At first it seems like he's talking about how to save the earth, and how mankind has messed everything up, and how we should fix it. But if you keep going, he says that the only way for humankind to survive is if it radically changes\u2014becomes more than human. He calls it skipping an evolutionary grade. Basically he wants everyone to 'evolve,' and he's trying to come up with the technology to jump-start it. If he had his way, no one would be one hundred percent human anymore. Everyone would be hybrids, or have their genes tinkered with, to make them superhuman.\"\n\n\"We like being more than human,\" Fang pointed out.\n\n\"But we're only more than human because we're rare,\" I said. \"What are we if everyone is like us, or evolved in different ways? What if we become the ones who aren't special enough?\"\n\n\"Hm,\" Fang murmured. \"So where does the doctor go with his plan?\"\n\nI frowned. \"He asks for help. From scientists, from volunteers. From people who want to be on the cutting edge of a new world. But meanwhile he's out there injecting people with God knows what\u2014or maybe worse. And not every one of his experiments can be a success. Some of them have to be mistakes. Failures. What happens to those people?\"\n\n\"He's not going to want anyone to see his failures,\" Fang said. \"In fact, he's going to make sure no one does. He'll have to get rid of them.\"\n\nI nodded, feeling sick inside.\n\n\"Are you thinking we need to stop him?\" Fang asked.\n\n\"I'm thinking we need to start with some research.\"\n\n#\n\nDR. SCARY HAD about 300,000 Google hits. We started wading. The high point was stumbling on a photo of him from grad school, which actually made me laugh out loud. Back in the old days, the doc had a lot of hair. And it was perfectly feathered. Wow. You think you know someone...\n\nBut it all went downhill from there.\n\nOn around page thirty of our search results, we clicked on a link that looked like gobbledygook\u2014but when the screen cleared and refreshed, it almost made my heart stop. At the top of the page appeared the logotype for the Institute of Higher Living. The rest of the screen was blank except for three boxes for a user name and two passwords.\n\nI hadn't heard anything about the Institute in a long time. We'd busted into one of their facilities and released some mutants once. That's where we picked up Total.\n\nFang and I exchanged glances. We knew we had to find a way to break in.\n\n\"Nudge?\" I called, and she came over. Nudge had a preternatural gift for computer hacking and was the only one of us who truly knew her way around this high-octane government computer we'd nabbed a while back.\n\nI couldn't even process the flurry of mouse clicks, screen flashes, dialog boxes going open and shut, and letter-number series that Nudge keyed in to the machine as she tried to hack in. It took her about ten minutes to get access\u2014a long time by her measure\u2014and it took Fang and me twenty more minutes of exploring to find a list of lab reports that sounded like maybe, just maybe, they had the fingerprints of Dr. Hackjob-Wackjob:\n\n_Morbid Effects of Autoantibodies on Rodents_\n\n_Autoimmune Toxicity in Systemic Viral Experimentation on Chimpanzees_\n\n_Abnormal Cell Differentiation from Induced Pluripotent Stem Cell Experimentation_\n\n_Cancerous Effects of Viral Reprogramming of iPSCs in Human Adults_\n\n_Defective Apoptotic Processes and Cell Proliferation in iPSC Experimentation on Human Children_\n\nMost of those words I didn't know, aside from the red flags of _cancerous_ and _abnormal_ \u2014but _human children_ was all I needed to feel like throwing up. I almost didn't want to go further. But I drew a breath and forced myself to start reading the first document.\n\nFang and I stared at the screen.\n\n\"Is it just me or does this feel like it's written in Latin?\" Fang said five minutes later. We were both so freaked by the scientific mumbo jumbo that we hadn't even clicked to the next page view.\n\n\"Latin would be easier to understand than this,\" I grumbled. \"But hold on\u2014see those references in parentheses to 'figure one' and 'figure two' and 'figure three'? It means there are pictures somewhere associated with this paper.\"\n\n\"Well, you know what they say...,\" Fang began.\n\n\"A picture is worth a thousand words,\" I finished. \"Let me just skim through the rest of this stuff real quick and see if anything catches my eye.\"\n\nI have to give myself credit for that one. Most grownups wouldn't have even bothered to try to wade through that crap, but I managed to pick up on two key points.\n\nFirst: Autoantibodies set your immune system against you and attack the body's own organs like they're the bad guys. Second: Abnormal cell growth, too much cell growth, badly \"programmed\" cell growth = party invitation to cancer. Great.\n\nI started clicking through the pages of the PDF faster now, to get to the pictures. And then, when I did, I wondered why I'd been so eager to see them.\n\nOur grisly tour of Dr. Hans Gunther-Hagen's Gallery of Mistakes took at least two hours.\n\nWe saw people with purple eyelids and grotesquely bulging eyes the size of baseballs, people with glands in their necks so swollen it looked as if there were an alien creature growing inside them. Others had muscles so inflamed their bodies ballooned and twisted into shapes I didn't think possible. The skin disorders were maybe the worst for me to look at. Rashing and cracking and bleeding and virtual disintegration so wildly extreme that I had to stand up and walk away from the computer at one point.\n\nThis was only what was happening on the surface of these victims. I'd read enough to understand the bottom line: toxic disaster. Chronic pain, even agony, not to mention the psychological effects of dealing with it.\n\n\"There's more. The regeneration stuff,\" Fang said, and I nodded. It was a horror show, but I had to go deeper, and deeper still. Page after page, image after image, document after document.\n\nI can't even write down the details of what I saw on the screen that day. It would bring back too many nightmarish visions of festering wounds, partial and deformed limbs, and horrific tumors of all shapes and sizes.\n\n\"I just knew it,\" I said in a low voice. \"I knew he would stop at nothing to accelerate his research on humans.\"\n\nWhat we would call mistakes, Dr. G called progress.\n\n#\n\nIT WAS HOURS later when Iggy jolted us out of Dr. Hans's Fun House.\n\n\"What've you guys been doing all this time? Online poker? You sure are... _into_ it.\"\n\n\"Playing a video game,\" Fang answered, hiding the document on the computer desktop. Even though the other kids had seen a lot of freaky stuff in their lives, it was still our instinct to protect them from anything that might overload their quota of nightmares.\n\n\"You're lying through your fangs,\" Iggy accused.\n\nFang tried to play innocent\u2014but \"innocent Fang\" is an oxymoron, so it didn't work.\n\n\"That reminds me,\" Angel called over to us from the couch. \"I have a video for you, Max!\"\n\nShe skipped to her bedroom and brought out a back-pack that she turned upside down. Out dropped a clogged travel-size hairbrush, an iPod Shuffle, and a CD in a linty transparent sleeve.\n\n\"I found it in my bag a few days after we got back from Africa. It has your name on it, but I don't know how it got there\u2014I swear.\"\n\nI didn't have a good feeling about this, but curiosity got the better of me and I popped the CD into the computer right away. I'd drill Angel later about why she \"forgot\" to give it to me until now.\n\nWhen I clicked \"play,\" my not-good feeling got much, much less good.\n\nMy favorite finger-chopping foe smiled at me from the screen.\n\n\"Hello, Max,\" Dr. Gunther-Hagen began. I braced myself, as Fang stood behind me with his comforting hands on my shoulders.\n\n_You ran out a bit quickly today, and I was so excited to be demonstrating my work that I never had the opportunity to give you some of the more important reasons why I know you would find it very rewarding to work with me._\n\n_As I'm certain was apparent from what you saw and learned of my limb-regeneration project, I am the world's leading expert on stem cell research, bar none. Growing an organ in a dish and implanting it is rather an elementary process for me and my team compared to limb regeneration. In fact, I've been successfully implanting organs grown from subjects' own tissue for a number of years. Were you to join forces with me, doors would open up for you and your flock._\n\nHe paused dramatically.\n\n\"For example, wouldn't one of your boys love\"\u2014he reached to his side and slid a cloudy jar into view of the camera\u2014\"a brand-new pair of these?\"\n\nHe picked up the container so the camera could focus on it.\n\nFloating inside was a human eyeball.\n\n#\n\nTHE NEXT MORNING I SET the kids to working on independent studies, and I did more computer research about genetic-recombination theory and stem cell science. I knew they had incredible potential to help humankind. But what became clear to me was that the doctor was experimenting way too fast on humans. All my research had done was upset me.\n\nSo now I was emerging from a long shower that was supposed to be therapeutic. I started dragging a comb through my brown hair, getting caught in snarls. Really and truly stuck. I got lost in the ritual of trying to untangle the tangles\u2014contemplating Dr. Hans and Iggy and the possibility of new, healthy eyes for one of the people I loved most in the world\u2014as the moisture on the mirror slowly began to dissipate.\n\nThat's when I spotted an Eraser in the mirror, looking out at me through the fog.\n\nReactions were faster than thought, and I whirled, one fist raised to strike... an empty wall. A fast look showed that unless the Eraser was paper thin and stuck to my back, there was no one in here but me.\n\nI sat on the edge of the tub, heart pounding.\n\nThis had happened once before, ages ago. I'd looked in the mirror and seen an Eraser version of Max looking back at me. But Erasers didn't even exist anymore\u2014they'd all been \"retired.\" I peeped up over the edge of the mirror. The steam had cleared, and I saw my human face, my brown eyes.\n\nWhat was happening to me?\n\n#\n\nSWEARING UNDER MY BREATH, I searched the bathroom, opening cupboards, feeling under the sink. I examined every inch of every wall and ran my fingers around the window frame. If there was a camera hidden in there, I didn't find it.\n\nA tap on the door made me jump like a deer.\n\n\"Yeah?\"\n\n\"It's me.\"\n\nI unlocked the door and let Fang in. Grinning, he shut the door behind him. Then he saw my face. \"What's wrong?\" He glanced around. \"You have that ghost look again.\"\n\nI let out a breath. \"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Then why is a comb stuck in your hair?\"\n\nCrap. I slowly pulled it out, trying to get through the worst of the tangles.\n\nFrom down the hall, I heard raised voices and a crash, and I tensed.\n\n\"The kids are taking a little break,\" Fang said.\n\n\"But everything's okay out there?\" I tried to sound casual.\n\nHe shrugged. \"I think they're getting cabin fever.\" He stepped forward and put his hands around my waist. \"But enough about _them,_ \" he said, and his voice sent chills\u2014good ones\u2014down my spine.\n\nI wanted to forget about everything and escape into Fang's kiss. _Don't think, just feel_.\n\n\"Where's Max?\" I heard Gazzy say out in the hall, and Iggy responded.\n\n\"Wherever Fang is, of course.\" They laughed.\n\nI pulled away from Fang. Even this was being ruined.\n\n\"They're okay,\" said Fang, bending his head again.\n\nA second later I nearly jumped out of my skin, though. \"Oh, Fang, you're so haaandsooome,\" I heard. It sounded like me\u2014standing right next to me.\n\nThat was Gazzy, doing one of his absolutely perfect impersonations. He also had a gift for throwing his voice.\n\n\"Max! Let me take you away from all this! My darling!\" If I hadn't been holding Fang\u2014and also hadn't known that he would never say something that corny\u2014I would have sworn it was him. Cackling laughter.\n\nFang and I leaned our foreheads against each other.\n\n\"Whoa\u2014watch it!\" There was a loud crash, and I practically pushed Fang into the wall. Yanking the door open, I strode down the hall.\n\n\"What's going on out here?\" I demanded, hands on hips.\n\n\"Nothing,\" Gazzy said, smirking. \"What's going on _in there?_ \" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and my face burned. Then I saw it: a pile of broken dishes and leftover food all over the floor.\n\n\"Who did this?\"\n\n\"It was me,\" Gazzy said in Nudge's voice.\n\n\"Hey!\" she said. \"They were wrestling.\"\n\n\"You're supposed to be _studying,_ \" I snapped.\n\n\"Oh, while you get to make kissy-face with Fang in the bathroom?\" Iggy sneered. \"I don't think so.\"\n\nI was so mortified I was speechless for a second. Then I stamped my foot and said, \"Get back to your books!\" Which was, of course, a huge mistake. \n\n#\n\nTHEY JUST STARED at me for a moment, then Iggy's face contorted into anger. He yanked off his iPod earphones and threw the whole thing across the room. \"I can't take it anymore!\"\n\n\"Hey!\" I said sharply. \"Those are expensive!\"\n\n\"I can't help it!\" he shouted. \"I've been listening to how the Roman Empire fell, and all I can say is, it didn't fall nearly fast enough!\"\n\n\"You're, like, totally sucking the fun out of the first kind-of vacation we've had in ages and ages!\" Gazzy whined, his arms crossed.\n\nEven Nudge, my peacemaker, chimed in. \"I listened to an hour of French history this morning, and I thought my head was going to explode,\" she said. \"It's just, army this, invader that, conquering whatever. We have to learn, and I _love_ learning things, but there has to be a better way. _Like at a school!_ \"\n\nI was shocked\u2014Nudge had always been my most loyal supporter.\n\nWell, I wasn't going to stand for this. I was the flock leader! I was going to restructure our lesson plans, I was going to start issuing demerits or other teachery things, I was going to...\n\nI was going to stop being such a hard nose.\n\nI had an idea, and I like to think it actually came from my own brain and not from the Voice or from Angel. And it's so sad that I even need to clarify that.\n\n\"You know,\" I said slowly, \"I'm going to be fifteen tomorrow.\"\n\nBlank stares. I guess I hadn't made the smoothest segue in the world.\n\n\"What?\" Iggy asked.\n\n\"I'm going to turn fifteen tomorrow,\" I said, warming to the idea. \"It's high time. I can't remember when I turned fourteen. We've got to start writing this stuff down. Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to be fifteen. So we need a party.\"\n\n\"If you get to be fifteen, then I get to be fifteen!\" Iggy sounded indignant.\n\nI looked at Fang. \"Wanna be fifteen?\"\n\nHis smile melted me. \"Yeah.\"\n\n\"I want to be twelve!\" Nudge cried.\n\n\"I'm nine! I'm nine!\" said Gazzy, jumping up and down.\n\n\"I'm already seven, but I didn't have a party,\" said Angel.\n\n\"Then it's decided,\" I said in my leaderly way. \"We're all turning a year older tomorrow, and we're going to have a big party.\"\n\nMy flock cheered and started dancing around the room. I sighed happily.\n\nSometimes being a good leader is knowing when to... back off.\n\n#\n\n\"ME AND MY BIG MOUTH,\" I muttered, looking around my room. \"Sure, let's have a party; let's all get a year older! Excellent idea, Max. But what are you gonna do for presents?\"\n\nThe six of us had never had much, and we'd been on the run, on the road, for so long that we'd been forcibly pared down to having, like, nothing. But I wanted to do this right\u2014'cause what's a birthday party without presents?\n\nI had about twenty hours. I was going to have to improvise. Opening my bedroom window, I climbed onto the sill and looked out over the canyon. I was stopped by a sudden thought.\n\nI knew what I really wanted to get Iggy for his birthday.\n\nAnd I knew where to get it.\n\nBut... I just couldn't pay that price. I couldn't.\n\nI leaned forward and let myself drop into the air, enjoying the thrill of free-falling before snapping my wings out and rising.\n\n_Let's see the doctor touch the sky!_\n\n\"Do you think she'd like a bomb of her own?\" Gazzy asked Iggy.\n\nIggy thought. \"I kind of don't think so. She usually just relies on us to do all that.\"\n\n\"Well, what can I give her?\" Gazzy ran his hand through his hair in frustration. \"Bombs are the only thing I know how to make!\"\n\n\"Well, here's an idea,\" said Iggy, and leaned over to whisper into Gazzy's ear.\n\nA smile slowly widened on Gazzy's face. He rubbed his hands together. \"Brillllliant.\"\n\nNudge sang softly to herself as she worked. It had been totally worth it, lugging everything back from Europe and New York. Look at how handy these things were now! Her backpack had been stuffed, and she'd hidden 80 percent of everything she'd bought, sure that Max would make her dump it as being not worth lugging around, a liability in case of a fight, etc., etc., etc. Now it was all paying off.\n\nTwo presents down, three to go. She smiled as she reached for the hot-glue gun.\n\n* * *\n\nAngel straightened, listening. Overhead she heard the cries of a hawk, and she shaded her eyes to watch it wheel through the sky. She loved flying with hawks. They'd all learned a lot from them. You'd think that flying would be as natural as walking, and it was, in a way, but it was also a skill that could be improved.\n\nOther than the hawks, she was alone in the canyon. She had most of what she needed, but a couple more things would be perfect. Her sharp eyes darted here and there, searching in the shadows, checking out every shape, every outline.\n\nOh, there! Perfect! It was amazing that vultures hadn't picked the bones clean.\n\nIt was just what she needed for the presents she was making.\n\nFang saw the shine of familiar brown hair way down the street and stepped back quickly into the shadow of a storefront. What was she doing here, more than a hundred miles from home? He smiled: no doubt the same thing he was doing.\n\nSo far he was in good shape: He'd gotten a really scary thriller novel on CD for Iggy. It was totally inappropriate for kids, and he knew Ig would love it. For Nudge he'd bought a dozen different fashion magazines, all about hair and clothes and makeup. He could already imagine her squealing with joy, then disappearing for several days to curl up somewhere and pore over every page.\n\nFor Gazzy? A history of explosives and how they'd been used in warfare for thousands of years. It was like giving candy to a diabetic, but it was perfect.\n\nAngel had been a bit more difficult. Dolls or games or anything for a little kid just seemed too... young. She'd changed so much in the past year. She didn't even sleep with Celeste anymore, the ballerina bear she'd scammed for, so long ago. And yet, she _was_ still a little kid.\n\nHe'd finally settled on a camera. And he hoped she would use it for good instead of evil. The first time she rigged it up in the boys' bathroom, he'd take a baseball bat to it.\n\nAnd for Max\u2014Fang smiled even as his heart began to pound a little harder. He hoped she would like what he got her. He hoped she wouldn't say it wasn't practical or whatever. But with Max, you never knew.\n\nIt was one of the things he loved best about her.\n\n#\n\n\"IG, YOU HAVE outdone yourself,\" I said, taking another bite of chocolate cake.\n\nIggy grinned and cut himself a second slice, which meant there was only about half an acre of cake left, slathered with a couple bathtubs' worth of icing.\n\n\"You have to get the right proportion of cake to ice cream,\" Gazzy said. \"Each bite needs cake, frosting, and ice cream, all at once. It's the combination that really makes it.\" He managed to get his carefully loaded spoonful into his mouth before it dropped onto his shirt. Like the last one had.\n\n\"And thank you to Fang for getting the ice cream,\" I said, waving in his direction. \"And the balloons!\"\n\nEveryone chimed, \"Thank you!\" while Fang bowed.\n\nMy happy, chocolate-smeared bird kids were relaxed, laughing, having the best time we'd had in\u2014ever. It was the perfect way to celebrate our new house, our new lives.\n\n\"Is it present time?\" Nudge asked, bouncing in her seat. \"I can't wait anymore!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, and everyone cheered. So let me see: have party, massive amounts of cake and sugar, presents, etc., and I'm super popular. Insist on schooling, homework, education, and everyone hates me. Okay, got it. \"Who wants to go first?\"\n\n\"Me, me!\" Angel jumped up and rummaged in a paper grocery bag, pulling out small packages wrapped in the Sunday comics\u2014one for each of us.\n\nI quickly ripped open the paper on mine, and something small fell into my lap. I picked up a necklace strung on a black silk cord.\n\n\"It's a good-luck charm,\" said Angel. \"I made it myself. I found all the stuff outside.\"\n\nMy necklace was weird and beautiful, not unlike Angel herself. \"Is this a... snake jaw?\" I asked. Angel nodded. The small, sharp fangs of a snake's lower jaw spiked delicately among eagle feathers, bits of worn glass, and some ancient aluminum pop-tops from soda cans.\n\n\"See?\" said Angel. \"It's like you: kind of dangerous but really pretty and strong and unusual. See?\"\n\nThe bits of glass caught the light and glittered like gems. I nodded, really touched. \"Thank you,\" I said, and gave her a big hug, like old times.\n\nEach of us had a similar but unique necklace, and each necklace really reflected who we were. Fang's was all black obsidian, the top half of the snake jaw, and some eagle feathers. She'd really put a lot of thought and work into them.\n\n\"Now mine!\" said Nudge, pulling out her wrapped gifts.\n\nI'd never had so many presents all at once, and even though I was a big fifteen-year-old now, I couldn't help feeling excited as I ripped off the wrapping paper.\n\nNudge had hot-glued all sorts of pretty shells and beads around a picture frame. It was gorgeous, too heavy to lug around, and totally not sturdy enough to survive even a light battle.\n\n\"Nudge, it's beautiful! I love it!\" I told her. She threw her arms around me, and I realized that she had grown several inches without my noticing.\n\n\"Oh, my, gosh.\" Angel's quiet voice got my attention. I looked over to see her holding a small digital camera, her eyes wide.\n\n\"Who gave you _that?_ \" I exclaimed.\n\nAngel's face shone. \"Fang. Oh, I love it so much! I've wanted a camera for so long. The first thing I want to do is take a picture of all of us.\"\n\n\"I can put it in my frame,\" I said, holding it up. Nudge looked pleased.\n\n\"Here,\" said Iggy. \"I made fudge for everyone. Didn't have time to wrap it.\" He held out a large plate covered with neat squares of marbled chocolate\u2013peanut butter fudge. I figured we had about forty minutes before we were all in sugar-induced comas.\n\n\"Max!\" Gazzy cried. \"Way cool!\" He held up his certificate for one tattoo at the tattoo parlor a couple towns over. (No, I'm not going to mention which one.)\n\n\"I got one too!\" Nudge squealed, waving it around. \"I'm going to get a unicorn! Or a heart! Or a rainbow!\"\n\n\"I'm going to get a stick of dynamite on my arm,\" Gazzy said.\n\nOkay, it wasn't the most imaginative gift, but I'd been pretty sure everyone in the flock would like a tattoo. It looked like I was right.\n\nFang came and stood next to me. \"This is for you.\"\n\nHe held out a small box tied with satin ribbon. My heart started thumping hard, as if I'd been in a fight. With shaking fingers, I pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. \n\n#\n\nI QUIT BREATHING for a moment when I saw what was inside the box. It was a delicate, old-fashioned birthstone ring, with this month's birthstone.\n\nEvery other person in the world would have looked at it and thought, _Max would hate this_. It was girly. It was beautiful. It wasn't made of titanium and black leather with spikes on it. But it seemed exactly right, in a weird, heart-fluttery kind of way. And I really loved it.\n\nQuickly I slipped it onto the ring finger of my right hand. It fit like it was made for me. I couldn't stop looking at it.\n\nI realized that Fang was waiting for a reaction. \"Thanks,\" I managed, my voice husky. \"It's perfect.\"\n\n\"You're perfect,\" Fang whispered, leaning close. \"As is.\"\n\nIt took several seconds for me to realize I was beaming at him like an idiot. I shook my head, trying to escape the pull of his gaze.\n\n\"Okay, now! Everyone up to the roof!\" Gazzy said, clapping his hands. \"I can't give you your presents inside! Something might catch on fire.\"\n\nI had a flash of concern that was quickly wiped out as we all flew up to our rooftop. The sun had just set, and there was a lingering pink glow outlining the mountains in the distance.\n\nWe sat down in a line on the roof, our legs dangling over the edge. Even in the dim light, I kept turning my hand this way and that, looking at my ring, feeling like I was glowing inside.\n\nNudge, sitting next to me, gave me another hug. \"A tattoo!\" she said happily. \"They're so in right now! I can't decide.\"\n\n\"You'll find the perfect thing,\" I told her, happy that she liked my gift.\n\n\"Now, everyone, stay sitting down,\" Gazzy said, fiddling with something in a big cardboard box. Fang moved behind me and gently pulled my shoulders back so I was leaning against his chest. Of course I started practically hyperventilating. After the flock's teasing, I was super self-conscious, but clearly Fang had no intention of pretending that we weren't\u2014 _together_.\n\n\"Max first,\" said Gazzy. \"Since it was her idea to have a birthday party.\"\n\nWe all cheered as Gazzy flicked his lighter. Something caught fire in the darkness, and after a few seconds of hissing and crackling, went _whoosh_ out into the night. Three seconds later it exploded, making a gorgeous blue fireball of sparks, and we all went ooh and ahh. As the sparks fizzled and began to fall, they looked roughly like the letter _M._\n\n\"Oh, my God!\" I cheered. \"Gazzy, that's beautiful! How did you get it to do that?\"\n\nGazzy smiled modestly. \"I can't tell you that. Next, Fang!\"\n\nFang's fireball was a brilliant orange, lighting up the sky.\n\nIn fact, it was so bright that it illuminated the old, unused logging road way below us in the gorge. And it showed a black Jeep four-wheeling it up the side of our mountain.\n\nI got to my feet just as Fang's orange letter _F_ appeared. \"Flock!\" I announced. \"We have company.\" \n\n#\n\nWE CROUCHED DOWN, staying in the shadows on the roof. The moon was bright overhead, and our raptor vision easily picked out the dark Jeep as it came toward us.\n\n\"Any chance it's lost? On its way somewhere else?\" Fang asked softly.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I muttered. \"Sure. It's probably the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, and they're looking for the North Pole.\" I shook my head, already pumped into battle mode.\n\nIt was starting. I could feel something change. I'd been on edge, paranoid for days. There was too much d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu: the house, the location... I'd seen an Eraser paw and an Eraser face. Even the black Jeep reminded me of the first time the Erasers attacked our old house. We'd been on the run ever since.\n\nIt was almost like the nightmare of the past year was about to start all over again.\n\n\"Okay, guys,\" I said tightly, \"let's fan out. Hide high in trees, watch and see what happens. Check the sky for choppers; make sure the Jeep's sunroof doesn't open. When I give the signal, we attack. Aim for the Jeep's windows. Break 'em.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Gazzy, his face determined.\n\nAlmost silently, we ran hunched over to the other side of the roof, farthest from the road. I couldn't believe this was happening. We'd barely been at the house a week....\n\nI coiled my muscles, just about to jump\u2014but then Angel cocked her head. \"Wait\u2014hold on, Max. I think... it's Jeb.\"\n\n\"Jeb?\" Nudge said in disbelief.\n\nAngel straightened and nodded her head. \"Yeah, it's Jeb. We don't have to attack him, do we?\"\n\nI groaned to myself. As much as Jeb now claimed he was trying to help us, help me, I could never trust him again. It was like he woke up and said, \"Oh, today's Tuesday, an evil day.\" Or \"Friday again\u2014guess I'll be a white hat.\" His shifting loyalties made my head spin.\n\n\"Is he alone?\" I asked.\n\nAngel looked thoughtful for a moment. \"No.\"\n\n\"Great.\" I sighed. \"No, I guess we don't have to attack him. But keep an eye on whoever's with him. It's not my mom, is it?\" I asked, suddenly hopeful.\n\nAngel shook her head. \"Sorry.\"\n\nThe Jeep pulled up at the base of our house's supports, and I jumped down to the ground to meet it. (You could get into our house only by flying or climbing a long ladder that we let down. Or not. That little design feature had been my idea.)\n\nThe driver's door opened, and Jeb got out. At one time he'd been my savior, my teacher, my confidant. Now he was mostly just someone to be wary of\u2014and, apparently, my biological father. But his contributing a cell to a test tube didn't make me all misty eyed and eager to forgive. He would never feel like a father to me\u2014not anymore.\n\n\"Jeb,\" I said evenly. \"I guess Mom told you where we were, how to find us?\" Inexplicably, my mother still trusted Jeb. And I trusted my mom. Which was the only reason Gazzy wasn't under the Jeep right now, rigging a detonator.\n\n\"Yes,\" Jeb said. \"She's getting a team together for another CSM mission\u2014I'll have to tell you all about it later.\"\n\nThe other car door opened, and I braced myself. But instead of, say, Mr. Chu, or a killer robot, or a cyborg assassin, it was something worse: Dylan.\n\nMy \"perfect other half.\"\n\n#\n\nJUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME and the lamppost, Dylan could easily be _any_ girl's perfect other half. If I didn't already _have_ a perfect other half, I might have been thrilled with the gift of my very own gorgeous mutant.\n\nThe moonlight glinted off Dylan's dark blond hair, which dipped in a wave over one eye. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and I could see the tops of his wings, a warm chocolate brown, darker than mine or Nudge's.\n\nFor no reason I could think of, my heart seemed to thud to a halt. Somehow I hadn't expected to see Dylan again, no matter what the Voice said. I'd left him behind in Africa. Now here he was, _at my home_. Looking at me intently.\n\nAlmost as if I were prey.\n\nOne by one, the rest of the flock fluttered down from the roof to stand with me.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" I asked Jeb curtly. \"And how did you get hold of _him?_ Are you best buds with Dr. Gunta-Hubunka?\"\n\n\"I wanted to come see you,\" Jeb said. \"Wanted to make sure the house was okay, that you were settling in, that it seemed safe.\" He beckoned to Dylan to come closer. \"Dr. Gunther-Hagen works in the same field of science as I do. We've crossed paths.\"\n\nI thought about how the good doctor had said he didn't know Jeb. Did anyone ever just tell the truth anymore?\n\n\"Hi, Jeb,\" said Angel. \"Hi, Dylan.\"\n\nEveryone except me said hi. Not warmly or welcomingly\u2014we're too naturally wary for that\u2014but somewhat civilly. Angel actually smiled.\n\nHaving Jeb here was bad enough\u2014a violation of our privacy. And he'd had the gall to bring Mutant-Freak 2.0. _Don't be scared of possibilities, Max,_ the Voice said now, just to piss me off. _Don't close any... escape routes._\n\nHuh? Escape routes? How could Dylan be an _escape route?_\n\n\"Dylan, you remember the flock,\" Jeb said, pointing at each of us in turn. \"Angel, the Gasman, Nudge, Iggy, Fang, and Max.\"\n\nDylan nodded. \"I'm really glad to see you again,\" he said, not smiling. \"You're the only ones who are... like me.\" His eyes focused on me again. I looked away.\n\n\"Maybe we can come in,\" said Jeb. \"Get caught up.\"\n\nThere was no way I was letting them in our house. It wasn't that I automatically assumed Dylan was evil. The jury was still out on that. But I just didn't get the point of his being here.\n\nAnd he bothered me. He bothered me a lot.\n\n\"Sorry, no can do,\" I said, just as Fang said, \"Sure, what the hey. Come on up.\"\n\nI looked at Fang. His dark eyes questioned me.\n\n\"Yeah, okay, whatever,\" I agreed ungraciously. I felt as taut as a bowstring and wondered how soon I could get rid of them both.\n\n\"Dylan, you can just fly up, like the rest of us,\" said Fang. \"Jeb, we'll put down the ladder for you.\"\n\nDylan glanced up at the house's doorway, frowning. Angel and Nudge jumped up and were through the door with a couple of wing strokes. Dylan looked at me again, then at Jeb. \"Yeah, okay,\" he said finally.\n\nHe set his jaw, rolled his shoulders a couple times, then gave a jump into the air and tried to flap hard. But he hadn't given himself enough room, and he just thunked back to the earth again, his wings whapping painfully against the ground. Typical newbie.\n\nI heard barely suppressed snickering from Gazzy and Iggy as they flew up onto the porch.\n\nDylan's chiseled face flushed as he let out a controlled breath and shook his head. \"Not as easy as it looks,\" he said wryly. \"I've been trying\u2014\"\n\n\"Max taught the younger kids to fly,\" Jeb said. \"Max, why don't you take a minute, give Dylan some pointers?\"\n\nMy jaw all but dropped open. \"Oh, he'll get it soon enough,\" I said, glaring meaningfully at Jeb.\n\n\"Yeah, it's okay,\" said Dylan, acting casual. \"It'll just take practice. Max doesn't need to waste her time on this.\" I wondered if he didn't want a girl teaching him.\n\nIncidentally, other people not wanting me to do something has often been Step One in making sure I do something. Plus, for a minute I actually felt a little sorry for him. It's one thing to be a three-year-old with baby wings and learning how to fly. But this guy was... almost... a _man_. A little pathetic.\n\n\"Well, whatever. I can take a minute,\" I heard myself say.\n\n\"Yeah?\" Dylan raised an eyebrow and looked at me. He seemed to be trying not to look too eager.\n\n\"Yeah, sure, why not?\" I said, making a mental note to get a good look at his wings. For all I knew, they were remote-controlled and duct-taped to his back.\n\n\"Have at 'im,\" Fang said easily, and he was on the front porch with an almost silent flutter of his wide deep-black wings. God, Fang's wings were gorgeous. They looked like they belonged on the Angel of Death.\n\n\"Good\u2014thanks, Max,\" said Jeb, climbing the ladder Fang had just lowered, and I indulged in a moment's fantasy about someone slamming the trapdoor on his head.\n\nThen it was just me and Dylan alone out here in the canyon, in the moonlight, and I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said, but my voice came out weird. I gave a little cough. \"Let's do this thing.\"\n\n#\n\nFOR A COUPLE OF SECONDS Dylan and I stood there awkwardly. The night seemed darker and quieter than it had a moment ago. I could smell Dylan's clean scent, like soap and mountain air.\n\n\"I thought flying would come naturally to me,\" he said. He carefully opened his wings and frowned, as if testing their strength.\n\n\"Well, it's like walking, or riding a bike,\" I explained. \"It's sort of natural, but you also have to practice.\"\n\nI remembered Ari, Jeb's son. He'd been a little seven-year-old. Then someone had spliced his DNA with Eraser genes and grafted wings onto him, retrofitting them. The result had been a huge disaster, a Frankenstein.\n\nIt looked like they had finally gotten everything right with Dylan. No one could accuse him of being a Frankenstein. More like Frankenhunk.\n\nI realized what I was thinking and immediately shooed it out of my head. \"So, I, uh...,\" I started babbling. \"I guess you flew here... from Africa?\" I asked. \"Like, in a plane?\"\n\n\"Yeah. What about you guys?\"\n\n\"We _flew_ flew here. Took about five days. We were pretty whipped afterward. That Atlantic Ocean is a beast.\"\n\n\"That's so amazing.\" He gazed at me in open admiration. \"I can't believe how strong you are.\"\n\nThe dream I'd had about Dylan popped into my head in full Technicolor. \"Was it hard for you to get used to being big?\" I asked, wanting to change the subject. Chitchat is obviously not my best skill. \"I mean, I guess you grew pretty quickly.\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I've always been this size. I don't remember anything else. They... made me this way.\" He hesitated for a moment. \"I don't remember being a little kid. I've only been alive for eight months, but it's been long enough to realize that I'm a... freak.\" He gave a sad little chuckle.\n\n\"Well, yeah,\" I said, not pulling any punches. \"So are we. But you've got to remember that _you_ didn't make yourself this way. We didn't ask for this to be done to us. Other people did. They knew better, knew they were treating us like lab rats, and they did it anyway. They're the monsters, not us.\"\n\n\"Are you angry about it still?\" He looked curious. It was an odd feeling to have anyone\u2014especially a guy\u2014ask me about my emotions.\n\n\"Well, I don't know. Mostly I just suck up what life throws my way, stomp on it, and then keep going. I don't dwell much on what I am or how I got this way. It just is. I just am. I'm Max, and whatever form I take, it's good enough for me.\"\n\nHe smiled. Were those whitening-strip-bright teeth I saw flash between his lips? \"It's good enough for me too.\"\n\n\"I didn't ask your opinion on it,\" I snapped. Ouch. Sometimes I even surprise myself. \"Sorry,\" I muttered.\n\n\"Don't be sorry. You're right,\" Dylan said smoothly. \"You didn't ask me. And it doesn't really matter what I think, anyway. I'm definitely a beginner-level freak.\"\n\n\"Well, we've had years\u2014our whole lives\u2014to get used to it and figure things out. You've just been thrown into the middle of it. It's actually kind of amazing that you're not totally freaking out.\"\n\n_You can help each other, Max,_ said the unwelcome Voice. _You're perfect complements to each other._\n\n\"Shut up!\" I hissed under my breath, and Dylan looked startled.\n\n\"I didn't say anything.\"\n\nGritting my teeth, I nodded. \"No, I know. It's just\u2014\" I decided to take a risk and stared him down. \"I hear voices, okay? If you're gonna be here, get used to it. Or else keep your distance.\"\n\nIf I'd hoped to scare Dylan away from me, he didn't seem disturbed much. \"Sure, Max. Whatever.\"\n\n\"Okay, so, flying,\" I started, taking a deep breath and focusing on the thing I loved most in the world. \"Flying is... great. It feels great when you're doing it. It's fun. Pure freedom. There's nothing better.\"\n\nDylan smiled, a slow, easy smile that seemed to light up his whole face.\n\n\"So the first thing we're going to do,\" I told him, \"is push you off the roof.\"\n\n#\n\n\"HOW DID IT GO?\" Jeb asked, when we got inside half an hour later.\n\n\"Great!\" Dylan reported enthusiastically. \"I did it! Max is a great teacher.\" Before I had time to react, he put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed.\n\n\"He's a natural,\" I said, looking at Jeb and wiggling free of Dylan's arm. \"A quick study. Won't need much more help from me.\" I crossed the room and cut a piece of cake, feeling myself flush.\n\n\"The flock has been filling me in,\" Jeb said. \"And I see you all turned a year older today.\"\n\n\"Yep.\" I took a big bite of cake and perched on the sofa arm to eat it. Clearly Jeb had taken in the remains of the birthday party\u2014the cake, the balloons, the decorations. Years ago, he'd organized the parties and bought the presents and got the ice cream. Well, he'd given up his right to do that. We didn't need him anymore\u2014not for anything. I hoped it broke his heart. \"So, Jeb, why are you _here?_ \"\n\n\"I miss you guys,\" Jeb lied. I knew him too well. \"I wanted to get you caught up on CSM stuff. And I wanted Dylan to see you again, and vice versa. Being with the flock is exactly what Dylan needs. Already, in half an hour, you've taught him more about who he is, what he is, than he's learned in eight months.\"\n\n\"So how did you get a hold of him?\" I asked. \"I thought he belonged to Dr. Hunca-Munca. You just asked the doc to borrow him for a road trip?\"\n\n\"I'm standing right here,\" Dylan said, sounding irritated. \"But that's okay. Talk about me like I'm not.\" He crossed his arms over his chest as Jeb looked at him in surprise.\n\n\"That's the tricky part, Jeb,\" I said snidely. \"You guys are always stunned when your little creations, your science projects, turn out to have minds of their own. To want to do stuff for themselves instead of falling into line with whatever you have planned for them.\" I pointed to Dylan. \"He's an actual person. He's _alive_. He's not just a bunch of genes that happen to function! When are you gonna learn? When are you going to quit playing God?\"\n\n\"I didn't create Dylan!\" Jeb protested.\n\n\"But you brought him here so our skills could rub off on him, right? What about our skills of _disobedience? Independence?_ Our inability to live in _cages?_ \" My voice had been rising, and now I realized that everyone else had gone silent. \"What if all _that_ rubs off on him?\"\n\nJeb rose to his feet. \"I got you out of those cages!\" he snapped.\n\n\"You're also the one who put us in those cages in the first place!\" I was fuming. \"You always seem to forget that part!\"\n\n\"And you always forget that I saved your lives!\" Jeb yelled. I'd never seen him so angry\u2014none of us had. \"Not just once, but over and over! If it weren't for me, you'd be dead by now! If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be alive in the first place!\"\n\nThe others were staring in shock. Looked like I'd blown our little party to all get-out.\n\n\"Which one of us regrets that more, I wonder?\" I said, and then I ran to the front door and jumped.\n\n#\n\nI SNAPPED OUT my wings before I hit the ground, and soared up into the rapidly cooling night air. My head was spinning, and it wasn't only because of the four pieces of cake I'd had. Though right now I was regretting them.\n\nI needed answers. I needed someone to say, \"This is how it is, without a doubt.\" Only problem was, who would I trust to tell me that?\n\n_You can trust me, Max_.\n\nI groaned and rolled my eyes. Perfect. The Voice chiming in now was the perfect thing to push me right over the edge.\n\n_Max, if you get pushed over the edge... you'll just fly, right?_\n\nI hated it when the Voice said things like that, turned my own words around on me.\n\n_Yeah, sure._ If one can snarl a thought, and I believe one can, I snarled that one. _But listen, Voice, now that I have your attention\u2014got a question for you: Why is Jeb really here? Why did he bring Dylan?_\n\nThe Voice was silent. My mind filled the silence with:\n\n_Could Jeb possibly be here to carry out Angel's prediction? To kill Fang?_\n\nHe'd brought us into this world. I knew he was capable of taking us out of it.\n\nAnd\u2014had he brought Dylan to replace Fang?\n\nIf Dylan was here so Fang could be eliminated, then World War III was about to break out.\n\nI clutched the snake necklace Angel had made for me. Fang wore the matching one around his neck. _He_ was my perfect other half.\n\n_I know you love Fang,_ the Voice said now, not answering my questions. _Fang's an amazing guy. But you two have too much history together_. _Dylan has... potential. Great potential._\n\n_No way!_ I almost shouted out loud. _I swear I'm gonna kick their butts out of here!_\n\n_Jeb has his own reasons for being here,_ said the Voice. _But I want you to think about Dylan, the possibilities there. He could help you._\n\n_Yeah? Like how?_ I yelled inside my head.\n\n_He has incredible Sight. He doesn't realize it yet. But he can see things happening far away, can see people across oceans\u2014maybe even across time._\n\nI was so shocked I stopped flapping; only the wind yanking my wing muscles up tight made me snap out of it. That was exactly what my dream had been about\u2014Dylan saying that to me.\n\n_Max\u2014if you and Fang are together, there's only one flock. But if you and Dylan are together, and Fang is leading a different flock... you're all twice as likely to survive in the event of an apocalypse._\n\nMy fevered brain tried to process this. _And who would Fang be with? What other flock? Are there more like Dylan?_\n\nAgain the Voice didn't answer me directly. Big surprise. _You and Fang are both too independent. You both tend to solve problems with force, violence. Dylan has different instincts. Which broadens your possibility for survival._\n\nThe Voice was hitting me below the belt, in that it was using reason and patience on me. Totally unfair tactics. I lashed back. _This is too weird and stupid, even for you,_ I thought scathingly.\n\n_Max\u2014confront your fears,_ said the Voice. Then it went silent. \n\n#\n\nI WAS STILL about a half mile from home when I smelled smoke. I sped up, and my heart seized as I saw the too-familiar bright flickering of flames coming from inside the house. I swooped inside and skidded to a halt in the foyer.\n\nOur couch was in flames.\n\nJeb hurried in from the kitchen, Angel right behind him. He had a big mixing bowl of water, and Angel had a juice pitcher. They threw the water onto the couch, where it barely made a dent in the blaze.\n\n\"What's going on here?\" I shouted as loud as I could to be heard over the din of bird kids yelping at one another. I lunged into the kitchen and grabbed a red cylinder out of the corner. \"Any of you ever hear of a _fire extinguisher?_ \" I screeched as I put out the blaze.\n\nEveryone turned and started yelling at _me,_ God only knows why. I covered my ears. \"Where's Fang?\"\n\nNudge put her hands on her hips, tears in her eyes. \"Isn't he with you?\" she asked. \"He's always with you.\"\n\nJust then, to complete my perfect evening, the automatic sprinkler system finally detected the blaze and went off, spraying us all, soaking everything with cold water. I stood there, my hair getting plastered down. The couch sputtered and fizzled and filled the air with the scent of Eau de Wet 'n' Charred Upholstery.\n\nI gave Gazzy my best \"You're in so much trouble\" glare and went out onto the back deck to look for Fang.\n\nOn the deck, I jumped to the railing and balanced there, planning my search pattern. It wasn't long before I could make out Dylan's voice nearby\u2014he was under the house, close to the edge of the cliff.\n\nI jumped over the railing and landed on the ground almost silently. I saw Dylan first, and then, with a flood of relief, Fang. They were standing tensely by a concrete piling. I could tell this wasn't, like, guys' night out.\n\n\"This is bigger than you and what you want.\" Dylan sounded ice cold. It was actually the first time I'd heard his voice like that, and it was unnerving somehow. \"I'm telling you, the danger I saw today was real.\"\n\nFang's voice was just as cold as Dylan's. \"Why should I believe you? We don't know anything about you.\"\n\n\"I get that, Fang. What matters is that _I_ know a lot about _her,_ \" Dylan said. \"Probably even more than you do.\"\n\nFang's face showed dark fury. I might have witnessed the first bird kid boy fight in history if I hadn't bolted forward, my feet crunching on the gravel. \"Fang!\"\n\nThey swiveled and saw me. Dylan looked taken aback, and Fang's expression was angry and shut.\n\n\"The house was on _fire,_ \" I greeted them tersely. \"In case you're _interested_.\"\n\nThey both glanced up overhead as if to make sure the house was still standing. Fang sniffed, smelling the smoke, and I saw comprehension cross his face.\n\n\"It's out, right?\" he said.\n\nI just looked at him.\n\n\"Is everyone okay?\" Dylan asked stiffly.\n\n\"I'm sure you had some super important and _crucial_ reason for being out here,\" I said, my words like icy spikes, \"when the living room was going up in _flames_ over your _heads_.\"\n\n\"Everything seems under control, Max.\" Fang shoved his hands into his pockets as he redirected his eyes toward me.\n\n\"We were talking about you,\" Dylan\u2014who hadn't yet learned that honesty isn't _always_ the best policy\u2014blurted out.\n\nFang's gaze sent daggers at him.\n\nI was now ready to crack these two numbskulls' heads together. \"Dylan, Flock Rule Number One: The safety of the kids is always most important. Period.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" Dylan insisted. \"But Max, I have to tell you that\u2014\"\n\n\"And Flock Rule Number Two is, Don't argue with Max or you'll live to regret it.\" I spun and stomped out to the clearing, turning back for one last jab at Dylan. \"And by the way, you clearly _don't_ know me better than Fang does. Do you see Fang arguing with me? No, you do not.\"\n\nFang rolled his eyes. I jumped up and landed back on the deck.\n\nAdvanced life-forms, my sweet patootie. Jerks. Both of them.\n\n#\n\nIT TOOK THE FLOCK about two seconds to correctly read the insane glint of rage in my eye, and they all scuttled out for cleaning supplies while I sloshed around the living room, cataloging damage.\n\n\"Max.\"\n\nI swung my head to see Jeb standing against a wall. Soot was smeared on his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. \"Good job taking off like that,\" Jeb said tersely. \"You can't just leave them on their own. And you can't just run away from problems every time you get upset.\"\n\n\"Go jump!\" I yelled at him. \"How dare you judge me! _You're_ the one who left us _all_ on our own, when we were much younger than _this!_ You _butthead!_ \"\n\n\"Let bygones be bygones, Max. I know we've had our differences, but we should put them behind us\u2014for the good of the flock.\" He gestured to the disaster before us. \"This clearly isn't working. You need help. I think I should come back and live here. I should take up where I left off.\"\n\n\"Forget it!\" I told him in my best voice of authority. \"There is no freaking way you will ever live in this house like one of us. I wouldn't trust you if you were the last life raft leaving the _Titanic_!\"\n\n\"You haven't done much better,\" Jeb said. \"Look at this place! Not to mention how the other kids are feeling so alienated by you and Fang now that you seem to have become your own cozy flock of two.\"\n\nMy face went red. No snappy comeback for that one.\n\n\"We never intended for that to happen,\" Jeb said\u2014like \"they\" had made a whole flowchart of our lives before we were even born. That was the last straw.\n\n\"Guess what? You don't get to _intend_ squat to happen in my life, ever again!\" I shouted. \"You don't get to pick out what freaking _socks_ I wear, much less anything else!\"\n\nJeb glared at me. \"You're not making good decisions, Max,\" he said with quiet intensity. \"You're being run by your heart, not your head. That isn't how I brought you up.\"\n\nI thought my chest was going to explode. \"You brought me up in a _dog crate,_ \" I said, trying not to shriek. \"Those days are over. _Forever_.\" \n\n#\n\nI HAD NIGHTMARES THAT NIGHT. I dreamed that I slapped Angel, hard, and her head split open\u2014then her face peeled aside to reveal Mr. Chu, my old nemesis. I dreamed that Fang and I were dressed up and walking down an aisle in a church, but when I turned to look at him, he had the head of an Eraser. I dreamed that Ivory boy Dylan had disgusting boils on his face. Eew. I guess my subconscious was trying to make an oh, so subtle point: People aren't always what they seem.\n\nIt was late morning when I finally woke, feeling almost as if I'd been drugged. The amount of sun coming in the window told me it was almost lunchtime. I padded down the hall, the smell of smoke and charred couch becoming stronger. When I reached the living room, I stopped in surprise.\n\nIt was almost empty. All the ruined furniture was gone. The water had been mopped up. Nudge was on a step stool, spraying the sooty ceiling with cleaner. Without a word, I went into the kitchen for some chow.\n\nGazzy and Iggy followed me in, carrying dirty dishes and a pile of dirty clothes. Iggy dropped the clothes by the washing machine. When did these guys get so industrious?\n\n\"What's all that?\" I asked.\n\n\"I told them to clean up their pigsty,\" Angel said. \"Gaz, put those dishes in the sink. Iggy, start a load of laundry. Some of your clothes have mold on them.\"\n\nWas I still having a nightmare? Since when did Angel give orders?\n\nI opened the fridge, but it was empty. I looked around and saw a couple empty cereal boxes, an empty bread wrapper.\n\n\"Are we all out of food?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Angel, tapping a piece of paper with a pencil. \"I've been making a list. Jeb said he'd stop at a store on the way back from the dump.\"\n\n\"Bless his heart,\" I said sourly. \"But I've always provided the food for this flock. You're all acting like I'm not even here or something.\" I felt the first prickles of tears starting in the backs of my eyes.\n\nGo figure: I didn't cry when I had my _ribs_ broken, but the flock taking care of themselves made me weepy. Angel stared at me.\n\n\"Give me the list,\" I said, trying not to rip it out of her hands. \"I'll deal with it. It'll be faster, anyway.\" Angel pushed the paper over to me. I poured a cup of coffee and sauntered out to the deck.\n\nMy chest constricted when I saw Jeb down below. He had a pickup truck with an open-bed trailer hitched to it. Fang was on the trailer, tying down all the ruined, sodden furniture.\n\nDylan was on the ground, shaking water off books and tossing them into the truck bed. He and Fang were careful not to look at each other.\n\n\"Get that lamp, Dylan,\" Jeb commanded, checking the hitch of the trailer. Dylan nodded and placed a lamp on top of an armchair. \"The dump said they'd take anything.\"\n\n\"Oh, really?\" I called down to him. \"Do they take reject mutants and scientists too?\" It was mean, but Jeb and Dylan didn't seem to be _getting_ it.\n\n_They were not our family_.\n\nI grabbed my jacket inside and jumped out the front door, over the canyon.\n\n#\n\nGAZZY WAS HOLDING HIS BREATH, cheeks puffed out, belly pushed out, arms at his sides.\n\n\"Puffer fish!\" Angel guessed. Gazzy shook his head.\n\n\"Blister!\" said Iggy, poking Gazzy's cheeks. Gazzy shook his head.\n\n\"Knish?\" suggested Total. Gazzy shook his head.\n\n\"We give up!\" Nudge said. \"What are you?\"\n\nGazzy let his breath out in a rush. \"A grain of rice, cooking!\" he said. \" _Obviously!_ I started off all skinny, then got bigger and bigger!\"\n\nDylan laughed. \"Good one,\" he said. \"Never would have guessed\u2014\"\n\nA high-pitched whistling noise interrupted him and filled the room. Just as everyone was registering the smoking ball on the floor, it exploded.\n\nThe explosion was small\u2014a flash of blinding light, followed by a sickening stream of pink smoke. Everyone began coughing, practically retching from the noxious smell.\n\nThen, in the next second, there was a huge crunching noise\u2014from above.\n\n\"Scatter!\" said Gazzy.\n\nThey all fanned out around the edges of the room. Angel motioned to Dylan to keep his back against the wall.\n\n\"Oh, God, what is that stuff?\" Nudge moaned, coughing into her sleeve.\n\nThe shock of the gas cloud rendered them useless as the roof above them was ripped apart with loud splintering noises. Then an inhumanly large, hairy hand grabbed some Sheetrock from the ceiling and tore it away with long, ragged yellow claws.\n\n\"Oh, my God,\" Nudge breathed. \"Is that an _Eraser?_ \"\n\n\"Everyone, outside!\" Angel ordered. It was always better to fight in the air than inside a building, and the smoke felt crippling. But as the flock raced for doors and windows, those doors and windows crashed inward, followed by the hulking, horribly familiar forms of Erasers.\n\nIt was like waking up into a nightmare of the past.\n\n\"Dinnertime!\" one of the Erasers growled, and the others laughed\u2014the same way the flock had heard so many times before. Their wolfish faces were split into ugly yellow-toothed grins, and their small mean eyes glittered with the excitement of the hunt. There were at least ten of them, and they easily weighed more than two hundred pounds each.\n\nThe dogs bravely leaped at the wolfmen first. Akila managed to clamp her jaws around one's ankle and draw blood before he kicked her away. Total took to the air, flitting around like a big black mutant moth, snarling and snapping, occasionally getting a bite of Eraser flesh.\n\nIt was a good distraction. The kids had a second to catch their breath as the smoke began to dissipate. Then instinct kicked in, and in moments they had launched themselves at their attackers.\n\n\"They still smell like garbage!\" Gazzy yelled, as the first blows were exchanged. He felt like he might barf.\n\n\"Okay, now I'm mad!\" Iggy shouted.\n\nAngel glanced over to see a thin trickle of blood coming from his nose.\n\nAn Eraser lunged at Angel, and she dodged, screaming bloody murder. She grabbed a floor lamp and connected with the Eraser's heavily boned head, snapping it to one side.\n\nNearby, Dylan was coughing and gagging from the lingering smoke. And yet he was mercilessly pounding an Eraser, his fists flying almost supernaturally fast. The Eraser was doubled over, unsuccessfully trying to block the blows.\n\nSo, the new bird kid had been programmed to fight.\n\nThe rest of them were even better trained to fight Erasers, but with the desperate impulse to keep their arms in front of their noses and mouths, they started to lose ground.\n\nOne Eraser grabbed Nudge and held her in a death grip even though she screamed and kicked with all her might. A second jumped behind her and grasped her wings brutally.\n\nHe was getting ready to break them.\n\n#\n\nTHE SUN BEAT DOWN on my shoulders. It felt heavenly to be out flying, my hair streaming back, silence all around. I gazed down at the earth beneath me, the winding streams carved through red canyons, the striated layers of rock revealed by millennia of erosion, my tiny shadow on the ground, barely visible\u2014\n\nAnd the dark shadow following me, so close, practically right on top of me.\n\nI took a breath, folded my wings down, swung my feet so I was vertical, and snapped my fist up hard. With unerring timing, it connected solidly with a face.\n\nI heard a surprised hiss of breath, felt skin split beneath the force, then dove down, did a somersault in midair, and angled myself to attack from below.\n\n\"What the hell is the matter with you!\" Fang shouted. One hand was pressed to his face, below his right eye.\n\n\"Fang!\" I evened myself out till I was flying close to him. Our wings kept us about eight feet apart. \"I'm sorry\u2014I didn't know it was you. Why were you sneaking up on me?\"\n\n\"Who else would it be?\" He sounded cranky and kept rubbing his face.\n\n\"Anyone! An Eraser, or a Flyboy, or\u2014\"\n\n\"There aren't any more Erasers,\" he said, giving me a confused look. \"And I don't think there are any more Flyboys either. We haven't seen any in ages. Who else is going to be flying after you except one of us?\"\n\nWe both thought of Dylan at the same time.\n\n\"Sorry,\" I muttered again. \"I just reacted.\"\n\nHis cheek was pink and already swelling\u2014he would have a helluva shiner by tomorrow. \"Look, there's a tree over there. Can we stop a minute?\"\n\nA huge pine stood at the edge of the tree line on the mountain. We swooped down, slowed, and landed on a large branch.\n\n\"Sorry about yesterday,\" Fang said. He leaned his back against the broad, rough trunk. \"I let Dylan get to me. It was stupid. I can't believe I didn't notice the house almost burning down.\" He gave a brief, wry smile.\n\n\"It didn't almost burn down,\" I said. \"Just the couch, really. Gazzy and Ig were making a new stash of detonators, and 'something happened.' \"\n\nFang shook his head and let out a breath, then looked deeply into my eyes. I got that hollow, fluttery feeling again. I wanted to melt into him and forget everything, but something still felt like it had changed.\n\nFor some reason, Dylan's face popped into my mind, and it was as though the two of them were side by side: Fang and Dylan. They were night and day. Dylan's face was more open, wanting to talk, to ask questions, to learn. Fang's face was closed, secretive, strong, like the most interesting riddle I would ever find.\n\n\"Jeb said the others were complaining about us,\" I told him. The fresh pine-scented breeze blew my hair around, and I tucked it behind my ear.\n\n\"We're all getting used to the... changed dynamics,\" said Fang. He reached out and took a strand of my hair, immediately getting caught in a tangle. \"It's pretty, in the sun,\" he said, holding the strand out to catch the sun's rays. It was mostly brown but had streaks of dark red and even a little blond.\n\n\"Still,\" I pressed on, \"we have to think\u2014\"\n\n\"No, we don't,\" Fang whispered, and he tilted his head. I barely had time to breathe in before his warm lips were on mine, for the first time in... days. He put his arms around me and angled his head more.\n\nI was so familiar with him that I could feel how swollen his cheek was, right under his eye. I mean, I knew Fang. I'd always known him. Literally always, my whole life. He'd always been my best friend and my second-in-command. I didn't really know when our feelings had changed. All I knew was that he was the best thing I had in my life.\n\nHe held me closer and closer until we were practically glued together. I don't know how long we stayed there, kissing and murmuring to each other. Finally my stomach rumbled, making us both laugh and break apart, our foreheads still touching.\n\n\"I guess I better get to the store,\" I said, feeling like everything would be all right again in my world. \"You coming?\"\n\nFang nodded, and then a low buzzing sound, like a swarm of bees, distracted me. We both looked up through the top of the tree. Very, very high, higher than helicopters usually go, were four black choppers. We could barely see them, barely hear them. Most humans wouldn't have been able to spot them, wouldn't have known they were there.\n\nBut they were. And they were headed in the direction of our house.\n\nWithout speaking, we let go of the tree and fell outward, then opened our wings as the ground rushed up to meet us.\n\nTime for reality again.\n\n#\n\nDYLAN HADN'T BEEN ALIVE much longer than eight months and didn't know much about flock taboos, but one thing he instinctively knew: _Don't mess with a bird kid's wings_.\n\nAnd Nudge's were about to be snapped. Then they'd throw her out the window.\n\n\"Don't you _dare_!\" Dylan cried as he leaped for Nudge. Snarling, an Eraser shot out a boot-clad foot, caught Dylan squarely in the chest, and sent him flying across the room. He slammed into a wall and hit his head hard.\n\nIn the midst of the battle, Gazzy raced to the kitchen. One of Iggy's big carving knives, maybe...? A fast glance revealed nothing\u2014the kitchen was cluttered with dirty plates and pots.\n\nHe spied a possible weapon, grabbed it, and raced back to the stench-filled living room, where Nudge was still struggling. An Eraser clamped a hairy paw over her mouth, its rough claws scraping her cheek. Gazzy punched a button on his weapon and jabbed it hard into the back of one of Nudge's captors.\n\n\"Attack of the Kitchen Appliances!\" Gazzy yelped hoarsely, never a great one for stealth.\n\nThe mixer blades quickly began to spin, and just as quickly got horribly tangled in the Eraser's long, greasy fur. Gazzy pushed the speed button to \"high,\" and fur actually started to rip out.\n\nThe Eraser howled and whirled to kick at Gazzy. The moment he dropped his guard, Nudge twisted away from him hard, and freed one arm. Then she pulled back and gave the other Eraser a huge snap kick right to his stomach.\n\nWhen he loosened his grip on her, Nudge instantly dropped to the floor and grabbed his ankles, yanking them as hard as she could. In the next moment Akila lunged at him, barking and snarling, and the Eraser couldn't regain his balance. He went tumbling out the window, down, down, down into the canyon below.\n\nGazzy pushed the mixer into the other Eraser again, ripping out more chunks of fur and skin. The Eraser shrieked in pain, trying to bat the mixer away, but it was hopelessly entangled in his fur.\n\nIggy's keen sense of smell had been the most assaulted by the gas bomb and Eraser stench. But the upside was he could easily gauge each Eraser's position. Just as the wounded creature roared at Gazzy, Iggy flung something that glinted in the light as it spun through the air: the blade from his food processor. It sliced through the fur and embedded itself in the Eraser's back.\n\n\"Same bat time,\" said Gazzy, grabbing the Eraser's feet.\n\n\"Same bat canyon!\" Nudge coughed, helping Gazzy heave the struggling half-man out the window.\n\nThat shifted the balance. The flock, Akila, Total, and Dylan could now gang up on the remaining Erasers, two or three on one, and over the next few minutes managed to shove, kick, tip, and otherwise eject every single one of them out the canyon-side windows.\n\nThen it was eerily silent, except for a few wheezes and coughs.\n\nAngel jumped off the deck and flew upward, to see if there were other threats.\n\n\"Turn on all the fans!\" gasped Dylan, then he leaned over and retched. He'd been breathlessly taking out Erasers since the moment they hit the floor.\n\nAngel came back in, rubbing big dark bruises on her upper arms. \"I don't see anything else,\" she said. \"Everyone report.\" She walked around the room, estimating the damage the way she'd seen Max do.\n\n\"Um, this place is shot to hell,\" said Gazzy.\n\n\"Bloody nose,\" said Iggy. \"With red blood.\"\n\nNow that he'd been able to clear his lungs, Dylan was examining big gouges in his arm. \"I'll be okay, pretty much,\" he said bravely. \"But I'm worried about Nudge.\"\n\nShe was crouched on the floor, twisting awkwardly to look over her shoulder. \"I'm not sure, but one of my wings doesn't feel right. Can you sprain a wing?\"\n\n\"I jammed my pinkie finger,\" Angel said, frowning. She gritted her teeth, gripped the end of it, and fearlessly yanked it back into alignment.\n\nAkila was panting, and she and Total touched noses. \"We're okay,\" said Total. \"But I will never get the taste of Eraser out of my mouth.\"\n\nAngel held up a hand. \"Shh! Incoming!\"\n\nEveryone braced as they heard noises outside.\n\nThen Max and Fang landed on the deck, hopping and skipping to avoid all the debris and broken glass. Wide-eyed, Max rushed through the shattered sliding door with Fang close behind her.\n\n\"Nice of you to join us,\" Angel said.\n\n\"Gazzy, man, jeezum!\" Fang exclaimed. \"What the heck have you been _eating,_ for God's sake?\"\n\n\"That was a smoke bomb!\" Gazzy defended himself. \"Not even I could fill this whole flippin' house!\"\n\n#\n\n\"WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED?\" I asked, taking in Iggy's bloody nose, Nudge's pained face.\n\n\"Erasers,\" said Iggy angrily. \" _Erasers_ happened. But enough about us. How was your _joyride?_ \"\n\n\"I heard the choppers,\" I said. \"I came back as fast as I could.\" I was still trying to process the \"Erasers\" part.\n\n\"Whatever, Max.\" Iggy shook his head angrily. \"You and Fang were off together\u2014like always. The rest of us could have died here, but as long as you two get your face time, it doesn't matter!\"\n\n\"Hey!\" came Jeb's voice from outside. \"Put down the ladder!\" He was just returning from the dump. In a few moments, he was staring at us all in shock. Then he looked with dismay around the living room, which was now a poster child for the benefits of having home insurance. Which, of course, we didn't.\n\n\"Erasers attacked,\" I told him. \"Apparently. While I was at the store.\"\n\nJeb frowned. \"Are you sure they were actual Erasers? Not robots?\"\n\n\"These were definitely Erasers,\" Gazzy said. \"You can still smell them.\"\n\n\"Look what I found outside.\" Jeb held up a black duffel bag. \"Maybe this'll offer some kind of clue.\" He opened it, and we all fell silent. Inside were black hoods. Clear vials of liquid. Hypos in cases. There were black plastic body bags.\n\n\"Those were for us,\" said Gazzy, as we gaped at the bag's contents. \"They must have been trying to knock us out with that nerve gas stuff.\"\n\n\"Erasers don't use this kind of equipment. Only brute force,\" Jeb remarked. \"Someone else must have been out there too.\"\n\n\"But weren't all the Erasers wiped out?\" I asked Jeb. Of anyone, Jeb would be in the know about the wolfboys.\n\nJeb nodded slowly. \"The entire original production line, as well as the next four generations, were all... retired,\" he said. \"But I wonder. After the School closed, the scientists, what was left of them, scattered. It's possible\u2014even likely\u2014that one or more of them have set up shop somewhere else.\"\n\n\"Where are the Erasers now? Do you know?\" Fang asked the kids.\n\n\"Dumped 'em in the canyon,\" Angel said, rubbing her hand.\n\n\"Good job, guys,\" I said. \"That was the way to go.\" I tried a grin. \"But I bet we'll be smelling them for days, until the vultures finish them off.\"\n\nFang strode back out to the deck, hopped up on the railing, and jumped off to investigate the remains. I saw envy and admiration war on Dylan's face.\n\n\"So, Dylan, your first Eraser fight,\" I commented, wondering how he had done.\n\n\"He did great,\" said Total. \"He's a machine. Dylan's like the top-of-the-line Cuisinart to Gazzy's hand mixer.\" Total was a bit of a gourmet, and his point was all but lost on me.\n\nDylan shrugged as if he'd done nothing at all, even though one arm had ugly gashes on it. His long-sleeved plaid shirt was in tatters.\n\n\"Um, we should probably be treating those wounds,\" I said, sounding a little more concerned than I wanted to. That mother hen thing is a hard habit to break.\n\n\"Don't worry, Max. I'll be fine,\" he said, taking his shirt off so he could check out the damage. I tried to avert my eyes from his muscular torso. But even more distracting was seeing just how shredded his arm really was under that shirt.\n\n\"Jeepers!\" I couldn't understand how Dylan could be so unflinching with that kind of damage. \"Jeb, make yourself useful for once! You've got a medical background, don't you?\"\n\n\"I think I can fix it, Max,\" Dylan said, as he pulled together ragged bits of skin and held them firmly in place.\n\nThe flock heals faster than normal humans, but what Dylan did next I'd never seen another bird kid even attempt: He raised his wounded arm to his mouth and used his own spit to wet the damaged areas. WTH?\n\n\"Eew!\" Nudge said, and turned away. I, however, was fascinated. And terrified.\n\n\"Just a little trick Dr. Gunther-Hagen taught me,\" Dylan said, as we watched his skin scab up and heal right before our very eyes. \n\n#\n\nI DIDN'T HAVE TIME to grill Dylan about just how much he'd been subjected to Dr. G.'s experimentation before Fang landed lightly on the deck and came in.\n\n\"There's nothing down there,\" he reported.\n\n\"What?\" Nudge sounded stunned.\n\n\"Some blood. Bits of fur. Iggy's mixer,\" Fang clarified. \"No bodies.\"\n\n\"Whoever sent them picked them up,\" Total said. \"Like trash.\"\n\n\"About my mixer,\" Iggy began.\n\n\"It was all I could find!\" Gazzy said.\n\n\"You mixed someone to death?\" I asked.\n\n\"I adapted to the circumstances,\" Gazzy said, crossing his arms over his chest.\n\n\"Hmm,\" I said, starting to pace. \"So\u2014the Erasers are back. And someone came to get them. We didn't hear or see how they got here. Choppers may or may not be related.\" I rubbed my chin as I walked, trying to put this together.\n\n\"It's nice of you to care _now,_ \" Iggy said, stopping me in my tracks.\n\n\"What's _that_ supposed to mean?\" I put my hands on my hips.\n\n\"I'll go ahead and name the elephant in the room,\" Iggy went on, glaring over my shoulder. \"You and Fang weren't here when we needed you. You were out there\"\u2014he gestured to a wall\u2014\"because, let's face it, you guys care about each other now more than you care about the rest of us.\"\n\n\"What? That's crazy! It was just chance. It could have been me and Nudge, or Fang and you. Us not being here didn't make this happen!\"\n\n\"Unless someone was watching and saw our two best fighters leave,\" Angel said.\n\nIt was a horrible thought, and it hit me right in the gut. My brain whirred.\n\n\"Look, I guess it's natural,\" said Iggy. \"You're teenagers, it's springtime, everyone's thoughts are turning to birds and bees and caterpillars and moths...\"\n\n\"Caterpillars?\" Nudge's nose wrinkled.\n\n\"No one's thinking about moths,\" Fang said. I heard anger in his voice.\n\n\"It's true,\" Angel said. \"You guys care more about each other than you do about any of us. And we've just seen how dangerous that is\u2014for _us_.\"\n\nI was so horrified I couldn't think of a snappy comeback.\n\n\"It's time, Max,\" Angel went on firmly. \"You know it is.\" She looked at the rest of the flock. \"You guys know it too. It's time for Max and Fang to move on.\" \n\n#\n\n\"MOVE ON?\" I tried to ignore the squeak in my voice. \"Have you been breathing next to Gazzy too long? What the heck are you talking about?\"\n\n\"We used to be one flock,\" Angel said, steely-eyed. \"Now it's like we're a flock of four and a sub-flock of two. So maybe you guys should go be your own flock, by yourselves.\"\n\n\"Listen, missy,\" I began, letting danger drip from my words. \"I'm still here, day in, day out, doing for this flock. So don't be telling me\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't have to tell you or anyone else anything!\" Angel exploded. \"We have eyes! We _see_ how it is! All you think about is how to get away with Fang for a while! So I think it's time you really got away!\"\n\n\"I planned the whole birthday party!\" I said. \"For all of us! I helped create this house! For all of us!\"\n\nI shot looks at the rest of the angry\u2014and in a few cases alarmed\u2014flock. Dylan was frowning slightly, his face guarded. I wondered if he'd had anything to do with this.\n\n\"Angel?\" said Jeb. \"Be careful. I agree there might be need for a change. But maybe if I come back, we can all work toge\u2014\"\n\n\"Max.\" Angel interrupted Jeb as if he didn't exist. Her voice was quiet and calm. \"I love you. I don't wish you harm. But like you've said yourself, we're only as strong as the weakest one of us. Right now, you're making the flock weaker because your head and your heart aren't with us. It's time for you to move on. It's time for me to be the leader.\"\n\n\"You?\" Jeb looked confused. I guessed he'd missed the first eighteen times Angel had tried to take over the flock.\n\n\"Oh, not this again!\" I burst out, waving my arms. \"Just once I'd like to be able to turn around without you stabbing me in the back!\"\n\nAngel's face paled, but she stood firm. \"Max, this has been coming for some time. You're trying to have it all, and you just can't. Look\u2014it's time for a vote. Max goes. Everyone who agrees, raise your hand.\"\n\nI blustered some more, but my heart sank as Iggy slowly raised his hand. His nose had stopped bleeding, but dark bruises were forming around his eyes.\n\nNudge, my Nudge, was next. Her cheeks were scraped, her shirt collar flecked with blood. She looked near tears, like she was making an impossible choice\u2014but still choosing not me.\n\nGazzy raised his hand, not looking at me. His knuckles were swollen and scratched. And of course Angel had her hand up.\n\n\"Fang?\" I turned to him. He wasn't looking at me. He was glowering at Dylan, who was ever-so-subtly shaking his head. Like they were having some private guy talk.\n\n\"Fang! Tell them they're overreacting.\"\n\n\"Everyone is overreacting,\" Fang said very slowly. \"Even you.\"\n\nFor a moment, I was speechless. Was Fang turning his back on me? Did Dylan have mind control powers like Angel? Was he doing a number on Fang?\n\nAnything seemed possible.\n\n\"You're my family,\" I began, then stopped quickly as my voice threatened to break. I cleared my throat and tried again. \"After the last time the flock split up, I swore I would do anything to keep us together, no matter what, for always. But it kind of takes _all_ of us _wanting_ to stay together.\" I let out my breath slowly, to keep from crying. I shook my head. \"I think you guys are making a mistake.\"\n\nThe room was completely still and silent.\n\n\"But I can't make you want me to stay.\" I blinked a couple times, as if I would suddenly wake from an awful dream into a better reality\u2014like, some stranger coming at me with an ice pick, ready to gouge my eyes out.\n\n\"So you're sure? You want me to go?\"\n\nNudge's lip was quivering; none of them seemed happy, but they didn't seem to be changing their minds either.\n\nI couldn't look at Fang. If he'd been holding up his hand, I would have wanted to just drop into the canyon like a stone, wings tucked in tight.\n\nI nodded and swallowed. \"Okay, then. Later.\"\n\nI turned and sprinted out through the smashed deck doors, bounced once off the deck railing, and launched myself into the sky, which seemed a million times bigger and wilder than it ever had. \n\n# [BOOK   \nTHREE](Fang_toc.html#part-3)\n\n[**WHAT HAPPENS  \nIN HOLLYWOOD...   \nSTAYS IN HOLLYWOOD**](Fang_toc.html#part-3)\n\n#\n\nI FELT PRACTICALLY BLINDED by pain and shock and had so many tears streaming from my eyes that I could barely see where I was flying.\n\nI opened my mouth and shrieked, as loud and as wildly as I wanted. \"Ohhgodohhnooooiiihitjusthurrrtssssooomuuuch!\" The scream was torn from my throat by the wind, and finally I choked, sucking in air, half sobbing, my voice raw from yelling for so long.\n\nIn overdrive, I can hit speeds of close to three hundred miles per hour, and so in less than half an hour I'd gone into the next state over. Now Utah stared back at me blankly as I slowed and came to a drifting stop at the top of a tree. I had to take a minute out of my new life to... break down and sob like a baby. I worked my way steadily through rage, hurt, embarrassment, back through rage, and then to some random emotion that seemed to need ice cream.\n\nGulping, I saw a heart-stoppingly familiar black streak in the sky, headed right for me. Was he coming just to say good-bye?\n\nI desperately prayed that he hadn't heard any of my meltdown. The whole thing was such a huge slobbery mess that I couldn't take one more iota of emotion.\n\n\"Hey,\" I said hoarsely, as he landed on a neighboring branch, making the tree sway. I wiped my face quickly, knowing I had to look like hell, my eyes bleary from freeze-dried tears.\n\n\"Fancy meeting you here,\" he said, with his funny lopsided smile, and I almost burst into tears again.\n\nMy eyes must have been full of questions, because he shrugged and said, \"Things seem somewhat under control. Jeb wants to take over the flock again. I figured I'd let him and Angel duke it out.\"\n\nI'm supposed to be brave, right? Prove it, Max. I forced myself to ask: \"Are you, um, going back?\"\n\n\"Nah,\" he said, brushing hair out of my face. \"Figured I'd rather hang with you.\"\n\nI felt hope light my face, and I didn't try to hide it.\n\n\"You know how I feel,\" said Fang, and he bent down, holding on to his branch, and kissed me. I felt like we were suspended in air, and having Fang here, knowing that he, at least, had chosen me, everything seemed a smidgen less agonizingly painful.\n\n\"So what should we do now?\" I asked breathlessly when we broke away from each other. I'd been the leader so long\u2014I was always the one who decided where we were going, what we were going to do. It felt freeing to be asking _him_ to decide.\n\n\"Actually, I'm thinking... Vegas,\" he said. \"Let's go to Las Vegas.\"\n\n\"Las Vegas?\" I repeated stupidly.\n\n\"Yeah,\" he said, trailing one finger down my cheek. I felt a coolness there, as if he'd hit a stray tear. \"I figure\u2014not too far away, full of freaks so we'll blend, plenty of weird stuff to do...\"\n\nI smiled and breathed easier for the first time in hours. \"Sounds perfect.\"\n\n#\n\n\"HAVE YOU BACKED UP the data?\" The head of information finished scanning the shift tech's notes for Area 8 and leaned over her shoulder to look at her computer screen. \"Subject Twenty-two appears to be... abnormal. Off program. Let's take a closer look at the images.\"\n\nThe tech clicked her mouse quickly through the static scenes. The image on the screen changed from an empty living area with one lamp burning to a darkened kitchen area. The kitchen was a mess, with dirty plates and pots and glasses stacked on every surface. Food containers had been left open, unrefrigerated. The next image was a long, empty hallway with large windows on one side. After that was a bedroom.\n\n\"This is Subject Twenty-two, sleeping in Subject One's bed, since she isn't there,\" the tech said. \"During the day he's mostly been practicing flying, but at night he's been restless, not sleeping deeply. It could be that his circadian rhythms haven't stabilized yet. His physio readings suggest that he's anxious or unhappy.\"\n\n\"Yes. His prime focus went away.\"\n\n\"I see. Before he went to sleep, he walked around the room, examining everything, touching everything, even smelling things.\"\n\n\"He's imprinting,\" said the head of information. \"That's good. But the notes indicate he's made no attempt to follow Subject One. Can you confirm?\"\n\n\"His flying skills are improving, but at this stage wouldn't enable long-distance\u2014\"\n\n\"Irrelevant,\" the head jumped in dismissively. \"His programming should compel him to use any means available. Possibly a minor malfunction,\" she speculated, dropping the tech's notes on the desk. \"But possibly a major one. Keep an especially close eye on that one's stats.\" She swiveled on her heel and in a flash was gone.\n\nThe tech bit her lip. The heads\u2014as intimately familiar with the details of their constructions as they were\u2014somehow all seemed to forget that the subjects were not, in fact, robots.\n\nThere was no malfunction. It was simply that the soul could not be programmed.\n\n#\n\nI WAS WORKING through Italian spumoni on a cone as Fang and I threaded our way amid the streaming crowds on the sidewalk. Those of you who haven't been to Vegas\u2014well, it's bizarre in sort of a \"let's gussy up this car wreck\" kind of way. It's Disney World meets the seedy underbelly of America. But with more liquor and people smoking. A grown-up amusement park.\n\n\"I'm dying to go to a casino,\" I confessed to Fang.\n\n\"We'll have to throw ourselves three more birthday parties first,\" he said. \"It's illegal\u2014we're underage.\"\n\n\"So when has that ever stopped us?\" I stared at him. \"That's just a way to make sure crazy kids don't spend all their parents' money. We're not crazy, and we don't have any parents' money. Just our own hard-earned cash from all those CSM air shows we did.\"\n\n\"Which has gotta be running low about now. You really want to risk losing it?\"\n\n\"Don't get all grown-up on me. This is, like, our _vacation_ from being the grown-ups of the flock. And I want to go....\" I looked around at the spectacularly campy scenery.\n\n\"There,\" Fang declared, pointing to a building in the shape of a... horse? It definitely topped the Bizarre-o-Meter of novelty architecture. \"The Trojan Horse.\"\n\nSuddenly I was having second thoughts. \"Wasn't that, like, a giant sculpture that was full of enemy soldiers or something? Back in the old days?\"\n\nFang looked blank. \"Guess I missed that lesson in Max's Home School.\" He took my hand. \"Come on!\"\n\nWe strolled in easily across the dizzyingly patterned carpet. Barbie doll women with trays of drinks were zipping around helping to get people loopy so they'd spend more money. Even without a drop of alcohol, it took about two seconds for me to become seized with a very unnatural need to gamble.\n\nFang leaned close and whispered, \"Don't freak out, but there are cameras in the ceiling every couple feet.\" Ordinarily, that fact would guarantee I'd break out in paranoid hives. \"And notice the guys in dark suits standing around watching everyone? Don't worry. They're just looking for cheaters.\"\n\n\"Cheaters? Us?\" I smiled. \"I guess we're safe.\"\n\nThe flock had always looked a little older than our biological ages\u2014guess that came from being evolutionary wonders. But I was surprised that people didn't boot us out immediately. Imagine _money_ being more important than _law enforcement!_\n\nWe got a bunch of quarters and parked ourselves in front of a Treasure Island slot machine. I fed a quarter into the slot and pulled the arm. The wheels spun fast, eventually stopping with cherries, a weight, and the number seven.\n\nMy eyes narrowed and I pushed another quarter in.\n\nAnother miss.\n\n\"That machine took my money!\" I said. \"I must have revenge! Fang, get on that machine next to me,\" I ordered, spilling half of my quarters into a separate plastic bucket for him. \"This could take a while.\"\n\nAnd so our hypnotic rally began. Seriously, those spinning wheels can really send you into the zone. I guess that's the point.\n\nMaybe that explains why it only took about fifteen minutes for the machine to start messing with me.\n\n'Cause instead of cherries, bars, and numbers, I saw a cartoony wolf face pop up.\n\nThen another.\n\nThen another.\n\nJackpot?\n\n\"Jackpot, Max!\" I heard the voice of Dr. Gunther-Hagen come from behind me.\n\n#\n\nI WHIRLED AROUND and saw no one. No psychotic mad scientists, anyway.\n\n\"Jackpot, Max! Jackpot!\" It was Fang, and he was giggling hysterically.\n\nFor those of you just joining us, Fang doesn't giggle. Especially _hysterically_.\n\nSo for a second, this seemed like one of the weirder dreams of recent days, until Fang clutched my shoulders and started shaking me. \"Check it out, Max!\"\n\nThe jangling sound of metal coins rushing out of Fang's machine suddenly entered my consciousness. Fang had morphed into a wide-eyed maniac scrambling to scoop all of the change into his cup, then mine. \"Get another cup!\" he ordered, and I grabbed two more that had been orphaned nearby.\n\nWhile Fang focused on the money, I did a 360 and started to sweat. Downside of a jackpot? People notice you. And in our case, it wasn't all pat-on-the-back, \"Oh, congratulations! How wonderful for you!\" More like \"Who the hell are you and could you even _possibly_ be eighteen years old?\"\n\nAs I saw figures moving toward us, I had a vision of troops inside the Trojan Horse flattening their enemy as they swarmed out. \"Outta here _now,_ Fang!\" I said in my most don't-even-think-of-arguing-with-me voice.\n\nClutching four heaping cups of coins, we booked it into a glass elevator that delivered us gamblin' fools down, down, down the leg of the Trojan Horse to ground level.\n\n\"Remind me never to go to a place called the Trojan Horse again,\" I said.\n\n\"What're you talking about? It was good luck,\" Fang countered.\n\n\"Not exactly,\" I said, as the glass door slid open and Dr. Hoonie-Goonie was standing there to greet us.\n\n#\n\nDID I WHIRL INSTANTLY, fists clenched, legs tensing for battle? Or did I stay calm, act casual, and walk right on by the doc as if I hadn't even seen him?\n\nYou guessed it\u2014neither. Instead, I dropped one of my cups of coins. Easily a couple hundred dollars. Fang seemed more upset by the spillage than by the looming threat of evil.\n\n\"Hello, Max, Fang,\" said Dr. Gunther-Hagen, smiling as he watched Fang scramble to recover his winnings. \"Strange seeing you here. I didn't think you were the gambling types.\"\n\n\"We're not,\" I said. \"Fang, leave that money for some poor soul who really needs it,\" I said, all Mother Teresa again. Except I didn't leave my cups of cash behind.\n\nI stepped out of the elevator, squinting in the bright light. \"Why are you here?\" See, this is where my lack of social graces comes in handy. I don't waste time and energy on thinking of what the nice thing to do is.\n\nDr. Hans's eyebrows rose. \"I'm here for a professional convention, being held at one of the resorts. But why are you here? Where's the rest of the flock?\"\n\n\"At Ripley's,\" I said. \"So, what, you saw us and decided to just pop in, say hi?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Hans pleasantly. \"Is Dylan with you? How is he progressing?\"\n\n\"Dandy!\" I lied again. \"We left him over at one of the craps tables. That way.\" I pointed back to the elevator. \"I'm sure he can't wait to see you!\"\n\n\"We have to go,\" said Fang, putting his hand on my arm.\n\n\"Wait, please,\" said Dr. Hans. \"I'm happy to have run into you. I wanted to reiterate what I said in Africa. And I wanted to make sure you received my offer for Iggy. Is it not compelling? You could give him the gift of sight, in return for a little cooperation. You could be invaluable to my project because\u2014well, you're a miracle, really.\"\n\nGosh, a miracle! It had been ages since someone called me that. Actually, no one had ever called me that.\n\n\"You planning to turn Max into another one of your _mistakes?_ \" Fang asked, his face cold and still.\n\nDr. G-H looked around, as if realizing what a public place this was. He gestured us over toward some isolated benches in the entry plaza. \"The apocalypse is coming. You've been on a mission to save the world. Do you understand how you're supposed to do that?\"\n\nOkay, the details on that had been sketchy, but I wasn't about to admit it.\n\n\"By having you chop off one of my wings to see if it grows back? I don't think so.\"\n\nHe went on. \"Max, I promise you will remain intact. My research will help current humans adapt, so they can live in the radically different environment we'll all be facing. We estimate that more than half the world's population will simply disappear; I've found a way to keep some people alive long enough to ensure that the human race isn't extinguished entirely.\" His voice was pleading, his face earnest.\n\n\"You're a prince,\" I said. \"But I gave you my answer back in Africa.\"\n\nHe paused a second, then continued. \"I anticipate people will be scared and worried. Most of them won't understand what I hope to accomplish. But if you were my spokesperson, demonstrating that being different can be wonderful and even necessary, then I could get many, many more people to understand and accept my program.\"\n\nWho did this guy think he was? The world's savior? Was that position even open? And what did he want me to be? A walking, talking, flying commercial?\n\n\"It seems like a worthy cause,\" I said. I felt Fang's muscles tense. \"Tell you what\u2014I'll go ahead and jump on this crazy bandwagon. Count me in.\"\n\nDr. Hans's eyes widened and a smile lit his face. \"Max, that's wonderf\u2014\"\n\n\"My price is a million dollars.\" I know. I'm bad.\n\n\"My dear\"\u2014he glanced with amusement at my and Fang's hoard of coins\u2014\"I do believe you just said you didn't need any money.\"\n\n\"I said we weren't _gambling_ types. I'm all about serious business, Doc. And I'm telling you that a million dollars is what it will take for me to even consider this gig.\"\n\nI could see the wheels turning in his head. I bet those hamsters were tired.\n\n\"I could do a million dollars,\" he said slowly, nodding.\n\nOh, I forgot\u2014the guy was a billionaire arts patron and he owned a bunch of huge pharma companies that bankrolled all his plans.\n\n\"I meant a million dollars a _day,_ \" I revised. Don't ever say I'm not a tough negotiator.\n\n\"This isn't a joke, Max,\" he said coldly. \"You might think carefully about what you say to me. You've already lied to me once today. I know the flock isn't with you. I also know Dylan isn't either, even though he _should_ be.\" I felt Fang flinch next to me. \"You consistently ignore my advice, and you _will_ regret it if you continue to do so. I have great resources at my disposal. I can help you tremendously, and I want to. I can also do the opposite of that.\"\n\nI stood my ground. \"You evil scientists are all the same\u2014evil. Count me out.\"\n\nFang and I brushed past Dr. God and walked quickly but smoothly to the exit. It was barely noon, and I'd already made a huge enemy.\n\nDang, I'm good.\n\n#\n\n\"OKAY, TRY THIS ONE,\" Gazzy said, handing a hot rod magazine to Iggy. Gazzy guided his finger to touch the photograph on the page.\n\n\"Mostly red, I can feel that part\u2014but let me try without touching it.\" He concentrated. \"Hmm, nice. Sort of curvy. But not like a Porsche. Wait... No, it's really low and flat but... not a Lamborghini. How about... Let me cheat a little here....\" He touched the picture again. \"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say\u2014Bugatti?\"\n\nGazzy jumped up. \"No _way!_ I can't believe you got that!\"\n\n\"Hey guys! You've gotta come out here!\" Dylan called urgently from the deck.\n\n\"What now?\" Nudge asked, pulling her earbuds out. She was in the middle of a _What Not to Wear_ download marathon.\n\n\"Probably another Eraser attack,\" Iggy said, sounding bored.\n\nAngel scampered out into the blackness, ready to deliver orders from the deck if necessary.\n\n\"Ugh!\" Nudge whined. \"I wish they'd wait until I finish this episode.\"\n\n\"Seriously, guys,\" Dylan insisted, but he sounded excited. \"The sky is amazing tonight. Check it out!\"\n\n\"Oh, joy.\" Iggy scowled, then softened his tone. \"Go ahead, Gaz,\" he said. \"All this vision stuff tonight has tired me out.\"\n\nMinutes later, the flock had peeled themselves away from what they had been doing and were stepping out onto the deck in the cool, clear night. Even Iggy decided to join the crew. Dylan was flat on his back. The deck was only just as wide as he was tall.\n\n\"Come down here,\" he instructed. \"It's better this way. You don't have to crane your neck. Can you believe what's going on up there?\"\n\n\"I don't see much going on,\" Nudge said. \"There's a lot of stars, though.\"\n\n\"Jeb taught us the constellations,\" Angel said, a little wistfully, after they had all situated themselves. \"A long time ago.\"\n\n\"What're they?\" Dylan asked blankly.\n\n\"Gosh, you _do_ need help, don't you?\" Gazzy commented. \"You should have gone to Max's Home School.\"\n\nDylan chuffed. \"Yeah. A little late for that.\"\n\n\"Well, for starters, there's the Little Dipper.\" It was Jeb's voice from inside. He'd appeared behind the screen door quietly. \"Can you see it, guys? Do you remember?\"\n\n\"Yeah. I used to call them the Dipsticks,\" Gazzy reminisced. \"Back when I was a dumb little kid.\"\n\n\"I know Orion!\" Nudge bragged. \"I see his belt over there at about two o'clock.\"\n\n\"Jeb, can you show us again?\" Angel asked, sounding more like her younger, more innocent self. \"Like Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Cancer, and stuff?\"\n\n\"I'm totally confused about what you guys are talking about,\" Dylan said.\n\n\"With you on that, Dyl.\" Iggy put his feet on the wooden deck rail and his hands behind his head, staring up at nothing.\n\n\"Can't you see that meteor?\" Dylan asked. \"Over there. See? The flame is almost, like, _greenish_.... Whoa! It's getting bigger\u2014man, how can you _not_ see that?\"\n\nIggy snickered. \"Dude, even _I_ know that shooting stars last for like, less than a second.\"\n\n\"Oooh!\" Angel cried, just as the flaming tail appeared in the sky, fast as a flash of lightning.\n\n\"Nice one!\" Nudge cheered. \"How'd you know it was coming, Dylan?\"\n\n\"I could just see it. I don't know how you guys missed\u2014ooh, there's another one coming! Right over there!\" Dylan pointed left with conviction. Everyone was quiet.\n\nIggy broke the silence. \"I can see the International Space Station too,\" he said.\n\nSeconds later, they all drew in their breaths as another flash exploded in the sky. \"Must be a meteor shower,\" Jeb speculated.\n\nDylan nodded. \"Yep\u2014yeah, I see one\u2014no, two, three more coming! Look!\"\n\nJeb slid the door open and took a step out onto the deck, fascinated.\n\n\"One,\" he counted as they appeared several moments later. \"Two, three.\"\n\nGazzy gave a low whistle.\n\n\"Dylan,\" Angel asked very quietly. \"Can you see the future?\"\n\nDylan paused. \"I... I don't know,\" he answered. \"I guess I just see really well.\" He squinted. \"And I hate to say this, Iggy, but... I actually _can_ see the International Space Station.\"\n\n\"Cool, man,\" Iggy said. \"Hey, by the way, can you spare one of your superhero eyeballs for me, Dyl?\"\n\nDylan laughed. \"All yours, Iggy.\"\n\n\"If you can see so well, Dylan,\" Angel asked curiously, \"why didn't you see those Erasers coming?\"\n\nFor that, Dylan had no answer.\n\n#\n\n\"THERE IS NO WAY those people aren't genetically modified,\" I said, taking another handful of popcorn. In the other city that never sleeps, we weren't sleeping. In fact, we were at one of the Cirque du Soleils, watching some little Chinese girls fold themselves into knots while spinning plates on their feet and balancing balls on their heads.\n\n\"It's completely unnatural,\" Fang agreed.\n\n\"So they're mutants, they're weird, and here they are, holding down jobs. There is hope after all.\" I ate more popcorn, unable to tear my eyes away from people doing stuff that I just couldn't believe they could do.\n\nWe'd just come from the MGM resort, where it had happened to be Cub Day\u2014they'd had two super-cute lion cubs playing in a huge glassed-in area.\n\n\"Now, why couldn't they have put just a smidge of lion DNA into our mix?\" I'd asked. \"That would be so cool.\"\n\nFang had groaned. \"That's all we need. Another two percent of something else in our genes. Excellent.\"\n\n\"Still, just a touch of lion\u2014we'd be even stronger, faster,\" I had said wistfully. \"And more graceful.\"\n\n\"You're already strong, fast, and... somewhat graceful, sometimes,\" Fang had said. \"You want _fuzzy ears?_ \"\n\nI had dropped the subject. But now, looking at act after act of inhumanly flexible and powerful humans, I almost wanted just a little touch of something else.\n\n\"I'm thinking those kids have extra vertebrae,\" I whispered to Fang.\n\n\"Be happy with your ninety-eight-two-percent split,\" he whispered back. \"Next thing you know, you'll be grafted with, like, DNA from an _elephant seal._ Or a bear. 'Where's Max? Oh, she's _hibernating,_ ' \" Fang said. I had just taken a sip of soda, and now my graceful self snorted it through my nose.\n\n_Max._\n\n\"What?\" Oh. Voice. ' _Ssup?_\n\n_Get out of there now._\n\nWithout hesitation I got to my feet. Fang looked at me in surprise, saw the expression on my face, and immediately got up too. I did a fast scan and saw guards at each entrance, but they didn't seem to be paying attention to us.\n\nSo where...\n\n_Max, up!_\n\nI crouched down, ready to jump into the air and to take flight at the slightest sign of danger, but in the next second, strong arms grabbed me. \n\n#\n\n\"DON'T STRUGGLE,\" said the guy holding me\u2014the \"Russian Superman.\" He had an act with huge rubber bands attached to his belt. He'd been jumping high and \"flying\" over the audience off and on all night. Now he pulled me way up to the top of the enormous tent, and the bands tightened so we were hovering there.\n\nThe audience below was oohing and aahing at the lucky girl in the audience who got to fly with the Russian Superman. Spotlights were trained on us, and the audience was going crazy.\n\n\"Who do you work for?\" I growled, gauging my options.\n\n\"This is for your own good,\" he said, which was, in case you're wondering, _the wrong answer_.\n\nTime to blow my cover as Ordinary Teenager. I raised one knee high, then smashed my foot backward as hard as I could, connecting with his kneecap, hearing it snap. The Russian Superman stifled a shriek, and his hold on me lessened just slightly.\n\nSlightly was enough. I jerked my arms out sideways, and his fingers scrabbled to keep me, without success. I started to drop, and people in the audience started to scream, waiting for the poor girl to go splat in the center ring.\n\nBut of course it took only a second for me to pop out my wings, pushing downward hard so that I rose up before I'd even gotten close to the ground.\n\nNow the audience was really going wild\u2014shouting, clapping, whistling at the Amazing Winged Girl from the Cirque du Soleil.\n\nThe Amazing Winged Girl needed a way out. The Russian Superman, holding his knee, was staring at me in shock. I tried to shade my eyes to see Fang, then another huge burst of excitement came from the crowd, and I saw him flying up to me, outlined in the spotlights.\n\nWe can't hover, so to stay aloft we have to move forward. I made small circles near the top of the tent, searching for an escape route, trying to stay away from the backstage crew up in the metal catwalks high above the ground.\n\nFang swooped low, making people scream, then swooped back up again. He passed me, showed me the switchblade he'd pulled from his cargo pocket, and headed toward a tent wall.\n\nI was zigzagging as I saw Fang grab a rope against the wall, hang on, and slice through the heavy plasticized nylon of the tent.\n\nThere was tremendous applause\u2014we were a very popular act. Then an all-too-familiar sound hissed past my ear, and I dropped fast, swung around, and raced over to Fang.\n\n\"They're shooting\u2014they've got silencers,\" I reported urgently just as he sliced an X large enough for us to slip through. Another bullet pinged off a nearby catwalk, and Fang folded his wings and slipped out of the tent.\n\nI took one quick glance down as I started to edge through the hole, and a roaming spotlight picked him out of the crowd. Dr. Scary. Here at the Cirque du Soleil, where we were under attack.\n\nWhat a coinkydink.\n\n#\n\n\"WILL IT HURT?\" Nudge asked quietly as she put on her shoes. Early-morning light was breaking through the leafy trees outside and sprinkling sun across the room, and the flock was gathering for their next \"field trip.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure not,\" Angel said vaguely, digging around in her backpack for her coupon. \"I mean, not more than, like, getting punched by an Eraser. Or a sprained wing.\"\n\n\"Comforting,\" Iggy commented. \"I think it's a great idea, personally, but I don't think Gazzy's so thrilled.\" Iggy went to look for the Gasman as the others headed toward the front door.\n\n\"Are you sure everyone wants to go through this, Angel?\" Dylan asked. \"I mean, most of us aren't... fond of needles. Lab associations and all.\"\n\n\"Come on, guys. If Max were here, you'd be all into this,\" Angel said a little testily. \"The tattoos were Max's birthday presents to us, after all.\"\n\n\"Not to me,\" Dylan said, wistful.\n\nJust then, Jeb strode in, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. \"Good lord, Angel! What did I just hear you talking about?\"\n\n\"We're going to get our tattoos. Max gave us gift certificates for our birthdays.\"\n\n\"You most certainly are not!\" Jeb said firmly, just like the old days. \"You're underage\u2014it's illegal. I won't hear of it.\"\n\n\"You're not the leader, Jeb,\" Angel reminded him. \"I am.\"\n\n\"Well, Jeb's a grown-up,\" Nudge pointed out.\n\nAngel's eyes narrowed. \"You guys elected _me_ leader.\"\n\n\"Hmm,\" said Nudge, sounding doubtful. \"More like we elected Max _not_ leader. I wonder what she's doing?\"\n\n\"You mean besides not worrying about us?\" Angel started to feel angry. \"I'll tell you what she's doing\u2014she and Fang are off somewhere, having a great time, not even thinking about us! They're all cozy, just the two of them, and've probably forgotten our names by now!\"\n\n\"I bet not,\" Nudge said stubbornly, as Iggy and Gazzy entered the room.\n\n\"Look, everyone, I have news for you,\" Jeb said. \"In the future, it might be that each one of you has a flock of his or her own to lead.\"\n\nEveryone looked around, blinking in surprise. Jeb sat down on the floor and motioned for them to do the same. He had a lot of explaining to do.\n\n\"Max has actually been a pretty good leader\u2014she's kept you alive; she's taught you how to survive. I know you have your problems with her. I do too.\" He gave a little laugh. \"But here you are: You're a flock and you need a leader. Angel says that she's the leader, and I guess you guys are agreeing to it. So here are my questions:\n\n\"What are you going to do differently from Max? How will it be an improvement? How will you handle another attack like the one yesterday? How will you all work together to grow and change and adapt, to maximize your chances of survival?\"\n\nAngel thought. She listened to her Voice. She thought some more.\n\n\"Jeb? I've been thinking about it and I have something to say to you. To everyone.\" She paused. One by one they stopped what they were doing and looked at her. \"Maybe _living_ is more important than just _surviving._ \" \n\n#\n\n\"THIS IS IT, SIR.\" The lead geologist double-checked her GPS and overlaid its image with a satellite-based graph. \"Satellite and radar confirm it. This stream leads to the underground source that the subjects get their water from.\"\n\n\"I hope you're right,\" Dr. Gunther-Hagen said icily. He was irritated at the Cirque du Soleil blunder, tired from the late-hour flight, and altogether eager for some progress in this project. \"Your performance up till now has been pathetic. Be glad I'm _somewhat_ more forgiving than Mr. Chu.\"\n\nThe geologist swallowed and rechecked her instruments with fingers that trembled slightly. \"No, this is it,\" she said, trying to make her voice strong. \"I'm positive.\"\n\n\"Okay, then,\" said Dr. Gunther-Hagen. \"Release the reactant.\"\n\nAnother agent opened a foam cooler. A fog of dry ice swirled around them like early-morning mist. He carefully pulled on heavy gloves that protected him from fingertip to elbow. Following that, a gas mask covered his face. The others moved away to stand upwind. The agent carefully removed a test tube from the dry ice with tongs. He uncapped it, and after a moment's hesitation, tipped the test tube so its pale pink liquid flowed into the thin mountain stream.\n\n\"Of course, this will affect everything it comes into contact with,\" he murmured, praying that Dr. Gunther-Hagen knew what he was doing.\n\n\"Not necessarily,\" said Dr. Gunther-Hagen. \"It's been specialized to bind only to certain receptors. These mutants have them; not many other species do.\"\n\nThe team was silent as the reactant blended invisibly with the crystal-clear stream. Within thirty minutes, it would infiltrate the natural water reservoir that served the flock's house.\n\nDr. Gunther-Hagen could barely contain his excitement. Now the real experiments would start.\n\n#\n\nALL EYES WERE ON ANGEL. She was almost vibrating with anticipation. Max would never have been able to do this in a million years. Max never would have _wanted_ to. In fact, she would have threatened to lock them all in their rooms if someone suggested it.\n\nNow she tapped a pencil against the tabletop. \"Attention! Everybody, listen up! I've called you all here to make my announcement!\" she said. \"Get ready, because I have a huge surprise!\"\n\n\"Do we need any more surprises?\" Iggy asked.\n\n\"I'm the leader of this flock,\" she announced, \"and I want to announce some improvements we're going to make.\"\n\n\"What kind of improvements?\" Iggy asked, leaning on his broom.\n\n\"Well, first, I'm abolishing bedtime,\" Angel said, nodding firmly.\n\n\"We didn't have much of a bedtime before,\" Nudge pointed out.\n\nAngel frowned at her. \"I mean, if we want to sleep all day and stay up all night, then that's what we'll do!\"\n\nGazzy shrugged. \"Okay.\"\n\n\"No more homeschooling!\" Angel said.\n\n\"Hear, hear,\" said Iggy, clapping.\n\n\"I'm still going to learn stuff,\" Nudge said. \"I'm halfway through the Rosetta Stone level one for French.\"\n\n\"If you want to, that's fine,\" said Angel graciously. \"But right now, I'm going to announce our best, most exciting project ever!\"\n\n\"We're going to buy our own car?\" Gazzy asked with raised eyebrows.\n\n\"Have parties every week?\" Nudge guessed.\n\n\"How about a little order, a little taking care of business?\" Total muttered as he trotted into the room. \"That _would_ be a huge surprise.\"\n\nAngel ignored him. Even though she was the one who had rescued him from the lab back in New York, secretly she wondered if he was more on Max's side now. \"Okay, everyone, saddle up!\" She beamed at them. \"We have a long flight ahead of us!\"\n\n\"To where?\" Nudge asked.\n\n\"A concert!\" Angel said. \"In Hollywood! Where we've signed up to appear as special celebrity guests!\"\n\nBlank faces looked back at her.\n\n\"Is this a joke?\" Iggy finally asked.\n\n\"No! It's going to be so fabulous!\" Angel said. \"The concert is a benefit, for fixing up a section of Santa Monica Boulevard. All kinds of famous people are part of it, and they want us to help. If they advertise that the flock will be there, thousands more people will come!\"\n\n\"And a percentage of them will be toting semiautomatic handguns, or weird mind-control chips, or heck, even bows and arrows!\" said Iggy. \"There's a reason we don't go out in public much.\"\n\n\"Is this a CSM benefit?\" Nudge asked. \"I mean, Santa Monica Boulevard?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Angel. \"But it's totally cool. I've talked to our agents\u2014\"\n\n\"What agents?\" Nudge interrupted.\n\n\"The ones I've been interviewing,\" said Angel smugly. \"The ones who offered us the best deal. They're going to pay us a whole bunch of money, and guarantee our safety too. We're supposed to call them when we get to the Villa d'Arbanville.\"\n\n\"Villa d'Arbanville? I've heard of that place,\" said Nudge. \"That's where stars hang out! The lobby was voted 'the best place to break up' by _Superstar_ magazine!\"\n\nFinally, Dylan spoke up. \"Sounds like fun, but... I think I'll be staying here.\"\n\nAll eyes turned to him in surprise. \"C'mon, man\u2014live a little,\" Iggy said. He was just starting to get used to having Dylan around.\n\n\"Not sure I have time for partying.\" He didn't look anyone in the eye. \"I've got to keep working on my flying,\" he explained. It wasn't a very good excuse, but Angel could work with it.\n\n\"Well, then you're coming with us, Dylan,\" she announced, feeling decisive and leaderly. \"We're gonna fly eight hundred miles to get there. Practice makes perfect.\" Angel tried to zero her powers of influence in on Dylan. She wouldn't take no for an answer.\n\n\"I'll see if I can hitch a ride on a private jet,\" said Jeb. \"Total, you and Akila are welcome to come with me. Dylan, you can come with us too,\" said Jeb.\n\nDylan shook his head, making some of his shaggy, sun-streaked hair fall into his turquoise eyes. \"No. I'll fly with the others,\" he said determinedly, but he seemed sad.\n\nAngel saw the intent look in his eyes. And for the first time, she picked up on some of his thoughts.\n\nHe had been hoping Max would come home.\n\n#\n\n\"THIS IS THE COOLEST HOTEL EVER!\" squealed Nudge, flopping facedown onto a king-size bed.\n\nAngel was trying to get the snarls out of her blond curls, still wet from her shower. Through the doorway to the room next door, she heard Gazzy ordering room service\u2014again. The kitchen had probably had to send someone out to get more groceries.\n\nNudge rolled off the bed and looked at herself in the mirror. \"I'm twelve now. I don't look different, but I feel different.\" She stretched her wings out slowly, their feathers shades of tan, caramel, and coffee.\n\n\"You do look different,\" said Angel. \"We're all taller. You don't look like a little kid anymore\u2014more teenagery. Iggy and... the others have really started looking older.\"\n\n\"Can I come in?\" Dylan leaned in the doorway connecting their two rooms.\n\n\"Sure,\" said Nudge. \"Have you recovered? That was a long flight.\"\n\n\"I can't believe I didn't drop like a rock over the Grand Canyon,\" Dylan said, leaning against the dresser. \"I bet I won't be able to move my wings tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You did great,\" said Angel. \"Aren't you glad you came with us?\"\n\nDylan shrugged and brushed some hair out of his face. He already looked like a Hollywood star\u2014some teenage girls had whispered and pointed at him when the flock had been checking in.\n\nDylan was doing pretty well at fitting in with the rest of the flock. He wasn't demanding, and he was a good listener and a good fighter. Angel loved Fang a lot, but Dylan was... easier. Warmer. He talked more. It was almost as if he were made to be with them.\n\nA knock on the door made Nudge pull her wings in fast.\n\nAngel hurried over and peeped through the eyehole.\n\n\"Bad guys or good guys?\" Nudge asked.\n\nAngel smirked. \"Bad guys,\" she said, and pulled open the door.\n\nFour men came in, looking around with avid curiosity. They were all very tan, dressed casually but in nice clothes and jackets. One of them was chewing gum.\n\n\"Who are you?\" Dylan asked.\n\n\"Joe Harkins,\" one of them said, holding out a tanned hand. \"Pleased to meetcha. From Talent Unlimited. Here's my card.\" He pressed a business card into Dylan's hand.\n\nAnother knock on the door almost went unheard as the men started shaking each bird kid's hand, introducing themselves eagerly. Gazzy opened the door and let in Jeb, Total, and Akila.\n\n\"Whoa, you brought your dogs!\" one man exclaimed, and Angel hoped Total wouldn't bite him on the ankle.\n\n\"Hello, son,\" one of the men said to Dylan, looking him up and down. \"Now, that's what I call star quality! All of you, of course! Talent Unlimited couldn't be happier to offer representation!\"\n\n\"Talent Unlimited?\" Jeb asked.\n\n\"Yep! And your kids here are pure gold,\" said Joe Harkins. He literally rubbed his hands together. \"Now, let's talk numbers. Kids, why don't you guys go play in the pool downstairs while Dad and I talk business?\"\n\nAngel heard Total choking back laughter. It was time to show these guys who was the leader.\n\n\"He's not our dad,\" she said, her face serious. \"He won't be making decisions for us.\" Keeping her eyes on the agents, she unfolded her wings.\n\nThe men stared. Angel could almost see dollar signs in their eyes, like in cartoons.\n\n\"I'll be negotiating our contract,\" Angel said solemnly. \"Why don't we sit down over here?\"\n\nThe room fell silent as the men waited for someone to say she was kidding. When no one did, Angel motioned again to the table and chairs set up in the suite's dining area. The men hesitated.\n\n\"I hear the usual agent share is fifteen percent,\" Angel said, concentrating, focusing. \"We need ninety-five percent.\"\n\nChuckling at Angel's joke, they relaxed and trickled over to the table to sit down.\n\nOf course, Angel wasn't joking. An hour later, they got up, looking pale, shaken, and incredulous. They stared at the copies of the contract on the table like they couldn't believe they had actually signed them.\n\n\" 'Kthnxbye!\" Angel said brightly, opening the door for them. The men wandered out as if they had just barely survived a crash.\n\n\"What did you do to them?\" Jeb asked.\n\n\"Persuaded them.\" Angel's too innocent face wouldn't have fooled a kindergartner. \"Isn't that what a good leader would do?\"\n\n\"Angel, we've talked about\u2014,\" Jeb began.\n\n\"Come on, everyone!\" Angel cried. \"Press conference by the pool!\"\n\n#\n\n\"REPORTERS?\" GAZZY ASKED. \"Max will kill us if she finds out about this.\"\n\n\"Max isn't in charge anymore,\" Angel reminded him coolly. \"It's time the world knew about our special abilities.\"\n\n\"I'm not feeling that special right now,\" said Iggy, hunched over in a chair. \"I've been feeling weird all afternoon.\"\n\nNudge frowned. \"Me too. Not sick, exactly, but weird. Like, tingly, all over.\"\n\nJeb heard this last bit and he quickly searched Nudge's face. \"Tingly? On your skin or inside?\"\n\n\"All over,\" said Nudge.\n\n\"I feel that way too,\" said Gazzy. \"I didn't even realize it till you said it. I thought it was just the PowerDrives kicking in.\"\n\n\"Let's get through this press conference,\" Angel said briskly, \"then we can figure out what's going on.\" She was feeling weird herself, but it was showtime, folks.\n\nTen minutes later, they were stretched out on lounge chairs by the hotel pool.\n\n\"Where's our waiter?\" Nudge asked ten minutes after that. She tipped her pink star-shaped sunglasses down on her nose. \"I need more iced tea.\"\n\nDylan stood up. \"I was going to get some\u2014I'll get yours too.\"\n\n\"Here are the reporters,\" Angel announced, pointing at a small throng of people who were being let into the fenced pool area. The private security team frisked each one and checked their names off on a list.\n\nDylan reappeared with the iced teas, and several of the reporters gasped or went speechless at the sight of him. Angel grinned. Who needed Fang when they had Dylan? The flock was a whole lot nicer to look at\u2014and be a part of\u2014with him around.\n\nShe motioned for the security people to let the reporters come closer. There were about ten of them, some carrying microphones, some with big video cameras on their shoulders.\n\n\"Hi!\" she said, putting on a party face. \"Thanks for coming! We can answer questions for ten minutes, and then there will be a photo op. Who's first?\"\n\n\"Where are your parents?\" cried one reporter. \"Do they have wings?\"\n\n\"Our parents were a test tube and a turkey baster,\" Angel said. \"No wings.\"\n\n\"Can you actually fly, or has that been a publicity stunt?\" called another reporter.\n\nIn response, Gazzy shook out his wings, climbed onto the diving board, bounced a couple times, then launched himself into the air. There were gasps and murmurs of excitement as he moved up and down with each flap of his wings, eating an ice cream cone. Then he popped the last of the cone into his mouth, folded in his wings, and cannonballed into the pool. Several reporters got drenched.\n\n\"There's your answer,\" Angel said.\n\n\"How old are you? Are you all related?\" A woman held a microphone toward Nudge.\n\n\"We're... fifteen, twelve, nine, and seven,\" Nudge said, still getting used to their new ages. \"Gazzy and Angel are the only real brother and sister.\"\n\n\"You weren't all from the same egg, so to speak?\" asked another reporter, causing laughter.\n\nNudge looked at him. \"Do we _look_ like we're all from the same egg?\" She pointed to Iggy, who was very pale skinned. She herself was at least partly African American. Gazzy and Angel both had cornsilk-yellow hair, ivory skin, and blue eyes.\n\n\"Where's Maximum? And the tall dark boy? We've seen them in pictures,\" someone said.\n\n\"They're busy right now and couldn't be here,\" said Angel smoothly.\n\n\"Who's the new member?\" a woman asked Dylan.\n\n\"I'm a friend of the family,\" Dylan responded casually. \"Birds of a feather, you know.\"\n\nEveryone laughed, and flashes popped as he smiled. Then the cameras clicked some more. They couldn't get enough of him.\n\n\"Do you have any other special talents?\" a reporter yelled.\n\nAngel looked right at him. \"No.\"\n\n\"But Angel\u2014that's not true,\" Dylan said.\n\nAngel glared at him. She should have gone over some flock rules with him. She should have thought of this. Now she had to fix it. \n\n#\n\n\"DYLAN,\" BEGAN ANGEL, sounding firm.\n\n\"Dylan?\" Jeb asked, walking over to him with an urgent look.\n\n\"...'Cause I can sing,\" finished Dylan, standing up.\n\n\"Oh, lordy, spare me the karaoke!\" Total muttered, trotting over to sit in the shade beneath a patio table.\n\n\"You were in the rain, I saw you there,\" Dylan sang. Angel recognized the words of a song that had been playing incessantly on the radio. \"I want to kiss the rain, and your sorrow, from your hair....\"\n\n\"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,\" Total murmured. \"That kid can actually carry a tune.\"\n\nAngel sat back on her lounge chair and grinned. The reporters were eating this up, taking pictures, yelling questions. She was going to ask for more money.\n\nGazzy jumped up and stood behind Dylan, adding a beat box layer to the song. Iggy began drumming on a table with his hands. Nudge began singing backup and harmony, the way Angel had heard her do a million times, along with the radio.\n\n\"Give me your pain, I can take it.\" Dylan jumped up on a bench by the pool and spread his wings. \"Give me your heart, I won't break it.\"\n\n\"I won't breeeaak it,\" Nudge echoed, her voice sounding great with Dylan's.\n\nTotal edged out from under the table and threw back his head to join in, but Angel tapped him with her foot. He glared at her. \"Don't overshadow the others,\" Angel whispered. \"Let them have this.\" Total's glare faded and he nodded magnanimously.\n\nProblem averted, and they sounded dang good, Angel thought. What if... they became a family band? Like in _The Sound of Music_? Angel pictured them becoming rich and famous\u2014famous for something other than being freaks. Maybe her plan to bring the flock into \"a new era of peace and prosperity,\" as her Voice had called it, was really going to work.\n\nBut if it was such a great idea, why was she feeling so _sick?_\n\nShe looked at the others. Their song was winding down, and they were smiling and bowing to the cheering crowd... but Nudge looked pale.\n\n\"Jeb? Could you get rid of the reporters? We need to rest before the concert tonight.\" Being a leader was coming naturally, she had to admit. She knew how to delegate\u2014unlike Max, who only knew how to give orders.\n\n\"Okay, that's enough for now,\" Jeb said, starting to wave the reporters away. He motioned to the security team to clear the area, and they went into action.\n\n\"I feel like crap,\" complained Gazzy. \"And it's not my digestive system this time.\"\n\n\"Tell me about it. I have the spins,\" said Nudge, sinking onto her chair and closing her eyes.\n\n\"I feel like I ate some rotten escargot. So much for the joys of room service,\" Total grumbled, lying down with his head next to Akila's paws. His lady friend seemed fine.\n\n\"Try not to yak in the pool,\" Angel advised, even though she was having a hard time not doing it herself. \"We need to make a good impression.\"\n\nJeb felt their foreheads, the way he had a long time ago. \"No fever. But you all feel bad? What did you have for lunch? Did you all eat the same thing?\"\n\n\"Uh-oh,\" said Gazzy, but Angel was so nauseated she didn't have time to leap to a safe distance, or grab a gas mask.\n\n_Bbbbbrrrrrrrttthhhhhhttttttt._\n\n\"Mother of God, no!\" Total cried, doing a fast belly-crawl to the pool and throwing himself in. \"You said it wasn't your digestive system!\"\n\n\"What was that?\" Dylan asked. He winced and threw an arm over his nose and mouth. \"Another nerve gas bomb?\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" Gazzy said miserably, but he couldn't help a tiny grin.\n\nNudge was clawing at a stack of towels to cover her face.\n\n\"Nice one, Gaz,\" said Iggy. \"You know, I just thought of something: It's only us who're sick. Not the normal ones, like Jeb and Akila\u2014only the recombined ones.\"\n\n\"Wait\u2014that was Gazzy? Is that why you call him... Oh, crap,\" said Dylan weakly.\n\nAngel stood up, but her balance was a little off. \"I think we should all...,\" she began, and then the world faded and went topsy-turvy, before everything went black. \n\n#\n\nTHE WAITRESS at the all-day breakfast buffet brought me four more pancakes, looking at me doubtfully.\n\n\"Yay, thanks,\" I said, making room on my plate. \"You want that last sausage?\" I said to Fang.\n\nHe pushed it over to me. \"Okay, what's wrong?\"\n\nI quit chewing. \"What?\"\n\n\"You hardly got any sleep last night, your flying has been erratic and clumsy all day, and you're slowing down after only twelve pancakes. What's on your mind?\"\n\n\"You really do know me,\" I said, and swallowed. Although\u2014\"Wait a minute. My flying was clumsy? I don't think so.\"\n\nFang grinned at me, with predictable heart-fluttery results.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said. I poured myself a lake of maple syrup and started pushing triangular rafts of pancake into it. \"I've been thinking. Angel said that you were gonna die. Then Dylan shows up, Mr. Perfect. Jeb comes back into our lives. Angel boots me out of the flock. Dr. God is now everywhere, and there's someone shooting at us. What if Angel and Dr. G-H are working together? Or he's controlling her somehow?\"\n\nFang stared at me blankly and then looked out the window.\n\n\"What if it's all part of some larger plan?\" I continued, keeping my voice down. \"Like, someone's trying to split up the flock. Or Jeb is trying to take over again, and can't with me there. Or you,\" I amended. As a rock-solid hypothesis\u2014ha-ha\u2014it wasn't much.\n\nFang pushed food around on his plate. \"Mr. Perfect?\" was his only comment.\n\n\"What? Oh.\" My stomach knotted. \"No\u2014I mean, it's just like he's a Ken doll or something. Mutant Ken, with wings. Like he was designed to be...\"\n\n\"Perfect?\" Fang's gaze was level.\n\n\" _Someone's_ idea of perfect,\" I said. \"Not _mine,_ obviously.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Fang. Awkward silence. \"Or... it could all just be a bunch of weird stuff happening for no reason. Here's the non-conspiracy-theory version: Dr. God is just an egomaniac. Angel is just another one in the making. Jeb and Dylan are just a couple of losers looking for a family. And maybe you were just a pain-in-the-butt leader and the kids kicked you out for good reason.\"\n\nMy eyebrows rose, and Fang gave me a lopsided grin before I could shoot him down.\n\n\"Or maybe not,\" he admitted. \"Maybe we should call, check in?\"\n\n\"I still feel responsible for them.\" I sighed. \"Even though they're, you know, all backstabbing little ingrates.\"\n\nFang nodded, and his too-long black hair swished like silk.\n\n\"I'll call Nudge,\" I decided. \"She seemed kind of the least turncoaty.\"\n\nHolding my breath, I dialed Nudge's number. If she hung up on me or told me not to call anymore, it would be very bad. I hesitated, thinking this through.\n\n\"Just hit send,\" said Fang.\n\nSo I did. It rang for a long time. What were they do\u2014\n\n\"Hello?\" Nudge sounded so normal I wanted to cry.\n\n\"Hey, Nudge. It's me.\" I cleared my throat and braced myself. There was a lot of noise on her end, people talking, a TV blaring. I heard Gazzy laughing in the background. \" 'Ssup?\"\n\n\"Max!\" Nudge sounded thrilled to hear from me. \"Max, hi! Where are you?\"\n\nThat was weird. She knew I wouldn't say anything over the phone. \"Where are _you?_ \" I asked as a test.\n\n\"LA!\" she said. \"We're going to a party with celebrities!\"\n\n\"Huh. Um, are you okay?\"\n\n\"We all had, like, stomach flu earlier. But now we're fine. I miss you! Oops, limo's here! Gotta go. Love you! Call ya later!\" She hung up.\n\nI looked at Fang. \"They're fine. Going to a party with celebrities in LA. Limo was there to pick them up.\"\n\nFang looked at me. \"Trap?\"\n\nI nodded. \"Oh, yeah. Trap.\"\n\n#\n\nTHE LIMO PULLED to a stop outside Furioso, the hottest, most exclusive restaurant in Los Angeles. Needless to say, it wasn't dog friendly, so the canines had stayed back at the hotel. There was a crowd of people on the sidewalk.\n\nThe flock gazed out the darkened windows of the limo. This was pretty much the farthest situation from anything that Max would have agreed to. They were surrounded, trapped in a car driven by a stranger, with tons of people taking pictures.\n\n\"Are you sure this is a good idea?\" Jeb asked.\n\nThat was enough to decide it for Angel. \"Yep. It's showtime, folks,\" she said, popping her door open. The flock heard murmurs ripple through the crowd. Then people were jostling, trying to get closer, trying to see them as they spilled out of the limo.\n\n\"It's the bird kids!\" Flashes went off like a hundred tiny fireworks.\n\nNudge gave a big smile, posing for the cameras. \"Hello,\" she said, changing her angles. Dylan looked down at first but couldn't help giving shy smiles to the adoring onlookers. Gazzy bounced up and down and waved.\n\n\"Get me out of here,\" said Iggy, whose superior sensory skills normally made him comfortable weaving his way through any scene of chaos. \"This is giving me the willies.\"\n\nAngel looked at him, surprised. \"Everything is fine,\" she said firmly. \"Let's go inside.\" The crowd parted around her as if she had waved a magic wand. With her enhanced raptor vision, Angel could see everything in the smoky darkness as they weaved through the restaurant.\n\nTheir contact, a talk show host named Madeline Hammond, ran forward, her hands out.\n\n\"Kids!\" she said, beaming a thousand-watt smile. \"Thanks so much for coming! Hey, give us a little room, will ya?\" she called to the crowd, and people edged back. \"Welcome to the pre-party! Isn't this great? The Harrells are going to play later, and Beth Duncraft and Fala Cochran are here.\" Her gaze fell on Dylan just then, and she looked up into his turquoise eyes. \"Oh, my goodness,\" she said slowly. \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"I'm Dylan,\" he said. \"The new bird kid on the block.\"\n\nMadeline looked stunned, then recovered herself, turning to speak to the crowd. \"They sure can make 'em, right, folks? Is this guy gorgeous or what?\" The crowd roared its approval. Madeline smiled. \"All of you are just fantastic!\"\n\nNudge squealed with delight. She turned and posed again, waving.\n\n\"Let me introduce you to some people,\" said Madeline Hammond, and for the next twenty minutes, Angel was absorbed in a blur of smiles and air kisses and shaking hands. But with every passing moment, noises seemed to grow louder, colors seemed to get brighter, and her skin felt more and more itchy and tight.\n\nShe glanced at Nudge, who was beaming up into the face of a boy currently starring in a popular sitcom. He looked about sixteen, and Angel grinned, wondering if he knew that, despite her height, Nudge was only elev\u2014twelve.\n\n\"And how did you learn to fly?\" a reporter asked Dylan.\n\n\"I got pushed off a roof,\" he said truthfully. The crowd laughed, eating him up.\n\nIn the darkness, Angel saw Gazzy and Iggy sitting at the restaurant's bar, taking turns flicking almonds into glasses as if it were an advanced game of tiddlywinks. Several Hollywood writer-producer types seemed to be regressing to childhood as they joined the competition, guffawing with the boys and making a scene.\n\nDylan was surrounded by slinky, admiring girls, some of whom Angel recognized from TV. He was smiling, talking, turning on his own star quality, but Angel thought his expression looked strained, and his skin pale and clammy.\n\nDylan + pale skin =? _Does not compute._\n\nAnd that's when it occurred to her. Dylan always looked perfect. Even when he'd just been shredded by Erasers.\n\nThere was something very wrong with him. With all of them.\n\nThat was when Angel looked down at her hands, seeing them clearly in the dim light. And she screamed.\n\n#\n\n\"MA'AM, YOU SHOULD SEE THIS.\" The tech nervously pointed at the surveillance screen.\n\nThe head of information stared at the face of Subject 6. It was covered with huge oozing pustules, like boils. The subject was crying, even as she tried to keep from scratching her skin raw. There was much activity in the area as the other subjects started to gather around number 6.\n\n\"Have you seen Twenty-two yet?\" the head asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" the tech replied grimly, just as the subject in question came into view. The tech enhanced the night-vision capabilities of the camera. Subject 22 was indeed also covered with the plaguelike skin lesions.\n\n\"Another malfunction. Unbelievable,\" the head of information whispered. \"This couldn't have been from the reactant. It was tested a hundred times. We know the effect it has. It couldn't have done this. In fact\u2014I believe it was tested on Twenty-two himself when he was six months old. Check the records on that before I inform the doctor.\"\n\nThe tech nodded.\n\n\"ASAP,\" the head pressed. \"The doctor is going to be very, very upset when he\u2014\" She broke off and squinted at the screen. There seemed to be some kind of commotion. People pressing together, people yelling.\n\n\"What's going on now?\"\n\nThe tech turned up the volume and tried refocusing the camera. \"It may be that one of the subjects just collapsed? I'm not sure. Let me come in closer....\"\n\n\"We have to get field reports!\" the head yelled, pulling out her phone to mobilize the street team. \"This could be turning into an emergency scenario. We are not going to lose any of the subjects on my watch.\" \n\n#\n\nI'M NOT CLAIRVOYANT or anything. I can't read minds or pick up on stray thoughts the way Angel can. But I know where Los Angeles is, and I can read a huge blinking sign that says \"Bird kids here tonight! Come meet the flock! Get your tickets at TicketsPlus!\"\n\nI pointed, and Fang nodded. \"It's a thin clue, but I say we follow it,\" I said. We angled downward, avoiding cell towers and trying not to breathe in the smog, which you could have cut with a knife and spread on toast. Not that you'd want to.\n\nThe sign was perched atop a four-story building that looked as if it had once been a movie theater. On the ground floor was a restaurant called Furioso. Signs on the sidewalk proclaimed the opportunity to talk to \"Nature's Marvels, Today Only.\"\n\n\" _Nature_ had nothing to do with it,\" I muttered.\n\n\"Good thing the kids are keeping a low profile,\" Fang commented.\n\nAs we got closer to Furioso, people started streaming out the front doors, yelling and screaming. Burly bouncers were trying to control them, but no one can withstand the kick of a Jimmy Choo stiletto in the shin.\n\nWe waited a moment, but the flock wasn't among the escapees. Which meant they were inside. I didn't even have to think, just dived between designer-clad bodies.\n\n\"No one goes in!\" a bouncer said, looming large in front of me. \"Everyone's clearing out!\"\n\n\"We've got VIP passes,\" I told him. Fang and I spread our wings. \"Up and away!\" We catapulted into the air and flew right over him as he looked up at us in a daze.\n\nAfter that, LA's young and restless got out of our way.\n\nInside, it was dark enough to hide most face-lifts, but it took only a moment to locate the flock\u2014they were standing by the one light source in the place. I also spotted Jeb's sandy hair. At the same time, I took in the fact that three people dressed in black were converging on the flock, and they didn't look like hospitality associates.\n\nI nodded at Fang, and he broke away, circling behind them as I pulled back into the shadows. Nudge sniffled and caught sight of me. I was shocked to see that her eyes were almost swollen shut. I glimpsed the others' faces and noticed weird spots and swelling. WTH?\n\nI put a finger to my lips, then circled it in the air. Nudge nodded almost imperceptibly, reaching behind her to tap Iggy's hand twice. He tapped Gazzy's hand twice, and Gazzy stopped blinking back tears and went quietly on alert.\n\nSo pretty much everyone was already primed by the time the biggest guy reached Jeb, pulled a gun out of his coat, and jabbed it into Jeb's side.\n\n\"Nobody move!\" the guy barked. \"You're all going to come with us! Somebody wants to see you.\"\n\n\"I don't think anyone wants to see us looking like _this,_ \" said Dylan.\n\nThe woman closest to him whirled, also pulling out a gun. In less time than it takes to tell, Dylan chopped the gun out of her hand, then grabbed her, locking her arms behind her back. So smoothly, so professionally, it was almost as though he had known she was coming.\n\nImmediately, I swept my foot under the third one's shoes, knocking him off balance, then clapped my hands hard over his ears. He shrieked in pain as his eardrums popped, and he fell. I planted my foot firmly on his neck, ready to stomp if he moved a muscle.\n\nMeanwhile...\n\nAlmost as if in slow motion...\n\nThe gun skidded across the floor. And guess which of us had her bird kid claws all over that grisly weapon in the blink of an eye?\n\nYou got it. The scary seven-year-old with a leadership complex.\n\nHaving been subjected to the threat of guns way too many times in our short lives, the flock were not fans of them. Didn't touch them, didn't believe in them, didn't want anything to do with them. And, fortunately, didn't have a shred of experience using them.\n\nSo looking at Angel holding a gun? It wasn't just terrifying. It was tragic. I felt crushed by the horror of what our lives had come to.\n\nMy sweet little Angel, looking like a murderer in a pink party dress.\n\nI might say this a lot, but: This was like my worst nightmare. For real this time.\n\nBut then it got worse.\n\nBecause when Angel lifted the gun, she pointed it at me.\n\n#\n\n\"NOBODY MOVES UNTIL I TELL them to,\" Angel said calmly, as if she'd been doing this\u2014or at least watching R-rated Mafia movies after I'd gone to sleep\u2014her whole life.\n\nI must admit, as a tactic the shock factor was super effective. Everyone was frozen with disbelief. For a moment, it was as if we were all on the same team, trying to talk a psycho down from the ledge. Every single one of us wanted that gun out of that child's hands.\n\nThe scary thing was, she didn't look like a child anymore. She looked very, very focused. And I was very, very focused on the barrel of the gun.\n\n\"Put it down,\" the guy holding Jeb told her. \"You don't know what you're doing.\"\n\n\"Yes, she does,\" said Dylan seriously.\n\n\"Well, then, what does she _think_ she's doing?\" the woman he had captive asked through clenched teeth.\n\n\"Okay, so what happens next is that everyone shuts up and listens to what I have to say,\" Angel demanded.\n\nTell me to shut up, and I speak. \"I'm listening, Angel. I simply cannot _wait_ to hear this one.\"\n\nShe gave me a look. _Listen to me, Max_.\n\n\"One by one, and only when I say,\" Angel began, \"the grown-ups will turn around and walk away without hurting us. And if you don't do it, I'll pull the trigger. And then what happens?\"\n\n\"You'll kill Max,\" Fang said hoarsely.\n\n\"Right.\" Her grip, her arm, didn't waver. \"And you grown-ups know as well as I do that Max is the prize. The only prize that really matters to your boss. You know exactly who I'm talking about. He would be very, very mad if she died and it was your fault, wouldn't he? That would be very, very bad for you. Wouldn't it?\"\n\n\"You wouldn't kill a member of your own flock. You'd never do it!\" the guy whose neck was under my foot cried from the floor.\n\n\"Is that what you think?\" Angel smiled. \"Max, what do you think?\"\n\nI only needed to consider for a millisecond. \"No question about it,\" I said, staring her down. \"She would do it.\"\n\n\"Give us one good reason why we should believe that!\" squawked Dylan's captive.\n\n\"In case you guys didn't catch last week's episode, I'm out of the flock,\" I informed them, letting my voice shake as much as possible. \"Angel has no allegiance to me. She's wanted me gone for a long time. And in case you didn't catch all of the episodes from the past year, Angel is... unbalanced.\"\n\n\"Untrustworthy,\" Fang seconded.\n\n\"Unpredictable,\" Jeb added.\n\n\"Dangerous,\" Dylan chimed in. The other kids were, thankfully, too scared to speak up.\n\n\"Right,\" Angel said slowly. \"That's just the word I would use. But I think everyone understands that now. So, Dylan, you can let your lady there go. She's under control. Nice and easy, ma'am. Just turn around and walk away.\"\n\nAs Dylan slowly loosened his grip, the woman's eyes glazed over, and zombie-like, she headed out of the restaurant. Angel's gaze was back on me now, strong and steady.\n\n\"Max, I think the gentleman under your foot is ready now. Bye-bye. Leave. Don't ever come looking for us again,\" she told him firmly.\n\nEven after seeing Angel in action all these years, I was still awed by her powers as I lifted my foot and watched the man peel himself from the floor and stumble out.\n\n\"And finally, you, sir, with the gun. You're going to leave now without hurting any of us bird kids. Go home and forget everything that just happened. Okay?\"\n\n\"Okay,\" he said, with a bizarre expression on his face.\n\nThen he pulled the trigger.\n\nThere was a pop, and Jeb collapsed. The rest of us gasped in horror.\n\n\"I didn't hurt any of you bird kids,\" he said emotionlessly. \"Just like you said.\"\n\nLooking dazed, he dropped his gun to the floor and ran out.\n\n#\n\nJEB ALWAYS SAID HE'D TAKE a bullet for us. Now that he had, it significantly changed my sense of superiority over him. If he died, I would have some major soul-searching to do. Advice: Don't wait until someone you have issues with\u2014especially someone you're related to\u2014gets _shot_ before you work it out.\n\nFortunately, the bullet seemed to have missed the important parts, but he'd lost a lot of blood, so there was no way we could avoid the dreaded hospital. I'd rather be in a zoo. Instead I was in a waiting room, taking out my frustrations on a vending machine that wasn't working. I really needed some chocolate.\n\n\"Max!\" I heard someone call. I felt my stomach unknot slightly.\n\n\"Mom!\" I hurried to her, and we hugged. I'm not a huggy person, but her hugs were pretty much the best hugs on earth.\n\n\"Jeb's out of surgery,\" she said. \"It looks like he'll be fine.\"\n\nFang and I led my mom to a room where the rest of the flock was under observation. The \"agents\" that Angel had hired had set up their private security guys outside the door\u2014they didn't want word of this leaking out. These kids were no longer marketable.\n\n\"Dr. Martinez!\" Nudge said, managing a weak smile. Mom was good about not grimacing. Nudge's skin looked like chocolate pudding bubbling in a pot on the stove. The rest looked like they had been dipped in a cauldron of lye. Doctors had swabbed the flock's sores, taken blood, taken their temperatures\u2014but hadn't found squat.\n\n\"Oh, my gosh, Nudge,\" my mom said gently. She smoothed some of Nudge's corkscrew curls off her forehead, then went around and said hi to everyone else.\n\n\"I'm Dylan,\" Dylan said when she paused by his bed, looking confused.\n\n\"He's the latest, um, acquisition,\" I explained weakly. Even with his messed-up skin, he still looked like he'd been designed by Gods R Us. Except right now it was Trolls R Us. But, like, a troll who would totally be a pinup in all the troll teen magazines.\n\n\"Hi, Dylan,\" my mom said. \"I'm Valencia Martinez, Max's mom.\"\n\nDylan's puffy eyes widened. \"You have a _mother?_ \" he asked me. \"Wow. I had no idea. Do you have a father too, then?\"\n\nBad, bad question. My mom quickly changed the subject. \"You know, I read about a case where someone poisoned a spy with a radioactive element,\" she said. \"The pictures I saw kind of looked like this.\"\n\n\"Oh, holy crap,\" I said, putting my hand to my mouth.\n\n\"It's not radiation poisoning,\" said a voice.\n\n\"Jeb!\" My mom went over and closed the door behind him.\n\n\"How do you know?\" I demanded of Jeb. \"Did you have something to do with this?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Jeb. He was wearing a hospital gown, open in the back, and I hoped he was enjoying the breeze. An IV dripped into his arm, and he had wheeled its little stand in with him. He looked pale and weak\u2014after all, he _had_ taken a bullet for us. Maybe I should be a _tad_ less accusatory.\n\n\"No,\" he repeated. \"And I hope I'm wrong, but I think it's an... accelerator of some kind. A genetic accelerator.\"\n\n\"What the heck is that?\" Gazzy asked.\n\nJeb paused. \"Well... it's something that would react with your genes. Basically introducing new mutations and speeding up mutations you already have. I think all of us got dosed, except maybe Max and Fang, because they were gone. But it's having an effect only on you, whose DNA has already been modified.\"\n\nThere was an appalled silence. I'd been gone for, like, two days, and in that time, everything had completely careened out of control.\n\n\"But what if it helps us become even _better?_ \" Angel said, ever the creepy optimist. Her normally beautiful face looked like a personal-size pizza with eyes. \"We could be like superheroes!\"\n\n\"Yeah, so far that's working out well for you,\" I said, gesturing to everyone's ruined skin. \"Do you have any idea who would\u2014\" I stopped as the obvious answer came to me. \"Dr. Seersucker.\"\n\nAngel sat up. \"Dr. Gunther-Hagen is really brilliant, Max.\"\n\n\"You want to be accelerated? Fine. But you have no idea what's going to happen to you next. We already know that your good doctor's self-healing genetics can have some pretty scary side effects.\"\n\nAngel frowned, and Dylan looked concerned. I'd forgotten he had been gifted with Dr. Gunther-Hagen's magic spit.\n\nMy mom turned to Jeb, who was leaning against a wall, looking gray. \"Is there any way to know what will happen to them? How toxic is it? Is it deadly? Is there any way to get it out of their systems?\"\n\n\"Um, not really, I'm not sure, I don't think so, and I doubt it,\" said Jeb, trying to answer all her questions. \"My guess is that this initial bad reaction might be the shock of having it introduced to their systems. I'm hoping that once it's absorbed, these side effects will go away.\"\n\n\"This was someone conducting an experiment,\" Fang said slowly. Frowning, he turned to Jeb. \"Someone who'd want to be there to see the results.\"\n\nJeb held up a hand. \"Don't even go there, Fang. The accelerant would have had to be in a shared source\u2014say, in the air or water at the house. I would have been affected too.\"\n\n\"But it wouldn't affect you because you're normal,\" Fang objected. \"You said so yourself.\"\n\n\"That's just a theory,\" Jeb said. \"This was not my doing.\"\n\nMy mom interjected. \"Let's focus on the important thing here. Is there a way to undo this?\"\n\nJeb shook his head. \"If I'm right, it would have been designed to start binding to their DNA immediately, inserting its enzymes and amino acids directly into their chromosomes.\"\n\nI sank down onto a hard plastic chair. \"Oh, my God.\"\n\n\"This could give us cancer!\" Nudge said, blinking back tears.\n\n\"Or turn us into, like, pterodactyls or something,\" said Gazzy. \"It wouldn't take much.\" He looked stoic.\n\nJeb sighed. \"We should contact Gunther-Hagen to see if he admits to any of this\u2014or even if he won't admit it, maybe he'll give us clues as to what it is.\"\n\nThe idea of contacting the doc for _help_ was totally crazy to me. Excuse me, but hadn't Jeb just been _shot_ by one of the man's employees?\n\n\"I would vote to get out of here, get to a safe house, and see what happens over the next twenty-four hours,\" I suggested.\n\n\"I'll call a contact at the CSM,\" said my mom, reaching for her phone. \"He'll be able to help us find a place.\"\n\nBut I had only one real desire right then: to go back to Colorado and drink the water. If my flock was going through this, I needed to go through it too. \n\n# [BOOK   \nFOUR](Fang_toc.html#part-4)\n\n[**THE TOTALLY, COMPLETELY  \nUNTHINKABLE**](Fang_toc.html#part-4)\n\n#\n\nTOTAL WAS GLAD TO SEE us all again. His own horrible skin lesions were somewhat disguised by his black fur, but he was definitely suffering the same effects.\n\n\"I feel like crap!\" he said, once we were settled at the new safe house. \"At first I thought I'd gotten some bad shrimp dip, but this is way beyond that.\"\n\n\"How's Akila?\" I asked. \"She seem okay?\"\n\n\"Yes, thank God.\" His small black eyes glittered. \"Which reminds me. I've got some big news\u2014\"\n\n\"Max? Come look at this sunset,\" said Dylan. I'd been avoiding him ever since we got here, even though I'd felt his eyes on me whenever we were in the same room. Nudge had told me he was a great singer and could totally be a star, on top of being a great fighter who got along swimmingly with the rest of the flock.\n\nWithout meaning to, I glanced across the room at Fang, who'd been talking to Gazzy and Iggy. His gaze was lasered in on me.\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure it's great,\" I said to Dylan lamely. The picture window showed the low mountains off in the distance, and we could see a bit of the ocean if we leaned way to the left on the balcony.\n\n\"You don't know what you're missing,\" said Dylan, a wistful smile on his slightly less troll-like face. \"But I'd understand if you want to keep your distance from\"\u2014he pointed at himself\u2014\"this mess.\"\n\n\"Can't you, like, put some magic spit on it and make it all better?\" I asked, only half joking.\n\n\"Tried it already.\" He chuckled. \"I guess even the doc's magic doesn't work on bad teenage complexions. I'm doomed.\"\n\nThe irony of Dylan complaining about his usually perfect skin was not lost on me. I laughed, then smothered it, not willing to be sucked into his charm.\n\nThe rest of the flock was starting to seem better too, as Jeb had predicted. They had more energy, and their skin looked less awful. If Jeb was right, their systems were absorbing the reactant, binding it to their genes, and soon it would be normal, a part of them. Greeaaaat. I kept waiting for antlers to pop out of their heads or for them to start understanding Akila when she barked. I mean, what the heck was going to happen to them?\n\nThe next day the skin lesions were virtually gone. But we hardly even noticed because, lo and behold, something else was gone too.\n\nAngel.\n\nDo you want to join me in the next word? Okay, everyone all together now:\n\n_Again_.\n\nIt wasn't like the other times, when we had to mobilize our forces and piece together clues and leap out into the air on a rescue mission.\n\nThis time, we only had to read the note.\n\n_Dear Flock and Max and Dr. Martinez and Jeb and Dylan,_\n\n_You guys are wrong about Dr. Hans. He wants to help us, and for us to be the best we can be. You don't trust him because you don't trust anybody. But I want to be more powerful. I want to know what he's working on. I've gone to work with him. Please don't follow me. Things will only get messy if you do._\n\n_Love,_\n\n_Angel_\n\n_P.S. I just want to remind you that Fang's time is about up. Him being there puts the rest of the flock in danger. I'm sorry, Fang._\n\n#\n\n\"CAN'T WE PUT a boot on her, like a little car?\" Gazzy asked, rubbing his hair in frustration so that it stood straight up.\n\n\"Yeah, maybe we should start locking her in at night,\" I said wryly.\n\n\"Could she have been... kidnapped?\" my mom asked.\n\nWe all quickly looked around. There was no sign of disturbance; everything was still locked. And the note was in Angel's handwriting.\n\n\"No, I think she decided to go,\" I said. \"As much as I wish that weren't true.\"\n\n\"What does she mean about Fang's time being up?\" Jeb asked.\n\n\"She said that in Africa,\" said Nudge. \"She said Fang was gonna die.\"\n\n\"Die?\" My mom's eyes widened.\n\n\"She was just trying to get attention,\" said Fang. \"It doesn't mean anything.\"\n\nI suddenly had a thought, one of those awful thoughts that you hate right away and yet you can't ever unthink it. I felt my heart start to pound as I stood up.\n\n\"Fang? Let me see the back of your neck.\"\n\nThose of us who graduated from (or, I should say, _escaped_ from) the School have expiration dates, like milk. We first noticed them on some Erasers, after they had... expired. Dates, like little tattoos, showed up on the backs of their necks. They seem to become visible about a week, maybe less, before the built-in expiration gene kicks in. Do we have long, full lives ahead of us, or are we living on borrowed time? No clue. It makes retirement planning, like, impossible.\n\nFang stood up. In the past year he'd gotten taller than I was, so I had to stand on tiptoe a bit to see his neck. I didn't want to look\u2014didn't want to know. I couldn't even let myself think of what it would mean if I saw a date there.\n\nBut I'm not a coward. So I brushed his black silky hair off the smooth skin of his neck\u2014the same neck I had kissed not long ago. I could smell his clean Fang smell, the one he inexplicably had even when he was noticeably filthy and covered in gore.\n\nAnd I looked.\n\nAnd saw... just smooth, plain, tan Fang skin. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.\n\n\"No date,\" I quickly told the others, and they visibly relaxed.\n\n\"Do I have a date?\" Dylan's quiet voice almost made me jump\u2014I'd forgotten that he was there.\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said. \"You were made by different people, I think.\"\n\nUncertainty played across his once-again-gorgeous face.\n\nI took pity on him. \"I could... look. I guess.\"\n\nHe came to stand close to me, and turned his back. His streaky blond hair wasn't as long as Fang's, but I still had to push it out of the way. And tug down a tiny bit on the neck of his maroon T-shirt. I hadn't been this close to Dylan before, and I realized that he smelled good in a completely different way. Clean. Spicy.\n\nThen I realized what I was thinking, and my cheeks burned. I took a fast look at his neck and snatched my hands away. \"No date. Not that that means anything.\"\n\n\"At least you don't have one,\" said my mom. \"We know what having one means; we don't know what not having one means.\"\n\nStill, Angel's note had reignited the fears I'd tried to bury. What if all of the attacks in recent days had been meant for Fang? The Eraser attack, the Cirque shooter, the Furioso incident\u2014what if all of these had been designed to get Fang? I remembered how Dylan had chopped the woman's gun out of her hand at the restaurant.\n\nHe just might have saved Fang's life.\n\n#\n\n\"WHERE DOES DR. GOD hang out?\" I asked. \"Where exactly has Angel gone? How did she know where to find him?\"\n\nNudge headed to our computer. \"On it.\"\n\n\"I'll go with you,\" Fang told me, already starting to load his pockets with knives, throwing stars, Snickers bars.\n\n\"No,\" I said, trying to sound calm. \"I'll go by myself.\"\n\nHe straightened up, and let me tell you, it was all I could do not to crumble and beg him to come with me. Any fight was possible with Fang as my backup. Any trip was more fun. But what if this was all designed to get _him?_ I just didn't know. I couldn't take that chance. The thought of anything happening to Fang... it was much worse than thinking of anything happening to me.\n\nFang, typically, didn't start pelting me with questions. Instead he looked at me, cocked his head slightly, and thought things through.\n\n\"You think you'll have more chance of success without me?\" he asked mildly.\n\n\"No,\" I answered honestly. \"Of course not. But I'm willing to risk me. I'm not willing to risk you.\"\n\nHe opened his mouth to start arguing, but I held up my hand. \"Fang, we don't know what this whole 'Fang's time is up' thing is about. But if it turns out that Angel's doing _this_ as part of _that,_ then I don't want to make it easy for them. You know?\"\n\nI turned to Jeb. After the shooting incident, I felt I had to trust him more. \"Are you going to be staying here for a while?\" I asked him.\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"You can't go by yourself, Max,\" said Dylan.\n\nI blinked. I mean, I don't take direction from people I _love,_ so direction from people I've practically just met? Not likely.\n\n\"Um, I found an address in Malibu, weirdly enough,\" said Nudge.\n\n\"Malibu?\" I frowned. \"That's practically next door.\"\n\n\"Max, what if something happens to you?\" Dylan asked.\n\nI ignored him and turned back to Jeb. \"If Fang is in any way harmed while I'm gone\u2014if he gets a _hangnail_ \u2014you won't see another morning. Are we clear on that?\"\n\nFang crossed his arms over his chest. \"This is ridiculous. I've never needed a babysitter.\"\n\n\"Not a babysitter\u2014just backup,\" I told him. \"Iggy, Nudge, and Gazzy are also on duty here. But I don't think I'll be gone long.\"\n\nI moved to leave, and Dylan actually grabbed my shoulders. I was so surprised that I forgot to karate-chop his elbows and break his arms.\n\n\"I don't want anything to happen to you,\" he said urgently.\n\n\"What you want does not matter here,\" I said slowly and carefully. I hoped Dylan was sensitive enough to read between the lines, to the subtext of: _Let go of me or I'll kill you._\n\nHe let go of me. Fang was looking at him with narrowed eyes. I didn't have time for this.\n\n\"Okay, later,\" I said, and strode off to save the day, once again. I hoped.\n\n#\n\nDR. HANS GUNTHER-HAGEN left his computer console and headed out to the terrace overlooking the ocean.\n\n\"Max is on the way,\" he said. \"I thought it would take longer for her to find this house.\"\n\n\"Nah,\" said Angel, dunking a strawberry into her nonalcoholic strawberry daiquiri. \"They're totally on top of the research, especially with that government computer.\"\n\n\"Government computer?\"\n\n\"Yeah. From the CIA or the NSA or something,\" Angel said. She lay back on her patio lounger and adjusted her sunglasses. Her pure white wings were spread out to the sides, about nine feet across. The sunlight warmed the feathers, soaking in to heat the porous, light bones. It felt fantastic.\n\n\"She should be here quite soon,\" said Dr. Hans. He shaded his eyes and searched the sky, as if even now he'd be able to see her tiny silhouette against the blue.\n\n\"Yeah,\" said Angel, setting down her drink and closing her eyes. \"I told you.\"\n\nShe listened to the doctor walk away, hearing every nuance of his steps. She smiled to herself but made sure to keep it off her face. This was why Max liked being the leader, she thought. It was amazing to figure out a plan and then have it work, just watch it all start to fall into place. It was like playing chess, but with real people. And the endgame was about to start. \n\n#\n\nMALIBU WAS BUILT on cliffs next to the Pacific Ocean. There was a narrow strip of dark tan sand, then a thin row of houses, then the Pacific Coast Highway, then cliffs dotted with more houses. I have one word, people: _earthquake_. I mean, hello, San Andreas Fault? Those houses would be toast crumbs if the big one hit.\n\nDr. Gunther-Hagen's house was overlooking the beach\u2014I recognized it from the satellite photos Nudge had found. I held my breath and dropped down onto his terrace, hoping everyone around had their eyes glued to the hypnotic waves and the even more hypnotic all-girl beach volleyball competition taking place down on the sand.\n\nThe first thing I saw\u2014well, after a quick sweep to check out security teams, cameras, razor wire, etc.\u2014was Angel, lounging on a... lounger.\n\n\"Hi, Max,\" she said, pushing her shades up onto her curls.\n\n\"I hope you're wearing sunscreen,\" I said. \"You're gonna have hella wrinkles by the time you're ten.\"\n\n\"Want some daiquiri?\" she offered, pointing at a blender.\n\n\"Is it traitor flavored?\" I asked.\n\nAngel sighed and sat up as the sliding glass doors opened. Dr. Hans Gunther-Hagen came out, dressed in a crisp white linen suit. He smiled and held out his hands to me.\n\n\"Maximum!\" he said. \"I'm so glad you've come to join us.\"\n\n\"Whoa, let's get one thing straight, Hansie,\" I said, keeping a healthy distance from him. \"I came here for answers. I'm not joining nobody.\"\n\n\"That's a double negative, Max,\" Angel noted. If I was the one who had taught her grammar, I now regretted it.\n\n\"Max, please, sit down,\" said Dr. G-H. He gestured to a patio chair. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at him.\n\n\"What are you using Angel for?\" I asked. \"And what's Fang got to do with it?\"\n\n\"Max,\" said Angel, \"there isn't much time left for the world as we know it. If we want to survive, we have to join Dr. Hans and work with him.\"\n\n\"I'm going to take my chances surviving without him,\" I told her. \"Didn't you read your Evil-Scientist Manual? I'm pretty sure this whole setup was mentioned on page seventy-eight.\"\n\n\"You can't joke about this, Max,\" Angel said earnestly, and I refrained from pointing out that I just had. \"You have your Voice, and I have mine. We have to listen to them.\"\n\n\"I don't know about _your_ so-called Voice, Angel, but if it's anything like mine, I can tell you this,\" I said. \"We can _learn_ from them, if they don't seem nuts, but we're still supposed to be making our own decisions. Trust me on this.\"\n\n\"Max, things are going to get bad very soon,\" said Dr. Hans. \"We'll have to function in a world that we can barely imagine\u2014a frightening and primitive one. But there's still time to save yourself. You and the rest of the flock. It's not too late.\"\n\n\"Yeah, and all I have to do is divorce myself from any ethical standards whatsoever and jump onto the Untrustworthy Control Freak bandwagon,\" I said. \"No, thanks.\"\n\n\"All you _have_ to do is let go of Fang,\" said Dr. G-H. \"Do that, and everyone else survives.\"\n\nI stared at him. \"No can do, Hans. Nonnegotiable.\"\n\n\"Are you saying you'd let Fang and the others _die_ just because you're being stubborn? Just because you won't accept Dylan instead? Is he not a worthy suitor for our Maximum Ride? Tell me, Max: what's wrong with him?\"\n\nWell. He had me there. \"He's too... clean?\" I offered weakly.\n\nDr. Gunnie-Hunnie looked like a disappointed parent. \"We worked very hard to make him just right for you, Max. You haven't even let him get close enough to find out just how very... wonderful he could be for you.\"\n\nWhat was that supposed to mean?\n\nI was quiet. Quiet some more. And all confused-like. \"Well, it's been swell. Gotta go.\"\n\n\"Max, please,\" said Angel. \"Save yourself. Save the others. Please.\"\n\n\"You have two seconds to get up and come with me,\" I said to her. \"But I'm leaving. If the world is about to come to an end, I want to spend my last days with my family.\"\n\n\"I'm staying here,\" Angel said sadly.\n\nThis was it? I was really losing her? Forever?\n\nIt was a strangely mucked-up feeling. It seemed like yesterday that I was cuddling her when she was upset during thunderstorms. It was also just days ago when she was holding a gun on me. I didn't know who she was anymore. But I hoped that my old Angel was still inside there somewhere, and that she would break free of whatever forces had taken her over.\n\nI swallowed and nodded.\n\n\"Max, I could keep you here by force,\" said Dr. God, steel in his voice. He nodded, and suddenly four armed guards stepped out of nowhere and pointed guns at me. Angel bit her lip. Quelle surprise.\n\nI made a face at him. \"Yeah, but what's the fun of that? Later. Enjoy the apocalypse.\" Then I ran across the terrace, jumped over the edge, and threw myself off the cliff. No bullets zinged past me. My flock was waiting. \n\n#\n\n\"ARE YOU REALLY IN DANGER?\" Dylan's voice broke into Fang's thoughts.\n\nFang looked at the newest bird kid. Dylan was an inch or two taller than he was, and somewhat heavier built, though he still had the long, lean look of a human-avian hybrid\u2014you couldn't make bricks fly. \"I don't know. Maybe.\"\n\n\"How can you stay here?\" Dylan asked.\n\nFang stood and picked up his drink before he answered. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"If you're in danger, then someone's coming after you, right?\" said Dylan. \"And if you're standing right next to, say, Gazzy, then Gazzy's in danger too, right?\"\n\n\"What are you getting at?\"\n\n\"You're putting everyone else in danger,\" Dylan said gravely. \"You're putting _Max_ in danger. Doesn't it upset you?\"\n\n\"I'm not going to discuss my feelings with you,\" Fang said. \"I've got news for you, pal. Max has been in danger pretty much every day of her life, with a few notable exceptions. She knows how to deal with danger. We all do.\"\n\n\"Max isn't indestructible,\" Dylan persisted. \"None of us are. If we can avoid danger, we should. We don't need to sit and wait for it to come.\"\n\nFang stared at him in a silence that felt less comfortable, less natural than usual.\n\n\"If I were you,\" said Dylan, \"I'd be doing everything I could to keep Max safe.\" Some emotion crossed his face; Fang wasn't sure what it was. \"But it's bigger than that,\" Dylan continued. \"Max is the key to this whole flock surviving. According to Jeb, Max is the key to the whole _world_ surviving. Sure, Angel was the leader for a couple days, and she's a strong kid. But she's no Max. The rest of the flock needs Max\u2014more than _you_ need her.\"\n\n\"I know that!\" Fang was irritated now.\n\n\"Any one of us is dispensable,\" Dylan said. \"If I disappear, I'm not even a blip on the screen. I know that. If you disappear, Max would be bummed, the flock would have lost a great fighter, but the flock would still be here. But without Max, how long do you think the flock would hold together? Even with you leading it? Would Dr. Martinez still be looking out for you? Would the CSM still be throwing houses your way? Would you have a single freaking clue about what to do?\"\n\nDylan's voice had been steadily rising, and now he was focused on Fang, each word pelting him like a stone. The thing was, Fang thought, Dylan actually seemed sincere. He wasn't putting himself first.\n\nOn the other hand, if Fang listened to him and left the flock for its own good, and for Max's own good, it would be leaving the path wide open for Dylan to move in.\n\n\"You gotta do what you gotta do,\" said Dylan, calming down. \"It's just\u2014I can't stand the thought of something happening to Max. I can't stand it.\" His clear turquoise eyes met Fang's black ones. \"I'm designed to feel that way.\"\n\nFang nodded. This guy had no artifice, no subterfuge. He didn't know enough to mask his thoughts or have secret plans or hidden motives. He was a sap, and he probably wouldn't last long.\n\n\"I'm gonna get something to eat,\" Fang said, and went inside, leaving Dylan by himself on the balcony. Fang's mind was blazing, but no one would be able to tell it. \n\n#\n\nDYLAN WAS CALMLY LEANING on the balcony rail of the safe house. His eyes were locked on me as soon as I came into view, as if he'd known exactly when I was returning.\n\n\"Max!\" he shouted. \"Glad to see you're okay.\" He pointed to a round table on the balcony. There, beckoning me, was a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk. \"Want some? Figured you'd be hungry after the flight.\"\n\nHow could he have known how much I loved chocolate chip cookies? I glowered at him. \"Thanks but no thanks, Mr. Hospitality,\" I said, and walked right by the cookies. An incredible smell wafted from them\u2014they were fresh from the oven.\n\nIn the living room, everything seemed normal\u2014Gazzy and Iggy were playing a video game, Nudge was curled up with my mom reading a fashion magazine, Jeb was surfing the web on his computer, Total and Akila were asleep on the floor in the sun. And Fang was...\n\n\"Max! Did you find Angel?\" my mom asked.\n\n\"Yes.\" I took a deep breath. \"Angel's decided to stay with Dr. Guntha-Munka and help him with his research. She thinks that will give her the best chance.\"\n\n\"But she's okay?\"\n\nI nodded. \"As okay as a crazy little monkey can be. I mean, she seems to be staying there by choice. She wouldn't come back with me.\"\n\nEveryone was silent. I glanced around as they digested this info. \"Where's Fang?\"\n\n\"He's in our room,\" said Gazzy. \"He's going to play the winner of Crash Test Four. Which will be me.\"\n\n\"I don't think so!\" said Iggy, affronted. I guess Iggy had really been progressing in his \"vision lessons.\"\n\nI headed down the hall to talk to the one person who could make me feel better about the Angel situation.\n\nI tapped on the door to their room, then opened it. The beds were empty. The door to the bathroom was open and the bathroom was empty. The window was open.\n\nThen I saw the note. And my heart seemed to thud to a stop.\n\n#\n\n_GIVE THIS NOTE TO MAX_ was hastily scrawled on the folded piece of paper. Fang's writing was always hasty, always scrawled. A beautiful mess. I opened it up.\n\n_Hey. Not sure what's going on\u2014gonna go find out. Be careful and don't do anything stupid. Don't come after me\u2014you're better on your own. See you. F._\n\nI sat on the edge of the bed, holding the note.\n\nOkay, so Fang had looked up _vague_ in the dictionary, and this was what it had said to write. It could mean anything. So why was my heart thumping with fear?\n\nNudge came in. \"I can't believe Angel's really gone,\" she said. \"She'll come back; I'm sure of it.\" Then she saw my face. \"What's wrong? I mean, what else?\"\n\nI handed her the note.\n\nShe read it and frowned. \"He left? He's gone too? When is he gonna be back?\"\n\n\"Don't know,\" I managed to say.\n\nOkay, if you've been reading about our adventures all along, you know me by now. You know that even in the face of the worst danger possible, I keep my head together and often manage a tart quip besides. It's part of being a leader.\n\nBut this note had really thrown me. I was so freaking sick of people leaving me and leaving little notes behind. And what did he mean, I was better on my own? On my own, like, _without him?_ Was he _crazy?_ Who was he to make that decision?\n\nI felt frozen except for the burning hot tears starting to leak out.\n\n\"Max?\" Nudge asked, sitting next to me. Her coffee-brown eyes were wide. She was used to seeing me leap into action, and my just sitting there looking like a stunned turtle was shocking enough, but she almost never saw me cry. No one did. I was tough. I was strong. I was a rock.\n\nMeanwhile, I sort of slid sideways on the bed, looking at a tilted world.\n\nI felt Nudge get up, heard her run out of the room and down the hall. \"Dr. Martinez! Come quick! Something's wrong with Max!\"\n\nIn a few seconds I felt my mom sit down on the bed, felt her cool hand on my burning forehead.\n\n\"Max, honey, what is it?\"\n\nThen the room was full of people talking in hushed tones. My mom was stroking my hair away from my face, and I kept wincing as her hand got caught in the tangles.\n\n\"Max?\" said Nudge. \"Iggy made cookies. Here. Just take a bite.\"\n\nA cookie was pressed against my lips, and I inhaled its chocolatey scent. I opened my eyes all the way, saw what was left of my flock, plus my mom, Dylan, and Jeb, all gathered around me.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Nudge looked worried.\n\n\"We read the note,\" said my mom. Then she turned to the others. \"Guys, could you give us a minute?\" Everyone backed out, and Iggy shut the door behind them.\n\n\"You love him so much it feels like you can't go on without him,\" said my mom.\n\nMy startled gaze met her eyes. I had never admitted to anyone, even myself, how much I loved Fang. I bowed my head and gave a tiny nod. Mom took one of my hands and held it.\n\n\"You feel like you might die without him,\" she said.\n\nI tried to swallow, couldn't, and nodded again.\n\nHer hand raised my chin a bit so I could see her clearly.\n\n\"Okay,\" she said gently. \"So what are you going to do about it?\"\n\n#\n\nFANG WONDERED if Max had seen his note yet. She was going to want to kill him. When\u2014if\u2014he saw her again. He couldn't think about it. That butt Dylan had been right. Fang had to get as far away from the flock as possible. Where, he wasn't sure. Montana? Canada? Papua New Guinea?\n\nBut first he had to get some answers at the doctor's house.\n\nAnd there it was. He'd seen the satellite pictures when Nudge found them. The terrace was wide and empty except for a few lounge chairs. No one was in the pool. Fang dropped lightly onto the terrace.\n\nIn the next second, he felt a stinging pinch in his upper arm. Looking down, he saw a small dart sticking out of his sleeve.\n\nHe started to swear, glancing around wildly for the shooter. Then his knees buckled, he swiped the dart away, and the world swirled around him. He saw Dr. Hans walking toward him with a smile, and four uniformed guards rushing over.\n\n\"Fang,\" said Dr. G-H. \"I knew it was just a matter of time before either you or Max got here. As you can see, we've been waiting for you.\"\n\nFang fell over, whacking his head against the stone terrace but unable to cry out. He weighed a thousand pounds. His hand was too heavy to raise, his eyelids too heavy to keep open. He was drifting into unconsciousness. The last thing he saw was Angel's face looking shocked, her mouth an O of surprise.\n\nThen there was nothing.\n\n#\n\nPAIN.\n\nFang's head was killing him. He lifted a hand to his temple and felt a large knot there. A scrape on the skin was clotted with blood. There was a large, pulpy lump on the back of his head\u2014that too had dried blood on it. His lip was split and swollen. He couldn't move the fingers of his other hand\u2014they felt like they'd been dipped in gasoline and set on fire.\n\nBreathing hurt so much that Fang knew several of his ribs were broken. He'd felt it before. Where was he? He struggled to remember. What had happened to him?\n\n\"Fang?\" Angel's voice slowly sank through the haze surrounding him.\n\n\"Unggh.\" Fang tried to swallow. The taste of blood filled his mouth. His nose was probably broken as well. Finally, with all of his concentration, he managed to pry open one eye. The other eye was swollen shut.\n\nHe blinked a couple times. The world was blurry and indistinct. He was aware of bright lights, splotches of darkness, the subdued beeping and hissing of machines. Oh, God\u2014 _was he back at the School?_\n\n\"School,\" he managed to croak. A machine started beeping more quickly as fear-fueled adrenaline dumped into his veins like ice water.\n\n\"No, no, Fang. This isn't the School. You're okay.\" Angel's small hand patted his arm. He felt other hands gently but firmly lower his arm to his side, and then a thick, heavy cuff was snapped around his wrist. With great effort he swiveled his head and saw a white-uniformed nurse-type person checking the restraint to make sure it would hold.\n\nHis eye searched for Angel. She was standing close to him. Her face looked concerned, but she tried to smile.\n\n\"I'm glad you're awake,\" she said.\n\n\"Whass goin' on?\" Fang slurred. \"Wha happen?\"\n\n\"You're at Dr. Hans's house, in Malibu,\" Angel said. \"They gave you a... sedative so you wouldn't be upset. It knocked you out, but then you woke up and, like, went crazy. You were smashing everything in sight, threw a chair through a window, you were punching people. They tried to... settle you. But you got hurt.\" Her voice ended in a whisper and she looked away, her cheeks flaming.\n\nFang didn't remember any of it. He wondered if it had really happened that way. Slowly and painfully, he looked at his other arm, which was also restrained. It had an IV drip going into it.\n\n\"Whass dat?\" he asked.\n\nAngel licked her lips. \"It's something to... help you; something\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh, our guest is awake, is he?\"\n\nFang turned his head, feeling as if concrete bowling balls were shifting inside his skull. Dr. Gunther-Hagen was walking toward him, suit crisp as always.\n\n\"Wha the heck is goin' on?\" Fang managed.\n\n\"Fang, I'm glad you've joined us,\" said the doctor. \"Angel here has made the right decision, to help me in my work. And now you're here too. Fang, by now you're well aware that the world will soon change irrevocably. Not many people will survive. The ones who do will have some sort of adaptive edge that gives them an advantage.\"\n\n\"Leh me up,\" said Fang, wondering if he _could_ sit up. \"Gettin' outta here.\"\n\n\"No, not just yet, Fang,\" said the doctor. He gestured to the drip in Fang's arm. \"I've developed a... vaccine, if you will. Given to normal humans, it will enable them to adapt to the new world environment, enhancing their ability to survive. You are already superior, already evolved. I'm incredibly excited to see what effect this will have on you.\"\n\nFang glared at the doctor as well as he could with just one eye. It was hard to make a croak sound menacing, but he tried. \"Geh me outta here.\"\n\n\"You have about another ten minutes to go on the IV,\" said the doctor. \"This reactant will combine with your DNA and help spur greater mutations. Your personal evolution will be sped up, made more dramatic.\"\n\n_Oh, great,_ Fang thought in dismay, subtly testing the strength of his wrist restraints. What would be next? Turning into the Hulk whenever he got upset? That was the problem with mad, megalomaniac scientist types. They loved the idea of the experiment so much that any consequences it had for anyone else seemed unimportant.\n\n\"You've observed what a spectacular specimen Dylan is?\" the doctor went on. \"He's progressing incredibly well. In a very short time, probably days, he'll be decidedly stronger, faster, and more psychologically sophisticated than the flock.\"\n\nThe doctor looked incredibly pleased with himself, practically trembling with excitement and expectation. \"This biological material I'm injecting will help _you_ catch up to _him_. By that time, of course, Max will already be firmly paired\u2014hmm, perhaps even mated\u2014with Dylan. They will evolve quite brilliantly\u2014together.\"\n\nFang became aware of a huge weight on his chest. Nothing was there, but it felt as if an elephant were sitting on him.\n\nThe doctor was still talking. \"You'll be ready to lead your own flock by then. Find your own mate. A fit more suited to survival.\"\n\nFang started to feel light-headed. \"Chest hurts,\" he whispered. \"Can't breathe.\"\n\n\"You're fine,\" said Dr. G-H confidently. \"By the way, do you realize that when Max was here earlier, Fang, she refused my offer to save your life?\"\n\n_No._ He tried to suck in a breath, but the pain in his chest was terrible, and he couldn't move his muscles. His head fell back, and dimly he heard a beeping sound turn into a steady drone. From very far away, Fang heard Angel cry, \"Oh, my God! Fang! Doctor Hans!\" \n\n#\n\nANGEL STARED at the heart monitor in horror. A minute ago, its fast, even spikes had showed Fang's normal heart rate of a 140 beats per minute. Now it was a flat line.\n\nFang lay still on the bed, his good eye slightly open. Angel grabbed his hand.\n\n\"Fang! Fang! Wake up!\"\n\n\"This wasn't supposed to happen!\" said Dr. Hans, looking upset. \"This drug has been tested on many subjects!\"\n\n\"But were they normal, to begin with?\"\n\n\"Yes, mostly....\" Dr. Hans trailed off.\n\nThe drone of Fang's monitor filled Angel's head. She smacked her hand down on Fang's bed, hard. \"Do something!\" she yelled at Dr. Hans. \"You promised me he wouldn't get hurt! You promised! Do something!\"\n\n\"It's too late!\" said Dr. Hans. \"What can I do?\"\n\nWhirling, Angel scanned the lab for a phone but spotted nothing. She sped out of the room and leaped up the steps. Still nothing. She raced outside onto the terrace, and once there, closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and pressed her fingers to her temples. _Max, come,_ she thought as hard as she could. _Come here now. Fang needs your help. Come now!_\n\nHer eyes popped open and she started scanning the sky, though she knew there was no way Max could be there yet. She didn't even know if Max had heard her\u2014she'd never tried to send a message that far before. There wasn't time for her to fly to the safe house to get Max. All she could do was send thought messages.\n\nEven though it was already too late.\n\n#\n\n_MAX, COME. COME HERE NOW. Fang needs your help. Come now!_\n\nI froze, balanced on the balcony. I turned to Nudge.\n\n\"Did you hear that?\"\n\nNudge shook her head.\n\n\"Got a message from Angel,\" I said. \"She said Fang needed my help and to come there now.\"\n\n\"Fang is there?\" Nudge asked, unfolding her wings, getting ready to jump off after me. \"What happened?\"\n\nI paused for just a minute, thinking. I didn't trust Angel, and I sure as heck didn't trust Dr. Nightmare. But if Fang was there... if he really did need my help...\n\nI jumped off the balcony, swearing, and rose into the air. \"I can't take the chance,\" I told Nudge. \"Angel alone\u2014I might not go. But I can't take the chance with Fang. I'm going.\"\n\nI decided to go into warp drive, leaving Nudge and the others, now clustered on the balcony, behind. Pressing my hands flat against the legs of my jeans, I aimed myself in the direction of Malibu. Then I just... shifted into overdrive. Within fifteen seconds, I was streaking through the sky at upward of 250 miles an hour. I'd be there in minutes.\n\nOne thing was certain: If something had happened to Fang, and it was Angel's fault, we'd never be in the same flock again. I promised myself that much. \n\n#\n\nDOWN IN THE LAB, Dr. Hans was a blur of activity. He grabbed a hypodermic needle of something and shot it into Fang's IV line. Angel held Fang's hand, watching the machine tensely. Nothing happened.\n\n\"Blast!\" Dr. Hans shouted. He dashed into the adjacent supply room.\n\nAngel was in a deep state of shock. When her Voice had given her the premonition about Fang, she had just reported it. She hadn't known why, when, or how it would happen. Somehow, she'd thought that telling Max and the others would help it not come true.\n\nThen Dylan had shown up, seeming like the perfect answer: The Voice had said that the best way for everyone to survive was to split the flock up, have two flocks. Max could have Dylan, and Fang could join forces with Angel. Angel would be the leader of her flock, and Fang would be second in command. Having Max and Fang in the same flock was overkill.\n\nDr. Hans had promised that if Fang came here, everything would be perfect. Then his goons had beaten Fang up, and Dr. Hans had started the IV drip into Fang's arm, telling Angel that Fang was on his way to becoming the most ultimate Fang possible. Lies.\n\nAngel's back straightened\u2014she felt Max coming. Quietly she left Fang's side and went to unlock the lab door. She glanced around but didn't see Dr. Hans's security team. Then she sat again at Fang's side and picked up his hand.\n\nWas she imagining it, or was Fang's hand already becoming cold?\n\n#\n\nI DROPPED DOWN onto the terrace like a bird of prey. As soon as my sneakers thunked onto solid ground, I raced along the terrace until I saw an open door. I rushed through it and immediately down some steps. Somehow, I had seen these steps in the message Angel had sent me\u2014I knew just where to go.\n\n\"Fang! Angel?\" I yelled, not even trying for stealth. I was storming the castle, not stealing the jewels.\n\nThen through a vast maze of lab tables, metal and glass shelving, gurneys, and all kinds of medical equipment, I saw Fang in a hospital bed, looking beat up, bruised. Way too still and way too pale. Then Angel, rising slowly from beside him like a zombie from the grave and drifting slowly toward me.\n\n\"Max, I...\"\n\n\"Angel! What the\u2014\" I sprinted across the lab to Fang's side.\n\nI grabbed his hand. It was cold. Unbelievably cold. One eye was open slightly, unseeing.\n\n_Fang will be the first to\u2014_\n\nI couldn't let myself think it. I couldn't. But he really looked... He felt...\n\nJust then Dr. Gunther-Hagen appeared from a side room holding some medical supplies. \"I see you now regret your decision, Max.\"\n\nI snarled at the doctor, \"What in the name of God happened, you butcher? He looks like he went through a wood chipper!\"\n\n\"He had a bad reaction to a sedative,\" said the doctor stiffly. \"He was injured.\"\n\nThe solid drone of an alarm sank into my brain, and my gaze snapped to the machinery next to the bed. There was no heartbeat registering.\n\n\"He's flatlining!\" I shrieked, and grabbed Dr. Hans by the front of his jacket. \"Fix him!\"\n\n\"Why are you so surprised, Max? Your insistence upon being with Fang above all else\u2014well, I warned you quite clearly that no good would come of it. You had the chance to protect all of the ones you love.\"\n\nHad he killed Fang? Could he have possibly...?\n\n\"There's nothing anyone can do. It's too late. I'm sorry.\"\n\nHe had killed Fang. That sentence made absolutely zero sense to me. It simply did not compute. I shoved the doctor away and turned to Fang.\n\nI wanted to shake Fang's shoulders, splash cold water on his face, tug on his hair. I stared at him. The parts of his face that weren't purple and bruised were not... life colored.\n\nIt just didn't make sense.\n\nA remote part of my consciousness registered that the rest of the flock had arrived, were slamming through the lab door. I couldn't even look up. Fang's hand was limp and cold in mine. My brain hadn't kicked into gear yet, had frozen at the entry of the unthinkable thought.\n\nFang\u2014after everything we'd been through\u2014was...\n\nGone?\n\n#\n\nTHAT SMALL PART of my mind that was still functioning finally made me look up and catch sight of the flock rushing in just as the lab security team flooded the room from another doorway.\n\nThe unfriendly familiar face of our old nemesis, Mr. Chu, shocked me out of my daze for a moment.\n\n\"Take 'em _out!_ \" I screeched. \"Show no mercy!\"\n\n\"On it!\" Iggy shouted. Even though they knew I couldn't leave Fang's side, I'd never seen the flock look so confident and determined. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that we were in a lab, and we knew our way around labs.\n\nBut then again, so did these guys.\n\nIggy immediately flew across the room, swiping glass jars and tubes off shelves and tables and then knocking over as many freestanding shelves as he could.\n\nThe instant hurricane of thunderous chaos gave the flock an advantage. By the time the men had chosen their targets, the kids had spread to all corners of the room. Grown-ups just think too much.\n\n\"Skateboard!\" Iggy called to Gazzy. The Gasman used his wings to propel himself toward the high ceiling and grabbed the pipes running across the length of the room. Swinging off like a trapeze artist, he landed on a gurney and went zooming across the lab, knocking over two guards as he went.\n\nThen, an encore performance: Gazzy gurney-boarded back the other way, over the two dazed guards. But this time, the gurney flipped as it caught one of the guards' heads.\n\nGazzy went flying as though he'd been launched from a cannon, but it was a good shot. He knocked another guard down before he hit the floor.\n\nNudge had grabbed a metal IV stand and was spinning around with it like a wild whirling dervish. It smashed into a guard's face and he went down, but not a second later, Nudge took a hard punch to the side of her face from another man, her skin splitting under the impact.\n\nThe flock's never been shy about using crotch blows, and with a roar, Nudge nailed her assailant, who dropped like a sack of dog food.\n\n\"Sorry,\" Nudge said, kicking him in the head to knock him out. Then she and Iggy wasted no time rolling him and the other man into nearby empty extralarge lab animal crates.\n\n\"Justice!\" Nudge cried, slamming a door shut.\n\nThere were five guards down, but several to go. Mr. Chu and Dr. Hans were still on the loose as well. It could have easily been a lost battle without the secret weapon. Dylan.\n\nThe youngest but most powerful bird kid held nothing back as he took out one attacker after another. He was coldly furious and determined\u2014almost scary. Everything about his quiet, easygoing demeanor had disappeared. Now his fists slammed into faces, he spun into kicks that had taken us years to master. His blows knocked grown men off their feet; his roundhouse kick shot a guard eight feet back, into a wall.\n\nTotal had been right: He was a fighting machine.\n\nMeanwhile, Dr. Hans was watching everything from a safe corner, a scientist unemotionally observing his lab animals. But no one had noticed that Angel was missing from the fray. She now dashed out of the supply room clutching six or seven different-sized containers.\n\n\"Gazzy! What's good here?\" It was flock shorthand for: _Is there anything you can make blow up here?_\n\nGazzy had just recovered from his cannon-fire episode. He ran over and scanned faster than a computer. \"No explosives, but there's some pretty acidic stuff,\" he determined, pulling three canisters aside. \"Some of this is gonna hurt super bad.\"\n\n\"Not so fast, children.\" The impeccably dressed Mr. Chu\u2014who'd been cowering under a lab table to avoid the fight, or to avoid ruining his suit\u2014now appeared at their side.\n\n\"Chu!\" Gazzy gasped.\n\n\"You know _a lot_ about toxic chemicals, if I remember, sir,\" Angel said, stalling. \"Maybe you can help us.\"\n\nAt that moment, with a perfect swan dive from the suspended pipes, Iggy crashed into Mr. Chu, knocking him onto the floor. The breath left Mr. Chu's body in a sharp _oof!_ Iggy got his hands around Mr. Chu's neck and started twisting.\n\n\"Oh, my God!\" Gazzy shouted a few seconds later. Angel's mouth was open in horror.\n\nMr. Chu's face _had come off in Iggy's hands,_ and Iggy was now holding it like a huge, disgusting face glove.\n\n\"What happened?\" Iggy cried.\n\nNudge hurried to his side. There, on the ground, with Mr. Chu's body, was the head of a... freak? His boyish, round face was flat, green, and scaly, and he had a kid's wide eyes.\n\n\"Jeezum pete,\" Nudge breathed.\n\n\"Don't kill me,\" pleaded the freak.\n\n\"Let Robert up,\" ordered Dr. Death from the corner.\n\n_\"Robert?\"_ Iggy almost shrieked. \"He's _green!_ \"\n\n\"Watch it, guys!\" Dylan warned. Some of the men who'd been down earlier were back up and staggering toward them. They moved just slowly enough to allow Angel, Nudge, and Gazzy to pry open the containers and start dousing the men with chemical agents that kids should never have access to.\n\n\"Incapacitate them,\" Dylan ordered, catching his breath. \"I've got to get the doctor.\"\n\n#\n\nTHE FIGHT UNFOLDED like background noise. White noise. In the foreground, even with his ghastly pale face looking dead in my hands, my fingers clenching his ragged hair, all I could see was random images of Fang, _not dead_.\n\nFang telling me stupid fart jokes from the dog crate next to mine at the School, trying to make me laugh.\n\nFang asleep at Jeb's old house, and me jumping wildly on his bed to wake him up. Him pretending to be asleep. Me laughing when I \"accidentally\" kicked him where it counts. Him dumping me off the bed.\n\nFang gagging on my first attempt at cooking dinner after Jeb disappeared. Him spitting out the mac and cheese. Me dumping the rest of the bowl on him in response.\n\nFang on the beach, that first time he was badly injured. Me realizing how I felt about him.\n\nFang kissing me. So close I couldn't even see his dark eyes anymore. The first time. The second time. The third.\n\nI could remember each and every one of them. Would always remember them.\n\nFang.\n\nNot.\n\nDead.\n\n#\n\nTHEN A COUPLE of my nerves started firing again, and my muscles unfroze.\n\n\"Fang! Come back!\" I started pulling his hair. Shaking his head and shoulders. Hard. \"Wake up! Snap out of it! You stupid jerk! I am going to kill you if you die on me!\"\n\nI put my mouth up to his ear. \"Did you _hear me?_ \" I was yelling right into it. \"Dying is _not_ on the agenda! Not part of my plan!\"\n\nThat wasn't working. I pounded on his chest. \"Get _up!_ After everything we've been through, are you going to give up now? Are you that much of a wuss? We need you, you butthead! _I_ need you. I\u2014I _love_ you, Fang.\"\n\nI was choking on dry sobs now. \"Did you _hear_ that? Why I didn't I tell you before? You can't die before I tell you that. You _can't!_ \"\n\nGulping, I looked around wildly, as if I would see something marked \"Second chances. Use sparingly.\" All I saw were a bunch of unconscious guards, bloody bird kids, and a lizard boy.\n\nAnd a large hypodermic needle, on the stand holding medical equipment next to Fang's bed. The tube was marked \"Adrenaline. Dangerous.\"\n\nI reached for it. I had seen this movie once\u2014\n\n\"I tried that!\" said Dr. Disaster, who was tightly in Dylan's grip. \"Don't you think I tried that? I shot it into his IV! It did nothing!\"\n\nIn a split second I grabbed the hypo, whirled, and sank the needle deep into Fang's chest, directly into his heart. I pressed the plunger home, emptying its entire contents. If he had any chance at all, this was it. And if it wouldn't save his life, then it would surely end it once and for all, right now.\n\nBeing a leader means you have to make life-or-death decisions sometimes. And I made this one.\n\n#\n\nTIME BECAME ELASTIC, stretching out endlessly. Each second seemed to take hours. Everyone was moving in slow motion, all blurry, all dreamy. I couldn't understand what they were saying. I got an impression of Iggy and Gazzy holding Robert down, trying to pull off his new head, without success. I saw Nudge and Angel hugging. Angel was crying.\n\nOne by one they turned to look at me and Fang, concern and pain on their faces.\n\nI looked down at Fang, at that smooth, tan place on his neck where his pulse should have been beating. I squeezed his cold hand hard, willing him to squeeze back. I dropped my head to his chest and closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the machine flatlining in front of me.\n\n_Fang, come on,_ I thought. _You promised you would never leave me. You promised._ I gulped again, hearing nothing, feeling nothing under my ear. _This can't be, can't be, can't be.... Oh, God, help me, help me...._\n\nMy mind was starting to completely shut down in order not to feel this pain, when I heard a _beep_.\n\nThen another _beep_.\n\nThen I felt Fang's chest rise as he gasped in a breath, and I felt his heart beat, right under my cheek.\n\nI bolted upright, staring at his face. His mouth opened. His good eye widened. I grabbed his hand in both of mine and clasped it hard against my chest. I couldn't say anything, could only stare at that poor, battered face I loved so much.\n\nFang blinked hazily and breathed in again. His gaze fell on me, and I must have looked wild with panic and misery.\n\n\"Fang?\" I gasped.\n\nHe blinked, tried to swallow. \" 'Ssup?\" he said groggily.\n\nI'm pretty much of the stoical school of emotiveness, but everything I was feeling burst through me like a flood through a dam. I dropped my head back onto his chest, my arms around him, and sobbed. \n\n#\n\n\"LET ME GO! I _command_ you!\" I heard Dr. Gunther-Hagen shout. \"Have you lost your mind? Have you forgotten who I am?\" I looked around and saw Dylan, flecked with blood and sporting a black eye, grasping the doctor from behind. He was staring at the doctor with fury, even hatred.\n\n\"I think you've forgotten who _I_ am,\" Dylan countered. \"That is, not a robot. Someone with a mind of his own.\"\n\n\"But you\u2014you owe me your _life!_ \" Dr. G-H stammered.\n\n\"I'm not sure I want this life,\" Dylan said sadly. And he looked at me and Fang.\n\nThe doctor's eyes got even wider as he became fully aware of Fang's regained consciousness. \"This doesn't make sense!\"\n\n\" _You_ don't make sense!\" I bit out through my tears. \"We're not just test subjects! We're not just for experimenting! You people never learn!\"\n\n\"I see it all clearly now,\" Dylan said in an oddly flat, quiet voice. \"I see what you are. I see what you made me. And I see what I'll become.\" He looked over at another gurney a few yards away from him. \"Iggy, can you help me with this? Grab his legs.\"\n\nIggy and Dylan lifted the struggling doctor onto the gurney. \"Gazzy, Nudge, Angel, you too. We need help strapping him down.\"\n\nI was dumbfounded as I watched my flock restrain this evil genius on a gurney. As had been done to us so many times in our lives.\n\nBut the next thing surprised me even more.\n\nDylan picked up another fully loaded giant hypo from the tray next to Fang's bed. \"This should do nicely.\" He readied the needle like a trained nurse. It was obvious that he'd been raised on injections.\n\nDr. Gunther-Hagen craned his head to look around at his lab, now destroyed; his guards, now useless; his subject Fang, now saved. And his master creation, Dylan, who looked as though he wanted to kill him.\n\n\"That's what I call giving someone a taste of their own medicine,\" Gazzy whispered.\n\n\"You don't know what you're doing, Dylan,\" the doctor said.\n\n\"Let's pin his arm down, please,\" Dylan directed quietly, and placed the tip of the needle on the vein. He was like a beautiful, powerful avenging angel.\n\nAnd yet\u2014he was... scary.\n\nNudge bit her lip. Angel looked confused. Iggy didn't look anything.\n\nI suddenly had a flash of myself saying something\u2014it seemed like years ago. _Someday we might have only a few seconds to figure out the meaning of life._\n\n\"Oh, God, Dylan\u2014don't,\" I found myself pleading. \"It's just\u2014enough. Enough already.\"\n\nDylan stopped. Just like that. \"Okay, Max.\"\n\nHe looked at me, then at Fang, then at the doctor.\n\nThen he plunged the needle into his own arm.\n\n# EPILOGUE\n\n_AFTER EVERYTHING, we've come to this,_ I thought.\n\nI felt weird in my fancy dress, but even I had to admit it was gorgeous. Someone had come to the house this morning and fixed all of our hair\u2014Angel's golden halo of curls had never looked so perfect. Or so clean. Nudge looked even more like a teen model than usual, with her long, honey-streaked brown ringlets falling in perfect array around her shoulders. They were wearing matching dresses of russet silk. I glanced down at my cream-colored one, praying that I didn't get dirt or blood on it before this was all over.\n\nWe carried flowers, bouquets of wildflowers that we'd picked this morning among the beautiful Colorado hills.\n\nNudge came up and stood next to me in the tent, peeking out through the door slit. It was a stunning afternoon, and in front of us, under a natural arch of trees, was a long red carpet with white chairs arranged on either side. Nudge smiled up at me.\n\n\"You've never looked more beautiful,\" she said, and I gave a nervous grin. My hair was pulled back away from my face, and I had a little crown of flowers woven into it. I too was exceedingly clean.\n\nOur various bruises and scrapes had healed completely, and Fang's injuries were only a bad memory\u2014as was Dylan's pseudo suicide attempt. He'd suffered no ill consequences of the injection thus far. Plus, we hadn't seen Dr. Gunther-Hagen again. We'd rolled him kicking and screaming into a giant lab cold-storage room before splitting that day, but I was sure one of his posse would revive and let the doc out of his icebox before he turned into a Popsicle.\n\n\"Is that the justice of the peace?\" Nudge whispered.\n\n\"Yeah. She's a friend of my mom's.\" I saw my mom and my half sister, Ella, sitting in the second row, looking back to see us. Jeb and Dylan were in the next row, and a bunch of our friends from CSM. Dylan had really surprised me, down in Dr. G-H's lair. I was gonna keep an eye on him.\n\n\"There's the music,\" said Angel.\n\n\"Okay, you're up,\" I said. The two of us really hadn't hashed things out. I knew we'd have to, if the flock was going to survive. But not today.\n\nAngel slipped through the tent door. Everyone oohed and aahed at how pretty she was. She walked slowly down the red carpet, strewing white rose petals everywhere. Deceptively innocent, I thought. But at the same time it was comforting to see her looking so much like my old Angel. Even though we hadn't fully made amends for all that had happened between us, I decided to suck it up and enjoy the rush of everything that was happening today.\n\n\"Your turn,\" I told Nudge. She gave me one last smile, then headed down the red carpet slowly, walking in time to the music. I peered out and saw Gazzy step forward, right in front of the justice of the peace. He took Angel's arm and they walked a few paces, then separated and stood on either side of the decorated podium.\n\nI waited until Nudge was halfway down the aisle, then I left the tent, hoping I didn't throw up from tension. Everyone's heads turned toward me, and I heard excited whispers ripple through the small crowd. I tried to smile, but I was so nervous I could manage only a sickly grin. Ahead of me, Iggy stepped out unerringly and took Nudge's arm. They walked a few paces, then separated, like Angel and Gazzy.\n\nThen I could see Fang. His dark eyes seemed to burn as they locked on me. I tried to swallow and couldn't. I was holding my bouquet so tightly I was about to snap all the stems. Everyone else faded away, and I had eyes only for Fang. His black hair had been cut, somewhat. He wore a midnight-blue suit and an actual tie that he'd probably already figured out fifteen ways to kill someone with.\n\nIt seemed to take forever, but I finally made it up to Fang without tripping on my impractical fancy shoes. He held out his arm and I took it, staring into his eyes. We walked up to the justice of the peace... and separated, each standing on our own side.\n\nThen everyone really craned their heads around to see Akila stepping lightly from the tent. A wreath of flowers like mine rested between her pointed ears, with lisianthus picking up the blue of her intelligent eyes.\n\nShe walked majestically down the aisle, just as my mom had practiced with her.\n\nAs she stopped in front of the justice of the peace, Total stepped over to join her. He was wearing a russet-colored bow tie, and his black fur shone. Even his black wings, which he held out proudly, looked perfectly groomed.\n\nTotal grinned at me, and I smiled back at him. It didn't matter that he was shorter than Akila, that she outweighed him by sixty pounds. It didn't matter that he was a mutant, and she was 100 percent glorious purebred. The way they looked at each other would have brought a tear to my eye, if I were susceptible to that kind of thing.\n\nTotal knew how difficult their future would be. He could fly on his own\u2014he was as capable as we were of jumping up and going somewhere at a moment's notice. Akila was stuck with more traditional means of travel. Total could talk to us, express his wants and needs (lord, could he), whereas he had to interpret Akila for us.\n\nBut they had decided to stick together, despite the odds. Total had fastened on to Akila as being the perfect match for him the moment he had first seen her. He hadn't given up. And now they were declaring their vows in front of everyone they cared about.\n\nMy mind wandered as the justice of the peace began the ceremony. I heard Total say, \"I do,\" in a voice quavering with emotion. Next to him, Akila nodded that she did too.\n\nI couldn't help looking over at Fang, unbearably handsome, the afternoon sun turning his skin to a warm gold. He was already looking at me, and I shivered at the expression on his face. In his eyes I saw the promise of _our_ future together. A future full of danger, excitement, persecution, thrilling victories, and lessons learned\u2014some easy, some hard.\n\nAnd every bit of it would be okay. Because we would be together.\n\n# [THE OTHER   \nEPILOGUE](Fang_toc.html#epil-2)\n\nAS IT TURNED OUT, that assumption was wrong.\n\nAfter the reception, which was pretty much the funnest party I'd ever been to, especially since I didn't have to put it together or clean up afterward, we headed back to our current safe house. Fang had gone back about an hour before but had insisted I stay and eat cake and party down with my funky self.\n\nSo I did, in my fancy dress and fancy shoes and fancy hair, and I couldn't help marveling at the fact that it wasn't all that long ago that we were sleeping in subway tunnels in New York, and it probably wouldn't be all that long before some similar change in our circumstances took place.\n\nBut tonight was fabulous, and I was surrounded by my favorite people, and I kept thinking of funny things to tell Fang, like how Total looked with white frosting all over his face.\n\nSo Nudge and I flew back, followed by Angel, Gazzy, and Iggy. I was thankful that I could usually wear jeans or sweats. Flying in a dress is not a picnic. Talk about vulnerable.\n\nWe landed lightly on our back deck. Inside, a few lights were on. I kicked off my fashionable, uncomfortable shoes and went to find Fang. I'd brought him a piece of cake, and though it was a teensy bit squooshed, I was sure it'd taste okay.\n\nI headed down the hall and tapped on the closed door of the boys' room. No answer. Had he already fallen asleep?\n\nI opened the door a bit and peered in. It was dark.\n\n\"Fang?\"\n\nI flicked on the light. The room was empty; his bed was still made. The bathroom was next door, and it too was dark and empty.\n\n\"Fang?\" I called louder. \"We're home!\"\n\nI headed out to ask the others if they'd seen him, and that was when I saw the note.\n\nIt was propped on the dresser, by the door\u2014a white envelope with my name written on it in Fang's spiky handwriting.\n\nMy heart dropped somewhere around my stomach, and my skin went cold, as if I'd stepped into a freezer. Slowly I reached out and picked up the envelope. I opened the flap and pulled out a sheet of paper.\n\n\"Max? What are you doing? We're gonna take a couple more photos,\" said Nudge, swinging around the door. \"Since we probably won't all be clean at the same time ever again.\"\n\nI swallowed. \"Is Fang out there with you guys?\"\n\n\"No\u2014he's not in here?\"\n\n\"No. I found this.\" I showed her the note, and her eyes went wide.\n\n\"What is it?\" Her voice was hushed and solemn.\n\nBreathing shallowly, I unfolded the paper. I didn't want to read it\u2014like, if I didn't read it, it would make it not be true.\n\nBut I was not a coward. Even about this. So I started reading aloud.\n\n_Dear Max\u2014_\n\n_You looked so beautiful today. I'm going to remember what you looked like forever._\n\nNudge put her hand over her mouth.\n\n_And I hope you remember me the same way\u2014clean, ha-ha. I'm glad our last time together was happy._\n\n_But I'm leaving tonight, leaving the flock, and this time it's for good. I don't know if I'll ever see any of you again. The thing is, Max, that everyone is a little bit right. Added up all together, it makes this one big right._\n\n_Dylan's a little bit right about how my being here might be putting the rest of you in danger. The threat might have been just about Dr. Hans, but we don't know that for sure. Angel is a little bit right about how splitting up the flock will help all of us survive. And the rest of the flock is a little bit right about how when you and I are together, we're focused on each other\u2014we can't help it._\n\n_The thing is, Maximum, I love you. I can't help but be focused on you when we're together. If you're in the room, I want to be next to you. If you're gone, I think about you. You're who I want to talk to. In a fight, I want you at my back. When we're together, the sun is shining. When we're apart, everything is in shades of gray._\n\n_I hope you'll forgive me someday for turning our worlds into shades of gray\u2014at least for a while._\n\nI stopped for a moment, trying to breathe. The others had trickled down the hall to see what we were doing, and they were all crowded around Nudge, their faces shocked.\n\n_You're not at your best when you're focused on me. I mean, you're at your best Maxness, but not your best leaderness. I mostly need Maxness. The flock mostly needs leaderness. And Angel, if you're listening to this, it ain't you, sweetie. Not yet._\n\nI glanced at Angel, and her cheeks flushed.\n\n_At least for a couple more years, the flock needs a leader to survive, no matter how capable everyone thinks he or she is. The truth is that they do need a leader, and the truth is that you are the best leader. It's one of the things I love about you._\n\n_But the more I thought about it, the more sure I got that this is the right thing to do. Maybe not for you, or for me, but for all of us together, our flock._\n\n_Please don't try to find me. This is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, besides wearing that suit today, and seeing you again will only make it harder. You'd ask me to come back, and I would, because I can't say no to you. But all the same problems would still be there, and I'd end up leaving again, and then we'd have to go through this all over again._\n\n_Please make us only go through this once._\n\nMy throat was closing up, my voice becoming raspy. I could think of _lots_ of times he'd told me no. Nudge edged her hand into the crook of my arm, holding on as if we both needed support.\n\n_I love you. I love your smile, your snarl, your grin, your face when you're sleeping. I love your hair streaming out behind you as we fly, with the sunlight making it shine, if it doesn't have too much mud or blood in it. I love seeing your wings spreading out, white and brown and tan and speckled, and the tiny, downy feathers right at the top of your shoulders. I love your eyes, whether they're cold or calculating or suspicious or laughing or warm, like when you look at me._\n\nI started crying, like a big doofus. I couldn't believe this. I wiped my tears away with the sleeve of my fancy dress.\n\n_You're the best warrior I know, the best leader. You're the most comforting mom we've ever had. You're the biggest goofball, the worst driver, and a truly lousy cook. You've kept us safe and provided for us, in good times and bad. You're my best friend, my first and only love, and the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, with wings or without._\n\nNow everyone was crying, even Iggy. We were all sniffing and wiping our faces, and I knew I was right: Reading this out loud meant it had really happened, was really happening. To all of us, not just to me.\n\n_Tell you what, sweetie: If in twenty years we haven't expired yet, and the world is still more or less in one piece, I'll meet you at the top of that cliff where we first met the hawks and learned to fly with them. You know the one. Twenty years from today, if I'm alive, I'll be there, waiting for you. You can bet on it._\n\n_Good-bye, my love._\n\n_Fang_\n\n_P.S. Tell everyone I sure will miss them._\n\nWe were all silent. The letter was wet with my tears, making some of the words run. Fang was usually, well, _reserved_ is a nice word for it. But this letter had poured out a lifetime's worth of love. I felt numb, like someone had just whapped my head hard.\n\n\"I can't believe it,\" said Gazzy.\n\n\"That butthead,\" said Iggy.\n\n\"This is my fault,\" said Angel, her shoulders hunching with sobs.\n\n\"No,\" I told her. \"You've done a lot of asinine things, but this is not your fault.\"\n\nI felt very old and very tired. Total and Akila's wedding seemed as if it had happened a year ago. Nudge put her head on my shoulder. I set the letter down and put my arms around her.\n\nTears were dripping onto my dress, but I wasn't making any sound. There was no sound that could express this kind of pain.\n\nI didn't want to move, didn't want to do anything. Fang was not waiting for me out in the living room. Tomorrow morning, when I woke up, Fang would still be gone. \n_I feel like I'm going to HURL. Which, even if I wanted to do, I couldn't do, because I haven't eaten. I can't even drag myself out of my room. And while I'd be able to muster the strength to roundhouse Fang until he begged for MERCY, I'd be mush around an Eraser. In fact, all I want to flipping do is lie on this bed with our old laptop and catch up on my Hulu. Apparently, being heartbroken is not leverage enough to get Nudge to give up the NEW computer, so I'm stuck with the old laptop._\n\n_But what to my wondering eyes should appear, the very moment I turn the thing on?_\n\n_What did that stupid deserting crap-bag ex-boyfriend, ex-best friend with the most perfect stupid hair do? He DIDN'T delete his crap off the desktop before he fled my life and left me all alone. That's what he did._\n\n_Do I open it?_\n\n_Do I open it?_\n\n_Of course I freaking open it!!!!!!_\nMaxProCon.doc **MAX**  \n---  \nPro | Con  \nGood leader | Drill sergeant  \nCould possibly kill anyone/thing with bare hands | Could possibly kill me with bare hands  \nCan save the world | Has to save the world  \nPretty | Doesn't shower  \nSmart | Knows it all  \nGood taste in music | Can't sing. At all.  \nLikes me | Hot for Dylan  \nEats as much as I do | Burps like a trucker  \nBelieves in me | Skeptical of EVERYONE else  \nNeeds me sometimes | Doesn't need me sometimes  \nThinks with her heart | Reacts with her heart  \nKeeps me on my game | Stubborn doesn't cover it  \nNice lips | Bony toes  \nCan act like she's my mom | Eew  \nWants to make the world a better place | Takes on too much  \nCould stay with her forever | Distraction from what we need to do\n\n# Unpostedblogs.doc\n\n**Chad, Africa**\n\n_Hot, Hungry, and Thankful Not to Have HIV O'clock_\n\nHere we are in Africa, where the focus is not on us and our problems. It's on the crippling injustice in the world. The GDP (\"gross domestic product\"\u2014don't ask me; just look it up!) of Chad is 16.1 _billion_ dollars. The GDP of the USA is 14.3 _trillion_ dollars. Chew on that.\n\nIt's pretty overwhelming. What can I, in the tiny scope of one life, possibly do to make a lasting and large change in the world? I'm a bird kid and a borderline celebrity at this point... but still, I'm just a drop in the bucket.\n\nI'm down tonight, so here I am blithering on like Nudge. Max is asleep, and so is everyone else. Strange. We bird kids don't take sleep for granted, you know? Occasionally things chill out... but they never really chill out. We just forget how crazy everything is....\n\nOkay. The bottom line is that what Angel said scared the bejeezy out of me. There. I said it.\n\n'Cause I'm going to die _\"first\"_ and _\"soon.\"_\n\nI could string that sinister little mind-reading Shirley Temple up by her pinafores for her total lack of elaboration. Except Max about beat me to it.\n\nI'm lucky. Somehow I got the \"unable to visually emote\" genetic modification. Because inside, when Angel said that, my blood froze and my bird bones ached.\n\nSo what's her prediction worth anyway? Where does it come from? From a Voice, like Max's? Doesn't mean it's right. We only assume it's always going to be right, because it has the power to invade her brain and be so FLIPPING CREEPY. But creepy doesn't mean all-powerful.\n\nIt's like I'm trying to talk myself out of this. Of course we're going to die. And it's probably going to be sooner rather than later. And it's not going to be fun. Look at the life we lead.\n\nTwelve hours ago were we not being shot at by crazy guys on camels with semiautomatic weapons?\n\nThat's what I thought.\n\nCrap.\n\nSigh.\n\nFly on,\n\nFang\n\n**I'm Not Telling, Colorado**\n\n_The Day Before Our Birthday O'clock_\n\nSo, we have on _The Gift List_ :\n\nIggy\u2014Gory, gooey, blood-spattering audiobook on CD. **CHECK**\n\nNudge\u2014584,395,004,981 fashion magazines. **CHECK**\n\nGazzy\u2014Illustrated history of blowing crap up for eons. **CHECK CHECK**\n\nAngel\u2014Angel? A camera, a great gift for a smart, creative kid. **CHECK**\n\nMax\u2014...\n\nMax\u2014... Roses? They die. **LAME**\n\nMax\u2014... Poetry? And she beats me up.... **OW**\n\nMax\u2014... Jewelry?... Pretty?... Can't be used (easily) as a weapon?\n\nWhat could possibly be right for Max? That girl is fiercer than a rattlesnake. Pft. In fact, the first few times we kissed, I thought she was one. That girl was a regular old teeth-banger. (And they call _me_ Fang.) Thank goodness she was genetically engineered to have good teeth. If she had braces, my gums would have been ground beef. But I wouldn't care if she was the worst teeth-banger in a pool of every high school student on the planet. In fact, I like her more because of it.\n\nMan, I don't know. I'm really not sure. The secret to gifts is...? Right, ask me, the fifteen-year-old (tomorrow) bird man. I know _everything_ about gift giving. I learned in charm school.\n\nI think the secret to a great gift is that it should be personal. It has to prove that you know and care about someone enough to know what she'd love. And I'm so dead.\n\nI hope I made the right choice. That ring, I want it to mean something.\n\nShe's going to think I'm the corniest guy on the planet.\n\nFly on,\n\nFang\n\n**Las Vegas, Nevada**\n\n_We Won the Jackpot\u2014If by Jackpot You Mean You're Willing to Deal with Exile\u2014O'clock_\n\nWelcome to the funhouse, Faxness. You've arrived in fabulous Las Vegas, otherwise known as the most genetically modified city on the planet. Looks can be deceiving, folks. Unnatural bliss, ladies and gentlemen, unnatural, impossible bliss.\n\nLast night Max and I arrived in Vacationland\u2014and promptly proceeded to stuff as many corn nuts, funnel cakes, spumoni cones, sushi rolls, heroes, falafels, cheese steaks, burritos, and wasabi peas into our mouths as we could find.\n\nSo romantic, I know. But it was, though. It was awesome. It was about seventy-five degrees and crisp and dry out. It was perfect, walking down the streets, licking spumoni. The city was lit up like neon heaven.\n\nBut it was sad too. I thought that by going somewhere we'd blend in, we'd be able to escape. But the thing about Vegas is that it's impossible, even for one second, to forget that this city is totally false. There's even a _fake Paris_.\n\nIt reminds me that being here in Vacationland with Max, just being alone together doing outrageous fun things, that's false too.\n\nOr short-lived, anyway. How long did it take for Dr. Hagen-Doodie to find us? Less than twenty-four hours? Exactly.\n\nI can see it in Max's eyes\u2014we're going to last about as long in Vacationland as we did in Max School.\n\nSurprise! Life isn't Las Vegas. Or Disney World. For us bird kids, maybe it's more like Death Valley.\n\nFly on,\n\nFang\n\n# ForDylan.doc\n\nDylan,\n\nI don't think I've ever hated anyone more than I hate you. Maybe evil scientists. But they don't count. The way I feel about you is different. I can't control it. I don't care that you're a test-tube mutant and can't help it. I don't care if you're the nicest and smartest dude in the universe and can sing better than Bono. I want Max to be mine. You have no right to touch her. I don't care how the wack-job whitecoats programmed you. I've been by her side practically since the day she was born.\n\nBut I can't be around. My anger toward you is getting in the way. Clouding my decisions. I don't know what is the right thing to do. And this thing with Max... it's a thing with you too.\n\n# FanQs.doc\n\nYo,\n\nI have no choice but to respond to this. Why? Because it's funny. Never underestimate the power of funny. It moves mountains.\n\nFrom Jess:\n\nFANG.\n\nI've commented your blog with my questions for THREE YEARS. You answer other people's STUPID questions but not MINE. YOU REALLY ASKED FOR IT, BUDDY. I'm just gonna comment with this until you answer at least one of my questions.\n\nDO YOU HAVE A JAMAICAN ACCENT?\n\nNo, mon.\n\nDO YOU MOLT?\n\nGross.\n\nWHAT'S YOUR STAR SIGN?\n\nDon't know. \"Angel, what's my star sign?\" She says Scorpio.\n\nHAVE YOU TOLD JEB I LOVE HIM YET?\n\nNo.\n\nDOES NOT HAVING A POWER MAKE YOU ANGRY?\n\nWell, that's not really true....\n\nDO YOU KNOW HOW TO DO THE SOULJA BOY?\n\nCan you see me doing the Soulja Boy?\n\nDOES IGGY KNOW HOW TO DO THE SOULJA BOY?\n\nGazzy does.\n\nDO YOU USE HAIR PRODUCTS?\n\nNo. Again, no.\n\nDO YOU USE PRODUCTS ON YOUR FEATHERS?\n\nI don't know that they make bird kid feather products yet.\n\nWHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE MOVIE?\n\nThere are a bunch.\n\nWHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE SONG?\n\nI don't have favorites. They're too polarizing.\n\nWHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE SMELL?\n\nMax, when she showers.\n\nDO THESE QUESTIONS MAKE YOU ANGRY?\n\nNot really.\n\nIF I CAME UP TO YOU IN A STREET AND HUGGED YOU, WOULD YOU KILL ME?\n\nYou might get kicked. But I'm used to people wanting me dead, so.\n\nDO YOU SECRETLY WANT TO BE HUGGED?\n\nDoesn't everybody?\n\nARE YOU GOING EMO 'CAUSE ANGEL IS STEALING EVERYONE'S POWERS (INCLUDING YOURS)?\n\nNot the emo thing again.\n\nWHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE FOOD?\n\nAnything hot and delicious and brought to me by Iggy.\n\nWHAT DID YOU HAVE FOR BREAKFAST THIS MORNING?\n\nThree eggs, over easy. Bacon. More bacon. Toast.\n\nDID YOU EVEN HAVE BREAKFAST THIS MORNING?\n\nSee above.\n\nDID YOU DIE INSIDE WHEN MAX CHOSE ARI OVER YOU?\n\nDudes don't die inside.\n\nDO YOU LIKE MAX?\n\nDuh.\n\nDO YOU LIKE ME?\n\nI think you're funny.\n\nDOES IGGY LIKE ME?\n\nSure.\n\nDO YOU WRITE DEPRESSING POETRY?\n\nNo.\n\nIS IT ABOUT MAX?\n\nAhh. No.\n\nIS IT ABOUT ARI?\n\nWhy do you assume I write depressing poetry?\n\nIS IT ABOUT JEB?\n\nAhh.\n\nARE YOU GOING TO BLOCK THIS COMMENT?\n\nClearly, no.\n\nWHAT ARE YOU WEARING?\n\nA Dirty Projectors T-shirt. Jeans.\n\nDO YOU WEAR BOXERS OR BRIEFS?\n\nNo freaking comment.\n\nDO YOU FIND THIS COMMENT PERSONAL?\n\nCould I not find that comment personal?\n\nDO YOU WEAR SUNGLASSES?\n\nYes, cheap ones.\n\nDO YOU WEAR YOUR SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT?\n\nThat would make it hard to see.\n\nDO YOU SMOKE APPLES, LIKE US?\n\nHuh?\n\nDO YOU PREFER BLONDES OR BRUNETTES?\n\nWhatever.\n\nDO YOU LIKE VAMPIRES OR WEREWOLVES?\n\nFanged creatures rock.\n\nARE YOU GAY AND JUST PRETENDING TO BE STRAIGHT BY KISSING LISSA?\n\nUhh...\n\nWERE YOU EXPERIMENTING WITH YOUR SEXUALITY?\n\nUhh...\n\nWOULD YOU TELL US IF YOU WERE GAY?\n\nYes.\n\nDO YOU SECRETLY LIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE CALL YOU EMO?\n\nNo.\n\nARE YOU EMO?\n\nWhatever.\n\nDO YOU LIKE EGGS?\n\nYes. I had them for breakfast.\n\nDO YOU LIKE EATING THINGS?\n\nI love eating. I list it as a hobby.\n\nDO YOU SECRETLY THINK YOU'RE THE SEXIEST PERSON IN THE WHOLE WORLD?\n\nDo you secretly think I'm the sexiest person in the whole world?\n\nDO YOU EVER HAVE DIRTY THOUGHTS ABOUT MAX?\n\nEeek!\n\nHAS ANGEL EVER READ YOUR MIND WHEN YOU WERE HAVING DIRTY THOUGHTS ABOUT MAX AND GONE \"OMG\" AND YOU WERE LIKE \"D:\"?\n\nhahahahahahahahahahah\n\nDO YOU LIKE SPONGEBOB?\n\nHe's okay, I guess.\n\nDO YOU EVER HAVE DIRTY THOUGHTS ABOUT SPONGEBOB?\n\nDefinitely.\n\nCAN YOU COOK?\n\nIggy cooks.\n\nDO YOU LIKE TO COOK?\n\nI like to eat.\n\nARE YOU, LIKE, A HOUSEWIFE?\n\nHow on earth could I be like a housewife?\n\nDO YOU SECRETLY HAVE INNER TURMOIL?\n\nIsn't it obvious?\n\nDO YOU WANT TO BE UNDA DA SEA?\n\nI'm unda da stars.\n\nDO YOU THINK IT'S NOT TOO LATE, IT'S NEVER TOO LATE?\n\nSure.\n\nWHERE DID YOU LEARN TO PLAY POKER?\n\nTV.\n\nDO YOU HAVE A GOOD POKER FACE?\n\nTotally.\n\nOF COURSE YOU HAVE A GOOD POKER FACE. DOES IGGY HAVE A GOOD POKER FACE?\n\nYes.\n\nCAN HE EVEN PLAY POKER?\n\nIggy beats me sometimes.\n\nDO YOU LIKE POKING PEOPLE, HARD?\n\nNot really.\n\nARE YOU FANGALICIOUS?\n\nI could never be as fangalicious as you'd want me to be.\n\nFly on,\n\nFang\n\n# Dearmaxdraft.doc\n\nDear Max\u2014\n\nYou looked so beautiful today. I'm going to remember what you looked like forever. And I hope you remember me the same way\u2014clean, ha-ha. I'm glad our last time together was happy.\n\nBut I'm leaving tonight, leaving the flock, and this time it's for good. I don't know if I'll ever see any of you again. The thing is, Max, that everyone is a little bit right. Added up all together, it makes this one big right.\n\nDylan's a little bit right about how my being here might be putting the rest of you in danger. The threat might have been just about Dr. Hans, but we don't know that for sure. Angel is a little bit right about how splitting up the flock will help all of us survive. And the rest of the flock is a little bit right about how when you and I are together, we're focused on each other\u2014we can't help it.\n\nJeb and Dr. Hans are even a little bit right. Jeb with his weird way of showing up at the most random times\u2014with the most random but kinda relevant advice. Dr. Hans about mutants being the way of the future and about how we should learn about ourselves. Not that I want to be injected with anything, ever. But the world is changing, and there are others of us out there. I can't tell you how I know. But I do. And how we save the world, that's a huge question. It's complicated, Max. It's so very large.\n\nThe thing is, Maximum, I love you. I can't help but be focused on you when we're together. If you're in the room, I want to be next to you. If you're gone, I think about you. You're who I want to talk to. In a fight, I want you at my back. When we're together, the sun is shining. When we're apart, everything is in shades of gray.\n\nI hope you'll forgive me someday for turning our worlds into shades of gray\u2014at least for a while. It's not right that we're together. There are too many risks and too many reasons why not. I must not be selfish.\n\nYou're not at your best when you're focused on me. I mean, you're at your best Maxness, but not your best leaderness. I mostly need Maxness. The flock mostly needs leaderness. And Angel, if you're listening to this, it ain't you, sweetie. Not yet.\n\nAt least for a couple more years, the flock needs a leader to survive, no matter how capable everyone thinks he or she is. The truth is that they do need a leader, and the truth is that you are the best leader. I've learned everything from you. It's one of the things I love about you.\n\nBut the more I thought about it, the more sure I got that this is the right thing to do. Maybe not for you, or for me, but for all of us together, our flock.\n\nI know where I'm going, but please don't try to find me. This is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, besides wearing that suit today, and seeing you again will only make it harder. I don't know how I'm going to manage to do what you do all by myself. If I were to see you again, you'd ask me to come back, and I would, because I can't say no to you. But all the same problems would still be there, and I'd end up leaving again, and then we'd have to go through this all over again.\n\nPlease make us go through this only once. We must stand strong, alone and apart.\n\nI love you. I love your smile, your snarl, your grin, your face when you're sleeping. I love your hair streaming out behind you as we fly, with the sunlight making it shine, if it doesn't have too much mud or blood in it. I love seeing your wings spreading out, white and brown and tan and speckled, and the tiny, downy feathers right at the top of your shoulders. I love your eyes, whether they're cold or calculating or suspicious or laughing or warm, like when you look at me.\n\nYou're the best warrior I know, the best leader. You're the most comforting mom we've ever had. You're the biggest goofball, the worst driver, and a truly lousy cook. You've kept us safe and provided for us, in good times and bad. You're my best friend, my first and only love, and the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, with wings or without.\n\nTell you what, sweetie: If I accomplish what I've set out to do and in twenty years we haven't expired yet, and the world is still more or less in one piece, I'll meet you at the top of that cliff where we first met the hawks and learned to fly with them. You know the one. Twenty years from today, if I'm alive, I'll be there, waiting for you. You can bet on it.\n\nGood-bye, my love.\n\nFang\n\nP.S. Tell everyone I sure will miss them.\n\nP.P.S. Tell Dylan he was right. He belongs with us.\n\n# Mutantcall.doc\n\n**NEEDED: GEN 77 and/or HUMAN-ANIMAL HYBRIDS**\n\nYo,\n\nFeel like you don't fit in? Do you know that you're different? Can you do things no one else can? If you know what I'm talking about, the world is changing and I need your help.\n\nTell me your skills and send me your coordinates. I'll be in touch.\n\n<http://www.max-dan-wiz.com/profile/Fang4>\n\nFly on,\n\nFang\nANNOUNCING THE  \n**WINNER**   \nOF THE MAXIMUM RIDE WRITING CONTEST!\n\nDesperate to find out what happened when Max took Dylan on his first flying lesson in _FANG_?\n\nMaximum Ride fans between ages 13 and 18 took a stab at writing an outline and the \"missing chapter\" between Chapters 35 and 36. The contest ran in Spring 2010.\n\nAND HERE IS THE WINNING ENTRY FROM:\n\nTaylor R. from California\n\nCONGRATULATIONS!\n\n# CHAPTER 35\u00bd OUTLINE\n\nI. Dylan attempts to fly onto the roof of the house.\n\nA. Dylan falls at first.\n\nB. Max shows Dylan how to fly to the roof.\n\nC. Dylan succeeds in flying up.\n\nII. Max pushes Dylan off the roof.\n\nIII. Dylan succeeds in flying, and Max joins him on a flight over the canyon.\n\nIV. Max and Dylan accidentally brush wings.\n\nV. The two share a tender moment.\n\nVI. Dylan and Max fly back toward the house.\n\n# CHAPTER 35\u00bd\n\n\"Okay,\" he said somewhat confidently. I laughed to myself as he tried to get off the ground and onto the roof. This was going to be fun. His wings flapped a couple times before he crashed back to the ground for the second time that day.\n\n\"Try getting a running start. Give yourself enough room,\" I said, trying to be helpful without sending the wrong message. \"Like this.\" I shook out my wings and took a couple steps backward. Running forward, I leaped off the ground and beat my wings until my shoe brushed the gutter. I landed silently on the roof and turned to Dylan.\n\nHe was staring at me, uncertainty reflected in his eyes. \"Do I have to try now?\"\n\n\"Um... duh.\" Apparently Dr. God had forgotten to clone common sense into Dylan's brain. Dylan took several steps back, like I had, and then ran forward. He jumped into the air and flapped his wings hard, extreme concentration showing on his face. Miraculously, he managed to raise himself up into the air and make it to the roof. As he landed, I could see his face glowing with pride.\n\n\"Yes! I did it!\" Dylan did a fist pump and looked at me expectantly.\n\n\"Um... yeah. Good job,\" I praised him, lamely. \"Now let's see if we can really get you moving. I'll push you off the roof, and you've just got to flap. Once you're a good distance in the air, we'll fly to the other edge of the canyon and back. Ready?\"\n\n\"I don't know, I think\u2014\" I didn't get to hear the rest of his sentence because he started plummeting toward the ground as I pushed him off the edge of the roof.\n\n\"Don't forget to flap!\" I yelled after him. I sat down on the roof and counted to three in my head, expecting to hear a thud as Dylan hit the ground. But apparently he had applied what I had said, and before I knew it Dylan's tall, muscular figure was silhouetted in the night sky. I gasped in awe as his chocolate brown wings flapped, keeping him aloft. It looked almost... majestic. I shook the thoughts out of my head, realizing what I was thinking.\n\nI jumped off the roof and snapped out my wings, soaring up to join Dylan.\n\n\"Great job!\"\n\n\"Thanks. It's getting easier.\"\n\n\"I told you. With a bit of practice, it will become a lot easier.\" Dylan and I turned toward the canyon, coasting on the evening breeze.\n\nA gust of wind blew, pushing me toward him. I struggled against it, but the tips of our wings brushed slightly. I looked over at him. He was staring at me intently. It looked like he was photographing me with his mind. His eyes swept over every feature of my face, and I blushed and looked away.\n\n\"We should go back,\" I murmured. Dylan looked disappointed, but turned back toward the house. I stared after him, my mind swirling. \n**Is this the end of Max and Fang...**\n\n**and the beginning of Max and Dylan?**\n\n**Find out in**\n\n**the next thrilling chapter in the blockbuster series**\n\n**by James Patterson**\n\n**Turn the page for a sneak preview!**\n\n# 1\n\n_I KNOW HE'LL come for me. He has to come for me. Fang wouldn't let me die here._\n\nI'd been in the cage for days. I couldn't remember eating. I couldn't remember sleeping. I was disoriented from all the tests and the needles and the acrid disinfectant smell that had permeated my entire childhood... growing up in a lab, as an experiment. And here I was again, disoriented but still capable of a blinding rage.\n\nFang hadn't come for me. I would have to save myself this time.\n\n\"You! Get back!\" The lab assistant's wooden billy club smashed against the door of the Great Dane\u2013sized dog crate I was being held in every time I peered out through the front. With each strike, the door's hinges sustained more damage. Right according to plan.\n\nSteeling my nerves, I again carefully pushed my fingers out through the bars of the crate and pressed my face against it. Timing was key: if I didn't pull back fast enough, the gorilla-like lab tech could easily crush my fingers or break my nose.\n\n\"I said, _get back!_ \" he repeated. _Smash!_ A split-second after the club hit the weakened hinges, I kicked the door with every ounce of strength I had left.\n\n\"Hey!\" The lab tech's startled yell was cut short as I shot out of the crate, a rush of seriously ticked-off mutant freak, and launched a roundhouse kick to his head. I spun again, leaping onto a table to assess my adversary.\n\nAlready a piercing klaxon was splitting the air. Shouts and pounding footsteps from the hallway added to the chaos.\n\nI grabbed on to a pipe on a low section of the ceiling, swung forward, and slammed my feet into a white-lab-coated chest. The bully sank to his knees, unable to draw breath. This was the perfect time for me to run to the end of the table, jump off, and spread my wings.\n\nThat's where the \"mutant freak\" part comes in.\n\nAs hands reached for my bare feet, I shot upward, flying toward a small window high in the wall, then veered off path when a familiar dark shadow suddenly loomed.\n\nFang!\n\nHe was on the roof outside, watching through the window. My right-wing man! I _knew_ he'd come. He had my back, like a thousand times before. He would always have my back, and I would always have his. With relief, I readied myself to crash through the glass.\n\nThe room below me was now filled with shouting people. _So long, suckers,_ I thought, as I aimed and got a flying start. I'd burst through quite a few windows in my fifteen-year life, and I knew it would hurt, but I also knew pain didn't matter. Escaping mattered.\n\n_Wham!_ My right shoulder smashed against the glass, but it didn't break. I bounced off it and dropped hard, like a brick. Time slowed. I heard the pop of a tranquilizer gun and felt a dart pinch my leg as I crashed to the ground.\n\nAbove me, Fang watched, expressionless.\n\nIn disbelief, I realized that he wasn't here to help me after all; he wasn't going to break through the window to save me. I writhed on the shiny linoleum floor, losing consciousness.\n\nFang didn't have my back. Not this time.\n\nI felt like I was I falling again. Instinct made me scramble to grab on to something, anything.\n\nMy fingers latched on to a small, hard branch. As I gasped for air, my eyes popped open, and I realized I was near the top of a tall pine tree\u2014not in a dog crate, not back at the School. The late-morning sun bathed the Arizona mountains in rosy light. It had been a nightmare. Or, rather, a daymare.\n\nI inhaled deeply, feeling the icy claws of adrenaline still in my veins. Cold sweat tickled my forehead and back as I tried to calm down.\n\nIt had just been a bad dream. I was free. I was safe.\n\nExcept for the worst part of the dream, the one thing that had made everything else a thousand times worse, the one thing that truly terrified and paralyzed me...\n\nFang really _was_ gone. He _didn't_ have my back. Not in the dream, not now, _never again._\nFEBRUARY 2012\n\nThe final episode of the beloved blockbuster series is coming soon!\n\nTHE GIFT\n\n**THE BIGGEST BOOK EVENT OF THE YEAR HAPPENS 12/13/10**\n\n**TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW**\n\n# **Whit**\n\nHERE'S WHAT HAPPENED, to the best of my shattered ability to recall it.\n\nI do remember that I couldn't have been more lost and alone as I wandered the streets of this gray, crowded, and forsaken city. _Where is my sister? Where are the others from the Resistance?_ I kept thinking, or maybe muttering the words like some homeless madman.\n\nThe New Order has already disfigured this once beautiful city beyond recognition. It seems like a decaying corpse swelling with mindless maggots. The suffocatingly low sky, the featureless buildings\u2014even the faces of the nervously rushing people flooding around me\u2014are as colorless and lifeless as the concrete under my feet.\n\nI know the general populace has been efficiently brainwashed by the New Order, but these citizens seem a little _too_ hushed, a little _too_ urgent, a little _too_ riveted to the scraps of propaganda clutched in their hands like prayer books.\n\nSuddenly, my eyes spot a word in bold letters on the paper: EXECUTION.\n\nAnd then the huge video displays hanging above the boulevard light up, and everything becomes clear to me. Every pedestrian stops and stands stock-still, and every head turns upward as if there has suddenly been an eclipse.\n\nOn the video screens, a hooded prisoner\u2014small-framed, frail-looking\u2014is kneeling on a starkly lit stage.\n\n\"Wisteria Allgood,\" blares a bone-chilling voice, \"do you wish to confess to the use of the dark arts for the wicked purpose of undermining all that is good and proper in our society?\"\n\nThis can't be happening. My heart is a big lump in my throat. _Wisty?_ Did that voice really just say _Wisteria Allgood?_ My sister's on an executioner's scaffold?\n\nI grab a slack-jawed adult by his dismally gray overcoat lapels. \"Where is this execution happening? Tell me right now!\"\n\n\"The Courtyard of Justice.\" He blinks at me irritably, as if I've woken him from a deep sleep. \"Where else?\"\n\n\"Courtyard of Justice? Where's _that?_ \" I demand of the man, throwing my hands around his neck, nearly losing control of my own strength. I swear, I'm ready to throw this adult against a wall if I have to.\n\n\"Under the victory arch\u2014down there,\" he gasps. He points at a boulevard that runs off to my left. \"Let me go! I'll call the police!\"\n\nI shove him and take off running toward a massive ceremonial arch maybe a half mile away.\n\n\"You! Wait!\" he yells after me. _\"Don't I know your face from somewhere?\"_\n\nHe does. Oh yes. And so would everyone else, if they took the time to notice that there was a wanted criminal running loose in their midst.\n\nBut his fellow citizens' eyes remain glued to the screen. They've got an insatiable appetite for malicious gossip of any kind and, of course, an equal taste for senseless death and destruction.\n\nEven when the falsely condemned are kids. Just kids.\n\nI can hear a distant roar now. The sound of hunger\u2014for \"justice,\" for blood.\n\nI forge ahead into the pathetic herd of lemmings. _I'm not going to let them take my sister from me._ Not without a fight to the death anyway.\n\nI round a corner, and then, across the top of the crowd, I see... _Is that my sister, Wisty, up on the stage?_ She's hooded, dressed all in black, but standing now. Proudly. Brave as ever.\n\nA man\u2014if you would call him that\u2014is on the stage with her. He's leaning on a crooked stick, his wickedly sharp black suit hanging strangely motionless in the wind that's begun to howl through the civic square. His angular face is glowing with smug self-satisfaction, as if he's just devoured a potful of whipping cream.\n\nI know him; I despise him. _The One Who Is The One._ Quite possibly the most evil individual in the history of humanity.\n\nAre there minutes or seconds left before this hideous execution? I have no way of knowing.\n\nI knock people aside as I barrel through the thickening, or should I say _sickening,_ throng. I can see a line of well-armed soldiers holding everyone back from the platform. If I can knock one of them down and snatch away a gun...\n\nI look up at the stage just in time to see The One raise his knobby black stick and shake it menacingly at my sister. He has a look of absolute triumph.\n\n_\"No!\"_ I yell, but I'm unheard in the roaring crowd. They all know what's about to happen. I know, too. I just don't see how I can possibly stop it. There has to be a way.\n\n_\"Nooo!\"_ I scream. _\"You can't do this! This is cold-blooded murder!\"_\n\nThere's a flash\u2014not of light but somehow of _blackness_ \u2014and she's gone. Wisty. My sister. My best friend in the world.\n\nMy little sister is dead.\n\n# Reader's Guide\n\n**_Fang_ : A Maximum Ride Novel is not only a fun read, but it's also full of thought-provoking story elements that are ideal for discussion groups or for your own exploration. Here are some questions to get the conversation going!**\n\n1. When Dr. Gunther-Hagen proposes an alliance between himself and the flock, why does Max immediately turn him down? Do you think Max is right never to trust anyone besides her flock? Do you think the doctor really does want to help save the world?\n\n2. Max realizes that while her flock has some great skills, like being able to hack into computers and break into buildings, they've never gone to school to get a real education. What are some things you've learned in school that would help you save the world? What kinds of things do you know that you could teach to Max and the flock?\n\n3. According to Max, an important part of being a leader is knowing when to back off. What are some other important qualities a good leader should have? Does Max have these qualities? Does Angel have these qualities? Whom do you admire as a leader, both in the Maximum Ride books and in real life?\n\n4. Do you think the flock does the right thing when they ask Max to step down as leader? Do Max and Fang spend too much time thinking about themselves and not enough time thinking about the flock? Why, do you think, does the flock resent Max and Fang's relationship?\n\n5. When Max needs to get somewhere _fast_ , she can fly almost three hundred miles per hour. If you could have any superhuman power like Max's, what would you choose? Do you think Max would choose to be a normal teenager without wings if she could?\n\n6. The Maximum Ride books are full of action, adventure, and suspense. But they also contain lots of cool facts about famous people, places, and things, such as the Rosetta stone and the first formula for gunpowder. Can you remember any other fun facts you've learned from reading _Fang_ or any of the other Maximum Ride books?\n\n7. Fang's note says he's leaving the flock because he wants to protect them, especially Max. Does Fang do the right thing by leaving? Do you think Dylan will take Fang's place? \nContents\n\nFRONT COVER IMAGE\n\nWELCOME\n\nDEDICATION\n\nA Preview of _ANGEL_\n\nA Preview of _WITCH & WIZARD: THE GIFT_\n\nTO THE READER\n\nBOOK ONE: MEETING DOCTOR GOD\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\nBOOK TWO: HOME IS WHERE THE HEART BREAKS\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\nCHAPTER 32\n\nCHAPTER 33\n\nCHAPTER 34\n\nCHAPTER 35\n\nCHAPTER 36\n\nCHAPTER 37\n\nCHAPTER 38\n\nCHAPTER 39\n\nCHAPTER 40\n\nCHAPTER 41\n\nCHAPTER 42\n\nCHAPTER 43\n\nCHAPTER 44\n\nCHAPTER 45\n\nCHAPTER 46\n\nBOOK THREE: WHAT HAPPENS IN HOLLYWOOD... STAYS IN HOLLYWOOD\n\nCHAPTER 47\n\nCHAPTER 48\n\nCHAPTER 49\n\nCHAPTER 50\n\nCHAPTER 51\n\nCHAPTER 52\n\nCHAPTER 53\n\nCHAPTER 54\n\nCHAPTER 55\n\nCHAPTER 56\n\nCHAPTER 57\n\nCHAPTER 58\n\nCHAPTER 59\n\nCHAPTER 60\n\nCHAPTER 61\n\nCHAPTER 62\n\nCHAPTER 63\n\nCHAPTER 64\n\nCHAPTER 65\n\nCHAPTER 66\n\nBOOK FOUR: THE TOTALLY, COMPLETELY UNTHINKABLE\n\nCHAPTER 67\n\nCHAPTER 68\n\nCHAPTER 69\n\nCHAPTER 70\n\nCHAPTER 71\n\nCHAPTER 72\n\nCHAPTER 73\n\nCHAPTER 74\n\nCHAPTER 75\n\nCHAPTER 76\n\nCHAPTER 77\n\nCHAPTER 78\n\nCHAPTER 79\n\nCHAPTER 80\n\nCHAPTER 81\n\nCHAPTER 82\n\nCHAPTER 83\n\nCHAPTER 84\n\nCHAPTER 85\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nTHE OTHER EPILOGUE\n\nTHE MAXIMUM RIDE WRITING CONTEST\n\nCHAPTER 35\u00bd OUTLINE\n\nCHAPTER 35\u00bd\n\nREADER'S GUIDE\n\nABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nEVERYONE LOVES MAX!\n\nCOPYRIGHT\n**James Patterson** was selected by teens across America as the Children's Choice Book Awards Author of the Year in 2010. He is the internationally bestselling author of the highly praised Maximum Ride novels, the Witch & Wizard series, _Med Head, Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas_ , and the detective series featuring Alex Cross and the Women's Murder Club. His books have sold more than 205 million copies worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors of all time. He lives in Florida. \nEVERYONE LOVES MAX!\n\n**Raves for the blockbuster MAXIMUM RIDE series include:**\n\n#1 _New York Times_ Bestseller\n\n_Publishers Weekl_ y Bestseller\n\nAn ALA Quick Pick for Young Adults\n\nAn ALA/ _VOYA_ \"Teens' Top Ten\" Pick\n\nA _VOYA_ Review Editor's Choice\n\nA New York Public Library \"Books for the Teen Age\" Selection\n\nA Book Sense Summer 2007 Children's Pick\n\nA _KLIATT_ Editors' Choice\n\nA Children's Choice Award Author of the Year\n\n> \"The chapters are **short, taut, and filled with action**.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _VOYA_ (starred review)\n\n> \" **Furiously fast-paced, very sassy, and enormous fun**. A ripping yarn that every Maximum Ride addict will want to read.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Sunday Tasmanian_\n\n> \"The short, action-packed chapters end breathlessly, with twists at every turn.... **Adrenaline galore**.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Kirkus Reviews_\n\n> \" **Buckle your seat belts** : the [next] book in this breathless adventure series has arrived.... Swift and entertaining... fans will gobble it up.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _KLIATT_\n\n> \" **Dauntless, driven characters** and midair adventure that builds.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Booklist_\n\n> \"This trilogy is **destined to be a classic**. Alternately chilling and lighthearted... an excellent and well-plotted book.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Charleston Gazette-Mail_\n\n> \" **Fast-paced and enjoyable** (even to adults).\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Charlotte Observer_\n\n> \"Guaranteed to be **another bestseller**!\"\n> \n> \u2014 _The Easton Express Times_\n\n> \"For parents looking for something more for their young-adult readers, this book series might just be it. With messages about friendship, loyalty, and even the environment, **the Maximum Ride series is top-flight**.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Free Lance-Star_\n\n> \" **If you haven't jumped onboard the Maximum Ride express train, now's the time**. It's a wild ride any way you look at it.\"\n> \n> \u2014 _Gainesville Daily Register_\n\n> \" **A page-turner from the prologue to the epilogue**.\"\n> \n> \u2014Amelia, 17\n\n> \"There's never a boring moment in _Maximum Ride III._ It is so **insanely hard to put down** , so extremely fast-paced, and so beautifully executed. I'm sure I'm not the only fan unwilling to get off this _Ride_!\"\n> \n> \u2014Angie, 19\n\n> \" _Maximum Ride: Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports_ was so gripping that I couldn't put it down until I finished it. This is definitely **a book that everyone should read**.\"\n> \n> \u2014Ariane, 15\n\n> \"Picking up this book comes with some danger\u2014 **you will laugh, cry, scream, and sigh**. You have been warned.\"\n> \n> \u2014Emily, 16\n\n> \"It was **AWESOME**! I couldn't put it down!\"\n> \n> \u2014Michelle, 15\n\n> \" _Maximum Ride: Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports_ **will have new fans running to the nearest bookstore** or library to see what they've been missing.\"\n> \n> \u2014Kazia, 16\n\n> \"I loved this book. **The plot twists had me gasping** , and I never could have imagined the ending.\"\n> \n> \u2014Linda, 16\n\n> \" **A great read for all... impossible to put down!** \"\n> \n> \u2014Katie, 13\n\n## Copyright\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2010 by James Patterson\n\nAll rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.\n\nLittle, Brown and Company\n\nHachette Book Group\n\n237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017\n\nVisit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com\n\nwww.lb-teens.com\n\nLittle, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.\n\nThe Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.\n\nThe publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.\n\nSecond eBook Edition: January 2011\n\nThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.\n\nISBN: 978-0-316-07228-1\n"}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "In Northern Mists (Volume 1 of 2) by Fridtjof Nansen", "publication_date": 1911, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40633"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIN NORTHERN MISTS\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  \"THE GOLDEN CLOUDS CURTAINED THE DEEP WHERE IT LAY,\n  AND IT LOOKED LIKE AN EDEN AWAY, FAR AWAY\"]\n\n\n\n\n  IN NORTHERN MISTS\n\n  ARCTIC EXPLORATION IN EARLY TIMES\n\n\n  BY FRIDTJOF NANSEN\n  G.C.V.O., D.Sc., D.C.L., Ph.D., PROFESSOR OF OCEANOGRAPHY\n  IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHRISTIANIA, ETC.\n\n\n  TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR G. CHATER\n\n  ILLUSTRATED\n\n  VOLUME ONE\n\n  LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN: MCMXI\n\n\n\n\n  PRINTED BY\n  BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD\n  AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS\n  TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN\n  LONDON\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThis book owes its existence in the first instance to a rash promise made\nsome years ago to my friend Dr. J. Scott Keltie, of London, that I would\ntry, when time permitted, to contribute a volume on the history of arctic\nvoyages to his series of books on geographical exploration. The subject\nwas an attractive one; I thought I was fairly familiar with it, and did\nnot expect the book to take a very long time when once I made a start with\nit. On account of other studies it was a long while before I could do\nthis; but when at last I seriously took the work in hand, the subject in\nreturn monopolised my whole powers.\n\nIt appeared to me that the natural foundation for a history of arctic\nvoyages was in the first place to make clear the main features in the\ndevelopment of knowledge of the North in early times. By tracing how ideas\nof the Northern World, appearing first in a dim twilight, change from age\nto age, how the old myths and creations of the imagination are constantly\nrecurring, sometimes in new shapes, and how new ones are added to them, we\nhave a curious insight into the working of the human mind in its endeavour\nto subject to itself the world and the universe.\n\nBut as I went deeper into the subject I became aware that the task was far\ngreater than I had supposed: I found that much that had previously been\nwritten about it was not to be depended upon; that frequently one author\nhad copied another, and that errors and opinions which had once gained\nadmission remained embedded in the literary tradition. What had to be done\nwas to confine one's self to the actual sources, and as far as possible to\nbuild up independently the best possible structure from the very\nfoundation. But the more extensive my studies became, the more riddles I\nperceived--riddle after riddle led to new riddles, and this drew me on\nfarther and farther.\n\nOn many points I arrived at views which to some extent conflicted with\nthose previously held. This made it necessary to give, not merely the bare\nresults, but also a great part of the investigations themselves. I have\nfollowed the words of Niebuhr, which P. A. Munch took as a motto for \"Det\nnorske Folks Historie\":\n\n\"Ich werde suchen die Kritik der Geschichte nicht nach dunkeln Gef\u00fchlen,\nsondern forschend, auszuf\u00fchren, nicht ihre Resultate, welche nur blinde\nMeinungen stiften, sondern die Untersuchungen selbst in ihrem ganzen\nUmfange vortragen.\"\n\nBut in this way my book has become something quite different from what was\nintended, and far larger. I have not reached the history of arctic voyages\nproper.\n\nMany may think that too much has been included here, and yet what it has\nbeen possible to mention here is but an infinitesimal part of the mighty\nlabour in vanished times that makes up our knowledge of the North. The\nmajority of the voyages, and those the most important, on which the first\nknowledge was based, have left no certain record; the greatest steps have\nbeen taken by unknown pioneers, and if a halo has settled upon a name here\nand there, it is the halo of legend.\n\nMy investigations have made it necessary to go through a great mass of\nliterature, for which I lacked, in part, the linguistic qualifications.\nFor the study of classical, and of medi\u00e6val Latin literature, I found in\nMr. Amund Sommerfeldt a most able assistant, and most of the translations\nof Greek and Latin authors are due to him. By his sound and sober\ncriticism of the often difficult original texts he was of great help to\nme.\n\nIn the study of Arabic literature Professor Alexander Seippel has afforded\nme excellent help, combined with interest in the subject, and he has\ntranslated for me the statements of Arab authors about the North.\n\nIn the preparation of this work, as so often before, I owe a deep debt of\ngratitude to my old friend, Professor Moltke Moe. He has followed my\nstudies from the very beginning with an interest that was highly\nstimulating; with his extensive knowledge in many fields bordering on\nthose studies he has helped me by word and deed, even more often than\nappears in the course of the book. His intimate acquaintance with the\nwhole world of myth has been of great importance to the work in many ways;\nI will mention in particular his large share in the attempt at unravelling\nthe difficult question of Wineland and the Wineland voyages. Here his\nconcurrence was the more valuable to me since at first he disagreed with\nthe conclusions and views at which I had arrived; but the constantly\nincreasing mass of evidence, which he himself helped in great measure to\ncollect, convinced him of their justice, and I have the hope that the\ninquiry, particularly as regards this subject, will prove to be of value\nto future historical research.\n\nWith his masterly knowledge and insight Professor Alf Torp has given me\nsound support and advice, especially in difficult linguistic and\netymological questions. Many others, whose names are mentioned in the\ncourse of the book, have also given me valuable assistance.\n\nI owe special thanks to Dr. Axel Anthon Bj\u00f6rnbo, Librarian of the Royal\nLibrary of Copenhagen, for his willing collaboration, which has been of\ngreat value to me. While these investigations of mine were in progress, he\nhas been occupied in the preparation of his exhaustive and excellent work\non the older cartography of Greenland. At his suggestion we have exchanged\nour manuscripts, and have mutually criticised each other's views according\nto our best ability; the book will show that this has been productive in\nmany ways. Dr. Bj\u00f6rnbo has also assisted me in another way: I have, for\ninstance, obtained copies of several old maps through him. He has,\nbesides, sent me photographs of vignettes and marginal drawings from\nancient Icelandic and Norwegian MSS. in the Library of Copenhagen.\n\nMr. K. Eriksen has drawn the greater part of the reproductions of the\nvignettes and the old maps; other illustrations are drawn by me. In the\nreproduction of the maps it has been sought rather to bring before the\nreader in a clear form the results to which my studies have led than to\nproduce detailed facsimiles of the originals.\n\nIn conclusion I wish to thank Mr. Arthur G. Chater for the careful and\nintelligent way in which he has executed the English translation. In\nreading the English proofs I have taken the opportunity of making a number\nof corrections and additions to the original text.\n\nFRIDTJOF NANSEN\n\nLysaker, August 1911\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n  CHAP.                                                       PAGE\n\n        INTRODUCTION                                             1\n\n     I. ANTIQUITY, BEFORE PYTHEAS                                7\n\n    II. PYTHEAS OF MASSALIA: THE VOYAGE TO THULE                43\n\n   III. ANTIQUITY, AFTER PYTHEAS                                74\n\n    IV. THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES                                  125\n\n     V. THE AWAKENING OF MEDI\u00c6VAL KNOWLEDGE OF THE NORTH       168\n\n    VI. FINNS, SKRIDFINNS [LAPPS], AND THE FIRST SETTLEMENT\n        OF SCANDINAVIA                                         203\n\n   VII. THE VOYAGES OF THE NORSEMEN: DISCOVERY OF ICELAND\n        AND GREENLAND                                          233\n\n  VIII. VOYAGES TO THE UNINHABITED PARTS OF GREENLAND IN\n        THE MIDDLE AGES                                        279\n\n    IX. WINELAND THE GOOD, THE FORTUNATE ISLES, AND THE\n        DISCOVERY OF AMERICA                                   312\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n                    \"For my purpose holds\n  To sail beyond the sunset and the baths\n  Of all the Western stars until I die.\"\n                              Tennyson, \"Ulysses.\"\n\n\nIn the beginning the world appeared to mankind like a fairy tale;\neverything that lay beyond the circle of familiar experience was a\nshifting cloudland of the fancy, a playground for all the fabled beings of\nmythology; but in the farthest distance, towards the west and north, was\nthe region of darkness and mists, where sea, land and sky were merged into\na congealed mass--and at the end of all gaped the immeasurable mouth of\nthe abyss, the awful void of space.\n\nOut of this fairy world, in course of time, the calm and sober lines of\nthe northern landscape appeared. With unspeakable labour the eye of man\nhas forced its way gradually towards the north, over mountains and\nforests, and tundra, onward through the mists along the vacant shores of\nthe polar sea--the vast stillness, where so much struggle and suffering,\nso many bitter failures, so many proud victories, have vanished without a\ntrace, muffled beneath the mantle of snow.\n\nWhen our thoughts go back through the ages in a waking dream, an endless\nprocession passes before us--like a single mighty epic of the human\nmind's power of devotion to an idea, right or wrong--a procession of\nstruggling, frost-covered figures in heavy clothes, some erect and\npowerful, others weak and bent so that they can scarcely drag themselves\nalong before the sledges, many of them emaciated and dying of hunger, cold\nand scurvy; but all looking out before them towards the unknown, beyond\nthe sunset, where the goal of their struggle is to be found.\n\nWe see a Pytheas, intelligent and courageous, steering northward from the\nPillars of Hercules for the discovery of Britain and Northern Europe; we\nsee hardy Vikings, with an Ottar, a Leif Ericson at their head, sailing in\nundecked boats across the ocean into ice and tempest and clearing the\nmists from an unseen world; we see a Davis, a Baffin forcing their way to\nthe north-west and opening up new routes, while a Hudson, unconquered by\nice and winter, finds a lonely grave on a deserted shore, a victim of\nshabby pilfering. We see the bright form of a Parry surpassing all as he\nforces himself on; a Nordenski\u00f6ld, broad-shouldered and confident, leading\nthe way to new visions; a Toll mysteriously disappearing in the drifting\nice. We see men driven to despair, shooting and eating each other; but at\nthe same time we see noble figures, like a De Long, trying to save their\njournals from destruction, until they sink and die.\n\nMidway in the procession comes a long file of a hundred and thirty men\nhauling heavy boats and sledges back to the south, but they are falling in\ntheir tracks; one after another they lie there, marking the line of route\nwith their corpses--they are Franklin's men.\n\nAnd now we come to the latest drama, the Greenlander Br\u00f6nlund dragging\nhimself forward over the ice-fields through cold and winter darkness,\nafter the leader Mylius-Erichsen and his comrade, Hagen, have both\nstiffened in the snow during the long and desperate journey. He reaches\nthe depot only to wait for death, knowing that the maps and observations\nhe has faithfully brought with him will be found and saved. He quietly\nprepares himself for the silent guest, and writes in his journal in his\nimperfect Danish:\n\n    Perished,--79 Fjord, after attempt return over the inland ice, in\n    November. I come here in waning moon and could not get farther for\n    frost-bitten feet and darkness.\n\n    The bodies of the others are in the middle of the fjord opposite the\n    glacier (about 2-1/2 leagues).\n\n    Hagen died November 15 and Mylius about 10 days after.\n\n    J\u00d6RGEN BR\u00d6NLUND.\n\nWhat a story in these few lines! Civilisation bows its head by the grave\nof this Eskimo.\n\nWhat were they seeking in the ice and cold? The Norseman who wrote the\n\"King's Mirror\" gave the answer six hundred years ago: \"If you wish to\nknow what men seek in this land, or why men journey thither in so great\ndanger of their lives, then it is the threefold nature of man which draws\nhim thither. One part of him is emulation and desire of fame, for it is\nman's nature to go where there is likelihood of great danger, and to make\nhimself famous thereby. Another part is the desire of knowledge, for it is\nman's nature to wish to know and see those parts of which he has heard,\nand to find out whether they are as it was told him or not. The third part\nis the desire of gain, seeing that men seek after riches in every place\nwhere they learn that profit is to be had, even though there be great\ndanger in it.\"\n\nThe history of arctic discovery shows how the development of the human\nrace has always been borne along by great illusions. Just as Columbus's\ndiscovery of the West Indies was due to a gross error of calculation, so\nit was the fabled isle of Brazil that drew Cabot out on his voyage, when\nhe found North America. It was fantastic illusions of open polar seas and\nof passages to the riches of Cathay beyond the ice that drove men back\nthere in spite of one failure after another; and little by little the\npolar regions were explored. Every complete devotion to an idea yields\nsome profit, even though it be different from that which was expected.\n\nBut from first to last the history of polar exploration is a single mighty\nmanifestation of the power of the unknown over the mind of man, perhaps\ngreater and more evident here than in any other phase of human life.\nNowhere else have we won our way more slowly, nowhere else has every new\nstep cost so much trouble, so many privations and sufferings, and\ncertainly nowhere have the resulting discoveries promised fewer material\nadvantages--and nevertheless, new forces have always been found ready to\ncarry the attack farther, to stretch once more the limits of the world.\n\nBut if it has cost a struggle, it is not without its joys. Who can\ndescribe his emotion when the last difficult ice-floe has been passed, and\nthe sea lies open before him, leading to new realms? Or when the mist\nclears and mountain-summits shoot up, one behind another farther and\nfarther away, on which the eye of man has never rested, and in the\nfarthest distance peaks appear on the sea-horizon--on the sky above them a\nyellowish white reflection of the snow-fields--where the imagination\npictures new continents?...\n\nEver since the Norsemen's earliest voyages arctic expeditions have\ncertainly brought material advantages to the human race, such as rich\nfisheries, whaling and sealing, and so on; they have produced scientific\nresults in the knowledge of hitherto unknown regions and conditions; but\nthey have given us far more than this: they have tempered the human will\nfor the conquest of difficulties; they have furnished a school of\nmanliness and self-conquest in the midst of the slackness of varying ages,\nand have held up noble ideals before the rising generation; they have fed\nthe imagination, have given fairy-tales to the child, and raised the\nthoughts of its elders above their daily toil. Take arctic travel out of\nour history, and will it not be poorer? Perhaps we have here the greatest\nservice it has done humanity.\n\nWe speak of the first discovery of the North--but how do we know when the\nfirst man arrived in the northern regions of the earth? We know nothing\nbut the very last steps in the migrations of humanity. What a stretch of\ntime there must have been between the period of the Neanderthal man in\nEurope and the first Pelasgians, or Iberians, or Celts, that we find there\nin the neolithic age, in the earliest dawn of history. How infinitesimal\nin comparison with this the whole of the recent period which we call\nhistory becomes.\n\nWhat took place in those long ages is still hidden from us. We only know\nthat ice-age followed ice-age, covering Northern Europe, and to some\nextent Asia and North America as well, with vast glaciers which\nobliterated all traces of early human habitation of those regions. Between\nthese ice-ages occurred warmer periods, when men once more made their way\nnorthward, to be again driven out by the next advance of the ice-sheet.\nThere are many signs that the human northward migration after the last\nice-age, in any case in large districts of Europe, followed fairly close\nupon the gradual shrinking of the boundary of the inland ice towards the\ninterior of Scandinavia, where the ice-sheath held out longest.\n\nThe primitive state--when men wandered about the forests and plains of the\nwarmer parts of the earth, living on what they found by chance--developed\nby slow gradations in the direction of the first beginnings of culture; on\none side to roving hunters and fishers, on the other to agricultural\npeople with a more fixed habitation. The nomad with his herds forms a\nlater stage of civilisation.\n\nThe hunting stage of culture was imposed by necessity on the first\npioneers and inhabitants of the northernmost and least hospitable regions\nof the earth. The northern lands must therefore have been first discovered\nby roving fishermen who came northwards following the rivers and seashores\nin their search for new fishing-grounds. It was the scouting eye of a\nhunter that first saw a sea-beach in the dreamy light of a summer night,\nand sought to penetrate the heavy gloom of the polar sea. And that\nfar-travelled hunter fell asleep in the snowdrift while the northern\nlights played over him as a funeral fire, the first victim of the polar\nnight's iron grasp.\n\nLong afterwards came the nomad and the agriculturist and established\nthemselves in the track of the hunter.\n\nThis was thousands of years before any written history, and of these\nearliest colonisations we know nothing but what the chance remains we find\nin the ground can tell us, and these are very few and very uncertain.\n\nIt is not until we come far down into the full daylight of history that we\nfind men setting out with the conscious purpose of exploring the unknown\nfor its own sake. With those early hunters, it was doubtless new ground\nand new game that drew them on, but they too were attracted, consciously\nor unconsciously, by the spirit of adventure and the unknown--so deep in\nthe soul of man does this divine force lie, the mainspring, perhaps, of\nthe greatest of our actions. In every part of the world and in every age\nit has driven man forward on the path of evolution, and as long as the\nhuman ear can hear the breaking of waves over deep seas, as long as the\nhuman eye can follow the track of the northern lights over silent\nsnow-fields, as long as human thought seeks distant worlds in infinite\nspace, so long will the fascination of the unknown carry the human mind\nforward and upward.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Ship of the Egyptian Punt expedition, 17th century B.C. (J.\nD\u00dcMICHEN)]\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nANTIQUITY, BEFORE PYTHEAS\n\n\nThe learned world of early antiquity had nothing but a vague premonition\nof the North. Along the routes of traffic commercial relations were\nestablished at a very early time with the northern lands. At first these\nran perhaps along the rivers of Russia and Eastern Germany to the Baltic,\nafterwards along the rivers of Central Europe as well. But the information\nwhich reached the Mediterranean peoples by these routes had to go through\nmany intermediaries with various languages, and for this reason it long\nremained vague and uncertain.\n\nWhat the people of antiquity did not know, they supplied by poetical and\nmythical conceptions; and in time there grew up about the outer limits of\nthe world, especially on the north, a whole cycle of legend which was to\nlay the foundation of ideas of the polar regions for thousands of years,\nfar into the Middle Ages, and long after trustworthy knowledge had been\nwon, even by the voyages of the Norsemen themselves.\n\n[Sidenote: Origin of the word Arctic]\n\nLong before people knew whether there were lands and seas far in the\nnorth, those who studied the stars had observed that there were some\nbodies in the northern sky which never set, and that there was a point in\nthe vault of heaven which never changed its place. In time, they also\nfound that, as they moved northwards, the circle surrounding the stars\nthat were always visible became larger, and they saw that these in their\ndaily movements described orbits about the fixed point or pole of the\nheavens. The ancient Chaldeans had already found this out. From this\nobservation it was but a short step to the deduction that the earth could\nnot be flat, as the popular idea made it, but must in one way or another\nbe spherical, and that if one went far enough to the north, these stars\nwould be right over one's head. To the Greeks a circle drawn through the\nconstellation of the Great Bear, which they called \"Arktos,\" formed the\nlimit of the stars that were always visible. This limit was therefore\ncalled the Bear's circle, or the \"Arctic Circle,\" and thus this\ndesignation for the northernmost regions of the earth is derived from the\nsky.\n\n[Illustration: The world according to Hecat\u00e6us (BUNBURY)]\n\n[Sidenote: \u0152cumene and Oceanus]\n\n[Sidenote: Herodotus on the ocean]\n\nAccording to the common Greek idea it was the countries of the\nMediterranean and of the East that formed the disc of the earth, or\n\"\u0153cumene\" (the habitable world). Around this disc, according to the\nHomeric songs (the Iliad was put into writing about 900 B.C.), flowed the\nall-embracing river \"Oceanus,\" the end of the earth and the limit of\nheaven. This deep, tireless, quietly flowing river, whose stream turned\nback upon itself, was the origin and the end of all things; it was not\nonly the father of the Oceanides and of the rivers, but also the source\nwhence came gods and men. Nothing definite is said of this river's farther\nboundary; perhaps unknown lands belonging to another world whereon the sky\nrested were there; in any case we meet later, as in Hesiod, with ideas of\nlands beyond the Ocean, the Hesperides, Erythea, and the Isles of the\nBlest, which were probably derived from Ph\u0153nician tales. Originally\nconceived as a deep-flowing river, Oceanus became later the all-embracing\nempty ocean, which was different from the known sea (the Mediterranean)\nwith its known coasts, even though connected with it. Herodotus (484-424\nB.C.) is perhaps the first who used the name in this sense; he definitely\nrejects the idea of Oceanus as a river and denies that the \"\u0153cumene\"\nshould be drawn round, as though with a pair of compasses, as the Ionian\ngeographers (Hecat\u00e6us, for example) thought. He considered it proved that\nthe earth's disc on the western side, and probably also on the south, was\nsurrounded by the ocean, but said that no one could know whether this was\nalso the case on the north and north-east. In opposition to Hecat\u00e6us[1]\nand the Ionian geographers (the school of Miletus) he asserted that the\nCaspian Sea was not a bay of the northern Oceanus, but an independent\ninland sea. Thus the \"\u0153cumene\" became extended into the unknown on the\nnorth-east. He mentions several peoples as dwelling farthest north; but to\nthe north of them were desert regions and inaccessible mountains; how far\nthey reached he does not say.\n\n[Illustration: The world according to the ideas of Herodotus (J. MURRAY)]\n\nHe thus left the question undetermined, because, with the sound\ncool-headedness of the inquirer, which made him in a sense the founder of\nphysical geography, he trusted to certain observations rather than to\nuncertain speculations; and therefore he maintained that the geographers\nof the Ionian school had not provided adequate proofs that the world was\nreally surrounded by sea on all sides. But nevertheless, it was, perhaps,\nhis final opinion that the earth's disc swam like an island in Oceanus.\n\n[Sidenote: Division of the ocean]\n\nThis common name for the ocean was soon dropped, and men spoke instead of\nthe Outer Sea beyond the Pillars of Hercules in contradistinction to the\nInner Sea (i.e., the Mediterranean). The Outer Sea was also called the\nAtlantic Sea after Atlas. This name is first found in Herodotus. South of\nAsia was the Southern Ocean or the Erythr\u00e6an Sea (the Red Sea and Indian\nOcean). North of Europe and Asia was the Northern Ocean; and the Caspian\nSea was a bay of this, in the opinion of the majority. Doubtless, most\npeople thought that these various oceans were connected; but the common\nname Oceanus does not reappear as applied to them until the second century\nB.C.[2]\n\n[Sidenote: Homeric ideas of the universe]\n\nAccording to the Homeric conception the universe was to be imagined\nsomewhat as a hollow globe, divided in two by the disc of the earth and\nits encircling Oceanus; the upper hemisphere was that of light, or the\nheaven; the lower one Tartarus, hidden in eternal darkness. Hades lay\nbeneath the earth, and Tartarus was as far below Hades as the sky was\nabove the earth. The solid vault of heaven was borne by Atlas, but its\nextremities certainly rested upon Oceanus (or its outer boundary), or at\nleast were contained thereby. According to Hesiod (about 800 B.C.) an\nanvil falling from heaven would not reach earth till the tenth day, and\nfrom the earth it would fall for nine days and nine nights and not reach\nthe bottom of Tartarus until the tenth. This underworld is filled to the\nbrim with triple darkness, and the Titans have been hurled into it and\ncannot come out. On the brink the limits of the earth, the waste Oceanus,\nblack Tartarus, and the starry heaven all coincide. Tartarus is a deep\ngulf at which even the gods shudder; in a whole year it would be\nimpossible to search through it.[3]\n\nSo early do we find three conceptions which two thousand years later still\nformed the foundation of the doctrine of the earth's outer limits,\nespecially on the north: (1) the all-embracing Oceanus or empty ocean; (2)\nthe coincidence of sky, sea, land and underworld at the uttermost edge;\nand lastly (3) the dismal gulf into which even the gods were afraid of\nfalling.\n\n[Sidenote: Spherical form of the earth]\n\nThese or similar ideas still obtained long after the mathematical\ngeographers had conceived the earth as a sphere. Pythagoras (568-about 494\nB.C.) was probably the first to proclaim the doctrine of the spherical\nform of the earth. He relied less upon observation than upon the\nspeculative idea that the sphere was the most perfect form. Before him\nAnaximander of Miletus (611-after 547 B.C.), to whom are attributed the\ninvention of the gnomon or sun-dial, and the first representation of the\nearth's disc on a map, had maintained that the earth was a cylinder\nfloating in space; the inhabited part was the upper flat end. His pupil\nAnaximenes (second half of the sixth century B.C.) thought that the earth\nhad the form of a trapezium, supported by the air beneath, which it\ncompressed like the lid of a vase; while before him Thales of Miletus\n(640-about 548 B.C.) was inclined to hold that the earth's disc swam on\nthe surface of the ocean, in the middle of the hollow sphere of heaven,\nand that earthquakes were caused by movements of the waters.[4]\n\n[Sidenote: Doctrine of zones]\n\n[Sidenote: The abyss]\n\nParmenides of Elea (about 460 B.C.) divided the earth's sphere into five\nzones or belts, of which three were uninhabitable: the zone of heat, or\nthe scorched belt round the equator, and the two zones of cold at the\npoles. Between the warmth and the cold there were on either side of the\nhot zone two temperate zones where men might live. This division was\noriginally derived from the five zones of the heavens, where the Arctic\nCircle formed the boundary of the northern stars that are always visible,\nand the tropics that of the zone dominated by the sun. Pythagoras seems to\nhave been the first to transfer it to the globe, the centre of the\nuniverse.[5] This idea of the earth's five habitable and uninhabitable\nzones was current till nearly the end of the Middle Ages; but at the same\ntime one finds, often far on in the Middle Ages, the former conceptions of\nthe empty ocean encircling all, and of the \"\u0153cumene\" swimming in it as an\nisland. Occasionally we meet with a vast unknown continent beyond this\nocean, belonging to another world, which no one can reach.[6] Together\nwith these theories, though not very conspicuously, the belief in the\nimmeasurable gulf at the edge of the world also persisted; and this became\nthe \"Ginnungagap\" of our forefathers.\n\nThe conception of the earth's form and of its uttermost limits was thus by\nno means consistent, and on some points it was contradictory. We must\nalways, and especially in dealing with past times, distinguish between the\nviews of the scientific world and those of ordinary people, two aspects\nwhich were often hopelessly mixed together. And again in the scientific\nworld we must distinguish between the mathematical-physical geographers\nand the historical, since the latter dealt more with descriptions and were\napt to follow accounts and legends rather than what was taught by physical\nobservations.\n\n[Sidenote: The Rhip\u00e6an Mountains]\n\n[Sidenote: L\u00e6strygons and Cimmerians]\n\nThe world which the Greeks really knew was bounded in the earlier period\non the north by the Balkans. These again gave rise to the mythical Rhip\u00e6an\nMountains, which were soon moved farther to the north or north-east[7] as\nknowledge increased, and so they and the Alps were made the northern\nboundary of the known world. As to what lay farther off, the Greeks had\nvery vague ideas; they seem to have thought that the frozen polar\ncountries began there, where it was so cold that people had to wear\nbreeches like the Scythians; or else it was a good climate, since it lay\nnorth of the north wind which came from the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains. But that\nsome genuine information about the North had reached them as early as the\ntime of the Odyssey seems to be shown by the tale of the L\u00e6strygons--who\nhad the long day, and whose shepherds, driving their flocks in at evening,\ncould call to those who were setting out in the morning, since the paths\nof day and night were with them so close to one another--and of the\nCimmerians at the gates of the underworld, who lived in a land of fog, on\nthe shores of Oceanus, in eternal cheerless night. It is true that the\npoet seems to have imagined these countries somewhere in the east or\nnorth-east, probably by the Black Sea; for Odysseus came from the\nL\u00e6strygons to the isle of \u00c6\u00e6a \"by the mansions and dancing-places of the\nDawn and by the place where the sun rises.\" And from \u00c6\u00e6a the Greek hero\nsteered right out into the night and the mist on the dangerous waters of\nOceanus and came to the Cimmerians,[8] who must therefore have dwelt\nbeyond the sunrise, shrouded in cloud and fogs. It might be supposed that\nit was natural to the poet to believe that there must be night beyond the\nsunrise and on the way to the descent to the nether regions; but it is,\nperhaps, more probable that both the long day and the darkness and fog are\nan echo of tales about the northern summer and the long winter night, and\nthat these tales reached the Greeks by the trade-routes along the Russian\nrivers and across the Black Sea, for which reason the districts where\nthese marvels were to be found were reported to lie in that direction. A\nfind in the passage-graves of Mycen\u00e6 (fourteenth to twelfth century B.C.)\nof beads made of amber from the Baltic,[9] besides many pieces of amber\nfrom the period of the Dorian migration (before the tenth century) found\nduring the recent English excavations of the temple of Artemis at\nSparta,[10] furnish certain evidence that the Greek world had intercourse\nwith the Baltic countries long before the Odyssey was put into writing in\nthe eighth century, even though the northern lands of this poem seem to\nhave been limited by a communication by sea between the Black Sea and the\nAdriatic, running north of the Balkan peninsula. Perhaps this imaginary\ncommunication may have been conceived as going by the Ister (Danube),\nwhich, at any rate later, was thought to have another outlet in the\nAdriatic. We may also find echoes of tales about the dark winter and light\nsummer of the North in Sophocles's tragedy, where we are told that\nOrithyia was carried off by Boreas and borne over\n\n  ... the whole mirror of the sea, to the edge of the earth,\n  To the source of prim\u00e6val night, where the vault of heaven ends,\n  Where lies the ancient garden of Ph\u0153bus[11]\n\n--though images of this sort may also be due to an idea that the sun\nremained during the night beyond the northern regions.\n\n[Sidenote: The Hyperboreans]\n\nAccording to a comparatively late Greek conception there was in the far\nNorth a happy people called the Hyperboreans. They dwelt \"under the\nshining way\" (the clear northern sky) north of the roaring Boreas, so far\nthat this cold north wind could not reach them, and therefore enjoyed a\nsplendid climate. They did not live in houses, but in woods and groves.\nWith them injustice and war were unknown, they were untouched by age or\nsickness; at joyous sacrificial feasts, with golden laurel-wreaths in\ntheir hair, and amid song and the sound of the cithara and the dancing of\nmaidens, they led a careless existence in undisturbed gladness, and\nreached an immense age. When they were tired of life they threw\nthemselves, after having eaten and drunk, joyfully and with wreaths in\ntheir hair, into the sea from a particular cliff (according to Mela and\nPliny, following Hecat\u00e6us of Abdera). Among other qualities they had the\npower of flying, and one of them, Abaris, flew round the world on an\narrow. While some geographers, especially the Ionians, placed them in the\nnorthern regions, beyond the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains,[12] Hecat\u00e6us of Abdera\n(first half of the third century B.C.), who wrote a work about the\nHyperboreans, collected from various sources, and more like a novel than\nanything else, declares that they dwelt far beyond the accessible regions,\non the island of Elix\u0153a in the farthest northern Oceanus, where the tired\nstars sink to rest, and where the moon is so near that one can easily\ndistinguish the inequalities of its surface. Leto was born there, and\ntherefore Apollo is more honoured with them than other gods. There is a\nmarvellous temple, round like a sphere,[13] which floats freely in the air\nborne by wings, and which is rich in offerings. To this holy island Apollo\ncame every ninth year; according to some authorities he came through the\nair in a car drawn by swans. During his visit the god himself played the\ncithara and danced without ceasing from the spring equinox to the rising\nof the Pleiades. The Boreads were hereditary kings of the island, and were\nlikewise keepers of the sanctuary; they were descendants of Boreas and\nChione. Three giant brothers, twelve feet high, performed the service of\npriests. When they offered the sacrifice and sang the sacred hymns to the\nsound of the cithara, whole clouds of swans came from the Rhip\u00e6an\nMountains, surrounded the temple and settled upon it, joining in the\nsacred song.\n\nTheopompus (Philip of Macedon's time) has given us, if we may trust\n\u00c6lian's account [\"Varia,\" iii. c. 18; about 200 A.D.], a remarkable\nvariation of the Hyperborean legend in combination with others:\n\n    Europe, Asia, and Africa were islands surrounded by Oceanus; only that\n    land which lay outside this world was a continent; its size was\n    immense. The animals there were huge, the men were not only double our\n    size, but lived twice as long as we. Among many great towns there\n    were two in particular greater than the rest, and with no resemblance\n    to one another; they were called Machimos (the warlike) and Eusebes\n    (the pious). The description of the latter's peaceful inhabitants has\n    most features in common with the Hyperborean legend. The warlike\n    inhabitants of Machimos, on the other hand, are born armed, wage war\n    continually, and oppress their neighbours, so that this one city rules\n    over many peoples, but its inhabitants are no less than two millions.\n    It is true that they sometimes die of disease, but that happens\n    seldom, since for the most part they are killed in war, by stones, or\n    wood [that is, clubs], for they are invulnerable to iron. They have\n    such superfluity of gold and silver that with them gold is of less\n    value than iron is with us. Once indeed they made an expedition to our\n    island [that is, Europe], came over the Ocean ten millions strong and\n    arrived at the land of the Hyperboreans. But when they learned that\n    these were the happy ones of our earth, and found their mode of life\n    bad, poverty-stricken and despicable, they did not think it worth\n    while to proceed farther.\n\n    Among them dwell men called Meropians, in many great cities. On the\n    border of their country is a place which bears the significant name\n    Anostos (without return), and resembles a gulf (\"chiasma\"). There\n    reigns there neither darkness nor light, but a veil of mist of a dirty\n    red colour lies over it. Two streams flow about this place, of which\n    one is called Hedone (the stream of gladness), the other Lype (the\n    stream of sorrow), and by the banks of each stand trees of the size of\n    a great plane-tree. The fruit of the trees by the river of sorrow has\n    the effect that any one who eats of it sheds so many tears that for\n    the rest of his life he melts away in tears and so dies. The other\n    trees that grow by the river of gladness bear fruit of a quite\n    different kind. With him who tastes it all former desires come to\n    rest; even what he has passionately loved passes into oblivion, he\n    becomes gradually younger and goes once more through the previous\n    stages of his existence in reverse order. From an old man he passes to\n    the prime of life, becomes a youth, a boy, and then a child, and with\n    that he is used up. \u00c6lian adds: \"And if the Chionian's [that is,\n    Theopompus of Chios] tale appears credible to any one, then he may be\n    believed, but to me he seems to be a mythologist, both in this and in\n    other things.\"\n\nThere can be no doubt that the regions which we hear of in this story,\nwith the Hyperboreans, the enormous quantities of gold, the gulf without\nreturn, and so on, were imagined as situated beyond the sea in the North;\nand in the description of the warlike people of Machimos who came in great\nhordes southward over the sea, one might almost be tempted to think of\nwarlike northerners, who were slain with stones and clubs, but not with\niron, perhaps because they had not yet discovered the use of iron.[14]\n\nThe legend of the happy Hyperboreans in the North has arisen from an error\nof popular etymology, and it has here been treated at some length as an\nexample of how geographical myths may originate and develop.[15] The name\nin its original form was certainly the designation of those who brought\nofferings to the shrine of Apollo at Delphi (perhaps also in Delos). They\nwere designated as \"perpheroi\" or \"hyper-pheroi\" (bringers over), which\nagain in certain northern Greek dialects took the forms of \"hyper-phoroi\"\nor \"hyper-boroi;\" this, by an error, became connected in later times with\n\"Boreas,\" and their home was consequently transferred to the North, many\ncustoms of the worship of Apollo being transferred with it [see O.\nCrusius, 1890, col. 2830]. This gives at the same time a natural\nexplanation of their many peculiarities, their sanctity, their power of\nflight and the arrow (Apollo's arrow), their ceremonial feasts, and their\nthrowing themselves from a certain cliff,[16] and so on, all of which is\nderived from the worship of Apollo. Apollonius of Rhodes (about 200 B.C.)\nrelates that according to the legends of the Celts (in North Italy ?)\namber originated from the tears of Apollo, which he shed by thousands when\nhe came to the holy people of the Hyperboreans and forsook the shining\nheaven.\n\nWhen, after the conquests of Alexander, the Greeks became acquainted with\nthe mythical world of India, they naturally connected the Indians'\nlegendary country, \"Uttara Kuru,\" beyond the Himalayas, with the country\nof the Hyperboreans. \"This land is not too cold, not too warm, free from\ndisease; care and sorrow are unknown there; the earth is without dust and\nsweetly perfumed; the rivers run in beds of gold, and instead of pebbles\nthey roll down pearls and precious stones.\"\n\nThe mythical singer Aristeas of Proconnesus (sixth century ?)--to whom was\nattributed the poem \"Arimaspeia\"--is said (according to Herodotus) to have\npenetrated into the country of the Scythians as far as the northernmost\npeople, the Issedonians. The latter told him of the one-eyed, long-haired\nArimaspians, who lived still farther north, at the uttermost end of the\nworld, before the cave from which Boreas rushes forth. On their northern\nborder dwelt the Griffins, lion-like monsters with the wings and beaks of\neagles;[17] they were the guardians of the gold which the earth sends\nforth of itself. But still farther north, as far as the sea, were the\nHyperboreans.\n\nBut the learned Herodotus (about 450 B.C.) doubted that the Hyperboreans\ndwelt to the north of Boreas; for, said he, if there are people north of\nthe north wind, then there must also be people south of the south wind.\nNeither did he credit the Scythians' tales about goat-footed people[18]\nand Sleepers far in the North. Just as little did this sceptic believe\nthat the air of Scythia was full of feathers which prevented all seeing\nand moving; it was, he thought, continuous snowfall that the Scythians\ndescribed thus. On the other hand, he certainly believed in the Amazons,\nthough whether they dwelt in the North, as later authors considered, he\ndoes not say.\n\nThe idea of the Sleepers, who slept for six months, may very probably be\ndue to legendary tales of the long northern winter-night, the length of\nwhich was fixed at six months by theoretical speculations, these tales\nbeing confused with reports that the people of Scythia slept a great part\nof the winter, as even to-day the peasants are said to do in certain parts\nof Russia, where they almost hibernate. Nor must the possibility be\noverlooked of stories about the winter's sleep of animals, bears, for\nexample, being transferred to men.\n\nLater learned geographers, in spite of the scepticism of Herodotus,\noccupied themselves in assigning to the Hyperboreans a dwelling-place in\nthe unknown. The founder of scientific geography, Eratosthenes of Cyrene\n(275-195 B.C.), declared that Herodotus's method of disproving the\nexistence of the Hyperboreans was ridiculous. [Cf. Strabo, i. 61.]\n\nEven so long as five hundred years after Herodotus, Pliny declared the\nHyperboreans to be a historical people, whose existence could not be\ndoubted; and on the maps of the Middle Ages we always find them in the\nmost northern inhabited regions, together with the Amazons and other\npeoples; we even find the Hyperborean Mountains (\"Hyperborei Montes\") in\nNorthern Europe and the Hyperborean Sea (\"Oceanus Hyperboreus\") to the\nnorth of them. Adam of Bremen (eleventh century) thought that the\nScandinavians were the Hyperboreans.\n\n[Illustration: Trade-routes between the Mediterranean and the North]\n\n[Sidenote: Trade-routes between the Mediterranean and the North]\n\nArch\u00e6ological finds show that as long ago as the Scandinavian Bronze Age,\nor before, there must have been some sort of communication between the\nMediterranean and the northern lands. One of the earliest trade-routes\nbetween the Mediterranean and the Baltic certainly went from the Black Sea\nup the navigable river Borysthenes (Dnieper), of which early mention is\nmade by the Greeks, thence along its tributary the Bug to the Vistula, and\ndown the latter to the coast. We also find this route in common use in\nlater antiquity. When we first meet with the Goths in history they are\nestablished at both ends of it, by the mouths of the Vistula and of the\nBorysthenes. The Eruli, who came from the North, are also mentioned by the\nside of the Goths on the Black Sea. What the wandering nation of the\nCimmerians was we do not know, but, as before remarked (p. 14), they may\nhave been Cimbri who in those early times had migrated to the northern\nshore of the Black Sea by this very route. This trade-route was well known\nin its details to our forefathers in Scandinavia, which likewise points to\nan ancient communication. Somewhat later it is probable that men travelled\nfrom the Baltic up the Vistula and across to the March, a tributary of the\nDanube, and so either down this river to the Black Sea or overland to the\nAdriatic. A similar line of communication certainly ran between the North\nSea and the Mediterranean along the Elbe to the Adriatic, and up the\nRhine across to the Rhone and down this to the coast, or across the Alps\nto the Po.\n\n[Illustration: Cromlechs: on the right, in Portugal (after Cartailhac); on\nthe left, in Denmark (after S. M\u00fcller)]\n\nBut very early there was also communication by sea along the coasts of\nwestern Europe between the Mediterranean and the North. This is shown\namongst other things by the distribution, about 2000 B.C., of cromlechs\nover Sicily, Corsica, Portugal and the north of Spain, Brittany, the\nBritish Isles, the North Sea coast of Germany, Denmark and southern\nScandinavia as far as Bohuslen [cf. S. M\u00fcller, 1909, p. 24 f.], and\nperhaps farther. Somewhat later, in the middle of the second millennium\nB.C., the passage-graves or chambered barrows followed the same route\nnorthward from the Mediterranean. That this sea-communication was\ncomparatively active in those far-off times is proved by the fact that\ncromlechs, which originated in the grave-chambers of the beginning of the\nMycen\u00e6an period in the eastern Mediterranean, reached Denmark, by this\nmuch longer route round the coast, before the single graves, which were an\nolder form in the Mediterranean countries, but which spread by the slower\nroute overland, through Central Europe.\n\n    That as far back as the Stone Age there was communication by one way\n    or another, perhaps along the coast between Spain and the shore of the\n    North Sea or the Baltic, appears probable from the fact that amber\n    beads have been found in the Iberian peninsula containing 2 per cent.\n    of succinic acid, a proportion which is taken to indicate its northern\n    (Baltic) origin [cf. L. Siret, 1909, p. 138].\n\nOn account of the many intermediaries, speaking different languages,\nthrough which it passed, the information which reached the Mediterranean\nby these various routes was very defective. According to Herodotus [iv.\n24] the Scythians on their trading journeys to the bald-headed Agripp\u00e6ans\nrequired no fewer than seven different interpreters to enable them to\nbarter with the peoples on the way. Their first more direct knowledge of\nnorthern and western Europe must certainly have reached the Mediterranean\npeoples through the tin trade and the amber trade. It is worth remarking\nthat it was precisely these two articles, representing two powerful sides\nof human nature, utility and the love of ornament, that were to be of such\ngreat importance also as regards knowledge of the North.\n\n[Illustration: Ancient Egyptian ship; from a grave in western Thebes\n(after R. Lepsius)]\n\n[Sidenote: Tin in antiquity]\n\nWe do not know when, where, or how tin first came into use, the metal\nwhich, together with copper, was as important in the Bronze Age as iron is\nin our time. In Egypt it is found in the oldest pyramid-graves, and in the\nthird millennium B.C. bronze was in general use there, though we know not\nwhence the tin came to make it. Tin-ore occurs in comparatively few places\non the earth, and if China, which formed a world by itself, be excluded,\nthe only places where we know that the metal was obtained in ancient times\nare north-west Spain, the Cassiterides (probably in Brittany) and\nCornwall,[19] which still possesses rich deposits; and as far as we can\ntrace history back, the civilised peoples of the Mediterranean and the\nOrient obtained their tin from western Europe.[20] If the first tin in\nEgypt and in the valley of the Euphrates also came from there, the\ncivilisation of western Europe, implied by regular working of mines, would\nbe given a venerable age which could almost rival the oldest civilisations\nof the Mediterranean. But this is difficult to believe, as we should\nexpect to find traces of this early connection with Egypt along the\ntrade-routes between that country and the place of origin of the tin; and\nno arch\u00e6ological evidence to prove this is at present forthcoming.[21]\n\n    This possibility is nevertheless not wholly excluded: finds of beads\n    of northern (?) amber in Egyptian graves of the Fifth Dynasty (about\n    3500 B.C.) may point to ancient unknown communication with the\n    farthest parts of Europe. In Spain, too, neolithic objects have been\n    found, of ivory and other substances, which may have come from Egypt\n    [cf. L. Siret, 1909]. It is certain that the earliest notices of tin\n    in literature mention it as coming from the uttermost limits of\n    Europe. In his lament over Tyre the prophet Ezekiel says [xxvii. 12]:\n    \"Tarshish was thy merchant by reason of the multitude of all kind of\n    riches; with silver, iron, tin, and lead, they traded in thy fairs.\"\n    Herodotus [iii. 115] says that it came from the Cassiterides. As\n    Tarsis was the starting-point of the tin-trade with the\n    Cassiterides,[22] these two statements are in agreement.\n\n    Figures and thin rods of tin have been found in association with stone\n    implements on the sites of pile-dwellings in Switzerland. Tin rings\n    have also been found at Hallstatt. In barrows (of the Bronze Age ?) in\n    the island of Anrum, on the west coast of Sleswick, there were found\n    a dagger or arrowhead and several other objects of tin, besides a lump\n    of the metal, and in Denmark it is known that tin was used for\n    ornament on oak chests of the earliest Bronze Age, which again points\n    to coastal traffic with the south-west.\n\nIn the Iliad tin is spoken of as a rare and costly metal, used for the\ndecoration of weapons, and it appears that arms were then made of copper,\nbronze not being yet in general use, as was the case in the later time of\nthe Odyssey. But in the excavations at Troy, curiously enough, bronze\nobjects were found immediately above the neolithic strata, which would\nseem to show that the Bronze Age reached the Greeks from Egypt without any\nintervening copper age.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Homeric songs do not allude to tin as a Ph\u0153nician commodity, like\namber. This may mean that the Greeks even in the earliest times obtained\nit through their own commercial relations with Gaul, without employing the\nPh\u0153nicians as middlemen.\n\nPossibly the Greek word for tin, \"kassiteros,\" and the name of the\ntin-islands, \"Kassiterides,\" themselves point to this direct connection.\nThe same word is also found in Sanscrit, \"kast\u00eera,\" and in Arabic,\n\"qazdir.\" Professor Alf Torp thinks that the word both in Greek and in\nSanscrit \"must be borrowed from somewhere, but whence or when is not\nknown. 'Kassiteros,' of course, occurs as early as Homer, 'kast\u00eera' is in\nIndian literature much later, but as far as that goes it may well be old\nin Sanscrit. I do not know of any Celtic word one could think of; a\n'cassit\u00edr' (woodland) is hardly to the point; it is true that 't\u00edr' means\n'land,' but no other 'cass' is known to me except one that means 'hair'\"\n(in a letter of November 9, 1909). We may therefore look upon it as\ncertain that \"kassiteros\" is not an original Greek word; it must in all\nprobability have come from the country whence the Greeks first obtained\ntin (analogous cases are the name of copper from the island of Cyprus,\nthat of bronze from Brundisium, etc.). That this country was India, as\nsome have thought, is improbable, since it is stated in the \"Periplus\nMaris Erythr\u00e6i\" [xlix.], confirmed by Pliny [xxxiv. 163], that tin was\nimported into India from Alexandria in exchange for ivory, precious stones\nand perfumes; we must therefore suppose that the name reached India with\nthe tin from the Greeks, and not vice vers\u00e2. It is very possible that the\nword consists of two parts, of which the second \"-teros\" may be connected\nwith the Celtic word \"t\u00edr\" for land (Latin \"terra\"). The first part,\n\"kassi,\" occurs in many Celtic words and names. Ptolemy [ii. 8] mentions\nin Gaul, in or near Brittany: \"Bidu-kasioi,\" \"Uenelio-kasioi,\"\n\"Tri-kasioi,\" and \"Uadi-kasioi.\" As mentioned by Reinach [1892, p. 278],\nthere was a people in Brittany called \"Cassi\" (a British king,\n\"Cassi-vellaunos,\" an Arvernian chief, \"Ver-cassi-vellaunos,\" etc.). It\nmay be supposed that the country was named after these people, or was in\nsome other way referred to by such a word and called \"Kassi-t\u00edr.\" In this\ncase the Cassiterides might be sought for in Brittany, and this agrees\nwith what we have arrived at in another way. But this would entail the\nassumption that the Celts were already in Gaul at the time of the Iliad.\n\nProfessor Alf Torp has called attention to the remarkable circumstance\nthat \"the Cymric word for tin, 'ystaen,' resembles 'stannum,' which cannot\nbe genuine Latin. I am inclined to think that both words are derived from\nan Iberian word; the Romans would in that case have got it from Galicia,\nand the Cymri doubtless from a primitive Iberian population in the British\nIsles. In some way or other our word 'tin' must be connected with this\nword, though the 'i' is curious in the face of the Cymric 'a'\" (letter of\nNovember 9, 1909). In connection with this hypothesis of Professor Torp,\nit may be of interest to notice that in the tin district of Morbihan in\nBrittany, by the mouth of the Vilaine, is \"Penestin,\" where the deposits\nstill contain much tin, and the name of which must come from the Celtic\n\"pen\" (== head, cape) and \"estein\" (== tin).[23] It is conceivable that\nthe Latin \"stannum\" was derived from Brittany rather than from Galicia.\n\nIn ancient Egyptian there is no word for tin; as in early Latin, it is\ndescribed as white lead (dhti hs), which may point to a common western\norigin for these two metals.\n\nThere has been great diversity of opinion as to where the Cassiterides of\nthe Greeks were to be found. Herodotus [iii. 115] did not know where they\nwere: \"in spite of all his trouble, he had not been able to learn from any\neye-witness what the sea is like in that region [that is, on the north\nside] of Europe. But it is certain that tin comes from the uttermost end,\nas also amber.\" Posidonius mentioned the islands as lying between Spain\nand Britain (see above, p. 23). Strabo says [iii. 175]:\n\n    \"The Cassiterides are ten, and lie near to one another, in the midst\n    of the sea northwards from the harbour of the Artabri [Galicia]. One\n    of them is unoccupied, while the others are inhabited by people in\n    black cloaks, with the robe fastened on the breast and reaching down\n    to their feet, who wander about with staves in their hands like the\n    Furies in tragedy. They live for the most part as herdsmen on their\n    cattle; but as they also have mines of tin and lead they barter these\n    metals and hides for pottery, salt, and articles of copper with the\n    merchants. Formerly the Ph\u0153nicians alone carried on this trade from\n    Gadir and kept the sea-route secret from every one else; but as the\n    Romans once sailed in pursuit of one of their vessels with the object\n    of finding out the position of their markets, the captain\n    intentionally allowed his ship to be stranded on a sandbank and\n    brought the same destruction upon his pursuers; but he saved himself\n    from the wreck, and was compensated by the State for the value of his\n    loss. Nevertheless the Romans discovered the sea-route after repeated\n    attempts, and when Publius Crassus [under C\u00e6sar] had also traversed it\n    he saw the metals dug out from near the surface and that the\n    inhabitants were peaceful, and he proved this sea-passage to be\n    practicable, if one wished to make it, although it is longer[24] than\n    that which divides Britain [from the continent].\"\n\n[Illustration: Places where tin is found in western Europe (marked with\ncrosses), and routes of the tin-trade in ancient times (after L. Siret,\n1908)]\n\nIt is unlikely that the Cassiterides were Cornwall, as has been commonly\nsupposed, since this peninsula can with difficulty be regarded as a group\nof islands; moreover this would not agree with the descriptions which\nalways mention them as separate from Britain, and usually farther south.\nThe Scilly Isles, lying far out in the sea, where tin has never been\nworked to any great extent, and whose waters are dangerous to navigate,\nare out of the question. On the other hand, it may almost be regarded as\ncertain that the Cassiterides are the same as the \"\u0152strymnides\" (see\nbelow), and these must be looked for on the coast of Gaul. Furthermore tin\nis mentioned as \"Celtic\" by several Greek authorities; in the \"Mirabiles\nauscultationes\" of Aristotle or Pseudo-Aristotle [i. 834, A. 6] it is so\ncalled, and Ephorus (about 340 B.C.) speaks [in Scymnus of Chios] of\nTartessus [i.e., Gadir], \"the famous city,\" as \"rich in alluvial tin from\nCeltica [Gaul], in gold, as also in copper.\"[25] It may further be\nmentioned that Mela referred to the Cassiterides[26] as \"Celtican,\" which\nwould mean that they belonged to the north-west coast of Spain, unless it\nis confused with Celtic; and in his description of the islands of Europe,\ngoing from south to north, he puts them immediately before \"Sena,\" or the\n\u00cele de Seine at the western extremity of Brittany, which means in any case\nthat they would be to the south of that island. Everything points to the\nislands being situated on the south coast of Brittany, and there is much\nin favour of Louis Siret's assumption [1908] that they are the islands of\nMorbihan (\"Les \u00celes du Morbraz\"), west of the mouth of the Loire, exactly\nwhere \"Penestin\" is situated. This agrees very well, as we shall see\nlater, with the description of Himilco's voyage to the \u0152strymnides. The\nfree alluvial deposits along the shore in this district, near the mouth of\nthe Vilaine, still contain a good deal of tin, together with gold and\nother precious metals; but in those distant times they may have been very\nrich in tin, and as they lie on the very seashore they were naturally\ndiscovered early and became the most important source of tin until they\nwere partly exhausted. In the meantime the rich tin deposits of Cornwall\nhad begun to be utilised, and they became in turn the most important,\nwhile the Cassiterides were gradually forgotten.\n\n    Diodorus [v. 22] alludes to the tin trade in the following terms: \"On\n    that promontory of Prettanike [Britain] which is called 'Belerion,'\n    the inhabitants are very hospitable, and they have become civilised by\n    intercourse with foreign merchants. They produce tin, by actively\n    working the land which contains it. This is rocky and contains veins\n    of earth, and by working and smelting the products they obtain pure\n    metal. This they make into the form of knuckle-bones and bring it to\n    an island which lies off the coast of Britain and is called 'Ictis.'\n    For when the intervening space becomes dry at ebb-tide they bring a\n    quantity of tin to the island in waggons. A curious thing happens with\n    the islands near the coast between Europe and Britain; for when the\n    dividing strait is filled at high water they appear as islands, but\n    when the sea recedes at the ebb and leaves a great space of dry land,\n    they look like part of the mainland. Here the merchants buy it from\n    the natives and bring it across to Gaul; but finally they journey on\n    foot through Gaul, and bring the goods on horses to the mouth of the\n    river Rhone.\" In another place [v. 38] he says that the tin is\n    conveyed on horseback to Massalia and to the Roman commercial town of\n    Narbo.\n\n    Bunbury [1883, ii. p. 197] thinks that \"this characteristic account\n    leaves no reasonable doubt that Ictis was St. Michael's Mount in\n    Cornwall (Belerion), to which the description precisely answers, and\n    which contains a small port such as would have been well suited to\n    ancient traders.\" The description decidedly does not fit, as some have\n    thought, the island of Vectis (Wight); moreover the tin would in any\n    case have had to be brought to the latter by sea from Cornwall, and\n    not in waggons. It is, however, also possible that we have here some\n    confusion with the original tin district in Brittany, where such\n    places as Ictis, with the change between flood and ebb tide, are well\n    known, from C\u00e6sar's description among others. But as Diodorus did not\n    know the tin-mines of Brittany, which in his time had lost their\n    importance, and had heard of tin-mines in Belerion, he transferred to\n    the latter the whole description which he found in earlier writers.\n    This supposition may be confirmed by Pliny's statement [Hist. Nat. iv.\n    16, 104]: \"The historian Tim\u00e6us says that in six days' sailing inwards\n    from Britain the island of 'Mictis' is reached, in which white lead\n    (tin) occurs. Thither the Britons sail in vessels of wicker-work,\n    covered with hides.\" Originally the passage doubtless read \"insulam\n    Ictis,\" which by transference of the \"m\" became \"insula Mictis,\" and\n    this again has been amended to \"insulam Mictis.\" It is impossible to\n    identify the description with Vectis, which moreover has just been\n    mentioned by Pliny, and it is also difficult to understand how it\n    could be a place in Cornwall, but it is consistent with the tin\n    district of Brittany.\n\nWe do not know how or at what period this tin industry first developed.\nPerhaps it was as early as the end of the neolithic period; but it is\nimprobable that it should have been independently developed by the Iberian\naborigines who lived in the tin districts of Iberia, and doubtless also of\nBrittany; it is far more likely to be due to communication with the\nMediterranean through a seafaring, commercial people, and we know of none\nother than the Ph\u0153nicians. How early they began their widespread commerce\nand industry is unknown; but they must have reached this part of the world\nlong before Gadir was founded by the Tyrians about 1100 B.C. It is\nconceivable that in their search for gold and silver they discovered these\ndeposits of tin and knew how to take advantage of them. As already\nremarked, there was as early as 2000 B.C. a continuous communication by\nsea along the coasts of western Europe, and it is probable that there\narose at a very early time efficient navigators on the coasts of northern\nSpain and Brittany, just those districts which are rich in tin, where\nthere are many good harbours. For a long time the tin trade was carried on\nby sea, southward along the coast to Tarsis in southern Spain; but by\ndegrees an overland trade-route also came into use, going up the Loire and\ndown the Rhone to the Mediterranean. This route became known to the\nGreeks, and the Phoc\u00e6an colony Massalia was founded upon it about 600\nB.C.; later the Greek colony of Corbilo was possibly founded at its other\nextremity, by the mouth of the Loire (?). Later still another trade-route\nran along the Garonne overland to the Roman Narbo (Narbonne). On the\ndevelopment of the Cornish tin industry, the same routes by sea and land\ncontinued to be used. Thus it was that the tin trade furnished one of the\nfirst and most important steps in the path of the exploration of the\nNorth.\n\n[Sidenote: Amber in ancient times]\n\nWhen Pha\u00ebthon one day had persuaded his father Helios to let him drive the\nchariot of the sun across the sky, the horses ran away with him and he\nfirst came too near the vault of heaven and set fire to it, so that the\nMilky Way was formed; then he approached too near the earth, set the\nmountains on fire, dried up rivers and lakes, burned up the Sahara,\nscorched the <DW64>s black, until, to avoid greater disasters in his wild\ncareer, Zeus struck him down with his thunderbolt into the river Eridanus.\nHis sisters, the daughters of the sun, wept so much over him that the gods\nin pity changed them into poplars, and their tears then flowed every year\nas amber on the river's banks. \"For this reason amber came to be called\n'electron,' because the sun has the name of 'Elector.'\" In this way the\nGreeks, in their poetry, thought that amber was formed. The mythical river\nEridanus, which no doubt was originally in the north (cf. Herodotus), was\nlater identified sometimes with the Rhone, sometimes with the Po.\nHerodotus [iii. 115] says of northern Europe: \"I do not suppose that\nthere is a river which the barbarians call Eridanus, and which flows into\nthe sea to the northward, from whence amber may come.... For in the first\nplace the name Eridanus itself shows that it is Hellenic and not\nbarbarian, and that it has been invented by some poet or other\"; and in\nthe second, he was not able to find any eye-witness who could tell him\nabout it (cf. p. 27); but in any case he thought that amber as well as tin\ncame from the uttermost limits of Europe.\n\n[Illustration: Places where amber is found (marked with crosses)]\n\nThe most important sources of amber in Europe are the southern coast of\nthe Baltic, especially Samland, and the west coast of Jutland with the\nNorth Frisian islands. It is also found in small quantities in many places\nin western and central Europe, on the Adriatic, in Sicily, in South\nAfrica, Burmah, the west coast of America, etc. Northern amber, from the\nBaltic and the North Sea, is distinguished from other kinds that have been\ninvestigated, by the comparatively large proportion of succinic acid it\ncontains, and it seems as though almost all that was used in early\nantiquity in the Mediterranean countries and in Egypt was derived from the\nnorth. Along the coasts of the Baltic and North Sea the amber is washed by\nthe waves from the loose strata of the sea-bottom and thrown up on the\nbeach. When these washed-up lumps were found by the fishers and hunters of\nearly times they naturally attracted them by their brilliance and colour\nand by the facility with which they could be cut. It is no wonder,\ntherefore, that amber was used as early as the Stone Age for amulets and\nornaments by the people on the Baltic and North Seas, and spread from\nthence over the whole of the North. In those distant times articles of\namber were still rare in the South; but in the Bronze Age, in proportion\nas gold and bronze reach the north, they become rarer there, but more\nnumerous farther south. In the passage-graves of Mycen\u00e6 (fourteenth to\ntwelfth centuries B.C.) there are many of them, as also in Sparta at the\ntime of the Dorian migration (twelfth to tenth centuries B.C.; cf. p. 14).\nIt is evident that amber was the medium of exchange wherewith the people\nof the North bought the precious metals from the South, and in this way it\ncomes that the two classes of arch\u00e6ological finds have changed their\nlocalities. The neolithic ornaments of amber at Corinth, already referred\nto, the amber beads of the Fifth Dynasty in Egypt, and those of the\nneolithic period in Spain, show, however, if they are northern, that this\nconnection between South and North goes back a very long way. But the\nGreek tribes among whom the Iliad originated do not appear to have known\namber, as it is not mentioned in the poem, and it is first named in the\nmore recent portions of the Odyssey (put into writing in the eighth\ncentury B.C.). Among the jewels which the Ph\u0153nician merchant offered to\nthe Queen of Syria was \"the golden necklace hung with pieces of amber\"\n[Od. xv. 460]. We must therefore believe that the Ph\u0153nicians were the\nmiddlemen from whom the Greeks obtained it at that time. But it was not so\nmuch esteemed by the Greeks of the classical period as it became later,\nand they rejected it in their art industries, for which reason it is\nseldom mentioned by Greek authors. Thales of Miletus (600 B.C.) discovered\nthat when rubbed it attracted other bodies, and from this important\ndiscovery made so long ago has sprung the knowledge of that force which\ndominates our time, and which has been named from the Greek word for\namber, \"electron.\"\n\nAmong the Romans of the Empire this substance was so highly prized that\nPliny tells us [xxxvii., chap. 12] that \"a human likeness made of it,\nhowever small, exceeds the price of a healthy living person.\" This was\nboth on account of its beauty and of its occult properties; when worn as\nan amulet it was able to ward off secret poisons, sorcery and other evils.\nIt therefore naturally became an article that was in great demand, and for\nwhich merchants made long voyages.\n\nIt has been thought that the North Sea amber came into the southern market\nbefore that of the Baltic, and as the Eridanus of the myth was sometimes\ntaken for the Rhone and sometimes for the Po, it was believed that in\nearly times amber was carried up the Rhine and across to both these\nrivers, later also up the Elbe to the Adriatic [cf. Schrader, 1901,\n\"Bernstein\"]. It was thought that the arch\u00e6ological finds also favoured\nthis theory; but it must still be regarded as doubtful, and it is scarcely\nprobable that the Ph\u0153nicians obtained it from the mouths of the Rhone and\nthe Po, while they may have brought it by sea at an early period. By what\nroutes amber was distributed in the earliest times is still unknown.\n\n[Illustration: Ph\u0153nician warship, according to an Assyrian representation]\n\n[Sidenote: Voyages of the Ph\u0153nicians]\n\nEven though the Ph\u0153nicians were for the most part a commercial and\nindustrial people, who were not specially interested in scientific\nresearch, there can be no doubt that by their distant voyages they\ncontributed much geographical knowledge to their age, and in many ways\nthey influenced Greek geography, especially through Miletus, which from\nthe beginning was partly a Ph\u0153nician colony, and where the first Greek\nschool of geographers, the Ionian school, developed. Thales of Miletus was\nhimself probably a Semite. How far they attained on their voyages is\nunknown. Hitherto no certain relics of Ph\u0153nician colonies have been found\nalong the coasts of western Europe farther north than south-west Spain\n(Tarsis), and there is no historically certain foundation for the\nsupposition that these seafaring merchants of antiquity, the Ph\u0153nicians,\nCarthaginians and Gaditanians, on their voyages beyond the Pillars of\nHercules and northwards along the coasts of western Europe, should have\npenetrated beyond the tin country and as far as the waters of northern\nEurope, even to Scandinavia and the Baltic, whence they themselves might\nhave brought amber.[27] But a hypothesis of this sort cannot be disproved,\nand is by no means improbable. Everything points to the Ph\u0153nicians having\nbeen uncommonly capable seamen with good and swift-sailing ships; and a\nseafaring people who achieved the far more difficult enterprise of\ncircumnavigating Africa, and of sailing southwards along its west coast\nwith whole fleets to found colonies, cannot have found it impossible to\nsail along the west and north coast of Europe, where there are plenty of\nnatural harbours. It would then be natural for them to try to reach the\nNorth Sea and the Baltic, if they expected to find the precious amber\nthere, and on this point they certainly had information from the merchants\nwho brought it either by land or by sea. It has already been remarked that\nit is first mentioned in history as a Ph\u0153nician article of commerce.[28]\nIt may be supposed that the Ph\u0153nicians at an early period obtained amber\nfrom their harbours on the Black Sea;[29] but after having pursued this\nprosperous carrying-trade from their harbours here and in the west, it is\nnot improbable that they themselves tried to penetrate to the amber\ncountries with their ships.[30] The Ph\u0153nicians, however, tried to keep\ntheir trade-routes secret from their dangerous and more warlike rivals the\nGreeks, and it is therefore not surprising that no mention of these routes\nshould be extant, even if they really undertook such voyages; but it is\nundeniably more remarkable still that no certain trace of them has been\nfound along the coasts of western Europe.\n\n[Sidenote: Himilco's voyage, 500 B.C.]\n\nThe only thing we know is that about the year 500 B.C. the Carthaginians\nare said to have sent out an expedition under Himilco through the Pillars\nof Hercules and thence northwards along the coast. This is the first\nnorthern sea voyage of which mention is to be found in literature. At that\ntime Tyre, the mother-city of Gadir, had been destroyed. Until then she\nhad controlled the trade of the west. It was natural that Gadir in her\nisolated position should seek support from Carthage, which was now rising\ninto power. To strengthen her trade communications, therefore, this\nflourishing city sent out Hanno's great expedition along the west coast of\nAfrica, and Himilco to the tin country in the north. Himilco seems to have\nwritten an account of the journey; but of this all that has been preserved\nis a few casual pieces of information in a poem (\"Ora Maritima\") by the\nlate Roman author Rufus Festus Avienus[31] (of the end of the fourth\ncentury A.D.). The only other place where Himilco's name is mentioned is\nin Pliny [Hist. Nat. ii. 67, 169], who merely says that he made a voyage\nto explore the outer coast of Europe, contemporary with Hanno's voyage to\nthe south along the west coast of Africa, and in addition he names him in\nthe list of his authorities. But Pliny himself probably never saw his\nwork; it cannot be seen that he has made use of it.\n\nIt is true that Avienus makes a pretence of having used Himilco's original\naccount, but certainly he had never seen it. He may have utilised a Greek\nauthority of about the time of the Christian era [cf. Marx, 1895]. This\nagain was a compound of Greek tales, of which a part may have been taken\nfrom a Punic source, but of the latter no trace is found in any other\nknown classical writer, with the exception of Pliny. Unfortunately the\ninformation given us by Avienus shows little intelligence in the use of\nhis authorities, and his poem is often obscure.\n\nIn the description of the coast of western Europe [vv. 90-129] we read:\n\n    \"And here the projecting ridge raises its head--the older age called\n    it '\u0152strymnis'--and all the high mass of rocky ridge turns mostly\n    towards the warm south wind. But beneath the top of this promontory\n    the \u0152strymnian Bay opens out before the eyes of the inhabitants. In\n    the midst of this rise the islands which are called \u0152strymnides,\n    scattered widely about, and rich in metals, in tin and in lead. Here\n    live a multitude of men with enterprise and active industry, all\n    having continually commercial interests; they plough in skilful\n    fashion far and wide the foaming sea ['fretum,' literally, strait],\n    and the currents of monster-bearing Ocean with their small boats. For\n    these people do not know how to fit together [literally, weave] keels\n    of fir or maple; they do not bend their craft with deal, in the usual\n    way; but strange to say, they make their ships of hides sewed\n    together, and often traverse the vast sea with the help of hides. Two\n    days' voyage from thence lay the great island, which the ancients\n    called 'the Holy Island,'[32] and it is inhabited by the people of\n    Hierne [i.e., Ireland] far and wide, and near to it again extends the\n    island of Albion. And it was the custom of the men of Tartessus to\n    trade to the borders of the \u0152strymnides, also colonists from Carthage\n    and the many who voyage between the Pillars of Hercules visited these\n    seas. The Carthaginian Himilco assures us that these seas can scarcely\n    be sailed through in four months, as he has himself related of his\n    experience on his voyage; thus no breeze drives the ship forward, so\n    dead is the sluggish wind of this idle sea. He also adds that there is\n    much seaweed among the waves, and that it often holds the ship back\n    like bushes. Nevertheless he says that the sea has no great depth, and\n    that the surface of the earth is barely covered by a little water. The\n    monsters of the sea move continually hither and thither, and the wild\n    beasts swim among the sluggish and slowly creeping ships.\"\n\nIt may be difficult to decide how much of this is really derived from\nHimilco. The name \"\u0152strymnis\" is not found elsewhere in literature, and\nmay be taken from him.[33] The supposition that it was Cape Finisterre and\nthat the \u0152strymnic Bay (\"sinus \u0152strymnicus\") was the Bay of Biscay is\nimprobable; a bay so open and wide could scarcely have been described in\nterms which a Latin author would have rendered by \"sinus\"; besides which\nthere would be difficulties with the \u0152strymnides which were widely spread\ntherein. \u0152strymnis is certainly in Brittany, and since it \"turns chiefly\ntowards the warm south wind,\" we may suppose it to be a headland on the\nsouth coast. That the \u0152strymnic Bay opens out beneath this headland (\"sub\nhujus\") agrees with all that we know of it. As already stated, the\ntin-producing \u0152strymnides are undoubtedly the Cassiterides, which may\nprobably be the islands in the bay by the mouth of the Vilaine and\nQuiberon, on the south side of Brittany, where tin occurs.\n\n    It is just in this district, at the mouth of the Loire, that we find\n    the Veneti as the only people famous for seamanship in ancient times\n    in these parts. But, according to C\u00e6sar's valuable description, they\n    had strong, seaworthy ships, built wholly of oak and with leather\n    sails. This seems scarcely to tally with the statement that the people\n    of the \u0152strymnides sailed the sea in boats of hide, the coracles of\n    the Celts, which is also confirmed by Pliny's statement [xxxiv. c. 47]\n    that \"according to fabulous tales tin was brought in ships of\n    wicker-work sewed round with hides from islands in the Atlantic\n    Ocean.\" Either the Veneti must have acquired the art of shipbuilding\n    after the voyage of Himilco--perhaps, indeed, through their\n    intercourse with Carthaginians and Gaditanians--or else we must\n    believe that the statement in Avienus rests upon a misinterpretation\n    of the original authorities, and that the flowery language really\n    means that the ships were not built of fir, maple or spruce, but of\n    oak, the omission of which is striking.\n\nThus a comparison of the various statements points definitely to Brittany\nas the place where we must look for the tin-bearing islands. That it was\ntwo days' voyage thence to the holy island of Hierne, and that near to it\nlay the land of Albion, also agrees; but too much weight must not be laid\nupon this, as we do not know for certain whether this is really derived\nfrom Himilco.\n\nThe sea-monsters may be taken as accessories put in to make the voyage\nterrible; but on the other hand they may be the great whales of the Bay of\nBiscay, of which there were many in those days, before whaling was\nundertaken there. The exaggerated description of the length and\ndifficulties of the voyage fits in badly with the information that the men\nof Tartessus and the Carthaginians were in the habit of trading there. How\nmuch of this is due to misunderstanding of the original, or to downright\ninterpolation, we do not know. With the universal desire of the\nCarthaginians and Ph\u0153nicians to keep the monopoly of their trade-routes,\nHimilco may have added this to frighten others. It is also possible that\nhe made a longer voyage in four months, but that Avienus's authority gave\nan obscure and bungled account of it.\n\nThe description of the shallow water, and of the seaweed which holds the\nships back, etc., seems to correspond to the actual conditions. In another\npart of the poem something similar occurs, where we read [v. 375]:\n\"Outside the Pillars of Hercules along the side of Europe the\nCarthaginians once had villages and towns. They were in the habit of\nbuilding their fleets with flatter bottoms, since a broader ship could\nfloat upon the surface of a shallower sea.\"[34] One is reminded of the\nshallow west coast of France, where the tide lays large tracts alternately\ndry (covered with seaweed) and under water, so that it might well be said\nthat \"the surface of the earth is barely covered by a little water.\" Ebb\nand flood were, of course, an unknown phenomenon in the Mediterranean. In\nthis respect also the description suits the voyage to Brittany, where the\nsea is shallow. It has been asserted that the expression \"seaweed among\nthe waves\" might show that Himilco had been near to or in the Sargasso\nSea; but there is no reason whatever for supposing this; the explanation\ngiven above is more natural, besides which the Sargasso Sea could hardly\nbe described as shallow and as lying on the way to \u0152strymnis.[35]\n\nOn the Atlantic Ocean Avienus has the following [vv. 380-389]:\n\n    \"Farther to the west from these Pillars there is boundless sea.\n    Himilco relates that the ocean extends far, none has visited these\n    seas; none has sailed ships over these waters, because propelling\n    winds are lacking on these deeps, and no breeze from heaven helps the\n    ship. Likewise because darkness ['caligo' == darkness, usually owing\n    to fog] screens the light of day with a sort of clothing, and because\n    a fog always conceals the sea, and because the weather is perpetually\n    cloudy with thick atmosphere.\"\n\nIf we may believe Avienus that this description is derived from Himilco,\nit possesses great interest, since here and in the description (above) of\nthe voyage to \u0152strymnis we find the same ideas of the western sea and of\nthe uttermost sea which appear later, after Pytheas's time, in the\naccounts of the thick and sluggish sea without wind round Thule, and in\nthis case it shows that already at that early period ideas of this sort\nhad developed. M\u00fcllenhoff [1870, pp. 78, 93 f.], it is true, takes it for\ngranted that these descriptions in Avienus cannot be derived from Himilco,\nbut his reasons for so doing do not appear convincing. Aristotle says\n[\"Meteorologica,\" ii. 1, 14] that the sea beyond the Pillars of Hercules\nwas muddy and shallow, and little stirred by the winds. This shows clearly\nenough that ideas of that kind were current among the Greeks even before\nPytheas, and they must doubtless have got them from the Ph\u0153nicians.\n\nThat some very ancient authority is really the basis of the description of\nthe west coast of Europe as far as the \u0152strymnides, which we find in\nAvienus, is proved again by the fact that the regions farther to the north\nor north-east are clearly enough represented as entirely unknown, when we\nread [vv. 129-145]:\n\n    \"If any one dares to steer his boat from the \u0152strymnic Islands in the\n    direction where the air is cold at the axis of Lycaon,[36] he will\n    arrive at the country of the Ligurians, which is void of inhabitants.\n    For by the host of the Celts and by numerous battles it has lately\n    been rendered void. And the expelled Ligurians came, as fate often\n    drives people away, to the districts where there is hardly anything\n    but bush. Many sharp stones are there in those parts, and cold rocks,\n    and the mountains rise threateningly to heaven. And the refugees lived\n    for a long time in narrow places among rocks away from the sea. For\n    they were afraid of waves [i.e., afraid to come near the coast] by\n    reason of the old danger. Later, when security had given them\n    boldness, peace and quietness persuaded them to leave their high\n    positions, and now they descended to places by the sea.\"\n\nM\u00fcllenhoff thinks [1870, pp. 86 f.] that this mention of the expulsion of\nthe Ligurians by the Celts is necessarily a late addition by a man from\nthe district of Massalia where the Ligurians lived; but it seems more\nprobable that the name is here used as a common designation for the\npre-Celtic people who dwelt in these north-western regions; and if it is\nthe north side of Brittany which is here spoken of, the Ligurians of\nsouthern Gaul will not be so far away after all. It is clear that in\nancient times the people of west and north-west Europe were called\n\"Ligyans.\" Hesiod mentioned them as the people of the west in\ncontradistinction to the Scythians of the east [cf. Strabo, vii. 300], and\nin the legend of Pha\u00ebthon occurs the Ligyan king Cycnus at the mouth of\nthe amber-producing river Eridanus, which doubtless was originally\nsupposed to fall into the sea on the north or north-west. We may interpret\nit as meaning that the aborigines, Ligyans or Ligurians, were driven by\nthe immigrant Celts up into the bush-covered mountainous parts of\nBrittany. In any case this passage in Avienus, which assumes that the\ndistricts farther north are unknown, is a strong proof that his\ninformation is ancient and derived from Himilco, and that the latter\npenetrated as far as the north coast of Brittany, or the south of Britain,\nbut no farther.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nPYTHEAS OF MASSALIA\n\nTHE VOYAGE TO THULE\n\n\nAmong all the vague and fabulous ideas about the North that prevailed in\nantiquity, the name of Pytheas stands out as the only one who gives us a\nfirmer foothold. By his extraordinary voyage (or voyages ?) this eminent\nastronomer and geographer, of the Phoc\u00e6an colony of Massalia (now\nMarseilles), contributed a knowledge of the northern countries based upon\npersonal experience, and set his mark more or less upon all that was known\nof the farthest north for the next thousand or fifteen hundred years. Even\nthough later writers like Polybius and Strabo declared themselves\nunwilling to believe in his \"incredible\" statements, they could not\nneglect him.[37]\n\nPytheas wrote at least one work, which, if we may believe Geminus of\nRhodes, was called \"On the Ocean\"; but all his writings have been lost for\nages, and we only know him through chance quotations in much later\nauthors (chiefly Strabo and Pliny) who have not even read his work\nthemselves, but quote at second hand; and several of them (especially\nPolybius and Strabo) tried to represent him as an impostor and laid stress\nupon what they thought would make him ridiculous and lessen his\nreputation.[38] The scraps of information we possess about him and his\nvoyages have thus come down on the stream of time as chance wreckage,\npartly distorted and perverted by hostile forces. It is too much to hope\nthat from such fragments we may be able to form a trustworthy idea of the\noriginal work, but nevertheless from the little we know there arises a\nfigure which in strength, intelligence, and bold endurance far surpasses\nthe discoverers of most periods.\n\n[Sidenote: Personal circumstances and date of the voyage]\n\nOf Pytheas's personal circumstances we have no certain information, and we\ndo not even know when he lived. As he was unknown to Aristotle, but was\nknown to his pupil Dic\u00e6archus (who died about 285 B.C.), he was probably a\ncontemporary of Aristotle and Alexander, and his voyage may have been\nundertaken about 330-325 B.C. So little do we know about the voyage that\ndoubts have been raised as to whether it was really a sea-voyage, or\nwhether a great part of it did not lie overland. Nor do we know whether\nPytheas made one or several long journeys to the North. According to a\nstatement of Polybius, Pytheas was a poor man: for he finds it (according\nto Strabo, ii. 104) \"incredible that it should be possible for a private\nindividual without means to accomplish journeys of such wide extent.\" If\nit be true that he was poor, which is uncertain, we must doubtless suppose\nthat Pytheas either had command of a public expedition, fitted out by the\nmerchants of the enterprising city of Massalia, or that he accompanied\nsuch an expedition as an astronomer and explorer. At that time the city\nwas at the height of its prosperity, after it had expelled the\nCarthaginians, as the result of the successful war with them, from the\nrich fisheries of the Iberian coast, and had also succeeded in\nestablishing commercial relations there, whereby its ships were able to\nsail out beyond the Pillars of Hercules; a thing which cannot have been so\neasy for them during the former sea-supremacy of Carthage in the western\nMediterranean, which was re-established in 306 B.C., whereby the western\nocean again became more or less closed to the Massalians. It is very\nprobable that the flourishing city of Massalia desired to send out an\nexpedition to find the sea-route to the outer coasts of the continent,\nfrom whence it was known that the two important articles of commerce, tin\nand amber, were obtained. But it is evident that Pytheas had more than\nthis business motive for his journey. From all that we know it appears\nthat with him too the object was to reach the most northern point\npossible, in order to find out how far the \"\u0153cumene\" extended, to\ndetermine the position of the Arctic Circle and the Pole, and to see the\nlight northern nights and the midnight sun, which to the Greeks of that\ntime was so remarkable a phenomenon.\n\n[Sidenote: Astronomical measurements]\n\nWe know that Pytheas was an eminent astronomer. He was the first in\nhistory to introduce astronomical measurements for ascertaining the\ngeographical situation of a place; and this by itself is enough to give\nhim a prominent position among the geographers of all times.\n\nBy means of a great gnomon he determined, with surprising accuracy, the\nlatitude of his own city, Massalia,[39] which formed the starting-point of\nhis journey, and in relation to which he laid down the latitude of more\nnortherly places.\n\n[Illustration: Gnomon]\n\n[Illustration: Sundial]\n\nPytheas also made other astronomical measurements which show him to have\nbeen a remarkably good observer. He found that the pole of the heavens did\nnot coincide, as the earlier astronomer Eudoxus had supposed, with any\nstar; but that it made an almost regular rectangle with three stars lying\nnear it.[40] The pole of the heavens was naturally of consequence to\nPytheas, who steered by the stars; but it is nevertheless striking that he\nshould have considered it necessary to measure it with such accuracy, if\nhe had not some other object in doing so. He may have required the pole\nfor the adjustment of the equinoctial sun-dial (\"polus\"), whose pointers\nhad to be parallel with the axis of the heavens;[41] but it is also\npossible that he had discovered that by measuring the altitude of the\npole above the horizon he obtained directly the latitude of the spot on\nthe earth, and that this was a simpler method of determining the latitude\nthan by measuring the altitude of the sun by a gnomon. Nor is it likely\nthat he possessed the requisite knowledge for calculating gnomon\nmeasurements unless they were taken either at the solstice or the equinox.\nTo judge by quotations in various authors he must have given the latitude\nof several places in numbers of parts of a circle north of Massalia.[42]\nThese results of his may perhaps be partly based on measurements of the\npolar altitude. Whether Pytheas was acquainted with any instrument for the\nmeasurement of angles we do not know; but it is not unlikely, since even\nthe Chaldeans appear to have invented a kind of parallactic rule, which\nwas improved upon by the Alexandrians, and was called by the Romans\n\"triquetrum\" (regula Ptolemaica). The instrument resembled a large pair of\ncompasses with long straight rods for legs, and the angle was determined\nby measuring, in measure of length, the distance between these two\nlegs.[43] As the pole of the heavens did not coincide with any star,\nsuch measurements cannot have been very accurate, unless Pytheas took the\ntrouble to measure a circumpolar star in its upper and lower culmination;\nor, indeed, in only one of them, for he may easily have found the distance\nof the star from the pole by his earlier observations to determine the\nposition of the pole itself. It is also quite possible that by the aid of\nthe rectangle formed by the pole with three stars, he was able to obtain\nan approximate measurement of the altitude of the pole. Another indication\nused by the Greeks to obtain the latitude of a place was the length of its\nlongest day. To determine this Pytheas may have used the equinoctial dial\n(\"polus\"), or the water-clock, the \"clepsydra\" of the Greeks.\n\n[Illustration: Greek trading-vessel and longship (warship), from a vase\npainting (about 500 B.C.)]\n\n[Sidenote: Pytheas's ship]\n\nIt is not known what kind of ship he had for his voyage; but if it was\nequal to the best that Massalia at that time could afford, it may well\nhave been a good sea-craft. As it was necessary to be prepared for\nhostilities on the part of the Carthaginians and Gaditanians, he doubtless\nhad a warship (longship), which sailed faster than the broader\nmerchantmen, and which could also be rowed by one or more banks of oars.\nIt may have been considerably over 100 feet long, and far larger than\nthose in which later the Norsemen crossed the Atlantic. It has been\nasserted that Pytheas must have gone on foot for the greater part of his\njourney, since, according to Strabo [ii. 104], he is said to have stated\n\"not only that he had visited the whole of Britain on foot, but he also\ngives its circumference as more than 40,000 stadia.\" But, as Professor Alf\nTorp has pointed out to me, it is not stated that he \"traversed\" it, but\n\"visited\" it on foot. The meaning must be that he put in at many places on\nthe coast, and made longer or shorter excursions into the country. That a\nman should be able to traverse such great distances alone on foot, through\nthe roadless and forest-clad countries of that period, seems impossible.\n\n[Illustration: Pytheas's probable routes]\n\nWe do not know what previous knowledge Pytheas may have had about the\nregions visited by him; but it is probable that he had heard of the tin\ncountry through the merchants who brought the tin overland through Gaul\nand down the Rhone to Massalia. In a similar way he had certainly also\nheard of the amber country. Besides this, he may have been acquainted with\nthe trading voyages of the Ph\u0153nicians and Carthaginians along the west\ncoast of Europe, and with the voyage of Himilco. Although it is true that\nthe Ph\u0153nician sailors tried to keep the secret of their routes from\ntheir dangerous rivals the Greeks and Massalians, they cannot have been\naltogether successful in the long run, whether their intercourse was\nhostile or friendly; a few sailor prisoners would have been enough to\nbring the information.\n\n[Sidenote: The voyage northward]\n\nWhen Pytheas sailed out through the Pillars of Hercules he soon arrived,\nin passing the Sacred Promontory (Cape St. Vincent), at the limit of the\nworld as known to the Greeks. He sailed northward along the west and north\ncoast of Iberia (Portugal and Spain). He made observations of the tides,\nthat remarkable phenomenon to a man from the Mediterranean, and their\ncause, and was the first Greek to connect them with the moon. He proceeded\nfarther north, and found that the north-western part of Celtica (Gaul)\nformed a peninsula, Cab\u00e6um (Brittany), where the Ostimians lived. He\nsupposed that it extended farther west than Cape Finisterre; but errors of\nthat sort are easily understood at a time when no means existed of\ndetermining longitude.\n\n[Sidenote: Britain]\n\nFarther north he came to Brettanice (Britain), which he appears to have\ncircumnavigated. The Sicilian historian Diodorus, an elder contemporary of\nStrabo, says [v. 21]: \"Britain is triangular in form like Sicily; but the\nsides are not of equal length; the nearest promontory is Kantion [Kent],\nand according to what is reported it is 100 stadia distant (from the\ncontinent). The second promontory is Belerion [Cornwall], which is said to\nbe four days' sail from the continent. The third lies towards the sea\n[i.e., towards the north] and is called Orkan.[44] Of the three sides\nthe one which runs parallel to Europe is the shortest, 7500 stadia; the\nsecond, which extends from the place of crossing [Kent] to the point\n[i.e., Orkan], is 15,000 stadia; but the last is 20,000 stadia, so that\nthe circumference amounts to 42,500 stadia.\"\n\nThese statements must originally have been due to Pytheas, even though\nDiodorus has taken them at second hand (perhaps from Tim\u00e6us). But Pytheas\ncannot very well have acquired such an idea of the shape of the island\nwithout having sailed round it. It is true that the estimate attributed to\nhim of the island's circumference is more than double the reality,[45] a\ndiscrepancy which is adduced by Strabo as a proof that Pytheas was a\nliar;[46] but neither Strabo nor Diodorus was acquainted with his own\ndescription, and there are many indications that the exaggeration cannot\nbe attributed to himself, but to a later writer, probably Tim\u00e6us. Pytheas\nin his work can only have stated how many days he took to sail along the\ncoasts, and his day's sail in those unknown waters was certainly a short\none. But the uncritical Tim\u00e6us, who was moreover a historian and not a\ngeographer, may, according to the custom of his time, have converted\nPytheas's day's journeys into stadia at the usual equation of 1000 stadia\n(about 100 geographical miles) for one day's sailing.[47] Tim\u00e6us served to\na great extent as the authority for later authors who have mentioned\nPytheas, and it is probably through him that the erroneous information as\nto the circumference of Britain reached Polybius, Strabo, Diodorus,\nPliny, and Solinus. In this way geographical explorers may easily have\ngross errors attributed to them, when their original observations are\nlost.\n\n[Sidenote: Astronomical measurements in Britain]\n\nFrom statements of Hipparchus, preserved by Strabo [ii. 71, 74, 75, 115,\n125, 134], we may conclude that Pytheas obtained astronomical data at\nvarious spots in Britain and Orkan. Hipparchus has made use of these in\nhis tables of climate, and he was able from them to point out that the\nlongest day in the most northern part of Britain was of eighteen\nequinoctial hours,[48] and in an inhabited country, which according to\nPytheas lay farther north than Britain, the longest day was of nineteen\nequinoctial hours. If the length of day is fixed in round numbers of\nhours, a longest day of eighteen hours fits the northernmost part of\nScotland,[49] while the country still farther north with a longest day of\nnineteen hours agrees exactly with Shetland.[50] These data are important,\nas they show that Pytheas must have been in the most northerly parts of\nthe British Isles, and reached Shetland.[51]\n\n[Sidenote: Thule]\n\nBut the bold and hardy explorer does not seem to have stopped here. He\ncontinued his course northward over the ocean, and came to the uttermost\nregion, \"Thule,\" which was the land of the midnight sun, \"where the tropic\ncoincides with the Arctic Circle.\"[52]\n\nOn this section of Pytheas's voyage Geminus of Rhodes (1st century B.C.)\nhas an important quotation in his Astronomy [vi. 9]. After mentioning that\nthe days get longer the farther north one goes, he continues:\n\n    To these regions [i.e., to the north] the Massalian Pytheas seems also\n    to have come. He says at least in his treatise \"On the Ocean\": \"the\n    Barbarians showed us the place where the sun goes to rest. For it was\n    the case that in these parts the nights were very short, in some\n    places two, in others three hours long, so that the sun rose again a\n    short time after it had set.\"\n\nThe name of Thule is not mentioned, but that must be the country in\nquestion. It does not appear from this whether Pytheas himself thought\nthat the shortest night of the year was of two or three hours, or whether\nthat was the length of the night at the time he happened to be at these\nplaces; but the first case is doubtless the more probable. At any rate\nGeminus seems to have understood him thus, since in the passage\nimmediately preceding he is speaking of the regions where the longest day\nis of seventeen or eighteen hours, and he goes on to speak of those where\nthe longest day is of twenty-three hours. If on the other hand it is the\nlength of the night at the time Pytheas was there that is meant, then it\nseems strange that he should require to be shown by the barbarians where\nthe sun rose and set, which he could just as well have seen for himself;\nfor it is scarcely credible that after having journeyed so far his stay\nshould have been so brief that the sky was overcast the whole time.[53]\n\nIf the longest day of the year was determined by direct observations of\nthe points at which the sun first appeared and finally disappeared in\nplaces with a free horizon to the north, then days of twenty-one and\ntwenty-two hours at that time will answer to 63\u00b0 39' and 64\u00b0 39' N. lat.\nCalculated theoretically, from the centre of the sun and without taking\nrefraction into account, they will be 64\u00b0 32' and 65\u00b0 31' N. lat.\nrespectively.[54]\n\nIn addition to this there are two things to be remarked in the passage\nquoted in Geminus. First, that the country spoken of by Pytheas was\ninhabited (by barbarians). Secondly, that he himself must have been there\nwith his expedition, for he says that \"the barbarians showed us,\" etc.\nConsequently he cannot, as some writers think, have reported merely what\nhe had heard from others about this country (Thule). Statements in Strabo\nalso show clearly that Pytheas referred to Thule as inhabited.\n\nOther pieces of information derived from Pytheas establish consistently\nthat Thule extended northwards as far as the Arctic Circle. Eratosthenes,\nStrabo, Pomponius Mela, Pliny, Cleomedes, Solinus, and others, all have\nstatements which show clearly that Pytheas described Thule as the land of\nthe midnight sun.\n\nIf we now sum up what is known of Pytheas's voyage to the North, we shall\nfind that it all hangs well together: he first came to the north of\nScotland, where the longest day was of eighteen hours, thence to Shetland\nwith a longest day of nineteen hours, and then to a land beyond all,\nThule, where the longest day was in one place twenty-one hours and in\nanother twenty-two, and which extended northwards as far as the midnight\nsun and the Arctic Circle (at that time in 66\u00b0 15' N. lat.). There is\nnothing intrinsically impossible in the supposition that this remarkable\nexplorer, who besides being an eminent astronomer must have been a capable\nseaman, had heard in the north of Scotland of an inhabited country still\nfarther to the north, and then wished to visit this also. We must remember\nhow, as an astronomer, he was specially interested in determining the\nextent of the \"\u0153cumene\" on the north, and in seeing with his own eyes\nthe remarkable phenomena of northern latitudes, in particular the midnight\nsun. It is not surprising that he was prepared to risk much to attain this\nend; and he had already shown by his voyage to the northernmost point of\nBritain that he was an explorer of more than ordinary boldness, and equal\nto the task.\n\nNevertheless it has seemed incredible to many--not only in antiquity, but\nin our own time as well--that Pytheas should have penetrated not only so\nfar into the unknown as to the islands north of Scotland, but that he\nshould have ventured yet farther into the absolutely unexplored Northern\nOcean, and found an extreme country beyond this. He would thus have\npushed back the limit of the learned world's knowledge from the south\ncoast of Britain to the Arctic Circle, or about sixteen degrees farther\nnorth. As a feat of such daring and endurance has appeared superhuman, a\ngreat deal of ingenuity has been employed, especially by M\u00fcllenhoff [1870,\ni., pp. 392 f.], to prove that Thule was Shetland, that Pytheas himself\ndid not get farther than the Orkneys or the north of Scotland, and that he\nheard from the natives of the country still farther north, which he never\nsaw. But in order to do this almost all the statements that have been\npreserved on this part of Pytheas's voyage must be arbitrarily distorted;\nand to alter or explain away one's authorities so as to make them fit a\npreconceived opinion is an unfortunate proceeding. Unless, like Polybius\nand Strabo, we are willing to declare the whole to be a freely imaginative\nwork, which however is remarkably consistent, we must try to draw our\nconclusions from the statements in the authorities as they stand, and in\nthat case it must for the following reasons be regarded as impossible that\nThule means Shetland:\n\n[Sidenote: Thule is not Shetland]\n\n(1) It is improbable that (as M\u00fcllenhoff asserts) so capable an astronomer\nas Pytheas should have made a mistake of several hours when he gave the\nlength of the night as two or three hours. There is little intrinsic\nprobability in the conjecture that he had overcast weather all the time he\nwas in the north of Scotland and Orkney, and therefore relied on the\napproximate statements of the natives, which he did not fully understand,\nand which when translated into Greek measures of time might produce gross\nerrors. But it is worse when we look at it in connection with Hipparchus's\nstatements from Pytheas, that in Britain the longest day was of eighteen\nhours, and nineteen hours in a region (i.e., Shetland) farther north,\nwhere the sun at the winter solstice stood less than three cubits above\nthe horizon. Unless he has given the latter region a long extension to the\nnorth, he must have made several conflicting statements about the same\nregion. It will be seen that this leads us to a violent and arbitrary\nalteration of the whole system of information, which is otherwise\nconsistent.\n\n(2) The assertion that Pytheas did not himself say that he had been in the\ncountry where the night was two and three hours long, conflicts with the\nwords of Geminus. Cleomedes also tells us that Pytheas is said to have\nbeen in Thule.\n\n(3) The definite statements in a majority of the authorities that Thule\nlay within the Arctic Circle and was the land of the midnight sun, also\nexclude the Shetland Isles. The astronomer Pytheas cannot have been so far\nmistaken as to the latitude of these islands.\n\n(4) That it was six days' sail to Thule from Britain[55] will not suit\nShetland, even if we make allowance for the frequently obscure statements\nas to the day's journeys that are attributed to Pytheas (e.g., by Strabo).\n\n(5) That Strabo in one place [ii. 114] calls Thule \"the northernmost of\nthe British Isles\" cannot be used, as M\u00fcllenhoff uses it, as a proof of\nits belonging to these islands and having a Celtic population. There is\nnot a word to this effect. To Strabo, who also placed Ierne (Ireland) out\nin the sea north of Britain, it must have been natural to call all the\nislands in that part of the world British. Indeed, he says himself in the\nsame breath that Thule, according to Pytheas, lay within the Arctic\nCircle. How little weight he attached to the expression British is\nadditionally apparent from another passage [ii. 75], where he says that\n\"Hipparchus, relying on Pytheas, placed these inhabited regions [Shetland]\nfarther north than Britain.\"\n\n(6) Pliny [Nat. Hist. iv. 104] mentions among islands north of Britain as\n\"the greatest of all, 'Berricen,' which is the starting-place for Thule.\"\nBerricen, which in some MSS. is written \"Nerigon,\" has been taken for\nMainland of Shetland,[56] while others have seen in the form Nerigon the\nfirst appearance in literature of the name of Norway (\"Noregr\"),[57]\nthough with doubtful justification, since this name was hardly in\nexistence at that time. But whether the island be Shetland or Norway, this\npassage in Pliny puts Thule outside the Scottish islands. And the\nreference to that country makes it probable that the statements, in part\nat any rate, are derived from Pytheas.\n\n(7) Finally, it may perhaps be pointed out that Thule is nowhere referred\nto as a group of islands; the name rather suggests the idea of a\ncontinuous land or a single island. To this it may be objected that\nneither is Orkan referred to as an archipelago in the oldest authorities;\nbut it is uncertain whether in Pytheas, as in Diodorus, Orkan was not used\nof the northern point of Brettanice, and only later transferred to the\nislands lying to the north of this. Thule, on the other hand, always\nappears as a land far out in the ocean, and it is moreover uncertain\nwhether Pytheas ever expressly described it as an island.\n\n[Sidenote: Thule is not Iceland]\n\nBut if none of the statements about Thule answers to Shetland, it becomes\na question where we are to look for this country.[58] The Irish monk\nDicuil, who wrote about 825 A.D., regarded it as self-evident that\nIceland, which had then been discovered by Irish monks, must be Thule, and\ncalled it so. After him Adam of Bremen and many others have looked upon\nIceland as the Thule of the ancients. The objections to this hypothesis\nare: first, that Thule was inhabited (cf. Geminus, Strabo, and others, see\npp. 54-55), while Iceland probably was not at that time. Even in Dicuil's\ntime only a few monks seem to have lived there (see below on the discovery\nof Iceland). Nor is it likely that Pytheas should have continued his\nvoyage at haphazard across the ocean, unless he had heard that he would\nfind land in that direction. To this must be added that Iceland lies so\nfar away that the distance of six days' sail will not suit it at all.\nFinally, if Pytheas had sailed northward at haphazard from Scotland or\nfrom Shetland, the least likely thing to happen was for him to be carried\ntowards Iceland; neither the currents nor the prevailing winds bear in\nthat direction; but, on the other hand, they would carry him towards\nNorway, and it would be natural for him to make the land there, perhaps\njust between 63\u00b0 and 64\u00b0 N. lat. or thereabouts.\n\n[Sidenote: Thule is Norway]\n\nAll the statements about Thule which have been preserved answer to\nNorway,[59] but to no other country; and even if it may seem a bold idea\nthat there should be communication over the North Sea between the Scottish\nislands and Norway 300 years before Christ, or 1000 years before the age\nof the Vikings, we are compelled to accept it, if we are to rely upon our\nauthorities as they stand, without arbitrarily altering them; and Pytheas\nwill then be the first man in history to sail over the North Sea and\narrive on our coasts.[60]\n\nThat Thule, according to Strabo, lies six days' sail \"north of\" Brettanice\nis no objection to its being Norway. \"North of\" can only mean \"farther\nnorth than,\" in the same way that Brittany and places in Britain are\ndescribed as being so many stadia north of Massalia. It also looks as\nthough Eratosthenes, according to the latitudes and distances which he has\ntaken from Pytheas, actually puts Thule to the north-east of Britain (see\nhis map, p. 49), or precisely where Norway lies. Besides, Pytheas had no\nmeans of determining his course in overcast weather, or of fixing the\nlongitude, for which reasons he supposed, for instance, that Cab\u00e6um (the\nextreme point of Brittany) lay farther west than Cape Finisterre.\n\nThat Thule is often referred to as an island by later authors is of little\nweight. In the first place we do not know whether Pytheas himself so\ndescribed it; according to all the geographical ideas of the ancients\nabout the north a land in the ocean farther north than the British Isles\nmust necessarily have been an island, even if Pytheas did not say so. In\nthe next place, if a traveller sails northwards, as he did, from one\nisland to another, and then steers a course over the sea from Shetland and\narrives at a country still farther north, it would be unlikely that he\nshould believe himself back again on the continent. Besides, Pytheas made\nanother voyage eastwards along the north coast of Germany, past the mouth\nof the Elbe, and then he had the sea always to the north of him in the\ndirection of his Thule. In order to discover that this land was connected\nwith the continent, he would have had to sail right up into the Gulf of\nBothnia. It would therefore have been illogical of Pytheas if he had not\nconceived Thule as a great island, as in fact it was spoken of later. It\nis mentioned indeed as the greatest of all islands. When the Romans first\nheard of Sweden or Scandinavia (Sk\u00e5ne) in the Baltic, they likewise called\nit an island, and so it was long thought to be.\n\nAccording to what has been advanced above we must then believe that\nPytheas had already received information in northern Brettanice or in the\nScottish islands about Thule or Norway across the sea. But from this it\nfollows that in his time, or more than a thousand years before the\nbeginning of the Viking age, there must have been communication by sea\nbetween North Britain and Norway. It may seem that this is putting back\nthe Norsemen's navigation of the high seas to a very remote period; but as\nwe shall see in a later chapter on the voyages of the Norsemen, there are\ngood reasons for thinking that their seafaring is of very ancient date.\n\nPytheas may have sailed from Shetland with a south-westerly wind and a\nfavourable current towards the north-east, and have arrived off the coast\nof Norway in the Romsdal or Nordm\u00f6re district, where the longest day of\nthe year was of twenty-one hours, and where there is a free outlook over\nthe sea to the north, so that the barbarians may well have shown him where\nthe sun went to rest. From here he may then have sailed northwards along\nthe coast of Helgeland, perhaps far enough to enable him to see the\nmidnight sun, somewhere north of D\u00f6nna or Bod\u00f6; this depends upon how\nearly in the summer he reached there. On midsummer night he would have\nbeen able to see a little of the midnight sun even at about 65-1/2\u00b0 N.\nlat.; or south of Vega.[61]\n\nIt is nowhere expressly stated that Pytheas himself saw the midnight sun;\nbut a passage in Pomponius Mela [iii. 6, 57] may perhaps point to this. He\nsays of Thule: \"but at the summer solstice there is no night there, since\nthe sun then no longer shows merely a reflection, but also the greater\npart of itself.\" It is most reasonable to suppose that this statement is\ndue to actual observation; for if it were only a theoretical conclusion it\nseems extraordinary that he should not rather mention that the whole of\nthe sun is above the horizon in northern regions, which was clearly enough\ngrasped long before his time (cf. for instance Geminus of Rhodes). Now it\nmay, of course, be thought that such an observation was made by people who\ncame from northernmost Europe later than Pytheas's time and before Mela\nwrote; but so long as we do not know of any such authority it is doubtless\nmore reasonable to suppose that like so many other pieces of information\nit is derived from Pytheas.\n\n[Sidenote: The inhabitants of the northern regions]\n\nStrabo has a statement about what Pytheas said of the peoples of the\nnorthernmost regions. In a special section wherein he is speaking of\nThule, and, as usual, trying to cast suspicion on Pytheas's veracity, he\nsays:\n\n    \"Yet as far as celestial phenomena and mathematical calculations are\n    concerned, he seems to have handled these subjects fairly well. [Thus\n    he says not inappropriately that] in the regions near the cold zone\n    the finer fruits are lacking and there are few animals, and that the\n    people live on millet [i.e., oats] and other things, especially green\n    vegetables, wild fruits and roots; but among those that have corn and\n    honey they make a drink thereof. But because they have no clear\n    sunshine they thresh the corn in large buildings after the ears have\n    been brought thither; for it becomes spoilt on the open\n    threshing-floors by reason of the want of sunshine and the heavy\n    showers.\"\n\nAs Diodorus [v. 21] says something similar about the harvest in Britain,\nit seems possible that Strabo is here thinking rather of what Pytheas had\nsaid in a more general way about the peoples near the cold regions, than\nof his observations on the actual inhabitants of Thule, though, as already\nremarked, the passage occurs in a section devoted to the latter. The\nmention of honey may strengthen this view; for even though bee-keeping is\nnow practised in Norway as far north as Hedemarken, and also on the west\ncoast, it is doubtful whether such was the case at that time, though it is\nnot impossible. That wild honey is alluded to, or honey imported from\nabroad, is improbable.\n\nIn the MSS. of Solinus there is a statement about the people of Thule\nwhich will be referred to later. Even if the passage were genuine it could\nhardly, as some have thought, be derived from Pytheas; in any case it does\nnot agree with what he is said by Strabo to have related of the people of\nthe North. In particular it may be pointed out that while the inhabitants\nof Thule according to the Solinus MSS. lived principally as herdsmen, and\nare not spoken of as agriculturists, Strabo says nothing about cattle, but\non the contrary calls them tillers of the soil. In both accounts they also\nlive on herbs and wild fruits; but, in spite of that, these two passages\ncannot be derived from the same description. It is true that Strabo was\nnot acquainted with Pytheas's original work, in which other northern\npeoples may have been referred to; but this is not very likely.\n\n[Sidenote: Length of the voyage]\n\nMost writers have thought that Pytheas completed his voyage in\ncomparatively few months, and that he was only some few days in Thule;\nwhile others have considered that he spent many years over it.[62] There\nis no cogent reason for assuming this. As regards the first hypothesis, it\nis by no means impossible that he should have sailed from Spain to\nHelgeland in Norway and back again in one summer. But as the greater part\nof the voyage lay through unknown regions, and as he frequently stopped to\ninvestigate the country and the people, he cannot have proceeded very\nrapidly. To this must probably be added that he often had to barter with\nthe natives to obtain the necessary provisions, since he certainly cannot\nhave carried stores for so long a time. It therefore seems doubtful\nwhether he was ready to return the same summer or autumn, and it is more\nreasonable to suppose that he wintered at some place on the way.\n\nWhether it be Thule or Britain that is referred to in the passage quoted\nabove from Strabo, it seems to imply that he was in one of these countries\nat the harvest, and saw there the gathering in of the corn; but, of\ncourse, there is also the possibility that the people may have told him\nabout it (through interpreters): and more than that we can scarcely say.\nIt might be objected that if Pytheas had spent a winter in Norway it is\nprobable that he would have furnished many details, remarkable at that\ntime, about the northern winter, of which we hear nothing in any of our\nauthors. But it must always be remembered how utterly casual and defective\nare the quotations from him which have been preserved, and how little we\nknow of what he really related.\n\n[Sidenote: The sea beyond Thule]\n\nPytheas also furnished information about the sea on the other side of\nThule. This may be concluded from the following passages in particular:\n\nStrabo says [i. 63]: \"Thule, which Pytheas says lies six days' sail north\nof Brettanice, and is near to the congealed sea (\u03c0\u03b5\u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03b1\u03c4\u03c4\u03b1, i.e.,\nthe Polar Sea).\"\n\nPliny [iv. 16 (30)]: \"After one day's sail from Thule the frozen sea\n('mare concretum') is reached, called by some 'Cronium.'\"[63]\n\nSolinus [22, 11]: \"Beyond[64] Thule we meet with the sluggish and\ncongealed sea ('pigrum et concretum mare').\"\n\nFinally we have a well-known passage in Strabo [ii. 104] which says that\nPytheas asserted that in addition to having visited the whole of Britain\n...\n\n    \"He had also undertaken investigations concerning Thule and those\n    regions, in which there was no longer any distinction of land or sea\n    or air, but a mixture of the three like sea-lung, in which he says\n    that land and sea and everything floats, and this [i.e., the mixture]\n    binds all together, and can neither be traversed on foot nor by boat.\n    The substance resembling lung he has seen himself, as he says; the\n    rest he relates according to what he has heard. This is Pytheas's\n    tale, and he adds that when he returned here, he visited the whole\n    ocean coast of Europe from Gadeira to Tanais.\"\n\nThis much-disputed description of the sea beyond Thule has first passed\nthrough Polybius, who did not believe in Pytheas and tried to throw\nridicule upon him. Whether Polybius obtained it directly, or at second\nhand through some older writer, we do not know. From him it came down to\nStrabo, who had as little belief in it, and was, moreover, liable to\nmisunderstand and to be hasty in his quotations. The passage is evidently\ntorn from its context and has been much abbreviated in order to accentuate\nits improbability. It is, therefore, impossible to decide what Pytheas\nhimself said. As it has come down to us the passage is extremely obscure,\nand it does not even appear clearly how much Pytheas asserted that he had\nhimself seen, and how much he had heard; whether he had only heard of the\nstiffened and congealed sea (the Polar Sea), while he had really seen the\ncondition that he compared to a lung. As to the meaning of this word there\nhave been many and very different guesses. Some have thought that a common\njelly-fish may have been called a sea-lung in the Mediterranean countries\nat that time, in analogy to its German designation, \"Meerlunge.\" It may\nalso be thought that Pytheas merely wished to describe a spongy, soft\nmass, like an ordinary lung.[65] In both cases the description may mean a\ngelatinous or pulpy mass, and what Pytheas himself saw may have been the\nice sludge in the sea which is formed over a great extent along the edge\nof the drift ice, when this has been ground to a pulp by the action of\nwaves. The expression \"can neither be traversed on foot nor by boat\" is\nexactly applicable to this ice-sludge. If we add to this the thick fog,\nwhich is often found near drift ice, then the description that the air is\nalso involved in the mixture, and that land and sea and everything is\nmerged in it, will appear very graphic. But that Pytheas should have been\nfar enough out in the sea north of Norway to have met with drift ice is\nscarcely credible.[66] If, on the other hand, he wintered in Norway, he\nmay well have seen something similar on a small scale. Along the Norwegian\ncoast, in the Skagerak, there may be ice and ice-sludge enough in the late\nwinter, and in the fjords as well; but in that case it is probable that he\nwould also have seen solid ice in the fjords, and would have been able to\ngive a clearer description of the whole, which would have left no room for\nsuch misunderstandings on the part of Polybius and Strabo. It may also\nappear unlikely that Pytheas should not have known ice before; he must,\none would think, have seen it on pools of water in the winter even in\nMassalia, and from the Black Sea ice was, of course, well known to the\nGreeks. But then it is strange that he should have given such an obscure\ndescription of such a condition, and have said that the land was also\ninvolved in the mixture; unless we are to regard the whole passage as\nfigurative, in which case the word land may be taken as an expression for\nthe solid as opposed to the liquid form (the sea) and the gaseous (the\nair).\n\nIt appears most probable that Pytheas himself never saw the Polar Sea, but\nheard something about it from the natives,[67] and his description of the\nouter ocean has then been  by older Greek, or even Ph\u0153nician,\nideas.[68] It may suggest the old conception, which we find even in Homer,\nthat at the extreme limits of the world heaven, earth, ocean, and Tartarus\nmeet. To this may possibly have been added Platonic ideas of an\namalgamation of the elements, earth, sea, and air; and this may have led\nto a general supposition that in the outer ocean everything was merged in\na primeval chaos which was neither solid, liquid, nor gaseous. It is\nfurther legitimate to suppose that Pytheas in the course of his voyage in\nnorthern waters may have thought in some way or other that he had found\nindications of such a state of things as pointed out by K\u00e4hler [1903], for\nexample, when he arrived at the flat coasts of Holland and North Germany\n(die Wattenzone), where the sea at high water pours in over the swampy\nland through a network of innumerable channels, which might suggest the\nidea of a lung, and where the peat bogs are sometimes impossible to\ntraverse, being neither land nor sea. If Pytheas said that this was like a\nlung, he can only have used the word as a figure of speech, for it is\nincredible that he should have really regarded this as the lung of the\nsea, whose breathing was the ebb and flood, as he had discovered the\nconnection between the tides and the moon.\n\nOther interpretations are also possible; but as we do not know what\nPytheas really said, a true solution of the riddle is unattainable, and it\nis vain to speculate further upon it. In any case one thing is certain:\nhis description of the outer ocean gave rise to an idea in the minds of\nothers that it was sluggish and stiffened, or congealed, a conception\nwhich is current with most later authors who have written on it, far down\ninto the Middle Ages. It is the same idea which we recognise as the\ncongealed (\"geliber\u00f4t\") sea in the \"Meregarto\" and under the name of\n\"Lebermeer\" in German medi\u00e6val poetry, \"la mar bet\u00e9e\" in French, and \"la\nmar betada\" in Proven\u00e7al poetry. Seafaring peoples between the Red and the\nYellow Seas have similar tales,[69] but whether they are due to Greek\ninfluence or the reverse is not easy to decide.\n\n[Sidenote: The voyage along the coast of Germany]\n\nSince Pytheas, as mentioned above, was probably acquainted with both the\neast and west coasts of Britain, we must assume either that on his way\nback from Norway he sailed southwards along the side which he had not seen\non his voyage northwards, or else that he made more than one voyage to\nBritain. From Strabo (see above, p. 66) we know that Pytheas also asserted\nthat he had visited \"the whole ocean coast of Europe from Gadeira to\nTanais,\" and that he had furnished information \"about the Osti\u00e6i[70] and\nthe countries beyond the Rhine as far as the Scythians,\" all of which\nStrabo looks upon as imaginary. As Thule is never alluded to as lying\nnorth of these regions, but always as north of Britain, we cannot believe\nthat he went straight from Norway south or south-eastwards to Jutland or\nthe north coast of Germany. The meaning of Strabo's words must be that he\nclaimed to have sailed along the west and north-west coast of Europe\n(which looks towards the ocean) as far as the borders of Asia, since\nTanais (the Don) was generally used as defining the frontier of the two\ncontinents.\n\nWe do not know when Pytheas undertook this voyage; but the passage quoted\nfrom Strabo [ii. 104] points to some time after the journey to Thule.\nThere is no sufficient reason for believing that it was all accomplished\nat one time, or even in one year, as some will have it. It is more\nprobable that a discoverer and explorer like Pytheas made several voyages,\naccording as he had opportunity; and the rich commercial city of Massalia\nwas greatly interested in the communications with the tin and amber\ncountries, and in hearing about them.\n\n[Sidenote: Abalus and Balcia]\n\nOn his voyage along the coast beyond the Rhine, Pytheas must have come to\nan island where there was amber, for according to Pliny [Nat. Hist.,\nxxxvii. 2, 11]: \"Pytheas relates that the 'Gutones,' a Germanic people,\ndwelt on a bay of the sea ('\u00e6stuarium') called 'Metuonidis,'[71] the\nextent of which was 6000 stadia. From thence it was one day's sail to the\nisland of 'Abalus.' Here in the spring the waves cast up amber, which is\nwashed out of the congealed sea ['mare concretum,' the Polar Sea]. The\nnatives use it instead of wood for fire, and sell it to the neighbouring\nTeutons. This was also believed by Tim\u00e6us, but he calls the island\n'Basilia.'\"\n\nIt is possible that this island, Abalus, is the same as the amber island\nmentioned in another passage of Pliny [iv. 13, 27], where he says of the\nScythian coast that there are reports of \"many islands without a name, and\nTim\u00e6us relates that among them is one off Scythia, a day's sail away,\nwhich is called 'Baunonia,' and on which the waves cast up amber in the\nspringtime.\" In any case they are both mentioned in very similar terms\n[cf. Hergt, 1893, pp. 31 f.]. In the same place we read that \"Xenophon, of\nLampsacus [about 100 B.C.], mentions that three days' sail from the\nScythian coast there is an island called 'Balcia,' of immense size.\nPythias calls it 'Basilia.'\" This conflicts with the passage quoted above\nfrom Pliny, and here there must be a misunderstanding or confusion of some\nkind, either on the part of Pliny or of his authority. A possible\nexplanation may be that Pytheas referred to his island of Abalus as a\n\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03bf\u03c2, i.e., an island with a king [cf. Detlefsen, 1904, p. 18].\nThis would agree with the statement of Diodorus Siculus (1st century B.C.)\n[v. 23], which he gives without quoting any authority: \"Just opposite\nScythia, above Galatia [Gaul], an island lies in the ocean called\n'Basilia'; upon it amber is cast up by the waves, which is otherwise not\nfound in any place on the earth.\" It is probable that this is taken from\nTim\u00e6us and originally derived from Pytheas, and that the island is the\nsame as Abalus. It is to be noticed that in Pytheas's time the name\nGermania was not yet used; northern Europe, east of the Rhine, was counted\nas Scythia, whereas the name Germania was well known in the time of\nDiodorus.\n\nPytheas may also have heard of, or visited, a country or a large island\n(Jutland ?), which lay three days' sail from the coast he was sailing\nalong, and he may likewise have referred to it as a king's island\n(\u03b2\u03b1\u03c3\u03b9\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03b1). Tim\u00e6us, or others, may have taken this for a name, both for\nAbalus and for this larger and more distant island, which has later been\nassumed to be the same as Balcia, a name that may be derived either from\nPytheas or from some later writer.\n\nAs the Gutones resemble the Gytoni (Goths) of Tacitus, who lived on the\nVistula, and as further Basilia and Balcia were the same country, the name\nof which was connected with that of the Baltic Sea, and as this country\nwas identified with the south of Sweden, it was thought that Pytheas must\nhave been in the amber country on the south coast of the Baltic, and even\nin Sk\u00e5ne. This view may appear to be supported by the fact that Strabo\nsays he lied about the \"Osti\u00e6i,\" who might then be the Esthonians. But as\nalready remarked this word may be an error for \"Ostimians\"; and Gutones\nmay further be an error for Teutones, since a carelessly written \u03a4\u03b5\u03c5 may\neasily be read as \u0393\u03bf\u03c5 [cf. Hergt, 1893, p. 33], and immediately afterwards\nit is stated that the Teutones (not Gutones) lived near Abalus. Whether\nPytheas really mentioned \"Balcia\" or \"Baltia\" is, as already remarked,\nextremely doubtful; but even if he did so, and even if it lay in the\nBaltic, it is not certain that he was there, and he may only have been\ntold about it. We need not therefore believe that he went farther than the\ncoast of the North Sea. \"Abalus\" may have been Heligoland [cf. Hergt], or\nperhaps rather one of the islands of Sleswick,[72] where beach-washed\namber is common, as along the whole west coast of Jutland. The statement\nthat the natives used amber as fuel is a misunderstanding, which may be\ndue to a discovery of Pytheas that amber was combustible. If he had really\nsailed past the Skaw and through the Belts into the Baltic, it is unlikely\nthat he should only have mentioned one amber island Abalus, and another\nimmense island farther off. We should expect him to have changed the ideas\nof his time about these regions to a greater extent than this. It is true\nthat he might have travelled overland to the south coast of the Baltic;\nbut neither is this very probable. It must nevertheless be borne in mind,\nas will be pointed out later, that until Strabo's time no other voyages in\nthese regions were known in literature, and it is, therefore, possible\nthat much of what we find in Mela and Pliny on the subject was originally\nderived from Pytheas. If we did not possess this one chance passage in\nPliny about Abalus and the amber, we should not know that Pytheas had said\nanything about it. But of how much more are we ignorant for want of\nsimilar casual quotations?\n\n[Sidenote: Importance of Pytheas]\n\nLittle as we know of Pytheas himself, he yet appears to us as one of the\nmost capable and undaunted explorers the world has seen. Besides being the\nfirst, of whom we have certain record, to sail along the coasts of\nnorthern Gaul and Germany, he was the discoverer of Great Britain, of the\nScottish isles and Shetland, and last, but not least, of Thule or Norway,\nas far north as to the Arctic Circle. No other single traveller known to\nhistory has made such far-reaching and important discoveries.\n\nBut Pytheas was too far in advance of his time; his description of the new\nlands in the North was so pronouncedly antagonistic to current ideas that\nit won little acceptance throughout the whole succeeding period of\nantiquity. His younger contemporary, Dic\u00e6archus, doubted him, and Polybius\nand Strabo, who came two hundred and three hundred years later,\nendeavoured, as we have seen, to throw suspicion upon Pytheas and to stamp\nhim as an impostor. The two eminent geographers and astronomers,\nEratosthenes and Hipparchus, seem to have valued him more according to his\ndeserts. Polybius's desire to lessen the fame of Pytheas may perhaps be\nexplained by the fact that the former, a friend of Scipio, had taken part\nin many Roman campaigns, and claimed to be more widely travelled than any\nother geographer. But as his farthest north was the south of Gaul, he did\nnot like the idea that an earlier traveller, who enjoyed great renown,\nshould have penetrated so much farther into regions which were entirely\nunknown to himself. Men are not always above such littleness.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The World according to Strabo (K. Kretschmer, 1892)]\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nANTIQUITY, AFTER PYTHEAS\n\n\nThere was a long interval after the time of Pytheas before the world's\nknowledge of the North was again added to, so far as we can judge from the\nliterature that has come down to us. The mist in which for a moment he\nshowed a ray of light settled down again. That no other known traveller\ncan have penetrated into these northern regions during the next two or\nthree centuries appears from the unwillingness of Polybius and Strabo to\nbelieve in Pytheas, and from the fact that Strabo pronounces him a liar\n[i. 63], because \"all who have seen Britain and Ierne say nothing about\nThule, though they mention other small islands near Britain\"; furthermore,\nhe says expressly [vii. 294] that \"the region along the ocean beyond Albis\n[the Elbe] is entirely unknown to us. For neither do we know of any one\namong the ancients who made this voyage along the coast in the eastern\nregions to the opening of the Caspian Sea, nor have the Romans ever\npenetrated into the countries beyond Albis, nor has any one yet traversed\nthem by land.\" If any other traveller had been currently mentioned in\nliterature it is incredible that the well-read Strabo should not have\nknown it. He therefore ascribed all that he found about these regions to\nPytheas.\n\nThere are nevertheless indications that the Greeks had commercial\nrelations with the coasts of the Baltic and North Sea, and fresh obscure\nstatements, which may be derived from such a connection, appear later in\nPliny, and to some extent also in Mela. It may be supposed that\nenterprising Greek traders and seamen, enticed by Pytheas's accounts of\nthe amber country, attempted to follow in his track, and succeeded in\nreaching the land of promise whence this costly commodity came. And if\nthey had once found out the way, they would certainly not have\nrelinquished it except upon compulsion. But it must be remembered that the\nvoyage was long, and that they had first to pass through the western\nMediterranean and the Pillars of Hercules, where the Carthaginians had\nregained their power and obtained the command of the sea. The overland\nroute was easier and safer; it ran through the country of tribes which in\nthose distant times may have been comparatively peaceful. The trade\ncommunication between the Black Sea and the Baltic countries seems, as\nmentioned above, to have developed early, and it may be thought that the\nactive Greek traders would try it in order to reach a district where so\nmuch profit was to be expected; but no certain indication of this\ncommunication can be produced from any older author of note after\nPytheas's time, so far as we know them, and even so late an author as\nPtolemy has little to tell us of the regions east of the Vistula.\n\n[Sidenote: Eratosthenes, c. 200 B.C.]\n\nThe founder of scientific geography, Eratosthenes (275-circa 194\nB.C.),[73] librarian of the Museum of Alexandria, based what he says of\nthe North chiefly on Pytheas. He divided the surface of the earth into\nclimates (zones) and constructed the first map of the world, whereon an\nattempt was made to fix the position of the various places by lines of\nlatitude and meridians. He started with seven known points, along the old\nmeridian of Rhodes. They were: Thule, the Borysthenes, the Hellespont,\nRhodes, Alexandria, Syene, and Meroe. Through these points he laid down\nlines of latitude (see the map). He also made an attempt to calculate the\ncircumference of the globe by measurement, and found it 250,000 stadia (==\n25,000 geographical miles), which is 34,000 stadia (== 3400 geographical\nmiles) too much. He placed the island of Thule under the Arctic\nCircle,[74] far out in the sea to the north of Brettanice. This was to him\nthe uttermost land and the northern limit of the \"\u0153cumene,\" which he\ncalculated to be 38,000 stadia (== 3800 geographical miles) broad,[75]\nwhich according to his measurement of the circumference of the earth is\nabout 54\u00b0 17', since each of his degrees of latitude will be about 700\nstadia. His \"\u0153cumene\" thus extended from the latitude of the Cinnamon\nCoast (Somaliland) and Taprobane (Ceylon), 8800 stadia north of the\nequator, to the Arctic Circle. South of it was uninhabitable on account of\nthe heat, and north of it all was frozen.\n\nEratosthenes was especially an advocate of the island-form of the\n\"\u0153cumene,\" and thought that it was entirely surrounded by the ocean, which\nhad been encountered in every quarter where the utmost limits of the world\nhad been reached. By a perversion of the journey of Patrocles to a voyage\nround India and the east coast of the continent into the Caspian Sea, he\nagain represented the latter as an open bay of the northern ocean, in\nspite of the fact that Herodotus, and also Aristotle, had asserted that it\nwas closed. The view that the Caspian Sea was a bay remained current until\nthe time of Ptolemy. Eratosthenes also held that the occurrence of tides\non all the outer coasts was a proof of the continuity of the ocean. He\nsaid that \"if the great extent of the Atlantic Ocean did not make it\nimpossible, we should be able to make the voyage from Iberia to India\nalong the same latitude.\" This was 1700 years before Columbus.\n\n[Illustration: Reconstruction of Eratosthenes' map of the world (K.\nMiller, 1898)]\n\nWith the scientific investigator's lack of respect for authorities, he had\nthe audacity to doubt Homer's geographical knowledge, and gave offence to\nmany by saying that people would never discover where the islands of\n\u00c6olus, Circe, and Calypso, described in the Odyssey, really were, until\nthey had found the tailor who had made the bag of the winds for \u00c6olus.\n\n[Sidenote: Hipparchus, 190-125 B.C.]\n\nHipparchus (circa 190-125 B.C.) also relies upon Pytheas, and has nothing\nnew to tell us of the northern regions. Against Eratosthenes' proof of the\ncontinuity of the ocean, to which allusion has just been made, he objected\nthat the tides are by no means uniform on all coasts, and in support of\nthis assertion he referred to the Babylonian Seleucus.[76] But it is not\nclear whether Hipparchus was an opponent of the doctrine of the\nisland-form of the \"\u0153cumene,\" as has been generally supposed; probably he\nmerely wished to point out that the evidence adduced by Eratosthenes was\ninsufficient. Hipparchus calculated a continuous table of latitude, or\nclimate-table, for the various known localities, as far north as Thule. He\nintroduced the division into degrees. It is also probable that he was the\nfirst to use a kind of map-projection with the aid of converging\nmeridians, which he drew in straight lines; but as he was more an\nastronomer than a geographer it is unlikely that he constructed any\ncomplete map of the world.\n\n[Illustration: Terrestrial globe, according to Crates of Mallus (K.\nKretschmer)]\n\n[Sidenote: Polybius, 204-127 B.C.]\n\nPolybius (circa 204-127 B.C.), as we have seen, pronounced against the\ntrustworthiness of Pytheas, and declared that all the country north of\nNarbo, the Alps, and the Tanais was unknown. Like Herodotus, he left the\nquestion open whether there was a continuous ocean on the north side; but\nhe appears to have inclined to the old notion of the \"\u0153cumene\" as\ncircular.\n\n[Sidenote: Crates of Mallus, 150 B.C.]\n\nThe Stoic and grammarian Crates of Mallus (about 150 B.C.), who was not a\ngeographer, constructed the first terrestrial globe, in which he made the\nAtlantic Ocean extend like a belt round the world through both the poles,\nand with the Stoic's worship of Homer he thought he could follow in this\nocean Odysseus's voyage to the regions of the L\u00e6strygons' long day and\nthe Cimmerians' polar night. Since the school of the Stoics considered it\nnecessary that there should be ocean in the torrid zone, so that the sun\nmight easily keep up its warmth by the aid of vapours from the sea--for\nwarmth was supported by moisture--Crates placed a belt of ocean round the\nearth between the tropics, which formed the limits of the sun's path.\nThese two belts of water left four masses of land of which only one was\nknown to men.\n\n[Sidenote: Posidonius, 135-51 B.C.]\n\nThe physical geographer Posidonius of Apamea in Syria (135-51 B.C.), who\nlived for a long time at Rhodes, took the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains for the Alps,\nand speaks of the Hyperboreans to the north of them. He thought that the\nOcean surrounded the \"\u0153cumene\" continuously:\n\n    \"for its waves were not confined by any fetters of land, but it\n    stretched to infinity and nothing made its waters turbid.\"\n\nA ship sailing with an east wind from the Pillars of Hercules must reach\nIndia after traversing 70,000 stadia, which he thought was the\nhalf-circumference of the earth along the latitude of Rhodes. The greatest\ncircumference he calculated at 180,000 stadia. These erroneous\ncalculations were adopted by Ptolemy, and were afterwards of great\nsignificance to Columbus.\n\nHe made a journey as far as Gadir in order to see the outer Ocean for\nhimself, to measure the tides and to examine the correctness of the\ngenerally accepted idea that the sun, on its setting in the western ocean,\ngave out a hissing sound like a red-hot body being dipped into water. He\nrightly connected the tides with the moon, finding that their monthly\nperiod corresponded with the full moon; whereas others had thought, for\ninstance, that they were due to changes in the rivers of Gaul.\n\n[Sidenote: C\u00e6sar, 55-45 B.C.]\n\nC\u00e6sar's Gallic War and his invasion of Britain (55-45 B.C.) contributed\nfresh information about these portions of Western Europe; but it cannot be\nseen that they gave anything new about the North. C\u00e6sar describes Britain\nas a triangle. This is undoubtedly the same idea that we find in his\ncontemporary Diodorus Siculus, and is derived from Pytheas. C\u00e6sar merely\ngives different proportions between the sides from those of Diodorus. He\nputs Hibernia to the west of Britain, not to the north like Strabo, and\nmakes its size about two-thirds of the latter, from which it is separated\nby a strait of about the same breadth as that between Gaul and Britain.\nBetween Ireland (Hibernia) and Britain is an island, \"Mona\" (Anglesey),\nand scattered about it many other islands. In some of them there was said\nto be a month of unbroken night at the winter solstice; but of this C\u00e6sar\nwas unable to obtain certain information. This must be an echo of the\ntales about Thule, which he had got from older Greek or Roman authors.\n\nC\u00e6sar is a good example of the Romans' views of and sense for geography.\nIn spite of this military nation having extended their empire to the\nbounds of the unknown in every direction, they never produced a scientific\ngeographer, nor did they send out anything that we should call a voyage of\nexploration, as the Ph\u0153nicians, Carthaginians, and Greeks had done. They\nwere above all a practical people, with more sense for organisation than\nfor research and science, and in addition they lacked commercial interests\nas compared with those other peoples. But during their long campaigns\nunder the Empire, and by their extensive communications with the most\ndistant regions, they brought together an abundance of geographical\ninformation hitherto unknown to the classical world. It is natural that it\nshould have been a Greek who, in one of the most important geographical\nworks that have come down to us from ancient times, endeavoured to collect\na part of this information, together with the knowledge already acquired\nby the Greeks, into a systematic statement.\n\n[Sidenote: Strabo, Christian era]\n\nThis man was the famous geographer Strabo, a native of Asia Minor (about\n63 B.C.-25 A.D.). But unfortunately this critic has nothing to tell us\nabout the North, and in his anxiety to avoid exaggeration he has, like\nPolybius, been at great pains to discredit Pytheas, of whose statements he\nwill take no account; nor has he made use of the knowledge of the\nnorthernmost regions which we see, from Pliny among others, that other\nGreek authors possessed. He has not even made use of the geographical\nknowledge which was gained in his own time during the Roman campaign in\nNorthern Germania under Augustus, if indeed he knew of it. To him the\nIster (Danube), the mountainous districts of the Hercynian Forest, and the\ncountry as far as the Tyreget\u00e6 formed, roughly, the northern boundary of\nthe known world. He thinks it is only ignorance of the more distant\nregions that has made people believe the fables \"of the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains\nand the Hyperboreans, as well as all that Pytheas of Massalia has invented\nabout the coast of the ocean, making use of his astronomical and\nmathematical knowledge as a cloak.\" \"Ierne\" (Ireland) was placed by Strabo\nout in the ocean to the north of Britain. He took it for the most northern\nland, and thought that its latitude (which would have to be about 54\u00b0 N.)\nformed the boundary of the \"\u0153cumene.\"\n\n    \"For,\" he says [ii. 115], \"living writers tell us of nothing beyond\n    Ierne, which lies near to Britain on the north, and is inhabited by\n    savages who live miserably on account of the cold.\" He says further\n    [iv. 201] of this island at the end of the world: \"of this we have\n    nothing certain to relate, except that its inhabitants are even more\n    savage than the Britons, as they are both cannibals and omnivorous [or\n    grass-eaters ?], and consider it commendable to devour their deceased\n    parents,[77] as well as openly to have commerce not only with other\n    women, but also with their own mothers and sisters. But this we relate\n    perhaps without sufficient authority; although cannibalism at least is\n    said to be a Scythian custom, and the Celts, the Iberians, and other\n    peoples are reported to have practised it under the stress of a\n    siege.\"\n\nStrabo evidently attributes to a cold climate a remarkable capacity for\nbrutalising people, and he considers that the reports of the still more\ndistant Thule must be even more uncertain.\n\nThe breadth of the \"\u0153cumene,\" from north to south, he made only 30,000\nstadia, and thought that Eratosthenes, deceived by the fables of Pytheas,\nhad put the limit 8000 stadia (== 11\u00b0 26') too far north. Of the countries\nbeyond the Albis (Elbe), he says, nothing is known. Nevertheless he\nmentions the Cimbri as dwelling on a peninsula by the northern ocean; but\nhe has no very clear idea of where this peninsula is.\n\n    No one can believe, he thinks [vii. 292], that the reason for their\n    wandering and piratical life was that they were driven out of their\n    peninsula [which must be Jutland] by a great inundation, for they\n    still have the same country as before, and it is ridiculous to suppose\n    that they left it in anger at a natural and constant phenomenon, which\n    occurs twice daily [i.e., the tides], etc. But it appears from\n    Strabo's statements that there had been many reports of a great\n    storm-flood in Denmark, which the Cimbri escaped from with difficulty.\n\n    Of the customs of these people Strabo relates among other things that\n    they were accompanied on their expeditions by priestesses with gray\n    hair, white clothes, and bare feet. \"They went with drawn swords to\n    meet the captives in the camp, crowned them with garlands and led them\n    to a sacrificial vessel of metal, holding twenty amphor\u00e6 [Roman cubic\n    feet]. Here they had a ladder, upon which one of them mounted and,\n    bent over the vessel, they cut the throat of the prisoner, who was\n    held up. They made auguries from the blood running into the vessel;\n    while others opened the corpse and inspected the entrails, prophesying\n    victory for their army. And in battle they beat skins stretched upon\n    the wicker-work of their chariots, making a hideous noise.\" This is\n    one of the first descriptions of the customs of the warrior-hordes\n    roving about Europe, who came in contact with the classical world from\n    the unknown north, and who in later centuries were to come more\n    frequently. But the description is certainly influenced by Greek\n    ideas.\n\nStrabo thought that besides the world known to the Greeks and Romans,\nother continents or worlds, where other races of men dwelt, might be\ndiscovered.\n\n[Sidenote: Albinovanus Pedo]\n\nIn a work called \"Suasori\u00e6\" (circa 37 A.D.) of the Spanish-born\nrhetorician Seneca there are preserved fragments of a poem, written by\nAlbinovanus Pedo (in the time of Augustus), which described an expedition\nof Germanicus in the North Sea. It has been thought that this may have\nbeen the younger Germanicus's unfortunate campaign in 16 A.D., when he\nsailed out from the Ems with a fleet of a thousand ships. This supposition\nis strengthened by the fact that Tacitus mentions a cavalry leader,\nAlbinovanus Pedo, under the same commander in 15 A.D., and it is easy to\nbelieve that he was the poet.[78] But as this unhappy fleet did not get\nfar from the coast, and the poem describes a voyage into unknown regions,\nothers have thought that it might be an expedition undertaken by Drusus,\nthe elder Germanicus, in some year between 12 and 9 B.C.[79] How this may\nbe is of less importance to us, as the poem does not mention any fresh\ndiscoveries. It is interesting because it gives us a picture of the ideas\ncurrent at that time about the northern limits of the world. Where the\nfragments commence, the travellers have long ago left daylight and the sun\nbehind them, and, having passed beyond the limits of the known world,\nplunge boldly into the forbidden darkness towards the end of the western\nworld. There they believe that the sea, which beneath its sluggish\n(\"pigris\") waves is full of hideous monsters, savage whales (\"pistris\"),\nand sea-hounds (\"\u00e6quoreosque canes\" == seals ?), rises and takes hold of\nthe ship--the noise itself increases the horror--and now they think the\nships will stick in the mud, and the fleet will remain there, deserted by\nthe winds[80] of the ocean--now that they themselves will be left there\nhelpless and be torn to pieces by the monsters of the deep. And the man\nwho stands high in the prow strives with his eyes to break through the\nimpenetrable air, but can see nothing, and relieves his oppression in the\nfollowing words: \"Whither are we being carried? The day itself flees from\nus, and uttermost nature closes in the deserted world with continual\ndarkness. Or are we sailing towards people on the other side, who dwell\nunder another heaven, and towards another unknown world?[81] The gods call\nus back and forbid the eyes of mortals to see the boundary of things. Why\ndo we violate strange seas and sacred waters with our oars, disturbing the\npeaceful habitations of the gods?\"\n\nThis last conception is clearly derived from the \"Isles of the Blest\" of\nthe Greeks (originally of the Ph\u0153nicians), which were situated in the deep\ncurrents of Oceanus and are already referred to in Hesiod.\n\nSeneca, on the other hand, says of the outer limits of the world: \"Thus is\nnature, beyond all things is the ocean, beyond the ocean nothing\" (\"ita\nest rerum natura, post omnia oceanus, post oceanum nihil\"), and Pliny\nspeaks of the empty space (\"inane\") that puts an end to the voyage beyond\nthe ocean.\n\n[Sidenote: Augustus, 5 A.D.]\n\nIn the year 5 A.D. the emperor Augustus, in connection with Tiberius's\nexpedition to the Elbe, sent a Roman fleet from the Rhine along the coast\nof Germania; it sailed northward by the land of the Cimbri (Jutland), past\nits northern extremity (the Skaw), probably into the Cattegat, and perhaps\nto the Danish islands. Augustus himself, in the Ancyra inscription, tells\nus of the voyage of this fleet, and says that it came \"even to the people\nof the Cimbri, whither before that time no Roman had penetrated either by\nland or sea,[82] and the Cimbri and the Charydes (Harudes, Horder), and\nthe Semnones, and other Germanic peoples in those districts sent\nambassadors to ask for my friendship and that of the Roman people.\"[83]\nVelleius [ii. 106] also gives an account of this voyage, and Pliny [ii.\n167] gives the following description of it: \"The Northern Ocean has also\nbeen in great part traversed; by the orders of the divine Augustus a fleet\nsailed round Germania to the Cimbrian Cape, and saw therefrom a sea that\nwas immeasurable, or heard that it was so, and came to the Scythian region\nand to places that were stiff [with cold] from too much moisture. It is\ntherefore very improbable that the seas can run short where there is such\nsuperfluity of moisture.\" M\u00fcllenhoff thinks [iv., 1900, p. 45] that on\nthis voyage they saw the Norwegian mountains, the immense \"Mons S\u00e6vo\" (see\nlater under Pliny), rising out of the sea. This is not impossible, but we\nread nothing about it; nor indeed is it very probable. On the other hand,\nit is likely that the voyage resulted in fresh knowledge about the North,\nand that at any rate some of the statements in Mela and Pliny may be\nderived from this source.\n\n[Sidenote: Mela, c. 43 A.D.]\n\nThe oldest known Latin geography, \"De Chorographia,\" was written about 43\nA.D. by an otherwise unknown Pomponius Mela, of Tingentera, in Spain.\nWith the strange mental poverty of Roman literature, Mela bases his work\nchiefly on older Greek sources (e.g., Herodotus and Eratosthenes) which\nare several centuries before his time; but in addition he gives much\ninformation not found elsewhere. Whether this is also for the most part\ntaken from older writers it is impossible to say, as he nowhere gives his\nauthorities. His descriptions, especially those of more distant regions,\nare sometimes made obscure and contradictory by his evidently having drawn\nupon different sources without combining them into a whole.\n\n[Illustration: The world according to Mela]\n\nHe begins with these words of wisdom: \"All this, whatever it is, to which\nwe give the name of universe and heaven, is one and includes itself and\neverything in a circle ('ambitu'). In the middle of the universe floats\nthe earth, which is surrounded on all sides by sea, and is divided by it\nfrom west to east [that is, by the equatorial sea, as in Crates of Mallus]\ninto two parts, which are called hemispheres.\" Whether one is to conclude\nfrom this that the earth in his opinion was a sphere or a round disc, he\nseems to leave the reader to determine. He divides the earth into the five\nzones of Parmenides. The two temperate or habitable zones seem, according\nto Mela, to coincide with the two masses of land, while the uninhabitable\nones, the torrid and the two frigid zones, are continuous sea. On the\nsouthern continent dwell the Antichthons, who are unknown, on account of\nthe heat of the intervening region. On the northern one we dwell, and this\nis what he proposes to describe.\n\nEurope is bounded on the west by the Atlantic, and on the north by the\nBritish Ocean. Asia has on the north the Scythian Ocean.\n\n    [iii. c. 5.] In proof of the continuity of these oceans he appeals not\n    only to the physicists and Homer, but also to Cornelius Nepos, \"who is\n    more modern and trustworthy,\" and who confirms it and \"cites Quintus\n    Metellus Celer as witness thereto, and says that he has narrated the\n    following: When he was governing Gaul as proconsul the king of the\n    Boti[84] gave him some Indians,\" who \"by stress of storm had been\n    carried away from Indian waters, and after having traversed all the\n    space between, had finally reached the shores of Germania.\"\n\nMela has many ancient fables to tell of the peoples in the northern\ndistricts of Germania, Sarmatia and Scythia, which last was his name for\nwhat is now Russia and for the north of Asia. It appears that he too was\nof the opinion that a cold climate develops savagery and cruelty.\n\n    He says of Germania [iii. c. 3]: \"The inhabitants are immense in soul\n    and body; and besides their natural savagery they exercise both, their\n    souls in warfare, their bodies by accustoming them to constant\n    hardship, especially cold.\" \"Might is right to such an extent that\n    they are not even ashamed of robbery; only to their guests are they\n    kind, and merciful towards suppliants.\" The people of Sarmatia were\n    nomads. [iii. c. 4.] \"They are alike warlike, free, unconstrained, and\n    so savage and cruel that the women go to war together with the men. In\n    order that they may be fitted thereto the right breast is burned off\n    immediately after birth, whereby the hand which is drawn out [in\n    drawing a bow] becomes adapted for shooting [by the breast not coming\n    in the way or because the arm grew stronger] and the breast becomes\n    manly.[85] To draw the bow, to ride and to hunt are employments for\n    the young girls; when grown up it is their duty to fight the foe, so\n    that it is held to be a shame not to have killed some one, and the\n    punishment is that they are not allowed to marry.\"[86] It would appear\n    that the northern countries, according to the view of Mela, had a\n    tendency to \"emancipate\" women, even though he always regards it as a\n    severe punishment for them to have to live as virgins.[86] Among the\n    Xamati in his western Asia, at the mouth of the Tanais [i. c. 19],\n    \"the women engage in the same occupations as the men.\" \"The men fight\n    on foot and with arrows, the women on horseback, not using swords, but\n    catching men in snares and killing them by dragging them along.\" Those\n    who have not killed an enemy must live unmarried. Amongst other\n    peoples the women do not confine themselves to this snaring of men;\n    the M\u00e6otides who dwell in the country of the Amazons are governed by\n    women; and farthest north live the Amazons; but he does not tell us\n    whether the latter could dispense with men altogether, and reproduce\n    themselves like the women he tells us of on an island off the coast of\n    Africa, who were hairy all over the body. \"This is related by Hanno,\n    and it seems worthy of credit, because he brought back the skin of\n    some he had killed.\" [iii. c. 9.]\n\nBut this increasing savagery towards the north had a limit, as in the\nearly Greek idea, after which things became better again; for beyond the\ncountry of the Amazons [i. c. 19] and other wild races, like the\nThyssaget\u00e6 and Turc\u00e6 who inhabited immense forests and lived by\nhunting,[87] there extended, apparently towards the north-east (?), a\n\"great desert and rugged tract, full of mountains, as far as the\nAremph\u00e6ans, who had very just customs and were looked upon as holy.\"[88]\n\"Beyond them rise the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains and behind them lies the region\nthat borders on the Ocean.\" In addition, the happy \"Hyperboreans\" dwelt in\nthe north. In his description of Scythia he says of them [iii. c. 5]:\n\"Then [i.e., after Sarmatia] come the neighbouring parts of Asia [or the\nparts bordering on Asia ?]. Except where continual winter and unbearable\ncold reigns, the Scythian people dwell there, almost all known by the name\nof 'Belc\u00e6' (?). On the shore of Asia come first the Hyperboreans, beyond\nthe north wind and the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains under the very pivot of the\nstars\" [i.e., the pole]. In their country the sun rose at the vernal\nequinox and set at the autumnal equinox, so that they had six months day\nand six months night. \"This narrow [or holy ?] sunny land is in itself\nfertile.\" He goes on to give a description of the happy life of the\nHyperboreans, taken from Greek sources.\n\n[Illustration: Europe according to the description of Mela]\n\nOn north-western Europe Mela has much information which is not met with in\nearlier authors. The tin-islands, the Cassiterides, lay off the north-west\nof Spain, where the \"Celtici\" lived [iii. c. 6]. \"Beyond ('super')\nBritain is Juverna [Ireland], nearly as large, with a climate unfavourable\nto the ripening of corn, but with such excellent pastures that if the\ncattle are allowed to graze for more than a small part of the day, they\nburst in pieces. The inhabitants are rude and more ignorant than other\npeoples of all kinds of virtue. Religion is altogether unknown to them.\"\n\n\"The Orcades are thirty in number, divided from each other by narrow\nstraits; the H\u00e6mod\u00e6 seven, drawn towards Germany\" (\"septem H\u00e6mod\u00e6 contra\nGermaniam vect\u00e6\"). This is the first time, so far as is known, that these\ntwo groups of islands are mentioned in literature. Diodorus, it is true,\nhad already spoken of \"Orkan\" or \"Orkas,\" but not as a group of islands.\nAs this name is probably derived from Pytheas, it is likely that the\nother, \"H\u00e6mod\u00e6,\" is also his. Possibly the groups were re-discovered under\nthe emperor Claudius (about 43 A.D.) or more definite information may have\nbeen received about them; but on the other hand, Mela says that the\nknowledge of Britain that was acquired during this campaign would be\nbrought back by Claudius himself in his triumph. It will be most\nreasonable to suppose that Mela's thirty Orcades are the Orkneys--the\nnumber is approximately correct--and not the Orkneys and Shetlands\ntogether. The seven H\u00e6mod\u00e6, on the other hand, must be the latter, and can\nhardly be the Hebrides, as many would believe, since Mela mentions the\nislands off the west coast of Europe in a definite order, and he names\nfirst \"Juverna,\" then the \"Orcades,\" and next the \"H\u00e6mod\u00e6,\" which are\n\"carried ('vect\u00e6') towards Germany\"[89] (cf. also Pliny later).\n\nIn his description of Germania [iii. c. 3] Mela says:\n\n    \"Beyond ('super') Albis is an immense bay, Codanus, full of many great\n    and small islands. Here the sea which is received in the bosom of the\n    shore is nowhere broad and nowhere like a sea, but as the waters\n    everywhere flow between and often go over [i.e., over the tongues of\n    land or shallows which connect the islands] it is split up into the\n    appearance of rivers, which are undefined and widely separated; where\n    the sea touches the shores [of the mainland], since it is held in by\n    the shores of the islands which are not far from each other, and since\n    nearly everywhere it is not large [i.e., broad], it runs in a narrow\n    channel and like a strait ('fretum'), and turning with the shore it is\n    curved like a long eyebrow. In this [sea] dwell the Cimbri and the\n    Teutons, and beyond [the sea, or the Cimbri and Teutons ?] the extreme\n    people of Germania, namely the Hermiones.\"\n\nThe meaning of this description, which seems to be as involved as the many\nsounds he is talking about, must probably be that in the immense bay of\nCodanus there are a number of islands with many narrow straits between\nthem, like rivers. Along the shore of the mainland there is formed, by the\nalmost continuous line of islands lying outside, a long curving strait,\nwhich is nearly everywhere of the same narrowness. In this sea--that is to\nsay, on the peninsulas and islands in this bay--dwell the Cimbri and\nTeutons, and farther away in Germania the Hermiones.\n\n[Illustration: Island with Hippopod or horse-footed man (from the Hereford\nmap)]\n\nIn his account of the islands along the coast of Europe, Mela says further\n[iii. c. 6]:\n\n[Sidenote: Codanus]\n\n    \"In the bay which we have called Codanus is amongst the islands\n    Codanovia, which is still inhabited by the Teutons, and it surpasses\n    the others both in size and in fertility. The part which lies towards\n    the Sarmatians seems sometimes to be islands and sometimes connected\n    land, on account of the backward and forward flow of the sea, and\n    because the interval which separates them is now covered by the waves,\n    now bare. Upon these it is asserted that the \u0152neans dwell, who live\n    entirely on the eggs of fen-fowl and on oats, the Hippopods with\n    horses' feet, and the Sanalians, who have such long ears that they\n    cover the whole body with them instead of clothes, since they\n    otherwise go naked. For these things, besides what is told in fables,\n    I find also authorities whom I think I may follow. Towards the coast\n    of the Belg\u00e6[90] lies Thule, famous in Greek poems and in our own;\n    there the nights in any case are short, since the sun, when it has\n    long been about to set, rises up; but in the winter the nights are\n    dark as elsewhere.... But at the summer solstice there is no night at\n    all, because the sun then is already clearer, and not only shows its\n    reflection, but also the greater part of itself.\"\n\nThus we see here, as in so many of the classical authors, and later in\nPliny, old legends and more trustworthy information hopelessly mixed\ntogether. The legends, whose Greek origin is disclosed by the form of the\nnames, may be old skippers' tales, or the romances of merchants who went\nnorthward from the Black Sea, but they may also in part be derived from\nPytheas. A fable like that of the long-eared Sanali (otherwise called\nPanoti) originally came from India and is later than his time. The\nstatement about the \u0152ne\u00e6, or, doubtless more correctly, \u0152on\u00e6 (i.e.,\negg-eaters), who live on eggs and oats, may, on the other hand, have\nreached him from the north, where the eggs both of fen-fowl (plovers'\neggs, for example) and of sea-birds were eaten from time immemorial. C\u00e6sar\nhad heard or read of people who lived on birds' eggs and fish on the\nislands at the mouth of the Rhine, but he may indeed have derived his\nknowledge from Greek sources [cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, i., 1870, p. 492].\n\n[Illustration: Island with long-eared man (from the Hereford map)]\n\nWhat Mela says about Thule probably comes from Pytheas, as already\nmentioned (p. 90), and it is very possible that the remarkable statements\nabout the immense bay of Codanus are likewise derived from him, although\nthey may also be ascribed to the circumnavigation of the Skaw under\nAugustus, or to other voyages in these waters of which we have no\nknowledge.\n\n[Sidenote: Codanovia]\n\nWhether Codanovia (which is not found in any other known author) is the\nsame name as the later Scadinavia in Pliny, must be regarded as uncertain.\nIt is the first time that such an island or that the bay of Codanus is\nmentioned in literature. This \"immense bay\" must certainly be the Cattegat\nwith the southern part of the Baltic; and the numerous islands which close\nit in to a curved strait or sound must be for the most part the Danish\nislands and perhaps southern Sweden. Whence the name is derived we do not\nknow for certain.[91]\n\n    Ptolemy mentions three peoples in southern Jutland, and calls the\n    easternmost of them \"Kobandoi.\" It is not likely that three peoples\n    can have lived side by side in this narrowest part of the peninsula,\n    and we must believe that some of them lived among the Danish islands,\n    where Ptolemy does not give the name of any people. The \"Kobandoi\"\n    would then be on the easternmost island, Sealand [cf. Much, 1893, pp.\n    198 f.]. Now it will easily be supposed that \"Codanus\" and \"Kobandoi\"\n    have some connection or other; the latter might be a corruption of the\n    name of a people, \"Kodanoi\" or \"Kodanioi.\" But as precisely these\n    islands and the south of Sweden were inhabited by tribes of the\n    Danes--of whom several are mentioned in literature: South Danes, North\n    Danes, Sea Danes, Island Danes, etc.--it may be further supposed that\n    \"Kodanioi\" is composed of \"ko\" or cow[92] and \"Daner\" (that is,\n    Cow-Danes), and means a tribe of the latter who were remarkable for\n    the number of their cows, which would be probable enough for a people\n    in fertile Sealand (or in Sk\u00e5ne).[93] In this case \"Codanus\" must be\n    derived from the name of this people, just as most of the names of\n    seas and bays in these regions were taken from the names of peoples\n    (e.g., \"Oceanus Germanicus,\" \"Mare Suebicum,\" \"Sinus Venedicum,\"\n    \"Qu\u00e6ns\u00e6\"). The name \"Daner\" is one of those names of peoples that are\n    so ancient that their derivation must be obscure.[94] Procopius uses\n    it as a common name for many nations (\"ethne\"), in the same way as he\n    names the \"ethne\" of the Slavs (see later, p. 146). It is also used in\n    the early Middle Ages as a common name for the people of the North,\n    like Eruli, and later Normans. It is therefore natural that there\n    should have been special names for the tribes, like Sea-Danes,\n    Cow-Danes, etc. \"Kodan-ovia\" (\"ovia,\" equivalent to Old High German\n    \"ouwa\" or \"ouwia\") for island, Gothic \"avi,\" Old Norse \"ey\" [cf.\n    Grimm, 1888, p. 505], must be the island on which this tribe lived,\n    and this might then be Sealand (though Sk\u00e5ne is also possible).\n\nThat the Cimbri lived in Codanus suits very well, as their home was\nJutland;[95] on the other hand, we know less about the country inhabited\nby the Teutons. They must have been called in Germanic \"*\u00feeodonez\" (Gothic\n\"*\u00feiudans\" means properly kings), and the name has been connected with\nOld Norse \"\u00fei\u00f3d,\" now Thy (Old Danish \"Thythesyssel\") with its capital\nThisted, and the island Thyholm, in north-western Jutland [cf. Much, 1893,\npp. 7 ff.; 1905, p. 100].\n\nWhether the Vistula had its outlet into Codanus or farther east Mela does\nnot say, nor does he tell us whether Sarmatia was bounded by this gulf;\nbut this is not impossible, although Codanus is described at the end of\nthe chapter on Germania. Strangely enough, he says, according to the MSS.\n[iii. c. 4], that \"Sarmatia is separated from the following [i.e.,\nScythia] by the Vistula\"; it would thus lie on the western side of the\nriver, which seems curious. It might be possible that the islands off the\ncoast of Sarmatia are among the many which lay in Codanus (?). As Sarmatia\nlay to the east of Germania, these islands would in any case be as far\neast as the Baltic, if not farther; but there is no ebb and flood there by\nwhich the connecting land between them might be alternately covered and\nleft dry; on the other hand, the description suits the German North Sea\ncoast. Either Mela's authority has heard of the low-lying lands--the\nFrische Nehrung and the Kurische Nehrung, for instance--off the coast of\nthe amber country, and has added the tidal phenomena from the North Sea\ncoast, or, what is more probable, the Frisian islands, for example, may by\na misunderstanding have been moved eastwards into Sarmatia, since older\nwriters, who as yet made no distinction between Germania, Sarmatia and\nScythia, described them as lying far east, off the Scythian coast (perhaps\ntaken from the voyage of Pytheas).[96]\n\n[Sidenote: Voyage to Samland, circa 60 A.D.]\n\nThe emperor Nero's (54-68 A.D.) love of show led, according to Pliny [Nat.\nHist., xxxvii. 45], to the amber coast of the Baltic becoming \"first known\nthrough a Roman knight, whom Julianus sent to purchase amber, when he was\nto arrange a gladiatorial combat for the emperor Nero. This knight visited\nthe markets and the coasts and brought thence such a quantity that the\nnets which were hung up to keep the wild beasts away from the imperial\ntribune had a piece of amber in every mesh; indeed the weapons, the biers,\nand the whole apparatus of a day's festival were heavy with amber. The\nlargest piece weighed thirteen pounds.\" This journey must have followed an\nundoubtedly ancient trade-route from the Adriatic to Carnuntum (in\nPannonia), the modern Petronell on the Danube, where the latter is joined\nby the March, and from whence Pliny expressly says that the distance was\n600,000 paces to the amber coast, which agrees almost exactly with the\ndistance in a straight line to Samland. From Carnuntum the route lay along\nthe river March, thence overland to the upper Vistula, and so down this\nriver to Samland. It may easily be understood that much fresh knowledge\nreached Rome as a result of this journey.\n\n[Sidenote: Pliny 23-79 A.D.]\n\nThe elder Pliny's (23-79 A.D.) statements about the North, in his great\nwork \"Naturalis Historia\" (in thirty-seven books), are somewhat obscure\nand confused, and so far are no advance upon Mela; but we remark\nnevertheless that fresh knowledge has been acquired, and it is as though\nwe get a clearer vision of the new countries and seas through the northern\nmists. He himself says, moreover, that he \"has received information of\nimmense islands which have recently been discovered from Germania.\" His\nwork is in great part the fruit of an unusually extensive acquaintance\nwith older writers, mostly Greek, but also Latin. He repeats a good deal\nof what Mela says, or draws from the same sources, probably Greek.\n\nHis information about the North must have been obtained, so far as I can\nsee, mainly in three different ways: (1) Directly through the Romans'\nconnection with Germania and through their expeditions to its northern\ncoasts (under Augustus and Nero, for example). Pliny himself lived in\nGermania for several years (45-52 A.D.) as a Roman cavalry commander, and\nmay then have collected much information. (2) He has drawn extensively\nfrom Greek sources, whose statements about the North may have come partly\nby sea, chiefly through Pytheas (perhaps also through later trading\nvoyages); partly also by land, especially through commercial intercourse\nbetween the Black Sea and the Baltic.[97] (3) Finally he received\ninformation from Britain about the regions to the north. This may be\nderived partly from Greek sources, partly also from later Roman connection\nwith Britain. Mela expressly says of this country that new facts will soon\nbe known about it, \"for the greatest prince [the Emperor Claudius] is now\nopening up this country, which has so long been closed ... he has striven\nby war to obtain personal knowledge of these things, and will spread this\nknowledge at his triumph.\" The information obtained by Pliny through these\ndifferent channels is often used by him uncritically, without remarking\nthat different statements apply to the same countries and seas.\n\nHis theory of the universe was the usual one, that the universe was a\nhollow sphere which revolved in twenty-four hours with indescribable\nrapidity. \"Whether by the continual revolution of such a great mass there\nis produced an immense noise, exceeding all powers of hearing, I am no\nmore able to assert than that the sound produced by the stars circulating\nabout one another and revolving in their orbits, is a lovely and\nincredibly graceful harmony.\" The earth stood in the centre of the\nuniverse and had the form of a sphere. The land was everywhere surrounded\nby sea, which covers the greater part of the globe.\n\nIn his description of the North [iv. 12, 88 f.] Pliny begins at the east,\nand relies here entirely on Greek authorities.\n\n    Far north in Scythia, beyond the Arimaspians, \"we come to the 'Rip\u00e6an'\n    Mountains and to the district which on account of the ever-falling\n    snow, resembling feathers, is called Pterophorus. This part of the\n    world is accursed by nature and shrouded in thick darkness; it\n    produces nothing else but frost and is the chilly hiding-place of the\n    north wind. By these mountains and beyond the north wind dwells, if we\n    are willing to believe it, a happy people, the Hyperboreans, who have\n    long life and are famous for many marvels which border on the\n    fabulous. There, it is said, are the pivots of the world, and the\n    uttermost revolution of the constellations.\" The sun shines there for\n    six months; but strangely enough it rises at the summer solstice and\n    sets at the winter solstice, which shows Pliny's ignorance of\n    astronomy. The climate is magnificent and without cold winds. As the\n    sun shines for half the year, \"the Hyperboreans sow in the morning,\n    harvest at midday, gather the fruit from the trees at evening, and\n    spend the night in caves. The existence of this people is not to be\n    doubted, since so many authors tell us about them.\"\n\nHaving then mentioned several districts bordering on the Black Sea, Pliny\ncontinues [iv. 13, 94 f.]:\n\n    \"We will now acquaint ourselves with the outer parts of Europe, and\n    turn, after having gone over the Rip\u00e6an Mountains, towards the left to\n    the coast of the northern ocean, until we arrive again at Gades. Along\n    this line many nameless islands are recorded. Tim\u00e6us mentions that\n    among them there is one off Scythia called Baunonia, a day's sail\n    distant, upon which the waves cast up amber in the spring. The\n    remaining coasts are only known from doubtful rumours. Here is the\n    northern ocean. Hecat\u00e6us calls it Amalcium, from the river\n    Parapanisus[98] onwards and as far as it washes the coast of Scythia,\n    which name [i.e., Amalcium] in the language of the natives means\n    frozen.[99] Philemon[100] says that it was called by the Cimbri\n    Morimarusa, that is, the dead sea; from thence and as far as the\n    promontory Rusbeas, farther out, it is called Cronium. Xenophon of\n    Lampsacus says that three days' sail from the Scythian coast is an\n    island, Balcia, of enormous size; Pytheas calls it Basilia.\" He goes\n    on to mention the \u0152on\u00e6, Hippopods, and Long-eared men in almost the\n    same terms as Mela.\n\nThis mention of lands and seas in the North is of great interest. But in\nattempting to identify any of them in Pliny's description we must always\nremember that to him and his Greek authorities, and to all writers even in\nmuch later times, all land north of the coasts of Scythia, Sarmatia and\nGermania was nothing but islands in the northern ocean. Further, it must\nbe remembered that the ancient Greeks did not know the name Germania,\nwhich was not introduced until about 80 B.C. To them Scythia and Celtica\n(Gaul) were conterminous, and their Scythian coast might therefore lie\neither on the Baltic or the North Sea.\n\nIt has not been possible to decide where the name \"Rusbeas\" (called by\nSolinus \"Rubeas\") comes from;[101] but it is best understood if we take it\nto be southern Norway or Lindesnes. As the description begins at the east\non the Scythian coast, it follows that \"Amalcium\" is the Baltic as far as\nthe Danish islands and the land of the Cimbri. \"Morimarusa,\"[102] which\nextends from Amalcium to Lindesnes, will be the Cattegat (in part, at any\nrate) and the Skagerak. Cronium will be the North Sea and the Northern\nOcean beyond Lindesnes.[103] We must believe that Philemon has obtained\nhis information about the Cimbri (at the Skaw), about Morimarusa, and\nabout Rusbeas either from Pytheas--whose mention thereof we must then\nsuppose to have been accidentally omitted by other authors--or else from\nlater Greek merchants. In the same way Xenophon must have got his Balcia,\nwhich is here named for the first time in literature. As these two Greek\nauthors (probably of about 100 B.C.) are expressly mentioned as\nauthorities, the statements cannot be derived from the circumnavigation of\nthe Skaw in the time of Augustus, nor from any other Roman expedition. It\nis clear enough that Pliny himself did not know where Rusbeas and Balcia\nwere, but simply repeated uncritically what he had read. On the other\nhand, he knew from another source that the sea he calls Cronium lay far\nnorth of Britain, and must therefore be sought for to the north-west of\nthe Scythian coast.\n\nBalcia must be looked for most probably in the Baltic. As already\nmentioned (p. 72) it may be Jutland; but as it is described as an island\nof immense size and three days' sail from the Scythian coast, it suits\nsouthern Sweden better, although Pliny has also the name Scadinavia for\nthis from another source.\n\nAfter these doubtful statements about the north coast of Scythia, taken\nfrom Greek sources and interwoven with fables, Pliny reaches firmer ground\nin Germania, when he continues [iv. 13, 96]:\n\n    \"We have more certain information concerning the Ing\u00e6vones people who\n    are the first [that is, the most north-eastern] in Germania. There is\n    the immense mountain S\u00e6vo, not less than the Riph\u00e6an range, and it\n    forms a vast bay which goes to the Cimbrian Promontory [i.e.,\n    Jutland], which bay is called Codanus and is full of islands, amongst\n    which the most celebrated is Scatinavia, of unknown size; a part of it\n    is inhabited, as far as is known by the Hilleviones, in 500 cantons\n    ('pagis'), who call it [i.e., the island] the second earth. \u00c6ningia is\n    supposed to be not less in size. Some say that these regions extend as\n    far as the Vistula and are inhabited by Sarmatians [i.e., probably\n    Slavs], Venedi [Wends], Scirri, and Hirri; the bay is called\n    Cylipenus, and at its mouth lies the island Latris. Not far from\n    thence is another bay, Lagnus, which borders on the Cimbri. The\n    Cimbrian Promontory runs far out into the sea and forms a peninsula\n    called Tastris.\" Then follows a list of twenty-three islands which are\n    clearly off the North Sea coast of Sleswick and Germany. Among them is\n    one called by the soldiers \"Gl\u00e6saria\" on account of the amber\n    (\"glesum\"),[104] but by the barbarians \"Austeravia\" [i.e., the eastern\n    island], or \"Actania.\"\n\nHere are a number of new names and pieces of information. The form of some\nof the names shows that here too Pliny has borrowed to some extent from\nGreek authors; but his information must also partly be derived from Roman\nsources, and from Germany itself. His \"Codanus\" must be the same as that\nof Mela, and is the sea adjacent to the country of the Cimbri, which is\nhere for the first time clearly referred to as a promontory\n(promunturium). It is the Cattegat, and, in part at any rate, the\nSkagerak. The enormous mountain \"S\u00e6vo\" will then be most probably the\nmountains of Scandinavia, especially southern Norway, which forms the bay\nof Codanus in such a way that the latter is bounded on the other side by\nthe Cimbrian Promontory.[105] It will then be in the same mountainous\ncountry that we should look for the promontory of Rusbeas (see above).\n\n[Sidenote: Scandinavia]\n\nThe name \"Scatinavia\" or \"Scadinavia\" (both spellings occur in the MSS. of\nPliny) is found here certainly for the first time; but, curiously enough,\nwe also find the name \"Scandia\" in Pliny; it is used of an island which is\nmentioned as near Britain (see below, p. 106). \"Scandia\" has often been\ntaken for a shortened form of \"Scadinavia\"; but if we consider the\noccurrence of both names in Pliny in conjunction with the fact that Mela\nhas not yet heard either, but has, on the other hand, a large island,\n\"Codanovia,\" in the bay of Codanus, then it may seem possible that\noriginally there were two entirely different names: \"Codanovia,\" for\nSealand (and perhaps for south Sweden), and \"*Sk\u00e2novia\" (\"Sk\u00e1ney,\"\nlatinised into \"Scandia\") for Sk\u00e5ne. By a confusion of these two the form\n\"Scadinavia\" for south Sweden may have resulted in Pliny, instead of\nMela's \"Codanovia,\" while at the same time he got the name \"Scandia\" from\nanother source. The latter is the only one used by Ptolemy both for south\nSweden and the Danish islands; he has four \"Scandi\u00e6,\" three smaller ones\nand one very large one farther east, \"Scandia\" proper (see below, p. 119).\nBy further confusion of the two names, \"Scadinavia\" has become\n\"Scandinavia\" in later copyists and authors.[106]\n\n    In conflict with this is the hitherto accepted opinion among\n    philologists that the name \"Sk\u00e5ne\" must be derived from \"Scadinavia,\"\n    which would regularly become by contraction \"*Skadney,\" and this by\n    losing the \"d\" would become \"Sk\u00e1ney.\" But this similarity may after\n    all be accidental, and it is difficult to reconcile the hypothesis\n    with the fact that the form \"Scandia\" (and not \"*Skadnia\") already\n    appears in Pliny and later in Ptolemy. To this must be added that the\n    form \"*Skadney,\" or a similar one, is not known; the first time we\n    find the word Sk\u00e5ne in literature is in the story of Wulfstan the Dane\n    to King Alfred (about 890, see later), where it takes the form \"Sc\u00f4n\n    eg,\" which is the same as \"Sk\u00e1ney.\" \"Skania,\" which is a latinised\n    form of \"Sk\u00e1ney,\" is found in a Papal letter of 950, and a Swedish\n    runic inscription of about 1020 reads \"\u0105 Sk\u0105nu,\" which also is the\n    same as \"Sk\u00e1ney.\" It therefore appears probable that this is the\n    original form, the same as the Norwegian name \"Sk\u00e1ney,\" and that it\n    has not resulted from a contraction of \"Skadinavia.\" Professor Torp\n    agrees that a form \"*Sk\u00e2novia\" might possibly be the original.\n\nWhat may be the meaning of the name \"Hilleviones\" in Scadinavia is\ndifficult to make out; it does not occur in any other writer, but is in\nall likelihood a common term for all Scandinavians. One is reminded of the\n\"Hermiones\" who occur in Mela in the same connection, but a little later\nPliny mentions these also. \"\u00c6ningia,\" which is said to be no smaller than\nScadinavia, is a riddle. Could it be a corruption of a Halsingia or\nAlsingia (the land of the Helsingers), a name for northern Sweden, which\nthus lay farther off and was less known than Scadinavia?[107] When we read\nthat these regions were supposed to extend as far as the Vistula, this\nmight indicate a vague idea that Scadinavia and \u00c6ningia were connected\nwith the mainland, whereby a bay of the sea was formed, called\n\"Cylipenus,\"[108] which will thus be yet another name for the Baltic,\ntaken from a new source; but the whole may be nothing more than an obscure\nstatement.\n\n\"Latris,\" which lay at the mouth of Cylipenus, may be one of the Danish\nislands, and one may perhaps be reminded of Sealand with the ancient royal\nstronghold of \"Lethra\" or Leire, Old Norse \"Hleidrar.\" The bay of\n\"Lagnus,\"[109] which borders on the Cimbri, must then be taken as a new\nname for the Cattegat, while \"Tastris\" may be Skagen. According to the\nsources Pliny has borrowed from, we thus get the following names for the\nsame parts: for the Baltic or parts thereof, \"Amalcium\" and \"Cylipenus,\"\nand perhaps in part \"Codanus\"; for the Cattegat, \"Lagnus\" and \"Codanus\";\nfor the Skagerak, \"Morimarusa,\" in part also \"Codanus\"; for south Sweden,\n\"Scadinavia\" and \"Balcia\"; for Jutland or Skagen, \"Promunturium Cimbrorum\"\nand \"Tastris.\" At any rate, this superfluity of names discloses increased\ncommunication, through many channels, with the North. Communication with\nthe North is also to be deduced from Pliny's mention [viii. c. 15, 39] of\nan animal called \"achlis,\" as a native of those countries.\n\n    It had \"never been seen among us in Rome, though it had been described\n    by many.\" It resembles the elk [alcis], \"but has no knee-joint, for\n    which reason also it does not sleep lying down, but leaned against a\n    tree, and if the tree be partly cut through as a trap, the animal,\n    which otherwise is remarkably fleet, is caught. Its upper lip is very\n    large, for which reason it goes backwards when grazing, so as not to\n    get caught in it if it went forward.\" It might be thought that this\n    elk-like animal was a reindeer; but the mention of the long upper lip\n    and the trees suits the elk better, and it may have been related of\n    this animal that it was caught by means of traps in the forest. The\n    fable that it slept leaning against a tree may be due to the\n    similarity between the name \"achlis\" (which may be some corruption or\n    other, perhaps of \"alces\") and \"acclinis\" (== leaning on).\n\nFinally, Pliny had a third source of knowledge about the North through\nBritain, which to him was a common name for all the islands in that\nocean. Some of the statements from this quarter originated with Pytheas;\nbut later information was added; Pliny himself mentions Agrippa as an\nauthority. Among the British Isles he mentions [iv. 16, 103]: \"40\n'Orcades' separated from each other by moderate distances, 7 'Acmod\u00e6,' and\n30 'Hebudes.'\" His 7 \"Acmod\u00e6\" (which in some MSS. are also called\n\"H\u00e6cmod\u00e6\") are, clearly enough, Mela's 7 H\u00e6mod\u00e6, and probably the Shetland\nIslands, while the 30 \"Hebudes\" are the Hebrides, which are thus mentioned\nhere for the first time in any known author.\n\nAfter referring to a number of other British islands \"and the 'Gl\u00e6si\u00e6,'\nscattered in the Germanic Ocean, which the later Greeks call the\n'Electrides,' because amber (electrum) is found in them,\"[110] Pliny\ncontinues [iv. 16, 104]: \"The most distant of all known islands is 'Tyle'\n(Thule), where at the summer solstice there is no night, and\ncorrespondingly no day at the winter solstice.\"[111]... \"Some authors\nmention yet more islands, 'Scandia,' 'Dumna,' 'Bergos,' and the largest of\nall, 'Berricen,' from which the voyage is made to Tyle. From Tyle it is\none day's sail to the curdled sea which some call 'Cronium.'\" We do not\nknow from what authors Pliny can have taken these names, nor where the\nislands are to be looked for; but as Thule is mentioned, we must suppose\nthat in any case some of them come originally from Pytheas. As Scandia\ncomes first among these islands, one is led to think that Dumna and the\ntwo other enigmatical names are of Germanic origin. \"Dumna\" might then\nremind us of Scandinavian names such as Duney, D\u00f6nna (in Nordland), or\nthe like; but it is more probable that it comes from the Celtic \"dubno\" or\n\"dumno\" (== deep), and may be the name of an island off Scotland. \"Bergos\"\nmay remind us of the Old Norse word \"bjarg\" or \"berg.\"[112] It is not so\neasy with the strange name \"Berricen,\" which in some MSS. has the form\n\"Verigon\" or \"Nerigon\" (cf. above, p. 58). If the first reading is the\ncorrect one, it suggests an origin in an Old Norse \"ber-ig\" (\"ber\" ==\nbear; the meaning would therefore be \"bear-y,\" full of bears), not an\nunsuitable name for southern Norway, whence the journey was made to Thule\nor northern Norway; but this is doubtful. If \"Nerigon\" is the correct\nreading, it will not be impossible, in the opinion of Professor Torp, that\nthis, as Keyser supposed, may be the name Norway, which in Old Norse was\ncalled, by Danes for example, \"*Nor\u00feravegaR\" (like \"AustravegaR\" and\n\"VestravegaR\"). If any of the names of these islands are really Germanic,\nlike Scandia, then they cannot, as some have thought, refer to islands off\nScotland or to the Shetlands, as these were not yet inhabited by Norsemen.\nThe islands in question must therefore be looked for in Norway. It is\nimportant that Scandia is mentioned first among them in connection with\nBritain, and that at the same time another is described as the largest of\nthem all, and as lying on the way to Thule. This again points to\ncommunication by sea between the British Isles and Scandinavia, of which\nwe found indications four hundred years earlier.\n\n[Sidenote: Agricola, 84 A.D.]\n\nIn 84 A.D. Agricola, after his campaign against the Caledonians, sent his\nfleet round the northern point of Scotland, \"whereby,\" Tacitus[113] tells\nus, \"it was proved that Britain is an island. At the same time the\nhitherto unknown islands which are called 'Orcadas' (the Orkneys) were\ndiscovered and subdued. Thule also could be descried in the distance; but\nthe fleet had orders not to go farther, and winter was coming on. Moreover\nthe water is thick and heavy to row in; it is said that even wind cannot\nstir it to much motion. The reason for this may be the absence of land and\nmountains, which otherwise would give the storms increased power, and that\nthe enormous mass of continuous ocean is not easy to set in motion.\" This\nThule must have been Fair Island or the Shetland Isles, and this is the\nmost northern point reached by the Romans, so far as is known. The idea of\nthe heavy sea, which is not moved by the winds, is the same that we met\nwith in early antiquity (see pp. 40, 69).\n\n    In the preceding summer some of Agricola's soldiers--a cohort of\n    Usippii, enlisted in Germania and brought to Britain--had mutinied,\n    killed their centurion and seized three ships, whose captains they\n    forced into obedience. \"Two of them aroused their suspicions and were\n    therefore killed; the third undertook the navigation,\" and they\n    circumnavigated Britain. \"They were soon obliged to land to provide\n    themselves with water and to plunder what they required; thereby they\n    came into frequent conflict with the Britons, who defended their\n    possessions; they were often victorious, but sometimes were worsted,\n    and finally their need became so great that they took to eating the\n    weakest; then they drew lots as to which should serve the others as\n    food. Thus they came round Britain [i.e. round the north], were driven\n    out of their course through incompetent navigation, and were made\n    prisoners, some by the Frisians and some by the Suevi, who took them\n    for pirates. Some of them came to the slave-markets and passed through\n    various hands until they reached Roman Germania, becoming quite\n    remarkable persons by being able to relate such marvellous\n    adventures.\"[114] It is possible that certain inaccurate statements\n    may have found their way to Rome as the result of this voyage.\n\n[Sidenote: Tacitus, 98 A.D.]\n\nCornelius Tacitus, who wrote his \"Germania\" in the year 98 A.D., was a\nhistorian and ethnographer, not a geographer. His celebrated work has not,\ntherefore, much to say of the northern lands; he has not even a single\nname for them. On the other hand, he has some remarkable statements about\nthe peoples, especially in Sweden, which show that since the time of Pliny\nfresh information about that part of the world must have reached Rome.\n\n[Illustration: The nations of Tacitus (after K. Miller)]\n\nTacitus makes the \"Suebi,\" or \"Suevi,\" inhabit the greater part of Germany\nas far as the frontier of the Slavs (Sarmatians) and Finns on the east\n(and north ?). The name, which possibly means the \"hovering\" people and is\ndue to their roving existence, is perhaps rather to be regarded as a\ncommon designation for various Germanic tribes. After them he called the\nsea on the eastern coast of Germany, i.e., the Baltic, the Suebian Sea\n(\"Suebicum mare\"). On its right-hand (eastern) shore dwelt the \"\u00c6stii\"\n(i.e., Esthonians; perhaps from \"aistan\" == to honour, that is, the\nhonourable people [?]). \"Their customs and dress are like those of the\nSuevi, but their language more nearly resembles the British\" (!). \"The use\nof iron is rare there, that of sticks [i.e., clubs, fustium] common. They\nalso explore the sea and collect amber in shallow places and on the shore\nitself. But they do not understand its nature and origin, and it long lay\ndisregarded among things cast up by the sea, \"until our luxury made it\nesteemed.\" \"They have no use for it,[115] they gather it in the rough,\nbring it unwrought, and are surprised at the price they receive\" [c. 45].\nFrom this it may be concluded that there was constant trading\ncommunication between the Mediterranean and the Baltic, and that Roman\nmerchants had probably penetrated thither.\n\n[Illustration: Boat found at Nydam, near Flensburg. Third century A.D. 70\nfeet long (after C. Engelhardt)]\n\n\"In the Ocean itself (ipso in Oceano) lie the communities of the Suiones,\na mighty people not only in men and arms, but also in ships.\" The Suiones,\nwho are first mentioned by Tacitus, are evidently of the same name as the\nSvear (Old Norse \"sv\u00edar,\" Anglo-Saxon \"sveon\") or Swedes.[116] Their ships\nwere remarkable for having a prow, \"prora,\" at each end (i.e., they were\nthe same fore and aft); they had no sail, and the oars were not made fast\nin a row, but were loose, so that they could row with them now on one\nside, now on the other, \"as on some rivers.\"[117] In other words, they had\nopen rowlocks, as in some of the river boats of that time, and as is\ncommon in modern boats; the oars were not put out through holes as in the\nRoman ships, and as in the Viking ships (the Gokstad and Oseberg ships).\nThe boat of the Iron Age which was dug up at Nydam had just such open\nrowlocks.\n\nThe Suiones (unlike the other Germanic peoples) esteemed wealth, and\ntherefore they had only one lord; this lord governed with unlimited power,\nso much so that arms were not distributed among the people, but were kept\nlocked up, and moreover in charge of a thrall,[118] because the sea\nprevented sudden attacks of enemies, and armed idle hands (i.e., armed men\nunemployed) are apt to commit rash deeds [c. 44].\n\nThe neighbours of the Suiones, probably on the north, are the \"Sitones\"\n[c. 45], whom Tacitus also regards as Germanic. \"They are like the Suiones\nwith one exception, that a woman reigns over them; so far have they\ndegenerated not only from liberty, but also from slavery. Here Suebia ends\n(Hic Suebi\u00e6 finis).\" Suebia was that part of Germany inhabited by the\nSuevi. It looks as though Tacitus considered that courage and manliness\ndecreased the farther north one went. The Suiones allow themselves to be\nbullied by an absolute king, who sets a thrall to guard their weapons, and\nthe Sitones are in a still worse plight, in allowing themselves to be\ngoverned by a woman. The Sitones are not mentioned before or after this in\nliterature, and it seems as though the name must be due to some\nmisunderstanding.[119] It has been supposed that they were Finns\n(\"Kv\u00e6ns\")[120] in northern Sweden, and their name may then have been taken\nas the word for woman (\"kv\u00e6n,\" or \"kv\u00e1n,\" mostly in the sense of wife [cf.\nEnglish queen]), and from this the legend of womanly government may have\nbeen formed[121] in the same way as Adam of Bremen later translates the\nname Cvenland (Kv\u00e6nland) by \"Terra feminarum,\" and thus forms the myth of\nthe country of the Amazons. But this explanation of the statement of\nTacitus may be doubtful.[122] We have already seen that Mela mentions a\npeople in Scythia, the \"M\u00e6otides,\" who were governed by women, and, as we\nhave said, it would not have seemed unreasonable to him that the\ngovernment of women increased farther north.\n\nOf the regions on the north Tacitus says: \"North of the Suiones lies\nanother sluggish and almost motionless sea (mare pigrum ac prope\nimmotum); that this encircles and confines the earth's disc is rendered\nprobable by the fact that the last light of the setting sun continues\nuntil the sun rises again, so clearly that the stars are paled thereby.\nPopular belief also supposes that the sound of the sun emerging from the\nocean can be heard, and that the forms of the gods are seen and the rays\nbeaming from his head. There report rightly places the boundaries of\nnature.\" As mentioned above (see p. 108), he thought that even to the\nnorth of the Orkneys the sea was thick and sluggish.\n\nTacitus is the first author who mentions the Finns (Fenni), but whether\nthey are Lapps, Kv\u00e6ns or another race cannot be determined. He says\nhimself: \"I am in doubt whether to reckon the Peucini, Venedi and Fenni\namong the Germans or Sarmatians (Slavs).\" He speaks of the Fenni\napparently as dwelling far to the north-east, beyond the Peucini, or\nBastarn\u00e6, from whom they are separated by forests and mountains, which the\nlatter overrun as robbers.\n\n    \"Among the Fenni amazing savagery and revolting poverty prevail. They\n    have no weapons, no horses, no houses ['non penates,' perhaps rather,\n    no homes];[123] their food is herbs, their clothing skins, their bed\n    the ground. Their only hope is in their arrows, which from lack of\n    iron they provide with heads of bone. Hunting supports both men and\n    women; for the women usually accompany the men everywhere and take\n    their share of the spoils. Their infants have no other protection from\n    wild beasts and from the rain than a hiding-place of branches twisted\n    together; thither the men return, it is the habitation of the aged.\n    Nevertheless this seems to them a happier life than groaning over\n    tilled fields, toiling in houses and being subject to hope and fear\n    for their own and others' possessions. Without a care for men or gods\n    they have attained the most difficult end, that of not even feeling\n    the need of a wish. Beyond them all is fabulous, as that the\n    'Hellusii' and 'Oxion\u00e6' have human heads and faces, but the bodies and\n    limbs of wild beasts, which I leave on one side as undecided.\"\n\nThese Fenni of Tacitus consequently live near the outer limits of the\nworld, where all begins to be fable. The name itself carries us to\nnorthern Europe, or rather Scandinavia, for it was certainly only the\nNorth Germans, especially the Scandinavians, who used the word as a name\nfor their non-Aryan neighbours. No doubt it appears from the description\nthat they lived in northern Russia, and were only separated from the\nPeucini by forests and mountains; but, as was said above, Tacitus had\nneither sense for nor interest in geography. If he heard of a savage and\nbarbarous Finn-people far in the North, and if it suited him on other\ngrounds to bring them in beyond the Peucini or Bastarn\u00e6, but before the\nHellusii and Oxiones, who not only led the life of beasts, but even had\ntheir bodies and limbs, then certainly no geographical difficulties would\nstop him. It is of interest that these Fenni are described as a typical\nrace of hunters, using the bow as their special weapon. As Tacitus only\nstates that they had no horses, he had doubtless heard of no other\ndomestic animals amongst them. Consequently it is not likely that they\nwere reindeer-nomads. The interweaving of branches that the children were\nhidden in, to which the men returned, and which was the dwelling of the\nold men, must be the tent of the Finns, which was raised upon branches or\nstakes. As early as Herodotus [iv. 23] we read of the Argipp\u00e6ans, who were\nalso Mongols, that \"every man lived under a tree, over which in winter he\nspread a white, thick covering of felt.\" It is clearly a tent that is\nintended here also [cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, ii., 1887, pp. 40, 352]. The idea that\namong the barbarians men and women frequently did the same work does not\nseem to have been uncommon in antiquity, and it can scarcely have been\nregarded as something peculiar to the Finns; in this connection it is no\ndoubt derived from the legends of the Amazons. Herodotus, and after him\nMela (see above, pp. 87 f.), describes such a similarity between men and\nwomen among the Scythian people and the Sauromatians; and Diodorus [iv.\n20, v. 39] says of the Ligurians that men and women shared the same hard\nlabour.\n\n[Sidenote: Dionysius Periegetes, 117-138 A.D.]\n\nThe so-called Dionysius Periegetes wrote in the time of the emperor\nHadrian (117-138 A.D.) a description of the earth in 1187 verses, which\nperhaps on account of its simple brevity and metrical form was used in\nschools and widely circulated [cf. K. Miller, vi., 1898, p. 95]. But\nunfortunately the author has merely drawn from obsolete Greek sources,\nsuch as Homer, Hecat\u00e6us, Eratosthenes and others, and has nothing new to\ntell us. The whole continent was surrounded by ocean like an immense\nisland; it was not quite circular, but somewhat prolonged in the direction\nof the sun's course (i.e., towards the east and west).\n\nAfter Greek scientific geography had had its most fruitful life in the\nperiod ending with Eratosthenes and Hipparchus it still sent out such\npowerful shoots as the physical-mathematical geographer Posidonius and the\ndescriptive geographer Strabo; but after them a century and a half elapses\nuntil we hear of its final brilliant revival in Marinus of Tyre and\nClaudius Ptolemy, whose work was to exercise a decisive influence upon\ngeography thirteen centuries later.\n\n[Sidenote: Marinus of Tyre]\n\nMarinus's writings are lost, and we know nothing more of him than is told\nus by his younger contemporary Ptolemy, who has relied upon him to a\nconsiderable extent, and whose great forerunner he was. He must have lived\nin the first half of the second century A.D. He made an exhaustive attempt\nto describe every place on the earth according to its latitude and\nlongitude, and drew a map of the world on this principle. He also adopted\nPosidonius's insufficient estimate of the earth's circumference (instead\nof that of Eratosthenes), and his exaggerated extension of the \"\u0153cumene\"\ntowards the east; and as this was passed on from him to Ptolemy he\nexercised great influence upon Columbus, amongst others, who thus came to\nestimate the distance around the globe to India at only half its real\nlength. In this way Marinus and Ptolemy are of importance in the discovery\nnot only of the West Indies, but also of North America by Cabot, and in\nthe earliest attempts to find a north-west passage to China. Thus\n\"accidental\" mistakes may have far-reaching influence in history.\n\n[Sidenote: Ptolemy, circa 150 A.D.]\n\nClaudius Ptolem\u00e6us marks to a certain extent the highest point of\nclassical geographical knowledge. He was perhaps born in Egypt about 100\nA.D. He must have lived as an astronomer at Alexandria during the years\n126 to 141, and perhaps longer; and he probably outlived the emperor\nAntoninus Pius, who died in 161 A.D., but we do not know much more of him.\nIn his celebrated astronomical work, most generally known by its Arabic\ntitle of \"Almagest\" (because it first reached medi\u00e6val western Europe in\nan Arabic translation), he gave his well-known account of the universe and\nof the movements of the heavenly bodies, which had such great influence in\nthe later Middle Ages, and on Columbus and the great discoveries. His\ncelebrated \"Geography\" in eight books (written about 150 A.D.) is, as he\nhimself tells us, for the most part founded upon the now lost work of\nMarinus, and shows a great advance in geographical comprehension upon the\npractical but unscientific Romans. With the scientific method of the\nGreeks an attempt is here made to collect and co-ordinate the geographical\nknowledge of the time into a tabulated survey, for the most part dry, of\ncountries, places and peoples, with a number of latitudes and longitudes,\nmostly given by estimate. His information and names are in great part\ntaken from the so-called \"Itineraries,\" which were tabular and consisted\nchiefly of graphic routes for travellers with stopping-places and\ndistances, and which were due for the most part to military sources\n(especially the Roman campaigns), and in a less degree to merchants and\nsailors.\n\nCartographical representation was by him radically improved by the\nintroduction of correct projections, with converging meridians, of which a\ncommencement had already been made by Hipparchus. His atlas, which may\noriginally have been drawn by himself, or by another from the detailed\nstatements in his geography, gives us the only maps that have been\npreserved from antiquity, and thus has a special interest.\n\nAs to the North, we find remarkably little that is new in Ptolemy, and on\nmany points he shows a retrogression even, as it seems, from Pytheas; but\nthe northern coast of Europe begins to take definite shape past the\nCimbrian Peninsula to the Baltic. His representation of Britain and\nIreland (Ivernia), which is based upon much new information,[124] was\ncertainly a great improvement on his predecessors, even though he gives\nthe northern part of Scotland (Caledonia) a strange deflection far to the\neast, which was retained on later maps (in the fifteenth century). He\nmentions five Ebudes (Hebrides) above Ivernia, and says further [ii. 3]:\n\n    \"The following islands lie near Albion off the Orcadian Cape; the\n    island of Ocitis (32\u00b0 40' E. long., 60\u00b0 45' N. lat.), the island of\n    Dumna (30\u00b0 E. long., 61\u00b0 N. lat.), north of them the Orcades, about\n    thirty in number, of which the most central lies in 30\u00b0 E. long., 61\u00b0\n    40' N. lat. And far to the north of them Thule, the most western part\n    of which lies in 29\u00b0 E. long., 63\u00b0 N. lat., the most eastern part in\n    31\u00b0 40' E. long., 63\u00b0 N. lat., the most northern in 30\u00b0 20' E. long.,\n    63\u00b0 15' N. lat., the most southern in 30\u00b0 20' E. long., 62\u00b0 40' N.\n    lat., and the central part in 30\u00b0 20' E. long., 63\u00b0 N. lat.\"\n\nPtolemy calculates his degrees of longitude eastwards from a meridian 0\nwhich he draws west of the Fortunate Isles (the Canaries), the most\nwestern part of the earth. It will be seen that he gives Thule no very\ngreat extent. His removing it from the Arctic Circle south to 63\u00b0 is\ndoubtless due to the men of Agricola's fleet having thought they had\nsighted Thule north of the Orkneys. In his eighth book [c. 3] he says:\n\n    Thule has a longest day of twenty hours, and it is distant west from\n    Alexandria two hours. Dumna has a longest day of nineteen hours, and\n    is distant westward two hours.\n\nIt is evident that these \"hours\" are found by calculation, and are merely\na way of expressing degrees of latitude and longitude; they cannot\ntherefore be referred to any local observation of the length of the\nlongest day, etc. It is curious that Ptolemy only mentions Ebudes and\nOrcades, and not the Shetland Isles; perhaps they are included among his\nthirty Orcades.\n\n[Illustration: The northern part of Ptolemy's map of the world, Europe and\nAsia. From the Rome edition of Ptolemy of 1490 (Nordenski\u00f6ld, 1889)]\n\nHe represents the Cimbrian Peninsula (Jutland) with remarkable\ncorrectness, though making it lean too much towards the east, like\nScotland. Upon it \"dwelt on the west the Sigulones, then the Sabalingii,\nthen the Cobandi, above them the Chali, and above these again and farther\nwest the Phundusii, and more to the east the Charudes [Harudes or Horder;\ncf. p. 85], and to the north of all the Cimbri.\" It was suggested above\n(p. 94) that possibly the name Cobandi might be connected with the Codanus\nof Mela and Pliny. The Sabalingii, according to Much [1905, p. 11], may be\nthe same name as Pytheas's Abalos (cf. p. 70), which may have been written\nSabalos or Sabalia, and may have been inhabited by Aviones. To the north\nof the Cimbrian Chersonese Ptolemy places three islands, the \"Aloci\u00e6,\"\nwhich may be taken from the Halligen islands, properly \"Hallagh\" [cf.\nDetlefsen, 1904, p. 61], off the coast of Sleswick.[125]\n\n    To the east of the peninsula are the four so-called \"Scandi\u00e6,\" three\n    small [the Danish islands], of which the central one lies in 41\u00b0 30'\n    E. long., 58\u00b0 N. lat.; but the largest and most eastern lies off the\n    mouths of the Vistula; the westernmost part of this island lies in\n    43\u00b0 E. long., 58\u00b0 N. lat., the easternmost in 46\u00b0 E. long., 58\u00b0 N.\n    lat., the northernmost in 44\u00b0 30' E. long., 58\u00b0 30' N. lat., the\n    southernmost in 45\u00b0 E. long., 57\u00b0 40' N. lat. But this one [i.e.,\n    south Scandinavia] is called in particular Scandia, and the western\n    part of it is inhabited by the Ch\u00e6dini, the eastern by the Phavon\u00e6 and\n    Phiresii, the northern by the Phinni, the southern by the Gut\u00e6 and\n    Dauciones, and the central by the Levoni.\n\nIt will be seen that Scandia would not be much larger than Thule: 20'\nlonger from west to east, and only 10' longer from north to south.\n\n[Illustration: The Scandinavian North according to Ptolemy. The most\nnorthern people in Scandinavia, the Phinni, are omitted in this map, as in\nmost MSS.]\n\nThe \"Ch\u00e6dini\" must be the Norwegian \"Hei\u00f0nir\" or \"Heinir,\" whose name is\npreserved in Hei\u00f0m\u01ebrk, Hedemarken [cf. Zeuss, 1837, p. 159; Much, 1893, p.\n188; M\u00fcllenhoff, 1900, p. 497]. This is the first time that an undoubtedly\nNorwegian tribe is mentioned in known literature. \"Phinni\" (Finns) is only\nfound in one MS.; but as Jordanes (Cassiodorus) says that Ptolemy mentions\nseven tribes in Scandia, it must have been found in ancient MSS. of his\nwork, and it occurs here for the first time as the name of a people in\nScandinavia. Ptolemy also mentions \"Phinni\" in another place as a people\nin Sarmatia near the Vistula (together with Gythones or Goths); but these\nmust be connected with the \"Fenni\" of Tacitus, and doubtless also belong\noriginally to Scandinavia. The \"Gut\u00e6\" must be the Gauter or G\u00f6ter, unless\nthey are the Guter of Gotland (?). The \"Dauciones,\" it has been supposed,\nmay possibly be the Danes, and the \"Levoni\" might perhaps be the\nHilleviones mentioned by Pliny, whose name does not otherwise occur. Thus\na knowledge of Scandinavia slowly dawns in history.\n\n[Illustration: Ptolemy's map of Europe, etc., compared with the true\nconditions (in dotted line)]\n\nTo the north of the known coasts and islands of Europe there lay,\naccording to Ptolemy and Marinus, a great continuous ocean, which was a\ncontinuation of the Atlantic. On the extreme north-west was \"the\nHyperborean Ocean, which was also called the Congealed (\u03c0\u03b5\u03c0\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2) or\n'Cronius' or the Dead (\u03bd\u03b5\u03ba\u03c1\u03bf\u03c2) Sea.\" North of Britain was the\nDeucaledonian Ocean, and east of Britain the Germanic Ocean as far as the\neastern side of the Cimbrian Chersonese, that is, the North Sea and a part\nof the Baltic. This was joined by the Sarmatian Ocean, with the Venedian\n(i.e., Wendish) Gulf, from the mouths of the Vistula north-eastwards. The\nBaltic was still merely an open bay of the great Northern Ocean. But\nwhether the latter extended farther to the east, round the north of the\n\u0153cumene, making it into an island, was unknown. Ptolemy and Marinus\ntherefore put the northern boundary of the known continent at the latitude\nof Thule, and made this continent extend into the unknown on the\nnorth-east and east; they thus furnish the latest development of the\ndoctrine that the \u0153cumene was not an island in the universal ocean, since\nthey considered that guesses about the regions beyond the limits of the\nreally known were inadmissible, and no one had reached any coast in those\ndirections; for the Caspian Sea was closed and not connected with the\nNorthern Ocean. In the same way the extent of Africa towards the south was\nuncertain, and they connected it possibly with south-eastern Asia, to the\nsouth of the Indian Ocean, which thus also became enclosed.\n\n[Illustration: Ptolemy's tribes in Denmark and South Sweden]\n\nPtolemy wrote at a time when the Roman Empire was at its height, and he\nhad the advantage of being able, as a Greek, to combine the scientific\nlore of the older Greek literature with the mass of information which must\ninevitably have been collected from all parts of the world by the\nextensive administration of this gigantic empire. His work, like that of\nMarinus, was therefore a natural fruit which grew by the stream of time.\nBut the stream had just then reached a backwater; he belonged to a\nlanguishing civilisation, and represents the last powerful shoot which\nGreek science put forth. Some thirteen centuries were to elapse before, by\nthe changes of fate, his works at last made their mark in the development\nof the world's civilisation. In the centuries that succeeded him the Roman\nEmpire went steadily backwards to its downfall, and literature degenerated\nrapidly; it sank into compilation and repetition of older writers, without\nspirit or originality. It is therefore not surprising that the literature\nof later antiquity gives us nothing new about the North, although\ncommunication therewith must certainly have increased.\n\n[Sidenote: Solinus, 3rd century A.D.]\n\nThe geographical author of antiquity most widely read in the Middle Ages\nwas C. Julius Solinus (third century A.D.), who for the most part repeated\npassages from Pliny, with a marked predilection for the fabulous. All that\nis to be found in the MSS. of his works about Thule, the Orcades and the\nHebudes, beyond what we read in Pliny, consists, in the opinion of Mommsen\n[1895, p. 219], of later additions by a copyist (perhaps an Irish monk) of\nbetween the seventh and ninth centuries, and as this has a certain\ninterest for our country it will be dealt with later under this period.\n\n[Sidenote: Avienus, circa 370 A.D.]\n\nRufus Festus Avienus lived in the latter half of the fourth century A.D.\nand was proconsul in Africa in 366 and in Ach\u00e6a in 372. His poem \"Ora\nMaritima\" is mainly a translation of older Greek authors and, as mentioned\nabove (p. 37), is of interest from his having used an otherwise unknown\nauthority of very early origin. His second descriptive poem is a free\ntranslation of Dionysius Periegetes.\n\n[Sidenote: Macrobius, Orosius, Capella, etc.]\n\nAmongst other authors who in this period of literary degeneration compiled\ngeographical descriptions may be named: Ammianus Marcellinus (second half\nof the fourth century) in his historical works, Macrobius[126] (circa 400\nA.D.), the Spaniard Paulus Orosius, whose widely read historical work\n(circa 418 A.D.) has a geographical chapter, Marcianus of Heraclea\n(beginning of the fifth century), Julius Honorius (beginning of the fifth\ncentury), Marcianus Capella (about 470 A.D.), Priscianus C\u00e6sariensis\n(about 500 A.D.) and others.\n\nTheir statements about the northern regions are repetitions of older\nauthors and contain nothing new.\n\n[Sidenote: Itineraries]\n\nMuch of the geographical knowledge of that time was included in the\nalready mentioned (p. 116) \"Itineraries,\" which were probably illustrated\nwith maps of the routes. Partial copies of one of them are preserved in\nthe so-called \"Tabula Peutingeriana\" [cf. K. Miller, vi. 1898, pp. 90\nff.], which came to be of importance in the Middle Ages.\n\nThus at the close of antiquity the lands and seas of the North still lie\nin the mists of the unknown. Many indications point to constant\ncommunication with the North, and now and again vague pieces of\ninformation have reached the learned world. Occasionally, indeed, the\nclouds lift a little, and we get a glimpse of great countries, a whole new\nworld in the North, but then they sink again and the vision fades like a\ndream of fairyland. It seems as though no one felt scientifically impelled\nto make an effort to clear up these obscure questions.\n\nThen followed restless times, with roving warlike tribes in Central\nEurope. The peaceful trading communication between the Mediterranean and\nthe northern coasts was broken off, and with it the fresh stream of\ninformation which had begun to flow in from the North. And for a long time\nmen chewed the cud of the knowledge that had been collected in remote\nantiquity. But Greek literature was more and more forgotten, and it was\nespecially the later Roman authors they lived on.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Map of the World from a ninth-century MS. (in the Strasburg\nLibrary)]\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE EARLY MIDDLE AGES\n\n\nThus it came about that the geographical knowledge of later antiquity\nshows nothing but a gradual decline from the heights which the Greeks had\nearly reached, and from which they had surveyed the earth, the universe\nand their problems with an intellectual superiority that inclines one to\ndoubt the progress of mankind. The early Middle Ages show an even greater\ndecline. Rome, in spite of all, had formed a sort of scientific centre,\nwhich was lost to Western Europe by the fall of the Roman Empire. To this\nmust be added the introduction of Christianity, which, for a time at any\nrate, gave mankind new values in life, whereby the old ones came into\ndisrepute. Knowledge of distant lands, or of the still more distant\nheavens, was looked upon as something like folly and madness. For all\nknowledge was to be found in the Bible, and it was especially commendable\nto reconcile all profane learning therewith. When, for instance, Isaiah\nsays of the Lord that He \"sitteth upon the circle of the earth\" (i.e.,\nthe round disc of the earth), and \"stretcheth out the heavens as a\ncurtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in\" [xl. 22], and that\nHe \"spread forth the earth\" [xlii. 5, xliv. 24], and when in the Book of\nJob [xxvi. 10] it is said that \"He has compassed the waters with bounds,\nwhere light borders on darkness,\" such statements did not agree with the\ndoctrine of the spherical form of the earth; this was therefore regarded\nwith disfavour by the Church; the circular disc surrounded by Ocean, which\nwas the idea of the childhood of Greece, was more suitable, and according\nto Ezekiel [v. 5-6] Jerusalem lay in the centre of this disc. It was\ninevitable that knowledge of the earth and of its farthest limits should\nbe still more crippled in such an age, and this is especially true of\nknowledge of the North.\n\n[Illustration: Cosmas's Map of the World. The surface of the earth is\nrectangular and surrounded by ocean, which forms four bays: the\nMediterranean on the west (with the Black Sea), the Caspian above on the\nright, the Red Sea, and the Persian Gulf below on the right. The Nile\n(below), the Euphrates and the Tigris flow from the outer world under the\nocean to the earth's surface]\n\nThose writers who in the early part of the Middle Ages occupied themselves\nwith such worldly things as geography, confined themselves mostly to\nrepeating, and in part further confusing, what Pliny and later Latin\nauthors had said on the subject. The most widely read and most frequently\ncopied were Solinus and Capella, also Macrobius and Orosius. This was the\nintellectual food which replaced the science of the Greeks. Truly the\ncourse of the human race has its alternations of heights and depths!\n\n[Illustration: Cosmas's representation of the Universe, with the mountain\nin the north behind which the Sun goes at night. The Creator is shown\nabove]\n\nBut even if the migrations had for a time interrupted peaceful trading\nintercourse with the North, they were also the means of new facts becoming\nknown, and it was inevitable that in the long run these migrations, and\nsubsequent contact with the northern peoples, should leave their mark on\nthe science of geography. The knowledge of the North shown in the\nliterature of the early Middle Ages is thus to be compared with two\nstreams, often quite independent of one another; the one has its source in\nclassical learning and becomes ever thinner and more turbid; the other is\nthe fresh stream of new information from the North, which we find in a\nCassiodorus or a Procopius. Sometimes these two streams flow together, as\nin an Adam of Bremen, and they may then form a mixture of like and unlike,\nin which it is often hopeless to find one's way.\n\n[Sidenote: Cosmas Indicopleustes, 6th century]\n\nIt is true that some were found, even in the early Middle Ages, who\nmaintained the doctrine of the earth's spherical form, whereas early\nChristian authors, such as Lactantius (ob. 330) and Severianus (ob. 407),\nhad asserted that it was a disc; the latter also thought that the heaven\nwas divided into two storeys, an upper and a lower, with the visible\nheaven as a division; the earth formed the floor of this celestial house.\nOne ancient notion (in Empedocles, Leucippus, Democritus) was that this\ndisc of the earth stood on a slant, increasing in height towards the\nnorth, which was partly covered by high mountains, the Rhip\u00e6an and\nHyperborean ranges (as in Ptolemy's map). These childish ideas took their\nmost remarkable shape in the \"Christian Topography,\" in twelve books, of\nthe Alexandrine monk, Cosmas Indicopleustes (sixth century). In his\nyounger days he had travelled much as a merchant and seen many wonderful\nthings, amongst others the wheel-ruts left by the Children of Israel\nduring their wanderings in the wilderness. The Jews' tabernacle, he\nthought, was constructed on the same plan and in the same proportions as\nthe world. Consequently the earth's disc had to be made four-cornered,\nwith straight sides, and twice as long as it was broad. The ocean on the\nwest formed a right angle with the ocean on the south. On the north was a\nhigh mountain; behind it the sun was hidden in its course during the\nnight.[127] As the sun in winter traverses the sky in a lower orbit, it\nappears to us as though it receded behind the mountain near its foot, and\nit stays away longer than in summer, when it is higher. The whole vault of\nheaven was like a four-cornered box with a vaulted lid, which was divided\nby the firmament into two storeys. In the lower one were the earth, the\nsea, the sun, moon and stars; in the upper one the waters of the sky. The\nstars were carried round in circles by angels, whom God at the creation\nappointed to this heavy task. It was impossible for the earth to revolve,\nsimply because its axle must be supported by something, and of what kind\nof material could it be made? He had nothing else worth mentioning to say\nabout the North. But notions such as these had their influence on the\nearliest medi\u00e6val maps.\n\n[Sidenote: Cassiodorus, 468-570 A.D.]\n\nThe first medi\u00e6val author who, so far as we know, definitely gave new\ninformation of value about the countries and peoples of the North, was the\nRoman senator and historian Cassiodorus (born at Scylaceum, it is supposed\nabout 468), who was an eminent statesman under Theodoric, King of the\nGoths (493-526). After the victories of Belisarius in Italy, Cassiodorus\nretired into a monastery in southern Italy (Bruttium), which he himself\nhad founded, and died there, perhaps 100 years old (about 570). He wrote\nseveral valuable works, amongst them, probably by order of Theodoric, one\nin twelve books on \"The Origin and Deeds of the Goths,\" which was perhaps\ncompleted about 534. This work has unfortunately been lost, and we only\nknow it through the Goth Jordanes, who has made excerpts from it. There is\nreason to believe [cf. Mommsen, 1882, Pro\u0153mium, p. xxxvii.] that\nCassiodorus's knowledge of Gothic was defective, and that he has borrowed\nhis information about the North, especially Scandinavia, from a\ncontemporary, or perhaps somewhat older writer, Ablabius, who is referred\nto in Jordanes' book as \"the distinguished author of a very trustworthy\nhistory of the Goths,\" but who is otherwise unknown. Through the Norwegian\nking Rodulf and his men (see below, under Jordanes), or other Northerners\nwho visited Theodoric, and who were \"mightier than all the Germans in\ncourage and size of body,\" first-hand information was brought concerning\nthe countries of the North, which Ablabius, who certainly knew Gothic, may\nhave written down, and from him Cassiodorus has thus derived his\nstatements, which again are taken from him by Jordanes. In addition to\nvarious classical authors, some Latin and some Greek, of whom Jordanes\nmentions many more than he has made use of, it is probable that\nCassiodorus has also drawn upon the maps of Roman itineraries [cf.\nMommsen, 1882, Pro\u0153mium, p. xxxi.], and perhaps also Greek maps.\n\n[Sidenote: Jordanes, circa 552]\n\nThe Gothic monk (or priest) Jordanes lived in the sixth century, and wrote\nabout 551 or 552 a book on \"The Origin and Deeds of the Goths\" (\"De\norigine actibusque Getarum\"), which for the most part is certainly a poor\nrepetition of the substance of Cassiodorus's great work on the same\nsubject; and in fact he tells us this himself, with the modest addition\nthat \"his breath is too weak to fill the trumpet of such a man's mighty\nspeech.\" It is true that Jordanes asserts in his preface that he has only\nhad the loan of the work to read for three days, for which reason he\ncannot give the words but only the sense, and thereto, he says, he has\nadded what was suitable \"from certain histories in the Greek [which he did\nnot understand] and Latin tongues,\" and he has mixed it with his own\nwords. But this is only said to hide his lack of originality; for the book\nevidently contains long literal excerpts from the work of Cassiodorus,\nwhile Jordanes' Latin becomes markedly worse when he tries to walk alone.\nNot even the preface to the work is original; this is copied from\nRufinus's translation of Origines' commentary on the Epistle to the\nRomans.\n\nOf the uttermost ocean we read in Jordanes:\n\n    \"Not only has no one undertaken to describe the impenetrable uttermost\n    bounds of the ocean, but it has not even been vouchsafed to any one to\n    explore them, since it has been experienced that on account of the\n    resistance of the seaweed and because the winds cease to blow there,\n    the ocean is impenetrable and is known to none but Him who created\n    it.\" This conception has a striking resemblance to Avienus's \"Ora\n    Maritima\" (see above, pp. 37-40), and may very probably be derived\n    from it.\n\nOf the western ocean he says, amongst other things:\n\n    \"But it has also other islands farther out in the midst of its waves,\n    which are called the Balearic Isles, and another Mevania; likewise the\n    Orcades, thirty-three in number, and yet not all of them are\n    cultivated [inhabited]. It has also in its most western part another\n    island, called Thyle, of which the Mantuan [i.e., Virgil] says: 'May\n    the uttermost Thule be subject to thee.' This immense ocean has also\n    in its arctic, that is to say, northern, part, a great island called\n    Scandza, concerning which our narrative with God's help shall begin;\n    for the nation [the Goths] of whose origin you inquired, burst forth\n    like a swarm of bees from the lap of this island, and came to the land\n    of Europe.\"\n\nAfter having spoken of Ptolemy's (also Mela's) mention of this island,\nwhich according to his version of the former had the shape of \"a citron\nleaf, with curved edges and very long in proportion to its breadth\" (this\ncannot be found in Ptolemy), and lay opposite the three mouths of the\nVistula, he continues:\n\n    \"This [island] consequently has on its east the greatest inland sea in\n    the world, from which the River Vagi discharges itself, as from a\n    belly, profusely into the Ocean.[128] On the western side it [the\n    island of Scandza] is surrounded by an immense ocean and on the north\n    it is bounded by the before-mentioned unnavigable enormous ocean, from\n    which an arm extends to form the Germanic Ocean ('Germanicum mare'),\n    by widening out a bay. There are said to be many more islands in it,\n    but they are small,[129] and when the wolves on account of the severe\n    cold cross over after the sea is frozen, they are reported to lose\n    their eyes, so that the country is not only inhospitable to men but\n    cruel to animals. But in the island of Scandza, of which we are\n    speaking, although there are many different peoples, Ptolemy\n    nevertheless only gives the names of seven of them. But the\n    honey-making swarms of bees are nowhere found on account of the too\n    severe cold. In its northern part live the people Adogit, who, it is\n    said, in the middle of the summer have continuous light for forty days\n    and nights, and likewise at the time of the winter solstice do not see\n    the light for the same number of days and nights; sorrow thus\n    alternating with joy, so are they unlike others in benevolence and\n    injury; and why? Because on the longer days they see the sun return to\n    the east along the edge of the axis [i.e., the edge of the pole, that\n    is to say, along the northern horizon], but on the shorter days it is\n    not thus seen with them, but in another way, because it passes through\n    the southern signs, and when the sun appears to us to rise from the\n    deep, with them it goes along the horizon. But there are other people\n    there, and they are called Screrefenn\u00e6, who do not seek a subsistence\n    in corn, but live on the flesh of wild beasts and the eggs of\n    birds,[130] and such an enormous number of eggs [lit., spawn] is laid\n    in the marshes that it serves both for the increase of their kind\n    [i.e., of the birds] and for a plentiful supply for the people.\"\n\n[Sidenote: Screrefenn\u00e6 or Skridfinns]\n\nThe \"Screrefenn\u00e6\" of Jordanes (in other MSS. \"Crefenne,\" \"Rerefenn\u00e6,\"\netc.) are certainly a corruption of the same word as Procopius's\n\"Scrithifini\" (Skridfinns), and were a non-Germanic race inhabiting the\nnorthern regions (see later). The mention of these people, together with\ntheir neighbours the \"Adogit,\" who had the midnight sun and a winter night\nof forty days (cf. also Procopius), shows without a doubt that Jordanes',\nor rather Cassiodorus's, authority had received fresh information from the\nmost northern part of Scandinavia, possibly through the Norwegian king\nRodulf and his men.\n\n[Sidenote: Adogit]\n\nThe mysterious name \"Adogit\" is somewhat doubtful. P. A. Munch [1852, p.\n93], and later also M\u00fcllenhoff [ii., 1887, p. 41], thought that it might\nbe a corruption of H\u00e1logi (\"H\u00e1leygir,\" or Helgelanders) in northern\nNorway. Sophus Bugge [1907] does not regard this interpretation as\npossible, as this name cannot have had such a form at that time; he (and,\nas he informs us, Gustav Storm also independently) thinks that \"adogit\" is\ncorrupted from \"\u0101dogii,\" i.e., \"andogii,\" meaning inhabitants of And or\nAnd\u00f6 in Vester\u00e5len.[131] The termination -ogii he takes to be a medi\u00e6val\nway of writing what was pronounced -oji, i.e., islanders.[132] But it\nshould be remembered how much the name \"Screrefenn\u00e6\" has been corrupted,\nand that it is very possible that other names may have been so equally.\n\n[Sidenote: Impossibility of forty days' daylight in summer and night in\nwinter]\n\nThe statement that the Adogit had forty days' daylight in summer and a\ncorresponding period of night in winter is, unfortunately, of no\nassistance in the form in which it is given for deciding the locality\ninhabited by them, for no such phenomenon occurs anywhere on the earth. If\nwe suppose that the Adogit people themselves observed the rising and\nsetting of the sun above a free horizon, then we must believe that they\nreckoned the unbroken summer day from the first to the last night on which\nthe upper limb of the sun did not disappear below the edge of the sea. And\nthey would have reckoned the unbroken winter night from the first day on\nwhich the sun's upper limb did not appear above the horizon at noon, until\nthe first day when it again became visible.\n\nIf we reckon in this way, and take into account the horizontal refraction\nand the fact that the obliquity of the ecliptic about the year 500 was\napproximately 11' greater than now, we shall find that at that time the\nmidnight sun was seen for forty days (i.e., from June 2 to July 12) in\nabout 66\u00b0 54' N. lat., or in the neighbourhood of Kunna, south of Bod\u00f6;\nbut at the same place more than half the sun's disc would be above the\nhorizon at noon at the winter solstice; it was therefore not hidden for a\nsingle day, much less for forty days. But, on the other hand, it was not\nuntil 68\u00b0 51' N. lat., or about Harstad on Hinn\u00f6, that they had an\nunbroken winter night, without seeing the rim of the sun, for forty days\n(from December 2 to January 11); but there they had the midnight sun in\nsummer for about sixty-three days. The fable of a summer day of the same\nlength as the unbroken winter night cannot therefore have originated with\nthe Northerners; it must have been evolved in an entirely theoretical way\nby astronomical speculations (in ignorance of refraction) which were a\nsurvival of Greek science, where the length of the northern summer day was\nalways assumed to be equal to that of the winter night. But that\ninformation had been received at this time from the Northerners is\nprobable, since the statement of a forty days' summer day and winter night\nis not found in any known author of earlier date,[133] and Jordanes'\ncontemporary, Procopius, has an even more detailed statement, especially\nof this winter night (see later). The probability is that what the\nNortherners took particular notice of was the long night, during which, as\nProcopius also relates, they kept an accurate account of the days during\nwhich they had to do without the light of the sun, a time in which \"they\nwere very depressed, since they could not hold intercourse.\" This must\nalso have been what they told to the Southerners, while they did not pay\nso much attention to the length of the summer day, when of course they\nwould in any case have plenty of sunlight. We must therefore suppose that\nthe latitude worked out according to the winter night of forty days is the\ncorrect one, and this gives us precisely Sophus Bugge's And--And\u00f6, or,\nbetter still, Hinn\u00f6.\n\n[Illustration: The more important tribal names in Southern Scandinavia,\naccording to Jordanes]\n\n[Sidenote: Northern Tribal Names]\n\nJordanes counts about twenty-seven names of tribes or peoples in Sweden\nand Norway; a number of them are easily recognised, while others must be\nmuch corrupted and are difficult to interpret.[134] He mentions first the\npeoples of Sweden, then those of Norway. \"Suehans\" is certainly the\nSvear.\n\n    They, \"like the Thuringians, have excellent horses. It is also they\n    who through their commercial intercourse with innumerable other\n    peoples send for the use of the Romans sappherine skins ('sappherinas\n    pelles'), which skins are celebrated for their blackness.[135] While\n    they live poorly they have the richest clothes.\"\n\nWe see then that at this time the fur trade with the North was well\ndeveloped, as the amber trade was at a much earlier date. Adam of Bremen\ntells us of the \"proud horses\" of the Svear as though they were an article\nof export together with furs. In the Ynglinga Saga it is related [cf.\nSophus Bugge, 1907, p. 99] that Adils, King of the Svear at Upsalir,\n\n    \"was very fond of good horses, he had the best horses of that time.\"\n    He sent a stallion \"to H\u00e5logaland to Godgest the king; Godgest the\n    king rode it, and could not hold it, so he fell off and got his death;\n    this was in \u01eamd [Amd] in H\u00e5logaland.\"\n\nThe original authority for the statement in Jordanes was probably King\nRodulf, who perhaps came from the northern half of Norway, and it looks as\nthough the Norwegians even at that time were acquainted with Swedish\nhorses.\n\nJordanes further mentions five tribes who \"dwell in a flat, fertile land\n[i.e., south Sweden], for which reason also they have to protect\nthemselves against the attacks of other tribes ('gentium').\" Among the\ntribes in Sweden are mentioned also the \"Finnaith\u00e6\"--doubtless in\nFinn-heden or Finn-veden (that is, either Finn-heath or Finn-wood), whose\nname must be due to an aboriginal people called Finns--further, the\n\"Gautigoth,\" generally taken for the West G\u00f6ter, who were a specially\n\"brave and warlike people,\" the \"Ostrogoth\u00e6\" [East G\u00f6ter] and many more.\n\nThen he crosses the Norwegian frontier and mentions\n\n    \"The 'Raumarici'[of Romerike] and 'Ragnaricii' [of Ranrike or\n    Bohuslen], the very mild [peaceful] 'Finns' ('Finni mitissimi'), who\n    are milder than all the other inhabitants of Scandza;[136] further\n    their equals the 'Vinoviloth'; the 'Suetidi' are known among this\n    people ['hac gente' must doubtless mean the Scandinavians] as towering\n    above the rest in bodily height, and yet the 'Danes,' who are\n    descended from this very race [i.e., the Scandinavians ?] drove out\n    the 'Heruli' from their own home, who claimed the greatest fame [i.e.,\n    of being the foremost] among the peoples ['nationes'] of Scandia for\n    very great bodily size. Yet of the same height as these are also the\n    'Granii' [of Grenland, the coast-land of Bratsberg and Nedenes], the\n    'Augandzi' [people of Agder],[137] 'Eunix' [islanders, Holmryger in\n    the islands ?], '\u00c6telrugi' [Ryger on the mainland in Ryfylke],\n    'Arochi' [== 'arothi,' i.e., Harudes, Horder of Hordaland], 'Ranii'\n    [in other MSS. 'Rannii' or 'Rami,' Sophus Bugge (1907) and A. Bugge\n    see in this a corruption of '*Raumi,' that is, people of Romsdal],\n    over whom not many years ago Roduulf was king, who, despising his own\n    kingdom, hastened to the arms of Theodoric king of the Goths, and\n    found what he had hankered after. These people fight with the\n    savageness of beasts, more mighty than the Germans in body and soul.\"\n\nThe small (?), \"very mild\" Finns must, from the order in which they are\nnamed, have lived in the forest districts--Sol\u00f6r, Eidskogen, and perhaps\nfarther south--on the Swedish border. P. A. Munch [1852, p. 83] saw in\ntheir kinsmen the \"Vinoviloth\" the inhabitants of \"Vingulmark\" (properly\n\"vingel-skog,\" thick, impenetrable forest), which was the forest country\non Christiania fjord from Glommen to Lier. M\u00fcllenhoff agrees with this\n[ii., 1887, pp. 65 f.], but thinks that \"-oth,\" the last part of the word,\nbelongs to the next name, Suetidi, and that \"Vinovil\" may be a corruption\nof Vingvili or Vinguli (cf. Paulus Warnefridi's \"Vinili\" ?). But however\nthis may be, we must regard this people and the foregoing as \"Finnish\" and\nas inhabiting forest districts, as hunters, as well as a third Finnish\npeople, \"Finnaith\u00e6\" in Sm\u00e5land. We shall return later to these \"Finns\" in\nScandinavia. It has been thought that \"Suetidi\" may be from the same word\nas \"Svi\u00fejo\u00f0\"; but as Jordanes has already mentioned the Svear (\"Suehans\"),\nand as the name occurs among the Norwegian tribes, and there is evidently\na certain order in their enumeration, M\u00fcllenhoff may be right in seeing in\nit a corruption of a Norwegian tribal name. He thinks that \"Othsuetidi\"\nmay be a corruption of \"\u00c6ths\u00e6vii,\" i.e., \"Ei\u00f0sivar\" (cf. Eidsivathing),\n\"Hei\u00f0s\u00e6vir\" or \"Hei\u00f0nir\" in Hedemarken, who were certainly a very tall\npeople. The mention of the Norwegian warriors has a certain interest in\nthat it is due to the Roman statesman Cassiodorus (or his authority), who\nglorified the Goths and had no special reason for praising the\nNorthmen.[138] It shows that even at that time our northern ancestors were\nfamed for courage and bodily size, and that too above all other Germanic\npeoples, who were highly esteemed by the Romans. It is not clear whether\nRodulf was King of the \"Ranii\" (Raumer ?) alone, or of all the Norwegian\ntribes from Grenland to Romsdal. It may be supposed that he was a\nNorwegian chief who migrated south through Europe at the head of a band of\nwarriors, composed of men from the tribes mentioned, and that finally on\nthe Danube, hard pressed by other warlike people, he sought alliance and\nsupport from the mighty king of the Goths, Theodoric or Tjodrik (Dietrich\nof Berne). This may have been just before 489, when the latter made his\nexpedition to Italy. Many circumstances combine to make such a hypothesis\nprobable.[139]\n\nWe know that about 489 the Eruli were just north of the Danube, and were\nthe Goths' nearest neighbours. Now, as we shall see later, Eruli was\nperhaps at first a common name for bands of northern warriors, and these\nEruli on the Danube may therefore certainly have consisted to a greater\nor less extent of Norwegians. We know, further, that at this time there\nwas a king of the Eruli to whom Theodoric sent as a gift a horse, sword\nand shield, thereby making him his foster-son [cf. Cassiodorus, Varia iii.\n3, iv. 2]. Finally, we know from Procopius that the Eruli just at this\ntime had a king, Rodulf, who fell in battle against the Langobards (about\n493). When we compare this with what Jordanes says about the Norwegian\nking Rodulf, who hastened to Theodoric's arms and found there what he\nsought, it will be easy to conclude that this Norwegian chief is the same\nas the chief of Eruli here spoken of. Rodulf, or \"Hrodulfr,\" is a known\nNorwegian name. \"Rod-,\" or \"Hrod,\" is the same as the modern Norwegian\n\"ros\" (i.e., praise), and means probably here renowned.\n\nOne is further inclined to believe that it was from this Rodulf or his\nmen, of whom some may have come from And in H\u00e5logaland, that Cassiodorus\nor his authority obtained the information about Scandinavia and northern\nNorway, which is also partly repeated in Procopius.\n\n    Sophus Bugge [cf. 1910, pp. 87 ff.; see also A. Bugge, 1906, pp. 35\n    f.] has suggested that the \"R\u00e1\u00f0ulfr,\" who is mentioned in the runic\n    inscription on the celebrated R\u00f6k-stone in \u00d6sterg\u00f6tland (of about the\n    year 900), in which Theodoric (\"\u00deiaurikr\") is also mentioned, may be\n    the same Norwegian chief Rodulf who came to Theodoric and who fell in\n    battle with the Langobards. He even regards it as possible that it is\n    an echo of this battle which is found in the inscription, where it is\n    said that \"twenty kings lie slain on the field\"; in that case the\n    battle has been moved north from the Danube to \"Siulunt\" (i.e.,\n    Sealand). There are other circumstances which agree with this: it is\n    said of the Eruli that they had peace for three years before the\n    battle [cf. Procopius]; on the R\u00f6k-stone it is stated that the twenty\n    kings stayed in Siulunt four winters; the latter must have been\n    Norwegian warriors of different tribes: Ryger, Horder, and Heiner\n    (from Hedemarken), perhaps under a paramount king R\u00e1\u00f0ulfr, who settled\n    in Sealand--while the Eruli were bands of northern warriors, who under\n    a king Rodulf had established themselves on the north bank of the\n    Danube. Bugge's supposition may be uncertain, but if it be correct it\n    greatly strengthens the view (see p. 145) that the Eruli were largely\n    Norwegian warriors, since in that case the king of the Eruli, Rodulf\n    (== R\u00e1\u00f0ulfr), would have been in command of tribes for the most part\n    Norwegian: Ryger, Horder, and Heiner.\n\n[Sidenote: Procopius, circa 552 A.D.]\n\nThe Byzantine historian Procopius, of C\u00e6sarea (ob. after 562), became in\n527 legal assistant, \"assessor,\" to the general Belisarius, and\naccompanied him on his campaigns until 549, amongst others that against\nthe Goths in Italy. In his work (in Greek) on the war against the Goths\n(\"De bello Gothico,\" t. ii. c. 14 and 15), written about 552, he gives\ninformation about the North which is of great interest. He tells us of the\nwarlike Germanic people, the Eruli, who from old time[140] were said to\nhave lived on the north bank of the Danube, and who, with no better reason\nthan that they had lived in peace for three whole years and were tired of\nit, attacked their neighbours the Langobards, but suffered a decisive\ndefeat, and their king, Rodulf, fell in the battle (about 493).[141]\n\n    \"They then hastily left their dwelling-places, and set out with their\n    women and children to wander through the whole country [Hungary] which\n    lies north of the Danube. When they came to the district where the\n    Rogians had formerly dwelt, who had joined the army of the Goths and\n    gone into Italy, they settled there; but as they were oppressed by\n    famine in that district, which had been laid waste, they soon\n    afterwards departed from it, and came near to the country of the\n    Gepid\u00e6 [Siebenb\u00fcrgen]. The Gepid\u00e6 allowed them to establish themselves\n    and to become their neighbours, but began thereupon, without the\n    slightest cause, to commit the most revolting acts against them,\n    ravishing their women, robbing them of cattle and other goods, and\n    omitting no kind of injustice, and finally began an unjust war against\n    them.\" The Eruli then crossed the Danube to Illyria and settled\n    somewhere about what is now Servia under the eastern emperor\n    Anastasius (491-518). Some of the Eruli would not \"cross the Danube,\n    but decided to establish themselves in the uttermost ends of the\n    inhabited world. Many chieftains of royal blood now undertaking their\n    leadership, they passed through all the tribes of the Slavs one after\n    another, went thence through a wide, uninhabited country, and came to\n    the so-called Varn. Beyond them they passed by the tribes of the Danes\n    [in Jutland], without the barbarians there using violence towards\n    them. When they thence came to the ocean [about the year 512] they\n    took ship, and landed on the island of Thule [i.e., Scandinavia] and\n    remained there. But Thule is beyond comparison the largest of all\n    islands; for it is more than ten times as large as Britain. But it\n    lies very far therefrom northwards. On this island the land is for the\n    most part uninhabited. But in the inhabited regions there are thirteen\n    populous tribes, each with a king. Every year an extraordinary thing\n    takes place; for the sun, about the time of the summer solstice, does\n    not set at all for forty days, but for the whole of this time remains\n    uninterruptedly visible above the earth. No less than six months\n    later, about the winter solstice, for forty days the sun is nowhere to\n    be seen on this island; but continual night is spread over it, and\n    therefore for the whole of that time the people are very depressed,\n    since they can hold no intercourse. It is true that I have not\n    succeeded, much as I should have wished it, in reaching this island\n    and witnessing what is here spoken of; but from those who have come\n    thence to us I have collected information of how they are able [to\n    count the days] when the sun neither rises nor sets at the times\n    referred to,\" etc. When, during the forty days that it is above the\n    horizon, the sun in its daily course returns \"to that place where the\n    inhabitants first saw it rise, then according to their reckoning a day\n    and a night have passed. But when the period of night commences, they\n    find a measure by observation of the moon's path, according to which\n    they reckon the number of days. But when thirty-five days of the long\n    night are passed, certain people are sent up to the tops of mountains,\n    as is the custom with them, and when from thence they can see some\n    appearance of the sun, they send word to the inhabitants below that in\n    five days the sun will shine upon them. And the latter assemble and\n    celebrate, in the dark it is true, the feast of the glad tidings.\n    Among the people of Thule this is the greatest of all their festivals.\n    I believe that these islanders, although the same thing happens every\n    year with them, nevertheless are in a state of fear lest some time the\n    sun should be wholly lost to them.\n\n    \"Among the barbarians inhabiting Thule, one people, who are called\n    Skridfinns [Scrithifini], live after the manner of beasts. They do not\n    wear clothes [i.e., of cloth] nor, when they walk, do they fasten\n    anything under their feet, [i.e., they do not wear shoes], they\n    neither drink wine nor eat anything from the land, because they\n    neither cultivate the land themselves nor do the women provide them\n    with anything from tilling it, but the men as well as the women occupy\n    themselves solely and continually in hunting; for the extraordinarily\n    great forests and mountains which rise in their country give them vast\n    quantities of game and other beasts. They always eat the flesh of the\n    animals they hunt and wear their skins, and they have no linen or\n    anything else that they can sew with. But they fasten the skins\n    together with the sinews of beasts, and thus cover their whole bodies.\n    The children even are not brought up among them as with other peoples;\n    for the Skridfinns' children do not take women's milk, nor do they\n    touch their mothers' breasts, but they are nourished solely with the\n    marrow of slain beasts. As soon therefore as a woman has given birth,\n    she winds the child in a skin, hangs it up in a tree, puts marrow into\n    its mouth, and goes off hunting; for they follow this occupation in\n    common with the men. Thus is the mode of life of these barbarians\n    arranged.\n\n    \"Nearly all of the remaining inhabitants of Thule do not, however,\n    differ much from other peoples. They worship a number of gods and\n    higher powers in the heavens, the air, the earth and the sea, also\n    certain other higher beings which are thought to dwell in the waters\n    of springs and rivers. But they always slay all kinds of sacrifice and\n    offer dead sacrifices. And to them the best of all sacrifices is the\n    man they have taken prisoner by their arms. Him they sacrifice to the\n    god of war, because they consider him to be the greatest. But they do\n    not sacrifice him merely by using fire at the sacrifice; they also\n    hang him up in a tree, or throw him among thorns, and slay him by\n    other cruel modes of death. Such is the life of the inhabitants of\n    Thule, among whom the most numerous people are the Gauti (G\u00f6ter), with\n    whom the immigrant Eruli settled.\"\n\n[Sidenote: Erulian sources of Procopius]\n\n[Sidenote: Common source of Procopius and Jordanes]\n\nThis description by Procopius of Thule (Scandinavia) and its people bears\nthe stamp of a certain trustworthiness. If we ask whence he has derived\nhis information, our thoughts are led at once to the Eruli, referred to by\nhim in such detail, who in part were still the allies of the Eastern\nEmpire, and of whom the emperor at Byzantium had a bodyguard in the sixth\ncentury. There were many of them in the army of the Eastern Empire both in\nPersia and in Italy; thus Procopius says that there were two thousand of\nthem in the army under the eunuch Narses, which came to Italy to join\nBelisarius. Procopius thus had ample opportunity for obtaining first-hand\ninformation from these northern warriors, and his account of them shows\nthat the Eruli south of the Danube kept up communication with their\nkinsmen in Scandinavia, for when they had killed their king \"Ochon\"\nwithout cause, since they wished to try being without a king, and had\nrepented the experiment, they sent some of their foremost men to Thule to\nfind a new king of the royal blood. They chose one and returned with him;\nbut he died on the way when they had almost reached home, and they\ntherefore turned again and went once more to Thule. This time they found\nanother, \"by name 'Datios' [or 'Todasios' == Tjodrik ?]. He was\naccompanied by his brother 'Aordos' [== Vard ?] and two hundred young men\nof the Eruli in Thule.\" Meanwhile, as they were so long absent, the Eruli\nof Singidunum (the modern Belgrade) had sent an embassy to the emperor\nJustinianus at Byzantium asking him to give them a chief. He sent,\ntherefore, the Erulian \"Svartuas\" (== Svartugle, i.e., black owl ?), who\nhad been living with him for a long time. But when Datios from Thule\napproached, all the Eruli went over to him by night, and Svartuas had to\nflee quite alone, and returned to Byzantium. The emperor now exerted all\nhis power to reinstate him; \"but the Eruli, who feared the power of the\nRomans, decided to migrate to the Gepid\u00e6.\" This happened in Procopius's\nown time, and may therefore be regarded as trustworthy; it shows how easy\ncommunication must have been at that time between Scandinavia and the\nsouth, and also with Byzantium, so that Procopius may well have had his\ninformation by that channel. But he may also have received information\nfrom another quarter. His description of Thule shows such decided\nsimilarities with Jordanes' account of Scandza and its people that they\npoint to some common source of knowledge, even though there are also\ndissimilarities. Among the latter it may be pointed out that Jordanes\nmakes a distinction between Thule (north of Britain) and Scandza, while\nProcopius calls Scandinavia Thule, which, however, like Jordanes, he\nplaces to the north of Britain, and he does not mention Scandia. It may\nseem surprising that Jordanes' authority, Cassiodorus (or Ablabius ?),\nshould have known Ptolemy better than the Greek Procopius. The explanation\nmay be that when Procopius heard from the statements of the Eruli\nthemselves that some of them had crossed the ocean from the land of the\nDanes (Jutland) to a great island in the north, he could not have supposed\nthat this was Scandia, which on Ptolemy's map lay east of the Cimbrian\npeninsula and farther south than its northern point; it would seem much\nmore probable that it was Thule, which, however, as he saw, must lie\nfarther from Britain and be larger than it was shown on Ptolemy's map; for\nwhich reason Procopius expressly asserts that Thule was much larger than\nBritain and lay far to the north of it. As it was not Procopius's habit\nto make a show of unnecessary names, he keeps the well-known name of\nThule and does not even mention Scandia. It may even be supposed that it\nwas to west Norway itself, or the ancient Thule, that the Eruli sailed. If\ntheir king Rodulf was a Norwegian, as suggested above, this would be\nprobable, as in that case many of themselves would have come from there\ntoo; besides which, we know of a people, the Harudes or Horder, who had\nformerly migrated by sea from Jutland to the west coast of Norway; there\nhad therefore been an ancient connection, and perhaps, indeed, Horder from\nNorway and Harudes from Jutland may have been among Rodulf's men, and\nthere may also have been Harudes among the Eruli whom the Danes, according\nto Jordanes, drove out of their home (in Jutland ?). There was also, from\nthe very beginning of Norwegian history, much connection between Norway\nand Jutland.\n\nAnother disagreement between the descriptions of Procopius and Jordanes is\nthat according to the former there were thirteen tribes, each with a king,\nin Thule, while Jordanes enumerates twice as many tribal names in Scandza,\nbut of these perhaps several may have belonged to the same kingdom.[142]\n\nA remarkable similarity between the two authors is the summer day forty\ndays long and the equally long winter night among the people of Thule as\nwith the Adogit, and the fact that in immediate connection therewith the\nScrithifini and Screrefenn\u00e6, which must originally be the same name, are\nmentioned. The description in Procopius of festivals on the reappearance\nof the sun, etc., points certainly to information from the North; but, as\nalready pointed out, the statement in this form, that the summer day was\nof the same length as the winter night, cannot be due to the Norsemen\nthemselves; it is a literary invention, which points to a common literary\norigin; for it would be more than remarkable if it had arisen\nindependently both with the authority of Procopius and with that of\nJordanes. An even more striking indication in the same direction is the\nresemblance which we find in the order of the two descriptions of Thule\nand of Scandza. First comes the geographical description of the island,\nwhich in both is of very great size and lies far out in the northern\nocean; then occurs the statement that in this great island are many\ntribes.[143] Next we have in both the curious fact that the summer day and\nthe winter night both last for forty days. Then follows in both a more\ndetailed statement of how the long summer day and winter night come about,\nand of how the sun behaves during its course, etc. Immediately after this\ncomes the description of the Skridfinns, who have a bestial way of life,\nand do not live on corn, but on the flesh of wild beasts, etc., with an\naddition in Jordanes about fen-fowl's eggs (perhaps taken from Mela),\nwhile Procopius has a more detailed description of their mode of life,\nwhich reminds one somewhat of Tacitus. Finally, there is a reference to\nthe Germanic people of Thule or Scandza; but while Procopius mentions\ntheir religious beliefs and human sacrifices, and only gives the name of\nthe most numerous tribe, the Gauti, Jordanes has for the most part a\nrigmarole of names.\n\nEven if the method of treating the material is thus very different in the\ntwo works, the order in which the material is arranged, and to some extent\nalso the material itself, are in such complete agreement that there must\nbe a historical connection, and undoubtedly a common literary source,\nthrough a greater or less number of intermediaries, is the basis of both\ndescriptions. One might think of the unknown Ablabius, or perhaps of the\nunknown Gothic scholar Aithanarit, whom the Ravenna geographer mentions in\nconnection with his reference to the Skridfinns, if indeed he did not live\nlater than Procopius. It is striking also that the passage about Thule in\nProcopius gives rather the impression of having been inserted in the\nmiddle of his narrative about the Eruli, without any very intimate\nconnection therewith, and it may therefore be for the most part taken from\nan earlier author, perhaps with alterations and additions by Procopius\nhimself; but it is not his habit to inform us of his authorities.\n\n[Sidenote: The Eruli are Norsemen]\n\nProcopius's description of the Eruli is of great interest. It is a\nremarkable feature in the history of the world that at certain intervals,\neven from the earliest times, roving warrior peoples appear in Europe,\ncoming from the unknown North, who for a time fill the world with dread,\nand then disappear again. One of these northern peoples was perhaps, as\nalready mentioned, the \"Cimmerians,\" who in the eighth century B.C. made\nan inroad into Asia Minor. Six hundred years later, in the second century\nB.C., bands of Cimbri and Teutones came down from northern Europe and were\npressing towards Rome, till they were defeated by Marius and gradually\ndisappeared. Five hundred years later still, in the third to the fifth\ncenturies A.D., the Eruli come on the scene, and after they have\ndisappeared come the Saxons and Danes, and then the Normans. We may\nperhaps suppose, to a certain extent at all events, that the races which\nformed these restless and adventurous bands were in part the same, and\nthat it is the names that have changed. The Eruli are also mentioned by\nJordanes and by many other authorities besides Procopius. Together with\nthe Goths they played a part in the \"Scythian\" war in the third century,\nbut afterwards disappear to the north of the Black Sea. They must have\nbeen the most migratory people of their time; we find them roaming over\nthe whole of Europe, from Scandinavia on the north to Byzantium on the\nsouth, from the Black Sea on the east to Spain on the west; from the third\nto the fifth century we find Eruli from Scandinavia as pirates on the\ncoasts of western Europe, and even in the Mediterranean itself, where in\n455 they reached Lucca in Italy [cf. Zeuss, 1837, p. 477 f.; M\u00fcllenhoff,\n1889, p. 19]. When we read in Procopius that some of the Eruli would not\n\"cross the Danube, but determined to establish themselves in the uttermost\nends of the world,\" this means, of course, that they had come from thence,\nand that rather than be subject to the Eastern Empire they would return\nhome to Scandinavia. The name also frequently appears in its primitive\nNorse form, \"erilaR,\" in Northern runic inscriptions.[144] Since \"erilaR\"\n(in Norwegian \"jarl,\" in English \"earl\") means leader in war, and is not\nknown in Scandinavia as the original name of a tribe which has given its\nname to any district in the North, we must suppose that it was more\nprobably an appellative in use in the more southern parts of Europe for\nbands of northern warriors of one or more Scandinavian tribes [cf. P. A.\nMunch, 1852, p. 53]. They may have called themselves so; it was, in fact,\ncharacteristic of the Scandinavian warrior that he was not disposed to\nacknowledge any superior; they were all free men and chiefs in\ncontradistinction to thralls. Gradually these bands in foreign countries\nmay have coalesced into one nation [cf. A. Bugge, 1906, p. 32]. But as\nexpeditions of Eruli are spoken of in such widely different parts of\nEurope, the name must, up to the end of the fifth century, have often been\nused for Norsemen in general, to distinguish them from the nations of\nGermany, like the designation Normans, and sometimes also Danes, in later\ntimes. That the latter was used as an appellative as early as the time of\nProcopius seems to result from his mentioning the tribes (\"ethne\") of the\nDanes in just the same way as he speaks of those of the Slavs. What is\nsaid about the Eruli suits the Scandinavians: they were very tall (cf.\nJordanes, above, p. 136) and fair, were specially famed for their\nactivity, and were lightly armed; they went into battle without helmet or\ncoat of mail, protected only by a shield and a thick tunic, which they\ntucked up into a belt. Their thralls, indeed, had to fight without\nshields; but when they had shown their courage they were allowed to carry\na shield [Procopius, De bello Pers., ii. 25]. \"At that time,\" says\nJordanes, \"there was no nation that had not chosen the light-armed men of\nits army from among them. But if their activity had often helped them in\nother wars, they were vanquished by the slow steadiness of the Goths,\" and\nthey had to submit to Hermanaric, King of the Goths by the Black Sea, the\nsame who is called J\u00f6rmunrek in the V\u00f6lsunga Saga. The people here\ndescribed can scarcely have been typical dwellers in plains, who are\nusually slow and heavy; we should rather think of them as tough and active\nScandinavian mountaineers, who by their hard life in the hills had become\nlight of foot and practised in the use of their limbs; but who, on the\nother hand, had been ill-supplied with heavier weapons and had had scant\nopportunities of exercise as heavy-armed men, for which indeed they had no\ntaste. This also explains their remarkable mobility. We are thus led once\nmore to think of Norway as the possible home of some of the Eruli. To sum\nup, we find then that they had a king with the Norse name Rodulf, and\nthere are many indications that he was the same as the Norwegian king\nRodulf (from Romsdal ?) who came to Theodoric. They returned through\nJutland and sailed thence to Thule, where they settled by the side of the\nGauti, i.e., to the west of them in Norway, which from old time had had\nfrequent communication with Jutland, from whence the Horder (and probably\nalso the Ryger ?) had immigrated. They are described as having\ncharacteristics which are typical of mountaineers, but not of lowlanders.\nAn Erulian name, \"Aruth\" (\u0391\u03c1\u03bf\u03c5\u03b8), mentioned by Procopius [De bello Goth.,\niv. 26], also points to Norway, since it appears to be the same as the\nNorwegian tribal name \"Horder\" (\"*Haru\u00f0r,\" gen. \"Haru\u00fes,\" on the\nR\u00f6k-stone [cf. S. Bugge, 1910, p. 98], or \"Arothi\" in Jordanes).\n\n    Other Erulian names in Procopius may be common to the northern\n    Germanic languages. In the opinion of Professor Alf Torp it is\n    probable that \"Visandos\" is bison, \"Aluith\" is Alvid or Alvith\n    (all-knowing); in \"Fanitheos\" the first syllable may be \"fan\" or \"fen\"\n    (English, fen) and the second part \"-theos\" may be the Scandinavian\n    termination \"-ther\"; \"Aordos\" may be Vard. The King's name \"Ochon\"\n    seems to resemble the Norwegian H\u00e5kon; but the latter name cannot have\n    had such a form at that time, it must have been longer.\n\nWhat Procopius tells us [De bello Goth., ii. 14] about the manners and\ncustoms of the Eruli agrees with what we know of the Norsemen generally.\nThey worshipped many gods, whom they considered it their sacred duty to\npropitiate with human sacrifices. Aged and sick persons were obliged to\nask their relatives to help them to get rid of life;[145] they were killed\nwith a dagger by one who did not belong to the family, and were burnt on a\ngreat pile, after which the bones were collected and buried, as was the\ncustom in western Norway amongst other places. \"When an Erulian died, his\nwife, if she wished to show her virtue and leave a good name behind her,\nhad to hang herself not long after with a rope by her husband's grave and\nthus make an end of herself. If she did not do this, she lost respect for\nthe future, and was an offence to her husband's family. This custom was\nobserved by the Eruli from old time.\" Their many gods and human sacrifices\nagree, as we see, with Procopius's description of the inhabitants of\nThule, and with what we know of the Scandinavians from other quarters. As\nhuman sacrifices with most peoples were connected with banquets, at which\nslain enemies were eaten,[146] the assertion that our Germanic ancestors\ndid not practise cannibalism rests upon uncertain ground. When, therefore,\nin finds of the Stone Age in Denmark, Sweden and Norway broken or scraped\nhuman bones occur, which point to cannibalism, it cannot be argued from\nthis, as is done by Dr. A. M. Hansen [1907], that the finds belong to a\nnon-Germanic people.\n\nFor the rest, Procopius paints the Eruli in crude colours; they are\ncovetous, domineering and violent towards their fellow men, without being\nashamed of it. They are addicted to the grossest debauchery, are the most\nwicked of men, and utterly depraved.\n\n[Sidenote: Skridfinns]\n\nThe \"Scrithifini\" of Procopius (and Jordanes' corrupted form,\n\"Screrefenn\u00e6\" or \"Scretefenn\u00e6\") are undoubtedly a people of the same kind\nas Tacitus's \"Fenni\" (Ptolemy-Marinus's \"Finni\"); but they have here\nacquired the descriptive prefix \"scrithi-,\" which is generally understood\nas the Norse \"skri\u00f0a\" (== to slide, e.g., on the ice, to glide; cf.\nSwedish \"skridsko,\" skate). The Norsemen must have characterised their\nFinnish (i.e., Lappish) neighbours on the north as sliding (walking) on\nski (\"skri\u00f0a \u00e1 ski\u00f0um\"), to distinguish them from other peoples in the\noutlying districts whom they also called Finns. If this is so, it is the\nfirst time that a reference to ski-running is found in literature. There\nis, moreover, considerable similarity between Procopius's description of\nthese hunters and Tacitus's account of the \"Fenni,\" who must certainly\nalso have lived in Scandinavia (see above, p. 113), and who may have been\nthe same people. They have many peculiar characteristics in common, e.g.,\nthat both men and women go hunting; and the statement that while the\nmothers go hunting, the children, in Tacitus, are hidden in a shelter of\nboughs (i.e., a tent), and in Procopius are hung up in a tree (perhaps\nthe Lapps' \"komse,\" i.e., a cradle made of wood to hang up in the tent).\nProcopius himself probably did not know Tacitus's \"Germania,\" but it is\npossible that his unknown authority did so, although this work was\ngenerally forgotten at that time. But even if the description of Procopius\nmay thus be partly derived from Tacitus, in any case fresh information has\nbeen added, the name Skridfinns itself to begin with, and certain correct\ndetails, such as their fastening the skins together with the sinews of\nbeasts. The fable that the children did not touch their mothers' breasts\nmay (like the masculine occupation of the women) be due to legends about\nthe Amazons, who were not brought up on their mothers' milk. That the\nchildren were given marrow instead may be due to the fact that this people\nof hunters, like the Lapps of the present day, ate much animal fat and\nmarrow. The Eskimo often give their children raw blubber to chew.\n\n[Illustration: Map of the world in the MS. of Isidore, tenth century, St.\nGallen (K. Miller)]\n\n[Illustration: The oldest known map of the world, from the MS. of Isidore\nof the end of the seventh century, St. Gallen (K. Miller)]\n\n[Sidenote: Isidorus Hispalensis, before 636 A.D.]\n\nThus while valuable information about the North is to be found in the\nearly medi\u00e6val authors we have mentioned, this is not the case with the\nwell-known Isidorus Hispalensis of Seville (ob. 636, as bishop of that\ncity), who, however, exercised the greatest influence on the geographical\nideas of the Middle Ages. His geographical knowledge was derived from late\nLatin authors, especially Orosius, Hieronymus and Solinus, and contributed\nnothing new of value. But as he was one of the most widely read authors of\nthe early Middle Ages, he is of importance for having in that dark time\ncontinued the thread of the learning of antiquity, even though that thread\nwas thin and weak. He was also to have an influence on cartography. With\nhis fondness for bad etymological interpretations he derived the word\n\"rotunditas,\" for the roundness of the earth, from \"rota,\" wheel, and he\ntaught that \"the word 'orbis' is used on account of the roundness of the\ncircumference, since it is like a wheel. For in every part the\ncircumfluent ocean surrounds its borders in a circle.\" Hence the\nconception of the earth's disc as a wheel came to be general in the early\nMiddle Ages, and hence the designation of wheel-maps. Isidore divided the\nearth's disc into three parts, Asia (including Paradise) at the top of the\nwheel-map, and Europe and Africa, also called Lybia, at the bottom; and\nthe boundaries between these continents formed a =T= with the rivers\nTanais and Nile horizontally at the top, and the Mediterranean (\"Mare\nMagnum\") below. Therefore maps of this type, which was maintained for a\nlong time, are also called =T=-maps.[147] Otherwise Isidore declared\nclearly enough in favour of the spherical form of the earth.\n\n[Sidenote: Bede, 673-735]\n\nThe Anglo-Saxon monk and scholar, Beda Venerabilis (673-735), who in his\nwork \"Liber de natura rerum\" also mentions the countries of the earth, but\nwithout making any fresh statement about the North, was strongly\ninfluenced by Isidore. He asserts, however, the spherical form of the\nearth in an intelligent way, giving, amongst other reasons, that of the\nancient Greeks, that earth and water are attracted towards a central\npoint. The form of a sphere was also the only one that would explain why\ncertain stars were visible in the north, but not in the south.\n\n[Illustration: Europe on the reconstructed map of the world of the Ravenna\ngeographer (after K. Miller)]\n\n[Sidenote: The Ravenna geographer, seventh century]\n\nA few new facts about the North are to be found in the anonymous author\nwho wrote a cosmography at the close of the seventh century. As, according\nto his own statement, he was born at Ravenna, he is usually known as the\nRavenna geographer, but otherwise nothing is known of him, except that he\nwas probably a priest. He bases his work on older authors; the Bible,\nsome Latin, some Greek, and some later writers; but he certainly had a\nRoman itinerary map like the Tabula Peutingeriana. His statements about\nthe North are in part taken from Jordanes, but he also quotes three other\n\"Gothic scholars,\" who are otherwise entirely unknown. One of them,\nAithanarit (or Athanaric ?), is mentioned particularly in connection with\nthe Skridfinns. The other two, Eldevaldus (or Eldebald ?) and Marcomirus\n(or Marcomeres ?), have also described western Europe; the latter is\nspecially used in the description of the countries of the Danes, Saxons\nand Frisians.\n\n    The Ravenna geographer regarded the earth's disc as approximately\n    round, and surrounded by ocean, but the latter was not entirely\n    continuous, for it did not extend behind India. It was true that some\n    cosmographers had described it so, but no Christian ought to believe\n    this, for Paradise was in the extreme East, near to India; and as the\n    pollen is wafted by the breath of the wind from the male palm to the\n    female near it, so does a beneficent perfume from Paradise blow upon\n    the aromatic flowers of India. Some thought that the sun in its course\n    returned to the east under the depths of ocean; but the Ravenna\n    geographer agreed with those who said that the sun moved all night\n    along paths which cannot be traced, behind lofty mountains, in the\n    north beyond the ocean, and in the morning it came forth again from\n    behind them.\n\n    [iv. 12.] \"In a line with Scythia and the coast of the ocean is the\n    country which is said to be that of the 'Rerefeni' and 'Sirdifeni'\n    ('Scirdifrini'). The people of this country, according to what the\n    Gothic scholar Aithanarit says, dwell among the rocks of the\n    mountains, and both men and women are said to live by hunting, and to\n    be entirely unacquainted both with meat and wine. This land is said to\n    be colder than all others. Farther on by the side of the Serdifenni on\n    the coast of the ocean is the land which is called Dania; this land,\n    as the above-mentioned Aithanaridus and Eldevaldus and Marcomirus, the\n    Gothic scholars, say, produces people who are swifter than all\n    others.\" [These must be the Eruli.] \"This Dania is now called the land\n    of the Nordomanni.\" This is the first time the name Norman is used, so\n    far as is known.\n\n    [v. 30.] \"In the northern ocean itself, after the land of the\n    Roxolani, is an island which is called Scanza, which is also called\n    Old Scythia by most cosmographers. But in what manner the island of\n    Scanza itself lies, we will with God's help relate.\"\n\nHe says, following Jordanes (see above, p. 130), that from this island\nother nations, amongst them the Goths and the Danes, besides the Gepid\u00e6,\nmigrated.\n\nIt will be seen that the Ravenna geographer's statements about the\nSkridfinns, whose name is varied and corrupted even more than in Jordanes,\nbear a striking resemblance to those of Procopius, although he says he\nderived them from the Goth Aithanarit; if this is correct, then the latter\nmust either have borrowed from Procopius, which is very probable, or he is\nolder and was the common authority both of Procopius and the Ravenna\ngeographer, and, if so, perhaps also of Cassiodorus (?).\n\n[Illustration: Cynocephali on a peninsula north-east of Norway (from the\nHereford map)]\n\n[Sidenote: \u00c6thicus Istricus, seventh century (?)]\n\n    An enigmatical work, probably dating from about the seventh century,\n    which was much read in the Middle Ages, professes to be a Latin\n    translation, by a certain Hieronymus, from a Christian book of travel\n    by a Greek commonly called \u00c6thicus Istricus.[148] He is said to have\n    travelled before the fourth century. The translator asserts that\n    \u00c6thicus had related many fabulous things, which he has not repeated,\n    as he wished to keep to the sure facts; but among them we find many\n    remarkable pieces of information, as that \u00c6thicus had seen with his\n    own eyes on the north of the Caspian Sea the Amazons give the breast\n    to Centaurs and Minotaurs, and when he was living in the town of\n    Choolisma, built by Japhet's son Magog, he saw the sea of bitumen\n    which forms the mouth of Hell and from which the cement for\n    Alexander's wall of iron came. In Armenia he looked in vain for Noah's\n    ark; but he saw dragons, ostriches, griffins, and ants as large and\n    ferocious as dogs. He also mentioned griffins and treasures of gold in\n    the north between the Tanais and the northern ocean. \"The Scythians,\n    Griffins, Tracontians and Saxons built ships of wattles smeared over\n    with pitch\" (perhaps it is meant that they were also covered with\n    hides). These ships were extraordinarily swift. Among the Scythians\n    there was said to be an able craftsman and great teacher, Grifo, who\n    built ships with prows in the northern ocean. He was like the griffins\n    or the flying fabulous birds. \u00c6thicus visited an island called Munitia\n    north of Germania. There he found \"Cenocephali\" (dog-headed men). They\n    were a hideous race. The Germanic peoples came to the island as\n    merchants and called the people \"Cananei.\" They go with bare calves,\n    smear their hair with oil or fat and smell foully. They lead a dirty\n    life and feed on unclean animals, mice, moles, etc. They live in felt\n    tents in the woods far away by fens and swampy places. They have a\n    number of cattle, fowls and eggs.[149] They know no god and have no\n    king. They use more tin than silver. One might be tempted to think\n    that this fable of dog-headed people in the north had arisen from the\n    word \"Kv\u00e6n\" (Finn), which to a Greek like \u00c6thicus would sound like\n    \"cyon\" (dog). The name \"Cenocephali\" may have been introduced in this\n    way, while that of \"Cananei\" may have arisen by a sort of corrupt\n    similarity of sound between Kv\u00e6n and the Old Testament people of\n    Canaan. It might thus be Kv\u00e6nland or Finland that is here spoken of.\n    Their going with bare calves and living in felt tents may remind us of\n    the Argipp\u00e6i of Herodotus, who were bald (while in Mela they went\n    bare-headed) and had felt tents in winter.\n\n[Illustration: The Seven Sleepers in the Cave by the North Sea (from Olaus\nMagnus)]\n\n[Sidenote: Paulus Warnefridi, 720-790]\n\nThe Langobard author Paulus Warnefridi, also called Diaconus (about\n720-790), gives for the most part more or less confused extracts from\nearlier authors, but he seems besides to have obtained some new\ninformation about the North. Just as the Goth Jordanes (or Cassiodorus, or\nAblabius) makes the Goths emigrate from Ptolemy's Scandza, so Paulus,\nfollowing earlier authors,[150] makes the Langobards proceed from Pliny's\nisland Scatinavia, far in the north. It looks as though at that time a\nnorthern origin was held in high esteem. But Paulus describes the country,\nfrom the statements of those who have seen it, as not \"really lying in the\nsea, but the waves wash the low shores.\" This points to a confusion here\nwith a district called Scatenauge by the Elbe, which in a somewhat later\nMS. (about 807) of the Langobardic Law is mentioned as the home of the\nLangobards [cf. L\u00f6nborg, 1897, p. 27]. Paulus further relates that on the\ncoast \"north-west towards the uttermost boundaries of Germany\" there lie\nseven men asleep in a cave, for how long is uncertain. They resemble the\nRomans in appearance, and both they and their clothes are unharmed, and\nthey are regarded by the inhabitants as holy. The legend of the Seven\nSleepers is already found in Gregory of Tours, who has it from Asia Minor,\nwhere it arose in the third century and was located at Ephesus [cf. J.\nKoch, 1883]. The legend was very common in Germania, and we find it again\nlater in tales of shipwreck on the coast of Greenland.[151]\n\n    \"Near to this place [i.e., the cave with the seven men] dwell the\n    'Scritobini';[152] thus is this people called; they have snow even in\n    summer time, and they eat nothing but the raw flesh of wild beasts, as\n    they do not differ from the beasts themselves in intelligence, and\n    they also make themselves clothes of their skins with the hair on.\n    Their name is explained from the word 'to leap' in the foreign tongue\n    [i.e., Germanic], for by leaping with a certain art they overtake the\n    wild beasts with a piece of wood bent like a bow. Among them is an\n    animal which is not much unlike a stag, and I have seen a dress made\n    of the hide of this animal, just as if it was bristling with hairs,\n    and it was made like a tunic and reached to the knees, as the\n    above-mentioned Scritobini wear it, as I have told. In these parts, at\n    the summer solstice, there is seen for several days, even at night,\n    the clearest light, and they have there much more daylight than\n    elsewhere, as on the other hand, about the winter solstice, even if\n    there is daylight, the sun itself is not seen there, and the day is\n    shorter than in any other place, the nights also are longer; for the\n    farther one goes away from the sun, the nearer the sun appears to the\n    earth [the horizon], and the shadows become longer.\"...\n\n[Illustration: The oldest known picture of a ski-runner (from the Hereford\nmap's representation of Norway, thirteenth century)]\n\n    \"And not far from the shore which we before spoke of [by the cave] on\n    the west, where the ocean extends without bounds, is that very deep\n    abyss of the waters which we commonly call the ocean's navel. It is\n    said twice a day to suck the waves into itself, and to spew them out\n    again; as is proved to happen along all these coasts, where the waves\n    rush in and go back again with fearful rapidity. Such a gulf or\n    whirlpool is called by the poet Virgil Caribdis, and in his poem he\n    says it is in the strait by Sicily, as he says:\n\n        'Scilla lies on the right hand\n        and the implacable Caribdis on the left.\n        And three times it sucks the vast billows\n        down into the abyss with the deep whirlpool\n        of the gulf, and it sends them up again into the air,\n        and the wave lashes the stars.'\n\n    \"By the whirlpool of which we have spoken it is asserted that ships\n    are often drawn in with such rapidity that they seem to resemble the\n    flight of arrows through the air; and sometimes they are lost in this\n    gulf with a very frightful destruction. Often just as they are about\n    to go under, they are brought back again by a sudden shock of the\n    waves, and they are sent out again thence with the same rapidity with\n    which they were drawn in. It is asserted that there is also another\n    gulf of the same kind between Britain and the Gallician province\"\n    [i.e., northern Spain], whereupon there follows a description of the\n    tides on the south coast of France and at the mouths of the rivers,\n    after which there is a highly  account of the horrors of the\n    Ebudes, where they can hear the noise of the waters rushing towards a\n    similar Caribdis.\n\nPaulus Warnefridi evidently had a very erroneous idea of ski-running,\nwhich he made into a leaping instead of a gliding motion. He may have\nimagined that they jumped about on pieces of wood bent like bows. That the\nabyss of waters or navel of the sea is thought to be in the North may be\ndue to reports either of the current in the Pentland Firth or of the\nMosken-str\u00f6m or the Salt-str\u00f6m, which thus make their appearance here in\nliterature, and which were afterwards developed into the widespread ideas\nof the Middle Ages about maelstroms and abysses in the sea, perhaps by\nbeing connected with the ancient Greek conception of the uttermost abyss\n(Tartarus, Anostus, Ginnungagap; see pp. 11, 12, 17), and as here with the\ndescription of the current in the Straits of Messina.\n\n[Illustration: The Maelstrom near the Lofoten Islands (from Olaus Magnus)]\n\nViktor Rydberg [1886, pp. 318, 425, ff.] supposed Paulus's description of\nthe whirlpool to be derived from the Norse legends of the world's well,\n\"Hvergelmer\"--which causes the tides by the water flowing up and down\nthrough its subterranean channels--and of the quern \"Grotte\" at the\nbottom of the sea, which forms whirlpools when the waters run down into\nthe hole in the mill-stone.[153] But it is perhaps just as probable that\nit is the southern, originally classical ideas which have been localised\nin the Norse legends. As we have seen, we find in Virgil the same\nconception of a gulf in the sea which sucks the water into itself and\nsends it up again. Isidore says of the abyss (also repeated in Hrabanus\nMaurus):\n\n    \"Abyssus is the impenetrable deep of the waters, or the caves of the\n    hidden waters, from whence springs and rivers issue forth, but also\n    those which run concealed beneath the ground. Therefore it is called\n    Abyssus, for all streams return by hidden veins to their mother\n    Abyssus.\"\n\nIt is credible that ideas such as this may have originated, or at any rate\n, the myth of \"Hvergelmer\" (i.e., the noisy or bubbling kettle).\nIsidore was early known in England, Ireland and Scandinavia. The whirlpool\nis also found among Orientals; thus Sindbad is drawn into it. Paulus's\nmention of whirlpools not only in the North, and off the Hebrides, but\nalso between Britain and Spain and in the Straits of Messina, does not\nshow that he derived the legend solely from the North. Later, on the other\nhand, in Adam of Bremen, the whirlpool becomes more exclusively northern,\nand later still we shall get it even at the North Pole itself.\n\nPaulus Warnefridi also mentions Greek fabulous people such as the\nDog-heads (Cynocephali) and the Amazons in North Germania. He says that\nthe Langobards fought with a people called \"Assipitti,\" who lived in\n\"Mauringa,\" and that they frightened them by saying that they had\nCynocephali in their army, who drank human blood, their own if they could\nnot get that of others. The Langobards were said to have been stopped by\nthe Amazons at a river in Germany. The Langobard king, Lamissio, fought\nwith the bravest of them, while he was swimming in the river, and slew\nher; and according to a prearranged agreement he thereby obtained for his\npeople the right of crossing unhindered. Paulus regards the story as\nuntrue, as the Amazons were supposed to have been destroyed long before;\nbut he had nevertheless heard that there was a tribe of such women in the\ninterior of Germany. The same idea of a female nation in Germany occurs\nagain later in literature (cf. King Alfred's \"M\u00e6g\u00f0a-land\").\n\n[Sidenote: Interpolation in Solinus, circa eighth century]\n\nIt has already been mentioned (p. 123) that in the MSS. of Solinus of the\nninth century and later there is found a mention of the Ebudes, the\nOrcades and Thule which in the opinion of Mommsen is a later addition; and\nas it is not found in Isidore Hispalensis, who made extensive use of\nSolinus, it must have been introduced after his time (seventh century),\nbut before the ninth century, when it occurs in a MS. As the addition\nabout Thule, so far as I can judge, must show that this country is\nregarded as Norway, and as there are many indications that it was made by\nan Irish monk, it is further probable that it belongs to the period before\nthe Irish discovery of Iceland, which then, according to Dicuil's book,\nbecame regarded as Thule. I think, therefore, we can place the addition at\nthe beginning of the eighth century, and it will then be evidence of the\nknowledge of Norway which prevailed in the British Isles at that time.\nAfter having mentioned Britain and the neighbouring islands the account\nproceeds [Solinus, c. 22]:\n\n    \"From the Caledonian Promontory it is two days' sail for those who\n    voyage to Tyle [Thule]. From thence begin the Ebudes islands\n    [Hebrides], five in number [the five principal islands]. Their\n    inhabitants live on fruits, fish and milk. Though there are many\n    islands, they are all separated by narrow arms of the sea. They all\n    together have but one king. The king owns nothing for himself alone,\n    all is common property. Justice is imposed upon him by fixed laws, and\n    lest he should be led away from the truth by covetousness, he learns\n    righteousness by poverty, since he has no possessions; he is therefore\n    supported by the people. No woman is given him in marriage, but he\n    takes in turn her who pleases him at the moment. Thus he has neither\n    the desire nor the hope of children. The second station for the\n    voyager [to Thule] is provided by the Orcades. But the Orcades lie\n    seven days' and the same number of nights' sail from the Ebudes, they\n    are three in number [i.e., the three principal isles of the\n    Shetlands]. They are uninhabited ('vacant homines'). They have no\n    woods, but are rough with reeds and grass, the rest is bare sandy\n    beach and rocks. From the Orcades direct to Thule is five days' and\n    nights' sail. But Thule is fertile and rich in late-ripening fruits.\n    The inhabitants there live from the beginning of spring with their\n    cattle, and feed on herbs and milk; the fruits of the trees they keep\n    for winter. They have women in common, regular marriage is not known\n    among them.\"\n\nThis description cannot well be pure invention, and unless it may be\nthought to be transferred from another place, we must believe it to be\nderived from a distant knowledge of Norway. Their living with the cattle\nin spring is in accordance with this, but not their subsistence on the\nfruits of the trees. Here one would rather be led to think of the\nHesperides and their golden apples, unless we are to suppose that they\ncollected nuts and berries. That the inhabitants of Thule had women in\ncommon might be connected with the predilection of the Scandinavians for\npolygamy, of which we also hear from other sources; but this is uncertain.\nEven the Greeks and Romans saw in the absence of regular marriage a sign\nof barbarism, which brought man near to the beasts, and which they\ntherefore attributed to people at the extreme limits of the earth; cf.\nHerodotus, and Strabo's description of the Irish (p. 81). If the\nCaledonian Promontory means Scotland, it is surprising that it should be\ntwo days' sail to the Hebrides, and that these were the first and the\nOrcades the second station on the way to Thule. We must then suppose that\nthere has been a jumbling together of several authorities, which is not\nvery probable if this is a later interpolation, since we must doubtless\nbelieve the interpolating copyist to have thought himself possessed of\nknowledge of these matters. If, however, we suppose him to have been an\nIrishman, and to have looked upon the voyage to Thule with Ireland as a\nstarting-point, then it becomes more consistent. It is then two days' sail\nfrom Ireland to the Hebrides, seven days thence to the Shetlands, and then\nfive to Thule; that is, the whole voyage will last fourteen days; and\nthis may be about right. It is undeniably somewhat surprising that there\nshould be no inhabitants on the Orcades, or Shetland, at that time.\n\n\nTHE DISCOVERY OF THE FAROES AND ICELAND BY THE IRISH IN THE EIGHTH CENTURY\n\n[Sidenote: Dicuil, circa 825]\n\nThe earliest voyages northward to the Arctic Circle, of which there is\ncertain literary mention in the early Middle Ages, are the Irish monks'\nexpeditions across the sea in their small boats, whereby they discovered\nthe Faroes and Iceland, and, at all events for a time, lived there. Of\nthese the Irish monk Dicuil gave an account, as early as about the year\n825, in his description of the earth, \"De Mensura Orbis Terr\u00e6\" [cf.\nLetronne, 1814, pp. 38 f., 131 f.]. It is characteristic of the spiritual\ntendency of that period of the Middle Ages that these remarkable voyages\nwere not, like other voyages of discovery, undertaken from love of gain,\nthirst for adventure, or desire of knowledge, but chiefly from the wish to\nfind lonely places, where these anchorites might dwell in peace,\nundisturbed by the turmoil and temptations of the world.[154] In this way\nthe unknown islands near the Arctic Ocean must have seemed to satisfy all\ntheir requirements; but their joy was short-lived; the disturbers of the\nNorth, the Vikings from Norway, soon came there also and drove them out or\noppressed them.\n\nWhat Dicuil tells us of the Scandinavian North is chiefly derived from\nPliny, and contains nothing new. But of the unknown islands in the\nnorthern ocean he writes [7, 3]:\n\n[Sidenote: Discovery of the Faroes by the Irish]\n\n    \"There are many more islands in the ocean north of Britain, which can\n    be reached from the northern British Isles in two days' and two\n    nights' direct sailing with full sail and a favourable wind. A\n    trustworthy priest ('presbyter religiosus') told me that he had sailed\n    for two summer-days and an intervening night in a little boat with two\n    thwarts [i.e., two pairs of oars],[155] and landed on one of these\n    islands. These islands are for the most part small; nearly all are\n    divided from one another by narrow sounds, and upon them anchorites,\n    who proceeded from our Scotia [i.e., Ireland], have lived for about a\n    hundred years ('in centum ferme annis'). But as since the beginning of\n    the world they had always been deserted, so are they now by reason of\n    the Northman pirates emptied of anchorites, but full of innumerable\n    sheep and a great number of different kinds of sea-birds. We have\n    never found these islands spoken of in the books of authors.\"\n\n[Illustration: The Faroes]\n\nThis description best suits the Faroes,[156] where, therefore, Irish monks\nhad previously lived, and from whence they had been driven out by\nNorwegian seafarers, probably at the close of the eighth century. As,\nhowever, Dicuil is so well aware of the islands being full of sheep, the\nIrish may have continued to visit them occasionally, like the trustworthy\npriest referred to, who sailed there in a boat with two thwarts. Dicuil's\nstatement that they were then \"emptied of anchorites\" must doubtless be\ninterpreted to mean that they were uninhabited; but this does not sound\nvery probable. Rather, there are many indications that the islands had an\noriginal Celtic population, which continued to live there after the\nsettlement of the Norsemen.\n\n    There are some Celtic place-names, such as \"D\u00edmon\" (the islands \"Stora\n    D\u00edmon\" and \"Litla D\u00edmon,\" or \"D\u00edmun meiri\" and \"D\u00edmun minni\") from the\n    Celtic \"dimun\" (== double neck, thus like Norwegian \"Tviberg\").[157]\n    As such Celtic place-names cannot have been introduced later, the\n    Norwegians must have got them from the Celts who were there before,\n    and with whom they had intercourse. The language of the Faroes has\n    also many loan-words from Celtic, mostly for agriculture and\n    cattle-farming, and for the flora and fauna of the islands. These\n    might be explained by many of the Norwegian settlers having previously\n    lived in the Scottish islands or in Ireland, or having had frequent\n    communication with those countries [cf. A. Bugge, 1905, p. 358]; but\n    it seems more natural to suppose that the loan-words are derived from\n    a primitive Celtic population. To this must be added that the people\n    of the Southern Faroes are still dark, with dark eyes and black hair,\n    and differ from the more Germanic type of the northern islands [cf. D.\n    Bruun, 1902, p. 5]. The name \"F\u00e6r\u00f6ene\" (sheep-islands) shows that\n    there probably were sheep before the Norsemen came, which so far\n    agrees with Dicuil; these sheep must then have been introduced by the\n    earlier Celts.\n\nAccording to this it seems possible that the Irish monks came to the\nislands not merely as anchorites, but also to spread Christianity among a\nCeltic population. The Norwegians arrived later, took possession of the\nislands, and oppressed the Celts.\n\n[Sidenote: Irish Discovery of Iceland]\n\nBut the bold Irish monks extended their voyages farther north. Dicuil has\nalso to tell us how they found Iceland, which he calls Thule, and lived\nthere. After having mentioned what Pliny, Solinus, Isidore (Hispalensis)\nand Priscianus say about Thule (Thyle), he continues [7, 2, 6]:\n\n    \"It is now thirty years since certain priests, who had been on that\n    island from the 1st of February to the 1st of August, told that not\n    only at the time of the summer solstice, but also during the days\n    before and after, the setting sun at evening conceals itself as it\n    were behind a little mound, so that it does not grow dark even for\n    the shortest space of time, but whatsoever work a man will do, even\n    picking the lice out of his shirt (pediculos de camisia extrahere), he\n    may do it just as though the sun were there, and if they had been upon\n    the high mountains of the island perhaps the sun would never be\n    concealed by them [i.e., the mountains]. In the middle of this very\n    short time it is midnight in the middle of the earth, and on the other\n    hand I suppose in the same way that at the winter solstice and for a\n    few days on either side of it the dawn is seen for a very short time\n    in Thule, when it is midday in the middle of the earth. Consequently I\n    believe that they lie and are in error who wrote that there was a\n    stiffened (concretum) sea around it [i.e., Thyle], and likewise those\n    who said that there was continuous day without night from the vernal\n    equinox till the autumnal equinox, and conversely continuous night\n    from the autumnal equinox till the vernal, since those who sailed\n    thither reached it in the natural time for great cold, and while they\n    were there always had day and night alternately except at the time of\n    the summer solstice; but a day's sail northward from it they found the\n    frozen (congelatum) sea.\"\n\nThis description, written half a century before the Norwegians, according\nto common belief, came to Iceland, shows that the country was known to the\nIrish, at any rate before the close of the eighth century (thirty years\nbefore Dicuil wrote in 825), and how much earlier we cannot say. With the\nfirst-hand information he had received from people who had been there,\nDicuil may have blended ideas which he had obtained from his literary\nstudies. The sun hiding at night behind a little mound reminds us of the\nolder ideas that it went behind a mountain in the north (cf. Cosmas\nIndicopleustes and the Ravenna geographer); but of course it may also be\ndue to local observation. The idea that the frozen sea (\"congelatum mare\")\nhad been found a day's sail north of this island is precisely the same as\nin the Latin and Greek authors, where, according to Pytheas, the stiffened\nsea (\"concretum mare\") or the sluggish sea (\"pigrum\") lay one day's sail\nbeyond Thule (cf. p. 65). But this does not exclude the possibility of the\nIrish having come upon drift-ice north of Iceland; on the contrary, this\nis very probable.\n\nDicuil's statement of the Irish discovery of Iceland is confirmed by the\nIcelandic sagas. Are Frode (about 1130) relates that at the time the\nNorwegian settlers first came to Iceland,\n\n    \"there were Christians here whom the Norwegians called 'papar'\n    [priests]; but they afterwards went away, because they would not be\n    here together with heathens, and they left behind them Irish books,\n    bells and croziers, from which it could be concluded that they were\n    Irishmen.\" In the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, which gives the same statement from\n    Are, it is added that \"they were found east in Papey and in Papyli. It\n    is also mentioned in English books that at that time there was sailing\n    between the countries\" [i.e., between Iceland and Britain].\n\nIn many other passages in the sagas we hear of them,[158] and the\nNorwegian author Tjodrik Monk (about 1180) has a similar statement. Many\nplaces in south Iceland, such as \"Papafj\u00f6r\u00f0r\" with \"Papos,\" and the island\nof \"Papey,\" still bear names derived from these first inhabitants. A\nformer name was \"Pappyli,\" which is now no longer used. But besides these\nplace-names there are many others in Iceland which are either Celtic or\nmust be connected with the Celts. Thus, among the first that are mentioned\nin the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k are \"Min\u00feakseyrr\" and \"Vestmanna-eyjar.\" \"Min\u00feak\" is an\nIrish word for a dough of meal and butter, and Westmen were the Irish. It\nis true that in the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k [cf. F. J\u00f3nsson, 1900, pp. 7, 132, 265]\nthese names are placed in connection with the Irish thralls whom Hjorleif,\nthe associate of Ingolf, had brought with him, and who killed him; but, as\nthe more particular circumstances of the tale show, it is probable that it\nis the place-names that are original, and that have given rise to the tale\nof the thralls, and not the reverse. A. Bugge [1905, pp. 359 ff.] gives a\nwhole list of Icelandic place-names of Celtic origin, mostly derived from\npersonal names;[159] he endeavours to explain them as due to Celtic\ninfluence, through Irish land-takers; but the most natural explanation is\ncertainly here as with the Faroes, that there was a primitive Celtic\npopulation in Iceland, and not merely a few Irish monks, when the\nNorwegians arrived; and that from these Celts the Icelanders are in part\ndescended, while they took their language from the ruling class, the\nNorwegians, who also became superior in numbers. Future anthropological\ninvestigations of the modern Icelanders may be able to throw light on\nthese questions. The original Celtic population may have been small and\ndispersed, but may nevertheless have made it easier for the Norwegians to\nsettle there, as they did not come to a perfectly uncultivated country,\nand to subdue men takes less time than to subdue Nature. As to how, and\nhow early, the Celts first came to Iceland, we know in the meantime\nnothing.\n\n[Sidenote: Einhard, ninth century]\n\n[Sidenote: Hrabanus Maurus]\n\n[Sidenote: Rimbertus]\n\nEinhard (beginning of the ninth century), the biographer of Charlemagne,\nspeaks of the Baltic as a bay eastwards from the western ocean of unknown\nlength and nowhere broader than 100,000 paces (about ninety miles), and\nmentions the peoples of those parts: \"'Dani' and 'Sueones,' whom we call\n'Nordmanni,'\" live on the northern shore and on all the islands, while\nSlavs and Esthonians and other peoples dwell on the southern shore. The\nwell-known German scholar, Hrabanus Maurus (circa 776-856), Archbishop of\nMayence (847-856), bases his encyclop\u00e6dic work, \"De Universo\" (completed\nin 847), in twenty-two books, chiefly upon Isidore, from whom he makes\nlarge extracts, and has little to say about the North. Rimbertus (end of\nthe ninth century), on the other hand, in his biography of Ansgarius,\ngives much information about Scandinavia and its people, while the nearly\ncontemporary Bavarian geographer (\"geographus Bawarus\") describes the\nSlavonic peoples.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE AWAKENING OF MEDI\u00c6VAL KNOWLEDGE OF THE NORTH\n\n\nKING ALFRED, OTTAR, ADAM OF BREMEN\n\nIn the ninth century the increasingly frequent Viking raids, Charlemagne's\nwars and conquests in the North, and the labours of Christian\nmissionaries, brought about an increase of intercourse, both warlike and\npeaceful, between southern Europe and the people of the Scandinavian\nNorth. The latter had gradually come to play a certain part on the world's\nstage, and their enterprises began to belong to history. Their countries\nwere thereby more or less incorporated into the known world. Now for the\nfirst time the mists that had lain over the northern regions of Europe\nbegan to lift, to such an extent that the geographical knowledge of the\nMiddle Ages became clearer, and reached farther than that of the Greeks a\nthousand years earlier.\n\n[Sidenote: King Alfred, 849-901]\n\nBut while in the foregoing centuries the clouds had moved slowly, they\nwere now rapidly dispelled from large tracts of the northern lands and\nseas. This was due in the first place to the voyages of the\nScandinavians, especially of the Norwegians. By their sober accounts of\nwhat they had found they directed geographical science into new and\nfruitful channels, and freed it little by little from the dead weight of\nmyths and superstitions which it had carried with it through the ages from\nantiquity. We find the first decisive step in this direction in the\nAnglo-Saxon king Alfred the Great of England (849-circa 901 A.D.).\n\nKing Alfred had Orosius's Latin history done into Anglo-Saxon, and himself\ntranslated large portions of the work. By about 880 he was at peace with\nthe Danish Vikings, to whom he had been obliged to cede the north-eastern\nhalf of England. He died about 901. His literary activity must no doubt\nhave fallen within the period between these dates. Finding the\ngeographical introduction to Orosius's work inadequate, especially as\nregards northern Europe, he added what he had learnt from other sources.\nThus, from information probably obtained from Germans, he gives a survey\nof Germany, which he makes extend northwards \"to the sea which is called\n'Cw\u00ean-s\u00e6.'\" What is meant by this is not quite clear; it might be the\nPolar Sea or the White Sea; on the other hand, it may be the Baltic or the\nGulf of Bothnia; for the text does not make it certain whether King Alfred\nregarded Scandinavia as a peninsula connected with the continent or not.\nHe speaks of countries and peoples on the \"Ost-s\u00e6\",[160] and he mentions\namongst others the South Danes and North Danes both on the mainland\n(Jutland) and the islands--both peoples with the Ost-s\u00e6 to the north of\nthem--further the \"Osti\" (probably the Esthonians, who also had this arm\nof the sea, the Ost-s\u00e6, to the north), Wends and Burgundians (Bornholmers\n?), who \"have the same arm of the sea to the west of them, and the\nSveones (Svear) to the north.\" \"The Sveones have south of them the\nEsthonian ['Osti'] arm of the sea, and east of them the Sermende\n[Sarmatians ? or Russians ?]; and to the north, beyond the uninhabited\ntracts ['w\u00eastenni'], is 'Cw\u00ean-land'; and north-west of them are the\n'Scride-Finnas,' and to the west the Norwegians ('Nor\u00f0menn').\"\n\n[Illustration: Map of Northern Scandinavia and the White Sea]\n\n[Sidenote: Ottar's voyage to the White Sea, ninth century]\n\nKing Alfred's most important contribution to geographical knowledge of the\nNorth is his remarkable account of what the Norwegian Ottar (or \"Ohthere\"\nin the Anglo-Saxon text) told him about his voyage to the North. The brief\nand straightforward narrative of this sober traveller forms in its\nclearness and definiteness a refreshing contrast to the vague and confused\nideas of earlier times about the unknown northern regions. We see at once\nthat we are entering upon a new period.\n\n    \"Ottar told his lord, Alfred the king, that he dwelt farthest north of\n    all the Norwegians.[161] He said that he dwelt on the northern side of\n    the land by the 'West-s\u00e6.' He said however that the land extends very\n    far to the north from there; but that it is quite uninhabited\n    ('weste'), except that in a few places the Finns[162] live, hunting\n    in the winter and fishing in the sea in summer. He said that once he\n    wished to find out how far the land extended due north, and whether\n    any man lived north of the waste tracts. So he went due north[163]\n    along the coast; the whole way he had the uninhabited land to\n    starboard and the open sea to port for three days. Then he was as far\n    north as the whalers go.[164] Then he went on due north as far as he\n    could sail in the next three days. There the land turned due east, or\n    the sea turned into the land,[165] he did not know which; but he knew\n    that there he waited for a west wind, or with a little north in it,\n    and sailed thence eastward, following the coast as far as he could\n    sail in five days. Then he had to wait for a due north wind, because\n    the land there turned due south, or the sea into the land, he did not\n    know which.[166] Then he sailed thence due south along the coast, as\n    far as he could sail in five days. There lay a great river going up\n    into the land, so they turned up into the river, because they dared\n    not sail past it for fear of trouble, since all the country was\n    inhabited on the other side of the river. He had not met with\n    inhabited country before, since he left his own home; but all the way\n    there was waste land to starboard, except for fishermen, fowlers and\n    hunters, and they were all Finns, and there was always sea to port.\n    The land of the Beormas was well inhabited; but they [i.e., Ottar and\n    his men] dared not land there; but the land of the Terfinnas was\n    entirely waste, except where hunters or fishers or fowlers had their\n    abode.\n\n    \"The Beormas told him many stories both about their own country and\n    the countries that were about it, but he knew not what was true,\n    because he had not seen it himself. The Finns and the Beormas, as it\n    seemed to him, spoke almost the same language. He went thither chiefly\n    to explore the country, and for the sake of the walruses, for they\n    have much valuable bone in their tusks--some such tusks he brought to\n    the king--and their hide is very good for ships' ropes. This whale is\n    much smaller than other whales, not more than seven cubits long; but\n    in his own country is the best whaling, there they are forty-eight\n    cubits, and the largest fifty cubits long; of them ('\u00feara'), said he,\n    he with six others ('syxa sum') had killed sixty in two days.\"[167]\n\nSince King Alfred, as has been said, must have written between 880 and\n901, Ottar may have made his voyage about 870 to 890. This remarkable man,\nwho according to his own statement undertook his expedition principally\nfrom desire of knowledge, is the second northern explorer of whom we have\ndefinite information in history. The first was the Greek Pytheas, who went\nabout as far as the Arctic Circle. Some twelve hundred years later the\nNorwegian Ottar continues the exploration farther north along the coasts\nof Norway and sails right into the White Sea. He thereby determined the\nextent of Scandinavia on the north, and is the first known discoverer of\nthe North Cape, the Polar Sea (or Barents Sea), and the White Sea; but he\ndid not know whether the latter was a bay of the ocean or not. It is\nunlikely that Ottar was the first Norwegian to _discover_ the coasts along\nwhich he sailed. It is true that the expressions \"that he wished to find\nout how far the land extended due north, or whether any man dwelt to the\nnorth of the uninhabited tracts,\" might be taken to mean that this was\nhitherto unknown to the Norwegians; but it should doubtless rather be\nunderstood as a general indication of the object of the voyage: this was\nof interest to King Alfred, but not whether it was absolutely the first\nvoyage of discovery in those regions. The names Terfinnas and Beormas are\ngiven as something already known, and when Ottar reaches the latter he\nunderstands at once that he ought not to proceed farther, for fear of\ntrouble; it may be supposed that he knew them by report as a warlike\npeople. A. Bugge [1908, p. 409] quotes K. Rygh to the effect that the\nnames of fjords in Finmark must be very ancient, e.g., those that end in\n\"-angr.\" This termination is not found in Iceland, and would consequently\nbe older than the Norwegian colonisation of that country; nor does \"angr\"\n(== fjord) as an appellative occur in the Old Norse literary language. It\nmay therefore be possible that these names are older than Ottar. Bugge\nalso, from information given by Mr. Qvigstad, calls attention to the fact\nthat the Lapps call Magar\u00f6 \"Makaravjo,\" and a place on Kval\u00f6 (near\nHammerfest) \"Rahkkeravjo.\" The latter part of these names must be the\nprimary Germanic word \"awj\u00f4\" for island or land near the shore. According\nto this the Norsemen must have been as far north as this and have given\nnames to these places, while this form of the word was still in use, and\nthe Finns or Lapps have taken it from them.\n\nThe land of the Terfinnas, which was uninhabited, is the whole Kola\npeninsula. Its name was \"Ter\" (or \"Turja\"), whence the designation\nTer-Finns. The common supposition that the river Ottar came to was the\nDvina cannot be reconciled with Ottar's narrative given above, which\nexpressly states that he followed the coast round the peninsula all the\nway, \"and there was always open sea to port.\"[168] He cannot, therefore,\nhave left the land and sailed straight across the White Sea; moreover he\ncould not be aware that there was land on the other side of this wide bay\nof the ocean.[169] The river which \"went up into the land\" was\nconsequently on the Kola peninsula, and formed the boundary between the\nunsettled land of the Terfinnas and that of the Beormas with fixed\nhabitation. The river may have been the Varzuga, although it is also\npossible that Ottar sailed farther west along the southern coast of the\nKola peninsula, without this alteration of course appearing in Alfred's\ndescription. He may then have gone as far as the Kandalaks.\n\nWhat kind of people Ottar's Beormas[170] may have been is uncertain. We\nonly hear that they lived in the country on the other side of the river,\nthat their country was well settled (i.e., was permanently inhabited by an\nagricultural population ?), that they were able to communicate with Ottar,\nand that they spoke almost the same language as the Finns. The\ndescription may suit the East Karelians, whom we find, at any rate\nsomewhat later, established on the south and west side of the White Sea,\nas far north as the Kandalaks, perhaps also as far as the Varzuga. If this\nis correct, we must suppose that Ottar's Finns and Terfinns spoke a\nFinno-Ugrian language, very like Karelian. As Ottar knew the Finns well,\nhis statement about the language deserves consideration.\n\nThis view, that the Beormas were Karelians, agrees with Egil\nSkallagrimsson's Saga, which doubtless was put into writing much later,\nbut which mentions Ottar's contemporary, Thorolf Kveldulfsson, and his\nexpeditions among the Finns or Lapps to collect the Finnish or Lappish\ntribute (about 873 and 874). We read there: \"East of Namdal lies Jemtland,\nand then Helsingland, and then Kv\u00e6nland, and then Finland, then\nKirjalaland. But Finmark lies above all these countries.\" Kirjalaland is\nKarelia, which thus lies quite in the east upon the White Sea, and must be\nOttar's Bjarmeland (Beormaland). On his Finnish expedition of 874 Thorolf\ncame far to the east, and was then appealed to by the Kv\u00e6ns for help\nagainst the Kirjals (Karelians), who were ravaging Kv\u00e6nland. He proceeded\nnorthward against them and overcame them; returned to Kv\u00e6nland, went\nthence up into Finmark, and came down from the mountains in Vefsen. This\nmention of the ravages of the Kirjals agrees with the impression of\nOttar's Beormas, who were so warlike that he dared not pass by their\ncountry.\n\nOttar's account of himself was that\n\n    \"he was a very rich man in all classes of property of which their\n    wealth [i.e., the wealth of those peoples] consists, that is, in wild\n    beasts ('wildrum'). He had further, when he came to the king, six\n    hundred tame, unsold animals. These animals they called reindeer.\n    There were six decoy reindeer ('st\u00e6l hranas'), which are very dear\n    among the Finns, for with them they catch the wild reindeer. He was\n    among the principal men in that country [H\u00e5logaland], although he had\n    no more than twenty horned cattle, and twenty sheep, and twenty pigs;\n    and the little ploughing he did was done with horses [i.e., not with\n    oxen, as among the Anglo-Saxons]. But their largest revenue is the\n    tribute paid them by the Finns; this tribute consists of pelts and\n    birds' feathers [down] and whalebone [walrus tusks], and they gave\n    ships' ropes made of whales' [walrus] hide, and of seals'. Each one\n    pays according to his rank; the chiefs have to pay fifteen martens'\n    skins, five reindeers' skins, one bear's skin, ten ankers of feathers,\n    a kirtle of bear- or otter-skin, and two ships' ropes, each sixty\n    cubits long, one made of whales' [i.e., walrus] hide, and the other of\n    seals'.\"\n\nThis description gives a valuable picture of the state of society in\nnorthernmost Norway at that time. Ottar's Finns had tame and half-tamed\nreindeer, and their hunting even of such sea-beasts as walrus and seal was\nsufficiently productive to enable them to pay a considerable tribute.\nThese early inhabitants of the most northerly regions of the old world\nwill be treated of later in a separate chapter.\n\nOttar's mention of walrus-hunting is of great interest, as showing that it\nwas regularly carried on both by Norwegians and Finns even at that time.\nOf about the same period (about the year 900) is the well-known\nAnglo-Saxon casket, called the Franks Casket, of which the greater part is\nnow in the British Museum, one side being in Florence. The casket, which\non account of its rich decoration is of great historical value, is made of\nwalrus ivory. It has been thought that it might be made of the tusks that\nOttar brought to King Alfred. If this was so, it is in any case improbable\nthat so costly a treasure should be worked in a material the value and\nsuitability of which were unknown. We must therefore suppose that walrus\nivory sometimes found its way at that time to this part of Europe, and it\ncould come from no other people but the Norwegians. They certainly carried\non walrus-hunting long before Ottar's time. This appears also from his\nnarrative, for men who were not well practised could not kill sixty of\nthese large animals in a couple of days, even if we are to suppose that\nthey were killed with lances on land where they lie in big herds. If these\nsixty animals were really whales (i.e., small whales), and not walruses,\nit is still more certain evidence of long practice. We see, too, that\nwalrus ivory and ships' ropes of walrus hide had become such valuable\nobjects of commerce as to be demanded in tribute. So difficult and\ndangerous an occupation as this hunting, which requires an equipment of\nspecial appliances, does not arise among any people in a short time,\nespecially at so remote a period of history, when all independent\ndevelopment of a new civilisation, which could not come from outside,\nproceeded very slowly. It is therefore an interesting question whether the\nNorwegians developed this walrus-hunting themselves or learned it from an\nearlier seafaring people of hunters, who in these northern regions must\nconsequently have been Ottar's Finns. To find an answer to this, it will\nbe necessary to review the whole difficult question of the Finns and Lapps\nconnectedly, which will be done in a later section.\n\nThe walrus, called in Norwegian \"rosmal\"[171] or \"rosm\u00e5l\" (also \"rosmar,\"\nand in Old Norse \"rostungr\"), is an arctic animal which keeps by\npreference to those parts of the sea where there is drift-ice, at any rate\nin winter. It is no longer found in Norway, but probably it visited the\ncoasts of Finmark not unfrequently in old times, to judge from place-names\nsuch as \"Rosm\u00e5lvik\" at Loppen, and \"Rosm\u00e5len\" by Hammerfest. Even in the\nseventeenth and eighteenth centuries its visits to the northern coasts of\nthe country were frequent, perhaps annual [cf. Lillienskiold, 1698]. But\nas these places were certainly the extreme limit of its distribution, it\ncan never have been very numerous here; like the herds of seals in our own\ntime, it must have appeared only for more or less short visits. Curiously\nenough, so far as is known, walrus bones have not been observed in finds\nbelow ground in the North, while bones of other arctic animals, such as\nthe ring-seal (Phoca f\u0153tida), are found.\n\nSince, therefore, the walrus cannot be supposed to have been common on the\nnorthern coasts of Norway at any time during the historical period, and\nsince its hunting gave such valuable products, we must suppose that the\nNorwegian walrus-hunters were not long in looking for better and surer\nhunting-grounds eastward in the Polar Sea, where there is plenty of\nwalrus. It was there too that Ottar went, for this very reason (probably\nbecause there was not enough walrus in his home waters) and, as he says,\nto find out how far the land extended; but it is also probable that\nwalrus-hunters had been in these waters long before him. It is true that\nthe statement that after three days' sail from home he \"was as far north\nas the farthest point reached by whalers\" (\"\u00fe\u0101 hw\u00e6lhuntan firrest farra\u00fe\")\nmight mean that walrus-hunting was not carried on farther east than Loppen\n(where there is still a \"Rosm\u00e5lvik\"), that is, if by these whalers is\nmeant walrus-hunters; but doubtless these expressions are not to be taken\nso literally, and perhaps the meaning is rather that this was the usual\nlimit of their voyages. Unfortunately, we have no information as to\nOttar's own catch on the eastward voyage.\n\n[Sidenote: Norwegian whaling]\n\nFrom Ottar's statement that \"in his own country there is the best whaling,\nthey are forty-eight cubits long, and the largest are fifty cubits long,\"\nwe must conclude that the Norwegians, and perhaps the Finns also, carried\non a regular whaling industry, with great whales as well as small (see\nlater, chap. xii.).\n\n[Sidenote: Ottar's voyage to South Norway and Sleswick]\n\nOf Ottar's statements about Norway we read further in King Alfred:\n\n    \"He said that Nordmanna-Land was very long and very narrow. All that\n    is fitted either for grazing or ploughing lies on the sea, and that,\n    however, is in some places very rocky, with wilderness [mountainous\n    waste] rising above the cultivated land all along it. In the\n    wilderness dwell the Finns. And the inhabited land is broadest\n    eastward, and always narrower farther north. On the east it may be\n    sixty leagues broad, or a little broader; and midway thirty or more,\n    and on the north, he said, where it was narrowest, it may be three\n    leagues to the waste land; and the wilderness in some places is so\n    broad that it takes two weeks to cross it; and in others so broad that\n    one can cross it in six days.\n\n    \"There is side by side with the land in the south, on the other side\n    of the wilderness, Sveoland, extending northwards, and side by side\n    with the land in the north, Cw\u00eana-Land. The Cw\u00eanas sometimes make\n    raids upon the Norsemen over the wilderness, sometimes the Norsemen\n    upon them; and there are very great freshwater lakes in this\n    wilderness; and the Cw\u00eanas carry their ships overland to these lakes,\n    and from thence they harry the Norsemen. They have very small ships\n    and very light.\n\n    \"Ottar said that the part of the country where he lived was called\n    Halgoland [H\u00e1logaland]. He said that no man [i.e., no Norseman] lived\n    farther north than he. Then there is a harbour in the southern part of\n    that country which men call 'Sciringes heale' [Skiringssal[172] in\n    Vestfold]. Thither, said he, one could not sail in a month, anchoring\n    at night, with a favourable wind every day; and all the while he must\n    sail near the land: and to starboard of him would be first\n    'Iraland,'[173] and then the islands which lie between Iraland and\n    this country [Britain ?]. Afterwards there is this country [to\n    starboard] until he comes to Sciringesheal; and all the way on the\n    port side there is Norway (Nor\u00f0weg).[174] South of Sciringesheal a\n    very great sea [the Skagerak and Cattegat] goes up into the land; it\n    is broader than any man can see across; and 'G\u00f4tland' [Jutland] is on\n    the opposite side, and then 'Sill\u0119nde.'[175] This sea goes many\n    hundred leagues up into the land.\n\n    \"And from Sciringesheal he said that it was five days' sail to the\n    harbour which is called 'H\u00e6\u00f0um' [Heidaby or Sleswick]; it lies between\n    the Wends and the Saxons and the Angles, and belongs to the Danes.\n    When he sailed thither from Sciringesheal, he had on the port side\n    Denmark[176] [i.e., southern Sweden, which then belonged to Denmark],\n    and on the starboard open sea for three days; and for the two days\n    before he came to Heidaby he had to starboard G\u00f4tland and Sill\u0119nde,\n    and many islands. In those countries dwelt the Angles before they came\n    to this land. And for these two days he had on the port side the\n    islands which belong to Denmark.\"\n\nThis account of Ottar's of his southward voyage is remarkable for the same\nsober lucidity as his narrative of the White Sea expedition; and as, on\nall the points where comparison is possible, it agrees well with other\nindependent statements, it furnishes strong evidence of his credibility.\n\n[Illustration: Anglo-Saxon Map of the World, \"Cottoniana,\" perhaps of the\neleventh century (from K. Miller)]\n\nAlfred next gives a description of Wulfstan's (== Ulfsten's) voyage from\nHeidaby eastward through the southern Baltic to Prussia, with references\nto Langeland, Laaland, Falster and Sk\u00e5ne (\"Sc\u00f3n\u0113g\"), which all belonged to\nDenmark and lay to port. After them came on the same side Bornholm\n(\"Burgenda land\"), which had its own king, then Blekinge, \"M\u0113ore,\" \u00d6land\nand Gotland, and these countries belonged to Sweden (\"Sw\u0113om\"). To\nstarboard he had the whole way Wendland (\"Weonodland\" == Mecklenburg and\nPomerania) as far as the mouths of the Vistula (\"Wislem\u016b\u00f0an\"). Then\nfollows a description of \"Estm\u0119re\" (Frisches Haff), Esthonia, which was\napproximately East Prussia, and the Esthonians. Henceforward we can count\nthese parts of Europe as belonging to the known world.\n\n[Sidenote: \"Meregarto,\" eleventh century]\n\nIn the old German poem \"Meregarto,\" which is a sort of description of the\nearth and probably dates from the latter half of the eleventh century\n[M\u00fcllenhoff and Scherer, 1892, ii. p. 196], we find the following\nremarkable statements about the \"Liver sea\" and about Iceland:[177]\n\n  \"There is a clotted sea in the western ocean.\n  When the strong wind drives ships upon that course,\n  Then the skilled seamen have no defence against it,\n  But they must go into the very bosom of the sea.\n  Alas! Alas!\n  They never come out again.\n  If God will not deliver them, they must rot there.\n\n  I was in Utrecht as a fugitive.\n  For we had two bishops, who did us much harm.\n  Since I could not remain at home, I lived my life in exile.\n  When I came to Utrecht, I found a good man,\n  The very good Reginpreht, he delighted in doing all that was good.\n  He was a wise man, so that he pleased God,\n  A pious priest, of perfect goodness.\n  He told me truly, as many more there [also said],\n  He had sailed to Iceland--there he found much wealth--\n  With meal and with wine and with alder-wood.\n  This they buy for fires, for wood is dear with them.\n  There is abundance of all that belongs to provisions and to sport\n        [pleasure]\n  Except that there the sun does not shine--they lack that delight--\n  Thereby the ice there becomes so hard a crystal,\n  That they make a fire above it, till the crystal glows.\n  Therewith they cook their food, and warm their rooms.\n  There a bundle of alder-wood is given [sold] for a penny.\"\n\nWe find in this poem the same idea of a curdled or clotted sea--here\nprobably in the north-west near Iceland--as appeared early among the\nGreeks and Romans, perhaps even among the Carthaginians and Ph\u0153nicians\n(see pp. 40, 66 f.).[178] It is possible that it may have found its way\ninto this poem by purely literary channels from classical authors; but the\ndescription seems to bear traces of more life, and it rather points to a\nlegend which lived in popular tradition.\n\nIn this poem and in Adam of Bremen Iceland is mentioned for the first time\nin literature,[179] in both works as a country that was known, but of\nwhich strange things were told, which is natural enough, since it lay near\nthe borders of the unknown. The pious Reginbrecht may have travelled to\nIceland as a missionary or clerical emissary, which would not be\nunnatural, as the country was under the archbishopric of Hamburg. On the\nother hand, it is surprising that people as early as that time sailed\nthither from Germany with meal, wine and wood. But as these articles must\nhave been precisely those which would be valuable in Iceland, with its\nlack of corn and poverty in trees, it points to knowledge of the facts,\nand does not seem improbable. That there should be great wealth there does\nnot agree with Adam's description, which tends in the contrary direction;\nbut as immediately afterwards abundance of provisions is spoken of, it is\nprobable that the rich fisheries were meant, and perhaps the breeding of\nsheep, which was already developed at that time.\n\n[Illustration: Europe on the Anglo-Saxon Map of the World, \"Cottoniana\"\n(eleventh century ?)]\n\nThe strange idea that the ice becomes so hard that it can be made to glow,\nwhich occurs again in another form in Adam of Bremen, is difficult to\nunderstand. Can it have arisen, as Professor Torp has proposed to me, from\na misunderstanding of statements that the Icelanders heated stones for\ntheir baths? In some parts of Norway red-hot stones are also used for\nheating water for brewing and cooking [cf. A. Helland: Hedemarkens Amt].\nPerhaps tales of their sometimes using melted ice for drinking water may\nalso have contributed to the legend (?). In any case, as Adam's account\nshows still better, diverse statements about ice, fire (volcanoes), and\nsteam (boiling springs ?), etc., may have been confused to form these\nlegends about the ice in Iceland.\n\n[Sidenote: Adam of Bremen, about 1070]\n\nThe first author after King Alfred to make valuable contributions to the\nliterature of the North is Adam of Bremen, who not only gives much\ninformation about the Scandinavian North and its people, but mentions\nIceland, and for the first time in literature also Greenland and even\nWineland, as distant islands in the great ocean. Of the life of the\nlearned magister Adam we know little more than that he came to Bremen\nabout 1067 and became director of the cathedral school, and that he spent\nsome time at the court of the enlightened Danish king Svein Estridsson.\nThis king, who had spent twelve years campaigning in Sweden, \"knew the\nhistory of the barbarians by heart, as though it had been written down,\"\nand from him and his men Adam collected information about the countries\nand peoples of the North. On his return to Bremen he wrote his well-known\nhistory of the Church in the North under the archbishopric of Bremen and\nHamburg (\"Gesta Hammaburgensis,\" etc.), which in great part seems to have\nbeen completed before the death of Svein Estridsson in 1076. In the fourth\nbook of this work is a \"description of the islands [i.e., countries and\nislands] in the North\" (\"Descriptio insularum aquilonis\"). Adam's most\nimportant literary geographical sources seem to have been the following:\nbesides the Bible, Cicero and Sallust, he has used Orosius, Martianus\nCapella, Solinus, Macrobius and Bede; he was also acquainted with Paulus\nWarnefridi's history of the Langobards, and probably Hrabanus Maurus,\npossibly also with some of Isidore. In the archiepiscopal archives he was\nable to collect valuable materials from the missions to heathens in the\nNorth, and to these was added the verbal information he had obtained at\nthe Danish court.\n\nAdam's work has thus become one of the most important sources of the\noldest history of the North. It would carry us too far here to go into\nthis side of it, and we shall confine ourselves for the most part to his\ngeographical and ethnographical statements.\n\nHe describes Jutland, the Danish islands, and other countries and peoples\non the Baltic. This too he calls [iv. 10] the Baltic Sea, \"because it\nextends in the form of a belt ('baltei')[180] along through the Scythian\nregions as far as 'Grecia' [here == Russia]. It is also called the\nBarbarian or Scythian Sea.\" He quotes Einhard's description of the Baltic,\nand regards it as a gulf (\"sinus\"), which, in the direction of west to\neast, issues from the Western Ocean. The length of the gulf [eastwards]\nwas according to Einhard unknown. This, he says,\n\n    \"has recently been confirmed by the efforts of two brave men, namely\n    Ganuz [also Ganund] Wolf, Earl (satrap\u00e6) of the Danes, and Harald\n    [Hardr\u00e5de], King of the Norwegians, who, in order to explore the\n    extent of this sea, made a long and toilsome voyage, perilous to those\n    who accompanied them, from which they returned at length without\n    having accomplished their object, and with double loss on account of\n    storms and pirates. Nevertheless the Danes assert that the length of\n    this sea (ponti) has frequently been explored and by many different\n    travellers, and even that there are men who have sailed with a\n    favourable wind from Denmark to Ostrogard in Ruzzia.\"\n\nIt therefore looks as if Adam had understood that Scandinavia was\nconnected with the continent, which also appears from his words [iv. 15]:\n\n    \"Those who are acquainted with these regions also declare that some\n    have reached as far as Gr\u00e6cia [i.e., Russia] by land from Sueonia\n    [Sweden]. But the barbarous people, who live in the intervening parts,\n    are a hindrance to this journey, wherefore they rather attempt this\n    dangerous route by sea.\"\n\n[Illustration: Adam of Bremen's geographical idea of the countries and\nislands of the North, as represented by A. A. Bj\u00f6rnbo (1910)]\n\nBut he nevertheless speaks of the countries of the North as islands, and\nhe seems to draw no sharp distinction between island and peninsula.\nKurland and Esthonia he seems to regard as true islands.\n\n    The entrance to the Baltic, he says [iv. 11], \"between Aalborg, a\n    headland of Denmark [i.e., the Skaw], and the skerries of Nortmannia\n    [Norway], is so narrow that boats easily sail across it in one night.\"\n\n[Sidenote: The Land of Women]\n\n    There are in the Baltic [iv. 19] \"many other islands, all full of\n    savage barbarians, and therefore they are shunned by sailors. On the\n    shores of the Baltic Sea the Amazons are also said to live in the\n    country which is now called the Land of Women ('terra feminarum').\"\n\nThis designation is a translation of the name \"Kv\u00e6nland,\" which was\nthought to be formed of the Old Norse word for woman: \"kv\u00e6n\" or \"kv\u00e1n\"\n(chiefly in the sense of wife; modern English \"queen\"); and it is very\npossible that the name was really derived from this, and not from the\nFinnish \"Kainulaiset.\" We have seen that Alfred called it in Anglo-Saxon\n\"Cw\u00ean-Land\" or \"Cw\u00eana-Land,\" which also means woman-land. Here it is\nprobably Southern Finland. Adam probably took the idea from earlier\nauthors.[181] To him this name is a realisation of the Greeks' Amazons,\nwho have been moved northward to the Gulf of Bothnia, just as the\nScandinavians become Hyperboreans. In this way ancient geographical myths\ncome to life again and acquire new local colour. Of these Amazons, he\nsays:\n\n[Sidenote: Cynocephali]\n\n    \"some assert that they conceive by drinking water. Others however say\n    that they become pregnant through intercourse with seafaring\n    merchants, or with their own prisoners, or with other monsters, which\n    are not rare in those parts; and this appears to us more\n    credible.[182] If their offspring are of the male sex, they are\n    Cynocephali; but if of the female, beautiful women. These women live\n    together and despise fellowship with men, whom indeed they repulse in\n    manly fashion, if they come. Cynocephali are those who have their head\n    in their breast; in Russia they are often to be seen as prisoners, and\n    their speech is a mixture of talking and barking.\"\n\nIt has already been mentioned (p. 154) that the Greek writer \u00c6thicus had\nalready placed the Cynocephali on an island north of Germania. The\nrevival of the Greek-Indian fable of dog-headed men seems, on the one\nhand, to be due to Greeks who had understood the word \"Kv\u00e6n\" as Greek \u03ba\u03c5\u03c9\u03bd\n(dog), and either through \u00c6thicus or some other channel the idea thus\nformed must have reached Adam. On the other hand, the notion of them as\nprisoners in Russia may be due to Germanic-speaking peoples, who\nmisinterpreted the national name \"Huns,\" which was used both for Magyars\nand Slavs, and have taken it to mean Hund (dog).[183] But Adam himself did\nnot understand the Greek name's meaning of dog-heads, and confuses it with\nanother fable of men with heads in their breasts [cf. Rymbegla, 1780, p.\n350; Hauksb\u00f3k, 1892, p. 167]. Of the Scandinavians Adam says [iv. 12]:\n\n[Sidenote: Nortmanni or Hyperboreans]\n\n    \"The Dani and Sueones and the other peoples beyond Dania are all\n    called by the Frankish historians Normans ('Nortmanni'), whilst\n    however the Romans similarly call them Hyperboreans, of whom Martianus\n    Capella speaks with much praise.\"\n\nIt does not seem as though Adam made any distinction between the names\nNorman and Norseman.\n\n    [iv. 21.] \"When one has passed beyond the islands of the Danes a new\n    world opens in Sueonia [Sweden] and Nordmannia [Norway], which are two\n    kingdoms of wide extent in the north, and hitherto almost unknown to\n    our world. Of them the learned king of the Danes told me that\n    Nordmannia can scarcely be traversed in a month, and Sueonia not\n    easily in two. This, said he, I know from my own experience, since I\n    have lately served for twelve years in war under King Jacob in those\n    regions, which are both enclosed by high mountains, especially\n    Nordmannia, which with its Alps encircles Sueonia.\"\n\nSweden he describes as a fertile land, rich in crops and honey, and\nsurpassing any other country in the rearing of cattle:\n\n    \"It is most favoured with rivers and forests, and the whole land is\n    everywhere full of foreign [i.e., rare ?] merchandise.\" The Swedes\n    were therefore well-to-do, but did not care for riches. \"Only in\n    connection with women they know no moderation. Each one according to\n    his means has two, three or more at the same time; the rich and the\n    chiefs have them without number. For they count also as legitimate the\n    sons which are born of such a connection. But it is punished with\n    death, if any one has had intercourse with another man's wife, or\n    violated a virgin, or robbed another of his goods or done him wrong.\n    Even if all the Hyperboreans are remarkable for hospitality, our\n    Sueones are pre-eminent; with them it is worse than any disgrace to\n    deny a wayfarer shelter,\" etc.\n\n    [iv. 22.] \"Many are the tribes of the Sueones; they are remarkable for\n    strength and the use of arms, in war they excel equally on horseback\n    and in ships.\"\n\n[Illustration: Uniped (from the Hereford map)]\n\nAdam relates much about these people, their customs, religion, and so\nforth:\n\n[Sidenote: Finns and Skridfinns]\n\n    [iv. 24.] \"Between Nordmannia and Sueonia dwell the Wermelani and\n    Finn\u00e9di (or 'Finvedi') and others, who are now all Christians and\n    belong to the church at Skara. In the borderland of the Sueones or\n    Nordmanni on the north live the Scritefini, who are said to outrun the\n    wild beasts in their running. Their greatest town ['civitas,' properly\n    community] is Halsingland, to which Stenphi was first sent as bishop\n    by the archbishop.... He converted many of the same people by his\n    preaching.\" Helsingland was inhabited by Helsingers, who were\n    certainly Germanic Scandinavians and not Skridfinns; but Adam seems to\n    have thought that all the people of northern Sueonia or Suedia (he has\n    both forms) belonged to the latter race.\n\n    \"On the east it [i.e., Sweden] touches the Riph\u00e6an Mountains, where\n    there are immense waste tracts with very deep snow, where hordes of\n    monstrous human beings further hinder the approach. There are the\n    Amazons, there are the Cynocephali, and there the Cyclopes, who have\n    one eye in their forehead. There are those whom Solinus calls\n    'Ymantopodes' [one-footed men], who hop upon one leg, and those who\n    delight in human flesh for food, and just as one avoids them, so is\n    one rightly silent about them.[184] The very estimable king of the\n    Danes told me that a people were wont to come down from the mountains\n    into the plains; they were of moderate height, but the Swedes were\n    scarcely a match for them on account of their strength and activity,\n    and it is uncertain from whence they come. They come suddenly, he\n    said, sometimes once a year or every third year, and if they are not\n    resisted with all force they devastate the whole district, and go back\n    again. Many other things are usually related, which I, since I study\n    brevity, have omitted, so that they may tell them who assert that they\n    have seen them.\"\n\nIt is probably the roving mountain Lapps that are here described.\nDescending suddenly into the plains with their herds of reindeer, they\nmust then, as now, have done great damage to the peasants' crops and\npastures; and the peasants were certainly not content with killing the\nreindeer, as they sometimes do still, but also attacked the Lapps\nthemselves. Although the latter are not a warlike people, they were forced\nto defend themselves, and that the Swedes and Norwegians are scarcely a\nmatch for them in strength and activity may be true even now.\n\n[Illustration: Cannibals in Eastern Europe (from the Hereford map)]\n\n[Sidenote: Nortmannia or Nordvegia]\n\n    [iv. 30.] \"Nortmannia [Norway], as it is the extreme province of the\n    earth, may also be suitably placed last in our book. It is called by\n    the people of the present day 'Norguegia' [or 'Nordvegia'] ... This\n    kingdom extends to the extreme region of the North, whence it has its\n    name.\" From \"projecting headlands in the Baltic Sound it bends its\n    back northwards, and after it has gone in a bow along the border of\n    the foaming ocean, it finds its limit in the Riphean Mountains, where\n    also the circle of the earth is tired and leaves off. Nortmannia is on\n    account of its stony mountains or its immoderate cold the most\n    unfertile of all regions, and only suited to rearing cattle. The\n    cattle are kept a long time in the waste lands, after the manner of\n    the Arabs. They live on their herds, using their milk for food and\n    their wool for clothes. Thus the country rears very brave warriors,\n    who, not being softened by any superfluity in the products of their\n    country, more often attack others than are themselves disturbed. They\n    live at peace with their neighbours, namely the Sveones, although they\n    are sometimes raided, but not with impunity, by the Danes, who are\n    equally poor. Consequently, forced by their lack of possessions, they\n    wander over the whole world and by their piratical expeditions bring\n    home the greater part of the wealth of the countries.\" But after their\n    conversion to Christianity they improved, and they are \"the most\n    temperate of all men both in their diet and their morals.\" They are\n    very pious, and the priests turn this to account and fleece them.\n    \"Thus the purity of morals is destroyed solely through the avarice of\n    the clergy.\"\n\n[Illustration: Elles (elk) and Urus (aurochs) in Russia (from the Ebstorf\nmap, 1284)]\n\n    \"In many parts of Nordmannia and Suedia people even of the highest\n    rank are herdsmen,[185] living in the style of the patriarchs and by\n    the labour of their hands. But all who dwell in Norvegia are very\n    Christian, with the exception of those who live farther north along\n    the coast of the ocean [i.e., in Finmark]. It is said they are still\n    so powerful in their arts of sorcery and incantations, that they claim\n    to know what is done by every single person throughout the world. In\n    addition to this they attract whales to the shore by loud mumbling of\n    words, and many other things which are told in books of the sorcerers,\n    and which are all easy for them by practice.[186] On the wildest alps\n    of that part I heard that there are women with beards,[187] but the\n    men who live in the forests [i.e., the waste tracts ?] seldom allow\n    themselves to be seen. The latter use the skins of wild beasts for\n    clothes, and when they speak to one another it is said to be more like\n    gnashing of teeth than words, so that they can scarcely be understood\n    by their neighbours.[188] The same mountainous tracts are called by\n    the Roman authors the Riphean Mountains, which are terrible with\n    eternal snow. The Scritefingi [Skridfinns] cannot live away from the\n    cold of the snow, and they outrun the wild beasts in their chase\n    across the very deep snowfields. In the same mountains there is so\n    great abundance of wild animals that the greater part of the district\n    lives on game alone. They catch there uri [== aurochs; perhaps rather\n    'ursi' == bears ?], bubali [antelopes == reindeer ?], and elaces\n    [elks] as in Sueonia; but in Sclavonia and Ruzzia bisons are taken;\n    only Nortmannia however has black foxes and hares, and white martens\n    and bears of the same colour, which live under water like uri\n    (?),[189] but as many things here seem altogether different and\n    unusual to our people, I will leave these and other things to be\n    related at greater length by the inhabitants of that country.\"\n\nThen follows a reference to Trondhjem and the ecclesiastical history of\nthe country, etc.\n\n[Sidenote: The Western Ocean]\n\nOf the Western Ocean, from which the Baltic issues, Adam says [iv. 10]\nthat it\n\n    \"seems to be that which the Romans called the British Ocean, whose\n    immeasurable, fearful and dangerous breadth surrounds Britannia on the\n    west ... washes the shores of the Frisians on the south ... towards\n    the rising of the sun it has the Danes, the entrance to the Baltic\n    Sea, and the Norsemen, who live beyond Dania; finally, on the north\n    this ocean flows past the Orchades [i.e., the Shetlands, with perhaps\n    the Orkneys], thence endlessly around the circle of the earth, having\n    on the left Hybernia, the home of the Scots, which is now called\n    Ireland, and on the right the skerries ('scopulos') of Nordmannia, and\n    farther off the islands of Iceland and Greenland; there the ocean,\n    which is called the dark ['caligans' == shrouded in darkness or mist],\n    forms the boundary.\"\n\nLater [iv. 34], after the description of Norway, he says of the same\nocean:\n\n[Sidenote: The Orkneys]\n\n    \"Beyond ('post') Nortmannia, which is the extreme province of the\n    North, we find no human habitations, only the great ocean, infinite\n    and fearful to behold, which encompasses the whole world. Immediately\n    opposite to Nortmannia it has many islands which are not unknown and\n    are now nearly all subject to the Norsemen, and which therefore cannot\n    be passed by by us, since consequently they belong to the see of\n    Hamburg. The first of them are the Orchades insul\u00e6 [the Shetlands and\n    Orkneys], which the barbarians call Organas\" ... and which lie\n    \"between Nordmannia and Britannia and Hibernia, and they look\n    playfully and smilingly down upon the threats of the foaming ocean. It\n    is said that one can sail to them in one day from the Norsemen's town\n    of Trondhjem ('Trondemnis'). It is said likewise to be a similar\n    distance from the Orchades both to Anglia [England] and to Scotia\n    [Ireland ?].\"...\n\n[Sidenote: Thule or Iceland]\n\n    [iv. 35.] \"The island of Thyle, which is separated from the others by\n    an infinite distance, lies far out in the middle of the ocean and, as\n    is said, is scarcely known. Both the Roman authors and the barbarians\n    have much to say of it which is worth mentioning. They say that Thyle\n    is the extreme island of all, where at the summer solstice, when the\n    sun is passing through the sign of Cancer, there is no night, and\n    correspondingly at the winter solstice no day. Some think that this is\n    the case for six months at a time. Bede also says that the light\n    summer nights in Britain indicate without doubt that, just as at the\n    summer solstice they have there continuous day for six months, so it\n    is nights at the winter solstice, when the sun is hidden. Pytheas of\n    Massalia writes that this occurs in the island of Thyle, which lies\n    six days' sail north of Britain, and it is this Thyle which is now\n    called Iceland from the ice which there binds the sea. They report\n    this remarkable thing about it, that this ice appears to be so black\n    and dry that, on account of its age, it burns when it is kindled.[190]\n    This island is immensely large, so that it contains many people who\n    live solely upon the produce of their flocks and cover themselves with\n    their wool. No corn grows there, and there is only very little\n    timber,[191] for which reason the inhabitants are obliged to live in\n    underground holes, and share their dwellings with their cattle. They\n    thus lead a holy life in simplicity, as they do not strive after more\n    than what nature gives; they can cheerfully say with the Apostle: 'if\n    we have clothing and food, let us be content therewith!' for their\n    mountains are to them in the stead of cities, and their springs serve\n    them for pleasure. I regard this people as happy, whose poverty none\n    covets, but happiest in that they have now all adopted Christianity.\n    There is much that is excellent in their customs, especially their\n    good disposition, whereby everything is shared, not only with the\n    natives, but with strangers.\" After referring to their good treatment\n    of their bishop, etc., he concludes: \"Thus much I have been credibly\n    informed of Iceland and extreme Thyle, but I pass over what is\n    fabulous.\"\n\n[Sidenote: Greenland]\n\n    [iv. 36.] \"Furthermore there are many other islands in the great\n    ocean, of which Greenland is not the least; it lies farther out in the\n    ocean, opposite ('contra') the mountains of Suedia, or the Riphean\n    range. To this island, it is said, one can sail from the shore of\n    Nortmannia in five or seven days, as likewise to Iceland. The people\n    there are blue ['cerulei,' bluish-green] from the salt water; and from\n    this the region takes its name. They live in a similar fashion to the\n    Icelanders, except that they are more cruel and trouble seafarers by\n    predatory attacks. To them also, as is reported, Christianity has\n    lately been wafted.\n\n[Sidenote: H\u00e1logaland]\n\n    \"A third island is Halagland [H\u00e1logaland], nearer to Nortmannia, in\n    size not unlike the others.[192] This island in summer, about the\n    summer solstice, sees the sun uninterruptedly above the earth for\n    fourteen days, and in winter it has to be without the sun for a like\n    number of days.[193] This is a marvel and a mystery to the barbarians,\n    who do not know that the unequal length of days results from the\n    approach and retreat of the sun. On account of the roundness of the\n    earth ('rotunditas orbis terrarum') the sun must in one place approach\n    and bring the day, and in another depart and leave the night. Thus\n    when it ascends towards the summer solstice, it prolongs the days and\n    shortens the nights for those in the north, but when it descends\n    towards the winter solstice, it does the same for those in the\n    southern hemisphere ('australibus').[194] Therefore the ignorant\n    heathens call that land holy and blessed, which has such a marvel to\n    exhibit to mortals. But the king of the Danes and many others have\n    stated that this takes place there as well as in Suedia and Norvegia\n    and the other islands which are there.\"\n\n[Sidenote: Winland]\n\n    [iv. 38.] \"Moreover he mentioned yet another island, which had been\n    discovered by many in that ocean, and which is called 'Winland,'\n    because vines grow there of themselves and give the noblest wine. And\n    that there is abundance of unsown corn we have obtained certain\n    knowledge, not by fabulous supposition, but from trustworthy\n    information of the Danes. (Beyond ('post') this island, he said, no\n    habitable land is found in this ocean, but all that is more distant is\n    full of intolerable ice and immense mist ['caligine,' possibly\n    darkness caused by mist]. Of these things Marcianus has told us:\n    'Beyond Thyle,' says he, 'one day's sail, the sea is stiffened.' This\n    was recently proved by Harold, prince of the Nordmanni, most desirous\n    of knowledge, who explored the breadth of the northern ocean with his\n    ships, and when the boundaries of the vanishing earth were darkened\n    before his face, he scarcely escaped the immense gulf of the abyss by\n    turning back.)[195]\n\n[Sidenote: Frisian expedition to the North Pole]\n\n    [iv. 39.] \"Archbishop Adalbert, of blessed memory, likewise told us\n    that in his predecessor's days certain noblemen from Friesland,\n    intending to plough the sea, set sail northwards, because people say\n    there that due north of the mouth of the river Wirraha [Weser] no land\n    is to be met with, but only an infinite ocean. They joined together to\n    investigate this curious thing, and left the Frisian coast with\n    cheerful song. Then they left Dania on one side, Britain on the other,\n    and reached the Orkneys. When they had left these behind on the left,\n    and had Nordmannia on the right, they reached after a long voyage the\n    frozen Iceland. Ploughing the seas from this land towards the extreme\n    axis of the north, after seeing behind them all the islands already\n    mentioned, and confiding their lives and their boldness to Almighty\n    God and the holy preacher Willehad, they suddenly glided into the\n    misty darkness of the stiffened ocean, which can scarcely be\n    penetrated by the eye. And behold! the stream of the unstable sea\n    there ran back into one of its secret sources, drawing at a fearful\n    speed the unhappy seamen, who had already given up hope and only\n    thought of death, into that profound chaos (this is said to be the\n    gulf of the abyss) in which it is said that all the back-currents of\n    the sea, which seem to abate, are sucked up and vomited forth again,\n    which latter is usually called flood-tide. While they were then\n    calling upon God's mercy, that He might receive their souls, this\n    backward-running stream of the sea caught some of their fellows'\n    ships, but the rest were shot out by the issuing current far beyond\n    the others. When they had thus by God's help been delivered from the\n    imminent danger, which had been before their very eyes, they saved\n    themselves upon the waves by rowing with all their strength.\n\n    [iv. 40.] \"And being now past the danger of darkness and the region of\n    cold they landed unexpectedly upon an island, which was fortified like\n    a town, with cliffs all about it. They landed there to see the place,\n    and found people who at midday hid themselves in underground caves;\n    before the doors of these lay an immense quantity of golden vessels\n    and metal of the sort which is regarded by mortals as rare and\n    precious; when therefore they had taken as much of the treasures as\n    they could lift, the rowers hastened gladly back to their ships. Then\n    suddenly they saw people of marvellous height coming behind them, whom\n    we call Cyclopes, and before them ran dogs which surpassed the usual\n    size of these animals. One of the men was caught, as these rushed\n    forward, and in an instant he was torn to pieces before their eyes;\n    but the rest were taken up into the ships and escaped the danger,\n    although, as they related, the giants followed them with cries nearly\n    into deep sea. With such a fate pursuing them, the Frisians came to\n    Bremen, where they told the most reverend Alebrand everything in order\n    as it happened, and made offerings to the gentle Christ and his\n    preacher Willehad for their safe return.\"\n\nAs will be seen, Adam obtained from the people of Scandinavia much new\ninformation and fresh ideas about the geography of the North, which add\nconsiderably to the knowledge of former times; but unfortunately he\nconfuses this information with the legends and ancient classical notions\nhe has acquired from reading the learned authors of late Roman and early\nmedi\u00e6val times; and this confusion reaches its climax in the last tale,\nwhich is chiefly of interest to the folk-lorist. The first part of it\n(section 39) is made up from Paulus Warnefridi's description of the\nearth's navel, to some extent with the same expressions (see above, p.\n157); the second part (section 40) is based upon legends on the model of\nthe Odyssey, of which there were many in the Middle Ages. While his\ndescription gives a fairly clear picture of his views regarding the\ncountries on the Baltic, it is difficult to get any definite idea of the\nrelative position of the more distant islands; but it is probable, as\nproposed by Gustav Storm, that he imagined them as lying far in the north.\n\n[Sidenote: Wineland]\n\nAs Wineland is mentioned last, and as it is added that beyond this island\nthere is no habitable land in this ocean, but that all is full of ice and\nmist, it might be thought that this is regarded as lying farthest out in a\nnorthern direction. But this would not agree with Adam's earlier statement\n[iv. 10], where Iceland and Greenland are given as the most distant\nislands, and \"there this ocean, which is called the dark one, forms the\nboundary.\" The explanation must be that, as already remarked (p. 195), his\nstatement about the ocean beyond Wineland is probably a later addition,\nthough possibly by Adam himself. It is obviously inserted somewhat\ndisconnectedly, and perhaps has been put in the wrong place, and this is\nalso made probable by the quotation from Marcianus about Thyle, which has\nnothing to do with Wineland, but refers on the contrary to Iceland (cf. p.\n193).[196] Omitting this interpolation, the text says of the geographical\nposition merely that the King of the Danes also mentioned the island of\nWineland, as discovered by many in that ocean, i.e., the outer ocean, and\nso far as this goes it might be imagined as lying anywhere. That no\nimportance is attached to the order in which the islands are named appears\nalso from the fact that Halagland is put after Iceland and Greenland,\nalthough it is expressly stated that it lay nearer Norway. That Adam,\nafter having described the last-named country a long while before, here\ngratuitously mentions Halagland (H\u00e1logaland) as an island by itself[197]\ntogether with Iceland and Greenland, shows how deficient his information\nabout the northernmost regions really was.\n\nAs will be further shown in the later chapter on Wineland, Adam's ideas of\nthat country, of the wine and the corn there, must be derived from\nlegends about the Fortunate Isles, which were called by the Norsemen\n\"V\u00ednland hit G\u00f3\u00f0a.\" This legend must have been current in the North at\nthat time, and possibly it may already have been connected with the\ndiscovery of countries in the west. But it is, perhaps, not altogether\naccidental that Wineland should be mentioned immediately after Halagland.\nFor as the latter name was regarded as meaning the Holy Land,[198] it may\nbe natural that Wineland or the Fortunate Isles, originally the Land of\nthe Blest, should be placed in its neighbourhood. To this the resemblance\nin sound between Vinland and Finland (or, more correctly, Finmark, the\nland of the Finns or Lapps) may, consciously or unconsciously, have\ncontributed; later in the Middle Ages these names were often confused and\ninterchanged.[199] Finns and Finland were sometimes spelt in German with a\nV; and V and F were transposed in geographical names even outside Germany,\nas when, in an Icelandic geographical tract attributed to Abbot Nikul\u00e1s\nBergsson of Thver\u00e1 (ob. 1159), Venice is transformed by popular etymology\nto \"Feneyjar\" [cf. F. J\u00f3nsson, 1901, p. 948]. It is particularly\ninteresting that the Latin \"vinum\" (wine) became in Irish legendary poetry\n\"f\u00edn,\" and the vine was called \"f\u00edne,\" as in the poem of the Voyage of\nBran [Kuno Meyer, 1895, vol. i., pp. xvii., 9, 21].\n\n[Illustration: The so-called St. Severus version, of about 1050, of the\nBeatus map (eighth century)]\n\n[Sidenote: Conception of the earth and the ocean]\n\nIt is not clear from Adam's description whether he altogether held the\nconception of the earth, or rather the \"\u0153cumene,\" as a circular island or\ndisc divided into three, surrounded by the outer ocean (the Oceanus of the\nGreeks, see p. 8), as represented on the wheel-maps of earlier times (cf.\np. 151, and the Beatus map); but his expression that the Western Ocean\nextends northwards from the Orchades \"infinitely around the circle of the\nearth\" (\"infinites orbem terr\u00e6 spaciis ambit\") may point to this. It is\ntrue that immediately afterwards he has an obscure statement that at\nGreenland \"ibi terminat oceanus qui dicitur caligans,\" which has usually\nbeen translated as \"there ends the ocean, which is called the dark one\"\n(?); but it is difficult to get any sense out of it. One explanation might\nbe that he imagined Greenland as lying out on the extreme edge of the\nearth's disc, near the abyss, and that thus the ocean (which in that\nregion was called dark ?) ended here in that direction (i.e., in its\nbreadth), while in its length it extended farther continuously around \"the\ncircle of the earth.\" This view would, no doubt, conflict with his\nstatement in another place that the earth was round, which can only be\nunderstood as meaning that it had the form of a globe. But this last idea\nhe took from Bede, and he has scarcely assimilated it sufficiently for it\nto permeate his views of the circle of the earth and the universal ocean,\nas also appears from his mention of the gulf at its outer limit. If we had\nbeen able to suppose that Adam really thought the Western Ocean on the\nnorth flowed past the Orchades, and thence infinitely towards the west\naround the globe of the earth (instead of the circle of the earth), this\nwould better suit the statement that Ireland lay to the left, Norway to\nthe right, and Iceland and Greenland farther out (also to the right ?).\nThis would agree with the statement that Norway was the extreme land on\nthe north, and that beyond it (i.e., farther north ?) there was no human\nhabitation, but only the infinite ocean which surrounds the whole world,\nand in which opposite (\"ex adverso\") Norway lie many islands, etc.\nAccording to this, these islands must be imagined as lying to the west,\nand not to the north of Norway. But besides the fact that such a view of\nthe extent of the ocean towards the west would conflict with the\nprevailing cartographical representation of that time, it is contradicted\nby his assertion that Greenland lies farther out in the ocean (than\nIceland) and opposite the mountains of Suedia and the Riphean range, which\nmust be supposed to lie on the continent to the north-east of Norway; this\ncannot very well be possible unless these islands are to be placed out in\nthe ocean farther north than Norway, and there is thus on this point a\ndifficult contradiction in Adam's work. The circumstance that H\u00e1logaland\nis spoken of as an island after Iceland and Greenland is also against the\nprobability that the ocean, in which these islands lay, was imagined to\nextend infinitely towards the west; the direction is, in this manner,\ngiven as northerly. The same thing appears from the description of the\nvoyage of the Frisian noblemen: when they steered northward with the\nOrkneys to port and Norway to starboard they came to the frozen Iceland,\nand when they proceeded thence towards the North Pole, they saw behind\nthem all the islands previously mentioned. Dr. A. A. Bj\u00f6rnbo has suggested\nto me that according to Adam's way of expressing himself \"terminat\" must\nhere mean \"forms the boundary,\" whereby we get the translation given above\n(p. 192), which seems to give better sense; but in any case Adam's\ndescription of these regions is not quite clear.\n\nWe are told that Magister Adam obtained information about the countries\nand peoples of the North from Svein Estridsson and his men; but as regards\nIceland he might also have had trustworthy information from the Archbishop\nof Bremen, Adalbert, who had educated an Icelander, Isleif Gissursson, to\nbe bishop. The latter (who is also mentioned by Are Frode) might also have\ntold him about Greenland and Wineland; but Adam says distinctly that he\nhad been informed about the latter country and the wine and corn there,\nwhich must have seemed very remarkable to him, if he imagined the country\nto be in the north, by the Danish king, and that the information had been\nconfirmed by Danes. We shall return later to these countries, to Adam's\nideas of Wineland, and to the alleged polar expeditions of King Harold and\nof the Frisian noblemen.\n\nJust as these pages are going to press I have received from Dr. Axel\nAnthon Bj\u00f6rnbo his excellent essay on \"Adam of Bremen's view of the North\"\n[1909]. By Dr. Bj\u00f6rnbo's exhaustive researches the correctness of the\nviews just set forth seems to be confirmed on many points; but he gives a\nfar more complete picture of Adam's geographical ideas. The reasons\nadvanced by Dr. Bj\u00f6rnbo for supposing that Adam imagined the ocean as\nsurrounding the earth's disc, with Iceland, Greenland, etc., in the north,\nare of much interest. His map of the North according to Adam's description\nis of great value, and gives a clear presentation of the main lines of\nAdam's conceptions. With his kind permission it is reproduced here (p.\n186). But, as will appear from my remarks above (pp. 197 f.), I am not\nsure that one is justified in placing Winland so far north, in the\nneighbourhood of the North Pole, as Dr. Bj\u00f6rnbo has done in his map.\nPossibly he has also put the other islands rather far north, and has\ncurved the north coast of Scandinavia somewhat too much in a westerly\ndirection.\n\nThrough Dr. Bj\u00f6rnbo's book I have become acquainted with another recently\npublished work on Adam of Bremen by Hermann Krabbo [1909], of which I have\nalso been unable to make use; it also has a map, but not so complete a one\nas Bj\u00f6rnbo's as regards the northern regions.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nFINNS, SKRIDFINNS (LAPPS), AND THE FIRST SETTLEMENT OF SCANDINAVIA\n\n\nBefore we proceed to the Norwegians' great contributions to the\nexploration of the northern regions, we shall attempt to collect and\nsurvey what is known, and what may possibly be concluded, about the most\nnorthern people of Europe, the Finns, and the earliest settlement of\nScandinavia.\n\n[Sidenote: Earliest mention of the Finns]\n\nThe Finns are mentioned, as we have seen (p. 113), for the first time in\nliterature by Tacitus, who calls them \"Fenni,\" and describes them as\nexclusively a people of hunters. Procopius does the same, but calls them\n\"Skridfinns,\" and removes their home to the northernmost Thule or\nScandinavia. Cassiodorus (Jordanes) also mentions the \"Skridfinns\" as\nhunters in the same northern regions, but speaks moreover of \"Finns\" and\n\"Finaiti,\" and another people resembling the Finns (\"Vinoviloth\" ?)\nfarther south in Scandinavia. The Ravenna geographer also mentions the\n\"Skridfinns\" (after Jordanes). Then comes Paulus Warnefridi, who speaks of\nthe ski-running of the Skridfinns, though indeed in a way which shows he\ndid not understand it very well, and mentions a deer of whose skin they\nmade themselves clothes, but does not say that this deer was domesticated.\nNext King Alfred mentions \"Skridfinns,\" \"Finns,\" and \"Ter-Finns,\" and in\nthe information he obtained from Ottar he speaks of the hunting, fishing\nand whaling of the \"Finns,\" and of their keeping reindeer in the north of\nNorway. This description is in accordance with what we learn of the Lapps\nfrom later history, with this difference only, that on account of the\nkilling-off of the game their hunting in recent times became of small\nimportance. Lastly we have Adam of Bremen's description of the Finns,\nwhich contains nothing new of note. He mentions \"Finn\u00e9di\" or \"Finvedi\"\nbetween Sweden and Norway (near Vermeland) and \"Skridfinns\" in northern\nScandinavia. Besides these he speaks of a small people who come down at\nintervals, once a year or every three years, from the mountains, and who\nare probably the Mountain Lapps with their reindeer. He mentions also a\npeople skilled in magic on the shores of the northern ocean [Finmark], and\nskin-clad men in the forests of the north, who may be Fishing Lapps or\nForest Lapps. In connection with this we may also refer to the mention of\nthe Lapps in the \"Historia Norvegi\u00e6\":\n\n    Norway \"is divided lengthways into three curved zones [i.e., parallel\n    to the curved coast-line]: the first zone, which is very large and\n    lies along the coast; the second, the inland zone, which is also\n    called the mountain zone; the third, the forest zone, which is\n    inhabited by Finns [Lapps], but is not ploughed.\" The Lapps, in the\n    third zone, which was waste land, \"were very skilled hunters, they\n    roam about singly and are nomads, and they live in huts made of hides\n    instead of houses. These houses they take on their shoulders, and they\n    fasten smoothed pieces of wood [literally, balks, stakes] under their\n    feet, which appliances they call 'ondrer,' and while the deer [i.e.,\n    reindeer] gallop along carrying their wives and children over the deep\n    snow and precipitous mountains, they dash on more swiftly than the\n    birds. Their dwelling-place is uncertain [it changes] according as the\n    quantity of game shows them a hunting-ground when it is needed.\"\n\nFrom the earliest accounts referred to, especially from that of Adam of\nBremen, it looks as though there were Fishing Lapps and Reindeer Lapps in\nnorthern Scandinavia in those remote times, as there are now, and they\nwere called Finns or Skridfinns; but besides these there were people who\nwere called Finns in southern Scandinavia, from whence they have since\ndisappeared. This has led to the hypothesis that the primitive population\nin southern Scandinavia also was composed of the same Finns (Lapps) as are\nnow found in the northern part, to which they were compelled to retreat by\nthe later Germanic immigrants [cf. Geijer, 1825, pp. 411 ff.; Munch, 1852,\npp. 3 ff.; Sven Nilsson]. But for various reasons this hypothesis has had\nto be abandoned, and the question has become difficult.\n\n[Illustration: Men of the Woods in Northern Scandinavia (from Olaus\nMagnus)]\n\n[Sidenote: The name \"Finn\"]\n\nThe word \"Finn\" as the name of a people does not occur, so far as is\nknown, outside Scandinavia. The only place farther south where there are\nplace-names which remind one of it is in Friesland, where we find a\nFinsburg. The origin of the national name \"Finn\" is unknown. Some have\nthought that it might be connected with the word \"finna\" (English, to\nfind), and that it means one who goes on foot.\n\nSince in Swedish and Norwegian the name has come to be applied to two such\nentirely different peoples as, in Norway, the Fishing Lapps and Reindeer\nLapps and, in Sweden, the people of Finland, we must suppose that in the\nprimitive Norse language it was a common designation for several\nnon-Germanic races, whom the later Germanic immigrants in south\nScandinavia drove into the wastes and forest tracts, where they lived by\nhunting and fishing. This would provide a natural explanation of the\ncurious circumstance that Jordanes, as well as Adam of Bremen (later also\nSaxo), mentions Finns, Finvedi, and other Finn-peoples in many parts of\nsouth Scandinavia; in our saga literature there are also many references\nto Finns far south. But the most decisive circumstance is, perhaps, that\nthe word Finn occurs in many place-names of south Scandinavia, from\nFinnskog and Finnsj\u00f6 in Uppland, and Finnheden or Finnveden in Sm\u00e5land, to\nFinn\u00f6 in the Bokn-fjord [cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, ii. 1887, p. 51; A. M. Hansen,\n1907]. It may be quoted as a strong piece of evidence that a people called\nFinns must have lived in old times in south Norway, that the oldest\nChristian laws, of about 1150, for the most southern jurisdictions, the\nBorgathing and Eidsivathing, visit with the severest penalty of the law\nthe crime of going to the Finns, or to Finmark, to have one's fortune told\n[cf. A. M. Hansen, 1907, p. 79]. It may seem improbable that here (e.g.,\nas far south as Bohuslen) this should have referred to Finns (Lapps) in\nthe north, in what is now called Finmark; and we should be rather inclined\nto believe it to refer to the Finns (and Finn\u00e9di) mentioned by Jordanes\nand Adam of Bremen nearer at hand, in the forest tracts between Norway and\nSweden, where we still have a Finnskog, which, however, is generally\nconnected with the later immigration of Kv\u00e6ns or Finns from Finland (the\nso-called wood-devils; compare also Finmarken between Lier and Modum). But\nit might be thought that these Christian laws were compiled more or less\nfrom laws enacted for northern Norway, and thus provisions of this kind,\nwhich were only adapted for that part of the country, were included. And\nit must be borne in mind that the northern Finns (Lapps) in particular had\nan ancient reputation for proficiency in magic and soothsaying, and,\nfurther, that Finmark in those times was often regarded as extending much\nfarther south than now, as far as Jemteland and Herjedalen.\n\n[Sidenote: Immigration to Scandinavia]\n\nIt is difficult to decide with certainty what kind of people the \"Finns\"\nwho were found in many parts of south Scandinavia may have been. The\nsupposition that they were the same people as the Finns (Lapps) of our\ntime has had to be abandoned, as we have said, in the face of more recent\narch\u00e6ological, anthropological and historical-geographical researches.\nM\u00fcllenhoff [ii. 1887, pp. 50 ff.] has proposed that the word \"Finn\" may\noriginally have been a Scandinavian common name for several peoples who\nwere diffused in south Scandinavia, but who in his opinion were\nUgro-Finnish, like the Kv\u00e6ns, Lapps and others [cf. also Geijer, 1825, pp.\n415 f.]. He even goes so far as to suppose that the very name of\nScandinavia may be due to them (like that of the ski-goddess \"Ska\u00f0i,\"[200]\nwho was a Finn-woman, cf. p. 103). But it has not been possible to point\neither to linguistic or anthropological traces of any early Finno-Ugrian\npeople in any part of south Scandinavia, and there are many indications\nthat the southern diffusion of the Mountain Finns (Reindeer Lapps) is\ncomparatively late.\n\nDr. A. M. Hansen, therefore, in his suggestive works, \"Landn\u00e1m\" [1904] and\n\"Oldtidens Nordm\u00e6nd\" [\"The Norsemen of Antiquity,\" 1907], has put forward\nthe hypothesis that the Finns of earliest history, whom he would include\nunder the common designation of \"Skridfinns,\" were a non-Aryan people,\nwholly distinct both from the Finno-Ugrian tribes and from the Aryan\nScandinavians, who formed the primitive population of northern Europe and\nwere related to the primitive peoples of southern Europe, the Pelasgians,\nEtruscans, Basques and others. In Scandinavia they were forced northwards\nby the Germanic tribes, and have now disappeared through being partly\nabsorbed in the latter. In the east and north-east they were displaced by\nthe Finno-Ugrian peoples who immigrated later. The last remnants of them\nwould be found in the Fishing Lapps of our time, and in the so-called\nYenisei Ostyaks of north-western Siberia. This bold hypothesis has the\ndisadvantage, amongst others, of forcing us to assume the existence of a\nvanished people, who are otherwise entirely unknown. In the next place,\nDr. Hansen, in arbitrarily applying the name of Skridfinns to all the\n\"Finns\" in Scandinavia, does not seem to have laid sufficient weight on\nthe difference which early writers make between Skridfinns in the north\nand the other Finns farther south.\n\nIn earlier times there was a strong tendency, due to old Biblical notions,\nto imagine all nations as immigrants to the regions where they are now\nfound. But when a zoologist finds a particular species or variety of\nanimal distributed over a limited area, he makes the most natural\nassumption, that it has arisen through a local differentiation in that\nregion. The simplest plan must be to look upon human stocks and races in\nthe same way. When we have tried in Europe to distinguish between Celts,\nGermans, Slavs, Ugro-Finns, etc., the most reasonable supposition will be\nthat these races have arisen through local \"evolution,\" the home of their\ndifferentiation being within the area in which we find them later. As such\ncentres of differentiation in Europe we might suppose: for the Celts,\nwestern Central Europe; for the Germans, eastern Central Europe; for the\nSlavs, Eastern Europe; for the Ugro-Finns, northern East Europe and\nwestern Siberia, etc.\n\n[Sidenote: Southern Finns in Scandinavia]\n\nThis is doubtless a linguistic division, but to a certain extent it\ncoincides with anthropological distinctions. Since the North was covered\nwith ice till a comparatively recent period, we cannot expect any local\ndifferentiation of importance there since that time, but must suppose an\nimmigration to the north and to Scandinavia of already differentiated\nraces, from southern Europe. We may thus suppose that tribes belonging to\nthe parent-races of brachycephalic Celts and Slavs, and dolichocephalic\nGermans, came in from the south and south-east, and Ugro-Finns and\nMongoloid tribes immigrated from the south-east and east. In this way we\nmay expect, at the commencement of the historical period, to find\nCelto-Slavs and Germans in southern and central Scandinavia, and Mongoloid\nand Finno-Ugrian people in the northernmost regions and towards the\nnorth-east and east (Finland and North Russia). This agrees fairly well\nwith what is actually found. If we except the northernmost districts,\nanthropological measurements (principally by Brigade-Surgeon Arbo) show\nthat the people of Norway are descended not only from the tall, fair, and\npronouncedly dolichocephalic Germanic race, but also from at least one\nbrachycephalic race, which was of smaller stature and dark-haired.[201]\nMeasurements in Sweden and Denmark show a similar state of things, but in\nDenmark and the extreme south of Sweden the short-skulls are more numerous\nthan in the rest of Scandinavia. In order to explain these anthropological\nconditions, we must either suppose that the various Germanic tribes which\nhave formed the people of Scandinavia were more or less mixed with\nbrachycephalic people, even before they immigrated,[202] in proportions\nsimilar to those now obtaining, or that tribes immigrated to Scandinavia\nbelonging to at least two different races, one specially dolichocephalic\nand one specially brachycephalic. The latter hypothesis will be, to a\ncertain extent at all events, the more natural, and as it is not probable\nthat the short-skulls arrived later than the long-skulled Germanic tribes,\nit is most reasonable to suppose that there was at least one short-skulled\nprimitive people before they came. These primitive people were hunters and\nfishermen, and must therefore in most districts have wandered over a wide\narea to find what was necessary to support life. It was only the more\nfavourable conditions of life in certain districts--for instance, the\nabundance of fish along the west coast of Norway--that allowed a denser\npopulation with more permanent habitation. As the taller and stronger\nGermanic tribes spread along the coasts, the older short-skulled hunters,\nwho may have been Celts,[203] were in most districts forced towards the\nforest tracts of the interior, where there was abundance of game and fish.\nIn districts where they lived closer together and had more permanent\nsettlements, as on the west coast of Norway, they were not altogether\ndisplaced. For this dark primitive people, who were shorter of stature\nthan themselves, and who hunted and fished in the outlying districts, the\nGermanic tribes may, in one way or another, have found the common name of\n\"Finns,\" whether the people called themselves so or the name arose in some\nother way.[204] When the Germanic people then came across another short,\ndark-haired people of hunters and fishermen in the north, they applied the\nname of \"Finn\" to them too, although they belonged to an entirely\ndifferent linguistic family, the Finno-Ugrian, and to an even more\ndifferent Mongoloid race. But to distinguish them from the southern Celtic\npeople of hunters, the northern were sometimes called \"Skridfinns.\"\nGradually, as the southern Finns became absorbed into the Germanic\npopulation and disappeared as a separate people, the name in Norway\nremained attached to the other race and country (Finmark) in the north,\nand in Sweden to the very different people and country (Finland) in the\nnorth-east.\n\nThe southern Finns were an Aryan people, and as the Aryan languages at\nthat remote time, when they became detached from the more southern\nshort-skulls of Europe, the Celts and Slavs, did not vary very much, it\nis easily explicable that scarcely a single ancient place-name can be\nfound in southern Norway which can be said with certainty to bear a\nnon-Germanic character. If, on the other hand, the southern Finns, who are\nmentioned so late as far on in the Middle Ages, had been a Finno-Ugrian or\nother non-Aryan people, it is incredible that we should not be able easily\nto point to foreign elements in the place-names, which would be due to\ntheir language.\n\n[Illustration: Skridfinns hunting (from Olaus Magnus)]\n\nScandinavian finds of skulls of the Stone Age, and later, are so few and\nso casual that we can conclude very little from them as regards the race\nto which the primitive population belonged. Further, it must be remarked\nthat the early people of hunters, the short-skulled \"Finns,\" must have\nbeen very few in number, and have lived scattered about the country, in\ncontrast to the later Germanic tribes who had a fixed habitation. That\namong the earliest skulls found there should only be a few short ones is,\ntherefore, what we should expect. It must also be remembered, of course,\nthat the proportion of skulls left by each people depends in a great\ndegree on its burial customs.\n\n[Sidenote: Northern \"Finns\" in Finmark]\n\nWe now come to the northern Finns, of whom Ottar gives a sufficiently\ndetailed description to enable us to form a fairly accurate picture of\ntheir culture. Since they were able to pay a heavy annual tribute in\nwalrus-tusks, ropes of walrus-hide and seal-hide, besides other skins and\nproducts of fishery, we must conclude that they were skilled hunters and\nfishermen even at sea, and such skill can only have been acquired through\nthe slow development and practice of a long period, unless they learned it\nfrom the Norsemen. But on the other hand they also kept reindeer,\nresembling in this the eastern reindeer nomads. These two ways of living\nare so distinct that they can scarcely have been originally developed in\none and the same people, and we must therefore conclude that a concurrence\nof several different cultures has here taken place.\n\nNow as regards whaling and sealing, it is remarkable that along the whole\nnorthern coast of Europe and Asia there is no trace of any other race of\nseafaring hunters. Not until we come to the Chukches, near Bering Strait,\ndo we find a sea-fishery culture, but this is borrowed from the Eskimo\nfarther east, and originally came from the American side of Bering Strait.\nIn Novaya Zemlya, it is true, there is a small tribe of Samoyeds who live\nby hunting both on sea and land, and who do not keep reindeer, but on the\nother hand use dogs for sleighing; but their sea-hunting is primitive,\nlike the more casual sealing and walrus-hunting I have seen practised by\nthe reindeer Samoyeds along the shores of the Kara Sea, with firearms, but\nwithout special appliances and with extremely clumsy boats. It is\ndifficult to see in this the remains of an older, highly developed people\nof hunters.\n\nThis sealing culture which was found in Ottar's time in northernmost\nNorway and on the Murman coast cannot, therefore, have come from the east\nalong the coast of Siberia, but must have been a local development,\nperhaps arising from the amalgamation of the original hunting culture of\nthese \"Finns\" with a higher European culture from the south.\n\n[Sidenote: Arch\u00e6ological relics of \"Finns\" in Varanger]\n\nIt fortunately happens that at Kjelm\u00f6, on the southern side of the\nVaranger Fjord, a rich find of implements has been made, which must belong\nto the very same people of \"Finns\" who, as Ottar says, lived here and\nthere along the coast (of Finmark and Terfinna Land) as hunters, fishermen\nand fowlers. Dr. O. Solberg in particular has in the last few years made\nvaluable excavations on this island.[205] The many objects found lay\nevenly distributed in strata, the thickness of which shows that they must\nbe the result of many centuries of accumulation. Solberg refers them to\nthe period between the seventh and about the eleventh centuries.\n\nIn North Varanger many heathen graves containing implements have been\nfound. By the help of the latter Solberg has been able to show that the\ngraves are partly of the same age and partly of a somewhat later time than\nthe Kjelm\u00f6 find, and certainly belong to the same people. By comparing\nthese various finds we can form a picture of this people's culture and its\nassociations.\n\n[Illustration: 7-9, Fish-hooks (of reindeer-horn); 10, potsherds; 1-6,\nharpoon-points (of reindeer-horn), from Kjelm\u00f6; less than half natural\nsize (after O. Solberg, 1909)]\n\nIn addition to a number of bones of fish, birds and mammals, the Kjelm\u00f6\nfind contains a variety of implements, mostly made of reindeer-horn and\nbone, which have been remarkably well preserved in the lime-charged sand,\nwhile on the other hand the iron, with few exceptions, has rusted entirely\naway. There are also many fragments of pottery, baked at an open fire and\nmade of clay found on the island. These hunters and fishermen, therefore,\nunderstood the art of the potter as well as that of the smith, and thus\nthe culture of this northern district on the shores of the Polar Sea was\nnot on such a very low level. But it was not of independent growth; the\npottery shows a connection with that of the older Iron Age in south\nScandinavia; while on the other hand a couple of bronze objects,\nespecially the small figure of a bear, found in a grave in North Varanger,\nare typically representative of the early part of the Permian Iron Age in\neastern Russia (from the eighth century). Many other objects found in the\ngraves also point to connection with the south-east, partly with Russia or\nOttar's Beormaland, and perhaps with Finland; while on the other side\nthere may have been communication westwards and south-westwards (Ottar's\nroute) with Norway. Solberg has found marks of ownership on the Kjelm\u00f6\nimplements which he shows to have much resemblance to those still in use\namong the Skolte-Lapps.[206] But the use of owner's marks was an ancient\nand universal custom among the Germanic peoples, and the Finns probably\nderived it from them. The owner's marks found by Solberg bear a\nresemblance to many ancient Germanic ones [cf. Hofmeyer, 1870; Michelsen,\n1853], and seem rather to point to cultural connection with the Norsemen.\n\n[Illustration: Probable mode of using the harpoon-points from Kjelm\u00f6]\n\nAmong the implements of reindeer-horn and bone in the Kjelm\u00f6 find there\nare especially many fish-hooks, which show that fishing played an\nimportant part in the life of these people on the island, probably mostly\nin the summer months. Possibly there are also some stone sinkers which\nwould show that they had nets. There are also fish-spears of\nreindeer-horn, which were used for salmon-fishing in the rivers. Further,\nthere is a quantity of arrow-heads; but of special interest to us are a\nnumber of harpoon-points of various form, which doubtless do not show so\nhighly developed a sealing culture as that of the Eskimo, but which are\nnevertheless quite ingenious and bear witness to much connection with the\nsea. It is worth mentioning that, while some of these harpoon-points\n(Figs. 2 and 3 above) resemble old, primitive Eskimo forms, which are\nfound in Greenland, another still more primitive form (Fig. 1 above) bears\na striking resemblance to harpoon-points of bone which are in use, amongst\nother places, in Tierra del Fuego, and which are also known from the Stone\nAge in Europe. This proves how the same implements may be developed quite\nindependently in different places.\n\nIt is curious that among the same people such different forms of\nharpoon-points should be found, from the most primitive to more ingenious\nones. This may tend to show that their sealing culture was not so old as\nto have acquired fixed and definite forms like that of the Eskimo.\n\nIt is remarkable that by far the greater number of harpoon-points were\nmade entirely of reindeer-horn, without any iron tip. Only on two of them\n(see Fig. 2, p. 214) are there marks of such a tip, which was let in round\nthe fore-end, but which has rusted completely away. There is nowhere a\nsign of the use of any blade of iron (or stone), such as is used by the\nEskimo. All these harpoon-points were made fast to a thong by deep notches\nat the base, or by a hole; and they have either a tang at the base which\nwas stuck into a hole in the end of the harpoon-shaft, or else they have a\nhole or a groove at the base, which was surrounded by an iron ring, and\ninto which a tang at the end of the shaft was inserted. As no piece of\nreindeer-horn or bone has been found which might serve as a tang for\nfixing the harpoon-points, it is possible that these were fastened\ndirectly on to the wooden shaft. With the help of the thong, which was\nprobably made tightly fast (on a catch ?) to the upper part of the shaft,\nthe point was held in its place. But when the harpoon was cast into the\nanimal, the point remained fixed in its flesh and came away from the\nshaft, which became loose, and the animal was caught by the thong, the end\nof which was either made fast to the boat or held by the hunter; for it is\nimprobable that it was made fast to a buoy or bladder, which is an\ninvention peculiar to the Eskimo. All the harpoons found at Kjelm\u00f6 are\nremarkably small, and cannot have been used for any animal larger than a\nseal. Among the objects found there is only one piece cut off a\nwalrus-tusk, and none of the implements were made of this material,\nexcept, perhaps, one arrow-head. The explanation of this cannot be merely\nthat the walrus was not common in the neighbourhood of Kjelm\u00f6; it shows\nrather that these Finns did not practise walrus-hunting at all; for if\nthey had done so, we should expect their weapons and implements to be\nmade to a large extent of walrus-tusk, which has advantages over\nreindeer-horn.\n\nWhether the harpoons, which we know to have been used later by the\nNorsemen, resembled those from Kjelm\u00f6, and whether they learned the use of\nthem from the Finns, or the Finns had them from the Norsemen, are points\non which it is difficult to form an opinion. Nothing has been found which\nmight afford us information as to the kind of boats these northern sealers\nused. It is possible that they were light wooden boats, somewhat like the\nLapps' river-boats, and that they used paddles. Nor do the Kjelm\u00f6 finds\ntell us whether these people kept tame reindeer. It is true that bones of\ndogs have been found, like the modern Lapp-hound; but whether they were\nused for herding reindeer cannot be determined, nor can they have been\ncommon on the island, since otherwise the animal bones would have shown\nmarks of having been gnawed by dogs.\n\nThe masses of bones found show that the people lived on fish to a great\nextent, many kinds of birds, among them the great auk (Alca impennis),\nreindeer, fjord-seal (Phoca vitulina), the saddleback seal (Ph.\ngr\u0153nlandica), grey-seal (Halich\u0153rus grypus),[207] porpoise, beaver, etc.\n\nIt will be seen that everything we learn from this find agrees in a\nremarkable way with the statements of Ottar, with the single exception\nthat there are no indications of walrus-hunting, beyond the one piece of\ntusk mentioned.[208]\n\nAs has been said, this sealing of the Finns must be regarded as a locally\ndeveloped culture, which was not diffused farther east than Ter or the\nKola peninsula. But with their reindeer-keeping the opposite is the case;\nthis has its greatest predominance in Asia and north-eastern Europe, and\nis specially associated with the Samoyeds. It seems, therefore, most\nprobable that it was brought to north Scandinavia from the east.\n\n[Sidenote: Ottar's \"Finns\"]\n\nIf, then, Ottar's description of his Finns' and Terfinns' diffusion\ntowards the east (as well as the description in Egil's Saga) tallies\nalmost exactly with the diffusion of the Fishing Lapps and Reindeer Lapps\nof our time, and if what he tells us of the Finns' manner of life agrees\nin all essentials with what we know of the life of the Lapps long after\nthat time, down to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, then this in\nitself points to Ottar's \"Finns\" having been essentially the same people\nas the present-day Lapps. But to this may be added the statement of Ottar,\nwho must have known the Finns and their language well: that they and the\nBeormas spoke approximately the same language. Since, then, the Lapps of\nour time--who live in the same district as Ottar's Finns--and the East\nKarelians--who live in the same district, on the western side of the White\nSea, as Ottar's Beormas--speak closely related languages, and since,\nfurther, the Karelians are a people with fixed habitation like the\nBeormas, then it will be more natural to suppose that they are the same\ntwo peoples who lived in these districts at that early time, instead of\nproposing, like Dr. A. M. Hansen, to replace them both by an unknown\npeople, who spoke an unknown language.[209]\n\nThe correctness of this hypothesis is also supported, as we have seen, by\nthe rich Kjelm\u00f6 find, which shows that in Ottar's time there was in the\nVaranger Fjord a well-developed sealing culture, to which we know no\nparallel from finds farther south, and which both in date and\ncharacteristics is distinct from the Arctic Stone Age. Through grave-finds\nin North Varanger, belonging to later centuries, we have, as Solberg shows\n[1909], a possible transition from the Kjelm\u00f6 culture to that of the Lapps\nof our own time, and there is thus a connected sequence.\n\n[Sidenote: Ancient Lappish skulls]\n\nIn old heathen burial-places on the islands of Sj\u00e5holmen and Sandholmen,\nin the Varanger Fjord, Herr Nordvi found a number of skulls and portions\nof skeletons, which probably belonged to the same people as the dwellers\non Kjelm\u00f6. Some of these skulls are in the collection of the Anatomical\nInstitute at Christiania, and have been described by Professor J. Heiberg\n[1878]. They are brachycephalic with a cephalic index between 82 and 85;\none was mesocephalic with an index of 78. Dr. O. Solberg has also found a\nfew such skulls. Time has not permitted me to subject these heathen\nskulls at the Anatomical Institute to a detailed examination; I have only\nmade a purely preliminary comparison between them and half a dozen skulls\nof modern Reindeer Lapps and Skolte-Lapps, and found that in certain\nfeatures they differ somewhat from the latter. Doubtless the Lapps and\nSkolte-Lapps of our time are very mixed, partly with the Finns (Kv\u00e6ns) and\npartly with Norwegians and others; but the typical Reindeer Lapp skulls\nare nevertheless quite characteristic, and as they are somewhat more\nbrachycephalic than the skulls from the heathen graves, it is difficult to\nsuppose that this is due to any such recent mixture of race. As possible\ndifferences the following may be noted: the heathen skulls as compared\nwith the Reindeer Lapp skulls are not quite so typically brachycephalic;\nseen from the side they are somewhat lower (i.e., the length-height index\nis less, according to Heiberg's measurements it would be about as 77 to\n86); the forehead recedes somewhat more from the brow-ridges, which are\nmore prominent than in the typical Reindeer Lapp skulls. The Skolte-Lapp\nskulls examined were of more mixed race, and were more mesocephalic; but\nthey bore most resemblance to the Reindeer Lapp skulls, although some of\nthem also showed a transition to the heathen skulls. According to this it\ndoes not look as though the heathens to whom these graves belonged can be\naccepted offhand as the ancestors of our Reindeer Lapps. They may have\nbeen an earlier, kindred race who, to judge by Ottar's statements, spoke a\nsimilar language, closely related to Karelian. The Reindeer Lapps must in\nthat case have immigrated later.\n\n[Sidenote: Place-names of the Lapps]\n\nIt remains to examine what place-names can tell us. It is remarkable, as\nQvigstad [1893, p. 56 f.] has pointed out, that while the Lapps have\ngenuine Lappish names for the inner fjord coasts--e.g., Varanger, Tana,\nLakse, Porsanger, and Alten fjords--all their place-names for the outer\nsea-coasts, even in Finmark, are of Norwegian origin, if we except the\nnames of a few large islands, such as \"Sallam,\" for S\u00f6r\u00f6 in West Finmark\nand for Skoger\u00f6 in Varanger, and \"Sievjo,\" for Seiland in West Finmark. It\nwould therefore seem as though the Norwegians arrived on the outer coasts\nbefore either the Fishing Lapps or Reindeer Lapps, while the latter came\nfirst to the inner fjord coasts. This conclusion may be supported by the\nfact that the Lapps' names for sea-fish and sea-birds are throughout\nloan-words from Norwegian, as also are their words for appliances\nbelonging to modern boats and sailing, which may indicate that they\nlearned fishing and navigation from the Norwegians. Their name for walrus\nhas probably also originally come from Norwegian, but on the other hand,\nthe names of river fish, and their numerous names for seals, are as a rule\ngenuine Lappish [Qvigstad, 1893, p. 67]. This conclusion, however, does\nnot agree with Ottar's description, which distinctly says that \"Finns,\"\nwho were hunters and fishermen, lived scattered along the coasts of\nFinmark and the Kola peninsula, while the Norwegians (i.e., Norwegian\nchiefs) did not live farther north than himself, and did not practise\nwhaling farther north than, probably, about Loppen. Dr. Hansen therefore\nthought to find in this a support for his theory, that the \"Finns\" of that\ntime, whom he called Skridfinns, were a non-Aryan primitive people\nentirely distinct from the Reindeer Lapps of our day. But this bold\nhypothesis is little adapted to solve the difficulties with which we are\nhere confronted. Thus, in order to explain the Lappish loan-words from\nNorwegian, one is obliged to assume that these Skridfinnish ancestors of\nthe Fishing Lapps first lost their own language and their own place-names\nand words for the implements they used and the animals they hunted, etc.,\nand adopted the Norwegian language entirely; and then again lost this\nlanguage and adopted that of the later immigrant Reindeer Lapps, who\nchiefly lived in the mountainous districts of the interior. At this later\nchange of language, however, they retained a number of Norwegian words,\nespecially those used in navigation and place-names; but strangely enough\nthey acquired new, genuinely Lappish names for certain large islands, and\nmoreover they adopted the many names for seals, which were the most\nimportant object of their fishery, from the nomadic Reindeer Lapps, who\npreviously had known nothing about such things. The question arises of\nitself: but if these Skridfinns were capable of undergoing all these\nremarkable linguistic revolutions, why may they not just as well have\nbegun by speaking a language resembling Lappish, and gradually adopted\ntheir loan-words and place-names from Norwegian? This will be a simpler\nexplanation. Nor, as we have seen, is Dr. Hansen's assumption probable,\nthat the Beormas also belonged to these same Skridfinns, and spoke their\nlanguage, while they were not replaced by the Karelians until later;[210]\nbut still less so is the hypothesis which is thereby forced upon us, that\nthe Reindeer Lapps came as reindeer nomads from the district east of the\nWhite Sea, and learned their language, allied to Karelian, through coming\nin contact with the Karelians on their journey westward round the south of\nthe White Sea. This contact cannot have lasted very long, as the country\non the south side of the White Sea is not particularly favourable to\nreindeer nomads. And if in so short a time they lost their old language\nand adopted an entirely new one, it will seem strange that they have been\nable to keep this new language comparatively unchanged through their later\ncontact with the Norwegians, to whom moreover they were in a position of\nsubjection. In any case it must be considerably less improbable that an\noriginal people of hunters, established in Finmark, who from the beginning\nspoke Karelian-Lappish, should have adopted loan-words and place-names\nfrom the later immigrant and settled Norwegians, to whom they were\nsubject, and who were skilled sailors with better seagoing boats. In more\nor less adopting the Norwegians' methods of navigation and fishery, with\nbetter appliances, they also acquired many loan-words from them. But on\nthe whole we must not attach too much weight to such linguistic evidence,\nwhen we see that the Lapps have such a great quantity of loan-words from\nother languages.\n\n[Sidenote: Conclusions as to the origin of the Northern \"Finns\"]\n\nTo sum up what has been said here, the following explanation may be the\nmost natural: in prehistoric times the coasts and inland districts of\nnorth Scandinavia and the Kola peninsula were inhabited by a wandering\npeople of hunters, who belonged to the same race or family as the Fishing\nand Reindeer Lapps, and who were thus related to the Samoyeds farther\neast; but through long contact with the Karelians on the White Sea and\nwith the Kv\u00e6ns they had acquired a Karelian-Finnish language. Their\nlanguage, however, as Konrad Nielsen has shown, contains also many words\nwhich resemble Samoyed, whether this be due to original kinship or to\nlater influence. These people were called by the Norsemen Finns, or, to\ndistinguish them from the other sort of Finns farther south, Skridfinns,\nbecause they were in the habit of travelling on ski in the winter. People\nof this race of hunters learned the domestication of reindeer from contact\nwith reindeer nomads, the Samoyeds, farther east. Most of them continued\ntheir life of hunting, sealing and fishing, but adopted reindeer-keeping\nto some extent as an auxiliary means of subsistence. The Eskimo are a good\nexample of how, in northern regions, a wandering people of hunters may\nhave a fairly uniform culture and language throughout a much greater\nextent of territory than is here in question; for they have essentially\nthe same culture and language from west of Bering Strait to the east coast\nof Greenland. A tribe related to these hunter Finns, who spoke very nearly\nthe same language but lived farther east, where there was certainly\nhunting to be had on land but little at sea, gradually became transformed\nentirely into reindeer nomads, and diffused themselves at a comparatively\nlate period over the mountainous tracts westward, and along the Kj\u00f6len\nrange southward. As the Norsemen pressed northward along the coast of\nNordland they encountered the hunter Finns or Fishing Lapps. Through this\ncontact with a higher culture these Lapps learned much, but on the other\nhand the Norsemen learned something from their sealing and hunting\nculture, which was well adapted to these surroundings. Thus a higher\ndevelopment of sea-hunting arose. Originally the Lapps had a light boat,\nthe planks of which were fastened together with osiers, with a paddle,\nwhich was well adapted to sea-fishing, and for which they still have a\ngenuine Lappish word in their language. From the Norsemen they learned to\nbuild larger boats and to use sails, whence most of their words for the\nnew kind of navigation were Norse loan-words. We see from Peder Clauss\u00f6n\nFriis's description that in the sixteenth century the Fishing Lapps even\n\"had much profit of their shipbuilding, since they are good carpenters,\nand build all the sloops and ships for the northward voyage themselves at\ntheir own cost and to a considerable amount.... They also build many\nboats....\" In other words, we see that they had completely adopted the\nNorwegians' boat- and ship-building, and with it the words connected\ntherewith. In the same way they certainly acquired better appliances for\nsea-fishing than those they originally had; consequently in this too they\nlearned of the Norwegians, and it was therefore natural that they\ngradually adopted Norse names for sea-fish too, even if they had names for\nthem before; besides which they were always selling this fish to the\nNorwegians. It was otherwise, however, with sealing, which had previously\nbeen their chief employment on the sea. In this they were superior to the\nNorsemen, as the implements of the Kjelm\u00f6 find show, and here the Norsemen\nbecame their pupils. For this reason then they kept their own names for\nseal, and the many genuine Lappish words they have for them prove that\nthis was an important part of their original culture. If we should imagine\nthat the Lappish language came in at a comparatively late period with the\nReindeer Lapps, as Dr. Hansen thinks, we should be faced by incomparably\ngreater difficulties in explaining how they acquired these many genuine\nLappish words for seal, than would confront us in explaining how they got\nloan-words for reindeer-keeping from the Norwegians, or how the original\nFishing Lapps took Norse loan-words for sea-fishing and the use of boats.\nAnd now as regards place-names, it is not improbable that these were\ndetermined for later times principally by the permanent settlements of the\nNorsemen, along the outer sea-coast, and not by the scattered Finns\n(Lapps), who led a wandering life as hunters and fishermen, and who no\ndoubt were driven out by the Norsemen. If we suppose that these Finns were\nkept away from a place, a fishing-centre or a district, by the Norwegian\nsettlement, it would only require the passing of one or two generations\nfor them to forget their old place-names, and in future they would use\nthose of the Norwegians settled there. But that they once had names of\ntheir own is shown by the genuine Lappish names for some of the larger\nislands. Within the fjords, where the Norwegians were late in establishing\nthemselves, and where the Finns (Lapps) could live with less interference,\nit was different, and there they kept their own names.\n\nWe do not seem therefore to have any information or fact which is capable\nof disproving the unbroken connection between Ottar's Finns, along the\ncoasts of Finmark and Ter, and the Fishing Lapps of our time, although the\nlatter at present consist to a large extent of impoverished Reindeer\nLapps, especially in West Finmark. The original culture of the Fishing\nLapps and the distinction between it and that of the Reindeer Lapps who\nimmigrated later have been preserved to recent times in their broader\nfeatures. It is true that the Fishing Lapp no longer keeps reindeer; he\nonly has a poor cow or a few sheep to milk [cf. A. Helland, 1905, p.\n147]; but amongst other descriptions we see from that of the Italian\nFrancesco Negri of his travels in Norway in 1664-5 [L. Daae, 1888, p. 143]\nthat the Fishing Lapps of Nordland and Finmark still kept reindeer in the\nlatter part of the seventeenth century. He says of the Finns [i.e.,\nFishing Lapps] in Finmark that\n\n    \"they live either along the coast or in the forests of the interior.\n    They are, like their neighbours the Lapps, small in stature, and they\n    resemble them in face, clothing, customs and language. The only way in\n    which they differ from the Lapps is, that the latter are nomads, while\n    the Finns of this part have fixed dwellings. They possess only a few\n    reindeer and a little cattle. They are also called Sea Lapps, while\n    the other nomads are called Mountain Lapps....\"\n\n[Sidenote: Fishing Lapps and Reindeer Lapps]\n\nThis distinction between Finns (i.e., Fishing Lapps) and Lapps (i.e.,\nReindeer Lapps) seems to have been common. Thus in the royal decree of\nSeptember 27, 1726, both Finns and Lapps are mentioned, and in medi\u00e6val\nmaps of the fifteenth century, beginning with that of Claudius Clavus, of\nabout 1426, we find on the Arctic Ocean in north-east Sweden \"Findhlappi,\"\nand farther north \"Wildhlappelandi,\" and in later Clavus maps\n[Nordenski\u00f6ld, 1889, Pl. xxx.] we find to the north-east of Norway a\n\"Finlappelanth,\" and farther north an extensive \"Pillappelanth,\" sometimes\nalso \"Phillappelanth,\" besides a \"Finlanth\" in the east. Pillappelanth is\nthe same as Claudius Clavus's \"Wildlappenland.\"[211] This word may be\nthought to have arisen through a misunderstanding of the word \"Fjeldlap\"\n(Mountain Lapp), which Clavus may have seen written as Viellappen and\ntaken to mean Wild Lapp (he calls them \"Wildlappmanni\"). But, as Mr.\nQvigstad has pointed out to me, the name \"Wild Lapps\" for Mountain\n(Reindeer) Lapps is also found in Russian. Giles Fletcher (English\nAmbassador to Russia in 1588) writes:[212]\n\n    \"The Russe divideth the whole nation of the Lappes into two sortes.\n    The one they call 'Nowremanskoy Lapary,' that is, the Norvegian\n    Lappes.... The other that have no religion at all but live as bruite\n    and heathenish people, without God in the worlde they cal 'Dikoy\n    Lapary,' or the wilde Lappes.\"\n\nThere is, however, a possibility that this Russian name may have come from\nthe maps or in a literary way. In any case we have as early as the\nfifteenth century a distinction between Finnlapps (i.e., Fishing Lapps)\nand Mountain Lapps or Wild Lapps, besides Finns in Finland; but this shows\nat the same time that they must have been nearly akin, since both are\ncalled Lapps.\n\nOf great interest is Peder Clauss\u00f6n Friis's description of the Lapps,\nwhich is derived from the Helgelander, Judge Jon Simonss\u00f6n (ob. 1575). He\ndraws a distinction between \"Sea Finns,\" who live on the fjords, and\n\"Lappe-Finns\" or \"Mountain Finns,\" \"who roam about the great mountains,\"\n\n    \"and both sorts are also called 'Gann-Finns' on account of the magic\n    they use, which they call 'Gan.'\" \"The Finns [i.e., Lapps] are a thin\n    and skinny folk, and yet much stronger than other men, as can be\n    proved by their bows, which a Norse Man cannot draw half so far as the\n    Finns can. They are very black and brown on their bodies, and are\n    hasty and evil-tempered folk, as though they had the nature of bears.\"\n\n    \"The Sea Finns dwell always on Fjords, where there is sufficient fir\n    and spruce, so that they may have firing and timber to build ships of,\n    and they live in small houses or huts, of which the half is in the\n    ground, albeit some have fine houses and rooms.... They also row out\n    to fish like other Northern sailors, and sell their fish to the\n    merchants, who come there, for they do not sail to Bergen, and they\n    are not fond of going where there are many people, nor do people wish\n    to have them there, and they apply themselves greatly to shooting seal\n    and porpoise, that they may get their oil, for every Finn must have a\n    quart of oil to drink at every meal....\"\n\n    \"They keep many tame reindeer, from which they have milk, butter, and\n    cheese ... they also keep goats, but no sheep.\n\n    \"They shoot both elks and stags and hinds, but for the most part\n    reindeer, which are there in abundance; and when one of them will\n    shoot reindeer, he holds his bow and arrow between the horns of a tame\n    reindeer, and shoots thus one after another, for it is a foolish beast\n    that cannot take care of itself.\"\n\n    \"The Finns are remarkably good archers, but only with handbows, for\n    which they have good sharp arrows, for they are themselves smiths, and\n    they shoot so keenly with the same bows that they can shoot with them\n    great bears and reindeer and what they will. Moreover they can shoot\n    so straight that it is a marvel, and they hold it a shame at any time\n    to miss their mark, and they accustom themselves to it from childhood,\n    so that the young Finn may not have his breakfast until he has shot\n    three times in succession through a hole made by an auger.\n\n    \"They are called Gann-Finns for the witchcraft they use, which they\n    call 'Gann,' and thence the sea or great fjord which is between Russia\n    and Finmark, and stretches to Karelestrand, is called Gandvig.\n\n[Illustration: Skridfinn Archer (from Olaus Magnus)]\n\n    \"They are small people and are very hairy on their bodies, and have a\n    bear's nature....\"\n\n    \"The Sea Finns can for the most part speak the Norse language, but not\n    very well.... And they have also their own language which they use\n    among themselves and with the Lapps, which Norse Men cannot\n    understand, and it is said that they have more languages than one; of\n    their languages they have however another to use among themselves\n    which some[213] can understand, so it is certain that they have nine\n    languages, all of which they use among themselves.\"[214]\n\n    \"Of the Mountain Finns the same is to be understood as has now been\n    noted of the Sea Finns; the others [i.e., the former] are small, hairy\n    folk and evil, they have no houses and do not dwell in any place, but\n    move from one place to another, where they may find some game to\n    shoot.[215] They do not eat bread, nor do the Sea Finns either.... And\n    he [the Mountain Finn] has tame reindeer and a sledge, which is like a\n    low boat with a keel upon it....\"\n\nFrom this description it appears with all desirable clearness that, on the\none hand, there was no noticeable external difference in the sixteenth\ncentury between the small Fishing Lapps and the small Reindeer Lapps, and\non the other there was no essential difference between the Lapps of that\ntime and the Finns described by Ottar--we even find the decoy reindeer\nstill used in the sixteenth century; further, that the Lapps were\nunusually skilful hunters and archers, for which they were also praised\nby earlier authorities (we read in many places of Finn-bows, Finn-arrows,\netc. Some thought that the man who at the battle of Svolder shot and hit\nEinar Tambarskelve's bow so that it broke, was a Lapp). We see too that\nthe Reindeer Lapp was not exclusively a reindeer nomad, but practised\nhunting to such an extent that he moved about for the sake of game, and it\neven looks as if this was his chief means of livelihood, which is\ntherefore mentioned first. That the reindeer-keeping mentioned by Ottar\nshould have been so essentially different from that of the present day, as\nA. M. Hansen asserts, is difficult to see. That the decoy reindeer which\nOttar tells us were used for catching wild reindeer, and which were so\nvaluable, are no longer to be found in our day is a matter of course,\nsimply because the wild reindeer in northern Scandinavia has practically\ndisappeared from the districts frequented by the Lapps with their tame\nreindeer. Furthermore, with the introduction of firearms decoy reindeer\nbecame less necessary for getting within range of the wild ones; but we\nsee that they were still used in the sixteenth century, when the Lapps\ncontinued to shoot with the bow. So long as there was abundance of game,\nbefore the introduction of the rifle, the Reindeer Lapp also lived, as we\nhave seen, to a large extent by hunting; but then he was not able to look\nafter large herds of reindeer. It is therefore probable that a herd of 600\ndeer, as mentioned by Ottar, must then have been regarded as constituting\nwealth, although to the Reindeer Lapps of the present day, who live\nexclusively by keeping reindeer, it would be nothing very great.[216]\n\nThose of the modern Lapps whose manner of life most reminds us of Ottar's\n\"Finns\" are perhaps the so-called Skolte-Lapps on the south side of the\nVaranger Fjord. Helland [1905, p. 157] says of them: \"They have few\nreindeer and keep them not so much for their flesh and milk as for\ntransport. Their principal means of subsistence is salmon and trout\nfishing in the river, and a little sea-fishing in the fjord on Norwegian\nground. They are also hunters.\"\n\nWe must suppose that the \"Finns\" who according to Ottar, or to Alfred's\nversion of him, paid tribute in walrus-hide ropes, etc., lived by the sea\nand engaged in sealing and walrus-hunting, and in any case they cannot\nhave kept reindeer except as a subsidiary means of subsistence, like the\nFishing Lapps in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But Alfred's\nexpressions do not exclude the possibility of there having been amongst\nthe \"Finns\" some who were reindeer nomads like the Reindeer Lapps of our\ntime. That they already existed at that time and somewhat later seems to\nresult from the statements in the sagas of the sheriffs of H\u00e2logaland\n(e.g., Thorulf Kveldulfsson), who in order to collect the \"Finn\" tribute\ntravelled into the interior and up into the mountains. It cannot have been\nonly wandering hunters who paid this tribute, and they must certainly also\nhave had herds of reindeer.\n\n[Sidenote: Decline of hunting]\n\nThat the Lapps have degenerated greatly as hunters and sealers in the last\nfew centuries, and that the Fishing Lapps no longer enjoy anything like\nthe same prosperity as they did in Ottar's time, and even as late as the\nseventeenth century, is easily explained. For on the one hand the game\nboth in the sea and on land has decreased to such an extent that it can no\nlonger support any one, and on the other it is a well-known fact that a\npeople originally of hunters loses its skill in the chase to a\nconsiderable extent through closer contact with European civilisation,\nwhile at the same time it becomes impoverished. How this comes about may\nbe accurately observed among the Eskimo of Greenland in our time. So long\nas the Lapps were heathens, as in Peder Clauss\u00f6n Friis's time, and were\nstill without firearms and, what is perhaps equally important, without\nfire-water, and not burdened with schooling and book-learning, they\nretained their old hunting culture and their hereditary skill in sealing\nand hunting; but with the new culture and its claims, the new objects,\ndemands and temptations of life, their old accomplishments suffered more\nor less; nor were they any longer held in such high esteem that the Lapp\nchild had to shoot three times running through an auger-hole before he\nmight have his breakfast. And just as the Eskimo of the west coast of\nGreenland have been obliged to take more and more to fishing and\nbird-catching, which were looked down upon by the old harpooners, so have\nour Fishing Lapps become more and more exclusively fishermen.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Sn\u00e6fells Glacier in Iceland]\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE VOYAGES OF THE NORSEMEN: DISCOVERY OF ICELAND AND GREENLAND\n\n\nSHIPBUILDING\n\nThe discovery of the Faroes and Iceland by the Celts and the Irish monks,\nand their settlement there, give evidence of a high degree of intrepidity;\nsince their fragile boats were not adapted to long voyages in the open\nsea, to say nothing of carrying cargoes and keeping up any regular\ncommunication. Nor did they, in fact, make any further progress; and\nneither the Irish nor the Celts of the British Isles as a whole ever\nbecame a seafaring people. It was the Scandinavians, and especially the\nNorwegians, who were the pioneers at sea; who developed an improved style\nof shipbuilding, and who, with their comparatively good and seaworthy\ncraft, were soon to traverse all the northern waters and open up a\nprospect into a new world, whereby the geographical ideas of the times\nshould undergo a complete transformation. It has been asserted that the\nPh\u0153nicians in their day ventured out into the open ocean far from land;\nbut this lacks proof and is improbable. The Norwegians are the first\npeople in history who definitely abandoned the coast-sailing universally\npractised before their time, and who took navigation away from the coasts\nand out on to the ocean. From them other people have since learnt.\n\nFirst they crossed the North Sea and sailed constantly to Shetland, the\nOrkneys, North Britain and Ireland; then to the Faroes, Iceland and\nGreenland, and at last they steered straight across the Atlantic itself,\nand thereby discovered North America. We do not know how early the passage\nof the North Sea originated; but probably, as we have seen, it was before\nthe time of Pytheas and much earlier than usually supposed. J. E. Sars\n[1877, i. (2nd ed.), p. 191] concluded on other grounds that it was at a\nvery remote period, and long before the Viking age.\n\n[Sidenote: The First Viking Expeditions]\n\n[Sidenote: Earliest navigation of the Scandinavians]\n\nThe beginning of the more important Viking expeditions is usually referred\nto the end of the eighth century, or, indeed, to a particular year, 793.\nBut we may conclude from historical sources[217] that as early as the\nsixth century Viking voyages certainly took place over the North Sea from\nDenmark to the land of the Franks, and doubtless also to southern\nBritain,[218] and perhaps by the beginning of the seventh century the\nNorwegians had established themselves in Shetland and even plundered the\nHebrides and the north-west of Ireland (in 612).[219] We know further from\nhistorical sources that as early as the third century and until the close\nof the fifth century the roving Eruli sailed from Scandinavia, sometimes\nin company with Saxon pirates, over the seas of Western Europe, ravaging\nthe coasts of Gaul and Spain, and indeed penetrating in 455 into the\nMediterranean as far as Lucca in Italy.[220] From these historical facts\nwe are able to conclude that long before that time there had been\nintercommunication by sea between the countries of Northern Europe.\nScandinavia, and especially Norway, was in those days very sparsely\ninhabited, and all development of culture that was not due to direct\ninfluence from without must have taken place with extreme slowness at such\nan early period of history, even where intercourse was more active than in\nthe North. As we are not acquainted with any other European people who at\nthat time possessed anything like the necessary skill in navigation to\nhave been the instructors of the Scandinavians, we are forced to suppose\nthat it was after centuries of gradual training and development in\nseamanship that the latter attained the superiority at sea which they held\nat the beginning of the Viking age, when they took large fleets over the\nNorth Sea and the Arctic Ocean as though these were their home waters.\nWhen we further consider how, since that time, the type of ships, rigging\nand sails has persisted almost without a change for eleven hundred years,\nto the ten-oared and eight-oared boats of our own day--which until a few\nyears ago were the almost universal form of boat in the whole of northern\nNorway--it will appear improbable that the type of ship and the\ncorresponding skill in seamanship required a much shorter time for their\ndevelopment.[221]\n\n[Illustration: Rock-carvings in Bohuslen]\n\n[Sidenote: The Ships of the rock-carvings]\n\nThe first literary mention of the Scandinavians' boats occurs in Tacitus,\nwho speaks of the fleets and rowing-boats without sails of the Suiones\n(see above, p. 110). But long before that time we find ships commonly\nrepresented on the rock-carvings which are especially frequent in Bohuslen\nand in the districts east of Christiania Fjord. If these were naturalistic\nrepresentations they would give us valuable information about the form and\nsize of the ships of those remote times. But the distinct and\ncharacteristic features which are common to all these pictures of ships,\nfrom Bohuslen to as far north as Beitstaden, show them to be conventional\nfigures, and we cannot therefore draw any certain conclusions from them\nwith regard to the appearance of the ships.\n\n    Dr. Andr. M. Hansen [1908], with his usual imaginativeness, has\n    pointed out the resemblance between the rock-carvings and the\n    vase-paintings of the Dipylon period in Attica, and thinks there is a\n    direct connection between them. It appears highly probable that the\n    style of the rock-carvings is not a wholly native northern art, but is\n    due more or less to influence from the countries of the Mediterranean\n    or the East, in the same way as we have seen that the burial customs\n    (dolmens, chambered barrows, etc.) came from these. Dr. Hansen has,\n    however, exaggerated the resemblance between the Dipylon art and the\n    rock-carvings; many of the resemblances are clearly due to the fact\n    that the same subjects are represented (e.g., spear-throwing,\n    fighting with raised weapons, rowers, horsemen, chariots, etc.); it\n    may also be mentioned that such signs as the wheel or the solar symbol\n    (the eye) are common to wide regions of culture. On the other hand,\n    there are differences in other important features; thus, the mode of\n    representing human beings is not the same, as asserted by Hansen; the\n    characteristic \"Egyptian\" style of the men depicted in the Dipylon\n    art, with broad, rectangular shoulders and narrow waists, is just what\n    one does not find in the rock-carvings, where on the contrary men are\n    depicted in the more naturalistic style which one recognises among\n    many other peoples in a savage state of culture. Hansen also lays\n    stress upon resemblances to figures from Italy. But what most\n    interests us here is the number of representations of ships in the\n    rock-carvings, which for the most part show a remarkable uniformity as\n    regards their essential features, while they differ from all pictures\n    of ships, not only in the art of the Dipylon and of the Mediterranean\n    generally, but also in that of Egypt and Assyria-Babylonia. The boats\n    or ships depicted in the rock-carvings are so strange-looking that\n    doubts have been expressed whether they are boats or ships at all, or\n    whether it is not something else that is intended, sledges, for\n    instance. There is no indication of the oars, which are so\n    characteristic of all delineations of ships in Greece, Italy, Egypt\n    and Assyria; nor is there any certain indication of sails or rudders,\n    which are also characteristic of southern art. Moreover, the lowest\n    line, which should answer to the keel, is often separated at both ends\n    from the upper line, which should be the top strake. On the other hand\n    the numerous figures in the \"boats\" can with difficulty be regarded as\n    anything but men, and most probably rowers, sometimes as many as fifty\n    in number, besides the unmistakable figures of men standing, some of\n    them armed; and it must be added that if these pictures represented\n    nothing but sledges, it is inconceivable that there should never be\n    any indication of draught animals. But one remarkable point about\n    these numerous carvings is the typical form both of the prow and of\n    the stern-post. With comparatively few exceptions the prow has two\n    turned-up beaks, which are difficult to understand. It has been\n    attempted to explain one of these as an imitation of the rams of Greek\n    and Ph\u0153nician warships; but in that case it ought to be directed\n    forward and not bent up. The shape of the stern-post is also curious:\n    for what one must regard as the keel of the ship has in all these\n    representations a blunt after end, curiously like a sledge-runner;\n    while the upper line of the ship, which should correspond to the top\n    strake, is bent upward and frequently somewhat forward, in a more or\n    less even curve, sometimes ending in a two- or three-leaved ornament,\n    somewhat like the stern-post of Egyptian ships (see p. 23). This mode\n    of delineation became so uniformly fixed that besides occurring in\n    almost all the rock-carvings it appears again in an even more\n    carefully executed form in the knives of the later Bronze Age. Such a\n    type of ship, with a keel ending bluntly aft, is not known in ancient\n    times in Europe, either in the Mediterranean or in the North.[222]\n    Egyptian, Assyro-Ph\u0153nician, Greek and Roman representations of ships\n    (see pp. 7, 23, 35, 48, 241, 242), all show a keel which bends up to\n    form a continuously curved stern-post; and both the Nydam boat from\n    Sleswick (p. 110) and the Norwegian Viking ships that have been\n    discovered agree in having a similar turned-up stern-post, which forms\n    a continuous curve from the keel itself (pp. 246, 247); it is the same\n    with delineations of the later Iron Age (p. 243). Even Tacitus\n    expressly says that the ships of the Suiones were alike fore and aft.\n    The only similar stern-posts to be found are possibly the abruptly\n    ending ones of the ship and boats on the grave-stone from Novilara in\n    Italy; but here the prows are quite unlike those of the rock-carvings.\n\n[Illustration: Rock-carving at Bj\u00f6rnstad in Skjeberg, Sm\u00e5lenene. The\nlength of the ship is nearly fifteen feet (from a photograph by Professor\nG. Gustafson)]\n\n[Illustration: Bronze knife with representation of a ship, of the later\nBronze Age. Denmark]\n\n[Illustration: Carvings on a grave-stone at Novilara, Italy]\n\n    As therefore this representation of the ship's stern-post does not\n    correspond to any known type of ancient boat or ship, as it is also\n    difficult to understand how the people of the rock-carvings came to\n    represent a boat with two upturned prows, and as further there is a\n    striking similarity between the lowest line of the keel and a\n    sledge-runner, one might be tempted to believe that by an association\n    of ideas these delineations have become a combination of ship and\n    sledge. These rock-carvings may originally have been connected with\n    burials, and the ship, which was to bear the dead, may have been\n    imagined as gliding on the water, on ice, or through the air, to the\n    realms of the departed, and thus unconsciously the keel may have been\n    given the form of a runner. It may be mentioned as a parallel that in\n    the \"kennings\" of the far later poetry of the Skalds a ship is called,\n    for instance, the \"ski\" of the sea, or, vice versa, a ski or sledge\n    may be called the ship of the snow. The sledge was moreover the\n    earliest form of contrivance for transport. In this connection there\n    may also be a certain interest in the fact that in Egypt the mummies\n    of royal personages were borne to the grave in funereal boats upon\n    sledges. That the rock-carvings were originally associated with\n    burials may also be indicated by the fact that the carved stones of\n    the Iron Age, which in a way took the place of the rock-carvings,\n    frequently represent the dead in boats on their way to the underworld\n    or the world beyond the grave (see illustration, p. 243). That ships\n    played a prominent part in connection with the dead appears also from\n    the remarkable burial-places formed by stones set up in the form of a\n    ship, the so-called ship-settings, in Sweden and the Baltic provinces,\n    as well as in Denmark and North Germany. These belong to the early\n    Iron Age. The usual burial in a ship covered by a mound, in the later\n    Iron Age, is well known. We seem thus to be able to trace a certain\n    continuity in these customs. A certain continuity even in the\n    representation of ships may also be indicated by the striking\n    resemblance that exists between the two- or three-leaved, lily-like\n    prow ornament on the rock-carvings, on the knives of the later Bronze\n    Age, on the grave-stone of Novilara, and on such late representations\n    as some of the ships of the Bayeux tapestry. The upturned prows of the\n    ships of the rock-carvings also frequently end in spirals like the\n    stern-post on the stone at Stenkyrka in Gotland (p. 243), and both\n    prows and stern on other stones of the later Iron Age from Gotland.\n\n[Illustration: Ship from the Bayeux tapestry (eleventh century), and\nrock-carving]\n\nAll are agreed in referring the rock-carvings to the Bronze Age; but while\nO. Montelius, for example, puts certain of them as early as between 1450\nand 1250 B.C., A. M. Hansen has sought to bring them down to as late as\n500 B.C. In any case they belong to a period that is long anterior to the\nbeginning of history in the North. From whence and by what route this art\ncame it is difficult to say. Along the same line of coasts by which the\nmegalithic graves, dolmens and chambered barrows made their way from the\nMediterranean to the North (see p. 22) rock-carvings are also to be found\nscattered through North Africa, Italy (the Alps), Southern France, Spain,\nPortugal, Brittany, England, Ireland and Scotland. It may be reasonable to\nsuppose that this practice of engraving figures on stone came first from\nEgypt at the close of the Stone Age; but the rock-carvings of the west\ncoast of Europe and of the British Isles are distinct in their whole\ncharacter from those of Scandinavia, and do not contain representations of\nships[223] and men, which are such prominent features of the latter; but\ncommon to both are the characteristic cup-markings, besides the wheel, or\nsolar signs (with a cross), foot-soles, and also spirals. There may thus\nbe a connection, but we must suppose that the rock-carvings underwent an\nindependent development in Scandinavia (like the Bronze Age culture as a\nwhole)--if it could not be explained by an eastern communication with the\nsouth through Russia, which however is not probable--and as the\nrepresentation of ships came to be so common, we must conclude it to be\nhere connected with a people of strong seafaring tendencies. Since the\nships depicted on the rock-carvings cannot, so far as we know at present,\nhave been direct imitations of delineations of ships derived from\nabroad--even though they may be connected with forms of religion and\nburial customs that were more or less imported--we are, as yet at least,\nbound to believe that the people who made the rock-carvings had boats or\nships which furnished the models for their conventional representations.\nAnd when we see that these people went to work to engrave on the rocks\npictures of ships which are fifteen feet in length, and have as many as\nfifty rowers,[224] we are bound to believe that in any case they were able\nto imagine ships of this size. It is also remarkable that rock-carvings\nare most numerous precisely in those districts, Viken and Bohuslen, where\nwe may expect that the seamanship of the Scandinavians first attained a\nhigher degree of perfection if it was first imported from the south-east.\nWith this would also agree Professor Montelius's theory: that at a very\nmuch earlier time, about the close of the Stone Age, direct communication\nalready existed between the west coast of Sweden and Britain, which he\nconcludes from remarkable points of correspondence in stone cists with a\nhole at the end, and other features.\n\n[Illustration: Shipment of tribute. From the bronze doors from Babavat,\nAssyria (British Museum)]\n\n[Illustration: Warship of Ramses III., circa 1200 B.C.]\n\n[Sidenote: The earliest boats of Northern Europe]\n\nIt is difficult to say how the Scandinavians at the outset arrived at\ntheir boats and ships, such as we know them from the boats found at Nydam\nin Sleswick and the Viking ships discovered in Norwegian burial-mounds.\nThey are of the same type that in Norway, in the districts of Sunnm\u00f6r and\nNordland, has persisted to our time, and they show a mastery both in their\nlines and in their workmanship that must have required a long period for\nits development. From the accounts of many contemporaries, as well as from\narch\u00e6ological finds, we know that even so late as the first and second\ncenturies A.D. large canoes, made of dug-out tree trunks, were in common\nuse on the north coast of Germany between the Elbe and the Rhine, and\nthere can be no doubt that this was the original form of boat in the north\nand west of Central Europe. In England similar canoes made of the dug-out\ntrunks of oaks have been found with a length of as much as forty-eight\nfeet; they have also been found in Scotland, in Bremen and in\nSleswick-Holstein (in many cases over thirty-eight feet long), with holes\nfor oars. It is related of the Saxons north of the Elbe, who at an early\nperiod made piratical raids on coasts to the south of them, that they\nsailed in small boats made of wicker-work, with an oaken keel and covered\nwith hides. Besides these they clearly had dug-out canoes; but in the\nthird century A.D. it is recorded that they built ships on the Roman\nmodel. The only people north of the Mediterranean of whom we know with\ncertainty that they had their own well-developed methods of shipbuilding\nare, as already mentioned (p. 39), the Veneti at the mouth of the Loire,\nwhose powerful and seaworthy ships of oak are described by C\u00e6sar. That the\nScandinavians should have derived their methods from them cannot be\nregarded as probable, unless it can be proved that the intervening peoples\npossessed something more than primitive canoes and coracles. We must\ntherefore believe, either that the Scandinavians developed their methods\nof shipbuilding quite independently, or that they had communication with\nthe Mediterranean by some other route than the sea. Now in many important\nfeatures there is such a great resemblance between the Norwegian Viking\nships and pictorial representations of Greek ships, and of even earlier\nEgyptian and Assyrian ships, that it is difficult to avoid the conclusion\nthat some connection must have existed. For instance, the resemblance\nbetween the strikingly lofty prows and stern-posts, sometimes bent back,\nwith characteristic ornamentation, and animal heads, which are already to\nbe found in Egyptian and Assyrian representations, cannot be explained\noffhand as coincidences occurring in types independently developed. They\nare decorations, and cannot have contributed to the seaworthiness of the\nboats or had any practical purpose, unless the animal heads were intended\nto frighten enemies (?). It is true that lofty and remarkable prows are to\nbe found in boats from such a widely separated region of culture as\nPolynesia; but in the first place it is not impossible that here too there\nmay be a distant connection with the Orient, and in the second, the\nMediterranean and Scandinavian forms of ship are so characteristic,\ncompared with those of other parts of the world, that we necessarily place\nthem apart as belonging to a distinct sphere of culture. Another\ncharacteristic of these boats and ships is the oars with rowlocks (open or\nclosed), instead of paddles. The rudder of the Viking ship (see\nillustrations, pp. 246, 247, 248, 250) is also in appearance and mode of\nuse so remarkably like the Egyptian rudder of as early as circa 1600 B.C.\n(see illustrations, pp. 7, 23), and the Greek (p. 48),[225] that it is not\neasy to believe that this, together with all the other resemblances, were\nindependent discoveries of the North. The square sail and mast of the\nScandinavian boat also closely resemble those of Egyptian, Ph\u0153nician,\nGreek and Italian ships as depicted.\n\n[Illustration: Stone from Stenkyrka in Gotland (ninth century)]\n\nIt may be supposed that the communication which originally produced these\nresemblances did not take place by the sea-route, round the coasts of\nwestern Europe, but overland between the Black Sea and the Baltic. It is\nthus possible that the Scandinavian type of boat first began to be\ndeveloped in the closed waters of the Baltic. It is here too that the\nboats of the Scandinavians (Suiones) are first mentioned in literature by\nTacitus, and it is here that the earliest known boats of Scandinavian type\nhave been found; these are the three remarkable boats of about the third\ncentury A.D. which were discovered at Nydam, near Flensburg. The best\npreserved of them (p. 110) is of oak, about seventy-eight feet long, with\nfourteen oars on each side, and it carried a crew of about forty men. The\nboats terminated in exactly the same way fore and aft, agreeing with what\nTacitus says of the boats of the Suiones; and they could be rowed in both\ndirections. They had rowlocks with oar-grummets like those in use on the\nwest coast and in the northern part of Norway. There is no indication of\nthe boats having had masts and sails, which also agrees with Tacitus.\nThere can be no doubt that we have here the typical Scandinavian form of\nboat, with such fine lines and such excellent workmanship that it can only\nbe due to an ancient culture the development of which had extended over\nmany centuries.\n\nFrom the Baltic this form of boat may have spread to Norway, where it\ngradually attained its greatest perfection; and it is worth remarking that\nin that very district where the Baltic type of boat derived from the\nsouth-east reached a coast with superior harbours, richer fisheries, and\nbetter opportunities for longer sea voyages, namely, in Bohuslen and\nViken, we find also the greater number of rock-carvings with\nrepresentations of ships. It is moreover a question whether the very name\nof \"Vikings\" is not connected with this district, and did not originally\nmean men from Viken, Vikv\u00e6rings; as they were specially prominent, the\nname finally became a common designation for all Scandinavians, as had\nformerly been the case with the names Eruli, Saxons, Danes.[226] In the\ncourse of their voyages towards the south-west the Scandinavians may also\nhave met very early with ships from the Mediterranean, which, for\ninstance, were engaged in the tin trade with the south of England, or may\neven have reached the amber coast, and thus fresh influence from the\nMediterranean may have been added. When we see how in the fifth century\nroving Eruli reached as far as Italy in their ships, this will not appear\nimpossible; and if there is any contrivance that we should expect to show\na certain community of character over a wide area, it is surely the ship\nor boat.\n\nTacitus says that the fleets of the Suiones consisted of row-boats without\nsails. It is difficult to contest the accuracy of so definite a statement,\nespecially as it is supported by the Nydam find, and by the circumstance\nthat the Anglo-Saxons appear to have crossed the sea to Britain in nothing\nbut row-boats; but Tacitus is speaking of warships in particular, and it\nis impossible that sails should not have been known and used in\nScandinavia, and especially in Norway, at that time. There are possibly\nindications of sails even in the rock-carvings (see the first example in\nillustration, p. 236), and in the ornaments on the knives of the Bronze\nAge (see illustration, p. 238). In the case of a people whose lot it was\nto live to so great an extent on and by the sea, it is scarcely to be\nsupposed that any very long time should elapse before they thought of\nmaking use of the wind, even if they did not originally derive the\ninvention of sails from the Mediterranean.\n\nJust as the Ph\u0153nicians and the Greeks had swift-sailing longships for war\nand piracy, and other, broader sailing-ships for trade (see p. 48), so\nalso did the Scandinavians gradually develop two kinds of craft: the swift\nlongships, and the broader and heavier trading-vessels, called \"bosses\"\nand \"knars.\"\n\n[Sidenote: Shipbuilding in Norway]\n\nBut even if northern shipbuilding exhibits a connection with that of the\nMediterranean, and thus was no more spontaneous in its growth than any\nother form of culture in the world, the type of ship produced by the\nScandinavians was nevertheless undoubtedly superior to all that had\npreceded it, just as they themselves were incontestably the most skilful\nseamen of their time. The perfection and refinement of form, with fine\nlines, which we find in the three preserved boats from Nydam, and in the\nthree ships of the beginning of the Viking age, or about the year 800,\ngive evidence in each case of centuries of culture in this province; and\nwhen we see the richness of workmanship expended on the Oseberg ship and\nall the utensils that were found with it, we understand that it was no\nupstart race that produced all this, but a people that may well have\nsailed the North Sea even a thousand years earlier, in the time of\nPytheas.\n\n[Illustration: The preserved portion of the Viking ship from Gokstad, near\nSandefjord (ninth century)]\n\nThe immigration to Norway of many tribes may itself have taken place by\nsea. Thus the Horder and Ryger are certainly the same tribes as the\n\"Harudes\" (the \"Charudes\" of the emperor Augustus and of Ptolemy),\ndwelling in Jutland and on the Rhine (cf. C\u00e6sar), and the \"Rugii\" west of\nthe Vistula on the south coast of the Baltic (from whom possibly R\u00fcgen\ntakes its name).[227] They came by the sea route to western Norway\nstraight from Jutland and North Germany, and there must thus have been\ncommunication between these countries at that time; but how early we do\nnot know; it may have been at the beginning of our era, and it may have\nbeen earlier.[228] But the fact that whole tribes were able to make so\nlong a migration by sea indicates in any case a high development of\nnavigation, and again it is on the Baltic that we first find it.\n\n[Illustration: The Viking ship from Oseberg, near T\u00f6nsberg (ninth\ncentury)]\n\nThe shipbuilding and seamanship of the Norwegians mark a new epoch in the\nhistory both of navigation and discovery, and with their voyages the\nknowledge of northern lands and waters was at once completely changed. As\npreviously pointed out (p. 170), we notice this change of period already\nin Ottar's communications to King Alfred, but their explorations of land\nand sea begin more particularly with the colonisation of Iceland, which\nin its turn became the starting-point for expeditions farther west.\n\nWe find accounts of these voyages of discovery in the old writings and\nsagas, a large part of which was put into writing in Iceland. A sombre\nundercurrent runs through these narratives of voyages in unknown seas;\neven though they may be partly legendary, they nevertheless bear witness\nin their terseness to the silent struggle of hardy men with ice, storms,\ncold and want, in the light summer and long, dark winter of the North.\n\n[Illustration: Ships from the Bayeux tapestry (eleventh century)]\n\n[Sidenote: The Norwegians' appliances for navigation]\n\nThey had neither compass, nor astronomical instruments, nor any of the\nappliances of our time for finding their position at sea; they could only\nsail by the sun, moon and stars, and it seems incomprehensible how for\ndays and weeks, when these were invisible, they were able to find their\ncourse through fog and bad weather; but they found it, and the open craft\nof the Norwegian Vikings, with their square sails, fared north and west\nover the whole ocean, from Novaya Zemlya and Spitsbergen to Greenland,\nBaffin's Bay, Newfoundland and North America, and over these lands and\nseas the Norsemen extended their dominion. It was not till five hundred\nyears later that the ships of other nations were to make their way to the\nsame regions.\n\n[Illustration: Landing of William the Conqueror's ships in England. Bayeux\ntapestry (eleventh century)]\n\nThe lodestone, or compass, did not reach the Norwegians till the\nthirteenth century.[229] As to what means they had before that time for\nfinding their course at sea, Norse-Icelandic literature contains extremely\nscanty statements. We see that to them, as to the Ph\u0153nicians before them,\nthe pole-star was the lodestar, and that they sometimes used\nbirds--ravens--to find out the direction of land; but we also hear that\nwhen they met with fog or cloudy weather they drifted without knowing\nwhere they were, and sometimes went in the opposite direction to that they\nexpected, as in Thorstein Ericson's attempt to make Wineland from\nGreenland, where they arrived off Iceland instead of off America. Even\nwhen after a long period of dull weather they saw the sun again, it could\nnot help them to determine their direction at all accurately, unless they\nknew the approximate time of day; but their sense of time was certainly\nfar keener than ours, which has been blunted by the use of clocks. Several\naccounts show that on land the Scandinavians knew how to observe the sun\naccurately, in what quarter and at what time it set, how long the day or\nthe night lasted at the summer or winter solstice, etc. From this they\nformed an idea of their northern latitude. Amongst other works a treatise\nof the close of the thirteenth century or later included in the fourth\npart of the collection \"Rymbegla\" [1780, pp. 472 ff.] shows that they may\neven have understood how to take primitive measurements of the sun's\naltitude at noon with a kind of quadrant. But they can scarcely have been\nable to take observations of this kind on board ship during their long\nvoyages in early times, and they still less understood how to compute the\nlatitude from such measurements except perhaps at the equinoxes and\nsolstices. It is true that from the narrative, to be mentioned later, of a\nvoyage in the north of Baffin's Bay, about 1267, it appears that at sea\nalso they attempted to get an idea of the sun's altitude by observing\nwhere the shadow of the gunwale, on the side nearest the sun, fell on a\nman lying athwartships when the sun was in the south. With all its\nimperfection this shows that at least they observed the sun's\naltitude.[230] In order to form some idea of their western or eastern\nlongitude they cannot have had any other means than reckoning; and so long\nas the sun and stars were visible, and they knew in what direction they\nwere sailing, they undoubtedly had great skill in reckoning this. In thick\nweather they could still manage so long as the wind held unaltered; but\nthey could not know when it changed; they were then obliged to judge from\nsuch signs as birds, of what country they were, and in what direction they\nflew; we hear occasionally that they had birds from Ireland, or from\nIceland, and so on. The difference in the fauna of birds might give them\ninformation. In their sailing directions it is also stated that they\nobserved the whale; thus in the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k (Hauksb\u00f3k) we read that when\nsailing from Norway to Greenland one should keep far enough to the south\nof Iceland to have birds and whales from thence. This is more difficult to\nunderstand, as the whale is not confined to the land, and the same whales\nare found in various parts of the northern seas. But drift-ice or\nice-bergs, if they met them, might serve to show their direction, as might\noccasionally driftwood or floating seaweed. The colour of the sea may\ncertainly have been of importance to such keen observers, even though we\nhear nothing of it; it cannot have escaped them, for instance, that the\nwater of the Gulf Stream was of a purer blue than the rather\ngreenish-brown water of the coastal current near Norway and in the North\nSea, or in the East Iceland Polar Current; the difference between the\nwater of the East Greenland Polar Current and in the Atlantic is also\nstriking. It may likewise be supposed that men who were dependent to such\na degree on observing every sign may have remarked the distribution in the\nocean of so striking a creature as the great red jelly-fish. If so, it may\noften have given them valuable information of their approximate position.\nThey used the lead, as appears, amongst other authorities, from the\n\"Historia Norwegi\u00e6,\" where we read that Ingolf and Hjorleif found Iceland\n\"by probing the waves with the lead.\"\n\n[Illustration: Seal of the town of Dover, 1284]\n\nBut that it was not always easy to find their course is shown, amongst\nother instances, by the account of Eric the Red's settlement in Greenland,\nwhen twenty-five ships left Iceland, but only fourteen are said to have\narrived. Here, as elsewhere, it was the more capable commanders who came\nthrough.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nTHE NORWEGIAN SETTLEMENT IN ICELAND\n\n[Sidenote: Oldest authorities]\n\nThe island of Iceland is mentioned, as we have seen, for the first time in\nliterature by Dicuil, in 825, who calls it Thyle and speaks of its\ndiscovery by the Irish. As he says nothing about \"Nortmannic\" pirates\nhaving arrived there, whereas he mentions their having expelled the Irish\nmonks from the Faroes, we may conclude that the Norsemen had not yet\nreached Iceland at that time. The first certain mention of the name\nIceland is in the German poem \"Meregarto\" (see p. 181),[231] and in Adam\nof Bremen, where we find the first description of the island derived from\na Scandinavian source (see p. 193).\n\nNarratives of its discovery by the Norsemen and of their first settlement\nthere are to be found in Norse-Icelandic literature; but they were written\ndown 250 or 300 years after the events. These narratives of the first\ndiscoverers mentioned by name and their deeds, which were handed down by\ntradition for so long a time, can therefore scarcely be regarded as more\nthan legendary; nevertheless they may give us a picture in broad outlines\nof how voyages of discovery were accomplished in those times.\n\nAs the Norwegians visited the Scottish islands and Ireland many centuries\nbefore they discovered Iceland, it is highly probable that they had\ninformation from the Irish of this great island to the north-west; if so,\nit was natural that they should afterwards search for it, although\naccording to most Norse-Icelandic accounts it is said to have been found\naccidentally by mariners driven out of their course.\n\n[Sidenote: Are Frode on the settlement of Iceland]\n\nAccording to the sagas a Norwegian Viking, Grim Kamban, had established\nhimself in the Faroes (about 800 A.D.) and had expelled thence the Irish\npriests; but possibly there was a Celtic population, at any rate in the\nsouthern islands (cf. p. 164). After that time there was comparatively\nactive communication between the islands and Norway, and it was on the way\nto the Faroes or to the Scottish islands that certain voyagers were said\nto have been driven northward by a storm to the great unknown island. The\nearliest and, without comparison, the most trustworthy authority, Are\nFrode,[232] gives in his \"\u00cdslendingab\u00f3k\" (of about 1120-1130) no\ninformation of any such discovery, and this fact does not tend to\nstrengthen one's belief in it. Are tells us briefly and plainly:\n\n    \"Iceland was first settled from Norway in the days of Harold Fairhair,\n    the son of Halfdan the Black; it was at that time--according to Teit,\n    Bishop Isleif's son, my foster-brother, the wisest man I have known,\n    and Thorkel Gellisson, my uncle, whose memory was long, and Thorid,\n    Snorre Gode's daughter, who was both exceeding wise and truthful--when\n    Ivar, Ragnar Lodbrok's son, caused St. Edmund, the king of the Angles\n    [i.e., the English king], to be slain. And that was 870 winters after\n    the birth of Christ, as it is written in his saga. Ingolf hight the\n    Norseman of whom it is truthfully related that he first fared thence\n    [from Norway] to Iceland, when Harold Fairhair was sixteen winters\n    old, and for the second time a few winters later; he settled south in\n    Reykjarvik; the place is called Ingolfsh\u00f6vde; Minthakseyre, where he\n    first came to land, but Ingolfsfell, west of \u00d6lfoss\u00e5, of which he\n    afterwards possessed himself. At that time Iceland was clothed with\n    forest [i.e., birch forest] from the mountains to the strand. There\n    were Christian men here, whom the Norsemen called 'Papar' ...\" and who\n    were Irish, as already mentioned, pp. 165 f. \"And then there was great\n    resort of men hither from Norway, until King Harold forbade it, since\n    he thought that the land [i.e., Norway] would be deserted,\" etc.\n\nWe may certainly assume that this description of Are's is at least as\ntrustworthy as the later statements on the same subject; but as Are\nprobably also wrote a larger \u00cdslendingab\u00f3k, which is now lost, there is a\npossibility that he there related the discovery of Iceland in greater\ndetail, and that the later authors have drawn from it.\n\n[Illustration: Dragon-ship with a king and warrior (from the Flateyjarb\u00f3k,\ncirca 1390)]\n\n[Sidenote: Tjodrik Monk on the discovery of Iceland]\n\nThe next written account of the discovery of Iceland is found in the\n\"Historia de Antiquitate regum Norwagiensium\"[233] of the Norwegian monk\nTjodrik (written about 1180), where we read:\n\n    \"In Harold's ninth year--some think in his tenth--certain merchants\n    sailed to the islands which we call 'Phari\u00e6' ['F\u00e6reyjar' == the\n    Faroes]; there they were attacked by tempest and wearied long and\n    sore, until at last they were driven by the sea to a far distant land,\n    which some think to have been the island of Thule; but I cannot either\n    confirm or deny this, as I do not know the true state of the matter.\n    They landed and wandered far and wide; but although they climbed\n    mountains, they nowhere found trace of human habitation. When they\n    returned to Norway they told of the country they had found and by\n    their praises incited many to seek it. Among them especially a chief\n    named Ingolf, from the district that is called Hordaland; he made\n    ready a ship, associated with himself his brother-in-law Hjorleif and\n    many others, and sought and found the country we speak of, and began\n    to settle it together with his companions, about the tenth year of\n    Harold's reign. This was the beginning of the settlement of that\n    country which we now call Iceland--unless we take into account that\n    certain persons, very few in number, from Ireland (that is, little\n    Britain) are believed to have been there in older times, to judge from\n    certain books and other articles that were found after them.\n    Nevertheless two others preceded Ingolf in this matter; the first was\n    named Gar\u00f0ar, after whom the land was at first called Gar\u00f0arsholmr,\n    the second was named Floki. But what I have related may suffice\n    concerning this matter.\"\n\n[Sidenote: \"Historia Norwegi\u00e6\"]\n\nIt is probable that Tjodrik Monk was acquainted with Are Frode's\n\u00cdslendingab\u00f3k, or at least had sources connected with it. In the \"Historia\nNorwegi\u00e6\" by an unknown Norwegian author (written according to G. Storm\nabout 1180-1190, but probably later, in the thirteenth century)[234] we\nread of the discovery of Iceland [Storm, 1880, p. 92]:\n\n    \"Next, to the west, comes the great island which by the Italians is\n    called Ultima Tile; but now it is inhabited by a considerable\n    multitude, while formerly it was waste land, and unknown to men, until\n    the time of Harold Fairhair. Then certain Norsemen, namely Ingolf and\n    Hjorleif, fled thither from their native land, being guilty of\n    homicide, with their wives and children, and resorted to this island,\n    which was first discovered by Gardar and afterwards by another (?),\n    and found it at last, by probing the waves with the lead.\"\n\n[Sidenote: The Landn\u00e1ma on the discovery of Iceland]\n\nIn Sturla's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, called the Sturlub\u00f3k, of about 1250, we find\nalmost the same story of the first discovery as in Tjodrik Monk. It runs:\n\n    \"Thus it is related that men were to go from Norway to the\n    Faroes--some mention Naddodd the Viking among them--but were driven\n    westward in the ocean and there found a great land. They went up a\n    high mountain in the East-fjords and looked around them, whether they\n    could see smoke or any sign that the land was inhabited, and they saw\n    nothing. They returned in the autumn to the Faroes. And as they sailed\n    from the land, much snow fell upon the mountains, and therefore they\n    called the land Snowland. They praised the land much. It is now called\n    Reydarfjeld in the East-fjords, where they landed, so said the priest\n    S\u00e6mund the Learned. There was a man named Gardar Svavarsson, of\n    Swedish kin, and he went forth to seek Snowland, by the advice of his\n    mother, who had second sight. He reached land east of East Horn, where\n    there was then a harbour. Gardar sailed around the country and proved\n    that it was an island. He wintered in the north at Husavik in\n    Skialfanda and there built a house. In the spring, when he was ready\n    for sea, a man in a boat, whose name was Nattfari, was driven away\n    from him, and a thrall and a bondwoman. He afterwards dwelt at the\n    place called Natfaravik. Gardar then went to Norway and praised the\n    land much. He was the father of Uni, the father of Hroar Tungugodi.\n    After that the land was called Gardarsholm, and there was then forest\n    between the mountains and the strand.\"\n\n    In Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k (of the beginning of the fourteenth century)\n    Gardar's voyage is mentioned as the first, and Naddodd's as the\n    second, and it is said of Gardar that he was \"son of Svavar the Swede;\n    he owned lands in Sealand, but was born in Sweden. He went to the\n    Southern isles [Hebrides] to fetch her father's inheritance for his\n    wife. But as he was sailing through Pettlands firth [Pentland, between\n    Orkney and Shetland] a storm drove him back, and he drifted westward\n    in the ocean, etc.\" The Sturlub\u00f3k was doubtless written some fifty\n    years before Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, and was the authority for the latter\n    and for the lost Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k of Styrmir enn fro\u00f0i[235] (ob. 1245); but\n    as the copy that has come down to us of the Sturlub\u00f3k is later (about\n    1400), many have thought that on this point the Hauksb\u00f3k is more to be\n    relied upon, and have therefore held that according to the oldest\n    Icelandic tradition the Swedish-born Dane Gardar was the first\n    Scandinavian discoverer of Iceland. Support for this view has also\n    been found in the fact that in another passage of the Sturlub\u00f3k we\n    read: \"Uni, son of Gardar who first found Iceland.\" It has therefore\n    been held that it was not till after 1300 that a transposition was\n    made in the order of Gardar's and Naddodd's voyages at the beginning\n    of the book [cf. F. J\u00f4nsson, 1900, p. xxx.]. But this assertion may be\n    doubtful; it seems rather as though the Icelandic tradition itself was\n    uncertain on this point. We have seen above that the Norwegian work\n    \"Historia Norwegi\u00e6\" mentions Gardar as the first; while the yet\n    earlier Tjodrik Monk [1177-1180] has a tale of a first accidental\n    voyage to Iceland, which is the same, in parts word for word, as the\n    stories of both the Sturlub\u00f3k and the Hauksb\u00f3k of Naddodd's voyage,\n    only that Tjodrik mentions no name in connection with it. He certainly\n    says later that Gardar and Floki went there before Ingolf; but this\n    must mean that all three came after the first-mentioned nameless\n    voyage. If we compare with this the vague expression of the Sturlub\u00f3k\n    that \"some mention Naddodd the Viking\" in connection with that first\n    accidental voyage, the logical conclusion must be that there was an\n    old tradition that some one, whose identity is uncertain, had been\n    long ago driven by weather to this Snowland, in the same way as there\n    was a tradition in Iceland that Gunnbj\u00f6rn had been driven long ago to\n    Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries, before Greenland was discovered by Eric the Red.\n    Some have then connected this first storm-driven mariner with a\n    Norwegian Viking-name, Naddodd. Thus are legends formed. But the first\n    man to circumnavigate the country and to become more closely\n    acquainted with it was, according to the tradition, Gardar, whose name\n    was more certainly known; for which reason he was also readily named\n    as the first discoverer of the country (just as Eric the Red and not\n    Gunnbj\u00f6rn was named as the discoverer of Greenland). Hauk Erlendsson\n    then, in agreement with this, amended the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k by placing\n    Gardar's voyage first, while at the same time he made the mention of\n    Naddodd more precise, which was necessary, since his was to be a later\n    and therefore equally well-known voyage. He also gives Naddodd's kin,\n    which is not alluded to in the Sturlub\u00f3k. This hypothesis is\n    strengthened by the latter's vague expression, above referred to,\n    about Naddodd, and by the fact that only Gardar's and Floki's names\n    are mentioned by Tjodrik Monk, and only Gardar and another (Floki ?)\n    in the \"Historia Norwegi\u00e6.\" If Naddodd's voyage had come after\n    Gardar's, and consequently was equally well known, it would be strange\n    that it should not be mentioned together with his and with the third\n    voyage that succeeded them. But the whole question is of little\n    importance, since, as we have said, these narratives must be regarded\n    as mere legends.\n\nThe third voyage, according to both the Hauksb\u00f3k and Sturlub\u00f3k, was made\nby a great Viking named Floki Vilgerdarson. He fitted out in Rogaland to\nseek Gardarsholm (or Snowland). He took with him three ravens which\n\n    \"were to show him the way, since seafaring men had no 'leidarstein'\n    [lodestone, magnetic needle] at that time in the North....\" \"He came\n    first to Hjaltland [Shetland] and lay in Floka-bay. There Geirhild,\n    his daughter, was drowned in Geirhilds-lake.\" \"Floki then sailed to\n    the Faroes, and there gave his [other] daughter in marriage. From her\n    is come Trond in Gata. Thence he sailed out to sea with the three\n    ravens.... And when he let loose the first it flew back astern [i.e.,\n    towards the Faroes]. The second flew up into the air and back to the\n    ship. The third flew forward over the prow, where they found the land.\n    They came to it on the east at Horn. They then sailed along the south\n    of the land. But when they were sailing to the west of Reykjanes and\n    the fjord opened up, so that they saw Sn\u00e6fellsnes, Faxi [a man on\n    board] said, 'This must be a great land that we have found; here are\n    great waterfalls.' This is since called Faxa-os. Floki and his men\n    sailed west over Breidafjord, and took land there which is called\n    Vatsfjord, by Bardastrond. The fjord was quite full of fish, and on\n    account of the fishing they did not get in hay, and all their cattle\n    died during the winter. The spring was a cold one. Then Floki went\n    northward on the mountain and saw a fjord full of sea-ice. Therefore\n    they called the country Iceland.... In the summer they sailed to\n    Norway. Floki spoke very unfavourably of the country. But Herjolf said\n    both good and evil of the country. But Thorolf said that butter\n    dripped from every blade of grass in the country they had found;\n    therefore he was called Thorolf Sm\u00f6r [Butter].\"\n\nThese three voyages of discovery are supposed to have taken place about\n860-870. A few years after that time began the permanent settlement of the\ncountry by Norwegians; according to the chronicles this was initiated by\nIngolf Arnarson with his establishment at Reykjarvik (about the year 874),\nwhich is mentioned as early as Are Frode (see above, p. 253), and this\nestablishment may be more historical. Harold Fairhair's conquest of the\nwhole of Norway, of which he made one kingdom, and his hard-handed\nprocedure may have been partly responsible for the emigration of\nNorwegians to the poorer island of Iceland; many of the chiefs preferred\nto live a harder life there than to remain at home under Harold's\ndominion. A larger part of the settlers, and among them many of the best,\nhad first emigrated from Norway to the Scottish isles and to Ireland, but\non account of troubles moved once more to Iceland.[236] As has been\nsuggested already (p. 167), there was probably, besides the Irish priests,\nsome Celtic population before the Norwegians arrived, which gave Celtic\nnames to various places in the country. The omission of any mention of\nthese Celts, with the exception of the \"Papar,\" in the Landn\u00e1ma is no more\nsurprising than the strange silence about the primitive people of\nGreenland, whom we now know with certainty to have been in the country\nwhen the Icelanders came thither.\n\n\nTHE DISCOVERY AND SETTLEMENT OF GREENLAND BY THE NORWEGIANS\n\n[Sidenote: Oldest authority on Greenland]\n\nThe earliest mention of Greenland known in literature is that found in\nAdam of Bremen (see above, p. 194). It was written about a hundred years\nafter the probable settlement of the country, and shows that at least the\nname had reached Denmark at that time. In another passage of his work Adam\nsays that \"emissaries from Iceland, Greenland and the Orkneys\" came to\nArchbishop Adalbert of Bremen \"with requests that he would send preachers\nto them.\"\n\n[Illustration: Greenland. The shaded parts along the coast are not covered\nby the inland ice, which otherwise covers the whole of the interior]\n\n[Sidenote: Are Frode, circa 1120]\n\nThe oldest Icelandic account of the discovery of Greenland, and of the\npeople settling there, is found in Are Frode's \u00cdslendingab\u00f3k (c. 1130). He\nhad it from his uncle, Thorkel Gellisson, who had been in Greenland and\nhad conversed with a man who himself had accompanied Eric the Red\nthither. Thorkel lived in the second half of the eleventh century, and\n\"remembered far back.\" Are's statements have thus a good authority, and\nthey may be regarded as fairly trustworthy, at all events in their main\noutlines; for the events were no more remote than a couple of generations,\nand accounts of them may still have been extant in Iceland. Unfortunately\nthe records that have come down to us, from the hand of Are himself, are\nvery brief. He says:\n\n    \"The land which is called Greenland was discovered and settled from\n    Iceland. Eirik Raude [Eric the Red] was the name of a man from\n    Breidafjord, who sailed thither from hence and there took land at the\n    place which is since called Eiriksfjord. He gave the land a name and\n    called it Greenland, and said that having a good name would entice men\n    to go thither. They found there dwelling-sites of men, both in the\n    east and the west of the country, and fragments of boats\n    ('keiplabrot') and stone implements, so that one may judge from this\n    that the same sort of people had been there as inhabited Wineland,\n    whom the Greenlanders[237] call Skr\u00e6lings.[238] Now this, when he\n    betook himself to settling the country, was fourteen or fifteen\n    winters before Christianity came here to Iceland,[239] according to\n    what Thorkel Gellisson was told in Greenland by one who himself\n    accompanied Eric the Red thither.\"\n\nIt is strange that we only hear of traces left by the primitive people of\nGreenland, the Skr\u00e6lings or Eskimo. This looks as though Eric the Red did\nnot come across the people themselves, though this seems improbable. We\nshall return to this later, in a special chapter on them.\n\nIt is probable that in other works, which are now lost, Are Frode wrote in\ngreater detail of the discovery of Greenland and its first settlement by\nthe Icelanders, and that later authors, whose works are known to us, have\ndrawn upon him; for where they speak of other events that are mentioned in\nAre's \u00cdslendingab\u00f3k, the same expressions are often used, almost word for\nword. The oldest of the later accounts known to us, which give a more\ncomplete narrative of the discovery of Greenland, were written between\n1200 and 1305. The Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k may be specially mentioned; upon this is\nbased the Saga of Eric the Red (also called Thorfinn Karlsevne's Saga),\nwritten, according to the opinion of G. Storm, between the years 1270 and\n1300, while Finnur J\u00f3nsson [1901] assigns it to the first half of the\nthirteenth century. By collating these various accounts we can form a\npicture of what took place; even though we must suppose that traditions\nwhich have been handed down orally for so long must in course of time have\nbeen considerably transformed--especially where they cannot have been\nbased on well-known geographical conditions--and that they have received\nmany a feature from other traditions, or from pure legend.\n\n[Sidenote: Gunnbj\u00f6rn Ulfsson]\n\nMany accounts, both in Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k and in the Sturlub\u00f3k, and in\nother sagas, mention that Greenland was first discovered by the Norwegian\nGunnbj\u00f6rn, son of Ulf Kr\u00e5ka, shortly after the settlement of Iceland. On a\nvoyage to Iceland, presumably about the year 900, he was carried out of\nhis course to the west, and saw there a great country, and found certain\nislands or skerries, which were afterwards called \"Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries.\"\nThese must have been off Greenland, most probably near Cape Farewell; but\nif it was late in the summer, in August or September, when there is little\nice along the east coast, he may even have come close to the land farther\nnorth, and there found islands, at Angmagsalik, for instance. It is,\nhowever, of no great importance where it was; for when he saw that it was\nnot Iceland that he had made, but a less hospitable country which did not\nlook inviting for winter quarters, he probably sailed again at once, in\norder to reach his destination before the ice and the late season stopped\nhim, without spending time in exploring the country. Whether Gunnbj\u00f6rn\nestablished himself in Iceland we do not know; but it is recorded that his\nbrother, Grimkell, took land at Sn\u00e6fellsnes and was among the first\nsettlers, and his sons, Gunnstein and Halldor, took land in the north-west\non Isafjord.\n\nVarious later writers have interpreted this to mean that Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries\nlay to the west of Iceland, and far from the great land that Gunnbj\u00f6rn\nsaw; but the earliest notices (in the Hauksb\u00f3k and Sturlub\u00f3k) do not\nwarrant such a view. It has even been suggested as possible that\nGunnbj\u00f6rnskerries lay in the ocean between Iceland and Greenland, but\nwere destroyed later by a volcanic outbreak. In the Dutchman Ruysch's\nmap of 1508 an island is marked in this ocean, with the note that: \"This\nisland was totally consumed in the year 1456 A.D.\"[240] It is\ninconceivable that such an island midway in the course between Iceland and\nGreenland should have entirely escaped mention in the oldest accounts of\nthe voyages of Eric the Red and later settlers in Greenland, to say\nnothing of the circumstance that it would certainly have been mentioned in\nthe ancient sailing-directions (e.g., in the Hauksb\u00f3k and Sturlub\u00f3k) for\nthe voyage from Iceland to Greenland. Nor are there any known banks in\nthis part of the ocean which might indicate that such an island had\nexisted. It is in itself not the least unlikely that Gunnbj\u00f6rn reached\nsome islands of the Greenland coast, and that these in later tradition\nreceived the name of Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries.\n\nThat they were gradually transferred by tradition to a place where islands\nwere no longer to be met with, or which in any case was unapproachable on\naccount of ice, appears from the description of Greenland ascribed to Ivar\nB\u00e1rdsson (probably written in the fifteenth century), where we read:[241]\n\n    \"Item from Sn\u00e6fellsnes in Iceland, which is shortest to Greenland, two\n    days' and two nights' sail, due west is the course, and there lie\n    Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries right in mid-channel between Greenland and Iceland.\n    This was the old course, but now ice has come from the gulf of the sea\n    to the north-east ['landnorden botnen'] so near to the said skerries,\n    that none without danger to life can sail the old course, and be heard\n    of again.\"\n\nLater in the same statement we read:\n\n    \"Item when one sails from Iceland, one must take his course from\n    Sn\u00e6fellsnes ... and then sail due west one day and one night, very\n    slightly to the south-west[242] to avoid the before-mentioned ice\n    which lies off Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries, and then one day and one night due\n    north-west, and thus he will come straight on the said highland Hvarf\n    in Greenland.\"\n\nThis description need not be taken to indicate that the Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries\nwere supposed to lie in the midst of the sea between Iceland and\nGreenland; some place on the east coast of Greenland (e.g., at\nAngmagsalik) may rather be intended, which was sighted on the voyage\nbetween Iceland and the Eastern Settlement (taking \"Greenland\" to mean\nonly the settled districts of the country). The direction \"due west,\netc.,\" for the voyage to the Eastern Settlement is too westerly, unless it\nwas a course by compass, which, although possible, is hardly probable. But\nas we shall see later there is much that is untrustworthy in the\ndescription attributed to Ivar B\u00e1rdsson.\n\nA later tradition of Gunnbj\u00f6rn's voyage also deserves mention; it is found\nin the \"Annals of Greenland\" of the already mentioned Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson of\nSkards\u00e1 (1574-1656), which he compiled from older Icelandic sources, with\ncorrections and \"improvements\" of his own. He says there (\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist.\nMind.,\" i. p. 88) that the reason why Eric the Red\n\n    \"sailed to Greenland was no other than this, that it was in the memory\n    of old people that Gunnbj\u00f6rn, Ulf Kr\u00e5ka's son, was thought to have\n    seen a glacier in the western ocean ('til annars j\u00f6kulsins i\n    vestrhafnu'), but Sn\u00e6fells-glacier here, when he was carried westward\n    on the sea, after he sailed from the Gunnbj\u00f6rn's islands. Iceland was\n    then entirely unsettled, and newly discovered by Gardar, who sailed\n    around the country from ness to ness ('nesjastefnu'), and called it\n    Gardarsholm. But this Gunnbj\u00f6rn, who came next after him, he sailed\n    round much farther out ('dj\u00fapara'), but kept land in sight, therefore\n    he called the islands skerries in contradistinction to the holm [i.e.,\n    Gardarsholm]; but many histories have since called these islands land,\n    sometimes large islands.\"\n\nThis last statement is in any case an explanatory \"improvement\" by Bj\u00f6rn\nJ\u00f3nsson himself, and doubtless this is also true of the rest. According to\nthis the Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries lay even within sight of Iceland. In this\nconnection it is worth remarking that his contemporary Arngrim J\u00f3nsson\nimagines (\"Specim. Island.,\" p. 34) the Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries as a little\nuninhabited island north of Iceland. This would agree best with the little\nMeven-klint, which lies by itself in the Polar Sea fifty-six nautical\nmiles north of land, and perhaps it is not wholly impossible that it was\nrumours of this in later times that gave rise to the ideas of the\nGunnbj\u00f6rnskerries, which however by confusion were transferred westward.\n\nIt was long before any attempt was made, according to the narratives, to\nsearch for the land discovered by Gunnbj\u00f6rn. In Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k [c.\n122] we read:\n\n[Sidenote: Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn Galti and Rolf of Raudesand]\n\n    \"Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn [Galti, Holmsteinsson] owned a ship in Grims\u00e5-os, and Rolf\n    of Raudesand bought a half-share in it.[243] They had twelve men each.\n    With Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn were Thorkel and Sumarlide, sons of Thorgeir Raud, son\n    of Einar of Stafholt. Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn also took with him Thorodd of Thingnes,\n    his foster-father, and his wife, and Rolf took with him Styrbj\u00f6rn, who\n    quoth thus after his dream:\n\n        'The bane I see\n        of both of us,\n        all dolefully\n        north-west in the sea,\n        frost and cold,\n        all kinds of anguish;\n        from such I foresee\n        the slaying of Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn.'\n\n    \"They went to seek for Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries, and found land. Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn\n    would not let any one land at night. Styrbj\u00f6rn went from the ship and\n    found a purse of money in a grave-mound ['kuml,' a cairn over a\n    grave], and hid it. Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn struck at him with an axe, and the purse\n    fell. They built a house, and covered it all over with snow ['ok lagdi\n    hann i fonn']. Thorkel Raudsson found that there was water on the fork\n    that stuck out at the aperture of the hut. That was in the month of\n    Goe.[244] Then they dug themselves out. Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn made ready the ship.\n    Of his people Thorodd and his wife stayed in the house; and of Rolf's\n    Styrbj\u00f6rn and others, and the rest went hunting. Styrbj\u00f6rn slew\n    Thorodd, and both he and Rolf slew Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn. Raud's sons and all the\n    others took oaths [i.e., oaths of fidelity] to save their lives. They\n    came to H\u00e1logaland, and went thence to Iceland, and arrived at\n    Vadil.\" There both Rolf and Styrbj\u00f6rn met their death.\n\n[Illustration: The Eastern Settlement of Greenland. The black points mark\nruins of the homesteads of the ancient Greenlanders (from Finnur J\u00f3nsson,\n1899)]\n\nIt is possible that this strange fragmentary tale points back to an actual\nattempt at settlement in Greenland, due to Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn and Rolf having to\nleave Iceland on account of homicide. The attempt may have been abandoned\non account of dissensions, or because the country was too inhospitable.\nFrom the genealogical information the voyage may possibly be placed a\nlittle earlier than Eric the Red's first voyage to Greenland [cf. K.\nMaurer, 1874, p. 204]. Whereabouts in Greenland they landed and spent the\nwinter is not stated; but the fact that the snow first began to thaw in\nthe month of \"Goe\" would point to a cold climate, and this agrees best\nwith the east coast of Greenland. But the story is so obscure that it is\ndifficult to form any clear opinion as to its general credibility; the\ngrave-mound and the purse of money must in any case have come from\nelsewhere. The circumstance that on their return they sailed first to\nNorway and thence to Iceland may be derived from a later time, when there\nwas no direct communication between Greenland and Iceland, but the\ncommunication with Greenland took place by way of Norway.\n\n[Illustration: The Western Settlement of Greenland. The black points mark\nruins of the homesteads of the ancient Greenlanders (from F. J\u00f3nsson,\n1899)]\n\n[Sidenote: Eric the Red]\n\nThe greatest and most important name connected with the discovery of\nGreenland is without comparison that of Eirik Raude (Erik the Red). The\ndescription of this remarkable man (in the Landn\u00e1ma and in the Saga of\nEric the Red) forms a good picture; warlike and hard as the fiercest\nViking, but at the same time with the superior ability of the born\nexplorer and leader to plan great enterprises, and to carry them out in\nspite of all difficulties. He was a leader of men. He was born in Norway\n(circa 950); but on account of homicide he and his father Thorvald left\nJ\u00e6deren and went to Iceland about 970. They took land on the Horn-strands,\neast of Horn (Cape North). There Thorvald died. Eric then married\nTjodhild, whose mother, Thorbj\u00f6rg Knarrar-bringa (i.e., ship's breast),\nlived in Haukadal. Eric therefore moved south and cleared land in Haukadal\n(inland of Hvamsfjord, north of Sn\u00e6fellsnes) and lived at Eirikstad by\nVatshorn. Eric quarrelled with his neighbours and killed several of them.\nHe was therefore condemned to leave Haukadal. He took land on Brok\u00f6 and\n\u00d6ksn\u00f6, islands outside Hvamsfjord; but after fresh conflicts and slaughter\nhe and his men were declared outlaws for three years, at the Thorsnes\nthing, about 980. Eric then fitted out his ship, and a friend concealed\nhim, while his enemies went all round the islands looking for him.\n\n    \"He told them [i.e., his friends] that he meant to seek the land that\n    Gunnbj\u00f6rn, Ulf Kr\u00e5ka's son, saw when he was driven west of Iceland and\n    found Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries. He said he would come back for his friends,\n    if he found the land. Eric put to sea from Sn\u00e6fells-glacier;[245] he\n    arrived off Mid-glacier, at the place called Bl\u00e1serk. [Thence he went\n    south, to see whether the land was habitable.] He sailed westward\n    round Hvarf [west of Cape Farewell] and spent the first winter in\n    Eiriksey near [the middle of] the Eastern Settlement. Next spring he\n    went to Eiriksfjord [the modern Tunugdliarfik, due north of\n    Julianehaab; see map, p. 265] and gave names to many places. The\n    second winter he was at Eiriksholms by Hvarfsgnipa [Hvarf Point]; but\n    the third summer he went right north to Sn\u00e6fell[246] and into\n    Ravnsfjord.[247] Then he thought he had come farther into the land\n    than the head of Eiriksfjord. He then turned back, and was the third\n    winter in Eiriksey off the mouth of Eiriksfjord. The following summer\n    he went to Iceland, to Breidafjord. He passed that winter at Holml\u00e5t\n    with Ingolf. In the spring they fought with Thorgest [Eric's former\n    enemy], and Eric was beaten. After that they were reconciled. That\n    summer Eric went to settle the land that he had found, and he called\n    it Greenland; because, said he, men would be more willing to go\n    thither if it had a good name.\"\n\n    \"[Eric settled at Brattalid in Eiriksfjord.] Then Are Thorgilsson says\n    that that summer twenty-five ships sailed to Greenland from\n    Borgarfjord and Breidafjord; but only fourteen came there--some were\n    driven back, others were lost. This was sixteen winters before\n    Christianity was made law in Iceland.\"[248] This would therefore be\n    about 984.\n\n[Illustration: View from the mountain Igdlerfigsalik (see map, p. 271)\nover Tunugdliarfik (Eiriksfjord and Brattalid), farther to the left\nSermilik (Isafjord and the Mid-fjords) into which a glacier falls; in the\nright centre Korok-fjord, with a glacier falling into it. The whole\nbackground is covered by the inland ice; behind it on the right the\nNunataks near the east coast. (After D. Bruun, 1896)]\n\nEric the Red's first voyage to Greenland is one of the most remarkable in\nthe history of arctic expeditions, both in itself, on account of the\nmasterly ability it shows, and for the vast consequences it was to have.\nWith the scanty means of equipment and provisioning available at that time\nin the open Viking ships,[249] it was no child's play to set out for an\nunknown arctic land beyond the ice, and to stay there three years.\nPerhaps, of course, he did it from necessity; but he not only came through\nit alive--he employed the three years in exploring the country, from Hvarf\nright up to north of Davis Strait, and from the outermost belt of skerries\nto the head of the long fjords. This was more than 500 years before the\nPortuguese came to the country, and exactly 600 before John Davis thought\nhimself the discoverer of this coast.\n\nBut not only does Eric seem to have been pre-eminent, first as a fighter\nand then as a discoverer; as the leader of the colony founded by him in\nGreenland he must also have had great capabilities; he got people to\nemigrate thither, and looked after them well; and he was regarded as a\nmatter of course as the leading man and chief of the new free state, whom\nevery one visited first on arrival. His successors, who resided at the\nchief's seat of Brattalid, were the first family of the country.\n\n[Illustration: Part of the interior of Eiriksfjord, at Brattalid and\nbeyond. The mountain Igdlerfigsalik in the background (after D. Bruun,\n1896)]\n\nImmigration to Greenland must according to the saga have gone on rapidly;\nfor in the year 1000 there were already so many inhabitants that Olaf\nTryggvason thought it worth while to make efforts to Christianise them,\nand sent a priest there with Eric's son Leif. Eric's wife, Tjodhild, at\nonce received the faith; but the old man himself did not like the new\ndoctrine, and found it difficult to give up his own. Tjodhild built a\nchurch at some distance from the houses; \"there she made her prayers, and\nthose men who accepted Christianity, but they were the most. She would not\nlive with Eric, after she had taken the faith; but to him this was very\ndispleasing.\" In Snorre's Heimskringla we read that men called Leif \"the\nLucky [see Chap. ix.]; but Eric, his father, thought that one thing\nbalanced the other, that Leif had saved the shipwrecked crew and that he\nhad brought the hypocrite ['sk\u00e6mannin'] to Greenland, that is, the\npriest.\"\n\nThe Norsemen established themselves in two districts of Greenland. One of\nthese was the \"Eastern Settlement\" [\u00d6sterbygden], so called because it lay\nfarthest to the south-east on the west coast, between the southern point,\nHvarf, and about 61\u00b0 N. lat. It corresponds to the modern Julianehaab\nDistrict. It was the most thickly populated, and it was here that\nEiriksfjord and Brattalid lay. In the whole \"Settlement\" there are said to\nhave been 190 homesteads [\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 228]. Ruins of\nthese have been found in at least 150 places [cf. D. Bruun, 1896; G. Holm,\n1883].\n\n[Illustration: The central part of the Eastern Settlement. Black points\nmark ancient ruins, crosses mark churches]\n\n[Sidenote: The Western Settlement]\n\nThe other district, the \"Western Settlement\" [Vesterbygden], lay farther\nnorth-west between 63\u00b0 and 66-1/2\u00b0 (see map, p. 266), for the most part in\nthe modern Godthaab District, and its population was densest in\nAmeralik-fjord and Godthaabsfjord. There are said to have been ninety\nhomesteads in this settlement. Many ruins of Norsemen's stone houses are\nstill found in both districts, and they show with certainty where the\nsettlements were and what was their extent.\n\nOn the east coast of Greenland, which is closed by drift-ice for the\ngreater part of the year, the Norsemen had no permanent settlement, and it\nwas only exceptionally that they were able to land there, or they were\nsometimes wrecked in the drift-ice off the coast and had to take refuge\nashore. Several places are, however, mentioned along the southern part of\nthe east coast, where people from the Eastern Settlement probably went\nhunting in the summer.\n\n[Illustration: The plain by Igaliko (Gar\u00f0ar) with ruins. In the background\nthe peaks of Igdlerfigsalik, and in front of them Iganek (after N. P.\nJ\u00f6rgensen)]\n\n[Sidenote: Population]\n\n[Sidenote: Bishops]\n\nThe population of the two settlements in Greenland can scarcely have been\nlarge at any time; perhaps at its highest a couple of thousand altogether.\nIf we take it that there were 280 homesteads, and on an average seven\npersons in each, which is a high estimate, then the total will not be more\nthan 1960. But the long distances caused the building, after the\nintroduction of Christianity, of a comparatively large number of churches,\nnamely, twelve in the Eastern Settlement (where the ruins of only five\nhave been found) and four in the Western Settlement, besides which a\nmonastery and a nunnery are mentioned in the Eastern Settlement. About\n1110 Greenland became an independent bishopric, although it is said in the\n\"King's Mirror\" that\n\n    \"if it lay nearer to other lands it would be reckoned for a third part\n    of a bishopric. But now the people there have nevertheless a bishop\n    of their own; for there is no other way, since the distance between\n    them and other people is so great.\"\n\nThe chief's house Gar\u00f0ar in Einarsfjord (Igaliko) became the episcopal\nresidence. There is a fairly complete record of the bishops of Greenland\ndown to the end of the fourteenth century. During the succeeding century\nand even until 1530 a number of bishops of Greenland are also mentioned,\nwho were appointed, but never went to Greenland.\n\n[Sidenote: Norse literature in Greenland]\n\nEven if the conditions of life in the Greenland settlements were not\nluxurious, they were nevertheless not so hard as to prevent the\ndevelopment of an independent art of poetry. Sophus Bugge points out in\n\"Norr\u0153n Fornkv\u00e6di\" [Christiania, 1867, p. 433] that the \"Atlam\u00e1l en\ngr\u0153nlenzku\" of the Edda is, as its title shows, from Greenland, and was\nmost probably composed there. Finnur J\u00f3nsson [1894, i. pp. 66, 68 ff.;\n1897, pp. 40 ff.] would even refer four or five other Edda-lays to\nGreenland, namely: \"Oddr\u00fanargr\u00e1tr,\" \"Go\u00f0r\u00fanarhvot,\" \"Sigur\u00f0arkvi\u00f0a en\nskamma,\" \"Helgakvi\u00f0a Hundingsbana,\" perhaps also \"Helrei\u00f0 Brynhildar.\" As\nregards the two last-named, the assumption is certainly too doubtful, but\nin the case of the other three it is possible. The \"Nor\u00f0rsetu-dr\u00e1pa,\" to\nbe mentioned later (p. 298), was composed in Greenland; and the so-called\n\"Hafger\u00f0inga-dr\u00e1pa\" may be derived thence; in the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, where one\nor two fragments of it are reproduced, it is said to have been composed by\na \"Christian man (monk ?) from the Southern isles\" (Hebrides), on the way\nthither. The fragments of lays on Fur\u00f0ustrandir and Wineland, which are\ngiven in the Saga of Eric the Red, may possibly also be from Greenland.\nThe fact that the \"Snorra-Edda\" gives a particular kind of metre, called\n\"Gr\u00f6nlenzkr h\u00e1ttr,\"[250] agrees with the view that Greenland had an\nindependent art of poetry.\n\nThe Greenland lays like the Atlam\u00e1l are perhaps not equal to the best\nNorse skald-poetry; but there runs through them a weird, gloomy note\nthat bears witness of the wild nature and the surroundings in which they\nwere composed.\n\n[Illustration: View from the mountain Iganek, looking south over\nIgalikofjord (Einarsfjord) and on the right Tunugdliarfik (Eiriksfjord)\nwith the isthmus at Igaliko (Gar\u00f0ar) between them (after N. P. J\u00f6rgensen,\nsee D. Bruun, 1896)]\n\n[Sidenote: Ruins]\n\n[Sidenote: Food]\n\nWithin the fjords of both the ancient Greenland settlements many ruins of\nformer habitations have been found (see maps, pp. 265, 266, 271); most of\nthese are found in the Eastern Settlement or Julianehaab District [cf.\nespecially D. Bruun, 1896; also G. Holm, 1883]. In a single homestead as\nmany as a score of scattered houses have been found; among them was a\ndwelling-house, and around it byres and stables for cattle, horses, sheep\nand goats, with adjoining hay-barns, or else open hay-fences (round stone\nwalls within which the hay was stacked and covered with turf), besides\nlarders, drying-houses, pens for sheep, fenced fields, etc. There were\nalso fenced outlying hayfields with barns and with summer byres for sheep\nand goats, for they had even mountain pastures and hayfields. Near the\nshore are found sheds, possibly for gear for boats, sealing and fishing,\nbut, on the other hand, there are no actual boathouses. Ruins of several\nchurches (five in the Eastern Settlement) have also been found. The\ndwelling-houses were built of stone and turf, like the Icelandic\nfarmhouses; in exceptional cases clay was also used, while the outhouses\nwere mostly built with dry stone walls. For the timber work of the roofs\ndrift-wood must have been usually employed. The winter byres were of\ncourse made weatherproof. The size of the byres shows that the numbers of\ntheir stock were not inconsiderable, mostly sheep and goats; only where\nthe level lands near the fjords offered specially good pasture was there\nany great number of horned cattle. Everywhere in the neighbourhood of the\nruins stone traps are found which show that the Greenlanders occupied\nthemselves in trapping foxes; a few large traps have been thought to have\nbeen intended for wolves (?), which are now no longer to be found in\nsouthern Greenland. Near the main buildings are found great refuse heaps\n(\"kitchen middens\"), which give us much information as to the life they\nled and what they lived on. Great quantities of bones taken from five\ndifferent sites in the Eastern Settlement (among them the probable sites\nof Brattalid and Gardar) have been examined by the Danish zoologist,\nHerluf Winge [cf. D. Bruun, 1896, pp. 434 ff.]. The great predominance of\nbones of domestic animals, especially oxen and goats, and of seals,\nespecially the Greenland seal or saddle-back (Phoca gr\u0153nlandica), and the\nbladder-nose or crested seal (Cystophora cristata), show that\ncattle-rearing and seal-hunting were the Greenlanders' chief means of\nsubsistence; and the latter especially must have provided the greater part\nof their flesh food, since as a rule the bones of seals are the most\nnumerous. Curiously enough, few fish-bones have been found. As we know\nwith certainty that the Greenlanders were much occupied in fishing, this\nabsence now is accounted for by fish-bones and other offal of fish being\nused for fodder for cattle in winter. Various reindeer bones show that\nthis animal was also found in ancient times in the Eastern Settlement,\nwhere it is now extinct. Besides these, bones of a single polar bear and\nof a few walrus have been found, which show that these animals were\ncaught, though in small numbers; a few bones of whale have also been\nfound. There are, strangely enough, comparatively few bones of birds. The\nbones of horses that have been found belong to a small race and the cattle\nwere of small size and horned.\n\n[Illustration: Remains of a sheep-pen at Kakortok. On the right the ruined\nchurch (after Th. Groth)]\n\n[Sidenote: Life and conditions]\n\nIn the otherwise very legendary tale, in the Saga of the Foster Brothers\n(beginning of the thirteenth century), of Thormod Kolbrunarskald's voyage\nto Greenland and sojourn there, to avenge the death of his friend\nThorgeir, we get here and there sidelights on the daily life of the\ncountry, which agree well with the information afforded by the remains. We\nhear that they often went to sea after seals, that they had harpoons for\nseals (\"selskutill\"), that they cooked the flesh of seals, etc. From the\n\"King's Mirror\" (circa 1250) we get a good glimpse of the conditions of\nlife in Greenland in those days:\n\n    \"But in Greenland, as you probably know, everything that comes from\n    other lands is dear there; for the country lies so distant from other\n    lands that men seldom visit it. And everything they require to assist\n    the country, they must buy from elsewhere, both iron (and tar) and\n    likewise everything for building houses. But these things are brought\n    thence in exchange for goods: buckskin and ox-hides, and sealskin and\n    walrus-rope and walrus-ivory.\" \"But since you asked whether there was\n    any raising of crops or not, I believe that country is little assisted\n    thereby. Nevertheless there are men--and they are those who are known\n    as the noblest and richest--who make essay to sow; but nevertheless\n    the great multitude in that country does not know what bread is, and\n    never even saw bread.\"...\n\n    \"Few are the people in that land, for little of it is thawed so much\n    as to be habitable.... But when you ask what they live on in that\n    country, since they have no corn, then [you must know] that men live\n    on more things than bread alone. Thus it is said that there is good\n    pasture and great and good homesteads in Greenland; for people there\n    have much cattle and sheep, and there is much making of butter and\n    cheese. The people live much on this, and also on flesh and all kinds\n    of game, the flesh of reindeer, whale, seal and bear; on this they\n    maintain themselves in that country.\"\n\nWe see clearly enough from this how the Greenlanders of the old\nsettlements on the one hand were dependent on imports from Europe, and on\nthe other subsisted largely by hunting and fishing. It appears also from a\npapal bull of 1282 that the Greenland tithes were paid in ox-hides,\nseal-skins and walrus-ivory.\n\nIt has been asserted that Greenland at that time possessed a more\nfavourable climate, with less ice both on land and sea than at present;\nbut, amongst other things, the excellent description in the \"King's\nMirror,\" to be mentioned directly, shows clearly enough that such was not\nthe case. Many will therefore ask what it was that could attract the\nIcelanders thither. But to one who knows both countries it will not be so\nsurprising; in many ways South Greenland appeals more to a Norwegian than\nIceland. It lies in about the same latitude as Bergen and Christiania, and\nthe beautiful fjords with a number of islands outside, where there are\ngood channels for sailing and harbours everywhere, make it altogether like\nthe coast of Norway, and different from the more exposed coasts of\nIceland. Inside the fjords the summer is quite as warm and inviting as in\nIceland; it is true that there is drift-ice outside in early summer, but\nthat brings good seal-hunting. There was, besides this, walrus-hunting and\nwhaling, reindeer-hunting, fishing in the sea and in the rivers, fowling,\netc. When we add good pasturage on the shores of the fjords, it will be\nunderstood that it was comparatively easy to support life.\n\nThe grass still grows luxuriantly around the ruins on the Greenland\nfjords, and might even to-day support the herds of many a homestead.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nVOYAGES TO THE UNINHABITED PARTS OF GREENLAND IN THE MIDDLE AGES\n\n\nTHE EAST COAST OF GREENLAND\n\n[Sidenote: Drift-ice]\n\nThe sagas give us scanty information about the east coast of\nGreenland--commonly called, in Iceland, the uninhabited regions\n(\"ubygder\") of Greenland. The drift-ice renders this coast inaccessible by\nsea for the greater part of the year, and it was only very rarely that any\none landed there, and then in most cases through an accident. As a rule\nsailors tried as far as possible to keep clear of the East Greenland ice,\nand did not come inshore until they were well past Hvarf, as appears from\nthe ancient sailing-directions for this voyage. The \"King's Mirror\" (circa\n1250) also shows us clearly enough that the old Norsemen had a shrewd\nunderstanding of the ice conditions off these uninhabited regions. It\nsays:\n\n    \"Now in that same sea [i.e., the Greenland sea] there are yet many\n    more marvels, even though they cannot be accounted for witchcraft\n    ('skrimslum'). So soon as the greater part of the sea has been\n    traversed, there is found such a mass of ice as I know not the like of\n    anywhere else in the world. This ice [i.e., the ice-floes] is some of\n    it as flat as if it had frozen on the sea itself, four or five cubits\n    thick, and lies so far from land [i.e., from the east coast of\n    Greenland] that men may have four or five days' journey across the\n    ice [to land]. But this ice lies off the land rather to the north-east\n    ('landnor\u00f0r') or north than to the south, south-west, or west; and\n    therefore any one wishing to make the land should sail round it [i.e.,\n    round Cape Farewell] in a south-westerly and westerly direction, until\n    he is past the danger of [encountering] all this ice, and then sail\n    thence to land. But it has constantly happened that men have tried to\n    make the land too soon, and so have been involved in these ice-floes;\n    and some have perished in them; but others again have got out, and we\n    have seen some of these and heard their tales and reports. But one\n    course was adopted by all who have found themselves involved in this\n    ice-drift ['\u00edsav\u00f6k' or '\u00edsav\u00e1lkit'], that is, they have taken their\n    small boats and drawn them up on to the ice with them, and have thus\n    made for land, but their ship and all their other goods have been left\n    behind and lost; and some of them have passed four or five days on the\n    ice before they reached land, and some even longer. These ice-floes\n    are strange in their nature; sometimes they lie as still as might be\n    expected, separated by creeks or large fjords; but sometimes they move\n    with as great rapidity as a ship with a fair wind, and when once they\n    are under way they travel against the wind as often as with it. There\n    are indeed some masses of ice in that sea of another shape, which the\n    Greenlanders call 'fallj\u00f6kla.' Their appearance is that of a high\n    mountain rising out of the sea, and they do not unite themselves to\n    other masses of ice, but keep apart.\"\n\nThis striking description of the ice in the polar current shows that\nsailors were sometimes wrecked in it, and reached land on the east coast\nof Greenland.\n\nThe story of Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn H\u00f3lmsteinsson and his companions, who may have\nreached East Greenland (?), has been given above (p. 264).\n\n[Sidenote: Thorgils Orrabeinsfostre]\n\nAn early voyage,[251] which is said to have been made along this coast, is\ndescribed in the \"Floamanna-saga.\" The Icelandic chief, Thorgils\nOrrabeinsfostre, is said to have left Iceland about the year 1001, with\nhis wife, children, friends and thralls--some thirty persons in all--and\nhis cattle, to join his friend, Eric the Red, who had invited him to\nGreenland. During the autumn they were wrecked on the east coast; and it\nwas not till four years later, during which time they lived by whaling,\nsealing and fishing, and after adventures of many kinds, that Thorgils\narrived at the Eastern Settlement. The saga is of late date, perhaps about\n1400; it is full of marvels and not very credible. But the description of\nthe country, with glaciers coming down to the sea, and ice lying off the\nshore for the greater part of the year, cannot have been invented without\nsome knowledge of the east coast of Greenland; for the inhabited west\ncoast is entirely different. The narrative of Thorgils' expedition may\ntherefore have a historical kernel [cf. Nansen, 1890, p. 253; Engl. ed. i.\n275]; and moreover it gives a graphic description of the difficulties and\ndangers that shipwrecked voyagers have to overcome in arctic waters; but\nat the same time it is gratuitously full of superstitions and dreams and\nthe like, besides other improbabilities: such as the incident of the\ntravellers suffering such extremities of thirst that they were ready to\ndrink sea-water (with urine) to preserve their lives,[252] while rowing\nalong a coast with ice and snow on every hand, where there cannot have\nbeen any lack of drinking water. Thorgils, or the man to whom in the first\nplace the narrative may be due, may have been wrecked in the autumn on the\neast coast of Greenland, near Angmagsalik, or a little to the south of it,\nand may then have had a hard struggle before he reached Cape Farewell\nalong the shore, inside the ice; but that it should have taken four years\nis improbable; I have myself in the same way rowed in a boat the greater\npart of the same distance along this coast in twelve days. It is hardly\npossible that the voyagers should have lost their ship much to the north\nof Angmagsalik, as the ice lies off the coast there usually the whole year\nround; nor is it credible that they should have arrived far north near\nScoresby Sound, north of 70\u00b0 N. lat., where the approach is easier; for\nthey had no business to be there, if they were making for the Eastern\nSettlement.\n\nIn the Icelandic Annals there are frequent mentions of voyagers to\nGreenland being shipwrecked, and most of these cases doubtless occurred\noff East Greenland. In the sagas there are many narratives of such wrecks,\nor of people who have come to grief on this coast.\n\n[Sidenote: \"Lik-Lodin\"]\n\nIn Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson's version of the somewhat extravagant saga of Lik-Lodin\nwe read:[253]\n\n    \"Formerly most ships were always wrecked in this ice from the Northern\n    bays, as is related at length in the Tosta \u00fe\u00e1ttr; for 'Lika-Lo\u00f0inn'\n    had his nickname from this, that in summer he often ransacked the\n    northern uninhabited regions and brought to church the corpses of men\n    that he found in caves, whither they had come from the ice or from\n    shipwreck; and by them there often lay carved runes about all the\n    circumstances of their misfortunes and sufferings.\"\n\nThe Northern bays here must mean \"Hafsbotn,\" or the Polar Sea to the north\nof Norway and Iceland; the ice will then be that which thence drifts\nsouthward along the east coast of Greenland. According to another ancient\nMS. of the Tosta-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,[254] Lik-Lodin had his name (which means\n\"Corpse-Lodin\") \"because he had brought the bodies of Finn Fegin and his\ncrew from Finn's booths, east of the glaciers in Greenland.\" This also\nshows that the east coast is referred to; it is said to have happened a\nfew years before Harold Hardr\u00e5da's fall in 1066.\n\n[Sidenote: Einar Sokkason]\n\nIn the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's narrative of Einar Sokkason, who sailed from\nGreenland to Norway in 1123 to bring a bishop to the country, it is\nsaid[255] that he was accompanied on his return from Norway by a certain\nArnbj\u00f6rn Austman (i.e., man from the east, from Norway) and several\nNorwegians on another ship, who wished to settle in Greenland; but they\nwere lost on the voyage. Some years later, about 1129, they were found\ndead on the east coast of Greenland, near the Hvitserk glacier, by a\nGreenlander, Sigurd Nj\u00e1lsson. \"He often went seal-hunting in the autumn to\nthe uninhabited regions [i.e., on the east coast]; he was a great seaman;\nthey were fifteen altogether. In the summer they came to the Hvitserk\nglacier.\" They found there some human fire-places, and farther on, inside\na fjord, they found a great ship, lying on and by the mouth of a stream,\nand a hut and a tent, and there were corpses lying in the tent, and some\nmore lay on the ground outside. It was Arnbj\u00f6rn and his men, who had\nstayed there.\n\n[Sidenote: Ingimund the priest]\n\nIn Gudmund Arason's Saga and in the Icelandic Annals [Storm, 1888, pp.\n22, 120, 121, 180, 181, 324, 477] it is related that in 1189 the ship\n\"Stangarfoli,\" with the priest Ingimund Thorgeirsson and others on\nboard--on the way from Bergen to Iceland--was driven westwards to the\nuninhabited regions of Greenland, and every man perished,\n\n    \"but it was known by the finding of their ship and seven men in a cave\n    in the uninhabited regions fourteen winters[256] later; there were\n    Ingimund the priest, he was whole and uncorrupted, and so were his\n    clothes; but six skeletons lay there by his side, and wax,[257] and\n    runes telling how they lost their lives. And men thought this a great\n    sign of how God approved of Ingimund the priest's conduct that he\n    should have lain out so long with whole body and unhurt.\" [Cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl.\n    hist. Mind.,\" ii. p. 754; Biskupa S\u00f6gur, 1858, i. p. 435].\n\nWe see that the legend of the Seven Sleepers, perhaps from Paulus\nWarnefridi (see above, p. 156), has been borrowed; but here it is only one\nof the seven who is holy and unhurt. The shipwreck itself may nevertheless\nbe historical.[258] The craft was doubtless lost on the southern east\ncoast of Greenland, near Cape Farewell, which part was commonly\nfrequented, and where the remains were found.\n\n[Sidenote: Einar Thorgeirsson]\n\nIt is also related in Gudmund Arason's Saga that, some time before this,\nanother ship was lost in the uninhabited regions of Greenland, with the\npriest Ingimund's brother, Einar Thorgeirsson, on board; but the crew\nquarrelled over the food. Einar escaped with two others and made for the\nsettlement (i.e., the Eastern Settlement) across the glaciers (i.e., the\ninland ice). There they lost their lives, when only a day's journey from\nthe settlement, and they were found one or two winters [i.e., years ?]\nlater (Einar's body was then whole and unhurt). The shipwreck may\nconsequently be supposed to have taken place on the southernmost part of\nthe east coast.\n\n[Sidenote: New Land]\n\nIn the Icelandic Annals it is mentioned (in various MSS.) that a new land\nwas discovered west of Iceland in 1285. A MS. of annals, of about 1306\n(written, that is, about twenty years after the event), says that in 1285:\n\"fandz land vestr undan Islande\" (a land was found to the west of\nIceland). A later MS. (of about 1360) says of the same discovery: \"Funduz\nDuneyiar\" (the Down Islands were found). In another old MS. of annals\nthere is an addition by a later hand: \"fundu Helga synir nyia land\nAdalbrandr ok \u00deorvalldr\" (Helge's sons Adalbrand and Thorvald found the\nnew land). Finally we read in a late copy of an old MS. of annals: \"Helga\nsynir sigldu i Gr\u0153nlandz obyg\u00f0ir\"[259] (Helge's sons sailed to the\nuninhabited regions of Greenland). According to this last statement, this\nwould refer to the discovery of land on the east coast of Greenland, west\nof Iceland.[260] It may have been at Angmagsalik or farther south on the\neast coast that Helge's sons--two Icelandic priests--landed.[261] In the\nlate summer this part is usually free from ice. From other Icelandic\nnotices it may be concluded that they returned to Iceland the same autumn.\nWe see that some years later the Norwegian king Eric attempted to get\ntogether an expedition to this new land under the so-called Landa-Rolf,\nwho was sent to Iceland for the purpose in 1289. In 1290 Rolf went about\nIceland, inviting people to join the Newland expedition; but it is\nuncertain whether it ever came to anything, and in 1295 Landa-Rolf died.\nAll this points to the east coast of Greenland having been little known at\nthat time, otherwise a landing there could not be spoken of as the\ndiscovery of a new land; and it is not easy to see why the king should\nsend Rolf to Iceland to get up an expedition to a country which, as they\nmust have been aware, was closed by ice for the greater part of the year.\nAs to the situation on this coast of islands to which the name of Down\nIslands might be appropriate, I shall not venture to offer an opinion.\n\n[Illustration: The southern glacier (Hvitserk) in 62\u00b0 10' N. lat.; seen\nfrom the drift-ice in July 1888]\n\n[Sidenote: The northern east coast]\n\nIn the introduction to Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k we read: \"en d\u0153gr sigling er til\nvbygda a Gr\u0153nalandi or Kolbeins ey i nor\u00f0r\" (it is a day's sail to the\nuninhabited regions of Greenland northward from Kolbein's island).\nKolbein's island is the little Mevenklint, out at sea to the north of\nGrim's island and 56 nautical miles (100 kilometres) north of Iceland. The\nuninhabited regions here referred to are most probably East Greenland at\nabout 69\u00b0 N. lat. (Egede Land), which lies to the north-west (to the north\nthere is no land, unless the magnetic north is meant). But it is scarcely\ncredible that the Icelanders ever reached land on this part of the coast,\nwhich is nearly always closed by ice. It may be supposed that they often\nsailed along the edge of the ice when seal-hunting, as the bladder-nose is\nabundant there in summer; they may then have seen the land inside, and so\nknew of it, without having reached it. In this way the statement as to the\ndistance may have originated, and the day's sail may mean to the edge of\nthe ice, whence the land is visible.\n\n    According to statements in the fourth part of the \"Rymbegla\" [1780, p.\n    482], a \"d\u0153gr's\" sail (d\u0153gr == half a day of twenty-four hours) was\n    equivalent to a distance of two degrees of latitude. But even if we\n    accept this large estimate, it will not suffice for the distance\n    between Mevenklint and the coast of Greenland to the north-west of it,\n    which is about equal to three degrees of latitude (180 geographical\n    miles).\n\nIt has been assumed that the Icelanders and Norwegians were acquainted\nwith the east coast of Greenland north of 70\u00b0 N. lat., and visited it for\nhunting seals, etc. But in order to reach it, it is nearly always\nnecessary to sail through ice, and during the greater part of the summer\none has to go as far north as Jan Mayen, or farther, to find the ice\nsufficiently open to allow one to reach the land. It is a somewhat tricky\npiece of sailing, which requires an intimate knowledge of the ice\nconditions; and it is not to be expected that any one should have acquired\nit without having frequently been among the ice with a definite purpose.\nThat storm-driven vessels should have been accidentally cast ashore on\nthis coast is unlikely; as a rule they would be stopped by the ice before\nthey came so far. We may doubtless believe that the Norwegians and\nIcelanders sailed over the whole Arctic Ocean, along the edge of the ice,\nwhen hunting seals and the valuable walrus; but that on their sealing\nexpeditions they should have made a practice of penetrating far into the\nice is not credible, since their clinker-built craft were not adapted to\nsailing among ice; nor have we any information that would point to this.\nIt is nevertheless not entirely impossible that they should have reached\nthe northern east coast, since it may be comparatively free from ice in\nlate summer and autumn. There would be plenty of seals, and especially of\nwalrus, and on land there were reindeer and musk ox, which latter,\nhowever, is nowhere mentioned in Norse literature.\n\n[Sidenote: Glaciers on the east coast]\n\nThe old sea-route, the so-called \"Eiriks-stefna,\" from Iceland to\nGreenland (i.e., the Greenland Settlements) went westward from Sn\u00e6fellsnes\nuntil one sighted the glaciers of Greenland, when one steered south-west\nalong the drift-ice until well past Hvarf, etc. This is the route that\nEric followed, according to the oldest accounts in the Landn\u00e1ma, when he\nsailed to Greenland, and the glacier he first sighted in Greenland is\nthere called \"Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull\" (see above, p. 267). This name (the middle\nglacier) shows that two other glaciers must have been known, one to the\nnorth and one to the south, as indeed is explained in a far later work,\nthe so-called \"Gripla\" (date uncertain, copied in the seventeenth century\nby Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson), where we read:[262]\n\n    \"From Bjarmeland [i.e., northern Russia] uninhabited regions lie\n    northward as far as that which is called Greenland. But there are bays\n    (botnar g\u00e1nga \u00fear fyrir) and the land turns towards the south-west;\n    there are glaciers and fjords, and islands lying off the glaciers; as\n    far as [or rather, beyond] the first glacier they have not explored;\n    to the second is a journey of half a month, to the third a week's; it\n    is nearest the settlement; it is called Hvitserk; there the land turns\n    to the north; but he who would not miss the settlement, let him steer\n    to the south-west\" [that is, to get round and clear of the drift-ice\n    that lies off Cape Farewell].\n\n[Illustration: The mountains from Tingmiarmiut Fjord northward in 62\u00b0 35'\nN. lat. Seen from the drift-ice in July 1888]\n\nNot taking the distances into account, a sail of half a month and of a\nweek, this is an admirable description of East Greenland from about 69\u00b0 N.\nlat. southwards. By \"glaciers\" is obviously meant parts of the inland ice,\nwhich is the most noticeable feature of this coast, and which could not\neasily be omitted in a description of it. When we read that there are\nglaciers and fjords, and that islands lie off the glaciers, then every one\nwho is familiar with this part of Greenland must be reminded of what\ncatches the eye at the first sight of this coast from the sea: the dark\nstretches of land, not covered by snow, and the islands, lying in front of\nthe vast white sheath of the inland ice, which is indented by bays and\nfjords. The three glaciers mentioned cannot, in my opinion, be three\nseparate mountain summits covered with snow or ice, as has frequently been\nsupposed. There is such a number of high summits in this country that,\nalthough I have sailed along the greater part of it, I am unable to name\nthree as specially prominent. If one has seen from the sea the white\nsnow-sheet of Vatnaj\u00f6kel in Iceland (compare also, on a smaller scale, the\nHardangerj\u00f6kel and others in Norway), then perhaps it will be easier to\nunderstand what the ancient Icelanders meant by their three glaciers on\nthe east coast of Greenland, where the mass of glacier has a still\nmightier and more striking effect. Now, on that part of it which they and\nthe Greenlanders knew, or had seen from the sea--and which extends towards\nthe south-west (as we read) from about 70\u00b0 N. lat.[263]--there are\nprecisely three tracts where the inland ice covers the whole country and\nreaches to the very shore, so that the glacier surface is visible from the\nsea, and forms the one conspicuous feature that must strike every one who\nsails along the outer edge of the ice (or drifts in the ice, as I have\ntwice done). The northernmost tract is to the north of 67\u00b0 N. lat. (see\nmap, p. 259); there the inland ice covers the coast down to the sea\nitself. This was the \"northern glacier,\" which no one was able to\napproach on account of the drift-ice, but which was only seen from a great\ndistance. It was not until a few years ago that Captain Amdrup succeeded\nin travelling along this part of the country in boats, inshore of the ice.\n\n[Illustration: The northern part of the \"Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull\" (to the left) and the\ncountry to the west of Sermilik-fjord, in 65\u00b0 40' N. lat. Seen from the\ndrift-ice in July 1888]\n\nThe second tract is the coast by Pikiutdlek and Umivik, south of\nAngmagsalik, between Sermilik-fjord (65\u00b0 36' N. lat.) and Cape M\u00f6sting\n(63\u00b0 40' N. lat.), where the inland ice covers the whole coast land, and\nonly a few mountain summits, or \"Nunataks,\" rise up, and bare, scattered\nislands and tongues of land lie in front. This was the \"Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull\" (middle\nglacier), which was the first land made in sailing west from Sn\u00e6fellsnes,\nand which was a good and unmistakable sea-mark. In some MSS. it is called\n\"hinn mikla J\u01ebkull\" (the great glacier). There the sea is often\ncomparatively free of ice in August and September, but we may be sure that\nthe voyagers to Greenland did not as a rule try to land there; in the\nwords of Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's directions, they were to \"take their course from\nSn\u00e6fellsnes and sail due west for a day and a night, but then to steer to\nthe south-west, in order to avoid the above-mentioned ice\" (cf. above, p.\n262).\n\nThe third tract is the coast south of Tingmiarmiut and Mogens Heinesen's\nFjord (62\u00b0 20' N. lat.), where again the inland ice is predominant, and\nthe only conspicuous feature that is first seen from the sea. This was the\nthird or \"southern glacier\"; it lay nearest to Hvarf and was the sure\nsea-mark before rounding the southern end of the country. It appears to me\nthat in this way we have a natural explanation of what these disputed\nglaciers were. Between them lay long stretches of mountainous coast.\nNorthward from Cape Farewell to the \"southern glacier\" are high mountains,\nso that one does not see the even expanse of the inland ice from the sea.\nNorth of the \"southern glacier\" is the fjord-indented mountainous country\nabout Tingmiarmiut, Umanak and Skjoldungen, and so northward as far as\nCape M\u00f6sting; there the mighty white line of the inland ice is wholly\nconcealed behind a wall of lofty peaks. On the north side of the\n\"Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull\" again is the mountain country about Angmagsalik, from\nSermilik-fjord north-eastwards, with a high range of mountains, so that\nneither is the inland ice seen from the sea there. The most conspicuous\nsummit of this range is Ingolf's Fjeld.\n\n[Illustration: The mountains near Angmagsalik, east of Sermilik-fjord.\nSeen from the drift-ice in July 1888]\n\n[Sidenote: Bl\u00e1serkr]\n\nThus, according to my view, the statements as to the glaciers on the east\ncoast of Greenland are easily explained. It is a different matter when we\ncome to the two names \"Bl\u00e1serkr\" and \"Hv\u00edtserkr,\" which, in later times\nespecially, were those most frequently used. They have often been confused\nand interchanged, and while \"Bl\u00e1serkr\" is found in the oldest authorities,\nthe name \"Hv\u00edtserkr\" becomes more and more common in later writers. More\nrecent authors have frequently regarded them as standing in a certain\nopposition to each other, one meaning a dark glacier or summit, and the\nother a white one, which may indeed seem natural. But it is striking that,\nwhile \"Bl\u00e1serkr\" alone is mentioned in the oldest authorities, such as the\nLandn\u00e1ma (and the Saga of Eric the Red, in the Hauksb\u00f3k), it soon\ndisappears almost entirely from literature, and is replaced by\n\"Hv\u00edtserkr,\" which is first mentioned in MSS. of the fourteenth century\nand later; and in the fifteenth century MS. (A.M. 557, qv.) of the Saga of\nEric the Red (as in other late extracts from the same saga) we find\n\"Hv\u00edtserkr\" instead of \"Bl\u00e1serkr.\"[264] I have not found the two names\nused contemporaneously in any Icelandic MS.; it is either one or the\nother, and nowhere are both names found as designating two separate places\non the coast of Greenland. It may therefore be somewhat rash to assume, as\nhas been done hitherto, that they were two \"mountains,\" one of them lying\na certain distance to the north on the east coast of Greenland, and the\nother near Cape Farewell. The view that they were mountains is not a new\none. In Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's description Hv\u00edtserk is called \"a high mountain\"\nnear Hvarf; while Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson of Skards\u00e1 says that it is a \"fuglabiarg i\nlandnordurhafi\" (i.e., a fowling cliff in the Polar Sea).\n\n[Illustration: The inland ice at \"Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull.\" In the centre the mountain\nKiatak, 64\u00b0 20' N. lat. Seen from the drift-ice in July 1888]\n\nFrom the meaning of the names--the dark (\"bl\u00e1\") sark and the white\nsark--we should be inclined to think that they were applied to\nsnow-fields, or glaciers, like, for instance, such names as Sneh\u00e6tta and\nLodalsk\u00e5pa in Norway. But another possibility is that it was the _form_ of\nthe sark that was thought of, and that the names were applied to mountain\nsummits; in a similar way \"stakk\" (stack, or gown) is used for peaks in\nNorway (cf. L\u00f6vstakken near Bergen); and in Shetland corresponding names\nare known for high cliffs on the sea: Blostakk (== Bl\u00e1stakkr), Grostakk\n(== Gr\u00e1stakkr), Kwitastakk (== Hv\u00edti stakkr), Gronastakk and Gronistakk\n(== Gr\u0153ni stakkr, cliffs with grass-grown tops), etc. [cf. J. Jakobsen,\n1901, p. 151].\n\n[Illustration: The mountains about Ingolf's Fjeld, seen from a distance in\nJune 1888]\n\nIn the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k (both Hauksb\u00f3k and Sturlub\u00f3k) we read: \"Eirekr sigldi\nvndan Sn\u00e6fells nese. En hann kom utan at Midiokli \u00fear sem Bl\u00e1serkr\nheitir.\" (Eric sailed from Sn\u00e6fellsnes, and made the Mid-Glacier at a\nplace called Blue-Sark.) In Eric the Red's Saga this has been altered to\n\"hann kom utan at j\u01ebkli \u00fee\u00edm er Bl\u00e1serkr heitir.\" (He made the glacier\nthat is called Blue-Sark.) It is obvious that the Landn\u00e1ma text is the\nmore original, and thus two explanations are possible: either Bl\u00e1serkr is\na part of the glacier, or it is a dark mountain seen on this part of the\ncoast. I cannot remember any place where the inland ice of this district,\nseen at a distance from the drift-ice, had a perceptibly darker colour;\nits effect is everywhere a brilliant white. On approaching an ice-glacier,\nas, for instance, the Colberger Heide (64\u00b0 N. lat., cf. Nansen, 1890, p.\n370; Engl. ed., i. 423), it may appear somewhat darker and of a bluish\ntinge; but this can never have been a recognisable landmark at any\ndistance. One is therefore tempted to believe that Bl\u00e1serkr was a black,\nbare mountain-peak. But the peaks that show up along the edge of the\n\"Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull\" (between Sermilik and Cape M\u00f6sting) are all comparatively low;\nthe mountain-summit Kiatak, near Umivik [see Nansen, 1890, pp. 370, 374,\n444; Engl. ed., i. 423, 429, ii. 13], answers best as regards shape, and\nis conspicuous enough, but it is only 2450 feet high. It is possible that\nBl\u00e1serkr did not lie in Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull itself, but was the lofty Ingolf's\nFjeld (7300 feet high), which is the first mountain one sees far out at\nsea, on approaching East Greenland from Iceland; and it is seen to the\nnorth in sailing past Cape Dan and in towards Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull. It may then have\nbeen confused with the latter in later times. But this supposition is\ndoubtful. The most natural way for the Icelanders when making for\nGreenland must in any case have been first to make the edge of the ice,\nwest-north-west from Sn\u00e6fellsnes, when they sighted Ingolf's Fjeld (or\nBl\u00e1serkr ?); then they followed the ice west or west-south-west, and came\nstraight in to Mi\u00f0j\u01ebkull, at about 65\u00b0 N. lat., or the same latitude as\nSn\u00e6fellsnes. Here the edge of the ice turns southward, following the land,\nand the course has to be altered in order to sail past the southern\nglacier and round Hvarf. This agrees well with most descriptions of the\nvoyage, and among them the most trustworthy. But the names have often been\nconfused; Hv\u00edtserk and Bl\u00e1serk especially have been interchanged;[265] and\nthis is not surprising, since the men who wrote in Iceland in the\nfourteenth and fifteenth centuries were themselves unacquainted with these\nwaters.\n\n[Sidenote: Hv\u00edtserkr]\n\nThe name \"Hv\u00edtserkr\" would appear most appropriate to a glacier, and in\nreviewing the various contexts in which it is mentioned in the narratives,\nmy impression is rather that in later times it was often used as a name\nfor the inland ice itself on the east and south coasts of Greenland; and\nas, on the voyage to the Eastern Settlement, the inland ice was most seen\non the southern part of the east coast, which was also resorted to for\nseal-hunting, the name Hv\u00edtserk became especially applied to the southern\nglacier, as in the tale of Einar Sokkason (see above, p. 283); but it\nmight also be the mid-glacier. This view is supported by, for instance,\nthe so-called Walkendorff addition to Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's description, where\nthe following passage occurs about the voyage from Iceland to Greenland\n[\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 491]:\n\n    \"Item when one is south of Breedefjord in Iceland, then he must steer\n    westward until he sees Hvidserch in Greenland, and then steer\n    south-west, until the above mentioned Hvidserch is to the north of\n    him; thus may one with God's help freely seek Greenland, without much\n    danger from ice, and with God's help find Eric's fjord.\"\n\nIt is clearly enough the inland ice itself, the most prominent feature on\nthe east coast, that is here called Hvidserch. It is first seen at\nMi\u00f0j\u01ebkull, in coming westwards from Iceland; and one has the inland ice\n(ice-blink) on the north when about to round Cape Farewell. No single\nmountain can possibly fit this description; but this does not exclude the\npossibility of others having erroneously connected the name with such a\nmountain, in the same way as Danish sailors of recent times have applied\nit to a lofty island, \"Dadloodit,\" in the southernmost part of Greenland\n[\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" i. p. 453]. The fact that Hv\u00edtserk in Ivar\nB\u00e1rdsson's description is called \"a high mountain,\" which is seen one day\nbefore reaching Hvarf, must be due to a similar misunderstanding. As\nBl\u00e1serk, although originally it may have been a mountain, was confounded\nwith the Mid-Glacier, it is comprehensible that the name Bl\u00e1serk should be\ngradually superseded by Hv\u00edtserk.\n\nIn one or two passages of the old narratives it is related that when one\nwas half-way between Iceland and Greenland one could see at the same time,\nin clear weather, Sn\u00e6fells glacier in Iceland and Bl\u00e1serk (or\nHv\u00edtserk)[266] in Greenland. According to my experience this is not\npossible, even if we call in the aid of a powerful refraction, or even\nmirage; but, on the other hand, one can see the reflections of the land or\nthe ice on the sky, and when sailing (along the edge of the ice) eastwards\nor westwards, one can very well see the top of the Sn\u00e6fells glacier and\nthe top of Ingolf's Fjeld on the same day.\n\n[Sidenote: Place-names on the east coast]\n\nThe Icelandic accounts mention several places in East Greenland, such as\n\"Kross-eyjar,\" \"Finnsbu\u00f0ir,\" \"Berufjord\" (\"bera\" == she-bear), and the\nfjord \"\u00d6llum-Lengri.\" Frequent expeditions for seal-hunting were made to\nthese places from the Eastern Settlement, and they must have lain near it,\njust north of Cape Farewell.\n\n\nVOYAGES TO THE NORTHERN WEST COAST OF GREENLAND, NOR\u00d0RSETUR, AND BAFFIN'S\nBAY IN THE MIDDLE AGES\n\n[Sidenote: Runic stone from 72\u00b0 55' N. lat.]\n\nTo the north of the northernmost inhabited fjords of the Western\nSettlement lay the uninhabited regions. Thither the Greenlanders resorted\nevery summer for seal-hunting; there lay what they called the \"Nor\u00f0rsetur\"\n(\"seta\" == place of residence; the northern stations or fishing-places),\nand it is doubtless partly to these districts that reference is made in\nEric the Red's Saga, where it is said of Thorhall the Hunter that \"he had\nlong been with Eric hunting in summer,\" and that \"he had a wide\nacquaintance with the uninhabited regions.\" We have no information as to\nhow far north the longest expeditions of the Greenlanders extended, but we\nknow that they reached the neighbourhood of the modern Upernivik; for,\ntwenty-eight miles to the north-west of it--on a little island called\nKingigtorsuak, in 72\u00b0 55' N. lat.--three cairns are said to have been\nfound early in the nineteenth century (before 1824); and in one of them a\nsmall runic stone, with the inscription: \"Erling Sigvathsson, Bjarne\nThordarson, and Endride Oddson on the Sunday before 'gagndag' [i.e., April\n25] erected these cairns and cleared ...\"[267] Then follow six secret\nrunes, which it was formerly sought to interpret, erroneously, as a date,\n1135. Professor L. F. L\u00e4ffler has explained them as meaning ice;[268] it\nwould then read \"and cleared away ice.\" Judging from the language, the\ninscription would be of the fourteenth century;[269] Professor Magnus\nOlsen (in a letter to me) thinks it might date from about 1300, or perhaps\na little later. Why the cairns were built seems mysterious. It is possible\nthat they were sea-marks for fishing-grounds; but it is not likely that\nthe Greenlanders were in the habit of going so far north. One would be\nmore inclined to think they were set up as a monument of a remarkable\nexpedition, which had penetrated to regions previously unknown; but why\nbuild more than one cairn? Was there one for each man? The most remarkable\nthing is that the cairns are stated to have been set up in April, when the\nsea in that locality is covered with ice. The three men must either have\nwintered there in the north, which seems the more probable alternative;\nthey may then have been starving, and the object of the cairns was to call\nthe attention of possible future travellers to their bodies--or they may\nhave come the same spring over the ice from the south, and in that case\nthey most probably travelled with Eskimo dog-sledges, and were on a\nhunting expedition, perhaps for bears. But they cannot have travelled\nnorthwards from the Eastern or Western Settlement the same spring. In any\ncase they may have been in company with Eskimo, whom we know to have lived\non Disco Bay, and probably also farther south at that time. From them the\nNorsemen may have learnt to hunt on the ice, by which they were able to\nsupport themselves in the north during the winter.\n\n[Illustration: Runic stone from Kingigtorsuak (after A. A. Bj\u00f6rnbo)]\n\nThe earliest mention of hunting expeditions to the northern west coast of\nGreenland is found in the \"Historia Norwegi\u00e6\" (thirteenth century), where\nit is said that hunters \"to the north\" (of the Greenlanders) come across\n\"certain small people whom they call Skr\u00e6lings\" (see later, chapter x.).\n\n[Sidenote: Nor\u00f0rsetur]\n\nThere are few references to the \"Nor\u00f0rsetur\" in the literature that has\nbeen preserved. A lay on the subject, \"Nor\u00f0rsetudr\u00e1pa,\" was known in the\nMiddle Ages, written by an otherwise unknown skald, Sveinn. Only a few\nshort fragments of it are known from \"Sk\u00e1lda,\" Snorra-Edda [cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl.\nhist. Mind.,\" iii. pp. 235 ff.]. It is wild and gloomy, and speaks of the\nugly sons of Fornj\u00f3t [the storms] who were the first to drift [i.e., with\nsnow], and of \u00c6gi's storm-loving daughters [the waves], who wove and drew\ntight the hard sea-spray, fed by the frost from the mountains.\n\nReference is also made to these hunting expeditions to the north in\n\"Sk\u00e1ld-Helga Rimur,\" where we read [\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" ii. p. 492]:\n\n  \"Gumnar f\u00f3ru i Greipar nor\u00f0r\n  Gr\u00f6nlands var \u00fear byg\u00f0ar spor\u00f0r.\n  vir\u00f0ar \u00e1ttu vi\u00f0a hvar\n  vei\u00f0iskapar at leita \u00fear.\n\n  Skeggi enn pr\u00fa\u00f0i skip sitt bj\u00f3,\n  sk\u00fatunni rendi nor\u00f0r um sj\u00f3,\n  h\u00f6ldum ekki hafit vannst,\n  hvarf i burtu, en aldri fannst.\"[270]\n\n\n  Men went north to Greipar,\n  There was the end of Greenland's habitations.\n  Men might there far and wide\n  Seek for hunting.\n\n  Skegge the Stately fitted out his ship,\n  With his vessel he sailed north in the sea,\n  By the men the sea was not conquered,\n    They were lost, and never found.\n\nIt appears from H\u00e5kon H\u00e5konsson's Saga that the Nor\u00f0rsetur were a\nwell-known part of Greenland; for we read of the submission of the\nGreenlanders to the Norwegian Crown that they promised\n\n    \"to pay the king fines for all manslaughter, whether of Norsemen or\n    Greenlanders, and whether they were killed in the settlements or in\n    Nor\u00f0rsetur, and in all the district to the north under the star [i.e.,\n    the pole-star] the king should have his weregild\" [\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist.\n    Mind.,\" ii. p. 779].\n\nIn Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson's \"Gr\u00f6nlands Annaler\" (cf. above, p. 263) these\nexpeditions to the Nor\u00f0rsetur are mentioned in more detail, as well as a\nremarkable voyage to the north in 1267 [\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. pp. 238\nff.]. We there read:\n\n    \"All the great franklins of Greenland had large ships and vessels\n    built to send to the 'Nor\u00f0rsetur' for seal-hunting, with all kinds of\n    sealing gear ('vei\u00f0iskap') and cut-up wood ('telg\u00f0um vi\u00f0um'); and\n    sometimes they themselves accompanied the expeditions--as is related\n    at length in the tales, both in the Sk\u00e1ld-Helga saga and in that of\n    Thordis; there most of what they took was seal-oil, for all\n    seal-hunting was better there than at home in the settlements; melted\n    seal-fat was poured into sacks of hide [literally boats of hide], and\n    hung up against the wind on boards, till it thickened, then it was\n    prepared as it should be. The Nor\u00f0rsetu-men had their booths or houses\n    ('sk\u00e1la') both in Greipar and in Kr\u00f3ksfjar\u00f0arhei\u00f0r\n    [Kroksfjords-heath]. Driftwood is found there, but no growing trees.\n    This northern end of Greenland is most liable to take up all the wood\n    and other drift that comes from the bays of Markland....\"\n\nIn an extract which follows: \"On the voyage northward to the uninhabited\nregions\" (probably from a different and later source) we read:\n\n    \"The Greenlanders are constantly obliged to make voyages to the\n    uninhabited regions in the northern land's end or point, both for the\n    sake of wood [i.e., driftwood] and sealing; it is called Greipar and\n    Kr\u00f3ksfjar\u00f0arhei\u00f0r; it is a great and long sea voyage thither;[271] as\n    the Sk\u00e1ld-Helga saga clearly bears witness, where it is said of it:\n\n    \"'Garpar kvomu i Greypar nor\u00f0r. The men came to Greipar in the north,\n    Gr\u00f6nlands er \u00fear bryggju spor\u00f0r.'[272] There is the bridge-spur (end)\n    of Greenland.\n\n    \"Sometimes this sealing season ('verti\u00f0') of theirs in Greipar or\n    Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr is called Nor\u00f0rseta.\"\n\n[Sidenote: Greipar and Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr. Their situation]\n\nAccording to this description we must look for Nordrsetur, with Greipar\nand Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr, to the north of the northern extremity of the\nWestern Settlement, which from other descriptions must have been at\nStraumsfjord, about 66-1/2\u00b0 N. lat. (see map, p. 266). There in the north,\nthen, there was said to be driftwood, and plenty of seals. The latter\ncircumstance is especially suited to the districts about Holstensborg and\nnorthward to Egedes Minde (i.e., between 66\u00b0 and 68-1/2\u00b0 N. lat.), and\nfurther to Disco Bay and Vaigat (see map, p. 259). Besides abundance of\nseals there was also good walrus-hunting, and this was valuable on account\nof the tusks and hide, which were Greenland's chief articles of export\n[cf. for instance, \"The King's Mirror,\" above, p. 277]. There was also\nnarwhale, the tusk or spear of which was even more valuable than walrus\ntusks. \"Greipar\"[273] may have been near Holstensborg, about 67\u00b0 N. lat.\n\"Kr\u00f3ksfjar\u00f0arhei\u00f0r\" may have been at Disco Bay or Vaigat.[274] It also\nagrees with this that the northern point of Greenland (\"\u00feessi nor\u00f0skagi\nGr\u0153nlands\") was in Nor\u00f0rsetur, and that \"Greipar\" was at the land's end\n(\"byg\u00f0ar spor\u00f0r\") of Greenland. For what the Greenlanders generally\nunderstood by Greenland was the Eastern and Western Settlements, and the\nbroad extent of coast lying to the north of them, which was not covered by\nthe inland ice, and which reached to Disco Bay. It was the part where\nhuman habitation was possible, and where there was no inland ice; it was\ntherefore natural for them to call Greipar the northern end of the\ncountry.\n\n    In an old chorography, copied by Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson under the name of\n    \"Gronlandi\u00e6 vetus chorographia\"[275] (in his \"Gr\u00f6nlands Annaler\"),\n    there is mention of the Western Settlement and of the districts to the\n    north of it. After naming the fjords in the Eastern Settlement it\n    proceeds: \"Then it is six days' rowing, six men in a six-oared boat,\n    to the Western Settlement (then the fjords are enumerated),[276] then\n    from this Western Settlement to Lysefjord it is six days' rowing,\n    thence six days' rowing to Karlsbu\u00f0a [Karl's booths], then three days'\n    rowing to Biarneyiar [Bear-islands or island], twelve days' rowing\n    around ... ey,[277] Eisunes, \u00c6danes in the north. Thus it is reckoned\n    that there are 190 dwellings [estates] in the Eastern Settlement, and\n    90 in the Western.\" This description is obscure on many points. From\n    other ancient authorities it appears that Lysefjord was the\n    southernmost fjord in the Western Settlement [now Fiskerfjord, cf. G.\n    Storm, 1887, p. 35; F. J\u00f3nsson, 1899, p. 315], but how in that case\n    there could be six days' rowing from this Western Settlement to\n    Lysefjord seems incomprehensible. It might be supposed that it is the\n    distance from the southern extremity of the Western Settlement that is\n    intended, and thus the passage has been translated in \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist.\n    Mind.,\" iii. p. 229; but then it is strange that in the original MS.\n    the fjords of the settlement should have been enumerated before the\n    distance to the first fjord was given. If this, however, be correct,\n    it would then have been twelve days' rowing from the northernmost\n    fjord in the Eastern Settlement to Lysefjord in the Western. This\n    might perhaps agree with Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's description of Greenland,\n    where it is stated that \"from the Eastern Settlement to the Western\n    Settlement is twelve sea-leagues, and all uninhabited.\" These twelve\n    sea-leagues may be the above-mentioned twelve days' rowing, repeated\n    in this form. It was a good two hundred nautical miles (forty ancient\n    sea-leagues) from the northernmost fjord of the Eastern Settlement to\n    the interior of Lysefjord. With twelve days' rowing, this would be at\n    the rate of eighteen miles a day; but if we allow for their keeping\n    the winding course inside the islands, it will be considerably longer.\n    If we put a day's rowing from Lysefjord northward at, say, twenty\n    nautical miles, then \"Karlsbu\u00f0ir\" would lie in about 65\u00b0, and\n    \"Biarneyiar\" in about 66\u00b0; but there is then a difficulty about this\n    island, together with Eisunes and \u00c6danes, which it is said to have\n    taken twelve days to row round. On the other hand, it is a good two\n    hundred miles round Disco Island, so that this might correspond to\n    twelve days' rowing at eighteen miles a day. And if this island is\n    intended, then either the number of days' rowing northward along the\n    coast must be increased, or the starting-point was not the Lysefjord\n    (Fiskerfjord) that lay on the extreme south of the Western Settlement.\n    But the description is altogether too uncertain to admit of any\n    definite conclusion. It is not mentioned whether the northern\n    localities, Karlsbu\u00f0ir and farther north, were included in Nordrsetur,\n    but it seems probable that they were.\n\nIn this connection the statement in Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's description must also\nbe borne in mind:\n\n[Sidenote: Himinra\u00f0 and Hunenrioth]\n\n    \"Item there lies in the north, farther from the Western Settlement, a\n    great mountain that is called Himinra\u00f0zfjall,[278] and farther than to\n    this mountain must no man sail, if he would preserve his life from the\n    many whirlpools which there lie round all the ocean.\"\n\nIt is true that Ivar's description as a whole does not seem to be very\ntrustworthy as regards details, nor do the whirlpools here spoken of tend\nto inspire confidence, suggesting as they do that it was near the earth's\nlimit, where the ocean ends in one or more vast abysses; but it is\nnevertheless possible that the mountain in question may have been an\nactual landmark in the extreme north, on that part of the west coast of\nGreenland to which voyages were habitually made, and in that case it must\nhave been situated in \"Nordrsetur.\"\n\n    Mention may also be made of a puzzling scholium to Adam of Bremen's\n    work [cf. Lappenberg, 1838, pp. 851 f.]; it was added at a late\n    period, ostensibly from \"Danish fragments,\" but the form of the names\n    betrays a Norse origin, and we must suppose that it is derived from\n    ancient Norwegian or Icelandic sources. The following is a translation\n    of the Latin text:\n\n    \"From Norway to Iceland is fourteen dozen leagues ('duodene leucarum')\n    across the sea (or XIII. dozen sea-leagues, that is, 168\n    leagues).[279] From Iceland as far as the green land ('terram\n    viridem') Gronlandt is about fourteen dozen ('duoden\u00e6'). There is a\n    promontory and it is called 'Huerff' [i.e., Hvarf], and there snow\n    lies continually and it is called 'Hwideserck.' From 'Hwideserck' as\n    far as 'Sunderbondt' is ten dozen leagues ('duoden\u00e6 leucarum'); from\n    'Sunderbondt' as far as 'Norderbondt' is eleven dozen leagues (d. l.).\n    From 'Nordbundt' to 'Hunenrioth' is seventeen dozen leagues, and here\n    men resort in order to kill white bears and 'Tauwallen'\" [\"tandhvaler\"\n    (?)--\"tusk-whales\"--i.e., walrus and narwhale (?)].[280]\n\n    This passage is difficult to understand. \"Sunderbondt\" and\n    \"Norderbondt\" are probably to be regarded as translations of the\n    Norwegian \"Syd-botten\" and \"Nord-botten.\" The latter might be the\n    Polar Sea, or \"Hafsbotn,\" north of Iceland and Norway; on Claudius\n    Clavus's map this is called \"Nordhindh Bondh\" (Nancy map) and\n    \"Nordenbodhn\" (Vienna text).[281] But in that case we should have to\n    suppose that the distances referred to a voyage from Norway to\n    Iceland, from thence to Hvarf and Hvitserk, and then back again\n    northward along the east coast of Greenland. It seems more probable\n    that the direction of the voyage was supposed to be continued round\n    Hvarf and up along the west coast; but where \"Sunderbondt\" and\n    \"Norderbondt\" are to be looked for on that coast is difficult to say;\n    the names would most naturally apply to two fjords or bays, and in\n    some way or other these might be connected with the Eastern and\n    Western Settlements; \"Norderbondt\" might, for instance, have come to\n    mean the largest fjord, Godthaabs-fjord, in the Western Settlement.\n    Since \"h\u00fan\" in Old Norse means a bear-cub or young bear, one might be\n    inclined to connect \"Hunenrioth\" with Bjarn-eyar, where perhaps bears\n    were hunted; but in that case \"-rioth\" must be taken to be the Old\n    Norse \"hrjotr\" (growl, roar), which would be an unlikely name for\n    islands or lands. It is more reasonable to suppose that it means the\n    same as the above-mentioned mountain \"Himinra\u00f0,\" from Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's\n    description. It might then be probable that this was called \"Himinro\u00f0\"\n    (i.e., flushing of the sky, sun-gold, from the root-form \"rio\u00f0a\") a\n    natural name for a high mountain;[282] by an error in writing or\n    reading this might easily become \"Hunenrioth,\" as it might also become\n    \"Himinra\u00f0.\" Thus it is possibly a mountain in Nordrsetur (see above).\n    But in any case the distances are impossible as they stand, and until\n    more light has been thrown upon this scholium, we cannot attach much\n    importance to it.\n\n[Sidenote: Nordrsetur not beyond Baffin's Bay]\n\nFor many reasons it is unreasonable to look for \"Greipar\" and\n\"Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr\" so far north as Smith Sound or Jones Sound (or\nLancaster Sound), as, amongst others in recent times, Professor A. Bugge\n[1898] and Captain G. Isachsen [1907] have done:[283]\n\n(1) In the first place this would assume that the Greenlanders on their\nNordrsetu expeditions sailed right across the ice-blocked and difficult\nBaffin's Bay and Melville Bay every summer, and back again in the autumn,\nin their small clinker-built vessels, which were not suited for sailing\namong the ice. We are told indeed (see above, p. 299) that the franklins\nhad large ships and vessels for this voyage; but this was written in\nIceland by men who were not themselves acquainted with the conditions in\nGreenland, and the statement doubtless means no more than that these\nvessels, or rather boats, were large in comparison to the small boats\n(perhaps for the most part boats of hides) which they usually employed in\ntheir home fisheries. Timber for shipbuilding was not easy to obtain in\nGreenland. Drift-wood would not go very far in building boats, to say\nnothing of larger vessels, and they must have depended on an occasional\ncargo of timber from Norway, or perhaps what they could themselves fetch\nfrom Markland. They could hardly have got the material for building\nvessels suited for sailing through the ice of Baffin's Bay in this way.\nMoreover, we know from several sources that there was great scarcity of\nrivets and iron nails in Greenland; so that vessels were largely built\nwith wooden nails. In 1189 a Greenlander, Asmund Kastanrasti, came with\ntwelve others from Kross-eyjar in Greenland to Iceland \"in a ship that was\nfastened together with wooden nails alone, save that it was also bound\nwith thongs.... He had also been in Finnsbu\u00f0ir.\" He did not sail from\nIceland till the following year, and was then shipwrecked.[284] This ship\nmust have been one of the largest and best they had in Greenland. It is\ntherefore impossible that they should have been able to keep up any\nconstant communication with the countries on the north side of Baffin's\nBay.\n\n(2) Then comes the question: what reason would they have had for exposing\nthemselves to the many dangers involved in the long northward voyage\nthrough the ice? Their purpose may have been chiefly to kill seals and\ncollect driftwood. But where there is much ice for the greater part of the\nyear, the driftwood is prevented from being thrown up on shore; and it is\nthe fact that in Baffin's Bay there is unusually little of it, so that the\nEskimo of Cape York and Smith Sound are barely able to get enough wood for\nmaking weapons and implements. In addition to the ice the reason for this\nis that no current of importance bearing driftwood reaches the north of\nBaffin's Bay. Consequently, this again is conclusive proof that the\nNordrsetur of the descriptions is not to be looked for there, nor was\nsealing particularly good; they had better sealing-grounds in the\ndistricts about Holstensborg, Egedes Minde and Disco Bay.[285]\n\n[Sidenote: Nordrsetur at and south of Disco Bay]\n\nEverything points to the Nordrsetur having been situated in the districts\neither in or to the south of Disco Bay,[286] which must have been a\nnatural hunting-ground for the Greenlanders, just as the Norwegians sail\nlong distances to Lofoten for fishing. Moreover, one of the objects of the\nvoyages to Nordrsetur was to collect driftwood; now the driftwood comes\nwith the Polar Current round Cape Farewell and is thrown up on shore along\nthe whole of the west coast northward as far as this current washes the\nland--that is to say, about as far north as Disco Bay. In the south of\nGreenland, the ancient Eastern Settlement, there is drift-ice for part of\nthe year, and not so much driftwood comes ashore as farther north, in the\nancient Western Settlement (especially the Godthaab district) and to the\nnorth of it. Besides, in the settlements there were many to find it and\nutilise it, while in the uninhabited regions there were only the Eskimo,\nof whom perhaps there were as yet few south of 68\u00b0 N. lat. On their way to\nand from the Nordrsetur, therefore, the Greenlanders travelled along the\nshore and collected driftwood wherever they found it. In Iceland this was\nmisunderstood in the sense that driftwood was supposed to be washed ashore\nchiefly in Nordrsetur; and they believed it to come from Markland, perhaps\nbecause the Greenlanders sometimes went there for timber, and it was thus\nregarded by them as a country rich in trees. It is, however, also possible\nthat the name Markland, i.e., woodland, itself may have created this\nconception. In reality most of the driftwood comes from Siberia, which was\nunknown to them, and it is brought with the drift-ice over the Polar Sea\nand southward along the east coast of Greenland.\n\n[Illustration: Driftwood. From an Icelandic MS., fifteenth century]\n\n[Sidenote: Voyage to Baffin's Bay in 1267]\n\nThe following is the account of the voyage of about 1267, given by Bj\u00f6rn\nJ\u00f3nsson (taken, according to his statement, from the Hauksb\u00f3k, where it is\nno longer to be found):\n\n    \"That summer [i.e., 1266] when Arnold the priest went from Greenland,\n    and they were stranded in Iceland at Hitarnes, pieces of wood were\n    found out at sea, which had been cut with hatchets and adzes\n    ('\u00feexlum'), and among them one in which wedges of tusk and bone were\n    imbedded.[287] The same summer men came from Nordrsetur, who had gone\n    farther north than had been heard of before. They saw no\n    dwelling-places of Skr\u00e6lings, except in Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr, and\n    therefore it is thought that they [i.e., the Skr\u00e6lings] must there\n    have the shortest way to travel, wherever they come from.... After\n    this [the following year ?] the priests sent a ship northward to find\n    out what the country was like to the north of the farthest point they\n    had previously reached; and they sailed out from Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr,\n    until the land sank below the horizon ('l\u00e6g\u00f0i'). After this they met\n    with a southerly gale and thick weather ('myrkri'), and they had to\n    stand off [i.e., to the north]. But when the storm passed over ('i\n    rauf') and it cleared ('lysti'), they saw many islands and all kinds\n    of game, both seals and whales [i.e., walrus ?], and a great number of\n    bears. They came right into the gulf [i.e., Baffin's Bay] and all the\n    land [i.e., all the land not covered by ice] then sank below the\n    horizon, the land on the south and the glaciers ('j\u00f6kla'); but there\n    was also glacier ('j\u00f6kull') to the south of them as far as they could\n    see;[288] they found there some ancient dwelling-places of Skr\u00e6lings\n    ('Skr\u00e6lingja vistir fornligar'), but they could not land on account of\n    the bears. Then they went back for three 'd\u0153gr,' and they found there\n    some dwelling-places of Skr\u00e6lings ('n\u00f6kkra Skr\u00e6lingja vistir') when\n    they landed on some islands south of Sn\u00e6fell. Then they went south to\n    Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr, one long day's rowing, on St. James's day [July\n    25]; it was then freezing there at night, but the sun shone both\n    night and day, and, when it was in the south, was only so high that if\n    a man lay athwartships in a six-oared boat, the shadow of the gunwale\n    nearest the sun fell upon his face; but at midnight it was as high as\n    it is at home in the settlement when it is in the north-west. Then\n    they returned home to Gardar\" [in the Eastern Settlement].\n\nBj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson says that this account of the voyage was written by Halldor,\na priest of Greenland (who did not himself take part in the expedition,\nbut had only heard of it), to Arnold, the priest of Greenland who was\nstranded in Iceland in 1266. It was then rewritten in Iceland (or Norway\n?), perhaps by one of the copyists of the Hauksb\u00f3k, who was unacquainted\nwith the conditions in Greenland; and afterwards it was again copied, and\nperhaps \"improved,\" at least once (by Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson himself).\nUnfortunately, the leaves of the Hauksb\u00f3k which must have contained this\nnarrative have been lost. There is therefore a possibility that errors and\nmisunderstandings may have crept in, and such an absurdity as that \"they\ncould not land on account of the bears\" (though they nevertheless saw\nancient Eskimo dwellings!) shows clearly enough that the narrative is not\nto be regarded as trustworthy in its details; but there is no reason to\ndoubt that the voyage was really made, and it must have extended far north\nin Baffin's Bay. It cannot have taken place in the same year (1266) in\nwhich the men spoken of came from Nor\u00f0rsetur, but at the earliest in the\nfollowing year (1267).\n\nWe may probably regard as one of the objects of the expedition the\ninvestigation of the northward extension of the Eskimo. The voyagers\nsailed out through Vaigat (Kr\u00f3ksfjord), in about 70-1/2\u00b0 N. lat.; they met\nwith a southerly gale and thick weather, and were obliged to keep along\nthe coast; the south wind, which follows the line of the coast, also swept\nthe ice northwards, and in open sea they came far north in the Polar Sea;\nbut, if the statements are exact, they cannot have gone farther than a\npoint from which they were able to return to Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr in four\ndays' sailing and rowing.[289] If we allow at the outside that in the\nthree days they sailed on an average one degree, or sixty nautical miles,\na day, which is a good deal along a coast, and if we put a good day's\nrowing at forty miles, we shall get a total of 220 miles; or, if they\nstarted from the northern end of Vaigat in 70-1/2\u00b0, they may have been as\nfar north as 74\u00b0 N. lat., or about Melville Bay. In any case there can be\nno question of their having been much farther north. Here the land is low,\nand the inland ice (\"j\u00f6kull\") comes right down to the sea, with bare\nislands outside (see map, p. 259). Here they found old traces of Eskimo.\nThen they returned south to Vaigat, but on the way thither they found\nEskimo dwellings (that is, in this case tents) on some islands at which\nthey put in.[290] It may be objected to this explanation that it does not\nagree with the statement as to the sun's altitude. But here there must be\na misunderstanding or obscurity in the transmission of the text.\nKr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr is always mentioned elsewhere as a particularly\nwell-known place in Nordrsetur, to which the Greenlanders resorted every\nsummer for seal-hunting, and it is far from likely that the statements as\nto the midnight sun being visible, as to the frosts at night, and the\ndetailed information as to the sun's altitude (in a description otherwise\nso concise), referred to so generally familiar a part of the country. It\nis obvious that it must refer to the unknown regions, where they were\nfarthest north; but we thus lose the information as to the date on which\nthe sun's altitude was observed; it must in any case have been four days\nbefore St. James's day, and it may have been more. Moreover, the\ninformation given is of no use for working out the latitude. The\nmeasurement of the shadow on a man lying athwartships does not help us\nmuch, as the height of the gunwale above the man's position is not given.\nThe statement as to the sun's altitude at midnight might be of more value;\nbut whether \"at home in the settlement\" means the Western Settlement, or\nwhether it does not rather mean Gardar (in the Eastern Settlement) to\nwhich they \"returned home,\" we do not now know for certain, nor do we know\non what day it was that the sun was at an equal altitude in the\nnorth-west. If St. James's day (July 25) is meant, then it is unfortunate\nthat the sun would not be visible above the horizon at Gardar when it was\nin the north-west. According to the Julian Calendar, which was then in\nuse, July 25 fell seven or eight days later than now. If Midsummer Day is\nintended, of which, however, there is no mention in the text, then the sun\nwould be about 3\u00b0 41' above the horizon in the north-west at Gardar. If it\nis meant that on July 20 the sun was at this altitude, then the latitude\nwould be 74\u00b0 34' N. [cf. H. Geelmuyden, 1883a, p. 178]. But all this is\nuncertain. We only know that the travellers saw the sun above the horizon\nat midnight. If we suppose that at least the whole of the sun's disc was\nabove the horizon, and that it was St. James's day, then they must at any\nrate have been north of 71\u00b0 48' N. lat. (as the sun's declination was\nabout 17\u00b0 54' on July 25 in the thirteenth century).[291] If the date was\nearlier, then they may have been farther south.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: From an Icelandic MS., fourteenth century]\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nWINELAND THE GOOD, THE FORTUNATE ISLES, AND THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA\n\n\n[Sidenote: The oldest authorities on Wineland]\n\nIcelandic literature contains many remarkable statements about countries\nto the south-west or south of the Greenland settlements. They are called:\n\"Helluland\" (i.e., slate- or stone-land), \"Markland\" (i.e., wood-land),\n\"Fur\u00f0ustrandir\" (i.e., marvel-strands), and \"V\u00ednland\" (also written\n\"Vindland\" or \"Vinland\"). Yet another, which lay to the west of Ireland,\nwas called \"Hv\u00edtramanna-land\" (i.e., the white men's land). Even if\ncertain of these countries are legendary, as will presently be shown, it\nmust be regarded as a fact that in any case the Greenlanders and\nIcelanders reached some of them, which lay on the north-eastern coast of\nAmerica; and they thus discovered the continent of North America, besides\nGreenland, about five hundred years before Cabot (and Columbus).\n\nWhile Helluland, Markland and Fur\u00f0ustrandir are first mentioned in\nauthorities of the thirteenth century, \"Vinland\" occurs already in Adam of\nBremen, about 1070 (see above, pp. 195 ff.). Afterwards the name occurs in\nIcelandic literature: first in Are Frode's \"Islendingab\u00f3k,\" about 1130,\nwhere we are only told that in Greenland traces were found of the same\nkind of people as \"inhabited Wineland\" (\"V\u00ednland hefer bygt\"; see above,\np. 260); it is next mentioned together with Hv\u00edtramanna-land in the\n\"Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k,\" where it may have been taken from Are Frode, as the\nlatter's uncle, Thorkel Gellisson, is given as the authority. It has been\nthought that the original statement was contained in a lost work of Are's;\nin any case it must belong to the period before his death in 1148. We are\nonly told that Hv\u00edtramanna-land lay to the west in the ocean near\nVin(d)land; but the passage is important, because, as will be discussed\nlater, it clearly shows that the statements about Wineland in the oldest\nIcelandic authorities were derived from Ireland. The next mention of\nWineland is in \"Kristni-saga\" (before 1245) and \"Heimskringla,\" where it\nis only said that Leif the Lucky found Wineland the Good. It should be\nremarked that while thus in the oldest authorities Wineland is only\nmentioned casually and in passing, it is not until we come to the Saga of\nEric the Red, of the thirteenth century, and the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's\n\"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,\" of the fourteenth, that we find any description of\nthe country, and of voyages to it and to Helluland and Markland. But two\nverses, reproduced in the first of these sagas, are certainly considerably\nolder than the saga itself; and they speak of the country where there was\nwine to drink instead of water, and of Fur\u00f0ustrandir where they boil\nwhales' flesh.\n\n    It may be added that in the \"Eyrbyggja-saga\" (of about 1250) it is\n    said that \"Snorre went with Karlsevne to Wineland the Good, and when\n    they fought with the Skr\u00e6lings there in Wineland, Snorre's son\n    Thorbrand fell in the fight.\" In the \"Grettis-saga\" (about 1290),\n    Thorhall Gamlason, one of those who took part in this expedition, is\n    called \"Vindlendingr\" or \"Vi\u00f0lendingr\" (which should doubtless be\n    \"Vinlendingr\" in each case). If we add to this that in the Icelandic\n    geography which is known from various MSS. of the fourteenth and\n    fifteenth centuries, but which is attributed in part (although hardly\n    the section about Greenland, Wineland, etc.) to Abbot Nikul\u00e1s Bergsson\n    of Thver\u00e1 (ob. 1159), Helluland, Markland and Vinland are mentioned as\n    lying to the south of Greenland (see later), then we shall have given\n    all the certain ancient authorities in which Wineland occurs [cf. G.\n    Storm, 1887, pp. 10 ff.]; but possibly the runic stone from Ringerike\n    is to be added (see later).\n\n[Sidenote: The formation of the saga]\n\nBefore I recapitulate the most important features of these voyages, as\nthey are described more particularly in the Saga of Eric the Red, I must\npremise that I look upon the narratives somewhat in the light of\nhistorical romances, founded upon legend and more or less uncertain\ntraditions. Gustav Storm in his critical review of the Wineland voyages\n[1887] has separated the older authorities, which he regarded as\naltogether trustworthy, from the later narratives in the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's\n\"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,\" which he thought were to be rejected. The last-named\nwas written about 1387, while Eric the Red's Saga, which we are to regard\nas trustworthy, must according to Storm have been written between 1270 and\n1300.[292] The accounts of the discovery of Wineland and of the voyages\nthither are very conflicting in these two authorities; while the latter\nhas only two voyages (after the discovery), the former has divided them\ninto five; while one mentions Leif Ericson as the discoverer of the\ncountry, the other gives Bjarne Herjulfsson, and so on. We are led to ask\nwhether it is reasonable to suppose that the traditions should have been\nhanded down by word of mouth in such a remarkably unaltered and\nuncorrupted state during the first 250 or 300 years, when they have been\ntransformed and confused to such an extent scarcely a hundred years later.\nThis must rather prove that there was no fixed tradition, but that the\ntales became split up into more and more varying forms. Perhaps it will be\nanswered that the Saga of Eric the Red was composed in the golden age of\nsaga-writing, whereas the Flateyjarb\u00f3k belongs to the period of\ndecline.[293] But it cannot be psychologically probable that human nature\nin Iceland should suddenly have undergone so great a change, that while\nthe saga-tellers of the fourteenth century were disposed to invent\nromances, they should not have had any tendency thereto throughout the\nthree preceding centuries. It is particularly natural that many\nalterations and additions should be made when, as here, the narratives are\nconcerned with distant waters which lay so far out of the ordinary course\nof voyages, and which for a long time had ceased to be known in Iceland\nwhen the sagas were put into writing. Features belonging to the\ndescription of other quarters of the globe were also inserted. Tales which\nin this way live in oral tradition and gradually develop into sagas,\nwithout any written word to support them, and to some extent even without\nany known localities to which they can be attached, are to be regarded as\nliving organisms dependent on accidental influence, which absorb into\nthemselves any suitable material as they may find it; a resemblance of\nname between persons may thus contribute, or a similarity of situations,\nor events which bear the same foreign stamp. The narratives of the\nWineland voyages exhibit, as we shall see, sure traces of influences of\nthis kind.\n\n[Sidenote: Leif Ericson]\n\nIn the year 999, according to the saga, Leif, the son of Eric the Red,\nsailed from Greenland to Norway. This is the first time we hear of so long\na sea-voyage being attempted,[294] and it shows in any case that this long\npassage was not unknown to the Icelanders and Norwegians. Formerly the\npassage to Greenland had been by way of Iceland, thence to the east coast\nof Greenland, southwards along the coast, and round Hvarf. But capable\nseamen like the intrepid Leif thought they could avoid so many changes of\ncourse and arrive in Norway by sailing due east from the southern point of\nGreenland. Thereby Leif Ericson becomes the personification of the first\nocean-voyager in history, who deliberately and with a settled plan steered\nstraight across the open Atlantic, without seeking to avail himself of\nharbours on the way. It also appears clearly enough from the sailing\ndirections for navigation of northern waters, which have come down to us,\nthat voyages were made across the ocean direct from Norway to Greenland.\nIt must be remembered that the compass was unknown, and that all the ships\nof that time were without fixed decks. This was an exploit equal to the\ngreatest in history; it is the beginning of ocean voyages.\n\n[Illustration: From an Icelandic MS. (J\u00f3nsb\u00f3k), sixteenth century]\n\nLeif's plan of reaching Norway direct was not wholly successful according\nto the saga; he was driven out of his course to the Hebrides. They stayed\nthere till late in the summer, waiting for a fair wind. Leif there fell in\nlove with a woman of high lineage, Thorgunna. When he sailed she begged to\nbe allowed to go with him; but Leif answered that he would not carry off a\nwoman of her lineage in a strange country, when he had so few men with\nhim. It was of no avail that she told him she was with child, and the\nchild was his. He gave her a gold ring, a Greenland mantle of frieze, and\na belt of walrus ivory, and sailed away from the Hebrides with his men and\narrived in Norway in the autumn (999). Leif became Olaf Tryggvason's man,\nand spent the winter at Nidaros. He adopted Christianity and promised the\nking to try to introduce the faith into Greenland. For this purpose he was\ngiven a priest when he sailed. In the spring, as soon as he was ready, he\nset out again to sail straight across the Atlantic to Greenland. It has\nundoubtedly been thought that he chose the course between the Faroes (61\u00b0\n50' N. lat.) and Shetland (60\u00b0 50' N. lat.) to reach Cape Farewell, and\nafterwards this became the usual course for the voyage from Norway to\nGreenland. But he was driven out of his course, and\n\n    \"for a long time drifted about in the sea, and came upon countries of\n    which before he had no suspicion. There were self-sown wheat-fields,\n    and vines grew there; there were also the trees that are called\n    'masur' ('m\u01ebsurr'),[295] and of all these they had some specimens\n    (some trees so large that they were laid in houses\" [i.e., used as\n    house-beams]).\n\nThis land was \"V\u00ednland hit G\u00f3\u00f0a.\" As it was assumed that the wild vine\n(Vitis vulpina) grew in America as far north as 45\u00b0 N. lat. and along the\neast coast, the historians have thought to find in this a proof that Leif\nEricson must have been on the coast of America south of this latitude;\nbut, as we shall see later, these features--the self-sown wheat-fields,\nthe vines and the lofty trees--are probably borrowed from elsewhere.\n\n    \"On his homeward voyage Leif found some men on a wreck, and took them\n    home with him and gave them all shelter for the winter. He showed so\n    much nobility and goodness, he introduced Christianity into the\n    country, and he rescued the men; he was then called 'Leifr hinn\n    Heppni' [the Lucky]. Leif came to land in Eric's fjord, and went home\n    to Brattalid; there they received him well.\" This was the same autumn\n    [1000].\n\nSo concise is the narrative of the voyage by which the first discovery of\nAmerica by Europeans is said to have been made.[296]\n\n[Sidenote: Thorstein Ericson]\n\nCuriously enough, the saga tells us nothing more of Leif as a sailor. He\nappears after this to have lived in peace in Greenland, and he took over\nBrattalid after his father's death. On the other hand, we hear that his\nbrother Thorstein made an attempt to find Wineland, which Leif had\ndiscovered. After Leif's return home \"there was much talk that they ought\nto seek the land that Leif had found. The leader was Thorstein Ericson, a\ngood man, and wise, and friendly.\" We hear earlier in the saga, where\nLeif's voyage to Norway is related, that both of Eric's sons \"were capable\nmen; Thorstein was at home with his father, and there was not a man in\nGreenland who was thought to be so manly as he.\" We hear nothing about\nLeif's taking part in the new voyage; it looks as if it had been\nThorstein's turn to go abroad. But\n\n    \"Eric was asked, and they trusted in his good fortune and foresight\n    being greatest. He was against it, but did not say no, as his friends\n    exhorted him so to it. They therefore fitted out the ship which\n    Thorbj\u00f6rn [Vivilsson] had brought out to Greenland;[297] and twenty\n    men were chosen for it; they took little goods with them, but more\n    arms and provisions. The morning that Eric left home, he took a little\n    chest, and therein was gold and silver; he hid this property and then\n    went on his way; but when he had gone a little distance he fell from\n    his horse, broke his ribs and hurt his shoulder, and said, 'Ah yes!'\n    After this accident he sent word to his wife that she should take up\n    the property that he had hidden; he had now, said he, been punished\n    for hiding it. Then they sailed out of Eric's fjord with gladness, and\n    thought well of their prospects. They drifted about the sea for a long\n    time and did not arrive where they desired. They came in sight of\n    Iceland, and they had also birds from Ireland; their ship was carried\n    eastwards over the ocean. They came back in the autumn and were then\n    weary and very worn. And they came in the late autumn to Eric's fjord.\n    Then said Eric: 'In the summer we sailed from the fjords more\n    light-hearted than we now are, and yet we now have good reason to be\n    so.' Thorstein said: 'It would be a worthy deed to take charge of the\n    men who are homeless, and to provide them with lodging.' Eric\n    answered: 'Thy words shall be followed.' All those who had no other\n    place of abode were now allowed to accompany Eric and Thorstein.\n    Afterwards they took land and went home.\"\n\nIn the autumn (1001) Thorstein celebrated his marriage with Thorbj\u00f6rm\nVivilsson's daughter Gudrid, at Brattalid, and it \"went off well.\" They\nafterwards went home to Thorstein's property on the Lysefjord, which was\nthe southernmost fjord in the Western Settlement; probably that which is\nnow called Fiskerfjord (near Fiskernes) in about 63\u00b0 N. lat. There\nThorstein died during the winter of an illness (scurvy ?) which put an end\nto many on the property, and Gudrid next summer returned to Eric, who\nreceived her well. Her father died also, and she inherited all his\nproperty.\n\n[Sidenote: Karlsevne in Greenland]\n\nThat autumn (1002) Thorfinn Karlsevne came from Iceland to Eric's fjord in\nGreenland, with one ship and forty men. He was on a trading voyage, and\nwas looked upon as a skilful sailor and merchant, was of good family and\nrich in goods. Together with him was Snorre Thorbrandsson. Another ship,\nwith Bjarne Grimolfsson and Thorhall Gamlason and a crew likewise of forty\nmen, had accompanied them from Iceland.\n\n    \"Eric rode to the ships, and others of the men of the country, and\n    there was a friendly agreement between them. The captains bade Eric\n    take what he wished of the cargo. But Eric in return showed great\n    generosity, in that he invited both these crews home to spend the\n    winter at Brattalid. This the merchants accepted and went with Eric.\"\n\n    \"The merchants were well content in Eric's house that winter, but when\n    Yule was drawing nigh, Eric began to be less cheerful than was his\n    wont.\" When Karlsevne asked: \"Is there anything that oppresses thee,\n    Eric?\" and tried to find out the reason of his being so dispirited, it\n    came out that it was because he had nothing for the Yule-brew; and it\n    would be said that his guests had never had a worse Yule than with\n    him. Karlsevne thought there was no difficulty about that; they had\n    malt, and meal, and corn in the ships, and thereof, said he, \"thou\n    shalt have all thou desirest, and make such a feast as thy generosity\n    demands.\" Eric accepted this. \"The Yule banquet was prepared, and it\n    was so magnificent that men thought they had scarcely ever seen so\n    fine a feast.\"\n\nEven if the tale is unhistorical, it gives a glimpse of the life and the\nhard conditions in Greenland; they only had grain occasionally when a ship\narrived; for the most part they lived on what they caught, and when that\nfailed, as we are told was the case in 999, there was famine. But to be\nwithout the Yule-brew was a misfortune to an Icelander; nevertheless we\nlearn from the Foster-brothers' Saga that \"Yule-drink was rare in\nGreenland,\" and that a man might become famous by holding a feast, as did\nThorkel, the grandson of Eric the Red, in 1026.\n\nAfter Yule, Karlsevne was married to Eric's daughter-in-law, Gudrid.\n\n    \"The feast was then prolonged, and the marriage was celebrated. There\n    was great merry-making at Brattalid that winter; there was much\n    playing at draughts, and making mirth with tales and much else to\n    divert the company.\"\n\n[Illustration: From an Icelandic MS. (J\u00f3nsb\u00f3k), fifteenth century]\n\n[Sidenote: Karlsevne's voyage to Wineland]\n\nThere was a good deal of talk about going to look for Wineland the Good,\nand it was said that it might be a fertile country. The result was that\nKarlsevne and Snorre got their ship ready to search for Wineland in the\nsummer. Bjarne and Thorhall also joined the expedition with their ship and\nthe crew that had accompanied them. Besides these, there came on a third\nship a man named Thorvard--married to Eric the Red's illegitimate daughter\nFreydis, who also went--and Thorhall, nicknamed Veidemand (the Hunter).\n\n    \"He had been on hunting expeditions with Eric for many summers and was\n    a man of many crafts. Thorhall was a big man, dark and troll-like; he\n    was well on in years, obstinate, silent and reserved in everyday life,\n    but crafty and slanderous, ever rejoicing in evil. He had had little\n    to do with the faith since it came to Greenland. Thorhall had little\n    friendship for his fellow men, yet Eric had long associated with him.\n    He was in the same ship with Thorvald and Thorvard, because he had\n    wide knowledge of the uninhabited regions. They had the ship that\n    Thorbj\u00f6rn [Vivilsson] had brought out to Greenland [and that Thorstein\n    Ericson had used for his unlucky voyage two years before]. Most of\n    those on board that ship were Greenlanders. On their ships there were\n    altogether forty men over a hundred.\"[298]\n\nEric the Red and Leif were doubtless supposed to have assisted both\nactively and with advice during the fitting-out, even though they would\nnot take part in the voyage. It is mentioned later that they gave\nKarlsevne two Scottish runners that Leif had received from King Olaf\nTryggvason.\n\nThe three ships sailed first \"to the Western Settlement and thence to\nBjarneyjar\" (the Bear Islands).[299] The most natural explanation of the\nsaga making them begin their expedition by sailing in this direction (to\nthe north-west and north)--whereas the land they were in search of lay to\nthe south-west or south--may be that the Icelandic saga-writer (of the\nthirteenth century), ignorant of the geography of Greenland, assumed that\nthe Western Settlement must lie due west of the Eastern; and as the\nvoyagers were to look for countries in the south-west, he has made them\nbegin by proceeding to the farthest point he had heard of on this coast,\nBjarneyjar, so that they might have a prospect of better luck than\nThorstein, who had sailed out from Eric's fjord. When it is said that\nThorhall the Hunter accompanied Eric's son and son-in-law because of his\nwide knowledge of the uninhabited regions, it must be the regions beyond\nthe Western Settlement that are meant, and the saga-writer must have\nthought that these extended westward or in the direction of the new\ncountries. It must also be remembered that in the spring and early summer\nthere is frequently drift-ice off the Eastern Settlement, from Cape\nFarewell for a good way north-westward along the coast. The course would\nthen naturally lie to the north-west of this ice--that is, towards the\nWestern Settlement. But it may also be supposed that they had to begin by\ngoing northward to get seals and provision themselves with food and oil\n(fuel), which might be necessary for a long and unknown voyage. This\nexplanation is, however, less probable.\n\nFrom Bjarneyjar they put to sea with a north wind. They were at sea,\naccording to the saga, for two \"d\u0153gr.\"[300]\n\n    \"There they found land, and rowed along it in boats, and examined the\n    country, and found there [on the shore] many flat stones so large\n    that two men might easily lie stretched upon them sole to sole. There\n    were many white foxes there.[301] They gave the land a name and called\n    it 'Helluland.'\"\n\nIt may be the coast of Labrador that is here intended, and not Baffin\nLand, since the statement that they sailed thither with a north wind must\ndoubtless imply that the coast lay more or less in a southerly and not in\na westerly direction from Bjarneyjar. From Helluland\n\n    \"they sailed for two 'd\u0153gr' towards the south-east and south, and then\n    a land lay before them, and upon it were great forests and many\n    beasts. An island lay to the south-east off the land, and there they\n    found a polar bear,[302] and they called the island 'Bjarney'; but the\n    country they called 'Markland' [i.e., Wood-land] on account of the\n    forest.\"\n\nThe name Markland suits Newfoundland best; it had forests down to the\nsea-shore when it was rediscovered about 1500, and even later.\n\nWhen they had once more sailed for\n\n    \"two 'd\u0153gr' they sighted land and sailed under the land. There was a\n    promontory where they first came. They cruised along the shore, which\n    they kept to starboard [i.e., to the west]. It was without harbours\n    and there were long strands and stretches of sand. They went ashore in\n    boats, and found there on the promontory a ship's keel, and called it\n    'Kjalarnes' [i.e., Keel-ness]; they also gave the strands a name and\n    called them 'Fur\u00f0ustrandir' [i.e., the marvel-strands or the\n    wonderful, strange strands], because it took a long time to sail past\n    them.\"[303]\n\nThis may apply, as Storm points out, to the eastern side of Cape Breton\nIsland; but in that case they must have steered west-south-west from the\nsouth-eastern promontory of Markland (Newfoundland). Kjalarnes must then\nbe Cape Breton itself. That they should have found a ship's keel there\nsounds strange; if this is not an invention we must suppose that it was\ndriven ashore from a wreck; no doubt it happened often enough that vessels\nwere lost on the voyage to Greenland. When Eric, according to the\nLandn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, sailed with twenty-five ships, many of them were lost.\nWreckage would be carried by the currents from Greenland into the Labrador\ncurrent, and by this southward past Markland. But it is more probable that\nthe origin of the name was entirely different; that, for example, the\npromontory had the shape of a ship's keel, and that the account of the\nkeel found has been developed much later.[304] This is confirmed by the\nfact that the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr\" gives a wholly different explanation of\nthe name from that in Eric's Saga.\n\n    South of Fur\u00f0ustrandir \"the land was indented by bays ('v\u00e1gskorit'),\n    and they steered the ships into a bay.\" Here they landed the two Scots\n    (the man \"Haki\" and the woman \"Hekja\") whom Karlsevne had received\n    from Leif and Eric, and who ran faster than deer. They \"bade them run\n    southward and examine the condition of the country, and return before\n    three 'd\u0153gr' were past. They had such garments as they called 'kiafal'\n    [or 'biafal']; it was made so that there was a hood above, and it\n    [i.e., 'the kiafal'] was open at the sides, and without sleeves, and\n    caught up between the legs, fastened there with a button and a loop;\n    otherwise they were bare. They cast anchor and lay there a while; and\n    when three days were past they came running down from the land, and\n    one of them had grapes in his hand, the other self-sown wheat.\n    Karlsevne said that they seemed to have found a fertile country.\"\n\nThey then sailed on until they came to a fjord, into which they steered\nthe ships.\n\n    \"There was an island outside, and round the island strong currents.\n    They called it 'Straumsey.' There were so many birds there that one\n    could hardly put one's foot between the eggs. They held on up the\n    fjord, and called it 'Straumsfjord,' and unloaded the ships and\n    established themselves there. They had with them all kinds of cattle,\n    and sought to make use of the land. There were mountains there, and\n    fair was the prospect. They did nothing else but search out the land.\n    There was much grass. They stayed there the winter, and it was very\n    long; but they had not taken thought of anything, and were short of\n    food, and their catch decreased. Then they went out to the island,\n    expecting that there they might find some fishing or something might\n    drift up [i.e., a whale be driven ashore ?]. There was, however,\n    little to be caught for food, but their cattle throve there. Then they\n    made vows to God that He might send them something to eat; but no\n    answer came so quickly as they had hoped.\" The heathen Thorhall the\n    Hunter then disappeared for three \"d\u0153gr,\" and doubtless held secret\n    conjurations with the red-bearded One (i.e., Thor). A little later a\n    whale was driven ashore, and they ate of it, but were all sick. When\n    they found out how things were with Thorhall and Thor, \"they cast it\n    out over the cliff and prayed to God for mercy. They then made a catch\n    of fish, and there was no lack of food. In the spring [1004] they\n    entered Straumsfjord and had catches from both lands [i.e., both sides\n    of the fjord], hunting on the mainland, eggs on the island, and fish\n    in the sea.\"\n\nThis description gives a good insight both into the Norsemen's manner of\nequipping themselves for voyages to unknown countries, and into their\nsuperstition.\n\nIt looks as if a dissension now arose between the wayward Thorhall the\nHunter and the rest, since he wanted to look for Wineland to the north of\nFur\u00f0ustrandir, beyond Kjalarnes.\n\n    \"But Karlsevne wished to go south along the coast and eastward. He\n    thought the land became broader the farther south it bore;[305] but\n    it seemed to him most expedient to try both ways\" [i.e., both south\n    and north].\n\nThorhall then parted from them; but there were no more than nine men in\nhis company. Perhaps they were desirous of going home; for from an old\nlay, which the saga attributes to Thorhall, it appears that he was\ndiscontented with the whole stay there: he abuses the country, where the\nwarriors had promised him the best of drinks, but where wine never touched\nhis lips, and he had to take a bucket himself and fetch water to drink.\nAnd before they hoisted sail Thorhall quoth this lay:\n\n        \"Let us go homeward,\n        where we shall find fellow-countrymen:\n        let us with our ship seek\n        the broad ways of the sea,\n        while the hopeful\n        warriors (those who praise\n        the land) on Fur\u00f0ustrandir\n        stay and boil whales' flesh.\"\n\n    \"Then they parted [from Karlsevne, who had accompanied them out] and\n    sailed north of Fur\u00f0ustrandir and Kjalarnes, and then tried to beat\n    westward. Then the westerly storm caught them and they drifted to\n    Ireland, and there they were made slaves and ill-treated. There\n    Thorhall lost his life, as merchants have reported.\"\n\nThe last statement shows that according to Icelandic geographical ideas\nthe country round Kjalarnes lay directly opposite Ireland and in the same\nlatitude.\n\nKarlsevne, with Snorre, Bjarne, and the rest, left Straumsfjord and sailed\nsouthward along the coast [1004].\n\n    \"They sailed a long time and until they came to a river, which flowed\n    down from the interior into a lake and thence into the sea. There were\n    great sandbanks before the mouth of the river, and it could only be\n    entered at high water. Karlsevne and his people then sailed to the\n    mouth of the river and called the country 'H\u00f3p' [i.e., a small closed\n    bay]. There they found self-sown wheat-fields, where the land was\n    low, but vines wherever they saw heights ('en v\u00ednvi\u00f0r allt \u00fear sem\n    holta kendi'). Every beck ('l\u00f6kr') was full of fish. They dug trenches\n    on the shore below high-water mark, and when the tide went out there\n    were halibuts in the trenches. In the forest there was a great\n    quantity of beasts of all kinds. They were there half a month amusing\n    themselves, and suspecting nothing. They had their cattle with them.\n    But early one morning, when they looked about them, they saw nine\n    hide-boats ('hu\u00f0keipa'), and wooden poles were being waved on the\n    ships [i.e., the hide-boats], and they made a noise like\n    threshing-flails and went the way of the sun. Karlsevne's men took\n    this to be a token of peace and bore a white shield towards them. Then\n    the strangers rowed towards them, and wondered, and came ashore. They\n    were small [or black ?][306] men, and ugly, and they had ugly hair on\n    their heads; their eyes were big, and they were broad across the\n    cheeks. And they stayed there awhile, and wondered, then rowed away\n    and went south of the headland.\"\n\nThis then would be the description of the first meeting in history between\nEuropeans and the natives of America. With all its brevity it gives an\nexcellent picture; but whether we can accept it is doubtful. As we shall\nsee later, the Norsemen probably did meet with Indians; but the\ndescription of the latter's appearance must necessarily have been \nmore and more by greater familiarity with the Skr\u00e6lings of Greenland when\nthe sagas were put into writing. The big eyes will not suit either of\nthem, and are rather to be regarded as an attribute of trolls and\nunderground beings; gnomes and old fairy men have big, watery eyes. The\nugly hair is also an attribute of the underground beings.\n\n    \"Karlsevne and his men had built their houses above the lake, some\n    nearer, some farther off. Now they stayed there that winter. No snow\n    fell at all, and all the cattle were out at pasture. But when spring\n    came they saw early one morning a number of hide-boats rowing from the\n    south past the headland, so many that it seemed as if the sea had been\n    sown with coal in front of the bay, and they waved wooden poles on\n    every boat. Then they set up shields and held a market, and the people\n    wanted most to buy red cloth; they also wanted to buy swords and\n    spears, but this was forbidden by Karlsevne and Snorre.\" The\n    Skr\u00e6lings[307] gave them untanned skins in exchange for the cloth, and\n    trade was proceeding briskly, until \"an ox, which Karlsevne had, ran\n    out of the wood and began to bellow. The Skr\u00e6lings were scared and ran\n    to their boats (keipana) and rowed south along the shore. After that\n    they did not see them for three weeks. But when that time was past,\n    they saw a great multitude of Skr\u00e6ling boats coming from the south, as\n    though driven on by a stream. Then all the wooden poles were waved\n    against the sun ('rangs\u00f6lis,' wither-shins), and all the Skr\u00e6lings\n    howled loudly. Then Karlsevne and his men took red shields and bore\n    them towards them. The Skr\u00e6lings leapt from their boats and then they\n    made towards each other and fought; there was a hot exchange of\n    missiles. The Skr\u00e6lings also had catapults ('valslongur'). Karlsevne\n    and his men saw that the Skr\u00e6lings hoisted up on a pole a great ball\n    ('knottr') about as large as a sheep's paunch, and seeming blue[308]\n    in colour, and slung it from the pole up on to the land over\n    Karlsevne's people, and it made an ugly noise when it came down. At\n    this great terror smote Karlsevne and his people, so that they had no\n    thought but of getting away and up the river, for it seemed to them\n    that the Skr\u00e6lings were assailing them on all sides; and they did not\n    halt until they had reached certain crags. There they made a stout\n    resistance. Freydis came out and saw that they were giving way. She\n    cried out: 'Wherefore do ye run away from such wretches, ye gallant\n    men? I thought it likely that ye could slaughter them like cattle, and\n    had I but arms I believe I should fight better than any of you.' None\n    heeded what she said. Freydis tried to go with them, but she fell\n    behind, for she was with child. She nevertheless followed them into\n    the wood, but the Skr\u00e6lings came after her. She found before her a\n    dead man, Thorbrand Snorrason, and a flat stone ('hellustein') was\n    fixed in the head of him. His sword lay unsheathed by him, and she\n    took it up to defend herself with it. Then the Skr\u00e6lings came at her.\n    She takes her breasts out of her sark and whets the sword on them. At\n    that the Skr\u00e6lings are afraid and run away back to their boats, and go\n    off. Karlsevne and his men meet her and praise her happy device. Two\n    men of Karlsevne's fell, and four of the Skr\u00e6lings; but nevertheless\n    Karlsevne had suffered defeat. They now go to their houses, bind up\n    their wounds, and consider what swarm of people it was that came\n    against them from the land. It seemed to them now that there could\n    have been no more than those who came from the boats, and that the\n    other people must have been glamour. The Skr\u00e6lings also found a dead\n    man, and an axe lay beside him; one of them took up the axe and struck\n    at a tree, and so one after another, and it seemed to delight them\n    that it bit so well. Then one took and smote a stone with it; but when\n    the axe broke, he thought it was of no use, if it did not stand\n    against stone, and he cast it from him.\"\n\n    \"Karlsevne and his men now thought they could see that although the\n    land was fertile, they would always have trouble and disquiet with the\n    people who dwelt there before. Then they prepared to set out, and\n    intended to go to their own country. They sailed northward and found\n    five Skr\u00e6lings sleeping in fur jerkins ('skinnhj\u00fapum'), and they had\n    with them kegs with deer's marrow mixed with blood. They thought they\n    could understand that they were outlaws; they killed them. Then they\n    found a headland and a multitude of deer, and the headland looked like\n    a crust of dried dung, from the deer lying there at night. Now they\n    came back to Straumsfjord, and there was abundance of everything. It\n    is reported by some that Bjarne and Gudrid remained behind there, and\n    a hundred men with them, and did not go farther; but they say that\n    Karlsevne and Snorre went southward with forty men and were no longer\n    at H\u00f3p than barely two months, and came back the same summer.\"\n\n[Illustration: From an Icelandic MS. (J\u00f3nsb\u00f3k), fourteenth century]\n\nKarlsevne went with one ship to search for Thorhall the Hunter. He sailed\nto the north of Kjalarnes, westwards, and south along the shore (Storm\nthought on the eastern side of Cape Breton Island to the northern side of\nNova Scotia), and they found a river running from east to west into the\nsea.\n\n    Here Thorvald Ericson was shot one morning from the shore with an\n    arrow which they thought came from a Uniped [legendary creature with\n    one foot] whom they pursued but did not catch. The arrow struck\n    Thorvald in the small intestines. He drew it out, saying: \"There is\n    fat in the bowels; a good land have we found, but it is doubtful\n    whether we shall enjoy it.\" Thorvald died of this wound a little\n    later. \"They then sailed away northward again and thought they sighted\n    'Einf\u00f6tinga-land' [the Land of Unipeds]. They would no longer risk the\n    lives of their men,\" and \"they went back and stayed in Straumsfjord\n    the third winter. Then the men became very weary [so that they fell\n    into disagreement]; those who were wifeless quarrelled with those who\n    had wives.\"[309]\n\nThe fourth summer [1006] they sailed from Wineland with a south wind and\ncame to Markland.\n\n    There they found five Skr\u00e6lings, and caught of them two boys, while\n    the grown-up ones, a bearded man and two women, \"escaped and sank into\n    the earth. The boys they took with them and taught them their\n    language, and they were baptized. They called their mother 'V\u00e6tilldi'\n    and their father 'V\u00e6gi.' They said that kings governed in\n    Skr\u00e6linga-land; one of them was called 'Avalldamon,' the other\n    'Valldidida.' They said that there were no houses, and the people lay\n    in rock-shelters or caves. They said there was another great country\n    over against their country, and men went about there in white clothing\n    and cried aloud, and carried poles before them, to which strips were\n    fastened. This is thought to be 'Hvitramanna-land' [i.e., the white\n    men's land] or Great-Ireland.\" Then Karlsevne and his men came to\n    Greenland and stayed the winter with Eric the Red [1006-1007].\n\n    \"But Bjarne Grimolfsson [on the other ship] was carried out into the\n    Irish Ocean [the Atlantic between Markland and Ireland] and they came\n    into the maggot-sea ('ma\u00f0k-sj\u00e1'); they did not know of it until the\n    ship was worm-eaten under them,\" and ready to sink. \"They had a\n    long-boat ('eptirb\u00e1t') that was coated with seal-tar, and men say that\n    the sea-maggot will not eat wood that is coated with seal-tar.\" \"But\n    when they tried it, the boat would not hold more than half the ship's\n    company.\" They all wanted to go in it; but Bjarne then proposed that\n    they should decide who should go in the boat by casting lots and not\n    by precedence, and this was agreed to. The lots fell so that Bjarne\n    was amongst those who were to go in the boat. \"When they were in it, a\n    young Icelander, who had accompanied Bjarne from home, said: 'Dost\n    thou think, Bjarne, to part from me here?' Bjarne answers: 'So it must\n    be.' He says: 'This was not thy promise when I came with thee from\n    Iceland....' Bjarne answers: 'Nor shall it be so; go thou in the boat,\n    but I must go in the ship, since I see that thy life is so dear to\n    thee.' Bjarne then went on board the ship, and this man in the boat,\n    and they kept on their course until they came to Dyflinar [Dublin] in\n    Ireland, and there told this tale. But most men believe that Bjarne\n    and his companions lost their lives in the maggot-sea, since they were\n    not heard of again.\"\n\nThorfinn Karlsevne returned in the following summer (1007) to Iceland with\nGudrid and their son Snorre, who was born at Straumsfjord in Wineland the\nfirst winter they were there. Karlsevne afterwards lived in Iceland.\n\n[Sidenote: The composite and legendary character of the whole saga]\n\nIf we now review critically the Saga of Eric the Red and the whole of this\ntale of Karlsevne's voyage, together with the other accounts of Wineland\nvoyages, we shall find one feature after another that is legendary or that\nmust have been borrowed from elsewhere. If we examine first of all the\nrelation of the various authorities to the events they narrate, we must be\nstruck by the fact that in the oldest authorities, such as the Landn\u00e1ma,\nEric the Red has only two sons, Leif and Thorstein, whereas in Eric's\nSaga and in the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,\" for the sake of the trilogy of\nlegend, he has begotten three sons, besides an illegitimate daughter. In\nthe oldest MS., Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, Leif is only mentioned in one place,\nand nothing more is said of him than that he was Eric's son and inherited\nBrattalid from his father; he is not given the nickname \"heppni\" (the\nlucky), and it is not mentioned that he had discovered Wineland, nor that\nhe had introduced Christianity. In the Sturlub\u00f3k he is again mentioned in\none place as the son of Tjodhild and Eric, and there has the nickname \"en\nhepni\"; but neither is there here any mention of the discovery of Wineland\nor the introduction of Christianity [cf. Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, ed. F. J\u00f3nsson,\n1900, pp. 35, 156, 165]. As this passage is not found in Hauk's Landn\u00e1ma,\nit may be an addition in the later MS., which was wanting in the original\nLandn\u00e1mab\u00f3k. In the great saga of St. Olaf[310] (chapter 70)--where King\nOlaf asks the Icelander Thorarinn Nevjolfsson to take the blind king R\u00f6rek\nto Greenland to \"Leif Ericson\"--the latter again is not called the Lucky,\nnor is Wineland or its discovery mentioned. This saga was written,\naccording to the editors, about 1230. As neither this nickname nor the\ntales of Leif's discovery of Wineland are found earlier than in the\nKristni-saga and Heimskringla, it looks as if these features did not\nappear till later. There is a similar state of things with regard to the\nmention of Thorfinn Karlsevne; only in one passage in Hauk's Landn\u00e1ma is\nit mentioned that he found \"Vin(d)land hit G\u00f3\u00f0a\"; but as this does not\noccur in the Sturlub\u00f3k, it may be an addition due to Hauk Erlendsson, who\nregarded Thorfinn as his ancestor. The silence of the oldest authorities\non the voyages to Wineland becomes still more striking when we compare\nwith it the fact that the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k contains statements (with careful\ncitation of authorities, showing that they are derived from Are Frode\nhimself) about Are M\u00e1rsson, his voyage to Hv\u00edtramanna-land, and his stay\nthere, which have generally been regarded as far less authentic than the\ntales of the Wineland voyages. If Are M\u00e1rsson's voyage is a myth, then one\nwould be still more inclined to regard the latter as such. The objection\nthat it would have been beside the plan of the brief and concise earlier\nworks (\u00cdslendingab\u00f3k and Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k) to include these things, scarcely\nholds good. If Are has room in the \u00cdslendingab\u00f3k for a comparatively\ndetailed account of the discovery, naming and natives of Greenland, and\nfurther for a description of the introduction of Christianity into\nIceland; if the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k also gives details, derived, as we have said,\nfrom him, of Are M\u00e1rsson's voyage to Hv\u00edtramanna-land, then it is\ndifficult to understand why neither Are Frode nor the authors of the\nLandn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, when mentioning Eric the Red and Leif, should have found room\nfor a line about Leif's having discovered Wineland and Christianised\nGreenland--two not unimportant pieces of information--if they had known of\nit. At any rate, the Christianising of Greenland must have been of\ninterest to the priest Are and to the priest-taught authors of\nLandn\u00e1mab\u00f3k. This silence is therefore suspicious.\n\nThe personal names in the Saga of Eric the Red are also striking. With the\nexception of Eric himself, his wife Tjodhild and his son Leif, and a few\nother names in the first part, which is taken almost in its entirety from\nthe Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, almost all the names belonging to this saga are connected\nwith those of heathen gods, especially Thor. Eric has got a third son,\nThorvald, who is not mentioned in Landn\u00e1ma, besides his daughter Freydis,\nand his son-in-law Thorvard. The name Freydis is only known from this one\nwoman in the whole of Icelandic literature, and several names in Norse\nliterature compounded of Frey- seem, according to Lind,[311] to belong to\nmyths (e.g., Freygar\u00f0r, Freysteinn and Freybj\u01ebrn). Other names connected\nwith the Wineland voyages in this saga are: Thor-bj\u00f6rn Vivilsson (his\nbrother was named Thor-geir and his daughter's foster-father Orm\nThor-geirsson) came to Thor-kjell of Herjolfsnes, where the prophetess was\ncalled Thor-bj\u00f6rg. Leif's woman in the Hebrides was called Thor-gunna, and\ntheir illegitimate son Thor-gils. Thor-stein Ericson had a property\ntogether with another Thor-stein in Lysefjord.[312] We have further\nThor-finn Karlsevne (son of Thord and Thor-unn), Snorre Thor-brandsson,\nThor-hall Gamlason, Thor-hall Veidemand (who also had dealings with the\nred-bearded Thor), and Thor-brand Snorrason who was killed. An exception,\nbesides Bjarne Grimolfsson (and the runners Haki and Hekja; see below), is\nThorfinn Karlsevne's wife Gu\u00f0ri\u00f0r,[313] daughter of Thorbj\u00f6rn Vivilsson,\nand mother of Snorre. But perhaps one can guess why she is given this name\nif one reads through the description of the remarkable scene of\nsoothsaying--at Thorkjell's house on Herjolfsnes--between the fair Gudrid,\nwho sang with such a beautiful voice, and the heathen sorceress Thorbj\u00f6rg,\nwhere the former as a Christian woman refuses to sing the heathen charms\n\"Var\u00f0lokur,\" as the sorceress asks her to do. These numerous\nThor-names--with the two women's names, the powerful Freydis and the fair\nGudrid--which are attributed to a time when heathendom and Christianity\nwere struggling for the mastery (cf. the tale of Thorhall the Hunter and\nthe whale), have in themselves an air of myth and invention. To this must\nbe added mythical descriptions like those of the prophetess of\nHerjolfsnes, the ghosts at Lysefjord the winter Thorstein Ericson died,\nand others.\n\nThe Saga of Eric the Red tells of two voyages in search of Wineland, after\nLeif's accidental discovery of the country. The first is Thorstein\nEricson's unfortunate expedition, when they did not find the favoured\nWineland, but were driven eastward into the ocean towards Iceland and\nIreland. In the Irish tale of Brandan (\"Imram Brenaind,\" of the eleventh\ncentury), Brandan first makes an unsuccessful voyage to find the promised\nland, and arrives, it seems, most probably in the east of the ocean,\nsomewhere about Brittany (cf. Vita S. Brandani; and Machutus's voyage);\nbut he then makes a fresh voyage in which he finally reaches the land he\nis in search of [cf. Zimmer, 1889, pp. 135 ff.]. This similarity with the\nIrish legend is doubtless not very great, but perhaps it deserves to be\nincluded with many others to be mentioned later.\n\n[Illustration: The relative distances between the countries. The scale\ngives \"d\u0153gr's\" sailing (== 2 degrees of latitude), according to the\n\"Rymbegla.\" A white cross marks the valley of the St. John]\n\nIf we now pass to the tale itself of Karlsevne's voyage, we have already\nseen (p. 321) that its beginning with the journey to the Western\nSettlement is doubtful; next, the feature of his sailing to three\ndifferent countries in turn (Helluland, Markland and Fur\u00f0ustrandir), with\nthe same number of days' sail between each, must be taken directly from\nthe fairy tales.[314] Such a voyage is in itself improbable; in the saga\nthe countries are evidently imagined as islands or peninsulas, but nothing\ncorresponding to this is to be found on the coast of America. It is\ninconceivable that a discoverer of Labrador and of the coast to the south\nof it should have divided this into several countries; it was not till\nlong after the rediscovery of Newfoundland and Labrador that the sound\nbetween them was found. If we suppose that Karlsevne was making southward\nand came first to Labrador (== Helluland ?), with a coast extending\nsouth-eastward, it is against common sense that he should voluntarily\nhave lost sight of this coast and put to sea again in an easterly\ndirection, and then sight fresh land to the south of him two days later;\non the other hand, this is the usual mode of presentment in fairy tales\nand myth. But let us suppose now that he did nevertheless arrive in this\nway at Newfoundland (== Markland ?), and then again put to sea instead of\nfollowing the coast, how could he know that this time instead of sailing\neastward he was to take a westward course? But this he must have done, for\notherwise he could not have reached Cape Breton or Nova Scotia; and he\nmust have got there, if we are to make anything out of the story. The\ndistances given, of two \"d\u0153gr's\" sail to each of the countries, as\nremarked on p. 322, are also foreign to reality.[315] This part of the\ndescription has therefore an altogether artificial look. It reminds one\nforcibly of many of the old Irish legendary tales of wonderful voyages; in\nparticular the commencement of one of the oldest and most important may be\nmentioned: \"Imram Maelduin\" (the tale of Maelduin's voyage), which is\nknown in MSS. of the end of the eleventh century and later, but which was\nprobably to a great extent first written down in the seventh, or at the\nlatest in the eighth century [cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 289].\n\n    When Maelduin and his companions put to sea from Ireland in a coracle\n    with three hides (while Karlsevne has three ships), they came first to\n    two small islands (while Karlsevne came to Bjarneyjar). After this for\n    three days and three nights the Irishmen came upon no land; \"on the\n    morning of the third day\" they heard the waves breaking on a beach,\n    but when daylight came and they approached the land, swarms of ants,\n    as large as foals, came down to the beach and showed a desire to eat\n    them and the boat (these are the gold-digging ants of Indo-Greek\n    legend). This land is the parallel to Helluland, where there were a\n    number of arctic foxes (cf. the description of the arrival there, p.\n    323).--After having fled thence for three days and three nights, the\n    Irishmen heard \"on the morning of the third day\" the waves breaking on\n    a beach, and when daylight came they saw a great, lofty island with\n    terraces around it and rows of trees, on which there were many large\n    birds; they ate their fill of these and took some of them in the boat.\n    This island might correspond to the wooded Markland, with its many\n    animals, where Karlsevne and his people killed a bear.--After another\n    three days and three nights at sea, the Irish voyagers \"on the morning\n    of the fourth day\" saw a great sandy island; on approaching the shore\n    they saw there a fabulous beast like a horse with dog's paws and\n    claws. For fear of the beast they rowed away without landing. This\n    great sandy island may be compared with Fur\u00f0ustrandir, where there\n    were no harbours and it was difficult to land.--The Irishmen then\n    travelled \"for a long time\" before they came to a large, flat island,\n    where two men landed to examine the island, which they found to be\n    large and broad, and they saw marks of horses' hoofs as large as a\n    ship's sail, and nutshells as large as \"c\u014dedi\" (a measure of capacity\n    ?), and traces of many human beings. This bears a resemblance to\n    Karlsevne's having \"a long way\" to sail along Fur\u00f0ustrandir before he\n    came to a bay, where the two Scots went ashore to examine the country,\n    were absent three days, and found grapes and wheat.--After that the\n    Irishmen travelled for a week, in hunger and thirst, until they came\n    to a great, lofty island, with a great house on the beach, with two\n    doors, \"one towards the plain on the island and one towards the sea\";\n    and through the latter the waves of the sea threw salmon into the\n    middle of the house. They found decorated couches and crystal goblets\n    with good drink in the house, but no human being, and they took meat\n    and drink and thanked God. Karlsevne proceeded from the bay and came\n    to Straumsey, which was thick with birds and eggs, and to\n    Straumsfjord, where they established themselves (i.e., built houses).\n    And there were mountains and a fair prospect and high grass; and they\n    had catches from two sides, \"hunting on the land, and eggs and fish\n    from the sea\"; and where, to begin with, they did nothing but make\n    themselves acquainted with the land.--From the island with the house\n    Maelduin and his men travelled about \"for a long time,\" hungry and\n    without food, until they found an island which was encompassed by a\n    great cliff (\"alt mor impi\"). There was a very thin and tall tree\n    there; Maelduin caught a branch of it in his hand as they passed by;\n    for three days and three nights the branch was in his hand, while the\n    boat was sailing past the cliff, and on the third day there were three\n    apples at the end of the branch (cf. Karlsevne's runners who returned\n    after three days with grapes and wheat in their hands), on which they\n    lived for forty days. Karlsevne and his men suffered great want during\n    the winter at Straumsfjord; and from that place, where they lived on\n    land in houses, they sailed \"for a long time\" before they came to the\n    country with the self-sown wheat and vines, where there were great\n    sandbanks off the mouth of the river, so that they had a difficulty in\n    landing.\n\nIt is striking that in the voyage of Maelduin, the distance is only given\nas three days' and three nights' sail in the case of the three first\npassages to the three successive islands, after the first two small\nislands, while between the later islands we are told that they sailed \"a\nlong way,\" \"for a week,\" \"for a long time,\" etc.; just as in the Saga of\nEric the Red, where, after Bjarneyjar, they sail for two \"d\u0153gr\" to each of\nthe three lands in turn, and then they had \"a long way\" to sail along\nFur\u00f0ustrandir, to a bay, after which \"they went on their way\" to\nStraumsfjord, and thence they went \"for a long time\" to Wineland, etc. I\ndo not venture to assert that there was a direct connection between the\ntwo productions, for that there are perhaps too many dissimilarities; but\nthey seem in any case to have their roots in one and the same cycle of\nideas, and the original legend certainly reached Iceland in the shape of\noral narrative.\n\n    The number three plays an important part in Eric's Saga. Three voyages\n    are made to or in search of Wineland, Karlsevne has three ships, three\n    countries are visited in turn, three winters are spent away (as with\n    Eric the Red on his first voyage to Greenland, but there this was due\n    to his exile), they meet with the Skr\u00e6lings three times, three men\n    fall (two in the fight with the Skr\u00e6lings, and afterwards Thorvald\n    Ericson)--just as Maelduin (and also Brandan) loses three men--the\n    expedition finally resolves itself into three separate homeward\n    voyages, Thorhall the Hunter's, Karlsevne's and Bjarne Grimolfsson's,\n    etc. etc.[316] In the Irish legends and tales, e.g., those of Maelduin\n    or of the Ua Corra, the repetition of the number three is even more\n    conspicuous.\n\n    We may regard it as another feature of fairy tale that Eric the Red\n    has three sons who set out one after another, first Leif, then\n    Thorstein, and lastly Thorvald, who finds the land and takes part in\n    the attempt to settle it. But this feature is not conspicuous enough\n    to allow of our attaching much importance to it, especially as here it\n    is the first son who is the lucky one, while it is not so in fairy\n    tale.\n\n[Sidenote: Sweet dew and manna]\n\nIn Leif's voyage in the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr\" (which voyage partly\ncorresponds to Karlsevne's), when they came to a country south-west of\nMarkland, they landed on an island, to the north of the country,\n\n    \"looked around them in fair weather, and found that there was dew on\n    the grass, and it happened that they touched the grass with their\n    hands and put them in their mouths, and they thought they had never\n    tasted anything so sweet as it was.\"\n\nThis reminds one forcibly of Moses' manna in the wilderness, which\nappeared like dew [Exodus xvi. 14]. In the Old Norwegian free rendering of\nthe Old Testament, called \"Stj\u00f3rn,\"[317] of about 1300, therefore much\nearlier than the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,\" the account of this says that dew\ncame from heaven round the whole camp, \"it stuck like slime on the hands\nas soon as they touched it\" ... \"they found that it was sweet as honey in\ntaste....\" But here again we come in contact with Irish legendary ideas.\nIn the tale of the Navigation of the Sons of Ua Corra (of the twelfth\ncentury) the voyagers come to an island with a beautiful and wonderful\nplain covered with trees, full of honey, and a grass-green glade in the\nmiddle with a glorious lake of agreeable taste. Later on they come to\nanother marvellous island, with splendid green grass, and honeydew lay on\nthe grass [cf. Zimmer, 1889, pp. 194, 195].\n\n[Sidenote: Fur\u00f0ustrandir]\n\nThe name \"Fur\u00f0ustrandir\" (marvel-strands), as we shall see later (p. 357),\nmay come from the \"T\u00edrib Ingnad\" (lands of marvel) and \"Tr\u00e1g M\u00f3r\" (great\nstrand) of Irish legend, far in the western ocean.\n\n[Sidenote: Mythical figures: the Scottish runners]\n\nWhen Karlsevne arrived off Fur\u00f0ustrandir he sent out his two Scottish\nrunners, the man \"Haki\" and the woman \"Hekja,\" and told them to run\nsouthwards and examine the condition of the country and come back in three\ndays. This is evidently another legendary trait; and equally so the\ncircumstance that King Olaf had given these runners to Leif and told him\n\"to make use of them if he had need of speed, for they were swifter than\ndeer.\" We know of many such features in fairy tale and myth. Then, after\nthe traditional three days, the man and woman come running from the\ninterior of the country, one with grapes, the other with self-sown wheat\nin their hands. We are tempted to think of the spies Moses sent into\nCanaan, with orders to spy out the land, whether it was fat or lean, and\nwho came back with a vine-branch and a cluster of grapes, which they had\ncut in the vale of Eshcol (i.e., the vale of grapes).[318]\n\nBut there are other remarkable points about this legend. Professor Moltke\nMoe has called my attention to a striking resemblance between it and the\nlegends of the two runners or spies who accompanied Sinclair's march\nthrough Norway in 1612. They are called \"wind-runners\" or \"bloodhounds,\"\nor again \"weather-calves\" or \"wind-calves\"; others called them \"Wild\nTurks.\"\n\n    \"They were ugly folk enough. Sinklar used them to run before and\n    search out news; in the evening they came back with their reports.\n    They were swifter in running than the stag; it is said that the flesh\n    was cut out of their thighs and the thick of their calves. It is also\n    said that they could follow men's tracks.\"[319]\n\n    We are told elsewhere that \"these 'Ver-Kalvann' ('wind-calves') were\n    more active than farm-dogs, swift as lightning, and did not look like\n    folk. The flesh was cut out of the thick of their calves, their thighs\n    and buttocks; their nostrils were also slit up. People thought this\n    was done to them to make them so much lighter to run around, and every\n    one was more frightened of them than of the Scots themselves. They\n    could get the scent of folk a long way off and could kill a man before\n    he could blow his nose: they dashed up the back and broke the necks of\n    folk.\"[320]\n\nThe trait that the wind-runners \"did not look like folk\" is expressed in\nanother form in H. P. S. Krag's notes; he thinks that they\n\n    \"were nothing else but Sinclair's bloodhounds, which we may assume\n    both from the description and from its being related of the one that\n    was shot at \u00d6degaard that it ran about the field and barked.\"\n\nSomething similar also occurs about the runners in Wineland in a late form\nof the legend of Karlsevne's voyage, where we read that\n\n    \"he sailed from Greenland south-westward until the condition of the\n    country got better and better; he found and visited many places that\n    have never been found since; he found also some Skr\u00e6lings; these\n    people are called in some books Lapps. In one place he got two\n    creatures ('skepnur') more like apes than men, whom he called Hake and\n    Hekja; they ran as fast as greyhounds and had few clothes.\" [MS. A.\n    M., old no. 77oc, new no. 1892, 3; cf. Rafn: \"Antiquitates American\u00e6,\"\n    1837, p. 196.]\n\nIt may be mentioned in addition that in the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's saga of the\nWineland voyages no runners appear, but on the other hand, in the tale of\nLeif's voyage, which has features in common with Karlsevne's, there is a\n\"Southman\" (\"su\u00f0rma\u00f0r,\" most frequently used of Germans)[321] of the name\nof \"Tyrker,\" who was the first to find the wild vine in the woods (like\nKarlsevne's runners) and intoxicated himself by eating the grapes.[322] As\nMoltke Moe observes, there is a remarkable resemblance between the rare\nname Tyrker and the fact that Sinclair's runners were called Wild Turks.\n\nBoth in the legend of Karlsevne and in that of Sinclair the two runners\nare connected with Scots or Scotland. One is therefore inclined to suppose\nthat some piece of Celtic folklore is the common source of both. Now there\nis a Scottish mythical creature called a \"water-calf\"; and the\nunintelligible Norwegian name \"weather-calf\" or \"wind-calf\" (\"veirkalv\")\nmay well be thought a corruption of this. It is true that this creature\ninhabits lakes, but it also goes upon dry land, and has fabulous speed and\nthe power of scenting things far off. It can also transform itself into\ndifferent shapes, but always preserves something of its animal form.\n\nThat the runners in Eric's Saga have become a man and woman may be due to\na natural connection with Thor's swift-footed companions, Tjalve and\nR\u00f6skva. But there seems here to be another possible connection, which\nMoltke Moe has suggested to me. The strange garment they wore is called in\none MS. \"kiafal\" and in another \"biafal.\" No word completely corresponding\nto this is known in Celtic; but there is a modern Irish word \"cabhail\"\n(pronounced \"caval\" == \"a body of a shirt\"), which shows so much\nsimilarity both in meaning and sound that there seems undoubtedly to be a\nconnection here. That \"caval,\" corrupted to \"kiafal\" (through the\ninfluence of similar-sounding names ?), has been transformed into \"biafal\"\nmay be due to the influence of the Norse \"bjalfi\" or \"bjalbi\" (== a fur\ngarment without sleeves). As their costume plays such an important part in\nthe description of the runners, and special stress is laid upon the Celtic\nword for it, it is probable that this word was originally used as a name\nfor the runners themselves--in legend and epic poetry there are many\nexamples of people being named from their dress. But gradually the Celtic\nword used as a name has been replaced by the corresponding Old Norse\n\"hakull\" (or \"hokull\" == sleeveless cloak open at the sides; cf.\n\"messe-hagel,\" chasuble) and its feminine derivative \"hekla\" (==\nsleeveless cloak, with or without a hood). The use of these two words of\nmasculine and feminine gender may be due to conceptions of them as man and\nwoman, derived from Tjalve and R\u00f6skva. In course of time it was natural\nthat a personal name formed from the costume, like Hakull, should easily\nbe replaced by a real man's name of similar sound, like \"Haki,\" specially\nknown in legend and epic poetry as a name of sea-kings, berserkers and\ntroll-children. Then \"Hekja\" was derived from \"Haki,\" in the same way as\n\"Hekla\" from \"Hakull.\" Hekja as a name is not met with elsewhere.[323]\n\nThat the whole of this story of the runners in the Saga of Eric the Red\nhas been borrowed from elsewhere appears also from its being badly fitted\nin; for the narrative of the saga continues without taking any notice of\nthe finding of the sure tokens of Wineland: the self-sown wheat and the\nvine; and in the following spring there is even a dispute as to the\ndirection in which the country is to be sought. Furthermore, after the\ndiscoveries of the runners Karlsevne continues to sail southward, at\nfirst, the same autumn, to Straumsfjord, and then still farther south the\nfollowing summer, before he arrives at the country of the wheat and grapes\nthat the runners had reached in a day and a half in a roadless land.\n\n[Sidenote: Mythical figures: Thorhall and Tyrker]\n\nThe description of the stay in Straumsfjord also contains purely mythical\nfeatures, such as Thorhall the Hunter's being absent for the stereotyped\nthree days (\"d\u0153gr\"), and having, when they find him, practised magic arts\nwith the Red-Beard (Thor), as the result of which a whale is driven ashore\n(see p. 325). There is further a striking resemblance between the\ndescription of Thorhall's state when found and that of Tyrker after he had\neaten the grapes. When, in Eric's Saga, they sought and found Thorhall on\na steep mountain crag,\n\n    \"he lay gazing up into the air with wide-open mouth and nostrils,\n    scratching and pinching himself and muttering something. They asked\n    why he lay there. He answered that that did not concern anybody, and\n    told them not to meddle with it; he had for the most part lived so,\n    said he, that they had no need to trouble about him. They asked him to\n    come home with them, and he did so.\"\n\nIn the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr\" Tyrker was lost in the woods,\nand when Leif and his men went in search and found him again, he too\nbehaved strangely.\n\n    \"First he spoke for a long time in '\u00fe\u00fdrsku,' and rolled his eyes many\n    ways and twisted his mouth; but they could not make out what he said.\n    After a while he said in Norse: I did not go much farther, and yet I\n    have a new discovery to tell of; I have found vines and grapes\n    ('v\u00ednvi\u00f0 ok v\u00ednber').\"\n\nThis shows how features taken from legends originally altogether different\nare mingled together in these sagas, in order to fill out the description;\nand it shows too how the same tale may take entirely different forms. Of\nTyrker we hear further that \"he was 'brattleitr' (with a flat face and\nabrupt forehead), had fugitive eyes, was freckled ('sm\u00e1skitligr') in the\nface, small of stature and puny, but skilful in all kinds of dexterity.\"\nThorhall, on the other hand, \"was tall of stature, dark and troll-like,\"\netc. (see p. 320), but he was also master of many crafts, was well\nacquainted with the uninhabited regions, and altogether had qualities\ndifferent from most people. Both had long been with Eric the Red. There\ncan scarcely be a doubt that these two legendary figures, perhaps\noriginally derived from wholly different spheres, have been blended\ntogether.\n\n[Sidenote: The stranded whale]\n\nThe whale that is driven ashore and that they feed on resembles the great\nfish that is cast ashore and that the Irish saint Brandan and his\ncompanions live on in the tale of his wonderful voyage (see below). This\nresemblance is confirmed by the statement in the Icelandic story that no\none knew what kind of whale it was, not even Karlsevne, who had great\nexperience of whales. There are, of course, no whales on the north-eastern\ncoast of America that are not also found on the coasts of Greenland and\nIceland; the incident therefore appears fictitious. The great whale in the\nlegend of Brandan, on the other hand, is a fabulous monster. There is this\ndistinction, it is true, that Karlsevne's people fall ill from eating the\nwhale,[324] while it saves the lives of the Irish voyagers; but in both\ncases it is driven ashore after God, or a god, has been invoked in their\nneed, and disappears again immediately (in the tale of Brandan it is\ndevoured by wild beasts; in the saga it is thrown over the cliff). This\ndifference can easily be explained by the whale in the Norse story having\nbeen sent by a heathen god, so that it was sacrilege to eat of it. In the\ntale of Brandan the whale is perhaps derived from Oriental legends [cf. De\nGoeje, 1891, p. 63]; it may, however, be a common northern feature.\n\n[Sidenote: Eggs in the autumn and egg-gathering]\n\nWhen it is stated of Straumsfjord that there were places where eggs could\nbe gathered, and of Straumsey that \"there were so many birds that one\ncould scarcely put one's foot down between the eggs,\" this is evidently an\nentirely northern feature, brought in to decorate the tale, and brought in\nso infelicitously that they are made to find all this mass of eggs there\nin the _autumn_ (!) when they arrive. If Straumsfjord was in Nova Scotia\nthere could not be eider-ducks nor gulls either[325] in sufficient number\nto form breeding-grounds of importance, and among sea-birds one would be\nmore inclined to think of terns, as Professor R. Collett has suggested to\nme. As the coast is not described as one with steep cliffs, and there is\nmention of stepping between the eggs, auks, guillemots and similar\nsea-birds are out of the question, even if they occurred so far south.\n\n[Sidenote: Wineland the equivalent of Fortunate Isles]\n\nBut then comes the most important part of the saga, the description of the\ncountry itself, where grew self-sown fields of wheat, and vines on the\nhills, where no snow fell and the cattle were out the whole winter, where\nthe streams and the sea teemed with fish and the woods were full of deer.\n\nIsidore says [in the \"Etymologiarum,\" xiv. 6, 8] of the Fortunate Isles:\n\n    \"The Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6 denote by their name that they produce all good\n    things, as though fortunate ('felices') and blessed with fertility of\n    vegetation. For of their own nature they are rich in valuable fruits\n    ('poma,' literally tree-fruit or apples). The mountain-ridges are\n    clothed with self-grown ('fortuites') vines, and cornfields ('messis'\n    == that which is to be cut) and vegetables are common as grass [i.e.,\n    grow wild like grass, are self-sown]; thence comes the error of the\n    heathen, and that profane poetry regarded them as Paradise. They lie\n    in the ocean on the left side of Mauritania [Morocco] nearest to the\n    setting sun, and they are divided from one another by sea that lies\n    between.\" He also mentions the Gorgades, and the Hesperides.\n\nThese ideas of the Fortunate Isles were widely current in the Middle Ages.\nIn the English work, \"Polychronicon,\" by Ranulph Higden, of the fourteenth\ncentury, Isidore's description took the following form:\n\n    \"A good climate have the Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6 that lie in the western\n    ocean, which were regarded by the heathen as Paradise by reason of the\n    fertility of the soil and of the temperate climate. For there the\n    mountain ridges are clothed with self-grown vines, and cornfields and\n    vegetables are common as grass [i.e., grow wild]. Consequently they\n    are called on account of the rich vegetation 'Fortunat\u00e6,' that is to\n    say, 'felices' [happy, fertile], for there are trees that grow as high\n    as 140 feet....\"\n\nThe resemblance between this description and that of Wineland is so close\nthat it cannot be explained away as fortuitous; the most prominent\nfeatures are common to both: the self-sown cornfields, the self-grown\nvines on the hills, and the lofty trees (cf. Pliny, below, p. 348), which\nare already present in the narrative of Leif's voyage (see above, p. 317).\nIf we go back to antiquity and examine the general ideas of the Fortunate\nLand or the Fortunate Isles out in the ocean in the west, we find yet more\npoints of resemblance. Diodorus [v. 19, 20] describes a land opposite\nAfrica, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, as fertile and mountainous,\nbut also to a large extent flat. (Wineland also had hills and lowlands.)\nIt invites to amusements and delights.[326] The mountainous country has\nthick forests and all kinds of fruitful trees, and many streams; there is\nexcellent hunting with game of all sorts, big and small, and the sea is\nfull of fish (precisely as Wineland). Moreover, the air is extremely mild\n(as in Wineland), and there is plenty of fruit the whole year round, etc.\nThe land was not known in former times, but some Ph\u0153nicians on a voyage\nalong the African coast were overtaken by a storm, were driven about the\nocean for many days, until they came thither (like Leif).\n\nIt is said of Wineland, in the Saga of Eric the Red, that \"no snow at all\nfell there, and the cattle were out (in winter) and fed themselves,\" and\nin the Flateyjarb\u00f3k we read that \"there was no frost in the winter, and\nthe grass withered little.\" These, we see, are pure impossibilities. As\nearly as the Odyssey [iv. 566] it is said of the Elysian Fields in the\nwest on the borders of the earth:\n\n  \"There is never snow, never winter nor storm, nor streaming rain,\n  But Ocean ever sends forth the light breath of the west wind\n  To bring refreshment to men.\"\n\nIn the early civilisation of Babylon and Egypt this fortunate land seems\nto have been imagined as lying in the direction of the rising sun; but the\nideas are always the same. An ancient Egyptian myth puts \"Aalu\" or \"Hotep\"\n(== place of food, land of eating), which is the abode of bliss and\nfortune, far in the east, where light conquers darkness.\n\n    \"Both texts and pictures bear witness to the beauty which pervades\n    this abode of life; it was a Paradise as splendid as could be\n    imagined, 'the store-house of the great god'; where 'the corn grows\n    seven cubits high.' It was a land of eternal life; there, according to\n    the oldest Egyptian texts, the god of light, and with him the\n    departed, acquire strength to renew themselves and to arise from the\n    dead.\"[327]\n\nIn the same colours as these the Odyssey describes many fortunate lands\nand islands, such as the nymph Calypso's beautiful island Ogygia, far in\nthe west of the ocean; and again \"Scheria's delightful island\" [vii. 79\nff.], where the Ph\u00e6acians, \"a people as happy as gods,\" dwell \"far away\namid the splashing waves of the ocean,\" where the mild west wind, both\nwinter and summer, ever causes the fruit-trees and vines to blossom and\nbear fruit, and where all kinds of herbs grow all the year round (remark\nthe similarity with Isidore's description). The fortunate isle of Syria,\nfar in the western ocean, is also mentioned [xv. 402],\n\n  \"North of Ortygia, towards the region where the sun sets;\n  Rich in oxen and sheep, and clothed with vines and wheat,\"\n\nwhere the people live free from want and sickness. These are the same\nideas which were afterwards transferred to the legend of the Hyperboreans\n(cf. pp. 15 ff.).[328] It is natural that among the Greeks wine and the\nvine took a prominent place in these descriptions. In post-Homeric times\nthe \"Isles of the Blest\" (\u039c\u03b1\u03ba\u03b1\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd \u03bd\u03b7\u03c3\u03bf\u03b9) are described by Hesiod (and\nsubsequently by Pindar) as lying in the western ocean--\n\n    \"there they live free from care in the Isles of the Blest, by the\n    deep-flowing Ocean, the fortunate heroes to whom the earth gives\n    honey-sweet fruits three times a year.\"\n\nIt is these ideas--perhaps originally derived from the Orient--that have\ndeveloped into the Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6.\n\nThese islands are described by many writers of later antiquity. Pliny says\n[Nat. Hist., vi. 32 (37)] that according to some authors there lie to the\nwest of Africa\n\n    \"the Fortunate Isles and many others, whose number and distance are\n    likewise given by Sebosus. According to him the distance of the island\n    of Junonia from Gades is 750,000 paces; it is an equal distance from\n    this island westward to Pluvialia and Capraria. In Pluvialia there is\n    said to be no water but that which the rain brings. 250,000 paces\n    south-west of it and over against the left side of Mauritania\n    [Morocco] lie the Fortunate Isles, of which one is called Invallis on\n    account of its elevated form, the other Planaria on account of its\n    flatness. Invallis has a circumference of 300,000 paces, and the trees\n    on it are said to attain a height of 140 feet.\"\n\nBut as usual Pliny uncritically confuses statements from various sources,\nand he here adds information collected by the African king Juba about the\nFortunate Isles. According to this they were six in number: Ombrios, two\nislands of Junonia, besides Capraria, Nivaria, and Canaria, so called from\nthe many large dogs there, of which two were brought to Juba. Solinus\nmentions in one place [c. 23, 10] that there are three Fortunat\u00e6 Insul\u00e6,\nbut in another place [c. 56] he gives Juba's statement from Pliny. That\nthese islands were located to the west of Africa is certainly due to the\nPh\u0153nicians' and Carthaginians' knowledge of the Canary Islands, and\nPtolemy also places them here (see above, p. 117). Strabo [i. 3] thinks\nthat the Isles of the Blest lay west of the extremity of Maurusia\n(Morocco), in the region where the ends of Maurusia and Iberia meet. Their\nname shows that they lie near to the holy region (i.e., the Elysian\nFields).\n\nIn his biography of the eminent Roman general Sertorius (\"imperator\" in\nSpain for several years, died in 72 B.C.), Plutarch also mentions the\nIsles of the Blest. He tells us that when Sertorius landed as an exile on\nthe south-west coast of Spain (Andalusia),\n\n    \"he found there some sailors newly arrived from the Atlantic Isles.\n    These are two in number, separated only by a narrow strait, and they\n    are 10,000 stadia (1000 geographical miles) from the African coast.\n    They are called the 'Isles of the Blest.' Rain seldom falls there, and\n    when it does so, it is in moderation; but they usually have mild\n    winds, which spread such abundance of dew that the soil is not only\n    good for sowing and planting, but produces of itself the most\n    excellent fruit, and in such abundance that the inhabitants have\n    nothing else to do but to abandon themselves to the enjoyment of\n    repose. The air is always fresh and wholesome, through the favourable\n    temperature of the seasons and their imperceptible transition.... So\n    that it is generally assumed, even among the barbarians, that these\n    are the Elysian Fields and the habitations of the blest, which Homer\n    has described with all the magic of poetry. When Sertorius heard of\n    these marvels he had a strong desire to settle in these islands, where\n    he might live in perfect peace and far from the evils of tyranny and\n    war.\"\n\nBut this remarkable man soon had fresh warlike under-takings to think\nabout, so that he never went there. It appears too from the fragments that\nhave come down to us of Sallust's Histories[329] that Sertorius did not\nvisit these islands, but only wished to do so. In fragment 102 we read:\n\n    \"It is related that he undertook a voyage far out into the ocean,\" and\n    Maurenbrecher adds that a scholium to Horace [Epod. 16, 42] says: \"The\n    ocean wherein are the Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6, to which Sallust in his\n    Histories says that Sertorius wished to retire when he had been\n    vanquished.\"\n\nBut in L. Ann\u00e6us Florus, who lived under Hadrian (117-138 A.D.), we read\n[iii. 22]:[330]\n\n    \"An exile and a wanderer on account of his banishment, this man [i.e.,\n    Sertorius] of the greatest but most fatal qualities filled seas and\n    lands with his misfortunes: now in Africa, now in the Balearic Isles\n    he sought fortune, was sent out into the ocean and reached the\n    Fortunate Isles: finally he raised Spain to conflict.\"\n\nIt thus appears that by Florus's time the idea had shaped itself that\nSertorius really had sought and found these islands; which, besides, in\npart at all events, were thought to be the same as those said to have been\nalready discovered by the Carthaginian Hanno on the west coast of Africa\nabout 500 B.C.\n\nOf great interest is the description which Horace gives in his Epodes\n[xvi. 39 ff.] of the Fortunate Isles in the ocean, though he does not\nmention them by name. He exhorts the Romans, who were suffering from the\ncivil wars, to abandon the coast of Italy (the Etruscan coast) and sail\nthither, away from all their miseries. Lord Lytton[331] gave the following\nmetrical translation of the poem:\n\n  Ye in whom manhood lives, cease woman wailings,\n  Wing the sail far beyond Etruscan shores.\n  Lo! where awaits an all-circumfluent ocean--\n  Fields, the Blest Fields we seek, the Golden Isles\n  Where teems a land that never knows the ploughshare--\n  Where, never needing pruner, laughs the vine--\n  Where the dusk fig adorns the stem it springs from,\n  And the glad olive ne'er its pledge belies--\n  There from the creviced ilex wells the honey;\n  There, down the hillside bounding light, the rills\n  Dance with free foot, whose fall is heard in music;\n  There, without call, the she-goat yields her milk,\n  And back to browse, with unexhausted udders,\n  Wanders the friendly flock; no hungry bear\n  Growls round the sheepfold in the starry gloaming,\n  Nor high with rippling vipers heaves the soil.\n  These, and yet more of marvel, shall we witness,\n  We, for felicity reserved; how ne'er\n  Dark Eurus sweeps the fields with flooding rain-storm,\n  Nor rich seeds parch within the sweltering glebe.\n  Either extreme the King of Heaven has tempered.\n  Thither ne'er rowed the oar of Argonaut,\n  The impure Colchian never there had footing.\n  There Sidon's trader brought no lust of gain;\n  No weary toil there anchored with Ulysses;\n  Sickness is known not; on the tender lamb\n  No ray falls baneful from one star in heaven.\n  When Jove's decree alloyed the golden age,\n  He kept these shores for one pure race secreted;\n  For all beside the golden age grew brass\n  Till the last centuries hardened to the iron,\n  Whence to the pure in heart a glad escape,\n  By favour of my prophet-strain is given.\n\nRendered into prose, Horace's poem will run somewhat as follows:\n\n    \"Ye who have manliness, away with effeminate grief, and fly beyond the\n    Etruscan shore. There awaits us the all-circumfluent ocean: Let us\n    steer towards fields, happy fields and rich islands, _where the\n    untilled earth gives corn every year, and the vine uncut_ [i.e.,\n    unpruned, growing wild] _continually flourishes_, and the\n    never-failing branch of the olive-tree blossoms forth, and the fig\n    adorns its tree, honey flows from the hollow ilex, the light stream\n    bounds down from the high mountain on murmuring foot,\" etc.\n\nWe thus find here in Horace precisely the same ideas of the Elysian Fields\nor the Fortunate Isles that occur later in Isidore and in the saga's\ndescription of the fortunate Wineland; especially striking are the\nexpressions about the corn that each year grows wild (on the unploughed\nearth) and the wild vine which continually yields fruit (blossoms,\n\"floret\").\n\n    These myths of the Fortunate Isles--originally derived from\n    conceptions of the happy existence of the elect after death (in the\n    Elysian Fields), for which reason they were called by the Greeks the\n    Isles of the Blest--have also, of course, been blended with Indian\n    myths of \"Uttara Kuru.\" Among the Greeks they were sometimes the\n    subject of humorous productions; several such of the fifth century\n    B.C. are preserved in Athen\u00e6us. Thus Teleclides says: \"Mortals live\n    there peacefully and free from fear and sickness, and all that they\n    need offers itself spontaneously. The gutter flows with wine, wheat\n    and barley bread fight before the mouths of the people for the favour\n    of being swallowed, the fish come into the house, offer themselves and\n    serve themselves up, a stream of soup bears warm pieces of meat on its\n    waves,\" etc. Cf. also Lucian's description of the Isle of the Blest in\n    Vera Historia (second century A.D.): \"The vines bear fruit twelve\n    times a year ... instead of wheat the ears put forth little loaves\n    like sponges,\" etc. [Wieland, 1789, iv. p. 196].\n\n[Sidenote: Schlaraffenland and Fyldeholm]\n\n    In the Middle Ages the tale of the land of desire was widespread: in\n    Spain it took the name of \"Tierra del Pipirip\u00e1o\" or \"Dorado\" (the land\n    of gold), or again \"La Isla de Jauja,\" said to have been discovered by\n    the ship of General Don Fernando. In it are costly foods, rich stuffs\n    and cloths in the fields and on the trees, lakes and rivers of Malmsey\n    and other wines, springs of brandy, pools of lemonade, a mountain of\n    cheese, another of snow, which cools one in summer and warms in\n    winter, etc. In the Germanic countries this took the form of the\n    legend of Schlaraffenland.[332] This mythical country has in Norway\n    become \"Fyldeholmen\" (i.e., the island of drinking),[333] which shows\n    that to the Norwegians of later days wine or spirits were the most\n    important feature in the description of the land of desire, as the\n    wine was to the ancient Norsemen in the conception of Wineland.\n\nTo sum up, it appears to me clear that the saga's description of Wineland\nmust in its essential features be derived from the myth of the Insul\u00e6\nFortunat\u00e6. The representations of it might be taken directly from Isidore,\nwho was much read in the Middle Ages, certainly in Iceland (where a\npartial translation of his work was made) and in Norway (he is often\nquoted in the \"King's Mirror\"), or orally from other old authorities, who\ngave still more detailed descriptions of these islands. But the difficulty\nis that the name of Wineland, connected with the ideas of the self-grown\nvine and the unsown wheat, is already found in Adam of Bremen (circa 1070,\nsee above, pp. 195 ff.). We might therefore suppose that it was his\nmention of the country which formed the basis of the Icelandic\nrepresentation of it, although his fourth book (the description of the\nisles of the North) seems otherwise to have been little known in the North\nat that time; but here again the difficulty presents itself that the later\ndescription, that of the saga, is more developed and includes several\nfeatures which agree with the classical conceptions, but which are not yet\nfound in Adam of Bremen. I think therefore that the matter may stand thus,\nthat \"V\u00ednland hit G\u00f3\u00f0a\" was the Norsemen's name for \"Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6,\"\nand was in a way a translation thereof; and oral tales about the\ncountry--based on Isidore and later on other sources as well--may have\nformed the foundation of the statements both in Adam and in Icelandic\nliterature. In the latter, then, an ever-increasing number of features\nfrom the classical conceptions have crystallised upon the nucleus, when\nonce it was formed, especially through the clerical, classically educated\nsaga-writers.\n\n[Sidenote: Irish happy lands and Wineland]\n\nAs Norway, and still more Iceland (cf. pp. 167, 258), were closely\nconnected in ancient days with Ireland, and as Norse literature in many\nways shows traces of Irish influence, one is disposed to think that the\nideas of Wineland may first have reached Iceland from that quarter. This\nexactly agrees with what was said at the beginning of this chapter, that\nthe statements (in the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k) from the oldest Icelandic source, Are\nFrode, point directly to Ireland as the birthplace of the first reports of\nWineland. We read in the Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k:\n\n    \"Hv\u00edtramanna-land, which some call 'Irland hit Mikla' [Ireland the\n    Great], lies westward in the ocean near Wineland (Vindland) the Good.\n    It is reckoned six 'd\u0153gr's' sail from Ireland.\"\n\nNothing more is said about Wineland.[334] As it is added that Are\nM\u00e1rsson's voyage to Hv\u00edtramanna-land\n\n    \"was first related by Ravn 'Hlymreks-farer,' who had long been at\n    Limerick in Ireland,\"\n\nwe see that Ravn, who was an Icelandic sailor of the beginning of the\neleventh century, must have heard of both Hv\u00edtramanna-land and Wineland in\nIreland, since otherwise he could not have known that one lay near the\nother.[335] But as Hv\u00edtramanna-land or \"Great Ireland\" is an Irish\nmythical country (see later), it becomes probable that Wineland the Good,\nat any rate in this connection, was one likewise. The old Irish legends\nmention many such fortunate islands in the western ocean, which have\nsimilar names, and which to a large extent are derived from the classical\nmyths of the Elysian Fields and the Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6. Voyages to them form\nprominent features of most of the Irish tales and legends. In the heathen\ntale of the Voyage of Bran (\"Echtra Brain maic Febail,\" preserved in\nfifteenth and fourteenth century copies of a work of the eleventh century,\nbut perhaps originally written down in the seventh century)[336] there are\ndescriptions of: \"Emain\" or \"T\u00edr na-m-Ban\" (the land of women), with\nthousands of amorous women and maidens, and \"without care, without death,\nwithout any sickness or infirmity\" (where Bran and his men live\nsumptuously each with his woman);[337] \"Aircthech\" (== the beautiful\nland); \"Ciuin\" (== the mild land), with riches and treasures of all\ncolours, where one listens to lovely music, and drinks the most delicious\nwine; \"Mag Mon\" (== the plain of sports); \"Imchiuin\" (== the very mild\nland); \"Mag Mell\" (== the happy plain, the Elysium of the Irish), which\nis described as lying beneath the sea, where without sin, without crime,\nmen and loving women sit under a bush at the finest sports, with the\nnoblest wine, where there is a splendid wood with flowers and fruits and\ngolden leaves, and the true scent of the vine; there is also \"Inis Subai\"\n(the isle of gladness), where all the people do nothing but laugh.[338] It\nis said in the same tale that \"there are thrice fifty distant islands in\nthe ocean to the west of us, each of them twice or thrice as large as\nErin.\"\n\nThat western happy lands in the Irish legends (even in the Christian\n\"Imram Maelduin\") should often be depicted as the Land of Women (\"T\u00edr\nna-m-Ban\") or Land of Virgins (\"T\u00edr na-n-Ingen\"), with amorously longing\nwomen, might be thought to have some connection with Mahomet's Paradise\nand the Houris; but the erotically sensuous element is everywhere so\nprominent in medi\u00e6val Irish literature that this feature may be a genuine\nIrish one.[339] It must, by the way, be this \"T\u00edr na-n-Ingen\" that we\nmeet with again in the Faroese lay \"Gongu-R\u00f3lv's kv\u00e6\u00f0i,\" where the giant\nfrom Trollebotten carries Rolv to \"M\u00f6yaland\" (cf. Sm\u00e5m\u00f6yaland); there Rolv\nslept three nights with the fair \"Lindin mj\u00e1\" (== the slender lime-tree,\ni.e., maid), and on the third night she lost her virginity. But the other\nmaidens all want to see him, they all want to torment him, some want to\nthrow him into the sea,\n\n  \"Summar vildu hann \u00e1 g\u00e1lgan f\u00f6ra    Some would carry him to the gallows,\n  summar r\u00edva hans h\u00e1r,               some would tear his hair,\n  uttan fr\u00fagvin Lindin mj\u00e1,           except the damsel Lindin the slender,\n  hon fellir fyri hann t\u00e1r.\"          she shed tears for him.\n\nShe sends for the bird \"Sk\u00fagv,\" which carries him on its back for seven\ndays and six nights across the sea to the highest mountain in Trondhjem.\n[Cf. Hammershaimb, 1855, pp. 138 ff.]\n\n[Illustration: From a MS. of the thirteenth century (Royal Library,\nCopenhagen)]\n\nThe \"Promised Land\" (\"T\u00edr Tairngiri\") with the \"Happy Plain\" (\"Mag\nMell\")[340] became in the Christian Irish legends the earthly Paradise,\n\"Terra Repromissionis Sanctorum\" (the land of promise of the saints).\nOther names for the happy land or happy isles in the west are: \"Hy\nBreasail\" (== the fortunate isle), \"T\u00edr na-m-Beo\" (== the land of the\nliving), \"T\u00edr na-n-\u00d3g\" (== the land of youth), \"T\u00edr na-m-Buadha\" (== the\nland of virtues), \"Hy na-Beatha\" (== the isle of life). The happy isle of\n\"Hy Breasail,\" which was thought to be inhabited by living people, was\nalso frequently called the \"Great Land\" (which when translated into Old\nNorse might become \"V\u00ed\u00f0land\"); just as the \"Land of the Living,\" where\nthere were only enticing women and maidens, and neither death nor sin nor\noffence, was called the \"Great Strand\" (\"Tr\u00e1g M\u00f3r\").[341] There is also\nmention of \"T\u00edr n-Ingnad\" (land of marvels) and \"T\u00edrib Ingnad\" (lands of\nmarvels). This Irish series of names and conceptions for the same\nwonderful land (or strand) may well be thought to have been the origin of\nthe name \"Fur\u00f0ustrandir.\"[342] The Irish often imagined their Promised\nLand, with \"Mag Mell\" and also the land of women, as the sunken land\nunder the sea (cf. p. 355), and called it \"T\u00edr fo-Thuin\" (== the land\nunder the wave).\n\n[Sidenote: Brandan's Grape-Island]\n\nIt is not surprising that a name like \"V\u00ednland hit G\u00f3\u00f0a\" should have\ndeveloped from such a world of ideas as this. But Moltke Moe has drawn my\nattention to yet another remarkable agreement, in the Grape-Island\n(\"Insula Uvarum\"), one of the fortunate isles visited by the Irish saint\nBrandan. In the Latin \"Navigatio Sancti Brandani\"--a description of\nBrandan's seven years' sea voyage in search of the \"Promised Land\"--it is\nrelated that one day a mighty bird came flying to Brandan and the brethren\nwho were with him in the coracle; it had a branch in its beak with a bunch\nof grapes of unexampled size and redness[343] [cf. Numbers xiii. 23],[344]\nand it dropped the branch into the lap of the man of God. The grapes were\nas large as apples, and they lived on them for twelve days.\n\n    \"Three days afterwards they reached the island; it was covered with\n    the thickest forests of vines, which bore grapes with such incredible\n    fertility that all the trees were bent to the earth; all with the same\n    fruit and the same colour; not a tree was unfruitful, and there were\n    none found there of any other sort.\"\n\nThen this man of God goes ashore and explores the island, while the\nbrethren wait in the boat (like Karlsevne and his men waiting for the\nrunners), until he comes back to them bringing samples of the fruits of\nthe island (as the runners brought with them samples of the products of\nWineland). He says: \"Come ashore and set up the tent, and regale\nyourselves with the excellent fruits of this land, which the Lord has\nshown us.\" For forty days they lived well on the grapes, and when they\nleft they loaded the boat with as many of them as it would hold, exactly\nlike Leif in the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,\" who loaded the ship's boat with\ngrapes when they left Wineland; and like Thorvald at the same place, who\ncollected grapes and vines for a cargo [cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" i. pp.\n222, 230].\n\n[Sidenote: The river at H\u00f3p and the Styx]\n\nThe fortunate island on which the monk Mernoc lived (at the beginning of\nthe \"Navigatio\") was called \"Insula Deliciosa.\" The great river that\nBrandan found in the Terra Repromissionis, and that ran through the middle\nof the island, may be compared to the stream that Karlsevne found at H\u00f3p\nin Wineland, which fell into a lake and thence into the sea, and where\nthey entered the mouth of the river. But the river which divided the Terra\nRepromissionis, and which Brandan could not cross, was evidently\noriginally the river of death, Styx or Acheron in Greek mythology\n(\"Gj\u01ebll\" in Norse mythology). One might be tempted to suppose that, in\nthe same way as the whole description of Wineland has been dechristianised\nfrom the Terra Repromissionis, the realistic, and therefore often\nrationalising, Icelanders have transformed the river in the Promised Land,\nthe ancient river of death, into the stream at H\u00f3p.\n\nOther passages also of the descriptions of the Wineland voyages present\nsimilarities with Brandan's voyage; and similar resemblances are found\nwith other Irish legends, so many, in fact, that they cannot be explained\nas coincidences. The \"Navigatio Sancti Brandani\" was written in the\neleventh century, or in any case before 1100[345] (but parts of the legend\nof Brandan may belong to the seventh and eighth centuries). The work was\nwidely diffused in Europe in the twelfth century, and was also well known\nin Iceland; we still possess an Old Norse translation of parts of it in\nthe \"Heilagra Manna s\u01ebgur\" [edited by Unger, Christiania, 1877, i.].\nThrough oral narratives the mythical features which are included in this\nlegend have evidently helped to form the tradition of the Wineland\nvoyages.\n\n[Sidenote: Wine-fruit and wine in Irish legend]\n\nIn the tale of the voyage of Maelduin and his companions (\"Imram\nMaelduin,\" see above, p. 336),[346] it is related that they came to an\nisland where there were many trees, like willow or hazel, with wonderful\nfruit like apples, or wine-fruit, with a thick, large shell; its juice had\nso intoxicating an effect that Maelduin slept for a day and a night after\nhaving drunk it; and when he awoke, he told his companions to collect as\nmuch as they could of it, for the world had never produced anything so\nlovely. They then filled all their vessels with the juice, which they\npressed out of the fruit, and left the island. They mixed the juice with\nwater to mitigate its intoxicating and soporific effect, as it was so\npowerful.[347] This reminds us of Tyrker in the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr,\" who\ngets drunk from eating the grapes he found.[348]\n\n    Wine is, moreover, a prominent feature in many of the Irish legends of\n    sea-voyages. The voyagers often find intoxicating drinks, which make\n    them sleep for several days, and they are often tormented by burning\n    thirst and come to islands with springs that give a marvellously\n    quickening drink. In the tale of the voyage of the three sons of Ua\n    Corra (twelfth century ?) they arrive at an island where a stream of\n    wine flows through a forest of oaks, which glitters enticingly with\n    juicy fruits. They ate of the apples, drank a little of the stream of\n    wine, and were immediately satisfied and felt neither wounds nor\n    sickness any more. In the tale of Maelduin there is an island with\n    soil as white as a feather and with a spring which on Wednesdays and\n    Fridays gives whey or water, on Sundays and the days of martyrs good\n    milk, but on the days of the Apostles, of Mary and of John the\n    Baptist, and on the great festivals it gives ale and wine [cf. Zimmer,\n    1889, pp. 163, 189].\n\n[Sidenote: Resemblances to Lucian]\n\n    Brandan's Grape-island, Maelduin who intoxicates himself by eating the\n    wine-fruit, and the stream of wine flowing through the oak forest, all\n    bear a remarkable resemblance to what the Greek sophist and satirist\n    Lucian (second century A.D.) relates in his fables in the \"Vera\n    Historia\" about the seafarers who came to a lofty wooded island. As\n    they wandered through the woods they came to a river, which instead of\n    water ran with wine, like Chios wine. In many places it was broad and\n    deep enough to be navigable, and it had its source in many great\n    vines, which hung full of grapes. In the river were fish of the colour\n    and taste of wine. They swallowed some so greedily that they became\n    thoroughly intoxicated. But afterwards they had the idea of mixing\n    these wine-fish with water-fish, whereby they lost the too-powerful\n    taste of wine and were a good dish. After wading through the river of\n    wine they came upon some remarkable vines, the upper part of which\n    were like well-developed women down to the belt. Their fingers ran out\n    into twigs full of grapes, their heads were covered with\n    vine-branches, leaves and grapes, instead of hair. \"The ladies kissed\n    us on the mouth,\" says Lucian, \"but those who were kissed became drunk\n    on the spot and reeled. Only their fruit they would not allow us to\n    take, and they cried out in pain if we plucked a grape or two off\n    them. On the other hand, some of them showed a desire to pair with us,\n    but two of my companions who complied with them had to pay dearly for\n    it; for ... they grew together with them in such a way that they\n    became one stem with common roots.\" After this strange experience the\n    voyagers filled their empty barrels partly with ordinary water, partly\n    with wine from the river, and on the following morning they left the\n    island. In the Isle of the Blest, at which they afterwards arrived,\n    there were, in addition to many rivers of water, of honey, of\n    sweet-scented essences and of oil, seven rivers of milk and eight of\n    wine. We even find a parallel in Lucian to Maelduin's white island\n    with the springs of milk and wine, as the travellers come to a sea of\n    milk, where there was a great island of cheese, covered with vines\n    full of grapes; but these yielded milk instead of wine [cf. Wieland,\n    1789, iv. pp. 150 ff., 188 f., 196]. A direct literary connection\n    between Lucian and the Irish myths can hardly be probable, as he is\n    not thought to have been known in Western Europe before the fourteenth\n    century; but he was much read in Eastern Europe, and oral tales\n    founded on his stories may have reached the Irish. The resemblances\n    are so pronounced and so numerous that it does not seem very probable\n    that they should be wholly accidental. Such an oral connection might,\n    for instance, have been brought about by the Scandinavians, who had\n    much intercourse with Miklagard (Byzantium), or by the Arabs, who in\n    fact preserved a great part of Greek literature, and who were in\n    constant communication both with Celts and with Scandinavians.\n\n[Sidenote: Connection of the Brandan legend with northern waters]\n\nThat a mythical island like the Isle of Grapes--or perhaps others as well,\nsuch as the \"Insula Deliciosa\"--might be the origin of the \"Vinland hit\nG\u00f3\u00f0a\" of the Icelanders, to which one sailed from Greenland (and of Adam\nof Bremen's Winland), appears natural also from the fact that many of the\nislands and tracts that are mentioned in the \"Navigatio,\" and that for the\nmost part are also mentioned in the older tale of Maelduin, are\nundoubtedly connected with northern and western waters. That this must be\nso is easily understood when one considers the voyages of Irish monks to\nthe Faroes and Iceland. The Sheep Island, which was full of sheep, and\nwhere Brandan obtained his paschal lamb, must be the Faroes, where the\nsheep are mentioned even by Dicuil (see p. 163), just as the island with\nthe many birds also reminds us of Dicuil's account of these islands; the\nisland on the borders of Hell, whose steep cliffs were black as coal,\nwhere one of Brandan's monks, when he set foot ashore, was instantly\nseized and burnt by demons, and which at their departure they saw covered\nwith fire and flames, may have some connection with Iceland.[349] But it\nalso bears some resemblance to the Hell Island that Lucian's voyagers\ncome to, surrounded by steep cliffs, where there were stinking fumes of\nasphalt, sulphur, pitch, and roasted human beings. When Brandan arrives at\nthe curdled sea (\"mare quasi coagulatum\"), and has to sail through\ndarkness before he comes to the Land of Happiness, or when we hear of a\nthick fog like a wall about the kingdom of Manannan, we again think of the\nnorthern regions where the Liver Sea lay, and where Adam of Bremen had his\ndark or mist-filled sea.\n\n[Sidenote: Classical roots of the Brandan legend]\n\n    While thus many features connect the legend of Brandan with northern\n    waters, it has, on the other hand--like many other Irish myths--its\n    roots far down in the mythical conceptions of the classics. Above all,\n    Brandan's Paradise or \"Promised Land of the Saints,\" Terra\n    Repromissionis Sanctorum, is nothing but the Greeks' Isles of the\n    Blest, blended with ideas from the Bible. As shown by Zimmer [1889,\n    pp. 328 ff.], the Imram Maelduin (which to a large extent forms the\n    foundation of the Navigatio St. Brandani) and other Irish tales of\n    sea-voyages have great similarity to Virgil's \u00c6neid, and are composed\n    on its model. We have already said that Brandan's Grape-island may\n    have some connection with Lucian. From him is possibly also derived\n    Brandan's great whale, \"Iasconicus,\" on whose back they live and\n    celebrate Easter. But similar big fishes are known from old Indian\n    legends, from the legends about Alexander, etc. It may also be\n    mentioned that in the Breton legend corresponding to Brandan's, that\n    of St. Machutus (written down by Bili, deacon at Aleth, ninth\n    century), the latter and Brandan came to an island where they find the\n    dead giant \"Mildu,\" whom Machutus awakens and baptizes and who, wading\n    through the sea, tries to draw their ship to the Paradise-island of\n    \"Yma,\" which he says is surrounded by a wall of shining gold, like a\n    mirror, without any visible entrance. But a storm raises the sea and\n    bursts the cable by which he is towing them. Humboldt already saw in\n    this giant the god Cronos, who, according to Plutarch, lay sleeping on\n    an island in the Cronian Sea to the north-west of Ogygia, which lay\n    five days' voyage to the west of Britain (see above, p. 156). It is\n    probably the same giant who in the tale of Brandan written in Irish\n    (\"Imram Brenaind\") has become a beautiful maiden, whiter than snow or\n    sea-spray; but a hundred feet high, nine feet across between the\n    breasts, and with a middle finger seven feet long. She is lying\n    lifeless, killed by a spear through the shoulder; but Brandan awakens\n    and baptizes her. She belongs to the sea-people, who are awaiting\n    redemption. As, in answer to Brandan's question, she prefers going\n    straight to heaven to living, she dies again immediately without a\n    sigh after taking the sacrament [cf. Schirmer, 1888, pp. 30, 72;\n    Zimmer, 1889, p. 136; De Goeje, 1891, p. 69]. This maiden is evidently\n    connected with the supernaturally beautiful, big, and white king's\n    daughter from the Land of Virgins (\"T\u00edr na-n-Ingen\") who seeks the\n    protection of Finn MacCumaill, and who is also pierced by a spear [cf.\n    Zimmer, 1889, pp. 269, 325]. Thus do mythical beings transform\n    themselves till they become unrecognisable. The same woman is found\n    again in Iceland as late as the seventeenth century.[350]\n\n[Sidenote: The Brandan legend and Norse literature]\n\n    In many of its features the Brandan legend, or similar Irish legends,\n    may be shown to have had influence on Norse literature. The theft of\n    the neck-chain (or bridle ?) by one of the brethren, who comes to\n    grief thereby, in the Navigatio and in other Irish tales, is found\n    again, as Moltke Moe points out to me, in the story of Thorkel Adelfar\n    in Saxo Grammaticus, as a theft of jewels and of a cloak, through\n    which the thieves also come to grief. The great fish (whale)\n    \"Iasconicus,\" of which Brandan relates that it tries in vain to bite\n    its own tail, is evidently the Midgardsworm of Norse literature. In\n    the same way the little, apparently innocent, but supernatural cat in\n    the \"Imram Maelduin\" which suddenly destroys the man who steals the\n    neck-chain may be connected with the cat that Thor tries to lift in\n    Utgard. It is doubtless the same little cat that three young priests\n    took with them on their voyage in another Irish legend [in the Book of\n    Leinster, of the beginning of the twelfth century]. In the \"Imram\n    Brenaind\" this little cat they took with them has grown into a monkey\n    as large as a young ox, which swims after Brandan's boat and wants to\n    swallow it [cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 139]. Again, quite recently Von Sydow\n    [1910, pp. 65 ff.] has shown that the Snorra-Edda's myth of Thor's\n    journey to Utgard is based on Irish myths and tales.\n\n[Sidenote: The happy land in the west known in Northern Europe]\n\nLegends of a happy land or an island far over the sea towards the sunset\nwere evidently widely diffused in Northern Europe in those days, outside\nIreland. In Anglo-Saxon literature there is a dialogue between Adrianus\nand Ritheus (probably of the tenth century), where we read:\n\n    \"Tell me where the sun shines at night.\"... \"I tell you in three\n    places: first in the belly of the whale that is called 'Leuiathan';\n    and the second season it shines in Hell; and the third season it\n    shines upon the island that is called 'Gli\u00f0,' and there the souls of\n    holy men repose till doomsday.\"[351]\n\nThis Gli\u00f0 (i.e., the glittering land) is evidently the Land of the Blest,\nBrandan's Terra Repromissionis, that lies in dazzling sunshine, after one\nhas passed through darkness and mist; but whether the myth reached the\nAnglo-Saxons from the Irish seems doubtful.\n\nPseudo-Gildas's description (twelfth century) of the isle of \"Avallon\"\n(the apple-island of Welsh myth) is also of interest; it is connected with\nexactly the same ideas as the Irish happy isles:\n\n    \"A remarkable island is surrounded by the ocean, full of all good\n    things; no thief, no robber, no enemy pursues one there; no violence,\n    no winter, no summer rages immoderately; peace, concord, spring last\n    eternally, neither flower nor lily is wanting, nor rose nor violet;\n    the apple-tree bears flowers and fruit on the selfsame branch; there\n    without stain youths dwell with their maidens, there is no old age and\n    no oppressive sickness, no sorrow, all is full of joy.\"[352]\n\n[Sidenote: The name of Wineland derived from Ireland]\n\nIt results, then, from what has here been quoted, that a Grape-island\n(\"Insula Uvarum\") makes its appearance in Irish literature in the eleventh\ncentury, at about the same time when Adam of Bremen mentions, from Danish\ninformants, an island called \"Winland.\" Of the same century again is the\nNorwegian runic stone from H\u00f6nen in Ringerike, on which, as we shall see\nlater, Wineland is possibly mentioned (?) From the form of the runes, S.\nBugge ascribes it to the first half of the eleventh century, hardly older,\nthough it may be later. \"Insula Uvarum\" translated into the Old Norse\nlanguage could not very well become anything but V\u00ednland (or V\u00edney), since\nV\u00ednberjarey or V\u00ednberjarland would not sound well. We thus have the\nremarkable circumstance that an island with the same name and the same\nproperties makes its appearance almost simultaneously in Ireland and in\nDenmark (and possibly also in Norway). That these Wine-islands or\nWinelands should have originated entirely independently of one another, in\ncountries which had such close intellectual connection, would be a\ncoincidence of the kind that one cannot very well assume, since it must be\nregarded as more probable that there was a connection. But Brandan's\nGrape-island can scarcely be derived from a Wineland discovered by the\nNorsemen, since, as has been mentioned, the wine and wine-fruit play such\na prominent part in the older Irish legends, and the ancient tale of Bran\n(\"Echtra Brain\") describes the Irish Elysium (\"Mag Mell\") as a land with\nmagnificent woods and the true scent of the vine, etc. (see p. 355). In\nthe next place, as has been mentioned, Brandan's Grape-island bears a\nresemblance to Lucian's Grape-island; but as Lucian's descriptions seem\nalso to have influenced, among others, the tale of the intoxicating\nwine-fruit in the \"Imram Maelduin,\" it looks as though Lucian's stories\nhad reached Ireland (e.g., by Scandinavian travellers or through Arabs ?)\nlong before the Navigatio Brandani was written. As thus the Irish\nwine-island cannot well be due to a Norse discovery, it becomes probable\nthat Adam's name Winland (as well as the possible Norwegian name) was\noriginally derived from Ireland, and that it reached the northern\ncountries orally. If the Danes did not get the name from the Norwegians\nthey may have brought it themselves, as they also had direct communication\nwith Ireland.[353] This conclusion, that the name of Wineland came from\nIreland, is again strengthened from an entirely different quarter, namely,\nthe Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, where it is said that Great-Ireland lay near Wineland. As\nsuggested on p. 354, this shows that the Icelanders must have heard both\nlands spoken of in Ireland. As Ravn Hlymreks-farer is given as the\noriginal authority, and after him Thorfinn, earl of Orkney (ob. circa\n1064), this may have been at the beginning of the eleventh century; but as\nthe statement came finally from Thorkel Gellisson (and consequently was\nwritten down by Are Frode) it may also have been in the second half of\nthat century. In this way we seem to have a natural explanation of the\nsimultaneous appearance of the name in the North.[354]\n\nAs the statement in the Landn\u00e1ma is due to Thorkel Gellisson, it is\ndoubtless most probable that the Wineland that is mentioned for the first\ntime in Icelandic literature in a gloss in Are Frode's \u00cdslendingab\u00f3k also\nhas Thorkel (who is mentioned immediately afterwards) for its authority\n(cf. p. 258), although the sentence might be by Are himself. Thorkel may\nhave heard of this Wineland in Greenland; but it is more likely to be the\ncountry he heard of in connection with the mythical Hv\u00edtramanna-land from\nIreland, and he may have heard that there were said to dwell there wights\n(or trolls) that were called Skr\u00e6lings. Two possibilities suggest\nthemselves: either this Wineland with its Skr\u00e6lings was nothing but the\nwell-known mythical land with its mythical people, which required no\nfurther description. It cannot be objected that the sober, critical Are\nwould not have mentioned a mythical country in this way; for, if he was\ncapable of believing in a Hv\u00edtramanna-land, he could also believe in such\na Wineland. Or, on the other hand, it was a land which had actually been\ndiscovered and to which the name of the mythical country had been\ntransferred. The latter hypothesis might be strengthened by other things\nthat point to the Greenlanders having really found land in the west. But,\non the other hand, if a country actually discovered is meant, it is\ncurious that neither Are nor the Landn\u00e1ma makes any mention of the\ndiscovery, whereas the discovery of Greenland is related at some length,\nand also that of Hv\u00edtramanna-land. Again, when Eric the Red came to\nGreenland, such a land had in any case not been discovered, so that it\ncould not have been he who named the Eskimo after the inhabitants of that\nland, whereas Are might readily suppose that he had taken the name of\nSkr\u00e6lings from the people of the mythical country; thus Are's words, as\nthey now stand, would have a clearer meaning.\n\nIt may also be worth mentioning that in the only passage of the Sturlub\u00f3k\nwhere Wineland is alluded to, it is called \"Irland et Goda.\" This has\ngenerally been regarded as a copyist's error; but that it was due to\nmisreading of an indistinctly written \"Vinland\" is not likely; it might\nrather be due to a careless repetition, since \"Irland et Mikla\" is\nmentioned just before. This is most probable. It may, however, be supposed\nthat it is not an error, and that just as the latter is an alternative\nname for Hv\u00edtramanna-land, so \"Irland et G\u00f3\u00f0a\" may be a corresponding\nalternative name for Wineland, which was situated near it. We should thus\nagain be led to Ireland as the home of the name. In any case the\nuncertainty which prevails in the versions of the name of Wineland given\nin the oldest authorities is striking (as discussed in the last note).\nNothing of the same sort occurs in the transmission of other geographical\nnames, and a form such as Vindland in Hauk's Landn\u00e1ma cannot be explained\nas merely a copyist's error. Again, Eric's Saga in the Hauksb\u00f3k has the\nname correctly, although this saga as well as the Landn\u00e1ma was to a great\nextent copied by Hauk Erlendsson himself. This may point to the form\nVindland having occurred in the original from which the Landn\u00e1ma was\ncopied. This discloses uncertainty in the very reading of the name, and it\nseems also to point to its having been a mythical country and not the name\nof a known land that had been discovered.\n\n[Sidenote: Landit G\u00f3\u00f0a, Fairyland]\n\nTo any one who is familiar with Norse place-names, the addition \"hit g\u00f3\u00f0a\"\nto Wineland must appear foreign and unusual. It is otherwise only known in\nthe northern countries from the name \"Landegode\" (originally \"Landit\nG\u00f3\u00f0a\") on the coast of Norway, for an island west of Bod\u00f6. The same name\nwas also used (and is still used in Stad and Her\u00f6) for Svin\u00f6i, a little\nisland off Sunnm\u00f6r, and for Jomfruland (south of Langesund). It has been\ngenerally taken for a so-called tabu-name;[355] but the explanation\nsuggested to me by Moltke Moe seems more probable, that it was a\ndesignation of fairylands, which lay out in the ocean, and which were\nthought to sink into the sea as one approached them. The above-mentioned\nNorwegian islands would quite answer to such conceptions, especially when\nthey loom up and seem larger, and all three islands were formerly\nfairylands (\"huldrelande\"). The original germ of the belief in fairies\n(\"huldrer\") is the worship of the departed. \"Hulder\" means \"hidden\" (i.e.,\nthe hidden people). Fairylands are therefore the islands of the hidden, or\nof the departed, and these again are the Fortunate Isles or the Isles of\nthe Blest. A parallel to this is that \"Hades\" in Greek means the\ninvisible. And, as we have seen (p. 356), the nymph Calypso (== the hidden\none) answers to our \"hulder.\" When Bran, in the Irish legend alluded to,\nmeets on the sea Manann\u00e1n mac Lir (i.e., son of the Sea), king of the\nsea-people, lord of the land of the dead, he tells Bran that without being\nable to see it he is sailing over Mag Mell (the happy plain), where happy\npeople are sitting drinking wine, and where there is a splendid forest\nwith vines, etc.; and the Irish happy land \"T\u00edr fo-Thuin\" is, as we have\nsaid (p. 358), the land under the wave. The lands or islands of the\ndeparted in course of time became the habitations of the invisible ones\n(spirits), of those who possess more than human wisdom, and have a\nspecially favourable lot; by this means the idea of a fortunate land with\nfavoured conditions, far surpassing the ordinary lot of men, became more\nand more emphasised. This development may be followed both with regard to\nclassical ideas of the Fortunate Islands and to Norse conceptions of\nfairylands.\n\nThat the Greeks connected the happy land with the hidden people who move\nupon the sea may perhaps be concluded even from the Odyssey's description\nof the Ph\u00e6acians, who dwelt in the happy land, the glorious Scheria, far\nin the western ocean (see above, p. 347). That they may be compared with\nour fairies (\"huldrefolk\") appears perhaps from the name itself, which may\ncome from \u03c6\u03b1\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 (== dark) and mean \"dark man,\" \"the hidden man\" [cf.\nWelcker, 1833, p. 231].[356] They sail at night, always shrouded in clouds\nand darkness, in boats as swift \"as wings and the thoughts of men\" [Od.\nvii. 35 f.]. The \"huldrefolk\" also travel by night (cf. p. 378). In\nIreland and in Iceland the way to fairyland is through darkness and mist,\nor sea or water [cf. Gr\u00f6ndal, 1863, pp. 25, 38]; and it is the same in\nNordland. A blending of the fairies (\"s\u00edd\"-people) and the inhabitants of\nthe happy land or promised land is particularly observable in the Irish\nlegends [cf. Zimmer, 1889, pp. 276 f.]. The people of the \"s\u00edd\" dwell\npartly in grave-mounds (and are thus like our \"haugebonde,\" or mound-elf),\nthey may also live in happy lands far west in the sea or under the sea,\nand are thus sea-elves, but on the whole they most resemble our\n\"huldrefolk.\" The \"s\u00edd\"-woman entices men like our \"hulder\"; in the tale\nof \"Condla Ruad\" [Connla the Fair; cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 262] she comes\nfrom the Land of the Living (\"T\u00edr na-m-Be\u00f3\"), far across the sea, and\nentices Connla to go with her in a glass boat to the \"Great Strand,\" where\nthere only were women and maidens. This Irish paradise of women out in the\nocean has, as we have said (p. 355), much in common with the German\nVenusberg, and with the invisible country of our \"huldrefolk.\" But the\n\"huldrefolk\" dwell now in mountains and woods, now on islands in the sea\nor under the sea. As will be seen, the ideas of the Fortunate Isles or of\nthe Promised Land and those of fairyland thus often coincide. It may be\nadded that among many peoples the souls of the dead are carried across the\nsea in a boat or ship to a land in the west.\n\n    This is evidently connected with the river of death, Styx, Acheron or\n    Cocytus, of the Greeks, over which Charon ferried the souls to the\n    lower regions in a narrow two-oared boat. Procopius [De bello Goth.,\n    iv. 20] relates that according to legends he himself heard from the\n    natives, all the souls of the departed are carried every night at\n    midnight from the coast of Germania to the island of Brittia (i.e.,\n    Britain) which lies over against the mouth of the Rhine between\n    Britannia (i.e., Brittany) and Thule (Scandinavia). He whose turn it\n    is among the dwellers on the coast to be ferryman hears at midnight a\n    knocking at his door and a muffled voice. He goes down to the beach,\n    sees there an empty, strange boat, into which he gets and begins to\n    row. He then notices that the boat is filled so that the gunwale is\n    only a finger's breadth above the water, but he sees nothing. As soon\n    as he arrives at the opposite shore, he notices that the boat is\n    suddenly emptied, but still he sees no one, and only hears a voice\n    announcing the names and rank of the arrivals. The invisible souls,\n    who always move in silence, answer to the elves.\n\n    In many ways the connection between the dead and the sea is apparent.\n    Balder's body was laid in a ship on which a pyre was kindled, and it\n    was abandoned to the currents of the sea. The body of the hero Scild\n    in the lay of Beowulf was borne upon a ship, which was carried away by\n    the sea, no one knows whither. Fiosi in Nj\u00e1l's Saga has himself\n    carried on board a ship and abandoned to the sea, and afterwards the\n    ship is not heard of again, etc.[357]\n\nThat the fairylands should be called \"Landit G\u00f3\u00f0a\" may be due to their\nexceeding fertility (cf. the huldreland's waving cornfields); but it may\nalso, as Moltke Moe has pointed out, have a natural connection with the\ntendency the Germanic peoples in ancient times seem to have had of\nattaching the idea of \"good\" to the fairies and the dead. In Nordland the\n\"huldrefolk\" are called \"godvetter\" (\"good wights\") [cf. I. Aasen]; this\namong the Lapps has become \"g\u00favitter,\" \"gufihter,\" \"gufittarak,\" etc., as\na name for supernatural beings underground or in the sea;[358] the Swedes\nin North Sweden use the word \"goveiter.\" The mound-elf (\"haugebonden\"),\nOld Norse \"haugbui\" (the dweller in the mound), who was the ancestor of\nthe clan, or the representative of the departed generations, is called in\nNordland \"godbonden.\"[359]\n\n    The underground people are called in Iceland \"lj\u00faflingar,\" in German\n    \"die guten Leute,\" in English-speaking Ireland, Scotland and the Isle\n    of Man \"the good people,\" \"good neighbours,\" or \"the men of\n    peace.\"[360] In Highland Gaelic they are called \"daoine sith,\" in\n    Welsh \"dynion mad.\" In Swedish and Danish we have the designation\n    \"nisse god-dreng\" (\"nisse good boy\") or \"goda-nisse,\" in Norwegian\n    \"go-granne\" (\"good neighbour\"); (in Danish also \"k\u00e6re granne,\" \"dear\n    neighbour\"); in German \"Guter (or lieber) Nachbar,\" or \"Gutgesell\" is\n    used of a goblin; in Thuringia \"G\u00fctchen,\" \"G\u00fctel\"; in the Netherlands\n    \"goede Kind,\" and in England \"Robin Goodfellow.\"\n\nThat the epithet \"good\" applied to supernatural beings, especially\nunderground ones, is so widely spread, even among the Lapps, shows it to\nhave been common early in the Middle Ages.\n\n    It is of minor interest in this connection to inquire what the origin\n    of the epithet may have been. We might suppose that it was the thought\n    of the departed as the happy, blest people; but on the other hand it\n    may have been fear; it may have been sought to conciliate them by\n    giving them pet-names, for the same reason that thunder is called in\n    Swedish \"gobon\" (godbonden), \"gofar,\" \"gogubben,\" \"gomor,\" \"goa\" (goa\n    g\u00e5r),[361] which is also Norwegian.\n\n\"Hit g\u00f3\u00f0a\" is the altogether good, the perfect, therefore the fortunate\nland. When the legend of the \"Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6\" and of the Irish happy\nlands--one of which was the sunken fairyland \"T\u00edr fo-Thuin,\" the land\nunder-wave--reached the North, it was quite natural that the Northerners\nshould translate the name by one well known to them, \"Landit G\u00f3\u00f0a\"\n(fairyland, the land of the unseen); indeed, the name of Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6\ncould not well have been translated in any other way. But as wine was so\nconspicuous a feature in the description of this southern land of myth,\nboth in Isidore and among the Irish, and as wine more than any other\nfeature was symbolical of the idea of happiness, it is natural, as we have\nseen, that the Northerners came very soon to call this country, like\nBrandan's Grape-island, \"V\u00ednland\"; thus \"V\u00ednland hit G\u00f3\u00f0a\" may have arisen\nby a combination of \"V\u00ednland\" and \"Landit g\u00f3\u00f0a,\" to distinguish it from\nthe native \"Landit G\u00f3\u00f0a,\" the fairyland of the Norwegians. A combination\nof \"hit g\u00f3\u00f0a\" with a proper name is otherwise unknown, and thus points to\n\"Landit G\u00f3\u00f0a\" as the original form.[362]\n\n[Sidenote: Laudatory names for fairyland]\n\n    Moltke Moe has given me an example from Gotland of a fairyland having\n    received a laudatory name answering to Wineland, in that the popular\n    fairyland \"Sj\u00f3haj\" or \"Fl\u00e5jgland,\" out at sea, is called\n    Sm\u00f6rland.[363] Sj\u00f3haj is a mirage on the sea; and \"Fl\u00e5jgland\" comes\n    from \"fljuga,\" to fly, i.e., that which drifts about, floating land.\n    It now only means looming, but it may originally have been fairyland,\n    and it is evident that it is here described as particularly fertile.\n    With \"Sm\u00f6rland\" may be compared Norwegian place-names compounded with\n    \"sm\u00f6r\": \"Sm\u00f6rtue,\" \"Sm\u00f6rberg,\" \"Sm\u00f6rklepp.\" O. Rygh includes these\n    among \"Laudatory names ... which accentuate good qualities of the\n    property or of the place.\"[364] Similarly in the place-names of\n    Shetland: \"Smerrin\" (== \"smj\u01ebr-vin,\" fat, fertile pasture),\n    \"Smernadal\" (== \"smj\u01ebr-vinjar-dalr,\" valley with fat pasture), \"de\n    Smerr-meadow\" (== originally: \"smjor-eng\" or \"smj\u01ebr-vin\"), \"de\n    Smerwel-park\" (probably == \"smjor-vollr\"), \"de Smorli\" (probably ==\n    \"smjor-hli\u00f0\"). J. Jakobsen [1902, p. 166] says that \"'smer(r)' (Old\n    Norse 'smj\u01ebr' or 'sm\u0153r,' Norwegian 'sm\u00f6r,' butter) means here\n    fertility, good pasture, in the same way as in Norwegian names of\n    which the first syllable is 'sm\u00f6r.'\" With this may be compared the\n    fact that even in early times the word \"sm\u00f6r\" was used to denote a fat\n    land, as when Thorolf in the saga said that \"it dripped butter from\n    every blade of grass in the land they had found\" (i.e., Iceland, see\n    above, p. 257, cf. also \"smj\u01ebr-tisdagr\" == \"Fat Tuesday,\" \"Mardi\n    gras\"). That the fairylands were connected with fertility appears\n    also from a Northern legend. Nordfugl\u00f6i, to the north of Karls\u00f6i, was\n    once a troll-island, hidden under the sea and invisible to men, thus a\n    \"huldre\" island. But then certain troll-hags betook themselves to\n    towing it to land; a Lapp hag who happened to cast her eye through the\n    door-opening saw them come rowing with the island, so that the spray\n    dashed over it, and cried: \"Oh, what a good 'food-land' we have now\n    got!\" And thereupon the island stopped at the mouth of the sea, where\n    it now is.[365] The fertility of fairyland is doubtless also expressed\n    in the incident of the sow that finds it (see later), usually having a\n    litter there. Its fertility appears again, perhaps, in H. Str\u00f6m's\n    [1766, p. 436] mention of \"Buskholm\" (i.e., Bush-island) in Her\u00f6\n    (Sunnm\u00f6r), which was inhabited by underground beings and protected,\n    therefore wholly overgrown with trees and bushes. The Icelandic\n    elfland \"is delightful, covered with beautiful forests and sweet\n    smelling flowers\" [cf. Gr\u00f6ndal, 1863, p. 25], and the Irish is the\n    same.\n\n[Sidenote: Floating islands]\n\n    Legends of islands and countries that disappeared or moved, like the\n    fairylands, are widely diffused. To begin with, the Delos (cf. \u03b4\u03b7\u03bb\u03bf\u03c9,\n    become visible) of the Greeks floated about in the sea for a long\n    time, as described by Callimachus [v.]; now the island was found, now\n    it was away again, until it was fixed among the Cyclades. Ireland,\n    which also at a very early time was the holy island (cf. p. 38),\n    floated about in the sea at the time of the Flood. Lucas Debes [1673,\n    pp. 19 ff.] relates that \"at various times a floating island is said\n    to have been seen\" among the Faroes; but no one can reach it. \"The\n    inhabitants also tell a fable of Svin\u00f6e,[366] how that in the\n    beginning it was a floating island: and they think that if one could\n    come to this island, which is often seen, and throw steel upon it, it\n    would stand still.... Many things are related of such floating\n    islands, and some think that they exist in nature.\" Debes does not\n    believe it. \"If this was not described of the properties of various\n    islands, I should say that it was icebergs, which come floating from\n    Greenland: and if that be not so, then I firmly believe that it is\n    phantoms and witchcraft of the Devil, who in himself is a thousandfold\n    craftsman.\" Erich Pontoppidan [1753, ii. p. 346] defends the devil and\n    protests against this view of Debes, that it is \"phantasmata and\n    sorcery of the devil,\" and says: \"But as, according to the wholesome\n    rule, we ought to give the Devil his due, I think that the devil who\n    in haste makes floating islands is none other than that Kraken, which\n    some seamen also call 'S\u00f6e-Draulen,' that is, the sea troll.\"\n\n    Of Svin\u00f6i in the Faroes precisely the same legend exists as of similar\n    islands in Norway (see p. 378), that they came \"up,\" or became\n    visible, through a sow upon which steel had been bound [cf.\n    Hammershaimb, 1891, p. 362].\n\n    In many places there are such disappearing islands. Honorius\n    Augustodunensis makes some remarkable statements in his work \"De\n    imagine mundi\" [i. 36], of about 1125. After mentioning the Balearic\n    Isles and the Gorgades, he says: \"By the side of them [lie] the\n    Hesperides, so called from the town of Hesperia. There is abundance of\n    sheep with white wool, which is excellent for dyeing purple. Therefore\n    the legend says that these islands have golden apples ('mala'). For\n    'miclon' [error for 'malon'] means sheep in Greek.[367] To these\n    islands belonged the great island which according to the tale of Plato\n    sank with its inhabitants, and which exceeded Africa and Europe in\n    extent, where the curdled sea ('Concretum Mare') now is.... There lies\n    also in the Ocean an island which is called the Lost ('Perdita'); in\n    charm and all kinds of fertility it far surpasses every other land,\n    but it is unknown to men. Now and again it may be found by chance; but\n    if one seeks for it, it cannot be found, and therefore it is called\n    'the Lost.' Men say that it was this island that Brandanus came to.\"\n    It is of special interest that thus as early as that time a\n    disappearing island occurred near the Fortunate Isles.\n\n    Columbus says in his diary that the inhabitants of Ferro and Gomera\n    (Canary Isles) assert that every year they see land to the west.\n    Afterwards expeditions were even sent out to search for it. The\n    Dutchman Van Linschoten speaks in 1589 of this beautiful lost land\n    under the name of \"San Borondon\" (St. Brandan), a hundred leagues to\n    the west of the Canaries. Its inhabitants are said to be Christians,\n    but it is not known of what nation they are, or what language they\n    speak;[368] the Spaniards of the Canaries have made many vain attempts\n    to find it. The same island, which sometimes shows itself near the\n    Canaries, but withdraws when one tries to approach it, still lives in\n    Spanish folk-lore under the name of \"San Morondon.\"[369]\n\n    On the coast of the English Channel sailors have stories of floating\n    islands, which many of them have seen with their own eyes. They always\n    fly before ships, and one can never land there. They are drawn along\n    by the devil, who compels the souls of drowned men who have deserved\n    Hell and are damned, to stay there till the Day of Judgment. On some\n    of them the roar of a terrible beast is heard; and sailors look upon\n    the meeting with such an island as a sinister warning.[370]\n\n    Curiously enough, there is said to be a myth of \"a floating island\"\n    among the Iroquois Indians. In their mythology the earth is due to the\n    Indian ruler of a great island which floats in space, and where there\n    is eternal peace. In its abundance there are no burdens to bear, in\n    its fertility all want is for ever precluded. Death never comes to its\n    eternal quietude--and no desire, no sorrow, no pain disturbs its\n    peace.[371] These ideas remind one strikingly of the Isles of the\n    Blest, and are probably derived from European influence in recent\n    times. Again, at Boston, in America, there is found a myth of an\n    enchanted green land out in the sea to the east; it flies when one\n    approaches, and no white man can reach this island, which is called\n    \"the island that flies.\" An Indian, the last of his tribe, saw it a\n    few times before his death, and set out in his canoe to row, as he\n    said, to the isle of happy spirits. He disappeared in a storm the like\n    of which had never been known, and after this the enchanted island was\n    never seen again [cf. S\u00e9billot, 1886, p. 349].\n\n    Even the Chinese have legends of the Isles of the Blest, which lie 700\n    miles from the Celestial Kingdom out in the Yellow Sea, and gleam in\n    everlasting beauty, everlasting spring and everlasting gladness. The\n    wizard Sun-Tshe is said once to have extorted from a good spirit the\n    secret of their situation, and revealed the great mystery to the\n    emperor Tshe-Huan-Ti (219 B.C.). Then the noblest youths and the most\n    beautiful maidens of the Celestial Kingdom set out to search for\n    Paradise, and lo! it suddenly rose above the distant horizon, wrapped\n    in roseate glow. But a terrible storm drove the longing voyagers away\n    with cruel violence, and since then no human eye has seen the Isles of\n    the Blest [after Paul d'Enjoy, in \"La Revue\"].[372]\n\n    This is the same conception of the floating mirage that we meet with\n    again in the Norse term \"Villuland\" (from \"villa\" == illusion, mirage,\n    glamour), which is found, for instance, in Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson of Skards\u00e1\n    applied to the fabulous country of Frisland (south of Iceland); it is\n    called in one MS. \"Villi-Skotland,\" which is probably the mythical\n    \"Irland it Mikla\" (Great-Ireland), since the Irish were called Scots.\n    Are M\u00e1rsson, according to the Landn\u00e1ma, reached this \"Villuland\" and\n    stayed there. It is remarkable that his mother Katla, according to the\n    Icelandic legend in the poem \"K\u01ebtlu-draumr\" (Katla's dream), was\n    stolen by an elf-man, who kept her for four nights.[373] It may be\n    this circumstance that led to its being Are who found the elf-country\n    to the west of Ireland, although it is true that according to the\n    K\u01ebtlu-draumr it was his one-year-older brother Kar who was the\n    offspring of the four nights; but the elf-man had asked that his son\n    should be called Are.\n\n[Sidenote: Fairylands which rise and fall]\n\n    There are many such fairylands along the coast of Norway, which used\n    to rise up from the sea at night, but sank in the daytime.[374] If one\n    could bring fire or steel upon them, then the spell was broken and\n    they remained up; but the huldrefolk avenged themselves on the person\n    who did this, and he was turned to stone; therefore it was usually\n    accomplished by domestic animals which swam across to these islands.\n    Many of them have come up in this way, and for this reason they\n    frequently bear the names of animals. The most probable explanation is\n    doubtless that they were originally given the names of animals from a\n    similarity in shape, or some other reason; and the myth is a later\n    interpretation of the name. It was often a pig, preferably a sow, that\n    had acquired the habit of swimming over to the fairyland, and it\n    frequently had litters there; the people of the farm, who noticed that\n    it occasionally stayed away, bound steel upon it, and the island was\n    hindered from sinking; \"therefore such fairy islands are often called\n    Svin\u00f6i.\" In this way Svin\u00f6i in Br\u00f6n\u00f6i (in Nordland, Norway) came up,\n    as well as Svin\u00f6i in the Faroes, and doubtless it was the same with\n    Svin\u00f6i or Landegode in Sunnm\u00f6r. It was also through a sow that Tautra,\n    in Trondhjemsfjord, was raised, besides Jomfruland, and the\n    north-western part of And\u00f6i (in Vester\u00e5len). Nay, even Oland in\n    Limfjord (Jutland) became visible through a sow with steel bound on\n    it, which had a litter. Other islands, like Vega and S\u00f6len, were\n    raised by a horse or an ox, etc. Gotland was also a fairyland, but it\n    stayed up through a man bringing fire to it.[375] Some fairy islands\n    lie so far out at sea that no domestic animal has been able to swim\n    over to them, and therefore they have not yet come up; such are\n    Utr\u00f6st, west of Lofoten, Sandflesa, west of Tr\u00e6nen, Utvega, west of\n    Vega, Hillerei-\u00f6i, and Ytter-Sklinna, in Nordre Trondhjems Amt, and\n    hidden fairylands off Utsire, off Lister, and to the south-west of\n    Jomfruland.[376]\n\n    It is interesting that the notion of a sow being the cause of people\n    coming into possession of fertile islands can also be illustrated from\n    medi\u00e6val England. William of Malmesbury relates in his \"De antiquitate\n    Glastoniensis ecclesi\u00e6\" [cap. 1 and 2], which belongs to the twelfth\n    century before 1143, that Glasteing \"... went in search of his sow as\n    far as Wellis, and followed her from Wellis by a difficult and boggy\n    path, that is called 'Sugewege,' that is to say, 'the sow's way'; at\n    last he found her occupied in suckling her young beneath the\n    apple-tree beside the church of which we are speaking; from this are\n    derived the names that have come down to our time, that the apples of\n    this tree are called 'ealdcyrcenes epple,' that is to say, 'the apples\n    of the old church,' and the sow 'ealdcyrce suge.' While other sows\n    have four feet, this one, strangely enough, has eight. This Glasteing,\n    then, who came to this island and saw that it was flowing with all\n    good things, brought all his family and established himself there and\n    dwelt there all his life. This place is said to be populated from his\n    offspring and the race that sprang from him. This is taken from the\n    ancient writings of the Britons.\n\n    \"Of various names for this island. This island, then, was first called\n    by the Britons 'Ynisgwtrin'; later, when the Angles subdued the\n    island, the name was translated into their language as 'Glastynbury'\n    or Glasteing's town, he of whom we have been speaking. The island also\n    bears the famous name of 'Avallonia.' The origin of this word is the\n    following: as we have related, Glasteing found his sow under an\n    apple-tree by the old church; therefore he called ... the island in\n    his language 'Avallonia,' that is 'The isle of apples' (for 'avalla'\n    in British means 'poma' in Latin).... Or else the island has its name\n    from a certain Avalloc, who is said to have dwelt here with his\n    daughters on account of the solitude of the place.\"[377]\n\n    This Somerset sow with its young and with eight legs, like Sleipner,\n    must be Norse. The Norse myth of the sow must have found a favourable\n    soil among the Celts, as according to the ideas of Celtic mythology\n    the pig was a sacred animal in the religion of the Druids, specially\n    connected with Ceridwen, the goddess of the lower world. The Celts\n    must have heard of the pig that by the help of steel causes fairylands\n    to remain visible; but regarded this as being connected with the\n    animal's sacred properties. It cannot have been an originally Celtic\n    conception, otherwise we should meet with it in other Celtic legends.\n    Moreover the island in this case is not invisible, nor has the sow any\n    steel upon her; these are features that have been lost in\n    transmission. On the other hand the incident of the sow becoming\n    pregnant in the newly found land has been preserved.\n\n    In the ocean to the west of Ireland there lay, as already mentioned\n    (p. 354), many enchanted islands. They are in part derived from\n    classical and oriental myths; but the native fairies (the s\u00edd-people)\n    and fairylands have been introduced here also (p. 371). Even in the\n    lakes of Ireland there are hidden islands, marvellously fertile with\n    beautiful flowers.[378] Giraldus Cambrensis (twelfth century) says\n    that on clear days an island appeared to the west of Ireland, but\n    vanished when people approached it. At last some came within bowshot,\n    and one of the sailors shot a red-hot arrow on to it, and the island\n    then remained fixed. The happy island \"O'Brasil\" (\"Hy-Breasail,\" see\n    p. 357) west of Ireland appears above the sea once in every seventh\n    year--\"on the edge of the azure sea ...\" and it would stay up if any\n    one could cast fire upon it.[379]\n\nIt is no doubt possible that myths of \"villulands\" or \"huldrelands\" far\naway in the sea may have arisen in various places independently of one\nanother;[380] they may easily be suggested by mirage or other natural\nphenomena, and ideas about happiness are universal among men. But through\nmany of these myths may be traced features so similar that we can discern\na connection with certainty and can draw conclusions as to a common origin\nof the same conceptions.\n\n[Sidenote: The epithet \"the Lucky\"]\n\nThat Leif of all others, the discoverer of the fortunate land, should have\nreceived the unusual surname of \"hinn Heppni\" (the Lucky) is also\nstriking. There is only one other man in the sagas who is called thus:\nH\u01ebgni hinn Heppni, and he belongs to the period of the Iceland\nland-taking, but is only mentioned in a pedigree. Just as according to\nancient Greek ideas and in the oldest Irish legends it was only vouchsafed\nto the chosen of the gods or of fortune to reach Elysium or the isle of\nthe happy ones, so Leif, who according to tradition was the apostle of\nChristianity in Greenland, must have been regarded by the Christians of\nIceland as the favourite of God or of destiny, to whom it was ordained to\nsee the land of fortune. It is just this idea of the chosen of fate that\nlies in the words \"happ\" and \"heppinn.\" That the name has such an origin\nis also rendered probable by the fact that the saga-tellers were evidently\nnot clear as to the reason of Leif's being so called, and it is sometimes\nrepresented as due to his having saved the shipwrecked crew (cf. pp. 270,\n317), which is meaningless, since in that case it would be the rescued and\nnot Leif who were lucky, and moreover rescue of shipwrecked sailors must\nhave been an everyday affair. The saga-writers therefore knew that Leif\nhad this surname, but the reason for it had in course of time been\nforgotten.\n\nAn interesting parallel to \"Leifr hinn Heppni\" has been brought to my\nnotice by Moltke Moe in the Nordland \"Lykk-Anders,\" the name of the lucky\nbrother who came to the fairyland Sandflesa, off Tr\u00e6nen in Helgeland.[381]\nIt is important that this epithet of Lucky is thus only known in Norway in\nconnection with fairyland.[382] That the underground people, \"huldrefolk,\"\nbring luck appears also in other superstitions.[383] He who is born with\nthe cap of victory (Gl\u00fcckshaube, -helm, sigurkull, holyhow), which often\nseems to have the same effect as the fairy hat, is predestined to fortune\nand prosperity, like a Sunday child.\n\nAnother possible parallel to the lucky name is the monk \"Felix\" (i.e.,\nhappy, corresponding to \"heppinn\") who occurs in widely diffused medi\u00e6val\nlegends. He has a foretaste of the joys of heaven through hearing a bird\nof paradise; he thinks that only a few hours have passed, from morning to\nmidday, while he is listening to it in rapture, though in reality a\nhundred years have gone by.[384] Moltke Moe considers it probable that in\nthis case the name Felix may be due to a Germanic conception of the lucky\none.\n\n    Moltke Moe sees another parallel--a literary one, to be sure--to Leif\n    the Lucky and Lykk-Anders in the Olaf \u00c1steson of the \"Draumkv\u00e6de\"\n    (Dream-Lay) which he explains as \"\u00c1stsonr\" == the son of love, God's\n    beloved son. He is so called because he is so beloved that God has\n    given him a glimpse of the future, so that he sees behind the gate of\n    death.[385]\n\nAll this, therefore, points in the same direction.\n\n[Sidenote: The oldest authority, Adam of Bremen, untrustworthy]\n\nEven Adam of Bremen's brief mention of Wineland (cf. pp. 195, 197) bears\nevident traces of being untrustworthy; thus he says that the self-grown\nvines in Wineland \"give the noblest wine.\" Even if wine could be produced\nfrom the small wild grapes, it would scarcely be noble, and who should\nhave made it? It is not very likely that the Icelanders and Greenlanders\nwho discovered the country had any idea of making wine. If we except this\nfable of the wine, and the name itself, which seems to be derived from\nIreland (cf. p. 366), but may have been confused with the name of\nFinland[386] (cf. p. 198), then Adam's statements about Wineland\ncorrespond entirely to Isidore's description of the Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6, and\ncontain nothing new. Adam's statement that the island was discovered by\nmany (\"multis\") does not agree with the Saga of Eric the Red, which only\nknows of two voyages thither, but agrees better with its being a\nwell-known mythical country, to which many mythical voyages had been made,\nor with its being Finmark.[386] Although it may be uncertain whether Adam\nthought the ice- and mist-filled sea lay beyond Wineland (cf. p. 199),\nthis bears a remarkable resemblance to similar Arab myths of islands that\nlay near the \"Dark Sea\" in the west (cf. chapter xiii.); while in any case\nit shows how myth is introduced into his description of distant regions,\nand there also he places the mythical abyss of the sea. If one reads\nthrough the conclusion of his account (pp. 192 ff.), it will be seen how\nhe takes pains to get a gradual increase of the fabulous: first Iceland\nwith the black inflammable ice and the \"simple\" communistic inhabitants;\nthen, opposite to the mountains of Svedia, Greenland, with predatory\ninhabitants who turn blue-green in the face from the sea-water; then\nHalagland, which is made into an island in the ocean, and which is called\nholy on account of the midnight sun, of which he gives erroneous\ninformation taken from older authors (cf. p. 194, note 2); then Wineland\n(the Fortunate Isles), with Isidore's self-grown vines and unsown corn;\nand then finally he reaches the highest pitch (unless in Harold's voyage\nto the abyss of the sea) in the tale of the Frisian noblemen's voyage to\nthe North Pole, which does not contain a feature that is not borrowed from\nfables and myths (cf. chapter xii.); now this expedition started from\nBremen, where he lived; and he mentions two archbishops as his authorities\nfor it. When we find that all these statements about the northern islands\nand countries, both before and after the mention of Wineland, are more or\nless fables or plagiarisms; when we further see what he was capable of\nrelating about countries that lay nearer, and about which he might easily\nhave obtained information--for instance, his Land of Women on the Baltic,\nto which he transfers the Amazons and Cynocephali of the Greeks (cf. p.\n187), and his Wizzi or Albanians or Alanians (sic) with battle-array of\ndogs (!) in Russia [iv. 19][387]--is it credible that what he says about\nthe most distant country, Wineland, should form the only exception in this\nconcatenation of fable and reminiscence, and suddenly be genuine and not\nborrowed from Isidore, to whom it bears such a striking resemblance? It\nmust be more probable that he had heard a name, Wineland, perhaps confused\nwith Finland, and in the belief that this meant the land of wine, he\nthen, quite in harmony with what he has done in other places (cf.\nKv\u00e6nland), transferred thereto Isidore's description of the \"Insul\u00e6\nFortunat\u00e6.\"\n\nWhen therefore Norsemen (like a Leif Ericson) really found new countries\nin the west, precisely in the quarter where the mythical \"V\u00ednland hit\nG\u00f3\u00f0a\" (or \"Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6\") should be according to Irish legend, this\nwas simply a proof that the country did exist; and the tales and ideas\nabout it were transferred to the newly discovered land.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. I.\n\n\n  PRINTED BY\n  BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD\n  TAVISTOCK ST. COVENT GARDEN\n  LONDON\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Hecat\u00e6us of Miletus (549-after 486 B.C.) was the best-known geographer\nof the Ionian school. He made a map of the world, and summarised the\ncontemporary Greek ideas of geography.\n\n[2] Cf. Kretschmer, 1892, pp. 41-42.\n\n[3] Berger, 1894, p. 13.\n\n[4] Men like Empedocles, Leucippus, Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, and even\nHerodotus entertained the naive view that the earth was a disc.\n\n[5] Cf. Kretschmer, 1892, p. 99; Berger ii., 1889, p. 36.\n\n[6] Cf. Theopompus (about 340 B.C.) in \u00c6lian, \"Varia,\" iii. c. 18.\n\n[7] The celebrated physician Hippocrates (470-364 B.C.) makes Scythia\nextend on the north to the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains, which stretch far enough to\nbe just below the Great Bear. From them comes the north wind, which\ntherefore does not blow farther north, so that there must be a milder\nclimate where the Hyperboreans dwell. The Rhip\u00e6an Mountains had become\naltogether mythical, but seem often to have been connected with the Ural\nand placed north of Scythia; sometimes also they were connected with the\nAlps, or with the mountains farther east.\n\n[8] The Cimmerians of the Odyssey (xi. 14) are undoubtedly the same as the\nhistorical Cimmerians of the districts north of the Black Sea, who made\nseveral inroads into Asia Minor in the eighth century, and whose name was\nlong preserved in the Cimmerian Bosphorus. Cf. Niese, 1882, p. 224, and K.\nKretschmer, 1892, p. 7. W. Christ [1866, pp. 131-132] connects the name\nwith the Cimbri of Jutland, whose name is alleged to have been somewhat\nmodified under the influence of the Ph\u0153nician \"kamar,\" dark, which may be\ndoubtful; but Posidonius seems to have been the first to take Cimmerii and\nCimbri for the same name [cf. Strabo, vii. 293], and there is nothing\nimprobable in the supposition that the wandering Cimbri may have reached\nthe Black Sea and been the same people as the Cimmerians, who were\nremarkable just in the same way for their migrations. Similarly, we find\nthe Goths both on the shores of the Baltic and by the Black Sea, where we\nfirst meet with them in literature.\n\n[9] O. Helm of Danzig has shown by chemical analysis that the amber of the\nMycen\u00e6 beads contains 8 per cent. of succinic acid, and is thus similar to\nthat found on the Baltic and the North Sea, and unlike all known amber\nfrom districts farther south, Sicily, Upper Italy or elsewhere. Cf.\nSchuchhardt, 1890, p. 223, f., and Kretschmer, 1892, p. 10.\n\n[10] \"The Times\" of Sept. 28, 1909, pp. 9-10. A. W. Br\u00f6gger [1909, p. 239]\nmentions a find from a grave at Corinth of six necklaces of amber, of the\nneolithic period, which is preserved in the Museum f\u00fcr V\u00f6lkerkunde at\nBerlin. Br\u00f6gger informs me that nothing has been published about this\nfind, which was bought in 1877 from Prof. Aus'm Weerth of Kessenich, near\nBonn. Prof. Schaafhausen briefly mentioned it at the congress at Stockholm\nin 1874 [Congr\u00e8s internat. d'anthrop. et d'arch\u00e9ol. de Stockholm, Compte\nrendu, 1874, ii. p. 816]. Assuming that this is Baltic or North Sea amber,\nit points to an intercourse of even far greater antiquity, which is also\nprobable.\n\n[11] Strabo, vii. 295.\n\n[12] Damastes of Sigeum (about 450 B.C., and contemporary with Herodotus)\nsays that \"beyond the Scythians dwell the Issedonians, beyond these again\nthe Arimaspians, and beyond them are the Rhip\u00e6an Mountains, from which the\nnorth wind blows, and which are never free from snow. On the other side of\nthe mountains are the Hyperboreans who spread down to the sea.\"\n\n[13] Since the form of the sphere was the most perfect according to the\nopinion of the Pythagoreans.\n\n[14] It was, moreover, a common belief in medi\u00e6val times that people who\nwere connected with the other world could not be killed by iron.\n\n[15] \"Hyperboreans\" are first mentioned in certain poems doubtfully\nattributed to Hesiod, but which can scarcely be later than the 7th century\nB.C. The full development of the myth is first found in Pindar (about 470\nB.C.); but his Hyperboreans cannot be considered as dwelling especially in\nthe north; their home, to which \"the strange path could be found neither\nby sea nor by land,\" lay rather beyond the sea in the far west, and\nthither came Perseus borne by wings on his way to Medusa.\n\n[16] This idea can be traced back to Delphi, where any one who had\nincurred the god's displeasure was thrown from a cliff. Something similar\nhappened at the annual festivals of Apollo at Leucas, where he who was\nchosen as a victim to ward off evil threw himself from the Leucadian rock\ninto the sea. It is true that all sorts of feathers and birds were\nfastened to the victims to act as a parachute, and after their fall they\nwere rescued by boats and taken beyond the frontier, as bearers of a\ncurse. According to some it was the priests themselves who made this leap.\n\nAmong the Germanic peoples, if we may believe \"Gautrek's Saga\" [cf. J.\nGrimm, 1854, p. 486; Ranisch, 1900, p. lxxvii. f.], there existed the\ncustom that the elders of the tribe, when tired of life, used to cast\nthemselves down from a high crag, called \"\u00e6tternis stapi\" (the tribal\ncliff), so as to die without sickness and go to Odin. As a reward for\nfaithful service the head of the house took his thrall with him in the\nleap, so that he too might come thither. After Skapnartungr had divided\nthe inheritance, he and his wife were conducted to the cliff by their\nchildren, and they went joyfully to Odin. This reminds one strongly of the\nhappy Hyperboreans. Thietmar of Merseburg (about A.D. 1000) has a similar\nlegend about the tribal cliff. It is probable that the Germanic peoples in\nvery early times, like other peoples--the Eskimo, for example--may have\nhad the custom of taking the lives of the old and useless, or that these\nmay have taken their own lives, by throwing themselves into the sea, for\ninstance, as occurs among the Eskimo. On the other hand, it seems very\ndoubtful that there should have been such tribal cliffs; and it is more\nprobable that this legend is of literary origin and derived from the\ncliffs of Delphi and Leucas, which through the Hyperborean legend came\ndown to the Roman authors Mela and Pliny, and from them was handed on to\nthe writers of the Middle Ages and to the scribe of the \"Gautrek Saga.\" It\nhas been thought that many such \"\u00e4tte-stupar\" can be pointed out in\nsouthern Sweden, but they seem all to be of recent date, and may have been\nsuggested by this saga.\n\n[17] These may be the architectonical figures on the roof of the temple of\nDelphi, transferred to the North together with the Hyperboreans. At Delphi\nthey were no doubt regarded as guardians of the temple's treasures.\n\n[18] This idea has been explained as being derived from stories of people\ndressed in breeches of goats' skin.\n\n[19] Strabo [iii. 147] and Diodorus [v. 38], following Posidonius, mention\nthese three districts as the places where tin was found.\n\n[20] In the three districts named tin oxide (SnO_{2}) occurs in lodes in\nthe solid rock, as well as (sometimes in conjunction with gold and silver)\nin the gravel or sand of streams, and it was certainly in the latter form\nthat tin was first extracted, after its discovery by some accident or\nother.\n\n[21] It is possible, of course, that the first bronze, like silk, may have\nreached the people of the Orient and Egypt from China, without their\nknowing from whence it was originally derived. Bronze articles have been\nfound at Troy which may indicate a connection with China, and it has even\nbeen asserted that Chinese characters have been found there [cf.\nSchliemann, 1881, p. 519]. Tin is also known to occur in Persia, but it\nhas not been ascertained that it was worked there in ancient times. Strabo\n[xv. 724] says, however, that the Drang\u00e6 in Drangiana, near the Indus,\n\"suffer from want of wine, but tin occurs with them.\" Tin is found in the\nFichtelgebirge, and it has been thought possible to identify prehistoric\ntin-mines there [cf. O. Schrader, 1901, article \"Zinn\"].\n\n[22] The Ph\u0153nicians' \"Tarsis\" (or Tarshish), rich in silver, called by the\nGreeks \"Tartessos,\" was on the south-west coast of Spain between the\nPillars of Hercules and the Guadiana. About 1100 B.C. Tyre established\nthere the colony \"Gadir\" (i.e., \"fortress\"), called by the Greeks\n\"Gadeira,\" and by the Romans \"Gades\" (now Cadiz).\n\n[23] Cf. S. Reinach, 1892, p. 277. In Breton tin is called \"sten,\" a name\nwhich is certainly not borrowed from the Latin \"stannum,\" as Reinach\nthinks; according to the above-quoted opinion of Professor Torp we must\nbelieve that the borrowing has been in the opposite direction.\n\n[24] The explanation of this statement may be that Crassus sailed to the\nCassiterides from the mouth of the Garonne, up which river the route ran\nto Narbo. What is alluded to here would then be the sea-passage from the\nGaronne.\n\n[25] Pliny [xxxiv. 162] mentions the tinning of copper objects as a\nGaulish invention.\n\n[26] Strabo's repeated statement [ii. 120 and 175] that the Cassiterides\nlay north of the land of the Artabri [north-west Spain] also points\ndecisively to Brittany. The idea must be derived from Eratosthenes, who\nborrowed from Pytheas, and the latter placed Cab\u00e6um, the promontory of\nBrittany, farther west than Cape Finisterre. Diodorus [v. 38] says that\nthe islands lay opposite Iberia in the Ocean. That they are always\nmentioned in connection with the Artabri or north-west Spain shows that\nthe voyage to them was made from that country.\n\n[27] Georg Mair [1899, p. 20, f.] has allowed himself to be led astray by\nSven Nilsson's fanciful pictures [1862, 1865] into regarding it as a\nhistorical fact that the Ph\u0153nicians had permanent colonies in Skane and\nregular communication with Scandinavia, even so far north as the Lofoten\nisles, whose rich fisheries are supposed to have attracted them.\n\n[28] In a translation of the cuneiform inscription on the obelisk of the\nAssyrian king Asurnasirabal (885-860 B.C.) the Assyriologist J. Oppert has\nthe following remarkable passage, which is taken as referring to this\nking's great predecessor Tiglath Pileser I., of about 1100 B.C.: \"In the\nseas of the trade-winds his fleets fished for pearls, in the seas where\nthe pole-star stands in the zenith they fished for the saffron which\nattracts.\" [Cf. Schweiger-Lerchenfeld, 1898, p. 141.] Oppert has since\naltered the latter part of his translation to \"fished for that which looks\nlike copper.\" Both interpretations might mean amber, and if the\ntranslation were correct this inscription would furnish a remarkable piece\nof evidence for direct communication between Assyria and the Baltic as\nearly as the ninth century B.C., and in that case we might suppose it\nestablished by means of the Ph\u0153nicians. But unfortunately another eminent\nAssyriologist, Professor Schrader, has disputed the correctness of the\ntranslation given above, which he thinks is the result of a false reading\nof the inscription. According to Schrader there is no mention of pearls,\nor amber, or fleets, or pole-star, or zenith; the whole refers merely to\nthis ancient king's hunting in the mountains of Assyria which took place\n\"in the days when the star Sukud shone, gleaming like bronze.\" [Cf.\nVerhandl. d. Berliner Gesellsch. f. Anthrop. Ethnol. u. Urgesch, 1885, pp.\n65, 66, 306, 372; and Mair, 1903, p. 47.] The last interpretation is\nundeniably more probable than the first, and it may well be thought that\nthe bronze- star which shone may have been Venus.\n\n[29] That amber may have followed this route in early times is made\nprobable by the finds of ornaments of amber in graves of the Bronze Age\n(Halstatt period) in the Caucasus, at Koban and Samthavro.\n\n[30] Franz Mathias [1902, p. 73] draws attention to the statement of Von\nAlten [\"Die Bohlwege im Gebiet der Ems und Weser,\" p. 40 and Pl. V.; this\npaper has not been accessible to me] that in 1818 there was found a piece\nof amber with a Ph\u0153nician inscription on one of the oldest and\ndeepest-lying bog causeways (\"Moorbr\u00fccken\") on the prehistoric trade-route\nfrom the district of the Weser and Ems to the Rhine. As one would expect\namber to be carried from the countries in the north-east towards the\nsouth, and not in the reverse direction, this find, if properly\nauthenticated, might show that there were Ph\u0153nicians on the coast to the\nnorth. But the piece, if it be Ph\u0153nician, may also have come from the\nsouth by chance.\n\n[31] See on this subject specially M\u00fcllenhoff, 1870, i. pp. 73-203. Also\nW. Christ, 1866; Marx, 1895; G. Mair, 1899; and others.\n\n[32] This epithet, which constantly recurs when Ireland is mentioned, may\nperhaps in ancient times be due to the resemblance between the Greek words\n\"hieros\" (holy) and \"Hierne\" (Ireland), which latter may be derived from\nthe native name of the island, \"Erin.\" In later times, of course, it is\ndue to Ireland's early conversion to Christianity and its monastic system.\n\n[33] In spite of M\u00fcllenhoff's contrary view [1870, p. 92], it does not\nappear to me altogether impossible that it may have arisen through a\ncorruption of the name of the people whom Pytheas calls \"Ostimians\" or\n\"Ostimnians,\" and which in some manuscripts of Strabo [iv. 195] also takes\nthe forms \"Osismians\" [cf. also Mela, iii. 2, 7; Pliny, iv. 32; Ptolemy,\nii. 8, 5; Orosius, 6, 8] and \"Ostidamnians\" [i. 64], and who lived in\nBrittany.\n\n[34] In C\u00e6sar's description [B.G., iii. 13] of the ships of the Veneti it\nis also stated that \"the keels were somewhat flatter than in our ships,\nwhereby they were better able to cope with the shallows and the falling\ntides.\"\n\n[35] It has been alleged as a proof that the Ph\u0153nicians really knew of the\nSargasso Sea that Sargasso weed is mentioned by Theophrastus [\"Historia\nPlantarum,\" iv. 6, 4], but I have not been able to find anything of the\nsort in this author; nor can I find any statement in Aristotle [Miral.\nAuscult.] which can be thus interpreted, as some have thought.\n\n[36] Lycaon was the father of Callisto, and the latter became a she-bear\nand was placed among the stars as the constellation of the Great Bear. At\nthe axis of Lycaon means, therefore, in the north.\n\n[37] As to Pytheas, see in particular: M\u00fcllenhoff, 1870, pp. 211 f.;\nBerger, iii., 1891, pp. 1 f.; Hergt, 1893; Markham, 1893; Ahlenius, 1894;\nMatthias, 1901; K\u00e4hler, 1903; Detlefsen, 1904; Callegari, 1904; Mair,\n1906.\n\n[38] The principal authorities on Pytheas are: Strabo (1st century A.D.),\nwho did not know his original works, but quotes for the most part from\nPolybius (2nd century B.C.), who was very hostile to Pytheas, and from\nErastosthenes, Hipparchus, and Tim\u00e6us. Pliny has derived much information\nfrom Pytheas, though he does not know him directly, but chiefly through\nTim\u00e6us, Isidorus of Charax, who again knew him through Erastosthenes, &c.\nDiodorus Siculus (1st century B.C.) knows him chiefly through Tim\u00e6us.\nGeminus of Rhodes (1st century B.C.), who has a quotation from him,\npossibly knew his original work, \"On the Ocean,\" but he may have quoted\nfrom Crates of Mallus. Solinus (3rd century A.D.), who has much\ninformation about Pytheas, knows him chiefly through Pliny and Tim\u00e6us.\nFurther second-hand quotations and pieces of information derived from\nPytheas occur in Pomponius Mela (1st century A.D.), Cleomedes (2nd century\nA.D.), Ptolemy (3rd century A.D.), Agathemerus (3rd century A.D.),\nscholiasts on Apollonius of Rhodes, Ammianus Marcellinus (4th century\nA.D.), Orosius (5th century A.D.), Isidorus Hispaliensis (7th century\nA.D.), and others.\n\n[39] A \"gnomon\" was the pillar or projection which cast the shadow on the\nvarious Greek forms of sun-dial. In the case mentioned above the gnomon\nwas a vertical column raised on a plane. By measuring the length of the\nshadow at the solstice, Pytheas found that it was 41-4/5 : 120 or 209/600\nthe height of the column. According to that the altitude of the sun was\n70\u00b0 47' 50\". From this must be deducted the obliquity of the ecliptic,\nwhich was at that time 23\u00b0 44' 40\", and the semi-diameter of the sun\n(16'), as the shadow is not determined by the sun's centre but by its\nupper edge, besides the refraction, which however is unimportant. When the\nequatorial altitude thus arrived at is deducted from 90\u00b0, we get the\nlatitude of Massalia as 43\u00b0 13' N. The new observatory of Marseilles is at\n43\u00b0 18' 19\"; but it lies some distance to the north of the ancient city,\nwhere Pytheas's gnomon probably stood in the market-place. It will be seen\nthat this is an accuracy of measurement which was not surpassed until very\nmuch later times.\n\n[40] It has been supposed that these three stars were \u03b2 of the Little\nBear, \u03b1 and \u03ba of Draco. The pole was at that time far from the present\npole-star, and nearer to \u03b2 of the Little Bear.\n\n[41] Both \"gnomon\" and \"polus\" are mentioned as early as Herodotus; and\nAthen\u00e6us [v. 42] describes the polus in the library on board the ship\n\"Hiero\" which was built by Archimedes.\n\n[42] It is not probable that Pytheas divided the earth's circumference\ninto degrees. Even Eratosthenes (275-194 B.C.) still divided the\ncircumference of the earth into sixty parts, each equal to 4200 stadia,\nand the division into degrees was first universally employed by\nHipparchus. But Aristarchus of Samos, and perhaps even Thales, had already\nlearnt that the sun's diameter was 2 \u00d7 360 or 720 times contained in the\ncircle described by them. It is possible that they originally had this\nfrom the Chald\u00e6ans.\n\n[43] When it is brought forward as a proof of Pytheas having made such\nangle-measurements [cf. Mair, 1906, p. 28], that Hipparchus is said to\nhave given the sun's height (in cubits) above the horizon at the winter\nsolstice for three different places in north-west Europe [cf. Strabo, ii.\n75], it must be remembered that if these altitudes were direct\nmeasurements by Pytheas himself, he must have been at each of these three\nplaces at the winter solstice, that is to say, in three different winters,\nwhere he found that in one place the sun stood six cubits, in another four\ncubits, and in the third less than three cubits above the horizon. This is\nimprobable, and it is more reasonable to suppose that these altitudes are\nthe result of calculations either by Pytheas himself or by Hipparchus from\nhis data.\n\n[44] In Diodorus it is called Orkan, but this may be the accusative of\nOrkas, as in later writers, also in Ptolemy (M\u00fcllenhoff, 1870, p. 377,\nthinks that Orkan is the real form), and from which the name Orcades has\nbeen formed for the group of islands immediately to the north. Orkneyar or\nOrkneys certainly comes from the same word, which must presumably be of\nCeltic origin. P. A. Munch [1852, pp. 44-46] thought that the name came\nfrom the Gaelic word \"orc\" for the grampus (the specific name of which in\nLatin was therefore \"Delphinus orca,\" now called \"Orca gladiator\"). This\nspecies of whale is common on the coasts of Norway, the Shetlands and\nOrkneys, the F\u00e6roes and farther west. It usually swims in schools, and is\nthe great whale's deadliest enemy, attacking it in numbers and cutting\nblubber out of its sides. The Eskimo in Greenland assert that it is\nsometimes dangerous to kayaks; I myself have only once seen a grampus\nattack a boat; but in any case it is a species which easily draws\nattention to itself wherever it appears.\n\n[45] Allowing for the greater bays, and putting a degree of latitude at\n700 stadia, the sides of Great Britain are about 4000, 7800 and 12,000\nstadia; altogether 23,800 stadia, or about 2375 miles.\n\n[46] Strabo erred just as much on his side in making the circumference of\nBritain much too small.\n\n[47] Cf. Hergt, 1893, p. 44. This hypothesis is supported by the round\nnumbers which answer to 7-1/2, 15, and 20 days' sail.\n\n[48] The Greeks divided the day into twelve hours at all times of the\nyear; it was thus only at the equinoxes, when the day was really twelve\nhours long, that the hours were of the same length as ours. These are,\ntherefore, called equinoctial hours.\n\n[49] A similar statement in Cleomedes [i. 7], after Eratosthenes and\nPosidonius [i. 10], may also be derived from Pytheas: \"the longest day in\nBritain has eighteen hours.\"\n\n[50] If we assume that the length of the day was found by a theoretical\ncalculation of the time between the rising and setting of the sun's centre\nabove the horizon, without taking account of refraction, then a longest\nday of nineteen hours answers to 60\u00b0 52' N. lat.; but if we suppose that\nthe length of the day was found by direct observation and was calculated\nfrom the first appearance of the sun's limb in the morning until its final\ndisappearance in the evening, then horizontal refraction will be of\nimportance (besides having to take the sun's semi-diameter into account),\nand a longest day of nineteen hours then answers to 59\u00b0 59' N. lat. Now\nthe Shetland Isles lie between 59\u00b0 51' and 60\u00b0 51' N. lat.; while the\nnorthern point of the Orkneys lies in 59\u00b0 23' N. lat., and has a longest\nday, theoretically of 18 hours 27 minutes, and actually of 18 hours 36\nminutes. A longest day of 18 hours answers theoretically to 57\u00b0 59',\nactually to fully 57\u00b0 N. lat. Professor H. Geelmuyden has had the kindness\nto work out several of these calculations for me. Hipparchus said that at\nthe winter solstice the sun attained to a height of less than three cubits\nabove the horizon in the regions where the longest day was of nineteen\nhours. If we take one cubit as equal to two degrees these regions will\nthen lie north of 60\u00b0 N. lat.\n\n[51] It may be possible, as many think, that it was the Shetlands that he\ncalled Orkan (or Orkas); but the more reliable of the known quotations\nfrom him seem rather to show that it was really the northernmost point of\nBritain, or the neighbouring Orkneys that were thus called by him, and\nhave thenceforward been known by that name; while it is later authors who\nhave extended the name also to Shetland. If this supposition be correct:\nthat the islands north of Britain mentioned by Pliny [Nat. Hist. iv. 104]\nare originally derived from Pytheas, which may be doubtful, and that\nBerricen (or Nerigon) is Mainland of Shetland, then Orkan cannot apply to\nthese. But, as we shall see later, it is very doubtful what Pliny's\nislands may have been originally.\n\n[52] Cf. Strabo [ii. 114] and Cleomedes [i. 7]. The Arctic Circle (or\nCircle of the Bear) was, as already mentioned, the circle round the\ncelestial pole which formed the limit of the continuously visible\n(circumpolar) stars, and it had been given this name because in Asia Minor\n(and Greece) it ran through the Great Bear (Arctus). Its distance in\ndegrees from the north celestial pole is equal to the latitude of the\nplace of observation, and consequently increases as one goes farther\nnorth. At the polar circle, as mentioned above, it coincides with the\nTropic of Cancer, and at the North Pole with the Equator. Cleomedes has\nalso the remarkable statement that the latitude for a summer day of one\nmonth in length runs through Thule.\n\n[53] It may be thought that Pytheas is merely relating a legend current\namong the barbarians that the sun went to its resting-place during the\nnight, a myth which is moreover almost universal. But it seems more\nprobable that as an astronomer he had something else in his mind. If he\nhad had the two points accurately indicated to him, where the sun set and\nrose on the shortest night of the year, he must easily have been able, by\nmeasuring the angle between them, to ascertain how long the sun was down.\n\n[54] These figures are kindly supplied by Professor H. Geelmuyden.\n\n[55] According to existing MSS. of Solinus [c. 22] it was five days' sail\nto Thule from the Orcades, which must here be Shetland, and which are\nmentioned as the second station on the way to Thule; the Ebudes (Hebrides)\nwere the first station. Mommsen [1895, p. 219] regards the passage as\ncorrupt, and considers it a later interpolation of between the 7th and 9th\ncenturies.\n\n[56] Cf. Brenner, 1877, pp. 32, 98.\n\n[57] Cf. Keyser (1839), 1868, p. 92.\n\n[58] If we were able to make out the etymological origin of the name\nThule, it would perhaps give us some indication of where we ought to look\nfor the country. But the various attempts that have been made to solve\nthis riddle have been without success. It has been asserted by several\nauthors that it comes from an old Gothic word \"tiele,\" or \"tiule,\" which\nis said to mean limit [cf. Forbiger, 1842, iii. p. 312], or an Old Saxon\nword \"thyle,\" \"thul,\" \"tell\" (or \"tell,\" \"till,\" \"tiul\"), said to mean the\nsame [cf. Markham, 1893, p. 519; and Callegari, 1904, p. 47]; but\nProfessor Alf Torp, whom I have consulted, says that no such word can be\nfound in either of these languages. The word has been further erroneously\nconnected with the name Telemarken, which accordingly would mean\nborderland, but which in reality must be derived from the Norwegian word\n\"tele,\" Old Norse \"\u00feeli,\" frozen earth, and it is by no means impossible\nthat Thule should be a Greek corruption of such a word. E. Benedikson has\nsupposed that Thule might come from a Gallic word \"houl,\" for sun [cf.\nCallegari, 1904, p. 47], which with a preposition \"de\" (or other prefix)\nmight have been thus corrupted in Greek; but Professor Torp informs me in\na letter that no such Gallic word exists, though there is a Cymric \"haul,\"\n\"which in Gallic of that time must have sounded approximately 'h\u00e2vel,'\"\nand it \"is quite impossible that a preposition or prefix 'de' could have\ncoalesced with initial 'h' so as to result in anything like Thule.\" The\nIrish \"temel\" (Cymric \"tywyll\") for dark, which has also been tried\n[Keyser, 1839, p. 397; 1868, p. 166], or \"tawel\" for silent, still\n[M\u00fcllenhoff, 1870, i, p. 408], are of no more use, according to Torp,\nsince both words at that time had \"m,\" which has later become \"w.\" The\nonly Celtic root which in his opinion might be thought of is \"'tel' (==\nraise, raise oneself), to which the Irish 'telach' and 'tulach' (== a\nheight, mound); but this does not seem very appropriate. The Germanic form\nof this root is 'thel' (modification 'thul'); but in Germanic this is not\napplied to soil or land which rises. I cannot find anything else, either\nin Celtic or Germanic; it is thus impossible for me to decide to which of\nthe languages the word may belong; I can only say that the Greek \u03b8 (th)\nrather points to Germanic. For no Celtic word begins with an aspirate,\nwhereas Germanic, as you know, has transmutation of consonants\n(Indo-germanic 't' to 'th,' etc.), and it is not impossible that this\nsound-change goes as far back as the time of Pytheas.\" Professor Torp has\nfurther drawn my attention to the fact that from the above-mentioned\n\"thel,\" raise oneself, is formed the Old Norse \"\u00feollr,\" tree (cf. \"\u00fe\u01ebll\"\n== fir-tree), which in early times was \"\u00feull\" as radical form. There might\nbe a bare possibility of Thule being connected with this word.\n\nIf it should appear, as hinted here, that the word Thule is of Germanic\norigin, then the probability of the country lying outside the British\nIsles would be greatly strengthened; for Britain and the Scottish Islands\nwere at that time not yet inhabited by a Germanic race, and the native\nCelts can only have known a Germanic name for a country from its own\nGermanic inhabitants. This land farther north must then be Norway.\n\nIt has been pointed out [cf. Cuno, 1871, i. p. 102; Mair, 1899, p. 15]\nthat the name Thule reminds one of \"Tyle,\" the capital of the Celtic\ncolony which was established in Thrace in the 3rd century B.C. But we know\nnothing of the origin of this latter name, and here again there is the\ndifficulty that it begins with \"t\" and not \"th.\"\n\nIt may be further mentioned that C. Hofmann [1865, p. 17] has suggested\nthat Thule may come from such a name as \"Thumla,\" which in the Upsala Edda\n[ii. 492] is the name of an unknown island, but which was also the name of\nan island at the mouth of the G\u00f6ta river (cf. Thumlaheide in Hising). He\nthinks that a Greek could not pronounce such a combination of sounds as\n\"ml\" (\u03bc\u03bb), but would pronounce it as \"l\" (\u03bb). The word would therefore\nbecome \"Thula,\" or according to the usual form of the declension \"Thule.\"\nMeanwhile we know of no name resembling Thumla for any district which\nPytheas could have reached from Britain.\n\n[59] That Thule was Norway or Scandinavia was assumed as early as\nProcopius. In the last century this view was supported by Geijer, 1825;\nSven Nilsson, 1837; R. Keyser, 1839; Petersen; H. J. Thue, 1843, and\nothers. In recent years it has been especially maintained by Hergt, 1893.\n\n[60] M\u00fcllenhoff's reasons for supposing that Thule cannot have been Norway\nare of little weight, and in part disclose an imperfect knowledge of the\nconditions. That Pytheas, if he came to Norway, must have found new\nspecies of animals and new races of men, especially the Lapps with their\nreindeer, which, according to M\u00fcllenhoff, he evidently did not find, is,\nfor instance, an untenable assertion; for in the first place it is very\nuncertain whether the reindeer-Lapps had reached Norway so early as that\ntime, since they appear to be a comparatively late immigration. In the\nsecond place, if they were really already living in Finmarken and the\nnorthern part of Helgeland (H\u00e1logaland), it is unreasonable to suppose\nthat a seafarer who went along the coast as far as to the neighbourhood of\nthe Arctic Circle should have met with these Lapps. Finally, it is\nimpossible to take it for granted that Pytheas did not mention all the\nthings that are not to be found in the chance quotations of later writers.\n\n[61] The Arctic Circle at that time lay in 66\u00b0 15' 20\". If we put the\nhorizontal refraction plus the sun's semi-diameter at 50' in round\nfigures, then the upper edge of the sun would be visible at midnight at\nthe summer solstice a little north of 65\u00b0 25'.\n\n[62] Cf. Markham, 1893. If the longest day of the year is given in the\ndifferent authorities (Strabo, Geminus, etc.) at various places as\nseventeen, eighteen, nineteen hours, etc., after the statements of\nPytheas, it must not, of course, be assumed that Pytheas was at each of\nthese places precisely on Midsummer Day. It was only one of the Greek\nmethods of indicating the latitude of places.\n\n[63] The origin of this name for the northernmost or outer sea, which\noccurs in several authors, is somewhat uncertain. It is usually supposed\n[cf. Hergt, 1893, p. 71] that it comes from the Greek god \"Cronos\" (Latin\n\"Saturn\"). R. Keyser [1839, p. 396, 1868, p. 165] thought (after Toland in\n1725) that it was of Celtic origin and cognate with the Welsh \"croni,\" to\ncollect together; \"Muir-croinn\" was supposed still to be Irish for the\nPolar Sea, and to have some such meaning as the curdled sea; but no such\nword is to be found in Irish or Old Irish [cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, 1870, p. 415].\n\n[64] Hergt [1893, p. 71] lays stress on the use of \"ultra\" here and not\n\"trans,\" and thinks that this does not indicate an immediate connection\nwith Thule, but that we must rather suppose an intervening space (?).\n\n[65] Perhaps it is worth while to remark in this connection that on its\nsecond occurrence in the quotation the word is simply \"lung\" and not\n\"sea-lung.\" If this is not to be looked upon merely as an abbreviation, it\nmay indicate that the writer was really thinking of a bodily lung [cf.\nHergt, 1893, p. 74].\n\n[66] It has occurred that drift-ice has been brought as far as the\nneighbourhood of Shetland by the East-Icelandic Polar current; but this is\nso entirely exceptional that it cannot be argued that Pytheas might have\nseen drift-ice there.\n\n[67] It is difficult to understand how he was able to converse with the\nnatives; but probably he took interpreters with him. In the south of\nEngland, for instance, he may have found people who had come in contact\nthrough the tin-trade with the Mediterranean peoples and understood their\nlanguages, and who could thus act as interpreters with the Celts. It would\nnot be so easy with the Germanic people of Thule. But in Scotland he may\nhave found Celts who understood the speech of Thule, and who could act as\ninterpreters through the more southern Celtic people.\n\n[68] It has already been mentioned that Avienus ascribes even to Himilco\nsome similar ideas of the extreme parts of the ocean; and that Aristotle\nthought that the sea beyond the Pillars of Hercules was muddy and shallow\nand little stirred by the winds.\n\n[69] According to a communication from Professor Moltke Moe.\n\n[70] It has been supposed by some that this name, which may remind one of\nthe \"\u00c6stii\" (Esthonians) mentioned by Tacitus, is really a clerical error\nfor \"Ostimii.\"\n\n[71] The more usual spelling \"Mentonomon\" (after some MSS.) can hardly be\nright [cf. Detlefsen, 1904, p. 9]. The name may be connected with the\nFrisian \"meden\" (Old Frisian \"mede\" or \"medu,\" English \"meadow\") for\nlow-lying, swampy pasture, and in that case would suit the German North\nSea coast well, between the Rhine and Sleswick-Holstein.\n\n[72] The name may have some connection with those of Habel and Appeland\namong the Halligen Islands on the west coast of Sleswick [cf. Detlefsen,\n1904, p. 60]. It also has some resemblance to \"Sabalingii,\" which is given\nby Ptolemy as the name of a tribe in Jutland. The name Abalus (Greek,\nAbalos) has a remarkable likeness to Avalon (the apple-island) of Welsh\nfolk-lore, and it is possibly originally the same word (?).\n\n[73] As to what we know of the work of this important geographer see in\nparticular Berger [1880].\n\n[74] According to Eratosthenes' accurate calculation the Arctic Circle lay\nin 66\u00b0 9' N. lat.\n\n[75] Cf. Strabo, i. 63, ii. 114. More accurately it should be 37,400\nstadia.\n\n[76] Cf. Strabo, i. 5-6. Seleucus of Selucia on the Tigris lived in the\nmiddle of the 2nd century B.C., and was one of the few who (like\nAristarchus of Samos, c. 260 B.C.) held the doctrine of the earth's\nrotation and movement round the sun.\n\n[77] Herodotus [iv. 26] says of the Issedonians in Scythia that \"when a\nman's father dies, all the relatives bring cattle; and when they have\nslain them as a sacrifice and cut the flesh in pieces, they also cut up\ntheir host's deceased father; then they mix all the flesh together and\nserve it for the meal; but the head they decorate with gold, after having\ntaken the hair off and washed it; and afterwards they treat it as an idol\nand bring offerings to it every year.\" Such a cannibal custom, if it\nreally existed, may have been connected with religious ideas. But\nHerodotus [i. 216] attributes to the Massaget\u00e6 the following still more\nhorrible custom: \"when a man grows very old, all his relatives assemble\nand slay him, and together with him several kinds of cattle; then they\nboil the flesh and hold a banquet. This is accounted among them the\nhappiest end.\"\n\n[78] Cf. M. Schanz: \"Geschichte der R\u00f6mischen Literatur,\" ii. p. 241,\n1899; in I. M\u00fcller: \"Handb. Klass. Altert.-Wiss.,\" bd. viii. See also\nM\u00fcllenhoff, iv., 1900, p. 47.\n\n[79] Cf. Detlefsen, 1897, p. 197; 1904, p. 45. By his voyage in 12 B.C.\nwith his fleet along the coast of the North Sea from the mouth of the\nRhine and the Zuyder Zee to the mouth of the Ems, Drusus won fame as the\nfirst general who had sailed in the North Sea. The Romans, of course, were\nnot great seafarers.\n\n[80] The MSS. have \"flamine\" (winds); but it has been thought that\n\"flumine\" (streams) gives a better meaning [cf. Detlefsen, 1897, p. 198].\n\"Flamine\" (winds) might, however, suit the ideas of the earth's limits\n(cf. the description of Himilco's voyage in Avienus, see above, p. 37).\n\n[81] The text has here \"alium liberis (or 'libris') intactum qu\u00e6rimus\norbem,\" which might be: \"towards another world untouched by books,\" that\nis, of which no book has said anything. As such an expression is quite at\nvariance with the generally pompous style of the poem, Detlefsen [1897, p.\n200, 1904, p. 47] has thought that \"libris\" here was \"libra\" == \"libella,\"\nthat is, the level used by builders, with two legs and a plumb hanging in\nthe middle, and the meaning would then be that this part of the earth's\ncircumference was not touched by the plumb of the level, but that the\nlatter was obliquely inclined over the abyss at the end of the world. This\nexplanation seems to make Pedo's poem even more artificial than it is, and\nDetlefsen appears to think [1897, p. 200] that the builder's level is used\nto find perpendicular lines, instead of horizontal. It is probable,\nhowever, that such an idea of a gulf or abyss at the end of the world was\ncurrent at that time, as it was much later (cf. Adam of Bremen, and also\nthe Ginnungagap of the Norsemen), even if it does not appear in this poem.\nIt might be thought that \"libris\" was here used in the sense of\nsounding-lead, so that the meaning would be, \"untouched by soundings,\" in\nother words, a sea where no soundings had been made; but this meaning of\n\"libris\" would be unusual, and besides one would then expect some word for\nsea, and not \"orbem.\"\n\n[82] I cannot, with Detlefsen [1904, p. 48], find anything in this\nexpression to show that Augustus gives the Greeks the credit for having\npenetrated beyond the Cimbrian Cape earlier.\n\n[83] Cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, ii., 1887, p. 285, and iv., 1900, p. 45; Holz, 1894,\np. 23; Detlefsen, 1904, p. 47.\n\n[84] K. Miller [vi., 1898, p. 105] proposes to read \"Gotorum rex\" (the\nking of the Goths) instead of the \"Botorum rex\" of the MSS. The last name\nis otherwise unknown, and has also been read \"Boiorum.\" Pliny, who has the\nsame story almost word for word [Nat. Hist., ii. c. 67, 170] says that the\nsame Celer had the Indians from the king of the Suevi.\n\n[85] This was a common idea among the Greeks about the Amazons [cf.\nHippocrates, \u03a0\u03b5\u03c1\u03b9 \u03b1\u03b5\u03c1\u03c9\u03bd, etc., c. 17; Strabo, xi. 504; Diodorus, ii. 45];\nit has even been sought to derive the name itself from this, since \"mazos\"\n(\u03bc\u03b1\u03b6\u03bf\u03c2) means breast, and \"a\" (\u03b1) is the negative particle; this would\ntherefore be \"without breasts.\" But other explanations of the origin of\nthe name have been given, e.g., that they were not suckled at the breast.\nIt is possible that the name meant something quite different, but that\nowing to its resemblance to the Greek word for breast it gave rise to the\nlegend, and not vice versa. In Latin the Amazons were sometimes called\n\"Unimammia\" (one-breasted), but in Greek art they were always represented\nwith well-developed breasts. Hippocrates says that the right breasts of\nthe Scythian women were burned off by the mother with a special bronze\ninstrument, while the girls were quite small, because \"then the breast\nceased to grow, and all force and development were transmitted to the\nright shoulder and the arm.\"\n\n[86] Cf. Herodotus, iv. cc. 116, 117.\n\n[87] Cf. Herodotus, iv. c. 22.\n\n[88] These are Herodotus's \"Argipp\u00e6i\" or \"Argimp\u00e6i\" [iv. c. 23], who lived\nin tents of felt in winter. They were bald, whereas those of Mela go\nbare-headed.\n\n[89] To understand [like K. Miller, vi., 1898, p. 105] \"vect\u00e6\" as the name\nof an island (\"Vectis\" == the Isle of Wight) seems in itself somewhat\nimprobable, and is moreover excluded by Mela's rhetorical style, which\ndemands a clause following H\u00e6mod\u00e6 to balance that attached to Orcades just\nbefore.\n\n[90] These \"Belg\u00e6\" are, of course, the same as the \"Belc\u00e6\" already\nmentioned by Mela as the Scythian people in the northernmost part of\nScythia (see above, p. 89). What people is meant is uncertain.\n\n[91] Sophus Bugge [1904, pp. 156 f.] thinks that Codanus may come from an\nOld Norse word \"K\u014d\u00f0,\" which meant a shallow fjord or a shallow place in\nthe water (equivalent to old Indian \"g\u0101dh\u00e1-m\") and which according to him\nis akin to the root \"Ka\u00f0\" in some Norwegian place-names. \"Codanus sinus\"\n(\"K\u014dda,\" accus. \"K\u014ddan\") is then the shallow sea, or Cattegat, especially\nnear the Belts. \"Codan-ovia\" is the island in \"K\u014ddan.\" M\u00fcllenhoff [1887,\nii. p. 284] and Much [1893, p. 207] have connected \"Codanus\" with Old High\nGerman \"quoden\" (== femina, interior pars cox\u00e6) from the same root as the\nAnglo-Saxon \"codd\" (== serpent, sack, bag), Middle Low German \"koder\" (==\nbelly, abdomen), Old Norse \"ko\u00f0ri\" (== scrotum). It would then mean a\nsack-inlet or sack-bay, equal to the Frisian \"J\u00e2de,\" or else a narrower\ninlet to an extended bay of the sea (the Baltic ?). The explanation does\nnot seem quite natural. R. Keyser [1868, p. 82] derives the name from\n\"Godanus,\" i.e., the Gothic, although the Goths at that time were usually\ncalled \"Gutones\" by the Romans. Ahlenius's suggestion [1900, p. 24] that\nCodanus might be an old copyist's error for \"Toutonos\" (Teutons), because\none MS. reads Thodanus, does not sound probable. Detlefsen [1904, p. 31]\nthinks that the name Codanus is preserved in Katte(n)-gat, which would\nmean the inlet (gat) to Codanus, which would then come to include the\nwhole of the Baltic. If Bugge's explanation given above is correct, it\nmight however mean the shallow gat or inlet.\n\n[92] Professor Alf Torp calls my attention to R. Much's [1895, p. 37]\nexplanation of \"Kobandoi\" as a Germanic \"*K\u014dwand\u014dz,\" a derivation from the\nword cow. This should therefore be divided \"K\u014dw-and-,\" where \"and\" is a\nsuffix, and the meaning would be a cow-people.\n\n[93] I have proposed this explanation to Professor Alf Torp; he finds that\nit \"might indeed be possible, but not altogether probable.\"\n\n[94] It has been sought to derive \"Daner\" from an original Germanic word,\nequivalent to Anglo-Saxon \"denu\" (Gothic \"*danei\") and \"dene\" for dale,\nand its meaning has been thought to be \"dwellers in dales or lowlands\"\n[cf. Much, 1895, p. 40; S. Bugge, 1890, p. 236].\n\n[95] That they lived in the sea or bay must, of course, mean that they\nlived on islands; and the northern part of Jutland, north of the Limfiord,\nwas probably looked upon as an island; but the Cimbrian Promontory is not\nmentioned; it occurs first in Pliny. The Germanic form of the name,\n\"himbr\u014dz,\" perhaps still survives in the Danish district of Himmerland,\nthe old Himbersyssel, with the town of Aalborg [cf. Much, 1905, p. 100].\n\n[96] There is a resemblance of name which may be more than accidental\nbetween Mela's \"\u0152ne\u00e6,\" or Pliny's \"\u0152on\u00e6,\" and Tacitus's \"Aviones\"\n[\"Germania,\" c. 40], who lived on the islands of North Frisia and the\nneighbouring coast. \"Aviones\" evidently comes from a Germanic \"*awjonez,\"\nGothic \"*aujans,\" Old High German \"ouwon\" (cf. Old Norse \"ey,\" Old High\nGerman \"ouwa\" for island), which means islanders. In the Anglo-Saxon poem\n\"Widsid\" they are called \"eowe\" or \"eowan\" [cf. Grimm, 1880, p. 330 (472),\nMuch, 1893, p. 195; 1905, p. 101]. It is possible that the Greeks, on\nhearing the Germanic name, connected it with the Greek word \"\u0152on\u00e6\" (==\negg-eaters), and thereby the whole idea of egg-eating may have arisen,\nwithout anything having been related about it.\n\n[97] To this it might be objected that he ought in that case to have\nobtained much information also about the interior of Scythia and Sarmatia;\nbut in the first place this is not certain, as the special goal of the\nmerchants was the amber countries, and they would therefore keep to the\nknown routes and travel rapidly through--and in the second, Pliny actually\nmentions a good many tribes in the interior. He says, it is true [iv. 26,\n91], of Agrippa's estimate of the size of Sarmatia and Scythia, that he\nconsiders such estimates too uncertain in these parts of the earth; but to\nconclude from this, as Detlefsen [1904, p. 34] has done, that Pliny's\nGreek authorities cannot have received their information by the land\nroute, seems to me unreasonable, since Pliny perhaps did not even know how\nhis authorities had obtained their knowledge.\n\n[98] This river is not mentioned elsewhere and must be invented, Hecat\u00e6us\nof Abdera (circa 300 B.C.) having imagined that it rose in mountains of\nthis name in the interior of Asia and fell into the northern ocean.\n\n[99] This is certainly wrong. The name \"Amalcium\" cannot come from any\nnorthern language, but must come from the Greek \"malkios\" (\u03bc\u03b1\u03bb\u03ba\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2), which\nmeans \"stiffening,\" \"freezing\"; \"a\" must here be an emphatic particle.\n\n[100] This Greek is given as an authority in several passages of Pliny; he\nis also mentioned by Ptolemy, but is not otherwise known. He may have\nlived about 100 B.C. [cf. Detlefsen, 1904, pp. 23-25].\n\n[101] On account of the syllable \"rus,\" which is found in Ph\u0153nician names\n(e.g., Rusazus, Ruscino, Ruspino) and which means headland, cape, it has\nbeen sought to derive it from the Semitic; but Detlefsen [1904, p. 24]\nthinks it more reasonable to suppose it Germanic. Not the smallest trace\nof Ph\u0153nician names has been found in the north. R. Keyser [1868, p. 165]\nthinks the name, which he reads \"Rubeas,\" \"is without doubt the Welsh\n'rhybyz'\" (rhybudd == sign, warning); but the word cannot have had this\nform in Pliny's time.\n\n[102] The name may be either Celtic or Old Germanic. In Celtic \"mori,\"\nIrish \"muir,\" Cymric \"m\u00f4r,\" is sea; but R. Much [1893, p. 220] thinks that\nGermanic \"mari\" and Gothic \"marei\" (German \"Meer,\" Latin \"mare\") may also\nhave been pronounced formerly with \"o.\" \"Marusa\" is related to Irish\n\"marb,\" Cymric \"marw\" for dead; but according to Much it may be of\nGermanic origin and have had the form \"*marusaz\" (cf. \"*marwaz\") with the\nmeaning of motionless, lifeless. \"Morimarusa\" would thus be the\n\"motionless sea,\" which reminds one of Pytheas's kindred ideas of the\nsluggish, congealed sea (\"mare pigrum, prope immotum mare\"). If the name\nis of Germanic origin, this does not debar its being derived from Pytheas\n(and taken from him by Philemon); he may have got it from Norway. If\nRusbeas is southern Norway, this would point in the same direction. But it\nis doubtless more reasonable to suppose that the name is derived from the\nCimbri, who are mentioned in connection with it, while Pliny does not\nmention any people in Norway.\n\n[103] Hergt [1893, p. 40] thinks that \"Morimarusa\" would be the Baltic\n(and the Cattegat), which was called dead because it had no tides and was\nfrozen in winter. \"Rusbeas\" would thus be the point of the Skaw. In this\nway he has two names for the Baltic, and two, if not three, for the Skaw.\nThis interpretation seems to be even less consistent than that given\nabove. Pliny in another passage mentions (see pp. 65, 106) that the sea\ncalled \"Cronium\" was a day's sail beyond Thule, which lay to the north of\nBritain and within the Arctic Circle. This in itself makes it difficult\nfor Cronium to begin at Lindesnes, but if it has to begin at Skagen, and\nthus be the Skagerak, it becomes still worse.\n\n[104] This must come from an Old Germanic word \"*glez,\" Anglo-Saxon\n\"gl\u00e6r,\" for amber. It is the same word as the Norwegian \"glas\" or Danish\n\"glar,\" which has come to mean glass.\n\n[105] The origin of the name \"S\u00e6vo\" cannot be determined with certainty.\nForbiger [1848, iii. p. 237] thinks it is Kj\u00f6len, and asserts that it is a\nNorwegian name which is still found in the form of \"Seve,\" ridge; but no\nsuch name is known in Norway. It seems possible that the name may be\nconnected with the Gothic \"saivs\" for sea (cf. Old Norse \"s\u00e6r\"); but it\nmay also be supposed to have arisen from a corruption of \"svevus\"; in any\ncase it was so regarded in the Middle Ages. Solinus says [c. 20, 1],\nfollowing Pliny, that \"Mons S\u00e6vo ... forms the commencement of Germany,\"\nbut Isidore Hispalensis says that \"Suevus Mons\" forms the north-east\nboundary of Germany, and on the Hereford Map (about 1280) a mountain\nchain, \"Mons Sueuus,\" runs in north-east Germany to a bay of the sea\ncalled \"Sinus Germanicus,\" which may be the Baltic. On the Ebstorf map\n(1284) \"Mons Suevus\" has followed the Suevi southwards to Swabia. It is\nalso possible that Ptolemy's mountain chain \"Sy\u0113ba\" (\u03a3\u03c5\u03b7\u03b2\u03b1, vi. c. 14) in\nnorthernmost Asia (62\u00b0 N. lat.) has something to do with Pliny's \"S\u00e6vo.\"\nThere has been much guessing as to where the latter is to be sought: some\n[cf. Detlefsen, 1904, p. 28] think it was Kj\u00f6len, although it is quite\nincomprehensible how this far northern range could be connected with\nCodanus; others [cf. L\u00f6nborg, 1897, p. 20] that it was in Mecklenburg or\nPomerania or even in Jutland [Geijer, 1825, p. 77], where no mountain is\nto be found, least of all an immense one (\"inmensus\"). Pliny's words could\nbe most simply connected with the Norwegian mountains [cf. Holz, 1894, p.\n25]. It may indeed be supposed, as M\u00fcllenhoff [iv., 1900, p. 600] thinks,\nthat the men of Augustus's fleet, in 5 A.D., may have seen in the Cattegat\nor heard of the \"Sea-mountains\" of the Scandinavian (or rather, Swedish)\ncoast, \"*Saivabergo\" or \"*Saivagab\u00ebrgia,\" which rose up over the sea, and\nthe same of which became in Latin \"Mons S\u00e6vo\"; but perhaps it is just as\nreasonable to suppose that the information may be derived from the Germans\nof Jutland, who had communication with Norway and knew its high\nmountainous country, and that therefore it did not originate with the low\nwest coast of Sweden.\n\n[106] One might be tempted to connect the name \"Scadinavia\" with the old\nNorse goddess Skade or Ska\u00f0i, who was of Finnish race; she was\nblack-haired, lived in the mountains in the interior of the country, and\nwas amongst other things the goddess of ski-running. The name Scadinavia\nwould then be of Finnish origin. This derivation has also been put forward\n[cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, ii., 1887, pp. 55 f., 357 f.]. The termination \"avi,\"\n\"avia,\" must then be the same as \"ovia\" (see p. 94). This explanation\nwould take for granted an original non-Germanic, so-called \"Finnish\"\npopulation in south Sweden (which does not appear impossible; see below);\nbut it will then be difficult to explain why the name should have survived\nonly in the most southern part, Sk\u00e5ne. Sophus Bugge [1896, p. 424] thought\nthat \"Scadinavia\" (later \"Scadanavia\") is related to the common Norwegian\nplace-name \"Sk\u01eb\u00f0vin\" or Sk\u00f6ien (\"vin\" == pasture) and may come from a lost\nOld Norse word \"*ska\u00f0a\" (old Slavonic \"skot\u016d\") for cattle. \"Sk\u01eb\u00f0vin\" would\nthen be cattle-pasture. From \"*ska\u00f0a\" the word \"*ska\u00f0anaz\" may be\nregularly derived, with the meaning of herdsman; and \"Skadan-avia\" or\n\"Skadinavia\" will be herdsman's pastures, since the termination \"avia\" may\nhave the same meaning as the German \"Au\" or \"Aue\" (good pasture, meadow).\nThe Old Norse \"Sk\u00e1ney\" (\"Sk\u00e1ni,\" now \"Sk\u00e5ne\") would then come from\nSka\u00f0ney, where the \"\u00f0\" has been dropped as in many similar instances.\nBugge himself afterwards [1904, p. 156] rejected this explanation and\nderived \"Scadinavia\" from the same word as \"Codanus\" (see p. 93), taking\nit to mean the island or coast-land by \"K\u014ddan,\" which has had a prefixed\n\"s,\" while the long \"o\" has been changed into short \"a.\" This explanation\nmay be very doubtful. In many parts of Norway a name \"Sk\u00e5ney\" is known,\nwhich comes from \"sk\u00e1n\" (meaning crust), and it may therefore not be\nimprobable that the Swedish \"Sk\u00e1ney\" or Sk\u00e5ne is the same name.\n\n[107] Ahlenius [1900, p. 31] has tried to explain the name as a copyist's\nerror for \"\u00c6stingia,\" which he connects with the \"\u00c6stii\" (Esthonians) of\nTacitus; but the people would then have been called \u00c6stingii rather than\n\u00c6stii. One might then be more inclined to think of Jordanes' \"Astingi\" or\n\"Hazdingi,\" the same as the Old Norse Haddingjar (Hallinger).\n\n[108] R. Keyser [1868, p. 89] explains the name as the same as in the Old\nNorse name for a people, \"Kylpingar,\" in northern Russia, neighbours of\nthe Finns. He thinks that there may have been an Old Norse name\n\"Kylpinga-botn\" for the Baltic; but it is not likely that this word\nKylpingar existed at that time.\n\n[109] Keyser [1868, p. 80] derives the word from Gothic \"lagus\"\n(corresponding to Old Norse \"logr\") for sea.\n\n[110] The same islands which are here spoken of as British, have been\npreviously referred to (see above, p. 101) by Pliny as Germanic, or rather\nas a single island with the name \"Gl\u00e6saria.\" This is another proof of how\nhe draws directly from various sources without even taking the trouble to\nharmonise the statements. In this case he has probably found the islands\nmentioned in connection with facts about Britain, or a journey to that\ncountry. And it may be supposed that the original source is Pytheas.\n\n[111] In his ignorance of astronomy Pliny adds that \"this is said to\ncontinue alternately for six months.\"\n\n[112] Some MSS. read \"Vergos.\"\n\n[113] Tacitus, \"Agricola,\" c. 10; see also c. 38. Cf. also Bunbury, 1883,\nii. p. 342.\n\n[114] Tacitus, \"Agricola,\" c. 28.\n\n[115] Here Tacitus is mistaken, as amber was extensively employed for\namulets and ornaments even in the Stone Age (see above, p. 32).\n\n[116] Much [1905, p. 133] connects the name with \"ge-swio\" == \"related by\nmarriage.\" It may be just as reasonable to suppose that the name means\n\"burners\" (\"svier\"), since they cleared the land by setting fire to the\nforests [cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, iv., 1900, p. 499].\n\n[117] Cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, iv., 1900, p. 502.\n\n[118] This might be thought to show that arms of metal, especially of\niron, were still rarities in Scandinavia, which only rich and powerful\nchiefs could obtain, and this might agree with the statement about the\nesteem in which wealth was held among this particular people. But perhaps\nthe more probable explanation is that the idea may have arisen through\nforeign merchants (South Germans or Romans) having been present at the\ngreat annual \"things\" and fairs at some well-known temple, e.g., Upsala\n[cf. M\u00fcllenhoff, 1900, p. 503], where for the sake of peace and on account\nof the sacredness of the spot it was forbidden to carry arms, and where\narms were therefore left in a special \"weapon-house,\" like those which\nwere later attached to churches in Norway, and there guarded by a thrall.\nThe foreigners may have seen this without understanding its meaning, and\nTacitus may have given his own explanation.\n\n[119] The name \"Sitones\" reminds one forcibly of the \"Sidones\" mentioned\nby Strabo and Ptolemy [cf. Geijer, 1825, p. 82]; but the difficulty is\nthat Strabo includes the latter among the Bastarni, with the Peucini who\nlived on the north and east of the Carpathians and therefore far to the\nsouth of the Baltic [cf. Ahlenius, 1900, p. 36]. Ptolemy's \"Sidones\" also\nlived in the neighbourhood of the Carpathians, and to the north of them.\nBut it is nevertheless possible that Tacitus may have heard a similar word\nand confused it with this name, or he may have heard a story of a reigning\nwoman or queen among Strabo's Sidones, somewhere north of the Carpathians,\nand thought that anything so unheard of could only be found in the\nfarthest north. It is also to be noted that Tacitus himself mentions\n\"Peucini\" or \"Bastarn\u00e6\" as neighbours of the \"Fenni\" (Finns), and\ntherefore inhabiting some distant tract bordering on the unknown in the\nnorth-east; on the other hand he does not mention the Sidones in this\nconnection, though they are spoken of in conjunction with the Bastarn\u00e6\nboth by Strabo before him and by Ptolemy after him. Add to this the\nsimilarity of names between Sitones and Suiones, and it seems likely that\nhe thought they must be near one another. M\u00fcllenhoff [ii., 1887, p. 9]\nsupposes that the word \"Sitones\" may have been an appellative which has\nbeen mistaken for the name of a people, and he connects it with Gothic\n\"*sitans,\" Old Norse \"*setar,\" from the same root as the Norwegian \"sitte\"\n(to sit, occupy). If this is correct we might suppose it to be used in the\nsense of colonists (cf. Norwegian \"opsitter\"). Much [1905, p. 31] suggests\nthat perhaps it may be derived from Old Norse \"si\u00f0a\" == to practise\nwitchcraft (cf. \"seid\"), and mean sorcerers. On the \"Sidones\" cf. Much,\n1893, pp. 135, 187, 188; M\u00fcllenhoff, 1887, pp. 109, 325.\n\n[120] Wiklund [1895, pp. 103-117] thinks that the \"Kv\u00e6ns\" in north Sweden\nwere not Finns, but colonists from Svearike (middle Sweden).\n\n[121] Cf. Zeuss, 1837, p. 157; M\u00fcllenhoff, ii., 1887, p. 10.\n\n[122] Cf. L\u00f6nborg, 1897, p. 136; Ahlenius, 1900, p. 37.\n\n[123] Cf. Baumstark, 1880, p. 329; M\u00fcllenhoff, iv., 1900, p. 516.\n\n[124] Many of his place-names in Ireland especially point to frequent\ncommunication, probably due to trade, between this island and the\ncontinent, perhaps with Gaul.\n\n[125] Much [1895, a, p. 34] thinks that the \"Aloci\u00e6\" may have been some\nsmall rocky islands which have now disappeared. Upon them he supposes\nthere may have been colonies of auks, which have given them their name, as\nin Gothic, for instance, they may have been called \"*alak\u00f4.\" The\nhypothesis is improbable; even if any such rocky islets had been washed\naway by the sea they must have left behind submerged rocks, and none such\nare known in the sea off Jutland.\n\n[126] Macrobius's division of the earth into zones after Parmenides with\nan equatorial ocean like Mela, in graphic representation, had great\ninfluence during the Middle Ages.\n\n[127] Similar conceptions are to be found in Avienus (\"Ora Maritima,\" vv.,\n644-663), and are derived from ancient Greek geographers (Anaximenes, cf.\nM\u00fcllenhoff, i., 1870, p. 77).\n\n[128] This description would best suit the Baltic (and the Belts) as\nforming the eastern side of Scandza; but the term inland sea (\"lacus\")\ndoes not agree well with Scandza being an island and lying just opposite\nthe Vistula, which \"with its three mouths discharged itself into the\nOcean\"; and in the rear of the Vidivarii at the mouths of the Vistula\n\"dwelt likewise on the Ocean the \u00c6stii, that very peace-loving people\" [v.\n36, cf. Tacitus]. Besides which Jordanes' Germanic Ocean may be the\nBaltic, although his very obscure description may equally well suit the\nNorth Sea, or both together. The supposition that the great inland sea and\nthe River Vagi might be Lake Ladoga and the Neva [cf. Geijer, 1825, p.\n100] or Lake Vener and the G\u00f6ta River [cf. L\u00f6nborg, 1897, p. 25, and\nAhlenius, 1900, p. 44] does not agree with the description of Jordanes,\nwhich distinctly asserts that it lay on the east side of Scandza in\ncontradistinction to the immense ocean on the west and north. The fact\nmust be that Jordanes had very obscure ideas on this point, and this has\nmade his description confusing.\n\n[129] These small islands have been taken to be the Danish islands [cf.\nAhlenius, 1900, p. 43]; but as we hear in immediate connection with them\nof severe cold and of the wolves losing their eyes on crossing the frozen\nsea (\"congelato mari\"), our thoughts are led farther north and we would be\ninclined to take them for the \u00c5land islands.\n\n[130] This reminds us of Mela's statement respecting the \u0152neans, who lived\non fen-fowl's eggs (see above, pp. 91, 95).\n\n[131] And or Amd was used formerly not only for the island of And (And\u00f6),\nbut for a great part of Vester\u00e5len and Hinn\u00f6.\n\n[132] I will mention as yet another possibility a corruption of Ptolemy's\nislands, the \"Aloci\u00e6,\" which lay at the extreme north of his map, north of\nthe Cimbrian Chersonese and farther north than the island of Scandia (see\nabove, pp. 119 f.). A Greek capital lambda, \u039b, may easily be mistaken for\na capital delta, \u0394, especially in maps, and in such corrupted form may\nhave been transferred to Roman maps, and thence have been used for the\nname of a people who were said to live specially far north. L\u00e4ffler [1894,\np. 4] thinks that \"Adogit\" was a Lappish people, and that the name\ncertainly cannot be of Scandinavian-Germanic origin, but he does not say\nwhy.\n\n[133] Cleomedes says that the summer day in Thule lasted a month, while\nthe astronomically ignorant Pliny puts it at six months.\n\n[134] As to these tribal names see especially L\u00e4ffler [1894, 1907] and\nSophus Bugge [1907], besides P. A. Munch [1852], M\u00fcllenhoff [1887], and\nothers.\n\n[135] The origin of the word \"sappherinas\" is uncertain. L\u00f6nborg [1897, p.\n26] proposes that it may have meant deep sapphire blue, and have been used\nof the skins of blue foxes. Probably it is rather a northern word, not\nGermanic, but either Slavonic or Finnish (?).\n\n[136] M\u00fcllenhoff, Mommsen, L\u00e4ffler, and others think that the \"mitiores\"\n(milder) of the MSS. may be an error for \"minores\" (smaller), which gives\nbetter sense, in contradistinction to the \"Suetidi\" who come just after\nand were taller than all the rest. Sophus Bugge proposes that \"mitissimi\"\nand \"mitiores\" may be errors for \"minutissime\" and \"minutiores,\" and that\nit should therefore be translated \"the very small Finns who are smaller\nthan all the other, etc.\" [cf. also A. Bugge, 1906, p. 18]; but the\nnecessity for so great a change is doubtful [cf. L\u00e4ffler, 1907, p. 109].\n\n[137] S. Bugge thought [1907, p. 101] at one time that these might be\npeople of Gond or Gand, i.e., H\u00f6iland, south of Stavanger, but afterwards\nchanged this view [cf. 1910, p. 97].\n\n[138] Jordanes, who was a Goth, had even less reason for glorifying the\nNorthmen at the expense of the Germans or Goths.\n\n[139] Cf. Mommsen, 1882, p. 154; A. Bugge, 1906, pp. 21, 33 f.\n\n[140] This is certainly incorrect; probably they came from the north and\nestablished themselves near the Danube in the neighbourhood of the\nLangobards.\n\n[141] Paulus Warnefridi gives a mythical account of the cause of the war\nand of the battle and death of king Rodulf [Bethmann and Waitz, 1878, pp.\n57 ff.]; the fight and king Rodulf are also referred to in the \"Origo\nGentes Langobardorum\" (of about 807). In both these works it is stated\nthat it was the Langobards (and not the Eruli) who had lived in this\ncountry (by the Danube ?) in peace for three years.\n\n[142] It is probable that the mention of the tribes in Jordanes is taken\nfrom two different sources; for he begins by saying that Ptolemy only has\nthe names of seven, without mentioning any of these, and later on he gives\na whole series of others, which may have been added from another author\nwho supplemented the one from whom the mention of Ptolemy is taken.\n\n[143] Jordanes here repeats Ptolemy, from whom the name of Scandza, ==\nScandia, is taken (and the statement as to the shape of the island ?),\nwhile Procopius has nothing about it.\n\n[144] The name appears in the runic inscriptions to be often a designation\nof the author of the inscription. Sophus Bugge thought that the Eruli had\nobtained their knowledge of runes from the Goths, and that they kept them\na secret (this reappears in the word \"run\" itself, which means secret),\nespecially in the leading families, who turned them to account. During\ntheir centuries of roving life they carried the knowledge of runes with\nthem to various parts of Denmark, Sweden and Norway. In this way the\nuniformity of language in the inscriptions from widely separated places\nmay also be explained.\n\n[145] It appears to have been a general custom among the Germans to put\nold people to death (cf. p. 18). Herodotus [i. 216] relates of the\nMassaget\u00e6, who may have been a Germanic tribe, that \"when any one has\ngrown very old all his relatives come together and slaughter him, and with\nhim other small cattle; they then cook the flesh and hold a banquet. This\nis considered by them the happiest end. But they do not eat one who dies\nof sickness, but bury him underground, and lament that he did not live to\nbe slaughtered.\"\n\n[146] This widespread form of anthropophagy is due to the superstition\nthat by eating something of another, beast or man, or particular parts,\ne.g., the heart (cf. Sigurd Favnesbane), one acquired the peculiar\nproperties of the other, such as strength, courage, goodness, etc. It is\nthus a similar idea to that in the Christian sacrament.\n\n[147] They were also called =O T= maps; =O T= being the initials of Orbis\nTerrarum.\n\n[148] Cf. Wuttke, 1854.\n\n[149] The text has \"ovium\" (== sheep), but this is doubtless a copyist's\nerror for \"ovum\" (== egg). This may remind us of the \u0152on\u00e6 of Mela and\nPliny, who lived on the eggs of fen-fowl (see above, p. 92).\n\n[150] Cf. the \"Origo Gentis Langobardorum\" (of the second half of the\nseventh century), where the \"Winnilians,\" who were later called\nLangobards, live originally on an island called \"Scadanan,\" or in another\nMS. \"Scadan.\" The latter name, with the addition of a Germanic word for\nmeadow or island, might become Scadanau, Scadanauge, or Scadanovia. Cf.\nalso Fredegar Scholasticus's abbreviated history after Gregory of Tours,\nwhere it is related that the Langobards originated in \"Schatanavia,\" or in\none MS. \"Schatanagia.\"\n\n[151] It is difficult to understand how Paulus has managed to transfer the\nlegend to the North. It might be thought that the idea, which already\nappears in Herodotus, that the people of the North sleep for the six\nwinter months (see p. 20), is connected with it. Plutarch [\"De defectu\noraculorum,\" c. 18] relates that in the ocean beyond Britain there was\naccording to the statement of Demetrius an island \"where Cronos was\nimprisoned and guarded, while he slept, by Briareus. For sleep had been\nused as a bond, and there were many spirits about him as companions and\nservants.\" According to another passage in Plutarch [\"De facie in orbe\nLun\u00e6,\" 941] this island was north-west of the isle of Ogygia, which was\nfive days' sail west of Britain. It is possible that this myth of the\nsleeping Cronos has also helped to locate the legend of the Seven Sleepers\non the north-west coast of Europe. Viktor Rydberg [1886, i. pp. 529 ff.]\nthought that the legend and its localisation in the North might be\nconnected with Mimer's seven sons, who in the V\u01eblosp\u01eb's description (st.\n45) of Ragnarok were to spring up at the sound of the horn Gjallar, after\nhaving lain asleep for long ages. But this interpretation of the strophe:\n\"Leika Mims synir\" is improbable.\n\n[152] In other MSS. Scridowinni and Scritofinni, etc.\n\n[153] According to the \"Grottas\u01ebngr,\" Mysing carried off the quern and the\ntwo female thralls, Fenja and Menja, on his ship and bade them grind salt,\nand they ground until the ship sank (according to some MSS. it was in the\nPentland Firth), and there was afterwards a whirlpool in the sea, where\nthe water falls into the hole in the quern. Thus the sea became salt. This\nis the same legend which is repeated in the tale of the mill which grinds\nat the bottom of the sea.\n\n[154] As will be mentioned later, the islands were possibly inhabited by\nCelts before the arrival of the monks. In that case the latter must\ndoubtless have visited them with the additional object of spreading\nChristianity.\n\n[155] It has also been translated: \"two rows of oars,\" which is\nimprobable.\n\n[156] Some writers have thought that they might be the Shetlands; but this\nseems less probable.\n\n[157] Cf. A. Bugge, 1905, pp. 55 f. Several names of fishing-banks, which\nA. Bugge gives from Dr. Jakobsen, are also of interest. Off Sandey is a\nfishing-bank called \"Knokkur\" (or \"\u00e1 Knokki\"), and one of the same name\nlies west of Syd-Straumsey. West of Sudrey is a fishing-place called\n\"Knokkarnir.\" The fishing-banks are called after the landmarks; \"cnoc\" is\nCeltic for hill, and must have been the name of the heights that formed\nlandmarks for the fishing-places in question; on land these names have\ngiven way to more modern Norse ones, but have held their own out to sea.\nA. Bugge thinks that the Celtic place-names may be due to Norwegians who\nbefore they came to the Faroes had lived with Irish-speaking people in the\nScottish islands or in Ireland; but it nevertheless seems very improbable\nthat they should have used a foreign language to give names to their new\nhome. A more natural explanation is that they had the names from the\nearlier Celtic inhabitants, whether these were only the Irish monks, or\nwhether there were others. Names of islands and hills are usually among\nthe most ancient of place-names.\n\n[158] Cf. Landn\u00e1ma, Prologue. Further on in the Landn\u00e1ma places are\nfrequently mentioned where priests had formerly lived, and where in\nconsequence heathens dared not settle.\n\n[159] It is explicable that places and estates may be called after the\npersonal names of Irish land-takers; but it is more difficult to\nunderstand how the Norwegians should have come by Celtic names, derived\nfrom appellatives, for mountains, fjords, and rivers--which are everywhere\namong the earliest of place-names--if the Celts had not been there before\nthey came. Among such place-names of Celtic origin, or which indicate a\nCeltic population, may be mentioned: \"D\u00edmunarv\u00e1g, Dimunar-klakkar\" (an\ninlet and two rocky islets in Breidifjord); \"D\u00edmon,\" in many places as the\nname of a ridge, a mountain, and an islet; \"Katanes\"; \"Katadalr\";\n\"K\u00fa\u00f0aflj\u00f3t,\" the name of a confluence of several rivers into a large piece\nof water, in Vester-Skaftarfells district, from Irish \"cud\" (== head).\n\"Min\u00feakseyrr\" is mentioned above. Further, there are many names after\nIrishmen: a river \"Ir\u00e1,\" two places \"Irager\u00f0i,\" a channel into Hvammsfjord\n\"Irska lei\u00f0,\" \"Irsku b\u00fa\u00f0ir,\" a hill \"Irski h\u00f3ll,\" besides\n\"Vestmanna-eyjar,\" etc.\n\n[160] The \"Ost-s\u00e6\" is the southern and western part of the Baltic with the\nCattegat and a part of the Skagerak, as distinguished from the sea to the\nwest of Jutland (the land of the South Danes), which is \"the arm of the\nsea which lies round the country of Britain.\" The sea west of Norway he\nalso calls the \"West-s\u00e6.\" As the Ost-s\u00e6 is called an arm of the sea, it\nmight be urged that King Alfred therefore regarded Scandinavia as a\npeninsula; but we see that he also calls the sea round Britain, which he\nknew better, an arm of the sea.\n\n[161] In another passage somewhat later he says that \"no men [i.e.,\nNorsemen, Norwegian chiefs] lived to the north of him.\" This may have been\nsomewhere about Malangen or Senjen, which arch\u00e6ological remains show to\nhave formed the approximate northern boundary of fixed Norwegian\nhabitation at that time. Norwegians may have lived here and there farther\nnorth to about Loppen [cf. A. Bugge, 1908, pp. 407 ff.]; but Ottar\ndoubtless means that no nobles or people of importance lived to the north\nof him.\n\n[162] It may be explained that the Lapps are called \"Finns,\" both in Old\nNorse and modern Norwegian. As it is not absolutely certain to what race\nthese ancient \"Finns\" belonged, it has been thought best to retain Ottar's\nname for them here.\n\n[163] It is clear Ottar reckoned north and south according to the\ndirection of the land, and not according to the meridian; this is a common\nhabit among coast-dwellers who live on a coast that lies approximately\nnorth and south. Ottar's north is consequently nearly north-east.\n\n[164] This would be, according to the number of days' sail given, about\nmidway between Malangen and the North Cape, that is, about Loppen.\n\n[165] That is to say, made a bay of the sea into the land. Ottar has now\nreached the North Cape.\n\n[166] This was at the entrance to the White Sea, near Sviatoi Nos, or a\nlittle farther south-east. If Ottar took as much as six days on the voyage\nfrom Malangen to the North Cape, but only four from the North Cape to the\nentrance to the White Sea, which is nearly double the distance, this may\npossibly be explained by his sailing the first part within the skerries,\namong islands, thus making the distance longer and stopping oftener, while\non the latter part of the voyage, where there are no islands, he may have\nsailed much faster with open sea and a favourable wind, and have had less\ntemptation to stop.\n\n[167] The most reasonable way of reading this last much-contested\nstatement is to take \"of them\" as referring to the walruses, which were\nseven cubits long, and to understand the sentence about the Norwegian\nwhales, which are larger, as an inserted parenthesis [cf. Japetus\nSteenstrup, 1889]; for it is impossible that six men could kill sixty\nlarge whales in two days, and the sobriety of Ottar's narrative makes it\nvery improbable that he made boasts of this sort. King Alfred evidently\ndid not grasp the essential difference between walrus and whale. Another\nexplanation might be that these sixty were a school of a smaller species\nof whale, which were caught by nets in a fjord, so that King Alfred has\nonly confused their size with that of the larger whales of which he had\nalso heard Ottar speak. An attempt has been made to save the sense by\nproposing that instead of \"with six others\" we should read \"with six\nharpoons\" (\"syx asum\") or \"with six ships\" (\"syx ascum\"); but even if such\nan emendation were permissible, it does not make the statement more\ncredible. What should Ottar do with sixty large whales, even if he could\ncatch them? It must have been the blubber and the flesh that he wanted,\nbut he and his men could not deal with that quantity of blubber and flesh\nin weeks, to say nothing of two days. Even a large whaling station at the\npresent time, with machinery and a large staff of workmen, would have all\nit could do to deal with sixty large whales (\"forty-eight\" or \"fifty\"\ncubits long) before they became putrid, if they were all caught in two\ndays.\n\n[168] Cf. G. Storm, 1894, p. 95. S. E. L\u00f6nborg's reasons [1897, p. 37] for\nrejecting Storm's view and maintaining the Dvina as the river in question\nhave little weight. L\u00f6nborg examines the statements of direction, south,\nnorth, etc., as though King Alfred and Ottar had had a map and a modern\ncompass before them during the description. He has not remarked that Ottar\nhas merely confined himself to the chief points of the compass, north,\neast, and south, and that he has not even halved them; how otherwise\nshould we explain, for instance, that he sailed \"due north along the\ncoast\" from Senjen to the North Cape? This course is no less incorrect\nthan his sailing due south, for example, from Sviatoi Nos to the Varzuga.\nTo one sailing along a coast, especially if it is unknown, the\ncircumstance that one is following the land is far more important than the\nalterations of course that one makes owing to the sinuosities of the\ncoast. The statement that they had the uninhabited land to starboard all\nthe way is consequently not to be got over.\n\n[169] His own words, that he did not know whether the land (at Sviatoi\nNos) turned towards the south, or whether the sea made a bay into the\nland, show also that Ottar cannot have sailed across the White Sea and\ndiscovered the land on the other side.\n\n[170] Alfred's word \"Beormas\" is perhaps linguistically of the same origin\nas \"Perm\" or \"Perem,\" which the Russians, at any rate in later times,\napply to another Finno-Ugrian people, the Permians, of Kama in north\nRussia [cf. Storm, 1894, p. 96].\n\n[171] \"Rosmal\" comes from Old Norse \"rosm-hvalr\"--horse-whale, of the same\nmeaning therefore as \"hval-ross.\"\n\n[172] Sciringesheal had a king's house and a well-known temple; it may\nhave been situated on the Viksfjord, east of Larvik, where the name\nKaupang (i.e., \"kj\u00f6pstad\" == market town) still preserves its memory [cf.\nMunch, 1852, pp. 377, 380]. Possibly the name may be connected with the\nGermanic tribe of \"Skirer,\" who are mentioned on the shores of the Baltic,\nnear the Ruger (or Ryger). Connected with Sciringesheal was a kingdom in\nSouth Jutland, with the port of \"Sliesthorp\" (mentioned by Einhard about\n804), \"Sliaswic\" [Ansgarii Vita, c. 24] or \"Slesvik,\" also called\n\"Heidaby.\" It is possible that Sciringesheal may have been originally\nfounded by Skirer who had immigrated from South Jutland (?). Another\nhypothesis has been put forward by S. A. S\u00f6rensen, who thinks that\nSciringesheal may be a translation into Norse of \"baptisterium\" (\"sk\u00edra\"\n== to baptize); and that the place was situated near Sandefjord. In that\ncase we should look for a church rather than a heathen temple, and we\nshould have to suppose that attempts had been made to introduce\nChristianity even before Ottar's time.\n\n[173] Dr. Ingram, in 1807, and Rask [1815, p. 48] propose to read\n\"Isaland\" (i.e., Iceland, which was discovered by the Norsemen just at\nthis time), but this does not improve the sense. Besides which, the form\n\"Isaland\" for Iceland is not known, and it would mean the land of \"ices\"\nand not of ice. That the true Ireland should be intended would seem to\nbetray greater geographical ignorance than we are disposed to attribute to\nOttar or Alfred. Alfred himself mentions \"Ibernia\" or \"Igbernia\" (i.e.,\nIreland) as lying west of Britain, and says that \"we call it Scotland.\" He\ndoes not use the name Ireland elsewhere; but here he is quoting Ottar, and\nthe latter may possibly have meant Scotland (?) [cf. Langebek, Porthan and\nForster], which was colonised by Irishmen, although it would then be\ndifficult to understand the reference which follows to islands lying\n\"between Iraland and this country\" (i.e., Britain). Meanwhile it must be\nremembered that it was not unusual at that time to place Ireland to the\nnorth of Britain (cf. later Adam of Bremen), and there may here be a\nconfusion of this sort. The simplest supposition would be to take\n\"Iraland\" for Shetland; but it is difficult to understand how the islands\ncould have received such a designation.\n\n[174] So far as I can discover this is the first time this name for Norway\noccurs in literature. L\u00f6nborg [1897, p. 142] is consequently incorrect in\nsaying that the name \"Norvegia\" first occurs in the eleventh century.\n\n[175] Einhard calls it \"Sinlendi,\" and it was a part of South Jutland or\nSleswick [cf. Munch, 1852, p. 378].\n\n[176] \"D\u0119nemearc\" is mentioned by Alfred for the first time in literature.\n\n[177] Professor Alf Torp has kindly given me a [Norwegian] translation of\nthe poem.\n\n[178] It may be of interest in this connection to remind the reader that\nPlutarch [\"De facie in orbe Lun\u00e6,\" 941] mentions that the island of Ogygia\nlay five days' sail west of Britain, and that upon one of the islands in\nthe north-west lay Cronos imprisoned (cf. above, p. 156), for which reason\nthe sea was called Cronium. According to the statements of the barbarians\n\"the great continent [i.e., that which lies beyond the ocean, cf. above,\np. 16] by which the great ocean is enclosed in a circle\" lies nearer to\nthese islands, \"but from Ogygia it is about five thousand stadia when one\ntravels with rowing-boats; for the sea is heavy to pass through, and muddy\non account of the many currents; but the great land sends out the streams\nand they stir up the mud, and the sea is heavy and earthy, for which\nreason it is held to be curdled.\" These are similar conceptions to those\nwe have already found in Aristotle's Meteorologica (cf. above, p. 41), and\nPlutarch is also inclined to place this sluggish sea towards the\nnorth-west. Moreover, it seems as though the ancients imagined the\nstiffened sea (usually in connection with darkness) everywhere on the\nouter limits of the world. Curtius (of the time of Augustus) in a speech\nmakes Alexander's soldiers (when they try to force him to turn back) use\nsuch expressions as that this leads to nowhere, all was covered with\ndarkness and a motionless sea, and dying Nature disappears. Similar\nconceptions of a curdled and stinking sea and an ocean of darkness near\nthe outer limits of the world are also found in Arabic literature [cf.\nEdrisi, 1154 A.D.].\n\n[179] On maps the name possibly appears earlier. On an English map of the\nworld (Cottoniana), possibly of the close of the tenth century (992-994),\nthere is an \"Island\" (see p. 183); but the possibility is not excluded\nthat the existing copy of this map may be later, and may have taken some\nnames from Adam of Bremen [cf. K. Miller, iii. 1895, p. 37].\n\n[180] This name appears here for the first time in literature (cf.\n\"Balcia\" in Pliny, pp. 71, 99, above). It has also been sought to derive\nit from the Old Prussian (Lettish and Lithuanian) \"baltas,\" white; it\nwould then mean the white sea, and the name would be due to the sandy\ncoasts of the south-east [cf. Schafarik, Slav. Alt., i. pp. 451 ff.].\n\n[181] We may compare with this the tale of the Arab author Qazw\u00een\u00ee, of the\nthirteenth century [cf. G. Jacob, 1896, pp. 9, 37]: \"The City of Women is\na great city with a wide territory on an island in the western ocean.\nAt-Tart\u00fbsh\u00ee says: its inhabitants are women, over whom men have no\nauthority. They ride horses, and themselves wage war. They show great\nbravery in conflict. They have also slaves. Every slave in turn visits his\nmistress at night, remains with her all night, rises at dawn, and goes out\nsecretly at daybreak. If then one of them gives birth to a boy she kills\nhim on the spot; but if a girl she lets her live. At-Tart\u00fbsh\u00ee says: the\nCity of Women is a fact of which there is no doubt.\" This, as we see, is\nan adaptation of the Greek legend of the Amazons, and of the Scythian\nwomen who had children by their slaves [cf. Herodotus, vi. 1]. As a\nsimilar story of the City of Women, \"west of the Russians,\" is attributed\nto the Jew Ibr\u00e2h\u00eem ibn Ja'q\u00fbb (of the tenth century), which he says he had\nfrom the emperor Otto (the Great), it probably dates from the tenth\ncentury. Jacob thinks the legend here was due to the name of Magdeburg,\nwhich was translated \"civitas virginum\"; but as the women lived in an\nisland in the ocean it is more probable that it may be derived from\nKv\u00e6nland. Similar legends seem to have been common in the Middle Ages, and\noccur in many authors. (Cf. Paulus Warnefridi, above, p. 160). Isidore is\nsaid to have made Sweden the original home of the Amazons.\n\n[182] Cf. Plutarch, Thes. 26; Strabo, xi. 504; and others.\n\n[183] Adam's statement (immediately afterwards in the same section) that\nthe land of the Alani or Wizzi was defended by an army of dogs, must be\ndue to a similar misinterpretation of the name \"Huns.\"\n\n[184] This passage is undoubtedly taken from Solinus, and we see how\nMagister Adam confuses together what he has heard and what he finds in\nclassical authors.\n\n[185] It seems very probable, as Mr. F. Schiern [1873, s. 13] suggests,\nthat this conception of even the noblest men (nobilissimi homines) being\nherdsmen may be due to a misunderstanding of the old Norse word\n\"fehir\u00f0ir,\" which might mean herdsman, but was also the usual word for\ntreasurer, especially the king's treasurer.\n\n[186] This description refers, probably, to the Lapps and their magic\narts.\n\n[187] This must be another misunderstanding of tales about Kv\u00e6ns, whom\nAdam took for women.\n\n[188] These skin-clad hunters, who spoke a language unintelligible to the\nNorwegians, were certainly Lapps.\n\n[189] It might be thought that \"uri\" was here a corruption for \"lutr\u00e6\"\n(otters); but as \"uri\" is found in two passages without making sense in\nits proper meaning, aurochs, it may also be supposed that it is here used\nas a name for walrus, as proposed by A. M. Hansen; and then the last\nsentence will be quite simple, that the white bear lives under water like\nthe walrus. The confusion may have arisen through a belief that the tusks\nof the walrus were aurochs' horns. The horns in the picture of the \"Urus\"\non the Ebstorf map (1284) are very like walrus tusks. But it is striking\nthat the common land bear is not mentioned, while the white bear is spoken\nof. As the latter seldom comes to Finmark, its mention points to the\nNorwegians having hunted it in the Polar Sea; if it be not due to the\nconnection of Norway with Iceland and Greenland, but as these lands are\nmentioned separately this seems less probable.\n\n[190] This idea may possibly be due on the one hand to the mist, which may\nhave been regarded as brought about by heat; for in a scholium (possibly\nby Adam himself, or not much later) we read: \"By Iceland is the Ice Sea,\nand it is boiling and shrouded in mist ('caligans').\" On the other hand it\nmay be due to statements about volcanoes and boiling springs which have\nbeen confused with it. The black colour and dryness of the ice may be due\nto confusion with lava or with floating pumice-stone in the sea, and\nstatements about the lignite of Iceland (\"surtarbrand\") may also have\ngiven rise to this idea [cf. Baumgartner, 1902, p. 503]. L\u00f6nborg's\nsuggestion [1897, p. 165] that it may be due to driftwood is less\nprobable. Compare also the idea in the \"Meregarto\" (above, p. 181) of the\nice as hard as crystal, which is heated. In two MSS. of Solinus, of which\nthe oldest is of the twelfth century [cf. Mommsen's edition of Solinus,\n1895, pp. xxxiv., xxxvii., 236; Lappenberg, 1838, pp. 887 f.], there is an\naddition about the northern islands in which we read of Iceland: \"Yslande.\nThe sea-ice on this island ignites itself on collision, and when it is\nignited it burns like wood. These people also are good Christians, but in\nwinter they dare not leave their underground holes on account of the\nterrible cold. For if they go out they are smitten by such severe cold\nthat they lose their colour like lepers and swell up. If by chance they\nblow their nose, it comes off and they throw it away with what they have\nblown out.\" This passage cannot be derived from Adam of Bremen (nor has it\nany resemblance to the Meregarto); it may indicate that similar ideas of\nthe ice of Iceland were current at that time. Saxo's remarkable allusion\nto this ice (in the introduction to his work) also shows that it was\nconnected with much superstition.\n\n[191] The woods consisted then as now solely of birch-trees, which were\nhowever larger at that time.\n\n[192] In a scholium, possibly by Adam himself, there is this correction:\n\"According to what others report, Halagland is the extreme part of Norway,\nwhich borders on the Skridfinns and is inaccessible by reason of the\nforbidding mountains and the harshness of the cold.\"\n\n[193] This statement that the summer day and the winter night were of the\nsame length cannot here, any more than in Jordanes and Procopius, be due\nto direct observation on the part of Northerners, but must be an echo of\nclassical astronomical speculations (cf. above, pp. 134, 144). It is\nstrange, too, that while in Jordanes (and Procopius) the length of the\nsummer day and winter night was forty days (among the \"Adogit\" in\nH\u00e1logaland), it is here given as fourteen days in H\u00e1logaland. Possibly the\nnumber fourteen may be due to a confusion or a copyist's error for forty.\n\n[194] Probably Adam has taken this explanation from Bede [cf. Kohlmann,\n1908, pp. 45 ff.].\n\n[195] This passage, from \"Beyond this island,\" is not found in all the\nMSS., whence Lappenberg [1876, p. xvii.] thinks it is a later\naddition--but by Adam himself, as the style resembles his. To this latter\nreason it may be objected that when Adam mentions Harold Hardr\u00e5de earlier\nin his work, he is disposed to disparage him, which is not the case here.\nBut since he does not disparage him either in his mention of the Baltic\nvoyage (see p. 185), this is of little importance.\n\n[196] While this sheet is in the press I happen to see that the same\nopinion has been advanced, almost in the same words, by Sven L\u00f6nborg\n[1897, p. 168].\n\n[197] Adam's idea of H\u00e1logaland (Halagland) as an island may be due to its\nsimilarity of sound to the \"Heiligland\" (Heligoland) mentioned by him. As\none of these lands was an island it must have been easy to suppose that\nthe other was one also. The interpretation of the name as meaning holy may\ncome from the same source. Heiligland was regarded as holy on account of\nthe monastery established there. A corresponding name, \"Eyin Helga,\" is\napplied in the sagas to two islands: Helge\u00f6 in Mj\u00f6sen, and the well-known\nIona in the Hebrides [Magnus Barfot's Saga, cap. 10]. The latter was holy\non account of Columcille's church.\n\n[198] See note 2, p. 197.\n\n[199] Adam did not apparently know the name \"Finn,\" he only mentions\nFinn\u00e9di and Scritefini. It might then seem natural that he should intermix\nthe names Vinland and Finland, and believing that this Fin- or Vin- had\nsomething to do with Wine, he may have applied to this land Isidore's\ndescription of the Fortunate Isles, in a similar manner as he applied the\nGreek story about the Amazons to Kv\u00e6nland with the Cynocephali, etc.\n\n[200] S. Bugge has since maintained the probability that the name \"Ska\u00f0i\"\nis of Germanic origin.\n\n[201] We shall not here enter into the difficult question of the blond\nshort-skulls, as it has no bearing on our argument.\n\n[202] It might, for instance, be supposed that the Ryger and Horder, who\ncame from north-eastern Germania, were already mixed with short-skulled\nSlavs before their immigration to western Norway.\n\n[203] Among the known brachycephalic peoples of Europe we have the Celts\nand the western Slavs, Poles, Czecks, etc. These are linguistically far\napart, but it is a question whether the brachycephalic element in both is\nnot originally the same. It must be borne in mind that, at the remote\nperiod of which we are now speaking, the linguistic difference between\nthem was certainly small, and for that matter it is of little importance\nfrom which of them the first immigration into Scandinavia came.\n\n[204] As Professor Alf Torp has pointed out to me, the word \"Fin\" must, on\naccount of the Germanic mutation of sounds, be expected to have sounded\nsomething like \"Pen\" at that remote time. \"Pen\" in Celtic means head, and\nit is not altogether impossible that such a word might have been\ntransformed into a national name.\n\n[205] Cf. O. Solberg, 1909. The particulars here given of this remarkable\nfind are for the most part taken from Solberg's interesting paper, the\nproofs of which he has allowed me to see. He has also been kind enough to\ngive me an opportunity of examining the objects.\n\n[206] Lapps belonging to the Greek Church, who live in a Russian enclave\non the Pasvik, Varanger Fjord. (Tr.)\n\n[207] Curiously enough, no bones of the great bearded seal (Phoca barbata)\nare mentioned; but its absence may perhaps be accidental.\n\n[208] In a grave in North Varanger some fragments were found, probably of\nwalrus-tusk [cf. Solberg, 1909, p. 93].\n\n[209] Professor G. Storm [1894, s. 97] and others have thought that the\nKarelian-Finnish name \"Kantalaksi\" (\"Kandalaks\") and \"Kantalahti\" for the\nnorth-western bay of the White Sea, and the town at its inner end, may be\na corrupted translation of the Norwegian name \"Gandvik\" for the White Sea,\nas \"kanta\" (\"kanda\") might be the Finnish-Karelian pronunciation of the\nNorwegian \"gand,\" and the Finnish-Karelian \"lahti\" or \"laksi\" has the same\nmeaning as the Norwegian \"vik\" (bay). Dr. Hansen, considering this\nexplanation probable, takes it as proof that the Karelians must have come\nto the region later than the Norwegians, and later than the Beormas of\nOttar's time. But if the Karelians had immigrated thither after the\nNorwegians had given it this name, it would be equally incomprehensible\nthat they should not have taken their place-names from the settled Beormas\ninstead of from the casually visiting Norwegians. Storm's explanation of\nthe name \"Kandalaks\" is, however, in my opinion highly improbable; the\ncasually visiting Norwegians cannot possibly have given the settled\nBeormas or Karelians the name of their own home. It is then, according to\nmy view, much more probable that the Norwegian \"Gandvik\" is some kind of\n\"popular etymological\" translation of \"Kantalaksi,\" which must then be a\nname of Finnish-Karelian origin. I have asked Professor Konrad Nielsen, of\nChristiania, about this, and he has also discussed the question with\nProfessor E. Set\u00e4l\u00e4, and Professor Wichmann, of Helsingfors. All three are\nof my opinion. The meaning of \"Kantalaksi\" (or \"Kannanlaksi,\" from an\nolder word \"Kan\u00f0anlaksi,\" where the first part is genitive) seems to\nNielsen to be quite certain: \"kanta\" (genitive, \"kannan\") is heel, basis.\nThe name should, according to Set\u00e4l\u00e4, be translated, \"the broad bay.\" The\nNorwegians must consequently have corrupted the first part of the name in\na \"popular etymological\" manner to their \"gand\" (which means sorcery), and\nthe latter part of the name they have translated by \"vik\" (bay). The name\n\"Gandvik\" may already have been known in Norway in the tenth century, as\nit is mentioned by the heathen skald, Eilif Gudrunsson, in Thorsdr\u00e1pa.\nThis seems to prove that the Beormas of the tenth century (and then\nevidently also of Ottar's time) were Karelians, using the Karelian name\n\"Kantalaksi\" for the White Sea. This name consequently leads to\nconclusions contrary to those of Dr. Hansen, and it goes against the\ncorrectness of his views.\n\n[210] Dr. Hansen seeks to explain the difficulty that the Beormas near the\nDvina, according to the name of the goddess \"Jomale\" in the tale of Tore\nHund's journey to Beormaland, must have spoken Karelian, by supposing that\nthe Beormas on the Dvina and those on the Gulf of Kandalaks were two\nentirely different peoples, although in the old narratives no support for\nsuch an assertion is to be found. Besides, we have above found evidence\nthat the Beormas at Kandalaks also spoke Karelian, because this name is a\nKarelian word, which was used already in the tenth century.\n\n[211] Cf. Bj\u00f6rnbo and Petersen, 1904, p. 178. In Michel Beheim's travels\nin Norway in 1450 \"Wild lapen\" are also mentioned, cf. Vangensten, 1908,\npp. 17, 30 f.\n\n[212] Hakluyt: \"The Principal Navigations, etc.\" (1903), iii. p. 404.\n\n[213] Gustav Storm [1881, p. 407] altered \"some\" to \"none,\" evidently\nthinking it would make better sense of this obscure passage; following him\ntherefore Magnus Olsen, J. Qvigstad and A. M. Hansen have recently\ndiscussed the passage as though it read: \"which none can understand.\" It\nappears to me that \"which some [i.e., a few] can understand\" gives clearer\nsense.\n\n[214] This passage seems somewhat confused and it is difficult to find a\nlogical connection in it. The first part is simple; most of the Sea Finns\n(Fishing Lapps) speak Norwegian, but badly. Among themselves and with the\nMountain Finns (Reindeer Lapps) they do not use this, but their own\nlanguage. The language of the latter people must consequently have been\nthe same, unless we are to make the improbable assumption that the Fishing\nLapps had a language different from that of the Reindeer Lapps, which the\nlatter however had learned, although they are still in our time very bad\nlinguists, and speak imperfect Norwegian. So far there cannot be much\ndoubt of the meaning, but it is different when we come to the statement\nthat they had more languages than one, and that of \"their languages they\nhave however another to use among themselves.\" It seems to me that the\ncertain examples mentioned by Qvigstad [1909] of the Lapps having been in\nthe habit of inventing jargons at the beginning of the eighteenth century\ngive a natural explanation of this passage [cf. also Magnus Olsen, 1909].\nA. M. Hansen's interpretation [1907 and 1909], that the original\nmother-tongue of the Fishing Lapps (called by him \"Skridfinnish\"), which\nwas quite different from that which they spoke with the Reindeer Lapps, is\nhere meant, cannot be reconciled with the words of the text, for in that\ncase they must have had two mother-tongues; it is expressly said that the\nsecond language was \"their own,\" which they spoke among themselves; if it\nwas only the language of the Reindeer Lapps, then it was precisely _not_\ntheir own, nor would they have any reason to speak it among themselves. I\nunderstand the passage thus: \"of their [own] language they have also\nanother [i.e., another form, variant, or jargon] to use among themselves,\nwhich [only] some [of them] can understand.\" But how it should result from\nthis that \"it is certain that they have nine languages\" is difficult to\nexplain; for even if we assume with Hansen that nine is an error for\nthree, it does not improve matters; for in any case they did not use all\nthree languages, including Norwegian, \"among themselves.\" It is probable\nenough, as indeed both Hansen and Magnus Olsen have assumed, that there is\na reference here to the magic arts of the Lapps; and we must then suppose\nthat this mention of the nine languages was an expression commonly\nunderstood at the time, which did not require further explanation, to be\ncompared with the nine tongue-roots of the poisonous serpent [cf. M.\nOlsen, 1909, p. 91]. Nine was a sacred number in heathen times, cf. Adam\nof Bremen's tale of the festivals of the gods every ninth year at Upsala,\nwhere nine males of every living thing were offered, etc. Thietmar of\nMerseburg mentions the sacrificial festival which was held every ninth\nyear at midwinter at Leire, etc.\n\n[215] Remark the resemblance between this passage and the mention of the\nLapps in the \"Historia Norvegi\u00e6\" (above, p. 204).\n\n[216] Ottar's statement that he owned 600 reindeer is, as pointed out by\nO. Solberg [1909, p. 127], evidence against the correctness of A. M.\nHansen's assumption that the Finns mentioned by Ottar had learned to keep\nreindeer by imitating the Norwegian's cattle-keeping, and that they kept\ntheir reindeer on the mountain pastures in summer, but collected them\ntogether for driving home in winter; it would have been a difficult matter\nto manage several hundred reindeer in this fashion, unless they were\ndivided up into so many small herds that we cannot suppose them all to\nhave been the property of one man. Large herds of many deer must have been\nhalf wild and have been kept in a similar way to the Reindeer Lapps'\nreindeer now.\n\n[217] Gregory of Tours; \"Gesta Francorum\"; the Anglo-Saxon poems \"Beowulf\"\nand \"W\u00eeds\u00ee\u00f0,\" etc.\n\n[218] Zeuss, 1837, p. 501; M\u00fcllenhoff, 1889, pp. 18 f., 95 f.; A. Bugge,\n1905, pp. 10 f.\n\n[219] Cf. H. Zimmer [1891, 1893, p. 223] and A. Bugge [1905, pp. 11 f.].\nIn a life of St. Gildas, on an island off the Welsh coast [\"Vita Gild\u00e6,\nauctore Carodoco Lancarbanensi,\" p. 109], we read that he was plundered by\npirates from the Orcades islands, who must be supposed to have been\nNorwegian Vikings. This is said to have taken place in the sixth century,\nbut the MS. dates from the twelfth. The island of Sark, east of Guernsey,\nwas laid waste by the Normans, according to the \"Miracula Sancti\nMaglorii,\" cap. 5. [A. de la Borderie, \"Histoire de Bretagne,\" Critique\ndes Sources, iii. 13, p. 236.] This part of the \"Miracula\" was composed,\naccording to Borderie, before 851; but even in the saint's lifetime (sixth\ncentury) the \"Miracula\" places an attack by the \"Normans\" (cap. 2). It has\nbeen suggested [cf. Vogel, \"Die Normannen und das Fr\u00e4nkische Reich,\" 1896,\np. 353] that this might refer to Saxon pirates; but doubtless incorrectly.\n\n[220] Cf. Zeuss, 1837, pp. 477 f.; M\u00fcllenhoff, 1889, p. 19.\n\n[221] What an enormous time such a development requires is demonstrated by\nthe history of the rudder. The most ancient Egyptian boats were evidently\nsteered by two big oars aft, one on each side. These oars were later, in\nEgyptian and Greek ships, transformed into two rudders or rudder oars, one\non each side aft (see illustrations, pp. 7, 23, 35, 48). On the Viking\nships we find only one of these rudders on the starboard side, but fixed\nexactly in the same way. Then at last, towards the end of the Middle Ages,\nthe rudder was moved to the stern-post. But the rudder of the boats of\nNorthern Norway has still a \"styrvold\" (instead of an ordinary tiller),\nwhich is a remnant of the rudder of the Viking ships.\n\n[222] The types of Scandinavian craft it most reminds one of are the fjord\nand Nordland \"jagt,\" in western and northern Norway, and the \"pram,\" which\nis now in use in south-eastern Norway. It is conceivable that it\nrepresents an ancient boat type resembling the form of the \"jagt.\"\n\n[223] Professor Gustafson informed me that in the summer of 1909 he saw in\na megalithic grave in Ireland a representation of a ship, which might have\nsome resemblance to a Scandinavian rock-carving; but he regarded this as\nvery uncertain.\n\n[224] Professor G. Gustafson has in recent years examined and figured many\nNorwegian rock-carvings for the University of Christiania. The\nillustration reproduced here (p. 237) is from a photograph which he has\nkindly communicated to me.\n\n[225] The Viking ships had, however, only one rudder on the starboard\nside, while the ancient Egyptian, Ph\u0153nician and Greek ships had two\nrudders, one on each side.\n\n[226] But \"Viking\" is also explained as derived from a Celtic word, and is\nsaid to mean warrior [cf. A. Bugge].\n\n[227] Cf. P. A. Munch, i., 1852; M\u00fcllenhoff, ii., 1887, p. 66; iv., 1900,\npp. 121, 467, 493, etc.; Much, 1905, pp. 124, 135; Magnus Olsen, 1905, p.\n22; A. Bugge, 1906, p. 20.\n\n[228] H. Koht [1908] has suggested the possibility that the name\n\"H\u00e5l\u00f6iger\" (H\u00e1leygir) from H\u00e5logaland (Northern Norway) may be the same as\nthe Vandal tribe Lugii, which about the year 100 inhabited the region\nbetween the upper course of the Elbe and Oder. With the prefix \"h\u00e1\" they\nare distinguished as the high Lugii. Moltke Moe thinks that \"Hallinger\" or\n\"Haddingjar\" may come from another Vandal tribe, the \"Hasdingi\" (Gothic\n\"Hazdigg\u00f4s\"), which had its name from the Gothic \"*hazds,\" long hair [cf.\nM\u00fcllenhoff, iv., 1900, p. 487; Much, 1905, p. 127]. It may also be\npossible that the name of Skiringssal in Vestfold was connected with the\nSciri in eastern Germany [cf. Munch, 1852].\n\n[229] O. Irgens [1904] thinks the Norwegians may have had the compass very\nearly (lodestone on a straw or a strip of wood floating on water in a\nbowl), perhaps even in the eleventh century; indeed, he considers it not\nimpossible that the lodestone may have been brought to the North even much\nearlier than this by Arab traders. But the expression often used in the\nsagas that they drifted about the sea in thick and hazy weather (without\nseeing the heavenly bodies), and did not know where they were, seems to\ncontradict this.\n\n[230] O. Irgens [1904] has suggested the possibility that they might\nmeasure the length of the shadow of the gunwale by marks on the thwart,\nand determine when the boat lay on an even keel by a bowl of water, and\nthat thus they might obtain a not untrustworthy measurement of the sun's\naltitude even at sea. He further supposed that the Norwegians might have\nbecome acquainted with the hour-glass from Southern Europe or from the\nplundering of monasteries, and that thus they were able to measure the\nlength of the day approximately at sea. But no statements are known that\ncould prove this.\n\n[231] Presuming that King Alfred's \"Iraland\" is not an error for \"Isaland\"\nand does not mean Iceland (see p. 179).\n\n[232] The priest Ari Thorgilsson, commonly called Ari hinn Fr\u00f3\u00f0i or Are\nFrode (i.e., the learned), lived from 1068 to 1148.\n\n[233] G. Storm, \"Monumenta Historica Norvegi\u00e6,\" 1880, pp. 8 f.\n\n[234] R. Meissner [1902, pp. 43 f.] thinks it was written between 1260 and\n1264.\n\n[235] The original Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k, which was the source of both Styrmir's and\nSturle's versions, must have been written at the beginning of the\nthirteenth century.\n\n[236] Cf. Vigf\u00fasson, 1856, i. p. 186; P. A. Munch, 1860; J. E. Sars, 1877,\ni. p. 213; A. Bugge 1905, pp. 377 ff. Finnur J\u00f3nsson, 1894, ii. p. 188, is\nagainst this view.\n\n[237] Thus the Norsemen settled in Greenland are always described in the\nIcelandic sagas, while the Eskimo are called Skr\u00e6lings.\n\n[238] Opinions have been divided as to the origin of this name; but there\ncan be no doubt that the word is Germanic, and is the same as the modern\nNorwegian word \"skr\u00e6lling,\" which denotes a poor, weak, puny creature.\n\n[239] This took place, according to Are Frode's own statements, in the\nyear 1000.\n\n[240] It seems possible that this note may refer to an island which\nappeared in 1422 south-west of Reykjarnes, and later again disappeared\n[cf. Th. Thoroddsen, 1897, i. pp. 89 f.].\n\n[241] See \"Gr\u00f6nlands historiske Mindesm\u00e6rker,\" iii. p. 250; F. J\u00f3nsson,\n1899, p. 322.\n\n[242] Instead of the words \"very slightly ...\" some MSS. have: \"but then\nsteer south-west.\"\n\n[243] Both Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn and Rolf had to fly from Iceland for homicide. Rolf\nand Styrbj\u00f6rn fell in blood-feud when they returned.\n\n[244] Goe began about February 21. What is here related would thus show\nthat it was not till after that time that mild weather began, so that the\nsnow melted and there was water on the stick that stuck out through the\naperture.\n\n[245] It was, perhaps, not altogether by chance that Eric was supposed to\nhave sailed west from this point, as Gunnbj\u00f6rn's brother, Grimkell, lived\non the outer side of Sn\u00e6fellsnes; and it may have been on a voyage thither\nthat Gunnbj\u00f6rn was thought to have been driven westward [cf. Reeves, 1895,\np. 166].\n\n[246] Sn\u00e6fell lay far north on the west coast of Greenland. A Sn\u00e6fell far\nnorth is also mentioned in connection with the Nordrsetu voyages (see\nlater); it lay north of Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr; but whether it is the same as\nthat here mentioned is uncertain.\n\n[247] In the Eastern Settlement there was a Ravnsfjord (Hrafnsfj\u00f6r\u00f0r),\nwhich is probably the same as that intended here, as it is compared with\nEiriksfjord.\n\n[248] The above is for the most part a translation from Hauk's\nLandn\u00e1mab\u00f3k.\n\n[249] We know little of how the ancient Scandinavians were able to provide\nthemselves on their long voyages with food that would keep; they used salt\nmeat, and it is probable that when they were laid up for the winter they\noften died of scurvy, as indeed is indicated by the narratives. Meat and\nfish they could doubtless often obtain fresh by hunting and fishing; for\ngrain products they were in a worse position; these can never have been\nabundant in Iceland, and they certainly had no opportunity of carrying a\nlarge provision with them; but as a rule they can scarcely have got on\naltogether without hydro-carbons, which are considered necessary for the\nhealthy nourishment of a European. Milk may have afforded a sufficient\ncompensation, and in fact we see that they usually took cattle with them.\nIn the narrative of Ravna-Floki's voyage to Iceland it is expressly said\nthat the cattle died during the winter (see above, p. 257), and it must\nhave been for this reason that they thought they must go home again the\nnext summer, which shows how important it was. Probably Eric also took\ncattle with him on his first voyage to Greenland, and thus he was obliged\nbefore all to find a more permanent place of abode on the shores of the\nfjords where there was grazing for the cattle; but it is likely that he\nlived principally by sealing and fishing. In that case he must have been a\nvery capable fisherman.\n\n[250] Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, i. pp. 686, 688, Hafni\u00e6, 1848.\n\n[251] If the Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries lay on the east coast, then Gunnbj\u00f6rn\nUlfsson was the first to reach it; but, as has been pointed out above (p.\n261), they are more likely to have been near Cape Farewell, assuming the\nvoyage to be historical.\n\n[252] This incident is obviously connected with Irish legends, with which\nthat same saga shows other points of resemblance. We read in the\nFloamanna-saga [cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" ii. p. 118]: \"They were then\nmuch exhausted by thirst; but water was nowhere in the neighbourhood. Then\nsaid Starkad: I have heard it said that when their lives were at stake men\nhave mingled sea-water and urine. They then took the baler, ... made this\nmixture, and asked Thorgils for leave to drink it. He said it might indeed\nbe excused, but would not either forbid it or permit it. But as they were\nabout to drink, Thorgils ordered them to give him the baler, saying that\nhe wished to say a spell over their drink [or: speak over the bowl]. He\nreceived it and said: Thou most foul beast, that delayest our voyage, thou\nshalt not be the cause that I or others drink our own evacuation! At that\nmoment a bird, resembling a young auk, flew away from the boat, screaming.\nThorgils thereupon emptied the baler overboard. They then row on and see\nrunning water, and take of it what they want; and it was late in the day.\nThis bird flew northwards from the boat. Thorgils said: Late has this bird\nleft us, and I would that it may take all the devilry with it; but we must\nrejoice that it did not accomplish its desire.\"\n\nIn Brandan's first voyage, in the Irish tale, \"Betha Brenainn,\" etc., or\n\"Imram Brenaind\" (of about the twelfth century; cf. Zimmer, 1889, pp. 137,\n319), the seafarers one day suffered such thirst that they were near to\ndeath. They then saw glorious jets of water falling from a cliff. His\ncompanions asked Brandan whether they might drink of the water. He advised\nthem first to say a blessing over it; but when this was done, the jets\nstopped running, and they saw the devil, who was letting the water out of\nhimself, and killing those who drank of it. The sea closed over the devil,\nin order that thenceforth he might do no more evil to any one. The\nsimilarities are striking: both are perishing of thirst and about to drink\nurine, the Icelanders their own, the Irish the devil's. They ask their\nleaders--the Icelanders Thorgils, the Irish Brandan--whether they may\ndrink it. In both cases the leaders require a prayer to be said over it.\nThereupon in both cases they see the devil: the Icelanders in the form of\na bird that screams and finally leaves them to trouble them no more, and\nthe Irish in the form of the devil himself, who is passing water, and\ndisappears into the sea to do no more evil. The Icelandic tale is to some\nextent disconnected and incomprehensible, but is explained by being\ncompared with the Irish; one thus sees how there may originally have been\na connection between the bird (the Evil One) and the drink, which is\notherwise obscure. The Icelandic account may have arisen by a distortion\nand adaptation, due to oral transmission, of the Irish legend.\n\n[253] Cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" ii. p. 656.\n\n[254] Cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" ii. p. 662.\n\n[255] _Ibid._ pp. 684 ff.\n\n[256] According to the \"Islandske Annaler\" [pp. 121, 181, 477] it was in\n1200, therefore eleven years later, not fourteen; it is there related\nmerely that Ingimund the priest was found uncorrupted in the uninhabited\nregion, but the other six are not mentioned.\n\n[257] I.e., wax tablets to write on.\n\n[258] The Arab Qazw\u00een\u00ee (thirteenth century) tells a story, after Omar al\n'Udhri (eleventh century), of a cave in the west where lie four dead men\nuncorrupted [cf. G. Jacob, 1892, p. 168].\n\n[259] Cf. \"Islandske Annaler,\" edited by G. Storm, 1888, pp. 50, 70, 142,\n196, 337, 383.\n\n[260] Cf. G. Storm's arguments to this effect, 1888a, pp. 263 ff.; 1887,\npp. 71 f.\n\n[261] It is true that in Bishop Gissur Einarsson's (bishop from 1541 to\n1548) copy-book there is an addition to the ancient sailing directions for\nGreenland that \"experienced men have said that one must sail south-west to\nNew Land (Nyaland) from the Krysuvik mountains\" (on the Reykjanes\npeninsula) [see \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 215; and G. Storm, \"Hist.\nTidskr.,\" 1888, p. 264]; but it is impossible to attach much weight to a\nstatement of direction in a tradition 260 years old; it may easily have\nbeen altered or \"improved\" by later misconceptions.\n\n[262] \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. pp. 222-224.\n\n[263] As we have said, they can scarcely have known anything of the coast\nto the north of this, which runs in a more northerly direction.\n\n[264] Cf. G. Storm, 1891, p. 71; \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" i. p. 361.\n\n[265] The mathematician and cosmographer Jacob Ziegler (ob. 1549) in his\nwork \"Scondia\" (printed at Strasburg, 1536) placed the promontory of\nHv\u00edtserk (\"Hvetsarg promontorium\") in 67\u00b0 N. lat. [cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist.\nMind.,\" iii. pp. 500, 503]. This may be the usual confusion with Bl\u00e1serk.\nIt happens to be by no means ill suited to Ingolf's Fjeld, which lies in\n66\u00b0 25' N. lat.\n\n[266] In the Walkendorff additions to Ivar B\u00e1rdsson's description of\nGreenland it is called Hv\u00edtserk, which may be a confusion with Bl\u00e1serk;\nthe passage continues: \"And it is credibly reported that it is not thirty\nsea-leagues to land, in whichever direction one would go, whether to\nGreenland or to Iceland\" [see \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 491]. The\ndistance here given is remarkably correct. In Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson's \"Gr\u00f6nlands\nAnnaler\" (written before 1646) it is related that \"Sira Einar Snorrason,\"\npriest of Stadarstad, near Sn\u00e6fellsnes (he became priest there in 1502),\nowned a large twelve-oared boat, which, with a cargo of dried cod, was\ncarried away from \u00d6ndverdarnes (the western point of Sn\u00e6fellsnes) \"and\ndrifted out to sea, so that they saw both the glaciers, as Gunnbj\u00f6rn had\ndone formerly, both Sn\u00e6fells glacier and Bl\u00e1serk in Greenland; they had\nthus come near to Eric's course ('Eiriksstefnu')\" [\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\"\ni. p. 123]. Here, then, we have the same idea that both glaciers can be\nseen simultaneously, as is also found in Bj\u00f6rn's work with reference to\nGunnbj\u00f6rn Ulfsson's voyage (see above, p. 263).\n\n[267] Cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 843. Captain Graah brought the\nstone to Denmark in 1824.\n\n[268] In a paper read before the Arch\u00e6ological Society at Stockholm, March\n13, 1905. Cf. \"Svenska Dagbladet,\" March 14, 1905. I owe this reference to\nProfessor Magnus Olsen.\n\n[269] Cf. A. Bugge, 1898, p. 506. By a printer's error, seventeenth\ncentury is given instead of fourteenth.\n\n[270] See also the 5th and 6th cantos of the same poem, \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist.\nMind.,\" ii. pp. 522 ff., for the voyage to Greipar and its being the\nresort of outlaws.\n\n[271] Captain Isachsen [1907] has attached much weight to this expression\n(which he translates from \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.\" by \"long and dangerous\nsea-route\"; but the original is \"mikit og l\u00e1ngt sj\u00f3lei\u00f0i\") in order to\nprove that the Nordrsetur must lie far north. But it is seen from the text\nitself that this idea of a long sea voyage is taken from the Sk\u00e1ld-Helga\nlay (where also similar expressions are used), which is of late origin,\nand consequently an untrustworthy base for such conclusions. Moreover,\naccording to the lay itself, Skald-Helge belonged probably to the Eastern\nSettlement, and thence to Holstensborg, 67\u00b0 N. lat., was a long voyage.\n\n[272] This is obviously an error for \"byg\u00f0ar spor\u00f0r\" (end of the inhabited\ncountry), as in the \"Sk\u00e1ld-Helga Rimur\" (see above, p. 298).\n\n[273] \"Greipar,\" plural of \"Greip,\" would mean literally the grip or\ninterval between the fingers, but it may also be used of mountain ravines.\nThe name seems to point to a particularly rugged or fjord-indented coast,\nand would be appropriate to the whole country north of Straumsfjord, for\ninstance about Holstensborg, in about 67\u00b0.\n\n[274] \"Kr\u00f3ksfjar\u00f0ar-hei\u00f0r\" would literally mean the flat, waste mountain\ntract (\"hei\u00f0r\") by the crooked fjord, Kroksfjord. The latter name would be\nvery appropriate to Disco Bay and Vaigat. The flat plateaux of basalt,\nwhich form Disco on one side, and the Nugsuak Peninsula on the other side\nof Vaigat, might be called \"hei\u00f0r.\"\n\n[275] Cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 226; F. J\u00f3nsson, 1899, p. 319.\n\n[276] Perhaps these names of fjords were so indistinct in the original MS.\nthat Bj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson could not read them, and therefore inserted these words\n(cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 233).\n\n[277] The name of this island is left blank, and was doubtless illegible\nin the original.\n\n[278] So the mountain is called in an Icelandic translation, and this form\nmay be nearest to the name in the original Norwegian text. In the various\nDanish MSS. the mountain is called \"Hemeuell Radszfielt\" (oldest MS.),\n\"Hammelrads Fjeld,\" \"Himmelradsfjeld,\" etc. In a MS. which is otherwise\nconsidered trustworthy, it is called \"Hemelrachs Fjeld,\" and this has been\nfrequently supposed to mean the heaven-reaching mountain [cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl.\nhist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 259]. As will be mentioned later, the real name of\nthe mountain was possibly \"Himinro\u00f0\" (flushing of the sky), or perhaps\n\"Himinr\u01eb\u00f0\" (wall of heaven, i.e., wall reaching towards heaven).\n\n[279] The words in parenthesis are in German, and are certainly an\nexplanation added later. XIII. is evidently an error for XIIII.\n\n[280] It is also possible that it means whales from which \"tauer\" or ropes\nare obtained, i.e., the walrus; the ropes of walrus-hide being so very\nvaluable.\n\n[281] One might then suppose that \"Hunenrioth\" was connected with the\nNorwegian word \"hun\" for a giant (sometimes used in our day for the Evil\nOne). The name might then be applied to the mythical Risaland or\nJotunheim, in the Polar Sea, north-east of Greenland; but it would then be\ndifficult to explain the meaning of the latter part of the name, -rioth.\n\n[282] Professor Moltke Moe has suggested to me this explanation of the\nname. One might also suppose it to mean the western land of sunset, that\nis, America, but it would be unlike the Scandinavians to use such a name\nfor a country. There is a possibility that it was connected with \"r\u01eb\u00f0\"\n(gen. \"ra\u00f0ar,\" a ridge of land) and meant the ridge or wall of heaven,\ni.e., reaching toward heaven. It is, perhaps, less probable that \"-rioth\"\nor \"-ra\u00f0\" came from a word of two syllables like \"ro\u00f0a\" (a rod, later a\ncross, Anglo-Saxon \"rod,\" modern English \"rood\") or the poetical word\n\"r\u00f3\u00f0i\" (wind, storm). In O. Rygh: \"Norske Gaardnavne,\" xvi. Nordlands Amt\n[ed. K. Rygh, 1905, p. 334], there is the name of an estate \"Himmelstein\"\n(in Busknes), which in 1567 was written \"Himmelstand,\" \"Himmelstaa\" [from\n1610 on == \"sten\"]. K. Rygh remarks of this: \"Himmel occurs occasionally\nin names of mountains: thus, a little farther north we have the lofty\nHimmeltinder on the border of Busknes and Borge. One is disposed to regard\nthis name as similar to the Danish Himmelbjerg, meaning a very high\nmountain....\" Professor Torp has mentioned to me the similarity of name\nwith the giant Hymer's ox \"Himinhrjotr\" in the Snorra-Edda; but it is\ndifficult to think that a mountain should have been called after the\nproper name of an animal.\n\n[283] Rafn, in \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. pp. 881-885, commits the\nabsurdity of separating these two places by the whole of Baffin's Bay, in\nspite of their being mentioned together in the old accounts under the\ncommon designation of \"Nordrsetur.\" He puts \"Greipar\" in about 67\u00b0 N.\nlat., but makes Kr\u00f3ksfjardarheidr into Lancaster Sound, 74\u00b0 N. lat., on\nthe other side of the ice-blocked Baffin's Bay.\n\n[284] Cf. \"Islandske Annaler,\" ed. Storm, p. 120, etc.; \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist.\nMind.,\" ii. pp. 754, 762. As is pointed out by Finnur J\u00f3nsson [1893, p.\n539], most of the coffins found in graves in Greenland are fastened\ntogether with wooden nails. We are also told how all the iron spikes and\nnails were carefully taken out of a stranded Norwegian ship (about 1129).\n\n[285] Since this chapter was written a few years ago, an excellent\ntreatise by O. Solberg on the Greenland Eskimo in prehistoric times has\nappeared [1907]. The author has here reached conclusions similar to the\nabove as regards the northward extension of the Nordrsetu voyages; but he\nproposes to place Kroksfjord south of Disco Bay, since he does not think\nthe Greenlanders came across the Eskimo who lived there. I do not consider\nthis view justified; on the contrary, it seems to me probable (as will be\nmentioned later) that the Greenlanders had intercourse with the Eskimo.\n\n[286] Otto Sverdrup found on two small islands in Jones Sound several\ngroups of three stones, evidently set up by human hands as shelters for\nsitting eider-ducks, similar to those with which he was acquainted in the\nnorth of Norway. Whether these stone shelters were very ancient could not\nbe determined. Captain Isachsen [1907] thinks they may be due to the\nancient Scandinavians of the Greenland settlements, and sees in them\npossible evidence of Jones Sound having been Kroksfjord. But too much\nimportance must not be attached to this: no other sign of Europeans having\nstayed in Jones Sound was discovered, whereas there were many signs of\nEskimo. Unless we are to believe that the latter set up the stones for\nsome purpose or other, it is just as likely that they may have been placed\nthere by chance hunters in recent times as that they were due to the\nancient Norsemen.\n\n[287] As these pieces of driftwood must have been carried by the East\nGreenland Polar Current, this seems to show that there were already Eskimo\non the east coast of Greenland at that time. As they are spoken of as\nsomething remarkable, the pieces, with wedges of tusk and bone, cannot\nhave been due to Norsemen, either in Greenland or Iceland. Their being\nshaped with \"hatchets\" or \"adzes\" (i.e., Eskimo tools) was looked upon as\nstrange.\n\n[288] This passage seems obscure, and there may be some error or\nmisunderstanding on the part of the various copyists. But as it now\nstands, it may be best taken to mean that all known land and all the known\nglaciers had disappeared beneath the horizon; but that the \"j\u00f6kull\" (i.e.,\nsnow-field or inland ice) which they saw to landward extended southward\nalong the coast as far as they could see. The expression \"to the south of\nthem\" is not, of course, to be interpreted as meaning due south of the\nspot where they were, but rather as southward along the coast, from the\npart off which they lay; this is confirmed by the addition \"as far as they\ncould see,\" which can only refer to a coast along which they were looking\nsouthward.\n\n[289] The text has three \"d\u0153gr\" (and one long day's rowing), that is,\nthree times twelve hours; but in this case it seems most natural to\nsuppose that days are meant, and that they put in to shore at night.\n\n[290] The text says that these islands were to the south of \"Sn\u00e6fell\"; but\nwhere this was we do not know. In the Saga of Eric the Red we read that in\nthe third summer Eric (see above, p. 267) \"went as far north as 'Sn\u00e6fell'\nand into 'Hrafns-fjord.'\" Whether this was the same Sn\u00e6fell is uncertain,\nbut quite possible; while Hrafns-fjord (Ravnsfjord) is most probably to be\nregarded as the Hrafnsfjord that lay in the Eastern Settlement, near\nHvarf.\n\n[291] Cf. \"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" iii. p. 885.\n\n[292] Finnur J\u00f3nsson [1901, ii. p. 648] thinks it was written about 1200.\n\n[293] Gudbrand Vigfusson [1878, i. pp. lix. f.] thinks that Eric the Red's\nSaga and the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr\" are derived, in complete\nindependence of one another, from oral traditions, which were different in\nthe west, at Breidafjord, where the former was written, and in the north,\nfrom whence the latter is derived.\n\n[294] We cannot here take any account of Rolf Raudesand's having come to\nNorway on his return from Greenland (see p. 264); for even if this were\nhistorical, which is doubtful, and even if it be referred to a date\nanterior to Leif's voyage, which is not certain either, he was driven\nthere accidentally instead of to Iceland.\n\n[295] \"M surr\" (properly \"valbirch\") was probably a veined tree, like\n\"valbjerk,\" which was regarded as valuable material. \"Valbjerk\" is birch\ngrown in a special way so that it becomes twisted and gnarled in\nstructure. It is still much used in Norway, e.g., for knife-handles.\n\n[296] I do not mention here the fourteenth-century tale (in the\nFlateyjarb\u00f3k) of Bjarne Herjulfsson's discovery of Wineland as early as\n985, since, as G. Storm has shown, this account hardly represents the\ntradition which in earlier times was most current in Iceland.\n\n[297] Thorbj\u00f6rn Vivilsson came from Iceland to Greenland in 999, the same\nsummer that Leif sailed to Norway. His daughter was Gudrid, afterwards\nmarried to Thorstein Ericson. The exact statement as to which ship was\nused on this occasion, and as to those which were used later on Thorfinn\nKarlsevne's expedition, shows how few ships there were in Greenland (and\nIceland), and in what esteem the men were held who owned them. The Saga of\nEric the Red seems to assume that Leif's ship was no longer very fit for\nsea after his last voyage, as we hear no more about it. This may perhaps\nbe regarded as the reason for his not going again, if indeed there be any\nother reason than the patchwork character of the saga. In the\nFlateyjarb\u00f3k, on the other hand, we are told that it was Leif's ship, and\nnot Thorbj\u00f6rn Vivilsson's, that was used first by Thorvald and afterwards\nby Thorstein.\n\n[298] If the \"great hundred\" is meant, this will be 160 men.\n\n[299] From the context it would seem probable that these islands, or this\nisland (?), lay in the Western Settlement. If they had been near\nLysefjord, Karlsevne, as Storm points out, might be supposed to go there\nfirst because his wife, Gudrid, had inherited property there from\nThorstein, and there might be much to fetch thence. But the name\nBjarneyjar itself points rather to some place farther north, since the\nsouthern part of the Western Settlement (the Godthaab district) must have\nbeen then, as now, that part of the coast where bears were scarcest. In\nBj\u00f6rn J\u00f3nsson's \"Gronlandi\u00e6 vetus Chorographia\" a \"Biarney\" (or \"-eyiar\")\nis mentioned, to which it was twelve days' rowing from Lysefjord [cf.\nabove, p. 301], and as they are the only islands (or island ?) of this\nname mentioned on the west coast of Greenland, there is much in favour of\ntheir being the place here alluded to.\n\n[300] \"D\u0153gr\" was half a twenty-four hours' day [cf. Rymbegla]; but whether\ntwelve hours or twenty-four, the distance, like those given later, is\nimpossible. They cannot have sailed from Greenland to Labrador, or even if\nit was Baffin Land they made, in two days of twelve hours, and scarcely in\ntwo of twenty-four. According to the MS. in the Hauksb\u00f3k \"they sailed\nthence [i.e., from Bjarneyjar] two half-days [i.e., twenty-four hours in\nall] to the south. Then they sighted land.\" It might be supposed that this\nshould be taken to mean that the difference in latitude between this land\nand their starting-point was equivalent to two half-days' sail. It is true\nthat we read in the \"Rymbegla\" [1780, p. 482] there are two dozen\nsea-leagues, or two degrees of latitude, in a \"'d\u0153gr's' sailing,\" and two\n\"d\u0153gr\" would therefore be four degrees; but when we see later that from\nthis first land they found to Markland (Newfoundland ?) was also only two\nhalf-days' sail, then these distances become altogether impossible [cf. G.\nStorm, 1888, pp. 32-34; Reeves, 1895, p. 173]. Reeves proposes that \"tvau\"\nmight be an error for \"siau\" (i.e., seven; but in the MS. of the Hauksb\u00f3k\nwe have \"two\" in numerals: II). It is probable that this repetition of the\nsame distance, two \"d\u0153gr's\" sail, in the case of each of the three new\ncountries, has nothing to do with reality; it reminds us so much of the\nstereotyped legendary style that we are inclined to believe it to be\nborrowed from this. Storm thinks that as Iceland was supposed to lie in\nthe same latitude as the Western Settlement, and Wineland in the same\nlatitude as Ireland, there would naturally be the same distance between\nthe Western Settlement and Wineland as between Iceland and Ireland, and\nthe latter was put at five (or three ?) \"d\u0153gr.\" However, it is not five,\nbut six \"d\u0153gr\" between Bjarneyjar and Fur\u00f0ustrandir, according to the Saga\nof Eric the Red [cf. Storm's ed., 1891, p. 32]. In the copy in the\nHauksb\u00f3k, it is true, the distance is given as two \"d\u0153gr\" between\nBjarneyjar and Helluland, two \"d\u0153gr\" between this and Markland, and\n\"thence they sailed south along the coast a long way and came to a\npromontory ...\"; but this circumstance, that the distance is not given the\nthird time, again inclines one to think of the fairy-tale, and here again\nthere is no statement that the distance was five \"d\u0153gr\" from the Western\nSettlement to Kjalarnes.\n\n[301] The arctic fox is common in Labrador, but also in the northern\npeninsula of Newfoundland.\n\n[302] Polar bears come on the drift-ice to the north and east coasts of\nNewfoundland, but not farther south.\n\n[303] The name comes from \"fur\u00f0a.\" (warning, marvel, terror); \"fur\u00f0u\"\n(gen. sing.) placed before adjectives and adverbs has the meaning of\nextremely (\"fur\u00f0u g\u00f3\u00f0r\" == extremely good). As \"Fur\u00f0ustjarna\" (the\nwonder-star) surpassed the others in size and brilliance, these strands\nmay be supposed to surpass others in length, and thus to be endless; but\nit is doubtless more likely that it means marvel-strands, where there were\nmarvels and wonderful things. In \u00d6rskog, Sunnm\u00f6re, Norway, there is a\nplace-name \"F\u00farstranda\" (with long, closed \"u\"). K. Rygh [Norske\nGaardnavne, xiii., 1908, p. 155] remarks: \"The first syllable must be the\ntree-name \"fura\" [fir], though the pronunciation with a long, closed 'u'\nis strange....\"\n\n[304] In the Faroes (Kodlafjord in Straumsey) there is a \"Kjal(ar)nes,\"\nthe origin of which is attributed to a man's name: \"Kj\u00f6lur \u00e1 Nesi\" [J.\nJakobsen, 1898, p. 147]; but it is more probable that the name of the ness\nis the original one, and that the legend of Kj\u00f6lur is later. As to\nplace-names ending in \"-nes,\" O. Rygh [Norske Gaardnavne, Forord og\nIndledning, 1898, p. 68] says: \"Frequently the first part of the name is a\nword signifying natural conditions on or about the promontory.... Very\noften the first part has reference to the form of the promontory, its\noutline, greater or less height, length, etc.... Personal names are not\nusual in these combinations.\" In Norway names beginning with \"Kj\u00f6l-\"\n(\"-nes,\" \"-berg,\" \"-stad,\" \"-set,\" etc.) are very common; they may either\ncome from the man's name \"\u00dej\u00f3\u00f0lfr\" (which now often has the sound of\n\"Kj\u00f6lv,\" \"Kj\u00f6l,\" or \"Kj\u00f6le\"), or from the Old Norse poetical word \"kj\u00f3ll,\"\nm., \"ship,\" or from \"kj\u01eblr\" (gen. \"kjalar\"), \"keel of a vessel, and hence,\nmountain-ridge\" [cf. O. Rygh, Norske Gaardnavne, i., 1897, p. 269; iv. 2,\ned. A. Kj\u00e6r, 1902, p. 57; vi. ed. A. Kj\u00e6r, p. 237; xiii. ed. K. Rygh,\n1908, p. 344]. Our Kjalarnes above must undoubtedly be derived from the\nlast. In Tanen, east of Berlev\u00e5g, there is a \"Kj\u00f6lnes\"; in Iceland, just\nnorth of Reykjavik, outside Faxafjord, there is a \"Kjalarnes.\"\n\n[305] This idea, that the land became broader towards the south, and the\ncoast there turned eastward, must be the same that we meet with again in\nIcelandic geographies of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, where\nWineland is thought to be connected with Africa (see later).\n\n[306] \"Svart\" (i.e., black-haired and black-eyed) is the reading of\nHauksb\u00f3k, but the other MS. has \"small.\"\n\n[307] The word \"Skr\u00e6lingar\" here occurs for the first time in this saga,\nand seems to be used as a familiar designation for the natives, which did\nnot require further explanation; of this more later.\n\n[308] Blue (bl\u00e1) perhaps means rather dark or black in colour (cf.\n\"Blue-men\" for <DW64>s), and is often used of something uncanny or\ntroll-like.\n\n[309] Nothing of the kind is related in the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr\"; where,\nhowever, we are told of the first winter of Karlsevne's voyage that the\ncattle pastured upon the land, \"but the males ('gra\u00f0fe') soon became\ndifficult to manage and troublesome.\"\n\n[310] Ed. by P. Munch and C. R. Unger, Christiania, 1853, p. 75.\n\n[311] E. H. Lind: Norsk-Isl\u00e4ndska dopnamn, p. 283. I owe it to Moltke Moe\nthat my attention was drawn to this feature of the numerous heathen names.\n\n[312] His wife is called \"Sigr\u00ed\u00f0r,\" which is thus an exception; but in the\nGr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr she is called \"Gr\u00edmhildr,\" so that her name is\nuncertain. There is also mentioned a thrall \"Gar\u00f0i,\" but being a thrall\nperhaps he could not have the name of a god.\n\n[313] It is very curious that in the chapter-heading in the Hauksb\u00f3k she\nis called \"\u00deuri\u00f0r,\" but in the text \"Gu\u00f0ri\u00f0r\" [cf. Storm, 1891, p. 23;\n\"Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind.,\" i. p. 392].\n\n[314] It is perhaps more than a coincidence that in the classical legends\nthere were three groups of islands, the Gorgades, the Hesperides and the\nInsul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6, to the west of Africa. Marcianus Capella says that it\nwas two days' sail to the Gorgades, then came the Hesperides, and besides\nthe Insul\u00e6 Fortunat\u00e6. Pliny also has two days to the Gorgades; beyond them\nthere were two Hesperides; he mentions also that it was two days' sail to\nthe Hesperian \u00c6thiopians, etc. In the Flateyjarb\u00f3k's description of Bjarne\nHerjolfsson's voyage, which is still more purely fairy-tale, he sails for\ntwo days from the first land he found (== Wineland) to the second (==\nMarkland), then three days to the third (== Helluland) and finally four\ndays to Greenland.\n\n[315] If we assume that a \"d\u0153gr's\" sailing is equal to two degrees of\nlatitude or 120 nautical miles (twenty-four ancient sea-leagues), then, as\nshown on the map above, it will be about _four_ d\u0153gr's sail from Greenland\nto the nearest part of Labrador (not _two_). From Bjarneyjar to Markland\nshould be _four_ d\u0153gr according to the saga; but the map shows that it is\nbetween _eight_ and _ten_ d\u0153gr from the Western Settlement along the coast\nof Labrador to Newfoundland. On the other hand, between Newfoundland and\nCape Breton _two_ d\u0153gr's sail will suit better.\n\n[316] One must, of course, be cautious of seeing myth in all such\ntrilogies. As warning examples may be mentioned, that the Norwegians\nsettled in Hjaltland (Shetland), Orkney, and the Suder\u00f6er (Hebrides); they\ndiscover the Faroes, thence Iceland, and then Greenland, in the same way\nas they are said from the last-named to have discovered Helluland,\nMarkland and Wineland. On the east coast of Greenland there were three\nglaciers, etc. But in Eric's Saga the triads are so numerous and sometimes\nso peculiar, and the saga proves to be made up to such an extent of loans,\nthat one is disposed to regard the number three as derived from mythical\npoetry.\n\n[317] Cf. Unger's edition, Christiania, 1862, p. 292.\n\n[318] Cf. also Joshua's two spies, who by the advice of Rahab the harlot\nconcealed themselves in the mountains for three days, after which they\ndescended and came to Joshua.\n\n[319] Cf. Andreas Austlid: \"Sinklar-soga,\" p. 21 (Oslo, 1899). H. P. S.\nKrag: \"Sagn samlede i Gudbrandsdalen on slaget ved Kringlen den 26de\naugust 1612,\" p. 19 (Kristiania, 1838).\n\n[320] Ivar Kleiven: \"I gamle Daagaa, Forteljingo og Bygda-Minne fraa\nVaagaa,\" p. 63 (Kristiania, 1907).\n\n[321] We are told that he talked in \"\u00fe\u00fdrsku.\" Similarity of sound may here\nraise the question whether he was not originally supposed to be a Turk\n(cf. the Wild Turks above), to which the name itself would point.\n\n[322] It is noteworthy that we are told of this Tyrker that he was\n\"brattleitr\" (i.e. with a flat, abrupt face); this is the only passage in\nOld Norse literature where this rare expression is used. The only context\nin which Moltke Moe has found it used in our time is in connection with\nthe tale of the youngest son (Askeladden) in S\u00e6tersdal [cf. also H. Ross],\nwhere it is said that \"Oskefis was also brasslaitte\" (Ross thinks it means\nhere \"stiff in his bearing, full of self-esteem, self-sufficient\"). Can it\nbe merely a coincidence that this rare word is used of none other than the\nfairy-tale hero who is favoured by fortune, and of the lucky finder of the\nwild grapes, by eating which he intoxicates himself?\n\n[323] Professor Moltke Moe has called my attention to resemblances to\nthese runners in the Welsh tale of \"Kulhwch and Olwen.\" In this there\noccur two swift-footed knights, and Queen Gwenhwyvar's two servants\n(Yskyrdav and Yscudydd) \"as swift as thought,\" and finally Arthur's\nwonderfully swift hound \"Cavall\" (in older MSS. \"Cabal\") [cf. Heyman,\n\"Mabinogion,\" 1906, pp. 80, 82, 101, 103; J. Loth, \"Les Mabinogion,\" i.\nand ii.]. Of Tjalve it is related in the Snorra-Edda that he was\n\"f\u00f3thvatastr\" (the swiftest), and in Utgard he ran a race with thought\n(Hugi). This trait is Irish, as will be shown by Von Sydow [1910]. It\nresembles the two servants (\"swift as thought\") in the Welsh legend. The\nrunners in the Saga of Eric the Red are also Celtic, and this in itself\npoints to a connection.\n\n[324] In the \"Gr\u00f6nlendinga-\u00fe\u00e1ttr\" the whale they found was both large and\ngood; they cut it in pieces, and \"they had no lack of food.\"\n\n[325] According to information given by Professor R. Collett, the Larus\nargentatus is the only species of gull that occurs in Nova Scotia in\nsufficiently large numbers to make it seem probable that it might breed\nextensively on an island. Can it be possible that these close-lying eggs\nare derived from the white and red \"scalt\u00e6\" (?) which covered the\nAnchorites' Isle in the Navigatio Brandani (see below, p. 360)?\n\n[326] Cf. Karlsevne's people, who on arrival rested for half a month and\namused themselves.\n\n[327] W. Brede Kristensen: \"Een of twe boomen in het Paradijsverhaal.\"\nTheologisch Tijdschrift, 1908, p. 218.\n\n[328] Of less importance in this connection is the question how far these\nnames of islands in the Odyssey were originally connected with islands in\nthe Mediterranean [cf. V. B\u00e9rard, 1902, i.]; in the description in the\npoem they have in any case become wholly mythical.\n\n[329] C. Sallusti Crispi Historiarum Reliqui\u00e6. Ed. Bertoldus\nMaurenbrecher, Lipsi\u00e6, 1891, pp. 43 f.\n\n[330] L. Ann\u00e6us Florus, Epitome rerum Romanum, ex editione J. Fr. Fischeri\nLondini, 1822. Vol. i. pp. 278 f.\n\n[331] Lytton: The Odes and Epodes of Horace. London, 1869.\n\n[332] Cf. Johannes Peschel, 1878. Moltke Moe has called my attention to\nthis essay, but, as he says, Peschel is certainly wrong in assuming that\nancient notions like that of Schlaraffenland are the originals from which\nthe ideas of the happy abodes of the departed, the Isles of the Blest (the\nElysian Fields), have been developed. The reverse is, of course, the case.\n\n[333] Cf. J. N. Wilse: \"Beskrivelse over Spydeberg Pr\u00e6stegj\u00e6ld.\"\nChristiania, 1779-1780. In the appended Norwegian vocabulary, p. xiii.:\nFyldeholmen == Schlarafenland. I. Aasen [1873] has \"Fylleholm\" in the\nphrase \"go to Fylleholm\" (== go on a drinking bout), from Sogn, and other\nplaces. This may be derived from the same mythical country. H. Ross [1895]\ngives \"Fylleholm\" from Sm\u00e5lenene. From this it looks as if the idea was\nwidely spread in Norway.\n\n[334] In Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k Vin(d)land is mentioned in one other passage\n[cap. 175], in connection with Karlsevne, who is said to have discovered\nit; but nothing is said about this in the Sturlub\u00f3k, and it may be a later\naddition (cf. p. 331).\n\n[335] Ravn told the story to Thorfinn, Earl of Orkney (ob. circa 1064),\nwho in turn told it to some Icelanders, and from them it reached Thorkel\nGellisson, Are Frode's uncle.\n\n[336] Cf. Zimmer, 1889, pp. 257, 261; Kuno Meyer, 1895, i.\n\n[337] This is evidently the land that in the Christian Breton legend of\nSt. Machutus (ninth century) has become the paradisiacal island of \"Yma,\"\ninhabited by heavenly angels.\n\n[338] In the Christian Irish legend \"Imram Maelduin,\" the voyagers arrive\nat two islands, that of the lamenting people with complaining voices, and\nthat of the laughing people. The same two islands are mentioned in the\nNavigation of the Sons of O'Corry, \"Imram Curaig Ua Corra\" [cf. Zimmer,\n1889, pp. 160, 171, 188, 189]. They are evidently connected with Greek\nconceptions, as we find them in Theopompus, of the rivers Hedone and Lype\nin the distant land of Meropis (see above, p. 17; cf. also the springs of\nvoluptuousness and laughter in Lucian's Isle of Bliss in the Vera\nHistoria). There may further be a connection with the island of the\nlamenting people in the statement of Saxo Grammaticus, in the introduction\nto his Danish history, that it was thought that in the noise of the\ndrift-ice against the coast of Iceland the lamenting voices of lost souls\ncould be heard, condemned to expiate their sins in that bitter cold.\n\n[339] These Irish ideas of a happy land of women have, it may be remarked,\nmany points of resemblance with our Norwegian belief in fairies (\"hulder\")\nand with the German Venusberg myth, since the \"hulder,\" like Frau Venus,\noriginally Frau Holle or Holda [cf. J. Grimm, 1876, ii. p. 780], kidnaps\nand seduces men, and keeps them with her for a long time; but the sensual\nelement is more subdued and less prominent in the Germanic myths. It may\nseem probable that the Irish land of women also has some connection with\nthe amorous, beautiful-haired nymph Calypso's island of Ogygia, far off in\nthe sea, in the Odyssey [v. 135 ff.; vii. 254 ff.]. Just as the men in the\nIrish legends neither grow older nor die when they come to the land of\nwomen, and as the queen of the country will not let the men go again (cf.\nMaelduin), so Calypso wished to keep her Odysseus, and to make him \"an\nimmortal man, ever young to eternity.\" In a similar way the men who come\nto the \"hulder\" in the mountain do not grow old, and they seem to have\neven greater difficulty in getting out again than kidnapped women. (It is\na common feature that they do not grow older, or that a long time passes\nwithout their noticing it in the intoxication of pleasure. Lucian also\nrelates that those who come to his Isle of Bliss grow no older than they\nare when they come.) Odysseus longs for his home, like one of Bran's men\n(and like Maelduin's men, the kidnapped men in the German myths, etc.),\nand at last receives permission to go, like Bran. Calypso means \"the\nhidden one\" (from \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03c5\u03c0\u03c4\u03c9 == hide by enveloping) and thus answers to our\n\"hulder\" (== the hidden one, cf. \"hulda,\" something which covers,\nconceals, envelops), and the German Frau Holle or Holda (== \"hulder\").\nThey are precisely the same beings as the Irish \"s\u00edd\"--people, who are\nalso invisible, and the women in \"T\u00edr na-m-Ban,\" the island in or under\nthe sea precisely like our \"huldreland\" (see later).\n\nIt may further be supposed that there is some connection between the ideas\nwhich appear in certain Irish legends of the land of virgins--where there\nare no men, and the virgins have to go to the neighbouring land of men\n(\"T\u00edr na-Fer\") to be married [cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 269]--and the\nconceptions of Sena, the Celtic island of priestesses or women, off the\ncoast of Brittany, where according to Dionysius Periegetes there were\nBacchantes who held nightly orgies, but where no men might come, and the\nwomen therefore (like the Amazons) had to visit the men on the\nneighbouring coast, and return after having had intercourse with them.\nSimilar ideas of islands with women and men separated occur already in old\nIndian legends.\n\n[340] Cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 287; Whitley Stokes, Revue Celtique, xv. Paris\n1894, pp. 437 f.; F. Lot, Romania, xxvii. 1898, p. 559.\n\n[341] Cf. \"Lageniensis,\" 1870, p. 116; Zimmer, 1889, pp. 263, 279.\n\n[342] It is stated in an Irish legend that the hero Ciaban went as an\nexile to \"Tr\u00e1g in-Chairn\" (the strand of cairns) [cf. Zimmer, 1889, p.\n271]. This might remind us of Helluland (?).\n\n[343] In the tale of Maelduin's voyage, which is older than the\n\"Navigatio\" (see above, p. 336), there occurs a similar mighty bird\nbringing a branch with fruit like grapes, possessing marvellous\nproperties; but there is no grape-island [cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 169].\n\n[344] In the Latin translation of the Bible in use at that time, the\nVulgate [Num. xiii. 24 f.], the passage runs: \"And they came to the valley\nof grapes, cut a branch with its cluster of grapes, and two men carried it\nupon a staff. They also took away pomegranates and figs from this place,\nwhich is called Nehel-escol, that is, the valley of grapes, because the\nchildren of Israel brought grapes from thence.\"\n\n[345] In France a poem on Brandan of as early as 1125, founded on the\n\"Navigatio,\" is known, dedicated to Queen A\u00e9lis of Louvain; cf. Gaston\nParis: La Litt\u00e9rature Fran\u00e7aise en Moyen Age, Paris, 1888, p. 214.\n\n[346] The Irish made a distinction in their tales of voyages between\n\"Imram,\" which was a voluntary journey, and \"Longes,\" which was an\ninvoluntary one, usually due to banishment. In Icelandic literature there\nseems to be no such distinction, but the voyages are often due to outlawry\nfor manslaughter or some other reason; cf. Ganger-Rolf's voyage, Ingolf's\nand Hjorleif's voyage to Iceland, Sn\u00e6bj\u00f6rn Galti's and Rolf of Raudesand's\nvoyage to the Gunnbj\u00f6rnskerries, Eric the Red's voyage with his father\nfrom Norway, and afterwards from Iceland, etc. Bj\u00f6rn Breidvikingekj\u00e6mpe\nwas also obliged to leave Iceland on account of his illicit love for\nSnorre Gode's sister. This agreement may, of course, be accidental, but\ntogether with the many other resemblances between Irish and Icelandic\nliterature, it may nevertheless be worth mentioning.\n\n[347] Cf. Zimmer, 1889, p. 168; Joyce, 1879, p. 156.\n\n[348] To these wine-fruits in the \"Imram Maelduin\" correspond, perhaps,\nthe white and purple-red \"scalt\u00e6,\" which in the \"Navigatio Brandani\" cover\nthe low island, bare of trees, called the \"Strong Men's Island\" [Schr\u00f6der,\n1871, p. 24]. Brandan pressed one of the red ones, \"as large as a ball,\"\nand got a pound of juice, on which he and his brethren lived for twelve\ndays. It might be supposed that these white and red \"scalt\u00e6\" from the flat\nocean-island were connected with Lucian's water-fishes (which seem to have\nbeen white) and wine-fishes (which had the purple colour of wine) (see\nabove). The meaning of \"scalt\u00e6\" (\"scaltis\") is uncertain. Schr\u00f6der says\n\"sea-snails\"; Professor Alf Torp thinks it may be a Celtic word, and\nmentions as a possibility \"scalt\" (== \"cleft\"). In that case it might be a\nmussel, which is \"cleft\" in two shells.\n\n[349] D'Avezac's hypothesis [1845, p. 9] that it might be an echo of\nTeneriffe [cf. also De Goeje, 1891, p. 61], which in medi\u00e6val maps was\ncalled \"Isola dell' Inferno,\" is untenable, since the Ph\u0153nicians'\nknowledge of the Canaries had long been forgotten at that time, and it was\nonly after their rediscovery by the Italians, about 1300, that Teneriffe\nwas called on the Medici map of 1351 \"Isola dell' Inferno.\" In classical\nliterature there is no indication that any of the Canaries was regarded as\nvolcanic; on the contrary, Pliny's \"Nivaria\" (i.e., the snow-island) seems\nto be Teneriffe with snow on the summit.\n\n[350] Jens Lauritz\u00f6n Wolf's Norrigia Illustrata, 1651.\n\n[351] Cf. John M. Kemble: The Dialogue of Salomon and Saturnus, London,\n1448, p. 198. Moltke Moe also called my attention to this remarkable\npassage.\n\n[352] W. Mannhardt: Germanische Mythen, Berlin, 1858, pp. 460 f. Cf. \"Vita\nMerlini,\" the verses on the \"Insula pomorum, qv\u00e6 Fortunata vocatur\" (the\napple-island which is called Fortunate) [San-Marte, 1853, pp. 299, 329].\n\"Avallon\" has a remarkable resemblance in sound to Pytheas's amber-island\n\"Abalus\" (p. 70).\n\n[353] Since the above was printed in the Norwegian edition of this book,\nProfessor Moltke Moe has called my attention to the fact that, according\nto Icelandic sources, the Icelandic chief Gellir Thorkelsson, grandfather\nof Are Frode, died at Roskilde, in Denmark, in 1073, after having been\nprostrated there for a long time. He was then on his way home from a\npilgrimage to Rome. Adam's book was written between 1072 and 1075, and he\nhad received the statements about Wineland from Danes of rank. The\ncoincidence here is so remarkable that there must probably be a\nconnection. It is Gellir Thorkelsson's son, Thorkel Gellisson, who is\ngiven as the authority for the first mention of Wineland in Icelandic\nliterature, and according to Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k he seems to have got his\ninformation from Ireland through other Icelanders.\n\n[354] It is not, however, quite certain that \"V\u00ednland\" (with a long \"\u00ed\")\nwas the original form of the name, though this is probable, as it occurs\nthus in the MSS. that have come down to us of the two oldest authorities:\nAdam of Bremen (\"Winland\") and Are Frode's \u00cdslendingab\u00f3k (\"Vinland\"). But\nit cannot be entirely ignored that in the oldest Icelandic MSS.--and the\noldest authorities after Are and Adam--it is called: in Hauk's Landn\u00e1mab\u00f3k\n\"Vindland hit go\u00f0a\" (in the two passages where it is mentioned), in the\nSturlub\u00f3k \"Irland et goda,\" in the Kristni-saga (before 1245) probably\n\"Vindland hit go\u00f0a\" [cf. F. J\u00f3nsson, Hauksb\u00f3k, 1892, p. 141], and in the\nGrettis-saga (about 1290, but the MS. dates from the fifteenth century)\nThorhall Gamlason, who sailed with Karlsevne, is called in one place a\n\"Vindlendingr\" and in another a \"Vi\u00f0lendingr.\" It is striking that the\nname should so often be written incorrectly; there must have been some\nuncertainty in its interpretation. Another thing is that in none of these\noldest sources is there any mention of wine, except in Adam of Bremen, who\nrepeats Isidore, and after him it is only when we come to the Saga of Eric\nthe Red that \"Vinland\" with its wine is met with. It might therefore be\nsupposed that the name was originally something different. The\nGreenlanders might, for instance, have discovered a land with trees in the\nwest and called it \"Vi\u00f0land\" (== tree-land). Influenced by myths of the\nIrish \"Great Land\" (\"T\u00edr M\u00f3r\"), this might become \"Vi\u00f0land\" (== the great\nland, p. 357): but this again through the ideas of wine (from the\nFortunate Isles), as in Adam of Bremen, might become \"V\u00ednland.\" We have a\nparallel to such a change of sound in the conversion of \"vi\u00f0bein\" (==\ncollar-bone) into \"vinbein.\" A form like \"Vindland\" may have arisen\nthrough confusion of the two forms we have given, or again with the name\nof Vendland. A name compounded of the ancient word \"vin\" (== pasture) is\nscarcely credible, since the word went out of use before the eleventh\ncentury; besides, one would then have to expect the form \"Vinjarland.\" In\nAre Frode's work, which we only know from late copies (of the seventeenth\ncentury), the original name might easily have been altered in agreement\nwith later interpretation. But it is nevertheless most probable that\n\"Vinland\" was the original form, and that the variants are due to\nuncertainty. It may, however, well be supposed that there were two forms\nof the name, in the same way as, for instance, the \"Draumkv\u00e6de\" is also\ncalled the \"Draug-kv\u00e6de\"; or that several names may have fused to become\none, similarity of sound and character being the deciding factor.\n\n[355] Cf. Peder Clauss\u00f6n Friis, Storm's edition, 1881, p. 298; A. Helland,\nNordlands Amt, 1907, i. p. 59, ii. pp. 467 f. Yngvar Nielsen [1905] has\nremarked the resemblance between the epithet \"hit G\u00f3\u00f0a,\" applied to\nWineland, and the name Landegode in Norway; but following Peder Clauss\u00f6n\nhe regards this as a tabu-name. K. Rygh [Norske Gaardnavne, xvi. Nordl.\nAmt, 1905, p. 201] thinks that P. Clauss\u00f6n's explanation of the name of\nJomfruland is right in all three cases, that \"Norwegian seamen 'from some\nsuperstition and fear' did not call it by the name of Jomfruland, which\nwas already common at that time, while under sail, until they had passed\nit.\" \"It is, or at any rate has been, a common superstition among sailors\nand fishermen that various things were not to be called by their usual\nnames while they were at sea, presumably a relic of heathen belief in evil\nspirits, whose power it was hoped to avoid by not calling their attention\nby mentioning themselves or objects with which their evil designs were\nconnected, while it was hoped to be able to conciliate them by using\nflattering names instead of the proper ones. The three islands are all so\nsituated in the fairway that they must have been unusually dangerous for\ncoasting traffic in former times.\" Hans Str\u00f6m in his Description of\nS\u00f6ndm\u00f6r [Sor\u00f6, 1766, ii. p. 441] thought, however, that \"Landegod\" in\nSunnm\u00f6r was so called because it was the first land one made after passing\nStad; and \"Svin\u00f6\" he thought was so called because pigs were turned out\nthere to feed, especially in former times (see below, p. 378); he gives in\naddition the name Storskj\u00e6r for the island.\n\n[356] V. B\u00e9rard's explanation [1902, i. p. 579] that Ph\u00e6acians (\u03a6\u03b1\u03b9\u03b1\u03ba\u03b5\u03c2)\nmeans Leucadians, the white people, and comes from the Semitic \"Beakim\"\n(from \"b.e.q.\" \"to be white\") does not seem convincing. Professor A. Torp\nfinds the explanation given above more probable.\n\n[357] Cf. J. Grimm, D. M., ii. 1876, pp. 692 ff., iii. 1878, pp. 248 f.\n\n[358] Cf. J. A. Friis: Ordbog for det lappiske Sprog, Christiania, 1887,\np. 254; J. Qvigstad, 1893, p. 182; Moltke Moe's communications in A.\nHelland: Finmarkens Amt, 1905, vol. ii. p. 261.\n\n[359] Cf. Moltke Moe's communications in A. Helland: Nordlands Amt, 1907,\nvol. ii. p. 430.\n\n[360] Cf. W. Grimm, Kleinere Schriften, i. p. 468.\n\n[361] Rietz: Svensk Dialekt-Lexikon, 1867.\n\n[362] It may also be worth mentioning that just as there is a Bj\u00f6rn\u00f6\n(Bj\u00f6rn\u00f6 Lighthouse) near Landegode off Bod\u00f6, so is there mention of a\nBjarn-ey near Markland on the way to \"Vinland hit G\u00f3\u00f0a.\" This may, of\ncourse, be purely a coincidence; but on the other hand there may be some\nconnection.\n\n[363] Cf. P. A. S\u00e4ve: Hafvets och Fiskarens Sagor, spridda drag ur\nGotlands Odlingssaga och Strandallmogens Lif. Visby, 1880.\n\n[364] Norske Gaardnavne. Forord og Indledning. 1898, p. 39.\n\n[365] O. Nicolayssen: Fra Nordlands Fortid. Kristiania, 1889, pp. 30 ff.\n\n[366] Remark that thus in the Faroes Svin\u00f6i is also a fairy island, as in\nSunnm\u00f6r and at Br\u00f6n\u00f6i in Norway.\n\n[367] This astonishing etymological explanation of the ancient Ph\u0153nician\nlegendary islands of the Hesperides is evidently due to a confusion of\nBrandan's sheep-island with Pliny's statements [Nat. Hist., vi. 36] about\nthe purple islands off Africa (near the Hesperides) which King Juba was\nsaid to have discovered, and where he learned dyeing with G\u00e6tulian purple.\nThe idea that the sunken land Atlantis was where the \"Concretum Mare\" now\nis may be connected with the Greek myth which appears in Plutarch (see\nabove, pp. 156 and 182) of Cronos lying imprisoned in sleep on an island\nin the north-west in the Cronian Sea (== \"Mare Concretum\"), where also the\ngreat continent was, and where the sea was heavy and thick.\n\n[368] This is the same myth as that of Hv\u00edtramanna-land in the Eyrbyggja\nSaga; see later.\n\n[369] Cf. A. Guichot y Sierra, 1884, i. p. 296; Dumont d'Urville: Voyage\nautour du monde, i. p. 27. The same idea that the island withdraws when\none tries to approach it appears also in Lucian's description (in the Vera\nHistoria) of the Isle of Dreams.\n\n[370] Cf. P. S\u00e9billot, 1886, p. 348.\n\n[371] Cf. Harriet Maxwell Converse: Iroquois Myths and Legends. Education\nDepartment Bulletin, No. 437, Albany, N.Y., December 1908, pp. 31 f.\n\n[372] My attention has been drawn to this by Mr. Gunnar Olsen. Similar\nmyths are found in Japan [cf. D. Brauns, Japanische M\u00e4rchen und Sagen,\n1885, pp. 146 ff.].\n\n[373] Gr\u00f6nl. hist. Mind., i. pp. 144 f., 157 ff.\n\n[374] This belongs to the same cycle of ideas as that of the dead rising\nfrom their graves or from the lower regions at night, but being obliged to\ngo down again at dawn, or of trolls having to conceal themselves before\nthe sun rises. In the same way, too, the fallen Helge Hundingsbane comes\nto Sigrun and sleeps with her in the mound; but when the flush of day\ncomes he has to ride back to the west of \"Vindhjelms\" bridge, before\nSalgovne awakes. It has been pointed out above (p. 371) that the Ph\u00e6acians\nof the Odyssey sail at night.\n\n[375] According to the \"Guta-saga\" of the thirteenth century.\n\n[376] Cf. Moltke Moe's communications in A. Helland, Nordlands Amt, 1907,\nii. pp. 512 ff. In Brinck's Descriptio Loufodi\u00e6 [1676, p. ii] it is stated\nthat the mythical land of Utr\u00f6st in Nordland was called \"Huldeland.\"\n\n[377] Cf. F. Lot, \"Romania,\" 1898, p. 530. Moltke Moe has also\ncommunicated to me this curious tale.\n\n[378] Cf. P. Crofton Croker, 1828, ii. p. 259 f.\n\n[379] Cf. \"Lageniensis,\" 1870, pp. 114 ff., 294; Joyce, 1879, p. 408. V.\nB\u00e9rard [1902, i. p. 286] explains the Roman name \"Ispania\" (Spain) as\ncoming from a Semitic (Ph\u0153nician) root \"sapan\" (== hide, cover) denoting\n\"the isle of the hidden one,\" which he thinks originally meant Calypso's\nisle; this he seeks to locate on the African coast near Gibraltar. The\nexplanation seems very doubtful; but if there be anything in it, it is\nremarkable that Spain, the land rich in silver and gold, should have a\nname that recalls the huldre-lands (lands of the hidden ones).\n\n[380] Cf. E. B. Tylor: Primitive Culture, 1891, ii. pp. 63 ff.\n\n[381] Asbj\u00f6rnsen: Huldre-Eventyr og Folke-Sagn, 3rd ed., pp. 343 ff.;\n\"Tufte-folket p\u00e5 Sandfl\u00e6sen.\" Cf. also Moltke Moe's note in A. Helland:\nNordlands Amt, i. pp. 519 f.\n\n[382] The name of \"Lycko-P\u00e4r\" in Sweden for one who \"has luck\" [Th.\nHielmqvist, Fornamn och Familjenamn med sekund\u00e4r anv\u00e4ndning i Nysvenskan,\nLund, 1903, p. 267] has come from the Danish \"Lykke-Per,\" which is a\npurely literary production, and does not concern us here.\n\n[383] In Norway the \"nisse\" brings luck. \"Lycko-nisse\" in Sm\u00e5land (Sweden)\nis a \"luck-bringing brownie. Also used occasionally of little friendly\nchildren\" [Th. Hielmqvist, 1903, p. 224].\n\n[384] Cf. Moltke Moe's communications in A. Helland: Nordlands Amt, 1907,\nii. pp. 596 f.\n\n[385] Conceptions of a somewhat similar nature appear in the legends of\nArthur, where only the pure, or innocent, are permitted to see the Holy\nGrail.\n\n[386] The names Finmark (the land of the Finns or Lapps) and Finland were\noften confused in the Middle Ages (cf. Geographia Universalis, Eulogium,\nPolychronicon, Edrisi), and the latter again with Wineland (cf. Ordericus\nVitalis, Polychronicon). It should be remarked that Adam does not know the\nname \"Finn,\" but only \"Finn\u00e9di\" and \"Scritefini.\"\n\n[387] It must be remembered that Kv\u00e6nland (Woman-land), like Norway and\n\"the island of Halagland\" (!), were neighbouring countries to Sweden,\nwhere King Svein had lived for twelve years, the same who is supposed to\nhave told Adam so much about the countries of the North; and between\nSweden and Russia (Gardarike) there was also active communication at that\ntime.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nPassages in italics are indicated by _italics_.\n\nPassages in bold are indicated by =bold=.\n\nSubscripted characters are indicated by X_{subscript}.\n\nThe original text contains a few \u00e6 ligatures with circumflex diacritical;\nthese are not represented in this text version.\n\nSome of the Greek characters in the origianl text contain diacritical\nmarkings that are not represented in this text version.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In Northern Mists (Volume 1 of 2), by \nFridtjof Nansen\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "Wild Wolf - Jennifer Ashley"}, "text": " \nPraise for the Shifters Unbound Novels\n\nTIGER MAGIC\n\n\"Readers who revel in sensually incendiary paranormal romances featuring \u00fcberalpha male heroes and equally kick-butt heroines will lap up the latest installment in Ashley's Shifters Unbound series like a cat with a bowl of cream.\"\n\n_\u2014Booklist_\n\n\"A true paranormal romance that delivers well-developed characters, devious plot lines, steamy romance, and engaging dialogue. I love the balance created here between the sexy romance and the heart-pounding action.\"\n\n\u2014 _Smexy Books_\n\n\"Jennifer Ashley always delivers a captivating story and irresistible romance that I love to lose myself in and _Tiger Magic_ is no exception.\"\n\n\u2014 _Paranormal Haven_\n\nMATE CLAIMED\n\n\"One of my top paranormal romance series, with its complex political and social issues and some intense, hot romances.\"\n\n\u2014 _All Things Urban Fantasy_\n\n\"A must-buy series for paranormal romance lovers.\"\n\n\u2014 _Fiction Vixen_\n\n\"Another paranormal romance by Ashley is just what the doctor ordered. Her characters are intense and full of passion, and there's plenty of action in this fourth book in the Shifters Unbound series.\"\n\n\u2014 _RT Book Reviews_\n\nWILD CAT\n\n\"Danger, desire, and sizzling-hot action! _Wild Cat_ is a wild ride. Jennifer Ashley walks the razor's edge of primal passion . . . This is one for the keeper shelf!\"\n\n\u2014Alyssa Day, _New York Times_ bestselling author\n\n\"A riveting read, with intriguing characters, page-turning action, and danger lurking around every turn. Ashley's Shifter world is exciting, sexy, and magical.\"\n\n\u2014Yasmine Galenorn, _New York Times_ bestselling author\n\n\"Another excellent addition to the series!\"\n\n\u2014 _RT Book Reviews_\n\nPRIMAL BONDS\n\n\"[A] sexually charged and imaginative tale . . . [A] quick pace and smart, skilled writing.\"\n\n\u2014 _Publishers Weekly_\n\n\"An enjoyable thriller . . . [An] action-packed tale.\"\n\n\u2014 _Midwest Book Review_\n\n\"Humor and passion abound in this excellent addition to this series.\"\n\n\u2014 _Fresh Fiction_\n\nPRIDE MATES\n\n\"With her usual gift for creating imaginative plots fueled by scorchingly sensual chemistry, RITA Award\u2013winning Ashley begins a new sexy paranormal series that neatly combines high-adrenaline suspense with humor.\"\n\n\u2014 _Booklist_\n\n\"A whole new way to look at shapeshifters . . . Rousing action and sensually charged, MapQuest me the directions for Shiftertown.\"\n\n\u2014 _Publishers Weekly_ , \"Beyond Her Book\"\n\n\"Absolutely fabulous! . . . I was blown away . . . Paranormal fans will be raving over this one!\"\n\n\u2014 _The Romance Readers Connection_\n\nMore Praise for the Novels of Jennifer Ashley\n\nTHE DUKE'S PERFECT WIFE\n\n\"Fabulous . . . A sensual, gorgeous story that was captivating from the first page to the very last.\"\n\n\u2014 _Joyfully Reviewed_\n\n\"Ashley demonstrates her gift for combining complex characters; emotionally compelling, danger-tinged plotting; and a delectably sensual romance into one unforgettable love story.\"\n\n\u2014 _Booklist_ (starred review)\n\nTHE MANY SINS OF LORD CAMERON\n\n\"Big, arrogant, sexy highlanders\u2014Jennifer Ashley writes the kinds of heroes I crave!\"\n\n\u2014Elizabeth Hoyt, _New York Times_ bestselling author\n\n\"A sexy, passion-filled romance that will keep you reading until dawn.\"\n\n\u2014Julianne MacLean, _USA Today_ bestselling author\n\nLADY ISABELLA'S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE\n\n\"I adore this novel: It's heartrending, funny, honest, and true. I want to know the hero\u2014no, I want to marry the hero!\"\n\n\u2014Eloisa James, _New York Times_ bestselling author\n\n\"Readers rejoice! . . . A unique love story brimming over with depth of emotion, unforgettable characters, sizzling passion, mystery, and a story that reaches out and grabs your heart. Brava!\"\n\n\u2014 _RT Book Reviews_ (Top Pick)\n\n\"A heartfelt, emotional historical romance with danger and intrigue around every corner . . . A great read!\"\n\n\u2014 _Fresh Fiction_\n\n\"For a rollicking good time, sexy Highland heroes, and touching romances, you just can't beat Jennifer Ashley's novels!\"\n\n\u2014 _Night Owl Reviews_\n\nTHE MADNESS OF LORD IAN MACKENZIE\n\n\"A deliciously dark and delectably sexy story of love and romantic redemption that will captivate readers with its complex characters and suspenseful plot.\"\n\n\u2014 _Booklist_\n\n\"Mysterious, heartfelt, sensitive, and sensual . . . Two big thumbs up.\"\n\n\u2014 _Publishers Weekly_ , \"Beyond Her Book\" __\nTitles by Jennifer Ashley\n\nThe Mackenzies\n\nTHE MADNESS OF LORD IAN MACKENZIE\n\nLADY ISABELLA'S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE\n\nTHE MANY SINS OF LORD CAMERON\n\nTHE DUKE'S PERFECT WIFE\n\nTHE SEDUCTION OF ELLIOT MCBRIDE\n\nTHE UNTAMED MACKENZIE\n\n(An InterMix eBook)\n\nTHE WICKED DEEDS OF DANIEL MACKENZIE\n\nShifters Unbound\n\nPRIDE MATES\n\nPRIMAL BONDS\n\nWILD CAT\n\nMATE CLAIMED\n\nLONE WOLF\n\n(An InterMix eBook)\n\nTIGER MAGIC\n\nFERAL HEAT\n\n(An InterMix eBook)\n\nWILD WOLF\n\n**THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP**\n\n**Published by the Penguin Group**\n\n**Penguin Group (USA) LLC**\n\n**375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014**\n\nUSA \u2022 Canada \u2022 UK \u2022 Ireland \u2022 Australia \u2022 New Zealand \u2022 India \u2022 South Africa \u2022 China\n\npenguin.com\n\nA Penguin Random House Company\n\nWILD WOLF\n\nA Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 by Jennifer Ashley.\n\nExcerpt from _Feral Heat_ by Jennifer Ashley copyright \u00a9 2014 by Jennifer Ashley.\n\nPenguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.\n\nBerkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.  \nBERKLEY SENSATION\u00ae is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.\n\nThe \"B\" design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.\n\nFor information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,\n\n375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\n\nISBN: 978-0-425-26604-5\n\neBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61500-3\n\nPUBLISHING HISTORY\n\nBerkley Sensation mass-market edition / April 2014\n\nCover art by Tony Mauro.\n\nCover design by George Long.\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\n\nThe publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.\n\nVersion_1\n\n## CONTENTS\n\n_Praise for Jennifer Ashley_\n\n_Titles by Jennifer Ashley_\n\n_Title Page_\n\n_Copyright_\n\n_Dedication_\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\n_Excerpt from_ FERAL HEAT\nThanks go to my husband, without whose support my books would never get written, or cats or humans fed. I couldn't do this without him.\n\nThanks also go to my editor Kate, and my agent, Bob, who help make these books the best they can be.\n\nFinally, thanks go to the two Felines in my life, the White Monster and his brother, the Natural Disaster, for providing inspiration for the cub twins and their antics.\n\n## CHAPTER ONE\n\nGraham McNeil slammed his massive fist into the jaw of the attacking wolf just as his cell phone rang.\n\nHe got the wolf into a headlock and tried to reach for the phone, but the wolf fought and clawed, drawing blood, its breath like sour acid. Graham's Collar sparked heavy pain into his throat, while the Collar on the wolf he fought was dormant.\n\nWas this where things were going with the stupid-ass idea that all Shifters should have their pain-shocking Collars replaced with inert ones? Shifters at the bottom of the food chain would use their fake Collars as an excuse to try to claw their way up, like this Lupine was. The shithead was from the family of one of Graham's trackers and was supposed to be loyal to Graham, but today the wolf had decided to wait in Graham's house until Graham walked in alone, and jump him.\n\nIdiot. Graham had territory advantage, even if he still wore his true Collar, which blasted pain into him with every heartbeat. Time to show the attacking wolf who was truly alpha.\n\nGraham's phone kept ringing against his belt. Because Shifters were only allowed to carry \"dumb\" phones, he didn't have a fancy ringtone to tell him who was calling. The damn thing just rang.\n\nGraham grabbed the Lupine by the throat and threw it against the wall. The wolf howled, but did it stay down? Not for long.\n\nAs the wolf prepared another attack, Graham yanked the phone off his belt and flipped it open. \"What?\"\n\n\"Graham,\" came the breathless voice of his more-or-less girlfriend, a human called Misty.\n\nEverything slowed. Graham saw in his mind the curvy young woman with light brown hair she wore in a ponytail, her soft face, and her sweet brown eyes. Every thought of her was like a breath of air, snaking into his messed-up brain and trying to soothe him. Graham wished he was with her now, teasing her, kissing her, instead of trying to beat an insubordinate wolf into submission.\n\n\"I'm a little busy right now, sweetheart,\" Graham said loudly as the wolf landed on him. A wooden chair smashed under them as they both slammed to the floor\u2014damn, he _liked_ that chair. \"You break my TV, you're dead,\" Graham snarled.\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\n\"Not you, sweetie. I'll have to call you back.\"\n\n\"You can't. Graham, listen, I need you. They're . . . Oh, crap.\"\n\n\"What?\" Graham bellowed. \"Slow down. What are you saying?\"\n\n\"I have to go. I don't know when I can call you again.\"\n\nGraham's shift was coming. In a few seconds, he wouldn't be able to hold the phone, let alone talk. \"Wait!\" he yelled at her.\n\n\"I can't. I've got to go. Graham, I lo\u2014\"\n\nThe phone clicked, and Graham was shouting at a dead line. \"What? Wait! Misty! Fuck.\"\n\nHe threw the phone across the room and lifted the attacking wolf by the scruff of the neck. \"Would you stop, you asshole?\"\n\nThe wolf snarled, teeth snapping at Graham's throat. The wolf in Graham responded. He felt his body change, muscles becoming harder and leaner, face elongating to accommodate teeth, claws jutting from fingers that quickly became paws.\n\nWith an ear-splitting snarl, Graham went for the other wolf's throat, snapping teeth around fur.\n\nAt the last minute, the alpha in him told him not to kill. Graham was this wolf's protector, not its enemy. The wolf needed to be taught its place, not destroyed.\n\nNot that Graham wouldn't rough it up a bit. But quickly. He needed to find out what was wrong with Misty. The fear in her voice had been clear, the desperation palpable. _They're . . ._ What? _Here? Coming? Killing me?_\n\nGraham's Collar kept snapping arcs into his neck. He held on to the throat of the fighting wolf, not letting the Collar stop him.\n\nDominance didn't have anything to do with Collars, or pain, or fighting. Dominance was about putting full-of-themselves, arrogant Lupine Shifters in their place. Graham got the wolf on the floor and stepped on it, and then shifted to human again, breathing hard, his clothes in tatters.\n\n\"Stay down.\" The words were hard, final.\n\nThe wolf snarled again, then became human\u2014lanky, dark-haired, gray-eyed\u2014typical Lupine. Except this one was female.\n\nShe looked up at him, rage in her eyes. \"This isn't over, McNeil.\"\n\n\"Famous last words. Your dad sent you, didn't he? Thought maybe I'd mate-claim you if you couldn't best me, right?\"\n\nThe way she looked quickly away told Graham he'd hit upon the truth. She was naked, and not bad, but Graham hadn't been able to think about any other female since he'd met Misty.\n\nHe hadn't mate-claimed Misty, or even had sex with her. Graham had never had sex with a human before, and he feared he'd not be able to gentle himself enough for Misty. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.\n\nAlso, his position as leader of the Lupines in this Shiftertown was precarious. His wolves expected him to mate with a Lupine, to provide a cub who would be their next leader. If he went into mating frenzy with a human, the more old-fashioned of his wolves might try to solve the problem by killing Misty.\n\nBut Misty's phone call had his gut churning. Graham climbed to his feet. \"I've got to go,\" he said to the woman. \"I want you out of here by the time I get back. No more ambushes. If you want a mate, go chase some bears. They're always horny.\"\n\nGraham turned around and walked away. The best way to show submissives they were submissive was to indicate you didn't fear them jumping you the minute your back was turned. Making them know that if they did jump you, you'd stop them. Again.\n\nHis heart hammered with worry, the wolf forgotten, as he detoured to his bedroom to grab clothes to replace the ones he'd shredded with his shift.\n\nGraham left through the back door, mounted his motorcycle, started it, and rode noisily away from his house and Shiftertown.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"I'm asking you one more time, where is he?\"\n\n\"I said, ___I don't know._ \" __\n\nThe gang leader who held Misty against the wall by the throat didn't believe her. He'd caught her running out of the back of the shop, and he'd taken her cell phone, thrown it to the ground, and smashed it with his boot heel. She'd never seen the man before, but she guessed who he was\u2014a guy called Sam Flores who'd been in prison with her brother\u2014and why he'd come.\n\n\"You do know.\" Flores's breath was foul with cigarettes and beer. \"That him you had on your phone?\"\n\n\"No\u2014\" Misty broke off with a grunt as her head smacked into the wall. \"I don't know where Paul is. He took off.\"\n\n\"Lying bitch.\" Flores had blue eyes in a sun-darkened face, and dark hair streaked by strong desert sunlight. \"I'm going to beat you until you tell me where that asshole is. Then my boys and me will make you understand why you don't mess with us.\"\n\nMisty was so cold with fear, she couldn't feel anything anymore. She struggled, though she knew she'd never get away. Paul had been out making deliveries, and Misty really didn't know where he was. She'd called him before she'd called Graham, but she'd had to leave a voice mail, telling Paul to lie low. Paul had hiding places, but Misty didn't know where all of them were.\n\nFlores held her in place, the prison tatts on his fingers up close and personal. Behind him, his friends were smashing up her flower shop. Baseball bats smacked into the clear glass refrigerator doors that held her stock; pots filled with arrangements were thrown against the counter. Glass splintered and flew; the flowers, innocent, scattered everywhere. Broken stems and a river of petals littered the floor.\n\nThe gang boys got into the refrigerators and smashed the vases there to the floor. Water gushed across the cement and tile along with all the flowers. Cool, dank air, scented with roses, carnations, calendulas, daisies, and baby's breath wafted across the shop.\n\n\"You know you aren't walking out of here,\" Flores said. \"You might as well tell me where he is.\"\n\nMisty didn't bother to answer. If she would die here, the last thing she'd do would be to keep her little brother, Paul, safe. She'd taken care of him all her life, and she wasn't about to stop now.\n\n\"I don't think you understand,\" Flores said. \"It won't be easy. You'll be in so much pain by the time we're done with you, you'll be begging to die.\"\n\nFine, then Misty would beg to die. At least she'd been able to hear Graham's gruff, take-no-shit Shifter voice one last time. She thought about his strength, the tatts of fire on his arms, his hard face, and buzzed dark hair. Everyone thought Graham too tough, too mean, and too wild to tame, but Misty had seen what was in his eyes when he was around the two orphaned wolf cubs in his pack.\n\nShe'd started to tell Graham the secret inside her heart when the man with the callused fingers had snatched away her phone.\n\nThey were going to do whatever they wanted with her, and Misty would die. She was scared, but at least Paul had gotten away, and Graham's voice had given her strength to face what she had to.\n\nNot that she'd give up without a fight. _Go down swinging,_ her dad had liked to say. He should know; he'd had to fight for everything his entire life.\n\nThe men in her store\u2014five of them\u2014were armed, carrying pieces stuffed into back holsters, knives in boots and on belts. Misty had nothing but her fists and her flowers.\n\n\"Cops're coming,\" one of the men by the door said.\n\nMisty heard sirens. Probably Pedro at the convenience store across the lot had seen the break-in and called the police. But Misty knew better than to relax and be thankful the police were on their way. There would be a standoff, probably a gun battle, and someone would be shot. Most likely Misty.\n\nShe struggled to get away. Flores punched her twice in the face. Misty's head snapped back, and blood flowed from her mouth.\n\nFlores clamped his hand over her throat, cutting off her breath. He squeezed, not enough to choke her, but blocking off enough air to make Misty dizzy and sick.\n\nHe dragged her with him out the back door to the alley, the other four following. Two of the guys had motorcycles; the other two and the man who held Misty went for a pickup\u2014a Ford 250, all shiny and new. Big enough to shove Misty down into the backseat, tossing a cigarette-smoke-infested tarp on top of her.\n\nThe truck rumbled under her as it started. Then the pickup jerked, tires squealing, as it headed down the alley that ran behind the strip mall. Another turn onto the street, and they were off, carrying Misty who-knew-where.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty's pickup wasn't in her carport. Graham killed the engine on his Harley, stepped away from the engine's smell, and inhaled.\n\nEvery hackle he had went up, the wolf in him starting to snarl. Misty was gone\u2014Graham could scent how she'd left the house through the back door not long ago, gotten into her truck, and driven away. All as normal. She'd have gone to her store, as early as it was, to do whatever it was she did before opening for the day.\n\nWhy hadn't the woman told him where she was calling from? Graham's cell phone had indicated what number had called him, but Misty had been on _her_ cell, which meant she could be anywhere.\n\nGraham scented no struggle here, no fear or worry. Just Misty's fresh scent, overlaid with the flowers she worked with all the time. Graham couldn't catch a whiff of roses these days or the strong odor of what she said were Asiatic lilies without thinking of Misty.\n\nNo, _thinking_ of her wasn't the right way to put it. The scents conjured up her sultry voice, her uninhibited laughter, her soft face, and brown eyes that went shiny when she looked at him sometimes.\n\nThe images, sounds, and scents of her woke up Graham's needs too. He hadn't touched the woman, but he dreamed almost every night about running his hand up the loose skirts she liked to wear, freeing her hair from the ponytail, licking between her breasts . . .\n\nMisty had sounded terrified. Someone had been coming for her, and she was scared out of her mind.\n\nGraham swung back onto his bike, started it, and roared down the street again. He saw the people who'd come out of houses to watch him, wondering what the hell a Shifter was doing in their nice corner of the city, but Graham didn't care right now what they thought.\n\nHe turned out of the neighborhood and joined traffic on the 215 before he raced off on Flamingo, heading to the flower shop in this middle-class side of town. Shifters didn't come here much, confining themselves to the north side of Las Vegas and the desert not far beyond. The big hotels on the Strip and downtown didn't want Shifters scaring away tourists, so Shifters mostly stayed away, even though some Shifter women danced at nightclubs as the entertainment. Pissed Graham off, how Eric Warden, the Shiftertown leader, was all right with Shifter females doing exotic dancing for humans. One of the many reasons Eric was a dickhead.\n\nMisty's flower shop\u2014Flamingo Flowers\u2014was in a strip mall with other small retailers, which should have been quiet this early on a Saturday morning. Graham knew something was seriously wrong, even before he saw the smashed glass in Misty's doorway and the cop cars all over the lot.\n\nA couple of cops saw him, and Graham hesitated. He should get the hell out of there and have nothing to do with the city police, but if he left, he'd not be able to help Misty. She might be in there, and if she wasn't, he needed to get inside and sniff around to figure out where she'd gone.\n\nHe decided to approach as though he had every right to be there. Shifters weren't banned from _every_ store in town, just most of them. But not this one. Misty had sense enough to know that Shifters were good customers.\n\nGraham pulled his motorcycle next to one of the cop cars and dismounted. Next thing he knew, he was surrounded by five cops, who'd all pulled their weapons on him. One cop backed those up with a Taser.\n\nGraham's wolf fought to get out, wanting to go into a frenzy that would land the cops on the ground, their weapons broken. He clenched his fists, fighting the aggression he always had a hell of a time taming. When he'd lived in middle-of-nowhere Nevada, in a Shiftertown where his word had been law, Graham had never bothered damping down his wolf instincts. Now he was expected to live in a city of humans who treated him like he was some big scary animal that had escaped from the zoo.\n\nHe wanted to grab the guns from the cops and break them, just to scare them, but Graham dialed it back. He needed to find Misty.\n\nHe lifted his hands to show they were empty. \"Hey, this is my friend's store. I need to make sure she's all right.\"\n\n\"A human owns this store,\" the cop closest to Graham said.\n\n\"Well, no shit. Her name's Misty\u2014Melissa Granger. She called me, scared. She in there? Is she all right?\"\n\nMaybe watching Eric deal with humans for the last eight months had taught Graham something. The cops still eyed him warily but believed his worried tone.\n\n\"No one's inside,\" the lead cop said. He had black hair buzzed short, a flat face with acne scars, and a big nose. He held his Beretta steadily, still pointing it at Graham. \"Place is torn up.\"\n\n\"But her truck's here.\" Graham pointed at the black pickup sitting quietly in a space a little way from the cops. \"She was here. Where is she now?\" His fears mounted as he spoke. He couldn't stop the growl in his throat, couldn't stop the sparks on his Collar.\n\n\"This is a crime scene,\" the lead cop said. \"You don't need to be here, Shifter.\"\n\n\"No? This store belongs to my _friend_. My _friend_ might be in trouble. I don't see you doing anything about it.\"\n\nThe pistol didn't waver. \"Why don't you go back to Shiftertown so we can do our jobs?\"\n\n\"Why don't I go on in there so I can look around? Maybe figure out where she is?\"\n\n\"Turano, call Shifter Division,\" the lead cop said. \"We need to contain one.\"\n\nGraham stared at him and then moved his gaze to the one called Turano, who was reaching for his radio.\n\n\"Aw, screw this shit.\"\n\nThe cops tensed, expecting him to charge through them, but Graham turned his back and walked away, making for his motorcycle. He made a show of starting his bike, giving the cops a collective dirty look, before he pulled out of the parking lot.\n\nGraham rode down the street and around the corner, then took the delivery entrance into the alley behind the shops. There was one cop car back there, and one cop. Graham roared up, dismounted his bike, and headed for the back door.\n\n\"Hey!\"\n\nWhen Graham didn't stop, the cop drew. Graham whirled around and had the pistol out of the man's hand and broken into two pieces before the man could react.\n\nWhen the cop opened his mouth to yell, Graham punched him, once in the face, then once in the temple. The cop folded up, and Graham lowered him gently to rest against the wall.\n\n\"Sweet dreams.\" Graham stepped around the cop and through the door, which led to the back office and storage.\n\nThe thick steel door hadn't been forced, which meant it had been opened from the inside. Probably by whoever had broken in taking the back way out. A glance into the shop revealed a mess: flowers, glass, and water all over the place. A dripper that ran constantly inside the refrigerated section had broken open, turning the refrigerator into a lake. The water wasn't gushing anymore, which meant someone had been smart enough to turn it off.\n\nGraham stayed out of sight of the cops picking their way through the scene at the front door. He didn't have to go all the way into the shop though. He smelled Misty's blood, along with the scents of four\u2014no, five\u2014humans. Humans who smoked heavily, hadn't bathed in a couple of days, and one who'd been partaking of weed.\n\nGraham got all that from a few long sniffs. He also scented that they'd taken Misty out back and loaded her into a vehicle. He growled, his blood heating with rage, and went back outside.\n\nThe day was already warm, August in southern Nevada. Heat made scents brighter. Graham smelled motorcycles and a car or truck, and these had taken Misty away. Too bad scent couldn't tell him the make and models of the vehicles and where they'd been heading. Graham only knew they'd taken Misty.\n\nHe stepped over the unconscious cop, started up his bike, and rode out. A mile down the road, he pulled into another empty parking lot, took out his cell phone, and made a call.\n\n\"Hey,\" he said to the Shifter who answered. \"I'm gonna need some backup.\"\n\n## CHAPTER TWO\n\nMisty half woke when she was carried from the truck and into a house. Outside it was bright and hot, the day warming to its usual late summer temps. The men hadn't bothered to blindfold her, but Misty had no idea where she was. Somewhere in Las Vegas, but it was a big city. Her vision was still blurry from the blows to her face and from the long, hot ride stuffed in the back of the truck's cab, and looking around at the generic buildings didn't tell her much.\n\nThe house was cooler than outside, though it smelled of damp garbage. Stale cigarette smells overlaid those scents, ashtrays overflowing.\n\nThe man who carried Misty dumped her on a couch that was strewn with clothes. The couch's springs were broken, the cushions made of scratchy material, stuffing coming out the edges.\n\nThe leader sat down beside her. \"Do you know who I am, Misty?\"\n\n\"Sam Flores.\" The words stuck on her tongue. She needed water.\n\n\"That's right. Do you know why I'm looking for your brother?\"\n\nMisty licked her lips, tasting salt and dryness. \"You were with him in prison.\"\n\n\"Right again. And he screwed me royally. I just want to see him. To have a little talk.\"\n\n\"To kill him, you mean.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\nMisty drew a breath, trying not to gag on the living room's odors. \"He could have reported you. You'd still be in there if he had, maybe even in maximum security.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah, Paul was a little angel.\" Flores put his face close to Misty's. \"But I had a good thing going, until he screwed it up for me. He didn't think I'd get my parole, did he? Well, I have a good lawyer, who does what I want.\"\n\nProbably in exchange for the money Flores got for coke. Misty didn't know the whole story, because Paul still wasn't coherent about it, but apparently Sam had been good at drug dealing inside prison. Paul, whether he'd meant to or not, had helped an even meaner drug guy take away Sam's business. Paul hadn't explained very carefully, only that he'd had to choose between two evils. The second guy had promised to keep Flores away from Paul\u2014Flores and his boys had beaten Paul every day before that.\n\n\"You'll probably need that lawyer again,\" Misty said, her voice a croak.\n\n\"No, because no one's going to find you for a very long time, or your brother either.\" Flores held up a cell phone. \"Now, I was so pissed off I crushed your phone before I thought about it, and now, I'm going to need Paul's number. So tell me what it is without making a big deal, and I might go easy on you.\"\n\n\"I'm not about to tell Paul to come running over here so you can kill him,\" Misty said hotly. \"He's my brother. Would you do that to your brother?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Flores grinned. \"My brother's an asshole.\" He leaned closer. \"You have a choice, pretty thing. If you give me Paul's phone number, I won't hurt you so bad. If you don't, I'll just kill you now and take your body out to the desert. All right?\"\n\nMisty wet her lips again. She needed water, but thirst was the least of her worries. If Sam stabbed her or shot her, a dry mouth wouldn't matter.\n\nShe decided to gamble. What did she have to lose? \"All right,\" she said in a near whisper. \"But give him a chance to explain. He had no choice.\"\n\n\"Everyone has a choice. Even you, sweetheart, and you made the right one. What is it?\"\n\nMisty closed her eyes, repeated the number, and started to pray. She heard the little beeps as Flores punched in the digits, then the phone rang on the other end. In a few seconds, a harsh voice said, \"What?\"\n\nShe opened her eyes as Flores jerked. \"Who the hell is this? Where's Paul?\"\n\nSilence. Then the voice said. \"He's in the bathroom. What do you want?\"\n\n\"Tell him to get his ass on the phone.\"\n\n\"Shit.\" More silence. Then another voice. Not Paul, Misty knew, but one doing a close approximation of him. \"Yeah?\"\n\n\"If you want to see your sister again, you'll get out to where I might give her back to you.\" Flores gave directions down a highway then to a turnoff, way out of town, some remote place in the desert. \"I'm not going to wait long.\" He clicked off.\n\nMisty said nothing. Sam might decide to go ahead and kill her, and Misty would have to fight for her life. She would probably lose. But she had hope.\n\nShe had no idea who the Shifter was who'd answered as Paul, and she had no idea what Sam would do when he lured them out to the desert. But she knew Graham would be coming.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham rode out on his motorcycle, his nephew, Dougal, following. North out of town, then east on a county road, north on another dirt road, out into vast desert with knifelike mountains. The only vegetation was the creosote, with its long, slender white limbs and tiny gray green leaves reaching to the white blue sky.\n\nThe Mojave was a land of stark beauty, but it was deadly. The tourists who came to Las Vegas by the bucketload flew safely over this desert every day, but those who lived permanently in town knew its dangers. A human could die of dehydration and heatstroke out here quicker than he knew what was happening, and it wasn't much better for Shifters.\n\nMisty had been smart to trick her abductors into calling Graham. He'd grabbed Dougal, who'd come out to help, and told him to pretend to be Misty's brother. Dougal had convinced whoever was on the other end that he was Paul Granger, which didn't feel right to Graham. The man who had Misty couldn't be that stupid. Or else the guy wasn't afraid of whoever would come to him out in the hole in the desert. So, either he was overconfident, or he had a nasty surprise waiting.\n\nEither way, the man was dead. He'd taken Misty, and Graham was going to rip him open.\n\nShifters weren't allowed to kill humans though. A Shifter killing a human would bring human wrath down upon all Shifters.\n\nAll right, so maybe Graham would control his instincts and not do any actual killing. Maiming though\u2014maiming he could do. It's what he _would_ do, whether humans liked it or not.\n\nThe turnoff came up, and Graham swung his bike into it, Dougal close behind him. Graham wished he could have a little more backup than his messed-up nephew, but there hadn't been time. It was early in Shiftertown, when all the Felines slept heaviest, bears couldn't be bothered to get out of bed, and even the Lupines were sluggish. If he'd called Eric, who would have been the best backup, Graham would have had to waste a lot of time explaining. Eric loved explanations.\n\nThe rough dirt road narrowed with each mile and finally petered out. They were a long way from the paved county road now, even farther from the highway. The desert floor, Graham knew from long experience, wasn't the most stable of places to ride. What looked like solid earth could prove to be a crust for a giant dry hole, and washes hidden by brush opened out without warning.\n\nGraham's and Dougal's motorcycles were leaving a trail any simpleton could follow, but Graham didn't have time for stealth. The men ahead knew they were coming, they'd be armed, and they had Misty. The whole thing smelled of a big fat trap, but Graham would trip it and to hell with it.\n\nThey reached the appointed spot, which was at the bottom of a mountain. Around here, mountains began abruptly, rising straight up from the earth. No miles of foothills or gradual change in elevation, just horizontal and vertical.\n\nA mining shaft had pierced the earth here but had been filled in\u2014a mound of debris and stones protruded around rotted wood framing. An old shack, left over from the early part of the last century, squatted about twenty yards from the shaft. The tiny building had been reroofed at some point with corrugated metal, which was now square pieces of rust.\n\nFive human men stood around the shack, waiting, guns in hands. Graham stopped his motorcycle and got off, Dougal behind him.\n\nThe men ignored Graham and focused on Dougal, who was shorter and much lankier than Graham. When Dougal took off his helmet, giving them a good-natured and toothy wolf grin, the lead man shoved his gun into Graham's face.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"You mean Granger?\" Graham asked. \"He couldn't come.\"\n\n\"I want him. You were supposed to bring him.\"\n\n\"He was busy. I came to get Misty. If she's hurt, I'm going to kill you and not worry about it. We're a long way from town\u2014the humans won't find your bodies for a while.\"\n\n\"Yeah, it is a long way, isn't it?\" the gang leader asked.\n\nSomething was wrong. This guy, whoever he was, didn't look scared enough. He took in Graham's Collar and Dougal's. \"Two Shifters. I only need one.\"\n\nA growl formed in Graham's throat. \"Need one for what?\"\n\n\"I wanted Granger too,\" the man said. \"But, oh well, I'll just grab him later.\"\n\nWhat the hell was he talking about? Misty was inside the shack, Graham knew. He scented her in there, even over the fuel smell of the bikes and the rank odor of humans.\n\nFlowers and spice. That's how he always thought of her. Sweet and sassy.\n\n\"Get out of my way,\" Graham said.\n\nThe gang leader touched the end of the pistol to Graham's nose. \"No.\"\n\n\"I warned him, right?\" Graham said to Dougal. \"You saw me warning him? When Eric gives me crap about this later, tell him I warned him.\"\n\n\"You're funny, Shifter,\" the gang leader said, even as Dougal gave Graham a serious nod.\n\n\"Yeah, I'm a tub of laughs.\"\n\nGraham ripped the gun out of the gang leader's hands and smacked him hard in the face with it. The gang leader went back with a surprised grunt, hands going to his bloody mouth. As the other men started forward, Graham called the strength of his wolf and twisted the pistol in half. Pieces of metal and bullets rained to the ground.\n\nThe gang leader lifted his head, his nose and mouth dripping scarlet blood. \"That was stupid.\"\n\n\"But fun.\" Graham grabbed the man by his shirt, hoisting him high. Then he stopped being civilized and went for it.\n\nHe threw the leader into the knot of his men. They scrambled either to grab him or get out of the way, and Graham was on them. He punched, elbowed, jabbed, swept his boot across ankles to send the men to the ground.\n\nDougal joined the fray, laughing. Dougal had a lot of anger in him, and he loved the chance to work it off. These dumb-ass humans were the perfect targets. Let the kid take it out on them.\n\nHe heard Misty yelling from inside the shack, and thumping as she kicked the wall. Not in terror\u2014she was pissed off, probably bound and trying to get loose. _You go,_ _baby._\n\nGraham punched and kicked, spun and jabbed. He didn't bother becoming wolf or his in-between beast\u2014it was a pleasure to kick ass without even shifting. His Collar sparked, driving pain into his neck, but he didn't care. He'd care later, but not now. Pain didn't slow Graham down; it galvanized him.\n\nHe heard the boom of a pistol, and then blood was running hot down Graham's side, soaking his shirt. _Damn._\n\nThe man who'd shot him looked up in terror as Graham bore down on him, half shifting as he went. Graham tasted blood as he tore into the guy, and the pistol became a pile of broken metal.\n\nHowls filled the air behind Graham, but not howls of pain. Dougal had shifted, his wolf furious that someone dared wound the only parent he'd ever known. Fur flashed by Graham as Dougal, now a huge black wolf, charged the remaining humans standing.\n\nThey never had a chance to shoot. Dougal fought like a whirlwind, his Collar throwing sparks into the bright morning light. Graham slowed, his side hurting like hell, and watched as Dougal clawed and bit until the tough inner-city gang boys were pools of whimpering terror.\n\nThe leader managed to limp to the pickup parked behind the shack. Graham went after him, but the pain of the shot slowed him. The leader got into the truck and had it started up while Graham was still a few yards away.\n\n\"You're screwed, Shifter,\" the man said. Then the truck leapt forward, spun a little on the dirt, and rocketed down the track toward the road, leaving his yelling gang boys behind.\n\nWhat an asshole. He'd just run out on his own men.\n\nThe humans left didn't waste time standing around being mad. They ran for the motorcycles, Dougal's and Graham's included.\n\nGraham spun and tried to intercept them, but one guy punched Graham in the side, right where the bullet was. Pain blossomed in Graham's body, his Collar biting deeper agony into him. Graham grunted as he fell to his knees, and the guy managed to twist away and keep running.\n\nDougal's jeans lay forlorn on the ground near the bikes\u2014easy for one of the men to lean down and scoop up Dougal's keys. Graham leveraged himself to his feet, but the two men had reached Dougal's bike, starting it up. As Graham staggered toward his own bike, the second man on Dougal's motorcycle aimed his pistol at Graham's Harley and shot it again and again.\n\nGraham had to watch his motorcycle, the Harley Softail he lovingly worked on every day of his life, become as wounded as he was. The gas tank punctured, fuel poured onto the ground, and more bullets lodged in the engine.\n\nThe man driving Dougal's bike moved it out, following the others, leaving them stranded.\n\nGraham folded his arms over his stomach, trying and failing to draw deep breaths. He was in excruciating pain, and their way out of the desert plus all the water was racing toward the highway, a thin spiral of dust rising in its wake.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty kept tugging at the handcuff that held her to the one beam in the shack that looked stable. She'd been pulling and yanking to no avail, her wrist raw. She'd feared to pull too hard in case the whole shed came down on top of her.\n\nShe heard the vehicles roar away, and then the drawn-out howl of a wolf. \"Graham!\" she shouted.\n\nAnother howl came, holding a mournful note, and one of fear. Shifter wolves were supposed to be strong and terrifying, but this one sounded lost and alone.\n\n\"Graham!\"\n\n\"I'm right here, baby.\"\n\nGraham yanked open the door to the shack. His eyes held deep pain, the skin around his Collar was black, and blood oozed from behind the hand he pressed to his side.\n\nMisty tugged at the cuff again. \"Oh my God, you've been shot!\"\n\nGraham's voice was as strong as ever. \"Stop screeching. You're hurting my ears. And you\u2014\" He turned and yelled over his shoulder. \"Quit with the howling. I'm not dying. Not yet.\"\n\n\"I'll stop screeching when you call nine-one-one,\" Misty told him.\n\n\"Already tried. No signal.\"\n\nGraham kept his hand on his side as he moved stiffly into the shack. He latched his fingers around the cuff that bound Misty's wrist, yanked once, and broke the handcuff.\n\nMisty lowered her arm in relief. \"Can you ride? I might be able to drive your bike if you help me. I've never ridden a motorcycle before.\"\n\n\"Nope. The assholes shot up my bike, and took Dougal's, and their fearless leader took off in his pickup. They left us out here without water, transportation, or phones that work.\"\n\nHe sounded so calm. \"And you've been shot.\" Misty touched his arm, finding his skin hot and slick with sweat.\n\n\"Yep. But don't worry, sweetheart. I'm used to it.\"\n\n## CHAPTER THREE\n\nMisty started to shake. \"Oh, right. Don't worry. I was sitting here tied up, and you get shot, and you don't want me to worry.\" She swallowed, her throat dry. The thin-walled shack with its many cracks was like an oven. \"You're a shithead, Graham.\"\n\n\"That's what everyone tells me.\"\n\nMisty couldn't move her hand from his arm. She felt his strength beneath her grip, comforting her even now.\n\nGraham was a big man, loud-voiced and full of arrogance. Other Shifters were afraid of him, including his own wolves\u2014his Lupine pack, he called them. Humans backed away from him, and even Shifter groupies only watched him from afar, too scared to approach him.\n\nMisty, though, couldn't bring herself to be afraid of Graham\u2014or at least, not terrified of him. She remembered the first night she'd met him, in a Shifter bar called Coolers. She'd found herself sitting on a barstool next to him, Graham all banged up from a bout at the Shifter fight club. He'd looked disgruntled, angry, and very lonely. She couldn't ever forget what she'd seen in his eyes that night, a man searching for something, though he didn't know what.\n\nNot that Graham had ever showed Misty his softer side. But he'd let her see a hint that maybe he _had_ a softer side\u2014deep, deep, deep down.\n\nGraham turned from her, and Misty's fingers slid away from him. \"Dougal!\" Graham bellowed as he banged out of the shack. \"Stop whining. You need to take this bullet out of me.\"\n\n\"No, you need a hospital,\" Misty said, following him. \"Maybe we can make it to the road, or at least close enough to find a cell signal.\"\n\n\"I'm not walking anywhere, sweetie. I have a bullet stuck in my side, and it could lodge in a bad place if it doesn't come out now.\"\n\n\"Can't you shift . . . ?\"\n\n\"Sure. Then I'll be a wolf with a bullet stuck in my side that could lodge in a bad place. Dougal can take it out. He knows how.\"\n\nMisty didn't know much about Graham's nephew, Dougal Callaghan, who lived with Graham. Graham had said that Dougal's mom died giving birth to him\u2014 _bringing him in,_ Graham had called it. Dougal's dad had deserted him a long time ago, back before Shifters had been rounded up and put into Shiftertowns. Graham had never been able to find the dad, who'd probably gone feral, whatever that meant. Graham had raised Dougal himself, and apparently, Dougal had been a handful.\n\nDougal came running to them, in his human form now and stark naked. Misty's face went hot, and she spun around and faced the shack's sun-bleached wall.\n\n\"She's human,\" Graham growled at Dougal. \"She expects pants.\"\n\n\"Goddess,\" Dougal said in disgust then ran off again.\n\nGraham said nothing, making no apology. He leaned against the shack's doorframe and closed his eyes, his face losing a little color. Misty turned and laid her hand on his arm again, wishing she could do more.\n\nBut she wasn't an ER nurse, or a doctor, or anything useful like that. She ran a flower shop. She knew everything about flowers\u2014their names, types, and popularity; how they were cultivated; traditional meanings of each flower; which ones were appropriate for what occasion; how to arrange them; and which ones sold the best. Great information for running her business, nothing that would save a Shifter who'd been shot.\n\nDougal returned, jeans on and belted. The morning had turned hotter\u2014August days generally reached the triple digits. Clouds were forming over the mountains as well, signaling a monsoon storm that would be ready to come in during the afternoon. If the three of them were out here then . . . Storms had deadly lightning, high winds, and hail, not to mention the flash floods that tore along the washes and overflowed their banks. The three of them could be cut off until the washes ran dry again.\n\nDougal ducked under Graham's arm and helped him around the tiny shack to its shady side, where Graham stretched himself out on the ground. There wasn't enough room for him to lie inside the shack's small interior, especially when its floor was covered in rusty bits of metal.\n\nDougal peeled Graham's shirt from him, Graham grunting as the cloth came unglued from his skin. Graham's six-pack abs were covered with blood, which continued to seep from the slash in his abdomen. Dougal used Graham's shirt to wipe off excess blood then he stretched Graham's flesh apart and started to reach inside to pull out the bullet.\n\n\"Wait!\" Misty cried.\n\n\"Can't wait,\" Dougal said. \"He's going into shock. You have to help me.\"\n\nMisty's head spun, but she knelt beside Dougal. \"What do I do?\"\n\n\"Hold this open.\" Dougal indicated the lips of the wound. \"It's going to be messy.\"\n\n\"Not to mention not sterile,\" Misty said.\n\n\"We don't have a choice. Don't worry, I've done this lots of times.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Misty put her fingers where Dougal guided her. \"Graham gets shot often, does he?\"\n\n\"Not always Uncle Graham. But other Shifters. Hospitals were too far away from our old Shiftertown, and hunters liked to take shots at us.\"\n\nGraham gave another grunt. \"Hunters and old Craig Morris.\"\n\nDougal snorted a laugh. \"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Who was he?\" Misty asked. She pressed down as Dougal showed her and spread the wound. More blood poured out, which Dougal mopped up with the T-shirt.\n\n\"Old Shifter,\" Graham said. \"About three hundred years old when we were rounded up. He hated living so close to other Shifters\u2014he should have stayed in the wild and died with some dignity. He'd been alone a long time, and bringing him in and giving him the Collar was tough on him. He used to shoot anyone who came too close to his house. His eyesight was going by then, so his aim was usually off, but once in a while, he got lucky. _Shit._ \"\n\nDougal had dug his fingers into the wound. \"Press down hard,\" he told Misty. \"We have to keep him still. This is going to get bad.\"\n\n\"Don't worry.\" Graham's words were tight and faint. \"I'll try not to kill anyone.\"\n\n\"That's what you always say.\" Dougal put his hand on Graham's shoulder as he started fishing around for the bullet.\n\nGraham roared, fingers sprouting claws as he reached for Dougal's throat.\n\n\"Grab him!\" Dougal yelled. \"Hold him down. No matter what happens, hold him!\"\n\nMisty caught Graham's wrists and quickly laid herself across his chest and shoulders. She knew she wouldn't have the strength to grapple with him, so she used her weight to keep him down.\n\nGraham growled, his body rippling beneath her. Misty felt him change. Fur burst across his bare chest, his face elongated into a muzzle, and his eyes went silver gray.\n\n\"Don't shift!\" Dougal shouted at him. \"Hold him, Misty.\"\n\nMisty pushed her face at Graham's terrifying wolf one, which was emerging from his human's. His eyes were white gray, and full of pain, rage, madness.\n\n\"Stop!\" She tried to sound firm, but everything came out shaky.\n\n\"I'm touching it,\" Dougal said. \"Just . . . trying . . . to grab it.\"\n\nGraham's growls grew more fierce. Blue snakes of electricity arced around his Collar, the sparks stinging Misty's skin. She pressed him down, her head on his shoulder.\n\n\"Hang on,\" she said. \"Almost done.\"\n\nMore snarling, but she felt Graham strain to hold himself back. All that strength\u2014he could snap her in half and Dougal too, but he didn't. Graham's hands balled into huge fists, claws jabbing into his own skin.\n\n\"Hang on,\" Misty whispered.\n\n\"Got it!\" Dougal lifted his hand, coated with gore, and held up a piece of metal. He whooped in triumph, then grabbed the T-shirt and jammed it over the wound.\n\n\"Keep pressure on that,\" Dougal said to Misty. \"I'll try to find something to help patch the hole.\"\n\nMisty pushed down on the cloth, which was already red and sopping. Graham's face gradually returned to human, and his Collar ceased sparking. But his skin was sallow, his breathing rapid.\n\nGraham opened his eyes to slits, the silver gray of the wolf shining through. \"Was it good for you?\" he asked, his voice a scratch. \"'Cause it sucked for me.\"\n\n\"It really sucked for me too,\" Misty said, giving a breathless laugh.\n\nGraham reached for Misty's hand. She slid hers into his, his fingers barely squeezing.\n\n\"What do you know?\" Dougal said, returning from inside the shed. \"Duct tape.\"\n\nGraham let out a chuckle, closing his eyes again. \"One human invention that's useful.\"\n\n\"Lots of human inventions are useful,\" Misty said, babbling while Dougal peeled off pieces of tape and ripped them from the roll with his wolf teeth. \"Cars, for instance.\"\n\n\"Paved the world and clogged all the clean air with crap,\" Graham said. \"Destroyed Shifter territory and made us vulnerable to humans.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Graham.\"\n\n\"Sure thing, sweetheart.\" His eyes opened again. \"Are you going to tape me up anytime soon? Like before my guts fall out?\"\n\nDougal wiped the wound as clean as he could with the soaked T-shirt, then Misty helped him hold Graham's skin together while Dougal taped it closed.\n\n\"This will hurt like hell when you pull it off,\" Dougal said.\n\n\"Yeah, well, it hurt like hell going on,\" Graham said. \"Now you need to get out of here and look for a spot with a cell phone signal. If you have to go all the way back to Shiftertown for help, do it.\"\n\nDougal stared. \"You want _me_ to go?\"\n\n\"Yes, you. Misty will never make it across fifty miles of desert on foot, without water. Right now, I'm a wuss because I've been shot, had a hand dug into me, and am being held together with duct tape. That leaves you.\"\n\nDougal gazed out at the empty land, his fingers picking at the roll of tape in his hands, his face almost gray. Dougal, though in his early thirties, was considered barely an adult by the Shifters. Graham had told her Dougal had come through his Transition\u2014whatever that was\u2014and had been an adult for about a year. But though in years Dougal was older than Misty, in many ways he acted like a scared teenager.\n\n\"Your wolf can do it,\" Graham said. \"Follow the scent trail back to the dirt road. Call Reid, tell him what happened. And for the Goddess's sake, don't tell Eric.\"\n\nDougal nodded, but numbly.\n\n\"Promise me,\" Graham said. \"Not Eric. I don't want him all up in my face about this. He'll blab all over Shiftertown that I'm hurt, and we can't afford for some of my wolves to know that. Understand?\"\n\nDougal's eyes cleared a little, and he nodded again. \"Yeah, yeah, I got it.\"\n\n\"Now, go. It's getting hot, and I'm looking forward to that other human invention\u2014air-conditioning.\"\n\nDougal plucked his cell phone out of his pocket at the same time he unbuckled his jeans again. \"How am I supposed to carry this as wolf? If I have it in my mouth, I'll bite through it.\"\n\nGraham grinned and pointed a shaking finger at what Dougal had dropped. \"Duct tape.\"\n\n\"Shit,\" Dougal said.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nDougal at least hid in the shed as he shucked his clothes again and changed back to his wolf. In a few minutes, a black wolf with light gray eyes emerged from the shack, his fur shaggy and rumpled, his tail almost dragging on the ground.\n\nHe looked so dejected Misty wanted to put her arms around him and hug him, but she'd learned she shouldn't do that to a Shifter without permission. Shifters hugged each other all the time, including male-to-male hugs that would make some humans uncomfortable, but an outsider didn't join the hugging group until invited.\n\nMisty did give Dougal a gentle pat as she started taping the cell phone between his shoulders. Dougal growled while she fixed the phone in place, but his Collar didn't spark, which meant it wasn't a growl of aggression.\n\nDougal went to Graham before he left, pushing his muzzle at Graham's face. Graham let Dougal touch his wolf nose to Graham's, and Graham brought his hand up to pat Dougal's side. \"Go on,\" Graham said.\n\nWithout looking at Misty, Dougal turned away from them and trotted down the little hill and into the desert. Misty watched until the wolf slunk away into the shadows of tall creosote, and then he was lost to sight.\n\nMisty knelt next to Graham, who had closed his eyes again. \"Don't go to sleep,\" she said sternly. \"You lost a lot of blood. You need to stay awake.\"\n\n\"Shifter metabolism is different from a humans',\" Graham said without opening his eyes. \"I'll be fine.\"\n\n\"Then you need to stay awake to keep me from worrying about you. It's my fault you've been shot, so I need you to live.\"\n\nGraham's eyes opened a slit. \"How is this your fault? You didn't pull the trigger.\"\n\n\"You getting mixed up in my problems, that's my fault.\" Misty hugged her arms across her chest, her shirt sweat-soaked and dirty. \"I gave Sam Flores your number.\"\n\n\"That was smart. Stupid human thought I'd bring Paul out here so he could be ambushed and killed.\" Graham's brows drew together. \"Too stupid. Something's wrong.\"\n\n\"What's wrong is I need to warn Paul. If Sam tracks him down, he's screwed.\"\n\n\"Let's make sure we're not screwed first, all right? It will take Dougal a while to find civilization. Good thing Shifters heal fast.\"\n\nGraham already sounded a little stronger, but when Misty took his hand again, his grip was slack. \"All that with Dougal\u2014making him take out the bullet and then sending him for help\u2014you did that so he wouldn't be scared.\"\n\nGraham's grin cracked through dirt on his face. \"Yeah, you caught me.\"\n\n\"Will he be all right?\"\n\n\"Probably. He's been through a lot, and he's learned to be tough. Poor cub got stuck with _me_ to bring him up. I'm the alpha of the alphas, but Dougal's not that dominant. Other cubs gave him hell for it when he was growing up, and my pack still does. He's the natural choice to be my successor, but they know he's not strong. The minute I drop dead, they'll be all over him trying to throw him out and take over.\"\n\nMisty's mouth popped open. \"That's terrible.\"\n\nGraham shrugged. \"It's a Shifter thing. They won't touch him while I'm around, and I'm coming up with ideas to keep him safe. But having to fight back all the time has made Dougal stronger.\"\n\nMisty squeezed Graham's big hand. \"You're good to take care of him.\"\n\n\"He's my sister's son. I didn't have a choice. That's another Shifter thing.\"\n\n\"I bet you did have a choice. You could have had someone in your pack help you with him, right? You did it yourself because you felt sorry for him. You were being nice.\"\n\nGraham gave her a faintly startled look before his grin appeared again. \"Don't tell anyone, all right? I've got a rep.\"\n\n\"You're nice to me,\" Misty said, stroking his shoulder.\n\n\"Because you're sexy as hell.\"\n\nHe was joking. Graham always joked. In all the time she'd known him, he was either yelling at someone or joking with them. A serious talk was not something Graham did.\n\nAlso, in the eight months Graham and Misty had been going out, he'd never made any move to take Misty to bed. He'd kissed her . . . Wow, had he kissed her. Blood-sizzling, she-could-have-an-orgasm-just-kissing-him kisses. But nothing more.\n\nMostly Graham took her to clubs, like Coolers, or to out-of-the-way restaurants and bars that allowed Shifters. Other Shifters were always present at these sort-of dates, and much of the time, Misty had to drive herself to meet him there. Graham was very attentive during the dates, sitting with his arm around her, interested in her talk about her day and her opinions on whatever they discussed. When the date was over, he'd walk her to her pickup, kiss her good night, and wait until she drove safely out of the parking lot. Then she'd go home\u2014alone.\n\nMisty had been to Graham's house, where he lived with Dougal, but Graham had never let Misty go to the fight club\u2014an unofficial arena where Shifters battled it out with each other for fun. Misty also never stayed the night with Graham, and he'd never been inside her house, though he knew where she lived. He'd come to her flower shop once, but only once\u2014some customers had been reluctant to enter when he'd been there. Graham had decided he shouldn't scare away Misty's business, and never went back.\n\nThey'd never talked about their relationship. Graham didn't seem to be the kind of guy who wanted to discuss relationships. Misty was afraid he'd start ignoring her altogether if she brought it up.\n\nMisty had her own friends now in Shiftertown, like the party-happy Shifter girl Lindsay, and Cassidy, a wildcat who was the sister of the Shiftertown leader. Lindsay, the font of all Shifter gossip, told Misty Graham wasn't seeing anyone else, so that wasn't the cause of the distance he kept with her. He wasn't gay either . . . that fact would be all over Shiftertown too.\n\nGraham might die today. The sun was reaching its zenith, the shade from the shed narrowing to a sliver. In a few minutes, it would be gone altogether.\n\n\"Stay with me, Graham,\" Misty said, massaging his shoulder.\n\n\"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart.\"\n\nThe shade disappeared. The sun burned down on them, beating through Misty's thin tank top. She was in shorts too, which she wore when getting deliveries ready to go in the mornings, and the sun was hot on her skin.\n\nMisty had lived in southern Nevada long enough to know what over a hundred degrees felt like, and this was it. It might get up to a hundred and ten today, and possibly higher than that. Out here, the temperature of the desert floor could rise to a hundred and twenty and more.\n\n\"We need shade,\" Misty said.\n\n\"No kidding,\" was Graham's helpful answer. \"Not in that shed. Don't feel like lying on a rusty nail right now.\"\n\nBlood poisoning would finish him. There was only so much even Shifters could take.\n\nA nice cool cave with an underground spring would be perfect. That was too much to hope for, but the mountain they were up against might have a niche or something out of the sun. The mining shaft was out, even if it hadn't been filled in. Old shafts were dangerously unstable and full of vertical shafts that could drop hundreds of feet.\n\nMisty had done enough desert hiking to know that rocks in shade absorbed coolness overnight, and gave off that coolness during the day. Even on the hottest afternoons, a niche that had stayed in shadow all morning could be twenty degrees lower than the rocks just outside it.\n\nMisty squeezed Graham's shoulder again. \"I'm going to look for shade. I don't like to move you, but I don't want to watch you burn to a crisp either.\"\n\n\"I'm worried about you more.\" Graham reached for her hand, his brows drawing down. \"Humans die fast in the heat.\"\n\n\"I'm not that delicate. I'll be right back. Don't go away.\"\n\n\"You are that delicate. And you think you're funny too.\"\n\nMisty leaned down and gave him a soft kiss across his cracked lips, her own as dry. Graham could barely move his mouth in response.\n\nWhen Misty lifted her head, she saw a flash of naked emotion in Graham's eyes. Need, longing, loneliness, the weight of his position as alpha. On top of that, a tenderness for her.\n\nMisty stilled a moment, soaking it in. She'd never seen any kind of sentiment in Graham for her. Liking yes, and he'd charged out here to rescue her today, but she'd never seen this flash of stark feeling.\n\nShe hated that this might be the last time she saw it. If he died today . . .\n\nMisty wouldn't let him. She kissed Graham one more time then rose and brushed herself off. Graham watched her, still frowning. \"You be careful, understand me?\" he rumbled.\n\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"If I have to come looking for you, I'll be pissed off.\"\n\n\"I know.\" She sent him another smile. \"Be right back.\"\n\nGraham didn't answer. He moved a little, grunting in pain, but Misty made herself walk away from him.\n\nShe started for the ridge above them, finding a narrow wash that gave her a clear path upward through the scrub. She went slowly, picking her way along, the wash full of loose rocks. If she fell and broke something, they could both die out here before Dougal returned.\n\nMisty made for a fold of rock that jutted out into the slope from the desert floor. These mountains looked smooth from the distance, but close to, they were clumped with boulders, tough weeds, creosote, and critters. The critters were mostly lizards and birds for now\u2014not too many bugs liked the hot, dry afternoons. But in the evening, crawly things would be everywhere, including snakes. Snakes liked dusk, when they slithered out in droves to soak up the last warmth of the rocks. When the snakes emerged, so would the coyotes.\n\nMisty rounded one particularly large clump of boulders and was rewarded with the sight of a narrow opening between two big rocks. Going carefully, keeping an eye out for snakes that might have come out early, she squeezed herself through the niche.\n\nIt was a tight fit. Misty held her breath and inched along, promising herself she'd go back if it got too tight. She couldn't afford to get stuck, and if Graham couldn't fit, the shelter would be useless to him.\n\nOnce more step, and Misty popped through. She stopped, looking around in surprise.\n\nA giant cave opened out from the rocks, lit by sunlight streaming through a hole in the granite wall high above. Reflections danced everywhere, caused by a burbling spring that spread out into a pool at the far end of the cave.\n\n\"A nice cool cave with an underground spring,\" Misty whispered. \"What do you know?\"\n\n## CHAPTER FOUR\n\nMisty moved forward cautiously. The sound of trickling water made the thirst she was trying not to think about soar to life. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her lips were aching and cracked. She _needed_ that water.\n\nMisty wasn't stupid enough to rush to it, scoop it into her hands, and gulp it down. Water in wild places was likely to be contaminated, especially out here, between a city and a nuclear testing site. Misty might be dying for the water, but she'd be foolish to drink it.\n\nThe cave, however, was blissfully cool. If she could get Graham this short distance, they could wait for Dougal here.\n\nThe cavern was gigantic from what she could see, as though the whole inside of the mountain had been carved out. The cut in the rock high above, letting in light and air, kept the place from being too damp, but the water cooled it. The faint chill felt like the one in her flower room, always pleasant on a hot afternoon.\n\nHer flower room was nothing but smashed glass and petals now, Misty thought in sorrow. But she'd have to deal with her destroyed shop later. First, she needed to get Graham here where he could rest and cool down.\n\n\"Hey,\" a voice said.\n\nMisty jumped, her hand going to her chest, her heart banging. A man rose from the other side of the pool of water, where he'd been crouching in the shadows. He wasn't one of Flores's gang boys, she saw to her relief. He was a hiker\u2014tall, with blond hair messy from perspiration, wind, and dirt, and wearing a T-shirt, canvas shorts, thick socks, and hiking boots. A backpack, one of the huge kind that could hold supplies for a multiday hike, lay on the ground near him.\n\n\"You lost?\" he asked, peering at Misty. \"Want some water?\"\n\nYes, she wanted water. \"You didn't drink from that stream, did you?\" Misty's voice came out a croak.\n\n\"Didn't have to.\" The man held up a bottle. \"Brought it with me. You sound terrible. You need help?\"\n\n\"My friend does.\" Misty went toward him, stepping carefully, her sandals not made for desert walking. \"Some gangbangers shot him.\"\n\nThe man's eyes widened. \"Oh, jeez. Are they still around?\"\n\n\"No, they ran off. Leaving us stranded.\"\n\nHis eyes remained wide. They were dark eyes, a nice contrast with his light-colored hair. The man wasn't much older than Misty, she realized as she reached him. And in great shape. He was tall and lean, his muscles ropy, his skin tanned a liquid brown.\n\nHe handed Misty the bottle and watched while she took a sip. Then a gulp. The water tasted good, silken and smooth, cool from the insulated canteen. Misty kept on drinking until the last droplet flowed into her mouth.\n\n\"Sorry,\" she gasped. \"Didn't mean to drain it.\"\n\n\"It's all right. I have more. The water is supposed to be inside you, not the bottle. Did you call for help?\"\n\n\"Another friend went. We couldn't get a signal.\" Misty looked hopefully at the cell phone on his belt.\n\nHe shook his head. \"Lost contact about five miles back. Let's get your friend in here, out of the sun.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Misty felt better, first with the water wetting her mouth like sweet nectar; second, because she had someone to help her with Graham. This guy was strong. Everything would be all right.\n\nShe handed the canteen back to the hiker, and he gave her another one. \"Keep it. You need it, and so will your friend. Show me where he is.\"\n\nThe hiker followed Misty out through the crack in the rocks. The heat hit her like a wall, the sunshine seeming more intense after the cool relief of the cave.\n\n\"This way,\" Misty said as the hiker emerged behind her.\n\nThe shack was still in sight. Misty picked her way back down the wash, rocks rolling under her feet and those of the hiker behind her. Misty's soles were burning by the time she reached relatively level ground, her toes bloody from loose rocks.\n\nGraham lay where she'd left him, on his back, eyes closed, one hand behind his head. Misty jogged the last few yards and dropped to her knees beside him, alarmed by the too-shallow rise and fall of his chest. The blood had dried around the duct tape, but the flesh looked swollen and angry.\n\nGraham cracked open his eyes. His gaze was unfocused, and he could barely raise the lids. \"You came back.\" He sounded surprised, pleased, relieved.\n\n\"Like I have anywhere else to go. I found some help. There's a cave not far away, out of the sun. There was a hiker there, and he gave me some water.\"\n\nGraham blinked a few times. He sniffed once, twice, then turned his head and inhaled in Misty's direction.\n\n\"I don't like the way you smell,\" he growled.\n\n\"Thanks a lot. You're pretty rank yourself.\"\n\nGraham didn't smile. \"I mean you smell . . . wrong. What hiker?\"\n\n\"Him.\" Misty looked up to point at the thin guy, but he wasn't there.\n\nShe stood up, scanning the wash and then the desert around them. She didn't see him anywhere. \"He was right behind me.\"\n\nGraham struggled to raise his head, grunting with effort. Misty knelt beside him again. \"Stop. Let me give you some water.\"\n\nMisty unscrewed the canteen's lid, its slender chain clanking against the container's metal side. She put her hand behind Graham's head and supported him while she more or less poured the water into his mouth.\n\nGraham made a face and tried to spit it out.\n\n\"No,\" Misty said firmly. \"Drink it. It's more important for the water to be inside you than in the bottle.\"\n\nThe hiker had said that, but he was right. Graham held his breath and swallowed the water, scowling the entire time. \"Rank,\" he said.\n\nMisty had thought the water tasted good, possibly because she'd been parched. \"Have some more,\" she said.\n\n\"No. I'll live.\"\n\nGraham tried to sit up and ended up crashing down again. \"Shit. Hurts.\"\n\n\"No kidding. Do you think you could make it up to the cave? It's getting hotter.\"\n\nGraham looked up the rise to the boulders on the ridge and took a breath. \"Yeah, I can make it. Give me a second.\"\n\nHe closed his eyes again. Misty looked down at him, at his hard, square jaw, firm cheekbones, forehead now creased with dirt. Graham's hair was black, but he kept it buzzed short, a thin wash of darkness on his scalp. Graham couldn't be called handsome, not like some of the other Shifters Misty had met, but there was something about him that made Misty like looking at him. His large body was hard with muscle, his face firm, eyes an intense gray that could pin even the boldest of people in place. A strong man, who even now strove not to show weakness.\n\nAfter a few minutes, Graham opened his eyes again and nodded. Misty helped him sit up and then, after another time of rest, she helped him to stand.\n\nGraham fell against her as soon as he gained his feet, and Misty struggled to hold his weight. After a while, he was able to move, and Misty guided him back to the rise, Graham's every step labored.\n\nMisty looked around for the hiker as they climbed up the wash, but she didn't see him. She hoped he was all right, but the desert could be treacherous.\n\nIt took much longer to reach the niche in the rocks again, but finally Graham and Misty came to rest on the level ground near the boulders.\n\nGraham stiffened as he leaned against the rocks, and he inhaled sharply. \"In there? Are you crazy? I'm not going in there.\"\n\n\"It's a giant cave,\" Misty said. \"It's cool inside\u2014it gets bigger after the entrance. What's the matter?\"\n\nShe started through the niche. Graham gave a long growl, then sucked in a breath of pain as he pushed in behind her. She reached back and grabbed his hand, guiding him through.\n\nThey emerged into the cave . . .\n\nBut it was the wrong cave. The hollow in these rocks was cool, but nowhere near as big as the cave in which Misty had found the hiker. This niche was only about five feet deep, ending in a solid granite wall. There was no sign of the pool, or any water at all.\n\n\"Damn,\" Misty said. \"That cave was perfect. But at least you can rest here out of the sun. I can look again for the other one. It can't be far away.\"\n\nMisty turned to leave, but Graham clamped his hand over her wrist. For a wounded man, he had a lot of strength.\n\nHis eyes were clear now as he glared down at her. \"Give me that water.\"\n\n\"What?\" Misty fumbled with the canteen at her waistband. \"You could say _please_.\"\n\n\"I'm not joking. Give it to me.\"\n\nGraham was standing upright, without support, and no blood at all leaked around his wound. The tattoos on his arms were stark against his skin, almost luminous in the shadows.\n\nMisty handed him the canteen. Graham jerked it from her, unscrewed the lid, and took a long sniff of the water inside.\n\n\"Shit.\" His expletive filled the little cave before he upended the canteen and poured the water all over the dirt floor.\n\n\"No!\" Misty shot her hands out, catching the falling droplets in her cupped palms. She brought her hands to her face and slurped the water, not caring how dirty she was.\n\nGraham slapped her hands down, and the last of the water was lost.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" Misty asked in a near screech.\n\n\"The hiker, where is he?\"\n\n\"I told you, I don't know.\" Misty licked her lips, needing every drop of the beautiful water. \"He was right behind me. I didn't see where he went.\"\n\n\"Shit,\" Graham said. \"Shit. Shit. Shit.\"\n\n\"Graham, _what_ is wrong?\"\n\n\"Damn it.\" Graham scrubbed one hand over his short hair as he paced in a circle in shallow cave. \"I drank that water.\"\n\n\"So did I.\"\n\nGraham stopped. He grabbed Misty by the shoulders and yanked her to him, not gently. He looked into her eyes, his brows coming together. \"You seem okay.\"\n\n\"I'm fine. You're the one who was shot.\"\n\nGraham released her and stepped back. \"I know. And look at me.\" He put his hands on his hips, standing upright. His face was no longer drawn and gray, and the spent look was gone from his eyes. He looked hale and well, tall and strong.\n\nGraham ripped the tape from his side. Underneath, his skin was whole, the only thing left of the wound a patch of dried blood. He was completely and undeniably healed.\n\nMisty reached out and touched his side to find warm, firm flesh. \"I guess Shifters do heal fast.\"\n\n\"Not _that_ fast. There was magic in the water, and there's only one kind of magic going around these days. At least around Shifters.\"\n\n\"Magic? What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Bastards. They'll do anything to get Shifters under their power again, and you went and handed me to them. Damn it.\" He turned away, pacing again. \"This is what I get for being nice to a human.\"\n\nMisty took a step back. \"What the hell do you mean I _handed_ you to them? _Them_ who? I didn't hand you to anybody.\"\n\n\"You forced that water into me. Now I'm screwed. _Shit._ \" Graham balled both fists and slammed them into the rock wall.\n\nHe hit so hard Misty expected his fingers to break, but the wall chipped, and dirt pattered down like rain. Graham hit the wall again and again, the curse word sounding with each slam. He was enraged, and behind the rage on his stiff face, Misty saw fear.\n\n\"Graham, _what_ is wrong?\"\n\nHe swung to her. His eyes were white gray, a wolf's eyes, and his snarl filled the cave. \" _You_ are what is wrong. Don't you understand? You have _fucked me over_.\"\n\nMisty's lips parted, her breath hitching. He was furious, more so than she'd ever seen him, and he was mad at _her_.\n\nEmotions tumbled through her. She'd been terrorized this morning, her fear for her brother overriding her fear for herself. She'd been rescued by Graham, who'd looked pissed off to do it. Then she'd been in danger of dying of heatstroke while she watched Graham start to expire with a bullet in his side. And now Graham was standing here, yelling at _her_.\n\nWords wouldn't come, and neither would her breath. Misty turned her back and walked outside. The sun was beating down hotter than before, afternoon well underway, but she didn't care.\n\nGraham came after her. He didn't bother to stop her; he pushed past her and started down the hill.\n\nA plume of dust rose in the desert about a mile away, a vehicle approaching. Graham went on down the wash, stepping through the slithering stones with agility. Misty picked her way down, the soles of her sandals split, her feet burning.\n\nThe dark spot in front of the dust plume enlarged until it became a large black pickup. It skidded a little in the soft dirt as it turned off the track and headed for the shack and Graham.\n\nEven before the truck stopped, Dougal leapt out of the back door of the four-door cab, clad in a new shirt. Dougal ran at Graham, hurtling himself into Graham's arms like a scared adolescent. Graham gathered his nephew into his embrace, holding him, rubbing his back.\n\nThe pickup halted, the driver's and passenger's doors opened, and two men got out of the cab. Misty recognized them as she drew near\u2014Diego Escobar, a human who was the mate of her friend Cassidy, and Stuart Reid, a tall man Misty had met only a few times. Reid wasn't Shifter, but he lived in Shiftertown and didn't talk much about his past. He used to be a cop, as had Diego. Now they both worked for Diego's private security company, DX Security.\n\nMisty pressed her hand to her side and hurried the last few yards, breathing hard. The two men and Graham turned to watch her, but Dougal kept his face buried in Graham's shoulder.\n\n\"Please say you have water,\" Misty said as she reached them.\n\nDiego silently held out a sports bottle. Misty upended it, pouring the liquid in a stream into her mouth. The water didn't taste anywhere near as good as the water the hiker had given her, but it was wet, which was the point.\n\n\"We need to get out of here,\" Graham said.\n\n\"That's the plan,\" Diego said then turned to Misty. \"You okay?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" she said. \"Now that there's water.\" She took another long drink.\n\nGraham ignored them and pushed his way to the truck, Dougal still hanging on him. Without a word, he continued to the truck bed, where he convinced Dougal to turn him loose so Graham could lift his ruined motorcycle into the back, then they both climbed in with it.\n\nDiego watched Graham, a puzzled look on his face. \"I thought he got himself shot.\"\n\n\"He did,\" Misty said, too weary to go into details. \"Can we go home now?\"\n\nDiego opened the pickup cab's back door. \"Your carriage awaits.\"\n\nMisty gave him a weak smile and let him help her up into the cool interior. Diego had the air-conditioning going full throttle, the icy blast making her blink. Misty leaned back into the soft leather of Diego's custom seats, thinking nothing had ever felt so good.\n\nDiego slid into the driver's seat. Reid, who'd not said a word, was at the back of the truck talking to Graham. Misty couldn't hear what they said, but Reid wore a worried expression as he scanned the desert.\n\nReid then climbed into the pickup's bed, still conversing with Graham. Diego said nothing, only put the truck into gear and pulled out.\n\n\"Can I borrow your phone?\" Misty said, her voice thin and tired. \"I need to call my brother.\"\n\n\"Already taken care of,\" Diego said. \"Your brother is safe, in Shiftertown, in fact. _My_ brother and a couple of my guards are at your house, making sure no bad guys show up there. Paul's at Eric's house, which is where we're headed.\"\n\n\"No,\" Misty said sharply. \"I want to go home.\"\n\nDiego looked at her in the rearview mirror, surprise on his face. \"Your brother's worried about you.\"\n\n\"Keep him safe, and thank you. But I need to be alone for a little bit. Tell Paul I'm fine, and I'll see him later. If my house is safe, I want to go there.\"\n\nDiego still looked puzzled, but he didn't argue.\n\nMisty dozed off once the truck left rutted road for smooth pavement. The pickup's deeply tinted windows kept out the sun and leather seats cradled her body.\n\nThe sleep didn't refresh her, though. Flashes of dreams struck her\u2014Graham with blood all over him, Flores's pockmarked face when he'd pushed it close to hers, the despair when she'd been locked in the hot shack. Threading through these visions was the remembered sensation of the wonderful, sweet, clear coolness of the water. Misty wanted more. She had to have more.\n\nThe truck jerked as Diego slowed for traffic on the freeway, and Misty woke. The dreams fled, and she couldn't remember them when she reached for them. But she was still thirsty.\n\nDiego pulled off the freeway and took the streets to the ordinary suburban neighborhood where Misty lived. In a short time, he was pulling into her driveway, the house a welcome sight.\n\nGraham was up and out of the pickup's bed as Misty opened the cab's door and let Diego help her out. She started for her front door but realized in dismay she didn't have her keys. They'd be at the shop in her purse, still locked in her desk drawer.\n\nDidn't matter. Diego's brother Xavier pulled open the house's front door from the inside, looked around, then gave a thumbs-up to Diego.\n\nGraham got in front of Misty as she went up the walk. \"Where the hell do you think you're going?\"\n\n\"Inside.\" Misty motioned to the door where Xavier waited. \"I live here.\"\n\nDiego raised his brows, looked at Graham, and then turned and moved discreetly back to the pickup, pulling out his phone to text someone.\n\n\"You'll be safer in Shiftertown,\" Graham said, his voice a growl.\n\n\"But I want to stay here.\" Misty shook her head. \"Thank you for helping, Graham, and I'm sorry you got hurt because of me.\" She paused. Xavier had retreated inside the house, as discreet as his brother, leaving her and Graham relatively alone. She drew a breath. \"But don't call me again.\"\n\n\"What?\" Graham's focus shot to her, the distraction of his fear and anger gone. His eyes burned, every part of his unnerving attention on her.\n\nMisty stepped into the shade of her small front porch. \"I said don't call me. I'm done.\"\n\n\"Done with what? What the fuck are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Graham.\" Misty made herself walk inside the house and start to shut the door.\n\nShe thought Graham would grab the door at the last minute and charge in after her, raging all the way, but he only stood there, amazingly still, his wolf eyes going silver as she closed the door in his face.\n\n## CHAPTER FIVE\n\n_T_ _his is what I get for tangling with a human._\n\nGraham repeated this to himself all the way back to Shiftertown. He and Dougal were now riding inside the cushy cab of Diego's truck, in the backseat, the air conditioning on too high for Graham's taste. But Graham wanted to ride inside because Dougal still needed Graham's reassuring hugs, and Graham didn't want the dumb-ass human police seeing Dougal basically on Graham's lap, and pulling them over. Dougal wouldn't last against human police right now\u2014he might do or say something stupid and get them all arrested.\n\nIn fact, humans were pains in the ass all the way around. Graham would keep that fact to himself while Diego, a human, was driving them home. Plus Diego had found Graham a clean T-shirt, black with a tiny _DX Security_ logo on it.\n\nBut for the most part, humans weren't worth the time. Misty was a distraction for him, and Graham didn't need distractions right now.\n\nHer scent, that was most distracting of all. A scent Graham could wrap around himself until everything bad went away. Misty's smile was pretty good too. He remembered when he'd first seen her in the bar\u2014she'd given him that sweet smile and asked if he was Shifter.\n\nThe smile had been completely absent this afternoon when Misty had said, _I'm done,_ and closed the door on him. The __ finality of it bore into Graham's heart.\n\nLike he needed a human in his life. Graham's day had been hell since he'd woken up. First the Lupine woman had attacked him in his own house, sent to try to get Graham to mate with her. Then Misty's scared voice on the phone. In the seconds he'd heard her, he'd known that nothing else mattered but finding Misty and making sure she was all right.\n\nShe hadn't been all right. He'd had to fight for her, which had led to him getting shot. Then he'd slowly baked in the sun until Misty made him drink water a Fae had given her.\n\nGraham knew the \"hiker\" Misty had stumbled upon had been Fae. Reid agreed. The cave she'd described, which had mysteriously disappeared, screamed of Fae. They must have been on a ley line out there in the desert, one of the lines of magic that crisscrossed the world. Stone circles were found on them as well as other mystical places\u2014Fae loved ley lines.\n\nGraham remembered how the gang leader had smirked and said he only needed one Shifter. One Shifter for what? To give to the Fae lurking nearby? For _what_?\n\nNo wonder the human had been stupid enough to give Graham directions to his location instead of setting up a dead drop. The human had planned to give him to the Fae. Why, Graham had no idea.\n\nDidn't matter though, did it? Graham had drunk the effing water. It had cured his gunshot wound almost instantly, but Fae cures came with a price. Whatever else the water had done to him, he wasn't sure yet.\n\nHe'd planned to talk it over with Misty when they got to Shiftertown, where he'd explain everything to her. Diego, the traitor, had taken her home instead. Fucking humans.\n\n_I need her._\n\nGraham banished the voice inside his head. He didn't need Misty. He needed to take a Lupine mate, and soon. Dougal wasn't a natural leader, and his wolves were getting restless because Graham had no other heir. He had to establish his dynasty, have strong cubs of his own who'd protect Dougal as family.\n\nPlus, he needed to keep the wolves he'd brought to this Shiftertown under his control. The human government, trying to consolidate and save money, had closed the Shiftertown in Elko last year and shunted all Graham's Shifters here, expecting Graham and Eric, two powerful alphas, to decide who would lead. The humans had created a powder keg begging to explode. Some of Graham's Shifters were near to feral, having lived close to the wild for so long.\n\nThe few Lupines participating in the experiment to take off Collars were getting too big for their britches, like the female this morning. Collars didn't make or unmake dominance. The idiots needed to learn that. Collars just shocked you. Graham had decided to keep his Collar to prove no one would be able to best him despite the torture device around his neck.\n\n_No,_ he thought, as the pickup turned onto the streets of Shiftertown, _I don't need a human woman in my life to screw me up right now_.\n\n_I'm done,_ Misty had said.\n\nWhy did those words echo over and over inside his head?\n\nDiego pulled the truck into the driveway of Eric's house. Eric Warden sat on a bench on his low-roofed porch, his bare feet up on the thick wooden railing. He didn't bother to rise when the truck pulled up, only turned his head to watch them stop and get out.\n\nEric was like that, acting all laid-back and too lazy to do anything. The truth was, he was the dominant Feline\u2014the dominant Shifter\u2014of Shiftertown, and he could switch from laid-back kitty cat to killing machine in a heartbeat.\n\nHis mate, Iona, came out of the house with a little more animation. Iona was a sassy sweetheart, even more so now that she was pregnant and about to drop her first cub. Her wildcat was mostly panther\u2014which, everyone had explained to Graham, was a rare, black form of leopard. Explained why she and Eric, a snow leopard, got along so well. The pair of them could be scary as hell when they wanted to be, but mostly they sat around looking pleased with themselves. _Felines._\n\nIona started to ask, \"What exactly happened?\" as Graham lifted his bike out of the back of Diego's truck, but Graham cut over her words.\n\n\"We need to contain those humans, Warden. They hurt Misty, and I'm not letting them get away with that.\"\n\nAnother human came out of the house\u2014Paul, Misty's younger brother. He had dark brown eyes, like Misty's, and he was rawboned and lanky, like Dougal. He'd shaved off his hair during his time in prison, but he looked too young for the buzz. For a human, he was full-grown, twenty-three or something like that, but still he looked very young.\n\nHe'd been in prison for the last five years, serving a sentence for riding in the back of a stolen car when it had gotten into a wreck that killed other humans. Paul's lawyer had finally gotten him parole six months ago. Graham had been partly responsible for his parole\u2014he'd growled at Eric and Diego until the two had used their influence in the law enforcement system around here to get the kid released.\n\n\"Is she all right?\" Paul asked anxiously. \"Where is she?\"\n\n\"Home,\" Graham said. \"She needed a break, all right?\"\n\nEyes focused on Graham. Two pairs of Feline eyes, Lupine ones from Dougal, the human eyes of Paul and Diego, and the weird, black-hole eyes of Stuart Reid.\n\nGraham had seen a glimmer of pure rage in Reid's dark eyes when Graham had told him about the Fae. Reid hated Fae\u2014he called them _hoch alfar_ \u2014hated them more than Shifters did . . . Nah, that wasn't possible.\n\n\"She's _fine_ ,\" Graham said into the silence. \"Xavier is looking out for her. But we have to cut it off at the source. If we get the leader, the rest will go down easy.\"\n\n\"Already being taken care of,\" Eric said mildly. \"Diego?\"\n\n\"DX Security tracked down Sam Flores and his gang nursing themselves at their safe house. Looks like you and Dougal ripped them up pretty good. I dutifully reported Flores's criminal activity to the police. I know guys on the force who were happy to shovel Sam Flores and his boys back into prison. They broke their parole, so they're history. My friends found Dougal's motorcycle and are returning it to the DX Security offices as we speak.\"\n\nGraham had meant something more permanent for Flores, like quietly breaking his neck and burying him somewhere no one would find him. That's what Flores had intended to do to Misty and Paul, and Graham saw no reason to be lenient.\n\nBut human justice was different from Shifter justice. Graham knew he had to let Diego take care of it, much as it chafed him. Diego had been a very good cop, with awards and everything, and the humans respected him, even after he'd mated with a Shifter.\n\nDiego's Shifter mate came out of the house now, carrying their eight-month-old cub, Amanda. Attention left Graham and turned to the baby, who looked fearlessly out at the world from the safety of her mother's arms. She had Diego's dark hair but Cassidy's Feline green eyes. Diego had been surprised by the green eyes, but genetics worked a little differently for Shifters. Amanda would be Feline, like Cassidy, but because she was half human, she'd not change into her Feline form for a few years yet.\n\nCassidy smiled at Diego, her love for her human obvious. Diego had gone through a Fae magic ritual that would extend his lifespan to be close to what Cassidy's natural one would be. Graham had always wondered why the Fae had agreed, centuries ago, to perform this service for Shifters who took human mates, but he'd never bothered to track down a Fae and ask him. Graham stayed as far away from anything Fae as he possibly could.\n\nWhich brought him back around to the current problem. The shot he'd taken was a flea bite compared with what the Fae had potentially done to him.\n\nAnd no one could know. Graham had told Reid, but Reid could keep his mouth shut. If any hint got out among the Shifters that Graham might be Fae-touched, he'd be finished. His wilder Lupines might try to kill him and take over his power. Eric would try to stop them, and then there'd be a battle to the death, a bloodbath the Collars couldn't slow. Eric would win in the end, but a lot of good Shifters could die, including cubs.\n\nThis was turning out to be one hell of a day.\n\n\"I'm going home,\" Graham said. \"Call me if you need help taking out the humans.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Graham,\" Paul said after him. \"For helping her.\"\n\nGraham made an indifferent wave. \"Whatever.\" He and Dougal, who still didn't want to move more than a step away from Graham, went home, wheeling Graham's broken bike between them.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham lived in the new section of Shiftertown, where houses were still under construction. Graham's house and about six others were completely done, the others nearing completion.\n\nBecause Graham was a leader, he'd insisted on his house being bigger than the others. Eric might play _I'm-the-same-as-you_ with his Shifters, but Graham decided to never let others forget his position. A Shifter played with fire if he did.\n\nThe newer houses were more modern looking than the ones on Eric's street, with stucco and tile, and lots of windows. Graham's house had a second floor. The older portion of Shiftertown had been built in the 1960s, when people kept out the heat with small windows set high under the eaves, thick outer walls, and flat, white roofs. Graham had insisted on more modern insulation and double-paned windows, and Iona, who owned the construction company that built the houses, had agreed.\n\nAll the new houses had air-conditioning that worked, so Graham walked into a cool haven. He shut the door behind him and Dougal and let out a sigh of relief.\n\nDougal was still stressed. Graham could scent it on the lad, sweat mixed with panic and exhaustion.\n\nGraham turned to his nephew, who was starting to curl in on himself, straightened him up, and pulled him into another hard hug. Graham had been doing this for thirty years, he realized\u2014holding Dougal while he grew up.\n\n\"You did good out there.\" Graham patted Dougal's back and tightened the hug. \"You knew exactly what to do, and you brought help in time. We made it, and we're home, and whole.\"\n\nDougal nodded against Graham's shoulder. He stayed dormant in Graham's embrace for a time, then he took a deep breath, his strength returning. Shifter hugs were more than just comfort; they were healing.\n\n\"Better?\" Graham asked, releasing him.\n\nDougal wiped his eyes as he turned away. \"I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I have things to do, Shifters to see. Call me if you need me again.\"\n\nDougal walked to the front door, the swagger returning to his step. Graham hid his chuckle until Dougal had breezed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He'd be all right.\n\nGraham's laughter died as he made his way to the kitchen, thirst kicking him. He'd known the water was foul as soon as he'd smelled it, but his thirst had won over his common sense. And now he was thirsty again. He clenched his fists. If he gave in to a Fae curse, he might as well summon the Guardian and fall on the sword.\n\nMisty hadn't seemed affected by the spelled water. Graham had looked into her face and hadn't seen anything but her clear, brown eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes. Lashes he'd love to feel fluttering over his skin.\n\n_Don't call me again,_ she'd said.\n\nShe hadn't meant that, right? So hard to tell with humans. Misty had gone through trauma today, been threatened, terrorized, and hurt, poor thing. When she felt better, she'd call Graham and ask if they could talk. Misty liked to talk. On the phone, in person, over e-mail. Graham had never talked much with his other females, but then, his previous relationships had been all sex and not much else.\n\nEven with his mate, Rita, they'd spent most of the time in bed. They'd never really _talked_. Graham had never taken the opportunity to truly get to know Rita, and then she'd been gone, dead, the Guardian turning her to dust. Her death and his baby son's had left him stunned, barely able to think beyond his grief.\n\nBrooding about Rita and Misty wasn't going to help Graham with his problems now. A Shifter had to push away grief and relationship worries and concentrate on immediate problems. That was the only way to survive. Right?\n\nGraham walked into his kitchen, deep in thought . . . and stopped. Something was very wrong. He'd left the place trashed, yes, with his stupid fight with that Lupine, but not _this_ trashed.\n\nSomeone had opened every single door of every single cabinet, and had yanked out every single drawer. Graham's pots, pans, and dishes, and cans and boxes of food were all over the floor, porcelain smashed, glasses broken, boxes opened, powder and grains spewed everywhere. The refrigerator door was ajar, and bottles and cans had burst open on the floor outside it, rendering the tiles a mess of ketchup, mustard, pickles, and beer. The refrigerator was shaking now too, as though it had taken on a life of its own.\n\nNo Fae spell was doing this. Graham roared as he yanked open the door.\n\nTwo fuzzy faces turned toward him, two pairs of eyes widened under two pairs of ears that managed to be pricked and flopping at the same time. Two little muzzles opened in identical, high-pitched howls, and two tails started moving rapidly, dumping over a half gallon of milk between them.\n\n\"What the hell are you doing in there?\" Graham bellowed.\n\nMatt and Kyle, the three-year-old wolves, yipped with joy, and launched themselves out of the refrigerator. They had a frenzied fight over who would reach Graham first, Kyle winning by a whisker. Both cubs scrambled up Graham's legs to his bare arms, wriggling with joy as though they hadn't seen him in weeks instead of about twenty-four hours.\n\nGraham's back door opened, and a Shifter woman came in\u2014Brenda Roberts, the cubs' foster mother. She ducked her head, as all Graham's wolves did when they faced their alpha, but her eyes held defiance.\n\n\"I can't do it anymore, Graham,\" she said. \"I can't take care of them. I have my own cubs to look after, and I. Just. Can't. Do. It.\"\n\n\"What the hell are you talking about?\" Graham asked, something like panic rising. \"You're taking care of them fine.\"\n\nBrenda shook her head and kept on shaking it. \"No I'm not. I'm not sleeping, or eating, or doing anything but running around after those two little shits. I can't even go to the bathroom without them coming in and tearing down the shower curtain and eating the toilet paper. They need a firm hand, Graham, and mine's not firm enough.\"\n\n\"I don't have time for this,\" Graham said loudly. Kyle and Matt clung to him, small claws digging into his arms. \"If you don't want to take care of them, fine. But they stay with you until I can find another foster.\"\n\nBrenda was already shaking her head again. \"I can't. When they had space to run around up in Elko, they were fine. Sort of. Now that they're more restricted, they're going insane and taking me with them. I've gone through eight months of hell, and I can't do it anymore. Punish me if you want to, but I'm not keeping those cubs another day.\"\n\nBrenda still wouldn't look at Graham directly, but she had determination on her face. Lower dominance wolves never disobeyed their alpha\u2014unless driven beyond normal endurance into something that would break them. Brenda had stood strong behind Graham and given a lot to the Lupines. And now this loyal wolf was being defeated by two adorable cubs who looked up at Graham with innocent eyes.\n\nGraham could shove the cubs back at her and tell her to suck it up; he had that right. She could obey, or she could die.\n\nBut Graham wasn't leader because he was the loudest-voiced asshole in the pack, no matter what anyone else thought. He'd seen how worn down Brenda was, and it was true\u2014she had four cubs of her own. She'd taken Kyle and Matt because of her soft heart, and Graham knew he'd taken advantage of her. So had Matt and Kyle.\n\n\"All right, all right,\" Graham said. \"Just go.\"\n\nBrenda's shoulders slumped in relief. She wouldn't have left the house without Graham giving her permission\u2014not like Misty\u2014no matter how much staying was upsetting her.\n\nBrenda gave him a grateful look then turned around and marched out the door, the draft of its closing rushing over Graham and the cubs.\n\n_\"Shit.\"_\n\nGraham grabbed both cubs by their scruffs and held them up, facing him. \"What am I going to do with you two?\"\n\nKyle and Matt squirmed in joy and wagged their tails.\n\n\"Shit,\" he repeated, softly this time. Raising Dougal had been the hardest thing Graham had ever done\u2014he was still doing it. No way could he go through that again. \"Tell you what; we'll go visit a nice Shifter lady whose cubs had to have been worse even than you two.\"\n\nFine with Matt and Kyle. Graham left the disaster of his kitchen and went out of the house again. He marched back through Shiftertown, the two wolf cubs on his shoulders clinging so tightly they ripped into the black shirt Diego had given him, cutting into Graham's skin underneath.\n\n## CHAPTER SIX\n\nMisty surveyed the wreck of her store without being able to feel much. She'd built the shop with nothing but a little savings, a start-up grant for women in small business, and a bit of know-how.\n\nHer father had been great at starting businesses. He'd absolutely sucked at keeping the businesses going after a week or two, because his get-rich-quick plans never worked out. But it had been so much fun for Misty and Paul to help him out. When the three of them had been together, working, planning, and dreaming, they couldn't be stopped.\n\nDad had never succeeded, and had died in an accident when Misty had been a senior in high school. Misty had learned from him, though, how to get a business up and running. She'd chosen a flower shop because people bought flowers when they wanted to make other people happy or cheer them up. Misty had had enough unhappiness shoved at her in her lifetime that she wanted a career that would take her away from that.\n\nShe'd discovered selling flowers was not as easy as it seemed, but she'd researched, worked hard, and got lucky when this strip mall had a small slot to fill. Her shop didn't make millions, but Misty made a living, and she liked what she was doing. Now that Paul had his parole, he worked for her, doing deliveries and running errands, and he was enjoying it.\n\nMisty had labored so hard for this business, and one person with a grudge had ruined it in the space of a morning. She might have to close, not just until she cleaned up the store, but for good. She'd had to cancel the orders for today that hadn't already been on the van, and she'd probably have to cancel the rest of the orders for the month and return her customers' money. One of Diego's security team had taken the shop's van, the only thing intact, out to make the remaining deliveries so Paul could stay safely in Shiftertown.\n\nMisty knew she owed Diego and his guys for all their help. Graham too, even more so. She and Paul would have been dead today if it hadn't been for Graham.\n\nXavier Escobar had driven her down to the store and come in with her. \"What a mess,\" he said, looking around. \"At least we got the bastards who did this.\"\n\nMisty nodded, her throat tight. \"I really appreciate you taking care of Paul. If something had happened to him . . .\"\n\n\"It wouldn't have been your fault,\" Xavier said quickly, putting a warm hand on her shoulder. \"Guys like Flores think they own the world and everyone in it. They need to be taught they don't.\" He chuckled. \"It's kind of fun to teach them.\"\n\nXav was such a nice guy, in a hard don't-mess-with-me kind of way. He too was a former cop, and had started DX Security with Diego to help people who couldn't otherwise find help, which Misty could respect.\n\n\"We can have a team in here to clean up right away,\" Xav said. \"Make the place good as new.\"\n\nMisty shook her head and moved away from him. \"Insurance assessment first. That's why I pay for it.\"\n\n\"Okay, but if they start being a pain in the ass about it, you call me. I know people, Iona's family runs a construction company, Shifters like to build things . . .\"\n\nHe leaned against the one clear spot on the counter as he spoke. Xav had brown black hair, dark brown eyes, liquid dark skin, and a square, handsome face. A hot man on a hot day. Why couldn't Misty fall for someone like him?\n\nBut no, she had to have a soft spot for a crazy wolf Shifter with a growling voice and a piercing gray stare. She shivered as she thought about that stare when she'd closed the door on him. But Misty had needed to be alone, to think, to worry about why Graham had been so enraged at her, why he'd said such things to her. And why was she so _thirsty_?\n\n\"Any more water left?\"\n\nXavier looked into the little cooler he'd brought with him. \"You drank the last one.\"\n\nNo problem. She'd go across to the convenience store. Misty was out the door and halfway across the parking lot before Xavier could follow.\n\nAt the convenience store, Misty nodded a hello to Pedro at the cash register then went straight to the drink refrigerators and started taking out bottles of water. If she was this dehydrated, she thought dimly, she should grab some Gatorade or something. But no, she wanted _water_. Buckets of it.\n\n\"Hey,\" a voice said beside her.\n\nMisty looked up, her arms full of blissfully cool and moist bottles, to see the hiker from the desert. He was still in his hiking gear, a little more sweaty and dirty than before, and he was reaching for water too.\n\n\"You made it back,\" he said.\n\nObvious, since Misty was standing right there. \"Yeah. We made it. What happened to you? I thought you were right behind me, and then you weren't.\"\n\nThe hiker shrugged. \"Took a different trail. Didn't see you. When I looked for you, you were gone, so I figured you'd caught a ride.\"\n\nMisty nodded. \"Friends came and picked us up.\"\n\n\"Good.\" He plucked a bottle out of the fridge and smiled at her.\n\nThe smile was odd. His teeth weren't exactly pointed, but they didn't look right either. His hair, tousled and sweat soaked, covered his head to his neck. When his hair wasn't dirty, it would be very light blond, almost white.\n\n\"See ya,\" he said, and turned his lanky body to move to the cash register.\n\nMisty took yet another bottle from the fridge and wished she'd thought to grab a handbasket. By the time she struggled up to the register, the hiker was gone.\n\n\"What are the odds?\" she asked.\n\n\"What?\" Pedro looked at her blankly, pausing as he rang up her purchase.\n\nMisty realized she'd said the words out loud. \"What are the odds that a guy I met out in the desert turns up at _this_ convenience store? How many are in this city\u2014say, thirty? More than that? But he comes to the one right next to my shop.\"\n\n\"Maybe he likes you,\" Pedro said, counting out her change.\n\n\"And followed me? Creepy. Did you see what kind of car he has?\"\n\n\"Nope. Didn't see him get into a car at all. Or anything.\" He handed Misty the change. \"Sorry about your store. Did they get the guys who did it?\"\n\n\"Yes. They've been arrested.\"\n\n\"Thank God. That was fast. I worked at a store that was robbed seven times, and no one ever found anyone. Cops were all over your place though.\"\n\nMisty didn't bother to mention the role Shifters had in taking down Flores and his little gang. She wasn't sure which way Pedro leaned on Shifters.\n\n\"Thanks, Pedro. See you.\"\n\nPedro said a cordial good-bye and turned to his next customer. Misty drank half a bottle of water walking back to her store, where Xavier met her and escorted her back inside.\n\n\"You shouldn't stay here,\" Xav said as Misty looked around at her ruined store again.\n\n\"I need to . . .\" She stopped, and couldn't finish.\n\nMisty felt Xav's warm arm around her. \"I'll give you a ride back home. Our guys will watch over this place better than any security camera or cops on patrol. You don't have to worry about a thing.\"\n\nOne of the \"guys\" he talked about was Shane, a bear Shifter who lived next door to Eric, who now grinned at her from the back and gave her a wave. Misty had never seen Shane shift into a bear, a grizzly, but his bulk at the door did make her feel better. Sam Flores and men like him would never get past Shane.\n\nMisty gave Xav a smile and turned away, gathering up the cash from her register and safe to take to the bank. Flores had been so intent on his revenge on Paul he hadn't bothered to rob her.\n\nOne bunch of roses in her cooler had survived intact. Misty found a vase for them, and then Xavier helped her carry everything out to his truck, got her inside, drove her to the bank, and then home.\n\n\"Thanks, Xavier. Lindsay is lucky to have you.\"\n\nXavier gave a laugh as he followed Misty out of the truck and into her house, the vase under his arm. \"Lindsay and I have fun, but she can take me or leave me. She goes out with other guys, and I learned a while ago either to be fine with it or stop seeing her at all.\"\n\nMisty knew he wasn't wrong. Lindsay had told Misty that she wasn't ready to settle down yet and look for a mate. She was only fifty, for the Goddess's sake, she'd said, laughing. She had a lot of wild oats to sow, and female Shifters could sow some serious oats.\n\n\"Sorry about that,\" Misty said.\n\nXavier shrugged. \"We're both young. I give her space, and she gives me space. Maybe one day . . .\"\n\n\"Well, she should take what she's got while she can.\"\n\nMisty headed for the kitchen and laid the roses on the counter, scarlet heads resting on paper towels. She took the vase from Xavier and started running water into it.\n\nCool, flowing water, reminding her of the water in the cave. Sweet, burbling, enticing water. Misty had wanted to strip off her clothes and dive her hot body into the pool, except the hiker had been there.\n\nTruly weird how he'd happened to show up at the convenience store where she was. Made her shiver. Misty was grateful for Xavier's presence and reassurance.\n\n\"You're sweet,\" Xavier said, as Misty lifted the dripping vase to more paper towels on the counter.\n\n\"Hmm?\" she asked absently, snipping the last inch or so from the roses' stems. \"For what?\"\n\n\"For what you said about Lindsay. Graham should appreciate _you_ better.\"\n\n\"I dumped him,\" Misty said.\n\nXav blinked. \"You what?\"\n\n\"I said, I dumped him.\" Misty tore off low-hanging leaves with more force than necessary and stuck the roses into the vase. \"I'm tired of him assuming I'll be there for him whenever he wants.\" She jabbed the stems in. \"He expects me to be waiting, as though I don't exist when he isn't around. But I have a _life_. If he doesn't want me in his, then fine.\" She stuck in the last rose, cleaned up the mess, and carried the vase to a table in the hall. The roses filled the space with bright color and fragrance.\n\nXavier followed her. \"I guess I get that.\"\n\n\"I mean, it's not like we have a sex life or anything. I don't know what Graham finds wrong about me, but he's not interested.\"\n\n\"Not interested?\" Xavier looked Misty up and down with flattering interest. \"Is he insane?\"\n\n\" _You_ know what it is to be a human around Shifters. I liked Graham as soon as I saw him, but he drives me _crazy_. What is wrong with me? I'm pretty sure he backs off me because I'm not Shifter. I bet that's why Lindsay keeps it cool with you too.\"\n\nXavier started to shake his head, and ended up shrugging. \"Yeah, I figured that.\"\n\n\"Look at us. We're both two perfectly nice people. Why are we hanging around waiting on Shifters instead of finding other perfectly nice humans to be with? We're no better than the Shifter groupies.\"\n\nXav let out another laugh. \"Are you sure you've only been drinking water?\"\n\n\"Very sure. But I'm still thirsty. I must have gotten seriously dehydrated. I'll start on the booze as soon as I feel better.\"\n\n\"Why don't you drink some more water and lie down or something?\" Xav said. \"I'll be here, standing guard, so you don't have to worry about anything. You had an ordeal.\"\n\nMisty sighed. \"See? I'm right\u2014you _are_ sweet. Lindsay doesn't know what she's missing.\"\n\nXav actually started to blush. Misty went around him and back to the fridge to grab a bottle of water with electrolytes. On the way out of the kitchen, she paused next to Xavier, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.\n\n\"That's dangerous,\" Xav said in a low voice.\n\nMisty walked away from him, opened the bottle, and gulped down a third of the water on her way to the bedroom.\n\nShe fell asleep very quickly. She tried to think about Xav's handsome face, but it was instantly blotted out by Graham's hard, intense stare, and then she was asleep and dreaming.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty thought she was back in the huge cave she'd found. Water burbled in the middle of it, this time in an ornate, gigantic fountain that flowed into a river of water. Flowers and vines snaked around the fountain, up the rock walls, across the floor. These flowers shouldn't be thriving, not out here. Desert flowers could be gorgeous, but these were from a hothouse garden\u2014large puffs of white hyacinths, climbing yellow roses, and red and pink dots of sweet william, mixed with tropical flowers like bird-of-paradise. Everything was beautiful in a bizarre kind of way.\n\nMisty's mouth went drier than ever as she gazed at the fountain. She _needed_ that water.\n\n_Come. Drink._\n\nThe hiker stood near the fountain. He was no longer the scruffy, dirt-stained, sweaty man who'd talked to her in the desert and the convenience store. His face was clean, sharp, and his hair, white blond, flowed to his waist in a long, straight wave. Some women would kill for hair like that.\n\nMisty couldn't see what the hiker wore now, but whatever it was shimmered and caught the light.\n\n\"Come,\" the hiker said again. His voice was deeper than when she'd first heard it, the vowels long, consonants soft. \"Rest. Slake your thirst.\"\n\nMisty licked her lips, finding them dry and cracked, her mouth parched.\n\n\"Drink,\" the hiker whispered.\n\nMisty took a step forward. Then she stopped. Everything inside her screamed at her not to go near that fountain, as enticing as it was.\n\nThe hiker spoke again, his voice smooth and coaxing. \"The Shifter is dying. Take him the water. It is the only thing that will save him.\"\n\n_What Shifter?_ Then Misty saw Graham lying on the ground, flowering vines encircling him. His face was wan, blood coated his bare torso, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. He opened wolf gray eyes and stared right at her.\n\n\"Misty.\" The word was faint, scratchy, Graham's voice nowhere near as rich as the hiker's. \"Help me.\"\n\n\"Only the water will cure him,\" the hiker said. \"Take it.\"\n\nHe reached into the fountain then lifted his hand and let droplets trickle back into the river with a silvery sound. Misty's thirst jumped higher.\n\n_No,_ something inside her pleaded. _Don't._\n\nBut this was only a dream. It didn't matter what she did in a dream, did it?\n\n\"Misty,\" Graham said again. \"Please help me, love. I'm so sorry I hurt you.\"\n\nMisty froze again, staring at Graham. He looked back at her, sorrow in his eyes.\n\nNow she _knew_ it was a dream. Because no way in hell would Graham ever say in a cultured tone, _Please help me, love. I'm so sorry I hurt you._\n\nThe dream Graham blinked, scowled, and took a deep breath. \"Don't listen to the bastard. He's tricking you. He thinks humans are easy.\" He sounded much more like himself\u2014gruff, gravelly, impatient.\n\nThe hiker's voice rose to drown out Graham's. \"He needs the water. He will die. Would you let him die to assuage your pride? Save him, Misty.\"\n\nNo, she wouldn't let Graham die. All she had to do, at least in the dream, was take him a drink of that water.\n\nMisty started forward. One little scoop, and Graham would feel better. Then the dream would go away, and she could sleep in peace.\n\nA growl made her halt. The growl wasn't huge and fierce, like Graham's, but small, childish, and insistent. And at her feet.\n\nMisty looked down. Two wolf cubs stared back up at her. Their muzzles were fuzzy, their eyes big, their ears perked. Both bared little wolf teeth in full snarls. When they grew up, those snarls would be frightening; right now, they were tiny but unceasing.\n\nMisty had met these two before, Matt and Kyle, orphaned twins who lived in Shiftertown. They could shift into twin three-year-old boys, but they liked to stay in wolf form, better for running around and playing, they'd once explained.\n\n\"Where'd you two come from?\" Misty asked.\n\nBoth cubs wagged their tails, but when Misty tried to step past them, they got in front of her again, little bodies vibrating with their growls.\n\n\"Leave them,\" the hiker said. \"They don't understand.\"\n\nOne of the cubs, Kyle or Matt\u2014she could never tell them apart\u2014turned to the hiker, planted his little feet, and howled at him. The hiker hissed and pointed his finger at Kyle . . . or Matt.\n\nMisty didn't like the pointing finger. She expected lightning or something to come out of it, and since this was a dream, it probably could.\n\nMisty leapt between the hiker and the cubs. \"Don't even think about hurting them,\" she shouted. \"And get the hell out of my dream.\"\n\nThe hiker started for her. Matt and Kyle were going insane, trying to move around her to attack. Misty put her arms out in an attempt to protect them and Graham behind them.\n\n\"Leave the Shifters _alone_!\"\n\nThe hiss turned to a snarl, a cold, nasty sound, and then all Misty could feel was ice. It coated the flowers and killed them instantly, then started toward Graham.\n\nMisty snatched up the cubs under her arms\u2014these little squirming guys were _heavy._ She flung herself and them on top of Graham, trying to shield him from the creeping ice.\n\n\"Hey, I'm starting to like this dream,\" Graham said, his voice still too weak.\n\nKyle and Matt wriggled out of Misty's grasp. Tails moving fast, they licked Graham's face. \"Shit,\" he said, screwing his eyes shut. \"Now I'm hating it again.\"\n\nKyle and Matt raised their heads and began growling anew. Misty looked up, and screamed.\n\nThe fountain had turned into a wave of ice, and now it was coming for them. The ice rose, frost white but with blackness in the center. It dove straight for them. Misty scooped Kyle and Matt underneath her, and stretched out on Graham's hard body. Graham's arms came around her, warm, strong, and caring.\n\nThe black wave washed over them, engulfing them, sucking them down into hideous darkness.\n\nMisty screamed again and jumped awake.\n\nTwo men stood at the foot of her bed. One was Xavier. The other was Reid, tall and tight-bodied, like the hiker, but with dark hair instead of white blond. He had the same kind of eyes though, dark and mind-sucking, staring straight through her.\n\nMisty yelped again and grabbed at the blankets. In her mad scramble, she tangled herself up, overbalanced, and rolled straight off the bed and onto the floor.\n\n## CHAPTER SEVEN\n\n\"You all right?\" Xavier's firm hand was there to help her to her feet.\n\nMisty pushed her hair out of her face, plopped back down on the bed, and let out her breath. She was wearing only a long T-shirt, which covered her underwear, thankfully. \"How do you think I am? I just woke up with two men standing over my bed.\"\n\n\"Reid and I heard you screaming.\"\n\n\"Had a bad dream. Sorry, I'm still a little shaky. And thirsty.\" She licked the inside of her mouth.\n\nXav and Reid were staring at her as though they'd never seen a woman wake up from a bad dream before. Misty stood up, pushing aside the blankets, and started out of the room.\n\nShe heard Xav and Reid follow as she padded down her narrow hall and out into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, yanked out a bottle of water, and saw it was the last. \"Need to go to the store.\"\n\n\"You're not going anywhere,\" Xav said. \"I'll send someone shopping for you, until we're sure it's safe for you to go out.\"\n\nMisty regarded him sharply as she pried open the water bottle. \"You said you got Flores. Who else is after me?\"\n\nXav exchanged a look with Reid. Xav started to say, \"We're not sure . . .\" but Reid cut him off.\n\n\"Tell me about the dream.\"\n\nMisty took several gulps of water, letting the wetness slosh around her mouth before she answered. \"I saw that hiker, and the cave again.\"\n\n\"Every detail,\" Reid said.\n\nReid looked a lot like the hiker. Not exactly, but enough to be unnerving. His build was similar, though the shape of his face was different. The greatest similarity was his eyes. Reid's coal dark eyes had the same kind of intense focus as the hiker's.\n\nMisty related the dream to the two of them, remembering more of it as she spoke. She described the pool, Graham lying hurt nearby, the hiker's commands, the wave of ice, and the two wolf cubs trying to stop her.\n\nReid listened without blinking. How did anyone not blink for that long?\n\n\"Fae water,\" Reid said.\n\nMisty glanced at her bottle. \"What water?\"\n\n\"Spelled. One drink holds you in thrall, giving the Fae a way to find you, no matter where you are. The only thing that will slake your thirst is another drink of the water. The Fae will make you his slave, forcing you to do his bidding in exchange for another sip. But the satisfaction doesn't last, and you will be as thirsty as before. More, even. Those enslaved end up parched and dying, no matter how much water they drink.\"\n\nFear worked its way through Misty. \"But wait, that's not right. It was just a dream. I'm thirsty because I was stuck out in the desert for hours. I was starting to get heatstroke. It takes a long time to cool the body down again.\"\n\n\"No,\" Reid said. \"The person you describe is a _hoch alfar_. How he got to the place in the desert you were, I don't know. There must be a ley line there.\"\n\n\"What the hell is a _hock . ._ what?\"\n\nXav answered. \"A Fae. They come into human mythology as fairies. You know, as in fairy tales, fairy godmothers. But apparently, they're evil bastards, not the cute things with wings.\" He jerked his thumb at Reid. \"He's a Fae.\"\n\nReid looked annoyed. \"I am _dokk alfar_. Dark Fae. Not the evil-bastard kind.\"\n\n\"Depends on your point of view,\" Xav said without smiling.\n\nMisty opened her mouth to argue some more\u2014they had to be insane\u2014but Xav's words made her remember something. \"Wait a minute.\"\n\nSucking on more water, Misty left the kitchen and made her way back down the hall, the tile floor cool to her bare feet. The bedroom she used as her home office was comfortingly cluttered, her computer and sheets of invoices waiting for her to catalog them, her shelves filled with books on flowers and plants.\n\nMisty scanned the shelves, which contained books about everything from scientific studies of rose growing to the meanings of flowers in Victorian times. She had books on the care of cut flowers, flower arranging, how commercial flowers were grown and cultivated, and the history of every flower imaginable and how to grow them.\n\nMisty also collected unusual books about flowers, buying them at antique stores, flea markets, garage sales, and used bookstores. She'd found fascinating gems filled with flower lore from centuries past.\n\nThere it was. Misty reached to the top shelf and pulled out a small book, leather bound, with the binding still pretty good. The book had been published in 1907, and by the quantity of handwritten notes and underlining inside, had been used quite a bit. She'd found the book at the bottom of a cardboard box of old paperback romances; the indifferent flea market vendor had charged her a dollar for the entire box.\n\nShe sat down at her desk, opened the book, and scanned it for what she was looking for. Misty found the slanting pen strokes of the little volume's unknown previous owner strangely calming. Whoever it was had written such notes as, _Only attempt under a waxing moon; Make sure the flowers have bloomed three days on the bush and are cut in the morning; Scatter the leftover petals across water in the light of the setting sun._\n\nMisty flipped through until she found the entry she was looking for. _To counter Faery magic._\n\nShe read, her heart beating faster. _Gather petals of red roses, washed three times, chopped with a fine-bladed knife_. _Immerse in alcohol, and drink by the light of the moon. Drink four quantities. Bury leftover rose petals in the earth, turn thrice, and open to the cleansing rays of the moon, the Mother Goddess._\n\nXav and Reid were watching her, less curious than they were worried. Misty realized she was murmuring to herself, as she sometimes did when working here alone.\n\nShe held up the book. \"It's an out-there idea, but you never know.\"\n\nReid reached for the book. Misty handed it to him, and his brows drew down as he read the page through. \"This is\u2014\"\n\nHis words were cut off by a loud thumping on the front door, bangs like blows from a large and very angry hammer.\n\nXavier lost his friendly look, his hand going to the gun in his back holster. He stepped out into the hall, blocking Misty's way, and started for the front.\n\nThe door burst open, wood splintering as the lock gave way. A hulk of a man strode in, followed, incongruously, by two small boys.\n\n\"Misty!\" Graham's bellow rocketed through the house.\n\nXav relaxed and took his hand from the pistol. Reid joined Xav, the two of them still shielding Misty as Graham came on like a freight train.\n\n\"I'm right here,\" Misty said between the two tall men.\n\nGraham glared at the wall of Xav and Reid. \"Get out of the way. I'm not going to hurt her.\"\n\nXav didn't move. \"She said you split up. Now you tear down the door and come running inside her house. What are we supposed to think?\"\n\n\"Move, Escobar, or I'll break your ass. Misty, what the fuck was that?\"\n\n\"What was what?\" Misty squeezed around Xav, who let out an exasperated breath as he let her go. Misty eyed the hole where her door latch used to be and the splinters of wood that clung to it. \"Graham, you broke my _door_. What the hell?\"\n\nGraham grabbed Misty by the shoulders and stared down into her eyes. The two kids, Matt and Kyle in their human form, grabbed onto his legs, one to each. \"You were in that dream, right?\" Graham demanded. \"The one with the fountain and the Fae?\"\n\nMisty's mouth dropped open. \"How did you know that?\"\n\n\"I was there. The Fae bastard kept trying to get you to drink the water, and to give it to me.\"\n\n\"And the wolf cubs stopped me.\"\n\n\"Then you all jumped on me.\" Graham let out a growl. \"Had to wash all the spit off my face when I woke up. They were licking me for real.\"\n\n\"This can't be right. How did we share a _dream_?\"\n\n\"Because Fae magic is messed up. I saw the ice coming for you. I was afraid . . .\"\n\nGraham's fingers clamped down on her shoulders, and the lines around his eyes tightened. Misty saw the fear in him, stark and real, which he strove to cover.\n\n\"I'm all right,\" Misty said, softening her voice. \"Xav woke me up, and it all went away.\"\n\nGraham's fingers tightened more, his anger returning to drive out the fear. \" _Xav_ woke you? What the hell was Xav doing with you while you were asleep?\" His glare shot to Xavier, who stood without flinching.\n\n\"Guarding me,\" Misty said. \"What did you think?\"\n\nGraham's growl increased, his eyes turning very light gray. He said nothing, only fixed his wolf stare on Xav.\n\n\"Keep it cool,\" Xavier said, unruffled. \"I'm not a shithead who takes advantage of a lady in distress.\"\n\n\"The points to focus on,\" Reid broke in firmly, \"are the shared dream, the Fae spell, and how to break it.\"\n\nMisty shrugged out of Graham's grasp, much as she liked the comfort of his touch, even when he dug in. \"That's what you made me remember, Reid\u2014I'd found a book of magic spells involving flowers. I thought it was just nonsense, but now I'm willing to give the rose spell a try.\" Anything to break this thirst. She looked down at the boys, who were still clinging to Graham, being quieter than she'd ever seen them. \"Thank you, Matt and Kyle, for helping.\" She glanced back up at Graham. \"Were you all taking a nap?\"\n\n\"I was walking across Shiftertown to take them to the bears,\" Graham said. \"I woke up flat on my ass in the dirt, with two wolf cubs licking my face all over. Little shits.\"\n\nBoth boys grinned. Their faces were dirty, their T-shirts crooked, as though someone\u2014probably Graham\u2014had dressed them in a hurry. One boy had hair a lighter shade of brown than the other; one had brown eyes and one hazel. A way to tell them apart, Misty thought, as soon as she figured out which was which.\n\nMisty leaned to them, her long T-shirt hanging to her knees. \"You two want some ice cream?\"\n\n\"Ice cream!\" The boys released Graham at the same moment and hurtled toward the kitchen.\n\n\"No shifting!\" Graham bellowed after them. \"They don't need any more food, Misty. They already ate everything in my fridge. Don't know why they haven't gotten sick yet.\"\n\n\"Energy,\" Xav said. \"Diego and I gobbled down everything in sight when we were kids. Still do.\" He grinned.\n\nMisty ducked back into her bedroom to change into a pair of shorts and a tank top. By the time she emerged, the three men had gone into the kitchen after the cubs. Reid was sitting at the table going through the book, Xav leaned on the counter near the back door, and Matt and Kyle had planted themselves in front of the refrigerator door, eyeing it longingly. Graham, behind them, had obviously told them _not_ to open it.\n\n\"Come on, sweeties.\" Misty took down bowls, fetched chocolate-vanilla swirl ice cream from the freezer, and spooned it into bowls. After observing the frozen chunks of chocolaty vanilla cream, icy in the bowls, Misty scooped out a helping for herself.\n\n\"Xav?\" she offered. \"Reid? Want any?\"\n\nReid held up a hand without looking away from the book. Xav shook his head, giving her a small smile. \"Not while I'm on duty.\"\n\nGraham didn't respond as Misty carried the bowls to the table, sat the little boys down, and gave them spoons. The two boys stared at the spoons, mystified, then lifted the bowls, and started licking the ice cream out of them.\n\n\"Hey!\" Graham roared. \"Be civilized.\"\n\n\"Don't yell at them.\" Misty sat down across the table from Reid and lifted her spoon. \"Maybe they don't know. Like this.\"\n\nMisty demonstrated how to hold the spoon and dip it into the ice cream, then she scooped some into her mouth. Frozen goodness coated her tongue, momentarily easing her constant thirst. Would be great if she could cure herself with ice cream.\n\nAs soon as she swallowed, the thirst came back, so she shoveled in more ice cream.\n\nKyle and Matt watched her, wide-eyed. \"You can eat faster our way,\" one of them\u2014Kyle?\u2014said.\n\nMisty wanted to. She could lift the bowl to her mouth and take all its contents in one gulp. The only reason she didn't was because Graham had sat down next to her and was watching her closely.\n\nHis gaze flicked to the spoon as she dipped it into the cream then followed it back to her mouth. He fixed on her lips as the ice cream went in, dropped to her throat as she swallowed, then returned to her lips, where a bit of cream lingered.\n\nWhen Graham looked at her fully, Misty stilled, caught by eyes that held heat like silver fire. A shudder worked its way through her, besting even the thirst that popped back up as soon as she stopped eating.\n\n_Quench it with Graham . . ._\n\nThe thought made her shake. Misty dug her spoon through the bowl, slowly lifting another scoop of cream. The ice cream was starting to melt now, its chocolate-stained vanilla droplets falling back into the bowl.\n\nShe lifted the spoon to her mouth. Graham's gaze fixed on her even tighter. Misty moved her tongue out and licked up a dollop from her spoon.\n\nA growl sounded in Graham's throat, one so soft Misty knew only she could hear it. She took another lick of cream from the spoon. Graham sat so still he might have been carved into the chair, but his chest rose and fell sharply.\n\nHis face held the hardness of a man who'd survived on his strength alone for a long time, but Misty had always seen something in him besides the hardness. The tiny lines that feathered from the corners of his eyes, for example. He got them from laughing\u2014Graham was a man not afraid to laugh. He could roar with it. Scars crisscrossed his cheekbones, and his nose had been broken, several times, he'd told her. His face was sunburned from their adventure today, but even that was healing, his skin settling into its usual liquid tan.\n\nThe sun-bronzing made his eyes stand out even more, the gray turning to silver as he watched her lick another bit of ice cream. She moved her tongue around the mound on the spoon and drew it back between her lips . . .\n\nGraham snarled. With one flick of his big hand, he sent the ice cream bowl flying across the table to shatter on the floor.\n\nMisty could form only the first syllable of his name in protest before he was up and out of the kitchen, striding out the back door into her small, walled yard.\n\nAs she leapt up to follow him, she realized the entire kitchen had gone quiet. Matt and Kyle were staring, their eyes round, spoons frozen in place. Xavier, across the room, was watching as well. He didn't smile, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. Only Reid was oblivious, still poring over the little book.\n\nMisty darted out the back door, pulling it closed behind her. Graham was striding through her small yard, which she'd filled with desert and tropical flowers she carefully cultivated. He was stomping around, hands clasped on his head, the sun beating down on him. He was about to ruin the clump of autumn sage she'd nursed back from frost kill last winter\u2014she'd finally got the plant bushy again, the bright red blossoms cheerful against the green.\n\nMisty marched to Graham and grabbed him by the arm. He swung around, the look in his eyes so wild and empty that Misty had to take a faltering step back.\n\n## CHAPTER EIGHT\n\nHe couldn't do this. Graham couldn't be around this woman, who smelled like honey and spice, who curled her tongue around the light and dark ice cream as though it were the sweetest aphrodisiac.\n\nHe had a hard-on that wouldn't stop. Xav Escobar knew it, the asshole. Graham had recognized the smirk. Of course, Xav probably had one too. And for that, Graham would kill him.\n\n\"I can't do this,\" he said.\n\n\"Can't do what?\" Misty stood in front of him, hands on her hips. \"Break my door? Smash my dishes? Trample my plants? You're like walking mass destruction.\"\n\nShe wanted him to apologize, Graham realized. But Graham never apologized. You said sorry, and people felt smug and justified, and started to take advantage.\n\nHard to look into those sweet brown eyes and say nothing, though. \"I'll fix your front door.\"\n\n\"You bet your ass you will,\" Misty said. \"Now, are we going to talk about it?\"\n\nThere she went again. Talking. Always talking. \"I thought you were done with me,\" Graham said.\n\n\"I am, but that doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you. Or not talking to you.\"\n\n\"Then we're not done.\" Not by a long way.\n\n\"Yes, we are.\"\n\nGraham turned from her, not liking how fast his heart was beating. Or how thirsty he was. He fought it, having learned to work through hunger and thirst a long time ago, but he knew he couldn't banish it entirely. The Fae magic had gotten to him, but he couldn't give in to it. If he did that, he was dead.\n\nTo keep himself from thinking about the thirst, he focused on Misty's yard. It was like her\u2014compact, neat, beautiful. She hadn't simply stuck clumps of plants everywhere. The yard had been landscaped, sculpted almost, with low mounds of grass and gravel hosting small flowering bushes and plants that bloomed fiercely under the hot sun. A false wash of river rock cut through the yard, crossed by a small wooden bridge.\n\nStepping stones led to the bridge and across the yard on the other side. Between the stones were gravel and scatterings of plants, blossoms moving in the summer breeze. The ugly cement block walls, so common in Southwestern cities, were softened by stands of hot pink and white oleanders on two walls, with a line of rose bushes, sheltered from the direct sun, on the third.\n\nA pretty garden, with chairs and tables set out so Misty and friends could sit and enjoy iced tea or whatever women drank on summer afternoons. Graham was out of place here, a hulking creature in the diminutive space.\n\nMisty seemed to be waiting for something. Graham did not understand her\u2014anything female, in fact. She declared she was finished with him, then she ran after him. She said she wanted to talk to him, then she expected him to do the talking, when Graham wasn't any good at it.\n\n\"What do you want me to say?\" he ended up almost shouting. Yelling\u2014 _that_ he was good at.\n\nMisty glared. Did she know how edible she looked in her body-hugging tank top, the shorts that stopped mid-thigh? She'd put on sandals, which showed her bare legs all the way to her toes. Misty wasn't a stick, thank the Goddess. Some human women starved themselves down to skin and bones and thought it looked good. Insanity.\n\nMisty had round breasts, arms that were plump from shoulders to elbow then tapered into soft wrists and small hands. Strong hands\u2014she worked hard in her store, carrying plants, heavy pots and baskets, armloads of flowers, buckets of water. Her legs were sturdy and curved, calves soft and kissable.\n\nHer face\u2014the one all screwed up with her scowl\u2014was round, her nose in perfect proportion. Her eyes were a little too big for a human, but Graham didn't mind. They were soft brown and surrounded by thick black lashes.\n\nWatching Misty tongue the ice cream had made every cell of him scream in need. She had a little bit of cream on her lips even now.\n\nTo hell with it. Graham closed the space between them, jerked her against him, and brought his mouth down on hers.\n\nMisty made a little surprised sound in her throat, and fists contacted his shoulders. Graham tightened his grip, pulling her into him, and licked the cream from her lip in one firm stroke.\n\nMisty stopped fighting. Her lips softened, hesitated, then formed to his.\n\nFire. Her mouth was heat and everything good. Graham laced his fingers through her hair, pulling it out of the ponytail she'd dragged it into. Soft goodness flowing over his hand.\n\nHe sucked her lower lip into his mouth, and Misty made another soft noise. No more protests, no more fists. No more _talking._\n\nMisty's body fitted to his, breasts tight against his torso. He moved his hand down her back, callused fingers catching on her cotton tank. The fabric was so thin he could feel the heat of her skin plus the strap of a bra, tight against her back.\n\nGraham could savor her all day and all night. He licked into her mouth, finding a bite of spice. Thirst went away as he drank her.\n\nHer small hands caressed his shoulders then moved to the back of his neck, above the Collar. She liked to hold on to his neck when they kissed for some reason. Not that Graham minded. She also liked to run her fingers through his short buzz of hair.\n\nGraham kept on kissing her. Misty's mouth was a joy, her breath warm, her body pliant against his. His cock hadn't gone down; in fact, it had grown even more rigid. Misty tasted like sunshine, felt like a soft cooling breeze.\n\n_If it could be just you and me . . ._\n\n_We'd unmake the world._\n\nGraham made himself ease the kiss to its end. Misty gazed up at him, eyes warm, her lips parted. Her anger had been erased for now, and what he read in her was desire. Moisture lingered behind her lower lip, and Graham licked it away.\n\nIt took all his strength to relax his arms around her, to let go. Misty had been on tiptoe, and now she thumped back on her heels. She stared up at him, unblinking, her lips slightly swollen.\n\nGraham pointed his finger at her face and ended up touching her lightly on the nose. \"You and me,\" he said. \"We're not done.\"\n\nHe turned and walked away. Killed him to do it, but you didn't say an exit line and then not leave the stage. You didn't even look back to see if she stared after you, longing in her eyes, no matter how much you wanted to.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham wouldn't go home. After his searing kiss and the parting shot, Misty expected him to be long gone when she came back inside the house, but no. He was talking to Reid in the living room, his loud, harsh syllables drowning out Reid's quieter ones.\n\nXav had cleaned up the broken bowl and given the cubs more ice cream. The two little ones could sure put it away. They'd discovered that licking the ice cream from the spoon was even more fun than licking it from the bowl. They could lick the spoon all over before they scooped up more. After all, Aunt Misty had been licking it from the spoon. So it was all right, wasn't it?\n\nWhen they finished, Kyle or Matt said, \"Can we play outside, Aunt Misty? We didn't go out before, because you and Uncle Graham were kissing.\"\n\nXav laughed from where he sat at the table, and Misty's face went hot. \"That's fine, but don't mess up my plants. They get hurt easily.\"\n\nMatt and Kyle agreed they'd never do anything like that. They half wrestled each other trying to be first to the door, then they started yanking off their clothes.\n\nBefore they finished stripping down to their skin, they were shifting, fur rippling, tails popping out. Two fuzzy cubs barreled out the door they'd already opened, yipping all the way.\n\n\"They don't have Collars,\" Misty said out loud. She hadn't noticed that before, but when they'd shucked their T-shirts, she'd seen that their necks had no slash of black and silver Collar to mar them.\n\n\"They don't take Collars until they're older,\" Graham said, coming into the kitchen. \"'Cause they're damn painful. Even humans couldn't bring themselves to be that cruel.\"\n\nMisty let out a breath. \"All humans are not that bad, Graham.\"\n\nHe gave her that look that said he'd lived a hundred years in the harsh wilderness, and she didn't know what she was talking about. \"Yes, they are,\" he said.\n\n\"Then why are you still here?\"\n\nAnother look. \"Because a Fae is after you, and an ex-cop with bullets isn't going to stop him.\"\n\n\"And a Shifter is?\" Reid leaned in the doorway. He still had the book, but he held it closed in his hand.\n\n\"Shifters won the Shifter-Fae war,\" Graham said. \"Remember? We kicked your asses. You lost all your Shifter pets.\"\n\n\"That was more than seven hundred years ago,\" Reid said mildly. \"I wasn't born then. And _dokk alfar_ had nothing to do with Shifters.\"\n\n\"I know; I just say it to piss you off. Point is, this Fae targeted her\u2014and me\u2014and I'm not going to sit at home waiting for him to come get her.\"\n\nWhy did that make Misty feel better? She should want Graham gone. Out of here.\n\nInstead she went to the sink and filled up a glass of water. Las Vegas tap water tasted terrible, but who cared? She needed the water, needed the cool wetness inside her parched mouth.\n\n\"This book.\" Reid held it up. \"Where did you get it?\"\n\nMisty explained about the flea market. \"I had it valued, but even though it's a first edition, it's in too bad a shape to be worth much. I kept it for the interest.\"\n\n\"Whoever wrote it knows much about the Fae.\" He flipped to the title page. A nice frontispiece with an etching of an heirloom rose faced it, the plate guarded by a thin piece of vellum. The title page itself didn't have much information.\n\n\"The author didn't put her name on it,\" Misty said. \"Or his. They didn't always back then. This book has a date but no publisher or author.\"\n\n\"Maybe a Shifter wrote it,\" Xav suggested.\n\n\"Doubt it,\" Reid answered. \"The spells in here against Fae are subtle but show a good understanding of Fae magic. Shifters are cruder when dealing with Fae.\"\n\n\"He means we just rip their heads off and spill out their insides.\" Graham strode to the back door and yanked it open. \"Kyle! Get out of that damned tree! You're not a cat.\"\n\nKyle stopped squirming in the branches of the fruitless mulberry that overhung Misty's yard from her neighbor's, and dropped to the ground. He yipped once when he landed, then he trotted off, none the worse for wear.\n\nMisty tried to memorize what he looked like, so she could try to tell them apart, but once he joined Matt, she gave up. The two, as wolves, were identical.\n\n\"Are you babysitting them?\" Misty asked when Graham came back inside.\n\n\"Their foster mother dumped them on my doorstep,\" Graham said. \"I was on my way to hand them to Nell and her bears when the dream hit.\" He regarded Reid speculatively. \"You and Peigi have a bunch of foster cubs at your house. Kyle and Matt like them.\"\n\n\"No,\" Reid said quickly. For the first time since Misty had met him, Reid looked less like a mysterious being and more like an ordinary human. A worried human. \"Peigi's got too much to deal with\u2014the cubs, the other Shifter women from Mexico . . . You weren't here when we rescued them. They went through hell, and Peigi as their alpha feels the worst of it. Leave her alone.\"\n\nGraham scowled at him a moment longer before he relaxed into a grin. \"Why don't you just make the mate-claim on Peigi and get it over with?\"\n\nReid looked embarrassed. \" _Dokk alfar_ don't do mate-claims.\"\n\n\"You'd better start. Shifters need females, and she's fair game. Even my wolves are eyeing her. They're going to start to Challenge for her, and they won't care if you're _dokk alfar_ or tree bark. They'll use the Challenge as an excuse to kill a Fae, and won't care you're one of the good ones.\"\n\n\"I'll keep it in mind,\" Reid said, recovering his calm. Graham didn't seem to frighten Reid, and neither did other Shifters, Misty had noticed. Most humans, even Xavier sometimes, could grow nervous around Shifters, but never Reid.\n\n\"So we wait until moonlight?\" Xav broke in.\n\nMisty shrugged. \"I guess.\"\n\n\"I guess we do.\" Graham moved back to the door, opening it again to watch the cubs. He wasn't about to leave, she saw. Misty would have to sit here with him for the next few hours, her nerves making her crazy, the sensation of his hard kiss lingering on her mouth. \"Got any beer?\" Graham asked over his shoulder.\n\n\"I told my guys to bring some,\" Xav said. \"And we'll get pizza.\"\n\nAt the word _pizza_ , high-pitched yips sounded in the backyard. One cub popped up from the riverbed, an eager look on his face. There was no sign of the other cub.\n\n\"Matt!\" Graham shouted. \"Get _out_ of there.\"\n\nThe second wolf scrambled out from under the bridge. He gave Graham and Misty an innocent look, or as innocent as he could with a clump of Angelita daisies drooping from his mouth, their yellow heads bobbing in the sunshine.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMoonlight. The clear skies of southern Nevada ensured plenty of light once the three-quarter moon rose into the black night.\n\nThe moonlight poured down into Misty's backyard, rendering her colorful flowers pale ghosts of themselves. The neighbor's tree cast sharp shadows on the patches of grass, and the dry river's dark rocks took on a dull glow.\n\nThe cubs, unbelievably, were asleep. They'd dropped off fearlessly on top of Misty's bed after consuming more than their bodyweight in meat-lovers' pizza.\n\nMisty's aching body begged for rest, but she was afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. What if she found herself facing the hiker again, the wave of ice? The cubs didn't worry, but then they hadn't drunk the Fae water. How the cubs had entered the dream, and whether they'd truly been there, neither she nor Graham knew.\n\nWhen the moon had risen high, Misty and Graham went out to Misty's backyard. Graham had told Xav and Reid not to join them. He didn't know what the spell in the little book would do, if anything, and he didn't want it messed up by unspelled humans or a Fae\u2014especially not a Fae.\n\nReid agreed without argument. Xavier didn't like it, but he stayed inside, saying he'd keep an eye on the cubs.\n\nXav's men had not only brought the pizza, but water\u2014glorious water. A case of it, which Misty had drunk almost half of.\n\nGraham had drunk nothing. She knew he was feeling the thirst, because he kept wetting his mouth, or swallowing and turning away as Misty had guzzled water. Why he wouldn't drink, she had no idea, and he wouldn't tell her.\n\nGraham helped her carry the accoutrements for the spell outside. Misty had harvested petals from two of the roses she'd brought home from her shop, washing them thoroughly and rolling them dry in a towel.\n\n\"You eat flowers?\" Graham asked when she told him imbibing the petals would be safe. \"Humans are weird.\"\n\n\"Lots of flowers are edible,\" Misty had answered. \"Cake bakers paint them with sugar water and use them for edible decoration. Roses, pansies, carnations, squash blossoms. I went to a restaurant where they made sweet corn tamales in squash blossoms. They were awesome. You have to be careful to choose the right kind of flowers, though. Oleanders, for instance will kill you quickly.\" She waved her hand at the thick, dark green bushes along her fence.\n\nMisty set everything up at a table on the other side of her yard, which was reached by the little bridge. She spread out a white cloth, scattered the cut rose petals on it, inhaling their fragrance, and consulted the book.\n\n_Gather petals of red roses, washed three times._ Check. _Chopped with a fine-bladed knife._ Check.\n\n_Immerse in alcohol . . ._\n\nThat had been an interesting problem. Misty and her friends drank mostly wine and beer, saving hard liquor for martinis on evenings out. Misty wasn't sure she wanted to gulp down rose petals in beer, or even in the nice white wine a friend had brought her last time she'd come over.\n\nThen Misty had found a bottle in the back of her liquor cabinet. She hadn't noticed it in a while and hadn't drunk any for a long time. But it might work.\n\nNow she put the chopped rose petals into two shot glasses, one in front of her and one in front of Graham.\n\n\"What is that?\" he asked as Misty poured out the liquid. Graham only drank beer too.\n\n\"The good stuff.\" Misty sat down across from him, lifted her shot glass and waited for him to lift his. \"Tequila.\"\n\n## CHAPTER NINE\n\nGraham shrugged, raised his glass, and clinked it against Misty's. \"Down the hatch.\"\n\n\"Cheers,\" Misty said. They lifted their glasses at the same time and drank in one shot.\n\nThe tequila burned Misty's mouth like liquid fire. The rose petals felt strange against her tongue, but she made herself not spit them out. Some stuck to the bottom of the glass, but that was all right, the spell said. They would bury the spent ones.\n\nMisty swallowed, and the liquor shot down her gullet in a stream of flame. She coughed.\n\n_Drink four quantities._\n\nMisty coughed again. One rose petal got caught on her tongue, and she fished it out and dropped it to the table.\n\nGraham wiped his mouth, shaking his head. \"What is this\u2014lighter fluid? Humans actually drink this stuff?\"\n\n\"All the time. Haven't you ever had a margarita?\"\n\nGraham made a face. \"You mean that frothy shit in fancy glasses? I don't drink stuff with slices of fruit stuck in it. Drinks should be in a bottle.\"\n\n\"You have no soul, Graham.\"\n\n\"All Shifters have souls.\" Graham spoke without humor. \"Can you imagine me with my wolves? _Hey, thanks for helping me fend off those hunters. How about we kick back, watch the game, and I'll make some margaritas?_ Or mimosas. Or wine coolers. Girly drinks. They'd tear me apart and pick a new pack leader real quick.\"\n\n\"I get it. You're rugged.\" Misty sprinkled more rose petals into the glasses and added another shot of tequila to each. \"Four times, the book says.\"\n\nGraham studied the rose petals floating in the liquid. \"I don't feel any different.\"\n\n\"Maybe we have to drink it all first.\" Misty lifted her glass, and again they clinked them. Graham's scarred fingers touched hers.\n\nThe second swallow was even more fiery than the first. Misty shuddered as it went down, her body feeling the heat.\n\n\"Lemon drop,\" Graham said. \"Another girly drink.\"\n\n\"This is straight tequila,\" Misty said, licking her tingling lips. \"It's plenty manly.\"\n\n\"Bellini,\" Graham went on as Misty doled out more petals and more alcohol. \"I don't even know what the hell that is.\"\n\n\"Like a mimosa. Champagne, but with other fruit instead of orange juice\u2014peaches or berries, say.\"\n\n\"Great. You ever seen me put berries in my beer?\"\n\n\"Beer can be fruity.\" Misty raised the third glass. \"Like hefeweizen. Bars serve it with lemon wedges. Or orange.\"\n\n\"I know. Ruins the head. It's _beer_. A hundred years ago, no one put fruit in it. We just drank it. By the barrel.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't tell me how old you are,\" Misty said, giving him a little smile. \"Chin-chin.\"\n\nAnother clink, another shot dumped into her mouth. This time, Misty's entire tongue went numb. But the thirst was still there. The dehydrating alcohol was only making it worse.\n\n\"Let's hurry and do the last one.\" Misty's hand fumbled as she poured the last shot. She was almost out of rose petals.\n\n\"You are so beautiful.\"\n\nMisty jumped, tequila sloshing from her glass. Graham was staring at her, moonlight on the thick glass in his hand throwing spangles over his face. His eyes were pale gray, wolflike.\n\n\"What?\" Misty stammered.\n\n\"You heard me.\"\n\nMisty thought of the searing kiss they'd shared this afternoon, under the equally searing sun. How he'd touched the tip of her nose and said, _You and me. We're not done._\n\nThe gruff note in his voice tonight was the same. Graham wasn't comfortable with the words, but he'd said them anyway.\n\n\"Cheers,\" Misty said softly.\n\nShe clinked her glass against his. Graham reached over and brushed his fingers along her hand before he turned his glass and poured the shot down his throat.\n\nMisty swallowed, wincing at the fire in her throat. Her mouth burned, and her tongue felt thick. Good thing the spell book said only four shots. Misty would be flat on her back if it had said five or six.\n\n\"I still don't feel any different,\" Misty said. \"Except a little drunk.\"\n\nGraham thumped his shot glass to the table and slammed his hand down next to it as he swallowed. \"Nope.\"\n\n\"Maybe it really isn't a spell,\" Misty said. \"Maybe whoever wrote the book is laughing at us.\"\n\n\"We're not done yet.\"\n\n\"That's true.\"\n\n_Bury the rose petals in the earth, turn thrice, and open to the cleansing rays of the moon, the Mother Goddess._\n\nMisty stood up, and clutched the edge of the table. \"You're going to have to help me dig.\"\n\nGraham was less shaky than Misty, but he definitely swayed a little as he got to his feet. Shifters could handle alcohol a lot better than humans, he'd told her. Their metabolism burned it off quickly, same way they burned food. But they could still get drunk and have hangovers\u2014it just took more doing.\n\nMisty and Graham went together to the corner of the yard, where the ground was soft under the rosebushes. The jutting branches of the neighbor's tree plus the wall of Misty's garage shielded that part of the garden from the house, and the glow from her lit back windows was muted here.\n\nMisty crouched down under the rosebushes. In spring and fall, these plants were a glory of red, yellow, pink, orange, and white. In August, it was still too hot for blooms, but even now, buds were showing in the shadiest spots.\n\nMisty awkwardly poked at the dirt with her trowel. Graham closed his big hand over hers, shoving the trowel in and turning over the earth. The strength of him came through her hand and sent heat to her heart.\n\nShe scraped the last of the rose petals from the shot glasses and dumped them in the hole, adding the petals she'd cut but hadn't used. Graham's hand still on hers, they filled in the hole and smoothed the dirt over it.\n\nGraham released the trowel and stood up. He reached down and pulled Misty to her feet, remaining close to her in the shadows. \"Now what?\"\n\n\"We turn around. Three times. Like this.\"\n\nMisty stepped out into the moonlight. She opened her arms, lifting her face to the moon, _the Mother Goddess,_ and turned in place once. Graham watched her, then he spread his arms and did the next circle with her.\n\nMisty thought Graham might complain he looked stupid rotating in Misty's yard, but then, Shifters performed rituals all the time. Misty had seen a mating ceremony, which was a little like a human wedding, though much briefer and rowdier. They called it _mating under sun and under moon_ \u2014one ritual performed in daylight, the next under the full moon. After the full-moon ceremony, the Shifters were considered officially mated.\n\nShe had also seen a ceremony to celebrate a cub coming out of Transition to full adulthood. Sadder, she'd attended a Shifter gathering to recognize the yearly anniversary of a loved one's passing.\n\nGraham and Misty did another turn together, then Misty stopped, and Graham did his third one alone.\n\nWhen he finished, they looked at each other. \"Now what?\" Graham asked.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nThe book hadn't specified whether the moon should be full, waxing, or waning. Or whether the roses had to be fresh cut, or other details like that. Could be the book was just the ramblings of someone who loved whimsy, and it wouldn't help at all.\n\nGraham was watching her, his body quiet in the darkness, moonlight glinting on his Collar. He belonged out here in the night, a wolf, a being of the moon.\n\nOther Shifters Misty had met could look and act exactly like humans, but Graham never quite could, not entirely. Graham was always a beast\u2014tall, broad, raw strength in his bare arms. She had the feeling he kept to human shape only for convenience . . . his.\n\n\"Nothing's happening,\" he said.\n\n\"I know,\" Misty said glumly. \"Maybe we\u2014\"\n\nPain choked her words to a halt. She bent in agony as blood surged through her veins as hot as the tequila had been, burning its way to her heart.\n\nMisty thought she screamed, but only a faint cry escaped her lips. She pressed her hands to the hot core of her chest, struggling to breathe.\n\nNot a heart attack. She couldn't be having a heart attack. Could she?\n\n\"Call . . .\" Misty coughed, lungs begging for air. She clawed at her chest, trying to open it, to let the air in. What the hell was happening to her? She was falling, falling . . .\n\nBut Graham had caught her, solid arms around her, cradling her as she went down. He was on his knees with her, gathering her to him.\n\nMisty felt Graham's heart hammering in his chest. He closed her in his arms, hands on her back.\n\n\"Stay with me, Misty.\" His voice was harsh. \"Stay with me, love. Don't . . . don't . . .\"\n\nMisty opened her mouth\u2014and found air rushing back inside her. She gasped out loud as hot desert night air flowed into her lungs, expanding them again. Oxygen pounded to her heart, filling her blood, which shot fire around her body again.\n\nAnd then the burning eased, little by little, cooling as did the baking desert under a soft fall of rain.\n\nMisty drew another breath, this one more natural. She licked her lips, tasting the residue of tequila, feeling moisture linger in the wake of her tongue.\n\n_Moisture._ Not parched lips and dry mouth. The horrific thirst had vanished.\n\n\"I think it worked.\" Misty looked at Graham in relief. She smiled. \"I think it actually worked.\"\n\nGraham said nothing. He bathed her in another of his intense stares, then he cupped her face in one hand and kissed her mouth.\n\nNo slow starts and easing in this time. Graham's hand was hot on her cheek, thumb at the corner of her lips. He took her mouth in hard strokes, and Misty clutched Graham's shoulders, his skin hot through his T-shirt. He curved over her, sending her down into the ground.\n\nMisty's body came alive. The kiss this afternoon had been burning, but _this_ . . .\n\nGravel cut into her back until Graham thrust his arm behind her, lifting her to him. He moved himself over her, his large body engulfing hers. Misty met his kiss with hers, thrusting her tongue inside his mouth, wanting him.\n\nShe felt the rough of his palm on her shoulder then the skinny strap of her tank top moving downward, and with it the top, baring her to the night. With his other hand, Graham unsnapped her bra, pushing it and the tank down to her waist.\n\nGraham never stopped kissing her. He closed his callused hand over her breast, her nipple tightening to meet his palm. Heat streaked from the cup of his hand to every part of her, settling at the join of her thighs.\n\nMisty scrabbled at Graham's T-shirt, wanting to touch him too. His skin was roasting, which worried her, but the worry was dim, buried behind the rush and roar of the kiss.\n\nShe worked his shirt upward, finding the smoothness of his back, the curve of his spine, the muscle of his shoulders. All the while, she kissed him. She tasted the bite of tequila, the sweetness of the rose petals, felt the burn of the spell beyond the insistence of his lips on hers.\n\nGraham pulled back abruptly. Moonlight outlined the harsh planes of his face and glinted on his Collar. His lips were parted, eyes hard.\n\nMisty lifted to him again, seeking his mouth. Graham raised his head away from her, but his hand remained on her breast.\n\nHis eyes narrowed, silver and gleaming. Then he said softly, \"Aw, fuck it.\"\n\nGraham tugged off his T-shirt in a few quick jerks and flung it away from him, and then pulled Misty up to him. His hands were hot on her back, kisses hard.\n\nGraham took his mouth to her neck. A sharp pain, a love bite, then he licked his way to her shoulder, closing his teeth over the skin. Another bite, before he moved down to her breast.\n\nPart of Misty's brain reminded her Xav and Reid were in the house and could emerge at any time. The other parts told her to shut up. She needed this.\n\nGraham drew his teeth together over her firm nipple. Misty gave a quiet cry, the not-pain brushing white heat through her.\n\nHe licked and played for a time, circling her areola with his tongue, nibbling the tip. Then he pulled her breast all the way into his mouth and suckled, strokes firm.\n\nMisty arched to him, a groan escaping her lips. Magic and moonlight, and Graham.\n\nGraham traced her navel with his fingertips then popped the button of her shorts. Before Misty could say a word, Graham unzipped the shorts and slid his fingers inside.\n\nHe found her sweet spot right away. _God, did he find it._\n\nMisty's hips rose, she seeking the wonderful friction of his hand. She felt his fingers grow moist and slick, evidence of how much she wanted him.\n\nGraham lifted his head, his lips damp from suckling her breast, his eyes alight. \"You feel good, sweetheart.\"\n\nMisty tried to respond, but all that came out were incoherent sounds. Graham smiled, and slid one strong finger inside her.\n\nThe stiff invasiveness made her tighten. At the same time, Graham brushed his thumb across her opening, drawing more moisture and more heat.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" Her whisper came out a croak.\n\n\"What does it feel like I'm doing?\" Graham slid in a second finger.\n\nHis fingers were large, stretching her. Misty __ drew in a breath, prepared to tell him to stop, but the words didn't come. She didn't want him to stop. For months she'd craved his touch, and now he was giving it to her.\n\nMisty wormed her fingers under his waistband, finding his slick, warm hip. Graham yanked her hand out again.\n\n\"Not yet,\" he growled. \"Feel _me_.\"\n\nShe couldn't _not_ feel him. Graham slid a third finger into her, and Misty groaned. Her legs opened of their own volition, wanting this spreading, his large hand inside her. He was going to think she was no better than a Shifter groupie, begging with her body for the touch of a Shifter.\n\nWho cared? Graham kissed her again, his mouth a place of goodness, while his fingers gave her pleasure. Her breasts were bare, pressing against his torso, and Misty pulled him closer. When he eased off kissing her, she reached up and caught the skin of his neck in her teeth, leaving her own love bite.\n\n\"Oh, yeah?\" Graham's smile flashed, his eyes wicked.\n\nHe moved his fingers in and out, easy with how wet she was. Doing with his fingers what he'd never done with his cock.\n\nMisty clung to him while she rose against him, wanting to drag him inside her. His hands awakened the desires she'd constantly pushed aside, telling herself she was happy with only his company and his kisses. What a lie.\n\nHer desire built and built until it broke. As with the icy wave in her dream, Misty's climax rose over her and swept her away on a black tide.\n\nShe heard her own voice ringing until Graham silenced her with his mouth. She suckled his tongue, needing him inside her, squeezing his fingers that thrust into her.\n\nGraham kissed her while she rode out the wave, then he increased the speed of his thrusts, sending her up into climax again.\n\nThree times he took her there, and three times he held her while she went wild around him. In the end, Misty had no idea where she was or when, and she didn't care. She only needed Graham, and he was in her arms.\n\nShe hung on to him until the spinning stopped, then she fell back to earth, his large body coming down on hers. He didn't crush her, he only covered her with his warm length, shielding her against the night. Graham stroked Misty's hair, lips touching her face, the line of her hair, her lips. Incredible gentleness from this rough-edged man.\n\nFor a long time they lay together, stretched out on the ground, absorbing the warmth of the darkness. Graham said nothing, only nuzzled her cheek and lightly kissed her. He'd given Misty all the pleasure, demanding nothing in return.\n\nAs moonlight brushed his skin as he kissed her, an idea that had been tapping before Graham had driven her thoughts away started knocking for attention again. Misty looked into Graham's face.\n\n\"The spell cured me,\" she said. \"I'm not thirsty anymore. But it didn't work on you, did it?\"\n\nGraham regarded her another moment, his gray eyes steady. \"No,\" he said, voice quiet. \"It didn't.\"\n\n## CHAPTER TEN\n\nNo, Graham wasn't cured. And that was going to be a problem.\n\nHe staved off the thought by brushing his lips against Misty's, but for the first time in his life, he faced the question\u2014 _What do I do?_\n\nGraham always knew what to do. If he didn't, he made something up. Yelling at one of his Shifters or knocking them across the room usually helped. But this time, brute force and bullying wasn't going to work.\n\nThirst pounded through him. Kissing Misty calmed it, but as soon as he released her, his mouth grew parched again. He needed to drink.\n\nGraham also knew, though he wasn't sure how he knew, that his gunshot wound was only temporarily healed. Fae magic had closed it up, but Graham would bet that, if the Fae chose, he could rip it open again. Shifter metabolism being what it was, Graham would still heal from the shot eventually, but he'd have to go through the agony of its infliction all over again. And maybe the Fae would keep reopening the wound, just to punish Graham.\n\nMisty, though, was free. Somehow the stupid little spell with the roses and tequila had burned the Fae water out of her. Possibly the tequila alone had done it; humans were weak when it came to alcohol. Maybe that was the same reason it hadn't worked on him\u2014Shifters had a high tolerance even for the strongest liquor.\n\n\"Graham?\" Misty touched his face.\n\nHe loved this\u2014Misty in his arms, a moment of peace.\n\nGraham had left his mark on her. The dark love bites on her neck and breasts stood out in the moonlight. His mark, his brand.\n\nHe closed his fingers around her wrist and held on. \"You can't tell anyone it didn't work. Swear to me.\"\n\nMisty blinked in concern. \"Why not?\"\n\nGraham didn't answer for a moment. He kissed her again, savoring her taste. He thought about moving his fingers back between her legs, where it was hot, sweet, slick. He could bring her to climax one more time, forget about spells and Fae. Only Misty was important.\n\n\"Graham?\" Misty's voice was soft, but insistent. \"We'll need help to figure this out.\"\n\n\"No,\" Graham said, his voice harsh, though he softened his hold on her wrist. \"If my Shifters think I'm Fae-touched, they'll fall apart, and take me with them.\" They needed him, and that wasn't just arrogance. Most of Graham's Shifters hadn't adjusted to living in the city yet, with Shifters they didn't know. Most hadn't adjusted to living in a Shiftertown, period, even after twenty years. They'd have all gone feral, or died, or curled into little balls of whimpering fur if Graham hadn't done some of the shit he'd done. \"If they know I'm under a Fae's power, they could turn on me, take me out\u2014kill me\u2014and maybe Dougal too. I know that's not allowed, but my Shifters are pretty wild and don't care. So, they can't know. No one can.\"\n\nMisty gave him the startled look she always got whenever he told her how violent Shifters were. Why did humans think Shifters had been tamed? Making them wear the shock Collars was like putting a tiny bandage on a gaping wound.\n\n\"There must be someone you can talk to,\" Misty said. She caressed his face, as though she found something she liked in the scarred, harsh mess of it. \"Reid, maybe?\"\n\n\"I said, I need to think about it.\" Graham gentled his impatient answer by kissing the inside of her wrist. \"This is the kind of problem a Shifter takes to his leader. Except I _am_ the leader.\"\n\n\"Eric, then,\" Misty said. Sweet lady; she was so naive. \"He's your partner.\"\n\nGraham snorted a laugh. \"Right. Don't think so.\" Eric had wanted Graham under his thumb since Graham's Shifters had been forced to move into Eric's Shiftertown.\n\nMisty didn't look convinced. Graham kissed her again, letting the kiss turn lingering. He loved that the terrible thirst slaked a bit when his mouth was on hers.\n\nHe wanted to stay kissing her forever, the fragrance of the flowers she loved wrapping around them. Misty's scent was even better than the flowers', her soft body under his worth every second of his agony.\n\nGraham had to fix this, and fast. And then figure out what the hell to do about his growing mating frenzy for Misty. He'd not be able to stave it off for long, and if the frenzy consumed him, it would be as dangerous to her as any Fae spell.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham stayed the night at Misty's, which entailed more pizza. The cubs ate most of it.\n\nReid departed before the pizza arrived, borrowing the book from Misty, intrigued by it, he said. Graham knew Reid's real reason to leave was his ache to get back home to the bear Shifter, Peigi. It had been more than a year since Peigi had been rescued from an insane, feral Shifter in Mexico who'd kept her and other women in a basement, more than six months since Reid had moved in with her. And still she and Reid weren't officially a couple, for some reason.\n\nGraham stayed with Misty not only to protect her but also because it was clear Xavier wasn't about to leave. Xav might claim he was just doing his job, and had three other DX Security men stationed outside the house, but Xav was inside, with Misty.\n\nIn spite of her apparent recovery, Misty was still reluctant to go to bed, afraid to dream, but Graham eventually talked her into it. Misty needed her rest\u2014she'd had a hell of a time. The cubs, as wolves, dashed into her room ahead of her, leapt up on her bed, and curled up on the foot of it. Misty let them, kissed Graham good night, and shut the door on him.\n\nGood thing. If Graham went in there, he'd want to hole up with her and never come out. And then everything in the outside world would go to hell.\n\nThinking of Misty's scent, her warmth around his fingers, the taste of her when he'd touched his fingers to his lips, made him not care about the rest of the world. Let it go. Mating frenzy was more important, right?\n\nHe made himself turn away and leave her alone.\n\nGraham didn't blame Misty for fearing to dream. Still under the spell, he didn't want to sleep either. He talked to Xav. He walked around the house on the outside, sticking to shadows. He checked the backyard; he checked on Misty and the cubs. Matt and Kyle were curled up on her feet, fast asleep, and Misty was breathing evenly, her face relaxed in slumber. Watching Misty lying there made Graham want to go curl himself up around her, but again, he closed the door and let her rest.\n\nGraham watched Misty's TV, running through the three hundred or so channels he didn't get in Shiftertown. He looked through Misty's DVD collection and her downloads after that. As he already knew, Misty liked chick flicks, each of which featured a pretty heroine who blundered into embarrassing situations, had wacky best friends or zany coworkers, and fell in love first with the wrong guy\u2014the bad boy who broke her heart\u2014and then the right one, the nice guy who'd been there all the time. Graham had argued with Misty that females in real life wouldn't settle for the beta and would keep trying for the alpha, but Misty had rolled her eyes and told him he didn't understand romance. Well no, he didn't. Not the kind of romance in those movies, anyway.\n\nBut what the hell. Graham decided to give one a try, desperate to stay awake.\n\nIt was his downfall. On the heroine's third fumbled conversation with the geeky-looking nice guy\u2014who didn't deserve to end up with her\u2014Graham fell asleep.\n\nHe woke in the cave with the spring and the fountain.\n\n\"Shit.\" Graham scrambled to his feet. His side throbbed, and he looked down to see blood soaking through his T-shirt.\n\n\"You'll die of that.\" The Fae didn't enter with a bang; he was just _there_ , when he hadn't been a second before. He gestured to Graham's wound. \"You should tend it.\"\n\nHe had the look of all Fae\u2014tall, pointy eared, white haired. He was dressed in silver chain mail, with a sword at his side, as though ready to run off and do battle with something. Over the mail he wore a shimmering silver cloak draped across his shoulders.\n\nGraham deliberately did not press his hand to his wound, as much as he wanted to. \"You know why the Shifters rebelled from the Fae?\" he asked. \"Your crappy fashion sense. You've been wearing the same clothes for a thousand years.\"\n\n\"Time moves differently in Faerie.\"\n\n\"Good for Faerie. Who the hell are you, and why are you stalking me?\"\n\n\"You may call me Oison.\"\n\nNot his real name, Graham knew. Fae had a thing about true names. \"I don't care about calling you anything,\" Graham said. \"Get the hell out of my dreams.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" Oison said. \"You have been chosen.\"\n\n_Chosen_. Fae loved to say crap like that. Anything dramatic. \"So, _un_ -choose me before I kick your sorry ass.\"\n\n\"I cannot do that.\"\n\nGraham started toward him. Oison watched him come, unworried.\n\n_Stupid-ass Fae bastards._ This Oison had hurt Misty, had tried to enslave her, and for that, he'd die.\n\nThe cave's floor was slick like glass\u2014no, it was polished obsidian. Graham slipped, the gunshot wound hurting him, but he refused to fall.\n\nThe fountain burbled incessantly. Fat vines snaked up the walls and across the floor, turning the rock cave into a jungle of flowers. The scent was thick. Graham thought of Misty's small garden where the much sparser growth had smelled clean and sweet.\n\nGraham reached Oison. The Fae was tall, like Reid, with the same eyes that tried to bore into Graham's skull. But Reid had proved to be smart, reasonable, and helpful, despite his Fae-ness, and he had a true fondness for Peigi and the cubs he'd helped rescue. Somewhere inside Reid was a heart, and feelings.\n\n_This_ Fae had used Misty to lure Graham to the desert, then tricked Misty into feeding Graham spelled water. Oison had caused Misty to be hurt, terrorized, and trapped. Therefore, he had to die.\n\nGraham roared, shifting as he attacked. Who cared if it hurt like hell when his clothes fell from his bloody side? This was a dream.\n\nGraham loved the look on the Fae's face as two hundred and some pounds of snarling wolf landed on him. _Eat this, shithead._\n\nOison went down, scrabbling to draw his sword as he fell, but Graham ripped into him with teeth and claws. He met the metal of the mail, but it peeled back like tinfoil, and Graham tasted blood.\n\nOison struggled, the sword falling to the obsidian floor with a clank. Graham opened his mouth wide, clamped his teeth around the Fae's throat, and ripped. The Fae screamed, then the scream died to a gurgle in an eruption of gore.\n\nGraham tasted lifeblood pouring into his mouth. He snarled his victory, raking open Oison's skin to find bones. Oison's coal black eyes fixed, then filmed over.\n\nGraham scrambled off him. He sat back on his haunches, lifted his bloody muzzle, and howled. He'd defeated his enemy. He'd saved himself and Misty from the Fae's clutches and the damned water spell.\n\nSudden pain cut off Graham's breath. The echo of his wolf's howl bounced from the cave's high ceiling and evaporated.\n\nGraham's Collar had come alive. Dormant while Graham had attacked the Fae, the Collar was now a hot band of metal, shocks arcing around it and straight into Graham's body.\n\nHe howled again, this time in pure agony. His body shifted of its own accord from wolf to his in-between beast, his strongest form.\n\nThe Collar's shocks increased, blasting him with hot pain. Graham clawed at the Collar, desperately trying to make it stop.\n\nHe saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Through his blurring vision, he saw the Fae, bloody and torn up, rise and draw his sword.\n\nFae swords were works of art. They were fashioned of bronze or silver\u2014iron and steel were poison to the Fae. This one looked silver. As well, Fae swords were almost always full of spells. The Swords of the Guardians had been made by a Shifter centuries ago, but woven with spells from that Shifter's Fae mate.\n\nOison held his sword battle-ready as he made his way to where Graham fought his Collar. Graham reached his huge, clawed hands for Oison, ready to kill again\u2014as many times as it took to put the asshole down.\n\nOison swung his sword, stopping when the tip contacted the Collar. Graham's agony increased. The Fae held the sword against the Collar, spells on the blade feeding into the Collar and then into Graham.\n\nGraham was being baked alive. He roared, hands going for the Fae's throat, which still ran with blood.\n\nOison shouted at him in a Fae language, but Graham somehow understood it. _Monster, created of filth. I hold you. By sword and by Collar, you are mine. You will give them to me, the battle beasts, and Fae again will walk the earth._\n\nGraham tried to jerk away from the sword but Oison was merciless. Graham saw runes shimmer across the sword's blade, heard whispering: _weakened, enslaved, obedient_.\n\n\"That's what the Collars are,\" Oison said, his voice clear, no matter that his throat was a bloody mess. \"Chains that will bring you back to us. You have enslaved yourselves.\"\n\nGraham used all his will to wrench himself sideways, finally breaking the contact with the sword. He fell down, down, and the flowering vines reached up to pull him to the slick floor.\n\nHe heard himself shout, _Fuck you!_ then something started hammering on his chest, dozens of blows, full force.\n\nGraham dragged in a breath to fight this new threat . . . and found himself lying flat on his back on Misty's couch, the same stupid movie on her TV. Two little wolves were standing heavily on his chest, beating on him with their oversized paws.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty emerged in the morning to find Graham at her kitchen table, red-eyed and irritable, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Kyle and Matt, in their human form and dressed, their faces already dirty, bounced in chairs opposite him. Xavier stood at the stove, a towel over his shoulder, black T-shirt hugging his torso, as he cooked something that smelled wonderful.\n\nMisty poured herself coffee. She enjoyed leaning back against the counter and taking a leisurely sip, happy to no longer crave liquid by the gallon.\n\nGraham, on the other hand, was still under the spell. He lifted his coffee and took a sip, but his hands shook. He pulled the cup from his mouth after one taste, as though stopping himself from pouring the burning brew down his throat.\n\n\"You all right?\" Misty asked him.\n\n\"Do I look all right?\"\n\nHis voice was harsher than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, lips dry. This was Graham with a hangover, under a thirst spell, and by the looks of it, little sleep.\n\n\"No, you look like crap,\" Misty said. \"You need to drink something.\"\n\nGraham growled. \"I need to go back to Shiftertown. Only reason I'm still here is to feed Kyle and Matt. And to make sure you're all right for the day.\"\n\n\"Xav's making us chili killies,\" one of the twins proclaimed.\n\n\" _Chilaquiles_ ,\" Xav said good-naturedly from the stove. \"Mama's specialty. You'll love this, Misty.\"\n\nMisty's stomach growled. After the tequila shots, she should be as dry-voiced and red-eyed as Graham, but she felt pretty good. She'd had a dreamless sleep, waking when the sun rose to find the two wolves curled up on the bed next to her.\n\nThey'd leapt out as soon as she'd opened the door, and she'd hurried through her shower and dressed, concerned about Graham.\n\nXav brought two plates filled with eggs, fried tortillas, cheese, and tomatillo salsa to the table and put them in front of the cubs. He'd already laid out forks, and fortunately, the cubs decided to try to use them.\n\nGraham had pushed aside his place setting, his elbows where his fork and knife would be. The flame tattoos climbed up his arms\u2014red, orange, yellow, outlined in black.\n\n\"You need to eat something,\" Misty said to him.\n\n\"No, I don't. I need to go back to Shiftertown.\"\n\nKyle and Matt didn't have to be told to hurry. They were already halfway through their meal. All the pizza last night obviously hadn't filled them.\n\n\"Well, eat something at home then,\" Misty said. \"And drink.\" Just because Graham couldn't control the thirst didn't mean he didn't need water.\n\n\"Will you let me worry about that?\" he snapped. \"You stay home. There's a crazy Fae running loose, and he might get pissed off because you broke his spell. I'm sending over reinforcements.\"\n\n\"I can't stay home,\" Misty said, watching Kyle and Matt shovel in the rest of the eggs and tortilla chips. \"I have to talk to my insurance agent, make sure they receive the police report, call people about getting my store repaired, postpone incoming deliveries, and apologize to all my customers for having to cancel their orders. I'll be busy.\"\n\n\"Then you wait for my reinforcements.\" Graham shoved aside the coffee and thrust himself to his feet. \"Come on, you two.\"\n\nMatt and Kyle abandoned their places and licked-clean plates to barrel toward Misty. \"Good-bye, Aunt Misty!\" The two little boys hugged her legs, two eager faces turned up to her. Misty leaned down and hugged them back, kissing their foreheads. They gave her sticky kisses in return then broke away from her.\n\n\"Bye, Xav!\" Another enthusiastic leg hug, and then they were out the door, heading for the small truck Graham had driven over.\n\nMisty's broken front door had been temporarily repaired with a piece of board nailed over the torn part, plus it was guarded by another muscled man in a black T-shirt and black camouflage pants.\n\n\"Graham,\" Misty called as Graham strode out the door without another word. She caught up to him in the driveway, as the cubs climbed enthusiastically into the pickup. \"Wait a minute.\"\n\nGraham swung to her. She expected him to give her hell again about wanting to talk, but he said nothing, only waited.\n\nToday he looked less human than ever\u2014a wild animal posing as a human being. His light gray eyes were hard with anger and pain, his short hair mussed, and the scars on his tanned face and arms were stark white. He was battling thirst and need for sleep, and losing.\n\n\"You should stay here,\" Misty said. \"You need to rest. Maybe Reid can find another way to break the spell . . .\"\n\nGraham's words cut over hers. \"No. Until this is over, I'm staying far away from you. Stick with Xav and the Shifters I send over, but keep away from me.\"\n\nMisty took a step forward. Her body hummed from his pleasuring of her last night, from the way he'd held her when they'd finished, her half-naked body folded into his. Graham hadn't forgotten that, his look told her, and he wasn't angry at her. He was scared.\n\n\"Graham . . .\"\n\nGraham raised his hands. \"Stay. Away.\" He moved his hands as though physically shoving her back, and then he turned around, got into the truck, and slammed its door.\n\nWithout looking at her, Graham started up the truck, backed out of her driveway, and roared off. The cubs waved out the window, then the truck turned a corner and was gone, leaving Misty alone with the warming morning and the stench of exhaust.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"Warden,\" Graham said, walking into the Shiftertown leader's house. \"We need to talk about the Collars.\"\n\nGraham hadn't been invited in, and Eric's sister and his son, Jace, were in front of him before the screen door slammed, the soft snarls in their throats threatening mayhem.\n\n\"Good going, McNeil,\" Eric said from where he lounged on the couch. He was in T-shirt and jeans, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. \"Why don't you charge into an alpha's territory and start giving him commands? That's the way to get your balls torn off.\"\n\nGraham watched Cassidy and Jace, who continued to block his way, their eyes, so like Eric's, fixed on him with near-feral anger. Diego had come out of the kitchen, and now he paused in its doorway, also watching Graham. He was probably armed, like his brother, and Diego had less of a sense of humor than Xav.\n\n\"We don't have time for this shit,\" Graham said. \"We need to get the Collars off the Shifters. All Shifters. Right now.\"\n\nEric finally looked startled, though the only sign he made was his Feline eyes widening a little. \"And you know why we can't rush.\"\n\n\"Things have changed. Collars need to come off. Now.\"\n\n\"He's not wrong,\" Stuart Reid said from the other side of the screen door. Unlike Graham, he was savvy enough to wait outside until the alpha Shifter invited him in. \"Or things are going to get bad for all Shifters, everywhere.\"\n\n## CHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nDid Warden leap up, grab his son\u2014who'd just spent a painful time learning about how Collars came off\u2014and start running around Shiftertown doing it? No, he sat there contemplating Graham with his jade-colored eyes, and clasped his hands behind his head.\n\n\"You two want to tell me what you're talking about?\" Eric asked.\n\n\"You want to call off your posse?\" Graham growled, baring his wolf's teeth at Jace and Cassidy. \"If I wanted you dead, I'd have attacked you and not let them stop me. Where's your mate?\" he added, realizing he neither saw nor scented Iona.\n\n\"Busy.\" Meaning Eric wasn't about to tell Graham. \"Reid, get in here and close the door. It's hot.\"\n\nReid obeyed. Showed how seriously he took this, because Reid usually gave Shifters who told him what to do a _fuck-off_ glare. Now Reid only walked inside and shut the solid door, closing out the morning heat.\n\n\"All right, you have my attention,\" Eric said. \"Talk.\"\n\nGraham drew a breath. The last person he wanted to tell he was weakened was Warden, but the risk went beyond him now. Being alpha, and leader, didn't only mean Graham could best all other Shifters. It meant he took good care of those he bested.\n\n\"I think we're all screwed,\" Graham said. \"Because of the Collars. What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room, all right?\"\n\nHe launched into the story of what had happened out in the desert, including him drinking the Fae water, the dream he'd shared with Misty, the way they'd tried to counteract the spell, and his dream alone with Oison. He left out the more intimate moments he and Misty had shared in her backyard after the spell had left her\u2014some things were none of their frigging business.\n\nAs he spoke, Cassidy moved to Diego, who put his arms around her from behind, and Jace joined his father on the sofa. No one had changed position all that much, but just enough to show that fighting was no longer imminent.\n\n\"Oison,\" Eric repeated when Graham had finished. \"Know anything about him, Reid?\"\n\n\"Never heard of him,\" Reid said. \"But Faerie's a big place.\"\n\n\"If you've never heard of him, how do you know I'm right about him and the sword?\" Graham asked. Reid had never hurried to agree with Graham before.\n\n\"Because of Misty's book,\" Reid said. \"It contains many anti-Fae spells. From what I gleaned from the notes and subtext, the Fae might once before have tried to use devices to bring the Shifters back into their power, I'd say about a hundred years ago. Except, the last time, they didn't have the technology available to them that humans have now.\"\n\nOnly Reid could use words like _gleaned_ and _subtext_ with a straight face. \"I really want to know about this half Fae who designed the Collars for us,\" Graham said. \"No, what I really want to do is break his face.\"\n\n\"He's dead,\" Eric said in a mild voice. \"But his son is still around somewhere.\"\n\n\"I say we round him up and talk to him.\"\n\n\"I think we agree,\" Eric said. He unclasped his hands and rested them on his abdomen. \"Write it down. Doesn't happen often.\"\n\nDiego spoke up from behind Cassidy. \"Let me see if I understand this. This Fae, in your dream, had a sword that, what, connected to your Collar?\"\n\n\"Yep,\" Graham said. \"Like a key and a lock. Only the lock hurt like hell.\"\n\n\"And from this dream, you're guessing there are more swords that will affect more Collars?\" Diego went on.\n\n\"I'm saying they figured out a way to manipulate the Collars,\" Graham said impatiently. \"Figured it out even before the Collars went on us. Like electronic dog leashes. And they've been planning this for the last twenty years.\"\n\n\"Kind of a long time to wait,\" Diego said.\n\n\"Time moves differently for the Fae,\" Graham said. \"At least that's what that asshole told me in my dream. And he wouldn't stay dead, which means he was there and not there at the same time, devious bastard. I bet the pain was there for him, though. Not that it makes me feel any better.\"\n\n\"We need a leader meeting,\" Eric said.\n\nGraham's temper, which he'd barely been holding on to, splintered. \"Whoa, what happened to _What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room_? I'm not letting other Shiftertown leaders know I'm spelled. They'll eat me alive. You know it, so don't give me that patient look.\"\n\n\"If you'll shut up,\" Eric said. \"I'll tell you I agree with you. Again. That's twice in one morning. Amazing.\"\n\n\"If there's a leader meeting, I'm going to it,\" Graham said. \"And you're going to say exactly what I tell you to say.\"\n\n\"I don't\u2014\"\n\nGraham cut Eric off. \"I'm _going_. There, we disagree on that, but suck it up. Set up the meeting, tell me when and where.\"\n\nBefore Eric could draw breath to speak again, Graham turned his back and walked out. His heart was thumping hard, in worry and pain.\n\nWhat Oison had done scared him, not only for himself but for Shifters like Dougal, Lindsay, and others\u2014Shifters who weren't strong enough to fight the Fae. They'd end up Fae slaves in a second, their wills taken away, made to fight Fae wars in the realm of Faerie, and maybe here too if Oison's cryptic statements were anything to go by.\n\nFae had difficulty in the human world because of all the iron and steel. But if they enslaved Shifters to fight the humans for them, the violence the humans feared from Shifters would come to pass. Shifters wouldn't be able to do anything about it, even if they loathed what the Fae made them do. And Graham knew plenty of Shifters, unfortunately, who _wouldn't_ hate killing humans, even for the Fae.\n\nBefore Graham had met Misty, he might have been one of those not caring if humans suffered. But Graham _had_ met Misty, and he'd kissed her, and he'd kill every Shifter on the planet, and every Fae in Faerie, before he'd let any of them touch her.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nPaul met Misty at her store later that morning. Her brother leaned on a push broom in the main part of the shop and looked dejectedly down at the broken glass and ruined flowers.\n\nHe dropped the broom when he saw Misty and came to her, wrapping his rawboned arms around her in a deep hug. Paul had grown up too fast after their parents' divorce, and had tried to act tough, but underneath, he was still a frightened boy.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said. \"I'm so sorry, Misty.\"\n\nMisty said nothing, only held him close. After a few minutes, Paul raised his head and wiped his eyes. \"I'll make it up to you. I'll fix it. I'll get you money . . .\"\n\n\"You don't have to do anything at all,\" Misty said quickly. \"Not your fault Flores is a criminal. Don't even clean up. The insurance adjuster has to look at the damage first.\"\n\n\"Insurance guy is already here,\" Paul said. \"In the back.\"\n\n\"Really? That was fast.\" Misty had known people with property damage who'd had to wait weeks, even months, before their claims started to process.\n\nShe left Paul and went into her office to find a man in a white shirt and dark tie, holding a clipboard and making check marks on it left-handed.\n\n\"Most of the damage is in the front,\" Misty said. \"Not much back here.\" Thank God. Her safe and most valuable vases had been in her storage room. Flores's gang had come for Paul and revenge, not petty cash.\n\n\"I see that.\" The man switched the clipboard to his left hand and stuck out his right. He did it a little awkwardly, as someone who had to practice doing anything with that hand. \"I'm Kevin Foster, from your insurance company.\" He released Misty, plucked a card from the top of his clipboard, and handed it to her. \"They really busted up the place, didn't they?\"\n\n\"Pretty much.\"\n\nKevin smiled. He had dark hair and blue eyes that crinkled in the corners. \"It's too bad. This is a nice little place. I hope you can get it up and running again.\"\n\n\"That's the plan. As soon as the claim gets filed.\"\n\n\"Which, I know, insurance companies can take a long time with.\" Another little smile. \"But I'll do what I can.\"\n\n\"Can I start cleaning up? I'd love to get back to work.\"\n\n\"I'll clear it. Repairs have to be made by approved workers, though, keep in mind, or the company might not pay the claim.\"\n\nMisty strove to remain polite. In the real world, things could move at a snail's crawl. Meanwhile, businesses went under because customers lost faith in them.\n\nKevin seemed to understand. \"I'll do my best. Don't worry. Give it a week, tops.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Misty's skepticism rose. \"I don't mean to be rude, but . . .\"\n\n\"But nothing. I'm a friend of Iona Warden's. She was waiting at my office this morning and pretty much wouldn't let me even grab my first cup of coffee before she made sure I was headed out here. My company does a lot of work with her family.\"\n\nAh. Iona, mate to Eric, ran a construction and contracting company with her mother and sister. Humans had been kept in the dark that Iona was half Shifter so she wouldn't have to give up her livelihood. Shifters weren't allowed to own businesses, or run them, or even hold very high positions in them. Such were the unfair laws governing Shifters.\n\n\"Tell her thank you,\" Misty said.\n\n\"I will.\" Kevin gave her another smile. He was cute, really. A normal guy. \"You start your cleanup,\" Kevin said. \"I can recommend a service to help you, if you want.\"\n\n\"I'll let you know. Thanks for coming.\"\n\nKevin gave her a final smile and departed. Misty followed him out of the store and watched him get into a conservative four-door car. He started up, backed carefully out of his space, and used his turn signal when he left the parking lot. A guy who played by the rules.\n\nPaul was sweeping the floor inside the store again, and a few men from DX Security were helping scoop up and throw away the glass and petals. When Misty tried to help with the manual labor, Xavier told her not to\u2014she might cut herself on the shards, he said. They'd take care of everything.\n\nShifters were amazing, Misty thought as she went back into her office. They banded together when any of their own were in trouble and worked to solve their problems. Cassidy's mate, Diego, had come to Graham's rescue in the desert; Diego had made sure his security company and Xav helped and protected Misty afterward. Iona had driven across town this morning to urge the insurance adjuster to start on Misty's store right away. Misty wasn't even Shifter\u2014she was Graham's girlfriend, and she wasn't even sure of that status. But the Shifters had sent resources to help her, even when Misty knew Eric and Graham didn't get along much of the time. They pulled together as a community. It warmed her that they considered her part of it.\n\nMisty spent the rest of the morning canceling orders, e-mailing or calling customers, and apologizing until she was breathless. This was so wrong. Flores had broken into her store and wrecked her business, and _she_ had to apologize.\n\nBy lunch, she needed a break. Paul and the security guys had done a great job sweeping everything up and salvaging what they could. The refrigeration room and the watering system still worked, which was a blessing, but she'd need to replace all the glass doors, her counters, shelving, and the front door and window, which would be expensive, and who knew how much insurance would cover?\n\nDepressed, she told Xav she was heading a few doors down to get herself an enchilada at the little caf\u00e9 that served New Mexico\u2013style Mexican food. Paul had already gone down there, Xav said and offered to walk with her.\n\nXav was another nice guy, Misty decided. He wore the same black T-shirt as the rest of the security men, the tight fabric showing off every muscle beneath it. Diego and Xav had probably decided on the shirts to reassure clients that DX Security hired only strong guys.\n\nMisty focused on the DX men in an effort to not dwell on a Shifter who also looked hot in a tight T-shirt. Even hotter without it.\n\nGraham hadn't called Misty all morning, hadn't said a word. _Stay away_ , he'd told her forcefully. Misty thought she understood why\u2014now that she'd broken free of the thirst spell, he didn't want her near him to get caught in danger again. He was hurting, vulnerable, and didn't want to drag her into his problems.\n\nWell, she'd dragged him into hers first. They should work on this together.\n\nBut who was she kidding? Graham had never indicated he wanted anything more from Misty than dating, and not even serious dating. Even if they figured out a way to get Graham free from the Fae spell, Graham might tell Misty he wanted to call it quits. She'd already laid the groundwork by getting mad at him and asking him not to call her.\n\nAnd look how long _that_ had lasted. Graham had come charging to her house only a few hours later. And now _he_ was deciding they should stay apart. He drove her insane, and she was never going to win a control battle with him.\n\nShe needed to forget about Graham, Misty decided. There were plenty of other men around\u2014for instance, Xav, or Kevin the insurance guy.\n\nBut Graham wasn't someone she could easily forget, and Misty knew it. He lingered, like the taste of the best wine\u2014or something with a little harsher bite, like the tequila last night.\n\n_You are so beautiful._ The words had softened Graham's rough-edged voice. The tequila talking, Misty guessed. But the phrase had shot straight to her heart and lodged there. She had no illusions about what she looked like, but Graham had been talking about how _he_ saw her. Misty would treasure his words for a long time.\n\nMisty and Xav reached the restaurant. It was crowded, this place popular. Paul had already snagged a table. Misty ordered herself an enchilada with spinach and white cheese topped with green chile sauce, her favorite. Paul went for a chimi, and Xav had the _carnitas_ , the restaurant's specialty.\n\nHalfway through the meal, which Misty was too distracted to appreciate, Paul excused himself and went into the back. When Misty glanced at him in the rear hall of the restaurant, he beckoned to her.\n\nHe wanted to talk to her alone. Paul wasn't entirely comfortable in social atmospheres yet, and he often asked Misty to step aside with him while he worked out his nerves.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked quietly as she joined him. The restaurant's crowd was noisy today, Xav answering his phone and not watching them, but Misty didn't want anyone overhearing. Paul was easily embarrassed these days.\n\n\"A friend of mine wants to talk to you,\" Paul said. \"Think we can ditch our bodyguards?\"\n\nMisty's alarm grew again. \"What friend?\"\n\n\"Don't worry, he's not from one of the prison gangs I had to sell my soul to.\" Paul made a face. \"I met him after I got out. He knows my parole officer, actually. Probably wants to talk to you about keeping me out of trouble.\"\n\nMisty let out her breath. \"All right. Have him come by the store after lunch, and we can talk in my office. I'm sure Xav will let us have a private conversation.\"\n\n\"He's here now. Wants to talk right away. He's busy.\"\n\n\"Here?\" Misty scanned the small restaurant. Xav glanced their way but looked unworried, still on his phone. \"Where? Why doesn't he come and have lunch with us?\"\n\n\"He's in the alley. He only has a few minutes.\"\n\nMisty stepped in front of Paul as he started for the restaurant's rear door. \"Oh, right. Because that doesn't sound suspicious at all. Who is this guy? If he wants to talk to me so much, he can come to the store. It's only three doors down.\"\n\nPaul looked suddenly afraid, which rang even more alarms. \"Misty, _please._ \"\n\n\"No,\" Misty said firmly. \"I'm not stupid enough to meet some guy I don't know in a back alley, even in broad daylight. If he's legit, he'll come to my office.\"\n\nPaul opened his mouth to argue more, but Misty broke away from him. \"Let's go finish lunch. We'll talk about him later.\"\n\nTo her relief, Paul followed her instead of charging out after this person. Paul pulled out his phone and was texting, probably canceling the back-alley appointment.\n\nXav gave the two of them a sharp look when they returned to the table, but he didn't ask. Paul finished his meal without speaking, and Misty picked at hers, wishing she could enjoy it.\n\nBack at the store, Paul followed Misty into her office. \"He's legit, Misty,\" he said. He looked angry now instead of afraid. \"He's on his way.\"\n\n\"Fine, then.\" Misty sat at her desk, turned to her computer, and pulled up her never-ending e-mail.\n\nPaul stepped out and returned in a few minutes with a man who was on the short side, but broad-shouldered and buff, without an ounce of fat on him. In his thirties, Misty guessed as she looked up from her terminal. He had very short black hair and tatts that proclaimed he'd been in prison at least once.\n\n\"Hi,\" the man said, stopping on the other side of her desk. His voice was gruff, a little bit like Graham's, but he gave her a little smile and sounded apologetic. \"I'm Ben. Sorry about that. Paul didn't think you'd want me coming here or even talking to you in the restaurant. I'm so obviously an ex-con.\"\n\nWhich meant Paul wasn't supposed to be talking to him. A friend of his parole officer? Really?\n\n\"What can I do for you, Ben?\" Misty asked.\n\n\"It's not what you can do for me.\" Ben leaned on his hands on the desk, which made every muscle press against his sun-worn skin. \"It's what you can do for your boyfriend, Graham McNeil.\"\n\n\"What?\" Misty came alert, not pretending to give Ben anything other than her full attention. The man looked fairly harmless\u2014well, as harmless as a tough man with prison tatts could look\u2014but his brown eyes held only friendliness. He certainly wasn't a Fae, at least, Misty didn't think so. Did they all look like the hiker?\n\nPaul had remained by the door, his back to it. He looked uneasy but not surprised that Ben was asking about Graham.\n\n\"McNeil is in a lot of trouble,\" Ben said. \"You know that. He's dying. And you can save him, if you want to. Do you want to save him, Misty?\"\n\n## CHAPTER TWELVE\n\nThe last Shifter leader meeting Graham had attended had been in Dallas, and he'd had to fly. Graham hated flying. An airplane was a machine, and machines could break. Vehicles on the ground were dangerous enough, but what if one broke twenty-thousand feet in the air? Humans were crazy.\n\nThis time, Graham wouldn't have to fly, to his relief. The meeting was in Laughlin.\n\nGood choice, Graham thought as he headed out of town with Eric\u2014on Dougal's Harley because his own still needed repairs.\n\nA lot of bikers went to Laughlin, a town about an hour or so south of Vegas on the Nevada-Arizona border, the motorcycle riders mixing in with retirees who came for cheap food, cheap rooms, and cheap slots. A score of Shifters could blend in with the human bikers easily, and the human government never had to know Shifters had gathered there. Shifters weren't allowed to cross state lines without special permission, so the fewer humans who knew Shifters were traveling today, the better.\n\nOnly Shifter leaders and a backup were allowed to attend the meetings. No others. Backup tended to be trackers\u2014those who ran errands for or guarded the leader. Graham wanted to argue that both he and Eric could bring one backup, because they were joint leaders, but no. Eric was considered the official Shiftertown leader, with Graham as his muscle. Stupid idea, because if Graham decided to, he could take out Eric quietly on this road trip and then make a play to rule Shiftertown himself.\n\nExcept, Graham wasn't sure how much he wanted to rule it anymore. Cassidy and Jace\u2014Eric's second and third in command\u2014would argue, probably with violence. Cassidy was a sweet-looking woman but one hell of a fighter. Jace had a mate of his own now, and neither were slouches in the fighting area.\n\nThe rest of Eric's Shifters would also instantly rebel against being led by Graham if he tried to take over. And Graham had Dougal and two little cubs to worry about. If he got himself killed trying to take over Shiftertown those three would suffer, and so would any other Lupines who'd backed him.\n\nResponsibility. Graham was plagued with it.\n\nThe fact that Eric rode confidently along, letting Graham stick close to his back, was meant to show how much Eric had grown to trust Graham in the last year. Eric wasn't an idiot\u2014he knew he was safe with Graham now, and he was right.\n\nThe town of Laughlin hugged the Colorado River, the bridge across it about fifteen feet above the water, in contrast to the giant bridge that crossed many miles north at Hoover Dam, where the river flowed through a huge gorge. Large hotels lined Laughlin's mini Strip, with buses disgorging tourists up and down the street. Men on Harleys shot around the buses with a roar of engines.\n\nShifters drifted into the bar at the far end of the main drag gradually, the agreement being that all of them didn't descend on a place at once. The bar's owner was known to Eric, and had agreed to let them meet there, the deal sweetened with a little cash. Graham had to concede that Eric had better connections on this end of the state than Graham could ever cultivate. Eric was a slick talker. Graham just commanded.\n\nBy four that afternoon, the room had filled with Shifters; or at least, with as many as could get here on short notice. That was still a lot\u2014Shifters even from the other side of the country could move fast if they needed to, including Bowman O'Donnell, a Lupine from North Carolina; Aaron Mitchell, bear Shifter from the Canadian Rockies; and Eoin Lyall, a Feline from western Montana.\n\nMost came from Shiftertowns located outside cities\u2014as Graham's Elko Shiftertown had been\u2014easier for them to disappear for a time without humans noticing. The city Shifters had a harder task moving around undetected. Of course, the smug Irishman, Liam Morrissey, and his terrifying tracker, Tiger, had managed to get here from Austin.\n\nThe meeting started by Eric standing up and saying, \"Graham has something to tell you.\"\n\nAll eyes moved to Graham, and most of the stares weren't friendly. A lot of these Shifters were barely on this side of feral, in spite of the Collars, in spite of the rigid hierarchy of Shifters. Eoin Lyall, Graham knew, hadn't agreed to take the Collar until his entire clan had been threatened with execution. Twenty years later, he was still pissed off about it.\n\nGraham told his story. He left out the part about drinking Fae water and being under the spell, but he saw the Shifters fill in those blanks on their own. They weren't fools. They might not guess exactly how Graham had come under a Fae's thrall, but they knew the Fae wouldn't have been able to make Graham dream about him otherwise.\n\nBowman said, \"I agree. We find the Fae-get who makes the Collars and ask him a few questions.\"\n\n\"That supposes we know where he is,\" Eric said.\n\nLiam Morrissey cast his blue gaze over Graham and rested it on Eric. \"We know.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" Aaron asked in his bear rumble. \"And how do you?\"\n\nLiam shrugged. \"I've made it my business to keep tabs on him all these years. I'll send someone to round him up.\"\n\nThe other Shifters muttered or growled. Only Eoin didn't look surprised. \"You shouldn't keep information like that to yourself, lad,\" Eoin said in his Scottish accent. \"But no matter\u2014we'll not have to waste time on a search. The question is, where are we going to keep him for interrogation once we extract him from wherever the humans have stashed him?\"\n\nGraham liked how Eoin thought. \"The Vegas Shiftertown, of course,\" Graham said. \"I'm the one who wants the answers.\"\n\nBowman spoke up. \"And have the humans find him? They keep a close eye on city Shiftertowns. And your Shifters aren't exactly tame, McNeil. They might rip him apart if they know he's there.\"\n\n\"Aw, wouldn't that be sad?\" Graham shook his head in mock sorrow. \"Don't worry; I'll make sure we get some answers first.\"\n\n\"No ripping,\" Eric said. \"Morrissey, you bring him, we'll question, and then we'll return him.\"\n\n\"And keep him from running back to the humans and telling them all he knows, how?\" Eoin asked.\n\nLiam gave everyone his self-assured, shithead grin. \"You let me worry about that.\"\n\n\"Have the Tiger talk to him,\" Graham said. \"If the Collar maker is sane enough to remember his own name after that, he'll be braver than I thought.\"\n\nTiger hadn't said a word\u2014backup wasn't supposed to talk unless asked a direct question. Graham always ignored that rule himself, but Tiger obeyed it. Graham knew damn well that was because Tiger didn't feel like talking, not because he followed any rules but his own.\n\nTiger was gigantic, with black and orange hair and yellow eyes. He wasn't quite right in the head, having been created in a laboratory instead of being born in the wild. Tiger was one of a kind, and growing up in a cage hadn't exactly made him sane.\n\nMost Shifters were wary of him, even though Liam vouched for him. Tiger had calmed a _lot_ , Graham had noticed, since taking a mate.\n\nThe mention of Tiger moved attention from Graham to Tiger, which had been Graham's intent. The other Shifters had been studying Graham a little too closely. A Shifter's natural instinct when near anything Fae-spelled was to kill it.\n\n\"It's settled then,\" Eric said. \"Morrissey will put his hands on the Collar-making Fae and bring him out here\u2014subtly. I know a place near Las Vegas we can keep him. McNeil is right that we need him near us, but Bowman's right that we need it to be far from Shifters with a grudge plus prying human eyes. We'll let you know.\"\n\n\"And you need to let us talk to the human woman,\" Bowman said. \"Her name is Misty, right?\"\n\nSilence. Graham stood up, growling as he went. Tiger rose with him, but moved to Graham's shoulder, as though backing him up, not stopping him.\n\n\"Why do you want to talk to Misty?\" Graham asked, his voice soft but savage.\n\nBowman kept his seat, not looking intimidated. \"This woman has seen the Fae, in the real world, twice. You've only met him in a dream. I want to know why this Oison singled her out.\"\n\n\"She has no idea,\" Graham said, a snarl in his throat. \"She has nothing to do with this.\"\n\n\"I want to judge for myself,\" Bowman said. \"If she shared the dream with you, and the Fae contacted her, she must be important somehow.\"\n\n\"Doesn't mean she needs to stand in front of a bunch of Shifters and explain herself,\" Graham said, his growl more pronounced. \"She's an innocent bystander. Leave her alone.\"\n\nEric could jump in anytime and help out, couldn't he? But Eric sat back, looking as lazy as ever, and let Graham talk. Only Tiger had come to stand at Graham's side.\n\n\"My mate is human,\" Tiger said now, his voice like broken gravel. \"Our mates should not be made to face other Shifters.\"\n\n\"But the woman Misty is nae his mate,\" Eoin pointed out in his Scottish lilt. \"Is she?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" Graham said.\n\nBowman said, \"I hear your Lupines are pressuring you into taking a Lupine mate. So the human woman must be a passing thing. Yet she already knows Shifter secrets, such as our connection with the Fae.\"\n\n\"Hell, _I_ don't even know much about our connection with the Fae,\" Graham snapped. \"But I wouldn't care whether Misty was a groupie I shagged once and dumped\u2014I'm not forcing her to face a Shifter interrogation squad.\"\n\n\"Neither will I,\" Eric said mildly. He hadn't risen, but such was the other Shifters' respect for him that they all went quiet and let him speak. \"I'll monitor Misty. I too think she's significant if the Fae sought her, even if only to ensnare Graham and the rest of us. But leave it to me. If she knows nothing, she should be left alone.\"\n\nBowman considered a long time, but he nodded in the end. The others seemed to conclude that what was good enough for Bowman was good enough for them.\n\n\"I'll find the Collar maker then,\" Liam said. \"And get him to Eric in Las Vegas. We all should be able to have access to him.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" Eric said. He stood up.\n\nAnd that was it. Meeting adjourned. A few Shifters walked out right away, but the others took their time. A few went into the bar for a refreshing beer. Thinking about cold beer made Graham's unnatural thirst kick in, and he fought it by marching out the door into the bright heat of the parking lot.\n\n\"We rode all the way down here for that?\" Graham asked Eric as they went to their motorcycles. The sun was hammering down, this stretch of the river racking up the hottest summer temperatures in the country. Not helping with the thirst.\n\n\"Phones aren't secure,\" Eric said, mounting his bike. \"Neither is e-mail. The Guardian network is secure, but this isn't Guardian business.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, if I don't find some way out from under this spell, it might become Guardian business,\" Graham said darkly. \"As in Guardian's sword, inside me.\"\n\n\"Spell, is it?\" Liam had materialized out of nowhere, or so it seemed, and now he studied Graham with his too-knowing blue eyes. \"You're ensorcelled still, aren't you? Don't worry; I'll keep it to myself. You think the Collar-making Fae can help _un_ -ensorcell you?\"\n\n\"I haven't the faintest fucking idea,\" Graham said. \"I'm more worried about what the Fae bastards are up to with our Collars. They need to be stopped. If I die in the process, then I do.\"\n\nLiam's Feline eyes narrowed as his gaze fixed hard on Graham. \"Huh,\" he said finally. Nothing more.\n\nGraham looked behind Liam at Tiger. \"Hey, crazy. How are you?\"\n\nTiger took a moment to consider. \"I'm well,\" he said. He put a lot of conviction into the short answer.\n\nEric laughed. \"Glad to hear it. Having a cub on the way changes a Shifter, doesn't it?\"\n\nTiger nodded once and gave Eric a faint smile. Scary, watching that big man smile. Graham had seen Tiger tear apart a human man without even trying\u2014Graham had shot Tiger with two heavy bursts from a tranq rifle before Tiger even slowed down.\n\n_Having a cub on the way changes a Shifter, doesn't it?_ Eric's question hit Graham as Liam and Tiger moved off, and Graham and Eric started their bikes.\n\nGraham remembered sharply how proud he'd been back in the day to have gotten his mate belly-full. He'd been so protective of Rita, and both had been happy and excited. _I was so young,_ Graham thought. _Sure the world would do anything I wanted it to._\n\nHe and Eric rode out of Laughlin, heading for the rugged hills that lined the river. On the other side of those would be Searchlight and a flat, almost alien-looking desert landscape that stretched for miles. Down on that desert floor, it was hard to guess that a glittering city full of people craving entertainment existed less than a hundred miles away.\n\nThe ride gave Graham plenty of time to remember Rita, how into her Graham had been, how proud of his unborn cub. Graham's father had been clan leader then\u2014seventy-five years ago. The old man had been hard-bitten and quick to punish, but he'd held the wolf pack\u2014the extended clan\u2014together. Out in the wilderness of Montana, that had been important. Graham, as his second, had been wild and untamable. Rita had been just as wild as Graham.\n\nAnd then she'd died bringing in Graham's cub. Just like that. One day there, full of hope; the next day, Rita and the stillborn boy cub had been taken away from him. The Guardian had thrust his sword into both Rita and the cub, and their bodies had crumpled to dust. Graham had scattered their ashes in the mourning ceremony, but he'd been numb, unable to weep.\n\nHe'd spent the next year alone out in the woods, living rough. He'd returned to find his father dying, other wolves in the pack ready to try to take over the minute he drew his last breath.\n\nGraham had proved he was leader by preventing the takeover and punishing the instigators. He'd nursed his father through his last days, sending for the Guardian while the elderly wolf still lingered, to let him go out with dignity. Another mourning ceremony, but this time, Graham hadn't had the leisure to go grieve for a year in the wild. He'd had to kick plenty of ass to stay leader, and had earned the reputation of being a mean bastard.\n\nGraham had survived by learning to push away his pain. Now, during this ride through the waves of heat back to the city, the pain rushed at him and washed over him.\n\nGraham had to hold himself together\u2014for Dougal, for the orphaned cubs, for his clan and all the Lupines\u2014whether they liked it or not. But he was achingly lonely.\n\nMisty was a sweet spot in every day. And damned if Graham would let any of the Shifters come for her, question her, touch her, even look at her.\n\nNow, Graham might be dying, or worse, taken as slave by the Fae. If that happened, he hoped Eric or someone would just kill him. He'd had a full life, didn't matter.\n\nGraham's one regret was that he'd not had any time to spend with Misty. Always something else distracted him, plus Graham had backed off her because his pack didn't want him taking a human mate. He'd always agreed with them\u2014until Misty had smiled at him at a bar nearly a year ago.\n\nGraham needed to talk to her. To see her. To immerse himself in her. He needed to find her, touch her, kiss her.\n\nBut when Graham stopped for gas inside the city limits, and his phone rang, it was Dougal, frantic and half crying. \"Matt and Kyle are gone,\" Dougal said, his voice blasting through the phone. \"They disappeared, and I can't find them anywhere.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty stared up at Ben. \"I think you'd better tell me exactly what you mean.\"\n\n\"Just what I said.\" Ben kept his fists on her desk, his brown eyes focused on her. He didn't have the same black-hole stare of the Fae\u2014Ben appeared to be human, but that didn't mean he was safe. \"McNeil is going to die, unless you help him.\"\n\n\"How the hell do you know that?\" Misty demanded.\n\nPaul stood behind Ben, his arms folded, looking ashamed but making no move to stop Ben. \"Listen to him, Misty. He's a friend.\"\n\n\"I'm waiting for him to say something worth listening to.\" Misty kept her voice hard, as she'd learned to as a kid when other kids bullied her. She'd learned how to put on the hard shell while protecting her softer self. She'd protected Paul as well.\n\n\"I know all about the Fae's spell,\" Ben said. \"You cured yourself somehow, Misty. For that I say\u2014respect.\" He gave her a nod. \"But that counterspell only works on humans. Shifters aren't cured by it. Helping Graham will be harder.\"\n\nMisty's worry rose, and with it anger and fear. How did Ben know about the spell and whether it had cured her or not? \"What are you?\" she asked.\n\n\"No Fae in me,\" Ben said. \"No Shifter either. But I've made it my business to know about these things.\"\n\n\"Can we get back around to Graham dying? Why are you saying I can save him?\"\n\n\"It will be dangerous. I can't lie to you, Melissa Granger. But I'll help you. I'll lead you on this quest and keep the path as safe as I can.\"\n\n\"Quest? What quest?\" Misty got to her feet. \"Did I wake up in _Lord of the Rings_?\"\n\nBen chuckled. \"The journey won't be that long. You won't have to leave the city, not really.\"\n\n\"Not really?\" Misty glared at him. \"You haven't told me anything I want to hear yet.\"\n\n\"That's what happens to messengers,\" Ben said. \"We're hated if we bring bad news, loved if we bring good. But I'm more than a messenger. I'm a guide.\"\n\n\"I learned a long time ago not to blindly follow anyone,\" Misty said. \"If you can't give me exact details on how I can save Graham, I'd like you to leave. The last person who coerced me into 'helping' made me poison Graham with Fae water. Forgive me for not instantly trusting you.\"\n\nBen lifted his fists from her desk and shrugged. \"That's to be expected. Ask around about me.\"\n\n\"I will.\" Misty started to reach for the phone, as though ready to start making calls now.\n\nBen's smile vanished. \"Don't wait too long to trust me, Misty. This Fae you met, Oison, he's powerful, and he's vindictive. He wants Graham because he'd a good leader. If you want to save Graham from him, you'll need help, and that help is me.\"\n\nMisty lowered her hand from the phone and sat back down in her chair, Ben's declarations spinning around her thick and fast.\n\n\"Graham saved me from Flores,\" Paul broke in. \"I wanted to help him. Ben said he could.\"\n\nHow Ben had been so handy, Misty wasn't sure. She needed the full story before she decided anything, which meant talking to Paul alone.\n\nIf Paul had a weakness, it was in being too easily coerced. He tended to believe in people stronger than he was, and he let them talk him into things. This was why he'd been joyriding in a car with his friends when an accident had occurred that had sent Paul to prison. In prison, he'd been bullied by Sam Flores until an even bigger bully convinced Paul to trust him.\n\nBen could be fine, or he could be shady. Paul wasn't the best judge of character, unfortunately.\n\n\"I'll get back to you,\" Misty said. \"Now, I have a hugely busy afternoon ahead of me, as you can probably guess.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry about what happened,\" Ben said. \"All of it. But I get it.\" He lifted a sticky note from the top of her pad, grabbed a pen from her pen holder, and scribbled a number on it. \"This is me. Call me when you decide\u2014or about anything. Just remember, McNeil needs you. You can save him, but it has to be your choice.\"\n\nHe stuck the yellow note in front of her, dropped the pen, gave Misty a nod, and left the office, touching his fist to Paul's on the way out.\n\nPaul closed the door. He faced Misty with the defiance he'd learned as he'd changed from scared teenager to a young man who'd had to grow up overnight.\n\n\"He's legit, Misty.\"\n\nMisty spread her hands on her desk. \"Where did you meet him?\"\n\n\"Told you. Through my parole officer. Ben's rehabilitated. Is doing well for himself.\"\n\n\"What does he do?\"\n\n\"Construction work mostly. But he knows what he's talking about.\" He gave her the little smile that reminded her of the young Paul who'd been taken away. \"I wouldn't have believed him either if I hadn't met the Shifters and Reid. If he can help, listen to him.\"\n\nMisty lifted her hands. \"How did he get in touch with you? And how did he know about what happened to me, and Graham? That's what's bugging me. What did you tell him?\"\n\n\"Not much. He called me this morning, said he'd heard about Flores, and you and Graham getting stuck in the desert. That wouldn't be hard to figure out, if one of Flores's boys talked about it. Ben hears a lot about the criminal world.\"\n\n\"I can see that, but what about the spells? And the Fae?\"\n\nPaul shrugged. \"I have no idea, but he helps people. That I do know.\"\n\nHe looked earnest, pleading. Misty let out a quiet breath. \"I won't dismiss him out of hand.\" Misty's instincts were telling her to, but she'd seen things in the last year to make her doubt her instincts. \"But I need to talk to Graham first.\"\n\nPaul relaxed and gave her a nod. \"Sure. Thanks, Misty.\"\n\nPaul really didn't need to thank Misty when he was trying to do _her_ a favor, but she understood. \"Now get out of my office, kid,\" she said, growling the banter they'd always used to use. \"You're distracting me.\"\n\nPaul gave her a grin and walked out, a swagger in his step.\n\nAs soon as he closed the door, Misty picked up her cell phone and punched Graham's number. He was near the top of her favorites, right after her mother in Los Angeles. How pathetic was that?\n\nGraham didn't answer, and a recorded voice came on to tell Misty that the number couldn't be reached. That worried Misty enough to call Cassidy, who told her Graham and Eric had left together on Shifter business.\n\n\"Tell him to call me,\" Misty said. \"It's important.\"\n\nCassidy promised to, then hesitated. \"You all right?\"\n\n\"Not really. Cass, can you or Diego find out all you can about a man called Ben . . .\" Misty picked up the sticky note, \". . . Williams. I have his phone number if that helps.\" She read it off.\n\n\"Sure. Who is he?\"\n\n\"I have no idea. He might be fine. But I just want to know.\"\n\n\"We'll check him out.\" Another pause. \"If you need to talk, Misty, you know you can always call me.\"\n\n\"Thanks. I think if I talk right now though, I'll end up blithering or crying. I need to keep it together.\" As she'd done her whole life.\n\n\"I get it,\" Cassidy said. \"Let me know.\"\n\nMisty hung up and sat a long time staring at the name and number on the sticky note. What she knew and didn't know wrapped around each other, tangling with her emotions and making her slightly sick to her stomach. Or maybe she'd had too much green sauce at lunch.\n\nPressing the note back to her desk, Misty left the office. \"Xav,\" she said, approaching him where he was helping his guys lift shelves back onto brackets. \"What did you think of the guy who just left here? Ben, Paul's friend.\"\n\nXav's dark stare fixed on her, and his end of the shelf sagged. \"What guy?\"\n\n\"Shorter than you, hefty, dark eyes, tatts. With my brother?\"\n\n\"I saw your brother, but no one else. When was this?\"\n\n\"A few minutes ago. Right before Paul came out of my office.\"\n\nXav's focus sharpened. \"I didn't see anyone. Before or after. And I've been watching.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Damn it.\" Xav handed his end of the shelf to one of the other security men and moved away, taking out his phone as he stalked through the back to the alley.\n\n## CHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\n\"Would you all calm down?\" Graham roared. \"I can't hear myself think.\"\n\nDougal had been wolf by the time he got home, sitting on the floor of Graham's still-trashed kitchen, his muzzle lifted in howls. Nell, the she-bear who lived next door to Eric, was trying to get him to calm down, her voice as loud as Dougal's howling. Nell, a grizzly, was a big woman, and she could yell.\n\nGraham had learned to outshout anyone else long ago. Nell shut up, but she scowled at him. Nell was the alpha bear in Shiftertown\u2014not that there were many bears at all\u2014but she was in dominance about the same as Graham and Eric.\n\n\"I haven't seen them,\" Nell said. \"I have Cormac and my boys out looking for them.\" Nell's \"boys\" were full-grown grizzlies, Shane and Brody. \"Most of Shiftertown is, in fact. And Misty's looking for you. Cassidy said she called.\"\n\nGraham had ditched Eric at the gas station and ridden hard and fast to reach Shiftertown. He'd found Dougal in the middle of the kitchen floor, wailing to the ceiling.\n\n\"Damn it.\" Graham wanted Misty with every breath. His throat was so dry it ached, but even the thought of her brought a bit of ease. \"Dougal, when did you last see them? Stop howling and tell me.\"\n\n\"He was bringing them to me to babysit,\" Nell said. \"They ran off when Dougal wasn't looking.\"\n\n\"Wasn't looking?\" Graham swung on her. \"What the hell was he looking _at_?\"\n\n\"Lindsay in a bathing suit.\" Nell said. \"Well, half a bathing suit.\"\n\n\"Shit.\" Graham threw up his hands. \"That female needs to be hosed down. Dougal, you idiot.\"\n\n\"Don't be so hard on him,\" Nell said. \"He's just come through his Transition, and his mating instinct is high. You're the one who left two little helpless cubs with him.\"\n\n\" _Helpless?_ You're talking about Matt and Kyle, right? They're hiding. Playing. Must be.\" Graham hoped to the Goddess they were only playing.\n\n\"We're looking,\" Nell said grimly. \"We'll find them.\"\n\nBut with all the Fae activity, and Matt and Kyle featuring in the dreams\u2014or entering the dreams, or whatever the hell was going on\u2014Graham went sick with worry. The Fae Oison had enthralled Graham, a big, badass alpha Shifter. Kyle and Matt were tiny and vulnerable. If Oison had touched them, Graham was going to kill the Fae _outside_ a dream and make it stick.\n\n\"Dougal will you shut up!\" Graham bellowed. At the same time, his phone rang. \"What?\"\n\n\"Jeez, Graham,\" Misty's voice came to him. \"Do you ever just say hello?\"\n\n\"Misty. Sweetheart.\" Graham tried to pull back into a normal speaking tone. \"I'm really busy right now.\"\n\n\"You're always busy. So am I. We need to talk.\"\n\n\"I can't talk. Matt and Kyle are missing. I find them first, talk later.\"\n\n\"What?\" He heard her concern escalate. \"Graham . . .\"\n\n\"I gotta go, Misty. I'll call you back.\"\n\nGraham closed his flip phone so he wouldn't keep talking to her. He'd stand here and pour out all his troubles and beg her to come to him. To mate with him. To be his forever. He'd do it in front of Nell and Dougal too and not care.\n\nHe would call her back, once he sorted out what happened to Matt and Kyle, and everything else. And they'd talk as much as she wanted to.\n\n\"Dougal, do you at least have an idea which direction they went?\" he asked.\n\nDougal finally stopped howling\u2014thank the Goddess. Graham's ears were going numb. Dougal didn't shift to human, but Graham could understand what he wanted to say.\n\nThe answer was no. Dougal had been fixed on Lindsay, walking around in a bikini with no top. When Lindsay had disappeared inside her house, Dougal had looked around, and the cubs had been gone.\n\nYes, he'd gone to Brenda's to see if they'd run back there, and he'd checked all over Graham's house, and he'd called Nell. Dougal knew he was a shithead. That he screwed up. That he should be punished. But why had Graham run off and left Dougal alone? He hadn't known what to do.\n\n\"Dougal, you're grown,\" Graham snapped. \"You don't need me around all the time.\"\n\nDougal's muzzle was down, almost on the ground, his ears back, tail tucked underneath him. Graham balled his fists in frustration. Dougal needed reassurance, not more yelling. But damn it, the cubs, Graham's responsibility, were gone, and there was an evil Fae on the loose.\n\nGraham laid his hand on Dougal's head. \"The mating instinct is harsh. Trust me, I know this. It's going to mess you up all the time. But that doesn't matter right now. I need you. You have the cubs' scent. Help me find them.\"\n\nDougal lifted his head, looking slightly better, but he still cringed as he slunk out of the house and started sniffing around.\n\n\"Poor kid,\" Nell said.\n\n\"I don't know what I'm going to do with him.\" Graham went out the door after Dougal, Nell behind him.\n\nOutside, they met Cormac, a huge, blue-eyed bear Shifter. He'd recently mated with Nell, and the two had stuck together since then like contact cement.\n\n\"If they're in Shiftertown, we haven't found them,\" Cormac said.\n\nGraham swallowed the raging curses that wanted to come out and said, \"Thanks for looking.\"\n\n\"We'll look again,\" Cormac said. Nell nodded, and moved off with him.\n\nShiftertown was abuzz. During the day, Felines usually napped, and bears did too\u2014bears always found some excuse to sleep. But now Shifters were out, many in Shifter form, noses to the ground, helping search for the two little ones.\n\nGraham shucked his own clothes, changed into his large black wolf, put his muzzle down, and sniffed.\n\nWhat he mostly smelled was a maze of Shifter scents, going every which way. This was the problem with Shiftertowns\u2014too many scents from different clans, packs, and species tangled together. Wolf packs needed to have their scents around them and no one else's. Other scents meant danger. But here, with everything mixed up, Shifters couldn't tell danger until it was too late. Which was probably what had happened with Kyle and Matt.\n\nThey searched. Dougal stayed close to Graham, both of them keeping to wolf form while they hunted, Dougal still needing reassurance.\n\nA hatchback car came into Shiftertown, pulling up in front of Graham's house. The door opened, and Misty's scent came to him, even across the field where he searched. Misty didn't drive a hatchback, and the scent of it was wrong for her, but that fact was peripheral.\n\nAs soon as Misty's shapely foot touched pavement, Graham focused on her and nothing else.\n\nIt had happened. Last night had triggered it, or maybe the dreams or the spells had.\n\nAs Graham watched Misty, taking in her long legs under a loose, calf-length skirt, her shapely breasts hidden by a white tank top with a little pink bow at the neckline, he knew his mating frenzy hadn't come out of nowhere. It had started the first night he'd met her.\n\nGraham had always told himself that he could give her up, walk away from her at any time. He needed a Shifter mate, Misty was human\u2014and so it could never be.\n\nGraham had reasoned that if he didn't have sex with her, didn't spend any nights with her, and kept her at a distance, he'd be fine. Then, when the time came for him to pick out a Lupine mate, he'd be able to tell Misty, _Thanks, it's been fun_. Or better still, say nothing at all. She'd get it.\n\nNow, more than ever, Graham needed to cut her out of his life. She was free of the spell, free of the Fae, free of Graham's problems. Misty could go, and Graham would focus on his dilemmas and move on.\n\nBut Graham knew, watching as Misty walked around to the back of the car, her skirt swishing around her tanned legs, that he'd never, ever be able to send her away. She was rapidly filling every empty space inside Graham's heart, and cutting her out of it would kill him.\n\nGraham sat down on his haunches, wanting to point his nose to the sky and howl as miserably as Dougal had. He was so, so screwed.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nShiftertown was busier than Misty had ever seen it, except on ritual days. But all rituals, even mourning ceremonies, carried the element of a party. Right now, the Shifters were on alert, roving everywhere, tension high.\n\nShe had a feeling she knew why. Misty unlocked and opened the hatchback, reached in, and lifted two wolf cubs out by the scruffs of their necks.\n\nThey didn't want to come. The cubs curled in on themselves, trying to cling to Misty.\n\nThe Shifters closest to her saw. They stopped, eyes and ears fixed on Misty, the ones in human form freezing to look.\n\nThe awareness that Misty had the cubs spread like a ripple, rolling outward from her and around the giant black wolf who'd stopped and stared at her before she'd opened the hatch.\n\nThe Shifters weren't rejoicing. Not laughing in relief that Misty had brought the cubs back home. They were angry. She heard growls, rumbles, the soft snarls of animals debating whether or not to attack.\n\nIf this had been Misty's first ever encounter with Shifters, she'd be diving back into the car and racing the hell out of there. These Shifters were enraged Misty had the cubs, and they didn't look as though they cared about explanations.\n\nMisty tried anyway. \"I found them. I didn't take them. I'm bringing them back.\"\n\nShe tried to gently set down the cubs so she could back away, showing she meant no harm. But as soon as she turned loose their scruffs, Matt and Kyle scrambled back into her arms, their little bodies shaking. They were terrified.\n\nThe black wolf had started forward as soon as Misty lifted the cubs from the back. Now he moved rapidly between her and the Shifters who were advancing on her.\n\nThe Shifters in front of the pack, mostly wolves, drew back a little, but their growling didn't cease. Graham turned to face them, baring his teeth, his snarl menacing. The Lupines moved backward, heads lowering, but still they growled, unhappy.\n\nOne Lupine didn't obey. He stood up, anger in his eyes, his ears flat on his head, wolf snarls matching Graham's. With a harsh sound that was almost a roar, Graham went for the wolf, his charge swift, his jaws opened for the kill.\n\nGraham landed on the wolf and had his body flipped over in the space of a second, Graham's mouth going toward the wolf's throat. At the last moment, Graham snapped his teeth an inch from the wolf's fur, then eased his jaws around the wolf's throat. Graham held the wolf there for about thirty seconds, then released it and touched its nose with his.\n\nGraham stepped back, then began to shift. His legs and arms became human as he rose on his hindquarters. In a short time, Graham stood over the wolf, who also had morphed to human\u2014a dark-haired man\u2014both of them stark naked.\n\nThe man remained on the ground, curled in on himself, his defiance gone. Graham stepped to him and laid his hand on the man's head. Graham said nothing, only kept his hand there, until the man finally looked up at him. The man's eyes, wolf gray, held contrition.\n\n\"Sorry, Graham,\" he said.\n\nGraham leaned down, putting both hands on the man's head now and ruffling his hair. \"We'll both get over it. Misty!\" Graham straightened up and turned away from the Lupine, finished with him.\n\nMisty couldn't speak. She'd been staring at Graham's muscled back, which tapered to a firm mound of buttocks. Now he faced her, which meant she saw his equally firm torso, his strong arms, and the cock that hung, thick and long, between his legs.\n\nGraham was a large man, his body sculpted for running, hunting, fighting. No polished edges on him. He was raw, rippling with strength, beautiful.\n\n\"Misty, what the hell is this?\" he demanded.\n\nGraham's voice was gravelly from all the snarling, the hint of the wolf still in it. And he sounded dry. Thirsty.\n\n\"I found the cubs,\" Misty said, making herself raise her gaze from his hips. \"Obviously.\"\n\nGraham's eyes narrowed. \"Is that what you were trying to tell me on the phone?\"\n\n\"No. I didn't find them until I went out to my parking lot. I was trying to tell you something else on the phone, but you hung up on me.\"\n\n\"Because I was looking for these damned cubs!\"\n\nGraham reached for them. Kyle and Matt shrank back, whining, clinging to Misty. One of them had climbed onto her head, his claws raking through her hair.\n\n\"Who are terrified of you,\" Misty said. \"Look at them. What did you do to them? Ow, Matt\u2014or Kyle\u2014stop that. Which is which?\"\n\n\"Kyle,\" Graham said, pointing to the cub on her head. \"Matt.\" His finger moved to the other one.\n\n\"Why are they so scared of you?\" Misty asked. Not that she hadn't seen Graham a few moments ago terrorize another large wolf into cringing submission.\n\n\"I don't know. Where did you find them? That's not your car.\"\n\n\"Nothing gets past you, does it?\" Misty tried to cuddle Matt and pet Kyle so they'd quit with the clawing. \"Matt and Kyle were in the back of that car. One of the DX Security men found them in there when he was at the end of his shift. No idea how they got there\u2014his car didn't leave the lot all day.\"\n\nGraham looked over the dark red hatchback with its curvy lines and dented fender, his brows drawing together. \" _That_ belongs to a guy from DX Security?\"\n\n\"It's his mom's. He was borrowing it for the day. I told him I'd bring the cubs back to you. Well, actually, I just grabbed his keys while he and the others were debating how to return the cubs, and I brought them back. I figured you'd be worried.\"\n\nMisty decided _worried_ wasn't a strong enough word. Most of the Shifters were relaxing now, especially the wildcats, who were changing back to human form, strolling home, or loping off in their animal forms. Kyle and Matt were all right, and Graham apparently wasn't going to kill anyone over it, at least not now. The Lupines who'd confronted Misty were still there, but not looking directly at her or Graham.\n\n\"Did they think I'd kidnapped them?\" Misty asked Graham. \"Or that I would hurt them? I never would.\" She raised her voice to carry to the others. \"I'd never hurt them. Or any kids. Or cubs.\"\n\n\"They know that in here.\" Graham tapped the side of his forehead. \"At least, they should. But instinct is a bitch. They see someone with cubs who've been missing, and they want to kill first, ask questions later. But they won't do it again.\"\n\n\"I called when I was on my way,\" Misty said. The cubs were calming now, tails moving a little as she petted heads. \"But you wouldn't answer your phone.\"\n\n\"I was a wolf, trying to hunt a scent. Had to leave my phone at home.\" He turned to someone behind Misty, across the street. \"Nell! Come and take these brats. I need someone to look after them for me.\"\n\n\"Forget it, Graham!\" the large, dark-haired woman yelled back. \"I don't have time, and I don't have room. You have that huge house with only you and your nephew. You take them.\"\n\nGraham put his hands on his hips. \"Wait, I can't raise twin cubs _and_ run Shiftertown!\"\n\nNell turned her back, put her arm around the huge man, Cormac, and walked away with him. \"Suck it up, Graham,\" Nell said. Cormac looked back at him and grinned.\n\n\"Shit.\" Graham folded his large arms and glared at the two cubs, whose tails had started moving faster.\n\nBehind Graham, his Lupines watched, faces softening in relief, but they were still wary. Misty realized that while Graham could stamp around and let himself be made fun of, he'd showed that, when need be, his word was law. His Shifters disobeyed at their peril.\n\n\"Don't think you two can get out of this by being cute,\" Graham said to the cubs. \"Bring them, Misty. We need to talk.\" He growled as he turned away. \"Hell, now you've got _me_ saying it.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham threw open the door of his house, went inside, and signaled Misty to follow. No one was in the kitchen, but the place was the disaster area he'd left. Misty stopped, looking around in dismay.\n\n\"The servants all quit,\" Graham said, deadpan.\n\nMisty stood motionless while Matt and Kyle crawled down her and dropped to the floor. No longer afraid, they started running in circles between Misty and Graham, chasing each other, fear forgotten.\n\nWhat Graham liked about all this was that Misty wasn't shying away from his nakedness. She wasn't exactly staring at his goods, but she didn't avert her eyes, flush, turn away, or yell at him to please get dressed.\n\nGraham was the one who left, to step into the living room and grab some sweatpants he'd left in there. He didn't mind Misty seeing everything, but if his thoughts kept rampaging, he'd never hide his growing hard-on.\n\nWhen he came back into the kitchen, Misty was at the sink, sorting dishes, scraping them, running the water.\n\n\"You don't need to do that,\" Graham said quickly. \"I'll get Shifters in my pack to do it; or have Dougal get his butt home and help. Here, I'll call right now.\"\n\nMisty kept on rinsing and scraping dishes. She never, ever simply obeyed Graham, as everyone else did, which both intrigued him and drove him crazy.\n\n\"My mom and dad divorced when I was ten and Paul was five,\" she said, for no reason Graham could discern. \"We lived with my dad a lot because my mother remarried right away, and her new, successful husband didn't want the bother of kids around. He was nice to us, but it was pretty clear he wasn't interested in my mom's kids from her previous marriage. I had to learn very fast how to take care of men. My dad was always buried in his next business idea, and Paul was too little.\" Misty had the dishes sorted out, scrubbing them in one side of the sink, rinsing them in the other. \"I learned early that men aren't good at taking care of themselves.\"\n\n\"Shifter males are different,\" Graham said, leaning against the counter. \"We _have_ to take care of ourselves, our families, and everyone in the pack. We're good at it.\"\n\nMisty glanced around the wrecked kitchen, gave him a wry smile, and returned to the dishes. \"No, you're not.\"\n\nGraham loved how her nose wrinkled when she smiled like that, loved how one strand of her hair had come out of the ponytail and fallen to her bare neck.\n\n\"Are you going to tell me why you tried to call me before?\" he asked. \"And how the cubs got into the back of that car?\" His gaze swiveled to Matt and Kyle, who were trying to lick dried ketchup off the floor. \"Leave it!\"\n\nMatt and Kyle jumped, looked guilty for about one second, then started running around the kitchen again.\n\n\"We don't know how they got into the back of the car,\" Misty said over rattling dishes. \"They were just there. The car was in the parking lot all day; the guy who owns it didn't take it anywhere, not even on his lunch break. He ate at the convenience store.\"\n\nGraham stepped in front of Kyle and Matt's next wild circle of the room. \"Stop!\"\n\nThe cubs came to a startled halt but looked up at him without fear. They knew the difference between Graham as alpha, disciplining the pack, and Graham the irritated babysitter.\n\nHe fixed them both with a scowl. \"How did you get into that car?\"\n\nA series of yowls and yips followed as both cubs tried to excitedly explain. Misty turned around from the sink, concerned.\n\nGraham held up his hands. \"Quit that. You sound like a bunch of coyotes. Speak human, so Misty can understand.\"\n\nThe wolves morphed almost instantly into boys. They were good at shifting. Not all Shifters were\u2014some struggled with the change\u2014but these two had a natural ability.\n\n\"We don't know,\" Matt said. \"We were playing hide-and-seek with Dougal.\"\n\n\"We were hiding,\" Kyle clarified. \"And Dougal was looking at a female.\" His confused look told Graham Kyle didn't understand why.\n\n\"Then Dougal was mad, and yelling,\" Matt said. \"And we fell asleep.\"\n\n\"Woke up in the car,\" Kyle finished.\n\n\"Where were you hiding?\" Graham asked.\n\nThe cubs looked at each other, their big eyes filling with fear again. Fear made them fall silent.\n\n\"Just tell me,\" Graham said.\n\nKyle curled into a ball and hid his face against his knees.\n\n\"You're scaring them,\" Misty said. She wiped her hands on a clean towel she'd found and came to the cubs. Crouching down, she reached out for Matt's hand. \"It's okay, Kyle. We just want to make sure you weren't hurt. And that no one else gets hurt. You're not in trouble.\"\n\n\"I'm Matt.\"\n\nMisty blinked at him, taking in his hazel eyes. \"Sorry. Matt. You can tell me.\"\n\nMatt considered for a time. Then he squeezed Misty's hand and leaned forward confidentially. \"A house,\" he said. \"A house that isn't done. In the basement.\"\n\nKyle raised his head and smacked his brother on the arm. \"We promised!\"\n\n\"Ow! We said we wouldn't tell any _Shifter_. Aunt Misty ain't Shifter.\"\n\n\"Who did you promise?\" Graham said above them.\n\n\"Don't know,\" Matt said. \"But Shifter spaces are secret, aren't they? We're not supposed to tell.\"\n\n\"You'll tell me.\" Graham's growling grew stronger. He knew Misty was right\u2014if he terrified the little guys, they'd never say a word. But the wolf in him was worried. _\"Now.\"_\n\n\"Can't,\" Kyle whispered. \"Secret.\"\n\n## CHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nMisty felt waves of fear from the cubs. \"Graham, leave them alone,\" she said.\n\nGraham only rumbled some more. She wished he didn't look so sexy in the drawstring sweatpants that rode low on his hips, exposing the glory trail that pointed to what he'd hidden. He was dusty and sun-bronzed from his ride wherever he'd been and also from running around looking for the cubs. Tatts hugged arms replete with muscle, biceps hardening as he folded those arms, a stance he liked.\n\nMisty knew Graham was a complicated man. He had responsibilities pulling him every which way and no time for sentimentality. A girl who fell in love with him would have to understand that.\n\nGraham had made it clear after they'd gone out a few times that he expected to take a Lupine mate; he'd probably choose one of the Shifters who'd been cringing on the green today. Misty knew she should walk away from this relationship and let him do what he needed to\u2014that she should have a long time ago.\n\nMisty looked at Graham again and knew she'd have to summon all her strength if she decided to go. A few days ago, she'd been angry enough to tell him to leave her alone. But now, she wasn't sure she had that kind of strength.\n\n_McNeil needs you,_ Ben had said. _You can save him, but it has to be your choice._\n\n_My life sucks._\n\nGraham pointed at the cubs. \"You two, upstairs, and into the bathtub. You're filthy. I'll get you some dinner, then you're going to bed. Understand?\"\n\nKyle and Matt both looked up, their fear easing a little. \"Are we going to live with you, Uncle Graham?\" Kyle asked.\n\n\"Looks that way.\"\n\n\"Yay!\" The boys jumped to their feet, gave each other high fives, then both dove at Graham and gave Shifter hugs to his pants-clad legs.\n\nGraham growled again, but gently. Both boys changed to wolf even as they clung to him, and Graham reached down, lifted them with his big hands under their bellies, and carried them out, rumbling at them all the way up the stairs.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nLater, after the cubs had bathed, eaten their fill of another pizza, and curled up in bed, asleep with noses buried in tails, Misty returned to the dishes. Two little boys and Dougal, not to mention Graham, could sure make a mess. Dougal had come in when the pizzas arrived, eaten a whole one in about three minutes, and breezed out again.\n\nOn the prowl, Graham had said. Males right after Transition were always on the hunt for mates. Females were choosy and made males work for it, but that didn't keep males from trying.\n\nGraham needed to talk more to Dougal, Misty thought as she moved another plate into the drying rack. Dougal had avoided Graham's gaze and refused to speak about the cubs and his role in losing them. No one had talked about it, in fact. Graham hadn't let Misty tell him about Ben either. He'd been waiting to speak to her about everything alone, she understood.\n\nWell, now was his chance. The cubs were asleep, Dougal gone, the night darkening, the house quiet. Shifters were moving around outside, but inside, Graham's house was calm. And much cleaner now.\n\nTwo scarred hands planted themselves on either side of Misty on the counter. Graham's strong arms hemmed her in against the sink, and his body, in a T-shirt he'd donned for dinner and the sweatpants, covered her back. The heat of his lips brushed the side of her neck.\n\n\"Goddess, you smell good.\"\n\nMisty lost hold of the last slippery plate, then caught it, lowering it back into the water. \"I notice you didn't drink anything at dinner,\" she said, her voice not working right. \"And barely ate.\"\n\n\"Nope.\" Graham skimmed his mouth over her skin, his breath hot. \"Not gonna do it.\"\n\n\"Graham, you have to drink _something_.\"\n\n\"No, sweetheart.\" His lips moved against her neck as he spoke. \"If I start, I won't be able to stop. I'll drink myself to death.\"\n\n\"But if you don't have any water, you'll die.\"\n\n\"Wolves can go a long time without drinking. I'm finishing this before I give that dickhead Fae the satisfaction of making me desperate.\"\n\nMisty tried to look back at him. \"I hate seeing you like this.\"\n\nGraham licked her neck up to the ticklish place behind her ear, which her ponytail bared. \"When I drink you, I'm not thirsty,\" he rumbled.\n\nHeat shot to Misty's intimate places and rested there. \"I need to tell you things,\" she whispered.\n\nGraham nuzzled her. \"They can wait.\"\n\n\"Probably shouldn't.\"\n\n\"I don't give a damn right now.\" Graham turned her face up to him, keeping her body facing the counter, and bit her chin. Then he bit her lower lip and kissed her.\n\nA hard, commanding kiss, gentleness gone. His hands moved from the countertop to her abdomen, pulling her back against him, his fingers hard on her belly. He kneaded the soft flesh there, moving one hand up between her breasts.\n\nMisty reached up to touch his neck, twisting in his arms, forgetting her hands were wet. She brushed the Collar, thick and cold, the silver and black chain marking him as enslaved.\n\nGraham opened her mouth with his, sweeping his tongue inside. His tongue was rough against hers, his mouth hot, strong.\n\nMisty rubbed his Collar then traced his cheek, her thumb at the corner of his lips. Graham turned his head and sucked her finger into his mouth, licking off the clean water.\n\nHe reached in front of her and turned on the faucet. His sink had a sprayer hose, and he lifted this and squirted Misty up and down her front.\n\nMisty squealed and tried to spin away. Graham held her firmly and soaked her tank top and her skin beneath. Water trickled between her breasts, and it was _cold_.\n\n\"You want me to drink?\" he asked. \"Then I'll do it like this.\"\n\nGraham lifted the nozzle to his mouth and squirted some water inside. Then, one-handed, he pulled off Misty's sopping tank top, unhooked her bra and slid it off, held the sprayer nozzle close to her skin, and pressed the trigger again.\n\nThe water wasn't on full blast, so it poured down her rather than showered. Graham snapped off the water, turned Misty around, and lifted her onto the edge of the counter.\n\nOne strong arm behind her pulled her up to him. Graham lowered his head and licked across her chest, his tongue trailing fire. He raised his head, nose-to-nose with Misty, and a slow smile spread across his face. Misty touched the smile, liking how it creased the corners of his mouth.\n\nGraham lowered his head again and scooped up the water on her breasts with his tongue. His warm mouth sent fierce tingles through her, pins and needles of heat. Graham licked around the mound of Misty's right breast and sucked her nipple inside his mouth.\n\nThe heat increased to incandescence. Misty groaned as Graham bit down on her nipple, the small pain erotic. He leaned her backward, dragging his tongue from her breasts to her belly, licking water as he went.\n\nMisty felt her skirt loosen. She forced herself upright then, the breath she dragged in cut off when Graham kissed her again. As his mouth moved on hers, she hooked her fingers around the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged at the drawstring.\n\n\"Not this time,\" she said, breaking the kiss. \"You're not undressing me unless you're bare too.\"\n\nGraham stared at her. He was going to say no, back away, not go through with it. Misty's heart squeezed, pain seeping through her excitement.\n\nGraham took a step back, grabbed the back of his T-shirt and pulled it off, and then shucked his sweatpants in one short movement. He wore nothing underneath. Unlike when he'd been naked outside, in front of everyone, Graham's cock was hard and lifted straight at her.\n\nA male like Graham, rampant for her, was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen. Misty reached for him, liking the way black hair curled at the base, how the head was flushed with wanting.\n\n\"Don't tempt me,\" Graham said, moving her hand away. \"We're doing this my way.\"\n\nMisty curled her fingers into her palm. \"Cassidy told me Shifters could have sexual partners without mating with them. And often do. Mating is different from just having sex.\"\n\nGraham's growl vibrated the window behind her. He closed the few inches of space between them, his arms slammed to either side of her before Misty could say another word.\n\n\"I'll never _just_ have sex with you. If I take you, it will be a mate thing, and nothing less. You know that, damn you.\"\n\n\"I don't know anything about you, Graham.\" Misty rested her hand on his chest, feeling his heart banging hard beneath his hot skin. \"You never tell me.\"\n\nAnother growl, this one rumbling long and low. Graham twisted her skirt open, the buttons holding it pinging to the floor. Her panties came next, skimmed off over her legs before he sat her on the counter again.\n\n\"There's nothing to know,\" Graham said. \"Nothing I want to talk about.\"\n\nShutting her out. As usual. His gray eyes held old pain, worry that went back to long before she'd met him. Misty caressed his face, wanting in, wanting him.\n\nGraham slid his fingers behind her buttocks and tugged her to the front of the counter. At the same time, he dropped to his knees, spread open her thighs, and plunged his mouth over her opening.\n\nMisty choked back a scream. The cubs were asleep upstairs\u2014Graham had to be insane. At least she'd pulled the blind down on the window behind her. Other blinds were open, though, the light in the kitchen haloing Graham while he licked her.\n\nMisty's thoughts fizzled off into nothing. All she knew was sensation\u2014Graham's strong tongue finding her depths, his hands hard on her thighs, his mouth on her. Drinking, licking, suckling.\n\nShe wound into dizziness. The water in the sink slowly drained, the stopper having worked loose, a little droplet from the almost shut-off faucet spattering on the water's surface. Misty curled her toes, her legs swinging as heat poured over her. She pressed her fingers into Graham's short hair, holding on, her head thrown back. The light made spangles on the ceiling, reflections moving softly.\n\nThe water's ripples became waves of sensations Graham poured into her. Misty heard moans come from her mouth, and she pressed her fist against her lips to stop them.\n\nBefore she knew it, she was bumping against the counter, barely able to stay on, her moans turning to little cries, still muffled by her fist. Graham was merciless. He kept drinking her, tasting, driving her wild.\n\nShe was going to die, and he'd be laughing. Graham went on, suckling, drinking, thrusting into her with his tongue. No sex had ever been this good, and it wouldn't be again, unless it was with Graham.\n\nMisty's first climax finished, and another came hard on its heels. She heard herself begging him, and felt his laughter against her thighs. After the fourth time, Graham finally rose to his feet, gathering Misty to him while she shuddered and clung to him.\n\n\"Damn you,\" she whispered.\n\nGraham's chuckle rumbled wonderfully beneath her ear. \"I was thirsty.\"\n\nMisty raised her head. Graham smiled down at her, his eyes dark, something in him relaxed and loosened.\n\nStill, he looked way too smug. The smile said Graham knew he'd taken her to new heights, and he could do it again if he wanted.\n\nMisty reached up and closed her teeth around his earlobe. Graham's hold loosened while he took a sharp breath, and Misty slid off the counter. She kept going, all the way down to her knees.\n\n\"No.\" Graham's hand fell heavily on her shoulder, but too late. Misty grasped the base of his long cock and quickly closed her mouth around it.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n_N_ _o. No, no, no._\n\nGraham had to stop her. Tell her to get up, dress herself, and get her ass out of his house.\n\nHe balled his fists as Misty's mouth moved, lips stretched to take him all in. He groaned. \"Holy Mother Goddess.\"\n\nMisty pulled him closer. The Goddess wasn't going to answer Graham's prayer, but maybe she _had_ answered it. Misty kept on with him, moving her tongue across the underside of his cock, licking him, nibbling a little.\n\nGraham's burning thirst, now that he wasn't drinking Misty, had come roaring back, but for the moment, he didn't care. His lower body was spreading its pleasure to the rest of him, rendering his dry throat a minor issue.\n\nGraham's hips began moving, slowly at first, then faster as Misty continued. She pulled him into her, tighter, encouraging him.\n\nDamn the woman. She was torturing him. Punishing him for making her come four times and liking it.\n\nGraham clenched his fists harder, feeling his nails crease his palms. The small pain was lost in the swamping need that poured through him, making every good intention evaporate like water from the desert floor.\n\nHe wanted to mate with this woman, take her in every position he knew and some he'd never tried. He wanted to curl up with Misty in the night, letting down every guard he'd ever put up, then wake up and take her again.\n\n_I want to mate with you under the light of the Mother Goddess and the Father God. I want you with me until we find the Summerland, and then float into brightness with you after that._\n\n_I want you sun and moon, body and soul. Joined. Forever._\n\nGraham wanted her sweetness, her smile, her softness. And he wanted sex. Pure, wild, raw sex.\n\nHe touched Misty's sleek hair, stopping himself from bunching it in his fist. He was too strong; he could hurt her. He stroked the satiny length of it, breaking the binding that held it in the ponytail. Long, flowing, warm. Graham would make her wear it down all the time.\n\nMisty's tongue rubbed him, and her mouth pulled, teeth scraping a little. She pressed her fingers into the firm flesh of his buttocks, and then he felt one finger slide between his cheeks.\n\nThe feeling was explosive. Graham threw his head back, words coming out of his mouth, but he had no idea what they were. He thought he said _love_ in there, as well as plenty of swear words.\n\n_\"Damn,\"_ he said, and then he came.\n\nGraham stopped himself pressing Misty to him, urging her to take him. But she didn't let go. She drank him down as Graham spilled his seed, knowing he had to have this woman forever.\n\nHe rocked against her for a long time, the house around them silent except for the soft sounds of their pleasure. The intense joy that gripped him eased down into a warmth that was no less joyful.\n\nMisty drew back, releasing him, and picked up a fallen towel to wipe her mouth. Graham found himself on the floor with her, gathering her to his lap, closing his arms all the way around her. He rocked her there, kissing her hair, drowning himself in her warmth and scent.\n\nMisty brushed fingertips over his rough, unshaven cheek, her smile quiet. \"There,\" she said. \"I knew I could wipe the grin off your face.\"\n\n## CHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nMisty had asked, \"Do you want me to go?\"\n\nOffering, knowing Graham had been trying to push her away, out of his problems. Except Misty kept landing right in his problems again.\n\n\"Stay,\" Graham had said into her hair, and he'd carried her upstairs.\n\nGraham's bedroom was the neatest in the house. Dougal's room was a disaster area, Graham always surprised his nephew could find his own bed. Many times Dougal didn't, sleeping on the floor as wolf. The twins were snuggled down together in a spare bedroom, which Graham supposed was theirs now.\n\nGraham lay Misty in his own bed and covered her nakedness with blankets. She gave him a sleepy smile, one a little bit smug. She'd gotten Graham to let down his guard.\n\n_Wasn't that hard, sweetheart._\n\nGraham debated whether to join her. He'd want to touch her again if he did, wrap up in her, have sex with her. Mate with her.\n\nThen he'd have to keep himself awake somehow, or he'd slide back into the dreams with the Fae. He had the feeling that the more encounters he had with Oison in his dreams, the more hold the Fae would have over him.\n\nGraham adjusted the light blanket over Misty, the ceiling fan and blow of air-conditioning making the room cool. Out the window, he saw the sweep of Shiftertown, the darkness that was desert and mountains beyond, the moon, even fuller than last night, and six Shifters waiting for his attention at the edge of his front yard.\n\nThey were all Lupines, five male and one female\u2014three clan leaders and three seconds. One of the leaders was from a clan from Graham's Elko Shiftertown; the other two had been living here under Eric.\n\nGraham growled in his throat, left Misty, who'd drifted off to sleep, grabbed a fresh pair of sweatpants and T-shirt, and went downstairs and outside.\n\nThe Lupines hadn't moved into the yard\u2014this was Graham's territory, and they wouldn't approach without invitation. They'd stand at the edge of the sidewalk instead, willing him out by sheer force of glare.\n\nThe leader of the Elko clan took one step forward. He'd probably lost the coin toss as to who got to address Graham and risk being attacked without mercy.\n\nGraham stopped in the middle of his yard, remaining firmly on his territory and not inviting them in. \"What the hell is this?\"\n\n\"Are you going to mate with the human?\" the Elko clan leader, Norval, said. He inhaled, the hot Nevada wind easily carrying to him Graham's scent and everything he'd done with Misty. \"We saw you.\"\n\nGraham folded his arms. \"Can't a Shifter get sucked off in his own kitchen without his neighbors having a meeting about it? It's my business who I mate with.\"\n\n\"A Lupine, you said,\" Norval went on. He'd gone white about the mouth, and Graham smelled his fear, but Norval was angry enough to stand and not run away. \"You got us down here with the promise that you'd take a Lupine mate from my clan or the Las Vegas ones. I can barely hold my clan together, McNeil. They're ready to shove you out of power unless you start your dynasty.\"\n\n\"I got you down here any way I could, because the humans were forcing us to leave,\" Graham said. \"If I didn't agree that all my shithead Lupines would get on the buses and haul their asses to this Shiftertown, the humans were going to round us up and kill us all. Humanely, they said. Only humans could name a kind of killing after themselves. Notice they only apply it to animals.\"\n\nDuring the speech, the others moved uneasily. The sole woman, the second to one of the Las Vegas Lupine clan leaders, was the only one who kept still, her gaze on Graham. Females tended to be braver than males.\n\n\"You need to choose,\" the woman said.\n\n\"I won't choose you, Muriel,\" Graham said. \"You're a total bitch.\"\n\nHe kept his tone and stance casual, as though his clan leaders ganging up on him meant nothing to him. Inside, Graham's heart was pounding, his mouth dry with the incessant thirst, his body heat high from the near-sex he'd had with Misty. He was drowning in feelings for her, mixed with annoyance at his Shifters and fear of what the Fae was doing to him.\n\n\"I wouldn't touch you, Graham,\" Muriel returned. \"I'm already in a mate agreement.\"\n\nWith another poor Lupine in Graham's clan. An _agreement_ they called it. She'd made the Lupine do that instead of outright mate-claim her, because Muriel wanted to keep her options open, in case she got a better offer.\n\n\"There are four unmated Lupine females among our three clans,\" Norval said. \"We expect you to choose one before the end of our first year in this Shiftertown. Such was your promise.\"\n\n\"Things have changed.\" Graham had been convinced once upon a time that any dilution of Shifter blood weakened the pack and could drag down an entire clan. But since moving here, he'd found his old ideas rearranging themselves. He'd met Iona, the half-human, half-Shifter woman Eric had mated with. He'd bet Iona could wipe up all six of these Lupines and have energy left over to take on Graham. Graham didn't bring this up, because all Shifters had agreed not to talk about Iona's half Shifterness. But they knew.\n\n\"You need to decide,\" Norval said. \"The clan leaders aren't going to wait forever.\"\n\nGraham walked to Norval, stepping from grass to sidewalk, effectively leaving his territory to face Norval and the others on neutral ground. He didn't need territory advantage to intimidate.\n\n\"That's right,\" Graham said. \" _I_ decide. And if I decide a human mate is the best thing for me and my clan, then you'll have to live with it.\"\n\n\"Or we challenge your leadership,\" Norval said.\n\n\"Or you challenge my leadership.\" Graham gave him a nod. Challenging a leader who endangered Shifters was every Shifter's right. \"But you'd better be prepared to win. And Goddess knows what Eric would say about it if you did win. You know what an interfering asshole he is.\"\n\nHe heard growls from the Las Vegas Lupines, anger at Graham for talking about Eric like that. They _liked_ Eric leading them, Goddess help them. _Lupines giving themselves over to Felines. What's the world coming to?_\n\n\"Tell you what,\" Graham said. \"You all go home and decide among yourselves which clan you think should be dominant. Because if I pick a female from one of your clans, you know that clan will increase in power. I hope you're all cool with that. Once you figure out which of you should outrank the other, come back and present your females. Then I'll give you my final answer.\"\n\nThe leaders didn't look at each other, but Graham saw them move a little bit apart from each other. Subtly.\n\nThat should shut them up for a while. They'd been so focused on forcing Graham to make a decision\u2014or refuse to, giving them the incentive they needed to try for a leadership grab\u2014that they hadn't thought about the fact that Graham's mate would increase dominance of her clan.\n\nIt was all stupid anyway, because the humans didn't like Shifters changing leadership. The humans thought _they_ assigned leadership; they'd barely accepted Graham to stay leader of his Shifters. Eric and Graham had talked long and hard to convince them that Graham was best at keeping the Elko Shifters under control. The humans wanted the Shifters to live quietly and not cause trouble, so they'd agreed.\n\nShifters knew who led and who didn't, regardless of what humans thought, but they sometimes had to be covert about it.\n\n\"Go chew on that,\" Graham said. \"And stop looking in my windows.\"\n\n\"You have to take a mate sooner or later,\" Norval said. \"You know that.\"\n\nNorval delivered his declaration with a sharp nod of his head, then he walked away, carefully not turning his back in Graham's direction. His second drifted after him.\n\nThe Las Vegas leaders walked away too, only Muriel giving Graham any kind of deferential farewell.\n\nGraham knew Norval was right. If Graham's son had survived\u2014he'd be full-grown and powerful by now\u2014then his Shifters wouldn't give him so much grief about his mate. Eric's choice of half-human, half-Shifter Iona hadn't caused a murmur, because Eric had Jace, a strong son, plus his sister Cassidy was very dominant.\n\nGraham had no one. Only Dougal, his out-of-control nephew. The few other members of his clan were distant relations, and several were equal in dominance with each other\u2014no clear path to clan leadership. If Graham dropped dead, there would be a battle. The only way to prevent it was to take a strong Shifter mate and start putting out cubs. The more cubs the better.\n\nGraham waited until the Lupines had faded into the darkness, their scents growing fainter. Only when he knew they were truly gone did he return to the house, wanting Misty.\n\nHe glanced up at the house and saw two small wolf faces peering down at him from the spare bedroom window. Little shits. They were supposed to be asleep.\n\nBut they watched him all the way in, and he knew they'd heard every word. When he opened the door of their bedroom upstairs, Kyle and Matt were curled up on the bed again, head to head, tail to tail, pretending to snore.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty woke to early-morning sunshine pouring through the window, a stiffness in her body, and strange satisfaction. For a moment, she didn't remember where she was, then she saw she still lay in Graham's bed.\n\nOf Graham, there was no sign. The bed bore only Misty's imprint and rumpled covers. Graham must have slept elsewhere.\n\nMisty climbed out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. She was completely naked and had no idea where her clothes were. Still downstairs in the kitchen?\n\nNo, they'd been hung over the back of a wooden chair near Graham's bedroom door. Well, dropped haphazardly over the wooden chair. Graham wasn't the kind of man who sent out his lady's clothes to be cleaned and pressed then greeted her with breakfast in bed, including a rosebud in a vase.\n\nGraham was himself. Misty had the feeling that, to him, _romance_ was a word in an ancient, lost language.\n\nThe bathroom was clean though. New and nice. Misty showered, using plain bar soap and generic shampoo. No frills for the McNeils.\n\nShe dressed and went downstairs, hoping she could find utensils and ingredients for breakfast. The kitchen was as she'd left it, no change. The cubs weren't here or frolicking in the yard. They weren't in the house at all\u2014they hadn't been in bed, and no way were they in here and not making noise. No one was in the house but Misty.\n\nNo sign of Graham, cubs, or Dougal in the backyard or in the front. They'd left, going who-knew-where, without bothering to leave so much as a note.\n\nNot Misty's business, right? She should walk out, get into her borrowed car, and drive back home.\n\nDisappearing without saying good-bye, though, especially after what she and Graham had done last night, felt wrong. She wanted to see Graham, to kiss him good morning, to see his smile and hear his rough-voiced teasing.\n\nMatt and Kyle had confessed they'd gone to a basement of an unfinished house, and from there had somehow made it to Misty's store. Had someone snatched them, drugged them, carried them off? And why dump them in a car outside Misty's shop?\n\nIt was six o'clock, but the sun was up, the temperature already climbing. In the summer, desert dwellers did anything outdoorsy early, and then stayed inside with the AC for the hot afternoon. If Graham wanted to explore the scene of the crime in daylight, he'd have done it now.\n\nNot her business, Misty repeated silently.\n\n_Oh, screw it._ Misty wanted to know whatever it was they found. She cared about the cubs too, no denying it. She cared about Dougal and Graham, and her Shifter friends. Misty was in this now, no going back, no matter how much she and Graham danced back and forth on their relationship.\n\nMisty put on her sandals and walked outside through the kitchen door. A step led down into a backyard with a patch of grass and a path connecting it to a common area between the houses.\n\nUnlike many of the neighborhoods in Las Vegas, a block wall did not surround every yard in Shiftertown. Graham had told her Shifters didn't need walls. Each Shifter knew where his territory ended and another Shifter's began. If humans had as good a sense of smell as Shifters did, he said, they wouldn't need walls either.\n\nMisty stepped into the common area and headed toward the first unfinished house she saw down the way. Two seconds later, a woman was in front of her, one tall and gray-eyed, her dark hair a bit shaggy. A Lupine, Misty guessed.\n\nShe eyed Misty coldly, and Misty stopped.\n\n\"Stay away from Graham,\" the woman said.\n\nMisty hid a sigh. Facing jealous females was not something she liked to do. It always made her feel twelve years old, confronting a mean girl in the school cafeteria.\n\n\"That's for me and Graham to decide,\" Misty said.\n\n\"No, it isn't.\" The Lupine woman came close, invading Misty's personal space. Shifters did that when they decided they were dominant to you. Graham did it all the time. \"Graham mates for the good of his clan, for Shiftertown,\" the woman said. \"You're not good for us. So go away.\"\n\n\"He isn't mating with me.\"\n\nThe woman inhaled, her eyes narrowing. Misty knew she'd washed thoroughly with the deodorant soap, but Shifters had phenomenal senses of smell. They could strip scent down into layers and time, like archeologists uncovering civilizations.\n\n\"You reek of sex and his seed. Don't lie with him again. A by-blow will help no one. Might even hurt you.\"\n\nMisty had also learned that when faced with a mean girl, she should look said girl straight in the eye and not back down. Sometimes this had led to Misty getting beaten up, but she'd always fought back with gusto, which had earned her a little respect.\n\n\"I'm not sure I like that you know what Graham's seed smells like,\" Misty said. \"But it doesn't matter. It's Graham's business, and mine. Not yours.\"\n\n\"That's what you think, bitch.\"\n\nSo some of the mean girls in the cafeteria had said. But those girls hadn't had Shifter strength, or the huge, clawed hands that now came at Misty's face.\n\nMisty ducked, shielding herself with her arms, hoping she could fend off the woman and not die. But the blow never came. Misty peeked out from under her arm, and found Dougal shoving the woman backward, his face half shifted to wolf, his claws extended, his voice guttural.\n\n_\"Don't touch her.\"_\n\n\"Stay out of this, cub,\" the woman snarled.\n\n\" _Not_ cub. Not anymore. She's Graham's. You touch her, you answer to him.\"\n\nThe woman had stopped, also half changed to wolf. Her growl was furious, but Misty saw her realize that Dougal had a point. Graham never bothered with calm negotiation when he was angry.\n\n\"Tell Graham she's got to go,\" the woman said, her voice harsh. \"If the other Lupines decide to take her out, there's nothing he can do.\"\n\n_Take her out?_ Not something Misty wanted to hear.\n\nWith a final sneer, the Lupine woman receded to human form and jogged away. Dougal, also back to his human shape, returned to Misty.\n\n\"You all right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Misty dragged in a breath. \"Thank you.\"\n\n\"Tell Uncle Graham I saved your ass, all right?\" Dougal said. \"He thinks I'm a complete wuss. If you're looking for him, follow me. I know where he is.\"\n\n## CHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nGraham peered around the darkness of the dug-out basement once the cubs had figured out which house they'd been exploring. They'd taken a while deciding, which had involved dashing back and forth, running in circles around Graham, and sitting on their small wolf butts and howling.\n\nFinally the two agreed that they'd been exploring the basement in the second unfinished house from the end. The stud walls had been raised on the main floor, and now workers were putting in the plumbing and other pipes needed to fit the houses for modern living.\n\nThe basements were a secret. Most houses in this city were built on solid concrete slabs, with wiring and pipes in the walls and ceiling. Basements around here could fill with noxious gasses, not to mention desert creatures looking for places to nest.\n\nShifter basements were different though, whole other worlds. Shifters had dug out the basements of these houses at night, using equipment Iona made sure her construction workers left behind. They hid the evidence by constructing a solid ceiling that could be reinforced enough to take the concrete slab and weight of the house later.\n\nShifters had been building secret places for centuries. Territory could be invaded by other Shifter clans or encroached upon by humans at any time, so they'd made sure they had places to go to ground and survive, and to keep their most important treasures safe.\n\nTo invade another Shifter's secret territory could be death to the invader. It had been in the old days. Most Shifters, however, weren't foolish enough to try to enter another's secret hideaway, sensitive to the fact that they had their own hideaways to guard.\n\nCubs, on the other hand, needed to be taught. These basements weren't finished yet, and held no secrets. But the Shifters who moved in here would be itchy for a long time because of the scents Graham and the cubs were leaving.\n\nAnd Dougal's and Misty's scents. Graham smelled them coming, even before he heard Misty's light footsteps as she climbed down the ladder. Dougal was more surefooted and quiet, but he was talking.\n\nTo Misty. The usually silent, sullen Dougal was talking to a female. But then, Dougal and Misty were about the same age. Misty acted much older than Dougal, but humans matured quickly. Had to.\n\nGraham waited for them to catch up. \"What?\"\n\nMisty gave him the look that said he was hopeless. \"I was worried about you and the cubs. There's a Fae on the loose, remember?\"\n\n\"I know,\" Graham said in a hard voice. \"Exactly why I left you safely in my house. Which you're going back to now.\"\n\nMisty folded her arms, which pushed up her breasts under her little tank top. \"You know, when I was growing up and raising Paul, he had a favorite saying when I told him what to do too often.\"\n\nGraham wrenched his gaze from her breasts and moved it to her face. \"I'm going to regret asking what it was, aren't I?\"\n\n\"He'd say, _You're not the boss of me._ \"\n\n\"That's funny.\" Graham came close to her. The nearness of her almost knocked him over. He needed her. Needed to touch, to taste, to feel her under him. \"Guess what? When you're a guest in Shiftertown, I _am_ the boss of you. Dougal, take her back home.\"\n\nInstead of leaping to obey, Dougal stood his ground and put on his obstinate face. \"Tell him, Misty.\"\n\nMisty blinked at Dougal, her angry look fading. \"You mean _now_?\"\n\n\"Tell him. I'm tired of him treating me like a cub.\"\n\n\"Tell me what?\" Graham's voice echoed through the basement. The wolf cubs stopped their frantic running around and sat down again.\n\nMisty was calm as could be. \"That Dougal is not a wuss. He saved my life.\"\n\nGraham's fears roared to the surface. \"What the hell are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Jan was sniffing around,\" Dougal said. \"She tried to go at Misty. I stopped her.\"\n\nGraham stilled. Dougal's fists clenched, and he looked shaky and sick, but he was alive and whole, not a pulp of Shifter dust on the ground. \"I bet Muriel sent her,\" Graham said, but distantly.\n\n\"Probably,\" Dougal said. \"Misty stood up to her though. Told her to stay out of your business.\"\n\nGraham pinned Misty with a hard stare. She stared right back at him, straight into his eyes. Graham didn't like lesser beings who met his gaze, but Misty always had. He'd cut her some slack because she was human and didn't understand what the gesture meant, but the fact that she could do it intrigued him. Not many humans could withstand Graham's stare.\n\n\"Did you look at Jan when you said that to her?\" Graham asked Misty. \"The way you look at me?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Misty's brows drew down in puzzlement. \"Where else would I be looking? The trees? She was ready to pounce on me\u2014I thought I should keep my eye on her.\"\n\nGraham relaxed a little, his worry receding even if his thirst didn't. \"Dougal.\"\n\nDougal flushed, but his eyes held defiance. \"I'm not apologizing to Jan.\"\n\nMisty looked perplexed. \"Why should Dougal apologize? Jan was the one threatening me. Dougal was just trying to help. Never let a bully get away with it, I always say. They'll just bully you some more.\"\n\nGraham laid his large hand on Dougal's shoulder and yanked the young man into a hard hug. Dougal was shaking, but his shakes lessened as Graham held him close.\n\nGraham released him after a few moments and patted his shoulders again. Dougal stepped back, wiping his eyes, but he stood a little straighter.\n\nMisty had her hands on her hips. \"What just happened?\"\n\n\"Dougal went up in dominance,\" Graham said. \"Thank you, Misty.\"\n\nMisty was staring at him again. \"What did I do?\"\n\n\"Gave him the opportunity. And you showed your dominance too. I'm proud of both of you.\"\n\nMisty kept staring. Any other Shifter would blush and show their pride at his praise. Misty only looked bewildered. \"This is a Shifter thing I don't understand, isn't it?\"\n\nGraham put his hand on her shoulder. \"Let me put it this way\u2014you've just made my life a little easier. If Jan let herself get out-dominated by a human and a cub past his Transition, her alpha might keep her mating needs away from me.\" Jan's father was ambitious, which was why he'd sent Jan over to Graham's to fight him and \"lose,\" so Graham would show his dominance by sexing her. Nice try.\n\n\"Anyway,\" Misty said, as though the very important issue had been a side note. \"Is this the basement the cubs found? It's dark down here. Anyone bring a flashlight?\"\n\nDougal snorted. \"Humans.\"\n\n\"She's a guest,\" Graham said firmly. Moving up in dominance did not mean Dougal got to be a rude shit. \"Look around for ones the humans might have left.\"\n\nDougal growled a little, but he walked away, the cubs scampering after him.\n\n\"Misty,\" Graham said.\n\nMisty stood her ground. She'd moved her hands from her hips to fold them across her chest again. \"I'm not going back.\"\n\n\"I know you're not, because you're an obstinate human woman who doesn't understand danger.\"\n\nGraham stepped close to her, unable to keep himself from her any longer. Her scent filled him, her honey-spice that was even stronger after last night's intimacy. She'd bathed, but if she thought rubbing herself with the soap he used every day made her scent more distant, she was wrong. Now she smelled like him, his house, his bed, things that were a part of him.\n\nMisty looked up at him, her brown eyes filled with uncertainty, confusion, and determination all mixed together. He liked that she could follow many trains of thought at once. Lupine women could be boringly single-minded.\n\nGraham had to kiss her. Couldn't stop himself.\n\nHer eyes softened as Graham bent to her, her lips parting for his. Misty's hands went to his chest, fingertips pressing into his shirt as Graham cupped her shoulders and pulled her up to him.\n\nAs soon as their lips touched, Graham's determined gentleness evaporated. He needed her. Pushing her away had grown too difficult, which scared the hell out of him.\n\nMisty tasted of minty toothpaste, and herself. Graham opened her mouth with his, pressing her into his arms. He wanted her _now_ , on the ground, in the dirt, her legs wrapped around him. He'd slide deep inside her and not come out until he'd satisfied himself again and again.\n\nThe longing swirled in his brain and through his body. Her kiss was as needy as his, but more tender. Misty kissed him for kissing's sake, as though she didn't care if it led to anything else. She simply liked _kissing_ him.\n\nGraham liked kissing _her_. He licked behind her lower lip, caught her tongue between his teeth and gently bit. Misty laughed when he let go, then Graham scooped her up to him and started again.\n\nMisty's body flowed into his, she softening to fit every plane of him. Graham ran his hands down her back to her buttocks under her loose skirt. Firm and sweet, like her, but soft enough for caresses. Her breasts flattened against his chest, unfettered behind her tank top. She hadn't bothered to put on her bra this morning.\n\nShifter women rarely wore bras, so the fact Misty had left hers off shouldn't have shot Graham's cock into the hardest hard-on he'd had since . . . well, since last night. He skimmed his hands inside her shirt, Graham's kiss intensifying as he drew his palms up to cup her breasts.\n\nWarm, beautiful woman met his hands, her skin satiny, the slightest bit damp from her shower. He closed two fingers around each of her firm nipples, his cock fiery hot.\n\nMisty had defied a Shifter woman for him. She had guts behind her sweet smile, and it made Graham's body hotter than August sunshine.\n\nGraham broke the kiss to lick her throat. Bite it. The mark he'd left on her shoulder showed outside the strap of her tank top. Graham suckled her there again, darkening the mark. So all Shifters would know to back off. Even better, he breathed out onto her skin, scent-marking her.\n\nFor her protection, he told himself, so the horny, mate-needing male Shifters of Shiftertown wouldn't run after her. They'd know Graham protected her, and back off, unless they wanted to fight him for her.\n\nBut he knew, even as he did it, that the scent-marking was more than just for her protection. Graham was proclaiming that Misty was his and his alone. He'd been denying this to himself since he'd met her, but here in the unfinished, dusty basement, he knew. He wanted Misty, and no other, as his mate.\n\n\"My life is screwed up,\" he said softly.\n\nMisty touched his face, turning him to her. \"Hmm?\"\n\n\"What am I going to do?\" Graham asked, half to himself. \"I can't stay away from you.\"\n\nFor answer, she kissed him, sweet and fiery. Graham tenderly squeezed her breasts, his hands still inside her shirt, the warm goodness of her coming through his touch. Graham wrapped his foot around her bare ankle. One tug, and she'd go down. He'd guide her, holding her, so she'd never fall, but only lie down while he came over her. He'd start making love to her by peeling off her clothes and licking her body, then he'd spread her legs with his hand and slide into her.\n\nGoddess and God, he wanted that.\n\nA light shone full in his face. The sudden glare after the fine darkness with Misty hurt his eyes. Bloody hell.\n\n\"I found flashlights,\" Dougal announced. The cubs, still wolves, sat on their haunches, looking interested to know why Graham had his hands up Misty's shirt.\n\n\"Good.\" Graham casually removed his touch from Misty's breasts, as though not worried Dougal and the cubs had caught him groping her. Misty didn't look worried, but amused Graham was embarrassed. \"Give one to Misty. And don't shine the lights in my face\u2014I don't need to be night-blinded.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" Misty said graciously to Dougal as she took the lantern flashlight. The large, square glare lit up the corner of the basement. Dougal smiled back at her. He was going to hero-worship her, it looked like.\n\nGraham glared down at Matt and Kyle. \"All right, you little shits, where were you exploring?\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham kept hold of Misty's hand as they walked deeper into the basement. His grip was strong; she wasn't getting away.\n\nHis touch had been gentleness itself when they'd kissed, as though he'd been holding back his power to be tender with her. Misty loved that about Graham\u2014his ability to soften himself when he needed to, to take care of the cubs, to help Dougal, to caress Misty. Everything he did made Misty fall for him a little more.\n\nThe cubs wanted to rush into the darkness, and only Graham's commands kept them close. Misty shone her light in front of her feet so she wouldn't trip, but she knew the cubs could see well without it. Shifters had good night vision and only needed the faintest glow.\n\nThe basement was enormous. It was more of a dugout, with rock and desert earth still above them rather than joists to support the next floor. As they walked forward, the bright daylight behind them quickly receded.\n\n\"Why is it so big?\" Misty asked. \"The house itself won't be this long. Or wide.\"\n\n\"She shouldn't be down here,\" Dougal said, a growl in his voice.\n\n\"No kidding,\" Graham said. \"Remember me yelling at you for bringing her? Misty, you have to promise to keep quiet about what you see here. That we've put in basements at all. All right? It's very important. Could be deadly if you don't keep it secret.\"\n\nOne of the wolves\u2014Kyle, she thought\u2014came back and shifted into a boy. Yep, Kyle. \"Will you punish Aunt Misty if she tells?\" he asked, his eyes round. \"You might hurt her. She's not as strong as Shifters.\"\n\n\"If I think Misty might tell,\" Graham said, \"I'll tie her up, chain her to my bedpost, and . . .\" Graham glanced at Misty, his eyes in the flashlight's glare holding wickedness. \"Tickle her,\" he finished.\n\nKyle thought this over, perfectly serious. \"That should be okay.\" He shifted back into wolf and ran after his brother.\n\n\"Tickle?\" Misty asked.\n\n\"He means sex,\" Dougal said. Shifter hearing\u2014she couldn't best it. \"He wants sex with you in a big way. He's broadcasting it like crazy.\"\n\n\"Shut it, Dougal,\" Graham said with a growl.\n\nDougal went quiet, but Misty felt no contrition from him. Good for Dougal, having fun laughing at his uncle.\n\n\"Matt, Kyle,\" Graham called. \"Wait.\"\n\nThe cubs came to an immediate halt. The fact that they obeyed instantly, without question, told Misty how serious the situation was.\n\nGraham turned in a circle, sniffing the air. \"You sure this was where you were?\"\n\nOne of the cubs shifted\u2014Matt this time. \"We came in here. We were exploring. Then we got dizzy. Then we were in the car.\"\n\n\"Mmm.\" Graham's acknowledgment was more of a grunt.\n\n\"Did you hear anyone behind you?\" Misty asked. She imagined the hiker\u2014the Fae\u2014creeping up behind the cubs in the dark, tranquilizing them somehow. Had he used a tranq gun like the one Graham kept to stop Shifters who got too out of control? Or chloroform on a cloth?\n\n\"No,\" Matt said. \"There was no one down here but us.\"\n\n\"If you're thinking of the Fae,\" Graham said to Misty. \"They'd have smelled him. Fae really stink.\"\n\n\"Does Reid stink?\" Misty asked. \"I like him.\"\n\n\"He does, but we're used to him. And Reid's not the same as the High Fae, much as I yank his chain about it. In fact, we could use him here. Dougal.\"\n\nDougal turned around, his laughter gone, the defiant nephew returning. \"Oh, come on, why do _I_ always have to run the errands? Find flashlights, fetch Reid. Like I'm your bloody servant.\"\n\n\"Winning one dominance fight doesn't make you pack leader,\" Graham said, voice going harsh. \"You do these things for me because that's what a good second does.\"\n\nDougal stopped, blinking gray eyes in the lantern light. \"Second? I thought Chisholm was your second.\"\n\n\"I hadn't decided. But I want to keep it in the family, don't I? You're my tracker too, which means you do things to support me.\"\n\nThe look on Dougal's face was stunned, turning radiant by the time Graham finished. \"Yes!\" His shout rang around the large basement. \"I'll get him. I mean, I'm on it. Be right back.\" Dougal bounded toward the light part of the basement. He whooped and punched the air, then scrambled up the ladder to the ground with amazing agility.\n\n\"That was nice of you,\" Misty said.\n\n\"Huh. It wasn't nice. I'm making him my pack and clan second, because I'm seeing that he's the only one I can trust.\" Graham watched until Dougal disappeared into the daylight, then he turned back to the darkness. \"I'm going to need to go wolf now. Will you be all right if I do?\"\n\n## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nGraham was asking her. Showing concern. Not, _I'm doing this; too bad if you don't like it._ This was new. __\n\n\"I'll be fine,\" Misty said, warming.\n\n\"Good. You can carry my clothes.\"\n\n_Figures._ \"Shouldn't you wait for Dougal and Reid?\" Misty asked as Graham pulled off his shirt. His hard chest came into view in her flashlight's glare, wiry hair curling across it.\n\n\"I want to know what we're getting into. This basement goes back another fifty feet or so. Dougal will find us.\"\n\nGraham yanked open the ties on his boots and pulled them off and his socks. Then, without shame, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and took them off, the loose gray boxers underneath following.\n\nGraham wore his nakedness with the same comfort others wore their workout clothes. He stood easily with his feet in the gravelly dirt as he balled up his pants and shirt and thrust them at Misty.\n\nMisty immediately shook them out and folded them neatly, pretending to ignore Graham rolling his eyes. She tucked the clothes under her arm but left the boots and socks, because Graham seemed fine on his bare feet.\n\nIn the light of her bright flashlight, Graham started his change. Fur rippled along his back and down his legs, his thighs bending to become the haunches of an upright wolf. His hands became giant paws very quickly, fur running up his arms, across his chest, and up his throat.\n\nFinally, his face changed to the long nose and glittering gray eyes of a wolf. His ears pricked out last, popping up from his head so quickly that Misty let out a laugh.\n\nGraham growled and charged her. Misty squealed and tried to sidestep, but Graham barreled into her. At the last minute, he pulled back the attack, ending up brushing her legs, his fur wonderfully warm.\n\nMisty stroked him, loving the wiry heat of his fur, the strength of his wolf's body beneath it. Graham made a noise of what sounded like satisfaction, flowed around her again, and away.\n\nThe wolf cubs ran for Graham, yipping in gladness. They jumped at Graham's nose and rammed small heads into his front legs, until Graham lowered his head and bumped each in turn with his muzzle.\n\nFamily, acknowledging family, Misty realized. That was the most important thing, when it came down to it. Family taking care of each other, as Misty had taken care of Paul and her father, as Graham took care of Dougal and the cubs.\n\nGraham growled at Matt and Kyle, and they seemed to understand him. They scooted underneath his belly, Graham so large that they had plenty of room. Graham started forward, the cubs giving a series of yelps. Guiding him in the right direction, Misty thought.\n\nShe came behind, careful not to shine the light in front of Graham. Once they'd gone a few more yards, the darkness was complete. Misty couldn't even see the square of light from outside behind her.\n\nGraham stopped, and Misty nearly ran into him. He started again as soon as she drew near his big back, and he rumbled at her. She interpreted that he wanted her to stay close.\n\nAnother few steps, and she began to feel dizzy. The cubs whimpered. Graham stopped, and this time, Misty did run into him.\n\nMisty put her hand on Graham's strong back, taking comfort in him. The cubs were whining louder, scared.\n\nThe flashlight's light snapped off. Misty shook the flashlight, but it was dead. Darkness fell upon her like a shroud. Her first instinct was panic, but she had Graham's warm body under her hands. She was safe. Graham could see in the dark, and he'd protect her.\n\nGraham abruptly whipped around and snarled at her. Somewhere a glint of light shone on his eyes, or maybe his eyes glowed of their own accord. She saw his white teeth, all of them, bared. The sight was terrifying\u2014eyes and teeth, snarls of a mad wolf.\n\nGraham's wolf face shifted into a monster form, even more terrifying. He was snarling even as he changed. \"Go back!\" he yelled at her. \"Run!\"\n\nNow was not the time to ask why or tell him again he wasn't the boss of her. Graham knew something she didn't, down here in the darkness, and Misty was ready to take his advice. She turned in the direction of where she thought the basement opening should be, and fled.\n\nAfter three steps, she slipped, the floor having become slick for some reason, and went down, rocks cutting her knees beneath her skirt. It hurt, but wasn't incapacitating.\n\nShe scrambled up, heart beating wildly. Graham snarled again, a wolf once more, and Misty kept running.\n\nThis time, she made it five steps before another wave of dizziness hit her. She had no idea whether she fell to her knees or flat on her face, because there was just . . . nothing.\n\nExcept Graham's insistent voice, his hand on her abdomen. \"Misty. Misty, damn it. Wake up.\"\n\nMisty opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was Graham, his scarred face and broken nose over her, his gray eyes fixed on her.\n\n\"Thank the Goddess,\" he said in relief. \"I thought\u2014\" Graham clamped his mouth shut. His eyes, though, completed the thought and showed pain.\n\nIt was light where they were\u2014lighter, anyway. Misty heard water running, a cool, soothing sound, but not from a faucet. More outdoorsy. More like . . .\n\nMisty sat up, taking in a sharp breath. The wolf cubs were huddled together next to Graham, silent and shaking. They sat on slick rock, in a dim, cool cave, which was enormous. Vines snaked around them, out of reach, bearing small scarlet, purple, and light blue flowers. Misty swallowed. \"Trailing petunias.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"The flowers.\" Misty pointed. \"They're trailing petunias. Grow on vines instead of in clumps.\"\n\n\"Oh, good,\" Graham said. \"I needed to know that.\"\n\nThe water trickled pleasantly, but the sound put a chill in Misty's heart. They were in the cave where Misty had first met the hiker. Graham was naked, sitting on the black ground, his arms around Misty. She'd lost hold of his clothes, which were nowhere in sight.\n\n\"How did we get here?\" Misty asked, pushing her hair from her face. \"What happened?\"\n\n\"I haven't the faintest fucking idea. I got dizzy, went down, woke up here. The cubs were fine, but you wouldn't wake up.\"\n\nMisty swallowed. She didn't have the needy thirst anymore, but the water called to her. _Lovely. Cool. Drink._\n\nShe gave Graham a sharp look. \"You all right?\"\n\n\"I didn't drink it, don't worry.\"\n\nMisty blew out a breath. \"Good.\"\n\nGraham moved his tongue over his lips, but they remained dry. Since the ordeal in the desert, Misty hadn't seen him drink anything except a few sips of coffee, and the water he'd licked so erotically from her. She hadn't seen him sleep either.\n\n\"We aren't dreaming, are we?\"\n\nGraham shook his head. \"Don't think so. It feels real, smells too real. That's good.\"\n\n\"Good? Why good?\"\n\nHe gave her a grim smile. \"Because if Oison shows up, this time I'll kill him for real.\"\n\nMisty put her hand on his, finding his skin fever hot. \"We need to fix you. You'll die like this.\"\n\n\"Not if I kill the Fae first.\"\n\n\"But what if even that doesn't release you from the spell? I never got to tell you about Ben.\"\n\n\"Ben?\" Graham asked sharply. \"Who's Ben?\"\n\nMisty related what had happened the afternoon before, Paul bringing Ben to her office and what Ben had said.\n\nGraham listened, eyes narrowing. \"Like I said, who the hell is Ben?\" he asked when she finished.\n\n\"I don't know, but if he has a legitimate way of curing you, I'm willing to listen to him.\"\n\nGraham gave her a dark look. \"You're too trusting. How do you know he wasn't Fae?\"\n\nMisty shrugged. \"He didn't look Fae. Not like the hiker, anyway. Or like Reid.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, half Fae can look very human and be just as deadly, rotten, jerk-ass bastards.\"\n\n\"Like I said, I don't know,\" Misty said, holding on to her patience. \"I asked Cassidy to have Diego check him out, but I haven't heard back yet.\"\n\n\"And it's not like I have a cell phone on me now,\" Graham rumbled. \"You didn't happen to bring one, did you?\"\n\n\"I left it at your house,\" Misty said. \"Anyway, they didn't work out here before.\"\n\n\"Before, we were in the desert north of Las Vegas. Are we there now?\"\n\n\"Have you tried to find out?\"\n\n\"Look around you,\" Graham said. \"See a way out?\"\n\nWhen Misty had been in this cave before, she'd approached the fountain from the entrance between the rocks, then turned around and went back the way she'd come. But the cave was gigantic. She couldn't tell if she was in the same place she'd been before or not.\n\n\"How did we get in here?\" she asked. \"You can't expect me to believe Shifters dug a basement that leads fifty miles out of town.\"\n\n\"No.\" Graham tilted his head to gaze at the ceiling, which was lost in darkness. \"I think it's on a ley line.\"\n\n\"A what line . . . ?\"\n\n\"Ley line,\" Graham said. \"Magical lines that radiate around the world, many with gateways to Faerie. The sucky thing is, Shiftertowns are sometimes built on ley lines. The Austin Shiftertown has one. My Shiftertown in Elko didn't, but Bowman's in North Carolina does. I didn't think the Vegas one did; but I know there's a ley line up by Hoover Dam. Probably the same one or a branch of it.\"\n\nMisty listened in surprise. \"Why would Shifters build on the ley lines if they're gates to Faerie? I thought you hated the Fae.\"\n\nGraham moved his gaze to her, while he absently petted the cubs, who were still huddled against him. \"We didn't build the Shiftertowns, did we? We were sent to them. Not our choice. Probably another Fae conspiracy\u2014they've been trying from the beginning to make Shifters slaves to them. But I'm not letting Dougal or these little guys ever come under the Fae. Fae are cruel, evil shits, and we should eradicate them.\"\n\n\"I am pained to hear it.\"\n\nMisty jumped. The tall Fae who'd been the hiker stood behind Graham, a long sword in his hands. He hadn't been there a moment ago, and he hadn't appeared with a bang or even a faint sparkle. One moment he'd not been there, and this moment, he was.\n\nThe cubs were on their feet. But instead of cringing against Graham, they were snapping and snarling at Oison.\n\nGraham let out a sudden groan and clamped his hand to his side, right where he'd been shot. To Misty's horror, the wound began to flow with blood. Graham sat in silence after the first grunt of pain, but his face lost color as the blood poured out.\n\nMisty was on her feet. \"Stop it!\"\n\n\"He was only cured of the wound because of me,\" Oison said calmly. \"I can reverse the spell anytime I wish.\"\n\n\"Wasn't a cure,\" Graham said through his teeth. \"A curse, more like it.\"\n\n\"I helped you, Shifter,\" Oison said. \"I took away the pain. I stopped the bleeding and ensured you didn't take sick. That is not a curse. That is me helping the being I wish to see at my side. What I did is no different from you keeping your nephew safe from the wolves who torment him, or the cubs from predators. I look after my own.\"\n\n\"Don't even . . .\" Graham rose to his feet, holding his side all the while. It pained him to stand, but he shook off Misty's hand and got himself upright. \"Don't pretend you're my pack leader or anything like it. You know damn all about being a leader.\"\n\n\"And you know everything about it, which is why I want you.\"\n\nGraham dragged in a breath. \"Well, I don't want you, asshole.\"\n\nGraham changed to his wolf so suddenly Misty blinked, and at the same time he leapt at Oison. Oison lifted his sword, and brought it down . . .\n\n\"No!\" Misty screamed. She knocked into Graham. She couldn't impact much of his momentum, but she managed to change his path so the sword didn't reach him. The blade scraped across Misty's side as Oison swung it, biting deep before the Fae yanked it back.\n\nShe heard snarling, huge and ferocious from Graham, small and vicious from the cubs. Then pain. Nothing but pain.\n\nIt flooded her body, blotting out all sight, all sound, all other feeling. She must have fallen, but Misty didn't register it, only found herself facedown on shining black rock. She heard cries of agony she didn't realize she was making.\n\nKyle licked her nose, yipping in distress. Graham was roaring, his blood splashing down on her, or maybe that was her blood. The pain was complete, erasing past and future, any pleasure Misty had ever experienced. There was nothing but hurting, and she'd never feel anything but pain again.\n\nThe Fae shouted, and dimly Misty heard a clatter of his sword. Graham's snarling went on, and then his body landed next to hers, human once more, blood pouring out of him. He got to his hands and knees and put his strong hand on her head.\n\n\"Misty. Stay with me.\"\n\n\"I'm not going anywhere,\" Misty said. Or thought she said.\n\nKyle left off licking her face. He joined Matt, the two of them bracing themselves in front of Oison, who was still standing, minus his sword. Oison looked angry. He pointed at them, as he had in the dream.\n\n\"No,\" Misty whispered.\n\nShe had no clue what Oison's pointing finger could do\u2014shoot fire? Cast another spell? Move back and forth while he admonished them? Misty wanted to claw her way to the cubs, to protect them, but she couldn't move.\n\nGraham was moving instead. He was shifting as he dragged himself to the cubs, leaving a trail of blood smeared on the polished black floor. He leapt at Oison, his mouth wide, teeth bared. Oison spun out of his way nimbly, but Graham followed him with great agility, his claws going for Oison's throat.\n\nOison dropped, rolled across the ground, and came up with his sword in his hand. The blade hummed, runes on it glowing like fire.\n\nHe shouted a word, pointing the sword at Graham. Graham fell in midair, his body thumping to the rock floor with an awful sound. The cubs ran to him, positioning themselves on either side of him, howling furiously.\n\nOison kept shouting words Misty didn't understand. Graham was silent, but he rocked in pain. The intensity of the pain came to Misty as though threads connected her with Graham, squeezing her heart, making her ache for him.\n\nShe could stop this. She could kill Oison . . . somehow. If only she could get to her feet.\n\nMatt darted out and sank his teeth into Oison's boot. The Fae snarled and brought his sword down toward Matt. Kyle howled.\n\nMisty heard a popping sound, and a wiry hand closed over Oison's wrist. The chain mail shattered, and Oison dropped his sword again. Oison swung around, face dark with rage, to face a man as tall as he was but his opposite\u2014dark-skinned to his pale, black-haired to his white. Only their eyes were the same, black voids into nothing.\n\n_Reid._ The name whispered through Misty's mind.\n\nDougal, looking terrified, was right behind Reid. Dougal ran to Graham, but Graham gave a loud growl, and Dougal straightened up and hurried to Misty. \"You okay, Misty? Can you get up?\"\n\nMisty could only look at him, her pain so strong even moving her eyes hurt. Dougal looked lost, not knowing what to do.\n\nReid, on the other hand, had shoved Oison away from the little group, and was grappling with him by the fountain. The cubs still yapped and growled, but they'd positioned themselves between the fight and Graham and Misty, as though determined to guard the fallen.\n\nReid raised a weapon\u2014a tire iron, Misty's foggy brain registered. He brought it down on Oison, not hitting him, but pressing it onto Oison's bare skin.\n\nWhatever was supposed to happen, Misty didn't know. Reid looked surprised when Oison turned and took the tire iron in both hands, tugging it away from Reid. Oison held it up, laughing, chanting words Misty didn't understand.\n\nReid took a step back, scowling. The two Fae looked so different and yet the same\u2014one in medieval-looking chain mail and silver cloak, Reid in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.\n\nReid raised his hands, clenched them, and shouted in a guttural language. Oison's smile evaporated as the iron bar in his hands started to bend, then undulate, then came apart into dozens of tiny fragments.\n\nThese fragments slid out of Oison's hands, paused in midair, then dove at Oison like a swarm of ferocious bees. The iron particles slammed into the Fae's face and neck, cutting into him anywhere the chain mail didn't cover.\n\nOison clawed at his face. Reid spun away from him and sprinted for Misty. He grabbed one cub by the scruff of the neck, fell on his knees beside Misty, and wrapped his other arm around her.\n\nMisty screamed in pain, and then the cave went away. She was lying back in the basement, under the opening to the outside world, the warm Las Vegas sunshine touching her like a lover's caress.\n\n## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\n\"You have to save her,\" Graham said. He was in excruciating pain himself and could barely get the words out, but he didn't care.\n\nMisty lay on his bed, her eyelids fluttering as she moved into and out of consciousness. Reid stood on one side of her, Neal Ingram, the Guardian, on the other, and they both looked grim.\n\nReid, who possessed the very helpful skill of teleporting, had gotten them out of the cave. He'd taken Misty first with one cub then popped back moments later for Dougal and the second cub.\n\nReid had returned a final time for Graham just as Oison was struggling up and groping for his sword. Oison's face and neck had run with blood, the Fae looking as though he'd been stung by a thousand hornets. Graham had wished he didn't hurt so bad so he could laugh.\n\nReid had come in with a bang, grabbed Graham, and popped them both out again.\n\nGraham knew they'd never have survived without Reid. Which sucked, because now he owed Reid a debt. A big one.\n\nBut Misty came first. \"Can you fix her?\" Graham asked Neal, who had some skill in healing. Graham didn't like the presence of Neal's sword, which leaned in the corner, glinting softly in the afternoon sunlight. The Guardian's sword turned dead or dying Shifters to dust, sending their souls to the Summerland. Neal wouldn't use it on Misty, she being human, but the reminder of loss was sharp.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Neal said. \"This is a Fae wound, from a Fae sword. Healing her will be different from stitching her up and putting a bandage on her.\"\n\n\"But you'll fix her,\" Graham repeated in a hard voice.\n\n\"What about you?\" Neal looked at the makeshift bandage wrapped around Graham's bare side, which was already stained with blood. \"You need a healer.\"\n\n\"Misty first. She can't die.\"\n\nShe couldn't. Graham touched her white skin, his heart burning when her eyes flickered. She wasn't waking up, but not sleeping either.\n\nReid said, \"A human hospital won't be able to help her.\"\n\n\"But you can, right?\" Graham demanded. \"You're Fae. You made iron slivers go into Oison. Can you counteract magic from a Fae sword?\"\n\nGraham knew he was babbling, but watching Misty lie in his bed, pale and sweating, made him sick. His fault. Oison had wanted Graham, and Misty had gotten caught in between.\n\nNeal seemed to understand. His voice was gentle, without its usual Lupine growl. \"The answer is, we don't know.\"\n\n\"Well, what the hell good are you, then?\"\n\nReid and Neal glanced at each other, neither taking offense. Graham was terrified, and he knew Neal smelled that. Neal would also smell his weakness, plus the Fae curse that was killing him.\n\n\"The Guardian's mate in the Austin Shiftertown,\" Neal said. \"She's a healer. I've already called her.\"\n\n\"She's half Fae, right?\" Graham stopped and took a breath as more pain flashed through his side. \"That's all we need, more effing Fae.\"\n\nNeal didn't answer. There was no reason to. The woman would come, and Graham wouldn't stop her having a look at Misty. Graham knew things were bad when he would welcome a Fae-blood's help.\n\n\"Why don't you sit down until she comes?\" Reid said. \"You can't do anything for Misty standing over her, breathing on her.\"\n\n\"Shut it, Fae. She's my mate.\"\n\nNeal blinked, turned his head, and pinned Graham with a Shifter stare. Guardians could get away with looking alphas in the eye, because Guardians were a whole other hierarchy of Shifters. They followed the dominance line of their packs and clans, but they had their own rules, and they got away with shit no other Shifter did.\n\nGraham had no idea why he'd blurted out that Misty was his mate. Except that it was true. Misty was the mate of his heart. He knew it. His heart knew it. His brain just needed to catch up.\n\n\"You've mate-claimed her?\" Neal asked.\n\n\"Yes. Right now. I claim her as mate, under the sun, the Father God, and in front of witnesses. That would be you and Reid.\"\n\nNeal gave Graham the ghost of a smile. The man was taciturn\u2014hell, dead silent most of the time. But right now he looked almost amused.\n\n\"The Goddess's blessing on you,\" Neal said. \"Both of you. Your Lupines are going to be pissed off.\"\n\n\"They can bite me.\"\n\nAnother twitch of lips from Neal. \"They probably will.\"\n\n\"You still need to lie down,\" Reid said, giving Graham a scowl. \"You have a gunshot wound, freshly reopened. Dying of it won't help Misty.\"\n\n\"If I lie down, I'll sleep,\" Graham said. \"If I sleep, I'll dream, and Oison will be there. Who the hell knows what he can do to me then?\"\n\n\"Have you tried surrounding yourself with iron?\" Reid asked.\n\n\"Our whole lives are surrounded by iron,\" Graham said. \"Or steel. Doesn't seem to help, does it? Besides, you smacked him with the tire iron, and he laughed at you. He shouldn't have been able to grab that bar, but he did. He was only hurt by it because you turned it into bullets. How did you do that, by the way?\"\n\n\"I'm an ironmaster,\" Reid said. \"At least, I was in Faerie. That cave is a little piece of Faerie, so I could work my magic there. I can make iron do whatever I want in Faerie. That's one reason the _hoch alfar_ hate the _dokk alfar_.\"\n\n\"I bet there's more to it than that,\" Graham said. \"What I don't get is how we got there. I wasn't asleep. And you teleported to it. I thought you had to see a place before you could teleport there. But you never said you'd been to the cave.\"\n\n\"I hadn't,\" Reid said. \"I do have to see a place, yes\u2014unless I'm moving along a ley line. Then I follow the ley line's pull. Several ley lines intersect in that basement, I discovered. I suggest you seal it up and build the house elsewhere.\"\n\nIdeas came together in Graham's head. \"When the cubs disappeared down there, they must have followed a ley line that came out . . . at Misty's store?\"\n\n\"I haven't had time yet, but I'll go down and see where they all lead,\" Reid said. \"One goes to the cave in the desert\u2014which can be there or not, as Oison chooses, it seems. He must be working some powerful spells, including ones to help him resist iron.\"\n\n\"Great. Iron is the badass magical weapon against Fae,\" Graham said. \"Without that, what have we got?\"\n\n\"Spells that help resist iron are temporary,\" Reid said. \"And Fae can't resist iron when it's embedded in their brains.\"\n\nNeal gave a short laugh. The man was opening up in a big way today. \"Wish I could have seen that.\"\n\n\"I don't know if I killed him,\" Reid said. \"Since Misty and Graham are still hurt, I'd say I didn't.\"\n\n\"Too bad,\" Neal said.\n\n\"Tell me about it.\" Graham dragged in a breath that sent agony through him. \"You can leave. I'll stay with Misty until the healer gets here.\"\n\nReid and Neal exchanged a glance. \"You sure?\" Neal asked.\n\n\"You want me to rest. I'll rest with her. But I won't sleep.\"\n\nAnother glance. Goddess, they were like nannies. Finally Neal took up his sword and buckled it onto his back. Reid gave Graham a last look, and the two men left the room together.\n\n\"Thought we'd never be alone.\" Graham sat on his big bed, swinging his legs onto the mattress and adjusting himself to lean against the headboard. He wore only jeans, his feet bare, the bandage squeezing his side in an annoying way.\n\nMisty didn't respond. Her hair was sweaty and damp, still in the ponytail. The first night Graham had met her, at Coolers, she'd worn her hair in a softer style, with wisps curling around her forehead. She'd regarded Graham with her dark brown eyes, unafraid, and asked him if he was a Shifter.\n\nAnd look what he'd done to her.\n\nMisty should have run from him that night and never come back. But she had come back. She'd met him the second time by chance on top of a parking garage at the county courthouse, and then she'd sought Graham out in Shiftertown to tell him a bad man had asked her to spy on Shifters. That night, Graham had kissed her for the first time.\n\nHe'd never been able to forget the taste of her. Graham had drunk her last night as well, finding an even sweeter taste between her legs.\n\nIf she died, Graham would force his way into Faerie, hunt down Oison, and chop him into a million tiny pieces.\n\nMisty's wound wasn't very deep, so Neal had said when he'd cleaned her up and bandaged her. But with Fae wounds, it didn't matter how deep they were. A scratch could be deadly.\n\n\"Stay with me, love.\" Graham took her hot hand in his and caressed her limp fingers. \"I can't let you go.\"\n\nGraham had lost everyone in his life. His father and mother, his sister\u2014Dougal's mother\u2014all dead in the wild. Graham and Dougal were the only ones left of the pack. And Rita had died, Graham's one cub with her.\n\nAlone, always alone. Graham had found more Shifters in his clan, then they'd been rounded up into Shiftertowns, practically living on top of one another, but it made no difference. A wolf without a pack was nothing.\n\nBut a wolf could start a pack. He needed a mate, and cubs. When Dougal mated as well, there would be many little ones running around.\n\nThe idea of being alone forever terrified the hell out of Graham. He'd never told anyone that.\n\n\"Stay with me, Misty.\"\n\nHe leaned down and kissed her hair, squeezing her hand. Misty never opened her eyes, never acknowledged him. She was here next to him, but Graham was still alone.\n\nNo, not quite. Kyle and Matt pushed the door open, concern in their wolf-pup eyes. They preferred staying wolf these days, Graham noted, unless they wanted to chatter to Misty.\n\nNow they put their paws on the bed, looking up at Graham's high mattress. Graham lifted them both. After wagging tails and pushing noses into his palm, the two cubs lay down at Misty's feet, one on either corner of the bed.\n\nGuarding her, Graham thought. Guards who closed their eyes almost immediately, and started to snore.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty swam toward consciousness, but that way lay pain. She thought she heard her brother's voice . . . _Paul, I need to take care of him._\n\nShe was twelve again, and sick in bed with the flu, fever making her delirious. Her father was off pursuing one of his wild schemes, her mother was in Newport Beach in her new house with her new life. Only Misty was there to take care of Paul. _I have to get up. I have to look after him._\n\nBut Graham was there too. She heard him rumbling something and relaxed. If anyone could take care of Paul, it was Graham.\n\nShe heard other voices, ones she didn't know. A woman with low, almost velvety tones, a man with an Irish accent. What were they all doing here?\n\nPresent reality caught up to her. She'd been stabbed, with a wound that seared, and Graham had been hurt. Where was she? Was Graham all right? Were the cubs?\n\nShe started up to find a heavy hand pressing her back down. \"Stay still,\" Graham said.\n\nMisty subsided. Graham sounded as strong as ever, though she heard the weakness in his voice. Faint, but there.\n\nThe pain returned. Pain had seeped through the darkness of her dreams, but it had been muffled, like sounds through a thick blanket. Now it raced over her, spreading through her body from one hot core.\n\n\"The cut isn't too deep,\" the woman's voice said. \"But deep enough. I can try.\"\n\n\"What is _that_?\" Graham's voice held great suspicion.\n\n\"Something my father gave me. He thinks it will help.\"\n\n\"Your Fae father.\"\n\nThe Irishman spoke. \"You knew that when you called us.\"\n\nGraham growled something wordless. \"You're a Guardian,\" he said. \"Why do you have to be in here? You make me nervous.\"\n\n\"The sword helps,\" the woman answered in soothing tones. \"Sean and I do this together. If you want her to get better, you have to stand over there and be quiet.\"\n\nMisty wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much. Graham hated being told what to do, especially by a female.\n\nThe Irishman, who must be Sean, gave a low chuckle. \"I'll let no harm come to her. Andrea knows what she's doing. Now I'm going to draw the sword, but I promise, I'm not stabbing anyone with it.\"\n\nA faint _ting_ as metal touched metal. Then a touch on Misty's side. She cried out, cringing away, as pain intensified.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" Graham said immediately.\n\n\"Calm down.\" Andrea's voice again. \"I can see the spells. They're complex, a mesh. It will take a bit for me to untangle them.\"\n\n\"Just do it,\" Graham rumbled.\n\n\"She will,\" the Irishman said. \"Stop interrupting.\"\n\nGraham made another noise of impatience, but he subsided. He must be truly worried if he actually shut up.\n\nMisty felt the cold of animal noses touching her arm. Little noses. Two of them. She wanted to smile, but couldn't move.\n\nAnd then more pain. Misty started to scream. She heard the sounds come out of her throat, hoarse and cracked. Another touch, this one Graham's big, rough-skinned hand holding hers.\n\n\"Easy,\" Graham said, so gently Misty was surprised it was he who spoke. \"Easy, now.\"\n\nMisty tried to lie still, but the pain pulled her. She writhed, only to find Graham's warm strength holding her down.\n\n\"Poor lady,\" Sean said.\n\nAndrea drew a breath. \"Ready.\"\n\n\"Aye, love.\"\n\nDid that mean they hadn't _started_? Dear God, how much more could Misty take?\n\nShe forced her eyes open a crack. Sitting beside her bed was a dark-haired woman with gray eyes and a lovely face. She had one hand on Misty's side, the other wrapped around the blade of a sword that looked much like Oison's. Misty saw the runes on the silver metal, which began to glow.\n\nThe sword's hilt was held by a man with black hair and very blue eyes. He had his arm around Andrea, his free hand resting over hers on Misty.\n\nAndrea closed her eyes and tilted her head back, drawing in another breath. Sean kept his hand steady on Andrea's.\n\nGraham lay half on top of Misty, his short hair tickling her chin. His hard hands held her arms in place. The wolf cubs were beside Misty's head, peering worriedly into her face.\n\n_It's all right,_ Misty wanted to reassure them. But she wasn't certain it would be.\n\nAnother wave of pain, white-hot. She thought she was being sliced in half. The screams came again. Graham tightened his grip on her, and one of the cubs whimpered and licked her cheek.\n\nAndrea's head went farther back, her eyes moving as though she watched something behind her lids. \"Now, Sean,\" she whispered.\n\nSean removed his hand from Andrea's. He reached for something out of Misty's line of sight, then clamped what felt like a poultice to Misty's side, Andrea at the last minute moving her hand to rest it now on top of Sean's.\n\nMisty thought she was dying. The agony reached a peak, beyond which there was no feeling. After a very long time, she heard Graham again, his voice harsh. \"It's not working.\"\n\n\"Patience,\" Sean said, but Andrea drew a breath.\n\n\"He's right,\" she said.\n\n_I don't want to hear that,_ Misty thought frantically. _I want everyone surprised but happy I'm alive._\n\n\"Move.\" Graham again, his weight rocking Misty. \"Let me.\"\n\n\"No, you don't know\u2014\" Sean began, but Graham cut him off.\n\n\"Tell me what to do. What is this stuff?\"\n\nAndrea answered. \"Fae . . . medicine.\"\n\n\"Yeah, don't reassure me. Why is it hurting her so much?\"\n\n\"The Fae magic in her is fighting it,\" Andrea answered. \"It's strong.\"\n\n\"I'm stronger.\" Graham's voice was rough, breathy. \"Misty, love.\" He wrapped his hard fingers around hers. \"Hold on to me. Tight as you can. And fight. Fight it for me, sweetheart.\"\n\nMisty had no strength to fight. Nothing. She didn't want to die, but right now living was so, so tiring.\n\nGraham's large hand went to her side, and he pressed a cloth filled with something over the sword cut. Misty half sat up, trying to scream again, but her voice had __ gone. Her vision was blurred, but she saw Andrea and Sean collapsed onto a couch pulled to the bed, holding each other. Matt and Kyle sat up next to Misty, anxious, two pairs of wolf cub eyes fixed on her.\n\nGraham was merciless. His eyes were the light gray of his wolf's, determined, angry. He pressed her side, holding Misty down while she tried to wrench herself away from the pain.\n\n\"Hang on, baby,\" Graham said. \"I know it hurts. You can kick my ass later. But _hang on._ \"\n\nMisty clamped down on his hand, clinging to it as though it was a lifeline. Graham forced whatever it was into her wound, the pain searing, something hot rushing to her heart. She couldn't hold it in\u2014her heart would burst, and Misty would die.\n\nThrough the pain, a small dart of warmth touched her chest. The tiniest piece, and yet it was something outside the pain, something to focus on.\n\nShe heard Graham draw a sharp breath, saw his gaze go to the middle of her chest, as though he knew what she felt. He looked down at his own chest, and his look turned startled.\n\nMisty had no idea why. Was he feeling what she felt? Was that possible? But strange things had been happening all day. Night. Whatever time it was.\n\nThe piece of warmth suddenly flooded her chest, spreading, widening, burning through her to engulf the pain from the wound. Her body seared hot, hotter . . . hotter than she could stand.\n\nAnd then everything stopped. Misty dragged in a long breath that seemed to come from the ends of the atmosphere, and she realized she hadn't been breathing for the last . . . however long it had been.\n\nAs soon as Misty exhaled and blinked, the cubs went into paroxysms of joy, dancing in circles, yipping, tails moving rapidly.\n\nMisty found herself drenched but realized it was with sweat. The sheet was soaked with it, and so was the big T-shirt she was wearing. Not hers.\n\nThe runes on Sean's sword, still in his hand, flashed out once, then went dark. Andrea was up, her hand on Misty's forehead, her face relaxing. \"It's gone,\" Andrea said. \"I don't see the spell anymore.\"\n\nGraham unfolded himself like a huge bear coming to life, his eyes silver white and wild. He wrapped his arms around Misty, picking her up away from Andrea, gathered her against him, and buried his face in her neck.\n\nMisty held his shaking body, both of them rocking a little. \"It's all right,\" Misty said softly, stroking him. \"I'm here.\"\n\nGraham lifted his head. The relief in his eyes went a long way down, along with pain and stark terror. He drew a breath.\n\n\"What the hell were you thinking?\" he roared in his loudest voice. \"Going for the sword like that?\"\n\nMisty closed her eyes, sinking into exhaustion. \"Love you too, Graham,\" she murmured, and hugged him.\n\n## CHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nThe next morning, Sean made everyone pancakes, which he'd assured Graham were famous. Graham never thought he'd see the day he'd let a Feline into his kitchen to cook for him, but times were strange.\n\nBut nothing mattered anymore. Misty was alive. That was all he needed. Graham's heart lightened when she came into the kitchen, looking tired but rested. Bandages bulked up her side under her tank top, but other than that, she moved with a sure step.\n\nThe cubs, in little boy form again, were happy to see her too\u2014that is, when they could lift their faces from their plates of pancakes.\n\nAndrea had been explaining that while Misty was healed once again, and she'd closed up Graham's wound, he was still under Oison's thrall.\n\n\"But you took the magic out of me, right?\" Misty said, sliding into the empty place at the table. \"Can't you take it out of him?\"\n\nAndrea shook her head as she wrapped her hands around her cup of coffee. Andrea was a Lupine, a gray-eyed wolf who had agreed to mate with Sean, a Feline, in exchange for a safe move to a new Shiftertown. Somewhere along the way, the two had found the mate bond.\n\n\"The magic dust my father gave me counteracted whatever Fae magic touched you from the sword,\" Andrea said to Misty. \"Graham's a different case. He's under a complete Fae spell that seeks to control every aspect of him. I knit up his wound, but I couldn't break the spell. I don't have that kind of power, and my father doesn't either. The magic that entered you, Misty, was incidental. The Fae is not after you.\"\n\n\"Just Graham,\" Misty said. She looked across the table at Graham, unhappy.\n\n\"Not just me.\" Graham rejoiced that Misty was here to look at him at all, even with sadness and worry. Her brown eyes were free of pain, her face pink with health. \"All Shifters.\"\n\nSean said from the stove, \"Liam told me about the connection between Oison's sword and your Collar. I agree, we need to get the Collars off if the Fae have a big 'enslave the Shifters' plan. But, unfortunately, it's going slowly. The element we need to remove the Collars safely is rare. That's why the research.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I know,\" Graham growled. \"Why do anything when you can think about it for years, have meetings about it, _talk_ about it?\" He pinned Misty with a stare. \"Too much damned talking.\"\n\n\"Get over it,\" Sean said. \"Here you go, Misty.\"\n\nSean flipped a stack of wonderful-smelling pancakes onto a plate and carried it the few steps to the table.\n\nSean and Andrea's cub, Kenny, ten months old, sat at the table in a high chair borrowed from the Lupines next door. The cub, who would maintain his human form until about age three or four, had dark hair like Sean, and gray eyes like Andrea.\n\nMatt and Kyle eyed Kenny speculatively. They didn't like the little Shifter in their territory, even though Graham had explained the concept of _guests_ to them. Kenny watched them, unworried, nonchalant, even. An alpha in the making.\n\nMisty's eyes lit when she saw the pancakes Sean set before her. She poured a stream of syrup over them and then dug in.\n\nGraham would love it if Misty would look at _him_ in __ the same eager way she regarded the pancakes. And then reach for syrup and pour it all over Graham's body.\n\nHe tightened. His cock started rising, and Graham cleared his throat, moving in his seat, willing the thing to go down. Not that it mattered; Sean and Andrea would scent the change in his hormones right away. They already did, from the smirk Sean sent Andrea.\n\nMisty didn't notice, intent on her pancakes, stopping to dribble more syrup onto the stack. A sticky droplet clung to her lips, and it took all Graham's self-control to keep from going over the table and licking it from her. Graham felt better since Andrea had patched him up\u2014except for the continuing thirst\u2014and his relentless need for Misty had returned, full force. Plus he'd mate-claimed Misty last night, which fanned the spark of his mating frenzy into a raging blaze.\n\n\"Want any more, Graham?\" Sean asked, returning to the stove.\n\n\"No. Thanks.\" Graham had conceded to eat a little, knowing he had to keep up his strength, but filling his stomach had seemed to make made the magical thirst worse. \"Can you go now? I need to talk to Misty alone.\"\n\nMisty licked syrup from her fork. \"Don't be rude. They've traveled a long way, and they helped us.\"\n\n\"And I'm grateful. Now I need to talk to you.\"\n\nMisty gave him the eye-rolling look, which warmed Graham's heart, because she was alive to do it.\n\nSean clattered his cooking accoutrements into the sink. \"Eric and Liam will want you with us when we question the Fae.\"\n\nLiam had found the Fae-blood human he'd promised to round up at the Shifter meeting, Sean had told him last night. Eric and Liam had stashed him in Eric's hideaway out in the desert, ready for interrogation.\n\n\"I'll come out later,\" Graham said.\n\n\"And Graham really needs to talk to Misty alone,\" Andrea said. She rose and lifted her son out of the chair. \"We'll take the cubs out too.\"\n\n\"We will, will we?\" Sean asked. But he didn't look annoyed, he looked amused. \"If you say so, love.\" He dried his hands and came to bend over the cubs. \"Want to go walkies?\"\n\nMatt and Kyle growled, Lupine for _Who is this fool?_\n\nAndrea laughed. \"Come with me, little loves. We'll go play. Don't worry about Sean. Though I know he smells like a cat.\"\n\nMatt and Kyle started eagerly out after Andrea, bumping into each other as they went. Sean shook his head, took up the high chair, and followed. \"You want to watch yourself with this mate thing,\" Sean said to Graham as he went. \"The females, they take over.\" He glanced from Graham to Misty, grinned, and strolled out of the house.\n\nGraham left the table and locked the back door. He went out and locked the front door as well. Dougal had gone out early and had his key, but Graham didn't need his guests deciding to charge back in while Graham was having a heart-to-heart with Misty.\n\nWhen he returned to the kitchen, Misty was washing the dishes again.\n\nGraham paused, remembering what had happened when he'd come up behind her doing dishes the last time. He pictured how he'd wet her with the spray then licked her skin, how he'd drunk her, how she'd made him feel incandescent joy.\n\nHe was rock hard again\u2014not that he was ever very flaccid around her.\n\n\"Leave it,\" he said.\n\nGraham knew she wouldn't stop, and Misty didn't. \"It's not a lot,\" she said. \"Sean's much neater than you are.\"\n\n\"He must be a joy to live with,\" Graham said. \"Neat and clean, Irish accent, bloody Feline grin.\"\n\n\"He is pretty good-looking,\" Misty said without turning around. \"I can understand why Andrea is madly in love with him.\"\n\n\"He's _Feline_. She's Lupine. It's wrong. Of course, she's got Fae blood in her, which probably messed with her head.\"\n\nMisty stacked the clean plates in the drying rack and started scrubbing down the griddle. \"I know you're thankful they came and helped. You're just being a shit. You can't _not_ be one.\"\n\n\"It's traditional with me.\"\n\nGraham leaned on the counter next to her. If he came up behind her, he'd bend her over, lift her skirt, and do her right there. To hell with dignity.\n\nMisty cleaned, rinsed, and dried the griddle and rested the heavy thing back on the stove. It was the kind that stretched across burners, using the stove beneath to heat it. She washed her hands, dried them on the towel, then hung the towel neatly on the towel ring that had come with the house.\n\n\"What did you want to say, Graham?\" Misty asked. \"If you're going to meet with Eric, I need to get back to my store. I have a ton of things to do.\" She let out her breath. \"I hate to leave you alone, but Eric can take care of you. Sean looks pretty capable too. I'm going to try to find Ben, and ask him again about curing you. I should have Reid talk to him with me\u2014\"\n\n\"Misty, would you _stop_?\" Graham thrust his hand over Misty's mouth. She looked up at him over his large fingers, indignant. \"First, your brother went to your store with Xavier, plus I sent Shifters to help out. You don't need to worry about it. Second, you're not talking to that Ben person without me there\u2014who the hell knows who he is? Third, I need you here.\"\n\nAnd now Misty was getting mad again. She moved her head so she could speak. \"No, you need to go with Eric. If we both work on this problem today, we can pool our information later.\"\n\nBut that would mean Misty not being here when Graham got back. \"You have to stay,\" he said. \"I mate-claimed you.\"\n\nMisty's eyes widened. \"You what?\"\n\n\"Mate-claimed. It means\u2014\"\n\n\"I know what it means. I've hung around Shifters long enough.\" Misty spun away from him, her skirt swishing. \"It means you're saying you want me to be your mate and do the ceremonies. And have me live with you and have your kids\u2014cubs.\" Misty ran out of breath and stopped. \"Are you insane? I know everyone expects you to mate with a wolf Shifter. One of your wolves even tried to attack me, remember?\"\n\n\"And she'll be disciplined. Things are different now.\"\n\n\"What things? No, they're not.\"\n\nGraham looked into Misty's stubborn eyes and knew the truth. Everything _was_ different. His life had changed the moment Misty had turned to him on the barstool at Coolers and asked, _You a Shifter?_\n\n\"I've been lying to myself,\" Graham said. \"I thought I could keep it cool with you, go out with you for the fun of it, to enjoy being with you. Then say good-bye when I chose a mate. But I can't. Letting you go is something I can't do. All right?\"\n\nWhen Graham had mate-claimed Rita, she'd nearly passed out in shock that the son of a clan leader had chosen _her_ , then she'd recovered and thanked him for the great honor.\n\nMisty only stared at him and didn't look honored at all. \"You can't change your mind like that.\" Her voice was shaky. \"I know your Shifters won't shrug it off and say, _Oh well, our great leader knows best_. They'll fight you.\"\n\n\"I'm prepared for that.\"\n\n\"I'm so glad. What about me?\" Misty pressed her hands to her chest. \"I'll have to fight too. That Shifter woman\u2014Jan\u2014who tried to attack me, was very angry. And her Collar didn't go off, so that won't slow her down, will it? And what about the other women who hope they can be with someone so high in Shiftertown? I've learned a lot about Shifters since I started dating you. You're a good catch, apparently, and they're not going to step aside so I can have you.\"\n\nGraham gave her a growl. \"What you don't understand is that I'm alpha. They do what I say.\"\n\n\"And what _you_ don't understand is how someone _not_ alpha thinks. Sure, they'll obey you\u2014until they can figure out a way to get rid of me, permanently. Or replace you with someone who will do what they want.\"\n\n\"And _you_ don't understand how leaders get chosen. I have to die before another one takes my place.\"\n\n\"Exactly my point.\"\n\nGraham started to say that would never happen, but he stopped. Of course, it could happen. Challenges for leadership had occurred a lot in the wild\u2014not to Graham, but to others. It happened less often now, but Collars were gradually coming off and some Shifters were hoping for changes. Liam Morrissey had fought his own father and won, thus replacing him as leader. Dylan Morrissey was a hard man with a lot of experience, so Liam besting him said something.\n\nGraham didn't think any of the Lupines here could win against him, but now Graham had been spelled by a Fae.\n\n\"They're not going to kill me,\" Graham said, trying to keep his voice steady. \"Eric won't let them.\"\n\nThen again, when Graham had arrived here last year, he'd been a total shit to Eric. But Graham had been fighting to keep his position, fearing Eric would force him out. Graham couldn't stand the thought of having to be a kiss-ass, so he'd been a dickhead instead. Had Eric forgiven Graham enough to help him stand against his angry Shifters? Graham wasn't sure.\n\n\"And anyway,\" Misty said. \"We should figure out this Fae problem first.\"\n\n\"No, I want to do this mating now, before the Fae problem kills me.\" Graham started to reach for Misty then forced himself not to touch her. \"I want you mated to me, to know we're bound. Don't you think that will make me stronger?\"\n\n\"No, I think it will be more distracting. Having to learn to integrate our lives, plus trying to get your Shifters to go along with it, will take a lot of work. Throw in trying to find a cure for this spell\u2014that's lot to put on your plate.\"\n\n\"Damn it!\" Graham's roar burst out. \"What _distracts_ me is seeing you around, with your gorgeous legs, and your lips I want to suck on, and your scent driving me wild. The touch of a mate heals\u2014did you know that? It's why you're up and walking around today. Andrea's cure wasn't working until I took it away from her and dosed you myself. I need you. Even if we get rid of this Fae, not being with you is killing me.\"\n\nHe faced her, his hands clenched. Misty's lips were parted, red and kissable.\n\n\"Graham, I want to be with you too,\" she said in a rush. \"But I don't want to make things hard for you.\"\n\n\"Well, too late. I'm already hard for _you_.\" Graham grabbed her hand and pressed it against the front of his jeans. \"This is what you do to me, every time I look at you.\"\n\n\"That's just lust.\" Misty didn't move her hand, which warmed his blood. \"Wanting. I want you too.\" She smiled a little, and Graham's frenzy skyrocketed.\n\nGraham gripped her shoulders. \"I need you. It's killing me. Don't refuse the claim. Please, don't leave me alone. Again. _Please._ \"\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY\n\nThe _please_ shot into Misty's heart.\n\nGraham was glaring at her, looking more angry than filled with love. His fingers bit into her shoulders, his grip desperate.\n\n_Don't leave me alone_. This from a man who found it hard to admit he needed anything. Or anyone.\n\nMisty lifted her hand away from his jeans, where his long and formidable cock waited. She remembered the feel of it against her tongue, the warm taste of it. She touched his arm, resting it on one of the flame tattoos.\n\n\"Graham,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Don't walk away from me, Misty. I'm going to die.\"\n\n\"I won't let you,\" Misty said.\n\nGraham let out a sound like a groan. His grip grew harder still as he yanked her to him and brought his mouth down on hers.\n\nThe kisses he'd given her before had been powerful, but Misty now realized he'd been holding back a little to keep from hurting her. He'd played games with her, stopping himself from doing what he'd meant to.\n\nNot this time. The holding back had gone. Graham had Misty against the wall in the space of two seconds. He held her solidly, his mouth on hers, while he pushed up her skirt and yanked down her underwear.\n\nThe cool of the room's air touched her bare skin, except where Graham covered her, his body hot. More than hot. His skin was feverishly warm, dangerously so.\n\nThe rough of his jeans brushed her thighs, while one of his hands held her shoulder, the other, her waist, lifting her from the wall and against him. All the while Graham kissed her, his mouth opening hers without respite.\n\nMisty ran her hands along his bare shoulders, his muscles hard under his sleek skin. Down his arms, over the firm round of his biceps, to the smoother skin of the tatts. To his back, to feel the flat of his lower back and the waistband of his jeans. Dipping inside to the warm flesh of his buttocks.\n\nGraham broke the kiss. \"Run now if you want,\" he said, voice harsh. \"I won't be able to stop if you don't go. Not today.\"\n\nMisty debated a half second. But she couldn't fool herself. She wanted Graham, wanted this, wanted him forever. She shook her head. \"I'm staying.\"\n\nGraham said nothing. No triumph, no smile of conquest. The only thing in his eyes was need.\n\nGraham tugged at the button of his jeans then his zipper. The jeans flowed off, over his bare buttocks to the floor. He stepped out and kicked them away, naked in his kitchen with sunshine pouring through the windows.\n\nHe was a beautiful man. Perfectly formed. Life had scarred his face and body, but the whole of him sang.\n\nGraham had Misty up against the wall again. He hooked her leg over one arm, stretching her up, opening her wide. He lifted her with his other arm around her hips, looking down into her eyes as he slid the tip of his cock inside her.\n\nMisty's eyes widened. Graham was large, his firm tip already pushing her open. She drew in a long breath, her body tightening. She wrapped her legs around his, her skirt draping them both, her bare feet on his thighs.\n\nGraham lifted her higher, holding her steady, as he slid a little more inside. Misty's breath gave out. She tilted her head back, meeting the wall, opening her lungs for air.\n\nGraham kissed her chin. \"You are so beautiful.\"\n\nGraham's whisper echoed what he'd said the night they'd drunk tequila and roses, looking for a way to end the Fae's spell. This morning, sober, he looked at Misty and said the same words.\n\nMisty touched his face. Graham's eyes drifted closed as he slid the rest of the way inside her.\n\nFully inside her. Graham drove high, his large cock invading her. Her body gripped it, instinct overriding coherent thought.\n\nHe held her like that a moment, she against the wall, he straight up inside her.\n\nThen Graham lifted her into his arms, holding her on him. He turned in a slow circle in the kitchen, looking into her eyes, the sunshine dancing on them. They were whole, together. One.\n\nMisty felt him solidly inside her, pressing her in pleasure. She shuddered, her hips wanting to rock, but in the tight position, they could do nothing but be still and be joined. And that was no bad thing.\n\nGraham kissed her. He said words between the kisses, but she didn't understand them. Soft little words of tenderness, or so she thought. Misty ran her hands through his short hair, smiling into his face. The warmth of the sun, the heat of Graham's body, the stiffness inside her, were the most wonderful things she'd ever felt. She'd longed to be this Shifter's lover since the first night he'd kissed her and changed her world forever.\n\nAnother turn around the middle of the floor, Graham's strong body holding them, then another and another. Dizzy joy, circling with the man Misty had been falling in love with, joined with him at last.\n\nGraham slid his hands over her back, up under her tank top, pulling her to him for another kiss.\n\nHis last slow turn brought them to the table, bare now, since Misty had cleaned up. Graham supported her back as he laid her down on the table, the length of it taking Misty's body.\n\nGraham slid her hips to its edge, the two of them still connected. Misty glimpsed where his large cock disappeared high into her body, before Graham drew back, exposing the dark length of it. He was wet and slick from being inside her, still hard for her.\n\nA moment, a glance, and then Graham slid back inside. He nestled there for half a second, then drew out, then in again. Then again, faster this time.\n\nHis thrusts increased, one after the other, beautiful friction. Misty propped herself on her elbows so she could watch Graham, his hands on her hips, drive into her. Wild feeling like music took away her thoughts.\n\nShe knew nothing but warm sunshine, Graham firm and thick inside her, pulsing hard joy into her. The scents of cinnamon and sugar, syrup and frying pancakes lingered in the room. The mouthwatering scent of food and the feeling of Graham twined together, one layering over the other.\n\nMisty lifted her hips, her eyes half closing, while Graham continued thrusting into her. He was sweating, body glistening in the sunlight. The tatts moved on his arms, flames curling around muscle.\n\n\"You are so beautiful.\" Graham's words were hoarse. \"Nothing else matters when I look at you.\"\n\n_Graham._ Misty tried to say his name, but her tongue didn't work. She was gone on feeling, pleasure, glory. Her hips bumped the table, and she reached to twine her fingers around his wrists.\n\nBack and forth, rocking, silent now but for the sounds of him going in and out, the creak of the table, the faraway laughter of cubs playing in the common yard behind Graham's house. There was so much life here, always movement, laughter, joy.\n\nJoy. It wound up inside Misty and spilled out. A dark wave of feeling picked her up and washed her away, the room spinning around her as it had when Graham had turned with her.\n\nGraham grunted. His hips moved faster and faster, his grip on her tight. He pumped into her in a frenzy, sweat dripping from him, his head back. He was a wild man, huge and strong. This was more raw than making love\u2014this was pure, animal-like sex.\n\nGraham's thrusts came even faster, Misty lost in the friction of it. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. A scream came from her throat, echoing against Graham's shout.\n\nGraham slammed into her one last time, groaning, his seed scalding inside her. His hips started moving again, the rhythm pounding, his hands sliding on her hips, slick with sweat.\n\nHe opened his eyes, his last shout of pleasure dying down into a groan. \"Misty,\" he said. \"Goddess, help me.\"\n\nGraham lifted her again, gentler this time, and gathered her into his arms. Her legs went around his hips, he still inside her.\n\nHe turned with her in another circle, slower now, Graham kissing her with warm lips. He held her close, the fire gone from his eyes, a dark glow taking its place.\n\n\"Mate,\" Graham whispered. \"Mine.\"\n\nMisty touched his hair and kissed his lips, drifting on a cushion of happiness.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham carried Misty upstairs to his bedroom, where she'd lain in so much pain. Someone\u2014probably Misty herself\u2014had already stripped the bed, leaving the plain mattress ready for clean sheets.\n\nGraham laid her down, stripped the rest of her clothes from her, parted her legs, and slid inside her again. He was not done sexing her. Not by a long way.\n\nMisty lifted her body to meet his. She wasn't a shy virgin\u2014she liked sex, and she wanted Graham. Graham felt no triumph over this. It was just . . . _right._\n\nGoddess, she was beautiful. He couldn't help saying it. Her round breasts, tipped with dusky nipples, tightened as he loved her. Sweet plumpness he could sink his fingers into, her brown hair spread across his pillow. And her eyes, lovely liquid brown eyes, watching him without fear or shame. Eyes a man could drown in.\n\nHe pressed inside her, unable to slow his thrusts. He wanted her fast and hard, again and again. The mating frenzy. Sex until they couldn't walk, until she was heavy with his cub.\n\nSomething tightened inside Graham. He wanted her to bear his cubs. Craved it. If they had to stay in this bedroom and screw for days until then . . . Oh well.\n\nToo soon, Graham came. Misty groaned with her own pleasure, she pouring heat over his cock.\n\nThe pain he'd had since he'd drunk the Fae water hadn't left him, but Misty around him let it recede. The mating frenzy broke through it, swelling Graham's cock again. More.\n\nMisty laughed as Graham started thrusting again. She looked tired and spent, but he couldn't stop.\n\nHe lay down on her and rolled with her so Misty was on top of him. Graham liked things this way, where he could look up at her, her eyes heavy with pleasure, and cup his hands over her breasts while she rode him.\n\nFace-to-face on their sides was good too, Misty's leg wrapped around his, Graham pumping into her. Again and again, Graham loved her, in every position he could think of. Misty laughed, pleaded that she needed to rest, and laughed again. Every time, she came with him, her body growing more and more pliant.\n\nThe sun was moving to the west when Misty dropped into sleep, not waking when Graham kissed her cheek. His mating frenzy was still high\u2014he was a male Shifter in his prime who hadn't had sex in many months\u2014but he had some compassion. He let her sleep, dressing himself and walking outside to the heat of the late afternoon.\n\n\"You done with sex?\" Dougal asked, appearing from the green behind the house and falling into step with him. \"Took you long enough.\"\n\n\"I'll never be done with it,\" Graham said. He walked along slowly, a bit chafed, but that would be gone by the time he went back into the house. Shifters healed quickly. \"Mating frenzy won't let me be.\"\n\n\"Eric is looking for you. You need to go talk to the Collar-making Fae.\"\n\nGraham shook his head. \"I'm not leaving Misty alone. My wolves will know I mate-claimed her soon enough.\"\n\nDougal stepped in front of Graham, stopping Graham's long-legged pace. \"You made the mate-claim? That's awesome. Did she accept?\"\n\n\"No, she tried to refuse. But I think I've changed her mind.\"\n\n\"With sex?\"\n\n\"No, I made her spaghetti,\" Graham said impatiently. \"What do you think? Of course, with sex.\"\n\n\"So she's going to be your mate?\" Dougal grinned, excited.\n\n\"You're okay with that?\"\n\n\"I like Misty. She's nice. The total opposite of you.\"\n\nGraham cuffed Dougal across the head, but gently. \"I have to get my wolves to accept her. That won't be easy.\" When Graham had told them to try to decide which clan would dominate through one of their daughters, he'd temporarily eased the situation, knowing they'd argue among themselves. But when Graham presented them with his choice of Misty, they'd band together against him.\n\n\"I'll help,\" Dougal said. \"I'm your second now. I've got your back. And if Eric approves, he'll have your back too. Everyone listens to Eric.\"\n\n\"So I've noticed.\"\n\nIf Misty refused Graham, on the other hand, end of problem. Something burned into his heart. If Misty refused, Graham would be lost. She completed him, made the other half of his world.\n\n\"Anyway, Eric is waiting,\" Dougal said. \"Says he'll take you out to see the Collar maker. Liam's got him hidden.\"\n\n\"So no one will kill him.\" Graham stretched his fingers, cracking his knuckles. \"Might be fun to put this guy in the rings at the fight club, to see how long he lasts. Against Shifters with working Collars, that is. Would be fun.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Dougal loved the fight club. He'd be the first one in line for a bout.\n\n\"But I'm not leaving Misty,\" Graham said. \"You go in my place, tell them I'll come later.\"\n\nDougal looked behind Graham. \"Looks like Misty's leaving you instead.\"\n\nGraham pivoted. Misty was getting into the boxy car she'd borrowed to drive over here. She started it as soon as Graham turned, and pulled away from the house. She'd seen him, damn the woman, but she didn't stop. Misty even smiled and waved as she drove around the corner.\n\n\"Shit!\" Graham headed for Dougal's Harley, waiting in the driveway next to Graham's still shot-up bike. His thirst kicked in as he lost sight of Misty's car, and so did the pain in his heart.\n\n\"Where are _you_ going?\"\n\nEric materialized next to the bike before Graham could kick the starter. Eric couldn't teleport, but the bloody Feline knew how to move softly.\n\n\"I'm going after Misty,\" Graham said. \"Too dangerous to leave her alone.\"\n\n\"No, _I'm_ going after her.\" Eric gave him a pointed look. \"You go question the Collar maker. I'll take care of Misty.\"\n\nGraham slammed his fists to his handlebars. \"Screw you. Mates come first.\"\n\n\"Yep, you reek of the mate-claim,\" Eric said, nodding. \"And sex. I'm thinking Misty didn't quite say yes, the way she hauled ass out of here. But I'll bring her back. You go take care of your curse.\"\n\n\"Eric, you are not my alpha.\"\n\n\"No. I'm your co-leader. I'm telling you this for your own good. Let me talk to Misty. I'm good at being persuasive. And I'll keep her safe. You know that.\"\n\nEric was a good fighter, strong and smart. And talky. Misty liked talking.\n\nGraham sighed and started the bike. \"Fine. I'll go. Dougal, you make sure Matt and Kyle are being taken care of. And stay out of trouble.\"\n\n\"Aw, that's no fun,\" Dougal said. He lost his smile and walked away.\n\nGraham watched him go, the bike throbbing impatiently under him. \"Damned cub. How did you do it, Eric? Raise a cub to adulthood without killing him? Or him killing you?\"\n\nEric shrugged, his lazy look in place. \"Jace is a different person. And my son, not my nephew. He's . . . Jace.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well.\" Graham glided the bike forward and lifted his feet. He rode off without a good-bye, but when he checked his rearview, Eric had disappeared.\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nMisty took the turn out of Shiftertown onto the quiet street that led to it. Not many people were out this late in the hot afternoon. The people who lived in or commuted to Las Vegas rarely came to this back corner of it.\n\nA large pickup pulled abruptly in front of her, blocking her way. Misty slammed on the brakes. At the same time, another truck pulled up beside her on the passenger side. A man got out, opened her car door, and slid inside. He closed the door, the truck ahead of her moved, and he pointed.\n\n\"Drive that way.\"\n\nThe man in her car was Eric Warden. Misty stared at him, making no move to obey. \"What the hell are you doing?\"\n\n\"Asking you to go that way.\" Eric pointed down a side street.\n\nMisty gripped the wheel. \"This is kidnapping.\"\n\n\"No it isn't,\" Eric said. \"It's having a chat. Now will you start driving?\"\n\nThe two trucks roared off. Misty caught only a glimpse of who was in them, but she thought she recognized the bear Shifter Shane driving one, his brother Brody the other.\n\nMisty pushed the accelerator and moved the car down the street Eric had indicated. \"All right. You've kidnapped me. For a chat. What do you want?\"\n\n\"Accept Graham's mate-claim.\"\n\nMisty slammed on the brakes again. Eric braced himself on the dashboard, then grabbed the seat belt. \"If you're going to drive like that, I'll buckle up.\"\n\n\"Did Graham send you?\" Misty demanded.\n\n\"Graham tried to stop me. I sent him off to take care of his Fae problem.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Misty started driving again, slowly. \"Why do you want me to accept Graham's mate-claim? I think it would be a bad thing for Graham if I do.\"\n\n\"I don't know. You'll have to fight for acceptance, and he'll have to kick a few asses before everyone calms down. But I've watched Graham now for almost a year. Trust me, I keep a close eye on him. When Graham's around you, he's at ease with himself. He's a loud, arrogant, obnoxious shit\u2014always has been, and will always be\u2014but with you, he seems to find peace. A reason for living . . . besides his determination to be the biggest dickhead in the room.\"\n\n\"He's not a dickhead,\" Misty said hotly. \"If he wasn't like he is, he'd have lost everybody in his life, more than he already has. He doesn't say that out loud, but I know it. Dougal would have been killed in the wild a long time ago\u2014I understand that now\u2014and the Shifters in his Shiftertown wouldn't have survived. Graham fought to keep them all alive.\"\n\n\"You're not telling me anything I don't know,\" Eric said. \"He kept those Shifters together up in Elko, when all of them could have easily gone feral. One hell of a task. I commend him for it.\"\n\n\"And so you want me to cause more trouble by staying with him?\"\n\nEric leaned back in the seat and rested his arm along the window. \"They'll come around. Shifters are all about what's for the good of the pack, or clan, or whatever community they're in. Might not seem like it most of the time, but they are. The only reason Shiftertowns work is that we've dedicated ourselves to making them work. We want survival, and we want our cubs to grow up safe and happy. We took the Collars, instead of letting ourselves get wiped out, for the sake of the cubs. Graham's Shifters will understand, in time, that Graham having you is the best thing that can happen for them. All the crap about hierarchy and Shifters breeding with Shifters for strength is bullshit.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Misty drove in silence for a time. She turned onto a main street, heading for her store. \"You know, you've never once asked me what _I_ wanted.\"\n\nEric made a lazy gesture with the hand along the window. \"I don't have to. You want to mate with Graham.\"\n\nMisty shot him a look. \"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"I've been watching you too.\" Eric leaned even farther back in the seat and rested one motorcycle-booted foot on the dashboard. \"You're a sweet young woman, and when you're around Graham, you're happier, stronger. More self-assured. And I see the way you look at him. Trust me, no one else in Shiftertown looks at Graham as though they want him to stay exactly the way he is.\"\n\n\"Really? That's kind of sad.\"\n\n\"It means he needs you, and you need him. End of problem.\"\n\nMisty turned down another street, navigating heavier traffic. \"Was it that simple when you were going after Iona?\" She sent him a sweet smile. \"Graham told me you looked like you'd been hit with an anvil.\"\n\nEric didn't take offense. \"True, I denied my need to be with Iona for a long time. I'd been grieving my mate for so many years I didn't know how to fall in love again. Iona taught me. Besides I had to save Iona from . . . other Shifters who considered her fair game.\"\n\nMisty's smile widened. \"Don't worry, I know Graham tried to Challenge you for her, so you don't have to spare my feelings. For a man who doesn't like to talk about personal things, Graham has told me a lot. I met him the night you two fought, and you lost.\"\n\n\"I didn't lose,\" Eric said indignantly. \"I was incapacitated by something else. It was a draw.\"\n\n\"Graham tried to claim it was a draw too. But you both lost, didn't you?\"\n\nEric sat up. \"Hey, this is supposed to be your kidnapping. Me telling you what you should do.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it. Meanwhile, I need to return this car and make sure the rest of my life is all right. Including my brother.\"\n\n\"Paul's a good kid. He'll be fine.\"\n\n\"You have a lot of optimism, Eric.\"\n\n\"I've been around a while,\" Eric said. \"It's experience, not optimism.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?\"\n\n\"No.\" Eric laced his hands behind his head. \"I should check up on what the Shifters are doing at your store. Shane can drive me back.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"We're doing this, with or without my dad,\" Jace Warden said.\n\nJace, Eric's son, stood straight and tall, looking much like his absent father with his dark hair and green eyes, but more alert, more _present_ than Eric ever let himself seem. Since Jace's mating\u2014he'd recently taken a mate from the Austin Shiftertown\u2014he'd stood even straighter, with more authority than ever.\n\nGraham stood with Jace, facing the Shifters who were annoyed that Eric hadn't showed yet. Eric wasn't coming, Graham realized. He'd sent Jace to do this, letting his son take authority. Talking to Misty had been an excuse. Eric had made sure Graham was here to back up Jace if necessary. Cagey Feline.\n\nThe Shifters stood in an old airplane hanger forty miles from town, in remote desert, where a human called Marlo kept his planes. The former drug runner now made his money carrying Shifters where they wanted to go. Shifters couldn't travel outside a state without special permission, but as usual, Shifters had learned how to get around the rules. Marlo did a brisk business hauling Shifters back and forth. He was discreet, reliable, and knew how to avoid problems.\n\nThe Fae-blood human who'd been captured sat in a straight-backed chair at the end of the hanger. He'd been bound in chains of silver, spelled, Graham guessed. Sean Morrissey stood with him, the Sword of the Guardian on his back, his father, Dylan Morrissey, at Sean's side.\n\nCouldn't be easy for the Fae-blood, facing a roomful of grim-faced Shifters who'd figured out he'd helped screw them in more ways than one. Couldn't be easy sitting in a room with Dylan either, one of the most formidable Shifters ever born. No one could predict what Dylan would do.\n\nBowman had come, as had Eoin from Montana. A couple of Shifters from Shiftertowns in Utah and New Mexico were also there, plus Liam and Sean\u2014basically whoever had been able to get there on short notice.\n\n\"He won't tell us his real name,\" Liam said, starting without preamble. \"Afraid this will give us unfair advantage.\"\n\nA rumble of laughter came from everyone but Dylan and Bowman.\n\n\"In the human world,\" Dylan said, \"he goes by Lorcan.\"\n\nThe Fae flinched slightly. For the most part, he maintained his arrogance, even though he was outnumbered by angry Shifters ready to kill him. Technically Lorcan was employed by the human government, and Lorcan must have believed the humans would rush to his rescue. But if Liam and Dylan had been true to form, the humans wouldn't even realize Lorcan had gone.\n\nLorcan's father, a half Fae, had come up with the concept of the Collars for Shifters, convincing humans twenty years ago, when the existence of Shifters was revealed, that these were the best way to keep the wild and dangerous Shifters under control. Collars used a combination of technology and Fae magic to react to a Shifter's adrenal system, giving them shocks when they became violent\u2014in the Collar's opinion.\n\nDylan's rumbling voice silenced the Shifters. \"Graham has recently discovered that the Fae in Faerie have created swords that can work in conjunction with the Collars\u2014the swords set off the Collars at the will of the sword's wielder. Is that correct?\" Dylan bent to Lorcan, waiting for him to answer.\n\nLorcan moved in his seat, but his eyes remained haughty. \"If a Fae told you that, that Fae is no longer one of us.\"\n\n\"Huh,\" Graham said. \"He told _me_ , because he thought he had total control over me. Thought I'd surrender right there and be his pet, then rush out and bring all my Shifter friends back with me to him.\"\n\n\"You are _Shifter_ ,\" Lorcan said to him, his arrogance still present. \"You have always been a captive. I am not and never will be.\"\n\n\"You are now, laddie.\" Liam picked up one of the spelled chains binding Lorcan and shook it. \"These don't bother me, but they hold you pretty good. Why don't you tell us what we want to know?\"\n\n\"And then what? You kill me? If I am to die, then you can live ignorant.\"\n\n\"We're not going to kill you,\" Dylan said. His tone was quietly calm, deadly. Graham, who didn't intimidate easily, wanted to shiver. \"You will go back to the Fae and tell them that their experiment failed.\"\n\n\"Will I?\" Lorcan asked, disdainful.\n\nLorcan, born of a human mother and a half-Fae father, looked human, even more so than most half Fae. He was slender, but his features were very human, his hair wheat brown instead of the severe pale fair of most Fae. His hair covered his ears, but Graham was pretty sure those ears weren't pointy.\n\n\"You will,\" Dylan said.\n\n\"We know what you're up to, asshole,\" Graham said. \"You and your dad made the Collars, and I'm willing to bet you made or helped make the Fae swords too. Now, what's the master plan? Or did you just want to make Shifters more miserable? Fae are still pissed off that Shifters won the war against them all those years ago and took their freedom. Get over it, already.\"\n\n\"This is a waste of time,\" Bowman said impatiently. \"Break some bones and get some answers. How many of these swords exist? Where are they? Why have the Fae waited to use them?\"\n\n\"Let Dylan finish,\" Jace said sternly.\n\nThe other Shifters looked at him, falling silent. Graham saw them adjust their thinking from viewing Jace as an older cub to Jace as Eric's successor.\n\nAir displaced next to Graham, and Reid was there. Graham had drawn back his fist, ready to punch, but checked himself at the last minute. \"Damn it, Reid.\"\n\nThe other Shifter leaders had started forward, a few of them half shifting. \"What the fuck?\" Bowman asked. Not everyone had known Reid could teleport.\n\nWhen Lorcan saw Reid, his assurance drained rapidly. _\"Dokk alfar.\"_ He continued with a string of weird-sounding words.\n\n\"Ironmaster,\" Reid said, in English. He held up his hand, which was clasped by a heavy black ring\u2014iron\u2014and advanced on Lorcan.\n\n\"What's he afraid of?\" Bowman asked, a growl in his throat. \"Iron doesn't affect mixed-breed Fae. And what the hell is _he_?\" He pointed at Reid.\n\n\"A dark Fae,\" Graham said. \"A pain in the ass. But handy to have around.\"\n\nReid didn't appear to care whether iron was supposed to work on mixed-blood Fae or not. He held up his hand, light sliding on the dark ring, and brought his hand down and wrapped it around Lorcan's throat.\n\nLorcan screamed. He tried to scramble away from Reid, the chains clinking, chair scraping. He yelled rapidly in Fae before settling down to English. \"Make it stop! Make it stop! Please! Stop!\"\n\nThe rest of the Shifter leaders watched in a mixture of surprise and unease. _Who the hell is this?_ their body language said clearly. _And do I have to worry he can do that to me?_\n\nReid lifted his hand from Lorcan's neck, took a step back, and nodded at Dylan. Dylan didn't return the nod.\n\nGraham went forward, tired of waiting. The Morrisseys could toy with Lorcan all day, like the cats they were, if they decided to. Wolves were more straightforward. \"What is going on with the Collars and the swords?\" he asked, pushing his face to Lorcan's. \"I want to know everything, including how to keep the Fae from activating them.\"\n\nLorcan licked the side of his mouth, where blood had dripped. More blood dripped from his nose, thin streams of it. \"It's too late. The High Fae have been making swords to match the spells in the Collars for many years. They're almost ready. My father and I were chosen to help prepare the way.\"\n\n\"Because Fae want Shifters back under their power?\" Graham asked. \"Guess what? They're not getting it.\"\n\n\"Fae wish to walk the earth again, as they once did. Shifters will fight the humans for the Fae\u2014Shifters can fight iron.\"\n\n\"You mean Shifters kill all the humans, and the Fae pour out of their stone circles and rule the earth?\" Graham leaned closer to Lorcan. \"Do they realize how many humans are on this planet?\"\n\n\"Fae aren't that good at math,\" Lorcan said, gray lips quirking to a little smile. \"But there are many millions of Fae in Faerie. Only a handful of them ever lived on earth. It's getting crowded in Faerie, and they want the human world back.\"\n\n\"Using Shifters to get it?\"\n\n\"The battle beasts, yes.\"\n\nOison had called Graham a _battle beast_. \"If Shifters get wiped out in this little war, the Fae won't have their battle beasts anymore,\" Graham said.\n\n\"They'll make more,\" Lorcan said. \"You have many cubs now.\"\n\nGraham felt the blood drain from his face. Shifters started to growl, move.\n\nRage replaced Graham's shock. He grabbed Lorcan by his shirt. \"They touch the cubs, and we'll rip off their heads, starting with yours.\"\n\n\"I told them that,\" Lorcan said desperately, more blood trickling from his nose and mouth. \"I told them how protective you were of cubs. They don't care.\"\n\nReid said, \"Sounds like typical _hoch alfar._ Cold _and_ stupid.\"\n\nDylan broke in, his quiet voice even more deadly. \"Why did they wait twenty years? In the first years of the Collars, we were weaker, more vulnerable. There was chaos trying to settle into Shiftertowns and find our feet.\"\n\n\"They wanted you stronger,\" Lorcan answered. \"Shifters started to live longer, be more healthy, have more cubs. Multiply.\"\n\nGraham shook Lorcan once, spraying blood. \"So the Fae would have a bigger army.\"\n\n\"Larger and stronger.\"\n\n\"Shit.\" Graham released him, and Lorcan thumped back into the seat.\n\n\"What is the secret of the swords?\" Jace asked around Dylan. \"How can we break their effect?\"\n\nLorcan shook his head. \"You can't. The Fae made the swords to have the same technology as the Collars\u2014they taught my dad how to make the Collars in the first place, and he taught me. The spells in the swords activate the Collars. They don't have to actually touch the Collars, but touching makes the control stronger.\"\n\n\"But swords and Collars have to be in proximity,\" Dylan said.\n\n\"For now.\"\n\nThe chill of those words worked their way through the Shifters. \"How many?\" Graham asked.\n\n\"Swords? As many now as there are Shifters.\"\n\nSilence descended in the hanger. Graham remembered the pain that had encased him when Oison had touched his sword to Graham's Collar. Oison had been able to manipulate Graham's gunshot wound, healing and unhealing it at will. The water spell had been a way to bring Graham close enough to Oison, he realized, through the dreams\u2014Graham would never have voluntarily walked into Faerie on his own. The Fae spell, through the water, had taken Graham to Oison, so Oison could use the sword . . .\n\n\"Inside Faerie,\" Graham finished his thought out loud. The other Shifters jerked attention to him. \"Oison didn't come outside Faerie, with the sword, to where I was dying in the desert. He coerced me through Misty into drinking the water, to get me under his thrall first. He couldn't just come and get me with the sword\u2014I already had to be weak and in his power. Which means the sword spells must not completely work yet.\"\n\nLorcan looked nervous. \"Oison is impatient. He thinks we should move now. The leaders say the plan hasn't matured, but Oison wants to start immediately, before Shifters get _too_ strong.\"\n\nAnd Shifters were now learning how to control the Collars and even to remove them. Graham wondered if Oison knew Shifters had discovered the secret of removing the Collars, but Graham wasn't going to voice the thought to a man hand in glove with both the Fae and the human government.\n\n\"Oison jumped the gun, you mean,\" Graham said. \"He gave the game away. That's what he gets for being a fuckwad.\"\n\n\"No, _I_ gave the game away,\" Lorcan said. \"I'm doing it now. The Fae won't let me live for telling you all this.\"\n\nDylan almost smiled. \"Then you'll have to trust Shifters to keep you safe and alive.\"\n\nLiam grinned. \"Ironic, isn't it, lad?\"\n\n\"Keep him safe?\" Graham growled. \"You mean I can't tear him in half? Or watch Reid do the trick with the ring again?\"\n\nLiam shook his head. \"We can't risk the humans investigating us if Lorcan turns up dead and shredded, or cut in half by a Fae sword. So he's now under our protection. Poor guy.\"\n\nLiam was laughing, looking positively gleeful. Graham wished he could be so happy. \"How do we deactivate the swords?\" Graham asked Lorcan. \"All of them?\"\n\n\"You don't,\" Lorcan said. \"Not from here. You'd have to take that fight inside Faerie, or lure the Fae out.\"\n\nBowman broke in. \"So, there are as many Fae with the swords as there are Shifters with Collars? I could eat ten Fae and have room for dessert, but them controlling the Collars makes things different.\"\n\nGoing into Faerie wasn't an option, Graham knew. There weren't enough Shifters in fighting form to win a fight inside Faerie, even without the Fae having the Collar-controlling swords. Plus, gates to Faerie were tricky\u2014no guarantee a Shifter army could get in. On the other hand, enticing a boatload of Fae out of Faerie to fight didn't appeal either . . . if they'd even come.\n\n\"What about Andrea's father?\" Graham asked. \"What's his name, Fionn? He's a Fae. What does he know about all this?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" Dylan said. \"I already spoke with him, and what I told him made him very angry. Not all Fae see eye-to-eye. He fears those Fae who made the swords will not only want to walk the earth again, but rule all of Faerie. There are constant power struggles there. Fionn can help, but only if he can convince his clan it's necessary. Fionn's people might be happy to let the Fae use controlled Shifters to kill humans, good riddance to the humans.\"\n\n\"Good riddance to Shifters too, you mean,\" Graham said, and Dylan gave him a slow nod. \"And then there's Reid,\" Graham said, turning to him. \"Go tell your dark Fae to kick some ass.\"\n\n\"I will,\" Reid said. \"Same problem though, getting my clan to agree about the threat. They might be happy to let the _hoch alfar_ fight each other, or let them leave Faerie for the human world without protest. Dark Fae will shut the gates behind the _hoch alfar_ and be glad. _Dokk alfar_ are the original Fae, after all.\" Reid's black eyes glinted. \"However, I might convince my people to keep the Fae busy while we figure out how to stop them.\"\n\n\"I know how,\" Graham said. \"Without going to Faerie at all.\"\n\nHe didn't say it out loud. Lorcan might be under Dylan's thumb now, but he still could turn around and text someone in the human government as soon as he got his hands free.\n\nThe solution was getting the Collars off Shifters. The Fae couldn't manipulate what wasn't there. Collars were already coming off the weaker Shifters, the ones who couldn't take the pain and couldn't learn the techniques for control. The thought that Matt and Kyle, and whatever cub Graham would have with Misty, wouldn't have to wear true Collars made his heart sing.\n\n\"Is that enough information?\" Dylan asked. \"I'd like to get Lorcan back home before the humans miss him.\"\n\nLiam, hands in his sweat jacket pockets, nodded. \"I'll get Marlo, and we'll go. Sean and Andrea will stay a while longer, Graham, to make sure Misty's all right.\" Graham gave Liam a nod of thanks.\n\n\"That's it then,\" Jace said.\n\nThe fact that the Shifters didn't disperse until Jace gave the nod attested to his growing power. Without any more talk, Liam disappeared into the darkening desert, and Dylan, Bowman, and Sean carried Lorcan, silver chains, chair, and all, out. A plane's engines started up, lights flashing, the lumbering bird waiting for its passengers.\n\nThe other Shifters started to walk away, off to board the airplane or find their own transportation home. No one said, _Take care of yourself_ , or even _Goddess go with you._ Such words might mean they'd never see each other again.\n\n\"How'd you do that?\" Graham asked Reid in a low voice as the building emptied. \"With the ring? If mixed-blood Fae don't have to worry about iron?\"\n\n\"They still need to worry about it,\" Reid said. \"But they have enough human blood in them to dilute the effects. I used the ring to _un_ dilute the effects, going straight for the part of Lorcan that was true Fae.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Graham rubbed his jaw, feeling stiff bristles. \"Good to know.\"\n\nReid eyed him. \"You couldn't do it yourself. If _you_ pushed this ring against Lorcan's neck, he'd only feel a ring against his neck. Only I can make the iron work.\"\n\n\"Because you're Iron Man, I know.\"\n\n\"Ironmaster,\" Reid said. But he gave Graham a ghost of a smile, appreciating the humor. Then he walked away a few steps, and disappeared.\n\nGraham couldn't help his jump when the air around Reid displaced with a little pop. \"Damn, I _hate_ it when he does that.\"\n\nJace waited to walk out with Graham. \"We'll start with you,\" Jace said.\n\nHe meant taking off the Collars. Graham shook his head as he mounted his borrowed bike. \"Dougal first. He'd never stand against Fae. Thank the Goddess it was me who got shot and water-spelled. Dougal would already be gone.\"\n\n\"I agree,\" Jace said. \"But it's not up to me.\"\n\n\"Your dad thinks it's up to him,\" Graham said. \"Your dad's wrong.\"\n\nWithout waiting for Jace's answer, Graham started and revved the bike and took off across the desert. To the west, the sky was crimson, gold, and brilliant blue, black mountains in silhouette\u2014a desert sunset in all its glory. A perfect backdrop, Graham thought. Too bad this movie wasn't over.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham checked on the cubs when he reached Shiftertown, who were happy to continue hanging out with Andrea and Sean, who'd returned from the meeting. Sean and Andrea were looking after Dougal too, while pretending not to, to spare Dougal's pride. They were good people, Graham conceded, for Felines and half-Fae Shifters.\n\nGraham left them and headed south into the heart of Las Vegas to Misty's store. He knew she'd gone back there in spite of Graham telling her not to, because that was the kind of lady Misty was.\n\nMisty wasn't at the store when Graham reached it, however. Some of Eric's Shifters were, including Brody, cleaning up. Eric had arrived with Misty here, Brody said, then Xav had followed Misty home, and Shane had driven Eric back to Shiftertown.\n\nGraham continued to Misty's house. Her truck was in her driveway, along with a couple of black pickups and SUVs from DX Security. Graham told the man working on fixing Misty's door to get out of the way and go home. The man stepped aside, but went back to his work on the door.\n\nGraham ignored him, in too much of a hurry to be irritated. He let scent and voices guide him to the kitchen, where his mate was.\n\nExcept his mate leaned against Xav Escobar, Xav's arms around her, Misty's head on his shoulder. While Graham stood there for a stunned second, Xav stroked one hand through Misty's hair.\n\nGraham was across the room, his Collar sparking, a roar leaving his mouth. He wrapped his hand around Xav's throat, and kept moving, heaving Xav up against the far wall before anyone could say a word.\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nIt took Misty a few heartbeats to realize the whirlwind who'd rushed by her was Graham. Graham enraged, his Collar throwing off arcs of electricity. His eyes were white with fury, his hands turning to claws that gripped Xav's neck.\n\nXavier, face red, brought out a black device. \"I'll tase you, McNeil. Tasers and Collars, not a pretty combination.\" He had to force out the words.\n\nMisty rushed to Graham and tried to pull his hands from Xav, but Graham's arms were like steel bars. \"Stop it, Graham. It's not what you think.\"\n\n\"You touched my _mate_ , _\"_ Graham said savagely to Xav. \"You want me to kill you now? Or do you want to Challenge me, and I'll kill you later?\"\n\n\"Fuck you,\" Xav said. He brought up the Taser, electricity crackling.\n\n\"No!\" Misty cried. \"Graham, let him _go_! I was talking to him as a friend. He was comforting me, _as a friend_. Three guesses as to who he was comforting me about.\"\n\nGraham wasn't listening. \"You never, ever touch a Shifter's mate. You'll be dead before you hit the ground.\" Graham's Collar was still sparking, but he didn't seem to notice.\n\n\"Let him go,\" Misty shouted at him. \"I haven't agreed to be your mate.\"\n\nGraham swung his head around, pinning Misty with his white gray stare. \"I mate-claimed you. You didn't refuse. You had all that sex with me; you made me think\u2014\" He broke off, pain momentarily flickering through his eyes. \"You are my mate.\"\n\nThe DX Security man who'd been fixing the door had come in, his Taser also at the ready. Misty held up her hand to stop him but looked Graham in the eye.\n\n\"You are _insufferable_. Because we had sex, now I belong to you? I don't even know what to say to that.\" Misty didn't know much what to do either. She settled for making an exasperated noise and storming out into the yard.\n\nBehind her she heard Xav coughing. \"Welcome to women in the twenty-first century,\" Xav said, and laughed. Hoarsely.\n\nMisty's backyard usually comforted her. She'd planted it so something would be in bloom every season, whether they were in the hottest triple-digit temps of the summer or the forties in the winter. Moonlight now shone on four-o'clocks that bloomed in darkness and the ghostly white blossoms of the oleanders.\n\nMisty hadn't stood more than five seconds trying to find calm, before Graham barreled out the door after her. She hoped he hadn't broken that one too.\n\nGraham had always been gentle with Misty, pulling back his strength for her. Now he grabbed her by the shoulders, hands biting down hard, and yanked her around to face him. The silver white glow of his eyes was even more pronounced in the moonlight, the anger in them plain.\n\n\"Let go of me,\" Misty snapped. \"And stop trying to kill my friends. You don't own me.\"\n\nGraham didn't release her. \"I scent-marked you. I mate-claimed you. Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"You know, every time I realize I love you, you start to be an asshole. You break my house, you threaten people, you even get hurt yourself. What is _wrong_ with you?\"\n\nGraham's grip on her arm abruptly softened. His Collar had stopped sparking, but Misty saw the dark marks it had left on his neck.\n\n\"What do you mean, every time you realize you love me?\" he demanded.\n\n\"I mean, whenever I acknowledge I care about you, you do something that makes me wonder why I do.\"\n\n\"No.\" Graham let her go. \"You said _love_.\"\n\n\"I know I did.\" Misty rubbed her arms. \"And don't give me any crap about Shifters not loving like humans do, or me not understanding what I feel, or\u2014\"\n\n\"Goddess. Misty.\" Graham's eyes filled with wells of pain that matched his rage. He stared at her for a long moment, moonlight playing on his hard face, the flame tattoos, the dark buzz of his hair. \"I want you with every breath.\"\n\nHis eyes had darkened to their normal gray, which still held a hint of silver. He reached for her again, his hands landing on her shoulders, this time without the hard pressure. Graham caressed her, thumbs moving on her bare skin under her tank top.\n\n\"I need you,\" he said. \"Now more than ever.\"\n\nHis voice was thick, gravelly, with dryness and emotion. He stepped against her, the tall warmth of him covering her, before he leaned down and kissed her.\n\nThe kiss was slow, almost tender, but it held Graham's strength. His lips were shaking, as though he wanted to take everything but stopped himself.\n\nWhen he eased back, his grip tightened on her shoulders. He looked down at her but shook his head, as though he debated something inside himself.\n\n\"Aw, screw it,\" he whispered.\n\nMisty's heart fluttered as Graham turned her around and transferred his grip to her arm. He walked her ahead of him, across her yard and over the little bridge, lifting her in both hands as they got to the other side. He set her on her feet on the grass beyond, where they'd done the spell, and turned her to him, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her, again with tenderness. Then he slid his hands down her shirt and skimmed it up and off over her head.\n\nMisty automatically tried to cover herself, but Graham pulled her arms apart and gazed down on her.\n\n\"Moon kissed,\" he said. \"Touched by the Goddess. Beautiful.\"\n\nGraham gently tugged her nipples between his fingers, kissing her again, his tongue a slow caress in her mouth. Misty moved her hands to Graham's waist, popped open the button of his jeans, and slid her hand inside.\n\nShe found Graham's cock, hard and tight, hot against her hand. She squeezed, and Graham made a noise of pleasure in the kiss. He let go of Misty to unzip the jeans and drop them all the way, letting the denim pool around his ankles.\n\n\"You are the sweetest thing,\" he said.\n\nShe slid her hand along his cock, his tip firm against her palm. Misty loved looking at him like this, a strong man bared for her, his head going back as he enjoyed her touch.\n\nGraham had never made any pretense of not wanting her. He'd looked at Misty the first night as though he wondered what she'd be like in bed. If her friends hadn't pulled her away, Misty might have found out what _he_ was like. Once they'd started seeing each other, Graham had held back, for many reasons, one of which, Misty had come to understand, was not to hurt her.\n\nNow, he was giving her everything.\n\nGraham smiled as he pulled her into his arms, she still holding on to his cock. As he kissed her, he unbuttoned her skirt and let it and her underwear drop to the grass.\n\nHe pulled her closer, his fingers warm on her buttocks. \"Stay away from that damned human.\"\n\n\"I told you,\" Misty said, kissing his shoulder, \"he was talking to me as a friend.\"\n\n\"Friend, my ass,\" Graham rumbled.\n\n\"No, this is your ass.\" Misty pinched it.\n\n\"Little shit. Just for that . . .\"\n\nGraham wrapped one leg around Misty's, gently pulling her feet out from under her. Misty squeaked once and landed on her hands and knees. She had no idea what he meant to do, until he slid his arm around her from behind.\n\nGraham's shirt landed next to her on the grass. He settled in behind her, covering her back with his large, hot body. He positioned himself at her opening, his tip touching her.\n\n\"I'm not sure I can,\" she said, sucking in a breath. \"You're . . . big.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Graham stroked her hair, his body warming hers. \"But you can.\"\n\n\"I'm not a Shifter.\"\n\n\"I know. I love that about you.\" Graham laughed softly, as though to himself, and then he was pushing inside her.\n\nMisty gulped air, all her muscles tightening. No, he couldn't. _She_ couldn't. Another breath, and Graham slid in another inch.\n\nHe stroked her hair, then her back, making soothing noises. \"Take me, Misty. Be mine.\"\n\nMisty took another deep breath, and then she relaxed. Her body opened, and Graham slid straight into her heat.\n\n\"That's it,\" Graham's voice went quiet, the gravel turning to velvet. \"Goddess, you're good. Tight. _Yes._ \"\n\nMisty closed her eyes and groaned as he started to thrust. In this position, she felt only _him_ , and all thought dissolved. Nothing existed but Graham, thick and hard inside her, the night, the grass prickling her hands and knees.\n\nHe went faster, hands on her back, beautiful friction. His legs were strong against hers, his rhythm even, unceasing.\n\nMisty heard cries coming out of her mouth, floating to the sky to echo against the moon. Dimly she realized others would hear, but she couldn't stop. What Graham did was so intense, so _right_ , and her mouth wanted to let the world know her pleasure.\n\nShe grabbed his shirt from the ground and pressed it to her mouth, letting the cloth muffle the sounds. It didn't dampen all the noise Misty was making, and Graham laughed at her.\n\n\"Sweet, sweet woman. We'll go up into the woods and do this all night, and you'll scream as much as you want to.\"\n\n_Yes._ Misty pressed back to him, wanting more. Graham kept up his thrusts, harder and faster. He held her, covering her with his warmth, his rumbling voice soothing.\n\nMisty had no idea what he said, but she loved his voice, clung to the sound. It rolled over her like a warm wave, lifting her into the greatest pleasure.\n\nMore waves caught her, these of her coming apart. She dropped the shirt, bunching it in her fist on the ground as she supported herself against his onslaught. She heard her own voice, low and needy, _Oh, yes, Graham_. _Please. I love it. I love_ you _._\n\n\"You're beautiful, Misty,\" Graham whispered. \"So fucking beautiful. _Damn it.\"_ His words wound into a tight groan, and he hung on, his fingers hard on her soft flesh.\n\nHe kept thrusting as Misty held herself up, gasping, laughing, groaning. Everything was slippery and hot, wild and bright.\n\n\" _Goddess_.\" Graham rocked back, fists light on Misty's back, coming into her one last time.\n\nMisty wriggled back on him, loving the tight fit, the heat, the crazy feeling. Then Graham fell onto her, bracing himself to keep from crushing her. He took her down onto the grass, and gathered her back into him, still joined with her.\n\nGraham kissed her face, her lips, her hair, arms wrapping around her. \"Damn,\" he said, and laughed. \"That was fucking wonderful.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Misty said, snuggling happily back into him. \"Wonderful.\"\n\nA lovely feeling. Misty hugged it to her as she held on to Graham, letting herself bask in the moment. Graham and the moonlight shining on her, on her garden, on the flowers around them. Misty snuggled back into him, bringing his hard hand up to her mouth to kiss it.\n\nShe'd been made for this night, she decided. And Misty was going to enjoy every last second of it.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham gazed down at Misty lying in her bed, exhausted after another round of lovemaking. He'd carried her in here, she already half-asleep. Xavier had decided to be discreet and guard the front, so Misty hadn't been embarrassed to be carried through the house, their clothes piled in a little heap on top of her.\n\nShe'd drifted off after their last time, but Graham didn't sleep.\n\nHe'd gone for days without sleeping before, but this was the longest time he'd lasted without true rest. Shifter wolves could lie in the sun and soak up warmth, relaxing to the point of sleep, but still being alert.\n\nNow Graham was afraid even to doze. He knew with every dream, Oison grew closer, and he couldn't afford to let him win.\n\nHe'd make sure Misty was safe\u2014even if Xavier, the traitor, had to guard her\u2014then he'd get with Reid and Eric and figure out a way to find Oison and take him down. They couldn't wait much longer\u2014Oison might even now be preparing with his Fae friends to round up Shifters and start controlling them. Jace could help Shifters remove Collars, but it was problematic, and Graham liked the direct approach, and he knew Eric did too.\n\nFor now, he'd enjoy his moment with Misty. Graham nestled down into her warmth. He loved her with his entire body, the mate bond snaking around his heart.\n\nHe'd suspected the mate bond had been growing for months now, but he hadn't let himself acknowledge it. He'd known it for certain when he'd helped Andrea cure Misty with the herbal poultice Andrea's Fae father had sent with her. Graham had felt the warmth in his heart, the burn that had touched him at the same moment Misty had clutched her chest as though something burned her too.\n\nGraham reveled in it now, closing his eyes and drawing in Misty's scent.\n\n_Come to me . . ._\n\nGraham jerked awake. At least, he hoped to the Goddess he was awake.\n\nMoonlight filled Misty's room, the moon at the full. Moonlight was magical. Even Shifters, who didn't much like magic, acknowledged that on the full moon, when the Mother Goddess was at her height, mystical things could happen.\n\nFae worshipped the Goddess too, just a weird aspect of her. Instead of the comforting mother figure, they liked the crone-like goddess who wove dark magics.\n\n_Shifter. You are mine . . ._\n\nSon of a bitch. Graham scrambled up from the bed. Everything in him wanted to go find the voice, to do as it commanded. He broke into a sweat as he fought the compulsion.\n\nWas this what would happen to all Shifters? The Fae made a connection with the Shifter somehow\u2014as Oison had with the water spell\u2014then used the further connection between sword and Collar to make the Shifter come to him. To obey him without question.\n\nGraham couldn't. He needed to fight with everything he had. If Graham, one of the strongest Shifters alive, could be gotten at this way, what chance did the rest of them have? He thought about Dougal, and went cold.\n\nWell, if Fae had magic, so did Shifters, of a sort. They had mates. The touch of a true mate could heal, and the mate bond could protect against many things.\n\n\"Misty,\" Graham touched her shoulder.\n\nMisty didn't respond. Her breathing was deep but so soft Graham had to lean over her to catch it.\n\n\"Misty. Sweetheart.\"\n\nShe didn't wake. Graham shook her. Misty's body moved, rubbery, and her skin was cool.\n\nFear lacing him, Graham shook her again, and again. She was alive, but slumbering deeply. Graham patted her cheeks then harder, but she never woke.\n\nOison must have done this\u2014maybe the Fae's connection to Misty through the water spell or the sword cut hadn't been completely severed. Graham stopped shaking her and smoothed her hair, his hand unsteady.\n\n\"He can do whatever he wants to me,\" Graham said in a hard voice, \"but he's not having you.\"\n\nHe leaned down and kissed her, and the mate bond tightened in his heart. Graham kissed Misty's forehead then her lips again, then he rested his fingers on her abdomen. If what they'd done this night and last had born fruit, Graham would at least have that.\n\n_Come to me . . ._\n\nThe voice in his head was louder, more insistent, and Graham's body jerked. The words were in Fae, but Graham understood them.\n\nMoonlight beamed brightly through the window, bathing Misty and Graham in white. \"Goddess go with them,\" Graham whispered. He touched Misty's face then her abdomen again, and left the room.\n\nIn the hall, he called Reid but got his voice mail. Graham growled a message at him and flipped his phone closed. He entered Misty's room again, placed his phone on top of her dresser, then moved to her window and slid through it with Shifter stealth.\n\nThe pain inside him lessened as he left the house, the compulsion spell happy that Graham was moving in the right direction.\n\nGraham took Dougal's bike from the end of the driveway and pushed it into the street. The DX Security man stationed here nodded at him, seeing nothing wrong in Graham leaving when he pleased.\n\nGraham pushed the motorcycle quietly around the corner before he mounted and started it, its throbbing loud in the stillness.\n\n_Come to me!_\n\n\"All right, all right, I'm coming,\" Graham said out loud. \"Shut the fuck up already.\"\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\nMisty woke when early sunshine slid its first rays into her window. Graham was gone, though the bed bore the indentation of his large body, and the covers were a mess.\n\nShe smiled, remembering the warmth of him around her, the wild passion of their lovemaking in the garden and later in bed. As her fog of afterglow receded, though, she realized she couldn't hear his voice rumbling through the house, or sense his presence as she often could. She also saw, sitting on her low dresser, the black outline of Graham's small cell phone.\n\nMisty sat straight up. \"Oh, God, no.\"\n\nShe threw off the covers and scrambled out of the bed, and at the same time heard loud voices down the hall. Voices accompanied by frenzied yips.\n\nMisty quickly pulled on shorts and top, finger-combing her hair as she ran out of the room and to the front door. Xav was blocking it, he red-eyed and dark-chinned from staying up all night.\n\n\"Misty!\" Dougal tried to lunge past Xav, who barricaded the doorway with his body. \"You're all right.\"\n\n\"Yes, why wouldn't I\u2014\"\n\nMisty broke off as two tiny wolf bodies hurled themselves at her, Matt and Kyle climbing up her to nestle in her arms and lick her face, their tails moving furiously.\n\n\"They came and found me,\" Dougal said. \"I was in bed at home\u2014they kept trying to say you were in danger. They wouldn't let me go back to sleep until I followed them. They had me worried.\" He bent to the cubs. \"See? She's fine.\"\n\nKyle lifted his muzzle and howled. Matt nuzzled into Misty's neck, shivering.\n\n\"I'm all right, little guys,\" she said. \"But Graham's gone.\"\n\nDougal's eyes widened, and he glared at Xav, his Collar sparking once. \"Gone where?\"\n\n\"No idea,\" Xav said. \"Never said a word to me. I saw him take the bike.\" He gestured out the door where Dougal's motorcycle had been replaced by the small pickup Dougal must have driven to get here. \"I assumed he'd gone home. He left of his own accord, looking fine to me.\"\n\n\"And you didn't think you should tell me?\" Misty joined Dougal in glaring at him.\n\n\"You were asleep,\" Xav said impatiently. \"Until Dougal came charging over, I didn't figure he'd done anything but gone back to Shiftertown.\"\n\nMisty's heart pounded and her head ached. She knew Graham was in trouble, though she didn't know how she knew it. But the hollow in her heart, where the warmth had been, told her she needed to find Graham and find him now. The cubs had sensed the same thing, had herded Dougal over here to ask Misty what to do.\n\nDougal was watching her, worry behind the hard-faced, bad-boy look he tried to maintain. He was waiting for Misty to take care of him, of the cubs, of the situation. The cubs themselves clung to her. Even Xav waited, though warily, for Misty to decide what she would do.\n\n_McNeil needs you_. _You can save him, but it has to be your choice._\n\nThe words of the odd man, Ben, whom Paul had brought to see her, echoed in her head.\n\n_I can save him how?_\n\nMisty had no idea. She was a florist\u2014she knew flowers and plants and how to sell them. Other than that, her specialty was feeding boys and absentminded fathers, and not being offended when they never acknowledged what she did. She'd known they'd appreciated it, in their own way, but had been too caught up in their own worlds to say so.\n\nMisty wasn't a warrior, or a being of magical power, or even a Shifter. She didn't know anything about Fae\u2014hadn't even heard of them until one had tried to take her and Graham.\n\n\"Oh, yeah,\" Dougal said, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. \"I forgot. Reid told me to give you this.\"\n\nHe handed her the little book of flower spells Misty had let Reid borrow. Misty shifted the cubs' weight to take it, clutching the familiar leather cover between her fingers.\n\nHer heart beating faster, she stepped into her living room, still carrying the cubs. Dougal leaned on the wall in the hall, watching her with Xav.\n\nMisty opened the book. Inside, she found the sticky note on which Ben had written his name and telephone number the day he'd come to the shop. She was sure she'd left that sticky note in her office, but here it was, inside the book on the vellum that separated the picture from the title page.\n\nBeneath Ben's handwriting was another. _Call Ben,_ it said. _Ask him to help you._ It was signed, _Stuart Reid._\n\nMisty stared at the note for a long time. Still looking at it, she went numbly into the kitchen, fished her cell phone out of her purse, and started tapping.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham looked around the shallow cave he and Misty had found when she'd been trying to take him back to the Fae one. He'd left Dougal's motorcycle near the shack at the bottom of the little hill and hiked his way up.\n\nAll the while, Oison kept up the noise in Graham's head. _You are mine, battle beast._ _Come to me._ Graham gave up trying to shut it out and fighting the need to go to him. He hadn't been able to ride the motorcycle anywhere but here without being in excruciating, dizzying pain. He'd explained everything carefully to Reid in the phone message\u2014Graham could only wait and hope Reid did what he was supposed to.\n\nFor now, Graham stood in the dry, shallow cave, the temperature rising outside.\n\n\"I'm here,\" he called out. \"Where the hell are you?\"\n\n_Change._\n\nGraham didn't want to. He wanted to stand upright and tell Oison what he thought, right before he strangled the fucking Fae.\n\n\"I've come to kill you,\" Graham said. \"I'm going to beat down your body then drag it back up, and beat it down again. Sound like fun?\"\n\n_Shift!_\n\nThe command flashed through Graham like the worst of the Collar's shocking pain. Without him willing it, he started peeling off his clothes.\n\nHis body began to shift before he was finished. The last of his shirt and underwear fell in shreds from him as his wolf limbs took form, and Graham landed on all fours, a huge black wolf. He snarled, then lifted his muzzle and howled.\n\nThe mournful wolf's cry echoed through the small chamber. At the same time, the wall at the rear cracked, shards of stone rattling down to the cave floor.\n\nThen the wall disappeared entirely and so did the dry cave. A black, glassy obsidian floor swallowed up the dirt one, the trickle of the fountain pounded into Graham's brain, and flowering vines flowed toward him, their scents strong. Graham backed up, but the vines reached him and twined around his feet, climbing up his legs.\n\nGraham fought them, but the vines grew tighter, flowing back as soon as he pushed any aside. One wrapped around his muzzle, and he bit the vine in half.\n\nThese plants were relentless. In Misty's yard, he'd thought her flowers pretty, but the ones here were terrifying. Trumpet flowers opened like mouths, and the puffball-like flowers grew until they were smothering pillows.\n\nGraham kept fighting. He didn't notice Oison until the Fae was standing in the middle of the cave, near the fountain. Oison wore his chain mail and silver cloak again, with the sword in his hand, his white hair hanging in braids to his waist.\n\nHe spoke in Fae, but Graham understood every word. \"If you think your _dokk alfar_ will help you, think again,\" Oison said. \"You tipped your hand, playing your ironmaster too soon. I fortified myself against him. There he is.\"\n\nOison pointed with the sword. At one end of the cave, which Graham could barely see through all the damn flowers, was a wall of ice. The ice floe was huge, hundreds of feet high and at least fifty feet wide. In the middle of it was a dark smudge, only just discernable.\n\n\" _Dokk alfars_ are beings of earth,\" Oison said. \"They master it. I trapped him with the element _I_ master\u2014water. The _dokk alfar_ is still alive, enjoying every pleasure of being frozen almost to death inside ice.\"\n\nGraham snarled, still fighting the vines. He made himself shift back to his human form, though it hurt like hell. His Collar went off, driving pain into him, but Graham forced himself through, ending up on his human feet.\n\nFighting the flowers and vines was easier with his hands, and he managed to drag them from his face.\n\n\"I'm not fighting your wars for you,\" Graham spat. \"Forget it.\"\n\n\"Not war. Not yet,\" Oison said, sounding far too calm. \"My colleagues are right that it's too soon for war. But they're wrong that it's too soon to bring in the Shifters. You will pull others to me\u2014you have a hundred of what you call Lupines under your command, do you not? I will train you to obey and to submit. You will also breed new Shifters for us. Once you have multiplied, in a few generations, then it will be time for war. Good thing we made Shifters to be long-lived.\"\n\nGraham snarled, pulling another vine from his face. \"Not gonna happen.\"\n\n\"Yes, it will.\"\n\nGraham kept up his defiance, but his body felt as icy as the wall that encased Reid. The vines wove relentlessly around his limbs, pulling him down to the black floor. They doubled in speed, pinning his body to the ground, spinning over him in a mesh that soon blotted out all light.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMisty unloaded Dougal and the cubs from her truck, unlocked her store, and let everyone in. No one had come to work on the place this early, but Misty could see that DX Security and the Shifters had done a great job so far. The broken glass and ceramic had been swept away, the shelves rebuilt. The front doors still needed to be replaced as well as the main counter, but the store was coming along.\n\nXav had accompanied her, not wanting to let Misty out of his sight. He was responsible for her, he said. His job. He'd brought several security guys who stationed themselves around the front and back in the parking lot.\n\nMisty took the cubs into her office and set them on the desk. \"All right, you two. You said you were playing in that basement in Shiftertown, and all the sudden you were here, in the back of a car.\" She leaned closer to them. \"Tell me now, how did you get there . . . _really_?\"\n\nThe wolves looked up at her, innocent-faced, and Dougal growled at them.\n\nOne of the wolves shifted. He had hazel eyes\u2014Matt. He hunkered down, hiding his body, but Misty had the feeling it was out of shamefacedness, not modesty.\n\n\"We hid in the car,\" Matt said, his voice small. \"Kyle said you and Graham would be mad, so we had to hide. The car was unlocked.\"\n\n\"Was it?\" Misty asked, giving them a skeptical look. The guy who'd been driving it had sworn up and down he'd locked it. He worked for a top security firm and was careful about things like that.\n\nMatt glanced at Kyle, who was still a wolf. \"Maybe Dougal taught us how to break into cars,\" Matt said.\n\n\"Hey, you little monsters . . .\" Dougal began.\n\n\"Not important.\" Misty raised her voice. \"I need you two to show me _exactly_ where you came out.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Matt said, and shifted back into a wolf.\n\nHe and Kyle scrambled from the desk, their bodies wriggling as they tried to land softly. Matt yipped when he hit the floor, but was up again, racing to the door to scratch on it.\n\n\"I didn't teach them to break into cars,\" Dougal said as Misty opened the door so the cubs could scamper out. He didn't look Misty in the eye, so he might be lying, he might not. \"How to pick locks, yeah, but different kinds.\" He hesitated. \"Don't tell Graham.\"\n\n\"I don't have to.\" Misty gave him an exasperated look. \"Just . . . don't teach them anything else, all right?\"\n\nDougal sent her a grin that showed he might in time become as hard and fearless as Graham. \"I'm their honorary uncle. I'm supposed to be a little wild.\"\n\nMisty patted his arm. \"You're awesome, Dougal.\"\n\n\"Aw. You're just saying that.\"\n\nThe cubs, let into the main part of the store, immediately ran to the unlocked front door, pushed it open with body weight and determination, and started racing across the parking lot.\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\n\"Hey, no dogs allowed in here.\" Pedro pointed a broad finger at Misty and Xav standing slightly behind her. \"Sorry, those are the rules. Health department.\"\n\nMatt and Kyle started around the counter of the convenience store, growling and snapping at Pedro, unhappy about being called _dogs_. Dougal lunged for them and grabbed one cub under each arm.\n\n\"They sure are cute little guys,\" Pedro said, looking them over. \"What kind are they?\"\n\nThe store was empty except for Pedro at the moment. No one was at the gas pumps this early, and traffic was sparse on the roads.\n\n\"Wolf,\" Dougal said.\n\n\"Wolf hybrids?\" Pedro reached out to pet Kyle.\n\n\"No.\" Dougal said. \"All wolf.\"\n\nPedro jerked his hand back at the same time Dougal's T-shirt moved to show his Collar above the neckband. Pedro lowered his hand and swallowed. \"No Shifters either. Sorry. Owner's policy.\"\n\n\"We'll be out in no time,\" Misty said brightly. \"Promise. You two.\" She pointed a finger at first Matt then Kyle. \"Where? And no goofing around.\"\n\nKyle and Matt wriggled to get down. Dougal set them on their feet then followed close behind the cubs, Misty after him. Pedro stayed put, watching, but not moving to stop them.\n\nMatt and Kyle led them to a door marked \"Private,\" then behind that to the stockroom, and to where the refrigerated goods were stored.\n\nBoth cubs sat down and started whimpering.\n\n\"They're saying the ley line comes out here,\" Dougal said to Misty. \"In the back of a convenience store?\"\n\n\"Probably the convenience store was built over it.\" Misty looked around. A stockroom was a stockroom\u2014shelves of things to replace what was bought, door to a small office, door to a bathroom, large back door for deliveries. \"Does the ley line automatically work, or do you have to do something to activate it? I can't believe it's automatic. I think people would have started noticing employees disappearing from the convenience store stockroom over the years.\"\n\n\"You have to do something,\" a new voice said. Ben was standing in the shadows, the man's short, broad appearance making him look like a creature from fairy stories. Which, in the circumstances, wasn't comforting. \"This is why you need me.\"\n\nXavier had his Taser at the ready, and Dougal growled and stepped protectively in front of Misty. Ben came out of the shadows, regarding Dougal and Xav fearlessly. The cubs echoed Dougal's snarls and rushed at Ben, not holding back.\n\nBen took a step away and raised his hands. \"It's all right, little guys. I'm not going to hurt her.\"\n\nKyle and Matt eased off, though they kept up little growls as they sniffed Ben's running shoes.\n\nXav didn't back down. \"The cubs might believe you, but I don't,\" he said. \"Who the hell are you?\"\n\n\"I'm Ben. Misty called me. She needs my help.\"\n\n\"You smell wrong,\" Dougal's nose wrinkled. \"In fact, you stink.\"\n\n\"Yeah, I get that a lot, but only from Shifters.\" Ben grinned. \"Humans like the way I smell.\"\n\n\"Not exactly,\" Xavier said.\n\n\"You're not human,\" Dougal said, looking at Ben's tight, flat face, scarred from whatever fights he'd had.\n\n\"No kidding,\" Ben said, but let that interesting answer hang. \"Misty, do you want to save Graham or not?\"\n\n\"Of course I want to save him.\" Misty tried to push past Dougal and Xav, but couldn't. Dougal stood fast, his body almost as solidly strong as Graham's. \"You said on the phone he was in Faerie. How do you know that?\"\n\n\"I know when a gate opens. And one did, early this morning. Then you called and said your boyfriend was missing\u2014I put two and two together. The Fae must have compelled him to come. Only you can get him away.\"\n\n\"Me? How? I have no idea what do to.\"\n\nBen gestured to the book she'd brought with her. \"It's in there. Everything you need to know.\"\n\nMisty glanced at it then back at Ben, her eyes narrowing. \"How do you know what's in the book? I didn't have it with me when I talked to you.\"\n\n\"Because I wrote it.\"\n\nMisty looked Ben over again, the feeling of wrongness about him increasing. Xav made a noise of disbelief.\n\n\" _You_ wrote it,\" Misty said, \"back in 1907?\"\n\nBen nodded. \"Yep. I've been around. The Fae have tried to return to the human world before . . . the last time was early in the twentieth century. They used interest in the standing stones, the growing popularity of the occult, Ouija boards, mediums, whatever they could, to try to find a way back in. I wrote these spells for humans, so they could counteract coercive Fae magic if necessary. The book was very popular at the time, though most humans didn't realize how magical it was.\"\n\nMisty ran her hands over the leather cover and opened to the frontispiece and the color plate of an heirloom rose. \"Did you do the pictures?\"\n\n\"Nah, don't have the talent. I hired an artist. He did a good job.\"\n\nMisty closed the book again. \"I'm still stuck on the part where you wrote it in 1907.\"\n\nDougal broke in, his voice fierce. \"Means he has something other than human blood in him. He's not Shifter, though. Are you Fae?\"\n\nBen laughed. \"No way. Ask your _dokk alfar_. I'm not _dokk alfar_ either, but he knows.\"\n\nMisty listened to the exchange in impatience. \"What in this book lets me open the ley line, so I can find Graham?\"\n\n\"It opens a _path_ along the ley line. Page forty-six.\"\n\nMisty flipped to it and read the words printed in a fancy typeface, surrounded by line drawings of flowers. _Violets, forget-me-nots, yellow roses, and a sprinkle of rosemary, scattered in a swirl. Call the blessings of the Goddess, turn thrice clockwise, and chant the letters of your name in reverse._\n\nMisty looked up at Ben. \"Seriously?\"\n\nBen shrugged. \"Turning in circles and saying things backward was popular at the time. The important part is the type of flowers and the pattern, which you lay directly on a ley line. And call to the Goddess, because you will need her protection. Don't do this without her.\" Ben paused, his dark eyes in this dim light like pools of blackness. \"Seriously.\"\n\n\"Misty,\" Xav said. \"Who is this guy, and why are you listening to him?\"\n\nMisty faced Xav, her chest tight. She'd been holding herself clenched so that her worry for Graham wouldn't reduce her to a puddle of ineffectual nothing. \"Someone who might help me get to Graham. I'm willing to do anything, no matter how crazy, to help him. Understand?\"\n\nXavier looked down at her for a long time. He'd been guarding her in the house and store since her adventure in the desert, and he'd been witness to every shift in Misty's relationship with Graham. She saw in Xav's eyes now that he knew she'd chosen Graham and would never have interest in a human ex-cop. A Shifter had gotten under Misty's skin, and she saw that Xav understood.\n\n\"All right. But I'm sticking by you, and keeping an eye on this one.\" Xav gestured with his Taser to Ben.\n\n\"Fair enough.\" Misty turned from him and read the words again. \"Violets and forget-me-nots. You didn't live in this climate, did you?\"\n\n\"Ireland,\" Ben said. \"At the time.\"\n\n\"Rosemary is easy. I have some growing at home, plus there's always the supermarket. These other two . . . Damn it.\"\n\n\"What?\" Dougal asked in alarm. \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"I'd have these flowers in stock, but the gang boys destroyed everything. This means I have to buy from a rival florist, one that would be happy to see me go out of business. I swear, when I get Graham back safely, I'll let him visit Sam Flores, wherever he's been stashed, and kick his sorry behind.\"\n\n\"I'll do it.\" Dougal flashed her his grin again, the one that said he liked any excuse for trouble.\n\n\"No, you won't.\" Misty punched numbers into her phone. \"Hi,\" she said to the pleasant-voiced woman who answered the phone. \"I'd like to place an order. A rush. In fact, I'll pick it up from you. Yes, I know a rush is extra . . .\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAn hour later, Misty and Xav returned from the florist with bunches of purple, blue, and yellow flowers. The owner of the flower store had pretended to be very sympathetic to the vandalism to Misty's shop, saying she wouldn't blame Misty for closing. \"So dangerous, sometimes, to run a small place on your own,\" the woman had said. \"We could always find a job for you in one of our shops, if you want it.\"\n\n\"I'm not closing,\" Misty had answered, irritated. \"I'm waiting for the rest of my repairs then I'm back in business.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" the woman had said, giving her a false smile. \"That's so brave of you.\"\n\nMisty had taken her flowers without further word and departed. Xav helped unload them from her car back at her own shop, where Dougal and Ben had waited with the cubs. Misty thrust the bunches of flowers into Ben's, Dougal's, and Xav's hands and told them to follow her back to the convenience store.\n\n\"I hope no one sees me like this,\" Dougal said. He glanced around, as though worried other Shifters, the grizzly brothers maybe, would pull up, point to Dougal with his arms full of blue blossoms, and laugh.\n\n\"Suck it up,\" Misty said. She gave Dougal a smile to soften her words. \"Hey, Graham's right about that saying\u2014it's useful.\"\n\nShe led the way back into Pedro's store. Pedro only sighed when Misty asked to use the back room for a few more minutes and agreed, as long the owner didn't find out. He didn't ask questions\u2014Pedro had once told Misty he'd seen it all. Maybe Misty charging into his storeroom with two wolf cubs, a Shifter, an armed security guy, and a whatever-he-was carrying armloads of flowers wasn't the oddest thing he'd ever encountered.\n\nMisty followed Ben to the spot he indicated, and started laying the flowers in the patterns specified by the book. It seemed a shame to toss the blossoms to the floor, when they would look beautiful arranged in a big vase\u2014small purple blooms of the violets and the vibrant blue of the forget-me-nots against the large yellow roses.\n\nThe florist had carried rosemary sprigs as well, in bloom. Their spiky leaves and tiny, pale blue flowers would also look good in the arrangement. The pungent scent of rosemary mixed with the heady odor of roses as Misty worked.\n\nShe laid the flowers out in a swirling pattern, leaving enough room in the middle of it for herself and her companions. Then she stripped the rosemary from its stems, as the book told her, and sprinkled the little leaves over the rest of the flowers.\n\n\"Now the circles?\" Misty asked, thumbing to the page in the book.\n\n\"The blessing of the Goddess first,\" Ben said. \"That's the most important thing. The other stuff is . . . pizzazz.\"\n\nMisty held the book closed, her finger on the spell. \"How do I call the Goddess? I've never done that before.\"\n\n\"I know how,\" Dougal said. He handed the cubs to Ben and stepped to Misty in the circle. Matt and Kyle settled down in Ben's big arms, having decided he was a friend.\n\nDougal took Misty's hands. His were more rawboned than Graham's, but just as large and strong. \"Think of deepest moonlight,\" Dougal said. \"Close your eyes, and picture it.\"\n\nAs soon as Misty shut her eyes, she saw moonlight as it had poured into her backyard last night when Graham had lain over her, his weight warming. His eyes had filled with reflected moonlight as he'd thrust into her, his lovemaking rough, but his hands so gentle.\n\nMisty thought she could feel the cool light here in this dim storeroom. A calm stole over her, one sweetly peaceful.\n\n\"The Goddess,\" Dougal said in a soft voice. \"Be with us.\" He twined his fingers more tightly with Misty's. \"I ask your blessings to be upon Misty, as she walks the dangerous path.\"\n\nMore peace. A breeze touched her cheek, one so tender Misty wanted to melt. \"And on Dougal,\" Misty said softly. \"And the cubs, and Ben.\"\n\nA sigh, a breath, perhaps a faint laugh. Misty opened her eyes. The sense of the moonlight evaporated, and she stood again in the dingy storeroom, its fluorescent lights flickering.\n\n\"Well done,\" Ben said. He handed the cubs to Dougal. \"Now the turning and the chanting. Has to happen. Dougal, stay close to her, so that when she goes through, you do too.\"\n\nMisty stopped. \"No, no, Dougal is staying here. With the cubs. I thought you'd be coming with me,\" she said to Ben.\n\nBen shook his head. \"The way to Faerie is sealed for me and my kind. Was ages ago. Dougal can protect you\u2014he's stronger than he knows.\"\n\n\"Not the cubs,\" Misty said firmly. \"You can cub-sit.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Dougal agreed, and tried to shove the wolves back at Ben.\n\nBen took a step back and raised his hands. \"Oh, no, you'll need those little guys. Trust me. They're essential.\"\n\nDougal and Misty looked at each other. \"Graham will take my head off for bringing them,\" Dougal said, worried.\n\nThe two wolves stared up at Misty with perfect confidence. She reached out and petted each of their heads in turn. \"Why do you want me to take them?\" Misty asked Ben.\n\nExcept Ben wasn't there. He was gone, the half-empty shelves in the stockroom silent.\n\n\"Crap,\" Xav said, looking around wildly. \"I don't like that guy.\"\n\nMisty took a cub, Kyle, and cuddled him into the circle of her arm. \"Doesn't matter. We might as well take these two,\" she said, heaving a sigh. \"They'd probably just find a way to follow us.\"\n\nMatt and Kyle wagged tails and squirmed in delight.\n\nDougal moved his head as Matt started licking his chin. \"Why do we have to use this spell? When you went through the basement, and when the cubs did, you didn't have to use flowers and rituals.\"\n\n\"Don't ask me.\" Misty rubbed the top of Kyle's head. \"But if this works, I don't care.\"\n\n\"Crazy Fae shit,\" Dougal said. \"How about we worry about it after we find Graham? Start twirling.\"\n\n\"Clockwise.\" Misty held Kyle more firmly and turned to her right. Once, twice, three times. \"Y-T-S-I-M.\"\n\nShe stopped. The air conditioner clicked on with a rattle. Another light flickered. But they remained in place, flowers scattered around them.\n\n\"Is that all?\" Dougal asked.\n\nMisty checked the book. \"Yes.\" _No._ Names, those were important, the book said\u2014the difference between what a person was called, and her true name.\n\nMisty closed the book and did the turning again. \"A-S-S-I-L-E-Mmm . . . Holy _crap_.\"\n\nShe'd stopped moving but seemed to be still spinning in place. The flowers lifted around her, circling her, petals leading stems. Yellow, blue, violet, yellow, blue, violet. Faster and faster, making her dizzy.\n\nIn the blaze of petals and scent\u2014rose, violet, rosemary, forget-me-not\u2014Misty reached out and latched her hand around Dougal's wrist. Xav shouted. Misty felt Xav's warm fingers on her arm, and then they slipped away, disappearing.\n\nThe whirlwind increased, the vortex sucking them somewhere. Misty couldn't think or see, hear or smell anymore. She could only feel the steel strength of Dougal's arm under her hand, and the warm body of Kyle against her chest.\n\nThe whirling dropped away, the flowers falling at once. Dead, petals and leaves brown.\n\nBut scents and color lingered. Misty was in a cave with a smooth black floor, covered in vines of colorful flowers, their scents so strong they were sickening. The fountain she remembered burbled enticingly in the center of the cave.\n\nOther than that, all was quiet. No one was there, not Oison, not Graham. Xav was gone too, left behind. Misty's hand remained on Dougal's arm. He moved closer to her, Matt whimpering.\n\n\"Where is he?\" Dougal's whisper was loud in the relative silence.\n\nMisty looked around the cave. It was dark, but again lit from above, as though cracks opened to sunlight. If she found the entrance to the cave, would she emerge in the hot Nevada desert? Or someplace strange to her?\n\n\"Matt,\" Dougal said frantically. \"Son of a bitch.\"\n\nMatt had wriggled hard out of Dougal's arms. Kyle kicked free of Misty at the same time and landed on his paws, running as soon as he hit the ground.\n\n\"Kyle, Matt!\" Misty yelled. \"Wait!\"\n\nShe ran after the two cubs, who were loping off into the darker part of the cave. She jumped over ropes of flowers she swore reached up to grab her as she passed. Dougal came behind, his human snarls changing to wolf's.\n\nThe cave went on for a long way. The daylight faded, the only light a strange glow from beneath the fountain's water.\n\nMisty heard Matt and Kyle's yipping ahead. She kicked at a Lady Banks' rose vine trying to wind around her foot, and kept going.\n\nShe found Matt and Kyle pawing at a huge mound of flowers. Ropes of stems wound tightly around themselves, topped with vibrant flowers that shone in the eerie light.\n\nKyle and Matt pawed vigorously, little bodies moving as they tried to shove aside the vines. Whatever was under there, they wanted it.\n\n\"Will you listen to me if I tell you to leave it alone?\" Misty asked them.\n\nNo response. Frantic digging. Yipping that turned into wild howling as soon as they made a hole in the vines.\n\nAll Misty's breath went out of her. She fell to her knees, shoving aside the flowers Matt and Kyle had loosened.\n\nBeneath them was Graham's face. His eyes were closed, his skin pale, the scars and shadow of dark beard stark on his bloodless skin.\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\n\"No!\" Dougal shifted back to human even as he dropped beside Misty, his big hands scrabbling to move the vines. \"Uncle Graham. _No!_ \"\n\nHis last word ended in a long wail, which held the pathos of a wolf's howl. Dougal lifted his head and cried out to the echoing cave, then he put his hands over his face and bowed his body, rocking in grief.\n\nMisty, her heart pounding until it ached, pulled at the vines over Graham. Graham\u2014this strong, amazing man\u2014couldn't be dead. Couldn't. Seeing him unmoving, not breathing, was a knife to her heart.\n\n\"Dougal,\" she said sharply, trying to cut through his wails. \"Help me uncover him.\"\n\nDougal raised his head. His face was red and streaked with tears, and he sniffled, unashamed. He unfolded himself enough to pull at the vines.\n\nThe flowers were tough, and they fought back. Misty had spent years cutting flowers and sticking them into vases or baskets, where they'd last a while, then wither and die. She had the sickening feeling that the plants were taking their vengeance for all those flowers Misty had used.\n\n\"Harvesting flowers helps the whole plant,\" Misty said firmly to them. \"Reinvigorates it, makes more buds.\"\n\nThe vines didn't care. They reached for her, wrapping around her hands and arms, trying to drag her away from Graham.\n\nDougal, with amazing strength, ripped them away. He growled as he changed into a wolf, a black beast, like Graham, with silver eyes.\n\nDougal's wolf tore the vines, dragging them out of the way. He revealed Graham's torso, his neck with its Collar, his naked chest, his arms bound by the vines, which followed the lines of his tatts.\n\nMisty put her hand over Graham's heart. Through the pounding of her own pulse, she felt nothing. Barely able to breathe, Misty leaned down and rested her ear against his cold chest.\n\nThere. A flutter. A small but strong beat, a long pause, and another beat. Graham's chest rose the slightest bit before falling again.\n\nMisty sat up. \"He's alive. Dougal, he's alive!\"\n\nDougal kept tearing away the vines. He didn't acknowledge her announcement but kept pulling, with teeth and claws, growling when a vine proved too tough to move.\n\nThe vines holding Graham's arms and legs refused to budge. Dougal and Misty pulled the rest of the flowers away from Graham's chest, but thick, tough stems wrapped his limbs and held him in place.\n\n\"Graham.\" Misty touched his face, patted his cheek. \"Graham, wake up.\"\n\nGraham didn't move. Dougal put one big paw on Graham's chest and shook him, his mournful howls returning.\n\nThrough it all, Matt and Kyle remained to one side, as though realizing they couldn't move the vines with their small paws. They sat together now, pressed tightly together, watching as Misty and Dougal tried to wake Graham.\n\n\"Now would be a _great_ time for Reid to pop in and save the day,\" Misty said.\n\nShe waited, just in case. Nothing happened, no Reid, no response from Graham.\n\nDougal shifted back to his human form, snarling a little as his limbs jerked. \"Reid left us to rot,\" he said. \"Fucking Fae. They all stick together.\"\n\nRock clicked together somewhere, as though a spatter of gravel had fallen. Both Misty and Dougal froze, but the sound wasn't repeated.\n\nMisty pulled away several determined vines that had crept back over Graham. \"We have to wake him up.\"\n\n\"Don't you think we've been trying?\" Dougal growled. \"Uncle Graham! Wake the hell up, already!\" He shook Graham, hard. Tears trickled from Dougal's eyes again, his fear stark. \"He can't die,\" he sobbed. \"I'll be alone.\"\n\n\"No, you won't,\" Misty said quickly. \"You have these little guys. And me. And other Shifters.\"\n\nDougal shook his head. \"If Graham leaves me alone, the other wolves will kill me. They know I can't lead them.\"\n\nMisty put her arm around Dougal, then rested her forehead on his bare arm, pulling him into a hug. She'd been around Shifters enough by now to know how a touch and embrace could calm them. Misty stroked Dougal's long back until Dougal quieted a little.\n\n\"Graham won't let that happen,\" she said. \"Because we're going to wake him up.\"\n\n\"How?\" Dougal went back to his hunkering. \"We don't know what's wrong with him. He's Fae-spelled. He's dying.\"\n\n\"Be quiet a minute.\"\n\nMisty fished around in the fallen vines for her leather-bound book. She opened it, leafing through the pages. A few flowers raised their heads next to her, as though reading with her, which gave her the creeps.\n\nThe book had no table of contents and no index. Misty had to turn every page to find out if there was anything in the book that might help at all.\n\n\"Here we go.\" Misty paused on a page about halfway through the volume. \"For enchanted sleep. Did he mean to release from? Or to create?\"\n\nDougal didn't answer, sinking into his own fears again.\n\n\"Let's see. Roses\u2014no surprise\u2014all these spells seem to have roses. Irises, a little trickier. Plus honeysuckle. _Blend petals together, mix in water, and sprinkle over the victim._ Hmm. I don't like the sound of 'victim.' _Call down the power of the Father God, and keep the victim warm._ What does that mean? Calling the power of the Father God. Praying?\"\n\nDougal raised his head again, his voice hoarse with his crying. \"The Father God is represented by the sun,\" he said. \"Probably means Uncle Graham has to be in sunlight.\"\n\nThe cave was very dark, the patches of sunlight far behind them. \"Well, we'll work on that,\" Misty said. \"Plus the water.\"\n\nThe fountain burbled, sounding louder, as though enticing Misty to use it. But the fountain's water was how they'd gotten into this mess in the first place.\n\nOne thing at a time. \"Flowers, I can do,\" Misty said. \"I see roses, honeysuckle, and even irises. Over there.\" She pointed to a line of purple and white flowers sticking up from spearlike leaves not far from them.\n\n\"You're going to tear up the flowers in here?\" Dougal asked. \"Are you crazy? They'll try to strangle you.\"\n\n\"They'll have to deal with it. I'm trying this spell.\" How Misty would find safe water and sunlight, she didn't know, but as she'd told herself, one thing at a time.\n\n\"Hey\u2014wait!\" Dougal was on his feet, yelling. \"Come back here, you little shits!\"\n\nMisty scrambled up as well, her fear intensifying. Matt and Kyle were running away, twisting and turning through the vines until they were swallowed in darkness.\n\n\"Matt! Kyle! No!\" Misty screamed.\n\nDougal took a step forward, then back again, torn by indecision. \"I can't leave you alone,\" he moaned.\n\n\"Yes, you can. Go find them. I'll stay with Graham. There's enough light. You'll make it back.\" Misty rubbed Dougal's shoulder as he hesitated. \"You can do this, Dougal. You know you can. You're his second, remember?\"\n\nDougal took a long breath, drawing himself up at Misty's words. He nodded at her, mouth set in a grim line, then he loped off in the cubs' wake.\n\nMisty sank down again, still clutching the book, as though it were a lifeline.\n\nGraham lay so still it broke her heart. Misty touched his face, trailing her fingertips along the rough of his beard. \"I love you,\" she said quietly. She smiled as she touched his lips. \"I love how you can't talk at anything less than a yell. I love how strong you are, and how gorgeous you always look. I love that you growl and snarl but let people laugh at you, especially when you know they're weaker than you are. I love how you agreed to take care of Matt and Kyle, and I love how you take care of Dougal without letting him know it. And I love how you touch me.\"\n\nGraham didn't move. He lay still, no flush of life in his skin.\n\nMisty drew her hands down to his chest. \"When you touch me, I feel alive. I spent my life taking care of other people\u2014I love that now you take care of _me_. You make sure I'm all right before you leave me. I used to think you didn't care when you'd send me home alone, but I know now that if it hadn't been safe for me to go, you wouldn't have let me. You'd have come with me or sent someone to make sure I was all right.\"\n\nMisty ran her fingers over Graham's Collar, which was bone cold. \"You snarl at me because I always want to talk, and then you let me do it. And you listen, even when you pretend not to.\" She leaned down and kissed his cool lips. \"That's why I love you, Graham McNeil,\" she said. \"Because you're a good man, even though you pretend not to be. You take me for who I am, and don't want me to be anything else.\" Another kiss. \"And you make me feel so wonderful, I could lie in your arms forever. And I will.\" Misty kissed him again, gently, savoring the satin feel of his lips. \"As soon as I wake you up, get you free, and take you home.\"\n\nMisty heard scampering claws and Dougal's irritated tones, and the wolf cubs ran back to her. Dougal carried a backpack that he dropped at Misty's feet. Inside were sports bottles of water, along with bags of chips and a few candy bars.\n\nMisty grabbed for a water bottle. \"Where did you get this stuff?\"\n\n\"The cubs. When I found them, they were dragging this between them.\"\n\nThe two wolves were wagging tails, clumsily digging into the bag to pull out various packets of chips. Misty eyed them severely. The cubs seemed to be able to walk the ley lines without spells, and she knew where they'd found the stuff.\n\n\"Did you two go back to the convenience store and take this out of the stockroom?\" she asked. \"That's stealing.\"\n\nKyle started yipping then changed to his human form to answer her. \"We didn't take it _out_ of the stockroom. We came on the ley line back here. So, it's sorta still _in_ the store, right?\"\n\n\"Not if you eat it,\" Misty said to Matt, who'd clawed open a bag of chips. But she needed what they'd brought too much to put much heart in her scolding.\n\nMisty opened one of the waters and took a drink. It tasted clean with just a hint of plastic, as commercially bottled water normally did. She remembered the unbelievable clarity of the Fae water she'd drunk, and took another pull of the warm bottled water. She'd take the plastic taste anytime.\n\nMatt had his head and half his body inside the big bag of chips, crunching happily, tail wagging. Misty handed the water bottle to Dougal. \"Hold this. It's time for these flowers to give back.\"\n\nShe got to her feet. She'd feel better if she had a good set of shears and some gloves, but she'd have to do what she could with her bare hands.\n\nMisty had never before cut flowers that fought back, and she hoped to heaven she never had to again. She grabbed at the yellow Lady Banks' rose that had tried to trip her before\u2014its vines twined around her arms, thorns out. Blood dripped from her fingers, but Misty relentlessly seized blossoms and stripped three of their petals. The petals fell, inert, to the floor, though the vines still tried to grip her.\n\nDougal helped her fight her way free. Once Misty stopped trying to harvest the petals, the rose vines snaked away, lying still.\n\n\"They're only plants,\" she said in a loud voice. \"Able to move on their own, but without a true mind to guide them. Instinct only.\"\n\nDougal pointed to the petals. \"What do I do with these?\"\n\nMisty started sweeping them into a pile. \"Find something for me to put them in.\"\n\nDougal looked around and came up with a shallow stone that was slightly concave. Misty piled the petals on it, then made her way across the vines to the irises.\n\nThe irises didn't fight her as much as the roses had, though the leaves mindlessly tried to drive themselves into her skin. Kyle, who'd followed her, yapped at the plant while Misty pulled off the blossoms, separating the mouthlike petals. The honeysuckles tried to entwine her when she plucked off the flowers, but these vines at least lacked thorns. They were strong, though. Dougal had to help rip her free.\n\nMisty piled the petals on the stone, mixed them together, and poured water from the sports bottle over them. The runny, petal-y mush was pungent.\n\n\"How do I call the power of the Father God?\" Misty asked. \"The cracks for the sun are a long way from here.\"\n\n\"Um.\" Dougal sank down on his knees, gently pushing Matt aside to go through the backpack. Matt sat on his haunches, still crunching, his whiskers full of salt and chip dust. Kyle whined at him.\n\n\"Here.\" Dougal grinned in triumph and folded down a zipped pocket of the backpack. \"Mirror.\" He ripped a small square mirror free of the stitching that held it in place.\n\n\"Will that be big enough? How far can light reflect?\"\n\n\"Hang on.\" Dougal got to his feet and jogged away, his step exuberant. He came back wearing his jeans again, his wallet in his hands. \"There's a little piece of mirror in here,\" he said. \"Came with the wallet. Maybe we can set up a relay.\"\n\n\"You work on that\u2014the cubs can help you. I'll do the sprinkling and try to get Graham free of these vines.\"\n\nDougal saluted her, a mirror in each hand. \"You heard her, kids. Help Uncle Dougal. Matt, stop _eating._ \"\n\nMatt shook himself free of another bag of chips and trotted off after Dougal and Kyle. Misty mixed the petals in the water with her hands, then lifted the mess and dribbled it over Graham's body.\n\nWater pattered down to bead on his skin. Roses and the wet stamens of honeysuckle, the purple and white streaked petals of iris dropped on him, sticking to his chest and arms, curling around his tatts. Misty knew Graham was truly out then, because he'd have snarled at _flowers_ covering his tatts.\n\nSomething bright flashed into Misty's eyes. Dougal's voice carried across the cave. \"Hold it still, move it to the right. The _right_. No, the other right. Goddess.\"\n\nThe light moved around wildly, winking in the darkness. A wavering beam slid onto Graham's body, faint but clear.\n\n\"There!\" Misty shouted at him. \"It's touching him.\"\n\n\"Now call the blessing,\" Dougal yelled back.\n\n\"What do I say?\"\n\n\"Keep it simple. _The blessings of the Father God be upon you._ \"\n\n\"The blessings of the Father God be upon you, Graham,\" Misty repeated quickly.\n\nHer words drifted into silence. The beam wavered again, spearing the wall and falling onto a strand of vine. The vine shrank away from the reflection, receding into the wall. Weird, Misty thought dimly, because plants usually tried to push their way _toward_ sunlight.\n\nSomewhere in the darkness, she heard little voices say, \"Hold it still.\" \" _You're_ moving it.\" \"I am not!\"\n\nMisty started scooping more water and blossoms onto Graham, every drop, every petal. \"Damn it, Graham. _Wake up!_ \"\n\nThe vines around Graham jerked. Misty sucked in a breath. The vine flowers watching her trembled, light flashed over them wildly as the twins struggled with each other over the mirrors.\n\nThe ground shook a little, the earth giving a groan before it went silent again. Graham's eyes popped open.\n\nMisty stilled, hands balling into fists, droplets of water snaking down her wrists.\n\nGraham's gray eyes were blank, unseeing, but his chest heaved upward as he took a deep breath.\n\nSunlight from the mirrors hit him straight in the face. Graham's fists balled, and he jerked his arms open, snapping a few vines that held him.\n\nHe sat up, dirty, wet, and coated with flower petals. His eyes cleared, and he looked down at his body, then up at Misty.\n\n\"Misty!\" Graham roared in a voice that brought more pebbles down from the ceiling. \"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?\"\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\nGraham was weak. Dying\u2014he knew it. The only thing that had kept him from going insane while the vines smothered him was the thought that Misty was safe.\n\nNow Misty sat next to him, looking pleased with herself. She had dirt and yellow pollen smeared all over her, her hair a scraggly mess, and a big smile on her face.\n\nGraham never seen her so beautiful.\n\n\"What the hell are you doing?\" Graham demanded. \"This is my fight. Get out of here.\"\n\n\"A fight you're losing. Why did you sneak off like that?\"\n\n\"I didn't sneak off. I was summoned.\"\n\nMisty lost her smile. \"Leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone is sneaking off.\"\n\n\"Stubborn little . . . I told Reid. And he told you, the asshole. He was supposed to keep you home and not let you come after me. He's dead meat.\"\n\n\"Reid didn't tell me anything. He left me a note . . . It's a long story.\"\n\n\"Misty did a spell,\" Matt said, running up to them. \"She spun around and around, and then we were here.\" Matt demonstrated.\n\n_\"And you brought the cubs?\"_\n\n\"Yes,\" Misty said. \"Stop yelling. You'll cause a cave-in.\"\n\nA few more pebbles rained from the ceiling. Another faint groan sounded, as though rock shifted.\n\n\"I want you out of here,\" Graham said.\n\nMisty didn't wilt under his glare. No, she knelt there looking all pretty and sexy. \"We came to get _you_ out. I have a lot to tell you, but we can talk later.\"\n\n\"Later? That will be a first. Usually you want to talk without delay.\"\n\n\"Very funny, Graham. Can you break away?\"\n\n\"I've been trying. Then I got covered with the damn vines and passed out.\"\n\n\"Enchanted sleep,\" Misty said. \"You were in an enchanted sleep. I got you out of it, you know, like in _Sleeping Beauty._ \"\n\nMatt laughed. \"Uncle Graham is Sleeping Beauty.\"\n\nGraham grabbed at the vines that held him, but he'd lost so much strength he could barely budge them. Uncle Graham was more screwed than anything else.\n\n\"I can't leave,\" Graham said, even as he tugged at the vines.\n\n\"What are you talking about? Why not?\" Misty grabbed the vines and pulled too.\n\nDougal materialized out of the darkness, holding a mirror in one hand, a wolf cub in the other. Graham thought he'd scented his nephew over there. He wanted to start roaring again, but he stopped himself. Yelling would only upset Dougal, and Dougal needed to keep calm and not go to pieces.\n\n\"I can't go, because Reid is trapped.\" Graham tore away another vine that had rewrapped his wrist. The fact that he was too weak to do much about it worried the hell out of him.\n\n\"He's trapped too?\" Misty looked dismayed. \"Where?\"\n\n\"In the ice.\"\n\nMisty stood up, which gave Graham a nice view of her legs in her shorts. Her skin was scratched and abraded, but even that couldn't mar her. Some of the scratches were from last night with her, when Graham had made hot pounding love to her in her garden. The thought of doing that again someday was one thing that kept him from crumbling and dying as Oison wanted him to.\n\n\"Where?\" Misty started walking away, toward the sheet of ice.\n\n\"Misty.\" Graham sat up, jerking at the vines. They still wouldn't let him go. Dougal tried to help, but to no avail.\n\n\"He's in _there_?\" Misty stopped, horrified. \"Is he dead?\"\n\n\"Hell if I know.\"\n\nDougal kept trying to free Graham, starting to moan when he couldn't. Graham had to switch his attention to bolstering Dougal's confidence. When he looked back at Misty, she was leafing through a book.\n\nMust be her little book about flowers. The one that had gotten him drunk on tequila, making him take another step in his relationship with Misty.\n\n\"There's nothing in here about melting ice,\" she said in frustration. \"Or breaking ice. Nothing about ice at all.\"\n\n\"Anything about water?\" Graham asked. \"Oison said his element was water. Reid's is earth.\"\n\nMisty turned pages, rustling in the stillness. \"I don't know. Damn it.\"\n\nDougal called out to her. \"Anything about making plants stop messing with us?\"\n\nMore rustling. \"Let me look. Why are they doing this anyway? I mean, they're _flowers_. Plants aren't magical or sentient. Their 'magic' is converting sunlight, water, and soil into food and oxygen. Photosynthesis. These plants shouldn't be alive at all. No sunlight, and these are all sun-loving flowers.\"\n\n\"But this is Faerie,\" Graham said. \"So magical shit works. All the stories about magical creatures originated here. The stories are watered down in the human world, but the original incidents weren't.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Misty looked back at Graham, her face losing some color. \"So all the scary stories about frost queens and witches putting children in ovens are true?\"\n\n\"Yep.\"\n\n\"That's disturbing.\" Misty went back to her book, as though determined to find something to protect her from every fairy tale ever written.\n\n\"Why the hell are Kyle and Matt here?\" Graham demanded. Kyle was trying to help pull away the vines, while Matt was busy licking the ground around a crumpled bag of what used to be chips.\n\n\"Ben said they had to come.\" Dougal shrugged. \"I don't know why.\"\n\n\"Ben?\" Graham roared. \"Goddess, get me loose. I need to strangle some people.\"\n\n\"Here we go!\" Misty actually jumped in delight, her feet leaving the ground. \" _To train plants._ I thought it meant pruning. It kind of does.\" She started moving excitedly to the nearest clump of plants. \"Matt, Kyle, Dougal, I need petals from every single type of plant here. All of them. Don't miss one.\"\n\nHer legs moved as she ran about the cave, grabbing flowers and yanking petals free. She moved so fast the vines that reached for her didn't have time to latch on before she was at another plant. Matt and Kyle, turning human so they could hold the petals, ran every which way, making a game of it.\n\n\"I got the red one!\" \"No, I saw it first.\" \"You can have the purple one. I got yellow!\"\n\nDougal stayed put, pulling futilely at the vines that refused to let Graham loose.\n\n\"Help them,\" Graham said, keeping his voice firm but gentle. \"If Misty's right, then she'll get me free. Go on. She needs you.\"\n\nDougal shook his head, still tugging. As a cub, when he'd been lost in his own fear and misery, Dougal would fix on a task and not be able to stop. Graham, the best he could, put his hand on Dougal's arm.\n\n\"I need you to take care of her for me,\" he said. \"If something happens to Misty . . . I might as well die here.\"\n\nDougal looked up at him, meeting Graham's gaze for a fleeting moment. \"You really are going to mate with her?\"\n\n\"I am. Definitely.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Dougal gave Graham a nod, seeming to take heart from Graham's statement. He finally let go of the vines and leveraged himself to his feet, then with a final look at Graham, walked away to find Misty.\n\n\"Now help me put them in a pile,\" Misty said to the cubs. \"Good. You've found so many, both of you. Let's see. One missing. Hyacinth.\" She looked around. \"I'll get it.\"\n\nGraham felt his compulsion spell kick in as Misty went toward the purple plants, a spring in her step. He knew, deep in his burning blood, that Oison was coming.\n\nHe rose as far as he could in the tangling vines. Dizziness smacked him, along with his Collar's shocks. \"Misty!\"\n\nThe earth groaned again. Dirt rained from above, more than before. Maybe this cave was about to give, burying them all.\n\nAs Misty reached for the lavender flowers rising from leggy stalks, Oison appeared right next to her. He raised his sword and brought it down sharply toward her neck.\n\nGraham bellowed and fought the vines. Matt launched himself at Oison, shifting to wolf cub as he went. As the sword came down, he latched himself on to Oison's arm, foiling his aim. Kyle, also wolf now, slammed into Misty, making her sidestep. She lost hold of the hyacinths and fell, and Oison's sword swished over her, missing.\n\nOison, silent with rage, plucked Matt from his arm and threw him across the cave. Matt landed heavily on his back, cried out in a pathetic whimper, and went still. Kyle, yipping, ran to him.\n\nOison raised his sword again, but this time, Misty scrambled out of the way. Dougal was there, reaching for Oison. His hands went out as Oison swung, catching the blade. Dougal screamed as the Fae-spelled sword cut his skin. His Collar went off, snapping and sparking, Dougal continuing to scream.\n\nMisty lunged for the purple plants again, grabbing a handful. She raced to her pile of petals in the middle of the cave, threw the hyacinths down, and lifted her book.\n\nOison shoved Dougal from him. Dougal fell, moving in pain, his Collar continuing to spark. Oison headed for Misty, who was walking around and around her clump of flowers.\n\n_\"By east and west, by north and south,\"_ Misty read in a loud voice. _\"By wind and water, fire and earth. By the Goddess and moonlight, by the God and sunlight\u2014I command you to do my will.\"_\n\nOison was almost upon her, but Misty kept walking. She lifted the book. \"I command you to do my will!\"\n\nThe petals swirled with her passing, rising a little, then moved faster. Faster still. A vortex of them rushed around her, encasing Misty in its tornado.\n\nThe vortex of petals reached all the way to the ceiling. Then they exploded, bursting over the entire cave, raining down like colorful snowflakes. They carpeted the ground, spilling over the vines, the black obsidian, Oison, the fallen Dougal, Matt, and Kyle.\n\nAs soon as the petals started to fall, Misty sprinted back to Graham. \"Let him go!\" she yelled at the vines.\n\nThey shivered, leaves and flowers shaking. Then they withdrew, unwinding from Graham and releasing him.\n\nMisty stared, her mouth open. \"It worked!\" She shouted in delight. \"I can't believe it\u2014it actually worked! I'm going to give Ben a big fat kiss when I see him again.\"\n\n\"The hell you will.\" Graham tried to pull himself up, but he fell again, weak and exhausted.\n\nBut Oison was coming. The Fae kicked aside vines and raised his sword again, swinging it hard at Misty.\n\nGraham caught Oison's wrist, and the blade swung and met Graham's thick upper arm. Snarling, Graham let it cut him to the bone as he twisted Oison away from Misty, Graham's Collar sparking hard. He tried to change to his between-beast as he fought, his strongest form, but Graham found he couldn't shift at all. The sword, and his shocking Collar, combined to take the last of his strength.\n\nOison ripped himself from Graham's bloody grasp, and Graham fell to his knees.\n\nMisty screamed at the plants, and pointed at Oison. \"Take _him_ , take _him_!\"\n\nThe plants moved sinuously toward Oison, the vines that had held Graham prisoner now seeking the Fae. But too slowly. Oison spun out of their way, his black eyes filled with rage, and brought his sword down on them. The vines he severed shuddered, then turned brown and crumpled away.\n\nOison went for the source of his frustration\u2014Misty. Across the cave, Dougal tried to rise, tried to help. Graham forced himself to his feet, dizzy and dying. But he'd stop the bastard from hurting Misty. No matter what.\n\nThe cave shook again, the earth emitting another groan. Rock and sand poured from the ceiling, hitting the flowers and obsidian, the Shifters and Misty, Oison. Dust rose to coat the air. Graham heard Oison cursing, which told Graham the tremors weren't of Oison's making.\n\nThe sheet of ice that held Reid cracked with the sound of a gunshot. Graham turned to it as the ice fell away in huge chunks, not so much exploding as pushing outward and shattering on the cave floor.\n\nAs the ice splintered into needlelike shards and more rock from the wall fell, Reid walked out from the rubble. His clothes were shredded, he had blood all over him, and he was mad as hell.\n\nReid shouted something in a language that was guttural and harsh, unintelligible to Graham. Oison, on the other hand, whipped around, his sword raised. Oison had stark fear in his eyes, which Graham would enjoy if he didn't feel so crappy.\n\nReid went for Oison. He bounded across the cave on his runner's legs, hands outstretched, those odd-sounding words pouring from him. Oison met him, swinging his sword. Reid shouted again, and the rocks that had blown out with the ice rose up at his command.\n\nThe plants were still going for Oison as well. They tangled his legs as Reid's rocks came down on top of the Fae.\n\nOison swung his sword at Reid, and rocks clanked against the blade. Oison whirled his sword again, and disappeared. Reid snarled something and disappeared with him.\n\nThe rocks were still spinning in midair. They stopped abruptly as soon as Reid vanished, raining down onto the cave, clacking against the obsidian.\n\n\"Time to go,\" Graham said. \"Misty, help me with Dougal.\"\n\nDougal was still rolling in pain, his moans turning to wolf howls. He'd shifted again to human by the time Graham and Misty reached him.\n\n\"Come on.\" Graham thrust his arm under Dougal, lifting his nephew to his feet.\n\nDougal jerked away. \"No, I have to help Matt.\"\n\n\"We'll both help him. But we need to move.\"\n\nGraham had struggled to learn the exact combination of compassion and command to bump Dougal out of his despair. Dougal finally nodded and let Graham help him around the writhing vines.\n\nThe plants had drawn back from the two cubs, encircling them but not touching them. Misty leaned down and picked up Matt's limp body.\n\n\"He's alive,\" she said in relief. \"But he's hurt.\"\n\n\"I should have made them stay at Misty's,\" Dougal said. He hung on to Graham, his face wet with blood and tears. \"Damn it.\"\n\nMisty cuddled Matt close and lifted Kyle, who was a whimpering ball of fur. \"I don't think these little guys would have listened.\"\n\n\"We'll never get out.\" Dougal rubbed his hand over his face, crazed with fear. \"He'll trap us here.\"\n\nBefore Graham could answer, Misty said, \"Yes, we will. We're family. We can do anything.\"\n\nDougal blinked at her. \"What are you talking about? We're not pack.\"\n\n\"Doesn't matter. Graham brought you up, and he's Matt's and Kyle's honorary father. And I'm his girlfriend. Close enough.\"\n\n\"And you're going to accept his mate-claim,\" Dougal said with conviction.\n\n\"Can we talk about this _outside_ this cave?\" Misty tucked the two cubs firmly against her, gentleness itself. \"Time to run, I think.\"\n\nGraham chuckled as he helped Dougal, half supporting himself on his nephew at the same time. \"Hear that? Misty, for once, doesn't want to talk.\"\n\n\"Suck it up, Graham,\" she said.\n\nGraham's laughter echoed against the cave walls, which were still too damn eerie for his taste. He made himself follow Misty's cute butt through the darkness to the ley line, wherever it came out, and decided he'd follow that gorgeous ass anywhere.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThey came out in the basement of the unfinished Shifter house. The ley line, Misty surmised, must decide its own direction, or else they didn't know how to navigate it. She hoped Reid, chasing Oison, was all right.\n\nMisty emerged into the basement, blinking at full afternoon sunlight. They must have been in the cave for hours. Kyle shivered in her arms, Matt too limp.\n\nGraham and Dougal supported each other behind her, both of them growling in irritation. The sound gave Misty heart. When Graham and Dougal were arguing, they were fine.\n\nBut they weren't. Dougal had been cut by Oison's sword, Graham still under his spell. Matt was hurt, possibly dying.\n\nShe climbed awkwardly up the ladder first, supported by Graham. She had to hold Matt, and had Kyle clinging to her shoulder, so the going was slow.\n\nWhen she reached the top, she knew there was something very wrong in Shiftertown. Shifters were everywhere, and humans milled among them, wearing black fatigues and carrying automatic weapons.\n\nBut these weren't DX Security men. She didn't recognize any of them, and behind them, in the heat, she heard sirens and saw flashing red and blue lights.\n\n\"Damn,\" Graham said softly, and he disappeared back down into the dark basement. Misty started to follow, but too late. One of the humans had seen her, and they were running her way.\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\n\"What the fuck?\" Graham said in the darkness behind Misty.\n\nMisty stood straight at the top of the ladder, holding on to the cubs, trying to pretend she hadn't been down in a hole under a Shifter house, a hole that wasn't supposed to be there.\n\nThe human soldiers reached her, along with Diego and Eric. \"Misty,\" Eric said in a loud voice. \"There you are. See?\" he said to the soldier in the lead. \"Here she is. You all right, Misty? Where've you been?\"\n\n\"Umm.\" Misty looked around, trying to assess the situation before she answered. \"I was looking after the cubs?\" She let the statement end with a questioning note. Eric nodded once, subtly, and Misty put on a smile. \"You know how they like to run off.\"\n\nDiego was looking hard at her, his eyes, so much like Xav's, holding warning. What kind of warning, Misty had no idea.\n\n\"Yeah, they do like to play,\" Eric said. \"And get into so much trouble. You know how kids are.\" Eric gave the lead soldier his laid-back smile. \"Thanks for bringing them home, Misty.\"\n\n\"Not a problem.\"\n\nEric had glanced into the basement, his eyes flickering when he saw Graham. He moved his body a little, barely changing his stance, but Misty knew enough about Shifters now to realize he must be saying something to Graham without opening his mouth. Shifters were masters of nonverbal communication. Misty wished she could read the signals, because she was swimming in the dark here.\n\nOne of the armed men turned to Eric. \"What's down there?\"\n\nEric shrugged. \"Don't know. I'm not into construction. Where the plumbing and electricity will go, maybe?\" He gave the perfect impression of a man who might be strong but kind of slow.\n\n\"Sir?\" The man turned to Diego with a lot more deference.\n\nDiego also shrugged. \"Same answer. I really don't know. You'd have to ask the construction team.\"\n\n\"We need to lock it down,\" The soldier who seemed to be in charge said. \"Corporal, take a team and check it out.\"\n\nOne of the younger men signaled to another, shouldered his weapon, and started down the metal ladder to the basement.\n\nMisty glanced down in alarm, but saw no sign of Graham or Dougal. They'd vanished.\n\n\"Are these the ones who've been missing?\" the commander asked Diego, gesturing at Misty. Diego gave him a grim nod.\n\n\"Missing?\" Misty asked as Eric reached for Kyle. Kyle clung to his arm, a wolf cub, looking fearfully back at Misty and Matt. \"We're not missing.\" Misty tried her smile again. \"We're right here.\"\n\nThe commander answered. \"Your mother in L.A. called in a missing-persons report on Melissa Granger five days ago. Said she couldn't get into contact with you, and your neighbors said you left with a Shifter at that time and haven't been home since. Business owners around your store say Shifters have been at your shop, but no one has seen you.\" He looked her over, from her tank top and shorts, torn and covered with dirt, to her scratched and gouged legs and arms. \"So you need to tell me, ma'am, exactly where you've been and what happened to you.\"\n\nMisty listened, her lips parting. \"Five days . . . ?\"\n\nMore humans came hurrying to join the commander, these looking more like paramedics. One caught Misty by the arm and tried to lead her toward an open ambulance. \"We need to check you out,\" the paramedic said. \"Make sure you're all right. Commander, interrogate her once we've taken her vitals and given her some water, all right?\"\n\n\"Five days?\" Misty couldn't help repeating.\n\n\"You went through an ordeal,\" the paramedic suggested. \"But you're fine now. We'll take care of you and get you away from these Shifters. It will be all right.\"\n\n\"Wait.\" Misty held Matt closer. \"This one's hurt more than me. He needs help.\"\n\nEric reached for Matt and took him out of Misty's arms. Kyle wriggled in Eric's arms, trying to lick his brother's face. \"Poor little guy.\"\n\n\"You need to come with us, ma'am,\" the paramedic said, in his stern but friendly voice.\n\n\"I'm not hurt that much,\" Misty tried. \"I\u2014\"\n\nShe broke off as a familiar man with broad shoulders but not much height reached to Eric for Matt. \"I'll take the cub.\" Ben gave a wide smile to the commander. \"I'm a vet,\" he said. \"I specialize in Shifters.\"\n\nBen really did have a reassuring smile, in spite of his prison tatts and once-broken nose. Plus, he didn't wear a Collar, and obviously wasn't Shifter.\n\n\"I'll have to clear this,\" the commander said, not changing expression.\n\n\"Sure you do,\" Ben said. \"My name's Ben Williams. Look me up. I'm ex-con but served all my time. Now I take care of animals.\"\n\nIf Ben truly was a veterinarian, this was the first Misty had heard of it. Eric, however, seemed perfectly sanguine to hand Matt to him.\n\nBen leaned near Misty as he carefully took Matt, his movement putting him between Misty and the impatient paramedic. \"Misty, you need to blow the basement.\"\n\nMisty blinked at him. \"Sorry?\"\n\n\"Cave it in.\" Ben kept his voice quiet, his face set only in compassion for the cubs. \"Bury the ley line; close the portal. Humans will be screwed if they find it, and Shifters will be screwed if these guys find the basement.\"\n\nMisty understood the why. What she didn't know was . . . \"How?\"\n\n\"Roots,\" Ben said. \"You did the mastering spell. I can see it in you.\"\n\n\"But . . .\" Dougal and Graham might still be down there.\n\n\"Do it,\" Ben said. He straightened up, a cub on each arm. \"I'll take care of these cuties.\"\n\nHe walked away.\n\nMisty stared after him, the man looking no less human than the soldiers around her. But then, Ben had written the book, more than a hundred years ago, he'd told Misty how to use it, and to trust herself. He'd been right every time.\n\nWas Graham still down there, hiding with Dougal? Why was he? Only one way to find out.\n\nMisty gasped and slapped at her pockets. \"My cell phone. I dropped it.\" She stared wildly at the hole behind her, then before the commander could reach for her, she swung around onto the ladder and descended to the basement.\n\nShe saw no sign of Graham or Dougal anywhere. They could be hiding, or they could have gone back through the ley line to the cave.\n\nMisty darted under the darkness, but it was too intense after the first few feet out of the sunshine for her to see anything. \"Graham,\" she whispered.\n\nNo answer. He was gone, Dougal with him.\n\n\"Corporal, find her,\" the commander snapped.\n\n_Roots._ Misty looked up. The Shifters who'd dug out this cellar had carefully left the earth around the house whole above it. The basement ran a long way underground, well past the house for which it was intended. The planted trees as well as the native brush were intact above it.\n\nDesert shrubs might look fragile and could even appear dried out and dead, but in truth they were tough and hardy. They had to burrow deep into the earth in search of groundwater and rain runoff in order to survive, and their root systems were extensive and strong. The plants could live for years in dormancy, looking dead from above. Then, after a good rain, the plant would become green and vibrant, beautiful and blooming. It would drop its seeds, which would lie in wait in the shade of the parent plant, until that life-giving water found them.\n\nThe part of the desert plant below ground was giant and complex, never seen, but networking through the ground in a powerful mesh.\n\nMisty studied the tendrils sticking out of the ceiling above her and the wall around her. She thought of how she'd controlled the vines in the Fae cave, but she had no idea if the book's spell would work here.\n\nBut then, this basement was on a ley line, and in Faerie, magic was real. She agreed with Ben that she needed to collapse it\u2014this place was dangerous for humans and Shifters alike, and humans didn't need to ask questions about why the hole was here in the first place.\n\nMisty took a breath, and took a risk. \"Pull it down,\" she said to the roots.\n\n\"Ma'am.\" The corporal behind her was polite but firm. \"You need to come with me.\"\n\n\"Now,\" Misty whispered.\n\nNothing happened. Misty clenched her jaw and turned around. She knew if she tried to evade the soldiers any longer, they might question her too closely\u2014where she'd been, how she'd been injured, who she'd been with, what was down here . . . She'd been gone _five days_? She needed to get with Ben and interrogate _him_.\n\n\"Oh, well,\" Misty said, giving the corporal a helpless little smile. \"I guess I can always get a new phone.\"\n\nA root moved. Rustled. Another trembled. As Misty stopped to look up, the entire mass of roots began to vibrate, and clods of earth came down.\n\nMisty backed up swiftly. The corporal grabbed her by the shoulders at the same time and pushed her to the ladder. As Misty climbed ahead of him, her legs shaking, the entire ceiling of the basement caved in, pulling with it a line of trees, bushes, and the foundations of the house that was being built over it.\n\nThe ladder shuddered and started to collapse. Eric reached down from the top and grabbed Misty, hauling her up just as the ladder broke into several pieces. The corporal tried to hang on and pull himself up, but falling dirt and rock carried him back down, his hands struggling for purchase.\n\nEric pushed Misty at Diego, flowed into his snow leopard form, clothes falling away, and went for the hole. He climbed with feline grace down into the avalanche, grabbed the corporal by the back of the shirt, and hauled him up again. Eric's claws scrabbled on the shifting dirt, his muscles straining, as the hole continued to fall in around him.\n\nFinally, Eric leapt like the cat he was, landing on firm ground, and dragged the corporal well away from the hole before he released him.\n\nBehind them, the basement disappeared, a rush of broken foundation, dirt, rock, and trees filling it in.\n\n_Graham._ Misty looked at the wreckage of the basement she'd stood in a few moments ago, wondering if she'd just buried alive the man she loved.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"Five days,\" Misty said to Diego as he walked her across the common yards after the paramedics had checked her. Xav had arrived while the paramedics were assuring themselves she was unhurt, his handsome face showing his relief.\n\n\"Reid told me that time moves differently inside Faerie,\" Diego said as they walked. \"I guess we have to believe him. You've been gone five days, your mother called your brother, who is also worried sick. Since none of us knew where you were, we couldn't help.\"\n\nXav shook his head. \"I couldn't exactly explain that you disappeared from a convenience store stockroom in a whirl of flowers. And I couldn't follow. Why couldn't I? I was standing right next to you.\"\n\nMisty shook her head. \"I don't know.\" She broke off, feeling the press of Xavier's shoulder holster against her. \"Wait, maybe because you were carrying a gun. Iron. Maybe it didn't let that through. Reid could come in with a tire iron, because he's an ironmaster.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, Reid is missing too,\" Xav said. \"Peigi is about to go postal. My guys practically camped out at the convenience store, but we couldn't follow you, and I couldn't find that Ben guy. Trust me, I looked. And then he turns up here today, out of the blue.\"\n\nDiego regarded Misty sharply. \"What happened to Dougal and Graham?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Misty's breath hitched. She wanted to break down and sob, sink to the ground and bury her face in her hands. \"He was behind me in the basement. And then I\u2014\"\n\n\"Shh.\" Xav went to her and put a comforting arm around her. \"Knowing Graham, he found another way out. I've learned that Shifter spaces are more complicated than just holes in the ground.\"\n\nMisty wiped her eyes. \"But I don't know. What do I do?\"\n\n\"It's tough being in love with a Shifter,\" Diego said, his dark eyes quiet. \"Trust me. They're wild and crazy, and wild and crazy things happen to them. But it's worth it. We'll find him. Shifters are hard to kill.\"\n\n\"But not impossible.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Diego gave her a sympathetic nod. \"Stick as close as you can to the truth. I'll be there, and so will Xav. We can fill in the blanks.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Diego. Is my brother all right?\"\n\n\"Fine. Paul's at your store, helping put it back together. Keeps saying if he doesn't, you'll come back and yell at him. It kept him from worrying. Xav has already called him and told him you're all right.\"\n\n\"Now he'll yell at _me_.\" Misty smiled. \"I'm looking forward to it.\" She took a breath as they neared the knot of soldiers waiting to question her. \"When they're done with me, I'm grilling Ben. He's got Matt and Kyle, and probably some answers, which he's going to give me, whether he likes it or not.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGraham found himself stumbling into bright light and high heat. He'd pulled Dougal with him as he'd tried to find the ley line again. Dougal was collapsing against him, his Collar shocking at random.\n\nHe'd hauled Dougal all the way to the back of the cellar. They'd been there when Misty had come and called to him. Graham had opened his mouth to answer, and found himself breathing dirt. The ceiling had started coming down, the dirt wall behind him seeming to open to suck him in.\n\nIt had spit him out through a crack in rocks, and now bright desert sunshine poured over them. He'd expected to land back in the obsidian cave\u2014a place he never wanted to see again\u2014but he was on a ridge in the desert, overlooking the abandoned mine and the shack, with Dougal's bike still parked beside it.\n\n\"At least we have transportation,\" Graham said.\n\nOr tried to say. His throat was so dry, his thirst so great, his words stuck and wouldn't come out. He was weak, and Dougal was only half-conscious, his hand still bleeding from the Fae sword. It wouldn't be blood loss that killed him, but the Fae spells in the sword.\n\nThe thirst and their state told Graham that Oison was still alive. The Fae's spell would have died with him.\n\n_I hope Reid gets the bastard._ Graham decided against speaking the words out loud, saving strength and whatever moisture was left in his body.\n\nThey'd die out here though. If he couldn't get Dougal someplace safe, both of them would go.\n\nNot Shiftertown, not right now. Graham wouldn't worry about holding his own against the Shifter Bureau's soldiers, but Dougal didn't need to be interrogated by them right now, not when he was hurt. Dougal would go to pieces. No, they needed to lie low, heal, and then decide what to do.\n\n_Misty, I love you._\n\nGraham wasn't afraid to admit it anymore. He needed Misty in his life, as his mate, as his love.\n\nHe'd make her see that she needed to accept his mate-claim, and they'd live happily ever after. As happy as she could be shacked up with a Shifter, and sharing a house with Graham's nephew with confidence problems and two cubs who liked to tear the place down.\n\nHe dragged Dougal into the shade of the shed before he made for the motorcycle, hoping there was still gas in it.\n\nRock clicked behind him, and Oison appeared. This time he was in his guise of the hiker, in T-shirt, shorts, and hiking boots. He looked ordinary and evil at the same time.\n\nGraham stood up. \"I'm not being your battle beast,\" he said. \"Not bringing other Shifters to you, not training to be in your army.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Oison said. He drew out his sword from the long pack humans would assume was for hiking poles or camping gear. \"I gambled on making you a slave, because you're a strong leader and could pull other Shifters to me. But it looks like you're going to be a bad slave.\"\n\n\"Damn right,\" Graham said.\n\n\"I can barely control you. Therefore, I came to a decision.\" Oison hefted his sword. \"I will kill you, and take your nephew instead.\"\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\nThe commander questioned Misty for a long time before he finally let her go. Diego and Xav had stood by her, the only ones allowed to stay with her, because they were human.\n\nMisty, Diego, and Xav had come up with the story that the cubs had tried to run away\u2014somewhat true\u2014and Misty had gone after them, worried they'd get hurt. They'd led her out into the desert, where they'd all gotten lost. They'd found a cave to stay out of the sun, and there Matt had gotten hurt.\n\nWhy hadn't she called anyone? the commander asked. Her cell phone hadn't worked out there, Misty said. How did they survive? She'd brought plenty of water with her and snacks, knowing that Kyle and Matt, as wolves, liked to run off as far as they could. They'd been used to living half-wild up in Elko, and didn't understand they couldn't do that here. They were just little kids, weren't they? So everyone should cut them a break. How did she get back? Walked to the road and hitchhiked in. She'd been bringing the cubs, Matt hurt, back to Shiftertown when the soldiers had spotted her.\n\nXav and Diego confirmed everything she said.\n\nXav walked away with her to look for Ben while Diego stayed with the commander. The soldiers, who'd been sent by the Shifter Bureau, weren't leaving, it seemed. Someone had called in an anonymous tip this morning, Xav told her, that not all Shifters' Collars were working. Eric was being questioned about that now, surrounded by the soldiers. Xav had no idea who'd called in the tip, but Misty had a bad feeling about it.\n\nOison had vanished from the cave before Graham, Misty, Dougal, and the cubs had fled. Had Oison stirred up trouble with the human government as part of his efforts to control Shifters? Graham in particular? Oison had disappeared not long before they'd run out of the cave, but if time moved differently in Faerie, as Diego had told her, maybe Oison had emerged hours before they did.\n\nXav queried other Shifters as they went about Ben and the cubs\u2014Lindsay said she'd seen a weird guy with both cubs headed for Graham's. She'd wanted to follow and make sure all was well, but the soldiers had pulled her aside to speak to her. Lindsay looked worried, not her usual laughing self. She put her hand on Xav's arm as she answered, and what was in her eyes told Misty that maybe she'd reconsidered pushing Xav away.\n\nMisty thanked her and hurried away, pretending not to notice Xav lingering to stay with Lindsay.\n\nAs she approached Graham's house, Misty heard yelling. A woman on Graham's front walk was loudly telling three soldiers what they could do with themselves as they surrounded her and tried to cuff her.\n\nMisty recognized Jan, the Lupine woman who'd attacked Misty after she'd spent the night with Graham. Jan's blustering was to cover her fear, Misty realized. Misty remembered that Jan's Collar hadn't gone off when she'd gone for Misty\u2014perhaps she was one of the Shifters whose Collars didn't work right. If the humans discovered Jan wore a Collar that didn't stop her from violence, what would they do? Fit her with a new one? Cage her? Or worse?\n\nMisty sped her steps to take her into the path of the soldiers and Jan. Jan saw Misty, and fury entered her eyes along with the fear.\n\n\"Come to gloat?\" Jan demanded.\n\n\"Where are you taking her?\" Misty asked the soldiers, ignoring Jan.\n\n\"To have her Collar tested,\" he said. \"All Shifters are. Orders.\"\n\n\"Huh.\" Misty put her hands on her hips and gave Jan a disgusted look. \"You don't have to test _that_ one. It's real, all right.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that, ma'am?\" the soldier asked, trying not to look irritated.\n\n\"Because I got into a fight with her the other day,\" Misty said. \"She's jealous as hell. Her Collar started crackling before she even got in a punch at me. I smacked her a good one, and she ran off. Believe me, the Collar worked. The sparks got me\u2014they _stung_.\"\n\nJan kept struggling. \"Bitch,\" she yelled at Misty.\n\n\"See?\" Misty said, wrinkling her nose. \"She doesn't like me much. Thinks I stole her Shifter.\"\n\nThe soldier looked Misty up and down, his gaze lingering on the skin bared by her sleeveless top and shorts. \"Why would you go out with one of them?\" he asked. \"Ma'am.\"\n\n\"For the sex.\" Misty smiled at him. \"Try it sometime.\"\n\nOne of the other soldiers laughed. \"She's not wrong.\"\n\nThe soldier holding Jan released her and stepped back. \"How about we go after some of the more docile ones?\" he asked his colleagues. \"This is going to take forever as it is.\"\n\nAs soon as Jan found herself free, she took off, running in her long-legged stride. The first man gave Misty another once-over. \"You get tired of Shifters, come and find me. I'm at the Shifter Bureau attached to the air base.\"\n\nMisty only smiled at him and walked away. She heard the other soldiers' voices as they tramped on. \"You don't have a shot with her,\" one said, laughing, \"especially once she's been with a Shifter. Tell you what, I'll take you to this bar called Coolers. There are some hot Shifter women there.\"\n\nMisty drew a ragged breath, feeling sick to her stomach, then hurried out of the heat up to the cool shade of Graham's front porch.\n\nJan stepped out of the shadows of the porch's corner. \"Why did you do that?\"\n\nMisty stifled a shriek and pressed her hand to her chest. \"Crap, don't _do_ that. How'd you get here before I did?\"\n\n\"I'm Shifter. I ran. Now, why did you help me?\"\n\n\"So they wouldn't test your Collar.\" Misty leaned to her and lowered her voice. \"It doesn't work right, does it?\"\n\nJan's nostrils flared. \"I'd think you'd want me to be caught. To be locked up, or executed.\"\n\n\"Why would I? I didn't like you wanting to beat me up, but sheesh. Killing you? That's just wrong.\"\n\nJan stared at Misty a moment longer then she inhaled. She let the breath out and looked thoughtful. \"You aren't lying.\"\n\n\"No. I'm not.\" Misty chewed on her lower lip. \"Are there other Shifters whose Collars don't work?\"\n\nJan nodded. \"Some. Eric has them safe. I waited too long to go to ground, and they caught me.\" She paused, her gray eyes moving as emotions went through her. \"Thank you.\"\n\nMisty gave her a nod. \"You're welcome.\"\n\nJan dropped her gaze. \"Yeah, well. I better go.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you'd better. Stay safe.\"\n\nJan glanced around at the empty street then drew a breath. \"The blessing of the Goddess go with you.\" She said it quickly, in one go, then she turned, jumped from the porch, and loped away.\n\n\"Wow,\" Misty said softly. \"That was . . . Hmm.\" She pushed open the door and entered Graham's house.\n\nShe paused inside the front door, an ache in her heart. The house felt so empty without Graham in it. He filled every space of it\u2014the house knew Graham's laughter, his bellowing voice, his swearing, the way he thundered up and down the stairs and banged around in the kitchen. In that kitchen, he'd made love to Misty, rendering her complete for the first time in her life.\n\nMisty walked into the kitchen and stopped. Ben sat at the kitchen table, a bottle of beer in front of him, Kyle and Matt sitting on either side. Both cubs were in human form, dressed in sweats and T-shirts, and shoveling down ice cream. They were even using spoons.\n\nBen looked up at her and grinned. Kyle said, with his mouth full, \"Hi, Aunt Misty.\" Matt continued to eat, as though he'd never get enough.\n\n\"What . . . ?\" Misty came into the room, moving faster with every step until she leaned down and buried the startled Matt in a big hug. \"You're all right.\" Tears wet her cheeks.\n\n\"He was knocked around and bruised up,\" Ben said. \"No permanent damage. I took them to Andrea. She did her mojo.\"\n\nMisty released Matt, who grinned at her, and collapsed onto an empty kitchen chair. \"Andrea's still here?\"\n\n\"Her, Sean, and their cub. But safely hidden away. Andrea was glad to help heal the cubs, though she said Matt wasn't too badly hurt.\"\n\n\"Thank God,\" Misty said, heartfelt. \"And the Goddess too, I guess. Do you know Andrea?\"\n\n\"You should ask\u2014did she know me? Answer, no. Not until I introduced myself. But I know who she is. I keep tabs on Shifters.\"\n\n\"Do you really?\" Misty looked him over. Ben, as before, had an innocuous look, despite his ex-con appearance. If he really was an ex-con. \"You've been to prison, have you?\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah. I just didn't say whose prison it was.\"\n\n\"And that means . . . what?\"\n\nBen looked thoughtful. \"The Fae put me in prison for a while. They talked about horrible ways to execute me, then they decided banishment would be even better.\"\n\n\"Really? If Oison is typical, I can't believe they thought letting you go was satisfying.\"\n\n\"Well.\" Ben folded his hands around the bottle of beer on the table. \"They didn't just banish _me_ from Faerie. They banished my entire race. Walked us out into the harsh human wilderness, locked the gates and made sure they never opened for us again. Half of us died the first year. How do you think I feel, knowing that?\" Something dark flashed in his eyes, endless pain that Misty guessed never went away.\n\n\"What did you do? To get put in prison, I mean?\"\n\nBen shrugged, masking the anguished look. \"I killed one of their emperors. I killed him because he was running a war that was slaughtering my people, whole clans at a time. I snuck into the emperor's tent, pretending I was a pathetic sex addict who wanted the joy of an emperor doing me. The emperor's ego loved that. He got all his guards to leave us alone, and then . . .\" Ben sliced his finger across his throat. \"I knew I'd never get away, and I was captured, but I didn't care. Worth it. When an emperor dies, the High Fae clans fight each other to the last man to see who controls the next one, but in a rare case of Fae agreement, all the clans decided to banish me and my people.\"\n\nAnd _half_ had died in the first year. Misty's heart squeezed. \"Ben, I'm so sorry.\"\n\nBen shrugged, the flash of pain there and gone again. \"Even so, more of us survived because that emperor was dead, and the Fae couldn't use us anymore. We never thrived again, but we're still around. We've been helping humans and Shifters survive encounters with the Fae for nine hundred years now.\"\n\n\"And what _are_ you?\" Misty asked. \"If you're not Fae.\"\n\n\"Human mythology calls us goblins, hobgoblins, or gnomes. We were pretty ugly in Faerie.\" He grinned. \"Or beautiful, depending on your point of view. We learned how to look like humans since we came out of Faerie, changing our appearance every so often so we blend in with whatever fashion of whatever century.\"\n\n\"Gnomes,\" Misty mused. \"Like the little plastic men with pointy hats people put in their front yards?\"\n\nBen laughed uproariously. Then his laughter died in an instant, and he said, \"No.\"\n\n\"I was joking. I've barely gotten used to Shifters\u2014it will take me a while to process this.\"\n\n\"Take your time. I'll be around.\"\n\nMisty folded her arms on the table. \"So, why don't you look like a successful businessman or a rich man of leisure? If you can look like what you want?\"\n\n\"I can _almost_ resemble any kind of human I want. But I look like what I truly am\u2014a man who did a crime and paid for it. I'm never going to pretend it didn't happen. I sacrificed a lot of people with my stunt, and it wasn't their choice.\"\n\nMisty went silent a moment. The twins were listening, in spite of continuing to scoop globs of ice cream into their mouths.\n\n\"What do I do now?\" she asked after a time. \"How do I find Graham? Is he even alive?\"\n\nBen drained the beer bottle and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. \"You still have your book?\"\n\nMisty touched it in her back pocket. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"Look in that.\" Ben stood up, carried the empty beer bottle to the recycle bin and tossed it in. \"And take those two with you when you go. You'll need them.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Misty got to her feet. \"Safer to leave them here with Eric or Xav, isn't it? Or whoever isn't being hassled by the Shifter Bureau.\"\n\nBen shook his head. \"You'll need the cubs. They're very special Shifters. Take care of them.\" He started for the back door.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" Misty asked in panic. \"Stay and help me.\"\n\n\"Can't. You'll be fine. You have your guards there.\" He nodded at the twins, who were watching him, round-eyed. \"There are other people out in the world being hassled by Fae. I need to save them too. You have my number if you need me again.\"\n\nHe pointed both forefingers at Misty, walked out the back door, slammed it, and headed down the porch steps. There was a flash of sunshine, and he was gone.\n\n\"Great.\" Misty felt despair settle over her. \"On my own again.\"\n\n\"We're with you, Aunt Misty,\" Matt said. \"You saved me. Now we'll save you.\"\n\nThey were adorable, both of them. Misty fetched a spoon and the last carton of ice cream in the freezer and sat down at the table with them. As the three of them reached with spoons for the chocolate marshmallow ripple, Misty opened the book. \"All right, I'll look through it. _Again._ \"\n\nNot until most of the carton was gone did Misty stop on a page. She pressed her hand to it, her heart beating faster. The spell read, _How to Find Your Lost Love._\n\n__\n\n## CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\nGraham danced aside as Oison struck, but the sword blade caught along Graham's ribs and broke the skin. Oison ran for Dougal, who had slumped to the ground, but Graham dove over his nephew, protecting him. Like hell he'd let Oison take him.\n\nOison raised the sword again and drove it down into the place Graham had been shot. Graham shouted in pain, but he wouldn't move\u2014Oison wasn't touching Dougal again with that blade.\n\nBut Graham wouldn't let himself die, not yet. He needed to live so he could tell Misty how much he loved her. _You woke me,_ he wanted to say. _I'd been existing before. Surviving. With you, I learned about life again._\n\nAnd about laughter. Misty was always smiling or laughing about something, finding the lightness in any subject. And talking. Goddess, the woman could talk. Her sweet voice had poured over him every time he'd been with her, soothing all the hurts in his soul. How could he have ever thought of _not_ taking her as mate?\n\nOison raised the sword again. Graham roared as it came down, then he heaved himself up to meet it.\n\nHe noted with satisfaction Oison's look of surprise. Graham was strong, stronger than any Shifter he knew, and Oison was going to find out just how strong.\n\nThe sword was in him, but Graham wrapped his hands around Oison's throat. The Fae's slim neck was sturdy, but Fae were of the same basic composition as Shifters or humans. They needed air to breathe, blood to flow through their bodies.\n\nGraham pressed his fingers into Oison's throat, cutting off the airflow. If he crushed the trachea, no more Oison. He hoped he could do it before his own breath ran out.\n\nHe thought he heard Misty's voice calling his name. _Graham!_\n\nGraham could barely see. He thought he heard the throb of a Harley, which wound him into memories. He and Dougal riding side by side, wind in their faces, charging down an empty Nevada highway as fast as they could go. Riding hard.\n\nOther voices joined Misty's. Eric. Diego and Xav. The wild yips of Kyle and Matt. Two small bodies whacked into Oison, and Graham lost his hold. Damn it.\n\nGraham cracked open his eyes. Matt and Kyle were growling and snarling, climbing all over Oison. Graham seemed to see, superimposed on the cubs, two gigantic wolves, their muzzles huge, eyes red with fury. They were too thick of body and broad of chest to be regular Shifter wolves\u2014these were something he'd never seen before.\n\nGraham blinked, and they were the cubs again, tearing at Oison, who batted at them as though they were annoying gnats.\n\n\"Misty, no!\" Xavier's voice, and Misty charging past Xav, not listening. Typical. When Misty got the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her.\n\nElectricity crackled, and there was Misty, a Taser in her hand. \"Matt, Kyle, out of the way.\" The cubs turned to stare, yelped, and leapt to the ground. \"Get away from my mate, asshole,\" Misty said clearly, and she shot a bolt of electricity into Oison.\n\nGraham had to laugh to see the Fae jolt with the shot. Oison let go of the sword, but not before an arc had laced down the blade into Graham. Graham grunted and fell back, Dougal still beneath him.\n\nMisty was crying, on her knees next to Graham. Graham had enough energy left to open his eyes, to lift his arm to reach for her.\n\nOison recovered\u2014Fae were almost as tough to kill as Shifters. His black eyes like mouths to hell, Oison yanked the sword out of Graham, and swung it at Misty.\n\nThe cubs went crazy again, leaping at him. Xavier slid out his Sig, and aimed it at Oison, but he couldn't shoot because he might hit the cubs.\n\nAir popped, and Reid appeared, out of breath, filthy, his eyes as merciless as Oison's. He shoved Oison away from Misty, and the sword blade went wide. Oison, furious, turned to face Reid.\n\nThe two Fae fought, Reid grappling with him for the sword, rage on his face. Xavier kept trying to aim, but he had no clear shot. Reid landed a hit across Oison's face, drawing blood, but Oison backed up, his grip on his sword true again, and rammed the blade at Reid.\n\nGraham heaved himself up. Blood ran from his wounds, and his Collar was shocking him, but the wolf in him gave him strength. He felt himself Shifting before he realized it, into his in-between beast, a monster that was half wolf, half human. Misty, instead of running away in terror, came to Graham and steadied him on his feet.\n\nGraham roared. He grabbed Oison's arm as his sword came down to Reid and ripped the blade away. As Oison spun to face him, Graham took the blade in both hands and broke it over his huge knee.\n\nThere was a flash, a sound like a broken bell, and the pieces of the sword fell, tarnished and jagged, to the ground.\n\nOison opened his mouth and cried something in Fae, but he only got a few words out before Graham grabbed him by the neck again.\n\nAs Graham had done in his dream, he ripped his claws into Oison's throat, no chain mail now to stop him. Hot blood poured out over Graham's hands. Oison locked his fingers around Graham's wrists, gasping for breath. The Fae gulped air and started chanting again, another spell, Graham knew.\n\nGraham felt himself weakening, shifting back to human, whatever magic it was taking hold, but he refused to let go.\n\n\"Graham!\" Misty, his mate, screamed. \"Get out of the way!\"\n\nGraham saw her, and his eyes widened. He spun Oison around so his back would be to Misty, then Graham hit the ground as Misty, who'd grabbed Xavier's gun, unloaded every bullet in it into the Fae.\n\nOison faltered, but he kicked away from Graham and ran for the opening to the cave. Bullets were lead, not iron, so while they'd slow him down, he could escape to Faerie and live.\n\nGraham wouldn't let him. He was on Oison in two strides, changing to wolf, bringing the Fae down flat on his back. He closed his mouth over Oison's throat, biting down. Graham tasted blood, and saw the life leave Oison's eyes.\n\nOison's head lolled, blood coming from his mouth, then all at once, he looked straight up at Graham.\n\n\"It's only the beginning,\" he said clearly, then he died. His body crumpled, dissolving into dust.\n\nGraham shifted slowly, painfully back to human. Misty dropped to her knees next to him, the gun falling from her hands.\n\n\"Graham . . .\"\n\n\"It's all right, Misty,\" Graham said, barely able to form the words. \"I got the son of a bitch.\"\n\nHe collapsed into her arms, spent, but there was no place he'd rather be. The hot summer wind swept down from the ridge and carried the dust of Oison's dead body into the vast open plain of the desert.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"Dougal first,\" Graham said.\n\nThe DX Security van they lay in rocked and swayed over the rutted roads back to Shiftertown.\n\n\"Graham, you have three sword holes in you,\" Misty snapped. \"And a reopened gunshot wound.\" She clung to his hand, her heart slamming in her chest, not liking that Graham's grip was so weak.\n\n\"And Dougal got stabbed, plus he's got Collar fatigue.\" Graham's voice might not be up to his usual volume, but he'd held on to his strength of will.\n\n\"I'm better,\" Dougal said. He sat up beside Graham, leaning against the van wall. \"What hurt was the magic. Now that Oison's gone, so is the spell.\"\n\n\"No kidding.\" Graham had his other hand around a bottle of water. He'd insisted on drinking, so happy to be able to again, though Andrea had joked it would all come out the holes if he didn't quit.\n\n\"He's not good.\" Andrea said now. The slim woman put her hand on Graham's bloody stomach. \"Too much blood loss, too long under a spell, dehydration, exhaustion. All that on top of his wounds. I'm going to need a lot of help.\"\n\n\"I'm here,\" Sean said. He put his hand on his mate's shoulder, his other on the hilt of his sword, which rested tip-first on the van's floor.\n\n\"What can I do?\" Misty asked, not liking the sword so near. She knew what the swords of the Guardians did\u2014were used to release a Shifter's soul when the Shifter didn't make it. \"There has to be something.\"\n\nGraham tried to squeeze her fingers. \"You've done everything, love. You found me. Twice. You rescued me. Twice. You tased Oison, then you shot him.\" He chuckled. \"That was fun to watch.\"\n\n\"Shut up, Graham.\" Misty kissed his scraped and blackened cheek. \"Save your strength.\"\n\n\"You're going to need it to heal,\" Andrea told him. \"Misty, the touch of a mate helps. Put your hand next to mine, and think about how much you love him.\"\n\n\"She's not my mate,\" Graham rumbled.\n\nThe others in the van turned heads to look at Misty, and Xav glanced back over the front seat at them. Misty found herself pinned under Feline and Lupine stares, including those of the cubs.\n\n\"She never accepted the claim,\" Graham said. \"Sucks, but there it is.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\" Misty put her hand on Graham's chest, feeling his heart beating hard and erratically beneath her fingers. \"We argued about this, remember? You said I _didn't_ refuse.\"\n\n\"But you didn't accept, either.\"\n\n\"Well, shit, Graham, I don't know everything there is to know about Shifter rituals. I'm going out with a man who doesn't tell __ me _anything_.\"\n\n\"Hey, don't blame this on me, sweetheart\u2014\"\n\nDougal broke in. \"Misty, you say, 'Under the Father God and Mother Goddess, and in front of witnesses, I accept the mate-claim.'\"\n\n\"See?\" Misty glared at Graham. \"Would that have been so hard?\" She took a deep breath and spoke quickly. \"Under the Father God and Mother Goddess, and in front of witnesses, I accept the mate-claim.\"\n\n\"Oh, yeah.\" Graham grasped her hand again and squeezed it. \"I feel better already.\"\n\nThe mood in the van lightened. Andrea's face softened into a smile, and Dougal whooped. Even Reid, in the front with Xav, gave Misty a quiet nod. Sean grinned, and Xav gave them all a thumbs-up as he kept driving.\n\nDougal launched himself at Misty and enfolded her in a hard hug. \"Thank you, Misty.\"\n\nThe twins rammed into her other side, hugging her tight. Sean and Andrea had brought their clothes, which they'd put on more or less right, except Kyle had his shirt on inside out. \"Aunt Misty!\" They shouted. The cubs let go of her and jumped up and down together, then ran at her and hugged her again.\n\nAll the while Graham lay there, his eyes softening. \"Thank you, Misty.\"\n\nMisty leaned down, being careful not to hurt him, and kissed his cracked lips. \"Anytime, love.\"\n\nGraham tried to kiss her back, the glint in his eye telling her when he felt better, she'd need to watch out. Misty didn't care. She loved Graham, she loved sex with him, and she yearned for him with every part of her.\n\nGraham smiled the best he could as she rose from him, then he looked past her. \"And you two,\" he said to the twins, with a hint of his old firmness. \"Goddess help me. I don't know whether to lock you in your room for two months or take you out for pizza.\"\n\nThe twins sprang away from Misty and high-fived each other. \"Pizza!\" they yelled.\n\n\"Earplugs,\" Graham said, wincing. \"I'm buying a bucket load.\"\n\nLaughter began, and then healing magic, as the van rocked and swayed through the dusty desert night.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAndrea's skill, bandages, Misty's touch, and time healed Graham's wounds, though he was the most impatient patient Misty had ever dealt with.\n\nGraham was up and down constantly while he convalesced, picking at the bandages, reopening the closed wounds, grumbling when they were bandaged again. He said he couldn't stay in bed when he had to take care of Dougal, and the cubs, and Shifter business, and __ run his half of Shiftertown, _and_ fix his bike, which had gotten shot, if she remembered.\n\nThe Shifters would have to rebuild the house that had collapsed, _away_ from the ley line this time. Plus, they needed to get the Shifter Bureau off their backs about the Collars\u2014though the soldiers had tested every one and found them all functional. Still, the fact that a seed of doubt had been sown meant Shifters had to be very, very careful about the Collars. But Collars had to come off and be replaced with fake ones as soon as possible, now that Shifters knew about the Fae and their nefarious plots with the swords.\n\nThen there was the question of arranging for the mating ceremonies with Misty, and Graham breaking it to his Lupines he was mating with a human.\n\nThe Lupines already knew, of course, because nothing could be kept quiet in Shiftertown. Wolves would walk by his house while Graham healed, staring up at his bedroom window, and not always out of concern for him. They left him alone for now, but Graham said that a time would come for confrontation.\n\nPaul had taken over looking after Misty's flower shop and its cleanup, so Misty could stay with Graham and help him. Paul proved to be good at the store, and Misty decided that once Graham was healthy again, she'd ask Paul to go into it with her as a full partner. She could do that for him, and Paul could finally begin his life.\n\nBen returned a week into Graham's recovery to congratulate Misty on her victory. Graham almost ripped Ben's head off as soon as he stepped inside through the kitchen door Misty enthusiastically opened for him.\n\n\"You asshole,\" Graham said clearly when he had his hands around Ben's throat. Graham's Collar sparked, but he didn't seem to notice or care. \"Misty told me all about you. You sent her straight into danger\u2014alone. Never mind about your little spell book. If not for you, she'd have stayed the hell out of this.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" Ben said, unruffled, even though Graham's fingers bit into his neck. \"But she wouldn't have learned how to find you or fight the Fae's spells, and you'd be a Fae slave now. Or dead. Maybe both.\"\n\n\"I don't _want_ her to fight the Fae,\" Graham snarled. \"I want her to stay safe.\"\n\nBen brought his hands up between Graham's and snapped his hold away. Graham stepped back in surprise and glared at him, but didn't renew the attack.\n\n\"I want her to stay safe too,\" Ben said, his look serious. \"That's why I taught her how to defend herself and save you.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well . . .\" Graham's growl was low, and his Collar quieted.\n\nMisty released a breath of relief. She knew Graham well enough now to know he'd gotten his initial rage out of his system and might start listening.\n\n\"So when I found the box of books at the flea market,\" she said, rummaging in the refrigerator. Now that Graham was done choking Ben, both men might want beer. \"Did you make sure I'd buy it? Or was it a coincidence?\"\n\nBen winked at her. \"I don't believe in coincidences.\"\n\nGraham rumbled. \"Of course you don't, you cocky son of a\u2014\"\n\n\"What about Matt and Kyle?\" Misty interrupted. \"You said they were special. Very special Shifters, you called them.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Ben accepted the beer. Graham grabbed the other from Misty and twisted off the top, his movements still a bit stiff.\n\n\"I came to tell you about that, actually,\" Ben said. \"I didn't realize what they were at first. I didn't think there were any left. But I did a little research, and I'm right.\"\n\n\"Get to the point.\" Graham leaned against the counter near Misty, protecting her even now, and fixed Ben with a Shifter stare. \"Damn creatures from Faerie love the cryptic.\"\n\n\"They're Guards,\" Ben said.\n\nGraham stiffened. \"Guardians?\"\n\nBen shook his head. \"Guards. Back when Shifters were created, Fae made a special breed of them they called Guards. They were a little bigger and more ferocious than typical Shifters, and created to guard the highest generals, the clan leaders, and the emperor.\"\n\n\"Rear guard, you mean,\" Graham said. \"To take care of the cowards who wouldn't go out in actual battle.\"\n\n\"You got it.\" Ben nodded and took a sip of beer. \"Unfortunately, the Fae made the Guards a little too good. When the Shifter-Fae war came along, the Guards turned around and defended the Shifters instead of the Fae. They knew a lot about the habits of the highest-ranking Fae, and they used that knowledge to take them down. They fought the Fae to the death. The main reason the Shifters won that war is because of the Shifter Guards. Unfortunately, 'to the death' meant literally. The Guards died to the last one. Extinct. Or so we all thought.\" Ben gestured with his beer bottle. \"Those two cubs are Guards. I guess the genetics made it through. Who was their father?\"\n\nGraham shrugged. \"I don't know. Their mother was one of my wolves\u2014she died bringing them in, and she never would say who the father was. None of my other Lupines would admit to it, so I figured she'd found a wolf from another Shiftertown, or maybe one who'd stayed in the wild. She died without naming him.\"\n\n\"Hmm,\" Ben said. \"Interesting. Well, keep an eye on them.\"\n\n\"Great,\" Graham said, though the anger in his voice had lessened a long way. \"They're out with Dougal right now. Probably watching Dougal chase tail.\"\n\n\"They'll take care of Dougal,\" Ben said. \"Who's babysitting whom, that's the question.\" He chuckled, took another sip of beer, and glanced out the window. \"Hey, Graham, looks like your wolves are ready to parley. Enjoy yourself.\" Ben set his bottle by the sink, came to Misty and kissed her cheek, then grinned at the snarling Graham, and exited through the front.\n\n\"Crap.\" Graham slammed down his bottle, winced, and touched his side. Shifters healed quickly, he'd said over and over to Misty this week, but even so, Graham wasn't ready for a full-blown fight.\n\nGraham walked out of the house to his back porch, Misty following. Graham pulled himself up straight to face the crowd of Lupines who'd gathered at the edge of his yard. \"She accepted the mate-claim,\" Graham told them, his voice as strong as ever. \"Get over it.\"\n\n\"We know.\" The wolf called Norval fixed his gaze on Misty. \"We _don't_ accept it.\"\n\n\"Don't care,\" Graham said. \"I formed the mate bond with her. What am I supposed to do? Throw that away?\"\n\nSeveral of the wolves moved uneasily. The mate bond was an almost sacred thing\u2014to come between two Shifters who shared it was cruel, not to mention dangerous.\n\n\"Other Shifters have given up the mate bond for the good of their clans,\" Norval said.\n\n\"True,\" Graham answered. \"Other Shifters, not me. And that was in the wild, where those choices meant survival. These days, we don't have to deny a mate bond so full-of-themselves Shifters don't get their knickers in a twist.\"\n\nA few of the wolves chuckled. Norval only looked more angry. \"Watch it, Graham. I'll challenge for Shiftertown leadership if you break this faith.\"\n\n\"Go ahead.\" Graham shrugged his large shoulders. \"I'll slam you down. Then your second will climb over your dead body to take the clan leadership.\"\n\nMore movement, some of the Shifters drifting away from Norval, others gathering behind him.\n\nMisty saw Dougal approach and stand on the edge of the crowd. Graham shook his head ever so slightly, and Dougal nodded back, silently staying where he was.\n\n\"I accept the mating,\" a female voice said.\n\nThe Lupine woman Jan stepped out from behind Muriel. Her arms were folded, she wouldn't look at anyone directly, but she glanced defiantly out of the corners of her eyes. \"Misty Granger will be a good mate for Graham,\" Jan said, her voice firm. \"She'll have our backs.\"\n\nNorval bristled. \"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about.\"\n\n\"Yes, she does,\" Misty broke in. A hiss of distaste went through some of the Shifters\u2014a female, human, speaking to dominant Shifters\u2014unheard of. Misty jabbed a fist in Jan's direction and grinned at her. \"Jan and me, we're sisters under the skin.\"\n\n\"Misty saved me from being taken by the Shifter Bureau,\" Jan said. \"For that, I stand by her.\"\n\n\"I do too,\" Muriel said. \"Jan told me what happened. While you alphas were skulking around avoiding the Bureau men, Misty was saving Jan's ass. She also saved Graham's. We wouldn't have a leader right now if not for her.\"\n\n\"She also got Graham into trouble in the first place,\" Norval said angrily. \"He got shot and nearly taken by the Fae because he went running after her.\"\n\n\"Pay attention,\" Muriel said. \"The Fae would have grabbed Graham any way he could. Misty brought him home _and_ kept the Bureau from finding out we're digging under the houses.\"\n\nNorval's eyes narrowed. \"Are you 'sisters' with her too?\"\n\n\"No,\" Muriel said. \"But I'm not stupid. You want Graham to mate for the good of his Shifters, or so you say. Or maybe you're trying to force a match that's for the good of you.\"\n\n\"Muriel,\" Norval growled, giving her his alpha stare.\n\nAnother young female Lupine came forward, followed by another, more reluctant, but with her shoulders squared. \"We'll stand by Graham's choice too,\" the first one said. \"We're a little irritated that our clan leaders are trying to mate us off to him. It's our decision who we pick as a mate, not theirs. We're tired of being treated like chattel.\"\n\nNorval swept his gaze over them. \"Is this what city living does to Lupines?\" he asked. \"Clan leaders let low-dominance females speak without permission?\"\n\n\"Clan leaders can get used to it,\" Misty called to him. \"If I'm going to be the Shiftertown leader's mate, I'll teach the ladies to not let themselves be pushed around. They should all be like my friend Lindsay.\"\n\nNorval went almost purple. \"Dear Goddess. Graham, control her.\"\n\nGraham shook his head. \"I can't. She's human. She does what she wants.\" He rested his fists on the porch railing. \"My decision's made. I mate-claimed Misty, she accepted, the sun and moon ceremonies will be soon. Suck on it.\"\n\nNorval and a few others looked as though they wanted to continue the argument, but Graham did his Graham thing of turning around and walking away, showing them his uncaring back. Misty gave Jan a grateful smile and retreated into the house after Graham.\n\nGraham grabbed Misty around the waist as soon as she came out of the kitchen and had her against the wall in the hall. \"You've got a sassy mouth.\" He leaned to her. \"I'm going to bite it.\"\n\n\"Mmm.\" Misty laced her arms around his neck as he took her bottom lip between his teeth. The little pain of the bite shot excitement through her.\n\n\"Mating frenzy,\" Graham said. \"It's rising and doesn't care about these damn bandages.\"\n\nMisty put her hand on his jeans and slid it down to his zipper. \"I see that.\"\n\nGraham rested his hands on either side of her head as he licked across her mouth. \"I need you, Misty. I've been needing you . . . it's making me crazy.\"\n\nMisty lost her smile. \"I don't want to hurt you.\"\n\n\"It's supposed to be me saying that.\" Graham nipped her chin. \"I want to do _everything_ with you, love. I want you to suck my cock. I want to drink you. I want you riding me, and looking at me with your beautiful eyes when you do it. I want you on your hands and knees, like in your garden, in the moonlight. I want to be in you, buried there, and not come out. I want it all.\"\n\nWarm excitement built. \"I can go for that.\" Misty pressed her hand to his chest. \"But not until you're well.\"\n\n\"I'm well. I'm with my mate.\" Graham clasped her hand, pressing it harder into his chest. \"And I have the mate bond. It's hot inside me, connecting me to you. Can you feel it too?\"\n\nThe look he gave her was so hopeful, so utterly raw, no barriers between them, that Misty's eyes stung. \"I feel warmth right here.\" She pressed his hand between her breasts. \"I feel happy whenever I see you, even when you're yelling. I love looking at you, and watching you look at me as though you want to devour me. I feel lighter whenever you're around me. I told you in the cave that I loved you, and why. Want me to tell you again?\"\n\n\"I heard you,\" Graham said. \"Even that far gone, I heard you.\" He touched his lips to hers, the kiss the gentlest brush. \"It brought me back to you.\"\n\n\"Graham.\" Misty loved saying his name. She laced her hand behind his head, rubbing his short hair, and made the next kiss deeper. She loved doing that too.\n\nGraham opened her mouth with his kiss, brushing her cheek with his thumb. His body came hard against hers, pressing her back into the wall.\n\nWhen Graham broke the kiss and looked down at her, the tenderness had left him. \"I'm done being nice.\" The strength and the savage growl had returned to his voice. \"Can you take that?\"\n\nExcited heat spun through her. \"I think so.\"\n\n\"Better know so.\" Graham took a step back and flashed her his most wicked smile. \"Run, sweetheart. I want to hunt.\"\n\nMisty's eyes widened. Graham's little growl made her heart flutter and then beat very fast.\n\nMisty turned and ran, but not out of the house. Graham caught her when she was halfway up the stairs. Then her shorts were yanked down, her shirt wrenched off, and Graham was on top of her. He growled as he slid inside her, taking her with hard, merciless thrusts. All the while he cradled Misty in his arms so she wouldn't be hurt on the uncarpeted stairs.\n\nMisty met his thrusts with her own. It was a fierce, wild coupling, and Misty wanted it. Wanted more. Mating frenzy didn't happen only to Shifters.\n\n\"I love you,\" Graham said, his voice the gravelly rumble she adored. \"Mate of my heart.\"\n\n\"I love you too,\" Misty whispered, then she yelled it, her voice echoing up and down the stairs. \"I love you, Graham McNeil! Mate of my heart.\"\n\nGraham made a noise in his throat, and the emptiness that she'd always seen in his eyes fled. The light in them warmed, flared, then was drowned by a sudden wash of tears.\n\nGraham's mouth came down on her in a savage kiss, one that held both his fierceness and his love. He protected her with strong arms while he kissed her and sought his pleasure, and he gave her pleasure back threefold.\n\nMisty traced his flame tattoos, which danced and swirled like the fires in her heart.\nTurn the page to read the first chapter of\n\nFERAL HEAT\n\nA Shifters Unbound e-novella that tells how Deni Rowe and Jace Warden fall in love, available now from InterMix\n\n##\n\nThe fight club had moved since Jace Warden had last visited the Austin Shiftertown. The Shifters used to meet for their forbidden bouts in an abandoned hay barn nestled into folds of a hill, but the land had been purchased, and a developer had built over it.\n\nOn his borrowed Harley, Jace turned from the discreet plane that had flown him this far and headed down a highway that led to drier country away from the river. The world had darkened while he'd flown east from Nevada to land at an airfield that had supposedly been closed.\n\nDylan Morrissey, the Austin Shiftertown liaison, had left a message for Jace to meet him at the fights, and he'd also left the bike for Jace's transportation. Tired and hot, and having hauled himself halfway across the country at Dylan's request, the last thing Jace wanted to do was to ride out to the fight club. But Dylan had summoned him to work on the problem of getting the Collars off Shifters once and for all, and had extended his hospitality, so Jace hid his irritation, thanked the humans who had helped him get this far, and mounted the motorcycle.\n\nJace turned off where the directions had instructed, the paved road quickly turning to dirt, the bike bouncing and skidding over gravel and through ruts. The road grew narrower and narrower, until it petered to nothing. Jace continued down a short hill and around a bend, and found the Shifter fight club behind a slight rise that hid it from the road.\n\nHe smelled it long before he saw the electric lanterns, fire dancing in garbage cans, and flashlights. Anything that could be quickly doused was being used to illuminate the scene.\n\nJace would have known it was a place of Shifters, even in the pitch-dark. Shifters working off adrenaline rushes and fighting instincts had a certain interesting\u2014and pungent\u2014odor.\n\nJace killed the engine of the bike, parking it among the pack of motorcycles, pickups, and smaller cars. He hung the helmet from the seat and made sure his backpack was well stashed in the saddlebag before he approached the fight area. He wasn't worried about Shifters stealing his change of clothes and toothbrush\u2014Shifters didn't steal from one another, because a simple snatch could end up in a fight to the death. Possessions were territory, and territory was respected. But humans also came to the fight clubs, and some liked to abscond with things.\n\nThe new fighting arena was a broad slab of concrete about a hundred feet long and just as wide. Probably an old building or an event area of some kind, abandoned by its owners when money ran out. Everything had been pulled away except the slab.\n\nRings were outlined by concrete blocks, and firelight flickered wildly, making it a scene from hell, complete with demons. But the demons were only Shifters having fun and working off steam; those not fighting were cheering, drinking beer, or finding hook-ups\u2014human or Shifter\u2014and sneaking into the darkness to work off steam a different way.\n\nJace made his way around cars\u2014a few of them being used for liaisons\u2014and toward the firelight. He didn't worry about locating Dylan in the chaos, because Dylan, a Feline Shifter who was mostly lion, always made himself known.\n\nWhat Jace didn't expect was the wolf who sprang out of the shadows in a deserted stretch of the parking area and landed on Jace full force.\n\nJace swung around with the impact, hands coming up to dig into the wolf's fur and throw him down. The Lupine landed in the dust, his Collar sparking and sizzling. The Collar's shocks didn't slow the wolf much, because he rolled to his feet and charged Jace again.\n\nJace didn't know who the hell the wolf was. Not that he had much of a chance of identification as the Lupine landed on Jace again, his Collar's sparks burning Jace's skin. The wolf went for Jace's throat, and Jace's hands turned to leopard's paws to rake across the wolf's face. The wolf took the blow, landed on his feet, shook himself, and sprang again.\n\nJace's Collar hadn't shocked him yet, but he felt the build-up. Collars were made to spike pain into Shifters as soon as they became seriously violent, but Jace had learned techniques to fool the Collar and keep it dormant. It was tough to do, however, especially when he was taken by surprise. Jace had to focus in order to keep the Collar quiet, and right now he was busy trying to keep this bloody Lupine from killing him.\n\nJace whacked the wolf aside again, spinning around as he shed his denim jacket and half shifted to his wildcat. His shirt split, jeans falling as his back legs elongated into powerful feline haunches. He emerged from his shredding clothes as a fully formed snow leopard\u2014creamy fur, black spots, ice blue eyes\u2014and thoroughly pissed off.\n\nJace went for the wolf. The wolf was bigger, almost twice Jace's bulk, but leopards hadn't made it to the top of the wildcat pyramid because of size. Leopards might be among the smaller big cats, but they were swift, agile, and smart, and they didn't take shit from anyone.\n\nThis wolf wanted to give him shit, though. He came at Jace again, fur up, his canine jowls frothing, his golden eyes filled with rage. The scent that hit Jace reeked of challenge. This was a wolf who wanted to move up in rank, never mind that Jace was a different species and not even from this Shiftertown. Dominance challenges weren't allowed inside the ring at the fight club; one of the biggest rules was that fights were for recreation and showing off\u2014that, and no killing. Outside the ring was a different story.\n\nJace got ready to teach him a lesson.\n\nAs he drew back to renew his attack, another wolf sprang from the parking lot and hurled itself at the first wolf. A female, Jace scented, one he hadn't met before.\n\nShe wasn't rushing to defend the wolf, however. She attacked the Lupine in fury, teeth bared, near madness in her eyes.\n\nThe first Lupine swung to meet her, and the two went down in an explosion of fur and snarls. Jace sat back to catch his breath, surprised. The two wolves were evenly matched, the male a bit larger than the female, but the female was plenty strong and agile. Probably dominant to the male too.\n\nJace let the female get her first anger out of her system, then he waded back in to rescue his rescuer.\n\nThe male Lupine had the she-wolf on the ground by now. He pinned the female with one big paw, snarling as he turned to Jace.\n\nJace gave him a warning growl. The growl said that, up until now, Jace had been holding back; that Jace was dominant in his pride, his clan, and his Shiftertown; and the wolf might want to think about it before continuing the fight.\n\nThe Lupine ignored the warning and went for the kill. Jace met him head-on, his lithe body and fast paws taking the wolf down to the ground before the Lupine could use his superior weight to his advantage.\n\nThe she-wolf rose behind the male, landed on the wolf's back, and sank her teeth into his neck. Her Collar was sparking frantically, and she got hit by the arcs from the other wolf's Collar, but she kept biting.\n\nJace drew back his paw and whacked the male wolf across the throat. The wolf spun with the blow, knocking the female loose. The male Lupine rolled across the dust and dying grass a long way before he was able to stop. He righted himself but stayed down on his belly, panting hard, conceding the fight.\n\nJace walked to him with a stiff-legged Feline stalk. When he reached the Lupine, he lowered his head to the wolf's eye level and growled again. Stay the fuck down.\n\nWhether or not the Lupine understood Feline rumbles and body language, Jace's glare must have gotten the message across. The wolf snarled, teeth bared, but he plastered his ears flat on his head and didn't move.\n\nJace turned back to the she-wolf. She lay limply on the grass, and Jace went to her, giving her a cat's lick across her face. She growled softly, and Jace licked her again, feeling a need to thank and reassure her.\n\nThe need didn't leave him when he shifted back to human. He stroked her head, liking the wiry fur of her wolf.\n\nThe female wolf looked up at him in a wash of confusion. She was a gray wolf, with gray eyes. She breathed in Jace's scent, wrinkling her nose, clearly wondering who he was.\n\nJace gave her head another stroke, wishing she'd turn back to human so he could talk to her. She'd run to his rescue, a Lupine taking the side of a Feline, and Jace wanted to know why.\n\nThe she-wolf remained wolf, still growling softly. Jace touched her head one last time and walked back to the male wolf. \"New way of greeting guests in Shiftertown?\" he asked. \"Let me introduce myself. I'm Jace Warden. A guest of Dylan's.\"\n\nJace knew he didn't need to explain that his own father was leader of another Shiftertown. The fact that Dylan sanctioned Jace's visit should be enough for this wolf.\n\nThe wolf morphed into his human form, a man with short black hair and light gray eyes. \"Hey, I saw a strange Feline trying to sneak into the fight club when he wasn't invited, and when no one but regulars are supposed to know about the new place. What did you expect?\"\n\n\"So you were defending all the Shifters here?\" Jace asked with evident skepticism. \"Commendable.\"\n\n\"Ask that crazy bitch what she was doing,\" the Lupine said, scowling at the she-wolf. \"Nurturing females, my ass. She's all spit and vinegar.\"\n\n\"Let me guess.\" Jace felt mirth. \"She turned down your mate-claim.\"\n\nThe Lupine gave Jace an incredulous look. \"I wouldn't mate-claim her. Not if she were the last female in Shiftertown. She's out of her mind. You can never tell what she's going to do.\" The man made a broad gesture in her direction. \"You saw her.\"\n\n\"I thought it was nice of her to help me out.\"\n\n\"Nah, she saw a fight, it sparked her loony side, and she dove in. Look at her. She's not even sure what happened.\"\n\nJace turned his gaze to the she-wolf again and saw that the man was right. She watched Jace and the Lupine, trembling but trying to hide it with a growl and a glare. Jace saw fear in her eyes along with deep anger\u2014a woman hurting from something and not wanting anyone else to know it.\n\n\"I keep trying to tell Liam she should be put down,\" the Lupine said. \"She's a danger to the rest of us.\"\n\nThe she-wolf snarled again. Scent and body language told Jace what he needed to know\u2014the female was dominant but of a different clan than the male wolf; the male was aggressive, cocky, and hated to be bested. The male wolf would be dominant in his clan as well. Jace outranked both of them, though.\n\nJace looked into the other man's eyes. \"Why don't you shut your hole, get dressed, and go the hell home? You're too unstable to be here tonight.\"\n\nThe man tried to meet Jace's gaze. He did pretty well, but in the end had to slide his eyes sideways. \"What, you want some privacy with her? Don't say I didn't warn you.\"\n\n\"Just go,\" Jace said.\n\nThe wolf snorted. \"Whatever.\" He climbed to his feet and strolled away, not worried that he was naked.\n\nThe fight hadn't attracted any attention. A sudden roar of voices within the arena told Jace why\u2014there must be an intense match going down. The human voices were accompanied by roars and growls, since half the watchers would be in animal form.\n\nJace retrieved his torn clothing, grunting in irritation. He'd only brought two changes of clothes, thinking he wouldn't be in Austin that long.\n\nThe jeans had escaped the worst of the shredding, and he pulled them on, the ripped seams stretching as he crouched down to look at the she-wolf again.\n\n\"You all right?\" he asked her. \"Who was that asshole?\"\n\nThe disgust in his question reached past the feral fear in her eyes. He saw clarity return, and then the wolf shifted into a female with a lush, lovely body, close-cut wheat-colored hair, and large gray eyes.\n\nShe remained in a crouch, covering herself, but Jace's gaze traced the curve of her ample breasts, his natural need rising. She'd be worth sneaking off into the darkness with, maybe having a bounce with in the bed of a pickup.\n\nNo, she'd be worth more than that. This wasn't a lady Jace would use to relieve horniness and then forget. Not with that gorgeous gaze pinning him flat.\n\n\"His name's Broderick,\" she said in a voice Jace wanted to embrace. \"He usually wins Asshole of the Month around here.\"\n\n\"No doubt. What did you jump in for? He's right about one thing\u2014it was a crazy thing to do. Two males with their blood up could have hurt you.\"\n\n\"I saw him besting you. No one deserves to be pounded by Broderick for no reason.\"\n\n\"He wasn't besting me,\" Jace said, giving her a grin. \"I had him. And then he started kicking your ass.\"\n\nShe frowned. \"Oh, please. I was a few bites away from making him crawl away whimpering.\"\n\nAs Jace hoped, his needling made her irritation erase her fear and pain. \"Not to mention, your Collar was going off,\" Jace said. \"Are you sure you're all right?\"\n\nHe placed his hand on the side of her neck, over the Collar in question. Ordinarily, Jace wouldn't touch uninvited, especially not cross-species, but something in this woman cried out to him. She needed soothing.\n\nHer eyes widened a little, but she didn't jerk away. \"What about you? Your Collar didn't go off. You can dampen its effect, can't you? Like Liam does?\"\n\nJace let his fingers caress her neck as he chose his words. \"That's not supposed to be common knowledge. Need-to-know basis.\"\n\n\"Maybe I need to know. Dylan's trying to teach me, but I can't do it yet.\"\n\n\"In that case, I'll give you some pointers.\" Jace traced her Collar to the front, pausing when his fingers rested on its Celtic cross lying against her throat. \"But I'd better find Dylan and tell him I'm here before the payback for controlling my Collar hits me.\"\n\n\"Dylan's fighting right now,\" the woman said. \"His bouts are always popular. But short. He should be done soon.\"\n\nJace placed his hand on hers. He wanted to keep touching this woman for some reason, as though breaking contact with her would lessen him somehow. \"Come with me. We'll watch him win together.\"\n\n\"No.\" The woman started to rise, and Jace unfolded himself and helped her to her feet. She didn't hide herself anymore, a Shifter woman unembarrassed by her body. \"I have to go. Are you Jace? You've been to Shiftertown before, haven't you?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but why haven't I met you?\" Jace still didn't want to release her hand. \"I've made lots of trips out here, but I don't remember seeing you.\"\n\n\"I've been . . . sick,\" she said. \"I'm Deni. Deni Rowe.\"\n\nDeni watched him anxiously, as though gauging his reaction to the name. \"Ellison Rowe's sister?\" Jace asked.\n\n\"Yes.\" Deni still peered at him, waiting.\n\nJace tightened his hand on hers. \"Why do you have to go? Stay with me and watch Dylan kick ass. You can keep other Lupines from jumping me.\"\n\nDeni didn't smile. She glanced at the arena and the mass of figures there, and Jace scented her nervousness. \"I can't. Sometimes the fighting . . .\"\n\n\"Calls to the feral in you? Makes you lose control?\"\n\nShe gave him a startled look. \"How did you know that?\"\n\n\"Because I saw your eyes when you attacked Broderick. You didn't dive into the fight only to rescue me. You did it because watching made you want to fight too. I was like that during my Transition.\" Jace caressed the hand he hadn't released. \"All you have to do is hold on to someone. The touch will calm you and keep you tethered.\"\n\nAnother startled look. \"That doesn't work. Even my cubs . . .\"\n\n\"Bet me,\" Jace said. \"You hang on to a dominant, and he takes the heat and cools you down. Works. That's what dominants are for.\"\n\nA spark of pride returned to Deni's eyes. \"And you're saying you're dominant to me?\"\n\n\"Yep. It's obvious. You outrank Broderick\u2014I bet you outrank a lot of wolves\u2014but you're not dominant to this Feline.\" He touched his chest.\n\nShe gave him a half smile. \"And you're not full of yourself about that.\"\n\n\"Just stating facts.\" Jace did not want to let go of her hand. \"Let's find your clothes and go. Unless you want to watch as wolf.\"\n\nDeni sent him another haughty look that made her eyes beautiful, but she didn't pull away. \"I'll find my clothes.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nJace left his shredded shirt behind\u2014why bother with it?\u2014but caught up his jacket and followed her into the darkness, her hand on his like a lifeline. A warm, sweet lifeline. He definitely wanted to know this Lupine woman better.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nDeni's heart beat swiftly as she pulled on the sarong she'd thrown off to rush into the fight with Broderick. Broderick's scent of arrogance had enraged her, and she'd wanted to pummel him for jumping the other Shifter without challenge.\n\nThen she'd felt her memory slide away, the feral thing inside her taking over. She shivered. Her wildness hadn't receded until Jace had smacked the wolf down himself, and Deni had fallen away from the fight.\n\nJace hadn't then turned around and kicked her butt, as he'd had a right to for interfering. Instead he'd touched her, licked her with his strange Feline sandpapery tongue, then held her hand after she'd changed back to human.\n\nDeni was still shaky as they entered the fight club's main area. Jace kept hold of her hand. It was a big hand, warm but callused, his grip strong. He was a fighter, a warrior.\n\nIf Deni remembered right, Jace Warden was the son of Eric Warden, leader of the Las Vegas Shiftertown. Jace was third in command there, the second in command being Eric's sister. Jace would be in the most dominant Feline clan of his Shiftertown, and in the most dominant Feline pride of that clan. The top of the top.\n\nAlphas usually bugged Deni, because they could be arrogant shits, but only concern and protection flowed from Jace. An alpha interested in taking care of others. What a concept.\n\nThe biggest crowd gathered around the central ring\u2014the other two rings were empty. From throats, beast and human, came wild cries, delight in whoever was winning, groaning from those foolish enough not to back Dylan.\n\nJace moved through the throng to the ring. Shifters moved aside for him, most without noticing they did so. Instinct, Deni guessed\u2014sensing that they should get out of Jace's way before he made it an order.\n\nA large man stood at the perimeter of the ring, arms folded, the Sword of the Guardian on his back. Deni always felt a frisson of dread when she saw the sword, whose purpose was to be driven through the hearts of dead or dying Shifters. The sword pierced the heart, and the Shifter turned to dust, his or her soul following the pathway to the Summerland.\n\nThe sword shimmered a little in the flickering light. Other Shifters gave the Guardian a wide berth, also uncomfortable with him. Kind of hard on Sean, Deni always thought, but Sean had been much less haunted since he'd taken a mate.\n\nA human woman stood next to Sean\u2014not his mate. She was the scrappy woman who'd tied herself to Ronan, a Kodiak bear, who was even now in the ring, fighting Dylan. The woman\u2014Elizabeth\u2014danced on top of the cement blocks, cheering for Ronan at the top of her lungs.\n\nSean would be standing as second for Dylan, his father. A second's job was to make sure that no one interfered with the fight and that the other side didn't cheat. Dylan and Ronan would go for a fair, straight fight, but other Shifters could be cunning. The seconds were there for a reason.\n\nDylan was the black-maned lion snarling in the middle of the ring, his paws moving lightning fast as he battled the bigger bulk of the Kodiak. Ronan was fully shifted to bear, his ruff standing up, his eyes alight with fighting fury. Ronan's Collar sparked deep into his fur, but Dylan's was quiet.\n\n\"Unfair advantage,\" Jace said into Deni's ear. \"Dylan knows how to keep his Collar from going off.\"\n\nDeni had to turn her head and stand on tiptoe to answer into Jace's ear. His hand in hers was warm, and she leaned close. \"That's why he only fights the strongest: Ronan, or Spike, who's the champion. Sometimes Dylan lets his Collar go off on purpose, to keep things interesting.\"\n\n\"But he usually wins anyway,\" Jace finished.\n\nHe had a rumbling baritone that tickled inside her ear, his hot breath making Deni tingle even more. She squeezed his fingers a little, and was rewarded with an answering squeeze.\n\nRonan roared. His Collar was sparking, his mate yelling her encouragement, but Deni saw her worry. These matches weren't to the death, but Shifters could be badly hurt in them.\n\nDeni could scent and sense Elizabeth's excitement tinged with fear. She also caught Sean's tenseness as he watched his father battle. If something went wrong, if one of the Shifters was hurt so much the Guardian was needed, Sean would have to plunge his sword into the heart of either his father or his close friend.\n\nDeni caught his sorrow\u2014Sean had had to send one of his brothers to dust a dozen years ago\u2014which laced through the sorrow in her own heart. Deni wished her cubs were here, her boys, but they were working at their jobs in the city, earning what little money Shifters were allowed to earn.\n\nDylan backed away from Ronan's onslaught, ears flat on his head. He didn't roar\u2014Dylan's roar could shake apart the town\u2014but his growls filled the space.\n\nThe sound caught in Deni's nerves, calling to the feral inside her. All Shifters had the instinct to throw off any polish of civilization, to revert to their wild forms, to return to the time when they'd been bred to fight and hunt. Even after a thousand and more years, Shifters retained the same basic instincts\u2014fight or be killed, hunt or be hunted.\n\nShifters had come up with strict rules made to tame their inner beasts. To keep themselves from tearing each other apart after they'd fought free of their Fae masters, Shifters had agreed to certain rituals that must be performed in regard to mating, fighting, and even death. Take those away, and they were simply animals who could make themselves look human.\n\nDeni's motorcycle accident last year had robbed her of the veneer of calm Shifters strived to learn. The wreck must have jarred something loose in Deni's brain, because she'd been fighting her instincts ever since, often losing. Knowing the bastard who'd run her down was dead had helped her begin to heal, but she wasn't there yet.\n\nIn the midst of the growls, snarls, roars, and cheers, with the scent of blood and sweat pouring from the ring, Deni's thoughts began to tangle. Her scent sense heightened, bringing in the excitement of the Shifters, the bloodlust in Dylan, the singed-fur smell from the sparking Collars, the strong male scent of Jace Warden next to her.\n\nShe probably would have been all right with Jace's calming hand in hers, if the fighting Shifters had been anyone else, but Dylan had a powerful Shifter presence. Being alpha didn't simply mean winning fights and scaring Shifters into submission. It was an indefinable something about the Shifter\u2014scent, timbre of voice, subtle compulsion to follow this male. In animal form, it was more apparent, and Dylan was broadcasting his force loud and clear.\n\nSince the accident, Deni had been able to use her animal senses fully in her human form. All Shifters retained some of their superior senses of hearing, scenting, and tracking ability when human, but they were muted, distant, able to be pushed aside so the Shifter could live as human without going crazy.\n\nNot so for Deni. She had to constantly fight herself not to shift, attack, or even kill when she was confused, afraid, or angry. Going feral was the term. Her Collar tried to shock sense into her, but that only resulted in more pain, more confusion, more anger.\n\nDeni smelled Dylan's fighting blood, which announced to everyone there he was far stronger and meaner than the giant bear he battled. Ronan continued swinging his enormous paws, landing blows on the smaller lion. Dylan's lithe body moved and flowed with the hits that would have crushed any Shifter who'd stood still and taken them. Dylan's lion's paws moved in a flurry, batting back the bear with the swift, manic strength of a cat.\n\nDeni's wolf howled to life. She wanted to leap into the ring, rush to Dylan's side, and help him fight. He was her alpha\u2014he'd been leader of all Shifters for a long time before conceding his position to his son. Ronan was lesser than Deni, and he dared to confront Dylan. Now Ronan must pay.\n\nDeni clenched her free hand into a fist, jaw so tight it ached. She shouldn't be here\u2014she should have gone home and not let the compelling Jace talk her into watching the battle. She now wanted more than anything to break all the rules of the fight club and run into the ring. Ronan would knock her senseless before he could stop himself, but her wolf didn't care. The bear needed to go down.\n\nDeni started to growl, the sound rising in her throat. Her Collar snapped a spark into her, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. And that terrified her most of all.\n\n\"Hey,\" a deep voice in her ear rumbled. \"Hold it together.\"\n\nJace. His warmth covered her side, his stern command reaching her inner beast and stilling the need to shift. Deni realized her fingers had already changed to wolf claws, and fur ran from her head down her back, which was bared by the sarong.\n\nJace didn't let go of her hand, though she felt her claws pierce his skin. He ran his other hand, warm and broad-palmed, up and down her back, which returned to human smoothness.\n\n\"Want to go?\" he asked her.\n\nDeni nodded. She couldn't see much anymore\u2014the fires and lanterns blurred into one whirling light, the shouts and growls blending into a mass of animal sound.\n\nJace tugged her away, again becoming the lifeline that drew her through the crowd. In the howling, swirling madness, Jace was a constant, his warmth pulling her onward.\n\nHe took her into the parking lot, turning her away from the lights. Once the cool night air touched her, darkness erasing the maddening lights, Deni drew a long breath. Her fur and claws receded, leaving her on her human feet, shaking.\n\n\"I shouldn't have done that,\" Jace was saying as they threaded their way through parked vehicles. She heard his voice but didn't pay much attention to the words. \"I shouldn't have taken you in there. I didn't realize it was that bad.\"\n\n\"It's bad,\" Deni said, nodding. She wasn't concentrating on her words either. \"I should have stayed home tonight, but I needed . . .\" She shivered. \"I don't know what I needed.\"\n\nNot true. Deni had needed escape, life, not hiding in the dark. Her sons had gone to work, Ellison had taken his mate, Maria, out for dinner and probably sex, and the rest of Shiftertown had emptied to attend the fight club. Sit at home and mope or go out and be with her friends and neighbors? She'd been tired of moping, so here she was.\n\nDeni's uncontrolled instincts were punishing her now. Jace had known to take her out of there before she did something stupid, but the wildness in her didn't calm. It needed release.\n\nDeni's wolf needed to fight, to hunt, to kill. Robbed of that, the she-wolf in her wanted the nearest thing to it.\n\nShe swung to Jace, his scent filling her, his strength calling to her. He was solid, strong, alpha, male, and he was here with her in the dark. She couldn't have stopped herself even if she'd wanted to.\n\nDeni slammed both hands to Jace's chest. He caught her with a strong grip but fell against the side of a pickup, carrying her back with him. He had a musky male scent, a little wild, like the woods on a moonlit night. The moon was high and full tonight, always irresistible to a wolf.\n\nJace's eyes were unusual, jade green, the color heightened by his tanned face and brown black hair he'd buzzed short. He was large too, but agile and athletic.\n\nHe watched her, not shoving her away, not angry. Just watching.\n\nAnother surge of sound came from the arena, human and animal crying out for blood. Deni snarled, pinned Jace against the truck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.\n\n**Looking for more?**\n\nVisit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.\n\n**Discover your next great read!**\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Murder of a Snob - Roy Vickers"}, "text": " \n# Bello:\n\n## hidden talent rediscovered!\n\nBello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.\n\nAt Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.\n\nWe publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.\n\n**_About Bello:_ **   \nwww.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello\n\n**_About the author:_ **   \nwww.panmacmillan.com/author/royvickers\n\n# Contents\n\n  * Roy Vickers\n  * Chapter One\n  * Chapter Two\n  * Chapter Three\n  * Chapter Four\n  * Chapter Five\n  * Chapter Six\n  * Chapter Seven\n  * Chapter Eight\n  * Chapter Nine\n  * Chapter Ten\n  * Chapter Eleven\n  * Chapter Twelve\n  * Chapter Thirteen\n  * Chapter Fourteen\n  * Chapter Fifteen\n  * Chapter Sixteen\n  * Chapter Seventeen\n  * Chapter Eighteen\n  * Chapter Nineteen\n  * Chapter Twenty\n  * Chapter Twenty-One\n  * Chapter Twenty-Two\n\n## Roy Vickers\n\n# Murder of a Snob\n\n#  Roy Vickers\n\nRoy Vickers was the author of over 60 crime novels and 80 short stories, many written under the pseudonyms Sefton Kyle and David Durham. He was born in 1889 and educated at Charterhouse School, Brasenose College, Oxford, and enrolled as a student of the Middle Temple. He left the University before graduating in order to join the staff of a popular weekly. After two years of journalistic choring, which included a period of crime reporting, he became editor of the _Novel Magazine_ , but eventually resigned this post so that he could develop his ideas as a freelance. His experience in the criminal courts gave him a view of the anatomy of crime which was the mainspring of his novels and short stories. Not primarily interested in the professional crook, he wrote of the normal citizen taken unawares by the latent forces of his own temperament. His attitude to the criminal is sympathetic but unsentimental.\n\nVickers is best known for his 'Department of Dead Ends' stories which were originally published in _Pearson's Magazine_ from 1934. Partial collections were made in 1947, 1949, and 1978, earning him a reputation in both the UK and the US as an accomplished writer of 'inverted mysteries'. He also edited several anthologies for the Crime Writers' Association.\n\n#  Chapter One\n\nSamuel Cornboise was murdered because he was a snob. Not the harmless kind of snob who wants to be admitted to ever more exalted circles\u2014indeed, it is doubtful whether he could conceive of a circle of which he was not the centre. His snobbery was of the mystical kind. He believed in \"birth and breeding.\" In defiance of biological science and social history, he believed that a small percentage of the population possesses the power of transmitting to its descendants certain moral qualities which make them a natural aristocracy.\n\n\"Take my case!\" he would insist. \"Born in a London slum. Finished schooling at fourteen. Slipped over to Africa when I was sixteen. I was fifty-six before I found out that I was heir to a barony, and it cost me thirty thousand to establish my claim in the courts. 'The Bell-Hop Baron' they call me in Africa\u2014and why not! When I really was a bell-hop I knew I was the stuff of which barons are made!\"\n\nBell-hop, diamond miner, steeplejack, and whatnot! Yet at thirty he was a substantial man, and at forty a millionaire. He discovered in himself a talent for finance\u2014the most mysterious of all talents to those who do not possess it.\n\nThough he could never interpret a menu with any confidence, he was at one time a hotel king. In one of his own hotels\u2014if such words have meaning\u2014he was nearly killed by an accident to an elevator. By a process which the initiated will accept without wonder, he brought and won an action against himself, damages being inflated by the fact that, for the rest of his life, he would have to wear a wig to conceal a silver plate set in his skull.\n\nAfter his convalescence, he abandoned hotels, to become something imperial in Ladies' Footwear. He never directed these enterprises. He never organised anything, except figures on a blotting pad\u2014generally someone else's blotting pad. He went into a score of trades and out again, leaving behind him, not men thirsting for his blood, as one might suppose, but an ever-widening circle of admiring friends. He even seems to have 'gone into' himself\u2014Cornboise Investment Trust Limited\u2014and strangest of all, we must believe that he went out of himself as irrevocably as if he had been Ladies' Footwear. When he retired and returned to England he had the greater part of three million pounds, most of it already converted into Government Stock.\n\nTo make all that money in that way without going in fear of an accountant\u2014or of a gunman\u2014connotes a man of remarkable enterprise, intelligence and shrewdness. Behind his financial jugglery there must have been an acute sense of economic values. But human values were beyond his power of analysis. He sacrificed his personal happiness to an adolescent dream of an aristocracy that had never existed outside melodrama\u2014the first sacrifice being his wife.\n\nBefore he had floated his first company he married a respectable, buxomly attractive girl, who provided the domestic background he needed but was unable to provide an 'heir.' He separated from her, after discovering that her religious principles forbade divorce.\n\nIn later life, his dream-interest centred on his nephew, the son of his elder brother, head potman of the _Goat-in-Flames_ , an historic but otherwise obscure tavern in north London. When his brother was accidentally killed, Samuel, in effect, adopted the twelve year old boy, sent him to an expensive school, thence to Oxford with a fantastic allowance and every possible encouragement to get into mischief. It was Samuel's idea of grooming him for inheritance of Samuel's fortune.\n\nNo doubt, Samuel's delusions in the matter of blue blood would have remained an amusing foible, but for his freak inheritance of a dormant barony. It was Andrew Querk, his agent in England, who discovered the thin thread of evidence\u2014Querk who engaged a team of lawyers and lineage experts. The thin thread was doubled and re-doubled on itself until it became a cable, which hoisted Samuel Cornboise into the peerage. The romantic nonsense about birth and breeding seemed to be translated into reality.\n\nOn his retirement, he decided to 'go into' aristocracy as he had gone into Ladies' Footwear, using much the same technique.\n\nThe result was immediate disaster. Cornboise\u2014the hero of so many financial epics\u2014now correctly entitled Lord Watlington\u2014had been in England scarcely a month before he set the stage for his own murder.\n\nIn the interval between finishing lunch and taking his afternoon doze, he made three dangerous mistakes, the first of which was a witless under-estimate of Claudia Lofting, a vivacious brunette of twenty-six engaged to marry his nephew and sole heir. She was herself a sprig of impoverished aristocracy; she possessed, in addition to physical beauty and intelligence, most of the qualities which he fondly imagined to be aristocratic. Yet he thought he could afford to tell her to her face, in the presence of his nephew and Andrew Querk, that she was not up to the standard he required\u2014thought it safe to offer to buy her off on liberal terms.\n\nBy way of proof, he confronted them with letters written by Claudia before she had met Ralph\u2014letters which seemed to Watlington to destroy her reputation. So that his trustees should make no mistake, he sealed the letters in an envelope containing his Will, which stipulated that his nephew's bride should be \"a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation.\"\n\nHitherto, he had been successful in dealing with humanity because both associates and rivals had been dominated, like himself, by the single purpose of making money. Claudia Lofting, as it happened, was dominated by a purpose that is much older and much more relentless than the purpose of making money.\n\nRalph Cornboise, the nephew and sole heir, was equally lacking in the desire to make money. He desired, primarily, to live. He believed, with slightly more justification than is usual in such cases, that his life would not be worth living without Claudia.\n\nThus, his uncle's technique, which was based on converting opponents into allies, was doomed to fail. In this case, the technique followed the usual pattern of conciliation, beginning with an invitation to Claudia, also to Ralph, to spend a weekend at Watlington Lodge, _'with me and my old friend, Andrew Querk, and to meet a few new friends at dinner on Saturday night.'_\n\nOn Saturday night, the guests duly arrived. But there was no dinner party because, by that time, the host was dead.\n\nIn the county police headquarters at Kingsbourne, Colonel Crisp, the Chief Constable, had been kept at his desk throughout Saturday afternoon preparing evidence in a river smuggling case. As the Town Hall clock boomed seven he touched the bell push which summoned his aide, David Benscombe, a presentable, eager junior in the early twenties.\n\n\"Let me have what you've done and you can knock off now.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir. Have you finished?\"\n\n\"No. But I shan't need you any more tonight. Better go, boy, while the going's good... There! You've lost your chance. Take that call will you?\"\n\nBenscombe took up the receiver.\n\n\"The Chief Constable is in conference\u2014I'm speaking for him... Oh-h!... Are you quite sure it's murder?... Right, we'll come along. Who are you, please? Hullo? Damn!\"\n\nThe last under his breath as he turned to his chief.\n\n\"Lord Watlington murdered, sir. At Watlington Lodge. He's that South African millionaire featured in the local paper three weeks ago. Shall I call Detective-Inspector Longley? As a matter of fact, I know he's not at home\u2014told me he was going up river to fish. There's Inspector Bassett?\"\n\n\"No. I'll go myself. You've lost your weekend, boy. Tell Bassett to call up the team. We'll go in my car. They can follow us.\"\n\nColonel Crisp had held his present post for a few weeks only. He was, as it were, a permanent temporary Chief Constable, being seconded by the Home Office to any county that had need of his services. Behind him was a distinguished military career as a leader of guerilla troops. To look at, he was unimpressive. A little above medium height, he was broad and stocky. He slouched: all the pockets of his uniform bulged, so that he barely escaped slovenliness. His hands were noticeably large and seemed to have more than the natural complement of knuckles.\n\nDuring the war years he had become one of the world's greatest experts in leading hand-picked bands of intelligent, civilised men in the dreadful business of inflicting death and destruction. His disciplined desperadoes had consisted mainly of ex-shop assistants, bank clerks and students; for he had discovered that the tough-guy type of humanity is not even tough. He was himself mild and unassertive in manner. He would speak with the same informal friendliness to judge and criminal, to the lowest and the highest, which sometimes astonished the highest.\n\nAt twenty past seven, piloted by young Benscombe, he turned through the scrolled gates of Watlington Lodge\u2014a late eighteenth-century manor house, with five acres of garden, some dozen miles from London, which had belonged to the family with which Samuel Cornboise had successfully connected himself.\n\nThe house had been unoccupied for forty years. Arriving in England a month ago, Lord Watlington had moved straight in. The caretaker was still in residence. She had been supplemented by a temporary cook and two housemaids while he postponed the tricky business of engaging a domestic staff.\n\nA short, semi-circular drive brought them into full view of the house, an undistinguished rectangular block, the rectangle broken on the west side by the stables, built on to the rear of the house\u2014rococo stables of tortured design, including a chiming clock set in an irrelevant turret.\n\nThe garden\u2014more grandiloquently, the home park\u2014lay to the west of the house, from which it was screened by a tangle of yew hedges, clipped here and there into conventional shapes which had gradually become grotesque under years of inexpert maintenance.\n\nAs the car rounded the bend of the drive, young Benscombe's attention was caught by what he saw on the terrace.\n\n\"Good lord, sir! I believe it's a hoax!\"\n\nThe calm of a hot summer evening hung over house and garden. On the terrace was a score or more of wicker armchairs, flanked by an outsize cocktail cabinet. Three of the chairs were occupied. Between two men\u2014one young, the other middle-aged\u2014Benscombe saw an attractive girl in a light evening cloak.\n\nHe stepped out of the car and hurried to the terrace.\n\n\"The Chief Constable is here,\" he announced. He paused a moment for their reaction, noted that the girl put her hand on the young man's sleeve. The middle-aged man, Andrew Querk, beamed on him.\n\n\"We are only guests,\" he explained. \"Lord Watlington will be here in a moment. In the meantime, on behalf of our host\u2014\"\n\n\"We have had a telephone message that Lord Watlington has been murdered.\"\n\n\"Upon my soul!\" mouthed Querk. \"The Chief Constable, too, you said! This is most serious. I can only suggest that there must be some confusion of names. I would hesitate to suspect a practical joke.\"\n\nIn the meantime, the Chief Constable had entered the house by the front door, which was open. Bessie, the housemaid, was waiting in the hall to announce the guests.\n\n\"Will you please tell Lord Watlington that the Chief Constable of the county would like to see him.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. I expect he's still dressing.\"\n\nBessie, who was willing but untrained in the niceties of her calling, scampered upstairs, to scamper down again.\n\n\"He must be in the library after all,\" she puffed. She crossed the hall, tried the door of the library, knocked and rattled the handle.\n\n\"It's locked. You'll have to wait, sir, while I go round by the window and tell him\u2014p'raps he's still asleep.\"\n\n\"Don't bother,\" said Crisp. \"Does he generally lock himself in?\"\n\n\"No, sir. He wouldn't need. No one ' ud dare go in while he was taking his nap.\"\n\nCrisp saw a waiter carrying a load of table silver to the dining-room.\n\n\"What exactly is going on here?\"\n\n\"A dinner party, sir. Those waiters and cooks have come down from London, as there's only the caretaker and me and cook and another girl in the house. There's cocktails at seven thirty, and dinner at eight.\"\n\n\"Right! Just carry on, will you. Don't take any notice of me.\"\n\nBenscombe had joined Crisp.\n\n\"Those three outside are guests. They expect Watlington in a few minutes,\" he reported.\n\nCrisp nodded. \"Don't let anybody follow me.\"\n\nHe went to the door of the library, bent to examine the lock. From one of the bulging pockets he took a small pair of double-action pincers, which gave him a firm grip on the protruding end of the key. He turned it and entered the library, closing the door behind him.\n\nWatlington was sitting in the swivel chair, which had been swivelled some forty-five degrees, as if he had been turning towards the wall-safe when death overtook him.\n\nThat he was indeed dead was obvious from the face, the left side of which was contorted into a fantastic wink, while the right side was normal. The left hand was across the breast, the fingers and thumb bent at the joints so that the whole hand had a spiderlike appearance\u2014a nightmare spider with a signet ring. By contrast, the right hand rested on the knee, relaxed\u2014the natural position for the hand of a man who had dozed off in his chair. The left leg was bent at knee and ankle so that the toes alone touched the floor. The right leg was normally relaxed.\n\nCrisp's eye travelled back to the face, which looked like the halves of two separate faces welded together by a maniac. Added was a certain gruesome rakishness, due, Crisp thought, to the fact that the scalp itself was awry\u2014until he realised that he was staring at a wig, slightly displaced.\n\nThere was no obvious sign of external violence.\n\n\"Looks like some kind of seizure,\" ran his thoughts. \"Probably while he was asleep.\"\n\nAll the same, he would have to proceed on the assumption of murder until the doctor had given a lead.\n\nHe took in the objects immediately surrounding the body. Long writing table: telephone: three upright chairs at the opposite side of the table, with three writing pads in front of them. A small pearl-handled penknife on one of the writing pads. The wall safe. On the mantelpiece a hand-operated die-stamp. Why on the mantelpiece instead of the writing table? Go into that later.\n\nMechanically, he ticked off the small detail of the objects. Watlington's writing pad at an angle, liberally scrawled with pencil, the pencil lying on the pad. The pencil was of ordinary pattern, except that it had a white enamelled barrel, with the South African maker's name impressed in red. Similar pencils lay beside each of the three blotting pads on the other side of the table\u2014no, by the middle pad there was no pencil! Yet the middle pad, alone of the three, had been touched with a pencil\u2014incomplete geometrical patterns\u2014the handiwork of a 'doodler.\n\nLast, he observed the room itself. Three walls were lined with bookshelves, heavily curtained, in the Victorian style. There were no books behind the curtains. The furniture, like that of the hall, was not old but merely out-of-date. There was a single window frame with sash windows ten feet high and five feet wide, counterpoised so that they could be raised or lowered with a light movement of the wrist.\n\n\"The team is arriving, sir,\" called Benscombe without entering the room. He added: \"And the dinner party guests too!\"\n\nAfter a glance round the room, during which he noted that the window was open at the top only, Crisp returned to the doorway.\n\n\"Get a screen for this door,\" he ordered Benscombe.\n\nThe team was pouring into the hall. They knew their work and needed no shepherding. But there was a small point to be cleared up at once.\n\n\"Do the key in the door first, and check with the finger prints of the deceased.\"\n\nOut came a powder spray. When the powder had settled:\n\n\"There's no print on the key, sir. There's a lot of scratches on the stub\u2014the part that sticks out on the other side.\"\n\nSo Watlington had not locked himself in. It was theoretically possible that some innocent person wearing gloves had done so. But it was extremely unlikely.\n\nThe scratches, Crisp reflected, had probably been made by himself. Nevertheless: \"Wrap the key for microscopic examination,\" he ordered.\n\nHe left the fingerprint man, the doctor, and the photographers to their work and went to the terrace. More than half the guests had arrived. Bright sunlight was streaming on the white shirt fronts of the men, making them look like foreigners at a wedding. They were clustered round Querk, questioning and even heckling him. The presence of the police in numbers had produced a variety of reactions, chief of which was the dread of being associated with a financier who had broken the law.\n\nMost of the guests were well known in fashionable and sporting circles. In one way and another, they had been profitably entangled in Watlington's massive financial movements.\n\nThey had received invitations to dinner at short notice, couched in terms that were almost peremptory. Those who had previous engagements cancelled them. They felt for Watlington that gratitude which is a lively sense of favours to come.\n\nThey all turned as Crisp approached.\n\n\"It's the Chief Constable himself... That looks serious... What's it all about, Colonel?\"\n\n\"I am sorry to tell you that Lord Watlington is dead,\" said Crisp.\n\nThe collective gasp was broken by Claudia Lofting.\n\n\"Has he been murdered?\"\n\n\"We don't know yet. I imagine that those who have been asked here to dinner will not care to stay. I would be obliged if you would kindly give your names to the constable at the door before you go. And please don't walk about the garden.\"\n\nThank heaven it had nothing to do with the accounts! The guests, chilled by Crisp's method of kicking them out, began to drift back to their cars. Some of their chatter reached Crisp.\n\n\"They say he married in South Africa, but no one has ever seen her. Perhaps she was waiting behind the door with an assegai\u2014or is it a tomahawk? What is a tomahawk?\"\n\nThen a deep, self-assured voice:\n\n\"It's either natural causes or murder. I happen to know it can't be suicide.\"\n\nCrisp swooped. The speaker was a distinguished looking man in the middle thirties. His face was long and thin: his eyes, large but deep set, were framed with thick, curving eyebrows. In contrast to the evening dress of the others, he was wearing baggy flannel trousers and a sports coat of somewhat elaborate cut; it was pleated, back and front, and had special side pockets, from one of which protruded the edge of a leather-bound sketch-book. On his left hand, unexpectedly, was a dun-coloured, cotton glove.\n\n\"How d'you know that?\" asked Crisp.\n\nThe other looked Crisp up and down. He was unimpressed by the badges of rank, paid more attention to the bulging pockets.\n\n\"Because he told me he intended to make an announcement tonight about his nephew's engagement to Miss Lofting. And because he made an appointment to sit for me next Tuesday.\" He added, with some surprise: \"I say\u2014don't you know who I am?\"\n\nCrisp admitted ignorance.\n\n\"As a matter of fact, I'm Arthur Fenchurch!\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Fenchurch,\" said Crisp and lost interest.\n\nWhile Crisp was talking to Fenchurch, Claudia sought Ralph Cornboise.\n\n\"More people are turning up,\" she warned him. \"I don't think we need bother to break it gently.\"\n\nThe newspaper descriptions of Claudia in court, by emphasising her physicality and writing up every detail of her dress, contrived to suggest a type of mindless play-girl who would do most things for money, including murder if necessary.\n\nActually, her appearance did not justify the superlatives of the special reporters. She was a smallish woman, but so well proportioned that no one would have called her short. Her disciplined body gave her unusual poise and gracefulness\u2014missed by the reporters. Her hair was dark, as were her wide-set eyes: her skin fair, so that she looked fragile, which she was not. Her features escaped the regularity demanded of the standard glamour girl. Her nose had the hint of a tilt, and her mouth was dynamic.\n\nIn sum, not a ravishing beauty but a good-looking girl with a physical individuality. From an artist's point of view, her weak spot was her hands, which were a shade too large and lacked femininity.\n\nAs Ralph showed no sign of taking action, she added: \"Hadn't you better go and head them off?\"\n\nRalph Cornboise, to look at, was any schoolgirl's ideal. He was tall and athletic, with crisp gold curls and long eyelashes, which concealed the slight prominence of his eyes. Claudia approved of his appearance, much as a woman approves of a man's clothes and with as little emotion. She had been drawn to him by that element in herself which she had not tried to understand\u2014a desire to protect and sustain a neurotic whose nature needed hers. This desire had grown to a dominating passion.\n\n\"Very well!\" He was reluctant. \"If you think I ought to.\"\n\n\"I'll join you in a minute.\" Claudia raised her voice for the benefit of some laggards. \"We're awfully sorry, everybody, but we're afraid you'll have to go.\"\n\nCrisp approached her.\n\n\"Are you hostess for Lord Watlington?\" he asked.\n\n\"No. Not officially. I'm Miss Lofting. I'm engaged to his nephew\u2014Mr. Cornboise. He and I and Mr. Querk\u2014the one bowing people out over there\u2014were asked to stay for the weekend. I must hurry and help Ralph\u2014that is, Mr. Cornboise. He's a bit shaken.\"\n\nCrisp told Benscombe to find out all about the imported waiters and to get rid of them, too. \"Have their names and addresses taken. And pass the word that those three\u2014Miss Lofting and Cornboise and that fleshy chap who has just sat down over there\u2014are not to leave the house until I give the word.\"\n\nCrisp went back to the house, taking note of the groundfloor rooms.\n\nAs you entered the house, through a lobby, the dining-room was on your right, the east side: behind it, the onetime 'smoking room' and a second small room, which the caretaker called the gun-room.\n\nOpposite the dining-room was the drawing-room: next to it, the library, then the morning-room.\n\nTredgold, the doctor, came out of the library and approached Crisp.\n\n\"Better take the morning-room, sir,\" suggested Benscombe, who was passing Crisp's orders to the sergeant in charge of the hall. As was his duty, he followed Crisp and the doctor into the morning-room.\n\n\"It's murder right enough, Colonel\u2014and that doesn't mean that I'm trespassing on your ground. A good many years ago, deceased had a trepanning operation. There was a silver plate set in the top of his skull. Over it he wore a wig. The plate was crumpled and driven in.\"\n\n\"Smashing the brain?\"\n\n\"Piercing the brain. That would account for the distortions of the body you noticed. The wig was, as far as I could see, undamaged.\"\n\n\"How many blows?\"\n\n\"By the appearance of the plate, only one.\"\n\n\"Heavy blow required?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"N-no. I'm no metallurgist, but I should say an eight or ten pound blow would do it. A child of ten could certainly exert enough pressure to smash that plate\u2014using a blunt instrument, of course.\"\n\n\"A ten-pound wallop! Wouldn't that have damaged the wig?\"\n\n\"It would indeed. All the same, he was not wearing the wig when he was struck. It's very unlikely that he himself had previously removed it\u2014trepanned patients are always cautioned never to leave the head uncovered.\"\n\n\"Then the murderer removed the wig, delivered his blow, then replaced the wig?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"I don't see how it could have been done otherwise,\" answered Tredgold. \"Anyhow, I can positively assure you that the blow was not struck through the wig.\"\n\nWhile Crisp pondered the doctor's statement, young Benscombe cut in:\n\n\"Could he possibly have done it himself, doctor?\"\n\n\"Hardly!\" The doctor smiled. \"Anyhow, he couldn't have replaced the wig, because he'd have been dead.\"\n\n\"How long has he been dead?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"About a couple of hours. I can't get nearer than that. Call it between five and five thirty.\"\n\n\"Can you give us a lead as to the weapon?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. The condition of the plate might help you there. It might have been any object in the room weighing a pound or two\u2014or a fair-sized spanner carried in the pocket. If you don't want me any more at the moment, I'll go and get everything ready for conveyance to the mortuary. Awkward that all this should happen on a Saturday evening!\"\n\n\"Thanks, doctor,\" said Crisp after a short silence. \"You might have that plate ready for us as soon as possible You've given us plenty to start on.\"\n\nWhen the doctor had gone, Crisp asked Benscombe:\n\n\"Who was it who spoke to you on the phone?\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir. As I told you at the time, he cut off.\"\n\n\"It was a man's voice, then?\"\n\n\"I remember _supposing_ it was a man.\" Benscombe stared down at his feet while his face flushed. \"But now\u2014I can't swear it wasn't a woman with a lowish voice\u2014or a man with a softish voice.\"\n\nAs Crisp scowled, Benscombe added:\n\n\"I'm very sorry, sir. At the police college we had that very test, and no one ever got one hundred per cent.\"\n\nCrisp turned his back, looked out of the window.\n\n\"Come here a minute, Benscombe.\"\n\nBenscombe exclaimed as he stared at a grouping of three grotesque shapes, clipped out of the yew trees. A vaguely heraldic figure that might have been a two-headed serpent menaced a huge, impossible fowl, which was curtseying to a green octopus. The trees stood at an intersection of the avenues of yew hedges. Under the two-headed serpent, some fifty yards from the window, was a stout woman, unfashionably dressed and apparently elderly. She was sitting on a rustic bench, knitting.\n\n\"Shall I go and quizz her?\"\n\n\"No. Keep an eye on her while I see what they're doing next door.\"\n\nIn the library, the doctor was bending over the corpse, as if continuing his examination. The upper part was already covered. The photographers had completed their preliminary work and were waiting for the finger-print man.\n\n\"We've got a lot, sir,\" said the latter. \"All over the writing table, two or three on the window, and two on the sash outside.\"\n\n\"Just a minute, Colonel!\" The doctor seemed to have increased in stature. \"I suggest that you try this signet ring for prints.\" He paused to rivet Crisp's attention. \"It was removed after death and replaced. I missed that point the first time.\"\n\n\" _After_ death? You're sure of that?\"\n\n\"I oughtn't to say I'm sure, but I am. The ring is a very tight fit. He would probably have needed soap to coax it off himself. Soap was not used. A small knife was used\u2014as a shoe-horn is used\u2014possibly that little pearly knife on the table. The flesh is perceptibly cut in two places, but the incisions have not bled.\"\n\nThe powder was applied, but with negative result. The ring had been wiped clean.\n\nThe table had been dealt with for finger prints. Across the blotting pad opposite the swivelled chair, covered with a maze of notes in pencil, was a sheet, torn from a writing pad, all four sides of which were dotted with embossments of a crest\u2014a two-headed serpent.\n\n\"Have the notes on that blotting pad typed out,\" ordered Crisp.\n\nLaid on an oilskin cloth and ticketted were the contents of the deceased's pockets. A gold cigar case, a slim wallet containing notes, a toothpick, several pencils, a bunch of keys, a gold watch and chain, with a key on the end of the chain.\n\nCrisp glanced from the key to the wall safe, then picked up watch and chain and applied the key to the safe, hoping to find a significant document.\n\nHe at once found what he sought\u2014indeed, the safe contained nothing but a long envelope with a printed address to a firm of solicitors. He picked it up, found that it had been lying on a similar envelope, empty, with the same printed address. On the back of the topmost envelope was a liberal blob of red sealing wax.\n\nCrisp took the sealed envelope by the edges.\n\n\"Try this for a finger print.\"\n\nThis time the powder gave a clear result. The prints were immediately photographed.\n\nNext, Crisp examined the sealing wax on the envelope. Imprinted was the crest of the two-headed serpent. To make sure, he dropped wax on a writing pad and applied the signet ring. The imprints were identical.\n\nHe ran his fingers the length of the envelope. It certainly was very slim\u2014if indeed it was a significant document.\n\nIt seemed to contain a single folded sheet.\n\n#  Chapter Two\n\nInspector Sanson, who was superintending measurements, approached Crisp.\n\n\"We've taken the prints of Harridge's waiters and of the three resident servants,\" he reported. \"There's a lady and two gentlemen staying in the house\u2014\"\n\n\"Take those, too,\" ordered Crisp, and added: \"As soon as your log is ready bring it to me in the little room behind this.\"\n\nCrisp strode on to the terrace. Benscombe was at the west end.\n\n\"The old girl is still knitting,\" he reported. \"I think she's watching points, sir. That bench is at the crossing of four avenues. She doesn't catch the eye herself, but she can see this terrace and the side of the house. By the way the hedges run, she could probably see anyone coming to the house from the garden.\"\n\n\"Right! I'll tackle her myself.\"\n\nAs he crossed the strip of lawn and entered the nearest avenue, the woman placed her knitting in a large canvas handbag. Crisp noted that she was probably about sixty, that her dress, though dowdy, was by no means shoddy. She was a big woman and even stouter than she had appeared to be when seen from the window of the morning-room. Yet her face was thin and boney, her skin excessively wrinkled, so that her large, well-shaped eyes created the eerie effect of having been filched from a younger woman.\n\n\"Good evening,\" she said in the tone of one who has been kept waiting. She shifted her position on the bench, to make room for him.\n\nCrisp echoed her greeting and sat beside her. Unexpectedly, she opened the canvas bag and took out the knitting she had just put away.\n\n\"D'you mind telling me,\" he asked, \"what you are doing here?\"\n\n\"I guessed you'd want to know. That's why I waited until you came.\"\n\nHer words were well formed, but the intonation was unmistakably Cockney. Her voice might once have been a pleasing contralto, but with the years it had dropped almost to tenor. \"I told myself it doesn't matter talking to the police because they don't tell the newspapers anything they don't have to. And it wouldn't be fair to him\u2014\" she nodded in the direction of the house \"\u2014\u2014to put me in the papers. And fair's fair, whatever a man has done!\"\n\n\"Quite so!\" agreed Crisp. In her conversational stance he recognised the recluse. She was not talking directly to him. She was talking to herself and allowing him to listen. \"Will you begin with your name, please?\"\n\n\"I had better begin with my name.\" Crisp observed that even his question registered as her own thought. \"I'm a married woman. Agnes Julia Cornboise.\" She added her address.\n\n\"Cornboise,\" repeated Crisp. \"Are you related to that young man staying in the house?\"\n\n\"So that's his name is it!\" The old lady seemed deeply impressed. \"Well, I never! He must be that nephew of his he's told me so much about. Then, of course, I'm his aunt by marriage, though there's no need for him to know that.\" Again she nodded at the house. \"I'm his wife, though we're separated these thirty years or more.\"\n\n\"D'you mean that you're Lord Watlington's wife\u2014that you're Lady Watlington?\" For a moment, Crisp suspected her mental balance.\n\n\"Oh, I don't take any notice of all that! And it certainly wasn't why I came and sat in his garden.\" She was amused. \"Me setting up as a ladyship at my time o' life and living in Kilburn\u2014I'd never hear the last of it!\" She became abstracted. Crisp gave her time. \"Did I say thirty years? It's thirty-two years, come next October, since we parted, because he wanted to. He never told me why, though I guessed. It wasn't another woman. Though it's wrong to say so, I wish it had been, because he'd have got tired of anybody but me. He never did get tired of me. Why in thirty years, I've got more than twenty big bundles of his letters\u2014the nice ones, I mean: I didn't keep the other sort.\n\n\"Nice letters,\" she repeated. \"You'd think we'd gone on living together and only parted a week or two before they were written. I suppose I ought to have known better at the time than to marry him. But there it is! What's done can't be undone. At least, it oughtn't to be, when it's marriage.\"\n\nShe showed signs of drying up. She began to knit, somewhat clumsily. Crisp had already winnowed two small points and wanted more.\n\n\"And you wrote nice letters back to him?\" he prompted.\n\n\"I never wrote to him at all. Only picture post-cards, saying I'd got the letters. He'd write when the mood was on him, sometimes three letters in a week and sometimes none for a couple of months. Used to write about me as if I was still a young woman.\"\n\n\"That's very unusual,\" said Crisp. \"Why did he desert you?\"\n\n\" _Who_ said he deserted me!\" She was indignant. \"If I said anything to make you think that, I did wrong. Fair's fair, whatever I've suffered. He always sent me the money he said he would. And lots of extra, sometimes. But the extra was because he wanted to bribe me into going against my principles and have a divorce. Those were the letters I didn't keep. And now you've made me forget what I was saying.\"\n\n\"You were telling me why you are here in this garden, said Crisp. His eye was caught by the van from the mortuary, which was drawing up at the front door. He added: \"We\u2014er\u2014began with your marriage some thirty years ago.\"\n\n\"That's right!\" she applauded. \"In Jo'burg, as they call it, meaning Johannesburg. In South Africa, y'know.\" She mentioned a politician who was once well known in Empire politics. \"He had a delicate stomach\u2014died of it in the end\u2014and when he had to go to Africa for the Government he took his cook with him. The cook was me.\n\n\"Samuel was just finishing being a miner then. I don't remember what he was at the time. In the fifteen months we lived together he must have had half a dozen different kinds of job, but he always brought home good money. That was the ruin of him, if you ask me.\"\n\nShe was looking towards the front door. Without change of tone, she went on: \"They might have used some sort of makeshift coffin, just to take him away in.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Cornboise! Who told you Lord Watlington was dead?\"\n\n\"Nobody told me. Where did I get to?\u2014oh yes!\u2014when we were walking out, he told me he could see I was of good family\u2014mind you, there's nothing wrong with my family\u2014better than his, come to that\u2014only it wasn't what _he_ meant by a good family\u2014and it came out that he thought I was a sort of paid companion, or something, to her ladyship. And I didn't let on I was only the cook. Maybe I did wrong, but I was in love with Sam and I was twenty-eight and hadn't had many chances, so though I didn't tell him a single untruth I let him think what he liked and we got married almost right away.\" She looked wistfully at the mortuary van. \"And now it's all ended like _that!_ There you go, then, Sam! It seems hardly decent.\"\n\nShe watched the van turn the bend in the drive, then resumed:\n\n\"We had a little boy, but he died almost before he was born. I believe that broke Sam's heart. Not that men are often fond of babies at that stage. But he said something about losing his heir\u2014talking as if he was Henry VIII! It was to do with his talk about good families and the rest of it. It turned him against me. He said he still loved me and always would, but he wanted a divorce\u2014which, of course, I wouldn't agree to. There wasn't any quarrel\u2014he just sort of asked me to go.\n\n\"So back I came to England, all alone. I've been alone ever since, in a manner of speaking, and I've never really got used to it. I took to knitting about ten years ago\u2014undervests for Sam, as he has to have wool next the skin. I must've sent him fifty or sixty. And he's never once mentioned them in his letters\u2014not even to say 'thank you.'\n\n\"What I was saying was, the money didn't really help at all, when you wanted company. When I heard he'd had to have the top of his head sliced off, I went to Johannesburg, thinking they might have cut out his senses and he'd need me to look after him. But he wouldn't even see me. And after I'd been back in London a couple of years, he wrote to say he was making a lot of money and he was sending a gentleman called Mr. Querk\u2014I think I saw him this evening, over there with the others\u2014he took me to an insurance office. Something was signed, which meant I was to have a nice little income all my life, whether Sam lived or died, or whatever happened to him, provided I didn't molest him.\"\n\n\"So you still have the income?\" put in Crisp.\n\n\"That's what I'm coming to, if you give me time,\" she answered. \"I couldn't stand having no one to talk to, so I went back to cooking, for company. I saved most of what the insurance company paid me\u2014and all the money Sam sent as extra presents, hoping for divorce. I reckoned I'd have a nice tidy sum ready for him if\u2014\" she glanced meaningly at Crisp's uniform\u2014\"if anything went wrong through all that money making. When I read in the paper that he'd set himself up as a lord, I knew something 'ud happen. You can laugh at me, but I had a feeling in my bones this morning that it was going to happen today.\"\n\n\"I shan't laugh,\" Crisp assured her. \"I've known many cases of that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"Well, so I had a bite o' lunch at home then came along here with my knitting and a few sandwiches, meaning to wait about quietly, in case he should go for a stroll in the garden. You couldn't call that molesting him. And even if I was wrong about something bad going to happen, I thought maybe he'd like us to spend our old age together and live simply and comfortably, as soon as he's tired of playing at being a lord. Why, he doesn't even know what the gentry eat!\"\n\nWith the last words, she turned towards him. Crisp observed that the large eyes suggested not only vigour but also intelligence. Yet she had rambled on in the manner of a person who has no sense of proportion. She had not even asked him the usual irritating questions as to whether it were a case of murder and if so who was the murderer.\n\n\"I've told you all about Sam and me because I didn't want you ferreting about and getting it all wrong. He gave me much more money than he need have done. All the same, he spoilt my life as well as his own, and now he's gone it won't really make any difference. He didn't want me, whatever you say. For one thing, I ought to have told myself he'd get a shock at seeing me an old woman.\"\n\nCrisp made a leap in the dark.\n\n\" _Was_ it a shock to him when he saw you, Mrs. Cornboise?\"\n\n\"I don't care for that kind of question!\" She drew herself up primly, as if he had made an obscene remark. \"If I'd seen him I'd have mentioned it. If you ask me in a straightforward way what you want to know, I'll give you a straightforward answer.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs. Cornboise.\" Crisp contrived to look like a penitent schoolboy. \"Here's a very straightforward question. What time did you get here this afternoon?\"\n\n\"About ten past two. I could see the time from the stable clock\u2014let alone it keeps on striking. I found this nice seat where I can see two sides of the house and anybody coming up from this side of the garden, though I will say these awful shapes gave me the creeps at first.\"\n\n\"You must have seen a good deal in that long time?\"\n\n\"There was nothing to see until you came. Unless you mean the other people in the house. And I'm one to mind my own business.\"\n\n\"Come, Mrs. Cornboise!\" Crisp was changing tone. \"I think you know as well as I do that this is your own business.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I've got nothing to hide, except from the newspapers. Well then, a bit after it had struck half past two, I saw that window open\u2014look down this alley\u2014one of those big windows, I mean.\" She indicated the library. \"And a young lady came out. And that young man you say is my nephew by marriage came after her. It looked to me as if they were having a tiff and she was in the wrong, because she put her hand on his arm and he shook it off; then she put it there again and he let it stay and they walked across over there, only it wasn't any good. They must have had a good long quarrel. And she was unlucky, by the look of it.\"\n\n\"Did you hear what they said, then?\"\n\n\"No. But more'n a couple of hours later she came back without him. And she walked right past me without seeing me and went into the house.\"\n\n\"What time did she go into the house?\"\n\n\"Five, as near as makes no matter.\"\n\nAccording to the doctor, Watlington had died between five and five thirty.\n\n\"What about young Cornboise?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"He gave her a good start. It was a good ten past before he showed up. And then he didn't go in by the front door, as she did. He went in by the window he had come out of, pushed it up from the outside. I think she must've been in that room\u2014or else he had some trouble with Samuel. It hadn't finished striking the quarter past before he came out again\u2014wiping his face with his handkerchief he was, as if he'd been crying. Then he walked across that bit o' lawn, but caught his foot, or something, and fell down. When he'd picked himself up he turned round and went to the stables\u2014but it's the garage, really\u2014then he came out in one of those big cars that only seat two\u2014silly, I call ' em\u2014and drove himself off. All painted up, the car was, like it belonged to a circus.\"\n\n\"But he came back?\"\n\n\"I'm telling you. He came back a little after half past six. He'd left it late, I suppose, because he fairly ran from the stables to the front door.\n\n\"I didn't see either of those two again until just before you came. Then they came out together, him in his evening dress and her wearing a cloak. They hadn't hardly sat down before that Mr. Querk\u2014if it _is_ Mr. Querk\u2014joined them. You saw the three o' them when you came, before all those others turned up.\"\n\n\"And you saw nothing else at all?\"\n\n\"Well unless you count the maid, bringing out tables and chairs and things, about seven. Oh, and the postman\u2014about a quarter to four, that would be. With a registered parcel I expect, because he waited while the maid signed for it.\"\n\nCrisp had made a rich haul of important little items, invaluable in checking the statements of others. And for this he was indebted to the vague, rambling old woman who had suddenly converted herself into an ideal witness.\n\n\"You've helped me a lot, Mrs. Cornboise, and I'm grateful.\" He added in the same tone: \"And you yourself have been sitting on this bench continuously for more than six hours?\"\n\n\"Seven hours, come another few minutes. Didn't you hear it strike nine just now? There'll be the dew presently and I think I'll be getting home, if there's nothing else you want to ask me.\"\n\n\"As a matter of form, Mrs. Cornboise,\" said Crisp, \"I must ask you to let me look inside that canvas bag of yours.\"\n\n\"Well, I never!\" Again she had the air of being shocked. \"Like the police in the pictures.\" She handed him the bag, adding gloomily: \"In a picture I saw last week, a policeman put a revolver in somebody's bag so that another policeman could find it there and make a lot of bother.\"\n\n\"You watch me and see that I don't cheat,\" grinned Crisp as his hand groped in the bag.\n\nHe removed the topmost articles\u2014a novelette with a lingerie jacket, a sixpenny packet of stationery, and a pair of gloves.\n\nAfter a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a woollen stocking. Inside the stocking, at the toe, was a hard, heavy substance. He tumbled it into his palm. It had the appearance of a duck's egg. It was solid and was made of earthenware.\n\n\"That's a nest-egg,\" she explained. \"I tried keeping chickens at one time, but they weren't really company. I use it now for stretching the stocking and holding it steady while I darn it\u2014in case you're wondering.\"\n\n\"I was wondering,\" said Crisp, \"why you carry this darning device in a stocking that has no hole, has never been darned and is, in fact, a new one.\"\n\n\"There now!\" exclaimed Mrs. Cornboise. \"I must have brought the wrong pair. You have got sharp eyes, I must say!\"\n\nHe opened the bag to its full extent, found two more stockings, making a total of three.\n\n\"I shall have to keep these for the present,\" he told her. \"I'll give you a receipt.\"\n\nWhen he had calmed her protests he passed her to young Benscombe, telling him quietly to send her home and have her address checked.\n\n#  Chapter Three\n\nInspector Sanson, a pompous little man who had gained promotion for his desk work, had already given the Victorian morning-room the semblance of an office at headquarters. On the breakfast table, from which the patterned cloth had been removed, were all the portable objects which had been examined for finger prints. Crisp dropped into the only easy chair.\n\n\"Give me the log of the witnesses first, Sanson, then your stuff.\"\n\n\"The only witness of any account so far, sir, is Bessie Walters, temporary maid, who has been in the employment of the deceased, as have the other two, for three weeks. At nine this morning, when Bessie Walters brought deceased his breakfast in the room we are now occupying, deceased told her there would be three guests to luncheon\u2014which he said the cook could serve out of tins\u2014and twenty all told to dinner, for which arrangements had been made with Harridge's. The three to luncheon were to stay till Monday morning.\n\n\"Mr. Querk arrived shortly before noon, when he _re_ -paired to the library. He remained there closetted with deceased until about a quarter to one, when Mr. Cornboise, his nephew, and Miss Lofting, the nephew's intended, also arrived. The four I have mentioned consumed cocktails on the terrace until luncheon was served. After luncheon, all four _re_ -paired to the library, where they remained closetted until a quarter to three, approximately, when Walters saw Mr. Querk going up to his room. She did not see the other two guests between luncheon and about seven, when they came downstairs together in evening dress and _re_ -paired to the terrace. A few minutes later Mr. Querk added himself to their company.\n\n\"Walters last saw the deceased at luncheon. It was his habit to sleep after luncheon in the library, where he would remain closetted until dinner, and orders were that he was never to be disturbed until dinner was served. Having lived abroad, he did not take afternoon tea.\n\n\"There had been no orders for tea for the guests. But at four, Walters went in search of the guests. She found only Mr. Querk in the house. He was in his room, and she said she thought he also had been sleeping in his chair. She offered to bring him tea, which offer having been accepted, she came back with a tray and put it on the table by the window where he was sitting.\n\n\"At four fifteen approximately, Walters _re_ -paired to her bedroom where she remained closetted until a quarter to six. At six, Messrs. Harridge's employees arrived with a mobile kitchen unit and all Walters had to do was to show them the dining-room. The cook and the under-housemaid not being required to\u2014to exercise their respective functions, sir\u2014had leave of absence from four until ten. Walters remained in the staff sitting-room until seven, when, after putting some chairs on the terrace, she took up a position in the hall in readiness for the arrival of the guests. That completes the essentials of the log of the witnesses.\"\n\n\"There's a detail missing,\" said Crisp. \"Benscombe, find out whether Bessie Walters was called to the front door between lunch and our arrival. Get details, but mind you don't lead her. Carry on, Sanson.\"\n\n\"Finger prints, sir, ignoring those of deceased.\" The Inspector turned to a separate sheaf of notes. \"Miss Lofting: On exterior and interior hand plates of the door of the library. On the edge of the writing table: on some brown wrapping paper, sent through the post and post-marked London this morning ten-fifteen, found in the waste paper basket\u2014Exhibit Two: also on the woodwork of the east window of the library, internal.\n\n\"Mr. Cornboise: Interior handplate of door: writing table: woodwork of window, interior and exterior.\n\n\"Mr. Querk: On interior handplate of door: on writing table: on an address die-stamp found on the mantelpiece\u2014Exhibit One: On sealed envelope which you took from the safe\u2014Exhibit Four. The sealed envelope also bears prints of deceased. That's all of what you might call the major prints, sir. The rest is check-up\u2014including the prints of Bessie Walters all over the place, as you might say.\"\n\nExhibit Three was the little pearl-handled pen-knife, on which no prints had been found.\n\n\"Blurred, I suppose?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"No, sir. Wiped clean.\"\n\nWiped clean, like the signet ring and the key of the safe, bearing out the doctor's guess that the knife had been used to ease the ring off the finger and replace it. Nothing else of note, except that Querk had apparently put the die-stamp on the mantelpiece.\n\nCrisp got up and looked at the die-stamp. From a metal base, two by three inches, a lever of some eight inches operated a copper stamp, the whole weighing a little over two pounds.\n\nCrisp inserted a piece of paper and pressed the lever.\n\n\"I guessed it wasn't an address stamp\u2014the copper is too short. It's a stunt for embossing the family crest. Two-headed serpent.\"\n\n\"Relevant to Exhibit Two,\" said Sanson, \"the postal wrapping paper previously referred to, sir\u2014here it is\u2014bears the name of a firm of lithographers and die-cutters.\"\n\n\"It probably came by this afternoon's post, sir,\" cut in Benscombe, who had returned a minute or so previously. \"Bessie says the postman came about a quarter to four with two parcels, one registered and marked personal.\"\n\n\"This die-stamp wasn't registered,\" said Crisp, after a glance at the wrapping. \"Find out where the registered parcel is. Don't ask anybody but Walters.\"\n\nSo far, the information received tallied with that given to Crisp by the old lady in the garden.\n\nWhile Crisp was making his own note of the known whereabouts of the servants and guests between two and seven o'clock, a constable brought him a package.\n\n\"From Dr. Harris, sir.\"\n\nThe package contained the silver plate from the skull of the deceased. Enclosed was a memo from the doctor:\n\n_'I have taken scrapings for analysis elsewhere. On outer side of plate was substance which, with my own small microscope, I could recognise as dust of plectyt\u2014a finely processed canvas used as the foundation for wigs.'_\n\nFriction, presumably, decided Crisp, since the wig had been removed by the murderer before the blow had been delivered. The plate itself had been puckered and driven inwards.\n\nHe bent low over the die-stamp, examining the edges of the base, which were clean. The new paint gleamed, but there was a chip of about an eighth of an inch on one side, which might have been made by impact on the silver plate on the skull itself. He picked it up by the lever, fitted a corner of the base to the puckerings of the silver plate.\n\n\"That's the weapon!\" he said aloud. \"And it only struck once. Well, Benscombe?\"\n\n\"Blank on the registered parcel, sir. Can't get a thing out of Bessie\u2014disclaims responsibility, but is worried about having signed for it. I tried to calm her down, sir\u2014\"\n\n\"I'll have a go,\" said Crisp. \"Ask her to come here\u2014don't tell her.\"\n\nIn mistaken self-defence Bessie launched a counterattack from the doorway.\n\n\"If its about that registered parcel, sir, all I want to know is what you say I ought to have done with it, having signed for it, as I've owned up, and put it where the old man\u2014where Lord Watlington\u2014would be sure to see it as soon as he'd finished his sleep\u2014meaning the table in the hall.\"\n\n\"Quite so!\" said Crisp soothingly. \"That was the proper thing to do.\"\n\n\"Then I'm glad that's settled, sir.\" The words were spoken at Benscombe. \"Only, with the young gentleman asking me all those questions, I was beginning to wonder.\"\n\n\"He doesn't think you pinched it, Bessie\u2014he isn't such a fool!\"\n\nsmiled Crisp. \"We have to find that parcel, and we hoped you'd be able to give us a hand.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sure I'll do all I can, sir, but I don't see how it'll help.\" She related the known facts. \"The last I saw of that parcel was when I took Mr. Querk his tea\u2014reminds me, I forgot to take his tray away.\"\n\n\"That was the last time you saw it, eh?\"\n\n\" _Oo!_ Your saying that makes me think o' something. It _was_ the last time, but it didn't ought to 've been\u2014that is, not unless something woke him up and he took it himself, if you understand me.\"\n\n\"I understand perfectly,\" asserted Crisp. \"You expected to see that parcel again. When?\"\n\n\"When I came downstairs a bit before six, so as to be ready for those Harridge's men. But there wasn't neither of the parcels on the table then. The one that wasn't registered had gone, too. I'm sure of that, sir, as I'm standing here, because I remember what they looked like before they'd been moved. There was the unregistered one, heavy and standing up like. The registered one was flattish and felt as if it had cardboard under the paper.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much, Bessie! You've helped us a lot,\" said Crisp. \"Let's see if I've got it right. You noticed both parcels on the hall table when you went upstairs at about four fifteen?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. And when I came down a bit before six, they'd both gone.\"\n\n\"You heard what that girl said. That parcel must be accounted for.\" Crisp spoke to Sanson, who made a note. Presently he turned to Benscombe.\n\n\"Come with me on a tour of the house. You can make a sketch plan so that we can locate everybody.\"\n\nIn the century and a half of its existence the Manor House had suffered two fires and five barons of varying tastes and fortunes. The original staircase survived in a broad flight which failed to reach the first floor.\n\n\"This landing has been built in,\" remarked Crisp. \"So has this bow window.\" From the landing there were but three stairs to the first floor.\n\nThe first bedroom, smaller than one would have expected, was evidently allotted to Ralph Cornboise. It was dingily but adequately furnished in satinwood, with an easy chair of old leather, which must have strayed some fifty years ago from a downstairs room. Crisp looked round, finding nothing to rivet his attention.\n\n\"This is part of a large room,\" he said. \"Done on the cheap, too!\" He tapped the dividing wall, which resounded as if he had tapped a drum, revealing itself as match-boarding.\n\nIn the next room, the dinginess was even more pronounced. A cheap iron bedstead, a gimcrack wardrobe of stained deal and a bamboo dressing table with a spotted mirror.\n\nOn either side of the dressing table, the two men looked down on the terrace, obtaining a foreshortened view of Claudia, who was apparently consuming tea and sandwiches while her companion smoked.\n\n\"Miss Lofting and Cornboise working out how much they'll tell us, sir?\" remarked Benscombe.\n\n\"If you stand here, you'll see it isn't Cornboise. It's an artist called Arthur Fenchurch. Ever heard of him?\"\n\n\"No. A dinner guest, eh? He ought to have buzzed off when you told ' em to. Shall I\u2014?\"\n\n\"If we leave him alone, we're more likely to find out why he's hanging around.\"\n\nCrisp lingered, taking note of the layout of the garden. Nearly the whole five acres of it sprawled on the west side of the house. On the east side, only a narrow strip at the foot of the brick wall separated it from a side road.\n\nHe was about to move on, when he heard Ralph Cornboise entering the adjoining room. He motioned Benscombe to silence.\n\n\"Can't remember... Can't remember!\" It was a muttered undertone, but the words came distinctly through the matchboard partition. \"Don't run your hands through your hair. All right dear, I forgot... I can't remember. Can't remember.\"\n\nThe sound of a male head being brushed became audible\u2014then of the brushes being replaced\u2014after which Ralph left the room and went downstairs.\n\n\"Talks to himself without saying anything,\" remarked Benscombe.\n\nThe tour of the house became perfunctory, Crisp's purpose being merely to absorb background detail. In the kitchen quarters he observed that there was no window on the west side, which was blinded by the stables. The last room they entered was the dining-room.\n\nAlone at a table intended to seat twenty sat Andrew Querk, before him a large helping of lobster salad.\n\nQuerk was a large, fleshy man early middle age, who moved like a sleek cat and spoke in sonorous platitudes. His clothes, of the most expensive material, were cut with a conscious provincialism, so that one hardly needed to be informed that he was a mayor. In so far as he could be said to have a profession, he was a financial agent. He had qualified as a solicitor, but had never practised.\n\nEarly in life, he had discovered that the English mistrust an obviously clever man, but open their hearts to a fool who can be relied upon to make a fool of no one but himself. Like Watlington, though working along a different line, he had imposed upon himself a personality which in time acquired reality. He had sensed that the business man, secretly afraid of modern trends, looks backwards to the beginning of the century as the golden age. While adopting modern methods, he steeped his mentality in the mannerisms and thought-forms of fifty years ago, thereby subtly creating an atmosphere of stolid security. Except that he had made three unsuccessful attempts to marry, Querk could count himself a successful man in his own sphere.\n\nOver the lobster salad, Querk beamed a welcome.\n\n\"Oh, pray come in!\" he invited. \"I feel that my poor old friend would have wished us to behave as normally as possible. The young people maintained that food would choke them\u2014a somewhat hysterical attitude. You are under no strain, Colonel. Won't you join me while we have our talk. I will ring for Bessie.\"\n\n\"No thanks. Don't let me disturb you. I'll see the other two first.\"\n\n\"You will find them a charming couple,\" said Querk. \"And I have no need to emphasise to you, my dear Colonel, that if they should seem to you evasive on one or two matters of a purely personal nature, their reticence will have nothing whatever to do with the manner in which poor Sam\u2014I should say Lord Watlington\u2014met his death.\"\n\nCrisp spoke from the door.\n\n\"Perhaps you would be good enough to wait in this room, Mr. Querk, until I send you word.\"\n\n\"Certainly\u2014by all means! As Mayor of Taunchester I have worked with our own Chief Constable. I am familiar with the routine, and I need not say I am wholly at your disposal, Colonel.\"\n\nCrisp thanked him as if this were a special concession. In the hall he spoke in an undertone to Benscombe.\n\n\"You've got to keep your temper with that chap, young man. If I catch you smacking his face, there'll be trouble. Keep him in there until I've seen the other two. Bring the girl in first, then put her in the drawing-room. Don't let her talk to Cornboise before I've seen him. Nor to Querk.\"\n\nIn the morning-room, Inspector Sanson was gathering up his papers.\n\n\"I've assembled my requirements in that somewhat diminutive room they call the gunroom, behind the dining-room. I thought I would make that my office _in situ_ , sir.\"\n\n\"Right, Sanson. If Benscombe brings you anybody, keep 'em there until I give the all clear.\"\n\n\"Miss Lofting, sir,\" announced Benscombe.\n\n#  Chapter Four\n\nIn the matter of women, Crisp was not afraid of himself. He knew that there are uncharted cross-currents of sympathy between the sexes which are likely to upset the judgment. His formula was to let himself be impressed, then rub out the impression.\n\nIn something under a second, he made a preliminary assessment of Claudia. Her dress he saw as a wisp of an evening frock in a blue that was insistent when you looked at the frock but ingenious when you looked at the girl. A cloak that contrived to seem part of the frock. A physically attractive woman who was intelligently aware of her attractiveness.\n\nFrom her style, he guessed that she was typical of her class\u2014probably ill-educated but well informed, shallow but well disciplined, loyal only to her own set and unscrupulous outside her own code, dignified and well mannered, but fundamentally tougher than any gun moll because she was sure of herself.\n\nWith the ghost of a bow, she acknowledged his position. Her eye ran over the exhibits on the table, stopped at the pearl-handled penknife.\n\n\"Your knife?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"Yes. I think I left it in the library.\"\n\n\"When d' you think you left it there?\"\n\n\"Some time during the afternoon. It must have been about five.\"\n\nTypical of her class. No evasion, no apologetic explanation. She might or might not know that Watlington had been killed between five and five thirty.\n\nShe turned to the one easy chair. Crisp watched her sit down, an act which defeats the majority of graceful women and makes them self-conscious. When Claudia sat down, Crisp knew that she must have served an apprenticeship at all the light games\u2014tennis, squash and probably fencing\u2014that she took little or no alcohol and that she slept well. She had not even fussed with her dress, as most of them did. She could sit, too, without fidgetting. Her hands, slightly over-developed, were still.\n\n\"What was the knife being used for?\"\n\nClaudia smiled. \"It will take hours this way, Colonel. Wouldn't it be better for me to recite my little piece first?\"\n\n\"Much better,\" he agreed. \"Let's begin with your arrival.\"\n\n\"A bit before that, if you don't mind. Ralph\u2014that's Cornboise, my fianc\u00e9\u2014drove me up from my home in Wiltshire to meet his uncle, for the first time. Ralph was worried because he was expecting a stormy interview about his extravagance. He has spent an awful lot\u2014but that's because his uncle kept sending cheques and writing him nonsense about keeping up his position. Watlington had the gipsy fortune-teller's idea of the peerage. The point is, Ralph was in a state of hopeless nerviness. That explains the odd way we all behaved.\"\n\n\"All\u2014including yourself?\" Crisp gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.\n\n\"Including me! Lunch went off fairly well. Watlington was quite good company when he wasn't thinking about the peerage. Ralph was gloomy, so Querk and I had to laugh at all the jokes. After lunch we all trouped into the headmaster's study. There was a bit about Ralph's extravagance, but not much. Then we got back to the peerage _motif_ \u2014founding a family and all that. Watlington read us his Will. You've got it there on the table in that sealed envelope. Or haven't you?\"\n\nShe seemed to have lost her way. The long summer day was fading. Crisp turned on the light.\n\n\"This may be the Will,\" said Crisp. \"We always avoid opening sealed documents if we can.\"\n\nShe came out of her abstraction.\n\n\"Anyhow, the Will said that, provided Ralph married a suitable sort of woman, he'd get a million, apart from the trimmings\u2014which may be another million or so, for all I know. That was how the trouble started.\"\n\nAgain she lapsed into silence.\n\n\"Trouble?\" he prompted. \"Not about the suitability of yourself as a wife, surely?\"\n\n\"It was, though! Now, I might turn out a ghastly flop as a wife, but I _am_ suitable by Watlington's standards, if by no one else's. He said something about modern girls being too broadminded about love affairs, meaning that I personally was once in love with another man, as Ralph knows.\" She paused. \"He had somehow got hold of some letters I had written to this man. That'll give you a sidelight on Watlington.\"\n\n\"Very special letters?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"They seemed so, when I wrote them.\" She smiled ruefully. \"But if they were read aloud in court, I'm afraid they'd sound as awful as other people's do.\"\n\n\"What became of those letters?\"\n\n\"He kept them as evidence for the trustees that I was not 'of unblemished social position'\u2014as I think he called it in the Will.\" She went on: \"Watlington didn't say anything which was not true. But Ralph, being nervy, made a scene.\n\n\"When I had damped Ralph down, Watlington said he was sleepy and he would see us all at cocktail time. He made us watch while he put the Will in an envelope and sealed it with sealing wax. He sealed it with the family crest on his signet ring. Peerage _motif_ again!\"\n\n\"Did he seal up the letters with the Will?\" asked Crisp.\n\nShe took time over her answer. He was uncertain whether she were trying to remember, or thinking of something safe to say.\n\n\"I didn't notice. I was watching Ralph. He's a bit of an invalid.\"\n\n\"What sort of invalid?\"\n\n\"Oh\u2014just nerves, as I told you. Having all that money thrown at him when he was an undergraduate unbalanced him a bit. Before we left the library, he did break out again\u2014I forget quite why\u2014said I had been insulted and that we would both leave the house and never enter it again\u2014and he would be heroic and keep me on his earnings, when everybody knows he couldn't earn anything, poor dear!\n\n\"I said I didn't feel insulted\u2014which I didn't. If I had felt insulted, I wouldn't have stayed on for the week-end. In the library, I said perhaps a bit more than I meant to Ralph\u2014that I couldn't marry him if he were to quarrel with his uncle, because I didn't think I could hold down the job of harrassed housewife. Then I went into the garden and Ralph followed me\u2014rather huffily at first. I told him it was all very dramatic and silly, and that, by dinner time, Watlington would have forgotten what he had said. Ralph agreed, and we talked of other things. But he kept harking back to the insult nonsense. So I said I'd go and talk to his uncle myself, and I left Ralph in the garden. This was about five o'clock. The stable clock struck as I reached the house.\n\n\"I went in by the front door. On that table in the hall I saw a couple of parcels, one registered. The other had the printed label of a lithographer. I picked it up, as a good excuse for butting in on Watlington. In part of the peerage talk, he had told us he was waiting for\u2014that thing on the table there, to stamp the family crest on things when you couldn't use sealing wax.\n\n\"I fancy he was only pretending to be asleep. I sat down quietly at the writing table opposite him. I took that knife from my bag and cut the string. With the crackle of the paper he had to admit he was awake. He made a pleased noise and grabbed the stamp, like a child grabbing a toy. I gave him a piece of paper and we both played with it. He asked me whether there was another parcel in the hall. I didn't want another diversion, so I said I hadn't noticed one. As soon as I could, I said: 'Ralph is being rather hysterical because he thinks you don't want us to get married.' And he said 'Hysterical! You've said it. The boy's soft. You'll have to toughen him up, my dear, if you want to make anything of him.'\n\n\"When I pointed out that I couldn't do anything, if it were to be made impossible for us to marry, he said. 'Forget all that. I said most of it because Ralph was getting my goat. He explained that when he was told Ralph had become engaged to me he had made inquiries. He heard that I had been 'entangled,' as he called it, with another man, but he was now satisfied that he need not have bothered himself. After that, he became complimentary\u2014quite definitely so\u2014the burden of it being that he was very glad I wanted to marry Ralph.\"\n\n\"He didn't give you back those letters you had written? Did you ask him for them?\"\n\n\"No. He had forgiven himself and me and everybody, and was making courtly little speeches. It would have spoilt the atmosphere to remind him of what a horrible cad he had been over the letters.\"\n\nCrisp could not gauge whether it was true or untrue. She had a compelling honesty of manner\u2014which might be only manner.\n\n\"Will you tell me the name of the man to whom those letters were written?\"\n\n\"Of course I won't!\"\n\nOf course she wouldn't, reflected Crisp. That sort of thing was protected by the code\u2014no earthly good pressing her. He smiled and asked:\n\n\"After you had left Watlington?\"\n\n\"I went upstairs to my room, had a bath, and stayed in my room until it was time to dress for dinner. That's all!\"\n\nCrisp made a swift analysis. The girl's story contained a feasible explanation of every fact which an intelligent person might assume to be already in the possession of the police.\n\n\"What time did you leave the library?\"\n\n\"On my way to the bathroom\u2014after picking up my things in the bedroom\u2014I heard a quarter past five strike. That would be about three minutes after I left the library.\"\n\n\"That's a precise answer\u2014you'd make a very good witness.\" She looked as pleased as a schoolgirl when the music master has expressed approval. Crisp asked:\n\n\"Was Watlington's objection to you\u2014possibly\u2014a bit stronger than you've implied?\"\n\n\"Possibly!\" She laughed. \"You mean that\u2014as I didn't know he was going to change his mind about me\u2014I ought to have murdered him myself, recovered the letters and married Ralph on the million and trimmings?\"\n\n\"That was in my mind,\" grinned Crisp.\n\n\"Then for heaven's sake don't let it wander out of your mind when you're grilling Ralph. I mean it, though I've put it stupidly. I mean that, if you drop the slightest hint that you suspect me of murder, he'll promptly confess and demand to be hanged.\" Her eyes searched his face\u2014her tone changed and her self-possession vanished. \"Please be gentle with him, Colonel.\"\n\nShe assumed that he had no more questions for her, and got up. He went to the door and let her out\u2014then, on an afterthought, turned, as if to bar her way.\n\n\"I don't suspect Cornboise of murdering his uncle,\" he said, watching her eyes. \"But you do!\"\n\n\"I do not!\" Her voice held both surprise and reproof. \"But he's so nervy. As soon as he gets frightened of you, he'll bluster and say silly things and contradict himself.\"\n\n\"Why should you think he'll 'get frightened' of me?\" Crisp was puzzled, \"I haven't bullied you, have I?\"\n\n\"No\u2014but I've told you ten times as much as I meant to.\" She added: \"You're the only formidable man I've ever met.\"\n\nThat last bit was inverted flattery, he told himself when she had gone. Most civilian men liked to be thought formidable\u2014she had taken a bet that the same applied to himself.\n\nBut he had to admit that she had not tried any tricks while she was giving evidence. He found himself approving her. She had given straight answers, told her tale without trying to lead him in this direction or that. The tale was consistent with the known facts, corroborated in detail by Mrs. Cornboise and by Bessie, the maid.\n\nAt the back of his head was the suspicion that there was a catch in it somewhere.\n\n\"That Will is the catch!\" he exclaimed.\n\nAs before, he ran his fingers over the envelope, wondering at its slimness. One would expect a millionaire's Will to be a complicated, bulky affair. He was certain now, that there was only a single folded sheet inside the long envelope.\n\n\"If Cornboise gives me the same tale I'll open it in his presence.\"\n\nHe was about to call Benscombe, when the latter came in.\n\n\"That artist, Arthur Fenchurch, sir. Do you want to see him before he goes? He gave an address about half a mile from here.\"\n\n\"All right! I'll see him before I see Cornboise.\"\n\nArthur Fenchurch registered elaborate indifference. Crisp recognised his type too\u2014the poseur who explains that he is posing.\n\n\"I'd like to know your business here this evening, Mr. Fenchurch?\"\n\n\"Businesss? None. That is, not directly. I consented to come in order to kow-tow to a wealthy client. I was to paint him, including\u2014my God!\u2014his wig.\" He added: \"I have to do portraiture to make a living. My portraits are very vulgar, and so I am becoming very popular.\"\n\nCrisp eyed the sports coat and flannel trousers\u2014noticed that the leather-bound sketch-book was no longer in the side-pocket.\n\n\"D'you mean you were asked to dinner?\"\n\n\"Yes. I never wear evening dress. When I turn up like this, people think I'm much better known that I am. That helps to stiffen my prices.\"\n\nCrisp consulted the list of dinner guests. _Mr. Fenchurch. Mrs. Fenchurch_ , followed by a local address and telephone number.\n\n\"The other guests had all left by about eight at my request. It's now ten.\"\n\n\"I apologise. I lingered partly out of morbid curiosity, partly in the hope of publicity, and partly because I know Ralph Cornboise and Miss Lofting very well.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. Fenchurch went home alone? I take it the lady is your wife?\"\n\n\"Yes\u2014but not legally, of course! Everybody knows we're not married.\"\n\n\"And she was asked to dinner as your mistress?\" Crisp was sceptical.\n\n\"In effect, yes. People who can afford to have their portraits painted always expect an artist to have a mistress. As a matter of fact, my relations with the fair Glenda are what you would probably call blameless. She believes she's my secretary\u2014she's actually my domestic help. She likes people to think she's living in sin, so the arrangement pleases everybody. Only, for some reason, she funked turning up tonight.\"\n\nCrisp was framing a question, when the explanation came of its own accord.\n\n\"She cried off yesterday on the ground that Watlington was a nasty old man who had\u2014er\u2014I think you call it?\u2014made advances to her. It may or may not have been true. She is very pretty and very vain. I adore her vanity but detest her prettiness.\"\n\nPutting himself over, thought Crisp. He let a silence hang, knowing that this type could rarely endure inattention. His eye lighted on the dun coloured cotton glove on the other's left hand.\n\n\"In hot weather, I am afflicted with a slight eczema\u2014due to excessive drinking,\" he explained, and added: \"By the way, am I suspected of guilty knowledge of the murder and\u2014that kind of thing?\"\n\n\"Theoretically, you are\u2014until we have checked you out. Where were you between lunch and dinner?\"\n\n\"Heavens, have I to produce an alibi? I must take fantastic care not to contradict myself.\" He possessed himself of one of the pencils exhibited on the table and made notes on the back of a typewritten letter. \"I remember trying to go to sleep after lunch, but it was too hot. I went out alone and wandered by the river. I lay down under that oak near the lock until I began to bore myself. Then I came on here, apparently arriving at the right time.\"\n\n\"Perhaps someone saw you during that time who could identify you?\" suggested Crisp.\n\n\"Undoubtedly! People tend to point me out to each other. But I myself don't know a soul in these parts. We might advertise in the local paper, asking all those who stared at me to come forward. Otherwise, I warn you, I can't prove a word of my story.\"\n\n\"In your case, I don't think we need worry you about proof.\" Crisp surprised an unguarded look of relief on the other's face. \"If you find you can remember anything for us to check, you might ring me at headquarters, will you? Goodnight!\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Fenchurch as he rose to go, \"why people think the police subject them to third degree or whatever it is. I've enjoyed our chat immensely.\"\n\n\"So have I. Would you mind returning that pencil which you have pocketted?\"\n\n\"Oh, sorry! I'm so glad you told me! People generally hate to mention it. My studio is littered with other people's pencils and fountain pens\u2014mostly belonging to autograph hunters.\"\n\nWhen Fenchurch had left the room, Crisp summoned Benscombe, gave him the list of guests.\n\n\"Before Fenchurch can reach home, ask Mrs. Fenchurch\u2014that's what she's called\u2014what time he left their flat this afternoon, and where he was going. She may not know that Watlington is dead. She may not know that you are in the Force. Her name is Glenda, in case she mistakes you for a cocktail party boy friend.\"\n\nBenscombe made for the telephone. Crisp called an orderly.\n\n\"Tell Mr. Cornboise I'd be obliged if he would come to the morning-room.\"\n\nBefore Cornboise appeared, Crisp put the envelope containing the Will on the mantelpiece, seal downwards.\n\n#  Chapter Five\n\nRalph Cornboise seemed to Crisp to be no more nervy than any young man might be in the circumstances. He made a graceful response to condolences on the death of his uncle. As the hard light from the Victorian chandelier fell full on his face, Crisp spotted signs of a sedative drug, and suspected the hand of Claudia.\n\nA playboy, Crisp decided, but of the kind that takes itself seriously\u2014floating through life with highfalutin' intentions but never actually breaking free from a routine of trivial amusements, which might include the amusement of playing at work. Strange that a woman like Claudia Lofting could be attracted to such a man\u2014and to the extent of asking other men to be gentle with him.\n\nRather impertinent of her, now he came to think of it.\n\n\"As you probably know,\" said Crisp, putting it as gently as Claudia could wish, \"we have to tick off everybody's movements.\"\n\n\"Where d'you want me to begin, Colonel?\"\n\n\"Begin at the point where you last saw your uncle alive, and work backwards.\"\n\nRalph Cornboise nodded, while he weighed his words.\n\n\"I last saw him alive at a quarter past five this afternoon. In the library.\"\n\nCrisp was surprised. That was the time given by the old lady in the garden. Ralph Cornboise had made a good beginning.\n\n\"Give the full circumstances, please\u2014how and why you went to the library, and so on.\"\n\n\"That will be difficult without dragging in family matters.\" He spoke as if Crisp's convenience were his sole concern. \"After lunch, Miss Lofting, Querk and myself went with my uncle into the library, where we were occupied with family affairs for half an hour or so, after which Miss Lofting and I drifted into the garden.\n\n\"As a matter of fact, Miss Lofting and I were discussing a rather offensive remark of my uncle's which, in my opinion, implied that she was not a suitable woman for me to marry. You never met him? He used to make a point of being rougher than he really was\u2014and that was a lot! Miss Lofting thought I was exaggerating the importance of the remark. After a couple of hours, she said she would go at once to my uncle and get him to define his attitude. I told her I hoped she would not do so, as it could only make matters worse. I asked her instead to come with me to a swimming pool\u2014the Three Witches, a roadhouse ten minutes' drive from here. She said she did not want to. My last words as she left me were: 'Please don't go to the library'.\"\n\nBenscombe came quietly into the room and sat down. Ralph continued:\n\n\"I saw her go into the house by the front door, not the window, which was nearer. I hoped she had decided to take my advice and do nothing. I hung about a bit. I admit I was rather worked up about it. When I felt I could stand the suspense no longer, I went to the library window and opened it.\"\n\nHe paused, looked Crisp in the face, and added:\n\n\"Then I was very relieved to see that Miss Lofting had not gone to the library after all.\"\n\nThat was Crisp's second surprise\u2014that Ralph and Claudia had not put their heads together and agreed on their tale, though they had had ample time and opportunity to do so.\n\n\"How could you tell? She might have gone to the library and left before you arrived?\"\n\n\"My uncle was asleep.\" Ralph's tone had become sulky.\n\n\"He wouldn't have had time to go to sleep if she had been talking to him a few minutes before I came in.\"\n\n\"Go on. Don't leave it to me to pull the facts out of you.\"\n\n\"You want such tiny details!\" Ralph sank back in the easy chair and covered his eyes with his hands. \"I was uncertain what I wished to do. It's a bit of an effort to remember every single thing... I saw a metal thing on the floor, near his feet, as if he had knocked it off the writing table. I picked it up. It was an address die-stamp, I think.\"\n\nHis voice tailed off into silence.\n\n\"Was it this one on the table here?\" asked Crisp.\n\nRalph did not remove his hands from his eyes.\n\n\"Yes. I saw it just now. That's the one.\" He added querulously: \"Why shouldn't it be?\"\n\nThe effect of the sedative drug seemed to be wearing off, leaving him irritable and suspicious.\n\n\"What did you do with it?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you in a minute\u2014it's no good hurrying me! I put it on the table with a bit of a clatter. But it didn't wake him up. Then I hoped he wouldn't wake up, as I'd forgotten what I meant to say to him. I went out by the window just as that beastly clock was chiming a quarter past five. I tripped on the lawn and fell down. Then I remembered that I had decided to have a swim. So I went and had the swim.\"\n\n\"That's better!\" approved Crisp. \"I gather you were in a somewhat agitated state from about two-thirty onwards, weren't you?\"\n\n\"I certainly was!\"\n\n_\"Why?\"_\n\nRalph dropped his hands and stared at Crisp.\n\n\"Why?\" repeated Crisp. \"You've told me that your uncle made some disparaging remark about Miss Lofting. It must have been a very mild remark, or Miss Lofting would have walked out of the house. But she intended to stay on for the weekend. Surely the remark can't have been worth all that hullabaloo! She didn't seem to think herself insulted when she was talking to me just now.\"\n\n\"In my own mind I may have exaggerated the insult element,\" admitted Ralph. \"But I didn't exaggerate the practical element. If his Will left me penniless in the event of my marrying Miss Lofting\u2014\"\n\n\" _If!_ But I understand from Miss Lofting that he read the Will to the three of you: then locked it up and put it in his safe, sealed and addressed to his solicitors?\"\n\nRalph groped for an answer. \"You don't understand the atmosphere\u2014\"\n\n\"I don't!\" Crisp frowned. \"But that Will is growing more and more mysterious. Do you object to my seeing it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do!\" cried Ralph. \"I'm very sorry, Colonel, but I definitely object. I can tell you the contents!\"\n\n\"Then why not let me read 'em?\"\n\nRalph pouted and fidgetted like a resentful child.\n\n\"I wish we could leave that Will alone!\" he whined. \"Besides, I don't know where it is. You're talking as if I had it in my pocket.\"\n\nCrisp took the sealed envelope from the mantelpiece.\n\n\"Is this the Will?\"\n\nRalph stopped fidgetting.\n\n_\"That?\"_ He took the envelope, ran his fingers the length of it, as Crisp had done in the library. \"No,\" he said. \"At least\u2014that is\u2014I don't think it is.\" And then that vacuous little question again: \"Why should it be?\"\n\nCrisp's eyes were on the envelope as he asked:\n\n\"Did your uncle produce some letters written by Miss Lofting?\"\n\n\"Yes. An abominable trick! But there was nothing in it as far as I was concerned. Miss Lofting had told me all there was to tell.\"\n\n\"What did he do with those letters?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" The words were uttered with sulky defiance.\n\n\"We'll see what's in that envelope.\"\n\nCrisp opened the door and called Inspector Sanson.\n\n\"You and Benscombe witness this,\" he ordered. \"I'm going to open a sealed document.\"\n\nThe envelope was still in Ralph's hand.\n\n\"Perhaps you would prefer to open it yourself, Mr. Cornboise?\"\n\nRalph made no move. His expression was vacant and listless. Crisp took the envelope from his fingers, slit the flap and removed the contents, a single folio sheet, folded. He unfolded it, spread it on the table.\n\nHe read the Will aloud, in summary, addressing Ralph.\n\n\"Hm! Residuary estate left to you, Mr. Cornboise, 'provided that... he shall hold himself in readiness to marry and shall so marry before his fortieth year a woman of reasonable education and unblemished social reputation.' Witnessed by the housemaid and the caretaker two days ago.\" Crisp looked up. \"I don't see that that is an insult to Miss Lofting.\"\n\nThe remains of the sedative drug proved ineffective. From Ralph Cornboise came a burst of high-pitched laughter\u2014and another.\n\nCrisp watched him with almost clinical interest. So this was why Claudia had begged him to be gentle\u2014she knew that he was subject to hysteria. Moreover, the hysterical attack had been brought on at sight of a Will, of which Ralph already knew the contents\u2014taken from an envelope in which he had, presumably, seen the Will sealed up.\n\nRalph had recovered and was lighting a cigarette. His cheeks glistened with tears he had already forgotten.\n\n\"You're steady enough now to answer a question. You expected me to find something in that envelope beside the Will\u2014\"\n\n\"That's not a question. It's a statement. And it's not true.\"\n\n\"My mistake,\" grinned Crisp. \"Here comes a proper question for a plain yes-or-no answer. But take your time.\"\n\n\"Go ahead, Colonel.\" Ralph had swung to the other extreme, and was now unnaturally calm.\n\n\"When you entered the library through the window, at a quarter past five\u2014\" Crisp held himself ready for another outburst \"\u2014was your uncle _already dead?_ \"\n\nThere was no more than a slight catch of the breath before Ralph answered:\n\n\"No. He was not dead until I killed him.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" sighed Crisp. \"I was afraid you'd say that!\"\n\n\"The worst of it is,\" continued Crisp, \"I have to pretend to take you seriously. Benscombe, you might bring the typewriter in here for Inspector Sanson.\"\n\nRalph was wearing an expression of arrested determination, so that he suggested the still photograph of a film star in his big scene. Crisp knew that the hysteric perpetually dramatises himself and that his statements should not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, the young man was forcing police procedure along a line Crisp had wished to avoid.\n\n\"Well, Cornboise, how did you do this murder of yours?\"\n\n\"So you don't believe me!\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, you can't stop a police investigation by accusing yourself. What's to prevent you withdrawing your confession when we've packed up?\"\n\nSanson inserted paper and carbon in his typewriter.\n\n\"I'll make you believe me. I'll give all the tiny details you're so fond of,\" said Ralph. \"My uncle was asleep, as I said he was. That thing\u2014\" he pointed to the die-stamp\u2014\"was on the floor, as I said it was. I picked it up. At first I intended only to put it on the table. And then\u2014well, I didn't see any red as is supposed, but there was the illusion of a kind of mist: yet the physical eye could see through the mist.\"\n\n\"Well?\" prompted Crisp. \"What did you _do?_ \"\n\n\"I swung that die-stamp thing to his head and killed him instantly.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed!\" grinned Crisp. \"What did he look like the moment after you killed him?\"\n\n\"Oh\u2014\" Ralph shuddered elaborately. \"The blow damaged the wig. It stuck out behind his ears like\u2014like a bat's wings.\"\n\nCrisp glanced at Benscombe before asking his next question.\n\n\"Apart from the wig, what did he look like?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I felt\u2014spiritually sick. I wanted to run away from myself.\"\n\n\"What did you do with the thing you call the diestamp?\"\n\nRalph's mouth twitched violently.\n\n\"I don't remember. Oh yes, I do! I let it drop on the floor\u2014where it was when I picked it up!\"\n\n\"Before you left\u2014by the window\u2014did you lock the door?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" exclaimed Crisp. \"A most unfortunate thing has happened. I forgot to warn you, when you started confessing, that what you said might be used in evidence. That means we can't use any of your confession. The judge would strike it out.\"\n\n\"I don't know why you're fooling with me, unless it's sadism,\" whined Ralph. \"Anyhow, you've warned me now. I'll dictate to that officer what I've said.\"\n\nCrisp let him dictate and sign his confession.\n\n\"I still don't understand why you murdered him,\" continued Crisp.\n\n\"I hadn't any clear cut motive. I was a swine to accept his money, because I've always hated him. But surely the confession lets me off all this catechism!\"\n\nCrisp shrugged.\n\n\"Very well, Cornboise. We shall have to detain you on suspicion, pending further investigation.\" He turned to Sanson. \"Take him with you, please. Let him pack his things, but send an orderly with him.\"\n\nWhen Cornboise had left the room with Inspector Sanson, Crisp lit a cigarette\u2014a comparatively rare occurrence. No one had ever seen him smoke one to a finish. His eye rested on Benscombe.\n\n\"Did you get anything out of that artist's girl?\"\n\n\"Nothing striking, sir. Fenchurch left their flat about three, telling her he was going to Watlington Lodge to rout out Ralph. Presumably, he changed his mind.\"\n\n\"Why presume it? He may have come here and murdered Watlington.\"\n\nHe became aware that Benscombe was watching him like an expectant puppy.\n\n\"Well, boy, what is it?\"\n\n\"Are you sure that confession is only a stunt, sir?\"\n\n\"Not sure, but extremely suspicious,\" answered Crisp. \"Work it out for yourself. His account of his movements, outside the library, is true. He says Watlington was asleep when he went in. Possible but unlikely, because Cornboise must have entered by the window within two minutes or so of Miss Lofting leaving by the door.\"\n\nHe outlined Claudia Lofting's evidence.\n\n\"Next, he says he struck through the wig. Untrue. The doctor says the wig was removed and replaced after the fatal blow had been struck. Also, I saw the wig myself. It was a bit awry, but undamaged. I was looking for signs of violence and found none.\n\n\"Next, he says he dropped the die-stamp on the floor. It was found on the mantelpiece. Admittedly, he revealed knowledge that death had been caused by a single blow, but he dodged my question about the appearance after death.\n\n\"Further, my question as to whether Watlington was already dead when Cornboise entered the study suggested that Miss Lofting might be guilty. As she warned me, he promptly confessed.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. But assuming he's innocent, he wouldn't know about the murder until we turned up. I'm putting myself in his place and assuming I'm innocent. The first thing I'd do when the police turned up would be to talk it over with my fianc\u00e9e\u2014there were about a couple of hours for this purpose. I'd say: 'The police are bound to quiz us. Where were we when it happened? We'd better tell 'em the same tale or they'll think we're fishy.' That's what I'd say, sir\u2014if I were innocent. But if I were guilty I'd avoid discussing it with her. Cornboise did avoid discussing it with her.\"\n\n\"That would equally prove her guilty instead of him,\" Crisp pointed out, \"since she did not discuss it with him. The only inference you can draw from the fact that their tales conflict is that they are not in conspiracy.\"\n\n\"And another thing, sir!\" continued Benscombe unabashed. \"What about that Will? When you handed him the envelope he fingered it and said it wasn't the Will. When you opened up and showed it was, he threw his laughing fit. There was something there that shook his nerve. And it wasn't the text of the Will.\"\n\n\"Hm! You've got something there, boy!\" It was part of Crisp's policy to encourage bright juniors. \"We'll have to get to the bottom of this Will business\u2014see who that is knocking.\"\n\nBenscombe opened the door to Andrew Querk in an advanced state of alarm.\n\n#  Chapter Six\n\n\"Pray forgive me for this intrusion, Chief Constable. I have just seen Ralph Cornboise going upstairs, apparently in\u2014ah\u2014custody. As he passed me he called out: 'Goodbye, Mr. Querk. I'm done for.' My imagination attached an appalling meaning to those words\u2014\"\n\n\"He has confessed that he murdered his uncle, and has signed the confession\u2014\"\n\n\"I feared it! I _knew_ it!\" wailed Querk. \"Lacking a shred of proof, I was nevertheless positive, though I refused to admit it to myself.\"\n\n\"Come in, please, Mr. Querk.\"\n\nQuerk came in, but not as other men come into a room. He walked as a man walks when he is leading a procession. He came to a halt when he had reached a position from which he could address the. Chief Constable and his aide as an audience.\n\n\"This is tragedy. Stark tragedy!\" he proclaimed. He removed his pince-nez, deemed to have been obscured by the effects of his emotion. When he replaced them, he abandoned his office as a symbolic figure and became a provincial mayor in distress. \"Forgive me! We were old friends, Lord Watlington and I. I was 'dear old Andrew' to him and he was 'old pal Samuel' to me\u2014though, of course, he was considerably my senior in years.\"\n\n\"Quite! Will you sit here, Mr. Querk. There are one or two questions\u2014\"\n\n\"Ask me anything you like, Colonel. Anything! There can be no fear now of betraying professional confidence. His vast fortune has become meaningless. The family he had hoped to found is already destroyed. It is saddest of all when a successful life ends in undeserved squalor. Don't you think!\"\n\n\"I do!\" said Crisp. \"Will you tell me how you knew Cornboise was guilty before we knew it?\"\n\n\"My fear\u2014my intuitive knowledge\u2014was based on a premonition.\"\n\nQuerk sat down with an air of one conferring an honour on the company.\n\n\"In the library after lunch, my poor friend made a questionable remark\u2014I prefer not to repeat it\u2014which seemed to cast doubt on Miss Lofting's status as\u2014ah\u2014a lady of reasonable education and unblemished social repurtation. His own phrase, used in his Will, to describe an essential prerequisite in his nephew's wife. I happened to be watching Ralph's eyes. What I saw there positively frightened me, Colonel.\"\n\nBenscombe writhed and received a scowl from his Chief. \"Is that all, Mr. Querk?\"\n\n\" _Everything_!\" said Querk with profound satisfaction. \"I am keeping nothing back. Nothing whatever. It would be very difficult, Colonel, to exaggerate the unease I subsequently suffered. When I retired to my room at about a quarter to three, I was unable to rest, though the heat almost invariably makes me drowsy after lunch. I sat wide awake by the window which, I may remark, permits an oblique view of the window of the library.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" Crisp permitted himself a sigh of relief. \"And you saw something?\"\n\n\"I did indeed. Something, however, which merely served to increase my anxiety. I saw poor Ralph approach the window and enter the library. Within, say, a couple of minutes, he emerged. As he did so, the stable clock struck a quarter past five. In such circumstances, a striking clock gives an almost uncanny emphasis. Don't you think?\"\n\n\"We can safely agree on that,\" said Crisp. \"What did you _do?_ \"\n\n\"I did everything possible,\" answered Querk, \"to persuade myself that my fears were groundless. When Ralph came out, however, his outline was, to say the least, alarming. He seemed to totter blindly away. He actually fell prone on the lawn, then picked himself up, and hurried to the garage. I take no shame in confessing to you, Colonel, that my own state of mind was not far removed from panic.\"\n\n\"But you still did nothing!\" snapped Crisp.\n\n\"On the contrary, I took immediate action. Action which I fondly believed, had ended the whole unhappy incident. To be precise, I closed the book I had been trying to read, and went down to the library.\"\n\n_\"What!\"_ The exclamation had burst from young Benscombe\u2014a terrible breach of etiquette.\n\nQuerk looked at him in some surprise, was about to comment, when Crisp cut in.\n\n\"What did you see in the library, Mr. Querk?\"\n\n\"Nothing noteworthy,\" answered, Querk. He glanced again at Benscombe, as if expecting another interruption. \"My first impression was that Lord Watlington must have dozed off again. I shut the door with deliberate clumsiness, so that the noise should wake him. Then I became aware that he was _not_ asleep.\"\n\n\"What did he look like?\" rapped out Crisp.\n\n\"I confess that I did not notice his appearance, though, had it been in any way remarkable, I should doubtless have done so. I was about to speak to him when he\u2014er\u2014made a noise at me.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\" Crisp was puzzled. \"What sort of noise?\"\n\n\"A deplorable noise,\" answered Querk. \"Made by pursing the lips and blowing through them. In the same breath\u2014if that is possibles\u2014he said: 'What do you want, you old horse thief?'\u2014a playful idiom much used in Africa among intimate friends.\"\n\nThe Chief Constable and his aide exchanged glances of secret astonishment.\n\n\"So he\u2014started a conversation, did he?\"\n\n\"No! I think I can claim to have taken the initiative. 'Samuel, old pal,' I said, 'you have never yet been the loser by taking my advice. I advise you now to tell Miss Lofting you are glad\u2014as you know you are in your heart, Samuel\u2014tell her you are glad she wants to marry Ralph.'\n\n\"At first he refused point blank. Leaning heavily, I fear, on our friendship, I pressed my point. To my intense gratification, he yielded his judgment to mine and promised to tell Miss Lofting at the first opportunity.\"\n\nThe unctuous voice came to a temporary halt. Crisp reflected that, on the pivotal point\u2014the time at which Ralph left the library\u2014Querk was corroborated by Watlington's wife.\n\n\"I have told you, Chief Constable, at some length and in some detail\u2014\"\n\n\"That's how we like it,\" said Crisp hastily. \"What time did you leave the library, Mr. Querk?\"\n\n\"Let me see if I can recall the time by the aid of external circumstances,\" mouthed Querk. \"Almost as soon as I entered the library I heard Ralph's car leaving the garage. The exhaust has a noticeably high-pitched, piping note. There followed our brief but important conversation, as I have reported. My poor friend then referred to some business matters we had discussed before lunch. He mentioned\u2014somewhat pointedly, I must confess\u2014that he was expecting a trunk call at five-thirty. Taking the hint, I went back to my room to prepare some notes for our next business conference. I was\u2014I remember now\u2014in the act of removing the cap from my fountain pen some two or three minutes later when that very strident clock struck the half hour\u2014half past five.\"\n\nYoung Benscombe was making notes. Crisp contemplated the deadlock. Ralph's confession that he had killed Watlington before five-fifteen\u2014Querk's statement that he was talking to Watlington between five-fifteen and five-thirty. Add Claudia's warning that Ralph would confess if he were frightened on her account.\n\nThere was every reason to believe Querk\u2014every reason to disbelieve Ralph. But there were more facts to be sifted before drawing any major inference.\n\n\"When you were in the library, Mr. Querk,\" asked Crisp, \"did you notice the position of this die-stamp?\"\n\n\"Indeed I had good reason to notice it, for it twice caused interruptions while I was talking to Lord Watlington. And if there is one thing more than another I dislike, it is being interrupted!\"\n\n\"Where was the die-stamp?\"\n\n\"Near his left elbow, in the first instance. In the very act of greeting my arrival, he knocked it to the floor and I had to wait while he retrieved it and put it back, unfortunately, in the same place. A minute or so later, his elbow precipitated it sideways into the ash-tray. As I daresay you have discovered, he kept an office duster in the right hand drawer. With this, I removed the ash from the die-stamp and placed it\u2014rather pointedly, I fear\u2014where it would not be likely to interrupt me again!\"\n\nThe die-stamp, Crisp reminded himself, bore one set of finger-prints only. Querk's not Cornboise's. Another point in support of Querk. The duster incident, too, explained why Claudia Lofting's prints\u2014as well as Watlington's\u2014had disappeared.\n\n\"When you were all in the library after lunch were you shown certain letters written by Miss Lofting?\"\n\n\"Lord Watlington handed the letters in question to Miss Lofting. It was, as you can imagine, an extremely embarrassing incident in which, I fear, my old friend's dignity suffered. Miss Lofting made a scornful remark to the effect that the letters proved she had been living with a man\u2014ah\u2014without benefit of clergy. But I have not allowed myself to take her words literally.\"\n\nThere were small items to be checked. Querk had not noticed a registered parcel on the hall table; his mind being occupied with other matters. He knew nothing of the arrangements for the dinner party, nor of the movements of other persons.\n\nThere remained the old lady in the garden, whose credentials Crisp had taken for granted.\n\n\"I've been given to understand that Watlington was married?\"\n\n\"An unfortunate episode in early life,\" answered Querk sadly. \"They separated by consent very shortly afterwards. A very embittered and\u2014I say it with reluctance\u2014and ungrateful woman. Lord Watlington bought her an adequate annuity yet she continued to pester him to return to her, on the ground that she suffered from\u2014\u2014er\u2014lack of company. At his request I wrote to her explaining the nature of molestation, with the result that she has ceaselessly importuned me to use my influence to effect a reconcilition. But why need we talk of that no doubt well-meaning woman who\u2014\"\n\n\"We needn't,\" said Crisp. \"Do you know anyone called Fenchurch?\"\n\n\"Fenchurch!\" repeated Querk. \"The name is familiar, though I cannot for the moment recall\u2014oh yes! An artist who was to paint Lord Watlington's portrait. He was, I believe, among the dinner guests.\"\n\nCrisp glanced at the typed copy of notes which Watlington had pencilled on his blotting pad.\n\n\"Do these words mean anything to you, Mr. Querk? 'Casa Flavia': 'Tarranio'; 'Fabroli'?\"\n\n\"Casa Flavia I know as a small town in Italy. The other words are meaningless to me.\"\n\nBefore Crisp could ask another question, there came from the hall the sound of a woman's voice in energetic protest. Benscombe, hurrying to investigate, was accosted in the doorway.\n\n\"I _must_ see the Chief Constable. It's ever so important, and I won't keep him a minute.\"\n\nQuerk got up.\n\n\"If I can be of any further help, Chief Constable, do not hesitate to send word. I shall not be retiring for another hour.\"\n\nFrom the doorway came Benscombe's voice in protest.\n\n\"I say, you know, you simply must wait until I have asked whether the Chief Constable will see you.\"\n\n\"Oh! I recognise your voice! You asked me all those questions on the phone about Arthur. Why didn't you tell me you were the police? Why didn't you tell me Watlington was dead? You played a trick on me. I shall report this.\"\n\n\"Let her come in,\" called Crisp.\n\nAn entrance was made\u2014a lamentably self-conscious entrance\u2014by a willowy blonde of about thirty, who could probably have made a reasonable living as a mannequin or showgirl. 'She is very pretty and very vain' Fenchurch had said, and Crisp agreed with him. The vanity would waste time, so he decided to eliminate it.\n\n\"You have a complaint against one of my officers,\" he barked. \"What is the complaint?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing _really!_ Only, that man pretended to be one of us.\"\n\n\"A policeman often has to slander himself in the course of his duty. Anything else?\"\n\n\"Slander himself! Well!\" The willowy blonde looked a little like a spoilt child in a first encounter with a stern governess. \"I must say I didn't expect this kind of treatment from a Chief Constable. I may as well tell you, before we go any further, that I have a friend who's a cousin of the Home Secretary.\"\n\n\"Then I must be careful!\" said Crisp. \"What is your name?\"\n\n\"I'm Mrs\u2014Arthur\u2014Fenchurch!\"\n\n\"That's your occupation. I asked your name.\"\n\n_\"Ooh!\"_ The vanity had become as remote as the Home Secretary. Her outward covering had been ripped off, leaving her to face the fact that she was not, never had been, the Pampered Pet she desired to be. She lived in a world where 'a girl has to look after herself'\u2014a slogan that was both her creed and her theory of the universe. She had sense enough to perceive that her long, beautiful legs and her curly, conventional prettiness were useless weapons in her present emergency.\n\n\"All right, then\u2014Glenda Parsons,\" she admitted sulkily.\n\n\"What's that you're carrying?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"Mr. Fenchurch's sketch book.\"\n\n\"May I see it, please?\"\n\nShe handed him a leather bound sketch book. Crisp opened it and turned the pages, some of which contained line notes. Crisp recognised the leather\u2014no doubt the same which he had seen protruding from Fenchurch's pocket when he spoke to him on the terrace.\n\n\"Where did you get this?\"\n\n\"Miss Lofting handed it to me when I was waiting in the hall. She said Mr. Fenchurch must have dropped it.\"\n\nCrisp returned it to her.\n\n\"Sit down, Miss Parsons.\"\n\nWith every sign of unwillingness, she drew an upright chair from the table, removed a piece of wrapping paper from the seat. The chair was the one farthest from Crisp.\n\n\"Why have you come here?\" As she seemed to find the question difficult, Crisp added: \"What do you want?\"\n\n\"Only something that belongs to me. Lord Watlington said if I would slip in here into his study about half-past ten he'd give it to me.\"\n\n\"That sounds a very odd arrangement. You were invited to dinner, weren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She answered with reluctance, fidgetting with the wrapping paper.\n\n\"Why didn't you turn up?\"\n\n\"Lord Watlington said he would ask me, but I was to make an excuse to Arthur and not turn up.\"\n\nAs if protecting her dignity, she was nervously folding the sketch book into the wrapping paper. The noise irritated Crisp.\n\n\"I wish you would stop making that crackling noise while I'm trying to talk to you.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry. But everything is so upsetting.\"\n\n\"Why did you have to accept, if it was agreed you were not to come?\"\n\nShe pushed the sketch book from her as if to remove the temptation to crackle, then spoke with a frankness which carried conviction: \"He didn't want me to meet his guests, but he was a bit overawed by Arthur, who likes showing off with me.\"\n\n\"What was he going to give you?\"\n\n\"Only an envelope with my name on it\u2014'Mrs. Fenchurch' I mean. If it wasn't found in his pockets, I expect it's in his study somewhere, and I asked the police in the hall to let me go in and look\u2014and they wouldn't.\"\n\nCrisp nodded to Benscombe, who left the room. In the silence that followed, Glenda reached for the sketch book and Crisp had to endure the crackling, which lasted until Benscombe returned. In his hand was a small correspondence envelope, addressed 'Mrs. Fenchurch.'\n\n\"In the drawer of the writing table, sir.\"\n\n\"Oh! _thank_ you!\" cried Glenda. \"I'm ever so sorry I said that about you. It was nerves, really.\"\n\n\"That's all right\u2014please forget it!\" smiled Benscombe. But he handed the envelope to his Chief.\n\n\"What does this envelope contain, Miss Parsons?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"It's personal,\" she answered. \"Please give it to me. You know it's mine, because it's got my name on\u2014I can see.\"\n\n\"I am investigating a murder,\" said Crisp. \"What's inside?\"\n\n\"It's nothing to do with the murder\u2014really it isn't. It's just personal.\"\n\nCrisp slit the envelope, took out a folded cheque.\n\n\"'Pay Bearer five hundred pounds',\" he read aloud.\n\nGlenda hung her head.\n\n\"Can I have it, please?\"\n\n\"I still don't see,\" said Crisp, \"why he didn't give it you\u2014er\u2014at your last meeting\u2014or your next?\"\n\n\"He couldn't. There were reasons.\" Already she had grasped that it was useless talking to Crisp like that. \"The fact is, I had some diamonds which my mother left me. And I asked Lord Watlington, and he said he'd very kindly sell them for me. And so he couldn't give me the money at our last meeting because he didn't know how much they'd fetch. And I didn't want it sent by post, because Arthur opens everything, and he's awful with money. That's reasonable enough, isn't it?\"\n\nIt might be reasonable, thought Crisp, but it wasn't true.\n\n\"I wish you'd let me have it, now you know it's nothing to do with the murder.\"\n\n\"Take it, if you wish,\" said Crisp indifferently, handing it to her. \"But you can't cash it, you know. The banks stop payment at death.\"\n\n\"Then I shan't get a penny?\" It was a horrified whisper.\n\n\"Oh yes, in time! Provided you can satisfy the executors. Of course, they'll probably want you to prove the bit about the diamonds before they pay.\"\n\nBenscombe suspected her of intending to throw a faint. With a deft compromise of police officer and dancing partner, he removed her.\n\n\"That's a side-line, isn't it, sir?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't see where she fits in,\" answered Crisp absently. \"Mother's diamonds, eh! It might be worth while finding out whether Fenchurch knows anything about that five hundred. You can look after that yourself as soon as you get the chance.\"\n\nHe glanced at the copy of Ralph's confession.\n\n\"This confounded fellow has made a mess of the Regulations. We can't ignore the confession unless we're satisfied it's a hoax. It may or may not be a hoax, but your hunch that it's genuine has been scuppered by Querk.\"\n\nBenscombe looked sheepish.\n\n\"There's still a chance, sir. Assume that the confession is substantially true\u2014\"\n\n\"But it isn't. He says he struck through the wig, and he didn't.\"\n\n\" _Substantially_ true, sir, though inaccurate in detail. I'm thinking of the Sefton-Lyle case. Sefton confessed that he had shot Ashwin. But the bullet was found in the garden, Ashwin having pretended to be hit. And it was Lyle who shot Ashwin nearly an hour later.\"\n\n\"Two bangs and two bullets!\" grunted Crisp. \"Here we have one blow only. And that blow killed Watlington. Also, what about the time?\"\n\n\"I'm assuming a deliberate lie in the matter of time. That would rope in your theory, sir, that he is trying to protect Miss Lofting.\"\n\n\"No luck, boy! Watlington's wife has corroborated the time from that bench in the garden. Cornboise left the study at five fifteen\u2014was out of the place in his car a few minutes later, and did not return until after six thirty.\"\n\n\"But look here, sir! Given that Cornboise is lying and Querk telling the truth, the murderer must have entered the library almost as soon as Querk left it. That points to Miss Lofting, which is absurd.\"\n\nCrisp chuckled.\n\n\"Attractive girls don't commit murder, do they, laddie!\"\n\n\"If they're really attractive, they don't have to,\" grinned Benscombe. \"I was going to say that, if you have Cornboise in again and let him see you know he's lying\u2014then with Querk's evidence up your sleeve\u2014\"\n\n\"A rotten place to keep your evidence. We don't need all that diplomacy. We'll put Cornboise in a bag with Querk and shake 'em up together until something drops out. Trot ' em in.\"\n\nQuerk did not trot. He had by now imposed upon himself the stance of a man who is attending a funeral.\n\n\"I am glad, Chief Constable,\" he said with a hush in his voice, \"that you have taken me at my word. I always feel\u2014bless my soul!\" He broke off as Benscombe appeared with Ralph Cornboise.\n\n\"Sit down, Mr. Cornboise,\" said Crisp.\n\n\"I am under your orders.\" Ralph sat down. \"But I shall not answer any more questions.\"\n\n\"Then you can listen. In your confession you state that you left the library at five fifteen after killing your uncle. Your statement as to time has been confirmed by two independent witnesses, one of whom is Mr. Querk.\"\n\n\"You have discovered that I am not a liar! Congratulations, Colonel!\"\n\nCrisp turned to Querk.\n\n\"Mr. Querk, did you enter the library after you had seen Mr. Cornboise leave it?\" As Querk assented. \"Did you then have a conversation with Lord Watlington lasting until approximately five thirty?\"\n\n\"I did, Chief Constable.\"\n\nRalph sprang from his chair. Crisp motioned him to silence.\n\nQuerk seized the opportunity to go on talking.\n\n\"But surely my friend, Mr. Cornboise, does not maintain that he did this dreadful deed _before_ five thirty?\"\n\n\"What's the good, Querk!\" groaned Ralph. \"I know you think it's kind of you\u2014it _is_ kind! But they'll prove you're only trying to save me. And I don't even want to be saved!\"\n\n\"Ralph! You want us to believe that you killed your uncle? Before five fifteen? Come, my dear boy!\"\n\nExasperated, Ralph dropped back in his chair without answering.\n\n\"He does believe it, Chief Constable!\" exclaimed Querk. \"It is the clearest possible case of hallucination. He can even persuade himself that I am telling a deliberate falsehood.\"\n\n\"Oh, shut up, Querk!\" snapped Ralph. \"It's no good, I tell you!\"\n\n\"You observe,\" said Querk with triumph, \"how irritably he addresses\u2014er\u2014myself. Because I am menacing the hallucination. There can be no question whatever of my friend's sincerity. I gladly pardon his brusquerie. Such cases are well authenticated. The patient first wishes he had killed a given person. I grieve to admit that he wishes he had killed his uncle, but before all else, Chief Constable, we must be realistic. The patient\u2014\"\n\nA snort of ill-temper came from Ralph.\n\n\"Can't you let me off this, Colonel? I've saved you a lot of trouble\u2014you might treat me decently!\"\n\n\"The patient,\" boomed Querk, \"becomes terrified of his own wish\u2014it is his secret fear of himself that gives the nightmare the semblance of reality.\"\n\n\"I'm not a patient, damn you!\" shouted Ralph.\n\nSo far the process of shaking them up together had yielded little but noise. Crisp decided to give it direction.\n\n\"Cornboise, wouldn't you like to ask Mr. Querk a few questions?\"\n\n\"About that psychological nonsense? No thanks. I've had a bellyfull of the subconscious from\u2014others. I'll ask _you_ a question, Chief Constable. I happen to know as well as you do that a doctor can tell how long a chap's been dead. What time did my uncle die?\"\n\nFor a second only, Crisp hesitated.\n\n\"Between five and five thirty,\" he said.\n\n\"Chief _Constable!_ \" gasped Querk.\n\n\"There you are, Querk!\" Ralph laughed contemptuously. \"If you prove I didn't do it, you prove you did.\"\n\nQuerk constructed a smile\u2014the smile that suffocates opponents with understanding and forgiveness.\n\n\"I think, my dear boy, that I can safely leave the Chief Constable to deal with _that_ little dilemma!\"\n\nThere fell a short, intense silence.\n\n\"I don't know the answer,\" said Crisp.\n\nWith tolerance, with dignity, the saintlike smile faded. Querk coughed, gave a little deprecatory laugh. \"Can it be, Chief Constable, that you think it is I who am suffering from hallucination? That Mr. Cornboise did indeed kill poor Lord Watlington?\"\n\n\"I don't believe you're suffering from hallucination,\" answered Crisp. \"And I don't believe Cornboise killed Watlington.\"\n\n\"That's torn it!\" shrieked Ralph Cornboise. The hysteria was coming back. \"He thinks you killed uncle! You old fool, you've brought it on yourself! I told you to shut up! Oh my hat!\" The words came quickfire, on a high-pitched shout. \"They'll hang you, and I shan't care a damn. And after it's over they'll find out you were only being a noble fathead and they'll hang me. Then it'll be Claudia's turn. They'll find something in that room\u2014something I couldn't see and can't remember looking for.\" The voice rose to a shrill scream. _\"They'll use a microscope!\"_\n\nCrisp caught him as he flopped forward. He laid him on the floor, whipped out a knife and cut his collar and tie.\n\n\"He's coming round! Stand by to take him upstairs, put him on his bed and ring for the doctor. The arrest is washed out.\"\n\nWhen they had taken Ralph away, Querk spoke in the manner of one proposing a vote of thanks.\n\n\"I am sure, Chief Constable, we shall all be grateful that you have taken that course!\" he declaimed. \"Young Cornboise is as sane as you or I, but he is definitely neurotic. He needs a prolonged course of treatment in sympathetic surroundings. You observe how the dear boy is torturing himself with visions of myself being hanged\u2014hanged forsooth!\u2014in his stead. For a crime he himself committed in his imagination.\"\n\n\"Imagination didn't kill Watlington\u2014between five and five thirty,\" grunted Crisp.\n\nQuerk wore an expression of reproof.\n\n\"The force of your remark is not lost upon me, Chief Constable. Before we can claim any progress, we must probe the movement of every person who was in the house, who might have been in the house, or who might have been concealed in the garden. The golden rule\u2014\"\n\n\"Quite so. Let's get back to your leaving the library\u2014\"\n\n\"The golden rule in a case like this\u2014don't you think, Chief Constable?\u2014is for everyone concerned\u2014 _everyone_ \u2014to avoid saying anything which he might later come to regret.\"\n\nFor the moment, Crisp was flattened out. In that moment an old guerilla maxim flashed up: 'Avoid engaging the enemy until you know his immediate objective.'\n\n\"I trust that no word of mine\u2014\" began Crisp. Realising that he was beginning to talk like Querk, he broke off. \"Look here, Mr. Querk, I'm sure you appreciate my difficulties. I\u2014\"\n\n\"Of course I do, my dear Colonel! Perhaps some of the difficulties will disappear if we put our heads together. Onlookers, as we know, often see more of the game. Confess, now\u2014you are whipping up courage to ask me for proof that I did not myself murder my poor old friend.\"\n\nAn explosive cough from young Benscombe delayed Crisp's agreement.\n\n\"As a matter of routine\u2014\"\n\n\"Precisely!\" agreed Querk. \"For that very reason there need be no hesitation on your part. Lord Watlington was killed between five and five thirty, says the doctor, and while we know that such statements can be at best an approximation, we know in fact that, on my own admission, I left around two or three minutes of five thirty.\"\n\n\"Excellent! You're lightening my load, Mr. Querk. Did one of the maids or anyone see you leave?\"\n\n\"I cannot say. And it is hardly worth our while to ask them. It would carry our investigation no further, unless the maid entered the library as soon as I had left it.\"\n\nCrisp nodded, acknowledging that Querk had made a point. The latter continued:\n\n\"On the fantastic hypothesis of my guilt, we have to consider motive and behaviour. As to motive, I have lost not only a dear friend, but also my most valuable client who, as you are aware, has left me nothing in his Will.\"\n\n\"Good! That disposes of motive.\" Crisp wanted to get on to the behaviour.\n\n\"Not wholly, if I may say so!\" corrected Querk. \"We must shrink from no absurdity, Colonel. Have I perchance we must ask ourselves\u2014have I robbed my client? Was I on the verge of exposure? In the course of more than twenty five years, securities have passed backwards and forwards through my hands, aggregating tens of millions. Have I helped myself to an illicit half per cent? That is an avenue which routine must surely forbid us to leave unexplored. You will not ask me to be judge in my own cause. I will refer you to the National and Mutual Bank, through whom every single transaction was effected.\"\n\nHe was making a mayoral address of it. Behind the platitudes, Crisp suspected, lurked a technique. The watery eyes were not the eyes of a fool. They were watching his reactions and missing nothing.\n\n\"To continue our little charade, Colonel, I must claim that, in my r\u00f4le of murderer, my behaviour has a certain\u2014ah\u2014originality. Another man confesses to my crime. Do I thank my guardian angel? On the contrary, I positively lay information against myself, information which neither you nor anyone else possessed, my dear Colonel\u2014that I was myself on the scene of the crime at a relevant time. I stultify the confession by asserting, as it were, my own prior right to conviction.\"\n\nCrisp laughed, prolonged the laugh for diplomatic reasons. This unusual man was using the police as his stooge, making them ask the questions he wished to be asked. Or was he, after all, the ponderous idiot he appeared to be?\n\n\"As a red-handed murderer, I am somewhat miscast. That does not prove that I am innocent. We have yet to consider the question of conspiracy. Is mine the mastermind directing the nefarious activities of others? Do I receive a furtive\u2014er\u2014rake-off\u2014from the large fortune of which the young couple will presently take possession\u2014following their marriage, of course?\"\n\n\"That's a good point,\" stooged Crisp. \"But I expect it'll only give you another laugh at the expense of the poor policeman.\"\n\n\"Oh come now, Colonel\u2014we are laughing together! We are jointly propounding absurdities in order to clear them from our path. On the indictment for conspiracy\u2014presumably with the same young couple\u2014we encounter the difficulty of time and place. The remark about Miss Lofting's suitability as a bride was made in the study after lunch. Assuming that remark to have inspired the murder, we find that my master mind was not in contact with its subordinates until, approximately, one hour and a half _after_ the murder had taken place.\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" applauded Crisp. He decided to take a risk. \"Dammit, Mr. Querk, your evidence sweeps away all the cobwebs. It practically proves that there has been no murder.\"\n\n\"A jest that contains a truth!\" mouthed Querk. \"In my opinion, there has been no such murder as we have been discussing. Our weak spot, Colonel, is to be found in our motivation. Almost as if we were of the common herd, we have allowed ourselves to be dazzled by money. We see a large fortune and we say: 'There is the Motive.' Now, I ask you\u2014excluding gangsters and other habitual criminals\u2014what proportion of murders are committed for money?\"\n\nCrisp glanced at his aide.\n\n\"In the case of persons not previously convicted of an indictable offence,\" answered Benscombe, \"the motive of gain preponderates in thirty-seven per cent of indictments for murder followed by conviction. I'm quoting the Manual, sir.\"\n\n\"That's what it sounded like,\" smiled Crisp.\n\n\"Less than forty per cent!\" orated Querk. \"I suggest that we entrench ourselves behind the sixty per cent, and search for a more subtle motive. We can safely exclude the motive of revenge. My poor friend had no enemies\u2014unless, of course, you feel you could count his disgruntled wife. Hell\u2014Shakespeare tells us, Chief Constable\u2014holds no fury like a woman scorned. Even though our suspicion of the unfortunate lady be at the moment purely Shakesperian, it could do no harm to check her movements at the relevant times. Where was Watlington's wife at\u2014say\u2014five-thirty-five this afternoon?\"\n\nSo that was his first objective, thought Crisp. Incidentally, _he had made the tactical mistake, commonly made by murderers, of nominating a suspect_.\n\n\"I will give you her address,\" offered Querk and dictated it to Benscombe. \"Dear me! A quarter-to-eleven!\"\n\n\"We are going back to Headquarters,\" said Crisp. \"You've given us a good deal to think over.\"\n\nQuerk interrupted his own progress to the door.\n\n\"One little matter before we say goodnight. A trifle, but perhaps a tremendous trifle, my dear Chief Constable. Touching the doctor's statement as to the time at which death occurred\u2014have we asked the Exchange whether a call was in fact put through at five-thirty? And whether my poor friend answered it?\"\n\n\"Thank you for reminding me,\" said Crisp. \"Benscombe, see to it, will you?\"\n\nIn a spate of compliments to himself and the police, Querk bowed himself out.\n\nIn a few minutes, Benscombe returned.\n\n\"Trunk call from Edinburgh was put through at five-thirty-four, sir. It was not answered and the call was not charged.\"\n\n\"Which very strongly suggests that Watlington was dead by that time, Querk caught us out there, Benscombe. Contact the caller and see if he can tell us anything.\" Crisp went on: \"Did you notice that, while talking like a blithering idiot, he actually shattered the case against himself as nimbly as a first-class lawyer? And did you notice that not a single platitude was wasted?'\n\n\"The only thing that feller doesn't know we know,\" he continued, \"is that the signet ring was removed from Watlington's finger after death\u2014and replaced. Go on from there, Benscombe.\"\n\n\"The murderer destroyed the original envelope containing the Will. That is, he wanted to get hold of the Will\u2014or put another Will in its place.\"\n\n\"That didn't happen, boy! The Will we found was the Will Watlington read to the three of 'em in the study after lunch.\"\n\n\"Then the murderer wanted something that was in the envelope with the Will.\"\n\n\"That's more like it\u2014at a guess, something about Miss Lofting\u2014probably those letters. I may guess\u2014you mayn't! But why all that how-d'ye-do with the wax and the signet ring? There was another empty envelope addressed to the solicitors. Good quality envelope. Good gum on the flap. If he felt he must use sealing wax, why add the family crest?\"\n\nBenscombe wrinkled his brow.\n\n\"I've got it, sir! Watlington sealed up the original envelope in the presence of the three of 'em as you say. So the substituted envelope had to be sealed too.\"\n\n\"Again, why? No one outside those three knew that the seal had been used.\"\n\n\"The answer to that one, sir, is Miss Lofting. She had seen the original envelope sealed. She would not have stood for murder, so she\u2014\"\n\n\"Nonsense! You must try to leave your incurable romanticism out of your work, Benscombe.\"\n\n\"All right, sir! The inference is that the murderer acted on his own without consulting the others\u2014which lines up with their telling different tales.\"\n\n\"You're getting tired, my boy, and a bit woolly. The inference is that there _must_ have been one innocent person and that there _may_ have been two. If there's one innocent person, the evidence to date indicates not Miss Lofting but Ralph Cornboise.\"\n\nBenscombe would have protested but was given no chance.\n\n\"Querk's evidence clears Ralph,\" said Crisp. \"It's corroborated in part by Watlington's wife and negatively by Ralph's own mis-statements\u2014notably the statement that he struck through the wig, which we know he did not.\"\n\n\"Let's have the other half, sir! Suppose there are two innocent persons?\"\n\n\"Most probably there are! There's the difference in their respective tales. And there's Querk's point that they had no time in which to conspire. Yes\u2014I think it'll turn out to be a one-man job\u2014or let's say one-person job.\"\n\n\"You mean, sir, that Miss Lofting might have returned to the library after Querk left it?\"\n\n\"She might have. We know only that she was having a bath, round about five-fifteen. What's a bath?\u2014a couple of hours or a couple of minutes. She had opportunity plus motive. Querk had opportunity, but no motive, so far as we know.\"\n\n\"All I can say,\" announced Benscombe, \"is that if Miss Lofting is the chief suspect, I'm ready to follow Querk and plump for Watlington's wife. That 'woman scorned' stuff!\"\n\n\"Women get scorned every day, but they don't often commit murder about it. And don't forget the penknife and the signet ring\u2014which becomes an elaborate and pointless act from the wife's point of view. To say nothing of ringing us up some hour and a half after the murder.\"\n\n\"But we don't know that she did that, sir!\"\n\n\"We don't. But it's a working hypothesis that the murderer did, so as to get us bogged up with all those guests. Something may have happened then, which you and I missed. There's a corker for you. But we don't want corkers\u2014we want facts. And we shan't get any more here tonight. Come along!\"\n\nAs he gathered up the Chief Constable's personal paraphernalia, Benscombe harked back.\n\n\"I hope, sir, you don't take your own little joke seriously. Miss Lofting means nothing to me. I don't care tuppence whether she's innocent or guilty. I just feel sure that she isn't the type.\"\n\n\"Oh, I feel that too! That's because we're human. But, you know, there's no such thing as a murderer type.\"\n\nIn the hall, Claudia Lofting was waiting. As Crisp came out of the morning-room she approached him. She had discarded the evening dress, was wearing a morning frock and an apron, presumably borrowed from Bessie.\n\n\"Ralph is ill,\" she said. \"I want to take him away from here tomorrow. Is there any objection?\"\n\n\"What sort of 'ill'?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"That confession! He's a bit delirious after his excitement. He keeps telling me\u2014over and over again\u2014how he killed his uncle.\"\n\nAgain Crisp lapsed into the perilous business of assessing a human being on appearances. If she had been putting on an act, that apron would be free from stains, which it wasn't. She looked tired and pre-occupied. So he took her words at their face value.\n\n\"I have no authority in the matter,\" he told her. \"I suggest that you leave the decision to the doctor. We've a lot of spadework to do yet. And perhaps it would be in his own ultimate interest if he were to stay close at hand.\"\n\nClaudia nodded. Some of her fatigue vanished and she smiled.\n\n\"And in my ultimate interest too, Colonel?\"\n\n\"Since you ask\u2014yes. Goodnight, Miss Lofting.\"\n\nWith Benscombe beside him, Crisp drove back with more dash than was decorous in a Chief Constable.\n\n\"Good women,\" he remarked, \"may conceivably commit crime for what they believe to be a good motive.\"\n\nBenscombe was irritated into an outburst of respectful agreement.\n\n#  Chapter Seven\n\nOn the following morning, an hour before he was due to report at headquarters, Benscombe was knocking at Arthur Fenchurch's flat. Eventually, Fenchurch himself appeared, in a dressing gown which most courageous young men would have liked for their honeymoon, and pyjamas which had passed beyond effeminacy to surrealism.\n\n\"Only the police would dare!\" he exclaimed. \"Please come in. My flat is yours. I will give you a latch-key. What do you want of me?\"\n\n\"Sorry to disturb you,\" said Benscombe. \"I want to see Mrs. Fenchurch.\"\n\n\"How disappointing!\" They were in the hall. Fenchurch raised his voice. \"Glenda! Glenda, darling, damn you! A really nice policeman has called for you!\" He turned to Benscombe. \"I believe she's gone.\" He opened the door of a bedroom. \"Yes, she has. With suitcases. Come and see my studio before you go.\"\n\nIt was a top floor studio flat. The studio impressed Benscombe. Against the walls was a litter of unfinished canvases, some upside down. Those that were right way up were all pretty portraits of women, except those which were pretty portraits of men. Prominent was a nude without a face. There was a general effect of studied bohemianism and a good deal of untidiness, but the divans were roomy and well sprung, and the screens worked on electric rollers, controlled from a panel built into the easel.\n\n\"Perhaps you would give me Mrs. Fenchurch's address?\"\n\n\"I don't know it. I don't even know her name. I don't know when she went. I last saw her about midnight. After that, I heard her packing.\"\n\n\"Then at least you knew she was going?\"\n\n\"Because she was packing?\" Fenchurch laughed. \"Why, during the few months we've been together she must have packed dozens of times, just as noisily as that. It was a sort of last-word technique, after a row. Good lord, she hasn't left any coffee in the thermos! You'll have to wait while I make some.\"\n\n\"Don't bother about me, thanks! I say, Mr. Fenchurch, this is on the serious side. We shall have to winkle her out.\"\n\n\"What a pity! If you find her, please don't bring her back here. Frankly, the poor darling outstayed her welcome. Pray help yourself to any clues you want. I must heat up some coffee if I am to parry your deft questions.\"\n\nFenchurch disappeared kitchenwards. Benscombe went to the room that had been Glenda's.\n\nHe was surprised to find it so tidy. And so empty. Except that the dressing table was fitted with side mirrors, there was nothing to indicate that the room had been occupied by a woman. Glenda had cleaned up thoroughly, presumably in order to remove the kind of evidence for which Benscombe was looking.\n\nThe scent of gardenia still hovered about the chest-of-drawers, which was as empty as the wardrobe. Sheets had been removed. The mattress was folded on itself. Through the springs, he saw, under the bed, a large cardboard dress-box, of the kind costumiers use to deliver dresses. He stooped down.\n\nThe box was larger than any of its kind that he had ever seen. It was tied with thick string and the knots were sealed. As he pulled it from under the bed, he perceived that it did not contain dresses.\n\nHe had left the door open. He could hear a faint, distant clatter of crockery.\n\n\"Funny how fond these chaps are of coffee!\" he muttered, as he cut the string and removed the lid.\n\nThe next moment he caught his breath, but not as policemen catch their breath\u2014if, indeed, they ever do.\n\n\"God, he can paint! You can recognise her at once, though it isn't really like her to look at.\"\n\nClaudia Lofting gazed at him out of the canvas. As a picture, it had nothing in common with the pretty portraits lying about in the studio. Benscombe, who knew nothing of art idioms, became aware that this artist could paint personality. Mood, too, subordinated to personality.\n\nIn the first, Claudia was gazing at him as if he were her lover. In the second, a full-length study, with an Italian background, showed her an attractive, everyday girl, thinking of amusing trivialities. Two more had the same kind of background: on one of them, which might have been symbolic, the words _'Casa Flavia'_ were scrawled across the corner.\n\nCasa Flavia sounded familiar. He closed his eyes, visualised the Chief Constable in the morning-room reading to Querk, from the typed sheet, a row of figures and words pencilled on Watlington's blotting pad.\n\nWatlington \u2014 Querk \u2014 Fenchurch \u2014 Claudia \u2014 Casa Flavia? Work that out later.\n\nThe last of the canvases stung him to anger. Claudia in the nude! Some devilishly clever trick with shadow made her body seem hard as armour, her hands the hands of a strangler, while the eyes, indubitably hers, looked out of the picture with fierce contempt\u2014as if at something she had killed. In the corner was scrawled: _'O madre mia.'_\n\n\"Mothers aren't murderers. The thing doesn't make sense!\"\n\nHe replaced the canvases in the cardboard dress box, turned it so that the uncut string was outermost, and slid it back under the bed.\n\nHe went back to the studio, had to wait a couple of minutes, during which he composed himself, before Fenchurch came in, with a breadboard acting as a tray for two cups of coffee.\n\n\"Thanks awf'ly!\" Benscombe accepted the cup out of policy. \"I found nothing I was looking for in that room. I suppose she has some friends, or a family or something?\"\n\n\"She must have,\" agreed Fenchurch impartially. \"She used to tell some obvious lies about the social standing of her people. I never listened. She picked me up one evening at Clapham Junction, where I had no defence. Her past did not interest me, as she had no future. D'you mind keeping still for a minute?\"\n\nFenchurch, forgetting his coffee, was making line-notes in a sketch book.\n\n\"There's no sense in your painting my portrait\u2014\" Benscombe began.\n\n\"Portrait be damned!\" He was sketching rapidly. \"You can't suppose, my dear fellow, that I am touting you for a commission. It is I who should offer a fee. I can get into the Royal Academy on your head. Under a fancy title. 'Streamline.' The modern policeman. Science, poise, breeding! Don't be offended with me. If a doctor were to tell you that your liver was marvellously interesting, you would not quarrel with him.\"\n\n\"Go ahead\u2014I'm not quarrelsome on duty,\" said Benscombe. \"As you've spoken pretty freely about Glenda, you won't mind telling us what her relations were with Watlington?\"\n\n\"There weren't any relations. I don't believe he wanted her. And I'm certain she wasn't trying for him... Can you look a tiny bit to your left? Thanks... One acquires an ability to read women's intentions by what they think they're doing with their dress. Few have the sense to employ an artist to advise on how to dress for seduction. If it's any help to you, I'm sure Glenda didn't murder Watlington. She was too lacking in temperament.\"\n\nBenscombe, forgetting that he had been overawed by the skill revealed in the pictures of Claudia, now discovered in himself a sneaking respect for this man who was so adept at slithering off the point. To nail him down it would be necessary to take a risk. He waited until there came a pause in the sketching.\n\n\"Last night,\" said Benscombe, \"we found a cheque to her, signed by Watlington, for five hundred pounds.\"\n\n\"God damn the dirty little crook!\" The sketch book went flying. A half second later, Fenchurch looked ashamed at having made a fool of himself.\n\n\"Crook?\" echoed Benscombe.\n\n\"No\u2014no, of course not! Mercenary, not crook! Evidently I was wrong in what I said about her relations with Watlington.\"\n\n\"I'm taking a bet you were _not_ wrong,\" said Benscombe. \"And another bet that you wouldn't care tuppence if she had sold herself to Watlington, or anyone else. Yet you jumped out of your pyjamas when I mentioned that cheque. What did she sell him for that five hundred?\"\n\nFenchurch stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown as if he were hiding them.\n\n\"How the hell do I know!\"\n\n\"Weak!\" scoffed Benscombe. \"If you'd known nothing, you wouldn't have damned her so energetically.\"\n\n\"My reaction, surely, was obvious! If she did succeed in nobbling Watlington, I felt she ought to have split the cash with me.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Mr. Fenchurch,\" grinned Benscombe, rising. \"I'll be getting along.\"\n\n\"Possibly\u2014\" began Fenchurch \"\u2014with your more regular way of life and unsmirched ideals\u2014you're revolted?\"\n\n\"Not revolted\u2014a bit sore because you think I'm so green that I don't know a gigolo when I see one.\"\n\n\"Science, poise, breeding!\" muttered Fenchurch. \"God, I must paint that picture!\"\n\n\"Good luck, then! You've helped us a lot.\"\n\n\"By trying to mislead you?\"\n\n\"By just that! You would rather brand yourself a so-and-so than tell us what Glenda sold Watlington. That narrows the field down splendidly. Cheerio!\"\n\n#  Chapter Eight\n\nThe Chief Constable was waiting for Benscombe on the steps of the Town Hall.\n\n\"Sorry, sir! I've been chasing Fenchurch's girl and tumbled on something else. She's bolted, by the way.\"\n\n\"Let's have the 'appreciation' first,\" said Crisp, as they got into his car.\n\n\"Appreciation!\" echoed Benscombe. \"Fenchurch didn't know Glenda was doing a deal with Watlington. Glenda sold Watlington something belonging to Fenchurch. Probably letters proving that Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting knew each other pretty well. On one of the many pictures of Claudia\u2014some with an Italian-looking background\u2014Fenchurch had written 'Casa Flavia'.\"\n\n\"Watlington's blotting pad! Good!\" said Crisp. \"Now the details!\"\n\nBenscombe reported everything, except the nude study of Claudia.\n\n\"Does it add up, sir?\"\n\n\"You've earned your pat on the back.\" Crisp was pondering as he spoke. \"It's a loop-line, of course. If you can find out when and why Watlington noted Casa Flavia, you'll come back to the main line. You see what the main line is, don't you, boy?\"\n\n\"To discover who had the greatest interest in Watlington's death.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it! The main line is the clock. That's what we keep barking our shins on. There's a catch somewhere in all these clock-times, and so far we haven't spotted it.\"\n\nHe negotiated a corner and continued:\n\n\"Look how we've had our noses rubbed in the time! That chiming stable clock works out as a sort of ballet master. Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia, Ralph, Querk! Each of 'em hears it strike before or after doing or seeing something, so that we can fit everything into place. The wrong place! It strikes five o'clock and the curtain rises, with Claudia going into the library. We hang on to that clock until it strikes five-thirty\u2014when we find we've by-passed the murder.\"\n\nAbout to turn into the drive, Crisp was held by a Rolls coming out.\n\n\"That's probably the specialist she sent for to look at Cornboise,\" said Crisp. \"Sanson phoned me about it. Maybe she's playing for insanity\u2014prevent him giving evidence.\"\n\nThe front door was open, as usual. In the hall, they heard Querk's voice coming from the first, floor landing.\n\n\"I would never have suggested it, my dear Miss Lofting, if I had the slightest fear that I would excite him. On the contrary, I feel confident\u2014absolutely confident\u2014that I can help the poor fellow to clarify his thoughts. Sir William has told us how important that is. I'm so glad he was able to come to our help\u2014I admit I had to put it to him as a special favour.\"\n\n\"Very well, Mr. Querk. I don't want to be difficult, especially as you've been so kind about Sir William. But I do think Ralph ought to rest this morning. Say four o' clock this afternoon. I'll take tea to his room for the three of us.\"\n\nCrisp passed to the gunroom, Sanson's office. After hearing a routine report, which included the stalling of Pressmen, he asked:\n\n\"What about that registered parcel? Nothing eh? Stir up the servants. Send a man with them to search every room again\u2014except Cornboise's. Lock all unoccupied rooms, label the keys and bring 'em to me.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir.\" Sanson added: \"There's a message that Miss Lofting would be grateful for an interview at your convenience.\"\n\n\"As soon as she likes\u2014in the other room.\" Benscombe followed him into the morning-room, opened the dossier and log book.\n\n\"I want the blotting pad\u2014not the typed notes,\" said Crisp.\n\nBenscombe stood over him as he studied it. When the figures were grouped, they were in neat columns. But the columns were set at various angles, due to Watlington's habit of twiddling the blotting pad. _'Girl bosses Ralph'_ was at right angles to the most recent column of figures. At right angles again, appeared (1) _Tarranio:_ (2) _Fabroli: Casa Flavia_. This was in one line, except for the last word, which had been partly written then struck out and rewritten in full underneath the cancellation. Below 'Flavia' was a date in May of the previous year.\n\n\"Now, let's see how far we can time this stuff. Check what I say. Querk says all the figures were made before lunch. After lunch there's _'Girl bosses Ralph.'_ That marries up with what she told us about her smoothing Ralph after the alleged insult to herself.\n\n\"Now this Italian stuff! Watlington had turned the pad again. I think he took this note at dictation, because it's written much more carefully than anything else, and he didn't know how much space it would take. He wrote 'Fla' of 'Flavia,' then saw he was going to crash into the 'ph' of Ralph. So he struck out the 'Fla' and re-wrote the word in full underneath. _Therefore_ \u2014therefore what, boy?\"\n\n\"Therefore the Italian note was made after the note about Ralph.\"\n\n\"Right!\" approved Crisp. \"Hold that! Check it if you can. Maybe the girl will help.\"\n\nIn a few minutes, Claudia appeared. In the same morning frock, but without the apron, she threw the suggestion of a social adequacy which was not only a protection to herself but a challenge to others. Herself a normal woman in abnormal circumstances, she demanded to be taken at her own valuation. Crisp found himself addressing her as a social acquaintance.\n\n\"Good morning, Miss Lofting. I hope the doctor was encouraging?\"\n\n\"He has told us how we stand,\" she answered. \"I called Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist.\" She smiled. \"Mr. Querk lent me his enormous fee for coming out here. Turvey said that it wouldn't affect the hallucination whether we moved Ralph from here or not. So that washes out my request.\"\n\n\"Then Turvey confirmed that it was hallucination and not\u2014well, a plumb lie?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"We told him\u2014that is, Mr. Querk and I\u2014that Ralph had confessed, and that you had rejected the confession because you had evidence that it was not true.\" She gave Crisp a chance to protest and continued: \"When Turvey had finished with Ralph, he explained to us that hallucination is only a symptom. It's not a thing you can have by itself. Like any other symptom, he said, it remains until the cause is removed.\"\n\n\"Hm! But as the cause happens to be the murder of his uncle\u2014\"\n\n\"The cause,\" interrupted Claudia, \"is his fear that I murdered his uncle. Turvey said it would be idle to look for any other cause until that has been eliminated to the patient's satisfaction. That is where I hope you will be willing to help us, Colonel.\"\n\nCrisp permitted himself to show irritation. \"You would like me to hurry up and find the murderer for you?\"\n\nClaudia was better at that kind of thing than Crisp.\n\n\"I expressed myself clumsily\u2014and I have been punished.\"\n\nBenscombe came near to feeling sorry for his Chief.\n\n\"I meant\u2014it might take you some time to complete your investigation,\" continued Claudia. \"I hoped you would be willing to tell me if you have proved that I did not kill Lord Watlington. And to give me the proof.\"\n\nCrisp's glance held something of admiration, though it was as uncompromising as her own.\n\n\"I will gladly give you that proof,\" he answered, \"as soon as I have it.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" For a moment she looked grave; then, in a quick little laugh, her defensiveness vanished. \"How stupid of me! I thought I had been struck off the list. I suppose the weak spot is whether I dashed into the library, after Querk left it. There would have been just time.\"\n\n\"So you've been discussing the case with Querk?\"\n\n\"Yes. After you had gone last night. He raised that point, and this morning I tackled Bessie. She remembered hearing the bath taps running. But I couldn't get her to admit she had heard the water running out\u2014which, as it was at about twenty to six, would have carried me over the hurdle. It's one of those awfully noisy bath wastes, too. But Bessie simply would not rise.\"\n\n\"The next time you attempt to suborn a witness,\" said Crisp, with stage severity, \"don't tell the Chief Constable all about it. Can you pin down any of your movements after turning on the water? I have no personal doubt that you behaved as described. But, theoretically, you might have run the water as a blind, then slipped downstairs, hiding somewhere, and waiting your chance.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course!\" agreed Claudia. \"The wretched Bessie is useless\u2014she was probably asleep. I didn't hurry in the bathroom, and when I was back in my own room I pottered a little, and then lay down. There's nothing we can catch hold of.\"\n\n\"Nothing through yourself. We may be able to cover the period through other evidence. Things dovetail conveniently sometimes\u2014that's why we ask so many questions. Now, I have here Watlington's blotting pad. On it there is a puzzling note. 'Casa Flavia.' Can you throw any light?\"\n\nBenscombe found himself hoping she would not lie\u2014with the evidence of those pictures against her.\n\n\"N-no!\"\n\nBenscombe sighed. As Crisp was about to ask another question, Claudia added:\n\n\"It's a small market town on the Bay of Naples. I've stayed there and know it very well. But it didn't crop up in the conversation after lunch.\"\n\nCrisp glanced again at the blotting pad.\n\n\"'Tarranio'. Does that mean anything to you?\"\n\n\"It means to me a wine merchant in Casa Flavia.\"\n\n\"And 'Fabroli'?\"\n\nShe repeated the name, groped in memory. \"Why, yes! He is also a wine merchant in Casa Flavia.\"\n\n\"Can you give us a helpful guess why all that should be noted on the blotting pad, followed by a date\u2014May 2nd last year?\"\n\n\"I was there from April to June last year.\" Her eye roamed the room, resting for a moment on Benscombe. \"Yes!\" she exclaimed. \"I see what must have happened. Only, you've obviously got the wrong time.\"\n\n\"Time again!\" Crisp's remark was for Benscombe.\n\n\"The man who can probably tell you all about it is Arthur Fenchurch, the artist,\" said Claudia. \"He was asked to the dinner last night\u2014he was going to start painting Watlington next week. He was at Casa Flavia when I was there\u2014he painted me. Probably he mentioned it to Watlington. But the note must have been made before we were all in the study.\"\n\n_\"Before?\"_ challenged Crisp.\n\n\"How otherwise?\" she countered. \"Unless you suppose that Arthur Fenchurch turned up after we had left the study\u2014without anybody knowing\u2014and that he woke Watlington out of his afternoon snooze for a chat about smalltown Italian wine merchants.\" She added: \"It simply must have been made before.\"\n\nBut it had not been made before. Benscombe, who had yet to complete his second year in the Force, felt his pulse quickening. Claudia's evidence was changing the whole perspective of the case.\n\nHis Chief was asking another question.\n\n\"Can you suggest why Watlington should want to make a note of these two wine merchants, local men? And add a definite date of more than a year ago?\"\n\n\"I haven't the least idea. Unless it was part of the peerage campaign to lay in a stock of Italian wines.\" Her gaiety passed as quickly as it had come. \"I'm afraid all this won't help you to strike me off the list.\"\n\nCrisp nodded to Benscombe, who understood and slipped from the room.\n\n\"I'd like to run over the evidence you gave yesterday and see if you can add or subtract anything,\" said Crisp. By this device he detained Claudia until Benscombe returned. As soon as Claudia had left the room Benscombe reported.\n\n\"I got Fenchurch on the phone, sir.\" Benscombe was jubilant. \"He said he last saw Watlington last Wednesday Watlington came to the studio. Fenchurch had not been in this house since last Thursday week. He was quite certain. Nailed his colours to the mast. Burnt his boats\u2014\"\n\n\"Crossed the Rubican and Cast the Die!\" cut in Crisp. \"Let's see how it fits in.\"\n\n\"Breaks the spell of the stable clock, sir. Fenchurch was in the study between the others leaving it after lunch and\u2014\"\n\n\"How do you know that note was dictated by Fenchurch?\" challenged Crisp. \"You think you know it because an attractive girl told you so. She is attractive. Did you notice how she hit back at me for trying to put her in her place?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. But I don't call that particularly attractive. She's at her best when she\u2014\"\n\n\"She is,\" agreed Crisp. \"Querk told us he could fit no meaning to the Casa Flavia stuff. Claudia fits Fenchurch into it and your job o' work this morning dovetails. All this suggests that Fenchurch is in it. But it leaves us short of certainty.\"\n\n\"He can't prove his movements on Saturday afternoon. What about my quizzing him, sir?\"\n\n\"Leave him alone for the present. If he's in it, he can't afford to bolt. He'll rely on talking himself out of it. We'll work round him. Pick up that girl of his and find out what she did sell Watlington. Tomorrow, ask the Italian consulate whether those chaps really are wine merchants.\"\n\nA constable entered with a collection of house keys, labelled, and put them on the table.\n\n\"That registered parcel has not been found, sir.\"\n\n\"This afternoon, Benscombe,\" continued Crisp, when the orderly had gone, \"you can find out whether Querk, Claudia and Ralph attach any importance to this Casa Flavia stuff.\"\n\nBenscombe was at a loss.\n\n\"Sorry, I don't see how to set about that, sir?\"\n\n\"You can attend that conference they're going to have at four\u2014but you don't need to report present.\" Crisp pointed to the collection of house keys. \"In that room, we heard Ralph brushing his hair. That means they will hear you if you try to take notes.\"\n\n\"Good Lord, sir, it's a fine assignment! I ought to get something out of it!\"\n\n\"You mean you think you will get everything out of it. You won't. If the murderer is one of the party, that murderer will be speaking in the presence of two innocent persons\u2014which equals two policemen.\"\n\n#  Chapter Nine\n\nThe only physical difficulty in the assignment was to get in and out of the room unobserved and to manipulate the key without being heard by Ralph. Querk had gone out, but might return at any time. It was necessary to locate Claudia and each one of the servants.\n\nBy three fifteen, Benscombe was in the room, the door locked behind him. The window was a nuisance. The Victorian curtain pole, with its brackets of scrolled brass, was bare of curtains. The dressing table and washstand were set at an angle\u2014which would not protect him from chance observation from the garden. There was nothing for it but to get down on the floor.\n\nOn the other side of the matchboarding, Ralph turned in his bed. To Benscombe the springs registered as if the bed were immediately behind him. From sundry small noises made by the other, he observed that audibility varied, part only of the matchboarding acting as a sounding board. While he was still groping for the best spot, he heard the door of Ralph's room open, then Claudia's voice:\n\n\"Would you like a wash and brush up before tea?\"\n\n\"No, thanks! Are the police still nosing about?\"\n\n\"Not up here. They've locked every unoccupied room above the ground floor.\"\n\nThere came the vague noises of a room being tidied before Claudia spoke again.\n\n\"I came up to tell you that Querk wants to have tea with us. I said he could. We mustn't snub him\u2014he has been so helpful.\"\n\nShe was winding the clock on the mantelpiece. Benscombe heard her tilt it to start the pendulum.\n\n\"Ralph, dear, did you hear my little piece about Querk?\"\n\n\"Yes! Who was that doctor man you forced on me?\" Ralph's tone was that of a fractious child.\n\n\"Sir William Turvey. It's unkind to say I forced him on you.\"\n\n\"I've heard of him somewhere. Is he a mental specialist, Claudia?\"\n\n\"Not in the ordinary sense.\" Her tone was placatory. \"He's a physician specialising in psychiatry.\"\n\n\"And he's collected a knighthood for it. That means that if he says I have an hallucination, people will believe him. That might turn out all right. If the police were to believe I was merely lying they'd reason that I might know you had killed him.\"\n\nBenscombe had not been in the Force long enough for the human being to be sunk in the policeman. He waited with painful anxiety for Claudia's reaction.\n\nInstead, there came the squeak of castors and the thumping of a cushion. That confounded tidying process! Then Ralph's voice again:\n\n\"They haven't got anything definite against you, have they, Claudia?\"\n\n\"Ralph, dear, _don't_! You're torturing yourself for nothing. I had another chat with the Chief Constable this morning. He did _not_ treat me as if he thought I might be guilty of murder. I am in no danger whatever.\"\n\n\"That doesn't mean a thing!\"\n\n\"I know you think I'm merely trying to stop you from worrying. Talk it over with Querk and let him tell you what he thinks. I'll see if he has come back.\"\n\nThe sound of the door being opened and shut. The groan of Ralph's bed springs. Benscombe glared at the matchboarding as if it had betrayed him.\n\n\"That's absolutely consistent with her innocence,\" ran his thoughts. \"And nearly as consistent with her guilt. And his! Oh, damn!\"\n\nBehind his exasperation was the conviction that Crisp would have little difficulty in interpreting the words of one or the other.\n\nHe set himself to memorise the words, discovered uncertainties at crucial points, mainly grammatical. The mood and tense of verbs were of paramount importance. The only positive thing Claudia had said was that she was not in danger.\n\nIn danger of being caught? Or only in danger of being unjustly suspected?\n\nThere had been no strain in her voice when she used the word 'murder.' Surely real murderers always dodged that word! He had not been a policeman long enough to know.\n\nAbsorbed, he failed to hear the stable clock strike four\u2014did not know the tea party had started until he heard Querk's voice.\n\n\"And how is the patient? Ready to sit up and take nourishment, I hope. Miss Lofting, let me take that tray from you. It must be very heavy!\"\n\nFussing with the tray was followed by Claudia asking Querk the irritating questions about sugar and milk. Then Ralph's nerve-racking voice crashing through the pretence.\n\n\"Querk! Why did you risk your own neck by lying to the police? If they find out the truth they'll charge you with being my accessory.\"\n\nA spoon was laid precisely in a saucer\u2014two clear cut clinks. Benscombe felt that in the next few minutes his own career in the Force would be made or marred.\n\n\"With those words, my dear Ralph, you have forced an issue I had hoped to avoid. I shall speak to you frankly, and, I fear harshly. But I shall be harsh, only, my dear boy, in order to be kind.\"\n\n\"It would be kind if you would co-operate and tell me what the devil you're aiming at.\"\n\n\"'Co-operate'! You have given me the very word I wanted. Let us co-operate in this awkward little problem of your\u2014ah\u2014alleged mental state. Hallucination or no hallucination. That, in the words of Hamlet, is the question.\"\n\nIncredibly to Benscombe, Claudia interrupted with an offer of sandwiches. When the confusion had died down, Ralph demanded querulously:\n\n\"Go ahead, Querk. What's the best tale to tell 'em?\"\n\n\"You cannot believe that I am suggesting the\u2014er\u2014telling of a tale! I myself enjoy, in no small measure, the confidence of the Chief Constable. I would not dream of lending myself to any abuse of that confidence in the form of an untrue or misleading statement. We must tell the truth, Ralph, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And what is the truth that we must tell? What is the only truth about yourself that your fellow man can perceive, and so believe?\"\n\n\"That I am either a liar or a lunatic. And dammit, I'm beginning to believe they're about right!\"\n\n\"Then you are beginning to believe\u2014as I do\u2014that there is only one way of telling your truth. A liar will not admit that his statement may be untrue. A lunatic is not conscious of his lunacy. But you\u2014you know in your heart of hearts that your account of your\u2014er\u2014murderous exploit will not survive the test of cross-examination. Quite apart from my own direct evidence, you must already be harbouring some doubt as to whether things _could_ have happened as you believed last night they _had_ happened.\n\n\"Very well! All I am now advising is that you manfully admit your own doubt. Admit that the circumstances of your uncle's death were a supreme shock to you. Admit that, for emotional reasons on which we need not dwell, your emotional logic convinced you that it was you yourself who had murdered him. Admit that this emotional conviction remains firmly planted in your consciousness\u2014that nothing that any of us can say will dislodge it. But admit, too, that your _intellect_ accepts the assurance of the Chief Constable that, in fact, you did _not_ murder your uncle.\"\n\nIn the pause that followed, Benscombe could sense the crushing effect of Querk's preposterous oratory. Through a mist of unctuousness, the fellow was talking horse sense.\n\nThen Claudia's voice:\n\n\"It does seem to me that Mr. Querk has solved the problem. You can stick to everything you've said, if you want to, provided you don't fly out at the police when they show they think you're mistaken.\"\n\nBenscombe felt that for once the Chief had failed him\u2014had he not said that a murderer would be speaking in the presence of two innocent persons? Querk and Claudia were pulling together. The two innocent persons? And Ralph the guilty one?\n\nBut, in that case, the two innocent persons were trying to persuade the guilty person that he was an innocent person\u2014which seemed wrong, somehow. Moreover, if Ralph was indeed the murderer, Querk's evidence that Watlington was alive after five fifteen must be false. This would tend to make Querk the murderer or accessory\u2014which was absurd. Therefore Querk and Ralph must be the two innocent persons. Therefore\u2014\n\n\"If you wangle Turvey into putting over the hallucination for you,\" Ralph was saying, \"the police will be left free to concentrate on you and Claudia. You, no doubt, can look after yourself. What about Claudia?\"\n\n\"And _what_ about Claudia\u2014if Miss Lofting will pardon me! Let us face that problem with the same frankness. Within these four walls, Ralph, will you admit that you secretly suspect Miss Lofting of having killed your uncle?\"\n\nBenscombe unconsciously held his breath. But he had to let it out before Ralph answered:\n\n\"What I do suspect is that if I am dropped out of the case, the police will muck about with microscopes and cigarette ash and the rest of it until they've put her in the dock.\"\n\n\"But why,\" demanded Claudia, \"should they want to put me in the dock? There's no reason why I should kill the poor old boy. When we were playing with that die stamp together, he was charming. He dropped all that nonsense about objecting to our marriage.\"\n\n\"You're talking like a kid, Claudia. How can you prove all that? If they ever get hold of the Casa Flavia story, they'll make a bee line for you.\"\n\n\"Oh, nonsense! They've got hold of it already. Your uncle had noted it on his blotting pad. Colonel Crisp was talking about it this morning. I told him I had stayed there and that Arthur Fenchurch was there too and had painted me.\"\n\n\"You told him that!\" shrieked Ralph. \"Oh Claudia, then they _have_ got something definite against you! At this moment Crisp and that grinning Yesman of his are probably shaking the whole story out of Fenchurch. Casa Flavia, my god! A motive the size of a haystack!\"\n\nSo Casa Flavia was the key to the murder! Benscombe contemplated the fact that he had now completed his assignment.\n\nClaudia and Ralph were both speaking at once, and Querk was trying to cut in.\n\n\"I must beg a moment's attention!\" boomed Querk.\n\n\"Look here, Querk! Claudia never mentioned Casa Flavia. How could it have been written down by uncle?\"\n\n\"We do not know. We are not interested!\" Querk's words held the finality of a Royal dismissal. \"We can safely leave such questions to be answered by the police\u2014if indeed they are worth the answering. The intervention of amateur investigators can but hinder them in their task. I may claim without boasting that I myself am not wholly unversed in the principles of scientific detection. I can assure you that Miss Lofting is in no danger.\n\n\"In the first instance, a purely theoretical suspicion is directed against the three of us. Against two of us\u2014Miss Lofting and yourself\u2014suspicion is supported by an extremely strong motive\u2014but by nothing else. You, Ralph, are known to have been out in your car at the essential time; Miss Lofting, it is true could conceivably have entered the study after I had left it. That truth does not place Miss Lofting in peril of arrest unless and until the police can prove that in fact she did so enter the study. This, I happen to know, they are not even attempting to prove.\n\n\"If you cannot restrain yourself, my dear fellow, from thinking of this tragedy in terms of innocent persons being accused\u2014what about, I ask you, _myself_! I am known to have been alone with the deceased within a few minutes of his being killed. I am betraying no confidence when I tell you that the Chief Constable called upon me\u2014in fun, of course!\u2014to clear myself. I was compelled to admit, in effect, that I was unable to do so. In the spirit of the joke, I added that, if I were in his position, I would certainly regard myself with grave suspicion. I can safely say that I have never heard a man laugh more heartily.\"\n\nRalph was trying to speak, but was drowned in the tidal wave.\n\n\"And now, Ralph, old man, I feel sure you will give earnest thought to what I have said. We must have another little chat tomorrow. Little by little, step by step, we will together sweep away the cobwebs, eh, Miss Lofting? Thank you for a most enjoyable tea.\"\n\n\"I shan't play!\" shouted Ralph. \"The Casa Flavia business makes it too dangerous. Whenever the police come near me, I shall tell them what I told them last night.\"\n\nThe door was opened and shut behind Querk. Benscombe could hear him padding contentedly along the corridor to the staircase. Three stairs taken at leisure, to the long window at the landing. The footsteps died as Querk continued his descent.\n\n\"Isn't he ghastly!\" This from Claudia. \"And the most ghastly thing about him is that he's always right.\"\n\nNo answer from Ralph. The tinkle of crockery again. Claudia, Benscombe judged, was packing the tea things on the tray. He would slip out while she was taking the tray downstairs.\n\n\"Please stop fiddling with that tray!\"\n\n\"I'll take it downstairs and out of the way.\"\n\n\"Wait a bit. Please wait.\"\n\nThe tray was set down.\n\n\"Claudia! The hallucination theory is nonsense. But it is true that I don't remember clearly all that happened. It's nothing to do with my particular brain. People who've been in accidents and air raids and the like very rarely remember exactly what happened. Part of it is vivid\u2014but part is blurred. And there's a gap. It's the gap that's making me ill.\"\n\n\"Then let's talk about it, dear. We may be able to fill it in together.\"\n\n\"We've got to talk about it. But first I want to talk about you. There's something I've never told you.\" There was another long pause and then: \"The night I first met you\u2014when I got home, I tried to gas myself. I mugged it.\"\n\nInwardly Benscombe squirmed. This, apparently, was not going to have anything to do with the assignment. He had no taste for eavesdropping on a lover's confidences.\n\nRalph was explaining.\n\n\"It wasn't a thought-out act\u2014it was a reaction. We danced, didn't we! Dancing always bored me, but it didn't that night. I remembered only a second or so of it, in which I was aware of your body close to mine. It didn't make me want to make love to you. I can only say that it made me feel I had suddenly become myself\u2014and a jolly decent self too!\n\n\"I suppose we talked the usual tosh to each other that night. But the way you talked\u2014linked on. I felt that, living with you, I could sort of take hold of life. And that I never could without you. I didn't want to go on rotting about in the old way. So I thought I might as well chuck living, as you obviously wouldn't want a one-sided arrangement like that.\"\n\n\"It wasn't a one-sided arrangement. And I did want it. And I do!\"\n\n\"Soon you and I got together. In my mind, we went on from the point I had reached that first night while dancing. Meaning I didn't want to live without you. That's all!\"\n\nSilence. Benscombe supposed that Ralph was collecting his thoughts. But the silence continued until Claudia prompted:\n\n\"Well, dear? You were going to tell me about the gap.\"\n\n\"Uncle said that if I married you there would be no money. To me that didn't matter much, at first. But when you pointed out that poverty would change us both\u2014that you wouldn't be you\u2014I panicked. I don't remember much of what we talked about in the garden, but I do remember struggling all the time with a desire to go and smash Uncle Sam to bits. For killing you\u2014the real you. You had changed already, and you weren't in love with me any more. Uncle had pushed me back where I was when I tried to gas myself. So I went berserk and killed him.\"\n\nAnother long silence.\n\n\"Yes, Ralph? We've agreed to label it 'the hallucination.' What about the gap?\"\n\nThere was no answer. A minute or more passed. Then a sound that told Benscombe that Claudia must have been sitting on the bed.\n\n\"You're tired, old man. We'd better not go on talking. It's nearly time for your medicine. You might as well take it now.\"\n\nA cork being drawn, a clink and a guggle. Then Ralph speaking as if there had been no interval.\n\n\"In my presence, that Chief Constable opened the Will. It was in an envelope exactly like the one Uncle used. It was sealed with his signet ring. The police gave me the envelope before they opened it. I held it in my hand. I thought it couldn't be the Will because the envelope didn't bulge. But it _was_ the Will.\"\n\nAnother stop. Another prompting from Claudia.\n\n\"Yes, Ralph? Colonel Crisp opened the envelope. There's no gap there, is there?\"\n\n\"The gap is\u2014I don't think I can go on with it, Claudia.\"\n\n\"Try, darling! It would be so much better for you to drag it all out into the light of day.\" Benscombe felt the tenderness in her voice, a strange tenderness that was yet hardly that of a lover. \"The gap is\u2014?\"\n\n\"The gap is that I don't remember taking your letters out of that envelope. And destroying them. And putting the Will in another envelope. And sealing it with Uncle's ring after he was dead. As I see it, I wouldn't have had time. I was out of the library when that clock struck a quarter past.\"\n\n\"But why do you suppose you did all that? I mean, why do you want to 'remember' that you did it?\"\n\n\"Because someone did it. That means there must be this gap in my memory. Although it seemed hours to me. I've worked out that I couldn't have been in that room for more than a minute or so.\"\n\n\"That's reasonable. I'll ask Colonel Crisp\u2014\"\n\n\"No- _no_!\" A shrill shout that was almost a scream. \"I don't want it proved. Leave it alone. D'you hear! I wish you hadn't made me tell you. I was a weak fool to tell you!\"\n\n\"What are you afraid of?\"\n\n\"Leave it alone! I want my medicine. You poured it out. Give it to me.\"\n\n\"Ralph, you must tell me what you're afraid of!\"\n\n\"I can't talk any more,\" he whined. \"You don't know how tired I am. My head aches.\"\n\n\"Dear, what are you afraid of?... Tell me... Tell me what you are afraid of.\"\n\nThe answer came as if gasped out under an anaesthetic.\n\n\"If I did not tamper with those envelopes\u2014 _you did_!\"\n\n\"Oh Ralph! I come into the room, find him dead, take the letters and seal the Will up again with his seal, How could I get at the signet ring? And if I could\u2014it's all rather tooth-and-clawish, isn't it? D'you really think I'm like that?\"\n\n\"I don't know\u2014I don't know anything about you! I don't know what you've done\u2014or what you might do!\"\n\nThe next moment, Benscombe felt acute discomfort. Never before had he heard an adult man crying like a forlorn child. He could not endure the sound of Claudia comforting him. Policeman or not, he thrust his hands over his ears.\n\nPresently Claudia began to speak rationally and Benscombe listened.\n\n\"When we danced we were\u2014like this\u2014werent we! _Now_ \u2014don't you feel you're becoming yourself again\u2014'and a jolly decent self too!'\"\n\n\"No\u2014not any more. Everything's changed.\" His voice was tear laden. \"You've been kind to me. But you don't feel as I thought you felt. I've no grievance against you. It was I who fooled myself.\"\n\n\"That's another hallucination, darling. Now listen. Tomorrow, I'm going to give notice at the registrar's and we'll be married to-morrow week. You'll find that I do love you and that it's worth while going on living.\" She repeated: \"To-morrow week. That will be lovely, won't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, Claudia.\" To Benscombe, the assent sounded mechanical and meaningless.\n\n\"And once we're married you won't be worried by those awful little thoughts about me. Murders and tamperings and not loving you and heaven knows what else, darling. Now you simply must rest... I'll get your medicine.\n\n\"Here it is. Shall I steady the glass, or can you manage by yourself?... Those letters that have upset you! I believe your uncle destroyed them himself and put the Will in a new envelope and sealed it up. He quite changed his mind about me, you know. But don't worry about that now. Try to go to sleep and think of tomorrow week.\"\n\nShe picked up the tray and left the room. Benscombe could hear her firm, clear-cut footsteps along the corridor. Three stairs down to the landing.\n\nThrough the long window at the landing, Claudia caught sight of Querk in the garden. She set the tray on the window sill and watched him, with profound mistrust. But his behaviour in the garden, she was compelled to admit, was merely that of an elderly man sunning himself.\n\nShe heard a faint movement in the corridor behind her. She turned and saw Benscombe coming out of the room next to Ralph's.\n\n#  Chapter Ten\n\nAs Benscombe completed his elaborate precautions for silence, he caught sight of Claudia on the half-landing, watching him.\n\nHe felt like a village constable in a comedy\u2014hoped she would have the tact to pick up the tray and move on. Instead, she waited for him\u2014intending, he supposed, to find out how much he had overheard. Girls like that, with their nerve and their lucky appearance, tended to think that men were easily managed. She could try it on if she liked!\n\nAs he drew level with her on the landing, she gave him a half smile of recognition. Her first words outflanked his defences as an official.\n\n\"It must have been rotten for you!\" she said.\n\n\"It was!\" he agreed, too fervently. \"And it's rotten being found out.\"\n\n\"I shan't tell anybody. In fact I hope it won't be necessary for you to let Ralph know the police were listening.\"\n\n\"That's a matter for the Chief Constable. I'll put your request before him.\" To himself he sounded stuffily formal, but she seemed not to notice.\n\n\"Thank you\u2014I hoped you would! You see how obsessed Ralph is. In his poor, overwrought brain he thinks he's running a campaign to protect the police from themselves. Suppressing this bit and lying about that bit. If he feels he has given damaging evidence against me over that envelope business, I'm afraid he'll become very ill indeed.\"\n\n\"D'you mean insane?\"\n\nShe smiled sadly.\n\n\"He is perfectly sane. But he's in a low state of nervous health\u2014he was, before this dreadful thing happened. Like most people in that state, he is subject to the suicide impulse. That's why I'm going to marry him at once.\"\n\n\"A sticky job for you!\" he ejaculated. \"As to what I've overheard\u2014well, I'm about as junior as it's possible to be and I can only promise to do my best.\"\n\n\"And I'll do my best for you\u2014now! If there's anything we said which you didn't hear properly or didn't follow, I'll fill in the blank. Ask me anything you like.\"\n\nDirect questioning of so important a witness was a job for the high-ups. But this was an opportunity too good to be missed.\n\n\"Did Watlington put those letters of yours in the envelope with his Will? You seemed to agree with Ralph that he did.\"\n\n\"He may have. All that time, my attention was on Ralph. I told Colonel Crisp all I could remember, except the name of the man to whom I had written. And now you know it, I expect?\"\n\n\"No,\" lied Benscombe, and thought that she believed him.\n\n\"I wanted to keep him out of it for his sake, but I can't take care of two men at once. I must throw him to the lions to save Ralph... Arthur Fenchurch, the artist. But you knew it! You looked surprised because I didn't invent a name.\"\n\n\"We had a finger pointing that way,\" he admitted, \"but we needed a check-up.\"\n\n\"Any more check-ups?\"\n\n\"That hallucination! Why do you believe Querk's story? And not believe Ralph's?\"\n\nIt was almost a chance question, but it fired a hidden charge. For an instant he saw her as Arthur Fenchurch had seen her\u2014her body hard as armour, her eyes raking him with fierce contempt. ' _O madre mia!_ ' He was beginning to see what Fenchurch meant.\n\n\"The action taken by the Chief Constable convinced me.\" She had relaxed, which only meant that she was on guard. \"I suppose that's not a fair answer. I would have felt the same, even if the police had believed that absurd confession. I know how ill Ralph is. He hasn't enough\u2014well, moral pluck\u2014to kill a man, however much he might want to.\"\n\nAnd yet, reflected Benscombe, as he went on down the stairs, she wanted to marry him\u2014a sub-murderer type, by her own analysis.\n\n\"If they get away with all this, she'll be the wife of a rich man, whom she can boss as if he were a kid,\" ran his thoughts.\n\nBut those thoughts did not fit in. That picture of Fenchurch's was nearer the mark. In the nude too\u2014to make it all symbolic! After all, the very qualities that made a mother gentle would also make her fierce under provocation. And mothers who had never had any children\u2014phew!\n\nIn the hall, he stopped for a friendly chat with the constable on guard, then returned to headquarters, to find the Chief Constable at work as on a week-day, his broad shoulders bent over the desk as if he were about to claw his way up to the pigeon-holes.\n\n\"Well, Benscombe?\"\n\n\"I listened-in all right, sir, but I was caught by Claudia as I was coming out.\" Before the Chief could comment he hurried on. \"Appreciation: Querk and Claudia believe in the hallucination, Ralph himself does not. Letters written by Claudia to Fenchurch, in Watlington's possession, were placed by Watlington in the envelope with the Will and sealed up. Ralph thinks that either he himself or Claudia removed the letters after the murder. He can't remember doing it\u2014thinks that he couldn't have done it in the time\u2014so he fears Claudia did. Claudia told Ralph she believed that Watlington removed them himself, having changed his mind about her suitability. Claudia is going to marry Ralph to-morrow week, because he has what she calls the suicide impulse.\"\n\nHe followed up with a detailed report, ending with his meeting with Claudia and her request regarding Ralph.\n\n\"Why she wants him is a mystery all to itself. She practically admitted to me that she thought him a poor fish.\"\n\n\"Clever girl!\" remarked Crisp, but Benscombe missed the point.\n\n\"The funny thing is, sir, that when they thought they were alone together they talked very much as they talk to us\u2014except for Ralph's raving about those envelopes.\"\n\n\"The other funny thing,\" said Crisp, \"is that Querk and Claudia are contradicting each other on a substantial point.\" He opened the dossier. \"Here's Claudia speaking of her interview in the study _before_ five-fifteen: ' _He became complimentary\u2014quite definitely so\u2014the burden of it being that he was very glad I wanted to marry Ralph_.'\n\nCrisp turned a few pages, then continued:\n\n\"Querk, speaking of his interview _after_ five-fifteen, says he advised Watlington to withdraw his objection to the marriage and to tell Claudia so at once. But Watlington does not reply that he has already done so\u2014some ten minutes previously. According to Querk, he refuses, yields to persuasion, then promises to tell Claudia\u2014what he has already told her. If he did tell her!\"\n\n\"Personally, I prefer Querk's version,\" put in Benscombe.\n\n\"Then you've changed your opinion of the girl. Why?\"\n\nBecause a picture had awakened him to the potentialities for violence latent in a good woman. The Chief answered his own question.\n\n\"You're judging by character. Claudia, you think, would do anything to protect that lame dog of hers. Querk is comparatively disinterested. Hm! Over-simplification, boy! Character will sometimes give you a hunch on where to look for evidence. More often it leads you up a blind alley. Leave out what they all _might_ have done and let's see how much we know of what they _have_ done. Take the main items on that typewriter, while we run through them. Leave out corroborative matter.\"\n\nThus would Crisp clarify his own thought by explaining to his junior, a process valuable to both sides.\n\n\"Take the killing first. Of the murderer\u2014who may be more than one person, by the way\u2014we know that he did not strike through the wig\u2014that he removed the signet ring after death. He knew that Watlington had been trepanned. He wanted to open the envelope containing the Will and seal it up again.\n\n\"How many persons knew about the trepanning? You can write down Querk, Ralph, Claudia, Mrs. Cornboise, Fenchurch. How many, in point of time and place, could certainly have committed the murder? All except Fenchurch. Put a query against him, because he can't prove his movements between three and seven o' clock, nor can we.\n\n\"The Will. There must have been a total of three envelopes printed with the address of the solicitors. Watlington used one\u2014which was opened and taken away by the murderer. If Watlington had torn the envelope up himself, as Claudia suggested, we should have found the pieces.\n\n\"Assuming that envelope No. I contained nothing but the Will, who could have wanted to tamper with it? None of the three who were in the study after lunch\u2014call them the Big Three\u2014because they all knew its contents. Rule out Fenchurch. Leaves only Mrs. Cornboise.\n\n\"Assume that the envelope contained also love letters written by Claudia to Fenchurch\u2014I'm going on what you found out this afternoon. That yields Claudia and Ralph, interested in destroying the letters and preserving the Will.\"\n\n\"And Fenchurch?\" suggested Benscombe. \"He might have heard Watlington had got those letters and determined to get 'em back. Especially if Glenda pinched them from him.\"\n\nGrisp was doubtful.\n\n\" _Only_ if Glenda pinched them,\" he amended. \"As soon as the bank is open to-morrow that girl will have a shot at getting her cash, in the hope that I'm wrong in saying the banks won't pay a dead man's cheque. Pick her up and squeeze out of her whether she did.\n\n\"Next item. Persons known to have gone to the library between, say, three and seven o'clock. The Big Three plus the person who telephoned us\u2014who may be one of the Three. Anything I've missed there, Benscombe?\"\n\n\"The person who gave Watlington the note of Casa Flavia and the two names and the date.\"\n\n\"Right! Go on!\"\n\n\"The only one of the Big Three who could have given it is Claudia. And she could have lost nothing by admitting it to us.\"\n\n\"Agreed. But why do you exclude Ralph?\"\n\n\"Time, sir. Querk and Mrs. Cornboise agree that Ralph was only in the library for a minute or so. Look at that note! A town in Italy: two local tradesmen: a date. Nobody hopped in there, hurled all that at him and then hopped out again. It must have been a fairly lengthy conversation, with question and answer: several minutes at least\u2014allowing for the dictating of the note. We know that Fenchurch possessed the information contained in the note, and that it was given to Watlington after the Big Three left the library\u2014that is after about two forty-five.\"\n\nCrisp nodded with satisfaction as the other confirmed his own deduction.\n\n\"After the Big Three left the library at about two forty-five!\" he repeated. \"But before, or after, each of the three re-entered it separately?\"\n\n\"No data, sir.\"\n\n\"And we shan't get any data by questioning Fenchurch. We'll leave him alone until we've managed to get a card or two to play.\n\n\"Now those letters. Give 'em a separate heading. In telling their separate tales to us, the Big Three all suppressed the fact that the letters were put in the envelope with the Will. Let yourself go on that.\"\n\n\"Claudia was telling the truth when she said she didn't notice,\" suggested Benscombe. \"Querk shut up because he wants to smooth everything over and lead a quiet life. Ralph, knowing that he himself had not touched the envelopes, assumed that Claudia had. He assumed it the moment you opened the Will-envelope and he saw the letters weren't there. Assuming his confession is a fake, he became dead certain Claudia had scuppered the old boy and burnt the letters. I don't think he said: 'I will now nobly sacrifice myself for the woman I love.' I think he just lurched from one horror to the other. And I don't see that it matters to us whether he has an hallucination or is just lying. From his tone of voice, it struck me that he's more than a bit afraid of Claudia.\"\n\n\"But you said they're going to marry in a week.\"\n\n\"I said _she_ said it, sir. He didn't gurgle with delight when she\u2014well, it wasn't love-making\u2014thank heaven!\u2014but a sort of crooning over a panicky child. He agreed obediently\u2014I suspect because he was too exhausted to argue. I don't think he has much staying power.\"\n\nCrisp rose from his desk, looked over Benscombe's shoulder while he completed his notes.\n\n\"Good! You've cut the character talk and taken the facts. Querk leaves the library at approximately five twenty-eight. At five thirty-four the telephone rings and Watlington does not answer. By the way, did you contact the caller?\"\n\n\"A socialite called Tremayne. Knows very little about Watlington. He was asked to the dinner party, but had to fly to Edinburgh because his wife was injured in a street accident. He was ringing Watlington to explain that he couldn't turn up.\"\n\n\"Hm! That buttons him up. Anyhow, the call came at five thirty-four. With the doctor's evidence, we may infer that by that time Watlington was dead. That gives the murderer a maximum of five minutes for the job.\"\n\n\"Which would take about five seconds, sir. Then he could lock the door and take his time over the signet ring.\"\n\n\"So at five twenty-eight the murderer enters the library. But he can't get on with the murder, because he wants to get that Casa Flavia conversation off his chest. And see that the man he's just going to kill makes a note about it. And gets the spelling right. In order to give us a headache. Hm! We may have got the facts, but we've got 'em in the wrong order, somehow.\"\n\nHe went on: \"That means more spadework. And there's plenty of small stuff to be cleaned up. We want a note on that die-stamp. And remind Inspector Sanson to enquire at the post office about that registered package. That's disappeared.\"\n\nCrisp checked the clock-times and then:\n\n\"Now try your hand at the Appreciation,\" he invited. \"Take it that Querk and Ralph cancel each other out as principals.\"\n\n\"But is that logical, sir?\"\n\n\"Logic only works when both sides know the rules and can be relied on to obey them. Most crimes are a jumble of intelligence and stupidity, of careful planning and hasty improvisation. When our facts are insufficient, we have to work on probability with what common sense we have.\n\n\"Now, Ralph asserts that he killed Watlington. But he mis-describes the method of killing, and protests that he did not notice the distortion of the body\u2014which would be as striking to any non-medical man as it was to me.\n\n\"Querk's evidence is two-edged. If Watlington was dead when Querk entered the library, then Querk becomes compassionate accessory against the will of the principal. I don't think compassion is in Querk's line o' business\u2014especially when it means taking such an enormous risk.\n\n\"The other edge touches Querk as hypothetical murderer. As he himself has pointed out\u2014horrible chap, isn't he\u2014as a murderer he is also an incredible fool, because he volunteers extremely damaging evidence against himself which we should not otherwise have possessed. I'm pretty sure Querk is not a fool. So you can leave those two out.\"\n\nBenscombe inserted a fresh sheet and typed the word 'Appreciation.' Crisp was watching the paper. Benscombe typed on:\n\n_'Opportunity: Mrs. Cornboise, Claudia Lofting and (?) Fenchurch._\n\n_'Opportunity and Motive: Claudia Lofting.'_\n\nCrisp grunted with approval.\n\n\"If you hadn't insisted otherwise, sir, I would have included Querk under 'opportunity.' Mrs. Cornboise and Fenchurch would have been awful fools to kill Watlington.\"\n\n\"Isn't that an argument for cutting them out,\" As Benscombe said nothing, Crisp added: \"We'll leave them in, then, and see if we can collect enough evidence to eliminate them. That will isolate Claudia.\"\n\n#  Chapter Eleven\n\nBy Monday morning the routine work on the murder of Lord Watlington had spread fanwise throughout county headquarters so that every constable on point or beat was checking some detail. A steady stream of reports filled the wire baskets, to be summarised and indexed for reference.\n\nAt half-past seven, Benscombe drove a police car from the garage at Watlington Lodge to the Three Witches, the road-house with the swimming pool. He filed a report that it had taken eleven minutes, and added a comment that Ralph's Reindert could probably cover the distance, under normal traffic conditions, in eight minutes.\n\nAt five minutes to ten he was hovering near the City branch of the National and Mutual Bank. Glenda was already waiting outside the locked doors. Watching her from a safe distance, he was amused to notice that no fewer than three business men stopped short on their way to the office in the hope of picking her up, averaging two minutes apiece to discover that there was nothing doing, Glenda's interest being concentrated on her hope of cashing Watlington's cheque for five hundred pounds.\n\nWhen she came out, flushed after an ill-advised effort to persuade the manager that he was misinterpreting the law, she did not recognise Benscombe until he took her arm.\n\n\"Tough luck, Glenda! A cup of coffee will pull you round.\"\n\n\" _Oo!_ It's you! I didn't know you out of uniform. And I don't want any coffee, thanks.\"\n\n\"Don't be tactless, darling! When the police offer you coffee in that tone of voice, it means they're trying to keep you out of clink if you give ' em the chance. There's a place round the corner. Come along!\"\n\nThe bank manager had done the ground work. In Glenda's life there were axioms for most emergencies, offshoots of the golden rule that a girl must look after herself. When your luck is out, don't start something. And Glenda's luck was indisputably out.\n\n\"Mother's diamonds and all that!\" remarked Benscombe when they were seated. \"All right when you want a gag for your friends. When you give _us_ a tale that isn't true\u2014well, the first stage is a cup of coffee. The second is not.\"\n\nThe arrival of the waitress gave her time for reflection. Benscombe observed that she was quietly dressed in a tailormade, and looked like a business girl in difficulties.\n\n\"I don't see how I've broken the law.\"\n\n\"In strict confidence, Glenda, we don't care tuppence whether you've broken the law or not. For other reasons, we intend to have the whole story of that cheque.\" He added: \"We shan't give you away to Fenchurch.\"\n\n\"Oh well, then!\" On her lips the phrase meant that she would comply, but in her own way. \"Arthur was as mean as they make 'em but he always expected me to be decently dressed and keep the housekeeping down.\n\n\"There was something going on between him and Watlington, and I don't know yet what it was, on Arthur's side. We used to live in Hampstead. As soon as he heard that Watlington was coming to the Lodge, Arthur took that flat so as to be near, had it all fitted up as if he meant to stay there for years.\n\n\"After we'd settled in, and only a few days before Watlington turned up at the Lodge, a man came to see me one night when Arthur was at a party. Not a gentleman\u2014oily sort of man. It came out he wanted to know whether I knew anything about Arthur and a Miss Claudia Lofting. Well, I didn't. But I knew there'd been a Claudia because more than once, when he was sleepy and absent-minded and a bit drunk, he had called me Claudia. The oily man got that much out of me before he went.\n\n\"He turned up again about a week ago and said Lord Watlington wanted to see me privately. Well, I said I wouldn't go, and then I did, he was so pressing about it and saying it would be to my advantage.\n\n\"Watlington dragged out of me about Arthur calling me Claudia. It pleased him and he called me a good kid, which I thought common, coming from a real lord, as I understood he was. Then he got on to asking me whether there were any letters in the flat from the real Claudia, thinking I'd know. He was a very coarse man\u2014asking that sort of question.\n\n\"As a matter of fact, I did happen to know there were some letters. Arthur kept them tied up in one of those tin boxes, like lawyers have. Only, the lock didn't work and I had a perfect right to look there one day when a man came to the door with a bill which Arthur'd given me no money to pay. There wasn't any money in the box\u2014only these letters signed 'Claudia,' and some oddments.\n\n\"So Lord Watlington said he'd give me five hundred for the letters if they were any good to him, which of course I knew they would be. Come to that, I was surprised at a real lady writing like that to a man she wasn't married to. And Watlington said how he'd pay me and what was to be done, just as I told you the other night, only I said diamonds and it was really those letters. I daresay you think it was mean of me. But you don't know Arthur. And what I say is that a girl has to look after herself.\"\n\n\"Quite right, Glenda!\" applauded Benscombe. \"You're doing fine. Did you leave Arthur suddenly because he found out what you'd done?\"\n\n\"He didn't find out I'd done it, but I was afraid he would,\" she admitted. \"It seems luck was against me from the start. First thing, there came a letter from Miss Lofting on the very Saturday morning\u2014day before yesterday\u2014I could see it was from her though I didn't read it, as I knew the handwriting. He read the letter over breakfast, then put it in his pocket and went straight to that tin box. She must have asked him to burn her letters or something. Anyhow, he came back looking very ugly. 'Glenda,' he says, 'have you been to my deed box?'\n\n\"I made out that if he had lost anything it was probably when we moved, as the box wasn't locked, and he seemed to believe it. But he didn't do any work that morning, and after lunch he said, same as I told you, that he was going round to see Ralph Cornboise.\n\n\"I didn't see him again until about ten that night. When he came in he stared at me, almost as if he was trying to think who I was. Then he said: 'Watlington is dead. Puts us in a tight spot.' I thought he meant he'd lose the money for painting his lordship's portrait, as he didn't tell me about it being murder.\n\n\"Of course, I was worrying about my cheque. And when I thought Arthur had settled down to drink himself sleepy, I slipped round. That policeman in the hall told me I'd have to wait. I was a bit put out when Miss Lofting came up to me, all pleasant. She had heard me give the name of 'Mrs. Fenchurch' and she asked me if I'd mind taking Arthur's sketch book back, as he'd left it. It's a posh book in art leather covers, with his monogram. He carries it in a special pocket to make line-notes when he can borrow a pencil, as he never remembers to carry one himself. I said I didn't mind, but I did mind, because I didn't want Arthur to know where I'd been.\n\n\"When I got back to the flat I just had time to hide the sketch book when he popped out of the studio. He asked me where I'd been, but he didn't listen to the answer. He said: 'When I left here after lunch, did I tell you where I was going?' And I said: 'Yes, you told me you were going to Watlington Lodge.' He said: 'Forget it. I changed my mind and went for a walk by the river, because it was too hot to sleep.' I remembered how you'd wheedled the truth out of me on the phone, so I said: 'I wouldn't say that if I were you. Ralph might give you away.' And he got ugly again and he said: 'I wasn't asking you for advice.' And then\u2014well, I think that's all that matters.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't,\" said Benscombe. \"Keep going.\"\n\n\"I don't like to,\" she simpered. \"He started talking about my face.\"\n\n\"Let's have it,\" prompted Benscombe. \"It's waste to be shy of me when I'm on duty.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm only telling you what _he_ said, mind! 'Your saccharin prettiness,' he said, 'which you're so proud of, depends on the balance of your features.' Of course, being an artist he says things like that, and he knows all about women's dress, which is awkward sometimes. Only I'm sure nobody could call me proud.\"\n\nWhile Benscombe was trying to fit it in, she continued:\n\n\"'A comparatively light blow with the open hand,' he says, 'would give you a cauliflower ear. Then you'd look like a prizefighter's auntie, and no one would notice your legs. And that's what you'll get if you tell anybody I was going to Watlington Lodge'.\"\n\nGlenda broke off and tapped the table. \"It's no use you looking as if you thought he'd committed the murder,\" she warned him, \"because I happen to know he was counting on Lord Watlington's money for the picture. It's my belief the talk about Ralph was just a blind, and he was really going to see Miss Lofting and he didn't want it talked about.\"\n\nThat was one to Glenda. By an unguarded expression he had stopped her in mid-stream. He remembered Fenchurch's rot about admiring her vanity.\n\n\"I think you're right, Glenda. And it's obvious you can read that feller's mind like an open book. But why did you walk out on him?\"\n\n\"That was your fault, getting me to say what I did on the telephone. I knew it would be sure to come out sooner or later, and Arthur would know. You see, artists know a lot about what the body is made of. And of course, I don't think I'm at all pretty and no one else does, and, besides, it's a silly word. But I've seen a girl with a cauliflower ear. So I quarrelled a bit and said I'd had enough and I was going to pack and I did pack, and I slipped away by an early train while he was sleeping it off.\"\n\nBenscombe decided that her words rang true. She might be a spineless little cheat, but she was very unsubtle. He remembered how feeble had been her attempt to lie to the Chief.\n\n\"If you'll give me your address, we probably shan't trouble you again,\" he said. \"And you needn't worry about Fenchurch. As a matter of fact, you don't know that he did go to Watlington Lodge until about dinner time.\"\n\n\"I may not know, but I'm sure, all the same,\" she retorted. \"For one thing, there was all that fuss he made about telling me what to say about the river. And for another, while he was storming about at night and saying what he'd do to my face, I saw one of those funny pencils of Lord Watlington's, sticking out of his top pocket, which wasn't there when he left the flat.\"\n\nThat was a point, thought Benscombe. Not one of the dinner guests had been permitted to enter the house after the arrival of the police. Fenchurch had not entered until he had been escorted to the interview with Crisp.\n\nBut Glenda did not know this, and he was not going to tell her.\n\n\"But he might have picked that pencil up when he was there at dinner time. After all, he had his sketch book with him.\"\n\n\"I never thought of that,\" said Glenda indifferently.\n\nIn order to be ready for the Coroner's inquest at eleven, the Chief Constable had to start work at eight\u2014beginning with the wire basket on his desk marked 'urgent,' now overflowing. True that all reports went into that basket, even those which merely confirmed earlier reports. But as a check-up by one man would sometimes affect the report of another, the sorting could only be undertaken by a principal.\n\nAmong the new reports was one\u2014marked 'N,' meaning negative\u2014which concerned the missing registered package delivered at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon. Beyond stating that the package had been dispatched at 10.30 a.m. on Saturday from the Western District Office, the officials could not help. There had been the usual queue at the counter, and the clerk was unable to remember even the sex of the sender.\n\nThat registered package, in short, promised to become a first class nuisance. It was but one of a score of trifles that had to be checked, on the minute chance of something important emerging.\n\n\"Probably somebody knocked it off the table in the hall and later one of the waiters spotted it and mopped it up\u2014which means an expensive check-up,\" reflected Crisp. He was already using a lot of men on the case and would soon have to use more.\n\nAnother new report contained a duplicate copy of the ticket handed to every patron of the car park at the Three Witches, showing that a Reindert two-seater, registered number noted, had been parked by Mr. Cornboise at five forty-six. A covering note by the constable explained that the time stated could be taken as being within a minute of the actual time of arrival. Pinned to it was Benscombe's note estimating eight minutes for the journey. Given that Ralph had left Watlington Lodge not later than five-twenty, that left a margin of some sixteen minutes to be accounted for.\n\nFrom a bulging pocket, Crisp brought out a wad of unused postcards, secured with a rubber band. On the topmost was his own private chart of the peak features of the case.\n\nQuerk was assumed to have left the library at five twenty-eight, some eight minutes after Mrs. Cornboise had seen Ralph depart in the Reindert.\n\nSuppose Ralph had driven to a point, say, a couple of minutes walk from the house\u2014and then come back? Assuming that he could have entered the house unobserved by Mrs. Cornboise, he would have had at least five minutes for the murder and two minutes in which to return to the car\u2014leaving eight minutes for the journey to the Three Witches car park. He wrote a slip for Benscombe on the points to be checked.\n\nAt ten-thirty he was revising the notes of the evidence to be given at the inquest, when an orderly reported that the Registrar would like a word with the Chief Constable.\n\nCrisp's guess as to the Registrar's business was proved correct.\n\n\"Young Cornboise, the old man's heir, and a Miss Lofting were in my office five minutes ago giving statutory notice. I'm to marry them to-day week. It seems a bit surprising in the circumstances, and I thought you might like to know before it gets about.\"\n\n\"Officially, of course, it's no affair of ours,\" said Crisp.\n\nThe Registrar nodded. \"I came for my own sake as much as yours, Colonel. As you know, we're supposed to keep our eyes open. And I didn't quite like the look of those two! I wondered whether you'd give a tip, off the record. Is young Cornboise a sane man?\"\n\n\"Difficult to give you a straight answer,\" replied Crisp. \"He's neurotic. He did some funny business with us\u2014though we're not taking any action about it. His friends called in Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist. He might give you some information. Anyhow, I think she is a bit frightened about his mental condition, and that's why she's marrying him at once.\"\n\n\"She's marrying him all right!\" said the Registrar. \"Practically led him in\u2014it was like the music hall joke, except that she's not the man-chasing type. All the same, she pushed him and prompted him, told him his name and address\u2014\"\n\n\"Was he as bad as that!\"\n\n\"Oh not really, I suppose. But when I asked him his name he glared at me. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Possibly Cornboise, possibly Watlington.' Then he laughed like a hyena. 'That's a knotty point of law, Mr. Registrar, with more in it than meets the eye,' he said. I explained the legal difference between a name and a title, and that they could leave the title out if they wanted to, and that seemed to please her. I suppose, as far as you know, she isn't 'dominating' him is she? Those cases always mean a lot of bother for us. Especially when there's a peerage and a good deal of money hanging to it.\"\n\n\"I don't think she is 'dominating' him within the meaning of the Act.\"\n\nThe interview satisfied the Registrar, but left Crisp uneasy.\n\n\"She ought to have seen the folly of rushing it like this!\" ran his thoughts. \"The newspapers will make a splash. Also, it throws the whole thing out of focus for us. And it's bound to upset the coroner's jury.\"\n\nHe snatched up the house telephone and rang the head of the legal department.\n\n\"There's been a new development,\" he announced. \"I want you to stall the inquest. Go all out for formal evidence only, and a fortnight's adjournment.\"\n\nA coroner rarely refuses a police request for adjournment. The actual hearing occupied but a few minutes. While Crisp was giving the formal evidence as to the finding of the body, his eye lit on the bench of witnesses\u2014who would not be called. The Big Three and Bessie Walters. Ralph whispered to Claudia, then, at a nod from her, crept out of court.\n\nAfter the court had risen, Crisp had an informal chat with the coroner then returned to the office, to find Benscombe waiting to report on his interview with Glenda.\n\n\"Good! The Glenda sequence is buttoned up and we can forget her,\" approved Crisp. \"It adds up to corroboration of the existence of those letters.\"\n\n\"What about Fenchurch, sir?\"\n\n\"Not much there about him, if you analyse it. He told her he was going to Watlington Lodge. He may or may not have gone there. Bullying her into denying what he'd said could be attributed to reasonable anxiety on his part.\"\n\n\"But the pencil, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes\u2014if you like. As it stands, it only means that she noticed the pencil at one time and not at another. He might have been carrying that pencil around since his last call on Watlington some ten days ago. Still, when you've time it wouldn't do any harm to drop in on him and, if you find the pencil, see what lies he tells you.\"\n\nBenscombe felt that he had failed to put his case over. The Chief was talking about Ralph Cornboise.\n\n\"It might rattle him less if you were to see him without any formality. Find out why he took more than twenty minutes to get to the Three Witches. He's knocking about the town. You might spot him before he goes back.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir. Querk is in the waiting-room. He's in a bit of a lather. Says he fears he unconsciously misled you. I got two or three minutes of his fears. Shall I stall him?\"\n\n\"No. Never stall Querk. Let him pour it all over you every time. Send him in as you go out to find Ralph Cornboise.\"\n\nQuerk came in, bringing, as ever, the sense of occasion.\n\n\"Ah, my dear Colonel, I am fortunate to catch you with a minute to spare. For my part, I have not been idle since our last meeting.\" He bowed himself into a chair. \"I have, in fact, had an important\u2014a most important\u2014conversation with Mrs. Cornboise.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" Crisp was annoyed. If the infernal fellow was going to tamper with witnesses there would be trouble.\n\n\"Let me guess what is in your mind!\" mouthed Querk. \"You wish to remind me that a co-operator\u2014if I may presume so to style myself\u2014is by no means the same as a colleague. Had I the privilege of being your colleague you would have told me\u2014as soon as I mentioned the existence of poor Lord Watlington's wife\u2014that you had already encountered her and obtained from her what appeared to be important evidence.\"\n\nConfound the fellow, what did he mean by 'appeared to be' important\u2014when it _was_ important!\n\n\"It is perhaps not you but I, my dear Colonel, who should apologise. I had the presumption to examine that evidence somewhat more closely. Mrs. Cornboise\u2014as she prefers to be called\u2014was most helpful. She reacted to my little tests\u2014particularly in regard to the movements of Ralph's car. The Reindert! With its highly tuned engine, if you remember.\"\n\n\"You don't tell me that Mrs. Cornboise knows anything about the tuning of engines?\"\n\n\"Ah! I fear that I seriously misled you as to Mrs. Cornboise's nature. I represented her\u2014I regret to say\u2014as ungrateful and embittered. I have since discovered that she has a mature mind and a generous temperament. If she suffers the pangs of loneliness, that should have evoked my pity, not my criticism. I blame myself and shall do all in my power to make amends.\"\n\nCrisp's curiosity overcame his impatience. He had grasped Querk's technique of throwing a net of platitudes over his opponent and striking through the net. And he had begun to suspect that Querk never wasted a platitude.\n\n\"I am all attention, Mr. Querk.\" Crisp scowled as he said it. Querk's manner was catching.\n\n\"You are most kind, Colonel. I have to remind myself that you have a great many calls on your time. So I must not weary you with the details of my amateur investigation. Instead, I will give you my conclusion. As my poor dear friend, Lord Watlington, used to say so often\u2014'it's the totals that count.' My conclusion, Chief Constable, is that Ralph\u2014in a state of dementia, of course, poor fellow!\u2014in all probability killed his uncle at approximately five-thirty\u2014that is, after I had left the library.\"\n\nThis, from Querk, was startling. In an intuitive flash there came to Crisp the conviction that opposite him, in the guise of a fatuous busybody, sat a formidable antagonist\u2014the more dangerous because his objective was a complete mystery. In future, he would double his precautions in dealing with Querk.\n\n\"You have changed your opinion of Ralph, Mr. Querk?\"\n\n\"Superficially, yes. Substantially, no. From the first, I suspected that the hallucination was too sharp in outline to be wholly without some foundation in fact. Both you and I were a little bemused, if I may say so, by the crushing weight of my own evidence. It made the poor boy seem to be raving like a madman. Yet the only impossible element in his self-accusation was the element of time. The position of the hands of the clock when he murdered his uncle.\"\n\nQuerk was wrong there, reflected Crisp. Ralph said he had struck through the wig. If he remembered the murder at all, he would remember removing the wig and replacing it\u2014 _if_ he committed the murder.\n\n\"Let's get it clear,\" said Crisp. \"In the hallucination, he went once to the library\u2014about five-fifteen. You are suggesting that, in fact, he went twice?\"\n\n\"Tentatively suggesting!\" amended Querk. \"The unhappy conclusion to which I have been driven requires confirmation. 'Check-up' is, I believe, the technical term. Would it be possible for your staff to find out from the Three Witches\u2014the road-house of that name\u2014what time he arrived there in his car?\"\n\nCrisp nodded. He was willing to believe now that Querk had worked with his own county Chief Constable\u2014willing to believe anything Querk said, because the man was too clever to tell any lie that could be exposed.\n\n\"You were going to say something about that car, weren't you\u2014something about a test with Mrs. Cornboise?\"\n\n\"You have again put your finger on the exact spot! Now, you will remember that I told you that I myself heard Ralph's car leaving the garage and passing down the drive while I was talking to Lord Watlington at, say, between five-fifteen and five-twenty. I stressed, I think, the high-pitched, whining note of the engine.\n\n\"Re-enacting those painful incidents in my mind as I lay seeking sleep, I became conscious of a break in the logical sequence of events. The whining note of that engine! It did not fade away. It _stopped_. I imagine, at the Lodge gates.\"\n\n\"Or your consciousness of it stopped?\" put in Crisp.\n\n\" _And_ the consciousness of Mrs. Cornboise? Without revealing my purpose\u2014without her being aware of what I was doing\u2014I induced her to reconstruct her memory on that point. She came to precisely the same conclusion. She was able to go further than myself. She was able to remember that, some five minutes later, she again heard that very individual note of the engine and thought that the car must be coming back to the garage. In her quaint phrase she said the engine made a 'mingy sort of noise'.\"\n\nThe amateur investigator and the man who remembers things afterwards, twin nuisances to the police, were combined in the person of Querk\u2014who obviously never forgot anything he intended to remember!\n\n\"If there is anything in your theory, Mr. Querk, it hardly leaves room for the hallucination, does it?\"\n\n\"The hallucination\u2014as I think Sir William Turvey will tell us\u2014would lie in the fusing of the two mental images so that the poor fellow honestly believes that he went to the study only once.\"\n\nAnd a separate hallucination that he had struck through the wig, thought Crisp to himself.\n\nAloud, he thanked Querk for his help, listened to Querk's protestations of his own pain in giving testimony against Ralph, and got rid of him.\n\nWhen Crisp was leaving for lunch, Benscombe reported.\n\n\"I haven't contacted Ralph yet, sir. He's gone off by himself in his car. Claudia says she expects him back at the Lodge for lunch.\"\n\n#  Chapter Twelve\n\nClaudia's Expectation that Ralph would be back for lunch was falsified, as Benscombe found out by telephone. He spent the bulk of the afternoon on deskwork for the Chief Constable, and at about five drove over to Watlington Lodge. When the constable informed him that Ralph was still absent, he sent Bessie to find Claudia.\n\nShe came running down the stairs.\n\n\"If he's had an accident tell me quickly, please,\" she said.\n\n\"We've no information. I've come to ask you how I can get at him. The Chief wants me to check-up.\"\n\n\"There's no reason why he should have had an accident,\" said Claudia, half to herself. \"He's a competent, steady driver. And he was in good fettle this morning after a long sleep. Can I give you the check-up you want?\"\n\n\"Afraid not, thanks! It wasn't exactly urgent, but we'd like to know where he is.\"\n\n\"I wish I could tell you. This morning he said he would take the car to a garage to get the windscreen wiper adjusted, and that as he felt he wanted some air he would go and see a mutual friend, if there was time before lunch. I'll ring and see if he went there.\"\n\nShe turned the extension switch and spoke on the instrument under the staircase. From her half of the dialogue, Benscombe could tell that Ralph had not called on the friend.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" he said as she returned. \"If he had a smash, we should know at headquarters. I expect he just felt he must have a bit of time away from this place. It must be rather depressing.\"\n\n\"It's certainly been grim since Saturday evening!\" She added: \"I've arranged with the trustees to stay on here until we are married.\"\n\nAt her last words, he caught her eye. He was thinking that she was marrying a man she thought a poor fish.\n\n\"You see him at a great disadvantage,\" she said, startling him by interpreting his thoughts.\n\n\"I was thinking it was rotten for you\u2014for both of you\u2014starting up in these conditions.\"\n\n\"Thank you!\" she said. He was still in plain clothes, and looked like any young man of her acquaintance. \"When we're married, I hope you'll come and see us. And it won't be in this nightmarish place.\"\n\nShe left him elated by her friendliness. The Chief Constable's belief that one sought an affair with every girl one liked the look of, was, he decided, old-fashioned and absurd. There were lots of ways of liking attractive women. Lots of ways of admiring them. It was character that fascinated you. When a girl possessed enormous potentialities of good and evil all mixed up together\u2014\n\n_'O madre mia!'_\n\nHe put the damper on his imagination and drove to Fenchurch's flat. He knocked and rang without result. He would have to go back to the Chief and say: 'I couldn't find Ralph, and I couldn't find Fenchurch either'\u2014and grin like an imbecile.\n\nAfter the third attempt on the door knocker, Benscombe was compelled to remind himself that Regulations were extremely clear on the subject of forcing an entry\u2014equally clear in the matter of searching private premises without the owner's consent.\n\nOn the other hand, suppose one had a sort of open invitation from the owner? Suppose the owner had offered\u2014as in fact Fenchurch had offered\u2014to provide one with a latchkey. True, the offer had been in the nature of a bluff\u2014but if the bluff had been called, Fenchurch would have handed over the latchkey, to save his face. It was, in a sense, a mere accident that the bluff had not been called, that the latchkey was not in his pocket\u2014an accident whose effect could easily be neutralised.\n\nThe police college, strangely enough, had provided instruction covering the next step.\n\nInside the flat, Benscombe shut the front door and called Fenchurch by name. He repeated the call as he tapped on each door except the door of the owner's bedroom, which was open.\n\nHaving been brave enough to take the risk of a substantial setback to his career, he found that Fortune favoured him with almost suspicious alacrity. In a few minutes, evidence was positively shovelled upon him\u2014evidence that was important enough to be unnerving. At the lowest assessment, it would save him from disciplinary action.\n\nOn Fenchurch's telephone he reported in detail to the Chief Constable.\n\n\"You've destroyed the value of the evidence by forcing an entry.\" Crisp's voice was wintry. \"Stay where you are. Put everything back where it was. I'll be there in about twenty minutes.\"\n\nThat, Benscombe thought, was a needless risk. He was wondering how to pass the twenty minutes, when Fenchurch himself walked into the studio.\n\n\"Hul-lo! How perfectly splendid!\" exclaimed Fenchurch. \"But why did you dump your uniform?\"\n\n\"I had to go up to Town\u2014\"\n\n\"It won't really matter for the first sitting. It's frightfully good of you to come. The light's right for colour. If you'll hop on the dais and get comfortable, I'll have everything fixed in a few seconds.\"\n\nFenchurch flung off his coat, dropping it on the floor. There came a whirr and a rattle as the electric motor rolled and unrolled screens in the glass roof.\n\n\"Look straight at my finger, will you... Chin the tiniest bit up. Good!\"\n\nBenscombe had promised to sit for Fenchurch as lightly as Fenchurch had offered a latchkey. Yet the artist's urgency now impacted upon him\u2014almost banished memory of the Chief's impending arrival.\n\nBenscombe could even feel a sitter's self-consciousness.\n\n\"My dear fellow, please don't cook up an expression. Forget the easel and what I'm doing. Think of the murder. Finger prints! Clues! Flying Squad! Good! Hold the thought and the pose will hold itself. Keep as still as you can for a few minutes. Then we'll have a short rest, if you feel you want it.\"\n\nThey had a rest of one minute. Benscombe was feeling that another was about due when he heard the door bell, followed by a knock that was indubitably Crisp's.\n\nFenchurch took not the slightest notice. The knocking was repeated.\n\n\"I say, Fenchurch, there's someone at your door.\"\n\n\"Never mind that!\" snapped Fenchurch. Remembering that a measure of politeness was due to a voluntary model, he added: \"I've trained myself not to hear when people knock. They soon go away.\"\n\nThe knocking stopped; but the Chief Constable did not go away. A couple of minutes later he opened the door of the studio.\n\n\"Shut the door, please, and sit down somewhere,\" said Fenchurch without looking from his easel. \"We're going to rest in a minute.\"\n\nCrisp obeyed as if he were a social acquaintance who had dropped in for a chat. He sat behind Fenchurch where he could see the canvas\u2014satisfied himself that here was an artist absorbed in his work.\n\n\"You can talk to Benscombe if you like. It won't disturb me.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Crisp. \"Benscombe, I've got a warrant to search Mr. Fenchurch's flat.\"\n\n\"Oh damn!\" exclaimed Fenchurch, and stopped painting. He blinked as if trying to get his caller into mental focus. \"I thought Benscombe searched it yesterday. I don't suppose Glenda left any traces.\"\n\n\"That was informal,\" said Crisp. \"This will be formal. If it isn't interrupting you, I'd be obliged if you would take us over the flat.\"\n\n\"Right-ho!\" It was a barely concealed groan. \"But I shan't be the slightest use. I can never find anything in this flat.\"\n\nHe followed them sulkily into the corridor.\n\n\"You'll get a shock in the kitchen,\" he warned them. \"No one has come today to clear up the mess I made yesterday, and my bedroom's no use for clues. As I think I mentioned she and I\u2014\"\n\n\"We want to see everything, please,\" said Crisp.\n\nIn pursuance of his policy of always letting a man take his own line, Crisp accepted Fenchurch's view of himself as an artist who had been interrupted in his work. He made a superficial examination of the kitchen, then turned to the bedroom, which was furnished in modern style, and, unlike the studio, was clean and tidy.\n\nOn the top of a revolving bookcase at the bedside was a litter of pencils and fountain pens. Benscombe nodded to his Chief.\n\n\"You've already confessed that these belong to other people, Mr. Fenchurch,\" said Crisp amiably. He picked up a pencil which had a white enamelled barrel and the name of a South African maker embossed in red.\n\n\"Where did this one come from?\"\n\n\"That's an easy one. It's Watlington's. I hope you aren't going through the lot like that. I don't suppose I know any of the others.\"\n\n\"When did Watlington give it to you?\"\n\n\"You can't give a man a penny pencil! He didn't know I'd got it, any more than I did.\"\n\nCrisp contrived to look as if he had asked a foolish question. In the room that had been Glenda's, Crisp's eye was caught by the cardboard dress box under the bed, in which Benscombe had discovered the paintings of Claudia Lofting.\n\nAs Fenchurch followed his gaze, the thick, curving eyebrows lifted.\n\n\"I wonder what that is!\" exclaimed Fenchurch. He pulled the box out, tried the weight of it. \"It feels like canvases. But I don't remember packing anything in a box like this. D'you mind if I just see what it is? Can either of you lend me a knife?\"\n\n\"The string is loose,\" said Benscombe hastily, remembering that he had cut it himself.\n\nFenchurch removed the lid of the box.\n\n\"Oh\u2014 _yes_!\" Oblivious to the others, Fenchurch gazed at one after another of the pictures, emitting grunts of self-approbation.\n\n\"Yes! God, yes!\" He put the canvases back and was about to replace the lid.\n\n\"Mayn't we see them?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"Certainly, if you're interested in pictures.\"\n\nFenchurch passed them, one by one, to Crisp. The last was the nude of Claudia. _'O madre mia.'_\n\nCrisp looked long at the picture and then:\n\n\"You know Miss Lofting very well, I see!\"\n\n\"Good lord!\" Fenchurch, who had been kneeling by the box, sprang up. His eyes sparkled like the eyes of a happy child. \"D' you know, that's the first time I've ever had a genuine, honest-to-God thrill out of someone's comment on my work! My dear fellow, you've no idea what we put up with! They say: 'Oh that's very clever\u2014I recognised him at once'\u2014as if one were very nearly as good as a beach photographer.\"\n\nHe clutched Crisp's arm and overwhelmed him.\n\n\"Make no mistake, Colonel! When I take a fee from a philistine, I deliberately compete with the photographer\u2014and beat him hollow, because I make 'em look pretty, when they're damned ugly\u2014all of 'em! But when I'm allowed to do a bit of honest work\u2014look at this pose on the bench in the cemetery at Casa Flavia\u2014! I don't paint the flesh. I paint the spirit.\"\n\n\"This nude study!\" ejaculated Crisp, dodging a technical comment.\n\n\"Hah! It flashed on me when we were coming back from the cemetery! A peasant started walloping his small son, making the kid scream. For a millionth of a second I saw Claudia's soul\u2014her gentleness, her sophistication turned to blue murder like that!\"\n\nTo Fenchurch, the Chief Constable's presence had suddenly become interesting.\n\n\"Look here, we've finished with all this clueage, haven't we! I don't suppose anybody will ever hear of Glenda again. Let's have a drink. If you're interested in these, I've got some other stuff you might like to see.\"\n\nA search warrant, thought Benscombe, was evidently a meaningless term to the artist. They returned to the studio, where Fenchurch scrabbled in a cupboard for canvases to show Crisp.\n\nBenscombe indicated a litter in the far corner, made up of shopping bags, corrugated cardboard and brown wrapping paper.\n\nIn a few seconds, Crisp found what he was looking for.\n\n\"Mr. Fenchurch!\"\n\n\"Hullo! Found something?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" When he had secured the other's attention: \"This.\"\n\nCrisp handed him a piece of brown paper, about eighteen inches square, too crinkled to yield a finger print.\n\n\"What d' you want me to do with it?\"\n\n\"Look on the other side.\"\n\nFenchurch turned it over.\n\n\"Addressed to Watlington. Came by registered post,\" announced Fenchurch. He turned it over again. \"Can't see anything about Glenda.\"\n\nCrisp persuaded him to leave the cupboard, to sit down and to concentrate on the matter in hand.\n\n\"For the moment, we must put aside our enjoyable conversation about pictures,\" said Crisp. \"Fix your mind on the fact that we are investigating the murder of Lord Watlington. This piece of brown paper is what you contemptuously call 'clueage.' Now\u2014please make every effort to tell me how it came into your flat.\"\n\n\"A piece of brown paper!\" echoed Fenchurch. \"I don't know how to start making the effort. Pieces of brown paper are always coming into the flat. They accumulate. Some theory of Glenda's that the stuff is rare. Why, there must be millions of pieces of brown paper in the corner over there!\"\n\n\"Look at the postmark on this piece.\"\n\nFenchurch sulkily complied.\n\n\"It was posted in West London on Saturday at 10.30 a.m. That doesn't tell me how it got here.\"\n\n\"The housemaid at Watlington Lodge signed for it at about four on Saturday afternoon. The parcel, of which that was the wrapper, lay on the table in the hall until five. Watlington was dead by five thirty.\"\n\nFenchurch stared at the Chief Constable. His quick receptivity had failed him. Very slowly, he absorbed the Chief Constable's words.\n\n\"This is devilishly awkward for me!\" he muttered.\n\n\"That's an understatement,\" remarked Crisp.\n\n\"The irritating part is that I have no recollection whatever of picking up a piece of brown paper. I never do pick up pieces of brown paper. The stuff crackles and creaks, and what the hell should I want it for!\"\n\nCrisp let him blow off his own steam, and presently asked:\n\n\"You were at Watlington Lodge, then, on Saturday afternoon?\"\n\n\"This fantastic piece of paper apparently proves I was. And I particularly did not want you to know I had been there. I say, what else does this brown paper prove? Does it prove that I killed Watlington? You might just as well tell me. Everything is running your way. There's surely no need for you to play Brer Rabbit?\"\n\nThe man's genuine absorption in art, reflected Crisp, and his exaggerated egotism, together made him less able than other men to appreciate his position. His active intelligence operated only in the sphere of his own interests. He had an infantile conception of the police and their functions.\n\n\"You told us you went for a walk by the river,\" Crisp reminded him.\n\n\"Oh, that was a purely social lie!\" protested Fenchurch. \"I didn't want to drag Claudia Lofting into it. I expect she's told you by now that we were lovers? She said this morning that the pace was getting pretty hot.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't tell any more lies if I were you, Mr. Fenchurch,\" evaded Crisp, \"social or otherwise.\"\n\n\"In future, we must weigh every word,\" agreed Fenchurch. \"Everything I tell you will be true. But I'm damned well not going to tell you everything.\"\n\n\"Then suppose I damned well put you in clink?\" grinned Crisp.\n\n\"That would only be detention, wouldn't it\u2014I'd wear my own clothes, and so on? It's penal servitude I'm afraid of. But not for murdering Watlington. A nice, fat philistine like that! After all the trouble I'd taken to nobble him! Besides, he didn't annoy me. I rather liked him. A cad, invariably coarse, never vulgar. That aristocratic stuff of his was charming. But we can't talk about that sort of thing now. I've got tangled up in your clues, and it's not a nice feeling, I can tell you!\"\n\nCrisp let him collect his thoughts and take his own line.\n\n\"We'll start the truth-telling from zero,\" announced Fenchurch. \"On Saturday morning I received a letter from Claudia asking me to destroy any letters of hers I might have kept, as it wasn't fair to her or Ralph to run that kind of risk. I couldn't find those letters. I thought at first Glenda had pinched them\u2014then that she hadn't, because I reminded myself that she was never jealous. When Benscombe told me yesterday that she had collected five hundred quid from Watlington, I realised that she had sold him my letters. Rotten little rat! I wish you could find her and run her in.\"\n\n\"Hi! You're jumping ahead,\" warned Crisp. \"Keep your mind on Saturday morning.\"\n\n\"On Saturday morning I had a conviction that those letters were lying about somewhere, making trouble. In the course of the afternoon, it seemed to boil down to Watlington as the trouble maker. I hopped over to the Lodge. I went in by that gate in the west wall\u2014\"\n\n\"Was it unlocked?\" put in Benscombe.\n\n\"It was locked. But if you kick it, it opens. Don't interrupt, old man\u2014it cramps the word-weighing. I had got as far as those yews when I spotted an elderly woman, obviously a lunatic, sitting on a bench. So I skirted round behind the stables and burgled the house through the open window of the dining-room. If I had walked on to the front door, she would have seen me.\"\n\n\"Why were you so anxious not to be seen entering the house?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"Because I've had some experience of lunatics. She might have come in with me. Some of them hang on to your arm and tell you the story of their lives. I'd worked out how to tackle Watlington\u2014\"\n\n\"But why on earth did you assume she was a lunatic?\"\n\n\"In your own jargon, there was _prima facie_ evidence. A very large, elderly woman playing a childish game with a stocking. She had stuffed a ball or something into the toe. She was swinging it to and fro and goggling at it, as if she were afraid of it. To her disordered brain it was probably a symbol of something definitely nasty.\"\n\nBenscombe glanced at the Chief, but learnt nothing from his expression. Fenchurch resumed:\n\n\"In the hall, I could hear Watlington snoring. He was one of those heavy sleepers who keep saying: 'What's that?' when you wake them. I had to poke him. Fortunately, he had a coughing fit, which woke him up enough to attend. When we'd got each other into a good temper\u2014a bit of schoolboy smut would always make him laugh\u2014\"\n\n\"What time was this?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I taxed him with having procured those letters\u2014\"\n\n\"Didn't you hear that stable clock? It chimes every fifteen minutes.\"\n\n\"Yes. Horrible, isn't it! I didn't count the strokes, because I didn't care what time it was. I couldn't foresee that someone would want this extraordinary kind of information about garden gates and lunatics and stable clocks.\"\n\nThere was something besides the clock which could tell the time.\n\n\"Did you notice a die-stamp on the writing table?\"\n\n\" _And now a die-stamp_!\" His voice rose to a shrill, exasperated whine. \"I did not notice a die-stamp. But pray do not conclude that there was therefore no die-stamp there. There may have been a dozen die-stamps\u2014a hundred\u2014I would still not have noticed even one of them. I don't know what a die-stamp is, and I have not the very smallest curiosity. Forgive me\u2014I am feeling the heat! Do you still want to know whether I murdered Watlington, or have we left all that behind?\"\n\nFor the nervous outburst, Crisp was magnanimous enough to blame himself. To give the other time to pull himself together he asked for a match.\n\n\"So Watlington admitted being in possession of your letters?\"\n\n\"Not at once. I had to blackguard him a bit first.\"\n\n\"By talking about Casa Flavia and Tarranio and Fabroli?\" suggested Crisp.\n\n\"However did you manage to guess that?\" Fenchurch's astonishment was soon dissipated. \"I know. You must have been reading the private notes Watlington made on his blotting pad. No doubt, you have to do that sort of thing in your profession.\"\n\n\"We do,\" said Crisp. \"What does the note mean?\"\n\n\"Casa Flavia is a town in Italy. I met Claudia there and we fell in love, after I had painted her. There's no need for any secrecy about it, now that Watlington has been eliminated. But I cannot see how it concerns you in your official capacity.\"\n\n\"And what about Tarranio and Fabroli?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you anything about them without incriminating myself in another direction. You will not ask me to do that.\" He paused: \"I can give you this information. They are Italian wine merchants.\" Again he paused. \"And I can tell you definitely that at no stage in my conversation with Watlington did either of us produce a piece of brown paper.\"\n\n\"As a result of that conversation,\" said Crisp patiently, \"Watlington admitted that he had letters written to you by Miss Lofting?\"\n\n\"Certainly not. That was merely preparing the ground. I told him what I can't tell you\u2014to show I wasn't afraid of him. I _am_ afraid of you, because of your unfortunate duty. I had to kick him hard and show him what a fool he was, outside finance, before I got my letters out of him.\"\n\nBenscombe appeared to sneeze. Crisp leant forward in his chair.\n\n\"Are you telling me, Mr. Fenchurch, that Watlington _gave you those letters_?\"\n\nFenchurch took a deep breath: his mouth twitched: he began with laboured patience:\n\n\"I told you, my dear sir, that I suspected Watlington had those letters. Clear? I told you that in the course of the afternoon I went to Watlington Lodge with that suspicion in my mind. Clear?\" The shrill, exasperated whine returned. \"I did not go to Watlington Lodge in the course of the afternoon in order to congratulate Watlington on stealing my letters! I did not go in order to tell him he could keep them as long as he wanted them! I went there to get my letters back or burn the house down! If Watlington had not cowered under my blackguarding and given me the letters, I see now that I would have murdered him _and_ burnt the house down.\"\n\nThis time, Crisp ignored the artistic temperament.\n\n\"Where were the letters\u2014before he gave them to you?\"\n\n\"In the safe behind him. I know what you're going to ask next. The answer is No\u2014they were not wrapped in brown paper. They were in a long white envelope with a printed address and sealed with wax. He ripped the sealed envelope with his thumb. Claudia's letters were inside, in a separate and smaller envelope. When he gave me the letters I put them in my pocket. I thought he was keeping one back, but he explained that it was only his Will\u2014\"\n\n\"What did he do with the Will?\"\n\n\"Put it in another envelope of the same kind and locked it in the safe.\"\n\n\"Did he seal the envelope?\"\n\n\"No. He wanted to, but I camouflaged the sealing wax\u2014it takes a long time to seal things and I wanted to keep his attention on me. When you interrupted, I was going to tell you\u2014\"\n\n\"What did he do with the envelope he had ripped up with his thumb?\"\n\n\"Oh, my God!\" Fenchurch dropped his head in his hands. \"I do not know what he did with the old envelope. What do people do with old envelopes? I have never given proper thought to that problem. I am ready to believe that he wrapped it in that piece of brown paper and put it in my pocket, if you say so. Let us look for it without delay. The two clues may cancel out, and I shall be a free man... I'm being damnably rude again, Colonel. For heaven's sake, let's have a drink and hang on to our sanity.\"\n\nHe rushed from the room. In his absence, Crisp did not speak. Benscombe became aware that his Chief was preparing one of those pivotal questions, like the question that had driven Ralph to his abortive confession.\n\n\"Sorry I've no soda,\" said Fenchurch returning with whisky and glasses. \"The fair Glenda had her uses.\"\n\n\"On the distinct understanding that I may have to run you in, I'll be glad to drink your whisky,\" said Crisp.\n\n\"I don't suppose you'll really run me in,\" said Fenchurch. \" _The Times_ said the other day that it's virtually impossible to hang the wrong man\u2014though it didn't explain whether that's thanks to the police or the lawyers. After all, you can't say to me: 'If you didn't murder Watlington, who the hell did'!\"\n\n\"True! But I can say\u2014what did you do with the letters after you left Watlington?\" Crisp added: \"You'll find, Mr. Fenchurch, that it's much the same question.\"\n\n\"Thanks! Better get back to the word-weighing!\"\n\n\"While you're weighing your words, I'll tell you that you left the house by the way you entered it.\"\n\n\"Skirting the lunatic woman,\" agreed Fenchurch. \"And then I really did go down to the river. And I really did go to sleep under that tree near the lock. You see, getting those letters back was a great load off my mind.\"\n\n\"What did you do with those letters, Mr. Fenchurch?\" repeated Crisp.\n\n\"Burnt 'em, as she asked me to.\"\n\nCrisp pondered the answer. Fenchurch anticipated the next question.\n\n\"You're going to say\u2014'where are the 'ashes?' The answer is that I've burnt love letters before, and I know that you can often read quite a lot from the ashes. That's why I went down to the river. I burnt them on those landing steps, and I dropped the ashes into the river. I told you it would be impossible to prove anything. I suppose my whole yarn is trumped by that piece of brown paper?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't worry my head about 'clueage' if I were you,\" said Crisp, rising. \"I want to take away those studies of Miss Lofting under the bed in the other room.\"\n\n\"They're not for sale.\"\n\n\"If they were, I couldn't afford them. I'm taking them officially. You'll get them back before long. Benscombe, write out a receipt.\"\n\n#  Chapter Thirteen\n\n\"I want you to drive,\" said Crisp, when they were outside. \"I don't know the road to Kilburn. We're calling on Mrs. Cornboise to find out whether Querk prompted her about Ralph's car.\"\n\nBenscombe stowed the box containing the pictures of Claudia, too full of Fenchurch to feel interest in Mrs. Cornboise.\n\n\"If you had been on your own,\" said Crisp, as they drew clear of the neighbourhood, \"you would have detained Fenchurch on suspicion, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. The weak link was where he pretended to think Mrs. Cornboise was a lunatic.\"\n\n\"Wrong, boy! He may or may not have thought her a lunatic. But he couldn't have faked the story of her swinging the stocking with a weight in it. There was an earthenware duck's egg in her bag and three stockings, none of which needed darning. I took them. But as the report on them was negative, I returned them to her.\"\n\nThe traffic demanded Benscombe's full attention. In the next clear stretch Crisp resumed:\n\n\"Your line on the pencil is washed out by his admission that he saw Watlington on Saturday afternoon. That's bad luck on you\u2014you were right to follow it up.\"\n\n\"Doesn't the registered wrapper tie down the time, sir?\"\n\n\"Not by itself. You must always distinguish clearly between evidence, corroborative evidence, and what he calls 'clueage.' His statement to Glenda that he was going to the Lodge was a clue\u2014it wasn't evidence of anything. The pencil was a second clue. Both point to a truth without establishing it. The brown paper would be corroborative evidence if there were any direct evidence that he was in Watlington Lodge after five o'clock. It is not itself direct evidence, because there are many possible ways in which it might have reached his flat between five on Saturday and six today, when you found it\u2014nearly forty-eight hours later. By itself, the brown paper is little more than a clue.\"\n\nWhen the Chief became academic, Benscombe knew that it was better to pipe down.\n\n\"Aylesbury Mansions, Marydale Road,\" Crisp told him as they reached Kilburn.\n\nTurning the corner of Marydale Road, Benscombe braked hard.\n\n\"That's Querk's car, sir\u2014parked about eighty yards ahead on the left there.\"\n\n\"Get back around the corner.\"\n\nCrisp drew a macintosh from the boot to conceal his uniform, then himself kept unobtrusive watch on Querk's car.\n\nWithin five minutes he was back in his car.\n\n\"Going that way! Catch him and hang on to him. Mrs. Cornboise got in with him.\"\n\nThe chase was short. A double turn brought Querk's car into the high road. A quarter of a mile on, he turned into a garage.\n\n\"Get out and tail them,\" ordered Crisp, glad that Benscombe was still in plain clothes.\n\nCrisp waited. Obviously they were going to some local address, or Querk would not have garaged. In less than ten minutes, Benscombe re-appeared, wearing a grin.\n\n\"Charlie Chaplin, sir. Two three-and-sixpenny seats. In the foyer, I heard the lady giggle. I gather the gentleman had said something arch.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm damned!\" exploded Crisp. \"Boy meets girl, eh! You drive back while I think this out.\"\n\nThe Chief Constable thought it out all the way back. There was the fantastic hypothesis that Querk was spontaneously attracted to a rather formidable woman in advanced middle age. Alternatively, he was seeking some material advantage. Not her money, because she would not benefit under her husband's Will: her annuity, to him, would be negligible.\n\nWas he flattering her in order to suborn her as a witness? If so, where did his material interest lie? Again, Querk's objective was indiscernible.\n\n\"We'll have those pictures in my room,\" said Crisp as they reached headquarters. When the cardboard dress box had been placed on the table, he asked:\n\n\"Do you know anything about art, Benscombe?\"\n\n\"Not a thing, sir.\"\n\n\"Nor do I. So we can't tell whether Fenchurch is only a glib scoundrel, who is clever with paint brushes. Or whether he's a born artist, who sees life mainly in terms of line and colour\u2014who is genuinely puzzled and exasperated when I ask him what the time was and what became of an old envelope. I shall get some men who understand art to come and look at these pictures.\"\n\n\"As to the head-in-the-clouds stuff, sir\u2014did you notice that he knew we could deal with ashes? He had his feet firmly planted, that time.\"\n\nCrisp grunted and took out a canvas. Claudia sitting on the bench in the cemetery. He set it on a long empty shelf, upright against the wall, and looked at it.\n\n\"That bears out what he said about his not being a photographer,\" remarked Benscombe. \"By the outline it might be almost any girl of that type. But if you look at it as a whole, it's Claudia and no one else in the world.\"\n\nClaudia gazing at her lover came out of the box and was set up, leaning against the wall, beside the other.\n\n\"That one certainly has a quality of its own you can't miss,\" muttered Crisp.\n\nBoth men were paying unconscious tribute to the artist. At police headquarters, at an anxious stage in a murder investigation, they were pre-occupied with the problem of his art.\n\n\"If Fenchurch is lying, he may be the murderer.\" Grisp was thinking aloud. \"The strongest indication that he is lying is that he accounts for too much. He states that Watlington retained his Will. Now, whatever Watlington did with the old envelope, he would have sealed up the Will himself in a new one\u2014or left the Will unsealed. Then why should someone remove his signet ring after death\u2014and put it back?\n\n\"If Fenchurch is telling the truth, the only value of his account is that it may affect Ralph Cornboise.\"\n\n\"Even if we can't fix the time, sir?\"\n\n\"Nothing to do with the time! Ralph's hallucinations\u2014or his lying confession, if you like\u2014is inspired by the fear that Claudia removed the letters. If Ralph is convinced that she did not, the hallucination ought to be scuppered. Ring up and ask if he has come back, will you?\"\n\nWhile Benscombe was telephoning, Crisp brought out the remainder of the pictures, set them in a long row on the shelf, glancing from one to another, trying to form his own opinion.\n\n\"Not back yet, sir.\"\n\n\"A pity. He's hanging us up.\"\n\nCrisp, mentally reviewing the details in Fenchurch's account, presently added:\n\n\"We must check the statement that those fellows are wine merchants in Casa Flavia. If you don't get a letter from the consulate tomorrow, answering your query, go and see them.\"\n\nBenscombe failed to acknowledge the order. His attention was concentrated on the nude study. When he spoke, it was not as a disciplined junior to his Chief.\n\n\"When you and I looked out of that window on Saturday night, we saw Fenchurch and Claudia talking. Why didn't he tell her he had rescued the letters? Because he hadn't? He was lying to us. Look at those five gorgeous pictures. All true! And look at this horrible one! It's as true as the others. That man can see into her mind. And he saw that she had killed Watlington. He's not such a cissie as he looks. He's still in love with her, and he's going to save her if he can. So he put on an act for us!\"\n\n\"That makes two of 'em anxious to be hanged instead of the lady!\" Crisp's tone was discouraging.\n\n\"I can't help it, sir. If you hadn't arranged those pictures I wouldn't have seen it like that. But I do see it like that, even if I'm talking through my hat.\"\n\nCrisp looked from the pictures to Benscombe.\n\n\"I'm beginning to believe that fellow must be a big artist. I admit that I get a reaction from that work which I've never had from pictures before. Now, look here, Benscombe. What you're saying may turn out to be true, for all I know at present. But when you make a wild guess like that\u2014in this office\u2014on the strength of your reaction to a picture, it means that you should have a meal and get a good night's rest.\"\n\nBenscombe flushed. Crisp went on:\n\n\"I'll see Ralph Cornboise myself when he gets back. I shall be here until midnight anyway, but I shan't need you. You've done a good day's work and you can take delivery of a pat on the back. But go home now, my boy. Goodnight.\"\n\n\"Goodnight, sir. I'm sorry I said too much.\"\n\nAfter a modest meal at a nearby hotel, Crisp returned to his desk to cope with a fresh pile of reports.\n\nShortly after nine, the house telephone rang from the charge-room on the ground floor.\n\n\"Miss Lofting is here, sir, and asks to see you.\"\n\n\"Show her up right away.\"\n\nNot until Claudia was being shown in did Crisp remember that Fenchurch's pictures were still on the shelf, upright against the wall.\n\nFrom the doorway her eyes sought him. She came directly to his desk, not noticing the pictures, a letter in her hand. She was in a state of tension: if she had been any other woman he would have suspected that she had been crying.\n\n\"This came by the evening post. It's from Ralph. Will you read it, please?\"\n\nHe placed a chair for her, so that her back was towards the pictures. From the envelope he took a single sheet.\n\n_'Goodbye, Claudia. You were wonderful while you were alive and I loved you with all my strength. As you are dead, I cannot live with you. And it is still true that I cannot live without you. Ralph.'_\n\nThere was no address. The letter had been posted in West Central London early that afternoon.\n\n\"I must ask you to let me keep this,\" said Crisp. \"The handwriting is steady, though the words are maniacal.\"\n\n\"The words are self-conscious and slushy. But the meaning is unpleasantly clear. He is not insane, Colonel. But I don't think he is well enough to be roaming about by himself. That threat of suicide\u2014\"\n\n\"Such threats are very common.\"\n\n\"But he did try to kill himself once. And he may try again.\"\n\n\"The meaning doesn't seem very sensible to me\u2014that was written within three hours of his going with you to the Registrar.\"\n\n\"That was my fault. I practically dragged him along. Because I was afraid of his suicidal impulse.\"\n\n\"Is he sane enough to realise that if he doesn't tell us where he is by to-morrow morning, we shall have to take measures?\"\n\n\"He is perfectly sane!\" she asserted doggedly. \"But everything to do with the murder is out of proportion in his mind. It's as if he felt that, after offering a confession and having it rejected, you and he washed your hands of each other. That's stupid, but it isn't insane, when you remember how the hallucination distorts everything.\"\n\nWhile she was speaking he was watching her face\u2014unconsciously trying to see it as the artist saw it. 'I paint the spirit, not the flesh.' Studio jargon, meaning one must not be misled by appearances. The disturbing thing about this girl was that her appearance always bore out whatever she was putting over. Her voice, her muscles, her very features seemed to dress the part. At the moment, she looked almost plain, hard-up, stranded through no fault of her own, but courageously determined to ask nothing for herself.\n\n\"When someone makes a statement to us,\" said Crisp, \"we try to prove that the statement must be true\u2014or must be false. Sometimes a statement, proved to be false, has been made in good faith\u2014you can call such a statement an hallucination if you like\u2014we don't care.\" He dropped the dogmatic tone as he continued: \"I wish you would tell me\u2014does Ralph honestly believe he killed his uncle\u2014as and when he says he did?\"\n\n\"I think there are moments when he doubts it,\" she answered thoughtfully. \"When you say something you're sure of and everyone says you're mistaken, you begin to have doubt of yourself. But, of course, he wobbles between the two extremes. That letter to me is a wobble.\"\n\nCrisp glanced down at the letter. The moment he took his eyes off her he felt that she was leading him. Let her go on leading him until she tripped!\n\n\"Why does he pretend in this letter that you are dead?\"\n\n\"Dead to him, he means. It's a wobble over the hallucination. The sense of it is\u2014if he didn't kill his uncle, I did, and he doesn't want to see me again.\"\n\n\"But we don't take that line. Why should he?\"\n\n\"Because he believes I stole those wretched letters from the safe. If you could only prove that I didn't, I believe we could dispel the hallucination.\"\n\nCrisp held his breath as she put to him the very case he had intended to put to her. There came to him, too, the reflection that the two men who had loved this woman both believed her capable of murder.\n\n\"Couldn't you have settled his doubts about those letters?\"\n\n\"No, because my own good faith was in question. To begin with, Ralph thought I was lying when I said I didn't notice that Watlington put them in the envelope with the Will. I made it worse when I said later that I did remember it\u2014after Querk had reminded me of exactly what happened.\"\n\nShe was putting up a smoke screen, he decided. If Fenchurch's story was true, he must surely have told Claudia he had destroyed the letters.\n\n\"Leave Ralph's mentality for a moment. Haven't you yourself any theory as to how those letters vanished?\"\n\n\"I still think Watlington destroyed them himself. Otherwise, he would have given them back to me when he told me he had dropped his objection to our marrying\u2014even though I didn't ask for them.\"\n\nCrisp could afford to ignore that explanation. If Watlington had destroyed them he could only have burnt them. And there were no ashes in the library. She was losing ground, letting him work her into a corner.\n\n\"I can tell you definitely that Watlington did not destroy those letters.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" She registered eager surprise. \"I am glad you have found out something about them. I know I mustn't ask you who did destroy them.\"\n\n\"I am asking you, Miss Lofting.\"\n\n\"But I can't even begin to guess. As I see it, only Ralph and I would have cared whether the letters were there or not.\"\n\n\"What about the man to whom the letters were written?\"\n\n\"Arthur? Oh no! He would have told me. Apart from a telephone chat this morning, I had a long talk with him in the garden on Saturday night. That was before you interviewed us and brought the murder into the family, as it were. I told him Watlington had got the letters, that they were in his safe, and that, now that he had been murdered, they would probably be read by all sorts of people. He was very apologetic, and said he didn't think they would be read, and that he'd see you and ask you to keep them out.\"\n\nCrisp had the sensation of falling over himself. With it he became aware of an unreasonable resentment. Fenchurch's infernal cleverness with a paint brush was making this girl seem larger than life size\u2014a spiritual chameleon, able to colour her personality from the colour of those about her. For young Benscombe a straight sex appeal, the more potent for being screened with modesty and good manners. For himself a naif defencelessness, a subtle flattery of his powers by treating him as a kind, clever uncle who would make everything turn out nicely for her, provided she trusted him without reserve.\n\n\"Suppose he did recover those letters? And didn't want to tell you for fear of alarming you?\"\n\n\"That isn't Arthur's style!\" She laughed. \"He never wonders what others think. He doesn't take any notice of persons as persons. Even when he was in love with me he hadn't the least idea what kind of person I was.\"\n\n\"Hadn't he?\" Without intention, Crisp's eyes were drawn to the picture. Claudia followed his glance.\n\nShe looked back at Crisp, revealing her astonishment. He was prepared for the obvious question. Instead, she found her own explanation of the presence of those pictures at police headquarters.\n\n\"So Watlington got hold of those, too?\" Crisp did not correct her assumption. \"That explains a lot!\"\n\n\"Not to me!\" Crisp was puzzled.\n\n\"He must have assumed that I sat in the nude. That would set a man like that sniggering and telling dirty stories. That kind always thinks that artist's models are immoral. I wish he had mentioned it\u2014we'd have had none of that dreadful bother with Ralph.\"\n\n\"But it _is_ you, isn't it?\" Crisp got up and went over to the shelf. Claudia followed.\n\n\"The head is mine. And I'm the inspiration, in a left-handed sort of way. One day, I saw an Italian beating a child, and I felt sick. Arthur raved about my expression and made several charcoal sketches. They weren't very successful. But he couldn't leave the idea alone. Months later, back in London, he 'saw' it as an allegorical study, and set to work in the ordinary way with a professional model. He actually used two. So there are three of us in that picture.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you looked sick.\"\n\nShe turned sharply, surprised and resentful of his tone.\n\nHis eyes met hers.\n\n\"Fenchurch admitted this evening that he was at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon and that he recovered those letters.\"\n\nAt last! With profound satisfaction, he watched her crumple under the blow, watched bewilderment give way to fear. She was making no attempt to conceal her distress. Her colour had gone. She moved one foot unsteadily.\n\nHe took her by the arm, led her back to her chair.\n\n\"When you feel well enough, perhaps you will tell me what really happened.\"\n\n\"I am trying to think.\" Crisp would not prompt her. \"Why didn't he tell me? Because of the murder, of course! He didn't want anybody to know he had been there. I expect he only told you because you frightened him.\"\n\n\"I never frighten anybody!\" bellowed Crisp.\n\nShe ignored him, continued to utter her thoughts aloud.\n\n\"He got my letter in the morning, and felt ashamed of himself. He guessed what had happened to the letters. _Oh!_ \"\n\nThe exclamation was so sharp that Crisp jumped.\n\n\"I see what must have happened!\" she cried.\n\n\"I don't want to know what you think must have happened. I want to know what _did_ happen.\"\n\nShe looked at him with mild reproof. Her confidence had come back and gaiety had been added.\n\n\"What did happen was that at about half-past two I was the kind of hussy who will sit about in the nude to oblige her male friends. And at about five past five I had become a thoroughly nice girl, in every way suitable to be the ancestress of a long line of barons Watlington. That's what _did_ happen.\n\n\"If I were allowed to tell what _must_ have happened, I would point out that Arthur must have left Watlington a few minutes before I turned up. He explained about the nude, and made Watlington see that it is not a social crime to fall in love twice\u2014consecutively, of course\u2014nor even to write the sort of letters that sound appalling when read out in court.\"\n\nCrisp drew down the corners of his mouth.\n\n\"Preceded or followed by a discussion of rival wine merchants in Casa Flavia?\"\n\n\"Arthur will tell you when you've made him see there's nothing to be afraid of. This is splendid, Colonel. When Ralph sends you his address, I hope you will let me go to him at once. Then we can try to clear that up, too!\"\n\n\"We have cleared nothing up.\"\n\nCrisp let the silence lengthen. The only evidence that Watlington had changed his mind about her by five o'clock was her own statement\u2014virtually contradicted by Querk's statement. For the rest, it was certain that she would talk to Fenchurch, and that he would tell her that his flat had been searched.\n\n\"Miss Lofting!\" He swivelled in his chair so that he faced her, directly. \"You stated that, when you picked up that die-stamp from the hall table, there was a registered package beside it. Do you confirm that statement?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Her voice held apprehension.\n\n\"That was at a few minutes past five?\"\n\n\"Yes. Please hurry on.\"\n\n\"This piece of brown paper\u2014as you will see if you care to examine it\u2014was the wrapping of that registered package.\" He paused for emphasis. \"This piece of brown paper was found in Fenchurch's flat.\"\n\nAgain, her reaction startled him.\n\n\"How perfectly ridiculous!\" she exclaimed. \"As if Arthur would steal somebody's parcel! He never steals anything. When he's hard up, he borrows money. And he isn't particularly hard up now.\"\n\n\"I didn't suggest that he stole the package. I said only that this piece of brown paper\u2014\"\n\n\"Did he tell you what he wanted a piece of brown paper for?\"\n\n\"He did not,\" said Crisp. \"That is beside the point\u2014\"\n\n\"Not with Arthur Fenchurch! He never wraps anything up. He'll walk through the streets with the most blush-making things in his hand, if you let him.\"\n\n\"Will you kindly fix your mind on the time at which\u2014\"\n\n\"I can't, Colonel! If you were to tell me that you thought Arthur had murdered Watlington, I should be horribly afraid you might be right, even if you were wrong. But if the whole thing begins with Arthur picking up a piece of brown paper, I just laugh until you stop.\"\n\n\"You are very rude!\" grunted Crisp. He was having no luck with that brown paper clue.\n\nShe gave him an apology that was very nearly demure. It was she who ended the interview, and it was he who got up and bowed her out, not having intended to do anything of the kind.\n\nWhen she had gone, he took stock.\n\nFollowing the formula, he had let himself be impressed and must now rub out the impression. Not too easy! His impression of honesty on her part might turn out to be justified. To reject a good impression blindly would be as unreasonable as to accept it blindly. On the other hand, if Fenchurch had phoned her that the police had been quizzing him about a piece of brown paper\u2014\n\n\"Pure guesswork!\" ejaculated Crisp. He turned to the basket of nominally urgent reports. \"Better have another dip in the fact box!\"\n\nPresently, he was studying a report marked with the code number of Ralph Cornboise, with a cross reference to the Three Witches.\n\n' _Statement by John Elderman, 16, cycle delivery boy_ \u2014' There were details of the boy's parents and employers. _'I was passing the gates of Watlington Lodge in company with my friend, Albert Saunders, who was also delivering, when we saw a large two-seater car with gold and red bodywork standing just inside the gates. I recognised it as a Reindert which is a rare car which my friend did not know about. We stopped and looked at it from our cycles. I did not see anybody in the car nor standing near. When it struck half past five my friend said he must be getting on and I said I must, too.'_\n\n_'Confirmatory statement, independent, by Albert Saunders attached._\n\nQuerk, reflected Crisp, could hardly have suborned two local errand boys. Therefore his statement and that of Mrs. Cornboise were true. Therefore Querk's cultivation of the society of Mrs. Cornboise must be because he was attracted to Mrs. Cornboise. Which, as Claudia Lofting would say, was perfectly ridiculous.\n\n#  Chapter Fourteen\n\nOn the following morning, as no communication was received from Ralph Cornboise, a description was sent to the _Gazette_ for circulation to all stations.\n\nThe report from Watlington Lodge stated that it was possible to walk from the gates to the west side of the house without being observed from the terrace.\n\n\"Possible!\" said Crisp. \"But that doesn't prove that Ralph did in fact go back to the house. Still less does it prove that he killed Watlington by striking through that wig.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Benscombe obediently. \"Shall I prepare a message for broadcast?\"\n\n\"Yes. But ask the B.B. C. not to say 'the police are anxious to get in touch with'\u2014just 'missing from his home,' with that bit about losing his memory.\"\n\nThe police message was broadcast at six and at nine, yielding no result. Next day, through the _Gazette_ , information reached Scotland Yard, which was telephoned to the Chief Constable.\n\n\"At two o'clock on Monday, Ralph Cornboise sold his Reindert car for seven hundred pounds, paid in notes, after Cornboise had been identified by his branch bank manager. There is reason to believe that Cornboise at the same time drew some three hundred pounds in cash from his account.\"\n\n\"That young fool is forcing our hands again,\" grumbled Crisp, after dictating a note of the message to Benscombe. \"By the book of the rules, I have to apply for a warrant now. Get statements signed and witnessed from those two boys and from Querk and Mrs. Cornboise. And if you _can't_ contact Mrs. Cornboise today, it'll leave our hands free for another twenty-four hours.\"\n\nBenscombe loyally failed to contact Mrs. Cornboise. That night the evening papers took up the chase, and on the following morning two of the dailies carried a photo of Ralph, which the police had been unable to obtain.\n\n\"We can't hold up that warrant any longer,\" said Crisp. \"Come with me and take a statement from Mrs. Cornboise.\"\n\nThey were at the flat in Kilburn by half past nine. The front door was open, while a teen-age maid polished the brasswork.\n\n\"Missis hasn't only jest started dressin' herself,\" she explained. \"P'raps you'd step back later.\"\n\nBenscombe bent down and spoke confidentially:\n\n\"Don't you think Mrs. Cornboise would like to ask the Colonel to wait in the sitting-room?\" he suggested.\n\n\"I didn't know he was a Colonel!\" Crisp, who was in plain clothes of doubtful fit, was subjected to a sceptical scrutiny. \"P'raps it'll be all right. Pass right down the hall, please. I'll tell her, so's she can hurry up.\"\n\nIt was a trim, modern block of lower middle class flats. In the sitting-room, Crisp had expected a certain physical fustiness, in line with the personality of the tenant. Instead, he found a mental fustiness which startled his imagination.\n\nFacing him was a kitchen range, such as he had not seen since he was a small boy, with iron-doored ovens on either side of a fireplace. Along the opposite wall was a dresser, laden with willow pattern chinaware, with teacups hanging on hooks. In the centre was a white kitchen table with a wooden wheel-backed armchair at its head. A rocking chair, an upholstered wicker easy chair and three corner cabinets, crowded with photographs and knick-knacks, completed the compromise between kitchen and sitting-room of the late nineteenth century.\n\n\"Look at this, sir!\" whispered Benscombe. A red fire glowed and flickered in the fireplace until he switched it off. \"You couldn't so much as boil a kettle on that plant. The whole room is a stage set.\"\n\n\"I've heard of a cook pretending to be a baroness,\" muttered Crisp. \"But I've never heard of it the other way round.\"\n\n\"Pictures! An oleograph of Queen Victoria!\" Benscombe passed on to the next. \"This one strikes a new note.\" Set in a large picture frame were some forty or fifty photographs of different shapes and sizes cut from newspapers.\n\n\"All of Watlington! In the pre-baronial era! Telling 'em the tale at Board meetings, banquets, flower shows!\"\n\nCrisp's attention was on one of the upright cabinets where a buxom wench sat hand in hand with a flamboyant young man against a Johannesburg photographer's back-cloth. On a lower deck of the cabinet was another framed cutting, with the fragment of a letter pasted beside it.\n\nThe photograph was of a public house: the printed underline read: _'The Goat-in-Flames Tavern, North London, now offered for sale after passing from father to son for five generations.'_\n\nWith difficulty Crisp deciphered the faded handwriting: _'We lived in a slum behind this. My brother became head potman. Makes you think.'_\n\nIt made Crisp think that, if ever a woman lived in her past, that woman was Mrs. Cornboise. As a cook she had met and been loved by Cornboise. The kitchen became a psychological bridge to the happiness she had lost. After thirty years of it, she still wanted him enough to go uninvited to his garden\u2014\n\n\"Good morning! I'm sorry you've had to wait. Mr. Querk told me you might call, but I must say I didn't expect you as early as this!\"\n\nMrs. Cornboise had adorned herself in a dress of black satin. While Crisp assured her that he had not been inconvenienced, she sat in the wheelback chair.\n\n\"Please be seated, both,\" she invited. From her manner it was plain that she had lost any sense she might have had of the room being unusual. \"Mr. Querk said you'd want to talk about what I told him about Mr. Ralph's motor car. Only, I can't see why you've bothered if he's told you already.\"\n\nThus she shattered Crisp's plan for approaching the subject. \"He didn't tell me much, Mrs. Cornboise, but it seemed to be not quite the same as you told me.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't tell you I _thought_ I heard the car coming back, because it didn't come back. If I'd told you all I thought we'd never have finished. I wish now I'd never mentioned it. No one is sorrier than Mr. Querk that it's kicked up all this dust. It all came of him saying to me: 'Now, Mrs. Cornboise, I want you to close your eyes and listen to that car again.' Then I remembered how it had stopped instead of fading away. It makes a mingy sort of noise, that car\u2014sets your teeth on edge. So I noticed it when it started up again. And now you know as much as I do.\"\n\n\"How long afterwards did you hear it start up again?\"\n\n\"That's what Mr. Querk wanted to know and I couldn't tell him. It may have been ten minutes or it may have been a bit more. But you won't be able to make bother out of that,\" she added. \"It's my belief that, when he got to the gate, he remembered he was short of petrol and took some out of his spare can.\"\n\n\"Ten minutes or more would be a very long time for a job like that,\" suggested Crisp.\n\n\"Not if he'd never done it before and didn't know how the screws worked that held the spare can. I know. Because it happened once with a gentleman who was giving me a lift. In the end, I could have done better in a bus.\"\n\n\"Let's see if I've got it right,\" said Crisp. \"Shortly after five fifteen, you saw Ralph Cornboise drive out of the garage. The car stopped\u2014as you suppose\u2014at the end of the drive. Did you see Ralph Cornboise again?\"\n\n\"No\u2014else I'd have told you in the first place. Wait a minute! Mr. Querk told me something to say if you talked like that. Oh yes! 'I have nothing to add to my previous statement covering the events observed by me!' That's right\u2014I haven't!\"\n\nUnaware of any inconsistency, she went on:\n\n\"And there's something else I'll tell you\u2014with you hounding that poor boy when he's innocent! He's not run away for what you think he has\u2014asking me questions about his petrol can taking too long! If you want to know, he's running away from that Miss Whatsername. She'd got her claws in, so's she was going to marry him next Monday. P'raps you didn't know that. And what's more, it's no use that young man you've brought with you looking as if he didn't believe me. You ask at the district registrar's and they'll tell you.\"\n\n\"Really?\". Crisp was treading carefully. \"Have you seen the notice on the registrar's board. then?\"\n\n\"I don't say that I've seen it with my own eyes, but you'll find it's true, all the same.\"\n\nSomeone had told her. Not Querk. There was only one other likely source.\n\nHe waited while Benscombe finished typing the statement about Ralph Cornboise's car. Mrs. Cornboise, forewarned by Querk that this would be required of her, signed without protest.\n\n\"Now, Mrs. Cornboise. You have seen Ralph Cornboise since he disappeared from Watlington Lodge.\"\n\nMrs. Cornboise showed neither surprise nor alarm.\n\n\"Why shouldn't I!\" she challenged. \"It's a free country, who you speak to. Or it would be if it wasn't for the police.\"\n\n\"It's no use talking to us like that, Mrs. Cornboise.\" Crisp was in some doubt as to how to proceed. \"You don't seem to understand that if Ralph Cornboise were charged with the murder of Lord Watlington\u2014as he well may be\u2014you would be in a very awkward and humiliating position. What you have done is called harbouring and succouring\u2014\"\n\n\"Well, it didn't ought to be! I never did any such thing! And I'm surprised at your saying it!\" She glared at him, scandalised and indignant.\n\n\"It's only law language,\" cut in Benscombe. \"It means you might be put in prison for being friendly with a man who is hiding from the police.\"\n\n\"Oh well! It's a pity that wasn't made clear in the first place.\" Mrs. Cornboise was mollified. \"He isn't hiding from the police. He's hiding from that girl. And I promised I wouldn't do anything to help her find him.\"\n\n\"If he is not hiding from us, there is no harm in our knowing where he is,\" pleaded Crisp.\n\n\"That girl would worm it out of you and I'd never forgive myself.\" Mrs. Cornboise was weakening. \"Besides, you're bound to find him as soon as they listen to the wireless. And with his photo in the papers and all. If you hadn't said that about his wandering and losing his memory they'd have seen it was him before now.\"\n\n\"If you feel you can't tell us,\" said Crisp, \"we shall have to see whether Mr. Querk will.\"\n\n\"I don't want him dragged into it. Apart from that, he doesn't know.\" The threat was effective\u2014Mrs. Cornboise betrayed anxiety. \"If I tell you, I don't suppose you'll believe me unless I tell you how I found him. Well, if you must know, it was like this. I asked myself what you do when you're worried and unhappy.\" She paused and looked round her own room. \"You go back to where you started from! I reckoned, if he was like me, he'd go back to where he was before Samuel started him on all that nonsense of being gentry. I happened to know where his father used to work and where the family lived. His father was potman at the Goat-in-Flames\u2014\"\n\n\"And Ralph Cornboise is there?\" interrupted Crisp.\n\n\"He's got the best bedroom in the hotel where his father used to be potman. There's only four bedrooms, it being a commercial connection. And if you're going there to see him, you might mention that it's as well to be careful with the drink, though he wouldn't have told me about the girl if he hadn't had a drop too much.\"\n\nThe lift was out of order. As they walked down the stairs Crisp said informally:\n\n\"Funny old girl. What did you think of her?\"\n\n\"All on the surface, I should say, sir.\"\n\n\"Hm! P'raps you're right. Remember Fenchurch's little yarn about a lunatic woman swinging a stocking? Here, put this in your pocket, will you. Can't get it into mine\u2014they're full.\"\n\nBenscombe received from the Chief Constable a large earthenware duck's egg.\n\n\"If you charge her with murder,\" said Benscombe, \"she'll only say: 'Why shouldn't I? He did me wrong!'\"\n\n\"A jest that contains a truth, boy.\" Crisp blinked. \"Is that a bit of Shakespeare?\"\n\n\"No, sir. A bit of Querk.\"\n\n\"So it is! Hm! Dangerous man, Querk. If we find young Cornboise waiting for us, we'll have a smack at that hallucination of his before we do anything drastic.\"\n\n#  Chapter Fifteen\n\nThey arrived at the Goat-in-Flames substantially before opening time. At an apologetic side door labelled 'Hotel Entrance,' Crisp spoke to a potman in shirt-sleeves, disturbed at his work of cleaning the bar.\n\n\"There's a young man staying here\u2014I've forgotten his name\u2014\"\n\n\"That'll be Mr. Carr. There's only one room booked.\"\n\n\"Take me to him, please.\"\n\n\"I'll have to ask\u2014\" The potman took another look at Crisp. \"This way, sir.\" On the first floor he thumped a door and shouted:\n\n\"Couple o' gentlemen to see you, Mr. Carr.\"\n\nThe potman hurried back to his work. Crisp was about to try the door when it was opened by Ralph Cornboise.\n\n\"I guessed it must be you.\"\n\nWith something approaching pride, Ralph invited them into a large bed-sitting room. He fussed them, like a houseproud host, until Crisp was settled in a saddlebag armchair and Benscombe on a horsehair sofa.\n\n\"Would you fellers like a drink?\"\n\n\"A bit too early, thanks!\" answered Crisp. \"We've brought a spot of news. About those letters!\"\n\nCrisp went through the business of lighting a cigarette while he watched the effect of the last words. Ralph sat down very slowly on the edge of the bed and waited. Crisp waited the longer.\n\n\"You were about to tell me something about some letters?\" prompted Ralph. \"What letters?\"\n\n\"Much better talk straight to us, Cornboise, and then we may get somewhere,\" said Crisp. \"The letters written by Miss Lofting to Fenchurch. The letters enclosed with your uncle's Will. The letters which you're afraid Miss Lofting took out of the safe, after jiggering about with the envelope.\"\n\nAgain there was a long silence. Benscombe noted the titles of three heavy volumes on the sofa beside him. All three were medical works on insanity.\n\n\"I'm afraid I'm not rising, Colonel. You're waiting for me to ask questions about the letters. But I'm not frightfully interested.\"\n\n\"The police are satisfied that Miss Lofting did not take those letters. We are satisfied that someone else did. Now you're waking up, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Thank you for giving me that information,\" he said ironically. \"You might just as well have said that Fenchurch himself took them!\"\n\nSo the revelation was a flop, thought Crisp. Ralph, obviously, regarded it as a police trap. Crisp ploughed on:\n\n\"Fenchurch has admitted doing so.\"\n\n\"He would!\" Ralph laughed as if with genuine amusement. \"And he'd enjoy every minute of admitting it. But I bet your microscopes and whatnots don't bear it out. I don't suppose you believe it any more than I do.\"\n\nThat was unanswerable. Ralph was warming to his theme.\n\n\"I'm not running Fenchurch down. In spite of what you may think, I've no grievance against him. He's a good chap, but he simply can't keep out of the limelight. If there were a fire in his neighbourhood he'd pretend he had caused it or that he had rescued everybody. I might have guessed that he world horn in on this horror.\"\n\nRalph's restrained tone carried the conviction that at least he believed what he was saying. Crisp observed that he was steadier than he had been at Watlington Lodge. There were fewer obvious symptoms of neurasthenia.\n\n\"So you brush us aside and stick to your belief that Miss Lofting took those letters?\"\n\n\"I don't stick to any belief about it, because I don't care whether she took them or not. At one time, I thought she must have taken them, and that it was terribly important to know. But that was because she and Querk were persuading me that I had hallucinations\u2014that I was more or less insane, which I was not.\"\n\n\"Then why have you bolted away and used a false name, after raising all the cash you could?\"\n\n\"Because I no longer wished to marry Miss Lofting, but found it impossible to give any reason she would accept.\"\n\nAs Crisp shrugged, Ralph explained: \"Oh, I could give a reason _you_ would accept\u2014if you'll try to stop believing I'm a lunatic. On Saturday, when I signed that confession, I reckoned that my life was at an end. I was content. I did not wish to go on living. All the same, I had to screw myself up a bit to\u2014well, to face the gallows. Next, you reject my confession because it seems to conflict with your evidence. You compel me to go on living, I dare not destroy myself lest some innocent person be involved in the murder. That meant that I had to screw myself up all over again\u2014on a different screw. At any time, you may find out something that will make you believe my confession\u2014you may not. Would any sane man want to get married in such circumstances?\"\n\n\"That's understandable,\" admitted Crisp. \"But I still don't see why you had to bolt?\"\n\n\"I tried to put that understandable point of view to Miss Lofting. She did not find it understandable. She said, in effect, 'My poor boy, marry me and you will soon be cured of your various obsessions.' Now, Miss Lofting has been extremely kind to me\u2014literally too kind! I see now that she has always treated me as a poor creature who needs mothering. It may be true, but it's not attractive. Since Saturday it became clear that she thought me practically insane and believed that she alone could restore me to sanity.\n\n\"When someone honestly and sympathetically believes you're insane, it shakes you up, even if you know you're not. To put it crudely, I could not endure another moment of her society\u2014or I might indeed go mad. You'll say that's unreasonable. I don't claim to be any more reasonable than anyone else whose feelings for a woman have taken the wrong turning.\n\n\"It was not enough to run away. I had to change my whole background. That's why I came to this particular spot. I was born within a hundred yards of this place. My father used to work here as potman. I felt I must get back to it, to clear my head. In the last few days I've not only read a bit about my psychological condition. I've also consulted three doctors independently. They agreed that I'm not insane, but that I have inherited certain nervous disabilities, and that I must avoid any special excitement for a bit. They did not explain how I'm to avoid special excitement. I just have to do my best.\"\n\nThat accounted for his new steadiness. He spoke with such clarity that Crisp accepted his words at their face value.\n\n\"Didn't it strike you as foolish to hide when you knew the police were searching for you?\"\n\n\"It may have been. But making an ass of yourself has nothing to do with being insane. Anyway, with what I'm going through, I claim a bit of discount.\"\n\n\"You're quite right there, Cornboise,\" agreed Crisp. \"You have enough on your plate to upset most men. But you seem to me sane and steady. So you will realise that the next questions are very important indeed. Benscombe, give me that note of those times.\" He glanced at the note and continued: \"Carry your mind back to five fifteen on Saturday afternoon, when you left the library by the window, got into your car and drove yourself out of the garage.\"\n\n\"As I told you, I went to the swimming pool at the Three Witches.\"\n\n\"Did you go straight from the garage to the Three Witches?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nCrisp glanced at Benscombe. That answer would mean an arrest on the charge of murder. He tried again.\n\n\"Did you stop at all on the way?\"\n\n\"Not on the way out. I had a clear run, with very little traffic. I stopped on the way back, for petrol.\"\n\nOne more effort.\n\n\"When did you discover you were short of petrol?\"\n\n\"When I brought Miss Lofting up from Wiltshire in the morning. I was running on my reserve for the last few miles. As I started for the Three Witches I remembered. So I stopped in the drive and filled up from the can, if that's what you mean.\"\n\n\"So you did stop!\" ejaculated Crisp. \"At what point in the drive?\"\n\n\"Close to the gates.\"\n\n\"That would have been, at latest, about five twenty?\" As Ralph nodded, Crisp added: \"How long did it take you to fill up?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Rather a long time. I'd never used the can before, and I got bogged with the anchorage.\"\n\nThat was what Mrs. Corboise had suggested. Why didn't she say that Ralph had given her that explanation\u2014if he had.\n\n\"Did you, at any point, walk away from the car?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Your car was seen by two witnesses who were loitering by the gates of the Lodge for some minutes, ending at five thirty. You yourself were not seen. Can you explain why you were not seen by those witnesses?\"\n\n\"No\u2014unless I was bending down over the tank, or sitting on the near-side running board, resting. I can't see why it's important.\"\n\n\"This is why it's important! Querk was talking to your uncle at five twenty-eight. By five thirty-four your uncle was dead. How do you combat the suggestion that, around five-thirty\u2014entering through the dining-room window on the east side\u2014you went back to the house and killed him? Take time over your answer, Cornboise.\"\n\n\"I don't need time. Because I don't combat the suggestion.\"\n\nCrisp turned to Benscombe.\n\n\"See if you can make him understand what he's saying.\"\n\n\"Rather lost my way over 'combatting suggestions'!\" said Benscombe, with forced breeziness. \"The point is, Cornboise, did you leave that car and go back to the house?\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact, I didn't. But if it's suggested that I did, I'm not going to deny it.\"\n\n\"Now look here, old man. A few minutes ago you convinced us you're sane. Don't go and spoil the good work. I mean\u2014you put up a confession the other day that you killed Watlington before five fifteen. You aren't offering another confession that you killed him all over again a quarter of an hour later?\"\n\n\"You choose to joke about my sanity!\" Ralph essayed the grand manner. \"Is it so very difficult for you to understand my position? Insane or not, I killed my uncle. Insane or not, I did not wish to escape the penalty. After a short period of animal fear, I confessed. By some freak of circumstance, my confession was disbelieved. By a counteracting freak of circumstance, you are now ready to believe that I did kill him. Can it make any difference to me that you fix the time some fifteen minutes later?\"\n\nBenscombe wanted to carry on, but Crisp intervened.\n\n\"I was wrong, Benscombe\u2014he does understand what he's saying. Cornboise! I'll put my question in another form, and it'll be my last attempt. Can you give me a simple explanation of what you were doing between five fifteen and five thirty-five?\"\n\n\"So, it has to be simple!\" Ralph laughed, but the laugh was free from the high-pitched note of hysteria. \"Right-ho! My belief that I spent all that time putting two gallons into the tank is hallucination, the fact being, no doubt, that I was murdering my uncle. You can't have anything simpler than an hallucination\u2014it always explains away everything.\"\n\n\"Only a man who is insane would make childish jokes when he knows he is about to be charged with murder!\" snapped Crisp.\n\n\"You mean only a foolish man\u2014not an insane man!\" corrected Ralph. \"And am I so foolish? What happens to murderers who try to lie their way out, once the police have got hold of them? One lie is no good. You have to cook up a hundred in support, ninety-nine of which are knocked down by the police and the lawyers. For weeks, you cling to that one little lie, hoping that it will do the trick with the jury\u2014then that it may have a technical twist that will get you off on appeal. Hoping and despairing a dozen times a day for weeks on end! Am I a fool to cut out all that?\"\n\n\"You'll be a fool if you don't shut your mouth,\" said Crisp. \"I'm going to arrest you and give you the official warning.\" Crisp gave it with dramatic emphasis.\n\nRalph listened with every sign of satisfaction.\n\n\"That's a great relief\u2014no innocent person will suffer. Do you think I'm mad to say that?\" Receiving no answer he went on:\n\n\"I shall be sorry to leave this place! Have I to be handcuffed, or may I pack? I have only one suitcase here.\"\n\nCrisp himself went over to the chest of drawers, opened each one, to satisfy himself that there was no gun hidden in the clothing, then returned to his chair.\n\nRalph Cornboise emptied the drawers on to the bed. From under the bed he pulled his suitcase. From the suitcase he took a revolver.\n\nCrisp, who was nearer than Benscombe, was some dozen feet away. Ralph, aware that the police do not carry firearms, calculated that he had plenty of time.\n\n\"Cheerio!\" he called. He had turned the muzzle on himself\u2014his mouth was half open to receive it before pressing the trigger\u2014when Mrs. Cornboise's earthenware duck's egg whistled across the room, landing full in his face.\n\nAs Ralph fell, the revolver went off. The bullet brought a shower of plaster from the ceiling, most of which fell on the Chief Constable, who was on the spot before Benscombe.\n\n\"Good boy!\" muttered Crisp. \"Take the gun while I mop him up. And don't forget that egg. It's rolled under the bed.\"\n\nPresently, Ralph sat up, bleeding and dishevelled but in full possession of his faculties. He turned his head to Benscombe.\n\n\"No ill feeling!' he said, with a wan grin. \"But you'll wish you hadn't been such a good shot!\"\n\nWithin a few minutes, Ralph was able to clean himself up and walk downstairs to the car.\n\nArrived at police headquarters, Crisp drove straight into the courtyard, to avoid giving the arrest premature publicity. Then he went to his room, leaving Benscombe to make the formal charge.\n\nHe had completed his own notes of the interview with Ralph Cornboise before Benscombe appeared.\n\n\"You did a thundering good job with that duck's egg, Benscombe. I'm putting it in the record.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir.\"\n\n\"I've some notes here which you can work up into a report. Personally I'm convinced that Cornboise was telling the truth when he said he did not leave the car. After fiddling about with the can, I expect he sat on the running board and mooned about until something reminded him that he meant to go to that swimming pool. Remember the finger prints on that die-stamp? Querk's. Very clear too. Made _after_ Cornboise handled the die-stamp\u2014if he did handle it.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"His lawyers will find their way through that, even if we don't produce something concrete. But, of course, we shall produce something before he goes for trial.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"We'll borrow that Reindert from the people who've bought it and have an on-the-spot test of visibility from the road.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nCrisp scowled. What was the matter with young Benscombe saying 'yes, sir' like a parrot? The next moment, he knew.\n\n\"When I made the formal charge, sir, Cornboise said he intended to plead guilty.\"\n\nCrisp swung round in his swivel chair.\n\n\"Sergeant Willocks went through the routine. When he asked whether Cornboise wished to make any statement, I jumped in and splashed about, but it was no good. Cornboise said: 'To save time I will state now that I killed Lord Watlington. The Chief Constable has a signed confession in which I made a mistake about the time. If you will produce a corrected copy, I will sign it.\"\n\n\"So there'll be no trial!\" Perhaps for the first time in his life Crisp looked afraid.\n\n\"I put in a bit of propaganda,\" added Benscombe. \"But he was very firm.\"\n\n\"Very firm, was he!\" Crisp echoed the words savagely. \"Now, look here, Benscombe! Police work in a murder case is based on the assumption of a competent defence. The defence protects us as well as the accused. By the time counsel has finished with our witnesses, the public knows there's been no dirty work on our part. To insist on a plea of guilty against the wishes of the police, in order to gratify a suicidal impulse, is a form of cheating.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"If that young blackguard is going to cheat us, I'm going to cheat him.\"\n\n\"By pressing the attempted suicide charge instead, sir?\"\n\n\"Can't do that, unfortunately, in the face of those statements by the errand boys and Querk and Mrs. Cornboise. No, I shall make use of the woman.\"\n\n\"But how will Mrs. Cornboise\u2014\"\n\n\"Mrs. Cornboise, you young fathead! I mean Claudia Lofting. He's frightened sick of her. Remember the picture of Fenchurch's. Tooth and claw stuff! If I drop a tactful hint to her she'll make blue hell for everybody until there's a team of lawyers lined up behind her pet lunatic. Get her on the phone and say I'm on my way.\"\n\n#  Chapter Sixteen\n\nFirst of all, reflected Crisp, Claudia would have to be told that Ralph had been arrested and charged with murder. He would tread carefully\u2014give her just enough time to absorb the shock, then catch her on the rebound and harness her energy.\n\nAt Watlington Lodge, to his annoyance, he was 'received' by Andrew Querk. After gracious patronage of the weather, Querk lowered his voice.\n\n\"I don't think we need anticipate any trouble.\" He spoke as one slightly superior medical man to another. \"She is taking it very bravely\u2014very bravely indeed.\"\n\n\"Taking what?\" demanded Crisp.\n\n\"I refer, of course, to the arrest.\" Querk's tone was touched with severity. \"I do not pretend, Chief Constable, that the task of breaking the news to her was a light one. I explained, as was only just, that you had been driven to that course by the poor fellow's own action in running away. When I described our suspicions, centring on the movements of the car, she became, I think, resigned.\"\n\nCrisp did not want her resigned. He wanted her furious. Querk was graduating from a nuisance to a menace. Incidentally, he could only have known about the arrest through Mrs. Cornboise.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Crisp drily. \"You have been most helpful. And now\u2014\"\n\n\"I ventured to tell her that it would be better for her to go home to-morrow, as we would not be likely to need her again until the trial\u2014if then. Ah, here is Miss Lofting!\"\n\nClaudia was coming down the stairs\u2014Claudia, thought Crisp, in another facet of herself. He could not have sworn that her clothes were different from those she had worn at their last meeting. They certainly were not black, yet they contrived to indicate bereavement. Or was it nothing to do with her clothes?\n\n\"Shall we use the morning-room?\" she said with a formal brightness which forbade condolence.\n\nQuerk opened the door and bowed them in. Crisp thanked him and took unequivocal possession of the door.\n\n\"If I should be wanted,\" Querk whispered, \"you will find me in the drawing-room.\"\n\nBy the time Claudia was seated, Crisp had abandoned the idea of a tactful approach.\n\n\"When we arrest a man we have to make a formal charge against him. Generally, we advise him to say nothing. The next step is that the accused man sees his lawyers and prepares his defence. Ralph has cut all that out. He has made a statement incriminating himself, and says he intends to plead guilty to the charge\u2014against our advice.\"\n\nShe was sitting like a schoolgirl, her hands folded in her lap. Not the hands of a schoolgirl, though. She didn't even move\u2014just inclined her head a little to indicate that she had heard. He supposed that she had not grasped the actualities.\n\n\"That means,\" he continued, \"that there can be no trial in the ordinary sense of the word. No sifting of the evidence against him. He will shortly go before a judge who will sentence him to death after formalities taking only a few minutes. Are you following me, Miss Lofting?\"\n\n\"Yes. I quite understand.\"\n\nThat was all! A dead calm, with no wind for his sails. He waited until she looked up at him.\n\n\"I want you to persuade him to withdraw the plea of guilty.\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"I couldn't do that. It would be no use trying. He doesn't even want to see me, does he?\"\n\n\"I don't think he does,' admitted Crisp. \"Nevertheless\u2014\"\n\n\"You could force him to see me? Then I should jib. Sorry!\"\n\n\"I never force anybody!\" snapped Crisp. \"There is a routine which enables you to be in the same room with him, with myself and others present. That would at least give you a chance to persuade him to apply for a personal interview with you. Then you could talk to him.\"\n\n\"But I've nothing to say to him.\"\n\nFor the moment, Crisp was beaten. He paced the little room, while her words echoed in his brain. She had nothing to say to Ralph! Then what the devil had been happening?\n\n\"I seem to have got the wrong end of this stick!\" he exclaimed. \"The other night at headquarters you were in a hurry to find him. To tell him that it was Fenchurch who had reclaimed those letters. You said you thought it might dispel the hallucination\u2014\"\n\n\"That was before I knew that Ralph had stopped his car in the drive.\"\n\nCrisp broke his stride, to stand by her chair.\n\n\"You are not telling me that the evidence about the car has suddenly made you think him guilty?\"\n\n\"N-no.\" The hesitation vanished as she went on: \"It has made me see that it was possible for him to be guilty. It seemed impossible before.\"\n\nSuspicions were crowding upon Crisp. She was changing sides! She could not gain a penny by Ralph's conviction. But she could punish him for jilting her. Oh nonsense!\u2014 that was gun-moll morality!\n\n\"Admitting that it is physically possible for him to be guilty\u2014do you therefore believe that he _is_ guilty?\"\n\nHe read the answer in her face before her words drove it home.\n\n\"Yes.\" She added: \"Nothing that I say can harm him now.\"\n\nThen she _had_ changed sides! But whose side had she taken instead?\n\n\"Questions and answers can make anything look lopsided,\" she was saying. \"By Monday I had the moral certainty that he was guilty. But I clung to Querk's evidence to prove that I must be wrong. I simply had to squash the moral certainty\u2014to try to pretend it wasn't nagging away at the back of my mind.\"\n\n\"But why did you have that moral certainty?\" demanded Crisp. \"I have a moral certainty that he's innocent\u2014backed up by something just short of proof.\" He dared not tell her about the wig, but he was ready to go a long way. \"Listen to this! Suppose Querk had not been in the house. Without any Querk, I would still not believe Ralph guilty, because I have certain objective information about that murder which only the police possess.\"\n\nHe seemed to be holding her attention. With all the force he could muster, he went on:\n\n\"That information would be given to the defence. Able lawyers on both sides, umpired by the judge, would extract the truth from that evidence. They would convince not only the jury but also you and me\u2014convince us of his innocence or his guilt. To me it does not matter which. Without that process, what guarantee have I, as a policeman, that I am not procuring the conviction of an innocent man? I\u2014I'm asking you to help me.\"\n\nHe had revealed his secret dread, had said more than he intended. No doubt she would laugh at him for his indiscretion. Not that he cared, provided she would help.\n\n\"I can understand how you feel!\" There was no laugh. She was looking at him with quickened interest. \"If it makes you feel any better, I am in a worse position. I ought not to have left him for a moment that afternoon. If I had gone with him to the Three Witches, as he asked me, it wouldn't have happened.\"\n\n_\"It!\"_ The word was rapped out in a shouted whisper. \"How can you permit yourself to speak like that! I tell you that I have strong reasons for believing he may not be guilty. You continue to take his guilt for granted.\" Perceiving that his indignation was wasted, he shifted ground. \"Do you know something that the police do not know?\"\n\n\"Of course I do!\"\n\nHe glared at her, challenging her to justify her words.\n\n\"It isn't what you would accept as evidence,\" she said. \"I've told you everything that can be of any use to you in your official capacity. Have you forgotten that you made a rather personal appeal to me to help you?\"\n\nThat was true enough, confound her! His whole handling of her had been spoilt by Querk's interference.\n\n\"I doubt whether I can help you. But I will try.\" She paused. \"Won't you sit down, Colonel?\"\n\nYes, he would sit down, because she told him to. She had the air of not knowing she had scored off him, of not caring whether she scored or not. Her eyes were preoccupied. There was gentleness in the set of her mouth. One could never be unaware of her physicality, which could create the illusion of speaking to the mind.\n\n\"On Saturday I went to bed, shortly after midnight. I was then convinced by Querk's evidence that Ralph's brain had played him some trick, though I didn't fully adopt the hallucination theory until after Turvey had seen him the next morning.\n\n\"I had left my door open. I had been in bed a few minutes when I heard Ralph in the corridor. I caught him at the top of the stairs. I don't know whether he was sleep-walking or half awake, resisting the sleeping draught. He knew who I was, but in a muddled sort of way\u2014as if he were very drunk.\n\n\"I piloted him back to bed. I didn't return to my room. I sat in the chair in the dark and dozed. When it was beginning to get light, Ralph got up again. He was in much the same condition, though the drug was wearing off.\n\n\"While I was coping with him he said: 'I must go and see if he is dead.' I begged him not to. In the same drunken sort of way, he agreed not to go downstairs. He said: 'Tell you what! We'll work it out together. You be uncle, and I'll be me.'\n\n\"It was a bit thick for me, but we went through with it. The awful part was that it was convincing. It made me certain that he was describing what had actually happened. Absolutely certain!\n\n\"Eventually, I'd got him back to bed and he fell asleep. I'm afraid I blubbered like a child. Then I stopped crying and nearly laughed out loud. Absurd though it sounds, Ralph had made me forget Querk's evidence. But now I told myself, that, however certain I might be that Ralph had killed his uncle, the fact remained that he hadn't. I was so relieved that I went to sleep in the chair. But I woke up suddenly with a new fear. Suppose the whole thing had happened at a different time and Ralph had simply muddled the times? Suppose he had gone back to the library?\n\n\"Fortunately, Querk gets up early. I button-holed him at the bathroom door. Then he told me that Ralph was known to have left in the Reindert a few minutes after Querk entered the library. So that put me at ease again. But the ease did not last long. The feeling that Ralph had been reconstructing a reality remained just as strong. With all that talk about hallucination, I was beginning to suspect myself. Part of me was believing something which had been proved to be impossible.\n\n\"And now it has been proved possible,\" she concluded. \"So I believe it.\"\n\nOnce again Crisp found himself unwillingly impressed with her honesty. Yet the fact remained that she was trying to convince him of Ralph's guilt. Out of kindness to himself?\n\n\"But you wish you didn't feel obliged to believe in Ralph's guilt?\" he asked.\n\n\"My attitude to him is unchanged. I don't feel any horror of him for what he did. I only feel that I've failed him\u2014as I have. If I could save him from the consequences I would. But I can't. If I were to ask him to plead not guilty it would make him the more determined to refuse.\n\n\"You see, he used to jump at the chance of doing anything to please me. I made use of that\u2014to get him to steady up in his habits. But he stopped wanting me, quite suddenly, and rather to my surprise. For a few minutes at a time\u2014when he momentarily accepted the hallucination theory\u2014he may have suspected me of murder, though I doubt it. But he did suspect me of what I had actually done\u2014that is, of using whatever appeal I had for him to get him to do things for his own good. And I believe men hate that, more than they hate being fooled and cheated by a woman.\"\n\nThat was fairly close to what Ralph himself had said about her. She had observed Ralph very thoroughly, almost clinically. Obviously, she had never been romantically in love with him.\n\nWith something of a shock he realised that she was convincing him\u2014pushing him into the fallacy that, because she was reasonable, she must be right.\n\n\"I don't see how you could have taken a different line,\" he conceded. \"The weak spot is that you cannot check whether Ralph was telling you the truth in that bedroom.\n\nYour belief in his guilt pre-supposes that he was reporting and not imagining.\"\n\n\"He was reporting,\" she replied. \"I can remember everything he said and did\u2014I shall never be able to forget.\"\n\nUrged by Crisp, she told him\u2014reproducing the substance of the statement made by Ralph in his original confession. Crisp let her words slide through his consciousness, waiting for the essential item.\n\n\"Then he showed me how the wig was cut and knocked out of shape. At the sides. Sticking out behind like bat's wings, he said. He lifted my hair behind my ears\u2014like this\u2014to show me.\"\n\nBut the wig had _not_ been cut and had _not_ stuck out at the sides like a bat's wings, nor like anything else. Ralph was inventing. Or Claudia was lying\u2014a pointless lie, unless she knew the significance of that wig.\n\nHe let her continue with details of Ralph dropping the die-stamp on the floor\u2014after striking through the wig!\u2014and going out by the window.\n\n\"So you believe he did all that, not at five-fifteen, as he stated, but about five-thirty\u2014after slipping back to the house from the car?\"\n\n\"Yes\u2014but he believes he only went once to the library.\"\n\n\"Wait! After killing his uncle, he left the library by the window, according to your present version. We know that he did not go out by that window at five-thirty. Further, we found the library door locked on the inside.\"\n\n\"There are probably lots of discrepancies besides the discrepancy of time,\" she said. \"I wish I could believe that they added up to something.\"\n\nRalph's finger prints had not been found on the die-stamp. But he must not tell her so, any more than he must tell her about the wig. She had changed sides. Only her personality\u2014only the impression of honesty she made upon him\u2014prevented him from assuming that she was shielding the real murderer. Who might be herself. He thought of Benscombe's 'appreciation': _'Motive and Opportunity: Claudia Lofting.'_ He did not know that he was scowling.\n\n\"You don't agree with me about Ralph,\" she was saying. \"I wish you could make me agree with you.\"\n\nCrisp blinked. What was she driving at now?\n\n\"So much depends,\" she continued, \"on whether you feel in your bones that a person is telling the literal truth. That's the way I felt that Ralph was neither lying nor building a fantasy.\"\n\nHe sensed that she was edging up to something\u2014kept silent so that she should take her own way.\n\n\"Facts are stronger than feelings-in-your-bones,\" she went on. \"Not little facts about locked doors and the times you went out by doors and windows. Big facts. Did Ralph really make that dreadful swing of his arm with the die-stamp? Was he building a fantasy when he lifted my hair at the back\u2014to show how the wig had stuck out?\"\n\nCrisp was certain only that he must get away from her. Whatever answer he might make, she would extract from it what she wanted.\n\n\"We've tried to help each other\u2014and we haven't been very lucky.\" He was forcing a breeziness of manner which could hardly have deceived her. \"I'm sorry you don't want to try to get Ralph to alter his plea, but there it is!\"\n\nBack in the office, Benscombe was waiting with a report from the Italian Consulate.\n\n\"Tarranio and Fabroli, sir. Wine merchants in Casa Flavia, as stated. Nothing is known to the detriment of either. Tarranio has a branch in London\u2014Soho\u2014and comes over several times a year. I've found out that he's expected at any time.\"\n\n\"We can tick them off, then,\" said Crisp indifferently. \"That Casa Flavia sequence never promised very much.\"\n\n\"I thought we were going to quarry it for a motive against Fenchurch.\"\n\n\"Too late to worry about motives!\" ejaculated Crisp. \"Unless motive puts you on the right line within a few hours it will probably mislead you. Work it out yourself. As soon as something goes wrong with the original plan\u2014as soon as we start working on a line unforeseen by the criminal, his motive changes into that of cutting his loss and saving his skin. Neither Ralph's confession nor Querk's refutation of it can have been planned. You may take it that, at this stage, everybody's motive is to get clear.\n\n\"Look where motivation landed you with Claudia. You gape at Fenchurch's picture and kid yourself that she's a saint and a devil and a nice girl and an arch humbug all done up in one parcel. You then assume that she scuppered Watlington in order to make sure of being able to nurse the young man for life. True or not, that motivation has petered out. At this moment she says she believes Ralph is guilty\u2014because he described to her so vividly how he struck Watlington through his wig!\"\n\nBenscombe had been waiting to get a word in edgeways.\n\n\"Yes, sir. Because the part of the original plan that did _not_ go wrong is the bit where the two innocent persons\u2014Ralph and Querk\u2014let us know that the Fenchurch letters were enclosed with the Will. The murderer had an answer ready for that one.\"\n\nAs Crisp made no comment, Benscombe continued:\n\n\"The murderer's answer was given by Claudia, when she said that Watlington had changed his mind about the marriage\u2014with the inference that he destroyed the letters himself. Querk's evidence comes very close to a denial of that. When Claudia tells Fenchurch that 'the pace is getting hot'\u2014Fenchurch's own words\u2014we find a piece of brown paper which leads to Fenchurch counteracting Querk's statement and himself coming very close to confirming Claudia's statement. And now we find that Claudia believes in Ralph's guilt! Does she believe it, sir, or is she 'cutting her loss and getting clear'?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But one can be too clever at this game of guessing what people are thinking. Because a person appears to be transparently honest, it doesn't follow that that person is a crook. Unless we can unearth some solid fact about Fenchurch\u2014\"\n\nHe broke off as the telephone rang.\n\n\"Take that call, will you,\" he ordered.\n\nBenscombe picked up the receiver. A couple of seconds later he caught his breath.\n\n\"Yes, hold on a minute, please. I'll put you through to the Chief Constable.\"\n\nHe clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and then:\n\n\"Sir! Have this call traced while I stall him,\" he whispered.\n\nCrisp slid noiselessly to the instrument on Benscombe's desk, while the latter embarked on the stalling process.\n\n\"Hullo? I'm afraid I shall have to keep you waiting a minute or so. The Chief Constable is himself speaking on the telephone. I'm his aide\u2014his secretary, you know. Is there anything I can do for you?\"\n\nThe answer was a still greater surprise to Benscombe.\n\n\"D'you mean you're the young man who was with him in my flat this morning?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" gasped Benscombe. \"Who are you, please?\"\n\n\"I'm Mrs. Cornboise, of course. Now, you know what you did at the Goat-in-Flames this morning!\"\n\n\"Yes, _Mrs. Cornboise!_ \" Benscombe had passed the news to Crisp.\n\n\"Well, I've been round there and they wouldn't let me into his room. They didn't mind for themselves, but they said you'd sealed the room up.\"\n\n\"Quite correct, Mrs. Cornboise.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure it's all that correct. You've sealed up something of mine I left there when I went to see him. I want it.\"\n\n\"I'll see what can be done if you'll tell me what it is... Hullo! Are you there?\"\n\n\"Of course I'm there! I was only collecting my thoughts. It's a bag, not my ordinary one, because I brought that back. Now I come to remember, it must be the small handbag with a handle.\"\n\nWith soothing remarks, Benscombe cut off.\n\nCrisp looked up.\n\n\"Are you sure it's the same voice, Benscombe?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. It's two tones lower on the telephone. I thought it was a man at first.\"\n\n\"As you are sure\u2014come along.\"\n\nThe way to Kilburn lay past Watlington Lodge. Ahead of them as they approached, a car came through the Lodge gates and turned on to the London road.\n\n\"That's Querk's car, sir. He may be going there too. Shall we race him?\"\n\n\"No. You could only beat him by a few minutes. Trail him.\"\n\n#  Chapter Seventeen\n\nLed by Querk's car, they took the main London Road. Benscombe closed up to within fifty yards.\n\n\"There's someone beside him sir.\" Benscombe drew out, to get an angle on his view through the back window of Querk's car. \"A girl!\"\n\n\"Claudia?\"\n\n\"Can't tell. I don't think they're Claudia's shoulders.\"\n\nIn time, Querk turned north to Kilburn. Near the corner of Acacia Road, Benscombe stopped. Crisp took out his watch.\n\n\"They've had two minutes\u2014that's long enough. We'll join the party.\"\n\nHaving rounded the corner, Benscombe suddenly put on speed.\n\n\"He's left the girl in the car.\" A moment later: \"It's Glenda Parsons\u2014Fenchurch's girl. And she didn't look up\u2014hasn't seen us.\"\n\nA couple of hundred yards on, he turned into a side street.\n\n\"You stay in the car,\" ordered Crisp. \"Trail Querk when he comes out. I'll take a taxi back.\"\n\nCrisp walked along. About to enter the building, he turned to Querk's car.\n\n\"Good afternoon, Miss Parsons.\"\n\n\" _Oo!_ \" wailed Glenda. \"Good afternoon.\"\n\n\"Is this your car?\"\n\n\"No\u2014it belongs to a gentleman friend who's giving me a lift.\" She added: \"If we oughtn't to have parked here, I'm ever so sorry, and I'm sure he won't be long.\"\n\nSo she thought that a Chief Constable would go on the prowl for parking offences! Anyhow, she had given him an idea.\n\n\"I shall have to send your gentleman friend a caution. What's his name and address?\"\n\n\"Well, he's a Mr. Harris, as a matter of fact,\" said Glenda. \"I'm not sure of his address, as he moved the other day. If it's only a caution, you can send it care of me and I'll see that he gets it and tells you he's sorry. My address\u2014\"\n\n\"We have your address,\" said Crisp. Under her eye, he turned into the building, having learnt that she was up to some little racket with Querk in which his name was not to be mentioned.\n\nAfter some delay, Crisp's knock was answered, not by the teen aged maid, but by Mrs. Cornboise herself.\n\n\"What _again!_ \" she exclaimed. \"I expect it's my fault for bothering you about that bag. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure.\"\n\nShe held out her hand as if she expected him to produce the bag from his person. She was still wearing the black satin dress, but her appearance had changed. With something approaching awe, Crisp became aware that her face had been made up\u2014apparently by her own inexpert hand. There were uneven smears of rouge on her cheeks: incredibly, too, she had toyed with lipstick. With her incongruously youthful-looking eyes, the total effect was one of rather gross disreputability.\n\n\"You'll excuse me not asking you to step in, as I have company,\" she added. She was waiting for that bag.\n\n\"You shall have your bag, Mrs. Cornboise, as soon as we've found it\u2014and examined the contents.\"\n\nCrisp had pitched his voice to carry into the flat. As he expected, the door of the sitting-room was opened by Querk.\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Cornboise! Colonel Crisp and I are already acquainted. I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of inconveniencing either yourself or the Chief Constable. Won't you ask the Colonel to join us?\"\n\nBehind the gush, Crisp perceived the challenge. Querk had taken charge of this witness and intended to keep charge. That meant he was running a little racket with Mrs. Cornboise, as well as with Glenda.\n\n\"Well of course he can come in, if he wants to!\" said Mrs. Cornboise in manifest disappointment. She was not good at taking a lead. He did not envy Querk his task.\n\n\"It is most fortunate that you happened to call at this time,\" Querk was intoning as they drifted into the stage-property kitchen. \"Mrs. Cornboise was saying only yesterday that her position as a most reluctant witness is a somewhat unenviable one\u2014even, in certain contingencies, an ambiguous one. For that reason, we agreed that, in any future interview desired by the police, it would be in the interests of\u2014er\u2014both sides, if Mrs. Cornboise were represented by\u2014ah\u2014myself.\"\n\n\" _Did_ we!\" Mrs. Cornboise, sitting upright in the wheel-backed chair, looked so astonished that Querk was forced to add:\n\n\"Not in those words, perhaps. But I think that was the burden of our little talk. As the Chief Constable is doubtless aware, I happen to be a qualified solicitor, though I have not sought regular practice. So if you feel you have sufficient confidence in my poor abilities, my dear Mrs. Cornboise\u2014\"\n\n\"You don't need to ask me that, Mr. Querk. You know I have all the confidence in you anybody could possibly have in anybody else!\"\n\nThe harsh, deep-toned voice had softened to a simper. The mis-decorated face puckered into a smile. In fact, the suspicion entertained by Benscombe was justified. Boy meets girl. Or, at least, Girl Meets Boy! But what the devil was Querk up to, he wondered.\n\n\"As you please,\" said Crisp. \"You gave me certain information, Mrs. Cornboise, as to what you observed from that seat in the garden. This morning you added information about the car. Have you any other information to give us which you, for your own reasons, have held back?\"\n\n\"I think, Chief Constable,\" cut in Querk, \"that we are entitled to ask that questions should be of a specific nature.\"\n\nQuerk, of course, knew that the power of the police was limited to the power of arrest on suspicion, which had to be justified\u2014that in no circumstances could he demand an answer to his questions. Crisp perceived that he would find out nothing about Mrs. Cornboise that Querk wished to be concealed. The point of interest was\u2014what did Querk wish to conceal?\n\n\"Specifically, Mrs. Cornboise, did you leave the garden at any time and enter the house?\"\n\n\"Do not answer that question!\"\n\nQuerk had almost shouted. Crisp grinned.\n\n\"Mr. Querk, I'm wondering what an innocent person could possibly lose by answering that question?\"\n\n\"Innocent!\" Querk registered surprise. \"My dear Colonel, can you believe that I am concerned with the _innocence_ of Mrs. Cornboise in the matter of the _murder?_ Surely that is too obvious to merit our attention! I am concerned with the difficult question of molestation. If Mrs. Cornboise had entered that house uninvited, her entry might well be construed by the trustees as an act of molestation. Under the terms of the Trust she would then be in danger of losing her income.\"\n\nCrisp, amused, wondered what the next excuse would be.\n\n\"On that afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise, did you see Lord Watlington\u2014whether alive or dead, did you see him?\"\n\n\"By connotation,\" cut in Querk, \"that is the same question, since it would have been impossible to see my poor friend\u2014living or dead\u2014from the garden.\"\n\n\"My next question is not the same,\" said Crisp. He noted that Mrs. Cornboise was looking aggressive. Querk maintained the outward serenity of a cat at a mousehole. \"At about seven o'clock on that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise\u2014\" Crisp dragged out the question, then finished with a rush\u2014\"did you telephone the police that Lord Watlington had been murdered?\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't I?\"\n\nMrs. Cornboise had spoken before Querk could stop her.\n\n\" _Ex_ -cellent!\" ejaculated Querk. \"If she did, why should she not have done so? A rhetorical question which, for our purposes, Chief Constable, is tantamount to saying that Mrs. Cornboise will neither deny nor affirm that she gave that information to the police.\"\n\n\"Tantamount,\" echoed Crisp, \"to a refusal to answer. The negatives are mounting up, Mr. Querk. Did she enter the house? Did she see Watlington? Alive or dead? Was she aware of the fact of murder at seven\u2014before anybody else? Answers refused on all points, each of which closely touches the murder.\"\n\n\"Each point closely touches the murder!\" repeated Querk. \"And. you wonder why I object to a palpably innocent woman giving you a simple, straightforward yes or no on each point. Have you forgotten, Chief Constable, that the defence will be entitled to treat Mrs. Cornboise as a hostile witness? Imagine depositions containing those straightforward answers\u2014that simple yes or that equally simple no. It would not matter which. On any statement made by Mrs. Cornboise, counsel would subject her to a devastating cross-examination, barbed with innuendo. You and I both know how an innocent person can suffer in health through the suggestion of guilt, dishonesty, evasion, reiterated endlessly in open court. Moreover\u2014\"\n\n\"If they said all that about me, I'd answer them back.\"\n\n\"Moreover\u2014\"\n\n\"You're ignoring that she can be cross-examined on the statements already made to us.\"\n\n\" _Moreover_ , Mrs. Cornboise is anxious to observe the wish of her late husband\u2014unwarranted and even cruel though it may be\u2014to avoid courting publicity for the circumstances of her marriage.\"\n\n\"That will come out on her identity,\" Crisp reminded him.\n\n\"The fact of marriage will come out, but not the circumstances of their separation,\" asserted Querk. \"Cross-examination on an assertion\u2014or a denial\u2014that she had entered the house would drag out the full story of their relationship\u2014a story which is necessarily painful to a lady of sensitiveness, who\u2014if I may say so, my dear Mrs. Cornboise\u2014has a very proper pride in her own womanhood.\"\n\nHe was orating exclusively at Mrs. Cornboise, and Crisp noted that the oratory was effective. She had been frightened enough to keep her mouth shut and flattered enough to make her glad to obey Querk and refuse to talk to the police in future.\n\nBefore Crisp reached the corner of the road, Querk drove past him, Glenda turning her back to the pathway. A couple of hundred yards behind came Benscombe, on Querk's trail.\n\nCrisp walked on to the High Road, where he took a taxi to the Goat-in-Flames. In the room that had been occupied by Ralph, the only personal belongings were the books on insanity. He found Mrs. Cornboise's bag in one of the drawers\u2014a small brief bag of the kind commonly carried by business men forty years ago.\n\nBack in his own headquarters, after fumbling with the complicated catches, he opened the bag. Inside was a package of plain white paper.\n\n\"That woman must have a starvation phobia,\" he mused. \"A fifteen minute bus ride\u2014and she carries sandwiches.\" There was a litter of picture postcards, a hymn book and a pencil and pencil-sharpener.\n\nProtruding from a slit in the lining was a limp card, of the kind used in an index.\n\n\"Here we are!\" he ejaculated. On the card, which served as a memo slip, had been typed five questions, numbered:\n\n'(1) _Where did the car stop?_ (2) _For how long?_ (3) _Did R. leave the car?_ (4) _Any witnesses while car was stationary?_ (5) _Did R. proceed straight to Three Witches?_ '\n\nWhen Benscombe came in he was invited to inspect the card.\n\n\"I don't think Mrs. Cornboise can use a typewriter,\" he remarked.\n\n\"And I don't think she would use the word 'stationary',\" supplemented Crisp. \"In fact, our Mr. Querk is running his own private C.I.D. With your passion for motivation, you can get your teeth into that one. What did he do with Glenda?\"\n\n\"Took her to a block in Westminster, where he has a small office. He kept her there for half an hour. She came out without him. I didn't trail her.\"\n\n\"What's the office like?\"\n\n\"Two rooms in an expensive block. Very small nameplate\u2014just 'Mr. A. Querk.' The porter told me it's unoccupied most of the year. Querk turns up for two or three days at a time, bringing his typist with him. That's all I got, sir. I went up and listened outside the door, but couldn't hear anything except the typewriter\u2014sounded as if the typist were taking direct dictation.\"\n\n\"He was probably taking a statement from Glenda. Can't do much with him until he shows his hand. If he has a hand! He's certainly running Mrs. Cornboise. Advised her not to answer my questions.\"\n\nBenscombe went to his desk, surveyed the arrears with dismay.\n\n\"D'you think, sir, he's working with Claudia?\"\n\n\"Working for what?\"\n\n\"I'm thinking of what you said about motivation changing once we get on the trail. To start with, both of 'em seemed to be working overtime to get Ralph out of it. Now they both seem to be helping to push him in.\"\n\n\"Ingenious, except that we aren't on the trail, but clean off it,\" grunted Crisp. \"We're where we were when Ralph dished out his confession.\" He added, meditatively: \"We haven't dug out a single fact of major importance. The tracks have been confused, so that they all lead back to the starting point.\"\n\nThe house telephone buzzed on Benscombe's desk. As he picked up the receiver, he said: \"And who confused the tracks, sir?... Hullo.\"\n\n\"Mr. Fenchurch,\" said Sergeant Willocks, \"is in the waiting-room asking for the Chief.\"\n\n\"Tell them to send him up, Benscombe,\" ordered Crisp. \"If he hands out any lies, I shall see if I can frighten him. The experts who looked at those pictures agreed that he is an artist. That may explain his manner, but it doesn't explain his tale\u2014which you think is a plant to prop up Claudia, don't you?\"\n\n\"Well, sir, we have to take his word that Watlington himself opened that envelope and gave him the letters. Whenever we ask for a spot of proof, all we get is some more artistic temperament.\"\n\nFenchurch at police headquarters was something without precedent. Suspicion was excited by his too imaginative sports coat, the dun coloured glove on his left hand, his air of not understanding the nature of a police force. His escort showed a tendency to hover.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Fenchurch!\" Crisp's tone was frigid. \"You've brought me some information, I hope?\"\n\n\"About the murder? Why, I thought that was all over! Claudia told me that you had arrested Ralph and that he accepted full responsibility, poor devil! Doesn't that wash out the brown paper and all those other things we got gummed up with?\"\n\n\"If you thought that, why have you come to police headquarters?\"\n\n\"There's the difficult problem of Benscombe.\" Fenchurch realised with a shock that Benscombe himself was behind the other roll top desk. \"I say, old man, I hope you don't resent my going over your head to the higher authority, but I honestly don't see any other way.\"\n\n\"I don't resent it,\" said Benscombe, \"because I don't know what it's about.\"\n\nFenchurch turned back to the Chief Constable: he spoke as one resolved to state a grievance in moderate terms. \"I have rung Benscombe no fewer than five times to ask him for another sitting. Four times he was out: when I caught him, he said he had urgent duty. I don't doubt he was speaking the literal truth. In the conception of the modern policeman, which I am trying to paint, the idea of lying or any kind of counter-criminality is excluded. But how can we get anything done if he's always on urgent duty!\"\n\n\"So you want me to release him from his duties here so that he can sit in your studio?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"That's exactly what I was going to suggest,\" beamed Fenchurch. \"With reasonable luck, another three sittings ought to be enough.\"\n\nBenscombe was waiting for the explosion which did not come.\n\n\"I'd be very pleased to do that for you, Mr. Fenchurch. Benscombe, hold yourself ready to go to the studio when required.\" It seemed mere irony until Crisp added, with significance: \"You will be on duty.\"\n\n\"Thanks most awf'ly!\" The long face was illumined with boyish pleasure. \"I suppose I'd better buzz off now. You chaps look awf'ly busy. Cheerio and thanks again! I'm sorry about poor old Ralph. Could I have a word with him before I go?\"\n\n\"Yes\u2014if he's willing to see you,\" answered Crisp. \"But you realise that a police officer will have to be present?\"\n\n\"Really? I'm afraid that kills it stone dead. You see, I wanted to say something terrifically private.\" As if that were not sufficiently ingenuous, he added: \"And it's rather tied up with the murder.\"\n\n\"Then why not write to him\u2014I'll see that he gets it,\" offered Crisp, who had grasped the wisdom of taking the artist's point of view, since the artist seemed incapable of taking that of the police.\n\n\"Thanks, I will. I want him to get it before they salt him away in Broadmoor. Of course, you've spotted that he's stark mad, like Watlington. A good chap, though! Very decent of him to own up. I'll admit now that I was horribly scared when you were asking me all those questions about clocks and things. I don't suppose you believed a word of what I told you about those letters!\"\n\nFenchurch laughed at a danger passed.\n\n\"Remember how hot-and-bothered we got over what people do with their old envelopes?\" He spoke on his way to the door. \"Funnily enough, I found that particular old envelope. Cheerio!\"\n\nBenscombe got to the door first. He held the handle as if he feared the other might slither away.\n\n\"Do you mean,\" asked the Chief Constable, \"that you have found the envelope in which Watlington sealed up your letters with his Will?\"\n\n\"That's it! I knew it was the same, because it had his seal on it, more or less intact. I thought you'd be amused!\"\n\nHe had the air of being pleased that he had amused the Chief Constable\u2014a little acknowledgment of his kindness in the matter of Benscombe's duty.\n\n\"I am amused,\" said Crisp. \"Where is that envelope now?\"\n\n\"Oh I say, Colonel!\" Fenchurch was disappointed.\n\n\"I must have an answer, Mr. Fenchurch.\"\n\n\"But don't you see it's the same question that upset us all last time? 'What Becomes of Old Envelopes?' We don't want to start that again!\"\n\n\"I want to,\" said Crisp. \"But let's both be amiable about it this time, shall we! To begin with, where did you find that envelope?\"\n\n\"In my pocket.\" Fenchurch added brightly: \"The one place we never thought of searching!\"\n\nCrisp remembered that they had not searched for it at all, because he had not believed Fenchurch's story of Watlington ripping up the envelope himself and handing over the letters. He was no readier to believe the present statement that it had been found.\n\n\"We shall have to begin at the beginning,\" sighed Crisp. \"The first step is to ask yourself when and where you put it in your pocket.\" As Fenchurch looked blank and miserable: \"Come now, you must have put it in your pocket yourself.\"\n\n\"That's the devil of it! If someone else were to put something in my pocket I'd notice and remember. But surely it must have been when I was talking to Watlington!\"\n\nThat, of course, was what he wanted the police to believe. Crisp was determined to find that envelope or compel Fenchurch to admit that he was inventing the whole incident to support Claudia.\n\n\"Start at the other end, then. Visualise the moment when you surprised yourself by finding this very important envelope in your own pocket. Where were you?\"\n\n\"In the flat. After breakfast this morning, I pulled it out\u2014noticed how bad the design of the seal was. Then I noticed the other end where Watlington had ripped it open. I immediately thought of you!\"\n\nCrisp turned on him fiercely.\n\n\"Are you going to tell me that you thereupon burnt that envelope?\"\n\n\"Oh no! I remember trying to work out whether it proved me innocent or guilty. I knew you had woven that envelope into your fantasy on that piece of brown paper. So I thought I'd better not burn it, in case it turned out to be on my side. Of course, I didn't know then that poor old Ralph was carrying the baby. As it is, I can't remember what I did with it.\"\n\nFor twenty years, Crisp had schooled himself in keeping his temper.\n\n\"But you remember that you decided not to burn it but to keep it,\" he said.\n\n\"There's nowhere to keep anything in that flat,\" muttered Fenchurch.\n\n\"Then perhaps you remember wishing you had a safe place in which to keep it?\"\n\nFenchurch clutched his hair excitedly.\n\n\"You've _got_ something there, Colonel! Keep it up, if you can. Ask me some more questions, quickly!\"\n\n\"You locked it in a drawer?... You took it to your bank?... You stuffed it at the back of one of your pictures?\"\n\nExasperated by the other shaking his head at each question, Crisp cried: \"Dammit, Fenchurch, did you put it back in your pocket?\"\n\nFenchurch's hand shot to his side pocket. The child-like smile dawned again and spread over his face.\n\nHe drew out and unfolded the long envelope, sealed at one end, ripped at the other, bearing the printed address of a firm of solicitors.\n\n\"Absolutely amazing!\" he exclaimed, as he handed it to Crisp. \"I never thought you'd pull it off!\"\n\nCrisp was examining the back of the envelope on which was a pencilled note in a round, immature handwriting.\n\n' _Tarranio: \"Casa Flavia,\" Caversham Street, Soho, W.'_\n\nFenchurch seemed to be expecting congratulation of some sort.\n\n\"I say, Colonel, would it have proved anything about me if poor old Ralph hadn't spoilt all the clueage?\"\n\n\"I don't know yet. Would you mind sitting at that other desk for a moment. Give him a pencil, Benscombe. Now, Mr. Fenchurch, will you please write the following: 'Tarranio, Casa Flavia, Caversham Street\u2014\"\n\n\"Caversham Street! That's what I couldn't remember. He must be in the telephone book as a limited company or something. I couldn't find him. That address is written on the envelope, isn't it?\"\n\nCrisp made no answer. Fenchurch, with a touch of unease, chattered on:\n\n\"Tarranio is the Italian wine merchant who fascinated you. I didn't know until the other day that he has a restaurant in Town.\"\n\nBenscombe removed the sheet on which Fenchurch had written part of the address, in his bold, ornate script.\n\n\"That address, as you surmise, was pencilled on this envelope,\" said Crisp. \"Did Watlington give you the information?\"\n\n\"You're losing touch, Colonel! Watlington had never heard of Tarranio until I mentioned him on Saturday afternoon. Don't you remember sleuthing his blotting pad?\"\n\n\"Then who wrote this address for you on the back of this envelope? You didn't write it yourself.\"\n\n\"Didn't I? Then Ralph must have written it for me. It was he who mentioned Tarranio's restaurant. That was while we were loafing about on the terrace on Saturday night, waiting to hear which of us would drop in for the murder.\"\n\n\"Take time before you answer the next question, Fenchurch,\" warned Crisp. \"Here's this envelope. Look at it, Watlington's envelope. Watlington's seal. Who produced this envelope on the terrace for note-taking purposes? You \u2014or Ralph?\"\n\n\"Presumably, I did.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed! May I take it that, when you were interviewing Watlington, you picked up this\u2014old envelope \u2014and put it in your pocket? While you're pondering your answer, let me remind you that you have been very sarcastic about old envelopes and old pieces of brown paper. In effect, you refused to account for the piece of brown paper. You'll have to account for this envelope, Fenchurch.\"\n\n\"This is rapidly becoming horrible!\" moaned Fenchurch.\n\n\"Look at the size\u2014feel the thickness of this envelope,\" pressed Crisp. \"Did you say to yourself, 'at some future time I might want to make a note, so I will take this very awkward envelope, fold it up and put it in my pocket'?\"\n\nBenscombe expected an outburst. But Fenchurch controlled himself\u2014answered with strained amiability.\n\n\"Aren't we rather losing our sense of proportion? I don't know how, or when, I first became possessed of that envelope. Moreover\u2014if you don't think me unsympathetic \u2014I don't care.\"\n\nCrisp, about to invite Benscombe to intervene, decided to make one more effort.\n\n\"I seem to have failed to make you understand, Fenchurch, that you yourself are under grave suspicion and that I am doing my utmost to help you clear yourself.\"\n\n\"And why the devil should I bother to clear myself!\" exploded Fenchurch. \"With all respect to your official position, Colonel, I warn you that you've let this unfortunate murder get on your nerves. You're beginning to see life as a tapestry of clues to the murder of Watlington. Suspect me as much as you like, if you find it restful. But when you come down to earth, you'll realise that Ralph's confession will prevent the court from listening to your feverish little discoveries.\"\n\n\"The trouble is,\" said Crisp, when Fenchurch had gone, \"that fellow is right. We're hamstrung by that confession.\"\n\n\"A bit o' law sandwiched in with the artistic temperament, sir?\" As Benscombe received no discouragement, he went on: \"And the net result of that bid of comedy-business-with-pocket is that we're left to conclude that Ralph handed it to him. Mrs. Cornboise, Querk, Claudia, Fenchurch\u2014all contributing little items in support of Ralph's confession!\"\n\n#  Chapter Eighteen\n\nThe Plea of guilty came into formal existence on the following morning when Ralph Cornboise was brought befor the local magistrates. After evidence of arrest, he was committed for trial, to be lodged in the meantime in the county gaol.\n\n\"The dates are against us, Benscombe,\" remarked Crisp when they were back at their desks. \"He'll be up at the Old Bailey in a fortnight. Gives us very little time-\"\n\nInformation and reports continued to pile up, though the torrent was spent. Ralph's bachelor flat in the West End had been combed, yielding a couple of diaries and a drawer full of bills and receipts, which Benscombe was sorting.\n\nHalf an hour later, as if there had been no break, Crisp added:\n\n\"I don't know whether Comboise is innocent or guilty. But if he's hanged it will be because he's a liar\u2014or because he's had an hallucination.\"\n\n\"Or because he can't get Claudia out of his system?\" suggested Benscombe.\n\nCrisp's attention had drifted. But he remembered the words when the afternoon post brought a letter to Ralph from Fenchurch, addressed care of the Chief Constable.\n\n\"This must go straight to the prison governor,\" said Crisp. \"And we shall have to wait for a typed copy.\"\n\nBenscombe took the letter and placed it in the appropriate basket on his own desk.\n\n\"I'm sorry, sir,\" he said a minute later. \"I've opened Fenchurch's letter by mistake.\"\n\n\"Extremely careless of you!\" grinned Crisp. \"Bring it here.\"\n\n\"Do you think, sir, that Fenchurch has too much artistic temperament to know that we read prisoners' letters?\"\n\n\"That's the kind of thing you'll have to find out while you're sitting for him.\"\n\nCrisp opened out the letter. The texture of the paper\u2014 the handwriting, the spacing, the phrasing\u2014were those of a man who has his own scale of values.\n\n'Dear Ralph,\n\nI tried to see you yesterday, but there's some ghastly ritual involving a policeman as chaperone. I think it's going to be all right about Claudia. She definitely changed in her attitude to me after your departure. But obviously nothing can happen until you have settled down in Broadmoor. This sounds callous. But you know that I am not so, where my friends are concerned. While feeling a little tragic about you, I admire you tremendously for facing the music. Also, I am personally grateful, as I have been virtually arrested myself more than once. My peril seemed to distress Querk\u2014I was civil to the oily bounder for your sake.\n\nI still fear complications over Tarranio. If he and that nervously energetic Chief Constable get together, I shall probably have to go formally mad, too. And join you in Broadmoor! I know a very good sort who has been there for a long time and likes it\u2014I'll write him to look out for you. You can have quite a decentish time there if you can do without women. I'll keep in touch with you as long as I'm at large.\n\nYours ever, Arthur Fenchurch.  \nP.S.\u2014I believe my policeman's head is going to be good, though  \nconventional\u2014anyhow, it's time I placated the critics.'\n\nCrisp passed the letter to Benscombe.\n\n\"I was being too clever again, sir. He might want to feed us that he means to marry Claudia and provide for her future. But he wouldn't give us the tip to tackle Tarranio.\"\n\n\"When will Tarranio be in London?\"\n\n\"Scheduled to arrive last night.\"\n\n\"Come along then!\" Crisp delayed only to take from the dossier the relevant note: ' _Tarranio, Fabroli: Casa Flavia: May 2nd'_ copied from the pencilled scrawl on Watlington's blotting pad.\n\nAn hour later they were outside the Casa Flavia, a large restaurant for Soho, with some forty tables. Tacked on was a wine shop and a staircase leading to the wholesale department, which they ascended. They were received by a Cockney typist, who presently showed them into the proprietor's room.\n\nExcept for his colouring, Tarranio would have passed for a London stockbroker of the old school. He wore a morning coat: a silk hat graced the top of a filing cabinet. His accent was good, though his idiom wavered.\n\n\"Good morning, gentlemen. Seat yourselves, please. If the law has been broken by my business the mistake is mine I'm sure.\"\n\n\"We have come to ask your help, Mr. Tarranio. I believe you are acquainted with a British subject who has spent some time in Casa Flavia\u2014a Mr. Fenchurch?\"\n\n\"Arthur Fenchurch\u2014artist, painter and artist?\" Mr. Tarranio made it sound like a firm of solicitors. \"Oh yes, I know him backwards and forwards. If you desire recognisances\u2014or is it bail?\u2014you count me in for a reasonable sum, please.\"\n\nThere came a faraway look in his eyes, then a reminiscent smile. \"Assuredly, it is not a grave matter but only of a scandalous nature, eh? He is no criminal, though he owes me a little money.\"\n\n\"He is no criminal,\" agreed Crisp. \"But we have to find out what he has been doing\u2014for his own sake, perhaps.\n\nI wonder if you would be kind enough to tell us all you know about his life at Casa Flavia.\"\n\n\"All I know? You will ask me to stop! He comes first to Casa Flavia when he is fourteen, with his father, who is also artist, sculptor and artist. The boy comes alone to my restaurant and becomes very drunk. Because he is so young and because he is so drunk, he brings me into public disgrace. That was the beginning of our friendship.\n\n\"He comes often to Casa Flavia for his holiday. What is a holiday? For him a holiday is an extensive matter, you understand. He becomes one of the attractions to the tourists, because he is so rude to them, but to the Italians he is always polite. He eats at my restaurant and drinks much wine. At that of my neighbour Fabroli also, but that is Fabroli's affair. At one time, he owes me what-is-in-sterling thirty-five pounds. For the debt, he paints a portrait of me. The portrait is scandalous and would seem to be intended for insult. I break our friendship. But a tourist sees the picture and offers me what-is-in-sterling fifty guineas. So our friendship is renewed and he again owes me what-is-in-sterling forty-two pounds. But I do not mind, for he does not understand business.\"\n\nHere was an indulgent friend and admirer of Fenchurch, a fact which was not in itself helpful. Why should Fenchurch be afraid of him? Further probings produced only stories of ribald and riotous behaviour\u2014of dreadful pictures painted on restaurant tablecloths with mustard and lipstick.\n\n\"Thank you very much, Mr. Tarranio,\" said Crisp, concealing his disappointment. \"His life seems to be blameless, as far as my profession is concerned.\"\n\n\"Ah yes! Crime is not for him. He would think it a game with the police, and he would tell you first how clever he was going to be. Before you go, Colonel Crisp, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me, may I ask, how is the health of Madame\u2014Mrs. Fenchurch?\" For Crisp, this was a trial in tact. Did Tarranio mean Glenda? Benscombe came to his rescue.\n\n\"When I went to Fenchurch's flat, sir, he was living alone.\"\n\n\"That is bad. But we feared it would be so!\" sighed Tarranio. \"The lady, I hope is not too distressed. She also is much admired in Casa Flavia. Courtesy. Charm. Even beauty also.\n\nThat, thought Crisp, was not the impression which Glenda would make on an Italian.\n\n\"Perhaps we are not talking about the same lady,\" he said.\n\n\"So already there are others! The boy is a fool!\" exclaimed Tarranio. \"And he calls them all 'Mrs. Fenchurch,' for insult. The lady, before her unfortunate marriage to him, is called Miss Lofting. 'Miss Claudia' they called her, because that is an Italian name also and is easy for the tongue. Fabroli, for instance, would find himself unable to say 'Lofting.'\"\n\n\"I don't imagine Fenchurch is a faithful sort of man.\" Crisp had risen and was offering his hand. Tarranio grasped it and in his agitation kept hold of it.\n\n\"Even the mayor, who was also a friend of Arthur Fenchurch, says to her, before he put on his robe of office, that marriage with such a man is a hazardous matter.\"\n\n\"The _mayor_!\" echoed Crisp.\n\n\"Assuredly! In Italy, if one is not of the Holy Church, it is the mayor only who performs the marriage. Myself, I heard him give the warning, which, alas, Miss Claudia did not heed! I am a witness of the ceremony. My neighbour, Fabroli, also. Arthur Fenchurch asked him because he owed Fabroli money and wished to flatter him. But me he did not ask because of what-is-in-sterling only forty-two pounds.\"\n\nAbsently, Crisp reclaimed his hand.\n\n\"Was there a legal marriage ceremony?\" he asked.\n\n\"Do I not say so, Colonel! On the certificate is the name of the mayor and that of myself and, unavoidably, that of my neighbour Fabroli also. Did I not myself kiss the bride in the English fashion, with sadness, and upon the cheek only. But Fabroli, who cannot speak English\u2014\"\n\n\"When did this marriage take place?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"On the second day of May last year. Is it in your mind, Colonel Crisp, that I delude myself?\"\n\n\"Not at all, Mr. Tarranio., But I must have that certificate. If I cable the mayor\u2014\"\n\n\"He has retired. It would be a pleasure to cable for you to the proper quarter and send you the certificate, because I am angry. If Arthur Fenchurch has treated such a wife with insult, that is again the end of our friendship.\"\n\nBenscombe was delayed for handshaking, then followed his Chief down the stairs.\n\n\"I say, sir! We've got something there, haven't we?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Crisp was gloomy. \"But I can't see yet how to make use of it.\"\n\n\"Legally married!\" enthused Benscombe. \"Claudia to marry Ralph, pop him in the asylum, administer the million and share the loot with secret husband Fenchurch!\"\n\n\"Fine!\" said Crisp. \"Except for Watlington's blotting pad! Why did Fenchurch give him the name of those two witnesses?\"\n\nThe silence lasted until they were within a few minutes of headquarters.\n\n\"When you're sitting in that studio, confine research to his movements on Saturday afternoon.\" Presently Crisp added: \"That confession flops on us like a wet blanket. The D.P.P. will take no notice until we have followed up the marriage certificate with proof of some act on the spot. Whatever Claudia and Fenchurch were planning to do\u2014 unless we can prove that one of 'em was in that library around five thirty, we can't upset the confession.\"\n\nThree days later, Crisp received a copy of the certificate of marriage between Arthur Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting.\n\nBy the same post came a private letter from the Director of Public Prosecutions, who was a personal friend.\n\n'My dear Crisp,\n\nBy this post you will receive an official intimation that your recommendation that Ralph Cornboise be medically examined will not be implemented.\n\nIn view of your letter to me, in which you revealed anxiety, I will give you the reasons.\n\nAccepting the (apparently rather provisional) opinion of Sir Wm. Turvey that accused suffers an hallucination, the latter is, on your own showing, a _post factum_ hallucination. It came into existence after the crime had been committed and is therefore irrelevant to the state of mind of the accused at the moment of committing the crime. This disposes of the possibility of a verdict of guilty but insane, should the accused withdraw the plea of guilty.\n\nThe only line upon which the (assumed) hallucination can become relevant is the following, viz: Does the hallucination render the accused incapable of understanding the nature of the charge against him and the nature of his confession? If the answer is 'yes' he could be so certified and would then be declared 'unfit to plead.'\n\nBut it is so obvious that the answer would be 'no' that the Department would have no justification for ordering an examination at the public expense.\n\nAs you are aware, the governor of the prison has the duty to order medical examination if he has reason to suspect the sanity of a prisoner.\n\nI will pass to the points of evidence which seem to have raised doubt in your own mind as to the guilt of the accused. The mis-statement as to the time at which he says he committed the murder was subsequently corrected by the accused himself and can therefore be ignored. The other points, viz: the absence of accused's finger prints on the die-stamp and the mis-statement that he struck through the wig seem to me nugatory. Substantially truthful confessions often contain such inaccuracies of detail. Your own point that he could not have left the library by the window about five thirty without being observed by Mrs. Cornboise and that he could not have left by the door\u2014as that was found locked on the inside \u2014is answered by an item in your report which describes how you turned the key with a pair of pliers. The accused could have turned the key in the opposite direction by the same means and has not denied having done so.\n\nTrue that in the hands of a brilliant counsel, able to play on the superstitious fears of the jury, these points might conceivably procure an acquittal. But, of course, unless the accused withdraws the confession and pleads not guilty this possibility will not arise.\n\nAs prosecuting counsel is required to 'act in a semi-judicial capacity' he may decide to put these two points to the judge. But I must admit that it will be _pro forma_ only. Faced with a plea of guilty, the judge would have no power to take cognisance.\n\nIn general, the only counter to a plea of guilty is the production by the police or other agency of an incontrovertible alibi, which might take the form of a very strong _prima facie_ case against another person not associated with the accused.'\n\n\"That shows us where we get off, Benscombe,\" said Crisp. \"Note that bit about public expense. It's very doubtful whether I have the right to give any further orders in the case.\"\n\n\"Try calling for volunteers, sir, and see what happens. I'm volunteering to do a spot of work on that lock. Fenchurch blew off a long-winded yarn yesterday, the burden of which is that he has quarrelled with the lock people.\" Crisp nodded approval and returned his attention to the letter.\n\n\"I don't fancy myself on principles of law. But there's the principle that a jury is entitled to draw inferences from the demeanour of a witness or a prisoner. From Ralph's demeanour when he was telling me how he struck with the die-stamp and the effect of the blow on the wig, I drew the inference that he was describing something he was seeing in his mind's eye. Something which did _not_ happen, but which nevertheless he was convinced _did_ happen. And there are other, smaller points. That's why I'm ready to accept the hallucination theory. The D.P.P., of course, is bound by the rules of evidence. And there we are!\"\n\nHe got up.\n\n\"I'm going to the prison with this certificate. I'll get the governor to let me see Cornboise. If he's still chivalrously inclined towards Claudia\u2014this may change his mind about pleading guilty.\"\n\nThe governor disliked a plea of guilty as much as the police, and was anxious to give every assistance. Ralph was brought to his private office. The escort was instructed to wait in the corridor.\n\nRalph's appearance had undergone perceptible change. The nervous restlessness had vanished. He had gained poise and the outward signs of serenity. His eyes were steady, his lips set in a half smile. His calm, thought Crisp, might be the false calm of the higher hysteric, but he certainly looked amenable.\n\n\"We can relax the formalities, Cornboise,\" said the Governor. \"The Chief Constable has brought something for you.\"\n\n\"This will do my talking for me,\" said Crisp. He unfolded the certificate and offered it.\n\nRalph took the certificate and read it. The half smile did not falter as he folded it and returned it to Crisp.\n\n\"Thank you, Chief Constable.\" Ralph glanced at the Governor as if to suggest that the interview was over.\n\n\"Did you read it?\" cried Crisp. \"Did you realise that it's a certificate of marriage between Fenchurch and Miss Lofting?\"\n\n\"Of course!\" Ralph's calm was unshaken. \"I hope it will not get into the papers. It would involve them in scandal. People would remember that she was engaged to me.\"\n\n\"Does it mean nothing to you? Did you know she was married?\" demanded Crisp.\n\n\"I think I told you that Miss Lofting had been wholly frank with me about Fenchurch, and so had he,\" answered Ralph with the first hint of impatience. \"I did not inquire into the material conditions of their association. If they went through a form of marriage, and if it was a legal marriage, I have no doubt that Miss Lofting made the necessary arrangements for the divorce. She would not cheat me\u2014in that way.\"\n\n\"Divorce could not take effect for another couple of years,\" snapped Crisp. \"She meant to marry you three weeks ago.\"\n\n\"It hardly matters now,\" answered Ralph. The patient half smile returned\u2014the same expression of saintly resignation which Crisp had seen more than once on the faces, of men serving a life sentence. \"You were very forbearing with me, Colonel, before I came to terms with myself. I hope you will add to your kindness now by leaving me alone. I have everything settled in my mind in preparation for what is before me. It is not helpful to be disturbed.\" He turned to the Governor. \"May I go now, sir?\"\n\nCrestfallen, the Chief Constable returned to H.Q. He had barely recorded the prison interview in his official diary when Benscombe turned up, ushering into the room a man whose appearance suggested an unskilled labourer.\n\n\"This is Albert Jenkins, sir, who has something to tell us. He is employed at the lock, mainly in keeping the sluices clear of obstruction. A few minutes ago he identified\u2014Mr. Tarranio's English friend\u2014as a person he knows by sight but not by name.\"\n\nCrisp gave Jenkins a chair and a cigarette.\n\n\"I say, Jenkins,\" said Benscombe, \" will you tell the Chief Constable your little tale. Don't bother to put it into posh language. Talk as if you were talking to me.\"\n\n\"Righto! It's like this, sir. This gent here asked me to go along with him and dodge round a pillar-box while the other gent come out of his flat. I reckernised him as a gent I'd had trouble with, because he likes to walk along the platform over the sluices, which isn't allowed. He never gave no trouble, except that he'd come back again. All he ever did was look at the water. Seemed a bit loopy to me, the way he talked. That's all, sir.\"\n\n\"There's a bit more, Jenkins,\" chirped Benscombe. \"When did you last see this gent before you saw him this afternoon?\"\n\n\"In the afternoon last Saturday week, day o' the murder. Saw him standin' on the landin' steps jest below the lock. I was up on the sluices, clear in' up the better part of a sack of straw that had drifted down. When I was taking a breather, I looked round and saw the gent. That's how it was, sir.\"\n\n\"What was he doing on the steps, Jenkins?\"\n\n\"Makin' a sort o' bonfire, to amuse some kids. He'd light some paper and wave it about until it burnt his fingers and then drop it in the river. Like a kid himself.\"\n\n\"Could you see what sort of paper it was that he was burning?\" asked Crisp.\n\n\"No, sir. The steps must be close on a hundred yards from where I was muckin' up that straw.\"\n\n\"Had he got a bundle of newspapers under his arm?\"\n\n\"No, sir. It was small bits o' paper\u2014took the bits o' paper out of his pocket. Lit each bit with a match.\"\n\n\"What time in the afternoon was this?\"\n\n\"Must've been close on six o'clock, which is my knock-in' off time. After I'd finished my breather, I took my time over packin' that straw in the basket. When I got back and was dumping it in the bin the lockkeeper says: 'You must be feelin' unwell,' he says. 'You've done nigh on five minutes' overtime by mistake,' he says.\"\n\n\"Good work, Benscombe!\" said Crisp when Jenkins had gone.\n\n\"Thank you, sir! But is it any _good_?\"\n\n\"In the face of that confession, I don't know that anything is any good unless it turns the whole layout upside down,\" grumbled Crisp. \"As that confounded artist told me to my face, the judge won't take any notice of that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"If there had not been a confession,\" persisted Benscombe, \"there'd be more now against Fenchurch than against Cornboise.\"\n\n\"Hardly! All we've got is that Fenchurch was with Watlington at some time during the afternoon, and that he obtained his letters and destroyed them. Where do we go from there?\"\n\n\"Destroyed 'em about six o'clock. It's some five minutes walk to the river from Watlington Lodge. Add that brown paper\u2014which was wrapped round a parcel in the hall as late as nearly five fifteen\u2014\"\n\n\"Huh! You're roping in a clue as evidence, in spite of my little homily. Besides, I don't like that brown paper any more than Fenchurch does.\"\n\nCrisp went to a cabinet and produced it.\n\n\"And what the devil was in the parcel? You'd think that anybody who had sent Watlington a registered parcel would be personally, interested enough to read the Press stuff about the murder. All the papers emphasised that we wanted to get in touch with the sender.\" He turned the paper over and contemplated the typewritten address. \"Not even handwriting to help us!\"\n\nHe added: \"All the same, I'm glad you dragged it up again. If the worst comes to the worst, I'm going to spring that brown paper on Querk and see what happens. There may be something in your idea that he is anxious that the confession should not be upset.\"\n\n\"I've sheered off that idea, sir,\" confessed Benscombe. \"Querk is going to lose a packet\u2014according to those two diaries of Ralph's. Checking the diaries on the correspondence and bills and random notes, I reckon he owes Querk about fifteen thousand pounds, possibly a bit more.\"\n\n\"So Querk gains nothing by Ralph's conviction\u2014 definitely loses. Claudia and Fenchurch gain nothing. Art for art's sake, eh?\"\n\n\"Cutting their loss and getting clear, sir.\"\n\nThe worst came, at leisurely gait during the next ten days, to the worst. The investigation continued, as it were, of its own weight. The test with the Reindert yielded the negative result that it would have been possible for a man sitting on the near side running board to escape observation by the boys standing in the roadway outside the gates.\n\nThe prison governor, acting on informal pressure from Crisp, ordered a medical examination by Sir William Turvey and another eminent alienist, who reported that Ralph Cornboise was not insane.\n\nOn the last day of the month, which was a Wednesday, Ralph would be brought before the judge for sentence.\n\nOn the Monday, Querk returned to Watlington Lodge, after spending a week in the provinces in discharge of his mayoral duties.\n\n#  Chapter Nineteen\n\nIt was nearly nine and pleasantly cool when Crisp turned into the drive of Watlington Lodge. Querk had dined and was awaiting coffee on the terrace. At sight of Crisp he exhibited delight.\n\n\"On such a perfect evening, it would be positively ungrateful to stay indoors,\" he gushed. \"Bessie has seen you and will bring us coffee. Do sit down.\"\n\n\"That would be very pleasant!\" Crisp was resolutely genial. \"When I heard you had returned, I thought it would be only civil to see you informally and tell you about the next move.\"\n\nQuerk would know that this sort of thing was mere sparring for position. But the last words had caused a flicker of his eyelids. He was not expecting a 'move.'\n\n\"I cannot tell you why I have come back to this house of tears,\" gushed Querk. \"There is nothing I can do for the poor boy. I am steeling myself to the fact that, in little more than thirty-six hours, he will come before the judge. I felt I must be near at hand in case he should express some wish.\"\n\n\"You were something of an uncle to him.\" Crisp caught sight of Bessie with a tray. \"I may be able to tell you that you are making yourself needlessly unhappy.\"\n\nThat would play up his nerves while Bessie was footling with the coffee, thought Crisp. He delayed the girl with polite enquiries, while he watched Querk. The watery eyes were fixed on the distance.\n\nWith a start, Querk realised that Bessie had left them.\n\n\"I am so sorry, Colonel! Do please help yourself. I fear I am a sadly inattentive host. It is hard to tear one's thoughts away from Wednesday morning.\"\n\n\"Speaking off the record, Mr. Querk\u2014there is a chance that, on Wednesday, nothing at all will happen of any importance.\"\n\nQuerk helped himself to coffee.\n\n\"I dare not allow myself to entertain the faintest hope unless it is your kindly intention to give me specific grounds.\" He was talking to steady his own nerve. \"Surely the proceedings could only be stayed by a writ of _nolle prosequi_ \u2014legally a very complicated matter.\"\n\n\"No writ will be ready by Wednesday,\" admitted Crisp. \"But you know, doubtless better than I do, the circumstances in which the D.P.P. can delay proceedings.\"\n\n\"If a somewhat rusty memory serves\u2014\" Querk stirred his coffee with concentration\u2014\"it is essential that there should be a strong _prima facie_ case against a person not associated with the accused.\"\n\nQuerk, Crisp noted, had thoroughly primed himself on the law of Ralph's position\u2014it was as if he had quoted the D. P.P.'s letter.\n\n\"Quite so!\" Crisp waited until Querk raised the coffee cup to his lips. \"Did you know that Fenchurch and Miss Lofting were married last year by the Mayor of Casa Flavia?\"\n\nSo he did not know! A good teaspoonful of coffee had slopped on to his tie. He put down the cup, mopped himself up in silence. He was, Crisp noted, taking an unnecessarily long time over the mopping up.\n\n\"You would not say that, Colonel, unless you had proof. I can only confess that comment is utterly beyond me.\"\n\nCrisp gazed over the rambling bedraggled garden, leaving Querk to take the initiative.\n\n\"But how, may I ask, does this affect poor Ralph's position?\" Querk's assurance was creeping back. \"Such a fact, astounding and shocking though it is, would hardly seem to bear on the confession.\"\n\n\"We're both speaking confidentially, Mr. Querk, and there are no witnesses, so we can let ourselves go. I know you are aware that Fenchurch visited Watlington on Saturday afternoon and that he obtained those letters which he subsequently destroyed.\n\n\"Very well! What Fenchurch did not tell you is that, at that interview, Watlington dragged out of him particulars of that marriage, including the date, place and witnesses of the ceremony. Of that we have incontrovertible proof\u2014 I have personally interviewed one of the witnesses.\"\n\n\"My dear Colonel, you take my breath away!\" It had some literal truth. Querk was panting. With satisfaction, Crisp observed the false move\u2014he had revealed consternation when he ought to have jubilated at the suggestion that someone other than Ralph might be guilty.\n\n\"If Watlington had lived another few minutes he would have confronted Claudia\u2014 _Mrs. Fenchurch_ \u2014with the facts. The Fenchurchs' attempt to grab the Watlington money with a fake marriage would have failed. But he did not live another few minutes. And when Cornboise learns that Claudia was deceiving him, I think he'll withdraw that fake confession.\"\n\nCrisp had the instant impression that he had himself blundered. Querk perceptibly relaxed. Moreover when he spoke, the rich, unctuous tone had come back.\n\n\"A truly amazing sequence of events! If I may say so without impertinence, my dear Colonel, few men in your position would have striven, as you have striven, to save an accused man from the consequences of his own confession. But before I can relate these facts to poor Ralph's position, I have to remind myself that you have not yet arrested Fenchurch. He was here a couple of hours ago, with Miss Lofting. May I surmise that the weak spot in the case is that, although all this might have happened, there is no proof that it _did_ happen?\"\n\n\"That's for the jury to decide,\" countered Crisp. \"When you say there is 'no' proof I don't follow you. There is very strong circumstantial evidence. There is, for instance, the matter of time.\"\n\n\"Pre-cisely! The matter of time!\" mouthed Querk.\n\n\"Now I do hope you are not going to produce\u2014from your sleeve, as it were\u2014a piece of brown paper?\"\n\nAnother flop, reflected Crisp. Every time he tried to use that piece of paper, it crackled back at him.\n\n\"That's what I'm doing,\" said Crisp stolidly. \"And I'm showing it to a jury.\"\n\nQuerk shook his head with profound sadness.\n\n\"I fear that no jury will ever inspect that piece of brown paper. Fenchurch, of course, told me about it with\u2014er\u2014a certain regrettable ribaldy. Miss Lofting confirmed that you attached an importance to it which she found hard to credit. So I took it upon myself to investigate the peregrinations of that piece of brown paper.\"\n\nQuerk bent down for the attache case which was always within his arm's reach. When he lifted the lid, the interior opened like a concertina\u2014a portable file.\n\n\"You will find in this document, signed and witnessed by Miss Glenda Parsons, that she herself introduced a piece of brown paper which had wrapped a parcel registered to Lord Watlington\u2014into Fenchurch's flat. On Saturday night, Miss Lofting had asked her to take back Fenchurch's sketch book, which he had left lying about here. So she wrapped the sketch book in a piece of brown paper which she found here and furtively unwrapped it at the flat, leaving the sketch book to be discovered in the flat in a manner calculated to deceive her\u2014er\u2014protector.\"\n\nCrisp glanced through the typed statement, noted that no mention was made of where the brown paper had been found by Glenda, but did not indicate the omission to Querk. He remembered, too, that when he had been interviewing Glenda, she had irritated him by crackling brown paper. Doubtless, it had been this half-memory which had given him his initial mistrust of the clue.\n\nHis purpose had been partly achieved. He had now not the least doubt that Querk had been shoring up the case against Ralph. His motive was at present an insoluble riddle \u2014unless he was playing for safety only.\n\n\"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Querk. I'll keep this, if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"By all means. Does that destroy the case against Fenchurch?\"\n\n\"It only shortens the chain by one link.\" Crisp put on his unsatisfactory little act of lighting a cigarette. \"Mr. Querk, you are convinced of Ralph's guilt. I wish you could convince me. If the case against Fenchurch should fail\u2014 you can imagine the feelings of a policeman who believes he has procured the conviction of an innocent man.\"\n\n\"I could imagine your feelings if I could imagine your reasons for believing in his innocence.\"\n\nQuerk believed that he had gained the upper hand. His tone was nearly patronising.\n\n\"When we came on the scene,\" said Crisp, \"we found that door locked on the inside. We know from Mrs. Comboise that Ralph did not go out by the window at five thirty, How did he get out of the library?\"\n\nQuerk contrived to look disappointed.\n\n\"That, surely, is unimportant in itself. If you are inviting me to speculate\u2014is there not some mechanical means of locking a door on the outside while the key remains inside? The object being, of course, to throw dust in the eyes of the police.\"\n\nCrisp made no answer. Querk was unruffled. He was sitting with his fingers arched like the traditional consultant, unaware of his danger.\n\n\"Our experts agree that the die-stamp was the weapon that shattered the plate in Watlington's skull and that the assailant was standing in front of his victim when he struck. The die-stamp was found on the mantelpiece, where you placed it shortly after five fifteen. You remember telling us why you removed it from the table and put it there?\"\n\n\"Perfectly. Pray continue, Colonel, I am all attention.\"\n\n\"At about five twenty eight\u2014 _if_ Ralph came back after you had gone upstairs\u2014he must have walked round the writing table to pick up the die-stamp, walked round to the other side of Watlington to strike him, and then walked back again to replace the die-stamp on the mantelpiece before making his escape.\"\n\n\"Indeed! I had not realised that it was as complicated as that. In moments of such febrile excitement man will behave strangely and even irrationally.\"\n\n\"The remarkable thing is this!\" Crisp spoke as if in deep perplexity. \"In spite of the febrile excitement and the rest of it, Ralph left no finger prints on that die-stamp.\"\n\n\"Remarkable, but not unprecedented, I think!\" said Querk. \"At moments of emotional storm, a part of the brain often remains cool enough to take protective action. Presumably he wiped off his finger prints with his handkerchief.\"\n\n\"On that metal, the prints would be invisible to the naked eye.\"\n\n\"Obviously, he would wipe the whole thing, not merely the part that he believed he had touched.\"\n\n\"Hm! Yes! Of course he would!\" Crisp put his empty cup on the tray and rose, creaking, from the wicker chair.\n\n\"Your finger prints were found on that die-stamp!\"\n\nTheir eyes met and for an instant the barriers were down \u2014but only for an instant.\n\n\"That Ralph failed to wipe the part of the die-stamp which I had touched,\" beamed Querk, \"is a vagary of chance I cannot hope to explain. You speak almost as if it were _necessary_ that I should be able to explain that\u2014er\u2014 vagary of chance.\"\n\n\"Mr. Querk, you don't believe any more than I do that he came back at five thirty and murdered his uncle!\"\n\nThe smile broadened until it threatened to engulf the entire expanse of face.\n\n\"In the spirit of your little joke, my dear Colonel\u2014what does it matter what I believe, since Ralph's confession\u2014\"\n\n\"What if the plea of guilty is withdrawn and the confession negatived?\"\n\n\"Let me see, now!\" Querk spoke as one consenting to play make-believe with a child. \"Mrs. Cornboise, I think, would be safe. Not so, Fenchurch, Miss Lofting, and myself. Possibly it would be a joint charge\u2014wouldn't it, Chief Constable?\u2014for the guilt of one would rivet the guilt of the two others as accessories.\n\n\"But I think you will find,\" continued Querk, \"that the confession will not be negatived. Tell poor Ralph that Miss Lofting was deceiving him\u2014that she is really the wife of that excessively exuberant young man\u2014and I doubt whether he will be as shocked as I am. I even doubt whether he will express surprise. He will certainly not withdraw the plea of guilty.\"\n\n#  Chapter Twenty\n\nAfter leaving Querk, Crisp returned to headquarters to clear up a few oddments of desk work.\n\nHe dropped Glenda's statement into the basket for Benscombe to file in the morning. Not until he was leaving did he suddenly snatch up the statement and stare at it\u2014at the typescript itself.\n\nHe held it up to the light and looked through it, then examined the back of it.\n\n\"The full stops cut the paper. But that's fairly common.\"\n\nFrom a cabinet, he brought out the piece of brown paper that had made Claudia laugh and Querk chortle. The blue pencil, marking registration, crossed the gummed label on which the address had been typed, blurring one or two letters. The face of the type was the same. In itself, that meant only that the same make of typewriter had been used for both. Was it the same typewriter? The full stop had cut the label also.\n\nIn ten minutes he had established four additional points of resemblance. The spacing after capital 'W'\u2014the blurred curl of the small 'r'\u2014a 'g' blind in the lower loop but not in the upper\u2014most valuable of all, the uneven impression of the capital 'L,' the horizontal stroke barely registering, though the vertical stroke showed but little wear.\n\n\"Short of evidence, but invaluable as a clue!\" he said aloud, as if Benscombe were present. \"If we do want it for evidence, Scotland Yard will see us through.\"\n\nThe next morning he rang Benscombe from his flat.\n\n\"I shan't be at the office until the end of the morning. I want you to go to Querk at Watlington Lodge and delay him until I've had time to go to his office and get clear. Talk any poppycock you like\u2014or crock his car.\"\n\nAt a quarter to ten he was in Querk's office. Miss Randle was of the type that likes being a secretary and will obviously remain one all her life, at very slight periodic increases of salary.\n\n\"Miss Randle, have you read any of the Press reports of the murder of Lord Watlington?'\n\n\"No!\" Miss Randle shuddered. \"I never read that kind of thing. I can find better employment for my limited leisure.\"\n\nCrisp believed her.\n\n\"On the morning of Saturday, the fifth, you sent a registered parcel to Lord Watlington, I believe?\"\n\n\"Wait a minute, please.\" Miss Randle consulted a diary, opened a drawer and produced a registered receipt slip, which she handed to Crisp.\n\n\"Thank you, Miss Randle. What did the parcel contain?\"\n\n\"I have no knowledge. I collected it at Mr. Querk's instruction and forwarded it unopened.\"\n\n\"Where did you collect it?\"\n\n\"Wait a minute, please.\" There was the same business with the diary. This time the methodical Miss Randle copied an entry on a memo slip.\n\n' _Brieux et Cie, 318 Turl Street, W.1_ ,' read Crisp.\n\n\"What are Brieux et Cie?\" he asked.\n\n\"I have no knowledge,\" answered Miss Randle.\n\nCrisp 'derived no knowledge' from contemplating a discreet brass plate in Turl Street. On the first floor, in a small but expensively furnished office, an expensively dressed girl with a Cockney intonation astonished him by saying:\n\n\"What-is-your-pleasure-please?\" Crisp, who was in plain clothes, produced his official card and asked for the manager.\n\nIn a still more expensively furnished office, which still gave no clue, an expensively tailored man bowed and begged him to be seated.\n\n\"On Saturday, the fifth, Mr. Querk's secretary called here for a package. Will you tell me, please, what that package contained?\"\n\n\"Why, a wig, Colonel!\" He added: \"We are posticheurs.\"\n\n\"I couldn't tell that from the outside,\" remarked Crisp.\n\n\"Three men out of four are as sensitive as women about their wigs. They would never come here if we were to hang out a sign,\" the manager explained. \"The wig was made for Lord Watlington. Mr. Querk originally ordered a wig for him many years ago, when he was 'Mr. Cornboise.' He was not content with the service he received in Africa. We moulded the original from the measurements of a wig made in Johannesburg.\"\n\nThe registered package on the table in the hall had contained a wig! A fact known to Querk\u2014almost certainly known to Querk alone.\n\nCrisp knew next to nothing about wigs. With half a dozen questions he obtained more knowledge than is possessed by most wearers. The manager, flattered by the intelligent interest of a Chief Constable, offered to show him the workrooms. He was taken through an outer workroom where two men and five girls were treating hair in the crude form in which it was received from the factory : thence to the room, part workshop part studio, where three highly skilled operatives were engaged upon the final stages.\n\nEach man was sitting at his own bench, before him a wooden head, faceless, like the head of an artist's lay figure. The walls of the room were lined with tiers of numbered lockers, each containing the dummy of a client's head.\n\nAt one of the benches an operative was leaning over his dummy, stroking the wig with an instrument looking very like a domestic flat-iron. He stopped working, to explain to Crisp what he was doing.\n\nBut Crisp was not listening. He was staring at the wig. The colour was iron grey, but the shape and the set of it reminded him vividly of Watlington's wig.\n\nSuddenly he picked up the flat iron, swung it with moderate force and crashed it onto the crown of the wig, cracking the crown of the dummy.\n\n\"Hold him\u2014he's mad!\" cried the operative.\n\nThe manager gaped with horror, convinced that he had been entertaining a man with a perverted mania.\n\n\"I'm quite safe. I'm a police officer investigating the murder of one of your clients in one of your wigs. I'm sorry I've spoilt your careful work. Before long you'll know why I did it, and perhaps you won't mind.\"\n\nCrisp studied the dummy. The sides of the wig jutted out over the temples of the dummy.\n\n\"Why does it stick out like that over the temples?\" he asked.\n\nThe operative explained how the plectyt mounting for the hair is shaped. Crisp asked a few questions and made another experiment with the remains of the wig.\n\nHaving made satisfactory arrangements covering the cost of the damage Crisp departed in a state of mind not far removed from jubilation.\n\nThe next item on his programme was Glenda Parsons. He drove to the flatlet in Brondesbury, which she was sharing with another girl who was in employment. Glenda was 'resting' and was found at home, unglamorous in a cotton house frock,, which served as a dressing gown.\n\n\" _Oo_! Has anything gone wrong?\" Taller than Crisp, she looked down at him with stupidly frightened eyes.\n\n\"I don't know yet.\" This woman had been the indirect cause of the murder\u2014a non-moral creature, the prey of ansemic fear and an equally anaemic greed, too vacillating to exploit her physical beauty with any consistency. He ascertained that there was no one else in the flatlet.\n\n\"I have seen the statement you signed for Mr. Querk!\"\n\n\"There now! He promised faithfully he wouldn't show it to anyone!\"\n\n\"He lied to you. As you lied to me when you told me you were waiting in that car for an imaginary Mr. Harris.\"\n\n\"I was only being tactful.\"\n\n\"Well, don't be tactful again or you may have reason to be very sorry for yourself. Was that statement you signed true?\"\n\n\"Yes. He questioned me again and again about it, and all over again when we got to his office,\"\n\n\"Where did you pick up that piece of brown paper?\"\n\n\"In that awful little room where you were going on at me. It was in the chair. I pulled the chair out from the table and sat down without looking. There was something hard, and that paper. And as I wanted the paper\u2014\"\n\n\"What was the something hard?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I pushed it down behind me while you were talking. It's one of those carpetty chairs, if you remember\u2014brocade\u2014and I suppose it slid down into the fold at the back. Don't you remember you told me not to crackle with the paper?\"\n\nThat was all Crisp wanted.\n\n\"It's safer to lie to Querk than to lie to the police,\" he remarked. \"If he asks you whether I've seen you, you'd better deny it. Just say 'no.' Don't try and prove it, or he won't believe you.\"\n\nOn his way back to headquarters, Crisp turned into Watlington Lodge. Querk had gone to his office and the servants were in sole possession. Claudia, he knew, was staying at the Red Lion.\n\nHe went into the morning-room, pulled one of the upright chairs from the table\u2014a brocaded chair, with the tail of the back folded under the seat.\n\nHe worked his fingers under the fold and produced a pair of pliers. He wrapped the pliers for microscopic examination and placed them carefully in his pocket.\n\n\"Bessie, I want a pair of pliers. Can you help?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" Bessie went to the hall table, pulled out a rather ill-fitted drawer.\n\n\"There _was_ a pair here, sir, but it's gone. Now I come to think of it, one of those Harridge's men's probably borrowed it for keeps. I'll ask cook if she knows of another pair.\"\n\n\"Dont bother, thanks,\" said Crisp. \"I'll manage without.\"\n\nThat, Crisp reflected, clicked into place.\n\nOn the telephone, he spoke to headquarters.\n\n\"Chief Constable speaking from Watlington Lodge. Ring me back here in two minutes, and keep ringing until I answer.\"\n\nHe switched the extension so that the bell would ring in the library. Then he went upstairs to the bedroom occupied by Querk.\n\nIn case Bessie might be roving, he locked himself in. The imprint of Querk's personality was immediately obvious. On the dressing table a stolidly liberal toilet equipment, including an eau-de-cologne spray and a bottle of smelling salts. A framed photograph of Watlington, to which a crepe surround had been fastened\u2014a fashion that was disappearing in the 1890's. On a bedside table, leather bound editions of _Simple Thoughts_ and _Alice in Wonderland_.\n\nIn five minutes he had satisfied himself that the room had been deliberately prepared for his inspection\u2014that he would find nothing he was not meant to find.\n\nOn the way back to the hall, he chuckled with profound satisfaction. He was so well pleased with himself that he evolved a boyish riddle: 'I searched your room and found nothing. But in your room I found what I sought.'\n\nHe sobered up in the hall when he heard faintly the regular burr of the telephone bell.\n\nNo sign of Bessie.\n\nCrisp went into the library, lifted the receiver and announced himself.\n\n\"You told me to ring you back, sir.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! How long have you been ringing?\"\n\n\"Six-and-a-half-minutes from the first ring, sir.\"\n\n\"All right. I don't want anything, now. You can hang up.\"\n\nSix-and-a-half minutes. That clicked into place, too. But nothing could now prevent Ralph from appearing before the Judge tomorrow morning.\n\n#  Chapter Twenty-One\n\nThe Half smile remained unshattered during the time Ralph Cornboise was in court. The serenity with which he received sentence of death had nothing in common with the sullen, unimaginative courage of the tough. It impressed the Judge. It deceived the warders.\n\nIn a room off the court sat potential members of a jury, to be empanelled should the plea of guilty be withdrawn at the last moment. The potential witnesses waited in another room\u2014Claudia Lofting, Fenchurch, Mrs. Cornboise, Querk and Bessie, together with medical and police personnel. Crisp, with Benscombe, was in the well of the court, to give formal evidence of the murder, of the arrest and of the confession.\n\nThere are forms to be observed, even when there is no trial. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before Treasury counsel laid down his papers and directly addressed the Judge.\n\n\"As your lordship is aware, a plea of guilty to the charge of murder is sometimes an embarrassment to the Prosecution. I would like to acknowledge that both the police and the governor of the prison have made unremitting efforts to persuade the prisoner to plead not guilty.\n\n\"In case your lordship should feel inclined to add your own persuasion\u2014and what I have to say is relevant to that possibility only\u2014I would point out that, apart from several inaccuracies, there are two major mis-statements in the revised confession signed by the prisoner. One is that the prisoner struck deceased through his wig. There is incontrovertible evidence that the wig was undamaged, from which we may infer that the wig must have been removed and replaced after the blow. The other concerns the die-stamp\u2014undoubtedly the weapon used. There is evidence that the die-stamp was not handled in the manner described by the prisoner.\n\n\"There is the further fact\u2014extraneous to the prisoner's statement but strikingly inconsistent with his account of the crime\u2014that, by means of a pen-knife, a signet ring was removed from deceased's finger after death, and replaced. In short, my lord, there is enough debatable material to provide a basis for a feasible defence in the hands of learned counsel. Thank you, my lord.\"\n\nThe Judge turned to the prisoner.\n\n\"You have heard what learned counsel said to me. Do you understand that you can make, at this moment if you wish, a technical plea of not guilty, which would enable you to have a fair trial?\"\n\n\"Yes, my lord. But I do not wish to be tried.\"\n\n\"Do you further understand that a trial would enable me to take notice of any mitigating circumstances and possibly to reduce the charge from one of murder to one of manslaughter?\"\n\n\"Thank you, my lord, but there are no mitigating circumstances.\"\n\nThe judge seemed to be considering a further appeal to the prisoner and to decide that it would be futile.\n\n\"I see that your purpose is fixed. I have before me the statement of two eminent alienists that you are of sound mind and capable of understanding your position. It is therefore my duty to pass sentence upon you...\"\n\n\"I know that there can be no question of appeal or commutation. But I've still got more than a fortnight in which to correct one or two mistakes.\" Crisp had been detained in the corridor by the D.P.P. himself, who had been conducting a case in another court.\n\n\"Correcting mistakes will get you nowhere.\" The eminent lawyer raised his wig to take advantage of the welcome draught. \"A confession, followed by sentence, takes the effect of a jury's verdict. That is to say, there can be no re-examination of fact.\"\n\n\"'No re-examination of fact!'\" snorted Crisp. \"That's a bit of law I shall never understand!\"\n\n\"There are other bits, old man, if you don't think me rude,\" laughed his friend. \"Don't cut my birthday party next Thursday, or you'll never get any more help from me.\"\n\nCrisp strode gloomily out of the building. On the steps he stopped.\n\n\"Benscombe! Nip back inside and see if you can scrounge a pair of handcuffs from one of those warders. Sign for it and pledge your word and mine that he shall have them back this afternoon. I'll wait for you in the car.\"\n\nWithin five minutes, Benscombe rejoined the Chief.\n\n\"I got 'em from Hendricks,\" he explained. \"They don't expect any trouble from Ralph.\"\n\nAfter removing a number of articles to make room, Crisp stowed the handcuffs in his hip pocket.\n\n\"Dump me at Watlington Lodge\u2014I'll get a taxi back,\" he ordered. \"I got it from Bessie that Querk is going back there.\"\n\nArrived at the Lodge, Crisp learned that Querk had not yet returned. He found this out by walking through the open front door to the kitchen and asking the cook. In turn she asked when the servants would be paid their board wages and from whom they were supposed to take orders. Was she herself standing, if he would pardon the question, upon her head or her heels? The house had acquired a quality of ownerlessness.\n\nHe drifted into the dining-room, idly surveyed the window by which Ralph was deemed to have entered the house around five twenty-eight. The window had told them nothing. The long spell of fine weather had made the soil hard and dusty. If there had been a heavy shower on Saturday morning, he reflected, Ralph Cornboise might not have been where in fact he was.\n\nBehind him the door was opened. He turned and faced Fenchurch. Claudia was behind him.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said Fenchurch amiably. \"We're looking for Querk.\"\n\n\"So am I.\"\n\nThey both came into the room. Crisp felt himself shrinking from Claudia's presence. If she had made any parade of grief, he would have had the satisfaction of telling himself that she was humbugging. She was self-possessed as ever, looking slightly pre-occupied, as if with troublesome business. That she should be in Fenchurch's company at such a time was outrageous.\n\n\"If Colonel Crisp wants to see Querk officially, Arthur,\" said Claudia, \"we'd better wait elsewhere.\"\n\n\"He can't want to see him officially. It's all over, isn't it, Colonel?\"\n\n\"Not altogether!\" said Crisp. He felt an overpowering desire to shatter the composure of these two. \"I think you may\u2014 _both_ \u2014be interested to know that I have had an illuminating conversation with Tarranio.\"\n\n\"Good Lord, have you!\" Fenchurch made no attempt to conceal his dismay. \"What a fool I was to show you that envelope with his London address on it!\"\n\n\"You were!\" agreed Crisp.\n\n\"I say, when you saw Tarranio\u2014\"\n\n\"Arthur! You'll make a fool of yourself all over again if you talk about it.\"\n\n\"Excellent advice\u2014 _Mrs. Fenchurch!\"_ snapped Crisp.\n\n\"He had better keep his mouth shut until his solicitor tells him how far to open it.\"\n\n\"By all the gods, Colonel, you've pulled it off again!\" cried Fenchurch with boyish delight. \"That's almost exactly what Watlington said!\"\n\n\"Arthur! _Don't talk!\"_\n\n\"I must tell him this bit, dear. He was so frightfully sarcastic about my picking up an old envelope in case I might want to make a note on it. 'Solicitor' is the key, Colonel. I don't possess a solicitor. I told Watlington I needed one who wasn't squeamish, and he gave me his own. The envelope had the name and address printed on it\u2014yards of it. So I bagged the envelope.\"\n\nTo Crisp, the explanation was no longer important. Everything would now depend upon how much he could frighten out of Querk. In the meantime, Fenchurch might conceivably provide another weapon, since he could never resist answering a question.\n\n\"It's stuffy in the house, Arthur. Let's wait in the garden.\"\n\n\"One question before you go!\" Crisp found himself addressing Claudia. \"Were you two working with Querk in this scheme for a fake marriage to Ralph Cornboise?\"\n\nFenchurch spun round, virile and aggressive.\n\n\"What the blue hell d' you mean, Colonel Crisp!\"\n\n\"Arthur! Be quiet!\" Claudia dragged at his arm. \"There's no need to say anything. Come into the garden.\"\n\n\"Garden my foot! Chief Constable or Lord Chief Justice, he's going to explain that offensive question\u2014oh lord, darling, I see the explanation myself! He thinks\u2014\"\n\nClaudia had thrust her hand over his mouth\u2014the hand that was unexpectedly large and strong.\n\n\"Arthur, you _must not!_ It's madness! What does it matter what he thinks!\"\n\nFenchurch removed her hand, which was actually suffocating him\u2014held her by both wrists as if he expected further assault.\n\n\"Sorry, darling, but I must!\" he exclaimed. \"It's no good my trying not to be a fool. I could never paint again if I let that pass. Rank sentimentalist, I know. Goodbye!\" He kissed her violently. \"Now get out!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Claudia. \"I want to see whether he'll arrest you.\"\n\n\"You want to cry over him. It's no good with his kind.\"\n\nFenchurch turned his back on Claudia.\n\n\"Sorry I lost my temper, Colonel! Stand by for a spot of exhibitionism. Manly confession. I married Claudia bigamously. I lied to her. She didn't know my wife was alive, until she died. Then the ass of a doctor\u2014who knew we'd been separated for years\u2014sent a cable to Casa Flavia marked 'urgent.' It was so phrased that I couldn't possibly explain it away to poor Claudia. Then she felt that, because I had pulled her leg, she couldn't stay with me. Tarranio doesn't know that. If you don't mind, don't tell him. Because after I've been to quod for bigamy, we shall probably get married and we might want to go back to Casa Flavia.\"\n\n\"Listen to me\u2014\" began Crisp.\n\n\"No, you listen to me, Colonel! Watlington gave me some errand-boy stuff about her being a 'kept woman'\u2014 the sort of thing you said just now in all innocence. I lost my temper and showed him the marriage certificate. I also showed him\u2014dammit Claudia, I wish you had cleared out when I told you to\u2014I showed him the letter Claudia wrote when she left me, because it carried complete conviction to any sane man, even Watlington, that she hadn't known it was bigamy.\"\n\n\"But why did you tell Watlington?\" demanded Crisp. \"Did you _want_ her to marry Ralph?\"\n\n\"Don't be absurd, my dear fellow! I didn't _want_ it. But I was naturally distressed that Claudia had found out I'd swindled her. She told me she was through with men like me, and that she was dedicating herself to this poor devil who needed her\u2014which I thought rather ridiculous. But it was a wealthy marriage. And I felt I owed it to her to co-operate! So I made Watlington understand that she had thought herself legally married to me.\n\n\"By Watlington's odd code, she was promptly transformed from a trollop to an Innocent Girl. My hat, Claudia! Then he gave me fatherly advice on how not to go to quod for the bigamy\u2014which, unfortunately, I've forgotten. Anyhow, part of the advice was not to tell anybody else.\"\n\nClaudia moved from behind Fenchurch and faced Crisp.\n\n\"That was why Watlington changed his attitude to me so suddenly and so completely,\" she said. \"Poor Ralph knew, because Arthur had told him. Ralph wanted me to tell his uncle when we were having that scene in the library. But I was afraid Arthur might go to prison.\"\n\n\"So am I!\" said Crisp.\n\nHe had got a weapon from Fenchurch\u2014that Querk had lied in describing his conversation with Watlington about Claudia.\n\n\"What's the next move, Colonel? Can I have bail, or something? It would be a pity not to finish Benscombe's head before we start the quod programme.\"\n\nCrisp turned to Claudia.\n\n\"I understand that the mayor of Casa Flavia warned you against marrying this man,\" he said. \"I echo that warning. Why, he hasn't even the sense to tell me that he thought his legal wife was dead, so as to give me a colourable excuse for not running him in! Take him into the garden\u2014take him anywhere\u2014before I remember my duty.\"\n\n\"By the window\u2014before you say another word!\" cried Claudia. She pushed him out and shut the window after him. When she turned round and faced Crisp, he had the illusion that she had grown older.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said. \"And\u2014and I congratulate you. Prison would turn him into a very dangerous criminal.\"\n\nHe looked at her with detachment, his mind on Querk. In all his encounters with her she had never lost her dignity.\n\n\"You are a very strange woman,\" he said.\n\n\"Because I can love two men?\"\n\n\"Lots of women can do that. But you manage to make it seem decent. Anyway, love doesn't interest me.\"\n\n\"But it often explains people's queer behaviour!\"\n\nA car purred in the drive, presumably Querk's. Crisp looked out of the window, saw Fenchurch sitting on his haunches, sketch-book in hand.\n\n\"Fenchurch may have genius. But he's a lame dog, like the other one.\"\n\n\"Yes. But he has the charm of not knowing it. He's too conceited ever to find me out, as Ralph did. Here's Mr. Querk!\"\n\nQuerk paused in the doorway, the more effectively to confer his presence.\n\n\"Ah! Chief Constable. At last I've run you to earth. I tried to find you at headquarters. Don't go, I beg, Miss Lofting\u2014stay and hear me abase myself. On the telephone this morning, Chief Constable, my secretary informed me of your call at my office yesterday. How can I ever apologise for giving you all that trouble! The matter had passed completely out of my mind. I'm talking about that registered parcel, Miss Lofting. Can you believe that it was dispatched by my secretary acting on my instructions! And it contained\u2014\" he finished in an arch whisper \"\u2014a new wig for poor Lord Watlington!\"\n\nQuerk, Crisp reminded himself, had not been present in court, and so had not heard counsel's reference to the wig and the signet ring\u2014he could have no suspicion of their importance.\n\nClaudia was slipping past Querk to the door.\n\n\"And now,\" said Querk, \"if the Chief Constable will accept my heartfelt apology, I must fly to keep a personal appointment before lunch\u2014\"\n\n\"Mr. Querk!\" said Crisp. \"I came here to see you.\"\n\n\"Indeed? Of course, if it is important\u2014?\"\n\n\"It is.\" Because Querk looked elaborately surprised, Crisp added: \"I am investigating the murder of Lord Watlington.\"\n\nQuerk sighed heavily. He removed his glasses and polished them. His response was interrupted by the appearance of Bessie.\n\n\"Can you gentlemen let me have the room now, so's I can lay for lunch?\"\n\nFollowing Querk to the morning-room, Crisp was halfway across the hall when for an instant he stopped. In that instant he grasped the full significance of Fenchurch's statement a few minutes ago. It came to him that the statement was true in every detail.\n\nFenchurch had become a background against which Crisp could see the movements of every person in the orbit of the murder.\n\n\"I think the library would be better, Mr. Querk,\" said Crisp.\n\n#  Chapter Twenty-Two\n\nNormally Querk would have waited, bowing in the doorway for Crisp to precede him. Instead, he walked abstractedly into the library and sat in an upright chair at the table, facing the wall safe and the empty swivel chair.\n\nCrisp shut the door, then locked it noisily.\n\n\"Would you like me to begin, Mr. Querk?\"\n\n\"If you please!\" Querk inclined his head in a bow. \"I am so glad you locked the door. Perhaps it would even be wise to shut the window.\"\n\nCrisp went to the window. While he was shutting it, his eye strayed over the border of lawn to the yew trees. He stared with a sense of shock. At the intersection, under the green octopus and the preposterous fowl, Mrs. Cornboise was sitting, as she had been sitting when he and Benscombe had first seen her through the adjacent window of the morning-room. It was as if she had never moved. But now she was not knitting, and the voluminous bag was missing. He knew it was his own fancy that gave her the appearance of mocking him.\n\nHe strode from the window, dropped into the swivel chair, in which Watlington had sat. His confidence was at an ebb as he faced Querk. He rallied, decided that his best chance lay in surprise.\n\n\"When you removed the signet ring with Claudia's penknife, you cut the skin. Did you know that?\"\n\n\"I did not know it. But now that you mention it, I am not wholly surprised. Throughout this very unhappy business I have had to combat a certain physical clumsiness. Let me see now! The absence of blood enables you to infer that the ring was moved after death.\"\n\nQuerk had the air of a man lost in his own thoughts. Crisp waited. Presently the other looked up at him with a little start of surprise.\n\n\"Forgive me! I was wool gathering, I fear. Well now, as you are obviously inclined to discuss this in a friendly manner, you will not, my dear Chief Constable, find me lacking in responsiveness. Tell me what else you have discovered, and then we will see if we can jointly put two and two together.\"\n\nCrisp felt a grudging respect for the man who could sustain his technique when he knew he was in deadly peril. The sword might yet be caught in the net of platitudes.\n\n\"Your conversation with Watlington in which you persuaded him to approve of Claudia did not take place. You invented it on the supposition that Ralph Cornboise had taken the letters from the safe. You did not find out until too late that Watlington had given them to Fenchurch.\"\n\n\"Correct!\" said Querk encouragingly. \"Pray continue.\"\n\nThe frankness of the avowal disconcerted Crisp. He was lolling in the swivel chair. The handcuffs in his hip pocket hurt him and he sat upright.\n\n\"Before I go any further,\" said Crisp. \"I intend to guard myself against the accusation of tricking you into making admissions. You are well aware that on this conversation will depend whether a charge is made. I will therefore warn you well in advance that anything you say may be used in evidence.\"\n\n\"My dear Colonel! Your intention is most friendly and, believe me, I appreciate it. But\u2014come now!\u2014what charge do you think you could possibly make? That of being accessory to the murder of my poor old friend?\"\n\nCrisp evaded the question.\n\n\"In dealing with persons like yourself, Cornboise, Fenchurch,\" he said, \"it would be absurd to adopt the procedure followed with the uneducated criminal. I am going to tell you what I know about your actions, and how I know it. As you are aware, I don't know everything, or I would have arrested you without talking about it.\n\n\"My starting point is the moment in which Watlington handed those letters to Fenchurch. That fact was unknown to the murderer and his associate, if any. Their ignorance of that fact vitally affects the logic of the murder. The murderer enters, strikes, and goes to the safe intending to destroy the letters. But the letters have already gone.\n\n\"Now, Ralph confessed to the murder. Whether he had an hallucination or not about the murder, he certainly had no hallucination about the letters. He was surprised when I handed him the sealed envelope containing the Will, because he detected that the letters were not inside. Further, in a conversation which we eavesdropped, he revealed that he was himself hopelessly puzzled as to what had become of the letters, fearing at that time that Claudia had taken them. So I was able to infer that Ralph was not the one who removed the seal from the dead man. If Ralph did not, I asked myself, who did?\n\n\"Now, removing that seal and re-sealing the Will had one purpose only\u2014to convey to an innocent person, present in the library with Watlington after lunch, that Watlington had re-sealed the Will himself after destroying the letters.\n\n\"Claudia did not remove the seal. It would have been a senseless action on her part, because Watlington had already given her his blessing. That meant that only you could have removed the seal. From which it is a safe inference that you are either the murderer or an accessory of the murderer.\"\n\n\"Not the murderer, my dear Colonel! Are you not forgetting the wig? That surely was the device of an accessory, not a principal!\"\n\nCrisp was momentarily immobilised. He was groping for the technique concealed in this apparently foolish tactic of making unnecessary admissions.\n\n\"The wig must have given you the clue to much that originally mystified you,\" continued Querk, his tone suggesting that he was encouraging a promising youngster. \"Now, _I_ will tell you what I actually did and _you_ shall tell me how near you came to solving the puzzle without my help! Well, when I reached the library, I saw Lord Watlington crumpled up in his chair, the sides of his wig protruding from behind his ears, like\u2014like a bat's wings. I mustn't pass off that very expressive phrase as my own. I am plagiarising Miss Lofting. Ralph, in one of his semi-delirious moods had, by lifting her hair behind her ears, shown exactly how the wig appeared. The outline was very vividly impressed on the poor boy's memory and I confirm that his recollection is correct.\n\n\"I feel no shame in confessing, Chief Constable, that my first thought was that Ralph owed me a considerable sum\u2014seventeen thousand three hundred, to be precise\u2014which I could not then afford to lose. His running from the room suggested that he hoped to escape the consequences of his act. But I knew well that he would quickly break down under the police questioning and blurt out the truth. So I proceeded _to make his truth untrue_. He would say that he used the die-stamp, then lying on the floor. I wiped it and put in on the mantelpiece, leaving my own finger prints upon it. He would say that he struck through the wig. I remembered that package on the table in the hall. I unwrapped it in the morning-room\u2014accidentally leaving the wrapping on a chair, a piece of carelessness, which, I fear, put you to some further trouble. I removed\u2014and subsequently destroyed\u2014the old wig, putting the new one in place\u2014a little awry, to suggest haste on the part of the murderer who, I thought, would never be found.\n\n\"You have already described my actions with the Will\u2014and with an accuracy which has certainly earned full marks. I have only to add that when I left the room I turned the key on the outside with a pair of pliers which I found in the drawer of the hall table, knowing that Ralph would deny that he had locked the door. I think you have found those pliers?\"\n\nAs Crisp made no answer, Querk resumed:\n\n\"I was, of course, wholly unprepared for his repudiation of the alibi which I had so laboriously provided. Laboriously\u2014and at no small personal risk! 'The best laid schemes of mice and men,' my dear Colonel. And if any of my own calculations had 'ganged agley,' I might well have found myself in a highly unenviable position. Fortunately, nothing did go wrong! Indeed, I had 'builded better than I knew.' The alibi remained unshaken by the repudiation. My plans, as we know, carried everything by its own impetus. Sir William Turvey was led to provide a convenient formula for saving everyone's _amour propre_ by\u2014er\u2014discovering an hallucination.\"\n\n\"Then you admit the whole bag o' tricks?\" cried Crisp in amazement. \"You admit being an accessory? And _you_ are going to plead guilty too?\"\n\n\"I admit the\u2014er\u2014whole bag o' tricks, as you choose to express it\u2014but, of course, in confidence.\"\n\n\"Confidence be damned! I'm on duty!\"\n\n\"I must point out, if you will not think me impertinent\u2014that you have neglected to provide yourself with witnesses. Do not blame yourself, Chief Constable. I assure you that the question of my pleading to anything at all will not arise.\"\n\nAs Crisp glared at him, Querk continued:\n\n\"Remember, poor Ralph repudiated the alibi which I provided, nor was he aware that I had deliberately performed a single act to protect him.\"\n\n\"That won't get you off!\" snapped Crisp.\n\n\"It will not be required to do so. I mention it merely to emphasise that I am not quite the social type that conspires with another to break the criminal law.\"\n\n\"I can prove that wig sequence,\" said Crisp.\n\n\"If you will pardon me, you can prove a great deal more than that. My clumsiness with the penknife, my absentmindedness with the pliers and the brown paper, my forgetfulness that typescript can be identified\u2014all can be welded into a formidable chain of circumstantial evidence, forged by my amateur efforts to deceive the police. Altogether, a vindication of the old adage that the cobbler, my dear Chief Constable, should stick to his last.\n\n\"Now, my own last is, as it were, a twin-last. Law and finance! Finance and the law!\" He waited for Crisp's assent, which was not forthcoming. He continued, with a touch of asperity: \"Your wig, your penknife, your die-stamp are merely corroborative evidence. Your charge would have to be that I gave Ralph a false alibi by stating that Watlington was alive at five fifteen when, in fact, he was dead.\"\n\n\"You're pushing my barrow,\" grunted Crisp.\n\n\"But in the opposite direction! As you will find when you consult your legal department. They will tell you that a confession followed by sentence is the equivalent of a verdict returned by a jury. There can be no re-examination of fact.\"\n\nAgain Querk had unconsciously echoed the words of Treasury counsel.\n\n\"The proceedings in court this morning, my dear Colonel, have established that the murder was committed at approximately five thirty. In law, my statement that Lord Watlington was alive at five fifteen is therefore unassailable.\"\n\nCrisp got up and paced the room. He had begun by manoeuvring for position and had so far failed. And now Querk had tripped him with a legal conundrum.\n\n\"You've been successful all along the line, Querk. You've crowned your success by admitting to me that you are an accessory, by snapping your fingers at the police and strangling the law in its own red tape. It must be the most elaborate monkey-trick in the history of crime. Yes, I said monkey-trick! By faking that alibi you saved Ralph\u2014and your own seventeen thousand. By trotting up that car evidence you destroyed Ralph\u2014and your own chance of collecting the seventeen thousand. It doesn't make sense!\"\n\n\"Must we always look to money, my dear Colonel, to rationalise human behaviour. Should we not sometimes look to\u2014love?\"\n\nCrisp gaped at the preposterous echo of Claudia's words in the mouth of Querk.\n\n\"Remember, I did not know that Miss Lofting was already a married woman, herself contemplating a bigamous marriage with fraudulent intent. I saw only a sweet English rose cruelly jilted by a selfish young man\u2014who would probably marry a woman of no position and so fail to benefit under his uncle's Will. On the other hand, I thought of the lady who had every right to call herself Lady Watlington, who had also been cruelly treated\u2014er\u2014having regard to the special circumstances, of course.\"\n\n\"How on earth does Mrs. Cornboise come into it?\" demanded Crisp.\n\n\"A man, as you know, may not profit by his own crime,\" explained Querk. \"When the Judge pronounced sentence this morning, poor Lord Watlington's Will became null and void\u2014he is deemed to have died intestate. His property will pass to his widow. After deduction of Crown dues, she will receive about a million and a quarter.\"\n\nCrisp looked out of the window. Mrs. Cornboise was still sitting on the bench. So that funny old baggage was now a very rich woman!\n\n\"Does she know that?\"\n\n\"Not yet.\" Querk picked up his attache case, preparing to leave. On his way to the door, he joined Crisp by the window. \"She has suffered much from loneliness\u2014but that, I hope, is at an end. We were married this morning.\"\n\nCrisp did not conceal his astonishment.\n\n\"At the registrar's close to the Old Bailey,\" added Querk. \"After sentence had been pronounced.\"\n\n\"A million and a quarter!\" Crisp relaxed as if with personal relief. \"And you will take care of her fortune and see she is not robbed. Magnificent!\"\n\n\"Your congratulations, my dear fellow, are extremely acceptable. During the short time we have worked together\u2014\"\n\n\"I was congratulating myself!\" interrupted Crisp. \"You've taken a load off my mind. Frankly, the Ralph Cornboise business shook my nerve. I never actually believed in his innocence, but I was not convinced of his guilt. The same applied to you until a moment ago. I had built up a very strong case against you, but I needed a motive for my own satisfaction. I could see no reason why you should want to hound that boy to the gallows. Now I've got a million and a quarter reasons. You're under arrest, Querk.\"\n\n\"I am intrigued,\" said Querk. \"You must have discovered loopholes in the rules of evidence which have eluded me.\"\n\nCrisp grinned, and in the grin there was no pity.\n\n\"Querk!\" There was a perceptible pause. \"You've admitted to me that the conversation with Watlington at five fifteen did not take place, because Watlington was dead. In that imaginary conversation\u2014which figured in your depositions\u2014Watlington told you he was expecting a telephone call at five thirty. The conversation did not take place. But the telephone call _did_ take place\u2014at five thirty-four. How did you know Watlington was going to be called round about five thirty?\"\n\nQuerk's benevolent smile was undisturbed but his hands betrayed distress. Both hands were gripping the attache case as if he could barely sustain the weight.\n\n\"No doubt, he mentioned it to me earlier in the day.\"\n\n\"He did not. We contacted that caller. His name is Tremayne. He was coming to the dinner party. On Saturday morning he flew to Edinburgh because his wife had been seriously injured in a street accident. Shortly after five, he remembered the dinner. He tried to ring Watlington to explain why he couldn't turn up. So neither Tremayne nor Watlington knew that the call would be made.\"\n\n\"Then let us say, my dear Colonel, that it was a little\u2014er\u2014constructive retrospection. From my bedroom, I heard the telephone ring\u2014\"\n\nA second and a half later, there came a double click, as the handcuffs snapped into position. The attache case thudded mildly on the carpet.\n\n\"Our depositions will describe a test proving that you can't hear that telephone in your bedroom. You knew about that telephone because you were in this room when it rang\u2014at the time when Ralph was supposed to have left his car and come back here to commit the murder. It must have taken you a good twenty minutes to get that signet ring off and back again and change the wigs. The Home Secretary will dish out a Royal Pardon for Ralph on that telephone call alone. That will leave the field clear for your trial!\"\n\n\"My trial as accessory\u2014to a principal whom the Royal Pardon will have declared to be factually innocent?\"\n\n\"Your trial for the murder of Watlington.\"\n\nWith one eye on Querk, Crisp dialled headquarters.\n\n\"Chief Contable, speaking from Watlington Lodge. Send an escort here to take away a prisoner!\"\n\nQuerk had listened in pained silence.\n\n\"I had hoped, Chief Constable, to preserve your dignity no less than my own. Whatever the charges you may prefer against me\u2014conscientiously if mistakenly\u2014can you honestly say that you believe I would attempt to run away? Escort! Prisoner! Handcuffs! I will not allow myself to suspect that you are animated by a malicious desire to inflict personal humiliation.\"\n\nIt had been the soldier in Crisp rather than the policeman that had whipped out the handcuffs\u2014an intuitive sense of danger to come, of the exact moment at which to avert that danger.\n\n\"You're such a tough customer, Querk, that I'm not risking anything.\"\n\n\"Yet you seem to my ignorance to be risking your whole career. For instance\u2014if I may ask\u2014what proof have you that I killed Watlington?\"\n\n\"Bat's wings!\" ejaculated Crisp.\n\nAs Querk registered only anxious bewilderment, Crisp went on:\n\n\"You accused yourself of physical clumsiness. You are not particularly clumsy. But you are physically uneducated. A man wears a wig. Hit him on the head, you think, and the sides of the wig will stick out like a bat's wings\u2014and that's the end of your speculations about the wig!\"\n\n\"But I described what I saw with my own eyes! I do not press the simile of the bat's wings\u2014\"\n\n\"Bat's wings is good enough. Only you put 'em in the wrong place. Plectyt, the canvas stuff on which the wig is mounted, is cut on a double cross. If you hit a man on the crown of the head\u2014where the silver plate is, and smash the plate\u2014the wig juts out at the temples. If you hit him on the back of the head\u2014the occiput\u2014the wig juts out _behind the ears_ \u2014which is what you saw when you entered the library after Ralph had left it.\"\n\nThe sword had cut through the net. Crisp drove it home:\n\n\"It's what Ralph saw when he thought he had killed his uncle. He will be convicted of attempting grievous bodily harm, but he'll get off lightly. He will tell _your_ jury all about the bat's wings.\"\n\nQuerk had lost awareness of the handcuffs. His hands were folded on his chest. He was nodding his head as if in agreement.\n\n\"We've taped out the sequence of events pretty closely, Querk. First, Ralph probably did not know where the plate was located. In a fit of hysteria, he swung blindly at the head and struck the occiput. The wig muffled the blow, which did no injury to that very strong bone. It was as if he had punched it with a boxing glove. But concussion followed.\n\n\"You came in, saw the bat's-wing effect, but you also saw that Watlington was breathing. You reckoned that, when Watlington recovered consciousness, his first act would be to disinherit the nephew who had tried to kill him. Bang would go your seventeen thousand. So you struck the unconscious Watlington where you knew the plate was\u2014and killed him within a couple of minutes of Ralph's dud blow.\n\n\"You unlocked the wall safe with Watlington's key, The sealed envelope\u2014bulging with Claudia's letters enclosed with the Will\u2014had gone. In its place was another of those same printed envelopes. But it was gummed, not sealed. You could feel that it contained a single folded sheet\u2014obviously the Will.\n\n\"You drew the reasonable conclusion that Ralph had taken the letters and forgotten the significance of the seal. So you tackled the job of sealing it yourself, with Watlington's signet ring\u2014what've you got in that waistcoat pocket, Querk? Keep your hands still!\"\n\nCrisp swooped\u2014had time to spare, for Querk was slow-moving, even when unencumbered with handcuffs.\n\nCrisp captured a tiny phial\u2014held it to the light for inspection.\n\n\"Cyanide!\" explained Querk. \"How can I ever thank you, my dear Colonel! At this very moment, as we stand looking at each other, it has broken upon me that I have a priceless asset in the person of Miss Lofting. Every essential act of the murder _might_ have been committed by her. When _'my'_ jury learn that she was about to contract a bigamous and fraudulent marriage with Ralph\u2014that she had equal opportunity with myself\u2014you will find that they will give me the benefit of the doubt.\"\n\nClaudia's fraudulent intent! So that was the straw at which the drowning man clutched! The task of snatching it away could be left to Querk's lawyers. For the moment, it would be only decent to allow him to save his face.\n\n\"I think I hear my escort.\" Querk, beaming with resurgent self-satisfaction, had placed himself in charge of the proceedings. \"Perhaps you would be kind enough to unlock the door for them. We must not keep them waiting. Mrs. Querk can join us at the police station, where I feel sure you will give me an opportunity to allay her anxiety on my behalf.\"\n\n#  Copyright\n\nFirst published in 1949 by Faber & Faber\n\nThis edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world\n\nwww.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello  \nwww.curtisbrown.co.uk\n\nISBN 978-1-4472-2478-5 EPUB  \nISBN 978-1-4472-2477-8 POD\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Roy Vickers, 1949\n\nThe right of Roy Vickers to be identified as the  \nauthor of this work has been asserted in accordance  \nwith the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.\n\nEvery effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher will be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.\n\nYou may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.\n\nThe Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by any author websites whose address you obtain from this book ('author websites').\n\nThe inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content, products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.\n\nThis book remains true to the original in every way. Some aspects may appear out-of-date to modern-day readers. Bello makes no apology for this, as to retrospectively change any content would be anachronistic and undermine the authenticity of the original.\n\nBello has no responsibility for the content of the material in this book. The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not constitute an endorsement by, or association with, us of the characterization and content.\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.\n\nVisit **www.panmacmillan.com** to read more about all our books  \nand to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and  \nnews of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters\n\nso that you're always first to hear about our new releases.\n"}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "Amona; The Child; And The Beast; And Others by Louis Becke", "publication_date": 1902, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24952"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nAMONA; THE CHILD; AND THE BEAST\n\nPlus THE SNAKE AND THE BELL and SOUTH SEA NOTES\n\nFrom \"The Strange Adventure Of James Shervinton and Other Stories\"\n\nBy Louis Becke\n\nT. FISHER UNWIN, 1902\n\nLONDON\n\n\n\n\nAMONA; THE CHILD; AND THE BEAST'\n\n\nAmona was, as his master so frequently told him--accentuating the remark\nwith a blow or a kick--only \"a miserable kanaka.\" Of his miserableness\nthere was no doubt, for Denison, who lived in the same house as he did,\nwas a daily witness of it--and his happiness. Also, he was a kanaka--a\nnative of Niue, in the South Pacific; Savage Island it is called by the\ntraders and is named on the charts, though its five thousand sturdy,\nbrown-skinned inhabitants have been civilised, Christianised, and have\nlived fairly cleanly for the past thirty years.\n\nAmona and Denison had the distinction of being employed by Armitage, one\nof the most unmitigated blackguards in the Pacific. He was a shipowner,\nplanter, merchant, and speculator; was looked upon by a good many people\nas \"not a bad sort of a fellow, you know--and the soul of hospitality.\"\nIn addition, he was an incorrigible drunken bully, and broke his wife's\nheart within four years after she married him. Amona was his cook.\nDenison was one of his supercargoes, and (when a long boat of\ndrunkenness made him see weird visions of impossible creatures) manager\nof the business on shore, overseer, accountant, and Jack-of-all-trades.\nHow he managed to stay on with such a brute I don't know. He certainly\npaid him well enough, but he (Denison) could have got another berth from\nother people in Samoa, Fiji, or Tonga had he wanted it. And, although\nArmitage was always painfully civil to Denison--who tried to keep\nhis business from going to the dogs--the man hated him as much as he\ndespised Amona, and would have liked to have kicked him, as he would\nhave liked to have kicked or strangled any one who knew the secret of\nhis wife's death and his child's lameness. And three people in Samoa did\nknow it--Amona, the Niue cook, Dr. Eckhardt, and Denison. Armitage has\nbeen dead now these five-and-twenty years--died, as he deserved to\ndie, alone and friendless in an Australian bush hospital out in the\nGod-forsaken Never-Never country, and when Denison heard of his death,\nhe looked at the gentle wife's dim, faded photograph, and wondered if\nthe Beast saw her sweet, sad face in his dying moments. He trusted\nnot; for in her eyes would have shown only the holy light of love\nand forgiveness--things which a man like Armitage could not have\nunderstood--even then.\n\nShe had been married three years when she came with him to Samoa to live\non Solo-Solo Plantation, in a great white-painted bungalow, standing\namid a grove of breadfruit and coco-palms, and overlooking the sea\nto the north, east, and west; to the south was the dark green of the\nmountain-forest.\n\n\"Oh! I think it is the fairest, sweetest picture in the world,\" she said\nto Denison the first time he met her. She was sitting on the verandah\nwith her son in her lap, and as she spoke she pressed her lips to his\nsoft little cheek and caressed the tiny hands. \"So different from where\nI was born and lived all my life--on the doll, sun-baked plains of the\nRiverina--isn't it, my pet?\"\n\n\"I am glad that you like the place, Mrs. Armitage,\" the supercargo said\nas he looked at the young, girlish face and thought that she, too, with\nher baby, made a fair, sweet picture. How she loved the child! And how\nthe soft, grey-blue eyes would lose their sadness when the little one\nturned its face up to hers and smiled! How came it, he wondered, that\nsuch a tender, flower-like woman was mated to such a man as Armitage!\n\nLong after she was dead, Denison heard the story--one common enough.\nHer father, whose station adjoined that of Armitage, got into financial\ndifficulties, went to Armitage for help, and practically sold his\ndaughter to the Beast for a couple of thousand pounds. Very likely such\na man would have sold his daughter's mother as well if he wanted money.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAs they sat talking, Armitage rode up, half-drunk as usual. He was a big\nman, good-looking.\n\n\"Hallo, Nell! Pawing the damned kid as usual! Why the hell don't you let\none of the girls take the little animal and let him tumble about on the\ngrass? You're spoiling the child--by God, you are.\"\n\n\"Ah, he's so happy, Fred, here with me, and----\"\n\n\"Happy be damned--you're always letting him maul you about. I want a\nwhisky-and-soda, and so does Denison--don't you?\" And then the Beast, as\nsoon as his wife with the child in her arms had left the room, began\nto tell his subordinate of a \"new\" girl he had met that morning in Joe\nD'Acosta's saloon.\n\n\"Oh, shut up, man. Your wife is in the next room.\"\n\n\"Let her hear--and be damned to her! She knows what I do. I don't\ndisguise anything from her. I'm not a sneak in that way. By God, I'm not\nthe man to lose any fun from sentimental reasons. Have you seen this\nnew girl at Joe's? She's a Manhiki half-caste. God, man! She's glorious,\nsimply glorious!\"\n\n\"You mean Laea, I suppose. She's a common beacher--sailor man's trull.\nSurely you wouldn't be seen ever speaking to _her?_\"\n\n\"Wouldn't I! You don't know me yet! I like the girl, and I've fixed\nthings up with her. She's coming here as my nursemaid--twenty dollars a\nmonth! What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"You would not insult your wife so horribly!\"\n\nHe looked at Denison sullenly, but made no answer, as the supercargo\nwent on:\n\n\"You'll get the dead cut from every white man in Samoa. Not a soul will\nput foot inside your store door, and Joe D'Acosta himself would refuse\nto sell you a drink! Might as well shoot yourself at once.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, damn it all, don't keep on preaching. I--I was more in fun\nthan anything else. Ha! Here's Amona with the drinks. Why don't you be a\nbit smarter, you damned frizzy-haired man-eater?\"\n\nAmona's sallow face flushed deeply, but he made no reply to the insult\nas he handed a glass to his master.\n\n\"Put the tray down there, confound you! Don't stand there like a\nblarsted mummy; clear out till we want you again.\"\n\nThe native made no answer, bent his head in silence, and stepped quietly\naway. Then Armitage began to grumble at him as a \"useless swine.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Denison, \"Mrs. Armitage was only just telling me that he's\nworth all the rest of the servants put together. And, by Jove, he _is_\nfond of your youngster--simply worships the little chap.\"\n\nArmitage snorted, and turned his lips down. Ten minutes later, he was\nasleep in his chair.\n\n*****\n\nNearly six months had passed--six months of wretchedness to the young\nwife, whose heart was slowly breaking under the strain of living with\nthe Beast. Such happiness as was hers lay in the companionship of her\nlittle son, and every evening Tom Denison would see her watching the\nchild and the patient, faithful Amona, as the two played together on the\nsmooth lawn in front of the sitting-room, or ran races in and out among\nthe mango-trees. She was becoming paler and thinner every day--the Beast\nwas getting fatter and coarser, and more brutalised. Sometimes he would\nremain in Apia for a week, returning home either boisterously drunk or\nsullen and scowling-faced. In the latter case, he would come into the\noffice where Denison worked (he had left the schooner of which he was\nsupercargo, and was now \"overseering\" Solo-Solo) and try to grasp the\nmuddled condition of his financial affairs. Then, with much variegated\nlanguage, he would stride away, cursing the servants and the place\nand everything in general, mount his horse, and ride off again to the\nsociety of the loafers, gamblers, and flaunting unfortunates who haunted\nthe drinking saloons of Apia and Matafele.\n\nOne day came a crisis. Denison was rigging a tackle to haul a tree-trunk\ninto position in the plantation saw-pit, when Armitage rode up to the\nhouse. He dismounted and went inside. Five minutes later Amona came\nstaggering down the path to him. His left cheek was cut to the bone by\na blow from Armitage's fist. Denison brought him into his own room,\nstitched up the wound, and gave him a glass of grog, and told him to\nlight his pipe and rest.\n\n\"Amona, you're a _valea_ (fool). Why don't you leave this place? This\nman will kill you some day. How many beatings has he given you?\" He\nspoke in English.\n\n\"I know not how many. But it is God's will. And if the master some day\nkilleth me, it is well. And yet, but for some things, I would use my\nknife on him.\"\n\n\"What things?\"\n\nHe came over to the supercargo, and, seating himself cross-legged on the\nfloor, placed his firm, brown, right hand on the white man's knee.\n\n\"For two things, good friend. The little fingers of the child are\nclasped tightly around my heart, and when his father striketh me and\ncalls me a filthy man-eater, a dog, and a pig, I know no pain. That is\none thing. And the other thing is this--the child's mother hath come to\nme when my body hath ached from the father's blows, and the blood hath\ncovered my face; and she hath bound up my wounds and wept silent tears,\nand together have we knelt and called upon God to turn his heart from\nthe grog and the foul women, and to take away from her and the child the\nbitterness of these things.\"\n\n\"You're a good fellow, Amona,\" said Denison, as he saw that the man's\ncheeks were wet with tears.\n\n\"Nay, for sometimes my heart is bitter with anger. But God is good to\nme. For the child loveth me. And the mother is of God... aye, and she\nwill be with Him soon.\" Then he rose to his knees suddenly, and looked\nwistfully at the supercargo, as he put his hand on his. \"She will be\ndead before the next moon is _ai aiga_ (in the first quarter), for at\nnight I lie outside her door, and but three nights ago she cried out to\nme: 'Come, Amona, Come!' And I went in, and she was sitting up on\nher bed and blood was running from her mouth. But she bade me tell no\none--not even thee. And it was then she told me that death was near\nto her, for she hath a disease whose roots lie in her chest, and\nwhich eateth away her strength. Dear friend, let me tell thee of some\nthings... This man is a devil.... I know he but desires to see her die.\nHe hath cursed her before me, and twice have I seen him take the child\nfrom her arms, and, setting him on the floor to weep in terror, take his\nwife by the hand----\"\n\n\"Stop, man; stop! That'll do. Say no more! The beast!\"\n\n\"_E tonu, e tonu_ (true, true),\" said the man, quietly, and still\nspeaking in Samoan. \"He is as a beast of the mountains, as a tiger of\nthe country India, which devoureth the lamb and the kid.... And so now I\nhave opened my heart to thee of these things----\"\n\nA native woman rushed into the room: \"Come, Amona, come. _Misi Fafine_\n(the mistress) bleeds from her mouth again.\"\n\nThe white man and the brown ran into the front sitting-room together,\njust as they heard a piercing shriek of terror from the child; then came\nthe sound of a heavy fall.\n\nAs they entered, Armitage strode out, jolting against them as he passed.\nHis face was swollen and ugly with passion--bad to look at.\n\n\"Go and pick up the child, you frizzy-haired pig!\" he muttered hoarsely\nto Amona as he passed. \"He fell off his mother's lap.\"\n\nMrs. Armitage was leaning back in her chair, as white as death, and\ntrying to speak, as with one hand she tried to stanch the rush of blood\nfrom her mouth, and with the other pointed to her child, who was lying\non his face under a table, motionless and unconscious.\n\nIn less than ten minutes, a native was galloping through the bush to\nApia for Dr. Eckhardt. Denison had picked up the child, who, as he came\nto, began to cry. Assuring his mother that he was not much hurt, he\nbrought him to her, and sat beside the lounge on which she lay, holding\nhim in his arms. He was a good little man, and did not try to talk\nto her when the supercargo whispered to him to keep silent, but lay\nstroking the poor mother's thin white hand. Yet every now and then, as\nhe moved or Denison changed his position, he would utter a cry of pain\nand say his leg pained him.\n\nFour hours later the German doctor arrived. Mrs. Armitage was asleep; so\nEckhardt would not awaken her at the time. The boy, however, had slept\nbut fitfully, and every now and then awakened with a sob of pain.\nThe nurse stripped him, and Eckhardt soon found out what was wrong--a\nserious injury to the left hip.\n\nLate in the evening, as the big yellow-bearded German doctor and Denison\nsat in the dining room smoking and talking, Taloi, the child's nurse\nentered, and was followed by Amona, and the woman told them the whole\nstory.\n\n\"_Misi Fafine_ was sitting in a chair with the boy on her lap when the\nmaster came in. His eyes were black and fierce with anger, and, stepping\nup, he seized the child by the arm, and bade him get down. Then the\nlittle one screamed in terror, and _Misi Fafine_ screamed too, and the\nmaster became as mad, for he tore the boy from his mother's arms, and\ntossed him across the room against the wall. That is all I know of this\nthing.\"\n\nDenison saw nothing of Armitage till six o'clock on the following\nmorning, just as Eckhardt was going away. He put out his hand, Eckhardt\nput his own behind his back, and, in a few blunt words, told the Beast\nwhat he thought of him.\n\n\"And if this was a civilised country,\" he added crisply, \"you would be\nnow in gaol. Yes, in prison. You have as good as killed your wife\nby your brutality--she will not live another two months. You have so\ninjured your child's hip that he may be a <DW36> for life. You are a\ndamned scoundrel, no better than the lowest ruffian of a city slum, and\nif you show yourself in Joe D'Acosta's smoking-room again, you'll find\nmore than half a dozen men--Englishmen, Americans and Germans--ready to\nkick you out into the _au ala_\" (road).\n\nArmitage was no coward. He sprang forward with an oath, but Denison, who\nwas a third less of his employer's weight, deftly put out his right foot\nand the master of Solo Solo plantation went down. Then the supercargo\nsat on him and, having a fine command of seafaring expletives,\nthreatened to gouge his eyes out if he did not keep quiet.\n\n\"You go on, doctor,\" he said cheerfully. \"I'll let you know in the\ncourse of an hour or two how Mrs. Armitage and the boy are progressing.\nThe seat which I am now occupying, though not a very honourable one,\nconsidering the material of which it is composed, is very comfortable\nfor the time being; and\"--he turned and glared savagely at Armitage's\npurpled face--\"You sweep! I have a great inclination to let Eckhardt\ncome and boot the life out of you whilst I hold you down, you brute!\"\n\n\"I'll kill you for this,\" said Armitage hoarsely.\n\n\"Won't give you the chance, my boy. And if you don't promise to go to\nyour room quietly, I'll call in the native servants, sling you up like\nthe pig you are to a pole, and have you carried into Apia, where you\nstand a good show of being lynched. I've had enough of you. Every\none--except your blackguardly acquaintances in Matafele--would be glad\nto hear that you were dead, and your wife and child freed from you.\"\n\nEckhardt stepped forward. \"Let him up, Mr. Denison.\"\n\nThe supercargo obeyed the request.\n\n\"Just as you please, doctor. But I think that he ought to be put in\nirons, or a strait-jacket, or knocked on the head as a useless beast. If\nit were not for Mrs. Armitage and her little son, I would like to kill\nthe sweep. His treatment of that poor fellow Amona, who is so devoted to\nthe child, has been most atrocious.\"\n\nEckhardt grasped the supercargo's hand as Armitage shambled off \"He's a\nbrute, as you say, Mr. Denison. But she has some affection for him. For\nmyself, I would like to put a bullet through him.\"\n\nWithin three months Mrs. Armitage was dead, and a fresh martrydom began\nfor poor Amona. But he and the child had plenty of good friends; and\nthen, one day, when Armitage awakened to sanity after a long drinking\nbout, he found that both Amona and the child had gone.\n\nNearly a score of years later Denison met them in an Australian city.\nThe \"baby\" had grown to be a well-set-up young fellow, and Amona the\nfaithful was still with him--Amona with a smiling, happy face. They came\ndown on board Denison's vessel with him, and \"the baby\" gave him, ere\nthey parted, that faded photograph of his dead mother.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNAKE AND THE BELL\n\nWhen I was a child of eight years of age, a curious incident occurred in\nthe house in which our family lived. The locality was Mosman's Bay, one\nof the many picturesque indentations of the beautiful harbour of Sydney.\nIn those days the houses were few and far apart, and our own dwelling\nwas surrounded on all sides by the usual monotonous-hued Australian\nforest of iron barks and spotted gums, traversed here and there by\ntracks seldom used, as the house was far back from the main road,\nleading from the suburb of St. Leonards to Middle Harbour. The building\nitself was in the form of a quadrangle enclosing a courtyard, on to\nwhich nearly all the rooms opened; each room having a bell over the\ndoor, the wires running all round the square, while the front-door bell,\nwhich was an extra large affair, hung in the hall, the \"pull\" being one\nof the old-fashioned kind, an iron sliding-rod suspended from the outer\nwall plate, where it connected with the wire.\n\nOne cold and windy evening about eight o'clock, my mother, my sisters,\nand myself were sitting in the dining-room awaiting the arrival of my\nbrothers from Sydney--they attended school there, and rowed or sailed\nthe six miles to and fro every day, generally returning home by dusk. On\nthis particular evening, however, they were late, on account of the wind\nblowing rather freshly from the north-east; but presently we heard the\nfront-door bell ring gently.\n\n\"Here they are at last,\" said my mother; \"but how silly of them to go to\nthe front door on such a windy night, tormenting boys!\"\n\nJulia, the servant, candle in hand, went along the lengthy passage,\nand opened the door. No one was there! She came back to the dining-room\nsmiling--\"Masther Edward is afther playin' wan av his thricks,\nma'am----\" she began, when the bell again rang--this time vigorously. My\neldest sister threw down the book she was reading, and with an impatient\nexclamation herself went to the door, opened it quickly, and said\nsharply as she pulled it inwards--\n\n\"Come in at once, you stupid things!\" There was no answer, and she\nstepped outside on the verandah. No one was visible, and again the big\nbell in the hall rang!\n\nShe shut the door angrily and returned to her seat, just as the bell\ngave a curious, faint tinkle as if the tongue had been moved ever so\ngently.\n\n\"Don't take any notice of them,\" said my mother, \"they will soon get\ntired of playing such silly pranks, and be eager for their supper.\"\n\nPresently the bell gave out three clear strokes. We looked at each\nother and smiled. Five minutes passed, and then came eight or ten gentle\nstrokes in quick succession.\n\n\"Let us catch them,\" said my mother, rising, and holding her finger\nup to us to preserve silence, as she stepped softly along the hall, we\nfollowing on tiptoe.\n\nSoftly turning the handle, she suddenly threw the door wide open, just\nas the bell gave another jangle. Not a soul was visible!\n\nMy mother--one of the most placid-tempered women who ever breathed, now\nbecame annoyed, and stepping out on the verandah, addressed herself to\nthe darkness--\n\n\"Come inside at once, boys, or I shall be very angry. I know perfectly\nwell what you have done; you have tied a string to the bell wires, and\nare pulling it. If you don't desist you shall have no supper.\"\n\nNo answer--except from the hall bell, which gave another half-hearted\ntinkle.\n\n\"Bring a candle and the step-ladder, Julia,\" said our now thoroughly\nexasperated parent, \"and we shall see what these foolish boys have done\nto the bell-wire.\"\n\nJulia brought the ladder; my eldest sister mounted it, and began to\nexamine the bell. She could see nothing unusual, no string or wire, and\nas she descended, the bell swayed and gave one faint stroke!\n\nWe all returned to the sitting room, and had scarcely been there five\nminutes when we heard my three brothers coming in, in their usual way,\nby the back door. They tramped into the sitting room, noisy, dirty,\nwet with spray, and hungry, and demanded supper in a loud and collected\nvoice. My mother looked at them with a severe aspect, and said they\ndeserved none.\n\n\"Why, mum, what's the matter?\" said Ted; \"what _have_ we been doing\nnow, or what have we not done, that we don't deserve any supper, after\npulling for two hours from Circular Quay, against a howling, black\nnorth-easter?\"\n\n\"You know perfectly well what I mean. It is most inconsiderate of you to\nplay such silly tricks upon us.\"\n\nTed gazed at her in genuine astonishment. \"Silly tricks, mother! What\nsilly tricks?\" (Julia crossed herself, and trembled visibly as the bell\nagain rang.)\n\nMy mother, at once satisfied that Ted and my other brothers really knew\nnothing of the mysterious bell-ringing, quickly explained the cause of\nher anger.\n\n\"Let us go and see if we can find out,\" said Ted. \"You two boys, and\nyou, Julia, get all the stable lanterns, light them, and we'll start out\ntogether--two on one side of the house and two on the other. Some one\nmust be up to a trick!\"\n\nJulia, who was a huge, raw-boned Irish girl, as strong as a working\nbullock, but not so graceful, again crossed herself, and began to weep.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" said Ted angrily.\n\n\"Shure, an' there was tirrible murders committed here in the ould\nconvict days,\" she whimpered. \"The polace sargint's wife at Sint\nLeonards tould me all about it. There was three souldiers murdered down\nbeyant on the beach, by some convicts, whin they was atin' their supper,\nan' there's people near about now that saw all the blood and----\"\n\n\"Stop it, you great lumbering idiot!\" shouted Ted, as my eldest sister\nbegan to laugh hysterically, and the youngest, made a terrified dart to\nmother's skirts.\n\nTed's angry voice and threatening visage silenced Julia for the moment,\nand she tremblingly went towards the door to obey his orders when the\nbell gave out such a vigorous and sustained peal that she sank down in\na colossal heap on the floor, and then went into violent hysterics. (I\nassure my readers that I am not exaggerating matters in the slightest.)\n\nMy mother, who was a thoroughly sensible woman, pushed the whole brood\nof us out of the room, came after us, shut the door and locked it. _She_\nknew the proper treatment for hysterics.\n\n\"Let her stay there, boys,\" she said quietly, \"she will hurt the\nfurniture more than herself, the ridiculous creature. Now, Ted, you and\nyour brothers get the lanterns, and the little ones and myself will go\ninto the kitchen.\"\n\nWe ran out into the stables, lit three lanterns, and my next eldest\nbrother and myself, feeling horribly frightened, but impelled to show\nsome courage by Ted's awful threats of what he would do to us if we\n\"funked,\" told us to go round the house, beginning from the left, and\nmeet him at the hall door, he going round from the right.\n\nWith shaking limbs and gasping breath we made our portion of the\ncircuit, sticking close to each other, and carefully avoiding looking at\nanything as we hurried over the lawn, our only anxiety being to meet\nTed as quickly as possible and then get inside again. We arrived on the\nverandah, and in front of the hall-door, quite five minutes before Ted\nappeared.\n\n\"Well, did you see anything?\" he asked, as he walked up the steps,\nlantern in hand.\n\n\"Nothing,\" we answered, edging up towards the door.\n\nTed looked at us contemptuously. \"You miserable little curs! What are\nyou so frightened of? You're no better than a pack of women and kids.\nIt's the wind that has made the bell ring, or, if it's not the wind,\nit is something else which I don't know anything about; but I want my\nsupper. Pull the bell, one of you.\"\n\nElated at so soon escaping from the horrors of the night, we seized the\nhandle of the bell-pull, and gave it a vigorous tug.\n\n\"It's stuck, Ted. It won't pull down,\" we said.\n\n\"Granny!\" said the big brother, \"you're too funky to give it a proper\npull,\" and pushing us aside, he grasped the pendant handle and gave a\nsharp pull. There was no answering sound.\n\n\"It certainly is stuck,\" admitted Ted, raising his lantern so as to get\na look upwards, then he gave a yell.\n\n\"Oh! look there!\"\n\nWe looked up, and saw the writhing twisting, coils of a huge carpet\nsnake, which had wound its body round and round the bell-wire on top\nof the wall plate. Its head was downwards, and it did not seem at\nall alarmed at our presence, but went on wriggling and twisting and\nsquirming with much apparent cheerfulness.\n\nTed ran back to the stables, and returned in a few seconds with a\nclothes-prop, with which he dealt the disturber of our peace a few\nrapid, but vigorous, blows, breaking its spine in several places. Then\nthe step-ladder was brought out, and Ted, seizing the reptile by the\ntail, uncoiled it with some difficulty from the wire, and threw it down\nupon the verandah.\n\nIt was over nine feet in length, and very fat, and had caused all the\ndisturbance by endeavouring to denude itself of its old skin by dragging\nits body between the bell-wire and the top of the wall. When Ted killed\nit the poor harmless creature had almost accomplished its object.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSOUTH SEA NOTES\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nThat many animals, particularly cattle and deer, are very fond of salt\nwe all know, but it is not often that birds show any taste for it, or,\nif so, the circumstance has not generally been noted. In 1881, however,\nthe present writer was residing on Gazelle Peninsula, the northern\nportion of the magnificent island of New Britain in the South Pacific,\nand had many opportunities of witnessing both cockatoos and wild pigeons\ndrinking salt water. I was stationed at a place called Kabaira, the then\n\"furthest-out\" trading station on the whole island, and as I had but\nlittle to do in the way of work, I found plenty of time to study the\nbird-life in the vicinity. Parrots of several varieties, and all of\nbeautiful plumage, were very plentiful, and immense flocks of white\ncockatoos frequented the rolling, grassy downs which lay between my home\nand the German head-station in Blanche Bay, twenty miles distant, while\nthe heavy forest of the littoral was the haunt of thousands of pigeons.\nThese latter, though not so large as the Samoan, or Eastern Polynesian\nbird, formed a very agreeable change of diet for us white traders, and\nby walking about fifty yards from one's door, half a dozen or more could\nbe shot in as many minutes.\n\nMy nearest neighbour was a German, and one day when we were walking\nalong the beach towards his station, we noticed some hundreds of pigeons\nfly down from the forest, settle on the margin of the water, and\ndrink with apparent enjoyment. The harbour at this spot was almost\nland-locked, the water as smooth as glass without the faintest ripple,\nand the birds were consequently enabled to drink without wetting their\nplumage. My companion, who had lived many years in New Britain, told me\nthat this drinking of sea-water was common alike to both cockatoos and\npigeons, and that on some occasions the beaches would be lined with\nthem, the former birds not only drinking, but bathing as well, and\napparently enjoying themselves greatly.\n\nDuring the following six months, especially when the weather was calm\nand rainy, I frequently noticed pigeons and cockatoos come to the salt\nwater to drink. At first I thought that as fresh water in many places\nbubbled up through the sand at low tide, the birds were really not\ndrinking the sea-water, but by watching closely, I frequently saw them\nwalk across these tiny runnels, and make no attempt to drink. Then\nagain, the whole of the Gazette Peninsula is out up by countless streams\nof water; rain falls throughout the year as a rule, and as I have said,\nthere is always water percolating or bubbling up through the sand on\nthe beaches at low tide. What causes this unusual habit of drinking\nsea-water?\n\nAnother peculiarity of the New Britain and New Ireland pigeon is its\nfondness for the Chili pepper-berry. During three months of the year,\nwhen these berries are ripe, the birds' crops are full of them, and very\noften their flesh is so pungent, and smells so strongly of the Chili, as\nto be quite uneatable.\n\n* * * * *\n\nOn all of the low-lying islands of the Ellice, Kings-mill and Gilbert\nGroups, a species of snipe are very plentiful. On the islands which\nenclose the noble lagoon of Funafuti in the Ellice Group, they are to\nbe met with in great numbers, and in dull, rainy weather, an ordinarily\ngood shot may get thirty or forty in a few hours. One day, accompanied\nby a native lad, I set out to collect hermit crabs, to be used as fish\nbait. These curious creatures are to be found almost anywhere in the\nequatorial islands of the Pacific; their shell houses ranging in size\nfrom a pea to an orange, and if a piece of coco-nut or fish or any other\nedible matter is left out overnight, hundreds of hermits will be found\ngathered around it in the morning. To extract the crabs from their\nshells, which are of all shapes and kinds, is a very simple matter--the\nhard casing is broken by placing them upon a large stone and striking\nthem a sharp blow with one of lesser size. My companion and myself soon\ncollected a heap of \"hermits,\" when presently he took one up in his\nhand, and holding it close to his mouth, whistled softly. In a few\nmoments the crab protruded one nipper, then another, then its red\nantennae, and allowed the boy to take its head between his finger and\nthumb and draw its entire body from its shell casing.\n\n\"That is the way the _kili_ (snipe) gets the _uga_ (crab) from its\nshell,\" he said. \"The _kili_ stands over the _uga_ and whistles softly,\nand the _uga_ puts out his head to listen. Then the bird seizes it in\nhis bill, gives it a backward jerk and off flies the shell.\"\n\nNow I had often noticed that wherever hermit crabs were plentiful along\nthe outer beaches of the lagoon, I was sure to find snipe, and sometimes\nwondered on what the birds fed. Taking up two or three \"hermits\" one\nby one, I whistled gently, and in each case the creature protruded the\nnippers, head and shoulders, and moved its antennae to and fro as if\npleasurably excited.\n\nOn the following day I shot three snipe, and in the stomachs of each I\nfound some quite fresh and some partly digested hermit crabs. The thick,\nhard nippers are broken off by the bird before he swallows the soft,\ntender body.\n\n*****\n\nIn a recent number of _Chambers's Journal_ the present writer was much\ninterested in a short paragraph dealing with the commercial value of the\nskin of the shark, and, having had many years' experience as a\ntrader and supercargo in the South Seas, desires to add some further\ninformation on a somewhat interesting subject.\n\nIn all the equatorial islands of the North and South Pacific, shark\nfishing is a very profitable industry to the natives, and every trading\nsteamer or sailing vessel coming into the ports of Sydney or Auckland\nfrom the islands of the mid-Pacific, always brings some tons of shark\nfins and tails and shark skins. The principal market for the former is\nHong Kong, but the Chinese merchants of the Australasian Colonies will\nalways buy sharks' fins and tails at from 6d. to 11d. per lb., the fins\nbringing the best price on account of the extra amount of glutinous\nmatter they contain, and the which are highly relished by the richer\nclasses of Chinese as a delicacy. The tails are also valued as an\narticle of food in China; and, apart from their edible qualities, have a\nfurther value as a base for clear varnishes, &c.; and I was informed\nby a Chinese tea-merchant that the glaze upon the paper coverings of\ntea-chests was due to a preparation composed principally of the refuse\nof sharks' fins, tails, and skins.\n\nAll the natives of the Gilbert, Kingsmill, and other Pacific equatorial\nislands are expert shark fishermen; but the wild people of Ocean Island\n(Paanopa) and Pleasant Island (Naura), two isolated spots just under the\nequator, surpass them all in the art of catching jackshark. It was the\nfortunate experience of the writer to live among these people for many\nyears, and to be inducted into the native method of shark-catching. In\nfrail canoes, made of short pieces of wood, sewn together with coco-nut\nfibre, the Ocean Islanders will venture out with rude but ingeniously\ncontrived _wooden_ hooks, and capture sharks of a girth (_not_ length)\nthat no untrained European would dare to attempt to kill from a\nwell-appointed boat, with a good crew.\n\nShark-catching is one of _the_ industries of the Pacific, and a very\npaying industry too. Five-and-twenty years ago there were quite a dozen\nor more schooners sailing out of Honolulu, in the Hawaiian Islands, to\nthe isolated atolls of the North Pacific--notably Palmyra and Christmas\nIslands--where sharks could be caught by the thousand, and the crews,\nwho were engaged on a \"lay,\" like whalemen, made \"big money\"; many of\nthem after a six months' cruise drawing 500 dollars--a large sum for a\nnative sailor.\n\nThe work is certainly hard, but it is exciting, and the writer will\nalways remember with pleasure a seven months' shark-fishing cruise\nhe once had in the North Pacific, the genial comrades--white men and\nbrown--and the bag of dollars handed over to him by the owners when the\nship was paid off in Honolulu.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nIt is not generally known, except to scientists and those who are\nacquainted with the subject, that a large percentage of the various\nspecies and varieties of sea snakes are highly venomous. These snakes\nmust not be confounded with the very numerous species of sea eels,\nwhich, though exceedingly savage and armed with strong needle-pointed\nteeth, are all non-venomous, though their bite produces high\ninflammation if not at once properly attended to and cleansed by an\nantiseptic. The sea snake is a true snake in many respects, having\neither laminated scales or a thick corduroyed skin resembling\nrudimentary scales. The head is flat, and the general structure of the\nbody similar to that of the land snake. Whether any of them possess the\ntrue poison glands and fangs I do not know, for although I have killed\nmany hundreds of them I never took sufficient interest to make a careful\nexamination; and I was told by a Dutch medical gentleman, long resident\non the coast of Dutch New Guinea, and who had made some investigation on\nthe subject, that he had failed to discover any poison sacs or glands in\nany one of the several snakes he had captured. Yet in some instances he\nfound what at first appeared to be the two long front teeth common to\nvenomous land snakes, but on detailed examination these always proved to\nbe perfectly solid; nevertheless a bite from one of these sea serpents\nwas generally regarded by the natives as fatal; in my own experience\nI know of two such cases, one at the island of Fotuna in the South\nPacific, and the other in Torres Straits.\n\nIn Sigavi Harbour, on Fotuna, there is a rock to which vessels\noccasionally make fast their stern moorings. In the boat which I sent\naway with a line to this rock were several boys, natives of the island,\nwho went with the crew for amusement. One of them, aged about ten,\njumped out of the boat, and in his hurry fell on his hands and knees,\nright on top of a large black and white banded sea snake, which at once\nbit him savagely on the wrist, causing the blood to flow from a score of\ntiny punctures. The boy at once swam on shore to be treated by a native;\nin the evening I heard he was suffering great agony, in the morning the\npoor little fellow was dead.\n\nThe second instance was near Raine Island, in Torres Straits. A stalwart\nyoung Kanaka, one of the crew of a pearling lugger, was diving for clam\nshells on the reef, when a snake about three feet in length suddenly\nshot up from below within a foot of his face. In his anger and disgust\nhe unthinkingly struck it with his hand, and was quickly bitten on the\nforefinger. A few hours later he was in a high fever, accompanied with\ntwitchings of the extremities; then tetanus ensued, followed by death in\nforty-eight hours.\n\nAlthough these sea snakes are common to all tropical seas, they are most\nfrequent about the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. On any smooth\nday they may be seen disporting themselves on the surface, or rising\nsuddenly from the depths, erect their heads and some inches of their\nbodies clear from the water, gaze at the passing vessel, and then\nswiftly disappear. In nearly all the Pacific Islands the natives hold\nthem in detestation and horror, and when one is seen lying coiled up on\na rock sunning itself or crawling over the surface of the reef in search\nof food, a stone, accompanied by a curse, is always hurled at it. In the\nEllice Oroup, when catching flying-fish at night, one (or more) of these\nhorrid serpents is sometimes swept up in the scoop-net before it can be\navoided. They range from six inches to nearly four feet in length, and\nall have one feature--a blunted tail-end.\n\nQuite recently much further light has been thrown on the subject by Sir\nJames Hector, of the Philosophical Society of Wellington, New Zealand.\nAt one of the Society's meetings, held in April last, Sir James showed\nseveral specimens of _hydrida_, some from Australasian Seas, others\nfrom the Atlantic. The usual habitat of sea snakes, he said, were the\ntropical seas generally, but some had been captured in the comparatively\ncold waters of the New Zealand coast, at the Catlins River. These latter\nwere all yellow-banded; those from the islands of the Fijian Oroup were\nblack-banded, and those taken from the Australian coast grey-banded.\nThere were, he said, no fewer than seventy species, which, without\nexception, were fanged and provided with glands secreting a virulent\npoison. In some of the mountainous islands of the South Pacific, such as\nSamoa, Fiji, &c, there were several species of land snakes, all of which\nwere perfectly harmless, and were familiar to many people in Australia\nand New Zealand, through being brought there in bunches of island\nbananas--it was singular, he thought, that the sea snakes alone should\nbe so highly venomous. \"They were all characterised by the flattened\nor blunted tail, which they used as a steer oar, and were often found\nasleep on the surface of the water, lying on their backs. In this state\nthey were easily and safely captured, being powerless to strike.\" The\npresent writer, who has seen hundreds of these marine snakes daily\nfor many years, during a long residence in the Pacific Islands, cannot\nremember a single instance where he has seen one of these dangerous\ncreatures asleep _on the water_, though they may frequently be found\nlying asleep on the coral reefs, exposing themselves to the rays of a\ntorrid sun. They usually select some knob or rounded boulder, from the\ntop of which, when awake, they can survey the small pools beneath and\ndiscern any fish which may be imprisoned therein. In such case they will\nglide down into the water with astonishing rapidity, seize their prey,\nand after swallowing it, return to their sun bath. The natives of the\nPaumotu Archipelago informed me, however, that they are most active\nin seeking their prey at night-time, and are especially fond of\nflying-fish, which, as is well known, is one of the swiftest of all\nocean fishes. The sea snakes, however, seize them with the greatest\nease, by rising cautiously beneath and fastening their keen teeth in the\nfish's throat or belly. A snake, not two feet six inches in length, I\nwas assured, can easily swallow a flying-fish eight inches or ten inches\nlong.\n\nWith regard to their habit of lying asleep on their backs on the surface\nof the water, it may be that Sir James Hector is alluding to some\nparticular species, but whether that is so or not Sir James's statement\nmust of course be considered authoritative, for there is, I believe, no\nhigher authority on the subject in the world. Apropos of these venomous\nmarine serpents I may mention that the Rev. W. W. Gill in one of his\nworks states that he was informed by the natives of the Cook's Group\nthat during the prevalence of very bad weather, when fish were scarce,\nthe large sea eels would actually crawl ashore, and ascend the _fala_\n(pandanus or screw-pine) trees in search of the small green lizards\nwhich live among the upper part of the foliage. At first I regarded this\nmerely as a bit of native extravagance of statement, but in 1882, when\nI was shipwrecked on Peru (or Francis Island), one of the Gilbert Group,\nthe local trader, one Frank Voliero, and myself saw one of these eels\nengaged in an equally extraordinary pursuit. We were one evening,\nafter a heavy gale from the westward had been blowing for three days,\nexamining a rookery of whale birds in search of eggs; the rookery was\nsituated in a dense thicket scrub on the north end of the island, and\nwas quite two hundred yards from the sea-shore, though not more than\nhalf that distance from the inside lagoon beach. The storm had destroyed\nquite a number of young, half-fledged birds, whose bodies were lying on\nthe ground, and busily engaged in devouring one of them was a very large\nsea eel, as thick as the calf of a man's leg. Before I could manage to\nsecure a stick with which to kill the repulsive-looking creature, it\nmade off through the undergrowth at a rapid pace in the direction of the\nlagoon, and when we emerged out into the open in pursuit, ten minutes\nlater, we were just in time to see it wriggling down the hard, sloping\nbeach into the water. Instinct evidently made it seek the nearest water,\nfor none of these large sea eels are ever found in Peru Lagoon.\n\nMany of the rivers and lakes of the islands of the Western Pacific are\ntenanted by eels of great size, which are never, or very seldom, as far\nas I could learn, interfered with by the natives, and I have never seen\nthe people of either the Admiralty Islands, New Ireland, or New Britain\ntouch an eel as food. The Maories, however, as is well known, are\ninordinately fond of eels, which, with putrid shark, constitute one of\ntheir staple articles of diet.\n\nIn the few mountainous islands of the vast Caroline Archipelago, in\nthe North-western Pacific, eels are very plentiful, not only in the\nnumberless small streams which debouch into the shallow waters enclosed\nby the barrier reefs, but also far up on the mountainsides,\noccupying little rocky pools of perhaps no larger dimensions than an\nordinary-sized toilet basin, or swimming up and down rivulets hardly\nmore than two feet across. The natives of Ponape, the largest island\nof the Caroline Group, and of Kusaie (Strong's Island), its eastern\noutlier, regard the fresh-water eel with shuddering aversion, and should\na man accidentally touch one with his foot when crossing a stream he\nwill utter an exclamation of horror and fear. In the heathen days--down\nto 1845-50--the eel (toan) was an object of worship, and constantly\npropitiated by sacrifices of food, on account of its malevolent powers;\npersonal contact was rigidly avoided; to touch one, even by the merest\naccident, was to bring down the most dreadful calamities on the offender\nand his family--bodily deformities, starvation and poverty, and death;\nand although the natives of Strong's Island are now both civilised and\nChristianised, and a training college of the Boston Board of Missions\nhas long been established at Port Lele, they still manifest the same\nsuperstitious dread of the eel as in their days of heathendom. I well\nremember witnessing an instance of this terror during my sojourn on the\nisland when I was shipwrecked there in 1874. I had taken up my residence\nin the picturesque little village of Leasse, on the western or \"lee\"\nside, when I was one evening visited by several of the ship's company--a\nFijian half-caste, a white man, and two natives of Pleasant Island. At\nthe moment they arrived I was in the house of the native pastor--a\nman who had received an excellent education in a missionary college at\nHonolulu, in the Hawaiian Islands--instructing him and his family in the\nart of making _taka_, or cinnet sandals, as practised by the natives\nof the Tokelau Group. Just then the four seamen entered, each man\ntriumphantly holding up a large eel: in an instant there was a united\nhowl of horror from the parson and his family, as they made a rash for\nthe door, overturning the lamp and nearly setting the house on fire. In\nvain I followed and urged them to return, and told them that the men had\ngone away and taken the _toan_ with them--nothing would induce them to\nenter the house that night, and the whole family slept elsewhere.\n\nOne singular thing about the eels on Strong's Island is that they\nhibernate, in a fashion, on the sides or even summits of the high\nmountains, at an altitude of nearly two thousand feet. Selecting, or\nperhaps making, a depression in the soft, moss-covered soil, the ugly\ncreatures fit themselves into it compactly and remain there for weeks or\neven months at a time. I have counted as many as thirty of these holes,\nall tenanted, within a few square yards. Some were quite concealed by\nvegetable _debris_ or moss, others were exposed to view, with the broad,\nflat head of the slippery occupant resting on the margin or doubled back\nupon its body. They showed no alarm, but if poked with a stick would\nextricate themselves and crawl slowly away.\n\nIn the streams they were very voracious, and I had a special antipathy\nto them, on account of their preying so on the crayfish--a crustacean\nof which I was particularly fond, and which the natives also liked very\nmuch, but were afraid to capture for fear their hands might come in\ncontact with the dreaded _toan_.\n\nOne afternoon I was plucking a pigeon I had just shot by the margin of a\nmountain stream. After removing the viscera, I put the bird in the water\nto clean it properly, and was shaking it gently to and fro, when it was\nsuddenly torn out of my hand by a disgustingly bloated, reddish-\neel about four feet in length, and quickly swallowed. That one pigeon\nhad cost me two hours' tramping through the rain-soddened mountain\nforest, so loading my gun I followed the thief down stream to where the\nwater was but a few inches deep, and then blew his head off.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Amona; The Child; And The Beast; And\nOthers, by Louis Becke\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "A Treatise on Etching by Maxime Lalanne", "publication_date": 1880, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33751"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Chris Curnow, Harry Lame and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n              A TREATISE ON ETCHING.\n\n\n   \"Amongst Frenchmen Claude is the best landscape etcher of past\n  days, and Lalanne the best of the present day.\"--P. G. HAMERTON.\n\n\n  [Illustration: Frontispiece]\n\n\n                   A TREATISE\n                       ON\n                    ETCHING.\n\n                TEXT AND PLATES\n                       BY\n                MAXIME LALANNE.\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n      AUTHORIZED EDITION, TRANSLATED FROM THE\n               SECOND FRENCH EDITION\n                        BY\n                 S. R. KOEHLER.\n\n    WITH AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER AND NOTES BY THE\n                    TRANSLATOR.\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n                       BOSTON:\n                  ESTES AND LAURIAT,\n                     Publishers.\n\n                    _Copyright_,\n                BY ESTES AND LAURIAT.\n                       1880.\n\n\n                  UNIVERSITY PRESS:\n            JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.\n\n\nSo much interest has of late years been shown in England in the art of\netching, that it seems hardly necessary to apologize for bringing out an\nEnglish edition of a work on the subject from the pen of an artist whom\na weighty English authority has pronounced to be the best French\nlandscape-etcher of the day. It might be urged, indeed, that more than\nenough has already been written concerning the technical as well as the\naesthetic side of etching. But this objection is sufficiently met by the\nstatement of the fact that there is no other work of the kind in which\nthe processes involved are described in so plain and lucid a manner as\nin M. Lalanne's admirable \"_Traite de la Gravure a l'Eau-forte_.\" In the\nlaudable endeavor to be complete, most of the similar books now extant\nerr in loading down the subject with a complicated mass of detail which\nis more apt to frighten the beginner than to aid him. M. Lalanne's\n_Treatise_, on the contrary, is as simple as a good work of art.\n\nIt may, however, be incumbent upon me to offer a few words of excuse\nconcerning my own connection with the bringing out of this translation;\nfor, at first sight, it will, no doubt, appear the height of\npresumption, especially on the part of one who is not himself a\npractising artist, to add an introductory chapter and notes to the work\nof a consummate master on his favorite art. But what I have done has\nnot, in any way, been dictated by the spirit of presumption. The reasons\nwhich induced me to make the additions may be stated as follows.\n\nIt is a most difficult feat for one who has thoroughly mastered an\naccomplishment, and has practised it successfully for a lifetime, to\nlower himself to the level of those who are absolutely uninformed. A\nmaster is apt to forget that he himself had to learn certain things\nwhich, to him, seem to be self-evident, and he therefore takes it for\ngranted that they _are_ self-evident. A practised etcher thinks nothing\nof handling his acid, grounding and smoking his plate, and all the other\nlittle tricks of the craft which, to a beginner, are quite worrying and\nexciting. It seemed to me best, therefore, to acquaint the student with\nthese purely technical difficulties, without complicating his first\nattempts by artistic considerations, and hence the origin of the\n\"Introductory Chapter.\" Very naturally I was compelled, in this chapter,\nto go over much of the ground covered by the _Treatise_ itself. But the\ndiligent student, who remembers that \"Repetition is the mother of\nlearning,\" will not look upon the time thus occupied as wasted.\n\nThe notes are, perhaps, still more easily explained. M. Lalanne very\nrarely stops to inform his reader how the various requisites may be\nmade. Writing, as he did, at and for Paris, there was, indeed, no reason\nfor thus encumbering his book; for in Paris the Veuve Cadart is always\nready to supply all the wants of the etcher. For a London reader, Mr.\nCharles Roberson, of 99 Long Acre, whom Mr. Hamerton has so well--and\nvery properly--advertised, is ready to perform the same kind office. But\nfor those who live away from the great centres of society, it may\noftentimes be necessary either to forego the fascinations of etching, or\nelse to provide the materials with their own hands. For the benefit of\nsuch persons, I have thought it advisable to describe, in the notes, the\nsimplest and cheapest methods of making the tools and utensils which are\nneeded in the execution of M. Lalanne's precepts.\n\nBy the arrangement of the paragraphs which I have ventured to introduce,\nM. Lalanne's pleasant little book has, perhaps, lost something of its\nvivacity and freshness, especially in the fifth chapter. But this dull,\nmethodical order will be found, I hope, to add to the convenience of the\nwork as a book of reference, which, according to M. Lalanne's own\nstatement, is, after all, its main object.\n\nIt is due to the English public to say, that the additions were\noriginally written for the American edition of this book, published by\nMessrs. Estes & Lauriat, of Boston, Mass. To free them from the American\ncharacter which they very naturally bear, would have necessitated the\nresetting of a great part of the work, and a consequent increase in its\ncost. It has been deemed advisable, therefore, to leave the whole of the\ntext in its original condition, more especially as the changes are such\nthat they can easily be supplied by the reader, and do not in the least\naffect the value of the information conveyed.\n\n                                                            S. R. KOEHLER.\n\n  BEECH GLEN AVENUE, ROXBURY, BOSTON,\n             July, 1880.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n  TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE                                               v\n  INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.--THE TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF ETCHING        xiii\n  Paragraph\n    1. Definition of Etching                                      xiii\n    2. Requisites                                                  xiv\n    3. Grounding the Plate                                       xviii\n    4. Smoking the Plate                                         xviii\n    5. Points or Needles                                           xix\n    6. Drawing on the Plate                                        xix\n    7. Preparing the Plate for the Bath                             xx\n    8. The Bath                                                     xx\n    9. Biting and Stopping Out                                      xx\n  DESCRIPTION OF THE PLATES                                      xxiii\n  LETTER BY M. CHARLES BLANC                                       xxv\n  INTRODUCTION  (by the Author)                                      1\n\n\n  CHAPTER I.\n\n  DEFINITION AND CHARACTER OF ETCHING.\n\n  Paragraph\n    1. Definition                                                    3\n    2. Knowledge needed by the Etcher                                3\n    3. Manner of using the Needle.--Character of Lines               4\n    4. Freedom of Execution                                          4\n    5. How to produce Difference in Texture                          5\n    6. The Work of the Acid                                          5\n    7. The Use of the Dry Point                                      5\n    8. Spirit in which the Etcher must work                          5\n    9. Expression of Individuality in Etching                        6\n   10. Value of Etching to Artists                                   6\n   11. Versatility of Etching                                        7\n   12. Etching compared to other Styles of Engraving                 7\n   13. Etching as a Reproductive Art                                 7\n\n\n  CHAPTER II.\n\n  TOOLS AND MATERIALS.--PREPARING THE PLATE.--DRAWING ON THE\n  PLATE WITH THE NEEDLE.\n\n   14. Method of using this Manual                                   9\n\n\n  A. _Tools and Materials._\n\n   15. List of Tools and Materials needed                            9\n   16. Quality and Condition of Tools and Materials                 10\n\n\n  B. _Preparing the Plate._\n\n   17. Laying the Ground, or Varnishing                             12\n   18. Smoking                                                      13\n\n\n  C. _Drawing on the Plate with the Needle._\n\n   19. The Transparent Screen                                       14\n   20. Needles or Points                                            14\n   21. Temperature of the Room                                      15\n   22. The Tracing                                                  16\n   23. Reversing the Design                                         16\n   24. Use of the Mirror                                            17\n   25. Precautions to be observed while Drawing                     17\n   26. Directions for Drawing with the Needle                       17\n\n\n  CHAPTER III.\n\n  BITING.\n\n   27. Bordering the Plate                                          20\n   28. The Tray                                                     20\n   29. Strength of the Acid                                         20\n   30. Label your Bottles!                                          21\n   31. The First Biting                                             21\n   32. The Use of the Feather                                       22\n   33. Stopping Out                                                 22\n   34. Effect of Temperature on Biting                              22\n   35. Biting continued                                             23\n   36. Treatment of the various Distances                           23\n   37. The Creve.--Its Advantages and Disadvantages                 24\n   38. Means of ascertaining the Depth of the Lines                 24\n   39. The Rules which govern the Biting are subordinated to\n       various Causes                                               25\n   40. Strong Acid and Weak Acid                                    25\n   41. Strength of Acid in relation to certain Kinds of Work        26\n   42. Last Stages of Biting                                        27\n\n\n  CHAPTER IV.\n\n  FINISHING THE PLATE.\n\n   43. Omissions.--Insufficiency of the Work so far done            29\n   44. Transparent Ground for Retouching                            29\n   45. Ordinary Ground used for Retouching.--Biting the Retouches   30\n   46. Revarnishing with the Brush                                  31\n   47. Partial Retouches.--Patching                                 31\n   48. Dry Point                                                    32\n   49. Use of the Scraper for removing the Bur thrown up by the\n       Dry Point                                                    33\n   50. Reducing Over-bitten Passages                                33\n   51. The Burnisher                                                33\n   52. Charcoal                                                     34\n   53. The Scraper                                                  35\n   54. Hammering Out (Repoussage)                                   35\n   55. Finishing the Surface of the Plate                           35\n\n\n  CHAPTER V.\n\n  ACCIDENTS.\n\n   56. Stopping-out Varnish dropped on a Plate while Biting         37\n   57. Revarnishing with the Roller for Rebiting                    37\n   58. Revarnishing with the Roller in Cases of Partial Rebiting    38\n   59. Revarnishing with the Dabber for Rebiting                    39\n   60. Revarnishing with the Brush for Rebiting                     39\n   61. Rebiting a Remedy only                                       39\n   62. Holes in the Ground                                          39\n   63. Planing out Faulty Passages                                  40\n   64. Acid Spots on Clothing                                       41\n   65. Reducing Over-bitten Passages and Creves                     41\n\n\n  CHAPTER VI.\n\n  DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FLAT BITING AND BITING WITH STOPPING OUT.\n\n   66. Two Kinds of Biting                                          43\n   67. Flat Biting.--One Point                                      44\n   68. Flat Biting.--Several Points                                 44\n   69. Biting with Stopping Out.--One Point                         44\n   70. Biting with Stopping Out.--Several Points                    44\n   71. Necessity of Experimenting                                   45\n   72. Various other Methods of Biting                              45\n\n\n  CHAPTER VII.\n\n  RECOMMENDATIONS AND AUXILIARY PROCESSES.--ZINK AND STEEL\n  PLATES.--VARIOUS THEORIES.\n\n\n  A. _Recommendations and Auxiliary Processes._\n\n   73. The Roulette                                                 49\n   74. The Flat Point                                               49\n   75. The Graver or Burin                                          49\n   76. Sandpaper                                                    50\n   77. Sulphur Tints                                                50\n   78. Mottled Tints                                                51\n   79. Stopping-out before all Biting                               51\n\n\n  B. _Zink Plates and Steel Plates._\n\n   80. Zink Plates                                                  52\n   81. Steel Plates                                                 52\n\n\n  C. _Various other Processes._\n\n   82. Soft Ground Etching                                          52\n   83. Dry Point Etching                                            53\n   84. The Pen Process                                              54\n\n\n  CHAPTER VIII.\n\n  PROVING AND PRINTING.\n\n   85. Wax Proofs                                                   55\n   86. The Printing-Press                                           55\n   87. Natural Printing                                             56\n   88. Artificial Printing                                          56\n   89. Handwiping with Retroussage                                  57\n   90. Tinting with a Stiff Rag                                     57\n   91. Wiping with the Rag only                                     58\n   92. Limits of Artificial Printing                                58\n   93. Printing Inks                                                59\n   94. Paper                                                        59\n   95. Epreuves Volantes                                            60\n   96. Proofs before Lettering                                      60\n   97. Epreuves de Remarque                                         60\n   98. Number of Impressions which a Plate is capable of yielding   60\n   99. Steel-facing                                                 61\n  100. Copper-facing Zink Plates                                    62\n\n\n  NOTES. By the Translator                                          63\n\n\n  LIST OF WORKS on the Practice and History of Etching              75\n\n  A. Technical Treatises                                            75\n  B. Historical and Theoretical                                     77\n  C. Catalogues of the Works of the Artists                         77\n  a. Dictionaries                                                   77\n  b. Individual Artists                                             78\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.\n\nTHE TECHNICAL ELEMENTS OF ETCHING.\n\n\nAs explained in the Preface, this chapter has been added to enable the\nbeginner to master the most necessary technical elements of etching,\nwithout complicating his first attempts by artistic considerations. Let\nhim learn how to use his ground, his points, and his acid, before he\nendeavors to employ these requisites in the production of a work of art.\n\nAll the materials and tools necessary for making the experiment\ndescribed below can be bought at the following places:[A]--\n\n  NEW YORK: Henry Leidel, Artist's Materials, 341 Fourth Avenue.\n  PHILADELPHIA: Janentzky & Co., Artist's Materials, 1125 Chestnut\n      Street.\n  BOSTON: J. H. Daniels, Printer, 223 Washington Street.\n\nBut any one living within reach of a druggist, a paint-shop, and a\nhardware-store can do just as well with the exercise of a little\npatience and a very little ingenuity. For the benefit of such persons\nall the necessary directions will be given for making what it may be\nimpossible to buy.\n\n  [A] In London, Mr. Hamerton recommends Mr. Charles Roberson, 99 Long\n  Acre.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n1. =Definition of Etching.=--To be able to get an impression on paper\nfrom a metal plate in a copper-plate printing-press, it is necessary to\nsink the lines of the design below the surface of the plate, so that\neach line is represented by a furrow. The plate is then inked all over,\ncare being taken to fill each furrow, and finally the ink is cautiously\nwiped away from the surface, while the furrows are left charged with it.\nA piece of moist paper pressed against a plate so prepared, will take\nthe ink up out of the furrows. The result is an impression. In\n_engraving proper_ these furrows are cut into the plate by mechanical\nmeans; in _etching_ chemical means are used for the same purpose. If\nnitric acid is brought into contact with copper, the acid corrodes the\nmetal and finally eats it up altogether; if it is brought into contact\nwith wax or resinous substances, no action ensues. Hence, if we cover a\ncopper plate with a ground or varnish composed of wax and resinous\nsubstances, and then draw lines upon this ground with a steel or iron\nstyle or point, so that each stroke of the point lays bare the copper,\nwe shall have a drawing in lines of copper (which are affected by nitric\nacid) on a ground of varnish (which is not thus affected). If now we\nexpose the plate to the action of nitric acid for a certain length of\ntime, we shall find, upon the removal of the ground by means of benzine,\nthat the lines have been _bitten into_ the plate, so that each line\nforms a furrow capable of taking up the ink. The depth and the breadth\nof the lines depends upon the thickness of the points used, and upon the\nlength of time allowed for biting; or, in other words, by varying the\nsize of the points and the time of exposure the lines may also be made\nto vary. This is the whole of the _science_ of etching in a nutshell.\n\n2. =Requisites.=--The following tools and materials are the only ones\nwhich are absolutely necessary for a first experiment:--\n\n1. A COPPER PLATE on which to execute your etching. Do not waste your\nmoney on a large plate. A visiting-card plate is sufficiently large. If\nyou happen to have an engraved plate of that kind, you can use the back\nof it. If you have none, get one at a card-engraver's. The price ought\nnot to be over fifteen cents. If you do not live in any of the large\ncities named above, or cannot find a card-engraver, send fifteen cents\nin stamps to Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, 45 Gold St., New York, N. Y., who will\nforward a plate to you by mail. Be very particular in giving your full\nand correct _post-office_ address. These plates only need cleaning to\nfit them for use.\n\n2. BENZINE, used for cleaning the plate, sold by grocers or druggists at\nabout five cents a pint for common quality.\n\n3. WHITING or SPANISH WHITE, also for cleaning the plate. A very small\nquantity will do.\n\n4. CLEAN COTTON RAGS.--Some pieces of soft old shirting are just the\nthing.\n\n5. ETCHING-GROUND, with which to protect the plate against the action of\nthe acid. This ground is sold in balls about the size of a walnut. If\nyou do not live in a city where you can buy the ground, you may as well\nmake it yourself. Here is a recipe for a very cheap and at the same time\nvery good ground. It is the ground used by Mr. Peter Moran, one of the\nmost experienced of our American etchers. Buy at a drug-shop (not an\napothecary's) or painter's supply-store:--\n\nTwo ounces best natural asphaltum (also called Egyptian asphaltum),\nworth about ten cents.\n\nOne and a half ounces best white virgin wax, worth about six cents.\n\nOne ounce Burgundy pitch, worth say five cents.\n\nBreak the wax into small pieces, and reduce the Burgundy pitch to fine\npowder in a mortar, or have it powdered at the drug-shop. Take a clean\nearthenware pot glazed on the inside, with a handle to it (in Boston you\ncan buy one for fifteen cents at G. A. Miller & Co.'s, 101 Shawmut\nAvenue), and in this pot melt your asphaltum over a slow fire, taking\nvery good care not to let it boil over, or otherwise you might possibly\nset the house afire. When the asphaltum has melted add the wax\ngradually, stirring all the while with a clean glass or metal rod. Then\nadd the Burgundy pitch in the same way. Keep stirring the fluid mass,\nand let it boil up two or three times, always taking care to prevent\nboiling over! Then pour the whole into a pan full of tepid water, and\nwhile it is still soft and pliant, form into balls of the required size,\nworking all the while under the water. If you touch the mass while it is\nstill too hot, you may possibly burn your fingers, but a true enthusiast\ndoes not care for such small things. You will thus get about eight or\nnine balls of very good ground at an outlay of about thirty-six cents in\ncash, and some little time. Nearly all recipes order the wax to be\nmelted first, but as the asphaltum requires a greater heat to reduce it\nto a fluid condition, it is best to commence with the least tractable\nsubstance. For use, wrap a ball of the ground in a piece of fine and\nclose silk (taffeta), and tie this together with a string.\n\n6. MEANS OF HEATING THE PLATE.--Any source of heat emitting no smoke\nwill do, such as a kitchen stove, a spirit lamp, or a small quantity of\nalcohol poured on a plate and ignited (when the time arrives).\n\n7. A HAND VICE with a wooden handle, for holding the plate while heating\nit; price about seventy-five cents at the hardware-stores. But a small\nmonkey-wrench will do as well, and for this experiment you can even get\nalong with a pair of pincers.\n\n8. A DABBER for laying the ground on the plate. Cut a piece of stout\ncard-board, two or three inches in diameter; on this lay a bunch of\nhorse-hair, freed from all dust, and over this again some cotton wool.\nCover the whole with one or two pieces of clean taffeta (a clean piece\nof an old silk dress will do), draw them together tightly over the\ncard-board, and tie with a string. When finished the thing will look\nsomething like a lady's toilet-ball. The horse-hair is not absolutely\nnecessary, and may be omitted.\n\n9. MEANS OF SMOKING THE GROUND.--The ground when laid on the plate with\nthe dabber, is quite transparent and allows the glitter of the metal to\nshine through. To obtain a better working surface the ground is\nblackened by smoking it. For this purpose the thin wax-tapers known to\nGermans as \"Wachsstock,\" generally sold at German toy-stores, are the\nbest. They come in balls. Cut the tapers into lengths, and twist six of\nthem together. In default of these tapers, roll a piece of cotton cloth\ninto a roll about as thick and as long as your middle finger, and soak\none end of it in common lamp or sperm oil.\n\n10. STOPPING-OUT VARNISH, used for protecting the back and the edges of\nthe plate, and for \"stopping out,\" of which more hereafter. If you\ncannot buy it you can make it by dissolving an ounce of asphaltum, the\nsame as that used for the ground, in about an ounce and a half of\nspirits of turpentine. Add the asphaltum to the turpentine little by\nlittle; shake the bottle containing the mixture frequently; keep it in\nthe sun or a moderately warm place. The operation will require several\ndays. The solution when finished should be of the consistency of thick\nhoney.\n\n11. CAMEL'S-HAIR BRUSHES, two or three of different sizes, for laying on\nthe stopping-out varnish, and for other purposes.\n\n12. ETCHING POINTS OR NEEDLES, for scratching the lines into the ground.\nRat-tail files of good quality, costing about twenty cents each at the\nhardware-stores, are excellent for the purpose. Two are all you need for\nyour experiment, and even one will be sufficient. Still cheaper points\ncan be made of sewing, knitting, or any other kind of needles, mounted\nin sticks of wood like the lead of a lead-pencil. Use glue or\nsealing-wax to fasten them in the wood.\n\n13. AN OIL-STONE for grinding the points.\n\n14. AN ETCHING-TRAY to hold the acid during the operation of biting.\nTrays are made of glass, porcelain, or india-rubber, and can generally\nbe had at the photographer's supply-stores. A small india-rubber tray,\nlarge enough for your experiment, measuring four by five inches, costs\nfifty-five cents. But you can make an excellent tray yourself of paper.\nMake a box, of the required size and about one and a half inches high,\nof pasteboard, covered over by several layers of strong paper, well\nglued on. If you can manage to make a lip or spout in one of the\ncorners, so much the better. After the glue has well dried pour\nstopping-out varnish into the box, and float it all over the bottom and\nthe sides; pour the residue of the varnish back into your bottle, and\nallow the varnish in the box to dry; then paint the outside of the box\nwith the same varnish. Repeat this process three or four times. Such a\ntray, with an occasional fresh coating of varnish, will last forever.\nFor your experiment, however, any small porcelain (_not_ earthenware) or\nglass dish will do, if it is only large enough to hold your plate, and\nallow the acid to stand over it to the height of about half an inch.\n\n15. A PLATE-LIFTER, to lift your plate into and out of the bath without\nsoiling your fingers. It consists of two pieces of string, each say\ntwelve to fifteen inches long, tied to two cross-pieces of wood, each\nabout six inches long, thus [Illustration]. It is well to keep the\nfingers out of the acid, as it causes yellow spots on the skin, which\nremain till they wear off.\n\n16. NITRIC ACID for biting in the lines. Any nitric acid sold by\ndruggists will do, but the best is the so-called chemically pure nitric\nacid made by Messrs. Powers & Weightman, of Philadelphia. It comes put\nup in glass-stoppered bottles, the smallest of which hold one pound, and\nsell for about sixty cents.\n\n17. WATER for mixing with the acid and for washing the plate.\n\n18. BLOTTING-PAPER, soft and thick, several sheets, to dry the plate, as\nwill be seen hereafter.\n\n19. SPIRITS OF HARTSHORN OR VOLATILE ALKALI.--This is not needed for\netching, but it is well to have it at hand, in case you should spatter\nyour clothes with acid. Spots produced by the acid can generally be\nremoved by rubbing with the alkali, which neutralizes the acid.\n\n3. =Grounding the Plate.=--Having procured all these requisites, the\nfirst thing to do will be to clean the plate so as to remove any oil or\nother impurities that may have been left on it by the plate-maker. Wash\nand rub it well on both sides with a soft cotton rag and benzine, and\nthen rub with whiting, as you would do if you were to clean a\ndoor-plate. Take care to remove all the whiting with a clean rag. Now\ntake hold of your plate by one of its corners with the hand-vice,\nwrench, or pincers, between the jaws of which you have put a bit of\ncard-board or stout paper, so as not to mark the plate. Hold it over the\nstove, spirit lamp, or ignited alcohol, and see to it that it is heated\nevenly throughout. Hold the plate in your left hand while heating it,\nand with the other press against it the ball of ground wrapped up in\nsilk. As soon as you see the ground melting through the silk, distribute\nit over the plate by rubbing the ball all over its surface (the\n_polished_ surface, as a matter of course), taking care the while that\nthe plate remains just hot enough to melt the ground. If it is too hot,\nthe ground will commence to boil and will finally burn. The bubbles\ncaused by boiling are liable to leave air-holes in the ground through\nwhich the acid may bite little holes in the plate; burning ruins the\nground altogether, so that it loses its power of withstanding the acid.\nAfter you have distributed the ground tolerably evenly, and in a thin\nlayer, lay the plate down on the table (keeping hold of it, however, by\nthe corner), and finish the distribution of the ground by dabbing with\nthe dabber. Strike the plate quickly and with some force at first, and\ntreat it more gently as the ground begins to cool. If it should have\ncooled too much, before the distribution is accomplished to your\nsatisfaction, in which case the dabber will draw threads, heat the plate\ngently. The dabber not only equalizes the distribution of the varnish,\nbut also removes what is superfluous. An extremely thin layer of ground\nis sufficient.\n\n4. =Smoking the Plate.=--While the plate is yet hot, and the ground\nsoft, it must be smoked. Light your tapers or your oil torch, and turn\nthe plate upside down. Allow the flame just to touch the plate, and keep\nmoving it about rapidly, so that it may touch all points of the\nplate, without remaining long at any one of them. If this precaution is\nignored, the ground will be burned, with the result before stated. The\nsmoking is finished as soon as the plate is uniformly blackened all\nover, and the glimmer of the metal can no longer be seen through the\nground. Now allow the plate to cool so that the ground may harden.\n_Avoid dust as much as possible_ while grounding and smoking the plate.\nParticles of dust embedded in the ground may cause holes which will\nadmit the acid where you do not wish it to act.\n\n5. =Points or Needles.=--The plate is now ready for drawing upon it, but\nbefore you can proceed to draw you must prepare your points or needles.\nTwo will do for this first experiment, a fine one and a coarse one. For\nthe fine one you may use a sewing-needle, for the coarser one a medium\nembroidery needle, both set in wood so that the points project about a\nquarter of an inch. If you are going to use rat-tail files, grind the\nhandle-ends on your oil-stone until they attain the requisite fineness.\nHold the file flat on the stone, so as to get a gradually tapering\npoint, and turn continually. See to it that even the point of your\nfinest needle is not too sharp. If it scratches when you draw it lightly\nover a piece of card-board, describe circles with it on the board until\nit simply makes a mark without scratching. The coarse needle must be\nevenly rounded, as otherwise it may have a cutting point somewhere.\n\n[Illustration: Plate A.]\n\n6. =Drawing on the Plate.=--As the purpose of your experiment is simply\nto familiarize yourself with the _technicalities_ of etching, that is to\nsay, with the preparation of the plate, the management of the points,\nand the action of the acid, it will be well to confine yourself to the\ndrawing of lines something like those on Pl. A. It is the office of the\npoint simply to _remove_ the ground, and _lay bare the copper_. But this\nit must do thoroughly, for the slightest covering left on the plate will\nprevent the acid from attacking the copper. You must therefore use\nsufficient pressure to accomplish this end, but at the same time you\nmust avoid cutting into the copper by using too much pressure. Wherever\nthe point has cut the copper the acid acts more rapidly, as the polished\ncoating of the surface of the plate has been removed. It is evident from\nthis that an even pressure is necessary to produce an evenly bitten\nline. Do not touch the ground with your hands while drawing. Rest your\nhand on three or four thicknesses of soft blotting-paper. When you\ndesire to shift the paper, _lift it_, and _never draw it_ over the\nground. Hold the point, not slantingly like a pencil, but as near as\npossible perpendicularly. The point is a hard instrument, with which you\ncannot produce a swelling line, as with a pencil or a pen. Therefore\nyour only aim must be an _even_ line, produced by _even pressure_. The\nminute threads of ground thrown up by the point you must remove with\nyour largest camel's-hair brush; otherwise they may clog your lines.\nBefore commencing to draw read the description of Pl. A given under the\nheading \"Description of Plates.\"\n\n7. =Preparing the Plate for the Bath.=--If you were to put the plate\ninto the acid bath in the state in which it is at present, the acid\nwould corrode the unprotected parts. To prevent this paint the back, and\nthe corner by which you held the plate while grounding it, and the edges\nwith stopping-out varnish. If you are not in a hurry (_and it is always\nbest not to be in a hurry_), let the varnish dry over night; if you\ncannot wait so long an hour will be sufficient for drying. While the\nplate is drying you may lay it, face downward, on a little pile of soft\npaper, made up of pieces smaller than the plate, so that the paper may\nnot touch the varnished edges.\n\n8. =The Bath.=--The preparation of the bath is next in order. Ascertain\nthe capacity of the dish or tray you are going to use by pouring water\ninto it to fill it to half its height, and then measuring the water.\nPour _one half_ of this quantity of water back into the tray, and add to\nit the same quantity of nitric acid, stirring the mixture well with a\nglass rod, or a bit of glass, or a bird's feather, if you happen to have\none, or in default of all these with a bit of stick. The mixing of water\nand acid induces chemical action, and this produces heat. The bath must\ntherefore be allowed to cool half an hour or so, before the plate is put\ninto it. Nitric acid being a corrosive and poisonous fluid, it is well\nto use some care in handling it. Otherwise it may bite holes into your\nclothing, and disfigure your hands, as before noted. By the side of your\nbath have a large vessel filled with clean water, in which to wash the\nplate when it is withdrawn from the bath, and your fingers in case you\nshould soil them with acid.\n\n9. =Biting and Stopping Out.=--The bath having been prepared, and the\nvarnish on the back and edges of the plate having dried sufficiently,\nlay the plate on the plate-lifter, face upward, and lift it into the\nbath. In a few minutes, in hot weather in a few seconds, the acid will\nbegin to act on the copper. This is made evident to the eye by the\nbubbles which collect in the lines, and to the nose by the fumes of\nnitrous acid which the bath exhales. The bubbles must be removed by\ngently brushing them out of the lines with a brush or the vane of a\nfeather; the fumes it is best not to inhale, as they irritate the\nthroat. After the biting has gone on for three minutes in warm, or for\nfive minutes in cold weather, lift the plate out of the bath into the\nvessel filled with water. Having washed it well, so as to remove all\ntraces of the acid, lay it on a piece of blotting-paper, and take up the\nmoisture from the face by gently pressing another piece of the same\npaper against it. Then fan the plate for some minutes to make sure that\nit is absolutely dry. If you have a pair of bellows you may dispense\nwith the blotting-paper as well as with the fanning. The lines on the\nplate, having all bitten for the same length of time, are now all of\nabout the same depth, and if the plate were cleaned and an impression\ntaken from it, they would all appear of about the same strength, the\nonly difference being that produced by difference in spacing and in the\nsize of the needles. This is the point where the stopping-out varnish\ncomes in. With a fine camel's-hair brush _stop out_, that is to say,\npaint over with stopping-out varnish, those lines or parts of lines\nwhich are to remain as they are. If the varnish should be too thick to\nflow easily from the brush, mix a small quantity of it in a paint\nsaucer, or on a porcelain slab, or a piece of glass, with a few drops of\nbenzine. The varnish, however, must not be too thin, as in that case it\nwill run in the lines, and will fill them where you do not wish them to\nbe filled. If it is of the right consistency, you can draw a clean and\nsharp line across the etched lines without danger of running. When you\nhave laid on your stopping-out varnish, fan it for some minutes until it\nhas dried sufficiently not to adhere to the finger when lightly touched.\nThen introduce the plate into the bath again, and let the biting\ncontinue another five minutes. Remove again, stop out as before, and\ncontinue these operations as often as you wish. But it would be useless\nto let your accumulated bitings on this experimental plate exceed more\nthan thirty minutes. Having finished your last biting, clean the plate\nwith benzine. Then apply the same process to your hands, and follow it\nup with a vigorous application of soap and nail-brush. This will leave\nyour hands as beautiful as they were before.\n\nIt is hardly worth while to bother with taking an impression from this\ntrial plate, unless you happen to have a printer near by. The plate\nitself will show you how the acid has enlarged the lines at each\nsuccessive biting, and it stands to reason that the broader and deeper\nlines should give a darker impression than the finer and shallower ones.\nIf, however, you have no printer at hand, and still desire to see how\nyour work looks in black and white, you may consult the chapter on\n\"Proving and Printing,\" p. 55 of M. Lalanne's \"Treatise.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou have now gained some idea of the theory of etching, have acquainted\nyourself with the use of tools and materials, and have mastered the most\nelementary technical difficulties of the process. You are therefore in a\nposition to profit by the teachings of M. Lalanne which follow.\n\nIn conclusion, let me assure you that the home-made appliances described\nin the foregoing paragraphs are quite sufficient, technically, for the\npurposes of the etcher. Plate B, Mr. Walter F. Lansil's first essay in\netching, was executed according to the directions here given, and the\nartist has kindly consented to let me use it for the special purpose of\nillustrating this point.\n\n[Illustration: Plate B.]\n\n\n\n\nDESCRIPTION OF THE PLATES.\n\n\nPLATE A. _A Trial Plate._ This plate is given to show the effect of\ndifference in length of biting. The lines in the eight upper rectangles\nwere all drawn before the first immersion of the plate, those on the\nleft with a fine point, those on the right with a somewhat coarser one.\nAfter the plate had been in the bath for three minutes, it was\nwithdrawn, and the upper rectangle on the left stopped out. The upper\nrectangle on the right, however, had hardly been attacked by the acid,\nas the lines had been drawn with a blunter point, which had not\nscratched the copper, while the fine point had. It was therefore allowed\nto bite another three minutes before it was stopped out. The other\nrectangles were allowed to bite ten, twenty, and thirty minutes\nrespectively, by which means the difference in value was produced. The\nfigures _a_, _b_, _c_ perhaps show the results of partial biting still\nbetter. The three were simply lined with the same point. After the first\nbiting they all looked like _a_. This was then stopped out, together\nwith the corners of _b_ and _c_. After the second biting _b_ and _c_\nwere both as _b_ now is. The whole of _b_ was now stopped out, and part\nof _c_, allowing only the inner lozenge to remain exposed to the acid.\nIt is evident that the difference in color in these figures is not due\nto the drawing, but is entirely the result of biting.\n\nPLATE B. _Vessels in Boston Harbor._ A first essay in etching by Mr.\nWalter F. Lansil, marine painter, of Boston. The artist has kindly given\nme permission to use this plate, for the purpose of showing that the\nhome-made tools and materials described in the Introductory Chapter are\nquite sufficient for all the technical purposes of the etcher. It is\neminently \"home-made.\" The ground was prepared according to the recipe\ngiven; the points used were a sewing-needle and a knitting-needle; the\ntray in which it was etched was made of paper covered with stopping-out\nvarnish; even the plate (a zink plate by the way) did not come from the\nplate-maker, but was ground and polished at home.\n\nPLATE I_a_. _Etching after Claude Lorrain._ _Unfinished plate_, or\n\"first state\" (see pp. 23 and 29). This, however, is not the etching\nitself; it is a photo-engraving from the unfinished etching. But it does\nwell enough to show the imperfections alluded to by M. Lalanne in the\ntext.\n\nPLATE I. _Etching after Claude Lorrain._ _Finished plate_, or \"second\nstate\" (see pp. 36 and 56). Clean wiped.\n\nPLATE II. _Etching after Claude Lorrain._ Printed from the same plate as\nPl. I, but treated as described on p. 57. The difference between the two\nplates shows what the art of the printer can do for an etching. The\ndifference would be still greater if Pl. II. were better printed; for it\nis not printed as well as it might be, although it was done in Paris.\n\nPLATE III. _A plat, une pointe_--flat biting, drawn with one point; that\nis to say, the plate was immersed only once, and the lines are all the\nresult of the same needle, so that the effect is only produced by\nplacing the lines close together in the foreground, and farther apart as\nthe distance recedes (see p. 43). _A plat, plusieurs pointes_--flat\nbiting, several points, that is to say, one immersion only, but the work\nof finer and coarser points is intermingled in the drawing. _Par\ncouvertures, plusieurs pointes_--stopping out and the work of several\npoints combined.\n\nPLATE IV. _Fig. 1._ See p. 27. _Fig. 2._ See p. 45. _Figs. 3, 4 and 5._\nSee p. 46.\n\nPLATE V. _Fig. 1._ Worked with one point; effect produced by stopping\nout (see p. 44). _Fig. 2._ Mottled tint in the building, &c., in the\nforeground; stopping out before biting, in the sky (see p. 51).\n\nPLATE VI. _Soft-ground etchings._ See p. 52.\n\nPLATE VII. _Dry-point etching._ See p. 53.\n\nPLATE VIII. _A Seville._ A sketch, given as a specimen of printing (see\np. 58).\n\nPLATE IX. _A Anvers._ _Le Haag, Amsterdam._ Sketches from nature, to\nserve as examples.\n\nPLATE X. (Frontispiece). _Souvenir de Bordeaux._ To be consulted in\nregard to the manner of using the points and partial bitings.\n\n\n\n\nMY DEAR MONSIEUR LALANNE,[B]\n\n  [B] This letter preceded also the first edition of 1866.\n\n\nIf there is any one living who can write about Etching, it must\ncertainly be you, as you possess all the secrets of the art, and are\nversed in all its refinements, its resources, and its effects.\nNevertheless, when I was told that you intended to publish a book on the\nsubject, I feared that you were about to attempt the impossible; for it\nseemed as if Abraham Bosse had exhausted the theme two hundred years\nago, and that you would be condemned to repeat all that this excellent\nman had said in his treatise, in which, with charming _naivete_, he\nteaches _the art of engraving to perfection_.\n\nI must confess, however, that the reading of your manuscript very\nquickly undeceived me. I find in it numberless useful and interesting\nthings not to be found anywhere else, and I comprehend that Abraham\nBosse wrote for those who know, while you write for those who do not\nknow.\n\nI was quite young, and had just left college, when accident threw into\nmy hands the _Traite des manieres de graver en taille douce sur l'airain\npar le moyen des eaux fortes et des vernis durs et mols_. Perhaps I\nmight have paid no attention to this book, if I had not previously\nnoticed on the stands on the _Quai Voltaire_ some etchings by Rembrandt,\nwhich had opened to me an entirely new world of poetry and of dreams.\nThese prints had taken such hold upon my imagination that I desired to\nlearn, from Bosse's \"Treatise,\" how the Dutch painter had managed to\nproduce his strange and startling effects and his mysterious tones, the\nfantastic play of his lights and the silence of his shadows. Rembrandt's\netchings on the one hand, and Bosse's book on the other, were the causes\nof my resolution to learn the art of engraving, and of my subsequent\nentry into the studio of Calamatta and Mercuri.\n\nAs soon as I knew how to hold the burin and the point, these grave and\nillustrious masters placed before me an allegorical figure engraved by\nEdelinck, whose drapery was executed in waving and winding lines,\nincomparable in their correctness and beauty. To break my hand to the\nwork, it was necessary to copy on my plate these solemnly classical and\nmajestically disposed lines. But while I cut into the copper with\nrestrained impatience, my attention was secretly turned towards\nRembrandt's celebrated portrait of Janus Lutma, a good impression of\nwhich I owned, and which I thought of copying.\n\nTo make my _debut_ in this severe school--in which we were allowed to\nadmire only Marc Antonio, the Ghisis, the Audrans, and Nanteuil--with an\netching by Rembrandt, would have been a heresy of the worst sort. Hence\nto be able to risk this infraction of discipline, I took very good care\nto keep my project to myself. Secretly I bought ground, wax, and a\nplate, and profited of the absence of my teachers to attempt, with\nfevered hands, to make a fac-simile of the Lutma. I had followed the\ninstructions of Abraham Bosse with regard to the ground, and I proceeded\nto bite in my plate with the assistance of a comrade, Charles\nNoerdlinger, at present engraver to the king of Wurtemburg, at Stuttgart,\nwhom I had admitted as my accomplice in this delightful expedition.\n\nYou may well imagine, my dear Monsieur Lalanne, that I met with all\nsorts of accidents, such as are likely to befall a novice, and all of\nwhich you describe so carefully, while at the same time you indicate\nfully and lucidly the remedies that may be applied. The ground cracked\nin several places,--happily in the dark parts. My wax border had been\nhastily constructed, and I did not know then, although Bosse says so,\nthat it is the rule to pass a heated key along the lower line of the\nborder, so as to melt the wax, and thus render all escape impossible.\nConsequently the acid filtered through under the wax, and in trying to\narrest the flow, I burned my fingers. Furthermore, when it came to the\nbiting in of the shadows in the portrait of Lutma, the greenish and then\nwhitish ebullition produced by the long-continued biting so frightened\nme, that I hastened to empty the acid into a pail, not, however, without\nhaving spattered a few drops on a proof of the _Vow of Louis XIII._,\nwhich had been scratched in the printing, and which we were about to\nrepair. At last I removed the ground, and, trembling all over, went to\nhave a proof taken, but not to the printer regularly employed by\nCalamatta.\n\nWhat a disappointment! I believed my etching to have been sufficiently,\nnay, even over-bitten, and in reality I had stopped half-way. The color\nof the copper had deceived me. I had seen my portrait on the fine red\nground of the metal, and now I saw it on the crude white of the paper. I\nhardly knew it again. It lacked the profundity, the mystery, the harmony\nin the shadows, which were precisely what I had striven for. The plate\nwas only roughly cut up by lines crossing in all directions, through the\nnetwork of which shone the ground which Rembrandt had subdued, so as to\ngive all the more brilliancy to the window with its leaded panes, to the\nlights in the foreground, and to the cheek of the pensive head of Lutma.\nAs luck would have it, all the light part in the upper half of the print\ncame out pretty well; the expression of the face was satisfactory, and\nthe grimaces of the two small heads of monsters which surmount the back\nof the chair were perfectly imitated. I had to strengthen the shadows by\nmeans of the roulette, and to go over the most prominent folds of the\ncoat with the graver; for I had not the knowledge necessary to enable me\nto undertake a second biting. Bosse says a few words on this subject,\nwhich, as they are wanting in clearness, are apt to lead a beginner into\nerror. He speaks of smoked ground, while, as you have so admirably\nshown, white ground must be used for retouching. I therefore finished my\nplate by patching and cross-hatching and stippling, and finally obtained\na passable copy, which, at a little distance, looked something like the\noriginal, although, to a practised eye, it was really nothing but a very\nrude imitation. It is needless to say that we carefully obliterated all\nevidence of our proceedings, and that, my teachers having returned, I\nwent to work again, with hypocritical compunction, upon what I called\nthe _military_ lines of Gerard Edelinck. But we were betrayed by some\nincautious words of the chamber-woman, and M. Calamatta, having\ndiscovered \"the rose-pot,\" scolded Charles Noerdlinger and myself roundly\nfor this romantic escapade. If my plate had been worse,----the good Lord\nonly knows what might have happened!\n\nAll this, my dear M. Lalanne, is simply intended to show to you how\ngreatly I esteem the excellent advice which you give to the young\netcher, or _aqua-fortiste_ (as the phrase goes now-a-days, according to\na neologism which is hardly less barbaric than the word _artistic_).\nWhen I recall the efforts of my youth, the ardor with which I deceived\nmyself, the hot haste with which I fell into the very errors which you\npoint out, I understand that your book is an absolute necessity; and\nthat the artist or the amateur, who, hidden away in some obscure\nprovince, desires to enjoy the agreeable pastime of etching, need only\nfollow, step by step, the intelligent and methodical order of your\nprecepts, to be enabled to carry the most complicated plate to a\nsatisfactory end, whether he chooses to employ the soft ground used by\nDecamps, Masson, and Marvy, or whether he confines himself to the\nordinary processes which you make sensible even to the touch with a\nlucidity, a familiarity with details, and a certainty of judgment, not\nto be sufficiently commended.\n\nHaving read your \"Treatise,\" I admit, not only that you have surpassed\nyour worthy predecessor, Abraham Bosse, but that you have absolutely\nsuperseded his book by making your own indispensable. If only the\namateurs, whose time hangs heavily upon them; if the artists, who wish\nto fix a fleeting impression; if the rich, who are sated with the\npleasures of photography,--had an idea of the great charm inherent in\netching, your little work would have a marvellous success! Even our\nelegant ladies and literary women, tired of their do-nothing lives and\ntheir nick-nacks, might find a relaxation full of attractions in the art\nof drawing on the ground and biting-in their passing fancies. Madame de\nPompadour, when she had ceased to govern, although she continued to\nreign, took upon herself a colossal enterprise,--to amuse the king and\nto divert herself. You know the sixty-three pieces executed by this\ncharming engraver (note, if you please, that I do not say\n_engraveress_!). Her etchings after Eisen and Boucher are exquisite. The\npulsation of life, the fulness of the carnations, are expressed in them\nby delicately trembling lines; and I do think that Madame de Pompadour\ncould not have done better, even if she had been your pupil.\n\nAt present, moreover, etching has, in some measure, become the fashion\nagain as a substitute for lithography, an art which developed charm as\nwell as strength under the crayon of Charlet, of Gericault, of Gigoux,\nand of Gavarni. The _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_ is the fruit of this\nrenaissance. The art, which, in our own day, has been rendered\nillustrious by the inimitable Jacque, now has its adepts in all\ncountries, and in all imaginable spheres of society. Etchings come to us\nfrom all points of the compass: the Hague sends those of M. Cornet,\nconservator of the Museum; Poland, those which form the interesting\nalbum of M. Bronislas Zaleski, the _Life of the Kirghise Steppes_;\nLondon, those of M. Seymour Haden, so original and full of life, and so\nwell described in the catalogue of our friend Burty; Lisbon, those of\nKing Ferdinand of Portugal, who etches as Grandville drew, but with\nmore suppleness and freedom. But after all Paris is the place where the\nbest etchings appear, more especially in the _Gazette des Beaux-Arts_,\nand in the publications of the _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_. Do you\ndesire to press this capricious process into your service for the\ntranslation of the old or modern masters? Hedouin, Flameng, Bracquemont,\nwill do wonders for you. You have told me yourself that, in my _OEuvre\nde Rembrandt_, Flameng has so well imitated this great man, that he\nhimself would be deceived if he should come to life again. As to Jules\nJacquemart, he is perfectly unique of his kind; he compels etching to\nsay what it never before was able to say. With the point of his needle\nhe expresses the density of porphyry; the coldness of porcelain; the\ninsinuating surface of Chinese lacquer; the transparent and imponderable\n_finesse_ of Venetian glassware; the reliefs and the chased lines of the\nmost delicate works of the goldsmith, almost imperceptible in their\nslightness; the polish of iron and steel; the glitter, the reflections,\nand even the sonority of bronze; the color of silver and of gold, as\nwell as all the lustre of the diamond and all the appreciable shades of\nthe emerald, the turquoise, and the ruby. I shall not speak of you, my\ndear monsieur, nor of your etchings, in which the style of Claude is so\nwell united to the grace of Karel Dujardin. You preach by practising;\nand if one had only seen the plates with which you have illustrated your\nexcellent lessons, one would recognize not only the instructor but the\nmaster. Hence, be without fear or hesitation; put forth confidently your\nlittle book; it is just in time to help regenerate the art of etching,\nand to direct its renaissance. For these reasons--mark my\nprediction!--its success will be brilliant and lasting.\n\nCHARLES BLANC.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nSince the year 1866, when the first edition of this treatise appeared,\nthe art of etching, which was then in full course of regeneration, has\ngained considerably in extent. The tendencies of modern art must\nnecessarily favor the soaring flight of this method of engraving, which\nhas been left in oblivion quite too long. It remained for our\ncontemporary school to accord to it those honors which the school of the\nfirst empire had denied to it, and which that of 1830 had given but\ntimidly. At the period last named some of our illustrious masters, by\napplying their talent to occasional essays in etching, set an example\nwhich our own generation, expansive in its aspirations, and anxiously\ndesirous of guarding the rights of individuality, was quick to follow.\n\nThe _Gazette des Beaux Arts_ comprehended this movement, and contributed\nto its extension by attracting to itself the artists who rendered\nthemselves illustrious by the work done for its pages, while, by a sort\nof natural reciprocity, they shed around it the prestige of their\ntalents. The _Societe des Aqua-fortistes_ (Etching Club), founded in\n1863 by Alfred Cadart, has also, by the united efforts of many eminent\netchers, done its share towards bringing the practice of this art into\nnotice, and has popularized it in the world of amateurs, whose numbers\nit has been instrumental in augmenting; while at the same time, owing to\nthe nature of its constitution, it has given material support to the\nartists. Private collections have been formed, and are growing in\nrichness from day to day. Two royal artists, King Ferdinand of Portugal\nand King Charles XV. of Sweden, have, through their works, taken an\nactive part in the renewal of etching; they were the happy sponsors of a\npublication which, under the name of _L'Illustration Nouvelle_, follows\nin the footsteps, and continues the traditions, of the _Societe des\nAqua-fortistes_.\n\nSimilar societies, organized in England and in Belgium,[1] are\nprospering. On the other hand, a great number of art journals, of books,\nand of albums, owe their success to the use made in them of etchings.\nThis is true also of those special editions which are sumptuously\nprinted in small numbers, and are the delight of lovers of books.\n\nEtching has thus taken a position in modern art which cannot fail to\nbecome still more important. \"Everything has been said,\" wrote La\nBruyere, concerning the works of the pen, \"and we can only glean after\nthe poets.\" The literature of two centuries has given the lie to the\nassertion of the celebrated moralist, and it may also be affirmed that\netching has not yet spoken its last word. Not only has it no need of\ngleaning after the old masters, but it may rather seek for precious\nmodels in the works of our contemporary etchers. In their experience may\nbe found fruit for the present as well as useful information for the\nfuture.\n\n[Illustration: AN ETCHER'S STUDIO.\n\nFrom the Third Edition of Abraham Bosse's \"Treatise,\" Paris, 1758.]\n\n\n\n\nA TREATISE ON ETCHING.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nDEFINITION AND CHARACTER OF ETCHING.\n\n\n1. =Definition.=--An etching is a design fixed on metal by the action of\nan acid. The art of etching consists, in the first place, in drawing,\nwith a _point_ or _needle_, upon a metal plate, which is perfectly\npolished, and covered with a layer of varnish, or ground, blackened by\nsmoke; and, secondly, in exposing the plate, when the drawing is\nfinished, to the action of nitric acid. The acid, which does not affect\nfatty substances but corrodes metal, eats into the lines which have been\nlaid bare by the needle, and thus the drawing is _bitten in_. The\nvarnish is then removed by washing the plate with spirits of\nturpentine,[2] and the design will be found to be engraved, as it were,\non the plate. But, as the color of the copper is misleading, it is\nimpossible to judge properly of the quality of the work done until a\n_proof_ has been taken.\n\n2. =Knowledge needed by the Etcher.=--The aspirant in the art of\netching, having familiarized himself by a few trials with the appearance\nof the bright lines produced by the needle on the dark ground of smoked\nvarnish, will soon go to work on his plate confidently and\nunhesitatingly; and, without troubling himself much about the uniform\nappearance of his work, he will gradually learn to calculate in advance\nthe conversion of his lines into lines more or less deeply bitten, and\nthe change in appearance which these lines undergo when transferred to\npaper by means of ink and press.\n\nIt follows from this that the etcher must, from the very beginning of\nhis work, have a clear conception of the idea he intends to realize on\nhis plate, as the work of the needle must harmonize with the character\nof the subject, and as the effect produced is finally determined by the\ncombination of this work with that of the acid.\n\nThe knowledge needed to bring about these intimate relations between the\nneedle, which produces the _drawing_, and the biting-in, which supplies\nthe _color_, constitutes the whole science of the etcher.\n\n3. =Manner of Using the Needle.--Character of Lines.=--The needle or\npoint must be allowed to play lightly on the varnish, so as to permit\nthe hand to move with that unconcern which is necessary to great freedom\nof execution. The use of a moderately sharp needle will insure lines\nwhich are full and nourished in the delicate as well as in the vigorous\nparts of the work. We shall thus secure the means of being simple. Nor\nwill it be necessary to depart from this character even in plates\nrequiring the most minute execution; all that is required will be a\nfiner point, and lines of a more delicate kind. But the spaces left\nbetween the latter will be proportionately the same, or perhaps even\nsomewhat wider, so as to prevent the acid from confusing the lines by\neating away the ridges of metal which are left standing between the\nfurrows. Freshness and neatness depend on these conditions in small as\nwell as in large plates.\n\n4. =Freedom of Execution.=--It is a well-known fact that the engraver\nwho employs the burin (or graver), produces lines on the naked copper or\nsteel which cross one another, and are measured and regular. It is a\nnecessary consequence of the importance of line-engraving, growing out\nof its application to classical works of high style, that it should\nalways show the severity and coldness of positive and almost\nmathematical workmanship. With etching this is not the case: the point\nmust be free and capricious; it must accentuate the forms of objects\nwithout stiffness or dryness, and must delicately bring out the various\ndistances, without following any other law than that of a picturesque\nharmony in the execution. It may be made to work with precision,\nwhenever that is needed, but only to be abandoned afterwards to its\nnatural grace. It will be well, however, to avoid over-excitement and\nviolence in execution, which give an air of slovenliness to that which\nought to be simply a revery.\n\n5. =How to produce Difference in Texture.=--The manner of execution to\nbe selected must conform to the nature of the objects. This is\nessential, as we have at our disposition only a point, the play of which\non the varnish is always the same. It follows that we must vary its\nstrokes, so as to make it express difference in texture. If we examine\nthe etchings of the old masters, we shall find that they had a special\nway of expressing foliage, earth, rocks, water, the sky, figures,\narchitecture, &c., without, however, making themselves the slaves of too\nconstraining a tradition.\n\n6. =The Work of the Acid.=--After the subject has been drawn on the\nground, the acid steps in to give variety to the forms which were laid\nout for it by the needle, to impart vibration to this work of uniform\naspect, and to inform it with the all-pervading warmth of life. In\nprinciple, a single biting ought to be sufficient; but if the artist\ndesires to secure greater variety in the result by a succession of\npartial bitings, the different distances may be made to detach\nthemselves from one another by covering up with varnish the parts\nsufficiently bitten each time the plate is withdrawn from the bath. The\ndifferent parts which the mordant is to play must be regulated by the\nfeeling: discreet and prudent, it will impart delicacy to the tender\nvalues; controlled in its subtle functions, it will carefully mark the\nrelative tones of the various distances; less restrained and used more\nincisively, it will dig into the accentuated parts and will give them\nforce.\n\n7. =The Use of the Dry Point.=--If harmony has not been sufficiently\nattained, the _dry point_ is used on the bare metal, to modify the\nvalues incompletely rendered, or expressed too harshly. Its office is to\ncover such insufficient passages with a delicate tint, and to serve, as\nCharles Blanc has very well expressed it, as a _glaze_ in engraving.\n\n8. =Spirit in which the Etcher must work.=--Follow your feeling, combine\nyour modes of expression, establish points of comparison, and adopt from\namong the practical means at command (which depend on the effect, and on\nwhich the effect depends) those which will best render the effect\ndesired: this is the course to be followed by the etcher. There is\nplenty of the instinctive which practice will develop in him, and in\nthis he will find a growing charm and an irresistible attraction. What\nhappy effects, what surprises, what unforeseen discoveries, when the\nvarnish is removed from the plate! A bit of good luck and of\ninspiration often does more than a methodical rule, whether we are\nengaged on subjects of our own invention,--_capricci_, as the Italians\ncall them,--or whether we are drawing from nature directly on the\ncopper. The great aim is to arrive at the first onset at the realization\nof our ideas as they are present in our mind. An etching must be\nvirginal, like an improvisation.\n\n9. =Expression of Individuality in Etching.=--Having once mastered the\nprocesses, the designer or painter need only carry his own individuality\ninto a species of work which will no longer be strange to him, there to\nfind again the expression of the talent which he displayed in another\nfield of art. He will comprehend that etching has this essentially vital\nelement,--and in it lies the strength of its past and the guaranty of\nits future,--that, more than any other kind of engraving on metal, it\nbears the imprint of the character of the artist. It personifies and\nrepresents him so well, it identifies itself so closely with his idea,\nthat it often seems on the point of annihilating itself as a process in\nfavor of this idea. Rembrandt furnishes a striking example of this: by\nthe intermixture and diversity of the methods employed by him, he\narrived at a suavity of expression which may be called magical; he\ndiffused grace and depth throughout his work. In some of his plates the\nprocesses lend themselves so marvellously to the severest requirements\nof modelling, and attain such an extreme limit of delicacy, that the eye\ncan no longer follow them, thus leaving the completest enjoyment to the\nintellect alone.\n\nClaude Lorrain, on the other hand, knew how to conciliate freedom of\nexecution with majesty of style.\n\n10. =Value of Etching to Artists.=--Speaking of this subordination of\nprocesses in etching to feeling, I am induced to point out how many of\nthe masters of our time, judging by the character of their work, might\nhave added to their merits had they but substituted the etcher's needle\nfor the crayon. Was not Decamps, who handled the point but little, an\netcher in his drawings and his lithographs? Ingres only executed one\nsolitary etching, and yet, simply by virtue of his great knowledge, it\nseems as if in it he had given a presentiment of all the secrets of the\ncraft. And did not Gigoux give us a foretaste of the work of the acid,\nwhen he produced the illustrations to his \"Gil Blas,\" conceived in the\nspirit of an etcher, which, after thirty years of innumerable similar\nproductions, are still the _chef-d'oeuvre_ and the model of engraving\non wood. And would Mouilleron have been inferior, if from the stone he\nhad passed to the copper plate? It would be an easy matter to multiply\nexamples chosen from among the artists who have boldly handled the\nneedle, or from among those who might have taken it up with equal\nadvantage, to prove that etching is not, as it has been called, a\nsecondary method. There are no secondary methods for the manifestation\nof genius.\n\n11. =Versatility of Etching.=--The needle is the crayon; the acid adds\ncolor. The needle is sometimes all the more eloquent because its means\nof expression are confined within more restricted limits. It is familiar\nand lively in the sketch, which by a very little must say a great deal;\nthe sketch is the spontaneous letter. It all but reaches the highest\nexpression when it is called in to translate a grand spectacle, or one\nof those fugitive effects of light which nature seems to produce but\nsparingly, so as to leave to art the merit of fixing them.\n\n12. =Etching compared to other Styles of Engraving.=--By its very\ncharacter of freedom, by the intimate and rapid connection which it\nestablishes between the hand and the thoughts of the artist, etching\nbecomes the frankest and most natural of interpreters. These are the\nqualities which make it an honor to art, of which it is a glorious\nbranch. All other styles of engraving can never be any thing but a means\nof reproduction. We must admire the knowledge, the intelligence, and the\nself-denial which the line-engraver devotes to the service of his art.\nBut, after all, it is merely the art of assimilating an idea which is\nforeign to him, and of which he is the slave. By him the\n_chefs-d'oeuvre_ of the masters are multiplied and disseminated, and\nsometimes, in giving eternity to an original work, he immortalizes his\nown name; but the part he has assumed inevitably excludes him from all\ncreative activity.\n\n13. =Etching as a Reproductive Art.=--These reserves having been made in\nregard to the engraver, whose instrument is the burin, justice requires\nthat the reproductive etcher should come in for his proportional share,\nand that his functions should be defined. Some years ago, a school of\netchers arose among us, whose mission it is to interpret those works of\nthe brush which, by the delicacy and elegance of their character, cannot\nbe harmonized with the severity of the burin. This school, to which Mr.\nGaucherel gave a great impulse, has been called in to fill a regrettable\nvoid in the collections of amateurs. Every one knows those remarkable\npublications, _Les Artistes Contemporains_, and _Les Peintres Vivants_,\nwhich, for the last twenty years, have reproduced in lithography the\n_chefs-d'oeuvre_ of our exhibitions of paintings. To-day etching takes\nthe place of lithography; it excels in the reproduction of modern\nlandscapes, and of the _genre_ subjects which we owe to our most\nesteemed painters. It is not less happy in the interpretation of certain\nof the old masters, whose works make it impossible to approach them with\nthe burin. The catalogues of celebrated galleries which have lately been\nsold also testify to the important services rendered to art by the\nreproductive etcher. His methods are free and rapid; they are not\nsubjected to a severe convention of form. He may rest his own work on\nthe genius of others, so as to attain a success like that of the\npainter-etcher; but the latter, as he bathes his inspiration in the acid\nand triumphantly withdraws it, finds his power and his resources within\nhimself alone. He is at once the translator and the poet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTOOLS AND MATERIALS.--PREPARING THE PLATE.--DRAWING ON THE PLATE WITH\nTHE NEEDLE.\n\n\n14. =Method of Using this Manual.=--As the general theory given in the\npreceding chapter may seem too brief, and may convey but an incomplete\nidea of the different operations involved in etching, I shall now\nendeavor to formulate, in as concise a manner as possible, such\npractical directions as I have had occasion to give to a young designer,\nand to different other persons, in my own studio. I shall provide\nsuccessively for all the accidents which usually, or which may possibly,\noccur. But the beginner need not trouble himself too much about the\napparent complication of detail which the following pages present. They\nare intended, rather, to be consulted, like a dictionary, as occasion\narises. In all cases, however, it will be well, on reading the book, to\nmake immediate application of the various directions given, so as to\navoid all confusion of detail in the memory, and to escape the tedium of\nwhat would otherwise be rather dry reading.\n\n\nA. TOOLS AND MATERIALS.\n\n15. =List of Tools and Materials needed.=--To begin with, we must\nprovide ourselves with the following requisites:[3]--\n\n  Copper plates.\n  A hand-vice.\n  Ordinary etching-ground and transparent ground in balls.\n  Liquid stopping-out varnish.\n  Brushes of different sizes.\n  Two dabbers,--one for the ordinary varnish, the other for the white\n  or transparent varnish.\n  A wax taper.\n  A needle-holder.\n  Needles of various sizes.\n  A dry point.\n  A burnisher.\n  A scraper.\n  An oil-stone of best quality.\n  A lens or magnifying-glass.\n  Bordering-wax.\n  An etching-trough made of gutta-percha or of porcelain.\n  India-rubber finger-gloves.\n  Nitric acid of forty degrees.\n  Tracing-paper.\n  Gelatine in sheets.\n  Chalk or sanguine.\n  Emery paper, No. 00 or 000.\n  Blotting-paper.\n  A roller for revarnishing, with its accessories.\n\n  To these things we must add a supply of _old_ rags.\n\n16. =Quality and Condition of Tools and Materials.=--Too much care\ncannot be taken as regards the quality of the copper, which metal is\nused by preference for etching. Soft copper bites slowly, while on hard\ncopper the acid acts more quickly and bites more deeply. It is to be\nregretted that nowadays plates are generally rolled, which does not give\ndensity enough to the metal. Formerly they were hammered, and the copper\nwas of a better quality. Thus hammered, the metal becomes hard, and is\nless porous; its molecular condition is most favorable to the action of\nthe acid, the lines are purer, and even when the work is carried to the\nextreme of delicacy, it is sure to be preserved in the biting.\n\nEnglish copper plates, and plates that have been replaned, are\nexcellent. It is a good plan to buy thick plates, of a dimension smaller\nthan that of the designs to be made, and to have them hammered out to\nthe required size. The plates thus obtained will not fail to be very\ngood.\n\nThe vice must have a wooden handle, so as to prevent burning the\nfingers.\n\nTo meet all possible emergencies, lamp-black may be mixed with the\nliquid stopping-out varnish (_petit vernis liquide_). Some engravers\nfind that it dries too quickly, and therefore, fearing that it may chip\noff under the needle, use it only for stopping out; for retouching, they\nemploy a special retouching varnish (_vernis au pinceau_).[4]\n\nFor brushes, select such as are used in water-color painting.\n\nThe silk with which the dabbers are covered must be very fine in the\nthread.\n\nIn order to protect his fingers, an engraver conceived the idea of\nsmoking his plates by means of the ends of several candles or wax tapers\nplaced together in the bottom of a little vessel: they furnish an\nabundance of smoke, and can be extinguished by covering up the vessel.\nThe smoke of a wax taper is the best; it is excellent for small plates.\n\nThe needle-holder holds short points of various thicknesses, down to the\nfineness of sewing-needles.\n\nTo sharpen an etching-needle, pass it over the oil-stone, holding it\ndown flat, and turning it continually. When it has attained a high\ndegree of sharpness, describe a large circle with it on a piece of\ncard-board, holding it fixed between the fingers this time, and go on\ndescribing circles of a continually decreasing size. The nearer you\napproach to the centre, the more vertical must be the position of the\nneedle. The fineness or the coarseness of the point is regulated by\nkeeping the needle away from, or bringing it nearer to, the central\npoint.\n\nThe dry point must be ground with flat faces rather than round, so as to\ncut the copper, and penetrate it with ease.\n\nIf the burnisher is not sufficiently polished, it scratches the copper,\nand produces black spots in the proofs. To keep it in good condition,\ncut two grooves, the size of the burnisher, in a piece of pine board.\nRub it up and down the first of these grooves, containing emery powder;\nand then, to give it its final lustre, repeat the same process, with\ntripoli and oil, in the second groove.\n\nThe stones which are too hard for razors are excellent for the scrapers.\nHaving sharpened the scraper with a little oil, during which operation\nyou must hold it down flat on the stone, pass it over your finger-nail.\nIf the touch discloses the presence of the least bit of tooth, and if\nthe tool does not glide along with the greatest ease, the grinding must\nbe continued, as otherwise the scraper will scratch the copper.\n\nYou are at liberty to use two troughs,--one for the acid bath; the\nother, filled with water, for washing the plate.\n\nA glass funnel, and a bottle with a ground-glass stopper, will be\nnecessary for filling in and keeping the etching liquid.\n\nVarious substances are used for finishing off the copper plates; the\nmost natural is the paste obtained by rubbing charcoal on the oil-stone\nwith oil.\n\nThen comes the fine emery paper Nos. 00 or 000, rotten-stone, tripoli,\nEnglish red, and, finally, slate. Powdered slate, produced by simply\nscraping with a knife, is excellent, used with oil and a fine rag, the\nsame as other substances.\n\nThe varnish for revarnishing is nothing but ordinary etching-ground,\ndissolved in oil of lavender. It must be about as stiff as honey in\nwinter.\n\nThe rollers for revarnishing, which can be had of different sizes, are\ncylindrical in form, and are terminated by two handles, which revolve in\nthe hands. The roller ought, if possible, to cover the whole surface of\nthe copper.[5] As soon as it has been used, it must be put out of the\nway of the dust.\n\nThese various recommendations are by no means unnecessary, as the least\nmaterial obstacle may sometimes hinder the flight of the imagination. It\nis well to be armed against all the troublesome vexations of the\nhandicraft; for the difficulties of the art are in themselves sufficient\nto occupy our attention.\n\n\nB. PREPARING THE PLATE.\n\nI shall now proceed to give the various talks which I had with my young\npupil.\n\n17. =Laying the Ground, or Varnishing.=--You have here a plate, I say to\nhim; I clean it with turpentine; then, having well wiped it with a piece\nof fine linen, and having still further cleaned it by rubbing it with\nSpanish white (or whiting), I fasten it into the vice by one of its\nedges, taking care to place a tolerably thick piece of paper under the\nteeth of the vice, so as to protect the copper against injury. I now\nhold the plate with its back over this chafing-dish; but a piece of\nburning paper, or the flame of a spirit-lamp, will do equally well. As\nsoon as the plate is sufficiently heated, I place upon its polished\nsurface this ball of ordinary etching-ground, wrapped up in a piece of\nplain taffeta; the heat causes the ground to melt. If the plate is too\nhot, the varnish commences to boil while melting; in that case, we must\nallow the plate to cool somewhat, as otherwise the ground will be\nburned. I pass the ball over the whole surface of the copper, taking\ncare not to overcharge the plate with the ground. Then, with the dabber,\nI dab it in all directions; at first, vigorously and quickly, so as to\nspread and equalize the layer of varnish; and finally, as the varnish\ncools, I apply the dabber more delicately. The appearance of\ninequalities, and of little protruding points in the ground, indicates\nthat it is laid on too thick, and the dabbing must be continued, until\nwe have obtained a perfectly homogeneous layer. This must be very\nthin,--sufficient to resist strong biting, and yet allowing the point to\ndraw the very finest lines, which it will be difficult to do with too\nmuch varnish.\n\n18. =Smoking.=--Without waiting for the plate to cool, I turn it over,\nand present its varnished side to the smoke of a torch or a wax taper,\nwhich I hold at a distance of about two centimetres from the plate, so\nas not to injure the varnish. I keep moving the flame about in all\ndirections, to avoid burning the varnish (which latter would take place\nif the flame remained too long at the same point), and thus I obtain a\nbrilliant black surface. All the transparency is gone; we see neither\ncopper nor varnish, and this is a sign that our operation has succeeded.\nAll we need do now is to allow the plate to cool and the varnish to\nharden, and then you can commence making your drawing.\n\nYou call my attention to the fact that the varnish, in cooling, loses\nthe brilliancy which it had in its liquid state. This is always the\ncase. And see the perfect neatness and evenness of the varnished and\nsmoked surface! Here is a plate which was spoiled in the smoking. The\nfirst thing that strikes us is that we see the marks left by the passage\nof the taper. At a pinch, these marks might, perhaps, be no\ninconvenience to us in working; but here the brilliant black is broken\nby very dull spots. These are places in which the varnish was burned;\nit will scale off under the needle, and has lost the power of resisting\nthe acid. We must therefore clean this plate with spirits of turpentine,\nand commence operations afresh.\n\nThe ground is blackened, because its natural transparency does not\npermit us to see the work of the point. This work produces what might be\ncalled a negative design; that is to say, a design in bright lines on a\nblack ground. This is rather perplexing at first, but you will soon\nbecome accustomed to it.\n\n\nC. DRAWING ON THE PLATE WITH THE NEEDLE.\n\n19. =The Transparent Screen.=--You must place yourself so as to face\nthis window, and between you and it we must introduce, in an inclined\nposition, a transparent screen made of tracing paper stretched on a\nwooden frame, which will prevent your seeing the window. This screen\nwill soften and strain the light; it will reduce the reflection of the\ncopper, and will allow you to see what you are doing.\n\nIn designing on the plate out of doors, the screen is unnecessary,\nsince, as the light falls equally upon the copper from all directions,\nthe reflection is done away with, and the copper does not dazzle the eye\nas it does when the light emanates from a single source.\n\n20. =Needles or Points.=--You may use a single needle, or you may use\nseveral of different degrees of sharpness, even down to sewing-needles,\nas you will see later on; but your work on the plate will always look\nuniform, without distance and without relief. The modelling and coloring\nof the design must be left to the acid.\n\nThe point must be held on the plate as perpendicularly as possible, as\nthe purity of the line depends on the angle of incidence which the point\nmakes with the copper; furthermore, it must be possible to direct it\nfreely and easily in all directions, and it is, therefore, necessary\nthat the needle should not be too sharp. To make sure of this, draw a\nnumber of eights on the margin of your plate, or simply an oblique line\nfrom below upwards in the direction of the needle. If it does not glide\nalong easily, if it attacks the copper and catches in it, you must\nregrind it.\n\nThis is important, as in principle the function of the needle is to\ntrace the design by removing the varnish from the copper, while it must\navoid scratching it. By scratching the metal we encroach on the domain\nof the acid, and inequality of work is the result, since the acid acts\nmore vigorously on those parts which have been scratched than on those\nwhich have simply been laid bare. We must feel the copper under the\npoint, without, however, penetrating into it.\n\nThe opposite effect is produced if we operate too timidly. In this case\nwe do not reach the copper. We remove the blackened surface, and it\nseems as if we had also removed the varnish, since we see the copper\nshining through it. But we shall find later, from the fact that the acid\ndoes not bite, that we did not bear heavily enough on the needle.\n\nAt first there is a tendency to proceed as in drawing on paper, giving\ngreater lightness to the touch of the point in the distances, and\nbearing on it more vigorously in the foregrounds. But this is useless.\n\nThere are certain artists, nevertheless, who prefer to attack the copper\nwith cutting points in the finer as well as in the more vigorous parts\nof their work, and to bite in with strong acid; others, again, dig\nresolutely into the copper wherever they desire to produce a powerful\ntone. Abraham Bosse, in applying etching to line-engraving, advises his\nreaders to cut the copper slightly in the lines which are to appear\nfine, and to dig vigorously into the plate for those lines which are to\nbe very heavy, so that delicate as well as strong work may be obtained\nat one and the same biting. As it is necessary in this sort of engraving\nto retouch the heavy lines with the burin, we can understand that in the\nway shown the work of the instrument named may be facilitated.\n\n21. =Temperature of the Room.=--In summer the temperature softens the\nvarnish, and the needle works pliantly and easily; in winter the cold\nhardens the varnish, so that it is apt to scale off under the point,\nespecially at the crossing of the lines. It is advisable, therefore, to\nhave your room well heated, or to supply yourself with two cast-metal\nplates or two lithographic stones, or even two bricks, if you please,\nwhich must be warmed and placed under your plate alternately, so as to\nkeep it at a soft and uniform temperature. Practice has shown that work\ndone at the right temperature is softer than that executed when the\nvarnish is too cold, even if it is not sufficiently so to scale off.\n\n22. =The Tracing.=--According to the kind of work to be done, we shall\neither draw directly on the plate, or, in the case of a drawing which is\nto be copied of its own size, we shall make use of a tracing. Many\nengravers emancipate themselves from the tracing, and accustom\nthemselves to reversing the original while they copy it. The manner of\nusing a tracing is well known. We shall need tracing-paper, paper rubbed\nwith sanguine on one side, and a pencil. The tracing is made on the\ntracing-paper, and this is afterwards placed on the prepared plate;\nbetween the tracing and the plate we introduce the paper rubbed with\nsanguine; then, with a very fine lead-pencil, or with a somewhat blunt\nneedle, we go carefully over the lines of the design, which, under the\ngentle pressure of the tool, is thus transferred in red to the black\nground. It is unnecessary to use much pressure, as otherwise your\ntracing will be obscured by the sanguine and you will find neither\nprecision nor delicacy in it. Furthermore, you run the risk of injuring\nthe ground. The tracing is used simply to indicate the places where the\nlines are to be, and it must be left to the needle to define them.\n\n23. =Reversing the Design.=--Whenever your task is the interpretation of\nan object of fixed aspect, such as a monument, or some well-known scene,\nor human beings in a given attitude, you will be obliged to reverse the\ndrawing on your plate, as otherwise it will appear reversed in the\nproof. You must, therefore, reverse your tracing, which is a very easy\nmatter, as the design is equally visible on both sides of the\ntracing-paper. Gelatine in sheets, however, offers still greater\nadvantages when a design is to be reversed. Place the gelatine on the\ndesign, and, as it is easily scratched, make your tracing with a very\nfine-pointed and sharp needle, occasionally slipping a piece of black\npaper underneath the gelatine to assure yourself that you have omitted\nnothing. The point, in scratching the gelatine, raises a bur, and this\nmust be removed gently with a paper stump, or with the scraper, after\nwhich operation the tracing is rubbed in with powdered sanguine. Having\nnow thoroughly cleaned the sheet, so that no powder is left anywhere\nbut in the furrows, we turn the sheet over and lay it down on the plate,\nand finally rub it on its back in all directions, for which purpose we\nuse the burnisher dipped in oil. The design, reversed, will be found\ntraced on the varnish in extremely fine lines.\n\n24. =Use of the Mirror.=--The tracing finished, place a mirror before\nyour plate on the table, and as close by as possible; between the plate\nand the mirror fix the design to be reproduced, and then draw the\nreflected image. For the sake of greater convenience, take your position\nat right angles to the window instead of facing it, so that the light\npassing through the transparent screen on your left falls on the mirror\nand the design, as well as on your work. When drawing on the copper from\nnature, if the design is to be reversed, you must place yourself with\nyour back to the object to be drawn, and so that you can easily see it\nin a small mirror set up before your plate. This is the way Meryon\nproceeded: standing, and holding in the same hand his plate and a little\nmirror, which he always carried in his pocket, he guided his point with\nthe most absolute surety, without any further support.\n\n25. =Precautions to be observed while Drawing.=--Before you begin to\ndraw you must trace the margin of your design, for the guidance of the\nprinter. To protect your plate, it will be necessary to cover it with\nvery soft paper; the pressure of the hand does no harm, provided you\navoid rubbing the varnish. If you should happen to damage it, you must\nclose up the brilliant little dots which you will observe, by touching\nthem up, very lightly and with a very fine brush, with stopping-out\nvarnish.\n\n26. =Directions for Drawing with the Needle.=--I might now let you copy\nsome very simple etching; but your knowledge of drawing will, I believe,\nenable you to try your hand at a somewhat more important exercise. Let\nus suppose, then, that you are to draw a landscape, although the\npractice you are about to acquire applies to all other subjects equally\nwell. Will you reproduce this design by Claude Lorrain? (Pl. II.) It is\na composition full of charm and color, and very harmonious in effect.\nUse only one needle, and keep your work close together in the distance\nand more open in the foreground. (See Pl. I^_a_.) That appears\nparadoxical to you; but the nitric acid will soon tell you why this is\nso. I shall indicate to you, after your plate has been bitten, those\ncases in which you will have to proceed differently, or, in other words,\nin which you will have to draw your lines nearer together or farther\napart without regard to the different distances. I cannot explain this\nsubject more fully before you have become acquainted with the process of\nbiting in, as without this knowledge it must remain unintelligible to\nyou. This remark holds good, also, of what I have told you on the\nsubject of the needles of different degrees of sharpness.\n\n\"It is curious, my dear sir, to notice how at one and the same time the\npoint combines a certain degree of softness and of precision; those who\ndraw with the pen ought also to be admirers of etching. It seems to me,\nhowever, that my lines are too thick; I have already laid several of\nthem, and the varnish is no longer visible; I am afraid I have taken it\nup altogether.\"\n\nYou need not feel any uneasiness about that; it is simply owing to the\nirradiation of the copper, the brilliancy of which the screen does not\ncompletely subdue. The bright line is made to look broader than it\nreally is by the brilliant gloss of the metal. But if you lay a piece of\ntracing-paper on the plate you will see the lines as they really are;\nthat is to say, with plenty of space between them. By the aid of a lens\nyou can convince yourself still more easily; you will often have\noccasion to avail yourself of this instrument to enable you to do fine\nwork with greater facility, or to give you a better insight into what\nyou have already done.\n\nAs the irradiation of which we have just spoken is apt to deceive us in\nregard to the quantity of the work done, we may happen to find less of\nit than we expected when the plate has been bitten. Plates which to the\nbeginner seem to be quite elaborately worked, present to the acid lines\nwidely spaced and insufficient in number, thus necessitating retouches.\nIt is essential, therefore, in principle (except in the special cases to\nbe pointed out hereafter), to give to our work, in its first stages, all\nthe development that is necessary.\n\nI forgot to tell you that you must provide yourself with a very soft\nbrush, say a badger, which, from time to time, you must pass lightly\nover your plate so as to remove the small particles of varnish raised by\nthe needle. Otherwise you will not be able to see properly what you have\nbeen doing.\n\nContinue, and follow your own feeling; work away without fear of going\nwrong; some of your errors you will be able to remedy. Thus, if you have\nmade a mistake, you can lay a thin coat of liquid varnish over the\nspoiled part by means of a brush; in a few seconds the varnish will have\ndried, and you can make your correction. You can employ this method for\nthe correction of a faulty line, or to restore a place which should have\nremained white, but which you have inadvertently shaded.\n\nHere I shall stop for the present, and shall close by saying, May good\nluck attend your point, as well as your acid! There is nothing more to\nbe said to you until after your plate has been bitten.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nBITING.\n\n\n27. =Bordering the Plate.=--This work took some time. Our young student,\nimpatient to see the transformation wrought by the acid, came back\nwithout keeping me waiting for him.\n\n\"Hurry up! A tray, acid, and all the accessories!\"\n\nInstead of using a tray, I tell him, we can avail ourselves of another\nmethod, which is used by many engravers, and which consists in bordering\nthe plate with wax. This wax,[6] having been softened in warm water, is\nflattened out into long strips, and is fastened hermetically and\nvertically around the edges of the plate, so that, when hardened, it\nforms the walls of a vessel, the bottom of which is represented by the\ndesign drawn with the point. To avoid dangerous leaks, heat a key, and\npass it along the wax where it adheres to the plate; the wax melts, and,\non rehardening, offers all possible guarantees of solidity. We now pour\nthe acid on the plate thus converted into a tray, and as we have taken\ncare to form a lip in one of the angles made by the bordering wax, it is\nan easy matter to pour off the liquid after each biting. This proceeding\nis useful in the case of plates which are too large for the tray.\nOtherwise, however, I prefer a tray made of gutta-percha or porcelain.\n\n28. =The Tray.=--Let us now install ourselves at this table, and let us\ncover the margin and the back of the plate with a thick coat of\nstopping-out varnish. As soon as the varnish is perfectly dry, we place\nthe plate into the tray standing horizontally on the table, and pour on\nacid enough to cover it to the height of about a centimetre. This depth,\nwhich is sufficient for biting, allows the eye to follow the process in\nits various stages.\n\n29. =Strength of the Acid.=--This acid is fresh, and has not yet been\nused; bought at forty degrees, I mix it with an equal quantity of\nwater, which reduces it to twenty degrees. This is the strength\ngenerally adopted for ordinary biting. Its color is clear, and slightly\nyellow; but as soon as it takes up the copper it becomes blue, and then\ngreen. As, in its present state, it would act too impetuously, I add to\nit a small quantity of acid which has been used before. You may also\nthrow a few scraps of copper into it the day before using it; the old\netchers used for this purpose a copper coin, larger or smaller,\naccording to the volume of the bath.[7]\n\n30. =Label your Bottles!=--One day, one of my pupils, having a bad cold,\ndid not notice the difference between the smell of the acid and that of\nthe turpentine, and so plunged a plate which he desired to bite, into a\nbath of the latter fluid. \"It's queer,\" he said, \"this won't bite, and\nyet the varnish scales off.... The lines keep enlarging, and run into\none another! What does this curious medley mean, which appears on the\nplate?\" It was simple enough. The spirits of turpentine had dissolved\nthe ground, and consequently the plate developed a shining and radiating\nsurface before the eyes of our wondering student, as if it had just left\nthe hands of the plate-maker.\n\nAdvice to those who are absent-minded, and who are liable to mistake\nfluids which look alike for one another,--Label your bottles!\n\n31. =The First Biting.=--Let us make haste now, I say to my pupil, to do\nour biting. As the heat of the day abates, the acid becomes less active;\nand besides, to judge by the delicate character of the original we are\nto render, we shall need at least two or three hours, all told, for this\noperation. The task before us consists in the reproduction of a given\nwork, the merit of which lies in the gradation in the various distances.\nIt needs time and attention to be able to carry all the necessary\nprocesses successfully into practice.\n\nIt will be plain to you, from what I have just said, that the operation\nyou are about to engage in is one of the most delicate in the etcher's\npractice. There is the plate in the acid; the liquid has taken hold of\nthe copper; but your sky must be light, and a prolonged corrosion would\ntherefore be hurtful to it. Hence we take the plate out of the bath,\npass it through pure water, so that no acid is left in the lines, and\ncover it with several sheets of blotting-paper, which, being pressed\nagainst it by the hand, dries the plate. We shall have to go through the\nsame process after each partial biting, because if the plate were moist,\nthe stopping-out varnish which we are going to apply to it would not\nadhere.\n\n32. =The Use of the Feather.=--You noticed the lively ebullitions on the\nplate, which took place twice in succession. After the first, I passed\nthis feather lightly over the copper, to show you its use. Its vane\nremoved the bubbles which adhered to the lines. This precaution is\nnecessary, especially when the ebullitions acquire some intensity and\nare prolonged, to facilitate the biting, as the gas by which the bubbles\nare formed keeps the acid out of the lines. If these bubbles are not\ndestroyed, the absence of biting in the lines is shown in the proofs by\na series of little white points. Such points are noticeable in some of\nthe plates etched by Perelle, who, it seems, ignored this precaution.\n\n33. =Stopping Out.=--The two rapid ebullitions which you saw may serve\nyou as a standard of measurement; the biting produced by them must be\nvery light, and sufficient for the tone of the sky. You may, therefore,\ncover the entire sky with stopping-out varnish by means of a brush,\ntaking care to stop short just this side of the outlines of the other\ndistances. The importance of mixing lamp-black with your stopping-out\nvarnish to thicken it, comes in just here; because if it remained in its\nliquid state, it might be drawn by capillary attraction into the lines\nof those parts which you desire to reserve, and thus, by obstructing\nthem, might stop the biting in places where it ought to continue. Wait\ntill the varnish has become perfectly dry; you can assure yourself of\nthis by breathing upon it; if it remains brilliant, it is still soft,\nand the acid will eat into it; but as soon as it is dry it will assume a\ndull surface under your breath.[8]\n\n34. =Effect of Temperature on Biting.=--Let us now return the plate to\nthe bath, to obtain the values of the other distances. The temperature\nhas a great effect on the intensity of the ebullitions, and it is hardly\npossible to depend on it absolutely as a fixed basis on which to rest a\ncalculation of the time necessary for each biting, as its own\nvariability renders it difficult to appreciate the aid to be received\nfrom it. In winter, for instance, with the same strength of acid, it\nneeds four or five times as much time to reach the same result as in\nsummer, so that on very hot days the biting progresses so rapidly that\nthe plate cannot be lost sight of for a single moment without risk of\nover-biting.\n\n[Illustration: Pl. I_a_.]\n\n35. =Biting continued.=--We have now obtained several moderate\nebullitions, and as it would not do to exaggerate the tone of the\nmountain in the background, it is time to withdraw the plate once more.\nUncover a single line by removing the ground, either with the nail of\nyour finger or with a very small brush dipped into spirits of\nturpentine, to examine whether it is deeply enough bitten for the\ndistance which it is to represent. If the depth is not sufficient, cover\nit with stopping-out varnish, and bite again. This is not necessary,\nhowever, in our present case, and you may therefore stop out the whole\nbackground. Remember, if you please, that the line must look _less_\nheavy than it is to show in the proof; for you must take into account\nthe black color of the printing-ink. With your brush go over the edges\nof the trees which are to be relieved rather lightly against the sky, as\nwell as over that part of the shadow in this tower which blends with the\nlight. There are also some delicate passages in the figure of the woman\nin the foreground, in the details of the plants, and in the folds of\nthis tent (Pl. I_a_). Stop out all these, and do not lose sight of the\nvalues of the original (Pl. II.). Make use of the brush to revarnish\nseveral places which are scaling off on the margin and the back of the\nplate. The temperature is favorable; the ebullitions come on without\nletting us wait long, and the plate is bluing rapidly. I do not like to\nsee these operations drag on; in winter, therefore, I do my biting near\nthe fire. We soon acquire a passion for biting, and take an ever-growing\ninterest in it, which is incessantly sharpened by thinking of the result\nto which we aspire. Hence the desire of constant observation, and that\nassiduity in following all the phases of the biting-in.\n\nI notice that the acid does not act on certain parts of your work; you\nwill find out soon enough what that means.\n\n36. =Treatment of the Various Distances.=--\"I am thinking just now of\nwhat you told me in regard to the background:--that more work ought to\nbe put into it than into the foreground.\"\n\nNothing, indeed, is simpler. You understand that the background, which\nis bitten in quite lightly, must show very delicate lines, while in the\nmiddle distance and in the foreground the lines are enlarged by the\naction of successive bitings. When it comes to the printing, the\nquantity of ink received by these various lines will be in proportion to\nthe values which you desired to obtain, and in the proofs you will have\na variety of lighter or stronger tones, giving you the needed gradations\nin the various distances. It follows from this that, if you had worked\ntoo sparingly on the distances which receive only a light biting, you\ncould not have reached the value of the tone which you strove to get,\nand if you had worked too closely on those parts which require continued\nbiting, you would have had a black and indistinct tone, because the\nlines, which are enlarged by the acid, and consequently keep approaching\none another, would finally have run together into one confused mass,\nproducing what in French is called a _creve_ (blotch).\n\nIn an etching the space between the lines must be made to serve a\npurpose; for the paper seen between the black strokes gives delicacy,\nlightness, and transparency of tone.\n\n37. =The Creve.--Its Advantages and Disadvantages.=--In very skilled\nhands the _creve_ is a means of effect. If you wish to obtain great\ndepth in a group of trees, in a wall, in very deep shadows, you will\nrisk nothing by intermingling your lines picturesquely and biting them\nvigorously. In this way you can produce tones of velvety softness, and\nat the same time of extraordinary vigor. Similarly, you may strike a\nfine note by means of running together several lines which, if\nsufficiently bitten, will form but a single broad one of great solidity\nand power. It is, indeed, only the exaggeration of this expedient,\nwhich, by unduly enlarging the limits of the broad line just spoken of,\nand thus producing a large and deep surface between them, constitutes\nthe _creve_ properly so called; the printing ink has no hold in this\nflat hollow, and a gray spot in the proof is the result. I have warned\nyou of the accident; later on you shall hear something of the remedy. We\nwill now continue our biting. Plunge your plate into the bath again, if\nyou please.\n\n38. =Means of ascertaining the Depth of the Lines.=--\"My dear sir, I see\nthat my drawing turns black; it disappears almost entirely, and is lost\nin the color of the ground.[9] I am quite perplexed. My mind endeavors\nto penetrate beneath this varnish, so as to be able to witness the\nmysterious birth of my _oeuvre_. See these violent ebullitions! What\ndo you think of them?\"\n\nLet them go on a moment longer, and then withdraw your plate. We have\nnow arrived at a point where the eye cannot judge of the work of the\nacid as easily as before; henceforth we must, therefore, examine the\ndepth of our bitings by uncovering a single line, as, for instance, this\none here in the ground. Or we may even lay bare, by the aid of spirits\nof turpentine, a part of the foreground, provided, however, that we must\nnot forget to cover it again with the brush. This will give us an idea\nof the total effect so far produced by the biting, and we can then\nregulate the partial bitings which are still to follow, either by a\ncomparison of the time employed on those that have gone before, or by\nthe intensity of the ebullitions, the action of which on the copper we\nhave already studied. You perceive that, while it is difficult to fix a\nstandard of time for the bitings at the beginning of the operation, it\nis yet possible to calculate those to come by what we have so far done.\n\n39. =The Rules which govern the Biting are subordinated to various\nCauses.=--In reality, it is impossible to establish fixed rules for the\nbiting, for the following reasons:--\n\n1. Owing to the varying intensity of the stroke of the needle. The\netcher who confines himself to gently baring his copper must bite longer\nthan he who attacks his plate more vigorously, and therefore exposes it\nmore to the action of the acid.\n\n2. Owing to the different quality of the plates.\n\n3. Owing to the difference in temperature of the surrounding air:--of\nthis we have before spoken.\n\n4. Owing to difference of strength in the acid, as it is impossible\nalways to have it of absolutely the same number of degrees. At 15 deg.\nto 18 deg. the biting is gentle and slow; at 20 deg. it is moderate;\nat 22 deg. to 24 deg. it becomes more rapid. It would be dangerous to\nemploy a still higher degree for the complete biting-in of a plate,\nespecially in the lighter parts.\n\n40. =Strong Acid and Weak Acid.=--It is, nevertheless, possible to put\nsuch strong acid to good service. A fine gray tint may, for instance,\nbe imparted to a well-worked sky by passing a broad brush over it,\ncharged with acid at 40 deg. But the operation must be performed with\nlightning speed, and the plate must instantly be plunged into pure\nwater.\n\nAs a corollary of the fourth cause, it is well to know that an acid\novercharged with copper loses much of its force, although it remains at\nthe same degree. Thus an acid taken at 20 deg., but heavily charged with\ncopper from having been used, will be found to be materially enfeebled,\nand to bite more slowly than fresh acid at 15 deg. to 18 deg. To continue\nto use it in this condition would be dangerous, because there is no longer\nany affinity between the liquid and the copper, and if, under such\ncircumstances, you were to trust to the appearance of biting (which\nwould be interminable, besides), you would find, on removing the\nvarnish, that the plate had merely lost its polish where the lines ought\nto be, without having been bitten. It is best, therefore, always to do\nyour biting with fresh acid, constantly renewed, as the results will be\nmore equal, and you will become habituated to certain fixed conditions.\n\nSome engravers, of impetuous spirit and impatient of results, do their\nbiting with acid of a high degree, while others, more prudent, prefer\nslow biting, which eats into the copper uniformly and regularly, and\nhence they employ a lower degree. In this way the varnish remains\nintact, and there is not that risk of losing the purity of line which\nalways attends the employment of a stronger acid.\n\n41. =Strength of Acid in relation to certain Kinds of Work.=--Experience\nhas also shown that, with the same proportion in the time employed, the\nvalues are accentuated more quickly and more completely by a strong than\nby a mild acid; this manifests itself at the confluence of the lines,\nwhere the acid would play mischief if the limit of time were\noverstepped.\n\nAnother effect of biting which follows from the preceding, is noticeable\nin lines drawn far apart. Of isolated lines the acid takes hold very\nslowly, and they may therefore be executed with a cutting point and\nbitten in with tolerably strong acid.\n\nThe reverse takes place when the lines are drawn very closely together;\nthe biting is very lively. Work of this kind, therefore, demands a\nneedle of moderate sharpness and a mild acid.\n\nHence, interweaving lines and very close lines are bitten more deeply by\nthe same acid than lines drawn parallel to each other, and widely\nspaced, although they may all have been executed with the same needle.\nIf, in an architectural subject, you have drawn the lines with the same\ninstrument, but far apart on one side, and closely and crossing each\nother on the other, you must not let them all bite the same length of\ntime, if you wish them to hold the same distance. It will be necessary\nto stop out the latter before the former, otherwise you will have a\ndiscordant difference in tone. There will be inequality in the biting,\nbut it will not be perceptible to the eye, as the general harmony has\nbeen preserved. (See Pl. IV. Fig. 1.)\n\nIn short, strong acid rather widens than deepens the lines; mild acid,\non the contrary, eats into the depth of the copper, and produces lines\nwhich are shown in relief on the paper, and are astonishingly powerful\nin color. This is especially noticeable in the etchings of Piranesi, who\nused hard varnish.\n\n42. =Last Stages of Biting.=--But let us return to our operation. You\nnoticed that I allowed your plate to bite quite a while; this was\nnecessary to detach your foreground and middle-ground vigorously from\nthe sky and the background. You may now stop out the trees, the tower,\nand the tent in the middle-ground, and the vertical part of the bridge,\nwhich is in half-tint, and then proceed. Note that the number of bitings\nis not fixed, but depends on the effect to be reached.\n\n\"In that case it is to be hoped, for the sake of my apprentice hands,\nthat I shall never have many bitings to do. Just look at my fingers!\nThey are in a nice state. The prettiest yellow skin you ever saw!\"\n\nOh, don't let that color trouble you; it will be all black by to-morrow.\n\n\"Much obliged to you for this bit of consolation!\"\n\nBesides, it will take you a week to grow a new skin. In future you must\nsoak your fingers in pure water whenever you have got them into the\nacid. You might have used india-rubber finger-gloves; they are excellent\nto keep the hands clean, but it is not worth while to trouble about them\nfor the present, as we are almost done.[10] I think you may now stop out\nall that remains, with the exception of the darkest places in the\nforeground, to which we must give a final biting.\n\nThere! Now we've got it! Withdraw your plate for the last time, and as\nthere are some very widely spaced lines in this tree in the foreground,\nyou will risk nothing by giving them a final touch with pure acid. The\nstrongest accent in the landscape rests on this spot; it determines the\ncolor of the whole. By this application of pure acid we shall get a\nvigorous tone, a powerful effect.\n\nI may as well tell you here that it is sometimes advisable to add a\nsmall quantity of pure acid to the bath towards the end of the\noperation, so as to increase the activity of the biting on certain parts\nof the plate without running into excess. But as the place now under\nconsideration is restricted, we shall adopt another means, so as to\nlimit the action of the acid to the given point. See here: I let fall a\nfew drops; the pure acid eats into the copper with great vehemence; the\nmetal turns green, and the ebullition subsides. Now take up the\nexhausted liquid with a piece of blotting-paper, and let us commence\nagain. Under these newly added drops of fresh acid, the varnish is ready\nto scale off, the lines sputter, and assume a strange yellow color;\nthese golden vapors announce that the operation is finished.\n\nWhat follows, is the task of the printer; his press will tell us whether\nwe have won, or whether we have been mated. Clean the plate with spirits\nof turpentine, using your fingers, or with a very clean old rag (calico,\nif possible), if you are afraid to soil your hands. Be sure to have the\nplate well cleaned, but take care not to scratch it.\n\nThe acid, which may be of use hereafter, we will turn into a glass\nbottle with a ground stopper, and will store it in some safe place.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nFINISHING THE PLATE.\n\n\n43. =Omissions.--Insufficiency of the Work so far done.=--The result you\nhave obtained, I tell my pupil, as he shows a proof of the _first state_\nof his plate to me, is not final. Your work needs a few retouches and\nslight modifications, not counting the little irregularities which I had\nforeseen, and which it will be easy enough to repair. We will proceed in\norder. (See Pl. I^_a_). To commence with, here are certain parts which\nare sufficiently bitten, and which, nevertheless, are indecisive in\ntone, and do not hold their place. I allude to the columns and to the\ntrees in the further distance; one feels that there is something wanting\nthere, which must be added. You must, therefore, re-cover your plate, in\nthe manner already known to you, either with transparent ground, or with\nordinary etching-ground, just as if the plate had never yet been touched\nby the needle.\n\n44. =Transparent Ground for Retouching.=--The white or transparent\nground or varnish[11] admirably allows all previous work to show\nthrough. It is preferred to the ordinary ground for working over parts\nthat have been insufficiently bitten, on account of its transparency,\nwhich leaves even the finest lines visible, while under the ordinary\nground these lines might be lost entirely. It will be an easy matter for\nyou to combine the new work with the old; the very slight shadow thrown\non the copper by the transparent ground will give a blackish appearance\nto your lines, which may serve as a guide to you, and, with your proof\nbefore your eyes, you will readily succeed in finding the places which\nneed retouching. To make assurance doubly sure, you can indicate the\nretouches on your proof with a lead-pencil.\n\nThe transparent ground has occasionally been found to crack and scale\noff, when left in the bath for a long while, or when strong acid is\nused. But as you are only going to use it for light and, consequently,\nshort biting, you need not fear this danger. Another inconvenience,\nwhich may easily be prevented, consists in the presence of small bubbles\nof air, which appear on the varnish as soon as it begins to melt. Heat\nthe plate just to the proper point of melting, and dab it vigorously for\nsome length of time, until the varnish cools; then hold the back of the\nplate flat to the fire; the varnish melts again, and the rest of the\nbubbles disappear. If some of them should prove to be obstinate, cover\nthem very lightly with the brush, as otherwise the acid will penetrate\nthrough the passages thus left open, and will make little holes in the\ncopper, which, on removing the varnish, will cause an unpleasant\nsurprise. You shall hear more of this further on.\n\n45. =Ordinary Ground used for Retouching.--Biting the\nRetouches.=--Ordinary etching-ground, such as we used in the first\ninstance, does not show the work previously done as well as the\ntransparent ground, but the later additions are seen all the better on\nit. It may be used in its natural state, or it may be smoked. It is\npreferable to the transparent varnish, whenever the work already\nachieved is deeply bitten, and hence easily seen.\n\nIn the present case my advice is that you use the ordinary ground.\nHaving made your retouches, introduce your plate into the bath, and\nproceed as before, by partial biting, endeavoring, as much as possible,\nto obtain the same intensity of tone. These additions, thus bitten by\nthemselves, will mingle with the lines previously drawn, and now\nprotected by the varnish.\n\nIt is hardly possible to judge of the additions, especially on\ntransparent varnish, until they have been bitten in. But, if you should\nthen find that you have not yet reached your point, you can revarnish\nthe plate once more, and complete the parts that appear to be\nunfinished.\n\nI must also call your attention to the fact, that all lines drawn on\ntransparent ground seem to thicken most singularly, as soon as the acid\nbegins to work. But do not let that deceive you.\n\nNow look at this spot in the immediate foreground (Pl. I^_a_), which has\na somewhat coarse appearance. It is much softer in the original\n(represented by Pl. II.). You must add a few lines, and must bite them\nrather lightly; they will mingle agreeably with the energetic lines of\nthe first state. You may put the large trees through the same process,\nand you will find that they gain in lightness by it. Later on, when you\nhave acquired more experience, you will occasionally find it handy to\nmake these additions between two bitings. You will thus reach the\ndesired result without the necessity of regrounding your plate.\n\nSometimes, when using strong acid for these retouches, the lines first\ndrawn are also attacked by the liquid. In that case, stop the biting\nimmediately, and rest contented with what you have got. It is not\ndifficult to understand why these revarnished lines should commence to\nbite again, more especially if they are deep: the acid, finding the\nedges of the lines (which are sharp and angular, and therefore do not\noffer much hold to the varnish) but indifferently protected, attacks\nthem, without going into their depths. The ravages thus committed along\nthe edges of the lines may be quite disastrous; and it is well,\ntherefore, whenever you revarnish a plate, to give additional protection\nto those parts which are not to be retouched, by going over them with\nstopping-out varnish.\n\n46. =Revarnishing with the Brush.=--Instead of revarnishing with the\ndabber, the ground may also be laid with the brush. For this purpose you\ncan use the stopping-out varnish mixed with lamp-black. Spread a coat of\nvarnish all over the plate, using a very soft brush; if the copper\nshould not be perfectly covered on the edges of the deeply etched lines,\nadd a second coat of varnish. Do not wait till the varnish has become\ntoo dry before you execute the retouches, which, of course, must also be\nbitten in as usual. Mixed with lamp-black, the stopping-out varnish\nallows even the finest lines to be seen, which would not show as well if\nthe varnish were used in its natural state. Many engravers use this\nvarnish instead of the transparent ground.\n\n47. =Partial Retouches.--Patching.=--For partial retouches and for\npatching the stopping-out varnish is also used, but in a simpler and\nmore expeditious way. Cover the part in question with a tolerably thick\ncoat of varnish, and when you have finished your retouch, slightly\nmoisten the lines with saliva, to prevent the few drops of acid which\nyou supply from your bath with the brush from running beyond the spot on\nwhich they are to act. If pure acid is used,--which is still more\nexpeditious,--the effervescence is stopped by dabbing with a piece of\nblotting-paper, and the operation is repeated as long as the biting does\nnot appear to be sufficient. For very delicate corrections it is\nadvisable not to wait until the first ebullition is over; but it must be\nleft to the feeling to indicate the most opportune moment for the\napplication of the blotting-paper. If you proceed rapidly and\ncautiously, you can obtain extremely fine lines in this way, as you have\nhad occasion to see under other circumstances (see paragraph 40, p. 25).\n\nYou may recollect that I spoke of lines which had not bitten: I alluded\nto this spot in the middle of the bridge (see Pl. I^_a_). You did not\nbear on your needle sufficiently, and hence it did not penetrate clear\ndown to the copper; consequently, after having compared the proof of the\nfirst state with the original (Pl. II.), you must do the necessary\npatching according to the instructions just given to you.\n\n48. =Dry Point.=--Whenever it is necessary to retouch, or to add to very\ndelicate parts of the plate, such as the extreme distance, or any other\npart very lightly bitten, it is safer to use the _dry point_, as in such\ncases retouching by acid is a most difficult thing to do. The tone must\nbe hit exactly, and without exaggeration.\n\nYour plate offers an opportunity for the use of the dry point: the sky\nand the mountain are partly etched; you can improve them by a few\ntouches of the dry point.\n\nThe dry point is held in a perpendicular position, and is used on the\nbare copper. It must be ground with a cutting edge, and very sharp, so\nthat it may freely penetrate into the copper, and not merely scratch it.\nYou cut the line yourself, regulating its depth by the amount of\npressure used, and according to the tone of the particular passage on\nwhich you are working. For patching, it is more frequently used in\ndelicate passages than in others, as, even with great pressure, the\nstrength of a dry point line will always be below that of a line deeply\nbitten. In printing, the dry point line has less depth of color than the\nbitten line, as the acid bites into the copper perpendicularly at right\nangles; while the furrow produced by the dry point, which offers only\nacute angles, takes up less ink, although it appears equally broad.\nThis inequality disappears if a plate in which etched lines and dry\npoint work are intermingled is re-bitten; the difference in tone is then\nequalized.\n\nOn the other hand, the difference in the appearance of etched lines and\ndry point work produces curious effects. Thus, if a passage which is too\nstrong and appears to stand out is to be corrected, a few touches of the\ndry point will be sufficient to soften it, and to push it back to\nanother distance.\n\nThe dry point is not only used for retouching; it is sometimes employed,\nwithout any etching, to put in the whole background.\n\n49. =Use of the Scraper for removing the Bur thrown up by the Dry\nPoint.=--The dry point work being finished, the _bur_ thrown up by the\ninstrument must be removed. The bur is the ridge raised on the edge of\nthe line, as the point ploughs through the metal; you can satisfy\nyourself of its existence by the touch. In printing, the ink catches in\nthis ridge, and produces blots. The bur is removed by means of the\n_scraper_, an instrument with a triangular blade, one of the sides of\nwhich, held flat, is passed over the plate in the opposite direction to\nthat of the stroke of the point, and so as to take the line obliquely.\nYou need not feel any anxiety about injuring the plate; the touch will\ntell you when the bur has disappeared. In the case of dry point lines\ncrossing one another, each set running in a different direction must be\ndrawn as well as scraped separately, in the manner just described;\notherwise you will run the risk of closing the lines which cross the\npath of the scraper, by turning the bur down into the furrows.\n\n50. =Reducing Over-bitten Passages.=--So much for the additions. We will\nnow pass on to the very opposite: the shadow thrown by the parapet, and\nthe ground between the man and the woman, have been _over-bitten_. These\nparts do not harmonize with the neighboring parts, and are stronger in\ntone than the corresponding parts of the original.\n\nTo remedy this, there are four means at your command:--\n\n  The Burnisher.\n  Charcoal.\n  The Scraper.\n  Hammering out.\n\n51. =The Burnisher.=--As these passages are limited in extent, and not\nvery deeply bitten, you may use the burnisher to reduce them. Moisten\nit with saliva, and take only a small spot at a time, holding the\ninstrument down flat. If you were to use only the end, you might make a\ncavity in the copper. The burnisher flattens and enlarges the surface of\nthe copper, and consequently diminishes the width of the line. The tone,\ntherefore, is reduced.\n\nOn fine, close, and equal work the burnisher does excellent service, the\neffect being analogous to that of the crumb of bread on a design on\npaper.\n\nIt is less efficacious on deeply bitten work, because it rounds off the\nedges of the lines as it penetrates into the furrows, and thus detracts\nsomewhat from the freshness of tone,--an unpleasant result, which, in\nvery fine work, is beyond the power of the eye to see.\n\nYou may use the burnisher to get rid of certain spots produced in the\nfoliage by lines placed too closely together, and by the same means you\ncan reduce those exaggerated passages in the stone-work of the\nright-hand column.\n\nYou can also burnish these useless little blotches in the mountains.\n\n52. =Charcoal.=--Whenever it is necessary to reduce the whole of a\ndistance, the use of charcoal is to be preferred. Charcoal made of\nwillow, or of other soft woods, which can be had of the plate-makers, is\nused flat, impregnated with oil or water; it must be freed from its\nbark, as this would scratch the plate. It wears the metal away\nuniformly, and does not injure the crispness of the lines. Rub the\npassage to be reduced with the charcoal, regulating the length of time\nby the degree of delicacy you desire to attain. At the beginning soak\nyour charcoal in water, so as leave it more tooth; then clean it, and\ncontinue with oil, which reduces the wear on the copper. The eye is\nsufficient to judge of the wear; the way in which the charcoal takes\nhold of the copper, and the copper-colored spots which it shows, may\nserve as guides. As the effectiveness of the different kinds of charcoal\nvaries, these divers qualities of softness and coarseness are utilized\naccording to the nature of the correction to be made. It is well to\nknow, also, that it takes hold much more actively if used in the\ndirection of the grain, than transversely. You may, according to\ncircumstances, commence with a piece of coal having considerable tooth,\ncontinue with another that is less aggressive, and wind up with a\nsomewhat soft piece. The heavier the charcoal the coarser its tooth, the\nlightest being the softest. The plate must be washed, so as to keep the\ncharcoal always clean; as otherwise the dust produced, which forms a\npaste, will wear down the bottom of the furrows, and the result, in the\nproof, will be dull and reddish lines.\n\nCharcoal is also used to remove the traces of the needle in those parts\nof the plate in which changes were made while the drawing was still in\nprogress.\n\n53. =The Scraper.=--The scraper is more efficacious than the burnisher\nin the case of small places that have been deeply bitten. If the scraper\nis sufficiently sharp, it leaves no trace whatever on the lowered\nsurface of the copper.\n\nTo sum up:--\n\n_Charcoal_ and _scraper_ are used to remove part of the surface of the\ncopper. The furrows, having been reduced in depth, receive less ink in\nprinting; the lines gain in delicacy in the impressions.\n\nThe _burnisher_ simply displaces the copper; _charcoal_ and _scraper_\nwear it away. It follows that they must be used with discernment.\n\n54. =Hammering Out (Repoussage).=--These three means are employed when a\nmoderate lowering of the plate is required. When it becomes necessary to\ngo down to half the thickness of the plate or more, the result will be a\nhollow, which will show as a spot in printing. In that case recourse is\nhad to the fourth means; that is to say, to hammer and anvil. Get a pair\nof compasses with curved legs (_calipers_); let one of the legs rest on\nthe spot to be hammered out; the other leg will then indicate the place\non the back of the plate which must be struck with the hammer on the\nanvil. In this way places which have been reduced with charcoal or\nscraper may be brought up to the level of the plate; but if the lines\nshould be found to have been flattened, which would result in a dull\ntone in the proofs, it will be best to have the part in question planed\nout entirely, and to do it over.\n\n55. =Finishing the Surface of the Plate.=--The charcoal occasionally\nleaves traces on the plate, which show in the proof as rather too\nstrong a tint. You can get rid of them, by rubbing with a piece of very\nsoft linen, and the paste obtained by grinding charcoal with oil on a\nfine stone.\n\nBy the same process the whole plate is tidied. It is likely to need it,\nas it has undoubtedly lost some of its freshness, owing to the abuse to\nwhich it was subjected in passing through all these processes.\n\nOur young pupil, having executed these several operations, and bitten\nhis retouched plate, submits a proof to my inspection, which I compare\nwith that of the first state (Pls. I^_a_ and I.). Now you see, I say to\nhim, how one state leads to another. You have come up to the harmony of\nthe original; your _second state_ is satisfactory, and so there is no\nneed of having recourse to varnishing the plate a third time.\n\n[Illustration: Plate I.]\n\n[Illustration: Plate II.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nACCIDENTS.\n\n\n56. =Stopping-out Varnish dropped on a Plate while Biting.=--You are\njust in time, I continued, to profit by an accident which has happened\nto me. I dropped some stopping-out varnish on a plate while it was\nbiting; it has spread over some parts which are not yet sufficiently\nbitten, and of course it is impossible to go on now. I took the ground\noff the plate, and had this proof pulled. It is unequal in tone, and\ndoes not give the modelling which I worked for.\n\n\"What are you going to do about it? Is the plate lost?\"\n\n57. =Revarnishing with the Roller for Rebiting.=--Oh, no, indeed, thanks\nto the _roller for revarnishing_! My first precaution will be to clean\nthe plate very carefully, first with spirits of turpentine, until the\nlinen does not show the least sign of soiling, and then with bread. Or,\nhaving used the turpentine, I might continue the cleaning process with a\nsolution of potash, after which the plate must be washed in pure water.\nI then put a little ground, specially prepared for the purpose, on a\nsecond plate, which must be scrupulously clean, and not heated; or,\nbetter still, I apply the ground directly to the roller itself by means\nof a palette-knife. I divide this second plate into three parts. By\npassing the roller over the first part, I spread the ground roughly over\nit; on the second part I equalize and distribute it more regularly; on\nthe third, finally, I finish the operation. By these repeated rollings a\nvery thin layer of ground is evenly spread over all parts of the surface\nof the roller, and we may now apply it to the plate which is to be\nrebitten.\n\nTo effect this purpose, I pass the roller over the cold plate carefully\nand with very slight pressure, repeating the process a number of times\nand in various directions. This is an operation requiring skill. The\nground adheres only to the surface of the plate, without penetrating\ninto the furrows, although it is next to impossible to prevent the\nfilling up of the very finest lines. Having thus spread the ground, and\nhaving assured myself that the lines are all right by the brilliancy of\ntheir reflection as I hold the plate against the light, I rapidly pass a\nburning paper under the plate. The ground is slightly heated, and\nsolidifies as it cools.\n\nThe varnish used in this operation is the ordinary etching-ground in\nballs, dissolved in oil of lavender in a bath of warm water. It must\nhave the consistency of liquid cream; if it is too thick, add a little\noil of lavender.[12]\n\nBoth the plate and the roller must be well protected against dust.\n\nIt is not necessary to clean the roller after the operation; only take\ncare to wipe its ends with the palm of your hand, turning it the while,\nso as to remove the rings of varnish which may have formed there.\n\nIf the lines are found closed, too much pressure has been used on the\nroller; if the ground is full of little holes, the plate has not been\ncleaned well, and wherever the surface of the copper is exposed the acid\nwill act on it. There is nothing to be done, in both cases, but to wash\noff the ground with spirits of turpentine, and commence anew.\n\nMy plate is now in the same state in which it was when I withdrew it\nfrom the bath. I stop out those parts which are sufficiently bitten,\nand, guided by my proof, I can proceed to continue the biting which was\ninterrupted by the accident.\n\n58. =Revarnishing with the Roller in Cases of Partial Rebiting.=--You\nwill find this method especially valuable whenever you desire to\nstrengthen passages that are weak in tone. And furthermore, having thus\nrevarnished your plate, you may avail yourself of the opportunity of\ngiving additional finish. But if, before revarnishing, you should have\nburnished down some over-bitten lines in a passage which needs rebiting,\nyou will find that the shallow cavity produced by the burnisher does not\ntake the ground from the roller; such places are easily detected by the\nbrilliant aspect of the copper, and good care must be taken to cover\nthem with ground. Again, if, before proceeding to rebite, you should\nnotice certain passages which are strong enough as they are, either\nbecause the copper was cut by the point, or because the lines in them\nare very close, you must cover them up with the brush. The same thing is\nnecessary in the case of the excessively black spots which sometimes\nmanifest themselves in places covered by irregularly crossing lines, and\nthe intensity of which it would be useless to increase still further.\nThis recommendation is valuable for work requiring precision.\n\n59. =Revarnishing with the Dabber for Rebiting.=--For partial rebiting\nthe same result may be reached by applying the ground with the dabber.\nHeat your plate, and surround the part to be rebitten with a thick coat\nof ordinary etching-ground. Now heat your dabber, and pass it over the\nground. Finally, when the dabber is thoroughly impregnated with the\nground, carry it cautiously and little by little over the part in\nquestion, dabbing continually.[13]\n\n60. =Revarnishing with the Brush for Rebiting.=--Let me also call your\nattention to an analogous case which may arise. If you desire to\nincrease the depth of the biting in a part of the plate in which the\nlines are rather widely apart, you may cover the plate with the brush\nand stopping-out varnish, and may pass the needle through the lines so\nas to open them again. You can then rebite in the tray, or by using pure\nacid, or by allowing acid at 20 deg. to stand on the part in question,\njust as you please.\n\n61. =Rebiting a Remedy only.=--Etchers who are entitled to be considered\nauthorities will advise you to avoid as much as possible all rebiting by\nmeans of revarnishing, as it results in heaviness, and never has the\nfreshness of a first biting obtained with the same ground. A practised\neye can easily detect the difference. Never let the rebiting be more\nthan a quarter of the first biting. Use the process as a remedy, but\nnever count on it as a part of your regular work.\n\n62. =Holes in the Ground.=--Having once taken up the consideration of\nthe little mishaps which may befall the etcher, I shall now show you\nanother plate in which the sky is dotted by a number of minute holes of\nno great depth (_piques_). This plate has, no doubt, been retouched, and\nthe ground having been badly laid, the acid played mischief with it. It\nis very lucky that the lines in the sky are widely separated, as\notherwise these holes would be inextricably mixed up with them. We can\nrid ourselves of them by a few strokes of the burnisher, and by rubbing\nwith charcoal-paste and a bit of fine linen. The burnisher alone would\ngive too much polish to the copper; in printing the ink would leave no\ntint on the plate in these spots, and the traces of the burnisher would\nshow as white marks in the proofs. To avoid this, the copper must be\nrestored to its natural state.[14]\n\n\"What would happen,\" asks another of my pupils, \"if these little holes\noccurred in a sky or in some other closely worked passage? Here is a\nplate in which this accident has befallen some clouds and part of the\nground. What shall I do?\"\n\nTo begin with, let me tell you for your future guidance that this\naccident would not have happened if you had waited for the drying of the\nground with which you covered this sky after you had bitten it. The\nacid, which never loses an opportunity given it by mismanagement or\ninattention, worked its way unbeknown to you through the soft varnish in\nthe clouds as well as in the ground, and went on a spree at your\nexpense. Remember that nitric acid is very selfish; it insists that it\nshall always be uppermost in your mind, and all your calculations must\ntake this demand into account; its powers, creative as well as\ndestructive, are to be continually dreaded; it likes to see you occupy\nyourself with it continually, watchfully, and with fear. If you turn\nyour back to it, it plays you a trick, and thus it has punished you for\nneglecting it for a moment.\n\n\"Thank you. But you are acting the part of La Fontaine's schoolmaster,\nwho moralized with the pupil when he had fallen into the water.\"\n\n63. =Planing out Faulty Passages.=--And that did not help him out. You\nare right. Well, you must go to some skilful copper-planer,[15] who will\nwork away at the spoiled part of your plate with scraper and burnisher\nand charcoal, until he has restored the copper to its virgin state; then\nall you've got to do will be to do your work over again.\n\n\"That is rather a blunt way of settling the question. Seeing that we are\nabout to cut into the flesh after this fashion, might it not be as well\nto have the whole of the sky taken out altogether? I am not satisfied\nwith it, any way.\"\n\nCertainly. By the same process the planer can remove every thing, up to\nthe outlines of the trees and the figures in your plate; he will cut out\nany thing you want, and yet respect all the outlines, if you will only\nindicate your wishes on a proof. In this passage, where you see deep\nholes, scraper and charcoal will be insufficient; the planer must,\ntherefore, hammer them out before he goes at the other parts. As regards\nthe little holes in the foreground, since they are not as deep as the\nlines among which they appear, you can remove them, or at least reduce\nthem, by means of charcoal, without injury to the deeply bitten parts.\n\nYou may follow this plan whenever you are convinced that a lowering of\ntone will do no harm to your first work. In the opposite case, you must\neither have recourse to the planer, or put up with the accident. If you\nare not too much of a purist, you will occasionally find these _piques_\nproductive of a _piquant_ effect, and then you will take good care not\nto touch them.\n\n\"That's a 'point' which you did not mention among the utensils! You have\ningenious ways of getting out of a scrape.\"\n\nWe cut out, or cut down, or dig away, whole passages, according to\nnecessity. I have seen the half of a plate planed off, because the\ndesign was faulty.\n\n64. =Acid Spots on Clothing.=--Here comes one of my friends, who is also\nan etcher. I wonder what he brings us! His clothing is covered all over\nwith spots of the most beautiful garnet; he ought to have washed them\nwith volatile alkali, which neutralizes the effect of the acid. But he\ndoes not mind it.\n\n65. =Reducing Over-bitten Passages and Creves.=--\"Oh, gentlemen, that is\nnot worth while speaking of! But you must see my plate. I drew a horse\nfrom nature, which a whole swamp-ful of leeches might have disputed with\nme. But I do believe it escaped the _biting_ of these animals only to\nsuccumb to mine. Judge for yourselves!\"\n\nThe fact of the matter is, that you have killed it with acid. There is\nnothing left of it, but an informal mass, ten times over-bitten.\nFortunately there is no lack of black ink at the printer's! It is a\nveritable Chinese shadow, and looks as if the horse had gone into\nmourning for itself. However, although the carcass is lost, I hope you\nmay be able to save some of the members. The wounds are deep and broad;\nbut we can try a remedy _in extremis_: first of all, your horse will\nhave to stand an attack of _charcoal_; if it survives this, we shall\nsubject it to renewed and ferocious _bitings_. All this puzzles you.\nTherefore, having treated your beast to the charcoal, and having had a\nlast proof taken, you place the latter before you, and re-cover your\nplate with a solid coat of varnish. With a somewhat coarse point you\npatch those places which show white in the proof, taking care to\nharmonize your patches with the surrounding parts.\n\nIn this way you replace the lines which have disappeared, and then\nproceed to bite in, doing your best to come as near as possible to the\nstrength of the first biting. The result may not be very marvellous, but\nit will be an improvement, at all events. If I were in your place, I\nshould not hesitate to begin again. The process which I have just\ndescribed is best suited to isolated passages.\n\nIn closely worked and lightly bitten passages, blotches (or _creves_)\nare more easily remedied, as they are less deep. Rub them down with\ncharcoal, very cautiously and delicately, and let the dry point do the\nrest.\n\nThere, now! There's our friend, again, using acid instead of spirits of\nturpentine to clean his plate! That'll be the end of the animal. It is\nagainst the law, sir, to murder a poor, inoffensive beast this wise!\nFortunately we can help him out with several sheets of blotting-paper,\nin default of water, which we do not happen to have at hand. We were in\ntime! The copper has only lost its polish; a little more charcoal,--and\nRosinante still lives.\n\n[Illustration: Plate III.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nDIFFERENCE BETWEEN FLAT BITING, AND BITING WITH STOPPING-OUT.\n\n\n66. =Two Kinds of Biting.=--Now that you have become familiar with the\nsecrets of biting, I say to my pupil, and are therefore prepared to be\non your guard against the accidents to be avoided when you go to work\nagain, I can make clear to you, better than if I had endeavored to do so\nat the outset, the difference between the two kinds of biting on which\nrests the whole system of the art of etching, and the distinctive\ncharacteristics of which are often confounded. The work thus far done\nwill help you to a more intelligent understanding of this distinction.\nAs it was impossible to explain to you, at one and the same time, all\nthe resources of the needle as well as those of biting, between which,\nas I told you before, there exist very intimate relations, I had to\nchoose a general example by which to demonstrate the processes employed,\nand which would allow me to explain the reasons for these processes.\n\nThere are two kinds of biting,--_flat biting_ and _biting with\nstopping-out_. (See Pl. III.)\n\nThese two kinds of biting resemble one another in this, that they\ninvolve only one grounding or varnishing, and consequently only one\nbath; they differ most markedly in this, that in _flat biting_ the work\nof the acid is accomplished all over the plate at one and the same time,\nand with only one immersion in the bath, while in _biting with\nstopping-out_ there are several successive, or, if you prefer the term,\npartial bitings, between each of which the plate is withdrawn from the\nbath, and the parts to be reserved are stopped out with varnish as often\nas it is thought necessary.\n\nIt follows from this, that, with flat biting, the modelling must be done\nby the needle, using either only one needle, or else several of\ndifferent thicknesses.\n\n67. =Flat Biting.--One Point.=--With a single needle the values are\nobtained by drawing the lines closely together in the foreground and\nnearer distances, or for passages requiring strength, and by keeping\nthem apart in the off distances, and in the lighter passages of the near\ndistances; furthermore, to obtain a play of light in the same distance,\nthe lines must be drawn farther apart in the lights, and more closely\ntogether in the shadows. A single point gives a hint of what we desire\nto do, but it does not express it. It is undoubtedly sufficient for a\nsketch intended to represent a drawing executed with pen and ink or with\nthe pencil; but it cannot be successfully employed in a plate which, by\nthe variety of color and the vigor of the biting, is meant to convey the\nidea of a painting.\n\n68. =Flat Biting.--Several Points.=--When several points of different\nthickness are used, the coarser serve for the foreground and near\ndistances, the finer in gradual succession for the receding distances.\nThey are used alternately in the different distances, and the lines are\ndrawn more closely together here, or kept farther apart there, according\nto the necessities of the effect to be obtained; the depth of the biting\nis the same throughout, but the difference in thickness of the lines\nmakes it an easy matter, by more elaborate modelling, to give to the\netching the appearance of a finished design.\n\nWith a single point, as well as with several, the pressure used in\ndrawing must remain the same throughout, so that the acid may act\nsimultaneously, and with equal intensity on all parts of the plate. If\nthere has been any inequality of attack, the values will be unequal in\ntheir turn, and different from what they were intended to be.\n\n[Illustration: Plate IV.]\n\n69. =Biting with Stopping-out.--One Point.=--In biting with\nstopping-out, it is the biting itself, and not the needle, which gives\nmodelling to the etching. In this case, also, one or several points may\nbe used. The simplest manner is that in which only one point is used.\nThe stopping-out, and consequently the biting, is done in large masses.\n(See Pl. V. Fig. 1.)\n\n70. =Biting with Stopping-out.--Several Points.=--As a very simple\nexample let us take a case in which it is necessary to have certain very\nclosely lined passages in a foreground alongside of very coarse ones.\nIn that case the first, or close, lines must be etched very delicately,\nwhile the whole force of the biting must be brought to bear on the\nlatter (see Pl. IV. Fig. 2). In the same way the values of two different\nobjects may be equilibrated; by employing close lines slightly bitten in\nthe one case, and spaced lines more deeply bitten in the other. Biting\nwith stopping-out, combined with the work of several points, requires\nmore attention and discernment than any other.\n\nIf the first biting is not successful, the plate is revarnished, and the\nwork of repairing and correcting commences.\n\nSumming up the advantages offered by these various means, you will see\nwhat results the combination of the work of one or of several points\nwith partial biting may be made to yield, either in giving to objects\ntheir various values, their natural color, and their modelling, or in\ndisposing them in space, and thus producing the harmonious gradation of\nthe several distances.\n\n71. =Necessity of Experimenting.=--If you will now call to mind our\npreceding operations, and will hold them together with the explanations\njust given, you will be able to appreciate them in their totality. The\nnecessity of arriving at truth of expression, with nothing to guide you\nbut these rules, which are influenced by a variety of conditions, will\ncompel you to experiment for yourself, with special reference to the\ncombination of _the surrounding temperature, the strength of the acid,\nthe number of partial bitings, the pressure of the point, the different\nthicknesses of the points_, and _the various kinds of work that can be\ndone with them_, on the one hand; and on the other, with regard to _the\nlength of the bitings_. If you are called upon to imitate a given object\nvery closely, you must proceed rationally, and your work must be\naccompanied by continual reflection. To familiarize yourself with these\ndelicate operations, you must experiment for yourself; don't complain if\nyou spoil a few plates; you will learn something by your failures, as\nyour experience in one case will teach you what to do in others.\nSelf-acquired experience is of all teachers the best.\n\n72. =Various other Methods of Biting.=--The two preceding methods,\nwhich, in a general way, comprehend the rules of biting, do not exclude\nother particular methods of a similar nature. Thus, it may be well\nsometimes to etch at first only the simple outline, biting it in more\nor less vigorously, according to the nature of the case (see Pl. IV.\nFig. 3); and then, having revarnished and resmoked the plate, to\nelaborate the drawing by going over it either in some parts only or\nthroughout the whole. Rembrandt often pursued this course; and we may\nfollow the several stages of his work by studying the various states of\nhis plates. We see that he took great pains to work out some part of his\nsubject very carefully, without touching the other parts; he then took a\nproof, and afterwards went over the same part with finer lines, and\npassed on to the other parts, treating them according to the effect\nwhich he desired to reach.\n\nThis method is often imitated; it is employed when it is necessary to\nlay a shadow over a passage full of detail, as, for instance, in\narchitectural subjects, in the execution of which it is easier, and\ntends to avoid confusion, to fix the lines of the design first, and\nthen, having laid the ground a second time, to add the shadows. (See Pl.\nIV. Fig. 4.)\n\n\"Pardon me! But might not this result be obtained by the same biting, if\nthe lines of the design were drawn with a coarse point, and the shading\nwere added with a finer one?\"\n\nCertainly; and in that case we should have an instance of work executed\nwith several needles, such as I pointed out to you before.\n\nFrom the explanations previously given, it will be clear, also, that,\nthe nature of the subject permitting, it may be advantageous sometimes\nto execute a plate by drawing and biting each distance by itself. Thus\nyou may commence with the foreground, and may bite it in; having had a\nproof taken, revarnish your plate, and proceed in the same fashion to\nthe execution of the other distances, and of the sky, always having a\nproof taken after each biting to serve you as a guide.\n\nThis mode of operation--essentially that of the engraver--is of special\nadvantage in putting in a sky or a background behind complicated\nfoliage. You can draw and bite your sky or your background all by itself\n(see Pl. IV. Fig. 5), and then, having revarnished your plate, you can\nexecute your trees on the background. As the trees are bitten by\nthemselves, it is evident that we have avoided a difficulty which is\nalmost insurmountable,--that, namely, of stopping out with the brush\nthe lines of the sky between intricate masses of foliage. But we can\nalso proceed differently. We can commence with the trees, drawing them\nand biting them in, and can finish with the sky, having revarnished the\nplate as usual: the sky will thus fall into its place behind the trees.\nYou need not trouble yourself because the lines of the sky pass across\nthe lines of the trees. The biting of the sky must be so delicate that\nit will not affect the value of the foliage, and you may therefore carry\nyour point in all directions, and use it as freely as you please.\n\nSome etchers find it more convenient to commence with the sky and the\nbackground, on account of the points of resistance encountered by the\nneedle in the more deeply bitten lines of the trees, which destroys\ntheir freedom of execution. They are correct, whenever the sky to be\nexecuted is very complicated; but if only a few lines are involved, it\nwill be better to introduce them afterwards. It is, besides, an easy\nmatter to get accustomed to the jumping of the point when it is working\non a ground that has previously been bitten.\n\nWhat I have just told you applies also to the masts and the rigging of\nvessels, &c., and, indeed, to all lines which cut clearly and strongly\nacross a delicately bitten distance.\n\nAn etcher of great merit has conceived the original idea of executing an\netching in the bath itself, commencing with the passages which need a\nvigorous biting, then successively passing on to the more delicate\nparts, and finally ending with the sky.[C] The various distances thus\nreceive their due proportion of biting; but it is necessary to work very\nquickly, as the biting of a plate etched in the bath in this manner\nproceeds five to six times more rapidly than if done in the ordinary\nmanner. Every etcher ought to be curious to try this bold method of\nworking, so that he may see how it is possible to ally the inspiration\nof the moment with the uncertain duration of the biting, which in this\nprocess has emancipated itself from all methodical rule, and follows no\nlaw but that imposed upon it by the caprice of the artist.[16]\n\n  [C] The bath, in this case, is composed as follows:--\n        880 gr. water.\n        100  \"  pure hydrochloric (muriatic) acid.\n         20  \"  potassium chlorate.\n\nAll this goes to show you that there is ample liberty of choice as to\nprocesses in etching. It is well to try them all, as it is well to try\nevery thing that may give new and unknown results, may inspire ideas, or\nmay lead to progress, neither of which is likely to happen in the\npursuit of mere routine work.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nRECOMMENDATIONS AND AUXILIARY PROCESSES.--ZINK AND STEEL\nPLATES.--VARIOUS THEORIES.\n\n\nA. RECOMMENDATIONS AND AUXILIARY PROCESSES.\n\n73. =The Roulette.=--The latitude which I gave you does not extend to\nthe point of approving of all material resources without any exception.\nThere is one which I shall not permit you to make use of, as the needle\nhas enough resources of its own to be able to do without it. I allude to\nthe _roulette_, which finds its natural application in other species of\nengraving.\n\n74. =The Flat Point.=--Employ the _flat point_ with judgment; it takes\nup a great deal of varnish, but gives lines of little depth, and of less\nstrength than those which can be obtained by prolonged biting, with an\nordinary needle.\n\n75. =The Graver or Burin.=--\"And the graver: what do you say to that?\"\n\nThe graver is the customary and fundamental tool of what is properly\ncalled \"line-engraving.\" Although it is not absolutely necessary in the\nspecies of etching which we are studying, there are cases, nevertheless,\nin which it can be used to advantage, but always as an auxiliary only.\n\nIf, for instance, you desire to give force to a deeply bitten but\ngrayish and dull passage, or to a flat tint which looks monotonous, a\nfew resolute and irregular touches with the graver will do wonders, and\nwill add warmth and color. A few isolated lines with the graver give\nfreshness to a muddy, broken, or foxy tint, without increasing its\nvalue.\n\nThe graver may also be employed in patching deeply bitten passages.\n\nThe graver, of a rectangular form, with an angular cutting edge, is\napplied almost horizontally on the bare copper; its handle, rounded\nabove, flat below, is held in the palm of the hand; the index finger\npresses on the steel bar; it is pushed forward, and easily enters the\nmetal: the degree of pressure applied, and the angle which it makes with\nthe plate, produces the difference in the engraved lines. The color\nobtained by the burin is deeper than that obtained by biting, as it cuts\nmore deeply into the copper. If extensively used in an etching, the work\nexecuted by the graver contrasts rather unpleasantly with the quality of\nthe etched work, as its lines are extremely clear cut. To get rid of\nthis inequality, it is sufficient to rebite the passages in question\nvery slightly, which gives to the burin-lines the appearance of etched\nlines.\n\nIn short: use the graver with great circumspection, as its application\nto works of the needle is a very delicate matter, and gives to an\netching a character different from that which we are striving for. It\nseems to me that to employ it on a free etching, done on the spur of the\nmoment, would be like throwing a phrase from Bossuet into the midst of a\nlively conversation.[17]\n\n76. =Sandpaper.=--As regards other mechanical means, be distrustful of\ntints obtained by rubbing the copper with sandpaper; these tints\ngenerally show in the proof as muddy spots, and are wanting in\nfreshness. Avoid the process, because of its difficulty of application.\nOnly a very skilful engraver can put it to good uses.\n\n77. =Sulphur Tints.=--I shall be less afraid to see you make use of\n_flowers of sulphur_ for the purpose of harmonizing or increasing the\nweight of a tint. The sulphur is mixed with oil, so as to form a\nhomogeneous paste thick enough to be laid on with a brush.\n\nBy the action of these two substances the polish on the plate is\ndestroyed, and the result in printing is a fresh and soft tint, which\nblends agreeably with the work of the needle.\n\nDifferences in value are easily obtained by allowing the sulphur to\nremain on the plate for a greater or less period of time. This species\nof biting acts more readily in hot weather; a few minutes are sufficient\nto produce a firm tint. In cold weather relatively more time is needed.\nThe corrosions produced in this way have quite a dark appearance on the\nplate, but they produce much lighter tints in printing. If you are not\nsatisfied with the result obtained, you can rub it out with charcoal,\nas the copper is corroded only quite superficially.\n\nOwing to this extreme slightness of biting, the burnisher may also be\nused to reduce any parts which are to stand out white.\n\nThis process, as you see, is very accommodating; but it is too much like\nmezzotint or aquatint, and, furthermore, it can only be applied in flat\ntints, without modelling. I have, nevertheless, explained it to you, so\nthat you may be able to use it, if you should have a notion to do so, as\na matter of curiosity, but with reserve. It is better to use the dry\npoint, which has more affinity to the processes natural to etching.\n\n[Illustration: Plate V.]\n\n78. =Mottled Tints.=--You may also make use of the following process\n(but with the same restrictions) in the representation of parts of old\nwalls, of rocks and earth, or of passages to which you desire to impart\nthe character of a sort of artistic disorder:--Distribute a quantity of\nordinary etching-ground on a copper plate sufficiently heated; then take\nyour dabber, and, having charged it unequally with varnish, and having\nalso heated your etched plate, press the dabber on the passages which\nare to receive the tint; the varnish adheres to the plate in an\nirregular manner, leaving the copper bare here and there. Now stop out\nwith the brush those parts which you desire to protect, and bite in with\npure acid; the result will be a curiously mottled irregular tint (see\nPl. V. Fig. 2). Properly used in the representation of subjects on which\nyou are at liberty to exercise your fancy, this process will give you\nunexpected and often happy results.\n\n79. =Stopping-out before all Biting.=--Before we proceed, I must show\nyou an easy method of representing a thunder-storm (see Pl. V. Fig.\n2):--Work the sky with the needle, very closely, so as to get the sombre\ntints of the clouds; and, before biting, trace the streaks of lightning\non the etched work with a brush and stopping-out varnish; being thus\nprotected against the acid, these streaks will show white in the\nprinting, and the effect will be neater and more natural than if you had\nattempted to obtain it by the needle itself, as you will avoid the\nsomewhat hard outlines on either side of the lightning, which would\notherwise have been necessary to indicate it.\n\nYou can employ the same process for effects of moonlight, for reflected\nlights on water, and, in fact, for all light lines which it is difficult\nto pick out on a dark ground.\n\n\nB. ZINK PLATES AND STEEL PLATES.\n\n80. =Zink Plates.=--So far I have spoken to you of copper plates only;\nbut etchings are also executed on zink and on steel. Zink bites rapidly,\nand needs only one quarter of the time necessary for copper, with the\nsame strength of acid; or, with the same length of time, an acid of ten\ndegrees is sufficient. The biting is coarse, and without either delicacy\nor depth. A zink plate prints only a small edition.[18]\n\n81. =Steel Plates.=--Steel also bites with great rapidity. One part of\nacid to seven of water is sufficient; and the biting is accomplished, on\nthe average, in from one to five minutes, from the faintest distance to\nthe strongest foreground.\n\nFree, artistic etchings are very rarely executed on steel, which is more\nparticularly used in other kinds of engraving.\n\n\nC. VARIOUS OTHER PROCESSES.\n\n82. =Soft Ground Etching.=--There is a kind of etching known as\n_soft-ground etching_, and but little practised at present, which was\nsuccessfully cultivated about thirty years ago by Louis Marvy and\nMasson. The engravers of the last century used to call it _gravure en\nmaniere de crayon_.[19]\n\n[Illustration: Plate VI.]\n\nTake a ball of common etching-ground, and melt it in the water-bath in a\nsmall vessel, adding to it, in winter, an equal volume, and in summer\nonly one-third of the same volume, of tallow. Let the mixture cool, form\nit into a ball, and wrap it up in a piece of very fine silk. Ground your\nplate in the usual way, and smoke lightly. On this soft ground fix a\npiece of very thin paper having a grain, and on the paper thus attached\nto the plate, execute your design with a lead-pencil. Wherever the\npencil passes, the varnish sticks to the paper in proportion to the\npressure of the hand; and, on carefully removing the sheet, it takes up\nthe varnish that adheres to it. Bite the plate, and the result will be a\nfacsimile of the design executed on the paper. (See Pl. VI.)\n\nIf the proofs are too soft, or wanting in decision, the plate may\nbe worked over with the needle, by regrounding, and then rebiting it.\nThe first state can thus be elaborated like an ordinary etching, and the\nnecessary precision can be given to it whenever the idea to be expressed\nis vaguely or insufficiently rendered; or the same end may be reached by\nthe dry point. In either case, however, all the retouches must be\nexecuted by irregular stippling, so that they may harmonize with the\nresult of the first biting. Otherwise there will be a lack of\nhomogeneity in the appearance of etchings of this sort, in which the\ngrain of the paper plays an important part. Smooth paper gives no result\nwhatever. The paper used may have a coarse grain or a fine grain, at the\npleasure of the etcher, or papers of different grain may be used in the\nsame design. This style of etching requires great care in handling the\nplate, on account of the tenderness of the ground. In drawing, a\n_hand-rest_ must be used, so that the hand may not touch the plate.\n\n[Illustration: Plate VII.]\n\n83. =Dry Point Etching.=--The _dry point_ is also used for etching,\nwithout the intervention of the acid-bath. The design is executed with\nthe dry point on the bare copper; the difference in values is obtained\nby the greater or less amount of pressure used, and by the difference in\nthe distance between the lines. (See Plate VII.) The brilliancy of\neffect which etchings of this kind may or may not possess, depends on\nthe use made of the _scraper_ (see paragraph 49, p. 33).\n\nYou will find it convenient to varnish and smoke your plate, to begin\nwith, and to trace the leading lines of your design on the ground,\ntaking care to cut lightly into the copper with the point. Then remove\nthe varnish, and continue your drawing, guided by these general\noutlines.\n\nIt is best to commence with the sky, or other delicate passages, and to\nremove the bur from them, if there are other stronger lines to be drawn\nover them.\n\nYou can see perfectly well what you are doing, by rubbing a little\nlamp-black mixed with tallow into the lines as you proceed, and cleaning\nthe plate with the flat of your hand; in this way you can control your\nwork, and can carry it forward until it is finished, either by removing\nmore or less of the bur, or by allowing all of it to stand, or by the\nelaboration of those passages which seem to need it. The lines show on\nthe plate as they are intended to show on the paper. You can therefore\nbring out your subject by shading; you can lay vigorous lines over lines\nfrom which the bur has been removed; you can take out, and you can put\nin. The effect produced in the printing is velvety and strong, similar\nto that produced by the stump on paper. Rembrandt employed the dry\npoint, without scraping, in some of his principal etchings.\n\n84. =The Pen Process.=--I must now speak to you of a process which\noffers certain advantages. Clean your plate thoroughly, first with\nturpentine, and then with whiting, and take care not to touch the\npolished surface with your fingers. Execute a design on the bare copper\nwith the pen and ordinary ink. You must not, of course, expect to find\nin the pen the same delicacy as in the needle.\n\nThe design having been finished and thoroughly dried, ground and smoke\nyour plate without, for the present, taking any further notice of the\ndesign; but be sure to see to it that the coat of varnish is not too\nthick; then lay the plate into water, and let it stay there for a\nquarter of an hour. Having withdrawn the plate, rub it lightly with a\npiece of flannel; the ink, having been softened by the water, comes off,\ntogether with the varnish which covers it, and leaves the design in\nwell-defined lines on the copper, which you may now bite.\n\nYou may work either with one pen and several bitings, or with several\npens of various degrees of fineness and one biting.\n\nAs in the case of soft ground etching, you may make additions with the\nneedle to give delicacy.\n\nIt is necessary to ground the plate and to soak it in water as soon as\nmay be after the finishing of the design. At the end of two days, the\nink refuses to rub off.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nPROVING AND PRINTING.\n\n\n85. =Wax Proofs.=--Our first desire, after the ground has been removed\nfrom the plate, is to see a proof. If you have no press, and yet desire\nto take proofs of your work after each biting, you may employ the\nfollowing process to good advantage:--\n\nTake a sheet of very thin paper, a little larger than your plate, and\ncover it with a thin layer of melted wax. The latter must be real white\nwax. Then sprinkle a little lamp-black on your engraved plate, and\ndistribute it with your finger, so as to rub it into the lines; clean\nthe surface of the plate by carefully passing the palm of your hand over\nit. Now lay the sheet of paper on the plate, with its waxed surface\ndown, and be sure to turn the edges of the paper over on the back of the\nplate, so as to prevent its moving; then rub with the burnisher in all\ndirections. The lamp-black sticks to the wax, and is sure to give an\napproximate image, sufficient to guide you in the further prosecution of\nyour work, if that should be necessary.[20]\n\n86. =The Printing-Press.=--These proofs, however, as well as those which\nwere hurriedly printed for you so far, give only a mere idea of your\nwork, without conveying its full meaning. If you desire to become\nacquainted with all the resources of the printing-press, you will have\nto go to a plate printer. It is well worth your while to acquire this\nknowledge, also, after you have familiarized yourself with the various\nprocesses at the command of the etcher.\n\nHere, then, is the printer at his press: at his side there is a box made\nof sheet-iron, enclosing a chafing-dish; there are also printing-ink, a\nball for inking, rags, and paper.[21] He is about to explain the use\nmade of these things to our young student, who delivers his plate to\nhim, and is anxious to be instructed in all that relates to the taking\nof impressions.\n\n\n87. =Natural Printing.=--The printer now begins his explanations as\nfollows:--\n\nI place the plate on the sheet-iron box (the plate-warmer); it there\nacquires the necessary degree of heat, and I then spread the printing\nink over it by means of this ball; the ink penetrates into the lines,\nand completely covers the whole surface of the plate; I remove the\nexcess of ink with a coarse muslin rag, precisely as this is done in all\nother kinds of plate printing; I now clean the plate with the palm of my\nhand, so that no ink is left on it anywhere but in the lines; I finally\nwipe the margins of the plate evenly, so as to leave a delicate tint on\nthe etched part only, and then I put the plate into the press. The plate\nis laid on the travelling-board or bed of the press, which runs between\ntwo cylinders of iron or hard wood; on the plate I lay a piece of paper,\nslightly moistened, and I cover the whole with several thicknesses of\nflannel; I turn the wheel of the press, and the cylinders, turning on\nthemselves, carry along the travelling-board, which, in passing between\nthem, is subjected to great pressure. The paper is thus pressed into the\nlines on the plate, and this process is facilitated by the elasticity of\nthe flannel. You see now that your plate has come out on the other side\nof the rollers (or cylinders): we have given the press only one turn,\nalthough, as a rule, the plate is passed through the press twice, by\nmaking it travel back again under the rollers. This imparts strength to\nthe impression; but occasionally the lines are not rendered as\ndelicately and with as much precision, as with only one turn. I remove\nthe flannel, and very carefully lift the paper; it has absorbed the ink:\nwe have before us a _natural proof_, which shows the exact state of the\nplate (see Pl. I.). Line-engravings are printed in the same manner; with\nthis difference, however, that the tint, more or less apparent, which is\npreserved on an etching, is not allowed to remain on a plate engraved\nwith the burin.\n\n88. =Artificial Printing.=--The printing of etchings very frequently\ndiffers from the simple method just described. It must be varied\naccording to the style of execution adopted by the etcher; and, as much\nof the harmony of the plate may depend upon it, it sometimes rises to\nthe dignity of an art, in which the artist and the printer are merged\ninto each other,--the printer losing himself in the artist, as he is\ncompelled to enter into the latter's ideas; and the artist giving way to\nthe printer, to avail himself of his practical experience. The proof\nfrom your plate, for instance, has a dry look (see Pl. I.); it needs\nmore softness, and this can be given to it by the printer.[D] (See Pl.\nII.)\n\n  [D] It would be a great advantage if every etcher could print his own\n  proofs. Rembrandt is the most striking example, as he was the author\n  of many of the devices in use even to-day. A press can easily be\n  procured. The firm of Ve. Cadart, Paris, has had a little portable\n  press constructed, especially for the use of artists and amateurs. All\n  the necessary accessories for printing can also be obtained of this\n  firm. (See Note 22.)\n\nI will now explain to you some of the various artifices which are\nemployed in printing.\n\n89. =Handwiping with Retroussage.=--Having _wiped the plate with the\npalm of the hand_, we might _bring it up again (la retrousser)_ by\nplaying over it very lightly with a piece of soft muslin rag rolled\ntogether. The muslin draws the ink out of the lines, and spreads it\nalong their edges, so that, in the proof, the space between the lines is\nfilled up by a vigorous tint. But this process can only be used on\nplates in which the lines are evenly disposed throughout, and, more\nespecially, scattered. To produce the proper effect the _retroussage_\nmust be general; because, if the rag passes over one passage only, and\nnot over the others, or, if it is brought into play only on the dark\nparts, and not in the lights, there will be discordance of tone, and\nconsequently want of harmony. In the present case, therefore,\n_retroussage_ would be unsatisfactory, because the work on your plate,\nwhile it is broadly treated in some parts, is so close in others that\nthere is no room left between the furrows. It follows that there is no\nplace for the ink, drawn out of the lines, to spread on; the result\nwould be a muddy tint,--one of those overcharged impressions which bring\ncriticism upon the printer, because he has applied _retroussage_ to a\nplate which did not need it.\n\n90. =Tinting with a Stiff Rag.=--Let us now try another means. The proof\nwill gain in freshness if we soften the lines by going over the plate,\n_after it has been wiped with the hand_, somewhat more heavily with\n_stiff muslin_. Owing to the pressure used, the rag, instead of carrying\naway the ink which it has taken up out of the lines, retains it; a tint\nlike that produced by the stump is spread over the plate, and envelops\nthe lines without obscuring them; the proof is supple and velvety. (See\nPl. II.)\n\n91. =Wiping with the Rag only.=--Here is another variety. I am just\nprinting a number of original plates by different artists. Being true\npainter's etchings, some of these plates are boldly accentuated and\nheavily bitten; the lines are widely apart, and significant. If these\nplates were printed _naturally_, they would yield bare and poor-looking\nproofs. Wiping with the hand would be useless. I therefore go over the\nplate with _stiff_ muslin. In the same manner I continue and finish, so\nas to give the greatest amount of cleaning to the luminous passages,\nwhile a tolerably strong tint is left on the dark and deeply bitten\nones.\n\nOr I might have wiped the plate energetically with soft muslin, and then\nmight have brought up again certain passages with a soft and somewhat\ncleaner rag.\n\nThis method of wiping, which leaves on the surface of the plate a tint\nof more or less depth, must not be confounded with _retroussage_. Here\nis a proof of one of the plates of which I spoke to you: it is well\nsustained at all points; the lines are full and nourished; the general\naspect is harmonious and energetic; the lights are softened; the\nstrongly marked passages are enveloped in a warm tint. One might almost\nsay that the effect of painting has been carried into etching.\n\nThis method is employed for plates which have been deeply bitten, but\nupon which stopping-out has been used but sparingly, for works in which\nthere is sobriety of expression, or for sketches (see Pl. VIII.). It is\nall the more necessary, sometimes, for the printer to take the\ninitiative, the simpler the plate has been etched; it is left to him, in\nshort, to complete the intention merely indicated by the artist.\n\n[Illustration: Plate VIII.]\n\n92. =Limits of Artificial Printing.=--These examples have shown to you\nthat difference in tone depends on the amount of pressure, and the\nvariety of texture in the muslin. It is oftentimes necessary--and this\nis an affair of tact--to make use of these diverse qualities of the\nmuslin on the same plate,--now reducing an over-strong tint by more\nvigorous wiping; now giving renewed force to it, in case it has become\ntoo soft.\n\nThese various means constitute the art of printing etchings. But, while\nfully recognizing their efficiency when they are used to the purpose, we\nmust also keep in mind the dangers which arise from their being applied\nwithout discernment. Plates produced by an intelligent combination of\nbitings, must be printed naturally, if they are not to lose the absolute\ncharacter given to them by the needle and the acid. If they are at all\nwiped with the rag, so as to impart more softness to them, it must, at\nleast, be done with the greatest of care.\n\nThe artist has every thing to gain, therefore, by watching over the\nprinting of his plates, and instructing the printer as to the manner in\nwhich he desires to be interpreted. Some etchers prefer the simplicity\nof the natural state; but the great majority favor the other method of\nprinting, which, for the very reason that it is difficult, and on\naccount of the many variations in its application, ought always to be an\nobject of interest to the printer, and the aim of his studies. It is,\nmoreover, the method which is generally understood and adopted by our\nfirst etchers.[22]\n\n93. =Printing Inks.=--The quality and the shade of the ink, as well as\nthe way in which it is ground, are of great importance in the beauty of\na proof. Inks are made of pure black, slightly tempered with bistre or\nburnt sienna, and the shade can be varied according to taste. A plate\nlike yours needs a delicate black, composed of Frankfort black and\nlamp-black; the bistre-tint, which, in the course of time, loses its\nfreshness and strength, would not answer. This tint is always best\nsuited to strongly bitten work, but in your case it would be\ninsufficient. A very strong black, on the other hand, would make your\netching look hard. This last shade--pure, or very slightly broken with\nbistre--is preferable for strongly accented plates.[23]\n\n94. =Paper.=--_Laid paper_ is the most suitable paper for printing\netchings; its sparkle produces a marvellous effect; its strength defies\ntime itself.\n\nSome artists and amateurs ransack the shops for old paper with brown and\ndingy edges, which, to certain plates, imparts the appearance of old\netchings.\n\n_India paper (Chinese paper)_ promotes purity of line; but, as its\nsurface is dull, it furnishes somewhat dry and dim proofs.\n\n_Japanese paper_, of a warm yellowish tint, silky and transparent, is\nexcellent, especially for plates which need more of mystery than of\nbrilliancy, for heavy and deep tones, and for concentration of effect.\nJapanese paper absorbs the ink, and it is necessary, therefore, to bring\nup (_retrousser_) the plate strongly, and to wipe it with the rag. This\npaper is less favorable to sketches, the precise, free, and widely\nspaced lines of which accommodate themselves better to the tint of the\nlaid paper.\n\n_Parchment_ may also be used for proofs; nothing equals the beauty of\nsuch proofs, printed either naturally, or wiped with the rag; they are\nthe treasures of collectors.[24]\n\n95. =Epreuves Volantes.=--On Chinese and Japanese paper, as well as on\nparchment, so-called _epreuves volantes_ (flying proofs) are printed;\nthat is to say, loose proofs, which are not pasted down on white paper.\nThey are simply attached to Bristol board by the two upper corners,\nwhich brings them out perfectly.\n\n96. =Proofs before Lettering.=--All of these various kinds of paper,\neach of which has its own claim for excellence, and especially Japanese\npaper, are by preference used for artists' proofs and proofs before\nlettering, which are printed before the title is engraved on the plate.\nIt is customary to print a greater or less number of such proofs, which,\nbeing struck off when the plate is still quite fresh, show it at its\nbest. After that, the plate is lettered, and an ordinary edition is\nprinted from it.\n\nIt follows from this that the possessor of a proof without title has the\nbest the plate can afford to give. But, as the pictures by the masters\ndo not stand in need of a signature to be recognized, so the proofs\nbefore lettering may well do without the guaranty which is found in the\nabsence of a title; even without this guaranty an amateur knows how to\nrecognize the virgin freshness of an early impression, which is still\nfurther augmented by the extreme care bestowed on the printing of these\nexceptional proofs, but which cannot be kept up through a long edition.\n\n97. =Epreuves de Remarque.=--_Epreuves de remarque_ (marked proofs),\nshowing the different states of the plate, and the various modifications\nwhich it underwent, are also sought after. Their rarity increases their\nprice.[25]\n\n98. =Number of Impressions which a Plate is capable of yielding.=--The\nnumber of impressions which a plate can yield is not fixed, as the power\nof resisting the wear and tear of printing depends largely on the\ndelicacy or the strength of the work. The quality of the copper must\nalso be considered, a soft plate giving way much faster than a hard\nplate which has been well hammered. The plates prepared to-day do not\nresist as well as those formerly made; and as the popularity of works of\nart multiplied by the press has considerably increased, it became\nnecessary to look about for means by which the surface of a copper plate\nmay be hardened, and be made to yield a large edition. This has been\naccomplished by\n\n99. =Steel-facing.=--_Steel-facing_, which was invented by Messrs.\nSalmon and Garnier, and which M. Jacquin undertook to render\npracticable, consists in depositing a coating of veritable steel, by\ngalvanic action, on the face of the copper plate, or, in other words, by\nthe superposition of a hard metal on a soft metal.\n\nThis mode of protection, which perfectly preserves the most delicate\npassages, even down to the almost invisible scratches of the dry point,\nnot only guarantees the copper against the contact of the hand and the\nrag, which would tell on it more than the pressure of the rollers, but\nat the same time makes it possible to print a thousand proofs of equal\npurity. Certain plates, owing to the manner of wiping used on them, do\nnot reach this figure; others, more simply printed, may yield three to\nfour thousand proofs, and sometimes even a still larger number.\n\nAs soon as the plate shows the slightest change, or the copper begins to\nreappear, the coating of steel is removed by chemical agents, which,\nacting differently on the two metals, corrode the one, while they leave\nthe other untouched. The plate is thus brought back to its original\nstate, and is therefore in the same condition as before to receive a\nsecond steel-facing. In this way plates may be _de-steeled_ and\n_re-steeled_ a great many times, and the proofs printed from them may be\ncarried up to considerable quantities.\n\nAs a rule, the plates are not steel-faced until after the proofs before\nlettering have been printed.\n\nSoft-ground etchings, the biting of which is quite shallow, must be\nsteel-faced after two to three hundred impressions.\n\nThe delicacy of the bur thrown up by the dry point hardly permits the\nprinting of more than twenty or thirty proofs on an average;\nsteel-facing carries this number up to a point which cannot be fixed\nabsolutely, but it is certain that the bur takes the steel quite as well\nand as solidly as an etched line. Dry points may, therefore, yield long\neditions; the steel-facing must in that case be renewed whenever\nnecessary.[26]\n\n100. =Copper-facing Zink Plates.=--Zink plates cannot be steel-faced,\nbut they can be copper-faced.[27] Steel-facing has been adopted by the\nChalcographic Office of the Louvre, and by the _Gazette des Beaux Arts_,\nthat remarkable and unique publication which is an honor to criticism\nand is found in all art libraries. Steel-facing, in fact, is universally\nemployed; it preserves in good condition the beautiful plates of our\nengravers, and makes it possible to put within reach of a great many\npeople engravings of a choice kind, which but lately were found only in\nthe _salons_ of the rich and the collections of passionate amateurs.\n\n[Illustration: AN ETCHER'S STUDIO.\n\nFrom the Third Edition of Abraham Bosse's \"Treatise,\" Paris, 1758.]\n\n[Illustration: Croquis d'apres nature, pour servir de modeles, 1877.\n\nLe Waag, Amsterdam.]\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\nBY THE TRANSLATOR.\n\n\n[1] (p. 2.) To these associations may be added the German Etching Clubs\nat Duesseldorf and at Weimar, which issue yearly portfolios of plates\nexecuted by their members, and the American Etching Clubs at New York\nand at Cincinnati. The New York Etching Club was organized in April,\n1877, with Dr. L. M. Yale as its first president. At this writing Mr.\nJames D. Smillie is the presiding officer of the club, which has about\ntwenty-four members, including many of the leading artists of New York.\nThe Cincinnati Etching Club is composed almost entirely of amateurs. Its\npresident is Mr. George McLaughlin. Quite lately an Etching Club has\nalso been formed in Boston, with Mr. Edmund H. Garrett as president.\n\n[2] (p. 3.) Benzine is preferable to turpentine for most of the\noperations of the etcher, but more especially for cleaning soiled hands.\nIt is advisable to use turpentine only when the benzine proves\ninsufficient to remove the last traces of ground or ink from the lines.\n\n[3] (p. 9.) Something about tools and materials has already been said in\nthe Introductory Chapter, p. xiv. What is left to be said follows\nhere:--\n\n_Copper plates_, from visiting-card size (at $1 per dozen), to any\nrequired size can be bought of, or ordered through, the firms named on\np. xiii, or of Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, 45 Gold St., New York. Mr. Sharp will\nsend price-lists on application. The plates usually sold, at least of\nthe smaller sizes, are made of an alloy, not of pure copper. These alloy\nplates are cheaper and bite more quickly than those of pure copper, but\nit happens occasionally that they do not bite evenly, owing to want of\nhomogeneity in the metal. Still, they are extensively used, and amateurs\nwill find them preferable to the more expensive copper plates.\n\n_Etching-ground._ A recipe for a cheap and yet a very good ordinary\nground has been given on p. xv. The transparent ground consists of\n\n  5 parts, by weight, of white wax.\n  3   \"         \"        gum-mastic.\n\nGum-mastic costs about thirty-five cents an ounce. Melt the wax first,\nand add the gum-mastic in powder gradually, stirring all the while with\na clean glass or metal rod.\n\n_Stopping-out varnish._ (See p. xvi.) There is a varnish sold at\npainters' supply-stores under the name of \"Asphaltum Varnish for\nSign-Writers' Use,\" which does very well. In Boston Asahel Wheeler sells\nit at fifteen cents a bottle.\n\n_Needle-holders_ are unnecessary if the points described on p. xvi are\nused.\n\n_Burnishers_ are sold at the hardware-stores, or by dealers in\nwatchmakers' materials. They ought not to cost above fifty cents apiece.\n\n_Scrapers._ Same as burnishers. Price not above $1. Some dealers ask $2,\nwhich is exorbitant.\n\n_A lens_ can be obtained of any optician. In Boston they can also be had\nof A.J. Wilkinson & Co., hardware dealers, 184 Washington St., at prices\nvarying from $1 to $1.50.\n\n_India-rubber finger-gloves_ are unnecessary if you use the\n\"plate-lifter\" described on p. xvii.\n\n_Nitric acid._ Messrs. Powers & Weightman's \"Nitric Acid, C. P.\" (i. e.\nchemically pure), recommended on p. xvii, is 42 degrees, and Messrs. P.\n& W. inform me that the strength is tolerably uniform. If you are an\nenthusiastic etcher it will be best to buy a seven-pound bottle, which\nis the next largest to the one-pound bottles.\n\n_Tracing-paper_, _gelatine_, _chalk_, and _sanguine_ can be obtained at\nthe artists' material stores.\n\n_Emery-paper._ Hardware-stores. Price four cents a sheet.\n\n_Roller for revarnishing._ See Note 5.\n\nTo the tools and materials mentioned by M. Lalanne the following must be\nadded: _Whiting_, _benzine_, _turpentine_, _alcohol_, _willow charcoal_.\nThe last-named article can be supplied by Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, of 45 Gold\nSt., New York, before mentioned.\n\n[4] (p. 11.) I wrote to M. Lalanne to find out the ingredients of the\n_petit vernis liquide_ and _vernis au pinceau_, but he says that he does\nnot know, and that the recipes are a secret of the maker of these\nvarnishes. The asphaltum varnish mentioned on p. xvi and in Note 3 does\nexcellently well, however, both for stopping out and retouching. After\nit has been fanned (see p. xxi) until it has thickened sufficiently not\nto stick to the finger when touched, but before it is quite dry, it can\nbe worked upon with the point. If not dry enough, which will manifest\nitself readily as soon as you have drawn the first line, fan again. If\nit were allowed to dry absolutely, it would chip off under the needle.\nThere is a liquid ground, made by Mr. Louis Delnoce of the American Bank\nNote Company, New York, which--so Mr. Jas. D. Smillie informs me--is\nused for retouches by the engravers of the company, is applied with the\nbrush, is a very quick dryer, tough, and resists acid perfectly. Mr.\nDelnoce sells it in ounce bottles at seventy-five cents each.\n\n[5] (p. 12.) The roller for revarnishing, spoken of by M. Lalanne, and\nalso recommended by Mr. Hamerton, cannot be bought in this country.\nNor--with all due deference to the great experience of M. Lalanne--is\nsuch a large and expensive roller necessary. The rollers used by our\nmost experienced etchers--Mr. Jas. D. Smillie, for instance--are little\ncylinders of India-rubber, about one inch in diameter and one and\none-half inches long. They cost from 50 cents to $2 each. _But these\nrollers cannot be used with etching-paste._ The oil of lavender in the\npaste attacks the rubber and destroys it. As to the manner of using the\nIndia-rubber roller see Note 12.\n\n[6] (p. 20.) The use of bordering wax is not advisable. But as some\netchers still employ it, I add a recipe for making it, which was kindly\ncommunicated to me by Mr. Peter Moran of Philadelphia:--\n\n  3 lbs. Burgundy pitch.\n  1 lb. yellow beeswax.\n  1 gill sweet oil.\n\nMelt together and then form into strips.\n\n[7] (p. 21.) Etching is the most individual of the reproductive arts (or\nrather of the _multiplying_ arts, the German _vervielfaeltigende\nKuenste_), even in its technical processes. Therefore nearly every etcher\nhas his own ways of doing, and few agree on all points. Many etchers do\nnot think it necessary to weaken the acid as described in the text. But\nbe sure to let it _cool_ after it has been mixed with water, before you\nimmerse your plate!\n\n[8] (p. 22.) It would take altogether too long to wait for the _perfect_\ndrying of the asphaltum varnish, nor is it necessary. Fan it, as\ndescribed in Note 4, and as soon as it ceases to stick you can again\nimmerse your plate.\n\n[9] (p. 25.) I have never been able to notice this turning dark of the\nlines, although I have had plates in the bath for several hours, and\nsome of my artist acquaintances whom I have consulted on the point, have\nconfirmed my experience. Possibly the phenomenon described by M. Lalanne\nmay be caused by impurities in the acid.\n\n[10] (p. 27.) If the reader will make use of the device for lifting the\nplate into and out of the bath, which I have described on p. xvii, there\nwill be no necessity of burning his fingers. With a little precaution,\nand a plentiful use of benzine for washing and cleaning, the daintiest\nlady's hand need not suffer from etching.\n\n[11] (p. 29.) For directions for making this ground see Note 3.\n\n[12] (p. 38.) To make the varnish, or rather etching-paste, recommended\nin the text, a warm-water bath is not absolutely necessary.\n\nTake any small porcelain or earthenware vessel (a small gallipot is very\nconvenient, because the etching-paste can be kept in it for use), and\nset it upon a metal frame, easily made of wire, so that you can\nintroduce a spirit lamp under it. Break up a ball, or part of a ball, of\nordinary etching-ground, and throw it into the pot. Heat the pot\ncarefully, so as just to allow the ground to melt. When it has melted,\nadd oil of lavender (worth thirty-five cents an ounce at the\ndruggist's), drop by drop, and keep stirring the mixture with a clean\nglass rod. From time to time allow a drop of the mixture to fall on a\ncold glass or metal plate. If, on cooling, it assumes the consistency of\npomatum, the paste is finished.\n\nAs I have said before, this paste cannot be used with the India-rubber\nrollers recommended in Note 5. With these rollers the regrounding must\nbe done with the ordinary etching-ground with the aid of heat. Warm your\nplate so that you can just bear to touch it with the hand, and allow\nsome of the ground to melt on a second, unused copper plate. Also warm\nthe roller slightly. Then proceed as M. Lalanne directs in his\nfifty-seventh paragraph. The slight changes in the proceeding, which\ngrow out of the differences between cold and warm ground, are\nself-evident.\n\nIt is hardly necessary to say that the roller can also be used for\nlaying the first ground. _But it is of no use on any but perfectly\nsmooth, straight plates, as it cannot penetrate into hollows._ When it\nis not available the dabber must be employed in the old manner.\n\n[13] (p. 39.) Some engravers prefer the dabber to the roller even for\nregrounding entire plates. In that case the ground is spread on the\nmargin of the plate, if that be wide enough, or on a separate plate, and\nis taken up by the dabber. The plate to be regrounded must of course be\nwarmed as for laying a ground with the roller, and care must be taken\nnot to have the dabber overcharged with ground.\n\n[14] (p. 40.) In default of the charcoal-paste, rubbing with the finest\nemery-paper will do to remove the polish.\n\n[15] (p. 40.) I cannot direct the reader to a copper-planer, and\ntherefore it will be best to give some directions for removing faulty\npassages. The following paragraphs are copied bodily from Mr.\nHamerton:--\n\n\"The most rapid way is to use sandpapers of different degrees of\ncoarseness, the coarsest first, and then the scraper, and, finally,\nwillow charcoal with olive oil. The charcoal will leave the surface in a\nfit state to etch upon.\n\n\"This scraping and rubbing hollows out the surface of the copper, and\nif it hollows it too much the printing will not be quite satisfactory in\nthat part of the plate. In that case you have nothing to do but mark the\nspot on the back of the plate with a pair of calipers, then lay the\nplate on its face upon a block of polished steel, and give it two or\nthree blows with a hammer (mind that the hammer is rounded so as not to\nindent the copper).\"\n\n[16] (p. 48.) The process here alluded to is the one used by Mr. Haden.\nThe mordant is the so-called Dutch mordant, and the manner of making it\nis thus described by Mr. Hamerton:--\n\n\"First heat the water by putting the bottle containing it into a pan\nalso containing water, and keep it on the fire till that in the pan\nboils. Now add the chlorate of potash, and see that every crystal of it\nis dissolved. Shake the bottle to help the solution. When no more\ncrystals are to be seen, you may add the hydrochloric acid. Make a good\nquantity of this mordant at once, so as always to have a plentiful\nsupply by you.\"\n\nFor a full account of the Haden process see Mr. Hamerton's \"Etcher's\nHandbook,\" or the second edition of his \"Etching and Etchers.\"\n\nThis Dutch mordant is preferred to nitric acid by many etchers,--even\nwhen working, not in the bath, but in the ordinary way, as taught by M.\nLalanne,--because it bites down into the copper, and hardly widens the\nlines. \"From my experience,\" writes Mr. Jas. D. Smillie, in a letter now\nbefore me, \"I unhesitatingly prefer the Dutch mordant for copper; it\nbites a very fine black line, it is not so severe a trial to the ground,\nand it does not need constant watching.\"\n\nMr. Smillie, however, uses the mordant much stronger than Mr. Haden. He\nhas, in fact, invented a process of his own, which, in a letter to me,\nhe describes as follows:--\n\n\"I draw and bite as I progress; that is, I draw in the darkest parts\nfirst, give them a good nip with the mordant, wash the plate and dry it,\nand then draw the next stage. I can thus, by drawing lines over a part\nthat has already been exposed to the mordant, interlace heavy and light\nlines in a way that I could not by any other process. I etch upon an\nunsmoked ground, and as the Dutch mordant bites a _black_ line, I see my\netching clearly as it advances, By holding the head well over the plate,\nthe lines can be very distinctly seen as they are drawn. After a little\nexperimenting, the etcher will find the angle at which he can see his\nunbitten work upon an unsmoked ground without trouble. Mr. Hamerton's\nformula seemed to me too weak, so I am experimenting with\n\n  Muriatic acid,       1 ounce.\n  Chlorate of potash, 1-5  \"\n  Water,               5 ounces.\n\n\"This is the mordant I am now using, and I have found it to work well.\nStill, as I am not a scientific chemist, and my knowledge is entirely\nempiric, I am prepared to believe any chemist who may tell me that I\nmight do as well, or better, with more water.\n\n\"Generally I do not get all the color I wish by the first process, as I\ncan see without removing the ground; so, when my etching is finished, I\nreverse the engine and begin stopping out and biting upon the original\nground, as it is ordinarily done. I do not use the black asphaltum\nvarnish for stopping out, but a transparent varnish that is simply\nwhite resin dissolved in alcohol. If applied very carefully, and allowed\ntime to dry, it is perfectly clear and transparent, and the relations of\nall parts of the plate can be seen,--the stopped out as well as the\nbitten lines,--but to a careless worker it presents many troubles. It is\nso transparent that it is hard to see what is stopped out and what is\nnot, and if washed with very warm water, or before it is thoroughly dry,\nit turns cloudy and semi-opaque. I have no trouble with it, and could\nnot get along without it. I make it myself,--have no formula,--adding\nalcohol until it is thin enough to flow readily from the brush. It has a\ngreat advantage over asphaltum varnish, as it does not flow along a\nline. It is viscid enough to remain just where it is put, and is as\nperfect a protection as any asphaltum varnish.\"\n\nMr. Smillie heats his bath on the plate-warmer, but not to exceed 80 deg.,\nor at most 90 deg. Such a bath of hot mordant acts much more quickly than\na cold acid bath, less than two minutes being sufficient for the lightest\nlines.\n\n[17] (p. 50.) Gravers are of different shapes, according to the nature\nof the line which they are intended to produce. They are sometimes kept\nat the hardware-stores, as, for instance, by A. J. Wilkinson & Co., 184\nWashington St., Boston. This house also issues an illustrated catalogue\nof engravers' tools.\n\n[18] (p. 52.) M. Lalanne, it seems to me, does not do full justice to\nzinc plates. Very delicate lines can be bitten on zinc if the acid is\nsufficiently weakened. I have found that one part of nitric acid to\neight parts of water, used on zinc, is about equal to one-half acid and\none-half water, used on copper for about the same length of time. Zinc\nplates can also be bought of Mr. Geo. B. Sharp, 45 Gold St., New York.\nAs to the length of edition that can be printed from a zinc plate, see\nNote 27.\n\n[19] (p. 52.) This is not strictly correct. The \"maniere de crayon,\" as\npractised by Demarteau and others, differs materially from soft-ground\netching. A ground was laid and smoked as usual, and on it the drawing\nwas produced, by a variety of instruments, such as points, some of them\nmultiple, the roulette, the mattoir, etc.\n\n[20] (p. 55.) There is another method of getting what may be called a\nproof, i. e. by taking a cast in plaster. Ink your plate and wipe it\nclean, as described in Note 22, and then pour over it plaster-of-Paris\nmixed with water. When the plaster has hardened it can easily be\nseparated from the plate, and the ink in the lines will adhere to it. To\nmake such a cast you must manage a rim around your plate, or you may lay\nit into a paper box, face upward. Mix about half a tumbler full of water\n(or more, according to the size of the plate) with double the quantity\nof plaster, adding the plaster, little by little, and stirring\ncontinually. When the mixture begins to thicken pour it on the plate,\nand if necessary spread it over the whole of the surface by means of a\npiece of wood or anything else that will answer. Then allow it to\nharden.\n\n[21] (p. 55.) The chafing-dish and the ball (or dabber) are now replaced\nby the gas flame and the inking-roller in most printing establishments.\nBut if you desire to do your own proving, you will have to use a dabber,\nthe manner of making which is described in the next note.\n\n[22] (p. 59.) If there is no plate-printer near you, but you have access\nto a lithographic printing establishment, you can have your proofs taken\nthere. \"Lithographic presses,\" says A. Potemont, \"give perfectly good\nand satisfactory proofs of etchings.\"\n\nNot every printer can print an etching as it ought to be printed. A man\nmay be an excellent printer of line engravings and mezzotints, and yet\nmay be totally unfit to print an etching. I would recommend the\nfollowing printing establishments:--\n\nNew York: Kimmel & Voigt, 242 Canal Street. Boston: J. H. Daniels, 223\nWashington Street.\n\nIf you desire to establish an amateur printing-office of your own you\nwill need, in addition to the tools and materials already in your\npossession:--\n\n  A press,\n  A plate-warmer,\n  An ink-slab,\n  A muller,\n  A dabber or ball,\n  Rags for wiping,\n  Printing-ink,\n  Paper.\n\n_The press._ The presses used by professional plate-printers will be\nthought too large and too costly by most etchers. There is a small press\nsold by Madame Ve. A. Cadart, 56 Boulevard Haussmann, Paris, of which a\nrepresentation is given on the next page.\n\nThis press, accompanied by all the necessary accessories,--rags, ink,\npaper, plate-warmer, dabber, etc.,--sells in Paris at the price of 150\nfrancs (about $30). There is an extra charge for boxing; and freight,\nduties, etc., must also be paid for, extra, on presses imported to this\ncountry. The publishers of this book are ready to take orders for these\npresses, but I cannot inform the reader what the charges will amount to,\nas no importations have yet been made by Messrs. Estes & Lauriat.\n\nThere is also a small press invented by Mr. Hamerton and made in London\nby Mr. Charles Roberson, 99 Long Acre, which sells on the other side,\nfor the press only, at two guineas for the smallest, and four guineas\nfor a larger size. These presses are smaller than the Cadart presses,\nand, according to Mr. Hamerton, are \"very portable affairs, which an\netcher might put in his box when travelling, and use anywhere, in an\ninn, in a friend's house, or even out of doors when etching from\nnature.\"\n\nA small press has also quite lately been introduced by Messrs. Janentzky\n& Co., of Philadelphia, which costs only $16.50 (without accessories),\nand is well recommended by those who have used it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe press is not complete without the flannels spoken of in the text (p.\n56, Sec. 87). There is a kind of very thick flannel specially made for\nprinters' use. But if this cannot be had (of some plate-printer) any\ngood flannel with a piece of thick soft cloth over it will do well\nenough.\n\nIn adjusting the press care must be taken that the pressure is neither\ntoo great nor too small. This is a matter of experience.\n\n_The plate-warmer_ is a box made of strong sheet-iron, into which either\na gas-jet or a small kerosene lamp can be introduced. If you happen to\nhave a gas-stove, and can get an iron plate of some kind to lay across\nthe top, you will have an excellent plate-warmer.\n\n_The ink-slab._ Any _smooth_ slab of marble, slate, or lithographic\nstone, about a foot square, will do.\n\n_A muller._ This is a pestle of stone, flat at the bottom, used for\ngrinding colors or ink.\n\n_A dabber or ball._ Take strips of thick cloth or flannel, about four or\nfive inches wide; roll them together as tightly as possible, until you\nhave a cylinder of two or three inches in diameter; bind firmly by\nstrong twine wound all around the cylinder; then cut one end with a\nlarge sharp knife, so as to get a smooth surface. After the dabber has\nbeen used for some time, and the ink has hardened in it, cut off another\nslice so as to get a fresh surface.\n\n_Rags for wiping._ Fine Swiss muslin and the fabric known as cheese\ncloth make good rags for wiping. They can be bought at the dry-goods\nstores. As they are charged with some material to make them stiff and\nincrease the weight, they must be washed before they are used. When they\nhave become too much charged with ink they may be boiled out in a\nsolution of potash or soda in water. The Swiss muslin costs about twelve\ncents a yard, the cheese cloth about five.\n\nI had a lot of rags specially sent to me from Paris, as I wished to see\nthe difference between the soft and the stiff muslin. The parcel\ncontained a collection of pieces of a sort of Swiss muslin, evidently\nold curtains, and some pieces of old cotton shirting, some of which had\ndone duty at the Hotel des Invalides, still bearing its stamp!\n\n_Printing-ink and paper._ (See Notes 23 and 24.)\n\nTo _ink the plate_, place it on the plate-warmer and allow it to become\nas hot as your hand can bear. Then take up the ink from the ink-slab\nwith the dabber and spread it all over the surface, moving the dabber\nalong with a rocking motion, but not striking the plate with it. Take\ncare that the lines are well filled. Sometimes, in the first inking of\nthe plate, it is necessary to use the finger to force the ink into the\nlines.\n\nIn _wiping the plate_ the first operation is to remove all the\nsuperfluous ink from the surface by means of a rag. What follows depends\non the kind of impression you desire to get. If you want a _natural_,\n_clean_, or _dry_ proof, as these impressions are variously called (i.\ne. an impression which shows only black lines on a perfectly clear white\nground), charge the palm of your hand with a _very little_ whiting or\nSpanish white, and with it finish the wiping of the plate. This\noperation will leave the surface of the plate perfectly clean and\nbright, while the ink remains in the lines. If you desire to have an\neven tint left all over the plate, avoid the use of the hand, and wipe\nwith the rag only. Plate-printers use their rags moist, but for printing\netchings a dry rag is preferable, as it leaves more of a tint on the\nplate. Note, also, that the rag must be tolerably well charged with ink\nto enable you to wipe a good tint with it.\n\nThe margin of the plate, even if a tint is left over it, must always be\nwiped clean. This is best accomplished by a bit of cotton cloth charged\nwith whiting.\n\nFor the rest, nothing is left but to experiment according to the hints\ngiven in the text by M. Lalanne.\n\n[23] (p. 59.) If you can, buy your ink of a plate-printer or of a\nlithographer. That used by book-printers will _not_ do! The trouble is\nthat the ink used by ordinary plate-printers is of a disagreeably cold\ncast, as it is mixed with blue. Etchings ought to be printed with a warm\nblack, and sometimes, especially in the case of somewhat over-bitten\nplates, with an ink of a decidedly brownish hue. Inks are made of\nlinseed-oil varnish (i. e. linseed oil that has been boiled down or\nburned), and the blacks mentioned in the text. There are various\nqualities of varnish according to its consistency, varying from thin\nthrough medium to stiff. If you wish to mix your own ink, you must try\nto procure the materials of some plate-printer or lithographer. For\nvarnish use the medium, for black the Francfort. The burnt Sienna (which\nyou can buy at any paint-shop) is used only to warm up the black. Lay\nsome of the dry color on your ink-slab, add a very little of the\nvarnish, and mix with the muller. Then add more varnish until the ink\nforms a tolerably stiff paste. The grinding must be carefully done, so\nas to avoid grittiness. Besides, if the color is not thoroughly well\nincorporated with the varnish, the ink will not stand. To preserve the\nink for future use, put it into some vessel with a cover, and pour water\nover it. The water standing on top of the ink keeps it soft. Otherwise\nthe varnish would harden.\n\n[24] (p. 60.) The heavy Dutch hand-made papers are still preferred by\nmost people for etchings; but it is very difficult, if not impossible,\nto procure them in this country. The paper known as Lalanne charcoal\npaper, which is likewise a hand-made paper, can be bought at the\nartist's material stores. Good drawing-paper will also answer. The\nworst, because most inartistic, of all, is the plain white plate paper.\nThe paper used for the etchings in the AMERICAN ART REVIEW, first made\nespecially for this journal according to my suggestions, has excellent\nprinting qualities, although, being a machine-made, unglued paper, it\nlacks some of the characteristics of the Dutch hand-made paper. But its\ntexture is very good, and it takes up the ink even _better_ than the\nDutch papers.\n\nJapanese paper can be procured of the firms named on page xiii.\n\nDry paper will not take a decent impression, and the sheets to be used\nfor printing must therefore be moistened. To prepare the ordinary paper,\ntake three or four sheets at a time, and pass them slowly through clean\nwater contained in a pail or other vessel. Wet as many sheets as you may\nneed, lay them on top of one another, place the pile between two boards,\nand allow them to lie thus under tolerably heavy pressure for at least\ntwelve, or, better still, for twenty-four hours. The paper will then be\nready for use.\n\nTo prepare Japanese paper, lay each sheet between two wet sheets of\nordinary paper, and let it lie as before.\n\n[25] (p. 60.) _Epreuves de remarque._ The _remarque_ usually consists in\nleaving unfinished some little detail in an out-of-the-way corner of the\nplate. After the _epreuves de remarque_ have been printed, this detail\nis finished. A person who cannot tell a good impression from a bad one,\nor does not know whether a plate is spoiled or still in good condition,\nwithout some such extraneous sign, has slight claim to be considered a\nconnoisseur.\n\n[26] (p. 62.) New York is, for the present, I believe, the only place\nwhere steel-facing is done in America. I can recommend Mr. F. A.\nRingler, 21 and 23 Barclay Street, New York.\n\n[27] (p. 62.) Zinc plates _can_ be steel-faced, but the facing cannot be\nrenewed, as it cannot be removed. The zinc plate on which Mr. Lansil's\nlittle etching, given in this volume, is executed, was steel-faced. It\nis feasible also, the electrotypers tell me, to deposit a thin coating\nof copper on the zinc first, and then to superimpose a coating of steel.\nIn that case the steel-facing can be renewed as long as the\ncopper-facing under it remains intact.\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF WORKS ON THE PRACTICE AND HISTORY OF ETCHING.[E]\n\n  [E] This list is very far from being complete, especially in the last\n  section, \"Individual Artists.\" I have made a few additions, which have\n  been marked by an asterisk. Those who desire to pursue the subject\n  will find a very full bibliographical list in J. E. WESSELY'S\n  _Anleitung zur Kenntniss und zum Sammeln der Werke des Kunstdruckes_,\n  Leipzig, Weigel, 1876, p. 279 et seq.--_Translator._\n\n\nA. TECHNICAL TREATISES.\n\n_De la gravure en taille-douce, a l'eau-forte et au burin_, ensemble la\nmaniere d'en imprimer les planches et d'en construire la presse, par\nABRAHAM BOSSE. Paris, 1645.\n\n_Traite des manieres de graver en taille-douce sur l'airain_ par le\nmoyen des eaux-fortes et des vernis durs et mols, par le s. ABRAHAM\nBOSSE, augmente de la nouvelle maniere dont se sert M. LECLERC, graveur\ndu roi. Paris, 1701.\n\n* _De la maniere de graver a l'eau-forte_ et au burin, et de la\ngravure en maniere noir ... par ABRAHAM BOSSE. Nouvelle edition....\nParis, 1758. Small 8vo. Ill.\n\n* _Die Kunst in Kupfer zu stechen_ sowohl mittelst des Aetzwassers als\nmit dem Grabstichel ... durch ABRAHAM BOSSE.... Aus dem Franzoesischen\nins Deutsche uebersetzt. Dresden, 1765. Small 8vo. Ill.\n\n_The Art of Graveing and Etching_, wherein is exprest the true Way of\nGraveing in Copper; allso the Manner and Method of that famous Callot,\nand M. Bosse, in their several Ways of Etching. Published by WILLIAM\nFAITHORNE. London, 1662. 8vo. Ill.\n\n_Idee de la gravure_, par M. DE M * * *. Without place or date. 12mo.\n(This essay appeared originally in the \"Mercure\" for April, 1756, and\nwas afterwards printed separately. See, also, in the \"Mercure\" for 1755,\na notice, announcing the publication of a print by de Marcenay de Ghuy\nafter the elder Parrocel. This notice was also printed separately.)\n\n_Idee de la gravure_ ... par M. DE MARCENAY DE GHUY. Paris, 1764. In-4\nde 16 et 10 pag. (This is a second edition of the work last mentioned.)\n\n* _Anleitung zur Aetzkunst_ ... nach eigenen praktischen Erfahrungen\nherausgegeben von JOHANN HEINRICH MEYNIER. Hof, 1804. 8vo. Ill.\n\n_Lectures on the Art of Engraving_, delivered at the Royal Institute of\nGreat Britain, by JOHN LANDSEER, Engraver to the King. London, 1807.\n8vo.\n\n_Three Lectures on Engraving_, delivered at the Surrey Institution in\nthe Year 1809, by ROBERT MITCHELL MEADOWS. London, 1811. 8vo.\n\n_Manuel du graveur_, ou Traite complet de la gravure en tous genres,\nd'apres les renseignements fournis par plusieurs artistes. Par A. M.\nPERROT. Paris, 1830. In-18.\n\n_Des mordants, des vernis et des planches dans l'art du graveur_, ou\nTraite complet de la gravure. Par PIERRE DELESCHAMPS. Paris, 1836. In-8.\n\n* _Vollstaendiges Handbuch der Gravirkunst_, enthaltend gruendliche\nBelehrungen ueber die Aetzwaesser, die Aetzgruende, die Platten und die\nGravir-maschinen.... Von PET. DELESCHAMPS. Deutsch, mit Zusaetzen, von\nDr. CHR. H. SCHMIDT. Quedlinburg und Leipzig, Basse, 1838. Ill.\n\n_The Art of Engraving_, with the various Modes of Operation.... By T. H.\nFIELDING. London, 1844. 8vo. Ill.\n\n_Lettre de Martial_ sur les elements de la gravure a l'eau-forte. Paris,\n1864. (Etched on 4 fol. plates, illustrated.)\n\n_Nouveau traite de la gravure a l'eau-forte_ a l'usage des peintres et\ndes dessinateurs, par A. P. MARTIAL. Paris, A. Cadart. 1873. Ill.\n\n* _The Etcher's Handbook_: giving an Account of the Old Processes, and\nof Processes recently discovered. By PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. London,\nRoberson, 1871. Ill. (See also Mr. Hamerton's _Etching and Etchers_, 2d\nedition.)\n\n* _Mr. Seymour Haden on Etching._ Lectures delivered at the Royal\nInstitution, reports of which were published in \"The Magazine of Art,\"\n1879, and in the London \"Building News,\" 1879.\n\n* _The Etcher's Guide._ By THOMAS BISHOP. Philadelphia, Janentzky,\n1879. Ill.\n\n_Grammaire des Arts du Dessin_, par CHARLES BLANC. In this work (of\nwhich there is also an English translation), there is a special chapter\non Etching.\n\n_Charles Jacque._ Articles by him on Etching in the \"Magasin\npittoresque.\"\n\n_Gravure._--Article extrait de l'Encyclopedie des arts et metiers.\nIn-fol, de 9 pag., fig.\n\n\nB. HISTORICAL AND THEORETICAL.\n\n* _Anleitung zur Kupferstichkunde._ VON ADAM VON BARTSCH. Wien, 1821.\n2 vols. 8vo. Plates.\n\n_Des types et des manieres des maitres graveurs_, pour servir a\nl'histoire de la gravure en Italie, en Allemagne, dans les Pays-Bas et\nen France, par JULES RENOUVIER. Montpellier, 1853-1856. 4 parties in-4.\n\n_La gravure depuis son origine_, par HENRI DELABORDE. 1860. (These\narticles appeared in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ for Dec. 1 and 15,\n1850, and Jan. 1, 1851.)\n\n_Histoire de la gravure en France_, par GEORGES DUPLESSIS. Paris, 1861.\nIn-8. (This work was crowned by the French Institute [Academie des\nbeaux-arts].)\n\n_Etching and Etchers._ By PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. London, Macmillan,\n1868. 4to. Ill.\n\n* _Etching and Etchers._ By PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. (Second edition.)\n1876. London, Macmillan. Boston, Roberts Bros.\n\n* _The Origin and Antiquity of Engraving_.... By W. S. BAKER. Boston,\nOsgood, 1875. 4to. (Second edition. Ill.)\n\n_La Gravure a l'eau-forte_, essai historique par RAOUL DE\nSAINT-ARROMAN.--_Comment je devins graveur a l'eau-forte_, par le comte\nLEPIC. Paris, Cadart, 1876.\n\n* _Anleitung zur Kenntniss und zum Sammeln der Werke des\nKunstdruckes_, von J. E. WESSELY. Leipzig, Weigel, 1876. 8vo.\n\n* _About Etching._ Part I. Notes by Mr. SEYMOUR HADEN on a Collection\nof Etchings by the Great Masters.... Part II. An Annotated Catalogue of\nthe Etchings exhibited. 148 New Bond Street (London), 1879. (Second\nedition, which has some additions.)\n\n* _About Etching._ By SEYMOUR HADEN. Illustrated with an original\netching by Mr. Haden, and fourteen facsimiles from his collection.\nImperial 4to. London, The Fine Art Society, 1879.\n\n\nC. CATALOGUES OF THE WORKS OF THE ARTISTS.\n\n(_a._) DICTIONARIES.\n\n_Le peintre-graveur_, par ADAM BARTSCH. Vienne, 1803-1821. 21 vol. in-8\net un atlas in-4.\n\n* _Le peintre-graveur._ Par J. D. PASSAVANT. Leipzig, 1860. 6 vols.\n8vo. (Continuation of Bartsch's work.)\n\n_Le peintre-graveur francais_, ... par ROBERT DUMESNIL. Paris,\n1835-1874. 11 vol. in-8.\n\n_Le peintre-graveur francais continue_, par PROSPER DE BEAUDICOUR.\nParis, 1859. 2 vol. in-8.\n\n* _Le peintre-graveur hollandais et flamand._ Par J. P. VAN DER\nKELLEN. Utrecht, 1866. 4to. (Continuation of Bartsch's work.)\n\n* _Le peintre-graveur hollandais et belge du XIX^e siecle._ Par T.\nHIPPERT et JOS. LINNIG. Bruxelles, 1874 (first vol.) et seq. 8vo.\n\n* _Der deutsche Peintre-graveur._ Von A. ANDRESEN. Leipzig, 1864, et\nseq. 5 vols. 8vo.\n\n* _Die Malerradirer des 19. Jahrhunderts._ Von A. ANDRESEN. Leipzig,\n1866-1870. 4 vols. 8vo.\n\n* _Die Malerradirer des 19. Jahrhunderts._ Von J. E. WESSELY. Leipzig,\n1874. 8vo. (Continuation of Andresen's work.)\n\n\n(_b._) INDIVIDUAL ARTISTS.\n\n_Beredeneerde catalogus_ van alle de prenten van NICOLAAS BERGHEM ...\nbeschreven door HENDRICK DE WINTER. Amsterdam, 1767.\n\n_Catalogue de l'oeuvre d'Abraham Bosse_, par GEORGES DUPLESSIS. Paris,\n1859. In-8. (From the \"Revue Universelle des Arts.\")\n\n_Eloge historique de Callot_, par le P. HUSSON. Bruxelles, 1766. In-4.\n\n_A Catalogue and Description_ of the whole of the Works of the\ncelebrated JACQUES CALLOT ... by J. H. GREEN (attributed to CLAUSSIN).\n1804. 12mo.\n\n_Eloge historique de Callot_, par M. DESMARETZ. Nancy, 1828. In-8.\n\n_Recherches_ sur la vie et les ouvrages de J. CALLOT, par E. MEAUME.\nParis, 1860. 2 vol. in-8.\n\n_OEuvre de Claude Gelee_, dit le Lorrain, par le comte GUILLAUME DE L.\n(LEPPEL). Dresde, 1806. In-8, fig. (For the engraved works of Claude\nLorrain, see also the \"Peintre-graveur\" of M. Robert Dumesnil, vol. i.,\nand the \"Cabinet de l'Amateur et de l'Antiquaire,\" by Eugene Piot, vol.\nii. pp. 433-466.)\n\n_Eloge historique de Claude Gelee_, dit le Lorrain, par J. P. VOIART.\nNancy, 1839. In-8.\n\n_A Description_ of the Works of the ingenious Delineator and Engraver,\nWENCESLAUS HOLLAR, disposed into Classes of different Sorts; with some\nAccount of his Life. By G. VERTUE. London, 1745. 4to, Portr.\n\n_De la gravure a l'eau-forte et des eaux-fortes de Charles Jacque._ By\nCHARLES BLANC. In the \"Gazette des Beaux Arts,\" vol. ix. p. 193 et seq.\n\n_Les Johannot_, par M. CH. LENORMANT. Paris (1858). In-8. (From\nMichaud's \"Biographie universelle.\")\n\n* _Essay on Meryon, and a Catalogue of his Works_, by FREDERIC\nWEDMORE. London, Thibaudeau, 1879. (Announced as about to be published.)\nSee also _Meryon and Meryon's Paris_, by F. WEDMORE, in the \"Nineteenth\nCentury,\" for May, 1878.\n\n* _P. Burty's Catalogue of the Etchings of Meryon_, revised from the\nCatalogue in the \"Gazette des Beaux Arts,\" and translated by Mr. M. B.\nHUISH, is announced to be published by the London Fine-Art Society.\n\n_M^e. O'Connell, Meissonier, Millet, Meryon, Seymour Haden._ Articles\non these etchers by PHILIPPE BURTY in the \"Gazette des Beaux Arts.\"\n\n_Catalogue raisonne_ des estampes gravees a l'eau-forte par GUIDO RENI,\npar ADAM BARTSCH. Vienne, 1795. In-8.\n\n_Catalogue raisonne_ de toutes les estampes qui forment l'oeuvre de\n_Rembrandt_, ... par ADAM BARTSCH. Vienne, 1797. 2 vol. in-8.\n\n_A Descriptive Catalogue of the Prints of Rembrandt_, by an Amateur\n(WILSON). London, 1836. In-8.\n\n_Rembrandt and his Works_, ... by JOHN BURNET. London, 1859. 4to. Ill.\n\n_Rembrandt._ Discours sur sa vie et son genie, avec un grand nombre de\ndocuments historiques, par le Dr. P. SCHELTEMA, traduit par A. WILLEMS.\nRevu et annote par W. BURGER. Bruxelles, 1859. In-8. (From the \"Revue\nuniverselle des Arts.\")\n\n_L'OEuvre complet de Rembrandt_, remarquablement decrit et commente\npar CHARLES BLANC. Paris, 1859. 3 vol. in-8.\n\n* _Rembrandt Harmens van Rijn._ Ses precurseurs et ses annees\nd'apprentissage. Par C. VOSMAER. La Haye, Nijhoff, 1863.\n\n* _Rembrandt Harmens van Rijn._ Sa vie et ses oeuvres. Par C.\nVOSMAER. La Haye, Nijhoff, 1868. (A second, revised edition appeared\nsome years ago.)\n\n* _The Etched Works of Rembrandt._ A Monograph. By FRANCIS SEYMOUR\nHADEN. With three plates and appendix. London, Macmillan, 1879. Medium\n8vo.\n\n* _Descriptive Catalogue_ of the Etched Works of _Rembrandt van Rhyn_.\nWith Life and Introduction. By C. H. MIDDLETON. Royal 8vo. London, 1879.\n\n_Pictorial Notices_; consisting of a Memoir of _Sir Anthony van Dyck_,\nwith a Descriptive Catalogue of the Etchings executed by him.... By\nWILLIAM HOOKHAM CARPENTER. London, 1844. 4to. Portrait.\n\n* _The Works of the American Etchers._ In the \"American Art Review.\"\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:\n\n\nObvious typos and inconsistencies corrected/standardised:\n  Bruxelle to Bruxelles,\n  Nitrid Acid to Nitric Acid,\n  i.e. to i. e.,\n  Societe des aqua-fortistes to Societe des Aqua-fortistes (as\n  elsewhere in text),\n  Epreuves to Epreuves (as elsewhere in text),\n  cardboard to card-board,\n  overbitten and over bitten to over-bitten,\n  travelling board to travelling-board (as elsewhere in text).\n\nOther inconsistencies generally left as in original:\n  Zinc/zinc v Zink/zink,\n  facsimile v fac-simile,\n  nowadays v now-a-days,\n  India-rubber v india-rubber,\n  Rembrandt van Rhyn v Rembrandt van Rijn.\n\nThe oe-ligature (as in oeuvre) is represented as oe. Passages in italics\nare surrounded by _underscores_. Likewise passages in bold are indicated\nby =bold=. The carat character ^ is used to indicate superscripts (as in\nFig. 1^a).\n\nTable of Contents: expanded (compared to original book) by including all\nsections in the List of Works. Note that the section headed My Dear M.\nLalanne in the text is called Letter by M. Charles Leblanc in the Table\nof Contents.\n\nPlate IX and page xxiv: the writing on the plate is not very clear, but\nthe building is actually called the Waag, this has been used in the\ntext.\n\nFootnotes (A, B, ...) moved to end of paragraph, endnotes (notes from\nthe translator, 1, 2, ...) left together in separate chapter, as in\noriginal.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Treatise on Etching, by Maxime Lalanne\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "Sir Alf - Leo McKinstry"}, "text": "\n# Sir Alf\n\n### Leo McKinstry\n\nA Major Reappraisal of the Life and Times of England's Greatest Football Manager\n\n_This book is dedicated to the memory of Dermot Gogarty, 1958-2005_\n\n_Another man of dignity, courage and leadership_\n\n# Table of Contents\n\nCover Page\n\nTitle Page\n\nDedication\n\nPreface\n\nIntroduction\n\nONE Dagenbam\n\nTWO The Dell\n\nTHREE White Hart Lane\n\nFOUR Belo Horizonte\n\nFIVE Villa Park\n\nSIX Portman Road\n\nSEVEN Lancaster Gate\n\nEIGHT Lilleshall\n\nNINE Hendon Hall\n\nTEN Wembley\n\nELEVEN Florence\n\nTWELVE Leon\n\nTHIRTEEN Katowice\n\nFOURTEEN St Mary's\n\nBibliography\n\nIndex\n\nPraise\n\nCopyright\n\nAbout the Publisher\n\n# _Preface_\n\nWembley, 30 July 1966. Amid scenes of jubilation, Geoff Hurst slams the ball into the top left-hand corner of the West German net. After a pulsating match, England are only seconds away from winning the World Cup. But as wave upon wave of ecstatic cheering echoes throughout the Wembley stadium, the England manager remains seated on the bench, showing not a flicker of emotion.\n\nSir Alf Ramsey's almost superhuman calmness at the moment of victory has become one of the iconic images of the glorious summer of 1966. For all his outward imperturbability, no one had greater cause to rejoice than him. He was the true architect of England's triumph, the man who had moulded his players into a world-beating unit. The experts and press had mocked when he had declared, soon after his appointment to the national job, that England would win the World Cup. After 1966, he was never laughed at again. Yet Ramsey was acting entirely in character on that July afternoon at Wembley. In his behaviour, he demonstrated the very qualities that helped to make him such a superb manager: his majestic coolness under pressure; his natural modesty which meant that he always put his players' achievements before his own; his innate dignity and authority.\n\nSince the World Cup victory, Sir Alf Ramsey has rightly been regarded as the greatest of all British football managers, winning at every level of the game. Through his tactical awareness, motivational powers and judgment of ability, he not only turned England into World Champions, but also, perhaps even more incredibly, he took unfashionable Ipswich Town from the lower reaches of the old Third Division South to the First Division title in the space of just six years. No other manager has been able to equal this record. Sir Alex Ferguson may have won a boardroom-full of trophies at Old Trafford, but he has been almost untested on the highest international stage. Similarly Sir Matt Busby, Brian Clough and Bob Paisley all gained the English championship and the European Cup, but none of them managed any national side, in Clough's case to his bitter regret, having been turned down for the England job in 1977. Bill Shankly, the legendary boss at Anfield, and Stan Cullis, the iron manager at Molineux, each won three league titles and two FA Cups, but, again, their excellence was confined to the domestic arena. Of international British managers, Jack Charlton may have worked a near miracle with the Republic of Ireland but he could not do the same with any of his clubs, nor could Billy Bingham, who took modest Northern Ireland to successive World Cups in the eighties. Perhaps the man who comes closest to Ramsey was one of his successors at Portman Road, Sir Bobby Robson, who in his long and honourable career won the FA Cup and UEFA Cup with Ipswich Town, the Cup Winners' Cup with Barcelona and two domestic championships with both PSV Eindhoven and Porto, as well as taking England to the semi-finals of the World Cup in 1990. But the greatest prize eluded him.\n\nFor all his extraordinary breadth of achievement, however, Sir Alf Ramsey has always been an elusive figure, an enigma whose life story has remained shrouded in mystery. A private, shy man, he was never at ease with the limelight and throughout his career had an awkward relationship with the media. Even those who worked with him for years, such as his secretary at Ipswich, Pat Godbold, or his longest-serving England player, Bobby Charlton, say that they never got to know him. Partly because of his insecurities about his humble upbringing, he built a protective shield around himself. In contrast to the expansive Sir Bobby Robson, who has written at least four versions of his autobiography, Alf never produced any memoirs, nor did he give many revealing interviews to the press.\n\nThere have been three previous books about Sir Alf, of varying quality. In 1970, the journalist Max Marquis wrote a thin, viciously skewed account, _Anatomy of a Manager,_ which was based on recycling negative press stories about Sir Alf. It was hysterical in its vituperation, limited in its scope. Another book, _England: The Alf Ramsey Years,_ by Graham McColl, published in 1988, dwelt entirely on his record as manager of the national team, though it did have the seal of Ramsey's approval. A more comprehensive biography, _Winning Isn't Everything,_ was written in 1998 by Dave Bowler, who has also produced a superb life of Alf's nemesis at Tottenham Hotspur, Danny Blanchflower. Bowler's portrait was balanced and used much original testimony, and was particularly good on Alf's tactical innovations. Yet it still left many aspects of Sir Alf's life and career uncovered.\n\nBy dint of extensive research and interviews, I have sought to provide a fuller, more rounded portrait of this remarkable figure. I have been able to unearth new information about his upbringing, his marriage, his early social life, particularly when he was a player at Spurs, his relationship with his England team and the circumstances surrounding his sacking. During my research, I was intrigued to learn of the real reasons why England were knocked out of the World Cup in Mexico in 1970, when Sir Alf displayed a rare but disastrous neglect of certain logistical arrangements.\n\nI have aimed to write more than just a conventional biography. By placing Ramsey in his historical context, I have also sought to analyse professional football and the fabric of British society over the span of his life. One of the many appealing features of Sir Alf's story is the way it covered a revolution not only in soccer but also in social attitudes. The labourer's son from Dagenham witnessed the end of the age of deference, the abolition of the maximum wage, the rise of the superstar player, the demise of amateur administrators, the collapse of rigid class structures, the first majority Labour government, the arrival of the permissive society and the disappearance of Empire. Ramsey himself, as a traditionalist in his personal outlook but a revolutionary on the soccer field, appeared to embody that fluid climate of resistance and change.\n\nIn helping me to cover this material, I owe a large debt to many people. A great number of ex-England and Ipswich footballers, who were managed by Alf, agreed to give interviews for this book, so I would like to record my thanks to: Jimmy Armfield, Alan Ball, Gordon Banks, Barry Bridges, Sir Trevor Brooking, Allan Clarke, Ray Clemence, George Cohen, John Compton, Ray Crawford, Martin Dobson, Bryan Douglas, John Elsworthy, the late Johnny Haynes, Ron Henry, Norman Hunter, Brian Labone, Jimmy Leadbetter, Francis Lee, Roy McFarland, Ken Malcolm, Gordon Milne, Alan Mullery, Andy Nelson, Maurice Norman, Mike O'Grady, Terry Paine, Alan Peacock, Mike Pejic, Ted Phillips, Fred Pickering, Paul Reaney, Joe Royle, Dave Sadler, Peter Shilton, Nobby Stiles, Ian Storey-Moore, Mike Summerbee, Derek Temple, Peter Thompson, Colin Todd, Tony Waiters and Ray Wilson. I must also express my gratitude to the many Southampton, Spurs and England footballers who gave me the benefit of their views about playing alongside Alf: Eddie Baily, Ted Ballard, Ian Black, Eric Day, the late Ted Ditchburn, Terry Dyson, Stan Clements, Bill Ellerington, Sir Tom Finney, Alf Freeman, Mel Hopkins, Tony Marchi, Arthur Milton, Derek Ufton and Denis Uphill. Ed Speight, a Dagenham-bred youth player at Spurs during Alf's last days at White Hart Lane, generously showed me some of his correspondence with Alf.\n\nI am, in addition, grateful to those journalists who gave me their views of Alf: Tony Garnett, Brian James, Ken Jones, David Lacey, Hugh McIlvanney, Colin Malam, Jeff Powell, Brian Scovell and Martin Tyler. I am especially indebted to Nigel Clarke, who knew Alf for more than 30 years and cowrote his column for the _Daily Mirror_ in the eighties. Key figures at the FA during Alf's reign, David Barber, Margaret Fuljames, Wilf McGuinness and Alan Odell, gave me many fascinating insights into Alf's style of management, while I further benefited from speaking to Hubert Doggart, son of Graham Doggart, who chaired the FA committee that appointed Alf as England manager in 1962. Dr Neil Phillips, the national team doctor in the second half of Alf's England career, could not have been more helpful with his advice and frank testimony.\n\nInformation about Alf's early days in Dagenham was given by Cliff Anderson, George Baker, Jean Bixby, Phil Cairns, Charles Emery, Father Gerald Gosling, Pauline Gosling, Beattie Robbins, Joyce Rushbrook, Gladys Skinner and Tommy Sloan. Invaluable assistance about other aspects of Sir Alf's life was provided by Terry Baker, Mary Bates, John Booth, Tommy Docherty, Anne Elsworthy, Peter Little, Margaret Lorenzo, Matthew Lorenzo, Bill Martin, Pat Millward, Tina Moore (widow of Bobby) and Bernard Sharpe.\n\nSeveral experts were extremely generous in providing me with contact numbers and historical details: David Bull, author of an excellent life of Southampton stalwart Ted Bates; Rob Hadcraft, who wrote a fine study of Ipswich's Championship-winning season in 1961-62; Kevin Palmer, amongst whose many works is a history of Spurs' two titles in 1950-51 and 1960-61; and Andy Porter, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of ex-professionals' careers. Pat Godbold, still working at Ipswich after more than half a century, not only gave me an interview about her time as secretary to Alf but also helped with Ipswich contacts. Roy Prince, archivist with the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry Association, shed some light on Sir Alf's army career.\n\nFor all their help with other research material, I am grateful to staff at the BBC archives, the ITN archives, the British Newspaper Library, Southampton Central Reference Library, the Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths, the Probate Division, the Press Association, the library of the _Daily Mail,_ Tottenham Hotspur FC, the Barking and Dagenham Record office at Valence House Museum, the _Barking and Dagenham Recorder_ and the Football Association.\n\nLady Victoria Ramsey, Sir Alf's widow, felt she could not co-operate with this book, though she did write to me expressing how devoted she was to her late husband.\n\nI would like to thank Tom Whiting and Michael Doggart at HarperCollins for overseeing this project and giving me endless encouragement and support.\n\nFinally, I owe a huge debt to my dear wife Elizabeth, who put up with the many, isolated months I spent in research and writing without complaint. I can never thank her enough for putting me on the path to becoming an author.\n\n_Leo McKinstry_\n\n_Coggeshall, Essex, April 2006_\n\n# _Introduction_\n\n15 May 1999. The ancient Suffolk church of St Mary-le-Tower in Ipswich had never previously held such a large or distinguished congregation. Three hundred mourners were crowded tightly on its polished wooden pews, while hundreds more lined the streets outside. England's greatest living footballer, Sir Bobby Charlton, sat near the front, looking more sombre than ever. Alongside him were colleagues from the World Cup-winning team of 1966, including the bald, bespectacled Nobby Stiles, the flame-haired Alan Ball and Bobby's own gangly brother Jack, who had left his Northumberland home at first light to attend the event.\n\nThey had gathered on a bright afternoon to pay their last respects at the memorial service of Sir Alfred Ernest Ramsey, the former England and Ipswich manager who had died at the end of April after a long illness. The venerable provincial setting was appropriate to the man whose life was being honoured, since modesty was one of the hallmarks of his personality. For all his success as both player and manager, for all his brilliance as a leader, he continually shunned the limelight and was uneasy with public adulation. The august Gothic expanse of Westminster Abbey or the classical grandeur of St Paul's would not have suited a farewell for this least bombastic of men.\n\nThe personal qualities of Sir Alf were referred to throughout the service. Afterwards, outside the church, former players spoke of his loyalty, his essential decency and his strength of character. 'He was an incredibly special manager. I just loved being with him, because I knew everything was straight down the line,' said Alan Ball. 'He was responsible for the greatest moment I had as a footballer and I will never forget or be able to thank him enough for that,' said Jack Charlton.\n\nIn a moving eulogy, George Cohen, another of the 1966 Cup winners, described Ramsey as 'not only a great football manager but a great Englishman'. Highlighting the way Sir Alf would stick by his players, Cohen gave the example of the occasion when Sir Alf refused to give in to pressure from FA officials to drop Nobby Stiles from the 1966 side after a disastrous challenge on the French player Jacques Simon. Though the tackle, according to Cohen, had been 'so late Connex South East would have been embarrassed by it,' Sir Alf supported Stiles to the hilt and even threatened to resign if the FA ordered him to change the team. In a voice cracking with emotion, Cohen continued: 'Sir Alf established a strong bond with his players who stood before every other consideration. We all loved him very much indeed. What Alf created was a family that is still as strong today in feeling and belief as it was thirty-three years ago when we won the World Cup.' Cohen then speculated as to how Alf might have reacted to such words of praise. 'If he is looking down at this particular moment, he is probably thinking, \"Yes, George, I think we have had quite enough of that.\" Finally, Cohen turned in the direction of Sir Alf's grieving widow, Lady Victoria. 'Alf changed our lives, not just because of what we achieved with him but because our lives were richer for having known and played for him. He was an extraordinary man. Thank you for sharing him.'\n\nThough the memorial service had been billed as 'a celebration' of Sir Alf's life, it was inevitable that the day should also be wreathed in sadness at his loss. 'I could not be more upset if he was family,' said Sir Bobby Charlton. Big Ted Phillips, one of Ipswich's strikers during Ramsey's years at the Suffolk club, told me: 'At Alf's memorial service, I could not speak. There were tears rolling down my cheeks. They wanted me to say a few words, but I told them I couldn't do it. Alf meant so much to me. He was a superb guy. He was unique. Under him at Ipswich, we were like a big family.'\n\nYet the sense of sorrow went much deeper than merely regret at the passing of one of England's modern heroes. There was also a mixture of guilt, disappointment and anger that, during his lifetime, Sir Alf had never been accorded the recognition he deserved. He might have been the man who, in the words of Tony Blair, 'gave this nation the greatest moment in our sporting history,' but he was hardly treated as such by the football establishment. Throughout his career as England manager, many in the FA regarded him with suspicion or contempt. He was never given a winner's medal for the 1966 World Cup victory, something that rankled with him right up to the moment of his death. His pay was always pitifully low, far worse than most First Division managers of his time, and when he was sacked in 1974, he was given only a meagre pension.\n\nThe last 25 years of his life were spent in a sad, twilight existence. The lack of money was compounded by the refusal of the football authorities to make any use of his unparalleled knowledge of the game. While football enjoyed an embarrassment of riches from the early nineties onwards, Sir Alf was left in uncomfortable exile, isolated and ignored. As late as 1996, the FA denied him any participatory role in the ceremonies to mark the opening of the European Championship in England. 'I sometimes look back and become bitter about it. I achieved something perhaps no manager will ever do again, yet the wealth of the game passed me by. I would have liked to have retired in comfort, and have no worries about money, but that has not been the case. And I couldn't understand why, after I left the FA, nobody there was prepared to let me work for my country,' he said in 1996.\n\nThis neglect of Sir Alf was symbolized by the absence from his memorial service of a host of key figures from the football world, despite the attendance of most of the 1966 side. Invitations were sent to all 92 Football League clubs, but only five of them were represented. Neither the then England manager Kevin Keegan nor any Premiership manager were present, though there were no fixtures that Saturday. Not one current England player showed up. As Gordon Taylor, Chairman of the Professional Footballers' Association, put it afterwards: 'It is amazing. If we cannot honour our heroes, what is the point of it all \u2013 and was there ever a greater hero for our game than Sir Alf? Everyone in the English game who could have been here should have been. It is a matter of simple respect.'\n\nBut in truth, outside the confines of his England squad, respect was something that Sir Alf had rarely been shown. The reluctance to honour him was not confined to the FA. Ever since the triumph of 1966, he had been the subject of a stream of criticism for his approach to football. His manner was condemned as aloof and forbidding, his methods as over-cautious and ultra-defensive. He was widely seen as the leader who hated flair and distrusted genius, a dull man in charge of a dull team. 'Ramsey's Robots' were said to have taken all grace and romance out of football. 'Alf Ramsey pulls the strings and the players dance for him. He has theorized them out of the game. They mustn't think for themselves. They have been so brainwashed by tactics and talks that individual talent has been thrust into the background,' claimed Bob Kelly, the President of the Scottish FA. The 1966 triumph was belittled as the fruit of nothing more than perspiration, dubious refereeing and home advantage.\n\nIndeed, many critics went even further, claiming that winning the World Cup had been disastrous for British football in the long-term, because it encouraged a negative style of play. Particularly regrettable, it was said, was his abandonment of wingers in favour of a mundane 4-3-3 formation, which relied more on packing the midfield than in building attacks from the flanks. Sir Alf's enthusiasm for the aggressive Nobby Stiles was seen as typical of his dour outlook, as was his preference for the hard-working Geoff Hurst over the more creative, less diligent Jimmy Greaves in the final itself against West Germany. In Alf's England, it seemed, the workhorse was more valued than the thoroughbred. The doyen of Irish football writers, Eamon Dunphy, who played with Manchester United and Millwall, put it thus: 'Alf came to the conclusion that his players weren't good enough to compete, in any positive sense, with their betters. His response was a formula which stopped good players.' Similarly, the imaginative Manchester City coach Malcolm Allison argued that 'to Alf's way of thinking, skill meant lazy'.\n\nThis chorus of criticism reached full volume in the early seventies, when Sir Alf became more vulnerable because of poor results. He was the Roundhead who kept losing battles. As England were knocked out of the European Championship by West Germany in 1972, Hugh McIlvanney summed up the mood against Alf:\n\n> Cautious, joyless football was scarcely bearable even while it was bringing victories. What is happening now we always felt to be inevitable, because anyone who sets out to prove that football is about sweat rather than inspiration, about winning rather than glory, is sure to be found out in the end. Ramsey's method was, to be fair, justifiable in 1966, when it was important that England should make a powerful show in the World Cup, but since then it has become an embarrassment.\n\nSome of the attacks grew vindictive, with Alf painted as a relic of a vanishing past, clinging on stubbornly to players and systems no longer fit for the modern age. His old-fashioned, stilted voice and demeanour were mocked, his lack of flamboyance ridiculed. In early 1973, soon after England had beaten Scotland 5-0 at Hampden, with Mick Channon performing well up front, the satirical magazine _Foul!_ carried a cruel but rather leaden article entitled 'Lady Ramsey's Diary', parodying the _Private Eye_ series of the time about Downing Street, 'Mrs Wilson's Diary'. One extract ran:\n\n> He's terribly worried about this Mr Shannon _(sic)._ 'You see, my dear,' he told me (it's amazing how different he sounds after those elocution lessons), 'we just can't afford to have individuals playing so well. It undermines the whole team effort. Besides, people will start expecting us to score five goals in every game, and we can't have that.'\n\nThe critics had their way in April 1974, when Sir Alf was sacked as manager after eleven years in the post. The FA's decision was hardly a surprise, given England's failure to qualify for the World Cup the previous autumn. But it still fell as a painful blow to Sir Alf, one from which he never really recovered. He once explained that only three things mattered to him \u2013 'football, my country and my wife'. Football had turned out to be a fickle mistress, and for the remainder of his years he carried a feeling of betrayal. 'Football has passed me by,' he said towards the end of his life.\n\nSince his sacking, no other England manager has come near to the pinnacle he climbed. When he departed in 1974, it seemed likely that England might one day reach that peak again. In the subsequent 30 years and more, however, the national side has endured one failure after another, with just two semi-finals in major championships during those three decades. Yet it should also be remembered that before Sir Alf's arrival as manager in 1963, England's record was equally dismal, having never gone further than a World Cup quarter-final; indeed in 1950, the national side suffered what is still the greatest upset in the history of global soccer, losing 1-0 to the unknown amateurs of the USA. Set in the context of England's sorry history, therefore, the extent of Sir Alf's achievement becomes all the more remarkable, putting into perspective much of the carping about his management.\n\nHe might not have inspired electrifying football, but for most of his reign he achieved results that would have been the envy of every manager since. Nobby Stiles told me: 'I cannot say enough in favour of Alf Ramsey. His insights were unbelievable. I would have died for him.' It is a telling fact that the 1970 World Cup in Mexico is the only occasion when England have ever gone into a major tournament as one of the favourites to win it \u2013 in 1966, England, still living with the burdens of their past record, were regarded as outsiders. The status that England had earned by 1970 in itself is a tribute to the supreme effectiveness of Ramsey's leadership. Moreover, his success in 1962 in bringing the League Championship to Ipswich Town, an unheralded Third Division club before he took over, is one of the most astonishing feats in the annals of British football management, unlikely ever to be surpassed.\n\nYet even now, as nostalgia for the golden summer of 1966 becomes more potent, the memory of Sir Alf Ramsey is not one treasured by the public. He is nothing like as famous as David Beckham, or George Best or Paul Gascoigne, three footballers who achieved far less than him on the international stage. In his birthplace of Dagenham, he seems to have been airbrushed from history. There is no statue to him, no blue plaque in the street where he was born or the ground where he first played. No road or club or school bears his name. The same indifference is demonstrated beyond east London. When the BBC recently organized a competition to decide what the main bridge at the new Wembley stadium should be called, Sir Alf Ramsey's name was on the shortlist. Yet the British public voted for the title of the 'White Horse Bridge', after the celebrated police animal who restored order at the first Wembley FA Cup Final of 1923 when unprecedented crowds of around 200,000 were spilling onto the pitch. With all due respect to this creature, it is something of an absurdity that the winning manager of the World Cup should have to trail in behind a horse. As one of Ramsey's players, Mike Summerbee, puts it: 'Alf Ramsey's contribution to international football was phenomenal. Yet the way he was treated was a disgrace. We never look after our heroes and in time we try to pull them down. I tell you something, they should have a bronze statue of Alf at the new Wembley. And they should call it the Alf Ramsey stadium.'\n\nPart of the failure to appreciate the greatness of Alf Ramsey has been the result of his severe public image. He was a man who elevated reticence to an art form. With his players he could be amiable, sometimes even humorous, but he presented a much stonier face to the press and wider world. The personification of the traditional English stiff upper lip, he never courted popularity, never showed any emotion in public. His epic self-restraint was beautifully captured at the end of the World Cup Final of 1966, when he sat impassively staring ahead, while all around him were scenes of joyous mayhem at England's victory. The only words he uttered after Geoff Hurst's third goal were a headmasterly rebuke to his trainer, Harold Shepherdson, who had leapt to his feet in ecstasy. 'Sit down, Harold,' he growled. Again, as the players gathered for their lap of honour, they tried to push Alf to the front to greet the cheers of the crowd. But, with typical modesty, he refused. This outward calm, he later explained, was not due to any lack of inner passion but to his shyness. 'I'm a very emotional person but my feelings are always tied up inside. Maybe it is a mistake to be like this but I cannot govern it. I don't think there is anything wrong with showing emotion in public, but it is something I can never do.'\n\nNowhere was Ramsey's awkwardness more apparent than in his notoriously difficult relationship with the media. Believing all that mattered were performances on the field, he made little effort to cultivate journalists. 'I can live without them because I am judged by the results that the England team gets. I doubt very much whether they can live without me,' he once said. Hiding behind a mask of inscrutability, he usually would provide only the blandest of answers at press conferences or indeed none at all. He trusted a select few, like Ken Jones and Brian James, because he respected their knowledge of football, but most of the rest of the press were given the cold shoulder. He also had a gift for humiliating reporters with little more than a withering look. As Peter Batt, once of the _Sun,_ recalls: 'There was a general, utter contempt from him. I don't think anyone could make you feel more like a turd under his boot than Ramsey. It is amazing how he did it.' This hostile attitude led to a string of incidents throughout his career. Shortly after England had won the World Cup, for instance, Ramsey was standing in the reception of Hendon Hall, the team's hotel in north-west London. A representative of the Press Association came up to him and said:\n\n'Mr Ramsey, on behalf of the press, may I thank you for your co-operation throughout the tournament?'\n\n'Are you taking the piss?' was Alf's reply.\n\nOn another occasion in 1967, he was with an FA team in Canada for a tournament at the World Expo show. As he stood by the bus which would take his team from Montreal airport to its hotel, he was suddenly accosted by a leading TV correspondent from one of Canada's news channels. The clean-cut broadcaster put his arm around England's manager, and then launched into his spiel.\n\n'Sir Ramsey, it's just a thrill to have you and the world soccer champions here in Canada. Now I'm from one of our biggest national stations, going out live coast to coast, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. And, Coach Ramsey, you're not going to believe this but I'm going to give you seven whole minutes all to yourself on the show. So if you're ready, Sir Ramsey, I am going to start the interview now.'\n\n'Oh no you fuckin' ain't.' And with that, a fuming Coach Ramsey climbed onto the bus.\n\nSuch dismissiveness might provoke smiles from those present, but it ultimately led to the creation of a host of enemies in the press. When times grew rough in the seventies, Alf was left with few allies to put his case. The same was true of his relations with football's administrators, whom he regarded as no more than irritants; to him they were like most journalists: tiresome amateurs who knew nothing about the tough realities of professional football. 'Those people' was his disdainful term for the councillors of the FA. He despised them so much that he would deliberately avoid sitting next to them on trips or at matches, while he described the autocratic Professor Harold Thompson, one of the FA's bosses, as 'that bloody man Thompson'. But again, when results went against Sir Alf, the knives came out and the FA were able to exact their revenge.\n\nThe roots of Sir Alf's antagonism towards the media and the FA lay in his deep sense of social insecurity. He was a strange mixture of tremendous self-confidence within the narrow world of football, and tortured, tongue-tied diffidence outside it. He had been a classy footballer himself in the immediate post-war era, one of the most intelligent full-backs England has ever produced, and was never afraid to set out his opinions in the dressing-rooms of Southampton and Spurs, his two League clubs. Performing his role as England or Ipswich manager, he was the master of his domain. No one could match him for his understanding of the technicalities of football, where he allied a brilliant judgement of talent to a shrewd tactical awareness and a photographic memory of any passage of play. 'Without doubt, he was the greatest manager I ever knew, a fantastic guy,' says Ray Crawford of Ipswich and England. 'He had a natural authority about him. You never argued with him. He was always brilliant in his talks because he read the game so well. He would come into the dressing-room at half-time and explain what we should be doing, and most of the time it came off. He was inspirational that way.' Peter Shilton, England's most capped player, is just as fulsome: 'From the moment I met Sir Alf I knew he was someone special. He was that sort of person. He was a man who inspired total respect. Any decision he made, you knew he made it for the right reason. He had real strength of character. I have been with other managers who were not as strong in the big, big games. But Alf could rise above the pressure and dismiss irrelevancies.'\n\nYet Sir Alf never felt comfortable when taken out of the reassuring environment of running his teams. All his ease and self-assurance evaporated when he was not dealing with professional players and trusted football correspondents. He could cope with a World Cup Final but not with a cocktail reception. 'Dinners, speeches,' he used to say of the FA committee men, 'that's their job.' Amongst the Oxbridge degrees of the sporting, political or diplomatic establishments, he felt all too aware of his humble origins and lack of education. Born into a poor, rural Essex family, he left school at fourteen and took his first job as a delivery boy for the Dagenham Co-op. To cope with this insecurity, Sir Alf devised a number of strategies. One was to erect a social barrier against the world, avoiding all forms of intimacy. That is why he could so often appear aloof, even downright rude. From his earliest days as a professional, he was reluctant to open up to anyone. This distance might have been invaluable in retaining his authority as a manager, but it also prohibited the formation of close friendships.\n\nPat Godbold, his secretary throughout his spell as Ipswich manager from 1955 to 1963, says: 'I was twenty when Alf came here. My first impression was that he was a shy man. I think that right up to his death he was a very shy man. You could not get to know him. He was a good man to work for, but I can honestly say that I never got to know him.' Sir Alf guarded the privacy of his domestic life with the same determination that he put into management. The mock-Tudor house on a leafy Ipswich road he shared with Lady Victoria \u2013 or Vic, as he always called her \u2013 was his sanctuary, not a social venue. Anne Elsworthy, the wife of one of the Championship-winning Ipswich players of 1962, recalls Sir Alf and Lady Ramsey as a 'a very private couple. After he retired, I would occasionally see them in Marks and Spencer's in Ipswich, but all they would say would be 'Good morning'. They were not the sort to stand around chatting in a supermarket. When Alf went to play golf, he would just go, complete his round. He would not hang around the bar.'\n\nAnother strategy was to reinvent himself as the archetypal suburban English gentleman. The impoverished Dagenham lad, who could not even afford to go to the cinema until he was fourteen, was gradually transformed in adulthood into someone who could have easily been mistaken for a stockbroker or a bank-manager. The pinstripe, made of the finest mohair, was a suit of armour to protect from his detractors. When he went to Buckingham Palace to collect his knighthood in 1967, he went to extraordinary lengths to ensure that he was dressed in the exactly the correct attire. But by far the most obvious change was in his voice, allegedly the result of elocution lessons, as he dropped his Essex accent in favour of a form of pronunciation memorably described by the journalist Brian Glanville as 'sergeant-major posh'. Like Eliza Doolittle in _Pygmalion,_ Sir Alf occasionally betrayed his origins when he slipped into the vernacular of his childhood, as on the embarrassing occasion in a restaurant car travelling to Ipswich when, in the presence of the club's directors, he told a waitress during dinner, 'No thank you, I don't want no peas.'\n\nTony Garnett, the Suffolk-based journalist who covered Ipswich's great years under Sir Alf, told me: 'He did drop some real clangers when he was trying to talk proper, as they say. One of the best was when Ipswich went abroad after they had won the championship and Alf began to talk about going through 'Customs and Exercise.' Nobody dared to correct him. He could not do his 'H's properly, nor his 'ings' at the end of a word.' With his attempts at precision, his lengthy pauses, his twisted syntax and his frequent repetition of the same phrase \u2013 'most certainly' and 'in as much as' were two particular favourites \u2013 it seemed at times that he was almost trying to master a foreign tongue.\n\nThe Blackpool and England goalkeeper in the 1960s, Tony Waiters, who led Canada to the 1986 World Cup finals and has wide experience of working in America, says: 'It was always worth listening to Alf. But occasionally he would fall down on his pronunciation or would drop an \"H\" every so often. As a coach myself, I am aware that if you say the wrong thing, it could come back to haunt you. And sometimes Alf would give an indication that this was not his natural way of speaking. He was very deliberate in what he said. I work with a lot of people who are coaching in their second language. Generally speaking they slow down because they are thinking ahead and almost rehearsing in their own mind what they are going to say. With Alf, it was always good stuff but maybe he had to do a bit of mental gymnastics as he prepared to speak.'\n\nFor all his anxiety about his accent and his appearance, Sir Alf could never have been described as a snob. Just the opposite was true. He loathed pretension and social climbing, one of the reasons why he so disliked the fatuities of the FA's councillors. David Barber, who has worked at the FA since 1970, beginning as a teenage clerk, recalls Alf's lack of self-importance: 'Right from the moment I first took a job there, I was not in the slightest bit overawed by him. Though he was the most famous man in football at the time, he was down to earth. He was very nice, treated me like a colleague, not an office boy. He was uncomfortable with the press and FA Council members and in public could be a shy man, but with people like me, whom he worked with on a daily basis, he could not have been more friendly.'\n\nUtterly lacking in personal vanity, Alf deliberately avoided the social whirl of London and was unmoved by fashionable restaurants and hotels. His knighthood did not change him in the slightest, while he always retained a fondness for the activities of his Dagenham youth, such as a visit to the greyhound track accompanied by a pint of bitter and some jellied eels. As reflected by his penurious retirement, he refused to exploit his position for personal gain, unlike most of his successors; in fact, it was partly his repugnance at commercialism that led to his downfall.\n\nAlf's favourite self-preservation strategy, though, was to ignore the world outside and retreat into football, the one subject he really understood. Since his childhood, he had been utterly obsessed with the game. He was kicking a ball before he was learning his alphabet. It was the great abiding passion of his life. When he was truly engaged with the sport, his introversion would disappear, the barriers would fall. Apart from his wife, nothing else had the same importance to him. As his captain at Ipswich, Andy Nelson, remembers: 'He was a very private, quiet man, very unhappy to have any conversation that was unrelated to football. When we went on the train, we used to have a little card school. Roy Bailey, our goalkeeper, was a big figure in that. Alf would come into our compartment and start talking about football. And then Roy would say, \"Anyone seen that new film at the pictures?\" You would literally be rid of Alf in two minutes. He'd be off, gone.' Hugh McIlvanney told me that he could see the change in Alf's personality as soon as he shifted the ground onto football. 'Alf liked a drink and he could get quite bitter when he was arguing about football. That front of restraint, which was his normal face for the public, was pretty superficial; he quite liked to go to war. All the insecurity he so obviously had socially did not apply for a moment to football. He was utterly convinced of his case \u2013 and with good reason. He was a great manager in any sense.'\n\nIt is impossible to deny that, in his obsession with football, Sir Alf was a one-dimensional figure. He had a child-like affection for movies, especially westerns and thrillers, enjoyed pottering about his Ipswich garden and was genuinely devoted to Vickie. But he was uneasy with any discussions about politics, current affairs or art beyond privately mouthing the conventional platitudes of suburban conservatism. An unabashed philistine, he turned down an offer to take the England team to a gala evening with the Bolshoi Ballet during a trip to Moscow in 1973; instead, he arranged a showing of an Alf Garnett film at the British Embassy. He had an ingrained xenophobic streak, and had little time for any foreigners, in whose number he included the Scots. In fact, his dislike of the 'strange little men' north of the border was so ingrained that one Christmas, when he was given a pair of Paisley pyjamas as a present, he soon changed them at the shop for a pair of blue and white striped ones.\n\nNigel Clarke, the experienced journalist who worked more closely with Sir Alf than anyone else in Fleet Street and wrote his column for the _Daily Mirror_ in the 1980s, provides this memory: 'Alf was certainly conservative with a small 'c'. But he was not a worldly man and we never really talked about current affairs or wider political issues. He was just happy talking about football. I think that was partly because he knew the subject so well. He could talk about football until the cows came home. He never wanted to discuss governments or religion or anything like that. His life revolved around football. He had little conversation about anything else. His face would lighten up when you mentioned something about the game. We would be sitting in the compartment of a train, going to cover a match for the paper, and Alf would be dozing. Then I might refer to some player and his eyes would open, he would sit up instantly, and say, 'Oh really, yes, I know him. I saw him play recently.' He just loved football, loved anyone who shared his passion for it.'\n\nWhen it came to football itself, Sir Alf Ramsey was anything but a one-dimensional figure. Beneath his placid exterior, the flame of his devotion to the game burned with a fierce intensity. It was a strength of commitment that made him one of the most contradictory and controversial managers of all time. He was a tough, demanding character, who could be strangely sensitive to criticism, a reserved English gentleman who was loathed by the establishment, an unashamed traditionalist who turned out to be a tactical revolutionary, a stern disciplinarian who was not above telling his players to 'get rat-arsed'. His ruthlessness divided the football world; his stubbornness left him the target of abuse and condemnation. But it was his zeal that put England at the top of the world.\n\n# [ONE  \n _Dagenbam_](004-toc.html#ch1)\n\nThe Right Honourable Stanley Baldwin, the avuncular leader of the Conservative Party in the inter-war years, was not usually a man given to overstatement. But in 1934 he was so impressed by the new municipal housing development at Becontree in Dagenham that he was moved to write in an official report:\n\n> If the Becontree estate were situated in the United States, articles and newsreels would have been circulated containing references to the speed at which a new town of 120,000 people had been built. If it had happened in Vienna, the Labour and left Liberal press would have boosted it as an example of what municipal socialism could accomplish. If it had been built in Russia, Soviet propaganda would have emphasized the planning aspect. A Pudovkin film might have been made of it \u2013 a close up of the morning seen on cabbages in the market gardens; the building of the railway lines to carry bricks and wood, the spread of the houses and roads with the thousands of busy workers, gradually engulfing the fields and hedges and trees. But Becontree was planned and built in England where the most revolutionary social changes can take place and people in general do not realize they have occurred.\n\nThe Becontree estate was certainly dramatic in conception and scale. It was first planned in 1920, when the London County Council saw that a radical expansion in the number of homes would be needed to the east of the city, in order both to provide accommodation for the men returning from the Great War and to alleviate the terrible slum conditions of the East End. This was to be Britain's first new town, a place providing 'homes fit for heroes'. The scheme to convert 3000 acres of land into a vast urban community was, as the LCC's architect boasted, 'unparalleled in the history of housing'. The establishment of the Ford motor works in Dagenham in 1929 was a further spur to the urbanization of the area. By 1933, with the building programme reaching its peak, the LCC proclaimed that, 'Becontree is the largest municipal housing estate in the world.'\n\nRight in the midst of this gargantuan sprawl, untouched by bulldozer or bricklayer, there stood a set of rustic wooden cottages. These low, single-storey dwellings had been built in 1851, when Dagenham was entirely countryside. For all their quaintness, they were extremely primitive, devoid of any electricity or hot running water. And it was in one of them, Number Six Parrish Cottages, Halbutt Street, that Alfred Ernest Ramsey was born on 22 January 1920, the very year that saw the first proposals for the Becontree Estate. The row of Parrish Cottages remained throughout the development of the estate, an architectural and social anachronism holding out against the tide of modernity. They did not even have electricity installed until the 1950s and they were not finally pulled down until the early 1970s. In one sense, the cottage of his birth is a metaphor for the life of Alf Ramsey: the arch traditionalist, modest in spirit and conservative in outlook, who refused to be swept along by the social revolution which engulfed Britain during his career.\n\nFor much of his early life, Ramsey was not completely honest about his date of birth. In his ghost-written autobiography, published in 1952, he stated baldly that he was born 'in 1922', without giving any details of the month or the day. Now the reason for this was not personal vanity but sporting professionalism. When Ramsey was trying to force his way into League football at the end of the Second World War, a difference of two years could make a big difference to the prospects of a young hopeful, since a club would be more likely to take on someone aged 23 than 25. In such a competitive world, Ramsey felt he had to use any ruse which might work to his advantage. His dishonesty was harmless, and it passed largely unnoticed until after he received his knighthood in 1967. Having been asked to check his entry for _Debrett's Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage and Companionage,_ Sir Alf decided not to mislead that most elevated of reference works. As Arthur Hopcraft put it in the _Observer,_ 'Alf Ramsey the dignified, the aspirer after presence, could not, I am convinced, give false information to the book of the Peerage.' But by then the issue of his age had ceased to matter; in any case, because of the stiffness of his character, he had always seemed much older than his stated years.\n\nParrish Cottages may have become outdated with the arrival of the Becontree Estate, but when Alf Ramsey was an infant they were typical of rural Dagenham, where farming was still the main source of subsistence. 'Dagenham was like a little hamlet. It was much more countrified until they built the big estate. There was a helluva lot of open space here in the twenties,' says one of Alf's contemporaries Charles Emery. 'Most people think of Dagenham as an industrial area. But until I was six there was nothing but little country lanes. I saw Dagenham grow and grow,' Alf wrote in 1970. A reflection of that environment could be seen at the Robin Hood pub in the north-west of the borough, where customers drank by the light of paraffin or oil lamps, and the landlord had to double as a ploughman. As one account from 1920 ran: 'A customer would enter the bar and finding it empty, would shout across the fields for the landlord. After a time he would arrive, and wiping his hands free from the soil, would draw a pint of beer, have a talk about the weather, and then depart again to the fields.'\n\nA striking picture of life in Dagenham in the early twenties was left by Fred Tibble, who died in 2003 after serving as a borough councillor for 35 years. He grew up with Alf, often playing football and cricket with him, and remembered him as 'a very quiet boy who really loved sport'. The late Councillor Tibble had other memories:\n\n> We were very much Essex, we were country people. Many people came to the village selling things. There was a muffin man, who would come to the area once a week, ringing a bell with a tray of muffins on his head. The voluntary fire brigade was based in Station Road in the early 1920s, and when the maroon sounded, men would have to leave their jobs and homes to man the appliances. It could be difficult in the daytime, as they would have to try to get the horse which was being used for the milk round. At the weekends and summer evenings, the police used a wheel-barrow to take drunks from the pub to the police station. The drunks would be strapped into the barrow. We always found that amusing. Sometimes we would climb up the slaughterhouse wall to take a look at cattle being pole-axed. We often hoped to get hold of a pig's bladder, which we could stuff with paper and play football with.\n\nIt was a country life that young Alf relished, especially because it provided such scope for football. He wrote in _Talking Football:_\n\n> Along with my three brothers, I lived for the open air from the moment I could toddle. The meadow at the back of our cottage was our playground. For hours every day, with my brothers, I learnt how to kick, head and control a ball, starting first of all with a tennis ball and it is true to say that we found all our pleasure this way. We were happy in the country, the town and cinemas offering no attractions to us.\n\nBut it was also a deprived existence, one that left him permanently defensive about his background. 'We were not exactly wealthy,' he admitted euphemistically. His later fastidious concern for his appearance stemmed from the fact that his family was poorer than most in the district, so he was not always dressed as smartly as he would have liked. If anyone commented on this difference, he retreated further into his shell, 'We grew up together in Halbutt Street. Alf was very introverted, not very forthcoming. I sometimes went to his house, a very old cottage, little more than a wooden hut. His family were just ordinary people. He was not especially well-turned out as a child. That only came later, when he bettered himself,' says his contemporary Phil Cairns.\n\nAlf's father, Herbert Ramsey, made a precarious living from various manual activities. He owned an agricultural small-holding, while on Saturdays he drove a horse-drawn dustcart for the local council. He also grew vegetables and reared a few pigs in the garden at the front of Parrish Cottages. He has sometimes been described as 'a hay and straw dealer', though it is interesting that when Alf married in 1951, he referred to his father's occupation as a 'general labourer'. Others, less generously, have said he was little more than a 'rag-and-bone man'. Alf's mother, Florence, was from a well-known Dagenham family called the Bixbys.\n\nPauline Gosling, who was a neighbour of the Ramseys in Parrish Cottages, recalls:\n\n> The cottages had outside toilets and no hot water. If you wanted a bath, you had to heat up the water in a copper pan and then fill a tin tub by the fire. Friday was usually bath night. There was no electricity, so you had to use oil lamps. If you wanted to go out to the toilet at night, you had to take one of those. Alf's mother was a lovely lady. She and my mother were very close. They were a quiet family, very private, like Alf. They had worked the land for years around Dagenham. My own great-grandfather used to work on the land with Alf's great grand-dad.\n\nGladys Skinner, another former neighbour, says:\n\n> There was an outside loo in a little shed in their back garden. You could see their tin bath hanging up on the wall outside. They were never a family to tell other people their business. Alf's mother was a dear old thing. When they were installing electricity round here, she wouldn't have it, said it frightened her. Alf's father was also a very nice man. He sometimes kept pigs and we would go round have a look at the little piglets in the garden.\n\nAlf always maintained that his was a close family. 'My mother is in many ways very like me. Like me she doesn't show much emotion. She didn't, for instance, seem very excited when I received my knighthood. But she is very human and I like to think I was like her in that respect,' he wrote in a 1970 _Daily Mirror_ article about his life. He also felt that, despite the lack of money, his parents had taught him how to conduct himself properly. 'He told me that he was brought up very strictly and that is why he was such a stickler for punctuality and courtesy. He said that it was part of his upbringing to be courteous and polite to people,' says Nigel Clarke.\n\nAlf was one of five children. He had two older brothers, Len and Albert, a younger brother Cyril, and a sister, Joyce, though he was the only one to go on to achieve public distinction. Cyril worked for Ford; Len, nicknamed 'Ginger', became a butcher; and Joyce married and moved to Chelmsford. Albert, known in Dagenham as 'Bruno', was the least inspiring of the siblings, utterly lacking in Alf's ambition or focus. A heavy drinker, he earned his keep from gambling and keeping greyhounds. Alf himself was always interested in the dog track, liked a bet and was a shrewd gambler. But he never allowed it to dominate his life in the way that Albert did. 'Bruno was a big chap. I can picture him now, with a trilby turned up at the front. He had a great friend called Charlie Waggles and the two of them never went out to work. At the time I thought that was terrible. They just gambled on the dogs,' says Jean Bixby, who grew up in Dagenham at this time. In later life, Bruno's disreputable life would cause Alf some embarrassment.\n\nFrom the age of five, Alf attended Becontree Heath School. Now demolished, Becontree Heath had a roll of about 200, covering the ages of four to fourteen. Alf was neither especially diligent about his lessons nor popular with his fellow pupils. 'I was never particularly clever at school. I seem to have spent more time pumping at footballs and carrying goalposts,' Alf once said. 'He was a year above me but I remember him all right. Know why? 'Cos he looked like a kid you wouldn't get to like in a hurry,' said one of them in a _Sun_ profile of Sir Alf in 1971. For all his introspection, Alf was not a cowardly child, as he proved in the boxing ring at school. 'I weighed only about five stones, but I was a tough little fighter. I won a few fights,' he later recalled. But when he was ten years old, he was pulverized in a school tournament by a much larger opponent. 'He was about a foot bigger than I was and I was as wide as I was tall. I was punched all over the ring.' That put a halt to his school boxing career, though for the rest of his life he retained a visible scar above his mouth, a legacy of that bout. Alf was also good at athletics, representing the school in the high jump, long jump, and the one hundred and two hundred yards. And he was a solid cricketer, with a sound, classical batting technique.\n\nBut, as in adulthood, football was what really motivated Alf Ramsey. 'He did not have much knowledge of the world. The only thing that ever seemed to interest him was football,' says Phil Cairns. 'He was very withdrawn, almost surly, but he became animated on the football field.' From his earliest years, Alf demonstrated a natural ability for the game, his talent enhanced not only by games in the fields behind Parrish Cottages, but also by the long walk to and from school with his brothers. To break the monotony of the journey, which took altogether about four hours a day, the boys brought a small ball with them to kick about on the country lane. On one occasion, Alf accidentally kicked the ball into a ditch, which had filled with about three feet of water after heavy rainfall. He was instructed by his brothers to fish it out. So, having removed his shoes and socks, he waded in, soon found himself out of his depth, and was soaked to the skin. On his return home, he developed a severe cold and was confined to bed for a week. He wrote later: 'That heavy cold taught me a lesson. I am certain that those daily kick-abouts with my brothers played a much more important part than I then appreciated in helping me secure accuracy in the pass and any ball control I now possess.'\n\nAlf's ability was soon obvious to his schoolmasters. One of his teachers, Alfred Snow, recalled in the _Essex and East_ _London Recorder_ in 1971: 'I was teaching at Becontree Heath Primary and I taught Alf Ramsey for two years. I remember him particularly well because he was so good on the football field. It didn't really surprise me to see him get where he has.' At the age of just seven, Alf was placed in the Becontree Heath junior side, in the position of inside-left. His brother Len was the team's inside-right. Alf's promotion to represent his school meant that, for the first time, he had to have proper boots. His mother went out and bought him a pair, costing four shillings and eleven pence \u2013 with Alf contributing the eleven pence from the meagre savings in his own piggy bank. 'If those boots had been made of gold and studded with diamonds I could not have felt prouder than when I put them on and strutted around the dining room, only to be pulled up by father. \"Go careful on the lino, Alf,\" he said, \"those studs will mark it,\"' Alf's ghost-writer recorded in _Talking Football._\n\nBy the age of just nine, Alf, despite being 'a little tubby', to use his own phrase, had proved himself so outstanding that he was made the school's captain, commanding boys who were several years older than himself. He had also been switched to centre-half, the key position in any side of the pre-sixties era. Under the old W-M formation which was then the iron tradition in British soccer, based around two full-backs, three half-backs, two wingers and three forwards, the centre-half was both the fulcrum of the defence and instigator of attacks. It was a role ideally suited to Alf's precocious footballing intelligence and the quality of his passing.\n\nHis performances brought him higher honours. He was selected to play for Dagenham Schools against a West Ham Youth XI, then for Essex Schoolboys, and then in a trial match for London schools. But in this match, Alf's diminutive stature told against him. He wrote:\n\n> I stood just five feet tall, weighed six stone three pounds and looked more like a jockey than a centre-half. In that trial, the opposing centre forward stood five feet, ten and half inches and tipped the scale at 10 stone. After that game I gave up all hopes of playing for London. That centre-forward hit me with everything but the crossbar, scored three goals and in general gave me an uncomfortable time.\n\nCompounding this failure, a rare outburst of youthful impetuosity led to a sending-off for questioning a decision of the referee during a match for Becontree Heath School. The Dagenham Schools FA ordered him to apologize in writing to both the referee and themselves. He did so promptly, but it was not to be his last clash with the authorities.\n\nFor all such problems, Alf had shown enormous potential. 'He was easily the best for his age in the area,' says Phil Cairns. 'He was brilliant, absolutely focused on his game. He was taking on seniors when he was still a junior. Everyone in Dagenham who was interested in football knew of Alf because he was virtually an institution as a schoolboy. He was famous as a kid because of his football.' Jean Bixby's late husband Tom played with Alf at Becontree Heath: 'Alf was a very good footballer as a boy. Tom said that he had great control and confidence. He always wanted the ball. He would say to Tom, \"Put it over here.\"'\n\nYet Alf's schoolboy reputation did not lead to any approaches from a League club. He therefore never contemplated trying to become a professional footballer when he left Becontree Heath School in 1934. 'I was very keen on football but one really didn't it give much thought. There was no television then, and football was just fun to do,' he told the _Dagenham Post_ in 1971. Instead, he had to go out and earn a living in Dagenham to help support his family; this was, after all, the depth of the Great Depression in Britain, which spawned mass unemployment, social dislocation and political extremism. Alf first applied for a job at the Ford factory, where wages were much higher than elsewhere. But with dole queues at record levels, competition for work there was intense and he was rejected. Following a family conference about his future, he then decided to enter the retail trade, beginning at the bottom as a delivery boy for the Five Elms Co-operative store in Dagenham. The occupation of a grocer might not be a glamorous one, but at least it was relatively secure. People always needed food, and the phenomenal growth in the population of Dagenham in the 1930s provided a lucrative market for local businesses. In addition, there was a high demand for grocery deliveries in the area, because public transport was poor.\n\nAlf immediately demonstrated his conscientious, frugal nature by giving the great majority of his earnings to the family household. 'Every day I'd cycle my way around the Dagenham district taking to customers their various needs. My wages were twelve shillings a week. Of this sum, I handed over ten shillings to my mother, put a shilling in the box as savings and kept a shilling for pocket-money,' he wrote. After several years carrying out these errands, Alf graduated to serving behind the counter at the Co-op shop in Oxlow Lane, only a short distance from his home in Halbutt Street.\n\nHe later claimed to be happy in his job, but what he missed was football. For two whole years, he could not play the game at all, since he had to work throughout Saturday and there was no organized soccer in Dagenham on Thursdays, when he had his only free afternoon. But then, in 1936, a kindly shopkeeper by the unfortunate name of Edward Grimme intervened. Grimme had noticed that a large number of talented Dagenham schoolboy footballers were being lost to the game because of their jobs. So he decided to set up a youth team called Five Elms United. Because of his excellent local reputation, Alf was soon asked to join. He had no hesitation in doing so, despite the weekly sixpence subscription, which left him hardly any pocket money. But he did not care. He was once more involved with the game he loved.\n\nGrimme's Five Elms United held their meetings on Wednesday evenings and played on Sunday mornings in a field at the back of the Merry Fiddlers pub. Playing on the Sabbath was officially banned by the FA in the 1930s. Strictly speaking, after breaking this rule, Alf Ramsey should have been obliged to apply for reinstatement with the Association, once he became a League player, by paying a fee of seven shillings six pence. 'I was most certainly conscious that Sunday football was illegal then but it presented me with the only opportunity to play competitive football. Technically, I suppose, never having paid the reinstatement fee, I should never have been allowed to play for England or Spurs or Southampton,' Alf wrote later. So, in effect, the World Cup was won by an ineligible manager.\n\nPlaying again at centre-half, Alf showed that none of his ability had disappeared, despite his two-year absence from the game. In fact, he was physically all the more capable because of his growth in height and his regular exercise on the Co-op bicycle. Tommy Sloan, now one of the trustees of the Dagenham Football club, saw Alf play regularly before the war on the Merry Fiddlers ground: 'It was quite a good pitch there. All the lads played in the usual kit of the time, big shin guards and steel toe caps in their boots. Alf was a very impressive player. He used to tackle strongly, but fairly. He had a very powerful kick, especially at free kicks. He was subdued, never threw his weight about and was a model for any other youngster.' Alf himself felt he benefited from the demanding nature of those teenage games with Five Elms, 'I have often looked back upon those matches. Most of them were against older and better teams but we all learnt a good deal from opposing older and more experienced players. They were among the most valuable lessons of my life.'\n\nIt is interesting that many of the traits that later defined Alf Ramsey, including his relentless focus on football, his taciturnity and his attempt at social polish, were apparent in his teenage years. For all the poverty of his upbringing in Parrish Cottages, he had nothing like the usual working-class boister-ousness of his contemporaries. George Baker, who grew up near Halbutt Street and later became head of the borough's recreation department, told me: 'I was born within two years of Alf and I knew him and his brothers. As a lad, he was not like the locals. He somehow seemed a bit intellectual, a bit distant. He spoke a little bit better than the rest of us. He was pleasant, but he was different.' Beattie Robbins came to know him in the thirties, because one of her relatives worked with him in the Co-op: 'I remember him as well spoken, just as he was in later life. He was very nice, but seemed quite shy. I knew him best when he was about 17. He was polite, dignified, a very reserved person. We once went on a coach trip to Clacton with the Five Elms team and he sat quietly on the bus at the front. He did not play around much like some of the others. His life seemed to be just football.'\n\nAs he grew older, Alf appeared only too keen to distance himself from his Dagenham roots. The journalist Max Marquis wrote sarcastically in his 1970 biography of Ramsey, 'There are no indications that Alf is overburdened with nostalgia for his birthplace...in fact the impression is inescapable that he would like to forget all connections with it.' His Dagenham contemporary Jean Bixby, who worked with Alf's brother Cyril at Ford, argues: 'The trouble with Alf Ramsey was that he tried to make himself something that he wasn't. He went on to mix in different circles and he tried to change himself to fit in with those circles. Yes, even as a child he was slightly different, but he was still ordinary Dagenham. Then he went away and changed. He was not one of the boys anymore. He became conservative, not like the others who all stuck together. He was one apart from them.'\n\nAt the heart of this unease, it has often been claimed, was a feeling of embarrassment not just over the poverty of his upbringing, but, more importantly, over the ethnic identity of his family. For Sir Alf Ramsey, knight of the realm and great English patriot, was long said to come from a family of gypsies. This supposed Romany background was reflected in the family's fondness for the dog track, in the obscure way his father earned his living and in Alf's own swarthy, dark features. 'I was always told that he was a gypsy. And when you looked at him, he did look a bit Middle Eastern,' says his former Tottenham Hotspur colleague Eddie Baily. Alf's childhood nickname in Dagenham, 'Darkie Ramsey', was reportedly another indicator of his gypsy blood. 'Everyone round here referred to him as \"Darkie\" and it was to be years later that I found out his name was actually Alf,' recalled Councillor Fred Tibble. Even today, in multi-racial Britain, there is less tolerance towards gypsies than towards most other ethnic minority groups. And the problems of prejudice would have loomed even larger in the much more homogenous Britain of the pre-war era. In a _Channel Four_ documentary on Sir Alf broadcast in 2002, it was stated authoritatively that 'Alf had to put up with casual racism. Dagenham locals believed that he came from a gypsy background and so inherited his father's nickname, Darkie Ramsey.'\n\nThere is no doubt that Alf was acutely sensitive about these claims and this may have accounted for some of his habitual reserve. The journalist Nigel Clarke, who knew him better than anyone else did in the press, recalls this incident on tour:\n\n> The only time I ever saw Alf really angry was when we were going through Czechoslovakia in 1973 with the England team \u2013 in those good old days the press would travel with the team. We were all sitting on the coach as it drove past some Romany caravans. And Bobby Moore piped up, 'Hey, Alf, there's some of your relatives over there.' Alf went absolutely crimson with fury. He would never admit to his Romany background and hated to discuss the subject. He used to say to me, 'I am just an East End boy from humble means.' But it was always accepted in the football world that he was a gypsy.\n\nThe rumours might have been widely accepted but that did not make them true. Without putting Sir Alf's DNA through some Hitlerian biological racial profile, it is of course impossible to be certain about his ethnic origins. Indeed, the whole question could be dismissed as a distasteful irrelevance were it not for the fact that the charge of being a gypsy seems to have played some part both in Alf's desire to escape his background and in the whispers against him within the football establishment. Again, Nigel Clarke believes that the issue may have influenced some snobbish elements in the FA against him: 'Alf had a terrible relationship with Professor Sir Harold Thompson. An Oxford don like that could not stand being lectured by an old Romany like Alf. That's when he began to move to get his power back and remove Alf's influence.'\n\nYet it is likely that much of the talk about Alf's gypsy connections has been wildly exaggerated, even invented, while the eagerness to turn a childhood nickname into a badge of racial identity seems to have been based on a fundamental error. According to those who actually lived near him, Alf was called 'Darkie' simply because of the colour of his thick, glossy black hair. In the 1920s in the south of England, 'Darkie' was a common moniker for boys with that hair type. 'The Ramseys were definitely not of gypsy stock,' says Alf's former neighbour Pauline Gosling. 'That is where that TV documentary got it wrong. I used to call him 'Uncle Darkie'. Alf got his nickname at school, only because he had very dark hair as a young child. It was nothing at all to do with being a gypsy. I know that for a fact.' Jean Bixby is of the same view: 'His brother Cyril and I worked in the office at Fords and he was a quiet, decent chap. I have heard it said that Alf was a gipsy, but to know Cyril, I could not believe it. Cyril did not seem to be from gypsy stock at all.' Nor did the family's ownership and farming of the same plot of land in Dagenham for several generations match the usual pattern for travelling people moving from one area to another. In fact, some of the land used for the building of the Becontree Estate around Halbutt Street had originally been owned by Alf's grandfather and was sold to the council. As Stan Clements, who played with Alf at Southampton in the 1940s, argues. 'I never thought Alf was a gypsy. I cannot see that at all. When I first met him, his entire appearance was immaculate. And gypsies don't own land for generations.' Alf's widow denied that he was gypsy. 'That wasn't true. I don't know where that came from,' Lady Victoria has told friends. And Alf himself, when asked about his origins in a BBC interview, snapped, 'I come from good stock. I have nothing to be ashamed of.'\n\nYet, despite this protestation, there always lurked within Alf a sense of distaste about his Dagenham upbringing. He went out of his way to avoid the subject and seemed to resent any mention of it. Terry Venables, who also grew up in Dagenham and later was one of Alf's successors as England manager, experienced this when he was selected for the national side in 1964, as he recalled in his book _Football Heroes:_\n\n> When Alf called me into the England set-up, my dad said to me, 'Tell him I used to work with Sid down the docks. He was Alf's neighbour and he'll remember him.' It sounded reasonable at the time. Now picture the scene when I turned up for my first senior England squad get-together. For a start, I was in genuine awe of Alf, who came over and shook my hand. 'How are you?' he asked. 'Fine, thank you very much,' I replied. 'By the way, my dad says do you remember Sid? He was your next-door neighbour in Dagenham.' Had I cracked Alf over the head with a baseball bat he could not have looked more gob-smacked. He stared at me for what seemed like a long, long time. He didn't utter a single word of reply; he simply came out with a sound which if translated into words would have probably read something like, 'you must be joking'. He must have seen I was embarrassed by this but he certainly did not make it easy for me.\n\nTed Phillips, the Ipswich striker of Alf's era, recalls a similar incident when travelling with Alf through London:\n\n> We were on the underground, going to catch a train to an away game. And this bloke came up to Alf:\n> \n> 'Allo boysie, how you getting on?' He was a real ole cockney. Alf completely ignored him, and the bloke looked a bit offended.\n> \n> 'I went to bloody school with you. Still on the greyhounds, are ya?' Alf still said nothing.\n> \n> When we arrived at Paddington, we got off the tube and were walking through the station when I said to Alf:\n> \n> 'So who was that then?'\n> \n> And he replied in that voice of his, 'I have never seen him before in my life.'\n\nIt was the change in Alf's voice that most graphically reflected his journey away from Dagenham. Terry Venables, like several other footballers from the same area, including Jimmy Greaves and Bobby Moore, always retained the accent of his youth. But Alf dropped his, developing in its place a kind of strangulated parody of a minor public-school housemaster. The new intonation was never convincing, partly because Alf was a shy man, who was without natural articulacy and could be painfully self-conscious in public, and partly because his limited education meant that he lacked a wide vocabulary and a mastery of syntax. Hugh McIlvanney says:\n\n> Alf made it hard for some of us to like him because of the shame he seemed to feel about his background. We all understand there can be pressures in those areas but the voice was nothing short of ludicrous. There were some words he could not pronounce and the grammar kept going for a walk. That could be a problem for any human being but, for Alf, it almost became a caricature.\n\nIn his gauche attempts to sound authoritative, particularly in front of the cameras or the microphone, Alf would become stilted and awkward, littering statements with platitudes and empty qualifying sub-clauses. One extreme example of this occurred when he was being interviewed on BBC Radio in the early sixties:\n\n'Are you parents still alive, Mr Ramsey?'\n\n'Oh, yes.'\n\n'Where do they live?'\n\n'In Dagenham, I believe.'\n\nIn his 1970 biography, when Ramsey was still England manager, Max Marquis gave a vivid description of Alf's style. Describing his language as 'obscure and tautological', Marquis said that Ramsey\n\n> is unable to communicate with any precision what he means because he will never use a single-syllable word when an inappropriate two-syllable word will do and he dots his phrases with some strange, meaningless interjections...His tangled prose, allied with his capacity for self-persuasion, has made for some of his quite baffling pronouncements. In public he lets words go reluctantly through a tightly controlled mouth: his eyes move uneasily.\n\nBecause Ramsey never felt in command of his language, he could vary wildly between triteness and controversy. He could be absurdly unemotional, as when Ipswich won the League title in 1962, perhaps the most astonishing and romantic feat in the history of English club football.\n\n'How do you feel, Mr Ramsey?' said a breathless BBC reporter, having described him as 'the architect of this miracle'.\n\n'I feel fine,' replied Ramsey, as if he had done nothing more than pour himself a cup of tea.\n\nYet this was also the man who created a rod for his own back through a series of inflammatory statements, like his notorious description of the 1966 Argentinian team as 'animals' or his claim in 1970 that English football had 'nothing to learn' from the Brazilians. As Max Marquis put it, 'Ramsey is like a bad gunner who shoots over or short of the target.'\n\nA serious-minded youth, always striving for some kind of respectability, Alf did not have as strong a working-class accent as some of his contemporaries. Nevertheless, his speech could not help but be influenced by his surroundings. 'Dagenham had its own special brogue, and Alf spoke with that,' says Phil Cairns, 'It was a sort of bastardized cockney. He certainly had that accent as a child. I did notice how his voice changed when he got on in life. It was so obvious. When he had a long conversation, you would hear that he made faux pas.' Eddie Baily, who was Alf's closest friend at Spurs, told me of the difference he saw in Alf once he had gone into management with Ipswich Town:\n\n> He was cockney to me but I noticed his voice changed after he left Tottenham. When I saw him after that, his voice was refined. I would say to him, 'What are you doing? Where did all this come from? You're speaking very well, my old soldier.' He would just laugh at that. I could always have a go at him. But I think the position that he took made him want to be a little bit better when he had to do negotiations and all that.\n\nIt has always been alleged that this distinct change in Alf Ramsey's voice was as a result of his taking elocution lessons in the mid-fifties. Indeed, the idea of Alf's elocution lessons has become more than just part of football folklore: it is now treated as a fact. Both Ramsey's previous biographers, Max Marquis and Dave Bowler, state without any reservation that he underwent such instruction. The late John Eastwood, who wrote a massively authoritative history of Ipswich football, reported that 'it was well known that Alf took himself off for the two-hour elocution lessons to a woman at the ballroom dancing school near Barrack Corner in Ipswich'. Another, far less believable, version has been put forward by Rodney Marsh, the charismatic striker of the seventies and later Sky TV presenter, who has claimed that Ramsey took 'elocution lessons, paid for by the FA, around the time of the World Cup in 1966'. Anyone who knew about either the parsimony of the FA or Alf's contempt for the Association's councillors would know that this assertion was nonsense.\n\nYet the absurdity of Marsh's statement only exposes the weakness of the conventional wisdom that Alf underwent elocution training. The fact is that ever since his youth, Alf was on a mission to improve himself \u2013 and a key element of that was to change his speaking voice, adopting the received pronunciation he heard from BBC broadcasters on the wireless, from officers in the army and from directors at League clubs. There was nothing reprehensible about this. Before the mid-sixties, working-class boys of ambition were encouraged to believe that retaining their accents could be a barrier to progress in their careers. Edward Heath, the son of a Broad-stairs carpenter, adopted the elevated tones of Oxford before embarking on his rise to the top of the Conservative party.\n\nWith Alf there was no sudden dramatic switch in his voice from 'Cor Blimey' Dagenham to his imitation of the plummy vowels of the establishment; rather it was a gradual process, beginning in his teenage years and climaxing when he became manager of Ipswich. Over a long period his accent, never the strongest, grew milder until it was subsumed within his precise, artificial style of speech. From his earliest years as a professional footballer in the 1940s, Alf was seeking to improve himself in manner and appearance.\n\nStan Clements, who was training to become a civil engineer when he knew Alf at Southampton and was therefore more socially perceptive than most footballers of the time, says:\n\n> I always thought all those stories about his having elocution lessons were a load of old codswallop. His voice had a slight accent but it was controlled. It was not cockney but Essex. I would have said that when he was in the army and became a sergeant \u2013 and in those days there was a big difference in class between non-commissioned staff and the officers \u2013 he would have got to know the officers and there is no doubt that this influenced his speech.\n\nOther Southampton contemporaries of the 1940s back up Clements. Pat Millward, whose husband Doug played for the Saints and then under Alf at Ipswich, recalls: 'Alf always spoke very nicely, even at Southampton. He did not use slang much, unlike the others. I'm sure he never had elocution lessons.' Eric Day, who played up front for the Saints, agrees: 'He was so taciturn, self-effacing. He always spoke in that very clipped sort of way. He thought his words out before he spoke them.' Mary Bates, who worked at the Southampton FC office during Alf's time, makes this interesting point: 'Even during his time at Southampton, his voice changed, not noticeably at first but certainly there was a difference. If I look back from 1949 to 1945, there was a marked change.'\n\nThe same story can be told when he went to Tottenham Hotspur, where again he was no loud-mouth shouting the odds in a broad vernacular. 'He sounded as if he came from the country. He spoke very slowly with a rural twinge in his accent, a sort of country brogue. It was the same as you would find in people from Norwich, a burr,' remembers Denis Uphill. Equally revealing is the memory of Ed Speight, who himself was born in Dagenham and joined Tottenham in 1954: 'He was a gentleman. He always spoke very quietly; rarely did I hear him swear. When he spoke, the top lip did not move. It was all from the lower mouth. Very clipped, staccato stuff.' Tony Marchi, who was another young player at Spurs in the early fifties, goes so far as to say that, in his memory, 'Alf had much the same voice when he was at Spurs as when he became England manager. It never really altered.'\n\nThe reality was that, by the early fifties, Ramsey was already beginning to demonstrate those concise, somewhat convoluted tones which were to become so much a part of his public character. Through listening to the radio and reading improving texts, he sought to acquire a more refined voice. In 1952, when he was still at Spurs, he had written about his lifestyle in _Talking Football:_\n\n> In the evening I usually have a long read for, like Billy Wright, I have found that serious reading has helped me develop a command of words so essential when you suddenly find yourself called upon to make a speech. People, remember, are inclined to forget that speechmaking may not be your strong point. With this in mind, I always try hard to put up some sort of show when asked to say a few words.\n\nEven the keenest advocate of the Victorian philosophy of self-help could not have put it better. And by the time he reached Ipswich in 1955, his voice only required a more few coats of varnish, not an entire rebuild. It seems likely that the varnish was provided, not by elocution lessons, but by more self-improvement allied to his connection to the most aristocratic boardroom in the country, whose number included a baronet and a nephew of the Tory Prime Minister.\n\nThough some did not believe him, Alf was always adamant that he had not undergone any course in elocution. He stated in that _Mirror_ article of 1970:\n\n> I must emphasize that I am not a cockney. I make the point because I have been accused of taking elocution lessons. And told that it is to my credit that I had taken them. The truth is that I have not had elocution lessons. I wish I had. They might have been a help to me. All this business, however, is not important to me. I've nothing to be ashamed of. I'm proud of my family, my parents and of all that has happened to me in my life.\n\nAs Alf indirectly admitted there, if he had really taken such lessons, it is improbable that he would have found communication so difficult. Nigel Clarke says:\n\n> I once pulled his leg about the rumour of his so-called elocution lessons, and he bristled and said, 'That is absolutely not true.' He then explained that he used to listen to the BBC radio announcers and modulated his tones to match theirs. I am sure that is true. I mean Alf would not even have known what the word elocution meant.\n\n# [TWO  \n _The Dell_](004-toc.html#ch2)\n\nA local government study of Dagenham in 1938 described the local population thus:\n\n> Many are rough diamonds, but still diamonds. There is a general readiness to help each other when in trouble, a readiness to support various causes (but only after protracted and heated argument), an appreciation of good music, the usual fondness for Picture Palaces and an undue attachment to the Dance hall.\n\nEighteen-year-old Alf Ramsey could not easily have been described as a Dagenham 'rough diamond'. He showed no interest in dancing, was shy with women despite his dark good looks, had few musical tastes and avoided arguments except when they involved football. He had, however, developed an enthusiasm for the movies, one that was to stay with him all his life and would cause much amusement to the players under his management. He saw his first film when he was fourteen, a jungle adventure with Amercian B-movie star Jack Holt in the leading role. Alf soon had acquired a particular fondness for westerns, which so often revolved around the theme of a tight-lipped heroic outsider triumphing over the natives, the bad guys or the corrupt authorities.\n\nBut his first love remained football. During the 1937-38 season, he was playing better than ever at centre-half with Five Elms United, as he recorded himself: 'Since leaving school I had developed into quite a hefty lad, and in my heart I knew I had improved my football.' His exploits in the Five Elms defence brought him to the attention of Portsmouth, one of the country's senior League clubs. He and two other Five Elms players were approached by experienced scout Ned Liddell, who was for a time manager of Brentford, and asked if they might be interested in signing for Portsmouth as amateurs. Before this, claimed Alf, the thought of becoming a League player 'had never entered my mind. After all, I was too modest to think I was anything much as a footballer. I just played the game for fun and the exercise that went with it.'\n\nFor a young man obsessed with the game, the chance to play at the highest level was a glittering prospect. But he hesitated for a moment. Apart from some natural uncertainty about his ability, Alf was also worried about the financial insecurity of life in League football. After all, hundreds of youths were taken on every year by the 88 League clubs but very few of them made a decent living. Alf already had a secure job in the Co-op store in Oxlow Lane near his home; by 1938 he had graduated from delivery boy to counter hand and bill collector, the latter a role which required a certain amount of toughness. 'Going out to collect the bills occupied Monday morning as far as I was concerned. There were no embarrassing moments when collecting money. People either paid or they didn't, but in the main they paid.'\n\nBut when Alf met Ned Liddell again, he was assured that there would be no problem about keeping his Co-op job if he signed as an amateur. Moreover, Alf's family were not opposed to the idea. 'Well, son, it's up to you,' said his mother. So Alf, now relishing the thought of joining a top club, filled in the forms and sent them off to Fratton Park, Portsmouth's ground. He waited eagerly for a reply. None came: not a letter, a card, a telegram, a word from Ned Liddell. The weeks passed in silence until Alf gave up hope. 'No one, it seemed, was interested in young Ramsey of Dagenham,' he wrote later.\n\nPortsmouth's gross discourtesy was a seminal experience for Alf. It left him with a profound distrust of the men running football, the club directors and officials who treated players with such haughty contempt and undermined careers with barely a thought. He came to share the view of Harry Storer, the hard-nosed Derby County manager who once questioned the right of a certain director to be an FA selector. Having been told that this director had been watching the game for 50 years, Storer replied: 'We've got a corner flag at the Baseball Ground. It's been there for 50 years and still knows nothing about the game.' As Stanley Matthews, who suffered from the administrators' arrogance as much as anyone, ruefully commented: 'Players were treated as second-class citizens. Football was a skill of the working class but those who ran our game were anything but.' Portsmouth's rudeness ensured that Alf, when he became a manager, never acted in such a cavalier manner; his concern for the well-being of professionals was one of the reasons he always inspired such loyalty.\n\nIgnored by Portsmouth, Alf carried on working at the Oxlow Lane Co-op for the next two years, playing football in the winter, cricket in the summer. Nigel Clarke recalls:\n\n> I happened to mention to him one day that my son loved cricket. The next time we met at Liverpool Street station he turned up with a bat. It was a 1938 Gunn and Moore triple-spring, marked with the initials of his club, The General Co-operative Sports and Social Club. Alf said to me, 'Make sure he uses it well. This one made plenty of runs for me.'\n\nHe also occasionally went with his brothers to League matches at Upton Park; the first ever match he saw was West Ham against Arsenal, during which he was particularly impressed with the Gunners' deep-lying centre-forward and play-maker Alex James, 'a chunky little fellow in long shorts'.\n\nAs with millions of other Britons, the quiet routine of Alf's provincial life was shattered with the arrival of the Second World War. In June 1940, ten months after the outbreak of hostilities, Alf was called up for service in the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry and was despatched to a training unit in Truro. It is a reflection of the narrowness of Alf's upbringing that he looked on his first journey to Cornwall with excitement rather than trepidation. Taking 'so famous a train as the Cornish Riviera was in itself a memorable experience for me. As a matter of interest, until I travelled to Cornwall, the longest journey I had undertaken was a trip to Brighton by train,' he wrote. The thrill continued when he arrived in Truro and was billeted in a top-class hotel, which had been commandeered by the army. 'This proved another memorable moment for me. It was the first time I had ever been into a hotel! Even with us sleeping twelve to a room on straw mattresses could not end for me the awe of living in a swagger hotel.'\n\nThroughout his life Alf frequently appeared to be a na\u00efve, other-worldly character, oblivious to political considerations, and that was certainly true of his delight at his surroundings in Cornwall. At the very time Britain was engaged in a life-and-death struggle for its survival as a nation, Alf was writing to his parents about the joy of 'living in a luxury hotel'. Yet that set the tone for Alf's war. He was luckier than most soldiers, spending all his years of active service up to VE Day on home soil. Never did he have to endure any of the brutal theatres of conflict like North Africa, Italy or Normandy. Attached to the 6th battalion of his regiment, his duties were in home defence, 'guarding facilities, manning road blocks, and preparing against German paratroop drops,' says Roy Prince, the archivist of the Duke of Cornwall's Regimental Association. In retrospect, it was not dangerous work, though it was demanding, as Alf recalled: 'The physical training we were so frequently given added inches to my height, broadened my chest and in general I became a fitter young fellow than when I reported for duty as a grocery apprentice from Dagenham.'\n\nUnlike so many whose lives were ruined by the genocidal conflict of the Second World War, Alf found military service almost wholly beneficial. It brought him out of his shell, and helped demonstrate his innate qualities of leadership. In 1952 he wrote:\n\n> I have since reflected that to join the Army was one of the greatest things which ever happened to me. From my, to some extent, sheltered life, I was pitchforked into the company of many older and more experienced men. I learnt, in a few weeks, more about life in general than I had picked up in years at home. The Army, in short, proved a wonderful education.\n\nThe aura of authority that Alf always possessed \u2013 which had seen him become captain of his school's team at the age of just nine \u2013 led to his promotion to the rank of Quarter-Master Sergeant in an anti-aircraft unit. Nigel Clarke has this memory of talking to Alf about his army service:\n\n> He told me that he absolutely loved it and that his greatest times of all were down on the Helford River in Cornwall. It was in the army, he said to me, that he first really learned about discipline and about being in charge of people, taking command and giving orders. He used to say, 'I have never been very good at mixing with people but you have to in the army or else you are in trouble.'\n\nThe greatest benefit of all was that it enabled Alf to play more football than he had ever done previously \u2013 and at a higher class. Within a few months of arriving in Cornwall, he had been transferred to help man the beach defences at St Austell; there he became part of the local battalion team, captaining the side and playing at either centre-half or centre-forward. He was then moved to various other camps along the south coast before reaching Barton Stacey in Hampshire in 1943, where he was fortunate to come under the benign influence of Colonel Fletcher, a football obsessive who had played for the Army. Because of the war, several League professionals were in Alf's battalion side, including Len Townsend of Brentford and Cyril Hodges of Arsenal. Impressed by such strength, Southampton invited the battalion to visit the Dell for a preseason game on the 21 August 1943. The result was a disaster for Ramsey's men, as they were thrashed 10-3. 'The soldiers are a very useful battalion team but they had not the experience to withstand the more forceful play of the Saints,' reported the _Southern Daily Echo._ It was Alf's first experience of playing against top-flight players and he found it something of a shock. 'At centre-half I was often bewildered by the speed of thought and movement shown by the professionals we opposed.' Despite the depressing scoreline, Ramsey's men had shown some promise, for a week later they were invited back to the Dell to play against Southampton Reserves. This time Sergeant Ramsey's side provided much more effective opposition, winning 4-1.\n\nRamsey's performances in these two games had aroused the interest of Southampton. More than a month later he was summoned to Colonel Fletcher's office. Initially believing that he had committed some military office, Ramsey feared he was about to be reprimanded.\n\n'Sit down, Sergeant,' said Colonel Fletcher when Ramsey arrived in his office. Alf was at once relieved, knowing that the Colonel would hardly have been so friendly if he was about to punish him. 'I have just had a telephone call from Southampton Football Club,' continued the Colonel. 'Apparently they are short of a centre-half for their first team tomorrow and would like you to play for them. Well, Sergeant, how do you feel about the idea?'\n\nEver cautious and modest, Alf then muttered something about his 'lack of experience'. Colonel Fletcher had little truck with such diffidence. 'This is a big opportunity, Ramsey,' he said, looking hard at the raven-haired sergeant. 'I suppose you have at some time or another considered becoming a professional footballer.' Alf, ignoring his abortive connection with Portsmouth, claimed untruthfully that he had 'never given it a thought'. But he assured the Colonel that he was 'prepared to give it a try'. Without another word, Fletcher was back on the phone to Southampton, reporting that Sergeant Ramsey was available for the match against Luton Town at Kenilworth Road. Alf admitted that, once he left the Colonel's office, he 'did a little tap-dance with delight. Even the orderly sitting behind a small desk forgot that I was a sergeant and joined in the laughter'.\n\nAlf was instructed to report at Southampton Central railway station the following morning before the train journey to Bedfordshire. When he turned up that Saturday morning, 9 October 1943, he was met by the elderly, bespectacled secretary-manager of Southampton, Jack Sarjantson, a figure rare in the annals of League history for both the longevity and the range of service to his club. He had been appointed a Southampton director as early as 1914, had become club chairman in 1936, then resigned during the war to act as secretary-manager, before returning to the boardroom to serve as chairman and later vice-president in the 1950s. For all his advanced years, he was also something of a ladies' man, who, in the words of the Southampton historian David Bull, 'had a way of flirting with the young wives and girlfriends at the club's social functions'.\n\nAfter introducing Alf to the other Southampton players, Sarjantson then asked Alf about his expenses. According to his 1952 autobiography, Alf told his manager that his only claim was for his 'twopenny halfpenny tram fare from my billet'. In response, Sarjantson 'dived into pocket' and pulled out the exact amount. But later, in 1970, Alf gave a much more convincing version, one that reflects the flexible attitude of clubs towards expenses in the days of the maximum wage:\n\n> I told Mr Sarjantson that since we were stationed in Southampton I did not have any expenses. He said, 'Well, if I give you thirty bob is that enough to pay for your taxi fare?' I said it was more than enough. It was the first time anyone had given me any money for playing.\n\nAlf was equally flexible about his age. In his 1952 book he claimed that when he played against Luton, 'I had just reached the age of twenty-two'. In fact, he was only three months away from his 24th birthday.\n\nHaving sorted out Alf's expenses so generously, Sarjantson then produced a set of forms for him to sign as an amateur. After his last experience with Portsmouth, this time Alf was only too glad to know that his signature would definitely be followed by a match. 'As the London-bound train swished through Eastleigh station, I signed for Southampton Football club,' recorded Alf. On the train up to Luton, he sat beside the Saints inside-forward Ted Bates, later to be manager at the Dell, and who, like Alf, had been a grocery delivery boy in his teens and whose wife Mary was soon to become the first female assistant secretary in League football. 'Throughout the journey, he told me what I could expect from football: the kind of teams we would be meeting and other little facts which meant a great deal to a new recruit,' wrote Alf. His first appearance for the Saints was a tight match, one that left him disappointed with his own performance, which he felt was far below the standard of the rest of the side. Ten minutes from the end, Southampton were winning 2-1, when Alf gave away a penalty. 'I remember tackling someone rather hard,' he said in 1970. Luton scored from the spot and Alf sensed that 'several of my colleagues were giving me black looks'. Fortunately Don Roper restored the lead for Southampton soon afterwards, so Alf's first outing resulted in victory. And he had perhaps been too hard on himself: the view of the _Southern Daily Echo_ was that 'the defence as a whole functioned satisfactorily'.\n\nThey did far worse in their next game, when Southampton were beaten 7-1 by Queen's Park Rangers in the League South, the makeshift wartime replacement for the Football League. 'Ramsey at centre-half rarely countered the combined skill of the opposing centre-forwards,' said the local press. But Sarjantson, with stretched wartime resources, did not drop the faltering defender immediately. Alf played three more League South games in that 1943-44 season before being posted with his battalion to County Durham. Despite his mixed fortunes, he had enjoyed his brief spell with the club. 'What fascinated me was meeting the players, sitting with them, having lunch on the train, talking football. All very interesting. It left a great impression on me, and probably started my ambition to become a professional footballer,' he wrote in 1970.\n\nYet Alf, with such limited experience, was still plagued by lack of belief in his own ability and worries about finance. It is striking that when he was stationed in Durham, he played little senior competitive football. He turned out for his battalion in one match at Roker Park against Sunderland, but failed to do enough to persuade Sunderland's manager, Bill Murray, to invite him to play in any wartime games, even though the relaxed registration rules of the period allowed a soldier to guest for almost any club he wanted \u2013 one reason why the garrison town of Aldershot was packed with star servicemen like Tommy Lawton. And when Alf was posted back to Southampton at the beginning of the 1944-45 season and performed well in a trial match, he once more hesitated about becoming a professional after Sarjantson had offered him a contract with Southampton, earning \u00a32 per match. Alf was never one to make swift decisions. He told Sarjantson, with a touch of boldness that masked his inner doubts: 'Although I've played in professional football as an amateur, I know practically nothing about it. And what if I don't like the club?' Sarjantson replied that if Alf wanted to leave the club at the end of the season, Southampton would not stand in his way. Having received that assurance, Alf agreed to sign. He was finally a professional footballer\n\nJust before the start of the 1944-45 season, Alf picked up an injury, playing for his battalion against \u2013 ironically \u2013 Southampton. It was therefore not until Christmas that he had his first game as a professional. And it could have hardly been a bigger fixture, as Arsenal took on Southampton at White Hart Lane, Highbury having been badly bombed. Facing the legendary centre-forward Ted Drake, Alf had the best game of his career to date. He admitted he was a 'little overawed' at the start, but, according to the _Southern Daily Echo,_ 'Ramsey, stocky and perhaps an inch shorter than Drake, did much that pleased, although the Arsenal leader scored two goals.' Ramsey, for the first time, had proved that he could make it at the highest level; his confidence soared as a result. And it went up even further when, as a result of injuries to other players, he was switched from centre-half to inside-left. When Southampton beat Luton 12-3 in March 1945, the second highest score in the club's history, Alf scored four times, with the _Echo_ commenting that 'he can certainly hammer a ball'.\n\nAltogether Alf made 11 League South appearances that season. At its close, Sarjantson asked him to sign again for the club. Alf agreed to do so, but 1945-46 turned out to be a frustrating season, as he made little real advance on the previous year. He played just 13 of the 42 League South matches, and was frequently asked to play up front as centre-forward, not his favourite position because of his lack of speed. 'I was nothing else than a stop-gap and was happier playing at centre-half. ' But his natural football ability shone through wherever he played, in the front line or in defence. He scored a hat-trick in a 6-2 win over Newport and was lethal in two successive games against Plymouth. The writer and Southampton fan Bob Holley has left this account of Ramsey as a dashing striker, scoring twice in a 5-5 draw at the Dell in August 1945, delighting Saints fans in the painful aftermath of the war:\n\n> It is difficult now to picture how drab everything was in the summer of 1945, the bombsites, the shortages, clothes 'on points' and food rationing still in force, and how deprived we all felt of professional sport. Small wonder that, in the first post-war season, so many fans crammed through the turnstiles each Saturday despite the fact that there were only two makeshift Leagues \u2013 the pre-war First and Second Division clubs divided geographically, north and south.\n\nTurning to the game against Plymouth, he wrote that it\n\n> left us breathless and excited and not particularly bothered that we had dropped a point. Their centre-forward scored a hat-trick. Our centre-forward, however, had bagged two. He was a tearaway sort of player, shirt sleeves flapping, hair all over the place, not particularly skilful as I remember but able to 'put himself about' as centre-forwards were expected to do in those days. His name? Ramsey, Alf Ramsey \u2013 or 'Ramsay' as the programme for this game, and indeed many thereafter incorrectly put it.\n\nThe biggest cause of frustration, however, was not programme misspellings or positional changes, but the fact that in December 1945, when most of Britain was trying to return to peacetime normality, Sergeant Ramsey was shipped off to Palestine by the War Office. He was there for six months, and once again his gift for football leadership quickly emerged, as he was asked to captain a Palestine Services XI, a team which contained such distinguished players as Arthur Rowley, who scored more goals in League football than any other player, and Jimmy Mason, the brilliant Scottish inside-right. On his return home in June 1946, Alf found a letter from the new Southampton manager, Bill Dodgin, the former Saints captain who had taken over from Sarjantson at the end of the war. Dodgin told Ramsey that he wanted to meet to discuss the terms of a new contact. At the same time, the Dagenham Co-op were offering Alf a return to his old job behind the counter. It may now seem absurd that Alf could have even been tempted by this latter offer, yet, as he admitted himself, a sense of vulnerability ran through his blood. 'What folk forget to mention,' he told his mother, 'are the failures. Football is not as easy as some would have you think. Anyway, I'm not convinced that I am good enough to earn my living at the game.'\n\nAlf agreed to meet Dodgin in a sandwich bar at Waterloo, just the sort of mundane venue with which he was most comfortable throughout his life. Dodgin told Ramsey that they were prepared to pay him the weekly sum of \u00a34 in the summer, \u00a36 in the season, and \u00a37 if he got into the League. With his characteristic mix of self-confidence and wariness, Alf told the Southampton manager that the offer was not good enough. 'I wanted to start a career in football \u2013 but not on \u00a34 a week,' he explained later. It is a measure of Alf's importance to the club that his strategy worked. He was invited down to the Dell and offered enhanced terms: \u00a36 in the summer, \u00a37 in winter and \u00a38 if he got into the League side. This time he accepted.\n\nBut immediately after he signed, his concerns about money again came to the surface. Because in the summer of 1946 he was still officially in the armed forces, awaiting demobilization, Alf did not receive the \u00a310 signing-on fee to which professionals would normally be entitled in peacetime. In his 1952 book, _Talking Football,_ Alf claimed, 'That did not matter.' The reality was very different. Alf was actually furious at missing out on his \u00a310. Mary Bates, who had taken up her position as Southampton's Assistant Secretary in August 1945 after working for the Labour Party in Clement Attlee's landslide general election victory, has this recollection:\n\n> \u00a310 was quite a lot at that time. And this day he came to sign as a professional. When he arrived in the office he was in his infantry gear.\n> \n> 'What are you doing in your uniform?'\n> \n> 'I haven't quite left the army yet.'\n> \n> 'Well, until you do, I can't pay your signing on fee. You'll have to wait until you're demobbed before I can officially sign you on. Those are my instructions.'\n> \n> He nearly went beserk at those words. He was so upset. He had obviously been expecting the money. It was very unlike Alf, who was normally so calm. He was usually very nice, gentlemanly. But he did almost lose his temper on this occasion. He was usually very pleasant, but he was not very pleasant about losing his \u00a310.\n\nAfter seven years of disruption, the Football League officially resumed in August 1946. But, after all the drawn-out negotiations over Alf's contract, it was hardly a glorious return to professional football for him. Still unclear about his correct position, he began the season in the reserves. In the autumn, however, coach Bill Dodgin and trainer Syd Cann made a crucial move, one that was to completely change Alf's playing career. Sensing that Alf was uncomfortable at both centre-forward and centre-half, they suggested that he moved to right-back. It was exactly the right place for Alf, one that exploited his ability to read the game, to judge the correct moment for intervention and to make the telling pass.\n\nThough he had been a fine footballer in his youth, he had never been blessed with the sort of exceptional natural talent which defines true greatness. After all, he had never fulfilled his ambition to play for London Schoolboys; nor had any League club shown any serious interest in him before the war; and his performances with Southampton since 1943 had been inconsistent. His prowess on the field had lain more in his mental strengths: his coolness under pressure, the respect from other players and his gift of anticipation. Now, with a characteristic spirit of determination, Alf set about moulding himself for his new role at full-back. He sought to improve his technique with long hours of practice on the training ground, working particularly on the accuracy and power of his kicks. He raised his fitness levels, not just by training in the gym, but also by taking long walks through the Southampton countryside. Above all, he strove to develop a new tactical awareness. Fortunately for Alf, the trainer at Southampton, Syd Cann, had been a full-back with Torquay United, Manchester City and Charlton, and was therefore able to pass on the lessons of his experience through practice sessions and numerous talks over a replica-scale pitch \u2013 measuring one inch to the yard \u2013 in the dressing-room at the Dell. The master and pupil developed a close relationship, as Cann later recalled in a BBC interview:\n\n> My first memories of Alf were as a centre-forward. He played several times there in the reserves, not too successfully, and I felt that perhaps he had better qualities to play as a full-back. And after discussions with the manager Bill Dodgin, we decided to try him in this position. We spent a lot of time in discussions, Alf and I. He was a very keen student. He wanted to learn about the game from top to bottom. We had a football field painted on the floor of the dressing-room at Southampton and Alf came back regularly in the afternoons, spending hours discussing techniques and tactics. I have never known anyone with the same sort of application, with the same quickness of learning as Alf Ramsey. He would never accept anything on its face value. He had to argue about it and make up his own mind. And once he had made up his mind that this was right, it was put into his game immediately. I spent hours on the weaknesses and strengths of his play. He accepted, for instance, that he was inclined to be weak on the turn on and in recovery. So we worked on that so he became quicker in recovery. Very rarely was he caught out. He was the type of player who was a manager's dream because you could talk about a decision and he would accept it and there it was, in his game.\n\nRamsey's diligence soon had its reward. On 26 October 1946 Alf was selected for Southampton's Division Two game at home to Plymouth, after the regular right-back Bill Ellerington had picked up an injury. Eight years after that fruitless approach from Portsmouth, Ramsey was finally about to play League football, and he was understandably nervous. When Saturday afternoon arrived, however, he was helped by the reassuring words of his fellow full-back and Saints captain Bill Rochford: 'You're not to worry out there. That's my job. It's another of my jobs to put you right, so always look to me for any guidance.' That encouragement was very different to the ridicule often accorded to debutants. But then Rochford was very different to the cynical old pro more worried about his own place than the fortunes of the side. Uncompromising, passionate, selfless, he was hugely admired by his fellow Southampton players. 'He was the Rock of Gibraltar,' says Eric Day. Bill Ellerington, Alf's rival for the right-back position, reflects:\n\n> Bill Rochford was my mentor. We called him Rocky. He was a good captain. It's easy to be a good captain when you're winning. But when the chips were down, Bill was great at keeping us going. He could tear you off a few strips. Once against Bradford we were winning 3-0 with only about ten minutes to go and I flicked the ball nonchalantly back to the keeper and it went out for a corner. 3-1. Then they had a free kick. 3-2. We managed to win with that score but afterwards Bill tore me to shreds for being casual. He was right.\n\nRochford's guidance helped Alf through his first game, as Southampton won easily. 'Steady Alf, I'm just behind you,' the captain would shout during the game. But Alf quickly recognized how deep was the gulf between the League and the type of soccer he had previously experienced. Alf wrote in _Talking Football:_\n\n> It dawned on me how little about football I know. Everybody on the field moved \u2013 and above all else thought \u2013 considerably quicker than did I. Their reactions to moves were so speedy they had completed a pass, for instance, while I was still thinking things over.\n\nAfter one more game in the first team, Alf was sent back to the reserves once Bill Ellerington had recovered.\n\nIt was inevitable that Alf should find it a struggle at first to cope. The only answer was yet more practice, learning to develop a new mastery of the ball and a more sophisticated approach. Again, he was indebted to the influence of his captain Bill Rochford:\n\n> Playing alongside him made me realize that there was considerably more to defending than just punting the ball clear, as had become my custom. During a match I made a mental note of how Rocky used the ball; the manner in which he tried to find a colleague with his clearances; the confidence he always displayed when kicking the ball at varied heights and angles.\n\nThe great difficulty for Alf was that, no matter how much he improved his game, his path back to the first team was blocked by Bill Ellerington, who was one of the best full-backs in the country and would, like Alf, win England honours in that position. 'Bill was a great tackler and a terrific kicker of the ball. He could kick from one corner flag to the opposite corner, diagonally, a good one hundred yards \u2013 and that was with one of those big heavy old balls,' says Ted Ballard, another Southampton defender of the era.\n\nAlf managed to play a few more first-team games that year but his big break game in January 1947, in rather unfortunate circumstances for Bill Ellerington. That winter was the bitterest of the 20th century. Week upon week of heavy snow hampered industry, disrupted public transport and so seriously threatened coal supplies that the Attlee government was plunged into crisis. More than two million men were put out of work because of the freeze, while severe restrictions were placed on the use of newsprint. Football, too, was in crisis. In the Arctic conditions, 140 matches had to be postponed. In the games that went ahead, the lines on the icy pitches often had to be marked in red to make them clear. Such was the public frustration at the lack of football that when Portsmouth managed to melt the snow at Fratton Park using a revolutionary steam jet, the club was rewarded with a crowd of 11,500 for a reserve fixture.\n\nThe freeze also had a direct effect on Alf's career. Towards the end of January, Southampton went to the north-east resort of Whitley Bay, in preparation for a third-round FA Cup tie against Newcastle. Alf, as so often at this time, was a travelling reserve. One afternoon, the senior players went out golfing. In the cold weather, most of them wore thick polo-neck jerseys \u2013 except Bill Ellerington, who braved the course in an open-neck pullover. That night 'Big Ellie' felt terrible; he woke up the next morning wringing wet. He was rushed to hospital, where he was quickly diagnosed to be suffering from pneumonia. 'I completely collapsed and ended up in hospital for three months. I did not come out until April,' says Ellerington. One man's tragedy is another's opportunity. Alf was drafted into the side against Newcastle, and he showed more confidence than he had previously displayed, though he was troubled by Newcastle's left-winger, Tommy Pearson, as the Saints lost 3-1 in front of a crowd of 55,800, by far the largest Alf had ever experienced.\n\nWith Ellerington incapacitated, Alf was guaranteed a good run in the side, and he kept his place for the rest of the season, growing ever more assured with each game. In February 1947 the _Daily Mirror_ predicted that 'only a few weeks after entering the big time, Alfred Ramsey is being talked of as one of the coming men of football'. The paper went on to quote coach Bill Dodgin, who paid tribute to Alf's dedication: 'You can't better that type of player. The player who thinks football, talks football and lives football is the man who makes good.'\n\nOne particularly important match for Alf took place at the Dell in April against Manchester City, when he had the chance to witness at first hand City's veteran international full-back Sam Barkas, who, at the age of 38, was playing his last season. Ramsey was immediately captivated by the skills of Barkas and decided to make him his role model. 'It was the most skilful display by any full-back I had seen,' he told the _Evening News_ in 1953. 'The brilliance of Barkas' positional play, his habit of making the other fellow play how he wanted him to play, all caught my eye. What impressed me most of all was Sam Barkas' astute use of the ball. Every time he cleared his lines he found an unmarked colleague,' he wrote later.\n\nExactly the same attributes were to feature in Ramsey's play over the next eight years; one of Alf's greatest virtues was his ability to absorb the lessons of any experience. In his quest for perfection, he was constantly watching and learning, experimenting and practising. As Ted Bates put it in an interview in 1970:\n\n> Alf was very single-minded. He would come to the ground for training and he wanted to get on with it \u2013 no messing about. I believe he was a bit immature then but you could not dispute his single-mindedness. He sole interest was in developing his own game. He was the original self-educated player \u2013 all credit to him for that. But he always had this polish \u2013 it is the only word \u2013 and it made him stand out in any team.\n\nAlf's soccer intelligence, allied to a phenomenal dedication to his craft and an unruffled temperament, made him a far more effective player than his innate talent warranted. Eric Day says:\n\n> He had a very, very good football brain. If he hadn't, he would not have played where he did, because he was not the most nimble of players. Not particularly brilliant in the air, because he did not have the stature to jump up. But he was a decent tackler and a great passer. He could read the game so well, that was his big asset. That was why he became such a great manager.\n\nTed Ballard has the same assessment:\n\n> He was a great player, a super player. He was a quiet man, very strict on himself, very sober and trained hard. The only thing he lacked was pace; he could be a bit slow on the turn because he was built so heavily round the hip. But he made up for it with the way he read the game so well.\n\nStan Clements, who played at centre-half and was himself a shrewd judge of the game, told me:\n\n> He was two-footed. You would not have known the difference between one foot and the other. He was a tremendously accurate passer. When he kicked the ball, it went right to the other player's foot. All the forwards in front of him always said that when Alf gave them the ball, it was easy to collect. They liked that because they could pick it up in their stride. His judgement of distance, his sense of timing was just right. The point about Alf was that he was so cool. One of the remarkable things about him was that at free-kicks and corners, when the goalmouth was crowded, he seemed to have the ability almost to be a second keeper on the goal-line. He seemed always to be able to read exactly what was going on. His anticipation was superb. He was always in the right position to chest the ball down and clear it. He must have saved us at least a goal every other game. He understood football better than most people. I always knew he would make a good manager, because of his ability to size up the game. Bill Dodgin and Syd Cann, the trainer, used to have this layout on the floor of our dressing-room, with counters for the players. And they would use this to analyse our tactics, especially in set-pieces. Alf was always very good at understanding all that; he would take it all on board quickly.\n\nAlf was so dedicated that, even at the end of the 1946-47 season, when he returned to Dagenham, he carried on practising in the meadows behind his parents' cottage: 'I used to take a football every morning during those months of 1947 and spend an hour or two trying hard to \"place it\" at a chosen spot.' Alf knew that only by developing his accuracy would he be successful in adopting the Sam Barkas style of constructive defence. The hard work paid off, and Alf did not miss a single game during the 1947-48 season; indeed, he was the only Southampton player to appear in all 42 League fixtures. Such was the strength of Ramsey's performances that Bill Ellerington, who had gradually recovered from his illness, could not force his way back into the side, though, as he told me, that did not lead to any personal resentment:\n\n> I was working hard to get back. I am not being heroic but it was either that or packing the game in. But Alf was playing really well. He was a good reader of the game, a good player of the ball in front of him. A bit slow on the turn but he was made that way. On tackling, he knew when to go in and not to go in. And he made more good passes than most players. He was always cool. There was no personal rivalry between us. I never even dreamed about animosity or anything like that. We were just footballers. Mind you, looking back, Alf was ambitious. He was a hard lad to get to know. He was not stand-offish, but you could never get at him. He was not one of the boys. We travelled everywhere by train in those days, and I was part of a card school, but Alf did not join in. He never got in trouble, because he was not interested.\n\nAs Bill Ellerington indicates, Alf's personality did not change much once he became a successful professional. He remained undemonstrative, reserved, unwilling to mix easily. 'He would not go out of his way to talk to anybody,' recalled Ted Bates, 'but if you wanted his advice, he'd give it. When we played, early on, I roomed with him, and he was always the same, very quiet, getting on with his job.' Eric Day, the Southampton right-winger, used frequently to catch the train from Southampton to London because his parents lived in Ilford:\n\n> I saw him a lot but there was never much conversation. I am not a great talker and Alf certainly wasn't one. Whenever we chatted, it was only ever about football. He could be a bit short with people, though he was never rude. Alf didn't suffer fools gladly, I'll tell you that. He was a bit secretive; he just didn't chat. Maybe that's because he was a gypsy. Gypsies are extremely close-knit; they keep it in the family. You never heard him shouting, not on the field or in the dressing-room or on the train. If he had any strong feelings about anyone, he just kept them to himself. He was a very honest bloke. He did not like talking about people behind their backs. You never heard him tear anyone to shreds. He was very modest. There was nothing of the star about him.\n\nThe Southampton goalkeeper of the time, Ian Black, highlights similar traits:\n\n> Once he had finished training, you seldom saw him. That is fair enough. People are made in different ways. But it did not make him any the less likeable. I think he had quite a shy nature; he was friendly enough but he did not like much involvement with others. Though he would talk plenty about the game, he was not much of a conversationalist otherwise.\n\nThroughout his time at Southampton, Ramsey lived in digs owned by the club, which he shared with Alf Freeman, one of the Saints' forwards. The two Alfs had served together in the Duke of Cornwall's Regiment, though Freeman had seen action in France and Germany in 1944-45. Now in his mid-eighties and with his powers of communication in decline, Freeman still retains fond memories of living with Alf:\n\n> We had good times together in the army. We were pretty close then. In our Southampton digs, we were looked after well by our landlady. Alf was a lovely man but he was very, very quiet. He was shy and never talked much. Unlike most of us players, he did not smoke or drink much. He always dressed smartly. He liked the cinema, and also did a lot of reading, mainly detective stories.\n\nThe late Joe Mallet, who was one of Southampton's forwards, told Alf's previous biographer in a powerfully worded statement that Ramsey and Freeman had fallen out:\n\n> They were close but they had a disagreement and though they lived together Alf would never speak to Freeman. If you got on the wrong side of Alf, that was it, you were out! You couldn't talk him around; he would be very adamant. If he didn't like somebody or something, he didn't like them. There were no half measures! He was a man you could get so far with, so close to, and then there was a gap, he'd draw the curtain and you had to stop. I don't think he liked any intrusion into his private life. Alf wouldn't tolerate anything like that. He'd be abusive rather than put up with it.\n\nBut today Freeman has no recollection of any such dispute: 'There was never any trouble between us. I don't know where Joe Mallet got that stuff about a disagreement. That just wasn't true. I always got on well with Alf. He was a good man to me. I liked him very much.'\n\nPat Millward came to know Ramsey better than most through Alf's friendship with her husband Doug, who played for both the Saints and Ipswich. Though she recognizes that Alf's diffidence could come across as offensive, she personally was a great admirer:\n\n> People used to think that Alf was difficult because he did not have a lot to say. He would just answer a question and then walk away. A lot of people did not like him. They thought he was too quiet, too pleased with himself. 'He fancies himself, doesn't he? Who does he think he is?' they would say, without really knowing him. But I loved him. He was just the opposite of what some people thought. He was down-to-earth, never bragged, never put on airs, never went for the cheers. And he was such a gentleman, always polite and well-mannered. I remember I was working in the restaurant of a department store in Southampton, and the store had laid on an event for the players, where they were all to receive wallets, and their wives handbags. The gifts were set out on two stands and the players could take their choice. Alf was among the first to arrive. But he held back until all the rest of them had taken what they wanted.\n> \n> 'Shouldn't you get your wallet?' I asked.\n> \n> 'No, Pat, it's fine. Let the others get theirs.'\n> \n> He was a special man. Doug thought the world of him. He was never a joker, but if he liked you, he showed it. On the other hand, if he didn't like you, he had a way of ignoring you.\n\nRevelling in professional success, Alf was more fixated with soccer than ever. But he still enjoyed some of the other pursuits of his youth, like greyhound racing and cricket. Bill Ellerington recalls:\n\n> We would often go to the dog track near the Dell on Wednesday evenings and Alf would come with us. Looking back, he was a very good gambler. There would be six races, six dogs each, and Alf would just go for one dog. Whatever the result, win or lose, he finished. He was not like most of the boys, chasing their money. He was very shrewd. At the time, I just accepted it, but looking back, it showed how clever he was. I always felt there was a bit of the gambler about him, even when he was England manager in the 1966 World Cup. He had this tremendous, quiet self-confidence about him.\n\nStan Clements also remembers Alf's enthusiasm for the dogs, but feels that Alf's lack of social skills has been exaggerated:\n\n> Alf was a nice fella once you knew him, easy to get on with. He had worked for the Co-op and was good with figures. His family were involved in racing greyhounds, in fact some of them used to live on that, so he knew about gambling. At that time in the late 1940s, dog-racing was extremely popular; it was a cheap form of entertainment for the working-class. Alf would usually go to the dogs on a Wednesday with Alf Freeman. He was also good on the horses. He was very quick at working out the odds. He was not tight with his money, or anything like that. He was quite prepared to open his wallet. He was a cool gambler; you never saw him get excited. He would put his bets on in a controlled manner. He would assess the situation. He could lose without it affecting him. In everything he did, he was never over-the-top. He always had control of himself. He enjoyed a drink, but he was not a six pints man.\n\nSpeedway racing was another interest of Alf's and he would regularly visit the local track at Bannister Court near the Dell. He became good friends with the local racer Alf Kaines, and he persuaded Southampton FC to allow Kaines to join the players sometimes for physical training during the week. Stan Clements also remembers that Alf displayed an innate sense of co-ordination in every sport:\n\n> He was the sort of individual who was always good with the round ball. Some of us began to play golf. We had a little competition and the one who made the lowest score got a set of clubs. And who won? Alf, of course. When we were playing snooker, he was very controlled, so he did not miss many shots. The same was true of his cricket. We were once playing a match in Portsmouth and the opposition had a couple of good bowlers who were attached to Sussex. Our team was put together at the last minute, just from those who wanted to play \u2013 and Alf was not one of them. But all of us went down to the match, some of us, like Alf, just as spectators. Soon the opposition were running through us like anything. Then Alf Freeman told us that Alf had been a good cricketer in the army, so he suggested that Alf go in. Alf was a bit reluctant, as he was wearing a navy blue suit at the time. But we persuaded him to don his pads over his dark trousers. So he went out to bat like that. And immediately he stopped the rot, scoring a half century. It was not wild stuff, but controlled, sensible hitting. Nothing silly but he played all the shots.\n\nA couple of beers, a day at the cricket, a night at the dog track, these were the main forms of entertainment for the footballers of the late 1940s, just as they were for most of the working class. In contrast to the multi-millionaires of today's Premiership, most professionals then remained close to the ordinary public in terms of earnings and lifestyle. None of the Southampton players, including Alf, owned a car, while most of them lived in rented accommodation. Almost all their travel was undertaken by rail and if they had to change trains in London, they took the tube, with their kit following in a taxi. Their official wages were not that far divorced from those of clerical staff. The average pay in the League in 1948 was just \u00a38 a week and the maximum wage was set at \u00a312, despite the fact that the clubs and the FA were enjoying record-breaking attendances. That year, 99,500 people paid \u00a3391,000 to see England play Scotland at Wembley, yet the 22 players involved received just \u00a320 each, their payments amounting to little more than 1 per cent of the total gate. Even worse, they were punitively taxed on their earnings by the Labour government, so they actually received only \u00a311 in their pockets. Looking back, former Saints winger Eric Day comments:\n\n> It was not a very glamorous life. I was paid \u00a36 a week in the winter, \u00a34 in the summer, \u00a32 for a win and \u00a31 for a draw. Plus the club charged me 30 bob a week for rent. So I did not have much left over. Certainly I could not have dreamt of having a car. But I felt I was lucky. I had been in the forces for six years, and to come out as a free man, and then to be paid for playing football was something beyond my imagination.\n\nGoalkeeper Ian Black shares the same view about the effect of the war:\n\n> The wages were decent compared to manual work. I think footballers of my generation were more concerned about conducting themselves properly. Most of us had been in the forces, not the best times of our lives, and I suppose coming from that environment created a deep impression. Many of us just felt lucky to be playing football and did not want to spoil it.\n\nApart from the dismal financial rewards, the other drawback that the players of Alf's generation had to contend with was the poor equipment and facilities. The bleak, down-at-heel atmosphere of post-war Britain extended all too depressingly to football. Training kit was poor, pitches were a mud-heap \u2013 when they were not frozen \u2013 and the cumbersome boots were more fit for a spell in the trenches. The classic English soccer footwear remained the 'Mansfield Hotspur', which had first been designed in the 1920s and made a virtue of its solidity, with its reinforced toe and protection for two inches above the ankle. The two main types of ball, the Tugite and the Tomlinson T, were equally robust. Both tended to absorb mud and moisture, becoming steadily heavier and larger as a match progressed. As goalkeeper Ian Black recalls: 'There was not much smacking in the ball from a distance then. When it was wet, if you managed to reach the half-way line, it was an exceptional kick.' Bill Ellerington says:\n\n> The ball was so heavy in those days. Beckham could not have bent it on a cold, damp February night. The ball used to swell right up during a game. If you did not hit it right, you'd have thought you'd broken your ankle. If you headed the ball where the lace was, you felt you'd been scalped. You had to catch it right. Our shin pads were made of cane and the socks of wool so they got heavy in the damp. The facilities were terrible at the Dell. We had a great big plunge bath and just one or two showers. In February, when the pitches were thick with mud, the first in got the clean water. At the end, the water was like brown soup. On a cold winter's day, the steam from the bath would make the walls drip with condensation. You did not know where to put your clothes. If you had a raincoat, you would place it first on the hook so your clothes did not get wet. But you just accepted it.\n\nBut this was the environment in which Alf was now proving himself. By early 1948 he was in the middle of a run of 91 consecutive League games for Southampton, and was winning increasing acclaim from the press. After a match against West Bromwich Albion, in which he twice saved on the goal-line, he was described in the _Southern Daily Echo_ as 'strong, incisive, resourceful'. The team were pushing for promotion and also enjoyed a strong FA Cup run which carried them through to the quarter-finals before they were beaten 1-0 at home by Spurs on 28 February. The _Echo_ wrote of Alf's performance in this defeat:\n\n> Alf Ramsey is playing so well that he is consistently building up a reputation which should bring some soccer honour to him. He certainly impressed highly in this game and is steadily and intelligently profiting under the experienced guidance of partner and captain Bill Rochford.\n\nOf Alf's burgeoning influence, Ian Black says:\n\n> The spirit of our side was first class and my relationship on the field with Alf was very good. He was such a great reader of the game. He always seemed to know what was going to happen next. He lacked a bit of pace but he made up for it with his wonderful positional sense. He was a first-class tackler because he had such a good sense of timing. He never went diving in recklessly. He was never a dirty player. He hated anything like that. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle him. He was always very smart, conducted himself impeccably. Unlike some players, he was never superstitious. He never caused upsets or became aggressive. He was very confident of his own ability, which is half the battle in football. Alf had a natural authority about him. His approach, his knowledge of the game would influence players. So it was no surprise to me that players responded to him when he was a manager. He was the boss; they would understand that. There was no messing about with him, even when he was a player. I don't mean that he was difficult, but he was able to impose his views and because they were often so right, he was all the more respected.\n\nAt the end of the 1947-48 season, the _Football Echo_ described Alf as Southampton's 'most improved player'. Though Southampton had failed to win promotion, as they finished behind Birmingham City and Newcastle, the sterling qualities of Alf attracted the interest of the national selectors. In May, Alf received a letter from Lancaster Gate informing him that the FA were 'considering' him for the forthcoming close-season tour of Italy and Switzerland. Then a few days later, as he sat in his digs listening to the six o'clock news on the BBC Home Service, he heard to his joy that his place in the sixteen-strong party had been confirmed. Alf was rightly thrilled at this elevation; 'I could not believe my good fortune,' he wrote later, and for the first time in his life he was the focus of intense national media interest, with photographers and reporters turning up at the Dell to cover the story of the delivery boy made good. 'While his choice as the sixteenth member of the party will occasionally surprise in many quarters, Ramsey nevertheless deserves the honour. He has had only one full season in League soccer and has made such rapid progress that the selectors have watched him several times,' reported the _News Chronicle._\n\nHe came down to earth when he reported for duty at the Great Western Hotel in Paddington, prior to England's departure for the continent. To his surprise, on his arrival at the hotel, he was completely ignored, not just by a succession of England players like Billy Wright, Tommy Lawton and Frank Swift, but also by the England management. 'For a very long time, in fact, I sat in that lounge waiting for something to happen.' Eventually he went up to the trainer, Jimmy Trotter, to introduce himself. Even then, Trotter did not recognize Ramsey and it took him a few moments before he grasped who Alf was. The humiliating experience, reflective of the shambolic way England was run before the 1960s, taught Ramsey an invaluable lesson. When he became national manager, he made sure that he personally greeted every new entrant to his team, as Alan Mullery recalls:\n\n> My first meeting was with Alf in 1964 when I turned up at the England hotel in London. It was a very nice introduction. He came straight up to me, shook my hand and said, 'Welcome to the England squad. Make yourself at home.' He did it extremely well. From the first moment, I found his man-management superb.\n\nThe next day, Alf travelled with the England party to Heathrow Airport, which had opened less than two years earlier and was still using a tent for one of its terminal buildings. It was the first time Alf had been near an airfield, never mind an aeroplane, and he was initially an anxious passenger as the 44-seat DC-4 Skymaster took off. But as the plane flew over the Alps on its way to Geneva, Alf forgot his nerves and admired the breathtaking views of the snow-capped mountains. At Geneva, the England party was transferred to a pair of DC-3 Dakotas, before flying on to Milan, whose airport was too small to accommodate the Skymaster. From Milan, the squad was then taken to the lakeside resort of Stresa, prior to their game against Italy at Turin. It was a world away from the austerity of post-war Dagenham and Southampton, and Alf found it a shock to see 'the apparently well-fed and beautifully clothed people' of northern Italy. The Italian football manager, Vittorio Pozzo, appeared to understand the severity of food-rationing in Britain, for when he greeted the England team to the Grand Hotel in Stresa, he gave every member a small sack of rice. What today might seem an offensive present was only too eagerly accepted by each player, for, as Alf put it, 'in those days rice was almost as valuable as gold'. Later in the trip, he was given a trilby hat, an alarm clock and two bottles of Vermouth as gifts, which he handed to his mother on his return to Dagenham.\n\nGiven his limited experience, Alf never expected to be in the full England team for the game at Turin. It was, thought Tom Finney, 'the best England side I played with'. And this was to be one of England's finest post-war victories, winning 4-0 thanks largely to some superb goal-keeping by Frank Swift and two goals from Finney. What interested Alf most, watching on the sidelines, was that because of the England team's fitness, their players lasted the pace much better than the Italians. It was something he would remember when it came to 1966.\n\nThe England team then travelled to Locarno, where they stayed in another luxurious hotel and enjoyed a full banquet on the evening of their arrival. Again, Alf could not help but be struck by the contrast with the drabness of life in Britain. Amidst all this splendour, Alf had another cause for celebration: he was picked to play his first representative game for his country, turning out for the B side against Switzerland. The result was an easy 5-1 win. Alf himself felt that he had 'played fairly well', while the _Southern Daily Echo_ announced that he had 'pleased all the critics'. When the England squad arrived back in London, most of the players returned to their homes. But Alf Ramsey had another, far more arduous journey ahead of him. For Southampton FC had agreed to undertake a tour of Brazil at the end of the 1947-48 season, the trip having been promoted by the strong links between the City Council and the Brazilian consulate in Southampton.\n\nThe rest of the squad travelled out to Rio aboard the cruise liner _The Andes,_ on which they were treated like princes. All the petty restrictions of rationing were abandoned, like the weekly allowances of just 13 ounces of meat, one and half ounces of cheese, two pints of milk and one egg. 'We had food like you never saw on the mainland. We had five- or six-course meals laid in front of us. And the training on board was pathetic, just running around the deck, so by the time we arrived we were hardly in peak condition,' says Eric Day. 'We could eat all we wanted. A lot of us put on half a stone in ten days,' remembers Ted Ballard.\n\nAlf did not have it nearly so easy. With the Southampton tour well under way in Brazil by the time he returned from England duty, he had to fly out on a circuitous route to Rio via Lisbon, Dakar and Natal in South Africa. When he arrived at Rio, no one had arranged to meet him and, without any local currency or a word of Portuguese, he spent two hours wandering around the airport looking for assistance, before an official from the local Botafogo club \u2013 which had helped to arrange the tour \u2013 finally arranged to have him flown on to Sao Paulo, where the Southampton team was currently based. It was hardly the smoothest of introductions to Latin America, and subsequently Alf was never to feel at ease in the culture. His presence, however, was badly needed by Southampton, who had been overwhelmed by the Brazilians and had lost all four of their opening games on the tour. 'The skill of the Brazilian players really opened our eyes. We had never seen anything like that. The way some of them played shook us,' says Ian Black. The Brazilians' equipment also appeared to be light years ahead: 'They laughed at our big boots because they had such lightweight ones, almost like slippers,' remembers Bill Ellerington.\n\nIt is a tribute to Alf's influence on the team that, almost as soon as he arrived, both the morale and the results began to pick up. 'When Alf came out there, he made a big difference. We were all down, because getting beaten on tour is no fun. Alf was great on encouragement, at getting us going. He was a terrific motivator, an amazing bloke,' argues Ted Ballard. Alf's influence lay not just on the motivational side; he also helped to devise a tactical plan to cope with the marauding Brazilian defenders, who, in contrast to the more rigid English formation, played almost like wingers. Alf felt that the spaces that they left behind, as they advanced up the field, could be exploited by playing long diagonal balls from the deep into the path of Eric Day, the outside-right. It was a version of a system he would use with dramatic effect a decade later with Ipswich.\n\nAssisted by Alf's cool presence, Southampton won their next game 2-1 against the crack side Corinthians in Sao Paulo. But, in the face of victory, the behaviour of the crowd \u2013 and one of the Corinthian players \u2013 fed Alf's nascent xenophobia. At one stage, after a black Corinthian player had been sent off for a brutal assault on Eric Day, the crowd erupted. Fireworks were let off. Angry chanting filled the stadium. Then, as Alf later recorded, 'just when I thought things had quietened down, some wild-eyed negroes climbed over the wire fencing surrounding the pitch and things again looked dangerous'. A minor riot was only avoided by the intervention of the military police. The banquet with the Corinthians was just as awkward for Alf, as he had to sit beside the player who had been sent off. The event, said Alf in 1952, was\n\n> among the most embarrassing I have ever attended. I tried to speak to him and in return received only a fixed glare. Even when my colleagues tried to be pleasant with him all they received for their trouble was the same glare. There was something hypnotic in the way this negro stared at us. He certainly ranks as the most unpleasant man I've ever met on or off the football field.\n\nThe Southampton team then went on to Rio, where again they won, with Alf captaining the side for the first time when Bill Rochford was rested. They were installed in the Luxor hotel overlooking Copacabana beach, but their stringent training regime prevented them enjoying too much of the local life. 'Brazil had the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life,' says Bill Ellerington. 'They used to parade up and down the beach, though they always had one or two elderly women with them. And by the time we finished playing and training, we were too tired to think about anything like that.' The last two games of the tour ended in a draw and a defeat, before the players took the plane, rather than the boat, back to Southampton.\n\nThe tour had been a revelation for Alf. On one hand it had enhanced his footballing vision, encouraging him to think in a far more original way about tactics and his own role. He now saw, he wrote, that 'a defender's job was also to make goals as well as stopping them'. But on the other it had given him a negative opinion of Latin American crowds, administration and the press. He was astounded, for instance, when walking on to the pitch for the match at Sao Paulo that 'radio commentators, dragging microphones on to the field, rushed up to us and demanded \u2013 yes, demanded! \u2013 our views'. It was the start of a not very beautiful relationship with the world's media.\n\n# [THREE  \n _White Hart Lane_](004-toc.html#ch3)\n\nAt the start of the 1948-49 season, Alf Ramsey's progress seemed assured. He was a key member of the Southampton side, sometime captain, and an England B international. His growing confidence was reflected when he was called up for another representative game, on this occasion playing for English Football League XI against an Irish League XI at Anfield in September. His room-mate in that game was another debutant, the Newcastle striker Jackie Milburn \u2013 cousin of the Charlton brothers who were to play such a central role in Alf's managerial career. Milburn was struck by the intensity of his colleague, who wanted to sit up late into the night talking tactics. 'Alf was never a great one for small talk when he was with England parties,' said Milburn later. 'Football was his one subject of conversation. He was always a pepper-and-salt man, working out moves and analysing formations with the cruet table.'\n\nThe English League XI, which won 5-1, was captained by none other than Stanley Matthews, the ascetic, dazzling Blackpool winger, who, since 1932, had been captivating spectators with his formidable powers of dribbling, swerving and acceleration. A cold, emotionally taut man, whose rigorous training regime included a weekly fast on Mondays, he was not universally loved by his professionals; many of them felt that his trickery on the wing did more to please the crowds than win games for his side. In an amazingly harsh passage about his team-mate, England captain Billy Wright wrote in 1953 that Matthews 'made most of us foam at the mouth because he held up the line and allowed opposing defenders to cover up'. He went on to attack Matthews' brand of 'slow-motion football', adding that Matthews, 'although giving joy to thousands of fans, was sometimes nothing but a pain in the neck to colleagues who waited in vain for the pass that never came.' Coming from someone who failed dismally as a soccer manager because he was 'too nice', those words of Wright's could hardly be more brutal.\n\nAlf, however, developed a good understanding with Matthews during the English League game. And he soon had the chance to play alongside Matthews again, when in December 1948 he was called up to the full England side, after the long-serving Arsenal right-back Laurie Scott suffered a knee injury. The match took place at Highbury on 2 December and resulted in an easy 6-0 win for England over Switzerland. Alf refused to be overawed on his debut. During the match Alf made a pass to Matthews and then, to the astonishment and amusement of the rest of the English League team, shouted 'Hold it, Stanley!' at the great man, who had never been used to taking orders from anyone, least of all a young defender with only one full season behind him. The words from Alf were instinctive, lacking in any self-consciousness and were born of years of practice with the Saints' right-winger Eric Day. Yet they smacked of youthful arrogance, something compounded when Alf wrote in _Talking Football:_ 'To my surprise, Stanley Matthews played football as I believed it should be played between winger and full-back. Stanley took up position perfectly to take my clearances.' To his detractors, that remark was a symbol of Ramsey's arrogance. 'It was rather like a new racing driver out for a spin with Jackie Stewart telling him to change gear at the next bend,' claimed Max Marquis, always on the lookout for anything to drag down Alf. But to Ramsey himself, he was just being realistic; he had found another player who preferred thoughtful, constructive defence rather than the meaty hump into the crowd. 'I was in a better position than Stanley to see the situation so naturally I advised him,' Alf explained to England's captain Billy Wright. Indeed, Matthews soon became an admirer of Ramsey. In an article in 1950, he praised the way Alf relied 'on positional play, interception and brainwork to beat his winger. I know which type I would rather face. The man who rushes the tackles is easier to slip than the calculating opponent who forces you to make mistakes.'\n\nWhat was so impressive about Alf on his debut was his calmness, even under severe pressure. 'Ramsey looked as suave and cool as a city businessman \u2013 particularly when he headed from under the bar in the second minute,' thought the _Daily Mail._ It was a view shared by Alf's captain Billy Wright:\n\n> I must admit I found it a little disconcerting at first to have a full-back behind me who was always as cool as an ice-soda. Ramsey's expressed aim was to play constructive football: I soon learned that nothing could disturb this footballer with the perfect balance and poise, no situation, however desperate, could force him into abandoning his immaculate style.\n\nBut then, just as Ramsey's fortunes appeared to be taking off, disaster struck. On 15 January 1949, Southampton visited Home Park to play a friendly against Plymouth, both teams having been knocked out of the FA Cup. 'One minute before half-time, I slipped on the damp turf when going into a tackle with Paddy Blatchford, the Plymouth Argyle outside left. A terrible searing pain went through my left-knee...the most agonizing I have ever experienced,' wrote Alf. In fact, as he was carried from the field, Ramsey feared that his professional career was over. Fortunately, an X-ray showed that he only had badly strained ligaments and should be able to play again before the end of the season.\n\nWhether he would return to the Southampton side was another matter. For Alf's position was immediately filled to great effect by Bill Ellerington, who had waited patiently in the reserves after recovering from his bout of pneumonia, playing just 12 League games in the previous two years. Just as Alf had done in January 1947, so Bill now seized his chance, producing such solid performances at the back that he was to win two England caps before the end of the season. But Ellerington's success spelt problems for Ramsey, particularly because Southampton were pressing hard for promotion. In March 1949, while Alf was still limping badly, manager Bill Dodgin came up to him at the Dell and warned him that he was 'going to find it very hard' to regain his place in the first team. Alf was appalled at this comment, regarding it as a calculated insult. The sensitive side of his nature led him to brood obsessively about it, as he sunk into a period of mental anguish. 'The world did indeed appear a dark and unfriendly place. For one fleeting moment I seriously contemplated quitting football,' said Ramsey later.\n\nHe certainly wanted to quit Southampton, now that Bill Ellerington appeared to be the favoured son. More ambitious than ever, Alf \u2013 unlike Bill \u2013 was not content to wait months in the reserves. Despairing of his future at the Dell, Alf wrote to the club's chairman J.R. Jukes requesting a transfer. Initially Jukes tried to dissuade Alf, but to no avail. As Jukes reported to a special board meeting on 8 March, 'Ramsey was adamant in his desire to be transferred to some other club, his stated reason being that he felt he was lowering his chances of becoming an international player by being played in the reserve side'. The entire board then called Ramsey into the meeting and told him that 'it would be far more to his advantage and future reputation if he remained at the club and went up with them, as we all hoped would be the case, into the First Division'. But Ramsey would not budge and told the directors that he was 'willing to go anywhere'.\n\nRamsey's opinion of Bill Dodgin had plummeted during the row. He felt that the Southampton boss should have shown 'more understanding of my personal feelings'. Even if Ramsey appeared excessively touchy, his criticism of Dodgin was mirrored by a few of his colleagues at the Dell. Known to some as 'Daddy', Dodgin was a former lumbering centre-half who spent four years at the Dell as coach and manager, but, despite a strong team, failed to win promotion. He was generally liked by the players, especially for his decency and sense of humour, but some felt he lacked sufficient authority, especially on the tactical side. 'Technically, he was not a good manager,' says Eric Day. 'We did not have much in the way of team talks. I never found him good on motivating. I doubt if Alf ever learnt much from Bill. If anything, it would have been the other way round.' Ted Ballard largely agrees:\n\n> Bill Dodgin was a decent bloke, but he wasn't perfect. His weak point was his knowledge of the game. He could not really put his views across in those vital moments, like the ten minutes before half-time. I think he suffered a bit from lack of confidence. Players like Bill Rochford were stronger than he was.\n\nBut Alf's view that Dodgin had done him a cruel injustice was not shared in the Southampton dressing-room, where there was strong admiration for Bill Ellerington. Another of the Saints' full-backs Albie Roles, who appeared briefly in the 1948-49 season, was inclined to think that Bill was the better player in comparison to Alf: 'He tackled harder. He was more direct, more decisive with his tackling. And he could hit the ball right up along the ground. He didn't have to lob it. Alf Ramsey may have been the better positional player, but Bill was a good footballer.' Joe Mallet had this analysis:\n\n> Bill Ellerington had things that Alf didn't have and vice-versa. Bill used to clear his lines whereas Alf used to try and play the ball out of danger \u2013 which sometimes wasn't the right thing to do. Bill's all-round defensive game was better than Alf's. Alf Ramsey was always beaten by speed and by players who took the ball up to him \u2013 tricky players, quick players. But he was a brilliant user of the ball. That's how he got his name, on the usage of the ball: good passing, very good passing; but sometimes he used to take chances with short ones, in the danger area around the goal.\n\nIn fact, Mallet believed that Alf's incautious approach, allied to his lack of pace, which was a central reason why Dodgin did not fight to keep him. Just a week before Ramsey had incurred his knee injury at Plymouth, Southampton had travelled to Hillsborough for an FA Cup tie against Sheffield Wednesday. As the Saints came under fire in the first half, they reverted to using the offside trap. But according to Mallet, Ramsey wrecked this tactic through his over-reliance on captain Bill Rochford. Over the years, said Mallett, Ramsey had grown so used to the effectiveness of Rochford's sense of timing, moving forward on the left flank at just the right moment to catch any attack offside, that Alf was inclined to 'take liberties'. Even when Alf was beaten on his own right flank, he had got into the habit of shouting 'offside', because he presumed Rochford would have moved into an advanced position to thwart the opposition. In this particular match at Hillsborough, according to Mallet:\n\n> Sheffield Wednesday had an outside left who was a quick small player. Alf went up, 'Offside!' They broke away. They scored. And at half-time in the dressing-room there was a row \u2013 between Alf and Bill Rochford, who said, 'You've to keep playing the man. You've got to run. Even if you think it's offside, you've still got to go with him.' So this was the reason that Alf Ramsey took umbrage and left the club.\n\nAlf always took offence easily, as his later tetchy relationship with the press testifies, and there can be little doubt that the row at Hillsborough contributed to his desire to go. Several clubs, amongst them Burnley, Luton and Liverpool, expressed an initial interest in buying him but there was now the additional pressure of the looming transfer deadline for the season, which fell on 16 March, just eight days after the board had accepted Ramsey's demand for a move. By the morning of the 16th, however, only Sheffield Wednesday had come up with a definite offer. Ramsey, as a southerner, did not want to move north, fearing that he 'might never settle down in the provinces'. Moreover, Wednesday, despite a richer pedigree, were less successful in the 1948-49 season than Southampton, finishing five places lower in the second division table. What Alf did not know was that, by the late afternoon, Tottenham Hotspur had suddenly also come forward with an offer. At half past four, he was sitting in his digs, contemplating his failure to get away from the Dell, when the trainer Sam Warhurst turned up in his car and immediately rushed Alf back to the ground, where he was brought into Bill Dodgin's office and asked if he wanted to become a Spurs player. Alf instantly wanted to accept.\n\nSadly for him, it was now too late to beat the transfer deadline. The potential deal fell through. Alf was stuck at the Dell for the remainder of the season, a disastrous period in which the Saints gained only four out of a possible fourteen points and missed out on promotion behind Fulham and West Brom. But once the season was over, the Spurs offer was revived, partly as a result of personnel changes at White Hart Lane. At the beginning of May, Joe Hume, the Spurs manager who had presided over the abortive deal, was sacked by the board on the rather unconvincing grounds of ill-health. His replacement was not some big managerial star from another top-rank club. Instead, the Spurs board chose Arthur Rowe, a former Tottenham player who was then manager of lowly, non-League Chelmsford City. But the Spurs directors had shown more perspicacity than most of their breed. For Arthur Rowe possessed one of the most innovative football minds of his generation. He was about to embark on a footballing revolution at Tottenham, one that would send shockwaves through the First Division. What Rowe immediately needed were thinking players who would be able to help implement his vision. And it was soon obvious to him, after talking to Spurs officials who had tried to sign Ramsey in March, that Alf fitted his ideal type.\n\nSo on 15 May 1949, Spurs made another bid for Ramsey. This time there were no difficulties. Alf was only too happy to move to Tottenham, not just because it was an ambitious and famous institution, twice winners of the FA Cup, but, more prosaically, because the club agreed that he could live at home with his parents in nearby Dagenham. For a hard-pressed family and a frugal son, this was a real financial benefit.\n\nAt the very moment Alf left Southampton, so too did the manager he had come to so dislike, Bill Dodgin, who, much to the surprise of the Saints players, had agreed to take up the manager's job at newly promoted Fulham. It has often been claimed that Dodgin's departure was prompted by his annoyance at Alf's transfer. Nothing could be further from the truth. When Rowe was about to sign Alf, Dodgin was on another tour of Brazil, this time as the guest of Arsenal. As David Bull recorded in his excellent book _Dell Diamond,_ the biography of Ted Bates, Bill Dodgin was in the reception of his hotel in Rio when he was handed a telegram from the Southampton directors informing him of Arthur Rowe's offer for Ramsey. He immediately cabled back, 'go ahead \u2013 dodgin.' In truth, Dodgin had fallen out badly with Ramsey and had no wish to keep him at the Dell. It was other issues that led to Dodgin's decision, such as his urge to return to his native London and manage a First Division side.\n\nTwo other myths were circulated about Ramsey at the time of his move. The first was that the transfer cost Spurs \u00a321,000, making Alf by far the most expensive full-back in soccer history; the _Southern Daily Echo_ was moved to describe it as a 'spectacular deal'. The reality was less exciting. The actual cash sum Spurs paid was only \u00a34,500, the \u00a316,500 balance made up by swapping Ernie Jones, their Welsh international winger, for Ramsey. The second was that Ramsey, as widely reported in the press, was only 27 at the time of the move. In fact he was 29, an age when many footballers are starting to contemplate retirement. For Alf, the best was still to come.\n\nIn addition to moving to Tottenham, Alf's private life was about to undergo an enormous change. The request to live with parents may have implied that he was planning to live a life of strict celibacy, in keeping with his reserved character, but that was far from the case. During his time at Southampton, he had met and fallen in love with a slim elegant brunette, Rita Norris, who worked as a hairdresser in the city. With a degree of embarrassment, Alf later described how their romance began:\n\n> We were introduced by a friend at a club, nothing whatever to do with football. Immediately we had what one must call a special relationship. I don't know why I had this particular feeling only for her. I don't think anyone can describe such a thing. It is impossible to put into words.\n\nAlf emerges as touchingly human in his awkward confession as to how love was awakened within his reticent soul.\n\nIt was Alf's first serious affair, as his fellow Southampton lodger Alf Freeman recalls. 'Alf was very shy, and I don't think he had any girlfriends before her.' During the late forties Alf and Rita started courting regularly, going to the cinema, the theatre, even the speedway and dog tracks. These venues in Southampton were owned by Charlie Knott, a big local fishmonger and a friend of Rita's. 'I lived in Portsmouth then,' says Stan Clements, 'and I used to get them tickets for the Theatre Royal. He would take her there once a week, usually on a Thursday. They did not have a car, so they came down by train. They were a very nice couple. She was like him, quiet and polite'. Here Clements highlights one of the reasons why Alf was so immediately drawn to Rita Norris. As well as being darkly attractive, she had the same serious temperament as Alf. Like him, she was determined to better herself, having been born in humble circumstances: her father, William Welch, was a ship's steward who later became a lift attendant. Rita had higher ambitions. She was keen on the ballet, had good taste in clothes and was well-spoken. 'She was a very good ballet dancer. Just as Alf was a gentleman, she was a lady, with nice manners, though some of the Southampton players thought she was a bit strait-laced,' says Pat Millward.\n\nGiven the depth of their romance, it was inevitable that the subject of marriage arose. 'We were engaged for some time before we were married. I don't recall how long. It is not important,' said Alf in 1966. Alf, as occasionally before, was being somewhat economical with the truth, for the tenure of his engagement turned out to be extremely important. The fact is that Alf was unable to marry Rita Norris when he wanted in the late forties \u2013 because she was already married to another man. Alf, the most loyal and upright of football figures, was \u2013 in the eyes of the law at least \u2013 helping his girlfriend to commit adultery for years. On Christmas Day 1941, Rita Phyllis Welch, aged 21, had married Arthur Norris in a Church of England ceremony at the Nelson chapel in Southampton, the more impressive nearby St Mary's Church, the usual venue for such occasions, having been bombed by the Luftwaffe. By trade, Arthur Norris was a fitter, like his father, and he was soon employed working as an aircraft engineer in the Fleet Air Arm. Within less than two years of their marriage, in February 1943, Arthur and Rita had produced a daughter, to which they gave the rather unusual artistic name of Tanaya, though she was generally called Tanya.\n\nBut as with a huge number of wartime marriages, the union between Arthur and Rita broke down and in 1947 they separated. Under the more strict law of the period, Rita could not officially gain a divorce until a period of at least three years had elapsed. And even after her divorce, she would not be able to re-marry for another year. So she and Alf, even though they were deeply in love, were trapped. Pat Millward recalls:\n\n> Alf told me privately he was waiting, waiting all the time for her to get her divorce. He was a little nervous that people in Southampton might throw it at him that he was involved with a married woman. But I never heard anyone say anything about it. Mind you, Alf was always very secretive about her. He never talked much about the relationship. The first moment I think I was aware of it was that time when my department store was giving out the wallets and handbags to the Southampton players. Alf was very uptight about getting the right handbag for her, so I chose it for him.\n\nRita's divorce finally game through on 30 November 1950, the official grounds given that Arthur Norris had 'deserted the Petitioner without cause for a period of at least three years immediately preceding the presentation of the petition'. Little more than a year later, on 10 December 1951, Alf Ramsey, aged 31 years \u2013 he always gave his true birth date where officialdom was concerned \u2013 was married at the Register Office in Southampton, before going on to a brief honeymoon in Bournemouth. The wedding was sandwiched between an away fixture at Blackpool and a home game against Middlesbrough. In line with the reclusive nature of the affair, Alf kept quiet about his marriage and it therefore came as a surprise at Spurs. 'Secret wedding honeymoon ended today for Alf Ramsey, Spurs right back and first choice for England and his bride who was formerly Rita Welch of Southampton,' announced the _Daily Mirror_ on 12 December 1951. 'He kept the wedding so secret that even Spurs' manager Arthur Rowe did not know of the ceremony at the Southampton Register Office. On the train returning from Blackpool Ramsey asked for \"two or three days off\" to be married.'\n\nIt would be wrong to exaggerate the impropriety of the circumstances surrounding Alf's marriage. Divorce, though still far less common than it is today, was becoming increasingly prevalent, partly because of the high rate of failure in wartime marriages. In 1920, when Alf and Rita were both born, there were just 3,090 divorces in England. By 1939, the figure had risen to 8,254. By 1950, however, the divorce rate had soared to 30,870 a year. So it is hardly as if Alf and Rita were causing a public scandal. Though the true nature of Alf's marriage has never before been revealed, there have occasionally been wild rumours in the football world about his relationship with Rita. It was whispered breathlessly, for example, that she was 'the daughter of an admiral'. Others said that Alf had 'stolen his bride from his best mate'. Neither is remotely true. Rita was, like Alf, born in the working class and had merely contracted an unfortunate first marriage. 'There was no sense of Alf stealing her,' says Pat Millward. 'When they met, she was already waiting for a divorce.' Nevertheless, Rita Norris' past undoubtedly heightened Alf's sense of wariness about discussing his private life. It was another uncomfortable subject that he would prefer to avoid, like his father's job or his alleged elocution lessons or his supposed gypsy background. After his marriage, the barriers were put up even higher, as Margaret Fuljames, his secretary at the FA for many years, recalls:\n\n> He hated any intrusion into his private life. Like the _Daily Mail_ would ring almost every year on his birthday, looking for a diary piece, a light little comment from him or his wife, and Alf would never have anything to do with that. He felt it was nothing to do with who he was or his job as England manager.\n\nFor all its inauspicious beginnings, Ramsey's marriage proved a successful one. Rita changed her name to Victoria, though Alf always knew her as Vic, and she was happy to concentrate on building their home and supporting Alf. In typically practical terms, Alf once set out the proper role of a player's spouse:\n\n> A footballer's wife needs to run the home completely so that he has no worries; give him the sort of food he likes and should have; and to work only for his good and the good of his career. She must know that she will rarely see him at weekends \u2013 and the better player he is, the less she will see of him. A footballer could be ruined by a wife who let him have all the household responsibilities, fed him the wrong diet and gave him no peace of mind. My wife has been splendid. I have been very lucky.\n\nIn her turn, Vickie returned the compliment. 'I was privileged to have met and married Alfred and I enjoyed a very wonderfully happy life with a kind and generous man,' she wrote to me.\n\nAlf proved a loyal, honourable husband, giving her not the slightest moment's suspicion that he might stray. Unlike a lot of successful sportsmen, who revel in the flash of a knowing smile or a whiff of perfume, Alf was too innocent to be at ease with sophisticated femininity. 'I don't know much about women and the only women I know are footballers' wives,' he said, at a time when the phrase 'footballers' wives' had yet to become the embodiment of predatory lust. His love for Vickie was certainly genuine. 'He's the nicest man in the world. Never quarrels or loses his temper. He even listens to _my_ views on football,' Vickie told the _Daily Mail_ in 1962. They never had any children of their own, but Alf proved a good step-father to Vickie's daughter Tanaya, who went on to marry an American and settle in the USA.\n\nPat Millward says: 'They were a very close couple. Alf was devoted to her.' Despite his comments about a wife's duties, Alf was not the stereotyped husband of his generation, treating all housework as the preserve of women. Ken Jones has this recollection of the domesticated Alf:\n\n> In 1974 I was doing some magazine pieces with him and Brian James, the _Daily Mail's_ football writer. So I picked him up at Liverpool Street and took him over to my house. We did some work in the morning, and then sat down to lunch cooked by my wife. All went well and we had a few drinks \u2013 Alf liked a drink. Then after lunch, I said, 'Right, back to work.'\n> \n> To which Alf immediately said, 'Hold on, what about the washing up?'\n> \n> 'The washing up?' I said in astonishment.\n> \n> 'Yes, the washing up.' And he went off into the kitchen to help with my wife. There he was, with his elbows in the sink. From that day on, he was always a hero to my wife.\n\nJohn Booth, who became a close friend of Alf after his retirement, says: 'Everything always had to be spotless with Alf. He liked everything clean and tidy. He once came into my kitchen and started cleaning the sink and kettle.'\n\nWhatever his virtues of fidelity and domesticity, it could not be claimed that Alf was the most romantic of men. Even Victoria, in one of her rare comments to the press, expressed her desire for her husband to show more emotion. 'I wish he would let his hair down occasionally and throw his cap over the moon. It would do him a power of good. There is nothing spectacular ever in his reactions,' she said in 1965. Early in his marriage, his relentless tunnel vision about football could be hurtful. On one occasion, when she was waiting outside the Spurs dressing-room after a game, he came out, completely ignored her because he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, and proceeded to walk down the corridor until he was reminded that he had forgotten his wife. Ron Reynolds, the Spurs deputy goalkeeper of the early fifties, recalled meeting Alf and Vickie at a social event:\n\n> We had a meal and afterwards there was a dance. Alf came over to me and said, 'I want you to meet somebody.' He took me along and introduced me to Vickie. Within a matter of thirty seconds, he said, 'You won't mind having a dance with her, will you?' Alf didn't want to dance, he wanted to talk about football to the people there and so he lumbered me! She was very nice, but I was just a country lad, twenty-two years old, a bit out of my depth. I was practically speechless:\n\nHis innate lack of demonstrativeness stretched into his marriage. He famously explained that if he and his wife ever had a row, he liked to 'shake hands and make up'. Nigel Clarke says that he 'never, ever saw he and Vickie touch each other, embrace or be tactile. They would shake hands when they saw each other. I always had the feeling that Alf was not very worldly wise in sexual matters.' And though he was a loving step-father, he could not always get excited about his daughter's youthful activities. Tony Garnett, who covered all of Alf's Ipswich career, told me of this incident:\n\n> Alf was a shrewd man but he was very limited in anything bar football. I remember I ran into Tanya on the train at Liverpool Street. She had just been to the ballet. She was keen on that, like her mother. And I said to her, 'You know your dad is just two compartments ahead.'\n> \n> 'Oh, I don't want to go and sit with him. He won't be interested in what I have been doing.'\n\nFor all his carefully cultivated refinement, Alf could occasionally be crudely masculine. Roy McFarland, the Derby and England defender, remembers an incident in December 1971, when England were on tour in Greece. There was the usual banquet after the game, which the players imagined would be followed by the usual boring speeches. Instead, a ravishing, scantily clad belly-dancer appeared before them. McFarland recalls:\n\n> All the lads started coming back from the bar for a closer look. Once she had finished her act, some of us went out to get some fresh air, and then we got on the bus. Alf came out of the reception, sat down in his usual seat, then turned to us and said: 'Lads, what about that belly dancer! Fucking great pair she had, didn't she?' It was so unexpected. We could not stop laughing. He said things like that, which made him all the more endearing. It was a warm feeling to be part of that humour.\n\nGeorge Cohen, the Fulham full-back who knew and understood Alf better than any of the 1966 winners, gave this thoughtful analysis of their marriage:\n\n> Alf was, no doubt, a product of his times and when they had passed few men would ever have had more difficulty in adapting to a new style \u2013 and new values. His marriage to Vickie was a perfect reflection of this. He worshipped her but he also expected everything of her. She served him, as so many women did their husbands in those days and in return he adored her. If ever anyone walked in a man's goals in the process. Stoke were crushed 6\u20131, Portsmouth 5\u20131 and, most remarkably of all, Newcastle United 7\u20130, witnessed by a crowd of over 70,000 at White Hart Lane. The _Daily Telegraph_ gave a graphic description of how Tottenham operated:\n\n> The Spurs principle is to hold the ball a minimum amount of time, keep it on the ground and put it into an open space where a colleague will be a second or two later. The result is their attacks are carried on right through the side with each man taking the ball in his stride at top pace, for all the world like a wave gathering momentum as it races to the far distant shore. It is all worked out in triangles and squares and when the mechanism of it clicks at speed, as it did Saturday, with every pass placed to the last refined inch on a drenched surface, there is simply no defence against it.\n\nRon Burgess described it as 'the finest exhibition of football I have ever seen.' Eddie Baily, who scored a hat-trick in that Newcastle game, later recalled: 'Our style commanded a lot of respect from others because of its freshness, because of the way it was played and the men who played it. You felt that you were helping to lift the tone of the game and so you got that respect from the crowds as well.' By December 1950, Spurs were at the top of the First Division table and held on to the lead through January and February, though Manchester United were close behind. Then in March they tore away again with another burst of fine victories, including a 5\u20130 destruction of West Bromwich Albion.\n\nThroughout these months, Alf was playing the best football of his life. His captain Ron Burgess wrote that Alf was 'in grand form that season. He not only scored four goals himself, but his perfectly placed free-kicks led to a number of goals.' He went on to describe Alf as 'a brilliant defender under any condition and circumstance' who was 'a player for the big occasion'. The quality of Alf's vision was central to the success of push-and-run in the First Division. Such was his authority on the field that he became known to his colleagues as 'The General'. He was the master of strategy, the lynchpin of a side that built its attacks from the back, the scheming practitioner who put Rowe's plans into action. George Robb, who joined Spurs in 1951, told author Dave Bowler:\n\n> Tottenham became a great side through push-and-run, which was tailor-made for Alf. There was no long ball from him, and he was one of the crucial members of the side, along with the likes of Burgess. Alf played a tremendous part in setting the pass pattern, which wasn't typical of the British game. It was a revolutionary side, very well-knit.\n\nRobb recalled The General's influence off the field as well:\n\n> In team talks Alf certainly played an important part \u2013 he was full of deep thinking about the game but very quietly spoken. He was appreciated by the rest of us as being a cut above, tactically calm and unruffled. You'd go in the dressing-room for training and you'd have Eddie Baily, a tremendous clown, making a terrific row and Alf would just sit there, taking it all in, occasionally coming in with a shrewd observation, a cooling statement; he was ice-cool, just as his game was. Alf was looked upon as classy, constructive, so he set a new pattern.\n\nSpurs were still top of the table by mid-April 1951 and when they met Sheffield Wednesday on Saturday the 28th they needed only two points to clinch the title. The match kicked off at 3.15 pm, as was traditional in this period, and for most of the first half, Spurs were unable to break down the Wednesday defence. Then, as the clock was about to reach 4 pm, Eddie Baily went past three defenders, then fed Len Duquemin, who hit a rasping shot into the net. 'I have heard the Hampden Park roar and the Ninian Park roar, and they were mere whispers to the roar that greeted that goal, and that pulsating din of excitement did not diminish from then until the end of the game,' wrote Spurs captain Ron Burgess. Despite many frantic goalmouth moments at both ends in the second half, the score-line remained the same at the final whistle. Spurs were the champions, the first time they had won the title in their long history. 'The crowd went crazy, and I don't think many of the players were too sane at that particular moment,' said Burgess.\n\nThere was one more game left in the season, and Tottenham celebrated in style, beating Liverpool 3\u20131. After the game, Burgess was presented with the League trophy by Arthur Drewry, the President of the Football League, who said of the champions, 'I not only congratulate them on having won it but also on the manner in which they did so.' A couple of days later, all the Spurs players and staff were invited to a 'Grand Celebration Dance' at the Royal on the Tottenham Court Road. Supporters had to pay 10 shillings 6 pence for a ticket to the event, where they were promised four hours of Ivor Kirchin and his Ballroom Orchestra.\n\nIt was a happy end to Alf's second season in Spurs colours. But on other fronts, the prospects were darker.\n\n# [FOUR  \n _Belo Horizonte_](004-toc.html#ch4)\n\nWithin months of transferring from Southampton to Spurs in the summer of 1949, Alf had justified the move by regaining his place in the England team after he had lost it to his Saints full-back rival Bill Ellerington. Languishing in the Saints reserves, his cause would have been hopeless. But his superb form for Tottenham soon attracted the England selectors, and he was picked for the match against Italy at White Hart Lane. England managed to win 2\u20130, but the result was harsh on the Italians, who had dominated much of the game and had only been prevented from scoring through a memorable display of goalkeeping by Bert Williams. Alf himself had a difficult match, not just in coping with the Italian winger Carapellese, but also in working with right-half Billy Wright. The _Daily Sketch_ commented: 'Wright could not be satisfied with his performance. There were times in the game when he went too far upfield, leaving Alf Ramsey exposed to the thrusting counter-attacks of the quick and clever Italian forwards.' But, as always, Alf was learning, and the key lesson he took from the game was the importance of positional play. 'That November afternoon I realized more than ever before that it is sometimes more important to watch the man rather than the ball, to watch where the man you are marking runs when he has parted with the ball,' he wrote.\n\nAlf had performed creditably enough, however, and soon became a fixture in the England team, winning 31 caps in succession. One of his fellow players in that Italian game was the revered Preston winger Sir Tom Finney, who was immediately impressed by Alf:\n\n> I felt he was a really outstanding full-back, with a good idea of how the game should be played. He was very good at using the ball; unlike some others, he never seemed just to punt it up the field and hope that it got to one of his own side. He always felt that the game should be played on the floor. But he was not particularly fast, and I don't think he liked playing against people who were clever on the ball and quick.\n\nLike most of the Tottenham players, Sir Tom never found it easy to mix with Alf;\n\n> To be honest, he was a bit of a loner. He was not easy-going. He did not suffer fools gladly. He was a theorist who had his own ideas on how the game should be played, but he kept those ideas to himself. He had a very quiet personality, never swore much. I always got on all right with him but I never found that he was a fella who wanted to talk a lot. I would not say that he had many great friends in the England set-up. Unlike some less experienced players who have just broken through into the international team, Alf never felt the need to link up with anyone.\n\nAccording to Sir Tom, though Alf was generally 'very serious' he could display an odd, dry sense of humour. On one occasion, when Spurs had drawn with Preston at Deepdale in the FA Cup, Sir Tom popped his head round the corner of the Spurs dressing-room to say hello to Alf, who was, after all, an England colleague. In his account in his autobiography, Finney wrote:\n\n> Alf, who was standing close to the door, seemed quite animated.\n> \n> 'Not much point you lot coming all the way to London for the reply,' he barked. 'There will be nothing for you at Spurs.'\n> \n> I was taken aback, not so much by what had been said but more by who had said it. I looked Alf in the eyes for a moment but it was impossible to tell whether he was being aggressive, jocular or simply mischievous. He was dead right though \u2013 four days later we lost by a single goal at White Hart Lane.\n\nIt was always an absurdity that Sir Tom Finney, one of the finest footballers in history, should have to run a business as a plumber in Preston because his earnings from the game throughout the forties and fifties were so meagre. When he and Alf played against Italy in 1949, the maximum wage stood at just \u00a312 a week, while England players received a match fee of just \u00a330, plus \u00a3 1-a-day expenses if the team were playing abroad. It was a semi-feudal system, one where players were tied to their clubs even against their will, since the clubs held their registration and no move was possible without the directors' permission.\n\nYet this oppressive relationship was only a reflection of the deeper malaise in football at the time. England was the nation that gave football to the world in the 19th century, but it had failed to progress much since then. Complacently living in the past, the game's administrators and journalists still told themselves that English football was the finest in the world. The evidence for this global supremacy, it was claimed, lay in the fact that England had never been beaten by a foreign side at home. It was not strictly true even in 1949, when the Republic of Ireland won 2\u20130 at Goodison Park, but, despite all the years of bitter enmity across the Irish Sea and Ireland having competed in two World Cups as a sovereign state, Eire was transformed into a home nation for the purposes of maintaining the undefeated record. Alf's trip with Southampton to Brazil in 1948 had shown him the rapid developments that were happening elsewhere in the world, especially in terms of tactics and equipment. But England clung to the reassuring, outdated certainties of W\u2013M formations and ankle-wrapping boots. Training was hopelessly unsuited to a modern, fast-moving game. Indeed, many coaches still clung to the grotesque notion that professionals should be deprived of the ball during the week, so that they would be more hungry for it on Saturday. In place of perfecting their ball skills, they had to carry out endless laps of the track. 'The dislike of the ball was pretty universal in training. I thought it was crazy,' says Sir Tom Finney. The physical treatment of players was equally primitive. It was usually carried out by a former club stalwart who knew nothing of dealing with injuries.\n\nThe paralysis within English football was perhaps most graphically highlighted in the antique way the FA and the Football League were run. Both were managed more like a somnolent Oxford college than a professional sports body. The Football Association, which was composed largely of representatives from the counties and old universities, had a certain contempt for men who earned their living from the game. Snobbery, poor record keeping and amateurism were rife throughout the organization. When Stanley Rous first became secretary in 1934, there were complaints about his inappropriate dress for matches. 'I would remind you,' said one old councillor, 'that your predecessor would go to matches in a top hat and frock coat.' This kind of nonsense was still carrying on after the war, with FA members more worried about protocol than performance. The Football League was just as bad. The Yorkshireman Alan Hardaker, who was later to be compared to a cross between Caligula and Jimmy Cagney because of his autocratic methods, arrived at the League's headquarters in Preston in 1951, as deputy to the secretary Frederick Howarth. Hardaker was shocked at what he found. Housed in an old vicarage, the League kept no proper records and stored files in the attics. Like some Victorian colonialist, Howarth relied on telegrams rather than the telephone. His loathing for the press equalled that for modern technology. 'Howarth was against change of any sort, particularly if it meant more work for him,' wrote Hardaker. As a result, 'The League was like a machine that had been lying in a corner for three quarters of a century.'\n\nThe antiquated approach extended to the selection of the national team. What should have been the job of the England manager was instead in the hands of a group of opinionated, often elderly, figures who had absolutely no experience of international football. The eight FA selectors were inordinately proud of their role and enjoyed their trips abroad, but they disastrously lacked judgement or any long-term vision. Riddled with prejudices, often displaying blatant bias towards players from their own clubs, they showed no consistency, no understanding of the needs of modern football. 'There was always this chopping and changing. Someone would have a tremendous game for England and then be dropped, for no reason,' says Sir Tom Finney. At their meetings, the selectors would go through each position in turn, seeking nominations and then holding a vote to decide the choice if there were a dispute. On occasions, they could be breathtakingly ignorant. In his first games for England, Bobby Moore was frequently mistaken by one selector for the Wolves midfielder Ron Flowers, purely because they both had blond hair. Similarly, John Connelly, the Burnley winger, recalled talking to a selector during the 1962 World Cup in Chile: 'All the time it was Alan this, Alan that. He thought I was our reserve goalkeeper, Alan Hodgkinson.'\n\nThe man trying to grapple with this system was Walter Winterbottom, who had been appointed England manager and FA Director of Coaching in 1946. The very fact that these two enormous jobs were combined in one individual only demonstrates the indifference that the FA showed towards the management of the national team. In the face of his burden, Winterbottom fought hard to bring some rationality to the chaos. Before the war, he had been an undistinguished player with Manchester United before a back injury ended his career. Having paid his way through Carnegie College of Physical Education, he served as a PT instructor in the Air Ministry during the war, rising to the rank of wing-commander. His military credentials, earnest, academic manner and plummy voice appealed to the socially conscious chiefs of the FA. But Winterbottom was no cypher. As passionate and obsessive about football as Alf Ramsey, he had analysed the game in depth and, through his position as Director of Coaching, he aimed to start a technical revolution in English football by raising skills and tactical awareness. Many of the future generations of top managers were inspired by Winterbottom's coaching. 'Walter was a leader, a messiah, he set everyone's eyes alight,' said Ron Greenwood. Sir Bobby Robson was moved to call him 'a prophet. He was my motivator in terms of my staying in football.' Alf himself wrote of one of Winterbottom's team talks during his first England tour in 1948: 'His tactical knowledge of Continental teams, and his outlook on the Italian methods and temperament left a lasting impression on me.'\n\nBut, as well as the vicissitudes of the selection process, Winterbottom was faced with two other major problems. The first was the reluctance of some major stars to accept any degree of instruction, especially from someone who had never played international football. With a narrowness typical of the period, certain players believed that fitness and ability were all that mattered, with coaching regarded as alien and demeaning. In an interview with the BBC, the centre-forward Tommy Lawton recalled an early pre-match session with Winterbottom:\n\n> He said to us, 'The first thing we'll do, chaps, is that we'll meet in half an hour. I've arranged a blackboard and we will discuss tactics.'\n> \n> I looked at him and said, 'We'll discuss WHAT?'\n> \n> 'Well, how we're going to play it and do it.'\n> \n> So I said, 'Are you telling me that you've got a blackboard downstairs, and, God forbid, you're going to tell Stan Matthews how to play at outside right and me, you're going to tell me, how to score goals? You've got another think coming.'\n\nFor all its arrogance, Lawton's contempt illustrated the deeper, long-term problem with Winterbottom: his failure to command automatic respect from players. Winterbottom was too remote, too theoretical to motivate his teams. His lack of top-class experience told against him. Once, on a coaching course, he asked a group of professionals:\n\n'Can you give me a reason why British players lack environmental awareness?'\n\n'Because we didn't get enough meat during the war,' came the cynical reply.\n\nUnlike Alf, he did not have that natural, intangible aura which incites devotion. 'Walter was a likeable fellow,' says Roger Hunt, one of the 1966 winners, 'but he didn't instill the same degree of discipline as Alf did later. Somehow, he came across more like an old-fashioned amateur.' Alan Peacock, the Middlesbrough and Leeds striker, is even more scathing:\n\n> Alf was very different to Walter Winterbottom. I was not impressed with Walter at all. He was like a schoolmaster. That's how he came across. It was so much better under Alf; he knew how to set teams up. But Walter was more like a cricket coach from the Gentlemen. He had little understanding of the way professionals operate. Walter was too scared to upset anyone. Some players need a kick up the arse, others can be talked to.\n\nBobby Charlton, who played for four years under Winterbottom, felt that\n\n> there was no sense of belonging in the team. Walter had this impeccable accent, whereas football's a poor man's game, players expect to be sworn at, a bit of industrial language. Through no fault of his own, Walter used to make it seem an academic language. He used to go through things in discussion that I felt were obvious to people who were supposed to be good players. It was theory all the time.\n\nJimmy Greaves, who like Charlton began his England career in the late fifties, has this analysis of the difference between Winterbottom and Ramsey:\n\n> Walter was a joy, although I never understood a word he said. I used to think, what on earth is he talking about, but I loved him all the same. I had the same respect for Alf, but the fun did go out of it. The thing about Walter was he could smile quite easily in defeat. If I wanted a manager who'd make friends, it would be Walter. If I wanted a winning team, I'd take Alf. He brought atmosphere and spirit. This was something Walter failed to do. Too often during Walter's era, teams were like strangers, on and off the pitch.\n\nThe consequences of Winterbottom's inadequate leadership, inconsistent selection policies and poor administration were made clear in the most dramatic fashion in 1950, when England entered the World Cup for the first time. Until then, the FA had refused to enter the competition, deeming it too inferior for England. Indeed, between 1927 and 1946, the British associations were not even members of FIFA, having withdrawn after a series of disputes over issues such as separate membership for the Irish Free State. In a signal of FIFA's welcome for Britain's return from isolation, it was generously decided that the 1949\u201350 Home International series could be used as a qualifier for the tournament in Brazil, with the top two teams going forward to the finals. England topped the table easily, having beaten all three of the other nations. But the Scottish FA had previously announced that they would not be going to Brazil unless they won the Home International championship. Travelling as runners-up would not be good enough. Despite pleading from England and FIFA, Scotland stuck with this self-denying, pig-headed decision, and remained at home. It was a move that only fuelled Alf's growing dislike of what he came to call 'the strange little men' north of the border.\n\nDespite never having competed before, England were one of the favourites for the World Cup, largely because of the lustre of their name. But it was obvious, almost as soon as the party had gathered, that the preparations were inadequate. Instead of heading to South America a few weeks early to acclimatize, the England team held some practice sessions on the ground of Dulwich Hamlet FC at Dog Kennel Hill. 'I would have preferred to have gone to Brazil, got accustomed to the conditions and, of course, had a series of trial matches under the conditions we should have had to face,' said Alf, adding ruefully that the FA's finances did not stretch to this. In fact, England flew out barely a week before their first game. The Lockheed Constellation took off from Heathrow early on 19 June at the start of a journey lasting 31 hours, with stops on the way at Paris, Lisbon, Dakar and Recife, before landing in Rio on the 21st. 'The whole thing was a farce really, a shambles. We had a week's training in Dulwich, then the journey to Brazil seemed to take for ever. By the time we stepped off the plane, everyone was knackered,' recalls Alf's Spurs team-mate Eddie Baily, who was making his first England trip. Baily was also disturbed by the absence of any proper medical support. 'Can you believe it? All that way across the world and no bleedin' doctor.' Exhausted, the players made their way to the Luxor Hotel by the Copacabana beach, where they were shocked by the conditions they found, as Winterbottom later recalled:\n\n> Probably it was my fault because we should have gone into things more thoroughly but the Luxor was hopeless for our needs. As soon as we arrived, I knew there would be problems. When I inspected the kitchens, I was almost sick; the smell went up into the bedrooms, the food was swimming in oil and it was practically impossible to arrange suitable meals. Nearly all the players went down with tummy upsets at one time or another.\n\nAs Stanley Mortensen, one of the team's wits, put it, 'Even the dustbins have ulcers.'\n\nThe players encountered further difficulties as they practised in the South American heat, as Alf, who prided himself on his fitness, wrote:\n\n> During our training spells two things quickly impressed themselves upon me. The first was that during practice matches, I found it very hard to breathe. Secondly, at the conclusion of even an easy kick-around, I felt infinitely more tired than after a hectic League match at home.\n\nBut for all their problems, England did not seem to face a difficult passage to the next round, having been drawn against Chile, the USA and Spain. And progress seemed assured when England defeated Chile 2\u20130 in their opening game. Next came the apparent formality of beating the unknowns of the United States, a country that had no more interest in soccer than England had in baseball. For this game, the team had to fly 300 miles inland from Rio to Belo Horizonte, a modern city whose layout impressed Alf from the air: 'such a beautifully planned city with \"baby skyscrapers\", much loftier than any buildings we have in this country.' Alf was not so enamoured by the coach-ride from the airport to the team's base at the British-owned Morro Velho gold mine 16 miles from Belo Horizonte. According to Alf, this involved 'the nightmare experience of being driven around the 167 hairpin bends on a road which seemed to cling to the side of the mountain'. Nor was the accommodation, a series of chalets on a miners' camp, a great improvement on the Luxor Hotel. 'They stuck us in wooden huts. It was really primitive. We couldn't sleep at night,' recalled the goalkeeper Bert Williams. Even so, on the eve of the match, the players were in high spirits, enjoying a sing-along led, inevitably, by Eddie Baily, whom Alf often compared to the cockney comic Max Miller. No one doubted what the outcome would be the following day. One old miner at the camp asked Alf, 'Tell me, how many do you think you'll win by?' Back home, the _Daily Express_ argued that the American team was so hopeless that England should give them a three-goal start. Double figures were possible, thought John Thompson of the _Daily Mirror._ Arthur Drewry, the Grimsby fishmonger who added to his duties as President of the Football League by serving as the chief selector for the England XI in the World Cup, was so confident that he decided the US game should be treated as little more than a practice match before the real contest against Spain. With barely a word of explanation, he overruled Winterbottom, who had wanted Stanley Matthews picked.\n\nBut the mood of optimism was dampened when the players reached the Belo Horizonte stadium, where they found a narrow pitch with coarse grass and a sprinkling of stones; 'I'd known better playing as a kid on the marshes,' says Eddie Baily. The dressing-rooms, which had only just been completed and reeked of building materials, were so dingy that Winterbottom took the players off to change at a local athletic club, ten minutes' bus ride away. On their return, the England team were greeted by a large hostile crowd of 20,000 gathered behind the 12-foot high concrete wall that surrounded the pitch. The atmosphere was intimidating, claustrophic. 'This is the first time I've ever played in a prison,' said Bert Williams to Alf.\n\nStill, they were only playing the USA. And within minutes of the kick-off, England \u2013 wearing blue shirts to avoid a clash with the white of the Americans \u2013 were already on the attack, scything through the inexperienced American defence. It seemed only a matter of time before there would be a goal from England's front line, which included such legends as Tom Finney, Stan Mortensen of Blackpool and Wilf Mannion of Middlesbrough. But, after half an hour of missed opportunities, the scores remained level. Then, in the 37th minute, came the truly unexpected. A long, speculative shot was hit towards England's penalty box. There seemed little danger, for Bert Williams had it covered. But just as he was moving for it, the American centre-forward Joe Gaetjens \u2013 who later died in a prison in Haiti after taking part in the attempted coup against the corrupt regime of Papa Doc Duvalier \u2013 burst forward instinctively. As he dived, the ball appeared to hit the back of his head, took a wicked deflection and flew past Williams into the net. The English thought it was a freakish goal; the Americans praised Gaetjens' heroism.\n\nEngland went into half-time still 1\u20130 down. Winterbottom reassured them that the goals were bound to come, but as one of the forwards, Roy Bentley, commented, 'It had begun to feel as though we could play for a week and not score.' It was the same sorry story in the second half. England squandered a wealth of easy chances, frequently hitting the woodwork or blasting over the bar. 'I was sitting alongside Stan Matthews, and he kept saying, \"Bless my soul, bless my soul,\" remembers Eddie Baily. England captain Billy Wright later recalled how frustrated Alf became: 'Even Alf Ramsey, who used to be expressionless throughout a game, threw up his arms and looked to the sky when a perfect free-kick was somehow saved by their unorthodox keeper.' The England players even felt the referee was conspiring against them, especially when, in the dying minutes, another of Ramsey's free-kicks was met firmly by Stan Mortensen's header and appeared to cross the line, only for the referee to disallow the goal. There was to be no reprieve. After 90 minutes, England had lost by that single Gaetjens' strike. 'I have never felt worse on a football pitch than at that final whistle,' said Billy Wright. The crowd erupted in disbelief and ecstasy, setting fire to newspapers on the terraces and letting off a barrage of fireworks into the blue sky. When the result was flashed to newsrooms in England across the wires from Reuters, there was incredulity. It was widely thought that a typing error had been made, with the real score being England 10, USA 1.\n\nBut the players were all too aware of the catastrophe. 'The dressing-room was like a morgue. It felt like a disgrace to lose to a team of no-hopers. I think it was the darkest moment of my career,' says Sir Tom Finney. In attempts to lessen the shame, a number of legends grew up. One was that England had been desperately unlucky, since nothing more than fate had prevented a deserved victory. 'I think a fair result would have been 12\u20131,' says Bert Williams. Alf Ramsey himself summed up this attitude: 'So far as we were concerned there was a gremlin upon that football and it was not our day, the United States running out winners by that \"streaky\" goal.' Another complaint was that the USA had fielded a team of ineligible players from overseas; the florid, faintly ridiculous Desmond Hackett of the _Daily Express_ wrote that the American eleven 'seemed to have come straight from Ellis Island because there was not an American-born player in the side'. This is nonsense. Eight of them were born in the US, while the other three, whose number included the former Wrexham midfielder Eddie McIlvanney, were cleared by FIFA under the residency rule. It was, in any case, a pitiful charge. Why should England have had anything to fear from a group of journeymen, no matter where they came from?\n\nFrom an American viewpoint, however, England were far less dominant than was later suggested. An interesting article in the magazine _Soccer America_ highlighted how poorly England played \u2013 and not just the forwards. The US full-back Harry Keough, for instance, felt that 'England took us too lightly and tried to come in too close early in the game before shooting'. Keough went on, in reference to Bert Williams' argument that England should have won 12\u20131: 'He isn't telling it all. He had to tip over one from our left-winger, Ed Souza, with 15 minutes to go. And with three minutes left our right-winger Frank Wallace took off on a breakaway and only had Williams to beat, which he did, but Alf Ramsey followed the play and saved it.' But Ramsey, claimed Keough, 'had otherwise a bad day, with Ed Souza beating him frequently'. And even the _Daily Mail_ admitted that Souza 'played a victory march against Wright and Ramsey'. In _Talking Football,_ Ramsey described Ed Souza, with a hint of mournful euphemism, as 'a truly great player who possessed a pair of educated feet in addition to a pair of broad shoulders which he used fairly and often.'\n\nTo this day, England's defeat by the USA remains the greatest upset in the nation's sporting history. It haunted the players for years, a stain on their reputations. The supposed champions of the world had been turned into an international laughing stock. 'I hate thinking about it even now,' Bert Williams said recently. For Alf Ramsey, the defeat rankled deeply. One journalist, who mentioned the match years later, recorded that 'his face creased and he looked like a man who had been jabbed in an unhealed wound'. Educated in the days when there was still an Empire, Alf was a ferocious English patriot, one who always described his nationality on official forms as 'English' rather than 'British'. His almost visceral attachment to his country was one of the cornerstones of his existence. And when the chance came more than a decade later, he was determined to avenge this humiliation.\n\nBroken and bewildered, England played their last group game against Spain, needing a win to gain a play-off place. Brought into the side alongside Stan Matthews, Eddie Baily did his best to raise morale:\n\n> Walter said to me before the kick-off, 'Just settle in and give Stan the ball.'\n> \n> 'Is he going to give it back?' I said.\n\nThere was nothing funny about the result. England were beaten 1\u20130 and crashed out of the World Cup. Again, there were complaints about the refereeing and the conditions. 'I have never played in a game so hot. The temperature must have been 105 degrees. At half-time, we went down into the dressing-room and had to put on oxygen masks,' says Eddie Baily. 'The referee allowed an unbelievable amount of obstruction and shirt-pulling. I remember Alf, who had this thing about fair play, being furious.' Alf even claimed that the Spaniards must have thought they were playing basketball, such was their propensity to use their hands. With the kind of patronizing insularity that was to become his hallmark, Alf said in 1952 of the referee's interpretation of the rules, 'It is going to take a considerable time for the whole world to see football as we do.'\n\nIn truth, it was going to take England a long time to catch up with the rest of the world. Convinced that their team had been the victims of nothing more than bad luck, the self-satisfied football establishment learnt little from the Brazilian fiasco. The illusion was maintained that England were still the best in the world. There were to be no changes in policy or structure or playing style. The attitude was captured by the statement of Bob Jackson, manager of Portsmouth, the club which won successive championship titles in the late forties: 'What suits Continentals and South Americans doesn't necessarily suit us. We have a way of playing that has stood the test of time. Given more favourable conditions and a fair crack of the whip, we can beat anybody.'\n\nEngland may have been failing, but for Alf personally the years immediately after the American debacle were the best of his international playing career. Now in his thirties, he was at the peak of his confidence, his understanding of the game enhanced by experience. It is a tribute to his effectiveness that in an era of fluctuating selection policy, Alf was not to lose his place for three seasons. His own captain, Billy Wright, was glowing in his praise of his right-back. He once described Alf as 'the coolest player I have ever seen in an international match' and 'one of the greatest of modern defenders. He brought with him into the game tremendous thought and initiative.' Playing in front of Ramsey, said Wright, 'I have come to appreciate the tremendous accuracy of his passes. He strokes the ball along the grass with radar-like accuracy.' He went on to refer to Alf's unique understanding of the game:\n\n> I could sit for hours and talk football with Alf Ramsey. He has the priceless ability of being able to put over new ideas in a splendid fashion, encourages his colleagues to reveal their own theories and in every way is a remarkable character whose contribution to the game has definitely helped to improve the standard of defensive play.\n\nAs an example of Alf's thinking, Wright cited his tactics playing for Spurs against the Newcastle and Scottish winger Bobby Mitchell, one of those quick players who always worried him. Before the match, Alf examined the pitch at White Hart Lane, looking closely at the two ends where he would operate. He said little, but proceeded to have one of the best League games of his life, continually forcing Mitchell into the dampest areas. 'Even the world's greatest ball-players cannot play in mud,' said Alf afterwards.\n\nRamsey had become such a central figure in the English team that when Wright was dropped in the autumn of 1950 because of poor form, Alf was chosen as the England captain for the Home International against Wales, a game which England won easily 4\u20132. Alf, in the words of Tom Finney, was 'an ideal captain, very methodical. He studied the game a lot and knew so much about it.' With Wright still absent, Alf retained the captaincy for the next match, against Yugoslavia. England's vulnerability was becoming more apparent than ever, as Ramsey's team were held to a 2\u20132 draw, the first time that a continental side had achieved a draw on English soil. Making his debut in that game was the brave-hearted Bolton centre-forward and former coalminer Nat Lofthouse. 'From the start, Alf did all he could to make me, the only new international in the side, feel at home,' said Lofthouse. 'His great knowledge of soccer and his ability to discuss the game in an interesting way, made a profound impression on me.' Talking of his wider qualities, Lofthouse called Alf 'the greatest driver of an accurate ball I have ever seen. When he makes up his mind to send a clearance to you, the ball invariably finds its target. The tremendous accuracy and faith that Alf has in himself also gives confidence to others.'\n\nAfter a solid game against Yugoslavia, Alf had a far more painful ordeal: his first major after-dinner speech. To the end of his life, Alf found such appearances difficult. An awkward, stilted speaker, he was unable to enliven his performances with either humorous anecdotes or powerful delivery. 'I don't think he took kindly to public speaking. He was not very good at it; he was very clipped,' says the journalist Ken Jones. Alf confessed that, at that 1950 banquet, 'I was extremely nervous. I would rather take a penalty at Wembley than again go through such an experience.' He managed to get through it, however, with 'a few words of thanks'. Fortunately for Alf, he would give up this ambassadorial role, when Billy Wright returned to the captaincy in early 1951, having recovered his form.\n\nRamsey showed no signs of any decline in his. He had become so cool that even with England he would retain the Spurs approach, often trapping clearances deep in his own half, inviting a challenge from his opponent before pushing the ball to a colleague. One of his increasingly important gifts was his deadliness at set pieces, as Nat Lofthouse recalled in 1954:\n\n> Another of Ramsey's intelligent moves, developed because of his beautifully controlled kicking, has brought many goals from free kicks. Ramsey and I have practised this move for hours before international matches. He possesses an uncanny knack of being able to place a football almost on a pinhead. Such accuracy is, of course, the outcome of years of hard work, a factor people are inclined to forget when they see the master soccer-man in action. It is, however, only when you have been out on the pitch with Alf Ramsey that you appreciate his greatness.\n\nIn 1953, Billy Wright wrote of Alf's quest for perfection:\n\n> For hours Alf Ramsey and Nat Lofthouse practised this move. I have rarely known Ramsey to be completely satisfied with his efforts and although early on he was placing the ball on Lofthouse's napper eight times out of ten, Alf, we all knew, would never be content until he could do it ten times out of ten.\n\nAlf's manager, Walter Winterbottom, in a BBC interview in 1970, emphasized his importance as an England player, praising him for being 'so consistent'. Winterbottom went on:\n\n> We always felt confident in him. He was a thinking full-back, one who believed in precision passing. He was good with his drives; he could hit the ball very true. He was also precise in those long, floating lobs, about forty yards up the field. He could put an absolutely precise centre which would allow someone like Nat Lofthouse \u2013 who was a bit like Geoff Hurst \u2013 to run in at an angle and meet the ball at the right moment to outwit the keeper. Alf was already then forming opinions around this idea of concentrated defensive work, of never losing the ball when you had possession and of this all-round playing and hard working of the team. The things coming through now I could see when he was playing.\n\nA profile in the _Daily Mirror_ in February 1951 called Alf 'the soccer intellectual'. It stated that\n\n> to Ramsey, football appears as a succession of chess problems, an exercise of the intellect. For all that, he can produce a lustiness and strength in the tackle when needed. He passes the ball with supreme accuracy and precise pace. He spends as much time in practice as any inside-forward might. These are the qualities of Ramsey's game reflected in himself. He dresses quietly, immaculately. In conversation, he is reflective. He said one very significant thing to me: 'I don't care too much to be told that I have had a wonderful game. I prefer it when someone points out a fault. Then I can do something about it.'\n\nAlf was particularly impressive in the match against Argentina, when England looked incapable of breaking down the South Americans until his calm assurance pulled them through to win 2\u20131. Bernard Joy of _The Star_ described Alf's performance as\n\n> the finest full-back display I have seen in many years. Ramsey played as though there were no Argentinos within miles. He refused to be stampeded into helter-skelter methods and particularly in the second half sent forward a stream of precision passes. Ramsey it was who realized that the only way to draw the Argentine defence from goalmouth was to start short passing bouts in midfield. And his brainy free kick with the ball to the far post instead of into the centre of the crowded penalty area won the match.\n\nAlf's authority was even more crucial in the match against Austria in November 1951, when England's unbeaten record against continental sides came under its most severe threat yet. Led by their brilliant attacking centre-half Ernst Ocwirk, Austria were one of the most powerful teams in Europe at the time, and with only 25 minutes to go, as they led 1\u20130, they seemed to be on the verge of a famous victory. But then Eddie Baily won the ball, weaved his way through the Austrian defence and was about to shoot when he was brought down. The referee instantly gave a penalty.\n\nThe eyes of the huge Wembley crowd instantly turned to Alf, whose unflappable temperament had made him the chief penalty taker for Spurs and England. As he walked up to the spot, Eddie Baily said to him, 'I've done all the fuckin' hard work for you, Alf, now make sure you score.' A silence descended around the stadium, everyone knowing that England's long cherished record depended on the 'The General'. Preparing to take the kick, Alf exuded his usual steadiness, behaving as casually 'as if he were taking a stroll along Bournemouth Front,' said Billy Wright. But Alf was always good at covering up his feelings. Inwardly, recorded Alf, 'my heart was beating madly and the goal appeared to have shrunk to about half its normal size'. The tension grew while Alf placed the ball slowly and deliberately on the spot. As in everything else in football, he was a master of detail when it came to penalties. 'In the course of practice I have noticed that if you kick a football with the lace facing the sky it invariably rises high and, after making some experiments, I discovered that the best way to place the ball for a spot kick is to make the lace face the keeper.' Finally satisfied with his placement, he took a few steps back and then, on the referee's signal, moved towards the ball. Just as his right foot was about to make contact, he saw the Austrian keeper move slightly to his right. 'At once, like a boxer going in for the kill, I side-footed the ball into the other side of the net.' A vast, echoing roar went round the terraces as the ball sped across the lush Wembley turf into the corner.\n\nThree minutes later England took the lead, again thanks to Alf. All the hours of practice with Nat Lofthouse paid off, as one of his perfectly flighted free-kicks sailed over the Austria defence and straight onto the head of Nat Lofthouse, who knocked it down into the net. But Austria refused to give up and late in the game scored the equalizer through a penalty. To England's relief, the score-line finished 2\u20132. The unbeaten home record against Europe remained intact. With little sense of perspective, the _Daily Mail_ praised England for 'a glorious fighting display that completely rehabilitated the reputation of English international football, threadbare since our World Cup defeat'. This may have been an exaggeration, but Alf certainly deserved the plaudits. He was, according to the _Mail,_ England's 'ice-cool hero'. Alf himself described the game as 'my greatest international'.\n\nOne England player making his debut in that historic game was the young Arsenal winger Arthur Milton, who also played cricket for Gloucestershire and England; indeed, he was to be the last ever double international. Today, Milton has interesting memories of playing alongside Alf:\n\n> Alf was very quiet in the dressing-room, very quiet. But I was the new boy, so he came and had a chat, telling me to go out and play my game and enjoy it. I found him reassuring, comforting. Walter Winterbottom, the manager, was not all that forthcoming. Billy Wright was the captain, but I found Alf the most reassuring of those three. I could see that he was very in control of himself. He did not make a fuss. To be honest, I got lost a bit in the game, not having had much experience, but I got no ball from Billy Wright. I always felt that Bill Nicholson was a much better wing-half than Billy Wright. Now Alf, he was a real class act. He stood out. Not perhaps such a good defender as a distributor of the ball. He was good in defence but nothing exceptional. But his use of the ball was always fantastic. Lovely mover he was.\n\nThroughout 1952, Alf remained a fixture in the England team, playing in all seven internationals, including the famous 3\u20132 win against Austria in Vienna, when Nat Lofthouse ran half the length of the field to score the winner. In the crowd at the Prater stadium, there was a large contingent of British soldiers, members of the multi-national Forces of Occupation, and at the final whistle they poured onto the field in celebration. A surprised Alf was hoisted on the shoulders of one khaki-clad Tommy, who told him, 'We ain't half pleased mate. The local lads have been telling us for months what they were going to do to you. Well, you well and truly done 'em, mate.' For all his obvious class, Alf allowed occasional errors to creep into his play. Against Portugal at Goodison in 1951, for instance, he mis-hit a backpass which allowed the Portugese to equalize 2\u20132, though England eventually ran out winners 5\u20132. Even worse was his howler against Northern Ireland in Belfast in November 1952. The Celtic forward Charlie Tully, one of the quick mercurial wingers who always troubled Alf, took an inswinging corner. On the near post Alf seemed to have it covered and was preparing to head the ball away, when suddenly he swerved outside its path. The ball sailed into the net, 'as if pulled by some magnetic force', to use the phrase of England goalkeeper Gil Merrick. Afterwards, with typical conviction and no word of apology, Alf told Merrick, 'I let it go because I thought it was going to hit the side netting.'\n\nAlf kept his England place in the first half of 1953, though during a tour of South America in the summer, he succumbed to dysentery, another reason why he came to distrust the continent. Moreover, he was not taken with what he felt was the poor behaviour of both the fruit-throwing crowds and the ankle-tapping, shirt-pulling players. By the autumn, there were signs that his age was beginning to catch up with him. Due to a series of minor injuries, he had to miss games against Wales and Northern Ireland, thereby ending his long-unbroken run of England appearances which stretched back to 1949, a heroic achievement considering that the likes of Stanley Matthews, Jackie Milburn and Nat Lofthouse were regularly left out because of selectoral whims, while Arsenal defender Leslie Compton, brother of Denis, was picked for his first cap in 1950 at the age of 38. Alf had recovered sufficiently to return for the match against the Rest of Europe in October 1953, held to celebrate the 90th anniversary of the founding of the FA. Just as against Austria two years earlier, England's unbeaten record at home was under the most stringent challenge \u2013 and, once again, it was Alf who prevented defeat. In the dying minutes of an exciting, open game, England were losing 3\u20134. But then, with just 60 seconds left, Stan Mortensen was brought down in the penalty area. As collected as ever, Alf picked up the ball, showing no sign of the intense pressure he was under. Nat Lofthouse continues the story:\n\n> Alf took his time in arranging the ball with the lace facing the goalkeeper in order to keep it low. Then he stepped up to the ball, sold a perfect dummy to Beara and as the Yugoslav goalkeeper threw himself to the right plonked the ball past his left hand. I have never heard the crowd go quite so mad at Wembley as they did that afternoon. As he turned away, Alf gave me a wry smile.\n\nThat was about the height of public emotion he ever showed.\n\nDerek Ufton of Charlton played his only game for England against the Rest of Europe, and says that he can\n\n> remember the game like yesterday. The Europeans all had great skill, great pace; they kept the ball, left us chasing shadows and we were lucky to get out of it 4\u20134. Alf was superb to me. Billy Wright was the captain. He was lovely off the field, but on the field he played his own game, ran about and led by example. I got no help from him. Walter Winterbottom was a terrific guy, but we did not really have proper team talks, tactical discussions. As regards Alf, I cannot speak highly enough of him. He may have been quiet, but it's a funny thing on a football pitch. You might have 100,000 in the crowd but they are at a distance. So you get this constant hum but you can actually talk to each other in whispers. During the match, Alf spoke to me as quietly as he always did. So we just talked through the game. He was a tremendous help to me. Everyone regarded him highly in the England team. He was always what they called a cultured defender. He took his time with everything, and always had time on the ball, a great touch and great delivery. He was incredibly cool about his penalty.\n\nDespite winning Derek Ufton's approval, the day of reckoning was rapidly approaching for both Ramsey and England. At 33, Alf did not have long left at the highest level. And it was inevitable, given England's worrying recent form, that the unbeaten record would soon be broken. After all, they had performed dismally in the World Cup and had drawn four of their last seven games at home. Nevertheless, a depressing complacency still hung over the game. 'I remain convinced that we still lead the world in the matter of technical knowledge and in our approach to the game,' wrote Billy Wright in 1953. That mood was about to be shattered by the visit of the Hungarians on 25 November 1953. The Marvellous Magyars had set the world of football alight with their fluid, attacking formation, their captivating ball skills, their intuitive understanding and their daring unorthodoxy. Ostensibly amateurs with other employment in the communist state of Hungary, they actually trained with more purpose and rigour than most English club professionals. The Olympic champions of 1952, they had been unbeaten for two years. Unlike the England team, the Hungarians continually practised as a unit. As Winterbottom, the principal victim of England's erratic approach to selection, said later with a justifiable note of regret, 'They all played in Budapest, training week in week out as a national team, playing against club sides at home and abroad, so they were constantly together, knitting to perfection.'\n\nThe clash was billed by the British press as 'The Match of the Century'. It turned into a walkover, as England were thrashed 6\u20133. The gap in class was evident even before the kick-off. In contrast to the English tradition of coming out from the dressing-room just five minutes before the start, the Hungarians were on the Wembley turf warming up for twenty minutes. Malcolm Allison, later a revolutionary coach himself, was a youthful spectator in the crowd. He later recalled watching in admiration as two players 'volleyed the ball to each other eight times over 25 yards without it touching the ground'. The Hungarian dominance immediately manifested itself once the match started. A few short passes down the field, and Hungary had scored within the first minute. England never recovered from that crippling start. Utterly perplexed by the pace and tactics of the Hungarians, they were swept aside and conceded a three-goal lead before they scored their second. England's bewilderment was symbolized by the unfortunate experience of Blackpool centre-half Harry Johnstone, who had not a clue how to deal with the deep-lying centre-forward Hidegkuti. If he tried to go with Hidegkuti, then he left space for other Hungarians to exploit. But if he stayed in defence, Hidegkuti was free to act as play-maker. Nor did England's captain Billy Wright know how to cope. In one memorable moment, he ended up on his backside after trying to tackle his opposite number Ferenc Puskas, just as Puskas, in the England penalty area, pulled the ball back with his right foot before slamming it into the goal with his left.\n\nAs Puskas later explained, the Hungarian system was not dissimilar to Spurs' push-and-run:\n\n> We didn't nurse the ball, but kept passing it so quickly that an onlooker might have thought the ball was burning our feet. But however quickly we got rid of it, we saw that it usually went to one of our own side. This quick game, combined with the fact that we had freed ourselves from the burden of the old-fashioned rule of staying in one's original position, did much to tire the England defence.\n\nPuskas also stressed the importance of positional play, one of Alf's guiding principles: 'Throughout the game we demonstrated the golden rule of modern football and that is: the good player keeps playing even without the ball.' Alf believed in this so strongly that, early in his England career, he had the nerve to lecture Billy Wright: 'I suggested to him that perhaps he was watching the ball too much rather than the man.'\n\nWith the kind of blinkered partisanship that later became a feature of his management, Alf refused to concede that England had been outclassed: 'Four of those goals came from outside the penalty area. We should never have lost.' And Alf had some support in that analysis from Walter Winterbottom, who agreed that Gil Merrick, the moustachioed Birmingham keeper, had a poor game: 'Merrick was my disaster; nice fellow, strong, good at club level, but for England he sometimes lost his nerve. Against Hungary I felt they were stoppable shots, but he got nowhere near them.' Merrick himself, who six months later suffered an even greater mauling when England were beaten 7\u20131 in Budapest, thought that the explanation lay with 'deadly football to which we had no answer because we simply couldn't match them for speed'. In his 1954 book _I See It All_ he gave this insight into the Hungarian approach. His views are fascinating for the way they predicate the England team of 1966, which famously eschewed traditional wing play. From the kick-off, wrote Merrick,\n\n> any man in the line can and does appear in any position...The wingers, like the rest of the team, do not hold the ball and dribble with it; they don't have to because they are always given the ball either in the clear or when they are racing past a defender...In complete contrast to the Englishman, the Hungarian wingers hardly ever cross the ball...The overall picture is one of a side moving at speed, individually working the ball almost as quickly and with great accuracy and with every man knowing what his partner is doing.\n\nAlf suffered even more than Merrick from the fall-out over the 6\u20133 defeat at Wembley. He was finished as an England player. One of the finest of post-war international careers had come to an end. And the curtain would soon start to fall on his days at Tottenham.\n\n# [FIVE  \n _Villa Park_](004-toc.html#ch5)\n\n'In due course the day comes \u2013 there's no dodging it \u2013 when some of the regular players pass their peak and start on the downhill journey,' wrote Alf in 1951. That moment arrived for him around 1953, when the physical weaknesses in his game were no longer outweighed by his intelligence.\n\nThroughout his career, he had suffered from a lack of pace and an inability to turn quickly because he was heavily built around the hips. The journalist and broadcaster Michael Parkinson always stuck to the theory that Alf disliked wingers because of his own experience of playing against them. He cited the example of watching Alf, when he was a Southampton full-back, being tormented by Barnsley's 'galloping magician' Johnny Kelly. According to Parkinson, Alf\n\n> never recovered from the trauma of trying to stop Kelly that wet and windy afternoon at Oakwell when Southampton were the visitors. Kelly was inspired that day. There was something about Ramsey that put him in a devilish frame of mind. He turned the full-back inside out to the point where Ramsey was humiliated.\n\nParkinson then claimed that 'Kelly so unhinged Ramsey, making him hate wingers so much, that when he became coach he embarked on a mission to ban them from the game'.\n\nParkinson's amusing thesis bears little relationship to the reality of how Alf set about building his England teams. Yet there is no doubt that a fast player could brutally expose him. 'If someone really came at him, that was the thing he hated,' said Ted Ditchburn. Billy Liddell of Liverpool and Bobby Mitchell of Newcastle were two wingers he found especially difficult. And it was the Hungarian captain Ferenc Puskas who wrote that Alf had 'the fault of turning too slowly'. These deficiencies were becoming more glaring as the great Spurs Championship-winning side began to go into decline. They finished second to Manchester United in 1951\u201352, but fell to tenth place the following season and 16th, close to the relegation zone, in 1953\u201354. Push-and-run was a style that could only be operated by players of supreme fitness, and, along with Alf, Ron Burgess, Bill Nicholson, Les Bennett and Ted Ditchburn were all in their early and mid-thirties. During this time, Alf was also hampered by an abdominal injury, which further slowed him down and occasionally caused him intense pain. The advice of the Tottenham physiotherapist was that he should continue to play as much as possible, since movement on the field could provide the equivalent of an internal massage. In effect, Alf was told to 'get on with it', even if he was more restricted than ever.\n\nSpurs fans started to complain about Alf's preference for ball play rather than clearing his lines. Certain players felt that a staleness was creeping into some of his moves, like the delayed back pass to the keeper, followed by a run up the touchline to receive the throw. As Ron Reynolds, who was playing more regularly in the Spurs goal by 1953, put it, 'Alf could not see that it was the same thing all the time, it was stereotyped and that, as the goalkeeper, you had a view of everything in front of you, which might give you better options'. The problems with Alf's approach were highlighted in the FA Cup semi-final against Blackpool at Villa Park on 21 March 1953, which turned into one of the darkest days of Alf's career. Until the last minute, he had enjoyed a superb game, completely neutralizing the Blackpool left-winger Bill Perry. Then Blackpool won a free-kick near the half-way line. The ball was sent over to the left flank, where Alf seemed to have easily won the chase against Bill Perry. Goalkeeper Ted Ditchburn told me what happened next:\n\n> He tried to be a bit clever. As the kick came across, he ended up facing his own goal. He was trying to judge the ball as it fell over his shoulder, then play it when it bounced. But it struck his knee and then ran away from him. Jimmy Mudie, the Blackpool inside-forward, latched on to it immediately and put it in the back of the net. We were out of the Cup. I was not too pleased with that, though I did not have much of a go at Alf.\n\nEven in the last minute of a vital Cup tie, when most other defenders would have just tried to belt the ball into the crowd, Alf wanted to play elegant football. But his mistake had cost Spurs a place at Wembley. 'We just sat and stared into space. There is nothing worse than to lose in a semi-final, and to go out to a goal like that was just unbearable,' said Bill Nicholson.\n\nAlf had to endure a barrage of criticism from fans and press alike for weeks. One Spurs director said bitterly: 'Ramsey stupidly gave the goal away. He could have easily kicked the ball out of play.' In public at least, Alf was contrite but dignified. In an interview with the _Daily Express_ the day after the defeat, he said: 'I don't think any man must lose himself in self-pity. Football is my craft and as a craftsman I am paid not to make mistakes. I miskicked it. There it is. I can only say I am terribly sorry.' Alf then told the paper of his movements in the immediate aftermath of the game:\n\n> I travelled home with my wife and a friend by car. Perhaps it was just as well I was not with the team \u2013 it would have been hard to know what to say. Usually Sunday is a happy day for my wife and me. I like to do a bit of gardening and in the afternoon we usually go for a drive. But today my wife and I have just stayed at home.\n\nIn the privacy of the Spurs dressing-room, however, Alf demonstrated that obstinate, hard-headed streak which would later, as England manager, win him matches but make him enemies. Rather than wallowing in remorse, he insisted on analysing the move that led to the Blackpool goal, handing out criticism to other players. In particular, he attacked Eddie Baily for disputing the referee's decision over the free-kick. Baily recalled:\n\n> Alf reckoned I was gesticulating at the time. The kick was taken quickly and then the next thing Jimmy Mudie was in front of goal and had scored. So when we got into the dressing-room, he said, 'What were you bloody arguing about out there?'\n> \n> 'What are you on about? What were you doing?' I replied.\n> \n> That's the way we talked.\n\nAlf felt that if Eddie had not stopped to argue with the referee, then he could have provided more cover in defence at the free-kick. 'Alf could patronize you. He would not really say sorry. He wanted to look like he was not in the wrong. He hit a poor ball and he somehow ended up blaming me. That was his way, claiming it was my fault.' Ted Ditchburn also recalled, 'It was one of those things. But I don't recall Alf ever saying he was sorry.'\n\nFor all his reluctance to accept the blame in front of his colleagues, Alf knew he had made a terrible error. It was one that haunted him for the rest of his life, 'an awful moment in my career,' he once said. The East Anglian journalist Tony Garnett gained an insight into how much Alf was pained by the memory of that day:\n\n> Alf had a certain sentimentality about him. Once Ipswich were playing Aston Villa and about an hour before the kick-off he said, 'Come with me, I want to show you something.' So we walked out onto the pitch and then he pointed to a little area of turf. He said, 'You know, that's where I lost the ball in the FA Cup semi-final and gave away the goal which led us to lose.' He was pointing to the very spot of ground where it happened. The incident must have haunted him.\n\nFor someone as coldly rational as Alf, it was no consolation that, without his mistake, there would have been no Matthews Final in 1953, that most romantic of club games when the 38-year-old winger inspired Blackpool to a 4\u20133 victory over Bolton.\n\nIn the following season, 1953\u201354, when Alf was dropped from the England team, there was widespread speculation that his days at Spurs were numbered. One rumour was that he would return to Southampton, then in the Third Division, to take up a player-coach role. 'Ramsey himself has not yet made any statement but I know that he and his wife Rita, a Southampton girl, would be happy with the appointment,' wrote Frank Butler in the _News of the World_ in April 1954. By then Alf was 34, yet the ageing process appeared to be slowing down, for Butler unknowingly knocked off three years: 'At 31, Ramsey, one of soccer's most intelligent players \u2013 he is known as The General \u2013 is naturally looking to the future.' Later that year, Wolves were said to have expressed an interest in acquiring Ramsey as a coach to assist their manager, the explosive, controversial, devout Christian Stan Cullis. 'My news will be greeted with mixed feelings by Tottenham followers,' wrote Roy Peskett in the _Daily Mail._ 'Since Spurs hit a bad patch this season, much criticism has been levelled at Ramsey's slowness.' And Peskett believed that Alf could have a great future in this new role: 'Ramsey, a fine type on and off the field, is the ideal coach. I have seen him demonstrate to schoolboys, putting them at their ease and showing them the basic principles in simple, convincing fashion.' All this talk was unfounded. Ramsey did become a coach in 1954, but only in a small part-time role at the minor non-League club Eton Manor.\n\nHe was not yet finished as a Spurs player, even as the title-winning side began to break up. Indeed, when Ron Burgess left in the 1954 season to join Swansea, Arthur Rowe appointed him as the new club captain, a job in which his single-mindedness soon made itself felt, as George Robb recalled:\n\n> Alf wouldn't stand any nonsense, so that was a good thing for a potential manager. If he thought someone wasn't pulling their weight during a game, he'd let them know! He wasn't disinclined to reproach somebody. In team talks, he would be more forthcoming, putting his own ideas forward.\n\nAlf's asperity could lead to fierce arguments within the club. One such occasion was later recalled by Arthur Rowe for the BBC:\n\n> We were in a team meeting. It had gone quite peacefully and I said, 'We should do the things we agreed to do, and we shouldn't do the things we agreed not to do.' And then I asked quite calmly, 'So why do we do it?' And at that, Alf suddenly exploded, 'Yes, WHY do we do it?' I quickly realized that beneath his peaceful, bland exterior was a volcano of passion and ambition and loyalty and fierce enthusiasm. This is how it was.'\n\nThough Arthur and Alf never descended to rows, the same was not true of Alf's relationship with Bill Nicholson, who played right-half in front of Alf. 'Bill was a typical Yorkshireman and his attitude did not always go down too well with Alf. I don't mean in a nasty way but they would not see eye to eye,' says former inside-forward Denis Uphill. In the same vein, Ron Reynolds told his biographer, Dave Bowler, that he could remember\n\n> some absolutely enormous blazing rows between Alf Ramsey and Bill Nicholson, which was odd really because both didn't have much to say most of the time \u2013 unless it was to have an argument. Alf was terrible like that \u2013 he didn't suffer what he saw to be fools gladly and he would quickly chew you out if he disagreed with you \u2013 but Bill could give as good as he got. Typically dour Yorkshireman, very blunt. He got fed up that Alf would cut him out of the game, he'd bypass him and go straight on to the forwards, he'd race upfield and just expect Bill to slot in behind him. Bill only got one England cap where Alf got dozens and I think Bill sometimes thought that he was winning them for Alf and not getting himself noticed.\n\nOne journalist who came to know Alf in the early fifties was the writer Ralph T. Finn, who covered games at White Hart Lane and wrote two books about Spurs. A man of monumental self-importance, he was inclined to exaggerate his closeness to Alf. Nevertheless, having watched Alf in action and talked to him at Spurs, Finn left this compelling portrait in 1966, based on his own experiences of more than a decade earlier:\n\n> Our Alf was a student of the game. He didn't just play it: he lived it. He had playing principles and was prepared to abide by them. There was his own superb confidence in his own ability, his own judgement, his own decisions. He seldom believed, even then, that he could misread a playing situation. He had superb positional sense fostered, I would suppose, by the fact that his superior mind could read the ones of most of the players who opposed him. I'm not saying he was or is brainy. Or intellectual. Or even cultured. But there was a certain shrewdness, a certain air of assurance, a certain quiet faith in his own words that lifted him out of the rut of people who say things without conviction or say them expecting to be contradicted. Alf never looked for or expected contradiction. His own team-mates called him The General. He skippered them off the field as well as on. He was with them but never really of them. Aloof is the word for it. He was, and still is, aloof. It is not, as I remember, a quality he has affected, though he might well have developed it. But he was always apart from the herd as if he'd been born on a better side of the bed than they. Let me not give you the impression he was disdainful or class-conscious or arrogant. Proud, yes; but arrogant, no.\n\nIn another passage Finn recalled that he often gave lifts to Alf and other players from Tottenham:\n\n> I remember having Alf and his wife and about half a dozen others in my car one evening. So full was it that she sat on his lap. I used to have three-cornered chats with Arthur Rowe and Alf Ramsey when I travelled to away matches with them. Alf was always intelligent. A deep thinker. A man with ideas of his own.\n\nDespite this image of aloofness, many of the younger players at Spurs have affectionate memories of a kinder side of Alf. Ron Henry, who later played for England under Alf's management, told me:\n\n> I joined Spurs in 1954. I can remember going into the dressing-room on my first morning and old Cecil Poyton, the trainer, said to me, 'Use that peg there, Ron, will you?'\n> \n> 'Well who's next to me?'\n> \n> 'Alf Ramsey.'\n> \n> I could have fallen through the floor, because I'd been supporting Tottenham since I was nine years old. But once I'd met him, I got on well with him. He used to take me aside and give me little pieces of information on what to do. Some pros can be very hard on young players but it was not like that at Spurs. He was a quiet man but when we were going to away games, he would come up to me on the bus and give me advice. 'Son, if you behave yourself, and keep going as you are, you'll be a good player. But you've got to get experience first.'\n> \n> He was a good bloke. I always thought he would make a good manager. He had something special about him. He loved football. That's all he wanted to talk about. He seemed to have no interest in anything else. But he never showed off. He would come into the dressing-room, have his shower, get dressed, get in his car. He was a gentleman through and through. But, away from football, he was very shy. He did not like speaking in front of strangers. He would almost seem to start blushing then. He had his own little circle and that was it. A conversation with him would be, 'Yes, yes, now off you go.'\n\nLike Ron Henry, Terry Dyson has a similar recollection of Alf's decency, this time manifested by concern over playing gear:\n\n> I joined Spurs just as Alf was coming to the end. I remember he was injured one time and I was changing for the game, trying to get my socks on. In those days, the white of the Spurs sock was almost as long as the blue. 'Bloody hell, these are a bit long,' I thought to myself, because I couldn't get the white bit turned down properly. Then Alf came over with a pair of tie-ups, and did it for me, so the socks looked at lot neater. His reputation was very big in the club \u2013 and I could see why.\n\nEd Speight was another who joined Spurs in 1954:\n\n> We were going to Cheshunt for training on my first day and Arthur Rowe tells me, 'Go and sit over there,' gesturing half-way down the coach. So I go down and this guy gets up, 'How do you do, my name is Alf Ramsey.'\n> \n> I am a quivering mass. I am meeting God. I sit down beside him.\n> \n> 'And where do you come from?'\n> \n> 'Dagenham.\"\n> \n> 'Oh, that's good.'\n> \n> I thought afterwards, Arthur Rowe must have deliberately put me beside him. But Alf did not say anything about Dagenham, even at that first meeting. He lived in Barking then. Syd McClellan, another Dagenham lad, and myself would take the trolleybus from Dagenham Heathway to Barking and then Alf would give us a lift to Tottenham in his Ford Anglia. He was always well-dressed and had this presence about him. He looked a little Mediterranean in appearance but he never talked about his background, not in the car or the coach or at the training ground. I would not say Alf did not speak, for that would be wrong. But he was always more likely to react to a conversation than instigate it. He was always on guard, always. He had this mask and would never reveal much. If Alf made a comment, everyone listened because he had something to say.\n> \n> I remember one of the few times I ever saw Alf lead the conversation. We were at lunch after training and Alf had been at some reception the night before.\n> \n> 'Yesterday I met the most beautiful woman in the world.'\n> \n> Everyone stopped. If that had come from one of the younger players, we would not have thought much of it. But from Alf, it was different. He was talking about the actress Ava Gardner.\n\nDenis Uphill shared a cabin with Alf on a Spurs trip to Canada in 1954:\n\n> Alf was officially my minder, that's what Arthur Rowe said. Unlike a lot of the rest of passengers, Alf and I did not get seasick on the crossing of the Atlantic. I remember one time we were training on deck when Alf and I got a call to go back to our cabin, because water was coming into it. What had happened was that Les Medley, who was in the cabin next to ours, had left the porthole window open during a rough patch and the sea came straight in, flooding out the place. There was some cursin' then. Alf was all right to share with, but he was ever so inward. Not nasty. You never heard him say a bad word about anyone but if the conversation wasn't about football he would just switch off. He did read the papers a bit; he liked the _Express,_ especially the crossword puzzles. Canada was terrific, very different to post-war Britain, much more open. We travelled across the country by train and usually stayed in these big log cabins. If we stopped off somewhere to have a drink, Alf would usually just have a quiet one, nothing serious.\n\nDespite acquiring the captaincy in 1954 it was obvious that Alf's playing career was drawing to a close. Arthur Rowe was such a supporter of Alf that he wanted him to remain at the club in a coaching role, though Bill Nicholson also had eyes on such a post and had more direct experience, having served as the coach of the Cambridge University football team. This was another reason why Alf and Bill clashed so bitterly towards the mid-fifties, said Ron Reynolds: 'There was a very strong rivalry because I think they both had come to the conclusion that they were going to stay in the game after they'd finished playing and I think they both had designs on Tottenham.' The problem for Alf was that Arthur Rowe's influence at the club was on the wane. An emotional, intense man, he felt so keenly about the decline in the club's performances that he was plagued by ill-health throughout the 1954\u201355 season. The nadir was reached in February when Spurs, looking in danger of relegation, were knocked out of the FA Cup by York City from the Third Division North. The glory days of push- and-run were definitely over, and Rowe was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Jimmy Anderson, Rowe's long-serving deputy, took over as manager on a temporary basis during Rowe's sick leave. Anderson, who had never been a top-class professional, had little of Rowe's tactical awareness \u2013 or his admiration for Alf. Anderson preferred a more robust, traditional approach to defence than Alf's sophistication. 'He was no great lover of Alf,' says Eddie Baily.\n\nA further blow to Alf's hopes of staying at Tottenham occurred when Danny Blanchflower was signed from Aston Villa in December 1954 for \u00a330,000, to replace the ageing Bill Nicholson. The move made Blanchflower, the Belfast-born midfielder, the most expensive wing-half in English soccer history. Ed Speight says:\n\n> I'll always remember being in the back of car, driven by Alf. Syd McClellan was in the passenger seat. We were driving to Tottenham. Alf was silent for a while then he said, 'I don't know what's going to happen because I think I'm finished.'\n> \n> 'What do you mean, Alf?'\n> \n> 'They're about to sign Blanchflower.'\n\nOn the face of it, Blanchflower and Ramsey should have made a richly creative duo, for both were strong personalities with fresh ideas about the way the game should be played. Like Alf, Blanchflower made up for his lack of speed with tremendous vision. Over the coming years he was to prove one of the most adventurous figures in British football as he captained Spurs to the first League and Cup Double of the twentieth century in 1961. But on the field, the partnership could never have worked, even if Alf had been at his peak. Unlike Bill Nicholson, who provided defensive cover when Alf advanced up the field, Blanchflower was an attacking player on the right himself. He would have refused to play the Nicholson role, falling back while Alf charged past him. Off the field, with all the insecurities and sensitivities bred of his background, Alf disliked yielding his position as Tottenham's primary strategist. Natural human pride left The General feeling jealous towards this loquacious Ulsterman. 'Alf and Danny were never going to get on,' said Ted Ditchburn. 'Danny was a great guy, you could not help but like him. And he used to talk a good game as well, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. But Alf could not put up with another bloke talking tactics.' Eddie Baily remembers an occasion at a hotel in Manchester when Alf's dislike of Blanchflower became evident:\n\n> Danny was a type of player like Alf, he wanted to influence what was going on around him. Danny was talking to Alf and me for a while, and then went off. Immediately Alf said to me, 'Who does he think he is?'\n> \n> 'He's exactly the same as you. That's the way you used to carry on,' I replied.\n> \n> Alf and Danny were never going to hit it off because their personalities were too much the same.\n\nAs a manager, Alf was no warmer towards Blanchflower, who went into journalism at the end his playing career. When Blanchflower, working for the _Sunday Express,_ asked Alf for an interview just after he had taken over the England job in 1963, Alf told him, 'I don't give private interviews', which was untrue, as he spoke frequently to the likes of Ken Jones and Brian James. Writing about this rebuff, Blanchflower noted in his _Express_ column, 'Alf Ramsey has always seemed a distant man to me, slightly withdrawn and easy to misunderstand.' Later, during the World Cup of 1966, Blanchflower was trenchant in his criticisms of Alf's England, even after victory. 'In intention England were as defensive as any team in the tournament. Persistence and stamina were the qualities that carried the team through. England endured.' His musings against Ramsey prompted outrage from the public. 'Traitor, go back to Germany or Northern Ireland,' one England supporter told him. Frank Magee of the _Mirror_ called Blanchflower 'a mouth on two legs'. Alf himself once rounded on Blanchflower at a Football Writers' Association dinner: 'You're a bloody liar. What gives you the right to say what you like?'\n\nRowe's illness and Blanchflower's arrival spelt the end for Ramsey. From the turn of the year, now aged 35, his hold in the Tottenham side was weaker than ever. In March 1955 he was injured at Preston and missed a couple of games. When he returned to the side in late April in the game against Leicester at Filbert Street, he suffered 'a terrible roasting at the hands of a winger named Derek Hogg,' to use his own words. He was dropped for the remainder of the 1954\u201355 season. At its close, with Spurs again finishing in 16th place, Rowe retired permanently from White Hart Lane on the grounds of ill-health, though he was later to enjoy managerial success at West Brom and Crystal Palace. Jimmy Anderson now took over full-time, and immediately made his feelings about Alf clear. His first act was to install Bill Nicholson as his coach. Then, when Spurs went on an end-of-season tour of Hungary, Alf, still nominally captain of the club, was left out of the party without any warning. Whatever the mixed feelings towards Alf, there was shock at the way the senior professional had been treated. 'It was a bitter blow for Alf, and all the players agreed it was a rough trick to play on him, turfing him out like that,' said Ron Reynolds.\n\nAlf recognized that he was finished at Tottenham. If he wanted to continue in football, he would have to look elsewhere. 'I was 35-years-old and obviously concerned about my future. I really didn't know what was going to happen to me. I knew my days as a player were numbered, and there was only one way things could go for me in this respect \u2013 downhill,' Alf wrote in 1970. During the summer of 1955, he undertook a coaching job in Southern Rhodesia, bringing Vickie and Tanaya with him to Africa. When he returned, still nominally on Tottenham's books, he was informed by Jimmy Anderson that Great Yarmouth wanted him as their player-manager. Alf wrote to the club to say he was 'flattered by the offer' but had to turn it down because 'I want to stay in League football'. Fortunately for Alf, another East Anglian club were also interested in him.\n\nIpswich Town FC were looking for a new manager to replace the present 67-year-old incumbent Scott Duncan, who had decided, after almost 18 years in the job, to concentrate on his duties as secretary. One of Ipswich's directors, Ned Shaw, the owner of a local greyhound stadium, knew the Ramsey family through his dog-track connections, so he was aware that Alf was seeking a new position. Ipswich were always a club for following correct procedures, so the Chairman Alastair Cobbold approached Spurs in July for permission to speak to Alf. Only too keen to offload Ramsey, Jimmy Anderson agreed immediately. 'Ramsey has always impressed me as a fine type and just the man for us,' announced Cobbold, explaining why he wanted Ramsey. On his return from Africa, Alf met the chairman and his nephew John Cobbold at the Great Eastern Hotel in Liverpool Street. The meeting went well, with Alf impressed by the sense of purpose that the Cobbolds demonstrated. The only sticking point was over Alf's role. 'They wanted me as player-manager but I told them I would only concentrate on one job. As far as I was concerned, it would be impossible to play with the players I would be coaching,' said Alf later. This issue settled, it was announced to the press on 9 August 1955 that Alf would be the new manager of Ipswich Town.\n\nJohn Cobbold, who soon succeeded his uncle as club chairman, once said, 'Persuading Alf Ramsey to come to Ipswich was one of the more successful things I have done in my life.' It was a typical English upper-class understatement. But at the time of Alf's appointment, it might have seemed that the Suffolk club was taking a risk with a complete novice, for Alf had no managerial experience whatsoever nor any coaching qualifications. In fact, according to Walter Winterbottom, Alf had deliberately avoided trying to acquire an FA badge, despite some impressive work coaching schoolboys. 'Alf didn't want to go through the coaching scheme. There were a lot of players who didn't want to be embarrassed by taking examinations and tests, which was natural \u2013 they felt they were First Division players, why should they be examined? It was an idea that filled them with horror. Alf wasn't too keen on that, but he was a student of the game.' The Board had based their decision purely on Alf's reputation as a high-class, intelligent player, yet football is littered with examples of such stars failing disastrously in management. Not one of Alf's England colleagues during the 1950 World Cup became successful bosses; Billy Wright, for instance, sunk into alcoholism after a woeful spell in charge of Arsenal, while Stanley Matthews was sacked from Port Vale over making irregular payments to young players. On the other hand, Ipswich hardly had a glittering pedigree or status. They had only been in the League since 1938, having gone professional just two years earlier. Most of these years had been spent in the Third Division South. In 1954, they had been promoted to the second, but after just one season were immediately relegated again, a few months before Alf joined. 'I was surprised when he went to Ipswich because at the time they were nothing really and they didn't seem to have much potential,' said his Spurs team-mate George Robb.\n\nNor could the club claim any strong footballing tradition. Ipswich in the mid-fifties was a rural town of 100,000 inhabitants, far more isolated than it is today. Its countrified nature was not unlike Dagenham in the 1920s. There was literally a cattle market on the way to Portman Road, and sometimes a cow would stray from the rest of herd, though Alf would never allow such an event to upset his equilibrium, as his Ipswich secretary Pat Godbold recalls: 'Occasionally on market day a cow would come into the ground. But if Alf saw one, he would merely go to the trainer, Charlie Cowie, and say, \"Charlie, there's a cow on the pitch. Please deal with it.\" He never got cross or excited.'\n\nThe rusticity of the town was reflected in the primitive facilities of Portman Road. Though Ipswich had one of the finest, smoothest pitches in the country, tended by the devoted groundsman Freddie Blake, this horticultural excellence was not matched elsewhere. The stands and terracing were poor, the dressing-rooms were primitive, and the club offices, including the manager's, were little more than wooden sheds. Andy Nelson, who became captain during Alf's reign, recalls: 'Ipswich was a lovely old town then. It was almost like a village, with one big high street. I had never been there before and I must admit I was a bit shocked at the state of the club when I joined in 1959. Tiny little wooden stands, sleepers everywhere, including behind the goal. It was not the most attractive place in the world. The dressing-rooms were terrible. The wind came howling through.' Ray Crawford, the centre-forward of the Ramsey era, has this memory: 'The actual playing surface was perfect. There was a good stand on one side and the other was like a shack. The dressing-rooms were a total joke. They were like an old run-down cricket pavilion with bare boards on the floor. You had to be careful when you stepped out of the bath otherwise you were liable to get splinters in your feet. We often had to put our clothes over the windows, otherwise the spectators could look in. Because we stood on the benches to change, avoiding the floorboards, they could have seen our backsides.' Pat Godbold, who joined Ipswich as a secretary in 1954 and, more than half a century later still works there, says that the offices were just as bad. 'When I was here with Alf, there were just four of us on the office staff. Today there are about 140. Our office then had actually been a Nissan hut during the war. It was partitioned off into five sections, with coconut matting on the floor. The roof leaked so we had to put out saucepans to catch the drips.' Even the medical facilities were inadequate, recalls Ted Phillips. 'When I wrecked my knee in one practice match and had to go to hospital, the transport was Alf's car. His old Ford Anglia was the ambulance.'\n\nIpswich might have had run-down facilities, but it had one of the grandest boards in the League, dominated by the Cobbold family who had made their money in brewing. Lady Blanche Cobbold, widow of Lieutenant-Colonel Cobbold \u2013 who, as club chairman had used his influence to secure League status in 1938 and then was killed by a German flying bomb during the war \u2013 was the sister-in-law of Harold Macmillan, the senior Tory politician. In 1957, the year that Macmillan succeeded Anthony Eden as British Prime Minister, John Cobbold, one of the sons of Lady Blanche, took the place of his uncle Alastair as chairman of the board. Aged just 29, he was by far the youngest chairman in the League. He was also one of the most eccentric \u2013 and tragic. A failed Conservative politician who had twice been beaten in the contest for the Ipswich seat by Dingle Foot, brother of Michael, Cobbold cut a bizarre figure around Portman Road, dressed in tennis shoes and a shabby old fur coat, bound up with tape and full of miniatures. His high-spirited enthusiasm often descended into tiresome immaturity, his fondness for drink into chronic alcoholism, his sense of the absurd into foul-mouthed obscenities. Regularly banned from driving because of his drink problem, he often had to hire a chauffeur to ferry him round in his Rolls-Royce. He adored his role as Ipswich chairman but he knew almost nothing about football. One time at Leicester during the Bobby Robson era, Ipswich were losing 2\u20130 when Cobbold turned to Robson. 'Well done, what magic words have you been saying to the lads?' Robson was puzzled for a moment. Then the truth dawned. 'Mr John, Leicester are in blue. We're in our away strip.'\n\nStories of outlandish behaviour abounded. 'He was the one who would always start the bread-roll fights in restaurant cars. He always had a glass of Scotch in his hand,' says the Ipswich midfielder John Compton. During a visit to Bloomfield Road, he hired a monkey from a local entertainer and introduced him to the Blackpool board as one of Ipswich's new directors. According to Robson, Cobbold was once due to make a speech at a football dinner in a London hotel. As usual, he had been imbibing heavily throughout the day: 'Eventually it was his turn but when he stood up, he swayed, closed his eyes and sank gracefully to the floor. He disappeared under the table and never said a word. He was carried out to a standing ovation.' The journalist Tony Garnett recalls a trip to Stoke, when the Ipswich team were installed in the North Stafford hotel:\n\n> Johnny was in such a state that he was just being frivolous, throwing bread rolls at other diners. The Head Waiter comes in and says, 'Mr John, there's a call for you,' which of course there wasn't. So Johnny crawls out on all fours, right across the foyer and into the lounge on the other side, where he starts trying to climb up the curtains.\n\nAt times, John Cobbold could be downright vulgar. Bobby Robson was once in the Gents with him at the Great Eastern Hotel when he noticed that Cobbold did not wash his hands:\n\n'Mr John, where I was brought up we were taught to wash our hands after using the toilet.'\n\n'Bobby, where we were brought up, we were taught not to piss on our hands in the first place.'\n\nIn keeping with his aristocratic status, Cobbold had a large elegant home at Kirton near Felixstowe, and on the 2000 acres of land he kept a family of donkeys as pets. Once when Ipswich were anxious to sign a Portsmouth star, Cobbold had the player and his wife to tea at Kirton, thinking that the impressive surroundings would help to secure the deal. But as the couple sat down, Mr John's wicked eye noticed his pets on the lawn. 'You don't fuck donkeys, do you?' he said nonchalantly to the outraged player, who subsequently refused to sign for Ipswich.\n\nWhen Ipswich won the title under Alf, a _Daily Mirror_ reporter said to Cobbold, 'I suppose it's been one long season of wine, women and song for Ipswich?' to which the Chairman replied, 'I don't remember much singing.' But with Cobbold there would not have been many women either, for he was a lifelong bachelor and almost certainly a homosexual. At the time, homosexuality was not only a social taboo but a criminal offence; in November 1958, just a year after John Cobbold became Ipswich chairman, the Tory foreign minister Ian Harvey had to resign after being caught in the bushes with a guardsman. It was particularly forbidden in the masculine, traditionalist world of football, so Cobbold sought an outlet for his sexual interests elsewhere. 'John Cobbold was a strange character. There was no question that he was homosexual, but he used to go to America for his recreation,' says Tony Garnett. Ted Phillips told me that the players knew of his inclinations: 'We were all aware that he was a bit the other way.' Though he liked being with his team, he was too aware of his position to proposition any of them. But his troubled sexual nature must have contributed to his alcoholism and loneliness. 'When he was with his friends and drinking, everything was all right. But when it was time to go home, he was a very sad man,' believes Brian Scovell, the distinguished journalist who has written a book about the Cobbold family. His craving for company was reflected by an incident when he was having a drink in Portman Road with a reporter, who explained, after several large gins, that he had to leave.\n\n'So soon. Where are you off to?' said Cobbold.\n\n'Well, to be honest, I have to get up to London because I'm flying to Paris tonight. Got to cover a European game tomorrow.'\n\n'Really? I'll join you.'\n\nDespite his sexual orientation, the Ipswich players of Ramsey's time adored Mr John for his openness, generosity and humour. Ray Crawford says:\n\n> He was a great chairman. He was about the same age as me. When we were away, he used to come round to our hotel for a drink. He loved company, loved sitting up late having a drink. He would just say to the landlord of wherever we were, 'Oh just send me the bill', and someone from the Cobbold firm would sort it out. But he didn't talk football much. 'Go and sit with Alf if you want to talk about football,' he would say.\n\nJohn Cobbold had a powerful sense of respect for Alf, especially when Alf started to prove his qualities as a manager. 'He is a dedicated professional in everything he does,' Cobbold once told the BBC. Yet there is a suspicion that Cobbold, always looking for some puerile amusement, found the studious Alf something of a bore, as Andy Nelson, captain of Ipswich during the golden era, remembers;\n\n> John was a lovely man. He loved Alf to death, though he would sometimes take the mickey out of him behind his back. When we were away, John would come up to me with, say \u00a320, and say, 'Don't let Alf see this but get the lads a drink.' Once we were on tour in Denmark and we were sitting around the dining room of our hotel. John came in and whispered to me, 'Where are you off to tonight? Please don't leave me with Alf.'\n\nIn his turn, Alf would grow weary of Cobbold's antics, especially when they detracted from the focus of the team. A restrained man himself, he disliked Cobbold's encouragement of heavy drinking. Tony Garnett recalls being in the boardroom at Derby County with Alf, John Cobbold and Harry Storer, the Derby manager:\n\n> Harry has a bottle of gin in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. He's pouring out Johnny's stuff which is going straight down his throat and Alf's stuff which is going straight into a nearby vase of flowers. Alf didn't want to go back and embarrass himself in front of his players.\n\nOne of Cobbold's tricks was to pass around the miniatures from his coat, something that infuriated Alf. Ted Phillips has this memory:\n\n> Alf didn't like Mr John's attitude. The only time I have heard Alf really swear was when we were on a train coming back from Plymouth. Mr John called us into his compartment and was dishing out the Scotch for the lads. Suddenly Alf burst in. His language was pretty ripe. He told us all to leave, then told Mr John to 'Fuck off.' That was about all Mr John would have understood in his state.\n\nTony Garnett recalls, 'The Chairman would sit next to Alf at matches and would sometimes be a bit silly. Alf used to bollock Johnny Cobbold for interrupting him. \"Listen, I'm trying to concentrate, Mr John,\" he'd say.'\n\nJohn Cobbold might not have known much about football or personal self-discipline. But he gave successive managers his unequivocal backing. Unlike most other clubs, the Ipswich board were not in the habit of threatening their manager with the sack, even when results were poor. As the saying went at the club, 'The manager's name is not chalked on a board with a wet sponge attached.' From Scott Duncan through to Bobby Robson, managers were allowed the crucial ingredient of time in which to build their teams. Because of this attachment to stability, it was joked that the only moment that the Ipswich directors ever recognized a crisis was when the boardroom was short of good sherry.\n\nStability was also one of Alf's greatest virtues. Unlike so many managers, who come into a club and want to sweep out every vestige of the previous regime, Alf remained loyal to those who had served under Scott Duncan, such as the two trainers Jimmy Forsyth and Charlie Cowie. His extreme modesty and dislike of intimacy meant that he never surrounded himself with a band of acolytes, following him from post to post. Essentially a conservative, he preferred improvement to revolution when it came to personnel, trying to work with the raw materials that he had been given. But he was not too impressed with the material he had to work with on his arrival. The board had organized for him a practice between two teams made up of members of the playing staff. Alf, who went to watch with Vickie, was shocked at the low standards:\n\n> I had no plan for Ipswich when I went there. In fact the first thing I had to do was to forget my set ideas on how football ought to be played. My experience had been in the First Division. I soon found that what I faced at Ipswich was very different. In fact the club put on a trial match for me to see what talent I had available. At half-time my wife turned to me and said, 'Let's go home.' The trial, by comparison with what we had been used to, was as bad as that.\n\nMatters hardly improved a fortnight later, when Ipswich had their first game of the 1955\u201356 season and lost 0\u20132 at home to Torquay, 'as poor a performance as one can recollect at Portman Road,' said the _East Anglian Daily Times._ But Alf still refused to panic. 'The team certainly cannot play any worse than they did on Saturday, but I simply must give them a fair crack of the whip,' he told the _EADT_ reporter.\n\nIt was a tough baptism, as Ipswich only gained four points from their first three games. But soon the influence of Alf was felt. He was not only a superb judge of technique and of tactics, but he also knew how to bring the best out of any player with potential. Almost as soon as he stepped into Portman Road, the squad knew they were dealing with a naturally gifted manager. Wilf Grant, who had been at Southampton with Alf and was one of the Ipswich staff when Alf arrived, had been asked by Scott Duncan what Alf would be like when he took over his appointment. 'He'll be good, but he will be the boss.' Grant later said of Alf:\n\n> We were not much of a side when he took over but he gave us a chance. One thing immediately impressed me: we trained hard, tried hard and were still thrashed at home to Torquay. We expected wholesale changes in the team and a dressing down. But Alf merely analysed the faults and kept the same team for the next match. That started us on a run of success.\n\nThe big Welsh left-half John Elsworthy, who had been at Ipswich since 1949, recalled that:\n\n> Things immediately began to change under Alf. He introduced training drills for free-kicks and throw-ins. We had done nothing like that before. It was great. Everything Alf worked on had a purpose. From the moment he arrived I knew he was someone special. Scott Duncan was a mean manager. He was really more of an administrator. From the first morning Alf was out in his tracksuit. He would join in the training. We got playing a lot of five-a-side, using three or even just two-touch rules, which was terribly difficult. If the ball came to you from a height, you had to chest it down and hit it immediately. Three-touch was better, because you could chest, trap and then play it. But it was all great practice. Alf laid tremendous emphasis on passing. We all realized immediately how good he was as an organizer. He taught us simple lessons, like he told us, 'Keep possession. Get them chasing you. Don't go chasing them.' All he asked you to do was the easy thing well. So he encouraged us to hit the ball with the inside of the foot; that way you can either slice it or pull it. He got us passing like that. Before him, we had just gone through our own routines. We were a struggling side when he came, but he quickly pulled us together. He was amazing. When I first saw what he was going to do, I really looked forward to training and playing.\n\nBy far Alf's most significant tactical move, which took place in January 1956, was his decision to convert the Scots-born Jimmy Leadbetter from an inside-forward to a left-winger. Leadbetter, who had previously been with Chelsea and Brighton, was languishing in the reserves when Alf arrived, but the new manager, with his instinctive recognition of talent, saw how Jimmy could be properly utilized. As with Alf, what Jimmy lacked in pace, he made up with the phenomenal accuracy of his passing \u2013 'he could land a ball in a bucket from 60 yards,' says the journalist Brian James. And Alf felt that Leadbetter's usage of the ball from the deep could tear apart defences, just as Alf had done in the glory days of push-and-run. Today Jimmy recalls how Alf broached the change with him:\n\n> I was out training and Alf came over and asked how I fancied playing outside-left. I told him that I hadn't played in that position since school. And then I said:\n> \n> 'You know I'm not fast Alf.'\n> \n> 'Yes, but you know what to do with the ball.'\n> \n> 'Oh aye, I love passing the ball.'\n> \n> Alf had sprung all this on me, but he was clever that way. He got me thinking. He put into my mind the idea of going to outside-left. And not being so fast, compared to other boys, did not bother me. It's what you do with the ball, not your pace, that's important. All the time, Alf was letting me do the talking.\n> \n> 'How would you go about it?' he asked. And so we discussed how I did not need to beat the full-back and get to the byline. Instead I could hit the ball into the space in front of the forwards. It was great man-management by Alf. One of the secrets of his success was that he never asked a player to do what the player didn't want. He understood professionals completely. He was a deep thinker about football. He could recall incidents from matches weeks earlier and would say, 'You remember that, Jimmy?' And I could not even remember last week's game.\n\nAlf's skilful leadership began to bear fruit as Ipswich stormed up the table. Surprisingly, in contrast to his later years with England, Alf's first managerial side was noted for its flair rather than its solidity, as John Eastwood and Tony Moyse remarked in their official history of Ipswich: 'They were without doubt the classiest side in the division, and their natural attacking tendencies were shown by the fact that they scored four or more goals on no less than nine occasions.' But Alf did shore up the defence with the purchase at Easter 1956 of the new goalkeeper, Roy Bailey, the father of Manchester United and England keeper Gary Bailey. At a time when the players cycled to the ground, the flamboyant Bailey raised some eyebrows when he arrived at Portman Road in a sleek Ford Prefect, complete with personalized number plates. Pat Godbold, Alf's secretary, explains: 'Roy was the first player to have his own car, as Scott Duncan had not allowed it. But this rule had nothing to do with Alf, so he didn't have a problem with Roy's car.'\n\nAlf's first season was such a success that the club missed promotion from the Third Division South by just two points, having been cruelly hit by injuries; at one stage towards the end of the 1955\u201356 season, six players were in plaster. As a result of this achievement, Alf looked forward to strengthening his position. Never someone who relished interference, Alf had grown frustrated with Scott Duncan who was still the club secretary despite his advanced years. Described by one former Ipswich player Ken Malcolm as 'a miserable little Scot', Duncan could not relinquish the reins of his old job and was on the ground every day. But when Charlton Athletic tried to lure Alf to The Valley as their new manager, following the resignation of Jimmy Seed, the Ipswich board realized how valuable Alf was for the future of the club. Alf turned down the Charlton offer, saying characteristically that he had to honour his Ipswich contract. But the board at Portman Road also decided that Duncan would have to interpret his job description in a less expansive way. Two years later, in 1958, Duncan finally retired, going home to his native Scotland. Alf assumed the role of secretary\u2013manager, giving him the total control he had always sought since he first arrived at Ipswich. 'He is a man who likes to have everything at his fingertips,' John Cobbold said when Alf took over the secretaryship in addition to management.\n\nApart from enhancing his authority, Alf also strengthened his squad in the close season of 1956. In the position of right-back he signed Larry Carberry, an ex-sheet-metal worker who had just completed two years National Service in the King's Regiment. And up front, he brought back Ted Phillips from loan with the Suffolk non-League club of Stowmarket. Phillips, a tearaway country youth who made his living as a forester, had been on Ipswich's books but, before Alf's arrival, had done nothing to persuade the club to retain him. Once more, Alf's judgement proved shrewder than others. Phillips turned out to be a devastating striker, one with an even more ferocious long-range shot than Bobby Charlton's, and he immediately justified Alf's decision by scoring a record-breaking 41 goals in his debut season at the club. Phillips was impressed by Alf from their very first meeting:\n\n> He was a bit shy but I remember, after the first speech I heard him make, I thought to myself, 'We've got a good bloke here.' He really sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. I felt he was someone special. He was brilliant at giving instructions. Like if we had been short of a player on a Saturday, Alf could just go out to a bloke in the street and have a chat with him, explaining exactly what he wanted. And that bloke could play well, just on the basis of what Alf said. He always wore a tracksuit and he used to play a lot in practice matches. He was still a good player, with two good feet. He used to order the first-team squad onto the pitch to practice manoeuvres. We would often be out there for two hours doing them. Remarkably, every time we practised one of Alf's tactics, we seemed to score on a Saturday.\n\nPhillips' awesome striking was to be a crucial ingredient in Ipswich's improvement in the 1956\u201357 season. 'Big Ted, he could hit a ball \u2013 and that was with the big old heavy thing. I wonder what he'd have done with the balloon they play with today,' says Jimmy Leadbetter. 'He often had no idea where it was going, he just hit and hoped. But he scored some cracking goals, many of them from a distance.' Journalist Tony Garnett gives this indication of the power of Phillips:\n\n> Ted had his simple way of playing, which was to hit the ball bloody hard. I remember once being on the ground when Ted was training. I said to him, 'Bet you I can save some of your shots.' It was a stupid thing to say really. So Ted starts firing these bullets at me when suddenly a window opens in Alf's office and Alf pokes his head out, 'Stop that immediately, Ted, you'll kill him.'\n\nTony Garnett believes that Ted could also have been a first-class cricketer, for he was a good enough fast bowler to have led the attack for Suffolk. 'He was a very quick bowler, one of the quickest around at the time. His temperament might have let him down. He once opening the bowling for Suffolk, and for the first ball of the day he sent down an apple, a nice, red, shiny apple. He got reported to Lord's for that.\n\nFurthermore, as Ted himself testifies, 'Alf disagreed with the idea of my becoming a professional cricketer. He said that I might get injured.'\n\nIpswich, playing in new continental-style V-necked shirts, made a poor start to the 1956\u201357 season and after seven games were bottom of the table. In fact, so dismal was their form that there was even speculation that Alf might be sacked. As he later admitted: 'Things were very bad indeed. I became unsettled and unhappy. But more important I became infuriated because one can only do one's best and I felt I was doing my best without the luck that is necessary to get results.' Beneath his passive exterior, Alf was a highly sensitive man and he was so worried about the rumours against him that he decided to have a confidential word with the chairman Alistair Cobbold. Cobbold proved more sagacious than his frivolous nephew might have been:\n\n> Alastair Cobbold's remarks I have never forgotten. He told me, 'Well, I thought you were a little braver than that, that you knew you had to grow an extra skin.' You must expect setbacks in life and you must grow these skins to protect yourself from criticism and rumours that are not true.\n\nAlf tried to do just that \u2013 and the media were to feel the consequences for the next two decades. Some journalists might have said that Alf did not just grow an extra skin but created his own impenetrable suit of armour, such was his contempt for the press. In fact, the writer Ralph Finn said that he saw a dramatic change in Alf's attitude once he became manager of Ipswich. In one anguished passage, Finn wrote that Alf had developed\n\n> the self-satisfied preening of the introverted cat rather than the extroverted exhibitionism of the prancing dog...I am sorry to say that Alf has ceased to know me. When he was manager of Ipswich I first noticed that his normal aloofness had grown even more distant...Alf Ramsey and his aloofness make me feel inferior. Of course I hate being made to feel this way. Everybody does. I hate the thought that this man can make me feel like a grubby little boy. I resent it.\n\nAlf, however, always remained sensitive, as Walter Winterbottom recalled: 'He found it difficult to take any kind of personal remark. I remember some official of the Sports Council made a fairly inoffensive point about the England team, when Alf was manager, as a conversation opener at a dinner and Alf was upset and taut for the rest of the evening.'\n\nThe day of Alf's meeting with the Chairman, Ipswich won 2\u20131 at Plymouth. It was to be the turning point in their season. Once the team found their stride in the autumn, they were unstoppable, racking up a series of heavy victories. Torquay were beaten 6\u20130, Newport 5\u20130 and Shrewsbury 5\u20131. Alf's guidance was crucial in inspiring the drive to the top of the table, as Ken Malcolm, one of the full-backs, remembers:\n\n> Alf was a great man, with great tactical sense. If you played on Saturday and maybe made a couple of mistakes, then on Monday you might be running round the track and Alf would creep up to you and whisper, 'We'll soon get that out of you.' He was very quiet. He never shouted or swore at us. I remember once we were on the training ground and Alf said to me:\n> \n> 'You're timing your jumps wrongly for heading.'\n> \n> 'OK, Alf.'\n> \n> 'Listen, I'll pump some balls up to you. Take your time and knock them back to the keeper or into touch.'\n> \n> So Alf's hitting all these balls to me, encouraging me all the time, getting me to clear them properly. It was hard work with the big old leather ball, but it was great practice, really improved my heading.\n\nOn the last day of the season, Ipswich had to win at Alf's old ground of The Dell in order to be sure of promotion and the Third Division South championship, provided that Torquay, their main rivals, did not win at Crystal Palace. Ipswich duly beat Southampton 2\u20130, but then had to wait for the result from Palace, where the game had kicked off 45 minutes later. 'It was terrible,' remembered Jimmy Leadbetter. 'We had all these rumours coming through that Torquay had won. Then we found out it was a draw. We went up on goal average. Coming home, getting near Ipswich, the train driver was pulling the whistle all the way, and we had a great reception.' 3,000 supporters had gathered at the station to welcome the team. Such was the density and enthusiasm of the crowd that Alf had to be escorted by the police from the train onto the team coach. There followed a party organized, inevitably, by John Cobbold, who had taken over from his uncle. For once, Alf dropped his guard and joined in the drink-fuelled event. With some relish, John Cobbold later told Bryon Butler of the BBC:\n\n> Alf is not the dour inaccessible man he sometimes likes to make out. He can be the greatest fun at a party. When we won the Third Division Championship at Southampton, we obviously thought we'd better have a little celebration. I know Alf does not like this story but I am going to tell it. At one moment he was under the table, singing, 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'.\n\nIpswich's only previous foray into the Second Division had ended in immediate relegation. Alf Ramsey was determined that this would not happen on his watch. 'We are at the moment a small club, but we have big ideas,' he told the _Daily Mail_ in August 1957. Just how big they were would soon become apparent.\n\n# [SIX  \n _Portman Road_](004-toc.html#ch6)\n\nRamsey's first two seasons in management had ended in triumph. The next three were to be a time of consolidation rather than glory, as Ipswich hovered around the middle of the Second Division table. It was a solid but hardly dazzling achievement, and towards the end of the fifties attendances at Portman Road actually began to fall as the club failed to make the rapid progress that the fans had hoped for, with gates actually sinking by 4,000 to an average of 14,000 between 1957 and _1960,_ despite the building of a new stand.\n\nOne major problem for Alf was that his limited resources meant that there was little cover for injuries. Thus when Ted Phillips was forced to miss most of the 1957\u201358 season with a cartilage problem, Ipswich suffered a worrying shortage of goals. Moreover, several of his signings during this period, such as Len Garrett from Arsenal and Jimmy Belcher from Crystal Palace, turned out to be disappointing. Jimmy Leadbetter admits that Ipswich initially found it tough in the Second Division: 'You get some very good players but you also get hacked a bit more, kicked up in the air and no questions asked! It took us some time to adjust.' But, given Ipswich's previous record, it would be wrong to exaggerate the sense of failure. In none of the first three seasons after their promotion did they look like being relegated, and they often had significant results, such as defeating both Liverpool and West Ham in their first meetings with these renowned names. And they also enjoyed some memorable days in the FA Cup. At Old Trafford in January 1958, just a few short poignant weeks before the Munich air crash, they put up a heroic performance against the Busby Babes in front of 53,000; 1\u20130 down, they almost equalized in the last five minutes, when Jimmy Leadbetter hit the post, only for Bobby Charlton to score at the other end. It was Alf's first glimpse of the United forward who would later become the key figure of Ramsey's England.\n\nAlf was not just consolidating Ipswich's tenure in the Second Division; he was also tightening his grip on the club, becoming secretary-manager on the retirement of Scott Duncan in the middle of 1958. Determined to wield absolute control at the club, Alf had fought hard for this post, overcoming the concern of directors about his lack of any administrative experience. And he soon made his authority felt, as he later explained:\n\n> When I became secretary-manager, most certainly nothing was done on the ground without me knowing about it. If there was a screw needed in or a lock or a bolt to be put on a door, the maintenance staff would check with me to see if it was all right to go ahead. It was simply a question of me knowing everything that was going on.\n\nThe journalist and former footballer Tony Pawson wrote that Alf was 'a good administrator' with a 'Civil Service impeccability of manner'. That is also the memory of his secretary throughout this period, Pat Godbold:\n\n> He was well-organized and went quietly about his work. He was usually into Portman Road about nine o'clock. He took the training in the morning on the practice pitch, then in the afternoon he would do the paperwork, making arrangements for away games, booking hotels and so on. He was very fluent in dictating letters, mainly because the subject was usually football, where he had such confidence. He was a gentleman to work for, courteous in an old-fashioned way. If he gave me some letters to type at a quarter to five, knowing I usually left at five, he would be very apologetic for having kept me late. He did not do much in the way of public relations. He was very different in that respect to Bobby Robson, who always kept a hectic schedule. Alf did not like to accept any appointments for supporters' functions or openings or anything like that. I don't know that I should call him aloof, but he was certainly very shy. He did not like to join in conversations \u2013 except about football. He was not someone to talk to about football if you weren't prepared for it. I came into the office on a Monday morning after a good victory on Saturday and said happily, 'What a great goal Ted scored.' Alf looked up from his desk and then talked the whole movement through from start to finish in the greatest detail. After that I decided I could not talk about football to him any more because I just could not keep up with him. But he was never inclined to open up about anything except football. He was always immaculate, never without a collar and tie in the office, but he was never flashy.\n\nAlf claimed in his 1952 book to be a non-smoker, but Pat tells a different story, one that indicates how the trials of management may have forced him into the habit:\n\n> I once went into his office and began talking to him over his roll-up desk. Suddenly all this smoke started to billow from behind it. I could not believe it. Another time his wife came down to the ground and asked me to get some cigarettes from his office. She said they were in the pocket of his jacket. I don't think Alf liked anyone to know that he smoked a bit.\n\nJimmy Leadbetter has a similar memory. 'I did not know Alf smoked but I caught him one day in his office with a cigarette \u2013 he was sort of hiding it. I didn't say anything.'\n\nEven though he was not under the same media pressure at Ipswich that he was later as England manager, Alf still had an innate suspicion even of the local press. Tony Garnett joined the _East Anglian Daily Times_ as a reporter in 1958:\n\n> My sports editor Alan Everitt had a fairly short fuse and Alf had a habit of keeping him waiting for interviews, for no particular reason. Alan Everitt always maintained that Alf would be in his office just reading _Charlie Buchan's Football Monthly,_ keeping him waiting through sheer bloody-mindedness. One day Alan lost his rag about this and said to me, 'You do the football.' I was only 19 then. It was a huge break. I saw a lot of Alf, but he was a difficult man to get to know. I remember once when I volunteered that a certain player had a good game, he just said to me, 'You would think so.' He was implying I did not know anything about it. That was a big put-down. If I had been older I might have taken the hump.\n\nThrough his work on the _East Anglian Daily Times,_ Tony ended up ghosting Alf's programme notes for Ipswich Town. 'He didn't even look at them. All I had to do was make sure that I said nothing that was quotable. Absolutely bland so there could be no comeback, that was the order; he didn't want to know about that at all.'\n\nIt was during these early years at Ipswich that Alf was supposed to have undertaken elocution lessons. It is an unlikely claim, given that Alf's drive for self-improvement stretched right back to his childhood. Jimmy Leadbetter, a huge admirer of Alf's, doubted the rumours but felt they were, in any case, an irrelevance:\n\n> One or two of the players used to take the mickey out of him because of his voice. They thought he was la-di-dah. I've always hated that, having a go at someone just because of the way they talk. The important thing was that you could always understand exactly what Alf was saying. Yes, he could be awkward with people. No one is perfect. But if Alf wanted to better himself, you have to respect him. He was a fine man.\n\nIt has been argued that Alf felt he had to change his voice in the fifties because he believed he would be hampered in his career in management by his Dagenham tones, especially now he was surrounded by the Old Etonians of the Cobbold family. Yet this is greatly to exaggerate the strength of Alf's working-class accent and the social rigidities of 1950s Britain. There is an historical tendency to imagine it was only in the sixties when class barriers began to come down, thanks to the arrival of Harold Wilson and the Beatles. In truth, Britain has always been a highly fluid and mobile society. After all, another famous man of Ipswich, Cardinal Wolsey, had achieved the summit of political power in the 16th century, despite being born the son of a butcher. In Alf's own life before his arrival at Ipswich, Britain had a Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, who was the illegitimate son of Scottish crofter; a Foreign Secretary, Ernie Bevin, who had been a Somerset labourer and never lost the aitch-spraying accent of his youth; and a Health Secretary, Aneurin Bevan, who was a former miner from Tredegar and always spoke with a high-pitched Welsh voice. Contrary to the myth that it was not until the sixties that there was a flowering of working-class culture, in Alf's formative teenage years in the 1930s a wide range of working-class life had been celebrated: through the entertainment of that pair of Lancastrians, George Formby and Gracie Fields, by far the biggest two British film stars of their generation; through the comedy of Max Miller; and through novels like Walter Greenwood's _Love on the Dole._ The Labour landslide of 1945 demonstrates that England was not a rigid society. In football, there was no BBC-voiced, well-bred archetype for managers. They came from all types of social and geographical backgrounds, whether it be working-class Merseyside \u2013 Stan Cullis at Wolves \u2013 or Scottish coalfields \u2013 Matt Busby at Manchester United. Alf's mentor, Arthur Rowe, never abandoned the north London accent of his upbringing, while Alf's predecessor at Portman Road had such a broad Scottish accent that he could be almost incomprehensible, as Ted Phillips recalls:\n\n> Scott Duncan once spoke to me and I looked at him with a complete blank.\n> \n> 'Didn't you hear what I said?'\n> \n> 'I heard you but I didn't understand you.'\n\nYet Duncan could work happily with the Cobbolds for 20 years without modifying his voice. So Alf's long-term reincarnation as suburban gent was driven far more by his own personal insecurities than by any wider professional need to conform.\n\nFor Alf, football was always a refuge from the complexities of the wider world. The training pitch and the stadium were his domain, the place where he did not need to justify himself to anyone. This was the environment he loved and knew best, where he was free to be himself. By the end of the decade, his innate excellence as a manager was starting to yield results. He not only introduced new training regimes, which helped to improve the standards of the players he had, but he also made a number of shrewd purchases in the transfer market. A vital element in building a more successful team was to acquire a centre-forward to partner Ted Phillips up front, and in the autumn of 1958 he found one at Portsmouth. For the bargain price of just \u00a35,000, he purchased 22-year-old Ray Crawford, a dashing striker who had done his National Service in the Malay jungle but had fallen out with Pompey's manager Freddie Cox. Crawford had just got married and moved into a new flat in Portsmouth, so he was reluctant to switch to East Anglia, especially because it would mean dropping down one division, but Cox's intransigence meant he had little choice. When he and his wife Eileen arrived in Ipswich, they were immediately impressed by the decency of Alf:\n\n> He met my wife and I at the station and then drove us round the town, showing us the club houses we could rent. The one we chose was beautiful, almost new, with three bedrooms. I think we paid \u00a31 and 10 shillings a week in rent for that. Alf could not have been more charming. He went out of his way to help us. I soon found that all the Ipswich wives loved Alf, because he appreciated them. I don't think you would find one of them that didn't like Alf. He had something of a film star about him \u2013 always immaculate. I wouldn't say he was a ladies' man, not at all, but he always stressed that a good marriage was a big part of being a happy player.\n\nDuring this time, Alf himself lived in an Ipswich club house on the Crofton Road with Vickie and his step-daughter Tanaya, who went to a local Catholic school before taking a series of secretarial jobs in London.\n\nCrawford was equally impressed with Alf as a manager, particularly in comparison to what he had previously experienced:\n\n> At Portsmouth, I was never told anything. But Alf would come out and talk to you. And if you wanted to be successful, you listened. Because of Alf, moving to Ipswich was the best thing I ever did. On Fridays he would give a talk to us about the previous Saturday's game. He would start with Roy Bailey and then go round everyone, talking us through the match. The man's memory was amazing. It was like he was replaying a film of the entire match in his head. Every incident he would recall, every mistake would be analysed. Then he'd move onto the game coming up. He'd tell us the mannerisms of the opposition; again, that was something I'd never heard at Portsmouth but Alf always made you aware of what your opponent would be up to. So, if we played Sheffield United, I'd be against Joe Short and Alf would say, 'Don't be misled by his size. He's good in the air. He might only be around five foot seven but his timing is perfect. He can pass the ball as well.' Details like that. When things went wrong, he did not slag us off. All he would say was, 'You didn't do very well today, boys, and you did not deserve anything.' Just the look on his face would cut right into you. If he came in and said, 'Well done lads,' it was like being given \u00a3100. The key point about the Ipswich team was that we always tried to carry out what Alf said. That's what he liked. If you gave it a try and did what he said, he would back you. But if you went your own way, he did not have much time for you. I had to work at my game. I was full of energy, ran my heart out and Alf told me what to do. 'Get the ball wide to Jimmy and get in the box,' he'd say. Alf never got into confrontations. You didn't argue with him, you just listened.\n\nRay Crawford scored 25 goals in 30 games in his first season of 1958\u201359, which helped to ensure safety for Ipswich. Alf saw that Crawford was rapidly developing an effective partnership with Ted Phillips, so when Liverpool made a bid for Ted, it was instantly rejected. But Alf also knew he needed to strengthen the defence, so in the summer of 1959 he bought from West Ham the big, self-assured centre-half Andy Nelson. It was another of Alf's clever buys, costing just \u00a38,500, and Nelson soon proved his value by appearing in every match of the 1959\u201360 season. Within a year of his arrival, Alf had made him club captain, taking over the reins from Reg Pickett. Like Ray Crawford, Andy Nelson was astonished by the depth of Alf's grasp of football:\n\n> He had this photographic memory of every position, every move, right throughout any game. If he said to you, 'This fella is totally left-sided. Don't worry about his right-foot', he was speaking with real understanding. He knew everything about the assets and weaknesses of everyone you were playing against. I never once saw him lose his temper, which is unusual in football. But he could put his finger instantly on what had gone right and wrong. His concentration in the main was on passing. He could not stand it if someone just whacked the ball up the field. He wanted someone on the end of every pass.\n\nAndy Nelson was also struck by the way Alf retained his own footballing gifts:\n\n> He would often join in our practices and five-a-sides. There was nothing he loved more than that. He was still a beautiful passer of the ball, out of the top drawer. Sometimes I'd watch him hitting a ball against the wall at the end of the training ground. He'd be there for ages, repeatedly hitting it first time, which is not always easy. He never lost his talent.\n\nAt the end of the 1959\u201360 season, Alf bought three more players to complete the construction of a team which could mount a realistic bid for promotion. In true Ramsey style, all three were languishing in obscurity before they were transformed by Alf's alchemy; not for nothing did John Arlott describe Alf as 'The Rescuer of Wasted Talent'. The Scottish defender Bill Baxter, who was in the middle of National Service at Aldershot, was bought for just \u00a3400 from the Scottish non-League club Broxburn Athletic. The winger Roy Stephenson came from Leicester for \u00a33,000 and wing-half John Compton moved from Chelsea for just \u00a31,000. Compton has these recollections of his arrival at Ipswich:\n\n> I had nine years at Chelsea but had not really made it when Alf bought me. I remember my first meeting with him to sign the forms. His office was just a little shed with a tin roof. It was June and there was a sudden thunderstorm. The rain was pounding so hard that we could not even hear each other talk. My first impression was that he seemed a nice man, down to earth, though he spoke rather well, not like a Londoner. He was a football man through and through. I had played under Ted Drake at Chelsea and there was a lot of cup-flying in those days. He was very fiery. If you did not play well, you really got it from him. With Alf there was nothing like that. He did not go in for big noisy speeches. He preferred to tell individual players what he wanted. He taught me a lot, putting me in at left-back. He used to say to me, 'Show the winger the line, make him go down the line.' It is surprising the number of good wingers who never came inside. Because I was a bit quick, it was no problem for me to catch them.\n\nBeing a Londoner himself, born and bred in Poplar, John Compton has one special memory of Alf:\n\n> We both liked our jellied eels. So when we were coming back through Liverpool Street from an away game, he would say to me, 'Come on John, let's go round to Tubby Isaacs.' Tubby was big friendly man who had this stall near the station and had known Alf since his Tottenham days. He and Alf would have a little chat and then we'd get our two dishes of jellied eels. Alf always loved that.\n\nWith his team assembled, Alf now started to develop a revolutionary strategy. And it was here that he showed his real managerial genius. In _1960,_ English football was still largely wedded to the traditional W\u2013M, 3\u20132\u20135 formation which had predominated since the introduction of the centre-half and the pivoting defence in the 1920s by Herbert Chapman, the far-sighted boss of Huddersfield and then Arsenal. There had been a few departures from this approach, such as Arthur Rowe's push-and-run style at Tottenham, based on smooth passing, or Stan Cullis' more bludgeoning system at Wolves, where opposition defences were put under constant pressure by long balls pumped into their area. But generally English managers gave little thought to innovations. The most famous manager of the fifties, Matt Busby, was typical; the blend of his teams was more important to him than their methods. 'Go out and enjoy yourselves' was often the sum of his instructions to his players. But Alf did not have players of the calibre of Manchester United. To succeed, he would have to utilize his material in a radical new way.\n\nThe central attacking feature of Alf's scheme was to play Jimmy Leadbetter and Roy Stephenson as deep-lying wingers, feeding the striking partnership of Phillips and Crawford. The great advantage of this plan was that it exploited the accuracy of Stephenson and, even more so, of Leadbetter, whom Alf had intuitively recognized as one of the most gifted distributors in English football. Leadbetter would not have to beat the full-back and get to the byline before crossing, the traditional way that wingers operated. Instead he could hold his position, sometimes even in his own half, before guiding another missile in front of the two rampaging forwards. The strategy minimized Leadbetter's defect, his slowness, and maximized the quality of his passing. It also gave a permanent dilemma for the defenders supposed to be marking Jimmy. If they were drawn into midfield to keep with him, they created space in their own area for Phillips to exploit. If they held back, then Jimmy was free to spray around the ball unhindered. Jimmy told me:\n\n> It was a great system and it foxed so many teams. I was a great believer that if you were in control of the ball you were in command of the game. I loved passing, giving a ball for someone to run onto. I always felt that if I hit a ball past the full-back and there was someone to connect with it and put it in the net, then I had done my job. Yet the full-back, at the final whistle, might be quite happy because he thought I had not actually beaten him.\n\nJimmy Greaves once gave a good description of Leadbetter in appearance and action:\n\n> The comic actor Sid James looked old when he was in his early twenties, but in his sixties he didn't appear any older. That was the case with Jimmy. His gaunt features, receding hairline and thin, bony frame made him appear more like the man from the Pru collecting the weekly insurance money than a top-flight footballer...Appearances can be deceptive. Jimmy was a highly gifted, mercurial player with a very sharp football brain...He probed and prodded and used his astute vision and superb distribution to create numerous openings for his forwards.\n\nAlf was never a man to indulge in excessive praise, but he did so when he talked about Jimmy's influence, 'He is 33 years of age,' said Alf in 1962, 'and does not look much like a footballer but as a person, there is no one better and as a player, there is no one greater. In my own mind, I don't think there will ever be another Jimmy Leadbetter.'\n\nAlf's use of deep-lying wingers, allied to a striking duo, was a synthesis of various ideas he had absorbed during his playing career: the Hungarians' fluidity of 1953, the Brazilians' unorthodoxy during Southampton's tour of 1948 and the World Cup of 1950, and Tom Finney's penetration with England when he played deeper than he usually did for Preston. As the FA Secretary of the fifties, Stanley Rous, recalled: 'Tom Finney often told me how much he enjoyed playing for England, as he was allowed to lie deep with the full-back not daring to follow him. This gave him all the space he needed to confuse defenders.'\n\nBut all Leadbetter's brilliance with the ball would have achieved little without the firepower up front from Phillips and Crawford. They were a complementary pair: Crawford, the cool, clinical poacher who was deadly from a short distance; the explosive Phillips creating mayhem with his thundering blunderbuss. Andy Nelson, the captain, reflects on the attacking formation:\n\n> Neither Jimmy Leadbetter nor Roy Stephenson were outstandingly quick but Alf was a thinker, more than any manager around then. At the time, wingers would just stand by the opposition full-back and usually do bugger all. But Alf had Jimmy and Roy withdrawn so they were in limbo land. They were both intelligent players and they would murder people because other teams could not work out who should pick them up. Then you had Phillips and Crawford. Ray was fantastic in the penalty box but could not really get a goal from outside. Ted could get them from anywhere within 35 yards of goal. He had unbelievable power. So they were a good partnership.\n\nRay Crawford says:\n\n> Ted and I just clicked. I was an 18-yard player. I never shot from outside the box, but for Ted 30 yards was nothing. He just used to smash them in. Ted would have these long-range shots and I always expected the keeper to drop it. If he did so, it was in the net. I might get in five times in a row, and nothing would happen, then on the sixth the keeper would spill it and I would score. That's how I got so many of my goals.\n\nJohn Elsworthy, a clever, mature midfielder with great positional sense, was another to benefit from the space created by Alf's system:\n\n> The opposition just did not know what to do. I would be going through, causing trouble. I would play it to Ray, who laid it off to Ted, who could be lethal from a distance. It was all down to Alf. He was a tremendous reader of the game. He would come in at half-time and pick up on something that was going wrong. Or during practice matches, if someone made a mistake, he would stop the game and explain what had gone wrong and what they should have done. He was so precise. You didn't make the same mistake again. Alf was unique. He just appeared on the horizon and transformed the club.\n\nThat transformation was driving Ipswich towards the First Division, something that would have been unthinkable when Alf joined in 1955. 1960\u201361 was Ipswich's silver-jubilee season as a professional club, and they celebrated in style. In September 1960 they climbed to the top of the table and were never out of contention for the rest of the season. Between 10 December 1960 and 18 March 1961 they went unbeaten, dropping only three points, and their run included some superb wins, especially the 3\u20131 defeat of Sheffield United at Bramall Lane. Promotion was secured with a 4\u20130 victory over Sunderland in April, and the following week the Second Division Championship with a 4\u20131 crushing of Derby County. Crucial to Ipswich's triumph had been the duo of Phillips and Crawford, who hit an astonishing 70 goals between them, with Crawford netting 40 and Phillips 30. Throughout the run-in to the title, Alf retained his usual composure, one of his many qualities as a manager. There was no over-hyped talk about promotion, no extra pressure put on the players. As John Compton remembers, 'He was always calm. There was none of that stuff you get from other managers, \"Come on lads, you can do it.\"' That almost superhuman restraint was demonstrated on the afternoon that Ipswich won promotion against Sunderland. About an hour after the game finished, John Cobbold wandered out of the boardroom, the inevitable bottle of champagne in hand, and found Alf still sitting in the stand, watching a schools cup match between Ipswich and Norwich.\n\n'Fancy a glass?' said the gregarious chairman.\n\n'No thank you, I'm working.'\n\nThis may, of course, have been an example of Alf's parchdry sense of humour. In a football environment, he was not the stern, forbidding leader that the public usually saw. Yes, he kept a distance from his team \u2013 all successful managers have to do that and Alf's natural reticence, once a social problem at Spurs, became an advantage at Ipswich \u2013 but he could also be warm-hearted and relaxed at the appropriate moment. A cold autocrat could not have engendered the sort of spirit that Alf brought to his Ipswich and England teams, nor would he have inspired the near universal affection that players felt for Alf:\n\n> 'He was a sincere man, not a hard one,' says John Elsworthy, who recalls how devoted Alf was to his players. 'I'd just come back from a cartilage operation and was playing in the reserves at Brighton when I clashed with a centre-half and fractured my skull. It was agony. But I came back by train, and Alf, who had been with the first team, met me at the station, and then went with me in an ambulance to hospital. He was brilliant that day. He said to my wife, \"Don't worry Anne, I'll look after him.\"'\n\nBecause Alf treated professionals as adults, he did not feel he needed to be a ruthless disciplinarian. As Ray Crawford puts it:\n\n> It was a great club under Alf. He was a fantastic man. Everyone was treated the same and he made you feel at home. We all were very loyal to him. When we were travelling away, on a Friday or after a game, he would allow us to have a beer. We also had a darts team that would go round pubs in the local villages, meeting supporters. Roy Bailey would arrange the visits. Most of the lads would turn up, though we were bloody awful at darts. We would have a few drinks, sensible stuff. Alf knew we went out. It was never a problem with him, though he never came out with us. So we had a social club as well as a football club.\n\nBut all the players grew used to his myopia about football. 'He was not really interested in anything else,' says John Elsworthy. 'If we were on the train, Alf might be reading the paper. But the moment we started talking about football, down went the paper and he was with you. It was his life.' As John Compton recalls, 'If there was a group of you in a compartment, Alf would listen and talk as long as the subject was football. As soon it went onto something else, he would get up and go into another compartment.'\n\nTony Garnett has an interesting example of Alf's leniency:\n\n> He was a very good manager in that he could turn a blind eye to things. I remember once I was totally out of order. Ipswich were playing in Manchester and I had driven up there in my old Ford Special, fibreglass body, V8 engine. It was Alf's habit to take all the boys to the cinema on a Friday night. Andy Nelson said to Ted Phillips and me, 'Let's sit behind Alf in the cinema and as soon as the lights go down, let's get out and go for a game of darts and a drink.' The three of us drove out to a pub in the country. We got back to the hotel just before Alf, but he'd known what was going on all the time. 'So you didn't like the film then, Andy?' was all he said.\n\nJohn Compton remembers Alf's warmth coming out in practice matches, when Alf would sometimes play against the first team. 'He used to get some stick from the lads. There was a lot of banter, especially from Ted. Ted would go up and barge Alf over in the mud, and then we'd all jump on top of Alf. He could take all this, even took it with a smile.' But at other times, the players felt protective towards Alf, who could be a physically courageous man if the occasion demanded it. Ted Phillips remembers this incident:\n\n> Alf spoke his mind where the needs of the team were concerned. We were travelling to an away game by train and someone else had got our compartments. We were standing in the corridor when Alf came along. He went straight into the compartment, used some pretty ripe language and soon had the other passengers out. He nearly had a fight with them but he soon kicked them out. When we got off the other end, there was a bloke waiting for Alf. So we all surrounded Alf and walked him safely through the station. We felt very protective towards him. He was able to inspire such loyalty.\n\nIn turn, Alf had a soft spot for Ted, his rollicking, rustic forward. 'Ted was a comedian and a character. Alf knew what he was like and just took it all in his stride,' says Ray Crawford. He was often drawn to such types, whose open, playful cheeriness was in such contrast to his own innate reserve. The cheeky Eddie Baily had been his closest friend at Spurs; noisy, blunt Jack Charlton was to become one of Alf's favourite England players. Acting the clown or the comic, all three of them felt free to poke fun at Alf. But the crucial point, Alf knew, was that there was no maliciousness about any of their antics. What Alf despised was the sly sarcasm with a cruel edge that he occasionally experienced from the likes of Jimmy Greaves, Bobby Moore and Rodney Marsh. Such was Alf's fondness for Ted that he gave him a great deal of leeway. One of Ted's most bizarre tricks took place during a Boxing Day match against Leicester:\n\n> I'd got hold of this ginger wig, so I put it on in the dressing-room and as I ran out onto the field, a big groan went round the ground. Everyone was saying, 'Who's that ginger bloke?' And I kept up the joke by not shooting at goal in the warm-up. The Churchman's end was moaning because they could not make out who I was. But when I took off the wig just before the start, the roof nearly came off the stands. Alf had a good laugh about it.\n\nAnother trick was played more directly on Alf:\n\n> We were having lunch in a hotel in Southport. The soup was being passed along and I took note of which bowl was Alf's, and then I dropped a plastic cockroach in it. Alf called over the waitress, 'I'm afraid that there is an insect in my soup.' Of course we were all giggling down my end of the table. And Alf glowered in my direction, 'What is so funny then, Ted?'\n> \n> 'Oh nothing Alf, my soup was all right.'\n> \n> He knew immediately I was to blame.\n\nTed continues proudly:\n\n> I think I am the only bloke ever to chuck cold water over Alf. One day after training he was lying in his bath, which was in the referee's room, and I got this big bucket of water, crept in, slung it over him and ran out. He shot up immediately, wondering what had happened. He didn't know who it was \u2013 but he probably had an idea.\n\nAnother of Ted's ruses was to take footballs from the store and then hide them around the ground, in places like a floodlight gantry or the pile of coal behind the boiler or under Alf's bath:\n\n> One time Alf took us up to Chantry Park for a run. I tucked a ball under my tracksuit and started jogging. Then, as we went round, I quietly took it out and kicked it towards Alf, 'Where on earth did that come from?' he said in surprise. Then he looked over at me.\n\nTraining runs often brought the worst out in Ted. During a cross-country exercise, Ted and Andy Nelson, after a heavy darts session the night before, had fallen so far behind the rest of the pack that they decided to hitch their way back into Ipswich on the back of a sugar-beet lorry. Unfortunately, unbeknown to them, Alf happened to see the pair as they jumped off the vehicle outside Portman Road. They were summoned to his office on their return.\n\n'I'm very disappointed in you Ted.'\n\n'Why's that, Alf?'\n\n'Because you're usually out in front, leading everything like you do on Saturday. And there you are today, riding on the back of a lorry.'\n\n'Who told you that?'\n\n'I saw you.'\n\nThe two were ordered to come back to the ground at two o'clock for extra training. Ted takes up the story:\n\n> We had lunch in town, then it started to belt down. We waited for the rain to clear so we did not get back until after half-two. Alf was standing there, with a bag of balls. 'You've got five minutes to get your kit on and get out here,' he said. We went out, did a few laps, then started crossing the ball, while Alf went in goal. Andy was chipping these balls to me and I was running in and really hitting them hard. After about five shots, Alf started to rub his hands in pain. 'Right, that's enough of that, let's go in.'\n\nAlf would occasionally become exasperated with Ted, as when Ted walked straight into a lamp post just outside Vicarage Road before a game against Watford. 'I had bought a local paper and was reading it as I went along. I cut my head open and nearly knocked myself out. Alf went beserk because there were no substitutes allowed in those days. \"Couldn't you watch where you're going?\" he said.' But Alf could be humorous with Ted as well. 'We were playing Sheffield Wednesday at home and I got caught in terrible traffic on the A12. I nearly missed the kick-off but actually got a hat-trick in the game. \"Come late next time,\" said Alf.' Alf also accepted that Ted, a totally instinctive player, did not need to pay too much attention in team talks. 'I must admit that I would sometimes nod off and Alf would have to wake me up. \"Sorry Alf, I'd say.\"\n\nIt was widely believed that the likes of Phillips, Nelson, Leadbetter, Crawford and Bailey would not last long in the First Division, given that hardly any of them had experience of the top flight. The view in Fleet Street was that Ipswich would be 'a one-season wonder'. The only question was which team would share the other relegation berth. It would have been absurd to argue that 'Ramsey's Rustics', as they were known, might challenge Manchester United, Burnley or Tottenham, who had just completed the double. In August 1961, the odds quoted for Ipswich winning the title were 100 to 1. And even Alf was privately a little apprehensive, as captain Andy Nelson recalls:\n\n> One day in the summer of 1961, I went to see Alf in his office, still all pleased that we had won promotion. The fixture list had just come out and we had Bolton away, then Burnley away, then Burnley at home soon afterwards.\n> \n> 'It looks very good, doesn't it?' I said to Alf.\n> \n> He turned to me and smiled, 'It frightens me to death.'\n\nYet Alf retained faith in his squad. Contrary to expectations, he did not go out on a spending spree to prepare for the First Division. The one player he bought was inside-forward Dougie Moran for \u00a312,000 from Falkirk. This parsimony was not just because of lack of resources \u2013 though that was certainly an issue, with gates still below 15,000 \u2013 but also because Alf believed he had the system and the men to enable Ipswich to hold their own. His experience of the Spurs push-and-run side of a decade earlier taught him that a strong unit and an unorthodox approach could defeat well-established opponents.\n\nThe year of 1961 was one of huge change in football. The maximum wage was finally abolished thanks to the campaigning of the Professional Footballers' Association under the energetic and eloquent leadership of Jimmy Hill. The threat of a strike by the PFA, allied to fears of an exodus of top players overseas, had forced the League to remove that oppressive, unjust relic of soccer's feudal past. Contrary to the scaremongering by the traditionalists, the end of the maximum wage actually led to clubs raising professional standards as they pruned their playing staffs to meet higher costs. 'It made clubs get rid of all the crap and the people who were not going to make it,' says Ray Wilson. 'We had five teams at Huddersfield. We are talking about very ordinary sides at an ordinary club. It was ridiculous. There were people at the club who had more years than games. I don't think the people running football were very professional.' Individually, all players benefited. Some of the biggest stars saw an explosion in their earnings: Johnny Haynes' weekly pay at Fulham went up to \u00a3100 a week, while the gifted Irishman Jimmy McIlroy won a rise from Burnley to \u00a370 a week. Ipswich's more modest squad saw their average pay increase from the old maximum of \u00a320 to \u00a325, with some of the top players, like Ray Crawford, earning \u00a330. Alf himself, as secretary-manager, was responsible for collecting the club's entire \u00a3700 wage bill in cash from the bank and distributing it in small brown envelopes to staff.\n\nBeyond football, the British public was enjoying a new era of consumer affluence after the hardship of the post-war years. The mood was perfectly captured by Harold Macmillan's 1957 speech in Bedford when he said that 'most of our people have never had it so good'. Commercial television arrived; home ownership hugely expanded; for the first time ordinary Britons could afford to own cars and refrigerators, and travel by air to the Continent. Alf was one of those who took advantage of the new freedom by going to Majorca for a two-week break with Vickie and Tanya in the summer of 1961.\n\nYet Ipswich were reluctant to submit to the 'winds of change', to use another phrase of Macmillan's. Like much of provincial Britain in the sixties, both town and football club remained anchored in the past. John Cobbold, for instance, refused to allow advertising hoardings around the perimeter of the pitch, on the grounds that they were vulgar. The quaint atmosphere was reflected by John Elsworthy's memory that even in 1960 the players used to have a weekly lunch at the department store of Footman and Pretty on Thursday, paid for by the club, and then many of them would disappear early to the cinema, because admission before 1.30 pm was just one shilling. Nor did the facilities come into line with the modern age. Ray Crawford. says:\n\n> Our training kit was vile. The trainer Charlie Cowie used to come in with a big pile of kit and just drop it in the middle of the floor. I would not know whose shorts I was putting on. You'd have socks with holes in them, shirts with tears in them. I'm sure local clubs had better training kit. In the season we were promoted, we were allowed to buy our own boots \u2013 the new lightweight styles were coming in \u2013 but only up to a certain amount. My own boots cost about \u00a37 but the club would only pay half of that. Our treatment room was comical. It just had one heat lamp. Ted once picked up an injured seagull on the training ground. Charlie put it under this lamp, though it probably had a broken wing.\n\nTed Phillips has this example of Charlie Cowie's rudimentary methods:\n\n> In one practice, Alf and Jimmy smashed into each other. Both were flat out. We were shouting for Charlie, who ran on and went to Alf first. 'Get away, Charlie,' said Alf. He would not let him touch him. If Charlie gave you a massage, he'd rub the skin off your legs.\n\nIt was this sort of atmosphere that led cynics to question whether Ipswich would survive long in the First Division. But from the start of the season, Ramsey's team defied expectations. The opening game saw a draw at Bolton. Then, the following Saturday, Ipswich put up a heroic fight at Turf Moor against Burnley, League Champions of 1960 and regarded as Spurs' greatest rivals for the title. Three times Ipswich came from behind to equalize, before going down 4\u20133. Alf described it as 'the greatest performance I have ever seen from any Ipswich team since I have been connected with the club'. Tony Garnett, travelling with the team, gained an insight into Alf's inspirational qualities as a manager:\n\n> I had imagined that it would be a struggle for Ipswich to stay up. But then Alf allowed me to sit in on his team talk before the Burnley game. It was bloody brilliant. I thought I could have gone out and beaten Burnley myself. He was able to impart this amazing confidence into his players. And he told people exactly what he wanted them to do, how the opposition would play, who they would be marking. It was extraordinary really. I thought to myself, 'Bloody hell, I fancy this game.' The talk was not long but it was absolutely to the point.\n\nIpswich really woke up the press and the British public when they slaughtered Burnley 6\u20132 at home in the return game a week later. By October, the team had reached fourth place in the table; by November, they had climbed to second. Among their notable victories was a 3\u20132 defeat of Spurs at home and a 4\u20131 triumph over Manchester United. Yet their superb form was regarded as nothing more than a bubble that was bound soon to burst. As Roy Bailey, the keeper, said, 'Our tactics might be simple but most sides come here and say, \"You won't catch us out,\" and then get hammered.' According to ex-Liverpool and England footballer Gordon Milne, later a distinguished manager, even Bill Shankly had some of this disdain: 'Shanks used to say of them, \"Jimmy Lead BEATER \u2013 he always called him Lead BEATER \u2013 can't walk. A good tackle will cut him in half. And they have two farmers playing up front.\"' Chelsea, visiting at the beginning of December, also had a typically complacent attitude. Their striker Barry Bridges, later to play for England under Alf, recalls:\n\n> We had a young side at Chelsea then and we were doing quite well. We were in the dressing-room before kick off. We were really cocky, boasting how we would chase Ipswich off their legs. We had a guy called Harry Meadows, who used to play with Jimmy Leadbetter at Chelsea and was now our trainer. There was a knock on the door and this fella comes in and says in a Scots voice, 'Is Harry about?' So Harry goes out into the corridor to talk to Jimmy. And he comes back in, about ten minutes later. We said to him,\n> \n> 'Who was that, Harry?'\n> \n> 'That was Jimmy Leadbetter. He's playing today.'\n> \n> 'What? He's bloody fifty. He must be fifty if he's a day.'\n> \n> We really gave Harry some stick. We had a laugh about it. Then we went out, got absolutely stuffed 5\u20132 and Jimmy was the best player. He sat in the middle of the park and pinged balls to the big strikers. Absolutely skinned us alive. That was Alf's team, he was a great reader and thinker.\n\nRay Wilson, one of the 1966 winners, warned Bobby Charlton about Ipswich just before Manchester United's first visit to Portman Road:\n\n> I'd been playing against them for years in the Second Division. We would have the ball most of the time, and then we would come off the field having lost. When United were about to play Ipswich, Bobby said to me, 'What's this Ipswich like?'\n> \n> 'I'll tell you this, Bobby. If you're not careful, you'll have the ball about sixty per cent of the time and you'll come off scratching your head because they'll have made a fuckin' arse of you.'\n> \n> That's what happened. Ipswich beat United 4\u20131. And I could understand it. Man U went forward and got stuffed. I later ran into Bobby and he said, 'Well, Ray, you were wrong about one thing. We didn't have sixty per cent of the ball. We had seventy-five per cent of it.'\n\nGeorge Cohen of Fulham was another future England player who was perplexed by Alf's methods. 'We lost at Portman Road 2\u20131 in February and they were playing something I just didn't recognize and didn't know who I should be marking. Jimmy Leadbetter hardly went outside his own bloody half, yet he was lobbing balls behind me for Crawford and Phillips.' Ipswich enjoyed good fortune as they avoided any injuries to key players throughout the season; all of their first eleven played at least 37 games in the 1961\u201362, and nine of them played 40 or more. This leant an iron consistency and a deep understanding to the team as a playing unit. Ray Crawford, who went on to score 33 goals this season, was playing so well that he was called up to the full England team against Northern Ireland. But Crawford, who was only to win one other cap, was disappointed by Winterbottom in comparison to Ramsey:\n\n> Alf just inspired you. It was such a contrast to playing for England under Walter Winterbottom. I played twice but nothing was ever said to me. There was no team, no tactics, no talk about the opposition or what we would do. I came away so disillusioned by it. I'm playing for Ipswich and Alf Ramsey is sharing things with me. Then I go to England and nothing is happening. Alf is teaching me things yet then I go to the man who is supposed to be the top coach in the country and I am left thinking to myself, 'Why did he not have the ability to stand up in front of senior players and tell us what he wanted?' I remember talking to Walter one Saturday afternoon at Ipswich. He was not saying one good word about Jimmy Greaves and yet he's the coach. He was saying to me, 'Jimmy is very lazy. Jimmy won't do this and Jimmy won't do that.' And I thought to myself, 'You should be telling Jimmy what to do.' I thought that was very poor by Walter.\n\nAs well as producing excellent football, Ipswich also gained a reputation under Alf for fair play. As a professional himself, he had disliked dirty tactics. Tommy Docherty, who came up against Alf while at Preston, told me: 'He was rare for that era, the early fifties. He would not foul the winger. He would take the ball off by clean and legal means. He was an absolute gentleman as a player. If there is such a thing, perhaps he was too nice.' Those were the standards he generally kept as manager at Ipswich. During the 1959\u201360 season, for example, Ipswich did not have a single player booked all season, a feat achieved by only one other League club. When Ipswich visited Eastwood that year, the Bristol Rovers programme recorded, 'Ipswich are now regarded as one of the most sporting and attractive teams in the Second Division, which is not surprising when one thinks of the members of the Cobbold family being on the board and Alf Ramsey being manager.' Again, during the 1961\u201362 season, the FA Disciplinary Committee noted that Ipswich were one of only two League clubs which received no unfavourable reports. But Alf should not be thought of as some saintly paragon of sportsmanship. Winning was more important to him than the pursuit of some Corinthian ideal, as he was to show as England manager by his loyalty to Nobby Stiles and his words to the notorious Leeds hard man Norman Hunter: 'Norman, you do what you have to do.' And, with tough figures like Andy Nelson, Dougie Moran and Billy Baxter, Ipswich were no soft touch. 'Dougie and Billy, they were bloody hard nuts,' says Andy Nelson. Nor did Alf show any fastidious regard for FA rules about approaching players at other clubs, what today is known as 'tapping up'. Ron Reynolds, who had moved from Spurs to Southampton, recalled this incident after Ipswich had visited The Dell in February 1961:\n\n> After the game I ended up having a chat with Alf. I'll never forget this, because Alf was not the type of player you could converse with, so this was out of the ordinary. He was a very odd one, a loner. As I came out of our dressing-room and approached the visitors' dressing-room, Alf came out and walked along with me, and it was as near to an invitation as any player could get to join them, which was, of course, completely illegal. He was tapping me up for a move to Ipswich without having talked to Ted Bates or anybody else at Southampton.\n\nReynolds believed that Alf feared Ipswich's keeper Roy Bailey might be returning to his native South Africa, so he would need a replacement:\n\n> He was full of questions, very solicitous, asking me, 'How do you like it at Southampton? Are you enjoying your football down here? We would give you a lot more pleasure from the game. We could give you First Division football next season.' In the end I just told him, 'Sorry Alf, I'm happy where I am.'\n\nBailey stayed in England, however, and in 1961\u201362 was helping Ipswich to dominate the First Division. It was typical of Alf that he turned Bailey, who had been rejected by Palace, into a top-class keeper. By the spring, Ipswich were in second place, with the Championship developing into a two-horse race between themselves and Burnley. Spurs' hopes were effectively ended by defeats at home and away to Ipswich. Before the match at Portman Road in October, Bill Nicholson had wanted to change tactics to cope with the Ramsey method but, as he later recorded, he failed to convince his key player, Dave Mackay, at his team meeting:\n\n> I suggested that our midfield players should mark Stephenson and Leadbetter, leaving the full-backs to move inside to take care of Crawford and Phillips. Blanchflower agreed with me but Mackay didn't: he said we had just won three matches playing the way we wanted to play. 'Why change just to suit them?' he said. 'We're good enough to beat them playing our normal style.' It was one of the few times I bowed to the players' wishes. We lost 3\u20132 and when the return match was played at White Hart Lane later in the season we went down 3\u20131 playing the same way.\n\nBrian James of the _Daily Mail_ was in the press box that day:\n\n> It was an astonishing game to watch because Ipswich were playing exactly the way they wanted and Tottenham were occupying spaces where the game was not being played. Spurs had players out there marking nothing but empty space, with no one picking up the two Ipswich front men who were thundering in at the far post.\n\nFor Alf, the victory at White Hart Lane was one of the sweetest of his career. It was a form of revenge for the way he had been treated by Spurs seven years earlier. He had outsmarted two of the men, Nicholson and Blanchflower, who had been behind his departure. For one of the few times in his life, he displayed some emotion, as his Ipswich skipper Andy Nelson recalls:\n\n> We played superbly that night. It was a game I will never forget. Alf was so keen to go back there and for him it was an absolutely marvellous result. Afterwards, he went round the dressing-room shaking hands with everyone, and you could see his eyes glaze up. He was having a little cry.\n\nAt the end of March, soon after this victory at White Hart Lane, Ipswich went to the top of the First Division. But even then it seemed unlikely they could win the title, as Burnley, in second place, had three games in hand. But Burnley then suffered a dramatic collapse, allowing Ipswich to stay in the lead. Ipswich went into their last match of the season, against Aston Villa at Portman Road, knowing that if they won, Burnley would have to gain maximum points from their last two games. The Ipswich-Villa contest was a scrappy affair, with the Ipswich team displaying a rare bout of nerves. At half-time the score was 0\u20130. But then in the 72nd minute there was an opening. John Elsworthy has this memory:\n\n> It was the most tense game I ever played in because we had to get a result. We were drawing for quite a long while and then we got a corner. I'll never forget it. As soon as it was hit, I went into the box and suddenly I found that I had a clear header. I was only six yards out and I was confident of scoring. But as I leapt I was level with the cross-bar and I headed it straight. I can see it now. The ball hit the underside of the bar and came out. I nearly died. I thought I'd blown it. But the next thing I knew was Ray Crawford getting hold of it. He was one of the biggest poachers I ever knew, anything loose was his. As the ball bounced, he dived and put it in the net. That was it. We were on our way. And Ray then got another goal in the final minutes.\n\nIpswich had won 2\u20130, and when the news came through that Burnley had been held at home by Chelsea, they knew they had won the Championship. A large section of the 28,000 crowd rushed onto the field, hoisting Crawford and Phillips on their shoulders, while in the directors' box John Cobbold was already hard at work on a crate of champagne. In the dressing-room afterwards, the little bald trainer Jimmy Forsyth was thrown fully clothed into the bath.\n\nBut amidst the scenes of jubilation, Alf remained an impassive figure. He pushed the players forward to accept the cheers of the crowd, remaining in the background himself. 'He did not want any praise. When people congratulated him, he gave all the credit to the players,' says Jimmy Leadbetter. But once the crowd had departed and Alf was left alone he did indulge in one expression of pure joy. Just as in the previous year, after Ipswich had gained promotion, he was sitting in the stand, gazing out on the pitch, when John Cobbold turned up. With barely a word, Alf took off his jacket, handed it to Cobbold, walked down onto the pitch and then, on his own, proceeded to do a lap of honour in front of the empty terraces, wearing collar, tie and highly polished shoes. It was a private, endearing, very human gesture from someone who was too embarrassed to show his feelings in public. In Alf's memory, Cobbold 'cheered every stride I took'. Cobbold, who was by his own admission wreathed 'in a fog of alcohol', described it as 'a bloody marvellous intimate moment'.\n\nIpswich were the first side in League history to win the Championship in their initial season in the First Division. They were also only the second club after Wolves to win Third, Second and First Division titles, though Wolves had taken thirty years over such an achievement, whereas Ipswich had taken just six. Alf was rightly showered with praise. The BBC, in an interview after the game, called him Ipswich's 'great manager' who had promoted 'the real virtues of simplicity and team spirit'. _The Times_ described Alf as 'probably the one great genius the game has produced in recent years'. For the _East Anglian Daily Times,_ he was 'the Miracle Man'. In its tribute, the paper said:\n\n> The Town's triumph is his and his alone. He knew that his basic idea of football, directness and simplicity was the right one. He cares deeply for the footballers in his care and knows far more of their capabilities and limitations than they know themselves and we have seen them blossom and react to his coaching. Completely unemotional, never overexcited or deeply depressed, he has performed a modern miracle in football.\n\nThey were justified words, for Alf had shown a unique talent for squeezing the best out of players through motivation and technical advice. His Championship-winning side had cost only \u00a330,000. As always, though, Alf downplayed his role, telling the BBC: 'I cannot make a player improve. That is really up to the player. I have been fortunate at Ipswich in that, though we did not have any great players here, we have men of very high character, and I think that shows in the way they play.'\n\nBut, warned the _East Anglian Daily Times,_ there was 'just one small shadow' over this moment of glory: 'It is that Mr Alf Ramsey may feel that he has done enough with Ipswich Town and may cast his eyes around on other fields to conquer.'\n\n# [SEVEN  \n _Lancaster Gate_](004-toc.html#ch7)\n\nSoon after Ipswich had won the title, Alf was interviewed by the BBC and inevitably was asked about the possibility of managing the national side. 'The England job has never entered my mind. I have never considered the England team at all, not at all. I have a job at Ipswich and I still have a lot of work to do here.' Then, in a prescient comment about the role of the England selectors, he added, 'I could not imagine anyone taking on a job with such responsibilities without having a completely free hand.'\n\nThe question had been put because that summer Walter Winterbottom had finally resigned as England manager after 16 years in the job. For all his dedication and intelligence as a technical coach, he had never been an inspirational leader. 'He was not really equipped to be England's team manager,' said Alan Hardaker, Secretary of the League. 'He had no experience of football at international level or management at any level. His way of expressing things was not a way readily grasped or appreciated by many players.' The 1962 World Cup in Chile had been the last straw, as England gave another disappointing performance and limped out in the quarter-final. The organization for the trip was characteristically shambolic; because of the absence of any team doctor, the Sheffield Wednesday centre-half Peter Swan almost died of a throat infection, having been given the wrong treatment. Winterbottom had hoped to become Secretary of the FA, with Sir Stanley Rous having been elevated in 1961 to the Presidency of FIFA. But Winterbottom had his enemies within the FA, so instead the job went to an officious mediocrity, Denis Follows, who had previously been Secretary of the British Airline Pilots' Association. 'He was not an impressive man. He was what I would call a wishy-washy sort of a person,' says Dr Neil Phillips, who was team doctor under Alf.\n\nThe FA initially hoped that the Burnley captain, Jimmy Adamson, would take on the England job. A deep thinker and a recent Footballer of the Year, Adamson had been Winterbottom's coaching assistant during the 1962 World Cup. But during that tour, he grew disillusioned with the pessimistic, griping attitude of several of England's internationals. In addition, Burnley were not keen to let him go and he was reluctant to move from his northern home. The offer was rejected, so the FA then decided to advertise the post. It was vital that they hired the right man, for in 1960 FIFA had decided that the 1966 World Cup finals should be played in England. There could be no repeat of the humiliations of previous decades. While awaiting responses, the FA's International Committee approached several other leading figures in the game, including Alf's old Tottenham rival Bill Nicholson, who said that 'the England job wasn't for me'. Others, like Billy Wright and Stan Cullis publicly expressed their lack of interest. More disappointment followed when the FA saw that out of the 59 applications received in response to the advertisement, not one was remotely suitable. At a meeting of the International Committee on the 1 October 1962, it was agreed that FA Chairman Graham Doggart should ask permission from the Ipswich board to approach Alf Ramsey. Surprisingly, given Ipswich's record, Alf's name had not been mentioned before, though Winterbottom had resigned as early as July. Winterbottom himself had never envisaged that Alf would be right for the post. 'There is no real link between the skills you need to run a successful club and those that you need to run a national side well,' he said, a comment that hardly reflects well on his judgement given the comparison between Ramsey's subsequent record and his own.\n\nThe languid, aristocratic flavour of Ipswich is captured by the way the club responded to the FA's request. Hubert Doggart, the son of Graham, told me:\n\n> My father wrote to John Cobbold, the Chairman of Ipswich, seeking permission to approach Alf Ramsey. But he received no reply for a fortnight. By this time the press were becoming increasingly agitated about the appointment. So, not having heard anything, my father rang Kirton, the Cobbold home. The phone was answered by a butler who explained that the Chairman was unavailable because he was shooting for three weeks up at his lodge in Scotland. Well, the FA could not wait that long. My father impressed on the butler the importance of the matter and the butler then read out the FA's letter over the phone to John Cobbold in Scotland.\n\nCobbold returned to Ipswich immediately and convened a meeting of the board at which, according to Cobbold's account, 'we reluctantly agreed that it was entirely up to Alf and that we would certainly not stand in his way'. As authorized by his committee, Graham Doggart travelled to Ipswich on the 17 October, where he was met at the station by John Cobbold and was then taken to meet Alf at Portman Road. At this meeting, Doggart told the FA, 'we talked together for about two hours and I was most impressed by his attitude to the challenge which the post of England team manager presented'. Alf said he needed to think about the offer. On the afternoon of 24 October, after a lunch in London with Doggart and Winterbottom, he accepted the post.\n\nIt has often been claimed that Alf 'took a month' to make up his mind about the England offer, with some of his critics implying that his pride had been ruffled by the fact that he had been the FA's second choice. The slightest glance at the chronology will show that this is untrue. Alf actually accepted the offer in little more than a week of Doggart first making it. The gap between the FA Committee authorizing the approach to Ipswich on 1 October and the announcement to the press on the 25th was due entirely to John Cobbold's pheasant shooting. But Ramsey always was a methodical man, not one given to impulsive decisions. Claiming that the job offer was 'a tremendous surprise,' he explained that he took eight days to make up his mind because 'I wanted to discuss it with my wife, consider our position and complications for a moment'.\n\nThere were two chief concerns for him. The first was his association with Ipswich Town. Loyalty was one of his most powerful personal traits \u2013 indeed, it was to help cause his downfall in 1974 \u2013 and he felt a debt to the club that had given him his first job in management. Moreover, on the playing side, Ipswich were in serious trouble by October after all the euphoria of the previous season. Alf believed it would be wrong to walk out suddenly on his team at a moment of deepening crisis. He therefore stipulated that he would only take the England job at the end of the 1962\u201363 season. 'I have a responsibility to Ipswich, especially in view of their position in the First Division table. I must remain here for the rest of the season and see us safe,' he told the _East Anglian Daily Times._\n\nHis second concern was the influence of the FA selectors. If Alf was to have charge of the England team, he needed total control over its affairs, just as he had at Ipswich. For all his faults, Winterbottom had never been allowed to do his job properly because of the interference from these prejudiced, often ignorant officials, as Alf had directly experienced in the 1950 World Cup when Arthur Drewry had personally insisted on the exclusion of Stanley Matthews from the game against the USA. Even the FA's own Secretary throughout the 1950s, Stanley Rous, admitted the selection committee was an absurdity. 'The committee would discuss each position in turn and vote on it if necessary. Invariably personal preferences intruded and positions were considered in isolation, rather than thought being given to the team as an entity.' Bobby Moore believed that Winterbottom was broken by the selectors. 'I could not understand how he allowed himself to be messed about by the amateurs of the committee. I felt he lost the will to fight the system.' Alf decided he would not put up with this nonsense, and the FA, becoming increasingly anxious about filling the post, were in no position to negotiate. Alf was given the control he sought, while the selectors were reduced to the role of scouts whose advice the new manager could happily ignore. The international committee would still meet, though only as a formal body, much like the constitutional monarchy in a democracy. The real power had passed to Alf. David Barber, an official at the FA during the later part of the Ramsey era, recalls how much members of the committee resented the loss of authority:\n\n> I took some of the minutes at the committee meetings and if there was a match coming up the Chairman would ask Sir Alf to read out the squad. And as Alf did so I could feel the members shuffling uneasily in their seats because they were denied any input. After all those decades of choosing the teams, they now had to bow to the manager. And I sensed some awkwardness there.\n\nAlf was rarely motivated by money \u2013 as he once said to Ray Crawford, 'You can only eat three meals a day and you only need one bed to sleep in' \u2013 and he was still living in an Ipswich club house and driving a Hillman in 1962. His annual salary paid by the FA was only \u00a34,500, more than double what Winterbottom had been earning but less than the \u00a35,000 he received from Ipswich. For him it was an honour to be asked to take charge of the national team. He was effectively to be England's first professional manager after decades of ineffectual amateurism. And the press generally welcomed his appointment. 'Soccer has seen nothing like him since Herbert Chapman masterminded Arsenal in the thirties,' wrote Mike Langley in the _Daily Express:_\n\n> He is a man with a brain like a combination of camera and computer. A man intensely loyal to his players. A man able to persuade a camel that it is really a Derby winner. He is an adaptable man, a cockney kid now as well spoken as an Earl. And if England should win the World Cup in 1966, how about the story ending 'Arise Lord Alf of Wembley'.\n\n_The Times_ commented, 'Ramsey, as a man, a player and a manager, has already proved himself. Ramsey the man is not demonstrative. He is reserved, but a deep thinker. Like some scientific boffin, he can appear detached, immersed in figures and equations and not given to grandiose statements.' Perhaps the most personally revealing profile was written by Michael Williams in the _Daily Telegraph:_\n\n> Alf Ramsey does not smoke and he drinks with discretion. He wears smart, sober suits, black shoes, clean collars and ties with rather large knots. He speaks slowly, chooses his words with care and always has a half-smile on his face. He has an attractive wife and daughter, a nice car and lives in a pleasant house in a road just off the Ipswich by-pass. He is not a spontaneous man, indeed his self-control is almost something to be wondered at. He is the same in defeat as in victory, hiding his thoughts behind steady, dark eyes. Essentially he is a serious man. He forms his own opinions and sticks to them. He is not afraid to disagree with his club chairman and directors. Indeed, it is they who turn somersaults to agree with him. His dedication to the game is utter and complete. Once I recall, when Ipswich were returning from some northern match on a Saturday night, he bumped into Arthur Rowe, under whom he learned so much at White Hart Lane. Four or five hours lay ahead before we arrived in London. Throughout, Ramsey and Rowe talked and talked and talked football. Nobody else entered the conversation; there was no opportunity. And rarely, if at all, did they smile. They were lost in a world of their own.\n\nRowe himself commented of the appointment, 'If you looked the whole world over, you couldn't have found yourself a better man. He is a shining example of what you can make yourself from application and honest effort.' But Frank Magee of the _Daily Mirror_ later reflected on the private circumspection that existed within journalistic circles. In an interview in 1970 Magee said:\n\n> I suppose the best way to sum up my own reaction and the reaction of most press men to Alf is to trace the whole affair right back to the beginning. To be quite honest, we viewed his appointment with dismay. This was essentially because Alf was not a communicator himself, quite unlike his predecessor Walter Winterbottom, who was always a marvellous subject no matter how his team had done or how he himself was criticised. And I think press relations are the one aspect of his job that Alf still does not completely understand. He is only really relaxed when he is with his players.\n\nWithin the town of Ipswich, the mood was one of sadness at his departure, but pride at the honour bestowed on the club. Alf's appointment was announced during the week of the Cuban missile crisis, when the world stood on the brink of nuclear annihilation. As the _East Anglian Daily Times_ wryly commented:\n\n> In this particular part of the world, the talk gets round to Cuba only after all the possibilities involved by Mr Ramsey's promotion have been exhausted. This is sometimes referred to as a sense of proportion or a sense of balance. And the fact that Mr Ramsey shares the same headline space as Messrs Khrushchev and Kennedy would be regarded as a considerable compliment \u2013 to Khrushchev and Kennedy.\n\nOn a more serious note, the _EADT_ believed that Alf was sure to succeed in his new post, because one of the primary lessons of his career was 'his determination to see a thing through. Once he has set his mind on a task, he will not give up until his objective has been reached.' Alf's standing within the club was reflected when John Cobbold gathered all the staff in the dressing-room to break the news of his elevation. According to Cobbold:\n\n> All of them wondered what the hell I was doing there. I had never addressed them as a group in my life. I said, 'Alf is going at the end of the season', and they were stunned, simply stunned. So I said, 'It's all right, we've not sacked Alf. He has been appointed England manager', and everyone just cheered and clapped and cheered again. It was a marvellous tribute but Alf deserves it. He made Ipswich Town.\n\nLater, Kenneth Wolstenholme, the respected commentator, revealed that Cobbold 'was in tears' when Alf was appointed.\n\nFor all the applause given to Alf, his Ipswich team suffered a disastrous loss of form for most of 1962\u201363. Even before the season had begun, Ipswich were experiencing problems. After winning the title, they had embarked on a summer tour of Germany, only to find themselves booked into a brothel in Hamburg. As Tony Garnett recalls: 'It was the only time I ever saw Alf genuinely lost for words. The Ipswich party had to stay in a hotel of ill repute just a stone's throw from the notorious red light district. There was nothing Alf could do about it but he was less than happy, while John Cobbold thought it highly amusing.' More seriously, back in England, the system which had won the Championship had finally been rumbled by the more astute First Division managers. In the traditional opening match of the season, the Charity Shield, Ipswich had been beaten 5\u20131 by Spurs. On Nicholson's instructions, the two deep-lying Ipswich wingers were marked by the midfielders Blanchflower and Mackay, while Crawford and Phillips were taken by the Spurs full-backs and the centre-half. Maurice Norman, one of the Spurs defenders, recalls, 'It could have hardly gone better. Very little came from the Ipswich flanks and there were three of us to deal with the two centre-forwards. It was almost a doddle.' This start set the pattern for the following months, as Ipswich slid to 21st place by November. Performances were not helped by a series of injuries and a bitterly cold winter, which meant that Ipswich did not play a single League game between 26 December 1962 and 23 February 1963. The stresses of First Division football were also beginning to tell on several ageing members of the squad. Because of lack of money and Alf's instinctive loyalty to his players, he was reluctant to freshen the squad. 'There's no doubt Alf was a mastermind, but we struggled because we were stuck with what we had,' says Ray Crawford.\n\nAs he was to show with England, Alf was brilliant at forging a winning unit, but where he was much weaker was in rebuilding. He could create, but he could not sustain. His stubbornness drove him to stick with the players and tactics that had first brought him success, even when they were no longer working. 'We will defend our League title in the same way we won it,' he announced, words that would find a painful echo with England in the seventies. In the summer of 1962, Alf bought just one new player, Bobby Blackwood from Hearts for \u00a312,000, keeping all 28 of the previous season's squad, an act of almost reckless loyalty. Concentrating on the coaching of first-team players, he had never shown much interest in scouting or developing a youth team, which meant that there was little playing material in reserve.\n\nThe absence of any infrastructure came as a shock to the man appointed by Ipswich to succeed Alf Ramsey. Jackie Milburn, the legendary Newcastle striker who had recently finished a three-year stint as player-manager of the Belfast club Linfield, arrived at Portman Road in January 1963, believing that he and Alf would co-operate until April, when Alf officially took up his post with England. But Milburn did not find much of a welcome from Alf, who bore him a grudge from his playing days. During a practice match within days of his arrival, Milburn found himself being tackled brutally by Alf. 'I had been fouled at Spurs eight years earlier and had got up in a terrible rage and pushed over the man nearest to me \u2013 who happened to be Alf Ramsey. I'd forgotten all about it until then but the way Alf looked at me, I knew he hadn't forgotten it,' recalled Milburn. That incident set the tone for an icy relationship. Alf did not think much of Milburn's behaviour as a player or his ability as a manager. Milburn claimed that not only did Alf refuse to give him much influence at the club, but he even barred him from team talks. When Milburn sought advice from his old Newcastle team-mate Joe Harvey, he was told, 'Take no more bloody shit.' As a result, Milburn aired his grievances at a meeting with John Cobbold. According to the account left by Milburn's son, 'Dad was patted somewhat patronisingly on the shoulder and reassured that Mr Ramsey's shadow would only hang over him until the end of the season.' But matters did not improve, especially as results on the field remained poor and Ipswich hovered above the relegation zone. Inspired by the all-too spectacular example of the club chairman, Milburn sought comfort in drink. 'He would splash out on a bottle and sit alone at the club or in a hotel room when away scouting and sip until he'd blotted the parts of his mind he'd intended,' wrote his son.\n\nMilburn was not the only one at Ipswich exasperated with Alf. In April 1963, Eric Steel, an Ipswich director and manager of a Suffolk firm of newspaper wholesalers, resigned from the board, complaining about Alf's excessive powers and unwillingness to invest in the club's future. Steel said he had continually urged the club to buy new players but had been told by the chairman, 'Let's leave that to Mr Ramsey, shall we?' Steel also felt that Ipswich's reserves were 'poor' but 'here again nothing was done. The management has been negligent.' Warming to his theme, Steel described the board as a 'bunch of Ramsey yes-men' and went on, 'Alf won't like me anymore and I'm sorry about that, but I'll not be a yes-man.'\n\nContrary to Steel's worst fears, Ipswich scraped to safety in 17th place thanks to a run of wins towards the end of the season. But even after Alf's departure, Milburn, now manager in his own right, found him as unhelpful as ever. On one of Alf's visits to Portman Road, Jackie asked him if, in his capacity as England manager, he knew of any players he could recommend to Ipswich. Alf replied with a monosyllabic 'No' and walked away. 'That really puzzled me, coming from a man who was purported to care so much about his former club,' he told his son. The slide continued in 1963\u201364, leading to Ipswich's relegation and their worst ever defeat, 10\u20131 at the hands of Fulham. Jackie Milburn resigned soon after the start of the following season and then launched into a very public diatribe against Alf. In a _Sun_ article headline 'Ramsey Gave Me No Help', Milburn said:\n\n> I want to get one thing clear right from the start. Ipswich are a good club and the directors are gentlemen. But I accuse Alf Ramsey! He gave me neither help nor encouragement when I took over from him. I worked with him for ten weeks and the only advice I got was that I'd have to become thick-skinned to make a go of it. I inherited a team that was over the top and going downhill fast. I knew it, the directors knew it and the most disastrous thing of all, the players knew it too. Ramsey's attitude to me didn't help either. In the first few weeks I was there I was never invited to a team talk!...Ramsey's attitude convinced me I was on my own in a ruthless jungle.\n\nMilburn's wail would have had more justification if he had not been such a weak manager. Once Alf had left, he had been given the chance to run the team and had failed dismally. A decent man, he was far out of his depth in management. As Ray Crawford puts it: 'He had no understanding of how to get the best out of us, none at all. His team talks were poor. He could not inspire us. He could come in and say anything and nobody cared. To be fair, Alf was a very hard act to follow but Jackie did not help himself.' Jimmy Leadbetter shares that view: 'Jackie was the nicest man you could meet but he was not a manager. I felt sorry for him. He was chicken-hearted. He let people get away with things he shouldn't have.' Andy Nelson is even more harsh. 'From the moment he arrived, it was clear he did not have much idea about what was going on. Alf refused to leave until the club was safe and he was right, because within twelve months Jackie had devastated the place. He was absolutely clueless. He had no tactical sense at all.' Still, Alf does not emerge with any great credit from this episode. There was a cold, jealous streak in him, born of pride and insecurity, that prevented him warming to any of his successors in any job. The same had happened when Danny Blanchflower took over the captaincy from him at Spurs. Years later, he fell out bitterly with England manager Bobby Robson.\n\nDespite relegation problems, Ipswich Town released Alf to preside over England's game against France on 27 February 1963 in Paris. It was a qualifier for the European Nations Cup, the forerunner of today's European Championship. Shortly before the trip to Paris, journalist Ken Jones gave a lift to Alf from central London to Liverpool Street. He was immediately impressed by the new England manager: 'We set off through heavy-afternoon traffic. Alf was amiable; he spoke freely in a precise way, careful with his diction. \"I have a great deal to learn about international football,\" he admitted. \"I will have to look closely at players and settle on a system that suits the best of them.\"' Alf was so open that he revealed to Ken the make-up of most of the team, something that he would never do in future as Alf became more withdrawn. 'I was listening to him speak about various things and I thought I had it all figured out for myself. This is a guy, I was thinking to myself, who has only one objective, who will stand or fall by England's efforts in the 1966 World Cup. As at Ipswich, his thoughts were entirely concentrated on the production of a winning team. The wider aspects of English football, so dear to Winterbottom, held no interest for him.' That was a point that Alf had reinforced when he was appointed manager, stressing that he had no wish to take on Winterbottom's old job of Director of Coaching as well.\n\nThe trip to Paris confirmed for Alf the need to ditch the selection committee, who had chosen the team for the game since Alf was not officially to take control until May. Several of them, including Graham Doggart, Chelsea Chairman Joe Mears and Joe Richards of Barnsley, accompanied him on the journey. As Alf told Ken Jones:\n\n> I could see right away how difficult things had been for Walter Winterbottom. In their way they were enthusiasts but they had no judgement I could respect. Doggart struck me as a nice man. But none of them could offer a worthwhile opinion. From my first meeting with them, I knew I'd been absolutely right to seek the authority I had been given at Ipswich.\n\nThe team the committee picked gave Alf the worst possible start to his England career, though in mitigation it should be said that the big freeze in England had prevented any players gaining much match practice over the previous two months. And the Continent had also been affected by the weather. On a bitterly cold night in Paris, England were beaten 5\u20132, with goalkeeper Ron Springett giving a woeful performance. Ron Henry, who had been with Alf at Spurs in 1954 and won his only cap in this game, has these memories of Alf's first match in charge:\n\n> In his talk before the kick-off, he just said, 'If you behave yourself and work hard, you'll get on all right with me.' He did not talk tactics much that night. He just said, 'Go on, you know what you have to do.' It was an awful night, terrible. We hadn't played for about eight weeks because the winter was so bad. The pitch had a covering of snow. Ron Springett was in goal and he might as well not have been there because he was frozen and didn't move. It was so cold that when we had finished we had to sit around the edge of a big square bath and dangle our boots in the hot water because our laces had frozen solid. Alf could not really say much afterwards but he came round and shook your hand.\n\nBrian Labone, the Everton centre-half, also has unhappy memories: 'Obviously I did not play very well. You have a result like that, you look at the keeper and the centre-half because they're meant to be the backbone of the side. I remember after the game going down to some nightclub and getting really sloshed.' But Bobby Moore was impressed by the new manager in the face of a heavy loss: 'There was none of the ranting and raving you might have got from some managers.'\n\nJimmy Armfield was Alf's captain that night:\n\n> The match should have never been played. You could hardly stand up and the floodlights were poor. I remember in the dressing-room afterwards Alf looked round for inspiration and could not find any. So he walked to me and said, 'Do we always play like that?'\n> \n> 'No.'\n> \n> 'That's the first bit of good news I've had all evening.' We were on the plane coming back and he said more to me in those three hours than he did for quite a while afterwards. He was on about players, our priorities, what it meant to get a group of players together. He said to me that it was important to get the unit right, that it was not always the best players that made the best unit.\n\nSpringett's nightmare led Alf to drop him for the next England match, played in April at Wembley against Scotland. His place was taken by Gordon Banks, the Leicester keeper who, as much as Bobby Charlton and Bobby Moore, was to become one of the catalysts for the greatness of the Ramsey era. But his debut was not a happy affair, as Scotland won 2\u20131, with Jim Baxter 'strolling arrogantly around Wembley as if he owned the place', to use the words of Banks. It was Baxter who scored Scotland's first, as a result of a mistake by Jimmy Armfield, who hit a square ball across the defence, only to see it intercepted by Baxter and then drilled into the net. 'It was a killer goal to concede on your debut and I took my anger and frustration out on Jimmy, who conceded the mistake had been his,' said Banks. Having endured his second defeat in a row, Alf also confronted Armfield:\n\n> After the game he was walking towards me and I said, 'My fault, I know, I know.'\n> \n> 'You're not going to do that again, are you?'\n> \n> 'I'm not, Alf.'\n> \n> 'No, you're not.'\n> \n> That was the end of the conversation. He could be a bit cutting.\n\nAlf's faith in Jimmy Armfield's defensive qualities was never to be quite restored.\n\nGordon Banks himself suffered a tongue-lashing from Ramsey after the next game, against Brazil at Wembley. The match, Ramsey's first since taking up the post full-time, was a creditable 1\u20131 draw for England, but he was furious with his defence, and especially his keeper, for ignoring his warnings about how dangerous the Brazilians could be with a free-kick near the box. In the first half, Pepe hit a vicious curling shot from 25 yards which went into the corner of the net with Banks completely stranded. Later in the dressing-room, recalled Banks,\n\n> Alf fired daggers at me with those piercing blue eyes of his. 'Don't say I didn't warn you,' he said. 'I gave exact details of what they do from their free-kicks, but you fell for the three-card trick.' I explained that it had moved in the air twice as violently as I had been led to expect, but I could tell from Alf's tight-lipped expression that he thought I should have saved it.\n\nIn his own account written in 1970, Alf admitted that\n\n> this was the first time that England players realized I could show anger. Before the game I had discussed repeatedly with Gordon Banks the free-kick technique of their left-winger Pepe. Obviously Gordon couldn't have understood because the first free-kick Pepe took finished in the back of the net. I was furious because I had gone to such lengths to guard against such a possibility...After the match I went for Gordon. It is most unusual for me to vent my feelings against an individual but in this case it proved its value because he has become the greatest goalkeeper I have ever seen.\n\nA tough Yorkshireman, Banks never resented Alf's approach:\n\n> I admired him enormously. I thought he was a great manager. He went about his job so thoroughly, and put over his views very well, telling us how we should operate against certain opposition. For instance, there might be a winger in the opposition and Alf would say to me, 'This guy is very, very tricky. He has got a good right foot and can cross a good ball, but if he gets to the edge of the box and cuts in on the inside of the full back, he also has a good shot with his left foot.' So I would be looking out for this. If he tried it, I would be off my line in a shot.\n\nIt is a sign of Alf's enormous self-confidence that in the first trio of games in charge, he should feel free to lay down his authority in such harsh terms to captain and goalkeeper. Unlike Winterbottom, he did not flinch from challenging his players. Ray Wilson, who played in those early games, told me this story which illustrates how eager Alf was to exert himself:\n\n> I'd had a game with Huddersfield on the Monday night and he came to meet me just outside the changing rooms on the training ground. He walked towards me, stopped me and began to chat.\n> \n> 'Hello, I'm Alf Ramsey,' he said.\n> \n> 'Yes, I know,' I joked.\n> \n> We talked for a moment and then he said, 'How would you like to play?'\n> \n> 'Well, when I nick the ball off somebody, I then try to find one of our players. I try to keep it as simple as I can. That's how I like to play.'\n> \n> 'You will bloody play as I want you to play.' He had met me, just to let me know that he was in charge.\n\nThe central problem for Alf, however, was to devise the best formation in which to use his players. This was the issue that was to preoccupy him for the next two years, until, early in 1965, a mixture of insight and good fortune gave him the chance to create the system he wanted. In the meantime, he adopted the basic 4\u20132\u20134 style which Winterbottom had used, with two wingers and two strikers. Greaves seemed the obvious choice for one of the striking roles, but Alf had endless difficulty filling the other, while he also despaired of the talent of England's wingers. He wrote:\n\n> A vital requisite for successful 4\u20132\u20134 is two attacking wingers with the ability and speed to take on defenders, to get past them, take the ball to the goal line and pull it back...It became apparent that we hadn't got the wingers who could give us this service we wanted.\n\nOne of those wingers was Bryan Douglas of Blackburn:\n\n> Alf was a thinking sort of a guy. But not as far as I was concerned. He thought me out of the game. Frankly, I don't think I did the job that he wanted. When he first came into the England set-up, he had a bit of a learning curve. And it was a bit of a joke that he could not get the names of some of the foreign players right \u2013 and even those of some of our own players. There might be a chuckle or two when he was going through the opposition. I suppose that was to be expected. But he had a natural authority about him, firm without being bombastic. I did not think he had much of a sense of humour, perhaps because he was a shy man. But then I was used to Walter Winterbottom, who had been a schoolmaster and was used to speaking in front of people.\n\nIn the summer of 1963, England went on a three-match tour of Europe beginning against Czechoslovakia in Bratislava. Just after they arrived, Alf made a crucial decision, one that was to have huge long-term significance. Jimmy Armfield, the holder of the England captaincy, was injured so Alf had to appoint a new man to the role. Now the England captain during the 1962 World Cup had been the Fulham midfielder Johnny Haynes, the most elegant passer of a ball in English football, but he had suffered a serious car accident and struggled for much of the season to regain fitness. Nevertheless, many felt that by the end of 1963 Alf should bring back Haynes, who was still in his twenties and had been the lynchpin of club and country for several years. Alf would have none of it. Even a year later, in 1964, Alf still felt Haynes was not fit enough for international football. Fulham's George Cohen, who had established himself as England's right-back, was approached by Alf after a training session.\n\n'How's Haynes?'\n\n'Tremendous. He's snapped back into the game with all his old assurance and bite.'\n\nAlf then shook his head slowly. 'I don't think he's quite right. I don't think he's fully recovered from his injury.'\n\nLater, Cohen told Haynes of the conversation and Haynes just said, 'Alf's right'. Johnny Haynes was never to play for England again. At the end of his life, realism rather than resentment was displayed by Haynes towards Alf. 'He was right because when I returned I had a bit of a struggle. I was sort of playing on one leg,' he told me. What struck Cohen, however, was how shrewd Alf had been in his judgement of a player's fitness. But there may have been more to the Haynes issue than just the physical question. For Alf, a strong believer in the team ethic, may have felt that Haynes was too much of an individualist and perfectionist to be supportive of others. Alan Mullery, who played with him at Fulham, said: 'Johnny Haynes ruined more players' careers than anyone I can remember with his attitude of belittling colleagues. If you let him he would crucify you in the middle of a game.'\n\nWith no Haynes or Armfield against Czechoslovakia, Alf turned to the 22-year-old West Ham defender Bobby Moore who had only come into the England team a year earlier. He was England's youngest ever skipper in 91 years of international football. Again, Ramsey's choice of Moore showed remarkably perceptive judgement. He had instantly recognized in Moore that calm, almost regal stature that distinguished him from other players. And he had also been struck by the way Moore handled himself in the defeat in Paris; on the coach to the airport after that game, Ramsey had sat beside Moore, 'asking me a million things about the way things had been done under Walter'. From that moment, Alf came to regard Moore as his lieutenant. In his turn, Moore was only too pleased to take on the captaincy: 'I was thrilled. I liked being a captain. I like the feeling of responsibility, that if something happens on the field I have to make a decision,' he said in 1966. Yet theirs was to be a purely professional relationship, one based solely on mutual respect and not on any deeper friendship. In fact, there were to be times over the next three years when Moore's behaviour off the field would lead Alf to re-examine his decision.\n\nBobby's reign started in fine style, with a 4\u20132 win over Czechoslovakia, the mercurial Jimmy Greaves weaving his magic in the penalty box to score two goals. 'It seemed like the start of a new age of hope and ambition for England...Somehow England had found a new courage, a head-high pride and an unflinching spirit of battle. If new manager Alf Ramsey has done this, then his achievements are already of high merit,' wrote Desmond Hackett in the _Daily Express._ Before the match, Greaves gained an insight into the character of the new manager. Alf was explaining to the players that the coach would be leaving 45 minutes after the final whistle, and he stressed that the entire party would go back to the hotel together, fixing the players 'with that unblinking stare of his that gives listeners the feeling they are being hypnotised,' in Jimmy Greaves' description. Greaves continues:\n\n> There was an uneasy shuffling of feet and I could sense that my drinking pals in the England squad were waiting for me to act as their spokesman. 'A few of us were wondering, Alf,' I said, 'whether we could nip out for a couple of drinks before going back to the hotel...?' Alf studied me for a moment. 'Gentlemen, if some of you want a fuckin' beer, you'll come back to the hotel to have it.' He had made himself perfectly understood. It wasn't said in a nasty way and there was a hint of a twinkle in those cold blue eyes of his as they fastened on to me beneath those rich, thick eyebrows. Alf was just letting me know that he was in charge. From that moment on, Alf had me marked down in his photographic memory as a ringleader of the drinking squad.\n\nBut it was Alf's determination to keep his team together that was later to pay such dividends. For Gordon Banks, the Czech match 'did the most to lay the foundations for the club-style spirit that was always in evidence for the remainder of Alf Ramsey's reign as England manager'. The tour continued to go well, as England racked up further victories over East Germany and Switzerland, who were hammered 8\u20131. _The Times_ commented at the end of the trip: 'Here was an England side buoyant, full of confidence...May we hope that the tide which has been channelled so successfully will be continued next season and beyond to 1966 and the World Cup. But maybe that is too big a dream.'\n\nIt certainly was not for Alf. In the euphoric aftermath of the success of the tour, Alf gave a press conference at which he made a notorious remark that was to hang over him like the Sword of Damocles for the next three years. On his appointment in October 1962, Alf had told the _Express_ that England had 'a wonderful chance to win the World Cup in 1966'. But in June 1963 he went far further. 'England WILL WIN the World Cup,' he told the startled journalists. Bryon Butler, one of the most respected of all football correspondents, wrote in the _Daily Telegraph:_ 'It was a forecast that might have been anticipated; but Ramsey, a compact, urbane man who speaks slowly and picks his words adroitly, made his point emphatically enough to suggest that he passionately believes it to be true.' In reality, this was far from the case. This was no calculated attempt to boost morale after the Winterbottom era. In a rare moment of incaution, Alf had just blurted out the statement without thinking of the consequences. 'I don't think I really meant it when I said it,' he later confessed. 'The pressures at that time were simply enormous. It was probably just a question of saying the first thing that came into my mind, something I don't normally do.' But Alf felt that his words ultimately did more good than harm. 'Whilst it was an embarrassment over the years leading up to the World Cup because I always had to repeat myself, in a sense it was not a bad thing to have said, particularly from the players' viewpoint because if I showed confidence in them they would have confidence in me.' Ray Wilson certainly is of the view that it helped:\n\n> I remember hearing him on the radio when he said, in that voice of his, 'We will win the World Cup.' And like most of the lads I thought, 'For Christ's sake.' It was a hell of a pressure, that was. But Alf was great at passing on self-belief. I think we needed that at the time.\n\nFortunately for Alf, England's excellent form continued through the rest of 1963, with further wins over Wales, the Rest of the World and Northern Ireland, so the press could not yet taunt him with his comment. Indeed, Alf's first year had been an almost unqualified success. Often cynical about managers, Bobby Moore said of Alf's start: 'For the first time since I'd come on the scene, England were really getting organised. I don't mean that to be disrespectful to Walter but I'd come in at the end of his reign, when he'd done it all. Alf was fresh and full of ambition.' Another admirer was Bobby Charlton, playing on the wing for England in 1963 before his productive switch a year later to an attacking midfield position:\n\n> The most fundamental difference between him and Walter was that Alf talked about the game like a real club pro. He'd been one. He never said an opponent was good unless he was. He was difficult to approach with opinions but that was probably right. The players didn't know best. Alf was never influenced by any player. He was always after what made a team rather than individuals. He made you feel you were picked because you were a good player, and he talked about what you needed. In Bratislava, he made me train in the area of the pitch where I would be playing, try the corner kicks to get the feel of the run-up. He was meticulous.\n\nAfter the defeat of Northern Ireland, Alf had to wait an awkward five months before his next international. It was in spells like this that he badly missed the day-to-day management of his role at Ipswich. A football obsessive, he disliked being away from the training ground, his sanctuary from the compromises of everyday life. He travelled into Lancaster Gate four days a week, working ten till four in a cramped, starkly furnished office, measuring thirteen feet by eight, 'a room utterly without character. In the days of Regency riches, it might have been part of the servants' quarters,' said the _Daily Mail,_ unwittingly reflecting the way the FA Council felt about the new England manager. Trapped in this soulless third-floor eyrie, he struggled to fill his hours. In 1970, he said:\n\n> There were times in the early days when it was so difficult for me to adjust that I could well have walked out saying 'this is no use to me'. I didn't feel involved enough. I wasn't active enough. I sat in my office with practically nothing to do, nothing except think about international football. I looked at players, checked through the files \u2013 such as we had \u2013 and studied as much as I could about foreign teams and so on. But the biggest contrast to my club days was the fact that I was not dealing with players day in and day out.\n\nAlf's spirits did not greatly revive when, in 1964, England travelled to Hampden Park and lost 1\u20130, their third defeat in a row to Scotland. This result only fuelled Alf's already ferociously anti-Caledonian spirit, which had burned brightly since his days as an England player. Not since the Duke of Cumberland has any Englishman had a more visceral dislike of the Scots. So strong was this emotion that it broke through his wall of reserve and he became more demonstrative, more voluble. Alan Hardaker, Secretary of the League, left this account after watching an England defeat by Scotland at Wembley:\n\n> Attempting to say something tactful to Alf, I merely observed that if England had to lose I'd rather they lost to Scotland than any foreign team. The effect on Alf was remarkable. His face clouded, he seemed to have difficulty in speaking and for a moment I thought he was going to explode with rage. He was beside himself but eventually, very deliberately, he ground out his reply, 'I'd sooner anybody beat us than the bloody Scots.\n\nHe was just as intense with his players. Barry Bridges, the Chelsea striker, immediately noticed the change when a Scottish encounter was looming:\n\n> Alf was not one to show his feelings. But I remember, before we played Scotland in 1965, Bobby Moore said to me, 'You'll see a different Alf today.' And it was true. Alf was fired up, he really was. But after that, when we played the next few games, he was back to his normal self.\n\nThe great Derby defender Roy McFarland told me that Alf's passion had not waned by the seventies:\n\n> For me, it was the only time I heard him swear. Just before we went out on the field, as we were going out the door, he'd say, 'Come on boys, let's beat these Scots fuckers.' It was a bit of a shock to me. Christ Almighty. It was the first time in my experience that he had shown emotion towards the opposition. He was letting us know what he felt about the game and the Scots. There is no doubt that the Scotland was the game that mattered.\n\nJohn Connelly, the Burnley winger, has this memory of Alf's anger at any concession to Scotland:\n\n> Once, when the ball ran out when we were playing at Hampden, I went and fetched it and threw it at a Scot. They took a quick throw, went down the line and damn near scored. Watching the film of this afterwards, Alf said to the rest of the lads, 'Just watch this pillock. What do you think of that, running after the fackin' ball for a fackin' Scotsman?'\n\nAlf's antipathy to the Scots did not stop him admiring individual players, as he showed with Jimmy Leadbetter, probably his favourite out of all the footballers he managed. Ken Jones tells this story of a banquet at Hampden after a game: 'I was there talking to Billy Bremner when Alf came past. He looked straight at Billy and said, \"You're a dirty little bastard, aren't you? But by Christ you can play.\"' In return, Bremner was impressed with Alf as a manager when he served under him in a match between Wales and the Rest of Britain, held to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the Welsh FA. 'I could have played for him,' Bremner told Ken Jones.\n\nJones was present at another moment in February 1968, when he was travelling back to London after England had been held to a draw at Hampden. The sleeper train had not yet left Glasgow, and Jones, armed with a couple of bottles of whisky, walked along to Alf's compartment, accompanied by Reg Drury of the _News of the World:_\n\n> Alf is in his pale blue pyjamas and sitting on the edge of his bunk as we go in. Then a Scots fellow comes along the corridor looking for his own berth. He puts his head round the door and sees Alf.\n> \n> 'I thought you were a bit lucky today, Sir Alf,' he says, and then walks off in search of his compartment.\n> \n> Alf jumps off his bunk, and, still in his pyjamas, rushes out to the corridor and calls out to the disappearing figure. 'I say...' The Scotsman turns round and looks at Alf, who continues, '...piss off.'\n\nAlf used even stronger language on the immortal occasion when he and the England team were greeted at Prestwick Airport by the Scottish reporter Jimmy Roger:\n\n'Welcome to Scotland, Mr Ramsey.'\n\n'You must be fuckin' jokin'.'\n\nAll of the journalists I have spoken to about this tale have said that it is certainly not apocryphal. Hugh McIlvanney, a Scot himself, says:\n\n> Alf would get irritated, but then Scots really can be pests. I fell out with a few of them during my National Service. The story about Alf at Prestwick gains more if you knew Jimmy Roger, who could do a very good impression of Uriah Heep. He was an ex-miner but he spent his whole life trying to ingratiate himself with players and managers. He used to get on my nerves, wee Jimmy.\n\nThe defeat against Scotland at Hampden in 1964 was Alf's first since he had taken over in May. Immediately, the optimism of the previous year evaporated, as is so often the way in British sport where wild mood swings prevail and, in the absence of any sense of perspective, the slightest setback can lead to an onset of gloom. The _Guardian_ called the performance at Hampden 'pathetic'. And the response of the media and public was hardly improved by a 2\u20131 win over an ultra-defensive Uruguay in May, with the _Daily Telegraph_ reporting that Alf's side were 'booed and slow-clapped by a crowd whose patience had been tested to the limit by slow-motion football'. Alf had the chance, however, to improve the side's reputation during an extensive programme of matches in the summer of 1964, which began with a trip to Portugal and ended with an international tournament hosted by Brazil, known as 'the Little World Cup'. This competition was ideal preparation for the main event two years later, especially because the other three participants were Brazil, Argentina and Portugal, all leading contenders for 1966.\n\nBefore the trip began, Alf had to show that he was in charge. He had never experienced any trouble with discipline at Ipswich, largely because, in the words of Tony Garnett, they were 'a well-behaved team'. But with England it was very different, because in the side in the mid-sixties were three of the heaviest drinkers ever to wear the white shirt: Jimmy Greaves, Bobby Moore and Johnny 'Budgie' Byrne, the West Ham forward. John Charles, who was one of the first top black footballers in the League and sadly suffered from alcoholism once he retired, said of the drinking culture that Moore and Byrne inhabited at West Ham:\n\n> We'd go to and from away matches to places like Newcastle by first-class train. By the end of the journey home the bottles of miniatures were piled up in a big heap and we'd thrown half out the window. We were always on the piss. We went from club to pub. Mooro was as good as gold on the field and off the field, but he was a piss-head. He liked a gin and tonic. He liked a lager too. You couldn't get him drunk. He was one of the best drinkers I knew. He was on a par with Oliver Reed! God could he drink.\n\nAnother former West Ham player told Johnny Byrne's biographer that\n\n> Byrne was the best in the country by 1965, but he chose to mess about and piss away all that ability. He had all the confidence in the world but he couldn't do what Bobby did. Mooro would come in after a night on the lager and sweat it all off. Budgie wasn't going to have any of that.\n\nThis was the culture that Alf decided he had to confront before it infected England. One of Alf's first acts as England manager had been to insist that the entire squad stay together in the same hotel; he said he had been 'really astounded' that London players had been used to sleeping in their own homes while on international duty. 'From a team point of view this had to be changed. And it was.' So the day before flying to Portugal, all the players gathered at White's Hotel near the FA headquarters at Lancaster Gate. They were then taken by coach down to the Bank of England's sports ground at Roehampton, which was to become the traditional England training venue during Alf's reign. After some light practice, they spent half an hour at the club's bar, with Alf buying the round, and then took the coach back to the hotel for dinner. It was a warm evening, and Bobby Moore suggested to some of the players that they join him for a stroll into the West End. Greaves and Byrne, of course, jumped at the idea, knowing that alcohol would be a key element of the itinerary. They were joined by George Eastham, Ray Wilson, Gordon Banks and, surprisingly, Bobby Charlton, by far the quietest member of the party, The magnificent seven set off down Bayswater Road, had a few beers in a pub near the hotel, and then ended up in a bar called the Beachcomber, a favourite haunt of Greaves. All those involved agree that there was no outrageous drinking; 'nobody was drunk or anything like that,' says Ray Wilson. Accounts differ, though, as to when the group got back to the hotel. Jimmy Greaves claims it was 'nearly midnight', whereas Gordon Banks, perhaps more convincingly, believes that it was 'past 1 am'.\n\nWhatever the actual time of their return, they were all greeted by the same sight when they reached their rooms. Each one found his passport lying on his pillow. It was subtle gesture, but its message was strikingly clear for players who were used to management keeping their travel documents. They all knew they were in serious trouble with Alf. 'It was his way of saying, \"Any more of this and you won't be travelling with England,\" ' recalls Greaves. He had imposed no formal curfew, but it was clearly intolerable for players to saunter back to the hotel in the early hours after a night's drinking on the eve of a major tour. If the players had asked to go out he would have probably refused them permission, but they had not bothered to do so, which made him all the more infuriated. At 11.30 that evening, he had gone round the hotel corridors with the England trainer Harold Shepherdson to check on the rooms and it was then that he discovered the absence of the seven miscreants.\n\nAlf could have confronted the players on their return from Mayfair, but that carried the risk of creating a public scene, which could have reached the press. So he decided on a more sophisticated course of action, one that let the players stew for a while. 'None of us slept well that night,' admitted Bobby Charlton. Alf said nothing the next morning as they flew off to Lisbon on the Thursday. Nor was anything said on their arrival, nor the next day at training. It was not until after training on Saturday that he finally dealt with them. 'You may all go and get changed,' he announced, 'except for the seven players who I think would like to stay and see me.' The rest of the squad walked out, wondering what was happening, for none of the seven had spoken outside their circle about the incident. 'We felt like little boys who had been found scrumping in an orchard as we shuffled with embarrassment in front of an obviously angry Alf,' says Gordon Banks. Once he had the seven in front of him, Alf began in a low-key tone. 'Now what is going on, gentlemen? When you come away with me I don't expect to see you disappearing in the middle of the night.' George Eastham was the first to speak, 'Well, Alf, it's the normal thing. We normally go out and have a few drinks. After all, the game was still four days away.' Alf looked round the room for a moment, and then really let it rip:\n\n> You can count yourselves lucky to be standing here right now. If I had enough players with me, I would have sent you all home when we were back in London. All I hope is that you have learned your lesson. I will not tolerate this sort of thing again. You are here to do a job for England and so am I. Gentlemen, the matter is now closed.\n\nThis had been Alf at his most ferocious. His anger was certainly not synthetic. Budgie Byrne later remembered it as 'the most severe and punishing reprimand' he had ever experienced. 'His face turned white. He lost it and gave us a right bollocking.'\n\nAlf put all seven players in the side for the game against Portugal. His message about their responsibilities to their country seemed to have been heeded, as Byrne scored a hat-trick and Bobby Charlton one other goal in England's 4\u20133 victory. Certainly, for the majority of the players, Alf had shown he was the boss, a very different, much tougher manager compared with Winterbottom. 'He went a bit over the top but he was telling us, \"I am the man in charge now,\" ' says Ray Wilson. The news of his verbal assault spread through English football like wildfire, creating his image as an unforgiving disciplinarian. As George Cohen puts it:\n\n> He was an old pro, he wanted everybody to know and he was not about to miss a trick. His basic attitude was that if players couldn't act like adults for the limited time they were with the team there was wasn't an awful lot of point in them being there. You couldn't really go on the piss and be sufficiently focused to represent your country.\n\nBut there was one man who did not take the reprimand too seriously: his own captain Bobby Moore, a far more complex, difficult man than the blond hero of 1966 mythology. Superficially, there were some similarities with Alf. Both were born into East London working-class families and went on to captain club and country. Both possessed a natural, cool authority on the field. As players, both lacked pace but were tremendous readers of the game and distributors of the ball. Both had a quiet charisma, which could be interpreted as aloofness. Neither man was an easy conversationalist, especially when in the company of strangers. 'There was always a distance. You felt that there was always another door inside him that you could never reach,' wrote Hugh McIlvanney of Bobby, words that could equally have applied to Alf. Both were always immaculately dressed; indeed Bobby was something of an obsessive about his appearance \u2013 he even arranged his jumpers in his wardrobe in order from dark to light.\n\nYet there were huge differences as well. Alf was an intensely private man, whose only two worlds were football and his domestic life with Vickie, whereas Bobby revelled in the glamorous life of a soccer star, especially the drinking and the nightclubbing. Alf rarely visited bars; for Bobby they were almost a second home. Outside football, Alf had an awkward diffidence, and was uneasy with public recognition, whereas Bobby enjoyed his fame in a stylish way. Jack Charlton was once deeply impressed when Bobby took him to a club behind Grosvenor House Hotel. Bobby drove up to the club in his Jaguar, climbed out of his seat, handed the keys to the doorman and went inside. 'I'd never seen anybody do that before and ever since I've always wanted to have a big car and be well-known enough to give the keys over and have someone park it for me,' said Jack. Alf's preferred mode of transport was the underground and the afternoon train to Ipswich. Alf, modest and conservative, disliked being photographed, and was once deeply embarrassed when he was forced to pose for a publicity picture with that tempestuous Hollywood couple Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. 'I wish they wouldn't shoot me from this angle. It makes me look bald,' said Alf to his wife during one of his hated photo sessions. 'Never mind, dear, you're doing very well,' replied Vickie, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. In contrast, Bobby was only too delighted with his image as a fashionable sixties icon, and after 1966 was regularly photographed by celebrity artists like Terry O'Neill, featuring in magazines with his attractive wife Tina. Alf was not interested in the trappings of wealth and fame; Moore revelled in them. Alf remained a xenophobe all his life; Bobby was a global figure. Alf called the Argentinians 'animals'; Moore embraced Pele.\n\nBut perhaps the biggest difference was the streak of cynicism that lay at the core of Bobby Moore, something that Alf utterly lacked. Na\u00efve and earnest, Alf clung to the values of the era into which he had been born. He was no moralizer and was capable of deceit and ruthlessness \u2013 as he showed in tapping up Ron Reynolds or in lying about his age \u2013 but in his old-fashioned, often derided, way he strove to be an English gentleman. Bobby was far more worldly, more irreverent. Keenly aware of his status, he was capable of inflicting humiliation on others, often through a barbed comment or a withering look. It is one of the paradoxes of this golden era in English football that Moore is seen as the shining knight, the epitome of English decency and warmth whereas Alf is so often regarded as the iron-hearted pragmatist. On the afternoon of the 1966 victory, Moore was pictured kissing the Jules Rimet trophy, a beaming smile on his handsome face, while Alf remained distant and stony-faced. But in truth, beneath his diffident exterior, Alf was a cauldron of seething passion, driven by intense loyalty and patriotism. Yet Moore, behind his front of charm, was calculating, cold, even cruel at times. When he was secretly conducting the affair which ultimately ended his marriage in the early eighties, his wife Tina, unaware of his infidelity but disturbed by his indifference, asked him tearfully why she always seemed to come second to football.\n\n'What makes you think you're as high as second?' replied Moore.\n\nAlf, for all his fixation with soccer, would have been incapable of making such a remark. In fact, once he retired, Alf completely devoted himself to Vickie. Where Alf's distance was caused by a sense of insecurity, Bobby's was due to a feeling of superiority. As Brian James, the former _Daily Mail_ chief football writer, says:\n\n> People would gravitate towards Bobby because, in a quiet sort of way, he could be a hell of a mickey-taker. He could be pretty sly in his comments. And around him in the England team there was a London gang, with Budgie Byrne and Jimmy Greaves. They were like the troublemakers at the back of the class, nudging each other and having a giggle.\n\nNigel Clarke agrees with this judgment:\n\n> Like Alf, Bobby was a bit cold and diffident. But unlike Alf, Bobby was a bit of a piss-taker. It was Bobby's way of showing that he was as important as Alf. He would never detract from Alf's brilliance but sometimes the relationship became a bit strained because Alf was aware that Bobby was sending him up. Alf hated that; he always hated anybody doing that. Sometimes Bobby would do it in public to get a laugh from the players and that really grated with Alf. His eyebrows would furrow and he would stare at Bobby. Socially, they were completely incompatible.\n\nBobby's own manager at West Ham, Ron Greenwood, wrote of Moore:\n\n> I even wanted to sack him at one point and our relationship became unhappy and strained. There was an icy corridor between us. He was very aloof, locked in a world of his own. He even started to give the impression that he was ignoring me at team-talks. He would glance around with a blas\u00e9 look on his face, eyes glazed in a way that suggested he had nothing to learn. It was impossible to get close to him. There was a big corner of himself that would not or could not give. It hurt that he could be so cold to someone who cared about him.\n\nAs Tina put it, 'When you were on the icy side of Bobby \u2013 on the outside and not able to get in \u2013 it was horrible.'\n\nJeff Powell of the _Daily Mail,_ who was probably closer to Bobby than anyone else in football, says that Bobby's early experiences at West Ham under Ted Fenton bred in him a contempt for all managers, a pattern that led to 'an artificial relationship with Alf Ramsey'. Moore's irreverence would occasionally come out in jibes at the England manager, as in the time during the Mexico World Cup, when the England players were trooping into dinner and Alf, worried about infections in the humid climate, asked if they had washed their hands:\n\n'Why, are we not being given any knives and forks?' Back in 1964, Moore was just as cynical. 'Alf scared the shit out of most of us! But I'm not sure Bobby bought it. He could read Alf like a book,' said Budgie Byrne. Indeed, according to Jeff Powell, Bobby thought the whole affair was nothing more than a storm in a beer glass. 'It would have been ridiculous if some of the great players had not gone to the 1966 World Cup just because we had a few beers four days before a match.'\n\nMoore, in alliance with Greaves and Byrne, maintained this attitude once the team left London for a match against the USA before journeying to South America for the Little World Cup. On the plane across the Atlantic, Alf initially allowed the players to drink only orange juice. But once he had gone to sleep, Moore and Byrne surreptitiously ordered champagne and gin and tonics. In New York the team was booked into the Waldorf Astoria and immediately on their arrival Alf imposed a curfew. But within the hotel, several of the pressmen were holding a party in a suite on the 25th floor, to which they invited the England team. Barely the moment the first drinks had been served, the England doctor, Alan Bass, acting on Alf's instructions, telephoned the suite to warn that Alf would be there in 15 minutes and did not expect to find any of his players present. It is a reflection of the fear that Alf now inspired, after the Beachcomber episode, that immediately almost all of the players vanished. Typically, Budgie Byrne counselled a show of defiance: 'Forget Alf. If he comes in and finds us all here he can't send all of us home.' But the rest of squad preferred not to take such a risk, and charged back to their rooms twenty storeys below. Byrne was the last to leave.\n\nBut even after this incident, Bobby Moore remained as insouciant as ever, deliberately flouting Alf's curfew at the Waldorf Astoria, as Jimmy Greaves, who was sharing a room with him at the time, recalls:\n\n> It was about 11.45 pm and Mooro said, 'Come on, we're going out.'\n> \n> 'Where are you going?'\n> \n> 'I want to see Ella Fitzgerald.'\n> \n> When you're room-mates, you have to go along. Down in the lift we go and we get to this bar where Ella Fitzgerald is performing \u2013 we couldn't get in, the place was packed. So we poked our heads around the door so we could say we've seen her sing. We were back within an hour. But it wasn't the best thing to do, and Alf got to know about it and wasn't happy. Mooro got me into a lot of scrapes.\n\nYet Greaves' tongue could be just as cutting as Moore's towards Alf. One time in the England dressing-room, a discussion arose about the merits of various club chairmen. Jimmy, feeling bored with the conversation, contributed little:\n\n'Haven't you anything to say on the subject, Jimmy?' said Alf.\n\n'Not really, there's little choice in rotten apples.'\n\n'Come on Jimmy, I would have thought you, of all people, would have something more articulate to say. \"Little choice in rotten apples?\" We are English, Jimmy. We speak English, the language of Shakespeare,' said Alf.\n\n'That was Shakespeare.'\n\nAnother time, in 1965, when England were in West Germany, the party had boarded the coach waiting to go to the cinema. Greaves and Moore were standing in the lobby of the hotel, talking to trainer Harold Shepherdson. 'Harold!' shouted Alf, and Shepherdson obediently ran onto the coach. But Greaves and Moore carried on chatting, indifferent to Alf.\n\n'Mr Moore and Mr Greaves, we'll go when you're ready.' There is no doubt that Alf grew weary of this mocking double act in the run-up to 1966. Barry Bridges, the Chelsea and England striker, says:\n\n> Alf was great if you were doing the business for him, the straightest guy you could ever meet, but you would not want him as an enemy. If you crossed him, he would not get you straight away but he would get you in the end. You would get your comeuppance. I sometimes wonder if that's what did for Greavsie.\n\nCohen agrees: 'Greavsie never seemed to grasp the principle of discipline and the value of it and that was always going to be a point of conflict with Alf.' In the same vein, Ken Jones told me: 'I remember after one match in 1963, Moore and Greaves were giggling on the back of the bus about something and Alf, who did not trust either of them, said within my earshot, \"I'll win the World Cup without either of those two.\"'\n\nIt is a remarkable line, showing both Alf's confidence about 1966 and his bitterness towards the two Londoners. But there was little sign of England's championship pedigree during the Little World Cup in 1964. Alf's team arrived in South America after thrashing the USA 10\u20130, a result which wiped away some of the pain of the 1950 defeat. As Gordon Banks recalls: 'Alf got quite worked up in his team talk before this game. He told us how he had never been allowed to forget that he was one of the England team beaten by the United States.' Roger Hunt scored four and Fred Pickering of Everton got a hat-trick, though he was only to play twice more. Pickering says today:\n\n> Alf was great with his players, but he was experimenting a lot then and he obviously decided I was not right for him. There was a great atmosphere in the England camp. He did not have any favourites. A lot of managers try to alter you, but Alf just let you get on with your game. He said to me that he'd picked me for what I was doing for Everton, so I should go out and play the same way for England.\n\nMaurice Norman, the Spurs defender, was another who saw Alf at close quarters and liked his management style:\n\n> I quickly saw how very strong on discipline he was. He would not put up with players who did their own thing outside training. He wanted us to get to know each other and concentrate solely on the next game. Playing for England was for him the ultimate distinction. He demanded more for the team in every way but he also expected more from it. This made you want to give more, to try harder. He made you feel good about yourself, your game; he inspired you to give more. I felt I could have run through a brick wall for him. Many found him cold and aloof but I always got on well with him. He was always fair, never slated you in team talks but took you aside and discussed your mistakes privately. He was a perfectionist, believing that to develop the team's understanding you needed frequent meetings, discussing all aspects of the game and opposition.\n\nThese qualities were not enough to inspire victories in the Little World Cup in June 1964, as England were beaten 1\u20135 by a rampant Brazil in their first game, with three of the Brazilian goals coming from free-kicks. Tony Waiters was England's keeper in that match:\n\n> It was a strange game. We actually did very well for the first sixty minutes. The score stood at 1\u20131 and then the floodgates opened. Because of the accuracy and creativity that the Brazilians had at free-kicks, it was decided that we put six players in the wall to make it difficult to score. But I ended up trying to get a look at the ball because most of the players were blocking my view. Then suddenly a missile would enter the net.\n\nWaiters, who went on to become a successful international coach, taking Canada to the World Cup finals in 1986, says he learnt a great deal from Alf:\n\n> I was in the squad for four years up to 1966 and I saw that Alf was very different in the sense that he was much more tactical than other managers of the time. It was a privilege to see him in action. He was very well-organized in terms of his practices and team talks. I remember Jimmy Armfield, who was with me at Blackpool, saying to me when Alf started, 'This is a bit different.' His talks lasted about an hour. They were never boring. They never lost their tension or concentration. It was all good stuff, very thorough, all given by Alf. Harold Shepherdson, the trainer, would always be there but it was pretty well all Alf. In fact it was a bit of a joke with the players because Alf would say at the end, 'Anything you want to add, Harold?', and Harold would always reply, 'No, Alf.' I had a few good one-to-one talks with Alf and it was nearly always on the tactical side. Like I remember once I had a discussion with him about my throwing. He wanted my throws to go to feet, but I had a way of throwing the ball to the player in front of him so it would reach him right in his stride. He nailed me on it because he feared that such a throw could be intercepted and then we would be in trouble. I would not call him a defensive coach but defensively his teams were very well-organized. What also struck me \u2013 from a man-management point of view \u2013 was that he gave responsibility to players. So at our hotel in Rio he did not stop us having a beer. In fact, he encouraged us to do so, partly on the grounds that a glass of beer was less likely to do you harm than a glass of water.\n\nSoon after this heavy defeat, Alf and the team watched the key match of the tournament, Argentina against Brazil. Again, Alf saw the volatility of the South American crowds which he had first experienced during the Southampton tour of 1948. 'It was like being front-line observers of a world war,' said Banks, sitting with his colleagues along the touch-line. 'It was one of the roughest games I've ever seen. Before long practically every player on the field was putting the boot in,' said Cohen. The Brazilian spectators grew so incensed at the treatment meted out against Pele that they started to fire rockets into the air and hurl fruit and debris onto the pitch. When a half-eaten apple smashed into Alf's back, he stood up and said, 'Gentlemen, I'm ready, shall we go?', before ushering the team to the comparative shelter of the tunnel exits.\n\nFollowing a 1\u20131 draw with Portugal, England then had to face Argentina in their last game of the tournament. Argentina adopted an ultra-defensive, often brutal approach, and managed to win 1\u20130, having scored with one of their few forays into the England half. George Eastham recalls:\n\n> They pulled eight players back behind the ball, and if you got past the first line of defence, down you went. Alf told us not to get involved if Argentina cut up rough, just to look after ourselves. He didn't have to tell me twice. I remember looking up from the floor to see Rattin standing over me. He made as if to stamp on my leg, then stepped over me. Goodness knows to what lengths Argentina would have gone if they'd needed to win the game. It was amazing, really, because they were a terrific team. They let us have most of the ball and won 1\u20130. In the end, I think Alf was just glad to get out of there. He detested them.\n\nFor all his dislike of the Argentinians' methods, Alf knew that there was still a huge gap in class between them and England. They had shown more organization in defence, soaking up the pressure and then scoring on the break. It was a valuable lesson for Alf, who knew he would have to develop the same tight coherence in his England unit if they were to compete against the best. So far he had used 31 players in his first 17 games, no great advance on the vagaries of the selectors, and, to outsiders, he had fixed on neither settled personnel nor an effective system. Danny Blanchflower wrote in the _Sunday Express:_\n\n> There has been no gradual build-up to a peak with the conviction growing and getting stronger for the future. I think that Alf is experimenting too much. Of course you have got to experiment from time to time. But not experiment every game. Otherwise you build nothing.\n\nAnd England's results hardly improved with disappointing draws against Belgium and Holland and narrow wins in the Home Internationals against Wales and Northern Ireland. 'The task Alf Ramsey set himself, to coach the abundant but ill-organised soccer talent to win the World Cup, is facing failure,' said the _Daily Mail_ after the game with Belgium. So lacklustre were England's performances that John Cobbold cheekily offered Alf his old job back as manager of Ipswich on the departure of Jackie Milburn. Alf never gave the idea a moment's consideration. 'It was worth the try but Alf's decision did not surprise me \u2013 he is not the kind of man to leave a job half done,' said Cobbold.\n\nEven at the highest level, the lack of intelligence and foresight in his players regularly frustrated Alf. Tony Waiters remembers Alf giving Terry Venables a lecture after his debut against Belgium:\n\n> Terry was running from one player to another, trying to pressurize the opposition on his own. And afterwards Alf gave him a bollocking, in a very nice way. He said, 'That's great, Terry, that you're putting so much effort in but it's got to be shared by the team. You do your job and then drop off, let some others come in.\n\nGordon Banks also recalled Alf fuming after England had been 4\u20130 up against Northern Ireland in Belfast, and then had conceded three goals in the second half. 'He confronted us in the dressing-room afterwards and demanded to know what had gone wrong. \"If you can't cope when you are four goals in the lead, what's going to happen when you are a goal down?\"' In mitigation to the England team, however, what had gone wrong was a certain genius called George Best.\n\nBut Alf had his own genius from Manchester United: the balding, blond winger Bobby Charlton. During the early part of Alf's reign, Charlton was an enigma, delighting crowds with his surging runs but all too often losing his way in a game. Some questioned whether he would ever fulfil his enormous natural talent. Alf himself grew frustrated at Bobby's carelessness: 'Bobby would listen, talk about my ideas and agree that they would improve his performance. Everything we had spoken about would last for five or ten minutes on the field \u2013 then it would go completely out of his head.' Then, against Northern Ireland in Belfast in October 1964, Alf made a crucial tactical decision, one that allowed Charlton to blossom. He switched him from the wing to an attacking midfield position, something Charlton had already been doing with Manchester United. At a stroke, Charlton was given more freedom \u2013 and more responsibility. Charlton repaid Alf's tactical intuition by giving an excellent performance against the Irish, though it was not until early 1966 that he realized his true greatness.\n\nSoon Alf was to make an even bigger tactical move, one that would change the face of British football for ever. After the Northern Ireland game, the _Daily Mail_ wrote: 'Ninety minutes of shambles in Belfast ought to be enough to end the eighteen month reign of amiable Alfred. England's team manager should and must feel angry enough to become Ruthless Ramsey.' Alf was about to do just that.\n\n# [EIGHT  \n _Lilleshall_](004-toc.html#ch8)\n\nThe key moment in the Hollywood classic _The Glenn Miller Story_ occurs when the lead trumpet player in Miller's band cuts his lip open in rehearsal. Without one of their most important players, it looks like the band will have to abandon its forthcoming programme of concerts. At first Glenn Miller, brilliantly portrayed by Jimmy Stewart, is sunk into gloom. Then he has a flash of inspiration: why not have a clarinet play the lead trumpet's part? Right through the night, Miller sits up re-writing all his arrangements to incorporate the lead clarinet's new role. The next morning, the band rehearses. From almost the first note of _Moonlight Serenade,_ Miller knows he has hit upon a unique sound, one that would revolutionize big band music. That night, as the band play in their new style for the first time, the audience stands and applauds. And Miller, as modest and cool as Alf Ramsey, gives a shy smile and an almost imperceptible wink to his wife.\n\nAlf's own Glenn Miller moment arrived on 8 February 1965. He had called the squad together at England's rural training venue of Lilleshall in Shropshire, which England used when based outside London. It quickly emerged that the perennial problem of club versus country, which has dogged English football since the dawn of international competition, had arisen once more. As so often before and since, the League managers had made soothing noises about assisting Ramsey in his task, but it when it came to the crunch, they still gave priority to their clubs. Some felt that Alf was not being tough enough. In the _Daily Mail_ Brian James wrote:\n\n> Ramsey should start to demand that he has the entire squad together two days a week to work for England, leaving Wednesday, Thursday and Friday for training with their clubs. Not every manager will accept this easily. But one, who supports Ramsey, told me, 'He has got to start demanding what he needs. He has been too soft. He must start picking fights with people if we are to get anywhere.' If Ramsey is not prepared to fight the hindering legions of 'League Soccer First', then he must select several players from the same side.\n\nThe draining influence of clubs was particularly stark this February morning. Alf turned up expecting to work with his 22 players for three days. Yet six of his chosen players were absent, including Gordon Banks, Bobby Charlton, Terry Venables and the skilful Liverpool winger PeterThompson. All six of them were fit, but their clubs had FA Cup ties on the following Saturday. Alf was frustrated at this obvious lack of co-operation: 'Players will have to be available when I want them next season \u2013 even before cup ties, if I think it necessary. It is as simple as that.' The mass absenteeism, however, gave the Alf the chance to indulge in tactical experimentation. It is one of the paradoxes of Alf that he was such a conventional suburban Englishman \u2013 once, when the Queen was making a visit to Portman Road, he went out and bought a bowler hat \u2013 yet such a radical innovator on the football field. He had been the lynchpin of push-and-run at Spurs and the creator of Ipswich's deep-wing system. When he took over as England manager, he complained about English football being 'so rigid', sticking to 'set ways of playing with a particular player tied to his position'.\n\nFor some time, Alf had been dissatisfied with the 4\u20132\u20134 formation he had inherited from Winterbottom, which had achieved mixed results and had looked woefully inadequate in the Little World Cup. He had been thinking about the bold departure of playing 4\u20133\u20133, using midfielders rather than wingers to mount attacks. For Alf, the great advantage of this method was that it strengthened the defence, since midfielders were much more used to tracking back than wingers. In addition, it allowed more flexibility in attack, given that modern international defences, like Argentina's, covered so well that it was almost impossible for a winger to break through. Alf believed that, since his playing days, 'defenders have tightened up. Nowadays when a winger has got past a full back he is always confronted by another covering player'.\n\nWith Bobby Charlton \u2013 who still played largely as a winger in the 1964\u201365 season, despite the successful trial in midfield in Belfast \u2013 and Peter Thompson away, Alf told the full senior side to play 4\u20133\u20133 in a practice match against the England Under-23s, who were instructed to hold to the normal 4\u20132\u20134 formation. The result far exceeded Alf's expectations:\n\n> I played what amounted to a rather cruel trick on the younger players, in that I gave them no advance warning of the tactics the seniors were about to employ. The seniors, with three recognised outstanding footballers in midfield \u2013 Bryan Douglas on the right, Johnny Byrne in the middle and George Eastham on the left \u2013 ran riot with the young lads. They didn't know what it was all about. The senior team enjoyed it tremendously. They were full of enthusiasm. Contrary to some opinions I was not influenced by the tactics of the Argentinians during the Little World Cup in Brazil in 1964. The Argentines, for me, played with five players, sometimes more, in the middle of the field. Their object seemed mainly to avoid defeat. Mine had always been to win.\n\nThe 'wingless wonders', so derided by traditionalists, were born that day at Lilleshall. After two years of frustration, Alf had finally hit upon a system that would challenge the world. He had been far-sighted enough to see which way football was moving, and to devise a strategy to cope with that change. A cold realist, he knew that nostalgia for the era of Matthews and Finney was not going to win England any trophies in the new defence-minded climate of international football. Like the cavaliers of the 17th century, those who called for dazzling wing-play were romantic but wrong. As Dave Bowen, the former manager of Wales, put it:\n\n> Of course we've all followed Ramsey. The winger was dead once you played four defenders. Alf saw that and it just took the rest of us a little longer to understand. With three defenders it was different. The back on the far side was covering behind the centre-half so the winger always had space from the cross-field pass. With four defenders the backs can play tight on the winger and he's lost his acceleration space. Without that, the winger's finished. He's got to keep looking for an opening. So it's better to opt for work-rate, for a player who will go again, show his courage and not be confined to the touchline.\n\nLike a spin bowler trying out a mysterious new delivery, Alf was initially sparing in the use of 4\u20133\u20133. He was not sure if it would be suitable in all conditions, nor did he want to advertise it too widely. He first unveiled it in a match situation during a brief summer tour of Europe in 1965, when England beat West Germany 1\u20130 in Nuremburg, with Mick Jones of Leeds, Derek Temple of Everton and Alan Ball of Blackpool playing up front. He then followed this up with a 2\u20131 victory over Sweden in Gothenburg four days later. As Jimmy Armfield recorded, there was some scepticism in the squad about the new method:\n\n> When he first talked of 4\u20133\u20133, a lot weren't too sure, including some of the players. My attitude was to see what happened first. We got into a rhythm with it and handled it well, because prior to that we'd had 4\u20132\u20134 with two wide men, but Alf thought we had to move on and you had to move with him. It helped that we all liked him and trusted him. I know he wasn't everybody's cup of tea, he'd have never got a job in PR but he stood up for his players and we liked him for that.\n\nDerek Temple remembers Alf as\n\n> very thorough. He was a deep thinker about the game. He was self-deprecating and could have a laugh against himself about the old days when he played. But when he wanted you to be serious, that was it, you had to be serious. He understood professionals. I was never the most confident player and Alf would always try to build me up. I tell you one thing, he hated unpunctuality. If he told you to be somewhere at a certain time, you'd better not be late. He would get really angry then. A late arrival would get a real rollicking from him in private.\n\nMick Jones, who made his debut in Nuremburg, was another impressed by the England manager: 'Alf was fantastic; he really made me feel at ease. He was extremely knowledgeable and never got flustered. He simply asked you to do what you did at club level.'\n\nAlf's growing faith in 4\u20133\u20133 was confirmed when, in the autumn of 1965, he reverted to 4\u20132\u20134, and saw a dismal run of results, including a narrow win against Northern Ireland, a 0\u20130 draw against Wales and a defeat at home by Austria, Alf's first loss at Wembley since he took full control of the side. This last result prompted an outpouring of indignation from the press, which poured scorn on Alf's repeatedly stated belief that England would win in 1966.\n\nBrian Glanville wrote in the _Sunday Times:_\n\n> It was John Wilkes who said that the Peace of Paris was like the Peace of God; it passed all understanding. He might just as well have been talking about Alf Ramsey's teams. He is pursuing a course which is as obstinate as it is inexplicable, a course which leads one to doubt if the team is being picked on any rational basis.\n\nJ.L. Manning was just as scathing in the _Daily Mail:_\n\n> Mr Ramsey's electioneering is no more relevant than it would be if he went around regularly kissing babies instead of occasionally drilling his team. He will go out as he came in. France knocked his side out of the European Nations Cup in 1963 and be sure some other country will do that in the World Cup in 1966.\n\nBut the situation was not nearly as dark as this vituperation suggested. In his column, J.L. Manning argued that 'England under Ramsey is the same as England under Winterbottom. And for good reason. The footballers are all the same.' This was nonsense. Alf was not only changing his tactics; he was also bringing in new personnel. Over the previous two years Alf had been struggling to find the right blend of players, without much success, but by 1965, some of his choices were looking more fruitful. Against Yugoslavia in May, he picked the livewire 19-year-old Alan Ball, the son of a League manager and a player of tireless commitment who was so fixated with football that he did nothing to cure his adolescent spots, hoping that they would drive the girls away and allow him to concentrate on his football. Alf, the ultimate football obsessive, would have understood that. And, like all of the 1966 team, Ball remains today full of admiration for Alf:\n\n> Everything I achieved in the game I owe to him. I loved Alf to death. He gave me my opportunity. I remember my first call up to the squad. Before the game against Yugoslavia he took me to one side and said, 'I think it is about time you played for your country. So let's see what you can do.' I thought I had gone on that tour of Europe for the experience, not imagining I would play. But I had great confidence in my ability. I was not nervous on the big stage. I had this drive in me. I wanted to be the best. It got me into lots of shit, lots of bother because I was that keen. But Alf seemed to like that way about me. He liked my attitude. He was a really special man. He was not a big motivational speaker. Not really gung-ho, like some \u2013 indeed myself, he was not that type of manager. But he got you to do exactly what he wanted. The only time Alf ever really rocked me back on my heels was in a Football League game against the Scottish League. We were winning at Hampden Park and I thought I was playing really well. We came in at half-time. He was walking over towards me in the dressing-room and I thought he was going to say something like, 'Well done.' He sat down beside me and said very quietly:\n> \n> 'Do you think Bobby Moore can pass the ball?'\n> \n> 'Yeah, sure Alf, he's a great passer.'\n> \n> 'Well then, why do you keep going back and taking the ball off him? If Bobby Moore passes the ball to you 20 yards up the field, you are 20 yards nearer the enemy. And with your passing ability, you can hurt the enemy 20 yards further up the pitch.'\n> \n> I never, ever went back and took the ball off Bobby Moore again. I always tried to play an extra 20 or 30 yards further on. Alf never had to tell me that again. That is how he was. He knew the best way to handle me, to get the best out of me. When I was younger, I was thirsting for knowledge on the big stage. My father, who was my Svengali, used to say that he could see the influence that Alf had on me. My father said that I was a rough diamond but Alf polished me.\n\nTwo other crucial introductions were made in the first half of 1965. By this time, most of the defence had been settled, with Banks in goal, Ray Wilson and George Cohen the full-backs and Bobby Moore in the centre, having dropped back from the midfield position he held at West Ham. Maurice Norman of Spurs had been playing as the other centre-half up until the end of 1964, but Alf was not entirely satisfied with the way the unit was operating. Against Northern Ireland in October, George Best had run rings around Norman, who, according to Banks, 'knew he had not played well in the second half and was very dejected at the end'. Alf brought in the tall Leeds defender Jack Charlton, Bobby's elder brother, having been impressed with the way Jack handled the big Celtic centre-forward John Hughes in a representative match for the Football League against the Scottish League. They were the first siblings to appear together for England in the 20th century but they could not have been more different in personality or playing style. Where Jack was obstreperous and opinionated, Bobby was withdrawn and serious. On the field, Bobby was all flowing elegance, Jack awkward ruggedness, 'looking like a big giraffe', said Bobby Moore. Their approaches to the game were diametrically opposed. Jack's whole outlook was geared towards stopping goals, Bobby's to scoring them. Jack was the rebel, regularly in trouble with the authorities as when he notoriously announced on television in 1970 that he had 'a little black book' in which he kept the names of enemies. Bobby was the conformist, rewarded by the establishment with a knighthood, a directorship of Manchester United and an exalted role as England's sporting ambassador. They were not even close as brothers. A bitter dispute arose between them, caused by a rift between Bobby's wife Norma and his mother, the Ashington matriarch Cissie. As a result Bobby drifted away from his family, something that deeply angered Jack, who claimed that Bobby hardly visited his mother in the last years of her life.\n\nJack, who never had the same natural talent as Bobby, had been a wayward, inconsistent player at Leeds in the fifties. But he was transformed under the influence of Don Revie, who arrived at Leeds as player-manager in 1960 and with a mixture of threats and cajoling brought a new discipline to Jack's game. Even so, few thought of Jack as international class. Alf, however, always had a deeper insight than a host of more superficial judges of the game. He saw that Jack was not only powerful in the air but could be the perfect foil for Bobby Moore on the ground. Again, Jack's selection highlighted Alf's belief in the importance of a well-functioning unit, as he once told Jack over a drink in a hotel bar. The conversation encapsulates the philosophy of Alf, as well as a certain waspish humour:\n\n> I asked Alf what made him pick me for England.\n> \n> 'Well,' he said. 'I have a pattern of play in my mind \u2013 and I pick the best players to fit the pattern. I don't necessarily always pick the best players, Jack.'\n> \n> That was his way of boosting your confidence! Later he explained a bit further. 'I've watched you play, Jack and you're quite good. You're a good tackler and you're good in the air and I need those things. And I know you won't trust Bobby Moore.'\n> \n> I said I didn't know what he meant. Bobby Moore was a tremendous player.\n> \n> 'Yes, Jack,' he replied with a superior smile, 'but you and he are different. If Gordon Banks gives you the ball on the edge of the box, you'll give it back to him and say, 'Keep the bloody thing' \u2013 but if Gordon gives the ball to Bobby, he will play through the midfield, all the way to a forward position if he has to. I've watched you play and I know that as soon as Bobby goes, you'll always fill in behind him. That way, if Bobby makes a mistake, you're there to cover it.'\n\nJack has this further analysis of Alf:\n\n> He was very much the Boss \u2013 you didn't argue with Alf. But he never shouted at us either. If he was disappointed with the way you'd played, he just wouldn't speak to you \u2013 and if he came over and smiled, you knew you'd done all right. One of the most disconcerting things about Alf was that you never knew if he was serious or not. That night I talked to him in the hotel bar, for example, I was just standing there having a quiet drink when Alf came in and said, 'We're still on the pints then, are we, Jack?' I didn't know how to react. I've never been a big drinker and I was just having a quiet pint before going to bed. Maybe he didn't mean anything by it \u2013 maybe he did. I never thought he liked me, to be honest. But I learned a lot from him.\n\nJack Charlton may have felt unsure about his standing with Alf, but that never inhibited him from showing his argumentative side. And Alf allowed him a leeway that he would not have given to others, as Alan Ball recalls: 'He could be contentious. He was never afraid to speak his mind and I think Alf admired him for that.' George Cohen recalls that Jack was\n\n> never intimidated. He had tremendous front and on one occasion, after an England work-out at Highbury, he declared, 'Alf, you're talking shit.' Alf's expression didn't change. He paused for a moment before saying, 'That's as may be, Jack, but of course you will do as I say.\n\nPeter Thompson, the Liverpool winger who was in and out of Alf's teams in the sixties, was amused by Jack's quarrelsome attitude:\n\n> Nobody ever messed Alf about, except Jack Charlton. Whatever Alf did, Jack would object to it. So Alf would say one night in the team hotel, 'Right, gentlemen, tonight we'll go to the pictures, then come back, have some toast and tea and then to bed. Everybody happy?'\n> \n> And Jack would put up his hand and say, 'I don't want to go to the pictures.'\n> \n> Then the next night, Alf would say, 'Gentlemen, this evening we will stay in and watch the television. Everyone all right with that? Yes Jack?'\n> \n> 'I want to go to the pictures'. We had a laugh.\n\nAlso making his debut against Scotland was Nobby Stiles, another player who was to become a key member of Ramsey's England. Like Jack Charlton, Stiles was not an obvious choice. To many of Alf's critics, he was no more than a brutal hard man, one whose supposed lack of footballing vision was symbolized by the fact that he had poor eyesight and therefore had to wear contact lenses. But the qualities that Alf admired in Nobby were his ball-winning ability and the strength of his passing. With his usual foresight, Alf recognized that Nobby could be invaluable in feeding the ball to his Manchester United team-mate Bobby Charlton. And for all his image of chivalric virtue, Alf did not hesitate to encourage Stiles in his ruthless tackling. Nobby was first picked by Alf to play for England's Under-23s against the Scottish Under-23s in Aberdeen, and Alf soon showed his determination to get a result, even at the expense of fair play. 'At half-time,' recalls Nobby, 'Alf got very specific. He said, \"Nobby, Charlie Cooke is giving us a lot of problems. Sort him out.\" I asked him what he meant. \"Well, put him out of the game.\" ' Nobby followed the instructions to the letter. Early in the second half, he scented the opportunity for a typically crunching tackle and left his victim rolling in agony on the ground. Satisfied at a job well done, Stiles marched away from the scene of the assault. Suddenly Norman Hunter, the Leeds defender, came charging up to him.\n\n'What the fuck do you think you're doing?'\n\n'I'm doing exactly what Alf wanted, taking Charlie Cooke out of the game.'\n\n'You'd better look again, you stupid bastard,' replied Hunter.\n\nBefore the match, Nobby had realized that he had forgotten to bring his contact lens fluid up to Aberdeen. With his impaired sight, he had gone for the wrong man. 'You didn't do Charlie, you did Billy Bremner.'\n\nThough he had nailed the wrong Scot, Nobby impressed Alf with his ferocious competitive spirit. When he was considering Nobby in the full England team against Scotland, Alf approached Wilf McGuinness, the former United player whose career had been finished by a broken leg. McGuinness had subsequently become a coach at Old Trafford and with the England Under-18s, and Alf respected his judgement.\n\n'Will Nobby be as hard and determined as he was in the Under-23 game when he comes up against team-mate Denis Law at Wembley?' Alf asked McGuinnness.\n\n'No fucking danger, Alf,' was the reply.\n\nAnd McGuinness was proved right, as Nobby played his heart out in England's 2\u20132 draw. Gordon Banks said of his performance: 'He came into the team like a tiger. The way he tackled his Manchester United team-mates Pat Crerand and Denis Law made Alf realize that here was a player totally committed to the England cause.' That is certainly the way Nobby felt, saying, 'When I went out in that England shirt, with the three lions, it was brilliant.' And his devotion to Alf is unstinting:\n\n> I cannot say enough in favour of Alf Ramsey. I would have died for him. We all loved him. He was such a man of his word. I could not see a single weakness in his approach as a manager. He treated you like an adult. He never hectored or laid down the law. But he was an Englishman through and through. He hated the Scots. I remember, just before I made my debut, asking Budgie Byrne what was the difference between Alf and Walter Winterbottom.\n> \n> 'The difference is that when we're playing Scotland, Alf will say, \"Get into these Scotch bastards.\"\n\nWith the introduction of Jack Charlton in the centre and Stiles as a deep-lying midfielder just in front of the defence, England were now well-organized at the back. The trouble was in the forward line. Though many in the press saw Bobby Charlton as an enigma, Alf had long decided that his genius made him central to the attack. Ray Wilson says that Bobby's welfare was always one of Alf's primary concerns. 'I was generally Bobby's room-mate and I sometimes wondered if I was in the side for my ability to play or for looking after Bobby. So whenever we were leaving the hotel, Alf would say, \"Has Bobby got everything? Everything all right?\" \"Oh yes,\" I'd tell him.' Alf's real problem was not Bobby Charlton but who would play alongside him. In the three years up to the World Cup he was continually trying different permutations, sometimes with wingers, sometimes without them, but he felt that none quite worked.\n\nHis experimentation left some of these forwards disgruntled. The Scots-born Joe Baker, who played for Arsenal was one of them. After a few games in 1965, he found himself out of favour, with the likes of Greaves or Roger Hunt of Liverpool preferred to him.\n\n> 'I don't know what happened. I just disappeared out of the picture,' said Baker. 'That's what I didn't like about Ramsey, that he didn't explain things man to man. If he'd said, \"Look Joe, I've decided on the system I'm playing and I think Roger and Jimmy play it best, I'm the one who gets the stick if it fails, so I am sorry I can't have you,\" I could accept that but not to get a call or a letter was awful. Like all managers he had his favourites, and my face didn't fit. Maybe he didn't like my accent! But I couldn't relate to him. I call a spade a spade but he wouldn't talk back to you after a game, to tell you what you'd done. He wouldn't say, \"Right, you were crap\", he'd just quietly drop you out of it without telling you what you'd done.'\n\nJohnny Byrne, the West Ham forward, was another who did not fall under Ramsey's spell. One night, after he had retired, he told Bobby Moore: 'I can hear his talk now. The same old talk. Let's face it, Bob. He didn't hold a candle to Ron Greenwood in his knowledge of the game. Not in the same street.'\n\nBut Baker's and Byrne's were hardly representative views. Barry Bridges of Chelsea, who also played in 1965, says that Alf was\n\n> a fantastic manager, the best I ever worked with \u2013 and I worked with Stan Cullis and Tommy Docherty. I have nothing but respect for him; he was absolutely top-class. He was not a ranter and raver, he was a thinker. I have a story which sums him up. I was picked for the English League game against the Scottish League at Hampden and Alf was in charge. It was the first senior game I played and I remember putting on my shirt in the dressing-room, thinking to myself, 'I've got to be a bit special. If I do well here, I could be playing for England.' I had speed and I could score goals but I was not anything more than that. So I go out in the first half and play like an absolute idiot. I am trying all the tricks, doing all the things I could not really do. So I came in at half time, ready for the team talk. And Alf immediately sat down beside me,\n> \n> 'What are you trying to do, Barry?'\n> \n> 'Well, I...'\n> \n> 'Look son, I have picked you to play the way you play for Chelsea. Don't pretend to be something you're not. Just be yourself.' And with that, he walked away. I went out in the second half, got a goal and was picked for England a few weeks later.\n\nBridges was another who failed to consolidate a place. Indicative of Alf's worries about the front-line is the fact that in the three years to 1966, he used no fewer than nine centre-forwards. There is a view that Alf, if he had embraced flair, would never have needed to feel so uneasy, since he already had one of the finest strikers in the world in Jimmy Greaves, a player who scored an astonishing 44 times in just 57 games for England. Alf's suspicions about the effectiveness of Greaves were allegedly part of his wider dislike of brilliance \u2013 or, as Brian Granville once wrote, his 'distrust of genius unless it came wreathed in perspiration'. But it is all too easy to criticize Alf over Jimmy Greaves using the benefit of hindsight. The reality is that in the mid-sixties, Alf was not the only one who feared that Greaves was unreliable. Many journalists and even his own team-mates were disturbed by his fluctuations in form, his reluctance to raise his work-rate and his regular failures on the international stage. Greaves had played poorly in the 1962 World Cup in Chile, when it was written of his performance against Brazil in the quarter-final that 'his only contribution was catching a stray dog'. Alan Mullery, who played with him at Spurs, described him as 'the most undisciplined footballer I have ever known'. Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ has this telling analysis:\n\n> Jimmy was a smashing guy and a wonderful goal-scorer. But he could be madly unpredictable. I remember covering one League match, when Spurs were playing in Sunderland, and Jimmy was coming back from an injury. We'd all built this up in the press, saying that this was the match where Jimmy would prove what he could do. On the day, the pitch was like stone because of frost. Jimmy went out, said to himself 'sod this', and did not run a yard. And we were all flabbergasted at the way he seemed not to give a shit about the team. So there was always this feeling, 'Which Jimmy are we going to see today? Is he really up for it?' With Bobby Charlton it was completely different. You never doubted his temperament, that he would give his all. You never saw him walking back slowly when the attack broken down. He never took a rest.\n\nIn England's defeat against Austria in October 1965, the _Daily Mail_ described him as 'a pale, spasmodic shadow'.\n\nIn his drive to create a team of world beaters, Alf had no patience with those who did not give their full dedication in every game. As George Cohen put it: 'Alf liked players who'd take a bad knock but still get up and play, the player who was absolutely knackered but would draw himself up for the next run. He could see through a person's character, which gave him a big edge over other managers.' With his limited application, Greaves was never Alf's sort of player, and when he failed to score consistently, as he did in his last three games of 1965, his position was vulnerable. What made it all the worse for Greaves was that towards the end of the year, he suffered a debilitating bout of hepatitis, which put him out of soccer for three months and left him struggling to regain fitness in the spring of 1966.\n\nFor England's final match of 1965, against Spain in Madrid in December, Roger Hunt came in for the absent Greaves. Renowned for his phenomenal dedication and selfless running, Hunt was much more likely to appeal to Ramsey, though he was no mere workhorse \u2013 in a 401 match career for Liverpool under Bill Shankly, he scored 245 League goals, while before the Spanish game, he had won six caps for England since 1962 and hit the net seven times. Importantly, Ramsey's England players were big admirers of Hunt. 'There was always this pressure from the southern press about Roger but he was so highly regarded in the England squad,' George Cohen told me. 'He was a terrific guy, a terrific footballer. He never stood still and was quite happy to rough it.' Nobby Stiles says:\n\n> People today are still talking about Jimmy Greaves. But if you asked the squad who they wanted, they'd have said Roger Hunt because Roger just never stopped working. He was very unselfish, always there. He would makes runs across field for other people. Alf knew what Roger was. That was the great thing about Alf: he understood players.\n\nApart from Alf's psychological gift for reading character, what Nobby Stiles and most of the England squad also admired about Alf was the way his hard, earthy background as a soccer professional would occasionally explode to the surface. They loved his rare, foul-mouthed outbursts because they showed that, beneath the carefully manufactured veneer of gentility, he was really one of them, something Wing-Commander Winterbottom never was. And the cursing was all the funnier because it was such a shocking departure from his usual painfully measured enunciation. George Cohen had two classic examples of this. The first occurred when Alf, his wife Vickie and several of the players were having tea in White's Hotel at Lancaster Gate prior to a foreign trip. George had volunteered to do the serving, but was having some difficulty with the crockery. Suddenly Alf blurted out, 'For heaven's sake Vickie, pour the bloody tea before he scalds us all.' The second incident was far more incendiary. It took place when England were training in Madrid in December 1965, prior to the match against Spain. As was customary, the team was holding a five-a-side game and Alf decided at the last minute to join in. Cohen continues:\n\n> It was a bloody cold morning in Madrid and there was some ice in the ground. All I saw was a figure in a tracksuit and I went into the tackle. Unfortunately, it was Alf. I caught him with his feet together. He went straight up in the air and landed bang on his head. He lay on the ground groaning for a while, then he looked me in the face and said, 'George, if I could find another fucking full-back you wouldn't be playing tomorrow.'\n\nCohen was horrified at the time, fearing he had damaged his chances of appearing in the World Cup, but looking back, he now feels that Alf's authentic reaction only helped to build England's spirit: 'That was Alf, the way he won players over. His occasional swearing brought the team together.'\n\nGordon Milne, the ex-Liverpool player, has this interesting angle on Alf's language:\n\n> He had a ripe tongue at the right time. Sometimes players want their managers to come out and say something. I think his accent somehow worked in his favour. No one expected football sense to come from such a voice, the voice of the FA, and it made his words all the more powerful. The lads sometimes had a snigger but they would love it when he came out with a choice phrase. It was so funny when he would say, 'Fuck it.' It was great for morale, especially when he laid into the press. He did not do it to gain favour with the players but to show them that he was interested in what they said and wrote. He would say to us, 'Well, what does he fucking know about the game? Take no notice.'\n\nAnother occasion that caused laughter among the England players occurred after an English League game against the Irish League. The English League won easily, but Alf had been disappointed, towards the end of the game, by the failure of the wall to stop an Irish free-kick requiring a sprawling save from Banks onto the woodwork.\n\n'Gordon, what happened at that free-kick?'\n\n'I touched it onto the post.'\n\n'I know that, Gordon, I'm not fucking blind. I mean what happened to the wall?'\n\nThe match against Spain, though a friendly, was seen as a particularly difficult one for England, since the Spanish were the holders of the European Nations Cup. But on a bitterly cold, wintry night in the Bernabeu stadium, Spain were torn apart in daring style, the 0\u20132 scoreline hardly reflecting England's total dominance. The secret of England's success was the use of the 4\u20133\u20133 formation, the first time Alf had tried it since Gothenburg. The trio in England's front-line were Roger Hunt, Joe Baker and Alan Ball, with the midfield comprising Bobby Charlton, Stiles and Eastham. When Alf announced his team, the absence of any wingers was greeted with puzzlement and derision in the press. 'Alf was slaughtered because everyone still believed that the way to win matches was with wingers,' says Nigel Clarke. But the mood changed once the match started and the superiority of England's tactics became apparent. With goals from Baker and Roger Hunt, this was the night that Alf sent a shudder through the football world. 'It was 4\u20133\u20133 in all its thoroughness and finest. The Spanish and foreign press particularly were rightly complimentary about our 2\u20130. I think really this was when it was first registered firmly in my mind as a system that could win the World Cup,' said Alf later. The Spanish coach Jose Villalonga almost purred with admiration: 'England were just phenomenal tonight. They were far superior to us in their experiment and their performance. They could have beaten any team tonight.' The British media, always inclined to see everything in the starkest black-and-white terms, were just as enthusiastic. Only a month earlier, Alf had been condemned as a failure. Now he was being hailed as a genius. One of Alf's biggest critics, the _Express's_ self-important, bowler-hatted Desmond Hackett, who combined overblown prose with hysterical switches of opinion, waxed lyrically:\n\n> England can win the World Cup next year. They have only to match the splendour of this unforgettable night and there is no team on earth who could master them. This was England's first win in Spain. But it was more than a victory. It was a thrashing of painful humiliation for the Spanish. Gone were the shackles of rigid regimentation. The team moved freely and confidently and with such rare imagination that the numbers became mere identification marks on players who rose to noble heights.\n\nIn abuse or adulation, Hackett was never taken too seriously by Alf, who felt \u2013 with some justification \u2013 that Hackett had little real understanding of football. Once Hackett was covering an Arsenal match in Oslo, for which the programme had been misprinted with the wrong numbers on the Arsenal players. Rather than cause more confusion, Bertie Mee, the Arsenal manager, told his players to wear whatever shirt numbers the programme stated, but keep to their normal positions. At the end of game, Hackett, who never allowed incomprehension to undermine his self-confidence, wrote, 'Last night Arsenal conducted the boldest experiment in the history of European competition.' He then proceeded to invent a quotation from Bertie Mee. A sharp letter was sent from Highbury to the _Daily Express:_ 'We don't mind Hackett making an idiot of himself but don't try to make an idiot out of our manager.' As Brian James puts it: 'Not only did he not know what was going on, he did not even know what he was seeing. There was certainly no love lost between him and Alf.'\n\nOn this occasion, however, Hackett reflected a surge of optimism that swept through British football after this result. It is telling that nine of the side that beat Spain that night were to feature in the World Cup Final seven months later. Alf now had the right system \u2013 and the right blend. The players themselves recognized that something special had happened in the Bernabeu. 'They settled in that night just as Alf wanted them and you could sense the exuberance and mutual pleasure they got from each other's play,' wrote the trainer Harold Shepherdson. 'Suddenly we all sensed that we had found a style that could win us the World Cup,' said Banks. 'It was a brilliant performance, free, strong and positive,' thought Cohen. Perhaps the most powerful display was given by Alan Ball, just turned twenty, who ran hard and showed huge confidence on the ball. Today, Ball gives this insight into Alf's methods:\n\n> What I loved about Alf was that he never told you what to do. He always asked you if you were comfortable doing something. Before the match in Spain, he said, 'Have you ever played centre-forward?'\n> \n> 'No, Alf.'\n> \n> 'Well, do you think you could play with Joe Baker and Roger Hunt as part of a three-man partnership? With your touch, I am sure you can cause them all sorts of problems. We're not going to hit long balls. We are going to pass the ball to you. I want you coming off defenders and playing around them. Do you think you can do that?'\n> \n> 'Of course I can, Alf.'\n> \n> So I played right up front in Madrid and we absolutely wiped the floor with them, we really did.\n\nDuring the match, Alf stuck to 4\u20133\u20133, even when Baker had to limp off with an injury. Instead of bringing on a winger, he moved Bobby Charlton forward and replaced him in midfield with Norman Hunter of Leeds, who became the first substitute used in an English international. One of the reasons for this move was that he distrusted Bobby Charlton's defensive capabilities. 'I don't want him messing around our penalty area,' explained Alf. For Hunter, the perennial deputy to Bobby Moore throughout most of his career, it was a rare chance to put on the white shirt for England:\n\n> I was fortunate that I played under two great managers, Don Revie at club level and Alf Ramsey at international level. They differed tremendously in personality, since Alf was not as intense as the Gaffer, but they had two things in common. The first was their attention to detail. Alf might say, 'Norman, you're playing on the left-hand side at the back. Get out there and familiarize yourself with the pitch. Have a look where you will be spending most of your time.' No-one had ever said anything like that to me before. The second was their man-management. They were both excellent at it. Alf was absolutely top drawer. He was a shy, quiet man but he had great self-confidence; he immediately inspired respect. When he spoke, you listened. He was very brave the way he picked the team, but he knew what he was doing. Tactically, he was very, very good. Nine times out of ten when I turned up for England duty, I knew I was not going to play because of Bobby, but that never bothered me. I just enjoyed being with Alf and the squad. He always made time to talk to me, and would say at the end, 'I know you haven't played, Norman, but thank you for coming.' He made you feel very special. He had a lovely sense of humour. He once gave us the weekend off and described it as a 'bit of remission for good behaviour.'\n\nAlf was so excited with the display against Spain that after the game he invited some journalists for a drink in the Fenix hotel in Madrid to explain his thinking, a rare event given his innate hostility to the press. 'He sat us down in the lounge and I think there were about six or seven of us,' recalls Ken Jones. 'He went through what he was trying to do with 4\u20133\u20133 and then answered questions. I never figured out why he took the trouble to do that. There were people there, of course, who did not know what he was talking about.' The more expansive Geoffrey Green of _The Times, a_ prodigious drinker, vivid writer and closet racist who was once heard to shout on a train, 'Hitler was right!', left this account of the evening:\n\n> As the champagne corks popped so the temperature rose and the verbal exchanges sharpened and slurred. The giant crystal chandelier overhead sparkled like the milky way and Alf was on cloud seven. Laying aside his glass every now and then \u2013 every quarter hour on the quarter hour I would judge \u2013 he cupped his hands in front of an enigmatic smile to murmur, 'This precious jewel.' Each time he repeated the action I tottered to my feet, raised my champagne goblet and gave a Russian toast, 'Here's to the four corners of this room.' So the wee small hours unwound happily. It was only the next day, following a massive dose of Alka Seltzer, that I came to realize two things. The room I had been toasting was entirely circular; and Alf's 'precious jewel', caressed in imagination, was football!\n\nAlf emphasized that 4\u20133\u20133 was not purely a defensive system. As well as the six in the forward line and midfield, the two full-backs, Wilson and Cohen, would take their share of thrusting upfield and of delivering crosses. Bobby Charlton was taken with the offensive possibilities of the new system:\n\n> Before Alf, we'd never really had a plan away from home and this new development was really something. When Alf made the switch to 4\u20133\u20133 he particularly made the point that we weren't going to become a defensive team, that the three up front wouldn't be alone, that we would have six up front.\n\nYet, just as had happened earlier in the year, Alf was determined not to play 4\u20133\u20133 in every England fixture. Such a move would only reduce its potency and surprise element. It was to be reserved for the biggest matches and, in the meantime, would remain shrouded in secrecy. As Alf explained to Brian James just a week after the Madrid victory:\n\n> I think it would be quite wrong to let the rest of the world, our rivals, see exactly what we are doing. I think it is my duty to protect certain players until the time we need them most. This was a step and a very big one in our education as a football party. My job will be to produce the right team at the right time and that does not always mean pressing ahead with a particular combination just because it has been successful.\n\nIn early 1966, as Alf reverted to a more conventional style, his England team did not look so impressive. There was a draw in the mud at Goodison against Poland, followed by a dreary 1\u20130 defeat of West Germany at Wembley, which left the crowd so bored that slow-handclapping and booing echoed round the stadium at the final whistle. In the dressing-room afterwards, as the jeers continued outside, Alf said to his players: 'Listen to them moan. But I'll tell you this: they'll go mad if we beat West Germany by one goal in the World Cup Final.' To the press, Alf adopted his characteristic one-eyed Nelson approach which refused to acknowledge any deficiencies in his side, telling journalists that the crowd had actually been booing the Germans. This failed to convince the _Guardian_ which attacked Ramsey for producing 'a travesty of football'. Peter Thompson, the gifted Liverpool winger, had particular cause to regret this game:\n\n> Bertie Vogts marked me. I had about five kicks \u2013 and they were all in the warm-up. In the dressing-room afterwards, Alf sat down beside me, put his hand on my knee and just said, 'A little disappointed, Peter.' That hurt me much more than Shankly screaming and shouting. Shanks would throw things at you, ranting, 'You're fucking useless, I'm fucking dropping you.' Alf was the exact opposite. I respected him so much. I can still remember the hurt of those few words that day.\n\nA couple of months later, Alf had the satisfaction of seeing England beat Scotland for the first time under his reign, though he was concerned that England \u2013 without Ray Wilson in defence \u2013 had conceded three goals in the 4\u20133 win. A more solid performance in England's last home game before the World Cup saw England beat Yugoslavia 2\u20130, with goals from Bobby Charlton and Jimmy Greaves, who appeared to have recovered from his bout of hepatitis.\n\nThese mixed results created little sense of euphoria in the run-up to the World Cup. The excitement generated by the Spanish result had evaporated, replaced by a sense of anxiety and even pessimism. 'England will not win the World Cup,' claimed Jimmy Hill. 'But don't blame Alf. No-one could win it with this lot.' And this was mild compared to some of the other commentaries. There has been a trend, since the sixties, to decry Alf's achievement, claiming that England were bound to win the World Cup with home advantage. 'We'd have done bloody well not to win,' wrote Rob Steen in _The Mavericks._ Yet it is fascinating to look back and see how little faith there was in Alf's leadership before the summer of 1966. Chelsea manager Tommy Docherty, perhaps reflecting some Caledonian prejudice, called Alf's World Cup preparations 'chaotic, misguided and full of half-baked theories'. In the _Scottish Daily Mail,_ John Fairgrieve argued:\n\n> There are those few who contend Alf Ramsey is an unappreciated genius. There are many more who regard the team manager of England as the biggest threat to his country's prestige since Bonaparte. My own view is that England do not have the smallest chance against either Brazil or Italy in July. Against several other finalists, like Hungary, Russia and West Germany, they could not be fancied. And if I were being really harsh, I would say England are lucky to be in the World Cup finals at all. Many Englishmen already believe this and say so. Then, having said it, they seek a scapegoat. Alf Ramsey is the obvious choice and he has been duly chosen.\n\nJohn Moynihan of the _Sunday Telegraph_ wrote this:\n\n> Perhaps we of the press and all supporters of England would like rather more communication from him and less of an attitude that the England side is his and his alone. It is not his alone. Haven't we waited long enough for a team to win this competition? Ramsey is not always a man to arouse confidence in the task. Is he trying to build a team with or without Jimmy Greaves; is his plan a mere flash in the pan relying on hard workers, players like Roger Hunt and Nobby Stiles, merely following the plough? England's team will have to be a team of eleven Rolls-Royces, average runners will not do. And surely he must play at least one established winger?\n\nAlf wearied of the febrile attitude of public and press, which never seemed satisfied unless England demolished an opponent in a festival of attacking football. He was particularly exasperated by the widespread belief that he should give up experimentation and instead play the best team in every game. Such a policy, he argued, would provide no basis for long-term planning. 'Since I took over,' Alf said in May 1966 before the Yugoslav game,\n\n> I have insisted over and over again that I have never had a team but merely a squad. It is no use to me having a first team and a number of reserves. They have all got to be ready to step into any match or they're worthless to me. I have picked a team against Yugoslavia because I want to see what certain players and certain combinations can achieve.\n\nAlf learnt two invaluable lessons from the win against Yugoslavia. The first was the effectiveness of Martin Peters on the left side of midfield. The young West Ham player, on his debut in that game, had been a surprise selection, having made just one Under-23 appearance two years earlier and never been mentioned in the press as a possible senior international. But once more, Alf had shown what a superb judge he was of a player. With his excellent control and anticipation, his strength in the air and his perfectly timed runs into the penalty area, Peters was to be the ultimate modern footballer, one who could play in almost any position and was to be famously described by Alf as 'ten years ahead of his time'. Peters now says of Alf, 'he was the very best of managers, a players' man through and through. He had an unrivalled knowledge of the game and could communicate that to players. If you gave of your best to him, he would never forget you, but he had no time for slackers.' The second lesson was the maturity of Bobby Charlton, who had finally grown to be comfortable with his attacking midfield role. Alf said that 'this was the day when the penny dropped, when everything clicked into place.' Alf went on to explain, at one point during the match, 'instead of following the ball, Bobby came back and picked up the danger man working on the blind side of our defence. This was the moment when I thought he became a great player.'\n\nFor Alf, the exhausting, drawn-out job of construction was almost complete. But the striking formation was not yet settled, with Greaves still fighting to regain his sharpness after his illness. 'My greatest problem is in attack', Alf told the French press in January 1966. Despite the success of 4\u20133\u20133, he was still flirting with wingers like John Connelly of Manchester United and Terry Paine of Southampton. Nor was he fixed on his central strikers \u2013 Bobby Tambling of Chelsea, for instance, was picked against Yugoslavia, having won his only previous full cap three years previously. But it was against West Germany earlier in the season that Alf had made his most significant decision about the front-line by bringing in the West Ham number 10 Geoff Hurst. As with other members of the England team, Hurst, who had been converted by Ron Greenwood at West Ham from a right-half into a forward, was hardly a natural selection, and even Hurst confessed he was 'flabbergasted' at his inclusion in the England squad. But Alf saw that his ability to act as a powerful target man, holding onto the ball in attack or making space for others, could be crucial in the more fluid, wingless system. Just as importantly, he had the sort of dedication and discipline which Alf admired and which was so conspicuously lacking in Greaves.\n\nHurst first met Alf in November 1964 when he was chosen for the Under-23s in a match against Wales at Wrexham. 'The first sight of him was a bit of a shock, for he didn't seem like a football man at all. He was so carefully dressed, so quietly spoken that he seemed more like a businessman or bank manager. He had nothing about him of that casual air you usually find with ex-players,' he wrote later. Throughout the train journey from Paddington to Bristol, Ramsey asked Hurst and his colleagues a barrage of questions about their opinions on football:\n\n> I found it a bit frightening. A two-hour quiz when you are not sure what sort of impression you should be making can be very hard on the nerves. Alf didn't make it any the easier with his disconcerting habit of tearing through a gentle conversation with a brutally frank opinion of his own. You would be warming up nicely, describing how such a player had 'done quite well, though of course, some of the tackling didn't suit his style' when Alf would interrupt you with something like: 'The man's a bloody coward.' The fact that this was exactly what you meant, didn't make his direct approach any less startling. I was damn glad when the journey ended. And my first impression of Alf wasn't exactly favourable. This bloke was, I'd privately decided, a bit of a cold fish.\n\nHurst found his introduction to the full England party in 1966 almost as intimidating: 'Bobby Moore and I, although we were at West Ham, were never close socially. He was slightly older than me. I found it quite hard to settle into the England side at first. I didn't know anybody apart from Bobby. He wasn't a great help.' But Hurst was struck by the respect in which Alf was held, for all his remoteness, 'What surprised me slightly was the manner in which the players accepted Alf's authority. The atmosphere was comfortable, but even Bobby seemed on his guard in Alf's presence. This, I came to realize, was how it was in public places.' And Hurst immediately saw the effectiveness of Alf's man-management once the squad were out on the training ground:\n\n> Alf decided to work on set-pieces and wanted a couple of players to help him demonstrate the point that he was making about free-kicks. He looked at the crowd of players around him and began calling out names. I instinctively took a step backwards, anxious not to be selected on my first morning. Alf spotted me. He said nothing at the time but later in the training session, when no other players were near, he said to me quite firmly, 'I've got no use for blushing violets. I've picked you for what I know you can do. It's now up to you.' It was only a small incident but it did a lot for my confidence. It made me realize that I had to have a positive attitude both on and off the pitch. It also demonstrated to me that Alf had belief in my ability. That, more than anything else, convinced me that I was good enough to play for England. One of Alf's secrets was to make players believe in themselves.\n\nHurst was about to witness the fullest expression of Alf's skills as a man-manager, as the squad were brought together for the final preparations in advance of the World Cup. On 7 May 1966, two days after the Yugoslavia game, Alf named his initial party of 28 players, from which the final 22 would be selected. He then said that, following the FA Cup Final and the end of the domestic season, all the players could take three weeks off, before assembling for intensive training on 6 June at Lilleshall, the sports venue in rural Shropshire. 'I will take them out to the country and brainwash them about what we are going to do,' Alf told the press, a hint of menace in his clipped tones. The menace was justified, for the regime that Alf had planned at Lilleshall was to be the toughest that the players had ever experienced. And out of it would emerge the most formidable unit ever to take the field for England.\n\nAppropriately enough, the start of training at Lilleshall on 6 June was the anniversary of D-Day. The rustic tranquillity of the setting hardly matched the professional rigour that Alf imposed on the squad members, whose number had fallen to 27 with the withdrawal of Evert on defender Brian Labone through injury. 'If there was a point when Alf could be said to have changed from second gear into top, and faced the last, hardest lap of all, it was when he met his team at Lilleshall,' wrote Harold Shepherdson. Over the next fortnight, their entire lives were regimented, something of a culture shock for footballers who were used to having their afternoons and evenings free. After breakfast, there would be hard physical training and football practice, followed by a self-service lunch, then non-contact sports like cricket, tennis and basketball. In the late afternoon, the players had a bath, then came down for their dinner, after which they would have a lecture or a film. Nine o'clock was bedtime, for which most of the exhausted party were only too grateful. There was no sense of luxury about the stay. The players were divided into groups of four or five to a room, which they were expected to tidy themselves, while they queued up for all their meals from a self-service counter. They were subjected to frequent medical tests and weight checks, as well as being given advice in all aspects of personal healthcare \u2013 even in how to cut their toenails. 'We've got athlete's foot down to thirty per cent of what it was when the players came together,' said one of the England team doctors, Alan Bass. 'And we've got them cutting their toenails properly. There were only five out of the twenty-seven who knew how. It's incredible. You wouldn't get that sort of thing with ballet dancers, yet these fellows get far more money than all the top dancers.'\n\nOne of Alf's central aims was to bring his players to the peak of physical fitness, and his assistants Les Cocker, Harold Shepherdson and Wilf McGuinness were each taskmasters in the fulfilment of this goal. As McGuinness told me:\n\n> The training was strong and physical for the end of the season. The players were all divided into groups and we passed on each group after 15 minutes of hard slog. Every group was trying to outdo the other in the circuits and in the ball work. It was punishing stuff but the players really took to it. By the end the players knew they were really fit. Alf wanted it that way. He wanted everyone to give everything. Les and Harold were ideal for what was needed. Les came from Leeds, bit of a hard man. Harold had been in the job since Winterbottom's time, very experienced, well-respected.\n\nDr Neil Phillips, who succeeded Alan Bass as England team doctor after 1966 but who also worked at Lilleshall, says:\n\n> I don't think Alf ever trusted Les as much as Harold. Harold was the best number two you could have in an organization. He hated making decisions himself but if you told him to stand on his head three times a day he would do it for you. He would always carry out instructions to the letter. Les was much more confrontational, seeking to discuss things and argue his point.\n\nThe regime was certainly effective on the physical side. 'It is the hardest training I've ever done in my life,' says Nobby Stiles. 'Like we would have to run, get to Harold and then jump as if we were heading the ball. Twenty times in a row. Fuckin' hell, that was something else. The fitness was incredible.' Others have the same memories. 'We worked incredibly hard at Lilleshall,' says Terry Paine, the former Southampton winger, now a TV analyst in South Africa. 'When you looked at the England squad, we probably had four or five world-class players, and the rest of the team solved the puzzle. Alf knew how much fitness would tell when it came to the World Cup.' George Cohen remembers Les Cocker continually driving him through the pain barrier:\n\n> It was bloody hard work. I was coming back from injury, having had a bad gash at the end of the season and been in hospital for ten days. I loved training but Les really put me through the ringer to make sure I was fit. He was a tough little guy. He would have me bent double, and I would come in from training seeing black and white. Alf had no sympathy. He came by one morning just after Les let me take a breather. He looked across and said, 'George, I don't want you slacking.'\n\nBobby Charlton was impressed with the way Alf varied the intense routine to prevent monotony:\n\n> In the matches, no one played on the same side or in the same position twice; one day for the Reds, the next day for the Whites, one day at inside-forward, the next on the wing. It helped each of one of us to familiarize ourselves with the capabilities of others. To begin with, we were afraid of ruining someone else's chances with an untimely tackle or over-enthusiastic charging. Alf would have none of it. He gave us a dressing down and told us to get on with it. After that we all wore shin guards and played for our lives.\n\nThis approach helped to create an ultra-competitive edge, as Alan Ball remembers: 'Whatever task was set, I gave it all my heart. So if it was a team-building exercise, I was always the first to go forward, knowing that Alf was watching every move we made. I was driven by a fear of failure, and I think Alf understood that.' The intensity of competition could lead to friction, but this too only helped to reinforce the team spirit. Like soldiers in the heat of battle, the players were drawn together by the fierce pressure they were under. Geoff Hurst recalls a fiery argument in one training session between two of the biggest characters in the party, Nobby Stiles and Jack Charlton, which for all its abuse helped to inspire a growing feeling of unity.\n\n> At half-time these two really sailed into each other. They didn't mince words. It really was pretty brutal stuff. For myself, I was delighted. I realized then that if we had players who felt they knew each other well enough to tear strips off each others' carcasses, then we certainly knew each other well enough to sort out the problems and act together. Alf's reaction during the row was interesting. He could have stopped it with a word as soon as Stiles turned on Jack. He didn't. He could have parted the two when they began again later. He didn't. He let them have a real go at each other, and waited until the insults were starting to come around for the third time before saying, 'Right, I think that's enough. Now let's get this sorted out.' It was, I now realize, a great piece of man-management. If he had cut them off short, the feelings would have bubbled along beneath the surface, resentment would have taken the place of reasoning.\n\nWilf McGuinness saw the same outcome:\n\n> There was many a time I thought to myself, 'This is not going to work.' There would be loud discussions, especially when Jack Charlton was around. Big Jack would disagree with most things, just for the sake of it. He was a bit contrary. And he and Nobby were such competitors on the training ground. It was like a pair of peacocks showing what they were made of. At first I was worried about the effect of their argument but in fact the team fed off their make-up. It helped to build the right spirit.\n\nYet the unity fostered by Lilleshall was built on far firmer foundations than rows between Nobby and Jack. By requiring all the players to join in every activity, whether it was watching westerns or playing golf, Alf inspired a sense of togetherness that would have been the envy of most League sides. They played practical jokes on each other and adopted silly nicknames. There was endless laughter, as when Alf tried to referee the basketball matches without having a clue about the rules and Nobby Stiles would be barging and tripping up his opponents. Or when George Eastham took the umpire's chair in a tennis match and mimicked a prim Wimbledon official: 'Miss Wilson to sairve...' Or when Ron Flowers volunteered to be the local hairdresser. 'I had the worst haircut in my life. Ron had only one style,' says George Cohen. Or the night when the team settled down to watch a new murder mystery and as soon as it started, Ray Wilson called out from the back of the room, 'Oh, I've seen this. Dalby did it.' As they joked and argued, the players developed that rarest of concepts: the club spirit in a national side. This was perhaps Alf's greatest achievement, beyond even his strategic vision and his uncanny judgement of a player. He made England a cohesive unit, rather than a collection of talented individuals. Wilf McGuinness says:\n\n> Alf was much warmer than his public image. I found him very thoughtful about the players and the people who worked for him. He felt responsible for us. But he was also a man of natural authority. He might ask my point of view \u2013 and would then do it his way. We would have a meeting every evening, going through all aspects of the day's work, then we would gather again the following morning and Alf would say, 'Right, we talked about it last night. This is how it's going to be.' And it all went like clockwork. I think the players felt good about it all.\n\nDr Neil Phillips, the England Under-23s doctor who would become full England team doctor after 1966, was also involved in Lilleshall. The government had refused to give Alan Bass leave of absence from his post in the NHS for the full period at Lilleshall, so Phillips had to take his place. It was an experience that left him full of praise for Alf:\n\n> He was an incredible man. His talks were absolutely unbelievable. He was brilliant at communicating what he needed. As you can imagine, in my profession I have worked with leading consultants and surgeons but I have never, ever worked with someone like Alf Ramsey. He could go through in exact detail any incident that had occurred in a match or training session. Alf was always very keen that the team doctors should be integrated with the players. Whatever they did, we did. When they were training, we joined in. I was lucky because I started with the England team when I was thirty-one. So I was young enough to do some of the five-a-sides and be kicked to death because the players thought it was a big joke to have a go at the doctor. Lilleshall was fantastic because Alf was so well-organized. He just had the four members of staff with him, Les, Harold, myself and Wilf; he knew exactly what he wanted.\n\nIt is a point reinforced by Ken Jones:\n\n> The great thing about Alf was that he did not feel any need to surround himself with people. Throughout his entire England career, he just had two trainers, Les and Harold. He did not have all the modern huge staff, with coaches, scouts, psychiatrists and all that. Alf did not want any input. He just wanted to control it all himself.\n\nLilleshall should not be painted as some footballing idyll. For all of Alf's efforts to keep them preoccupied, many of the players became inevitably frustrated with the strict discipline. Jack Charlton nicknamed the place 'the gulag' and later said: 'At times I felt it seemed just like an exercise in pushing the human mind and frame to the utmost level of endurance \u2013 and then some. This was a test of stamina, skill and mental ability to cope with.' So desperate were some of them to get out that they cast envious glances at the Catholics like Nobby Stiles who were allowed out for Mass on Sunday. Their yearning for freedom stronger than Anglicanism, they asked Alf if they too could go to church on Sunday. 'No need for that,' said Alf. 'The warden of Lilleshall happens to be a lay preacher. If you want, I shall arrange for him to conduct a service.' With those words, the enthusiasm for religious worship suddenly disappeared. Another possible escape from the prison was across a nearby golf course to the club-house bar. Alf had allowed a visit there by the entire party, but it was normally out of bounds. Surprisingly, Nobby Stiles and Alan Ball, two of Alf's most dedicated young players, joined the Lancastrian John Connelly on a furtive trip for a pint one evening, a decision that Stiles now looks back on with horror: 'Like schoolboys playing hookey, we sneaked off to the bar but, of course, we had no sooner got there than we started feeling guilty. We swallowed our pints, turned on our heels and headed back to the training complex and the authority of Ramsey.'\n\nUnfortunately for the trio, Wilf McGuiness was waiting at the door for them.\n\n'Where the hell have you been?'\n\nBall and Stiles owned up to having a pint. 'We just drank it down and came straight back.'\n\n'You ought to know you're in deep shit. Alf knows all about this. He wants you to go to his room.'\n\nPanic-stricken, Ball and Stiles made their way there, followed by a surprisingly relaxed John Connelly. Alf came out of his office with a solemn expression. Ball and Stiles looked at their feet in shame. 'I didn't say you couldn't go to the bar. I didn't say you shouldn't go. I just expected you wouldn't go. We are here on serious business and I thought you all understood that. We are going to win the World Cup.' Ball and Stiles were uttering profuse apologies, begging forgiveness for their abject error and promising that nothing of the sort would ever happen again, when John Connelly butted in:\n\n'What the fuck are you two talking about? We only had a pint, which isn't going to do us any harm after all the training we've been doing.'\n\n'Get out of here, all of you. Get out,' Alf exploded.\n\nBall and Stiles spent a sleepless night, wondering if they were about to be sent home, their international careers ending in disgrace. But Alf was a far shrewder pragmatist than his tough image sometimes suggested. An excellent reader of footballers' characters, he could see the regret that overwhelmed Ball and Stiles. The very fact that they were so embarrassed was an indicator of their respect for him. There was nothing to be gained by upsetting his carefully laid plans for the World Cup just to prove a disciplinary point. Alf contented himself the next morning with this warning to the assembled players. 'We are here for a purpose. I just want to say that if anyone gets the idea of popping out for a pint, then they will be finished with the squad for ever.' No one tried to put that statement to the test.\n\nOn the last day at Lilleshall, Alf had to whittle down the squad from the original 27. The final 22 would then undertake a brief tour of Eastern Europe \u2013 in which Alf promised that all of them would get a game \u2013 before the commencement of the World Cup itself on 11 July. The knowledge that five of them were facing the axe created a degree of nervousness in the camp, as Les or Harold went round summoning the unlucky ones to Alf's room:\n\n> It must be a terrible thing for a manager to have to do,' says Terry Paine. 'Look at what happened with Glenn Hoddle and Paul Gascoigne before the 1998 World Cup.* Nothing like that went on with Alf, of course. We all respected him too much. The funny thing was that when you went up to your dormitory, you sort of wanted to hide in the cupboard. You just didn't want to hear that knock. And there was a huge sense of relief when you realized you had not been called.\n\nThe unfortunate quintet were Keith Newton, Peter Thompson, Johnny 'Budgie' Byrne, Bobby Tambling and Gordon Milne. Today, Milne still has a clear memory of how Alf broke the news:\n\n> Alf had this way with him \u2013 a bit like a headmaster, a bit cold. What he had to say was over in a couple of minutes. Maybe my disappointment made it seem colder than it really was. But certainly it was pretty clinical. It all stemmed from his simplicity. Later, when I became a manager myself, I saw that there was no room for sympathy. You had to take your decisions and give the player a few words of explanation. Some managers waffle on too much and miss the whole point of what they are trying to get across.\n\nPeter Thompson recalls his personal sadness alleviated by a typical moment of Budgie Byrne humour:\n\n> I thought it was an honour to be in the 28. Alf was firm, knew the game inside out and was a great tactician. Like all top managers, he had a ruthless streak, which meant that we were all a little bit frightened of him. He did not rant and rave but you always listened to what he said because you knew that's what he meant. You could argue with Shanks, he was effing, all the players were effing. Alf just told you and you accepted it. He had that bit of steel about him. It was one of my biggest disappointments to be left out of the 22. The five of us trooped into his office and he just said. 'Thank you so much for turning up and for working so hard. But I have made my decision.' The thing was that at Lilleshall all of us had been given our England kit and sports jacket, plus a white Burberry mac. So we were standing there and Alf was about to finish. 'I know you're all disappointed but that is my verdict. Any questions anybody?' Budgie Byrne immediately piped up:\n> \n> 'Can we keep the coats, Alf?'\n\nBefore he finished at Lilleshall, Alf had one, more pleasant, task to perform. He summoned Dr Neil Phillips and Wilf McGuinness, both of whom thought they had finished their duties with the England camp and would not be involved in the actual tournament. But Alf had other ideas.\n\n'I want to thank you both for what you have done for the England team to get us to the stage where we are now. When we get to the World Cup Final, I shall send for you two because I want you there when we win it.'\n\n'But Alf,' replied Dr Phillips, 'you can't be sure we're going to win.'\n\n'I am sure we're going to win. And I shall send for you both in the last stages of the competition.'\n\n* * *\n\n* Gascoigne launched into a tearful drunken diatribe against Hoddle on hearing that he had been left out of the squad, and even threatened the England manager with a table lamp.\n\n# [NINE  \n _Hendon Hall_](004-toc.html#ch9)\n\nThe name Bobby Moore has become synonymous with the summer of 1966. So it is amazing to think that in the weeks leading up to the World Cup finals, Alf had quietly given the impression that he was planning to drop Moore, not just from the England captaincy, but even from the national team. Alf's trust in Moore had been badly undermined by the events of 1964, when Moore proved rebellious over discipline and training. The incidents at the Beachcomber Bar in Mayfair and the Walfdorf Astoria in New York had been compounded by a row during the Little World Cup in Brazil, when Moore attacked Alf for imposing too big a burden on the players with his harsh training schedules. As leader of a recalcitrant clique, Moore approached Dr Alan Bass to complain that the team was being over-worked after a long season. To Alf, this smacked of little short of an open challenge to his authority, especially as Moore had not shown the courtesy to speak to him directly.\n\nBut Alf, still feeling his way in his job, was not yet powerful enough to abandon one of his most talented, publicly admired players. He therefore tried to reach an accommodation with him. That autumn, after a game against Northern Ireland, he took Moore aside to discuss the role of the England captain in the build-up to the World Cup. 'Alf asked me to join him for a few minutes. We talked about being ready to commit ourselves to the objective of winning the World Cup in 1966. We sorted out our priorities on and off the pitch and agreed we would back each other up. Alf made it clear he expected the captain as well as the manager to conduct himself in a responsible manner and that was that. No problem as far as I was concerned.'\n\nWell, not for a while anyway. But by the beginning of 1966, Moore was slipping back into his old ways of cockiness and complacency, especially when in the company of his East London drinking partner Jimmy Greaves, who said of Moore, 'there are not many footballers who could match him in a drinking contest; he's got hollow legs'. Alf grew irritated when the two of them would sit at the back of the England bus and start to sing, 'What's it all about, Alfie?', the hit Burt Bacharach song of the time from the Michael Caine movie of the same name. He was also disturbed by the high priority Moore attached to his own monetary value. Every year, Moore was the last member of the West Ham squad to sign his annual contract, a form of financial pressure that ensured he received the largest possible salary increase. Alf, brought up in the age of the maximum wage and post-war rationing, had no empathy with this kind of free-market bargaining. In the period before the World Cup, this situation was proving serious for England, since Moore was being more difficult than ever about his contract, hinting that he might move to another club.\n\nFrustrated by Moore, Alf decided that he had to be taught a lesson. In May he was left out of the England team for the match against Yugoslavia, with his place taken by Norman Hunter and Jimmy Armfield, playing only his second game in three years, assuming the captaincy. It was widely assumed that Moore was merely being rested, but when England began their tour of Eastern Europe in June with a match against Finland in Helsinki, Moore was again on the sidelines and Armfield was captain. Sadly for Armfield, he broke a toe towards the end of the game, was sidelined for the rest of the tour and never played for England again, though he remained part of the 1966 World Cup squad. Alf never talked to Armfield or Moore about his plans for the tournament, but he did nothing to dampen speculation in the press about Moore's future. Brian James of the _Mail_ recalls: 'Bobby had not been playing that well and when they went on the tour of Europe, there was a shadow over him. I don't think there is any doubt that Alf by then had had enough of Bobby's nonsense and smirking and was considering dropping him before the World Cup.' Alf certainly fed this line to some journalists, and Bernard Joy, the former Arsenal centre-half, ran a story in the _Evening Standard_ saying that Bobby's position was under threat. But many writers think Alf was only giving Bobby a warning, and never seriously contemplated going into the World Cup without him. Hugh McIlvanney told me:\n\n> Alf's relationship with Bobby was quite strange. Bobby was a bit of a mickey-taker and this annoyed Alf. There were widespread suggestions before the World Cup that Alf was thinking of not playing Bobby. Bernard Joy, who was big on ingratiating himself with people who he thought would do him good, was claiming that Norman Hunter would play instead. And I believe that Alf was quite happy for this idea to be spread because of the way that Bobby was irritating him. In Alf's eye, Bobby was inclined to take his status for granted, treated the whole business of the World Cup too lightly and joined in the piss-taking with Jimmy Greaves. But I told Bernard that there was no chance that Bobby would not play. It was part of Alf that he would spread disinformation. There was no chance Alf was going to drop Bobby. It was so obvious. He liked to give the impression he was considering dropping him but there was no way he would do it. Bobby was a strange case. He was smashing in many ways, but you could not really have a proper conversation with him \u2013 he just asked questions all the time. You could not get to know him. He would keep you off balance. I introduced him to Joao Saldanha, the Brazil manager, and they sat together on the plane. I saw Joao later, and asked him, 'How did that go?'\n> \n> 'I don't know much about Bobby Moore but he knows a lot about me.'\n\nAlf's tactic worked brilliantly. Bobby Moore was shaken by his exclusion for two successive matches. As he later confessed:\n\n> It made me sit up. From that day, I never expected to be in an England squad until the letter from the FA dropped through the letter box, never took it for granted that I would be in the team until I saw my name on the sheet or heard Alf call it out. Alf was driving home to me that there are always enough players for any team to get by without any one player. I was so disappointed. So sick. I'd gone through all those games. The preparation had become really intense during the training camp in Lilleshall.\n\nBobby was all the more worried because England easily beat Finland 3\u20130, with the defence looking solid. So he was relieved to be brought back for the next game against Norway in Oslo. 'No one was more on his toes,' Moore said. Except, perhaps, Jimmy Greaves, who had also been left out against Finland. For the first time in a year, Greaves looked back to his sparkling best, hitting four goals in a 6\u20131 win. 'Out of chaos came football of a quality that has eluded England for so long,' trumpeted the _Guardian._\n\nGreaves' position as the leading striker seemed all the more secure when, in a 2\u20130 win against Denmark in Copenhagen, Hurst gave a woeful performance, showing poor control on a dry, bumpy pitch and failing to combine well with Greaves. For Ken Jones, the aftermath of Hurst's sorry outing again highlighted the originality of Alf's thinking:\n\n> The ball was bouncing all over the place and Geoff could hardly get hold of it. The next day I was walking with Harold Shepherdson across the concourse to catch the plane.\n> \n> 'What did you think of him last night?' said Harold.\n> \n> 'Who?'\n> \n> 'Geoff Hurst. He'll never make an international player, never make it.'\n> \n> For me, that just shows what a special manager Alf was. He did not write off Geoff. He took the conditions into account and the way Geoff had to expend such an enormous amount of energy just getting hold of the ball.\n\nHurst, however, was left out for the final match of the tour in favour of Roger Hunt, when England took on Poland in Katowice, a grim industrial town typical of the bleak communist Eastern bloc in the sixties. The team's journey there tested their resolve almost as much as Lilleshall had done; it involved a flight to Warsaw, followed by another flight to Cracow, and then a seven-hour road trip by a battered old coach through a series of bleak villages in a grey wasteland. At one point on this meandering, laborious voyage, the Polish interpreter made the mistake of trying to engage Alf in conversation.\n\n'And what do you and the team plan to do later in the evening, Mr Ramsey?'\n\n'Get to Katowice \u2013 I hope,' he replied.\n\nWhen the bus finally arrived at its destination, and the stiff players clambered out, Jimmy Greaves took one look at the depressing skyline of tower blocks and chemical plants, over which hung an acrid yellow smog, and said, 'OK, Alf, you've made your point. Now let's piss off home.'\n\nBut there was little room for joking about this game. The players were convinced that the team chosen was Alf's first eleven, the one that would take the field at the start of the finals themselves. That was good news for Roger Hunt, who had initially seemed to be out of favour, lagging behind Hurst and Greaves, but was picked against Poland in place of Hurst. When Alf had announced his squad of 22 to the press on 17 June, Jimmy Greaves had been at Number 8, Bobby Charlton at 9, Geoff Hurst at 10 and John Connelly at 11, while Roger Hunt had been given the Number 21 shirt, implying that he was only seen as a reserve. 'I am not making the slightest criticism of Alf, who always treated me fairly and did what he thought was right for the team. But I had done pretty well as Jimmy Greaves' deputy and especially after the Scotland game, I fancied I might be in the first team,' says Hunt. When he saw the shirt numbers, he felt a wave of disappointment but received no explanation from Alf. 'That wasn't Alf's way. He probably thought I'd be delighted just to be there.'\n\nThe misleading impression that Alf gave with the squad numbers was just another example of Alf's campaign of disinformation, designed to leave everyone \u2013 press, opposition and his own team alike \u2013 guessing about his intentions. And he pulled off another surprise at Katowice when he named Martin Peters, rather than John Connelly, at number 11. Alf had decided to use 4\u20133\u20133 for the first time since Madrid the previous December, and the long-striding, versatile Peters, who could play equally well in attack and defence, was perfect for the role on the left-side of midfield. But Alf was not about to give away anything to the media about his tactics. When he announced the team at a press conference, he made a theatrical pause before stating the name of Peters at number 11. There was an audible gasp of surprise among the journalists, given that Peters had won just two caps previously. Then Frank Magee of the _Daily Mirror_ asked:\n\n'Can you tell us the thinking behind the selection of Peters?'\n\n'No Frank,' replied Alf with a wry smile, before walking out of the conference. A lot of the reporters did not see the amusing side of Alf's brusqueness, and complained about his being deliberately awkward. But Ken Jones felt it was 'the way the England manager should behave. He shouldn't be expected to give indications of what he intends doing before the game.'\n\nBoth Peters and Hunt played well in a strong England performance, which saw them win 1\u20130. It was Hunt who scored the only goal with a 25-yard shot hit sweetly on the half-volley, prompting a moment of rhapsody from Desmond Hackett \u2013 'this thing of splendour', he wrote in the _Express._ Hunt's brilliant strike, his twelfth goal in just thirteen appearances, appeared to confirm him as the partner for Greaves. England's victory gave them a 100 per cent record on the tour and their seventh consecutive win, their best run since 1950. Against Poland, Bobby Moore gave a masterly performance, banishing any doubts that he might not play in the World Cup. The defence had conceded just one goal in four games, emphasizing how settled it had become. Ray Wilson, one of its stalwarts, says:\n\n> I would go into games for England and for half an hour I would not even have a touch of the ball. That's how good the system was. What we did was that we each had an area that we played in, and when an opposition player moved into someone's zone, we made sure he was picked up. We would talk to each other a lot, 'Have you got him? He's coming across.' It was a zone of about twenty square yards; that was your area and whoever came into it, you picked him up. You never let anyone get behind you. As long as you could keep your back four across the field, you would be all right. We would not break until about thirty yards from goal. We didn't really mind if someone tried to shoot from that distance. You couldn't imagine anyone beating Gordon Banks from there.\n\nFor Wilson, the trip to Eastern Europe had been crucial: 'The tour made me realize we could do it. We'd moved into a different league.' His fellow defender Jack Charlton felt the same: 'Among the England team, there was a tremendous spirit of confidence as the aircraft skimmed through the skies towards home, and the real thing at Wembley.' Ron Flowers, the Wolves midfielder, agreed. Turning to Jimmy Armfield after the Poland game, he said, 'Jim, I can't see anyone beating this team.'\n\nOn their return to England on 7 July, the players were given a two days off by Alf to see their families, and then instructed to reassemble at Hendon Hall, the hotel in north-west London which was to be the team's base throughout the tournament, chosen for its proximity to Wembley and its oak-beamed tranquillity. The one disadvantage was that it was a long coach ride across London to the training venue at the Bank of England's sports ground in Roehampton. Fed up with the traffic, the players formed a delegation to ask Alf if he could switch to a training camp nearer Hendon Hall. He politely but firmly refused. There was more to this than mere stubbornness. Alf reckoned that keeping the players together, even in the jams on the North Circular, would deepen their sense of mutual belonging. At other times, Alf simply laid down his authority. It was almost four years since his appointment, and, after a number of difficult incidents, he had shown clearly that he was in charge. 'Alf Ramsey was the common denominator,' says Geoff Hurst, 'the cement that bound us all together. He was all powerful and one of the things that made his job possible was the willingness with which we all accepted his authority.' A good example of this occurred over the England squad's formal attire. The players had been issued with heavy grey flannel suits, totally unsuitable for the summer months. So Bobby Charlton, who was the senior member of the squad, was persuaded to approach Alf to ask if the squad might be allowed to travel to and from training in lighter, more casual gear. 'I'm always open to suggestions,' said Alf. He then paused for a while before telling Bobby, 'We'll stick with the suits.' On another occasion, at a banquet following a home international, Alf approached Bobby Moore: 'Robert, I think we ought to go.' Bobby pleaded with Alf to allow the players one more round. With a nod, Alf agreed. The beers were ordered and the players sat chatting away until they had finished their drinks. Moore then went over to Alf again to tell him the squad was now ready to depart. Without a word to Moore, Alf summoned the waiter and ordered himself and Harold Shepherdson a pair of large brandies, forcing the players to hang around longer. 'Alf knew exactly how to put us in our place. The next time he said it was time to go, we would not be asking for another drink,' says Alan Ball.\n\nIt is easy to imagine that in the days before the opening ceremony, the England of 1966 was gripped \u2013 as it would be today \u2013 by a mood of World Cup fever, with a carnival atmosphere spreading across the country. We now look back on the event through the prism of history, imbuing the World Cup with the spirit of the sixties' liberation. It is now part of an uplifting narrative that takes in the Beatles and Carnaby Street, a moment when the nation threw a giant party to celebrate the abandonment of the starchy class-ridden, oppressive values of the fifties. Mini-skirts were in. Deference was out. Like that other cockney lad Michael Caine, Bobby Moore, East End working-class and proud of it, is now regarded as one of the symbols of this exciting social change. 'England in the summer of 1966 was a good place to be,' says the actor Terence Stamp.\n\nBut it did not necessarily feel like that at the time. Britain was still a fundamentally conservative country in the middle of the decade. The sense of social revolution has been exaggerated. With all his insecurities and anxieties about correct behaviour, Alf Ramsey was far more representative of the British public than, say, John Lennon. Indeed, as the historian Douglas Sambrook has pointed out, the influence of the Beatles has been hugely overblown. _The Sound of Music_ sold twice as many copies as the Beatles' most popular album, Abbey Road, while Cliff Richard had 38 top-twenty hits compared with just 22 for the Fab Four. Britain in 1966 was a place where homosexuality and abortion were still illegal, drug-taking was almost unknown and the vast majority of teenagers were virgins. It was an overwhelmingly white country, where 20 million viewers tuned in every week to watch _The Black and White Minstrel Show_ and few troubling questions were asked about national identity or monarchy. Capital punishment had been officially abolished only a year earlier, a decision deplored by the great majority of the public. It was a land of Morris Minors and Angus Steak Houses, of Vickers Viscounts and Blackpool boarding houses, of Sunday closing and corner shops.\n\nIn the Britain of the mid-sixties, public emotion was still frowned upon, something that Alf understood well. The sombre dignity of the crowds at the state funeral for Winston Churchill in 1965 was in stark contrast with the mass hysteria that surrounded the death of Princess Diana almost 33 years later. And football largely reflected that restraint. It is amazing to look at the footage of 1966 and see how many of the male spectators are dressed in collar and tie. With little violence on the terraces, there was no need for segregation. Nor was football the business juggernaught it later became. The FA's organization for 1966 bore the whiff of amateurism, a reluctance to exploit commercial opportunities. The organizing committee failed to find any sponsor for their ticket and sales brochures, one million of which were distributed in 1965. The official mascot, a cartoon lion wearing a Union Jack, known as World Cup Willie, was a puerile, half-hearted design that failed to inspire the public, as did the feeble song 'World Cup Willie', performed by the fifties skiffle artist Lonnie Donegan, which sold well in Japan but nowhere else. There were also an array of souvenirs, like World Cup Willie stockings for women and a five-foot-high glass Wellington boot, though, in the words of one retailer, David Walker, 'It was crap merchandise.' Poor security led to the World Cup trophy itself being stolen on the eve of the tournament when it was on display at a stamp exhibition. Understandably, there was severe embarrassment within the FA, which changed to relief when the trophy was found by Pickles the dog in a bush in south London. The absence of any marketing consciousness was reflected in the absurdly low prices of seats. It was possible to buy a block of tickets for the best seats at all ten London games (nine at Wembley, one at White City), including both the semi-final and the final, for just \u00a325*, which even then was not much more than the average weekly wage of \u00a320, while a season ticket to stand on the terraces cost just \u00a33.87. But football was living in the past, refusing to exploit its potential earnings from gate receipts and television rights; it was still possible in 1966 to watch a game for only five shillings. In consequence, the players' pay was far lower in real terms than the earnings of today, despite the abolition of the maximum wage. During the World Cup finals, the match fee per game was just \u00a360.\n\nNor was football the dominant cultural force it was to become by the end of the century. It was not _de rigeur_ for politicians to take an interest in soccer. The TV schedules were not filled with evening games \u2013 indeed, FA Cup games were often the only televised games in a season. To parts of the establishment in the media and civic life, football was just a working-class pursuit of little wider consequence. It was not woven into the fabric of society as in Italy, Spain or Brazil. Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ gives this insight:\n\n> Until 1970, sport was confined to the back pages. It was not taken seriously at all. Football writers were just called 'Sport' at the _Daily Mail,_ in tones dripping with contempt. It was an attitude of condescension. And it was not until after 1966 that big business had any idea about football. Then marketing men woke up to the importance of football. After '66 I was constantly being asked for advice from companies about sponsoring players. It was often absurd. You'd go to a meeting in the boardroom and a director would say, 'Now we ought to get one of these players on board. The man I know is Matthews, Stanley Matthews.' The whole thing was bizarre.\n\nThe lack of media interest in soccer was graphically illustrated by the _Daily Mirror,_ by far Britain's biggest-selling paper, on the day of the World Cup Final. 'This is the crunch. This is judgement day,' screamed an editorial on the front page. But the paper was not talking about a football match; it was referring to the government's economic policy. The lead story, filling most of the page, was about the Economics Minister George Brown's attempts to uphold a pay, prices and dividends freeze. The World Cup did not feature until page 13.\n\nInitially, some of this indifference extended to the footballing public itself, with many of the matches outside London played in front of disappointing crowds \u2013 just 24,000 turned up to see Hungary against Bulgaria at Goodison Park in Liverpool. Even England's first match of the 1966 campaign, against Uruguay on 11 July, was nowhere near a sell-out. With 87,000 spectators in the stadium, Wembley was 10,000 short of capacity.\n\nEngland's preparations before the match were interrupted by two administrative problems. The first was that Bobby Moore had still refused to sign a new contract with West Ham, and was therefore technically ineligible under FIFA regulations to play in the finals. In the midst of all his other work, Alf was not pleased by this distraction, especially because he had to conduct frantic negotiations with Moore and FA to find a solution. The difficulty was overcome by Moore agreeing to a temporary one-month contract to cover the tournament. Ron Greenwood was summoned urgently to Hendon Hall, where he was greeted by an impatient Ramsey. Pointing to a dark, panelled room off the foyer, Ramsey said, 'You can have him in there for just one minute.' Moore signed the relevant form in seconds, saying barely a word to Greenwood, who then hurried back to Upton Park.\n\nThe second, more heart-stopping, problem arose barely an hour before the kick-off. The Hungarian referee, Istvan Zsolt, came into the England dressing-room and asked to check the FIFA identity cards of each of the team. These little red cards, similar to passports with the name and photograph of the holder, were intended to stop teams surreptitiously fielding ineligible or suspended players. To Harold Shepherdson's horror, he realized he had forgotten to confirm with the players that they were carrying their cards. And sure enough, seven of the eleven had left them behind at the Hendon Hall hotel. 'I am sorry, Mr Ramsey,' said Zsolt, 'but these seven cannot take part in tonight's match.' Alf remained astonishingly calm amidst the mounting drama, and, with the co-operation of the police, instructed one of their motorcyclists to go to the hotel to pick up the missing cards. Typically, Jack Charlton relieved some of the tension: 'Man, they don't need identity cards at Leeds. Everyone knows me up there.' The police rider returned with just forty minutes to go, having travelled most of the route on the wrong side of the road to avoid the heavy traffic around Wembley. Harold Shepherdson's admiration for Alf was only increased by the way he handled the incident: he wrote in 1968, 'Although this was my fault, for after all I am the team's baggage master, there was no time for recrimination, and to this day Alf has never given me the right rollicking he should have done for forgetting such an important item'.\n\nIt was an inauspicious start to the evening, and the match was hardly more inspiring, once the opening ceremony was out of the way and Alf, looking his usual dapper self in a charcoal grey suit, had presented his team to Queen Elizabeth. Alf had warned his players that the Uruguayans, winners of the World Cup in 1930 and 1950, would be difficult to beat. 'They are very good at getting men behind the ball but more important is what they do when they get there. They engage you. They don't just let you have the ball, they come for you and force you into mistakes,' he said in his pre-match talk. His judgement was correct. The Uruguayans, having set out to achieve a draw, packed the defence. It was a frustrating experience for England, who never really looked like scoring. Alf had played a version of 4\u20133\u20133, with Stiles, Bobby Charlton and Alan Ball in midfield, and Hunt, Greaves and Connelly in the front-line. Martin Peters' replacement by Connelly was the only change from the Poland game on the European tour, Alf believing that a conventional winger might be more successful in cracking a side bent purely on stalemate. Connelly said:\n\n> I was surprised, and glad, to be back in the team because I knew Alf had an admiration for Peters, who was a very good player. But Uruguay was a bad one to come back for. They were determined they weren't going to lose. I hit the bar and scraped the post. The crowd had applause for Bobby Moore, playing at the back with Jack, and I remember thinking, 'He should try it up here.' Up front, we were three against eight some of the time. I couldn't believe it.\n\nThe match ended 0\u20130, the first time England had been goalless at Wembley since 1938. 'We ran relentlessly, but only into an ever deepening road-block,' says George Cohen. The players trooped off the field in disappointment, the boos of the crowd ringing in their ears. Yet again, Alf showed his gift for man-management once they were back in the dressing-room. Instead of the rollicking they were expecting, he gave them whole-hearted encouragement:\n\n> You may not have won, but you didn't lose, and you didn't give away a goal either. Wonderful, we didn't give them a kick. How many shots did you have to save, Gordon? Two? That's the stuff. Whatever anyone says, remember you can still qualify, provided you keep a clean sheet and don't lose a game.\n\nRay Wilson remembers: 'These were the words we wanted to hear, the sentiments that really counted. The fans and critics could talk all day. Our faith was with the manager.'\n\nIn public, Alf said he was 'disappointed with the result, but not the performance'. It was not a verdict shared by much of the press. Ken Jones recalls that the outcome sparked bitter abuse against Alf, long seen as too arrogant in his behaviour and too rigid in outlook. 'Answering my press-box telephone, I heard a _Mirror_ executive say, \"You can hear what the people think about this man's team and his bloody playing tactics, so take him apart.\"' The foreign press were just as dismissive. _La Stampa_ of Italy believed that 'this was a bad England team. They did not look like scoring tonight.' The Dusseldorf paper _Sport Informations Dienst_ predicted, 'England will not win the World Cup.'\n\nAlf recognized that relaxation would be better for his team than yet more training, so the day after the Uruguay match he took them for a visit to Pinewood Studios. At a buffet lunch where the wine and beer flowed generously, the players mingled with stars such as Sean Connery, Yul Brynner, Britt Ekland and Norman Wisdom. Bobby Charlton chatted to the rotund Robert Morley, who was 'amazed that our wives are not allowed to stay with us'. Afterwards they gathered to watch the filming of a scene from the new James Bond movie _You Only Live Twice._ A well-lubricated Ray Wilson took a seat off camera just a few yards from Sean Connery. Silence fell on the set as the cameras began to roll. Then, half way through the scene there was a loud clatter. 'Cut,' shouted the director. All eyes turned on the sprawling figure of Wilson, who had toppled backwards and smashed his chair against the floor. Wilson and the rest of the England party looked at each other sheepishly as the shot had to be re-taken. When it was time to leave, Alf strode onto the set, and gave a few words of thanks to the studios and Sean Connery for their hospitality. Unfortunately, this was one of those classic moments when Alf's mixture of unworldliness and artificial elocution let him down. Instead of pronouncing Connery's name correctly, he said, 'Thank you, _Seen.'_ Inevitably, Bobby Moore and Jimmy Greaves could not resist having a laugh. 'Now I've _shorn_ everything,' said Moore.\n\nIt was soon back to the serious business, as England prepared for their next qualifying match, against Mexico on the 16 July. Alf stuck with 4\u20133\u20133, but he made two changes to the team, with Peters coming in for Ball and Terry Paine replacing Connelly, who had lacked penetration if not effort against Uruguay. Because of his fiercely competitive fiery nature, Ball could not easily handle rejection. When Alf had broken the news of his exclusion, he returned to his room uttering all sorts of curses against Alf. After collecting some winnings from a bookmaker, recalls his room-mate Nobby Stiles, Ball came in, 'throwing fivers on the floor and dancing on them, saying \"Fuck Alf Ramsey\".' Ball even spoke for a while about walking out of the England squad. Jimmy Greaves helped to talk him out of such a drastic move. 'Ballie was sick with Alf but over a lager we helped him see the sense of staying on.'\n\nFor the first half hour against Mexico, it looked like England were heading for the same dismal result as against Uruguay. The Mexicans had shown their intentions right from the start, hoofing the ball straight from the kick-off deep into England's territory, then retreating into defence. But in the 38th minute, the deadlock was broken by a moment of magic from Bobby Charlton, the player that Alf had regarded as his potential match-winner from the moment he had been appointed England manager. Charlton picked up the ball in midfield, kept advancing, switching the ball from foot to foot as he surged past the Mexicans, and then suddenly unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot from 25 yards, which screamed into the net past a bewildered keeper. Charlton hit the ball so hard that it was still rising like a rocket even as it crossed the line. 'The nearer it got to goal the more it seemed to speed up,' says Ray Wilson. 'If the keeper had tried to save it he would have been carried straight through the net and into the back of the stand.' It was a moment of genius that pulled England out their torpor and set the crowd alight. The ever reliable Roger Hunt, whose run had opened up space for Charlton by dragging a defender with him, added a second goal fifteen minutes from the end. The England campaign was finally under way.\n\nBut for one member of the England team against Mexico, the World Cup was over. Terry Paine had enjoyed even less luck than John Connelly:\n\n> I got hit in the back of the head when I went up for a ball. I was badly concussed but there were no substitutes in those days so I played on. I must be the only guy who played in a World Cup but cannot remember much about it. I did not actually wake up until I was sitting on the table in the dressing-room itself; then things came back into shape. But I was groggy for a few days after that and Alf was one of those managers who ruled you out if there was a suspicion of an injury. I suppose if I hadn't had that injury, things might have been different. That is something I would never know and Alf would never tell.\n\nSo Alf ended up trying a third winger, Ian Callaghan of Liverpool, in England's final qualifying match. A draw against France would almost certainly be enough to carry England through to the quarter-final, and Jack Charlton claims that 'we were never really worried about this game'. Nevertheless, England played poorly, their football lacking any rhythm. Callaghan was no more effective on the wing than Paine or Connelly had been, while Greaves, for the third game in a row, looked out of touch. In fact, just twice in his last ten games for England had he been on the score-sheet. His poor form was made all the worse by a nasty shin injury he received from the boot of Joseph Bonnel. Though Greaves, like Paine, had to carry on playing because of the absence of substitutes, he later received four stitches in the wound. It was only through two well-taken goals from Hunt that England secured their victory. In public Alf praised his team's march to the quarter-finals. In the privacy of the dressing-room, he was more critical, singling out Ray Wilson. 'There were one or two people tonight who thought they were good players. And you were one of them,' said Alf. Wilson thought for a moment of arguing back, but quickly decided that would be pointless. It was, he thought, just Alf's way of trying to puncture any complacency.\n\nYet in the dressing-room Alf had avoided any mention of a far more serious miscreant, Nobby Stiles, who had perpetrated an outrageously late tackle on the skilful French midfielder Jacques Simon. In the last quarter of the game, Stiles hacked Simon down after the Frenchman had received the ball from a throw-in, turned and passed it on to a colleague. 'I was aware that it was late, a terrible tackle,' says Stiles. George Cohen, who was nearby, calls it 'the tackle from hell, one that from the moment of its inception was destined to land somewhere between the Frenchman's thyroid gland and his crotch. I recall grimacing and saying to myself, \"Jesus, that looked bad.\" It was. Jacky Simon had to be carried from the field and France were down to ten men. Strangely, England were not reduced to the same number, for the referee did not even book Stiles for the challenge, never mind send him off.\n\nThe incident cast a shadow over England's victory. There was uproar in both the British and international press, with Stiles accused of having heaped embarrassment on the hosts. Alf's arch-enemy, Danny Blanchflower, claimed Stiles had 'ruined the game'. Joe Mercer, later to succeed Alf as temporary England manager, said Stiles had committed a 'terrible foul, one to shame English football'. FIFA was moved to announce that 'if this player were reported to them again by a referee or other official, they would take serious action'. For many critics, the incident also reflected badly on Ramsey. Stiles was seen as emblematic of his sterile, negative managerial style, where work-rate was cherished above artistry. For the FA councillors this was a golden opportunity to put their unaccountable manager in his place, having had to endure years of his dismissiveness. Alf had caused them offence on his very first overseas tour in the summer of 1963, when, at the end of the trip, he mockingly thanked them for 'staying out of my way'. And he had continued in the same vein, sneeringly referring to them as 'those people'. The commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme recalled an incident when he asked Alf about the arrangements for accommodation at a certain match. 'The players will be at the Hilton, so will I. I don't know where the FA officials are staying. They are nothing to do with me.' Nobby Stiles remembers an incident on tour in Sweden, when he realized he had run out of contact lens fluid. Alf immediately phoned Denis Follows, Secretary of the FA, and made arrangements for more fluid to be put on the next flight to Gothenburg. While Alf was giving his orders, he was interrupted by an FA councillor, asking him about an official reception. Instantly, Alf barked: 'To wear his contact lenses Nobby needs this fluid. That is important. Receptions and cocktail parties are not.'\n\nNow, thanks to Stiles, Alf was summoned to Lancaster Gate, where the International Committee was ready to grill him. Alf bristled with indignation as he went into a meeting which he regarded as an utter waste of his time. If the FA thought that Alf might be on the defensive and willing to give some ground, they were mistaken. Prompted by the public outburst from FIFA, the Committee members told Alf that Stiles was an embarrassment to the good name of English football and should be dropped, if not for the rest of the tournament, at least for the next game. Alf fixed them with his coldest of stares:\n\n'Most certainly Nobby Stiles can be thrown off the team,' he said, 'but I must tell you that I see him as a very important player for England, one who has done very well since he was first selected, and if he goes, so do I. You will be looking for a new manager.'\n\nThat brought the meeting to a sudden close. Soon afterwards, unsurprisingly, rumours of Alf's threat to quit reached the press, forcing Alf to issue a statement of denial, in which he claimed, rather unconvincingly, that 'at all times I have received the utmost co-operation of the members of the Senior International Committee'. For the rest of his reign as England manager, he maintained this stance, saying in 1970, for instance, that 'there was no pressure on me to eliminate anyone at the time. And I don't remember having a disagreement throughout the competition.' But in an interview in 1991, long after he had retired, Alf finally admitted the truth as he poured out his bitterness against the FA:\n\n> It was quite extraordinary. It seemed that they could not accept Stiles as an international and made it clear that they didn't want him. I just told them that if Stiles was to be dropped, they could find a new manager. And I meant it. I would have walked out there and then.\n\nNone of this was known by Stiles or the rest of the England team, who carried on with their preparations for the quarter-final against Argentina. On the Friday morning on the training ground at Roehampton, Alf pulled Nobby to one side and asked him a simple question: 'Did you mean it?'\n\n'No Alf, I didn't. I mistimed the tackle.'\n\n'You're playing tomorrow.'\n\nThen Alf, just to rub it in with the FA, made a powerful public defence of Stiles, calling him 'a great young Englishman who is proud to play for his country and has done it very well. He is not just a good player but a great player.' Nobby told me that when he heard Alf's words: 'I felt tears coming to my eyes. The press had been slaughtering me all week, that's the way they are. Then Alf defended me. He was a great man, such a strong man.'\n\nLoyalty is perhaps the most precious commodity any leader can enjoy. But it has to be earned. It cannot be demanded. And with his robust support for Nobby, Alf had earned it from his team. They knew that when he talked of loyalty, he really meant it. He had put his job on the line for one of his players. He had unequivocally sided with his team against the media, the FA and FIFA, giving his players a powerful boost to morale. In pressurized situations, a siege mentality can be beneficial for team spirit. 'Everyone felt that was great,' said Bobby Moore. 'All right, we were biased. All right, Nobby was there first and foremost to spoil, to mark people, to niggle and upset people. But he could still play the game.' Stiles was primarily a defensive player, whose central job was to win the ball and give it to Bobby Charlton. Indeed, Nobby argues that the system Alf played was not 4\u20133\u20133, but 4\u20131\u20133\u20132, with himself as the linkman between the defence and midfield. Because the opposition had been so geared to holding out for a draw in the first games, Nobby had not had the chance to shine in the tournament. But Alf knew he would be vital in the harder rounds against more attacking sides.\n\nApart from standing by Nobby, Alf had two other important decisions to make before the Argentina game. The first was about the formation. Alf had tried three wingers in three different games, none of whom had made much impression. With Argentina likely to be far more creative than any previous opponent, Alf believed he had to strengthen the midfield, so he brought in Alan Ball in place of Ian Callaghan. Gordon Banks says that Ball and Peters were the perfect pair to operate within a 4\u20133\u20133 system:\n\n> I thought at the time that the decision to dispense with wingers was a good one. Alan Ball and Martin Peters were highly intelligent players. They worked tirelessly, dropped back and helped out in defence, were good when going forward, and, particularly in the case of Martin Peters, could make quality crosses into the opposition penalty area. Possibly their best assets were their lungs, which must have been like sides of beef, so much ground did they cover.\n\nToday, Ball remembers how Alf approached him on the Friday before the game:\n\n> He came up to me on the training ground and said,\n> \n> 'How are you, young man? You don't look as if you are enjoying yourself.'\n> \n> 'Well, Alf, I've missed my chance, I suppose. I'm very, very disappointed. I don't think I played that poorly against Uruguay. I can understand what you have done. But I'm still disappointed.'\n> \n> 'Well, I wouldn't be. Because you're going to play tomorrow. I'm, giving you a job on the right hand side. They have a very good young full-back, Marzolini, and you are going to stop him. I don't think he's the fittest of their players and that will suit you right down to the ground. Do you think you can do that?'\n> \n> 'Alf, I will die doing that.'\n> \n> Silvio Marzolini was a really good player going forward and Alf wanted me to stop him. No disrespect to Terry Paine, John Connelly and Ian Callaghan, who were all wide right players, but Alf thought I was the person to be a nuisance to this guy, get up his nose and get around him.\n\nThe other key duty of Ball, working alongside Stiles, was to open up opportunities for Bobby Charlton, England's most creative player. 'Don't forget,' says Ball, 'Bobby was not a big tackler or ball winner. We scrapped so Bobby could live. Nobby and I worked all day just to get the ball to him in the right areas, knowing that Bobby would produce.' At Roehampton, Alf illustrated this with a canine metaphor.\n\n'Do either of you have a dog?' he asked the pair.\n\n'I do,' said Ball.\n\n'You know how when you throw a ball your dog chases after it? Well, that's what I want you both to do for Bobby. Win the ball and give it to him.'\n\nAlf's second big decision was more straightforward. Jimmy Greaves' shin injury had, in his own words, 'opened up like a red rose towards the end of its bloom'. There was no way he would be able to take the field. But it is doubtful he would have done so even if he had remained fit since, in Alf's view, his lack of goals had already ruled him out. When Greaves was not scoring, he was not contributing. Alf later stated, 'Jimmy Greaves had not shown his true form to substantiate his position in the England team and would not have been selected for the Argentina match.' In Geoff Hurst, Alf had a replacement who would not let him down in terms of commitment. Though playing in a revolutionary wingless system, Hurst was in one respect a throwback to the English tradition of the strong, bustling centre-forward. Jimmy Armfield recalls a late-night conversation with Alf at Hendon Hall which centred on this very issue:\n\n> Harold Shepherdson, Alf, myself and Bobby Moore were sitting up one night, talking about the old days, and I happened to say, 'You know, all the times I have watched and played with England teams, I have never really seen a successful side without a big target man, an old-fashioned centre-forward.' I quoted the example of Bobby Smith, and we mentioned others like Dixie Dean and Nat Lofthouse. Then I said that the only big striker we had in the squad was Geoff Hurst. The simple truth is that Roger Hunt was a workaholic; Bobby Charlton was a workaholic; Alan Ball was a workaholic. Alf had the runners but he needed someone who could hold the ball. Geoff had always been able to do that. I played against him and I knew what it was like when he had his back to me, a big bulk that you couldn't get round. I said, 'Well, that's my opinion,' and I just left it. Bobby Moore, who knew Geoff well, said, 'No, it's a good idea.' Ironically, Geoff was in soon after that conversation.\n\nArgentina were the team that Alf most feared in the World Cup finals, partly because of their magnificent skill on the ball, partly because of their epic cynicism. He had long regarded them as more likely champions than Brazil; during England's tour of Eastern Europe just before the finals, Alf had taken the chance to watch Brazil in action in Sweden and had returned to the England camp with the news that 'Brazil are no danger. They're too old.' Disorganized and demoralized, Brazil failed to qualify for the quarter-finals, though they were subjected to savage treatment at the hands of Portugal, with Pele literally kicked out of the tournament. Argentina, however, were a more daunting prospect, an intimidating mix of the ruthless and the sublime. Having watched them in action in the Little World Cup in 1964, Alf sensed that they would be England's toughest opponents. As his captain Bobby Moore put it: 'We knew how difficult it would be to beat them. From all we'd seen of them, we knew they were often scruffy and untidy, but that they had enormous skill.' On the Friday afternoon, Alf gave his usual purposeful team talk. Nobby Stiles gives this insight into the way he promoted a feeling of inclusion:\n\n> Alf went through their side, and then said, 'But the player who really makes them tick is Ermindo Onega. Do you think we should man-mark him?' All the lads said, 'Yes'. Now we did not usually man-mark with Alf, using zonal marking instead. Alf continued, 'So who should do it?' Ray Wilson was the first to say, 'Nobby.' That was Alf. He was going to do it anyway but he wanted to give us the feeling that we all shared in the decision.\n\nHarold Shepherdson also talked privately to Nobby at Hendon Hall that night, giving him a lecture about his duty towards Alf. 'I told him that he owed a great deal to Alf, who had stood by him against very strong newspaper criticism, and that if he did anything silly, he would be letting down the man who had faith in him.'\n\nAfter all the criticism and apathy of the previous few weeks, the public mood appeared to have swung in England's favour once the team reached the quarter-finals. From villain, Nobby was transformed into national hero. As the England bus approached Wembley, a banner could be seen bearing the slogan 'Nobby for Prime Minister'. In the dressing-room, however, the atmosphere was more sombre. 'We accepted in our guts it was going to be hard. Maybe brutal,' said Bobby Moore. Just before the kick-off, Alf confined himself to one harshly realistic sentence, 'Well, gentlemen, you know the sort of game you have on your hands this afternoon.' But no warning from Alf could have prepared England for the depths to which Argentina sunk. Potentially a fine team, they simply refused to play football and instead tried to foul their way to the semi-finals. The hardened professionals of England, used to the physical contact of the League, were surprised at the naked hostility they encountered. 'I quickly discovered that whenever I beat an Argentinian I could expect to be tripped, bodychecked, spat at or dragged to the ground,' said Bobby Charlton, one of the most chivalrous performers in international football. 'Never, in any other match, had I been kicked when the ball was at the other end as I was now. I'd look round, and one of their fellows would make a gesture of innocence! It was the worst behaviour I'd ever experienced,' argued Roger Hunt. His companion up front, Geoff Hurst, compared it to 'walking down a dark alley late at night in a strange town'.\n\nAnkles were kicked, hair tugged, eyes poked. 'The tackles were flying in, and so was the spittle,' jokes George Cohen. In the 36th minute, the match reached boiling point. The Argentinian captain Antonio Rattin, one of those naturally commanding players, like Bobby Moore, who always seemed to have time on the ball, had spent much of the game arguing with the German referee, the balding, diminutive Rudolf Kreitlein. The last straw for Kreitlein occurred when Rattin, described by Cohen as 'a natural bully', began yet another dispute over one of his decisions. The German's patience suddenly snapped, he reached for his notebook, waved his right arm and ordered Rattin from the field. The Argentinian could hardly believe it. For a full eight minutes, he stood in front of Kreitlein, alternately threatening, pleading and remonstrating. A sense of anarchy prevailed over Wembley, as other Argentinians joined in the protests. Bobby Charlton described the scenes as 'degrading' and a 'nightmare' as the 'Argentinians went berserk. They all piled into the ruck, arguing, gesticulating, pushing, shoving and fighting among themselves to get in on the act. The referee was disgracefully manhandled and at one time I thought the match would have to be abandoned.'\n\nAs Hugh McIlvanney memorably commented, this was 'not so much a football match as an international incident'. Rattin eventually left the field but his departure did not make the game any easier for England, as the ten remaining Argentinians rallied in defence and kept up their spoiling tactics. It should be said England were not above retaliation and indeed, during the game, they were deemed by Kreitlein to have committed more fouls than the Argentinians. Even Bobby Charlton was booked for the only time in his international career, when he ran to the aid of his brother when he saw Jack being assaulted. There were moments when Alf grew worried that Nobby would lose his composure in the mayhem. After Nobby was spat on for the seventh time, Alf buried his face in his hands, fearing the worst. He then looked up to see Nobby being led quietly away by Ray Wilson. 'There was more to it than just relief. Regardless of Nobby's will to win, the tremendous job he did for England, those people would have happily kicked him out,' said Alf. In all it was an ugly, dispiriting spectacle, 'the worst I have ever seen England involved in,' said Harold Shepherdson. The match looked to be heading for a draw when, in the 77th minute, Peters picked up the ball, went down the left wing and then hit a curling cross towards the near post. Geoff Hurst, who had timed his fifteen-yard run to perfection, met the ball with a glancing header, sending it across the keeper and just inside the far post. It was a beautifully worked move, simple yet devastating, one that Peters and Hurst had practised thousands of times on the West Ham training ground. 'We'd worked on near-post goals till it became an automatic action,' says Peters. 'I wouldn't even have to look. I knew Geoff would be there.' The West Ham connection was another advantage of Hurst's presence over Greaves, just as the Manchester United partnership of Stiles and Charlton worked so instinctively for England.\n\nHurst's goal decided the result. England were through to the semi-finals. But Alf's mood was one of outrage rather than pleasure. The Argentinians had confirmed all the negative views he had held about the over-excitability and underhand methods of South American football since he had first toured Brazil with Southampton in 1948. In his fury, he let his usual mask of impassivity slip, giving an almost unique public demonstration of the fire that burned within him. When he saw George Cohen about to swap shirts with his opposite number, Alberto Gonzalez, he ran twenty yards onto the field, grabbed the sleeves and, with real venom in his voice, told Cohen, 'George, you are not changing shirts with that animal.' Alf's outburst was fully justified, given the behaviour of the Argentinians once the game was over. First of all some of them were so threatening towards Kreitlein that he had to be escorted from the pitch by a quartet of police officers. Once they were off the field, they kept up their antics, urinating in the corridor outside their dressing-room and threatening to smash down the door of the England dressing-room. 'Let 'em in. I'll fight them all,' shouted Jack Charlton.\n\nAlf was still seething when he was interviewed on television by Kenneth Wolstenholme, and his bitterness was to prompt one of the most infamous remarks of his career: 'We have still to produce our best and this best is not possible until we meet the right type of opposition and that is a team that comes out to play football and _not act as animals.'_ The implication that Argentina had acted like animals caused uproar in South America and consternation in FIFA and the FA. Just days after the Nobby Stiles affair, Alf was in serious trouble with the authorities again. When the disciplinary committee of FIFA met, they first decided on some tough punishments for Argentina, including an \u00a385 fine and the suspension of Rattin for four matches, then turned their attention to Alf. It was agreed to write to the FA, drawing attention 'to the unfortunate remarks made by Mr Ramsey in a television interview'. In FIFA's view, 'such remarks do not foster good international relations and it desires the FA to take appropriate disciplinary measures'. So soon after being bitten by Alf over Stiles, the FA were not prepared for another full-scale confrontation and merely asked secretary Denis Follows to have a quiet word with the manager. Anxious to avoid more distractions, Alf gave an apology in a half-hearted way, one that revealed his unease at dealing with the press: 'I was unfortunate in my choice of words. I am placed in the position of answering questions under the conditions because of my job. It does not excuse my choice of words.'\n\nThat was good enough for the FA. But Alf's comments would haunt him for the rest of his time as England manager, reinforcing his image as sour, insensitive and undiplomatic, and creating a well of resentment against him in Latin America, which would work against him in the 1970 World Cup. For the South Americans, his outburst smacked of old-fashioned British imperialism, a not entirely unjustified belief in Alf's case; as Brian Glanville once wrote of him, 'his own xenophobia was a kind of cloven hoof, which he could not help but show'. So offended were the Argentinians that the British Ambassador in Buenos Aires, Sir Michael Cresswell, had to be given a special police guard. On a deeper level, the row strengthened the South Americans' belief that the entire 1966 World Cup was biased against them. For the first time in history, all four semi-finalists were European: England, Portugal, West Germany and Russia, while the refereeing \u2013 typified by Kreitlein \u2013 was said to favour the Europeans. In one respect, this represented a clash of football cultures. Tactics which the Europeans regarded as abhorrent, such as arguing with the referee, diving or spitting, were quite normal in South America, whereas the Latins were appalled at the northern referees' leniency towards brutish tackling, especially from behind.\n\nAlf did not care what Argentina or FIFA or the FA thought. He was unconcerned about wider developments in world football. All that ever mattered to him was his team, and now they were though to the last four, a far greater achievement than his critics had suggested was possible. That Saturday night in Hendon Hall, he allowed his players to celebrate: 'It was a smashing night. We had a few bevvies and a big sing-song. Most of us got pretty drunk, but Alf didn't say a word, he just sat in the corner.' Alan Ball remembers. 'It was that night, over a few drinks, that we began to realize the enormity of what we had done.'\n\n* * *\n\n* Only about \u00a3250 in today's money.\n\n# [TEN  \n _Wembley_](004-toc.html#ch10)\n\n'I knew there was a certain cynicism among fans and critics alike at the early stage. Not a lot of people gave us any great chance of winning,' says Ray Wilson. Reflecting on this climate of negativity, Brian James, the _Daily Mail's_ former chief football writer, tells an extraordinary story which illustrates the huge prejudice in the press against Alf that existed in the summer of 1966:\n\n> Half-way through the tournament, I was taken for a walk in Hyde Park by Jim Manning, then the sports columnist on the _Daily Mail._ He was acting on the instructions of the Editor, who had told him, 'Brian has got to stop saying that England will win the World Cup because he is making us look stupid. He's backing the wrong man. And you can tell him that if England do not win the World Cup, then he may have to look for another job.'\n\nIn part, this was because quite a few journalists simply did not understand what Alf was trying to do with his wingless formation. Trapped in their stereotyped thinking about W\u2013M, the old guard in the media turned their incomprehension into scorn. 'Alf, you give me the World Cup Willies,' wrote Desmond Hackett. But the deeper reason was that Alf made it so obvious that he viewed the press largely as an irrelevance. 'If they get in touch with me, it's always because they want something \u2013 there's nothing I ever want from them,' Alf said. It was players, not public relations, that achieved results. His unco-operative attitude left journalists aggrieved, but it actually strengthened the spirit of his team, as Nobby Stiles recalls:\n\n> He could not give a shit about the press, really, it was great. Budgie Byrne told me that when Walter Winterbottom was in charge and England were training, the interviews with journalists could drag on for two hours. But with Alf, it was very different. When we were at Roehampton, the press would be gathered there, wanting interviews and photographs. And Alf would say to the lads, 'How long should we give the press, half an hour, twenty minutes?' 'Twenty minutes,' we'd reply, though Ray Wilson did not want to give them a second. 'They know fuck all,' he'd say. So Alf goes to the press, 'Gentlemen, before we start, you may have twenty minutes with the lads.' At the end of that time, Harold Shepherdson would blow the whistle and that was it. It didn't matter if you were in the middle of an interview. Alf understood that we didn't want to be wasting energy talking for hours to journalists. You can lose energy that way. I'm sure the press didn't like that but we loved Alf for it. Under Walter, the press would rule. Under Alf, he was in charge.\n\nContrary to the widespread gloom in the press before the 1966 finals \u2013 and again after the Uruguay game \u2013 Alf had taken England further than they had ever been before. In fact, his team was in the middle of a phenomenal run, having lost just one of their previous 21 games, and conceded just one goal in their last nine. If not the most elegant or explosive side, they had almost become unbeatable. Sepp Herberger, who had managed West Germany when they won the World Cup in 1954, said that 'England are justified in reaching the semi-final. As a team, they have no weakness, which is rare.' With the introduction of Hurst, Alf had achieved exactly the right balance in his team \u2013 it had strength, industry, hard-running and attacking options. For all the moans about the 'wingless wonders', Alf had really lost nothing down the flanks, since Martin Peters and Alan Ball were so industrious and such good users of the ball. The two full-backs, Wilson and Cohen, were also exceptionally quick when going forward, though the quality of Cohen's crosses left something to be desired \u2013 it was joked that the spectators behind the goal should have been given gum shields because they were in more danger than the opposition keeper. In an interview in 1978, Alf explained the thinking behind his dropping of orthodox wingers:\n\n> Terry Paine, Ian Callaghan and John Connelly all had one game each. To accommodate them, I had to leave out either Alan Ball or Martin Peters. And when it came to the moment of decision, I felt I needed the best players regardless of their acceptable positions. A manager's job is to pick his best available team. That is exactly what I did for the quarter-final against Argentina. What I will readily admit is that I do not favour old-fashioned wingers, the type who were stationed out on the touchline and waited for the ball to be served up to them. To have two players stuck out on the flanks is a luxury which can virtually leave a side with nine men when the game is going against them.\n\nRay Wilson has this analysis of the tactical success of Alf's system:\n\n> Most of the England team was solid. The goalkeeper and the back four never changed. We were always secure there. Once Alf had established the defence, we were there for ever. The only guy Alf gave any freedom to was Bobby Charlton. Every other player on the field had a job to do. They all had to come back; they all had to put defenders under pressure; they had to tackle, making the opposition play square balls. But Bobby was allowed to run loose \u2013 and quite right. Who else could have scored a goal like his against Mexico?\n\nRay Wilson further argues that the arrival of Hurst made a big difference:\n\n> Jimmy Greaves was bloody useless in the air. The chances we were going to get at Wembley would be mainly in air because the other teams were so outrageously defensive. There comes a time, in that situation, when you have to start hitting 50\u201350 balls. And that's where Geoff was so good. You could hit balls up to him and he would hold on or knock them down for people like Martin Peters or Bobby. The change from Jimmy to Geoff certainly suited me because it meant that if I was under pressure, with two opponents against me, I could get it to Geoff and he'd keep it, putting their defence under pressure. Jimmy couldn't do that.\n\nAlf's long-period of team building, sticking with the same team \u2013 especially in defence \u2013 also paid dividends. Jack Charlton gives this example: 'With George Cohen, you knew that if anyone took him on the inside, he struggled. But over a year, you learned how to cover for that sort of thing.'\n\nEngland's progress was based on more than just a constructive tactical approach. Since his appointment, Alf had laid great stress on building a team of strong personalities. It was not enough to have technique or skill. A player with Ramsey's England also had to have the right temperament, one that would not buckle under fire or put self-interest before the needs of the team. In the band of brothers he forged, there was no room for show-offs, slackers or complainers. Roger Hunt says:\n\n> It strikes me that every member of that team was an honest trier, irrespective of ability. It seems clear now why Alf chose the men he did and it is a tribute to his acumen and judgement of character. Alf knew that, no matter what the circumstances, he could rely on a certain level of performance.\n\nCharacter was a central feature of Ramsey's England, and his final eleven in 1966 reflected the values that he cherished: honesty, dignity, application, courage and selflessness. Several of them had come through harrowing personal ordeals: Bobby Moore survived testicular cancer at the age of just 23; Bobby Charlton saw the loss of most of his mates in the Munich air crash of 1958. Others had been written off, an experience that only added to their steeliness. Alan Ball, for instance, was twice rejected by other clubs before finding fame at Blackpool, while Jack Charlton had been told by Don Revie at Leeds, 'You'll never do for me,' a comment that only made Jack determined to prove Revie wrong. Most of them had experienced tough upbringings which hardened them as men: Gordon Banks' father was a Sheffield foundry worker, Hurst's an Essex toolmaker. This tribute from Nobby Stiles to his colleagues George Cohen and Ray Wilson perfectly captures the essence of Alf's side. On Cohen, Stiles says:\n\n> If there was ever a better-hearted, fitter, harder-running, more professional footballer than George Cohen, well, I never got to play with him. I have never met a more honest, more decent man, and the fact that he so quickly became an integral part of Alf's grand plan can be easily explained. Alf knew that, if he asked him to, George would run through a brick wall, partly for fun. He gave so much strength and energy along the right side.\n\nOf Ray Wilson, he says: 'He had moral courage to burn. I never saw him do once what most of the greatest players I have played with or against have done from time to time \u2013 he never blinked or flinched at a moment of heavy pressure.'\n\nBy the World Cup finals, Alf was at the peak of his powers as a manager. He had come up with a formidable blend of players operating in a strong defensive system. After three years in the job, he had established a masterful authority over all his players. Partly as a result of his own naturally reticent personality, he had pulled off the rare feat of maintaining his distance while incurring affection. Among the players, fondness and respect for Alf were mixed with a degree of fear. One time Geoff Hurst was wearing his official England suit, but had decided not to wear the enamel England lapel badge with it, sensing this would make him look like a school prefect. Alf spotted the omission immediately:\n\n'Geoffrey, where's your badge? You're improperly dressed without it.'\n\n'Sorry Alf, I think I lost it.'\n\n'Not to worry, Geoffrey.' Alf dipped into his pocket, pulled out another badge and pinned it to Hurst's lapel. 'Now don't lose that one.'\n\nAt Hendon Hall, when he told the players at night that it was time to go to bed, he encountered no arguments, as Hurst remembers:\n\n> At 10.30 each evening Alf walked into the TV lounge, where the players spent most of their time after dinner. 'Good night, gentlemen,' he used to say. That was enough. Very often we'd be at the critical stage of a movie but everyone got up and went to their rooms.\n\nOn one occasion, Alf allowed the players' wives to come up to Hendon Hall briefly in the evening \u2013 though there no question of any visiting their husbands' bedrooms. Tina Moore recalls:\n\n> We were all having a chat in the players' lounge when Alf came in.\n> \n> 'Goodnight ladies, goodnight gentlemen.'\n> \n> 'Why, Alf, are you going to bed?' said Bobby.\n> \n> 'No, gentlemen, you are.'\n> \n> So off we were all swept. Alf looked dour but there was often a sparkle in his eyes. He delivered his lines with this deadpan voice, but behind that fa\u00e7ade there was real humour.\n\nTina says that she found Alf\n\n> always very courteous and polite. Generally, I thought he was great. He was charming but words never gushed out of him. Bobby and Alf were different people, but they both aspired to what they considered were the finer things in life. Bobby, like Alf, groomed himself. I think Alf was very aware of his image and how he came across. He wasn't totally natural and everything he did was studied.\n\nShe believes that by _mid-1966,_ the relationship between Alf and Bobby was on much stronger ground than it had sometimes been in the past. 'There was a mutual respect between them. Bobby would talk to me about Alf. He admired him as a man and liked him though he did tease him, as in that time with Sean Connery.'\n\nAlf's dry humour could also come out on England's training ground at Roehampton, as Ron Springett, the deputy goalkeeper found:\n\n> Jimmy Greaves had asked him if he could nip home but Alf refused. 'We are a team', he said, 'and we are going to stay as a team.' I pointed out that I lived no more than fifty yards from the Bank of England club at Roehampton, so one day, after a training session, Alf said, 'You can go home for a cup of tea.' I took him up on his offer but, knowing Alf, I didn't stay longer than it takes to drink a cup of tea. When I got back to the Bank of England Club, the first shot that came my way went right through my legs into the net. 'That's the last time I'm letting you go off home for any tea,' was all Alf said.\n\nIt was at Roehampton that Geoff Hurst gained another insight into the sensitivity of Alf's man-management. At West Ham, Hurst was in the habit of training in a tracksuit, so that when it came to match day, he felt much lighter. But with the England squad, he was sure that Alf, a stickler for correct dress, would not allow this; all the players trained in red and white bibs. When he was out of the team, Hurst had not bothered too much about this, but once he had replaced Greaves, he felt he had to ask for permission to train in his tracksuit:\n\n> Alf looked at me for what seemed ages, then said quietly, 'All right, Geoffrey, if this matters to you, go ahead.' I should have trusted Alf to know the difference between someone just trying to be awkward and someone genuinely worried about breaking an old habit.\n\nBack at Hendon Hall, Alf had arranged for special television lines to be installed, so the squad could watch whatever live match he chose. Predictably, the players always wanted to view the most potentially exciting games, such as Brazil against Hungary at Goodison, but he insisted on matches involving their opponents. 'By the time we played Germany in the Final, we had seen them several times and we knew what every player would do. It was as simple as that,' said Bobby Charlton. On other evenings or free afternoons, Alf preferred to make a group trip to the local cinema, not only because he retained a child-like affection for westerns and adventure films, but also because he felt it was a good bonding exercise for the team. Sometimes, as Jimmy Armfield remembers, Alf's announcement of a cinema outing could be quite abrupt;\n\n> We would be sitting in Hendon Hall Hotel after lunch or dinner, then Alf would suddenly say, 'Harold, John Wayne is on at the Odeon.'\n> \n> 'Very good, Alf.'\n> \n> 'I think we should go. What do you think?'\n> \n> 'Yeah.'\n> \n> 'Then tell the lads we're going to the Odeon.' By then, he's picked up his gear, got his coat and is almost out the door. And we have to run up the stairs, get our coats, and then chase him to the Odeon. So we have the sight of the England football team running down the hill after our manager. As he gets to the ticket office, we would all pile in behind him. And he would say, 'I want 26 seats.' We would always go upstairs. It was dark, the film would often have started and we would be noisily clambering into our seats and Alf would say, 'Shut up, John Wayne's on.' That was Alf. He loved his Westerns.\n\nAs they fought their way into the last four, the team of 1966 were aware of their huge debt to Alf. Gordon Banks reflects on his qualities:\n\n> He was in a class of his own. Some managers are tactically aware. Some excel at coaching. Others are good at motivation and man-management. Alf was superb at everything. That's what made him so special. Always fair to his players and scrupulously honest, he was a man of unyielding integrity and absolute loyalty. Alf put his job on the line for Nobby Stiles after the game against France, as he would have done for any of us, and his loyalty was reciprocated. He was devoted to the team ethic, yet at pains to point out that no one was indispensable. He bore no grudges and had no favourites.\n\nEven those who were outside the final eleven, like John Connelly, were filled with admiration:\n\n> He did what he thought was right and Alf was almost always uncannily right. He was a brilliant manager. It was he who fostered such a spirit among the lads and he made sure that being in the squad was just like being in a club. He was out on his own when it came to man-management. He knew every one of his players inside out, their strengths and their weaknesses. What is more, he knew exactly how to get the best out of his players. Alf never took anything for granted. He believed you never got anything without working for it. I've heard it said that he was sometimes a bit aloof with the lads. Maybe he was, but you knew that he would never let you down. All of us respected him. He was a brilliant tactician and he wasn't afraid to experiment. He was such a brave manager, determined in his own selection and then determined to make his selection work.\n\nIn the build-up to the Portugal game, Alf had no selection problems. With Jimmy Greaves' recovery not yet complete, there was no question of his playing. The only issue of immediate controversy was the venue. It had originally been stipulated that if England won their quarter-final, they would travel to Goodison for the semi-final, but at the last minute, FIFA decided the game should be played at Wembley because of its bigger capacity. The move led to anger on Merseyside and more accusations of favouritism towards England. But Alf was pleased not to have to leave Hendon Hall, where he had established a well-ordered regime.\n\nBefore the tournament, Portugal had not been thought likely to qualify from a group which included Brazil and Hungary, but they had marched through with a mixture of expansive skills and occasional brutality. Their biggest threat was their striker Eusebio, the 'Black Panther' from Mozambique, who was already the tournament's leading scorer. To counter his power, Alf again gave Nobby the job of shadowing him.\n\n'I want you to mark Eusebio,' said Alf.\n\n'Do you mean for life, Alf?' joked Nobby with a gap-toothed smile.\n\nAs it turned out, Nobby did the job superbly, closing Eusebio out of the game by continually forcing him to operate on his weaker left foot. 'Nobby had his best game for England. Eusebio got so fed up he went out on the wing,' says George Cohen. But this was no repeat of one of Nobby's more violent earlier performances. In fact, after the horror shows of England v Argentina and Brazil v Portugal, the match was played in a magnificent spirit, and it was not until the 23rd minute that the first foul was committed. Portugal did not even concede a free kick until the 57th minute. Moreover, Portugal's emphasis on attack, by opening up space across the field, freed England from their shackles. For the first time in the finals, England proved they could play captivating, positive football. Bobby Charlton, all grace and elegant power, was at the top of his form, revelling in his freedom to burst through from midfield. 'This was the best match we played because it was against a team that allowed you to play football. The game flowed from end to end,' said Charlton. It was Charlton's dynamism that brought England both their goals. The first came in the 31st minute, when he seized on a rebound from the keeper Pereira and stroked the ball across the lush Wembley turf into the net. The second, which came in the 79th minute, showed the importance of Geoff Hurst to the side. Hurst took a long pass from Cohen near the byline, beat one man, held the ball up for a moment, then hit it neatly into the path of Charlton who struck it first time without breaking his stride. It was a goal of simplicity and beauty, highlighting both Charlton's genius and England's team ethic. 'It was a wonderful education to play alongside Bobby Charlton. He was the greatest footballer I ever played with,' says Alan Ball, 'That night against Portugal, Nobby and I got the ball to him all the time and he was incredible.' In the dying minutes, Portugal gained one back, when Jack Charlton handled in the area and Eusebio scored from the spot. Twice more they almost equalized, Stiles making a crucial tackle and Banks pulling off a finger-tip save. But the score-line finished 2\u20131. England were through to the Final.\n\nBecause of his focus on the team, Alf rarely singled out individuals for praise. But he was so moved by Nobby's subjugation of Eusebio that he broke with the long-held practice of his management. In the privacy of the dressing-room, he said: 'Gentlemen, I don't often talk about individuals. But I think you would all agree that Nobby has today turned in a very professional performance.' Critics of Ramsey might point out it was Nobby's defensive display rather than Bobby Charlton's attacking one which earned Alf's most effusive approval. Back at Hendon Hall, Nobby was not able to join in the alcoholic celebrations for England's victory. He had been accidentally punched in the head by Gordon Banks when going for a high ball, and Dr Alan Bass had given him an injection to prevent the development of a cauliflower ear. But Nobby clearly remembers Alf's words to his triumphant team as they gathered round the bar:\n\n> Gentlemen, congratulations on a fine performance and on making the final. Tonight you may have two pints \u2013 and I mean two pints. Not like last Saturday night after the Argentina game when, how shall I put it, some of you were rat-arsed. But not tonight, gentlemen. Just two pints. Because on Saturday, you are going to win the World Cup. And when you do, I shall see to it that you are permanently pissed.\n\nFor the first time, the country was gripped by World Cup fever. The manner of England's victory over Portugal had created a new mood of excitement and expectation. As the football historian Clive Leatherdale wrote: 'Before the semi-final, patriotism had been blurred by doubt. After it, the clouds lifted and a buoyant nation could barely wait for Saturday to arrive.' Amid the rising enthusiasm for Alf's team, a debate was raging as to whether the manager should bring back Jimmy Greaves. This was widely seen as by far the toughest decision of Alf's three-year-reign, and Alf later admitted that it was his 'most controversial'. After all, Greaves was England's finest goalscorer of modern times, a far more naturally talented player than the pedestrian Hunt or the laboured Hurst. With his awesome acceleration over a short distance, his uncanny positioning and swiftness of shot, he could transform a game with a moment of sublime skill. 'He was the best goalscorer we ever had. I played behind him for England and he would be running at the opposition and it was as if they were opening up to let him through,' Jimmy Armfield told me. Most of the southern public and London press favoured the return of Greaves. This piece by Brian James in the _Daily Mail_ was typical:\n\n> The game is bound to be hard, and though I do not think it will be dirty, strength will be vital. Yet for all that, I would play Greaves. His skill is undeniable. Only his application has ever been suspect, and in a World Cup Final EVERYBODY works...today, for the first time in this tournament, England can only win if they are more skilful than their opponents.\n\nThere is no doubt that Greaves had fully recovered. He had been training hard without any ill-effects; Harold Shepherdson wrote that 'when it came to the Final, Jimmy was completely fit and raring to go'.\n\nThe problem for Greaves was that England had been playing better without him. The team had looked more balanced, solid, and dangerous. 4\u20133\u20133, or, more accurately, 4\u20131\u20133\u20132, was a style that required the hard running of Hunt and Hurst rather than the mercurial unpredictability of Greaves. Moreover, both had proved effective in front of goal, Hunt scoring three times in five games, Hurst once in two. In the England camp, there was a near universal feeling for the current striking pair, though Bobby Moore did stick up for his room-mate and fellow East Londoner. Bobby Charlton, with a rare degree of stridency in his voice, thought that the Greaves debate had been 'blown out of all proportion and I was confident that Alf would do the right thing. Hurst was better suited to the competition as it was. I don't think Greaves' reputation meant so much to Alf \u2013 that was part of Alf's quality.' In another interview, in 1973, Bobby was even more scornful of Greaves:\n\n> Jimmy was a bit of a luxury, I always felt. He'd score five if you won 8\u20130, but in matches where a single goal would decide, it was better to have someone like Hurst. You never saw Jimmy much in a game, he was waiting up there to score, and I suppose that's why he never materialised for Alf.\n\nAlan Ball echoed Bobby's sentiments: 'With Geoff, I could always bounce the ball off him, build something. He would help to get you into the team. With Jimmy, you had to play for him. Geoff could do more for our team.' The German manager, Helmut Schoen, agreed with this assessment, as he later told Ken Jones:\n\n> Was Greaves still in the picture? He was a brilliant scorer, a quick dribbler, with outstanding anticipation, but he was not a good team player. And he'd missed two games with an injury. My feeling was that Ramsey would select the team that defeated Portugal.\n\nIn an interview with the BBC in 1995, Alf said: 'Jimmy was a good player and I admired him. He came from Dagenham, like me, but I had to decide if I was going to leave out one player for him. I probably spent four or five nights worrying about it.' This is an unconvincing exaggeration. Alf had probably decided to keep with the winning team as soon as they left the field against Portugal on Tuesday night. There was no chance he was going to refashion a side that had brought him to the brink of glory. It is telling that at training on Wednesday and Thursday, Alf kept the same first eleven separate from the remainder of the squad. Alf had already decided to drop Greaves before the Argentina game, even without any injury. He had no reason to bring him back now. In an interview with the commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme, Alf explained his thinking:\n\n> The team had performed magnificently in his absence. We had beaten two fancied teams in Argentina and Portugal, so I could not have asked for anything more. Geoff Hurst, who had come into the side, had done a great job. It was him or an injured Jimmy Greaves. After a lot of thought, I decided to leave well alone. As they say, if a thing isn't broken, don't try to mend it. I had a clear conscience. I had to make a decision, and a decision that was best for the team and their chances of winning the World Cup.\n\nIn his heart, Greaves had known that he was doomed: 'At the end of the semi-final I felt in my bones that Alf was not going to select me for the Final. My dream of helping England was about to be smashed.' Greaves sensed the truth about his omission all the more strongly on Thursday when he was sitting beside Harold Shepherdson on the coach back from training: 'I said casually, \"I suppose it's going to be difficult to get back\" and he turned away and looked out the window. I was close to Harold, he'd been there ever since I came into the squad. Alf had obviously confided in him and he was too embarrassed to answer me.' Years later, in his retirement, Alf was sitting watching a game with Roy McFarland, one of the most intelligent footballers of the seventies. McFarland asked him why he didn't play Greaves. And Alf replied: 'I was thinking to myself one day that I had played Jimmy Greaves with Geoff Hurst, with Bobby Smith, with Roger Hunt and many others. It had never quite worked. Then I realized that the problem was with Jimmy Greaves, not the man he was playing with. That was the conclusion I came to.'\n\nIn the first three days after the Portugal game, Alf had said nothing to any of his players about the team selection. It was a period of mental agony for several of them, especially Hurst and Hunt, who both feared that they might have to make way for Greaves. Hurst wrote:\n\n> I wanted nothing more in my life more than I now wanted to play for England in this Final, I wanted it so badly I literally ached at the thought of not being in. I found myself watching Alf with a sort of scared fascination, to see if I could get some tiny hint of encouragement. He had only to pass me the sugar at tea to start some fantasy about wanting to build up my strength for Saturday; he had only to leave a newspaper on the chair beside me for me to snatch the sports page to see if he was trying to break the news through a hint in some reporter's guess that I was about to be dropped.\n\nOn the eve of the Final, Alf brought the torture to an end. The squad travelled by coach to the local Odeon to watch _Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines_ and, as the players stepped into the theatre, Alf discreetly told each of his selected team that they would be appearing the next day against West Germany. As Alf later revealed:\n\n> I varied the way I told them. To one or two I said, 'If it will help you to sleep tonight, you'll be playing tomorrow.' To Nobby Stiles I said, 'Well, are you ready for tomorrow?'\n> \n> 'I hope so,' he replied.\n> \n> 'You bloody well better be.'\n\nAlf asked the players to keep the information confidential, but inevitably some of the room-mates, like West Ham colleagues Peters and Hurst, could not resist telling each other. 'Risking instant death at the hands of Alf had the rooms been bugged I blurted out, \"Martin, old mate, I'm in, I'm playing.\" \"Great,\" he replied, \"And so am I.\" We rolled over and looked at each other, then together we had one great whoop of utter jubilation,' said Hurst.\n\nOne man whom Alf did not inform was captain Bobby Moore. This was partly because it would have been such a formality \u2013 'If Bobby Moore didn't know he was playing without me telling him, he's not the Bobby Moore I know,' said Alf, but more importantly because Moore was actually a doubt for the Final, not because of form but because of fitness. Soon after the semi-final, Moore had contracted tonsillitis, a potentially serious health problem. Fortunately, it was diagnosed early by the team doctor Alan Bass and, with the right treatment and diligent care, he had recovered by Saturday. 'If we had let matters go for a day, the tonsillitis would have got such a hold on Bobby that it would have taken five days to clear up. That is how near he was to missing the Final!' wrote Harold Shepherdson. The players were kept in the dark about Bobby's ailment, and remained so for years afterwards. It was at a reunion in the mid-nineties, after Bobby Moore had died, that George Cohen revealed how, one evening in Hendon Hall, he had overheard Alf in discussion with Harold Shepherdson and Les Cocker about Bobby's prospects of playing. According to George's account, Alf had asked Les, 'How do you think Norman would do?' Geoff Hurst, among others, greeted this news with astonishment. 'None of us at the time realized how close Bobby was to losing his place in the team.' But the reason for these talks was misinterpreted. Alf was not thinking of dropping Moore; instead, he was hoping for his recovery but preparing for the worst.\n\nTo Alf's relief, Moore was fine by Saturday morning. But Jimmy Greaves was shattered. He had gone down to breakfast and had sensed Alf being 'very distant' with him. He knew then he was out. He went back up to his room and started packing his bags.\n\n'What are you doing, Jim?' asked Moore.\n\n'Just getting ready for a quick getaway once the match is over.'\n\n'You can do that tomorrow morning. We'll be on the bevvy tonight, celebrating our World Cup win.'\n\nGreaves could not bring himself to say any more. At midday, Alf confirmed his fears, when he told Jimmy that he was going with an unchanged team. But, according to Greaves, Alf expressed the hope that Jimmy would understand his reasons for doing so. 'Sure Alf, they'll win it for you,' said Greaves. 'I think so,' replied Alf, who then disappeared to talk to other members of the squad who had not made the final XI. As Greaves later recorded: 'Alf couldn't have said a lot more to me. He knew I was choked and disappointed but he was doing what he thought was right for the good of the team.'\n\nGreaves has always maintained that he felt no bitterness towards Alf for the decision, yet he has often given out contradictory messages. Sometimes, he has said that he could not have played in the Final because he was injured, while at other times he has accused Alf of using fitness as an issue to drop him. The journalist Nigel Clarke has this fascinating recollection, which differs from some of the accounts Greaves has given:\n\n> After 1966 the relationship with Alf was never the same again. That killed Jimmy. I was on holiday with him in Portugal sometime around 1970. He was a funny little man in some ways because his wife Irene ruled the roost. I think she was fundamental in turning Jimmy against Alf. Jimmy is an honest lad but he also had a big ego and he thought he could have done the same role as Geoff did. He told me in Portugal that he could not get over the fact that Alf had said to him, 'I don't think you're fit.' He felt that Alf used the injury as an excuse. Jimmy thought Alf should have been more honest and told him he was going to use a certain system which worked better with Geoff. I remember Jimmy said: 'Alf should have just come out and told me straight. He hid behind the fact that I'd had that shin injury.'\n\nGeoff Hurst, who played at West Ham with Greaves after 1970, says that during their time at Upton Park, 'Jimmy was still impishly humming the tune \"What's It All About, Alfie?\" I don't think he ever forgave Alf for the way he discarded him.' Despite denials from Greaves, it cannot be disputed that Alf's decision had a disastrous effect on his career. He won just three more caps and was finished with England at the age of just 27. He soon went into premature retirement and then plunged into chronic alcoholism, which saw him regularly getting through 18 pints and a bottle of vodka a day, though he subsequently fought a heroic battle against the grip of drink to become a much-loved TV personality.\n\nFor all the controversy surrounding Greaves, it had been a straightforward tactical decision for Alf to make, purely on a football level. But in terms of public relations, it was much harder, because of the huge following for Greaves. It would have been easy to court popularity by picking Greaves, yet Alf was a strong man precisely because he wasn't interested in popularity. If he had got it wrong, if Hurst and Hunt missed a string of chances, he would have been crucified. A weaker manager might have regarded the selection of Greaves as his personal security blanket in the event of defeat. With his remorseless focus on the interests of his team, such considerations would have never occurred to Alf. He was the personification of the epigram of the American football coach Vince Lombardi, 'Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing.'\n\nApart from his moral strength, one of Alf's other attributes was his almost Zen-like calm in moments of the most intense pressure. Though not a religious man, he could have almost been a Buddhist monk for the aura of stillness that enveloped him. 'If he was at all nervous or tense during the tournament, he did not show it, but then he has amazing self-control,' said Geoff Hurst in 1967. No one in British sport had ever experienced the burden that he was under in the days before the World Cup Final, yet he gave no indication of any anxiety or any doubt about the outcome. Instead, he was a man at peace with himself. On the Friday evening, he sat happily through _Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines,_ describing it as 'the greatest film he had ever seen'. In his room at Hendon Hall, he enjoyed a restful, contented night: 'My own job was done. The responsibility was now theirs, and I was able to sleep well that night \u2013 even though I normally don't sleep well in strange beds away from home.'\n\nOn the Saturday morning, he went through a final briefing with the team. Again, he was his usual cool, authoritative self, running through the opposition without undermining the confidence of his own team. 'As always,' says George Cohen, 'Ramsey avoided loading up the pressure \u2013 or bombarding us with his sure-fire master plan. His concern was always to make sure that individuals were in the best possible frame of mind, alert but not weighed down with responsibilities.' Alf was not deceived by the fact that Germany had never beaten England since the nations had first met in 1901, nor could he have found it reassuring that, since the Second World War, no hosts had won the Cup. A well-organized, combative outfit which had beaten Spain and thrashed Uruguay 4\u20130 on the way to the final, the Germans had several outstanding players, including Willi Schulz as sweeper, the resourceful captain and striker Uwe Seeler and the tall, powerful winger Lothar Emmerich, who had a ferocious left-foot shot. But from Alf's point of view, the most worrying player was their young wing-half, Franz Beckenbauer, already emerging as one of the stars of European football. It is testament to the threat of Beckenbauer that Alf gave Bobby Charlton the job of making sure he had no freedom of movement. Conversely, Helmut Schoen, the German manager, was so concerned about Charlton that Beckenbauer was instructed to mark him. In the game itself, therefore, these two maestros cancelled each other out, though this ultimately worked to England's advantage.\n\nAfter his talk, Alf then led the players in for a light lunch of chicken, poached eggs or beans on toast, though the growing tension meant that few of them were hungry. At 1.15 the bus left the hotel for Wembley. Along the route, thousands of people came out to cheer and wave their Union Jacks, something that had never happened before at an England international. The urge for victory was almost palpable. As they looked out on the vast throngs packed along Wembley Way, the players could feel how much this match meant to the country. Bobby Charlton was struck by the 'incredible enthusiasm generated by a traditionally conservative people. Fire engines rang their bells, factory sirens hooted and car horns blared; it seemed as if the whole of London wanted to be in at the kill.' At 1.45 the bus arrived at the ground. While some of the team went straight to the dressing-room, others walked out onto the pitch to savour the atmosphere. Already the terraces, full of eager fans, were buzzing with anticipation. The volatile, stormy weather matched the nervous electricity pumping through the stadium. One minute the sky would darken and crackle with thunder, the next Wembley would be bathed in warm sunshine.\n\nAlf might have been calm, but the England dressing-room was not. In the hour before the kick-off, it was packed with the TV crews, officials, reporters and well-wishers. Even the man who made the tea at Wembley was wandering around with an open autograph-book. At 2.15, chaos still prevailed, with scores of people milling around the players. Geoff Hurst was surprised that Alf, usually so attuned to the needs of his team, did not throw out the whole circus. 'It was very un-Ramsey like,' he says. Moore was equally shocked, though he felt Alf may have had an ulterior motive in allowing the bedlam to drag on: 'Perhaps he hoped it would give us something to occupy our minds.' But Moore was disgruntled that he had not been allowed his usual period of quietness to collect his thoughts.\n\nJust before 2.45, as the team prepared to go out, Alf shook each one by the hand and said, 'Good luck.' In their red shirts, the players then went along the tunnel and out onto the field, their entrance greeted by a deafening roar from the 97,000 capacity crowd. They were followed by Ramsey, who was wearing his blue England tracksuit, white socks and strange black semi-brogues. The presentations to the Queen and various other dignitaries went on for what seemed an interminable fifteen minutes, heightening the tautness of the players. There was a sense of relief when the referee, Gottfried Dienst of Switzerland, finally blew up for the start, with Alf looking stony-faced from the bench. The Germans soon saw the power of Hurst as he went up for a high ball and collided with the keeper Hans Tilkowski, leaving him badly winded. It was England, however, who in the 13th minute made the biggest early mistake. A long innocuous ball hit upfield by Siggi Held seemed to be going nowhere except out of play, when Ray Wilson inexplicably and uncharacteristically headed it straight into the path of Helmut Haller, whose tame shot was deflected off Bobby Moore and squeezed into the net between Jack Charlton and Gordon Banks. It was the first goal England had conceded in open play during the tournament, and, as Alf said later, the first error made by Ray Wilson in four years. 'I made a right bollocks,' he told me. 'I was back-pedalling and I could not get enough height on the ball to get it away. It was a poor header. I read now that the only thing the matter with Ray Wilson was that he was poor in the air. That is nonsense. I was brilliant in the air for a small man.'\n\nOn the bench, Alf's expression did not change. There were no histrionics, no scowls. In his certainty of victory, he later revealed he felt no great concern. 'I was not particularly worried when they scored their first. It was a bad goal defensively but these things do happen. It meant nothing in the fact that the Germans had not actually beaten the defence.' Alf's optimism was justified when, six minutes later, England were given a free-kick. Bobby Moore quickly took it and hit the ball into the penalty area, where Hurst, making another of his perfectly timed runs, nodded it into the corner. It was another goal made on the West Ham training ground. Alf still sat poker-faced on the sidelines. For the rest of the half, England looked increasingly dominant, mixing a short passing game in midfield with long crosses into the box. But after 45 minutes the score-line was still 1\u20131. In the dressing-room, Alf was as calm as ever during the interval. 'He agreed with our consensus that we should be winning,' says George Cohen. 'Alf's main concern was the mood of excessive optimism that seemed to have gripped the forwards. No doubt if a long shot had gone in, he would have been delighted, but he felt that we were giving away the ball too easily on such a sticky day. Retaining possession was one of his reigning principles.' He took Roger Hunt, who'd had a quiet game, aside for a word. As Roger Hunt recalls: 'Alf wanted to know what was going on and why I was not doing as I was told, pushing up on the German sweeper. I didn't actually blow up but I replied that I wasn't getting involved. Then Bobby Moore stepped in and said to leave it as it was.' As the players went out again, Alf gave them another word of encouragement, 'You're doing very well, but you can improve. And if you do, you will win the World Cup.'\n\nYet in the second half, England still struggled for a time to translate their ascendancy into goals. Only half-chances were presenting themselves. But with just 12 minutes remaining, Alan Ball, whose non-stop running was exhausting the German defence, took a corner. It reached Hurst, who fired a speculative shot from outside the penalty box. The ball spun off the boot of Horst Hottges, looped up in the air and as it fell to earth was met on the volley by Martin Peters. 2\u20131 to England. It seemed that England must win now. With four minutes to go, Alan Ball sent yet another superb pass through to Hunt, who raced towards goal and then laid it off for Bobby Charlton. But the great marksman scuffed it. 'Hunt's pass was too square and my shot too weak,' he said. As the hands on the clock ticked by, it did not seem to matter. England were still ahead with one minute left. Then West Germany were awarded a free-kick when Jack Charlton was deemed to have leant on Siggi Held. England for once seemed to lose their concentration, making a mess of the wall and the marking. Emmerich hit his kick into the area; it bounced around like a pinball before reaching Wolfgang Weber who side-footed it over the outstretched leg of Ray Wilson and the diving hands of Gordon Banks. 'Ray tackled fresh air, I grasped at nothing and the ball shot over both of us into the net,' recalls Banks. 2\u20132.\n\nAccording to Harold Shepherdson's stopwatch, there were just four seconds left from the restart. After just one kick from England, referee Dienst blew his whistle. Not since 1934 had the World Cup Final entered extra-time. Soaked in perspiration, their socks round their ankles, most of the England players slumped to the ground. Their morale had been broken. Bobby Charlton looked close to tears. 'We thought we'd blown it,' says Ray Wilson. Roger Hunt remembers:\n\n> I think we were all in shock. No one could believe what had happened. There was an immediate feeling of emptiness. We thought we had it won and then it was snatched away at the death. Stamina had always been one of my strongest suits but now I felt unbelievably tired.\n\n'It was like being pushed off Everest with just one stride to go to the top,' says Banks. As dejection, weariness and bewilderment spread through the team, the figure of Alf Ramsey could be seen striding purposely across the turf.\n\nIn the lives of most successful leaders, there is a single moment which can define the essence of their heroic stature. One statement or an action, usually made in the burning heat of crisis, can crystallize the qualities that made them triumph. For Alf Ramsey, that moment occurred at 4.50 pm on 30 July 1966, when he knew that what he said to his team could fix the destiny of the World Cup. The paradox was that Alf's chances of lifting his crestfallen players depended entirely on his ability to find the right words, yet all his life he had been fighting a running war with the English language. He was a man more renowned for his silence than his eloquence. Today, however, the fate of the great non-communicator depended on communication.\n\nAlf reached deep inside himself. Always more confident with footballers than anyone else, he found the words. This was to be his finest hour, when the power of his speech changed the mood of his team. He was resolute, defiant, inspirational. 'Get up, get up,' he said calmly as he arrived among his bedraggled troops. As they rose to their feet and gathered round, he looked them in the eye. 'Forget it. Forget what's just happened. You've been the better team. Look at the Germans.' The team glanced over at the white-shirted figures stretched out in the other half. 'Look at them. They're finished. They've had it. They're gone. Down on the grass. Having massages. Flat on their backs. You're fitter than them. They can't live with you, not for another half hour, not through extra-time.' And then he concluded with the immortal line, 'You've won the World Cup once. Now go out and win it again.'\n\nAlf's message transformed the atmosphere. Weariness was replaced by determination. The men had been made ready for battle once more. George Cohen says:\n\n> Perhaps we might have crumbled but for Alf. He was angry and magnificent in those spirit-dredging moments before extra-time. He was animated in a way we had never seen him before. Animated, urgent and emphatic. As he spoke, you could see little Bally's eyes shining and Nobby's redoubled determination and you could see a whole team's shoulders lifting at this confirmation of what they felt in their bones to be true.\n\nAlf had hit exactly the right tone, banishing any lingering sign of self-pity or resignation. 'Make no mistake,' recalled Hurst, 'if the wrong thing had been said during those tense seconds, we could have lost the Cup.' Even the normally detached Bobby Moore was won over. Moore had feared that there might be a note of recrimination for conceding a last-minute goal: 'If he'd gone on about that right then, he could have killed half our team stone dead. They were gutted enough as it was. You never know absolutely and for certain how people are going to react until the really big moment comes. Alf was unbelievably good.' Alf later explained that he had deliberately suppressed his anger as he marched onto the pitch:\n\n> I was absolutely furious. I knew exactly how many chances of scoring we had missed. But I knew that I must not show my anger. I also realized that I must not indicate either by word or expression the least degree of sympathy for the team because they had to go on playing. I knew they could do it; they knew they could do it. But even a casual 'hard luck' might have put doubt in their minds.\n\nThe thirty minutes of extra-time were Alf's justification as a manager. All the months of preparation, the long, hard hours in 'Stalag Lilleshall', paid off as England comprehensively outran the Germans, with Alan Ball setting a wonderful example in endeavour. 'I could have run until nightfall,' he says. It was Ball, typically, who provided the England breakthrough, chasing a long ball in the 100th minute, curling a low cross into Hurst, who pulled it down, turned and then shot, the ball hitting the underside of the crossbar and then bouncing down in the region of the goal-line. After consulting the Soviet linesman Tofik Bakhramov, the referee pointed to the centre spot, much to the Germans' angry despair. Whether Hurst's second goal should have actually been given has been debated ever since, and neither contemporary testimony nor modern technology has been able to settle the issue, though it does appear unlikely that the whole of ball crossed the line. Nevertheless, it stood. England were 3\u20132 ahead. Both sides were almost spent. Nobby Stiles told me of this incident with just eight minutes to go, which shows his depths of exhaustion:\n\n> I'll never forget it. I went on an overlap with Ballie. He was the best player on the park in that last period. He plays me a ball, just level with the six-yard box, and as I went to strike it, I felt my legs go whoosh. Honest to God, I'll never forget it, I thought I'd crapped myself. And the ball trickled off my foot. Everything had gone. I had nothing left. And I heard the crowd groan. But instantly Ballie was there, shouting, 'Move you bastard, move.' Honest to God, I felt like I was running in slow motion, like when you're in a dream and your legs are made of lead.\n\nWith just seconds remaining, Bobby Moore, still composed even after 120 minutes, took the ball deep in his own half. But instead of trying to 'belt the fucking thing' into the stands, as Jack Charlton was urging, he looked up, saw Geoff Hurst near the half-way line and hit him a beautifully weighted 40-yard pass, the sort that epitomized Alf during his playing days at Spurs. Hurst ran most of the German half, chased heroically by Wolfgang Overath, and then, with his last dreg of strength, hit the ball into the top left-hand corner. It was the final kick of the match. England were emphatically the world champions. Immediately, the crowd began to chant _'Ramsey, Ramsey'._\n\nBut the labourer's son from Dagenham remained impassive as tens of thousands of voices shouted his name. Even at the moment of Hurst's hat-trick, he had shown no sign of emotion, while all around him the England squad erupted with joy. His only words were, 'Sit down, Harold', directed at Shepherdson for obscuring his view of the goalmouth. Alf was the personification of the masculine ideal in Kipling's 'If', keeping his head while all around him were losing theirs. When Moore and his team had lifted the trophy, to an ecstatic roar from the crowd, Alf still refused to take part in the celebrations. They tried to persuade him to join in their lap of honour, but he refused, telling them, with more modesty than truth, 'This is your day. You have done this.' The journalist David Miller, in his excellent history of the summer of '66, wrote, 'It took my mind back to that spring day in 1963 when I had given him a lift back from Crystal Palace to catch his train home to Ipswich and he said self-effacingly, \"It's not my team, you know, it's England's team.\" ' George Cohen has this theory:\n\n> My own feeling was that Alf was mentally and emotionally done in. He was drained of everything he had because he had done what no one in the country believed he could. He had taken on the FA, handpicked his own players and been absolutely unswerving in his convictions. Everyone in the stadium was jumping about but he sat still, gazing into the middle distance. He had done, as one of his heroes once said, what a man had to do.\n\nIn fact, Alf was full of emotion at the moment of victory, but his extreme self-consciousness meant that he was incapable of showing it, as he later confessed: 'I realized I had to be sensible but inside I was completely drunk. I was dancing.'\n\nThere was one other member of the squad who displayed little joy: Jimmy Greaves. 'Even in this moment of triumph I felt a sickness in my stomach that I had not taken part in the match of a lifetime. It was my saddest day in football,' he later wrote. Instead of joining in the celebrations that night at the official banquet in central London, Greaves went home and got drunk. Alf told Moore that he felt Greaves had deliberately snubbed him, though Greaves said that was far from the case: 'I did not want to spoil his moment of glory by seeing the hurt in my eyes.'\n\nOnce his triumphant team had reached the dressing-room, Alf became more open. Ever the perfectionist, he lectured Bobby Charlton about giving away the ball: 'What the bloody hell do you think you were doing out there? Shooting when you should have been looking around for other people. We should have sewn it up,' he barked. As Charlton later told Ken Jones: 'You don't expect a rollicking after winning the World Cup. I mumbled something about the ball being wet, but Alf was in no mood for excuses; he never was.' Having got that off his chest, he then started to beam with pleasure and to congratulate the players fulsomely, as Geoff Hurst recalls:\n\n> He wandered about the dressing-room slapping players on the backside and grinning at them. This was a bit flamboyant for Alf, though by the time the press burst in twenty minutes later he was standing there accepting congratulations as calmly as though he'd just won third prize at a flower show.\n\nIndeed, Alf's equanimity in front of the press that afternoon was remarkable. Four years earlier, when Ipswich had won the title, he had merely said that he felt 'fine'. On 30 July 1966, he was no more excitable in front of the microphones and cameras. When asked to describe his feelings, he replied in his usual deadpan voice: 'I don't know. The tremendous desire to win the Cup rubbed off on the players. You have this tremendous feeling of satisfaction and I thought that extra-time might prove which team was the fitter.' Then a journalist asked him, 'You are the hottest property in football. You are the man who trained the World Champions. What about your future?' Alf replied, 'I have not thought about it. And when you said that I am the hottest man in football, that is certainly true, with all these lights in front of me.' The final, perhaps most revealing, exchange went:\n\n'Do you feel you have been misjudged, that there was any malice towards you?'\n\n'I am not sure there was any malice. Yes, I have been furious with people but if you carry these troubles on your shoulders, you'll get a stoop. I'll always remember that after a year at Ipswich, the chairman said to me, \"As a manager, you'll have to learn to grow a few extra skins.\" This I have done.'\n\nBut Alf was not going to let all the journalists off so lightly. As he walked out of Wembley, one of his more persistent critics, drunk with euphoria, said to him, 'Well done Alf, I always knew you would do it.' Alf fixed him with a cold glare: 'That's not what you said before the competition.'\n\nThe England squad went back to Hendon Hall to change into their formal suits. While they were there, they all drank a huge jeroboam of champagne which Alf had been given by a well-wisher. 'It was really terrific. We had a lot of laughter and fun before we piled into the coach,' he recalled. They then travelled to Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington, where the official banquet was held. London was in the mood for a gigantic party. Tens of thousands gathered round the fountains in Trafalgar or thronged the Royal Garden Hotel, while all along the route between Hendon and the West End, people cheered the England coach until they were hoarse. There had been nothing like it in the capital since VE Day. The little jig that Nobby Stiles danced at the end of the match perfectly captured the feeling of the country. Alf later gave this description of the coach trip:\n\n> Everywhere there were people lining the pavements and waving and shouting. There were more and more and more as we neared the centre of London. One man stood in the middle of the road with his arms in the air and ran towards us until we had to stop. Then he climbed up, put his head through a window and all he could say was, 'I love you all, I love you all.' It was about fifteen minutes before we could move on. He was quite a chap. Further along, our way was barred by a car parked slap across the road like a barricade and a young girl in a very bright red mini-skirt danced on top of it. And there was a public house with about forty customers outside; everyone one of them holding up a pint mug of beer in a toast. I felt the excitement then and there is nothing quite like it.\n\nAlf later told Nigel Clarke that out of the whole amazing day, these were the moments when he was at his happiest:\n\n> Alf never wanted to say much in public because of his shyness. But when the public did show him affection, he was genuinely, terribly moved by it. He said to me, 'I shall never, ever forget that journey. That meant as much to me as winning the match, the fact that our team had given so much happiness. That was the thrill.'\n\nAt the Royal Garden Hotel, Alf and the players appeared with the Jules Rimet trophy to greet the acclaim of the massive crowd. That prince of political opportunists, Harold Wilson, also muscled his way into the scene. 'The government wanted to milk the situation for all it was worth, with Harold Wilson out there blowing bubbles,' says Terry Paine. For the players themselves, the banquet was something of a dampener. Not only was it packed with FA officials and their hangers-on, the 'unnecessary' type that Alf despised, but, more depressingly, their own wives were not allowed to attend and were catered for in a separate dining room. It was a cruel, class-ridden act typical of the male-dominated conservative British establishment in the mid-sixties, and one that would be unthinkable today. Understandably, the players themselves thought it was a disgrace, having seen their spouses only once in the previous six weeks \u2013 as George Cohen jokes, 'after such a long period, even Jack Charlton starts to look attractive'. It was with some relief that they left the stuffy occasion and trooped off to venues like the Playboy Club and Danny La Rue's nightclub, though Jack Charlton \u2013 whose wife Pat was at home in Leeds expecting a baby \u2013 went out on a bender with the journalist Jimmy Mossop and ended up in a stranger's house in Leytonstone.\n\nThe Playboy Club was not exactly the sort of venue that would appeal to Alf. Instead, he stayed on the Royal Garden later than his players, chatting to some of the genuine football folk that he admired. It was not until two o'clock that he arrived back at Hendon Hall, where Vickie was waiting for him \u2013 she had gone there straight from Wembley. It was almost the first time he had seen her in two months. He and Vickie sat up talking and drinking for two more hours, and did not finally get to bed until about four. As he later revealed, Alf was not the automaton he was often portrayed as: 'We could not stop talking. I don't know what I thought as I lay in bed that night. I know I didn't sleep much. I can't remember my thoughts \u2013 they were just a jumble. I kept wondering if it were really true and if we really had done it.'\n\nIt was no dream. The next day Alf and Vickie, accompanied by Tanya, were the guests at a celebratory lunch organized by television company ATV at Elstree, at which the Jules Rimet trophy stood proudly in front of the top table. The rest of the England team attended and after the meal was over, Bobby Moore, all past differences forgotten, proposed a toast 'to the greatest manager in the World'. Alf looked suitably embarrassed. Later that afternoon he returned with Vickie to their modest house in Ipswich. As he arrived home, he was overwhelmed by total exhaustion. Having held himself together for so long under such remorseless pressure, he was unable to face the world. For seven days he cloistered himself with Vickie:\n\n> We put the telephone in a little room where it was difficult to hear it and we determined that we wouldn't answer it for a week. We probably lost a lot of calls we would have liked but it couldn't be helped. It was the only way we could get any peace. We could hear a faint buzz all day every day and there was a television team camped outside the door for 48 hours but we didn't want to see anyone. We opened letters and enjoyed reading them together and answering them. When there wasn't anybody about we went out. It wasn't too difficult.\n\nIt was typical of Alf that he should retreat into seclusion after masterminding the greatest triumph in the history of British sport. But one footballer, Peter Osgood, who was to play for England in the next World Cup, had this prophetic insight: 'I remember thinking as I watched Alf's amazing self-restraint during the celebrations after the game, \"Enjoy it, Alf, because it doesn't get any better than this.\" '\n\n# [ELEVEN  \n _Florence_](004-toc.html#ch11)\n\nTwo incidents that took place on the Sunday after the World Cup Final illustrate the contradictions of Alf's character. The first occurred just before the ATV lunch at Elstree, when Alf arrived with Vickie and Tanya. As Alf walked towards the studios, he was approached by three journalists: Ken Jones of the _Daily Mirror,_ Brian James of the _Daily Mail_ and Clive Toye of the _Daily Express._ This trio had been Alf's most loyal advocates in the press over the previous three years. When all the rest were sneering at his promise to win the World Cup, they were defending him. They had understood, far better than anyone else in the media, what Alf was trying to achieve. So, not without some justification, they believed that Alf might reciprocate their support. Ken Jones was the first to speak,\n\n'Well done, Alf. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?'\n\nAlf's reply was perverse in the extreme, given that he was dealing with his three most loyal voices in the press: 'Sorry, it's my day off, and I've been working for nine weeks.'\n\nJones pointed out that they had been working just as hard. Vickie, standing nearby, rolled her eyes, a gesture that seemed to make Alf relent.\n\n'All right, just a few minutes then.'\n\nLater that day, Alf, Vickie, the players and their wives were taken to a small theatre at Elstree to watch a Path\u00e9 news film of the World Cup Final. The team, of course, were engrossed in the footage, reliving England's glory, but Kay Stiles, wife of Nobby, saw a discreet gesture from Alf which showed him at his most chivalrous:\n\n> Kay noticed that early in the running of the film, Alf got up and went to the elderly lady usherette who had shown us all to our seats. She was standing to one side. All the seats had been taken. Alf took her by the hand and led her to his seat. He watched the rest of the film standing up.\n\nThe quality that helped him become such a great manager, his rare combination of passion and detachment, could also make him appear contradictory. Alf could either be graceless or charming, well-mannered or hostile, depending on his mood and the situation. During England's visit to New York in 1964, before the Little World Cup, the team was staying in the Waldorf Hotel and the US team boss Joe Barriskill was waiting to be introduced to him. After he had sat there for 20 minutes, Alf appeared. But he barely acknowledged Barriskill, sweeping past him with the single phrase, 'Hot, ain't it?' On the other hand, Alf's former tailor in Ipswich, Peter Little, tells this story which illustrates Alf's courtesy and modesty, even after he had won the World Cup. 'I came back from lunch one day to my premises to find two men on the landing, both of them wanting fittings. One was Sir Alf. The other was a young man for whom I was going to make a wedding suit. I went up the stairs and said, \"Oh gentlemen, I am very sorry for keeping you waiting there.\"\n\n\"That's quite all right. We have not been here very long,\" said Sir Alf. So I unlocked the doors to my office. But I was in a terrible dilemma, wondering which of them should go first. So I decided to let them decide.\n\n\"Gentlemen, to whom should I give the first fitting?\"\n\nThe young man said, \"Sir Alf Ramsey was here before me.\"\n\nAlf said, \"I have finished my work for the day. No doubt you have to get back to yours. You should have the first fitting.\"\n\nBoy did that stick in my mind. Sir Alf Ramsey waited in my foyer while the young man was fitted. How many others would have done that? But Sir Alf was that sort of man. I said to him afterwards, \"That was very nice of you.\"\n\n\"It was absolutely fine.\" '\n\nThe journalist Brian Glanville, who was never a Ramsey enthusiast, was working in Italy in 1962, soon after Alf had been appointed England manager. Through his work there, he had grown close to Gerry Hitchens, the former Aston Villa centre-forward who was playing for Inter Milan and had recently appeared for England in the 1962 World Cup. When Ipswich were playing AC Milan in the European Cup, Hitchens went with Glanville to see the game, partly because he wanted to remind the new national boss of his presence.\n\n'Must say hallo to Alf and wish good luck to the lads,' he told Glanville. So Hitchens went down to the Ipswich dressing-room.\n\n'Hallo, Alf.'\n\n'Oh yes,' said Alf condescendingly. 'You're playin' in these parts.'\n\nAs Glanville recorded: 'Gerry couldn't get over it. He sat beside me during the match in which, under teeming rain, Ipswich were thrashed 4\u20130, muttering, \"Prat! Prat! Playin' in these parts.\" He never played for England again.' Stan Cullis, the iron manager of the great Wolves side of the fifties, also complained that Alf could appear witheringly condescending. 'One has the feeling when talking to him that he is a brilliant mathematics professor explaining a mundane problem to one of his duller pupils.'\n\nOnce more, however, England youth coach Wilf McGuinness and Neil Phillips, England's doctor after 1966, tell of a very different side of Alf during the World Cup. After Lilleshall, Phillips and McGuinness had gone back to their respective jobs, as a Middlesbrough GP and an Old Trafford trainer respectively. But just after the semi-final, they were both surprised to receive a call from Alf, fulfilling his promise made at Lilleshall to ask them down to Wembley for the Final. 'With everything else that was going on,' says Neil Phillips, 'for him to remember that he told Wilf and I four weeks previously that we would be invited down to Wembley was unbelievable.' Today McGuinness confesses:\n\n> I worship Alf. I found him such a thoughtful man, especially what he did for me in the World Cup. He phoned me up and asked me and my wife to come down for the final. My job was to look after the players' wives and on the Friday night we all went off to see the West End musical _Charlie's Girl_ with Joe Brown \u2013 it was bloody awful. But Alf insisted I be with the players, have breakfast with them on the Saturday and come into the dressing-room after the game. Alf was much warmer than his public image. I found him very caring about the people who worked for him.\n\nAlf could be sensitive, as when Gordon Banks' father died during an England trip to South America in 1969 and Alf made the arrangements for Gordon to fly home for the funeral. 'Alf was very understanding. He offered me comfort and condolence. He was a fabulous guy.' When Alan Ball was sent off against Poland in Katowice, Alf showed him nothing but sympathy. 'He sat up half the night with me. He realized how distraught I was. He just knocked on the door and he was there. He knew how I felt and he did something to ease it. A marvellous man.' But even with footballers he knew well, he could be hurtful, as Eddie Baily, his old colleague from Spurs, recalls:\n\n> I did not see Alf for a period of time until he won the World Cup. At one stage I was in a restaurant at Wembley and Alf came through. I was rather disappointed in him that day because he never came up to me and said, 'How are you going?' I would not say that he ignored me but he gave me nothing more than a nod. He had been my mate for years at Spurs. I think he was carried away by whatever was going on around him and he had a different group of people with him. Years passed, and I would excuse it, but I must admit I was a bit disappointed in him that day.\n\nAt Ipswich he could be caring on one occasion, distant the next. When the club held a dinner at the Savoy Hotel in London to celebrate winning the League, Alf insisted that all the staff be invited, including the youth players and even two old-age pensioners who swept the ground. 'I don't care that other clubs only invite the players. Everyone's coming to our dinner. If they don't, then I won't go,' he announced. Yet Pat Godbold, the manager's secretary, has this memory of Alf's unsociable side:\n\n> Jackie Milburn had taken over as manager and was talking to one of our staff, Freddie Blake, when Alf drove into the ground. 'Look, there's Alf, he'll probably come over and talk to the boys.'\n> \n> 'He won't, you know,' said Freddie.\n> \n> And Alf didn't.\n\nGeoff Hurst left this description of Alf's behaviour at Lilleshall:\n\n> His attitude to visitors was curious. People in football, managers, coaches and some journalists, were greeted in a friendly enough manner. Alf would soon be sitting down with them talking about the game, nothing else. But the others, the officials, the foreigners, the people outside the game, would be greeted with very correct respect, dealt with efficiently and politely, then edged smilingly on their way. I doubt whether they would have been made to feel like long lost brothers exactly.\n\nIt was the press who probably felt most keenly his enigmatic, contradictory nature. As Mike Langley of the _Sun_ put it: 'He is rude and polite. He is uncommunicative and a great talker. He's deep and straightforward. He's aloof and friendly. He's relentless and relaxed.' His natural suspicion was tempered by good \u2013 if fluctuating \u2013 personal relations with several leading journalists. Ken Jones, who was at the receiving end of his rudeness at ATV, gave me several examples of Alf's personal kindness:\n\n> In the summer of 1973, the England team were making two trips to Eastern Europe, first to Czechoslovakia and then to Poland and Russia. We had only been back a day in Czechoslovakia when my father died. So I obviously cancelled the trip to Poland and I flew out to Moscow after the funeral. It was a sunny day and I was sitting on the steps of the hotel in Moscow. Alf came up to me:\n> \n> 'I was very sorry to hear about your father.'\n> \n> He was very comforting, sympathetic, though he had so much else on his mind. On another occasion, my oldest daughter Lesley was desperately ill with a burst appendix and peritonitis, and the doctors feared that she might not live. I was due to take a trip to Madrid with England at the time but I had to cancel that. And Lesley came through the crisis when she responded to penicillin. My wife suggested that I go to Madrid to take my mind off it. So I flew to Madrid and got to the hotel just before the England team were leaving for the ground. I saw Alf in the courtyard of the hotel and he gestured to me to come over:\n> \n> 'Why are you here?'\n> \n> 'I've come to see the game.'\n> \n> 'You should be at home. There are more important things in life than football.'\n> \n> It turned into a sort of mild bollocking. But that is the sort of caring person he could be, unlike so many other managers, who just live in their own hermetically sealed world.\n\nBrian James was another who saw the friendlier side of Alf most of the time:\n\n> He was always a mixture of shyness and self-confidence. He never enjoyed being in the public eye but I rarely found him unco-operative. I could not understand why people were always complaining about how horrible he was. Like in the 1970 World Cup, he allowed a British press team to play against England, though I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life when I shouted, 'Don't worry about fuckin' Hurstie, I've got him,' just as Bobby Moore passed Geoff the ball. Geoff went straight through me and it took about twenty minutes to re-assemble the pieces. So Alf was not difficult there. I got quite close to him in the 1974 World Cup, after his sacking, when we were both staying in the same hotel on the outskirts of Frankfurt. We used to have breakfast together and he was always very polite. He was reasonable company, never a bundle of laughs but always interesting about football. He had an amazing knowledge of the world game and could give insights into almost every player in the tournament.\n\nBut James could also find him exasperating, writing in the _Mail_ in 1973 after a difficult tour of Europe:\n\n> The writers do not know what he is trying to achieve with his teams for he seldom theorises and never explains. Equally, he is so absorbed in his own function that he simply does not pretend to comprehend the pressmen's pre-occupation with deadlines, communications or their nagging necessity to have something fresh to write about every day.\n\nBrian Glanville of the _Sunday Times_ once saw a playful side of Ramsey:\n\n> I recall sitting in a railway compartment with him and several other reporters. 'I don't know why you telephone me,' he said and went round the carriage. 'I never telephone you, I never telephone you, I never telephone you' \u2013 till it came to myself \u2013 'you never telephone _me_!'\n\nWhen he was a starting out as a journalist with the _Daily Mail,_ Jeff Powell had this exchange with Alf outside Hendon Hall during the 1966 World Cup.\n\n> Alf was quite fun to have around. You could have your jousts with him but you had to be prepared to give as good as you got. The first time I spoke to him was after Bobby Moore had hinted to me that there might be a slight fitness problem with Bobby Charlton. So just as the players were boarding the team bus, I went up to him.\n> \n> 'Mr Ramsey?'\n> \n> 'Yes.'\n> \n> 'I'm Jeff Powell from the _Daily Mail._ I wonder if I could have a minute.' Alf looked at his watch.\n> \n> 'It's now down to 50 seconds.'\n> \n> 'There is a thought that Bobby Charlton might be injured.'\n> \n> 'Is there? I never discuss the injuries or personal situations of my players. We are now going to the cinema.' And off the bus went.\n\nYet, because of his defensiveness, Alf's career was littered with less friendly altercations. Alf himself admitted, when he had long been in retirement: 'I probably did not do too well with the media. I made a lot of enemies, although it may well be that some of them were intentional. But if I had my life over again I think I might do better in that department.' Once, during a row with Eric Cooper, the _Daily Express's_ 'Voice of the North', Alf stood up from his seat, started to take off his jacket and invited Cooper to step outside. Cooper declined the offer. In January 1966, Alf travelled to London to give a television interview about the draw for the World Cup. The TV company sent a representative to meet him at Liverpool Street Station and take him to the studio. As Alf came down the platform from his train, the young man went anxiously up to him.\n\n'Excuse me, are you Alf Ramsey? 'What's that got to do with you?'\n\nThe _Guardian_ and _Sunday Telegraph_ writer John Moynihan was travelling to Sheffield by train to watch Wednesday play Everton, a game in which the Everton winger Derek Temple, on the verge on England honours, was likely to be prominent. Moynihan entered the restaurant car and was surprised to find that Alf was the only other guest:\n\n> As the landscape turned into the industrial tattoo of the north, Ramsey gazed out of the window at the fields and factories, giving the waiter a slightly embarrassed smile when he was recognized. I asked Mr Ramsey if it was indeed Temple he was going to see. He looked up at me as if I was mad. The coffee cups tinkled and tried to sprint across his table. He looked just as edgy. 'Could be,' he said in a slightly refined tone. 'Now, if you'll excuse me.' He rose and walked away towards his compartment. 'That's Alf Ramsey,' said the dining-car attendant. 'I know,' I said.\n\nElsewhere, Moynihan wrote that Alf's 'cold, withdrawn expression, as impersonal and mysterious and vaguely hostile as a duty officer marching up to inspect a fire piquet, hides a burning fanaticism and surely a trace of anxiety'.\n\nWhile England were winning in the sixties, Alf's relations with the press were largely an irrelevance to his position. Results gave him a wall of protection. But once the tide turned in 1970, he grew more vulnerable to criticism and hence even more hostile. A classic example of this prickliness occurred at the press conference on his return from the Mexico World Cup, when he was asked about his dealings with the media. Visibly angry, his nostrils flaring, he spat out his words:\n\n> Have I been rude to you at press conferences? Can anyone turn round and say to me that I have been rude to them? Tell me what approach has been made. It seems to me that I am told I am rude, yet I am treated with rudeness. They stick their faces in front of me. They stick these microphones in front of me, yet I am being rude. I don't think there has ever been a word invented to describe some of the mannerisms I have been confronted with. Yet I am rude.\n\nLittle wonder that Bobby Charlton, one of Alf's greatest admirers, described his public relations as 'pretty diabolical'.\n\nBecause of his xenophobia, Alf could be even colder with foreign journalists. During an England tour of Latin America in 1969, Alf was at a party in Montevideo, when he was introduced by a British reporter to a cultivated Brazilian writer.\n\n'You know Jose Werneck, Alf, don't you?'\n\n'Yes, he's a pest.'\n\nIt was remarks like that which led the _Sunday Times_ to comment that 'on his travels, the England manager is liable to seem more like Alf Garnett than Alf Ramsey,' drawing a parallel between Alf and the notorious cockney bigot created by the TV writer Johnny Speight.\n\nIt was Bryon Butler, one of the most respected journalists in British football, who said that 'at best Alf could tolerate journalists, at worst he would cut them off at the knees'. But Butler believed that this attitude was born out of an underlying shyness. Rob Hughes of the _Sunday Times_ has this analysis:\n\n> He frightened the life out of me. He answered my questions but he had no warmth at all. The wall between him and us was almost unbreachable. It would be almost impossible for him to do the job today, trying to shut the door on the whole media. Before he was ill, a foreign journalist had to do a story for his paper. I said to him, 'I'll tell you where Alf lives in Ipswich, but that is the furthest you'll get.' So he went along, knocked on the door, spoke to Lady Ramsey, who invited him in, spent three hours with him, showed him some scrapbooks. And just as he was leaving, he heard a sound in another room. He realized that Alf was there and he said, 'Can I speak to him?'\n> \n> 'No, no, he's far too shy with foreigners.'\n> \n> So he never got the interview. He only got the ambience of the home and place, and this delightful woman, and there was Alf in the back room, presumably with his ear pressed against the door. He was a man of his time. Not one player ever complains about being mistreated by Alf. It is the press who complain.\n\nPart of the reason for this contradiction was that Alf's instinctive diffidence was combined with his overwhelming devotion to football. He had such strongly held feelings about the game, such deeply fixed ideas, that he could not tolerate what he regarded as sloppy or ill-conceived opinions, especially from those who had never played international or professional football. At such moments, his politeness came into conflict with his intensity. Hugh McIlvanney has a good illustration of this:\n\n> Alf liked a drink and he could get quite bitter when he was arguing about football. He liked to go to war. He was always utterly convinced of his case \u2013 and with good reason: he was a great manager in any sense. My biggest row with him was after a Sportsman of the Year lunch in Fleet Street and Alf was about to get a train back to Ipswich. I knew Alf was seething with me about something I had written criticizing his relationship with the press. I disliked the way Alf picked and chose who he'd talk to, though they all do that; I mean Bobby Robson was always with Bob Harris, a great big blunderbuss of a man. So this time I knew Alf had been saving up for this row. He was getting very worked up and said:\n> \n> 'How many caps did you ever win?'\n> \n> 'Alf, I was never within light years of a cap. No one respects experience more than I do \u2013 but experience is only relevant in relation to the intelligence which is exposed to the experience. If you send a turnip round the world, it will still come back a fucking turnip, not an expert in geography.'\n> \n> 'Words, words, words.'\n> \n> 'Alf, you'll find that they are very handy if you want to say something.'\n> \n> That was about as bitter as it got. It was sharp, but did not become anything silly.\n\nAnother problem was his insecurity. He had diligently constructed an outward image, with refined voice and immaculate appearance, to protect himself. But when he felt that his armour of civility was being punctured by a well-educated journalist or FA official, he would react with brusqueness. He was always more relaxed with footballers because he felt no social threat from them. This is why Alf remained such an intensely private man, happy only in management or domesticity or the provinciality of Ipswich. Venturing beyond these confines brought risks to his self-esteem. Early in his England career, he and Vickie considered buying a house in London nearer Lancaster Gate, but he eventually rejected the idea, fearing he would always be ill-at-ease in the more sophisticated atmosphere of the capital. At heart, for all his polished veneer, he was still the rural Dagenham lad. 'I can't accept that people on newspapers, on radio and on TV have the right to criticise me as a private person,' he said in 1970. 'I value privacy enormously and it is fortunate that I can go virtually unmolested in Ipswich, where we have been living for the last fifteen years. I am accepted there. I can walk out in the street without anyone worrying me. They are used to me.' To further protect his privacy, Alf put his phone number ex-directory and grew a high hedge at the front of his Ipswich semi-detached house. 'Occasionally we see coaches stop outside our house and go slowly past the windows. We get a lot of people peering in, but it doesn't worry us because they don't see us anyway.'\n\nWorld Cup glory did not bring the slightest alternation in Alf's character. He relished victory for its own sake, not for any kudos it brought him. 'In football, he's obviously changed, because from a player to a manager the responsibility is so much greater. But personally and around the home, no, he has not changed at all,' said Vickie in 1969. Luxuries were of no interest to him. The FA awarded him a bonus of \u00a36,000 for winning the World Cup, and he used the money to pay off the mortgage on their house in Valley Road, though he also had to pay a crippling tax bill of \u00a33,350 on the sum, which would have done nothing to undermine his innate conservatism. Away from football, he and Vickie led a very quiet existence, partly because he had few interests outside sport and the idea of a hectic social life repelled him. He revealed in an interview in 1967:\n\n> I always make a point of being home on Sunday. I am away so much that I feel that my wife should be able to rely on me being home for one day a week; this is the least I can do. When I am there we don't do anything very much. She is fond of gardening and I am not; but I like to see a garden tidy. We potter about together.\n\nDuring the week, unless he was involved in a match, Alf would generally commute back to Ipswich in the early evening. 'The best part of the day is the first half-hour when I get home. Then we have a drink, generally a glass of sherry, and we sit in armchairs and talk.' Inevitably, football was usually the subject. 'My wife knew nothing about football when we first met but she takes a tremendous interest in it and now she has certainly more knowledge than the average fan,' he said in 1967. Like many shy people, Alf found it easier to demonstrate affection for his dog than for most humans. His beloved pet was a little dachshund called Rusty, which he took for long walks around Ipswich and the local golf club. 'I didn't like dogs before we had him, but he's a lovely little fellow. He hasn't a bad thought in him,' he told the _Dagenham Post_ in 1971. Alf's fondness for Rusty meant that his favourite newspaper was the _Daily Mail,_ because of the Fred Bassett cartoons.\n\nWhen he and Vickie went on holiday in the summer, it was generally to Majorca or Kyrenia in Cypus. Alan Odell, who was in charge of the International Section at the FA, remembers Alf's fondness for the latter resort:\n\n> On Alf's recommendation, my wife and I used to go to Kyrenia. The first time we went, our holiday overlapped with Alf's and we shared some evening meals together. He and Vickie went there a lot because it was quiet and peaceful and not many people knew who he was, which is what he liked. He hated to be hounded by the press or the public. He did not enjoy the trappings of fame at all.\n\nIn London, he would occasionally go to a good restaurant, though usually for the purposes of work. Ken Jones recalls:\n\n> When he had a tie-up with the _Sunday Mirror_ I would take him out to lunch at the Eccentric Club in St James. Some of the members were extremely eccentric but Alf liked it because the members would not bother him; he would not be pestered. He never had any small talk. It was always football. I never heard him express a political view. Over lunch, he liked a gin and tonic and some wine. He loved a glass of port. He was always immaculately turned out: waistcoat or three-piece suit, shiny shoes. He was always very proper. I'll never forget the time we were coming out of the Eccentric Club one day and a very smartly dressed man with a walking stick shuffled up to him.\n> \n> 'I say, it's Ramsey, isn't it?'\n> \n> 'Yes it is.'\n> \n> 'Ramsey, I saw you play in the 1927 FA Cup Final. Good luck to you, sir.'\n\nThe receipt of a knighthood in the New Year's Honours in 1967 did not change Alf either. A genuinely unassuming man, he debated with Vickie for some days as to whether to accept it. But eventually, he decided to accept, convincing himself that it was an honour for the whole of the game. Besides, it was not very likely that Alf Ramsey, the conservative patriot, would turn down the Queen. Alf was only the second professional England footballer in history to be knighted, after Stanley Matthews in 1965. 'I shall clobber the first player who calls me Sir Alfred on a football pitch. I accepted this honour because the fact that somebody else in the game is now a \"Sir\" should lift the whole of football a little bit,' he said. For his visit to the Palace, Alf was determined that he should adopt absolutely the correct morning attire, so he went to his tailor Peter Little for advice. Little then approached Moss Bros and the official trade organization Tailor and Cutter, and they both came back with the same written instructions as to what Alf should wear. As Little recalls:\n\n> They wrote to say that although Sir Alf might feel he was not dressed properly, this in fact was true sartorial correctness. What Alf wore were the usual striped trousers and black tail jacket, but two things were different: first, a black waistcoat, not a silver one, and second, a black silk hat not a grey one. We had to practise a few times with the top hat \u2013 it had to be worn exactly the right way, not at a jaunty angle. At the final fitting, just before he left for the Palace, he said to me, 'You know that letter from Moss Bros. Can I have it for my top pocket, so I can touch it when I get there and see all the others dressed differently? I can tap it and think I am dressed properly.' That is the way Alf was. He wanted everything done correctly. And the day went off perfectly. All the headlines said he was 'immaculate'.\n\nPeter Little, a gold-medal winning tailor, has several other interesting memories of Alf, including details of his dimensions:\n\n> I made suits for him for about ten years. Alf had a difficult figure. He was powerful on top, a big-square-shouldered man with a great chest and big chunky legs. I still have his measurements from the mid-sixties: 42-inch chest, 37-waist and 44-inch hips. The thing about Alf was that he liked turn-ups on his trousers, though I tried to persuade him not to have them. When he asked why, I explained to him, 'Because you have not got very long legs, and our height is really determined by the length of our legs. So if you have turn-ups it tends to give an illusion of a shorter leg.' He also liked a centre-vent in the back of his suit. I told him that this was quite old-fashioned, more in keeping with a sports jacket or an old hacking jacket. But that's what he wanted. I would have said he was a shy man, but he was such a gentleman he commanded automatic respect. I never had to tell Alf anything. There are some people who don't know how to wear clothes. Alf was not one of them. He was wonderful to work with. He relied on me in the sense that if I said, 'Shall we take a quarter of an inch off the sleeves,' he would just say, 'If you're happy, then I'm happy.' I did not have many clients like that. Others were far more demanding. Some of our fittings would take about half an hour and we would have a chat \u2013 usually about football. He was very good with my two boys if they came into the workshop, signing autographs and such. He gave them one of his World Cup badges. This man, Alf Ramsey, he was my hero, I just loved him so much.\n\nFor a knight of the realm and a World Cup winner, the depth of Alf's modesty was astonishing. He never put on any airs, never revelled in his position. On Wednesday afternoons he regularly visited his elderly mother Florence, who continued to live in Parrish Cottages in Halbutt Street after the death of Alf's father in January 1966. Like her son, Mrs Ramsey guarded her privacy even after his success. Maintaining her frugal lifestyle, she shunned the limelight, and never gave interviews or attended football functions. One neighbour of Alf's from Dagenham, Joyce Rushbrook, remembers: 'I worked in a clothes shop near Halbutt Street and would see Alf most Wednesday afternoons as he waited for the bus to go back to the railway station. He would stand there, in his fawn raincoat, and he always looked quiet, respectful. You would not have known how famous he was.' Ken Jones recalls that Alf was not too proud to get his hands dirty:\n\n> I was giving him a lift back from Manchester Airport when I got a flat tyre. That did not faze Alf at all. We got out, he jacked up the car and changed the wheel at the side of the road. That is not something you could imagine Alf doing but he thought nothing of it. That's the way he was, very modest.\n\nAlf's own office at Lancaster Gate reflected his asceticism. It was a small, bare-walled room, without a single cup, souvenir or photograph. Apart from a desk and a chair, all it contained were some newspapers and back copies of FIFA reports.\n\nAlf may have frequently clashed with journalists and officials, with whom he felt under constant scrutiny, but his own staff within the FA testify to his essential decency. Margaret Fuljames, n\u00e9e Bruce, was his secretary for many years at Lancaster Gate, earning just \u00a311 a week when she started in 1967:\n\n> I worked directly with Alf, doing all his correspondence and paperwork. He was brilliant to work for, absolutely brilliant. He was lovely. I cannot tell you how nice he was. He was reserved, quite old-fashioned, but ever so thoughtful. He would come in, sit down and have a little chat with me. When the team was abroad, he would send me a postcard. When I was getting married, he gave me a cheque as a wedding present, which I thought was brilliant. He answered every single piece of correspondence, unlike dear old Joe Mercer, who came in afterwards and would just glance at some of them and say, 'Oh, bin those.' Alf sometimes dictated letters, but would more usually handwrite them out. I have to say that his handwriting was not very easy to read. He was well-organized. I never knew him to miss an appointment. You always knew where you were with Alf because he was so calm, whatever he was doing. People were in awe of him but he was really very modest. My brother once saw him at a restaurant in Liverpool Street. So, after a little hesitation, he went in and spoke to Alf, explaining that I was his sister. And he later told me that Alf was really nice and polite. But Alf was a very strong man. If he did not like someone, he would leave no doubt in your mind about it.\n\nDavid Barber, now the FA's chief historian, with over 100 book titles to his credit, started work as an \u00a38.60-a-week clerk in the FA's international section in 1970. At the time the FA was still a slim-line operation, with only around 30 staff, compared with 250 today. Barber recalls:\n\n> Alf used to come in Monday to Thursday by train from Ipswich, getting the tube from Liverpool Street to Lancaster Gate. He would arrive about ten and I would make his tea, which he always had in a pale green cup. He would then read all the papers. We would get the regional ones as well so Alf could check on the scores and see who was doing well. Right from the start, I was not in the slightest bit overawed by him. He was very down to earth. He was the most famous man in football at the time, but he treated me like a colleague, not an office boy. He was uncomfortable with the press and FA Council members, but with people like me, who worked with him on a daily basis, he could not have been more friendly. He was well-organized but he was not a paperwork sort of person. The only piece of paper I ever actually saw written by Alf would be the squad, which he would handwrite out in pencil and then give to us so we could officially inform the press by letter. One thing I remember about him was that he walked very slowly. I always thought he looked a bit like Jack Benny who walked serenely across the stage. There was an air of grandeur about it.\n\nDavid Barber's immediate boss, the man in charge of the International Section, was Alan Odell:\n\n> I always equated my role to that of a secretary at a football club, with my club the England team. Alf was obviously responsible for picking the team and training, while I was responsible for the administration: the hotel bookings, flights, liaison with the other associations and so on. It was more difficult in those days before modern communications, especially dealing with the Eastern Bloc countries, who could take weeks or even months to respond to a letter or cablegram. From 1969, I travelled with Alf all the time. The FA was not flush with money, so we always went by scheduled flights, never by charter. He was very meticulous and a good organizer, though I would not have said that he was demanding. He just told us what he wanted and we got on with it. He was always very appreciative. He would say thank you to everyone for anything they had done. He was well-liked in the FA offices, though he was not a big mixer. I would say that he did not make friends easily. Anyone he met, he initially treated with a bit of reserve or suspicion. On away trips, the FA staff would share a table with Alf. He enjoyed a drop of wine or a glass of brandy. Football was the great passion of his life. I don't think he was interested in anything else apart from that and his family. I never heard him say anything about current affairs, though there was so much happening at the time: strikes, Northern Ireland, the Vietnam War. He certainly could swear. He had quite a good turn of phrase and would sometimes fly back into Dagenham talk. He was not a good public speaker, mainly because he detested the press, apart from one or two journalists, like Ken Jones.\n\nAlf's problem at the FA was not with the staff but with the councillors, whom he treated with disdain. Alan Odell says:\n\n> He felt that most of the Council were a bit of a waste of space. He did not have much time for them and did not think much of their knowledge about football. And I supposed they resented the way he had taken away their power.\n\nDavid Barber thinks that much of Alf's attitude was justified, given the incompetence and irresponsibility of many of the FA's leading figures. 'We used to send out the agenda for the international committee meetings and once Maggie Bruce accidentally stapled a copy of a _Woman's Own_ article to the papers of Len Shipman, the Leicester City Chairman. He did not even notice. We called J.W. Bowers 'Jumping Jack'. I once had to spend the night in his flat in Wanstead because he got so drunk at an amateur game at Vicarage Road that I had to take him home in a taxi. Dick Wragg was a terrible scrounger. Very jolly, friendly, but always going to banquets and receptions where he could get pally with foreign dignitaries. Denis Follows, the Secretary of the FA, was known as Big D. He was a throwback to an earlier age. He was like a schoolmaster and we were his pupils.\n\nIn fact, the FA's contempt for its staff was reflected, not just in the dismal rates of pay, but also in other offensive gestures. Neil Phillips, the England doctor, is scathing about the attitudes that prevailed:\n\n> Even after 1966 we were treated as upstarts who did not know anything. Alf's relationship with Denis Follows was awful from the start. There was so much petty jealousy in the FA. The conflict went on all the time and it was just ridiculous. It stemmed from the central problem that Alf had been used to running the whole show at Ipswich but then found at the FA that lots of things were being kept from him. And Denis Follows took great delight in keeping it that way. To give you one indication of what was wrong, several months after we had won the World Cup, Alf, Les, Harold and myself were in the bowels of the FA putting away some England kit. Alf pointed to some blue, goldcrested boxes on the shelves and then, moments later, Denis Follows came in.\n> \n> 'Denis, what's in those blue boxes?' he asked.\n> \n> 'Oh, those are the table mats we had made for the World Cup.'\n> \n> 'What table mats? I didn't know there were any table mats.'\n> \n> 'Oh yes, Alf. We had aerial photographs taken of all the World Cup grounds in England and then we had them made into table mats. And we had drink coasters made as well to match them. In each box, there are eight place settings.'\n> \n> 'Can I see a box?'\n> \n> 'Yes, of course.'\n> \n> So Denis got down a box. And inside there were these absolutely magnificent colour photographs sealed into the mats. They were superb. There must have been more than a hundred of these boxes on the shelves. So Alf said,\n> \n> 'Could you give each member of my staff a set?'\n> \n> 'Oh no, Alf, you and your staff don't qualify. These mats are only for the directors of the Football Association and visiting dignitaries. You can't have any.'\n> \n> That was that.\n\nRemarkably, Dr Neil Phillips was not even paid a penny by the FA for his work as team doctor. During the 1970 World Cup, he had to take unpaid leave to join the England team in Mexico. He got \u00a32 a day in expenses, so his 42 days brought in \u00a384. But he also had to employ a locum in his practice, for which the FA promised to pay the wages but failed to do so promptly:\n\n> In the fourth week out in Mexico, my wife rang me up and said, 'We have a problem. I have paid out four weeks' salary to the locum but I have not received anything yet from the FA, even though I have sent them the receipts.' So I had to ring up the FA to make sure my wife was not destitute while I was away.\n\nPhillips reveals that Alf, towards the end of his reign, grew fed up with this absurd, unpaid situation and approached the FA Chairman, Andrew Stephen, demanding a change:\n\n> On an England tour in 1973, I saw Alf and Andrew Stephen huddled in a corner. Alf beckoned me to go and join them.\n> \n> 'Neil, Alf has been telling me he thinks you should get a salary for the England team job.'\n> \n> 'Yes, that's right, I've discussed it with Alf.'\n> \n> 'But Neil, even if we paid you \u00a330,000 a year, you could not do a better job than you are doing now. So why should we pay you?'\n> \n> There's no answer to that.\n\nAnd Phillips never did receive a salary until he left the job in disillusion when Revie took over.\n\nThe FA's bizarre attitude to money was further demonstrated by the fact it made a profit of over \u00a33 million from the 1966 World Cup, yet handed over most of this to the Treasury. There was a bonus of just \u00a322,000 for the 22-strong squad, which the players decided to split evenly, ending up with just \u00a31,000 a man, a sum further eroded by the 80 per cent supertax rate. 'I told my father I was never going to vote Labour again,' says Alan Ball.\n\nIt is little wonder that Alf, with all his insecurities, felt no affinity with the FA's rulers. And he could make his annoyance explicit when he wanted. After Alan Mullery was sent off during a pre-World Cup tour in Mexico in 1969, three FA councillors had a meeting with Alf and one of them, Sid Collings, asked if he might have a report on the incident in writing. Alf blithely said, 'No' and then, looking over at Denis Follows, continued: 'He's the secretary. He can deal with your report.' Francis Lee, the Manchester City striker, recalls that that\n\n> one thing Alf liked was putting the FA in their place, if he got the chance. The blazer brigade used to come into the dressing-room before the game. When I made my debut against Bulgaria in 1968, I was Number 7 and Nobby Stiles was Number 6. Nobby had just put his boots on and gone to the toilet. And this guy from the FA came in, looked at the programme and said, 'Who's 6?' This was about Nobby, a World Cup winner. Alf would say, 'Right, gentlemen, hurry up please, thank you.' He had no time for them.\n\nKen Jones, who witnessed some of Alf's behaviour with the FA, says: 'At times I thought Alf was deliberately provocative. Some of it was unnecessary. He made it obvious that he did not think the FA councillors made any useful contribution.'\n\nNor did Alf take any interest in wider FA issues beyond the immediate needs of the England team. Unlike Winterbottom, he played no role in development, as Allen Wade, the English director of coaching at the time, who had also been appointed to his job in October 1962, recalls:\n\n> He was always courteous but I was never made to feel that he was keen to share his thoughts. Alf never once asked me about the work I was doing. He never showed any inclination to speak at our courses. He wasn't interested in coaching as such, just playing ideas. He was keen to find out how the game was developing in other countries and he had this trick of putting a provocative question so that he could count on an objective response. And if Alf had his teeth into something, he could be brusque to the point of rudeness, if anybody intruded upon the conversation.\n\nWade was once surprised, however, that on one of their few lunches together in London, Alf \u2013 'in that clipped way of his' \u2013 expressed his anger at the lack of professionalism among many of the players touted by the press as potential internationals. 'It bothered him that some of those who were up to standard had a poor attitude. It was beyond Alf's comprehension that a footballer could not be relied on to give every last drop of sweat for his country.'\n\nAlf's self-containment, allied to his enormous self-confidence in football matters, meant that he bristled at any interference with the England team. But it also meant that he could easily cope with the pressure of making decisions. Without any army of hangers-on, he felt no need to consult widely. Selection and tactics were entirely in his hands. He once gave this insight into the way he worked:\n\n> There is this feeling of loneliness about my job. It's not like being a club manager at all. There, you have regular matches. In my case, there are frequent lulls. I pick England teams on the basis of what I see in many matches. It isn't a hurried or last minute choice. Headlines don't influence me at all. I do it myself and have no hesitation in dropping a player if I feel it has to be done.\n\nIn another interview, with Brian James in 1965, Alf explained:\n\n> Sometimes the team comes quickly, sometimes it takes days. I make a lot of decisions on the train from my home in Ipswich. I don't talk my teams over with anyone. I just think the problems out myself. I have grave doubts, of course. Grave doubts. I make mistakes and I know it. But often thinking back on what I am sure has been a mistake, I know that I would have to do the same thing again.\n\nIt is one thing to reach the summit; it is another to stay there. As he had shown at Ipswich, Alf was always better at building a winning team than maintaining its championship status. Indeed, soon after 1966, Alf, reflecting on his future, said, 'It would be rather fun to build up from scratch like I built Ipswich and England.' But there was no chance that Alf would give up the job he loved by going into club football again. Besides, he wanted to prove that England under his leadership were the best team in the world, wherever they played. 'There is another World Cup in four years' times. You see, we had the advantage of playing in this competition at home. It would be rather nice to have a go elsewhere,' he announced at the press conference on 30 July 1966. In addition, Alf had a point to prove to his critics in England, whom he felt had failed to recognize the extent of his achievement and preferred to focus on the negativity of his methods. 'I can't help thinking that there are people in England who did not want us to win the World Cup,' he once complained. And he was absolutely right. Alan Hardaker, the pipe-smoking, opinionated, Hullborn, Secretary of the League, recorded that an FA official told him on the eve of the World Cup finals, 'If England win this championship, it may be the worst thing that could ever happen to English football.' Such a grotesque outlook was based on the belief that the premium Alf put on organization and stamina would close down the robust, open physicality of the English game, and, even worse, would destroy the role of wingers. And Hardaker himself was no supporter of Alf. He virtually suggested that the World Cup was an irrelevance to English football and, on a more personal level, said of Ramsey: 'I have never met another man quite like him in the whole of my career. He was difficult to work with and difficult to understand.'\n\nBut it was the blinkered attitude of the Football League and their managers that continued to impede Alf's determination to keep England at the top of world football. Within less than a year of England winning the World Cup, clubs were bleating about players being released for international duty. Bowler-hatted Len Shipman, Chairman of the FA's International Committee, in a statement which sums up the lack of co-operation that has bedevilled English football, said in early 1967, 'Although the League clubs are completely behind England, they must look after themselves first.' This spirit infected the biggest names in football. During their time as club managers, Don Revie tried to stop Norman Hunter playing for England, while Matt Busby of Manchester United once slammed the phone down on Nobby Stiles when he stated his preference for England duty rather than turning out for United. Clubs continually complained about lack of consultation, but when Alf organized a meeting in late 1969 of the eleven leading clubs \u2013 from which most of England's players were drawn \u2013 to discuss mutual problems, just three of them turned up. In the _Daily Sketch,_ Laurie Pignon wrote that this showed 'a complete disregard for the man who has laid the golden egg. Ramsey deserves better support than this. Football at every level has cashed in on the World Cup win.' Alan Hardaker himself, the League Secretary, was at the centre of obstruction-ism, complaining about Alf's belief that he had 'divine rights'. In the run-up to the 1970 World Cup, Hardaker said:\n\n> I do not regard Sir Alf as God. He is a very good colleague, a good manager, but he's got to realize that other people have problems as well. The whole thing is very simple. There's all this talk by the FA and Sir Alf, but the whole thing comes back here \u2013 where we decide the fixtures \u2013 whether they like it or not. I am prepared to do everything I can to help but it does not mean that the Football League programme is going to be set aside for the whim of any international match.\n\nApart from problems with the League, Alf was also hindered by the break-up of his superbly cohesive unit of 1966. George Cohen and Ray Wilson both had to bow out of international football because of injuries. Early in 1968, Roger Hunt also told Alf of his wish to retire from England, unable to commit himself to another World Cup. 'By then I would be 32 and I didn't have the burning ambition to go through it all again. My role in the 4\u20134\u20132 system was taxing and I didn't really relish it. It offered invaluable experience but was very hard to fulfil, both mentally and physically.' When Hunt told Alf of his decision, 'he accepted it graciously and thanked me for all my efforts in the past. There was no extravagant reaction. He didn't show any emotion and I wouldn't have expected any. That was never the nature of the man.'\n\nThere was a less amicable departure when Jimmy Greaves told Alf he did not want to be considered for international service any more. After 1966, Alf had included Greaves in several of England's squads, only to leave him out of the final eleven. Having won just three more caps in 1967, Greaves grew fed up with this. 'What I said to Alf during my last training session with his squad at Roehampton was that I would rather not be called up unless I was going to play,' explained Greaves. Alf found it intolerable that any player should seek to impose a condition on his playing for England. Throughout most of 1968 and 1969 Greaves' high scoring for Spurs led to pressure on Alf to include him. Eventually in March 1969, after complaining with a degree of self-martyrdom that the 'campaign to bring back Greaves is crucifying me,' Alf revealed the truth that Greaves 'did not want time away for training without having a game'. Greaves admitted that this is what he had told Alf. He was never picked for England again and left Spurs at the end of the 1969\u201370 season.\n\nBut there were brave competitors coming into the England team at this time, like the midfielder Alan Mullery of Spurs, who gradually supplanted Nobby Stiles, and the bustling, sharp, intelligent Francis Lee of Manchester City up front. Mullery says:\n\n> His man-management was absolutely superb. He did it extremely well. He was very sincere and extremely close to his players, closer than some club managers were to their men. The greatness of Alf lay in his simplicity. I remember we were once at Wembley Town before a home international, practising our free-kicks. He was watching us from the side, doing our ball work, and we were trying out various types of kick: we had one type at Tottenham, Bobby Moore had another at West Ham, Alan Ball had a certain method at Everton. Eventually Alf came onto the field and said, 'Gentlemen, you look as if you are a bit confused. Why don't we tonight, instead of trying a West Ham one, or an Everton one, instead just knock it square to Bobby Charlton.'\n> \n> 'Okay, Alf.'\n> \n> It came to the evening. We got a free-kick 25 yards out. Mooro said, 'We'll do the West Ham one.' Alan Ball weighed in, 'No, the Everton one.' Then quiet Bobby Charlton said, 'Shouldn't we just do the Alf one first?' So we did. And Bobby smashed it into the back of the net. That was Alf Ramsey for me. He worked out things simply where the players complicated it.\n> \n> His language could be quite strong. We were coming in from Troon to play at Hampden, and there were all these Glaswegians, giving us the fingers and swearing at us. I was not a good traveller and I was sitting next to Alf. As we went through all these places like Kilmarnock, I kept looking at my watch. Eventually Alf said, 'Alan, if you don't stop looking at your bloody watch, I'll stop this coach and you can get out and walk. You're driving me mad. We'll get there on time and we'll beat this lot.' I stopped looking at my watch for the next 25 minutes.\n\nFrancis Lee made his debut against Bulgaria in 1968:\n\n> He took me aside and said, 'I want you to play for my team in exactly the same way you play for Manchester City. That is the reason I have picked you.' That's all he said, nothing else. Later on, all his talks followed the same pattern. He would speak to Banksie about the forwards, who was good in the air and so on, then he would deal with the back four and the midfield. Then, to Geoff Hurst and myself, he would often say nothing more than, 'Geoffrey, Francis, I don't need to tell you anything. You know what you are doing.' His manner was slightly arrogant, to be honest, though he knew how to swear. The funny thing was \u2013 and Jack Charlton will never admit this \u2013 when we had seven- or five-a-sides, the next to last player picked was always Alf. And the last was always Jack. Jack would go mad, but it was a way of winding him up, 'We'd rather have Alf on our side than you, Jack.' Alf would enter into the spirit but you could only go so far with him. He had his rules that kept you in place. Once I was having a great run in the England team during the Home Internationals, and I was getting good write-ups in the press. Alf took me to one side and said, 'I don't know whether you are a player who gets big-headed but if you are I'll drop you like a stone. Forget how well you've done and think about the next game.' He was a disciplinarian. He would often say to me the next time we met after an international:\n> \n> 'I had a report that you were in Tottenham Court Road the night after the game.' There were a couple of clubs there.\n> \n> 'It wasn't me, Alf. I went home.'\n> \n> 'Are you sure?'\n> \n> 'It must have been someone who looked like me.'\n> \n> But he always had this doubt in his mind that I was out clubbing after games, which I wasn't really. He did not approve of players going out getting bow-legged, though he did not mind them having a few drinks.\n\nFrancis Lee was impressed by Alf on the training ground and on trips: 'He stood there watching, assessing what you were like in skill and pace. Until you actually watch players close up, you don't really know what you are getting. When we were travelling, Alf would move you around, make you share with different players. He disliked cliques developing.' But he also remembers that Alf could be ruthless:\n\n> I once took two penalties in succession for England and missed them both. Previously, I had not missed for five seasons. I took one against Portugal at Wembley in 1969. The ground was very loose and I did not even hit the photographers \u2013 I missed them. Then in the Home International against Wales I hit the underside of the crossbar and saw it bounce out. I could not believe it. After the game, Alf came up to me and said, 'Francis, I don't believe that taking penalties is your vocation any more.' Fair enough. If you miss two in a row, you have to pack it in.\n\nYet Alf, Lee found, was no dogmatist and could listen to a player's viewpoint:\n\n> Malcolm Allison at City was a great tactician, analytically brilliant, even better than Alf. He would see things that no one else could. I learnt a lot from him. I remember once England were playing Scotland and though we were winning at half-time, Alf was still worried.\n> \n> 'We have to do something about Charlie Cooke. He is running riot. He's here, there and everywhere. Someone has to pick him up.'\n> \n> And I said, 'To be honest, Alf, he is getting the ball deep in his own half on the right-hand side and he is running across players to wide on the left and vice-versa. He has not had a shot yet \u2013 and he has not made a cross yet.' That is the way Malcolm would have analysed it.\n> \n> 'I take your point, Francis.' But part of me feared that I had overstepped the mark.\n\nLike Francis Lee, Mike Summerbee, Manchester City's forward, made his England debut in 1968. He comments:\n\n> Alf was a quite remarkable man. He was a one-off, very much a players' man. I had my first game against Scotland. It was pretty nerve-racking playing in front of 100,000 people but Alf made me feel at ease. We were all equal under Alf, no matter how many caps you had won. He was certainly no lover of Scotland. I remember on the bus into Hampden he said, 'We're going to beat these Scottish bastards.' He was someone you instantly looked up to. When he came into a room, he had that aura about him. On the training ground, he would watch and then whisper something in your ear. 'Never give the ball away' was one of his lines. He was a very funny man, a dry man. When we were at Roehampton, we used to have a great roast beef lunch. Then we would go into this room to hear a tactical talk from Alf. It was cold outside; the heat was on in the room and we were sitting in these beautiful, big, plush leather chairs. Bobby Moore would be feeling the effect of the lunch and the warmth. Alf was talking and suddenly he said, 'By the way, Michael, could you wake up Bobby so we can include him in this.'\n\nBrian Labone, the Everton centre-half, is another who remembers Alf's sense of humour. He had recovered from his traumatic game against France in 1963 and was a regular by 1968, often taking the place of the ageing Jack Charlton:\n\n> Alf was the archetypal Englishman. His man-management was superb. He seemed remote to everyone, especially journalists but he was warm and loyal to his team. He would take you to one side and let you know what he wanted you to do. He kept things simple. He didn't give out a ten-page dossier like Don Revie, but he would let you know what he expected. He would extol your virtues rather than the guy you were up against. One of the funniest things I remember about Alf was when we were playing Scotland at Wembley in 1969. We were watching the experts on TV: Joe Mercer and Jimmy Hill. They were saying that Alan Gilzean of Scotland would give me a hell of a hiding and that Alf had made a big mistake in picking me. The pundits were giving me 5 out 10 before I had even stepped onto the field. But we thrashed Scotland, Gilzean was taken off and I had a pretty good game. I remember coming off the pitch and Alf grabbed me and said, 'Some fucking mistake I made.'\n\nIn a previous game against Scotland, this one at Hampden, the Everton keeper Gordon West had been drafted into the side. Always a nervous individual, who dropped out of the 1970 squad because of homesickness, West had been going to the toilet when, to his horror, he saw the bus leaving the team hotel. He eventually caught up with it as it stopped soon afterwards. But then, on reaching the ground, he realized that in the rush he had left his boots behind. 'Sir Alf did not bat an eyelid but promptly despatched someone back to the hotel. With just five minutes to go, I got my boots,' recalled West. Alf later said to Brian Labone, tapping his head, 'Is Westy a bit slow up there?'\n\nOne less happy introduction was that of Mike O'Grady, the prolific Leeds striker, who won his only cap under Alf against France in 1969. He is one of the rare group of players who was not enamoured of Alf's style:\n\n> I never disliked him but I found him a very serious guy, very dour. I don't think he had much of a sense of humour and he never seemed to smile much. I was quiet myself and I think Alf, even though he was dour, liked people who were a bit extrovert and more outgoing than himself, such as Jack Charlton. I could not understand why I was only picked for that one game. After all I had scored the first goal in a 5\u20130 win. What annoys me is that I was the only player in that game who was never, ever selected gain. Alf never said anything to me. When I later went to Wolves from Leeds, the first thing the manager, Bill McGarry said to me was, 'I was at that game. I can't believe that was your last for England. When I next see Alf, I'm going to ask him. Apparently Alf's answer came back that I only tried when England were in front. That's what I was told. I said to Bill, 'That's a bit odd, cos I scored the first goal.' I just feel Alf disliked me. It might have been my name.\n\nThe passage of the World Champions in the period after 1966 was not an easy one. In only their third game after the World Cup Final, England were beaten 3\u20132 by Scotland, with Jim Baxter giving another of his sensational performances. It was a result that was particularly painful to Alf, given his loathing for the Scots. After that setback, he led an FA XI \u2013 though it was virtually the full England team \u2013 for a tournament in Montreal to coincide with the Expo 67 World Fair, held to mark the centenary of the Dominion of Canada. The trip threatened to descend into a fiasco because of the dismal quality of the soccer facilities and the accommodation. Alf was shocked to find that he and his squad, most of them World Champions, had been put up in a college for divinity students. For eighteen people, there were just three toilets, three urinals and three showers in a communal room. On his first arrival in this residential hall, Alf went into the toilet area where he found a Mexican washing his feet in one of the basins. 'How bloody appalling,' he remarked as he walked out. 'This isn't good enough, we're going home,' he told Harold Shepherdson. But he could not carry out the threat, since there was no spare hotel accommodation available in Montreal, nor any seats on any flights back to England for three weeks. So he told the team that they would just have to put up with it. But the fiasco deepened when he saw the state of their pitch, which only three weeks earlier had been used for a circus and was covered in elephant dung. 'Doctor,' he called out to Dr Alan Bass, 'can players get tetanus from elephant shit?' Only after some urgent repairs was the pitch brought into a state fit for play. Then, in training, Alf was firing in some shots at makeshift goalkeeper Ray Wilson when he misjudged a kick and badly sprained his ankle, leaving him hobbling about for days, though fortunately no bone was broken. 'I hit the ball correctly. It is just that the ground was too high!' claimed Alf, only half joking. There was one moment of humour on the tour, when Alf was handing out daily expenses to the players in brown envelopes. Ray Wilson insisted on the players lining up, army style, to receive the money, giving Alf a salute as they did so. Ex-Sergeant Ramsey entered into the spirit of the occasion, giving a smart salute each time in return, though he did not have a clue what to do when George Cohen decided to salaam him in Arab style.\n\nDespite the elephant dung, the FA XI won the tournament, beating Borussia Dortmund 3\u20132 in the final. But Alf was only too relieved to get home. The following season, 1967\u201368, England still struggled to set the football world alight. They were beaten by West Germany for the first time, in a friendly in Hanover, when Alf was furious with several of his players for wearing new boots, the gifts of their sponsors, which ended up blistering their feet. As Peter Thompson recalled, 'When Alf saw our feet afterwards, he just said, \"If anyone ever wears new boots for England, I'll never pick them again.\" ' England did better in the 1968 European Championship. The Home Internationals of the previous two seasons had been used as the qualifiers and even after their defeat by Scotland, they still sailed into the final rounds. In the two-legged quarter-final again Spain, England won 1\u20130 at home, with Gordon Banks making a miraculous save in the last minute, and then triumphed 2\u20131 in Madrid. The victory in Spain was all the more impressive because England were without several key players, including Geoff Hurst, who had a poisoned toe. The Hurst injury led to a rare row between Alf and the team doctor, Neil Phillips, who had taken over from Alan Bass. During the trip to Spain, Phillips felt that his job was to be with England, but to his surprise, Alf acceded to a request from the FA chairman Sir Andrew Stephen that Phillips attend a reception hosted by the Spanish Football Federation. When Hurst cried off on the morning of the match, Alf asked him why he had not reported the condition earlier. 'I tried to but I couldn't find the doc,' was Hurst's reply. Instead of feeling defensive, Phillips had a go at Alf, 'It was the first time I ever went against him, but it was his fault and I let him know that he should have told Andrew Stephen that my place was with the team, not at the reception. \"Don't ever do that again,\" I said.'\n\nAfter the Spanish game, Alf was so thrilled with the performance of England that he made another of his ill-judged, overblown statements. Wondering aloud whether this was the best team that England ever had, he asked, 'This must end some time. But where, and who is good enough to do it?' He was about to find out. In the semi-final in Florence, England took on Yugoslavia. It was a bad tempered, often vicious game, which England lost by a single goal. Alan Mullery became the first English player to be sent off while playing for his country, though the reaction of Alf, supposedly the stern disciplinarian, was interesting. Mullery became fed up with what he called the 'strong-arm tactics' of the Yugoslavs and, as he recalls:\n\n> My concentration finally cracked when Bobby Moore played a pass to me and an assassin called Trivic, who had been kicking lumps out of us the entire game, went right down the back of my legs with his studs. I cracked and with the referee only five yards away, kicked him straight in the groin.'\n\nThe referee, Mullery admits, had no alternative but to send him off. After Mullery had reached the dressing-room, 'I was expecting the biggest roasting any player has had, when the door burst open and Alf came in, grim-faced. He looked at me and shouted, \"If you hadn't done it, I would have.\" '\n\nAfterwards, fuming about what he saw as a raw injustice, Alf said, 'I have never seen anything like that. I don't think even the Argentines in the World Cup were worse. We _are_ hard \u2013 when we go for the ball. But the ball is always there to be won. These people do their worst when the ball is away. It is evil.'\n\nThere was little sympathy for England. Many felt that, given the record of the likes of Jack Charlton and Nobby Stiles, they only had themselves to blame. Even the FA Chairman Andrew Stephen admitted: 'I am afraid our reputation precedes us into these matches, that our opponents are so scared of what they have heard about us that they come out to meet any trouble more than halfway. All football is moving to a bad and dangerous position.' Indeed, the entire mood about the national team turned sour in 1968 as England stumbled. As so often, the British public and the press showed themselves to be remarkably fickle. The glory of 1966 was quickly forgotten as Alf came in for a barrage of criticism over his approach. He was seen as too defensive, too unimaginative, too dour, encouraging brutality rather than flair. Far from being a moment that invigorated English football, the World Cup win was followed by a prolonged spell of introspection, in which Alf was blamed for undermining football as a spectacle. Goals were drying up thanks to Alf, it was said, while defences and midfields were packed. In 1961, when Spurs won the title, they scored 115 goals. In 1969, Leeds won the Championship after scoring just 62 goals. Denis Law, the Manchester United and Scotland striker, claimed that though 'you can't blame Alf for the decline of British football, you must blame the people who followed his example'. Law believed that England had largely won the World Cup because of home advantage:\n\n> The system worked in that limited context for England, in favourable circumstances, but to play football like that on a permanent basis would be fatal. With no wingers, attacks were coming just from midfield, negative to watch and negative to play. The year of 1966 saw the start of eight or ten years of bad football. It took a couple of seasons to work its way thoroughly into the League system, but within a few years, British football had become, for the most part, boring and predictable. Skill was stifled at birth.\n\nIn the same vein, J.L. Manning wrote this article in the _Daily Mail_ in January 1969, headlined 'Ramsey's Company Far Too Limited,' which coldly analysed Alf's record:\n\n> There is a mounting case against Alf Ramsey's football methods. In 1965, his teams never scored three goals in any match. Since 1966, three goals were scored only once against a foreign side \u2013 Sweden at Wembley in 1968. In the past ten matches, there have been 11 goals, and only four were won. Performances in all but two of the World Cup matches were disappointing and since then 30 goals have been scored _in 19_ matches. Those are the facts. Ramsey drives in low gear. In addition, the public is losing enthusiasm for his methods. In game after game opponents are gobbled up without being swallowed. Ramsey's players merely chew the cud of football.\n\nJimmy Greaves, not of course an unbiased critic, believed that Alf had undermined originality through his emphasis on hard professionalism: 'Each player had a job to do within a game-plan. There was no place for a player who might want to stamp his own idiosyncratic course on the game, no place for a maverick with a penchant for playing to the crowd.'\n\nThe nadir was reached in March 1969, in a friendly against France, when England were actually booed onto the field after two dull draws against Romania. The subsequent 5-0 win for England did little to stifle the jeers. The only way of doing that would be to retain the World Cup in 1970.\n\n# [TWELVE  \n _Leon_](004-toc.html#ch12)\n\nA few months before the England team left for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Alf had a staff meeting with his loyal lieutenants: Harold Shepherdson, Dr Neil Phillips and Les Cocker.\n\n'We have a problem,' said Alf.\n\n'What's that?' asked Phillips.\n\n'Some of the players from London have been doing promotional work for various companies and, as payment, they have arranged for their wives to be flown out to Mexico.' The four players concerned were Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Bobby Moore and Peter Bonetti.\n\nAs Neil Phillips recalls:\n\n> Well you could have knocked us down with a feather. We were absolutely shocked. I will always remember Les Cocker saying, 'You shouldn't pick them, Alf. Think of the effect it is going to have on the rest of the squad, when just four wives appear and all the others' wives are back in England, with no chance of their coming out. I just don't think it should happen.' But Alf said that there was nothing he could do because it had all been arranged and in any case it was a private matter.\n\nBesides, Alf was on weak ground, because his wife Vickie was due to fly out to Mexico with a friend, though she would not be staying with Alf in the England headquarters.\n\nToday, when players are encouraged to bring their partners on international trips, it may seem odd that Alf's aides were so concerned about the presence of four wives in Mexico. But the fact is that the England management saw them as a distraction to the team, with the potential to break the harmony and concentration of the outfit. Geoff Hurst, who says that 'tact was not high amongst Alf's list of qualities', recounts an incident when he and his wife Judith ran into Alf during a trip to Belgium in February 1970:\n\n> He turned to Judith and poking her in the chest with his finger, said, 'I hear you're going to watch us in Mexico this summer. I want you to know that we're not going there for your enjoyment and we're not going there for my enjoyment. We're going there to bring back the pot and I don't want any interference from you or anyone else.'\n\nAnd events were to justify these fears. The anxiety caused by one wife in particular was to help lose England the World Cup.\n\nWhat was aggravating about this issue for Alf was that he believed that he had assembled the best-prepared squad ever to leave these shores. He knew that they would be facing an arduous tour in alien conditions in Mexico, especially because the intense heat and high altitude would undermine the English players' stamina, one of their greatest strengths. To counter this, Alf had taken a number of steps. First of all, he arranged for England to undertake a tour of South America in 1969, so his team could acquaint themselves with the conditions. They first flew to Mexico City, where Alf managed, typically, to incur local hostility by complaining about the Mexicans' lack of respect for his team, which was demonstrated, he claimed, by the absence of a promised motorcycle escort for the team bus and the unfriendly reception accorded to the England players in their first match against a Mexican XI. It was Alf at his most pompous, sounding almost like a colonial governor. Trying out two substitutes in that game, he ordered Alan Ball and Martin Peters to run themselves into the ground in the first half, before he replaced them with Bobby Charlton and Alan Mullery in the second. Unfortunately, Mullery was again sent off for retaliation, and this time Alf was not so sympathetic. 'You always have to put your big nose in. You've always got to be there. It always has to be you. Why don't you keep away from trouble? Anytime anything is going on you have to be part of it.'\n\nAfter drawing 0\u20130 with the full Mexico side, England moved on to Montevideo, where Alf experienced more problems. Gordon Banks' father suddenly died so the keeper had to return home, though he returned before the game against Uruguay. Again, the flight only deepened Alf's contempt for the FA, when he discovered that Banks had made the trip economy class, while an FA official had gone first-class. 'Is it any wonder I have no respect for these people?' he was heard to mutter. But Alf's own public relations did not help. His notorious 'animals' remark after the Argentina game in 1966 was still reverberating on the continent, and the arrogant, insular image of his England team was reinforced in Uruguay, when almost all the players refused to eat any food at a barbecue laid on by the Uruguayan football federation, the fare including such local delicacies as sheep's kidneys and entrails. Jack Charlton was the only exception, and he was sick for the entire day afterwards, thereby justifying his colleagues' caution. But some of the Uruguayan hosts were deeply offended, and soon exaggerated rumours circulated about the Englishmen's loud and drunken behaviour at the event. Alf attacked the stories as nothing more than the 'products of a vivid imagination', a view supported by Mullery who said that they were 'ridiculous' and 'blown out of all proportion'. There was another difficult moment in Rio, just before England's final game of the tour, against Brazil, when Alf was furious at attempts by the Brazilians to delay the kick-off for their own advantage. It was a trick that had been pulled on him in 1964 during the Little World Cup, but Alf was not going to put up with it a second time, as Francis Lee remembers: 'A Brazilian official came up to Alf and said, 'The team is not ready yet. It will be another ten minutes before they can come out.' And Alf replied, \"You can tell them that if they don't fucking well come out now, there won't be a game.\"' The match started on time. But Alf's undiplomatic approach had not enhanced his international reputation.\n\nOn the football side, England beat Uruguay 2\u20131, and then, in another impressive performance, lost narrowly to Brazil 2\u20131 in front of 200,000 fans in the Maracana, with both the Brazilian goals coming late in the game. Alan Mullery recalls this incident, which gives an insight into Alf's understanding of his players:\n\n> Just before the kick-off in Rio, I was walking up and down the dressing-room and Alf stopped me and said,\n> \n> 'Are you OK, Alan?'\n> \n> 'Yeah, I'm fine.'\n> \n> 'You look a bit nervous.'\n> \n> 'Well, I am bit nervous. You've given me the job of marking Pele, the greatest footballer in the world.'\n> \n> 'Look Alan, if you weren't the best player at doing this job in the country, you would be sitting at home watching this game on television. I know you're good enough. So get yourself out there and do the job.' And I went from five foot five to six foot five.\n\nThe central reason for England losing their early advantage against Brazil was simply exhaustion. So severe was the heat that Bobby Moore, who heroically played in all four games on the tour, was physically sick after the final whistle, while Mullery and Bobby Charlton also suffered badly. It was useful experience, however, for the main event the following year. At first Alf had not been too worried about the heat, believing that the World Cup matches in Mexico would be played at a cool time of the day. But then, to his annoyance, he learnt that they would be played around noon when the sun would be at its peak, in order to satisfy the scheduling demands of the European TV companies.\n\nFor Alf, this made it all the more important that the England team had exactly the right medical back-up; he therefore instructed Dr Neil Phillips to make whatever arrangements were necessary. At first, Dr Phillips was somewhat daunted by the task, especially after a visit in 1968 to Romania, who would be drawn in the same group as England. Phillips had been to the Romanian Institute of Sports Medicine and had been amazed at the quality of the facilities and the number of staff focused on the needs of national sides.\n\n> I went back to the hotel and spoke to Alf. I said to him, 'Alf, I've had a wonderful morning. I've learnt that Romania has 22 full-time doctors looking after their national team. And I am a part-time GP on my own in Redcar. How on earth can I provide the England team with the same sort of cover as the Romanians get? It is impossible. I just cannot do it.'\n> \n> Alf's eyes narrowed into that steely look he had from time to time and he said, 'I don't mind how you do it, but just make certain that our medical preparations and cover are far better than the Romanians'.' Alf was one of those people who could make you feel terrible if you ever let him down. I have worked for surgeons and at times I have made a mistake and it has not really bothered me. But if you made a mistake with Alf, it was something that really hurt.\n\nDetermined not to disappoint Alf, Neil Phillips set about his task with zeal. He spoke to the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine about diseases in South America and to Roger Bannister about altitude training for athletes. He sought out advice from Griffith Pugh, who worked at Hammersmith Hospital and had been the physiologist on Hillary's climb of Everest in 1953, and from St Mary's Hospital in London on conducting blood tests. 'Would you believe that before 1968, no one had ever carried out proper blood tests on England players?' The London School of Tropical Medicine assisted with the provision of vaccines and immunizations. Phillips continues:\n\n> Another thing we did was get a consultant from the National Orthopaedic Hospital to examine the teeth of all the players because we did not want them visiting Mexican dentists while they were out there. One of the England internationals had eleven, yes eleven, decayed teeth in his mouth; he had not been to a dentist since he left school.\n\nBut what concerned Neil Phillips most was the loss of salt in the tremendous 110-degree heat in Mexico. And then he had his greatest stroke of luck. Alf was being interviewed one evening on television about the problems his team would face in Mexico, particularly salt deficiency caused by fluid loss. It so happened that the interview was watched by Hugh De Wardener, the professor in the renal unit of Charing Cross Hospital. De Wardener had been working for some time on a revolutionary new tablet to counter salt loss, since one of the consequences of a dialyser is to remove not just waste products but also salt from the body. De Wardener rang Alf the next day at Lancaster Gate and was immediately put in touch with Phillips, who went down to Charing Cross Hospital. He was deeply impressed with the prototype salt pill that De Wardener had developed. It was like a miniature honeycomb of salt cells, with the walls made of a soluble material. Because the walls were of variant thickness, the salt would be released into the body at different times. De Wardener hoped that this tablet would save dialysis patients from having to be put on a saline drip. But it was also perfect for footballers, because it would allow them to absorb salt over a period. 'We worked out the best absorption pattern and found the maximum effect came from taking the tablet two or three hours before the game. We never had any problems with salt deficiency during the World Cup.' Dr Phillips remembers Alf taking a keen interest in the medical side of the preparation. 'I used to sit down with him and explain everything. He was very, very bright. I had absolutely no problems in discussing medical matters with him from a technical point of view.'\n\nAlf's biggest influence, of course, was on the selection of the squad. Again, as in 1966, he picked an initial 28, which would be whittled down to a final 22 in Mexico. With Cohen and Wilson gone through injuries, and Jack Charlton fading, only Bobby Moore remained from the iron defence that had won in 1966. Those vying for places at the back in 1970 included Terry Cooper of Leeds, Emlyn Hughes of Liverpool, and the Everton trio of Brian Labone, Keith Newton and Tommy Wright. Gordon Banks had firmly established himself as the world's finest keeper by 1970, so barring a disaster his deputy Peter Bonetti of Chelsea was unlikely to play. Bobby Charlton, Alan Ball and Martin Peters were still at the core of the midfield, with Mullery now filling the role of Nobby Stiles, though Alf still insisted on bringing Stiles along to Mexico, mainly as mascot to raise the team's spirits. 'Nobby is good for the party, good for the team,' claimed Alf. But the news of his selection inspired little enthusiasm. 'It takes no great imagination to capture the world-wide groan of dismay as the news was released in a dozen languages,' wrote Brian James in the _Daily Mail._ Since 1966, Alf had generally been playing 4\u20134\u20132, and he planned to use Hurst and Lee as the two main strikers. There were other contenders up front, such as Jeff Astle of West Bromwich Albion and Peter Osgood, the flamboyant, individualistic star of Chelsea. Alf was never sure what to make of Osgood, a perplexity that gave ammunition to the critics who claimed he was suspicious of brilliance. Brian James recalls this incident when England were training at Roehampton:\n\n> Alf had this habit of occasionally sitting down beside me to discuss football. We were watching England practising and Peter Osgood was out there, doing something extravagant and silly, beating men, then keeping the ball up in the air. And Alf turned to me and said,\n> \n> 'What the fuck am I going to do with this Osgood?'\n> \n> 'Well Alf, he can play.'\n> \n> 'I know he can play, but he's a bloody idiot.'\n> \n> Alf just could not get his mind around someone who enjoyed fooling around. Can you imagine Alf fooling on the training ground? Never. Training was a serious matter for him.\n\nOsgood remembers Alf tackling him directly on the subject during one of his first spells in the England squad in 1969.\n\n> I was stepping off the coach for morning training when he greeted me with, 'Well, Ossie, how do you fancy training today?'\n> \n> 'Not a lot, Alf,' I unwisely but truthfully replied.\n> \n> 'Well, you're going to fucking well enjoy it!' he told me in those clipped, plummy tones. I was shocked. It was like catching the Queen kicking one of the corgis up the arse.\n\nAllan Clarke of Leeds was another potential striker. In fact, he had first been called into the squad in 1967, yet by the time of Mexico he was still waiting for his first cap. He had gone on the tour to South America in 1969 without playing, his strongest memory being Alf's words to him on the plane journey to Mexico. Alf came up to him in the cabin of the aircraft and asked Allan if he was enjoying himself. 'Yeah, Alf, great, thanks.'\n\n'Don't, son. You're here to work.' Allan took this as an example of Alf's sense of irony.\n\nIan Storey-Moore, a winger and a lethal finisher with Nottingham Forest, made his debut against Holland in early 1970 and would have won more than his one cap if it had not been for injury. 'I was with the squad and the Under-23s a few times,' he told me, 'and I found Alf very knowledgeable, mild-mannered, never seemed to raise his voice.' Despite Alf's renowned dislike of wingers, Storey-Moore found Alf more flexible than his rigid image:\n\n> I was always a winger, but unlike John Robertson, who stuck to the touchline so tightly he had chalk on his arse, I used to have a wander every now and then \u2013 that is how I scored so many goals. Alf said to me, 'I know you're playing Number 11, but just play how you do for your club.' So I had a licence to roam, which was comforting. Alf was very quiet in the dressing-room. He would have a talk on the morning of the match, setting out what he wanted. Then he would come round, talking to people individually. As you went out, he shook you by the hand and wished you luck. I had enormous respect for him, though I was very surprised when I first got in the squad and found that Jack Charlton talked to Alf as if he were his best mate. 'Come on, Alf, we're ready for you now,' he'd say. I think Alf liked that. I did OK against Holland at Wembley. It was probably the worst surface I played on because it had just been used for the Horse of the Year show. I did OK, had a goal disallowed and could have scored another couple. Alf said I had done well and would soon have another game, but then I had a bad injury.\n\nIan Storey-Moore's injury prevented his selection in the initial squad of 28, Peter Thompson serving as the only genuine winger.\n\nAmong the other inclusions was Peter Shilton of Leicester City as one of Banks' deputies. He remembers:\n\n> He made me feel welcome. From the moment I met Sir Alf I knew he was someone special. He had something different about him. He had that presence that dominates a room. Any decision he made, you knew he made it for the right reason. What I really liked about him was he treated international players properly, with respect and intelligence. I have been in England squads where players are screaming and shouting and banging doors, all that sort of thing. But that never happened with Alf. It was a composure thing. You went out focused. I remember, though, one time I did see Alf really riled. We were on an Under-23 tour in Europe and we were travelling to Russia. We got to our hotel at about three in the morning, but the Russians appeared to have made a mess of the bookings. We were standing around the lobby for ages, waiting to go to our rooms, when suddenly we were told that we'd been taken to the wrong hotel. It almost seemed as if the Russians were trying to make us as late as they could. Alf completely blew his top. He had a right go, saying 'Bastards'. It was the first time I had seen him like that. It was brilliant in a way because you felt Alf was really sticking up for you. He turned the whole situation around, made us even more determined.\n\nSome of the players of 1966, like Nobby and Jack Charlton, may have been in decline, but several of England's biggest stars, including Banks, Bobby Moore, Alan Ball and Geoff Hurst, were at the zenith of their careers. Alf always maintained that the 1970 England team was actually stronger than that of 1966. 'I find myself thinking that it's going to be hard, tremendously hard for us out there. Then I think about what we've got and I say to myself, \"It's going to be bloody difficult for anybody to take this World Cup from us,\" ' he told Hugh McIlvanney.\n\nIn the weeks before departure, England's spirits were raised further by the release of their World Cup single 'Back Home', which flew straight to the top of the charts. Most of such records, like Lonnie Donegan's dire 'World Cup Willie' of 1966, are instantly forgettable, but 'Back Home' was of a far higher standard because of the strength of its melody and lyrics. Written by the successful duo of Bill Martin and Phil Coulter, who had previously created such hits as 'Congratulations' for Cliff Richard and the Eurovision Song Contest winner 'Puppet on a String' for barefooted Sandie Shaw, it managed to evoke the poignant heroism of wartime. This was the songwriters' aim, as Bill Martin explains:\n\n> As a good Scotsman, I was not interested in England. But before the 1970 World Cup I thought to myself that there had never been a song done by a football team. 'World Cup Willie' had been a lot of nonsense. So I said to Phil: 'We should do this. We should write a song that shows England as World Champions going off to war, like troops.'\n\nSo the pair sat down in their office in Denmark Street in London, and soon Martin knew he had a winner on his hands. But if it was going to be a success, it would have to be sung by the England team \u2013 and that meant winning the support of Alf Ramsey, not a man renowned for his love of pop music.\n\nBut Bill Martin, an amusing, twinkle-eyed Scot, felt he had the ideal card to play if Alf proved uncooperative. Alf's brother Albert, he sensed, was the England manager's vulnerable spot. Bill Martin understood a bit about the Ramsey family because his father-in-law, the advertising manager of the _Daily Sketch,_ knew about the seamier side of East London and had told Bill stories about Albert's drinking and gambling. Albert's behaviour had long been a source of unease for Alf. It was rumoured that Albert occasionally would turn up at Portman Road, when Alf was manager there, begging for cash. Just to be rid of him, Alf would send him away with a tenner. Tony Garnett, the Ipswich journalist, says: 'Alf could wash his hands of people. He did not really want to know his brother Albert, the dog man. He was embarrassed by him.' Bill Martin had seen Albert in action himself. One evening he called on a pub in Dagenham, having been with the singer Sandie Shaw, who hailed from that district, and to his astonishment he thought he saw the figure of Sir Alf Ramsey slumped up at the bar. He could not resist going up to the man, who turned out to be Albert 'Bruno' Ramsey:\n\n> He was the absolute double of Alf. Once I saw it wasn't Alf, I thought it must be his twin. We got drinking and talking. He did not say a word about Alf but then drunks don't talk family. Having the most famous brother in England meant nothing to him. He did not want to talk about Alf, only himself.\n\nSoon after this experience, Bill Martin used his friendship with the top football agent Ken Stanley to arrange an appointment with Alf and the England team at Hendon Hall.\n\n> Ken Stanley ushered me in to see him. The minute I opened my mouth, Alf knew I was Scottish and he didn't like me at all. He did not get out of his seat or shake my hand. He just sat there. I said,\n> \n> 'I've got this idea for a song for the World Cup.'\n> \n> 'How dare you come to the England hotel to discuss show-business with my boys who are World Champions.'\n> \n> 'It might be good for them and we could all have a laugh.'\n> \n> 'We don't have laughs,' continued Alf in that very slow, deliberate voice. 'I have no idea why you have even entered this room. Ken, I'm amazed you have brought this man along.'\n> \n> 'Alf, I'll tell you what. I had more fun with your brother Bert the other night in the pub, even though he fell over and was lying in the gutter when I left him.'\n> \n> Alf replied immediately, 'I beg your pardon. Go and see the boys. I have absolutely no interest in this conversation. Speak to the footballers.' Alf cut me short because I recognized his Achilles' heel, his brother who was a serious drunk.\n\nMartin then went to see the players, who turned out to be much more receptive to the idea of the song, especially when Bill told them he could guarantee that it would get to Number One and be on _Top of the Pops._ As Martin predicted, 'Back Home' became a massive hit, at one stage selling over 100,000 a day just before the World Cup. The players, who appeared on _Top of the Pops_ in their tuxedos, adored it as much as the public, and it became their anthem on the journey in Mexico. Sir Alf, however, remained unmoved. Martin says:\n\n> He did not join in any of this. He did not want his picture associated with it in any way whatsoever. He never, ever spoke to me again. I met him a few times afterwards and he always gave me the cold shoulder. He wanted nothing to do with me at all. Showbusiness and Scots were not for Alf. Funnily enough, John Lennon once told me how much the song meant to him, that it made him think of home in Liverpool. I got more from John Lennon than I ever did from Alf Ramsey.\n\nEngland arrived in Mexico on 4 May, almost exactly a month before the tournament began on 2 June. These four weeks, felt Alf, would be vital for players to acclimatize to the altitude and baking climate. Based in the Parc de Princes Hotel in Mexico City, 7,349 feet above sea level, the team started gently with some cricket and golf at the Reforma Sports Club, as well as their own mini-version of the Olympics, which was hardly a competitive success as super-fit Colin Bell, the Manchester City midfielder, won all the events. But even Bell felt the strain of the conditions: 'It was very hard to breathe. It was a week before you could think about training. You'd run ten yards and put your hands on your knees, you couldn't go for a one-two. It was frightening.' Alf took other measures to deal with the problems. The players were only allowed brief spells of sunbathing by the pool; they would lie on one side for fifteen minutes, then Harold Shepherdson would blow a whistle, and they would turn over and lie on the other. It was a faintly ludicrous arrangement but, as Geoff Hurst put it, 'Alf had absolute power. He was the boss, his authority was never questioned and his word was law.' Not quite. Peter Thompson once went up to the roof of the hotel for some illicit sunbathing, only to find Bobby Moore up there in sun-glasses and trunks, showing his customary indifference to Alf's injunctions. To combat dehydration, the players each day took a litre of an American drink called Gatorade. Mexico had imposed an import ban on Gatorade in liquid form, but the US company that made it gave Neil Phillips a large supply of crystals which could be mixed with water. The task of producing the Gatorade in drinkable form each day fell to Neil Phillips:\n\n> Every day we were in Mexico, I used to get buckets of ice delivered to my hotel room at six in the morning. We had taken with us 25,000 bottles of Malvern Water and I would make up 30 litres of Gatorade, using the crystals and the Malvern Water, pour them into thermos flasks and then pack them in ice in the bathtub before taking them training.\n\nBut it was Alf's elaborate preparations that were to land England in serious trouble. Fearful of stomach upsets, Alf had decided to import not just Malvern Water but the squad's entire food supply for duration of the tournament. He had negotiated a deal with the frozen-food giant Findus, whose shipment to Mexico included 140 pounds of beefburgers, 400 pounds of sausages, 300 pounds of frozen fish and ten cases of tomato ketchup. Many other countries were following this pattern, giving their players the diets they were used to. Helmut Schoen, the German manager, explained after the tournament, 'we took along our own chef, sent enormous quantities of equipment months in advance to cover any contingencies and generally turned our hotel into a small German province'. This was exactly the same insularity that was so condemned in Alf. But the huge difference was that the Germans did not make a virtue of it, whereas Findus, for commercial reasons, boasted of their work with England. Feeling slighted, the Mexican authorities announced that no meat or dairy products could be brought in from England because it was a foot and mouth country. A vast bonfire was held on the quayside of all the steaks, beef, sausages and butter. 'I had to go down to the docks and certify that it had all been burnt,' says Neil Phillips. For the rest of the tour, England had to subsist on ready meals and fish. 'It was absolutely dreadful. All the time we were having fish-fingers with salad or fish-fingers with chips. You know I have not had a fish-finger in my life since then,' says Alan Mullery. One of the leading TV commentators of the time, Hugh Johns, thought Alf was to blame for the fiasco: 'England did not do themselves any favours at all. It was all \"the nig-nogs the other side of the channel\", \"don't drink the water\", typical Anglo-Saxon nonsense and, of course, the natives didn't like it and I don't blame them.' Alf worsened the mood in other ways. He decided to import England's own team bus, the unintended implication being that the Mexicans were still struggling to come to terms with the internal combustion engine, then found that the British vehicle struggled to cope with the intense heat. And he also imposed a strict ban on any of his players speaking to the press, which only encouraged a siege mentality. At one stage, when a gaggle of Mexican journalists came into the England dressing-room, he threw them out, ensuring their exit was accompanied by some Dagenham vernacular. Nor did Alf bring with him any Spanish-speaking press officer, an oversight that only widened the gulf. 'We were about as popular with the Mexicans as an outbreak of plague,' said Bobby Charlton.\n\nIf England hoped a change of scenery would enhance their standing, they were mistaken. The team flew down to Colombia for further acclimatization, training and two friendly matches at an even higher altitude than Mexico City. But it was in Bogot\u00e1 that the greatest off-field drama of the tour took place. England were based at the Hotel Tequendama and soon after their arrival, the squad were milling, in rather bored fashion, around the foyer. To pass the time, Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton and Dr Neil Phillips went into a small jewellery shop near the reception, Charlton thinking that he might find a present for his wife Norma. But all the gifts were too expensive, so the trio walked out and sat together on a settee opposite the shop. Suddenly, the glamorous young assistant, Clara Padilla, came rushing out, started rummaging between the cushions on the settee and then openly accused Moore of having stolen a bracelet. She was quickly joined by the shop-owner, who made the same accusation against Moore. Dr Phillips jumped to his feet: 'You two stay where you are. Don't say anything. I'll go and find Alf.' Phillips was immediately suspicious, because the night before a jeweller had come into the England hotel in Mexico City, flogging his wares, only to claim that an Omega watch had been stolen. Alf, anxious to avoid a scandal, had offered to pay for it himself, but instead the players had held a collection to meet the cost. By the time Alf reached the scene of the alleged crime in the Hotel Tequendama, the place was buzzing with police officers, cameras, curious by-standers and England players. Simply by his authoritative presence, Alf calmed down the situation. He spoke to Moore, Charlton, the shop-owner and the police, arranged for statements to be taken, stressed that the players believed it was all a misunderstanding and, it seemed, brought the issue to a close, with Moore apparently left a free man. 'Alf handled it like an expert and everyone thought it was done and forgotten the minute Bobby and I finished making our formal statements to the police. But there was something about Alf that made me feel that he was upset. He already sensed that something was up. Felt it there and then,' said Moore.\n\nAlf was right to sense some foreboding. England played their two friendlies, beating Columbia 4\u20130 in Bogot\u00e1 and Ecuador 2\u20130 in a match played in Quito at 9,300 feet; the results showed that the players seemed to be adapting well to the conditions, though Alan Ball spoke of the continuing difficulties caused by altitude. 'Normally, Alan Mullery makes a lot of noise on the field, always shouting. Well, when he tried that out there all that came out was a sort of gurgle and a mouthful of froth. Nobody had enough breath to run, let alone shout. I thought the talk about altitude were crap, me. But I found out different today.'\n\nAny reassurance Alf felt about these two results was soon shattered by an almighty row about the naming of the final 22 players in the squad. For one of the few times in his career, Alf decided to co-operate with the press, yet the behaviour of the papers only succeeded in reinforcing all his prejudices. Alf felt he owed the journalists a favour, because of the restraint they had shown so far over the Bobby Moore bracelet story; not one word of this potentially enormous scandal had so far been printed. But his generosity backfired horribly. In order to meet weekend deadlines made difficult by the eight-hour time difference, he gave the football writers on the Sunday papers the names of the six men who had been left out \u2013 Peter Shilton, David Sadler, Ralph Coates, Bob McNab, Peter Thompson and Brian Kidd \u2013 on the strict understanding that no comments would be sought until he had spoken to the six players involved. The sports reporters themselves did not break this embargo, but the news-desk of the _Sunday Mirror_ immediately contacted the wife of Dave Sadler, the Manchester United defender, asking for her views. Inevitably, she was straight on the phone to her husband. As Sadler recalls:\n\n> I basically heard from my wife that I was out of the squad. I was playing well, felt good, was optimistic. It was a blow, a real downer. I went straight to confront Alf. I caught up with him and we had words in front of people. I was blazing, very angry. I was fairly handy with the language. Alf was defensive, of course, and was at pains to say, 'Come on, let's go and talk about this in private.' We did. We sat in a room. He explained what had happened. He was big enough to apologize, as you would expect in a man of his standing. I was starting to calm down a little bit. I realized he had done it to try and help the press, but once again they had let him down, confirming all he thought about them. We sorted it out. The official announcement was made and I fully accepted that it was the last thing that Alf would have intended. My relations with Alf were fine after that. It was not in my nature to fly off the handle and I think Alf accepted my situation.\n\nBut Alf's relationship with the press was never to recover from this incident. And his mood worsened as the international explosion over Bobby Moore erupted. After defeating Ecuador, England planned to fly back to Bogot\u00e1, and then on to Mexico via Panama. At a staff meeting in Ecuador, Neil Phillips suggested that the flights should be rearranged to avoid Bogot\u00e1 and the Bobby Moore problem, which had still not been satisfactorily resolved. According to Phillips: 'Alf went off to discuss this alternative with Bobby. But the two of them agreed that such a move would only encourage a belief that a bracelet really had been stolen.' So the team, accompanied by the press, flew back to Bogot\u00e1, and even returned to the Hotel Tequendama during a five-hour gap while changing planes. A film showing of the old American Civil War epic _Shenandoah_ was arranged for the players, while the press party was taken on a visit to the tourist attraction of a local salt mine \u2013 'perfect for you lot,' joked Jack Charlton. During the film, two plainclothes officers from the Columbian police entered the room, tapped Bobby Moore on the shoulder and beckoned him outside. The players thought that he had just been instructed to carry out another of his duties as England captain and continued watching the movie. Even when they left the hotel and made their way to the airport, they were still only dimly aware of Bobby's absence. But they were more disturbed when Alf turned up on his own shortly before take-off. Once the plane was airborne, he gave them the news that Bobby had been formally charged with the theft of a bracelet from the Green Fire jewellery shop at the hotel. The team was thunderstruck. It was unthinkable that Bobby Moore, a man of supreme dignity, England captain for seven years, leader of the World Champions, would descend to such a petty crime. 'Alf might just as well have said that Mother Teresa had been arrested for child abuse; it was that outlandish and unbelievable,' says Gordon Banks. When the news filtered down the plane, the journalists were equally shaken, though their distress was caused by the fact that they were sitting high in the air, unable to handle the biggest football story for years. Peter Batt of the _Sun_ thought to himself that 'all the agencies are going to have this story, oh my God. The news-desks will think we have sat on it. By now I'm having the last will and testament.' After the shambles over the squad announcement, Alf could not have cared less about the professional fate of the pressmen. Ken Jones watched Alf as the plane flew towards Panama: 'He's sitting there, transfixed in his seat, impassive throughout the whole flight. Never said a word.'\n\nWhen the plane stopped in Panama for refuelling, the press rushed out to try to phone London, while Alf went deeper into introspection. 'Alf was a man possessed. He paced the airport like a caged lion, his face inscrutable but his mind obviously on the fate of his captain,' recalled Banks. For all his past differences with Moore, Alf knew he could not afford to lose him on the eve of the finals. But as he paced the departure lounge, Moore was holed up in Bogot\u00e1, awaiting further questioning. Because of the special status of the prisoner, the Columbian courts decided that Moore could be placed under house arrest rather than thrown into jail. So he was allowed to stay in the home of Alfonso Senior, the Director of the Columbian Football Federation, with two armed guards by his side. 'I felt like the captured hero from one of Alf's westerns,' he later said. It was not an unfair analogy. Moore showed true grit in coping with his ordeal, never once giving the slightest indication of the pressure he was under, joking with his guards and going for early morning runs to keep himself fit.\n\nIf Alf thought the storm could be contained, he was badly mistaken. On arrival at Guadalajara, which was England's base for the opening round, Ramsey's party were greeted by scenes of mayhem, with reporters and TV crews rushing across the tarmac towards the plane. What made it all the worse was that Jeff Astle, never a good traveller, had spent most of the long journey drinking to calm his nerves, and by the time of his arrival he was, to quote Brian James, 'pissed out of skull'. A few England players tried to hide his state of inebriation from the Mexican press, propping him up as he went down the steps and then covering him up in the lounge with a coat, but it was a hopeless task. 'He was looking as if he had not changed his clothes for a fortnight,' recalled Gordon Banks, who also felt that in the midst of the crisis, 'Alf was not his normal cool, calm self.' The next day, one of the Mexican newspapers described England in a headline as 'a bunch of drunks and thieves'. Ramsey later told Ken Jones that the whole sorry business had been the worst thing that ever happened to him in all his years of football.\n\nEngland were staying at the Hilton Hotel in Guadalajara. Though well appointed, it was in the centre of the city, meaning that it could easily become the focus for the anti-English sentiment that was sweeping through the country. The string of difficulties, from burnt meat to Bobby Moore, only fed Alf's instinctive hostility to foreigners and the press. At times, he was in danger of being gripped by a form of paranoia, as he muttered about secret plots against his team. And he may not have been wrong in the case of the Moore bracelet, for the evidence points to an attempted set-up by the shop to extort money. Soon after Moore's arrest, Joao Saldanha, the former Brazil manager, explained that a similar trick had been pulled on him when he was in charge of the Botafogo team. 'The jewellery had been hidden in a drawer. It was an attempt to embarrass us into paying up to avoid a scandal. The allegations against Bobby Moore are disgraceful. This is slander,' argued Saldanha. The flimsiness of the case against Moore was exposed when he was brought back to the hotel jewellery store for further cross-examination. Ms Padilla claimed that Moore, clad in his England suit, had slipped the bracelet into his left-hand pocket. Triumphantly, Moore raised his left arm to show that his suit had no such pocket. Ms Padilla also changed her story about the bracelet's value. Faced with such evidence, the Columbian judges eventually decided that he would not have to stand trial. On 29 May he was granted conditional release and flew up to Guadalajara, though the case was not formally dropped until 1972.\n\nThe story of the set-up always seemed the most likely version of events, but the journalist Jeff Powell revealed after Moore's death that the truth may have been more complicated, for Moore had said to him, 'Perhaps one of the lads did something foolish, a prank with unfortunate consequences.' Rodney Marsh also claimed that Moore had confirmed this story to him. There are several younger players who might have fitted the role as possible culprit; Emlyn Hughes and Peter Thompson both said that they went into the shop at some stage that afternoon, and Thompson actually told Alf that he was the third man. 'They're not after you, Peter, it's a set-up,' said Alf coolly. Peter Osgood was another who says that he followed Charlton and Moore into the store, but dismisses the idea that he was the thief as 'complete and utter bollocks'. All this speculation is treated with great scepticism by the two people who probably were closer to the truth than anyone else. The first is Tina Moore, who was still to be married to Moore for another decade:\n\n> All I know is that when I was with Bobby, we did not have any secrets. Bobby told me that there was not a bracelet. And would Bobby really have allowed himself to be put under arrest, with no certainty that he would be released in time to play for the World Cup, just to protect a kid who had played a prank? Why would he let himself be slammed up it if he knew someone else did it? It is ridiculous.\n\nThe second is Neil Phillips, who was actually in the shop with Moore and Charlton at the time of the alleged theft and thinks claims of another player being involved 'are a load of codswallop. I was there with the two of them. There was no one else in the shop whatsoever.' Phillips is a particularly reliable witness because, as a doctor, he was used to taking notes.\n\nAlf had said to the press that 'you won't see a smile on my face until I see Bobby Moore'. Nor had he had the slightest doubt about Bobby's total innocence. 'I should have thought that the integrity of this man would be enough to answer these charges. It is too ridiculous for words.' When Bobby walked into the Hilton on the 29 May, Alf gave him a greeting that was as close to a hug as he could manage. Yet for all the mutual respect that had developed between them, Moore confided to Jeff Powell that he had been a little disappointed in his manager, leaving him in Bogot\u00e1 to be supported by Denis Follows, the Secretary of the FA, and Andrew Stephen, the FA Chairman. 'If there was a man I believed was as important to me as Alf said I was to him, then there's no way I could have walked on to that plane without him.' After the 1970 World Cup, Bobby reflected on this sense of mild disillusionment:\n\n> Despite what the outside world thought, I would never regard myself as being the same as Alf. Not at all alike. The only Alf I knew was the football manager. We were together maybe a total of a month or two out of every year. That didn't mean I knew him as a person. Alf never drew me into his social company. It became quite clear that Alf and I were different personalities outside our working relationship. Apart from football, Alf would never talk in depth about anything at all. In company the conversation might flit across the usual small talk about cars and holidays but would invariably settle on football. Socially, I like people who are interested in what you do but can also relax you and take your mind off your own line of business once in a while. Alf had just two worlds: his players and his home. And they were kept strictly apart.\n\nBut Moore, who had a good understanding of human psychology, recognized that Alf was far more sensitive than his hard public image: 'Unless you knew him closely, you would not have noticed when he was hurt. He had great control of his emotions and never showed it outwardly when he was under stress. He would just carry on. Yet you sensed he was hurt. Alf would be deeply upset if a member of the press expressed a damaging opinion.' And Moore always retained a profound admiration for Alf's ability as a manager: 'He was a players' man. We were attracted by his loyalty. He shared our desire for success. Alf's first thought was for his players so there was never any problem about getting the players to do what was asked of them.'\n\nAfter all the problems of the previous weeks, it was a relief for England when the competition finally got under way on 31 May. England were drawn in a group containing Brazil, Romania and Czechoslovakia, none of them easy opponents; England had not beaten Brazil in six encounters since 1956, while there had been two dull recent draws against Rumania, the same result that had been achieved in their last game against Czechoslovakia in November 1966. Nevertheless, two sides went through from the qualifying round, so England were not facing any great obstacle on the path to the quarter-final. The first game, against Romania on 2 June, was a brutal, uninspiring affair, with England winning by a single Geoff Hurst goal and Keith Newton having been forced off by a vicious challenge. The next day, the England team went to watch their next opponents, Brazil, demolish Czechoslovakia 4-1. The skill and verve of the Brazilians left a deep impression on Alf. 'By Christ, these people can play,' he told Ken Jones.\n\nOn the Saturday night before the crucial game against Brazil, a large crowd of Mexican and Brazilian supporters gathered outside the Hilton, where England were accommodated on the 12th floor. In the sultry tropical air, for hour after hour, the crowd kept up an incessant racket, blaring horns, banging drums and blowing whistles. The Mexican police did nothing to move on the trouble-makers. 'It sounded like a thousand West Indian cricket supporters in full cry,' said Emlyn Hughes. Unable to sleep, the England players started throwing water and cartons of milk at the crowd. When that failed to achieve anything except to pump up the volume, they moved to different rooms at the back of the hotel, but the noise still penetrated. 'We didn't get a wink of sleep,' said Brian Labone. Bleary-eyed, the England team reported on Sunday morning for their final talk with Alf, who had lodged a formal protest with FIFA and the Mexican government about the previous night. Alf began his address in cryptic fashion, 'Do you like gold, boys?' Puzzled looks were exchanged round the dressing-room; Alan Ball thought Alf was making a reference to a possible win bonus. He was soon disabused of that idea. 'Well, the ball's a lump of gold today. So don't give it away.'\n\nAs Alf ran through the opposition, one player sat disconsolately in the corner, barely able to listen to a word. Having come on as a substitute for Francis Lee, Peter Osgood believed that he had a strong chance of making the starting line-up against Brazil, especially because he felt in good form and had worked hard in training. Moreover, during the week Bobby Moore had confided in him that he was likely to be in the side. So when Alf announced that 'the team to face Brazil will be the same team that finished against Rumania', Osgood was overjoyed. But his excitement soon turned to confusion as he listened to Alf referring to the role of Francis Lee against the Brazil defence. Bobby Moore immediately spoke up for Osgood, 'Excuse me, Alf, you're talking about Francis, but Ossie came on for Francis and he finished the game against the Rumanians.' Alf looked over at Osgood and just said, 'Oh, I'm ever so sorry Ossie, I meant to say that the team which _started_ against Rumania will play against Brazil', before calmly resuming his talk. As Osgood later recalled:\n\n> I was devastated and wanted to walk out there and then but I felt paralysed. That evening, against all the rules, I hurried out of the hotel alone and hit the first bar I could find, and then the next, and the next. I got myself paralytic with drink and have only vague memories of sharing my misery with the groups of England fans. In the morning, I would not get out of bed and missed training. Alf tried to see me but I shouted at the door. 'Go away. Don't say a word. You can't excuse what you have done to me \u2013 you slaughtered me in front of the entire squad \u2013 just leave me alone!'\n\nThe incident showed how preoccupied Alf was with the endless series of crises on the tour. Normally so good at man-management, he had been casually insensitive towards Osgood, though there is little doubt that the player also over-reacted. Alf was never to pick him again after Mexico. The altercation was the precursor of an increasingly difficult time Alf would have with the self-styled mavericks of seventies football.\n\nEngland's reputation was at a low point as they took the field against Brazil at noon in the shirt-drenching, 98-degree heat. But they went some way to rebuilding it with a magnificent performance against the Brazilians, today widely regarded as the finest team in the history of soccer. England were undaunted, with Moore giving the performance of a lifetime and Banks producing a heroic save at the far post when he dived full-length to stop a powerful Pele header. Pele, who shouted 'goal' the moment he connected with the ball, called it the greatest save he had ever seen. England actually finished the game more strongly than the Brazilians, and should have equalized when Jeff Astle, who had come on for Lee, missed a sitter with an open goal in front of him. From the stands, Osgood muttered that he would have never missed a chance like that. But even in defeat, England had shown the quality of champions. 'It really is what the game at the top level is all about. There was everything in it, all the skills and techniques, all the tactical control. There really was some special stuff played out there,' said Bobby Charlton.\n\nEngland only needed a draw in their final game against Czechoslovakia to go through to the quarter-final. Several of the players were feeling the heat \u2013 Alan Mullery lost 12 pounds against Brazil \u2013 so Alf decided to rest Hurst, Ball, Lee and Labone. But after reaching the heights against Brazil, England plumbed the depths with a laboured display against the Czechs. Clad in unfamiliar light-blue shirts, they continually gave the ball away and only scraped through 1\u20130, thanks to a penalty from Allan Clarke, who was finally making his England debut after spending three years in the squad. Today Clarke recalls:\n\n> The day before we played Czechoslovakia, Alf comes over \u2013 I will remember his words to my dying day \u2013 and says, 'I'm going to play you tomorrow, Allan.'\n> \n> 'That's great,' I replied, feeling elated.\n> \n> 'Yes, because I think you're ready now.'\n> \n> 'Alf, I've been ready for three years.'\n\nIn the dressing-room before the kick-off, Alf asked presciently about penalties. No hands went up so Clarke volunteered. 'Good lad,' said Alf. When the moment arrived in the match, Alf turned nervously to his trainer Les Cocker, who also worked at Leeds. 'Will he score, Les?'\n\n'Put your mortgage on it, Alf.'\n\nEngland had hardly emerged triumphant from the opening rounds, scoring just one goal in open play. For Danny Blanchflower, their lacklustre methods epitomized the worst of their manager; he wrote: 'There is no way that Sir Alf Ramsey or anyone else can justify the present England tactics. He has found a way to destroy the game rather than glorify it...Ramsey makes a potentially good team look like a bad one. They survive despite their tactics \u2013 not because of them. The team has lost the sense of going forward.'\n\nWhatever the disappointment caused by their industrious style, England had reached the last eight, and were due to play their old rivals West Germany in Leon on 14 June. But it was now that England's trip really began to fall apart, partly due to a series of organizational oversights by Alf and his staff. For someone who was usually so meticulous about his preparations, Alf had been strangely slapdash about certain aspects of the Mexican adventure. He had obsessed on one issue, the medical arrangements, yet had overlooked others or made poor decisions. He admitted, for instance, that he had been wrong to choose light-blue shirts against Czechoslovakia, because, in the burning glare of the Mexican sun, they were virtually indistinguishable from the white of the Czechs. But, as the quarter-final approached, he was guilty of far more serious errors. Remarkably, given that England were the reigning World Champions, Alf had neglected to ensure that any accommodation or flights were booked beyond the opening rounds. So instead of flying to a comfortable hotel in Leon, England had no choice but to accept the accommodation organized by FIFA. Moreover, the Mexican authorities refused England permission to fly into Leon on the grounds that the runway was too short to take a large aircraft. This was plainly nonsense, since the Germans had flown to Leon two weeks earlier. It was just another example of the extreme anti-English sentiment that Alf managed to provoke abroad. But Mexican obduracy meant that England had to make the 170-mile trip to Leon by coach, another strain on the squad's already overstretched nerves. Dr Neil Phillips believes that the shambles over the transport was another consequence of the poor relationship between management and the FA:\n\n> The Mexicans insisted we travel by coach, which was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. But we did not have any power with the local Mexican authorities because Denis Follows was in Mexico City looking after Lord Harewood, the President of the FA. Alan Odell tried to sort it out but he did not have the standing that Denis would have had as Secretary of the FA. And our hotel was reputed to be terrible. Bulgaria had stayed there and it was said to be surrounded by prostitutes.\n\nHaving heard these rumours about the dismal standard of their hotel, Alf instructed Harold Shepherdson and Neil Phillips to travel ahead by taxi to check out the place and report back to him by phone. As always believing that he should be with the players, Phillips strongly objected: 'I didn't like the idea of not being with them on that road journey.' But Alf insisted, so at 4 am Harold and Neil left Guadalajara for Leon. As it turned out, Neil's presence was badly needed back in the England camp, for Gordon Banks suddenly went down with a severe bout of stomach poisoning. He managed to stagger onto the bus and hold himself together for the journey. 'I sat at the back of the coach praying for it to end. I was suffering from terrible stomach cramps and in imminent danger of letting go at either end. I was in a clammy sweat yet shivering with cold,' says Banks. As soon as he arrived in Leon, he went straight to bed, though he did not get much sleep, spending most of the night on the toilet. As his room-mate Alex Stepney, the Manchester United keeper, later remarked, 'Montezuma was extracting his revenge with the strike power of a cobra.' England players, including Bobby Charlton, Keith Newton and Peter Osgood, had suffered before with stomach upsets on this trip, despite all the medical precautions. But this was on a different scale. And both the violence of the ailment and the importance of the player gave rise to all sorts of rumours about a conspiracy against the England team. Becoming more paranoid by the day, Alf himself did not discount the theory that Banks was the victim of a sinister overseas plot. Nigel Clarke recalls Alf once telling him: 'It may have been done by the CIA, those American people or whatever you call them. I know Gordon was got at because we took all our own water and food.'\n\nBut Neil Phillips believes the truth is more prosaic. He fears that Banks may have been struck down as a result of England's own celebrations after the victory over Czechoslovakia. With Alf's permission \u2013 but Neil's disapproval \u2013 the players held a small party at their hotel, to which the four wives were invited. An infected sandwich or beer consumed at this event may have been the cause of the trouble, as Neil told me:\n\n> I wasn't too happy about that party. Months later, I ran into the Leeds manager Don Revie, who had been working out in Mexico as a pundit. He said to me, 'Neil, never blame yourself for what happened out there. The players, contrary to your instructions, were having sandwiches delivered to their rooms. I know what you had told them: no drinks or sandwiches in the rooms. You can take it from me, Neil, that some of them had room service.' I did not see any of this myself. Gordon Banks was of the opinion that someone put something, maybe ice, in one of his drinks.\n\nNeil Phillips feels that if he had been able to treat the infection, then Banks might have recovered quickly, as Charlton and Newton had done. Sadly, he was not on the bus.\n\nThe less disciplined atmosphere of the England team, compared to 1966, was reflected in the aftermath of that party. Hurst took his wife Judith back to her hotel, though Alf warned him that he had to be back by midnight.\n\n'Geoffrey, you do know when midnight is, don't you?'\n\n'Yes Alf, we know,' said Judith with a withering look. 'It's when both hands are pointing upwards.'\n\nThat was a curfew hour that Emlyn Hughes was unable to meet by some margin. After going out drinking with his father and drowning his sorrows over his non-selection for the England side, he did not stagger back into the hotel until 1.30 am. Following training the next morning, Alf gave him a dressing down:\n\n'What were my instructions to you last night, young man?'\n\n'You're right, Alf, I was out of order. But surely you must understand how I feel. I'm here and you know how much I love the game and how keen I am, how much I want to play.'\n\nAlf looked at Hughes coldly and said, 'I understand your feelings perfectly, young man. I pick the team. I pick the subs. I am the boss of this outfit. You'll do as I say, or, believe me, you'll be on the next plane home. Now piss off.'\n\n'Look Alf, I have let you down. I really am sorry. It won't happen again.'\n\n'Son, you haven't let me down. But if any of the journalists had been just a little bit naughty they could have written a hell of a story about England players drinking after a curfew. You would have only let yourself down.'\n\nOn the eve of the quarter-final, Alf had a far bigger problem than the consequences of Hughes' misbehaviour. The loss of England's premier goalkeeper through illness would be a disaster. Alf was so desperate to retain Banks that on the morning of the match, he and Harold Shepherdson gave Banks the most feeble of fitness tests. Banks told me:\n\n> It was so silly, it was no test at all. It was just a bit of jogging for a few yards, and then Harold Shepherdson rolled a ball either side of me. I was just picking it up, not even diving. 'How do you feel?' said Harold. 'OK', I replied. But I had been expecting someone to be banging in balls at me.\n\nAt the subsequent team meeting, Banks suddenly felt ill again and had to retire to his room, where he was violently sick. It was obvious that his deputy Peter Bonetti of Chelsea would have to play. Bonetti had been put on standby the night before, as his room-mate Dave Sadler recalls:\n\n> You could just feel the tension coming into Peter when he realized he might have to perform. He'd had the odd game, but by and large, he was happy to be second string to the best keeper in the world. When he was told he might have to go in, the nerves started immediately.\n\nThose nerves were exacerbated by the anxiety gnawing away at Bonetti over the state of his marriage. It was in the enforced selection of Bonetti that the foolishness of bringing wives to Mexico damagingly revealed itself. Though they stayed in separate hotels, they were undoubtedly a distraction for the four players involved. This was partly because the players, understandably, wanted to make regular contact with their wives, and would often get on the phone straight away once they had returned from training \u2013 Peter Osgood recalls that Geoff Hurst 'seemed preoccupied as to where Judith was at any given time'. Just as importantly, the cohesion of the team was fractured in a way that never occurred in 1966. Those who were unaccompanied would regularly tease the quartet, as Neil Phillips remembers:\n\n> When the players were trying to ring their wives, the others would take the mickey out of them. 'Oh, they're still in bed' or 'They're swimming nude in their hotel pool, having a whale of a time \u2013 why would they want to speak to you?' It was all jocular stuff. But it showed that the 18 players in the squad without their wives were not happy with the other four.\n\nOf the breakdown in unity, Alan Ball said to me: 'As a squad, I thought 1970 was miles stronger, but not as a team. All-round we were definitely stronger, but not as a team.' And any sense of togetherness was not helped by the fact the Mexican press, eager to acquire any dirt on the England team, sought to exploit any tales of exuberant partying. Brian James has this interesting memory:\n\n> The Mexicans loved spreading rumours, telling the players, 'Your wives are screwing everybody at the hotel.' I got friendly with some of the Mexican journalists out there and one of them rang me one day, saying 'I have a good story.' So I went to see him and he told me, 'At their hotel, the wives of the England players are hanging out with loads of men. We are going in tonight with some lads, and a few photographers, and we're going to get some pictures of them. It will be a big front-page story tomorrow.'\n> \n> 'Oh, fuck.'\n> \n> So immediately I ran out, got into a taxi and made my way to their hotel. Sure enough, there were the wives at the poolside bar \u2013 where they usually were. I went up to Judith Hurst and explained what was happening. She understood immediately and grabbed Cathy Peters and Tina Moore. 'Right, we've got to get out of here, go, go, go. Come on.' And the Mexicans turned up thirty seconds later, gigolos, girls, cameramen. It was all a set-up.\n\nThe uxorial problem was particularly acute with Peter Bonetti. A devout Roman Catholic, he did not take easily to the dressing-room banter about his wife's hotel activities. 'Peter was a much more sensitive person and could not laugh it off the way others could,' says Neil Phillips. But his anxiety was not entirely unfounded, as Brian James explains, 'Frances Bonetti was very, very pretty but she was one of those girls who used to come on to everybody. I think it was just her nature.' James continues: 'Peter was very upset when he heard people talking about his wife. On the night before the big match in Leon, he was tearing round looking for her.' Jeff Powell confirms that 'without a doubt, Bonetti was distracted because he had heard rumours that something might be going on. Frances lost the plot. The other footballers' wives, like Tina, were used to travelling, they kept their head, but Frances lost control of her emotions.' From the England camp, Dr Neil Phillips says he remembers that Bonetti was 'genuinely upset' about what he had heard. And Allan Clarke told me that the rest of the side were aware of the reports of frolics:\n\n> Yeah, we heard the rumours. Billy Bremner and Johnny Giles were fronting the World Cup coverage for ITV, and they were staying in the same hotel as the wives. Billy came to me and said, 'We're having a great time at our hotel. There's a great night life. Mooro's wife, Peter's wife, they're all there.' It seemed that they were having a better time than we were. Alf would have been worried bloody stiff if he had known.\n\nGeoff Hurst doubted whether Peter Bonetti was in a fit mental state for such a crucial encounter. 'Peter was no slouch between the posts, but he had never played in a match as remotely important as the one now facing him. My own feeling at the time was that Peter's mind was not wholly on the job. It was across the city, with his wife Frances. Peter was a man who took his family responsibilities seriously.' If Alf had known Bonetti's predicament, he might have played Alex Stepney of Manchester United, regarded by many in the England squad as a better keeper than Bonetti. 'I thought on the day that Alf would have played Alex Stepney, because he was more of a big-time keeper than Peter. He had played through a European Cup Final, so he was more experienced in the big time atmosphere,' argues Francis Lee. 'I agree with Franny,' says Nobby Stiles. 'Peter was very nervous that day, great lad, smashing lad, but very nervous. I remember Denis Law saying to me that the difference between Peter and Alex was that \"Peter will dive for the ball, whereas Alex will get across if he can. Every time Peter dives, I'll be in.\"' In fact, as Neil Phillips revealed to me, Alf himself had real concerns about Bonetti's big-match temperament. 'I remember discussions taking place between Alf and Dave Sexton, the manager of Chelsea. Dave would be saying what a marvellous keeper Bonetti was and Alf would reply, \"Yes, when he's playing for Chelsea but I have real doubts about him when he's playing for England.\" '\n\nThe doubts about Bonetti turned out to be fully justified. England played superbly for the first 50 minutes against West Germany, going 2\u20130 up with goals from Peters and Mullery, who was having the game of a lifetime. No England team under Ramsey had ever lost from such a position and once more, as in 1966, the threat of the finest German player, Franz Beckenbauer, had been nullified by his duties in marking Bobby Charlton. 'When the second one went in I ran round the field shouting to the Germans, \"Goodnight, God bless, see you in Munich,\"' recalls Alan Ball. The celebrations were premature. Ramsey's team appeared to be cruising into the semi-finals. Then, with just 20 minutes to go, England suffered a dramatic reversal of fortune. Beckenbauer, breaking free for a moment from the shackles of Charlton, advanced towards the penalty box but was driven wide by the wonderfully dogged Mullery. It seemed like the attack had gone nowhere when suddenly Beckenbauer tried a shot. It was a vapid strike, one that should have been easily saved by Bonetti but somehow, as he dived, he allowed the gently rolling ball to squirm under his body. Bobby Moore was later scathing about Bonetti's error: 'Franz's shot was nothing special. If Peter is going to be honest with himself, he had to be disappointed. Psychologically, it was a desperate goal to concede. It was the sort of goal which cut your confidence from the back.'\n\nIt was soon after Beckenbauer's goal that Alf made probably the most controversial decision of his reign as England manager. With England still 2-1 up, he brought off Bobby Charlton, replacing him with Colin Bell. Alf's aim was to save Bobby, then 32, for the semi-final but the move backfired. Charlton had kept Beckenbauer quiet for two successive World Cup ties. Suddenly the great German, one of the most gifted playmakers of all time, was liberated. As Beckenbauer proceeded to dominate, England grew increasingly ragged and exhausted. To shore up his side, Ramsey brought on the hard-tackling Norman Hunter in place of Martin Peters, hoping to counter the insurgency of Jurgen Grabowski. It was too late. In the 76th minute the inevitable happened. From a mis-kicked England clearance, Uwe Seeler flicked the ball with the back of his head over Bonetti, who was left flailing in no-man's land. 2-2. 'England are throwing it away,' bellowed BBC commentator David Coleman. The game was about to enter extra-time.\n\nThere is a compelling symmetry about the 1966 final and the 1970 quarter-final, given the score-lines after 90 minutes, only in 1970, Alf could not produce the same inspirational rhetoric at the full-time whistle. By definition, a finest-hour speech can only be given once in a lifetime. By 1970, the grandeur of Alf was fading. He made a half-hearted attempt to rouse the troops, telling them, 'You did it in 1966, you can do it again,' but this time Alan Mullery, England's star of the match, said cynically, 'Yeah, but it wasn't 100 degrees in the shade at Wembley.' Mullery was instantly ashamed of his comment: 'I don't know why I said it and I have regretted opening my mouth ever since.' But his words summed up the exhaustion of his team. England could cope with the heat when they were winning. After conceding two sloppy goals, they were broken. In extra-time, Gerd Muller, 'der Bomber', won the game by hooking a close-range volley past the hapless Bonetti.\n\nEngland were out of the World Cup. It was an unbelievable result, given England's total superiority for most of the first 90 minutes. Alf gave a rather forced handshake to the German manager, Helmut Schoen, and then retreated with his distraught side to the team hotel in Leon. Like most of his players, Alf was barely able to speak. 'I never want to go through that again in my life,' says Alan Ball. 'Alf was as shell-shocked as the rest of us. We were so, so disappointed.' Brian Labone told me that 'losing that game was the most upsetting time of my life. It was thirty-five years ago, but it is still with me to this day.' Francis Lee has always refused to watch any video of the game:\n\n> I would find it too painful. Even now I look back on that day with real regret. The atmosphere after the German game was absolutely terrible because we knew we had them down and should have finished them off. Alf was so morose after the game. He was terrible. I saw him shaking hands with Helmut Schoen and he hardly knew what to do. On the coach back to the hotel, we hardly spoke. We hardly spoke for two days. It was the worst anti-climax of all time. It still affects me to this day.\n\nKen Jones tracked Alf down to the hotel two hours after the final whistle. He was sitting disconsolately at a table on his own. 'I couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing would have made any sense,' says Jones.\n\n'Do you want a drink?' asked Alf. Jones nodded.\n\n'Pour it yourself,' he said, handing over an opened bottle of champagne.\n\n'You were so close...' said Jones. Alf was not listening.\n\n'I still can't believe it. Of all the players to lose, it had to be him.' Alf was, of course, referring to Banks. In 1973, Alf gave this vivid description of his feelings after the final whistle:\n\n> I think I lost 15 years of my life in one afternoon. I was shattered but I couldn't show that in front of the players. I remember forcing myself to go and congratulate the German manager Helmut Schoen. It was necessary to do that but, by goodness, it wasn't easy. Our dressing-room was like a morgue. My job was to pick the players up off the floor. Jack Charlton wasn't playing that day but I can hear him now, telling me to let myself go. I couldn't. It's not in me to do that.\n\nIn the tortured aftermath of the game, Alf came in for a deluge of criticism about his substitutions. If he had not taken off Charlton, it was averred, Beckenbauer would never have been free to move forward. There is some truth in this. Alf had made the fatal mistake of planning for the next game before victory had been achieved. Beckenbauer himself added support to this view: 'When England were leading 2\u20130, we were completely dead. After I scored what I thought was a rather soft goal, Alf Ramsey decided to substitute Bobby Charlton, who we felt was the heart of their game. Ramsey made such a mistake in taking him off.' It was a view that captain Bobby Moore shared: 'As soon as Bobby Charlton walked away, it was like a ton weight had been lifted off Beckenbauer.' Not usually prone to confessing his errors, Alf privately admitted that he may have got it wrong. He told Bobby Charlton on the plane back to England that it was 'a mistake I shall always regret' to have taken him off. According to his secretary at the FA, Margaret Bruce, one of Alf's first actions on his return to Lancaster Gate was to express his annoyance at what he had done. 'He told me that he rued the moment he took off Bobby Charlton. \"I shouldn't have done it,\" he said.'\n\nBut Alf was being too hard on himself. The reality is that, in the context of the match, his substitutions were perfectly sensible, given the boiling conditions of Mexico and the age of Bobby Charlton. Far from undermining England, the introduction of Bell and Hunter could have reinvigorated the side. As Alan Ball says:\n\n> When Alf took Bobby off, I thought to myself: 'Great, fantastic, Alf, bit of help in the middle of the pitch.' They were fabulous substitutions at the time. Colin Bell and Norman Hunter were two great lads in the middle of the park, great runners, great lungs.\n\nBobby Charlton himself said he 'never blamed Alf for the substitution. When he pulled me off, I did not doubt if for a minute. I was disappointed only in that I felt really full of running.' Francis Lee believes that the 'effect of the substitutions has been overdone. Colin came on and played well and at that heat and altitude you have to use the subs.'\n\nIn truth, the entire debate about the substitutions is something of an irrelevance, for England would have almost certainly won 2\u20130 if Banks had not been indisposed. No matter how well a team plays, if the keeper makes a series of howling errors, they are doomed to defeat. And that is what happened in Leon. 'No way would we have lost with Gordon in goal,' says Ball. 'Gordon would not have allowed the first to go in and he would have caught the cross on the second. I felt sorry for Peter but ultimately he cost us.' From the press box, Brian James agreed:\n\n> Going back to the England hotel was almost like attending a funeral. There was not anything you could say. I avoided Peter Bonetti's eye. People blame the substitutions. It was nothing to do with the substitutions. In fact the substitutions were quite right. Bobby Charlton had worked his bollocks off in the heat. The goals were the keeper's fault. Alf certainly believed that Peter was so shaken up before the game because of the rumours about his wife.\n\nTommy Docherty jokes that Bonetti acquired the nickname 'The Cat' because 'he was always pissing in the back of the net' and that was the way some England players felt about him in June 1970. 'Peter's role in our downfall is beyond argument,' says Geoff Hurst. Similarly, Brian Labone, according to Osgood, 'slated Catty', while Allan Clarke teased the Chelsea keeper.\n\n> We'd been away from home for more than six weeks, which is a long time. Peter was as sick as a parrot, but I actually went up to him and said, 'Thanks a lot, Peter.'\n> \n> 'Why's that?'\n> \n> 'You've got us all home early.' I made him feel even worse.'\n\nAlf also blamed Bonetti, though he would not say so in public. Nigel Clarke remembers this revealing conversation when they were working together on Alf's column in the _Daily Mirror:_\n\n> He told me that he had not seen how England could lose to West Germany. He said to me, 'I knew my biggest test was coming up in three days in the semi-final and I had to have fresh legs. And Bobby was not getting any younger. But what I did not bank on was Peter throwing in two goals.' There was a pause and then Alf said, 'You're not going to put that in, are you?'\n> \n> 'Not if you don't want me to. It's up to you, Alf.'\n> \n> 'Well, Peter did throw two in but I would hate to put that in print.'\n> \n> So Alf went on shouldering the blame for the defeat because of his substitutions.\n\nAs so often, the brilliantly perceptive Hugh McIlvanney went to the heart of the matter, writing in the _Observer:_\n\n> Sir Alf Ramsey's team are out because the best goalkeeper most people have ever seen turned sick, and one who is only slightly less gifted was overwhelmed by the suddenness of his promotion. Those who ranted smugly in distant television studios about the tactical blunders of Ramsey were toying with the edges of the issue. Errors there were and Ramsey in private has acknowledged one or two but the England manager is entitled to claim that his side were felled by something close to an act of God.\n\nSuch wise words brought little reprieve. Alf came home to an inevitable torrent of criticism. He had been a manager who lived by results, not by quality of football, and for the first time in his career since taking over at Ipswich he had experienced a real setback. If he had been better at public relations, he might not have been so vulnerable. But now the vultures were circling. He was condemned for his stubbornness, arrogance and negative tactics. When he said at a press conference on his return that England had 'nothing to learn from the Brazilians', he was only stating an objective truth, in the sense that everyone knew that Brazil, the winners of 1970, were the outstanding team of the tournament. But it sounded like gross provincial complacency. Joe Mercer, manager of Manchester City, complained that Alf had ignored him throughout his stay in the same hotel in Mexico: 'It's the art of a manager's job to foster friendship. As a public-relations man Alf is the worst in the business.' Malcolm Allison attacked Ramsey's caution, especially in the game against Germany. 'If you play defensively, the opposition start getting confidence, they start to feel you aren't so fearsome after all. So instead of saying, \"We're the champions, come and take it off us\", you're saying, \"We're as worried as you are.\" '\n\nAlf had to hope that he could improve England's performance. But he was entering new territory. For the first time in his international career, England would have to qualify for the World Cup finals.\n\n# [THIRTEEN  \n _Katowice_](004-toc.html#ch13)\n\nEngland players of Alf's era love to tell of the moments when he appeared to rebuke them for taking their places in the national side for granted. Gordon Banks says that after playing Yugoslavia in May 1966 he breezily called out to Alf in the Wembley car park, 'See you next time, Alf,' only to be greeted with the stern reply, 'If selected, Gordon.'\n\nOn another occasion, Ken Jones was giving a lift to Alf and Geoff Hurst. Alf was, as usual, left at Liverpool Street station, and as he stepped out of the car, Geoff said to him, 'See you at the next game, Alf.'\n\n'Yes, Geoffrey, I'll send you a couple of tickets.'\n\nSuch statements have usually been taken as examples of Alf's determination to prevent his players becoming too complacent about England duty. Gordon Banks said of Alf's remark, 'It was a lesson to me that I had to fight for my England place no matter how well I had played in previous games.' But the greater likelihood is that they were only a demonstration of Alf's dust-dry sense of humour. The truth is that Alf remained almost obsessively loyal to the footballers that had brought him success in the past. Rather than experiment, he preferred to surround himself with those he trusted. This inability to rebuild, to create a long-term culture of continuing success, was one of his weaknesses as a manager. It had happened at Ipswich, where the failure to replace ageing limbs or change outmoded tactics saw Ipswich in severe danger of relegation only months after winning the title. And in the early seventies, following the shock exit in Leon, the same process started to happen with England. Alf built one great side for 1966, but he struggled to do so again for 1974.\n\nAlf is often portrayed as a ruthless, cold-hearted realist, whose expressionless face reflected his inner hardness. But this is a false picture. In fact, Alf was something of a sentimentalist. There was little of the cynic about him. The love of westerns, of his family and of his nation showed a man of simple but profound feelings. And he extended that mix of nostalgia and affection towards his teams. In 1963, for instance, when he had to drop his favourite player, Jimmy Leadbetter, from the Ipswich side, he was distraught. 'This was a terrible moment. After all Jimmy had done for this team, he took it well, better than I did,' said Alf. Like Prime Ministers, managers have to be good butchers, but Sir Alf was too loyal to be one. Loyalty, of course, had been one of the virtues that helped to create the spirit of 1966. 'Loyalty was his massive strength. It served him well for years. It won him the World Cup,' says Alan Ball. But once the Cup had slipped from his grasp, he still remained cautious in his selections and systems, reluctant to embrace wholesale change. As Peter Osgood put it, 'After 1970, he should have started to rebuild right away, because if we qualified for 1974, it was obvious that Bobby Moore would be too old, and Mullery, Hurst and Lee weren't going to be around. He left it too late. Mooro played until 1973, which was too long.'\n\nThere was some inevitable speculation that, after the failure in Mexico, Alf's position might be in question. But the FA quickly quashed any of that talk. 'We acclaimed Sir Alf in 1966 as probably the best team manager in the world. As far as I am concerned, I have no reason to alter my opinions in view of our performance in Mexico,' said Sir Andrew Stephen, Chairman of the FA. And Alf himself had no intention of resigning, telling a press conference that any talk about his departure was 'pure invention on the part of newspapers, television and radio commentators'. But what the press were clamouring for was not a change in manager but in playing personnel. 'Now, not next year or the year after, is the time to look at fresh faces,' wrote Frank Magee in the _Sunday Mirror._\n\nIn Alf's first competitive game after Mexico, against Malta in Valetta in a qualifier for the European Championship, Alf did make a few introductions of new players, though the spine of the team was still built around Banks, Ball, Peters, Hunter and Mullery. One of the enforced changes was Roy McFarland of Derby County for Bobby Moore, who had been suspended by his club for a late-night drinking session on the eve of an FA Cup tie. McFarland immediately sensed the spirit of loyalty that Alf had built in the England camp. 'The bond with the players had to be close because of the World Cup, but it was easy to come into it. You felt so much part of the camaraderie. There was a real bond there. Perhaps that was part of Alf's problem. Maybe he was too loyal for too long. Maybe he took longer than he should have done with the transition to younger players.' For all that, McFarland was deeply impressed with Alf as a manager from the moment he came into the squad.\n\n> Alf would come and speak to you privately on the training ground. The only piece of direct coaching advice he gave me, which really helped me improve as a player, was this, 'Roy, I have noticed that when you run and jump to head the ball, nobody will beat you. But from a standing jump, people do beat you. Practise doing it and you will improve. You may work with light weights and practise springing, but you have to do it from a standing position.' That shows how good Alf was. He honed in on one problem. He did not give long team talks. He spoke in the same manner in the dressing-room as everywhere else, no great emotion. I did not find him aloof. For me, he was quite warm. He was very modest, never boasted, never gloated about what he had achieved. His focus was completely on the players \u2013 that's why he would get annoyed with the press. When you were away with England, one person could not go off on his own. Whatever we did, we did together. If we went to the pictures, we all went together. He loved his cowboy films. I remember one hilarious time when we were going to see _Hang 'em High._ Alf just could not get the words out properly. He kept saying 'Hang Hem High' or 'Ang Em Igh'. He must have done this about a dozen times, until Ballie said, 'Oh come on Alf, for fuck's sake, it's _Hang 'em High._ Now let's get to the pictures.'\n\nEngland were expected to enjoy a rout against Malta, but on a grassless, rutted pitch, they limped to a 1\u20130 win. So poor was the pitch that when Gordon Banks went to make a save, he ended up with a badly cut leg and torn shorts. Paul Reaney, who won the third of his three England caps in this game, remembers how Alf dealt with this problem:\n\n> It was an awful, dreadful pitch, rock hard. I will always remember Alf saying before we went out, 'Gentlemen, I understand the situation. If there is anyone who does not want to play, please tell me now before you go out.' Of course no one put their hand up. But Alf was ensuring that no one could come in making excuses at the end. It was a good tactic to stop the moaning. That was typical Alf. There was no ranting.\n\nBut the quality of the ground was of no concern to Alf's critics. The pressure on him was ratcheted up another notch. It was then eased somewhat as England proceeded to enjoy a string of decent results for the next 14 months. This better form saw England reach the quarter-finals of the European Championship, hammering Malta 5-0 at home, defeating Greece home and away and remaining unbeaten against Switzerland. Much to Alf's pleasure, Scotland were also crushed 3-1 at Wembley in May 1971. The worrying point, however, was that these performances had largely been achieved by the old guard. When England defeated Switzerland in Basle in October 1971, for instance, seven of the side \u2013 Banks, Cooper, Mullery, Moore, Lee, Hurst and Peters \u2013 were of pre-Mexico vintage, while England's 1\u20131 draw at Wembley in November against the Swiss prompted more complaints about 'Alf's old faithfuls not doing it any more'. In the _Daily Mail_ Jeff Powell wrote of the need for Alf 'to pump fresh blood into his ailing team...The alternative is for all of us to sit and watch a once great international team dying slowly on its feet.' Despite qualification, a campaign of assassination against Alf was in full swing by the end of the year. 'Sir Alf would have to be stone deaf not to hear the knives being sharpened, the ammunition stacked and the verbal damnation being rehearsed,' wrote Ian Wooldridge in the _Mail._ 'You can hardly glance at a sports page or tune into a radio or TV debate without hearing the man demolished as though he were Public Enemy Number One and his methods dissected as if they were wholly responsible for the loss of the Empire.' And Wooldridge concluded prophetically: 'What you are witnessing, I suspect, is a classic story of the human race: of people waiting for the man who went up to pass them on the way down again. Had Sir Alf spent a little more time on personal relationships down the years, it might all be reading differently.'\n\nMuch of the press were clamouring for Alf to inject more excitement, youth and adventure into the team by promoting some of the daring individualists, like Osgood, Alan Hudson of Chelsea, or Rod Marsh of QPR, who were setting League football alight with their dazzling skills. Alf's refusal to integrate them into his side was widely seen as another indicator of his inherent dourness. Once more, it was said, he was putting a higher premium on industry than artistry. When Alf sent Marsh on for seven minutes in the home qualifier against Switzerland, Frank Harrington ruefully commented in _Reveille,_ 'It's like putting a stopwatch on Casanova.' Waxing about Marsh's ability, Harrington described\n\n> how the crowd love those weaving figure-of-eight dribbles, that shrug of the hips that sends defenders shuffling the wrong way. If Alf has a fault, it is perhaps that he is too professional, that he has forgotten what draws spectators. Ramsey must experiment, chance his arm. Now is the time to go not only for style but youth.\n\nYet the picture was more complicated than the simple image of brilliant stars damned by a stubborn, blinkered manager. The reality is that in almost every case, Alf was willing to give these mavericks a try, but felt let down by their indiscipline, self-indulgence and absence of any team ethic. Alf knew that trophies are not won by a few crowd-pleasing moments but by hours of sacrifice for the team's cause. At the highest level, mere colourful talent was not enough. It had to be allied to professionalism, determination and moral courage. And this was not the judgement of Alf alone. Alf's successors with England, and other club managers often shuddered at the self-destructive irresponsibility of these men, as did their fellow professionals. As Geoff Hurst argued: 'With the greatest respect, there's flair and then there's genius. And perhaps Alf didn't think they were the right sort of characters for him and his side of secure, solid, tougher players. The flair players of the seventies weren't in the same class, and he couldn't trust them with a free role in the way he could Bobby Charlton.' It was said of Peter Osgood, for instance, that he would not run five yards for the ball but he would run fifty for a fight. Mike Doyle of Manchester City, the club which Rodney Marsh joined in 1972 from QPR, blamed Marsh for losing City's title bid in 1972-73: 'It was clear he just wanted to do his own thing. You don't win anything with players like that in your side.' Malcolm Macdonald has this memory of Alf's fury at Marsh during a match against Scotland: 'I was substitute that day and I could see Alf fuming on the bench. He was getting madder and madder until you could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. In the end, he couldn't contain himself, \"Harold, get that fucking clown off!\"' Perhaps the most extreme example of petulance came from Alan Hudson, whom Alf tried to pick for the Under-23s in 1972. Annoyed at being left out of the full side, Hudson told Ramsey over the phone he would not join the Under-23s for a tour of Eastern Europe because he was putting his home life and club first. 'I was damned if I was going to put him before my family if that's the way he was going to treat me,' said Hudson later. Alf told Hudson: 'Your problems are no concern of mine. Be there in the morning. You'll take the consequences if you don't come.' To which Hudson replied, 'In that case, you'd better start now, because I won't be there.' Hudson never played for England under Alf. According to Ken Jones, he was no great loss, since he was an overrated footballer in the early seventies as a result of an injury: 'In 1970 he missed the Cup Final, missed Mexico and was never the same.' Moreover, Hudson showed a monumental indifference towards his personal fitness, sometimes drinking a bottle and a half of vodka and six pints of beer in the evening before going training the next morning. 'He was phenomenal, absolutely phenomenal,' says his Chelsea team-mate Ian Hutchinson of Hudson's capacity for drink. It was not a gift that Alf appreciated.\n\nNevertheless, it is fair to say that Alf felt far less connection to the colourful stars of the seventies than he had to the more solid, mature figures of the mid-sixties. There was an affinity of outlook between Alf and men like George Cohen, Ray Wilson and Bobby Charlton. They had all done military service for their country and experienced the maximum wage. Modest and dignified, they had a sense of privilege about earning their living as a professional footballer. They belonged to an era when extravagant emotions were frowned on. But Alf was a man out of time by the early seventies. His fifties demeanour, clothes and voice had looked reassuringly old fashioned in the mid-sixties. A few years later, he was in danger of becoming an anachronism. The fabric of Britain was starting to change dramatically. Authority was collapsing in every aspect of society, whether it be in the classroom or on the bloody streets of Belfast. The old post-war consensus broke down, with the trade unions asserting their own power in an unprecedented, often bullying manner. Politicians of all parties seemed impotent and bewildered. The country was in a state of near permanent crisis, reaching the nadir under Edward Heath of the three-day week in 1973, designed to cope with the shortage of power supplies. The traditional family unit was under threat, with divorce and lone parenthood on the rise. And Britain was on the road to becoming a multi-racial society, provoking an often anguished debate about national identity that continues to this day.\n\nQuestions of national self-confidence and authority had never troubled Alf before. Now he was in an alien environment, one that had infested football. Believing in hard work rather than hedonism, sacrifice rather than self-indulgence, he could not relate to a new generation that mocked the conservative values he held dear. Long hair and kissing on the field were an anathema to him. His enemies suggested he disliked flares just as much as flair. 'We used to take the mickey out of Alf Ramsey for being so straight and proper but not to his face because he didn't have a sense of humour, or at least not one I could see,' said Rod Marsh, the prince of the seventies glamour boys. 'As players became more affluent and they had outside interests, advertising and boutiques, I don't think Alf ever adjusted to that. I don't think he adjusted to the pop-star image of footballers. Alf and myself didn't get along.' A new amoral football culture was being built, one that was a world away from the stability and fidelity that Alf understood. As Neil Phillips put it: 'The attitude of players throughout the League was changing. A lot of them had picked up the showbiz thing and were therefore harder to discipline.' Ian Hutchinson of Chelsea once related that his manager Dave Sexton told his players to refrain from sex the Friday night before games:\n\n> On Saturday morning, Ossie would promise that he hadn't made love the previous night, omitting to mention the fact that he'd got his leg over with an air hostess that morning. Free love, it was the in-thing. We went to a party in Sweden after playing Atvidaberg in the Cup Winners' Cup and our full-back bedded three different birds in one night.\n\nAs Arsenal's Peter Storey recalled: 'From the first time I kicked a ball as a pro, I began to learn what the game was all about. It's about drunken parties that go on for days: the orgies, the birds and the fabulous money. Football is just a distraction, but you're so fit you can carry on all the high living in secret.' It is impossible to think of any statement which more violently differed from the essence of Alf. His puzzlement at modern attitudes was beautifully captured in June 1972 when he picked the young Huddersfield striker Frank Worthington for the Under-23s. Worthington turned up at Heathrow Airport in high-heeled cowboy boots, red silk shirt, black slacks and a lime velvet jacket. Peter Shilton, also on the trip, recalls that Alf took one look at Worthington and said, 'Oh shit, what have I fucking done?'\n\nThe mood of self-interested rebellion sweeping the country was mirrored in football, where top clubs became ever more defiant of Ramsey's needs. Players were withdrawn from the England squads not just for major League and Cup games, but even for less important tournaments like the League Cup and the forgotten Texaco Trophy. Throughout this period, Alf had to conduct draining, sometimes bitter negotiations with club managers over the availability of their internationals. Norman Hunter says that Don Revie 'often found ways of keeping his players back from international matches'. Alf later claimed in an interview in 1986 that once, when he was on the phone to his wife from the England hotel, 'I heard Norman Hunter pleading with Revie to release him for England. Revie refused. Hunter broke down in tears.' In November 1971 after his preparations for the European qualifier against Switzerland were badly disrupted by a number of League Cup ties, there were rumours that Alf was so angered by the endless squabbling that he was on the verge of resignation. In an interview with Frank Magee in the _Sunday Mirror_ he denied this but made clear how difficult his job had become. Having explained that he wanted to 'bring the right attitude in soccer about international football', he said, 'It is easy to say \"I'm fed up\" and quit. It is far more important to establish for the future the right of the England manager to have first call on the services of any player.' The _Daily Mail_ was sympathetic to Alf's plight: 'At a critical time in English football development, Ramsey is pinned to the doorposts of his Lancaster Gate office by a number of very sharp league knives.' Even Alan Hardaker, the parochial League Secretary, admitted that Ramsey 'did not get a fair crack of the whip', though he also said that Alf 'failed to appreciate that there were times he also had to co-operate'. An indication of Hardaker's dismissive attitude towards Alf was reflected in this exchange, when Hardaker was making the case for the Newcastle striker Malcolm Macdonald to be allowed to play for his club rather than England.\n\n'But you're not qualified to pick an England team,' said Alf.\n\n'Well, after reading this morning's papers, I gather you're not either,' replied Hardaker.\n\nTaking their cue from the League, several young players showed scant respect for an England call-up. Tommy Smith and Chris Lawler of Liverpool were selected for an Under-23 tour but said they wouldn't go, because they were too tired after a long season. As Smith recalls: 'Alf called us a couple of prize prigs. I'm afraid all we did then was go around the corner after he'd gone and have a good laugh.'\n\nThe nadir for Alf was reached in April 1972, when England played West Germany in the home leg of their European Championship quarter-final. Shortly before the game, the Derby manager Brian Clough withdrew Roy McFarland from Alf's squad, claiming he was injured. Yet just 48 hours later McFarland played in a crucial championship match for Derby. Alf was furious: 'This man calls himself a patriot but he has never done anything to help England. All he does is criticize us in the newspapers and television.' Because of the huge differences in their personalities, it was unlikely that Alf would have ever been close to the theatrical, alcoholic, loud-mouthed socialist, but after this incident, Alf barely spoke to Clough again. In McFarland's place, Alf picked Norman Hunter to play alongside Bobby Moore, but this left the central defence unbalanced because Moore and Hunter did not easily complement each other, particularly because Moore was uncomfortable at being asked to play the kind of hard-tackling, aerially powerful centre-half role that Jack Charlton used to fulfil. 'I was made uneasy by the lack of cohesion between Mooro and Hunter,' said Banks later. But England's other difficulty was directly Alf's fault. Ignoring the threat of G\u00fcnther Netzer operating from an advanced midfield position, he failed to give anyone the role of marking the brilliant but erratic young German. According to Francis Lee, Netzer's name was barely even mentioned in the team talk. But on the night, he tore England apart with his precision passing and incisive runs. At one stage he was wreaking such havoc with England that Hunter yelled at Moore, 'Let me have a chance to get the bastard,' only for Moore to reply, 'This is the way Alf wants it and that's how it's going to be,' a demonstration of how Moore still respected Alf's authority.\n\nWest Germany won 3-1, England's worst defeat at home since Hungary in 1953. 'They murdered us, they couldn't do a thing wrong,' said Alan Ball. Alf's strategy and selection were now under severer attack than at any time since he was appointed a decade earlier. 'Have the methods of the only man to win the World Cup for England become as dead as a dinosaur? Does not Ramsey's ponderous system based on prodigious work-rate, no wingers and endless, top-speed running also burn up players?' asked Alan Hoby in the _Sunday Express._ Francis Lee, who played his last game for England that night, agreed that Alf's tactical rigidity was undermining the team's effectiveness:\n\n> We were still playing 4\u20134\u20132 in the seventies. I don't think Alf was trapped. He just believed in 4\u20134\u20132. By then the system was becoming outdated. I am a great believer at international level that you have to play with three at the back and five in midfield, because you cannot have your four at the back marking one player. You must have three at the back to give you the flexibility in midfield. You'd have a great player like Cruyff who would start off in the front, then drop back, giving the Dutch six in midfield and he would have freedom. That is where we did not readjust. We could have played three at the back and had more strength in midfield. The reason we got beaten by Germany at Wembley was because we got murdered in midfield. It did not matter how much effort the lads put into midfield, because they were outnumbered. And when you are outnumbered by class acts, there is a problem.\n\nAlf's next move only further damaged his already plummeting reputation. When England played the away leg of the German tie in Berlin in May, Alf appeared desperate merely to save face rather than gain the substantial victory that was needed. To resolve the midfield problem, he brought in Peter Storey, one of the toughest, most cynical tacklers in the game, as well as shifting Norman Hunter from central defence. To Alf's critics, it was the distillation of everything that was wrong with his stodgy, joyless, narrow approach, with its emphasis on closing down opponents rather than encouraging good football. Predictably, the game ended in a goalless draw. Afterwards, the Germans complained, with some justification, about the violence of England's methods. 'The whole England team has autographed my leg,' said G\u00fcnther Netzer.\n\nMany thought that the German defeat should have spelled the end of Alf. 'Most managers have a finite usefulness and Ramsey was no exception,' wrote Brian Granville. 'By 1972, he was not the same man. This was plainly the time for Ramsey, who had achieved so much, to go.' But Alf was not a man to walk away from a challenge. From his earliest days in Dagenham, he had battled against being tainted by failure. The next World Cup represented the chance of redemption. Besides, he still retained the support of most of his players. Rod Marsh had little time for Ramsey, saying that 'I didn't feel suited to play in the England set-up; Alf wanted me to be another Geoff Hurst, and that wasn't me at all,' but Marsh was very much an exception. The noise from the press and public only drew the Ramsey camp closer together. 'The knives were out for Alf,' recalls Peter Shilton. 'I did not think within the team there was any decline in his authority. I personally did not see that at all. There was still great loyalty and respect for him.' Mike Summerbee, who played in most of the games in 1972, strongly disagrees with Marsh about Ramsey: 'Rodney is that type of person and he does not like the disciplinarian thing. I don't feel that Alf was out of touch. He was still a great manager, still in tune with football. I always found him very supportive, very loyal to his players. He was a person you always looked up to.' Younger players who came into the side also testify that there was little sign of Alf's influence on the wane. Colin Todd, who won the first of his 27 caps in 1972, told me: 'His style was not outdated. There was a tremendous authority about him. As a youngster coming into the dressing-room, I found him wonderful: calm and controlled. While I was with the England team under him, it was like a close-knit family.' Joe Royle, now manager of Ipswich, won two caps under Alf, the second of them against Yugoslavia:\n\n> Alf said something in the team talk which really lifted me. He reminded the players that while I was a centre-forward with a decent head, I was equally receptive to the ball played to my feet. So we must not get pulled into a long-ball game just because we had a big striker who could head the ball. That made me feel really good about myself. It shows his gift for saying the right thing. He was a man of few words but every word counted. He was a very calming influence, a very dignified man. He hid his passion well but there is no doubt that he was a passionate and proud man. I was not intimidated going into the England set-up. Everyone was met with a smile and a handshake. He always made a great play for reminding players that they were in the England team because of what they did for their clubs. Therefore, because you were playing for England, you did not necessarily have to do anything different to what you did for your club.\n\nRay Clemence, the Liverpool goalkeeper who made his debut in 1972 against Wales, felt that Alf still had\n\n> a very tight squad. It was still a very tight community. There was no sense of Alf losing his authority. When you went into the team, you realized what a great man he was, with so many top players holding him in such high regard. He was a gentleman, but I was definitely in awe of him.\n\nSadly for Alf, it was not the views of the players that counted, but public opinion and the press. And by the end of 1972, the press were whipping up a frenzy against Alf. Such was the depth of feeling against Alf that a few knowing smiles were exchanged in the Wembley press box after the German defeat, as several journalists took pleasure in thinking that their arch enemy was on the slide. What Alf was experiencing was a new form of journalism, raw, sensational and personality-driven. The days when Hugh Cudlipp at the _Mirror_ thought it was the duty of his paper to raise intellectual standards were long gone; the new breed of tabloids wanted to appeal to baser instincts, creating a new climate of near permanent excitement with one noisy campaign after another. Sports coverage succumbed, as newspapers woke up to the huge public interest in football. For the first time, soccer reached the front pages. Brian James gives this description of the change in atmosphere at his own paper, the _Daily Mail:_\n\n> There was a lot of pressure going on. Charlie Wilson, my editor, was kicking arses all the time. He was a hard man who thought we sports reporters were all soft. He thought England should be going out and winning 10-0 every game and if they weren't there was something wrong with the manager. And he believed that we should be getting scoop after scoop, not just covering matches. So he'd say to me, 'I want you to go and see Alf Ramsey and offer him \u00a350 to tell you the next England team.' I told him it couldn't be done. Wilson couldn't comprehend who we were dealing with: 'What do you mean, he won't tell you?' The next thing, Wilson sends our golf correspondent out to Alf's home in Ipswich to get the team. So there is our golf reporter, banging on Alf's windows, trying to get an answer. Of course, Alf refused to say anything.\n\nJoe Royle, who as a long-serving, successful manager, has himself experienced the cauldron of media pressure, feels that Alf was the victim of this changing trend in journalism: 'Before the seventies, managers would often socialize with the press. But by the end of Alf's reign, it was a 'them and us' situation. It grew from a murmur to a grumble to a roar. Alf was very poorly treated by the press, there's no doubt about that.'\n\nPerhaps even more serious for Alf than the press was the growing antagonism towards him within the FA. For ten years, he had treated its leading members with contempt and his obvious disdain had rankled with them. On one occasion during an England tour, an FA official had turned to Alf and brightly said, 'Aren't we doing well?' To which Alf responded: 'What do you mean, we? The players are doing well. You're just here for the cocktails.' Mike Pejic, the Stoke defender, was part of Alf's squad in 1973 and 1974. He remembers this incident during a trip to Russia:\n\n> We were on the coach waiting for some of the FA officials who were still hanging around the hotel. Alf sent Les Cocker inside with the instruction to tell the FA men that, 'If you are not on the bus in two minutes, then you're going to have to catch taxis.' Next thing you saw the FA officials running down the steps and racing each other to get on the bus. Alf was really about to say, 'Off we go.' It was one of the sort of things that probably cost him in the end.\n\nPeter Shilton gives this account of Alf's annoyance during an Under-23 trip:\n\n> I was sitting with some of the lads enjoying a drink with Alf when one of the FA's blazer brigade strolled up and engaged Alf in conversation.\n> \n> 'We played very well tonight, I think,' said the official.\n> \n> 'Yes, these boys did very well,' agreed Alf.\n> \n> 'Yes, very well. What's-his name at number 9, did very well.'\n> \n> 'Joe, Joe Royle.'\n> \n> 'Royle! That's the one. Did well. And the goalkeeper too. Had a very good game.'\n> \n> 'Peter, Peter Shilton.'\n> \n> 'Shiften. Yes. Very good. So well done to you all,' said the official, making his exit. Once he was out of earshot, Alf turned to us.\n> \n> 'Bloody silly sod,' he said. Alf took a sip of his gin and tonic and sighed, 'And there, with the likes of him, gentlemen, hangs my job as England manager.'\n\nThe silly sods were now planning to strike back, and for the first time they had a leader who was determined to pull down Ramsey. Professor Sir Harold Thompson, the FA's vice-chairman, was a formidable intellect. An internationally renowned chemist and Oxford don, he had been a tutor to the young Margaret Thatcher, as well as one of the founders of the famous Pegasus amateur side of the 1950s. But his academic achievements, combined with a natural booming self-confidence, made him a figure of almost suffocating pomposity. The normally restrained Alan Odell, secretary of the FA's international section, says that\n\n> Harold Thompson was a bastard. He was a brilliant man, but as a person I could not stand him. He was one of the very few people I have met in my life that I detested. He treated the staff like shit. No one liked him. He would offend people so much. He was one of those old public-school, upper-class lot. He would come in and say, 'Odell, do this.' There was never a 'please' or a 'thank you' or an attempt to call you by your first name. It was always a barked surname, even if he was talking to Alf or international players.\n\nAs well as being pompous, Thompson was priapic. He had an appalling reputation for sexually harassing women, and British European Airways once made a formal complaint about his trying to touch up a stewardess. 'No girl was safe in a lift with him,' says David Barber of the FA. One club director described to me this incident on tour:\n\n> We went to a reception at the British Embassy. There were two 20-year-old girls on the staff and they came up to me and said, 'Could you do us a favour?' Sir Harold Thompson and some other FA directors have invited us to a casino tonight and we think that they have an ulterior motive. Could you chaperone us?'\n> \n> 'You're joking.'\n> \n> 'No, we went out for dinner last night. While they kept offering us red wine, they were pouring theirs on the carpet. So please come.' So I did chaperone them to make sure there were no unwanted advances from Thompson and the rest.\n\nThompson's domineering, authoritarian manner was particularly loathsome to Alf, whose insecurity always rose at any hint of condescension: 'He always referred to me, even to my face, as Ramsey, which I found insulting.' Two incidents highlighted the deep antagonism between the two men. The first occurred in October 1972, after England's 1\u20131 draw with Yugoslavia at Wembley. 'Thompson was standing 10 yards away. He turned up his nose, implying it was a bad performance, a bad match. I looked at him and turned away.' The second occurred eight months later during a trip to Prague for a friendly against Czechoslovakia. It was Thompson's first trip overseas with England, and in common with the other FA officials, he was having breakfast with Alf and the England players in their private dining room at the hotel. 'He was smoking a cigar over breakfast,' recalled Alf, 'although no England player ever smoked during a meal. With him, it was always a cigar. He never seemed to be without one in his mouth, even when talking to you. I turned to Dick Wragg, the chairman of the senior international committee, and said, \"Do you mind if I have a word with Sir Harold Thompson and ask him to put out his cigar?\" Wragg did not object so I went over to Sir Harold Thompson and said politely that my players didn't smoke and that his cigar was unpleasant for them. I explained that he could either put it out or eat in another room.' Thompson put the cigar out, but he had never been treated that way by an employee before. Alf's fate may have been sealed in that Czechoslovakian breakfast room.\n\nAs long as Alf had been delivering results, his position was safe. But the twin German disasters made his position precarious. And misfortune continued to dog him. In October 1972, his team suffered the disastrous loss of Gordon Banks through a car accident that destroyed the sight in one eye and finished his career. Peter Shilton was a ready replacement, but he lacked Banks' experience. Alf continued to struggle to find forwards who could match Geoff Hurst. Apart from Joe Royle, others he tried included Allan Clarke and Martin Chivers, who won 17 and 24 caps respectively under Alf, as well as Tony Brown of West Brom, Mick Channon of Southampton and Kevin Keegan, the busy Liverpool striker who first played against Wales in 1972. Keegan found the transition from Liverpool to England difficult:\n\n> I don't think Alf rated me as a player at the time. I have a feeling that pressure from outside influenced his decision to call me into the squad. Alf put me alongside Rodney Marsh and Martin Chivers, and until a manager experiments with a new blend of players, he cannot possibly know whether it will work. I just might have been able to bring something out of Marshie, and he done likewise for me, but it did not happen. When I moved inside for England, both Marshie and Chivers stood still, leaving me nowhere. I ended up wandering out on the wing, feeling frustrated and disillusioned.\n\nOn Alf as a manager, Keegan says:\n\n> We were never close. We did not have time to get to know one another, but I found him fairly predictable. He rarely surprised people and if anyone annoyed him he would dismiss them tactfully and without a fuss. A manager has to lean towards his players, something the press do not seem to realize. If he gravitates towards the press at the expense of his players, he has no chance of success. Alf was only concerned with his players. He was probably wrong to be quite so emphatic about this, but he did, at least, win the respect of the players.\n\nMalcolm Macdonald, the Newcastle striker, was another he tried. It might be imagined that Macdonald, one of the most explosive, charismatic players of the seventies, would have the same negative opinion of Alf as some of the other extroverts like Marsh and Hudson. Nothing could be further from the truth. Macdonald was a huge admirer of Alf's from their very first meeting, when Alf picked him for an Under-23 squad against Scotland in 1970: 'I found him one of the most polite men I have ever met in my life. He thanked me profusely for putting myself out and making the journey, and he hoped I hadn't been prevented from doing anything important. In fact, he made me feel like a million dollars!' In the next couple of years in the Under-23s, Alf remained 'a great supporter of me as a player for exactly what I did at club level. That message came through loud and clear at team meetings and half-time talks. He was always urging people to get their heads up to look for my runs and knock me in, so it was obvious for me to not stop doing that.' Once he reached the full squad, Macdonald was struck by the thoroughness of Alf's team talks:\n\n> Once he got going there would be no stopping him. He would go through every position in the England team, every player in the opposing team, how generally he expected us to play against them, what we had to watch out for them doing to us. He would go through corner-kicks, free-kicks and who went in our wall, even to the extent of establishing who would be at one end and who would be at the other. He was absolutely meticulous in his planning. He never referred to any notes, either. It all just came out of his head.\n\nMacdonald was part of the England team which beat Scotland 1\u20130 at Hampden in 1972, when Alan Ball's provocative antics aroused the ire of the Scottish players and crowd. Ball's hatred of the Scots matched that of Alf's \u2013 he called them 'skirt-wearing tossers' \u2013 and towards the end of the game, as England hung on grimly to their lead, he took the ball to the corner flag, sat on it and gave the V-sign to the Scots. Predictably, he was soon hacked off the ball and England won a free-kick. Moments later, he got hold of the ball again, took it to the corner flag and sat on it. By now, 120,000 Scots were going beserk, their rage made all the greater when Alan stood up, kept his foot on the ball and proceeded to wipe his nose on the flag of St Andrew which stood on the corner spot. Seconds later, the final whistle went, and England dashed for the safety of the dressing-room. 'I have never been so fearful', says Macdonald. But what was fascinating was Alf's reaction. 'Alf walked in, and with a big grin on his face, said, \"Alan, Alan, you really are a very naughty boy.\" '\n\nVictories over Scotland, no matter how satisfying, were not going to keep Alf in his job. Only a successful World Cup campaign could do that, and England appeared to have a comparatively straightforward passage into the finals in West Germany in 1974, having been drawn in a small group against unfancied Wales and Poland. England got off to a solid, if not dazzling, start, beating Wales 1\u20130 in Cardiff, but then were held to a 1\u20131 draw at home by Wales at Wembley in January 1973. Given that the Welsh side included three players from the Second Division and one from the Third, it was a shabby performance by England, in which their defence looked insecure and the front-line powerless. Keegan, Chivers and Marsh again failed to impress, while England's goal actually came from an opportunistic 25-yard shot by Norman Hunter. Towards the end, England were slow-handclapped by the Wembley crowd. It was to be Marsh's last game for England, his downfall assisted by a cheeky remark he made within Alf's earshot. Before the match, Alf went up to Marsh and said:\n\n'I've told you before that when you play for England you have to work harder. I don't care what you've done at Manchester City or QPR but that's what you have to do for me. In fact this is the last chance I'm going to give you. In the first 45 minutes I'll be watching you and if you don't, I'm going to pull you off at half-time.'\n\n'Christ!' muttered Marsh, 'At Manchester City all we get at half-time is a cup of tea and an orange.'\n\nIt was a typical piece of cockney wit, which Marsh thought the unworldly Alf would not understand even if he heard it. But Alf knew enough to know that Marsh was mocking him. And he was not a good enough player to get away with such sarcasm.\n\nAfter dropping points against Wales, it was vital that England avoided defeat in Katowice in June 1973. By now, relations between Alf and much of the press were almost at freezing point. They sunk below zero when the journalists arrived in Katowice, only to find out that they were being kicked out of the hotel they had originally been booked into, the Hotel Silesia, which was also being used by the England party. They now had to stay in the much more downmarket Hotel Katowice. The decision had obviously been taken by Alf and the FA. What made it even more insulting was that the 50 rooms vacated by the press were filled by travelling England fans. 'What it comes down to is that Alf would rather have his players surrounded by yobs in rosettes, yelling for autographs, than us,' said one reporter. Alf did nothing to assuage the press's anger at a conference he gave on the eve of the game. In a diary kept by Brian James, he left this record:\n\n> More than 80 English and Polish press and TV are waiting as Alf arrives, stone-faced. To the first question, 'Can you give us the team?' he replies, 'I will deal with this very quickly. The team will be announced tomorrow. Probably. Around lunchtime. Probably.' There's a grim silence, then Frank Magee of the _Daily Mirror_ asks with careful politeness, 'Could you tell us why you are delaying naming the team? Is it a matter of tactics, or are there practical reasons, like injuries?' Ramsey stares back and snaps, 'Do I have to give you reasons? I have already told you what I am going to do.' There is a long, dreadful, embarrassed silence. Englishmen stare down at their feet, acutely aware that the insulted Magee has probably been Alf's greatest supporter over the past 10 years. The conference drags on for a further 10 minutes, time for Ramsey to complain about not being offered 'even a glass of water' and 'Polish TV teams with their hot uncomfortable lights'. As he leaves, a hostile silence is broken only by derisory handclaps from three Polish writers. Magee is visibly upset. 'I consider this man to be a friend. But I was both embarrassed and outraged by what he did in there.'\n\nThe gloom which hung over the England entourage only deepened as Alf's team gave one of most disappointing performances of his reign. The pessimism of the press seemed to have infected the players. 'Somehow, I didn't feel the old confidence,' recalled Alan Ball, who was winning his 64th cap. Within seven minutes England were 1\u20130 down, conceding a goal from a free-kick which sailed between Moore and Shilton. It was a sloppy goal, the kind that infuriated Ramsey, who was always meticulous in his planning at set-pieces. The second was an even more grievous, self-inflicted wound. Just after the start of the second half, Bobby Moore gathered the ball near the half-way line. As he looked round the field with his characteristic assurance, the Polish forward Lubanski quickly advanced on him. Moore casually tried to side-step him, lost his balance and gave away the ball. Lubanski gleefully charged down the field and flashed a shot past Shilton. England never looked like recovering. With just fifteen minutes to go, Ball took out his frustration on the midfielder Cmikiewicz, grabbing him by the neck and jerking a knee towards the Pole's groin. The referee had no alternative but to send him off.\n\nAlf's empire was crumbling into incompetence and indiscipline. As one-eyed as ever, Alf suggested to the press afterwards that England had actually been the better team. He was fooling no one. 'Ramsey had picked the wrong players in the squad, and from that squad chosen the wrong team,' wrote the _Daily Mail's_ Brian James. 'Ramsey had instructed his players badly, and had failed to reinforce them with substitutes when he needed to do so. Ramsey had thrown away England's best chance.' In a way, this was an even worse result than Leon, when England has lost a 2\u20130 lead thanks to goalkeeper errors. In Katowice, England had not even looked like scoring. That night, most of the England players gathered in Bobby Moore's room for a drink of commiseration. They were discussing the game, and Peter Shilton remembers being struck by Bobby Moore's lack of any self-pity: 'Bobby came over as aloof but he was special in his own way. I learnt so much from him that night, seeing how he could handle such a big disappointment. That is how I saw his greatness on the field.' As the players talked, suddenly there was knock on the door. It was Alf. This was something of a surprise, since he usually kept a social distance from the team. 'Mind if I join you?' he said. The discussion began again, and immediately Alf started saying that he was at fault for the first goal because he should have ensured that the space behind the wall was covered. Colin Bell then tried to take the blame, claiming that he should have been there but Alf would have none of it. As Roy McFarland recalls: 'Alf blamed himself and would not listen to us. He had one beer and then said, \"Thank you very much for the drink\" He then got to the door and repeated, \"It was still my fault. Goodnight, gentlemen.\" I could see then why all the players loved him and loved working with him.'\n\nIt was a tired and morose England team that left Poland the next morning for Moscow for the next leg of their summer tour. There were to be two further matches, one against Russia and one against Italy in Turin. They boarded the BAC-111 and as the plane took to the sky, the newspapers were brought out by the stewardesses. Jeff Powell recalls:\n\n> It was one of those aircraft with some seats facing forwards and some backwards. I was sitting in an aisle seat facing forwards and Alf was further up the plane, facing back down the plane. Alf was holding up the _Daily Mail,_ his favourite paper, and I could see the headline above my report on the back page, RAMSEY'S PLANS BETRAY ENGLAND. Alf, of course, was an intense patriot. So as I saw those words I thought to myself, 'Bloody hell.' He turned over the paper to look at the back. He lowered it, glared at me and then raised it again. He did not speak to me throughout the journey or for sometime afterwards. Only over some drinks after the game against Italy did he come up to me and say, 'Well, we'll put that behind us now.' We chinked our glasses and Alf was OK.\n\nDavid Lacey of the _Guardian_ has a happier memory of this trip to Moscow, when Alf was trying to build some bridges after his icy behaviour in Poland:\n\n> A few of us were having some beers outside the team's hotel, the Metropole, in Moscow. Alf joined us and unwound completely about the match in Katowice and Bobby Moore. In a memorable phrase, he told us that 'If Bobby Moore had wept, we would have all wept with him.' I found Alf a very human type of guy and you could see why all the players liked and respected him. But he did not like being questioned. He would join in a conversation but he would freeze up if he thought an answer to a question might go on the record. He was old-fashioned in the sense that he thought writers should report the match. All the rest was intrusive to him. One of the most important aspects of our job was to know the team. He once pulled a fast one on us there before a game at Hampden. The journalists had been battering him all Friday about who would be playing. He stonewalled everything. Then, in the early evening, most of the journalists had done their pieces for the day. Some were having a few drinks, others had gone to the cinema. Then Alf got on the phone to the Press Association to ring through the team. That showed a sense of humour.\n\nThe England tour ended sadly. After a narrow victory in Moscow, England were beaten by Italy in Turin, the first time the Italians had defeated England in 40 years. But of far more concern than records was qualification for the World Cup.\n\nAlf's international career would be heading to a close unless England beat Poland at Wembley on 17 October 1973. The match was to be the biggest in England since 1966 and England warmed up satisfactorily by beating a weak Austrian side 7\u20130. But Alf knew this result meant little for the Polish encounter. Shortly before the vital game, he flew to Holland to watch Poland. Ken Jones travelled with him and took this account of Alf's reflective conversation:\n\n> I have been through all the emotional hazards that go with this job. I've known success and failure, elation and disappointment. When England win, everything belongs, quite rightly, to the players. They are the people who have made victory possible. When England loses, it is my responsibility. But football management is a double-edged thing. On one hand, the manager gets too much credit, on the other, he takes too much of the blame. I have never looked for praise. It makes me uncomfortable.\n\nThe game was vital, not just to Ramsey's future, but to the future of English football: 'This October match is the thundercloud hanging over the new season. Failure would bring the sort of cataclysm not seen since Ramsey's last match as an international right-back, the 6\u20133 slaughter by Hungary 20 years ago,' wrote Mike Langley in the _People._ Yet, typically, the League remained as purblind as ever, refusing to cancel the fixtures for the Saturday before the game. In a statement of breathtaking complacency, Alan Hardaker said: 'If England do lose against Poland, the game is not going to die. It will be a terrible thing for six weeks, and then everybody will forget about it.' While Hardarker puffed on his pipe in his self-satisfied way, Alf had to endure further rounds of criticism of his management style, with Brian Clough, Tommy Docherty and Malcolm Allison taking to the airwaves to question his approach. But on the night itself, Clough had no doubt that England would emerge victorious, since the Polish keeper Tomaszewski was nothing more than 'a clown'. Clough was reflecting the growing public optimism that England would pull through because of home advantage. For all the abuse that Alf had endured, it was worth noting that England had only lost four times in 27 games since Mexico in 1970. 'On form and ability, England should win comfortably,' wrote David Lacey, though he added prophetically: 'The main doubts will concern the ability of the front three, Channon, Chivers and Clarke, to snap up the fleeting chances that come their way.'\n\nPeter Shilton remembers Alf's team talk before the match because of its unusual intensity: 'It was the most passionate talk I ever had from him. You could really tell that he had gone up a level. He was not shouting but he was letting the players know how important it was to him to get a result.' For one of the few times in a competitive match since 1962, England lined up without Bobby Moore, who was relegated to the substitutes bench, the captain's armband being taken by Martin Peters. Alf felt it a severe wrench to leave out the player with whom he had shared so much, both in glory and defeat, but he knew that Bobby's powers were fading. 'It was a bad moment for me. Bobby was shattered,' said Alf.\n\nAs the match got under way, the chances were more than fleeting; they came in wave after wave, but somehow the England forwards failed to find the back of the net. Tomaszewski proved himself anything but a clown as he pulled of a series of acrobatic, sometimes eccentric saves. England were also desperately unlucky, frequently shaving the post or the crossbar. For Alf, it was horribly reminiscent of the most agonizing game of his playing career, when England laid siege to the USA goal in 1950 without being able to convert any of a string of chances. And like the Americans, the Poles scored with one of their first attacks. In the 57th minute, Norman Hunter went to meet a Polish clearance down the right-hand side as the balding winger Lato also rushed to the ball. Usually, Hunter would have just belted the ball \u2013 and the man \u2013 into touch. But this time, he failed to go through with the tackle and lost possession. It was almost a carbon copy of Moore's error in Katowice. Lato ran forward, paused, then threaded the ball to Domarski, whose shot skidded off the lush Wembley turf and underneath Shilton's diving body. 1\u20130 to Poland. Today, Norman Hunter is open about his error:\n\n> I should have just come across and tapped it out of play with my left and then defended. But because we had to win the game, I tried to keep it in with my right foot. To tell you the honest truth, I was waiting for a crunching tackle. I was setting myself for that. But then the winger actually started to slow down so I thought, 'I'll try and keep this in play and nick it round him. But it went straight under my right foot.' I should have known better than to go with that one. That's how it happens. That's the end of it.\n\nPeter Shilton also admits to having made the wrong decision:\n\n> What I should have done was make a blocking save, or parry the shot away for a corner. But I tried to get hold of the ball by scooping it into my body and retaining possession. It was the speed of the ball coming off the turf, together with the fact that I had been momentarily unsighted when Domarski actually struck it, that beat me.\n\nEngland now had to score twice. The attacks became more feverish, but still the ball would not go in. Given the number of chances, England's inability to score defied the law of averages. 'How we did not win that by four or five I do not know. It was unbelievable,' says Hunter. In the 60th minute, England managed to claw one back, thanks to an Allan Clarke penalty. The bombardment intensified, with Channon, Clarke and Tony Currie all missing good chances or being denied by the spectacular Tomaszewski. 'It was the most one-sided international I have ever played in my life,' says Allan Clarke, who saw one of his efforts miraculously tipped over the bar. 'I half-turned, thinking it was about to reach the back of the net.' With just fifteen minutes to go, the score was still 1\u20131. Bobby Moore on the subs bench started to urge Alf to send on Kevin Hector, the Derby striker. All Alf did was push Norman Hunter forward. The Polish goal somehow remained intact. 'As the minutes unwound, seemingly faster and faster, there he sat with the substitutes on the sidelines. What fires were burning inside him, one perhaps will never know. But he sat there immobile, while his men out on the field drained themselves of their last ounce of energy,' wrote Geoffrey Green in _The Times._ Then with just two minutes left, Alf finally relented and put on Hector in place of Chivers, who'd had a poor game. Despite its extreme lateness, the substitution almost did the trick, Hector seeing one of his headers scrambled off the line in the dying seconds. Alf's tardiness over Hector might seem like another example of his obduracy, but according to Nigel Clarke there was a bizarre chronographical explanation:\n\n> Unbelievably, his watch had stopped and he did not realize that there were only two minutes to go. He said to me, 'I suddenly realized that it had stopped. I know people will wonder why I did not rely on the stadium clock. But I always used to go by my own watch. The stadium clock could be far slower.' He always went by his own timing. He would never call out to Harold, 'How long left?' Bobby Moore was at his side saying, 'Alf, you've got to get someone on.' Bobby started to tear at Kevin Hector's tracksuit bottoms before Alf had given the word out. Then Alf realized that his watch had stopped and he shoved Kevin on immediately. Afterwards, Alf said that he 'shivered about it'.\n\n'A little neglect may breed mischief. For want of a nail the kingdom was lost,' went the 18th-century maxim. Hector's intervention was too late. The match was drawn. England had failed to qualify for the World Cup for the first time in history. Disconsolately, the England players retreated off the Wembley turf, Bobby Moore putting a consoling arm around Norman Hunter. 'I've never been in a dressing-room like it. Players were crying,' said Roy McFarland. Tony Currie recalled: 'It was an accumulation of bad finishing, lucky goalkeeping and good goalkeeping and fate. We all sat in the dressing-room afterwards and not a word was said. Everyone was in shock.' Yet even in this, one of the saddest episodes of his managerial career, Alf could spare a thought for others. He ordered the shattered players to wait in the dressing-room, for a presentation was due to be made by the FA to Harold Shepherdson for his long service to the England cause. Typically, the FA did not show the same sensitivity as Alf. Not one of their directors bothered to show up for the ceremony, even though Shepherdson's wife had come down especially from Middlesbrough. Neil Phillips gives this account:\n\n> All the players in the dressing-room were completely and utterly dejected. Some of them were in tears because they knew they would never have an opportunity again of playing in a World Cup. Alf insisted that they stay until the directors presented Harold with his silver salver. So we were all sitting round the dressing-room, really dejected. We sat there for three-quarters of an hour and not one FA director came into the dressing-room, not one. In the end, Alf went away to find out what was going on and came back and said, 'I'm sorry but the directors are not coming down because they found the area was too crowded.' The crowds had not stopped them coming down after the 1966 World Cup final.\n\nA pall of despair hung over Ramsey's footballers. Even today, many of them are still pained at the recollection of the game. 'I was meant to be doing a commercial the next day at my house in Leeds for the Nat West Bank and I just could not do it. It took me three weeks to get over the disappointment,' says Allan Clarke. 'It was awful. It was devastating. It was the lowest I have been in football. Driving home that night was miserable,' says Roy McFarland. On the surface, the FA appeared to share this sorrow. On 5 November 1973, the Council passed a resolution expressing 'sincere regrets to Sir Alfred Ramsey that the England team had been eliminated from the World Cup' but adding that he had 'the unanimous support and confidence of the Senior Committee'. But Professor Sir Harold Thompson, still brooding about being told what he could do with his cigar, was not happy about this. He saw the Polish defeat as the ideal chance to be rid of Ramsey. So at the next Council meeting on 26 November, he put it on record that the previous Minute 'did not represent the feeling of all members of the Council and whilst he agreed that the Senior Committee were perfectly within their rights in recording the view expressed in the Minute, he felt it should not preclude a wider discussion by the Council or some other select group at a later date'. The language might be bureaucratic, but Thompson had made it clear that he had decided Ramsey's days were numbered.\n\nApart from elimination from the World Cup, what was also making Alf's tenure less secure was the fact that his contract was up for renewal in June 1974. He was presently rewarded with a pitiful salary of just \u00a37,200, lower than some Third Division managers, and understandably wanted a rise. But from the viewpoint of his enemies in the FA, the end of his contract provided the ideal opportunity to force his departure, especially given that Alf would be 58 by the time of the next World Cup.\n\nFurthermore, Alf faced another threat from within the FA, in addition to the bullying Thompson. Following a heart-attack, brought on by the hectoring of Thompson, Denis Follows had retired. He was not a man whom Alf liked or admired, but he was too weak to be able to challenge Alf seriously. His successor, however, was very different. A former pilot and Charlton Athletic footballer, Ted Croker had been a highly successful businessman and he now sought to apply the commercial ethos to the Association. Dynamic and resourceful, Croker was appalled at what he found when he took up his post at Lancaster Gate in September 1973. In the previous twelve months, there had been 42 changes of staff, despite the fact that the FA only employed 56 people. Ludicrously, the organization also made it difficult for the public to buy tickets for England's home games, since the FA's number was ex-directory. Royalties and TV rights were bringing in just \u00a3104,000 a year, compared to \u00a32 million when Croker was at his peak at the beginning of the eighties. But there was one aspect of commercialism that Sir Alf despised, and that was Croker's plan to seek sponsorship for the England shirt, which was estimated to be worth \u00a315,000 a year. Alf, the nostalgic, romantic, conservative English patriot, thought the white shirt should never be sullied in this way. It was like tampering with a symbol of nationhood. Alf's devotion to the traditional shirt was almost physical, as Nigel Clarke recalls:\n\n> He threw me an England shirt once and said 'What do they want me to put fancy badges on it for? Isn't it beautiful?' He even rubbed it against his cheek, continuing, 'Isn't it soft, isn't it lovely?' It was just a white shirt but to Alf it was almost a sacred garment. It was something that he adored, 'What do they want to put stripes on it for? How can they want to make money from it? I can't believe these people.' That was the sort of man Alf was, terribly proud to be English, terribly proud to be manager.\n\nIt was a sense of pride that stopped Alf from resigning. If the FA wanted him out they would have to force him. He would not voluntarily leave to satisfy them. So he remained in charge for a friendly at home, against Italy in November, which saw another defeat. It was Bobby Moore's 108th and last game for England. Alf played him as a sweeper, showing that he was at last willing to innovate from a cast-iron 4\u20134\u20132 system, but it seemed like a forlorn gesture. On 14 February 1974, the FA decided to set up a committee to 'consider our future policy in respect of the promotion of international football'. In reality, there was only one issue the committee was considering: the future of Alf Ramsey. As Croker later remarked:\n\n> The decision to remove Sir Alf Ramsey from his post was effectively taken on St Valentine's Day 1974. There was a feeling within the FA that we had to bow to popular opinion as represented in the newspapers. Nearly all the critics wanted him out and it appeared that we could no longer think of offering him a new contract when his present arrangement expired in June of that year.\n\nCroker now had his own motive in wanting to get rid of Ramsey, who was seen as a block on the road to commercialism and better public relations.\n\nThe committee was headed by FA Chairman Sir Andrew Stephen, who had made supportive noises towards Ramsey in public but in private doubted the wisdom of renewing a contract for a man who would be 58 at the time of the next World Cup. Sir Harold Thompson, Alf's most implacable foe, was inevitably the dominant figure. Because of his autocratic manner, there was little chance that the other committee men would mount any defence of Alf, even if they had wanted to, which was doubtful. Bert Millichip of West Brom and Brian Mears of Chelsea were open to persuasion. Only Len Shipman, President of the League, and Dick Wragg, Chairman of Sheffield United, were opposed to dismissal, but even Wragg despaired of Alf's public relations and thought that his two lieutenants, Cocker and Shepherdson, should go. Alf was not invited to the committee meetings, an omission which made a mockery of its stated purpose to examine 'the future of football'. In fact, he only found out about its deliberations when he noticed a draft minute on a desk in another FA office. 'How could a committee discuss England's future without talking to England's manager?' Brian James asked him.\n\n'Maybe that's the point,' replied Alf.\n\nWhile Thompson plotted, Alf continued with his job. There was a blinkered, defiant side to his nature that often refused to recognize reality \u2013 as in 1953 when he claimed that England should have beaten Hungary \u2013 and early in 1974 he seemed to convince himself that he had weathered the storm. In response to criticisms, he tried to improve his relations with the press. 'In his last months, he was communicating more freely,' wrote Jeff Powell. Colin Malam, another distinguished football writer, told me he was surprised by Alf's openness on an England trip to Portugal in April 1974:\n\n> I had heard all the stories and had been led to believe that Alf was some kind of ogre, especially towards the press. But to my utter astonishment, he invited us over to enjoy tea at the England hotel outside Lisbon. He could not have been more charming. He just chatted away about football. I wondered where the ogre had disappeared to. I was so awestruck. It may have been, however, because he was stuck with the International Committee he was delighted to see the cavalry coming over the hill.\n\nOn that Portuguese trip, Alf also showed his willingness to change at last, selecting no less than six new caps: Trevor Brooking, Martin Dobson, Mike Pejic, Phil Parkes, Stan Bowles and Dave Watson. Sir Trevor Brooking says that even at this late hour\n\n> there was no sign of authority draining away from Sir Alf. He had fantastic respect from all of us. He did not convey to us that he was under any pressure when we met him. His whole emphasis was on looking to the future, on giving opportunities to new players. I could see in that one game what made him so special. He was very precise. He came across as this very quiet individual, who looked like he never got excited or irate, but in his own way, got the message across very clearly. He was very good on discipline and what role he wanted you to play.\n\nMartin Dobson, the Burnley midfielder, has a similar memory:\n\n> He was very thorough in his preparation. He knew how he wanted to play. Basically, he was trying to take the pressure away from me. He told me to enjoy it, get a good touch of the ball early on and play as I did for Burnley. He did not complicate things. He kept it simple. Burnley had just got promotion. We were doing well. He said, 'You're captain at your own club, taking responsibility. Well, you've 10 captains around you now. Enjoy it.' I know he was under a bit of a cloud but he did not seem distracted to me.\n\nMike Pejic has this wonderful example of Alf's dry humour, too little recognized by the public:\n\n> After a spell with the Under-23s, I broke through to the first team. And we were down at Lilleshall for training. One morning he had called training for ten o'clock. At the time I was very interested in ornithology, and Lilleshall is great for that because it is surrounded by woods. So after breakfast that morning, I thought to myself, 'I've got a bit of time to spare before training, so I'll go into the woods.' I came back at about half-nine, and Les Cocker immediately ran up to me, saying, 'You'd better get down to the training ground quickly. Alf's brought forward the start time. They're waiting for you.'\n> \n> 'Oh shit.'\n> \n> All the top players were there, Bobby Moore, Alan Ball, and this was my first training camp. I ran to my room, got my gear and then ran back down to the training ground. But when I arrived, there was no one on the field. There was a pavilion overlooking the pitch and through the window I could see the heads of some of the players inside. I walked over to the pavilion, went through the doors and found everyone sitting down inside. Alf was standing at the back of the room. There was complete silence. I felt so nervous, this on my first morning of training with the England team. Alf says,\n> \n> 'Mike, where have you been?'\n> \n> 'I've been bird spotting.'\n> \n> Immediately the whole room collapsed in laughter. The lads had told Alf and he'd set up the whole thing. He knew exactly what was going on.\n\nFar from feeling that he was at the end of an era, Mike sensed the beginning of a new one: 'I had been with England for two years, and I felt he trusted me. I felt I was part of the next batch coming through.' That is exactly what he told the team before the game in Portugal, according to Malcolm Macdonald: 'You are England's future. We have got to start with the next World Cup as our target and that's precisely where I'm starting from, as of today.'\n\nThe result did not match this exciting rhetoric. England drew 0\u20130. And there was to be no England future for Alf Ramsey. The Stephen committee met in mid-April and decided not to renew Alf Ramsey's contract. Effectively, he was to be sacked with three months notice from the 30 April. Parading his own guilt in the process, Brian Mears later revealed that the committee was split on the decision and the chairman's casting vote fixed Alf's fate. For all the self-assurance of Thompson, it had been a close affair, with Wragg, Millichip and Shipman only in favour of changing the management structure rather than the manager. Mears relates that 'Three voted for Alf, three against. Sir Harold Thompson was adamant that Alf had to go and I'm afraid I got carried away with the tide but I felt, when I came away from that meeting, a sense of shame. Here was a man who had won that coveted trophy for the first time in our history and I had been part of a committee that had decided he should go. It should never have happened.' Len Shipman, inadvertently admitting the role of Thompson, said, 'What can you do when your hand is forced?'\n\nOn Friday 19 April, Alf was summoned to Lancaster Gate to be told of the decision by the chairman. He had no inkling of the momentous news he was about to be given, and asked for a day's postponement because he was preparing for England's summer tour of Eastern Europe. So the meeting was fixed for 10.30 am on Saturday. Alf later left this description of the encounter:\n\n> Sir Andrew was nervous. He paced round the office, rubbing his hands and smacking his lips. 'I'm thirsty. Do you fancy a drink?' I declined. 'You won't mind if I have one,' said the chairman and took a bottle of tonic water from the cocktail cabinet. I watched while he struggled for several minutes to remove the cap. Finally he gave up, placed the bottle on the desk and revealed why he wanted to see me. He said it had been the unanimous decision of an FA subcommittee that I should be replaced. The chairman seemed relieved to have got that off his chest. For he picked up the bottle again and opened it first turn. I made no comment. I was shattered but not entirely surprised.\n\nThe Executive Committee of the FA met on 22 April to rubber stamp the decision. Alf asked for the public announcement of the decision to be delayed until 1 May, so he would have time to inform his family and friends. The FA agreed to that request but, contrary to several reports, Alf was never offered the chance to resign. It was a plain, brutal sacking. 'We had come to a very final conclusion. There was no way out for Alf, no room for manoeuvre,' said one council member with an air of defiance.\n\nAlf cleared his desk and said his farewells to staff at the FA in the week of 21 April. The devotion that Alf could inspire was shown in the moment of his departure. Alan Odell, Secretary of the International Section, vividly remembers his feelings on hearing the news. 'When he told me he'd got the bullet, well, I just couldn't believe it. I drove home to Uxbridge, parked the car, went inside, sat in the kitchen and told my wife that Alf had been sacked. I just sat there and cried, I was that upset. He meant so much to me, he was such a loyal, faithful sort of bloke.' Margaret Bruce felt the same way: 'He was a huge part of my life. Working with him had been so special. I cried my eyes out I was so upset.' Peter Little, his Ipswich tailor, happened to be making Alf a suit for England duty when he heard the news on the radio in his workshop. 'It was a real blow. It was hard to think for a moment. I had tears in my eyes. I could not help it. I could not believe what I was hearing.' Even some hard-nosed professional footballers, used to managerial changes, could not avoid such emotions when Alf's sacking was publicly announced on 1 May. Mike Pejic says:\n\n> I can remember the day well. I pulled up in my car outside our house and the news came on the radio. I could not believe it. I cried my eyes out. I don't for one second feel any embarrassment over that. I kept crying, even when I went inside the house. It was instant. Alf somehow built up this rapport with you, this trust, this feeling for him. When he was in charge, you did not want a penny for playing for England. You would have paid him.\n\nIt is often the way in Britain that public figures are only lauded when they have gone from office. That is certainly what happened in Alf's case. For almost four years, there had been an unceasing campaign for him to go. Yet now that he had been sacked, there was a great outpouring of affection for him; meanwhile the FA were vilified in many quarters for the way the whole issue had been handled. Ted Croker confessed that he was\n\n> amazed at the reaction. The people who had pilloried him now made him a martyr. It was probably Alf's simple honesty that caused the incredible turn-around in press opinion when he was sacked. The critics may have felt that they had played their part in bringing him down, but were not prepared to share blame, if there was blame to share. The public reacted in a similar way and the mood was quite definitely against the FA.\n\nBy the time the announcement was made, Alf had gone with Vickie to stay with their friends, the Knott family in Southampton, to escape the attentions of the press. A close friend of theirs from Ipswich, Donald Gould, Chairman of the Leek and Westbourne Building Society, described Alf's mood in this period:\n\n> He is a very sad man. The trouble with Alf is he is too polite and too charming to speak out for himself. I knew there was something on his mind. He has been brooding a lot lately. Then eight days ago Alf and his wife came round for dinner to my house and he had a heart-to-heart talk with me. Obviously he was very upset, but he is a man who can control his emotions. Alf feels he has been cheated. The Football Association has let him down and treated him shabbily.\n\nIn his first interview after his sacking, on 12 May, Alf explained what happened in those traumatic days:\n\n> I didn't hide in a disguise, as has been suggested. We simply had a week on the coast with close friends. We went for many walks and were seen by a lot of people who no doubt respected that I sought peace and privacy. Vickie and I had 11 years of pressure and we wanted time to think and plan. For I had died a thousand deaths since being informed of my dismissal.\n\nIn a statement made in response to the public outcry, Sir Andrew Stephen, Chairman of the FA, explained that Alf had been dismissed because\n\n> he was intransigent. When we failed to beat Poland we quickly realized that it would be ruinous for our football if we again failed to qualify for the World Cup finals \u2013 by hook or by crook. We had to look at the quality of our game and we realized we had been falling behind the rest of the world, particularly since 1970.\n\nLen Shipman added that England needed a manager who was 'flexible enough in his attitude and outgoing enough to sustain a healthy dialogue with all the managers and coaches in England'. Stephen was probably right that Sir Alf's time was up. Eleven years is a long time in any job, and international football was changing rapidly in the mid-seventies. Alf had shown little inclination to adapt. And the failure to qualify for the World Cup or advance in the European Championship had been disastrous blows, with the FA estimating that it cost them \u00a3500,000 in lost revenues. Even his staunchest supporters say that he could not have continued long in the job. 'When I look back now and think long and hard, without blinkers \u2013 because I really liked him \u2013 I can see the faults,' says Nigel Clarke. 'To be honest, I think he was starting to lose it completely. I think he became too rigid. He did not understand how football was changing and how it was being played in a different manner.'\n\nWhat angered his supporters, however, was not so much the dismissal itself as the way it was handled. After years of modest, poorly rewarded service, Alf was given a meagre golden handshake of \u00a38,000, with a pension of only \u00a31,200 a year; to add insult to injury, when Don Revie was appointed his permanent successor, he was paid \u00a325,000 a year, more than treble Alf's salary. Moreover, no attempt was made to utilize Alf in any other role in the FA, such as a coach, advisor or ambassador, despite his vast professionalism. The day he walked out of Lancaster Gate after his dismissal was his last contact with the FA. Alan Ball summed up the anger felt by many:\n\n> The FA could have given him another job, like educating the next generation. In the typical English way, he was just gone. All that knowledge, all that expertise was lost. He should have been a central part of our football set-up. How can you sack a knight, a man like that, without giving him any other role? To me, it is the most incredible thing that ever happened in English football. The most successful manager in the history of our country was just sacked by the amateurs of the FA.\n\nAlf's standing with his players was highlighted when a testimonial dinner was held for him on the night of 30 July 1974, the eighth anniversary of the World Cup victory. Guest speakers included the Prime Minister Harold Wilson and Bobby Moore, who said that 'Alf introduced a club spirit at England level. While he was in charge it was always England United.' Of the 101 players picked during his reign, 92 of them turned up to pay tribute. Malcolm Macdonald was among them:\n\n> I loved Alf, I make no bones about it. He was an absolute gentleman and very much a players' manager. At times, I felt as if I wanted to put my arm around Alf and say, 'Do you want a chat? Would you like a hug, just to let you know somebody loves you?' Why I felt like that, I'm not really sure. It was just that he was totally insular and took all the pressure on himself, passing none of it on to his players.\n\n# [FOURTEEN  \n _St Mary's_](004-toc.html#ch14)\n\nAlf remained in a state of shock for months after his sacking. 'I took a long time to get over it. I was left with a feeling of despair, sadness, and terrific disappointment,' he said later. But he still had to earn his living, for his low pay as England manager meant that he had accumulated no capital, while his \u00a31,200 annual pension was woefully inadequate. Alf later told a family friend, Elaine Coupland, that he even had to fight for that pension: 'He told me that when he was sacked from the manager's job there was a dispute over it and he had to stick up for his rights.' Because of his shyness and his personal dislike of commercialism, he had made no money from personal endorsements, sponsorship, guest appearances or after dinner-speaking. In contrast to his successor Don Revie, Alf felt that there was something distasteful about exploiting his position as England manager for personal gain. The FA Director of Coaching, Allen Wade, who worked at Lancaster Gate for 13 years, estimated that during his reign as manager Alf turned down commercial opportunities worth some \u00a3250,000.\n\nBesides, at 54, he was far too young to retire. Football was the only occupation he had known since he left the army at the end of the war and he intended to try to stay in the game. 'I've often said that I would like to return to club football,' he told the _Sunday People_ in May 1974:\n\n> I still feel that I have something to offer. I still have the same enthusiasm and regard for the game as I did when I became a professional 31 years ago. It is still the greatest game in the world, perhaps a little cruel at times but, for me and millions of others, it is still the greatest. I feel that I could never be as happy doing anything else but we shall have to wait and see.\n\nThere were several offers from abroad, including from Ajax, Athletic Bilbao and even Saudi Arabia, but Alf, typically, was not interested in working with foreign footballers; while he was England manager, he had turned down lucrative offers from Benfica and the Greek Football Federation, which wanted him to coach their national team for \u00a330,000 a year. The continent never attracted him. 'I want to continue to work with English footballers.' The only club in England that tried to hire him in the immediate aftermath of his sacking was Aston Villa, but he was not interested in a step down to the Second Division. Surprisingly, no big First Division club came in for him, club directors being wary of his reputation for autocracy and poor public relations.\n\nIt is an irony that Alf's first job after being sacked was in the media. The man notorious for his poor public speaking was hired by ITV to be their analyst for the Home Internationals and the 1974 World Cup in West Germany. Martin Tyler, now one of the most revered figures in TV commentating, was then an assistant on ITV's football programmes:\n\n> It was a great coup for ITV because he did not do much media. What I really remember was his courtesy. He was unfailingly polite. He was not starry at all. It was a bit like having someone from a different class with us. Even Brian Moore was a little in awe of him. Brian was a gentle, polite man. 'With the greatest respect, Alf, would you mind...' he would say. We had heard about Alf's difficult relationship with the press and some of us tended to walk on eggshells, me less so because I was unashamedly a child of 1966. Because I was such a fan, I thought that if he had been nasty to the journalists, it had probably been with good cause. My role was to look after him. I had to make him cups of tea, make sure that his car was parked. We rolled out the red carpet for him and he did not disappoint. I did not find Alf cold. I found that there was a twinkle in his eye. I don't think he was lovable but he was certainly very likeable. The key to him, I think, was his shyness. In my dealings with him, he was great. He was a proper football person. If you wanted to talk football with him, it was never a problem. If you wanted to get into tabloid issues, he just didn't want to know. I could see the qualities that made him such a great manager. I saw something that made me really understand why all the players tried so hard for him. There was a little bit of fear, a lot of respect. On one occasion he was asked to pick an England team against Brian Clough's team for the _On the Ball_ programme. Alf was very dismissive about some of Clough's choices, saying 'there's a right couple of wankers in there!' Brian Moore said to me, 'Did he really say wankers?' We had a little chuckle about that. We were like two little kids.\n\nAlf could display his dry humour in this role. During the World Cup finals, he was out in Frankfurt with Hugh Johns, covering a Dutch group game, when suddenly the floodlights failed. Johns, desperate to fill the airtime, asked Alf how long he thought the delay might last. 'I am not an electrician,' was Alf's brief reply. Tommy Docherty, who had managed Scotland in 1971\u201372, also did some work with Alf in the 1974 World Cup and, despite all the criticism he had given Alf in the past, found him 'very polite. He was very knowledgeable about players and always had interesting views about them. I got on quite well with him then, though he was a shy man. I always found him bashful. If you showed enthusiasm for football, and if he thought you were talking common sense, he had a lot of time for you. But if he felt you were talking rubbish, he'd be rid of you as quickly as possible. He was still very bitter about his sacking then. Quite right. That was a disgrace. It was typical of the amateurs running the professional game.'\n\nAlf's link with ITV did not last long. In April 1975, he lost his position as an analyst. 'ITV bosses consider he has lost touch with modern soccer. On his own admission, most of Sir Alf's soccer watching recently has been confined to a stand seat at Ipswich and an armchair in front of a television set at home,' reported the _Sunday People._ With his taciturnity and clipped voice, Alf was never going to make a long-term success of TV punditry.\n\nOut of soccer for the first time in 31 years, he dabbled a little in business, becoming a director of the Ipswich building firm Sadler & Sons. 'Nice people, and an interest far, far removed from football. Talking about sites and bricks and so on has helped me take a wider view of things,' he explained. Another directorship he took up was at the sports-shoe company Gola, working on foreign promotion. With plenty of spare time, he played golf and badminton, as well as taking more interest in gardening. He also enjoyed spending more time with Vickie \u2013 he reckoned that as England manager, he had been away from home around a third of the time. But he could not resist watching football. He and Vickie had season tickets at Ipswich, though Alf also liked to travel round the country. With his usual modesty, he never phoned up clubs asking for a ticket, preferring to go unannounced. Sometimes he bought a seat; if none were available, he stood on the terraces, wearing a bowler hat to games, which he believed acted as a sort of disguise:\n\n> I enjoy watching football this way. Free of responsibility. In the past I didn't go to see matches. I used to go to see players. And because of concentrating on perhaps two or three individuals \u2013 their strengths, their weaknesses, characters \u2013 I would come away not really knowing much about the match itself. That's different now. I see the whole thing and enjoy it.\n\nTowards the end of 1975, he admitted that he was keen to get back into football professionally: 'The longer I have stayed out of it, the more I have missed it. In the past couple of months my toes have started to twitch.' Fortuitously, at this moment, an offer finally turned up from a First Division club, not in management, but in the boardroom. In January 1976, Alf was invited to become a director of Birmingham City and readily accepted. For Alf, it was a chance to return to football in the top flight in a prestigious role. For Birmingham, it was a chance to have one of the biggest names in world football associated with the club. Birmingham City chairman Keith Coombs announced: 'We feel that Sir Alf can help us enormously. I can think of nobody better qualified for a directorship of a First Division club. He is a world-renowned figure in the field of football administration and his experience will be invaluable.' At his first meeting with the press, Alf made a joke about his reputation for being difficult. 'Let's put it this way \u2013 I haven't missed you.'\n\nInitially, Alf had no role on the playing side at St Andrew's. That remained in the hands of Willie Bell, who had played alongside Jack Charlton at Leeds. But Bell was presiding over a failing team, one that was perpetually engaged in a relegation fight. The 1977\u201378 season started disastrously for Bell. After five straight defeats and just one goal, he was sacked. While the club searched for a new boss, Alf was asked to step into the breach on an unpaid basis. He agreed to do so. More than three years after being dumped by England, more than fourteen years after last running a League club, Alf was back in First Division management, though it was not yet on a permanent basis. But even in this temporary role, Alf soon worked his magic, as Birmingham won four of their next five games, their best run in the First Division for four and a half years. Skipper Terry Hibbitt summed up the reason for Alf's immediate success: 'You can put it down to one word, respect. Sir Alf is the sort of person to whom you must respond.' In an interview with the author Dave Bowler, Kevin Dillon, then a 17-year-old, spoke of Alf's immediate impact: 'He had something about him, an aura. He got us all together and the first thing he said was, \"Don't call me gaffer or manager, just call me sir,\" and that broke the ice, really. He was very quietly spoken, but when he said something, you listened.' Dillon also recalled Alf being extremely old-fashioned, especially about money:\n\n> He got your trust by being as straight as a die, apart from the contract he tried to offer me. I think he still lived in the 1950s because the wages weren't that good. He got my parents down to go through it all and he was very professional in everything he did. He left a lasting impression that way. I think he thought \u00a310 was a lot of money. I held out, though, and he laughed about it later.\n\nAlf's dislike of the Scots was never far from the surface, according to Jimmy Calderwood, who recalls how, soon after his caretaking appointment, he assembled all the Scottish-born players in the dressing-room. 'Alone with us, Alf said: \"Now I know you lot fucking hate me. Well, I have news for you. I fucking hate you lot even more.\" But you know, I never missed a game for him. He really was a fantastic manager.'\n\nThe Birmingham board was so relieved and pleased about the leap in the club's fortunes that in November 1977 Alf was offered the role of consultant manager, with full control of playing affairs. It meant he had to resign from the board, but Alf was only too pleased to do so, especially given the \u00a320,000 salary that went with the post. 'If Birmingham continue to improve and my judgement is right, who knows what we may achieve,' he said. But soon the team started to move in the other direction. Form declined, and the now annual battle against relegation loomed at the start of the new season. The only bright spot was a 3\u20132 win against Liverpool at Anfield, but even that did not improve Alf's spirits, as Keith Bertschin remembers:\n\n> We got back to the dressing-room and Sir Alf was fuming. He said, 'Well, you did your best to lose that one, didn't you?' What happened was that we went 3\u20130 up and it was fantastic. The trouble was, suddenly we started thinking we were Liverpool. We started trying to knock the ball around, took our foot off the gas and just like the great team they were, they came right back at us They scored twice late on and in the end we were hanging on desperately. We had won at Anfield but that didn't satisfy Sir Alf. Like all top managers, he was a perfectionist.\n\nIn February, Alf became locked in an increasingly bitter three-way dispute with his star player, Trevor Francis, and the board. Fed up with the lack of silverware and fearing that Birmingham's inconsistency was hindering his international progress, Francis was keen to leave the club. Alf wanted to sell him to raise funds for other cash purchases, since Francis was estimated to be worth around \u00a3700,000 in 1978, but he resented what he saw as Francis' lack of commitment to the club while he was still on its books. What particularly irked him was Francis' willingness to talk to the press about his determination to leave St Andrew's. Meanwhile, the Birmingham board had grave doubts about the wisdom of selling Francis at all, a decision that would only incur the wrath of already disgruntled fans. The simmering row boiled over at the end of the month. At a board meeting on 20 February, Francis' transfer request had been accepted, as Alf wanted. But at a subsequent meeting three days later, this decision was overturned. Outraged by this volte face, Alf immediately gave fourteen days notice of his resignation as consultant manager. The storm swirling round St Andrew's then intensified as Birmingham lost 4\u20130 at local rivals Coventry. Terry Hibbitt's mood had utterly changed from his optimism of early in the season. 'Before today I refused to talk about a crisis,' he told the _Birmingham Post,_ 'but we are in a crisis now. Something has got to be done and it must be done quickly. Morale is bad and the spirit is low. I have had a bad time in the last three games, but I have not been given any help from anyone. There is no-one helping us and no-one is trying to put things right.' It was a harsh indictment of the Ramsey regime, and worse followed when Trevor Francis launched a personal attack on Alf, claiming to have been shabbily treated. After complaining that Alf had fined him twice for talking to the press in February, he then said Alf had attacked his performances in two crucial derbies against Villa and West Brom. 'He turned round and said that he didn't think I had done much for the club in those matches. I thought it was disgraceful. I was so disgusted that I just walked out of the training ground near Birmingham Airport. I was badly upset. I knew I'd given 100 per cent in both games.'\n\nAlf did not need this sort of pressure. On 8 March at a press conference he confirmed his decision to quit Birmingham, explaining that he had no intention of going back on the board after leaving his managerial post. He described Birmingham's performance against Coventry as 'absolutely disgraceful, the worst I have seen since I joined the club as director two years ago, and I must take part of the blame'. He also took a shot at Francis: 'He's had his say, his wife has had her say \u2013 now I'm waiting for the dog.' With that, he was gone. Jim Smith took over at St Andrew's and within twelve months Trevor Francis had become Britain's first \u00a31 million footballer with his move to Nottingham Forest. Having left St Andrew's, Alf said that he would probably 'go back to Ipswich and mope around my garden. As for my further involvement in football, I shall have to wait and see. I shall feel a little lost without it.' After years of financial restraint, Alf was now determined to make some money, to provide some security in old age for himself and Vickie. For the first time, he was even willing to consider offers from abroad. Talk of his taking over as head of the Kuwaiti national team never went further than the rumour stage, but in September 1979 he accepted the post of technical adviser to the Greek club Panathinaikos. Sadly, he lasted barely a year there and was sacked in October 1980 for what the club claimed were his 'failures'. These were said to include his choice of the experienced Ronnie Allen as manager and his inability 'to impose discipline' at the club \u2013 not an accusation that had ever been levelled at Alf before. The real reason, however, was the club had just taken on the Austrian coach Helmut Senekowitsch and could not afford both sets of salaries. Alf returned to England, out of management for ever. It was a sad note on which to end a glorious career.\n\nThe last decade had been a difficult one for Alf. And now, as he passed into his 60s, he became increasingly bitter about the way he had been treated. Football had proved a fickle mistress. He had given his love to the game and had been coldly betrayed. For a man of great dignity, it was embarrassing for him to be trying to survive on his limited pension of just \u00a325 a week from the FA, eventually supplemented from 1985 by his old age pension of around \u00a370 a week. Rightly, he felt that the winner of the World Cup should not have to endure a financial struggle, especially now that the game was becoming ever wealthier. 'Alf's retirement was one where he had to watch the pennies. But he was a proud Englishman. He didn't want anybody to know that he couldn't afford a new car or new suits. He thought it his own business and nothing to do with anyone else,' said George Cohen. Never a gregarious soul, he retreated further into seclusion with Vickie in his Ipswich home.\n\nYet the necessity to make money remained, and it was this that compelled him to start working as a columnist on the _Daily Mirror,_ with his pieces ghosted by Nigel Clarke, who commanded Alf's respect because he had been a young player with Charlton before his hopes of a professional career were wrecked by injury. Today, Clarke talks with great affection about his ten years working closely with Alf but also with anger at the shameful failure of English football to look after one of its greatest heroes:\n\n> The one thing which dominated his later life was that he never had any money. So whenever you said to him, 'Do you want to come and do something for me?', he would reply, 'Oh, well, I don't know.'\n> \n> 'We'll pay you.'\n> \n> 'OK. I'll do that.'\n> \n> We used to pay him \u00a3150 an article. I would meet him at Liverpool Street Station and because of who he was and my regard for him, I was always punctual. He was always a stickler for the old-fashioned discipline so he appreciated that. We would get in a cab and go off to a game. With my notebook, I would sit alongside him. He would give me a run-down on the way a particular player was performing, going into every detail. Sometimes, after just a couple of minutes, he would say, 'Oh no, Lionel' \u2013 he always got my name wrong \u2013 'he can't play.' At other times, I would say, after about 15 minutes:\n> \n> 'Well, Alf?'\n> \n> 'Quiet, I'm watching. Just hang on a minute.' I was dealing with a footballing genius. Alf was unfailingly brilliant at spotting people you did not think would make it. He was, for example, years ahead of anyone else in associating Des Walker with England. We had gone to see Forest because everyone was talking about this winger Franz Carr. Yet, as we watched the game, all Alf was telling me about was Des Walker. Alf was watching this player in his own box, even when the ball was at the other end of the field. He said to me:\n> \n> 'This boy will play for England.'\n> \n> 'Come on Alf, he's just been released by Tottenham.'\n> \n> 'Lionel, this boy will play for England.' And he was right, of course. The Lionel thing was quite funny. Alf never could remember my name. I said to him one day, after we had come back from a match:\n> \n> 'It's a not problem, you know, Alf, but my name's not Lionel, it's Nigel. '\n> \n> 'Of course, it's one of those things that afflicts you when you get old.'\n> \n> 'Don't worry.'\n> \n> 'So, you're going to call me tomorrow about the column and we can go over it then?'\n> \n> 'Yes, I'll read it out to you.'\n> \n> 'Thanks for a lovely day, Mike.'\n> \n> That's what Alf was like, a bit absent-minded about names. I don't think that was anything to do with his Alzheimer's. He was often mixing up people. He was not great at putting names to them.\n\nThere was some truth in this. Because of his tunnel vision, Alf could be forgetful. He once spent a day calling Martin Dobson 'Colin', and also picked Rodney Marsh as the penalty taker in one international, overlooking the fact that he had not included Marsh in the team.\n\nNigel continues:\n\n> He was a simple man, who liked during the day to be in the fresh air, tending his garden, and then at night he liked to sit down with a glass of whisky or brandy, and watch television. Beneath that diffidence, aloofness and sometimes even fury, he was a kind man. I'll give you an insight into how kind he was. This was in the mid-1980s. He was asking me about my life and I told him about busting my knee when I was at Charlton and then having to go into journalism. I told him that I had no one to turn to for advice about the big decisions in my early life, because my father was 46 when I was born and he was always ill. So I always had to make my own decisions. 'How sad,' said Alf.\n> \n> 'Well, there was no one I could turn to. My mother was eaten up looking after my father. My brother was away on national service. So I had to sink or swim by my own decisions.'\n> \n> He said, 'This is terrible. What about now?'\n> \n> 'I still would like a father figure to talk to, to explain things, to ask for advice.'\n> \n> 'I'll be your father. I'll never, ever want you to tell me that you had to come to a decision on your own. Anything you want to ask, any advice you want whatsoever, just someone to talk to, to pour out your heart to, to put an arm around you, I'll do that, I'll come to you, I'll be your father figure.'\n> \n> I did not know what to say. He said: 'I'll be your father from now on. You haven't got to worry about being alone. Any big decisions, talk to me. Come to me, we'll meet and have dinner.'\n> \n> It was an extraordinary gesture to make. We celebrated this new closeness with a lunch at the Talbooth in Ipswich, a restaurant he liked. He got monumentally pissed. He said, 'How am I going to get home?'\n> \n> 'I'll have to drive you.'\n> \n> 'NO! I'll drive.'\n> \n> 'Alf, you cannot drive.'\n> \n> 'I will drive.'\n> \n> And he got into his car, and I drove alongside because he was all over the bloody place. I kind of escorted him home. We finally got there, I don't know how, and I parked at the bottom of his road.\n> \n> 'Are you all right now, Alf?'\n> \n> 'I am perfectly OK. I think I shall go down to the pub and start again.'\n> \n> 'Just go home, Alf, and go to bed.'\n\nNigel recalls the following incident, which shows how much Alf appreciated public affection beneath his mask of impassivity:\n\n> I took him to Brighton once to see Mark Lawrenson. There was a debate going on at the time as to whether Lawrenson could play for the English or the Irish. Alf liked him. So when Alf went down to see him, the board at Brighton made a great fuss, gave him a good lunch. Then they asked him if he would do the half-time lottery draw. 'Of course I will. You have been very good hosts.' So, as he walked out onto the pitch at half-time, the announcer said, 'The draw will now be made by Sir Alf Ramsey.' The place absolutely erupted, cheers going right round the ground. He was totally overwhelmed and there was a tear in his eye. He said to me afterwards, 'I never knew I was loved like this.'\n\nBut Alf felt far less warm to the FA:\n\n> When Alf and I would go to Wembley, the _Mirror_ would lay on a nice car for us, which would be waiting outside the _Mirror_ building. One time we hit the traffic lights at Holborn tube station. There was an Unwin's off-licence there and Alf coughed a few times loudly.\n> \n> 'Are you all right, Alf?'\n> \n> 'There's an off-licence there.'\n> \n> 'So there is. Driver, just wait for a minute.'\n> \n> So I went in, got half a bottle of brandy and four plastic cups. And the reason Alf was having a drink was because he had to go to a reception before the game at Wembley and he had to meet some of the ghastly FA people he hated. He wanted a bit of Dutch courage. I once picked him up from one of these receptions and he said, 'Thank you for rescuing me. I don't think I could have stood that for much longer.' He was completely ill at ease in the company of FA people. He just couldn't stand them. He'd just had enough of the FA and all the people connected to it. When we used to go to games, the FA would sometimes send him tickets \u2013 and he would sit as far away as possible from a councillor or anyone connected with the FA. I have known him actually exchange his ticket with another spectator so he would be as far away as possible from the FA people in the Royal Box at Wembley. He just loathed them.\n\nIt was Alf's _Mirror_ column that led Bobby Robson to develop a powerful hostility towards him. Robson was outraged that Alf, who had made loyalty one of the governing principles of his management career, should subject one of his successors in the England job to vitriolic criticism. Robson thought, like other former England managers, Alf should be providing support, not condemnation. 'Neither Walter, Ron, the late Don Revie nor the much lamented Joe Mercer ever tried to take me apart. But Alf Ramsey betrayed that unwritten, unspoken rule by taking my players and myself to task, undermining confidence in the camp and often at crucial times before we set off for European or World Cup finals.' Here is an example of the kind of material Alf wrote about Robson, taken from the _Mirror_ in 1989: 'In six years Robson has achieved nothing and now I begin to wonder if he ever will. Tactically I feel he is lacking and the preparation and motivation of his team leave a lot to be desired. Robson seems to spread to his players his doubts, fears and indecision.' The hurt ran deeply for Robson, as he later wrote:\n\n> I felt totally betrayed by the man who lived just a few streets away from me and who had managed Ipswich Town and England so successfully. What had I done to deserve such scurrilous attacks? Goodness knows I tried, but even when I offered him a lift back from a Chelsea match, he refused, saying, 'I came by train, and I shall return by train.'\n\nIt was almost as if Alf, because of his insecurities, could not bear anyone else to succeed in the job he had once held. He had been the same when Jackie Milburn had taken over at Ipswich, and his feelings about the England management were clouded by his sacking and the sense that less worthy men were being better rewarded that he was. 'I knew I did a good job and then when I saw the men who took over from me and what they were paid, I found that upsetting,' he once said. His antagonism towards Robson was particularly acute because Robson had followed the same pattern of moving from Portman Road into the England job but on far more lucrative terms than Alf's. Nigel Clarke saw the antagonism between Alf and Bobby in operation:\n\n> They only lived 300 yards apart in Ipswich, but when they took their dogs for a walk, they would cross to the other side of the road to avoid speaking to each other. I was working as a front-line football writer on the _Mirror_ at the time. Robson used to come up to me and say:\n> \n> 'Your mate has done me again.'\n> \n> 'What's the matter?'\n> \n> 'He's accused me of all sorts of things. What's he doing it for? He's only doing it for money, isn't he?'\n> \n> Bobby felt that Alf's criticisms \u2013 which at the time were perfectly valid \u2013 were because Alf was getting paid to say them. I said to Alf one day:\n> \n> 'Why don't you meet up with Bob and have a chat?'\n> \n> 'I don't need to pass on anything to him in any shape or form.' Alf felt that Robson was a bit vapid and was too heavily influenced by his England players on selection and tactics.\n\nOne issue that particularly rankled with Bobby Robson was Alf's refusal to give him any advice in the run-up to the World Cup in Mexico in 1986, Robson feeling that Alf's experience of 1970 would have been invaluable. 'The man I could have had serious help from was Sir Alf...but we never did discuss Mexico, which I found sad.' Sir Bobby told me that he was mystified by Alf's icy attitude. 'He was a strange fellow. He may have been shy, but he came across as very aloof.' According to the Ipswich journalist Tony Garnett, Alf was partly aggrieved because a meeting had been organised to discuss Mexico, yet Robson did not turn up. 'I arranged the time and the date. I then got a phone call from Alf complaining about Bobby's non-appearance,' says Garnett. 'So Alf felt let down and afterwards would not talk to him.' But Sir Bobby denies this. 'I did try to get an interview with Alf but a date was never fixed. There always seemed to be a problem. Alf kept putting it off. I got to see my predecessor, Ron Greenwood, for a chat about the World Cup and he lived down in Brighton but nothing ever transpired with Alf who was almost my neighbour.'\n\nThe problem over the meeting may have arisen over nothing more than a misunderstanding about dates and excessive sensitivity on Alf's part, for Robson says: 'To this day, I've no idea what Alf had against me.' But what was extraordinary about this feud was that it drove Alf to abandon his lifelong antipathy to the Scots and give all the advice he could to Alex Ferguson, the Scottish manager for the 1986 World Cup. As Ferguson later recounted:\n\n> I travelled down to Ipswich to talk to Sir Alf Ramsey at his home. His response was tremendous and he could not have been more helpful. He pointed out the difficulties that could arise with unfamiliar food in Mexico and, on his advice, we arranged to take considerable supplies with us. Other valuable hints he passed on were concerned with altitude training and the general handling of players during a World Cup in a foreign country...I was glad and grateful to hear him say that we deserved to do well...\n\nThis is the only recorded instance of Alf ever wishing a Scottish team well.\n\nOn a happier note, Alf made a return to England management, though only in fantasy form, when he agreed to have his image used in the strip cartoon Roy of the Rovers in the best-selling boys' magazine _Tiger and Scorcher._ Alf had full copy approval and the child-like nostalgic side of him enjoyed his cartoon role, as former editor Barrie Tomlinson remembers:\n\n> In 1982 when Roy of the Rovers was in a coma after being shot, we had to find a new manager, so we asked Alf Ramsey and he said yes. We sent him the script and he loved it, really. He was great fun, lovely to work with. He knew the character and had read stories like that when he was a child. Once I asked him why he hadn't picked Roy in 1966 and he said, 'He was too young at the time, too inexperienced.' He really entered into the spirit of it, so we had a very good relationship, which surprised some people because Alf Ramsey hadn't appeared to be that sort of person.\n\nThe cartoon and the column were to be two of Alf's last public roles. By the turn of the decade, he had retreated into full retirement, confining himself mainly to gardening, taking his dachshund for a walk, seeing friends occasionally in Ipswich, and a few rounds of golf at the Rushmere club. 'He was not a great golfer, 20 plus,' says Tony Garnett. 'He was slow round the course but he would not let other players through. I occasionally asked him if he wanted to play but he always refused, saying I would beat him.' Alf's life was totally intertwined with Vickie's, partly because he felt indebted to her: 'I feel I owe my wife a bit of time now. She gave me the licence to do so many things.' Tony Garnett believes that after he finished with football, 'he gave himself up to Vickie'. One of those friends they regularly saw was John Booth, who still runs a caravan park in Suffolk. Today John Booth paints a picture of a gentle, ordinary, existence:\n\n> Alf had that reserved public image but I found him very warm. I had a good rapport with him \u2013 though I did not like to talk football with him too much for fear of having my head snapped off. He was a very genuine man, never over-the-top but always sincere. He was very comforting when my father died. He came over with Vickie and we all went down to the local church together. He was always immaculate, always with a tie. I never saw him without one. He was such a modest man. He had a train named after him here in Ipswich and it was a nice occasion, but he hated to push any of his achievements down anyone's throat. We shared an interest in gardening. He liked to talk to me about plants and have a look round my garden and the site. He was President of the Fuchsia Society, which named flowers after him and Vickie. He was very good with the visitors to the site, quite happy to chat and have his photograph taken. Sometimes the children of visitors would come over with a ball and he would talk away to them about football. He liked the good things in life: a good Scotch malt \u2013 I'd always have that in for him \u2013 and good restaurants. He and Vickie were a very close couple; they did everything together. They travelled a lot round the countryside in their Saab; Alf adored that car. He later got a Rover 800 but found it less reliable. He was keen on boxing but football was still his main interest. We'd watch games on Sky a lot. He had not lost his dislike of the press. I remember sitting with him watching an interview with Kenny Dalglish. 'What stupid questions they ask,' he exploded.\n\nFor all his fondness for the 1961\u201362 team, he rarely went to Portman Road, nor did he attend any player reunions. To some in Ipswich, that demonstrated a perverse streak in Alf. Tony Garnett says:\n\n> He was a strange fellow. To start with, the club kept a seat reserved for him in the directors' box, which he never used. The club then wrote to him asking him if he could let them know in future when he wanted to come and a seat would be kept for him. Alf took the hump that he had not been given a permanent one and so he would not go. It was fair enough that the club should want to use the seat, given the growing demand from the public. And he did not like reunions. You would have thought he would liked to have seen Jimmy and Andy and Ted. He only had to go down the bloody road.\n\nTed Phillips, who was perhaps closer to Alf than any other of the 1961\u201362 side, thinks that Alf's animosity towards Bobby Robson might have been part of the problem:\n\n> All the lads kept asking me if I could get Alf to come. So one year I went up to his house and said, 'I've booked you in for the dinner.' And he seemed happy about that. 'I'll come and pick you up.' So on the night I went round to his house, rang the doorbell and Vickie answered. 'Is he ready?' I asked.\n> \n> 'He had to go out,' she replied.\n> \n> It's very odd. I don't know why he would never come. Maybe it was because him and Bobby did not get on very well. We have the dinners every year but Alf never came. He never rang me up to say sorry or anything like that. I had gone up all the way for nothing.\n\nOne of the tragic reasons that Alf was becoming more reclusive was that, by the early nineties, he was showing the first mild signs of the Alzheimer's which would cast such a terrible blight over the twilight of his life. His own mother Florence had endured the disease for many years and would sometimes be found by neighbours or the police wandering the streets of Dagenham, before she was put into permanent care. Attending a Buckingham Palace garden party with his wife Daphne, George Cohen remembers being struck by the difference in Alf's demeanour from his normal self:\n\n> He was being led by the arm by Lady Vickie, and for a little while all seemed well enough when he chatted with the old players. But one by one we noticed that there was something wrong. We noted how carefully he was prompted by Lady Vickie. 'Oh look, Alf,' she would say, 'here is Alan and Leslie,' and 'look Alf, it's George and Daphne'. He was able to take his cues well enough, and talk about football, particularly, with his usual bite but as the afternoon wore on you could see things were not quite right. Later, I told Daphne of my concerns and she was a little surprised, even though her own mother had suffered from the disease. She didn't know Alf so well, had not been exposed so long to the precision of his speech, which at times could be almost painful. At one point he said something to one of the players which was completely wrong. That was the forlorn clincher. We were seeing, beside the lake in the garden of the Palace, the passing of our chief.\n\nAlan Ball believes that the crippling blow of his sacking had a long term effect on Alf's health:\n\n> It broke his heart, it really did. He so loved England. I spoke to him many times afterwards and he told me how much it really, really hurt him. He was never the same man again. I'm sure it contributed to his final illness. Vickie was wonderful to him. At that get-together, we would talk for a few minutes and then he seemed to forget who I was. Immediately Lady Ramsey came in again. 'You always enjoy talking to Alan, don't you?' and he would perk up again. It was terribly sad, and yet very moving at the same time. I loved him to death. He was very, very special in my life.\n\nFriends in Ipswich had also picked up on the change. Ted Phillips played golf with him at Rushmere and could sense that he was slipping:\n\n> Sometimes he would forget where his ball was. He'd be getting ready to hit my ball and I'd say, 'I'm afraid you're in the bushes, Alf, on the other side of the fairway.' Alf insisted one time that he owed me money. It was very sad. We were on the course and he suddenly tried to hand me \u00a3100. 'What are you doing, Alf? That's not mine.' I realized then that there was a serious problem.\n\nTony Garnett recalls an incident at Rushmere, when the conversation turned to Bobby Blackwood, a player Alf had signed from Hearts in the championship-winning season. 'I remember no such player,' said Alf. 'It was then that we began to realize that things were not right.' Alf was entering the long, painful evening of his life. The first public awareness of his decline came in 1993, when he was unable to attend the funeral for Bobby Moore. Fellow ex-manager Malcolm Allison revealed afterwards: 'It's incredibly sad. Sir Alf is not well at all. He has been ill for seven or eight months now. He spent the day at home in Ipswich, although the old Sir Alf would love to have been here.' The disease was insidious rather than aggressive, and he still had periods of lucidity. But a mild stroke during a visit to Cornwall led to further deterioration.\n\nHealth problems were compounded by the continuing shortage of money. 'The way the FA treated their 1966 hero was little less than disgraceful,' says Tony Garnett. 'A man who would not have dreamed of taking a cut from commercial deals involving England should have been given the sort of pension to ensure that he lived the rest of his life in considerable comfort.' And the FA's indifference towards Alf's grim retirement did not just revolve around finances. He and Vickie were also deeply angered that he had never received a replica medal for 1966. When the FA finally began talking about making one in 1998, 32 years after the event, Lady Ramsey said wearily: 'It's too late now. Nothing anybody could do would make up for the way he has been treated.' Another perceived snub occurred during the European Championships in England in 1996, the 30th anniversary of the World Cup, win, when the FA approached him to see if he might be involved in one of the ceremonies around the event. According to Nigel Clarke, Alf was willing to take part: 'I promised Alf he could hold on to me, and he said, \"As long as you're there, I think I can do it.\" But the FA seemed to lose interest after Alf had failed to respond to a letter about the ceremony. Well, it was no good just sending him a letter. You had to sit down and explain things to him gently.' The FA spokesman, Alec McGivan, explaining the Association's hesitancy in following up its initial approach, said 'We were led to believe that Alf was unwell.' Alf and Vickie were so hurt that they actually left Britain during the championships, and visited Tanya in America. Lady Ramsey said:\n\n> Alf just wanted to get away from it all. He's bitter about things. It's sad but it appears we never treat our heroes very well. Alf is nostalgic about the past. He loves to remember his team and what they achieved. He's the same nice caring man he's always been \u2013 a gentle person who deserves more than he has received. It's so sad that those who could have made him a national hero didn't really want to.\n\nOn his return from America, his health rapidly worsened, as the Alzheimer's tightened its grip and he developed angina and prostate cancer. On 9 June 1998, he suffered a massive stroke and was taken to Ipswich General Hospital. During his two-month stay there, Vickie was extremely protective of him, wary of the press finding out his true condition, as Ted Phillips recalls:\n\n> Vickie was a nice lady, but very private. When Alf was ill, she would not have anyone in the hospital. When I heard \u2013 through a friend whose brother was in the same ward \u2013 that Alf was in there, I went up to see him. As soon as I arrived, she went bananas. She turned on me, 'Who told you Alf was in here?'\n> \n> 'I got a phone call from a friend.'\n> \n> She would not let me see him. When I went up again a couple of weeks later, I saw her feeding him. She was very gentle. This time, she let me go to him. I think Alf recognized me.\n\nAt the eleventh hour, some of Alf's old antagonists rallied to his side. Bobby Robson, who had learnt of his plight, said he was appalled at the idea of Alf being on a public ward and announced he wanted to assist in paying for private care. I rang the FA and said I'd give \u00a310,000,' says Robson. 'Lady Ramsey said he was getting the best treatment, and she would not accept it.' David Davies of the FA claimed that the Association also offered to help, but again Vickie would have none of it. In August 1998, Alf was transferred from the general hospital to Minsmere House, a specialist unit for geriatric patients. Then in early 1999, he was moved to a nursing home run by the Orbit Housing Association, with Lady Vickie dipping into her own savings to pay the \u00a3500-a-week bills. Tony Garnett has a heart-rending tale of an incident from the care home: 'One of the nurses looking after him showed him a picture of the 1966 England team: total blank. Then suddenly he pointed to himself and said, \"That's Alf Ramsey.\"'\n\nThe end was approaching. Release from mental and physical distress finally came on 28 April 1999. The death certificate cited Alzheimer's and prostate cancer as the fatal causes. A private family service at the Ipswich crematorium on 7 May was followed by the public service at St Mary's Church, Ipswich, at which George Cohen spoke so eloquently and movingly: 'His strength and purpose made it so easy to believe in him. Sad as it is to know that Alf is no longer with us, I feel we are here to celebrate not only the life of a great football manager but also a great Englishman.' The 45-minute service concluded with a rendering of Frank Sinatra's 'My Way'. There are few men for whom Paul Anka's lyrics about cussedness and defiance could be more appropriate. The tributes flooded in. 'A great man and a wonderful manager,' said Gordon Banks. 'He will always be the best,' said Alan Ball. A minute's silence was held on League grounds across the country the following Saturday.\n\nBut the shadow of Alf's mistreatment still lingered. In his will, Alf left less than \u00a3200,000, two-thirds of which was made up by the value of his Ipswich home, while Vickie's savings had been eaten up by medical bills. She said:\n\n> I just don't know what I will do in the future. But I don't care if I am left with nothing. I still have the memories of that wonderful man and no one can take those away. I could never replace him. We may not have been well off but we had a quality of life. Today football is all about money and how much you can get. But Alf wasn't like that. He loved football and did it for the love of the game. Alf always turned down offers and I don't live in the lap of luxury. I may have to sell up.\n\nSuch an eventuality was avoided by Vickie's decision to sell much of Alf's football memorabilia, including his England caps, a replica of the Jules Rimet trophy, and his Tottenham Hotspur medals. In an auction at Christie's in September 2001, the collection fetched \u00a383,000. But the fact that Lady Ramsey felt compelled to auction off such treasures was another indicator of the way he had been forgotten by the football establishment.\n\nLady Ramsey still lives in the same Ipswich house that she shared with Alf for more than forty years. Anne, the wife of John Elsworthy, recently asked her if she disliked being alone there. Vickie replied: 'Well, it is lonely. But I don't mind. I won't ever leave. I have got my memories.' Especially the memories of that golden afternoon in July 1966, when her shy, stubborn, brilliant husband put England on top of the world.\n\n# _Bibliography_\n\nAgnew, Paul, _Football Legend: The Authorised Biography of Tom Finney_ (Milo Books, 2002)\n\nAllen, Matt, _Jimmy Greaves_ (Virgin, 2001)\n\nAllen, Peter, _The Amber Glow_ (Mainstream 2000)\n\nArcher, Michael, _History of the World Cup_ (Hamlyn, 1978)\n\nArmfield, Jimmy, _The Autobiography_ (Headline, 2004)\n\nBall, Alan, _It's All About A Ball_ (W.H.Allen, 1978)\n\nBall, Alan, _Playing Extra Time_ (Sidgwick & Jackson, 2004)\n\nBanks, Gordon, _Banks of England_ (Arthur Barker, 1980)\n\nBanks, Gordon, _Banksy: My Autobiography_ (Michael Joseph, 2002)\n\nBatt, Peter, _Mick Channon: The Authorised Biography_ (Highdown, 2004)\n\nBelton, Brian, _Burn Budgie Byrne: Football Inferno_ (Breedon Books, 2004)\n\nBowler, Dave, _Danny Blanchflower: Biography of a Visionary_ (Victor Gollancz, 1997)\n\nBowler, Dave, _Winning Isn't Everything: A Biography of Sir Alf Ramsey_ (Victor Gollancz, 1998)\n\nBowler, Dave, _Three Lions on the Shirt_ (Victor Gollancz, _1999)_\n\nBowler, Dave and Reynolds, David, _Ron Reynolds: The Life of a 1950s Footballer_ (Orion, 2003)\n\nBowles, Stan, _The Autobiography_ (Orion, _1996)_\n\nBull, David, _Dell Diamond_ (Hagiology, 1998)\n\nBull, David and Jason, Dave, _Full Time at the Dell_ (Hagiology, 2001)\n\nBurgess, Ron, _Football My Life_ (Souvenir Press, 1953)\n\nCharlton, Bobby, _Forward for England_ (Pelham, 1967)\n\nCharlton, Bobby, _This Game of Soccer_ (Cassell, 1967)\n\nCharlton, Bobby (with Jones, Ken), _My Most Memorable Matches_ (Stanley Paul, 1984)\n\nCharlton, Jack, _The Autobiography_ (Partridge Press, _1996)_\n\nCohen, George with Lawton, James, _My Autobiography_ (Green-water, 2003)\n\nCroker, Ted, _The First Voice You Will Hear..._ (Collins Willow, 1987)\n\nDaniels, Phil, _Moore Than A Legend_ (Goal, 1997)\n\nDawson, Jeff, _Back Home: England and the 1970 World Cup_ (Orion, 2001)\n\nDocherty, Tommy, _Call the Doc_ (Hamlyn, 1981)\n\nEastwood, John and Moyse, Tony, _The Men Who Made The Town_ (Almedia Books, 1986)\n\nEdworthy, Niall, _The Second Most Important Job in the Country_ (Virgin, 1999)\n\nFerguson, Alex, Sir, _Managing My Life_ (Hodder & Stoughton, _1999)_\n\nFerrier, Bob, _Soccer Partnership_ (William Heinemann, 1960)\n\nFinn, Ralph, _England: World Champions 1966_ (Robert Hale, _1966)_\n\nFinn, Ralph, _My Greatest Game_ (The Saturn Press, 1951)\n\nFinn, Ralph, _World Cup 1970_ (Robert Hale, 1970)\n\nFinney, Tom, _My Autobiography_ (Headline, 2003)\n\nGiller, Norman, _Billy Wright: A Hero for All Seasons_ (Robson Books, 2002)\n\nGlanville, Brian, _Football Memories_ (Virgin, _1999)_\n\nGlanville, Brian, _The History of the World Cup_ (Times Newspapers, 1973)\n\nGreaves, Jimmy, _Greavsie: The Autobiography_ (Time Warner, 2003)\n\nGreaves, Jimmy, _This One's On Me_ (Arthur Barker, 1979)\n\nGreen, Chris, _The Sack Race: The Story of Football's Gaffers_ (Mainstream, 2002)\n\nGreenwood, Ron, _Yours Sincerely_ (Collins Willow, 1984)\n\nGreen, Geoffrey, _Soccer: The World Game_ (Phoenix House, 1954)\n\nGreen, Geoffrey, _Soccer in the Fifties_ (Ian Allan, 1974)\n\nHadgraft, Rob, _Ipswich Town: Champions of England 1961\u201362_ (Desert Island Books, 2002)\n\nHale, Steve, _Mr Tottenham Hotspur: Bill Nicholson_ (Football World, 2005)\n\nHardaker, Alan, _Hardaker of the League_ (Pelham, 1977)\n\nHarris, Norman, _The Charlton Brothers_ (Stanley Paul, 1971)\n\nHarris, Ron, _Soccer The Hard Way_ (Pelham, 1970)\n\nHayes, Dean, _England! England! The Complete Who's Who of Players Since 1946_ (Sutton, 2004)\n\nHaynes, Johnny, _It's All In The Game_ (Arthur Barker, 1962)\n\nHill, Dave, _England's Glory: 1966 And All That_ (Macmillan, 1996)\n\nHill, Jimmy, _My Autobiography_ (Hodder & Stoughton, 1998)\n\nHolley, Duncan and Chalk, Gary, _Saints: A Complete Record, 1885\u20131987_ (Breedon Books, 1987)\n\nHolley, Duncan and Chalk, Gary, _The Alphabet of the Saints_ (ACL & Polar, 1992)\n\nHopcraft, Arthur, _The Football Man_ (Collins, 1968)\n\nHolden, Jim, _Stan Cullis_ (Breedon Books, 2000)\n\nHughes, Emlyn, _Crazy Horse_ (Arthur Barker, 1980)\n\nHunter, Norman, _Biting Talk: My Autobiography_ (Hodder & Stoughton, 2004)\n\nHurst, Geoff, _The World Game,_ (Stanley Paul, 1967)\n\nHurst, Geoff, 1966 _And All That: My Autobiography_ (Headline, 2001)\n\nHutchinson, Roger,... _It Is Now_ (Mainstream, 1995)\n\nJeffs, Peter, _The Golden Age of Football_ (Breedon Books, 1991)\n\nJones, Ken, _Jules Rimet Still Gleaming?_ (Virgin, 2003)\n\nJoy, Bernard, _Soccer Tactics_ (Phoenix House, 1956)\n\nKeegan, Kevin, _Kevin Keegan_ (Arthur Barker, 1977)\n\nKeegan, Kevin, _My Autobiography_ (Little Brown & Co., 1997)\n\nLabone, Brian, _Defence at the Top_ (Pelham, 1968)\n\nLawton, Tommy, _My Twenty Years of Soccer_ (Heirloom, 1955)\n\nLeatherdale, Clive, _England's Quest for the World Cup_ (Desert Island Books, 2002)\n\nLee, Francis, _Soccer Round the World_ (Arthur Barker, 1970)\n\nLewis, Richard, _England's Eastenders_ (Mainstream, 2002)\n\nLiversedge, Stan, _Big Jack: The Life and Times of Jack Charlton_ (The Publishing Corporation, 1994)\n\nLiversedge, Stan, _This England Job_ (Soccer Books, _1996)_\n\nLofthouse, Nat, _Goals Galore_ (Stanley Paul, 1954)\n\nMacdonald, Malcolm with Malam, Colin, _Supermac: My Autobiography_ (Highdown, 2003)\n\nMacdonald, Roger and Batty, Eric, _Scientific Soccer in the Seventies_ (Pelham, 1971)\n\nMcColl, Graham, _England: The Alf Ramsey Years_ (Andre Deutch, 1988)\n\nMcKinstry, Leo, _Jack and Bobby_ (Collins Willow, 2002)\n\nMarquis, Max, _Sir Alf Ramsey: Anatomy of a Football Manager_ (Arthur Barker, 1970)\n\nMarsh, Rodney, _Priceless_ (Headline, 2001)\n\nMatthews, Stanley, _Football Parade_ (Marks & Spencer, 1951)\n\nMatthews, Stanley, _The Way It Was_ (Headline, 2000)\n\nMatthews, Tony, _The World Cup Who's Who, 1950\u20132002_ (Britespot, 2002)\n\nMerrick, Gil, _I See It All_ (Museum Press, 1954)\n\nMilburn, Jack, _Jackie Milburn: A Man Of Two Halves_ (Mainstream, 2003)\n\nMiller, David, _The Boy's of '66: England's Last Glory_ (Pavilion, 1986)\n\nMoore, Bobby, _My Soccer Story_ (Stanley Paul, 1967)\n\nMoore, Bobby, _England! England!_ (Stanley Paul, 1970)\n\nMoore, Brian, _The Final Score_ (Hodder & Stoughton, _1999)_\n\nMoore, Tina, _Bobby Moore_ (Collins Willow, 2005)\n\nMourant, Andrew and Rollin, Jack, _The Essential History of England_ (Headline, 2002)\n\nMoynihan, John, _The Soccer Syndrome_ (McGibbon & Kee, _1966)_\n\nMullery, Alan, _In Defence of Spurs_ (Stanley Paul, _1969)_\n\nMullery, Alan, _An Autobiography_ (Pelham, 1985)\n\nNicholson, Bill, _Glory, Glory: My Life With Spurs_ (Macmillan, 1984)\n\nOsgood, Peter, _Ossie: King of Stamford Bridge_ (Mainstream, 2002)\n\nPalmer, Kevin, _Tottenham Hotspur: Champions of England 1950\u201351 and 1960\u201361_ (Desert Island Books, 2004)\n\nPawson, Tony, _The Football Managers_ (Methuen, 1973)\n\nPayne, Mike, _England: The Complete Post-War Record_ (Breedon Books, 1993)\n\nPeters, Martin, _Goals From Nowhere!_ (Stanley Paul, _1969)_\n\nPonting, Ivan and Hale, Steve, _Sir Roger: The Life and Times of Roger Hunt_ (Bluecoat Press, 1997)\n\nPowell, Jeff, _Bobby Moore: The Life and Times of a Sporting Legend_ (Robson Books, 1993)\n\nPuskas, Ferenc, _Captain of Hungary_ (Cassell, 1955)\n\nRamsey, Alf, _Talking Football_ (Stanley Paul, 1952)\n\nRobson, Bobby, _An Englishman Abroad_ (Macmillan, 1998)\n\nRogan, Johnny, _The Football Managers_ (Queen Anne Press, 1989)\n\nRous, Stanley, _Football Worlds_ (Faber & Faber, 1978)\n\nRoyle, Joe, _My Autobiography_ (BBC Books, 2005)\n\nSaffer, David, _The Life and Times of Mick Jones_ (Tempus, 2002)\n\nSaffer, David, _The Paul Madeley Story_ (Tempus, 2003)\n\nSaffer, David, _Sniffer: The Life and Times of Allan Clarke_ (Tempus, 2004)\n\nShaoul, Mark and Williamson, Tony, _Forever England: A History of the National Side_ (Tempus, 2000)\n\nShepherdson, Harold, _The Magic Sponge_ (Pelham, 1968)\n\nShilton, Peter, _The Autobiography_ (Orion, 2004)\n\nSmith, Tommy, _I Did It The Hard Way_ (Arthur Barker, 1980)\n\nSoar, Phil, _And The Spurs Go Marching On_ (Hamlyn, 1982)\n\nSteen, Rob, _The Mavericks_ (Mainstream, 1994)\n\nStepney, Alex, _Alex Stepney_ (Arthur Barker, 1978)\n\nStiles, Nobby, _Soccer My Battlefield_ (Stanley Paul, 1968)\n\nStiles, Nobby, _After The Ball_ (Hodder & Stoughton, 2003)\n\nThomson, David, _4\u20132_ (Bloomsbury, _1966)_\n\nTyler, Martin, _The Boys of '66_ (Hamlyn, 1981)\n\nVenables, Terry, _The Autobiography_ (Michael Joseph, 1994)\n\nWest, Gordon, _The Championship in My Keeping_ (Souvenir Press, 1970)\n\nWheeler, Kenneth (ed.), _Soccer \u2013 the British Way_ (Nicholas Kaye, 1963)\n\nWheeler, Kenneth, _Champions of Soccer_ (Pelham, _1969)_\n\nWinner, David, _Those Feet_ (Orion, 2005)\n\nWolstenholme, Kenneth, _They Think It's All Over_ (Robson, _1996)_\n\nWolstenholme, Kenneth, _50 Sporting Years_ (Robson, _1999)_\n\nWright, Billy, _The World's My Football Pitch_ (Stanley Paul, 1953)\n\nWright, Billy, _Football Is My Passport_ (Stanley Paul, 1957)\n\nWright, Billy, _One Hundred Caps and All That_ (Robert Hale, 1963)\n\n# _Index_\n\nThe pagination of this electronic edition does not match the edition from which it was created. To locate a specific passage, please use the search feature of your e-book reader.\n\nAdamson, Jimmy 197\n\nAllen, Ronnie 487\n\nAllison, Malcolm 381, 501\n\ncriticism of Ramsey xix, 433, 462\n\nEngland-Hungary 1953 125\n\nAnderson, Jimmy 139\u2013140, 142\u2013143\n\nAnka, Paul 503\n\nArlott, John 171\n\nArmfield, Jimmy\n\nEngland captaincy 284\u2013285\n\nEngland playing formation 245\n\nEngland team spirit 290\n\nEngland-Scotland 1963 211\n\nHurst's playing style 307\n\ninjury 215\u2013216\n\nRamsey's management style 236, 322\n\nviews on Greaves 327\n\nAstle, Jeff 397, 410\u2013411, 417\n\nAttlee, Clement 37\n\nBacharach, Burt 284\n\nBailey, Gary 155\n\nBailey, Roy 178\n\nIpswich criticized by opponents 186\n\nRamsey's dedication to football xxix\n\nRamsey's training regime at Ipswich 169\n\nsigned by Ipswich 155\n\nsupported by Ramsey 190\u2013191\n\nBaily, Eddie 14, 84\n\nEngland-Austria 1951 119\n\nFA Cup 1953 131\n\nfriendship with Ramsey 94\u201395\n\nRamsey's aloof personality 353\n\nRamsey's changing accent 20\n\nRamsey's gambling 92\n\nSpurs signing Blanchflower 140\u2013141\n\nSpurs winning League 1951 97\n\nSpurs' playing style 96\n\nteam clown 88, 97, 110, 179\n\nviews on Ramsey 88-89, 91\n\nviews on Rowe 81\n\nWorld Cup 1950 108, 110\u2013111, 114\n\nBaker, George 13\n\nBaker, Joe 254\u2013255, 260, 262\u2013263\n\nBakhramov, Tofik 341\n\nBaldwin, Stanley 1\n\nBall, Alan\n\ndeath of Ramsey 503\n\nEngland playing formation 245, 260, 262\n\nEngland team spirit 313\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 445\n\nLilleshall training camp 275, 279\u2013280\n\nplaying style 306, 307, 316, 379\n\nprofessional rejection 318\n\nRamsey sacked as England manager 477, 500\n\nRamsey's Alzheimer's disease 500\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 435\u2013436\n\nRamsey's management style 291\n\nRamsey's memorial service xv\u2013xvi\n\nRamsey's sense of humour 471\n\nRamsey's speech problems 437\n\nScotland-England 1972 455\n\nsending-off incident 352\u2013353\n\nSouth America tour 1969 392\n\nviews on Greaves 328\n\nviews on Jack Charlton 251\n\nviews on Ramsey 247\u2013248\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 299, 305\u2013306, 325\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 338, 340\u2013342\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 400, 407, 415, 417, 423, 426, 428, 430\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 458\n\nWorld Cup bonus 373\n\nBallard, Ted 44, 58\u201359, 66\n\nBanks, Gordon\n\nAstle's drunkenness 411\n\nclub versus country 242\n\ncriticized by Ramsey 211\u2013212\n\ndeath of father 352\n\ndeath of Ramsey 503\n\ndrinking incident 225\u2013227\n\nEngland playing formation 248, 250, 262, 290\n\nEngland team spirit 217\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 437\u2013438, 445\n\neye injury 453\n\nLittle World Cup 1964 234, 237\n\nRamsey criticizing players 239\n\nRamsey's bad language 260\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 436\n\nRamsey's management style 323\n\nRamsey's sense of humour 434\n\nRamsey's team talks 379\u2013380\n\nselected by Ramsey 211\n\nSouth America tour 1969 392\n\nstolen bracelet incident 409\u2013410\n\nviews on Ramsey 212\u2013213\n\nviews on Stiles 253\n\nworking-class background 318\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 305, 325\u2013326\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 337, 339\n\nWorld Cup 1970 399\u2013400, 417, 419\u2013422,429\u2013430\n\nBannister, Roger 395\n\nBarber, David xxviii, 200, 368\u2013370, 452\n\nBarkas, Sam 43, 46\n\nBarriskill, Joe 350\n\nBass, Dr Alan 232, 273, 277, 283, 326, 331, 385\u2013386\n\nBates, Mary 22, 33, 37\u201338\n\nBates, Ted 33, 44, 46, 70, 190\n\nBatt, Peter xxiii, 409\u2013410\n\nBaxter, Bill 171, 190\n\nBaxter, Jim 211, 384\n\nBeara, Vladimir 123\n\nBeckenbauer, Franz 335, 426\u2013427, 429\n\nBeckham, David xxii\n\nBelcher, Jimmy 162\n\nBell, Colin 403\u2013404, 427, 430, 459\n\nBell, Willie 484\n\nBennett, Les 83, 129\n\nBenny, Jack 329\n\nBentley, Roy 111\n\nBertschin, Keith 485\n\nBest, George xxii, 239, 248\n\nBevan, Aneurin 167\n\nBevin, Ernie 167\n\nBingham, Billy x\n\nBixby, Jean 7, 10, 13\u201314, 16\n\nBixby, Tom 10\n\nBlack, Ian 47, _52\u201355,59_\n\nBlackwood, Bobby 205, 500\n\nBlair, Tony xvii\n\nBlake, Freddie 145, 353\n\nBlanchflower, Danny\n\nbiography xi\n\nconflict with Ramsey 208, 238\n\nlearning to combat Ipswich 204\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 191-192\n\nsigned by Spurs 140-142\n\nStiles's hard tackling 302\n\nWorld Cup 1970 418\n\nBlatchford, Paddy 65\n\nBonetti, Frances 424\u2013425\n\nBonetti, Peter\n\nproblem with players' wives 390, 422\u2013425\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 422\u2013423, 425\u2013427, 430\u2013432\n\nBonnel, Joseph 301\n\nBooth, John 76, 497\u2013498\n\nBowen, Dave 244\n\nBowers, J. W. 370\n\nBowler, David xi, 20, 85, 96, 134, 244, 484\n\nBowles, Stan 470\n\nBremner, Billy 222, 253, 425\n\nBridges, Barry 187, 221, 234, 255\u2013256\n\nBrooking, Sir Trevor 470\n\nBrown, George 295\n\nBrown, Joe 352\n\nBrown, Tony 453\n\nBruce, Margaret 370, 429\u2013430, 474\n\nBrynner, Yul 298\n\nBull, David 32, 70\n\nBurgess, Ron 82, 84\n\nageing player 129\n\nleaving Spurs 133\n\nSpurs winning League 1951 97\u201398\n\ntraining sessions 80\n\nviews on Ramsey as player 96\n\nBurton, Richard 229\n\nBusby, Sir Matt x, 167, 172\u2013173, 376\n\nButler, Bryon 160, 218, 359\n\nButler, Frank 132\u2013133\n\nByrne, Johnny 'Budgie'\n\ndrinking 224\u2013227, 232\n\ndropped from 1966 World Cup squad 281\u2013282\n\nEngland playing formation 243\n\nirreverent attitude 230\n\nviews on Ramsey 255\n\nWinterbottom's relationship with media 315\n\nCagney, Jimmy 103\n\nCaine, Michael 284, 292\n\nCairns, Phil 5, 8, 10, 20\n\nCalderwood, Jimmy 485\n\nCallaghan, Ian 300\u2013301, 305\u2013306, 316\n\nCann, Syd 38\u201340, 45\n\nCarapellese, Riccardo 99\n\nCarberry, Larry 156\n\nCarr, Franz 489\n\nChannon, Mick xx, 453, 462, 464\n\nChapman, Herbert 172, 201\n\nCharles, John 224\n\nCharlton, Sir Bobby 156, 211\n\naffinity with Ramsey 441\n\nchange of playing position 239\u2013240, 243\n\nclub versus country 242\n\ncomparison with Jack 249\n\ndisciplined player 257\n\ndrinking incident 225\u2013227\n\nEngland playing formation 254, 260, 263, 265, 267, 269, 304, 317\n\nFA Cup 1958 163\n\nLilleshall training camp 274\u2013275\n\nMunich air disaster 318\n\nplaying partnership with Stiles 252, 311\n\nplaying style 306, 307, 379\n\nPoland-England 1966 288\n\nRamsey's dislike of 'individualistic' players 440\n\nRamsey's management style 219, 291, 322\n\nRamsey's memorial service xv, xvii\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 359\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 187\u2013188\n\nRamsey's shyness xi\n\nSouth America tour 1969 392, 394\n\nstolen bracelet incident 406\u2013407, 412\u2013413\n\nviews on Greaves 328\n\nviews on Winterbottom 106\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 299\u2013300, 306, 309\u2013310, 322, 325\u2013326, 357\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 335\u2013336, 338\u2013339, 344\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 406, 417, 420\u2013421, 426\u2013427, 429\u2013430\n\nCharlton, Cissie 249\n\nCharlton, Jack 484\n\nageing player 396, 400\n\nargumentative nature 251\u2013252, 276\n\ncomparison with Bobby 249\n\nEngland playing formation 254, 317\n\nEngland team spirit 290\n\nextrovert personality 384, 399, 409\n\nFIFA identity cards 296\n\nfive-a-side football 380\n\nhard tackling 387\n\nLilleshall training camp 275\u2013276, 278\n\nmanagement track record x\n\nMoore's glamorous lifestyle 228\u2013229\n\nplaying partnership with Moore 250, 445\n\nRamsey's management style 250\u2013251\n\nRamsey's memorial service xv\u2013xvi\n\nrecruited to England squad 248\u2013250\n\nrejected by Revie 318\n\nreplaced by Labone in England squad 382\n\nSouth America tour 1969 392\n\nteam clown 179\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 300, 310\u2013311, 325\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 337\u2013338, 342, 347\n\nCharlton, Norma 249, 406\n\nCharlton, Pat 347\n\nChivers, Martin 453\u2013454, 456, 462, 464\n\nChurchill, Sir Winston 293\n\nClarke, Allan 453\n\nproblem with players' wives 425\n\nWorld Cup 1970 398, 417\u2013418, 431\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 462, 464, 466\n\nClarke, Harry 84\n\nClarke, Nigel 7, 77, 230\u2013231\n\nEngland playing formation 260\n\nGreaves dropped from World Cup Final team 333\n\npublic acclamation for Ramsey 491\u2013492\n\nRamsey as cricket player 27\u201328\n\nRamsey sacked as England manager 477\n\nRamsey snubbed by football establishment 501\n\nRamsey's alleged elocution lessons 24\n\nRamsey's alleged Romany background 15\n\nRamsey's conflict with Robson 494\n\nRamsey's dedication to football xxx\n\nRamsey's friction with football\n\nestablishment 492\u2013493\n\nRamsey's kindness 490\u2013491\n\nRamsey's military service 29\u201330\n\nRamsey's newspaper column 488\u2013490\n\nRamsey's reserved personality 92\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 346\n\nWorld Cup 1970 420, 431\u2013432\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 464\u2013465\n\nClemence, Ray 448\n\nClements, Stan 16, 21\u201322, 45, 50\u201351, 71\n\nClough, Brian x, 444\u2013445, 462, 481\n\nCmikiewicz, Leslaw 458\n\nCoates, Ralph 408\n\nCobbold, Alastair 143, 146, 158\n\nCobbold, John\n\nban on advertising 184\n\nbringing Ramsey to Ipswich 143\u2013144\n\neccentric character 146\u2013148\n\nhomosexuality 148\u2013149\n\nIpswich winning League 193\n\nIpswich winning Second Division 177\n\nIpswich winning Third Division 160\u2013161\n\nIpswich's Germany tour 204\n\noffering Ramsey a return to Ipswich 238\u2013239\n\nRamsey appointed England manager 198\u2013199, 203\u2013204\n\nRamsey appointed Ipswich secretary 156\n\nRamsey's conflict with Milburn 206\n\nrelationship with Ramsey 149\u2013151\n\nCobbold, Lady Blanche 146\n\nCobbold, Lieutenant-General 146\n\nCocker, Les 331\u2013332, 390, 450, 469, 471\n\nLilleshall training camp 273\u2013274, 278, 280\n\nWorld Cup 1970 418\n\nCohen, Daphne 499\n\nCohen, George\n\naffinity with Ramsey 441\n\nEngland playing formation 248, 262, 265\n\nHaynes's injury 215\n\ninjury 396\n\nLilleshall training camp 274, 277\n\nLittle World Cup 1964 237\n\nMontreal trip 1967 385\n\nMoore's tonsillitis 331\u2013332\n\nplaying style 316\u2013317\n\nRamsey's Alzheimer's disease 499\n\nRamsey's bad language 258\u2013259\n\nRamsey's management style 227\u2013228, 257\n\nRamsey's memorial service xvi, 503\n\nRamsey's retirement 488\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 188\n\nretirement from international football 377\n\nStiles's views on 318\u2013319\n\nviews on Hunt 258\n\nviews on Jack Charlton 251\n\nviews on Ramseys' marriage 78\u201379\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 301, 309, 311, 324\u2013325, 334\u2013335\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 338, 340, 343, 347\n\nColeman, David 427\n\nCollings, Sid 373\n\nCompton, Denis 122\n\nCompton, John 147, 171\u2013172, 176, 178\u2013179\n\nCompton, Les 122\n\nConnelly, John 104, 269\n\nLilleshall training camp 279\u2013280\n\nPoland-England 1966 288\n\nRamsey's dislike of Scots 221\u2013222\n\nRamsey's management style 323\u2013324\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 299\u2013301, 306, 316\n\nConnery, Sean 298\u2013299, 321\n\nCooke, Charlie 252\u2013253, 381\n\nCoombs, Ken 483\n\nCooper, Eric 357\n\nCooper, Terry 396, 438\n\nCoulter, Phil 400\u2013401\n\nCoupland, Elaine 479\n\nCowie, Charlie 145, 151, 185\n\nCox, Freddie 168\n\nCrawford, Eileen 168\n\nCrawford, Ray\n\nadmiration for Ramsey xxv\n\nhappy atmosphere at Ipswich 177\u2013179\n\nIpswich winning League 193\n\nplayers' wages 184\n\nplaying partnership with Phillips 170, 173\u2013176\n\nprimitive facilities at Ipswich 145\u2013146, 185\n\nRamsey's loyalty to Ipswich 204\u2013205\n\nRamsey's modest personal spending 201\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 188, 191\n\nRamsey's training regime at Ipswich 169\u2013170\n\nsigned by Ipswich 168\n\nviews on Cobbold 149\n\nviews on Milburn 207\u2013208\n\nviews on Winterbottom 188\u2013189\n\nCrerand, Pat 253\n\nCresswell, Sir Michael 313\n\nCroker, Ted 467\u2013469, 475\n\nCruyff, Johann 446\n\nCudlipp, Hugh 449\n\nCullis, Stan x, 133, 167, 172, 197, 255, 351\u2013352\n\nCurrie, Tony 464\u2013465\n\nDalglish, Kenny 498\n\nDavies, David 503\n\nDay, Eric\n\nBrazil tour 1948 58\u201359\n\nplaying partnership with Ramsey 63\n\nRamsey's changing accent 22\n\nRamsey's football intelligence 44\n\nRamsey's reserved personality 46\u201347\n\nviews on Dodgin 66\n\nwages as football player 52\n\nDe Wardener, Hugh 396\n\nDean, Dixie 307\n\nDiana, Princess of Wales 293\n\nDienst, Gottfried 336\u2013337, 339\n\nDillon, Kevin 484\n\nDitchburn, Ted 83\u201384, 95\n\nageing player 129\n\nFA Cup 1953 130\u2013132\n\nRamsey's reserved personality 93\n\nSpurs signing Blanchflower 141\n\nSpurs' playing style 85\u201386, 88\n\nviews on Ramsey 90\n\nDobson, Martin 470\u2013471, 490\n\nDocherty, Tommy 189, 255, 267, 431, 462, 482\n\nDodgin, Bill\n\nappointed Fulham manager 70\n\nmoving Ramsey to right-back 38\u201339\n\npractising tactics 45\n\nRamsey leaving Southampton 65\u201367, 69\u201370\n\nRamsey's dedication to football 43\n\nsigning Ramsey 36\u201337\n\nDoggart, Graham 197\u2013199, 209\n\nDoggart, Hubert 198\n\nDomarski, Jan 463\u2013464\n\nDonegan, Lonnie 293, 400\u2013401\n\nDouglas, Bryan 214, 243\n\nDoyle, Mike 440\n\nDrake, Ted 35, 171\n\nDrewry, Arthur 98, 110, 199\n\nDrury, Reg 222\n\nDuncan, Scott 143, 151\u2013153, 155\u2013156, 163, 167\n\nDunphy, Eamon xix\n\nDuquemin, Len 84, 97\n\nDuvalier, Papa Doc 111\n\nDyson, Terry 137\n\nEastham, George\n\ndrinking incident 225\u2013227\n\nEngland playing formation 243, 260\n\nLilleshall training camp 276\n\nLittle World Cup 1964 237\u2013238\n\nEastwood, John 20\n\nEden, Anthony 146\n\nEkland, Britt 298\n\nEllerington, Bill\n\nBrazil tour 1948 59\u201360\n\ncomparison with Ramsey 67\n\npneumonia 42\u201343\n\npoor-quality equipment 53\u201354\n\nRamsey's gambling 49\u201350\n\nrivalry with Ramsey 46, 65, 99\n\nviews on Rochford 40\u201341\n\nElsworthy, Anne xxvi, 177, 504\n\nElsworthy, John 504\n\ninjury 177\n\nIpswich winning League 192\u2013193\n\nplayers' weekly lunch 184\u2013185\n\nRamsey's dedication to football 178\n\nRamsey's football intelligence 176\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 175\u2013176\n\nRamsey's training regime at Ipswich 153\n\nEmery, Charles 3\n\nEmmerich, Lothar 335, 339\n\nEngland\n\nAustria-England 1952 121\u2013122\n\n'Back Home' record 400\u2013403\n\ncharacter of players 318\u2013319\n\nclub versus country 241\u2013242, 376\u2013377, 443\u2013445\n\nCzechoslovakia-England 1963 216\n\ndefeat by USA 1950 109\u2013113\n\ndrinking culture 224\u2013227, 232\n\nEngland-Argentina 1951 119\n\nEngland-Argentina 1966 305\u2013311\n\nEngland-Austria 1951 119\u2013121\n\nEngland-Brazil 1963 211\u2013212\n\nEngland-France 1966 300\u2013301\n\nEngland-Hungary 1953 124\u2013\n\nEngland-Ireland 1949 102\n\nEngland-Italy 1949 99\u2013100\n\nEngland-Mexico 1966 299\u2013300\n\nEngland-Rest of Europe 1953 122\u2013124\n\nEngland-Scotland 1963 211\n\nEngland-Uruguay 1964 223\n\nEngland-Uruguay 1966 296\u2013298\n\nEngland-Yugoslavia 1950 116\n\nEngland-Yugoslavia 1966 266, 268\u2013269\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\u2013387\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 436\u2013438, 444\u2013446\n\nEuropean tour 1963 216\u2013217\n\nEuropean tour 1965 245, 247\n\nEuropean tour 1966 285\u2013290\n\nFIFA identity cards 295\u2013296\n\nFindus food fiasco 404\u2013405\n\nFrance-England 1963 208\u2013211\n\ninternational track record xxi\n\nItaly/Switzerland tour 1948 55\u201358\n\nLilleshall training camp 272\u2013282\n\nLittle World Cup 1964 223\u2013224, 234\u2013238\n\nmedical support 394\u2013396\n\nMontreal trip 1967 384\u2013385\n\nMoore appointed captain 216\n\nNorthern Ireland-England 1964 239\u2013240\n\nplayers' wages 101\n\nplaying formation 214, 242\u2013246, 260\u2013265, 304\u2013305, 314, 316\u2013317, 446\n\nPoland-England 1966 287\u2013290\n\npoor team spirit 423\n\nPortugal-England 1964 227\n\nPortugal-England 1966 324\u2013325\n\nRamsey appointed captain 116\n\nRamsey appointed manager 197\u2013202\n\nRamsey sacked as manager xx\u2013xxi, 468\u2013469, 472\u2013477\n\nRamsey selected as player _55\u201356_\n\nRamsey's playing debut 63\n\nScotland-England 1964 220, 223\n\nScotland-England 1972 455\n\nselection procedure in 1940s 103\u2013104, 110\n\nshirt sponsorship 468\n\nSouth America tour 1969 391\u2013394\n\nSpain-England 1965 257, 259\u2013263\n\nteam spirit 276\u2013277, 290\u2013291, 304, 313\n\nWinterbottom resigning as manager 196\u2013198\n\nWorld Cup 1950 107\u2013114\n\nWorld Cup 1962 196\u2013197\n\nWorld Cup 1966 296\u2013348\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 xxiii, 335\u2013348\n\nWorld Cup 1970 390\u2013391, 403\u2013430\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 456\u2013466\n\nWorld Cup bonus 373\n\nWorld Cup Willie 293\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\u2013387 1972 444\u2013446\n\nEusebio 324\u2013326\n\nEveritt, Alan 165\n\nFairgrieve, John 267\n\nFenton, Ted 231\n\nFerguson, Sir Alex x, 495\n\nFields, Gracie 167\n\nFinn, Ralph T. 134\u2013136, 158\u2013159\n\nFinney, Sir Tom 57\n\nEngland selection procedure 103\n\nplaying style with England 174\n\nRamsey as England captain 116\n\ntraining techniques 102\n\nviews on Ramsey 100\u2013101\n\nWorld Cup 1950 111\u2013112\n\nFitzgerald, Ella 233\n\nFletcher, Colonel 30\u201331\n\nFlowers, Ron 104, 276\u2013277, 290\n\nFollows, Denis 197, 302, 312, 370\u2013371, 373, 413, 419, 467\n\nFoot, Dingle 146\n\nFoot, Michael 146\n\nfootball\n\n1960s' ticket prices 293\u2013294\n\nabolition of maximum wage 183\u2013184\n\nantiquated attitudes of 1940s 101\u2013103, 114\u2013115\n\nclub versus country 241\u2013242, 376\u2013377, 443\u2013445\n\ndearth of goals 388\u2013389\n\nplayers' wages 52, 101\n\npoor-quality equipment 53\n\nworking-class game 294\u2013295\n\nworking-class lifestyle of players 51\u201352\n\nWorld Cup trophy stolen 293\n\nFormby, George 167\n\nForsyth, Jimmy 151, 193\n\nFrancis, Trevor 485\u2013487\n\nFreeman, Alf 47\u201348, 51, 71\n\nFuljames, Margaret 74, 367\u2013368\n\nGaetjens, Joe 111\u2013112\n\nGardner, Ava 138\n\nGarnett, Tony xxvii, 77, 132, 401\n\nCobbold's eccentricities 147\n\nCobbold's homosexuality 148\n\nhappy atmosphere at Ipswich 178\n\nIpswich's Germany tour 204\n\nRamsey's Alzheimer's disease 500\n\nRamsey's antagonism against Robson 495\n\nRamsey's final illness 503\n\nRamsey's relationship with Cobbold 150\u2013151\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 165\u2013166\n\nRamsey's retirement 496\u2013498\n\nRamsey's team talks 186\n\nviews on Phillips 157\u2013158\n\nGarrett, Len 162\n\nGascoigne, Paul xxii, 280\n\nGiles, Johnny 425\n\nGilzean, Alan 383\n\nGlanville, Brian xxvii, 246, 256, 312, 351, 356, 446\u2013447\n\nGodbold, Pat\n\nBailey's car 155\n\nprimitive facilities at Ipswich 145\u2013146\n\nRamsey appointed Ipswich secretary manager 163\u2013164\n\nRamsey smoking 164\u2013165\n\nRamsey's aloof personality 353\u2013354\n\nRamsey's shyness xi, xxvi\n\nGonzalez, Alberto 311\n\nGosling, Pauline 6, 16\n\nGould, Donald 475\n\nGrabowski, Jurgen 427\n\nGrant, Wilf 152\u2013153\n\nGreaves, Irene 333\n\nGreaves, Jimmy\n\naccent 18\n\ncreative player xix\n\ncriticized by Winterbottom 189\n\nCzechoslovakia-England 1963 216\n\ndrinking 224\u2013227, 232, 284\n\ndropped from World Cup Final team 332\u2013334\n\nEngland playing formation 214, 254, 268\n\nhepatitis 257, 267, 269\n\nirreverent attitude 230, 233\u2013234, 285, 288\n\nlack of consistency 256\u2013257, 270\n\nMoore's irreverent attitude 232\u2013233\n\nPinewood Studios visit 299\n\nplaying style 317\n\nPoland-England 1966 288\u2013289\n\nRamsey's management style 216\u2013217, 321, 389\n\nretirement from international football 378\n\nsarcasm 180\n\nstriking ability 286\u2013287\n\nviews on Leadbetter 173\u2013174\n\nviews on Winterbottom 106\u2013107\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 299, 301, 306\u2013307, 324, 326\u2013330\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 343\u2013344\n\nGreen, Geoffrey 264\u2013265, 464\n\nGreenwood, Ron 104, 231, 255, 270, 295\n\nGreenwood, Walter 167\n\nGrimme, Edward 11\u201312\n\nHackett, Desmond 112, 216, 261\u2013262, 314\u2013315\n\nHaller, Helmut 337\n\nHardaker, Alan 103, 196, 220\u2013221, 376\u2013377, 444, 462\n\nHarewood, Lord 419\n\nHarrington, Frank 439\n\nHarris, Bob 360\u2013361\n\nHarvey, Ian 148\n\nHarvey, Joe 206\n\nHaynes, Johnny 184, 215\u2013216\n\nHeath, Sir Edward 21, 441\n\nHector, Kevin 464\u2013465\n\nHeld, Siggi 337\u2013338\n\nHenry, Ron 136\u2013137, 209\n\nHerberger, Sepp 316\n\nHibbitt, Terry 484, 486\n\nHidegkuti, Nandor 125\n\nHill, Jimmy 183, 267, 383\n\nHillary, Sir Edmund 395\n\nHitchens, Gerry 351\n\nHoby, Alan 445\n\nHoddle, Glen 280\n\nHodges, Cyril 30\n\nHodgkinson, Alan 104\n\nHogg, Derek 142\n\nHolley, Bob 35\u201336\n\nHolt, Jack 25\n\nHopcraft, Arthur 3\n\nHopkins, Mel 89\u201390, 92\u201394\n\nHottges, Horst 338\n\nHowarth, Frederick 103\n\nHudson, Alan 439\u2013441, 454\n\nHughes, Emlyn\n\nstolen bracelet incident 412\n\nWorld Cup 1970 396, 415, 421\u2013422\n\nHughes, Rob 359\u2013360\n\nHume, Joe 69\n\nHunt, Roger\n\ncharacter of England players 318\n\ndebate over Greaves 330\n\nEngland playing formation 254, 260, 262, 268, 327\u2013328\n\njoining England squad 257\u2013258\n\nLittle World Cup 1964 234\n\nplaying style 307\n\nPoland-England 1966 287\u2013289\n\nretirement from international football 377\u2013378\n\nviews on Winterbottom 106\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 300\u2013301, 309\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 338\u2013339\n\nHunter, Norman 190, 252\u2013253, 284\u2013285\n\nclub versus country 376, 443, 445\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 445\u2013446\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 436\n\nviews on Ramsey 263\u2013264\n\nWorld Cup 1970 427, 430\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 456, 463\u2013465\n\nHurst, Geoff 118, 447, 453\n\nEngland playing formation 327\u2013328\n\nEngland team spirit 291\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 438\n\nGreaves dropped from World Cup Final\n\nteam 329\u2013330, 333\n\nLilleshall training camp 275\u2013276\n\nMoore's tonsillitis 332\n\nplaying style 317\n\nPoland-England 1966 287\u2013288\n\nRamsey's aloof personality 354\n\nRamsey's dislike of 'individualistic'\n\nplayers 440\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 435\n\nRamsey's management style 271, 319\u2013321\n\nRamsey's sense of humour 434\n\nRamsey's team talks 380\n\nrecruited to England squad 270\u2013271\n\nproblem with players' wives 390\u2013391, 423\n\nsupport from Ramsey xix, 287\n\nworking-class background 318\n\nWorld Cup 1966 307, 309\u2013311, 325, 331, 334\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 ix, xxiii, 336\u2013338, 341\u2013342, 344\n\nWorld Cup 1970 355, 397, 400, 404, 414, 417, 421, 425, 431\n\nHurst, Judith 391, 421, 423\u2013424\n\nHutchinson, Ian 441\u2013442\n\nIpswich Town FC\n\n_1955\u20131956_ season 152\u2013155\n\n1956\u20131957 season 157\u2013161\n\n1957\u20131958 season 162\u2013163\n\n1958\u20131959 season 170\n\n1959\u20131960 season 170\u2013171, 189\n\n1960\u20131961 season 176\n\n1961\u20131962 season 183, 185\u2013194\n\n1962\u20131963 season 199, 204\u2013208\n\n1963\u20131964 season 207\n\nLeague Champions 1962 19, 193\n\nMilburn appointed manager 205\n\nplayers' wages 184\n\nprimitive facilities 145\n\nRamsey appointed England manager 203\u2013204\n\nRamsey appointed manager 143\u2013144\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 172\u2013176, 187\u2013188\n\nSecond Division champions 176\u2013177\n\nThird Division champions 160\u2013161\n\nIsaacs, Tubby 172\n\nJackson, Bob 114\u2013115\n\nJames, Alex 28\n\nJames, Brian xxiii, 76, 141, 154, 262\n\nAstle's drunkenness 411\n\nclub versus country 242\n\nEngland playing formation 265\n\nfootball as working-class game 294\n\nRamsey sacked as England manager 469\n\nRamsey's conflict with Moore 285\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 457\u2013458\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 191\n\nRamsey's selection methods 375\n\nproblem with players' wives 423\u2013424\n\nstandards of sports journalism 449\n\nviews on Greaves 256\u2013257, 327\n\nviews on Moore 230\n\nviews on Ramsey 355\u2013356\n\nWorld Cup 1966 314\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 349\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 430\u2013431\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 458\u2013459\n\nJames, Sid 174\n\nJohns, Hugh 405, 481\u2013482\n\nJohnstone, Harry 125\n\nJones, Ernie 70\n\nJones, Ken xxiii, 76, 141\n\ndebate over Greaves 328\n\nEngland playing formation 264\n\nMoore's irreverent attitude 234\n\nRamsey dining out 363\u2013364\n\nRamsey's dislike of 'individualistic'\n\nplayers 440\u2013441\n\nRamsey's dislike of Scots 222\n\nRamsey's friction with football\n\nestablishment 373\n\nRamsey's kindness 354\u2013355\n\nRamsey's management style 278, 287\n\nRamsey's modesty 366\u2013367\n\nRamsey's public speaking 116\n\nRamsey's selection policy 289\n\nRamsey's sense of humour 434\n\nRamsey's views on England selectors 209\n\nstolen bracelet incident 410\u2013411\n\nviews on Ramsey 208\u2013209\n\nWorld Cup 1966 298\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 344, 349\n\nWorld Cup 1970 415, 428\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 461\n\nJones, Lesley 355\n\nJones, Mick 245\u2013246\n\nJoy, Bernard 79\u201380, 119, 285\n\nJukes, J. R. 65\u201366\n\nKaines, Alf 51\n\nKeegan, Kevin xviii, 453\u2013454, 456\n\nKelly, Bob xix\n\nKelly, Johnny 128\n\nKeough, Harry 113\n\nKidd, Brian 408\n\nKirchin, Ivor 98\n\nKlein, Avraham 424\n\nKnott, Charlie 71\n\nKreitlein, Rudolf 309\u2013310, 313\n\nLa Rue, Danny 347\n\nLabone, Brian 210, 272\n\nRamsey's management style 382\u2013383\n\nWorld Cup 1970 396, 415, 417, 428, 431\n\nLacey, David 460\u2013462\n\nLangley, Mike 201, 354, 461\n\nLato, Gzregorz 463\n\nLaw, Denis 253, 388, 425\n\nLawler, Chris 444\n\nLawrenson, Mark 492\n\nLawton, Tommy 34, 56, 105\n\nLeadbetter, Jimmy\n\ndropped from Ipswich side 435\n\nFA Cup 1958 163\n\nIpswich criticized by opponents 186\u2013187\n\nIpswich winning League 193\n\nIpswich winning Third Division 160\n\nplaying in Second Division 162\n\nRamsey smoking 165\n\nRamsey's alleged elocution lessons 166\n\nRamsey's dislike of Scots 222\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 173\u2013175, 188, 191\n\nRamsey's views on 174\n\nswitching playing position 154\u2013155\n\nviews on Milburn 208\n\nviews on Phillips 157\n\nLeatherdale, Clive 326\n\nLee, Francis\n\nEngland debut 379\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 438, 445\u2013446\n\ninclusion in England squad 378\n\nRamsey's friction with football\n\nestablishment 373\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 435\n\nRamsey's management style 379\u2013382\n\nSouth America tour 1969 393\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 415\u2013417, 425, 428, 430\n\nLennon, John 292, 403\n\nLiddell, Billy 129\n\nLiddell, Ned 26\u201327\n\nLittle, Peter 350\u2013351, 364\u2013366, 474\n\nLofthouse, Nat 122\n\nAustria-England 1952 121\n\nEngland debut 116\n\nEngland-Austria 1951 120\n\nEngland-Rest of Europe 1953 123\n\nplaying partnership with Ramsey 117\u2013118, 120\n\nplaying style 307\n\nRamsey's football skills 116\u2013117\n\nLombardi, Vince 334\n\nLubanski, Wlodzimierz 458\n\nLynch, Kenny 424\n\nMacdonald, Malcolm 440, 444, 454\u2013455, 472, 477\n\nMacDonald, Ramsay 166\n\nMackay, Dave 191, 204\n\nMacmillan, Harold 146,184\n\nMagee, Frank 142, 202\u2013203, 289, 436, 443, 457\u2013458\n\nMalam, Colin 470\n\nMalcolm, Ken 155, 159\u2013160\n\nMallet, Joe 48, 67\u201368\n\nManning, J. L. 246, 314, 388\u2013389\n\nMannion, Wilf 111\n\nMarchi, Tony 22\n\nMarquis, Max xi, 13, 19\u201320, 64\n\nMarsh, Rodney 453\u2013454, 490\n\nconflict with Ramsey 442, 447\n\nindividualistic player 439\u2013440\n\nRamsey's changing accent 20\u201321\n\nsarcasm 180\n\nstolen bracelet incident 412\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 456\n\nMartin, Bill 400\u2013403\n\nMarzolini, Silvio 306\n\nMason, Jimmy 36\n\nMatthews, Sir Stanley 105, 122, 294\n\nFA Cup 1953 132\n\nfailure in career as manager 144\n\nfriction with football establishment 27\n\nknighthood 364\n\nplaying partnership with Ramsey 63\u201364\n\nRamsey's football intelligence 64\n\nunpopular with players 62\u201363\n\nWorld Cup 1950 110\u2013111, 114, 200\n\nMcClellan, Syd 91, 93, 138, 140\n\nMcColl, Graham xi\n\nMcFarland, Roy 78, 330\n\nclub versus country 444\u2013445\n\nRamsey's dislike of Scots 221\n\nRamsey's management style 436\u2013437\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 459, 465\u2013466\n\nMcGarry, Bill 384\n\nMcGivan, Alec 501\n\nMcGuinness, Wilf 253\n\nLilleshall training camp 273, 276\u2013279, 282\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 352\n\nMcIlroy, Jimmy 184\n\nMcIlvanney, Eddie 112\n\nMcIlvanney, Hugh xix\u2013xx, xxix\n\nRamsey's changing accent 18\n\nRamsey's conflict with Moore 285\u2013286\n\nRamsey's dislike of Scots 223\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 360\u2013361\n\nviews on Moore 228\n\nWorld Cup 1966 310\n\nWorld Cup 1970 400, 432\n\nMcNab, Bob 408\n\nMcWilliam, Peter 80\n\nMeadows, Harry 187\n\nMears, Brian 469, 472\u2013473\n\nMears, Joe 209\n\nMedley, Les 80, 138\n\nMee, Bertie 261\u2013262\n\nMercer, Joe 302, 367, 383, 432, 493\n\nMerrick, Gil 122, 126\u2013127\n\nMilburn, Jackie\n\nappointed Ipswich manager 205, 494\n\nconflict with Ramsey 205\u2013207\n\nEngland player 122\n\nleaving Ipswich 238\n\npoor management of Ipswich 207\u2013208\n\nRamsey's aloof personality 353\n\nRamsey's dedication to football 62\n\nMiller, David 343\n\nMiller, Glenn 241\n\nMiller, Max 110, 167\n\nMillichip, Bert 469, 472\n\nMillward, Doug 22, 49\n\nMillward, Pat\n\nRamsey's alleged elocution lessons 22\n\nRamsey's reserved personality 48\u201349\n\nRamsey's romance with Rita 72\n\nRamseys' happy marriage 75\u201376, 78\u201379\n\nRita's divorce 72\u201374\n\nMilne, Gordon 186, 259\u2013260, 281\n\nMilton, Arthur 121\n\nMitchell, Bobby 115\u2013116, 129\n\nMoore, Bobby 211\n\n1960s' icon 292\n\naccent 18\n\nappointed England captain 216\n\nByrne's views on Ramsey 255\n\ncomparison with Ramsey 228\u2013230\n\nconflict with Ramsey 283\u2013286\n\ncontract with West Ham 295\n\ncynicism 229\u2013230\n\ndrinking 224\u2013228, 231\u2013232, 284, 436\n\nEngland playing formation 248\n\nEngland team spirit 304\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 387\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 438, 445\n\nfirst impressions of Ramsey 210\n\nfuneral 501\n\nglamorous lifestyle 228\u2013229\n\nHunter as deputy 263\n\nHurst joining England squad 271\n\nHurst's playing style 307\n\nirreverent attitude 230\u2013234, 285\n\nJack Charlton's playing style 249\n\nlast game for England 468\n\nmistaken for Flowers 104\n\nPinewood Studios visit 298\u2013299, 321\n\nplaying partnership with Ball 248\n\nplaying partnership with Jack Charlton 250\n\nplaying style 379\n\nPoland-England 1966 289\n\nRamsey's alleged Romany background 15\n\nRamsey's dislike of Scots 221\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 435\n\nRamsey's management style 219, 291, 320\n\nRamsey's sense of humour 471\n\nRamsey's team talks 382\n\nRamsey's testimonial dinner 477\u2013478\n\nproblem with players' wives 390\n\nsarcasm 180\n\nSouth America tour 1969 394\n\nstolen bracelet incident 406\u2013413\n\nsupport for Greaves 328\n\ntesticular cancer 318\n\ntonsillitis 331\u2013332\n\nviews on Ramsey 413\u2013414\n\nWinterbottom's conflict with England\n\nselectors 200\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 308\u2013309, 357\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 336\u2013338, 341\u2013344, 348\n\nWorld Cup 1970 355, 396, 400, 404, 415\u2013417, 426, 429\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 458\u2013460, 462, 464\u2013465\n\nMoore, Brian 481\n\nMoore, Tina 229\u2013231, 320\u2013321, 412, 424\n\nMoran, Dougie 183, 190\n\nMorley, Robert 298\n\nMortensen, Stanley 109, 111, 123\n\nMossop, Jimmy 347\n\nMoynihan, John 267\u2013268, 358\n\nMudie, Jimmy 130\u2013131\n\nMuller, Gerd 427\n\nMullery, Alan\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\u2013387\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 438\n\nFindus food fiasco 405\n\njoining England squad 56\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 436\n\nRamsey's management style 378\u2013379\n\nsending-off incident 373\n\nSouth America tour 1969 392\u2013394\n\nviews on Greaves 256\n\nviews on Haynes 215\u2013216\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 407, 417, 426\u2013427\n\nMurray, Bill 34\n\nNelson, Andy\n\nhappy atmosphere at Ipswich 178, 181\u2013182\n\nplaying in First Division 182\u2013183\n\nprimitive facilities at Ipswich 145\n\nRamsey showing emotion 192\n\nRamsey's dedication to football xxix\n\nRamsey's football intelligence 170\n\nRamsey's relationship with Cobbold 150\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 175\n\nsigned by Ipswich 170\n\ntough player 190\n\nviews on Milburn 208\n\nNetzer, Gunther 445\u2013446\n\nNewton, Keith 281, 396, 414, 420\u2013421\n\nNicholson, Bill 121\n\nageing player 129\n\nappointed Spurs coach 142\n\nconflict with Ramsey 134, 139\n\nFA Cup 1953 130\n\nlack of interest in England manager's job 197\n\nlearning to combat Ipswich 204\n\nRamsey's reserved personality 93\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 191\u2013192\n\nSpurs player 79, 83\u201384, 88\n\nSpurs signing Blanchflower 140\n\nNorman, Maurice 204, 235, 248\n\nNorris, Arthur 72\u201373\n\nNorris, Rita\n\n_see also_ Ramsey, Lady Victoria and Welch, Rita\n\nchange of name 74\u201375\n\ndivorce 73\u201374\n\nmarriage to Arthur 72\n\nmeeting Alf 71\u201372\n\nNorris, Tanaya ('Tanya') 72, 75, 77\u201378, 143,169, 184, 348\u2013349, 502\n\nO'Grady, Mike 383\u2013384\n\nO'Neill, Terry 229\n\nOcwirk, Ernst 119\n\nOdell, Alan 363, 369\u2013370, 419, 451, 474\n\nOnega, Ermindo 308\n\nOsgood, Peter\n\nindiscipline 439\u2013440\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 435\n\nproblem with players' wives 423\n\nsex life 442\n\nstolen bracelet incident 412\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 348\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397\u2013398, 415\u2013417, 420, 431\n\nOverath, Wolfgang 342\n\nPadilla, Clara 406, 411\u2013412\n\nPaine, Terry\n\nEngland playing formation 269\n\nLilleshall training camp 274, 280\u2013281\n\nWorld Cup 1966 299\u2013301, 306, 316\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 346\u2013347\n\nPaisley, Bob x\n\nParkes, Phil 470\n\nParkinson, Michael 128\u2013129\n\nPawson, Tony 163\n\nPeacock, Alan 106\n\nPearson, Tommy 43\n\nPejic, Mike 450, 470\u2013472, 474\n\nPele 237, 308, 393, 417\n\nPepe 212\n\nPereira, Ricardo 325\n\nPerry, Bill 130\n\nPeskett, Roy 133\n\nPeters, Cathy 424\n\nPeters, Martin\n\nEngland debut 268\u2013269\n\nEuropean Championships 1972 438\n\nplaying style 316\u2013317\n\nPoland-England 1966 288\u2013289\n\nRamsey's loyalty to players 436\n\nRamsey's management style 269\n\nproblem with players' wives 390\n\nSouth America tour 1969 392\n\nWorld Cup 1966 297, 299, 305, 310\u2013311, 331\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 338\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 426\u2013427\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 462\n\nPhillips, Dr Neil\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\n\nFA's poor treatment of staff 370\u2013372\n\nLilleshall training camp 273\u2013274, 277\u2013278, 282\n\npreparations for 1970 World Cup 394\u2013396\n\nRamsey alienated from 1970s' values 442\n\nproblem with players' wives 390, 423\u2013425\n\nstolen bracelet incident 406, 409, 413\n\nviews on Follows\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 352\n\nWorld Cup 1970 404\u2013405, 419\u2013421, 426\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 465\u2013466\n\nPhillips, Ted\n\nCobbold's homosexuality 148\u2013149\n\nDuncan's accent 167\n\nhappy atmosphere at Ipswich 178\u2013182\n\ninjury 162\n\nIpswich winning League 193\n\nmeeting Ramsey 156\u2013157\n\nplaying partnership with Crawford 170, 173\u2013176, 204\n\nprimitive facilities at Ipswich 146, 185\n\nRamsey's Alzheimer's disease 500\n\nRamsey's conflict with Robson 498\u2013499\n\nRamsey's Dagenham background 17\n\nRamsey's final illness 502\n\nRamsey's memorial service xvii\n\nRamsey's relationship with Cobbold 150\u2013151\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 188\n\nstriking ability 156\u2013157\n\nteam clown 179\u2013181\n\nPickering, Fred 234\u2013235\n\nPickett, Reg 170\n\nPignon, Laurie 377\n\nPowell, Jeff\n\nMoore's irreverent attitude 231\u2013232\n\nEuropean Championships 1972 438\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 356\u2013357, 459\u2013460, 470\n\nproblem with players' wives 424\u2013425\n\nstolen bracelet incident 412\u2013413\n\nPoyton, Cecil 80, 136\n\nPrince, Roy 29\n\nPugh, Griffith 395\n\nPuskas, Ferenc 125\u2013126, 129\n\nQueen Elizabeth II 296, 336\n\nRamsey, Albert (brother) 7, 401\u2013403\n\nRamsey, Sir Alf\n\nafter\u2013dinner speaking 116\u2013117\n\nageing player 129, 132\u2013133, 139, 142\n\nalienated from 1970s' values 441\u2013443\n\nalleged elocution lessons 20\u201324, 166\u2013167\n\nalleged Romany background 14\u201316\n\nAlzheimer's disease 499\u2013502\n\nappointed England captain 116\n\nappointed England manager 197\u2013202\n\nappointed Ipswich manager 143\u2013144\n\nappointed Ipswich secretary-manager 156, 163\n\nappointed Spurs captain 133, 139\n\nappointing Moore England captain 216\n\nAustria-England 1952 121\u2013122\n\nautobiography 3\n\n'Back Home' record 401\u2013403\n\nbad language 258\u2013260\n\nBaily's views on 88\u201389, 91\n\nBall's views on 247\u2013248\n\nbiographies of xi\n\nBirmingham City directorship 483\u2013485\n\nBirmingham City manager 484\u2013487\n\nbirth of 2\n\nBrazil tour 1948 58\u201361\n\nbuilding England's team spirit 276\u2013277\n\nbusiness interests 482\n\ncalmness under pressure 333\u2013338\n\ncartoon character 496\n\nchanging accent xxvii\u2013xxviii, 18\u201322\n\nchildhood 3\u201310\n\nclub versus country 241\u2013242, 376\u2013377, 443\u2013445\n\ncomparison with Ellerington 67\n\ncomparison with Moore 228\u2013230\n\ncomparison with Winterbottom 106\u2013107\n\nconflict with Blanchflower 140\u2013142\n\nconflict with England selectors 199\u2013200, 209\n\nconflict with Milburn 205\u2013207\n\nconflict with Moore 283\u2013286\n\nconflict with Nicholson 134, 139\n\nconflict with Robson 493\u2013495, 498\u2013499\n\ncontradictory personality 349\u2013357\n\nCo-op job 11, 26\u201327\n\ncricket player 27\u201328, 51\n\ncriticism after World Cup 1970 432\u2013433\n\ncriticisms of management style xviii\u2013xx\n\ncriticized for introducing uninspired playing style 388\u2013389\n\ncriticized prior to World Cup 1966 267\u2013268\n\nCzechoslovakia-England 1963 216\u2013217\n\n_Daily Mirror_ column 488\u2013490, 493\u2013494\n\n'Darkie' nickname 14, 16\n\ndeath of 502\u2013503\n\ndebate over Greaves 328\u2013330\n\ndedication to football xxix\u2013xxxi, 43\u201346, 178, 202\n\ndislike of Dagenham background 16\u201318\n\ndislike of 'individualistic' players 439\u2013440\n\ndislike of publicity 228\u2013229\n\ndislike of Scots 107, 220\u2013223, 382, 384, 402\u2013403, 455, 485\n\ndislike of South Americans 311\u2013312, 392\u2013393, 404\u2013406\n\nDitchburn's views on 90\n\ndropped by Spurs 142\u2013143\n\nend of England playing career 127, 132\n\nEngland-Argentina 1951 119\n\nEngland-Austria 1951 119\u2013121\n\nEngland B debut 57\n\nEngland-Brazil 1963 211\u2013212\n\nEngland debut 63\u201364\n\nEngland drinking culture 224\u2013227, 232\n\nEngland-Hungary 1953 126\u2013127\n\nEngland-Italy 1949 99\u2013100\n\nEngland playing formation 213\u2013214, 242\u2013246, 254, 260\u2013265, 304\u2013305, 314, 316\u2013317, 446\n\nEngland-Rest of Europe 1953 122\u2013124\n\nEngland-Scotland 1963 211\n\nEngland shirt sponsorship 468\n\nEngland team spirit 290\u2013291\n\nEuropean Championship 1968 386\u2013387\n\nEuropean Championship 1972 436\u2013438, 444\u2013448\n\nEuropean tour 1966 285\u2013290\n\nFA Cup 1953 130\u2013132\n\nFA pension 477, 479, 488, 501\n\nfair play 189\n\nfamily life 362\u2013363\n\nFIFA identity cards 296\n\nfilm fan _25\u201316,_ 92, 322\u2013323\n\nFindus food fiasco 404\u2013405\n\nFinney's view's on 100\u2013101\n\nfirst game as professional 34\u201335\n\nfirst League goal 86\u201387\n\nfirst League match 33\n\nfootball intelligence 54\u201355, 115\u2013116, 118, 135\u2013136, 176\n\nfootball memorabilia 504\n\nfootball skills 117\u2013119\n\nfootball spectator 482\u2013483\n\nforgetfulness over names 489\u2013490\n\nFrance-England 1963 208\u2013211\n\nfriction with football establishment xxiv, 15, 27, 302\u2013303, 311\u2013312, 370\u2013373, 375\u2013377, 392, 450\u2013453, 466\u2013468, 492\u2013493\n\ngambling 7, 49\u201350, 92\n\nhappy atmosphere at Ipswich 178\u2013182\n\nhappy marriage 75\u201376\n\nholidays 363\n\nhousework 76\n\nimproving as player 54\u201355\n\nIpswich house 169\n\nIpswich winning League Championship 19, 193\u2013194\n\nIpswich winning Third Division 160\u2013161\n\nIpswich's Germany tour 204\n\nItaly/Switzerland tour 1948 56\u201358\n\njealousy of successors 208\n\njellied eels 172\n\njoining Spurs 79\n\nkindness 490\u2013491\n\nknee injury 64\u201365\n\nknighthood xxvii, 3, 364\u2013365\n\nlack of public recognition xvii\u2013xviii, xxii\n\nlack of social pretension xxviii\u2013xxix\n\nlifestyle as Spurs player 90\u201392\n\nLilleshall training camp 272\u2013282\n\nLittle World Cup 1964 234\u2013238, 244\n\nlogistical errors 418\u2013419\n\nloyalty to Ipswich 199, 205\n\nloyalty to players 434\u2013435, 438\u2013439\n\nMajorca holiday 184\n\nmanagement style 213\u2013214, 216\u2013217, 227\u2013228, 234\u2013237, 245\u2013246, 250\u2013251, 253\u2013254, 271, 291, 319\u2013324, 378\u2013384, 399\u2013400, 454\u2013455, 470\u2013471\n\nmanagement track record x\n\nmarriage to Rita 73\n\nmedical support for England squad 394\u2013396\n\nmeeting Rita 71\u201372\n\nmemorial service xv\n\nMilburn appointed Ipswich manager 205\n\nmilitary service 28\u201337\n\nmodesty 366\u2013367\n\nmodesty xv, 503\n\nMontreal trip 1967 384\u2013385\n\nMoore's irreverent attitude 230\u2013234\n\nMoore's views on 413\u2013414\n\nmove to right-back 38\u201339\n\noffice routine 367\u2013369\n\nPanathinaikos adviser 487\n\npersonal qualities ix, xvi\n\npet dog 363\n\nPinewood Studios visit 298\u2013299\n\nplayers' affection for 177\u2013178\n\nplaying partnership with Lofthouse 117\u2013118,120\n\nplaying partnership with Rochford 67\u201368\n\npoor quality of Ipswich team 151\u2013153\n\npredictions of winning 1966 World Cup 218, 246, 282\n\nprimitive facilities at Ipswich 145\u2013146\n\nprivacy 361\u2013362\n\npublic acclamation 491\u2013492\n\nrecruiting Hurst into England squad 270\u2013271\n\nrecruiting Jack Charlton into England squad 248\u2013250\n\nrecruiting Stiles into England squad 252\u2013253\n\nrejoining Southampton 36\u201338\n\nrelationship with Cobbold 149\u2013151\n\nrelationship with media xxiii\u2013xxiv, 60\u201361, 165\u2013166, 202\u2013203, 264\u2013265, 314\u2013315, 344\u2013345, 349, 354\u2013361, 369\u2013370, 405\u2013408, 448\u2013449, 456\u2013461, 470\n\nrelationship with Rowe 90\n\nrequesting transfer from Southampton\n\n_65\u201369_\n\nreserved personality 46\u201349, 92\u201394, 100, 176\u2013177\n\nretirement 496\u2013503\n\nrevolutionary playing strategy 172\u2013176, 187\u2013188\n\nRita's divorce 72\u201374\n\nproblem with players' wives 390\u2013391, 425\n\nRowe's views on 81\u201382, 87\n\nrumours of coaching career 132\u2013133\n\nsacked as England manager xx\u2013xxi, 468\u2013469, 472\u2013477\n\nsalary as England manager 201\n\nScotland-England 1972 455\n\nscouted by Portsmouth 26\u201327\n\nselected for England squad _55\u201356_\n\nselecting World Cup 1966 squad 280\u2013282\n\nselecting World Cup 1970 squad 396\u2013400\n\nselection methods 374\u2013375\n\nself-improvement 23\u201324\n\nself-opinionated 88\u201390\n\nsense of humour 434, 471\u2013472\n\nsensitivity to criticism 158\u2013159\n\nsevere public image ix, xxii\u2013xxiii\n\nshy personality x\u2013xi, xxiii, xxvi\n\nsigned as amateur by Southampton 31\u201333\n\nsigned by Southampton 34\n\nsigned by Spurs 68\u201370\n\nsigning Bailey 155\n\nsmoking 164\u2013165\n\nsnubbed by football establishment xvii\u2013xviii, 501\u2013502, 504\n\nsocial insecurity xxv\u2013xxvii, 13\u201314\n\nSouth America tour 1969 391\u2013394\n\nSouthampton signing-on fee 37\u201338\n\nSpain-England 1965 257, 259\u2013265\n\nspeedway enthusiast 50\u201351\n\nSpurs signing Blanchflower 140\u2013141\n\nSpurs' playing style 83\u201386, _95\u201396_\n\nStiles's hard tackling 301\u2013303\n\nstolen bracelet incident 406\u2013413\n\nstrengthening Ipswich squad 156\u2013157, 168, 170\u2013171, 183\n\nsupport for Hurst 287\n\nsupport for Stiles xvi, xix, 189\u2013190, 303\u2013304, 308, 312, 323\n\nsupport for young players 136\u2013138\n\nswitching Bobby Charlton's position 239\u2013240\n\nswitching Leadbetter's position 154\u2013155\n\n'tapping up' players 190, 229\n\nteam talks 236, 339\u2013341, 379\u2013380, 447\u2013448\n\ntestimonial dinner 477\u2013478\n\ntraining regime at Ipswich 153, 157, 159\u2013160, 169\u2013170\n\ntransfer fee 70\n\nTV analyst 480\u2013482\n\nunromantic nature 76\u201377\n\nvagueness about date of birth 3\n\nviews on Banks 212\n\nviews on Leadbetter 174\n\nviews on Rochford 41\n\nviews on Winterbottom 104\u2013105\n\nweaknesses in game 128\u2013130\n\nWorld Cup 1950 108\u2013114\n\nWorld Cup 1966 296\u2013348\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 ix, 335\u2013348\n\nWorld Cup 1970 390\u2013391, 403\u2013432\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 456\u2013466\n\nWorld Cup bonus 362\n\nxenophobia 59\n\nyouth football 8\u201313\n\nRamsey, Cyril (brother) 7, 13, 16\n\nRamsey, Florence (mother) 5\u20136, 9, 366, 499\n\nRamsey, Herbert (father) 5\u20136, 9\n\nRamsey, Joyce (sister) 7\n\nRamsey, Lady Victoria (wife)\n\n_see also_ Norris, Rita and Welch, Rita\n\nAlf sacked as England manager 475\u2013476\n\nAlf snubbed by football establishment 501\u2013502, 504\n\nAlf's alleged Romany background 16\n\nAlf's Alzheimer's disease 499\u2013500\n\nAlf's bad language 258\n\nAlf's dislike of publicity 228\u2013229\n\nAlf's football memorabilia 504\n\nAlf's job in Africa 143\n\nAlf's knighthood 364\n\nAlf's memorial service xvi\n\nAlf's privacy 361\n\nAlf's relationship with media 360\n\nAlf's retirement 230, 487\u2013488, 496\u2013498\n\nAlf's unromantic nature 76\u201377\n\nchange of name 74\u201375\n\ndeath of Alf 502\u2013503\n\nfamily life 362\u2013363\n\nfilm fan 92\n\nfootball spectator 482\u2013483\n\nhappy marriage xxx, 75\u201376, 78\u201379\n\nIpswich house 169\n\nMajorca holiday 184\n\npersonal privacy xxvi\n\npoor quality of Ipswich team 152\n\nreserved personality 93\u201394\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 347\u2013350\n\nWorld Cup 1970 391\n\nRamsey, Len (brother) 7, 9\n\nRattin, Antonio 237, 309\u2013310, 312\n\nReaney, Paul 437\u2013438\n\nReed, Oliver 224\n\nRevie, Don\n\nclub versus country 376, 443\n\nEngland manager 372, 477, 479, 493\n\nLeeds manager 249, 318\n\nmanagement style 263, 383\n\nWorld Cup 1970 420\u2013421\n\nReynolds, Ron 77, 129\u2013130\n\nRamsey dropped by Spurs 142\n\nRamsey's conflict with Nicholson 134, 139\n\nRamsey's reserved personality 93\n\nSpurs' playing style 85\u201386\n\n'tapped up' by Ramsey 190, 229\n\nRichard, Sir Cliff 292, 401\n\nRichards, Joe 209\n\nRobb, George 96\u201397, 133, 144\n\nRobbins, Beattie 13\n\nRobertson, John 398\n\nRobson, Sir Bobby 360\n\nCobbold's eccentricities 147\u2013148\n\nconflict with Ramsey 208, 493\u2013495, 498\n\nmanagement track record x\n\noutgoing personality xi\n\nPR role 164\n\nRamsey's final illness 502\u2013503\n\nsupported by Cobbold 151\n\nviews on Winterbottom 104\n\nRochford, Bill 40\u201341, 54, 60, 66\u201368\n\nRoger, Jimmy 223\n\nRoles, Albie 67\n\nRoper, Don 33\n\nRous, Sir Stanley 102, 174, 197, 200\n\nRowe, Arthur\n\nappointed Spurs manager 69\n\ndeclining influence at Spurs 139\u2013140\n\nill health 139, 142\n\nLondon accent 167\n\nmanagement techniques 79\u201384\n\nRamsey appointed England manager 202\n\nRamsey appointed Spurs captain 133\u2013134\n\nRamsey's dedication to football 202\n\nRamsey's marriage 73\n\nRamsey's support for young players 136\u2013138\n\nrelationship with Ramsey 90\n\nrevolutionary playing style 172\n\nsigning Ramsey 69\u201370, 79\n\nSpurs' playing style 83\u201386, _95\u201396_\n\nviews on Ramsey 81\u201382, 87\n\nRowley, Arthur 36\n\nRoyle, Joe 447\u2013450, 453\n\nRushbrook, Joyce 366\n\nSadler, David 408, 422\n\nSaldanha, Joao 286, 411\n\nSambrook, Douglas 292\n\nSarjantson, Jack 32\u201336\n\nSchoen, Helmut 328, 335, 405, 428\n\nSchulz, Willi 335\n\nScott, Laurie 63\n\nScovell, Brian 149\n\nSeed, Jimmy 156\n\nSeeler, Uwe 335\n\nSenekowitsch, Helmut 487\n\nSenior, Alfonso 410\n\nSexton, Dave 426, 442\n\nShankly, Bill x, 186, 258, 266, 281\n\nShaw, Ned 143\n\nShaw, Sandie 401\u2013402\n\nShepherdson, Harold 233, 236, 307, 469\n\ndebate over Greaves 327, 329\u2013330\n\nEngland playing formation 262\n\nFIFA identity cards 296\n\nLilleshall training camp 272\u2013274, 278, 280\n\nlong service award _465\u2013466_\n\nMontreal trip 1967 385\n\nMoore's tonsillitis 331\n\nplayers' drinking incident 226\n\nRamsey as film fan 322\n\nRamsey's dislike of 'individualistic' players 440\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 315\n\nproblem with players' wives 390\n\nWorld Cup 1966 308, 310\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 xxiii, 339, 343\n\nWorld Cup 1970 404, 419, 422\n\nShilton, Peter 443, 447, 451, 453\n\nadmiration for Ramsey xxv\n\ndropped from World Cup 1970 squad 408\n\nWorld Cup 1970 399\u2013400\n\nWorld Cup 1974 qualifiers 458\u2013459, 462\u2013464\n\nShipman, Len 370, 376, 469, 472\u2013473, 476\n\nShort, Joe 169\n\nSimon, Jacques xvi, 301\n\nSinatra, Frank 503\n\nSkinner, Gladys 6\n\nSloan, Tommy 12\n\nSmith, Bobby 307\n\nSmith, Jim 487\n\nSmith, Tommy 444\n\nSnow, Alfred 8\u20139\n\nSouthampton FC\n\n1944\u20131945 season 34\u201335\n\n1945\u20131946 season 35\u201336\n\n1946\u20131947 season 40\u201345\n\n1947\u20131948 season 46, 54\u201355\n\n1948\u20131949 season 62\u201369\n\nBrazil tour 1948 58\u201361\n\nRamsey leaving club _65\u201369_\n\nsigning Ramsey as amateur 31\u201333\n\nsigning Ramsey as professional 34\n\nSouza, Ed 113\n\nSpeight, Ed 22, 85, 140\n\nSpeight, Johnny 359\n\nSpringett, Ron 209\u2013211, 321\n\nStamp, Terence 292\n\nStanley, Ken 402\n\nSteel, Eric 206\n\nSteen, Rob 267\n\nStephen, Sir Andrew 372, 386\u2013387, 413, 435\u2013436, 469, 472\u2013473, 476\n\nStephenson, Clem 82\n\nStephenson, Roy 171, 173\u2013175, 191\n\nStepney, Alex 420, 425\u2013426\n\nStewart, Jackie 64\n\nStewart, Jimmy 241\n\nStiles, Kay 350\n\nStiles, Nobby\n\nadmiration for Ramsey xxi\n\ncharacter of England players 318\u2013319\n\nclub versus country 376\n\nEngland playing formation 254, 260, 268, 304\u2013306\n\nhard tackling xvi, 252\u2013253, 301\u2013303, 387\n\nLilleshall training camp 274\u2013276, 278\u2013280\n\nplaying partnership with Bobby Charlton 311\n\nRamsey's friction with football\n\nestablishment 373\n\nRamsey's memorial service xv\n\nRamsey's relationship with media 315\n\nreplaced by Mullery in England squad 378\n\nsupport from Ramsey xvi, xix, 189\u2013190, 303\u2013304, 308, 312, 323\n\nviews on Hunt 258\n\nviews on Ramsey 253\u2013254\n\nWorld Cup 1966 299, 301, 306, 308\u2013310, 324\u2013326, 331\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 340, 342, 345, 350\n\nWorld Cup 1970 397, 400, 425\n\nStorer, Harry 27, 150\n\nStorey, Peter 442\u2013443, 446\n\nStorey-Moore, Ian 398\u2013399\n\nSummerbee, Mike xxii, 382, 447\n\nSwan, Peter 197\n\nSwift, Frank 56, 57\n\nTambling, Bobby 269, 281\n\nTaylor, Elizabeth 229\n\nTaylor, Gordon xviii\n\nTemple, Derek 245, 358\n\nThatcher, Lady Margaret 451\n\nThompson, John 110\n\nThompson, Peter\n\nclub versus country 242\u2013243\n\ndropped from World Cup 1966 squad 281\u2013282\n\ndropped from World Cup 1970 squad 408\n\nnew boots 386\n\nRamsey's management style 266\n\nstolen bracelet incident 412\n\nviews on Jack Charlton 251\u2013252\n\nWorld Cup 1970 399, 404\n\nThompson, Professor Sir Harold xxiv\u2013xxv, 15, 451\u2013453, 466\u2013467, 469, 472\u2013473\n\nTibble, Fred 4, 14\n\nTilkowski, Hans 337\n\nTodd, Colin 447\n\nTomaszewski, Jan 462\u2013464\n\nTomlinson, Barrie 496\n\nTottenham Hotspur\n\n1949\u20131950 season 84\u201388\n\n1950\u20131951 season 95\u201398\n\n1951\u20131952 season 129\n\n1952\u20131953 season 129\u2013132\n\n1953\u20131954 season 129\n\n1954\u20131955 season 139, 142\n\n1960\u20131961 season 140\n\nhappy atmosphere 88\n\nplaying style 83\u201386, 95\u201396\n\nRamsey appointed captain 133\n\nRamsey joining team 79\n\nRamsey leaving club 142\u2013143\n\nRowe's training techniques 79\u201380\n\nsigning Blanchflower 140\n\nsigning Ramsey 68\u201370\n\nTownsend, Len 30\n\nToye, Clive 349\n\nTrivic, Milan 387\n\nTrotter, Jimmy 56\n\nTully, Charlie 122\n\nTyler, Martin 480\u2013481\n\nUfton, Derek 123\u2013124\n\nUphill, Denis 22, 84, 134, 138\u2013139\n\nVenables, Terry 16\u201318, 239, 242\n\nVillalonga, Jose 261\n\nVogts, Berti 266\n\nWade, Allen 374\n\nWade, Allen 479\n\nWaggles, Charlie 7\n\nWaiters, Tony xxviii, 235\u2013237, 239\n\nWalker, David 293\n\nWalker, Des 489\n\nWallace, Frank 113\n\nWalters, Sonny 83\n\nWarhurst, Sam 69\n\nWatson, Dave 470\n\nWayne, John 322\u2013323\n\nWeber, Wolfgang 339\n\nWelch, Rita 72\u201373\n\n_see also_ Norris, Rita and Ramsey, Lady Victoria\n\nWelch, William 71\n\nWerneck, Jose 359\n\nWest, Gordon 383\n\nWilkes, John 246\n\nWilliams, Bert 99, 109\u2013113\n\nWilliams, Michael 201\n\nWilson, Charlie 449\n\nWilson, Ray\n\nabolition of maximum wage 183\u2013184\n\naffinity with Ramsey 441\n\ndrinking incident 225\u2013227\n\nEngland playing formation 248, 265, 266, 289\u2013290, 316\u2013317\n\ninjury 396\n\nLilleshall training camp 277\n\nminder for Bobby Charlton 254\n\nMontreal trip 1967 385\n\nPinewood Studios visit 298\n\nplaying style 316\n\nRamsey's management style 213, 227\n\nRamsey's predictions of winning World\n\nCup 218\n\nRamsey's revolutionary strategy 187\u2013188\n\nrelationship with media 315\n\nretirement from international football 377\n\nStiles's views on 318\u2013319\n\nWorld Cup 1966 298, 300\u2013301, 308, 310, 314\n\nWorld Cup Final 1966 337, 339\n\nWilson, Sir Harold 166, 346\u2013347, 477\n\nWinterbottom, Walter\n\nconflict with England selectors 200, 209\n\nCrawford's views on 188\u2013189\n\nEngland coaching job 209\n\nEngland playing formation 214, 243\n\nEngland-Austria 1951 121\n\nEngland-Hungary 1953 124, 126\n\nEngland-Rest of Europe 1953 123\n\ninvolved in football development 374\n\nlack of respect from players 105\u2013106\n\nmanagement style 213\u2013214, 216, 218\u2013219, 227, 253, 258\n\nRamsey appointed England manager 198\u2013199\n\nRamsey appointed Ipswich manager 144\n\nRamsey's football skills 118\n\nRamsey's sensitivity to criticism 159\n\nrelationship with media 202\u2013203, 315\n\nresigning as England manager 196\u2013198\n\nrevolutionary techniques 104\u2013105\n\nsalary as England manager 201\n\nWorld Cup 1950 108\u2013111, 114\n\nWisdom, Norman 298\n\nWolstenholme, Kenneth 204, 302, 311, 329\n\nWooldridge, Ian 438\u2013439\n\nWorld Cup\n\n1950 107\u2013114\n\n1962 196\u2013197\n\n1966 296\u2013348\n\n1970 390\u2013391, 403\u2013430\n\n1974 qualifiers 456\u2013466\n\nWorthington, Frank 443\n\nWragg, Dick 370, 453, 469, 472\n\nWright, Billy\n\ncomplacency about English football 124\n\ndropped from England squad 116\n\nEngland-Austria 1951 120\u2013121\n\nEngland-Hungary 1953 125\u2013126\n\nEngland-Italy 1949 99\n\nEngland-Rest of Europe 1953 123\n\nfailure in career as manager 144\n\nItaly/Switzerland tour 1948 56\n\nlack of interest in England manager's job 197\n\nRamsey's dedication to football 117\n\nRamsey's football intelligence 64, 115\n\nviews on Matthews 63\n\nWorld Cup 1950 111\u2013113\n\nWright, Tommy 396\u2013397\n\nZsolt, Istvan 295\u2013296\n\n# Praise\n\n'McKinstry shows a phenomenal capacity for inquiry and a tireless pursuit of relevant witnesses'\n\n_Sunday Times_\n\n'An absorbing read'\n\n_Yorkshire Evening Post_\n\n'Magnificent...an eloquent and empathetic book. McKinstry cleverly shows, with acute social insight, how football had a powerful cultural significance...the final sections of the book acquire the elements of genuine tragedy'\n\n_Glasgow Herald_\n\n'Excellent'\n\n_When Saturday Comes_\n\n'McKinstry's powerful book may be the first step in Ramsey's rehabilitation'\n\n_Daily Telegraph_\n\n'Delivers the goods...McKinstry's great merit is his ability to debunk some of the myths surrounding Ramsey'\n\n_Spectator_\n\n'This masterful biography gets under the skin of Sir Alf'\n\n_Birmingham Evening Mail_\n\n'The first truly comprehensive biography of England's greatest manager'\n\n_Irish News_\n\n'This is no hagiography...McKinstry has more than done justice to Sir Alf'\n\n_FourFourTwo_\n\n'A timely portrait of a unique figure'\n\n_Manchester Evening News_\n\n'A thrilling and tortured drama played out in increasingly exotic locations'\n\n_Daily Mail_\n\n'A splendid biography of England's greatest manager'\n\n_Daily Telegraph_\n\n# Copyright\n\nFirst published in hardback in 2006 by  \nHarperSport  \nan imprint of HarperCollins _Publisbers_  \nLondon\n\nFirst published in paperback in 2007\n\n\u00a9 Leo McKinstry 2006\n\nFIRST EDITION\n\nAll rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.\n\nEPub Edition \u00a9 MARCH 2010 ISBN: 978-0-007-37117-4\n\nThe Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work\n\nA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library\n\nThe HarperCollins website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk\n\n#  About the Publisher\n\n**Australia**   \nHarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.  \n25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)   \nPymble, NSW 2073, Australia  \nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au\n\n**Canada**   \nHarperCollins Canada  \n2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor  \nToronto, ON, M4W 1A8, Canada  \nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca\n\n**New Zealand**   \nHarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited  \nP.O. Box 1   \nAuckland, New Zealand   \nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz\n\n**United Kingdom**   \nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.   \n77-85 Fulham Palace Road   \nLondon, W6 8JB, UK   \nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk\n\n**United States**   \nHarperCollins Publishers Inc.   \n10 East 53rd Street   \nNew York, NY 10022   \nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.com\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Private Arrangements (London Trilogy, The 2) - Sherry Thomas"}, "text": "\n\nPrivate  \nArrangements\nCONTENTS\n\nTitle Page\n\nDedication\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nChapter One\n\nChapter Two\n\nChapter Three\n\nChapter Four\n\nChapter Five\n\nChapter Six\n\nChapter Seven\n\nChapter Eight\n\nChapter Nine\n\nChapter Ten\n\nChapter Eleven\n\nChapter Twelve\n\nChapter Thirteen\n\nChapter Fourteen\n\nChapter Fifteen\n\nChapter Sixteen\n\nChapter Seventeen\n\nChapter Eighteen\n\nChapter Nineteen\n\nChapter Twenty\n\nChapter Twenty-one\n\nChapter Twenty-two\n\nChapter Twenty-three\n\nChapter Twenty-four\n\nChapter Twenty-five\n\nChapter Twenty-six\n\nChapter Twenty-seven\n\nChapter Twenty-eight\n\nChapter Twenty-nine\n\nAbout The Author\n\nPreview for Delicious\n\nCopyright\nFor my mother. There are few joys in life greater than that of having you as my mother\n\nTo the memory of my grandfather. I will always miss you.  \nAnd to the memory of my grandmother, for loving books as much as I did.\nPrivate  \nArrangements\nAcknowledgments\n\nBecause I'm sure to forget someone, if you are reading this now, let me say thank you. Thank you for everything.\n\nNow on to specifics.\n\nMiss Snark, for her unqualified recommendation of Kristin Nelson via her snarkalicious\u2014and much lamented\u2014blog. Kristin Nelson, for living up to every last one of those recommendations and then some. Sara Megibow, for being the first person besides myself to read this book, and emailing Kristin late at night telling her she'd better get reading too.\n\nCaitlin Alexander, my editor and Fairy Godmother\u2014 for making me feel like Cinderella. Everyone at Bantam, for treating me so well and publishing me so beautifully.\n\nAll my friends, classmates, and professors at the UT MPA program. It was a great year and I think of you with such fondness\u2014in particular, Professor Fabio, who should have graced my cover.\n\nEveryone at the Harrington Fellowship program, for everything. And putting my picture in the _New York Times_ on top of it.\n\nAll my friends and sisters from Austin RWA. You guys are the best.\n\nJanine, Jane, and Sybil. Bloggers rock.\n\nSue Yuen\u2014for her excellent advice on _Schemes of Love_ and for all the good times.\n\nMary Balogh, Jane Feather, and Eloisa James\u2014for their generous praises. I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you and the honor of cleaning your houses.\n\nMy husband and sons, three of the cutest and kindest men in the world under one roof. The wonderful family I married in to, everyone unfailingly supportive of my dreams, especially my grandfather-in-law, who backed up his prayers for my eventual publication with donations to that effect. You see, Appachen, it has come true.\nChapter One\n\n_London  \n8 May 1893_\n\nOnly one kind of marriage ever bore Society's stamp of approval.\n\nHappy marriages were considered vulgar, as matrimonial felicity rarely kept longer than a well-boiled pudding. Unhappy marriages were, of course, even more vulgar, on a par with Mrs. Jeffries's special contraption that spanked forty bottoms at once: unspeakable, for half of the upper crust had experienced it firsthand.\n\nNo, the only kind of marriage that held up to life's vicissitudes was the courteous marriage. And it was widely recognized that Lord and Lady Tremaine had the most courteous marriage of them all.\n\nIn the ten years since their wedding, neither of them had ever uttered an unkind word about the other, not to parents, siblings, bosom friends, or strangers. Moreover, as their servants could attest, they never had spats, big or small; never embarrassed each other; never, in fact, disagreed on anything at all.\n\nHowever, every year some cheeky debutante fresh from the schoolroom would point out\u2014as if it weren't common knowledge\u2014that Lord and Lady Tremaine lived on separate continents and had not been seen together since the day after their wedding.\n\nHer elders would shake their heads. Foolish young girl. Wait 'til she heard about her beau's piece on the side. Or fell out of love with the man she married. Then she'd understand what a wonderful arrangement the Tremaines had: civility, distance, and freedom from the very beginning, unencumbered by tiresome emotions. Indeed, it was the most perfect marriage.\n\nTherefore, when Lady Tremaine filed for divorce on grounds of Lord Tremaine's adultery and desertion, chins collided with dinner plates throughout London's most pedigreed dining rooms. Ten days later, as news circulated of Lord Tremaine's arrival on English soil for the first time in a decade, the same falling jaws dented many an expensive carpet from the heart of Persia.\n\nThe story of what happened next spread like a well-fed gut. It went something tantalizingly like this: A summons came at the Tremaine town house on Park Lane. Goodman, Lady Tremaine's faithful butler, answered the bell. On the other side of the door stood a stranger, one of the most remarkable-looking gentlemen Goodman had ever come across\u2014tall, handsome, powerfully built, an imposing presence.\n\n\"Good afternoon, sir,\" Goodman said placidly. A representative of the Marchioness of Tremaine, however impressed, neither gawked nor gushed.\n\nHe expected to be offered a calling card and a reason for the call. Instead, he was handed the gentleman's headgear. Startled, he let go of his hold on the doorknob and took the satin-trimmed top hat. In that instant, the man walked past him into the vestibule. Without a backward glance or an explanation for this act of intrusion, he began pulling off his gloves.\n\n\"Sir,\" Goodman huffed. \"You do not have permission from the lady of the house to enter.\"\n\nThe man turned around and shot Goodman a glance that, to the butler's shame, made him want to curl up and whimper. \"Is this not the Tremaine residence?\"\n\n\"It is, sir.\" The reiteration of _sir_ escaped Goodman, though he hadn't intended for it to happen.\n\n\"Then kindly inform me, since when does the master of the house require permission from the lady to enter into his own domain?\" The man held his gloves together in his right hand and slapped them quietly against the palm of his left, as if toying with a riding crop.\n\nGoodman didn't understand. His employer was the Queen Elizabeth of her time: one mistress and no master. Then the horror dawned. The man before him was the Marquess of Tremaine, the marchioness's long-absent, good-as-dead husband and heir to the Duke of Fairford.\n\n\"I do beg your pardon, sir.\" Goodman held on to his professional calm and took Lord Tremaine's gloves, though he was suddenly perspiring. \"We have had no notice of your arrival. I shall have your chambers prepared immediately. May I offer you some refreshments in the meanwhile?\"\n\n\"You may. And you may see to the unloading of my luggage,\" said Lord Tremaine. \"Is Lady Tremaine at home?\"\n\nGoodman could not detect any unusual inflection in Lord Tremaine's tone. It was as if he had simply come in from an afternoon snooze at his club. After ten years! \"Lady Tremaine is taking a constitutional in the park, sir.\"\n\nLord Tremaine nodded. \"Very good.\"\n\nGoodman instinctively trotted after him, the way he'd trail a feral beast if it happened to have made it past the front door. It was only half a minute later, as Lord Tremaine turned about and raised a brow, that Goodman realized he had already been dismissed.\n\nSomething about his wife's town house disturbed Lord Tremaine.\n\nIt was surprisingly elegant. He had half-expected to see the kind of interior he'd become accustomed to in the houses of his neighbors on lower Fifth Avenue: grandiose, gilded, aiming only to recall the last days of Versailles.\n\nShe had a few chairs from that era, but they had held their share of velvet-clad bottoms and looked comfortable rather than luxurious. Neither did he encounter the heavy sideboards and unchecked proliferation of bric-a-brac that were firmly associated, in his mind, with English homes.\n\nIf anything, her residence bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain villa in Turin, at the foot of the Italian Alps, in which he had spent a few happy weeks during his youth\u2014a house with wallpapers of soft antique gold and muted aquamarine, faience pots of orchids atop slender wrought-iron stands, and durable, well-made furniture from the previous century.\n\nDuring an entire boyhood of decamping from one domicile to the next, the villa had been the only place, other than his grandfather's estate, where he'd felt at home. He had loved its brightness, its uncluttered comfort, and its abundance of indoor plants, their breath moist and herbaceous.\n\nHe was inclined to dismiss the echoing similarity between the two houses as a coincidence until his attention shifted to the paintings that adorned the walls of her drawing room. Between the Rubens, the Titian, and the ancestral portraits that occupied disproportionate acreage on English walls, she had hung pieces by the very same modern artists whose works he displayed in his own town house in Manhattan: Sisley, Morisot, Cassatt, and Monet, whose output had been infamously likened to unfinished wallpaper.\n\nHis pulse quickened in alarm. Her dining room featured more Monets and two Degases. Her gallery made it look as though she had bought an entire Impressionist exhibit: Renoir, C\u00e9zanne, Seurat, and artists no one had ever heard of outside the most gossipy circles of the Parisian art world.\n\nHe stopped midway down the gallery, suddenly unable to go on. She had furnished this house to be a fantasy-come-true for the boy he had been when he married her, the boy who must have mentioned, during their long hours of rapt conversation, something of his preference for understated houses and his love of modern art.\n\nHe remembered her spellbound concentration, her soft questions, her burning interest in everything about him.\n\nWas the divorce but a new ruse, then? A cleverly sprung trap to re-ensnare him when all else had failed? Would he find her perfumed and naked on his bed when he threw open the door to his bedchamber?\n\nHe located the master's apartment and threw open the door.\n\nThere was no her, naked or otherwise, on his bed.\n\nThere was no bed.\n\nAnd nothing else either. The bedchamber was as vast and empty as the American West.\n\nThe carpet no longer showed depressed spots where chair legs and bedposts had once stood. The walls betrayed no telltale rectangles of recently removed pictures. Thick layers of dust had settled on floor and windowsills. The room had stood vacant for years.\n\nFor no reason at all, he felt as if the breath had been kicked out of his lungs. The sitting room of the master's apartment was sparkling clean and fully equipped\u2014tuft-backed reading chairs, shelves laden with well-read books wrinkled at the spines, a writing desk freshly supplied with ink and paper, even a pot of amaranth in bloom. It made the void of the bedchamber all the more pointed, a barbed symbol.\n\nThe house might have been, once upon a time, designed with the single-minded goal of luring him back. But that was a different decade\u2014another age altogether. He had since been eviscerated from her existence.\n\nHe was still standing in the doorway, staring into the empty bedchamber, when the butler arrived, two footmen and a large portmanteau in tow. The nothingness of the chamber made the butler blush an extraordinary pink. \"It will take us only an hour, sir, to air the chamber and restore the furnishing.\"\n\nHe almost told the butler not to bestir himself, to let the bedchamber remain stark and barren. But that would have said too much. So he only nodded. \"Excellent.\"\n\nThe prototype of the new stamping machine Lady Tremaine had ordered for her factory in Leicestershire refused to live up to its promise. The negotiation with the shipbuilder in Liverpool dragged on most unsatisfactorily. And she had yet to answer any of the letters from her mother\u2014ten in all, one for each day since she'd petitioned for divorce\u2014in which Mrs. Rowland questioned her sanity outright and fell just short of comparing her intelligence to that of a leg of ham.\n\nBut that was all expected. What made her head pound was the telegram from Mrs. Rowland three hours ago: _Tremaine came ashore at Southampton this morning._ No matter how she tried to explain it to Freddie as something par for the course\u2014 _There are papers to sign and settlements to be negotiated, darling. He has to come back at some point\u2014_ Tremaine's arrival portended only trouble.\n\nHer husband. In England. Closer than he had been in a decade, except for that miserable incident in Copenhagen, back in '88.\n\n\"I need Broyton to come in tomorrow morning to look at some accounts for me,\" she said to Goodman, handing over her shawl, her hat, and her gloves as she entered the town house and walked toward the library. \"Kindly request Miss Etoile's presence for some dictations. And tell Edie that I will wear the cream velvet tonight, instead of the amethyst silk.\"\n\n\"Madam\u2014\"\n\n\"I almost forgot. I saw Lord Sutcliffe this morning. His secretary has given notice. I recommended your nephew. Have him present himself at Lord Sutcliffe's house tomorrow morning at ten. Tell him that Lord Sutcliffe prefers a man of sincerity and few words.\"\n\n\"That is too kind of you, madam!\" Goodman exclaimed.\n\n\"He's a promising young man.\" She stopped before the library door. \"On second thought, have Miss Etoile come in twenty minutes. And make sure no one disturbs me until then.\"\n\n\"But your ladyship, his lordship\u2014\"\n\n\"His lordship will not be taking tea with me today.\" She pushed the door open and realized Goodman was still there, hovering. She turned halfway and glanced at him. The butler wore a constipated expression. \"What is it, Goodman? The back troubling you again?\"\n\n\"No, madam, it's not. It's\u2014\"\n\n\"It's me,\" said a voice from inside the library. Her husband's voice.\n\nFor a long, stunned moment, all she could think was how glad she was that she had not invited Freddie home with her today, as she often did after an afternoon walk together. Then she could not think of anything at all. Her headache faded, replaced by a mad rush of blood to her head. She was hot, then cold. The air about her turned thick as pea soup, fine for gulping but impossible to inhale.\n\nVaguely, she nodded at Goodman. \"You may return to your duties.\"\n\nGoodman hesitated. Did he fear for her? She entered the library and let the heavy oak door close behind her, shutting out curious eyes and ears, shutting out the rest of the world.\n\nThe windows of her library faced west, for a view of the park. The still-intense sunlight cascaded through clear glass panes at an oblique angle and landed in perfect rectangles of warm clarity on her Samarkand carpet, with its poppies and pomegranates on a field of rose and ivory.\n\nTremaine stood just beyond the direct light, his hands braced against the mahogany desk behind him, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He should be a figure in relative obscurity, not particularly visible. Yet she saw him all too clearly, as if Michelangelo's Adam had leapt off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, robbed a Savile Row bespoke tailor, and come to make trouble.\n\nShe caught herself. She was staring, as if she was still that nineteen-year-old girl, devoid of depth but full of herself.\n\n\"Hullo, Camden.\"\n\n\"Hullo, Gigi.\"\n\nShe had allowed no man to call her by that childhood pet name since his departure.\n\nForcing herself away from the door, she crossed the length of the library, the carpet beneath her feet too soft, a quagmire. She marched right up to him, to show that she did not fear him. But she did. He held powers over her, powers far beyond those conferred by mere laws.\n\nEven though she was a tall woman, she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. His eyes were a dark, dark green, like malachite from the Urals. She inhaled his subtle scent of sandalwood and citrus, the aroma she had once equated with happiness.\n\n\"Are you here to grant me the divorce or to be a nuisance?\" She got to the point right away. Trouble that was not confronted head-on always circled around to bite one in the bum.\n\nHe shrugged. He had taken off his day coat and his necktie. Her gaze lingered one second too long on the golden skin at the base of his neck. His shirt of fine cambric draped over him lovingly, caressing his wide shoulders and long arms.\n\n\"I'm here to set conditions.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, conditions?\"\n\n\"An heir. You produce an heir and I will allow the divorce to proceed. Otherwise I will name parties to _your_ adultery. You do know that you cannot divorce me on grounds of adultery if you happen to have committed the same sin, don't you?\"\n\nHer ears rang. \"Surely you jest. You want an _heir_ from me? _Now?\"_\n\n\"I couldn't stand the thought of bedding you before now.\"\n\n\"Really?\" She laughed, though she'd have preferred to smash an inkwell against his temple. \"You liked it well enough last time.\"\n\n\"The performance of a lifetime,\" he said easily. \"And I was a good thespian to begin with.\"\n\nPain erupted inside her, corrosive, debilitating pain she'd thought she'd never feel again. She groped for mastery and shoved the subject away from where she was most vulnerable. \"Empty threats. I have not been intimate with Lord Frederick.\"\n\n\"How chaste of you. I speak of Lord Wrenworth, Lord Acton, and the Honorable Mr. Williams.\"\n\nShe sucked in a breath. How did he know? She'd been ever so careful, ever so discreet.\n\n\"Your mother wrote me.\" He watched her, evidently enjoying her mounting dismay. \"Of course, she only wished for me to fly into a jealous rage and hurry across the ocean to reclaim you as my own. I'm sure you will forgive her.\"\n\nIf there ever existed extenuating circumstances for matricide, this was it. First thing tomorrow, she'd set loose two dozen famished goats in Mrs. Rowland's prized greenhouse. Then she'd corner the market on hair dyes and force the woman to show her graying roots.\n\n\"You have a choice,\" he said amicably. \"We can resolve it privately. Or we can have sworn testimonies from these gentlemen. You know every word they utter would be in all the papers.\"\n\nShe blanched. Freddie was her very own human miracle, steadfast and loyal, loving her enough to willingly take part in all the hassle and ugliness of a divorce. But would he still love her when all her former lovers had testified to their affairs on public record?\n\n\"Why are you doing this?\" Her voice rose. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Any emotion she displayed before Tremaine was a show of weakness. \"I had my solicitors send you a dozen letters. You never responded. We could have had this marriage annulled with some dignity, without having to go through this circus.\"\n\n\"And here I thought my lack of response adequately conveyed what I thought of your idea.\"\n\n\"I offered you one hundred thousand pounds!\"\n\n\"I'm worth twenty times that. But even if I hadn't a sou, that's not quite enough for me to stand before Her Majesty's magistrate and swear that I never touched you. We both know perfectly well that I shagged you to a fare-thee-well.\"\n\nShe flinched and grew hot. Unfortunately, not entirely from anger. The memories of that night\u2014no, she would not think about it. She had forgotten it already. \"This is about Miss von Schweppenburg, isn't it? You are still trying to punish me.\"\n\nHe gave her one of his cool stares that used to turn her knees to pudding. \"Now, why would you think that?\"\n\nAnd what could she say? What could she say without dragging up their entire complicated and bitter history? She swallowed. \"Fine,\" she said, as indifferently as she could. \"I have an evening engagement to keep. But I should be home about ten. I can permit you a quarter hour from half past ten.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"As impatient as always, my dear marchioness. No, tonight I will not be visiting you. I'm weary from my travels. And now that I've seen you, I'll need a few more days to get over my revulsion. But rest assured, I shall not be bound by any asinine time limits. I will stay in your bed for as long as I want, not a minute less\u2014and not a minute more, no matter how you plead.\"\n\nHer jaw dropped from sheer stupefaction. \"That is the most rid\u2014\"\n\nHe suddenly leaned toward her and placed an index finger over her lips. \"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. You will not enjoy eating those words.\"\n\nShe jerked her head away, her lips burning. \"I would not want you to remain in my bed if you were the last man alive and I'd had nothing but Spanish flies for a fortnight.\"\n\n\"What images you bring to mind, my lady Tremaine. With every man in the world perfectly alive and no aphrodisiacs at all, you were already a tigress.\" He pushed away from the desk. \"I've had all I can take of you for a day. I wish you a pleasant evening. Do convey my regards to your beloved. I hope he doesn't mind my exercises in conjugal rights.\"\n\nHe left without a backward glance.\n\nAnd not for the first time.\n\nLady Tremaine watched the door closing behind her husband and rued the day she first learned of his existence.\nChapter Two\n\n_Eleven years earlier . . .  \nLondon  \nJuly 1882_\n\nEighteen-year-old Gigi Rowland gloated. She hoped she wasn't too obvious, but then, she didn't really care. What could the bejeweled, beplumed women in Lady Beckwith's drawing room possibly say? That she lacked becoming modesty? That she was hard-edged and arrogant? That she reeked of pound notes?\n\nThey had predicted, at the beginning of her London season, that she would be an unqualified disaster, a girl with no class, no comportment, no clue. But lo and behold, only two months into the season and she was already engaged\u2014to a _duke,_ a young, handsome one no less. _Her Grace the Duchess of Fairford._ She liked the sound of it. She liked it tremendously.\n\nThe same women who had scorned her had been forced to stand before her and offer their felicitations. Yes, the wedding date had been set\u2014in November, just after her birthday. And, yes, thank you, she already had her first consultation at Madame Elise's for the wedding gown. She'd chosen a lush cream satin, with a twelve-foot train to be made of silver moir\u00e9.\n\nSecure in her soon-to-be exalted status, Gigi settled deeper into the berg\u00e8re chair and snapped open her fan as other, fianc\u00e9less debutantes prepared to entertain the ladies with their musical skills\u2014Lord Beckwith being notoriously lengthy with his postdinner cordials and cigars, sometimes keeping the gentlemen for more than three hours.\n\nGigi turned her attention to more important matters. Should she do something fantastical with the cake, have it done in the shape of the Taj Mahal or the Doge's Palace? No? Then she'd have the layers made in an unusual shape. Hexagons? Excellent. A hexagonal cake covered in gleaming royal fondant icing, with garlands of\u2014\n\nThe music. She looked up in surprise. The performances usually ranged from acceptable to execrable. But the creamy, exquisite young woman at the bench was as adept as the professional musicians Gigi's mother sometimes engaged. Her fingers glided across the piano keys like swallows over a summer pond. Crystalline, sumptuous notes caressed the ears the way a good dish of cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e caressed the tongue.\n\nTheodora von Schweppenburg. That was her name. They'd been introduced just before dinner. She was new to London, from a minor principality on the Continent, the daughter of a count, by right a countess herself\u2014but it was one of those Holy Roman Empire titles that went on to all descendants, so it meant little.\n\nThe performance ended, and a few minutes later Gigi was surprised to find Miss von Schweppenburg at her side.\n\n\"Many congratulations on your engagement, Miss Rowland.\" Miss von Schweppenburg spoke with a light, pleasing accent. She smelled of attar of rose underpinned with patchouli.\n\n\"Thank you, _Fr\u00e4ulein.\"_\n\n\"My mother would like me to do the same,\" Miss von Schweppenburg said with a small, self-conscious laugh, sitting down on a straight-back chair next to Gigi. \"She has ordered me to ask you how you accomplished it.\"\n\n\"It is simple,\" Gigi answered, with practiced nonchalance. \"His Grace is in financial straits, and I have a fortune.\"\n\nIt was less simple than that. Rather, it had been a campaign years in the making, waged from the very second Mrs. Rowland at last inculcated in Gigi that it was both her duty and her destiny to become a duchess.\n\nMiss von Schweppenburg would not be able to duplicate Gigi's success. Nor would Gigi herself. She knew of no other marriageable duke with such overwhelming arrears that he'd be willing to marry a girl whose only claim to gentility was her mother, a country squire's daughter.\n\nMiss von Schweppenburg's eyes lowered. \"Oh,\" she murmured, turning the handle of her lace fan round and round within her palms. \"I don't have a fortune.\"\n\nGigi had guessed as much. There was a sadness to her, the somber melancholy of a high-born woman who could only afford to have a parlor maid come in every other day, who moved in the dark after sunset to save on candle wax.\n\n\"But you are beautiful,\" Gigi pointed out. Though long in the tooth, she thought, at least twenty-one or twenty-two. \"Men like beautiful women.\"\n\n\"I don't do it very well, this . . . beautiful woman undertaking.\"\n\nThat, Gigi had seen for herself already. At dinner Miss von Schweppenburg had been seated between two eligible young peers, both of whom had been piqued by her beauty and her shyness. But there'd been something glum about her reticence. She'd paid scant attention to either man and, after a while, they'd noticed.\n\n\"You need more practice,\" said Gigi.\n\nThe girl was silent. She drew the tip of her fan across her lap. \"Have you ever met Lord Reginald Saybrook, Miss Rowland?\"\n\nThe name sounded vaguely familiar. Then Gigi remembered. Lord Reginald was her future husband's uncle. \"I'm afraid not. He married some Bavarian princess and lives on the Continent.\"\n\n\"He has a son.\" Miss von Schweppenburg's voice faltered. \"His name is Camden. And . . . and he loves me.\"\n\nGigi smelled a Romeo-and-Juliet story, a story whose appeal escaped her. Miss Capulet should have married the man her parents chose for her and then had her torrid but very discreet affair with Mr. Montague. Not only would she have stayed alive, she'd have realized, after a while, that Romeo was just a callow, bored youth with little to offer her other than pretty platitudes. _It is the east, and Juliet is the sun_ indeed.\n\n\"We've known each other a long time,\" continued Miss von Schweppenburg. \"But of course Mama would not let me marry him. He has no fortune either.\"\n\n\"I see,\" Gigi said politely. \"You are trying to remain true to him.\"\n\nMiss von Schweppenburg hesitated. \"I don't know. Mama would never speak to me again if I don't marry well. But strangers make me . . . uncomfortable. I only wish Mr. Saybrook were more eligible.\"\n\nGigi's opinion of the girl deteriorated rapidly. She respected a woman out to marry to her best advantage. And she respected a woman who sacrificed worldly comforts for love, though she personally disagreed with such decisions. But she could not tolerate wishy-washiness. Miss von Schweppenburg would neither commit to this Camden Saybrook, because he was too poor, nor commit to her husband-hunting, because she enjoyed too much being loved by him.\n\n\"He's very handsome, very sweet and kind,\" Miss von Schweppenburg was saying, her voice reduced to a whisper, almost as if she were talking to herself. \"He writes me letters and sends lovely presents, things he'd made himself.\"\n\nGigi wanted to roll her eyes but somehow couldn't. Someone loved this girl, this utterly useless girl, loved her enough to go on wooing her, even though she was being paraded before all of Europe for takers.\n\nA moment of stark despair descended upon her that she would never know such love, that she would go through life sustained only by her facade of invincibility. Then she came to her senses. Love was for fools. Gigi Rowland was many things, but she was never a fool.\n\n\"How fortunate for you, _Fr\u00e4ulein.\"_\n\n\"Yes, I suppose I am. I only wish . . .\" Miss von Schweppenburg shook her head. \"Perhaps you might meet him at your wedding.\"\n\nGigi nodded and smiled absently, preoccupied once again with the structural elegance of the cake to be served at her imminent wedding.\n\nBut no wedding ever took place between Philippa Gilberte Rowland and Carrington Vincent Hanslow Saybrook. Two weeks before the wedding day, His Grace the Duke of Fairford, the Marquess of Tremaine, Viscount Hanslow, and Baron Wolvinton, after six hours of solid drinking in honor of his upcoming nuptials, climbed up to the roof of his friend's town house and attempted to moon all of London. All he accomplished was a broken neck and his own demise by tumbling four stories to the ground.\nChapter Three\n\n_9 May 1893_\n\nVictoria Rowland was not quite herself.\n\nShe knew this because she had just decapitated all the orchids in her beloved greenhouse. Their heads rolled on the ground in beautiful, grotesque carnage, as if she were enacting a floral version of the French Revolution.\n\nNot for the first or even the one thousandth time, she wished that the seventh Duke of Fairford had lived two weeks longer. Two measly weeks. Afterward he could have swilled poison, tied himself to a railroad track, and, while he was waiting for the train, shot himself in the head.\n\nAll she wanted was for Gigi to be a duchess. Was that too much?\n\nDuchess\u2014everyone had called Victoria that when she was a young girl. She'd been beautiful, well-mannered, serene, and regal; they were all convinced she was going to marry a duke. But then her father was defrauded out of almost everything they had, and her mother's long, lingering illness plunged the family finances from merely precarious to catastrophic. She'd ended up marrying a man twice her age, a rich industrialist looking to infuse some gentility into his bloodline.\n\nBut John Rowland's money had been deemed too new, too uncouth. Suddenly Victoria found herself shut out of drawing rooms where she had once been welcome. Swallowing her humiliation, she swore that she would never let the same happen to her own daughter. The girl would have Victoria's polish and her father's fortune, she would take London by storm, and she would be a duchess if it killed Victoria.\n\nGigi had almost done it. In fact, she had done it. The fault there lay entirely with Carrington. And then, to Victoria's amazement, she had done it again, marrying Carrington's cousin, heir to the title. How happy and proud Victoria had been on the day of Gigi's wedding, how resolutely giddy.\n\nAnd then everything went wrong. Camden left the day after the wedding, with no explanations to anyone. And no matter how much she begged, cried, and wheedled, Victoria could not get a word as to what had happened out of Gigi.\n\n_What do you care?_ Gigi had said icily. _We have decided to lead separate lives. When he inherits I'm still going to become a duchess. Isn't that all you've ever wanted?_\n\nVictoria had had to content herself with that while she corresponded with Camden in secret, dropping bits and pieces of Gigi's news between descriptions of her garden and her charity galas. Four times a year his letters came, as reliable as the rotation of the seasons, informative, and amiable to a fault. Those letters kept her hopes alive. Surely he meant to come back one day or he would not bother writing to his mother-in-law, year in, year out.\n\nBut could Gigi not leave well enough alone? What was the girl thinking, risking something as nasty and damaging as a divorce? And for what, that all-too-ordinary Lord Frederick, who wasn't fit to wash her drawers, let alone touch her without them? The thought made Victoria ill. The only silver lining she could see was that this was sure to make Camden sit up and take notice. Perhaps he'd even come back. Perhaps there'd be a passionate confrontation.\n\nCamden's telegram the day before, informing her of his arrival, had made her walk on clouds. She dashed off one back to him, scarcely able to contain her jubilation. But this morning his response came, thirty-one words of unrelenting bad news: _dear madam stop please kill your hopes now stop as a merciful act to yourself stop I mean to grant the divorce stop after a certain interval stop yours affectionately stop camden._\n\nAnd she had grabbed the nearest garden implement and mangled all her lovely, rare, painstakingly raised varietals. Now she dropped the shears, like a contrite killer flinging away her murder weapon. She must not go on like this. She would end up in Bedlam, an old woman with wild white-streaked hair, beseeching the pillow not to abandon the bed.\n\nFine, so she could not prevent the divorce. But she would find Gigi another duke. In fact, one lived right down the lane from her cottage here, a few miles from the coast of Devon. His Grace the Duke of Perrin was a rather intimidating recluse. But he was a man of able body and sound mind. And at forty-five years of age, he was not yet too old for Gigi, who was getting dangerously close to thirty.\n\nSo Victoria had wanted the duke for herself when she'd been an eligible young lady, living in this very same cottage on the periphery of his estate and his sphere. But that was three decades ago. No one else knew of her erstwhile ambition. And the duke, well, he didn't even know she existed.\n\nShe'd have to abandon her duchesslike reserve, forget that they had never been introduced, and barge into his path, which took him past her cottage each afternoon right about quarter to four, in fair weather and foul.\n\nIn other words, she'd have to act like Gigi.\n\nWhen Camden returned to the town house after his morning ride, Goodman informed him that Lady Tremaine wished to confer with him at his earliest convenience. No doubt she meant that he should present himself that very moment. But that would not be at _his_ convenience at all, as he was both hungry and disheveled.\n\nHe breakfasted and bathed. Giving his hair one last rub, he let the towel drop to his shoulders and reached for the fresh clothes he had laid out on the bed. At that precise moment, his wife, in a blur of white blouse and caramel-colored skirts, burst through the door.\n\nShe took two steps into the room and stopped, a furrow instantly forming between her brows. As promised, the bedchamber had been aired, cleaned, and furnished, an entire handsome redwood set\u2014bedstead, nightstands, armoire, and chest\u2014roused out of long slumber in the attic and pressed into service. Beneath the large Monet that hung above the mantel, two pots of tailed orchids bloomed silently, their fragrance light and sweet. But despite all the buffing and polishing Goodman had ordered, a musty scent clung to the resuscitated furniture, an odor of age and blank history.\n\n\"It looks exactly the same,\" she said, almost as if to herself. \"I had no idea Goodman remembered.\"\n\nGoodman probably remembered when she had last broken a nail. She had that effect on men. Even a man who left her behind never forgot anything about her.\n\nIn those days when he'd felt more charitable toward her, Camden had been certain God lingered over her creation, breathing more life and purpose into her than He bestowed on lesser mortals. Even now, with the ravage of a sleepless night plain on her face, her onyx-dark eyes still burned brighter than the night sky over New York Harbor on Independence Day.\n\n\"May I be of some assistance?\" he said.\n\nHer gaze turned to him. He was quite decent. His dressing gown covered everything that needed to be covered and most of the rest of him too. But she did look surprised and then, faintly but unmistakably, embarrassed.\n\nShe did not blush. She rarely blushed. But when she did, when her pale, snooty cheeks turned a shade of strawberry ice cream, a man would have to be mummified not to respond.\n\n\"You were taking a long time,\" she said brusquely, by way of explanation.\n\n\"And you suspected me of deliberately making you wait.\" He shook his head. \"You should know I'm above such petty vengeances.\"\n\nHer expression was a pained sneer. \"Of course. You prefer your vengeance grand and spectacular.\"\n\n\"As you like,\" he said, bending to step into his linen. The bulk of the bed stood between them, the top of the mattress as high as his waist. But this act of dressing was nevertheless a display of power on his part. \"Now what's this urgent business of yours that can't wait until I'm dressed?\"\n\n\"I apologize for barging in on you,\" she said stiffly. \"I'll see myself out and wait for you in the library.\"\n\n\"Don't bother, since you are already here.\" He pulled on his trousers. \"What do you wish to speak to me about?\"\n\nShe'd always been quick on her feet. \"Very well, then. I have given some thought to your conditions. I find them both too vague and too open-ended.\"\n\nSo he'd gathered. She was hardly the type to let anyone walk over her. In fact, she preferred to be the one doing the walking over. He was only surprised that she hadn't come earlier with her objections.\n\n\"Enlighten me.\" He tossed the towel on a chair by the window, untied his dressing gown, and dropped it on the bed.\n\nTheir eyes met. Or rather, he looked at her in the eyes and she looked at his bare torso. As if he needed any more reminders of the naughty, cheeky young girl who used to send her fingers out on feats of alpinism up his thighs.\n\nNow their gazes met. She blushed. But she recovered quickly. \"Heir-producing is an uncertain business,\" she said, her tone brisk. \"I assume you want male issue.\"\n\n\"I do.\" He pulled on his shirt, tucked in the bottom, and began to fasten the trouser buttons at his right hip, adjusting his parts slightly to ease the discomfort caused by his reaction to her.\n\nHer gaze was now somewhere to his right. The bedpost, probably. \"My mother never managed one in ten years of marriage. Besides, there is always the possibility that one of us, or both, could be barren.\"\n\n_Liar._ He chose not to call her on it. \"And your point is?\"\n\n\"I need an end in sight, for myself and for Lord Frederick, who should not be asked to wait forever.\"\n\nWhat had Mrs. Rowland said in her irate letter to him? _Lord Frederick, I will cede, is very amiable. But he has all the brains of a boiled pudding, and all the grace of an aged duck. I cannot fathom, for the life of me, what Gigi sees in him._ Camden snapped his braces over his shoulders. For once, Mrs. Rowland's shrewdness failed her. How many men were to be readily found in England who'd faithfully stand beside a woman in the midst of a divorce?\n\n\". . . six months from today,\" his wife was saying. \"If by the beginning of November I still have not conceived, we proceed to the divorce. If I have, we will wait 'til I give birth.\"\n\nHe could not envisage an actual child, not even a pregnancy. His thoughts stopped at the edge of a bed and went no further. Part of him revolted at the very idea of any sort of intimacy with her, even the most impersonal kind.\n\nAnd then there were other parts of him.\n\n\"Well?\" she demanded.\n\nHe collected himself. \"What if you present me with a female child?\"\n\n\"That is something I cannot help.\"\n\nWas it?\n\n\"I can see merits to the concept of limits, but I cannot agree to your particulars,\" he said. \"Six months is too short a time to guarantee anything. One year. And if it's a girl, one more attempt.\"\n\n\"Nine months.\"\n\nHe held all the trumps in this game. It was time she realized that. \"I did not come to haggle, Lady Tremaine. I am indulging you. A year or there is no deal.\"\n\nHer chin tilted up. \"A year from today?\"\n\n\"A year from when we start.\"\n\n\"And when is that going to be, O Lord and Master?\"\n\nHe laughed softly at her acerbic tone. In this she had not changed. She would go down fighting. \"Patience, Gigi, patience. You'll get what you want in the end.\"\n\n\"And you would do well to remember that,\" she said, with all the haughty poise of Queen Elizabeth just after the sinking of the Spanish Armada. \"I bid you a good day.\"\n\nHis gaze followed her retreating back, her efficient gait, and the dashing sway of her skirts. No one would know, by looking at her, that she just had her head handed to her on a platter, surrounded by her entrails.\n\nSuddenly he was reminded that he had once liked her.\n\nToo much.\nChapter Four\n\n_Bedfordshire  \nDecember 1882_\n\nGigi disliked Greek mythology, because the gods were forever punishing women for hubris. What was wrong with a little hubris? Why couldn't Arachne claim that her skills were greater than Athena's, since they were, without being turned into a spider? And why should Poseidon be angry enough to toss Cassiopeia's daughter to a sea monster, unless Cassiopeia's boast was true and she really was more beautiful than Poseidon's own daughters?\n\nGigi was guilty of hubris. And she, too, was being punished by jealous gods. How else was she to view Carrington's abrupt and senseless death? Other rou\u00e9s lived to unrepentant old age, ogling debutantes with their red, rheumy eyes. Why shouldn't Carrington have enjoyed the same opportunities?\n\nA fierce gust nearly made off with her hat. She rubbed the underside of her chin, where the hat ribbon chafed. Briarmeadow, the Rowland property, was eight thousand acres of woodland and meadows, most of it flat as a ballroom floor, except for this corner where the land rolled and sometimes creased into ridges and folds.\n\nShe'd grown up in a house nearer to Bedford. Briarmeadow, her home for the past three years, had been purchased with the express purpose of sweetening the deal for Carrington, since it shared a long border with Twelve Pillars, Carrington's country seat.\n\nGigi liked to walk the boundaries of Briarmeadow. Land was solid, something she could count on. She liked certainty. She liked knowing exactly how her future would unfold. Marriage to Carrington had promised her something along that line: No matter what else happened, she'd always be a duchess, and no one would ever again snub either herself or her mother.\n\nWith Carrington gone, she was back to being just Miss Moneybags. She wasn't head-turningly beautiful, no matter what her mother tried. She had been known to step on a toe or two on the dance floor. And, vulgarity of all vulgarities, she had an abiding interest in commerce, in the making of goods and money.\n\nOverhead, thick clouds hung like giant wads of soiled linen, gray with stains of pus yellow. The snow would come down soon. She really should be turning back. She had another three miles to go before she'd come within sight of the house. But she did not want to go back. It was dejecting enough to contemplate by herself what might have been. It was ten times worse with her mother there.\n\nMrs. Rowland alternated between shock, despair, and an angry defiance. They'd do it again, she'd hug Gigi and whisper fiercely when she was in one of her wilder moods. Then she'd lose all hope, because they couldn't possibly repeat it\u2014Carrington having been a rather unique case of debauchery, insolvency, and desperation.\n\nA brook separated Briarmeadow from Twelve Pillars. Here there were no fences, the brook being a long-recognized boundary. Gigi stood on the bank and threw pebbles into the water. The spot was pretty in summer, with pliant green willow branches that danced in the breeze. Now the defoliated willows looked rather like naked old spinsters, all thin and droopy.\n\nAcross the brook the land rose into a slope. Suddenly, atop the slope, directly opposite her, a bareheaded rider appeared. She was taken aback. Besides her, no one ever came here. The rider, in a dark crimson riding jacket and buff riding trousers tucked into long black boots, charged down the slope. She was startled into stumbling backward, for fear the horse might gallop into her.\n\nAt the bottom of the slope, some fifty feet downstream from her, the rider guided his mount to a muscular, graceful leap, jumping clear across the twelve-foot-wide stream. He drew up his reins, halted, and looked at her. He'd been aware of her all along.\n\n\"You are trespassing on my land,\" she shouted.\n\nHe came toward her, nudging the huge black horse with ease, ducking under the denuded willow branches. He didn't stop until he had a clear line of sight to her, about ten feet out. And she had her first good look at him.\n\nHe was handsome, though not as pretty as Carrington, who\u2014poor sod, may the she-devils of hell not use him too hard\u2014had been Byron reborn. This man here had features that were both sharper and nobler, set in a leaner, more masculine face. Their gaze met. He had beautiful, deep-set eyes, the irises a gorgeous green. A thinking man's eyes: perceptive, opaque, seeing much, giving little away.\n\nShe couldn't look away. There was something about him that was instantly appealing to her, something in his bearing, a confidence that was unlike either Carrington's arrogant sense of prerogative or her own unyielding obduracy. Poise forged with finesse.\n\n\"You are trespassing on my land,\" she repeated, because she couldn't think of anything else to say.\n\n\"Am I?\" he said. \"And you are?\"\n\nHe spoke with a subtle accent, not French, German, Italian, or anything else she could immediately think of. A foreigner?\n\n\"Miss Rowland. Who are you?\"\n\n\"Mr. Saybrook.\"\n\nWas he\u2014no, not possible. But then, who else could he be? \"Are you the Marquess of Tremaine?\"\n\nCarrington had died heirless. His uncle, the next male in line, had inherited the ducal title. The new duke's eldest son took on the courtesy title of the Marquess of Tremaine.\n\nThe young man smiled a little. \"I suppose I have become that too.\"\n\n_He_ was Theodora von Schweppenburg's beau? She had envisioned a man as spineless and ineffectual as Miss von Schweppenburg herself.\n\n\"You are returned from university.\"\n\nHe had not attended Carrington's funeral alongside the rest of his family because of his classes at the \u00c9cole Polytechnique in Paris. His parents had been vague about what he studied. Physics or economics, they'd said. How could anyone possibly confuse the two?\n\n\"The university lets us out for Christmas.\"\n\nHe dismounted and approached her, leading the black stallion behind him. She tamped down her discomfort and remained where she was. He removed his riding glove and offered her his hand.\n\n\"Delighted to meet you at last, Miss Rowland.\"\n\nShe shook his hand briefly. \"I guess you know who I am, then.\"\n\nThe first snowflakes began to fall, tiny particles of puffy ice. One landed on his eyelash. His eyelashes, like his brows, were of a much darker shade than the molten gold at the tips of his hair. His eyes, she was sure, were the color of an Alpine lake, though she'd never seen one.\n\n\"I was going to call on you tomorrow,\" he said. \"To offer my condolences.\"\n\nShe chortled. \"Yes, as you can see, I am inconsolable.\"\n\nHe looked at her, truly looked at her this time, his eyes scanning her features one by one. His scrutiny discomfited her\u2014she was more accustomed to being pointed at behind her back\u2014but it was not unpleasant, coming from such a rivetingly handsome man.\n\n\"I apologize for my cousin. He was most inconsiderate to die before marrying you and leaving an heir.\"\n\nHis bluntness took her aback. It was one thing for her mother to say something along that line, quite another to hear it repeated by a complete stranger to whom she hadn't even been properly introduced.\n\n\"Man proposes, God disposes,\" she said.\n\n\"A crying shame, isn't it?\"\n\nShe was beginning to like this Lord Tremaine. \"Yes, it is.\"\n\nThe snowflakes suddenly increased in dimension, no longer icy sawdust but fingernail-size fluffs. They fell densely, as if all the angels in heaven were molting. In the minutes since Lord Tremaine first appeared, the sky had become visibly darker. Soon dusk would cloak the land.\n\nTremaine looked about them. \"Where is your man, or your maid?\"\n\n\"Don't have one. I'm not out in public.\"\n\nHe frowned. \"How far away is your house?\"\n\n\"About three miles.\"\n\n\"You should take my horse. It's not safe for you to walk that long in the dark, in this weather.\"\n\n\"Thank you, but I don't ride.\"\n\nHe looked into her eyes. For a moment she thought he meant to ask her outright why she was afraid of horses. But he only said, \"In that case, permit me to walk you home.\"\n\nShe breathed a silent sigh of relief. \"Permission granted. But you should be forewarned that I am disastrous at small talk.\"\n\nHe pulled on his glove and looped the stallion's reins about his wrist. \"It's quite all right. Silence does not derange\u2014pardon\u2014disturb me.\"\n\nThe word _d\u00e9ranger_ in French meant _to disturb._ He didn't really have an accent. His English, a language that he hardly ever spoke, was simply somewhat rusty.\n\nThey walked in silence for a while. She couldn't resist glancing at him every minute or so to admire his profile. He had the classical nose and chin of an Apollo Belvedere.\n\n\"I conferred with my late cousin's solicitors before coming to Twelve Pillars,\" Tremaine said, breaking the silence. \"He left us a complicated situation.\"\n\n\"I see.\" She certainly did, being intimately acquainted with Carrington's financial particulars.\n\n\"The solicitors gave me the sum of his outstanding debts, a staggering number. But for four-fifths of the amount, they could not show me any demands from creditors that are less than two years old.\"\n\n\"Interesting.\" She was beginning to see where he was going with this. How had he pieced it together so quickly? He must not have been in England for more than two or three days or she'd have learned about his presence already.\n\n\"So I made them show me his marriage contract instead.\"\n\nA very shrewd move. \"Did you find it soporific reading?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I quite admired it. As watertight a legal document as I'm likely to come across this lifetime. I noticed that you'd absolve him of all his debts upon marriage.\"\n\n\"There might have been such wording.\"\n\n\"You are the one who holds the lion's share of his arrears, aren't you? You bought out his creditors and consolidated the preponderance of his debts to persuade him to marry you.\"\n\nGigi looked upon Lord Tremaine with a new, almost warm respect. He was young, twenty-one or so. But he was sharp as a guillotine blade. That was exactly what she had done. She had eschewed Mrs. Rowland's advice to win a duke in drawing rooms and ballrooms and had gone about it her own way. \"That's right. Carrington didn't want to marry the likes of me. He had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the negotiation table.\"\n\n\"Did you enjoy the dragging?\" He glanced down at her.\n\n\"Yes, I rather did,\" she confessed. \"It was amusing threatening to strip his house bare to the last plank on the floor and the last spoon in the kitchen.\"\n\n\"My parents are convinced of your grief.\" She heard the smile in his voice. \"They said tears streamed down your face at his funeral.\"\n\n\"For nearly three years of hard work down the drain, I cried like a bereaved mother.\"\n\nHe laughed outright, a rich sound with all the beguilement of spring. Her heart skipped a beat.\n\n\"You are an unusual woman, Miss Rowland. Are you also fair and honest?\"\n\n\"If there's no disadvantage to me.\"\n\nShe could swear he smiled again. \"Good enough,\" he said. \"I'd like to negotiate a deal with you.\"\n\n\"I'm all ears.\"\n\n\"Twelve Pillars generates a decent income, if managed properly. That, combined with the sale of nonentailed properties, should help pay off Carrington's creditors, if you hold off calling in your portion of his debts.\"\n\n\"I'm not infinitely rich. Acquiring Carrington's liabilities was a heavy outlay, even for me.\"\n\n\"I'm willing to cede you an advantageous interest rate if you would let us pay you back in quarterly installments, starting next year this time and finishing in, let's say, seven years.\"\n\n\"I have a better idea,\" she said. \"Why don't you marry me instead?\"\n\nMarrying the new duke's heir had always been the first alternative, but she had been unenthused about the enterprise. Carrington had poked everything that moved, but he had no loyalty except to himself, and that was something she could understand and even appreciate, on occasion. She recoiled at the idea of a mawkish husband who pined away for another woman, especially a woman for whom she had so little admiration.\n\nLord Tremaine in person, however, had already proved anything but useless. She warmed up to the idea of an alliance with him like a pan on a stoked stove. \"Upon our marriage I'll cancel seventy percent of the debts.\"\n\nHe gave her a long look, but his response was not the shock and amazement she had anticipated. \"Why only seventy percent?\"\n\n\"Because you are not a duke yourself and probably would not be for many years.\" She considered being a bit more demure and giving him time to think. But the next thing out of her mouth was \"What say you?\"\n\nHe was silent a moment. \"I'm deeply honored. But my affections are already pledged elsewhere.\"\n\n\"Affections change.\" Good Lord, she sounded like the devil out to purchase his soul.\n\n\"I should like to think that I have some constancy to my character.\"\n\nDamn Miss von Schweppenburg. Why should that drawing-room ornament be so lucky? \"You are probably right. But I do not require your affections, only your hand.\"\n\nHe stopped, putting a hand on the stallion's neck to signal the horse to halt. She stopped too. \"You are very ruthless toward yourself, for someone so young,\" he said, with a gentleness that made her want to clutch his hand and tell him everything that had happened to make her the hard-bitten female she was. \"Why?\"\n\nShe shrugged instead. \"I've had to deal with fortune hunters since I turned fourteen. And grande dames who wouldn't give me the time of the day.\"\n\n\"Affection and good opinion\u2014are they not at all a consideration for you in marriage?\"\n\n\"No. So I would not mind that you love someone else. In fact, you can spend all your time with her, if you like. Once our marriage is consummated, you need only to come back to me when you need heirs.\"\n\nShe probably should not have said it. It was too forward, too indelicate, even for her. In reaction, his gaze dipped briefly, encompassing all of her. And when he looked back at her, his irises darker than she remembered, the back of her mouth grew hot.\n\n\"I have a different view of marriage,\" he said. \"I do not think I'm the right person for what you have in mind.\"\n\nAll that beauty and cleverness, why must he possess principles too? The depth of her disappointment was out of all proportion to the casualness of her proposal. \"What if I choose to call in the debts, then?\" she said churlishly.\n\n\"It would be a bad deal for you,\" he said calmly. \"Stripping us of everything we have will at most make up half of what my late cousin owed you. You know that.\"\n\nThey resumed walking, but her mind was no longer on the finances of her social climbing. Instead, she entertained disturbingly angry thoughts about Miss von Schweppenburg. The woman was so insipid, so weak, what hold did she have on this remarkable man? What right did she have toward him, she who would have meekly accepted the proposal of any rich, powerful man who had caught her mother's fancy? Did beauty, elegance, and flawlessness at the pianoforte really count for _that_ much?\n\nHe noted her sullen silence. \"I have offended you.\"\n\nHow could he offend her? She liked everything about him, except the woman he loved. \"No. You are not obliged to marry me just because it would delight me.\"\n\n\"I don't know if it is of any comfort to you, but I'm honored. No one has ever asked for my hand in marriage before.\"\n\n\"I suspect it's because you are young and you used to be a bit of an impoverished nobody. Expect the proposals to fly fast and thick now.\"\n\n\"But you'll always be my first,\" he said.\n\nWas he teasing her? \"Well, the first one you turned down, to be sure,\" she answered glumly.\n\nHe allowed her to sulk for the remainder of the trek. She stomped, her boots raucously crunching the snow underfoot. Despite his greater size and weight, his riding boots were as quiet on the snow as she imagined a Siberian tiger's paws must be.\n\nHalf a mile from the house, they were met by Mrs. Rowland and a trio of lantern-swinging servants.\n\n\"Gigi!\" Mrs. Rowland cried. She picked up her skirts and came running.\n\nGigi could not prevent the mother-hen hug that swooped upon her. Mrs. Rowland kissed her on her forehead and cheeks. \"Gigi. You foolish, foolish girl. Where have you been? Look at this weather! You could have frozen to your death out there.\"\n\n\"Mother!\" Gigi protested, embarrassed to be so fussed over before Lord Tremaine. \"I was not out in Antarctica risking frostbite and gangrene.\"\n\n\"I'm just worried because you haven't been yourself lately. Now, do let us\u2014\"\n\nAt last Mrs. Rowland noticed the stranger, and the very large horse, next to Gigi. She swung toward Gigi in alarm.\n\nGigi sighed. \"Mother, may I present his lordship, the Marquess of Tremaine? Lord Tremaine, my mother, Mrs. Rowland. Lord Tremaine has graciously deigned to accompany me, to help me grope my way home in the midst of this veritable blizzard we are experiencing.\"\n\nMrs. Rowland ignored her acerbic remarks. \"Lord Tremaine! We thought you still in Paris.\"\n\n\"My term ended a week ago, madam.\" He bowed. \"I hope you will forgive me. I trespassed onto your land without knowing and came upon Miss Rowland. She kindly permitted me to walk with her.\"\n\nHe turned to Gigi and bowed also. \"It's been a rare pleasure, Miss Rowland. I trust you are in good hands now.\"\n\n\"But you cannot mean to go back the way you came!\" Mrs. Rowland gasped in horror. \"You will surely get lost in this darkness and this weather. You must come to our house instead.\"\n\nHe protested. But Mrs. Rowland was convinced he would perish if he went ahead with his foolhardy plan to return to Twelve Pillars either on foot or on horseback. In the end he acquiesced to dinner and to being taken home in a warm, comfortable brougham afterward.\n\nGigi was unhappy about it. She was all for sending Lord Tremaine away, the sooner the better. It did not amuse her to see her mother's extremely favorable reaction upon viewing him for the first time in good light. And it hurt\u2014a sharp pinch somewhere deep in her chest\u2014watching Mrs. Rowland shower him with the kind of pampering attention reserved for prospective sons-in-law.\n\nYet Gigi put on her best dinner gown, a midnight-blue confection of silk and tulle, and had her hair re-coiffed three times. God help her, she wanted him to think her pretty and desirable.\n\nOver dinner, Mrs. Rowland patiently, skillfully elicited details of Lord Tremaine's twenty-one years of life. He had led quite the cosmopolitan existence, it appeared, having sojourned in every major capital of Europe, plus quite a few of the Continent's favorite watering holes.\n\nHe conducted himself with the poise of a prince but without the arrogance so ingrained in most members of the aristocracy. Yet he was most certainly an aristocrat. Not only was he heir to an English ducal title, but through his mother, who'd been born a Wittelsbach, he was related to the House of Hapsburg, the House of Hohenzollern, and the House of Hanover itself, from cousinship with the dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.\n\nWorse, unlike Carrington, whose slack chin, wet lips, and vacant eyes became all too noticeable upon further acquaintance, Lord Tremaine's already handsome features, married to his graciousness and intelligence, grew more striking with each passing minute.\n\nMrs. Rowland was clearly in awe of him. She sent Gigi pointed looks. _Speak more. Enchant him. Don't you see he's perfect?_ Gigi, however, was nose deep in misery, a desolation made more unbearable by every minute spent in his painfully enjoyable company.\n\nHer torture did not end there. After dinner, Mrs. Rowland asked him to play for them, having heard from the duchess that he was a fine pianist. He did, with a born performer's flair. Gigi stared alternately at his flawless profile, his long, strong hands, and her lap, fighting a wretchedness that seemed to have seeped into her blood.\n\nThe final blow came when he rose to take his leave of them, only to discover that a blizzard had indeed arrived. Mrs. Rowland smugly informed him that in her great foresight, she had already sent off a messenger three hours ago to inform his parents that he'd stay the night because of the worsening weather.\n\nGigi had counted on his departure, on never seeing him again. How was she to get through the night with him under the same roof and almost within reach?\n\nCamden had trouble falling asleep, but it had nothing to do with being in an unfamiliar bed. He was used to it, having never had a home of his own, always traveling to a different city, a different house, always sleeping in rooms that belonged to other people.\n\nHe hadn't lied to Mrs. Rowland. He'd indeed lived in some of the Continent's most glamorous locales. He'd simply omitted the less than glamorous reasons behind this peripatetic life: because his parents hadn't an ounce of money sense between them and could never afford a permanent residence.\n\nSo they moved in counterrhythm to the wealthier elites. In summer, when everyone was off to Biarritz and Aix-les-Bains, they occupied some relative's winter villa in Nice. In winter, the reverse. Occasionally, they stayed in one place for a while, when a house stood vacant because its owners had gone off on some wild adventure, such as when Cousin Konstantin left Athens for schemes in Argentina. Or when Cousin Nikolai went to China for two years.\n\nAt age thirteen, Camden had taken over the management of the household. By then he was already accustomed to dealing with creditors, handling servants, and learning new languages in an instant so he could haggle with local merchants in order to stretch his family's meager coins further. He didn't mind being poor, but he hated having to lie about it, to dissemble and feign, as he did tonight, so that his parents could continue on in their blissful ignorance of their financial precariousness.\n\nIt had been a relief to be with Theodora. They'd met in St. Petersburg, where their mothers shared the use of a troika. He'd been fifteen then, she sixteen. She was as poor as he and, like him, lived in fashionable places in unfashionable seasons. They understood each other's plight without ever needing to speak a word of it.\n\nBut it was not thoughts of Theodora that kept him awake. It was Miss Rowland.\n\nEven before their accidental meeting, he had more or less expected Miss Rowland to propose a merger between his future title and her fortune. He had also expected a great deal of regret over turning down those sweet stacks of pounds sterling, after having lived in want of them his entire life.\n\nWhat he emphatically did not expect was Miss Rowland herself. She was unsentimental, hardened, and cynical beyond her years\u2014but her greatest cruelty was reserved for herself, in her insistence that she would be perfectly fine, thank you, if she could only cosh a duke senseless with his own ledgers and haul him to the altar.\n\nFor someone who was otherwise levelheaded and manipulative, there'd been an odd, poignant transparency to her this evening. She liked him. She liked him enough to be not just disappointed over his unavailability, but unhappy.\n\nHe liked her too, surprisingly. How could he not like a girl who called him an \"impoverished nobody\" to his face? Her frankness was refreshing and welcome after the nuanced subtlety and selective narratives that had characterized his exchanges, all his life, with people outside his immediate family.\n\nBut what caused his fidgeting at this witching hour was not her overly simplistic approach to things and people, but her brooding sexuality.\n\nShe'd wanted to touch him. That desire had been there in every full-on stare and every sideways glance all throughout the evening. _Once our marriage is consummated, you need only to come back to me when you need heirs._ The girl might be a virgin, but she was neither pure nor innocent. She knew about these things.\n\nWhat she probably didn't know yet, but he already did, was that with her single-mindedness she would be a force of nature in bed. No man could roll out of her bed and walk away. His overriding objective, despite his exhaustion, would be how he could get her to lie with him again.\n\n* * *\n\nCamden dozed fitfully. Then suddenly he was awake. He had left the curtains and shutters open, out of years of habit, so that he could look out and recall in which country, which city he found himself. The blizzard must have passed; a shaft of silvery moonlight drifted through the window and lit the way clear to the door. A woman stood just inside, in a long nightgown, her back against the door. He couldn't see her face but he knew instinctively that it was Miss Rowland, she of the entirely unfitting, too-childish pet name Gigi.\n\nThe Rowland manse, while not a cumbersome behemoth like the ducal manor at Twelve Pillars, still had some eighty, ninety rooms. He had been put to bed in a different wing from where his hosts had their bedchambers. She had not accidentally returned to the wrong room after using the water closet. She had to have walked a good two hundred feet to visit him.\n\nAnd he was naked beneath the covers. The late Mr. Rowland's nightshirt, kindly supplied at bedtime, had been too restricting.\n\nShe stayed in that spot, unmoving, for a long time, until he was tempted to tell her either to get on with whatever in the blazes she had planned or leave him to his tossing and turning in peace. Abruptly, she moved, coming toward the bed in long, determined strides, her feet silent on the Persian carpet.\n\nShe knelt by the bed, her eyes even with his elbow. Her hair was loose, dark as the fabric of the night; her white nightgown almost glimmered. He could not see her features clearly, but he heard her uneven breaths, a long, slightly trembling inhalation, a few heartbeats of breath being held, and a short rush of exhalation. Repeat. Repeat.\n\nBut she remained still. What was she waiting for? Hadn't she yet satisfied herself that he was really, completely asleep? He squeezed his eyes shut, pretending she wasn't there. But her breaths tickled the hairs on his forearm, triggering seismic tremors along his nerves. And her scent, a fine blend of chamomile and cucumber, warm, powdery, and insidious, enfolded him.\n\n_What did she want?_\n\nShe touched him, placing her hand over his curled fingers, straightening them so that they were palm to palm, then she interlaced her fingers with his. Her fingertips were icy. A silent, dangerous thrill coursed through him. He wanted to pull her atop him and show her what awaited a foolish young woman who slipped into a man's bedroom in the dead of the night after having devoured him all evening with those dark, intense eyes of hers, setting his blood to simmer over three long hours.\n\nHer hand moved. Her fingers encircled his wrist, searing him with her cool skin. Two fingertips slowly trailed up his arm, barely touching him. She rose from her crouch to access more of him, and a strand of her hair caressed the inside of his upper arm. He bit his lower lip, nearly undone by the spike of pleasure.\n\nAt the top of his arm, her fingers spread out over his collarbone and his shoulder. She hesitated before sliding her palm up the side of his face. He heard an almost inaudible gasp as she snatched her hand away. His stubbles\u2014they had surprised her. Her inexperience excited him almost as much as her audacity. She had not done this before.\n\nHer hand returned, the back of it this time, smooth skin over strong bones, skimming along his jaw. Her thumb found his lips and traced over them. He fought the urge to lick her fingertip. God, but he burned, everywhere. On the side away from her, his fingers clawed into the counterpane. She had no idea what she was doing to him, or she would not dare continue.\n\nShe moved again, settling a hip on the bed. As her head bent forward, her hair cascaded, a skein of silk threads unspooling on his chest, all gossamer coolness and teasing chaos.\n\nSuddenly it became too much. A violent upheaval of lust seized him. He grabbed the front of her nightgown and yanked her down. She gasped and flailed. But he subdued her easily, rolling them so that he ended above her, pinning her down with his weight and her fear.\n\nOnly her nightgown separated them. And Gigi Rowland was all outrageous femininity: full breasts, soft belly, and lusciously rounded hips. A moan of sweet, terrible pleasure escaped him. He kissed her, her ear, her cheek, her neck, and, through the soft flannel of her nightgown, her shoulder. His hand settled at the indentation of her waist, above the flare of her hips. His fingers dug into young, firm flesh. Other parts of him also wanted to dig in, hard, harder.\n\nShe was at his mercy here, having thoroughly compromised herself. There were so many wicked things he could do to her, and she would not dare make a sound\u2014she would be biting her lips to suppress her moans and whimpers, because he'd make her as wild and ravenous as he.\n\nIt took all of his willpower and a large dose of shame\u2014shame over his lack of control, his bad faith toward Theodora, and his harsh handling of a girl who was guilty of nothing more than being attracted to him\u2014to let go. He rolled off her, turned his back, and emitted a few grunts, as if he'd been dreaming.\n\nShe scrambled off the bed. But she didn't scuttle out of the room. She panted, as if she had been running from a wolf, a werewolf. In the raspy sounds she made, there was both terror and arousal.\n\nHe prayed that she would see herself out. Because if she didn't, if she came to his bed again, he would not be able to stop.\n\nShe moved, _toward_ the bed, her soft footfall as loud to his ear as a shot in the dark. His blood pounded thickly. His erection grew painfully hungry. She took one more step, until she was standing at the edge of the bed again. He balled his hands tight, digging his nails into his palms until he was sure he must be bleeding, afraid that if he didn't hold fast onto some shred of mastery, he'd\u2014\n\nShe ran, slamming the door behind her. He listened as she sped down the corridor, feeling the vibration of the floor through the mattress beneath him.\n\nWhen the house was once again silent, he rolled onto his back and let out the breath he had been holding. His cock stood straight up, hot and unsatisfied. He gave it a mean _thwack._ But it only bobbed, more famished and demanding than ever.\n\nHe let out a sigh, put his hand on it, and let his imagination run wild.\n\nGigi burned, one moment with the fires of hell, one moment with the ecstasy of that other afterworld, but mostly with an earthly amalgam of mortification and raw ferment.\n\nShe'd been a hairbreadth away from climbing back into bed with Lord Tremaine. The entire scenario had already unfolded in her mind: the ardor, the consummation, the dismay, and the consequences. In the end, he would marry her, because it was the honorable thing to do, despite his disgust for her and his relative blamelessness in the matter.\n\nEverything in her yearned for him. He would be the equal she had never known, the deliverance from her vast loneliness, the balm to any and all misery. If only she could have him. . . .\n\nBut she had stopped herself. Because it was too craven a thing to do, too much beneath her dignity. And she wanted his good opinion, she craved it, she who had never cared what anyone else thought of her.\n\nAn eternity passed before it was time to dress and head down for breakfast. She thought she would be alone, but he was already there in the breakfast parlor when she entered. Her face burned again.\n\nHe set aside the ironed copy of _Illustrated London News_ he'd been reading and rose. \"Miss Rowland,\" he said, all courtesy and impeccable breeding. \"Good morning.\"\n\nShe didn't respond immediately. She couldn't. All she could think of was the way he'd shoved her under him, his arousal pressed fully against her, separated from her thigh by only the flannel of her nightgown.\n\nBut he had slept through all of it. He had no recollection.\n\n\"Lord Tremaine. Did you sleep well?\"\n\nHis gaze met hers, level, innocent. \"Oh, yes, splendidly. I slept like a log.\"\n\nWhile she suffered for the want of him. While she alternately berated herself and marveled at what she had done. While she went over each moment of their perilous encounter, recalling his topography, his texture, his scent, and his frightening yet delicious weight as he held her captive.\n\nHe smiled at her. And it hit her like a mallet to the temple, the realization that she was in love with him. Stupidly, dreadfully in love with him.\n\nOvernight, she'd become a fool.\nChapter Five\n\n_9 May 1893_\n\nPhilippa!\" Freddie cried.\n\nPhilippa. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since she'd last heard her name on Freddie's lips. She'd loved the sound of the spirant syllables, loved the slight catch in Freddie's voice that always accompanied their utterance, as if he still couldn't believe that she permitted him to address her so intimately.\n\nBut all she could think now was that he didn't call her Gigi. He didn't even _know_ that she was Gigi. No other living man thought of her as Gigi.\n\nOnly Camden.\n\n\"Are you all right, my love?\"\n\nShe smiled at the man she adored. With his fair complexion, rosy cheeks, and earnest eyes, Freddie was Gainsborough's Blue Boy all grown up. He had a wonderful head of sandy curls, blue eyes the color of Delft chinoiserie, and a gentle, unassuming nature as kind as the sun in May. Her very own Mr. Bingley\u2014everything a young man ought to be.\n\n\"I'm fine, darling, I'm fine.\"\n\nHe came forward to take her hands in his but stopped before he quite reached her, the concern in his eyes breaking her heart. \"Can we be sure that Lord Tremaine has really left? What if it's a trap, and he returns to spy on you? He can . . . if he chooses to, he can make things unbearable for you.\"\n\nHow did she even begin to explain that Camden already had an armory of unbearable-making devices at his disposal? That he held her entire future in his not-so-tender mercy?\n\n\"Tremaine has been quite civil,\" she said. \"He is not the sort to throw tantrums.\"\n\n\"I can't believe he left town already,\" said Freddie. \"He arrived only yesterday afternoon.\"\n\n\"There is nothing keeping him here, is there?\" Gigi said.\n\nThey were in the back parlor where they usually took tea together, a room done in shades of lavender: the upholstery amethyst brocade, the draperies lilac velvet, and the tea service white with borders of wisteria. In her youth she had disdained all but the primary colors, but now she appreciated a broader segment of the spectrum.\n\nAnd so it was with Freddie. At eighteen\u2014or perhaps even twenty-three\u2014she'd have scoffed at an alliance with such a shy, unworldly man. She'd have seen him as an embarrassment, a burden. But she had changed. The only thing she saw when she looked at Freddie was the shining goodness of his heart.\n\n\"Where did he go?\" Freddie asked anxiously. \"When will he be back?\"\n\n\"He didn't bring a valet, so there is no one to tell us anything. I wouldn't even know he had gone off somewhere if Goodman hadn't overheard him telling the cabbie to take him to the train station.\"\n\nShe was incensed that he made free use of her house and her staff without informing her of his movements\u2014the least courtesy, surely. She was also profoundly relieved by the small respite of his absence.\n\nThe way she had ogled him this morning\u2014at his torso, which seemed to have been sculpted by the hands of Bernini himself, smooth, lean, lithe, with long, beautifully sinewed arms like those of a seasoned sailor\u2014could she have done anything more mortifying short of dropping her handkerchief and falling to the floor in a dead faint?\n\nShe and Freddie sat down side by side on the chaise longue. \"Tell me what he wanted,\" said Freddie. \"He must have wanted _something.\"_\n\nShe had been able to think of nothing but what Camden wanted. Even now, with him miles away, she was still distracted and tense. Disaster, that was what he wanted. For what else could bedding her achieve but somehow, somewhen, calamity on an epic scale?\n\n\"He is not convinced that we should be divorced for something as trivial as me wishing to marry someone else,\" she said. It was beyond her to tell Freddie that her husband meant to invoke his long-abdicated rights and shag her until she showed something for it. Nor could she reveal that she would submit to this connubial copulation, while planning to make use of every device ever invented to block conception.\n\nWhat was it about Camden that turned her into such a chiseler and now a double-crosser? \"But he's willing to be reasonable. If we are still determined to marry in a year's time, he'll let the divorce proceed.\"\n\n\"A year!\" Freddie exclaimed. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. \"Well, if that's his only condition, then it's not half so bad. We can wait a year. It will be an awfully long year, but we can wait.\"\n\n\"Freddie.\" She gripped his hand, gratitude inundating her heart. \"You are so good to me.\"\n\n\"No, no! You are the one who's good to me! Everyone else thinks I'm clumsy and dense. You are the only person who thinks I'm all right.\"\n\nOn any other day she'd have preened with pride, to think that at last she possessed the depth and maturity necessary to appreciate a diamond of the first water like Freddie, when all about her, men and women were still blinded by superficialities. But today her depth and maturity truly made their presence known. She was more than humbled; she felt unworthy. But she could not say it. Freddie looked to her for strength and guidance. She must not tumble off her pedestal now.\n\n\"I am most certainly not. I know for a fact that Miss Carlisle thinks highly of you.\"\n\nMiss Carlisle was in love with Freddie. She was dignified and self-contained about it, but she could not conceal it from Gigi. Normally, Gigi would not have pointed out such a thing to Freddie. But these were not normal times, and her guilt overshadowed her possessiveness.\n\n\"Angelica? Really? She used to laugh at me all the time when we were younger, whenever I fell off my pony or some such. And she used to tell me that I was a veritable idiot.\"\n\n\"People change as they grow older,\" Gigi said. \"At some point we learn to value kindness and constancy above all else, and in that, we cannot find better than you, Freddie.\"\n\nFreddie smiled in pleasure. \"If you say so, then it must be so. Angelica hasn't been feeling quite well lately. I've been meaning to have a bottle of tonic sent to her. I think I'll deliver it in person now, and ask her if I've become less of a dunce over the years.\"\n\nThe mantel clock chimed the half hour. Freddie had been in her parlor for fifteen minutes. She used to allow his calls to stretch for half an hour and more, but that was no longer possible with Camden's return.\n\n\"I think I'd better go,\" Freddie said, standing up. \"Though I hate to leave.\"\n\nShe rose. \"I hate it too. I wish\u2014oh, never mind what I wish.\"\n\nFreddie clasped her hands in his broad, warm palms. \"Are you sure you are quite all right, my love? Are you really sure?\"\n\nNo, she was not all right. She felt ill and lonely. And appalled at herself. She was about to undertake a dangerous gamble, lying and cheating at both ends. And here she thought she had forever sworn off fraud and swindle.\n\nShe mustered a radiant smile for him. \"Don't worry about me, darling. Remember what you yourself have said? Nothing can shake me. Nothing.\"\n\nLangford Fitzwilliam, the Duke of Perrin, began his five-mile afternoon walk a half hour earlier than usual. He liked a little unpredictability from time to time, as currently his life consisted of all the variety of a mediocre vicar's Sunday sermons. But he didn't mind it, not too much. A scholar needed peace and quiet to delve deep into the Homeric past and the heroic battles before the walls of Ilium.\n\nOne of his favorite places along the walk was a cottage located exactly two and a quarter miles from his front door. The cottage itself was ordinary enough: two stories, white walls, red trims. Its gardens, however, were worthy of a sonnet, if not a hoity-toity ode outright.\n\nThe front garden was a fantasia of roses. And not just the tight-budded roses he usually came across but full-open, immodest blooms from an earlier, less straitlaced era\u2014big, riotous flowers weighing down bushes and drooping off trellises, ranging from the most pristine blush to a wine-dark, blowsy red.\n\nHe was curious about the back garden, where gardeners often concentrated the main of their energy and effort. But a high hedge surrounded the back garden, and all he could see was the ridge of what looked to be the roof of a sizable greenhouse. He did not wish to make the acquaintance of the cottage's residents, so he waited for that inevitable day when someone forgot to put away the ladder after trimming the hedge.\n\nHe had no scruples about peeking into a private garden. What was anyone going to do? Call the constable on him? The one thing he had learned from nearly thirty years of being a duke was that, short of actual murder, he could get away with just about anything.\n\nToday, however, there was a ladder, though it didn't lean on the hedge. Instead, it had been put up against an elm tree across the lane from the garden. A woman stood on the ladder, her back to him, dressed in an afternoon gown much too fashionable and ridiculous for such things as climbing fifteen-foot ladders.\n\nThe woman was lecturing a cat, a kitten that she was attempting to perch on a branch twelve feet off the ground, a sight that halted Langford dead in his tracks.\n\n\"Shame on you, Hector! You are a cousin of the mighty lions of the savannah. You disgrace them! Now stay put, and you will be rescued in time.\"\n\nThe kitten disagreed with her assessment. The moment she removed her hands, it leapt back into her bosom.\n\n\"No, Hector!\" the woman cried as she caught the cat. \"You will not do this again. You will not foil my plan. You will not be yet one more capricious male to stand between my daughter and a coronet of strawberry leaves!\"\n\nLangford's interest in the situation escalated dramatically, given that he was the only man in a fifty-mile radius known to possess a coronet of strawberry leaves\u2014the ducal headgear worn at the coronation of a sovereign. He wasn't quite sure where his particular coronet was kept, though, there having been not a single British coronation during his lifetime.\n\n\"Listen to me, Hector.\" The woman lifted the kitten until the creature's eyes were level with her own. \"Listen and listen well. If you do not cooperate, I will cut every ounce of fish, liver, tongue, you name it, out of your meals. What's more, I will bring a dog into the house and feed it foie gras right in front of you. A dog, you understand, a dirty cur like Gigi's Croesus.\"\n\nThe kitten meowed pathetically. The woman remained pitiless. \"Now up you go, and stay this time.\"\n\nAnd damned if the kitten didn't obey, meowing plaintively but staying put all the same. The woman let out a long sigh and slowly descended the ladder. Langford began moving again, tapping his walking stick purposefully on the packed soil of the lane.\n\nThe woman turned at the sound. She was beautiful, with jet-dark hair, alabaster skin, and red lips, like Snow White after a few decades of happily-ever-after\u2014and older than he'd supposed. From her voice and her figure he'd thought her somewhere in her thirties, but she was at least forty, likely more.\n\nAt the sight of him, her eyes widened to the size of gold guineas, but she recovered quickly. \"I do beg your pardon, sir.\" She sounded breathless, nothing like the tyrant she'd been with Hector. \"I don't mean to trouble you, but I can't get to my kitty. He is stuck up high.\"\n\nHe frowned. He had a fearsome frown, the kind that sent people scurrying to the opposite side of a room. \"You have no groom or footman to retrieve the beast for you?\"\n\nShe was clearly offended by his reference to the fur ball but swallowed it. \"I have given them the afternoon off, I'm afraid.\"\n\nA woman who thought ahead, a rare phenomenon. Although, if he was pressed hard, he'd admit that men who thought ahead were equally rare. His frown deepened, but it seemed to have temporarily lost its menace, for she was not at all deterred by it.\n\n\"Won't you be so kind as to retrieve it for me?\" she asked, all fluttering handkerchief and feminine helplessness.\n\nA delightful conundrum. Should he rudely refuse and watch her crumple or play along for a bit of diversion?\n\n\"Certainly,\" he said. Why not? His life had become monotonous of late. And he'd been fond of charades and tableaux in his younger days.\n\nEagerly, she stood aside and watched his approach with such idolatrous rapture that he felt like the Golden Calf itself. If he hadn't known that she was an ambitious mama who had him marked out for her daughter, he'd have thought she was out to ensnare him herself.\n\nHe ascended the ladder, a rickety contraption that did not sound willing to hold his weight. The kitten had stopped its meows and regarded him uncertainly. He grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and brought it down. As soon as it could, the kitten jumped free of him and landed back in its mistress's bosom\u2014an ample bosom that strained the front of her bodice very nicely.\n\n\"Hector,\" she cooed shamelessly. \"You had me worried, you naughty kitten.\" Hector, still frightened over a vegetarian future, did not contradict her. \"How can I thank you enough, sir?\"\n\n\"It is gratification enough to be of assistance. Good afternoon, madam.\"\n\n\"But you must let me know your place of domicile at least, good sir!\" she cried. \"My cook makes an excellent strawberry cake. I shall have one sent to you.\"\n\n\"I thank you, madam. But I am not overly fond of strawberries.\"\n\n\"A cherry pie, then.\"\n\n\"I have nothing to do with cherries.\" Now he'd see how far she'd go to worm her way into his acquaintance.\n\nShe was taken aback, but again, her recovery was quick. \"I also have a case of Ch\u00e2teau Lafite claret, from the forty-six vintage.\"\n\nThis was an offer more difficult to resist. He had acquired a taste for fine wines in his younger years. And '46 was an extraordinary vintage for Ch\u00e2teau Lafite. He had gone through his last bottle three years ago.\n\nTwo things immediately became clear about her. She was much wealthier than he'd guessed from her modest cottage. And this scheme to rope him in for her daughter was no lark. She was prepared to go if not to hell then at least to Jakarta and back.\n\n\"Or do you not care for that either, sir?\" She played it coy, having already perceived his temptation.\n\nHe gave in. \"I live at Ludlow Court.\"\n\nHer right hand detached itself from the kitten, arced in the air, and returned\u2014 _smack!\u2014_ to her bosom, fingers spread in a gesture that traditionally heralded delighted incoherence. \"Surely\u2014oh, dear! You do not\u2014 but\u2014goodness gracious me!\"\n\nAs she was made from sterner, cat-exploiting stuff, she sank not into a faint but into a gorgeous curtsy. \"Your Grace. I shall have the case delivered to Ludlow Court before dinner.\"\n\nAs she straightened herself, he suddenly had the feeling that he had seen her before, back when the world was young\u2014or at least when he was. He dismissed the thought and nodded curtly. \"Good afternoon.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Rowland,\" she supplied, though he still hadn't asked for her identity, even implicitly. \"Good afternoon, Your Grace.\"\n\nMrs. Rowland. The name triggered a new stirring in his mind but nothing strong enough to yield a remembrance. She had the good sense to let him go without further ado\u2014or any mention of her daughter\u2014leaving him mystified and rather too curious for his liking.\nChapter Six\n\n_December 1882_\n\nMiss Rowland did not skip rocks. She tossed them. Shelves of thin, brownish ice hugged the stream's two banks, but a narrow band of water still flowed free at its center. Into this part of the brook she flung the rocks, _plop, plop, plop._ There was no particular rhythm to it. Sometimes she threw a dozen pebbles in quick succession, sometimes a minute or more would pass between two _plops._ It was as if she underscored her own state of mind, restiveness followed by a stretch of contemplation, only to be overtaken by yet another fit of agitation.\n\nWhen there were no more stones to be had, she sat down on a tree stump, her chin on her knee, her long, lugubrious blue cape flapping about her ankles in the unrelenting gust. From where Camden stood at the top of the opposite bank, he couldn't see her face beneath the rim of her hat. But he felt the loneliness that emanated from her, a loneliness that echoed somewhere deep within him.\n\nHe'd been able to think of nothing else except her.\n\nYears ago, he'd come to accept that courting Theodora\u2014a woman who couldn't make up her mind about him, whom he hadn't seen in a year and a half\u2014opened him up to temptations in the here and now.\n\nSomehow, a young man of reasonable looks and sexual restraint posed an irresistible challenge to a certain subset of women, across class strata, in every capital of Europe. If he had a franc, a mark, or a ruble for every time he had been propositioned from the age of sixteen onward, he could retire to the country and live the life of a prosperous squire.\n\nHe'd turned down every last one of those offers, with tact and dignity when possible and ingenuity otherwise. A man of honor did not profess love for one woman while welcoming a host of others into his bed.\n\nIt wasn't easy, but it was doable. Being busy helped. Having no moral or philosophical opposition to solitary releases helped. Immersing himself in his chosen field helped\u2014thermodynamic equations and advanced calculus tended to keep one's mind off breasts and buttocks.\n\nBut nothing helped now. He was busy all day long, seeing to the beast of an estate that was Twelve Pillars, yet thoughts of Miss Rowland clamored every other minute. Whatever he did in the privacy of his bedchamber only created more fantasies of her to agitate him the next day. Thoughts of _her_ breasts and buttocks\u2014not to mention her morosely hungry eyes and her heavy, cool spill of hair\u2014rendered him slow and bungling before simple quadratic equations and utterly impotent in the face of integrals of logarithms.\n\nAnd yet if it were only a case of simple, rampant lust. That would be perfectly understandable in the case of a young man of robust appetites who stubbornly refused to surrender his virginity. But he wanted more than just to touch her. He wanted to know her.\n\nTheodora's mother, as pushy and determined as she was, had nothing on Mrs. Rowland, the patron goddess of all ambitious mamas. At least Countess von Schweppenburg had the excuse of being poor and needing the security of a well-married daughter, whereas Mrs. Rowland was driven entirely by\u2014he felt\u2014her own unfulfilled ambition, something that cracked a harder whip than did any of Beelzebub's lieutenants.\n\nAnd yet Miss Rowland did not fear her mother, not one little bit. If anything, Mrs. Rowland was in awe of her daughter, amazed beyond all expectations by this Hannibal of social climbing, who managed to bring her pound-sterling elephants across the figurative Alps of aristocratic disdain to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting London society.\n\nTwo days after their accidental meeting, he'd paid a formal call to the Rowlands, in the company of his parents and his siblings, Claudia and a bored Christopher. Claudia, impressed by the Greek marbles, Louis XIV furniture, and Renaissance paintings stretching as far as the eyes could see, begged to have a tour of Briarmeadow.\n\nWhile his parents continued to converse with Mrs. Rowland, Miss Rowland obligingly conducted the three callers of her generation through the drawing rooms, the library, and the solarium. Christopher became more and more restless and, finally, in the gallery, before a miniature portrait of Carrington that must have been given to Miss Rowland upon their engagement, he lost his company manners and reverted to fourteen-year-old loutishness.\n\n\"Mother always said Cousin Carrington was a terrible example,\" said Christopher. \"I guess you'll marry any bounder who has a coronet of strawberry leaves.\"\n\nShe didn't even break her stride. \"My Lord Christopher, with your family's depleted resources and your vast personal charm, I predict you'll marry any heiress who would have you, teeth and literacy on her part strictly optional.\"\n\nCamden's face hurt from not laughing out loud at his brother's dismay. Christopher might be an oaf, but he was still the son of an English duke and the grandson of a Bavarian prince. Another young woman in her place, feeling the inferiority of her station, would have suffered his rudeness or, at best, laughed it off. She, however, smacked the boy hard and put him in his place with the ruthless efficiency of a born predator.\n\nUnlike her mother, who garnished the house with subtle reminders of her erudition\u2014Mycenaean bronze, possibly older seals from the island of Crete, glass-encased fragments of papyrus dating to the time of the pharaohs\u2014Miss Rowland felt no need to prove to the world that she knew Antiphanes from Aristophanes. She was fine, thank you, with being the daughter of a man whose forebears, only a few generations ago, had washed laundry and carried coal for those exalted families into which she intended to marry.\n\nHe admired her surety. She knew her own worth and did not pretend otherwise for those who judged her on her parentage. But by refusing to tolerate fools and play nice, she'd condemned herself to a solitary path, both in defeat and in victory.\n\nCamden walked his horse down the incline until he was nearly at water's edge and mounted it to cross the stream. As soon as he reached dry land, he dismounted and tethered the horse. By then she was already standing up, shaking the dust from her skirts.\n\n\"Miss Rowland.\" On impulse he didn't offer to shake her hand but took her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cold, satiny cheek. He was still a foreigner to these parts, and he wasn't above taking advantage of it. \"I beg your pardon. I must have thought myself still in France.\"\n\nTheir gazes entangled. Her eyes were a nearly absolute black, the boundary between pupil and iris impossible to discern at any civilized distance. She glanced down momentarily, her eyelashes long and striking against the paleness of her skin. Then she looked back at him. \"No need to beg pardon, my lord. It's quite acceptable to flirt with a girl you don't plan to marry. I don't mind.\"\n\nHe should be embarrassed, but he wasn't. \"Do you flirt with men you don't plan to marry?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" she said. \"I don't even flirt with men I do plan to marry.\"\n\nHis darling little tigress. All blunt grandeur during the day. All melting fire at night. \"You talk to them about their ledgers instead,\" he teased.\n\nThat elicited a small smile from her. \"I prefer the direct approach.\"\n\nHe grew hot from these mere words. Had her approach to him been any more direct that night, he'd have kept her in bed so long, they'd have been discovered by Mrs. Rowland herself.\n\n\"It's cold,\" he said. \"You should be inside.\"\n\nThe winter here was nothing like that of the true North, where temperatures plunged to such abysmal lows that she'd need much more than a cup of hot chocolate to warm up: She'd require a bottle of vodka and a man's naked body.\n\nShe sighed. \"I know. I can hardly feel my toes. But it's the only way I can have a bit of peace, away from my mother. She hasn't stopped talking of you since your stay. And she would not be convinced that I've already done my level best to make you her son-in-law. After my success with Carrington, she thinks I've but to will it and a man will stride forth to offer his hand.\"\n\n\"I could dispel her illusions for you,\" he said.\n\nShe shook her head. \"She met Miss von Schweppenburg last season. No offense to Miss von Schweppenburg, but nothing you can say will persuade her that I'm not a better match for you.\"\n\nIt was hard to argue with that. Even harder to remember his nobler intentions standing next to her, knowing that she wanted him with a cynic's hidden ardor, knowing exactly how she'd feel underneath him.\n\nBut he must not think only of himself. Theodora needed him. She was frightened of this world; he could not abandon her to the vagaries of fortune.\n\nMiss Rowland checked the small watch that dangled from her wrist. \"Crumbs. It's half past three already. I'd best head back home. Or my mother will be out looking for me high and low again.\"\n\nShe offered him her hand to shake. \"Good day, Lord Tremaine.\"\n\nHe shook her hand. But somehow, he didn't let go when he was supposed to.\n\nHe didn't want her to leave. He wanted something\u2014not the wild lovemaking of his fantasies, but something reasonable and halfway decent that would keep her with him for a bit longer.\n\nExcept his wit deserted him.\n\nHe could think of nothing. And he could not let go of her hand.\n\nGigi's mind was a chaos of hopes and fears in collision. One moment they were both on their best behavior, following the established choreography of decorum to the last dip and turn. The next thing she knew, he either owed her an apology or a kiss.\n\nShe received neither. He simply stepped back from her, tilted his head, and grinned ruefully. \"That was gauche of me, wasn't it?\"\n\nAnd that was it. No fumbling words of explanation, no awkwardness, no opening for her to demand compensation without coming across as either bumpkinish or hysterical.\n\nShe gazed upon him with churlish admiration. This man knew far more of potentially compromising situations than she'd heretofore suspected. The smoothness with which he extricated himself was both impressive and disquieting. Perhaps he _was_ only flirting with her after all, a dalliance to entertain him for the duration of his holiday in the backwoods.\n\n\"I suppose only you could judge that, my lord,\" she said.\n\n\"You should take my horse,\" he said.\n\nAn expression of horror crossed his face then, as if he'd openly and loudly declared before his mother and hers that he'd like to get under her petticoats and stay there but good.\n\nHe'd gone out of his way to be considerate of her fear, walking the stallion at a crawling speed and tethering it far away from her. Yet now he'd forgotten all about it. Her heart soared. Beneath his sleek serenity, he'd been as flustered as she, possibly more.\n\n\"I don't ride,\" she reminded him.\n\nHe took a deep breath, the audible exhalation as close an admission of mortification as she was likely to get from him.\n\n\"Why don't you?\" he asked, once again his cool, collected self. \"I can't believe your mother would have omitted equestrian lessons.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"She didn't. I choose not to ride.\"\n\n\"Tell me why. You seem like you would enjoy riding, enjoy the control and freedom it affords you.\"\n\nOh she'd enjoyed it, all right. She'd loved riding. Until she'd fallen off for the second time, breaking three ribs and her right arm in two places. \"I'm afraid of horses. That's all.\"\n\n\"And why are you afraid of horses? They are far milder and more reasonable creatures than dowager duchesses. You are not afraid of the latter, from what I hear.\"\n\nHe certainly had ways to loosen her tongue, with his gentle, persistent, and\u2014by all appearances\u2014genuine interest in her. Not her money, because she'd already tried to give it to him. _Her._\n\n\"I fell twice. Hurt myself badly the second time.\"\n\nStill he shook his head. \"You'd have gotten back up on that horse before the doctors even let you out of bed. What really happened?\"\n\nIt was none of his business. None of his concern. At least, not while he considered himself promised to another. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, only to hear herself say, \"A disappointed fortune hunter. He was infuriated with my mother for keeping him at arm's length and chose to take it out on me. He took what little was left in his wallet and bribed our groom.\"\n\nAnd when the first fall did her no damage\u2014having just slowed down when the saddle strap snapped, she slid off and landed on something soft\u2014he tried it one more time. \"I was lucky. The doctors said I could easily have broken my spine and been bedridden for life rather than just two months.\"\n\nMr. Henry Hyde, Gigi's would-be maimer, had been arrested two days later on unrelated charges. Apparently he was so desperate for fresh funds that he'd attempted to poison his widowed aunt for the few hundred pounds promised to him in her will. He died while imprisoned.\n\nLord Tremaine listened intently. She couldn't tell by his solemn eyes whether he was disgusted or saddened. She regretted her candor already. What good did it do to burden him with all this ugly history?\n\n\"Please wait here,\" he said. \"I'll be only a minute.\"\n\nHe returned, leading his horse behind him. For such a tall man, he moved with an easy grace, his leisurely seeming gait eating up the distance swiftly. His long riding boots reached halfway up his thighs. She had to exercise considerable restraint to not follow the lines of his fawn trousers and stare where she shouldn't.\n\n\"Will you walk a little with me?\" he asked, with great solicitude that told her nothing.\n\n\"Certainly.\" She didn't understand what he wanted, but it mattered not. She would do almost anything with him, up to and including forfeiting her virginity, if he but asked, with or without a nuptial contract.\n\nSince meeting him, every morning she woke up with a sweet, wrenching pain in her heart\u2014the joy and overwhelming terror of being in love\u2014not knowing how she would get through the day without him, not knowing how she would ever survive another encounter with him.\n\nThe land rose and flattened into a meadow, gray and yellow in winter, densely wooded to either side. They walked until they came to a weathered hitching post that hadn't been used in years. There Lord Tremaine stopped, tied the horse, and removed its saddlery, setting everything carefully down on the ground.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" she asked, beginning to be suspicious. \"Is anyone going to ride bareback?\"\n\n\"Come closer,\" he requested. \"I want you to watch me.\"\n\nAs if she could do anything else while he was near.\n\nHe looked into the stallion's eyes and ears, ran his hands down the horse's legs, and raised and inspected each hoof in turn. \"We really should sell him,\" he said. \"Carrington had a good eye for horseflesh, too good for his finances.\"\n\nHe picked up the saddle pad, smoothed it, and settled it on the horse's back. Then he placed the stirrup irons over the back of the saddle and folded the girth strap up so that neither would hit the horse while the saddle was being mounted. Only then did he lift the saddle high and set it down on the horse, as softly as he would place an infant in its bassinet, sitting the cantle just slightly high on the withers, so that as the rider swung into the saddle it would slide down into position while keeping the horse's coat in the correct orientation.\n\nShe was amazed. She'd never seen gentlemen do anything more physically demanding than lifting a shooting rifle. Yet here he was, performing a groom's work as if he'd done it hundreds of times before. There was a neatness to his motions, an efficiency, every task completed quickly, attentively, and well. She was beginning to understand his poise\u2014it was more than inborn confidence, it was also knowledge and experience.\n\n\"Come feel the girth,\" he commanded her.\n\nShe complied. The strap was strong and in good repair. He made her test the billet straps too and verify with her own eyes that everything had been properly fastened to the saddle. Only then did he buckle and tighten the girth, making sure that he didn't cinch the horse too tight, that he could slip his fingers between the girth and the horse's belly. She stared at his hands, so capable, skillful, dexterous\u2014and impossibly erotic in those supple, close-fitting black leather gloves.\n\nHe stood by the stallion's head and had it raise each of its forelegs, to settle the saddle and smooth out wrinkles in the pad. When he was at last satisfied that the horse was properly saddled, he rebridled it too, so that she could see every precaution had been taken, every procedure impeccably observed.\n\n\"You know what I want you to do, don't you?\" he said with a small smile. \"You are not afraid of horses. You are afraid of people wishing you harm.\"\n\nShe shrugged. \"What's the difference?\"\n\nHe held out his hand. \"I like to see you fearless.\"\n\nMemories of the fall came unbidden. She felt that unending instant of terror and panic, the flailing, the scream tearing her chest; she felt the desire to never leave her bed again, to coast on and on in her laudanum daze.\n\nIt was this incident, more than anything else, that had at last convinced her to marry as high as the sky. She would not be a victim of her fortune. She would hunt, rather than be hunted. Three months later the purchase of Briarmeadow was complete. Scant weeks afterward she'd fired the first salvo in the direction of Twelve Pillars.\n\nShe placed her hand in Lord Tremaine's. He gave her a quick squeeze, his eyes never leaving hers. \"Ready?\"\n\n\"It's not a sidesaddle,\" she said.\n\n\"Something tells me you know how to ride astride,\" he replied, entirely confident in his intuition. \"Come. Just fifty yards. A sedate little walk. I'll hold on to the reins.\"\n\nShe knew what he wanted. He wanted her to overcome her fear, and he wanted to be the one to help her reach that laudable goal. Had it been anyone else who'd led her to this point, she'd have risen to the challenge simply because she refused to show that much weakness.\n\nBut with him it was different. She wasn't afraid that he'd see her as less than invincible. Before him it seemed permissible, somehow, to be frank, frustrated, and, at times, even apprehensive.\n\nShe would mount that horse because she wanted to please him, to make him think that he'd made a material improvement to her life. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could make it fifty yards if she held on tight, clenched her teeth, and prayed to whichever deities had a little compassion for forlorn, uppish females.\n\n\"I promise not to ogle your trim ankles,\" he said lightly. \"If that's what you are concerned about.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't mention my ankles. And they are hardly trim.\" And the balmorals she wore were hardly those lace-frilled, eyelet-spangled fancy boots designed to make a man weak in the knees should he happen to catch a glimpse of them peeking out from underneath the hem of her dress.\n\n\"I'll be the judge of that. Now, should we?\"\n\n\"Fine, then, fifty yards.\"\n\nThe admiration in his eyes almost made the whole mad enterprise worthwhile. He sank down to one knee and cupped his hands together. She expelled a long, ragged breath, took hold of the reins with one hand, the cantle with the other, and placed her left foot on his hands. He gave her a strong boost, she swung her right leg over the horse's rump, and she was in the saddle.\n\nThe horse snorted and shifted. She squealed and reached wildly for the bridle. He caught her arms just in time.\n\n\"Easy,\" he murmured, to the horse or to her she couldn't be sure. \"Easy.\"\n\nThen he lifted his eyes to her, the most reassuring eyes she'd gazed into since her father had passed away. \"Don't worry. I'll keep you safe.\"\n\n\"I should have asked you to be my groom instead of my husband,\" she said.\n\nHe only grinned. \"Hold on.\"\n\nHe led the horse to a slow walk. Mercy, the ground must be fifty feet below her and receding. She'd forgotten what it was like to sit up so high on a great big stallion. She knew the horse's motion was gentle and smooth beneath her, but she _felt_ herself perched atop a wild bronco, about to be heaved off any second. An incipient nausea roiled her tummy. She wanted to throw her arms about the horse's neck, clamp her legs around its belly, and hang on for all she was worth. She wanted to get off _this instant._\n\n\"You are not really Lord Tremaine, are you?\" she said, desperate for distraction. \"You are a pauper who looks like him, and the two of you decided to switch places, fool everyone, and have a jolly old time.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Well, I am a pauper\u2014an 'improverished nobody' as you so aptly put\u2014except I'm already related to every royal house in Europe. So sometimes I put on my fancy clothes and go out and drink champagne with my noble cousins. Sometimes I change into rags and work in the stable. In truth, we shouldn't even have kept horses. But my father said then we might as well stop wearing hats and shoes. It was one economy I could not persuade him to make.\"\n\nHis answer was so breathtakingly frank that she momentarily forgot her fear of an imminent tumble. \"And your parents permitted this . . . this folly?\"\n\n\"They turned a blind eye and pretended that somehow I was able to run the house better and for less expense without ever dirtying my own hands. Or running betting games at whichever lyceum I happened to be attending.\"\n\n\"Betting games?!\"\n\n\"Games that tend to run true to probability. So I could promise a prize of, say, a pound, and charge my fellow lyceans\u2014particularly those who suffer at mathematics\u2014a shilling a try to line up six coins heads up while blindfolded. I always came out ahead.\"\n\n\"Good Lord,\" she breathed. \"Did you ever get caught?\"\n\n\"For having a few coins in my pocket?\" He chuckled. \"No. I was the most courteous, virtuous, promising young man any professor had ever seen.\"\n\nThere was such lovely mischief in his voice. He _was_ courteous, virtuous (as far as she could tell), and infinitely promising. But he was also clever, cunning, and willing to bend the rules.\n\nWhy did the Fates tempt her so? Why must he be so marvelously perfect for her and yet so abysmally unattainable?\n\n\"Is there anything you can't do?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, laughing. \"But there are things I can't do very well. I'm a terrible cook, for instance. I tried, but my family refused to live on my frugal meals.\"\n\nThe very idea of it shocked her. Even before he became Lord Tremaine, he'd been cousin to dukes and princes. This man, whose blood was so blue it was probably indigo, had worked before a stove and\u2014success or not\u2014produced at least one entire meal. What next? The Prince of Wales laying down railroad tracks with his own bare hands?\n\nAn even more shocking thought occurred to her. \"Did you plan to work for a living?\"\n\n\"I did. But lately I've become hesitant. A title does hamper things, even if it's only a courtesy title\u2014for now. I suppose running an estate is a noble and time-consuming task.\" He shrugged, his sleeve brushing the edge of her skirts. \"But it's not what I'd have chosen to do.\"\n\n\"And what would you have chosen?\"\n\n\"Engineering,\" he answered easily. \"I study mechanics at the Polytechnique.\"\n\n\"Your parents said something about physics or economics.\"\n\n\"My parents are still in denial. They think mechanics sounds too common, too much grease and smoke and soot.\"\n\n\"But why engineering?\" Her father had worked with dozens of engineers. They were an earnest and rather single-minded tribe, seemingly having nothing at all in common with the elegant marquess beside her.\n\n\"I like to build things. To work with my hands.\"\n\nShe shook her head. Hands. The future duke liked manual labor. \"Well, don't tell anyone else what you've told me,\" she cautioned. \"They wouldn't understand at all.\"\n\n\"I don't. I only told you because you spend as much time with your accountants and solicitors as you do your dressmaker. You are pushing to define a new normality as surely as I am.\"\n\nShe'd never thought of herself quite that way. She was more an idiosyncratic ignorer of established boundaries than a glutton for the new and the uncharted. But perhaps they were one and the same, each one implying the other.\n\nShe looked at him, at his calm, unhurried progress, his gloved hand holding on securely to the horse's tether. His other hand he extended to the lower branches of the Old Willow, brushing their supple tips.\n\n\"I\u2014\" she began, and did not finish.\n\n_The Old Willow._ They were going by the Old Willow. Which was at least a furlong away from the hitching post. She couldn't believe it. Yet as she glanced back, the hitching post in the distance was the size of a matchstick.\n\n\"Yes?\" he prompted her, keeping up their stately pace.\n\nShe looked back one more time to make certain her eyes hadn't cheated her. There was no mistake. She'd come some two hundred yards, her nausea having dissipated somewhere along the way, her hands no longer gripping the reins but holding them loosely, almost casually.\n\nSomehow, in animated conversation with him, the impossible had happened. She'd forgotten her fear and her body had relaxed into a comforting, familiar rhythm.\n\n\"We've done more than fifty yards, I think,\" she murmured.\n\nHe looked behind. \"So we have.\"\n\n\"You knew we'd gone past fifty yards long ago, didn't you?\"\n\nHe didn't answer her directly. \"Would you like me to help you dismount?\"\n\nWould she? Suddenly she felt dizzy again, not with fear but with the exhilarating absence of it, the way simple robust health felt a blessing and a miracle after a long, painful illness. No, she didn't want to dismount. She wanted to ride, to hurtle along in a mad dash.\n\nHe stepped back. \"Go ahead,\" he said.\n\nSo she did. It felt wonderful, the sensation as new as the first shoots of spring, as weightless as walking on water. She gave in to the moment, to the euphoria of once again being young and fearless. The horse, as if sensing her elation, flew.\n\nIf she could distill the sensations that flooded her\u2014the headlong rush, the metrical, earthy hoofbeats pounding away beneath her, the dense evergreen woods tearing by at the periphery of her vision, and the cold wind that was utterly powerless before the fire of her exuberance\u2014she would have the essence of joy.\n\nShe heard herself laugh, all breathless, incredulous delight. She urged the horse to even greater speed, feeling its strength and spirit radiate into her every organ and sinew.\n\nOnly as the horse sped up the next incline did she rein it to a stop, then turned it around. Lord Tremaine was there in the distance. He set his thumb and forefinger against his teeth and whistled, a piercing note of conspiratorial celebration. She grinned, feeling her mirth spread from ear to ear, and answered his call, galloping back toward him as if she were a medieval knight at tournament and he her striking post.\n\nHe ran toward her, as light-footed and swift as a creature of the African savannah, and reached her just as she slowed. She unhooked her feet from the stirrups and threw herself into his waiting arms. He easily took the impact of her momentum and weight, lifting her high in the air and spinning her around.\n\n\"I did it!\" she yelled, unladylike and thrilled.\n\n\"You did it!\" he cried at almost the exact same moment.\n\nThey grinned hugely at each other. He set her down but left his hands around her waist. She happily let her hands remain on his shoulders. \"I couldn't have done it without you.\"\n\n\"Don't encourage me, I'm not so modest to begin with.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Excellent. I hate modesty with a passion.\"\n\nAnd loved him to distraction. He had done it. He had cajoled and wheedled and lured her out of her self-imposed exile from all things equestrian and restored a treasured joy to her life.\n\nHer hands crept toward his collar, and then, before she knew it, she was cradling his face in her palms, the tips of her ring fingers brushing at his earlobes. He went still, the laughter in his eyes transmuting to a dark, quiet intensity, almost forbidding if he hadn't momentarily chewed on his lower lip.\n\nShe carved a thumb along his cheekbone, tracing its subtle contour, feeling the weight and the heat of his unwavering, unblinking stare. This was\u2014or should be\u2014 their moment, the coming together of two kindred souls in an instant of ecstatic camaraderie.\n\nShe spread her fingers, pushing her kidskin-clad fingertips into his hair, pulling his head down toward hers. She wanted him. She needed him. They were perfect for each other. One kiss, just one kiss. And he'd know it too, not just deep in his heart but foremost on his mind.\n\nHe didn't stop her. He was compliant to the gentle pressure of her hands, his eyes gazing down at her with an almost befuddled wonder. Bliss erupted in her. He'd seen the light. He'd at last understood the unique, rare splendor of their bond.\n\nThey came so close she could count his eyelashes\u2014and no closer.\n\n\"I can't,\" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. \"I'm pledged to another.\"\n\nHer bliss turned to cold daggers in her heart. Her limbs froze. But disbelief still reigned, like a mother's denial over a child's abrupt and senseless death. \"You _really_ want to marry Miss von Schweppenburg?\"\n\n\"I've told her that I would,\" he answered obliquely.\n\n\"Does she care?\" Gigi could barely keep the bitterness out of her voice.\n\nHe sighed. \"I care.\"\n\nHer hands dropped. The pain in her chest was her hopes charring to ashes. But still those hopes smoldered, pinpricks of unbearable light in piles of hot cinder. \"And what if you hadn't pledged yourself to her?\"\n\n\"What if my departed cousin had chosen a less fateful way to express his disdain for the great city of London?\" His eyes were such raw intoxication, all ruinous gentleness and wistful resignation. \"Life is intractable enough as it is. Don't torment yourself with what-ifs.\"\n\nThe opportunities she'd lost with Carrington's death had not beleaguered her, because they were only those of title and privilege, a business alliance fallen through. She was the daughter of an entrepreneurial man. She understood that even the most careful nurturing didn't always yield the fruits one sought.\n\nWith Lord Tremaine, she'd lost all detachment and perspective.\n\n\"You have already proposed to Miss von Schweppenburg?\"\n\n\"I will.\" He was unequivocal. \"When I hear from her next.\"\n\nSlowly, unwillingly, she began to understand that for good or ill, he intended to marry Miss von Schweppenburg. Neither the prospect of riches nor the promise of carnal delight would lure him away from this chosen path.\n\nHer entire happiness\u2014something she hadn't even known she remotely cared about\u2014had hung on his answer. And he'd doomed her. He might as well have shot the stallion out from under her as she galloped toward him in feckless rapture.\n\n\"I'm sure you will be very happy together,\" she said. A lifetime of training under Mrs. Rowland was barely enough to force that platitude past her larynx with any semblance of dignity.\n\nHe bowed and handed the reins of the horse to her. \"The day flees. You'll return home faster riding.\"\n\nHe helped her mount. They shook hands again as they bid each other good day. This time, he did not linger in his touch.\n\nHalf a mile out, it hit Gigi that Lord Tremaine didn't know exactly where Miss von Schweppenburg was.\n\nLast season, Mrs. Rowland, in a mood of largesse, had invited the countess and Miss von Schweppenburg to attend a garden party. They'd declined\u2014with a longish note full of regret from Miss von Schweppenburg\u2014as they'd have departed London already.\n\nGigi had thought it strange that a team with nothing but advantageous marriage on their mind would leave before the most fruitful time of year for proposals: the end of July. She was, however, not surprised to later hear of rumors that pressing debts had forced the von Schweppenburgs to leave town sooner than they'd wished. Perhaps they'd underestimated the cost of a London season. Perhaps such was their usual practice and this time they misjudged the patience of their landlord and creditors.\n\nShe hadn't cared then to find out what exactly was the case. And she didn't now. The important thing was that Lord Tremaine's intelligence on Miss von Schweppenburg's whereabouts and goings-on at any given point in time wasn't much better than Gigi's. And if Miss von Schweppenburg's waffling stance was any indication, he was by far the more reliable correspondent of the two.\n\nPart of her recoiled at the direction of her thoughts. _Beyond this point there be monsters._ But just as a locomotive hurtling at full speed could not be stopped by a mere wooden fence across the tracks, her thoughts rumbled on, to the defiant _clickety-clack_ of _if only . . . if only . . . if only . . ._\n\nIf only Miss von Schweppenburg were already married. Or if only Lord Tremaine came to believe, somehow, that such was the case.\n\n_Do not consider such a thing,_ begged her good sense. _Do not even think it._\n\nBut her good sense was no match for the wrenching pain in her heart, for her crushing need of him. She could bear everything, if only she could have him for a year, a month, a day.\n\nIf he would not offer her this opportunity, then she'd create it herself, by fair means or foul, at whatever cost, come plague or locust.\nChapter Seven\n\n_13 May 1893_\n\nThe hansom cab stopped. \"Yer house, guv,\" said the driver.\n\nA long line of landaus and clarences filled the curb up and down from the Tremaine town house. His wife was having herself a party, it seemed, with some thirty, forty people in attendance. Camden had been gone four days to visit his parents. Was she celebrating his disappearance off the face of the earth already?\n\nThe butler, though distressed to see his return, hid it well under a layer of huffy solicitude. Milord must be tired. Would milord care for a bath? A shave? Dinner delivered to his room? Camden half-expected an offer of laudanum too, to tumble milord into a quick, insensate slumber, so that milady's soir\u00e9e could continue unhindered.\n\n\"Are more people expected?\" he asked. They would be, if there was to be a ball.\n\n\"No, sir,\" Goodman answered stiffly. \"It is only a dinner.\"\n\nCamden consulted his watch. Half past ten. The guests should be in the drawing room by now, both the men and the women, getting ready to take their leave in the next half hour in order to make the rounds of balls and _soir\u00e9es dansantes._\n\nHe pushed open the double door to the drawing room and saw his wife first, splendid in a surfeit of diamonds and ostrich feathers. Next to her stood an exceptionally handsome man, who, with a frown on his face, seemed to be admonishing her. She listened to him with an expression of exaggerated patience.\n\nSlowly, one by one, then by twos and threes, the guests realized who had come amongst them, even though none of them had ever met him. The hum of conversation faded, until even _she_ had to glance at the door to see what had caused the hush.\n\nHer mouth tightened as she registered his presence, but she let not a second pass before putting on a bright, false smile and coming toward him. \"Camden, you are back. Come, do meet some of my friends. They are all dying to make your acquaintance.\"\n\nSuch breathtaking insolence. Such cheek. Such bollocks. He hoped Lord Frederick liked wearing skirts. Camden took his wife by the elbows and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He had heard that he had the most courteous marriage known to man. Far be it for him to argue otherwise. \"Of course. I would be delighted.\"\n\nFollowing her lead, her guests received him amicably, though most of them didn't quite achieve her smoothness. The handsome man from her t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate she introduced last, by which time he was standing by a tall brunette as uncommonly fine-looking as himself.\n\n\"Allow me to present Lord Tremain,\" said his wife. \"Camden, Lord and Lady Wrenworth.\"\n\nSo this was Lord Wrenworth, The Ideal Gentleman, according to Mrs. Rowland, and Gigi's erstwhile lover.\n\n\"A pleasure, my lord,\" said Lord Wrenworth, with all the creamy innocence of a man who had never cuckolded Camden.\n\nCamden found he was almost enjoying himself. He appreciated a fine bit of farce. \"Likewise. You wouldn't be the same Felix Wrenworth who authored that fascinating article on the capture of comets by Jupiter?\"\n\nThis took everyone aback, especially Lady Tremaine.\n\n\"Are you an astronomy enthusiast as well, my lord?\" asked Lady Wrenworth, her tone tentative.\n\n\"Most assuredly, my dear lady,\" Camden answered with a smile.\n\nHis wife glanced uneasily at her former lover.\n\nThe guests, faced with the choice of either being the first to observe and gossip about the Tremaines appearing in public together or attending a ball not so different from the one they went to three days ago, forgot to leave.\n\nCamden did not disappoint. He was a charming host. But better than that, he was candid, to a degree.\n\n_How long did he intend to stay in England?_ A year, at least.\n\n_How did he like his house?_ His house, which he liked exceedingly well, was on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. But he found his wife's house agreeable enough.\n\n_Was not Lady Tremaine looking very fine tonight?_ Fine was much too tame a word. He'd known Lady Tremaine since she was practically an infant, and she'd never looked anything less than spectacular.\n\n_Had he met Lord Frederick Stuart yet?_ Lord who?\n\nIt was past midnight\u2014and after a few pointed reminders from his wife about their subsequent commitments\u2014that their guests finally prepared to depart. Lord and Lady Wrenworth were the last to leave. As Lady Wrenworth exited the front door, Lord Wrenworth turned around, pulled Gigi close, and whispered something into her ear, as if her husband weren't standing only five feet away.\n\nShe laughed, a sudden swell of mirth, and literally shoved Lord Wrenworth out the door.\n\n\"Let me guess. He proposed a m\u00e9nage \u00e0 trois?\" Camden asked lightly, as they mounted the stairs side by side.\n\n\"Felix? No. He has become a tiresome proponent of home and hearth since his marriage. In fact, he was arguing most tediously against the divorce the whole evening, before you came along.\" She, too, kept up her winsome facade. \"Well, if you must know, he said, 'Shag him silly.' \"\n\n\"And are you going to take his sage advice?\"\n\n\"To scrap the divorce or to shag you silly?\" She chortled, her nimbus of sexual charisma unmistakable. \"I'm not accepting counsel from Lord Wrenworth at this juncture, or from anyone else stupid enough to think that I should remain married to you. Frankly, I would have expected better from him. Freddie considers him a friend.\"\n\n_Poor Freddie,_ he thought.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, as they prepared to go their separate ways. \"Should I expect a visit tonight?\"\n\n\"Unlikely. I don't wish to upset my stomach. But do be on the lookout for them in the coming days.\"\n\nShe rolled her eyes. \"I can't wait.\"\n\nShe had said the same thing to him once before, on the last day of their short-lived happiness. Then she had meant it, had been pink-cheeked with delight and anticipation. As had he.\n\n\"I can,\" he said.\n\nShe sighed, a weary flutter of air. \"Go to hell, Camden.\"\nChapter Eight\n\n_December 1882_\n\nTheodora's letter arrived on the midday post three days after Camden's encounter with Miss Rowland. The sheaf of rose-scented paper notified him of her imminent marriage to a Polish nobleman\u2014imminent only in the past tense. The letter had been composed two days before the date of the wedding, but not posted for another three days.\n\nCamden could not imagine Theodora being married to anyone else. People in general made her nervous; even he did, to some extent, though she'd let him hold her hand and kiss her. She'd have been happiest far removed from the rest of humanity, a musical recluse in a chalet high up the Alps, with no neighbors but the cows at their summer pasture.\n\nHe worried about her. But even as he did, he could not stem the tide of excitement that the news engendered. Desire. Fascinated lust. Sensual bedazzlement. Covetousness by any other name was still rapacious. He wanted Miss Rowland. He wanted to laugh with her. He wanted to burn with her. And now he could.\n\nIf he married her.\n\nMarriage, however, was a serious matter, the commitment of a lifetime, a decision not to be rushed. He tried to approach the matter rationally, but like idiotic, lust-addled young men since time immemorial\u2014to which club he never imagined he'd belong\u2014all he could think of was Miss Rowland's eagerness on their wedding night.\n\nShe'd probably be the one to come into his room, rather than the other way around. She'd allow him to keep all the lights on so he could visually devour her to his heart's content. She'd spread her legs wide, then wrap them tightly about him. And he might even make her look at what he'd do to her, so he could watch her flushed cheeks, her lust-glazed eyes, and listen to her moans and whimpers of pleasure.\n\nGod, he would make love to her for days running.\n\nAfter a night of internal debate, during which much voluptuous fantasizing and very little sensible debate occurred, Camden resolved to put the choice to the Fates. If Miss Rowland was there again by the stream that day, he'd propose to her within the week. If not, he'd take it as a sign that he should hold off until the end of next term to allow time for more solemn reflection.\n\nHe spent the entire day at the bank of the brook, pacing up and down, all but climbing the naked trees. But she did not come. Not in the morning, not in the afternoon, not when the sky turned blue-black. And that was when he realized he was far gone: Not only was he immensely unhappy with the Fates, but he'd decided that the Fates could all go drown in a cesspit.\n\nHe returned his horse to the stable and requested a brougham be readied for him immediately.\n\nThe footman hesitated and looked inquiringly at Gigi. Her plate was still almost full. She pushed it aside. The plate disappeared to be replaced by another, a compote of pears.\n\n\"Gigi, you hardly ate anything,\" said Mrs. Rowland, picking up her fork. \"I thought you liked venison.\"\n\nGigi picked up her own fork and excavated a cube of pear from the clear syrup. She was being too obvious in her preoccupation. Her mother never worried that she ate too little. Quite the opposite. Mrs. Rowland usually feared that Gigi's appetite was too robust, that her corsets wouldn't lace tightly enough to achieve any decent approximation of the wasp waist.\n\nShe stared at her fork and could not accomplish the simple task of putting it in her mouth. Her stomach churned already. She had no confidence it could handle the sugar-drenched piece of fruit.\n\nShe set down the fork. \"I'm not that hungry tonight.\"\n\nMerely terrified.\n\nWhat she'd done was in every way unprincipled, and quite possibly criminal. Worse, she'd not only perpetrated a fraud, she'd made an incompetent mash of it. She'd been too impatient, her methods too crude. Any half-wit could pick up the rank odor of villainy and sniff the trail right to her door.\n\nWhat would Lord Tremaine do should he find out? And what would he _think_ of her?\n\nA footman entered the dining room and spoke a few low words to Hollis, their butler. Hollis then approached Mrs. Rowland. \"Ma'am, Lord Tremaine is here. Should I ask him to wait until dinner is finished?\"\n\nIt was a good thing Gigi had quit all pretense of eating, or she'd have dropped everything in her hand.\n\nMrs. Rowland rose, radiant with excitement. \"Absolutely not. We shall go greet him this instant. Come, Gigi. I've a suspicion that Lord Tremaine didn't come all the way to see _me._ _\"_\n\nMrs. Rowland was no doubt hearing wedding bells. But scandal and ruin loomed large in Gigi's mind. She would live out the rest of her life like Miss What's-her-name, the mad old spinster in a wedding dress, laying waste to her estate and infecting everyone with her bitterness.\n\nShe had no choice but to follow her mother, bleakly, grimly, a foot soldier who shared little of the general's optimism for victory and spoils, who saw only the bloodbath ahead.\n\nHe was there, standing in the middle of the drawing room\u2014the epitome of her desires, the instrument of her downfall, the eligible young scion who groomed horses and ran just slightly shady games of probability.\n\n\"My lord Tremaine,\" gushed Mrs. Rowland. \"Such a pleasure to see you, as always. What brings you to our humble abode at this unusual hour?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Rowland. Miss Rowland.\" Did he glance at her? Was that a flash of intense longing or chagrin? \"I do apologize for intruding on your evening.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mrs. Rowland airily. \"You know you are always welcome here, any time. Now do answer my question. My curiosity slays me.\"\n\n\"I'm here for a private word with Miss Rowland,\" replied Lord Tremaine, with breathtaking directness. \"With your permission, of course, Mrs. Rowland.\"\n\nFor the very first time in her life, Gigi felt faint without having first suffered a concussion. Either he'd come to denounce her or he'd come to propose to her. Unthinkable as it might have been a few days ago, she fervently hoped it was the former. He'd castigate her for the scum that she was. She'd grovel hopelessly for forgiveness. Then he'd depart and she'd lock herself in her room and bang her head on the wall until the wall gave.\n\n\"Most certainly,\" acceded Mrs. Rowland, with admirable restraint.\n\nShe withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her. Gigi did not dare look at him. She was certain that that, in itself, already betrayed her culpability.\n\nHe drew close to her. \"Miss Rowland, will you marry me?\"\n\nMore bloodcurdling words she'd never heard. Her head snapped up. Her eyes met his. \"Three days ago you were determined to marry someone else.\"\n\n\"Today I'm determined to marry you.\"\n\n\"What happened in the meantime to change your mind so drastically?\"\n\n\"I received a letter from Miss von Schweppenburg. She has married into the Princely House of Lobomirski.\"\n\n_No, she has not._ Gigi had plucked that name out of a book on European nobility she'd found in her mother's collection. She'd studied Miss von Schweppenburg's note, then composed her deception, carefully incorporating Miss von Schweppenburg's half apologies and powerless wistfulness. Then she'd taken everything to Briarmeadow's gamekeeper, an old man who'd been a forger in his youth and who regarded her with an indulgent, grandfatherly fondness.\n\n\"I see,\" she said weakly. \"So you've decided to be practical.\"\n\n\"I suppose you could say part of my decision was motivated by pragmatism,\" he said quietly, coming so close that she could smell the cold crisp scent of winter that still clung to his jacket. \"Though for the life of me, I can't remember any of those reasons.\"\n\nHe tipped her chin up and kissed her.\n\nShe'd kissed men before\u2014several\u2014when she got bored at balls or chafed from her mother's stricture. She considered the activity more bizarre than interesting and had sometimes studied the man she kissed with her eyes wide open, calculating the size of his debt.\n\nBut from the moment Lord Tremaine's lips touched hers, she was consumed, like a child tasting a lump of sugar for the very first time, overcome by the sweetness of it all. His kiss was as light as meringue, as gentle as the opening notes of the _Moonlight Sonata,_ and as nourishing as the first rain of spring after an endless winter drought.\n\nLight-headed and amazed, she drank in the kiss. Until simply being kissed by him wasn't enough anymore. She cupped his face and kissed him back with something far beyond enthusiasm, something closer to desperation, tremulous and wild.\n\nShe heard the muffled groan in his larynx, felt the physical change that signaled his arousal. He broke the kiss, pushed her an arm's length away, and stared at her, his breaths heavy and labored.\n\n\"My God, if your mother wasn't on the other side of the door . . .\" He blinked, then blinked again. \"Was that a yes?\"\n\nIt was not yet too late. She could still take the nobler path, confess everything, apologize, and keep her self-respect.\n\nAnd lose him. If he knew the truth, he would despise her. She couldn't face his anger. Or his scorn. Couldn't live without him. Not yet, not yet.\n\nShe wrapped her arms about his waist and laid her cheek against his shoulder. \"Yes.\"\n\nThe joy she felt at his fierce embrace was riddled with terror. But she'd made her choice. She would have him, for better or worse. She would keep him in the dark, for as long as possible.\n\nAnd when they were married, she would look upon his sleeping form, marvel at her vast good fortune, and ignore the constant encroachment of fear that tainted her very soul.\n\n* * *\n\nCamden had no idea he had it in him to be so happy. He was not the kind to derive unbridled joy from the pulse of the universe or any such nonsense. He never rolled out of bed wanting to breathe deeply of life it-self\u2014a poor man with well-meaning but inept parents to coddle and younger siblings to support had no time for such silly luxuries.\n\nBut with her by his side, he couldn't help being exuberant. She possessed magical properties, strong and bracing as a draft of the finest vodka and yet keeping him always at a delightful degree of tipsiness, that elusive point of equilibrium at which all the spheres of heaven came into exquisite alignment and a mere mortal sprouted wings.\n\nDuring their three-week engagement, he called on her with a frequency that was positively indecent, on most days riding over to Briarmeadow both morning and afternoon and accepting her mother's invitations to remain for tea and dinner without so much as a perfunctory protest that he must not impose too much on his kind hostesses.\n\nHe loved talking to Gigi. Her view of the world was as jaundiced and unromantic as his own. They agreed that, at the moment, neither of them amounted to anything, as he was no more responsible for his bloodline than she was for her million-pound inheritance.\n\nAnd yet for an inveterate cynic, she was as easy to please as a puppy. The inadequate bouquets he scavenged from Twelve Pillars' dilapidated greenhouse incited such euphoric responses that Julius Caesar on his triumphant return to Rome after the conquest of Gaul could not have been more madly thrilled. The rather modest engagement ring he bought her, with funds he'd saved for his passage to America and his first workshop, to be modeled after that of Herr Benz, brought her nearly to tears.\n\nThe day before the wedding, he drove to her house and sent for her to meet him in front. No gloomy blue cape this time; she arrived like a column of flame, in a mantle of rich strawberry red, with rosy cheeks and wine-colored lips to match.\n\nHe grinned, as he always did now when he met her. He was an ass, to be sure, but a happy ass. \"I have something for you,\" he said.\n\nShe laughed giddily when she opened the small wrapped package to reveal a still-warm pork bun. \"Now I truly have seen everything. Dare I guess you pillaged every last flower from your greenhouse yesterday?\"\n\nShe glanced about them in the mischievous way she had, signaling to him that she was about to come forward and kiss him, the public nature of her front lawn be damned. He stopped her, holding her forearms with his hands, so that she couldn't get any closer.\n\n\"I have something else for you.\"\n\n\"I know what you have for me,\" she said saucily. \"You wouldn't let me touch it yesterday.\"\n\n\"You can touch it today,\" he whispered.\n\n\"What?!\" She was still a virgin, after all. \"Out here, where everyone can see us?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\" He laughed at her expression of shock and mortified interest.\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"All right, then, I'll take the puppy and go home.\"\n\n\"A puppy?\" she squealed, like the nineteen-year-old she was. \"A puppy! Where is it? Where is it?\"\n\nHe lifted the basket out of the carriage, but swung it away from her eager hands just as she reached for it. \"I understand you don't wish to touch it in public.\"\n\nShe grabbed the other end of the basket. \"Oh, give me, give me! Pleeeease. I'll do anything.\"\n\nHe laughed and relented. She fumbled open the lid of the basket and out poked the brown-and-white head of a corgi puppy, wearing behind its neck a slightly lopsided blue bow made from ribbons Camden had pilfered from Claudia. Gigi squealed again and lifted the puppy. It regarded her with serious, intelligent eyes, not quite as thrilled as she was at their meeting but pleased and well-behaved nevertheless.\n\n\"Is it a boy or a girl?\" she inquired breathlessly, offering it pieces of the pork bun. \"How old is it? Does it have a name?\"\n\nCamden cast a glance at the puppy's rather obvious testicles. Perhaps she wasn't as knowledgeable as he'd thought. \"He's a boy. Ten weeks old. And I've decided to call him Croesus in honor of you.\"\n\n\"Croesus, my love.\" She touched her cheek to the puppy's nose. \"I shall get you a grand gilded water bowl, Croesus. And we will be the best of friends forever and ever.\"\n\nAt last she looked back at Camden. \"But how did you know I've always wanted a puppy?\"\n\n\"Your mother told me. She said she preferred cats and you pined for a dog.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"The day we met. After dinner. You were there. Don't you remember?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"No, I don't.\"\n\n\"No doubt you were too busy looking at me.\"\n\nHer hand came up to her mouth. But then a slow smile spread across her face. \"You noticed?\"\n\nHe was tempted to tell her that not even at a memorably farcical soir\u00e9e in St. Petersburg, during which both the hostess _and_ the host attempted to seduce him, had he been ogled that much. \"I noticed.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear.\"\n\nShe buried her face against the puppy's neck. She was blushing and, God help him, he had an erection the size of Bedfordshire.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, her voice muffled by Croesus's coat. \"It's the best present anyone has ever given me.\"\n\nHe was touched and humbled. \"It makes me happy to see you happy.\"\n\n\"Until tomorrow, then.\" She leaned in and kissed him, a sweet, lingering kiss. \"I can't wait.\"\n\n\"It will be the longest twenty-four hours of my life,\" he said, kissing her one last time on the tip of her nose. \"An eternity.\"\n\nThe next twenty-four hours turned out to be exactly that: an eternity, a hellish eternity.\nChapter Nine\n\n_14 May 1893_\n\nThe music did not register at first. Gigi was not accustomed to hearing music in her own house when she hadn't paid for it. She dropped the report in her hand and listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of a piano being assaulted.\n\nIn his basket next to the bed, Croesus whimpered, snorted, and opened his eyes. Poor thing wasn't able to sleep well at night, perhaps because of all the naps he now took during the day. He shook his neck, rose on his short legs, and began his laborious ascent up the steps made especially for him after he could no longer bound up on her bed with only the aid of the bed stool.\n\nShe flung aside the counterpane and scooped him up. \"It's that stupid husband of mine,\" she said to the old pup. \"Instead of banging me, he's banging the damned piano. Let's go and tell him to shut up.\"\n\nHer husband started something dramatic and harsh as she descended the staircase\u2014 _bong bong bong bong, bing bing bing bing\u2014_ a piece composed by the overly somber Herr Beethoven, no doubt. With a sigh, Gigi threw open the door of the music room.\n\nHe had changed into a silk dressing gown, as sleek and dark as the piano itself. His hair was rumpled, but otherwise he looked serious, intent, a man with a purpose. An excellent man, the consensus had always been: a most dutiful son, a caring brother, a faithful friend\u2014all that and social graces too.\n\nAnd a streak of subterranean viciousness that had to be experienced to be believed.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" she said. \"But some of us need to sleep so that we can get up early in the morning.\"\n\nHe stopped playing and looked at her oddly. It took another moment to register that he wasn't looking at _her_ but at Croesus.\n\n\"Is that Croesus?\" He frowned.\n\n\"It is.\"\n\nHe left the piano bench and came next to her, studying Croesus, his frown deepening. \"What's the matter with him?\"\n\nShe glanced down. Croesus seemed no different from how he usually was. \"Nothing,\" she said, her voice sharp with defensiveness. She liked to think that she provided Croesus a happy, comfortable life. \"He's as well as an old dog can be.\"\n\nCroesus was ten and a half years of age, his once lustrous coat now dull and gray. His eyes were rheumy. He drooped, wheezed, tired easily, and ate poorly. But when he did have an appetite, he dined on foie gras sprinkled with saut\u00e9ed mushrooms. And in ill health he was attended by London's best veterinarian.\n\nCamden reached out toward Croesus. \"Come here, old bloke.\"\n\nCroesus regarded him with drowsy eyes. He didn't move. But neither did he protest when Camden simply took him.\n\n\"Do you remember me?\" he said.\n\n\"I highly doubt it.\"\n\nCamden ignored her snippy answer. \"I've two pups in New York.\" He spoke to Croesus. \"Hannah and Bernard, a rambunctious pair. They would be pleased to meet you someday.\"\n\nShe didn't understand why information so mundane and unremarkable as his having dogs should cause her a moment of scorching pain.\n\n\"I see you don't remember me.\" He gave the fur behind Croesus's ear a wistful scratch. \"I have missed you.\"\n\n\"I'd like to have him back,\" Gigi said coldly.\n\nHe complied, but not before holding Croesus close and kissing one of the old dog's ears. \"Your piano needs to be tuned.\"\n\n\"Nobody plays it.\"\n\n\"A shame.\" He turned his head and gave the instrument an appreciative glance. \"An \u00c9rard piano should be played.\"\n\n\"You can take it with you when you go back to New York. A divorce present.\" She had ordered it as a wedding present for him. But it hadn't arrived until months after he left.\n\nHis gaze returned to her. \"Thank you, I might. Especially since it already has my initials inscribed.\"\n\nHe was standing close enough that she imagined she could smell him, the scent of a man after mid-night\u2014naked skin under silk dressing gown. \"Get to it, will you?\" she murmured. \"All this sexual skittishness is not very attractive in a man.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I'm well aware. But the fact remains, I'm loath to touch you.\"\n\n\"Turn off all the lights. Pretend I'm someone else.\"\n\n\"That would be difficult. You tend to be vocal.\"\n\nShe colored. She couldn't help it. \"I'll sew my lips shut.\"\n\nHe shook his head slowly. \"It's no use. You breathe and I'll know it's you.\"\n\nTen years ago she'd have taken it for a declaration of love. Her heart still gave a throb, a lonely echo.\n\nHe bowed. \"One more piece and I'm off to bed.\"\n\nAs she left, he began playing something as soft and haunting as the last roses of summer. She recognized it in two bars: _Liebestr\u00e4ume._ He and Mrs. Rowland had played it together that first night of their acquaintance. Even Gigi, incompetent musician that she was, could pick out that melody on the piano with one hand.\n\n_Dream of Love._ All that she ever had with him.\n\nMrs. Rowland's campaign to woo the duke had hit a snag.\n\nFor a day or so, things went terribly well. The case of Chat\u00eaau Lafite went promptly to Ludlow Court. A gracious thank-you note came back just as promptly, accompanied by a basket of apricot and peach preserves from Ludlow Court's own orchards.\n\nThen nothing. Victoria sent an invitation to the duke for her next charity gala. He gave a generous cheque, but declined to attend the event. Two days later, she plucked up the audacity to call upon Ludlow Court in person, only to be told that the duke was not at home.\n\nIt'd been five years since she resettled in Devon in her childhood house, which she'd purchased from her nephew. Five years during which to observe the duke's comings and goings. She knew perfectly well that he never went anywhere else except for his daily walk.\n\nWhich left her no choice but to intercept him during his walk again.\n\nShe pretended to inspect the roses in the front garden, a pair of snipping scissors in hand, never mind that no self-respecting gardener ever did her cuttings in the middle of the afternoon. Her heart thumped as he came around the bend in the path at his usual hour. But by the time she'd maneuvered herself next to the low gate by the path, she barely got a \"good afternoon\" out of him before he sailed on past.\n\nThe next day she waited near the front of the garden, to no better results. The duke refused to be drawn into chitchat. Her comment on the weather only garnered the same \"good afternoon\" as the day before. For three days after that it rained. He walked in mackintosh and galoshes. But she could not possibly work in the garden\u2014or even pretend to\u2014in a downpour.\n\nShe gritted her teeth and decided to make an even greater nuisance of herself. She would walk _with_ him. As God was her witness, she would bag, truss, and deliver this duke to Gigi at whatever cost to her own dignity.\n\nClad in a white walking dress and sensible walking boots, she waited in the front parlor of the cottage. When he appeared around the bend in the distance, she pounced, her tassel-fringed parasol in tow.\n\n\"I've decided to take up some exercise myself, Your Grace.\" She smiled as she closed the garden gate behind her. \"Do you mind if I walk with you?\"\n\nHe raised a pair of pince-nez from around his neck and looked down at her through the lenses. Goodness gracious but the man was ducal in every little gesture. He was not unusually tall, about five foot ten, but one chill look from him and the Colossus of Rhodes would feel like a midget.\n\nHe didn't give express permission. He merely dropped the pince-nez and nodded, murmuring, \"Madam.\" And immediately resumed his walk, leaving Victoria to scamper in his wake, hurrying to catch up.\n\nShe had known, of course, that he walked fast. But it didn't dawn upon her until she'd tried to catch up with him for ten minutes just how fast he walked. For a rare moment she wished she had Gigi's tremendous height instead of her own more demure five feet two inches.\n\nChucking aside all ladylike restraints, she broke into a half run, cursing the narrow confines of her skirts, and finally ended up at his side. She had prepared various openings, bits and pieces of local trivia. But by the time she finished enumerating interesting packets of historical details concerning the house next down the lane, she'd be five feet behind him again. And having been very ladylike all her life, she wasn't sure she could manage another run without expiring of apoplexy.\n\nSo she got to the point. \"Would you care for dinner at my house two weeks from Wednesday, Your Grace? My daughter will be visiting that week. I'm sure she'd be delighted to meet you.\"\n\nShe'd have to go up to London and drag Gigi down. But that she'd worry about later.\n\n\"I am a very fussy eater, Mrs. Rowland, and usually do not enjoy meals prepared by anyone but my own cook.\"\n\nDrat it. Why must he be so difficult? What did a woman have to do to get him into her house? Dance naked in front of him? Then no doubt he'd complain of vertigo.\n\n\"I'm sure we could\u2014\"\n\n\"But I might consider accepting your invitation if you would grant me a favor in return.\"\n\nIf it weren't so darned exhausting to keep up with him, she'd have halted in her tracks, stunned. \"I would be honored. What might I do for you, Your Grace?\"\n\n\"I am an admirer of the peace and quiet of the country life, as you well know,\" he said. Did she detect a trace of sarcasm in his voice? \"But even the most ardent admirer of the country life sometimes misses the pleasures of the town.\"\n\n\"Indeed.\"\n\n\"I haven't gambled for the past fifteen years.\"\n\nThis duke, a gambler? But he was a recluse, a Homeric scholar with his nose buried in old parchment. \"I see,\" she said, though she didn't.\n\n\"I hear the siren call of a green baize table. But I do not wish to go to London to satisfy myself. Will you be so gracious as to play a few hands with me?\"\n\nThis time she did come to a dead stop. \"Me? Gamble?\"\n\nShe had never even bet a shilling. Gambling, in her opinion, was about the daftest thing a woman could do, other than divorcing a man who would one day be a duke.\n\n\"Of course, I would understand if you object to\u2014\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" she heard herself say. \"I have no objections whatsoever to a bit of harmless betting.\"\n\n\"I like it more interesting than that,\" he said. \"One thousand pounds a hand.\"\n\n\"And I admire men who play for high stakes,\" she squeaked.\n\nWhat was wrong with her? When she accepted giving up her dignity, she hadn't planned on surrendering every last ounce of her good sense as well. And lying outright, complimenting him on the most foolish, most self-destructive trait a man could possess! There came a time in every good Protestant's life when she yearned for a simple, sin-absolving trip to the papists' confession booth.\n\n\"Very well, then.\" The Duke of Perrin nodded his approval. \"Shall we set a date and a time?\"\nChapter Ten\n\n_January 1883_\n\nMy dear cousin, the Grand Duke Aleksey, is getting married today,\" said the Countess von Loffler-Lisch\u2014more affectionately known as Aunt Ploni, short for Appolonia. She was a second cousin of Camden's mother and had come all the way from Nice to attend his wedding. \"I hear the bride is some gold-digging nobody.\"\n\nHe would be called that very same if he didn't stand in direct line of succession to a ducal title, Camden thought wryly. Instead, Gigi would bear the brunt of the snickering their hasty marriage was certain to engender, for her feats of social mountaineering.\n\n\"Your noble cousin's wedding would have been the grander affair,\" said Camden.\n\n\"Very likely.\" The elderly countess nodded, her hair a rare shade of pure silver and elaborately coiffed. \" _Zut!_ I can't recall the bride's name. Elenora von Schellersheim? Von Scheffer-Boyadel? Or is her name not even Elenora?\"\n\nCamden smiled. Aunt Ploni was known for her prodigious memory. It must gall her to no end not remembering something right at the tip of her tongue.\n\nHe sat down next to her and poured more cura\u00e7ao into her digestif glass. \"Where is the bride from?\"\n\n\"Somewhere on the border with Poland, I think.\"\n\n\"We know some people from there,\" he said. Theodora, for one.\n\nThe countess frowned and tried to concentrate amid the lively conversation flowing in the great drawing room at Twelve Pillars. Thirty of Camden's relatives had arrived from the Continent to attend the wedding, despite the short notice. And his mother was ever so pleased to finally be able to receive people in a mansion, however neglected, of her own.\n\n\"Von Schweinfurt?\" Aunt Ploni refused to give up. \"I do hate growing old. I never forgot a name when I was younger. Let's see. Von Schwanwisch?\"\n\n\"Von Schnurbein? Von Schottenstein?\" Camden teased her. He was in a buoyant mood. Tomorrow this time he would be getting married to the most remarkable girl he'd ever met. And tomorrow night\u2014\n\n\"Von Schweppenburg!\" the countess exclaimed. \"There, that's it! Haven't quite lost all my marbles after all.\"\n\n\"Von Schweppenburg?\" He'd accidentally electrocuted himself once during an experiment at the Polytechnique. He felt exactly the same shock in his fingertips now. \"You mean Count Georg von Schweppenburg's widow?\"\n\n\"Dear me, not quite that bad. His daughter. Theodora, that's her name, not Elenora, after all. Poor Alesha is quite smitten.\"\n\nSomething droned in the back of his head, an incipient alarm that he tried to dismiss. Titles that had their origins during the Holy Roman Empire went on in perpetuity to all male issue. There could very well be another late Count Georg, from a lateral branch of the von Schweppenburg family, who had a marriageable daughter named Theodora.\n\nBut what were the chances? No, they were speaking of _his_ Theodora here, the one whose happiness he had once hoped to secure. But how? How could she marry two men in one month? The simple answer was that she couldn't. Either the countess was wrong or Theodora herself was wrong. A laughable choice, really. Of course Theodora would know the name of the man she was going to marry. The countess had to be mistaken.\n\n\"I met her years ago, when we were in Peters,\" he said carefully. \"I thought she married some Polish prince.\"\n\nThe countess snorted. \"Now, wouldn't that be interesting, a real live bigamist? Unfortunately, I've no hope for it. According to Alesha, his intended is as pure as the arctic ice field, with a mother who watches her every move. You must be mistaken, my boy.\"\n\nThe clamor in his head escalated. He poured a goblet full of the digestif and downed it in one long gulp. The cognac at the base of the liqueur burned in his throat, but the sensation barely registered.\n\n\"It's only two o'clock in the afternoon. A bit early to be doing your last bout of bachelor drinking, eh?\" cackled Aunt Ploni. \"Not getting cold feet, are you?\"\n\nHe wouldn't know if his feet were cold. He couldn't feel any of his limbs. The only thing he felt was confusion and a rising sense of peril, as if the solid ground beneath him had suddenly splintered, cracking dark webs of fissure and fracture as far as he could see.\n\nHe rose and bowed to the countess. \"Hardly. But I do beg your pardon, noble cousin. There is a small matter that requires my attention. I hope to see you again at dinner.\"\n\nCamden couldn't think any better away from the drawing room. He wandered the silent, drafty corridors as bits and pieces of what Aunt Ploni had said streaked about in his head like panicky hens facing a weasel invasion.\n\nHe didn't exactly understand why, but he was scared witless. What frightened him most was that he knew, deep in his guts, that Aunt Ploni had not been mistaken.\n\nAt a turn in the hallway, near the front of the house, he bumped right into a young footman carrying a tray of letters. \"Beg your pardon, milord!\" the footman apologized immediately, and got down on all fours to retrieve the scattered missives.\n\nAs the footman gathered up the letters, Camden saw two addressed to him. He recognized the handwriting of his friends. The new university term had already started; they must be wondering why he hadn't returned yet. He had not informed his classmates of his upcoming marriage\u2014he and Gigi had decided to throw a surprise reception in Paris, in the spacious apartment her agent had located for them on Montagne Sainte Genevi\u00e8ve in the Quartier Latin, a stone's throw from his classes. A few essential items of furnishing had already been set up at the apartment, where a cook and a maid had also taken up residence in preparation for their arrival.\n\nHe held out his hand for the tray. \"I'll take them, Elwood.\"\n\nElwood looked baffled. \"But, sir, Mr. Beckett said all letters must go to him first, so he could sort them out.\"\n\n\"Since when?\"\n\n\"Since right about Christmas last, sir. Mr. Beckett said His Grace didn't like too many letters begging him for charity.\"\n\n_What?_ Camden almost said the word aloud. His father had never met a beggar for whom he didn't have a coin to spare. It was his very softheartedness that had in part made them paupers.\n\nAn appalling suspicion was beginning to coalesce in Camden's mind. He wanted to bat it away with something heavy and powerful\u2014a club, a mace\u2014to disperse the filaments of deductions and inferences that threatened to choke his perfect contentment. He wanted to forget what he had heard about the majordomo just now, ignore the clamor in his head that had risen to a screaming siren, and pretend that everything was exactly as it should be.\n\nTomorrow he was getting married. He couldn't wait to sleep with that girl. He couldn't wait to wake up next to her every day, bask in her adoration, and delight in her verve.\n\n\"Very well, take these to Beckett,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nCamden watched the footman march down the hallway. _Let him go. Let him go. Don't ask questions. Don't think. Don't probe._\n\n\"Wait,\" he commanded.\n\nElwood turned around obediently. \"Yes, sir?\"\n\n\"Tell Beckett I would like to see him in my apartment in fifteen minutes.\"\nChapter Eleven\n\n_22 May 1893_\n\nA gentleman's club had seemed the perfect remedy after a tiring, weeklong business trip to the Continent, during which he'd thought very little of his business and too much of his wife. But Camden was beginning to regret his freshly minted membership. He had never set foot inside an English gentleman's club before, but he had harbored the distinct impression that it would be a quiet, calm place, filled with men escaping the strictures of wives and hearths, drinking scotch, holding desultory political debates, and snoring softly into their copies of the _Times._\n\nCertainly the interior of the club, which looked as if it had not been touched in half a century\u2014fading burgundy drapes, wallpaper splotchily darkened by gaslights, and furnishing that in another decade or so would be called genteelly shabby\u2014had seemed conducive to somnolence, giving him the false hope that he'd be able to while away the afternoon, brooding in peace. And he had done so for a few minutes, until a crowd begging for introductions surrounded him.\n\nThe conversation had quickly turned to Camden's various holdings. He hadn't quite believed Mrs. Rowland when she declared in one of her letters that Society had changed and that people could not shut up about money these days. Now he did.\n\n\"How much would such a yacht cost?\" asked one eager young man.\n\n\"Is there a sizable profit to be realized?\" asked another.\n\nPerhaps the agricultural depression that had cut many a large estate's income by half had something to do with it. The aristocracy was in a pinch. The manor, the carriages, and the servants all bled money, which was getting scarcer by the day. Unemployment, for centuries the gentlemanly standard\u2014so that one could devote one's time to serving as parliamentarian and magistrate\u2014was becoming more and more of an untenable position. But as of yet, few gentlemen had the audacity to work. So they talked, to scratch the itch of collective anxiety.\n\n\"Such a yacht costs enough that only a handful of America's richest men can afford one,\" Camden said. \"But, alas, not so much that those who supply them can claim instant riches.\"\n\nIf he were to solely rely on the firm he owned that designed and built yachts, he'd be a well-off man but nowhere near wealthy enough to hobnob with Manhattan's elite. It was his other maritime ventures, the freight-shipping line and the shipyard that built commercial vessels, that comprised what Americans called the \"meat-and-potato\" portion of his portfolio.\n\n\"How does one come into possession of such a firm?\" asked yet another man from the group of interlocutors, this one not as young as the others\u2014and, judging by his silhouette, sporting a corset beneath his waistcoat.\n\nCamden glanced toward the grandfather clock that stood between two bookshelves against the far wall. Whatever the time was, he was going to say that he was expected elsewhere in half an hour. The time was quarter past three, and beside the clock stood Lord Wrenworth, observing the mob about Camden with amusement.\n\n\"How?\" Camden looked back at the corseted man. \"Good luck, good timing, and a wife who is worth her weight in gold, my dear fellow.\"\n\nHis answer was received with a silence halfway between shock and awe. He took the opportunity to stand up. \"Excuse me, gentlemen. I'd like to have a word with Lord Wrenworth.\"\n\n_My daughter sends me postcards from the Lake District. I hear Lord Wrenworth is also there._\n\n_My daughter is going to Scotland with a large party of friends, Lord Wrenworth included, for a sennight._\n\n_My daughter, when I last saw her at a dinner, sported a fetching pair of diamond bracelets that I'd never seen before. She was unusually coy about their provenance._\n\nMrs. Rowland had been overly lavish in her praise of Lord Wrenworth\u2014 _a man all men want to be and all women want to bewitch\u2014_ but not by much. The man seemed effortlessly graceful, effortlessly fashionable, and effortlessly calm and collected.\n\n\"Quite a crowd you were drawing, my lord Tremaine,\" Lord Wrenworth said with a smile, as he and Camden shook hands. \"You are an object of great curiosity around these parts.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, the latest addition to the circus, et cetera,\" said Camden. \"You, sir, are fortunate to be so well situated that you need not soil your mind with thoughts of commerce.\"\n\nLord Wrenworth laughed. \"As to that, my lord, you are very much mistaken. Rich peers need money every bit as much as poor peers\u2014we have far greater expenditures. But I daresay your material success fuels only part of the collective curiosity.\"\n\n\"Let me guess, there's that little matter of the divorce.\"\n\n\"Short of a good, old-fashioned murder, a divorce with charges of adultery leveled is the best anyone can hope for when the mood calls for some entertaining gossip.\"\n\n\"Indeed. What have you heard?\"\n\nLord Wrenworth raised an eyebrow but proceeded to answer Camden's question. \"I'm blessed with a battalion of sisters-in-law. One, with impeccable sources, declares that you are willing to submit to an annulment should Lady Tremaine hand over half of her worth and promise to travel to her honeymoon destination on your flagship luxury liner.\"\n\n\"Interesting. I do not deal in passenger transit.\"\n\n\"You must be mistaken,\" said Lord Wrenworth. \"Though, to be sure, another one of Lady Wrenworth's sisters, with sources equally infallible, insists that you are a hairbreadth away from a grand reconciliation.\"\n\nCamden nodded. \"And you are in favor of the old status quo. Lady Tremaine is quite peeved with you, I might as well let you know. She thought you'd be a better friend to Lord Frederick.\"\n\n\"Then that would make me less of a friend to her,\" said Lord Wrenworth, no longer glib. \"Lord Frederick, though he is a man of unimpeachable goodness\u2014Speak of the devil. The rumormongers will have new tales to tell tonight.\"\n\nHe pointed his chin toward the door. Camden turned to see a young man coming toward them. Though he stooped slightly, he was still tall, a hair under six foot. He had a round face, a firm jaw, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. Elsewhere in the room, men stopped what they were doing and stared openly at his progress, glancing from Camden to him and back, but he remained oblivious to the attraction he had become.\n\nThe young man offered his hand to Lord Wrenworth. \"Lord Wren, pleased to see you.\" He had a melodious, surprisingly _basso profundo_ voice. \"Was just thinking of sending a note around. Lady Wren asked me a couple of months ago if I would paint a portrait of her. Well, I told her that I wasn't much good at portraits. But these days\u2014well, you know what's going on\u2014I seem to have lots of time on my hands. If she is still interested\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm sure she would be delighted, Freddie,\" Lord Wrenworth said smoothly. He turned to Camden. \"Lord Tremaine, may I present Lord Frederick Stuart? Freddie, Lord Tremaine.\"\n\nCamden extended his hand. \"A pleasure, sir.\"\n\nLord Frederick blinked. He stared at Camden for a second, as if expecting something dire. Then he swallowed and grasped Camden's hand with his own, which was large and slightly plump. \"Right ho. Pleased, I'm sure, milord.\"\n\nFor some reason, despite everything Mrs. Rowland had written, Camden had expected to see a prime specimen of a man. Lord Frederick was not that man. Next to Lord Wrenworth, he seemed all too ordinary, his looks pleasant but unremarkable, his attire a year or two behind the forefront of fashion, his demeanor unsophisticated.\n\n\"You are an artist, Lord Frederick?\"\n\n\"No, no, I only dabble.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Lord Wrenworth. \"Lord Frederick is tremendously accomplished for his age.\"\n\nHis age\u2014yet something else Camden hadn't expected. Lord Frederick could not have lived through more than twenty-four winters, a mere babe, barely old enough to grow hairs on his chin.\n\n\"Lord Wrenworth is much too kind,\" Lord Frederick mumbled. Camden could see he was beginning to sweat, despite the cool interior of the club.\n\n\"I beg to differ,\" said Wrenworth. \"I have one of Freddie's pieces at home. Lady Wrenworth quite admires it. In fact, I believe Lady\u2014\"\n\nSuddenly Lord Frederick looked quite panic-stricken. \"Wren!\"\n\nLord Wrenworth was taken aback. \"Yes, Freddie?\"\n\nLord Frederick could not come up with a slick answer. \"I . . . uh . . . I forgot.\"\n\n\"What were you about to say, my lord Wrenworth?\" Camden asked.\n\n\"Only that I believe my mother-in-law begged to have it,\" said Lord Wrenworth. \"But Lady Wrenworth refused to part with it.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Lord Frederick, turning a shade of carmine to rival the drapes.\n\nThe two older men exchanged a look. Lord Wrenworth shrugged subtly, as if he had no idea as to the reason behind Lord Frederick's outburst. But Camden had already guessed. \"Is Lady Tremaine, like Lady Wrenworth, an admirer of your work, Lord Frederick?\"\n\nLord Frederick looked to Lord Wrenworth for recourse, but the latter chose not to involve himself, leaving Lord Frederick to meet Camden's direct question by himself. \"Uh, Lady Tremaine has always been most kind to . . . my efforts. She is a great collector of art.\"\n\nNot something Camden would have said about his wife. But he supposed it was possible that, in a society enamored of the classical styles and subjects of Sir Frederick Leighton and Lawrence Alma-Tadema, she could very well host one of the largest collections of Impressionist paintings. \"You approve of the latest trends in art, I take it?\"\n\n\"I do, sir, indeed.\" Lord Frederick relaxed slightly.\n\n\"Then you must come see me the next time you happen to be in New York City. My collection is far superior to Lady Tremaine's, at least in quantity.\"\n\nThe poor boy clearly struggled, wondering whether he was being played for a fool, but he chose to answer Camden's invitation as if it had been issued in good faith. \"I shall be honored, sir.\"\n\nIn that moment Camden saw what Gigi must have seen in the boy: his goodness, his sincerity, his willingness to think the best of everyone he met, a willingness that arose less from na\u00efvet\u00e9 than from an inborn sweetness.\n\nLord Frederick hesitated. \"Would you be returning to America very soon or would you be with us for a while?\"\n\nAnd courage too, to ask that question outright of him. \"I expect I should remain in London until the matter of my divorce is settled.\"\n\nLord Frederick's blush now exceeded Hungarian paprika in depth of color and vividness. Lord Wrenworth took his watch out and glanced at it. \"Dear me, I should have met Lady Wrenworth at the bookshop five minutes ago. You must excuse me, gentlemen. Hell hath no fury like a woman made to wait.\"\n\nTo Lord Frederick's credit, he didn't run, though the desire to do so was writ plain on his face. Camden gazed around the large common room. Newspapers suddenly rustled, conversations recommenced, cigars that had been dropping ashes on the scarlet-and-blue carpet rose once again to mustached lips.\n\nSatisfied that the rampant, untoward curiosity in the room had been temporarily curbed, Camden returned his attention to Lord Frederick. \"I understand that you wish to marry my wife.\"\n\nThe color drained from Lord Frederick's face, but he stood his ground. \"I do.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I love her.\"\n\nCamden had no choice but to believe him. Lord Frederick's answer brimmed with the kind of clarity born of the deepest conviction. He ignored the stab of pain in his chest. \"Other than that?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"Love is an unreliable emotion. What is it about Lady Tremaine that makes you think you won't regret marrying her?\"\n\nLord Frederick swallowed. \"She is kind, wise, and courageous. She understands the world but doesn't let it corrupt her. She is magnificent. She is like . . . like . . .\" He was lost for words.\n\n\"Like the sun in the sky?\" Camden prompted, sighing inwardly.\n\n\"Yes, exactly,\" said Lord Frederick. \"How. . . how did you guess, sir?\"\n\n_Because I once thought the same. And sometimes still think it._\n\n\"Luck,\" answered Camden. \"Tell me, young man, have you ever considered that it might not be easy being married to a woman like that?\"\n\nLord Frederick looked perplexed, like a child being told that there _was_ such a thing as too much ice cream, when he had only ever been allowed a few spoonfuls at a time. \"How so?\"\n\nCamden shook his head. What could he say? \"Do not mind the rambling of an old man.\" He offered his hand again. \"I wish you the best of luck.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir.\" Lord Frederick sounded both relieved and grateful. \"Thank you. I wish you the same.\"\n\n_May the better man prevail._\n\nThe reply rose nearly to the tip of Camden's tongue before he realized what he was about to say and swallowed it whole. He couldn't possibly have meant anything close to that. He couldn't possibly even have thought it. He had no use for her. He did not want her back. It was but the flotsam of his psyche, washed ashore in a sudden surge of masculine possessiveness.\n\nHe nodded at Lord Frederick and a few other men, retrieved his hat and walking stick, and exited the club into the midst of a fine afternoon. It was all wrong. The sky should be ominous, the wind cold, the rain fierce. He would have welcomed that, welcomed the drenching discomfort and isolation of an icy downpour.\n\nInstead, he must endure the mercilessly beautiful sunshine of an early summer day and listen to birds chirp and children laugh as all his carefully constructed rationales threatened to crumble about him.\n\nShe was wrong. It wasn't about Theodora. It had never been about Theodora. It was always about _her._\n\nGigi was giving Victoria trouble.\n\n\"Duke of Perrin.\" She frowned. \"How do you know him?\"\n\nThis was not the reaction Victoria had expected from Gigi. She had mentioned the duke only most incidentally, while trying to persuade Gigi to take some time away from London. \"He happens to be my neighbor. We met on one of his daily walks.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised you allowed him to introduce himself to you.\" A maid in a white shirt, black skirts, and a long bib apron came by and filled their glasses with mineral water. Victoria had arranged for them to meet at a ladies' tea shop. She didn't trust Gigi's servants not to gossip. \"I thought you usually stayed well away from cads and rou\u00e9s.\"\n\n\"Cads and rou\u00e9s!\" Victoria cried. \"What does that have to do with His Grace? He is very well respected, I will have you know.\"\n\n\"He had a near-fatal hunting accident some fifteen years ago. After that he retired from society. And I will have _you_ know that until then he was the veriest lecher, gambler, and all-around reprobate.\"\n\nVictoria dabbed at her upper lip with her napkin to hide her wide-open mouth. The duke had been her neighbor in her youth. And he was her neighbor now. But she had to admit that she had no idea what he had done with himself during the twenty-odd years in the middle.\n\n\"Well, he can't be any worse than Carrington, can he?\"\n\n\"Carrington?\" Gigi stared at her. \"Why are you comparing him to Carrington? Are you thinking of marrying him?\"\n\n\"No, of course not!\" Victoria denied hotly. The next instant she wished she hadn't, because Gigi's eyes narrowed with suspicion.\n\n\"Then what are you doing, inviting him to dinner?\" Her voice turned chillier with each word. \"Tell me you aren't planning some lunacy to make me into the next Duchess of Perrin.\"\n\nVictoria sighed. \"It can't hurt, can it?\"\n\n\"Mother, I believe I have told you already that I am going to marry Lord Frederick Stuart once I'm divorced from Tremaine.\" Gigi spoke slowly, as if to a very dull child.\n\n\"But you won't be divorced for a while yet,\" Victoria pointed out reasonably. \"Your feelings for Lord Frederick might very well have changed by then.\"\n\n\"Are you calling me fickle?\"\n\n\"No, of course not.\" Oh, dear, however did one explain to a girl that her intended had less brains than a chipmunk? \"I'm only saying that, well, I don't think Lord Frederick is the best man for you.\"\n\n\"He is a good, gentle, and kind man of absolutely no vices. He loves me very much. What other man can be better for me?\"\n\nCrumbs. The girl was daring her. \"But you must consider this carefully. You are a clever woman. Can you really respect a man who does not possess the same perspicuity?\"\n\n\"Why don't you just come out and say you think he is dense?\"\n\nOh, stupid girl. \"All right. I think he is dense, denser than Nesselrode pudding. And I can't stand the thought of you being married to him. He is not good enough to carry your shoes.\"\n\nGigi stood up calmly. \"It is good to see you, Mother. I wish you a pleasant stay in London. But I regret I cannot come to Devon next week, the week after, or the week after that. Good day.\"\n\nVictoria resisted the urge to put her face into her hands. She was bewildered. She had been so careful not to mention Camden or to criticize Gigi on the petition for divorce. And now she couldn't state the obvious concerning Lord Frederick either?\n\nGigi arrived home fuming. What was wrong with her mother? A millennium had passed since Gigi had come to see the utter meaninglessness of a title. But still Mrs. Rowland cleaved to the illusion that a strawberry-leaf coronet cured all ills.\n\nShe went in search of Croesus. Nothing and no one soothed her the way Croesus did, with his patient understanding and constant affection. But Croesus was neither in her bedchamber nor in the kitchen, where he occasionally went when his appetite returned.\n\nSuddenly she felt a shiver of fear. \"Where is Croesus?\" she asked Goodman. \"Is he\u2014\"\n\n\"No, madam. He is well. I believe he is with Lord Tremaine in the conservatory.\"\n\nSo Camden had come back from wherever he had been the past week. \"Very good. I'll go rescue him.\"\n\nThe conservatory stretched nearly the entire width of the house. From the outside, it was an oasis of verdancy, even on the dreariest days of winter\u2014the vines and fern fronds weaving a green cascade through the clear glass walls. From the inside, the structure offered an unimpeded view of the street beneath and the park beyond.\n\nCamden sat sprawled on a wicker chair at the far end of the conservatory, his arms stretched over the back of the chair, his stockinged feet propped up on a wicker ottoman before him. Croesus lay snoozing next to him.\n\nCamden had his profile to her, that strong, flawless profile that had so reminded her of a statue of Apollo Belvedere. He glanced away from the open windows at the sound of her approach, but he did not rise. \"My lady Tremaine,\" he said with mock courtesy.\n\nShe ignored him, scooped up Croesus\u2014who wriggled and snorted, then settled into the crook of her elbow and went on with his nap\u2014and turned to leave.\n\n\"I was introduced to Lord Frederick earlier this afternoon, at the club,\" said her husband. \"It was an edifying encounter.\"\n\nShe whipped around. \"Let me guess. You found him to possess all the intelligence of a boiled egg.\"\n\nLet him dare to agree with her. She was quite in the mood for slapping someone. Him.\n\n\"I did not find him either eloquent or worldly. But that was not the thrust of my remark.\"\n\n\"What was the thrust of your remark, then?\" she asked, suspicious.\n\n\"That he would make some woman an excellent husband. He is sincere, steadfast, and loyal.\"\n\nShe was stunned. \"Thank you.\"\n\nHis gaze returned to the outside world. A pleasant breeze invaded the conservatory, ruffling his thick, straight hair. Carriages on exodus from the park crammed the street below. The air echoed with coach-men's calls, cautioning their horses and one another to pay heed to the logjam.\n\nApparently, their little exchange was over. But Camden's remarkable compliment to Freddie had bred an opportunity that she could not let pass. \"Would you do the honorable deed and release me from this marriage? I love Freddie, and he loves me. Let us marry while we are still young enough to forge a life together.\"\n\nIn his perfect stillness she sensed a sudden stiffening.\n\n\"Please,\" she said slowly. \"I beg you. Release me.\"\n\nHis gaze remained fixed on the daily tide of phaetons and barouches, of England's vanity and pride on parade. \"I didn't say he would make _you_ a good husband.\"\n\n\"And what would _you_ know about making anyone a good husband?\" She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. But there was no taking them back now.\n\n\"Absolutely nothing,\" he admitted without hesitation. \"But at least I saw a few of your faults. I thought you interesting and appealing in spite of them, or perhaps because of them. Lord Frederick worships the ground you walk on because you have the kind of strength, resilience, and nerve he can only dream of. When he looks at you he sees only the halo he has erected about you.\"\n\n\"What's wrong with being perfect in the eyes of my beloved?\"\n\nHis eyes locked with hers. \"I look at him and I see a man who thinks we are going to be as chaste as God and Mary in this house. Does he know you are protecting him from the truth? Does he know that a few big lies in the service of love are nothing to you? That your strength extends to remorseless ruthlessness?\"\n\nShe'd have spat on the floor if she hadn't been raised by Victoria Rowland. \"I look at you and I see a man who is still stuck in 1883. Does he know that ten years have passed? Does he know that I have moved on, that he is the relentless, ruthless one now? And does he really think I plan to tell the man I love that I'm to be impregnated by another, against my wish?\"\n\nSomeone laughed in the distance, a shrill, feminine giggle. Croesus whimpered and shifted in her arms. She was crushing him with the stiffness of her grip. She let out a shaky breath and forced her muscles to relax.\n\nHe pressed two fingertips to his right temple. \"You make it sound so ugly, my dear. Don't you think I deserve to get something out of this marriage before you traipse into your happily-ever-after?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said. \"And I don't care. All I know is that Freddie is my last chance for happiness in this life. I will marry him if I have to turn into Lady Macbeth and destroy all who stand in my path.\"\n\nHis eyes narrowed. They were the dark green of a nightmare forest. \"Warming up to your old tricks?\"\n\n\"How can I fail to be unscrupulous when you keep reminding me that I am?\" Her heart was a swamp of bitterness, at him, at herself. \"We will begin our one year tonight. Not later. Not whenever you finally feel like it. Tonight. And I don't give a ha'penny if you have to spend the rest of the night puking.\"\n\nHe merely smiled.\nChapter Twelve\n\n_January 1883_\n\nBeckett, Twelve Pillars' majordomo, was a man in his early fifties, tall, thin, and balding. Camden found him highly efficient, despite his occasional unctuousness\u2014presumably Carrington had liked his servants obsequious.\n\n\"You wish to see me, Lord Tremaine?\" asked Beckett.\n\nWithout speaking, Camden motioned the majordomo to sit. He himself remained standing. The older man settled uneasily into the indicated chair.\n\nCamden stared at him, because he wasn't yet sure where to begin and because he wished to intimidate. After twenty seconds Beckett had trouble meeting his eyes. After three minutes, he was fidgeting and surreptitiously wiping away at his forehead and upper lip.\n\n\"You do know, Beckett, that abusing your employer's trust is a crime punishable by law, don't you?\"\n\nBeckett's head snapped up. For a moment, his expression was one of sheer panic. But he hadn't risen to be the head of staff in a ducal household without having learned a thing or two about self-control. In the next second, he replied in a normal voice, \"Of course, my lord. I am more than aware. Loyalty is my creed.\"\n\nBut his fear-stricken look had already given too much away. He was guilty. But of what?\n\n\"I admire your composure, Beckett. It must not be easy to appear calm when you are quaking in your shoes.\"\n\n\"I . . . I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about, sir.\"\n\n\"I think you do, Beckett. And I think you are filled with dismay, horror, and, I hope, some shame at being found out. If I were you, I wouldn't carry this protestation of innocence any further. If you would not admit your errors to me in private, I shall be forced to go to His Grace and expose your lies, then he would have no choice but to call in the constables.\"\n\nBeckett was not about to give up easily. \"Sir, if I've done something that has displeased you, please let me know what it is.\"\n\nTherein lay the difficulty of the matter. Camden had nothing concrete against Beckett, only the knowledge that Beckett had disrupted the usual pattern of mail delivery within the house and that Camden had a letter from Theodora that he was beginning to believe wasn't from Theodora at all, God help him.\n\nHe walked to the mantel and pretended to study the framed seascape above it. If there was any link between Beckett and Theodora's letter, it was only an indirect one. He was acting at someone else's behest, a paid agent.\n\nCamden turned around and bluffed. \"I know why you have all the mail delivered to you first. You see, Beckett, I have bad news for you. Your puppeteer has no more use for you and doesn't care to pay the remainder of your fee. So he has decided to throw you to the wolves.\"\n\n\"No!\" Beckett bolted out of the chair. \"The bastard!\"\n\nHis ragged breathing suffused the stillness of the room. Then, realizing he had completely given himself away, he sank down into the chair and lowered his face into his palms.\n\n\"Forgive me, my lord. But I've not done anything. Nothing, I swear. I was told only to watch out for any letters that came for you from abroad. Those I was to hand to the man. But he never took one of them either. He just looked at them and gave them back to me.\"\n\nAny letter that came for _him_ from _abroad._ Camden felt something implode in his chest, as if his lungs had collapsed. \"Are you sure you've done nothing?\"\n\n\"There . . .\" Beckett wiped his face with his handkerchief. \"There was this one time, in the beginning, when the man gave me back the letters and I was sure one of them hadn't been there earlier.\"\n\nOne letter. That was all it took. One letter.\n\n\"Where and when do you meet this man?\"\n\n\"Outside the gate, on Tuesday and Friday afternoons.\"\n\n\"And what if you can't meet him in person, for some reason?\"\n\n\"Then I'm to wrap the letters carefully and place the package under a rock by the gooseberry bush to the left of the gate. He comes at three.\"\n\nToday was Friday. The time was twenty-five minutes before three.\n\n\"Too bad,\" Camden said. \"I imagine he will not come anymore. Or I could have him thrown in jail also.\"\n\nBeckett paled. \"But, my lord, you said . . . you said\u2014\"\n\n\"I know what I said. I expect your resignation to be handed in to His Grace tomorrow after dinner.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.\" Beckett all but kissed Camden's feet.\n\n\"Go.\"\n\nAs Beckett made his unsteady way to the door, Camden remembered one last thing. \"How much were you paid up front?\"\n\nBeckett hesitated. \"Two thousand pounds. I have a natural son, my lord. He is in trouble. I used the money to pay off his debts. I will restitute it to you as soon as I may.\"\n\nCamden pressed his fingers hard against his temple. \"I don't want it. And I don't wish to see you ever again. Leave.\"\n\nTwo thousand up front, two thousand later. Who had this kind of money to throw away? And why would anyone want to do it? All the evidence pointed to only one direction. But he couldn't bear to acknowledge it. Perhaps, he prayed, perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the fear that knotted his guts wasn't a sign of inevitability but only a result of his overactive imagination.\n\nPerhaps there was still hope.\n\n* * *\n\nTwo and a half hours later, there was no longer any possibility of denial.\n\nCamden wrapped the two letters from his friends, hid them as Beckett had done, and waited. A man did come, a raffish-looking man in his sixties, in a dogcart pulled by an ancient nag. He looked around carefully, then went for the gooseberry bush. As Beckett had described, he quickly glanced over the letters, then put them back where he'd found them.\n\nThe man maneuvered the dogcart around and started back the way he'd come. Camden followed at a distance, on foot, the pain in his chest growing more vicious with each passing mile, all the way to the bitter end as the man and his cart disappeared between the gates of Briarmeadow, the chimneys of his fianc\u00e9e's house just visible in the fading light above the tops of the naked poplars.\n\nSomething shriveled and died in him. He began to walk, then run, away from Briarmeadow, away from her. Gigi, lovely, treacherous Gigi. Was it only this morning that he had come this way, as eager to please and impress her as any stupid puppy that ever lived?\n\nHe didn't know how far or how long he sprinted, or at what point he finally crumpled to the ground, his eyes dry, his mind numb except for a splitting headache, the anvils of Lucifer beating every last shred of illusion out of him.\n\nShe had done it. For some reason she had decided that she must have him, so she'd had the letter forged. Of course it was her; she was by far the most devious person he had ever come across. And he, horny fool that he was, had played along ever so willingly. How immeasurable her satisfaction must have been to see him this morning, knowing that her victory was complete and that he'd melt in her hand as readily as a piece of suet.\n\nAnger\u2014burning, icy, dark as the pits of hell\u2014rose slowly in him, until degree by degree it had taken over every cell of his body. He clung to that anger, for it dispelled pain and kept it at bay.\n\nVengeance, he would have vengeance. She was willing to shell out four thousand pounds for him, was she? Then the lady mustn't be disappointed. She would see that he was every bit her equal in duplicity and heartlessness.\n\nHe pried himself off the ground and went on running, not stopping again until he was in view of Twelve Pillars. A stray thought wrestled free from his tight control as he marched toward the house. It pined over how close to paradise he'd come, how joyful and carefree he had been only hours ago. It wanted time to turn back and Aunt Ploni to never have come. It wanted to beat the walls and wail. _Gigi, you stupid, stupid girl! Why couldn't you have waited? Theodora got married today. Today! I would have been\u2014_\n\n_Shut up! Shut up! I will shoot you myself if you ever whine for that girl again._\n\n_Vengeance, remember, only vengeance._\nChapter Thirteen\n\n_22 May 1893_\n\nLangford was restless.\n\nFor the past fifteen years, his evenings had consisted of dinner, a cigar, the day's copy of the _Times,_ and one last hour of scholarly reading. And for about thirteen of those fifteen years, twice a week, his current London mistress would arrive just as he laid aside Plato's _Symposium_ or Aeschylus's _Myrmidons._ The first year after his return to Devonshire he had tried, without consistent success, to set up a more local arrangement. For the past twelve months or so, he had been celibate.\n\nHe had never been an advocate for celibacy, nor was he one now. He had, perhaps, simply become too much of a village bumpkin to make the rounds of the London flesh market. Or perhaps he had no more need for the old carnal calisthenics, having grown prematurely asexual via the combination of solitude and scholarly pursuits.\n\nAnd he hadn't missed it terribly, until tonight. He would not mind knowing that a woman was stepping off the 9:23 train at the town of Totnes at that moment, about to be conveyed four miles southeast to Ludlow Court.\n\nThe tranquillity of his library had become somnolent and tedious. His evening routine, with its careful variety of cigars, _Punch,_ and an occasional novel, was as sterile as the capons his cook served on Thursdays. Even having his dessert first tonight had done nothing to alleviate the oppressive sameness, except making him feel acutely ridiculous.\n\nThe problem was not lethargy, which afflicted him from time to time. Rather, he suffered from a surfeit of energy. He was pacing like a windup Christmas toy soldier under the generalship of a three-year-old boy.\n\nA knock came at the library door. His butler, Reeves, entered, bearing the evening post. Langford scanned the three envelopes. Two were correspondence from other scholars, one German, one Greek. The last was a letter from his cousin Caroline, otherwise known as Lady Avery, a woman with a religious passion for the sins of others and a philanthropist's delight in sharing her encyclopedic knowledge of Society's every last tempest in a teapot.\n\nHe dismissed Reeves and opened Caro's letter, glad for some nonsensical distraction. Caro and her sister Grace, Lady Somersby, used to call on him first thing in the morning, to find out from the servants which lady's abode he had visited the night before or if any cyprians\u2014the precise number, please\u2014had been brought into his own house. He had personally supervised the \"accidental\" dumping of buckets of cold water as they stood before his door one morning, ringing. But their fearsome dedication to their craft was such that they'd returned the next day with umbrellas.\n\nPerhaps as a tribute to all the delicious, scandalous tidbits he'd provided, which had elevated them to the top of the rumormongering pyramid, Caro wrote him every month about the latest _on-dits._ At the beginning of his self-imposed exile, he had tossed the letters unopened into the fire. But as the years went by, her clockwork persistence wore down his resistance. He was ashamed to admit to it, but he had become addicted to the monthly dose of adultery, vanity, and lunacy.\n\nThis month's installment had Lady Southwell giving birth to yet another child who looked nothing like Lord Southwell but bore every resemblance to the Honorable Mr. Rumford; Sir Roland George setting up two mistresses in the same house; and Lord Whitney Wyld reputedly being caught with his brother's fianc\u00e9e in a cupboard.\n\nBut Caro saved the best for last\u2014an honest-to-goodness divorce, involving not just anyone but one of the country's richest heiresses and a duke's heir, said to be worth a mint himself. Caro wrote giddily and at length of the marchioness's determination to marry her young admirer, the marquess's cryptic intentions, and the wild conjectures circulating about town concerning the outcome of the case. They had put on a most amicable front before others, but behind closed doors what was taking place? Were they poisoning each other's coffee? Each spreading false rumors about the other? Or, unlikely but not impossible, sharing a giggle together at the expense of that dunce Lord Frederick Stuart?\n\nThe Railroad Heiress, Caro had called the Marchioness of Tremaine. The Railroad Heiress who almost married a duke, then managed to marry her dead fianc\u00e9's cousin within an indecently short period, but never got to wear a coronet of strawberry leaves.\n\nHe frowned and suddenly realized where he had seen Mrs. Rowland before. Right there, on that same country lane, before that same cottage.\n\nIt must have been a good thirty years ago. He had been home on holiday from Eton, bored out of his mind, itching to do something wild and stupid but not quite wanting the news of it to get back to his parents.\n\nHis father had been bedridden for several years and would die in a few weeks. But Langford hadn't known that at the time. He resented his sire's interminable, and seemingly pointless, illness. At school he could slur against the pall that hung permanently over Ludlow Court by making savage jokes involving his useless father's bodily output and the middle-aged, round-faced nursemaid who handled the effluvia with what he considered obscene good cheer. At home he had no such recourse. He could only try to distance himself from the house as much and as often as possible.\n\nSo he undertook long daily walks. And it was on one of those walks that he saw her, emerging from the cottage to a waiting barouche in the lane.\n\nShe had been jaw-droppingly beautiful. Having lost his virginity a few months before, he considered himself sophisticated. But he gawked. Not only were her features lovely, her figure was divine. She moved with the grace of a nymph and the fluidity of a Nereid.\n\nA man he thought to be her father climbed into the open carriage after her. But then a second man, gray-haired and stooped, approached the carriage. She leaned out and kissed him on the cheek. \"Good-bye, Father.\"\n\nShe was on his mind quite a bit in the following days. He found out that she was indeed married to someone twice her age, a man who manufactured rails and industrial machinery. A shame, he thought, though why it was a shame he never explored. He certainly had no intention of marrying her, though he would have loved to seduce her.\n\nThen his father died, and guilt consumed him. She faded from memory. He embarked on the life of a rogue until he returned to Devon. How long had she been back? They had lived as neighbors for years without the least neighborly interaction.\n\nUntil now. Until she'd barged into his path with all the subtlety of an avalanche. He had wondered that he let himself be drawn into her schemes with so little resistance. Perhaps some part of him had recognized her before his conscious mind did. Perhaps the Fates were up to their old tricks. Or perhaps he was simply a man deprived of feminine contacts and she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.\n\n* * *\n\nVictoria was learning far more than she wanted about the Duke of Perrin.\n\nShe had a cordial but frustrating dinner with Camden at her London hotel. The boy was slippery as an eel and gave her elegant answers that upon further reflection contained exactly nothing of substance.\n\nAfter Camden left, she took herself to the theater, where she was most enthusiastically accosted by Lady Avery and her sister, Lady Somersby, two women with whom she had the most incidental acquaintance. They were, of course, after news of Gigi.\n\nVictoria obliged. She told them that Gigi was having second thoughts. Who wouldn't? Just look at Lord Tremaine. Lady Avery and Lady Somersby concurred, the latter waving her handkerchief emphatically. Lord Tremaine was divine, simply divine. She also told them that Camden was working subtly to regain Gigi. No, not that he'd confess any such thing to her, but he did dine with her this evening\u2014so genial of him\u2014and she saw no hurry on his part to proceed with the divorce. In fact, the two of them were coming to visit her very soon at her cottage.\n\nWell, she wasn't obliged to tell them any truth, was she?\n\nSo delighted were Ladies Avery and Somersby with the \"intelligence\" she provided that they invited her to sit in their box. Still peeved with Gigi, Victoria agreed.\n\n\"We see far too little of you in town,\" Lady Somersby lamented halfway through the second act of _Rigoletto._\n\n\"I suppose it's because Devon is infinitely more beautiful.\"\n\n\"Our cousin lives in Devon!\" exclaimed Lady Avery.\n\n\"That's right,\" agreed Lady Somersby. \"Where is he exactly?\"\n\n\"Between Totnes and a little village called Stoke Gabriel,\" Lady Avery said. \"You must have heard of him, Mrs. Rowland. Our cousin is the Duke of Perrin.\"\n\nFor once, Victoria wasn't certain what to say. \"Ah, yes, I might have heard of him.\"\n\n\"How could you not?\" Lady Somersby giggled. \"Gracious me, I do miss that dear boy. Kept us busy, didn't he, in his day.\"\n\n\"Do you remember the time he won ten thousand pounds in one night, and lost twelve thousand the next, and then won another nine thousand the third night?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. But he still came out seven thousand pounds ahead. So he bought himself a new set of matched bays and leased all of Madame Mignonne's girls for a sennight.\"\n\n\"What about that brawl over him, between that American woman and Lady Harriet Blakeley? They slapped each other like two fishwives. And then the two of them found out he was also having a liaison with Lady Fancot!\"\n\n\"Surely . . .\" Victoria mumbled. \"Surely these rumors are much exaggerated.\"\n\nLady Somersby and Lady Avery exchanged a look, as if Victoria had suggested that the Prince of Wales was a lily-white virgin. \"My dear Mrs. Rowland,\" Lady Somersby said, every syllable drawn out for emphasis. \" _These_ are not rumors. These events happened as we pronounced, their truths as indubitable as those of the Scripture. If we wished to traffic in rumors, we'd have told you about what we have heard concerning his affair with Lady Fancot.\"\n\nLady Avery nodded gleefully. \"Ropes, whips, chains, and items whose descriptions are quite beyond us, except that they are of foreign manufacture and iniquitous nature.\"\n\nVictoria felt slightly ill. To be sure, Gigi was no shrinking violet. But ropes, whips, chains, and those . . . other things!\n\nThen she remembered to her horror that she still owed the Duke of Perrin an evening of gambling, just the two of them, across a card table. Had he some ulterior motive other than a yen for the dubious excitement of betting? Did he mean to truss her up with her own curtain sashes and . . . and what?\n\nShe whimpered.\n\n\"Exactly,\" Lady Avery said with no little satisfaction. \"And we won't even mention the time he set Lady Wimpey's bed on fire.\"\nChapter Fourteen\n\n_January 1883_\n\nGigi jerked awake in the small hours of the morning, gasping and covered in cold perspiration. In her dream, she had been running in her nightgown, chasing after something in the dark, screaming, \"Come back! Come back to me!\"\n\nWas it an ill omen, this dream? Or was it her conscience, festering in the dungeon of the past three weeks, finally breaking out of captivity and, spitting mad, coming to settle the score with her?\n\nShe touched the engagement ring Camden had given her. It was reassuringly snug on her finger, the gold band as warm as her own skin, the facets of the sapphire cool as silk. At the foot of her bed, Croesus snorted in his padded wicker tray. She scooted until her head was level with his. He smelled clean and warm. She took hold of one of his paws and felt some of the fear drain out of her.\n\nShe let herself breathe again. All was well. And who needed a conscience when she had happiness by the bushel?\n\nRight?\n\nHell did not begin to describe it.\n\nCamden stood at the center of a maelstrom of joy and goodwill, drowning. The ceremony. The unending congratulations. The wedding breakfast. The flash and bang of the photographer recording the occasion for all posterity. So much laughter. So much cheer. So much genuine pleasure all around. He felt a complete fraud, a bigger fraud than she, if that was possible.\n\nSeveral times his will nearly broke. People were happy for him. For them. Mrs. Rowland had tears in her eyes. So did Claudia. Surrounded by a sea of tulle and organza, with Briarmeadow decked to the rafters in daffodils and tulips, as fragrant as the first day of spring, they thought it a fairy tale still, the one marriage of convenience out of thousands so fortunate as to become a blissful, devoted union. The weight of his deception choked him.\n\nIt was she, in the end, who salvaged his iniquitous intentions, she with her radiance that struck him a physical blow every time he looked upon her. Every ebullient, cocksure smile from her was a little death for him, every mirthful giggle a stab in the heart.\n\nEven so, he almost couldn't.\n\nAfter the reception, they traveled fifteen miles to another Rowland house nearer to Bedford for their wedding night. The two of them, alone\u2014if one didn't count Croesus\u2014in the oppressive confines of the brougham. Giddy and loquacious from the champagne, his new wife strategized the surprise reception that they would throw for his friends.\n\nThe apartment her agent had found for them in the Quartier Latin, overlooking Rue Mouffetard, had ten rooms. How many people did he think could fit into such an apartment? Would her governess-taught French suffice for the evening's conversation? And if they served foie gras and caviar, perhaps his friends might not notice that they had hardly any furniture?\n\nHer childish enthusiasm for the life that they would never share clawed at him with a ferocity he did not want to understand. An incandescent light illuminated her eyes, a light of hope and fervor. It made her intoxicating, enchanting, beautiful, despite _everything_ he knew, despite the effrontery and selfishness that were the warp and woof of her corrupt femininity.\n\nHe wanted to violate her then, to assert his power over her in the crudest, foulest manner, to crush her and snuff that lovely light. It would have been malevolent, but honest, to a degree.\n\nHe held back because of his own reciprocal corruptness. It would have been too easy for her. Shattering, yes, but shattering all at once. He did not want that. He did not want her to recognize the beast in him. He wanted her to panic, to despair, but to still want him, still think him the most perfect man that ever lived.\n\nThat was how he would go on tormenting her, after his physical departure from her life. A baroque plan, byzantine even, a plan that both pleased and shamed him.\n\nHe awaited only the night, this one grotesque, terrible night.\n\nCamden was drinking cognac directly from a decanter when the connecting door between the bedchambers opened. He turned around and took another swig, barely feeling the fire sliding down his throat.\n\nShe was swathed in a blaze of virginal white. But her hair, a great glossy mass of it, tumbled free and unbound, like a cascade of the river Styx. The tips of her toes, round and pretty, peeked out from the hem of the white robe. He suddenly felt drunk.\n\n\"You didn't come,\" she said softly, plaintively.\n\nHe glanced at the clock on the mantel. It had been only a few minutes since her maid had left. \"I made a bet with myself that you'd come for me first.\"\n\n\"You made me nervous,\" she said, twirling one end of the silk sash that held her robe together. \"I thought . . .\" Her voice trailed off.\n\n\"What did you think?\"\n\n\"I was afraid you might be having second thoughts.\"\n\nA ray of hope pierced him. If she confessed now, if she was drowning in remorse, rightfully fearful but still courageous enough to admit what she had done and take responsibility, he would forgive her. Not in an instant, but he would. And in return, he would come clean about his own fiendish plot.\n\n\"Why would you think that?\" he said.\n\n_Do the right thing, Gigi. Do the right thing._\n\nShe hesitated. For a fleeting instant, she looked conflicted and frightened. But in the next moment, she was again in control of herself, a young Cleopatra out for her own best advantage. Her eyes traveled down his person and slowly back up again. \"Wedding-night jitters, I suppose. Nothing more.\"\n\nInstead of honesty, she had fallen back on that old clich\u00e9: feminine wiles. She thought him so stupid that he'd go on in an erotic daze and never notice that he sported an ass's head.\n\nRage, great and raw, exploded in him. He tossed aside the decanter. In a heartbeat, he'd already covered half the distance between them. He was going to dangle her lying, scheming rump out the window until she screamed, begged, and sobbed the truth at last.\n\nShe opened her robe and let it fall. Beneath the robe she wore a chemise as transparent as a water goblet, a layer of gossamer that hid nothing.\n\nHe stopped and stared, his body reacting instantly. She was a pornographer's dream: high, firm breasts, rosy nipples pointed at a man's eyes, miles of legs, and hips that flared decadently, magnificently, hips meant for a man's hard grasp as he drove himself full hilt into her.\n\n_You bitch,_ he thought, in a dozen languages. _You prick._ That was for himself. The die was cast at last, the choice finally made. The high roads would be deserted and untrod. He had embarked on the path to purgatory.\n\nFire blazed in the grate, but the English winter crept damp and insidious along walls and floors. He closed the distance between them. \"Come to bed,\" he said, taking her by the wrist. \"You must be cold.\"\n\nBeneath the pad of his index finger, her pulse raced madly\u2014her mind was cold and calculating, but her blood certainly ran hot. She followed him obediently and let him usher her up the stool and under the bedspread.\n\nShe sat straight against a mound of pillows, the bedspread reaching only slightly past her abdomen. Her gaze flitted to him, then darted to a corner of the room. Her fingers clutched the covers.\n\nWhat was she afraid of now? Solomon himself could not discern Camden's ultimate goals, so eclipsed were they by the inferno of lust that threatened to flame out of control.\n\nUnderstanding dawned with all the gentleness of an artillery-shell impact. She was nervous because she was a virgin, and this would be her first time with a man. He almost laughed. How normal. How charming. How frigging sweet.\n\nGod help him.\n\nHe undressed slowly, shedding honor and rectitude alongside waistcoat and shirt. Her curiosity must have prevailed over her uncharacteristic shyness, for she watched him as if he were the very miracle for which she'd spent a lifetime on her knees, devoutly praying.\n\n_Don't look at me like that!_ he wanted to bellow. _I am as unprincipled, disingenuous, and blackhearted as you. More, if anything. God, don't look at me like that._ But she did, her eyes shining with the kind of trust and devotion that hadn't been seen since the Age of Chivalry.\n\nHe climbed onto the treacherously soft bed on the side away from her and sat as she did, upright, a wall of pillows behind his back, the bedspread drawn over his trousers. For once, he wished he'd debauched his way through St. Petersburg, Berlin, and Paris. His body burned with hellfire, but his mind was an abysmal blank. How did one make love, exactly, to a girl one despised with greater intensity than all the love in the world put together?\n\nShe cleared her throat. \"Would you . . . uh . . . be needing a nightshirt?\"\n\nHe chuckled despite himself, and the answer came to him. The only way to do it was to make love to her as if the past thirty hours had never taken place, as if his heart still overflowed with optimism and tenderness.\n\nHe slid a strand of her hair between his unsteady fingers. It was as cool as well water. He lifted it and pressed it to his lips, inhaling its sweet cleanness, as fragrant as a blade of young leaf. \"No, thank you,\" he said. \"I don't think I'll need a nightshirt tonight.\"\n\nShe cleared her throat again, more softly. \"Well, then, should we say our prayers and go to sleep?\"\n\nHe laughed. Frightening how easy it was to slip back into the earlier hours of the day before, to be amused and delighted with her every utterance. He gathered her to him, kissed her, and tasted the lingering astringency of her tooth powder, flavored with sweet birch oil.\n\nHer mouth was all warm eagerness. Her hair cascaded over his arm and chest, jolting him with its featherlight caresses. And her scent. He was driven to distraction by the fiendish freshness of her skin, as wholesome as new milk that still faintly steamed.\n\nHe would never have her again. Never. The realization bludgeoned him. The unfairness of it. He wanted to smash the bed, the windowpanes, the fireplace. He wanted to shake her until her thick skull rattled. _What have you done to me? What have you done to_ us?\n\nInstead, he became slower, more gentle, more tender. He kissed every square inch of her face and undressed and worshipped every undulation of her body. The satiny texture of her nipples was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted, the moans of her pleasure the most melodious sounds to ever vibrate the air of this earth.\n\nAnd how she responded to him. She was a school-boy's wet dream come to life, fervent, willing, all but trembling with desire. Her hands roved avid and avaricious, searing him with their unchaste touches. Her mouth followed her hands, nibbling, licking, loving every nook and cranny of his body.\n\nWhen he at last entered her, she branded him with her scorching heat. His invasion hurt her. He apologized incoherently, barely comprehending his hypocrisy\u2014he was despondent at causing her physical pain, yet he looked forward with savagery to breaking her spirit.\n\nTo slide completely into her, to penetrate those silken, strong walls of her sheath, with her gasps and whimpers and little breaths of \"yes\" and \"more\" scalding his ears, was to lose a bit of his mind each time. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, words both reverent and wicked, and ate up her moans of arousal. He touched her where he filled her, reveled in her melted-butter sleekness, and loved the frenzy it drove her into.\n\nIf only the pain in his heart didn't multiply a little with each thrust, each caress, each endearment. But pleasure swelled and roiled through him despite his desolation. Her rich voluptuousness possessed him. Conquered and defeated him. When she wrapped her long legs entirely about him, he lost his last shred of control.\n\nThe sensations walloped him, keener, wilder, more powerfully delicious than any he'd known or even imagined. He gave in, surrendered, only vaguely aware of his grunts and imprecations, of the heavy motions of his body as he ground into her, emptied into her.\n\n\"Oh, God, Gigi,\" he mumbled. \"Gigi.\"\n\nThere, he'd done it. The most despicable act of his life. Now she would go to sleep, leaving him to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. He would rise before dawn, dismiss the servants for the day, and deal with her as necessary in the cold light of morning.\n\nBut she didn't go to sleep. She clung to him, rained kisses upon his shoulder and arm, giggled, and said, \"Do it again.\"\n\nAnd he was rock hard again, just like that.\n\nAs he turned to her, in stupefied desire, in craving that corroded him from the inside out, he saw the enormity of his mistake. He hadn't embarked on the path to purgatory. He had knocked on the gates of hell.\nChapter Fifteen\n\n_22 May 1893_\n\nGigi prepared the Dutch cap with a French ointment. She had obtained both the day after her husband's return, at the shop of a very discreet chemist not far from Piccadilly Circus. The ointment promised to greatly reduce the potency of a man's ejaculate, and the cap should block what could not be weakened.\n\nWith the Dutch cap lodged in place, she donned the blue chemise she had pulled out from the bottom of a chest. _\"Tr\u00e8s special,\"_ the Parisienne who'd sold it to her had said, and winked at her. It was special because most chemises did not have a d\u00e9colletage that formed a saddle beneath the breasts, pushing them up high and bare for a man's delectation.\n\nThe silk smelled of the sachets of dried lavender that had been packed with it. She had bought it eons ago, before she gave up on Camden. She no longer remembered why she hadn't gotten rid of it.\n\nThe chemise, alas, did not feel seductive, only grimly ridiculous. But she had to put some effort into it, had to do _something._ She pulled on a robe and left her dressing room, praying that whatever valor she mustered would be enough to see her through the humiliation of the night.\n\nCroesus was there, sleeping in his basket next to her bed. She crouched down and touched his head, running her fingers through his soft fur. The connecting door between her bedroom and Camden's opened. Camden stepped in.\n\nExcept for his shoes, he was fully dressed, as if he had just returned from a night on the town. Her heart lurched. She supposed it was because he was as beautiful as an avenging angel. Because he had been her first love. And\u2014added her cynical voice\u2014because she couldn't have him.\n\nShe slowly straightened, tightening the belt on her robe as she rose. \"My lord Tremaine, what brings you to my lair of vices?\"\n\n\"I had dinner with your mother.\" He set down a book on her vanity table. \"She wants you to have this book.\"\n\nShe barely glanced at the book. \"Surely that could wait 'til tomorrow.\"\n\nThe corners of his lips lifted, reminding her of the way he used to smile at her, in those antediluvian days. She had ribbed him for smiling too much, for not being thin-lipped and icy-miened enough for all his aristocratic lineage. \"I suppose it could have waited,\" he said. \"But as I was coming this way anyway . . .\"\n\nGiven all his avowals of aversion and antipathy, she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. \"I thought you couldn't stand bedding me.\"\n\n\"I asked myself, who am I to stand in the way of your effulgent future happiness?\"\n\nShe should be relieved. She should be leaping and cartwheeling, she who had been pushing him from day one. Yet a mixture of chagrin and panic suddenly assaulted her. She could not take it. She could not bear for him to touch her tonight. She had to fight not to step back and put greater distance between them.\n\n\"I'm surprised you haven't broken out in boils at the mere prospect of it.\"\n\n\"I have a slop bucket ready in my room,\" he said. \"You will excuse me if I rush back afterward. Now, shall we?\"\n\nBelatedly, she remembered her _\"tr\u00e8s sp\u00e9cial\"_ chemise. She didn't want him to see it. \"The light switch is behind you.\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"I don't want to accidentally step on Croesus. Or grope for the door on my way out, in\"\u2014 he looked at the clock\u2014\"three minutes.\"\n\nThree minutes. Had they come to this? Unbidden, the memories of her wedding night returned. He had stoked the fires of her desire with such exquisite patience, such finely attuned caresses, that she had literally trembled with the force of her need.\n\nHe was suddenly before her, separated from her by nothing but a sliver of air. His hand went to the belt of her robe.\n\n\"No!\" She gripped his wrist. \"There is no need.\"\n\nHis gaze made her feel about as desirable as a barnyard sow. \"It's nothing personal. A view of breasts and buttocks moves the process along.\"\n\n\"Let me go to my dressing room for a minute, and then\u2014\"\n\nHe tugged at the belt. It came loose, and the front of her robe fell open, exposing the injudicious chemise.\n\nIf she were truly the woman of infinite cheekiness he believed her to be, she'd thrust out her chest and stare him straight in the eye. But all she could think of were the chilly spring nights in Paris, during those months when she had repeatedly thrown herself at him, wearing equally salacious bits of lace and satin. What had he said the last time he dragged her out of his garret and threw her coat at her? _You look like a tenpenny whore._\n\nAnd still she had gone back, only to see him admit a woman beautiful enough to shame the stars. She had stood on the stair landing below his door, stunned, as if he had grabbed her head and slammed it into a wall.\n\nSlowly, almost gently, he drew her robe closed. But his eyes were ungentle. \"Did you really expect it to change my mind?\"\n\nShe shrugged, a bit of her defiance returning. \"No. But I would do anything to marry Freddie.\"\n\nAbruptly, he reached forward and lifted her. She gasped, but he had already set her down again, with her back against a bedpost. He leaned into her, every inch of his body pressed into hers. With a blaze of heat like rivulets of molten ore, she realized that he was full hard against her.\n\nHe lowered his head toward hers, as if he were inhaling her. Her heart pounded painfully. When his breath caressed the helix of her ear, she nearly jumped. But he only said, \"Poor Lord Frederick. What did he do to deserve you?\"\n\nShe felt his fingers work the fastening of his trousers. Without once touching her skin, he separated her robe below the belt and lifted the hem of her chemise. Which made it all the more shocking as his erection came into contact with her bare abdomen. He was burning hot.\n\nShe closed her eyes and turned her face away from him. But she could not block the sensations he provoked. He entered her with an ease that shamed her, long, slow thrusts that had her clenching at her robe, the wretchedness in her heart cutting deeper with each flare of pleasure.\n\nThe slight catch in his breath, the sudden pressure of his hands on her hips, and the abrupt stillness of his lower body signaled his release. He withdrew. Fifteen seconds later he was already walking away from her. She opened her eyes to see him stooping over Croesus's sleeping form. He touched one of the old dog's ears, then moved on, opening and closing the door behind him with barely a sound.\n\nShe looked at the clock. Exactly three minutes had passed.\n\nThis was what they had come to.\nChapter Sixteen\n\n_January 1883_\n\nGigi awoke to a room awash in pallid light. The clock read half past nine. She bolted straight up\u2014and had to hurriedly gather an armful of bedspread to cover her nakedness. Good heavens! They were supposed to depart for Bedford at nine o'clock, to begin their journey to Paris.\n\nShe scrambled out of bed, shrugged into the robe that still lay in a heap on the Kashmiri rug, ran into the mistress's bedroom, and pulled the cord for hot water. Her traveling gown had already been set out the night before. She pulled on drawers, a merino-wool combination, an underchemise, a chemise, and stepped into her pantalettes, two layers of woolen petticoats, and a dress petticoat with an embroidered, scalloped hem.\n\nThe next item was her corset. She stopped. Granted, she'd dressed with exceptional speed. But still her maid should have arrived already, hot water in tow. Perhaps she'd made a wrong turn in an unfamiliar house.\n\nShe tackled the corset, straining her arms to pull the laces tight through each set of steel-reinforced eyelets, twisting her neck to check her progress in the mirror.\n\nThe door opened.\n\n\"Hurry, Edie!\" she cried. \"I needed to be dressed two hours ago.\"\n\nIt wasn't Edie. It was Camden, all ready to go, looking as if he'd just descended from Mt. Olympus, cool, serene, and perfect. Whereas she was in a disgraceful state of dishabille, her hair a wild disarray.\n\nBut he'd already seen her in much less, hadn't he? She'd been a complete wanton, curious and rapacious, and he . . . well, he hadn't seemed to mind at all. They'd made delicious love well into the small hours of the morning.\n\n\"Hullo, Camden,\" she said, feeling unusually shy. Her cheeks were hot, her throat and belly too.\n\n\"Hullo, Gigi,\" he replied. He had lost all traces of his accent during the past month. Now he sounded as if he had been born and raised in the queen's household.\n\nShe struggled a little over what to say, gave up, and smiled at him instead. \"Sorry. I will be ready in a minute. Then we can leave.\"\n\nHe studied her, his face serious, his eyes opaque. \"Can you manage that by yourself?\"\n\nWithout waiting for a reply, he came to her aid, turning her around and applying himself to the intricacies of her corset. She sucked in a breath, held it, and admired his progress in the mirror. He had such a light yet sure touch, his hands as dexterous as those of Apollo himself. She loved admiring him, a divine sensation, all joy and breathless pride.\n\n\"Done,\" he said.\n\nShe spun around, but he turned away just as she was about to reach for him. She hesitated. Perhaps he did not see her outstretched hand. She grabbed a hairbrush instead. \"I don't know why my maid isn't here yet. I've only the most rudimentary idea how to manage my hair.\"\n\nHe stood gazing out a window that overlooked the park behind the house. \"No hurry, take your time. I gave the staff the day off. We are not leaving.\"\n\n\"But you are already late for your classes.\" She dragged the brush through her tangled hair. \"The train doesn't depart Bedford 'til half past one. We still have plenty of time.\"\n\nHis lips curved into something that resembled a smile but wasn't. \"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I didn't say _I_ was not leaving.\"\n\nMany years ago, at a family gathering, one of her cousins had pulled the chair out from under her as she was sitting down. Though the fall had been less than two feet, the collision had jolted every organ inside her body.\n\nShe felt like that now, a moment of physical jarring and utter disorientation. \"I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"I thought I'd come and say good-bye before I left,\" he said, as if he wasn't proposing to do something as absurd as leaving her the day after their wedding, _the morning after the most memorable wedding night in history._\n\n\"What?\" she cried stupidly, too stunned to think.\n\nHe glanced at her. His eyes glittered with something she couldn't read, something frightening. \"I thought it was always the plan, that we go separate ways after we consummated our marriage, until it was time for heirs.\"\n\nAn utterly asinine response formed in her head. _Don't you know anything about contracts?_ she wanted to ask him. _You turned down my offer, therefore that offer no longer stands. This marriage is contracted on an entirely different set of premises._\n\n\"What\u2014what about our reception?\" She hated how baffled and despondent she sounded. But she could not grasp how he could have been that devoted, tender lover only hours ago and now speak as if he had never meant for it to be more than a marriage of convenience. Why, then, had he come to see her every day of their engagement? Why had he made plans with her for the future? What about the engagement ring that sparkled upon her finger? What about Croesus?\n\n\"There will be no reception,\" he said.\n\n\"But we've already decided on the menu, and the wines . . .\" She took a deep breath. _Stop. Stop all that blabbering._\n\nA new emotion invaded her, a fast-spreading, horrified anger. She'd been played for a dupe. He had never been interested in anything but her money. All the sweet, joyful hours they had shared was but his way of insuring that she did not change her mind on him. She slammed down the brush.\n\n\"This is very new to me. I have been under the impression that we were going to live together after our wedding. My mother and I have authorized a good deal of financial outlay to secure us an apartment and a staff in Paris, to ship over my furniture, to\"\u2014suddenly she could not bring herself to mention the \u00c9rard piano that she had ordered for him\u2014\"I'm sure you get the idea. Important decisions have been made on the assumption that I could trust you, that you have acted _in good faith.\"_\n\nCalmly, he listened to her tirade, her lecture. Then he turned around and picked up a porcelain figurine of a giggling girl from the vanity table. For one terrifying moment, his eyes burned, and she was sure he was going to throw the thing at her. But he set it down, without a sound. \"Have _you_ acted in good faith?\"\n\nShe opened her mouth, but her reply withered before his stare. She had no idea he could look at anyone, much less at her, like that. It was the gaze of Achilles the man-killer just before he slaughtered Hector, a gaze that held nothing but blood rage.\n\nIt scared her all the more that he seemed otherwise as collected and civil as he had ever been.\n\n\"I . . . I don't know what you are talking about.\"\n\n\"Don't you? I find it surprising. How do you forget your own schemes?\"\n\nThe deafening cacophony in her head was the crashing of her happiness, that grand, shiny edifice that she had built upon a foundation of quicksand. She swallowed, trying to stay above the bog of despair.\n\n\"I'm curious about one thing. Where did you find a forger? Did you have to wade into a den of confidence artists? Or are they to be had everywhere in Bedfordshire?\"\n\n\"My gamekeeper at Briarmeadow was a forger in his youth,\" she answered numbly, not realizing until it was too late that she had negated his last doubts, if he had any.\n\n\"I see. Quite clever of you.\"\n\n\"How . . . how long have you known?\" she asked, as composedly as she could.\n\n\"Since yesterday afternoon.\"\n\nShe reeled. _When you make a pact with the devil,_ her father had often told her, _the devil is the only one who comes out ahead._ Would that she'd listened.\n\nHe smiled coldly. \"Excellent. I'm glad we cleared any and all misunderstandings about our respective good faith on this matter,\" he said. \"I'm sure you understand now why I will be leaving without you.\"\n\nIntellectually, perhaps. But viscerally, all she knew was that she loved him and he loved her.\n\n\"I know you are angry with me now,\" she said, her voice as tentative as a mouse tiptoeing around a cat. \"Would it be all right if I joined you in Paris in two weeks, when you\u2014\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe finality of his response chilled her. But she would not give up so easily. \"You are right, of course. Two weeks does not amount to much time. Would two\u2014\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But we are married!\" she cried in frustration. \"We can't carry on like this.\"\n\n\"I beg to differ. We certainly can. Separate lives mean separate lives.\"\n\nShe hated pleading. She made sure she always dealt from a position of strength, even with her own mother. But what else could she do now? \"Please don't. Please don't decide all of our future this moment. Please! Is there anything I can do to change your mind?\"\n\nThe contempt in his eyes made her feel like something that had just oozed out of a badly mildewed wall. \"You can start by offering me an apology, which both decency and good manners require here.\"\n\nShe could have slapped herself. Of course he'd want her to grovel for forgiveness. Her pride, large and thorny, was difficult to swallow, but she forced it. For him. Because she loved him and she could not lose him. \"I'm sorry. I really am terribly, terribly sorry.\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment. \"Are you? Are you really? Or are you only sorry that you are caught?\"\n\nWhat was the difference? If she hadn't been caught, would an apology even be needed? \"For what I did,\" she said, because that was probably the answer he wanted to hear.\n\n\"Stop lying to me.\" He said each word separately\u2014 _Stop. Lying. To. Me.\u2014_ as if he ground his teeth as he spoke.\n\n\"But I really am sorry.\" Her voice trembled and she was powerless over it. \"I am. Please believe me.\"\n\n\"You are not. You are sorry that I won't continue to be your dupe, that I won't take you at your word, and that you will be left behind with none of that perfect married life that you thought you were getting.\"\n\nHer anger abruptly rose to the fore again. Why had he asked for an apology when he had no intention of accepting any? Why had he forced her to abase herself for nothing at all? \"Perhaps I wouldn't have had to do any of this if you hadn't been as dense as a peat bog. I've met Miss von Schweppenburg. I don't know what you see in her, but she would have made you about as happy as a drowned cat. And she never would have married you anyway. She is her mother's puppet. She has less spine than a bowl of trifle and\u2014\"\n\n\"That's enough,\" he said, his voice dangerously smooth. \"Now, was that so hard, a bit of honesty?\"\n\nShe suddenly felt wildly stupid, ranting on about Miss von Schweppenburg, of all people.\n\n\"I wish you well,\" he said. \"But I would prefer not to see you again, not in two months, two years, or two decades.\"\n\nIt finally occurred to her that he was dead serious. That what she had done was something hideous, beyond the pale. Unforgivable.\n\nShe raced ahead of him and blocked the door with her body. \"Please, please, please listen to me. I cannot bear the thought of living without you.\"\n\n\"Bear it,\" he said grimly. \"You'll live. Now kindly move out of my way.\"\n\n\"But you don't understand. I love you.\"\n\n\"Love?\" he sneered. \"So it's love now, is it? You mean to tell me that love drove you crazed with longing, thereby smashing your moral compass and whipping you down the primrose path?\"\n\nShe flinched. He had taken the words she meant to say and slapped her with them.\n\nSlowly, he advanced toward her. For the first time in her life, she shrank before another human being. But she refused to move aside, refused to let him simply sail on out of her life. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he brought his face very close to hers and fixed her with a brutal stare. \"I wish you hadn't mentioned love, Lady Tremaine.\" His voice was low, and cold as ashes. \"Right now I am this close to throwing you against the wall. Again, and again, and again.\"\n\nShe whimpered.\n\n\"It so happens that I know a thing or two about not-quite-requited love, my dear. It so happens that I have lived in that state for a while. I have not seduced Theodora so that she must marry me. I have not misrepresented my fortune. I have not forged some letter that declared my cousin's sudden death, clearing a path to the ducal title for myself. And when she writes me and tells me of her mother berating her because she is ineffectual with potential suitors, do you think I write back informing her that she must regale them with her fear of childbirth and her dislike for running a household?\n\n\"No, I tell her if she cannot look them in the eyes, she can look at the ridges of their noses and chances are they won't know the difference. I tell her that smiling with her head lowered is almost as good as smiling with her face raised to someone, perhaps even more alluring. And do you know why I give advice that is contrary to my own interests in the matter?\"\n\nShe shook her head miserably, wishing time to go back, wishing all her crimes undone. She didn't want to hear about Theodora, didn't want to be reminded that he remained above reproach while she had stooped to swindling.\n\nBut he went on inexorably. \"Because she trusts me and I do _not_ abuse her trust to further my chances with her. Because _being in love does not give you any excuse to be less than honorable,_ Lady Tremaine.\"\n\nHe pulled back from her abruptly, his breathing uneven. \"You may think you are in love, Gigi, but I doubt very much that you know what love is. Because it has been all about you, what _you_ want, what _you_ need, what _you_ can and cannot do without.\"\n\nHe moved further away. Too late did Gigi remember that the bedchamber had two doors.\n\nHe opened the second door and left without another word.\n\nAnd she could only watch as he disappeared from her view, from her life.\nChapter Seventeen\n\n_23 May 1893_\n\nHe had not done too badly, considering the ungodly chemise she had sported. The jolt of lust had been explosive, the jolt of anger almost nonexistent.\n\n_I must be getting mellow with age,_ Camden mused. How he used to fly into a righteous rage when she'd barge her way into his cramped apartment in Paris, then fling aside her long mantle to reveal bits of provocative nothing that would have made the Marquis de Sade drop his whip in stupefaction.\n\nThe insult. That she believed he'd let his penis control his mind, that if she could get him to bed, all would be forgiven. He had bleakly delighted in hauling her bodily out to the stair landing and slamming his door in her face. But such vicious enjoyment never lasted long. Over his own pounding heartbeat and harsh breathing, he'd strain to hear every lonely, echoing footstep of her descent.\n\nHe'd already be standing by the window in his dark, minuscule _salle de s\u00e9jour_ as she exited into the street. She'd look up, her face all adolescent anger and bewildered pain, her person stooped and small in the light of the streetlamp. Something inside him broke, without fail, each time.\n\nThe night he'd hired Mlle. Flandin had been the worst. What had he said to Gigi just before he closed the door on her? _Don't be so cheaply available if you want me. Go home. If I want you, I know where you are._\n\nHe must have waited at the window for an hour, his anger deteriorating into a corrosive anxiety. Yet his pride forbade that he should give in, walk out of his apartment, and make sure she hadn't fallen down a flight of steps. Eventually she'd emerged on the sidewalk, head down, shoulders hunched, like a battered camp follower. She did not look up at his window as she walked away, she and her lengthening shadow.\n\nThree days later he heard that she had packed up and returned to England. How easily she gave up. He got drunk for the first time in his life, a hideous experience that he would not repeat for another two years, until the day he learned that she had miscarried weeks following their wedding.\n\nHe checked his watch again. Fourteen hours and fifty-five minutes before he could have her again.\n\nSomeone addressed him by his title. He glanced about the park and saw a woman waving at him from atop a handsome victoria that she drove herself. She wore a dove-gray morning gown and a matching hat atop her dark chestnut hair. Lady Wrenworth. He raised his hand and returned the salute.\n\nThey shook hands as he maneuvered his horse into a trot alongside her carriage.\n\n\"You are up early, my lord Tremaine,\" said Lady Wrenworth.\n\n\"I prefer the park with the morning mist still in the branches. Is Lord Wrenworth well?\"\n\n\"He has been quite well since you last saw him yesterday afternoon.\" Flecks of slyness flavored her reply. It seemed that Lord Wrenworth had married no empty-headed beauty. He supposed she was the best Wrenworth could do after Gigi. \"And my lady Tremaine?\"\n\n\"As unfashionably hale as ever, from what I observed last night.\" He let a moment pass, during which Lady Wrenworth's eyes widened, before adding, \"At dinner.\"\n\n\"And did you take the opportunity to observe the stars too last night? They were out en masse.\"\n\nIt took him a second to remember his glib assertion that he was indeed an amateur astronomer on the night he and the Wrenworths had first been introduced. \"I'm afraid I'm more of an armchair enthusiast.\"\n\n\"Most of Society to this day hasn't the slightest clue about Lord Wrenworth's precise fields of study. And I'm ashamed to confess that I myself had no idea of his scientific pursuits until well after we were married. How did you become familiar with his publications, my lord, if you don't mind my curiosity?\"\n\nHow? _My daughter has not been quite herself since her unfortunate miscarriage in March two years ago. But her recent friendship with Lord Wrenworth has had quite a salubrious effect on her._\n\n\"I read scientific and technological papers as a matter of course, both to gratify my interest and to keep up with the latest advances.\" Quite honest so far. \"One simply cannot mistake Lord Wrenworth's brilliance.\"\n\nThe second part wasn't a lie either. Lord Wrenworth was, without a doubt, brilliant. But he was but one bright star in a galaxy of luminaries, in an age when advances in human understanding and machine prowess came fast and furious. Camden would not have singled him out had he not been Gigi's first paramour.\n\n\"Thank you.\" Lady Wrenworth glowed. \"I quite share that opinion.\"\n\nShe drove off with a friendly wave.\n\nFourteen hours and forty-three minutes. Would this day never pass?\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Lady Tremaine.\"\n\nGigi paused in her search for Freddie amid the throng at the Carlisles'. \"Miss Carlisle.\"\n\n\"Freddie asked me to tell you that he is in the garden,\" said Miss Carlisle. \"Behind the rose trellis.\"\n\nGigi almost laughed. Only Freddie would think it necessary to mention\u2014to a woman who secretly loved him, no less\u2014that he'd be \"behind the rose trellis,\" a spot of seclusion highly conducive to behavior not countenanced inside the ballroom. \"Thank you, though perhaps he shouldn't have troubled you.\"\n\n\"It's no trouble,\" Miss Carlisle said softly.\n\nMiss Carlisle was more handsome than pretty, but she had bright eyes and a sharp, quick wit. At twenty-three, she was in her fourth season and widely believed by many to have no real interest in matrimony, since she would come into control of a comfortable inheritance on her twenty-fifth birthday and since she had turned down any and all proposals directed her way.\n\nWould Miss Carlisle still be unmarried today if Freddie hadn't fallen head-over-heels in love with Gigi's art collection? Freddie believed he and Gigi to be kindred spirits who felt keenly the passage of time, the loss of a gently fading spring, and the inexplicability of life's joys and pains, when ironically she had bought the paintings solely in the hope of pleasing and mollifying Camden.\n\nWhy had she never told him that she preferred the future to the past and rarely bothered about the meaning of life? She felt a rush of guilt. If she had, today Freddie probably would be engaged to Miss Carlisle, a woman with a clear conscience, rather than to Gigi, who, behind his back, allowed another man to have his way with her.\n\nCould she claim martyrdom and higher purpose when she didn't unequivocally hate the swift coupling between Camden and herself? She hadn't even thought of poor Freddie until this morning.\n\nShe found Freddie pacing in the middle of the diminutive garden, having left his roost behind the rose trellis.\n\n\"Philippa!\" He came forward and placed his evening jacket about her shoulders, enveloping her in his generous warmth and a strong waft of turpentine.\n\nShe glanced at him. \"Have you been painting in your good clothes again?\"\n\n\"No, but I spilled some sauce on myself at dinner,\" he answered sheepishly. \"The butler cleaned it. Did a very decent job too.\"\n\nShe slid her knuckle against his cheek. \"We really should have some jackets made out of oilcloth for you.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you know it?\" he cried. \"That's what my mother used to say.\"\n\nShe started. Had she been patronizing? Or condescending? It hadn't felt that way.\n\n\"Do you know what Angelica said to me?\" Freddie asked her gleefully. \"She said a man my age ought to have more care. She also said that I'm dawdling because I'm scared my next work won't turn out any good, that I should get off my lazy posterior and put paint to canvas.\"\n\nThey rounded the rose trellis and sat down on the discreetly placed bench, the one on which Miss Carlisle was supposed to receive her wedding proposals. Freddie chuckled. \"I know you said she thinks well of me. But she certainly doesn't sound that way tonight.\"\n\nGigi frowned. The only painting Freddie had finished in '92 hung in her bedchamber. She always asked about his progress on his next painting, but she'd never paid any substantial attention to his creativity, considering it little more than a hobby, a gentlemanly amusement.\n\nMiss Carlisle saw it differently. Miss Carlisle saw Freddie differently. Gigi was happy to indulge Freddie's absentmindedness and artistic hesitations\u2014as long as he adored her, she didn't care if he lolled on the chaise longue and ate bonbons from sunrise to sunset. But Miss Carlisle saw a diamond in the rough, a man who could make quite something of himself if he but put in the effort.\n\nWas Gigi's affection for Freddie purer or more self-serving? Or perhaps, more to the point, wouldn't Freddie prefer to have made something of his talents?\n\nFreddie rested his head against her shoulder and they fell silent, inhaling the moist air, heavy with the sweetness of honeysuckle. She'd always felt peaceful like this, with him leaning into her and her fingers combing through his fine hair. But today that tranquillity eluded her.\n\nWas Camden right? Was Freddie's adulation of her all construed on mistaken assumptions? She shook her head. She would not think of her husband when she was with her beloved.\n\n\"Lord Tremaine was most charitable toward me yesterday,\" sighed Freddie, instantly dashing her resolution. \"He could have abused me a thousand ways and I'd have submitted to it.\"\n\nGigi sighed too. Camden had garnered nothing but praises since his return. He was said to possess the refinement of a true aristocrat and the elegance of a Renaissance courtier. And it certainly didn't hurt that he looked the way he did. If he remained in England for much longer, Felix Wrenworth would need to surrender his honorary title of the Ideal Gentleman.\n\nShe wanted to warn Freddie about Camden. But what could she say? In the official version of their history, which Freddie accepted without question, she and Camden had agreed to live separately from the very beginning. She could not utter a word against Camden without exposing herself.\n\n\"Yes, that was very considerate of him,\" she mumbled. _And then he came home at night, set me against a bedpost, and stuffed me, dear Freddie._\n\n\"But are you certain he will agree to a divorce?\" asked Freddie, with the innocent puzzlement of a child being told for the first time that the world was round.\n\nGigi immediately tensed. \"Why shouldn't I be? He said so himself.\"\n\n\"It's just that . . .\" Freddie hesitated. \"Don't mind me. I'm probably still flustered, that's all.\"\n\nShe pulled away from him so she could speak to him face-to-face. \"Did he say or do anything? You must not let him intimidate you.\"\n\n\"No, no, nothing of the sort. He was a complete gentleman. But he asked me questions. He . . . tested me, if you will. And I, well, I don't know. I couldn't read him all that properly. But I thought\u2014not that I'm often right in my thinking\u2014I thought he didn't look like he'd be happy to let you go.\"\n\nGigi shook her head. This was so far out of her perception of reality that she had no choice but to deny it. \"No one is ever happy about a divorce. I don't think he regrets letting me go. He is simply peeved that I couldn't leave well enough alone and had the temerity to interrupt his orderly life for the unworthy cause of my own happiness. In any case, he's already given his word. One year and I'm free to do as I choose.\"\n\nOne year from last night. She still couldn't think about it without being engulfed in vile heat.\n\n\"Amen to that,\" Freddie said fervently. \"You must be right. You are always right.\"\n\n_When he looks at you he sees only the halo he has erected about you._\n\n\"I think I should return to the ballroom,\" she said, rather abruptly. \"People will start to talk. We don't want that.\"\n\nFreddie obligingly shook his head. \"No, no, certainly not.\"\n\nShe wished for once he'd grab her by the shoulders, damn all the people in the ballroom, and kiss her as if the whole world was on fire. This was all Camden's fault. She had been perfectly happy with who Freddie was before he got here.\n\nShe stood up, kissed Freddie lightly on the forehead, and gathered her skirts to leave. \"It'll do you no harm to pay some mind to Miss Carlisle. Resume 'Afternoon in the Park.' I'd like it for a birthday present.\"\n\nA garden party was in full swing. Set against a profusion of red tulips and yellow jonquils was a kaleidoscopic parade of women, the edges of their creamy skirts blurring like a distant memory. In the middle of this swirl of colors, an oasis of calm. A man sat at a small table by himself, his cheek in his palm, his gaze enthralled by someone just outside the frame of the painting.\n\nLord Frederick was a far more talented and vivid painter than Camden had guessed. The painting radiated warmth, immediacy, and charming wistfulness.\n\n_A Man in Love,_ said the small inset on the bottom of the frame.\n\nA man in love.\n\nAt his sister Claudia's house in Copenhagen, there was a framed photograph of Camden, taken the day after New Year's Day 1883. He'd been waiting for his mother and Claudia to finish their primping in advance of a family portrait, and the photographer had captured him in a pose nearly identical to that of Lord Frederick's man in love\u2014daydreaming in an armchair, his head propped up in his hand, smiling, gazing somewhere beyond the range of the camera.\n\nHe had been looking out the window in the direction of Briarmeadow and thinking of _her._\n\nThe photograph remained Claudia's favorite, despite all his efforts to persuade her to get rid of it. _I like looking at it,_ she'd insist. _I miss you like that._\n\nSome days he, too, missed it. The optimism, the headiness, the feeling of walking on air. He knew perfectly well now that it'd been based on a lie, that he'd paid for those few weeks of unbridled happiness by never being able to feel anything like that again, and still he missed it.\n\nHe might divorce her, but he'd never be free of her.\n\nGigi's sitting room was dark, but light flowed out of her bedroom, casting a long, narrow triangle the color of old gold coins along the angle of the bedroom door, which had been left slightly ajar. Strange, she was certain she had switched off the light before going out.\n\nWhen she reached her bedroom, she discovered the light to be from Camden's apartment. The connecting door between their bedrooms was wide open. But his bedroom, though lit, looked empty, his bed undisturbed from when it had last been made.\n\nHer heart rate accelerated. She had deliberately stayed out very late to avoid a repeat of last night. Surely he wouldn't bother waiting up when he still had three hundred sixty-three nights left to impregnate her.\n\nBut where was he? Fallen asleep in his chair? Or possibly still out on the town somewhere, seeing to his own amusement? But what did she care what he did in his own time? She should simply close the door\u2014very quietly\u2014and get herself to bed.\n\nInstead, she walked into his bedroom.\n\nThe sight of the fully restored room still made her throat tighten. It took her back to the time when she used to flop down on his bed and weep at life's unfairness.\n\nThe day she emptied the bedchamber was the day she took charge of her life. Three months later she met Lord Wrenworth and began a torrid affair that further boosted her confidence. But this was where it all began, the decoupling of her life from Camden's, the choice to move on, no matter how lonely and uncertain the future.\n\nHis personal effects were nowhere to be seen, except for a watch on a silver chain that lay on the demilune table opposite the bed, an intricate timepiece from Patek, Philippe & Cie. She turned the watch over. On the back was an inscription wishing him a happy thirtieth birthday from Claudia.\n\nShe put down the watch. The console table stood not far from the half-open door to the sitting room. A bright light washed in, but the sitting room itself was as silent as the bottom of the ocean.\n\nShe pushed the door open and saw rolls of blueprints, dozens of them, on chairs and tables. On the writing table, held open by a paperweight, a slide rule, and a tin of bonbons, was a sheet of white draft paper.\n\nShe saw Camden only after she had opened the door fully. He was seated in a low-slung Louis XV chair, clad in the black dressing gown that brought out the dark flecks in his green eyes, turning them the color of summer foliage at dusk. A book lay open in his lap.\n\n\"You are up early,\" he said, taking his sense of irony out for some exercise and fresh air, no doubt.\n\n\"Must be that Protestant work ethic I keep hearing so much about,\" she said.\n\n\"Did you do well at cards tonight?\" His gaze dipped to the d\u00e9colletage of her gown. \"I'd guess you did.\"\n\nShe had worn one of her less modest pieces. It was, to be sure, a cheap trick to divert attention at the gaming tables, but she disliked idling her assets when she could make use of them. \"Who told _you_ about it?\"\n\n\"You. You told me that once you were married, you planned to never dance again and to spend all your time at balls separating English fops from their cravat money.\"\n\n\"I don't remember ever saying anything like that.\"\n\n\"It was a long time ago,\" he said. \"Let me show you something.\"\n\nHe rose and walked over to her, opening the book in his hands to an oversize page. The page was folded into quarters. He unfolded it. \"Take a look.\"\n\nShe immediately recognized the large illustration as a rendering of Achilles' shield. Mrs. Rowland adored Book 18 of the _Iliad,_ and many a night, as a child, Gigi had gone to sleep listening to the description of the great shield Hephaestus had wrought for Achilles, the five-layered marvel that depicted a city at peace and a city at war, and just about every other human activity under the sun, all surrounded by the mighty river Oceanus.\n\nShe had seen other imaginings of the shield, most of which, too faithful to Homer's depictions, were crammed with details of dancing youths and garlanded maidens, resulting in a filigree so fine that it could not possibly outlast the vigor of even one battle. But this particular interpretation was lean, shorn of minutiae, yet muscular and menacing in its austerity. The sun, the moon, and the stars shone down on the wedding procession and the bloody slaughter in equal serenity.\n\n\"It is the _oeuvre_ of the man whom your mother would like you to marry,\" Camden said as he restored the page to its folded state. \"If you can't hang on to me.\"\n\nGigi was surprised enough that she took the book from Camden and inspected its spine. _Eleven Years Before Ilium: A Study of the Geography, Logistics, and Daily Life of the Trojan War_ by L. H. Perrin. The family surname of the dukes of Perrin was Fitzwilliam, but by custom a peer signed his title.\n\n\"Fancy that.\" She gave the book back.\n\nCamden set it aside. \"Since you are here, have a look at some of my designs.\"\n\nHe'd done nothing to indicate the slightest sexual interest in her. Yet the hairs on her neck abruptly stood on end. \"Why should I be curious?\"\n\n\"So you'll know whom to blame when Britain loses the next America's Cup Challenge.\"\n\nShe was dismayed despite her preoccupation. \"You are helping the American side?\"\n\nSome forty years before, an American yacht had raced fourteen yachts from the Royal Yacht Squadron around the Isle of Wight and won by a whopping twenty minutes. According to legend, the queen, watching the race, asked who was second, and the answer she received was \"There is no second, Your Majesty.\" Ever since then, English syndicates had been trying to best the Americans and win back the cup. To no avail.\n\n\"I'm helping the New York Yacht Club, of which I'm a member,\" he said.\n\nHe walked ahead of her to the writing desk and glanced back, waiting. The light of the standing lamp beside him caressed his hair, illuminating its sun-bleached locks. His expression was kind and patient\u2014too kind, too patient.\n\nShe felt the tug of gravity on her feet. Only her refusal to reveal any weaknesses in herself forced her to move, one heavy heel at a time, to stand before the desk.\n\nAs she bent her neck to inspect the design, he moved behind her. \"It's more of a preliminary drawing at this stage,\" he said.\n\nHe spoke next to her ear. A filament of pleasure zigzagged through her, acute and debilitating. She felt his hand brush aside the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her low chignon. Then his fingers settled on her nape.\n\n\"I see,\" she said, her voice tight.\n\n\"I can do the detailed scale drawing myself,\" he murmured, undoing the top button of her gown. \"But mostly these days I have a draftsman do it for me.\"\n\nShe stared down at the designs. At the center was a yacht, appearing as it would at sea, sails fully deployed. To the side he had drawn a cross section of the hull and a view of the vessel in dry dock.\n\nHe reached around her and pointed at a deep, narrow protrusion from the keel halfway down the length of the yacht, while his other hand unmoored her buttons easily, languidly, and all too swiftly.\n\n\"I hope the fin keel will give the yacht greater lateral stability,\" he said, as if he were addressing a group of engineering students, even as he opened her gown all the way to her hips. \"You want the yacht to ride as high as possible, to increase hull speed. But a vessel barely in the water would capsize that much more readily.\"\n\n\"Been capsizing boats lately?\" she said, hoping her voice dripped enough tartness.\n\n\"Not for a while I haven't. But I did once. The first yacht I ever owned. I worked on the design for years, built her with my own hands, and she tipped over two leagues into her maiden voyage.\" He eased the gown off her shoulders, disengaging her arms from the bodice, his touch as light as the first breeze of summer. \"Serves me right for calling her the _Marchioness.\"_\n\nHer heart suddenly pounded. He named his first yacht after _her?_ \"What possessed you to do something like that? Did you forget that you couldn't stand me?\"\n\n\"I was told I should either name my boat after my wife or my mistress,\" he said, as her dress crumpled into a heap of coppery satin and tulle. \"I towed her in, rebuilt her from scratch, rechristened her the _Mistress,_ and she's been sailing fine ever since, one of the fastest racing yachts on the Atlantic.\n\n\"You see,\" he whispered, loosening her corset laces and lifting the corset over her head. \"You are trouble even from three thousand miles away.\"\n\n\"Truly, is there no depth to which I won't sink?\" she asked sarcastically, even as she gripped on to the desk.\n\nHer petticoats slipped off to join the discarded gown. He easily deprived her of her chemise, his accidental touches scalding her skin. \"I think I still have a photograph somewhere of me waving from the _Marchioness,_ idiotically overjoyed, just before she sailed.\"\n\n\"I'd have preferred seeing you in the frigid Atlantic. I should have liked to sail right by and not fish you out.\"\n\nHe retorted by divesting her of her drawers and trapping her naked body\u2014naked but for white satin evening gloves and white silk stockings\u2014between his body and the edge of the desk.\n\nHis fingertips skimmed over her bare bottom and headed slowly yet inexorably for the junction of her thighs. She closed her eyes and bit her lip but refused to clamp her legs together despite her nervousness.\n\n\"Are you always this wet?\" he whispered. \"Or is it just for me?\"\n\nShe wanted to say something biting, something that would puncture his masculine pride so completely that he'd never be able to gloat again. But it was all she could do to suppress the whimper in her throat as he slowly pushed inside her. His dressing gown caressed her back, cool and silken against the burning sensations of his entry. He withdrew, then rammed inside her with a vigor that forced a gasp from her larynx and lifted her to her toes.\n\nHe sank his teeth into her shoulder. Nothing painful, just a strong bite to punctuate the hot, smooth glide of his body into hers. She could not silence a small moan.\n\nDespite her desperate attempt to recite the alphabet backward\u2014she reached only as far as V before she could no longer think\u2014her body drowned in sensations. She was full, so full, and deliciously pummeled. The pleasure gathered and swelled. She gripped the edge of the desk tighter, her mind unable to comprehend anything except the need to extract ever greater, sharper, thicker pleasure from their mating.\n\nThat pleasure erupted in a quivering, imploding climax. She was vaguely aware of his final thrust, of the spasm of his body, of his labored breath in her ear and the heavy thudding of his heart against her back, plainly discernible through the thin layer of silk that separated them.\n\nHis cheek nuzzled against her neck. His hands were on either side of hers. They stood, practically in an embrace, with him leaning into her, surrounding her.\n\n\"Oh, God, Gigi,\" he murmured, the syllables barely audible. \"Gigi.\"\n\nShe froze, the spell of the moment shattered. He had uttered that exact phrase on their wedding night, over her, under her, beside her, in what she had believed to be exultant bliss.\n\nShe disengaged herself, turned around, and slammed her palms into his chest. Her abrupt ferocity did not budge him, but his eyes widened in surprise. He moved aside. Not caring that she looked like a woman who made her living gracing pornographic postcards, she bent down, gathered an armful of her garments, and pivoted on her heels.\n\n\"Wait.\" He followed after her. She thought he meant to hand her an item of clothing she had forgotten. But instead he draped his dressing gown about her. \"Don't catch a chill.\"\n\nShe had felt angry, mortified, humiliated. She still did. But his solicitude unearthed pain of the kind she thought she had resolutely put behind her when she cleared out his bedchamber: the pain of what might have been.\n\n\"I won't thank you,\" she said. She had only surliness left for defense.\n\n\"I've done nothing worthy of a thank-you,\" he said. \"Good night, Lady Tremaine. Until tomorrow night.\"\nChapter Eighteen\n\n_25 May 1893_\n\nMrs. Rowland greeted Langford, His Grace the Duke of Perrin, with a welcome that was noticeable for the absence of the effusive, sycophantic warmth she plucked out of thin air so easily. Not that one could find fault with her hospitality. But whereas she had once been eager\u2014indeed, greedy\u2014for any furtherance of their acquaintance, this evening she'd metamorphosed into a walking embodiment of correct politeness. Even the soft, pastel gowns she favored had been replaced by a relentless black, like the crepe of a widow in first mourning.\n\nShe received him in a parlor lit as brilliantly as the Versailles. So many candles blazed that he wondered if some parish church wasn't missing its altar. The windows facing the country lane were open, the dimity curtains only half drawn. Any passerby could clearly see the entire interior of the room.\n\nWas she so eager to advertise her increasing familiarity with him? Possibly. But the path outside was lightly used during the day and barely trod at night. She might as well have painted herself a sign\u2014 _The Duke of Perrin calls at this estimable residence\u2014_ and then planted it face-down in her garden.\n\n\"Would you care for something to drink?\" she asked. \"Tea, pineapple water, or lemonade?\"\n\nHe was fairly certain that no one had offered him lemonade since he turned thirteen. And it did not escape his attention that she gave him no choice of spirits.\n\n\"A cognac would do very well.\"\n\nHer lips thinned, but she apparently couldn't quite summon up the wherewithal to deny a duke a simple request of beverage. \"Certainly. Hollis,\" she said to her butler, \"bring a bottle of R\u00e9my Martin for His Grace.\"\n\nThe servant bowed and left.\n\nLangford smiled in satisfaction. There, that was better. Lemonade indeed. \"I trust your trip to London was rewarding?\"\n\nShe laughed, a sound both startled and inauthentic. \"Yes, I suppose it was.\"\n\nShe touched the cameo brooch she wore at her throat. He could not help staring at the contrast of her white fingers against the stark, light-devouring crepe. The skin on her hand, though delicate, lacked the succulence and translucency of first youth. He was reminded that she was, indeed, several years older than him, a woman approaching fifty. Granny Snow White.\n\nBut damned if she wasn't more beautiful than a bevy of nubile girls, more beautiful even than herself at age nineteen. As a rule, gorgeous women aged worse than plain ones\u2014they had the greater fall. She, however, had acquired, somewhere along the way, a self-worth that had little to do with her beauty yet adorned her better than pearls and diamonds\u2014an underpinning of substance beneath her still-lovely skin.\n\n\"I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting your cousins at the theater,\" she said. \"Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were kind enough to invite me to sit in their box.\"\n\nThe significance of her statement did not immediately register. So she ran into Caro and Grace\u2014a lot of people did, to their delight or chagrin, depending on whether they received juicy gossip or were probed three fingers deep for it. Then it dawned on him. Mrs. Rowland here hadn't had any idea at all of the person he had been before his present incarnation as the reclusive, practically asexual scholar.\n\nAnd what would they have told her? Probably the bitch fight, the fire, and the time he hired all of Madame Mignonne's girls. They were far from the worst sins he had ever committed, but they ranked high in notoriety. And the virtuous\u2014though opportunistic\u2014Mrs. Rowland was shocked and dismayed enough to temporarily shelve her idol-worshipping mien and her breathless voice.\n\nTruly, as if he could be deterred from more nefarious intentions by a few open windows and fifteen yards of reproachful black crepe, he who had successfully lifted a number of mourning skirts in his day, and sometimes before open windows too.\n\nNot that he entertained any such designs concerning Mrs. Rowland. Had they met twenty years previously, well, it would have been quite another story. But he had changed. He was now aged and tame.\n\nOn most days.\n\n\"I trust they regaled you with stories of my youthful indiscretions,\" he said. \"I'm afraid I haven't led the most exemplary life.\"\n\nObviously she hadn't expected him to confront the issue head-on. She attempted a nonchalant wave of her hand. \"Well, what gentleman is without a few peccadilloes to his name?\"\n\n\"Just so.\" He nodded with grand approval at her sudden insight. \"The intemperance of summer leads to the ripe maturity of autumn. Thus it has always been, thus it always will be.\"\n\nHe almost laughed at the confusion his philosophizing caused in her. But her manservant came to the rescue with the delivery of the cognac, an excellent blend composed of fine eau-de-vie that had been aged fifty years in old Limousin oak barrels.\n\nThey moved to the card table she had set up and she tentatively inquired if they could, at this early stage, play for something other than one-thousand-pound-a-hand stakes. \"My daughter and I played for sweets, butterscotch, toffee, licorice . . . you see what I mean, Your Grace.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he said magnanimously, especially given that he had played thousand-quid hands no more than three times in his life, after which even his vice-laden heart could no longer tolerate the awfulness of losing a year's income in a single night.\n\nShe rose and retrieved a large golden embossed box. \"My daughter sent me these Swiss chocolates Easter last. She knows I'm very fond of them.\"\n\nThe chocolates were packed in several trays, with most of those on the top tier already eaten. She discarded the top tray, then set one full tray before herself and one before him.\n\n\"What games did you play with your daughter?\" he said, shuffling the decks of cards on the table.\n\n\"The usual games for two\u2014bezique, casino, \u00e9cart\u00e9. She is an excellent card player.\"\n\n\"I look forward to a few games with her when she arrives,\" he said.\n\nMrs. Rowland did not answer immediately. \"I'm sure she would be delighted.\"\n\nIt would appear that while Mrs. Rowland could best a Drury Lane professional when it came to premeditated fabrications, she wasn't as smooth when a spontaneous instance of barefaced lying was required. Managing a husband and a fianc\u00e9 at the same time was no mean task. He could see very well why Lady Tremaine refused to participate in her mother's harebrained schemes to add a third man to the already combustible mix. A few beats of silence passed as he dealt the cards faceup.\n\n\"Perhaps you'd rather play a few hands with her husband,\" said Mrs. Rowland. \"She is not yet sure of her itinerary, so he might come in her stead.\"\n\n\"She is married?\" He feigned great surprise.\n\n\"Yes, she is. She has been married to the Duke of Fairford's heir for ten years.\" Pride still informed her answer. Pride and a trace of despair.\n\nThe first ace landed in his lap. He shook his head slightly as he collected the cards, shuffled them, and held the deck out for her to cut. \"I confess myself baffled, Mrs. Rowland. When you recommended your daughter to me, I had assumed her unattached and your gentle interest in my person intended to bring about a friendship between your daughter and myself.\"\n\nShe stared at him as if he'd asked her to undress. Well, he _was_ stripping her bare, in a way. She tugged at the cameo brooch as if her collar was buttoned too tight. \"Your Grace, I assure you\u2014the mere thought of it! I\u2014\"\n\n\"Now, now, Mrs. Rowland\"\u2014he had not yet completely forgotten how to be smarmy\u2014\"a mother's machination to marry her daughter off to a man of consequence might not be the loftiest of human endeavors, but it is a time-honored one. Yet here I find that your daughter is a woman already safely and advantageously wed. For what purpose, then, have you sought out my company so assiduously, to the extent that you were willing to chase me down outside your house and promise to engage in activities that you otherwise despise?\"\n\nHer response was a resounding silence.\n\n\"Your bet, madam,\" he reminded her.\n\nMutely, she set three pieces of chocolate on a doily at the center of the table. He dealt her card facedown and his faceup. A measly five of spades. Next he dealt both of their cards facedown.\n\nShe placed her hands over her cards but did not lift them. Her cheeks flushed wine-dark. \"I should like to answer your question now, sir. The answer is one that would embarrass both you and me\u2014mortify me, in fact\u2014but you deserve to know it.\"\n\nShe ran her tongue over her lower lip. \"The truth is I've had quite enough of widowhood. And I've looked about my vicinity and come to the conclusion that you would make a fine husband for me.\"\n\nHe nearly dropped both his jaw and his cards. She had caught him as flat-footed as a five-hundred-pound man.\n\n\"I've watched you walk past my house every day these past five years, on fair days and foul,\" she continued, gazing at him with her beautiful eyes. \"Every day I wait for your appearance at the bend of the road, where the fuchsia tree grows. I follow your progress until you can no longer be seen beyond Squire Wright's hedge. And I think about you.\"\n\nHe knew she was lying as surely as he knew that there had been something going on between the queen and her late manservant John Brown. But somehow he couldn't quite prevent her words from affecting him. Images came to mind of Mrs. Rowland in her bed at night, her hair and breasts unbound, bemoaning her loneliness, wanting, needing, pining away for a man. For him.\n\n\"But it isn't until now that I've plucked up the courage to do something about it,\" she said, her voice soft as a spring night. \"I'm not a young woman anymore. So I've decided against a young woman's wiles in favor of a more direct approach. I hope I've not offended you with my forwardness.\"\n\nIt wasn't often that he didn't know up from down, east from west. But he had to try damned hard to remind himself that when she thought of him, it was only with the intention of providing her daughter that elusive coronet of strawberry leaves, as she had so bluntly informed her fur ball of a cat.\n\n\"Why me?\" He cleared his throat when he realized his voice sounded closer to a croak. \"Pardon my observation, but you are a well-looking woman of independent means. If you would but put out the word\u2014\"\n\n\"But then I'd have to wade neck deep amongst sycophants and fortune hunters. My desire to be free of them was one of the reasons that motivated my return to Devon,\" she said quietly, reasonably. \"As for why I have set my cap on you, sir, I suppose it's because I've been influenced by Her Grace your late mother.\"\n\n_\"My mother?\"_\n\nHis mother had perished of pneumonia four months after his father passed away. Had she lived longer, he probably would have led a more upright life, if only to protect her from the likes of Caro and Grace.\n\n\"I'm sorry to have misled you, Your Grace, by pretending not to know your identity the day we met.\" At last she looked down at her cards and turned them over. An ace and a jack, a natural twenty-one. \"The truth is, though we have never been introduced, I've known you for many years. I lived in this house in my youth, and I remember well catching sight of you from these windows when you were home from school on holidays.\"\n\nHe took the sugar tongs she offered and paid her three chocolates from his tray. \"How did you meet my mother?\"\n\n\"When I helped to run the charity bazaar in sixty-one, she was the honorary patroness. She took a liking to me and invited me to a weekly tea at Ludlow Court.\" Mrs. Rowland smiled wistfully. \"In private she was both gracious and ordinary\u2014ordinary in that her concerns were the same as any other woman's: her husband and her son. I didn't realize it at that time, but looking back, I think she was quite lonely, stranded in the country because of the late duke's poor health, with few friends and even fewer diversions that she could indulge in without appearing callous to His Grace's illness.\"\n\nHe stared at her, no longer sure whether she was still fabricating tales but desperately hoping she wasn't. He had not spoken to anyone about his poor mother\u2014his parents\u2014in years. No one ever thought to ask him how he felt about being orphaned. They merely assumed, by his subsequent behavior, that he was all too glad to have his parents out of his profligate way.\n\nMrs. Rowland picked up a piece of chocolate wrapped in translucent paper and rolled it between her fingers. The paper crinkled and scrunched softly. \"She didn't mention His Grace's illness much. She already knew it was only a matter of time. But she did speak at length about you. She was proud of you and looking forward to your First in Classics. She even showed me a letter that Professor Thompson at Trinity College had written to you, answering your question concerning a point raised in the _Phaedo_ and complimenting you on your grasp of ancient Greek. But she was also worried. She said you were wild as the jungles of South America and a conundrum to her. She fretted that neither she nor your father could keep you in line. And she feared that your unruliness would only grow without the influence of a strong, steady wife.\"\n\nIf Langford were any closer to speechlessness, he'd personify it. Mrs. Rowland's revelations shocked him far more than he had thought possible or even likely. Five minutes ago he had been smugly certain that he knew more about Mrs. Rowland than she could ever guess. But now exactly the reverse was true. She had observed him as an adolescent, she had been a confidante to his mother, she had even read the prized letter from Professor Thompson.\n\n\"Why did we not meet if you were, as you say, a frequent visitor to Ludlow Court?\"\n\n\"Because I stayed no more than half an hour for each visit, and because you were always away somewhere at teatime even when you were home on holiday. In summer you'd have gone to Torquay for seabathing, in winter, out stalking a deer or visiting a classmate in the next county.\"\n\nBecause he never had any time for his mother. He dined with her when he was at home and thought that simple act discharged all his duties and responsibilities as a son.\n\n\"As you might imagine, my conversations with a loving mother left a lasting, positive impression of her son, leading to my current intentions. . . .\"\n\n\"Until you were waylaid by Ladies Avery and Somersby and informed of the more sordid aspects of my past.\"\n\n\"Actually, my daughter was the first to tell me.\" She smiled wryly. \"She disapproves of you. But I think a judgment of you based only on your prodigal years is perhaps as biased and incomplete as that made solely on what one knows of you before and after those years.\"\n\nShe raked in the chocolates, set them in a neat pile before her, and cleared the cards. \"Your turn to wager, Your Grace. Though I'd understand perfectly should you no longer wish to stay, now that I've revealed myself as both a fraud and a schemer.\"\n\nNo, she hadn't merely revealed herself to be a schemer. She was still a schemer. She was still weaving fact and fiction together in order that her daughter could rise from the ashes of her divorce more socially prominent than ever.\n\nYet something bound him to her now. Thirty years ago, when the young Mrs. Rowland had been respectfully attending the late duchess, he had been silent and sullen at dinner, ignoring his mother to the best of his capability. He had hardly known the woman who gave him life. Even the death of his father hadn't imparted to him any urgency to better acquaint himself with her. She had been the healthy one. He'd assumed that she'd be around to wring her handkerchief and frown upon his infractions for decades to come.\n\nHe put up five pieces of chocolate. \"Please deal.\"\nChapter Nineteen\n\n_31 May 1893_\n\nAs you can see, sir, we have outstanding vehicles that would meet your every need,\" said the wiry Scotsman, proprietor of Adams's Fine Carriages, For Sale and For Let.\n\n\"Indeed,\" said Camden. \"Most excellent wares. I will be out of town for a day or two. When I return, I will decide on one in particular.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir,\" said Adams. \"Allow us the honor to conduct you home in one of our fine conveyances.\"\n\nCamden smiled. He regularly hosted sorties on his yacht, and guests who had not seriously considered owning a yacht before had been known to commission one from him before they disembarked. So he appreciated the Scotsman's acumen. \"It would be my pleasure.\"\n\n\"This way, please.\"\n\nA sumptuous black-and-gold landau was already fitted to a team of four and ready to go as they approached the courtyard.\n\n\"Ah, Mrs. Croesus is here today, I see,\" said Adams, with evident pleasure.\n\n\"Pardon?\" said Camden, certain he'd misheard the man. Mrs. _Croesus?_ He couldn't help imagining a small female pup with a gold leash and a diamond-encrusted collar.\n\n\"Won't you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Saybrook?\" said Adams.\n\nHe rushed forward to greet the woman about to mount the carriage. Rope upon rope of perfectly matched pearls rambled across her shapely front. The rest of her was swathed in brocade shot through and through with gold threads. Beneath her oversize and wildly beplumed hat, the chin-length veil that concealed her face sparkled in the sun\u2014tiny diamonds sewn into the netting.\n\nThe woman appeared exactly as a human Mrs. Croesus should. He ought to ask Gigi, Camden thought dryly, why she, one of the richest women in England, rarely dressed the part. Next time he saw her, that was. After their last coupling the night of the Carlisles' ball, she had sent him a tersely worded note the next morning, informing him that she'd be unavailable for procreation-related purposes for the following seven days. And he'd hardly seen her since.\n\nToday was the eighth day.\n\nAdams fussed over Mrs. Croesus. She received his attention with a grand condescension that he quite obviously relished. At last he handed her into the open carriage, bowed, and returned to Camden.\n\n\"Don't much care for fancy ladies usually,\" he said. \"But there is something about that one. Magnificent, eh?\"\n\nThe magnificent one raised the lapdog she'd held on the side away from Camden and lifted it to her face. \"Magnificent indeed,\" said Camden, recognizing the corgi.\n\nGigi. What was she doing hiring a carriage from Adams's? Didn't she have barouches and broughams enough of her own? And why was she suddenly dressed like some American millionaire's mistress?\n\n\"On second thought,\" he said to Adams, \"I've decided that a cab will be all I require this morning.\"\n\nGigi's hired landau went east, across Westminster Bridge, past Lambeth, into Southwark. Shops lined the thoroughfares. Vendors milled about the curb, hawking ginger beer and West Country strawberries. Sandwich-board men, wearily watching out for yobos who tipped them over for fun, advertised everything from tobacco to female pills.\n\nThe houses looked decent, some even well-to-do. But the prosperity did not extend beyond the main boulevard. The landau turned off onto a side street, and within a few blocks the neighborhood hung on to respectability by its fingernails.\n\nThe carriage stopped before a small establishment set between a grimy cookshop reeking of sausage and onion and the office of a doctor promising to not only cure common diseases and female ailments but also to regenerate hair and banish corpulence.\n\nHalf a dozen women stood on the sidewalk, two carrying small children, all waiting. They smoothed skirts and hair with ungloved hands, trying to not stare at the grand lady in the landau and not entirely succeeding.\n\nThe coachmen leapt down, unfolded the steps, and held open the door. Gigi alit, looking richer than God and colder than Persephone in Hades' bed, her green-and-gold-striped day dress an almost shocking display of color and brilliance amid the women's faded blues and duns. As she approached the door, it was opened from within by a middle-aged, neatly attired woman.\n\nFrom across the street in his hired cab, Camden watched in fascination. What was Gigi doing on a Bermondsey street barely one rung above seediness?\n\nOne waiting woman bent down to speak to her child, clearing Camden's line of sight at last to the small bronze plaque affixed to the left of the door.\n\nCroesus Lending Co.  \nFor Ladies Only\n\nGigi had dealt with this young girl and her young child a hundred times\u2014different faces, different names, but always the same story. She'd been in love, she'd thought it would last, but it didn't. And here she was, at her wits' end, with only a ha'penny to her name, throwing herself at the mercy of a stranger.\n\nThe story still sent chills down Gigi's spine. Had she been a poor, friendless seamstress, might she not have fallen for the handsome apprentice baker next door? Had she been in service, perhaps she, too, would have believed the sweet nothings proffered by the son of the house.\n\nShe'd made all the same mistakes. She knew what it was like to be lonely and desperately in love. What it was like to willingly abandon all good sense.\n\nMiss Shoemaker had been a promising apprentice florist in Cambridge when she lost her head over a young professor who came into her employer's shop every morning for a fresh boutonniere. The rest was mundane tragedy. He refused to marry her or even support her. She lost her position when her pregnancy could no longer be hidden. No other reputable florist would hire her. To keep herself and her child alive, she turned to prostitution.\n\nIt seemed that her prayers had been answered when a fellow apprentice florist, Miss Neeley, wrote for her help. Miss Neeley had left Cambridge to open her own shop in London before Miss Shoemaker's disgrace and still thought her a reputable young woman. Miss Shoemaker worked under Miss Neeley for two years, socking away every spare penny for the day when she could open her own shop. But just when she thought she had put her past behind her, in walked Miss Neeley's brother one fine morning and recognized Miss Shoemaker from her streetwalking days.\n\nThe outline of Miss Shoemaker's difficult young life took up all of one typed page from the private investigator Gigi kept on retainer for Croesus Lending. Those applicants with good references and character letters were handled by Mrs. Ramsey. The irregular cases came to Gigi.\n\nShe listened impassively as Miss Shoemaker stuttered her way through her unhappy story, her cheeks stained a dark red.\n\n\"I'm sorry I've no character, mum. But I know all about flowers. I can read some and I'm real good with numbers. Miss Neeley used to let me keep the books for her too. And she gots all sorts of compliments on them big arrangements I made for weddings and dances and such. . . .\" Miss Shoemaker's voice trailed off, finally cowed into silence by Gigi's glacial magnificence.\n\nAnd it wasn't just her overdressed self; it was the room too. After the shabby anteroom and the narrow, dark hallway, the opulence of her office dazzled without fail. Lavishly framed paintings by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, brimming with the dazzling white marbles and the impossibly blue skies of a lost antiquity, drew forth astounded gasps. Furniture as fine as any found in aristocratic drawing rooms routinely made the applicants round-eyed with fear, afraid to soil the posh vermilion-and-cream brocade upholstery with their humble posteriors.\n\n\"You said you wish to open a shop of your own,\" Gigi said. \"Do you have a location chosen?\"\n\n\"Yes, mum. There is this small shopfront just off Bond Street. The rent is dear, but the location is good.\"\n\nMiss Shoemaker had ambition and daring. Gigi liked that. \"Bond Street? Getting ahead of yourself, Miss Shoemaker?\"\n\n\"No, mum. I've thought and thought about it. It's the only way. The people in trade, their wives wouldn't use me, not if they've heard anything from Miss Neeley. But the grand ladies, they might not care so much if I do real good work.\"\n\nThere was some truth to that. \"Even so, I would advise you to become a very proper widow.\"\n\n\"Yes, mum.\"\n\n\"And before you become too thrilled with your blue-blood patrons, find out which pay their bills and which think you should pay them for the privilege.\"\n\n\"Yes, mum.\" Miss Shoemaker could hardly speak for her rising excitement.\n\n\"And keep your eyes peeled for any rich Americans coming to town. Get their business as fast as you can.\"\n\n\"Yes, mum.\"\n\nGigi wrote out a cheque and placed it in an envelope. \"You may take this to Mrs. Ramsey in the next room down the hall. She will handle the rest.\"\n\nMrs. Ramsey would take Miss Shoemaker through Croesus Lending Co.'s standard contract, tell her what to do with the cheque, and, at the end, show her out through the back door. Gigi did not want the applicants to share their successes with one another or for it to become common knowledge that she granted the vast majority of their requests.\n\n\"Oh, mum, thank you, mum!\" Miss Shoemaker curtsied so deep she nearly fell over.\n\n\"More sweet,\" her son, who'd been completely silent, suddenly chirped loudly.\n\n\"Shhh!\" Miss Shoemaker dug out a pretty tin, opened it, and quickly shoved a piece of bonbon into the boy's mouth.\n\nThe tin. Good God. From Demel's of Vienna. An identical one had been there right next to Gigi's hand, on Camden's writing desk, the last time he'd taken her.\n\n\"Where'd you get that?\" she asked sharply.\n\n\"From a gentleman outside, mum,\" answered Miss Shoemaker, looking at Gigi uncertainly. \"He gave it when Timmy wouldn't stop crying. I'm sorry, mum. I shouldn't have taken it. It was very wrong of me.\"\n\n\"It's all right. You did nothing wrong.\"\n\n\"But, mum\u2014\"\n\n\"Mrs. Ramsey is waiting for you, Miss Shoemaker.\"\n\nGigi searched all around, but there were no signs of Camden anywhere outside Croesus Lending Co. She rode the landau back to Adams's and allowed the Scotsman to hail her a cab, which took her to Madame Elise's, where she had fifteen minutes to choose fabric for a new shawl before her own brougham arrived outside, having unloaded her two hours earlier.\n\nShe arrived home and found Camden in his bedchamber, dropping a stack of starched white shirts into a traveling satchel.\n\n\"What were you doing following me?\"\n\n\"Curiosity, my dear Mrs. Croesus. I happened to be at the carriage place when you came around,\" he said without looking at her, a small smile about his lips. \"If you saw me dressed like the king on coronation day, calling myself Lord Bountiful and going about on mysterious business, what would you have done?\"\n\n\"Gone about my own affairs, of course,\" she said, not very convincingly.\n\n\"Of course,\" he murmured. \"But rest assured, your secret is safe with me.\"\n\n\"It's not a secret. It's but anonymity. The women who come to Croesus Lending for help aren't exactly what the holier-than-thou set would call 'the deserving poor.' I don't want to have to explain anything to anyone, that's all.\"\n\n\"I understand.\"\n\n\"No, you don't understand.\" What could he possibly understand, Mr. Mighty-and-Perfect? \"These are hardworking, enterprising women who happen to have a less-than-spotless past. All they need are a few quid to get them on their feet again.\"\n\n\"How much money did you lend out today?\"\n\nShe hesitated. Was he expecting a numerical answer? \"Sixty-five pounds.\"\n\nHis brow lifted. \"A goodly sum. Did any of it go to Miss Shoemaker?\"\n\n\"Ten pounds.\" Ten pounds was a significant amount of money. It was not uncommon for working girls to earn two quid a month.\n\n\"What about Miss Dutton?\"\n\n\"Eight pounds. Miss Dutton is an unusually talented calligrapher. She will have a secure future if she keeps her more destructive tendencies in check.\"\n\nHe placed three cravats in the satchel and looked up. \"On the strength of her own words? I assume Miss Dutton didn't have a character either.\"\n\n\"I have a private investigator on retainer. In six years I've had only three women default on me, and one of them was run over by a carriage.\"\n\n\"Admirable.\"\n\n\"Do not condescend to me.\" She grew angry at his facile comment. \"Croesus Lending may operate outside conventional boundaries, but it is legitimate and honorable. I sleep better at night for it.\"\n\nHe buckled the satchel and came to her. \"Calm down,\" he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. And when she jerked away from his touch, he took one more step toward her and placed his palms on her cheeks.\n\n\"Calm down. I think what you do _is_ admirable. I'm glad someone remembers the forgotten. And I'm glad it's you.\"\n\nShe could not be more astonished had he announced he was nominating her for sainthood. He dropped his hands and ambled to the demilune table to wind his watch, but her cheeks remained hotly imprinted with his touch. \"I just want to give someone a second chance,\" she mumbled.\n\nShe'd never received one from him.\n\nHis fingers paused in their motion. He glanced once at her before resuming the winding of his watch. He said nothing.\n\nShe suddenly felt she'd stayed too long. Said too much. \"Well, then, I'd better let you get on. A pleasant trip to you.\"\n\n\"I'm going to Devon to dine with your mother and the Duke of Perrin. My train leaves Paddington in an hour. Have the kitchen pack you a sandwich. You can come with me.\"\n\nA dozen thoughts raced through her head. He wanted her conveniently nearby so he could get on with impregnating her, so that Mrs. Rowland couldn't pester him about the divorce, so that it'd be less awkward at dinner with the duke. But the quake of pleasure brought on by his invitation refused to subside.\n\n\"I already told her I wouldn't come,\" she said.\n\n\"Give her a second chance,\" he said, slipping the watch into his pocket. \"She'd like that.\"\nChapter Twenty\n\n_Copenhagen  \nJuly 1888_\n\nCamden liked being his nephews' favorite uncle, that infrequent, mysterious visitor whose spectacular arrivals etched indelible, miracle-bright memories upon impressionable young minds, forever remembered as an endless source of chocolate, clever toys, and shoulder rides.\n\nHe'd had a rough crossing. His liner docked thirty-six hours behind schedule. He arrived at Claudia's house to only the boys and the servants, Claudia and her husband having gone out for the evening. He had his dinner brought up to the nursery and ate it with two-and-a-half-year-old Teodor babbling away on the chair next to him and five-month-old Hans snuggled on his lap.\n\nTeodor received his new kaleidoscope with terrific enthusiasm. But he broke it after only a quarter hour. He stared at the wreckage for a moment, then burst into howls of inarticulate disappointment. Camden, no neophyte when it came to bawling toddlers\u2014he was seven years older than Christopher\u2014distracted Teodor with a few magnets. Once the boy realized that the small black blocks were \"magical,\" he happily settled down to stick them to one another and to spoons and butter knives. Hans, on the other hand, comported himself with perfect gentlemanliness, chewing on his new rattle contentedly, occasionally emitting a happy gurgle.\n\nTeodor, who no longer took afternoon naps, wore out earlier. His nanny carted him off to bed. Hans, after his bottle, fell asleep with his cheek against Camden's shoulder, his little mouth spreading a spot of warm drool against the cambric of Camden's shirt. Camden kissed his tiny ear with a swell of avuncular affection. And a vague sense of loss.\n\nHe'd left for the United States directly after he received his _dipl\u00f4me_ from the Polytechnique. The years that passed had brought him more wealth than he'd ever imagined. But fortune, as delightful and welcome as it was, did not warm his bed or populate a house with the children he wanted.\n\nClaudia came into the nursery then. She kissed Camden on the cheek, Hans on his head, and went to kiss Teodor, already asleep in his crib.\n\nShe came back in a minute. \"He's grown big, hasn't he?\" she said, caressing Hans's hand.\n\n\"You don't see a baby for a few months, and he doubles in size,\" answered Camden. \"Had an amusing evening?\"\n\n\"Amusing enough. Pedar and I dined with your wife,\" said Claudia.\n\nHis wife, whom he had not seen since May of '83, more than five years ago. Camden rolled his eyes. \"Yes, of course you did.\"\n\n\"I'm not making it up,\" said Claudia. \"Your wife is in town. She called on me three days ago. I called on her the next day and invited her to dinner. And she returned the invitation tonight. We dined at her hotel.\"\n\nIt was to Camden's vast credit that he did not drop Hans on his head. \"What is she doing in Copenhagen?\"\n\n\"Sightseeing. A tour of Scandinavia. She's already been to Norway and Sweden.\"\n\n\"Alone?\"\n\nThe moment the treacherous syllables escaped, he wished he'd torn out his tongue instead.\n\n\"No, with her personal harem,\" said Claudia, beginning to observe him too closely for comfort. \"How am I to know? She hasn't introduced me to a paramour, and I haven't had her followed around. Find out for yourself, if you are curious.\"\n\n\"No. I meant if she had her mother with her.\" He handed Hans to the nanny. \"Besides, Lady Tremaine's doings are none of my concern.\"\n\n\"In case you haven't noticed, Lady Tremaine discharges _her_ familial duties. She calls on Pater and Mater once a week when they are in London. She sends presents for my children for Christmas and their birthdays. And when Christopher mismanages his allowance, she is the one who compels him to adopt austerity measures,\" said Claudia. \"I think you should call on her. What's the harm? She is staying at the\u2014\"\n\nHe set a finger over her lips. \"Remember what you said? I'll find out for myself, if I'm curious.\"\n\nLater that night his good sense turned to ash, much like the Cuban cigars he smoked with Pedar. He managed a splendid silence during the ride to Mrs. Allen's hotel. He managed to walk away from Claudia's carriage when he arrived there. He almost managed to enter the hotel, its doors already held open by two respectful doormen. It defeated him then, this absurd inquisitiveness concerning his wife's presence.\n\nHe had Claudia's carriage stopped, on the pretext of an errant cuff link. While conducting the make-believe search, he found out obliquely from the coachman to which hotel Claudia and Pedar had gone for dinner. And then, instead of calling on Mrs. Allen\u2014a young, wealthy, attractive widow from Philadelphia who'd been strongly hinting all throughout the Atlantic crossing that they should repair somewhere private posthaste\u2014he took himself across town to his wife's hotel.\n\nHe was assured that she was indeed alone, attended by an entourage that consisted of precisely one maid. That the only guests she'd received were Claudia and Pedar.\n\nThe driving question behind his restiveness answered, he should have been satisfied. Yet he found himself speaking to the hotel clerk of kroner, as in how many kroner the clerk stood to gain if he'd discreetly pass along information of interest concerning Lady Tremaine. Setting up clandestine arrangements to spy on her, to put it bluntly.\n\nIt was not difficult to discover her itinerary, as she relied on the hotel to supply her with transport. The very next morning he began receiving reports of her comings and goings. Within a few days he knew what she ate for breakfast, which monuments she'd visited, at what hour she took her evening bath, even where she'd stopped to buy some embroidered linen tablecloths.\n\nYet the more he knew, the more he had to know. How did she look? Had the years been kind to her? Was she the same woman he'd left behind? Or had she changed into someone unrecognizable?\n\nHe broke an engagement to dine with Mrs. Allen when he learned that Gigi would make an evening visit to Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen's premier amusement park. He had enough control left to not go anywhere near her during the day. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could catch a glimpse of her at night and still remain in the shadows.\n\nHe walked the acres of Tivoli Gardens until he thought he must already be in his dotage. At last he spotted her on the grand carousel. She was laughing, holding on to the gilded post of her wooden horse for dear life, her long white skirts streaming with the rotation of the carousel and the summer breeze off the sea.\n\nShe looked well. Better than well. Delighted.\n\nIn the bright orange glow of the park's artificial lights, she was something out of an old Norse fairy tale, elemental, dangerous, and downright crackling with sensual energy. More than a few men in the crowd stared at her, eyes round, mouths half open.\n\nHe gazed at her until he could no longer stand the asphyxiation in his chest. He didn't know what he'd been thinking. Somehow he had thought\u2014had hoped, in the baser chambers of his heart\u2014that she might appear wan and wretched beneath an impassive facade. That she yet pined for him. That she was still in love with him, despite all evidence to the contrary.\n\nThis woman did not need him.\n\nHe turned and walked away. He stopped the reports and the lunacy. He tried to forget that he'd gawked at her like a hungry mutt with its front paws upon the windowsill of a delicatessen. He made up to Mrs. Allen for his neglect and inattentiveness.\n\nAnd then came the encounter on the canal.\n\nMrs. Allen looked very fetching in her peach-and-cream Worth gown. The scenery behind her, however, held its own. The houses that lined the canal were painted in unabashedly spirited colors, the hues of a fashionable Englishwoman's wardrobe: rose, yellow, dove gray, powder blue, russet, and puce. As the sun approached its zenith, the canal glittered, ripples of silver beneath the boats that plied the waterways.\n\n\"Oh, my goodness gracious!\" exclaimed Mrs. Allen, latching on to his elbow. \"You must look at that!\"\n\nHe turned away from the storefront display of model ships he'd been perusing and looked in the direction she pointed.\n\n\"That open window on the second story. Can you see the man and the woman inside?\" Mrs. Allen giggled.\n\nObligingly, he scanned the windows on the opposite bank, until he felt the weight of someone's gaze on him.\n\nGigi!\n\nShe sat at the bow of a pleasure craft a stone's throw away, under the shade of a white parasol, a diligent tourist out to reap all the beauty and charm Copenhagen had to offer. She studied him with a distressed concentration, as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. As if she didn't want to.\n\nHe looked different. His hair reached down to his nape, and he'd sported a full beard for the past two years.\n\nTheir eyes met. She bolted upright from the chair. The parasol fell from her hand, clanking against the deck. She stared at him, her face pale, her gaze haunted. He'd never seen her like this, not even on the day he left her. She was stunned, her composure flayed, her vulnerability visible for miles.\n\nAs her boat glided past him, she picked up her skirts and ran along the port rail, her eyes never leaving his. She stumbled over a line in her path and fell hard. His heart clenched in alarm, but she barely noticed, scrambling to her feet. She kept running until she was at the stern and could not move another inch closer to him.\n\nMrs. Allen chose that moment to link her arm through his and lay her head against his upper arm, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve like a well-scratched kitty.\n\n\"I'm famished,\" said Mrs. Allen. \"Won't you take me to a restaurant that serves cold buffet?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he said dumbly.\n\nGigi didn't move from her rigid pose at the rail, but she suddenly looked worn down, as if she'd been standing there, in that same spot, for all the eighteen hundred and some days since she'd last seen him.\n\n_She still loved him._ The thought echoed wildly in his head, making him hot and dizzy. _She still loved him._\n\nAll at once, he could not even recall what had been her trespass against him. He knew only, with absolute certainty, that he had been the world's premier ass for the past half decade. And all he wanted was everything he'd sworn would never tempt him again.\n\nHe sleepwalked through lunch and rushed Mrs. Allen back to her hotel for her afternoon beauty nap, turning down her invitation to join her as if she exhibited symptoms of the bubonic plague. He raced about Copenhagen, to the barber's, the jeweler's, then back to Claudia's house for his best day coat.\n\nHe walked into his wife's hotel with a freshly shaven jaw and a wilting bunch of hydrangea bought from an elderly flower vendor about to go home for the day. He felt as nervous and stupid as a pig living next door to a butcher. Standing before the hotel clerk, he had to clear his throat twice before he could get his question out.\n\n\"Is . . . is Lady Tremaine here?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I'm sorry,\" said the clerk. \"Lady Tremaine just left.\"\n\n\"I see. When is she expected to return?\" He would wait right here. He would never go anywhere again without her.\n\n\"I'm sorry, sir,\" said the clerk. \"Lady Tremaine is no longer with us. She vacated her suite and departed for the harbor. I believe she was trying to board the _Margrethe,_ leaving at two o'clock.\"\n\nIt was five minutes past two o'clock.\n\nHe raced out of the hotel, flagged down the first carriage for hire, and promised the cabbie the entire contents of his wallet if the cab but reached the harbor before the _Margrethe_ left. But when he arrived, all he could see of the _Margrethe_ was three columns of smoke in the distance.\n\nHe gave the cabbie double the usual fare anyway and stared at the horizon. He could not believe it. Could not believe that all his hopes of a future together would come to aught, so swiftly and pitilessly.\n\nFor the first time in his life, he felt lost, hopelessly rudderless. He could follow her to England, he supposed. But being in England would crush them with all the weight of their infelicitous history. Would remind him incessantly of why he'd left her in the first place. In England neither of them could be spontaneous. Or forgiving.\n\nPerhaps it just wasn't meant to be.\n\nIt took hours, but in the end he convinced himself that his guardian angel must have toiled on his behalf. Imagine if she had actually been there. Imagine if he had actually thrown all caution to the wind. Imagine if he had actually gone back to her, a woman he could never again trust.\n\nHe told himself he could not imagine any such thing. He really couldn't. Not a sensible man like him. His fingers closed over the velvet box that contained the diamond-and-ruby necklace he'd bought, all fire and sparkling beguilement, like her. Mrs. Allen would have one hell of a parting gift from him.\n\nThe blue hydrangea he threw into a canal, watching the bouquet drift in the water until it disintegrated. Who'd have believed that after all these years, she still possessed the power to shatter him without even once touching him?\nChapter Twenty-one\n\n_31 May 1893_\n\nGigi wished she could better predict this man who was her husband.\n\nShe'd been infinitely certain that he'd demand lovemaking in the confines of her private coach on the way to Devon\u2014so certain, in fact, that she'd taken precautions. And suffered erratic heartbeats from the moment they left the house together.\n\nHe, on the other hand, began working on the designs of some mechanical contraption before the train even departed Paddington Station, leaving her with little to do other than watch the world hurtle by at sixty miles an hour, feeling entirely daft.\n\nAnd self-conscious. And a little light-headed.\n\nHe'd paid her a compliment, an unadulterated compliment, on something that genuinely mattered to her. She felt like a green debutante at her first ball after an unexpected dance with the most extraordinary, notorious rake of them all: She knew perfectly well that the fizzy warmth in her was unreciprocated, unwise, and uncalled for, but there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.\n\nHe wrote in a quick, slanted hand, unraveling reams of equations that would look to the uninitiated as incomprehensible as the hieroglyphs before the discovery of the Rosetta Stone. Even she, having been extensively tutored in higher mathematics and mechanics\u2014so that she wouldn't be hampered by ignorance when dealing with her own engineers\u2014could understand only parts of it, looking at the numbers and symbols upside down.\n\nShe deciphered that he was working on something about the heating and exchanging of gases. When his calculations moved on to angular momentum, she further deduced that he was refining the design for an internal combustion engine.\n\nShe had her doubts about the automobile. Certainly it was wonderful and novel and\u2014nowadays\u2014feasible. But who other than the most adventurous and the most wealthy would want to own and operate one, when carriages were so much simpler and more convenient in town and trains a great deal faster and more reliable over long distances? At least one's horses were not likely to die three times going from London to Brighton.\n\nBut she was curious enough to have paid a visit to Herr Benz in Mannheim the previous summer and was about to negotiate a license to build Benz engines in her own factory. The internal abacus she'd inherited from her Rowland ancestors swiftly calculated the savings she'd realize if she could use Camden's design\u2014if it worked.\n\nAnd if he were truly her husband.\n\n\"What's the matter with your engine?\"\n\n\"It can't expel exhaust gases fast enough when its rotational speed exceeds one hundred revolutions per minute,\" he said, without looking up. Without expressing any surprise at her familiarity with subjects outside the grasp of the overwhelming majority of women\u2014 and men, for that matter.\n\nBut then, he knew all about the Honorable Mr. Williams, who'd been her tutor before he became her lover.\n\nThe partial vacuum created by the exodus of exhaust gas drew fresh air and fuel into the cylinder. The expanding gas created from the ignition of the air-and-fuel mixture powered the engine, but residual exhaust gases that were not expelled would reduce its efficiency.\n\n\"You should begin the expelling cycle at an earlier point in the crankshaft's rotation,\" she said. \"That would sacrifice a bit of power but improve your efficiency.\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\n\"The trouble comes in determining at which precise point, doesn't it?\" she said. Her engineers had agonized over the voltage of the third rail they had designed for London's new underground tubes.\n\n\"Always,\" he answered. \"The design can be refined only to a certain point. I've narrowed it down to two possibilities and determined their angles to within one point two degrees. Now my engineers in New York will modify the engine and test it.\"\n\n\"Good thing you won't get your hands dirty.\"\n\n\"But getting my hands dirty is half the fun. I always build my own designs. I can build anything.\" He glanced at her and smiled. Her heart thudded to a stop. The sun really did shine brighter when he smiled. \"Would you like to be the first English lady to rumble down Rotten Row in a horseless carriage?\"\n\nShe smiled despite herself. That fizzy warmth\u2014half effervescent elation, half heedlessness\u2014spread unabated within her. \"I know you really _can_ build anything. I know your little secret.\"\n\nHe was puzzled. \"Secret?\"\n\n\"Claudia's gown that she wore to her first ball.\"\n\n\"Ah that,\" he said, relaxing. \"That's not my secret so much as hers. She was rather mortified, if I remember correctly, that other people had ball gowns made by Monsieur Worth, while hers was cobbled together by her brother.\"\n\n\"So modest.\"\n\n\"When I say cobbled, I mean cobbled. I had no idea how to manufacture the kind of neckline she wanted without the bodice falling off her. So I took apart one of my mother's mesh bustles and wired the entire d\u00e9colletage. She was terrified during the ball that the gown would either kill her or poke some handsome swain in the chest.\"\n\n\"She showed it to me when she came to England in 1890,\" said Gigi. \"I couldn't believe that _you_ made it until she swore it on the lives of all her children.\"\n\n\"It was my first and last foray into haute couture,\" he said dryly. \"I was nineteen and thought there was nothing I couldn't do. When Claudia wept for hours on end because there was no room in the budget for a new gown for her first ball, I thought, how hard could it be? After all, couture was just the softer side of engineering, and I'd cut and sewn plenty of sails for my model ships.\"\n\n\"She said you were a wizard.\"\n\n\"Claudia has rose-colored hindsight. I never knew what panic was until the ball was two days away and I still hadn't figured out how ten yards of skirts should gather and drape under the bustle. All the non-Euclidean geometry in the world couldn't have dug me out of that hole.\"\n\nShe thought of the gown, lovingly packed in layers of tissue, kept in Claudia's old chamber at Twelve Pillars. _I have the best brother in the world,_ Claudia had said that day, a not-so-subtle reminder that Gigi should get on a transatlantic liner posthaste.\n\n\"You did all right in the end.\"\n\n\"I wired the skirt too,\" he said.\n\nThey both burst out laughing. The corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth, laugh lines that she'd never seen before\u2014lines that had come from the sun and the salt of the sea, marks of a man in his prime.\n\nHe stopped and looked at her. \"Your laughter is the same,\" he said. \"I used to think you all sophisticated and worldly, until you laughed. You still laugh like a little girl getting tickled, all hiccupy and breathless.\"\n\nWhat did one say to something like that? If he were anyone else, she'd consider it a declaration, not necessarily of love but of great fondness. What was she to make of it when it _did_ come from him?\n\nHe quickly changed subjects. \"Before I forget, I've never thanked you for keeping Christopher in line, have I?\"\n\nChristopher had gotten himself into a few scrapes over the years. Nothing terribly alarming\u2014no illegitimate children, ruinous debts, or criminal friends\u2014but his parents worried and wrung their hands. After Saint Camden and Mostly Sensible Claudia, Their Graces were ill equipped to deal with a more temperamental offspring. So Gigi had stepped in dutifully, extricated Christopher from potentially harmful situations, unleashed stern lectures Their Graces were too softhearted to deliver, and ruthlessly choked off his allowance whenever he deserved it.\n\n\"No need to thank me,\" she said. \"I enjoyed keeping him in line.\"\n\n\"He complained about you in his letters. He said you were harsh as the Gorgons and twice as deadly. That you meant to ship him to Vladivostok and leave him at the port penniless. That you threatened to bankrupt anyone who dared to loan him money when you stopped his allowance.\"\n\nThere was such relish in his voice that the dangerous warmth infecting her at last turned into a conflagration of recklessness. \"Did you miss me?\" she heard herself ask.\n\nSuddenly the only sound in the coach was the low roar of the train's engines and steel wheels clacking on steel tracks, going a mile a minute. She looked out the window, feeling as stupid as a stampede of lemmings.\n\nHe, too, looked out the window. For a long time he didn't speak, until she almost had herself convinced that they were both going to pretend that her question had never been uttered.\n\nBut then he did answer. \"That was never the point, was it?\"\n\nThey arrived at Mrs. Rowland's cottage a little after teatime. The weather had turned dour and wet in London just before they departed, but a gentle sun shone upon this part of Devon, though the soil was drenched and rain dripped off leaves still.\n\nThe roses were at their peak. Mrs. Rowland's cottage, with its bright white walls and vermilion trim, was all pastoral charm. Gigi half-expected her mother to fall down in a faint upon seeing Camden and herself together. But Camden must have had a telegram sent ahead, because though a note of curiosity wended through Mrs. Rowland's welcome, she was not taken by surprise.\n\n\"This is a lovely house,\" said Camden, kissing Mrs. Rowland on the cheek. \"The photograph you sent didn't quite do it justice.\"\n\n\"You should see Devon in spring,\" said Mrs. Rowland. \"The wildflowers are incomparable in April.\"\n\n\"I will come in April then,\" said Camden. \"I should still be in England at that time.\"\n\nGigi felt her mother's gaze on her back as she stood looking out at the garden, strewn with petals from the earlier shower. He'd said nothing new, of course. Their deal was for one year, and that one year didn't conclude until next May. But for some reason she could not see them going on like this for another eleven months, or even another eleven weeks.\n\nFor ten years things had remained frozen in place, because he'd made it abundantly clear the circumference of the earth was not enough distance between the two of them. When he first returned, he not only personified antagonism, he took it to hitherto unscaled heights. But things had changed. This thawing of enmity put them on terra incognita, before dangerous possibilities, possibilities that she dared not even think of in the light of day, because they led to utter madness.\n\n\"I shall look forward to it,\" said Mrs. Rowland. \"We don't see enough of you.\"\n\n\"I believe I have issued invitations beyond number for you to visit New York City, dear madam,\" Camden said, a smile and a challenge in his voice. \"And you've always found reasons to demur.\"\n\n\"But don't you see, my dear lord Tremaine,\" said Mrs. Rowland sweetly, \"I could never call on a man who would not speak to my daughter.\"\n\nGigi almost turned around in her astonishment. Somehow she'd never thought of her mother as an ally in this matter. She'd always believed, perhaps because of her substantial culpability, that Mrs. Rowland blamed her for the silent disaster that was her marriage. That her mother's letters had given Camden the wherewithal to blackmail her had further contributed to her conviction that Mrs. Rowland would enter into a sexual union with the devil himself if Camden would only bestow his blessed forgiveness on Gigi.\n\n\"Of course, I really shouldn't have corresponded with you either,\" said Mrs. Rowland. \"But I always fall so maddeningly short of perfection.\"\n\nThis time Gigi did turn around. Was that an apology? From the woman who'd never done anything wrong in her life?\n\nHollis entered with the tea service, and the conversation took a sharp turn to Mrs. Rowland's latest charity gala. Camden, it turned out, was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Rowland's charitable efforts.\n\n\"Isn't that quite a bit more than what you usually raise at these events?\" he asked, once Mrs. Rowland had named a sum.\n\n\"It is, I suppose.\" Mrs. Rowland hesitated. \"His Grace honored us with a large contribution.\"\n\n\"The same duke who's coming to dinner tonight?\" said Gigi.\n\nGood Lord, was that a blush on her mother's face? To be certain, they'd had some cross words over the Duke of Perrin the last time Mrs. Rowland was in London. But the colors staining Mrs. Rowland's cheeks did not seem to have originated either in consternation or embarrassment.\n\n\"The very same.\" Mrs. Rowland was once again the closest approximation of the Madonna this side of the Italian Renaissance. \"An admirable figure of a man. A classical scholar. I'm quite pleased that you will be making his acquaintance.\"\n\nCamden raised his cup. \"I, for one, am looking forward to dinner with trembling anticipation.\"\n\nCamden left within minutes for the scenic ride down to Torquay that Mrs. Rowland had apparently promised him. Gigi had felt uncomfortable with him in the room, with her mother's sharp eyes assessing their every interaction, as if all their recent dealings could be deduced from a \"Would you please pass the creamer?\" But without his presence as a buffer, the awkwardness between the two women immediately came to the fore, as strong and unmistakable as the scent of vinegar.\n\n\"I visited Papa's grave last Friday,\" said Mrs. Rowland, after nearly three minutes of unrelieved silence.\n\nGigi was surprised. They didn't speak of John Rowland very often. Grief was a private matter. \"I saw your flowers when I went on Sunday.\" John Rowland would have turned sixty-eight on Sunday had he survived the typhoid fever that took him at age forty-nine. \"He always did like camellias.\"\n\n\"Because you gave him a handful from the garden when you were three. He adored you,\" said Mrs. Rowland.\n\n\"He adored you too.\"\n\nHer father had taken her along whenever he shopped for a present for his wife. Nothing was ever too good for his beautiful missus. He loved big, showy things\u2014perhaps the reason behind her own flamboyant taste in jewelry, though she rarely wore any\u2014but in the end he bought only cameos and modest pearls, because he didn't want his wife to have to wear anything she'd consider garish.\n\n\"We were married ten years and five months when he passed away.\" Mrs. Rowland took a small cream cake, set it before her, and cut it into perfect quarters. \"You'll be married ten years and five months in a fortnight. Life is uncertain, Gigi. Don't throw away your second chance with Tremaine.\"\n\n\"I would rather we not speak of him.\"\n\n\"I would rather we do,\" said Mrs. Rowland firmly. \"If you believe that I have schemed only because Tremaine is in line for a dukedom, then you are greatly mistaken. Do you think I never came upon the two of you together in the sitting parlor at Briarmeadow, holding hands and whispering? I'd never seen you so alive and happy, before or after. And I'd never seen _him_ that way, completely without his reserve, for once acting his age, when he'd always carried the burden of the world on his shoulders.\"\n\n\"That was a long time ago, Mother.\"\n\n\"Not long enough for me to have forgotten. Or you. Or him.\"\n\nGigi took a deep breath and finished her tea. It was already cold, and too sweet\u2014because Camden's un-gloved hand had brushed hers when he passed the sucreti\u00e8re, and she didn't know two from four in the minute afterward. \"What good does it do any of us to remember? I loved him then, I would not deny it. And perhaps he loved me too. But that is all in the past. He no longer loves me and I no longer love him. And if there are second chances going around, no one has offered me any, least of all Camden.\"\n\n\"Don't you see?\" cried Mrs. Rowland, exasperated, setting down her teacup with an uncharacteristic _thud._ A glob of milky brown liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup and spread into an astonishingly perfect circular stain on the embroidered tablecloth that Gigi had purchased during her ill-fated visit to Copenhagen. \"That he is here in England, living in your house, being civil to you, persuading you to come with him to see me\u2014all this, does it not mean anything to you? Does it have to be stated in so many words or carved on a stone tablet, for heaven's sake?\"\n\nWas it not enough that she had to struggle with it by herself? She did not need to hear it spelled out item by item by her mother, as if she were a dimwit chit from some Oscar Wilde play.\n\n\"Mother, you forget why he is here in the first place,\" she said coolly. \"We are divorcing. I have pledged my hand to Lord Frederick.\"\n\nMrs. Rowland rose abruptly. \"I will rest for a short while. It would not do for me to appear haggard before His Grace. But if you think that you love Lord Frederick a fraction as much as you love\u2014not loved, but love\u2014Tremaine, then you are a greater fool than any Shakespeare ever wrote.\"\n\nGigi remained in the parlor long after Mrs. Rowland had swept out, trailing a faint wake of rose attar behind her. Slowly, absently, she finished the cream cake Mrs. Rowland had left behind, as well as the two small jam tarts that still remained on the three-tiered platter.\n\nIf only she could be certain that her mother was dead wrong.\nChapter Twenty-two\n\nThe duke, upon first glance, did not appear either a scholar or a reprobate\u2014no book dust or buxom doxies clung to him. But he was certainly imposing as an aristocrat of the highest rank, with none of the golly-would-you-believe-my-good-luck mellowness that characterized the current Duke of Fairford, her father-in-law. No, this was a man born to lord over lesser beings and who'd done it authoritatively for the entirety of his adult life. A man who could cow half of society into hushed awe with his sheer ducalness.\n\nGigi was not immediately impressed. Despite an upbringing focused exclusively on becoming a duchess, she seemed to have inherited a democratic streak from her plebeian ancestors. \"Good evening, Your Grace.\"\n\n\"Lady Tremaine, you have decided to join us after all.\" His corresponding wry amusement made it evident that he was not without a clue as to the purpose behind the dinner.\n\nThe surprise was her mother, who did _not_ have a democratic bone in her body. Gigi would have expected some reverence on her part\u2014and triumph that she'd finally maneuvered Gigi and the duke into the same room\u2014but Mrs. Rowland's demeanor was rather one of grim determination, as if she were on a mission to Greenland, a grueling journey with nothing but barrenness at the end.\n\nEqually intriguing was the duke's deportment toward Mrs. Rowland. A man such as he did not know how to be _nice._ He probably tolerated his friends and treated everyone else with condescension. Yet as he complimented Mrs. Rowland on her flower arrangements, he displayed a solicitude and a delicacy Gigi hadn't sensed in him before.\n\nCamden arrived late, his hair still slightly damp from his bath. He'd returned from the seashore only thirty minutes ago.\n\n\"May I present my son-in-law, Lord Tremaine,\" said Mrs. Rowland, in a rare bit of archness. \"Lord Tremaine, His Grace the Duke of Perrin.\"\n\n\"A pleasure, Your Grace,\" said Camden. Despite his hurried toilette, he seemed more settled into the role of affable, oblivious host than anyone else. \"I've had the pleasure of reading _Eleven Years Before Ilium,_ a most illuminating work.\"\n\nThe duke raised one black brow. \"I had no idea my modest monographs could be found in America.\"\n\n\"As to that, I wouldn't know either. I received a copy from my esteemed mother-in-law, when she was in London last.\"\n\nThe duke turned his monocled gaze to Mrs. Rowland. He'd have resembled a _Punch_ caricature if it weren't for his commanding presence and his sardonic self-awareness.\n\nMrs. Rowland shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. Gigi's eyes widened. The men in the parlor might not understand the significance of that seemingly unremarkable motion. But Gigi knew that Mrs. Rowland _never_ fidgeted. She could hold as still as a caryatid, and for about as long.\n\n\"My mother is a learned acolyte of the Blind Bard,\" said Gigi. \"You will find few women, or men for that matter, sir, more thoroughly knowledgeable concerning all things Homeric.\"\n\nThis revelation startled the duke again, in a way that felt more complicated than simply a man's surprise that a woman would know something in his field of expertise. He inclined his head in Mrs. Rowland's direction. \"My compliments, madam. You must tell me how you came to develop a passion for my arcane subjects.\"\n\nMrs. Rowland's response was a high castle wall of a smile. Camden glanced Gigi's way. Apparently she wasn't the only one to have noticed something highly irregular.\n\nHollis announced that dinner awaited. Mrs. Rowland, with almost obvious relief, suggested that they pair off and proceed to the dining room.\n\nFor Victoria, about the only silver lining to the cumbersome evening was that the duke didn't immediately succumb to Gigi's charms.\n\nShe'd fretted about Gigi's looks throughout her daughter's girlhood, as the child stubbornly refused to blossom into the kind of flawless beauty Victoria had been but instead grew unfashionably tall, with wide shoulders and a challenging gaze that was Victoria's despair. Then, a few years ago, after Victoria at last realized she no longer needed to train her eyes on the girl's gown and coiffure for signs of imperfection, she noticed something quite confounding.\n\nMen stared at Gigi. Some of them gawked. At balls and soir\u00e9es, they had their eyes glued to her as she walked, talked, and occasionally\u2014largely with indifference\u2014glanced their way. When Victoria mentally distanced herself and studied her daughter as a stranger would, she was shocked to realize just how obscenely attractive Gigi might be to the masculine sex.\n\nShe had no words to describe the kind of primal allure Gigi exuded, an incandescent sensuality that surely didn't come from Victoria. It made Victoria feel old, past her prime, her vaunted beauty a distant second place to Gigi's youth, luminosity, and glamour.\n\nGigi looked as well as she ever did in a dinner gown of vermilion velvet, the skin of her throat and arms glowing in the lambent light like that of a Bouguereau nymph. The duke spoke to Gigi as he ought to, making the obligatory grunts concerning the relative proportion of precipitation to sunshine in recent days in both London and Devon. But unlike Gigi's husband, who glanced at her over his wineglass with every other forkful, Perrin kept most of his attention on the plate before him, gravely tasting the successive courses of _soupe_ _d'oseille, filet de sole \u00e0 la Normandie,_ and duck _\u00e0 la Rouennaise._\n\n\"Allow me to compliment you, madam, on your chef,\" the duke suddenly looked up and said. \"The food is nowhere near as terrible as I expected.\"\n\nVictoria was absurdly pleased. Ever since the night when they'd gambled over chocolates and she'd practically told him to drag her upstairs and ravish her lonely old bones, she'd been on pins and needles.\n\nShe could repeat to herself only so many times that, in desperate embarrassment at being found out, she'd made up the whole thing on the spot. The only problem was that she was a terrible impromptu liar. Without hours and days of prior preparation, she either blurted out the truth or bungled so badly the odor of her mendacity could be scented a furlong away.\n\nHad she told the inadvertent truth instead? Was this whole exercise in folly simply an opening for her to grab the duke by his lapels and make him take notice of her at long last? He hadn't entirely believed her, but he didn't disbelieve her enough. There was something about truth, the visceral ferocity of it, that seeped under and around incredulity, no mattter how well-founded and watertight.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, \"though I cannot return the compliment on your tact.\"\n\n\"Tact is for others, madam.\" As if to underscore his point, he glanced at Gigi and Camden and said, \"Forgive the curiosity of a dotard who retired from Society many years ago, but is it commonplace nowadays for a couple about to divorce to be on such apparently friendly terms?\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" answered Camden, his tone as smooth and creamy as a dish of flan. He looked at Gigi. \"Wouldn't you say, my dear?\"\n\n\"Without a doubt,\" said Gigi dryly. \"We do loathe scenes, don't we, Tremaine?\"\n\nEven the duke was left momentarily speechless by this bravura performance. He moved on to a safer topic. \"I understand you've quite the Midas touch, Lord Tremaine.\"\n\n\"Hardly, sir. It's Lady Tremaine who has the head for business. I but try my best to reach financial parity with her.\"\n\nVictoria glanced at Gigi, hoping she'd heard the admiration in Camden's words. But the quick shadow of confusion in Gigi's eyes suggested that she heard something else instead.\n\n\"I'd always thought it otherwise,\" said Victoria. \"Lady Tremaine builds upon the success of her forefathers. But you started with nothing.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't say so, madam. I'm no Horatio Alger, hero beloved of the American imagination,\" replied Camden. \"My first acquisitions were made with substantial loans obtained against Lady Tremaine's inheritance.\"\n\nGigi choked on her wine. She coughed into her napkin as Hollis rushed to her side with a fresh napkin and a goblet of water. She took a long draft of water and promptly resumed her ingestion of the slices of duck on her plate.\n\nVictoria took it upon herself to ask the question that Gigi didn't. \"I had no idea. How were you able to do that?\"\n\nCamden, like his cousin before him, had signed a marriage contract that prohibited any direct access to Gigi's fortune. \"I proved to them who I was and who she was. I had the marriage papers and the announcement from the _Times._ The Bank of New York decided quite on its own that my wife would come to my rescue should I be in danger of defaulting,\" he said, his smile subtly feral.\n\nGood grief. Dazzled by his polish and finesse, Victoria had never observed this brazen side to her son-in-law. She'd always thought the once-upon-a-time affection and friendship between the calculating heiress and the urbane marquess endearing but odd, as the two could not be more different one from the other. How she'd underestimated Camden by equating his burnish of faultless manners with a lack of inner ferocity.\n\nThe duke took an appreciative sip of his Burgundy, a fourteen-year-old Roman\u00e9e-Conti. Victoria was rather shocked to see that he was smiling a little.\n\nHe was not classically handsome, his features more rough-hewn than refined, with unruly brows and a Mont Blanc of a nose\u2014a face that lent itself easily to terrifying scowls. But his smile\u2014a slight, underdeveloped one at that\u2014was utterly transforming. It illuminated his fine chestnut-brown eyes, animated his lips, and melted his hauteur with surprising warmth and earthy machismo.\n\nShe did not use the word lightly\u2014in fact, she'd never applied it to any living man\u2014but he looked nigh on _irresistible._ Suddenly she saw why otherwise properly reared ladies fought over him like harpies.\n\n\"There are few things I loathe more than small country dinners,\" he said. \"But, madam, had you only informed me that such remarkable diversion lay in store for me, I would not have compelled you to provide additional entertainment.\"\n\nA moment of absolute silence. Victoria was too disoriented to feel embarrassed. She hadn't yet grasped that the focus of the conversation had abruptly shifted from the Tremaines to her dealings with the duke.\n\n\"Dear sir,\" said Gigi wryly, \"pray do tell.\"\n\n\"Oh, Gigi, please, none of that unseemly interest,\" Victoria huffed. \"His Grace but requested that I play a few hands of cards with him, which I gladly obliged.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" Gigi addressed the duke, a sly smile on her face. \"I've heard that you were a scoundrel. I see that you are at least a rascal.\"\n\n\"Gigi!\" Victoria cried, mortified.\n\nBut the duke seemed amused rather than offended. \"I _was_ a scoundrel in my youth, to put it kindly. As for my rascally demands, let's just say I could have stipulated a great deal more and still received compliance.\"\n\nVictoria felt her face flame a color as bright as Gigi's gown. Oh, how she hated to blush in public, so inelegant and infantile. Camden, bless him, was eating with gluttonous zest, as if he hadn't heard a word of the conversation in the last five minutes. Gigi, taking a cue from her husband, gave the remaining slice of duck breast on her plate another good poke. The duke, however, wasn't done.\n\n\"Young lady,\" he addressed Gigi. \"I hope you realize how fortunate you are, at your age, to still have a mother who would dance with the devil for you.\"\n\nIt was Camden's turn to cough into his napkin, though in his case it sounded more like choked laughter than actual choking. The dinner, up to that point a parody, if a rather barbed one, was now a farce.\n\nShe'd known the dinner to be a bad idea for a while now, hadn't she, thought Victoria wildly. Why, oh, why hadn't she called it off? Why had she persisted as if the duke were Moby Dick and she the crazed Captain Ahab, who would either harpoon him or die trying?\n\nGigi was not one to take lectures sitting down. \"Sir, I hope you realize that, while I am eminently grateful, I have also reminded my mother, pointedly, that no dancing with the devil is necessary on my behalf. I already have the affection and the fealty of a good man. My future happiness after my divorce is already assured.\"\n\nThe duke sighed exaggeratedly. \"Lady Tremaine, I do not profess to know the marvelous qualities of this other man. But why wage\u2014and waste\u2014a divorce when it's more than evident to me that you and your husband haven't even tired of each other yet?\"\n\nHaving silenced Gigi and strangled Camden's mirth, His Grace turned to Victoria and smiled again, a full smile this time. She nearly melted into her chair, leaving nothing behind but a whalebone corset and an assemblage of skirts.\n\n\"Madam\"\u2014he raised his glass in a toast\u2014\"this is the most sublime Burgundy it has ever been my privilege to enjoy. You may be assured of my everlasting gratitude.\" \nChapter Twenty-three\n\nThe silence of a house settling into the night was first disturbed as Camden stood brushing his teeth over a basin of water. Then came a loud crash to his left, a heavy vibration that traveled up his ankles to his knees, followed by a muffled shriek.\n\nThe cottage had six bedchambers upstairs\u2014Mrs. Rowland's at the eastern corner and five others, of southern exposure, lined in a row. Camden was in the chamber closest to Mrs. Rowland's and Gigi in the one furthest away.\n\nThe shriek came from Gigi's direction.\n\nHe spat the tooth powder out of his mouth and pulled open the door. Mrs. Rowland's door opened a second later. \"Good heavens, what was that?\" she cried.\n\n\"The ceiling, probably,\" he said.\n\nGigi, too, was in the hallway, her face very pale against the midnight blue of her peignoir. \"What's the matter with your house?\" she said tightly to her mother.\n\nCamden began opening doors. The room next to his seemed fine, except that several pictures had fallen off the wall. He opened the door to the middle chamber. A gust of debris greeted him. Almost the entire ceiling had collapsed, blanketing the floor and the furniture in dust-ridden chunks of plaster and timber. Above him gaped the cavernous void of the attic.\n\n\"Good heavens! How did this happen?\" Mrs. Rowland moaned. \"This is a most sturdy house.\"\n\n\"I don't think anyone should sleep on this floor until the ceiling is repaired and the integrity of the entire structure inspected,\" said Camden.\n\n\"You and I can share the governess's room on the ground floor,\" said Gigi to Mrs. Rowland. \"Do you have a spare cot for Camden?\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" cried Mrs. Rowland. \"Lord Tremaine is a first-time visitor to this house. I will not have him spend the night on a cot in the parlor like hired help. I will ask to be put up at Mrs. Moreland's cottage down the lane\u2014she has two daughters who visit her, so she always has a spare chamber made up. You and Camden take the governess's room.\"\n\n\"I will take the cot and sleep in the parlor,\" said Gigi. \"I'm not a first-time visitor. It doesn't matter where I sleep. Or I can come with you to Mrs. Moreland's.\"\n\n\"Absolutely not to either of your mad propositions!\" Mrs. Rowland recoiled in grandiose horror. \"I will not have that kind of gossip bandied about. The two of you may divorce up a storm in London, but here I have my reputation to consider. I will not have people asking why my daughter would not share a room with her lawfully wedded husband. There, I think I hear Hollis coming up. I will confer with him about the arrangements. Mind that you do nothing to embarrass me, Gigi. No cots whatsoever.\"\n\nAfter Mrs. Rowland hurried down the steps with surprising energy and bounce, Gigi cursed under her breath. \"Arrangements my foot,\" she said, her voice seething. \"She arranged for the ceiling to cave in! This house was inspected from top to bottom only a year ago because I was worried that it might be getting a bit decrepit. It _is_ sound. Ceilings in sound structures do not just fall in like that, and certainly not so beautifully, exactly in an unoccupied room so that nobody gets hurt.\"\n\n\"We have underestimated your mother's determination.\"\n\n\"She should be having an affair with the duke, that's what she should be doing,\" Gigi huffed. \"Look at her, she is sacrificing the roof over her head to herd us into the same bedchamber when we already\u2014never mind.\"\n\nCamden felt his heart beginning to pound. He hadn't planned on paying Gigi a conjugal visit, this being Mrs. Rowland's house and all. But if they were going to be stuck in the same\u2014and chances were, fairly cramped\u2014room and forced to share a bed, well . . .\n\n\"Do you have anything that needs to be carried?\" he asked.\n\nShe shot him a suspicious glance, but in the light spilling out from all the open doors, he noticed she was no longer as pale as she'd been a minute ago. \"No, thank you. You go on.\"\n\nHe went down the stairs. Hollis showed him to the governess's room. Camden found himself in a chamber both larger and prettier than the one he had been given, its walls covered in a cream damask with elegant persimmon-and-moss arabesque patterns. Pink and white ranunculus in painted Limoges vases stood on each nightstand. The bed itself was quite large, the white summer bed linen already invitingly turned down.\n\n\"Mrs. Rowland uses this chamber for afternoon repose in the summer,\" Hollis informed him. \"It is cooler than the upstairs chambers.\"\n\nCamden turned off the lamps and opened the window shutters. Night air wafted in, cool, moist, and heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. A waxing moon was on the climb, its light pale and lucid. He discarded his robe, and, after a brief hesitation\u2014Who was he trying to fool? Napoleon wanted Russia less badly than he wanted to lie with her\u2014he removed the rest of his clothing too.\n\nGigi came only after a good quarter hour. Her footsteps stopped outside the door. Then nothing happened. The silence unfolded and unrolled, shrouding him in its oppressive strata, chafing at his patience and nerves.\n\nThe doorknob finally turned, softly. She closed the door behind her but advanced no further, standing with her back against it, her feet just beyond the imprint of moonlight. He was reminded of a night long ago, in a different house that also belonged to Mrs. Rowland, where a similarly lustrous moon also silvered a long swath of the room\u2014the beginning of the end, the end of the beginning.\n\n\"Like old times, isn't it?\" he said, after a full minute had passed.\n\nMore silence. \"What do you mean?\" she said at last, her voice slightly creaky.\n\n\"Don't tell me you've forgotten.\"\n\nShe shifted, barely audible sounds of silk sliding on flesh and against the panels of the door. \"So you were awake,\" she said accusatorily.\n\n\"I'm a light sleeper. And I was on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar house.\"\n\n\"You took advantage of me.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"What did you expect, after you felt me up and down? I could've done more and you'd've let me.\"\n\n\"I could've done more too. I almost climbed back into your bed that night. Would have been a short path to the altar.\"\n\n\"You don't say,\" he murmured. \"What stopped you?\"\n\n\"I thought it was dishonorable. Something beneath me. Ironic, isn't it?\" She pushed away from the door and advanced until she stood by the bed, on the farther side from him, her silhouette limned against a nimbus of moonlight, the dark curves of her body just barely visible inside the diaphanous shadows of her peignoir.\n\nHe swallowed.\n\n\"I should have gone ahead and done it that night,\" she said. \"You'd have married me, knowing you'd been had. But you wouldn't have been infuriated enough to run to America, only disgusted enough to not be happy with me. We'd have been like every other couple in Society\u2014a normal life, you see.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended. \"You should have done the honorable thing. Theodora married one day before we did. Had you a little more patience, when I returned to England for Easter, you could have had your cake and eaten it too.\"\n\nThe bed dipped beneath her weight. She slid under the covers, safely on her side of the bed. \"I think I've learned my lesson already.\"\n\n\"Have you?\"\n\nShe didn't answer. Instead, she asked a question of her own. \"Why do you place so much importance on reaching financial parity with me?\"\n\n_Because I am married to you, the richest woman in England after Victoria Regina, you idiot. What's a man who still dreams of fucking you to do?_\n\nHe reached under the cover, grabbed her by the front of her peignoir, and yanked her toward him. She gasped. And gasped again as his teeth scraped the crook of her neck.\n\nHe rolled on top of her . . . groaning with the heavenliness of her under him. Since his return, he'd seen her naked. He'd climaxed inside her. But he had not allowed himself to feel her, the dense, smooth texture of her skin, the firm undulation of her body. He grabbed a fistful of her peignoir and pushed it upward. \"Take it off.\"\n\n\"No. You can do what you want perfectly well with it in place.\"\n\n\"What I want is you naked. Without a stitch.\"\n\n\"That wasn't part of our deal. You never said I had to disrobe for you.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he said softly into her ear, enjoying her quiver. \"Afraid to be naked under me?\"\n\n\"It's not right. I'm not going to dishonor Freddie by allowing you any more liberties than I must.\"\n\nSuddenly he was enraged, at her obduracy and her obtuseness. Lord Frederick would make her about as happy as a clam in a bowl of bouillabaisse. He gripped her peignoir at her throat and tore it down its length, the shrill _sszzzzz_ rudely rending the somnolent darkness. \"There. Now if Lord Frederick asks, which is none of his business, you can tell him in all honesty that you didn't _allow_ me any liberties.\"\n\nShe panted, the sound of a woman unable to get enough air, her exhalations drowning out the muffled chirping of sleepless crickets in the garden.\n\nHe lowered himself onto her, the sensation of her skin against his at once shockingly familiar and un-nervingly new, as if he'd never left her bed all these years, as if this was only the second night of their honeymoon and he'd been staring at her all day, dying for the sun to set and a blessed, endless night to descend.\n\nHe was a fool. A fool to fall for her the first time. And a fool to come back now, when he already knew his weakness all too well, having wrestled with it every day of these past ten years.\n\nToo late.\n\nHe drowned himself in the velvety feel of her, marveling at the way her skin slid over her clavicles with her every breath, kissing a trail along the top of her shoulder, reluctant to leave each square inch of her glorious skin, impatient to savor all of her.\n\nShe placed her hands against his upper arms, but she didn't push. She only emitted a sweet, despairing sound as he kissed the base of her throat. The gloom in his heart lifted a bit, though he knew it was madness to think this was anything but madness.\n\nHe kissed his way to her chin, to the soft spot just under her lips. There he hesitated. To kiss her on the mouth was to inform her, in exactly so many words, that she'd marry Lord Frederick over his dead body.\n\nBeneath him, he felt her heartbeat, as rapid, erratic, and uncertain as his own. Did he want to go down that path? Did he dare? And what awaited him at the bitter end if he were to walk this avenue of folly?\n\n\"There is something I have to tell you,\" she said suddenly, rupturing the moment of suspense. \"There is no point to your sleeping with me. None at all. I am using a Dutch cap. I have been using one all along. You stand no chance of getting me with child, so you might as well leave me alone.\"\n\nWhen he was six years old, during an exuberant game of chase in the corridors of his grandfather's house, he'd run into a wall. The next thing he knew, he found himself flat on the floor, too stunned to understand what had just happened. He felt like that now. He didn't know what to make of her outburst, her abrupt decision to push things to the brink.\n\nHe gazed down at her. Her features were only half visible in the faint illumination of the moon, a shadow of a high cheekbone, a dark fullness of lips, and eyes like water at the bottom of a deep well, black with pinpoints of refracted starlight.\n\n\"Then why do you tell me? Why not go on duping me? That would have served your purpose better.\"\n\n\"Because I can't take it anymore,\" she said, lying very still. \"I'm sure you are happily vindicated in your opinion of me. But it doesn't matter. I can't go any further.\"\n\n\"Why?\" He ran his fingers through her hair, the ultimate luxury. Her hair was heavy, smooth, glossy, and cool as morning dew. He never remembered another woman's hair the way he remembered hers. \"What happened to your legendary ruthlessness?\"\n\nShe closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.\n\nHis fingers felt ridiculously comforting against her skull. They moved with reassuring gentleness, coming to rest for a moment next to her temple, then sliding lower along her ear, her jaw, and finally her lips. The pad of his thumb skimmed over her bottom lip, rolled it down slightly so that he touched the moist membrane just inside her mouth.\n\nHis reaction confused her. She wanted to ask him, loudly, whether he'd heard anything she'd said\u2014that she hadn't changed, hadn't learned her lesson at all, and had tried to deceive him again. But his touch hypnotized her. It was warm, curious, and utterly without rancor. She could not speak. She was all awareness\u2014all deprived, hungry, unbearably keen awareness.\n\nHe kissed the lobe of her ear, the bone that hinged her jaw, the tip of her chin. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, and the indentation of her clavicle. She kept her eyes tightly shut. In that absolute darkness, he was all heat and sensation to her, his lips a source of cool fire that burned everything they touched, spawning jolts of desire that spiked through her body, leaving her mindless and weak.\n\nSuddenly his mouth closed around her nipple. She gasped, a flabbergasted sound of pleasure. He licked her. She wanted to thrash and gyrate and beg for more. Her nails dug into the counterpane. His hand found her other nipple and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, with just enough force to make her abandon all efforts at quietness. She moaned out loud.\n\nHis hand moved lower, down her side, coming to rest a fraction of a second against her hip and then on to pry her legs apart. She made a feeble attempt to keep them together, but he only had to swirl his tongue slowly once around her nipple for her to forget everything.\n\nHe found her, probably the easiest thing in the world\u2014he but had to go to the source of her wetness. And then his finger, no, fingers were inside her.\n\n\"Tell me to stop, and I will,\" he said, just before he took her other nipple into his mouth.\n\nSomewhere in the back of her mind, she realized what he was doing: dislodging and removing the Dutch cap. She might have objected had she been capable of coherent speech. But she wasn't, and the only sounds she emitted were choked whimpers of arousal.\n\nHe easily extracted the Dutch cap from her and tossed it to the side of the bed. She shivered.\n\n\"Now there's nothing between us,\" he said.\n\nA sudden flash of terror paralyzed her. She was utterly exposed to him\u2014her womb, her future, her entire life. And just as suddenly, an overwhelming swell of desire inundated her. She wanted him inside her, to possess her, to shatter her, to fill every emptiness and destroy every defense.\n\nWith a moan of despair she grabbed hold of him and pulled him down to her, kissing him so hard that their teeth banged and ground together. He pulled away slightly, restrained her face between his hands, and kissed her his way, slower, more gently, and much more thoroughly.\n\nShe opened her legs wide and he came into her, thick and hot, as he kissed her. She wrapped her legs about him, urging him, wanting something fast, furious, and utterly obliterating. But in that he refused to oblige her.\n\nHe tormented her with long, slow strokes, teasing her nipples as he drove into her at a leisurely pace. He made her beg for each delicious thrust. He made her thrash and gyrate and wail and whimper. And only when she was wholly vanquished, desperate, convinced that she would exist forever in this state of trembling, feverish arousal, only then did he give in and pummel her to her incoherent, wild, joyous, and vocal satisfaction.\n\n* * *\n\nIf only she could make time stay still. If only she need never depart the warmth of his embrace and the euphoria of their lovemaking. If only her world consisted of just this one dark room drenched in the sweet muskiness of sex, protected from tomorrow and the day after tomorrow by impregnable walls of forever-night.\n\nWere she to have a guinea for every if-only of her life, she could pave a highway of gold from Liverpool to Newfoundland.\n\nHis breath still quick and erratic, her husband pulled away from her to lie on his back, not quite touching her. She bit her lower lip, the cold, clammy tentacles of reality already creeping up her limbs toward her heart.\n\nHe would not say anything unkind. But his silence was enough to remind her of everything she'd vowed never to do when he first returned. And all her declarations of love for Freddie, were they no more than words, and empty words at that?\n\n\"I called on you at your hotel in Copenhagen,\" he said.\n\nIt took her an entire minute to decipher what he'd said. And even then she didn't understand. \"You . . . you didn't leave a card?\"\n\n\"You'd already left, for the _Margrethe.\"_\n\nA blaze of elation swallowed her, only to be replaced by a bleak disbelief, an impotent amazement at Fate's capriciousness. \"I didn't catch the _Margrethe,\"_ she said, dazed. \"It'd already sailed when I arrived at the harbor.\"\n\n_\"What?\"_\n\nShe'd never heard him say \"What?\" before. He was too perfect for that; he'd never failed to use the more correct and more polite \"Pardon?\" Up until this moment.\n\n\"Where did you go, then?\"\n\n\"Back to the same hotel. I left only the next day.\"\n\nHe laughed, with bitter incredulity. \"Did the hotel clerk not tell you that a fool came for you, with flowers?\"\n\nIt was like finding out she was with child, then bleeding all over the place three weeks later. Only it was happening all in one searing moment. \"The day clerk must have been gone by the time I decided I needed a place to stay for the night.\"\n\nHe'd come for her. For whatever reason, he'd come for her. And they'd missed each other, as if Shakespeare himself had scripted their story on a day of particular misanthropy.\n\n\"What flowers did you bring?\" she asked, because she couldn't think of anything else to say.\n\n\"Some . . .\" His voice faltered, something else she'd never heard from him. \"Some blue hydrangeas. They were already wilted.\"\n\nBlue hydrangeas. Her favorite. Suddenly she felt like crying.\n\n\"I wouldn't have minded.\" She kept talking, to keep the tears at bay. \"I was so upset I went to Felix as soon as I came ashore in England, only to find out he'd gotten married during the time I was away. I made a fool and a nuisance of myself anyway.\"\n\nHe made a sound halfway between a snort and a grunt. \"I almost hate to ask.\"\n\n\"You've nothing to worry about. He didn't succumb to my advances. I came to my senses. End of story.\"\n\n\"I came to my senses too, after a while,\" he said slowly. \"I convinced myself that what was done between us could not be undone, could never be undone.\"\n\n\"And there is no such thing as a fresh start. Not really,\" she concurred, her tears welling, the room a dark blur.\n\nFor the first time in her life, she saw exactly what she'd thrown away when she decided to have him by means fair or foul. For the very first time she truly understood, deep in her bones, that she'd not saved him but wronged him by consigning to him all the ability of a box turtle to make his own choices. She had been\u2014 just as she hadn't wanted to admit\u2014impetuous, shortsighted, and selfish.\n\n\"I should not have done what I did. I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"I wasn't exactly a paragon of rectitude myself, was I? I should have had the frankness to confront you, however unhappy that encounter would have been. Instead, I retreated to subterfuge and confused vengeance with justice.\"\n\nShe laughed bitterly. For two intelligent people, they'd certainly made all the wrong choices that could have been made. And then some.\n\n\"I wish\u2014\" She stopped herself. What was the point? They'd missed their chance already.\n\n\"I wish the same. That I'd caught you that day, some-how.\" He sighed, a heavy sound of regret. He turned toward her and turned her toward him, his hand clasped firmly on her upper arm. \"But it's still not too late.\"\n\nFor a long moment she didn't understand him. Then a thunderbolt crashed atop her, leaving her blind and staggered. There'd been a time in her life when she'd have walked barefoot over a mile of broken glass for a reconciliation with him. When she'd have expired from joy upon hearing those exact same words.\n\nThat time was years and years ago, long past. Her imbecilic heart, however, still leapt and burst and rolled around in clumsy cartwheels of jubilation.\n\nRight into a wall.\n\nShe was promised to Freddie. Freddie, who trusted her unconditionally. Who adored her far more than she deserved. She'd reaffirmed her desire and determination to marry him every time she'd met him, the last time only two days before.\n\nHow could she possibly slap Freddie with such a gross betrayal?\n\n\"I tried not to,\" said Camden, his eyes the most brilliant pinpoints of light in the night. \"But all too often I wondered what might have happened, back in eighty-eight, had I not given up. Had I the nerve to come look for you in England.\"\n\n_Why didn't you?_ she cried silently. _Why didn't you come for me when I was lonely and heartsick? Why did you wait until I'd committed myself to another man?_\n\nShe covered her eyes, but her head was still babel and bedlam, feral thoughts cannibalizing each other, emotions in a pandemonium of roundhouse and fisticuff. Then suddenly a siren song arose above the din, sweet and irresistible, and she could hear nothing else.\n\nA new beginning. A new beginning. A new beginning. A new spring after the dead of winter. A phoenix arising from its own ashes. The magical second chance that had always eluded her futile quests now presented to her on a platter of gold, on a bed of rose petals.\n\nShe had but to reach out and\u2014\n\nIt was this very same insatiable craving for him that had overcome her a decade ago, this very same impulse to damn everything and everyone else. She'd surrendered her principles and acted out of expediency and untrammeled self-interest. And look what had happened. At the end of the day, she'd had neither self-respect nor happiness.\n\nBut the siren song descanted more beautifully still. Remember how you giggled and prated together about everything and nothing? Remember the plans you made, to hike the Alps and sail the Riviera? Remember the hammock you were going to crowd in warmer weathers, the two of you, side by side, with Croesus stretched atop the both of you?\n\nNo, those were mirages, memories and wishes distorted through rose-tinged lenses. Her future lay with Freddie\u2014Freddie, who did not deserve to be ignominiously cast aside. Who deserved the best she had to give, not the worst. He had entrusted his entire happiness to her. She could not live with herself were she to trifle with that trust.\n\nWhat about\u2014\n\nNo. If she must endure the siren song, like Odysseus, thrashing and flailing in temptation, then she would. But she would not abandon Freddie. Nor her own decency. Not this time. Not ever again.\n\nShe looked at Camden. \"I can't,\" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. \"I'm pledged to another.\"\n\nHis fingers on her arm tightened infinitesimally. Then the coolness of the night replaced the warmth of his hand. His eyes did not leave hers, but she could no longer see the light in them. Only an infinite darkness met her gaze. \"Why did you tell me about the Dutch cap exactly?\"\n\nWhy exactly? \"I was\"\u2014if there was a riding crop nearby, she'd gladly have used it on herself\u2014\"I thought you'd be so disgusted you wouldn't want anything more to do with me.\"\n\n\"I see, preserving your loyalty to Lord Frederick still.\"\n\nHis voice had gone chill. As had her heart. A frozen expanse except for one white flame of anguish.\n\n\"Why, then, did you not object when I exposed you to a very real risk of consequences?\"\n\nAnd what could she say? That she'd ever been so? That he had but to display the slightest sweetness and approval for her to forget everything otherwise important? That she was a hopeless imbecile in his bed?\n\n\"I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry.\"\n\nThe bed creaked. For a fleeting second she saw the deep channel of his back as he sat with his hands braced to either side of him, his head bent. Then he left the bed altogether.\n\n\"I wish you'd have remembered all those scruples a little sooner,\" he said, a current of anger churning beneath his seamless politeness. He shrugged into his dressing gown and tightened the sash in a savage motion.\n\nShe sat up, clutching the bedspread against her chest. _Stay,_ she wanted to say. _Stay with me. Do not leave._ Instead, she mumbled in arrant daftness, \"You said yourself that what happened between us cannot be undone, can never be undone.\"\n\n\"And would that I had heeded my own sage advice,\" he said curtly, marching toward the door.\n\n\"Wait!\" she cried. \"Where are you going? The rooms upstairs aren't safe. You don't know what other damages could have been done.\"\n\n\"I'll take my chances,\" he said. \"There's bound to be a bed in this house that's less dangerous than yours.\"\n\nCamden lay abed in the chamber that had been first assigned to him. He stared at the ceiling and half-wished it would collapse on him and knock him senseless.\n\nNot that he had a full implement of sense left. _I wasn't thinking,_ she'd said. She most certainly wasn't alone in it. He probably hadn't had a properly lucid day since the first letter from her solicitors arrived the previous September, requesting an annulment.\n\nHe'd long referred to his marriage as \"that tolerable state of being.\" Tolerable because as long as the legalities were ironclad and ineluctable, she was still wedded to him, with a chance that one day, in a faraway, golden-misted future, they might yet rise above their youthful _Sturm and Drang_ and achieve some sort of passable happiness. Not that he willingly admitted any such wishful thinking to himself, but fourteen-hour working days translated into nights too weary for self-censorship.\n\nWhen she moved to officially dissolve their marriage, with flocks of letters from her lawyers darkening the sky like so many swarms of Egyptian locusts, the stasis on which he depended descended into chaotic disequilibrium. He found himself a stunned observer, unable to do anything other than toss the letters into the fireplace with increasing grimness and alarm.\n\nAnnulment was one thing. Divorce, however, quite another. When she'd actually gone ahead and petitioned for divorce, he'd been jolted with wrath, a massacre-the-peasants-and-salt-the-earth blood rage. This marriage was their devil's pact, begun in lies and sealed in spite. How dare she try to break free of this chain of acrimony that bound them? Neither of them deserved any better.\n\nHow injudicious he'd been to not understand the eruption of years of pent-up frustration. And how blind, when he'd calmed down during the Atlantic crossing, to think that he'd arrived at a reasonable, mature solution in his demand for an heir as a condition for releasing her from their marriage.\n\nAll he'd achieved was the unleashing of the beastly attraction that had taken him years to tame. But whereas once the beast had devoured her, this time it consumed _him._\n\nHe didn't know whether it was courage or madness that made him ask her outright to not throw away everything they'd ever had. He only knew the black pain of her rejection, a sense of loss through which he could barely breathe.\n\nSomehow he couldn't believe that this was it, that their story would end with such wretchedness, as if Hansel and Gretel had become the witch's dinner after all, or Sleeping Beauty's prince a pile of gnawed bones in the Enchanted Forest. But her voice, though barely audible, had been firm and clear. She might cling and writhe beneath him\u2014and lose her head momentarily\u2014but she kept her larger goal firmly in sight. And that goal was to sever all ties with him.\n\nPerhaps she was right. Perhaps he was still stuck in 1883. Perhaps this was indeed how their story would end, she as another man's radiant bride, and he but a dusty footnote in the annals of her history.\n\nShe was in the dining room, staring at an already cold cup of tea, when he appeared at her side, in riding gear, his hair windblown.\n\n\"I imagine we should know, in a few weeks, whether there will be consequences from our action last night,\" he said without preamble.\n\n\"I imagine so.\" She looked back to her tea, all too aware of his presence, of the scent of morning mist still clinging to him, and already panicking over what news the end of her cycle might bring. Either way. \"If there aren't any consequences, would you let me go to Freddie?\"\n\n\"And if there are, would you still insist on marrying him?\"\n\n\"If there are\"\u2014she pushed the words out past the lump in her throat\u2014\"I would hold up my end of the bargain, and I should like you to honor your part of it.\"\n\nIn response, he chortled softly, a sound without warmth or emotions. He took her chin in hand and slowly tilted her face so that she was forced to look at him. \"I hope Lord Frederick does not live to regret his choice,\" he said. \"Your love is a terrible thing.\"\nChapter Twenty-four\n\n_5 June 1893_\n\nNo, no, it won't do. Get me the green one instead,\" said Langford. He unbuttoned the claret-colored waistcoat\u2014the third he'd rejected\u2014and handed it back to his valet.\n\nA scowling, middle-aged man stared back at him in the mirror. He'd never been exactly handsome, but in his prime he'd been quite something to behold, always impeccably coiffed and garbed, always with the most desirable women of the upper echelon draped over his arms.\n\nFifteen years in the country and suddenly he was a bumpkin. His clothes were a decade out of fashion. He'd forgotten how to pomade his hair. And he was fairly certain that he no longer remembered how to seduce a woman. Seduction was a matter of mind. A man one hundred percent certain of himself had women eating out of his hand. A man eighty percent certain of himself had only pigeons eating out of his hand.\n\nAnd this eighty percent man, for reasons listed only on the devil's tail, had invited Mrs. Rowland to tea\u2014 tea!\u2014as if he were some fluttery little old lady looking forward to a bit of crumpet and gossip.\n\nOr, worse, as if he were some sentimental sap seeking to turn back the clock thirty years.\n\nHis valet returned with a deep-green waistcoat, the color of a densely wooded valley. Langford shrugged into it, determined to stick with this particular selection whether he looked a prince or a frog. He looked neither, just a perturbed, confounded, and slightly apprehensive man who hadn't exactly let himself go nor exactly kept himself up.\n\nIt would have to do, he supposed.\n\nHer landau pulled up before the manor at Ludlow Court at exactly two minutes past five. Beneath her lace parasol, she looked as dainty and prim as the queen's own teacup. Her choice of attire\u2014an afternoon gown of pearl and pale blue\u2014pleased him. He liked the creams and pastels that predominated her wardrobe, colors of an eternal spring, though had someone asked him during his man-about-town days, he'd have decreed such hues much too pedestrian.\n\nHe welcomed her himself, presenting his ungloved hand for her support as she alit from the carriage. She was both pleased and somewhat nonplussed\u2014good, that made two of them.\n\n\"I called on you a few weeks ago, Your Grace,\" she said, half coyly, half challengingly. \"You were not home.\"\n\nThey both knew he'd been home. But only he knew that he'd watched her from the window of an upper floor, in a mixture of exasperation and fascination. \"Shall we to tea?\" he said, offering his arm.\n\nBy ducal standards, Ludlow Court was more than modest, it was downright humble. A long time ago, in his twenties, Langford had been invited to Blenheim Palace. As his carriage approached that great edifice from a distance, he'd been consumed by an overwhelming sense of inadequacy: Compared to the colossus that was the Marlboroughs' ancestral estate, his own seat seemed merely a glorified vicar's cottage.\n\nBlenheim Palace's facade of grandeur, however, quickly proved just that, a facade, or, to be more precise, an illusion. For as his conveyance drew near to the house, the facade itself turned out to be in a state of advanced ill-repair. Inside the great mansion, the curtains were molded and full of holes, the walls dark from badly maintained flues, and the ceiling water-stained in practically every room\u2014this after the family had sold the famed Marlborough gems to help matters. A few years after his visit, the seventh duke had had to petition parliament to break entail so that the whole contents of the house could be auctioned off to defray family debts.\n\nIn contrast, the manor at Ludlow Court was a jewel box, a diminutive but perfect example of Palladian architecture with lucid, elegant lines, beautiful proportions, and an interior that Langford had been able to maintain\u2014and occasionally update\u2014with relative ease.\n\nBut as he passed through the anteroom and the grand entrance, with Mrs. Rowland's hand barely touching his arm, he wondered what she thought of it. Her current residence might be little larger than a hunting lodge, but he understood that she'd previously lived in a much grander place, one larger than his own and likely more modern and more lavishly furnished, given her late husband's fortune.\n\n\"You have rebuilt the terrace,\" said Mrs. Rowland, almost as soon as they entered the south drawing room. One side of the room overlooked the terraced slope at the rear of the house, leading down to the spread of formal, geometric gardens and the small lake beyond. \"Her Grace used to fret about it.\"\n\n\"Did she?\" Yet something else he didn't know about his own mother.\n\n\"Yes, rather. But she chose not to repair it so as not to disturb your father in his illness,\" Mrs. Rowland said. \"She was a very good woman.\"\n\nThat, he'd realized only too late. In his proud adolescent years, he'd secretly thought his mother too frumpy and countrified, possessing none of the regality and glamour befitting the consort of a prince of the realm. Her anxious love he'd borne as if it were a millstone about his neck, little suspecting that he'd be adrift without it.\n\n\"She never said anything to me about it. And I fear I was too obtuse and self-occupied to guess it of her. I had it repaired only when I began giving weekend parties here.\"\n\n\"It is very pretty,\" she said, gazing out the window at the exuberant apricot-gold roses blooming along the balustrade. There were roses on her wide-brimmed hat, roses confected from ribbons of pale blue grosgrain. \"She would have liked it.\"\n\n\"Would you prefer to take tea on the terrace instead?\" he asked impulsively. \"It is a beautiful day without.\"\n\n\"Yes, I would, thank you,\" she said, smiling a little.\n\nHe ordered a tea table set up outside under an extended awning, with a white tablecloth and a few cuttings of the roses she was just admiring set in a crystal vase.\n\n\"I think it's high time I apologized,\" she said, as they settled into their seats, side by side on a wide angle so that they each enjoyed an uninterrupted view of his gardens.\n\n\"That is hardly necessary. I thoroughly enjoyed myself at the dinner and found both the food and the company fascinating.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt that.\" She laughed, rather self-consciously. \"For theater you couldn't do much better. But I wish to apologize for my entire scheme, from the very beginning, when I sent away all my servants and stranded my kitten in a tree so that I could demand your assistance.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I assure you I did not participate in your scheme as an unwitting dupe. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to be your temporary and rather churlish Sir Galahad.\"\n\nShe colored. \"That much I've surmised, believe me, from later events. But it still behooves me to apologize for my original deceit.\"\n\nTea arrived amid much pomp and ceremony. Mrs. Rowland took both sugar and cream, the little finger of her right hand held just slightly extended, a delicate curl like a petal of oriental chrysanthemum.\n\n\"As much as I approve of your acknowledgment concerning this 'original deceit,' it's your subsequent tale that concerns me more,\" he said, ignoring his tea and watching her stir hers with a languid, creamy daintiness. \"Would you apologize for that too?\"\n\n\"Only if it were a blatant fabrication.\"\n\nIn his distraction he took a sip of tea. He still disliked it. \"Do you mean to tell me it wasn't a blatant fabrication?\"\n\nShe went on stirring her tea. \"After much thoughtful reflection, I've decided that I don't know anymore.\"\n\nHe cursed his curiosity. And his lack of tact. A more circumspect man would not have asked the question and would not have to deal with the wide-open vista of her answer.\n\n\"Perhaps you could help me decide,\" she said. \"I'd like to know you better.\"\n\n_I'm not a young woman anymore. So I've decided against a young woman's wiles in favor of a more direct approach._ That, at least, was no fabrication. \"What would you like to know?\"\n\n\"Many things. But, most pressingly, how and why did you come to be the person you are today? I find it an intriguing mystery.\"\n\nHis heart thudded. \"No mystery there. I almost died.\"\n\nBut she wasn't so easily satisfied. \"My daughter almost died at age sixteen. That experience only made her more of what she already was, not a different person altogether\u2014which you, by all accounts, have become.\"\n\nShe raised her teacup and let it hover just below her lips, her wrist as steady as the pound sterling. \"My instincts tell me that I cannot understand you until I know the story behind your transformation. And that your story is more than a man's brush with death. Am I wrong?\"\n\nHe considered a variety of answers and rejected them all. Having enjoyed the privilege of bluntness his entire life, he was ill-suited to suddenly take up prevarication.\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nThe teacup continued to linger in the vicinity of her chin, a shield almost, a disguise too, to hide her dangerous perspicacity behind a bit of glazed fine bone china painted with ivy and roses. \"If I may be so forward, was there a woman?\"\n\nHe didn't _need_ to answer her question. But then, he didn't need to invite her to tea either. He didn't know his plans any more than she did hers, possibly a lot less.\n\n\"Yes, there was a woman,\" he answered. \"And a man.\"\n\nHer features froze in momentary shock. Carefully, she set down her teacup. Presumably the stability of her wrist was no match for the excitement of her rather salacious imagination.\n\n\"Goodness gracious,\" she mumbled.\n\nHe laughed a little, with rue. \"Would that it were that kind of uncomplicated sordidness.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said.\n\n\"You have probably heard about the hunting incident. I was shot, bled profusely, was put into surgery for six hours, and barely survived,\" he said. \"But you are right. That in itself had no more life-changing effect on me than a hangover or a bad case of indigestion.\"\n\nA week after Langford was out of danger, Francis Elliot, the man who'd shot him, came to see him. Elliot had been a classmate at Eton, the one whose house in the next county Langford had frequently visited when he was home on holiday. Over the years, their once-close friendship had gradually cooled, and they saw relatively little of each other, Langford living fast and footloose, Elliot settling down to be the staid, responsible, unimaginative landowner in the mold of his forefathers.\n\nThat particular morning, Langford, highly peevish from both pain and ennui, had lambasted Elliot on his shoddy marksmanship and slandered his manhood in general. Elliot held his tongue until Langford ran out of pejoratives\u2014no easy feat, as Langford, trained to be a man of letters, possessed a near-infinite supply of belittling words.\n\nThen, for the first time in his life, Langford heard Elliot shout.\n\n\"It turned out that the man who shot me did so deliberately, though he hadn't meant to almost kill me. That was the result of nerves and bad aim\u2014because I'd seduced his wife.\"\n\nMrs. Rowland had lifted a cucumber sandwich. She went still. He'd shocked her without even getting to the worst part of it.\n\n\"I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd never met his wife as far as I was concerned, until I remembered, very vaguely, an encounter at a masked ball given by another friend of mine six months previously. There'd been a woman, a young matron with a forlorn air about her.\n\n\"What had been an evening's diversion for me, nothing more, had precipitated a domestic crisis for my friend. He loved his wife. They were going through a difficult phase, but he loved her. Loved her deeply, passionately, if also awkwardly and inarticulately.\"\n\nAt first, Elliot's tale invoked in Langford nothing but contempt. He would never let a woman, any woman, matter half so much to him. Any man who did so had only himself to blame for such an idiotic attachment.\n\nThen, after his initial outburst, Elliot did something startling: He apologized. Through gritted teeth, he apologized for everything\u2014for his lack of character, his lapse of judgment, for taking his despair out on Langford when it was his own fault that his wife was unhappy in the first place.\n\nLangford, still irked, accepted his apologies with no pretension of graciousness. But after Elliot's departure, he couldn't get the man out of his head, couldn't stop seeing the expression on Elliot's face as he apologized, an expression that held only self-reproach and a determination to do the right thing despite the avalanche of scorn he was sure to trigger.\n\nWith this unconditional apology, Elliot had proved himself, despite his earlier action, to be a man of fortitude, conscience, and decency\u2014everything Langford scorned and despised as too plebeian for his exalted self.\n\n\"I didn't want to change or be changed,\" said Langford. \"The way I'd lived was a highly pleasurable, highly addictive way to live. I was loath to give it up. But the damage was done. I was shaken. In the subsequent days of my convalescence, I began to question everything I'd taken for granted about my choices in life. How many others had I hurt in my mindless quest for amusement? What worthy use, if any, had I made of my talents and my vast good fortune? And what would my poor mother have thought of it all?\"\n\nMrs. Rowland listened with grave concentration, her eyes never leaving his. \"What happened to your friend and his wife?\"\n\nIt was a question that still plagued him in the dark of the night. From what he'd learned, they seemed to be fine, with no reports of shameful squabbles or unseemly fondness for the bottle. \"I understand they have produced three children together. The eldest came along about a year after he shot me.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear that,\" she said.\n\n\"But that doesn't really tell us anything in and of itself, does it?\" A man and his wife could very well procreate in mutual abhorrence. He wanted to picture for himself a family in harmony, but his mind would only paint images of silent, frightened children walking on eggshells around parents locked into a hideous bitterness. A bitterness for which Langford was responsible.\n\n\"Marriages are curious things,\" said Mrs. Rowland. \"Many are exceedingly fragile. But others are exceptionally resilient, able to recover from the most grievous injuries.\"\n\nHe would like to believe her. But the marriages he'd known had been by and large indifferent. \"You speak from personal experience, I hope.\"\n\n\"I do,\" she said firmly.\n\n\"Tell me more,\" he said. \"I demand something at least halfway sensational in return for the divulging of my own unspeakable past.\"\n\nShe picked up her teacup and then, rather resolutely, set it down again. \"Sensational it wouldn't be. The most sensational thing I've ever done in my life was blurting out to you that I wished to marry you. But it should come as no surprise now that I had indeed wished to marry you, more than thirty years ago.\"\n\nIt was still a surprise to hear her speak of it so candidly.\n\n\"I believed I had the looks, the comportment, and your mother's approval. The only obstacles were your youth and your certain disinclination to marry a girl handpicked by your mother, but I considered neither insurmountable. When you were done with university, I'd still be of a marriageable age. And in the meanwhile I would educate myself in the classics, so as to distinguish myself from other women who would be vying for your hand.\n\n\"My plan no doubt strikes you as both arrogant and simpleminded. It was. But I believed fervently in it. In hindsight, I can see that we'd have dealt disastrously together\u2014I'd have been dismayed by your promiscuity and you in turn repelled by my sanctimonious meddlesomeness, as my daughter has called it. But in those heady days of 1862, you were mythologically perfect and I was fixated on you.\n\n\"Needless to say, when Mr. Rowland began his courtship, I was not thrilled with his attention. I craved rank and disdained money made in sooty ways, whereas he possessed nothing but the latter. I didn't understand why my father welcomed his calls, until I did as well. Believe me, having to marry him for such a mortifying thing as my family's ruinous finances did not further endear him to me.\"\n\nThere was regret in her voice. Suddenly Langford realized that the regret wasn't for him but for the long-departed Mr. Rowland. He felt an odd pulse of jealousy. \"You mean to tell me your marriage eventually recovered from that grievous injury?\"\n\n\"It did. But it took a long time. When I married Mr. Rowland, I decided to be a right proper martyr. While I refused to lower myself by seeking out your news or succumbing to affairs, I also refused to see him as anything other than a legal entity to whom I sacrificed my dreams for the sake of my family. Even when my sentiments finally changed, I didn't know what to do. It seemed ridiculous that I should feel something other than duty and obligation toward a man I'd called only Mr. Rowland for so many years.\"\n\nHer voice trailed off. She finally lifted the cucumber sandwich to her lips again. \"We had three good years before he passed away.\"\n\nHe didn't know what to say. He'd always considered happy marriages to be the stuff of fairy tales, about as likely as fire-breathing dragons in this mechanized age. He found himself ill qualified to comment on her loss.\n\nIn the silence, she ate the cucumber sandwich with great daintiness. When she was done, she shook her head and smiled wistfully. \"Now I am reminded why polite society does not engage in rampant honesty. Awkward, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Not so much as it is thought-provoking,\" he answered. \"I don't think I've had a more frank conversation in my entire life, on things that mattered.\"\n\n\"And now we've nothing left to talk about except the weather,\" she said wryly.\n\n\"Allow me to correct your misconception here, madam,\" he said, with equal dryness. \"I understand that beneath your facade of ideal femininity, you are a bluestocking who just might be learned enough to appreciate my vast erudition.\"\n\n\"Oh-ho, watch that arrogance, Your Grace,\" she said, grinning a little. \"You might find it to be exactly the other way around. While you were out carousing nightly, I read everything that was ever jotted down during classical antiquity.\"\n\n\"That may very well be. But have you an original thought on it?\" he challenged.\n\nShe leaned forward slightly. He noted, with pleasure, the gleam in her eyes. \"You have a few days to listen, sir?\"\nChapter Twenty-five\n\n_3 July 1893_\n\n. . . picnic . . . capture . . . light . . . tree . . . shadow . . . purple . . .\"\n\nGigi stared at Freddie's moving lips, her concentration stranded somewhere beyond the Cape of Good Hope. What was he talking about? And why was he speaking so earnestly of such incomprehensible and inconsequential things when barbarians had broken through the gate, torched the bailey, and were about to storm the keep?\n\nThey were in trouble. They were in trouble so deep and wide that the best alpinists broke down and wept halfway up and the greatest sailors turned around and headed home long before reaching the other shore.\n\nThen she remembered. He was talking about \"Afternoon in the Park,\" and he was talking about it because she'd asked him to, so that they could carry on a decent conversation and that she could pretend, at least for the duration of his call, that all was well, that the smoke darkening the sky was merely the kitchen roasting a few boars for the evening feast.\n\nShe blinked and tried to listen more attentively.\n\nTwo days after their return to London, Camden had left to visit his grandfather in Bavaria. But the damage was done. He'd been gone more than a month now, and not one of the nearly eight hundred hours had gone by without her revisiting their last night together and catching her breath anew at his intrepid offer. Everything reminded her of him. The details of her own town house, which she'd barely noticed anymore, had suddenly become a narrative of all her once-fervid hopes: the piano, the paintings, the Cyclades marble she'd selected for the floor of the vestibule because it matched the color of his eyes exactly.\n\nHad she made the right choice?\n\nShe knew what it was like to have made an unethical choice. She knew the fear and the corrosive anxiety that bled into and adulterated every joy, every delight. In this instance, she was fairly sure she hadn't come down on the wrong side of the moral divide.\n\nBut where was the sense of inner strength conferred by the right choice? Where was the peaceful slumber and the clear sense of purpose? Why, if she'd made the right decision, did it feel oppressive and, on some days, palpably suffocating?\n\nShe gave Freddie permission to resume his daily calls, to silence the gossip that the trip to Devon had generated. Freddie's renewed visits quelled the rumors but did nothing to soothe her agitation. The rapport they shared was still there, but the sense that they belonged together was becoming as frayed as a tenth-century tapestry, on the verge of disintegrating altogether with the least exposure to the elements.\n\n\"Freddie,\" she interrupted him.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\nShe broke the moratorium on physical contact that had been in place since the day of Camden's return and kissed him.\n\nIt was always nice kissing Freddie. Sometimes even very nice. But she needed more than nice. She had to have something surpassingly ardent\u2014a veritable conflagration\u2014to erase the burning imprints her husband had left on her, to eradicate from memory her response to him, all hungry abandon and desperate need.\n\nThe kiss was very nice.\n\nAnd she spent the entirety of it thinking of the very person she was hoping to forget.\n\nShe pulled back and pasted on a smile. \"Forgive the digression. Go on, tell me more about the painting.\"\n\nFreddie looked to the door as if expecting to see tweeny maids giggle and then run off with news of what they'd espied. When the corridors remained silent, he leaned forward and tried to kiss her again.\n\n\"No.\" She stopped him. She didn't want any more reminders of her vastly different reactions to the two men. Or of the fervor Camden effortlessly fomented in her. \"We still shouldn't. That was my fault.\"\n\nDisappointment dimmed Freddie's eyes. But he nodded slowly, ceding to her wishes. \"Three hundred and nine days to go.\" He sighed. \"I swear, the days are thrice as long as they were before.\"\n\nIn this, at least, they were in perfect accord. She turned to his art again, since it was one of the few safe topics left to them. \"I'm glad, then, you've been able to keep yourself busy. I hear Lady Wrenworth is pleased with her portrait.\"\n\nFreddie revived a bit at her compliment. \"I had dinner at the Carlisles' two days ago. Miss Carlisle asked me to paint her portrait too. We will probably start next week.\"\n\n\"It seems she has a high enough opinion of your skills, at least.\"\n\n\"Well, she did warn me she would be highly critical if it didn't meet her standards.\" Freddie smiled a little. \"Did you know that she's been to an Impressionist exhibition? All this time I thought you were the only person in my acquaintance who knew anything about the Impressionists.\"\n\nGigi bolted straight up. Freddie, startled, rose too. \"Is everything all right? Is it Miss Carlisle? I should have asked you about it fir\u2014\"\n\n\"No, it isn't Miss Carlisle.\" Oh, if it only were. If only Freddie and Miss Carlisle had been up to some mischief. \"It's me. I should have told you long ago: I don't know anything about the Impressionists.\"\n\n\"But you have the most marvelous collection I've ever seen. You\u2014\"\n\n\"I bought them wholesale. I bought out three private galleries. Because Tremaine liked the Impressionists.\"\n\nFreddie looked as if she'd just told him that all nine of the queen's children were illegitimate. \"But\u2014does this mean\u2014were you\u2014\"\n\n\"Yes. I was in love with him. I wanted him for more than his title. But I overstepped and my marriage withered on the vine.\" She took a long breath. \"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. Very sorry. I apologize.\"\n\nFreddie swallowed, gamely trying to digest the past she'd suddenly dumped on him. Then he cleared his throat, and she tensed. Dear God, what would she say if he asked her whether she still loved her husband? She could not lie to him, not at this juncture. Yet she could not bring herself to face the truth. Could not handle the abject terror of being in love\u2014the kind of love that had already once before derailed her life.\n\nFreddie looked as conflicted as she felt. He glanced down at his shoes, stuck a hand in his pocket, drew the hand out again, and fiddled with the fob of his watch. \"You\u2014you really don't know anything about the Impressionists?\"\n\nShe didn't know whether to laugh from relief or to weep. Perhaps Freddie loved her only for her paintings. Perhaps he was as afraid of the question as she.\n\nShe pointed at a canvas directly behind him, a landscape of blue sky, blue water, and a French village with ochre roofs and porridge-colored walls. \"Do you know who painted that?\"\n\nFreddie turned to look. \"Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"I don't. Or at least I don't recall anymore. I bought it along with twenty-eight other pieces.\" She touched his cheek. \"Oh, Freddie, forgive me. I\u2014\"\n\nShe stopped cold. Slowly, as if expecting a knife-wielding assassin, she removed her hand from Freddie's face and turned toward the door. Her husband stood there, leaning against the doorjamb.\n\nHer heart gave a leap of pure, startled joy.\n\n\"Lady Tremaine.\" He nodded. \"Lord Frederick.\"\n\nHer pleasure instantly decayed into self-recrimination. How could she be so vile? She'd completely forgotten about Freddie, as if he wasn't there, as if he'd never been there.\n\nFreddie bowed awkwardly. \"Lord Tremaine.\"\n\nShe could return neither Camden's greeting nor his gaze. She only vaguely recalled the time when she'd been dead certain that a divorce was the key to unlocking her happiness, when she'd fully, confidently anticipated putting him behind her once and for all.\n\nWhy hadn't she seen it? Why hadn't she realized sooner that she had been seeking that one last battle, a titanic clash, one for the ages?\n\nAnd why must Camden have turned everything on its head? To go so far as to suggest that he bore an equal share of the culpability. To ask her if she wanted to start afresh, a new life together. Was he mad?\n\nOr was she?\n\n\"I was\u2014I was just about to leave,\" said Freddie.\n\n\"Please, Lord Frederick, do not discommode yourself on my behalf. Lady Tremaine's friends are always welcome in this house,\" said Camden, all gallantry and graciousness. \"I've had a long journey; if you will excuse me.\"\n\nAs soon as Camden was out of earshot, Freddie turned to her, half in shock, half in panic. \"Do you think he saw us\u2014\"\n\n\"No.\" She'd have known. He couldn't have been there for longer than a few seconds.\n\n\"You are sure?\"\n\n\"Tremaine is no more a threat to my physical well being\u2014if that's what you are worried about\u2014than you are.\"\n\nFreddie took her hands in his. \"I guess\u2014I guess that isn't what I'm really worried about. I'm only afraid that the more time he spends around you, the less willing he will be to let you go.\"\n\nNo, it was the other way around. The more time she spent around Camden, the more impossible it became for her to let _him_ go.\n\nShe patted Freddie's hand. \"Don't fret, darling. No one can take me away from you.\"\n\nShe'd made the right choice. She had.\n\nIf only the reassurances she offered Freddie didn't sound to her own ears like so much mendacious drivel.\n\nCamden ripped off his necktie and threw it on the bed. He crossed the chamber, rinsed his face, and buried it in a towel. She was touching another man, with tenderness and affection. What else was she doing with him?\n\nCamden slapped down the towel and caught his own reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. He looked about as happy as the citizenry of Paris on the eve of the Storming of the Bastille, primed for violence and mayhem.\n\nHe dipped a hand in the washbasin and flung a constellation of water drops against the mirror. The drops rolled down the glassy surface, obscuring the face that stared at him in unblinking belligerence.\n\nHer obstinacy angered him. To be sure, he'd been too abrupt in proposing a new beginning. But now she'd had a whole month to think things through. That she belonged with him and not with Lord Frederick was so obvious to Camden that he couldn't even begin to understand how she could choose otherwise.\n\nHis own obstinacy, however, angered him even more. So she'd made a stupid choice. At least it was consistent and honorable. She'd said over and over again that she would swim the Channel in January for the chance to marry Lord Frederick. Why couldn't he accept it? Why did he dream and hope and plot still?\n\nHe walked to his steamer trunk and wondered whether there was any sense in even opening the thing. He hadn't returned to England on some random date. The _Campania_ would leave for New York City within the week. And he'd seen enough this afternoon.\n\nThe image surfaced again in his mind, her hand against Lord Frederick's cheek, the infinite care in her touch. _Oh, Freddie, forgive me,_ she'd said. And she'd looked at Camden and immediately looked away.\n\nCamden frowned. He hadn't thought of it before. Why was Gigi asking Lord Frederick to forgive her? Except for that brief interlude when she'd forgotten herself, she'd been unwavering in her loyalty to him. And Camden couldn't imagine her divulging the intimate details of her conjugal relations to anyone, least of all Lord Frederick.\n\nHis head remained blank for another minute. Then his world turned upside down. It could have meant only one thing: There had been consequences to their lovemaking. He was going to be a father. They would have a child together.\n\nHe gripped the bedpost, unsteady on his feet, as if he were drunk on the very best champagne. A child, dear God, a child. A baby.\n\nShe'd agreed to his conditions only because she never intended to conceive. He knew her well enough to know that she would not give up her firstborn to marry Lord Frederick. She would stay with Camden and they would become a family. And given their propensity for ending up in bed together, that family would grow.\n\nHe could scarcely comprehend it; absurdly maudlin images inundated his mind. A family of his own, full of stubborn, naughty brats with bright eyes and cunning smiles. Puppies running through the house. Chubby arms held out to him for hugs. And her, regally, confidently at the center of it all.\n\nIt was all he wanted. It was everything he'd ever wanted. He pulled off his travel-crumpled coat and flung open the trunk to search for another. In the back of his mind he was vaguely aware that this wasn't how he'd wished to be chosen: by default. But he didn't care anymore. A whole new life was open before him and he was dizzy with the possibilities of it all.\n\nGoodman entered to deposit a batch of letters and departed with the coat Camden had picked out, to be pressed. While Camden waited impatiently for his coat to return, he riffled through the stack of mail.\n\nThere was a letter from Theodora. Ironically, she'd become a frequent, faithful correspondent after their respective marriages. He'd gone from merely _Monsieur_ to _Cher Monsieur,_ then _Tr\u00e8s Cher Monsieur, Cher Ami,_ and now _Mon Tr\u00e8s Cher Ami._\n\nHe skimmed through the pages. She was well. The twins were well. The winter in Buenos Aires continued mild and humid. She contemplated moving back to Europe, for the sake of the children, now that her husband, may God rest his soul, no longer needed the benefit of southern climes. And in other news, she planned to visit New York late in summer. She'd be delighted if he would call on her. She had missed him greatly these past two years.\n\nNot long after Theodora married her grand duke, they relocated to Buenos Aires for his health. Most winters\u2014June, July, August\u2014they traveled to Newport, where they kept a house. Camden was usually too busy with his ventures to join the summer circuit for long stretches of time. But he occasionally sailed up, attended a few functions, and called on her, with presents for Masha and Sasha.\n\nHe'd like to see her and the twins. But not this summer. Something far more important and wonderful would keep him in England for quite a while, something called fatherhood.\n\nGoodman returned. Camden shrugged into the newly pressed coat and wound a necktie about his collar. It took him a minute to realize the butler was still hovering about discreetly, waiting for Camden to address him.\n\n\"What is it, Goodman?\" he asked, knotting the tie.\n\n\"Her ladyship would be dining at home this evening. Would your lordship be joining her?\" asked Goodman.\n\nCamden paused. There was something different about Goodman's tone. It was almost . . . wistful. Where was that quiet indignation Camden had come to expect, that sense of righteous reproach on behalf of his mistress?\n\n\"Yes, I would,\" said Camden.\n\nHe was home at last. He would never leave again.\n\nShe didn't hear him as he entered the back parlor. She lolled on a chaise longue, cocooned in a gown the color of the Mediterranean at only a few feet of lucid depth, her head tilted back, her eyes lashed to the eight-foot-wide plaster medallion at the center of the ceiling.\n\nHe rarely saw this side of her, still, almost drowsy, languorous and voluptuous as a nymph on a sultry spring afternoon after a night of bacchanalia. The half of her skirts trapped under her weight pulled at the layers on top, tightening the spread of taffeta about the roundness of her hips and the mouthwatering length of her legs, long enough to connect Dover to Calais.\n\nHe feasted on her, drinking in her somnolent sensuality. But all too quickly she perceived him. She swung her unshod feet off the chaise and sat up straight.\n\n\"You look well,\" he said.\n\nHis compliment took her aback. Uncharacteristically, her hand crept to her coiffure and tucked a tiny escaped strand of hair behind her right ear. \"Thank you,\" she replied, her tone almost diffident. \"So do you.\"\n\nThat was not a bad beginning. \"I apologize for my earlier intrusion.\"\n\n\"Oh, that. Freddie was just about to leave.\"\n\n\"Did you tell him?\"\n\n\"Tell him . . . of what?\"\n\nHe blinked. She didn't sound coy. She sounded baffled.\n\nShe was not pregnant.\n\nSuddenly he felt unsteady again, this time as if someone had swung a very large object at the back of his head.\n\n\"Nothing,\" he said. \"Nothing.\"\n\nHe walked to the grandfather clock and pretended to check the time on his watch, when he wanted to grab the poker next to the grate and smash everything in the room. The children they were going to have. The life they were going to share. Everything slashed and burned in a vicious assault by reality. And her, oblivious to his pain, throwing away their happiness as if it were last week's bread.\n\nFor a while, as he wound a watch that needed no winding, nobody said a thing. Then he heard her deep breath and knew, from the way his heart suddenly splintered, what she was going to say.\n\n\"There are no consequences,\" she said. \"Will you let me go?\"\n\nEvery single cell inside him screamed no. He would most certainly not let her go. In fact, he was feeling downright nostalgic for those terrible old days when a woman had no choice whatsoever in those matters, when he could laugh cruelly, hang Lord Frederick by his ankles in the dungeon, rip her chemise to ribbons, and have her right on the dais of the great hall, under the scandalized eyes of the local bishop.\n\nThe period they'd agreed to was far from over. That she refused his entreaty did not release her from the conditions he'd set. That every touch would be fraught with peril did not diminish the allure of holding her fast to the pact.\n\nHis heart pounded. He had to close his eyes to control his ragged breath. True, there were all sorts of ways he could bludgeon her, with the diminished but still powerful husbandly prerogatives granted him under English law. But in the end, what would it accomplish?\n\nHe recognized much of his younger self in her stubborn clinging to the idea of a \"good\" love, in her deep, sincere, if vastly misplaced sense of personal responsibility toward Lord Frederick.\n\nTen years ago she'd clearly perceived the ill suit between Theodora and himself. But she hadn't enough faith to let him discover it for himself. If he were to impregnate her with the express goal of keeping her bound in matrimony, he'd have made exactly the same mistake she had.\n\n_But what if she doesn't come to her senses, or doesn't come to her senses in time?_ howled some primal part of him, all but trembling in angst. His entire person seized, recoiling in dread. That was a distinct possibility. He could not allow that to happen. He could not. His world would fall apart.\n\nWas this how she'd felt all those years ago? The anxiety. The simmering frustration. The corrosive fear that if he didn't do something, she would be lost to him forever.\n\nHad he been nineteen, he'd have embarked on the same wrong path. At thirty-one, even having lived through the aftermath of that debacle, he was still tempted almost beyond endurance.\n\nOnly pride and his last shred of good sense saved him in the end. He wanted her to remain his wife not because he'd put an erotic spell over her or because she loved her infant too much to give it up but because she couldn't imagine her life otherwise, because she saw every breath she took intertwined with his, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both should live.\n\n\"As you wish,\" he said.\n\n\"What?!\"\n\nShe couldn't have heard it right. She couldn't.\n\n\"Break open that bottle of champagne. This time next year you could be Lady Philippa Stuart.\"\n\nShe didn't know why she should be so stunned. Yet she was dazed with distress, barely keeping herself together, as if all these weeks she'd been holding her breath, waiting for him to return and reclaim her, vowing never to let go of her again.\n\nHe came close, too close for comfort, and sat down next to her, the light worsted wool of his summer trousers socializing insouciantly with the layers of her skirts. She became aware of the subtle scent of starch from his shirt, the spice and citron of his soap. A small part of her wanted to move away. The rest of her wanted him to trespass further, to push her down, hold her immobile, and do whatever he willed with her.\n\nHe did something even more shocking. He took her hand in his and said, \"I've been a cur, haven't I? Coming here and subjecting you to this impossible situation.\"\n\nHe played with her fingers absently, running the pad of an index finger across the inside of her knuckles. His hands were cool and faintly moist, as if he'd just washed and toweled them dry. The skin of his fingertips scraped her palm ever so slightly, reminding her that he did more than playing piano and rendering scaled drawings with those hands.\n\nShe wanted to kiss his hand, every roughened finger pad, every knuckle. She wanted to suck on the ball of his thumb and lick the lines and wrinkles of his palm.\n\nIf only she'd conceived. If only. If only. If only.\n\nShe had desperately wanted it. With the relentlessness of garden weeds she had wished it, dreamed it, desired it. It would have been an answered prayer, a clarion call, a catalyst around which all future courses of action would instantly crystallize.\n\nBut it didn't happen.\n\n\"You'll be returning to New York City, then?\" she said, careful not to choke.\n\n\"On the next steamer, I would imagine. My engineers are quite excited about the progress of our automobile. My accountants salivate at the investment opportunities, given the current upheaval in the stock market,\" he said, as if his departure had nothing to do with the end of their union. \"If you are in the mood for acquiring some rail lines, you should come to the States end of this year or beginning of next.\"\n\n\"I will keep that in mind,\" she said numbly.\n\nHe rose. She stood up too.\n\n\"You'll need to watch out for fortune-hunting young ladies now,\" she said, wondering whether her awkward chuckle sufficiently hid her unhappiness.\n\n\"And title-hunting ones too.\" He smiled. \"And those who are simply dazzled by the way I walk and talk.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, especially watch out for those.\"\n\n_Don't cry. Don't cry now._\n\nSuddenly she realized that she was now the one holding on to him, not the other way around. He but allowed his hands to remain in her panicked grip. He was done. He'd said everything he wanted to say to her.\n\n_Let go,_ she thought. _Let go. Let go. Let go._\n\nWhen she at last did what she commanded, it was not through force of will. Her hands slackened and slid off his because it was not her place, nor her privilege, to touch him of her own volition.\n\n\"Good-bye, then,\" she said. \"And a safe crossing.\"\n\n\"I wish you every happiness,\" he said, with grave formality. Then, with a swift peck to her cheek, \"Parting is such sweet sorrow.\"\n\nShe didn't know what was so sweet about a sorrow that felt like her still-beating heart impaled upon the fangs of Cerberus. She could only watch hopelessly as he disappeared from her view, from her life.\n\nThis time for good.\nChapter Twenty-six\n\n_London  \n25 August_\n\nMy dearest Philippa,\n\nI apologize for my letter arriving late yesterday. The light these past couple of days, though thinner and cooler than the light of high summer, has a wonderful golden quality, especially late in the day. Miss Carlisle thinks I've made tremendous progress on \"Afternoon in the Park.\"\n\nPeople are trickling back into London. Last night I had dinner at the Carlisles' and revealed myself a bounder when I admitted that I'd been in town for two weeks. Everyone else boasted that he'd spent the whole of August grousing in Scotland or sailing off the Isle of Wight.\n\nI'll be overjoyed to see you tomorrow. I wish we were already married.\n\nI enclose, as always, a thousand loving thoughts.\n\nYours ever devoted,  \nFreddie\n\nCamden's departure had not gone unnoticed. Such was the newsworthiness of the event that within thirty-six hours the whole of London knew he'd vacated his apartment and taken everything with him. The telegraph\u2014indeed, the telephone\u2014paled before the swiftness and efficacy of mouth-to-ear gossip transmission.\n\n_What did it mean?_ Everyone had wanted to know. Had Lady Tremaine won her battle? Had Lord Tremaine permanently withdrawn from the war? Or had he only temporarily retreated to regroup?\n\nGigi paltered, fudged, and equivocated\u2014when she could. When pressed hard, she lied outright. She didn't know, she repeated. Lord Tremaine did not communicate personal plans to her. She didn't know what he in-tended\u2014didn't know, didn't know, didn't know\u2014and therefore must curb her impatience just a bit longer.\n\nThe divorce papers were typed afresh, needing only her signature. She told the lawyers to sit on them. Goodman inquired whether the furniture and decor in Camden's bedchamber should be removed, covered, or polished daily in anticipation of his return. She had him leave everything alone. Her mother sent a fortune in telegrams. She ignored them en masse.\n\nBut she couldn't ignore Freddie. Freddie\u2014bless him for having been so patient\u2014showed mounting signs of distress. _Is there anything from Lord Tremaine's solicitors?_ he asked every time they met. _I wish we could get married. Right away._ There was a fearful and almost frantic quality to his pleas. She gave the same carefully crafted answer each time and hated herself with ever greater venom.\n\nCroesus was the only one who didn't pose questions she couldn't answer. But he looked dejected and listless in Camden's absence. She'd find him in the conservatory, napping on Camden's favorite rattan chair, the one with faded blue paisley cushions and cigar burns on the armrest, as if waiting for his return.\n\nMaintaining this intractable status quo was like juggling flaming scimitars. She woke up tired and went to bed dazed with fatigue: parrying a thousand acquaintances' curiosity, keeping her mother at arm's length, cosseting Freddie as best as she could, and withholding the truth even from her few trusted friends.\n\nThe end of the season brought little relief. With rail travel as instantaneous as it had become, even her retreat to Briarmeadow provided no refuge. At the end of every week she hosted a three-day house party so that she and Freddie could see each other without any hint of impropriety. As a result, half of the time her house was swollen with people. Torrents of eager, unsatisfied inquisitiveness eddied and swirled, driving poor Freddie to distraction and making her as cross as a stranded dowager with a bladder full of tea and no place to empty it.\n\nAnd guilt-ridden. And ashamed. And despondent.\n\nShe knew what she was doing, of course. She was doing her damnedest to postpone the moment of reckoning, the moment when she must either step forth to marry Freddie or at last face the fact that she could not, not even with Camden having completely removed himself from the melee.\n\nBut how could she tell Freddie that? He had been her faithful friend from the very first. Never in all this chaos had he blamed her, explicitly or implicitly, for anything. He had stood by her with courage and humility, enduring gossip that painted him as either a fool or a fortune hunter of the highest order.\n\nShe owed him. He should be rewarded for his loyalty and his trust in her. He'd done so much for her, the steadfast Sancho Panza on her wild-eyed quixotic quest. How could she do any less for him?\n\nThe brook was clear and shallow this time of the year. It murmured and soughed, with the occasional burble of a sunlit splash. The willows languidly trailed the tips of their soft branches on the surface of the stream, like a coy woman flaunting the luxuriance of her unbound hair with slow, teasing turns of her head.\n\nGigi didn't know what she'd expected to find here. Camden flying down the hill like a Cossack and sweeping her up, perhaps. She shook her head, amazed at her own persistent idiocy.\n\nStill she didn't leave. In ten and a half years she'd forgotten how pretty this spot could be, how quiet, with no sounds except for the soft laughter of the brook, the rustle of the morning breeze as it skittered between leaves and branches, the lowing of sheep in the meadow behind her, grazing on a high green carpet of lucerne, and . . .\n\nHoofbeats?\n\nHer heart ricocheted against her rib cage. The horse was coming from her own property. She whirled around, picked up her skirts, and sprinted up the slope.\n\nIt was not Camden but Freddie. Her surprise was almost stronger than her disappointment. She didn't even know Freddie could ride. He had an awkward seat but hung on stubbornly, somehow zigzagging the horse forward on a prayer.\n\nShe ran toward him. \"Freddie! Be careful, Freddie!\"\n\nShe had to help him untangle his boot from the stirrup as he dismounted, the heel having caught on the way down.\n\n\"I'm fine. I'm fine,\" he reassured her hastily.\n\nShe glanced at her watch. Freddie usually arrived on the 2:13. But it was not even eleven o'clock yet. \"You are early. Is everything all right?\"\n\n\"Everything is as it should be,\" he answered, as he inexpertly tethered the horse to a salt lick. \"I didn't know what to do with myself. So I caught an earlier train. You don't mind?\"\n\n\"No, no, of course not. You are always welcome here.\" Poor Freddie, he'd become thinner each time she'd seen him. She felt a pinch in her heart. Her darling. How she wanted him to be happy.\n\nShe kissed him on his cheek. \"Did you paint well yesterday?\"\n\n\"I'm almost done with the picnic blanket.\"\n\n\"Good,\" she said, smiling a little to herself, enjoying his enthusiasm the way a parent enjoyed a child's. \"What about the items on the blanket? The picnic basket, that one remaining spoon, the half-eaten apple, and the open book?\"\n\n\"You remember?!\" Freddie looked to be in shock.\n\nSo he'd noticed her preoccupation. She supposed it would have been too much to hope that he hadn't. \"Of course I remember.\" Though only vaguely. And only because she'd asked him repeatedly. \"How are they coming along?\"\n\n\"The book is giving me fits, half in the sun and half in the shade. I can't make up my mind whether the shadows should be tinged with ochre or viridian.\"\n\n\"What does Miss Carlisle think?\"\n\n\"Viridian. That's why I'm not sure. I thought they'd be ochre.\" He took a few steps in the direction of the stream. \"Are we still in Briarmeadow? I don't remember ever being this far from the house.\"\n\n\"That's Fairford land over there, beyond the water.\"\n\n\"Land that would have been yours one day.\"\n\nShe glanced at him but caught only his profile. \"I've land enough.\"\n\nFreddie sighed. \"What I meant was, if you and Lord Tremaine had not had your falling out. Or if you'd managed to patch things up between the two of you.\"\n\n\"Or if the seventh duke had not died just before he was to marry me,\" she said. \"Life does not proceed according to plans.\"\n\n\"But you probably don't very often wish that the seventh duke hadn't died.\"\n\nShe opened her mouth to say something that would put his mind at ease, as she'd done innumerable times in recent months. But suddenly, the conceit and stupidity of it struck her. Freddie knew. Even if he hadn't acknowledged it, he understood that everything had changed.\n\nHis anxiety could not be soothed away with mere words, nor eradicated even with a wedding ceremony. Like the phantom of a haunted house, it might recede into the woodwork when the sun was high and the day bright, only to return with a vengeance at the onset of long nights and howling storms.\n\nHer lack of a response hung heavy in the air. Freddie looked a little shocked. Like her, he'd probably become accustomed to the elaborate reassurances she manufactured with the efficacy of industrial processes. But she was a sham. The castle on the hill she'd built them was no more real than a painted fort on a stage backdrop.\n\nFreddie walked away from her, as if needing the distance to sort out his own thoughts. She could still coddle him, go on feigning that everything would be all right. But it would be an egregious lie.\n\nIt was a sad reflection on her arrogance\u2014and na\u00efvet\u00e9, to some extent\u2014that she remained convinced for so long that she could still make _him_ happy, even if he couldn't do the same for her. There was no such thing as a marriage with one happy spouse. Both must be or neither.\n\nShe caught up with him at the edge of the meadow.\n\n\"The light is good here,\" he said halfheartedly. He looked like something out of one of his beloved Impressionist paintings, a pensive, melancholy figure _en plein air,_ against a brilliant sky and a verdant landscape.\n\nShe pointed downstream. \"See where the willows grow close to the bank? That's where I first met Lord Tremaine.\"\n\nFreddie scuffed the sole of his boot against an exposed rock. \"Love at first sight?\"\n\n\"Close enough, within twenty-four hours.\" She took a deep breath, and another. It was time to come clean. \"In some ways I was a victim of my youth and inexperience: I'd never been in love before and I couldn't handle the intensity of my emotions. But mostly I was my own worst enemy\u2014I was too selfish, too myopic, and too ruthless. I knew it was terrible to deceive him into thinking that his intended had already married someone else, but I went ahead and did it anyway.\"\n\nFreddie gasped. It was the first time she'd ever told him\u2014or anyone, for that matter\u2014what lay at the core of her marital infelicity. Little wonder. It was an ugly story, full of what she liked least about herself.\n\n\"What I did bought me three weeks of happiness\u2014 rotten happiness at that\u2014and then utter downfall.\" She sighed. \"Life has its way of teaching humility to the arrogant.\"\n\n\"You are not arrogant,\" Freddie said stubbornly.\n\nOh, Freddie, beloved Freddie. \"Perhaps not as much as I used to be, but still arrogant enough not to have informed you of the truth from the very beginning\u2014 about my marriage, about the paintings . . .\"\n\nFreddie turned toward her. \"Do you really think I love you because you had certain paintings on your walls? I was already in love with you long before I ever set foot in your house.\"\n\nShe took his hands in hers, gazed at their linked fingers, and slowly shook her head. \"Alas, I'd hoped it was the paintings. That would make you and Miss Carlisle perfect for each other.\"\n\n\"Angelica wants to make me into something I'm not. She wants me to be the next Bouguereau, the most renowned artist of my day. But I'm not meant to be either famous or prolific. I'm a slow painter, and I don't mind it. I paint what I like and when I like. And I'd rather not second-guess whether a particular shadow is ochre or viridian.\"\n\nShe smiled ruefully. \"I can sympathize with that. Though I'd have wished that between you and Miss Carlisle\u2014\"\n\n\"I love _you.\"_\n\n\"And I adore you,\" she said, fully meaning every word. \"I know of no better man than you. But should we marry, there'd be three of us in this marriage, always. That is not fair to you. And in time it would become intolerable.\n\n\"I've agonized about it day and night. You have been the dearest friend. I kept asking myself, how could I let you down? How could I hurt you? But I've come to see that I would completely betray your trust were I to continue this pretense that we could go on as if nothing has changed. Things have changed, and I can no more undo these changes than I can make water flow uphill. I can only be honest with you, once and for all.\"\n\nFreddie's head lowered. \"Do you still love him?\"\n\nThe question that she'd once dreaded, that he hadn't dared to ask six weeks ago. \"Yes, I'm afraid. I don't know how I can apologize to you enough\u2014\"\n\n\"You don't need to apologize to me for anything. You've never let me down, and you didn't this time either.\" Freddie enfolded her in an embrace. \"Thank you.\"\n\nShe was befuddled. \"Whatever for?\"\n\n\"For liking me as I am. I never much cared for myself until you came along. You don't know how wonderful the past year and a half has been for me.\"\n\nDear Freddie, only he could be so sweet to thank her at a time like this. She hugged him back fiercely. \"You are the most wonderful person I've ever met, bar none.\"\n\nWhen they let go of each other, his eyes were rimmed in red. She, too, had to fight the urge to cry, a sigh and a tear for something that simply wasn't meant to be, a lovely courtship that would have collapsed under the weight of a complicated marriage.\n\nFreddie was the first to speak. \"You'll be going to America now, I guess?\"\n\nShe shrugged, trying to be nonchalant about it. \"I don't know.\"\n\nCamden had let her go with such ease and graciousness; he must have already come to the conclusion that he no longer wanted her, that the offer of reconciliation had been an aberration brought on by an emotional surge that could little withstand the force of reason.\n\nHe would have gone on with his life already, taken a new lover or two, perhaps even begun to pay some mind to those beauteous young American misses being paraded before him, with their perfect American teeth and perfect American noses. Would he really want her to show up and spoil all his brand-new plans?\n\n\"Come.\" She placed her hand on Freddie's elbow. \"We'll walk back. It's time for lunch. My groom can get the horse later. Tell me what is it you will do, now that you have declined to be the next great, world-renowned artist?\"\n\nGigi saw Freddie to the train station on Monday morning. She managed to have an agreeable time, conversing more frankly, affectionately, and easily with him than she'd been able to do in a long time. She even enjoyed her guests once she took the plunge and informed them that, though she esteemed Freddie more than ever, she had deemed it prudent to release him from his commitment.\n\nWhen she arrived home, Goodman informed her that she had a caller waiting. \"A Mr. Addleshaw from Addleshaw, Pearce and Company is here to see you, milady. I have him in the library.\"\n\nAddleshaw, Pearce & Co. were Camden's solicitors. What was a senior partner doing paying her a visit far from the city?\n\nAddleshaw was in his early fifties, shortish and natty in his tweed suit. He smiled as Gigi entered the library\u2014 not the tight, cautious smile she'd have expected from a lawyer but the delighted grin of a long-lost friend.\n\n\"My lady Tremaine.\" He acknowledged her with a neat bow.\n\n\"Mr. Addleshaw. What brought you all the way to Bedfordshire?\"\n\n\"Business, I fear. Though I confess, your ladyship, I've wanted to meet you in person ever since Mr. Berwald first contacted us with regard to the late Duke of Fairford.\"\n\nOf course. How could she have forgotten? She had relentlessly driven Mr. Berwald, her head solicitor, against this very same Mr. Addleshaw, who had defended his client's interests with the ferocity of a mother lion.\n\nShe smiled. \"Am I quite as fearsome in person?\"\n\nHe didn't answer her question directly. \"When Lord Tremaine informed me that he would marry you by special license, I'd half-expected it. Unlike his late cousin, however, he was all but counting the days. I can see the reason now.\"\n\nAh, the sweet yesteryear. Her heart ached anew. She indicated a chair. \"Please, have a seat.\"\n\nAddleshaw produced a rectangular box from his briefcase and pushed it across the desk. The scent of rosewood, sweet and heady, wafted to her nostrils. \"This came to our office last week, by special courier. I ask that you please open it and verify that the contents have not been disturbed during the transit and my safe-keeping.\"\n\nWhat could Camden possibly want to give her? She drew a complete blank. Inside the wooden box lay a velvet jewelry case. She lifted its lid and lost her breath.\n\nAgainst a bed of cream satin sparkled a magnificent necklace, the chain of it done entirely in diamonds, one teardrop loop nestled against the next. Seven rubies, each surrounded by diamonds, dangled from the necklace, the smallest two the size of her thumbnails, the largest one at the center bigger than a quail's egg. There were also two matching earbobs, each with a ruby as big as the pad of her index finger.\n\nShe'd seen plenty of parure in her life. She owned a few gorgeous pieces herself. But even she rarely came across a set with such nerve and audacity. It would take a superbly self-assured woman to subsume its glitter in her own radiance, to not become a mere accessory to the necklace's splendor and costliness.\n\nThere was a note, undated and unsigned, in Camden's slanted hand. _The piano arrived in one piece, as out of tune as ever. Civility demands a return gift. I'd bought the necklace in Copenhagen. You might as well have it._\n\nIn Copenhagen. He'd bought it for _her._\n\n\"Looks like everything is here,\" she mumbled.\n\n\"Very good, ma'am,\" said Addleshaw. \"I am also to inform you that you may, at your pleasure, repetition for divorce. Lord Tremaine has instructed us to stand aside and do nothing to impede its progress. The divorce should be a fairly straightforward legal matter at this point, as you have no children and no entanglement of properties that isn't already clearly spelled out in your wedding contract.\"\n\nFor a moment, her heart stopped beating. \"He has withdrawn all objections?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, Lord Tremaine stated his assent in a letter addressed to myself. I have brought the letter, if your ladyship would like to read it.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said quickly. Much too quickly. \"That will not be necessary. Your word is good enough.\"\n\nShe rose. The lawyer got to his feet also. \"Thank you, ma'am. There is, however, one last small matter.\"\n\nGigi glanced at him, surprised. She thought their interview concluded already. \"Yes, Mr. Addleshaw?\"\n\n\"Lord Tremaine requests that you return to him one small item, a ring with filigree gold work and an insignificant sapphire.\"\n\nShe froze. Addleshaw had described her engagement ring.\n\n\"I shall have to search for it,\" she said.\n\nAddleshaw bowed. \"Allow me to take leave of you now, Lady Tremaine.\"\n\nThe small sapphire glittered mutedly as Gigi turned the ring between her fingers. Camden had bought it for her. And she'd been floored. Not by the ring itself, but by him, by the overwhelming symbolic meaning of the gesture. _He loved her._\n\nHer wedding ring she'd donated long ago to the Charity for the Houseless Poor, but this ring she'd kept\u2014out of sight, in a box that also contained the desiccated remains of all the flowers he'd ever brought her and a faded length of blue ribbon that had once been a sweet, crushed bow on Croesus.\n\nNow he desired the ring back. Why revisit the most painfully sweet part of their past now? Why not demand that Croesus be returned too while the poor old dog still had a breath left?\n\nWas he deliberately trying to provoke her?\n\nBut what if he wasn't provoking her? What if he really just wanted the ring back? Well, then. He'd still get what he wanted. He only had to fish it out of her\u2014\n\nShe clamped a hand to her mouth. It was hardly the most sexually shocking thought she'd entertained in her life. What astounded her was the waywardness and mischief of it, all ebullient optimism when she'd believed herself morose and listless.\n\nShe loved him. If she'd been willing to violate the principles of decency in her youth, why couldn't she do something that was perfectly within the bounds of good behavior\u2014namely, showing up naked on his bed? Only think of the endless sexual possibilities.\n\nShe tittered a little into her hands. She was a naughty woman, assuredly. And Camden had adored her for it.\n\nThere. Nothing more to be said for it. She was going to New York City. And she would not return until she could inform Mrs. Rowland that she was at last going to be a grandmother.\nChapter Twenty-seven\n\n_2 September 1893_\n\nVictoria's weekly tea with the duke happened only twice. After that, it became two times a week. For a week and half. Toward the end of that particular week, somehow they ended up in animated conversation by the fence of her front garden as he walked past her cottage. Then he invited her to come along with him, she accepted, and they'd shared the walk each day thereafter.\n\nThere were advantages to being an almost hag, Victoria reflected. In her youth she'd been fervently concerned that everyone should perceive her perfection. She mouthed only the most agreeable platitudes and ventured not a single opinion that wasn't as bland as porridge for the invalid.\n\nAmazing what changes thirty more years of life brought about in a woman. Why, only the day before, as they toured her private garden, she'd declared His Grace blind for not seeing that the friendship between Achilles and Patrocles was more than friendship\u2014what man would be so grieved by a mere friend's passing that he'd refuse to let the corpse go to the funeral pyre?\n\nHe, on the other hand, dug in his heels and defended the thesis of friendship. Romantic love as Western civilization currently understood it did not emerge until the Middle Ages. Who was to say that masculine friendship, in an epoch before a man saw home and hearth as the anchor of his existence, couldn't have been deeper and more emotional?\n\nToday, on a short stroll through his gardens, they'd disagreed on a host of topics already, from the merits of the metric system to the merits of George Bernard Shaw. The duke felt no compunction in calling a few of her opinions preposterous. She, to her own pleasant surprise, gave no quarter and labeled some of his views as downright asinine, in exactly so many words, to his face.\n\n\"I've never heard so many contrary opinions in my entire life,\" he remarked as they neared the house.\n\n\"Alas,\" she teased him, \"what a sheltered life you've led, sir.\"\n\nHe looked startled for a moment. \"A sheltered life? I suppose you aren't entirely incorrect. But still, shouldn't a genteelly raised woman such as yourself at least make an effort to agree with me?\"\n\n\"Only if I'm out to ensnare you, Your Grace.\"\n\n\"You are not?\" He turned a baleful gaze on her.\n\nShe batted her eyelashes. \"Why would I want to put up with a man as disagreeable as yourself when I already have all the advantages of wealth _and_ a future duke for a son-in-law?\"\n\n\"For now.\"\n\n\"Oh, have you not heard, then? My daughter has released Lord Frederick from their engagement. Furthermore, she departed this morning on the _Lucania_ for New York City, where her husband resides.\"\n\n\"And that has slaked your blood thirst for a duke of your own?\"\n\n\"Temporarily,\" she said modestly.\n\nHe harrumphed. The duke had a soft spot for all things ludicrous. Between the two of them, her not-quite hunting of him had become an ongoing joke.\n\nShe smiled. Despite his dissolute past, his ever-present hauteur, and his great fondness for intimidating lesser mortals, he'd turned out to be quite a decent chap. His attention flattered, but the gratification extended far beyond the stroking of her vanity. She took genuine pleasure in his company, in the thoughtful, honorable man he had made of himself.\n\nInside the house, the tea service had been set out in the south parlor, with a footman ceremonially warming the teapot. A fire crackled in the grate, shedding a golden tinge on the walls.\n\n\"How remiss of me, Your Grace,\" she said as the servants retreated. \"I have been so busy informing you of your intellectual shortcomings that I forgot to wish you a happy birthday.\"\n\n\"You and two hundred of my closest friends,\" he said wryly. \"I used to throw a birthday bacchanal for myself every year, right here at Ludlow Court.\"\n\n\"Do you miss a good bacchanal?\" How could one not, she thought? She'd never had one and sometimes she still missed it.\n\n\"Occasionally. But I don't miss the aftermath. The wallpaper in this particular room had to be changed six times in eleven years.\"\n\nShe glanced at the walls. The damask wall covering was of a different pattern\u2014acanthus rather than fleur-de-lis\u2014but care had been taken to find a near exact match of the rich celadon green background she remembered, so that the room remained much as it was thirty years ago when she'd come for tea and wild dreams. \"It's remarkable how little the wallpaper has changed, for all that.\"\n\n\"Trust me, it didn't look anything like this during my more debauched days. The wallpaper featured other . . . themes.\"\n\nHe smiled. Her heart thudded. Her almost hag-hood notwithstanding, she couldn't help being rampantly curious about the latent scoundrel in him. The least reference to his former wickedness had her in a lather. Accompanied by one of those alluring smiles . . . well, she could count on not sleeping much tonight.\n\n\"I had the old wallpaper duplicated exactly after I retired from Society. I had everything duplicated, from memory and old photographs. But I found I couldn't really stand it.\" He took a sip of his coffee\u2014he'd given up the pretense of drinking tea several weeks ago, admitting that he couldn't stomach the stuff. \"So I made a few changes to suit myself.\"\n\n\"The past does exert a terrible toll, doesn't it?\" she said quietly.\n\nHe turned an unused teaspoon by its handle, down, and up again. His silence was his answer. In his self-imposed exile there was a strong element of punishment. But it needed not be that way. Not anymore.\n\n\"My daughter keeps a private investigator on retainer.\" Gigi and her modern, progressive ways. She hoped the duke didn't inquire too closely as to why. \"I availed myself of his services on something that concerns you.\"\n\nHis eyebrow rose. \"If you wish to know how Lady Wimpey's bed caught on fire, you've but to ask me.\"\n\nA month ago she'd have blushed. Today she didn't even blink. \"Actually, I'm more interested in those items of foreign manufacture and iniquitous nature to which Lady Fancot was apparently partial.\"\n\n\"They were only velvet-lined handcuffs\u2014foreign-made, perhaps, but hardly iniquitous,\" he said.\n\n\"Good gracious, what is wrong with that woman?\" said Mrs. Rowland indignantly. \"Isn't a nice strong silk scarf good enough for her?\"\n\nHe almost sprayed coffee all over the tablecloth. Good grief. _Thiswoman_ constantly forced him to reevaluate his opinion on what being a virtuous woman entailed. Apparently, sexual creativity in a proper, earnest English marriage was not half as dead as he'd believed.\n\n\"But I digress,\" she said, reverting to an impeccable demureness that hid God knew what other experiences and inclinations, a contrast rich in properties aphrodisiacal. His younger self would have expended enough wherewithal to wage three wars to possess her already. His current self did exactly the same, but only in his mind.\n\n\"Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I had the detective look into the state of Mr. Elliot's marriage.\"\n\nHe wouldn't quite compare her announcement to being shot in the chest, having lived through the latter\u2014but it came perilously close. He felt as he had then, standing dumbly in place, looking down at his hand clasped just to the right of his heart, blood seeping out between his fingers.\n\nHow could she, of all people, not understand that he could not bear to learn the truth of what had happened to the Elliots' marriage? That whatever peace and tranquillity he'd been able to derive from his hermit's life had depended on his not knowing, on hoping that he had not brought about the unhappiness of an entire family?\n\nPerhaps she sensed the magnitude of shock in him. Her face turned somber. \"I shouldn't have, I know.\"\n\nHe glared at her. \"Lady, your specialty is undertaking that which you shouldn't. Rest assured you'll face vituperation such as you've never imagined.\" He could have gone on longer, informed her of his exquisite command of invectives, and depicted in graphic detail the shrunken, pockmarked state of her soul after he was done with her. He didn't. There was no point in postponing the inevitable, though God knew he wanted to. \"Now tell me what your detective has learned.\"\n\n\"They are fine,\" she said, smiling sweetly.\n\nHis imagination was playing tricks on him. He thought she said they were fine. \"The truth, if you will,\" he said.\n\n\"My detective worked in the Elliot household for several weeks and reported with confidence that Mr. and Mrs. Elliot get along very well, not just with civility but with fondness.\"\n\n\"You are making it up, aren't you?\" he mumbled. How could it be? How could any human association that had gone so wrong right itself? Was he in error after all and Man not quite as doomed as he'd long gloomily believed?\n\n\"You need not depend solely on what I say. The detective's name is Samuel Ripley. He worked for the Elliots for three weeks last month, under the name Samuel Trimble, as an underbutler. What I tell you is but a summary of his written report, which arrived yesterday on the late post. It is a richly detailed document, with all overheard exchanges and eyewitness accounts painstakingly recorded.\n\n\"My daughter is nothing if not prescient at employing people with the utmost dedication. It is clear to me that Mr. Ripley spent an inordinate amount of time at keyholes and upper-story windows. Why, there are sections of the report that I hastily skimmed over, to preserve my womanly delicacy.\"\n\nHis heart constricted. His throat constricted. The dark cloud of culpability had hung over his head for so long, he'd forgotten the pure, beatific light of a clear conscience.\n\n\"I've brought the report with me, if you would like to have it fetched from my carriage.\"\n\nHe rose, fetched the nearly half-inch-thick document himself, and, standing next to Mrs. Rowland's landau, read every word of the meticulously chronicled domestic life of Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, not skipping any sections, particularly not those in which the couple engaged in activities that they ought to have performed no more times than they had children. He especially enjoyed the lurid yet sweet endearments they had for each other. _My darling little dumpling. My lord of the battering ram._\n\nLangford Fitzwilliam, His Grace the Duke of Perrin, returned to the south parlor walking on air, blinded by the incomprehensible beauty of the world.\n\nMrs. Rowland had a glass of cognac waiting for him. \"There, sir,\" she said. \"You have not ruined a man's life. You may breathe easy again.\"\n\nHe drained the cognac. Fires of joy spread in him unabated. \"I feel I can smile through a hundred small country dinners.\"\n\n\"That is exceedingly heartening news. I've at least that many people to impress by having a duke at my table.\"\n\n\"Only at your table?\" He grinned. \"Where have all your ambitions gone?\"\n\n\"Not gone at all, only mellowed, Your Grace. I stand today quite satisfied to rub people's faces in our warm friendship.\"\n\nHe _tsked._ \"I'd have expected more from you, Mrs. Rowland. You do know what your revelation means, do you not?\"\n\nThe idea had been knocking in his head for some days. It had slipped in, like a determined lover, past all gates and barricades to whisper by the fluttering curtains of the virgin bower that was his entire experience with matrimony. And the idea was, he would be quite happy to marry her, if she would have him.\n\nBut his past had weighed on his aspirations. What right did he have, hissed some dank, sinister voice, to the love of a good woman, any good woman, let alone one as beautiful, accomplished, and wise as Mrs. Rowland? What right did _he_ have to happiness for himself, when he'd so casually despoiled the happiness of others?\n\nBut that was no longer the case. He was an emancipated man, liberated from the bondage of blame and self-torment, at ease to enjoy the years remaining to him, with her by his side and in his bed, if he was so fortunate.\n\nThe gleam in his eyes made Victoria's heart skip a beat. \"That there is still time left to plan a bacchanal?\"\n\n\"No, that it frees me to propose marriage to you.\"\n\nShe felt as flabbergasted as she'd been when she discovered herself in love with John Rowland. \"You wish to _marry_ me?\"\n\n\"What in the world do you think I have been up to, madam? Have I not followed the rules of courtship most assiduously? Drinking tea, for heaven's sake. You should be flattered. I'd rather drink from my horse's trough.\"\n\n\"I thought you wished to speak of bygone years. Or, at most, make me amenable to a liaison.\"\n\n\"I do want to reminisce. And I do plan to take you to bed, madam. Neither, however, precludes marriage.\"\n\n\"But I am going to be fifty years of age in less than fifteen months!\" she cried\u2014and couldn't believe she gave away that carefully guarded secret.\n\n\"Excellent news. That makes you a few years younger than I'd thought.\"\n\nHer eyes went round. \"You thought I was _how_ old?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"I didn't. I took our age difference into consideration and found that it didn't half-matter. Since you found happiness with a man nineteen years your senior, there is no reason for you to be undone by a man a few years your junior.\"\n\n\"I\u2014I cannot give you any heir.\"\n\n\"For which my cousin's son would be intensely grateful.\" He took her hand, further disorienting her. \"Allow me to assure you, madam, that the thought of infants at my age is profoundly distressing. My second cousin once removed is an upstanding enough fellow. I have no regrets about Ludlow Court passing to him.\"\n\nShe was tempted to say yes right away. Oh, how she was tempted. Not since the invention of chocolate g\u00e2teau had there been a greater temptation than what the duke dangled before her nose just now. _Her Grace the Duchess of Perrin._ These magical words exploded shivers of delight deep into her viscera. That at this stage in her life, with old age breathing down her neck like an overeager suitor, she could still gain all the prestige and social stature she'd ever craved, with the man once considered the most elusive bachelor in the kingdom. Why, what kind of fool could possibly respond in the negative?\n\nShe bolted out of her chair, jerking her hand away from him. \"No.\" She shook her head, her voice shaking just perceptibly. \"No. Your marrying me would be little different from your efforts to restore Ludlow Court to a facsimile of what it had been when your parents were alive.\"\n\nHe frowned. \"I fail to observe any similarity between the two.\"\n\n\"Don't you see? Like the wallpaper, I was your mother's choice!\"\n\n\"Am I to understand that in following my heart's\u2014 not to mention my loins'\u2014desire, I am but atoning for my adolescent negligence of my mother, by fulfilling her wish posthumously?\"\n\nShe wished it were otherwise, but she wasn't blind. He liked her. He was physically attracted to her. But what separated her from the pack was that she provided a link to his lost youth. \"Yes.\"\n\n\"You object to such a noble purpose?\"\n\nOh, drat the man. How could he be flippant at a time like this, when she felt herself about to crumple, held erect only by the stiffness of her corset. \"Because it is more wishful thinking than noble purpose. Your mother, bless her memory, would be proud of the man you are today. No further appeasement is necessary.\"\n\nHe nodded, at last appearing somewhat thoughtful. \"I take it that is your primary and overwhelming objection.\"\n\n\"It is.\"\n\n\"Any others I should know about? My contrariness, for example? My distaste for tea?\"\n\n\"No, none at all.\" She wished there were others. They would make it less painful to refuse his offer.\n\nHe smiled, a smile that twenty-five years ago would have left a wide swath of upended crinolines in its wake. \"If that is indeed the case, then permit me to read something to you, my dear Mrs. Rowland.\"\n\nHe rose and walked to a satinwood writing desk that had belonged to his mother. More than once the duchess had gone to the desk to retrieve something to show Victoria, during her long-ago visits.\n\nThe duke brought out a large vellum-covered book from a lower drawer. \"My mother's diary.\" He quickly turned it three-quarters of the way and then slowly flipped a few more pages, looking for an exact place. \"Here's what she wrote on the eighteenth of November, 1862.\"\n\nHe lifted the diary, turned to face her, and read. _\"Had tea with Miss Pierce today. Our last time, I suppose. She thanked me for my friendship and informed me of her engagement to a Mr. Rowland, a wealthy man with no antecedents of significance. A pity. Had planned to introduce her to Hubert. They would have made a pleasant match.\"_\n\n\"Hubert?\" Was Hubert one of the duke's given names? She'd thought his full name was Langford Alexander _Humphrey_ Fitzwilliam. \"Who is Hubert?\"\n\n\"A cousin of mine. The Honorable Hubert Lancaster, third son of Baron Wesport. Lady Wesport was my mother's eldest sister. Hubert would have been about twenty-six at that time.\"\n\n\"Her _nephew?\"_ Victoria reeled. She covered her mouth with her hand. Merciful heavens. All these years, all these years . . .\n\n\"A nice enough man, with a very respectable name and a very minor fortune,\" said the duke. \"You mustn't forget, I was all of what, fifteen, sixteen at the time? My marriage was far from foremost on my mother's mind. And for all her kindness, she was not unaware of our position. She herself had been the daughter of an earl. She probably expected at least as much pedigree in a daughter-in-law.\"\n\nVictoria groaned. This was more mortifying even than having her daughter and son-in-law thinking that she'd engaged in illicit acts to lure the duke to her dining table. \"If you will be kind enough to have your footman fetch me a spade, I would like to excavate a ten-foot hole outside for myself.\"\n\n\"And ruin my thoroughly beautiful gardens? I think not, my dear.\" She heard him shut the diary and return it to the drawer. \"It's no shame to let your youthful imagination get carried away. Far worldlier women than you have lost their heads over me.\"\n\nOh, that man and his arrogance. Her skin must have thickened nicely with age, for she was already in retorting shape. \"If you wish me for a bride, you shouldn't try so hard to have me expire from mortification.\"\n\nHe came so close that she could smell the lingering scent of his shaving soap. Her middle-aged heart began pounding. This was actually going to happen. This monumentally desirable, marvelous, and interesting man esteemed her enough to want her hand in marriage. Her!\n\n\"May I take your silence to signify that you've accepted my suit?\"\n\n\"I've said no such thing,\" she said perversely.\n\n\"You should. I've proved, conclusively, that I'm not doing my mother's bidding from beyond the grave. And by your own words, spoken a bare two minutes ago, you have no other objections to marrying me, none at all.\" He paused, rather deliberately, his eyes sparkling with gleeful wickedness. \"I see. You want me to exert myself further. Well then, seducing a woman should be right up my alley, if only I could remember how. Now, do I kiss you before I lie with you or only afterward?\"\n\nShe summoned a pinch of mock outrage. \"As I said before, what a sheltered life you've led, Your Grace. It is both. I'm shocked\u2014shocked, I say\u2014that you do not know better.\"\n\nHe grinned widely. \"I don't know why I haven't taken up with virtuous women before. I'm delighted to be making up for lost time.\"\n\nWith that, he kissed her.\n\nIt was neither the lofty, delicate kiss she'd envisioned as a nubile girl, nor the sin-drenched osculation that had lately dominated her imagination. He kissed her with gusto and delight, a man at last achieving his heart's desire.\n\nShe melted accordingly, in complete contentment.\n\nHe pulled away after too short a time. \"Now say yes,\" he urged, nuzzling at the corner of her lips.\n\n\"Hardly,\" she huffed. \"I am not signing away my independence on the basis of one kiss, as delicious as it may be. Remember, Your Grace, I was a married woman. A _happily_ married one. You, sir, will have to demonstrate ability beyond kissing to persuade me to the altar.\"\n\nHe laughed, a sound of robust delight. Glancing around the parlor, his gaze settled on a scroll-armed settee upholstered in cream brocade.\n\n\"All right.\" He kissed her again. \"Be careful what you wish for, my dear Mrs. Rowland. Or you might just get it.\"\nChapter Twenty-eight\n\n_8 September 1893_\n\nNew York City made Gigi's stomach churn.\n\nThough she'd read that the city aspired to be the new Paris, she hadn't expected a very near copy of it. Certain sections of the city, with its solidly neoclassical edifices, their friezes and cornices plastered in motifs botanical and mythological, could easily have passed for parts of the Right Bank. And one particular church she passed on the way to her hotel had been an unabashed copy of Notre Dame.\n\nShe could scarcely control her labored breathing, though she walked with all the speed of a reform bill plodding through parliament. Steady traffic flowed up and down the avenue, a percussive chorus of hooves striking pavement and wagon wheels creaking under their load. From a nearby street came the rumble of an elevated train. The air, though less polluted than London's, emanated the familiar notes of horseflesh and industry, though it also hinted faintly, and ever so exotically, of sausage and mustard.\n\nShe made sure to inspect all the hotels, the shopfronts, and all the millionaire manses that crowded lower Fifth Avenue. Still, the distance disappeared in no time. Suddenly she was at the right intersection, the right address. She clenched her fingers about the whalebone handle of her parasol and wrenched her gaze from the opposite side of the street.\n\nNo, she must be mistaken. Camden, in his perfect breeding, had always been so modest, so restrained in everything he did. There was nothing in the least modest about this gorgeous manor that looked as if it had been bodily lifted from some nobleman's estate in the heart of Europe. The facade was of pearl-gray granite, the jaunty, polygonal roof dark blue slate. The windows sparkled like the eyes of a flirtatious belle at her most successful ball. And every ornate line and sensuous curve spoke of high baroque and lavish wealth.\n\nShe felt like she had the first time she'd seen Camden naked: flabbergasted, speechless, and just about falling down with excitement. She had not come properly prepared. To storm this particular citadel, she'd need much more of the paraphernalia of her own wealth and station to convince a suspicious butler that she was the real Lady Tremaine and not some imposter out to steal the silver.\n\nWhen the door opened, however, the butler recognized her nearly immediately, judging from his jaw bouncing off the black marble-tiled vestibule. He recovered quickly, stepped back, and bowed. \"My lady Tremaine.\"\n\nGigi stared at him. The man looked vaguely familiar. She was sure she'd seen him before. She was\u2014\n\n\"Beckett!\" Amazement and guilt muddled her veins. When her scheme had fallen apart, she hadn't been the only one punished. As surely as the Empress of India was an Englishwoman of German blood, Beckett had abruptly left Twelve Pillars because Camden had discovered his role in the scam. How could he, then, of all people, head the staff in Camden's service?\n\n\"You are . . .\" What could she say to him? And had he guessed, over the years, what her role had been in all this? \"You are in New York.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" Beckett said respectfully, as he took her parasol, but offered no elaborations. \"May I offer you some excellent tea from Assam while we see to your luggage?\"\n\nThe anteroom was glorious, the drawing room nearly rapturous in its opulence. She'd been in royal palaces that were less rich in furnishing and art\u2014and what art, as if someone had taken a section of the grand gallery of the Louvre and made it into a living space. Not that she didn't find it perfectly to her taste, but what had happened to Camden's preference for understated houses and Impressionist paintings?\n\n\"I have brought no luggage,\" she said. Now, the all-important question. \"Is Lord Tremaine home?\"\n\n\"Lord Tremaine has gone sailing with a group of friends,\" said Beckett. \"We expect him to return no later than five o'clock in the afternoon.\"\n\nSurely they couldn't be speaking of the same Lord Tremaine. First a house in which a cake-loving Marie Antoinette would have felt quite at home. And now this supposedly hardworking entrepreneur out frolicking when it wasn't even remotely Sunday?\n\n\"In that case, I will call another time,\" she said. She couldn't possibly sit in the drawing room and sip tea for the next five or six hours. It'd be too strange.\n\nShe was beginning to regret a little that she'd asked every person in England who knew Camden's whereabouts not to breathe a word of her Atlantic crossing to him. Perhaps she should have sent advance notice.\n\n\"Lord Tremaine is hosting a dinner tonight. Should I send around a carriage to fetch your ladyship from your hotel?\"\n\nGigi shook her head. Before a crowd of strangers was hardly the way she'd envisioned their reunion. \"I will arrange for my own conveyance, if I decide to attend. And you need mention nothing to Lord Tremaine.\"\n\n\"As you wish, ma'am.\"\n\n\"You should have your own children,\" said Theodora.\n\nShe stood in a pretty powder-blue frock against the foredeck rail of _La Femme,_ the forty-footer Camden sailed for pleasure now that he used the _Mistress_ mostly for business. Beyond the fluttering ribbons of her hat, a thicket of masts bobbed sedately\u2014a thousand ships before the topless towers of the Financial District.\n\nCamden looked up from the plate of lemon cookies he was sharing with Masha. \"How do you know I don't?\" he said.\n\nTheodora blinked, then blushed. \"Oh,\" she said.\n\nHe didn't, of course. He'd always been careful. But he probably should have resisted the urge to tease her. The dear girl was never one for jokes. He used to think her beyond adorable when she'd earnestly try to puzzle them out. But then he'd been all of fifteen.\n\n\"Forgive me, that was flippant of me,\" he said. \"You are right, I should have children. I would dearly love a few.\"\n\n\"But how?\" asked Masha. \"Mama said you are to be divorced. How can you have children when you are not married?\"\n\n\"Masha!\" Theodora said sharply, her color heightening further.\n\n\"It's all right,\" said Camden. He turned to Masha, who had her father's sad eyes and long nose. But beneath the face of a lugubrious Russian Madonna lurked a spirit as rambunctious as a dozen sailors on shore leave. \"My dear Maria Alekseeva, you are a very shrewd young lady. Indeed, that is my dilemma. What do you propose I do?\"\n\n\"You must marry someone else,\" said Masha decisively.\n\n\"But who would marry me, Mashenka? I'm so old, as old as dirt.\"\n\nMasha giggled and lowered her voice. \"But Mama is even older than you. Does that mean she's older than dirt?\"\n\nCamden whispered, \"Yes, it does. But don't tell her.\"\n\n\"What are you whispering about?\" said Theodora, a little put out.\n\n\"I was just telling Uncle Camden that he should marry you, Mama,\" Masha answered cheerfully. \"Then you'd be too busy to lecture me.\"\n\nBefore Theodora could recover from her astonishment enough to say anything, Sasha cried from the aft deck of the schooner, \"Masha, come here! I've got something tremendous.\"\n\nMasha promptly dashed off to help her brother reel in his big catch.\n\n\"Oh, that girl,\" muttered Theodora. \"She is going to be my despair.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't worry about her,\" said Camden. \"She will fend for herself just fine.\"\n\nTheodora said nothing. She closed her parasol, held it with both hands before her abdomen, then set its tip down on the deck. Her index finger traced what seemed to be random patterns on the parasol handle. But he knew she was unconsciously writing down her thoughts. _Gott. Gott. Gott._\n\nShe was embarrassed and discomfited. In this she hadn't changed much. Camden helped himself to another cookie.\n\n\"I hope you don't think that I came to New York because . . . because you are about to be a free man.\"\n\n\"You didn't?\" He'd never alluded to his marital woes. But Theodora was quite aware of them, judging by what Masha had said.\n\nTheodora twisted her hands together, mortified. She was not accustomed to such directness from him. Mutely, she gazed at him, her enormous blue eyes beseeching him to assess the situation, infer what she wanted, and offer it to her without her ever having to speak a word\u2014what he'd always done before.\n\nHe sighed. She'd come at a wretched time, when he desperately wanted to be either alone at sea or alone in his workshop. He hadn't the heart to disappoint the children, so he'd spent the past three weeks showing them a good time in the city. But he had no wherewithal left to play guessing games with her. If she wanted something from him\u2014and she did, _something\u2014_ then she could damned well come out and say it.\n\n\"Will you really divorce Lady Tremaine?\" she asked timidly.\n\n\"She is the one who wants a divorce, therefore we are headed for a divorce,\" he said, more surly than he'd intended. A letter had arrived from Addleshaw this morning, assuring him that the engagement ring he had requested from Gigi would arrive forthwith.\n\nHe didn't want the damned ring. Wasn't it enough that he had to look at the cursed piano? He wanted _her_ to come with the ring. But his ploy had failed. She would marry Lord Frederick. And he, what would he do?\n\n\"You will need another wife, won't you?\" Theodora's voice had dropped so low that he barely heard the last few syllables.\n\nHe didn't need another wife. He wanted the one he already had. \"That is a question for the future.\"\n\n_Gott hilf mir,_ her finger scribbled. Well, God help them all.\n\nThe children screamed in delight, breaking the uneasy silence. \"Look what we got! Look what we got!\" hollered Sasha, running toward them with a striped bass that looked to be at least a five-pounder.\n\n\"Look at that!\" exclaimed Camden, standing up. \"I never caught anything half so big when I was your age.\"\n\nHe unhooked the vigorously thrashing fish and tossed it into a bucket of water. \"Want to have it served with a lemon butter sauce for supper?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" the boy answered unambiguously.\n\n\"Right ho!\" Camden lifted Sasha high in the air and spun him around.\n\n\"Me, me too! I helped,\" said Masha, raising her arms up to Camden.\n\nHe did the same with her, enjoying her high-pitched giggles. \"My expert anglers, think you two can catch another one before we set sail?\"\n\nThey ran off, leaving him again alone with Theodora. He opened the lid of the picnic basket to store the remainder of their lunch: half of a cold chicken pie, slices of roast beef, an almost empty dish of potato salad, and a few lemon cookies.\n\nTheodora came to stand beside him as he returned a flask of lemonade to its place. \"I've been thinking of the past, of St. Petersburg,\" she murmured. \"Remember what you used to say to me then?\"\n\n\"I haven't forgotten.\" He closed the picnic basket and stared down at it. \"But the truth is, I'll be bitter over the divorce. A new wife would find me lacking in both affection and care, and I love you too well to subject you to that.\"\n\nThere, he'd finally admitted it. The divorce would devastate him. Would come just short of annihilating him. He dreaded the post deliveries, dreaded any and all letters from his English solicitors, dreaded the eventual cable from Mrs. Rowland decrying Gigi's irreversible folly.\n\n\"I see.\"\n\nShe sounded abysmally dejected, like a child being told that there would be no Christmas come December. He pulled her toward him. \"But I will still take care of you, always. If you are ever in need, I'm just a cable away. And if, God forbid, something should happen to you, I'll raise the twins as my own.\"\n\nHe kissed the top of her straw hat. \"I will take care of everything for you, you still have my word on that.\"\n\n\"I guess . . . I guess that's all any woman could ask for,\" she said slowly. The shadow on her face lifted. She smiled shyly and kissed him on the cheek. \"Thank you. You are the best friend I ever had.\"\n\nThey stood thus for a minute, with his hand on her waist and her face resting against his sleeve. He sighed. Ironic that he should have his arm about Theodora on a boat that he'd again somehow named after Gigi\u2014 _La Femme,_ the woman, the wife.\n\nBut the sun was warm, the breeze cool. It was still a beautiful day even if he couldn't have his wife. He returned a kiss to Theodora's cheek. \"Shall we sail?\"\n\nGigi saw the horseless carriage as soon as she stepped out of the Waldorf Hotel at five o'clock. The beautiful piece of machinery, built around a phaeton chassis, black with trims of crimson, rumbled its progress majestically. The liveried manservant who drove it couldn't have looked prouder had he been atop the queen's state coach.\n\nHis pride was reflected on the faces of two of the passengers he ferried. The children basked in the admiration and curiosity displayed on the sea of faces turned toward them. The third passenger's reaction was harder to gauge, as the long veil of her hat effectively hid all her features above her chin.\n\n\"To whom does the automobile belong?\" Gigi asked a doorman.\n\n\"To the English lordship who lives ten blocks down, ma'am,\" said the doorman. \"They say he's a viscount.\"\n\n\"No, an earl,\" said the other footman. \"And that's his sweetheart the Russian grand duchess there. She's been coming up in his horseless carriage every day now.\"\n\nGigi felt herself petrify. Camden lived ten blocks south of the Waldorf Hotel. She'd counted it this morning. And hadn't the former Miss von Schweppenburg married a Russian grand duke?\n\nShe fumbled with the veil of her own hat as the automobile came to a quiet stop before the hotel. The passengers alit. The driver opened the boot and retrieved a heavy-looking bucket, which the children immediately took from him, causing their mother to issue a string of safety warnings in French.\n\nThe driver bowed. \"I'll bring the carriage around at eleven, Your Highness.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Her Highness.\n\nAnd it was her, the former Miss von Schweppenburg. Who was going back to Camden's house at eleven o'clock at night, after the dinner crowd would have departed, for purposes that needed no clarification.\n\nThe bucket was passed to a doorman with instructions for the kitchen. Grand Duchess Theodora and her children entered the hotel and disappeared into a lift.\n\nGigi slowly walked to a corner of the lobby and sat down. She'd expected to fight for him, given that he might have already taken a lover, to physically remove the other woman, or women\u2014she'd had far too much time to ponder it on the crossing\u2014from his bed and his life, if necessary.\n\nAny other woman.\n\nWhat was she to do now?\nChapter Twenty-nine\n\nIf you do not mind my forwardness, Lord Tremaine, I think my Consuelo would make you a splendid marchioness,\" said Mrs. William Vanderbilt, n\u00e9e Alva Erskine Smith.\n\n\"I do not mind at all,\" said Camden. \"I've been known to be exceedingly fond of forward women. But I am, however, almost twice Miss Vanderbilt's age and still very much married, last time I checked.\"\n\n\"My, sir, you are such a gentleman,\" cooed Mrs. Vanderbilt. Her Southern-belle manners, however, did not quite disguise her flinty determination. \"But I have heard from numerous trustworthy sources, on both sides of the Atlantic, that you may not remain married for much longer.\"\n\n_It's because you are young and you used to be a bit of an impoverished nobody. Expect the proposals to fly fast and thick now._ After nearly eleven years, that prediction was coming true. This wasn't the first time Mrs. Vanderbilt had broached the issue in recent weeks. Nor was she the first, second, or even third matron with a marriageable daughter to suggest that her precious girl was just the perfect candidate for him.\n\nAll throughout the dinner, the first he'd held since his return from England, he'd felt on display, like a fattened goose about to be turned into foie gras. The smiles on the women were too bright, too ingratiating. Even the men with whom he'd shared cigars, whiskey, and business ventures for the past ten years regarded him differently, with the sort of hearty approval better reserved for sixteen-year-old mistresses.\n\n\"Well, then, milord, you will come for dinner next Wednesday?\" drawled Mrs. Vanderbilt. \"I don't think you've seen Consuelo for a good six months, and she has become ever so much more beautiful and swanlike and\u2014\"\n\nThe doors to the drawing room swung open\u2014burst open, in fact, as if blown apart by a passing cyclone. In the doorway loomed a woman and a dog. The dog was small, well-behaved, and sleepy, snuggled in the crook of the woman's arm. The woman was tall, haughty, and ravishing, her voluptuous figure poured into a sheath of carmine velvet, her throat and breast glistening with a maharaja's cache of rubies and diamonds. And, ever so incongruously, she also sported a very humble sapphire ring on her left hand.\n\n\"Now, who is that?\" demanded Mrs. Vanderbilt, at once peeved and fascinated.\n\n\"That, my dear Mrs. Vanderbilt,\" replied Camden, with a glee he couldn't and didn't hide, \"is my lady wife.\"\n\n* * *\n\nNever in her entire life had Gigi felt so vulnerable, standing before a roomful of strangers\u2014and a husband who had another lover arriving in an hour.\n\nShe'd already ordered a suite for her return voyage on the _Lucania_ and telegraphed Goodman to have the house on Park Lane readied. A cable for Mrs. Rowland lay on the bureau in her hotel chamber\u2014 _Tremaine has taken up with the Grand Duchess Theodora, n\u00e9e von Schweppenburg\u2014_ but somehow she couldn't send it, couldn't admit that final defeat, not without one last gallant and largely foredoomed charge down the hill.\n\nNow all eyes were on her, including Camden's. There was surprise on his face, a measure of amusement, and then a nonchalance that did not bode well for her chances. She waited for him to acknowledge her, to toss her at least a line of greeting. But other than a few inaudible words to the woman next to him, he said nothing, leaving her to jump off the cliff entirely by herself.\n\nShe let her eyes travel the drawing room. \"Truly, Tremaine, I expected better from you. The decor is obvious to the point of atrociousness.\"\n\nA collective gasp reverberated from the high ceiling.\n\nHe smiled, a cool smile that nevertheless ignited her hopes anew. \"My lady Tremaine, I distinctly remember informing you dinner was at half past seven. Your punctuality leaves much to be desired.\"\n\n\"We will discuss my punctuality or the lack thereof later, in private,\" she said, her heart pounding. \"You may present your friends to me now.\"\n\n* * *\n\nLady Tremaine couldn't quite keep straight who was an Astor, who a Vanderbilt, and who a Morgan. But it didn't matter. She had fortune, which they admired, and title, which they coveted. Her temperament fitted in perfectly with the energetic, purposeful, ambitious upper crust of the American aristocracy; her independence earned her the approval of the wives, several of whom were sympathetic toward the suffragists.\n\nThe men gawked, alongside Camden.\n\nThere'd been much surreptitious necktie-loosening when she\u2014 _later, in private\u2014_ unmistakably commanded him to shag her blind. The sexual energy she exuded was palpable; the response it provoked in him was downright atrocious. No other women came anywhere near him for the remainder of the evening; even the unsighted could see that he was hanging on to civilized behavior by the skin of his teeth, that if they didn't make themselves scarce, he'd commit public coitus right before their eyes\u2014with his own wife.\n\nIn the end she did something almost as shocking. At precisely eleven o'clock, she disengaged from the guests and placed herself at the center of the drawing room. \"It has been lovely meeting the very best society of New York, I'm sure. But if you will forgive me, it's been a long journey, and I feel myself no longer quite equal to company. Ladies and gentlemen, my repose beckons. Good night.\"\n\nAnd with that, she left, the intricate train of her gown swaying majestically, leaving behind a speechless crowd, the ladies fanning themselves much too vigorously, the men looking as if they'd sign away half of their companies if only they could follow her out on the heels of her black suede evening slippers.\n\n\"Alas,\" said Camden, keeping his tone light. \"It seems I have utterly failed in my husbandly duties of guidance and discipline. I shall henceforth devote the greater part of my time and energy to that eminently noble endeavor.\"\n\nHalf of the women blushed. Three-quarters of the men cleared their throats. The leave-taking began in the next minute, and the drawing room emptied at record speed.\n\nCamden raced up the stairs, charged into his apartment, and threw open the door to his bedchamber. She lay prone across his bed, her cheeks in her palms, studying his copy of the _Wall Street Journal\u2014_ completely naked. Those legs, that sumptuous bottom, the curvature of her breast squeezed round and tight against the underside of her arm, and all that beautiful hair spilled across her back. Carnal desire, already simmering, exploded in him.\n\nShe tilted her head and smiled. \"Hullo, Camden.\"\n\nHe closed the door behind him. \"Hullo, Gigi. Fancy seeing you here.\"\n\n\"Well, you know how it is. Investment opportunities, et cetera, et cetera.\"\n\n\"Took you long enough,\" he growled. \"I was about to hire dognappers.\"\n\nShe licked her teeth. \"Am I worth the wait?\"\n\nGod above! He could barely remain standing. \"You were unspeakably brazen before my guests. I'm afraid you have laid waste to my staid, upstanding reputation.\"\n\n\"Have I? I'm terribly sorry. I must learn to be a better wife. If only you'd give me a little more practice . . .\" She turned onto her back and slid a knuckle across her lower lip. \"Won't you come to bed and make me pregnant?\"\n\nHe was on that bed and inside her in a fraction of a second. She was all hellfire and heavenly suppleness, clutching at him, her legs wrapped tight about him, her unabashed gasps and moans driving him mad with desire.\n\nHe shook, shuddered, and convulsed, his vaunted control in pieces as he came endlessly, well on his way to making her pregnant.\n\n\"Will you remonstrate me for my lack of punctuality now?\" Gigi said later, still mostly breathless, lying with her head on his arm.\n\n\"That and your utter want of respect toward the beauty and splendor of the public rooms of my house.\"\n\n\"I like them. They quite suit my parvenu tastes.\" The private quarter, which housed his Impressionist collection, was by contrast cool and serene. \"I was looking for something to say that would immediately establish my English eccentricity.\"\n\n\"I think you've succeeded beyond all hope,\" he said. \"They will prattle of this night for years to come, especially if you go into confinement nine months from today.\"\n\nShe smiled to herself. \"You think you are so virile.\"\n\n\"I _know_ I'm so virile.\" He kissed her earlobe. \"Let's just hope the second time's the charm.\"\n\nShe didn't immediately catch the significance of his words. When she did, she found herself scrambling to a sitting position. He'd obliquely referred to her first pregnancy, which had ended in a miscarriage. But she had never spoken of it, not even to her mother. Had hidden it, along with her ravenous love, in the deepest recesses of her heart, a secret prisoner in the dungeon, whose clanking chains and whimpers of despair only she heard in the witching hours of the night.\n\n\"You knew,\" she whispered.\n\nShe shouldn't be so surprised. It was silly to believe her mother wouldn't have found out about it\u2014and that once she did, she wouldn't have told Camden in the hope of forcing a reaction from him.\n\n\"Only years after the fact. I got quite drunk the day I learned of it. I believe I smashed my entire model ship collection.\" He sighed, smoothing a strand of her hair between his fingers. \"But perhaps that was out of jealousy, since your mother mentioned the miscarriage in the same breath she invoked Lord Wrenworth's name.\"\n\nShe lay down again, facing him. \"You? Jealous? You are with a different woman every time I turn around.\"\n\n\"Guilty as charged in Copenhagen. But I didn't sleep with anyone in Paris.\"\n\nWhat she really wanted to know was what he'd been doing with the former Miss von Schweppenburg. But his extraordinary claim about Paris perked her ears nevertheless.\n\n\"Who was that woman calling on you late at night, then?\"\n\n\"A rising actress at the Op\u00e9ra. I hired her to knock on my door and sit in my apartment for a few hours, so that you'd assume the worst and hurt as much as I did. But I didn't touch her, or any other woman. I was faithful to you, for what that's worth, until I learned that you'd taken a lover already.\"\n\nThat would make him celibate for at least two and a half years after he'd left her. \"Why? Why were you faithful to me?\" she marveled.\n\n\"Oh, I had no time. Within weeks after my arrival in America I'd taken on such astronomical loans I could scarcely eat or sleep for fear of defaulting. I was up at five every morning and never went to bed before one.\" He grimaced a little at the memory, then smiled at her. \"You could also say I had no intention. I wanted _you._ I wanted to stomp back into your life one day, twice as wealthy as you, if possible. I imagined decadent, histrionic reunions and wasted a river of sperm masturbating to these fantasies.\"\n\nShe knew what the word meant\u2014it was what the Muscular Christians were trying to prevent, through a regimen of rigorous sports that would leave English men and boys too exhausted for anything but dead slumber\u2014though she was sure she'd never heard it spoken aloud before. She'd thought it a dirty word, but the way he said it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, made voluptuous images dance before her eyes.\n\nIf she weren't already naked, she'd rip off her clothes and throw herself at him. She took one of his hands and rubbed the moist inside of her lower lip against the calluses of his palm. \"Tell me one of those fantasies.\"\n\nHe leveled a dirty look at her. \"Only if you promise to act your part in it.\"\n\nShe bowed her head with becoming humility. \"Well, I did tell myself that I would be the most obliging wife who ever lived.\"\n\nHe smiled wickedly, pulling her to him. \"Oh, this is getting better and better.\"\n\nIn between fulfillment of his inventive\u2014at times highly unorthodox\u2014fantasies, Gigi and Camden talked about the children they would have and all the things they couldn't wait to do together. At Christmas they'd visit his grandfather in Bavaria. Come spring she would show him the gorgeous West Country of England and Wales. And in summer, if she wasn't already too far gone in her pregnancy, they'd sail the Aegean and the Adriatic on the _Mistress._\n\n\"Take me somewhere to ride,\" she said. \"I haven't been on a horse since you walked out on me the first time.\"\n\n\"I've a country house in Connecticut, on a pretty piece of land. We'll sail up tomorrow.\"\n\nThinking of the arrangements made her remember Beckett. \"Your butler . . . do you know that\u2014\"\n\n\"I was the one who told him to go far away. We were both shocked when three years later he came for a position I'd advertised. He immediately begged pardon and turned to leave. I stopped him. To this day I don't really know why.\" Camden shrugged. \"By the end of the year, he'll have worked for me for seven years.\"\n\nWhatever his reasons, she was grateful. \"It's a well-run house,\" she murmured. \"And what of his son?\"\n\n\"He was in a Liverpool jail for a year or two, then went to South Africa when gold was discovered. He married last year.\"\n\nShe breathed a further sigh of relief. It was most agreeably humbling to learn that her sins hadn't stopped the earth from spinning or other people from getting on tolerably with the rest of their lives.\n\nHe traced her spine from her neck down to her tailbone and back again. \"Tell me about Lord Frederick. How did he take your decision not to marry him?\"\n\n\"With much better grace than I deserved, to be sure. I only wish I could arrange for him to be happy always. But don't worry,\" she added hastily. \"I will leave him alone to live his own life. I've learned my lesson.\"\n\n\"Hmm, have you?\" He kissed her shoulder. \"That's what you said the last time we were in bed together.\"\n\nShe turned onto her back and placed his hand between her legs. \"Feel for yourself. Nothing there anymore between you and me.\"\n\nShe lost count of how many times they made love. Too much and still not quite enough. Some time in the small hours of the night, he ran her a bath and laundered her thoroughly, making her giggle and squeal with all the naughty things a playful man could do with a willing woman, a tub of hot water, and a piece of fragrant soap.\n\nWhen it was his turn to wash, she looted the kitchen for food. He was in his dressing gown toweling his hair dry when she returned, carrying with her a haunch of roasted pheasant left over from the dinner, a half loaf of bread, and a bowl of morello cherries.\n\n\"My God,\" he said, tossing aside the towel to take the tray from her. \"I had no idea you did things other than turning profits and enslaving men.\"\n\nShe laughed as he set the tray down atop the large cedar chest at the foot of the bed. \"Allow me to shock you by knitting you a pair of socks this Christmas, then.\"\n\nHe smiled, tearing off a chunk of bread. \"Then I shall be forced to build you a rocking chair. Alas, my carpentry is quite rusty.\"\n\nTenderness, that most alien and disconcerting of emotions, swelled and billowed in her. She picked up a cherry and stared down at the soft, bright-red fruit. \"I love you.\"\n\nThe last time she'd declared her love he'd thrown it right back in her face. She waited uncertainly for his response. She didn't even have to wait a second. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. \"I love you more.\"\n\nAll the sugar in Cuba couldn't compete with the sweetness in her heart. \"More than you love the grand duchess?\"\n\n\"Idiot.\" He ruffled her already bedraggled hair. \"I haven't loved her since the day I met you.\"\n\n\"But I saw her today, in your automobile. The doormen at the hotel said she's been seen in your automobile every day. And your driver said he was coming back for her at eleven o'clock at night.\"\n\n\"Incorrect. He is going to meet her and the children at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, to take them to the train station. She has some relatives to visit in Washington, D.C.\"\n\n\"Then you haven't been having an affair with her?\"\n\n\"I last kissed her in 1881, and I don't miss it.\" A sly smile curved his mouth. \"So that explains your very delectable aggression. Perhaps I should keep her around, to always ensure your prompt ardor.\"\n\n\"Only if you want Freddie to set up a canvas in our parlor.\"\n\n\"Won't bother me, as long as I can still have you on the piano.\" He grinned. \"I can never look at the damned thing without seeing you draped over it in all kinds of lascivious ways, your sweet bum up in the\u2014\"\n\nShe threw the cherry at him. He caught the fruit and ate it. \"I almost forgot,\" he said, walking to a writing desk in the next room. \"Look what news was delivered to my doorstep this afternoon.\"\n\nHe brought back a telegram. She wiped her hands on a napkin and took the telegram from him.\n\ndear sir stop his grace has persuaded me to the altar stop we wed yesterday stop will shortly depart for corfu stop yours most affectionately stop victoria perrin\n\nGigi covered her open mouth. Her mother. A duchess. The Duke of Perrin's duchess, no less. She'd suspected something, of course, but this\u2014marriage\u2014 this was something else entirely.\n\n\"Do you realize what this means?\" said Camden.\n\n\"That she'll take precedence over both you and me now?\" Gigi shook her head in both delight and stupefaction.\n\n\"That the Duke of Perrin will find himself a grandfather in nine months.\"\n\nShe laughed hard. The image of the Duke of Perrin suddenly becoming anyone's grandfather was much too delicious. She pulled Camden close and kissed him. \"Do you know that you are the love of my life?\"\n\n\"Always did,\" said her husband. \"But do you know that _you_ are the love of _my_ life?\"\n\nShe set her head on his shoulder and rubbed contentedly. \"Now I do.\"\nAbout the Author\n\nSherry Thomas arrived on American soil at age thirteen. Within a year, with whatever English she'd scraped together and her trusty English-Chinese dictionary by her side, she was already plowing through the 600-page behemoth historical romances of the day. The vocabulary she gleaned from those stories of unquenchable ardor propelled her to great successes on the SAT and the GRE and came in very handy when she turned to writing romances herself.\n\nSherry has a B.S. in economics from Louisiana State University and a master's degree in accounting from the University of Texas at Austin. She lives in central Texas with her husband and two sons. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading, playing computer games with her boys, and reading some more.\n\nVisit her on the web at www.sherrythomas.com.\n\nDon't miss\n\nDelicious\n\nBY  \nSHERRY THOMAS\n\nAvailable at your favorite bookseller  \nin August 2008\n\n_Read on for an exclusive sneak peek!_\n\nDelicious\n\nBY SHERRY THOMAS\n\nOn sale August 2008\n\n_England  \nNovember 1892_\n\nIn retrospect people say it was a Cinderella story.\n\nNotably missing was the personage of the Fairy Godmother. But other than that, the narrative seemed to contain all the elements of the fairy tale.\n\nThere was something of a modern prince. He had no royal blood, but he was a powerful man\u2014 London's foremost barrister, Mr. Gladstone's right hand\u2014a man who would very likely one day, fifteen years hence, occupy 10 Downing Street and pass such radical reforms as to provide pensions for the elderly and health insurance to the working class.\n\nThere was a woman who spent much of her life in the kitchen. In the eyes of many, she was a nobody. For others, she was one of the greatest cooks of her generation, her food said to be so divine that old men dined with the gusto of adolescent boys, and so seductive that lovers forsook each other, as long as a crumb remained on the table.\n\nThere was a ball, not the usual sort of ball that made it into fairy tales or even ordinary tales, but a ball nevertheless. There was the requisite Evilish Female Relative. And most important for connoisseurs of fairy tales, there was footgear left behind in a hurry\u2014nothing so frivolous or fancy as glass slippers, yet carefully kept and cherished, with a flickering flame of hope, for years upon years.\n\nA Cinderella story, indeed.\n\nOr was it?\n\nIt all began\u2014or resumed, depending on how one looked at it\u2014the day Bertie Somerset died.\n\nThe kitchen at Fairleigh Park was palatial in dimension, as grand as anything to be found at Chatsworth or Blenheim, and certainly several times larger than what one would expect for a manor the size of Fairleigh Park.\n\nBertie Somerset had the entire kitchen complex renovated in 1877\u2014shortly after he inherited, and two years before Verity Durant came to work for him. After the improvements, the complex boasted of a dairy, a scullery, and a pantry each the size of a small cottage, separate larders for meat, game, and fish, two smokehouses, and a mushroom house where a heap of composted manure provided edible mushrooms year round.\n\nThe main kitchen, floored in cool rectangles of gray flagstone, with oak duckboards where the kitchen staff most often stood, had an old-fashioned open hearth and two modern closed ranges. The ceiling rose twenty feet above the floor. Windows were set high and faced only north and east, so that not a single beam of sunlight would ever stray inside. But still it was sweaty work in winter; in summer the temperatures inside rose hot enough to immolate.\n\nThree maids toiled in the adjacent scullery, washing up all the plates, cups, and flatware from the servants' afternoon tea. One of Verity's apprentices stuffed tiny eggplants at the central work table, the other three stood at their respective stations about the room, attending to the rigors of dinner for the staff as well as for the master of the house.\n\nThe soup course had just been carried out, trailing behind a murmur of the sweetness of caramelized onion. From the stove billowed the steam of a white wine broth, in the last stages of reduction before being made into a sauce for a filet of brill that had been earlier poached in it. Over the great hearth a quartet of teals roasted on a spit turned by a second kitchen maid. She also looked after the _civet_ of hare slowly stewing in the coals, which emitted a powerful, gamy smell every time it was stirred.\n\nThe odors of her kitchen were as beautiful to Verity as the sounds of an orchestra in the crescendo of a symphony. This kitchen was her fiefdom, her sanctuary. She cooked with an absolute, almost nerveless concentration, her awareness extending to the subtlest stimulation of the senses and the least movement on the part of her underlings.\n\nThe sound of her favorite apprentice not stirring the hazelnut butter made her turn her head slightly. \"Mademoiselle Porter, the butter,\" she said, her voice stern. Her voice was always stern in the kitchen.\n\n\"Yes, Madame. Sorry, Madame,\" said Becky Porter. The girl would be purple with embarrassment now\u2014she knew very well that it took only a few seconds of inattention before hazelnut butter became black butter.\n\nVerity gave Tim Cartwright, the apprentice standing before the white wine reduction, a hard stare. The young man blanched. He cooked liked a dream, his sauces as velvety and breathtaking as a starry night, his souffl\u00e9s taller than toques. But Verity would not hesitate to let him go without a letter of character if he made an improper advance toward Becky, Becky who'd been with Verity since she was a thirteen-year-old child.\n\nMost of the hazelnut butter would be consumed at dinner. But a portion of it was to be saved for the midnight repast her employer had requested: one steak au poivre, a dozen oysters in Mornay sauce, potato croquettes \u00e0 la Dauphine, a small lemon tart, still warm, and half a dozen dessert crepes spread with, _mais bien s\u00fbr,_ hazelnut butter.\n\nCrepes with hazelnut butter\u2014Mrs. Danner tonight. Three days ago it had been Mrs. Childs. Bertie was becoming promiscuous in his middle age. Verity removed the cassoulet from the oven and grinned a little to herself, imagining the scene that would hopefully ensue should Mrs. Danner and Mrs. Childs find out that they shared Bertie's less-than-undying devotion.\n\nThe service hatch door burst open and slammed into a dresser, rattling the rows of copper lids hanging on pin-rails, startling one of them off its anchor. The lid hit the floor hard, bounced and wobbled, its metallic bangs and scrapes echoing in the steam and smolder of the kitchen. Verity looked up sharply. The footmen in this house knew better than to throw doors open like that.\n\n\"Madame!\" Dickie, the first footman, gasped from the doorway, sweat dampening his hair despite the November chill. \"Mr. Somerset\u2014Mr. Somerset, he be not right!\"\n\nSomething about Dickie's wild expression suggested that Bertie was far worse than \"not right.\" Verity motioned Edith Briggs, her lead apprentice, to take over her spot before the stove. She wiped her hands on a clean towel and went to the door.\n\n\"Carry on,\" she instructed her crew before closing the door behind Dickie and herself. Dickie was already scrambling in the direction of the house.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" she said, lengthening her strides to keep up with the footman.\n\n\"He be out cold, Madame.\"\n\n\"Has someone sent for Dr. Sergeant?\"\n\n\"Mick from the stables just rode out.\"\n\nShe'd forgotten her shawl. The air in the unheated passage between kitchen and manor chilled the sheen of perspiration on her face and neck. Dickie pushed open doors: doors to the warming kitchen, doors to another passage, doors to the butler's pantry. Her heart thumped as they entered the dining room. But it was empty, save for an ominously overturned chair. On the floor by the chair were a puddle of water and, a little away, a miraculously unbroken crystal goblet, glinting in the light of the candelabra. A forlorn, half-finished bowl of onion soup still sat at the head of the table, waiting for dinner to resume.\n\nDickie led her to a drawing room deeper into the house. A gaggle of housemaids stood by the door, clutching each other's sleeves and peering in cautiously. They fell back at Verity's approach and bobbed unnecessary curtsies.\n\nHer erstwhile lover reclined, supine, on a settee of dark blue. He wore a disconcertingly peaceful expression. Someone had loosened his necktie and opened his shirt at the collar. This state of undress contrasted sharply with his stiff positioning, his hands folded together above his breastbone like those of an effigy atop a stone sarcophagus.\n\nMr. Prior, the butler, stood guard over Bertie's inert body, more or less wringing his hands. At her entrance, he hurried to her side and whispered, \"He's not breathing.\"\n\nHer own breath quite left her at that. \"Since when?\"\n\n\"Since before Dickie went to the kitchen, Madame,\" said the butler, without quite his usual sangfroid.\n\nWas that five minutes? Seven? She stood immobile a long moment, unable to think. It didn't make any sense. Bertie was a healthy man who experienced few physical maladies.\n\nShe crossed the room, dipping to one knee before the settee. \"Bertie,\" she called softly, addressing him more intimately than she had at any point in the past decade. \"Can you hear me, Bertie?\"\n\nHe did not respond. No dramatic fluttering of the eyelids. No looking at her as if he were Snow White freshly awakened from a poisoned sleep and she the prince who brought him back to life.\n\nShe touched him, something else she hadn't done in ten years. His palm was wet as was his starched cuff. He was still warm, but her finger pressed over his wrist could detect no pulse, only an obstinate stillness.\n\nShe dug the pad of her thumb into his veins. Could he possibly be dead? He was only thirty-eight years old. He hadn't even been ill. And he had an assignation with Mrs. Danner tonight. The oysters for his post-coital fortification were resting on a bed of ice in the cold larder and the hazelnut butter was ready for the dessert crepes beloved by Mrs. Danner.\n\nBut his pulse refused to beat.\n\nShe released his hand and rose, her mind numb. With the exception of the kitchen regiment, the staff had assembled in the drawing room, the men behind Mr. Prior, the women behind Mrs. Boyce the housekeeper, everyone pressed close to the walls, a sea of black uniforms with foam caps of white collars and white aprons.\n\nTo Mrs. Boyce's inquiring gaze, Verity shook her head. The man who was once to be her prince was dead. He had taken her up to his castle, but had not kept her there. In the end she had returned to the kitchen, dumped the shards of her delusion in the rubbish bin, and carried on as if she'd never believed that she stood to become the mistress of this esteemed house.\n\n\"We'd better cable his solicitors then,\" said Mrs. Boyce. \"They'll need to inform his brother that Fairleigh Park is now his.\"\n\nHis _brother._ In all the drama of Bertie's abrupt passing, Verity had not even thought of the succession of Fairleigh Park. Now she shook somewhere deep inside, like a dish of aspic set down too hard.\n\nShe nodded vaguely. \"I'll be in the kitchen should you need me.\"\n\n* * *\n\nIn her copy of Taillevent's _Le Viandier,_ where the book opened to a recipe for gilded chicken with quenelles, Verity kept a brown envelope marked \"List of Cheese Merchants in the 16th Arondissement.\"\n\nIn the envelope was a news clipping from the county fish wrapper, about the Liberals' victory in the general election after six years in opposition. In a corner of the clipping, Verity had written the date: 16.08.1892. In the middle of the article, a grainy photograph of Stuart Somerset looked back at her\u2014 local boy made good.\n\nShe never touched his image, for fear that her strokes would blur it. Sometimes she looked at it very close, the clipping almost at her nose. Sometimes she put it as far as her lap, but never further, never beyond reach.\n\nThe man in the photograph seemed to have scarcely aged in ten years, perhaps because his was an old soul, that he'd always been mature beyond his years. He was handsome, dramatically handsome\u2014 the face of a Shakespearean actor in his prime, all sharp peak and deep angles. And in his eyes was everything she could possibly want in a man: kindness, warmth, honesty, audacity, and love\u2014love that would tear down this world and build it anew.\n\nFrom afar she'd watched his meteoric rise\u2014one of London's most sought-after barristers, and now, with the Liberals back in power, Mr. Gladstone's Chief Whip in the House of Commons\u2014quite something for a man who'd spent his first nine years in a Manchester slum.\n\nHe'd accomplished it all on his own merits, of course, but she'd played her small part. She'd walked away from him, from hopes and dreams enough to spawn a generation of poets, so that he could be the man he was meant to be, the man whose face on her newspaper clipping she could not touch.\n\nStuart Somerset lived, not in his constituency of South Hackney, but in the elegant enclaves of Belgravia. From his visit to the house of his fianc\u00e9e, he returned directly home, and went for the decanter of whiskey that he kept in his study.\n\nHe took a large swallow of the liquor. He was a little more affected by the news of Bertie's death now than he had been an hour ago. There was a faint numbness in his head. It was the shock of it, he supposed. He hadn't expected Mortality, ever present though it was, to strike Bertie, of all people.\n\nTwo shelves up from the whiskey decanter was a framed photograph of Bertie and himself, taken when Bertie had been eighteen and he seventeen, shortly after he'd been legitimized.\n\nWhat had Bertie said to him that day?\n\n_You may be legitimized, but you will never be one of us. You don't know how Father panicked when it looked as if your mother might live. Your people are laborers and drunks and petty criminals. Don't flatter yourself otherwise._\n\nFor years afterward, whenever he remembered Bertie, it was Bertie as he had been that precise moment in time, impeccably turned out, a cold smile on his face, satisfied to have at last ruined something wonderful for his bastard-born brother.\n\nBut the slim youth in the picture, his fine summer coat faded to rust, resembled no one's idea of a nemesis. His fair hair, ruthlessly parted and slicked back, would have looked gauche in more fashionable circles. His posture was not so much erect as rigid. The square placement of his feet and the hand thrust nonchalantly into the coat pocket meant to indicate great assurance. As it was, he looked like any other eighteen-year-old, trying to radiate a manly confidence he didn't possess.\n\nStuart frowned. How long had it been since he'd last _looked_ at the photograph?\n\nThe answer came far more easily than he'd expected. Not since That Night. He'd last looked at it with _her,_ who'd studied the image with a disturbing concentration.\n\n_Do you hate him?_ she'd asked, giving the photograph back to him.\n\n_Sometimes,_ he'd answered absently, distracted by the nearness of her blush-pink lips. She'd been all eyes and lips, eyes the color of a tropical ocean, lips as full and soft as feather pillows.\n\n_Then I don't like him either,_ she'd said, smiling oddly.\n\n_Do you know him?_ he'd asked, suddenly, and for absolutely no reason.\n\n_No,_ she'd shaken her head with a grave finality, her beautiful eyes once again sad. _I don't know him at all._\n\nPRIVATE ARRANGEMENTS  \nA Bantam Book / April 2008\n\nPublished by Bantam Dell  \nA Division of Random House, Inc.  \nNew York, New York\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\n\nAll rights reserved  \nCopyright \u00a9 2008 by Sherry Thomas\n\n* * *\n\nBantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.\n\n* * *\n\nwww.bantamdell.com\n\neISBN: 978-0-553-90476-5\n\nv3.0\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Sweet Vegan Treats - Hannah Kaminsky"}, "text": "\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2019 by Hannah Kaminsky\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.\n\nSkyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.\n\nSkyhorse\u00ae and Skyhorse Publishing\u00ae are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.\u00ae, a Delaware corporation.\n\nVisit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nNames: Kaminsky, Hannah, 1989- author.\n\nTitle: Sweet vegan treats: 90 cookies, brownies, cakes, tarts, and more baked goods / Hannah Kaminsky.\n\nDescription: New York, NY: Skyhorse Publishing, [2019]\n\nIdentifiers: LCCN 2019017622| ISBN 9781510741843 (print: alk. paper) | ISBN 9781510741867 (ebook)\n\nSubjects: LCSH: Desserts. | Vegan cooking. | LCGFT: Cookbooks.\n\nClassification: LCC TX773.K284 2019 | DDC 641.86\u2014dc23 LC record available at <https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017622>\n\nCover design by Laura Klynstra\n\nCover photo by Hannah Kaminsky\n\nPrint ISBN: 978-1-5107-4184-3\n\nEbook ISBN: 978-1-5107-4186-7\n\nPrinted in China\nContents\n\nThank You!\n\nIntroduction\n\nIngredient Guide\n\nTools of the Trade\n\nEssential Techniques\n\nTroubleshooting\n\nSWEET STARTS\n\nBetter Banana Nut Muffins\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal\n\nChocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones\n\nFiggy Graham Scones\n\nFruited Focaccia\n\nGolden Glazed Doughnuts\n\nHearty Granola Waffles\n\nOatmeal Raisin Rolls\n\nPower-Hungry Granola\n\nStrawberry Love Muffins\n\nSweet & Simple French Toast\n\nZesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins\n\nCOOKIES & BARS\n\nAlmond Avalanche Bars\n\nApricot Biscotti\n\nBlack & White Cookies\n\nBlack-Bottom Blondies\n\nButterscotch Blondies\n\nCheesecake Thumbprint Cookies\n\nCoffee Break Shortbread\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies\n\nLace Florentines\n\nMaple Pistachio Cr\u00e8mes\n\nNut Case Cookies\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti\n\nParty Mix Bars\n\nPeanut Butter Bombs\n\nPeanut-Plus Cookies\n\nPfeffernusse\n\nStrawberry Spirals\n\nTurtle Shortbread Wedges\n\nWhoopie Pies\n\nCAKES & CUPCAKES\n\nApple Spice Cake\n\nBananas Foster Cake\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake\n\nChai Cheesecake\n\nCookies and Cr\u00e8me Pound Cake\n\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake\n\nEveryday Almond Cake\n\nLemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt\n\nLychee Cupcakes with Raspberry Frosting\n\nMarshmallow Mud Cake\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake\n\nNot-Nog Cupcakes\n\nOrange Dreamsicle Snack Cake\n\nPeach Melba Layer Cake\n\nPerfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes\n\nPi\u00f1a Colada Mini Bundts\n\nPlum-Good Crumb Cake\n\nPomegranate Ginger Cupcakes\n\nPup Cakes\n\nRoot Beer Float Cupcakes\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake\n\nWasabi Chocolate Cupcakes\n\nPIES & TARTS\n\nBaklava Tart\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie\n\nCashew Cr\u00e8me Pear Tart\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie\n\nChili Chocolate Tart\n\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie\n\nCoconut Custard Pie\n\nGinger Dream Pie\n\nHarvest Pie\n\nMont Blanc Mini Tarts\n\nPink Lemonade Tartlets\n\nPumpkin Pecan Pie\n\nSpiralized Apple Galette\n\nMISCELLANEOUS MORSELS AND DESSERTS\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble\n\nBrilliant Blueberry Parfaits\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles\n\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge\n\nFlaming Hot Peanut Brittle\n\nFloral Petits Fours\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits\n\nGreen Tea-ramisu\n\nHazelnut Ravioli\n\nMatcha Latte Freezer Pops\n\nMatzah Toffee\n\nOrangettes\n\nPumpkin Toffee Trifle\n\nSesame Chews\n\nTrigona\n\nPANTRY STAPLES, COMPONENTS, AND ACCOMPANIMENTS\n\nApple Butter\n\nChocolate Wafer Cookies\n\nCream Cheese\n\nEasy Eggless Nog\n\nGraham Crackers\n\nNo-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream\n\nOrange Marmalade\n\nRaspberry Jam\n\nWhipped Coconut Cream\n\nConversion Charts\n\nIndex\n\nThank You!\n\nYes, you, reading these words right here and now! While it feels a bit contrived, if not disingenuous, to spray gratitude indiscriminately into the crowd like this, there's no easy way to express just how much your support means to me. Without a hungry and willing audience, which includes people like you, Sweet Vegan Treats would never have become a printed and published reality, let alone my other half-dozen cookbooks. It's unreal to look back on the original printing of My Sweet Vegan more than a decade ago and take stock of how drastically the landscape of food culture has shifted since then, and yet there's still a place on your shelf, be it physical or digital, for my work. That is why I want to thank you, first and foremost, for your enthusiasm, kindness, and hunger for a second serving of dessert.\n\nA relic of antiquated baking techniques and largely untested theories, it's been a dream to bring the original concept back from the dead to give it new life as Sweet Vegan Treats. Not just a quick reprint, but a complete revival. So much has changed since the first printing, both in my approach to baking and the means available to the everyday cook, that this is an entirely new book. Key changes you'll find here include...\n\n\u2022 Less sugar! Most important, a good dessert should emphasize flavor rather than straight-up sweetness.\n\n\u2022 No more corn syrup! There are simply better alternatives available on the market and, as this controversial ingredient has fallen out of favor, it's become more difficult to locate, too.\n\n\u2022 Vegan butter instead of margarine! Such high-quality options didn't exist over a decade ago and there's no need to pretend we like the flavor of those waxy, old-school fluorescent yellow sticks anymore.\n\n\u2022 More gluten-free and whole-grain options! Dessert should be for everyone, no matter dietary restrictions. Most recipes that still use standard wheat flour can be adapted with a gluten-free blend as well.\n\n\u2022 New recipe names! Sometimes, plain titles like \"French Toast\" just don't do the dish justice, or in the case of the Dark Mocha Revelation Cake, \"Devastation\" suddenly struck me as downright antagonistic. Don't worry though, all your old favorites are still there.\n\nIf you've been baking along with me all this time, welcome back. If this is all sparkling new to you, grab an apron and roll up your sleeves; you're in for a real treat.\n\nIntroduction\n\nImagine, at the tender age of eighteen, suddenly having the opportunity to write, photograph, and publish your own cookbook fall right into your lap. Far from an expert, I had cut my teeth learning from trial and error\u2014and error, and error. Unthinkable crazy talk, or perhaps pie in the sky, as it were! Watching My Sweet Vegan transform from a wild flight of fancy into a bound set of glossy pages felt surreal back in the day, just as every book that has come since then. Sweet Vegan Treats is the next chapter in this lifelong story.\n\nBased on my earliest ventures in the kitchen as a new vegan and young adolescent, even I could have been convinced that eggs and dairy really are indispensable to delectable sweets. During my freshman year in high school, I churned out muffins and cookies more akin to cement doorstops than edible foodstuffs, but spurred on by a voracious sweet tooth, I never gave up. I was adamant that my creations would one day taste better than anything else on the market, vegan or otherwise. For that matter, it was unacceptable to serve a good vegan pastry; it needed to be delicious by any standards.\n\nIt hasn't all been smooth sailing. A fateful experiment in search of making vegan marshmallows immediately comes to mind as quite possibly my largest, and definitely stickiest, explosion to date. I'm not talking about a trivial spraying of the walls; marshmallow goop was all over the floor, stove, stuck inside door handles, dripping into drawers, in my hair, the whole nine yards. Then there was the ill-conceived salt-and-pepper ice cream that left me coughing and sneezing for days after a single, fateful scoop. Let's not forget about the white chocolate Bundt cake that might as well have been made of glue based on the texture of the crumb, or lack thereof.\n\nYet, through these spectacular failures, meltdowns, burnt edges, and towers of dirty dishes, I learned what works and what doesn't. Stubbornly reworking some recipes four, five, even six times, I gradually unlocked the \"secrets\" to produce foolproof, mouthwatering treats that everyone can appreciate.\n\nIt's easier and more delicious than ever to live without animal products now, as new alternatives and cruelty-free innovations are hitting mainstream awareness at lightning speed these days. Of course, that still doesn't mean you need to be vegan to eat vegan; in my book, it's all just good food, no matter what you want to call it. Whether you're grappling with dietary restrictions, food allergies, ethical quandaries, or just have a serious sweet tooth, there's something here for you tucked within these colorful pages.\n\nHappy Baking!\n\nIngredient Guide\n\nSet yourself up for culinary success by stocking your pantry with the very best ingredients. If you ever get stuck while shopping, turn your search online, where most things, fresh, frozen, canned, and beyond, can be sent to your door with the click of a button.\n\nAgar (Agar-Agar)\n\nAlso known as kanten, agar is a gelatinous substance made out of seaweed. It's a very close if not identical stand-in for traditional gelatin, which is extracted from the collagen within animals' connective tissues. Agar comes in powdered, flaked, and stick form. I prefer to use the powder because it dissolves more easily and measures teaspoon for teaspoon like standard gelatin. However, if you can only find the flakes, just whiz them in a spice grinder for a few minutes, and voil\u00e0\u2014instant agar powder! Agar can be found in Asian markets and some health food stores.\n\nAgave Nectar\n\nDerived from the same plant as tequila but far less potent, this syrup is made from the condensed juice found at the core of the agave cactus. It is available in both light and dark varieties\u2014the dark possesses a more nuanced, complex, and somewhat floral flavor, while the light tends to provide only a clean sweetness. Considered a less refined form of sugar, agave nectar has a much lower glycemic index than many traditional granulated sweeteners and is therefore consumed by some diabetics in moderation.\n\nAll-Purpose Flour\n\nWhile wonderful flours can be made from all sorts of grains, beans, nuts, and seeds, the gold standard in everyday baking and cooking is still traditional \"all-purpose\" wheat flour. Falling texturally somewhere in between cake flour and bread flour, it works as a seamless binder, strong foundation, and neutral base. It's an essential pantry staple for me, stocked in my cupboard at all times. All-purpose flour may be labeled in stores as unbleached white flour or simply \"plain flour.\" Gluten-free all-purpose flour is also widely available now in mainstream markets and can be substituted at a 1:1 ratio for those sensitive to wheat. Many different blends exist, but I've personally had good results with Bob's Red Mill\u00ae, Cup 4 Cup\u00ae, and King Arthur\u00ae. If you'd like to whip up your own blend, that's also easy enough as long as you have a well-stocked pantry.\n\nAll-Purpose Gluten-Free Flour Blend\n\n6 cups white rice flour\n\n2 cups potato starch or cornstarch\n\n1 cup tapioca flour\n\n2 tablespoons xanthan gum\n\nSimply whisk all the dry goods together until thoroughly mixed. Store in an airtight container and measure out as needed. If the recipe you're following already calls for xanthan gum, you can omit it since it's included in this blend.\n\nAlmond Meal / Flour\n\nAlmond flour is nothing more than raw almonds ground down into a fine powder, light and even in consistency which makes it ideal for baking, while almond meal is generally a bit coarser. To make your own, just throw a pound or so of completely unadulterated almonds into your food processor, and pulse until floury. It's helpful to freeze the almonds in advance so that they don't overheat and turn into almond butter. You can also create a finer texture by passing the initial almond meal through a fine sieve to sift out the larger pieces. Due to their high oil content, ground nuts can go rancid fairly quickly. If you opt to stock up and save some for later, be sure to store the freshly ground almond flour in an airtight container in the refrigerator or freezer. To cut down on labor and save a little time, almond flour or meal can be purchased in bulk from natural food stores.\n\nApple Cider Vinegar\n\nAs with oil, vinegar may originate from different types of produce, and the flavor will vary depending upon the source. Thinking along these lines, apple cider vinegar could be considered the olive oil of vinegars\u2014flavorful, useful, and an all-around great thing to have on hand. Regular white wine vinegar or the other standard options would certainly work, but the distinctive flavor of apple cider vinegar rounds out baked goods so perfectly, and it is so easy to find... why wouldn't you use it?\n\nAquafaba\n\nIt's the not-so-secret ingredient taking the world by storm, dubbed a \"miracle\" by some and a food science breakthrough by others. In case you're not already a fervent fan, aquafaba is the excess liquid found in any ordinary can of chickpeas. Technically, any bean can produce aquafaba, but the unique ratios of protein and starch found in garbanzo beans has been found to best mimic the unique binding and whipping properties previously only seen in egg whites. Different brands will yield slightly different results, but I've never found any that are complete duds. For more delicate applications like meringues or marshmallow fluff, you can always concentrate your aquafaba to create a stronger foam matrix by cooking it gently over the stove and reducing some of the water.\n\nArrowroot Powder / Flour\n\nThanks to arrowroot, you can thicken sauces, puddings, and mousses with ease. This white powder is very similar to kudzu and is often compared to other starchy flours. However, arrowroot is so fine that it produces much smoother results, and is less likely to stick together and form large, glutinous lumps when baking. In a pinch, cornstarch can be an adequate substitute, but I highly recommend seeking out arrowroot. Most grocery stores have a brand or two tucked in among the spices in the baking aisle.\n\nBlack Cocoa Powder\n\nWhat do you get when you oxidize Dutch-process cocoa powder to the extreme? Black cocoa, dark as coal, certainly lives up to its name and produces amazing color in baked goods. However, it has a much lower fat content than standard cocoa and should therefore be used sparingly to avoid altering the texture of your baked goods. In a pinch, feel free to substitute regular Dutch-process cocoa for an equally tasty, if comparatively paler, dessert.\n\nBlack Salt (Kala Namak)\n\nLovingly if crudely nicknamed \"fart salt\" around these parts, the sulfurous odor released by a big bagful really does smell like... well, you can probably guess. Despite that unpromising introduction, it does taste far better, and eerily similar to eggs. Enhancing everything from tofu scrambles to loaves of challah, it's one of those secret ingredients that every vegan should have in their arsenal. Don't let the name confuse you though; the fine grains are actually mottled pink in appearance, not black.\n\nBrown Rice Syrup\n\nCaramel-colored and thick like honey, brown rice syrup is a natural sweetener that is produced via the fermentation of brown rice. It tastes less sweet than granulated sugar, adding a wholesome complexity to baked goods. The deep flavor of brown rice syrup is best cast in supporting roles, complementing other aspects of the dish without taking center stage.\n\nButter\n\nIt's a basic kitchen staple, but good dairy-free butter can be quite elusive if you don't know what to look for. Some name brands contain whey or other milk derivatives, while others conceal the elusive, animal-derived Vitamin D3, so be alert when scanning ingredient labels. For ease, I prefer to use it in stick format, such as Earth Balance\u00ae Buttery Sticks or Miyoko's Kitchen European Style Cultured VeganButter. Never try to substitute spreadable butter from a tub! These varieties have much more water to allow them to spread while cold, and will thus bake and cook differently. I always use unsalted butter unless otherwise noted, but you are welcome to use salted as long as you remove about \u00bc teaspoon of salt per \u00bc cup of butter from the recipe. Overly salted food is one of the first flaws that diners notice, so take care with your seasoning and always adjust to taste.\n\nCacao Nibs\n\nAlso known as raw chocolate, cacao nibs are unprocessed cacao nuts, simply broken up into smaller pieces. Much more bitter and harsh than the sweet, mellow chocolate found in bars or chips, it is often used for texture and accent flavor in desserts. Sometimes it can be found coated in sugar to soften its inherent acidity, but for baking, you want the plain, raw version if possible. Seek out bags of cacao nibs in health food stores; if you're really lucky, you may be able to find them in the bulk bins of well-stocked specialty stores.\n\nChia Seeds\n\nYes, this is the same stuff that makes Chia Pets so green and fuzzy, and yes, the seeds are edible! Tiny but mighty, what makes these particular seeds so special is that they form a gel when mixed with liquid. This makes them a powerful binder when trying to replace eggs, or should flaxseeds be in short supply. Store in the freezer for a longer life span, and grind them before using in baked goods to maintain an even crumb texture.\n\nChocolate\n\nWhy does something so common, so beloved and easily accessible, need further explanation? Chocolate is chocolate, especially when you're reaching for the dark stuff, right? Many name brands that prefer quantity to quality would beg to differ. Obviously, white and milk chocolate are out of the picture, yet some dark, bittersweet, and semisweet chocolates still don't make the vegan cut. Even those that claim to be \"70% cacao solids, extra-special dark\" may have milk solids or butterfat lurking within. Don't buy the hype or the filler! Stay vigilant and check all labels to uncover superior flavor undiluted by dairy products.\n\nChocolate Cr\u00e8me-Filled Sandwich Cookies\n\nAs America's favorite cookie, it is no surprise that the Oreo\u00ae would come up sooner or later on this list. While the original Oreo\u00ae has changed its ways to take out the trans fats and animal products, there are many other options on the market. Newman's Own makes an organic version that tastes just like the cookies you might remember from your childhood. Trader Joe's even has their own house brand, always available at a very reasonable price and sometimes in exciting seasonal varieties. Any wafer cookies with a vanilla filling will do, or you can even whip up your own by combining the Chocolate Wafer Cookie recipe on page 229 with the vanilla frosting recipe from the Root Beer Float Cupcakes on page 149.\n\nChocolate Wafer Cookie Crumbs\n\nSimply flat, crunchy cocoa cookies, there are quite a few vegan options on the market. I typically use the Alphabet Cookies from Newman's Own, but plenty of other brands will work just as well. Just be sure to check the ingredient statement, and stay away from those that look soft or chewy. For a thrifty endeavor, you could also try baking your own at home with the Chocolate Wafer Cookie recipe on page 229! Once baked and fully cooled, pulverize the cookies into crumbs using a food processor, blender, or a good old-fashioned rubber mallet, depending upon your mood.\n\nCocoa Butter\n\nChocolate is comprised of two key elements: The cocoa solids, which give it that distinct cocoa flavor, and the cocoa butter, which is the fat that provides the body. Cocoa butter is solid at room temperature, like all tropical oils, so it's best to measure it after melting, as the firm chunks can appear deceptively voluminous. It's really important to pick up high quality, food-grade cocoa butter. As a popular ingredient in body lotions and lip balms, some offerings come with fillers and undesirable additives, so shop carefully if you search locally. Also avoid deodorized cocoa butter, unless you'd rather omit its natural flavor from your desserts.\n\nCoconut Milk\n\nWhen called for in this book, I'm referring to regular, full-fat coconut milk. That fat is necessary for a smooth, creamy mouthfeel and richer taste. In ice cream, light coconut milk cannot be substituted without detrimental effects to the final texture. Plain coconut milk is found canned in the ethnic foods aisle of the grocery store. You can make it yourself from fresh coconut meat, but in most cases, such as baking and general dessert-making when it's not the featured flavor, the added hassle honestly isn't worth the expense or effort.\n\nCoconut Oil\n\nOnce demonized as artery-clogging sludge not fit to grease a doorframe, nutritionists now can't recommend this tropical fat highly enough. Touted for its benefits when consumed or used topically, it's readily available just about anywhere you turn. Two varieties populate store shelves: Virgin (or raw/unrefined) coconut oil and refined coconut oil. Virgin gets the best press from the health experts since it's less processed, and it bears the subtle aroma of the coconut flesh. Refined has been deodorized and is essentially flavorless, allowing it to blend seamlessly with any other flavors. They both solidify below 76\u00b0F, but virgin oil reaches its smoke point at 350\u00b0F while refined is at 450\u00b0F. Either works fine for raw or unbaked treats, but I would recommend refined for baked applications.\n\nConfectioners' Sugar\n\nOtherwise known as powdered sugar, icing sugar, or 10x sugar, confectioners' sugar is a very finely ground version of standard white sugar with just a touch of cornstarch added to prevent clumping. If you should reach into your pantry and come out empty-handed, you can make your own by combining 1 cup of granulated sugar with 1 tablespoon of cornstarch in your food processor or spice grinder. Simply blend on the highest speed for about two minutes, allowing the dust to settle before opening your machine up\u2014unless you want to inhale a cloud of sugar!\n\nCream Cheese\n\nMany innovative companies now make dairy-free products that will give you the most authentic shmears and cream cheese frostings imaginable. These soft spreads also hold up beautifully in cookie dough and piecrusts, contributing a great tangy flavor and excellent structure. My favorite brands are Tofutti\u00ae, Kite Hill\u00ae, and Miyoko's\u00ae, but there are even more options in ample supply at well-stocked natural foods markets. You can even make your own from scratch with relative ease using the recipe on page 230, but bear in mind that it will likely produce a coarser texture than anything store-bought.\n\nCream of Tartar\n\nDon't let the name fool you; cream of tartar has absolutely nothing to do with either cream nor tartar sauce. It's actually created through the fermentation process that grapes undergo in the production of wine. Thus, it can contribute a good deal of acid to recipes in very small doses. Sometimes used as a stabilizer, it can create flavors similar to buttermilk, or be used to create baking powder: For a small batch, sift together 2 tablespoons cream of tartar with 1 tablespoon baking soda and 1 teaspoon cornstarch.\n\nFlavor Extracts\n\nI usually try to stay as far away from flavor extracts as possible, because they are all too often artificial, insipid, and a poor replacement for the real thing. However, vanilla (see page 12 for further details), peppermint, and almond are my main exceptions, as high-quality extracts from the actual sources are readily available in most markets. Just make sure to avoid any bottles that list sugar, corn syrup, colors, or chemical stabilizers in addition to your flavor of choice. For more unconventional essences, if your supermarket searches end up unsuccessful, try the internet. I've found OliveNation.com in particular to be a reliable resource.\n\nFlaxseeds\n\nGround flaxseeds make an excellent vegan egg-replacer when combined with water. One tablespoon of the whole seeds produces approximately 1\u00bd tablespoons of the ground powder. While you can purchase pre-ground flaxseed meal in many stores, I prefer to grind them fresh for each recipe, as they tend to go rancid much more quickly once broken down. Not to mention, it takes mere seconds to powder your own flaxseeds in a spice grinder. If you do opt to purchase flax meal instead, be sure to store the powder in your refrigerator or freezer until you are ready to use it. These tiny seeds can be found in bulk bins and prepackaged in the baking aisle of natural food stores.\n\nGarbanzo Bean (Chickpea) Flour\n\nGaining in popularity as a versatile gluten-free flour, garbanzo flour is just what you might imagine; nothing but dried, finely ground chickpeas. When used in baking, it can be used as a substitute for about 20\u201325 percent of the wheat flour called for in a recipe or to add a toothsome density to cakes or cookies. It can also be cooked with water like polenta, and eaten either as a hot porridge or let set overnight in a baking dish, sliced, and then fried to make what is called chickpea panisse. Just be warned that eaten raw (if, say, someone decided to sample raw cookie batter that contains garbanzo flour) it is very bitter and unpleasant.\n\nGarbanzo flour should be readily available in most grocery stores in the baking or natural foods section, but if you have a powerful blender like a Vitamix (see Kitchen Toys and Tools) with a dry grinding container, you can make your own from dried, split chickpeas (also known as chana dal). Process 2 cups of legumes at a time, and use the plunger to keep things moving. Once finely ground, let the dust settle for a few minutes before removing the lid of the container.\n\nGraham Crackers\n\nWhen I first went searching for vegan graham crackers, I was appalled at my lack of options. Why every brand in sight needed to include honey was beyond me. So, what is an intrepid food enthusiast to do in a tight situation like this? Shop, search, and browse some more, of course. Concealed among the rest, and often in natural foods stores, there are a few brands that exclude all animal products. Believe it or not, some of the best options are the store-brand, no-name biscuits that may otherwise get overlooked. Keep your eyes peeled for unexpected steals and deals. Go the extra mile and make your own from scratch using the recipe on page 235 for a truly superlative staple, but make twice as much as you'll need for the final recipe, because you'll want to snack on those all by themselves.\n\nGraham Flour\n\nBest known in the form of crackers, graham flour is simply a fancy type of wheat flour. It is made from a process that separates all parts of the wheat kernel itself and recombines them in different proportions. For reasons beyond my grasp, this unique flour is not sold in all countries. If you are having a hard time getting your hands on some, and don't mind a treat with a slightly different, denser texture, regular old whole wheat flour can be substituted. With a little bit more effort, you can fabricate a closer approximation of the wholesome flavor and coarse grind with \u00be cup plus 2 tablespoons whole wheat pastry flour and 2 tablespoons toasted wheat germ.\n\nGranulated Sugar\n\nYes, that's plain old, regular white sugar I'm talking about. Surprised to see this most basic sweetener here? It's true that all sugar (beet or cane) is derived from plant sources and therefore vegan by nature. However, there are some sneaky things going on behind the scenes in big corporations these days. Some cane sugar is filtered using bone char, a very non-vegan process, but that will never be specified on a label. The same goes for brown sugar as well, which is really just white sugar with molasses added back in. If you're not sure about the brand that you typically buy, your best bet is to contact the manufacturer directly and ask.\n\nTo bypass this problem, many vegans purchase unbleached cane sugar. While it is a suitable substitute, unbleached cane sugar does have a higher molasses content than white sugar, so it has more of a brown sugar\u2013like flavor, and tends to produce desserts that are denser. Luckily, there are a few caring companies that go to great pains to ensure the purity of their sugar products, such as Florida Crystals\u00ae and Amalgamated Sugar Company\u00ae, the suppliers to White Satin, Fred Meyer, Western Family, and Parade. You can often find appropriate sugar in health food store bulk bins these days to save some money, but as always, verify the source before forking over the cash. As sugar can be a touchy vegan subject, it is best to use your own judgment when considering which brand to purchase.\n\nInstant Coffee Powder or Granules\n\nThough generally unfit for drinking as intended, instant coffee is an ideal way to add those crave-worthy roasted, smoky notes to any recipe without also incorporating a lot of extra liquid. Stored in a dry, dark place, a small jar should last a long time. You can even find decaf versions, in case you're more sensitive to caffeine but still want that flavor in your recipes. I prefer powder to granules because it dissolves more easily, but both can work interchangeably with a bit of vigorous mixing.\n\nInstant Potato Flakes\n\nInstant mashed potatoes have been a convenient pantry staple since the 1920s when semi-homemade shortcuts were all the rage. Larded with waxy processed fats, dried dairy products, and aggressive doses of salt, these are not the kind of \"quick fix\" side dishes I can endorse. Rather, I'm looking for just the plain, unadorned flakes of dehydrated potatoes, ready to be reconstituted with hot water and mixed up into any variety of recipe applications. Though rather bland by themselves, that's precisely what makes them so versatile. You're more likely to encounter them in health food stores or online shops, either in large packages or bulk bins. Just make sure there's nothing else added, and that they are in fact flakes, not granules, since the two formats absorb liquid at a different rate.\n\nMaple Syrup\n\nOne of my absolute favorite sweeteners, there is simply no substitute for real, 100 percent maple syrup. Of course, this incredible indulgence does come at a hefty price. Though it would be absolute sacrilege to use anything but authentic Grade B maple syrup on pancakes or waffles in my house, I will sometimes bend the rules in recipes where it isn't such a prominent flavor, in order to save some money. In these instances, I'll substitute a maple-agave blend, which still carries the flavor from the actual source, but bulks it up with an equal dose of agave for sweetening power. Grade A is a fine substitute in a pinch, but contrary to what the letter would suggest, it's surprisingly less flavorful than Grade B.\n\nMatcha\n\nPerhaps one of my all-time favorite flavorings, matcha is a very high-quality powdered green tea. It is used primarily in Japanese tea ceremonies and can have an intense, complex, and bitter taste when used in large amounts. Contrary to what many new bakers think, this is not the same as the green tea leaves you'll find in mega mart tea bags! Those are vastly inferior in the flavor department, and real matcha is ground much finer. There are many levels of quality, with each step up in grade carrying a higher price tag. Because it can become quite pricey, I would suggest buying a mid-range or \"culinary\" grade, which should be readily available at any specialty tea store and many health food markets.\n\nNondairy Milk\n\nThe foundation of many cream and custard pies, I kept this critical ingredient somewhat ambiguous for a reason. Most types of nondairy milk will work in these recipes, and I wouldn't want to limit anyone with specific allergies. The only type that I absolutely do not recommend using is rice milk, as it tends to be much thinner, often gritty, and completely lacking in the body necessary to make rich, satisfying desserts. Unless explicitly specified, any other type of vegan milk substitute will work. My top pick is unsweetened almond milk because it tends to be a bit thicker, richer, and still has a neutral flavor. Don't be afraid to experiment, though; there's a lot to choose from!\n\nNutritional Yeast\n\nUnlike active yeast, nutritional yeast is not used to leaven baked goods, but to flavor all sorts of dishes. Prized for its distinctly cheesy flavor, it's a staple in most vegan pantries and is finally starting to gain recognition in mainstream cooking as well. Though it is almost always found in savory recipes, I sometimes like to add a tiny pinch to some desserts, bringing out its subtle buttery characteristics. It can be found either in the baking aisle or in many bulk bin sections.\n\nOlive Oil\n\nOne of the most sweeping changes in these revamped recipes was replacing all the canola oil with olive oil. Though canola is king for neutral flavor, it's become a bit controversial for some when it comes to health and environmental impact. I've always been a much bigger fan of olive oil anyhow, and after a bit of experimentation, I found that it could seamlessly fill those shoes, despite the common misconceptions over how it might ruin the delicate flavors in cakes or other sweet treats. Simply opt for a \"light\" variety to reduce the stronger, grassier, or more peppery notes. This type of olive oil is also processed in a way that makes it almost colorless and better for high-heat applications than extra virgin, for instance.\n\nTruth be told, my absolute favorite oils for baking are avocado oil and rice bran oil, in that order, but I understand that these aren't as widely available. If you have the access and inclination, though, give either a try for an upgraded option.\n\nPuffed Grains\n\nThose crispy rice cereals that have graced breakfast tables for over 50 years are all too familiar, but what about the other puffed grains, such as barley, wheat, or millet? Yes, the exact same process can be used on all of these staples to create light, crunchy cereal grains, each with their own distinctive flavors and shapes. Puffed quinoa and millet, called for in the Power-Hungry Granola (page 51), are two of the more unusual puffed grains in my breakfast bowl, but either can be replaced with crispy rice cereal in an equal proportion. I prefer to stick with plain grains when making granola. Boxed cereals that have sugar added are fine too, just expect a sweeter result, or dial down the sugar in the recipe to compensate. Most health food stores will stock more uncommon varieties in bulk bins, but feel free to experiment with whatever is easiest for you to obtain.\n\nSour Cream\n\nAnother creative alternative comes to the rescue of vegan bakers everywhere! Vegan sour cream provides an amazingly similar yet dairy-free version of the original tangy spread. In a pinch, I suppose you might be able to get away with using \"Greek\" style vegan yogurt instead, but it doesn't have the same richness and body, so the resulting desserts may be a bit less decadent. Vegan sour cream can often be found neatly tucked in among its dairy-based rivals in the grocery store, or with the other refrigerated dairy alternatives. The soy-based Sour Supreme from Tofutti\u00ae remains my favorite, even over a decade of baking experience later.\n\nSprinkles\n\nWhat's a birthday party without a generous handful of sprinkles to brighten up the cake? Though these colorful toppers are made primarily of edible wax, they are often coated in confectioners' glaze, which is code for mashed-up insects, to give them their lustrous shine. Happily, you can now find specifically vegan sprinkles (sold as \"Sprinkelz\") produced by the Let's Do...\u00ae company, in both chocolate and colored versions, which can be found at just about any natural food store.\n\nIf you're feeling colorful, you can also make a healthier, sugar-free version with... amaranth! That's right; just plain old amaranth soaked in plant-based dyes and dehydrated will do the trick, since these toppers should be applied sparingly and don't contribute any discernable flavor. All you need to do is soak amaranth in a colorful liquid for 4 hours, drain, and bake for 50 to 60 minutes at 200\u00b0F, stirring every 10 minutes or so, until dry to the touch. Your dyeing guide is as follows:\n\n\u2022 Beet juice for red/pink\n\n\u2022 Turmeric with water for yellow\n\n\u2022 Matcha with water for green\n\nUse just enough liquid to cover the grains and ratios as desired to reach the shade you'd like, but bear in mind they won't be as brilliant as anything store-bought or chemically enhanced. Variations on these colors are easily blended, but this mix tends to do just fine for that extra touch of whimsy. Bake in separate batches until completely dry to prevent the colors from bleeding. Store in an airtight container until ready to sprinkle in some fun!\n\nTahini\n\nA staple of Middle Eastern cuisine, most grocery stores should be able to accommodate your tahini requests. Tahini is a paste very much like peanut butter, but it is made from sesame seeds rather than nuts. If you don't have any on hand and a trip to the market is not in your immediate plans, then any other nut butter will provide exactly the same texture within a recipe, though it will impart a different overall taste.\n\nTextured Vegetable (or Soy) Protein\n\nTypically shortened to the abbreviation of TVP (or TSP), this is a very concentrated protein, and a by-product of making soybean oil. It's consequently low in fat, and well-known for its appearances in savory dishes as a very convincing meat replacement. Cut into chunks, the spongy texture of TVP is especially receptive to other flavors and seasonings. This may sound like a strange ingredient to include within a book about sweet recipes, but like tofu, it has a fairly neutral flavor and can be seasoned in any way you can imagine! Bags or tubs of TVP are available in most health food stores and some bulk bin sections. Soy Curls\u00ae have a similar texture but are made from the whole soybean, if you would prefer a more complete protein. These come in longer strips, so simply pulse them in your blender or food processor to break them into a coarse, pebble-like consistency before proceeding with the recipe.\n\nTofu\n\nYes, I bake with tofu and I don't apologize for it! It lends fabulous moisture, structure, and even a punch of protein! When I use tofu in desserts, I always reach for the aseptic, shelf-stable packs made by Mori-Nu\u00ae. Not only do they seem to last indefinitely when unopened, they also blend down into a flawlessly smooth puree when processed thoroughly. These compact little boxes are all over the place in natural food stores and Asian markets, as well as online. Water-packed tofu sold in the produce section of standard grocery stores will have a much looser texture when baked and is likely to have a more \"beany\" flavor.\n\nTurbinado Sugar\n\nCoarse, light brown granulated sugar, it's hard to resist the sparkle that this edible glitter lends when applied to the outside of cookies. Though it's not the best choice for actually baking with since the large crystals make for an uneven distribution of sweetness, it adds a satisfying crunch and eye-appeal when used as decoration.\n\nVanilla (Extract, Paste, and Beans)\n\nOne of the most important ingredients in a baker's arsenal, vanilla is found in countless forms and qualities. It goes without saying that artificial flavorings pale in comparison to the real thing. Madagascar vanilla is the traditional full-bodied vanilla that most people appreciate in desserts, so stick with that and you can't go wrong. To take your desserts up a step, vanilla paste brings in the same amount of flavor, but includes those lovely little vanilla bean flecks that makes everyone think you busted out the good stuff and used whole beans. Vanilla paste can be substituted 1:1 for vanilla extract. Like whole vanilla beans, save the paste for things where you'll really see those specks of vanilla goodness, like ice creams, custards, and frostings. Vanilla beans, the most costly but flavorful option, can be used instead, at about 1 bean per 2 teaspoons of extract or paste.\n\nOnce you've split and scraped out the insides, get the most for your money by stashing the pod in a container of granulated sugar, to slowly infuse the sugar with delicious vanilla flavor. Or, just store the pod in a container until it dries out, and then grind it up very finely in a high-speed blender and use it to augment a good vanilla extract. The flavor won't be as strong as the seeds, but it does contribute to the illusion that you've used the good stuff.\n\nVegan Eggnog\n\nMade with neither dairy nor eggs, commercially prepared vegan \"eggnog\" is actually quite delicious, contrary to what thoughts the name may evoke. It is a bit thinner than the traditional egg- and cream-based drink, but this actually makes it even better to bake with, as it doesn't tend to weigh cakes down nearly as much. Due to its seasonality, vegan \"eggnog\" is only available in the months surrounding Christmas, but during those times you should be able to find it in most mainstream marketplaces. Or you can make your own with a quick online search.\n\nWasabi Paste and Powder\n\nJust like the mounds of green paste served with sushi, the prepared wasabi paste found in tubes is almost certainly not made of wasabi root. Strange but true, it's typically colored horseradish instead, due to the rarity and expense of real wasabi. Read labels carefully, because it's one of those things that seems guaranteed to be vegan-friendly, but can give you a nasty surprise if you're not careful. Milk derivatives are often added, for reasons I couldn't begin to explain. The potent flavor dissipates over time, so be sure to toss any that has been sitting in your pantry well past its prime. If quality paste is nowhere to be found, opt for prepared horseradish (blended only with a dash of vinegar) instead. In some cases, mustard powder can lend a similar flavor instead of wasabi powder, but only in very small doses.\n\nWhite Whole Wheat Flour\n\nLook out, whole wheat pastry flour, healthy bakers everywhere have a new best friend! It may look and taste like regular white flour, but is instead milled from the whole grain. Simply made from hard white wheat berries instead of red, the color and flavor is much lighter, making it the perfect addition to nearly every sort of baking application you can think of. If you're concerned about getting more fiber into your diet, feel free to switch out the all-purpose flour in any recipe in this book for white whole wheat.\n\nWhole Wheat Pastry Flour\n\nI just love using whole wheat flour whenever possible, to add in some extra fiber and nutrients, but all too often it can make desserts dense and unpalatable. This is where whole wheat pastry flour steps in! It has a lower gluten content and is therefore less likely to create that tough, heavy texture typically associated with the wholesome grain. White whole wheat flour can also be used for the same applications.\n\nYogurt\n\nNo longer just soy, there are now flavors like coconut, almond, cashew, and beyond, there's a nut or a grain for everyone! Unless specified, opt for plain yogurt, rather than \"Greek\" style, which will be considerably thicker. I prefer to purchase the larger containers and weigh or measure out the requisite amount, since single-serving cups can vary in size. I'm quite partial to the almond-based version made by Kite Hill\u00ae but the \"cashewgurt\" from Forager\u00ae is a close second.\n\nTools of the Trade\n\nWorking with a scant arsenal of bare essentials at your disposal, all you really need is a mixing bowl, big wooden spoon, measuring cups, and a couple of baking tins to whip up countless fabulous baked goods. Nonetheless, a few pieces of supplemental equipment will make your time in the kitchen pass much more quickly and efficiently, improve your end results, and offer the ability to produce some more adventurous recipes. Below is a quick primer on the indispensable gadgets you'll find powering my culinary creations:\n\nBaking Pans / Baking Dishes\n\nThere are a wide variety of baking dishes on the market\u2014aluminum, nonstick, glass, silicone, and so on\u2014but any type will generally work, as long as it is the size that the recipe calls for. Just make sure to give your baking pans a little extra attention in the greasing stage if they are not nonstick. Whenever I can, I use nonstick aluminized steel, but bakeware material is greatly a matter of personal preference, so this small detail is not terribly important. For the most part, all the baking pan shapes and sizes mentioned in this book can be easily found in any good kitchen store, supermarket, or online.\n\nBlender\n\nThey come in all shapes and sizes, with wildly varying prices to match. If you want the sturdiest machine that will grant you the most pureeing power, I can't recommend the Vitamix\u00ae highly enough. Yes, it's one of the priciest models on the market for consumer purchase, but it actually is professional quality and will pay for itself through saved time and aggravation. There is simply nothing else that can blend whole nuts so silky smooth, or grind whole beans down to perfectly fine flour. I use mine almost every day, whether for baking adventures or just blending myself a smoothie.\n\nBroiler\n\nIf you've never used it before, you're missing out on one of the best elements built right into your oven. It reaches scorching-hot temperatures in seconds, providing instant firepower when you want to quickly brown surfaces or finish a dish with a touch of char. You can also use the broiler in toaster ovens for greater efficiency, since less heat is lost in smaller, more confined space. Set the rack as close to the heating element as possible to maximize that intensity and exposure. Unlike baking, broiling is most effective when the door to the oven is left slightly ajar to prevent steam from building up, preventing a proper dry sear.\n\nCookie Cutters\n\nI do not use cookie cutters very often, as they can be a pain to work with. However, when necessary, I reach for big plastic ones, which are free of small details. Shapes that are too intricate tend to spread out into one big blob while cooking. Just because they make them doesn't mean they always work out well! Also, if I have the option, I stay far away from the metal cutters, as they tend to deform and rust rather easily. But, if that is all you can find, or you would rather stick with the metal, more power to you!\n\nFood Processor\n\nThey both have a spinning blade at the bottom of a sealed canister, but don't consider a blender and a food processor as being interchangeable in every procedure. There's no way you'd be able to make pastry dough in a blender, but my food processor is the secret to effortlessly whipping up everything from silky-smooth hummus to flaky crust. If you have a limited budget for only one serious appliance investment, go for a food processor. Choose a model with at least 7\u20138 cups capacity, or else be prepared to process many recipes in batches.\n\nKitchen Torch\n\nHasn't every child wanted their own flamethrower growing up? Okay, maybe I was just an odd child, but there's no denying the allure of playing with fire. A kitchen torch allows you that thrill with a bit more safety. Found in kitchen supply and specialty shops, these devices look somewhat like small guns and are powered by butane. Very reasonably priced at $10\u2013$20 for most basic models, they make br\u00fbl\u00e9eing or browning meringue a breeze.\n\nMandoline\n\nNo relation to the mandolin, a stringed musical instrument that resembles a banjo, the mandoline is the secret to deconstructing produce into perfect paper-thin slices, all the exact same width, without needing to pick up a knife. The frame can be made of plastic or metal and comes with numerous inserts that will adjust the width of the finished slices. Some even come with specialty attachments that will create waffle cuts and crinkle cuts, ideal for fancy French fries. A common misconception is that they're dangerous, but this only rings true when used improperly, like any other tool. Never, ever, ever operate a mandoline without the hand guard. I know far too many people, including myself, that have nearly lost fingers trying to beat the system and go it alone. That one last tiny slice off the bottom of that slippery potato just isn't worth the pain.\n\nMicrowave\n\nDid you know that the first microwave ever built was 6 feet tall, weighed 750 pounds, and cost $5,000? Vast technological advances have significantly brought down all those figures, allowing the machines to become ubiquitous kitchen staples today. Few people give their microwaves a second thought, but different models can vary greatly in power and capacity. The average electromagnetic oven has an output of 700 watts, which is what most recipes are written to accommodate. If you're not sure about your own microwave, place a cup of water in a dish and see how long it takes to boil. For a 700-watt model, it should take about 2\u00bd minutes; 1,000 watts will get you there in only 1\u00be minutes. Rarely will you encounter a noncommercial machine that pumps out over 1,200 watts, which will boil water in under 1\u00bd minutes. Once you harness the full power of your machine, adjust your cooking times accordingly. You can also find a more thorough conversion chart at MicrowaveWatt.com.\n\nPiping / Pastry Bags and Tips\n\nThe very first time I picked up a piping bag to frost a cupcake, I knew that there was no going back. It just makes for a more professional presentation than frosting blobbed on with a knife, in my opinion. Piping bags are by no means necessary tools, but rather a baker's luxury. If you don't know how to wield a pastry bag or cannot be bothered with the hassle, there is no need to run out and buy one. However, should you wish to give piping a try, don't skimp on the quality! Piping bags come in heavy-duty, reusable fabric, or plastic and disposable varieties, which range in quality. This is one time when I like to use disposable, because piping bags really are a nightmare to clean. Just avoid the cheaper plastic bags, as they are often too thin to stand up to the pressure. As for the tips, you only need one or two big star tips to make immaculate swirls. You can also pipe straight out of the bag for a rounded spiral.\n\nSilicone Baking Mats\n\nI simply adore these flat, nonstick mats and use them at every opportunity. Likened to reusable parchment paper, they cut down on the cost and excess waste of traditional single-use fibers. In terms of performance, they also tend to reduce browning, so it's more difficult (but by no means impossible) to burn cookies when using them. While one should last you several years, it is helpful to have a few on hand. For best care, wash them promptly after each use with mild soap and a soft sponge. Never use a knife directly on these mats because they will slice through, indestructible though they may seem! Silpats\u00ae are the brand you're most likely to encounter, but plenty of alternatives can be located at any good kitchen supply store.\n\nSpice Grinder\n\nOtherwise known as a coffee grinder, this miniature appliance is so inexpensive and efficient that every home cook should have one! Spice grinders are perfect for quickly grinding nuts, seeds, grains, and, of course, spices, into a fine powder. Think of it as a mini food processor that can handily tackle smaller batches.\n\nSpiralizer\n\nOnce an esoteric uni-tasking tool used exclusively in raw cuisine, spiralizers have taken the whole world by storm, spinning out curly strands of vegetables with a twist of the wrist. Operated much like a hand-crank pencil sharpener, firm fruits and vegetables can be spun through a series of small blades to make \"noodles\" or ribbons of various sizes. Zucchini are typically the gateway for more daring plant-based pasta facsimiles; I've had wonderful results with seedless cucumbers, carrots, beets, strips of pumpkin, daikon, and parsnips, to name a few. You can find spiralizers sold for $15\u201340, and you really don't need to splurge on this small investment, since they're really more or less just as effective. If you're still not quite ready to commit, you can get a similar sort of result from a julienne peeler, but it will take a bit more time and labor to turn out the same volume of skinny strands.\n\nSpringform Pan\n\nSpringform pans are a must for creating perfect cheesecakes. As opposed to standard cake pans, these flexible vessels boast removable sides, which allow softer cakes to remain intact when presented. Springform pans are relatively inexpensive and can be found in most food and kitchen stores, among the wide selection of baking pans. They are easily recognizable by a clamp on one side.\n\nStand Mixer\n\nWhile hand mixers get the job done, a good stand mixer will save your arm a tremendous amount of grief. A high-quality stand mixer can cost a pretty penny, but it is usually worth its weight in gold. It is easy to multitask while this powerful and independent machine works its magic. If your kitchen space or budget doesn't allow for this luxury, then a hand mixer, or even the vigorous use of a whisk, will suit whenever a stand mixer is noted.\n\nStrainer\n\nWhen I call for one of these in a recipe, chances are I'm not talking about a pasta colander, with its large, spread-out holes. To sieve out raspberry seeds, drain canned beans, or take care of any other liquid/solid separation jobs, a decent fine-mesh sieve will tackle the job with ease. Seek out strainers with solid construction, so that the mesh won't pull out after repeated pressings with a spatula. One about 7\u20139 inches in diameter should accommodate.\n\nEssential Techniques\n\nMastering a few simple procedures frequently called for in both baking and cooking will make any culinary task much less daunting. Skills are gained only through experience, so get out in the kitchen and start practicing! Even the greenest novices should be able to get these basics down pat in no time.\n\nToasting Nuts and Seeds\n\nMany cooks recommend toasting nuts and seeds in the oven, but this isn't my method of choice. For one, why heat up the whole kitchen when you don't necessarily need the oven for the rest of your recipe? Secondly, I don't like the fact that I can't really watch over them or stir when necessary, which leads to horrifically blackened nuts far more often than I'd like to admit. Spare yourself the smoke and drama; try toasting over the stove instead.\n\nSet a medium-sized skillet over moderate heat and toss in your nuts or seeds. Toast only 1\u20132 cups at a time so that they can all have equal time getting direct heat, thus cooking more evenly. It may start slowly, but once you start smelling that nutty aroma, things move quickly, so don't walk away from this process. Stir every minute or two, until the nuts or seeds are golden brown and highly aromatic. This will take anywhere from 7\u201315 minutes, depending on your particular variety. Immediately pour the contents of your skillet out onto a plate, to prevent them from continuing to cook and subsequently burn.\n\nUsing Whole Vanilla Beans\n\nThere may be some killer vanilla extracts on the market these days, but there's still no liquid elixir that can touch the potent, sweet essence of a whole vanilla bean. You want to seek out plump, supple beans that bend easily without snapping. They should have a strong scent that carries a natural sweetness with it. Using them in your recipes is simple: Slit one bean lengthwise with a sharp knife and scrape out the tiny seeds within. Add those seeds to your mixture, and be thorough to extract every bit of bean you can.\n\nFor additional flavor, toss the spent vanilla bean pods into an ice cream base as well, to infuse, and then remove before churning. Personally, I prefer to save the pods instead in a container of granulated sugar to create incredible vanilla sugar, which does wonders as the crust of cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e.\n\nGrinding Whole Spices\n\nReady-to-use, ground spices have their place and work quite well in most cases, but if you would just try grinding them from whole seeds to taste the difference, it may be hard to go back.\n\nUsing the same technique as you would to toast nuts over the stove top, toast your whole spices first. This will bring out the aromatic and flavorful oils, allowing them to have a stronger and fuller taste. Just keep a very close eye on them, as they tend to toast very quickly; about 5\u20138 minutes should do it. They may not appear any different in color, but don't worry, you will definitely smell the difference. Let the spices cool completely before grinding down to a fine powder in a spice or coffee grinder. To achieve the finest consistency, you may want to first try freezing the spices. Measure out for your recipes only after completely ground, as whole spices would measure out to very different amounts, compared to powdered.\n\nThickening a Custard\n\nIf I had a penny for every time I had a cauldron of bubbling nondairy milk boil over and redecorate the kitchen... Well, I think you know how the rest of that goes. It's not at all hard to thicken ice cream bases, custards, or puddings, but the key is that you must give it your undivided attention. Whisk vigorously before turning on the heat to break up any possible clumps hidden anywhere within the mixture, and then make sure that you never venture above medium heat. Medium-low is a better bet for the easily distracted, just as an extra measure of insurance. Whisk occasionally at first, every few minutes, to ensure that nothing is sticking to or burning at the bottom of the pot. As bubbles begin to form around the edges, keep stirring constantly, with one hand hovering above the heat control. A rapid boil can quickly overflow the confines of any pot, so as soon as it's reached that stage, immediately kill the heat and move the whole pot off the burner. Keep whisking for a minute longer, to help facilitate the cooling process and ensure that no lumps form right at the end.\n\nStraining Custards and Sauces\n\nLumps happen, and that's a fact of life. They don't have to ruin your desserts, though! For the smoothest results possible, it's a good idea to strain every single thickened liquid before allowing it to cool or further set, to remove possible starchy clumps. Use a fine-mesh sieve to filter out any offending particles, and try not to press the contents through with your spatula. Rather, tap on the side of the strainer firmly and rapidly to help gravity carry the mixture through. Some bases are simply too thick to strain without a bit of additional pressure, though, so don't be afraid to get a spatula in there if you need to. Discard any lumps you may catch.\n\nStoring Desserts in the Freezer\n\nAir is the biggest enemy of food preservation, so the key to proper storage is investing in sturdy, airtight containers. BPA-free plastic is your best bet, since it has more flexibility, and can more easily withstand the rigors of freezing and thawing. Glass containers may be pretty and easier to see into, but they become exceedingly apt to break once frozen, and it really bites when you get shards of glass in your dessert. In the case of ice cream or frosting, if there's a lot of empty headroom in the container after filling it, place a piece of parchment or wax paper directly on the surface before closing up the container, to help stave off freezer burn.\n\nFor cakes, wrap layers separately in plastic wrap, and let frosting thaw completely before whipping back into shape with your stand mixer and applying; do not microwave because it will simply turn into a buttery puddle of sugar.\n\nCookies and cupcakes can be wrapped individually to thaw as cravings strike, or bundled in containers, separated by layers of wax paper.\n\nFruit desserts, like crisps, crumbles, and especially pies, do not keep well in the fridge let alone the freezer, and should be eaten as soon as possible. If you're worried about leftovers, make smaller batches and bake in single servings.\n\nDon't forget, the freezer doesn't cryogenically preserve foods, and even the most carefully packed edibles don't last forever. Be sure to label all containers with titles and dates either on stickers or pieces of masking tape, and keep frozen treats for no more than a maximum of four months (although that's never been much of a concern in my household, at least).\n\nRolling Out Pie Dough\n\nWarmth is the mortal enemy of pie dough, so always keep your crusts chilled. That means you should leave them in the fridge until the very last minute, handle them as little as possible, and keep them on the counter only as long as they need to be there. As the dough warms up, the margarine begins to melt, so the dough will become stickier and thus harder to work with, not to mention the fact that you will lose flakiness in the final baked crust. From the moment it hits your lightly floured counter, it should get your full attention. Turn the disk over in the flour to coat both sides, so that it doesn't stick to either the counter or your rolling pin. You can add a pinch of additional flour to the top if it seems to cling at any point.\n\nStart in the center of the disk and apply firm but gentle pressure outward with your rolling pin, smoothing out the dough as evenly as you can. Roll a few times in one direction, gently lift and turn the dough, and roll again in a new direction. It's easiest if you can stand at a corner, so you can change position more and move the dough around less. Don't worry that it's not a perfect circle (it never will be, even after you've made a million pies). Focus on thickness; even thickness is the key to even baking. An eighth of an inch is the magic width that works best to support a filling without burning to a crisp or remaining doughy, so use a ruler or just pretend you're making thin cookies to approximate the measurement.\n\nSome people prefer to roll out dough between two pieces of parchment paper or silicone baking mats to get around the use of flour, thus preventing possible messes. I'm not a big fan of this method, since my crusts still stuck to the paper and are more likely to tear upon removal, but this method may be more effective in colder climates.\n\nTransferring Dough to a Pie Pan\n\nSo you've got your thin round of dough, ready to use. Now what? It's time to maneuver it into your vessel of choice, a 9-inch round standard pie pan unless otherwise specified in the particular recipe you're making. Since the shape of the crust is rather unwieldy as it stands, I like to make mine more compact for an easy transfer. Very gently fold the whole round in half, without pressing down on the seam or sides, and then fold it in half again in the same fashion, so that it's ultimately a quarter of its former size. Lift the folded round from underneath, handling it lightly, and place the folded point right in the center of your pan. Fully unfold it to fill the dish, easing it up the sides and pressing any creases flat again. You should have more or less even amounts of excess dough overhanging the edges if you've situated it correctly.\n\nFluting or Crimping the Crust\n\nNeaten up the edges before attempting anything fancy, so that you have the same amount of material to work with all the way around. Use kitchen shears or a very sharp knife to trim the excess dough to about \u00bd inch away from the rim of the pan. For a single crust, lift up that edge and fold it underneath itself, so that it's resting on the lip of the pie pan and the cut edge is hidden. Continue folding all the way around, straightening and smoothing as you go. The simplest crimp is made with the tines of a fork; just press the fork into the rim again and again until the lines match up in the place where you began. My favorite sort of crimp is done with just three fingers; use two fingers on one hand to press the interior side of the lip, and one finger on the other to press the opposite side of the crust in the center of those two fingers. Repeat all the way around to form a tight scalloped design. For a larger, loopy scallop, turn that single finger into a hook and press that into the side of the crust, using your opposite hands to indent the larger space on either side of the \"U\" shape.\n\nMaking Decorative Crusts and Cutouts\n\nIf you should find yourself with leftover scraps of dough, don't throw them away\u2014you can use them to make fancy decorations on top of your pie! Just use any small, simple-shaped cookie cutters to punch out your pieces. Adhere them to either the exposed rim of a single crust or the top of a double crust in exactly the same way: Use a lightly moistened finger to dampen the back of your shape before firmly pressing it into place. If you want to decorate the entire border of the pie, this method can take the place of a traditional crimped edge.\n\nCreating the Perfect Golden-Brown Finish\n\nAll it takes for any food to cook to a mouthwatering shade of amber is a bit of heat and either sugar or protein. Protein enables the Maillard reaction, whereas sugars create caramelization. Either way, it all leads to one conclusion: Delicious, beautiful food. In the case of pastries, the dough naturally contains a bit of each macronutrient, which allows browning in the oven without further intervention. If you want to enhance that reaction, and potentially add a touch of shine, that's where a swipe of Golden Pastry Glaze comes in handy.\n\n1 teaspoon arrowroot powder\n\n1 teaspoon light corn syrup\n\n3 tablespoons water\n\nWhisk ingredients together vigorously, to dissolve the arrowroot smoothly into the liquid. Use a pastry brush, basting brush, or large art brush that has never been used with paint to apply the glaze to the upper crust or exposed edges of a single crust. Bake as per usual.\n\nAlternately, plain nondairy milk can also give you good results; soy milk is best in this case, since it's the highest in protein.\n\nCatching Drips in the Oven\n\nPies, and fruit pies especially, are notorious for bubbling up and over the confines of their pans. Those dastardly sticky fillings seem hell-bent on making their mark all over your clean oven. Don't let the pie win this fight! Although spillover can't be controlled, it can be contained. Every time you bake a pie, no matter how clean and dry it may appear, always place a large, rimmed baking sheet on the oven rack directly below it. This will catch any drips thrown overboard, and though it won't prevent them from burning during the baking process, it will save you the hassle of scrubbing out the oven later. It's much easier to clean a single baking sheet than a whole cavernous oven.\n\nSubstituting Frozen Fruit for Fresh\n\nCravings don't always follow the seasons, so the temptation to sneak in a blueberry pie in the middle of a January blizzard is completely understandable. While it is possible to use frozen fruits where fresh are called for, bear in mind that a pie is only as good as its ingredients, and nothing can compare to the flavor of ripe produce at the height of its growing season. There is also no direct conversion from fresh to frozen, since the freezing process creates many ice crystals inside the fruit which extract additional water when thawed. To prevent your pies from becoming a soupy mess, you must first fully thaw and drain the fruit. Only then can you measure and use it, although the weight will be different thanks to the water that was removed, so your best bet is to stick with volume measures. Otherwise, weigh out how much liquid you're removing once the fruit has thawed, and add in that same measurement of whole, thawed fruit to equal the same final weight called for in the recipe.\n\nCaramelizing Cr\u00e8me Br\u00fbl\u00e9e\n\nAfter preparing and chilling the cr\u00e8me in question, use a paper towel to dab off any condensation or moisture that may have formed on the surface of the custard. Sprinkle sugar generously over the top, tilting the ramekin around so that the entire area is evenly covered; tap off any excess that doesn't stick.\n\nIf using a kitchen torch, start by holding the flame 3\u20134 inches away from the sugar, continuously moving the torch in a gentle circular motion. If you allow it to rest in one area for too long, you'll get uneven browning or worse, burning, so pay close attention to the flame. Slowly move in closer, until you start to see the granules liquefy. Keep on moving, turning the ramekin to reach all areas of the top, until all of the sugar has dissolved and turned a golden amber brown.\n\nIf br\u00fbl\u00e9eing in the oven, position the oven rack at the very highest spot in the oven and turn on the broiler to high. When hot, place the ramekins directly under the broiler and let cook for 5\u201310 minutes, until the sugar has dissolved and is bubbling away. Rotate frequently to allow even browning.\n\nLet the caramelized sugar rest for at least 5 minutes before serving, for it to set up to a hard crack. Completed cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e can be stored in the refrigerator for no more than 30 minutes before the caramel begins to melt.\n\nMaking Vanilla Sugar\n\nHow can you improve upon an already stellar dessert? Vanilla sugar is the magic ingredient capable of turning the flavor up to 11. It makes the biggest difference in more delicately seasoned or simpler sweets where the addition is more detectable, but it adds a subtle something extra to anything it graces. Try it on top of cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e, to sweeten whipped cream, or even in hot drinks, for starters. To make a practically unlimited supply, fill a jar of any size with standard granulated sugar. Every time you use a vanilla bean, jam the spent, dry pods right in the center. Over time, the vanilla will infuse its essence throughout the sugar, becoming stronger with age. Continue replenishing both the beans and sugar periodically, and you will always be prepared with some on hand.\n\nTroubleshooting\n\nCake or bread didn't rise?\n\nSince there are no eggs to provide leavening in vegan baking, cakes rely entirely on chemical leaveners, such as baking powder and soda. If you mismeasure these critical ingredients, there will be dire consequences, so be diligent and stick to the recipe as written! Tweaking flavors and playing around to put your own spin on things is encouraged, but altering the basic structure is not recommended.\n\nAlso, be certain to check that both baking powder and soda are in good working condition. Those little boxes tend to stick around forever, and if you don't do a whole lot of baking, chance are they've gone bad and lost their leavening ability. To test the efficacy of baking powder, place 1 teaspoon into a small dish, and mix in \u00bd teaspoon water. For baking soda, you want to combine 1 teaspoon with \u00bd teaspoon of vinegar. In both cases, they should bubble up right away, or else it's time to replace them.\n\nYeast is a living organism (but not an animal or animal product; they're technically classified in the kingdom Fungi, just like mushrooms) so it makes good sense that at some point they \"die\" and cease to function properly. Dried in packets, they're in a dormant state, and must be reawakened before being baked. That's why most recipes recommend proofing, that is, soaking the yeast in warm water, before adding it into the dough. If after 5\u201310 minutes, it doesn't become frothy, your yeast is a goner. I like to store my yeast in the fridge, and I've thus far never had any expire on me.\n\nTough, dry cake or muffin?\n\nSounds like a gluten problem. Gluten develops when you beat or mix a wheat-based mixture too much, making it stretchy as if you were making bread dough. Unfortunately, this is not what you want for cakes. Instead of a tender crumb, that extra gluten will give you a tight, unpleasantly chewy baked good. A side effect of having more gluten in the cake is that it will also tend to squeeze out or absorb more liquid, leaving the baked good in question with a drier interior. If you're ever unsure of how much to mix, just assume that for cakes, less is better.\n\nDry, hard, or crumbly cookies?\n\nThe secret to cravably soft, chewy cookies is hardly a secret at all, but common sense when it comes right down to it. Bake your cookies for less time, and allow them to sit on the hot baking sheet longer to finish cooking at a slower, gentler pace. When I pull mine out of the oven, they tend to look like they're not quite done, and perhaps even still raw in the center. It depends on the exact cookie and with practice, you'll get a better feel for when exactly to take them out, but always start by baking them for the lesser amount of time suggested in a recipe. For example, if the recipe recommends 8\u201312 minutes, start by baking them for only 8, and check your results. If worse comes to worst, underbaked cookies can always take a second round in the oven.\n\nCake or bread gooey in the center?\n\nThis is quite possibly one of the most common baking problems I hear about, which is such a shame because it's very easily prevented. It's an issue of simply not baking the item in question for long enough, even though it may look browned to perfection on the outside. Always be sure to check the interior by inserting a toothpick or wooden skewer into the center, all the way down to the bottom. This method does have its pitfalls though, should there be chocolate chips that give the false impression that your cake is still raw in the middle, so you may wish to poke in multiple places. Bear in mind that the holes will show, so unless you're covering the top with frosting, this may not be the best idea!\n\nIf you repeatedly end up with cakes that are done on the outside but raw in the center, double-check your oven temperature\u2014it's likely that it's running hot. You can compensate by dialing a slightly lower temperature than is recommended in the recipe, or by tenting a pieces of aluminum foil over your baked goods in the final minutes of baking, to ensure that the tops don't burn or become overdone.\n\nCake domed in the center?\n\nDon't panic\u2014this is a common problem with a very simple solution. The easiest way to correct a cosmetic defect like this is to wait until the cake is completely cool, and then take a long, serrated knife, and slice off the hump. Voil\u00e0, a perfectly flat cake, and a little snack for the baker! If you're worried about crumbs or want to avoid such a situation altogether, try lowering your oven temperature by about 25 degrees. It's possible that your oven might be running a bit hotter than anticipated, causing that edible mountain to form in the first place. Double-check next time by placing an additional thermometer inside the oven, and compare the readings to the external display.\n\nFlat muffins with no tops?\n\nExactly the opposite of the problem described directly above, in this case, you might want to consider raising the oven temperature 25 degrees. Additionally, make sure your batter isn't too runny; it should definitely be thicker than cupcake batter. Don't be shy when you fill the tins, because unlike cupcakes, you want to mound these up right to the top, and possibly even over. Make sure you do pile on the batter right in the center, to encourage those golden-brown peaks to form.\n\nCupcakes remove their own papers?\n\nYes, nudist cupcakes. Some people never experience this phenomenon, and I hadn't until very recently when baking a large batch (16 dozen) cupcakes for a massive order at work. All was going according to plan, little cakes marching out of the oven left and right... but then while they sat on the counter cooling, they began to spontaneously undress. After having this happen a couple times on giant batches, I've come to find that there are two issues that could be the culprit here; Most likely, the cupcakes are placed too close together while cooling, thus \"steaming\" each other and causing too much moisture to form between the cake and wrapper. Being paper, it doesn't take much for the wrapper to give up the fight and fall off.\n\nSecondly, it's possible that there is too much oil in the cakes. That was my main problem, because although I scaled up the recipe, I simply multiplied most of the amounts. It's not a straight conversion when you get into such large scale baking. I've been cutting back on the oil for batches of more than 4 dozen, and my cupcakes have stayed properly dressed ever since.\n\nCupcakes won't come out of their papers?\n\nUnfortunately, the only thing that can be done about this problem is to buy different cupcake papers next time. Most manufacturers use paper that is at least somewhat waterproof, and some of the higher quality options are even laminated or coated in food-grade silicone, like a non-stick pan, to make for easier cupcake removal. However, the cheapest options are unlikely to offer any easy-release guarantees, and if you find that your cakes keep getting trapped in their wrappers time and again, you may want to start looking into other brands.\n\nIce cream too hard or not creamy?\n\nIce cream can be a tricky dessert to make, simply because the texture is largely dependent on the machine that you use to churn it in. If the machine churns too slowly, it will cause larger ice crystals to form, thus giving you an icier finished dessert. Additionally, if it doesn't mix in much air\u2014which is what gives the ice cream greater volume (often called \"overrun\" in ice cream\u2013speak)\u2014then it will ultimately freeze with a much denser consistency, which can translate into hard ice cream.\n\nAnother thing you may want to check is what temperature your freezer is. The average freezer runs at around 0\u00b0F. If yours clocks in far below that, you'll undoubtedly get more solidly frozen ice cream straight from the chill chest. Finally, bear in mind that the longer your ice cream sits in the freezer, the harder and also drier it will become. Yes, ice cream can go bad and become freezer-burnt if you stash it for over 4 months or so... Although I must admit, I've never found that to be a problem in this household.\n\nThe best solution for almost all of these problems is to simply remove your ice cream from the freezer 10\u201315 minutes before you want to serve it. This will allow it to soften slightly, become easier to scoop, and reach a temperature where the flavors will be more pronounced (since our taste buds can't detect flavors as well when foods are colder). If you're in a rush, you can also microwave it for bursts of 5 seconds at a time, until soft enough to scoop, but not melted.\n\nFrosting not light and fluffy?\n\nPatience, grasshopper! Although the frosting may be smooth and creamy after just a minute of whipping, it takes much more time for it to take in enough air to become lighter in texture. Give it a solid 5\u201310 minutes before panicking, and if that doesn't do it, you may want to add a teaspoon or two of water if it seems too thick, or \u00bc\u2013\u00bd cup more confectioners' sugar if you think it might be too thin. Make sure that you have the whisk attachment installed in your stand mixer, and crank it up to high.\n\nBaked goods didn't turn \"golden brown\"?\n\nBrowning is another form of caramelization, and for caramelization to occur, you must have sugars and heat present. Since the recipes in this cookbook all have some form of sugar and of course, baked goods go into the oven, the problem probably lies in a mismeasurement, erring on the side of too little sugar. Otherwise, your sweets were simply not baked for long enough time.\n\nChips, nuts, and berries all sank to the bottom?\n\nAll of these goodies tend to be much heavier than the batter of most cakes or bar cookies, so it's a simple matter of gravity taking over when you find them all clumped at the bottom. However, by coating the mix-ins evenly in flour before adding the wet ingredients in, you stand a fighting chance of keeping them distributed throughout. If they still fall and this bothers you, you can instead try sprinkling them on top of the batter once spread in the pan, so that they may ultimately end up in the middle as intended.\nSWEET STARTS\n\nLoaf it or Leave It: While I love the grab-and-go convenience of individual muffins, it's a snap to convert this recipe into loaf format for superlative banana bread. Simply pour the batter into a lightly greased 8x4-inch loaf pan. You may wish to double the topping for fuller coverage, and sprinkle it evenly all over the batter, before placing the loaf pan into the oven. Bake at 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) for 45 to 55 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the loaf comes out clean.\nBetter Banana Nut Muffins\n\nMakes 10 to 12 muffins\n\nFor the times when each grocery run adds a few extra bananas to the counter, turning the cache into a steadily growing pile of rapidly browning time bombs, every baker needs a reliable banana muffin recipe in their repertoire. Most merely call for one or two mashed bananas, but double down on the fruity flavor with chewy, almost candy-like concentrated natural sweetness of rehydrated dried bananas. These aren't those fried, starchy banana chips you get in the snack aisle. These are actual dried bananas that you can buy or make yourself. If you choose to make them, cut ripe bananas into \u00bc-inch coins and either dehydrate or bake at the lowest setting on your oven for 3\u20136 hours, until darkened, dry to the touch, and still slightly flexible. Be sure to make plenty of extra while you're at it, since the plain dried fruit makes for an irresistible snack as is.\n\nBANANA MUFFINS:\n\n1 cup dried banana slices\n\n1 cup water\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u215b teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n2 large, very ripe bananas, mashed\n\n\u00bd cup toasted, chopped pecans\n\nOAT TOPPING:\n\n2 tablespoons turbinado sugar\n\n2 tablespoons old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) and lightly grease a set of standard muffin tins.\n\nIn a small saucepan, combine the dried bananas with about 1 cup of water. Simmer for around 10 minutes to soften, then remove from the heat, and drain off any excess liquid. Once the banana slices are cool enough to handle, roughly chop them into small pieces about the size of raisins. Set aside.\n\nCombine the nondairy milk and vinegar in a large bowl and let sit for a few minutes before whisking vigorously until frothy. Drizzle in the oil to emulsify, following with the brown sugar and vanilla. Mix until fully incorporated. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Slowly incorporate this dry mixture into the wet, being careful not to overmix. It's fine to leave a few lumps in the batter rather than risk ending up with tough muffins.\n\nFold in the mashed bananas, pecans, and rehydrated bananas. Distribute the batter evenly into your prepared muffin tins, mounding it toward the center so that it peeks just above the edge of the pan.\n\nFor the topping, combine the sugar, oats, and cinnamon. Sprinkle it over the raw batter before placing the pan into the oven. Bake for 14 to 18 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Let the muffins rest in the pan for at least 5 minutes before removing them to finish cooling on a wire rack.\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal\n\nMakes about 3 cups; 3 to 5 servings\n\nPerhaps I've strayed too far off the pastry path for some, but believe it or not, this quinoa concoction really does satisfy that sweet-tooth craving. Think carrot cake with a crunch, this simple cereal is more like granola in texture, while remaining a bit lighter and perfectly crisp all the way through. Pair with vegan yogurt to evoke the sweetness and gentle twang of cream cheese frosting, and you won't miss the layers one bit. I do fully endorse eating cake for breakfast, no matter what form it takes.\n\n1 cup uncooked quinoa\n\n2 cups carrot juice\n\n\u00bc cup chopped walnuts (optional)\n\n1 tablespoon flaxseeds, ground\n\n1 tablespoon chia seeds\n\n1 tablespoon olive oil\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bc teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground ginger\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup chopped dried pineapple\n\n\u00bc cup raisins\n\nBegin by cooking your quinoa in the carrot juice. Simply bring the carrot juice to a boil in a small pot and add the dry quinoa. Cover, reduce the heat to low, and cook gently for 15 to 20 minutes, until all the liquid has been absorbed. Let cool completely before proceeding. You can speed this up by transferring the cooked quinoa to a large bowl and stirring it around a bit, to release the steam and let it air-dry more quickly.\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.\n\nIn a medium bowl, mix the cooled quinoa in with all remaining ingredients except for the dried fruits. Spread the mixture out on your prepared sheet, in as thin and even a layer as you can manage. This will help the cereal bake up nice and crispy, so take your time smoothing it out with either a spatula or lightly moistened hands.\n\nBake for 45 to 60 minutes, stirring every 15 minutes or so, until lightly browned and dry to the touch. It may still have a little bit of softness and give to it, but don't worry; it will continue to crisp up as it cools.\n\nLet cool completely before tossing in the pineapple and raisins. Store in an airtight container for up to a week at room temperature.\n\nChocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones\n\nMakes 4 scones\n\nCompetition is fierce these days, with every nut and seed vying for top honors, but I still believe that peanut butter may just be the world's most perfect spread. Crunchy or creamy, spiced or salted, there's always at least two or three jars of the stuff taking up residence in my pantry. This nutty wonder works its way into countless recipes since it's such a reliably satisfying staple. More than just a toast topper, peanut butter plays the key role in creating the flaky structure of these scones, coincidentally reducing the amount of fat typically found lacquering this buttery breakfast treat. Naturally, this logic justifies the more hedonistic chocolate glaze drizzled over the top.\n\nPEANUT BUTTER SCONES:\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n2 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup crunchy peanut butter\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\nCHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER GLAZE:\n\n\u2153 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n1 tablespoon creamy peanut butter\n\n1 tablespoon unsweetened nondairy milk\n\nPreheat your oven to 400\u00baF (205\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper.\n\nIn a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut the butter into small pieces and use a fork or a pastry cutter to break it up, along with the crunchy peanut butter, into the flour mixture. Continue cutting the fats into the mixture until it resembles large, coarse crumbs, at which point you can stir in the vanilla. Slowly drizzle in the nondairy milk, one tablespoon at a time, stirring just until the dough starts to come together into a ball. Try not to work the dough any more than necessary.\n\nDrop all the dough onto your silicone baking mat and shape it into a rough circle about 1\u00bd-inches thick. This is a rather sticky dough, but work with it gently and it should cooperate. Lightly moisten or grease your hands to help manage the tacky texture, if needed. Cut the circle into 4 quarters with a very sharp knife or bench scraper, so each piece looks somewhat triangular, and separate them on the baking sheet so that each has room to cook. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until they turn lightly golden brown. Cool your scones on the baking sheet for at least 5 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack.\n\nFor the glaze, combine the confectioners' sugar, cocoa powder, creamy peanut butter, and nondairy milk together in a small bowl. Mix thoroughly until smooth, and drizzle over the cooled scones.\n\nFiggy Graham Scones\n\nMakes 4 to 6 scones\n\nBefore graham flour ever turned into crackers and became inseparable from the simple childhood snack, it was already making waves as a wholesome, flavorful foundation in many humble confections. Subtly nutty, pleasantly sandy in texture, it's these unique qualities that place these unassuming scones in a category all their own. Flecked with sultry, chewy chunks of luscious dried figs, prepare the scones in advance and set yourself up for success come breakfast time. Try them lightly toasted with a schmear of vegan cream cheese and jam, or a pat of vegan butter slowly melting over the top, for an exceptionally delicious wake-up call.\n\n1 cup graham flour\n\n\u00bd cup whole wheat pastry flour\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00be cups chopped dried figs\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n4\u20136 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper.\n\nIn a medium bowl, combine the flours, sugar, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Cut the butter into small pieces and use your fingers or a pastry cutter to press it into the flour mixture. Continue coating as many grains as possible until you create a coarse, pebble-like consistency. Stir in the figs and vanilla. Add the nondairy milk, one tablespoon at a time, until the mixture just comes together as cohesive dough. The amount will depend on your humidity level, so don't be afraid to use more or less, if necessary.\n\nTurn the dough out of the bowl, and firmly press it into a circle that is about one inch tall. Cut your circle into even quarters or sixths, depending on your appetite, and carefully move the divided dough onto your prepared baking sheet. Bake for 14 to 16 minutes, until the scones just begin to brown around the edges. Let cool on the sheet, and serve either warm or at room temperature.\n\nFruited Focaccia\n\nMakes 16 servings\n\nItalians would be up in arms over this shamelessly inauthentic rendition of their beloved flatbread. Focaccia is supposed to be savory bread of the utmost simplicity, lavished with olive oil, dotted with herbs, maybe sun-dried tomatoes, or perhaps a few briny olives at the most. There's good reason why the classic take remains a timeless dinnertime side dish, but why let tradition limit your creativity? Enriched with plump dried fruits and a hint of bright citrus, this sweet twist on the usual yeast bread turns it into a tasty morsel to help jump-start your day. Any other combination of fruity additions could work well, so use your favorites if you aren't keen on these recommendations.\n\n3 cups water (reserve 1 cup after soaking)\n\n1 cup raisins\n\n\u00bd cup dried cranberries\n\n\u00bd cup chopped dried apricots\n\n\u00bd cup chopped dried pineapple\n\n\u00bd cup chopped dried apples\n\n1 cup orange juice\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n2\u00bc teaspoons (\u00bc-ounce) packet active dry yeast\n\n5\u20136 cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar, divided\n\n1 teaspoon salt\n\nBring the water to a boil in a large pot and turn off the heat. Add in the dried fruit and let it soak for about 15 minutes to rehydrate. Drain the fruit but save 1 cup of the excess liquid. In a medium bowl, mix the reserved soaking liquid with the orange juice, oil, and yeast. Set aside.\n\nInto a large bowl, toss the rehydrated fruit along with 2 cups of flour, \u00bc cup of sugar, and the salt. Add in about half of your liquid ingredients and mix thoroughly until you achieve a smooth dough. Add in another 2 cups of flour along with the remainder of the liquid before mixing again. You don't want the dough to be too sticky, so you may need to introduce anywhere from 1 to 2 more cups of flour, depending on the moisture content of your dough. At this point, you will need to work the dough with either a dough hook installed in your stand mixer or with your hands. When fully combined, you should have a cohesive ball of dough that can be easily handled. Continue to knead with the dough hook or by hand on a lightly floured surface for 5 to 10 minutes, until the dough becomes smooth and elastic. Let rest for 10 minutes before proceeding.\n\nThoroughly grease a 12 x 17-inch jelly-roll pan and drop the dough on top. Use your fingers to poke the dough down at random intervals, cover loosely with a clean kitchen towel, and let the pan sit in a warm place to rise for about an hour. When it appears to have doubled in volume, sprinkle the remaining \u00bc cup of sugar evenly over the top, and bake in a 400\u00baF (205\u00baC) oven for 25 to 30 minutes. When it is done, the bread should have a solid crust that is a deep golden brown. Let cool and slice into 3 x 4-inch pieces.\n\nEnjoy this stand-alone breakfast bread as is, or top with your favorite jam for even more fruit flavor.\n\nGolden Glazed Doughnuts\n\nMakes 6 to 8 doughnuts plus 8 or more doughnut holes\n\nRemember those crispy, creamy donuts of yore, rolling down the conveyor belt behind glass windows, hurtling through a curtain of cascading white icing? Nothing can replicate the experience of biting into one of those soft, tender rings, still hot off the line... but it's entirely possible to create an even better version in the comfort of your own home. Instead of just melting away to coat your tongue in sugary residue, these beauties possess both substance and sweet nostalgic satisfaction.\n\nDOUGHNUTS:\n\n2\u00bc teaspoons (\u00bc-ounce) packet active dry yeast\n\n2 tablespoons warm water\n\n3 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon whole flaxseeds\n\n\u00be cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n2\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 quart canola or vegetable oil, for frying\n\nGLAZE:\n\n3 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 tablespoon water\n\nTO FINISH:\n\nRainbow sprinkles (optional)\n\nSprinkle the yeast over the warm water in a small dish and let sit for 5 minutes, until it reactivates and becomes a bit frothy. Meanwhile, in your stand mixer, fitted with the beater attachment, cream the butter and sugar together and beat until fluffy. Grind the flaxseeds into a fine powder using a spice grinder before adding it into the mixer, followed by the nondairy milk, vinegar, vanilla, and salt. Incorporate the water and yeast next. The mixture will likely look a bit lumpy at this point, so don't stress over appearances. Add in 2 cups of flour, letting the mixer run until it's fully incorporated. Add in the remaining \u00bd cup of flour and continue mixing to combine.\n\nReplace the beater with a dough hook, if you have one, and agitate the dough on medium speed for about 5 minutes. Alternatively, turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it by hand. Continue until it feels smooth and elastic\u2014tacky but not too sticky. Move the dough into a lightly greased bowl, cover, and place in a warm location to rise. Wait for the dough to double in volume before proceeding, approximately 1 hour.\n\nGrease a baking sheet and set aside. On a lightly floured surface, turn the dough out of the bowl and gently roll it out to a thickness of approximately \u00bd-inch. Use a doughnut cutter, or one large and one small circular cookie cutter (about 4 inches and 1 inch, respectively), lightly dipped in flour, to create each doughnut shape. Move the raw doughnuts onto the greased baking sheet. Cut any remaining dough into small circles to make doughnut holes and stash these on the baking sheet as well. Cover loosely with a clean dish towel, and let them rise for another hour or so, until they double in size.\n\nOnce the dough is ready, begin heating the oil in a deep fryer or large pot. While the oil is heating, prepare the glaze. Over medium-low heat, melt the butter and whisk in the sugar, vanilla, and water until the glaze is completely smooth. Pour the glaze into a shallow dish that is wide enough to accommodate your donuts. Set aside. Don't worry if the glaze begins to solidify while you are frying. The heat from the donuts will melt it back to a liquid state.\n\nWhen the oil hits 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) you're ready to start frying. First and foremost, be very careful! You will only be cooking one or two donuts at a time, to avoid crowding the pot and ensuring they cook evenly. Gently slide the raw dough into the oil using a wide slotted spatula. Fry for about 2 minutes per side, until deeply golden brown. Remove using the same spatula, briefly pat any excess oil off using a paper towel, and dip them into the glaze while the doughnut is still warm. Top with rainbow sprinkles, if desired. Repeat this process for the remaining doughnuts and doughnut holes.\n\nChocoholics, Unite! In the battle between chocolate and vanilla, the only clear winner is both. Keep the peace by whipping up a quick chocolate glaze. Simply add \u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder to the glaze recipe.\n\nHearty Granola Waffles\n\nMakes 4 to 6 servings\n\nPlain Jane waffles would spill their syrup with one glance at these crisp, golden brown, deeply cratered beauties. The batter itself is bursting with a diverse range of flavorful mix-ins, colored by whichever unique blend strikes your fancy. Use a Belgian waffle iron to make deeper pockets to accommodate even more granola goodness on top.\n\n3 cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n2\u00bd cups unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bd cups granola, store-bought or homemade (page 51)\n\nPreheat your waffle iron so it's ready as soon as the batter is prepared. Combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together the nondairy milk, maple syrup, oil, vinegar, and vanilla. Pour the wet ingredients into the bowl of dry and stir until just incorporated; it's perfectly fine to leave a few lumps remaining.\n\nOnce the waffle iron is hot, lightly grease with cooking spray or olive oil, and ladle the batter on top. The exact amount depends on the size of your waffle iron. Sprinkle about \u00bc cup of granola over the raw batter for each waffle before closing the lid.\n\nCook for 4 to 6 minutes, until evenly golden brown. Serve hot, with additional granola and Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243), if desired. If you'd like to prepare the waffles in advance and save them for later, allow them to cool completely before storing them in an airtight plastic bag or container. The waffles will keep in the fridge for up to a week, or in the freezer for up to two months.\n\nSome people say that the best part of a cinnamon roll is the cream cheese icing, and I must admit, they make a pretty compelling argument. If you can't imagine forgoing that gooey goodness, you can make a Quick Cream Cheese Icing by mixing together 4 ounces (\u00bd cup) vegan cream cheese, \u00bd cup confectioners' sugar, and 2 to 4 tablespoons nondairy milk until smooth. Drizzle to your heart's content!\nOatmeal Raisin Rolls\n\nMakes 12 to 15 rolls\n\nCinnamon rolls are a delight bright and early in the morning, unless of course you're the baker who had to wake up long before sunrise to make them. You could choose the traditional route, agonizing over long waiting periods while the dough rises... or, you could skip straight to the good part and whip up a different sort of swirled bun, without the fuss. These soft and tender spirals come together very quickly and are considerably heartier than your typical breakfast pastry, so you can still feel virtuous for eating well, even if you oversleep.\n\n\u00be cup unsweetened non-dairy milk\n\n2\u00bc teaspoons (\u00bc-ounce) packet rapid rise yeast\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n1\u00bc cups whole wheat pastry flour\n\n1\u00bc cups old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd cup raisins\n\nPreheat your oven to 400\u00baF (205\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper.\n\nHeat the nondairy milk in a microwave-safe dish for 30 to 60 seconds, or until just warmed through. Add the yeast and let sit until it becomes frothy, about 5 minutes. Meanwhile, in a separate bowl, cream the butter, sugar, and vanilla together. Add in the baking powder, salt, whole wheat pastry flour, and oats, mixing thoroughly to combine. The yeast should have become visibly active by now, so pour the yeast mixture into the batter, mixing thoroughly. Finally, add the all-purpose flour, and stir well, so that everything is completely combined.\n\nTurn the dough out onto a generously floured surface and knead it briefly for about 5 minutes. Press the dough out manually to form a nice even rectangle of about \u00bc inch thickness. Exact measurements aren't all that important, but keep in mind that a longer, thinner shape will produce more rolls that are smaller, while a shorter, wider shape will produce fewer rolls that are larger and have more layers. Regardless of what you ultimately end up with, sprinkle the brown sugar and cinnamon evenly over the top, leaving about 1 inch on one of the long sides clear. Sprinkle the raisins over the brown sugar and press them gently into the surface of the dough. Starting at the long side where the sugar goes all the way to the edge, roll the dough carefully without stretching or pulling it. When you get to the edge, very lightly moisten the clean edge of dough with water so that it sticks to the side. Pinch together the edges to seal.\n\nLay the dough seam-side down on the counter, and gently cut 1-inch pieces with a very sharp knife. Place each roll on your prepared baking sheet, with one of the cut sides down, and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until they just begin to turn golden brown all over.\n\nEnjoy these rolls plain for breakfast, or top them with icing for a more decadent treat.\n\nPower-Hungry Granola\n\nMakes 4 to 6 servings\n\nBack in the day of early classes and long school days, my go-to breakfast would almost always be some sort of granola. Instant, easy to eat, and delicious, I could pretty much live on nothing but cereal for days on end. Unfortunately, not all granola is created equal, often leading to devastating sugar comas and midday crashes, right when I needed energy most. Now older and wiser, I decided to take matters into my own hands, in search of truly smart fuel. Full of whole grains, protein, good fats, and just enough sweetness to entice the taste buds, this concoction put an end to my midday slumps. Double, or even triple, this recipe to set yourself up for success during your most demanding weeks.\n\n1 cup textured vegetable protein (TVP)\n\n1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n3 cups puffed quinoa, millet, and/or brown rice cereal\n\n2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n\u2153 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n\u2153 cup apple juice\n\n2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n\u2153 cup dried cranberries\n\n\u2153 cup raisins\n\n\u00bd cup sliced almonds\n\nPreheat your oven to 300\u00baF (150\u00baC) and lightly grease a jelly-roll pan, or any other large baking sheet with a rim or shallow sides.\n\nStir together the TVP, oats, puffed cereal, and cinnamon in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, combine the sugar and all the liquid ingredients. Pour the liquid mixture over the dry goods, folding it together until all the cereal is completely coated. Spread out in as flat a layer as possible into your prepared pan or dish. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, stirring at 10-minute intervals so your granola doesn't burn. Let cool completely on the sheet.\n\nOnce cool, stir in the cranberries, raisins, and almonds, and serve with your favorite nondairy milk or simply eat right out of your hand. Store any leftover granola in an airtight container, for up to two weeks.\n\nStrawberry Love Muffins\n\nMakes 10 to 12 muffins\n\nFoodies will all agree that the quickest way to a person's heart is through their stomach. Thus, it seems only logical that when Valentine's Day rolls around, something edible must take center stage. While chocolate and candies are obvious considerations, try this romantic treat for healthy departure from such over-the-top indulgence. Of course, regularly shaped muffins work just as well if you lack the necessary equipment, or just want to spread the love all year round. Whatever vessel ends up becoming a home to your blushing batter, these muffins are guaranteed to win hearts.\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup lemon juice\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup fresh or frozen and thawed strawberries, sliced\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) and grease 10 to 12 muffin tins, depending on how large you'd like to make them.\n\nBegin by mixing together your dry ingredients (flour through salt) in a large bowl. Gently stir in the nondairy milk, lemon juice, oil, and vanilla, but be careful not to overmix; a few lumps are okay! Fold in the strawberries and pour the batter into your prepared muffin tins, filling them about \u00be of the way to the top. Slide your filled tins into the oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean.\n\nLet the muffins sit for at least 10 minutes before removing them from the pan. Enjoy with someone you love.\n\nSweet & Simple French Toast\n\nMakes 4 slices\n\nWhen I first attempted French toast, it was still very early in my \"career\" as a vegan. Because I had yet to really move into my element in the kitchen, my whole family remained skeptical of what could be done without milk or eggs. Even my mom, the eternal optimist, was not exactly convinced that French toast without the usual animal products would be entirely palatable. Still, I persevered and came up with this creation to share with her. All it took was one mouthful of this delicious dish for my mother to start thinking about veganism in an entirely different way.\n\n4 (1-inch thick) slices ciabatta or French bread\n\n2 tablespoons whole wheat flour\n\n1 teaspoon nutritional yeast\n\n2 tablespoons dark brown sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon kala namak, or plain salt\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u215b teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n1 cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 cup crushed corn flake cereal\n\n2\u20134 teaspoons olive oil or vegan butter\n\nBegin by lightly toasting your bread, allowing it to become a bit firmer, which will make it more receptive to the extra moisture you will be adding.\n\nCombine the dry ingredients (not including cereal) in a shallow pan and make sure they are evenly distributed. Stir in the non-dairy milk and allow it to sit for a minute. Whisk again before using, to ensure that no lumps are left behind. Meanwhile, place the crushed cornflakes in a separate shallow dish and begin heating a large skillet over medium heat. Grease the pan lightly with a drizzle of olive oil or a dab of vegan butter.\n\nPlace two slices of bread in the liquid mix at a time, allowing about 1 minute for it to start soaking into the slices. Flip your bread over and let the wet mixture absorb into the other side for another minute. Once saturated but not soggy, carefully lift the slices out with a large spatula and place them into the dish of crushed cornflakes. Lightly press to adhere the coating, flipping to encrust the other side, and finally move them into the hot skillet. Cook for 3 to 5 minutes per side, resisting the urge to push them around or constantly check on the progress to get the best sear. Flip once, and only once.\n\nOnce nicely browned and crisp on the outside, transfer the toast to a plate, and repeat the process with the two remaining bread slices. Serve with maple syrup, fruit spread, confectioners' sugar, or any favorite toppings you like.\n\nZesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins\n\nMakes 12 muffins\n\nStreusel just makes everything better, doesn't it? While these muffins are incredibly good on their own, the crumbly topping bumps them up that extra notch to irresistible. Tangy, tart, and sweet all at the same time, the flavors and textures work in perfect harmony. While perfectly respectable as a grab-and-go breakfast, such sweet little morsels excel as an afternoon snack as well.\n\nCRANBERRY MUFFINS:\n\n\u00be cup dried cranberries\n\n\u00be cup orange juice\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n\u2154 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup whole wheat pastry flour\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n3 tablespoons unsweetened applesauce\n\n2 tablespoons orange zest\n\nCRUMB TOPPING:\n\n3 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u2153 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) and lightly grease one dozen muffin tins.\n\nCombine the cranberries and orange juice in a saucepan and simmer over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes, until the fruit has absorbed all the liquid. Remove from the heat and let cool.\n\nCombine the nondairy milk and vinegar, whisking vigorously until frothy. Incorporate the oil into the milk mixture and beat until fully emulsified. Add the sugar and mix well. Add in the flours, baking powder, baking soda, and applesauce, being careful not to overmix. Gently fold in the rehydrated cranberries and zest. Spoon the batter into your prepared muffin tins.\n\nFor the crumb topping, combine the butter, flour, and sugar with a pastry cutter or fork, until it resembles coarse crumbs. Sprinkle evenly over each mound of raw batter. Bake for 14 to 18 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Let the muffins sit for at least 10 minutes before removing them from the pan.\nCOOKIES & BARS\n\nGo Nuts! No matter how bare the pantry gets, I will always have a jar of peanut butter on hand, ready to quell those midnight cravings. Many times it's saved the day for last-minute dessert demands, too. Swap out the almond butter for an equal amount of peanut butter (or hazelnut butter, pecan butter, pistachio butter, cashew butter\u2014you name it) for a delicious departure from the original recipe.\nAlmond Avalanche Bars\n\nMakes 24 to 36 bars\n\nPrepare yourself for an almond onslaught! Almonds are all the rage for health nuts and gourmets alike, due to their high levels of antioxidants, unsaturated fats, and most important to me, great taste. If you happen to be a fellow almond fanatic who simply can't get enough, then this bar was made for you. Composed almost entirely of nothing but nuts, even a small square will flood your senses and bowl you over with pure almond satisfaction.\n\nALMOND CRUST:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1\u2154 cups almond meal\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nALMOND TOPPING:\n\n2 cups crunchy almond butter\n\n1 cup maple syrup\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n1 cup bittersweet or semisweet chocolate chips (optional)\n\n1 cup sliced almonds\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line a 9x13-inch baking pan with aluminum foil. Lightly grease and set aside.\n\nIn a medium bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until homogeneous. Slowly incorporate the almond meal, followed by the salt. Transfer the mixture into your prepared baking pan and pat the dough into the bottom, keeping it as even as possible. Bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until firm and lightly browned. Let cool but leave the oven on.\n\nFor the topping, mix together the almond butter, maple syrup, and vanilla in a large bowl. Mix until smooth and fully combined but don't go too crazy, as it will continue to thicken the more you mix, which can make it difficult to spread smoothly into the pan. Fold in the chocolate chips, if using (and I do recommend using). Drop this mixture evenly over your crust, pressing and gently spreading as necessary to form an even layer, taking care not to disturb the bottom layer. Sprinkle the sliced almonds over the top and bake for 12 to 15 more minutes. You are not looking for a dry exterior, so it is okay if the bars look moist or underbaked. A raw cookie dough appearance is what you are going for.\n\nLet cool completely before cutting into bars. By completely, I don't mean cool to the touch. The bars must be cool enough for the chocolate chips to resolidify. If you are not patient, you may end up with a fudgy almond mess! Chill for 1 to 2 hours in advance for the best results.\n\nLend me your ears: Vegetable-based cookies may sound like a stretch, but fresh summer corn biscotti are more like hearty crackers, and truly something to savor. Lose the apricots altogether in favor of 1 cup corn kernels. Omit the sugar and vanilla but add 1 to 2 tablespoons finely minced fresh basil instead. A pinch of ground black pepper wouldn't hurt, while you're at it. Skip the glaze and pair with a creamy dip, like hummus or guacamole.\nApricot Biscotti\n\nMakes approximately 24 biscotti\n\nFor such a humble name, these caf\u00e9-inspired treats boast an impressive array of complex flavors. While they are made with vastly different ingredients and techniques than your typical biscotti, the careful attention to each individual component really does produce superior results. These biscotti are suitable for the gluten intolerant, yet the overall taste is so spot-on that they would be right at home in any coffeehouse. Lightly drizzled with a delicate vanilla glaze, a quick dip in your coffee or tea will leave the beverage with an extra hint of sweetness to linger long after the cookie is gone.\n\nAPRICOT BISCOTTI:\n\n1 cup dried apricots, chopped\n\n1 cup almond meal\n\n1 cup finely ground cornmeal\n\n1 cup cornstarch\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd cup vanilla vegan yogurt\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nVANILLA GLAZE:\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPreheat your oven to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC) and lightly grease two 9x5-inch loaf pans.\n\nIn a small saucepan over medium heat, cover the chopped apricots with water and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for about 15 minutes, until most of the water has been absorbed. Drain any excess liquid and set the apricots aside to cool.\n\nIn a medium bowl, combine the almond meal, cornmeal, and cornstarch, stirring until combined. Mix in the granulated sugar and baking soda.\n\nIn a separate large bowl, stir together the yogurt, maple syrup, olive oil, and vanilla until smooth. Sift the dry ingredients into this bowl slowly, stirring until everything is completely combined with no lumps. You don't need to worry about overmixing, because there is no gluten involved! Finally, fold in the apricots that you had previously set aside.\n\nDivide the dough evenly between the two loaf pans and pat it into the bottom, pressing the dough as smoothly as possible. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until lightly browned on the outside and cooked through the center. Let the biscotti loaves sit inside the pans for 10 minutes before turning them out onto a wire rack, where they should sit for an additional 15 minutes.\n\nRaise the oven temperature to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper.\n\nSlice the biscotti loaves into individual cookies, about \u00bd-inch thick each. Lay the cookies with one of the cut sides down on the prepared baking sheet and bake for 15 minutes. Flip the biscotti over and bake for another 15 minutes. Cool the biscotti completely on a wire rack.\n\nTo finish them off, simply melt the butter and mix in the confectioners' sugar and vanilla until smooth. Drizzle this glaze over the biscotti. Alternately, you could dip the biscotti halfway into the icing for a sweeter finish.\n\nIf you have a taste for darkness, try making Half Moon Cookies. This lesser-known variation is rumored to have begun in Utica, New York, where bakeries spike the soft cookie dough with a devilish extra dose of chocolate. Simply add \u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder to the batter to follow suit.\nBlack & White Cookies\n\nMakes 12 to 14 large cookies\n\nAs a young child, my parents often took my sister and me into New York City to see the sights and experience a slice of the life that they once lived. Pounding down those concrete streets, peering up at buildings that never seemed to reach a peak, just being there was always a fantastic treat. However, at the end of the day, my favorite part came at a last-minute bakery run just before boarding the train back home. Among all the tempting pastries, lavished with twirls of billowing whipped cream and glittering with rainbow sprinkles, I could never deviate from the standard order of a jumbo black and white cookie. Every time it was the same thing, yet the repetition never wore on my taste buds. Now that the egg-based originals from New York are no longer an option, there is still no reason to go wanting. This updated classic tastes as authentic as anything you could find in or outside the city.\n\nCOOKIES:\n\n2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon whole flaxseeds\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd cup vegan sour cream or plain Greek-style vegan yogurt\n\nVANILLA ICING:\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n1\u20133 tablespoons aquafaba\n\n\u00bc teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nCHOCOLATE ICING:\n\n3 ounces (about \u00bd cup) dark chocolate, roughly chopped\n\n\u00bc cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 tablespoon maple syrup\n\n1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nSift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside.\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy and fully combined. Grind the flaxseeds into a powder with a spice grinder, and mix with the water. Let stand for a few minutes to gelatinize. Add the flax mixture to your mixer. Incorporate the vanilla and sour cream, scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary to achieve a completely smooth mixture. Slowly add in the flour mixture, stirring just enough to combine without any lumps remaining.\n\nOn the prepared baking sheets, drop about \u00bc cup of dough for each cookie, leaving plenty of room for them to spread, roughly three inches between each. Use a cookie scoop or ice cream scooper for greater consistency. Lightly moisten your hands to prevent sticking and gently pat the dough mounds into approximately 2\u00bd-inch disks. Bake for 14 to 17 minutes, until they just begin to turn slightly golden in color. Let the cookies rest on the baking sheets for 2 more minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool completely.\n\nFor the vanilla icing, whisk together 1 cup of the confectioners' sugar in a small bowl with the first tablespoon of aquafaba and vanilla, ensuring that you have a completely smooth mixture. Add in the remaining 1 cup of sugar and combine. Even though it may seem too dry at first, continue stirring and it will soon reveal itself as a nice, thick icing. Slowly drizzle in additional aquafaba if needed, but do so sparingly, as a little bit goes a long way. Set aside.\n\nFor the chocolate icing, place the chocolate, nondairy milk, and maple syrup in a microwave-safe bowl and heat for 30 to 60 seconds, just until the chocolate begins to melt. Stir vigorously to combine all the ingredients, until the chocolate is completely smooth. Set aside to cool and thicken slightly. Set aside.\n\nStart by making the white side. Use a spatula to spread the vanilla icing on half of each cookie. Let the icing set for at least 10 minutes.\n\nReturning to your chocolate icing, add in the 1 cup of confectioners' sugar and stir until completely smooth. Spread on the other half of each cookie. Let the cookies sit until the glaze has fully set up.\n\nBlack-Bottom Blondies\n\nMakes 9 to 12 bars\n\nChocolate or vanilla? Brownies or blondies? There's no need to agonize over such tough choices when you can have them all in one bar! Not only is this a harmonious meeting of two worlds for the indecisive eater, but a gratifying compromise for the prolific baker as well, accomplishing two types of sweets at once without dirtying an extra pan! It's a win-win situation that's always a crowd-pleaser.\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup plain vegan yogurt\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00be cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u2153 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bc cup semisweet chocolate chips\n\n\u00bc cup chopped, toasted pecans or walnuts\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan.\n\nMelt the butter over the stove top or in the microwave and stir in both sugars until dissolved. Let stand to cool for a minute or two before adding in the yogurt and vanilla extract. Mix well.\n\nIn a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and baking soda. Add the dry mixture to the wet and mix well.\n\nOnce the batter is homogenous, remove 1 cup and place it in a separate bowl. Stir the cocoa powder and chocolate chips into this portion, and smooth it into the bottom of your prepared dish. It will be very thick and sticky, so you may need to use lightly moistened hands or grease a flat spatula to press it properly into position.\n\nMix the toasted nuts into the remaining vanilla batter and pour the mixture over the chocolate base. Spread gently to completely and evenly cover the cocoa portion.\n\nBake for 28 to 35 minutes, until the sides pull away from the pan and the top turns golden brown. Let cool completely before cutting.\n\nButterscotch Blondies\n\nMakes 9 to 12 bars\n\nThis particular childhood favorite turned out to be one of my greatest challenges in baking mastery. It should have been a breeze to deconstruct and re-create such an uncomplicated bite of nostalgia, inspired by memories of chewy little squares with lightly caramelized, crispy edges. And yet, my first attempt ended with a full pan of raw batter exploding mid-bake, smearing the walls of the oven with brown sugar napalm. I wish I were exaggerating, but many horrified witnesses can confirm the culinary tragedy that occurred on that day. Thankfully, the following 5 or 6 attempts only resulted in a trash can full of unsatisfactory baked goods rather than more spontaneous combustion. Now, I am happy to share a tried-and-true method, and it doesn't require you to blow anything up, either.\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n1\u00bd cups coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd cup plain vegan yogurt\n\n\u2153 cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan.\n\nMelt the butter and pour it over the sugar in a medium bowl, stirring to dissolve. Add the vanilla, yogurt, and coconut milk and mix until homogenous. Slowly incorporate the flour along with the baking powder and salt, stirring just enough to arrive at a smooth mixture. Pour the batter into your prepared pan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until the sides just begin to pull away from the pan and the top is fairly firm. The blondies may still be slightly gooey on the inside, but they will continue to cook once removed from the oven. Besides, they are \"fudgy\" bars, so you don't want them to dry out! Wait for the blondies to cool completely before cutting.\n\nIf you have leftover filling, don't let it go to waste! Use it as spread for toast, a dip to pair with sliced apples, or stir it into oatmeal for a special breakfast treat.\nCheesecake Thumbprint Cookies\n\nMakes approximately 16 to 20 cookies\n\nArguably even better than individual cheesecakes, each two-bite indulgence is a suitable ending to any meal, or the start of any snack, for that matter. You don't even need to pull up a chair or grab a fork to dig in! Perfect on the go or with a tall cup of coffee, these no-fuss sweets are much easier to make, bring to events, and devour after a substantial meal than an imposing, dense slice. If you'd like to really get the party started with another layer of flavor, try topping them with your favorite jam or preserves.\n\nCHEESECAKE FILLING:\n\n4 ounces (\u00bd cup) vegan cream cheese\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\n1 tablespoon plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 teaspoon arrowroot powder\n\nCOOKIE:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n1 cup finely ground graham crackers (about 6 full rectangles)\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nTo prepare the filling, begin by stirring the cream cheese with a spatula in a medium bowl to soften it a bit. Add in the sugar and salt, and cream thoroughly. Incorporate the nondairy milk and vanilla, mixing until you have a completely homogenous mixture. Stirring rapidly, sprinkle in the arrowroot, mixing until smooth and creamy once more. Set aside.\n\nFor the cookie, use your stand mixer to cream the butter and sugar together. Mix together the ground flax and water before adding them into the bowl. Stir thoroughly to combine. Add in the ground graham crackers first, making sure they are fully incorporated before adding the flour. Be careful to mix it for just long enough to bring the dough together, lest you want some tough cookies.\n\nScoop out balls of dough that are about an inch or so in diameter, rolling them into fairly smooth spheres with your hands. Place on your prepared baking sheets and either use your fingers or the handle of a wooden spoon to make an indentation in the center of each. Bake the cookies for 10 minutes before checking on their progress. If your indentations are on the shallow side, you should take this opportunity to press the centers back in and reshape any other abnormalities. Bake for another 5 to 7 minutes, until they just begin to brown.\n\nRemove the cookies from the oven with your filling at the ready. Spoon 2 to 3 teaspoons of cheesecake filling into the centers, and return them once more to the oven to bake for an additional 8 minutes or so. The filling will begin to puff up a bit and will solidify when they are done. Let the cookies sit for 2 minutes on the sheet before moving them to a wire rack to finish cooling.\n\nIf you're more of a \"tea\"-totaler, try using roughly crushed green or black tea leaves instead of instant coffee.\nCoffee Break Shortbread\n\nMakes 12 to 16 cookies\n\nLong school days followed by interminable hours of homework have taught me at least one important lesson: never plan an all-nighter without arming yourself with a bottomless mug of strong coffee. Better yet, grab a stack of cookies with that same addictive flavor and the energizing boost of caffeine baked inside! Whip up a double (or triple) batch of these invigorating morsels for your longest study sessions to stay focused, or at least sweetly satisfied.\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n1 tablespoon instant coffee granules or powder\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nCream together the sugar and butter in your stand mixer, followed by the instant coffee and vanilla. Slowly mix in the flour and salt until it starts to become incorporated. You may need to run your mixer for a minute, rest the dough, then mix again to create smooth results. The dough will start off looking very crumbly and dry, but resist the urge to add liquid; it will come together if you give it time! Once you have a solid, cohesive ball of dough, refrigerate it for at least an hour.\n\nPull the dough from the refrigerator, preheat your oven to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC), and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nRoll out the dough using a rolling pin lightly coated in flour to prevent sticking; \u215b inch in thickness is ideal. Cut the dough into your desired shapes using cookie cutters and place the cookies onto your prepared baking sheets. Baking time can vary greatly, from 14 minutes and up depending on the size of your shapes, so keep a close eye on their progress. Don't wait for them to brown very much, but they should be somewhat firm to the touch when done. Remove the cookies from the baking sheet to cool.\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies\n\nMakes 9 to 12 brownies\n\nWhenever I baked my chocolate streusel cupcakes, everyone would rave about the sweet, cocoa crumb topping even more than the tender cake underneath. Hungry for a change of pace when tasked to produce yet another pan of standard brownies, it was an epiphany when I realized the solution was right in front of me. In short time, the best part of those two sweets were happily married in harmonious chocolate bliss. Though it's always tempting to pick the crunchy sugared crust off the top of any unknown dessert, what lies beneath is every bit as ambrosial.\n\nCRUMB TOPPING:\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bc cup all-purpose flour\n\n2 tablespoons olive oil\n\nBROWNIES:\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup plain vegan yogurt\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon instant coffee granules or powder (optional)\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00be cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n3 ounces (\u00bd cup) semisweet chocolate chips\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan.\n\nTo make the topping, combine the granulated sugar, cocoa, and flour in a small bowl. Add in the oil and stir with a fork, breaking up the topping into small- and medium-sized crumbs. Set aside.\n\nFor the batter, melt the butter and allow a few minutes for it to cool down a bit before using. In a stand mixer, combine the yogurt and both sugars, followed by the melted butter. Stir thoroughly before mixing in the coffee powder (if using) and vanilla as well. Add in the flour, cocoa, salt, and baking soda. Pause occasionally to allow the mixer to catch up, but rest assured that it will all come together in due time. Fold in the chips by hand and smooth the batter into your prepared pan.\n\nSprinkle your crumb topping liberally on top and bake for 22 to 26 minutes, until the sides pull away from the pan slightly. Allow the brownies to cool completely before cutting.\n\nLace Florentines\n\nMakes approximately 48 separate crisps or 24 cookie sandwiches\n\nSimple, sweet, and shatteringly crisp, each elegant caramelized cookie could make a gorgeous accompaniment to fresh berry parfaits or scoops of ice cream. Smear a thick layer of chocolate between two of those dainty disks, and now you've suddenly got a solo showstopper on your hands. Still hot out of the oven, the pliable rounds can also wrap up in tightly curled cigars, or molded over metal cupcake tins to make edible bowls. It's hard to beat the standard sandwich though, which has the ideal ratio of chocolate to cookie, in my opinion.\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc cup dark agave nectar\n\n\u00bc cup all-purpose flour\n\n2 tablespoons almond meal\n\n2 tablespoons instant oatmeal\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\n3 ounces (\u00bd cup) semisweet chocolate chips (optional)\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00b0F (190\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nHeat the butter, sugar, and agave nectar together in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Remove from the heat once the butter has completely melted, and vigorously whisk in the flour, almond meal, oatmeal, and salt to avoid clumps.\n\nDrop about \u00bd teaspoon of batter per cookie onto your prepared baking sheets. Take care to place them several inches apart, as they spread like crazy. Bake the crisps for 5 to 6 minutes, until they are caramelized and bubbly, keeping a close eye on them the entire time they're in the oven. They will still be soft and malleable at first; wait a few minutes for the crisps to cool and solidify before handling. They are very fragile after they harden, so be gentle!\n\nIf desired, melt the chocolate in the microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring thoroughly until completely melted and smooth. Smear a thin layer of the melted chocolate on the underside of one cookie, sandwiching it between a second. Alternatively, drizzle the chocolate all over the individual crisps, Jackson Pollak-style.\n\nStore cookies in an airtight container at room temperature. Heat and moisture will change their texture, so the crisps may remain slightly soft if you are baking in a very humid climate.\n\nMaple Pistachio Cr\u00e8mes\n\nMakes 20 to 24 sandwich cookies\n\nWhat's a food photographer's favorite subject? Pistachios, because they're always smiling!\n\nBad jokes aside, Persians have called pistachios \"the smiling nuts\" for centuries because the split shell resembles a smile. The Chinese simply refer to it as \"the happy nut,\" which is also appropriate, because their delicate flavor and crisp crunch always brings me joy.\n\nPistachio fan that I am, I find it frustrating that this beautiful nut is rarely utilized by most home cooks. Flavorful and agreeable with a cornucopia of other flavors, be it sweet or savory, the hardest part about working with these shelled treasures is choosing what else to pair them with. In this case, I really wanted the pistachio to finally get its fair share of the spotlight, accentuating it with the woodsy, earthy sweetness of maple syrup. Crunchy, creamy, and with a bold green hue that artifical colors can only dream of imitating, these cookies could make a pistachio lover out of anyone.\n\nCOOKIES:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n\u2154 cup maple syrup\n\n2\u00be cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon lemon extract or lemon zest\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nPISTACHIO CR\u00c8ME:\n\n1 cup shelled, toasted pistachios or \u2154 cup pistachio butter\n\n\u00bc cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n3 tablespoons maple syrup\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nIn a large microwave-safe bowl, melt the butter or coconut oil and then stir in the maple syrup. Add in 2 cups of the flour, along with the baking powder, vanilla, lemon extract or zest, and salt. Stir the batter until all the ingredients are fully combined. Add in the remainder of the flour and combine. The batter should be rather thick; resist the temptation to add more liquid.\n\nScoop out walnut-sized balls and roll them in your hands to make them nicely rounded. Place the balls onto your prepared baking sheets about 1 inch apart. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, but don't wait for them to brown. Once the cookies firm up a bit, and no longer appear moist on top, they are done! Let the cookies cool on the sheets.\n\nTo make the pistachio cr\u00e8me, toss the pistachios into your food processor and grind them on full power for up to 10 minutes, so that they become relatively smooth and paste-like. The mixture will start out as a coarse meal, break down to a finer powder, and eventually turn into a smooth paste. The process will take some time, and you may need to pause to scrape down the sides of the container with a spatula\u2014just stick with it! Once smooth, keep the motor running and slowly drizzle in the coconut milk, followed by the maple syrup and vanilla. Process until fully incorporated. If using ready-made pistachio butter, simply mix together all the ingredients until completely smooth.\n\nAfter the cookies have cooled, spoon a dollop of the cr\u00e8me (about 1 to 2 teaspoons) onto the flat side of one cookie, and top with a second. Repeat with the remaining cookies.\n\nNut Case Cookies\n\nMakes 36 cookies\n\nI often buy huge bags of nuts at a time, which is great for larger recipes, but when I get down to the bottom, there's never enough of one to satisfy any recipe alone. Utilizing all those scrappy remnants, the sum is far greater than its parts. What follows is my favorite combination made with the components I most frequently keep, but in the spirit of salvaging otherwise idle leftovers, feel free create your own adventure based on the concept. Substitute whatever nuts you have on hand, whole or chopped, raw or roasted. You could even go a bit \"nuts\" and throw in a splash of almond extract!\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 cup whole wheat pastry flour\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc cup aquafaba\n\n\u00bd cup toasted almonds, roughly chopped\n\n\u00bd cup toasted cashews, roughly chopped\n\n\u00bd cup toasted pistachios, roughly chopped\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream together the butter and both sugars. In a separate bowl, combine the two flours, baking soda, and salt. Slowly incorporate the dry ingredients into the mixer until everything is combined. Add the vanilla and aquafaba next, mixing so that the dough is completely homogenous through and through. Fold in the nuts by hand to distribute evenly.\n\nDrop rounded tablespoons of dough onto your prepared baking sheets, allowing plenty of room for them to spread. Bake for 10 to 14 minutes, until the cookies are no longer shiny on top. Remove them from the baking sheet immediately and allow them to cool.\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti\n\nMakes 12 to 15 biscotti\n\nOrange is the new biscotti, don't you know? More compelling than a passing fashion trend or viral pop culture hit, this citrus is king, goes with everything, and won't be forgotten with next season's programming. Hazelnut and chocolate have a proven affinity across decades of culinary flights of fancy and pastry binge watching, which garners the trio top ratings on the cookie plate. Bright flecks of fresh orange zest bring these crunchy biscotti to life, in vivid flavor that unquestionably exceeds the abilities of high-definition TV.\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n1 tablespoon orange zest\n\n2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup toasted hazelnuts, roughly chopped\n\n\u00bc cup orange juice\n\n6 ounces (about 1 cup) dark chocolate, roughly chopped\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper.\n\nCream the butter in your mixer, beating until light and fluffy. Add in the sugar and mix until fully incorporated. Separately, stir the flaxseeds together with the water to form a paste. Add to the mixer and thoroughly blend. Toss in the zest from your orange and mix again. Sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt, mixing lightly until relatively combined. Continuing with the mixer on a slow speed, drop in the hazelnuts, and slowly drizzle the orange juice into the mixture until it just comes together in a cohesive ball.\n\nShape the resulting dough into a long, skinny rectangle, about 1 inch tall and 2 inches wide; the length isn't so critical. Place it onto your prepared baking sheet and bake for 35 to 40 minutes.\n\nThe top of the biscotti loaf should be lightly browned, but don't panic if it seems a little bit soft and bread-like on the inside. Cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing, using a very sharp knife to cut horizontally into pieces that are about \u00bd- to \u00be-inch thick. Lay the slices down flat on one of the cut sides on the baking sheet and return the biscotti to the oven for another 10 minutes. Flip them over onto the opposite side and bake for another 10 minutes. Allow the biscotti to cool completely.\n\nPlace the chocolate in a relatively shallow, microwave-safe dish that can accommodate the full length of the cookies. In the microwave, heat your chocolate in 30-second intervals, stirring well after each period until completely smooth. Dip each biscotto into the chocolate and place it back on a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Allow the chocolate to fully set before removing them again.\n\nIf nuts aren't invited to this party, use crispy dry roasted chickpeas or soybeans instead.\nParty Mix Bars\n\nMakes 20 to 24 bars\n\nFriends coming over unexpectedly for a movie night, game of Scrabble, video games, or just to hang out? Don't drag out that tired old bag of snack mix; whip up a festive batch of bars liable to become the life of the party! This sweet and salty treat takes shape as grabbable, munchable squares, rather than a handful of loose munchies, leaving less mess to collect between sofa cushions the next day. A single batch can accommodate a ravenous crowd and is no more laborious than making banal crispy rice treats. What are you waiting for? When they find out what's in store, your guests will be at your door before you know it!\n\n2 cups mini pretzel twists and/or sticks\n\n2 cups corn and/or wheat cereal squares\n\n3 cups crispy rice cereal\n\n1\u00bd cups roasted and salted mixed nuts\n\n1 tablespoon vegan butter\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n1 cup light agave nectar or maple syrup\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nCombine the pretzels, both types of cereal, and nuts in a large bowl. Liberally coat a 9x13-inch baking pan with cooking spray. Set both aside.\n\nSet a medium saucepan over low heat and begin by melting the butter alone. Once it has liquefied, add in the sugar and syrup, stirring as necessary until the sugar crystals dissolve. Turn up the heat and bring the mixture to a steady boil. Cook for an additional 3 to 5 minutes, until it appears to have thickened slightly. Remove from the heat and quickly stir in the vanilla. Pour the contents of your saucepan over the dry mix and fold it in carefully but briskly, being careful not to crush the cereal.\n\nPour everything into your prepared pan and gently press it out into an even layer. Let cool completely before cutting into bars.\n\nBlow up your holiday cookie exchange with a cinnamon speculoos blast! Use either creamy or crunchy speculoos spread (also known as cookie butter) instead of peanut butter for a critical seasonal hit.\nPeanut Butter Bombs\n\nMakes 12 to 14 cookies\n\nThey may look like plain old chocolate cookies from the outside, but one bite will reveal an explosion of rich, crunchy peanut butter! Seriously satisfying, like a peanut butter cup in cookie form, these are perhaps the only bomb that I can condone making.\n\nPEANUT BUTTER FILLING:\n\n\u00bc cup crunchy peanut butter\n\n\u2153 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 teaspoon unsweetened nondairy milk\n\nCHOCOLATE-PEANUT BUTTER COOKIE:\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup creamy peanut butter\n\n\u2153 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup plain or vanilla vegan yogurt\n\n1 tablespoon unsweetened non-dairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bc cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nIn a small bowl, combine all the ingredients for the filling and stir well. It should have a crumbly consistency, but still hold together when pressed. Once everything is fully incorporated, set aside.\n\nIn your mixer, cream together the butter, peanut butter, and both sugars. Mix in the yogurt, nondairy milk, and vanilla, and continue beating until smooth. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly add these dry ingredients into the wet, being careful not to overmix.\n\nThe dough may be rather sticky at first. If you have trouble shaping it, let it rest in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes, or try moistening your hands slightly before handling.\n\nFor each cookie, roll about a tablespoon of dough into a ball and press it down flat onto your silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Line the cookies up 3 x 3 on your two baking sheets, with plenty of room in between. Drop a rounded teaspoon or so of your peanut butter filling into the center of each, and top with another flattened round of dough. Be sure to cover the whole dollop of filling, pressing the edges together, making sure that the two pieces form a complete seal all around the cookie. Bake for 8 to 12 minutes, until the cookies no longer appear shiny on top. Remove the cookies from the oven and allow them to cool on the baking sheet.\n\nPeanut-Plus Cookies\n\nMakes 24 cookies\n\nAll signs would seem to say these are your typical tasty peanut butter cookies: endearingly nutty, soft, and chewy, unmistakably speckled with crunchy roasted nuts throughout. Every aspect of this classification is accurate, although there is something slightly different about these cookies that most eaters wouldn't venture to guess. Lentils and potatoes are the secret ingredients added to this mix, negating the need for wheat altogether. Challenge the cookie status quo with a more diverse arsenal of ingredients, and you won't be disappointed.\n\n\u00bd cup red lentils, dry\n\n\u00bd cup plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup potato flour\n\n1 cup crunchy peanut butter\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup cornstarch\n\n2 teaspoons cream of tartar\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nBegin by grinding up your dry lentils in a food processor for a good 5 to 10 minutes, until they become a fine powder. This step is crucial, as any larger fragments will change the texture of the finished cookies substantially. If you do not have a food processor handy, then the lentils can be ground in a spice grinder in about two batches.\n\nWhile your lentils are churning away, combine the nondairy milk and potato flour in a microwave-safe bowl and heat for one minute. Let the potato mixture cool for a minute or two, before tossing it into a stand mixer along with your freshly processed lentil flour. Mix in the peanut butter and sugar. Sprinkle in the cornstarch while keeping your mixer on low, increasing the speed once everything is combined and no longer threatens to send starch flying out. Make sure the dough is thoroughly mixed before introducing the remaining ingredients. Stir until completely smooth.\n\nSpoon rounded tablespoons of dough onto the prepared baking sheets. Leave a good amount of room between the cookies to allow for spreading, but they shouldn't spread too far; about an inch should do the trick. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until they are no longer shiny on top, but have not yet begun to brown around the edges. To ensure a soft, chewy cookie, remove the cookies from the oven just before they begin to take on color. Allow them to sit on the hot baking sheet for another 5 minutes before pulling the silicone baking mat off onto a cooler surface.\n\nPfeffernusse\n\nMakes 20 to 24 cookies\n\nGerman \"pepper nuts\" take soft gingerbread bites and spike them with a bold punch of warm spices, accented by the distinctive licorice-like flavor of anise. Lovers of chai tea will also fall in love with these tender sugar-coated morsels thanks to the fragrant hint of cardamom carried throughout. Condensing such a diverse world of flavors into such small packages, these classic holiday treats are long overdue for a revival across the globe. You may find it difficult to sacrifice any of these delights to leave out for Santa, let alone share with your friends!\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons molasses\n\n2 tablespoons aquafaba\n\n\u00be teaspoon pure anise extract or \u00bd teaspoon ground anise seeds\n\n1\u00bc cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup almond meal\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00be teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cloves\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cardamom\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground black pepper\n\nAbout 1 cup confectioners' sugar, to coat\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Scrape down the side of the bowl to prevent any lumps from being left behind. Beat in the molasses and aquafaba, followed shortly by the anise.\n\nCombine the flour, almond meal, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and dry spices in a large bowl. Gradually add this flour mixture to the mixer. Stir slowly until a cohesive dough begins to form, so that the dry ingredients don't fly out and decorate your kitchen walls with spicy holiday cheer. Manually press the dough into a ball and wrap it tightly in plastic before placing it into the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.\n\nWhen it is time to remove the dough from the refrigerator, preheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nRoll the dough into 1-inch balls, handling them as little as possible. Place them about two inches apart on your prepared baking sheets. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until the cookies are lightly but evenly browned.\n\nOnce they come out of the oven, roll the cookies in a dish full of confectioners' sugar and cool them on a wire rack. The cookies may absorb the sugar over time, so you might wish to coat them a second time to achieve a brighter snowball appearance before serving.\n\nReally get into the holiday spirit by incorporating 2 teaspoons of matcha into the cookie dough. The contrasting green color will be bright and merry against the red fruit filling, to say nothing of the joyous green tea astringency.\nStrawberry Spirals\n\nMakes 36 to 48 cookies\n\nEveryone's familiar with the standard cast of characters inevitably taking up residence on your average holiday cookie platter, rarely deviating from the tried-and-true crowd pleasers. Soft sugar cookies, gingersnaps, and peanut butter buckeyes are always in attendance, never tardy. Shortbread, almond spritz, and lemon drops dress up in their winter finest, putting on a good show as always. Sure, the mesmerizing chocolate pinwheels that grace many a plate are perfectly agreeable little corkscrews, though their flavor never lives up to such visual promise. Rather than sacrificing taste for design, why not roll up some flavorful fruit, like brilliant red strawberries? To keep with the Christmas theme, feel free to substitute dried cranberries instead for a tart, tangy, and festive variation.\n\nFRUIT FILLING:\n\n2 cups dried strawberries\n\n\u2153 cup water\n\n1 teaspoon cornstarch\n\nCOOKIE DOUGH:\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2\u00bc cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup whole wheat pastry flour\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n3\u20135 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n\u00bd cup decorative pearl sugar, sanding sugar, or turbinado sugar (optional)\n\nIn your food processor or blender, blend together the dried strawberries and water until mostly smooth. Slowly sprinkle in the cornstarch with the motor running, in order to prevent lumps from forming. Set aside.\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Mix in the vanilla and beat until fully combined. In a separate bowl, whisk together both flours, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly add this flour mixture to your batter and mix just until combined. Drizzle in the lemon juice until the dough achieves a workable consistency. It should be very stiff and firm, but moist enough to hold together when pressed.\n\nDivide the dough into two even halves and form each into a rectangle as best you can. Wrap the rectangles in plastic wrap, and let them rest in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours.\n\nOnce thoroughly chilled, remove one piece of dough from the refrigerator and roll it out between two sheets of parchment paper to about \u00bc-inch thick. Try to keep it as rectangular as possible. Peel away one piece of the parchment and gently spread the strawberry mixture atop your dough, leaving a border of about \u00bd inch without fruit around edges. Starting with a long side of the dough, roll it into a log, using the parchment as leverage, and being careful not to mash the filling. Repeat this process with the second rectangle. Re-wrap these logs in plastic wrap and chill in the freezer for another few hours, until solid but pliable. I find that the dough will hold its shape better if you stick it inside a cardboard paper towel roll that has been split down the middle, but it should be okay even if you don't go to this trouble.\n\nOnce the dough is properly chilled, preheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or fresh parchment paper.\n\nUsing a serrated knife carefully cut the logs crosswise into \u2153- to \u00bd-inch-thick slices. Use a sawing motion with the knife, trying not to apply significant pressure. Place the slices on the prepared baking sheets with a good amount of room around them, about an inch or so. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes, until the cookies just begin to lightly brown around the edges. Remove from the oven, and let the cookies sit for one additional minute before transferring them to a wire rack for further cooling.\n\nTurtle Shortbread Wedges\n\nMakes 16 cookies\n\nRich, velvety chocolate, dark caramelized sugar, and crunchy toasted pecans were simply made for each other. The \"turtle\" moniker for this unbeatable trio came from palm-sized candies originally shaped somewhat like their namesake animal. Though cute in a crude sort of way, I can't understand why you'd want to eat a turtle in the first place, even if it was a sweet confection. Titles aside, this combination of ingredients is a real knockout, reptilian in nature or not. Proceed with caution: Such a decadent assemblage has been known to elicit moans of pleasure just upon first sight, and whole batches of this layered cookie sensation have been known to mysteriously disappear overnight.\n\nCHOCOLATE SHORTBREAD:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\nCARAMEL TOPPING:\n\n2 cups granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u2153 cup water\n\n\u00bc cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n1\u00bc cups lightly toasted pecan halves\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and generously grease an 8-inch round springform pan.\n\nFor the shortbread, cream the butter and sugar together in your stand mixer until soft and fluffy. Add in the vanilla and salt. Turn the mixer off to add in both the flour and cocoa powder, starting it up at a slow speed to prevent a cloud of dry ingredients from flying right out. It may take a little bit of mixing for everything to come together, but be patient and resist the urge to add liquid.\n\nPress the dough into the bottom of your prepared pan. It will be very thick and stiff, so you may want to grease your hands or use a piece of wax paper to smooth it in. Cover the bottom of the pan evenly and completely. Bake for 20 minutes, until the dough appears firmer on top, and the sides look a bit crispy. If you are not sure if it is done by that time, trust your intuition and take it out after an additional minute at most. It is hard to distinguish \"done\" from \"burnt\" when it starts out as such a dark color in the first place.\n\nWhile the shortbread is baking, begin to prepare the caramel topping. Take out a medium saucepan and place your sugar, cream of tartar, salt, and water inside. Set it over medium heat and stir the mixture just to combine, after which time you must not agitate it for about 5 to 7 minutes. Once it turns a shade of light amber, it will continue to color very quickly, so stay on your toes! (At this point, your shortbread should be out of the oven and nearby, ready to go) Stir occasionally until it reaches the hard-crack stage at 300\u00baF (150\u00baC). If you don't have a candy thermometer handy, drop a small amount of the syrup into a cup of cold water to test. It should form thin, brittle threads that break if you try to bend them. Stand back from the stove slightly while still stirring, and pour in the coconut milk with care, as it could splash back violently. Stir in the pecans just to combine. Turn off the heat, and pour the whole mixture over the chocolate shortbread.\n\nReturn the pan to your oven for 10 more minutes, until the caramel has darkened slightly. Let it cool for at least 20 minutes before running a knife around the edge to loosen. Release the springform sides to transfer the full cookie disk out onto a cutting board, and cut into wedges while it is still slightly warm. Let cool completely before serving or storing.\n\nWhoopie pies enjoyed a fleeting moment of mainstream fame right as the cupcake craze died down, leading to a flood of creative new twists on the usual chocolate and vanilla affair. Red Velvet indisputably skyrocketed to the top of that list in terms of popularity, and it's an equally delightful departure from this standard formula. To re-create that scarlet starlet, use natural cocoa and reduce it to just 2 tablespoons, while increasing the all-purpose flour to 1\u2153 cups total. Swap the nondairy milk for beet juice to get that brilliant but completely natural hue. Add 3 tablespoons of cream cheese into the filling to really put the icing on the cake\u2014or in the cake, as it were.\nWhoopie Pies\n\nMakes 8 to 10 large sandwich cookies or 15 to 18 minis\n\nWrapped up in plastic like hazardous material and sporting ingredient lists that read more like failed science experiments than food, my earliest exposure to whoopie pies at a gas station pit stop was not exactly compelling. I couldn't wrap my mind around the appeal of squishy, week-old cake wrapped around achingly sweet frosting, piled up on the counter like a basket of brown tennis balls. It took many more years to find the subject worthy of reexamination, not to mention a total gut-renovation. Baked from scratch and eaten fresh, this soft chocolate cookie sandwich gets a whole new lease on life.\n\nCHOCOLATE COOKIES:\n\n1 cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n1 cup whole wheat pastry flour\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n2 tablespoons vegan sour cream or plain vegan yogurt\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nCR\u00c8ME FILLING:\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n\u2153 cup vegan butter\n\n1\u20133 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nIn a small bowl, whisk together the nondairy milk and vinegar and let stand about 5 minutes. Separately, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flours, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream together the vegan butter and both sugars, beating to ensure that the contents of the bowl are creamy and fully combined. Add the sour cream or yogurt and mix again to incorporate, even if the resulting mixture isn't exactly smooth.\n\nReturning to the bowl of milk, whisk in the vanilla. Beginning with these wet ingredients, alternately add them with the dry ingredients into your mixer. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula as necessary to incorporate everything, stirring the batter just enough to fully combine.\n\nUse an ice cream scoop or measuring cup to drop 3 to 4 tablespoons for large cookies, or about 1 tablespoon each to make minis. Drop the dough onto your prepared baking sheets, leaving a good amount of space between each cookie to allow them to spread a bit; about 2 inches for the large, 1 inch for minis. Bake for 10 to 14 minutes if large (8 to 12 if mini), until they're no longer shiny on top. Remove the cookies from the oven and let them cool completely on the baking sheets, where they should firm up a bit more.\n\nTo make the filling, begin with the mixer on low and beat together the confectioners' sugar and butter. Add the first tablespoon of nondairy milk along with the vanilla. Once the sugar is safely incorporated, turn the mixer up to high and whip for a good 2 or 3 minutes; this will incorporate more air, making for a lighter, fluffier filling. Slowly drizzle in additional milk only if needed to create a spreadable but sturdy consistency.\n\nDrop a healthy dollop of the cr\u00e8me mixture onto the flat side of one cooled cookie and place the flat side of a second cookie on top. Press down gently to bring the filling right out to the edge. Repeat this process with your remaining cookies and cr\u00e8me filling.\nCAKES & CUPCAKES\n\n*Apple juice concentrate is readily available in the freezer aisle of most grocery stores but can also be made at home with a bit of patience and an abundance of fresh juice. Simply place 100 percent unsweetened apple juice or cider in a large stock pot and simmer gently until reduced by about half. That means you will need to start with at least 4 cups of juice to have enough for one batch of cake.\nApple Spice Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nDietary restrictions are no obstacle in my eyes, but instead are challenges that inspire me to push beyond the usual routine. In this case, it wasn't one of the predictable culprits like nuts or gluten throwing down the gauntlet. My Nana, one of the sweetest people I know, is ironically, lamentably diabetic. She managed to turn her life around and completely regain her health through diet and exercise, and refined sugars and flours are completely out of the question these days. When her birthday rolls around, though, it tortured me to arrive at the party empty handed.\n\nUsing only fruit and whole grains to concoct a treat sounds dubious at best, but this towering naked cake goes au naturel, without shame or reluctance. Even the kids who might otherwise lean toward candy-coated neon sprinkles dig in with voracious appetites. Of course, the birthday girl was over the moon with her customized slice, but that came as no surprise; she's already sweet enough as is.\n\nAPPLE SPICE CAKE:\n\n2 cups whole wheat pastry flour\n\n2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cloves\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup olive oil\n\n2 cups 100% apple juice concentrate, thawed and undiluted*\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened applesauce\n\n1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n3 medium-sized fuji or gala apples, divided\n\n1 cup raisins\n\n1 cup chopped walnuts\n\nTOPPING:\n\n1 cup Apple Butter (page 227)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and grease two 8-inch round cake pans.\n\nCombine the flour, oats, spices, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl and set aside. In your stand mixer, blend the olive oil with the juice concentrate, followed by the applesauce, vinegar, and vanilla. Mix well. It might look a bit lumpy and unappealing, but have no fear! It will quickly improve from this point on, I promise.\n\nWith your mixer on low speed, to avoid sending flour flying onto the walls, slowly add in the dry ingredients. Be careful not to overmix. Peel, core, and dice two of the apples. Fold the apple bits, along with the raisins and nuts, into the mixture. Once the goodies are well distributed, spread the batter into your greased pans. This is a very thick batter, so you may have to press it into shape with a spatula to evenly fill each pan.\n\nCore the last remaining apple and slice it very, very thinly for the topping. Use a mandoline if you have it for greater accuracy and consistency. Arrange the slices around the edge, slightly overlapping, on top of only one cake layer. Depending on the size of the apple, you may have some leftover; have yourself a little snack!\n\nBake for 30 to 40 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each layer comes out clean.\n\nLet the layers cool to room temperature inside the pans. Turn the first layer out onto the plate you want to serve it on before slathering it with Apple Butter. Smooth the spread out almost to the edge but not quite, as the weight of the top layer will press it out further. Place the second layer on top and have a taste of sweetness without the sugar rush!\n\nBananas Foster Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nBanana cake is all too often a disappointment. Dry as a brick, austere as a bran muffin, many people think it's perfectly all right to use any old banana bread recipe, slap some frosting on top, and call it dessert. Bananas can do so much better, given the freedom to embrace their sweeter side! Taking a page from the showstopping grand finale that is bananas Foster, these tender layers are soaked in rum before assembly and topped with a subtly salted caramel frosting that pulls the whole dessert together. In the typical showy fashion of the original, the garnish could be made with the addition of some rum and set ablaze to let the alcohol cook off. Knowing my personal ineptitude with fire, though, I think it is safer to recommend a simple saut\u00e9. The end results are still extraordinary, even without the stove-top conflagration.\n\nBANANA CAKE:\n\n2\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n2 teaspoons baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u2154 cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n5 ripe, medium-sized bananas\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n6 tablespoons dark rum\n\nSALTED CARAMEL FROSTING:\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n3\u00bd cups confectioners' sugar\n\n\u2153 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons water\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nSAUT\u00c9ED BANANAS:\n\n2 tablespoons dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 tablespoon dark rum\n\n1 firm, large banana, sliced into \u00bc-inch rounds\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.\n\nIn a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and set aside. In a separate small bowl, combine the nondairy milk and vinegar, also moving this to the side for now.\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream together the butter and both sugars until light and fluffy. Mash the bananas well and mix them in, along with the vanilla. Add the flour mixture, alternating with the milk in two or three additions, into your mixer. Ensure that everything is fully combined before equally dividing the batter between your two prepared pans.\n\nBake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each layer comes out clean. Remove from the oven, and while they are still warm, poke the cake tops numerous times with your testing toothpick. Pour 3 tablespoons of rum over each layer. Let the cake layers cool completely before turning them out of the pans to assemble.\n\nFor the frosting, cream the butter well and incorporate the confectioners' sugar slowly. Microwave the brown sugar, salt, and water together for 30 to 60 seconds, just until the sugar dissolves and begins to bubble a bit. Let the brown sugar stand for a few minutes to cool off, then pour it into the butter mixture. With the mixer on high, beat the frosting vigorously until all the ingredients are fully incorporated, light, and fluffy. Stir in the vanilla and frost the cake as desired.\n\nFor the final banana garnish, combine the brown sugar and rum in a non-stick skillet over medium heat. Cook until the sugar dissolves. Add the banana slices and stir to coat all the pieces well. Saut\u00e9 for about 2 minutes, until the sugar bubbles and darkens into a golden caramel, stirring gently every so often. Remove the bananas from the skillet and transfer them to a silicone baking mat. Separate each slice so that they do not stick together. Let them cool completely before applying them artistically to adorn the cake.\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake\n\nMakes 12 to 16 servings\n\nCoffee runs through my veins, an essential that is unequaled for its power to both stimulate and sustain. The scent of a fresh roast percolating on the counter is enough to brighten my whole day, restorative and comforting, yet still incredibly complex. Each cup is an enigma. Thus, black coffee is my go-to, despite the vast array of syrups and drizzles and sprinkles that proliferate on caf\u00e9 menus. Caramel macchiato is the one big exception that tempts me as a special reward, or a serious boost on a particularly difficult day. Aromatic as a buzzy coffee shop, dressed up with a sour cream substitute for crema and signature crosshatched caramel, now you can have your coffee and eat it, too.\n\nCHOCOLATE COOKIE CRUST:\n\n1\u00bd cups Chocolate Wafer Cookie (page 229) crumbs\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nCOFFEE CHEESECAKE:\n\n1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu\n\n2 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese\n\n\u2154 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons instant coffee powder\n\n\u00bc cup coffee liqueur\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\nVANILLA SOUR-CREMA TOPPING:\n\n1 cup vegan sour cream\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\nCARAMEL SAUCE:\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u2154 cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n2 tablespoon unsweetened non-dairy milk\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n4 teaspoons cornstarch\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease a 9-inch springform pan.\n\nFor the crust, place the cookie crumbs in a medium bowl and pour the melted butter or coconut oil on top. Add the salt, stirring to thoroughly coat all the crumbs, and transfer this mixture into your prepared pan. Use your palms to firmly press the crumbs down, taking care to completely cover the bottom in an even layer. Bake for approximately 10 minutes and let cool but leave the oven on.\n\nFor the main body of the cake, drain the package of tofu before tossing it into your food processor or blender to puree. Once smooth, add in the cream cheese and sugar, processing again to combine. In a small dish, stir the coffee powder into the liqueur to dissolve all the granules. Add this mixture into your food processor or blender, and process to combine. Add the vanilla and salt, scrape the sides to make sure you are not leaving anything out of the mix, and process one last time. Pour the mixture into your pan and tap gently on a flat surface to release any air bubbles trapped below the surface. Smooth down the top with a spatula and bake for 20 minutes. After that time, lower the oven temperature to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC). Bake for an additional 20 to 25 minutes, until the cake is still a bit wobbly in the center but set around the edges and slightly darker in color.\n\nAs the cake finishes baking, stir together the sour cream, vanilla, sugar, and cornstarch in a small bowl until smooth. Once the cake comes out of the oven, pour this mixture over the top, and smooth it down to achieve an even layer. Bake for 5 to 10 minutes more, just until bubbles begin to percolate around the edges. The cake will still seem rather loose and wobbly, but it will continue to set up as it cools. Let it cool to room temperature before making the caramel drizzle.\n\nTo complete the cake, make the caramel sauce by first setting a saucepan on the stove and gently melt the butter over medium heat. Once liquefied, add in the sugar, nondairy milk, and salt. Whisking slowly and steadily, bring the mixture to a gentle boil and continue to cook for about 5 minutes. Stir in the cornstarch and whisk vigorously to prevent lumps. Cook for one more minute, remove from the heat, and let the sauce cool for at least 10 minutes before drizzling over the cake in a checkerboard pattern, or as desired.\n\nChai Cheesecake\n\nMakes 12 to 16 servings\n\nThe spicy nuances of chai tea are no longer the stuff of obscure exotic imports alone, but is still shamefully hard to come by in prepared sweets. Those that do attempt such a delicate balance typically play it safe with milder mixes that lean heavily on cinnamon as a crutch, creating a terribly watered-down tease. Skip the middleman, start from scratch, and you seize upon the true, piquant flavors of chai without diluting your dessert. Each dense slice sparkles with a heavy dose of real ground spices that impart an intense experience, sure to please even the most discriminating chai enthusiasts.\n\nGRAHAM CRACKER CRUST:\n\n1\u00bd cups graham cracker crumbs\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\nCHAI FILLING:\n\n1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu\n\n2 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 teaspoons ground ginger\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons ground coriander\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground allspice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon cardamom\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cloves\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground black pepper\n\nDash salt\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) degrees and lightly grease and flour a 9-inch round springform pan.\n\nToss the graham cracker crumbs into a medium bowl. Add the melted butter or coconut oil and stir to combine. Slowly drizzle in the nondairy milk, just a few teaspoons at a time, until the crumbs are moist enough to hold together when pressed, but not so much that they're damp. Using your hands, press the mixture evenly into the bottom of your prepared pan. Set aside.\n\nFor the filling, drain the tofu of any excess water and blend it in your food processor or blender until smooth. Add in the cream cheese and blend. Scrape down the sides and blend again, ensuring that no lumps remain. Incorporate the sugar, spices, and salt. Scrape down the sides once more, checking for any concentrated pockets of spice. Blend thoroughly to create a homogenous mixture before pouring it on top of your graham cracker crust. Tap the whole pan on the counter lightly, to even it out and eliminate any air bubbles. Smooth the top with your spatula before transferring it to the oven. Bake for approximately 30 minutes, until the sides begin to pull away from the pan and the center still appears to be rather wobbly when tapped. Trust me; it will become firmer in time!\n\nLet the cake cool completely before moving it into the refrigerator, where I suggest you let it chill for at least 12 to 24 hours before serving. This will allow the flavors to fully develop and intensify.\n\nCookies and Cr\u00e8me Pound Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nStatistically speaking, the Oreo\u00ae has ranked as America's favorite cookie for decades, or at least for as long as market researchers have peered into the snacking habits of the country. Yet, for all its nostalgic, unfussy charm, the simple stacked wafers might pale in comparison to a plateful of cake. Choosing between the two would be some sort of cruel trial, a war of wills I'd never force anyone to undergo. Peace is possible, if you bake it! Get the best of both with a thick slab of moist pound cake, riddled with crunchy cookie pieces all the way through. Don't call it a compromise; it would pull in top honors if added to the survey.\n\nPOUND CAKE:\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup plain or unsweetened vegan yogurt\n\n\u00bd cup plain nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n1 cup crushed vegan chocolate cr\u00e8me-filled sandwich cookies (about 10 whole cookies)\n\n4 whole vegan chocolate cr\u00e8me-filled sandwich cookies\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease an 8x4-inch loaf pan.\n\nUsing your stand mixer, cream together the butter and granulated sugar. Add in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and yogurt all at once. Mix until just combined but be careful not to overwork the batter; a few lumps are okay at this point. Proceed by mixing in the nondairy milk, followed by the vanilla and vinegar. Fold in your crushed cookies by hand and pour the batter into your prepared loaf pan. Place the remaining whole cookies on top, and bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of your loaf comes out clean.\n\nLet the cake cool in the pan for at least 5 minutes before unmolding and moving it to a wire rack.\n\nCool completely, slice, and enjoy with a tall glass of soy milk, just like the classic cookie!\n\n*Using natural cocoa is very important for maintaining color integrity; do not use Dutch-process cocoa powder in this recipe if you want the crumb to remain red.\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 14 servings\n\nWhat's made with cocoa but doesn't taste like chocolate, and is a brilliant ruby-red hue but has no added food coloring? If you said red velvet cake, then you sure do know your desserts! Something of a pop culture sleeper hit, the red velvet cake is said to have originated from wartime scarcity, a humble confection made of the most basic staples that just happened to turn red due to the strange alchemy between natural cocoa powder and baking soda. Most renditions rely instead on some artificial augmentation, but with a little bit of baking know-how and an eye toward natural alternatives, it's easy to stack up layers of any shade, no questionable additives needed.\n\nTaking advantage of the naturally red fruit, cranberries lend both their subtle coloring and bold, tart, and tangy flavor to the batter, dotting the finished cake with chewy bites of whole stewed cranberries. No red velvet creation is complete without a bit of cream cheese frosting, and this vanilla-infused topper is the perfect sweet foil to such an unconventional cake. Denser and darker than the standard crumb, just a sliver will satisfy any craving, but you still may just find yourself reaching for seconds nonetheless. If you're looking to revamp the classic dessert offerings at your next celebration, consider your search complete.\n\nCRANBERRY RED VELVET CAKE:\n\n2\u00bd cups cranberries, fresh or frozen\n\n\u00bc cup light brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n2 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n\u00bc cup finely diced, steamed beet (about 1 small beet)\n\n\u2154 cup olive oil\n\n\u2154 cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup beet juice\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n2\u2153 cups all-purpose flour\n\n1\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup natural cocoa powder*\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u215b teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\nCREAM CHEESE FROSTING:\n\n2 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese\n\n1 cup vegan butter, at room temperature\n\n5 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPinch of salt\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF and lightly grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.\n\nCombine the cranberries, brown sugar, and lemon juice in a medium saucepan over moderate heat. Stir periodically and allow the mixture to stew for 10 to 15 minutes, roughly mashing the cranberries against the side of the pan to help thicken the mixture. Once it reaches a jammy consistency, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, turn off the heat and let cool for at least 15 minutes.\n\nIn the meantime, toss the cooked beet, oil, nondairy milk, beet juice, vanilla, and vinegar into your blender and puree on high speed. Blend until completely smooth, pausing to scrape down the sides of the canister if needed.\n\nIn a separate large bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, cocoa powder, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Make sure that all the dry goods are equally distributed within the bowl before adding in all of the blended wet ingredients along with the stewed cranberries. Stir with a large spatula to bring everything together into a smooth batter, being careful not to overmix. A few remaining lumps are just fine.\n\nDistribute the batter equally between the two prepared cake pans and tent the pans loosely with foil to prevent the tops from browning. Bake for 28 to 32 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the centers pulls out cleanly. Let cool completely before frosting.\n\nTo prepare the frosting, simply combine the vegan cream cheese and butter in your stand mixer with the whisk attachment installed. Beat the two together thoroughly until smooth and homogenous before adding in half of the confectioners' sugar with the vanilla and salt. Start the mixer on a low speed to incorporate the sugar, pausing to scrape down the sides of the bowl with your spatula. Add in the remaining sugar in the same fashion, giving the mixer plenty of time to blend it in. Turn up the speed to high and whip the frosting for a full 5 to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. Apply to your cake as desired.\n\nBecause this frosting is fairly soft, it's advisable to store the finished cake in the fridge just prior to serving if you want to make it in advance.\n\nChocolate-covered espresso beans made without dairy can be hard to come by, but you can still experience the same crunchy, caffeinated crumb to coat this cake with a simple shortcut. Coarsely grind \u00bc cup of dark roasted coffee beans with 1\u00bd cups finely chopped dark chocolate. The resulting mix may not have the same shine, or compulsive snackablility, but it's every bit as an invigorating and satisfying as a garnish!\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nStealing top honors at my very first baking competition, the stunning success of this imposing ode to chocolate and coffee may be responsible for the obsession with recipe creation that soon took hold. Emboldened by this early success, I was gripped by renewed inspiration before even wrapping my hands around the award, continuing to tweak the prizewinner until not a soul could resist its charm. It is intensely flavored and highly aromatic. Simply leaving it uncovered on the counter will draw curious noses from all over the house, in search of the heavenly aroma. Dense and decadent, this cake should only be made for a crowd, lest you find yourself compelled by its siren song to polish the whole thing off unassisted!\n\nMOCHA CAKE:\n\n2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n1 (14-ounce) can chickpeas, drained\n\n1\u00bc cups maple syrup\n\n1 cup olive oil\n\n1 cup chocolate nondairy milk\n\n2 teaspoons instant coffee powder\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\nCOFFEE BUTTERCREAM:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n2 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n2\u00bd teaspoons instant coffee powder\n\n\u00bd cup dark chocolate-covered espresso beans\n\nCHOCOLATE COATING:\n\n\u2154 cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n10 ounces (about 1\u2154 cups) dark chocolate, chopped\n\n1 cup dark chocolate-covered espresso beans\n\nPreheat your oven to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC) and lightly oil and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.\n\nSift the flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into your stand mixer and set aside. Drain any excess liquid out of the canned chickpeas before tossing them into your food processor or blender and pureeing until completely smooth. Scrape down the sides to ensure that no pieces are left behind, and add in the maple syrup and oil, processing just to combine. Add these wet ingredients into the dry. Blend briefly, just to incorporate.\n\nIn a separate microwave-safe bowl, heat the nondairy milk in the microwave for just a minute and dissolve the coffee powder into it. Add this mixture, along with the vanilla, into the batter, stirring to fully combine. Divide the batter evenly between your prepared pans and smooth down the tops. Bake for 30 minutes, until the cakes appear to pull away from the sides slightly. Give the cakes time to cool completely off before proceeding.\n\nTo make the buttercream, simply blend all the ingredients, except for the espresso beans, in your mixer until smooth and creamy. Roughly crush the \u00bd cup of espresso beans and set them aside.\n\nWhen you are ready to assemble the cake, turn the first layer out onto the plate you want to serve it on. Mound your buttercream up high but in an even layer, using all of it. Sprinkle the crushed espresso beans on top, covering the entire area of exposed filling. Next, take the second layer and flip it onto the base with the flat side up, resulting in a smooth surface on top.\n\nFinally, heat the coconut milk and butter together in the microwave for one minute, or until the butter melts. Place the dark chocolate in a medium bowl and hot liquid mixture on top. Let it sit for about a minute to start melting before stirring vigorously to combine. If it doesn't all smooth out after a good deal of stirring, send it all to the microwave for 30 seconds or so to help it along. Let this smooth ganache sit and thicken for up to an hour at room temperature, or for 15 to 25 minutes in the refrigerator. Smooth the ganache over the top of the cake and down the sides. Crush the remaining 1 cup of espresso beans and apply them in an even layer around the edges, to coat the sides of the cake before the ganache has fully set. Serve this cake within 24 hours to enjoy the flavors and textures at the peak of perfection.\n\nIf you'd still like to enjoy the original, \"decadent\" rendition, simply double the recipes for both the cake and ganache, and create a double-decker layer cake by sandwiching extra ganache between the two rounds.\nEveryday Almond Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nThis moist, fine-crumbed cake was originally created for a birthday celebration, fulfilling the vague request for something featuring almonds and chocolate. Delivering a truly decadent double decker tower on the day of the event, little did I know what fame and glory lay ahead of this sweet smash hit. Rapidly evolving into a single, daintier round fit for a bite of indulgence any day of the week, it became a staple at Nourish Caf\u00e9, where I baked in San Francisco for almost two years. Now one of my signature desserts, it's simpler to whip together on a whim, dare I say \"healthier,\" and still every bit as delicious. Hundreds of cakes later, I can confidently say that it will not disappoint on any occasion.\n\nALMOND CAKE:\n\n\u00bd cup almond meal\n\n\u00be cup white whole wheat flour\n\n\u00bd cup garbanzo bean flour\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n1 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd cup + 2 tablespoons maple syrup\n\n\u00bd teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons almond extract\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nCHOCOLATE GANACHE:\n\n7 ounces (about 1 heaping cup) dark chocolate, chopped\n\n\u00bc cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n1 tablespoon maple syrup\n\nWhole almonds, for garnish (optional)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and generously grease one 8-inch round cake pan.\n\nCombine the almond meal, both flours, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Stir to combine and set aside.\n\nSeparately, whisk together the oil, nondairy milk, maple syrup, and vinegar vigorously until the mixture is slightly frothy and bubbly on the surface. Incorporate the two extracts. Slowly add in the dry mixture, whisking just until everything is combined. Don't be alarmed if the batter seems thin, almost like crepe batter rather than your traditional cake. That means you've done it right!\n\nPour the batter into your prepared pan and bake for 25 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool for at least 15 minutes before turning out on a wire rack to cool. Make sure it's completely cool before decorating.\n\nTo make your ganache, heat the chocolate, coconut milk, and maple syrup together in a medium saucepan over very low heat, stirring well until completely smooth. Pour generously over the top of the cake, allowing it to run down the sides. Use a flat spatula to smooth over any gaps until it's fully covered. Place whole almonds decoratively around the border, if desired. Let the ganache cool and set completely before serving.\n\nPrefer smaller format sweets? Turn your sweet edible sunshine into individual cupcakes by dividing the batter equally between 18\u201320 standard muffin pans lined with cupcake papers. Bake at 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) for 15\u201318 minutes.\nLemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt\n\nMakes 16 to 18 servings\n\nWhen you're stuck inside on gloomy days, cloudy skies threatening overhead, take shelter in the kitchen and brighten the mood with a slice of this cheerful cake. Tangy fresh citrus like lemons and limes make me think of bright colors, bubbly sodas, and hot summer days. Using them in a dessert such as this is just like baking sunshine into a cake! Go off the beaten path and play with any variety of zesty fruit, like orange, grapefruit, yuzu, pomelo, Buddha's hand, and more to shake up the usual routine.\n\nLEMON-LIME CAKE:\n\n\u00be cup plain nondairy milk\n\n2 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n2 tablespoons lime juice\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n2 cups granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons lemon zest\n\n2 tablespoons lime zest\n\n1\u00bc cups lemon, lime, or plain vegan yogurt\n\n3 cups all-purpose flour\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nGLAZE:\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons lemon juice\n\nPreheat your oven to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC) and lightly grease and flour a 10-inch Bundt or tube pan.\n\nIn a small bowl, combine the nondairy milk with both citrus juices and set aside to acidify.\n\nIn a stand mixer, cream the butter, sugar, and both zests together until light and fluffy, scraping down the sides as necessary. Add in the yogurt, a heaping \u00bd cup at a time, beating well after each addition to prevent unblended lumps from being left behind.\n\nIn a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add these dry ingredients into your stand mixer alternately with the acidified milk mixture. Mix thoroughly.\n\nDrop dollops of the batter evenly into your prepared Bundt pan and bake for 65 to 80 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let the cake cool in the pan for 10 minutes before turning it out onto a wire rack. Allow it to cool completely before icing.\n\nFor the glaze, simply whisk the sugar and lemon juice together until smooth and pour over your cake as desired.\n\nIspahan is the unique combination of raspberry, lychee, and rose originally dreamed up as a specialty macaron by legendary pastry chef Pierre Herm\u00e9. Take a page from his notebook and incorporate 1 teaspoon of rosewater into the cakes to enjoy this exquisite delicacy.\nLychee Cupcakes with Raspberry Frosting\n\nMakes 13 cupcakes\n\nLychees are not an everyday produce pick but are worth hunting down. Fragrant and delicately flavored like exotic flowers and subtly grassy herbs, pureed lychees give these cupcakes a distinctive, inimitable taste. Capped with a swirl of soft raspberry frosting, the tart berry twang enhances the flavors locked within each tender, moist crumb.\n\nFresh lychees are always best. You can find them proliferating in Asian markets around late spring and through summer, but if you still have no luck finding them, canned lychees will work in a pinch.\n\nLYCHEE CUPCAKES:\n\n\u00be pound fresh lychee nuts (roughly 7 ounces of puree)\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n\u00bc teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bc cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\nRASPBERRY FROSTING:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup vegan cream cheese\n\n6 ounces (about 1 cup) fresh raspberries\n\n4 cups confectioners' sugar\n\nBefore breaking out those cupcake pans, you will want to peel, pit, and process the lychees first. To do so, press your thumb into the top of the fruit, as you would an orange, and remove the outer skin. The fruit itself is a translucent white color; split in half to remove the pit. Toss the pure flesh into your food processor or blender and repeat with your remaining lychees. If they are being stubborn, you can always take a knife all the way around the circumference to remove the inedible exterior. Once you have taken care of the lychees, process them until mostly smooth and set aside.\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line twelve to thirteen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nIn a large bowl, mix together the lychee puree, sugar, oil, and vanilla until completely combined. Next, sift in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, stirring just enough to bring the batter together, but being careful not to overmix. Finally, once your oven is ready to go, stir in the apple cider vinegar. Spoon the batter into your prepared tins about \u00bd to \u2154 of the way to the top. Though you may be able to squeeze the batter into twelve tins, I typically end up with a perfect baker's dozen. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes, until evenly browned and a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake, comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool completely before frosting.\n\nFor the frosting, cream together the butter and cream cheese in your stand mixer. Make sure you wash and dry your berries well before proceeding. Set aside 13 of the nicest berries for garnish. Throw the rest of the raspberries into your food processor or blender and blend them until completely smooth. Pass the puree through a fine-mesh strainer and discard the solids. Pour the seedless blend into your stand mixer and beat until everything is mostly incorporated. Mix in 2 cups of the confectioners' sugar. Once the first batch of sugar has combined, add the remaining 2 cups. Start mixing on slow, just to incorporate, and then bring the speed up to high, whipping for about 5 minutes until the frosting is light and fluffy. Pipe or spread the frosting onto your cupcakes as desired, and top with the reserved berries.\n\nMarshmallow Mud Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nBillowing swells of puffy white clouds of pure vanilla delicacy are what childhood dreams are made of. Marshmallow cream, soft and airy, seems like an unthinkable fluke of nature, genuine proof of magic, for its unworldly loft and sweetness. Call upon your inner wizard to conjure up a burgeoning, puffy bowlful with only a few common household ingredients, plus a little pinch of sweet sorcery. The devilishly dark chocolate cake lurking underneath such an angelic, sweet topping is an alchemical wonder to behold all by itself, but a true marvel to partake in combination.\n\nCHOCOLATE CAKE:\n\n\u00be cup chocolate nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nMARSHMALLOW TOPPING:\n\n\u2153 cup aquafaba, chilled\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon cream of tartar\n\n\u215b teaspoon xanthan gum\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nCHOCOLATE ICING:\n\n1 tablespoon vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n1 tablespoon water\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease an 8-inch round cake pan.\n\nIn a microwave-safe bowl, heat the nondairy milk for about 2 minutes on high so that it just begins to boil. Stir in the cocoa powder, making sure it has completely dissolved before stirring in the vinegar. Set aside to cool.\n\nUse your stand mixer to cream together the butter, both sugars, and the vanilla. Scrape down the sides and add in the oil, beating well to combine. Beat in the cooled cocoa mixture. Sift in the flour, baking soda, and salt, mixing until everything is just incorporated.\n\nPour the batter into your prepared pan and spread it down into an even layer. Don't worry if it seems like a skimpy amount of batter; it rises a bit in baking, and the marshmallow topping compensates for any lack of height! Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let it cool completely before removing from the pan.\n\nTo make the marshmallow topping, place the aquafaba in the bowl of your stand mixer with the whisk attachment installed. Beginning on low, beat the aquafaba until a light froth forms before increasing the speed to medium. Meanwhile, whisk together the sugar, cream of tartar, and xanthan gum in a small bowl, ensuring that all the ingredients are thoroughly distributed before proceeding. With the motor still running, slowly sprinkle in this dry mixture just a little bit at a time, until it's all incorporated. Increase the speed to high and continue to whip for 8\u201310 minutes. The sugar should have dissolved so it no longer appears grainy, and the aquafaba should be bright white, glossy, and fluffy, with peaks firm enough to stand on their own. Gently fold in the vanilla last. Spread liberally over the cake.\n\nFor the final chocolate flourish, simply melt the butter and whisk in the confectioners' sugar, cocoa, and water until smooth. Pour this icing over your cake as desired, or use it as a sauce to serve on the side.\n\nAny other flavor of jam, from cherry to apricot, would be right at home here, but don't overlook alternative seasonal spreads, like apple or pumpkin butter, too.\nMini Icebox Cheesecake\n\nMakes 3 to 4 servings\n\nFor me, sweets are a perennial consideration, but the hot weather and humidity of summer can be a powerful deterrent to turning on the oven. Fortunately, not all desserts need to be baked, as is the case with this creamy little cake made to beat the heat. Much like an ice cream cake in consistency but with the pleasant tang of cream cheese, it is the best adaptation of a cheesecake under the sun, if I dare say so myself. Plus, unlike the large commitment of standard, full cheesecakes, this one is perfectly sized for an intimate party between a few close friends!\n\nShould you prefer a more generous cake to accommodate the appetites of a bigger party, double the recipe and use a 9-inch springform pan instead. It will be slightly taller than the small version, but I can't imagine anyone will complain about receiving larger slices.\n\nGRAHAM CRACKER CRUST:\n\n1 cup graham cracker crumbs\n\n3 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n2 tablespoons maple syrup\n\nMARBLED CHEESECAKE FILLING:\n\n1 (8-ounce) package vegan cream cheese\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\nFRUIT TOPPING:\n\n\u00bd cup strawberry jam or preserves\n\n1 teaspoon water\n\nPlace the graham cracker crumbs in a medium bowl. Melt the butter and pour it over the crumbs, followed by the maple syrup. Mix to coat and moisten all the crumbs before pressing the mixture firmly into a 6-inch round springform pan, covering the bottom in one even layer. Chill it in the freezer while you assemble the filling.\n\nBlend the cream cheese, sugar, nondairy milk, lemon juice, and vanilla in a food processor or blender until the mixture is completely smooth and creamy. Remove the crust from the freezer and pour the filling carefully inside.\n\nFor the final flourish, mix together the jam or preserves with the water in a small bowl. Spoon it on top and mix very lightly with a spatula to swirl it throughout.\n\nCover the cake with plastic wrap and return it to the freezer for at least 5 hours, until set and sliceable.\n\nNot-Nog Cupcakes\n\nMakes 24 cupcakes\n\nPaging through a Christmas kitchenware catalog during the holiday season, one recipe in particular caught my eye: eggnog bread. As one might expect from a mainstream publication at that time, the dense loaf was saturated with mind-boggling measures of eggs, milk, butter, and of course eggnog. Converting this into an unlikely vegan variant was a challenge I simply could not turn down! A failed batch and many crafty adjustments later, the original quick bread had morphed into cupcakes, and my kitchen was filled with a veritable elf's workshop of lightly spiced, very merry holiday gifts. The resulting recipe comfortably fed a sizable holiday party, as it does make a whole lot of little cakes, but I wouldn't recommend reducing the batch.... Leftovers are unlikely with any crowd.\n\nNOG CUPCAKES:\n\n1\u00bd cups vegan butter\n\n2 cups granulated sugar\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons ground nutmeg\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd teaspoon kala namak (black salt)\n\n1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n3\u00be cups all-purpose flour\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n2 cups vegan eggnog, store-bought or homemade (page 233)\n\nBUTTERED RUM GLAZE:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc cup vegan eggnog\n\n2 tablespoons dark rum\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n4 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bd\u20131 cup sliced almonds, for garnish\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line two dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream the butter with the sugar, nutmeg, vanilla, and black salt. While the mixer churns, blend the flaxseeds with the water, allowing them to sit and slightly gel. Introduce the flax mixture into the bowl of the stand mixer and stir to combine. The batter will be somewhat lumpy at this point, but as long as you don't have any obscenely large clumps of solid butter, it should be fine.\n\nIn a separate bowl, combine your flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Slowly add these dry ingredients to the contents of the bowl waiting in your stand mixer, alternating with the eggnog until both are used up. Fully incorporate each addition but be careful not to overmix.\n\nPour the resulting batter into your prepared cupcake liners about \u2154 to \u00be of the way full and bake for 20 to 22 minutes. The cupcakes should not appear particularly browned; keep a close eye on them. They will be done when a toothpick inserted into the center of a cake comes out clean.\n\nFor the glaze, place the butter and brown sugar in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Stir until the butter melts and the sugar dissolves, creating a smooth syrup. Add the eggnog, rum, and salt, and bring the mixture to a gentle boil. Remove from the heat. Slowly introduce the confectioners' sugar, whisking vigorously into the mixture until the glaze thickens and loses a little of its shine; 1 to 2 minutes. Pour or spoon a dollop on top of each cupcake. Garnish with sliced almonds, lavishing your little cakes with as much of the nuts as desired.\n\nIf strawberry shortcake bars were more your jam while growing up, simply swap out the marmalade for strawberry preserves and add \u00bd cup crispy brown rice cereal over the top of the batter after swirling, for a slightly crunchy finish.\nOrange Dreamsicle Snack Cake\n\nMakes 9 to 12 servings\n\nAny kid who's ever chased after the siren song of an ice cream truck undoubtedly has fond memories of those classic, creamy orange ice pops, quickly melting under the summer sun. Turning the nostalgic combination of sweet citrus and rich vanilla into a tender, compulsively snackable sheet cake is not only a fun new take on the frozen dessert, but an improvement on the original; you won't need to worry about making a drippy, sticky mess, no matter how high the temperatures climb!\n\nSNACK CAKE:\n\n3\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u2154 cup vanilla or plain vegan yogurt\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n1 cup orange juice\n\nDREAMSICLE TOPPING:\n\n\u00bd cup vanilla or plain vegan yogurt\n\n1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n2\u00bd tablespoons tapioca starch or 1\u00bd tablespoons arrowroot powder\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd cup orange marmalade, store-bought or homemade (page 239)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking pan.\n\nCombine the flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. In a stand mixer, whisk together the yogurt and oil until fully emulsified. Add in the vanilla and orange juice. Slowly incorporate the dry ingredients in stages, until the batter is nicely mixed without lumps. Pour the batter into your prepared pan.\n\nFor the topping, whisk together the yogurt, confectioners' sugar, starch or arrowroot, and vanilla in a small dish, stirring until smooth. Drizzle over the batter. Microwave the marmalade for about 30 seconds, until slightly liquefied and easier to pour. Drizzle it over the batter as well. Swirl both toppings together with a knife but try not to overdo it as you may muddle the colors.\n\nBake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. When testing for doneness, be sure to find a spot that is free from topping, as the icing and marmalade may cause the toothpick to appear wet, even if the cake is ready. Wait until the cake has cooled completely before cutting into bars.\n\nPeach Melba Layer Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 14 servings\n\nAs the story goes, the original peach melba was created for a famous opera singer who loved ice cream but did not dare eat it for fear of paralyzing her vocal cords. A brilliant chef thought to pair the forbidden frozen treat with poached peaches and a raspberry sauce, hoping the added elements might lessen the chill. While I can't claim to understand either of these theories, I do know that a timeless dessert was born that night. That said, if the chef had really been thinking on his feet, he might have cut the icy interloper out entirely to make an unassailable layer cake. Hold the ice cream this one time, and enjoy a warmer embrace from this fruity diva.\n\nPEACH CAKE:\n\n2 pounds sliced and pitted peaches, fresh or frozen and thawed\n\n\u00bd cup olive oil\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u2153 cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\n\n2\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground ginger\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nVANILLA FROSTING:\n\n1\u00bd cups vegan butter\n\n4 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n2 tablespoons unsweetened non-dairy milk\n\nRASPBERRY FILLING:\n\n1 (12-ounce) jar raspberry jam (about 1\u00bd cups)\n\n1 cup fresh raspberries, for garnish (optional)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and generously grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.\n\nPlace the peach slices in your food processor or blender, breaking down the fruit into a mostly smooth puree, but leave a few chunks of fruit to add texture to the cake. Set aside.\n\nIn a large bowl, whisk together the oil and both sugars until light and fluffy. Add in your peach puree along with the lemon juice and mix to combine. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ginger, and salt. Slowly add these dry ingredients into your bowl of liquids and stir until everything is incorporated. Equally divide the batter between your two prepared pans. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of each layer comes out clean. Cool completely.\n\nFor the vanilla frosting, simply blend all the frosting ingredients together with a mixer, starting at a low speed so that the sugar does not fly out. Once the ingredients have adequately combined, whip the frosting on a higher speed for at least 3 minutes, to add more air and lighten it a bit.\n\nWhen you are ready to assemble the cake, turn both layers out of the pans and slice each in half horizontally, creating four round layers total. Use a sawing motion with a serrated knife to achieve a clean cut, and be very careful when moving the layers to avoid crumbling. Lay the first bottom down on the platter you intend to serve it on, and spread it with a third of the raspberry jam. To prevent the two fillings from mingling, drop a generous dollop of the vanilla frosting in the very center of the layer (atop the jam) and smooth it down and out to the edges. Put the other unfrosted half of the cake layer on a separate plate and use it to place this layer neatly on top of the nicely spread filling. Frost the top of this one in the same manner. Repeat the frosting process with the remaining two layers until you reach the top. Skip the raspberry jam on the very top and simply decorate with vanilla frosting and fresh raspberries, if desired.\n\nPerfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes\n\nMakes 12 cupcakes\n\nWhoever first discovered that flavors as seemingly mismatched as lemon and poppy seeds could be successfully united in sweet harmony was one brilliant lunatic. My only quibble with this combination is that these distinctive components each deserve more time in the spotlight. A crazy proposition to be sure, but by sequestering the poppy seeds in the cake and giving the lemon plenty of room to shine in a jammy eggless filling, both have equal opportunities to bask in the spotlight.\n\nLEMON CURD:\n\n\u00bd cup instant mashed potato flakes\n\n\u00bd cup plain nondairy milk\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u00bc cup lemon juice\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon lemon zest\n\n\u00bc teaspoon turmeric\n\nPOPPY SEED VANILLA CUPCAKES:\n\n1 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup olive oil\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons poppy seeds\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\nTo make the lemon curd, combine the potato flakes and non-dairy milk in a microwave-safe bowl. Heat for about 30 seconds until the starchy flakes absorb all the liquid. Stir in the butter, allowing it to melt in the residual heat. Mix in the lemon juice and sugar. Heat the mixture again in the microwave for another 30 to 45 seconds until it reaches a consistency much like applesauce. Toss it into your food processor or blender along with the lemon zest and turmeric, and puree for 2 or 3 minutes, until it is completely smooth and creamy. Refrigerate the resulting curd for at least 4 hours before using, or better yet, let it sit overnight so that it has time to thicken and intensify in flavor.\n\nWith the curd prepared and chilled, it is time to make the cupcakes! Preheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line a dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nIn a small bowl, whisk together the nondairy milk and vinegar and let it rest for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a medium bowl, and set aside. Blend the oil and sugar together, followed by the slightly curdled milk, and beat the mixture for a minute, forming a loose matrix of bubbles. Slowly add in the dry ingredients, stirring the batter just enough to combine, being careful not to overmix. Finally, fold in the poppy seeds and vanilla. This makes a very thin, delicate batter; do not panic if it seems watery.\n\nPour the batter into your prepared muffin tins, until it reaches about \u00be of the way to the top of the liners. Bake for 17 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool for 10 minutes in the tins before removing them to a wire rack, where they should cool completely.\n\nDescribing how to assemble the cupcakes can get a bit wordy and sound intimidating, but it will be much easier once you try it for yourself. First off, get your cupcakes and take the lemon curd out of your refrigerator. Take the first cupcake and insert a paring knife at the very edge of the top at an approximately 45-degree angle. Run the blade around the entire circumference at this angle, until the top pops off and you have a little cone of cake. Cut the excess triangle of cake away from the top that you just removed, so that the bottom is smooth. This remaining triangle isn't used for anything else, so go ahead and treat yourself to a snack! Now, take the flat top and press a small, sharp cookie cutter into it. You want to use a shape that leaves a good amount of space around the border so that it doesn't tear. (Oh, and you can eat the cutout, too. Who knew this recipe would be so rewarding for the baker?)\n\nNext, take a spoonful of the lemon curd and drop it into the hollow in the base of the cake, smoothing it out so that it comes right up to the top. Replace the cut cupcake top and voil\u00e0\u2014edible art! Just be careful when handling them because they have a bit less structural integrity than standard, solid cupcakes.\n\nGo big or just go Hawaii, already! Double the recipe and bake in a full-sized Bundt pan with a 12-cup capacity if you're in dire need of a seriously sweet escape. Allow 60 to 75 minutes for the cake to bake all the way through.\nPi\u00f1a Colada Mini Bundts\n\nMakes 6 mini Bundts\n\nPicture yourself lying in the sun, sand between your toes, parrots crooning overhead. Not a worry in the world, you have everything you need: sunblock, a good companion, and a refreshing tropical drink. You reach over to take another sip, when you realize that it is not a drink at all, but a tiny cake! In fact, it is then that you realize you are not on the beach, but at home in your kitchen, with a freshly baked batch of these amazing mini Bundt cakes! Even if your immediate surroundings are cold and gray, you can still have a taste of the sweet life with these unique tropical delights.\n\nPI\u00d1A COLADA CAKE:\n\n1\u00bd cups unsweetened shredded coconut, toasted and divided\n\n\u00bc cup coconut oil, melted\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 cup crushed pineapple, drained\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00be cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n2 tablespoons dark rum\n\n1 teaspoon lime juice\n\nGLAZE:\n\n1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon unsweetened shredded coconut\n\n2\u20133 tablespoons dark rum\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease a mini Bundt pan or a jumbo muffin pan.\n\nToss 1 cup of the toasted coconut into your food processor and grind it down into a fine powdery consistency. It may take about 5 minutes, but when you see the coconut starting to clump together, you're good to go. If you do not have a food processor handy, then whiz the coconut in a spice grinder in batches of \u00bc to \u00bd cup, depending upon the capacity of your appliance.\n\nPlace the powdered coconut into a large bowl along with the melted coconut oil and both sugars. Thoroughly mix everything together. Drain any excess liquid from the crushed pineapple, add it to the mixture, and combine. Sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt and mix once more. Stir in the remaining toasted coconut, coconut milk, rum, and lime juice, stirring just until incorporated. It's fine to leave a few errant lumps behind.\n\nPour the batter into your prepared pans and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cake comes out clean. Let the cakes rest in their pans for 10 minutes before transferring them to a wire rack. Allow them to cool completely before icing.\n\nFor the glaze, simply whisk the sugar together with the shredded coconut and as much rum as necessary to achieve your desired thickness and color. Err on the side of less rum for more distinctive, solid stripes, or more for lighter, more complete coverage. Drizzle over the little cakes and enjoy a taste of the tropics, no matter your locale!\n\nIt's cool to be square, too. This cake can alternately take shape in a lightly greased 9-inch square pan. Simply bake at 325\u00baF (160\u00baC) for about 90 minutes to ensure that it's fully and evenly cooked through the center.\nPlum-Good Crumb Cake\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nCrumb cake, alternately known in some circles merely as \"coffee cake,\" is understandably popular around teatime, with a pinch of spice, a good bit of sugar, and that irresistible topping. Aficionados can agree that the crumb topping is the best part, which is why this rendition doubles down on the buttery streusel for a particularly generous helping. While alone this would secure its place next to a steaming hot cuppa, the ribbon of juicy fresh plums through the center seals the deal. If plums don't make the cut in your fruit basket, try another fruit, or a combination, such as peaches, apples, or pears. No matter what you tuck into the center, the outcome will still be plum good.\n\nCRUMB TOPPING:\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n\u215b teaspoon ground cardamom\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n6 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil\n\nCAKE:\n\n\u00bd cup plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n1\u00bd cups plain vegan yogurt\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nFRUIT FILLING:\n\n\u00be pound (3\u20134 medium) fresh plums, pitted and chopped\n\n1 tablespoon all-purpose flour\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease a 10-inch tube pan or Bundt pan.\n\nFor the crumb topping, whisk together the flour, sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it over the dry ingredients. Stir with a fork to coat everything evenly, forming coarse crumbs in various sizes. Set aside.\n\nFor the cake, combine the nondairy milk and vinegar in a medium bowl and whisk together. Let this sit for a few minutes to curdle. Separately, cream the butter and sugar together in a stand mixer, beating for a few minutes to fully combine. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a separate bowl. Add the yogurt and vanilla to your curdled milk. Add the dry ingredients into the stand mixer, alternating with the wet while beating on low speed. Occasionally scrape down the sides to make sure you do not leave any large lumps behind. Be careful not to overmix, as it is okay to leave a few small lumps in the batter.\n\nAs you are about to assemble the cake for baking, toss the chopped plums with a tablespoon of flour. Pour half of your batter into the prepared pan, spreading it to coat the bottom in an even layer. Sprinkle the fruit over the first layer of batter. Follow this with the remaining half of your batter, being careful to completely cover all the fruit. Sprinkle the crumb mixture over the top before sliding the pan into the oven. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until a toothpick or skewer inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool completely in the pan prior to serving.\n\nPomegranates can be fickle fruits, messy and difficult to work with\u2014unless you know the secret to easily removing the arils. Slice off the crown and score the sphere into six equal wedges. Gently pry the segments apart. Working with one piece at a time, submerge each in a bowl of water and use your fingers to loosen the arils from the membrane. The edible seeds will sink to the bottom, while the membrane will float. When you're all done, simply pour off the water along with all the pith. You should now have a bowl of nothing but the sweet, tart, tangy arils, ready to eat!\nPomegranate Ginger Cupcakes\n\nMakes 12 cupcakes\n\nPomegranate briefly enjoyed a flash of viral fame, trending right alongside kale and the other superfoods du jour, but this jewel box of curiously tart, tangy, and sweet gems will earn genuine staying power in your home once you try these fragrant cupcakes. With a double dose of the ruby red juice to intensify the typically delicate flavor, the only thing that could possibly make them better is the sharp but sweet bite of ginger. Much more sophisticated than your average kiddie cupcakes, these will delight the adventurous palate seeking more than just a yellow cake with gaudy rainbow sprinkles.\n\nCUPCAKES:\n\n2 cups 100% pomegranate juice, divided\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bd cups + 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour, divided\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup crystallized ginger, finely minced\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons lemon zest\n\nGINGER FROSTING:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n2 teaspoons ground ginger\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup fresh pomegranate arils, for garnish (optional)\n\nIn a small saucepan over medium heat, cook 1 cup of the juice for about 20 minutes, until it is reduced to a little less than \u00bc cup. Remove from the heat and let cool.\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line one dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nCombine the remaining cup of pomegranate juice and the vinegar in a medium bowl, leaving them alone for a few minutes to get acquainted. Mix the juice vigorously until frothy, and whisk in the sugar, oil, and vanilla. Sift in the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt, and stir just until combined. Toss the minced ginger with the remaining 1 tablespoon of flour, and fold both the ginger and zest into your batter.\n\nDivide the batter evenly among the cupcake papers, and drizzle equal amounts of your reserved pomegranate reduction over each cupcake just before baking. Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until lightly browned, and a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Let the cupcakes cool inside the muffin tins for about 15 minutes, before moving them to a wire rack. Allow them to cool completely before frosting.\n\nIn a medium bowl, combine all the ingredients for the frosting, and whip until smooth and fluffy. Frost your heart out! Top with fresh pomegranate arils if desired.\n\nPup Cakes\n\nMakes 2 small or 1 medium cake\n\nDogs are just as important as any other member of the family, so whenever a canine birthday comes up, cake is still a mandatory component of the celebration. This particular treat was inspired by my very first four-legged best friend, Isis. It was her favorite surprise snack, judging by the way she inhaled it; in mere minutes the entire thing would be reduced to a few errant crumbs, which she would inevitably vacuum up in short order as well! Now the newest addition to my furry family, Luka, is quite a bit smaller and pickier than the old lady, so I've adapted this doggie delight into a more compact, crowd-pleasing format. You can even enjoy this cake with your lucky pup, since it is made with ingredients that are also perfectly agreeable to the human palate. Think of it as a dense peanut butter carrot cake, if you will. If you are still a beginner baker, then this is the perfect recipe to start with, as I am certain that your dog will be your most easily pleased critic!\n\n\u00bc cup spelt or whole wheat flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc cup shredded carrots\n\n1 tablespoon creamy peanut butter\n\n1 tablespoon coconut oil, melted\n\n2 tablespoons unsweetened applesauce\n\n\u00bc teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n2 tablespoons plain, unsweetened vegan yogurt\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease 2 wells of a muffin tin or 1 medium 6-ounce ramekin.\n\nCombine the flour and baking powder in a medium bowl. Stir in the carrot shreds and then incorporate the peanut butter, melted coconut oil, applesauce, and vinegar, and mix well. The batter will be very thick, much like cookie dough. Divide the batter between the muffin tins or drop it all into your ramekin. Bake for 25 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool completely.\n\nRight before serving, spread the yogurt on top to act as a creamy, healthy frosting. Stand back and watch your fur baby gobble it up!\n\nRoot Beer Float Cupcakes\n\nMakes 12 cupcakes\n\nWhen I was too young to reach the top shelf of the fridge, and my parents still exercised the authority to regulate my intake of sweets, I remember the harshest restrictions were placed upon soda. It was only once a year, on New Year's Eve, that I would be allowed a glass of the fizzy elixir. If I was really lucky, I was permitted a scoop of ice cream and some chocolate syrup to make a root beer float. Memories of these rare celebratory moments were the inspiration for this cupcake. Root beer is infused into the little cakes, which are topped with a more grown-up chocolate ganache, and dense vanilla frosting reminiscent of that cool scoop of ice cream. Elevated beyond the specter of a midnight snack but still playful at heart, it's still one of my most popular recipes to this day.\n\nROOT BEER CUPCAKES:\n\n1 cup root beer soda\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u2154 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n2 teaspoons root beer extract (available online if you can't find it)\n\n1\u2153 cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\nCHOCOLATE GANACHE:\n\n3 ounces (\u00bd cup) semi-sweet chocolate chips\n\n2 tablespoons plain non-dairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon maple syrup\n\nVANILLA FROSTING:\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n3 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line a dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nIn a large bowl, combine the soda and vinegar and let stand for a few minutes. Add in the sugar, oil, and both extracts, whisking vigorously until slightly frothy. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Gently pour the liquid mixture into the bowl of dry ingredients, stirring with a wide spatula to incorporate. A few lumps are fine to leave in the batter; be careful not to overmix.\n\nDistribute the batter evenly between the prepared tins, filling the cupcake liners approximately \u00be of the way to the top. Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. After letting the cupcakes cool in the pans for about 10 minutes, move them to a wire rack and allow them to cool completely before preparing the ganache.\n\nWhen the cupcakes are ready, combine all the ingredients for the ganache in a microwave-safe container and microwave for about 60 seconds. Stir thoroughly to help incorporate the melting chocolate. If the chocolate is not yet entirely smooth, return the sauce to the microwave for 15 to 30 second intervals, stirring between each heating, watching carefully to ensure that it doesn't burn. Drizzle the ganache in squiggles over the tops of the cupcakes. Allow to fully cool and dry before preparing the frosting.\n\nWith your stand mixer, beat the vegan butter thoroughly to soften. Add in the confectioners' sugar, and beat on a low speed, so as not to spray powder everywhere. Incorporate the vanilla, and whip on high speed for 5 to 6 minutes, until the frosting is thick and creamy. Apply to your cupcakes as desired and enjoy.\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes\n\nMakes 12 cupcakes\n\nOkay, you got me. These treats are not going to pick up a knife all on their own and smear a nice dollop of frosting all over themselves. However, they do come out of the oven fully dressed and ready to devour! The trick is to swirl in a thick spoonful of the peanut buttery cocoa spread before baking them, and presto, your work is all done the instant the timer goes off! Now, if only layer cakes were so self-sufficient...\n\nPEANUT BUTTER CUPCAKES:\n\n\u2154 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n2 tablespoons whole flaxseeds\n\n\u00bc cup water\n\n\u00bd cup creamy peanut butter\n\n\u00bd cup unsweetened applesauce\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nCHOCOLATE-PEANUT BUTTER FROSTING:\n\n\u00bd cup creamy peanut butter\n\n\u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u2154 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bc cup plain nondairy milk\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line one dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nIn a large bowl, combine the nondairy milk and vinegar, and let sit for a few minutes before whisking vigorously until frothy. Mix in both sugars. Grind the flaxseeds into a powder with a spice grinder before blending them together with the water. Stir the flaxseeds mixture, peanut butter, applesauce, and vanilla into the bowl, and beat until thoroughly combined. In a separate bowl, add the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Slowly stir these dry ingredients into the batter. Mix until there are no more lumps, but be careful not to mix more than necessary.\n\nIn a separate bowl, combine all the ingredients for the frosting, and stir until completely smooth.\n\nDivide your batter equally between the prepared muffin tins. Drop a dollop of frosting into each cup of raw batter, and swirl it around with a toothpick, covering the entire top. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into a cupcake comes out clean. When testing for doneness, be sure to find a spot that is free from frosting, as it may cause the toothpick to appear wet, even if the cupcakes are ready. Let the cupcakes cool inside the tins for at least 10 to 15 minutes. You can either let them cool the rest of the way atop a wire rack, or serve them immediately for a warm delight!\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake\n\nMakes 12 to 16 servings\n\nIf love can be compared to chocolate, then consider this cake to be an intense and steamy affair with the seductive temptress next door. Perched atop a soft, no-bake almond crust is a mousse so luxurious, velvety, and thick that a fork could remain upright in a slice without assistance. Topped off with a scandalous veil of chocolate curls, this alluring little number is hard to resist. Once you have indulged in this deep, dark hedonistic pleasure, you may never be able to go back to a plain-Jane chocolate bar ever again.\n\nCOCOA-ALMOND BASE:\n\n1\u00bd cups almond meal\n\n\u2153 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n3 tablespoons coconut oil, melted\n\nCHOCOLATE MOUSSE:\n\n2 (12-ounce) packages extra-firm silken tofu\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\n12 ounces (about 2 cups) semi-sweet chocolate chips\n\n1 bar dark chocolate (optional, for garnish)\n\nLightly grease the bottom of a 9-inch round springform pan.\n\nIn a small bowl, combine all the ingredients for the base and mix well, until a moist but firm dough forms. Drop the dough into the center of the springform pan and press firmly so that it evenly covers the bottom. It helps if you start by easing the dough out with your fingertips, but to get a nice edge when you reach the sides, simply press the crust in with the bottom of a measuring cup. Once you have the bottom nicely covered, let the crust chill in the refrigerator while you prepare the filling.\n\nFirst, drain any excess liquid away from your tofu before tossing it into your food processor or blender. Puree thoroughly and add in the cocoa, sugar, vanilla, and salt, pulsing briefly to incorporate. Place the chocolate in a microwave-safe dish, and microwave in 30-second intervals to prevent scorching. Stir thoroughly after each heating until the chocolate is completely melted. Continue stirring to achieve a very smooth consistency. Pour the melted chocolate into your waiting tofu mixture. Blend once more for about 2 or 3 minutes, pausing as needed to scrape down the sides to achieve a completely smooth, homogenous mixture.\n\nPour the filling into your chilled base and use a spatula to smooth the top to the best of your ability. The mousse is quite thick and therefore difficult to smooth, but you will be covering up the top with more chocolate anyway! Return your springform pan to the refrigerator and allow the cake to chill for at least 3 hours.\n\nWhen you are ready to serve, take a vegetable peeler to the short side of the chocolate bar and shave off thin pieces to adorn the top. It's easiest to form curls if the bar is at room temperature or just slightly warmer; colder, and it will break into shorter flakes or shards.\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake\n\nMakes 12 to 16 servings\n\nCalling all chocoholics! This is the dessert you've been waiting for. You don't need to be an obsessive fan of all things cacao to appreciate such a showstopper, though. No one in their right mind would be able to refuse this three-layer skyscraper of cheesecake, increasing in chocolate intensity as you dig in deeper. When you have picky guests to please, stack the deck in your favor with this ace in your pocket. I swear, it's not cheating, just an easy win!\n\nCOCOA CRUST:\n\n1\u00bd cups vegan graham cracker crumbs\n\n\u2153 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\nCHEESECAKE:\n\n1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu\n\n3 (8-ounce) packages vegan cream cheese\n\n\u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n12 ounces (2 cups) semi-sweet chocolate chips\n\nGANACHE:\n\n\u00be\u20131 ounce (about 2 tablespoons) semi-sweet chocolate chips\n\n\u00bd teaspoon olive oil\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC).\n\nFor the crust, stir together the graham cracker crumbs, confectioners' sugar, and cocoa powder in a medium bowl. Melt the butter and incorporate it into the dry ingredients, forming a crumbly but moist mixture. Use your hands to press this mixture into the bottom of a 9-inch round springform pan. Set aside.\n\nFor the filling, drain the tofu of any excess water and blend it in a food processor or blender until smooth. Add in the cream cheese, blend, and scrape down the sides with a spatula. Blend again, ensuring that no lumps remain. Integrate the sugar, vanilla, and salt. Place the 2 cups of chocolate chips in a large microwave-safe bowl, and microwave in 30-second intervals to prevent scorching. Stir thoroughly after each heating until the chocolate is completely melted. Continue stirring to achieve a very smooth consistency.\n\nRemove 1\u00bd cups of the cheesy filling and thoroughly blend it into the chocolate. From this mixture, remove 2 cups and spread it evenly atop the crust. Remove 1\u00bd additional cups of the cheese mixture and blend it into the chocolate mixture. Remove 2 more cups of the resulting mixture and gently spread it over the first chocolate cheesecake layer. Finally, stir the rest of the cheese filling into the remaining chocolate mixture. Carefully pour and spread this final batch of chocolate mixture over the previous two layers. Work very gently, as the top layers are less solid and more likely to combine. If it happens, don't worry; it will still taste just as good!\n\nSmooth out the top and bake for 50 to 55 minutes. The sides will not pull away from the pan, so you will just have to trust your intuition on this one. After removing it from the oven, use a knife to immediately loosen the cake from the sides, but leave it inside the pan and allow it to cool to room temperature.\n\nTo make the ganache, microwave the remaining 2 tablespoons of chocolate chips with the oil until melted and completely smooth, about 30 to 60 seconds. Stir together and drizzle over top of the cake. Refrigerate the cake for at least 12 hours before serving.\n\nWasabi Chocolate Cupcakes\n\nMakes 12 cupcakes\n\nDon't let their innocent appearance fool you; these are no bland baby cakes. Lurking deep within the heart of each paper-wrapped chocolate morsel is a potent dose of peppery wasabi, surprising the unprepared with a serious punch of heat. Wasabi can be extremely powerful even in small quantities, so don't underestimate the meager-looking amounts suggested here without a glass or two of nondairy milk on hand to fight the flames. Ramp it up or dial it down according to taste, but if you choose to tempt fate and add in more, don't say I didn't warn you!\n\nWASABI CHOCOLATE CUPCAKES:\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup olive oil\n\n1 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n1\u00bd\u20132 teaspoons wasabi paste\n\n\u00bd cup dark or semisweet chocolate chips\n\n2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar\n\nWASABI ICING:\n\n\u00bd teaspoon wasabi paste\n\n3 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\n1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line one dozen muffin tins with cupcake papers.\n\nBegin by mixing the flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl. Combine the oil, nondairy milk, and wasabi paste in a separate bowl. Beat until the wasabi is fully dissolved and the mixture is slightly frothy. Slowly add your wet ingredients to the bowl of dry ingredients and stir until everything is just combined. Be careful not to overmix, as a few lumps are okay. Gently fold in the chocolate chips. Finally, add the vinegar and quickly stir it in.\n\nIt may look like more batter than will fit into just one dozen muffin cups but go ahead and fill the papers most of the way to the top, and immediately slide the tins into the oven. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of a cupcake comes out clean. Allow the cupcakes to cool in the pans for at least a few minutes before removing them to a wire rack.\n\nFor the icing, whisk the wasabi and nondairy milk together in a small bowl, ensuring that no lumps of wasabi are left. Add the confectioners' sugar and whisk until smooth. Drizzle the glaze sparingly over the cupcakes.\nPIES & TARTS\n\nBaklava Tart\n\nMakes 8 to 14 servings\n\nTired of finicky phyllo? Heartbroken over honey? No matter, you can still make a modified baklava that will compete with the best of them. Originally created as a way to use up remnants of phyllo after a little pastry mishap, the phyllo is merely crumbled over the top; no careful layering is necessary to produce an impressive dessert. The amount of pastry sprinkled on top is very imprecise, allowing a lot of wiggle room to use however much you want. If there aren't any open packages of phyllo dough on hand just waiting to be used up, you can purchase the mini frozen shells and only crush up as many as necessary, thereby reducing waste. Now, isn't that a delicious fix!\n\nCRUST:\n\n3\u00bd ounces (\u00bc cup + 2 tablespoons) vegan cream cheese\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 teaspoon lemon juice\n\n1 tablespoon light agave nectar or maple syrup\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nNUTTY FILLING:\n\n2 cups chopped walnuts\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 tablespoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\n3\u00bd\u20134 ounces (\u00bc of a package, or 8\u201310 frozen mini shells) phyllo dough scraps\n\nGLAZE:\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n\u2153 cup light agave nectar or maple syrup\n\n1 tablespoon dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon lemon juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease a 13x4-inch rectangular tart pan with a removable bottom. While I like how this shape mimics that of a slice of traditional baklava, a 9-inch round fluted tart pan with removable bottom could also be used.\n\nFor the crust, blend together the cream cheese and both sugars in your stand mixer, creaming until well combined. Stir in the vanilla, lemon, and agave or maple syrup. Add in 1 cup of the flour, the baking soda, and salt, and mix until fully incorporated. Add the remaining \u00bd cup of flour and mix well. Press the resulting mixture into your prepared tart pan, bringing it evenly and smoothly up the sides. Dock the crust by pricking the bottom all over with a fork, creating vents for steam to escape and preventing big bubbles from getting trapped inside. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes, until lightly golden brown in color. Remove the pan from your oven but leave the heat on.\n\nIn a medium bowl, stir together the walnut pieces, sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Pour the melted butter or coconut oil over everything in the bowl, stirring to coat. Gently press the nut mixture into the crust so that it fits in an even layer. Crumble enough phyllo over the top to cover the nuts completely. Return the pan to the oven, and bake for an additional 20 to 22 minutes, until the phyllo becomes nicely browned.\n\nAfter removing your tart from the oven, melt the final measure of butter for the glaze in a small bowl. Stir in all the remaining ingredients and pour this mixture evenly over the top of your tart while it is still warm. This will help bind everything together and sweeten the tart a bit more. Let the tart cool for at least two hours before slicing.\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nA beauty to behold and a charmer on the lips, the real secret to this fluffy frozen pie is how laughably easy it is to whip up. If you've ever stood in a kitchen, even only once in your life, I think you could manage this recipe with aplomb. Plus, since it's based on yogurt and jam, I would feel entirely justified slicing off a generous wedge for dessert or even breakfast or lunch alike.\n\nAs the seasons change, this same formula can be adapted to suit your shifting cravings on demand. One of my favorite variations is swapping in vanilla yogurt for the base while swirling pumpkin or apple butter (page 227) instead of jam, effortlessly complementing any winter holiday feast.\n\nGRAHAM CRACKER CRUST:\n\n1\u00bd cup graham cracker crumbs (from about 12 full rectangle sheets)\n\n6 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\nBERRY FROYO FILLING:\n\n1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk, chilled\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bd cup strawberry vegan yogurt\n\n\u00bd cup blueberry vegan yogurt\n\n\u00bd cup raspberry jam or preserves\n\nTO SERVE (OPTIONAL):\n\nWhipped Coconut Cream (page 243)\n\nFresh berries\n\nTo make the crust, break up the graham crackers into smaller pieces before pulsing in a food processor until very finely ground. The resulting crumbs should be about the consistency of coarse almond meal. Pick out any larger pieces and reprocess as needed.\n\nDrizzle the melted butter or coconut oil into the crumbs, stirring thoroughly to moisten the ground cookies. The mixture should be capable of sticking together when pressed.\n\nTransfer the mix to a 9-inch round pie pan and use lightly moistened fingers to firmly press it down on the bottom and along the sides. Use the bottom of a flat measuring cup or drinking glass for smoother edges.\n\nCarefully open the chilled can of coconut milk, being sure not to shake it, and scoop off the top layer of thick coconut cream that will have risen to the top. Save the watery liquid left behind for another recipe, such as a soup or a curry. Place the coconut cream in the bowl of your stand mixer and install the whisk attachment. Whip on high speed for about 3 minutes before slowly beginning to sprinkle in the sugar, just a little bit at a time. Continue beating the mixture for up to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy.\n\nIn a separate bowl, combine both yogurts and stir in a dollop of the Whipped Coconut Cream. This will help lighten up the mixture to make it easier to blend in the rest. Once fully incorporated, add the remainder of the Whipped Coconut Cream, folding gently with a large spatula until well-blended. Be careful to stir gently so as not to knock all the bubbles out of the airy, whipped mixture.\n\nAdd in the jam or preserves last, mixing just enough to incorporate but leaving it well marbled throughout the filling. Spoon into your prepared crust, smooth over the top, and move the whole pie into your freezer. Let rest until solidified; at least 4 to 6 hours, but ideally 8 to 12.\n\nTo serve, simply slice the pie into wedges and top with additional dollops of Whipped Coconut Cream and fresh berries, if desired.\n\nAny leftover pear slices that don't quite fit on top of your tart shouldn't be destined for the compost, but could top a thick slice of toast! Bake them in any small oven-safe dish for 10 to 15 minutes until fork tender. Let cool for a few minutes before piling on top of a buttered slice of toast, and enjoy for snack or breakfast. If you want to get real fancy, go all out and slather it with cream cheese first and top it with chopped hazelnuts.\nCashew Cr\u00e8me Pear Tart\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nImagine delicately spiced pears cooked until just fork tender, sitting atop a luscious pillow of maple-scented cashew cr\u00e8me, all contained within a soft, nutty crust. Sound like a dream? Well wake up, because this delight is easily a reality! This is one amazing finish to any meal, sure to please all palates and diets alike. Not only is it gluten-free, utilizing almond flour and cornmeal for an unconventional press-in-pan crust, but this tart can also be adapted for low-sugar diets. Simply omit the granulated sugar in the pear topping and crust with more almond meal. The only danger of serving a dessert suitable for all stripes of eaters is that everyone will want more than just one serving! You might be wise to save yourself a slice before presenting this grand finale to a crowd, as the likelihood of leftovers by the end of the night will be slim to none.\n\nCRUST:\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar or coconut sugar\n\n1 cup almond flour or almond meal\n\n\u00bc cup yellow cornmeal\n\n\u00bc cup chickpea flour\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons water\n\nCASHEW CR\u00c8ME:\n\n1\u00bd cups raw cashews, soaked for 4\u20136 hours and drained\n\n\u2153 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPEAR TOPPING:\n\n2 firm, medium-sized pears\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc cup sliced almonds, for garnish\n\nPreheat your oven to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC).\n\nCombine the sugar, almond flour or meal, cornmeal, chickpea flour, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it in, along with the water. Stir to combine all the dry ingredients and press this mixture firmly into a lightly greased 9-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom. Bake for 10 minutes and let cool, leaving the oven on.\n\nIn a blender or food processor, begin blending the soaked cashews, nondairy milk, maple syrup, and vanilla. Once the nuts are mostly broken down, crank up your machine to high speed and thoroughly puree. It may take 5 to 10 minutes for the mixture to become completely smooth, so don't stop short. Pause as needed to scrape down sides of the container with your spatula to ensure that there are no lumps. Smooth the resulting cr\u00e8me into your crust and set aside.\n\nPeel, core, and thinly slice the pears. Toss the slices with the sugar and cinnamon to evenly coat. Arrange them in an overlapping spiral on top of the cashew cr\u00e8me layer. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the pears are fork-tender. Let cool and sprinkle with sliced almonds before serving.\n\nWishing you could have an old-fashioned float in a more contemporary format? Skip the whipped cream and top slices with scoops of No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 237) instead. Consider your wish granted!\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nA drink menu without cola is not only a theoretical abomination, but an apparent impossibility. No matter the cuisine, clientele, or locale, every bar and restaurant seem to have some version of the unmistakable yet indescribable sparkling elixir. In fact, it's so popular that some regions simply refer to all soft drinks simply as \"cola,\" rather than \"soda\" or even \"pop.\" Some err more on the side of crisp and tart citrus, while others lean heavily on warm vanilla and cinnamon, although you'd never know such a range of nuances exist based on the limited mainstream options. Two brands continue to dominate the immense market so despite its universal availability, cola creativity falls flat. Think outside the bottle with an injection of fruit and tart cherry sweetness in this refreshing pudding pie.\n\nGRAHAM CRACKER CRUST:\n\n1\u00bd cups graham cracker crumbs\n\n5 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\nCHERRY COLA FILLING:\n\n1\u00bd cups cola soda\n\n\u00bd cup 100% cherry juice\n\n1 cup unsweetened nondairy milk\n\n\u00bc cup arrowroot powder\n\n2\u00bd teaspoons agar powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u215b teaspoon salt\n\nTO GARNISH:\n\nWhipped Coconut Cream (page 243)\n\nFresh cherries\n\nFor the best texture, be sure to pulse your graham crackers in a food processor until very finely ground. The resulting crumbs should be about the consistency of coarse almond meal. Pick out any larger pieces and reprocess as needed.\n\nDrizzle the melted butter or coconut oil into the crumbs and stir thoroughly. The mixture shouldn't be quite damp, but moist, and capable of sticking together when pressed.\n\nTransfer the mix to a 9-inch round pie pan, using lightly dampened fingers to firmly press it down on the bottom and along the sides. Use the bottom of a flat measuring cup or glass for smoother edges. Place the crust in your fridge to set.\n\nNext, prepare the cherry cola filling. Combine everything in a medium saucepan, thoroughly whisking to make sure there are no lumps of starch remaining. Heat over a moderate flame, stirring occasionally, just until it comes to a boil. Turn off the heat and pour the hot pudding into your prepared piecrust, tapping it gently on the counter to smooth out the top. Return the pie to the fridge and chill for at least 6 hours for the filling to be firm enough to slice.\n\nJust prior to serving, pipe or dollop the coconut whipped cream around the border as artfully or generously as you desire, and finish with fresh cherries on top.\n\nChili Chocolate Tart\n\nMakes 12 to 14 servings\n\nAlbeit a cinch to make and equally effortless to serve, the very first bite will reveal that this is no quotidian chocolate tart. With a kick of spice and the satisfying crunch of pecans, the myriad flavors and textures will entertain your palate well beyond the obligatory, ordinary chocolate dessert. Try serving this rich but modestly sweetened tart with a dollop of Whipped Coconut Cream (page 243) or No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 237) to contrast the intense and spicy flavors.\n\nCANDIED PECANS:\n\n3 tablespoon dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n1\u00bd cups pecan halves\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cayenne pepper\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n1 tablespoon vegan butter or coconut oil\n\nCHOCOLATE CRUST:\n\n1\u00bd cups Chocolate Wafer Cookie (page 229) crumbs\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter or coconut oil\n\nCHOCOLATE FILLING:\n\n8 ounces dark chocolate, finely chopped\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon smoked paprika\n\n\u00bc\u2013\u00bd teaspoon ground cayenne pepper\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n1 cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n\u00bc teaspoon almond extract\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nGARNISH (OPTIONAL):\n\n\u00bc teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes\n\n\u00bc teaspoon flaky sea salt\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper.\n\nIn a medium bowl, toss together the sugar, pecans, cinnamon, cayenne, and salt. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it over the nut mixture, tossing to evenly coat. Spread the pecans in one even layer on your prepared baking sheet. Bake for about 10 minutes, keeping a close eye on them, being very careful not to cook them for too long. By the time the pecans start to look dark brown or smell nutty, they are probably already burnt. Once removed from the oven, immediately transfer the pecans to a fresh sheet of parchment paper, shake off any excess glaze, and separate any that are touching. Let the pecans cool but leave the oven on.\n\nFor the crust, combine the cookie crumbs, cinnamon, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter or coconut oil and pour it in, stirring to form a moist but crumbly mixture. Press this into a 9-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom. Bake for 20 minutes, until dry to the touch, and set aside.\n\nTo make the filling, place the chocolate, spices, and salt in a large bowl. Separately, begin heating the coconut milk in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the butter or coconut oil into the saucepan, stirring until melted. Bring the mixture just to the brink of boiling, then immediately pour it into the bowl containing your chocolate. Let everything sit for a couple of minutes, and then stir vigorously to melt the chocolate and form a completely smooth mixture. As the chocolate cools, add in both extracts. Pour the chocolate mixture into your prepared crust and tap lightly on the counter to remove any air bubbles. Let it sit for 15 minutes before placing your glazed pecans around the perimeter and sprinkling crushed red pepper flakes and salt over the top, if desired. Chill the tart in the refrigerator for 3 hours, and let it sit at room temperature for about 10 to 15 minutes before serving.\n\nMore of an oatmeal raisin person? I got you, fam. Omit the chips, mixing in 1 cup of old-fashioned rolled oats and \u00be cup raisins instead. Add 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon along with the flour in the filling, whisking to distribute it equally throughout the dry mix.\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nBorrowing the very best, most crave-worthy parts of the classic chocolate chip cookie, this pie has the perfect hint of vanilla, the comforting sweetness of caramelized brown sugar, and just the right amount of chocolate. Soft and gooey straight out of the oven, it is like childhood memories all stuffed into a flaky crust. Enjoy a nostalgic bite of warm cookies just like Mom would make, fresh out of the oven, in a more substantial serving fit for an adult appetite.\n\nCRUST:\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n4\u00bd ounces (\u00bd cup + 2 tablespoons) vegan cream cheese\n\n1\u2153 cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons apple cider vinegar\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons unsweetened nondairy milk\n\nCOOKIE DOUGH FILLING:\n\n2 tablespoons whole flaxseeds\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n10 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n8 ounces (1\u2153 cups) semisweet chocolate chips\n\nFor the crust, combine the butter, cream cheese, and flour in a medium bowl, using a fork or pastry blender. Alternately, this may be done in a food processor, pulsing to roughly incorporate. The mixture should reach a consistency similar to coarse crumbs. Being careful not to overwork the dough, mix in the salt and vinegar. Slowly drizzle in the nondairy milk while continuing to stir; add just enough to bring the dough together into a cohesive ball. Turn the dough out onto a flat surface, pressing it together into one cohesive ball with your hands. Wrap it in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least one hour.\n\nOnce chilled, roll the dough out onto a well-floured surface, forming a circle that is approximately 12 inches in diameter. Gently move the circle into a 9-inch round pie pan and flute the edges as desired. Loosely cover the crust in plastic wrap and return it to your refrigerator while you assemble the filling.\n\nPreheat your oven to 325\u00baF (160\u00baC).\n\nFor the filling, grind the flaxseeds into a fine powder, and add it to a large bowl, along with the flour, baking powder, and both sugars. Melt the butter and stir it into your dry ingredients. Follow with the vanilla, salt, and chocolate chips, stirring thoroughly to combine. This mixture will be very thick, just like your standard cookie dough.\n\nRemove your crust from the refrigerator and press the cookie dough filling evenly into it with a spatula. Bake for 55 to 60 minutes, until the center appears to have puffed up a bit and the crust is golden brown. Let the pie cool for at least 30 minutes. If you let it cool all the way down to room temperature, reheat individual slices in the microwave and serve warm.\n\nPut the lime in the coconut by adding 1 tablespoon lime zest when you want a little extra citrus kick. Though it's hard to resist the pun, orange or lemon zest could also liven up the basic combination quite nicely, too.\nCoconut Custard Pie\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nCoconut fans, lend me your forks! Intensely flavored with coconut in no less than four different forms, the creamy coconut custard alone will make you swoon. In fact, should you find yourself pressed for time, feel free to skip the crust altogether and chill the filling in individual custard dishes for a simple tropical treat.\n\nCRUST:\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n1 tablespoon sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n2\u20134 tablespoons cold water\n\nCOCONUT CUSTARD:\n\n1 cup cooked white beans\n\n1 cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup coconut oil, melted\n\n1 tablespoon all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bd cups unsweetened shredded coconut\n\n\u00bc cup unsweetened coconut flakes or chips, toasted\n\nIn a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar, and salt. Add the butter and work it through with a fork or pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Alternately, this may be done in a food processor, pulsing to roughly incorporate. Add the water, one tablespoon at a time, and continue working it gently with your hands until it comes together into a ball of dough. Press into a flat disk, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until chilled, at least 30 minutes.\n\nRemove the dough from the refrigerator and roll it out onto a lightly floured surface. Aim for a circular shape that is 1 to 1\u00bd inches larger than your pie tin, and about \u00bc- to \u215b-inch thick. Very gently fold the circle in half and then in half again, so that you can lift it without tearing, and carefully unfold it into a 9-inch round pie pan. Cover any tears that might have occurred and flute the edges as desired. Set aside.\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC).\n\nUsing a food processor or blender, puree the beans until completely smooth. Add in the coconut milk and sugar, processing to combine. Melt the coconut oil and slowly drizzle it in while running the motor to emulsify. Incorporate the flour and vanilla. Finally, fold in the coconut flakes by hand and pour this mixture into your crust.\n\nBake for 40 to 50 minutes, until the crust is evenly browned and the filling appears to have risen a bit. The custard will still be wobbly in the center, but it will continue to set up as it cools, much like a cheesecake. Let the pie sit for at least an hour before sprinkling the toasted coconut on top and serving.\n\nGinger Dream Pie\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nFresh ginger, that gnarled and twisted rhizome languishing alongside other \"exotics,\" doesn't get nearly enough love in American kitchens. Everyone has the dried powder on their spice racks, but the true impact of the piquant, pungent tuber is a whole different taste altogether. My passion for the subtropical, sweet spice knows no bounds, as is obvious by the abundance of all sorts of gingery ingredients tucked into my pantry, candy dishes, and refrigerator crisper at all times. Using a triple dose of ginger\u2014candied, dried, and fresh\u2014this chilled cream pie offers a tantalizing combination of hot and cold that still manages to taste refreshing thanks to a quick chill in the refrigerator.\n\nGINGER CRUST:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc\u2013\u00bd cup crystallized ginger, finely minced\n\n\u2153 cup almond meal\n\n\u00bd cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup whole wheat flour\n\n1 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n1 teaspoon lemon juice\n\nGINGER CREAM FILLING:\n\n2 (12-ounce) packages firm silken tofu\n\n1 tablespoon fresh grated ginger\n\n1\u00bd cups confectioners' sugar\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 teaspoons ground ginger\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n2 tablespoons vanilla extract\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease and flour a 9-inch round pie pan.\n\nIn a medium bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until soft and fluffy. Ensure that the crystallized ginger is very finely minced, with no large chunks, as it can become overwhelming in such concentrated large doses. Adjusting the amount (\u00bc to \u00bd cup) to your personal preference and spice tolerance, add the crystallized ginger to your bowl along with the almond meal, flours, ground ginger, and lemon juice. Stir so that the mixture is thoroughly combined, but still somewhat crumbly. Press this into the bottom of your prepared pan and bake for 13 to 16 minutes, until it just begins to brown around the edges.\n\nFor the filling, begin by draining any excess water from the tofu. Add the tofu to your food processor or blender, along with the fresh grated ginger, and process it until smooth. In a small bowl, combine the sugar, cornstarch, ground ginger, baking powder, and salt. Add this dry mixture to the pureed tofu, and process again. With the motor running, drizzle in the vanilla and continue processing until everything is fully incorporated. Pour this mixture into your prepared crust, smoothing the top with a spatula. Bake for 20 to 24 minutes, until slightly puffed and the top no longer appears shiny. The center may still be wobbly when it comes out of the oven, but it will continue to set as it cools.\n\nChill the pie thoroughly, for at least 2 hours, before serving, and sprinkle with additional crystallized ginger, if desired.\n\nHarvest Pie\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nWhile transitioning away from summer to autumn is always a struggle for me, there's still a whole lot to celebrate in welcoming the cooler months ahead, like crisp apples, tart cranberries, and glowing golden sweet potatoes. Venture outside of one-dimensional old recipes that only pay homage to one lonely produce pick and get a full taste of the season all in one forkful. Though ideal for gracing the festive Thanksgiving table, this pie is perfectly at home for any old day when the leaves turn brown and begin to drop.\n\nSWEET MAPLE CRUST:\n\n2\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup whole wheat flour\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00be cup vegan butter, well-chilled or frozen\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n3\u20135 tablespoons water\n\nFRUIT FILLING:\n\n1 large, sweet apple (such as fuji or gala)\n\n\u00bd teaspoon lemon juice\n\n1 small sweet potato (about 8 ounces)\n\n8 ounces whole cranberries, fresh or frozen\n\n\u00be cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc cup cornstarch\n\n\u00be cup chopped walnuts\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter\n\nAquafaba, to assemble\n\nFor the crust, toss the flours, salt, and butter into a medium bowl, and combine them with a fork or pastry cutter. Alternately, this may be done in a food processor, pulsing to roughly incorporate. Continue blending until coarse crumbs develop and small pieces of butter are left intact. Mix in the maple syrup, followed by the water, adding just one tablespoon at a time until the dough comes together into a cohesive ball. You may need to work the dough with your hands as it becomes stiff. Divide the resulting dough into two even pieces, smooth them into round disks, and wrap each tightly with plastic wrap. Refrigerate the dough for at least 2 hours before proceeding.\n\nOnce the dough is thoroughly chilled, preheat your oven to 400\u00baF (205\u00baC). Take one of the disks and roll it out to about a \u00bc-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface. Carefully move the flattened round of dough into a lightly greased 9-inch round pie pan and patch any holes or tears that may have formed in that transition. Place the pan in the refrigerator while you assemble the filling.\n\nPeel, core, and chop the apple into bite-sized pieces before tossing it into a large bowl with the lemon juice. Peel and dice the sweet potato in a similar manner before mixing it in as well. Add all the remaining ingredients for the filling, except for the butter, and stir gently to coat the fruit evenly with the dry ingredients. Remove the pie pan from the refrigerator and pour the fruit and nut mixture into your prepared crust. Cut the butter into very small pieces, and scatter the chunks atop your filling. Set aside.\n\nTake your second disk of dough and roll it out in a similar fashion, but this time cut out shapes of your choice with a cookie cutter. Here's your chance to get creative! I like arranging an artful pile of leaves around the edge, adding veins and other details with toothpick impressions, but there's no right or wrong approach here.\n\nBrush the exposed lip of the base crust with aquafaba, just a small patch at a time, before firmly but gently pressing the shapes in to adhere. Brush the exposed surface with additional aquafaba when everything is in place. Carefully slide the whole pie into your oven and bake for 10 minutes, and then lower the oven temperature to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) without removing the pie. Bake for an additional 25 to 30 minutes, until the top crust pieces turn golden brown. Let cool before serving.\n\nIt's much easier to simply buy shelled, roasted chestnuts, often found in the kosher section when not in season, but you can also roast your own if you happen to get them fresh. Preheat your oven to 400\u00baF (205\u00baC) and use a very sharp knife to cut an \"X\" into the flat side of each chestnut. Place in a single layer on a sheet pan and roast until shells begin to open and reveal the nut within; about 20 to 30 minutes, stirring after 10 minutes. Peel the shells while still warm.\nMont Blanc Mini Tarts\n\nMakes 6 mini tarts\n\nTo be perfectly honest, an \"authentic\" Mont Blanc is quite different from my interpretation. While the original begins with a base of meringue instead of a crust, this version is much easier to prepare and just as delicious. Concealing a smooth maple cr\u00e8me filling with a generous mound of sweet chestnut cr\u00e8me, it is a perfect treat for the serious sweet tooth. Even if it's not a very authentic rendition of the dessert first created in honor of a mountain in the Alps, topped with powdered sugar to complete the look of a snowy peak, it still makes for one fantastic tart.\n\nALMOND CRUST:\n\n1\u00bc cups almond meal\n\n2 tablespoon ground flaxseeds\n\n2 tablespoons coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\n\u00bd teaspoon almond extract\n\nCASHEW CR\u00c8ME FILLING:\n\n1\u00bd cup raw cashews, soaked in hot water for 2\u20133 hours\n\n1 cup pitted medjool dates, packed\n\n\u00bd cup plain nondairy milk\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons vanilla extract\n\nCHESTNUT CR\u00c8ME:\n\n10 ounces roasted, peeled chestnuts\n\n1\u2153 cups unsweetened nondairy milk, divided\n\n\u2154 cup maple syrup\n\n1 tablespoon dark rum\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nConfectioners' sugar, to garnish (optional)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC).\n\nIn a medium bowl, stir together the almond meal, ground flax, sugar, and salt. Drizzle in the melted butter or coconut oil along with the almond extract, mixing to combine. You should end up with a relatively homogenous and cohesive if slightly crumbly mixture. Distribute between six 3-inch round mini tart pans with removable bottoms, pressing it evenly up the sides and along the bottoms. Chill for 10 minutes before baking.\n\nBake the crusts for 10 to 12 minutes, until lightly brown all over. Let cool completely while you assemble the fillings.\n\nDrain the cashews thoroughly before tossing them into your food processor or a high-speed blender, along with the pitted dates. With the motor running, slowly pour in the nondairy milk, followed by the vanilla extract. Pause to scrape down the sides of the container as need, incorporating all the ingredients into a silky-smooth blend. Transfer the resulting cr\u00e8me to the baked crusts, spreading it evenly into each one.\n\nMeanwhile, for the chestnut cr\u00e8me, place the chestnuts, \u2154 cup nondairy milk, and maple syrup in a small saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a simmer and gently cook for 10 to 15 minutes, until the liquid has reduced to a thick syrup that coats the back of a spatula. The chestnuts themselves should appear candied and be fork-tender all the way through.\n\nAfter thoroughly washing all parts of your food processor or blender, reassemble it and process the chestnuts until completely smooth. Add in the rum and vanilla, blending once more to incorporate. Slowly drizzle in the remaining nondairy milk while running the motor, taking your time to make sure that everything is completely and utterly silky-smooth. Any remaining chunks, no matter how small, will clog the nozzles of your piping tip and make the topping impossible to apply. Save yourself the frustration by taking an extra minute or two on this step!\n\nTransfer the resulting chestnut cr\u00e8me into a pastry bag fitted with an angel-hair tip. Pipe the chestnut cr\u00e8me on top of the maple cr\u00e8me layer in a circular path, starting from the outside and working in, mounding it up as high as possible. Dust with confectioners' sugar just prior to serving, if desired.\n\nTo make candied lemon slices, use the same technique as outlined in the recipe for Orangettes (page 217) but use small, thinly sliced lemons instead. The key is to keep the slices consistent, so use a mandoline to keep all the pieces about \u215b of an inch thick, if possible. Remove all seeds before getting started, and cook very gently to prevent the delicate membrane from getting destroyed in the process.\nPink Lemonade Tartlets\n\nMakes 24 tartlets\n\nJust like the brilliant pink glasses of icy lemonade making a splash at picnics or backyard barbecues across the country, these two-bite treats offer a refreshingly tart taste of citrus, tempered by a light sweetness. However, these tiny tarts have a clear advantage over the competition, as they derive their rosy hue from nothing more outlandish than raspberry jam, as opposed to the mysterious chemical cocktail found in powdered drink mixes. Bake up a batch to sate your sweet tooth and quench your thirst for a bright, refreshing taste of summer any day!\n\nCRUST:\n\n6 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon whole flaxseeds\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nLEMON CUSTARD:\n\n1 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons seedless raspberry jam\n\n\u2153 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n2 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n1 tablespoon lemon zest\n\nTO GARNISH:\n\n\u00bd cup fresh raspberries\n\nCandied lemon slices, quartered (optional)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease two dozen mini muffin pans.\n\nFor the crust, begin by beating the butter and sugar in your stand mixer until light and creamy. Grind the flaxseeds into a powder with a spice grinder and blend them together with the water. Add the flax mixture into your mixer and blend well. Add half of the flour, mixing until it is completely incorporated. Follow with the other half of the flour along with the salt, mixing until smooth. If the dough is still crumbly, add up to 2 additional tablespoons of water, just until the mixture sticks together. Drop walnut-sized balls of dough into each prepared muffin tin and press the dough up the sides of the pan using your fingers or the end of a wooden spoon, to form the tartlet shells. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until lightly browned. Let the tartlet shells cool completely.\n\nTo make the filling, heat the nondairy milk in a saucepan over medium heat. Add in the cornstarch and whisk vigorously to prevent lumps from forming. Continue stirring, and in 2 to 4 minutes of even heating, the mixture should thicken significantly. Add the jam and sugar, stirring to dissolve. Remove the mixture from the heat and whisk in the lemon juice and zest. Spoon your pink lemonade filling into the tartlet shells and chill for at least an hour before serving. Garnish the tartlets with fresh raspberries and candied lemon slices if desired.\n\nPumpkin Pecan Pie\n\nMakes 8 to 10 servings\n\nAt last, a delicious resolution to the pumpkin vs. pecan pie battle. While I have never felt that either pie was worthy of all the hype, it appears they simply needed to be combined in order to achieve their full potential. Straight pumpkin pie strikes me as monotonous in texture and flavor, while standard pecan pie tends to be tooth-achingly sweet. However, when I brought them together in one crust, the two fillings seemed to accentuate one another's strengths, while diminishing any negative aspects. The pecans do have a more dominant presence, but a dollop of pumpkin cr\u00e8me topping allows both flavors to have an equal turn in the spotlight. Who says you can't make everyone happy?\n\nCrust:\n\n1\u00bd cups whole wheat pastry flour\n\n1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n3 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\nPUMPKIN FILLING:\n\n1 cup pumpkin puree\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground ginger\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\nPECAN FILLING:\n\n1\u00bd cups pecan halves\n\n\u2154 cup maple syrup\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPUMPKIN CR\u00c8ME:\n\n1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n\u00be cup confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bd cup pumpkin puree\n\n2 tablespoons arrowroot powder\n\n1 teaspoon agar powder\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\nLightly grease a 9-inch round pie pan.\n\nTo begin forming the crust, combine the flour, sugar, and salt in a medium bowl. Melt the butter and pour it over the dry ingredients. Follow with the nondairy milk and mix until everything comes together into a cohesive ball of dough. Move the dough into your prepared pie pan and press it gently into the bottom and up the sides using the palm of your hand. Flute the edges if desired. Let the crust chill in the refrigerator while you assemble the filling.\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC).\n\nIn a large bowl, combine the pumpkin puree, sugar, nondairy milk, and spices. Slowly sprinkle in the cornstarch while stirring vigorously, to prevent lumps. Smooth this filling into your chilled crust and return the pie pan to the refrigerator.\n\nIn a separate bowl, toss the pecans with the maple syrup, sugar, cornstarch, ground flaxseeds, and vanilla. Gently and evenly pour this pecan mixture over your pumpkin filling. Don't worry if it looks like a skimpy amount; it will rise to the occasion once completed.\n\nBake the pie for approximately 25 minutes, until the crust begins to brown. Lower the oven temperature to 300\u00baF (150\u00baC) and bake for an additional 10 to 15 minutes, making sure that all the exposed crust looks fully cooked and nicely browned. If it is darkening too quickly, cover the edges with a strip of aluminum foil to prevent burning. Let cool completely.\n\nTo make the pumpkin cr\u00e8me, combine the coconut milk, butter or coconut oil, and sugar in a medium saucepan over moderate heat. Once the butter or oil has melted, whisk in the pumpkin, arrowroot, agar, and cinnamon, beating thoroughly to incorporate without any lumps at all. Cook until thickened and bubbles begin to break on the surface, 8 to 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and let cool for about 30 minutes, stirring periodically to prevent a skin from forming on top. If it is still too soft to pipe around the border, let this mixture sit in the refrigerator for a few minutes to chill and solidify. Pipe or drop dollops of the cr\u00e8me around the edge of your pie before serving.\n\nSpiralized Apple Galette\n\nMakes 6 to 8 servings\n\nTender, warmly spiced apples wrapped up in a flaky free-form piecrust is an easy sell, but not always such an easy endeavor. Power through that pile of crisp autumnal fruit by spiralizing them instead of chopping by hand, and you'll have a showstopping dessert hot out of the oven in no time at all.\n\nCLASSIC PIECRUST:\n\n1\u00bc cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n6 tablespoons vegan butter, chilled, cut into small pieces\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons lemon juice\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons ice-cold water\n\nSPIRALIZED APPLE FILLING:\n\n1 pound (2 medium) tart apples (such as granny smith)\n\n1 pound (2 medium) sweet apples (such as fuji)\n\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\n\n\u00bd cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n5 tablespoons arrowroot powder\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground ginger\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cardamom\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n1 tablespoon unsweetened non-dairy milk\n\n1 tablespoon turbinado sugar\n\nThe easiest, quickest way to make a traditional piecrust is to get a helping hand from your food processor. Some say this approach sacrifices flakiness in favor of convenience, but I don't believe that any of my pies have suffered as a result. If you have the equipment, my advice is to use it!\n\nPlace the flour, sugar, and salt in the bowl of your food processor and pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse 6 to 8 times, until the mixture resembles very coarsely ground almond meal. A few small chunks of butter should remain visible, but nothing larger than the size of peas. Sprinkle lemon juice and the first tablespoon of water in while pulsing a few times to incorporate. If the dough holds together when squeezed, you're good to go. If it remains crumbly, keep adding water while pulsing, just a teaspoon at a time, until the dough is cohesive.\n\nIn case you don't have a food processor or just don't want to clean the darn thing afterward, the old-fashioned method is just as effective, if a bit more labor-intensive. Place the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl and use a pastry cutter or two forks to cut in the pieces of butter. A few small chunks of butter should remain visible, but nothing larger than the size of peas. Sprinkle lemon juice and one tablespoon of water into the bowl and stir well with a wide spatula. Sometimes it can be difficult to get the liquids properly incorporated, so it may be helpful to drop the formalities and just get in there to mix with your hands. If the dough holds together when squeezed, you're set. If it remains crumbly, keep adding water and mixing thoroughly, just a teaspoon at a time, until the dough is cohesive. Do your best not to overmix or overhandle the dough, as this will make it tough when baked.\n\nShape the dough into a rough round and flatten it into a disk about \u00bd inch in thickness. Wrap tightly with plastic wrap and stash in the fridge. Let chill for at least an hour, or up to a week.\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC). Line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or piece of parchment paper.\n\nSpiralize the apples, discarding the cores and removing any errant seeds that might have fallen into the pile of curlicues. Very gently toss with lemon juice, sugar, arrowroot, and all the spices. Set aside.\n\nRoll out the unbaked piecrust on a lightly floured surface to a thickness of about \u215bth of an inch, as round as you can possibly make it. Transfer the flat circle of crust to the prepared baking sheet and pile the spiralized and sugared apples in the center. Distribute the filling evenly in the middle, leaving a border of about 2 inches of the crust clean and clear. Fold over the sides to contain the filling, and lightly brush the exposed crust with nondairy milk. Sprinkle turbinado sugar evenly over the exposed crust.\n\nBake for 35 to 45 minutes, until the crust is golden brown, and the apple spirals are tender. Don't fret if some of the juices spill out of the sides, as there will still be plenty within. Let cool for at least 10 minutes before slicing and serve while still warm. Ice cream is optional as a pairing, but highly recommended!\nMISCELLANEOUS MORSELS & DESSERTS\n\nEither fresh or frozen fruit can be transformed into an equally delicious crumble but bear in mind that frozen fruit will need to be completely thawed and drained of excess liquid before using, to prevent the dessert from becoming too watery.\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble\n\nMakes 10 to 12 servings\n\nWarm, gooey, and far from photogenic, fruit crumbles make up for their homely looks with pure comfort in every shamelessly messy mouthful. Feel free to switch out the fruits depending on what you have on hand, as the basic formula is infinitely accommodating. Even if you only have canned fruits that are presweetened, go ahead and toss them in; just leave out the additional sugar in the fruit base. This family-style dessert is so easy to make that even a novice baker could pull it off with grace.\n\nCOCOA CRUMBLE:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter or coconut oil, melted\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00be cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup old-fashioned rolled oats\n\n\u00bd teaspoon instant coffee powder (optional)\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nBERRY BASE:\n\n1 pound strawberries\n\n1 pound pitted and stemmed cherries\n\n\u00bd pound raspberries and/or blackberries\n\n\u00bd pound blueberries\n\n2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\nPreheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC).\n\nFor the crumble, mix together the melted butter or coconut oil with both sugars in a large bowl. Add in the cocoa powder, followed by the flour, rolled oats, instant coffee, and salt. Keep mixing until it comes together in loose crumbs of varying sizes. Set aside.\n\nWash, hull, and chop the strawberries into bite-sized pieces. Combine them with the cherries, raspberries and/or blackberries, and blueberries in a large bowl. Toss this fruit with the cornstarch and sugar before transferring the entire mixture into a 2-quart casserole dish. Spread the berries in as even a layer as possible. Sprinkle the prepared crumb topping over the entire surface.\n\nBake for 45 to 50 minutes, until the juices bubble up around the edges. Let the crumble cool for at least 10 minutes before serving.\n\nFor the fullest, greatest depth of flavor, prepare the crumble a day ahead, and allow the various ingredients to \"marry\" in the refrigerator overnight. Simply reheat the crumble in a 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) oven for 5 to 10 minutes to warm all the way through before serving. For the ultimate home-style treat, top each serving with a scoop of No-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (page 237).\n\nIf you're not feeling blue, don't let it get to you! Try using raspberries or blackberries instead to vary the fruity theme without losing an ounce of its original splendor.\nBrilliant Blueberry Parfaits\n\nMakes 6 to 8 servings\n\nVisually stunning and equally dazzling in luscious flavor, such charisma comes naturally to these elegant parfaits. Prepared in advance, waiting in the refrigerator and ready when you are, each tall delicious glass truly is parfait, \"perfect\" in French and in taste alike.\n\nBLUEBERRY MOUSSE:\n\n1 pound (about 3 cups) fresh or frozen blueberries\n\n1 (12-ounce) package extra-firm silken tofu\n\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\n\n\u2154 cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1 tablespoon agar powder\n\n2 tablespoons water\n\nMAPLE CR\u00c8ME:\n\n1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n\u00bd cup maple syrup\n\n1 tablespoon vanilla extract\n\n2 tablespoons arrowroot powder\n\n1 teaspoon agar powder\n\nFresh blueberries for garnish (optional)\n\nIf frozen, let the blueberries sit at room temperature or microwave briefly to thaw completely. Drain the tofu of any excess liquid and puree it in your food processor or blender until smooth. Drain away any juice from the berries before tossing them in with the tofu. Blend the two ingredients for 3 to 4 minutes, to fully combine them and achieve a smooth texture. Add in the lemon juice and sugar, and process just to mix them in. In a small dish, heat the agar with the water for 15 to 30 seconds in the microwave, just long enough to dissolve the agar and form a sticky, translucent jelly. Don't drag your feet at this stage: quickly get the agar mixture into your food processor or blender with the other ingredients and run the motor immediately, or the agar will solidify and create gummy lumps that will not dissolve. Once everything is completely mixed in, spoon the mousse into any clear glasses that you wish to serve it in. Let the mousse sit in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours to set.\n\nAfter thoroughly chilling the mousse, prepare the maple cr\u00e8me by placing the coconut milk, butter or coconut oil, and maple syrup in a medium saucepan over moderate heat on the stove. Once the butter or oil has melted, whisk in the vanilla, arrowroot, and agar, beating thoroughly to incorporate the powders without leaving any lumps remaining. Cook until thickened and bubbles begin to break on the surface; 8 to 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and let cool for about 30 minutes, stirring periodically to prevent a skin from forming on top. If it is still too soft to hold its shape, let this mixture sit in the refrigerator for a few minutes to solidify.\n\nFinally, pipe or drop dollops of the cr\u00e8me on top of your blueberry mousse. Top with fresh berries right before serving, if desired.\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles\n\nMakes approximately 24 truffles\n\nCherries and chocolate, supposed aphrodisiacs and staples in candy boxes the world over, must necessarily be sinfully indulgent, right? Far from it, these ambrosial bites require only four spare ingredients and no added sugar to taste positively decadent. Few desserts honestly qualify as \"health food,\" but this one can be justified as a good source of antioxidants thanks to those two superfoods, right? Go ahead, enjoy these unexpectedly wholesome truffles with a clear conscience!\n\nCHERRY CENTER:\n\n1\u00bd cups dried cherries\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\nCHOCOLATE COATING:\n\n4 ounces dark chocolate, chopped, or \u2154 cup semisweet chocolate chips\n\n1\u20133 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\nPuree the cherries in your food processor until they become a smooth paste, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container as needed. Add in the cocoa powder and process again. Continue blending and soon enough the whole mixture should come together into a firm ball. Move this dough to a storage container on the counter and allow the flavors to develop overnight. You can continue working with the dough, if you are in a hurry, but I highly suggest you give it time to rest.\n\nTo make the truffles, scoop a small amount of dough and roll it into a ball in the palm of your hands. The size of each ball will dictate the final size of each truffle. I would suggest about 1 tablespoon of dough for the core, but you may choose to go larger or smaller. Repeat this process until the entire fruit base is used up.\n\nOnce you have the cherry centers ready to go, place the chocolate in a small, microwave-safe bowl. Melt the chocolate in the microwave in 30-second intervals, just until it stirs together smoothly with no lumps. Stir in the nondairy milk to your desired consistency. More nondairy milk will result in a higher ratio of center to coating and the coating will be softer, while less will give you a thicker chocolate shell that solidifies more.\n\nSet a piece of parchment paper on a baking sheet in your workspace. Drop one cherry center into the chocolate at a time, rolling it around to completely coat. Once fully coated, drop each truffle onto the parchment. Let sit at room temperature and let dry for at least two hours. If you'd rather not wait, you can stash the truffles in your refrigerator or freezer to speed up the process.\n\nNever get bored with the same old fudge again! Over the years, I've made it a hundred different ways, always with resounding raves. Here are just a few of my favorite variations:\n\nTropical Fudge: Add \u00bd cup of diced dried pineapple and 1 teaspoon of orange zest right before incorporating the vanilla.\n\nPecan Pie Fudge: Add 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon along with the vanilla extract. Omit the coconut topping, and instead press 1 cup of toasted pecans into the top.\n\nPeppermint Crunch Fudge: Add 1 teaspoon of peppermint extract with the vanilla and stir in 4 crushed candy canes. Omit the coconut topping and sprinkle with 5 additional crushed candy canes instead.\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge\n\nMakes 32 small squares\n\nDevilishly dark and creamy, this fudge beats the chips out of the cloying original \"Fantasy Fudge\" made from the tooth-aching combination of sweetened condensed milk and marshmallow cr\u00e8me. This fudge has an intense chocolate flavor accented with a luscious tropical flair that ensures that even the smallest squares will satisfy your cravings. Dangerously quick and easy to whip up, it redefines the concept of instant gratification.\n\n2 cups (12 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter or coconut oil\n\n\u00bd cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bd cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n1 cup unsweetened coconut chips or flakes, toasted\n\nLine an 8x8-inch square baking pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease.\n\nIn a large, microwave-safe bowl, combine the chocolate chips, butter or coconut oil, and coconut milk. Heat for 1 minute on full power and stir thoroughly until completely smooth. If a few stubborn chips refuse to melt, continue to heat and stir at intervals of 20 seconds, as needed.\n\nSift together the confectioners' sugar and cocoa powder, breaking up any clumps, before adding both to the bowl of liquid chocolate goodness. Next, add the vanilla and salt, stirring vigorously until thick, silky, and uniform.\n\nPour the mixture into your prepared pan. Smooth out the top and sprinkle coconut evenly over the entire exposed surface. Press the coconut gently into the fudge with the palm of your hand to make sure that it adheres. Chill for at least 30 minutes, or until fully set, before cutting into squares.\n\nFlaming Hot Peanut Brittle\n\nMakes 1 pound of candy\n\nPacked with some serious heat, this nutty candy is well suited for spice-lovers. Be sure to warn your friends before they dig in, as I have witnessed a couple of alarming reactions from those with less adventurous taste buds. This brittle can have some serious after-burn, a slow heat that builds with every crispy, crunchy shard, so take your time to savor or it might just bite back!\n\n1 cup roasted, salted peanuts\n\n\u00bd teaspoon chili powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cayenne pepper\n\n\u00bc teaspoon smoked paprika\n\n\u215b teaspoon ground black pepper\n\n1\u00bc cups granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup water\n\n\u00bc cup maple syrup\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\nLay a silicone baking mat or generous length of parchment paper on a flat working space near your stove.\n\nToss the peanuts and spices together in a small bowl and set aside.\n\nHeat the sugar, water, and maple syrup together in a saucepan over medium heat, stirring until the sugar dissolves and the whole mixture comes to a steady boil. Stir continuously while cooking for another 5 to 8 minutes, until your mixture thickens and becomes light amber in color. If you have a candy thermometer handy, the temperature should be around 300\u00baF (150\u00baC) or when a small amount of the mixture dropped into a cup of cold water creates hard, brittle threads.\n\nQuickly stir in the reserved peanuts and spices, coating all the nuts without burning them. Add the baking soda, remove the pan from the heat, and continue mixing vigorously. Once combined, immediately pour this mixture onto your silicone baking mat or parchment paper, quickly spreading it into a single layer of peanuts, before it begins to set up. Let it cool completely before breaking into pieces. Store your brittle in an airtight container.\n\nFloral Petits Fours\n\nMakes 40 to 48 Petits Fours\n\nNamed for their diminutive size, petit four literally means \"small oven\" in French. Although they have run the gamut from sweet to savory appetizers, what most people associate with them today are miniature layer cakes, filled with custard or jam, and topped with a sugary glaze, rolled fondant, or sheets of almond marzipan. The secret ingredient lending these dainty teatime snacks such a vibrant golden hue and moist crumb is pumpkin puree, believe it or not. Hidden deep within the tender sponge cake, it seamlessly replaces the typical half-dozen eggs without contributing a hint of squash flavor.\n\nOne batch of cake makes enough for all three flavors. If you'd prefer to make just one flavor, either triple the filling and glaze of your choice or reduce the cake by a third and bake it in a 9x9-inch square baking dish. At this size, it will be thin enough that you can simply cut out your layers as is without slicing it in half across the center.\n\nGOLDEN SPONGE CAKE:\n\n2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 teaspoon baking soda\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n1\u00bc cups plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00be cup pumpkin puree\n\n\u2153 cup olive oil\n\n2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\nChamomile-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish (recipes follow)\n\nLavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish (recipes follow)\n\nPomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish (recipes follow)\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease a 13x9-inch baking dish.\n\nIn a large bowl, thoroughly whisk together flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. In a separate mixing bowl, whisk the nondairy milk, pumpkin, oil, vinegar, and vanilla until smooth. Pour the wet mixture into the bowl of dry ingredients and stir until smooth.\n\nTransfer your batter to the prepared baking dish and use your spatula to smooth it down in an even layer. Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until the cake is golden brown all over and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool completely.\n\nWhile the cake is in the oven, go ahead and get started on the fillings and glazes. (See following recipes for details.)\n\nTurn the completely cooled cake out onto a cutting board and slice it horizontally into 2 thin, equal rectangular layers. Cut each sheet of cake into small, even squares of either 1 inch or 1\u00bd inches. If you have them, square cookie cutters can also be used to ensure consistency.\n\nProceed to follow the steps to prepare any or all of the flavors below. Each flavor variation makes enough to fill and glaze 1 batch of cake, so if you want to serve all three, make 3 times the amount of cake (and be prepared to feed an army!).\n\nTo assemble, carefully cut the filling of your choice into equal squares to fit the cake pieces. Use an offset spatula to move each filling square onto the cut top side of one square of cake, being very careful as it's somewhat fragile. Top each with another cake layer. Move the assembled mini cakes to a wire rack set over a rimmed baking sheet to await glazing and finishing.\n\nPrepare the glaze by placing all ingredients in a medium bowl and whisking thoroughly to combine. The glaze sets quickly, so wait until you're ready to use it before getting started.\n\nPour the fresh glaze generously over each little cake, using a spatula to smooth and fill in any gaps, allowing that it will be thinner on the sides. Top each little cake with the suggested garnishes as artfully as you see fit.\n\nRepeat this process with all of the pieces and desired flavors.\n\nLet the petits fours rest at room temperature for 2 to 3 hours before serving to allow the glaze to set, but don't wait too long to enjoy; they're best eaten the same day and should be kept no longer than a day or two.\n\nChamomile-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish\n\nCHAMOMILE-LEMON FILLING:\n\n1 d'Anjou or Bartlett pear, peeled, cored, and diced\n\n1 cup water\n\n3 bags chamomile tea\n\n1 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon lemon zest\n\n\u00bc cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed, or coconut sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon agar powder\n\nLEMON GLAZE:\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n2 tablespoons light agave nectar\n\n3 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground turmeric\n\nGARNISH:\n\nLemon zest\n\nCandied lemon (page 183)\n\nFor the filling, line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease.\n\nPlace the chopped pear, water, and tea bags in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, reduce to medium-low, and gently simmer for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and cover, allowing the tea to steep for 10 minutes. Remove the tea bags and squeeze firmly to extract all infused liquid before discarding.\n\nTransfer the tea and pears to a blender, followed by the lemon juice and zest, sugar, and agar. Puree, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container as needed, until smooth. Pour the puree back into the saucepan and place and over medium heat once more. Bring to a boil and continue to cook while stirring constantly for 2 minutes, taking care to scrape the bottom of the pot with your spatula to prevent the mixture from sticking.\n\nSpread puree into your prepared loaf pan, tapping it lightly on the counter to even out the surface, and let cool to room temperature. Transfer the pan to your refrigerator and chill for at least 2 hours, until firm enough to slice. See Petit Four directions above for preparing the glaze and bringing all the components together.\n\nLavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish\n\nLAVENDER-BLUEBERRY FILLING:\n\n\u2154 cup blueberries, fresh or frozen and thawed\n\n\u00be teaspoon dried lavender\n\n1 cup water\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon agar powder\n\nBLUEBERRY GLAZE:\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n\u00bc cup freeze-dried blueberries, finely ground\n\n2 tablespoons light agave nectar\n\n3 tablespoons water\n\nGARNISH:\n\nDried lavender\n\nFresh blueberries\n\nFor the filling, line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease.\n\nCombine all the filling ingredient in a blender and puree until smooth. Pour the puree into a medium saucepan and place over medium heat. Bring to a boil and continue to cook while stirring constantly for 2 full minutes. Be sure to scrape the bottom and sides of the pot with your spatula as you go to prevent the mixture from sticking.\n\nTransfer the thickened puree into your prepared loaf pan, tapping it lightly on the counter to even out the surface, and let cool to room temperature. Transfer the pan to your refrigerator and chill for at least 2 hours, until firm enough to slice. See Petit Four directions above for preparing the glaze and bringing all the components together.\n\nPomegranate-Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish\n\nMakes 40 to 48 Petits Fours\n\nPOMEGRANATE-ROSE FILLING:\n\n1 tart green apple, peeled, cored, and diced\n\n1 cup 100% pomegranate juice\n\n\u2153 cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon agar powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon rosewater\n\nPOMEGRANATE GLAZE:\n\n2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n2 tablespoons light agave nectar\n\n3 tablespoons 100% pomegranate juice\n\nGARNISH:\n\nFresh or candied rose petals\n\nFresh pomegranate arils\n\nFor the filling, line a 9x5-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and lightly grease.\n\nPlace the chopped apple and pomegranate juice in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium-low, and gently simmer for 10 minutes, until the apples are fork-tender. Pour the resulting apple-pomegranate mixture into a blender, along with the sugar, agar, and rosewater. Thoroughly puree, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container as needed, until smooth. Pour your puree back into the same saucepan and place over medium heat once more. Bring to a boil and continue to cook while stirring constantly for 2 minutes, taking care to scrape the bottom of the pot with your spatula to prevent the mixture from sticking.\n\nSpread puree into your prepared loaf pan, tapping it lightly on the counter to even out the surface, and let cool to room temperature. Transfer the pan to your refrigerator and chill for at least 2 hours, until firm enough to slice. See Petit Four directions above for preparing the glaze and bringing all the components together.\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits\n\nMakes 6 to 10 parfaits\n\nCrisp and invigorating as the frigid air on an icy winter's morning, gingersnaps are synonymous with the season for good reason. Crunching through the thin planks of spice-flecked biscuits can instantly evoke the warmth of the holidays, no matter the time or place. Though each gingery morsel would be delightful all alone, pairing them with a vivid green pistachio mousse turns this childhood treat into a spectacular parfait. The creamy base acts as a soothing foil to the lively cookies, heightened with spicy chunks of candied ginger in every spoonful. When you're done shoveling snow, dig into a much-deserved reward that will melt away the frightful conditions outside.\n\nGINGERSNAP COOKIES:\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons ground ginger\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground allspice\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cloves\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u215b teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup molasses\n\n3 tablespoons olive oil\n\n1\u20132 tablespoons plain nondairy milk\n\nPISTACHIO MOUSSE:\n\n\u00bd cup toasted pistachios, soaked for 3\u20134 hours and drained\n\n1 large, ripe avocado\n\n1 cup fresh baby spinach, loosely packed\n\n6 ounces extra firm silken tofu\n\n\u00bc cup light agave nectar or maple syrup\n\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon orange zest\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nTO ASSEMBLE:\n\nWhipped Coconut Cream (page 243)\n\n\u00bc - \u00bd cup candied ginger, roughly chopped\n\n\u00bd cup toasted pistachios\n\nThe cookies will take the longest time to make, so start by preheating your oven to 300\u00baF (150\u00baC) and lining two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nIn either a large metal bowl or a stand mixer, whisk together the flour, spices, salt, and baking soda. While you can certainly bring this dough together by hand, it will require some vigorous stirring, so I would advise bringing out the heavy artillery if you have it!\n\nMeanwhile, combine the sugar, molasses, and oil in a small saucepan and heat gently. Cook the mixture and stir gently, just until the sugar has completely dissolved. Pour the hot liquid into the bowl of dry ingredients, immediately followed by the non-dairy milk, and mix well. It will be very thick and somewhat difficult to mix, but give it all you've got and don't waste time; it will become harder to work with as it cools.\n\nTurn out the dough onto a lightly floured surface, press it into a ball, and roll it out to about \u215b inch in thickness. Cut it into your desired shapes with cookie cutters and transfer the cookies over to the silicone baking mat. Aim for smaller pieces around 1 inch to best fit comfortably into the parfaits, and don't worry about making everything look perfect. Go ahead and toss the scraps right on the sheet without shaping them, since you'll be crushing them into crumbs anyway.\n\nBake until the cookies are just barely browned around the edges, 15 to 18 minutes, depending on the size of your shapes. Let the cookies sit for a minute on the baking sheet before moving them over to a wire rack to cool.\n\nTo make the mousse, place the soaked and drained pistachios in a high-speed blender along with your peeled and pitted avocado. Pulse to combine before switching over to top gear, pureeing to a creamy consistency. Pause to scrape down the sides of the container with your spatula as needed. If you only have a basic blender or food processor, allow an extra 5 to 10 minutes to ensure that mixture is perfectly smooth.\n\nAdd in the spinach, tofu, agave or maple syrup, lemon juice, orange zest, and salt, blending again to combine. Continue blending until there are no visible pieces of spinach remaining and the mixture is entirely homogeneous.\n\nWhen you're ready to assemble the parfaits, spoon the mousse into 6 to 10 small glasses, depending on how many mouths you'd like to feed. Take any scraps and extra cookies and toss them into your food processor, roughly crushing them into a pebbly consistency. When you have about 1 cup of crumbs, toss in the candied ginger, as much or as little as you like, along with the pistachios. Distribute the crunchy topping equally between your glasses.\n\nFinish each parfait with a dollop of Whipped Coconut Cream, and don't forget to crown each with a perfect little gingersnap cookie! Bonus points if you can fashion yours to look like a miniature Christmas tree.\n\nServe right away or the cookies will begin to soften. Keep all components separate and assemble no more than 2 to 3 hours in advance if you'd like to prepare this dessert ahead of time.\n\n\"Culinary grade\" matcha is typically recommended for cooking and baking applications such as this, but to be perfectly honest, that's only because it's of such low quality that you would be sorely disappointed to drink it straight. While it's more affordable pound for pound, you may need to use more of it to have the same impact. Adjust your measures to taste if needed, but ideally, just go with the good stuff (\"ceremonial grade\") to begin with.\nGreen Tea-ramisu\n\nMakes 8 servings\n\nEast meets west for a Japanese spin on a cherished Italian invention. Tiramisu, replete with ladyfingers dipped in espresso and liqueur, layers of sweetened mascarpone cheese, and a dusting of bitter cocoa, has only been around since the 1960s, as timeless though it seems. Evolving with modern tastes, it's only sensible to continue that natural progression with some fresh flavors. Whisking up a strong brew of earthy matcha instead of dark roasted coffee beans, it makes a compelling argument that green is the new black. If you haven't yet tried sake, a Japanese rice wine, let this sweet introduction prove its subtly complex, rather than brash, booziness that other spirits might impart. Skip the fussy ladyfingers while you're at it, because it's infinitely easier to assemble these essential elements with a cake.\n\nSPONGE CAKE:\n\n1 cup plain nondairy milk\n\n1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n2 tablespoons vegan butter\n\n\u2154 cup granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\nMATCHA SYRUP:\n\n\u00bd cup water\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup sake\n\n1 teaspoon matcha powder\n\nMATCHA CR\u00c8ME:\n\n3 cups raw cashews, soaked for 3\u20134 hours and drained\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc cup plain vegan yogurt\n\n2 tablespoons sake\n\n2 teaspoons matcha powder\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00be cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n\u00bc cup coconut oil, melted\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan.\n\nIn a small bowl, combine the nondairy milk with the vinegar and set aside. In your stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar. Add in the oil and vanilla, while mixing and scraping down the sides of the bowl to ensure that everything is incorporated. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Alternately add the dry ingredients and the acidulated milk into your stand mixer, mixing just until it all comes together. Be careful not to overmix and develop the gluten, as it may make the cake tough. Pour the batter into your prepared pan and bake for 24 to 28 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool completely.\n\nFor the matcha syrup, bring the water and sugar to a boil in a saucepan on the stove. Maintain a steady boil for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the granules have all dissolved. Remove the sugar syrup from the heat and add the sake and matcha. Whisk vigorously in order to beat out any clumps of powdered tea. Let the syrup cool for at least 10 minutes.\n\nPrepare the cr\u00e8me by placing the soaked and drained cashews in a high-speed blender along with the sugar, yogurt, sake, matcha, and vanilla. Begin to blend on low speed, using the tamper to press the nuts toward the blades until they're largely broken down and can keep moving without additional help. Slowly pour in the coconut milk and melted coconut oil, ramping up the motor until it's at the highest setting. Continue to process until the mixture is completely silky smooth, pausing to scrape down the sides of the container with your spatula as needed. If you don't have a high-speed blender, you can also do this in your food processor, but the texture might be a bit coarser.\n\nNow, you're ready to begin constructing your tiramisu! Turn the cake out of the pan and slice it in half horizontally, resulting in two thin 8-inch squares. Use a sawing motion and a serrated knife to achieve a clean cut. When separating, be careful moving the layers so they don't crumble. If they do break in half, just use the pieces together as you would have with the whole slice. Line the now empty pan with a sheet of parchment paper; this will act as a sling to help remove the dessert later on.\n\nReturn the bottom piece to the pan and lightly brush the top with half of the syrup. Smother that with half of the matcha cr\u00e8me, applying it in an even layer that goes right to the edges. Place the other half of the cake on top, with the cut side facing up, and press it down lightly to keep the filling flush. Brush all over with the remaining syrup and spread the last of the matcha cr\u00e8me over all of that. Smooth the surface with a spatula (it will probably come right up to the top of the pan) and cover with plastic wrap. Chill for at least 2 hours.\n\nTo serve, top with a light sprinkling of additional matcha, if desired, and cut into 8 equal rectangles. Enjoy with a hot cup of tea!\n\nHazelnut Ravioli\n\nMakes 24 to 30 small pastries\n\nWhether entertaining friends or sharing a romantic evening for two, this sweet finale will definitely end the event on a high note! If working with phyllo dough isn't your cup of tea, you could easily substitute a sheet of puff pastry instead, though the results won't be quite as delicate or ephemeral.\n\nHAZELNUT RAVIOLI:\n\n1 package frozen phyllo dough\n\n1 cup toasted hazelnuts or \u2154 cup hazelnut butter\n\n\u2153 cup vegan cream cheese\n\n1 tablespoon Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n2 teaspoons instant coffee powder\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00be cup confectioners' sugar\n\nHOT FUDGE SAUCE:\n\n6 ounces (about 1 cup) semi-sweet chocolate, chopped\n\n\u00be cup full-fat coconut milk\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nTO SERVE:\n\n\u00bd cup toasted hazelnuts (optional)\n\nThaw the phyllo dough completely before beginning. Once ready, preheat your oven to 375\u00baF (190\u00baC) and line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nIn your food processor, grind the whole hazelnuts for a good 5 to 10 minutes, until they break down into a smooth paste. If starting with hazelnut butter, simply toss it into the machine and it's good to go. Mix in the cream cheese, cocoa powder, coffee powder, vanilla, and sugar. Blend until fully combined and fluffy.\n\nLay out the phyllo dough on a flat surface. Take 5 sheets at a time and cover the rest loosely with a lightly dampened towel. Cut the rectangle of dough you are working with in half horizontally, and then in thirds vertically, so that you end up with 6 even squares. Spoon about one tablespoon of the filling into the center of each square. Lightly moisten the bottom two edges with a fingertip dipped in water and fold the phyllo over to create a triangle. Press the edges down firmly to make sure the seal is solid. Move the triangle over to a baking sheet, and repeat with each of the remaining squares. Continue taking 5 sheets at a time, cutting and filling them, until you run out of both components. Always cover the phyllo that is not in use so that it doesn't dry out. Bake the ravioli for about 10 minutes, until they become nicely browned on the surface.\n\nTo make the hot fudge sauce, place the chocolate in a medium bowl. Heat the coconut milk in the microwave in a microwave-safe container for about 1 minute and pour it over the chocolate. Let everything sit for about a minute, allowing the chocolate to melt, and stir until completely smooth, then stir in the vanilla. Either pour the chocolate sauce into a dipping bowl to serve warm alongside your ravioli, or drizzle the baked parcels liberally just before serving. Sprinkle additional toasted hazelnuts on top, if desired.\n\nMatcha Latte Freezer Pops\n\nMakes 5 to 6 freezer pops\n\nUnabashed lover of green tea that I am, these vibrant, grassy green popsicles are in constant rotation on my list of easy snacks come summertime. If you are feeling particularly indulgent, go ahead and splurge on real vanilla beans. Split and scraped into the base, they add amazing complexities that accentuate the matcha. To change up the taste altogether, use a pinch of lemon zest in place of the vanilla for a delicious citrus twist. My very favorite modification, however, is to add a few drops of peppermint extract, which kicks the refreshment factor up to 11.\n\n1\u00bc cups plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 teaspoons matcha powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nIn a small saucepan over medium heat, whisk together the non-dairy milk, sugar, cornstarch, and matcha until the powders are fully incorporated. Bring the mixture up to a boil, whisking the whole time. At this point, the mixture should have thickened considerably. Remove from the heat, stir in the vanilla, and allow it to sit for 5 minutes. Pour into ice pop molds or small paper cups. Allow the mixture to cool to room temperature before inserting popsicle sticks and moving the molds into the freezer, where they should sit for at least 8 hours to fully freeze.\n\nIf you have trouble getting the freezer pops out of the molds when they are ready to be eaten, simply dip the outside of the mold into a cup of warm water for a few seconds. The freezer pops should loosen enough to be easily removed.\n\nMatzah Toffee\n\nMakes 2 pounds of candy\n\nCelebrating my first Passover as a vegan, I quickly discovered, to my great dismay, that there were absolutely no good recipes for plant-based and kosher sweets. Thankfully, a quick revamp of an old family favorite not only fit the bill, but also garnered rave reviews. An indispensable staple ever since then, it's every bit as essential to the occasion as those luminous bowls of matzo ball soup.\n\n4\u20135 sheets matzah, to fit pan\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n12 ounces (2 cups) semisweet chocolate chips\n\n\u2153 cup sliced almonds (optional)\n\n\u00bc teaspoon flaky sea salt (optional)\n\nPreheat your oven to 450\u00baF (230\u00baC) and line a 15x10-inch jelly-roll pan, or other shallow pan, with matzah sheets. Arrange them to cover the bottom evenly, overlapping just slightly; you may need to break them to do so.\n\nIn a saucepan over medium heat, melt the butter, brown sugar, and salt together, bringing them to a slow boil. Maintain a gentle boil without stirring for 3 to 5 minutes, until the mixture becomes thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Pour the molten sugar mixture over the matzah and spread evenly. Bake in the oven for 4 minutes and remove carefully.\n\nSprinkle the chocolate chips on top of the matzah, then return the pan to your oven for another 30 to 60 seconds. After it comes out of the oven for this second time, use a flat, heat-safe spatula to gently spread the melted chocolate so that it covers the top as completely as possible. Sprinkle evenly with sliced almonds and/or sea salt, if desired.\n\nLet the matzah toffee cool to room temperature, leaving it undisturbed until it has completely solidified. Break into pieces and store in an airtight container.\n\nOrangettes\n\nMakes 48 to 64 candies\n\nFew people think to compost their old orange peels, let alone save them for a second use, but with a little love and a touch of sugar, the zesty scraps may end up being even more delicious than the fruit itself! It takes some patience to extract any residual bitterness from the pith, but the payoff is worth the extra work. This same approach will allow you to salvage any other discarded citrus skins, such as grapefruits, lemons, and limes.\n\n3\u20134 navel oranges\n\n3\u00bd cups water, divided\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n3 ounces (about \u00bd cup) dark chocolate, chopped, or semisweet chocolate chips\n\nThere are many ways to remove the peel from the oranges. Some suggestions include using a vegetable peeler or grater, but I like to do it with a knife. To do it my way, begin by cutting the oranges into quarters. With the skin side down, cut right along the edge as close to the actual peel as possible and remove the edible innards. If there is still white pith left over on the inside of the peel, simply scrape that off with the knife. Cut the resulting clean peel into thin quarters, so that each orange produces 16 strips. You should now have a few nicely cleaned segments of orange, so take a break and have a snack, or toss them into a salad later!\n\nPlace the cleaned strips of peel in a small saucepan and pour in enough water to cover, about 1 cup. Bring the water to a boil and continue to cook for about 5 minutes. Drain the water, return the orange peel to the pan, and add a fresh cup of water. Bring back to a boil, cook for 5 minutes, and drain again. Repeat this process once more to leach out any residual bitterness.\n\nNow you are ready to candy the rinds! Add the sugar and a final \u00bd cup of water to the peels, and boil over medium heat once more. Continue to cook until the excess water evaporates and all you have left is a thin coating of smooth sugar on each of the strips. Remove from the heat and immediately move the saucepan contents onto a silicone baking mat or parchment paper. Spread the pieces out so that they don't touch, before the sugar begins to cool and solidify. Let cool.\n\nOnce the coating has completely hardened, place the chocolate in a microwave-safe dish, and microwave in 30-second intervals to prevent scorching. Stir thoroughly after each heating until the chocolate is completely melted and smooth. Dip a piece of peel half way into the chocolate and return it to the silicone baking mat. Repeat this process with the remaining orange peels. Allow the orangettes to dry before storing them in an airtight container.\n\nPumpkin Toffee Trifle\n\nMakes 15 to 20 servings\n\nPiled high with several strata of cream, cake, and crunchy morsels all served up in one grand, family-style goblet, the trifle is the epitome of unpretentious decadence. It's suitable for fancy dinners, holiday gatherings, or even laid-back buffets and seasonal potlucks. Although it does take some patience to make, each separate element can easily be prepared ahead of time and assembled when you're ready. If candy making is not your forte, or you're simply more of a chocoholic than you are crazy for caramel, throw in 1 to 2 cups of chocolate chips in place of the toffee, for pumpkin chocolate perfection.\n\nTOFFEE:\n\n\u00bc cup vegan butter\n\n2 cups dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd cup water\n\nPumpkin Cake:\n\n\u00bd cup vegan vanilla yogurt\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 cup pumpkin puree\n\n\u00bd cup olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bd teaspoon lemon juice\n\n1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd cup whole wheat flour\n\n1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground allspice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground ginger\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nVANILLA PUDDING:\n\n4 cups plain nondairy milk\n\n1\u00bd cups granulated sugar\n\n3 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n2 tablespoons arrowroot powder\n\n2 tablespoons vanilla extract\n\nTo make the toffee, line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or piece of parchment paper. Heat the butter, brown sugar, and water together in a large saucepan over medium heat. It's very important to stir the mixture continuously once it comes up to a boil, as it could very easily boil over if left unattended. Once rapidly bubbling, cook the sugar mixture for 12 to 15 minutes, until it reaches 300\u00baF (150\u00baC) or when a small amount of the mixture dropped into a cup of cold water creates hard, brittle threads. At that point, immediately pour the liquid toffee onto the center of the prepared baking sheet, being careful not to pour so much in one spot that it spills over the edges. Let the mixture sit until it has completely cooled and solidified. Break the resulting toffee into bite-sized pieces and set aside.\n\nPreheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC) and lightly grease an 8x8-inch square baking pan.\n\nIn a large bowl, beat together the yogurt, both sugars, pumpkin, oil, vanilla, and lemon juice until everything is thoroughly combined. In a separate bowl, sift together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt. Slowly add the dry ingredients into the bowl of wet, stirring just enough to bring the batter together into a smooth, homogenous mixture. Pour your batter into the prepared pan and bake for 30 to 40 minutes. When done, the cake will be golden brown on top and pulling slightly away from the sides of the pan. Let the cake cool completely before cutting into bite-sized cubes. Set aside.\n\nThe last component for your trifle is the vanilla pudding, which is also probably the easiest. You're in the home stretch now! Begin by heating the nondairy milk in a large saucepan over medium heat. Whisk in the sugar and cornstarch together while the milk is still relatively cool, dissolving all the starch now to prevent lumps later. When the liquid begins thickening, whisk more vigorously and continue to cook for up to 5 minutes, until it takes on the consistency of pancake batter; it will thicken further as it cools. Remove the mixture from the heat, stir in the vanilla, and keep agitating it for a few additional minutes. Wait for the pudding to cool completely before assembling the trifle, or the toffee will melt. If you have the time to spare, refrigerate and chill the pudding in advance.\n\nTo put everything together, place half of the cake cubes in a trifle dish, in as even a layer as possible. Top this with half of the pudding, and then half of the broken toffee pieces. The rest of the cake follows, continuing the same pattern with the rest of the pudding on top of that, and the remainder of the toffee to finish. If you don't plan on serving it immediately, cover with plastic wrap and store in the fridge. Just bear in mind that the toffee will soften as it sits; it's still every bit as tasty, if less crunchy.\n\nSesame Chews\n\nMakes 24 to 32 chews\n\nThese chewy candies were born out of sheer luck. Playing around in the kitchen one day with various sugars and add-ins left over from previous baking ventures, I had no idea what might result from the pot bubbling away on my stove. Luckily, the results were not some strange science experiment to be discarded at the end of the day, but a rather tasty, toothsome treat! An unusual flavor sensation to be sure, but you will be surprised by how well the ingredients play together in this unique candy.\n\n\u00bd cup coconut sugar or dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n\u00bd cup light agave nectar\n\n1 cup toasted black and/or white sesame seeds\n\n\u00bd cup sliced almonds\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground cardamom\n\n\u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\nLine a 4x8-inch loaf pan with aluminum foil and grease well.\n\nIn a medium saucepan, heat the sugar and agave nectar together slowly, until the sugar dissolves and the mixture comes to a boil. Add in your seeds and nuts, stirring continuously while cooking for 4 to 5 minutes. When the mixture reaches 250\u00baF (120\u00baC), which is also known as the hard ball stage in candy making, remove the pan from the stove. Add in the vanilla, cardamom, and baking soda, stirring vigorously until everything is combined and the candy has lightened slightly in color and texture.\n\nPour the liquid candy into your prepared baking pan and resist the urge to spread it out manually. Once it goes into the pan, do not touch it for at least 30 minutes. After that time has elapsed, move it into the refrigerator to finish setting up, for about an hour. To cut the chews, remove the full strip from the foil and use a heavy knife that is long enough to cover the whole length in one slice. Press straight down, rocking the knife back and forth if it needs more persuasion, but do not saw.\n\nThe chews may stick together due to humidity, so it is best to wrap them separately in squares of parchment paper. Store in an airtight container in a cool place.\n\nTrigona\n\nMakes 24 triangles\n\nAppeasing my father's sweet tooth has always been a challenge. While he loves sugar in its most pure and concentrated form, a connoisseur of all candies, most baked goods don't hold the same allure. If one exception could be made, however, it would be for baklava. Sticky with syrup, innumerable layers of flaky phyllo join in nutty harmony, straddling the line between dessert and confection. Trigona is simply a variation on the more commonplace baklava, trading walnuts and honey for pistachios and maple syrup. Though the assembly can be a bit time-consuming, the results are always worth your patience.\n\n1 package frozen phyllo dough, thawed\n\n1 pound shelled pistachios\n\n\u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n1 cup vegan butter, melted\n\n1\u00bd cups maple syrup\n\nThaw the phyllo dough completely before beginning. Once ready, preheat your oven to 300\u00baF (150\u00baC) and lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking pan.\n\nVery briefly process the pistachios in your blender or food processor to grind them down into a coarse meal, but keep the mixture very rough and chunky. In a large bowl, mix together the ground pistachios, sugar, and cinnamon.\n\nCut (or tear) the phyllo so that it will fit into the bottom of your prepared baking pan. It is okay if the pieces overlap a little. Begin by laying down one sheet and brushing the pastry with melted butter. Add another sheet of phyllo once the first is lightly but thoroughly coated. Brush the second sheet with butter. Repeat these steps up to 4 times to create a phyllo layer; the exact number is up to you. After applying the butter to the last sheet in your first phyllo layer, sprinkle it evenly with the pistachio mixture. Repeat the entire process to create a second layer of phyllo, followed by another layer of the pistachios. Continue this pattern until you run out of the dry ingredients, ending with a layer of buttered phyllo on top.\n\nBefore placing the trigona in the oven, precut the little triangles, or, if you are not feeling so handy with a knife, little squares are just fine. Bake for 70 to 80 minutes, until golden brown and slightly crispy-looking, but watch to make sure that the edges don't get over-toasted.\n\nGently warm the maple syrup, either on the stove or in the microwave, and pour it over the baked pastry. Allow the trigona to cool for at least one hour, then recut, and serve.\nPANTRY STAPLES, COMPONENTS, AND ACCOMPANIMENTS\n\nApples aren't the only fresh autumnal delights to harvest from the orchard. Go ahead and pump-kin it up! Instantly convert this seasonal schmear into Pumpkin Butter by trading the applesauce for 1 (14-ounce) can of pumpkin puree. Replace the allspice with nutmeg to get that classic freshly baked pumpkin pie flavor.\nApple Butter\n\nMake about 1 quart\n\nApple butter, a humble spiced preserve, has nothing to do with any dairy additives, contrary to what the name might suggest. Naturally vegan and much loved across the country, it's easy to find in just about any grocery store. Unfortunately, like most other mass-produced jams and jellies, it's typically composed of more sugar than fruit. Seeking an option focused on flavor rather than pure sweetness, I decided to take things into my own hands. The process is easy enough for a complete beginner to master on the first try, even if you've never considered jamming before. Just make sure you have plenty of time before you light up your stove because it's not exactly a \"quick fix\" recipe.\n\n6 cups unsweetened applesauce\n\n12 ounces (1\u00bd cups) frozen no-sugar added apple juice concentrate, thawed\n\n2 tablespoons ground cinnamon\n\n1 teaspoon ground allspice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cloves\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\nCombine all the ingredients in a large, heavy saucepan over medium heat on the stove. Whisk thoroughly to incorporate all the spices without any clumps remaining and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, keeping the mixture at a gentle simmer. Continue to cook, uncovered, stirring periodically to make sure that nothing sticks to the bottom of the pan. Be patient as it will take anywhere from 2 to 4 hours to properly reduce by about half, to a thick, spreadable, jammy consistency. When finished, it will be considerably darker in color and coat the back of a spoon richly.\n\nLet cool for at least 30 minutes before packing into glass jars and sealing tightly. When completely cool, store in the fridge for up to two weeks. This apple butter is low in acidity and thus difficult to properly can without extensive equipment, so it isn't shelf-stable. That just means you need to slather it on thick and eat it faster, which shouldn't be too much trouble!\n\nChocolate Wafer Cookies\n\nEven if you just need a solid base to build your cheesecake on, going the extra mile to make your own cookie crumbs can catapult your creations to a new plane of dessert divinity. That said, these chocolate wafers are deceptively addictive, so they may turn into the main event by themselves. Dress them up with a quick dip into melted chocolate, or smear a dab of vanilla frosting between two to make your own Oreos in an instant. If you can resist the temptation though, go ahead and toss them into your food processor when completely cool and pulse until finely ground to create the very best cookie crusts you've ever tasted.\n\n1 cup vegan butter\n\n1\u00bc cups granulated sugar\n\n1\u00be cups all-purpose flour\n\n1 cup whole wheat flour\n\n1 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder\n\n\u00bd teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking powder\n\n\u2153 cup cold coffee\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nUse your stand mixer to thoroughly cream the butter and sugar together. In a separate bowl, sift the flours, cocoa powder, salt, and baking powder, stirring well to combine. Add about half of the dry ingredients into the bowl, blending it until fully incorporated. Pour in the cold coffee and vanilla, along with the remaining flour mixture. Continue to mix until it forms into a smooth, homogeneous dough. Form the dough into a ball, flatten it out a bit, wrap in plastic, and chill for at least one hour before proceeding.\n\nAfter the dough has had time to rest in the refrigerator, preheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC). Line two baking sheets with silicone baking mats or parchment paper.\n\nOn a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to about \u215b inch in thickness. Use any cookie cutters you desire to shape the cookies, or if you plan on simply grinding them into crumb, make it easier on yourself and just use a pizza roller to quickly slice the dough into equally sized squares. Place them on prepared baking sheets.\n\nBake for 8 to 14 minutes, depending on the size. It's tough to judge when these cookies are done because they're so dark to begin with, but the edges should be firm, and the centers soft and slightly puffed up.\n\nCool completely on a wire rack before storing in an airtight container at room temperature.\n\nDon't feel like baking this homemade delicacy into another dessert? Transform your basic cream cheese into a fancy flavored spread by blending up any of the following:\n\nGarlic & Herb: Add 1 clove finely minced garlic, \u00bc cup minced fresh parsley, 1 minced scallion, and \u00bc teaspoon dried thyme.\n\nItalian Tomato: Add \u00bc cup finely minced sun-dried tomatoes, 1 tablespoon tomato paste, 2 tablespoons fresh minced basil, \u00bd teaspoon dried oregano, and \u00bc teaspoon dried thyme.\n\nSpicy Queso: Add 3 tablespoons nutritional yeast and 1 chipotle canned in adobo sauce.\n\nStrawberry: Add \u00bc cup seedless strawberry jam or preserves.\n\nMaple Brown Sugar: Add 3 tablespoons dark brown sugar, firmly packed, 1 tablespoon maple syrup, and \u00bc teaspoon ground cinnamon.\n\nLemon Poppy Seed: Add 2 tablespoons lemon zest, \u00bc cup confectioners' sugar, and 1 tablespoon poppy seeds.\nCream Cheese\n\nMakes about 2 cups\n\nSlightly salty, slightly sweet, cream cheese is one of the most versatile spreads around, and an absolute essential ingredient in my kitchen. Since it plays such a crucial role in desserts like cheesecake, quality really counts. Go the extra mile to make your own from scratch and instantly elevate your creations to the next level or enjoy it simply as a spread that will make even the average bagel sing.\n\nKombucha is an unconventional addition that you won't find in most recipes, but I've found that this fermented tea gives my schmear a perfectly tangy flavor. Seek out the most neutral variety available, such as an \"original\" flavor or a citrus blend.\n\n1 cup raw cashews\n\n\u00bd cup slivered almonds\n\n1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar\n\n1 tablespoon lemon juice\n\n1 tablespoon white miso paste\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bd cup kombucha\n\nPlace the cashews and almonds in a medium saucepan along with enough water to cover. Bring to a boil and simmer for 15 minutes. The nuts should have swollen a bit from absorption and have a more tender, \"al dente\" bite. Drain thoroughly and transfer to a high-powered blender or food processor. The better your equipment, the smoother your cream cheese will be, but anything you have can work nicely with an extra measure of patience.\n\nAdd in the vinegar, lemon juice, miso, and salt. Begin blending on low to break down the nuts, using the tamper to continue pushing the mixture into the blades, pausing periodically to scrape down the sides of the canister with a spatula. Once broken down to a crumbly, coarse meal, begin slowly streaming in the kombucha with the motor running. Turn up the speed to high and continue to puree, until completely smooth. Allow enough time for the blender or food processor to do its magic. Depending on your machine, it could take anywhere from 5 to 15 minutes to achieve the ideal silky-smooth texture.\n\nTransfer to an airtight container and store in the fridge for up to 5 days. Kombucha is a living, fermented ingredient, so the cream cheese will continue to get tangier the longer it sits. Plan accordingly if you want to either downplay or highlight this distinctive flavor in your food or desserts.\n\nEasy Eggless Nog\n\nMakes about 2\u00bd cups\n\nQuickly whip up your own nondairy nog at home when it's not in season to get a taste of the holiday spirit, any day of the year!\n\n2 cups plain nondairy milk\n\n\u00bd cup raw cashews, soaked for 4\u20136 hours\n\n\u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n\u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n\u00bc teaspoon kala namak (black salt)\n\nSimply toss everything into your blender and thoroughly puree, until completely silky smooth. Pass through a fine-mesh strainer if desired, to further perfect the texture. Drink it straight, bake with it, or refrigerate for up to a week.\n\nGraham Crackers\n\nMakes about 30 to 40 squares, or 15 to 20 rectangles\n\nGraham crackers are the building blocks of many a dessert, which is quite ironic because they were originally designed as an austere addition to a highly restrictive regimen, designed to cut down on rampant desire and other excesses. Reverend Sylvester Graham would likely be horrified by the sugary turn these originally bland wafer planks have taken in his absence, but the general public is all the better for it. Now a simple biscuit worthy of solo consumption, the only trouble is finding an option that doesn't contain honey. Scout out store brands for some \"accidentally vegan\" gems or get busy making an even better version from scratch. These won't cure you of any dietary evils, but they will instantly elevate your cheesecake crusts or simple s'mores to new culinary heights.\n\n\u00bd cup vegan butter\n\n1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed\n\n1 cup graham flour\n\n1\u00bc cups all-purpose flour\n\n\u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n\u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n\u00bc teaspoon salt\n\n\u00bc cup agave nectar or maple syrup\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nIn your stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar thoroughly, until fluffy and homogeneous.\n\nSeparately, sift together the flours, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt, before adding them all in to the bowl of the mixer. Start on low speed and begin to gently incorporate the dry goods into the butter and sugar mixture. Add in the agave or maple syrup and vanilla, and continue mixing until the dough comes together. Be sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl with your spatula periodically to mix in any pockets of unblended ingredients.\n\nOnce smooth and cohesive, pat the dough out lightly into a flat round, and divide it in two. Wrap up each half in plastic wrap, and chill for a minimum of two hours. If you can spare the time, I would highly recommend letting it rest overnight for the least sticky, most easily workable dough.\n\nWhen you're ready to proceed, preheat your oven to 350\u00baF (175\u00baC), and line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking mats.\n\nRoll out one half of the dough at a time on a lightly floured, clean surface, bringing it down to about \u215b to to \u00bc inch in thickness. Use a fluted pastry wheel or plain pizza cutter to slice the graham cracker shapes into either 2\u00bd-inch squares for s'mores or ice cream sandwiches, or 2\u00bd x 5-inch rectangles to match the traditional dimensions. Carefully transfer the shapes with a flat spatula over to your prepared baking sheet and use a fork to evenly prick the cookies all over. Repeat with the second half of the dough. Afterward, gather up the scraps, reroll, and repeat once more.\n\nBake for 11 to 14 minutes for the squares, 13 to 16 minutes for the rectangles, until very lightly golden brown around the edges and no longer shiny on top. Let cool completely on the sheets. Store in an airtight container at room temperature.\n\nNo-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream\n\nMakes 1 scant quart\n\nPlenty of low-tech methods exist for churning out frozen treats without fancy machinery, but let's be honest: few people, myself included, care enough to fuss with scraping around ice crystals or shaking a plastic bag of ice cubes all day, all for a few small bites of sweet satisfaction.\n\nYour icy irritation ends here. All you need is a freezer, four ingredients, and an appetite. I would wager that you've already got two out of three already covered. The magic all lies in the natural richness of concentrated coconut cream, providing a light, scoopable structure without any further agitation, or irritation.\n\n2 (14-ounce) cans full-fat coconut milk, chilled\n\n1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n1 tablespoon vodka\n\n2 teaspoons vanilla bean paste or extract\n\nCarefully open the chilled cans of coconut milk without shaking them, scooping off the top layer of thick coconut cream that will have risen to the top. Save the watery liquid left behind for another recipe that calls for plain nondairy milk.\n\nReturning to the task at hand, place the coconut cream in the bowl of your stand mixer and install the whisk attachment. Whip on high speed for about 3 minutes before slowly beginning to sprinkle in the sugar, just a few tablespoons at a time. Continue beating the mixture for up to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. Finally, fold in the vodka and vanilla. Use as few strokes as possible to incorporate this final addition to keep the airy structure intact.\n\nSpread the ice cream base into an airtight container and carefully move it into your freezer. Allow it to sit, undisturbed, for at least 6 hours before serving.\n\nAdd a whole new dimension of flavor your jam to really bring it to the next level. Consider adding any or all of the following along with your fruit: 2 tablespoons fresh ginger, finely grated; 1 vanilla bean, split and seeds scraped; 1 tablespoon lemon zest; 1 tablespoon orange blossom or rose water; 1 teaspoon ground black pepper.\nOrange Marmalade\n\nMakes about 5 cups\n\nHomemade marmalade is the crowning jewel atop any breakfast spread, shimmering in the sunshine like a genuine pot of gold. Bathe your whole kitchen with the aromatic perfume of fresh citrus with every new batch, as restorative as a walk in the orange groves themselves. There's a fine line between bitter and sweet, so I've carefully calibrated the balance between zest and sugar. It's a labor of love to remove the harshly astringent pith, but always worth the effort. While you can always buy marmalade for a quick fix, it may be tough to go back after making it from scratch.\n\n4 pounds (about 8\u201310) medium oranges\n\n2\u00bd cups water\n\n\u00bd cup lemon juice\n\n5 cups granulated sugar\n\nThoroughly scrub and dry the oranges before beginning. Use a very sharp paring knife to slice away the outer peels, removing only the brightly colored zest. Leave behind the white pith, which is incredibly bitter and unpalatable. If necessary, go back over your cut peels and shave away any pith that remains. Slice the clean zest into thin, short ribbons and set aside.\n\nReturning now to the naked oranges, remove the thick layer of white pith left behind. Thinly slice the fruits about \u00bc-inch thick, membrane and all, removing any seeds you might encounter.\n\nCombine the zest, innards, water, and lemon juice in a large heavy pot and bring to a boil.\n\nMeanwhile, stash a small plate in the freezer to chill. This may sound strange, but it will help determine when the marmalade is thick enough to set properly. Have three pint-sized jars, or one quart and one half-pint jars, cleaned and ready to receive the jam, set nearby the stove so you don't need to travel too far with a hot pot.\n\nReduce the heat to a simmer and cook the mixture, stirring frequently, until the peels are translucent, and the liquid has reduced by at least \u00be. Be patient, as this may take as long as 60 minutes. Add the sugar and continue to cook for another 45 to 55 minutes, until the liquid has almost completely evaporated. To test the consistency, spoon a dollop onto the chilled plate, let it sit for a minute, and drag a spoon through the mixture. When properly set, the marmalade will hold a clean path behind the spoon.\n\nRemove from the heat, divide between the waiting jars, and seal immediately. Can the marmalade for long-term storage or keep in the refrigerator for quick consumption. Even if not traditionally canned, it will keep in the fridge for at least 4 to 6 months due to the high sugar content, if you can keep your spoon out of it that long, of course.\n\nDon't want to associate with a seedy crowd? Make your jam seedless by tossing the berries into your blender first and passing the puree through a fine-mesh strainer. Discard the solids and proceed with the recipe as written.\nRaspberry Jam\n\nMakes about 4 cups\n\nWhen I was a teenager, summer break was just as busy as the school year. A part-time job kept me tied up for the better part of the day, but that never stopped me from going out with my dad afterward, to pick wild raspberries in the fading sunlight. No matter how tired we both were or how hot and humid the weather, we fearlessly beat back thorny vines to reap pounds upon pounds of fresh, plump berries, shimmering like red rubies in our juice-stained hands. We picked until it was too dark to see, reaping incredible yields beyond what any reasonable family of four could consume. Freezing, drying, and of course, jamming was the only solution after we had stuffed ourselves silly. This simple formula works just as well for blackberries, blueberries, or strawberries if you'd prefer, but raspberries will always have a special place in my heart, as well as my stomach.\n\n4 cups raspberries, fresh or frozen and thawed\n\n3 cups granulated sugar\n\n2 tablespoons lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nPlace the berries in a large saucepan over high heat, mashing them roughly with a sturdy wooden spoon or potato masher as they begin to warm. Add the sugar and lemon juice, stirring roughly to incorporate while continuing to break down the fruit. Bring to a full rolling boil and cook for 10 to 15 minutes, stirring constantly.\n\nWhen the jam is ready, it should reach about 220\u02daF (104\u02daC) on a candy thermometer or use the old-fashioned \"spoon test\": dip a cold metal spoon into the hot jam. Immediately lift it out and away from the steam and turn it horizontally. At the beginning of the cooking process, the liquid will drip off like a light syrup. The jam is done when the drops are very thick and run together before falling off the spoon.\n\nStir in the vanilla, ladle into glass jars, and seal immediately. Let cool completely before using.\n\nWhipped Coconut Cream\n\nMakes about 2 cups\n\nSimultaneously light and rich, a spoonful of lightly sweetened whipped cream is an ideal complement to almost every dessert. A breath of vanilla essence lends incredible depth, without stealing the spotlight from any potential headliner, no matter how soft-spoken, distinctive, or bold. With an eye toward the tropics rather than the farmlands, coconut cream easily stands in for dairy without any crazy stabilizers or demanding techniques necessary.\n\n1 (14-ounce) can full-fat coconut milk, chilled\n\n1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\nCarefully open the chilled can of coconut milk, being sure not to shake it, and scoop off the top layer of thick coconut cream that will have risen to the top. Save the watery liquid left behind for another recipe, such as a soup or a curry. Place the coconut cream in the bowl of your stand mixer and install the whisk attachment. Whip on high speed for about 3 minutes before slowly sprinkling in the sugar, just a little bit at a time. Continue beating the mixture for up to 10 minutes, until light and fluffy. Finally, fold in the vanilla extract. Use it in any recipe that calls for whipped cream, and pipe, dollop, or slather it on as artfully or generously as you desire.\nConversion Charts\n\nMETRIC AND IMPERIAL CONVERSIONS   \n(These conversions are rounded for convenience)\n\nOVEN TEMPERATURES\n\nIndex\n\nA\n\nagar,\n\nagave nectar,\n\nAlmond Avalanche Bars,\n\nalmond butter\n\nAlmond Avalanche Bars,\n\nalmond meal / flour,\n\nalmonds\n\nAlmond Avalanche Bars,\n\nCashew Cr\u00e8me Pear Tart,\n\nCream Cheese, \u2013\n\nEveryday Almond Cake,\n\nMatzah Toffee,\n\nNot-Nog Cupcakes,\n\nNut Case Cookies,\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nanise\n\nPfeffernusse,\n\nApple Butter,\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\napple juice\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\napples\n\nFruited Focaccia,\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\nPomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\nSpiralized Apple Galette, \u2013\n\napplesauce\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\nPup Cakes,\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes,\n\nZesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins,\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\nApricot Biscotti,\n\napricots\n\nFruited Focaccia,\n\naquafaba, \u2013\n\nBlack & White Cookies, \u2013\n\nMarshmallow Mud Cake,\n\nNut Case Cookies,\n\nPfeffernusse,\n\narrowroot powder / flour,\n\nB\n\nbaking pans,\n\nBaklava Tart,\n\nbanana\n\nBetter Banana Nut Muffins,\n\nBananas Foster Cake, \u2013\n\nbeans\n\nwhite\n\nCoconut Custard Pie,\n\nbeets\n\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake, \u2013\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble,\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie, \u2013\n\nBetter Banana Nut Muffins,\n\nbiscotti\n\nApricot Biscotti,\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti,\n\nBlack Bottom Blondies,\n\nBlack & White Cookies, \u2013\n\nblender,\n\nblueberries\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble,\n\nBrilliant Blueberry Parfaits,\n\nLavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\nbread\n\nSweet and Simple French Toast,\n\nBrilliant Blueberry Parfaits,\n\nbroiler, \u2013\n\nbrown rice syrup,\n\nbutter, \u2013. See also cocoa butter\n\nButterscotch Blondies,\n\nC\n\ncacao nibs,\n\ncakes\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\nBananas Foster Cake, \u2013\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nChai Cheesecake,\n\nCookies and Cr\u00e8me Pound Cake,\n\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake, \u2013\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nEveryday Almond Cake,\n\nLemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt,\n\nMarshmallow Mud Cake,\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake,\n\nOrange Dreamsicle Snack Cake,\n\nPi\u00f1a Colada Mini Bundts,\n\nPlum-Good Crumb Cake,\n\nPomegranate Ginger Cupcakes,\n\nPup Cakes,\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\ncaramelizing,\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal,\n\ncarrots\n\nPup Cakes,\n\nCashew Cr\u00e8me Pear Tart,\n\ncashews\n\nGreen Tea-ramisu, \u2013\n\nMont Blanc Mini Tarts, \u2013\n\nNut Case Cookies,\n\ncereal\n\nbrown rice\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nParty Mix Bars,\n\nChai Cheesecake,\n\ncheesecake\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nChai Cheesecake,\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\nCheesecake Thumbprint Cookies,\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles,\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie,\n\nchestnuts\n\nMont Blanc Mini Tarts, \u2013\n\nchia seeds,\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal,\n\nchickpeas\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nChili Chocolate Tart,\n\nchocolate,\n\nBlack & White Cookies, \u2013\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles,\n\nChili Chocolate Tart,\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nEveryday Almond Cake,\n\nHazelnut Ravioli,\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti,\n\nOrangettes,\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake,\n\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie,\n\nchocolate chips\n\nAlmond Avalanche Bars,\n\nBlack Bottom Blondies,\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles,\n\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie,\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies,\n\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge,\n\nLace Florentines,\n\nMatzah Toffee,\n\nRoot Bear Float Cupcakes,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\nchocolate-covered espresso beans\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nchocolate cr\u00e8me-filled sandwich cookies,\n\nCookies and Cr\u00e8me Pound Cake,\n\nChocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones,\n\nChocolate-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\nChocolate Wafer Cookie,\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nChili Chocolate Tart,\n\ncocoa butter,\n\ncocoa powder,\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble,\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles,\n\nChocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones,\n\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake, \u2013\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies,\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge,\n\nMarshmallow Mud Cake,\n\nPeanut Butter Bombs,\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\nTurtle Shortbread Wedges, \u2013\n\nWasabi Chocolate Cupcakes,\n\nWhoopie Pies, \u2013\n\ncoconut\n\nCoconut Custard Pie,\n\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge,\n\nPi\u00f1a Colada Mini Bundts,\n\nCoconut Custard Pie,\n\ncoconut milk,\n\nButterscotch Blondies,\n\ncoconut oil,\n\ncoffee\n\ncold\n\nChocolate Wafer Cookie,\n\ninstant,\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble,\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nCoffee Break Shortbread,\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies,\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nHazelnut Ravioli,\n\nCoffee Break Shortbread,\n\ncola\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie,\n\ncookie crumbs, chocolate wafer,\n\ncookie cutters,\n\ncookies\n\nBlack & White Cookies, \u2013\n\nCheesecake Thumbprint Cookies,\n\nchocolate cr\u00e8me-filled sandwich,\n\nCookies and Cr\u00e8me Pound Cake,\n\nChocolate Wafer Cookie,\n\nMaple Pistachio Cr\u00e8mes,\n\nNut Case Cookies,\n\nPeanut-Plus Cookies,\n\nStrawberry Spirals, \u2013\n\nTurtle Shortbread Wedges, \u2013\n\nWhoopie Pies, \u2013\n\ncranberries\n\nFruited Focaccia,\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nZesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins,\n\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake, \u2013\n\ncream cheese, , \u2013\n\nBaklava Tart,\n\nCheesecake Thumbprint Cookies,\n\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie,\n\nCranberry Red Velvet Cake, \u2013\n\nHazelnut Ravioli,\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake,\n\ncream of tartar,\n\nCr\u00e8me Br\u00fbl\u00e9e,\n\ncrimping,\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies,\n\ncupcakes\n\nLemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt,\n\nNot-Nog Cupcakes,\n\nPerfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, \u2013\n\nRoot Bear Float Cupcakes,\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes,\n\nWasabi Chocolate Cupcakes,\n\nD\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\ndecorative crust, \u2013\n\ndoughnuts\n\nGolden Glazed Doughnuts, \u2013\n\ndough rolling, \u2013\n\ndough transfer,\n\ndrips, in oven,\n\nE\n\nEasy Eggless Nog,\n\neggnog, vegan, \u2013\n\nespresso beans, chocolate-covered\n\nDark Mocha Revelation Cake, \u2013\n\nEveryday Almond Cake,\n\nF\n\nFiggy Graham Scones,\n\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge,\n\nFlaming Hot Peanut Brittle,\n\nflaxseed, \u2013\n\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie,\n\nGolden Glazed Doughnuts, \u2013\n\nMont Blanc Mini Tarts, \u2013\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti,\n\nPumpkin Pecan Pie, \u2013\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes,\n\nFloral Petits Fours, \u2013\n\nflour\n\nall-purpose, \u2013\n\nalmond,\n\narrowroot,\n\ngarbanzo bean,\n\ngraham, \u2013\n\nwhite whole wheat,\n\nwhole wheat pastry,\n\nfluting,\n\nfocaccia,\n\nfood processor,\n\nfreezer, storing desserts in,\n\nfrench toast\n\nSweet and Simple French Toast,\n\nfruit, fresh vs. frozen, \u2013\n\nFruited Focaccia,\n\nfudge\n\nFive-Minute Coconut Fudge,\n\nG\n\ngarbanzo bean flour,\n\nginger\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, \u2013\n\nPomegranate Ginger Cupcakes,\n\nGinger Dream Pie,\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, \u2013\n\ngolden-brown finish,\n\nGolden Glazed Doughnuts, \u2013\n\nGolden Pastry Glaze,\n\ngraham crackers, ,\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie, \u2013\n\nChai Cheesecake,\n\nCheesecake Thumbprint Cookies,\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie,\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\ngraham flour, \u2013\n\ngranola\n\nHearty Granola Waffles,\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nGreen Tea-ramisu, \u2013\n\ngrinder, spice,\n\ngrinding spices,\n\nH\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\nHazelnut Ravioli,\n\nhazelnuts\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti,\n\nHearty Granola Waffles,\n\nI\n\nice cream\n\nNo-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream,\n\nK\n\nkitchen torch,\n\nL\n\nLace Florentines,\n\nLavender-Blueberry Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\nlemon\n\nChocolate-Lemon Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\nPerfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, \u2013\n\nPink Lemonade Tartlets,\n\nLemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt,\n\nlentils\n\nPeanut-Plus Cookies,\n\nLychee Cupcakes with Raspberry Frosting,\n\nM\n\nmandoline, \u2013\n\nMaple Pistachio Cr\u00e8mes,\n\nmaple syrup,\n\nCashew Cr\u00e8me Pear Tart,\n\nCream Cheese,\n\nFlaming Hot Peanut Brittle,\n\nMaple Pistachio Cr\u00e8mes,\n\nRoot Bear Float Cupcakes,\n\nmarshmallow\n\nOrange Dreamsicle Snack Cake,\n\nMarshmallow Mud Cake,\n\nmatcha,\n\nGreen Tea-ramisu, \u2013\n\nMatcha Latte Freezer Pops,\n\nMatzah Toffee,\n\nmicrowave,\n\nmilk, coconut,\n\nmillet\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake,\n\nmiso\n\nCream Cheese, \u2013\n\nmixer,\n\nmolasses\n\nPfeffernusse,\n\nMont Blanc Mini Tarts, \u2013\n\nmuffins\n\nStrawberry Love Muffins,\n\nZesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins,\n\nN\n\nNo-Churn Vanilla Bean Ice Cream,\n\nNot-Nog Cupcakes,\n\nNut Case Cookies,\n\nnutritional yeast,\n\nO\n\noatmeal, instant\n\nLace Florentines,\n\nOatmeal Raisin Rolls,\n\noats\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\nBetter Banana Nut Muffins,\n\nOatmeal Raisin Rolls,\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nolive oil,\n\nOrange Dreamsicle Snack Cake,\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti,\n\norange juice\n\nOrange Hazelnut Biscotti,\n\nOrange Marmalade,\n\nOrangettes,\n\nP\n\npans\n\nbaking,\n\nspringform,\n\nParty Mix Bars,\n\npastry bags,\n\nPeach Melba Layer Cake, \u2013\n\npeanut butter\n\nChocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones,\n\nPeanut-Plus Cookies,\n\nPup Cakes,\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes,\n\nPeanut Butter Bombs,\n\nPeanut-Plus Cookies,\n\npeanuts\n\nFlaming Hot Peanut Brittle,\n\npears\n\nCashew Cr\u00e8me Pear Tart,\n\npecans\n\nBetter Banana Nut Muffins,\n\nBlack Bottom Blondies,\n\nChili Chocolate Tart,\n\nTurtle Shortbread Wedges, \u2013\n\nPerfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, \u2013\n\nPfeffernusse,\n\nphyllo dough\n\nBaklava Tart,\n\nHazelnut Ravioli,\n\nTrigona,\n\npie dough rolling, \u2013\n\npies\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie, \u2013\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie,\n\nChocolate Chip Cookie Pie,\n\nCoconut Custard Pie,\n\nGinger Dream Pie,\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\nPumpkin Pecan Pie, \u2013\n\nPi\u00f1a Colada Mini Bundts,\n\npineapple\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal,\n\nFruited Focaccia,\n\nPink Lemonade Tartlets,\n\npiping bags,\n\npistachios\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, \u2013\n\nMaple Pistachio Cr\u00e8mes,\n\nNut Case Cookies,\n\nTrigona,\n\nPlum-Good Crumb Cake,\n\nPomegranate Ginger Cupcakes,\n\nPomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\npotato, sweet\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\npotato flakes, \u2013\n\nPerfect Lemon Poppy Seed Cupcakes, \u2013\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\npretzels\n\nParty Mix Bars,\n\npuffed grains,\n\npumpkin\n\nFloral Petits Fours, \u2013\n\nPumpkin Pecan Pie, \u2013\n\nPumpkin Pecan Pie, \u2013\n\nPumpkin Toffee Trifle, \u2013\n\nPup Cakes,\n\nQ\n\nquinoa\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal,\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nR\n\nraisins\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal,\n\nOatmeal Raisin Rolls,\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\nraspberries\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble,\n\nPeach Melba Layer Cake, \u2013\n\nraspberry jam,\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie, \u2013\n\nPeach Melba Layer Cake, \u2013\n\nPink Lemonade Tartlets,\n\nrolling out pie dough, \u2013\n\nRoot Bear Float Cupcakes,\n\nroot beer\n\nRoot Bear Float Cupcakes,\n\nrose petals\n\nPomegranate Rose Filling, Glaze, and Garnish,\n\nrum\n\nBananas Foster Cake, \u2013\n\nPi\u00f1a Colada Mini Bundts,\n\nS\n\nsalt, black,\n\nEasy Eggless Nog,\n\nNot-Nog Cupcakes,\n\nscones\n\nChocolate-Glazed Peanut Butter Scones,\n\nFiggy Graham Scones,\n\nSelf-Frosting Peanut Butter Cupcakes,\n\nSesame Chews,\n\nsesame seeds\n\nSesame Chews,\n\nsilicone baking mats,\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake,\n\nsoda\n\ncola\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie,\n\nroot beer\n\nRoot Bear Float Cupcakes,\n\nsour cream,\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nWhoopie Pies, \u2013\n\nspice grinder,\n\nspice grinding,\n\nspinach\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, \u2013\n\nSpiralized Apple Galette, \u2013\n\nspiralizer,\n\nspringform pan,\n\nsprinkles, \u2013\n\nGolden Glazed Doughnuts, \u2013\n\nstrainer,\n\nstraining,\n\nstrawberries\n\nBerry Cherry Cocoa Crumble,\n\nstrawberry jam\n\nMini Icebox Cheesecake,\n\nStrawberry Love Muffins,\n\nStrawberry Spirals, \u2013\n\nsugar\n\nconfectioner's,\n\ngranulated,\n\nturbinado,\n\nvanilla,\n\nSweet and Simple French Toast,\n\nsweet potato\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\nT\n\ntahini,\n\ntextured vegetable protein (TVP),\n\nPower-Hungry Granola,\n\ntoasting nuts and seeds,\n\ntofu,\n\nBrilliant Blueberry Parfaits,\n\nCaramel Macchiato Cheesecake, \u2013\n\nChai Cheesecake,\n\nGinger Dream Pie,\n\nSilken Chocolate Mousse Cake,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\ntorch,\n\nTrigona,\n\nTriple-Threat Chocolate Cheesecake,\n\ntruffles\n\nCherry Chocolate Truffles,\n\nTurtle Shortbread Wedges, \u2013\n\nV\n\nvanilla,\n\nvanilla beans, \u2013\n\nvanilla sugar,\n\nvinegar\n\napple cider,\n\nW\n\nwaffles\n\nHearty Granola Waffles,\n\nwalnuts\n\nApple Spice Cake,\n\nBlack Bottom Blondies,\n\nCarrot Cake Quinoa Cereal,\n\nHarvest Pie, \u2013\n\nwasabi,\n\nWasabi Chocolate Cupcakes,\n\nWhipped Coconut Cream,\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie, \u2013\n\nCherry Cola Pudding Pie,\n\nGingersnap Pistachio Parfaits, \u2013\n\nWhoopie Pies, \u2013\n\nY\n\nyeast. See nutritional yeast\n\nyogurt,\n\nApricot Biscotti,\n\nBerry Froyo Chiffon Pie, \u2013\n\nBlack Bottom Blondies,\n\nBlack & White Cookies, \u2013\n\nButterscotch Blondies,\n\nCrumb-Topped Brownies,\n\nGreen Tea-ramisu, \u2013\n\nLemon-Lime Sunshine Bundt,\n\nOrange Dreamsicle Snack Cake,\n\nPlum-Good Crumb Cake,\n\nPumpkin Toffee Trifle, \u2013\n\nPup Cakes,\n\nWhoopie Pies, \u2013\n\nZ\n\nZesty Cranberry Crumb Muffins, \n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Baldacci, Leslie - Inside Mrs"}, "text": "\n**Inside Mrs. B's Classroom**\n\nCourage, Hope, and Learning on Chicago's South Side\n**Inside Mrs. B's Classroom**\n\nCourage, Hope, and Learning on Chicago's South Side\n\nLeslie Baldacci\n\nMcGraw-Hill\n\nNew York Chicago San Francisco Lisbon  \nLondon Madrid Mexico City Milan New Delhi  \nSan Juan Seoul Singapore Sydney Toronto\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2004 by Leslie Baldacci. All rights reserved. Manufactured in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.\n\n0-07-143627-8\n\nThe material in this eBook also appears in the print version of this title: 0-07-141735-4.\n\nAll trademarks are trademarks of their respective owners. Rather than put a trademark symbol after every occurrence of a trademarked name, we use names in an editorial fashion only, and to the benefit of the trademark owner, with no intention of infringement of the trademark. Where such designations appear in this book, they have been printed with initial caps.\n\nMcGraw-Hill eBooks are available at special quantity discounts to use as premiums and sales promotions, or for use in corporate training programs. For more information, please contact George Hoare, Special Sales, at george.hoare@mheducation.com or (646)766-3056.\n\n#### **TERMS OF USE**\n\nThis is a copyrighted work and The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc. (\"McGraw-Hill\") and its licensors reserve all rights in and to the work. Use of this work is subject to these terms. Except as permitted under the Copyright Act of 1976 and the right to store and retrieve one copy of the work, you may not decompile, disassemble, reverse engineer, reproduce, modify, create derivative works based upon, transmit, distribute, disseminate, sell, publish or sublicense the work or any part of it without McGraw-Hill's prior consent. You may use the work for your own noncommercial and personal use; any other use of the work is strictly prohibited. Your right to use the work may be terminated if you fail to comply with these terms.\n\nTHE WORK IS PROVIDED \"AS IS\". McGRAW-HILL AND ITS LICENSORS MAKE NO GUARANTEES OR WARRANTIES AS TO THE ACCURACY, ADEQUACY OR COMPLETENESS OF OR RESULTS TO BE OBTAINED FROM USING THE WORK, INCLUDING ANY INFORMATION THAT CAN BE ACCESSED THROUGH THE WORK VIA HYPERLINK OR OTHERWISE, AND EXPRESSLY DISCLAIM ANY WARRANTY, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO IMPLIED WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE. McGraw-Hill and its licensors do not warrant or guarantee that the functions contained in the work will meet your requirements or that its operation will be uninterrupted or error free. Neither McGraw-Hill nor its licensors shall be liable to you or anyone else for any inaccuracy, error or omission, regardless of cause, in the work or for any damages resulting therefrom. McGraw-Hill has no responsibility for the content of any information accessed through the work. Under no circumstances shall McGraw-Hill and/or its licensors be liable for any indirect, incidental, special, punitive, consequential or similar damages that result from the use of or inability to use the work, even if any of them has been advised of the possibility of such damages. This limitation of liability shall apply to any claim or cause whatsoever whether such claim or cause arises in contract, tort or otherwise.\n**Contents**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nAcknowledgments\n\n[_Chapter 1_  \nThe Mad Crapper](ch1.html#ch1)\n\n[_Chapter 2_  \nWelcome to the Neighborhood](ch2.html#ch2)\n\n[_Chapter 3_  \n\"Bring Two No. 2 Pencils\"](ch3.html#ch3)\n\n[_Chapter 4_  \nMy Assignment](ch4.html#ch4)\n\n[_Chapter 5_  \nThe Farewell Tour](ch5.html#ch5)\n\n[_Chapter 6_  \nThe Belly of the Beast](ch6.html#ch6)\n\n[_Chapter 7_  \nNesting](ch7.html#ch7)\n\n[_Chapter 8_  \nThe Seventh Graders Arrive](ch8.html#ch8)\n\n[_Chapter 9_  \nGetting to Know Them](ch9.html#ch9)\n\n[_Chapter 10_  \nAl Gore Visits the Billy Goat](ch10.html#ch10)\n\n[_Chapter 11_  \nThe Kids Are All Right, but the Teachers Are Wrecks](ch11.html#ch11)\n\n[_Chapter 12_  \nViolence](ch12.html#ch12)\n\n[_Chapter 13_  \nA Five-Week Reorganization](ch13.html#ch13)\n\n[_Chapter 14_  \nLearning](ch14.html#ch14)\n\n[_Chapter 15_  \nAn Observation](ch15.html#ch15)\n\n[_Chapter 16_  \nCrime and Punishment](ch16.html#ch16)\n\n[_Chapter 17_  \nThanksgiving Break](ch17.html#ch17)\n\n[_Chapter 18_  \nAn Intervention](ch18.html#ch18)\n\n[_Chapter 19_  \nThe Bathroom Incident](ch19.html#ch19)\n\n[_Chapter 20_  \nA Winning Streak](ch20.html#ch20)\n\n[_Chapter 21_  \nSo Far](ch21.html#ch21)\n\n[_Chapter 22_  \nThe Mid-Winter Lull](ch22.html#ch22)\n\n[_Chapter 23_  \nThe Second Half](ch23.html#ch23)\n\n[_Chapter 24_  \nHip Hop 101](ch24.html#ch24)\n\n[_Chapter 25_  \nBottoming Out](ch25.html#ch25)\n\n[_Chapter 26_  \nNo Coincidences](ch26.html#ch26)\n\n[_Chapter 27_  \nPierre](ch27.html#ch27)\n\n[_Chapter 28_  \nSpring Planting](ch28.html#ch28)\n\n[_Chapter 29_  \nBad Things Happen in Threes](ch29.html#ch29)\n\n[_Chapter 30_  \n\"Remediation\"](ch30.html#ch30)\n\n[_Chapter 31_  \nAssumptions](ch31.html#ch31)\n\n[_Chapter 32_  \nLivin' on the Edge](ch32.html#ch32)\n\n[_Chapter 33_  \nThe End of Seventh Grade](ch33.html#ch33)\n\n[_Chapter 34_  \nFairyland](ch34.html#ch34)\n\n[_Chapter 35_  \nThe More Things Change](ch35.html#ch35)\n\n[_Chapter 36_  \nCult of Personality](ch36.html#ch36)\n\n[_Chapter 37_  \nTrouble](ch37.html#ch37)\n\n[_Chapter 38_  \n _Dance Africa_ ](ch38.html#ch38)\n\n[_Chapter 39_  \nLoving Louis](ch39.html#ch39)\n\n[_Chapter 40_  \nThe Downside](ch40.html#ch40)\n\n[_Chapter 41_  \nAnother Christmas](ch41.html#ch41)\n\n[_Chapter 42_  \nCruel January](ch42.html#ch42)\n\n[_Chapter 43_  \nA Prayer in School](ch43.html#ch43)\n\n[_Chapter 44_  \nRecess!](ch44.html#ch44)\n\n[_Chapter 45_  \nThe Teacher Certification Test](ch45.html#ch45)\n\n[_Chapter 46_  \nMidnight Catches a Snake](ch46.html#ch46)\n\n[_Chapter 47_  \nLost Parents](ch47.html#ch47)\n\n[_Chapter 48_  \nMother's Day](ch48.html#ch48)\n\n[_Chapter 49_  \nGuns of Summer](ch49.html#ch49)\n\n[_Chapter 50_  \nGoing From Here](ch50.html#ch50)\n\n[_Chapter 51_  \nGraduation](ch51.html#ch51)\n\nPostscript\n\nIndex\n**Acknowledgments**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThanks to the teachers for their example, especially the Gernands, George and Rita, Pat and Jay, Mary and Bernadette, Ed Baldacci, Florence Baldacci, Glenn and Sue Pawlak, Fred Dobrinski, Donnamaria Gamble Baker, Judy Gouwens, Alonza Everage, Rochelle Lee, Barbara Dress, James Marshall, Minnie Tyrie, Ramona Schwartz, Michelle Navarre, Frank Tobin, Pam Sanders, Fred Chesek, Maria Hernandez-Van Nest and Bill Crannell.\n\nThanks to Richard Roeper, Mark Jacob, Cristi Kempf, John O'Malley, Ellen Skerrett, Mary Mitchell, Lorrie Lynch, Jeff Bailey, Jeanne Wright, Michelle Bearden, William McGrath and the \"sibs,\" Jeff, Beth and David for counsel and encouragement.\n\nThanks to Ken Rolling and Marianne Philbin and the Chicago Annenberg Challenge for starting the ball rolling.\n\nThanks to the book ladies: Janet Rosen, Barbara Gilson and Betsy Lancefield Lane.\n\nThanks to Artie, Natalie and Mia for your faith and courage on the adventure that changed all of our lives.\n\nThanks to Joan Dameron Crisler for believing in me. Thanks to my students, in my heart always.\nChapter 1\n\n* * *\n\n**The Mad Crapper**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nIt was the first time I'd been down to \"The Dungeon.\" The others were already there. A haze of cigarette smoke layered the ancient boiler room, lending a comic twist to the yellow \"Warning! Asbestos!\" signs on every wall.\n\nSculptured nails tapped an ash into an overflowing ashtray that sat atop a broken, gutted desk, its drawers long gone. Chairs in various states of disrepair and other junk cluttered the perimeter. Pipes twisted this way and that on the ceilings and walls, taped and painted over in a pitiful attempt to contain the deadly asbestos that had insulated the pipes for decades. I looked around the floor for piles of white dust that were the telltale sign of danger. What was I going to do if I saw some? Call the health department?\n\n\"The Dungeon\" was the smokers' secret hangout. Board of education rules prohibited teachers from smoking on school property. But the stress of the job was high. Sometimes the only relief was to cadge a smoke on the sly during school hours before facing the cruel crowd again.\n\nDonna opened the meeting.\n\n\"Basically, we're gonna have to scare the living shit out of these little fuckers,\" she declared, blowing out a cloud of smoke. \"If they don't shape up, it's no more departmental. We'll be self-contained, and every one of us will have to teach all subjects to the same kids all day.\"\n\nWe all groaned in agony at the thought of being held hostage by our respective classes. This was seventh and eighth grade in a poverty-level, urban school on the South Side of Chicago. Our classes were bursting at the seams with thirty-five, thirty-six and thirty-seven kids apiece. Tough kids, many of them raising themselves in tough circumstances. There was barely room to walk around the classrooms for all the desks. When the kids were in the room, there was no room left. The noise and heat levels were like a steel mill. The only thing worse than teaching one subject to all four classes every day would be teaching all subjects to the same class all day long. There was enough contempt without familiarity.\n\n\"What should we say?\" I asked. I was the rookie, always looking for answers. Mr. Diaz, the other seventh-grade teacher and my fellow intern in the innovative Teachers For Chicago program, had been a substitute teacher in the past at different schools in the city. Donna and Mr. Callahan, the eighth-grade teachers, had put in years at this school. Their experience would be our guide.\n\n\"We should all say something,\" Donna said. \"But the bottom line is they won't walk across the stage at the end of the year and graduate from eighth grade if they don't stop acting the fool. We are going on zero tolerance. No more clowning in the hallways. No more stealing from each other's desks.\"\n\nEach of us took a piece of the problem to address. Donna would open the curtain with fire and brimstone. Mr. Callahan would appeal to their desire to move onward and upward. I would announce a peer tribunal to deal with the misbehavers. And instead of two lines, boys and girls, we'd walk single file through the hallways from now on in alphabetical order. We had fallen into such profound disorder so early in the school year that any attempt to impose order seemed reasonable. The principal threatened no more changing classes due to loud and unruly behavior in the hallways. The commotion disturbed the administrative personnel in the office, which is on the same corridor. They didn't like to be disturbed.\n\nDonna had a brilliant idea to stop the thieving from the desks: When the students left their homerooms in the morning, they would turn their desks around so that the cubby holes faced in! That way, no one could get their hands inside to steal, destroy property or leave snotty tissues, trash, threatening notes or other unpleasantries. So simple. So brilliant in its simplicity. Those were things we rookies could not figure out on our own because we had no context and were surviving breath to breath. We were so overwhelmed by the complexities of teaching that we could not see the simple solutions.\n\nWe herded our students into the auditorium for the big bawling out.\n\nDonna began with a prayer. She was a tall and striking African princess and a devout Christian, a Roman Catholic. Her voice rang like a bell. Her skin was the color of a Hershey bar, and her face shone with a light from within. Ask her how she was doing and she replied without fail, \"I'm blessed.\"\n\nBreaking all laws prohibiting prayer in school, we all bowed our heads and asked God to bless us and guide us and open our minds. She praised Jesus and warned of Satan (say-TAHN, she called him in private, with a devilish smile) and his sneakiness and lies, his trickery in leading people astray.\n\n\"These children act like shit in school,\" she told me, \"but they are churchgoers and God-fearing.\"\n\nAs Donna wrapped up the prayer, a sudden ruckus broke out in the audience. Mr. Diaz's students leapt from their seats, shrieking and jumping around. First a couple, then more, then all. They flooded out of their rows and into the aisles, waving their arms and hollering.\n\nImmediate thoughts: A rat! Roaches! Fleas! I backed up against the stage in case a rat ran out from under the front row. I was ready to jump back butt-first onto the stage with no part of my anatomy anywhere near that floor.\n\nDonna went to investigate, a pissed-off look on her face. She was magnificent, queenly, disdainful. She moved like a fine sailing ship at sea to a row where a few students pointed out the trouble, covering their mouths in horror. I watched a flicker of disbelief, then amusement, dance across her face. Then, deadpan.\n\n\"Come on, now,\" she said in her teacher voice that cut through the hysteria, imposing order. \"It's not like you never saw one of those before. Someone get the broom.\"\n\nShe headed back toward the stage and sidled past me after her discovery. My look said, \"Well?\"\n\n\"You're not gonna believe this,\" she said. \"There's a turd on the floor.\"\n\n\"A what?\" I said, disbelieving, as she had predicted.\n\n\"A goddamned turd,\" she said.\n\n\"Don't even look at me,\" I said, about to fall over with hysterical laughter.\n\n\"Don't you even look at me,\" she said out of the side of her mouth, walking past.\n\nSomehow we managed to remove the feces, compose ourselves and deliver the lecture of the decade. Each teacher spoke. The ultimate horror\u2014failing to graduate from eighth grade and go to high school\u2014was repeatedly invoked.\n\nBut we also told them that we cared about them, that their success was our utmost concern. We implored them not to let their behavior prevent them from succeeding in school, not to let any foolishness get them off track.\n\nWe told them what we expected from them in simplest terms: Pay attention, do your work, do your best.\n\nIt was all true. We did care or we wouldn't have been there. We did care or we wouldn't have bothered. We did want them to succeed and we would do anything in our power to help them achieve success.\n\nWould it have any effect? Impossible to say. Did they believe us? Their faces said they'd heard it before and it was bullshit then, so this must be more bullshit.\n\nLater, after school when I had time to think about it, I wondered about the turd. Where had it come from? Who had left it? Was it imported from outdoors or actually deposited on the auditorium floor by its maker? Did a kid do it? A disgruntled adult? There was no shortage of suspects, that much was true.\n\nI told my dad about it when we talked on the phone later. He'd seen many such oddities in his thirty years as a teacher. A kid once defiled a bulletin board outside his gym by adding a three-dimensional penis, molded from chewed chewing gum, protruding from the shorts of a basketball player pictured on the board.\n\nThe chewing gum sculptor was a one-shot deal. The Mad Crapper would strike again before the year was out.\nChapter 2\n\n* * *\n\n**Welcome to the Neighborhood**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nWhen I said we'd fallen into profound disorder early in the year, well, that wasn't entirely accurate.\n\nDisorder had existed at the school long before the year started. The same sort of disorder existed at other schools in our city and had for a long time. The kids ran wild. They swore, fought, refused to work. At assemblies they booed the principal. The only punishment was suspension, and that wasn't so terrible. As one of my students, Cortez, put it, \"At least it's better than having to come up here and look at your ugly ass.\"\n\nThe school was a microcosm of the neighborhood. Pregnancy, drugs and alcohol were part of the life experience of children thirteen and fourteen years old. Parents had their own issues. Lives were consumed by the relentless stress and woe of poverty. Violence was omnipresent. The summer before, a serial killer had murdered prostitutes and left their bodies in abandoned houses. Gang shootings claimed players and innocents alike. Every family, it seemed, bore the scars of victims or perpetrators.\n\nCop friends tried to warn me, and public school administrators tried to downplay the extent of the chaos. The people who were trying to make a teacher out of me did not approve of excuse-making and held me accountable for a well-run classroom where children learned.\n\nIn reality, my classroom was just one deck chair on the _Titanic._ My school was just one of many poor-performing urban schools, trying to stay afloat as waves of social dysfunction crashed over its sides. But the philosophy of \"no excuse-making\" actually was the only way to proceed. It is what it is. Soldier on.\n\nI believe my experience was more typical than extraordinary, more universal than unique. I understand the teacher shortage and why a third of new teachers quit after three years and half bail out after five years. No other industry would survive\u2014or allow\u2014such a personnel hemorrhage.\n\nWhat was not typical about my experience was my background. As a newspaperwoman for twenty-five years, I had reported on Chicago's education crises long before the city's \"school reform\" effort grabbed the national spotlight. In 1987 former U.S. Education Secretary William J. Bennett described the city's public school system as \"an educational disaster.\" The reform movement started two years later when Illinois lawmakers shifted power to local schools, putting local school councils in charge of their own budgets and destinies. Observers watched our experiment unfold with interest and guarded hope. If Chicago could turn its schools around, the thinking went, people anywhere ought to be able to fix their troubled schools.\n\nIn 1995 the state legislature took the final step, relinquishing control of the Chicago Public Schools to Mayor Richard M. Daley. They handed him a district in which only one-third of children could read and calculate at grade level. A bloated, insulated bureaucracy oversaw a small empire of aging, crumbling, patched-together buildings and more than a half-million children.\n\nIt would be Daley's greatest challenge. The success or failure of the school system would spell success or failure for the city itself. No industry would invest in an uneducated, untrained workforce. If the schools failed, the city's economic base would pull out, leaving the dropouts and crackheads behind. The nation's third-largest city would stumble and fall.\n\nAt the time, I was on the editorial board, the ivory tower from which newspapers dish criticism to individuals and institutions, and I wrote the following editorial, which appeared in the Chicago _Sun-Times_ on May 22, 1995:\n\n\"Mayor Daley's complaining about state restrictions on money for the Chicago public schools is vintage whine.\n\nHis well-worn political spinning seeks to accomplish two things: reduce expectations of what the mayor can accomplish with the schools, and blame state bureaucrats for tying his hands. Sorry, mayor. We expect more from you now than ever before.\n\nNo one knows better than Daley that when the state offered him control of the schools, it was a classic case of \"be careful what you wish for.\" Ended was his long tradition of lamenting Chicago's terrible schools with the luxury of no power to fix them. Well, now the problem is his to fix, and we are counting on him.\n\nThe Legislature will not provide any new money for Chicago schools. But we have confidence that the mayor will persuade legislative leaders to relax some of the regulations that hog-tie spending and encumber education. That must happen this week.\n\nWe expect the mayor to quickly appoint a qualified, five-member School Board. We expect Daley, as Mayor Rudolph Giuliani in New York is doing, to battle the financial bloat within the school bureaucracy. We expect him to make sure that those who lead the schools have one and the same interest: the students. We expect that the accountability now foisted on Daley will quickly move down the line. We expect schools to open on time in September.\n\nDaley has several advantages. He has five years of school reform experience. He has bright stars of private industry providing expert advice and analysis. He has dedicated employees within the school system, and many models for success. He has an opportunity.\n\nNothing is more crucial to making the city a good place to live and do business than improving the Chicago public schools. That accomplishment will make Chicago shine for generations to come.\n\nThis period of enormous challenge is no time for defeatism or excuses. This is a time for Daley to show what he can do for Chicago. Roll up your sleeves, mayor. It's time to get to work.\"\n\nFour years later, Chicago's schools had improved their finances, halted a disastrous cycle of teacher strikes, fixed crumbling buildings and put up new ones. Student test scores were beginning to improve. Yet Mayor Daley worried about sustaining the momentum. He asked, \"How do you know that we set the foundation and it's not going to fall back?\"\n\nI believed the answer lay in the front-line troops, teachers, so I decided to take a dose of my own medicine. I followed the very advice I'd so stridently heaped on the mayor. I turned in my press credentials to become a teacher.\n\nOf course, I thought I was pretty connected to \"real life\" by being a news reporter. I thought I knew plenty. I thought I was tough. I never imagined that a classroom of kids would bring me to my knees.\n\nI learned that it is simple to raise taxes to replace crumbling schools and build new ones so children don't have to learn in closets and hallways. But it is very complicated indeed to compete for the hearts and minds of children in today's world, no matter how privileged the community or how dangerous the setting. Columbine taught us that. Urban schools have long known how very high the stakes are.\n\nMy students taught me more about hope and courage than a thousand Sundays in church. Leaving school to walk home after gunfire had spit bullets through the neighborhood, coming to school every day from homes wracked by drug and alcohol abuse or violence\u2014they were my role models. As long as they kept coming back to school, so would I. Moments of grace and goodness sustained me as I struggled not to lose hope or the sense that God was with me and in each of my students. I never stopped believing that the fight, though not a fair one, was a good one.\n\nFor two years as I learned how to be a teacher, I sat on my back porch countless afternoons, trying to come down from the hysteria of the classroom. I'd listen to the cardinals and watch the leaves dance. I would replay the mind-boggling events of the day, and believe me, every day was mind-boggling. Always my eyes would return to the two icons that hang on the big linden tree in my backyard. They are terra cotta masks from Italy, a sun and a lion's head. Over time, I came to understand what they meant to me: hope and courage.\n\nThose two irrational human qualities were the lifelines that lashed my chair to the deck, and my students to me and to the institution of school, and daily saved us all from sliding into a churning sea of despair and defeat.\n\nAll of this really happened.\nChapter 3\n\n* * *\n\n**\"Bring Two No. 2 Pencils\"**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI had no education credentials on paper, but the alternative certification program required only a bachelor's degree and a 2.5 overall college grade-point average.\n\nAs the nation faced a critical teacher shortage, alternative certification programs were popping up all over the place. Some cities were offering teachers free housing. Others were putting signing bonuses worth thousands of dollars on the table, luring teachers away from other cities. Recruiters invited fresh teaching grads to free room and board summer programs in hopes of enticing them to stay on and work in the fall.\n\nThe Teachers For Chicago program seemed like the perfect alternative path to teacher certification for me. It would cut through red tape at the state and city boards of education and requirements for entering graduate school. It would give me credit for as much of my undergraduate coursework as possible and keep required make-up work to a minimum. Most important, it would put me in a classroom immediately as a teacher, with a mentor looking over my shoulder and working with me daily.\n\nThe program would pay for my master's degree. I would earn $24,000 a year.\n\nI mailed off my three-page application in October 1998 with three sets of \"official\" college transcripts, my original birth certificate and a money order for thirty-five dollars. Not a personal check, a money order. (What kind of deadbeats apply to this program? I wondered.) And three self-addressed, stamped envelopes. Three. OK. Whatever. I did it all. I sent it off with a prayer. I signed up to take the Basic Skills Test on January 9, 1999.\n\nThe day was freezing and snow-covered. It was still dark when I arrived at Bogan High School at 7 a.m. My main goal was to blend into the woodwork.\n\n\"I hope I pass this time,\" a woman said to me as we waited in line. \"I failed it three times already.\"\n\nYikes, I thought. I should have studied. My memories of taking tests that required No. 2 pencils were dim indeed. This one was multiple choice. Timed.\n\nI was nervous and not just about taking the test. Since my name and face were in the public eye quite a bit, and I know Chicago politics, I really wanted to fly under the radar. I didn't want anyone helping me or bollixing up my application because they didn't want me around.\n\nIt had been a long time since I'd gone anywhere before the crack of dawn but far longer since I'd taken a test that required two No. 2 pencils. Sharpened. They remind you of stuff like that. Teachers can be so doggoned prissy. \"Sharpened.\"\n\nBut sure enough, one knucklehead showed up at the test with two brand new pencils that hadn't been sharpened.\n\n\"Where's the pencil sharpener?\" he asked the teacher who was the proctor for our room. She glared at him with contempt, sucked her teeth and shook her head. There was no sharpener. He would have to borrow a sharpened pencil from someone else. (Someone who knew how to follow directions and come to school prepared for a test, unlike yourself, is what she really meant.)\n\nWe were all adults in that classroom, but I was struck by how the teacher treated the unsharpened pencil guy as a child and how some others in the room sort of went wolfen on him, casting yellow eyes on him, circling the vulnerable one who had showed weakness. I was back in school as sure as I was sitting at a wraparound chair/desk. It had been twenty-three years since I graduated from college, twenty-six years since I graduated from high school and thirty-eight years since I went to first grade, but the vibe was familiar.\n\nQuestions on the Basic Skills Test for teachers are like the under-$8,000 questions on _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire._ Any high school graduate who stayed awake in class ought to cinch it.\n\nThere was a grammar section, reading comprehension, an essay and\u2014for me\u2014the dreaded math. I am deficient in the math department, okay? Yet the most amazing thing happened. I experienced savant moments during which I somehow calculated the density of tin and solved a velocity question! I think this is what athletes feel when they're \"in the zone.\" It's part motivation, part focus and it feels like flying.\n\nThen came the essay: \"Write a letter to the editor for or against requiring children to watch a certain television show as a homework assignment.\" What a snap! I'd won awards for editorial writing! I wrote a fiery letter opposing TV for homework. Students are overscheduled, I argued. Many have after-school sports and jobs. What if they don't have a television? What if it's broken or burglars made off with it in the night? If the show is that important, to be fair, the teacher should tape the show and let the whole class watch it together.\n\nI left thinking that I would not want my own children to be taught by the woman who had failed such a simple test three times. And I felt sassy about my dazzling response to the essay question, the only part of the test graded by live human beings, educators.\n\nThe test results: Grammar, 100. Reading, 98. Math, 95. Essay, 80.\n\nWhat the\u00ba?\n\nWhen I got the test results, I thought someone spotted my name and sandbagged my writing score. But later I would find out the real reason I scored lower on the essay than the other questions.\n\nStandardized tests do not reward creativity or flair in writing, they reward convention and conformity. Children are taught to write according to a certain formula. First they state what they will be saying. Then they break that into three main points, which they usually separate into three paragraphs beginning with \"First,\" then \"Secondly,\" and \"Finally.\" Then they restate what they told you they were going to tell you in the first place. Then they are done. It is a deadly formula that produces moribund writing.\n\nIn the end the grade does not reflect ideas or the strength of an argument but spelling, punctuation and standard sentence structure.\n\nIt is a microcosm of the lowbrow nature of formulaic, lockstep, standardized education, structured curriculum and all the \"do it this way\" mandates that trickle down into classrooms, especially in low-performing schools.\n\nInstead of minds and creative spirits set free, teachers and students alike are often caged in weak formulas and directives.\n\nSome radicals in education believe our government does not want an educated population of free-thinking, articulate individuals but rather unquestioning worker drones to support our economy. Our obsession with standardized test scores would seem to support that theory.\n\nA few weeks later I received a letter in the mail, addressed to me in my own hand with a return address stamped, \"Teachers For Chicago.\" It was one of my self-addressed, stamped envelopes, coming back to me!\n\n\"Congratulations,\" it started. \"You have been selected to interview for a Teachers For Chicago internship.\"\n\nOn February 22, I wore a sweater and pearls to my interview, and I had to show a photo ID. Once again I wondered, \"What kind of deadbeats apply to this program? People who would send a surrogate to their job interview?\"\n\nBut a minute into the interview I wondered whether I was the cheater!\n\nBack in the fall, at the very first informational meeting, one of the Teachers For Chicago directors had mentioned a book called _Star Teachers of Children in Poverty_ by Martin Haberman, a professor of education at the University of Wisconsin. Reporters pay attention to such details. I jotted down the title and ordered it from Borders. When it finally came in six weeks later, I read it. It was pretty good. Through more than 1,000 interviews with teachers in the pressure-cooker environment of urban schools, Haberman showed how \"star teachers\" think and react differently from those who fail in the classroom or become so disheartened they quit teaching altogether.\n\nI was called into a small room, where two women sat at a round table. They took notes as we went along. One would ask the follow-up question while the other scribbled furiously. It seemed odd being on the other end of an interview.\n\nAnd their questions! They were entire passages straight out of Haberman's book! The words coming out of their mouths described the exact scenarios he had detailed! They would start a question, and after a few words I knew exactly what would come next, not only how their sentences ended but how a \"star teacher\" would answer!\n\nFor instance, \"Is it necessary for you to love all the children in order to be able to teach them?\"\n\nIn Haberman's interview, the teacher answers, \"Yes.\" It is the wrong answer.\n\nThe questioner keeps pushing. \"I want to be certain I understand. You believe that love\u2014not caring, respect, liking\u2014but your love for the student is a prerequisite for you to teach him or her.\"\n\nThe teacher answers, \"It's the best basis for teaching.\"\n\nWrong, wrong, wrong. In the classroom, love isn't all you need. Haberman's book said that response was \"predictive of failure\" because mutual love was regarded as the basis for teaching and learning.\n\n\"These expectations are shattered in urban classrooms when teachers find that they can only pretend to love every child, and that many of the children feel no obligation to pretend.\"\n\nHe concludes: \"Stars relate closely to children and youth but do not intrude on their life space and do not use their relationship to resolve any of their own unmet emotional needs. Stars seek to create learners who will be independent and not need them.\"\n\nAnd so to the question, \"Is it necessary for you to love all the children in order to be able to teach them,\" I answered without hesitation. \"No. Absolutely not.\"\n\nWas that cheating?\n\nA second envelope, addressed to me in my own hand, arrived.\n\n\"Congratulations! Your success in the application process has made you eligible for **possible** selection as an intern teacher in the 1999\u20132001 Teachers For Chicago program. The final selection and matching of 100 candidates to Chicago Public Schools and colleges/universities will take place in June.\"\n\nThe letter invited me to an \"information session\" at Roosevelt University, where we would register for a six-week Urban Teacher course. It would count as the first course in the graduate program for those who made the final cut.\n\n\"Because we believe in your teaching potential, this course is offered at no cost to you and allows you some additional experience before our final selection is complete.\"\n\nThe 200 semifinalists filled a big room at Roosevelt University\u2014a wide range of ages and races and pretty evenly split between men and women. I was pleased to see many young black men in the group. In communities where absent fathers shadow the landscape, each could be an important role model in a school.\n\nThere were some kooky-looking people, one woman in a very dramatic hat, for instance, and sandals, even though it was quite chilly out and her feet were gnarly. I didn't recognize anyone from the Basic Skills Test or any previous contacts with the program. I noticed a woman in front of me with incredibly long hair that she twisted and wrapped into a bun, then secured with long sticks. Our paths would cross again.\n\nThe most intriguing line from our pep talk was this: \"The first year is gonna be hell. The first month will be the worst experience of your life.\"\n\nI signed up for the six-week Urban Teacher course at a small private university near my home. My class was balanced between men and women, black and white, and a scattershot of professions. Many already worked with children in preschools and parochial schools. A couple were long-time substitute teachers. There was a carpenter, a guy who ran a payday loan store and another who worked for a cellular phone company. A young woman just two years out of school had been working in television news, as a production or desk assistant. She wanted to become a teacher because \"hearing all that bad news day after day was really depressing to me...\" Reality check: If she couldn't handle bad news a layer removed, how was she planning to live in it day after day?\n\nA guy who worked taking ads for a community newspaper said the $24,000 Teachers For Chicago salary would improve his family's financial situation. I decided it would be bad form to even hint at how it would destroy mine.\n\nA federal housing muckety-muck had her sights set on teaching bilingual ed. Keith looked like he walked out of a rap video but was smooth as Marvin Gaye. Krishna had incredible energy and attitude. There was a lot of wisdom, too. Kimela, Celeste, Shenesia and Keisha had all taught for a long time without being fully certified. They seemed amazingly calm.\n\nIn six weeks we were supposed to learn the basics of running a classroom as well as the language of educators: \"classroom management\" (keeping order) and \"methods\" (how to teach) and \"manipulatives\" (math toys). We learned the different ways that children learn and the best ways to make knowledge stick. The most involved assignment was planning a four-week unit with daily lesson plans. Each of us presented one lesson to our colleagues. I went second, with a writing exercise from an eighth-grade poetry unit.\n\nWe had a fifteen-minute time limit. I passed out copies of a three-line Walt Whitman poem about looking out from a barn onto the countryside. I asked questions about perspective and descriptive language, about what pictures the poem made in their heads. Then I put on a tape of waves breaking on the shore and passed around a basket of shells and coral, lake stones and driftwood for each \"student\" to place on his desk for inspiration. I asked them to think for a few minutes about being at the beach. We brainstormed on different perspectives a writer could take (is the storyteller on the sand, in the water, under water, in the air, at sea?) and mood (is it a calm or wild day, is the calm deceptive because something menacing is under the surface or blowing in?). They wrote for about five minutes.\n\nTo my amazement every last person read his or her poem aloud. I was going to stop after a few, but they insisted on sharing\u2014even our teacher! They didn't stand up at their desks either. Each came to the front of the room to \"stand and deliver.\" A few of the poems were excellent, powerful and lean. I was moved by their effort and vowed to support every one of my fellow teachers-to-be to the degree that they supported me that night.\n\nAs the class wound down, people started receiving their assignment letters. Shenesia was the first. Then Kimela got one. Then Keith. Every time we came to class, more people had received letters. Theoretically, only half of us would be chosen, but looking around the room, I could name only three people who had not demonstrated that they could be excellent teachers.\n\nFinally, a third envelope, addressed to me in my own hand, arrived.\n\n\"On behalf of the Teachers For Chicago Review Board, I am pleased to inform you of your selection as one of the 100 interns for the 1999\u20132001 program. Nearly 450 were interviewed for the 100 internship positions. We are confident that you have the potential to be an effective and successful teacher in the Chicago Public Schools. We look forward to helping you reach that potential in the next few years.\"\n\nMy assignment was an eighth-grade classroom at a public school less than three miles from my house, in the neighborhood where my husband grew up.\nChapter 4\n\n* * *\n\n**My Assignment**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nWe drove around the school block two times. There were two buildings\u2014a beautiful old yellow brick school, built like a fortress in 1925, and another from the 1970s, a poured-concrete prefab shell three stories high. Built as a temporary solution to overcrowding, it had long ago outlived its intended lifespan. Over time the windows had become a cloudy opaque, impossible to see in or out.\n\nThough it was near my neighborhood, it was like a different world. The physical barriers that separate the neighborhoods are a hill, a highway and skin color. In the school neighborhood, there were no white people walking around. Nearly every block had boarded-up houses.\n\n\"It's like a war zone over here,\" my husband observed of his childhood home.\n\nI knew two people from my generation who were among the last whites to graduate from the school. I knew two others, who were in their 70s, who went to the school when the working class neighborhood was inhabited by Italians, Irish and other white ethnics. The houses were frame or brick, with big front porches.\n\nMy in-laws thought they would live there forever. Then, one day in the late 1960s, my father-in-law went out to cut the grass for the first time that summer. He came back in the house and asked his wife, \"What are all those little black children doing on our street?\" Like many other South Side Chicago neighborhoods in the grip of white flight, this tight-knit enclave became another domino toppled by fear. Unscrupulous realtors, fanning flames of racial hatred with the very real threat of economic loss, busted block after block. The whites sold cheap and moved out, some in the middle of the night because they were ashamed to face the neighbors they were leaving behind.\n\nIt was the beginning of a slide into wider economic disinvestment. Businesses moved out, too. Abandoned buildings started popping up, until it seemed that every block had at least one. The board-ups became havens for drug abusers and lairs for child molesters and rapists. Crime shot up. Gangs ran the streets and the parks. In recent years the only time I'd been to \"the old neighborhood\" had been to cover two gang-related child murders and once for a candlelight vigil for an innocent young victim of gun violence.\n\nThe neighborhood around the school, while poor, seemed relatively well-tended. A once-fine brick Georgian, on the corner right across from the school, stood abandoned, curtains flapping through broken windows. When I looked at it, I saw a social studies project.\n\nThe next morning, I returned to the school. I walked in a side door, past a security guard who did not question me, and introduced myself to the ladies in the office as \"the new Teachers For Chicago intern.\"\n\n\"Hello!\" they said, friendly and smiling.\n\nThey paged the principal, who came right away and took me into his office to chat. He looked weary. His eyes were bloodshot. Above his desk, tufts of pink insulation poked through a hole where ceiling tiles were missing. Other tiles were water-stained.\n\nI asked for a copy of the school report card, a document that every public school in Chicago files annually. It lists statistics about individual schools' student population and achievement. He asked the secretary to find me a copy. The local school council president came into the school office, and he waved her into his inner sanctum to meet me.\n\nI clicked off in my mind the political operatives in the neighborhood: U.S. Representative Jesse Jackson Jr. was the congressman, the Illinois state representative was Tom Dart, the alderman was Carrie Austin, and the incomparable Emil Jones Jr. was the state senator. There might come a time when I would call upon them for a service...\n\nWhen I asked the principal for copies of the books I'd be using when school started in eight weeks, he sighed heavily and folded his hands on his desk. It wasn't that simple, he said. He wasn't sure what grade I'd be teaching. He was still working on his organizational lineup for fall. He assured me that my Teachers For Chicago mentor would be in touch and help me with the details of getting set up.\nChapter 5\n\n* * *\n\n**The Farewell Tour**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nMonday morning I was jumpy as a cat, interviewing Paul Rodgers, the Bad Company singer who was taking the band on a final U.S. tour. He was in the Trump Towers in Atlantic City. I was at my desk at the _Sun-Times_. We talked about forty-five minutes.\n\nAfter I put the phone down, I took the brown envelope with my resignation letter inside over to the office of the editor-in-chief, Nigel Wade, and quit my job. Afterward, I announced the news to my colleagues in the features department.\n\n\"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. I have something very important to tell you.\" They all looked up from their computers, stopped in their footsteps and looked at me expectantly.\n\n\"I'm leaving the _Sun-Times_. I'm going to be a teacher in the Chicago Public Schools.\"\n\nThey smiled. Sat there. They were waiting for the punch line.\n\n\"No, really!\" I said. \"This is for real.\"\n\nThey gasped. They burst into applause. A reporter in the _Homelife_ section, got up and started walking toward the printer.\n\n\"Larry,\" I said in what I thought sounded like a teacher voice, \"please return to your seat. You're up without permission.\"\n\nI turned back to the room. \"I will take questions now\u2014but you have to raise your hands. Kevin Michael?\"\n\n\"Where will you be teaching?\"\n\n\"A public school in the Roseland neighborhood.\"\n\n\"Darel?\"\n\n\"Don't you need a teaching degree?\"\n\n\"I'll be an intern in a program called Teachers For Chicago, and I'll be going to graduate school. Details are in this memo, which I'm posting on the bulletin board.\"\n\nMy farewell column ran in my usual Friday space. I was not prepared for the stir it would cause. My colleague Richard Roeper put it in perspective: \"Journalists always sit around the Billy Goat saying, 'One day I'm gonna go teach in the inner city.' They never do it. This is the first time ever.\"\n\nAnother fellow columnist, Neil Steinberg, griped, \"The only way any of us can top this is to announce, 'I'm quitting to go wash the feet of lepers.'\"\n\nWhen I checked my voice mail around 10 a.m., it was full.\n\nThe first message was from a radio newswoman I'd worked with over the years. She was sniffing. \"I read your column and I gotta tell you. You got me. I'm in the newsroom crying. It's beautiful what you are doing. I will desperately miss you, but I really respect what you are doing. If there is anything I can ever do, please call me. Congratulations. Good luck.\"\n\nCalls clocked in every couple of minutes:\n\n\"I know what it's like to change careers after twenty to twenty-five years. Best of luck. You'll be great at teaching. Stay in touch.\" (political writer who became a consultant)\n\n\"Congratulations for having the courage to do this. All the best. Can you come on _Jay and Mary Ann_ on Tuesday?\" (TV producer)\n\n\"Blow me out of the water! It is a resplendently guts-bally thing to do. Will you come on the show Monday?\" (radio personality)\n\n\"This is so cool! If you ever need a pediatrician, call me.\" (Cook County Hospital child abuse expert)\n\n\"Wow. I was absolutely floored to pick up the paper and see you. I never knew that was what you did. Call me!\" (fellow Teachers For Chicago intern)\n\n\"Go for it! You may be disappointed. I hope you know what you're doing.\" (a Chicago Public Schools teacher)\n\nI decided I was not available that day. I took my kids to our local park district pool and didn't return calls.\n\nA guy came up to me at poolside and introduced himself. He was a banker, and he was on the local school council at my children's public school. \"I wish I could do what you're doing,\" he said. \"Good luck.\"\n\nI was lying in the sun, reading, when another voice interrupted. \"Baldacci?\" It was the beat cop. He wanted to shake my hand.\n\n\"It's rough over there,\" he warned me.\n\n\"I know,\" I said. \"But you tell your brothers and sisters to look out for me, all right?\"\n\nHe promised he'd see me around.\n\nOver the summer, he introduced me to other beat cops from the district.\n\n\"You doing this as some sort of undercover expos\u00e9 for the paper?\" one of them asked me. Another looked me straight in the eye, dead serious, and said, \"Do you have any idea what you're getting into over there?\" He acted like I'd just enlisted to go to Vietnam or something. It concerned him but also annoyed him. He saw me as a dilettante, a dabbler who was doing this for my own amusement.\n\nI kept waiting for someone to write me a hate letter, which was business as usual at the paper. But no one did. Not a single person. Never had I experienced such a universal outpouring of good will or so many offers of \"call if you need anything.\"\n\nOn WGN radio I talked about my life change, then listeners who had changed jobs at midlife talked about theirs.\n\nDarla went from a corporate executive to a Ph.D. in anthropology, specializing in her Native American tribe. George went from corporate executive to college professor. Jim, a former truck driver, became a pediatric nurse. Linda helped her 49-year-old sister jump from an airline reservation clerk to a chef in Paris. \"She's not coming back!\" Linda said. Pat left a grocery store chain after twenty-four years to become a special education teacher. Janet worked for seventeen years in health care administration before becoming a pastor. John was in wholesale poultry distribution for twenty-five years, and he became a pastor too.\n\n\"When you hear that voice, listen,\" advised Janet.\n\nA friend's father, a veteran teacher in the Chicago Public Schools, was listening.\n\n\"They're gonna eat her alive,\" was his sage reaction.\n\nMy last assignment for the paper was to review Bad Company's show at the World Music Theater. I took my twenty-two-year-old nephew. After I dictated the review over the phone, we moseyed backstage to pay homage.\n\nPaul Rodgers' publicist girlfriend had told them that this was my last assignment for the paper, and all four had signed the page carrying my interview with the singer, which had run that day. To my great surprise, when I introduced myself, they jumped up and hugged me.\n\n\"It's so great what you're doing, going off to be a teacher and all!\" they said in their cute British accents.\n\n\"Good luck, teach!\"\n\n\"'Seagull, you fly.' Good luck!\" Rodgers had written, quoting a lyric from one of his most beautiful songs. The summer before, I'd seen him play outdoors in Grant Park on Lake Michigan, and he'd performed that song in the golden early evening with seagulls wheeling and calling above. It was a moment that delighted the band\u2014they were all pointing and grinning\u2014as much as the audience.\n\nSeagulls are disgusting scavengers, but I love them because they are a constant reminder in Chicago that the beach is near. Seeing them cut through the canyons of the city, following the river through the high-rises, always lifts my spirits. I regard them as a good omen, maybe because of that line from Jackson Browne's \"Rock Me On The Water\": \"There's a seabird above you gliding in one place like Jesus in the sky.\"\n\nSometimes the gulls came in great numbers to residential neighborhoods, blanketing soccer fields or resting on light poles that stretch from both curbs, forming a seagull arch.\n\nSeagulls, I would learn, also perch on garbage dumpsters in the parking lot of a certain school in the forgotten backwaters of my gleaming city on the lake.\nChapter 6\n\n* * *\n\n**The Belly of the Beast**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nOne Monday in July I went to the board of education to get my paperwork processed. Documents must be filed with the state and the city. There is a background and fingerprint check through the Illinois State Police. There are certificates to be obtained.\n\nI had a folder full of paperwork\u2014\"official\" college transcripts, birth certificate, letters from Teachers For Chicago. The drill is you traipse around from floor to floor, department to department, waiting for someone to help you, then get sent somewhere else.\n\nAfter a couple of hours of this dance, I had obtained a substitute teaching certificate from the State of Illinois. This was progress! Finally, we made it to the right counter for city teachers' \"processing.\" It sounded like I was about to become ham, and they even had one of those number machines like at the deli counter. I took a number and waited.\n\nAfter about a half hour, a woman came and took all my stuff. She went away. She came back. She handed my documents to me, explaining that all the TFC interns were going to be processed the following week. I would have to come back then.\n\n\"But I'm here now. With all my stuff,\" I said.\n\nSorry, she said.\n\n\"Whose orders are these?\" I asked her.\n\nThey came from the head of the substitute center. I tore over to her office, pissed that she sent someone to dismiss me rather than telling me herself or explaining why I had to make a second trip with ninety-nine other interns when I was here today, ready to take care of business now. Initiative, apparently, was not rewarded.\n\nHer assistant was talking with two other women. I waited. Behind them, another woman hurried out of the office. After a couple of minutes, the assistant glanced up from her conversation and glared at me.\n\n\"Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open,\" she hollered. \"Say something!\"\n\nAt that point, I'm quite sure my jaw dropped and my mouth was truly \"hanging open.\" (Later, I'd learn that teachers who get in trouble for hitting and verbally abusing children are \"reassigned\" to desk jobs at the board of education, where they cannot abuse any more children, only adults\u2014usually teachers.)\n\nI need to speak to Ms. So-and-So, I said.\n\n\"She just left for lunch,\" the assistant snapped. \"She'll be back in about an hour.\"\n\nSuddenly, I got the picture. She sent the other woman to deliver her \"come back next week\" message that made no sense, then she quickly beat it out the door so she wouldn't have to deal with me or my paperwork. Nice move.\n\nThat sort of trickery was refined to an art form within the bureaucracy. The people who control teachers' paychecks, medical benefits, licensing and certification documents are experts at the dodge. They hide behind voice mail and pull all sorts of stunts to keep themselves unavailable.\n\nThe photo ID card guys, for instance. A bunch of interns went to get our ID cards only to find an empty office and a sign taped to the door: \"No Photo IDs. Computer Broken.\" A group of us waited for someone, anyone, to ask if there was another way to get our ID cards. Eventually, two guys strolled in. They were well-fed and carrying big cups of coffee. They asked if we'd taken numbers and proceeded, in turn, to take our pictures and hand us our new ID cards. The machine was working fine!\n\nThe next week, I was back at the board on other business and had occasion to pass the picture room. The sign was still up and apparently the guys were out for coffee again. I told the frantic teachers waiting there to stick it out, and someone would come help them soon. It reminded me of Third World political shenanigans. You have to catch on to the game before you can play.\n\nThat first time I left the board of education feeling beaten. I couldn't believe I'd spent hours going from one counter to another, one office to another, and the only thing I had to show for it was a piece of paper from the State of Illinois allowing me to substitute teach for ninety days. The futility was one thing, but the insult of being given the slip and hollered at by the people who were supposed to be on my team was mind-jarring.\n\n\"If this is the board of education, why does everyone here act so stupid?\" my nine-year-old daughter whispered to me at one dead-end.\n\nShe is a sweet and sensitive kid, and she had come along with the promise of lunch at our favorite Thai joint. In the course of the morning, she saw my spirits flag. After lunch, she offered to treat me to a Wendella boat ride, always a fun diversion but especially on such a splendid summer day. I accepted with pleasure.\n\nOnce we were out on the lake though, looking at Chicago's brawny skyline, I had what the Rolling Stones described as a \"moment of doubt and pain.\" Our tour guide was pointing out the various radio and TV station antennas on top of the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building, rattling off the call letters as if the antennas and their invisible signals were landmarks or monuments.\n\nI had always been proud to be a part of an industry so powerful and important and so vital in people's lives. But now I was not a part of it at all. I was disconnected, floating on the lake in the Wendella, looking back. I was officially an outsider.\n\nI wish I could say I had the good sense to sit back and laugh out loud at, \"Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open.\"\n\nBut instead I wept at my spectacular folly.\nChapter 7\n\n* * *\n\n**Nesting**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nOn the last Monday in July, I went downtown for the en masse \"processing.\" I made it through without anyone shouting, \"Don't just stand there with your mouth hanging open.\" This was progress, I supposed.\n\nI had called my mentor for an update on which grade I'd be teaching. She said she'd call me back that Thursday but never did, and now it was ten days later and I still hadn't heard.\n\nSo I decided to relax, to \"hakuna mutata\" the situation, and to choose some juvenile fiction by African-American authors to read with my class, which, according to the school report card, would be exclusively African-American.\n\nI read _A Girl Named Disaster_ by Nancy Farmer and _The Watsons Go to Birmingham_ by Christopher Paul Curtis. I read _A Lesson Before Dying_ and _A Gathering of Old Men_ by Earnest Gaines. I needed to expand my knowledge of African-American culture and history in order to weave it into my lessons. I was adrift but not idle.\n\nI needed to talk to my mentor about some things. I needed a list of my students and their addresses so I could introduce myself, either in person or by a letter. I needed the textbooks I would be using in order to review the curriculum and plan lessons.\n\nBut in late July, when I stopped by school again, the principal emerged from behind closed doors to level his bloodshot eyes at me and tell me he still wasn't sure what grade I was going to get, but it would definitely be fifth grade or up. Two more teachers had quit, I later learned, and he had requested four additional Teachers For Chicago interns to fill the many empty spots on his organizational chart. The school's first experience with the nine-year-old internship program would place interns in eight of his classrooms. The poor man looked beleaguered. Running a school with 900 kids, eighty-nine percent from poverty-level homes, had to be tough. Student achievement was low: At third grade, eighty-six percent of the student body was below grade level standards in reading and seventy-nine percent was below grade level in math. On top of that, experienced teachers were bailing out right and left.\n\nIt was precisely the setting I wanted. The optimist in me, by virtue of a scant six weeks of education training, thought, \"What if this turns out to be a turning point for the school? What if all these new people coming in with their energy and ideas make a difference?\"\n\n\"I'm counting on you,\" he told me. I pledged my allegiance with a handshake.\n\n\"Put me where you need me,\" I told him. I sent up a simple prayer, \"Thy will be done.\"\n\nSince upper grades are in the old building, I went over to take my first look around inside my new workplace. The layout was exactly like my children's school, same vintage, built like an arsenal. Gym on one end, auditorium with a stage on the other. Two stories tall. The classrooms had high ceilings. The blackboards were ancient and in disrepair, likewise the bulletin boards.\n\nThe woodwork was dark-stained oak and there were built-in cabinets with glass doors. It reminded me of my house, which was built around the same time.\n\nAs I drove out of the parking lot, I noticed a demolition order nailed to the abandoned Georgian across the street. My cop friend from the park had started a new job with the abandoned house unit. He'd be a great resource to come in and talk to the kids about that rampant neighborhood hazard.\n\nI put a dozen necklaces in a bag for a bulletin board on beautiful beads. I thought the artistry of the necklaces, modern and old, many African and Indian, might work as a writing prompt, thinking about people who might have worn beads like these in other places and times.\n\nA new e-mail teacher friend, a TFC graduate, advised me to have the students work on the bulletin boards with me. She was just one of many teachers, total strangers, who sent me words of encouragement. Her first e-mail said this:\n\n\"I am glad to know there are still people interested in the Teachers For Chicago program. I still remember getting the phone call, letting me know I had been accepted. It was one of the best days of my life.\"\n\nShe said the man who was in charge of the program in her era was 'an inspiration to all 100 of us.'\n\n\"Whenever our determination faltered, we could count on him to pick up the phone and remind us why we were doing this. He always had positive things to say about our chosen career, and it was no secret how much he loved teaching.\n\n\"I am now entering my eighth year of teaching in the Chicago Public Schools. When I entered the TFC program, I had to take a fifty percent cut in pay, and to this day I haven't made up the difference. But I swear to you it was the best decision I've ever made in my life. I would do it all over again in the blink of an eye.\n\n\"The TFC program has helped me become a positive influence in the lives of many children. The mentoring I received through the program helped me through the roughest times, the times when I thought about quitting. But best of all, the program allowed me to do the thing I've wanted to do all my life, to become a teacher.\n\n\"Best of luck in your new career. I'm certain you will find that you've made the right decision. You will find that teaching may not be as glamorous as having your byline in the newspaper, but the rewards will be so much greater.\"\n\nI was collecting angels, and I imagined them standing on my shoulders, like miniatures of the statues I'd seen at the Vatican, beautiful but fierce creatures with gowns and wings and giant swords. My imaginary angels were tiny versions of these stone warriors, but they had the faces of real people, known and unknown. All were encouraging me and protecting me.\n\nDonna would often warn me to wrap myself \"in the full armor of God.\" My armor had angel epaulets on each shoulder.\n\nStanding tall in my angel corps was the Summer Fun Club, founded in 1978, which still returns to the \"Sunset Coast\" of Michigan each summer for our annual reunion. Our roots were the _Kalamazoo Gazette_. Over the years our summer digs moved among various houses in the town of South Haven. For two years we had a yellow frame house near the park, where our next-door neighbors were members of a band called Heartsfield. I married the drummer.\n\nThat year's reunion came two weeks before I became a teacher. On the beach, instead of reading a steamy novel or _Cosmo_ , I spent days trying to crack the codes for the attendance book, to no avail. One evening, I returned to the house from watching the sunset to a blast of party horns and a shower of confetti. Those knuckleheads had thrown me a surprise party, the first of my life.\n\nI got to wear a gold paper crown decorated with stickers of books and apples and chalkboards. There was a big chocolate cake frosted with an apple, speeches and gag gifts. Heartfelt good wishes showered upon me.\n\nI could not fail!\n\nAmong the phone messages upon our return was one from my mentor.\n\n\"I'm pleased to tell you that you will be teaching seventh grade. Your room is 118.\"\n\nMy room. Seventh grade. How perfect. Just last year I channeled seventh grade through my older daughter. Civil War. Fractions. Pre-algebra. I could do that.\n\nOn the night before teachers were to report, I couldn't concentrate. I walked in circles. I had placed boxes of stuff by the front door, mostly books. I only had a couple of posters. I had no bulletin board supplies. I bought two little rugs at the grocery store for my \"book corner,\" and I'd bring the overstuffed chair from our sunroom. I was like a woman about to go into labor, fussing about in a burst of energy to make ready for the baby.\n\nMany teachers gave me the same advice: \"Don't smile until Christmas.\" I didn't understand it and was positive I would never be able to do it. It's totally against my nature. I love to laugh. I shared this concern with my college advisor, when she called to remind me of the starting date for classes at Roosevelt University, where I would attend graduate school.\n\n\"Be joyful,\" she said. \"A lot of these kids don't experience adults who are happy. They need it.\"\n\nI couldn't wait to see their faces. I worked up my introductory rap and how I would assign seats using a card trick. I had notes on index cards on a clipboard. I had a couple of lesson plans, loosely structured like the radio talk show I hosted for two years. I was slightly organized. But I would be overwhelmed, I knew it, when I saw their faces, when I was face-to-face with the awesome responsibility of being their teacher.\n\nI was joyful. I was terrified. It was a wonder I slept at all.\n\nThe next morning I made it to work in nine minutes flat. Driving east on 115th Street, I kept an eye out for who was up and about in Roseland at 8:15 a.m. A couple of boys on bikes, two stray dogs, an older couple out on a morning walk, the man carrying a stick in anticipation of stray dogs, a lady walking back from the store with a white plastic bag. I was thinking maybe I could ride my bike once in a while, though my cop friends begged me not to.\n\nAll the businesses were closed with burglar bars in place. The Knotty Pine Lounge, which had seen better days, was closed for good, an ancient \"For Sale\" sign hanging forlornly on the exterior. The small grocery store on the corner across from school was doing a brisk business. The marquee at school had this welcome back message: \"Uniforms Mandatory.\"\n\nOur day-long meeting was in the library, where I found all the interns sitting at one table with our mentor. Four would teach first, second and third grade in the new building; four others would teach fourth, sixth and seventh grades in the old building. I bet the first to quit would be Astrid, a fair-skinned blond with clear blue eyes who had some sort of emotional crisis at mid-day. Her upset, it turned out, was over being assigned to second grade. She was adamant about wanting to teach older kids. After a powwow with the principal over the lunch hour, she showed up in seventh, right across the hall from me.\n\n\"My sister!\" I greeted her with a high-five. Astrid already had two master's degrees. She had been managing a Limited store in a suburban mall prior to Teachers For Chicago. She commuted an hour and a half each way from a distant suburb.\n\nI spent a quiet lunch hour in solitude in my room, Room 118. I ate my turkey sandwich and drank my Coke and looked around at my new world.\n\nIt was painted seafoam green, which didn't look nearly as putrid with the dark woodwork as the pink in the library across the hall. The ceilings were so high the room echoed. A previous inhabitant had put up a lovely collection of Impressionist prints from a calendar. I needed to bring them down to eye level, as they were the size of postage stamps in the looming space of the classroom. I made a mental note to ask the art teacher to have the children make BIG art this year. It would take much to decorate this vast space.\n\nMy desk had four drawers; my chair was broken. The cupboards were full of junk I would never use, coated with years of dust. The next day would be a massive clean-up day. There were forty desks, which seemed excessive. There weren't enough electrical plugs. I wouldn't have a reading lamp in my cozy book corner unless I rigged up an extension cord.\n\nRoom 118 was blessedly on the west side of the building, so the morning sun wouldn't heat it to an oven by 9 a.m. Our windows looked out over trees and houses across the street instead of the parking lot. The downside of a first-floor classroom was being at street level, at greatest hazard from random bullets. I recalled an incident outside a school in which men firing guns ran right past the primary classes. The children and teachers could see them right outside the window.\n\nOutside my window just then, as I ate lunch, were people out in front of their houses, watering grass, kids playing, guys working on a dead car with the driver's wheel up on a cinder block.\n\nI said prayers inside Room 118. I thought about some of the things that were said in the meeting that morning, like how boys aren't allowed to wear earrings, but some must to gain safe passage on the way to school. A compromise was reached: Boys will clip their earrings to their shirt collars during school and be allowed to put them back in when it's time to go home.\n\nA surprisingly high number of our students are in foster homes. We have to be especially sensitive to that, the principal told us. \"You can't imagine some of the conditions these children come from.\"\n\nIn the temporary quiet of Room 118, I practiced names of my new colleagues\u2014the blond-haired, middle-aged gym teacher who drove a motorcycle; the assistant principal; another teacher who knew my neighbor because their kids play soccer together on the soft green fields of Beverly, where no bullets fly. My neighbor later told me that this teacher was an attorney who bailed out of a downtown law firm to have hours that accommodate her kids.\n\nSuddenly, it dawned on me that all the maps and the AV screen were pulled down. I wondered what was behind them.\n\nI clomped and creaked over the wood floors to the far corner of the room and tried to roll up the AV screen. A huge chunk of blackboard, ancient, heavy slate, jagged and lethal, lunged forward behind the screen, threatening to slash right through it. Behind the slate was exposed brick, internal walls, vintage 1925. Behind the maps were unsightly chalk boards ruined by years of wear and subsequent efforts to cover them with contact paper and other sticky stuff. What a mess.\n\nI had a word with J.T., the custodian who would save my butt daily, about the broken chair and the blackboard of death lurking behind the movie screen waiting to impale some kid. The assistant principal had me fill out a repair form. I had less faith in the repair form to produce results than I had that J.T. would hook me up.\n\nThe teachers I had tagged as the school's biggest rabble-rousers in the meeting earlier turned out to be the eighth grade teachers Astrid and I would work with on the upper grades team. Each of us would teach one core subject to two seventh-grade and two eighth-grade classes.\n\n\"I teach language arts, so that is mine,\" Donnamaria Gamble said. Danny Callahan, the other veteran, volunteered for math. \"That leaves social studies and science,\" said Ms. Gamble, a tall, imposing woman with hundreds of braids, colorful speech and the grace of a natural leader. Our birthdays were the same week; she was a year older. Both of us were partial to dressing like teenagers when we felt like it. She looked terrific in her halter top, denim overalls and funky sandals.\n\n\"I love social studies, and I can't teach science,\" declared Astrid.\n\nShit, I was about to get stuck with science\u2014ecosystems, energy, experiments. Panic rose inside me as an imaginary needle started to swing into a red zone beyond all that was new and overwhelming into the realm of that which was impossible.\n\n\"Look,\" I said. \"I've been a news reporter for the past twenty-five years. I think we should each play to our strengths, and science does not play to my strengths. I would be very happy teaching language arts and I could teach an exceptionally rockin' social studies class.\"\n\nSilence. Finally, Donna spoke.\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" she said. \"I'll take science because I'm halfway through my certification, and this will help me get done. You take language arts.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" I told her, with heartfelt gratitude. It was the first of many gifts I would receive from the generous woman I would come to call a friend, a sister and my hero.\n\nLeaving for the day, I noticed the abandoned house still standing. All the windows were broken now, and the demolition sticker was torn off. I stood out in the street and took pictures of the house from several angles. In a neighborhood where folks don't appreciate people nosing in their business, people have been shot over stupid things like that, I realized. I tried to put that thought out of my mind.\n\nNearby, a group of kids played football on the grass of the school. Their pink plastic football had no air. It was so deflated it was floppy and cup-shaped when they picked it up.\n\nTwo days to get the classroom ready, then the kids would be here. I went into hyperdrive! The first thing I put up was a framed picture of Steven Tyler, the singer from Aerosmith. It is a photograph taken on Milwaukee Avenue in Chicago. He is mugging and displaying the message on his sleeveless t-shirt, \"Eat The Rich.\" That talisman went on the wall behind my desk for inspiration and protection.\n\nI chose purple paper for my bulletin boards, and bought some African border at the teacher store. I hung up a Jimi Hendrix album cover, \"Are You Experienced?\" and yellow lettering: \"Experience the Infinite Power of Words.\"\n\nAt the back of the room I taped up a poster of Chaka Khan and a poster from Hubbard Street Dance Company\u2014a beautiful black and white Victor Skrebneski photograph of three dancers' legs balancing on a ball. Next to that, I hung on a nail a pair of my old pointe shoes. Finally, in gold letters left over from the banner at my surprise party, I spelled out \"Stories Are Told In Music and Dance.\" There weren't enough letters to spell \"through,\" so I made it \"in.\"\n\nI was filthy. I must have gone up and down the ladder a hundred times. The bookshelf was stocked with books on everything from gardening and architecture to sports and etiquette and Barbie, Hitchcock mysteries, self-help books, juvenile fiction.\n\nAs I was leaving, a fifth-grade teacher named Mr. Tyler, no relation to Steven, told me he came out of retirement from United Airlines to teach. \"I clipped that column you wrote about becoming a teacher,\" he said, \"and now, here you are at my school.\"\nChapter 8\n\n* * *\n\n**The Seventh Graders Arrive**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThey were horrible. Horrible! It was a freaking nightmare. I had never seen kids act like that in a classroom with an adult present.\n\nIt didn't start out badly at all. The terrible part built slowly, like a running toilet that turns into a flood in the basement, accumulating slowly and silently, unanticipated and unnoticed until the hapless victim steps into knee-deep water.\n\nA bell rang at 8:30 and I went out to the playground to greet my students, as instructed. I stood on the spot marked \"118\" and waited for my students to arrive and line up. I didn't know them and they didn't know me, so I didn't know who to look for or go after and round up. I simply established a beachhead on yellow numbers and waited and looked around.\n\nIt was loud and lively. Ms. Gamble and other veterans were able to greet kids by name and remark about how much they'd grown over the summer. Some older boys were playing basketball and girls were jumping Double Dutch. Parents were delivering small children to their teachers on the other side of the blacktop.\n\nWhen another bell rang at 8:45, a security officer said \"Let's go, let's go,\" and broke up the basketball game. Class by class quickly filed into the building. About a dozen kids stood near the 118 spot, looking at me expectantly.\n\n\"One-eighteen? Come with me,\" I said, and set off. We walked to the classroom without incident. So far, so good.\n\nI had bought two decks of playing cards and put a card on each student's desk, face up. As the students entered our room for the first time, I handed each one a card. Find the match, I told them, and sit at that desk.\n\nStudents kept trickling in, but when it appeared twenty-eight was all we were going to get, I laid my welcome speech on them: \"You hold the cards. How you play them is up to you.\"\n\nFor the rest of the day, every time I turned my back, kids tiptoed, crawled and slid to different desks next to their friends. All those new faces, my first day as a classroom teacher, I couldn't keep track of who was supposed to be sitting where. I wondered why the noise level kept soaring higher and higher. A poker game broke out in the back row.\n\nBut the main thing being \"played,\" to invoke the vernacular of seventh grade, was me. \"Be in charge. Establish control,\" I'd been told, over and over. The details of how to accomplish that had not emerged, though my mentor once mentioned something about how you had to \"talk the walk.\" It was a prophetic malapropism.\n\nThe four upper grade teachers had agreed to change classes that first day, to jump right into the routine of changing classes. However, the lunch schedule delivered at mid-morning threw a wrench into our plans. We all got our homerooms back at second period, so lunches could begin at 11 a.m. Disorder thrives in confusion.\n\nThe afternoon would be long, I realized. There's a lot of day left when lunch is over at 11:20 a.m. I was surprised to learn that I was required to stay with my class in the lunchroom, and that there was no recess or break for the teachers.\n\nIn the afternoon, I had them write a first-day story. \"A story has three parts\"; I reviewed the three parts and gave them prompts for the beginning, middle and end. \"When I woke up this morning the first thing I saw (heard, smelled) was ...\n\nWhile I was walking to school I saw... When I walked through the school doors I felt...\"\n\nOne boy wrote: \"When I woke up this morning the first thing I saw was a dirty Pamper. When I was walking to school I saw a three-legged dog. When I walked through the school doors I felt hungry.\"\n\nI loved that piece. It got us talking about all the things we can be hungry for: food, love, attention, knowledge and the next thing I knew we were discussing figurative versus literal language. For about ten minutes.\n\nAbout an hour before dismissal, the students were restless, and the room was hot. Kids started hopping out of their seats, throwing paper balls, destroying their new rulers and pencils and hurling the sharp pieces at each other. They weren't doing it overtly, I'd just see things go flying through the air. I decided it was time for a washroom break.\n\nBig mistake. That free-for-all brought both the assistant principal and the security guard running.\n\n\"All privileges are revoked!\" the vice principal shrieked. She gave me a disgusted look as she stalked back to her office. Back in the room, I totally screamed at them. \"If you ever embarrass me in front of my boss like that again, you will be sorry.\"\n\nI called four parents after school to report that their children were disruptive in class. Pierre disobeyed a direct order and went AWOL\u2014to another floor, no less\u2014to visit his old teacher. I was relieved to learn later that Freddie, who seemed physically unable to remain in his seat and kept up a constant stream of chatter, was generally regarded as \"crazy\" by the veterans.\n\nAstrid's seventh graders were horrid too. Her eyes were red and her nose was pink when we met after school to compare notes.\n\nThe kids were barely out of the building when I was thinking about tomorrow. The next day I would take their pictures and have them revise what they had written. Some weren't bad. There were several adequate spellers. We'd mount their portraits and first day stories on construction paper.\n\nTomorrow I'd tell them that I was testing them today, that the writing exercise that we did was the sort of work they are expected to do around page 230 of the book we hadn't even cracked. It was true\u2014the part about the book. It was not true that I did it intentionally, but they did not need to know that.\n\nThat night, my daughter's eighth-grade basketball team played a game at our local park district field house. It was their fourth season, and I was their first coach. They'd come far, and they played as a unified team. It takes time to build a team. Seeing them helped my perspective tremendously. They were magnificent. They never looked better to me than they did that night. I was so exhausted I could not speak. I sat in the top row, shell shocked, my head resting against the wall.\n\nOn the second day, I went earlier. \"I just need to be more organized,\" I thought. \"The kids need more work to keep them busy.\" Teachers did not have access to a copy machine; copying was done by office aides on a two-day turnaround. If I handed in a copy order on Monday, I would get it Wednesday. We had no workbooks.\n\nFour additional students arrived on day two. Our class was up to thirty-two students. So it was quite a large crowd the principal returned to me at dismissal because my class was unruly in the hallway. As he stood with his back to the window, lecturing my seventh graders about their poor conduct, I saw behind him, to my horror, two escapees from Room 118 outside our windows, hamming it up behind the principal's back to the amusement and delight of the others.\n\nIf I had been fired on the spot, I would not have been surprised.\n\nI stayed until 5 p.m. working in the classroom and organizing my card catalog of students and their home phone numbers, which I realized I would be using nightly to call parents about their children's dreadful behavior.\n\nOn the third day, a girl came up to me in third period and said, \"I don't feel good. I think I'm going to throw up,\" and proceeded to barf in my book box on her way to the trash can. In most classrooms, a throw-up incident would be the most traumatic event of the day. But in Room 118, it barely made a ripple. Hardly anyone even noticed. I dragged the book box out into the hallway and told three different office personnel in the course of the afternoon that I needed a janitor. No one ever came. I ended up cleaning off the books myself after school.\n\nAs I knelt down in the hallway, wiping off the books with a wet sponge, the vice principal walked past. She was a real miser about books, and I respected that. She alone held the keys to the \"book room.\"\n\n\"Are you throwing those out?\" she demanded. No, I said, someone puked on them this morning and no one ever came to clean up the mess. That got rid of her quick.\n\nI knew in my head that the goal of seventh grade is to derail the train not just the first day but every day. I knew in my head that teaching is like the Ike and Tina Turner version of \"Proud Mary.\"\n\n\"We never do anything nice and easy. We only do it nice...and rough.\"\n\nBut it was already so hard. Even the parts that appeared simple turned into major disasters for the uninitiated. I was told to hand out books, so I handed out books without writing down which kid had which number book! Even a no-brainer like taking attendance devoured a tremendous amount of time every morning, especially with the late arrivals and new people showing up every day. And I still hadn't figured out that absent children got a double slash mark in the square for that day, while tardy kids got a capital T. All anyone told me is that attendance books are a legal record and mine had better be in perfect shape when it was handed in or else! The only thing teachers are required to remove from a burning building (or during a fire drill) is the attendance book. It is some sort of holy grail in education circles. Not until the next year would I come up with a good system for my attendance book: Write it in pencil first. If a kid is absent, make one slash mark, which you can easily turn into a \"T\" if he shows up late. If he never shows up, make it a double slash the next morning. At the end of the month, balance your book, then ink it in. Use black ink. Redline the kids who never show up and the kids who transfer. Keep your red lines going month after month during the school year. And never\u2014NEVER\u2014let your mentor do your attendance book for you.\n\nMy student with autism arrived on day four. One good thing was that he seemed quiet and kind. Another good thing about Nelson was that he had a full-time aide who might help in the classroom.\n\nI put the two of them at a table of four other good kids, but later realized they might be a stabilizing influence with borderline kids. Perhaps the close proximity of an adult would make the difference between total chaos and mere disorder. Nelson sort of went off into Tai Chi sometimes, but he seemed to be a gentle, inquisitive, conscientious soul. Which is more than I can say for his mostly awful classmates. The irony of the disabled child being the model child dissolved me into tears as I tried to describe my day to my husband.\n\n\"What do they do that is so bad?\" Artie asked me.\n\nThey talked incessantly. They shouted to be heard over the talking. They didn't do their work. They got up out of their seats without permission and wandered around, touching and bothering each other on their way. They shouted out questions and comments, including, \"This is stupid.\" Any little ripple set off a chain reaction. Someone passed gas and everyone leapt from his seat fanning the air and jumping around. They threw things. They hit. I had broken up two fist fights already. They yelled out the window to their gang-banger friends and relatives, who gathered outside at dismissal time. They swore like sailors. One of my kids called Astrid a bitch.\n\nStudent number thirty-four showed up the following Monday. I asked him where he'd been the first week of school and he told me, \"buying school supplies.\" It seemed like a weak excuse at the time.\n\nWhen student number thirty-five arrived, I gave him my chair and sat him at the activity table. Later, after everyone left for the day, I sat in my chair and put my head down on the activity table and cried. I felt like the old woman who lived in the shoe. I had so many children I didn't know what to do. I was still learning their names: Tyrese, Sherika, DeVille, Kyisha, Pierre, Destinee, plus twenty-nine others in my homeroom alone. More than a hundred other students called me their English teacher.\n\nOut of all those children, Pierre was the first name I learned because he had a larger than life persona. Pierre was in seventh grade on some sort of \"waiver,\" after failing the summer bridge program that determines whether a borderline child can be promoted. Five of my students were in seventh grade on these waivers, all doing poorly, all discipline problems. But Pierre was above and beyond. A typical conversation:\n\n\"Pierre, please sit down where you belong and stop talking.\"\n\n\"I'm not talking. Why don't you ever say anything to anyone else. I swear I hate you, you ugly...\"\n\nThen there would be some chair slamming and posturing, and he'd mutter and continue to pout.\n\nBut the other side of Pierre was that once he settled down, he did all his work. He was a good speller. He wanted to be involved in everything\u2014spelling bee, messenger, cheerleading\u2014he was always offering to help with odd jobs, and constantly engineering ridiculous scams to get out of the classroom to wander about the building. Some teacher or principal always \"needed to see\" Pierre.\n\nHe reminded me of an alcoholic who starts each day with the best intentions but something along the way trips them up and they start to sink in the quagmire of self-defeat, unable to pull themselves out and worst of all, in complete denial. \nChapter 9\n\n* * *\n\n**Getting to Know Them**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThe end of the week found me standing in my backyard, watering the grass. Back and forth. Back and forth. I watered the grass for forty-five minutes, just trying to come down from the hysteria of my classroom.\n\nNothing had gotten better. There were a few minutes each day when things seemed to be clicking along, then everything would fall apart.\n\nPeople say, \"When I was in elementary school there were fifty kids and one arthritic nun in a wheelchair, and you could have heard a pin drop...\" Why couldn't I do that?\n\nWhy couldn't I control kids who'd been running their own lives for years even though they were only twelve? When I called their parents, they said they couldn't control them either and asked me what they should do.\n\nDeVille, one of the worst cut-ups, shout-outers and insulters of his peers, criticized me for failing to control the class.\n\n\"Why do you want to be controlled?\" I asked him. \"That sounds like a slave mentality. You are all old enough to control yourselves. You need to control yourselves so that I can teach and you can learn.\"\n\nWas there a racial element? Was a white woman in this setting destined for failure? Did black children need to express their contempt for white authority in the same way all children this age have to express their contempt for all authority? I'd heard gossip that some veterans at the school had questioned \"who they think they are that they can come in here and teach our children,\" implying that the four white women interns had no business here. Children pick up on attitudes the way animals sense fear. Was my class feeling empowered because they knew my backup was weak?\n\nAnd where was my backup? What were the consequences? Everyone I sent to the office bounced right back in. There was no detention. There had been no suspensions, even for fighting. I was beginning to think \"alternative\" schools for poorly behaved students were a myth made up by the board of education. Was my school an alternative school and no one told me about it? Was every student retained, no matter how terrible the behavior, to keep the federal money pouring in? Schools receive federal dollars and USDA breakfast and lunch funding for every student whose family income is below a certain level.\n\nAll good questions, but ones I could not resolve. These were issues I needed to discuss with an experienced hand, but I hadn't seen much of my mentor. I felt like a prisoner in solitary confinement, thrown into a cell and forgotten. I was lucky to get to the bathroom in the course of a day.\n\nI started to get the idea that things were less than perfect elsewhere in the school. I heard that an intern who had a first-grade class called it quits after two weeks.\n\n\"I didn't know it was going to be this hard,\" she said before heading out the door. Before trying teaching, she'd been a cop for seventeen years.\n\nAnother intern was mysteriously missing in action from our school, though she was still showing up for our college classes. Later, she said she'd transferred to another school. She didn't offer the reason.\n\nAstrid and I talked after school every day. She was only in her twenties, a sassy girl with multiple piercings and a tattoo, so I expected her to be tougher or bouncier than me. But many days she plopped down in the middle of the hallway, spent, after the children left. By the same token, my age and life experience were not helping me be tough or bouncy. Ramona and I were equally confused, exhausted and overwhelmed. Every morning we marched in like soldiers, hopeful and brave. By afternoon we felt like utter failures. I'd hear her voice rising higher and higher in the afternoon as her students spiraled out of control. She had more than a few who acted completely demented, running out of the classroom as if in a jailbreak. Students got \"written up\" and referred to the office for their misbehavior. Their parents were called to school and the kids were bawled out. They'd be back in the classroom in no time. My voice was getting lower and lower. It was raspy from shouting. I had to sing an octave lower at church. I wondered if I had permanently damaged my vocal cords.\n\nWe logged a minor success when my seventh graders actually read a complete story in our reader. We used the \"round robin\" method, criticized by educators, because the children wanted to do it that way. They were familiar with reading that way. Different people read passages, even Nelson. The room got real quiet. They were curious: Could he read? Yes. Quite well. I had to be extremely specific with him, but he asked good questions and liked to be included in classroom activities. He was a good communicator for someone labeled autistic.\n\nOur story was cute, about a boy who tries to impress a girl he likes by pretending he knows French. Andre, who was pleased to learn he has a French name, asked me if I would teach him how to speak some French. I told him _\"oui\"_ and that I'd bring a book so we could start tomorrow.\n\n_Bonjour!_ They arrived to find the desks rearranged for the third day in a row with assigned seats. I created tables one through five, plus The Guys In Front (TGIF), who needed extra supervision.\n\nThere was a tsunami of angst, hysteria, bellyaching and acting out over seat assignments, kicking of chairs, swearing. Pierre was strutting around with his hands on his hips shouting, \"I am not going to sit next to Destinee, and you know I can't get along with her and we're just going to get in a fight...'' He threw a chair! It was such ridiculous behavior that I laughed out loud. \"Sit down and stop your noise,\" I told him, sounding exactly like my mother. He huffed and puffed, but eventually picked up the chair and put his butt in it.\n\nOnce I got them quiet, I laid down the New World Order: This was how it was going to be until I decided otherwise, because I was the queen of Room 118 and what I said was law. I told them about the conference forms I had copied at Office Depot the night before, which were ready to go home with anyone who could not behave, requesting a parent conference the next morning before school.\n\n\"You know your parents will not be happy when they hear what's been going on in here,\" I informed them. Their looks told me they knew that.\n\nOverall, I'd say better cooperation, maybe five percent. But the sporadic calm was so tenuous, so elusive. It only took one little thing out of the ordinary and a tornado would engulf the room, pulling everyone up in its swirling chaos.\n\nOur new dismissal procedures caused a real tizzy. At 2:15, the blinds went down to prevent any gang signifying out the classroom window. With their backs to me, I couldn't be sure whether what was going back and forth with people on the sidewalk was an innocent wave or a Gangster Disciple sign, and I wasn't taking any chances.\n\nTable by table, depending on who was quiet, they would go to their lockers. Then they placed their chairs on top of their desks and lined up.\n\nProblem was, the chairs were molded plastic with metal legs, and they slipped and slid off the desks with the least provocation, crashing onto the wooden floors. Thirty-three chairs, and I'd bet twenty-five of them ended up back on the floor, some purposefully for the sheer pleasure of creating noise and disorder. The din was incredible.\n\nAt the end it got really ugly. Chairs crashing, kids yelling, running, hitting each other. I jumped up onto Freddie's desk and demanded their attention.\n\nEric continued running his mouth, right next to me.\n\nI jumped down off the desk, landing square in front of him. \"Stop it!\" I screamed in his face. That shut him up for about three seconds, then he started talking again. I was so mad I thought my head might explode, like in that movie _Scanners_. That was not a good mental state for a teacher.\n\nI climbed back on Freddie's desk.\n\n\"No one's leaving this room until you are all quiet,\" I told them.\n\nThe room was sweltering. The minutes ticked by, 2:35, 2:37. People started whimpering they had to pick up siblings, had to get home. The worst provocateurs waged the greatest protest. I put my finger over my lips in the universal sign for quiet. At 2:40, they were quiet. We formed lines in the hallway and started walking to the doors. I made them stop twice, once to wait for some little kids to pass and once out of sheer spite.\n\nI despised them. Reeling from the day, I packed my briefcase and headed downtown for my college class. Being with adults in air conditioning was like a cocktail party.\nChapter 10\n\n* * *\n\n**Al Gore Visits the Billy Goat**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThursday night I met my friend Mary Mitchell, my former protege and fellow columnist from the _Sun-Times,_ for a beer at the Billy Goat, the legendary media hangout immortalized in the _Saturday Night Live_ \"Cheeseborger, no fries, chips\" skit. It was my neighborhood bar, located between the _Sun-Times_ and the _Chicago Tribune_. It was the only bar I ever felt comfortable walking into alone, because I always ran into people I knew. I felt good today, as if things had gone better, though they really hadn't that much. Then I realized what it was: Today I didn't break up any fights!\n\nAnd talk about a new perspective. Billy Goat's bathrooms, which I had in the past tried to avoid at all cost, seemed sparkling clean to me. They had soap. I washed my hands three times before pulling up a barstool next to Rick Pearson, political writer of the _Tribune_ who I'd worked with in the early '80s at United Press International.\n\n\"Don't look now,\" he said, \"but Al Gore is going to walk through that door in about five minutes.\"\n\nSure enough, a little after 7 p.m., the vice president of the United States stopped by to press the flesh, surrounded by a dozen cameras and the usual secret service detail.\n\nAs Gore made his way down the bar shaking hands, I introduced myself as \"Leslie Baldacci, Chicago Public Schools teacher.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Gore said, \"any relation to Representative Baldacci of Maine?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"Neither to David Baldacci, the famous author.\"\n\n\"Joe's mother has a restaurant in Maine called Mama Baldacci's,\" Gore informed me.\n\n\"That's cute,\" I said. \"I have a daughter named Mia, and I always thought that when I opened my restaurant I'd call it Mia's Mama.\"\n\nHe laughed, \"That's great!\" and moved on.\n\nI knew then that Al Gore would not be elected president. In seven years at the knee of the master, he had learned nothing.\n\nHere's what Bill Clinton would have done if someone dropped the million-dollar sound bite \"Chicago Public Schools teacher\" in his lap:\n\nClinton would have gripped both my hands. His eyebrows would have shot up and he would have locked those steely blue eyes on mine. \"No kidding!\" he would have said. \"How has your school year started off?\"\n\nAnd as soon as he heard what a disillusioned first-year teacher had to say about my seventh graders who can't read or capitalize \"I,\" their horrible behavior, our torn up, worn out books, their disrespect for themselves and others, he would have pulled up a barstool, ordered a Diet Coke and spent some time listening, questioning.\n\nEven if he had heard it a thousand times in a thousand other cities and knew it by heart, he would have listened because it had to do with the top concerns in the country, education and violence. It was a golden opportunity to make nice with a member of a powerful labor union that happened to be the top contributor to Democratic party coffers in Illinois. He would have seen the opportunity to connect\u2014not only on a personal level but in a way that would burnish his image on CNN. An aide would have gotten my name and the name of my school and there would have been follow-up, maybe even boxes of the Houghton Mifflin spelling and English books I coveted with all my heart. All of that would have been crystal clear to Clinton in one split second.\n\nAnd that is why Clinton, though flawed in so many ways, survived, and why Al Gore didn't get elected.\n\nI even gave Gore a second chance. I got a piece of paper and a pen and made a second pass, asking for his autograph for my students. I slipped when I made the request, calling them \"my kids.\" Uh oh. Bad sign. I simply refused to fall in love with those abusive little bastards. Gore signed the paper down at the bottom. Later, I wrote at the top, over his signature: \"By order of the Vice President of the United States: All students must behave for Mrs. Baldacci.\" I put it in a frame and hung it in the classroom.\n\n\"How do we know you didn't forge that?\" Joseph asked.\n\n\"Why don't you go ask Ms. Gamble who she saw on the Channel 5 news last night and again this morning, shaking hands and talking to the vice president of the United States,\" I told him.\n\nLater, after I'd sent Cortez to Donna's room to collect papers, he returned in a dither and blurted out to the class, \"It's true! Ms. Gamble saw her on TV with the vice president!\"\n\nBy order of the vice president of the United States, behavior in my room improved about two percent.\nChapter 11\n\n* * *\n\n**The Kids Are All Right, but the Teachers Are Wrecks**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nMost of the interns showed up for college classes sick. They had god-awful colds, bronchitis, lost voices, impetigo. I knew it was going to be grueling and made a point to put myself to bed at 9:30. I slept like the dead. I got up at 6:00 and swallowed huge megavitamins. I packed a healthful, protein-packed lunch with a juice. I drank lots of water. I was constantly moving around, constantly on my feet. It was like working outdoors or training for the Olympics. For a while, I lost a pound a day, even though I ate three meals.\n\nWhat did I have to show for it? Eye infection, yeast infection, pimples, diarrhea, the result of stress and filth, with no opportunity to wash your hands. I made a note to myself to check whether Wet Wipes came in anti-bacterial. I got dirtier at school then I did working in my garden. Whenever I washed my hands in the teacher's bathroom, which had no soap, the dirt from my hands made a dark trail down the drain. I showered in the morning and again as soon as I got home because every inch of me was sticky with a coating of sweat and dirt and chalk dust.\n\nSchool had started August 24, the earliest ever, and summer was in full bloom. On four days early in the school year, the outside temperature soared into the nineties. Our western-exposure classroom in the afternoons was so hot I worried some kids would faint. Racquel had to sit in the hallway one afternoon, she was so woozy. Montorio brought a fan from home, bless her heart, but loud arguments erupted because people would stand in front of it, hogging the air.\n\nWith work coming into the pipeline, I had a lot of papers to correct. It took hours, I learned. It could eat up a whole weekend.\n\nExperienced teachers correct papers on their prep periods and during lunchtime because that's when they have the energy to do it. After school or at home the task is much harder to face. You carry the same folders of uncorrected papers back and forth to school day after day. New work piles up. Correcting papers and lesson planning account for an extra day of work each week for which teachers are not paid. Maybe that's why worksheets, while not a \"best practice\" in education, are preferred by many teachers. They are quicker and easier to grade than essay-type papers or projects. Unfortunately, they are also easier to complete since they usually require students to supply only factual information, not higher-level interpretive or evaluative thinking.\n\nI had final drafts of the \"First Day\" story, a twenty-word spelling test and a proofreading worksheet, a pile of stuff. But the greatest surprise was not how much time it took to correct the papers. Suddenly, the curtain was yanked back to reveal who was working and who was not. I saw I had been hoodwinked.\n\nSome students beguiled me with their social skills into assuming they were good at schoolwork. The Bible-reading captain of the safety patrol turned in not a single thing\u2014not even the spelling test he took with me standing right there. Other well-behaved students could not spell \"hello\" or capitalize \"I.\"\n\nHowever, Pierre turned in everything and did each part very skillfully. Kyisha, who wore her attitude on her sleeve and loved to have the last word, completed her work quickly and well. She was a prolific writer. Sherika, who said she was proud to be \"ghetto,\" was practically illiterate. I sent a note home asking for a conference that week. It was not returned. When I asked where it was, Sherika said her mother was \"out of town.\"\n\n\"My brother is taking care of us,\" she said. He was fourteen.\n\nSherika was worldly beyond her years. In the lunch line, some girls were looking at a magazine ad, one of those \"Got Milk?\" pictures, featuring Tyra Banks with foamy white milk on her upper lip.\n\n\"I'm not even going to say what that looks like,\" Sherika observed with the jaded countenance of a twenty-dollar hooker, pointing to the white substance. She was twelve years old. I would later learn more about her mother's going \"out of town.\"\n\nI moved Destinee, who turned in nothing but the spelling test, to another table. She and Pierre had a fight, as he had predicted. Destinee kept her head on her desk all morning because she didn't like her new seat.\n\n\"You owe me assignments,\" I told her. \"Do your work, and you will get your privileges back.\"\n\nI couldn't figure out how Darnell, with second-grade test scores, made it to seventh grade. He had not been tested for special needs, so he received no remedial help. He was just there not understanding anything. So he threw things and broke things and cut up. I spent more time working with his group than any other. It was never enough.\n\nI phoned Eric's mother. He, too, turned in not a single bit of work. He never stopped talking. His mouth ran constantly; he never knew what we were doing or even made a pretense of being involved. If his book was on his desk, it was closed. If his work was on his desk, the page was empty. He had the highest standardized test scores of anyone in our room, nearly two years above grade level in reading.\n\n\"I don't know what to do about him,\" his mother said, breaking down in tears. \"Since his father died I can't control him.\"\n\nI'm very sorry, I said, I didn't know. When did his father die?\n\n\"Four months ago,\" she said, \"from cancer.\"\n\nJesus Christ! Isn't that something a classroom teacher should know? How could a kid go through that and not have a single note in his file? How could no one at school be aware of it? How could his classroom teacher not be informed? No wonder the kid couldn't concentrate! No wonder he couldn't keep still! How could he care about school when school didn't care about him? His mother, beside herself with grief, had two other teenagers at home. She was clearly overwhelmed. \"I just don't know what to do,\" she wept. I asked Donna about it in the afternoon, when we went to the office at the same time to pick up our first paycheck of the year. She assured me that over time, as I got to know the kids better, information would come to me through them.\n\n\"Some of it you'll wish you didn't know,\" she said, shaking her head. \"Don't expect to get it from the office.\"\n\nI regarded my paycheck: $633.45 for two weeks' work.\n\n\"How much of a pay cut did you take?\" she asked me.\n\n\"Two-thirds,\" I answered.\n\n\"Shit, Baldacci, what for?\" she wondered.\n\n\"Because a voice called and I answered,\" I told her. It was the first time I'd admitted that out loud to anyone outside my family and a few close friends. Although I did not know her well, I felt she would understand. She jerked her head and looked at me in surprise. Then a smile spread across her face.\n\n\"My sister,\" she greeted me, as if meeting me for the first time.\n\nI was still trying to figure out what these kids could do besides shout out wisecracks, pick fights and complain about school. So I got a few other little projects off the ground. Each one took a great deal of organization and gathering of materials. One was a writing assignment, a for-or-against people being allowed to own exotic pets. I copied newspaper articles on a toddler killed by a python and city workers hunting for an escaped serval.\n\nAlso, the date 9/9/99 was coming up and I wanted to do something special to mark the date. After searching a couple of branch libraries, I found a CD of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in D Minor. I spent ten dollars on Sunny Delite, paper cups and cookies and shoehorned the lesson in between lunch and gym.\n\nFirst I talked about Beethoven and his genius and his tragic deafness and about him writing this famous symphony, which was inspired by the French Revolution. I tossed in a bit about the revolution and compared it to the American Revolution and the civil rights movement.\n\nI handed out art paper and asked them to listen to the tape and to draw a picture of what they thought Beethoven was trying to say in music.\n\nIt was fun at first. They drew and chattered quietly. By the beginning of the second movement, they were loud. By the end of the second movement, they were out of control. Darnell was swiping cookies by the fistful and guzzling Sunny Delite straight from the bottle. The empty plastic jug was stomped on the floor. Kids were whining and complaining that they didn't get any.\n\nI stopped the music, snapped off the lights and yelled at them about their behavior.\n\n\"It's a shame that we had something nice going on here, and a few people had to go and ruin it,\" I growled. \"That is terrible manners to drink out of the bottle and grab up as much as you can when these treats were for everyone to share.\"\n\nI was fit to be tied. All that preparation for a big fiasco. In other classrooms, kids were sitting at their desks quietly filling out worksheets. We tried to do something creative and it was a train wreck.\n\nBut to my great surprise, when we looked at their drawings, Kyisha had sketched a crowd of people carrying signs that said \"Freedom.\" Someone who talked non-stop the whole time had drawn an elaborately detailed picture of a conductor leading a symphony orchestra.\n\nC. C. amazed me by drawing the outside of a concert hall and struggled to write the words, \"The celebration is in here.\" It took us several minutes of hard work to sound out the spelling for \"celebration.\" He substituted the word \"and\" for \"in.\" I had just found out that day, when the special education teacher appeared in our doorway, that C. C. and three other students went every morning to pull-out reading class. Fortunately, one of my college courses that semester was about special-needs children.\n\nThe poor communication, along with the isolation, had me feeling displaced and confused. In the classroom, I felt awash in a swirling current of bodies and noise, like being in a Lotto machine or a clothes dryer. People came and went. It was not until later that I even realized I had one-on-one time with students, that we managed a few minutes of connection in the middle of the action around us.\n\nLater, when the dust settled, snippets of conversation replayed in my mind.\n\n\"Where's Melvin today?\"\n\n\"With his parole officer.\"\n\n\"Ms. B., can you skate?\"\n\n\"You bet. I played ice hockey with boys in college.\"\n\n\"What rink do you go to?\"\n\n\"I roller skate in my neighborhood on the street, but I ice-skate at Mount Greenwood Park. You could take the 111th Street bus and meet me there on Sunday afternoons.\"\n\n\"This Sunday?\"\n\n\"No, it's too warm outside for ice. Later this winter, though.\"\n\nThere was Nelson's melt-down over lunch.\n\n\"I'm allergic to all vegetables, especially corn.\"\n\nHe was seated with his lunch (ham slice, roll, fruit). Later, he saw some kids had chicken nuggets and he wanted that instead.\n\n\"No, the cafeteria ladies already made you a special no-vegetable plate. You can't ask for a second favor.\"\n\nHe got mad and threw the ham lunch in the trash.\n\n\"I can see you are angry. If you don't like the school lunch, you could bring your own lunch to school. Or you could trade with someone else who likes ham better than chicken nuggets.\"\n\nThat was too much. He lost it and had to \"go upstairs\" for a while with his aide.\n\nMy TFC supervisor from downtown stopped by. She gave me a pep talk about how I have to find ways to reach every child and expressed neither outrage nor hope that my enrollment would drop.\n\nAs I left school guys were sitting, drinking on the school steps. As I drove past, one yelled, \"Fuck you, bitch!\"\n\nIt occurred to me I hadn't seen a single squad car in our \"safe school zone\" so far.\n\nThat night at graduate school, I listened enviously as Michelle, who had waist-length hair that she wore in a twist secured by two chopsticks, told us that she and her fellow intern have their fifth graders competing in a good behavior contest, how they are now perfect citizens in the hallways and classroom. It confirmed my suspicion that I was a complete failure.\nChapter 12\n\n* * *\n\n**Violence**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nIn places where the pen is not mightier than the sword, a pen can be stripped for parts and made into a sword. Violence is always near.\n\nCertain acts are sure-fire ways to set something off: talking about someone's mother, for instance, or calling someone \"bald-headed.\" The arrival of a new student, boy or girl, guaranteed a fight so the fighters could assert their dominance, let the new kid know who was in charge. Violence was often a reaction to violence.\n\nOne Tuesday morning, the math teacher smacked Melvin around in the hallway outside my classroom before third period. I could hear the slap upside his head as clearly as I heard Tyrese and Jeremy landing punches on each other earlier that morning, when I broke up their fistfight in the hall outside the gym.\n\n\"You can't do that, man,\" Melvin griped loudly. His face was tight, ashen, and his body was tense and tightly coiled, boiling with anger as he walked into my room.\n\nWithin five minutes he had broken a pen into a sharp, jagged plastic point and stabbed Robert in the hand. I gave Robert a Band-Aid and turned the pair over to the security officer, who by the grace of God was passing my classroom.\n\nEarlier, I had been too consumed with the task of getting my homeroom from outdoors to their lockers and the classroom to have dealt with Tyrese and Jeremy, who were rolling on the floor punching each other's lights outs near the gym.\n\nMy technique for breaking up fights was this: Lean in close, but not too close, lightly balanced on the toes to facilitate a dodge or jump back if necessary. \"BREAK IT UP RIGHT NOW. RIGHT NOW!\" had worked so far. The blows came fast and furious and I had no desire to have even one land on me. It was a poor technique. I would not make it through the school year unscathed.\n\nI told the math teacher that Melvin had been so angry about being knocked around that he stabbed Robert in my room.\n\n\"He told you that?\" the teacher said.\n\n\"No, that is my interpretation,\" I said. \"So I'm going to ask you a favor. I'm new here, and I've been a teacher for a month, but the one thing they drilled into our heads was that we must never, ever hit a student. When I saw you do that, you compromised me. In the future, don't do that in front of me. You put me in a terrible position.\"\n\nHe didn't speak to me for a long time after that. If I would enter a room, he'd leave. Apparently, I was the asshole. But his students were loyal to him, and I watched from afar to see how he had earned their respect. Was it violence? Was that what it took? No fists, no respect?\n\nSome weeks later, I heard a ruckus outside my classroom, the sound of banging against a metal locker door. I took a look. There was Melvin, handcuffed to a locker, being kneed in the back by a security guard, who was growling, \"You want me to lose my job?\"\n\nWhat had he done this time? Melvin was a tough customer, a sociopath with loose wires, born with cocaine in his system to a mother who later died, leaving him to be raised by an elderly grandmother. In class, he was liable to shout out crazy things\u2014anything from sex acts with animals or threats to go home, get a gun and come back and shoot the whole class.\n\nThe first time I met Melvin was on a teachers-only day before school started. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only shorts, running in short bursts like a commando through the hallways, hiding in doorways. He didn't want to be seen because he wasn't supposed to be inside the school. He came into my classroom to find out who I was and what I was doing there.\n\n\"This a Phillips head screwdriver?\" he asked me, holding up the tool I'd brought from home. Next time I reached for the screwdriver, it was gone, never to be seen again.\n\nI could only imagine what Melvin had done to get himself handcuffed to a locker with a pissed-off security guard's knee in his back.\n\nSeeing me, the guard quit and walked away huffing and puffing. But Melvin was still handcuffed, bringing new meaning to the word \"locker.\" I sent one of my students to fetch Melvin's homeroom teacher, despite second thoughts about calling on someone who had previously cracked the same kid in the head.\n\nTo my surprise, that teacher wasted no time advising the necessary parties, in no uncertain terms, that it was against the law to handcuff a student in sight of other students. He demanded that Melvin be uncuffed immediately, and that if the handcuffs had to go back on, he be secured out of sight of other kids.\n\nStudents were peering out the windows of doors, stopping in the hallway to listen and watch. They were rapt, silent. This was riveting drama. The teacher did not back down, and it was then that I understood why his kids loved him. The kids knew he would crack them when they needed cracking. But they also knew he would defend them when they needed defending.\n\nIn their world, that was fair. To them, he represented justice.\n\nIn the second month of school, we were halfway through our Marvin Gaye lyric study in eighth-grade language arts when two school security officers came in with hand-held metal detectors.\n\nThere'd been a shooting the afternoon before outside the local high school three blocks away. Two kids were wounded.\n\nWe did not have metal detectors at our doors, but security had been on my mind. Before I had assigned lockers, a couple of times shiny, heavy, metal objects clattered onto the wood floor of our classroom. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Both times, someone dropped a combination lock.\n\nOn the day the principal ordered a random check, the students knew what to do. The boys got up and walked slowly to the wall, protesting all the way but smiling and joking. They \"assumed the position\"\u2014arms up, leaning against the wall, legs spread. They were digging the pat-down, because it made them look bad. But because they were thirteen-year-olds, it was grotesque and heartbreaking.\n\nGaye wrote in 1971: \"Crime is increasing. Trigger-happy policing. Panic is spreading. God knows where it's heading.\"\n\nI handed out lyric sheets and we listened to two songs, \"What's Goin' On\" and \"Makes Me Wanna Holler.\" Their homework assignment was to answer one question: What things that Marvin Gaye protested against in 1971 are still problems today? That night, almost everyone did the homework. One girl said while she was working at the kitchen table, her parents picked up her lyrics and burst into song.\n\n\"I think Marvin Gaye was saying 'Stop the violence,'\" one student wrote. \"Nowadays, people are killing for the fun of it.\"\n\n\"Things are still the same\u2014hatred, killing, robberies,\" another wrote. \"I think things are never going to change.\"\n\nA few more perspectives:\n\n\"Marvin Gaye is trying to set things right. He's trying to like send a message to the parents and children to let them do the right thing.\"\n\n\"He said, 'Brothers, there's far too many of you dying' and that's still true because of them pulling out guns to kill each other when they can be friends and work together.\"\n\n\"Marvin Gaye is a good song maker because he makes people feel like they were there.\"\n\nSome realized they were \"there.\"\n\n\"I see lots of stuff 'Going On' and most of it was in the song that we listened to.\"\n\n\"The things Marvin Gaye protested were trigger-happy police and 'panic is spreading.' Just like when they came in with the metal detectors. They searched us because panic was spreading, because two people got shot at \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 High School.\"\n\n\"Marvin Gaye was right. Too many people are dying. I think the boy was wrong, trying to take somebody's life away.\"\n\nI had tapped into something very real to my students: the sense of peril that pervades their lives each and every day. Danger was a constant threat; they faced a daily struggle for safe passage in the neighborhood.\n\nNo wonder the jitters came right through the schoolhouse doors, seeping in like gas, agitating all who breathed it in. It was so very hard to keep violence at bay, so seldom that we were able to make our own peace, to teach and learn in the middle of everything else that was \"goin' on.\"\n\nThe same day as our random security check, the cousin of a seventh grader in Astrid's room was killed in a gang shooting.\n\nThe shooter who wounded two others outside the high school, meanwhile, was turned in by his mother. He's probably safer in jail, some of my seventh graders observed.\n\nA roving science teacher from the district came once a week to do hands-on projects with the kids.\n\n\"You seem to have excellent control of your classroom,\" he remarked on his first visit. I felt very proud. Four students were at special reading class. The rest sat quietly coloring and assembling their balsa wood airplanes. I sat at my desk and worked on lesson plans. This was nice. This was how I remembered a classroom being when I was in seventh grade. The kids were so good that the guest teacher didn't mind when I left to walk down the hall to drop my plans with my mentor. She had six seventh-grade students from Astrid's class in her office. All were being suspended. I committed the fatal mistake of feeling momentarily superior.\n\nMy class is coming around, I told myself.\n\nTwenty minutes later, I was climbing over desks to separate Tyrese and Sherika, who were near the windows, punching each other as the rest of the class crowded around and cheered them on.\n\nA break between rounds.\n\n\"Come on. Hit me. Go ahead,\" Sherika dared in her loud, brash voice.\n\nI stood between them and told them, \"Both of you, walk away now. Come on, end this now. That's enough.\"\n\nTyrese, who was a full head taller than me, put his hands on my shoulders, gently moved me to the side and proceeded to punch Sherika.\n\nAnother girl pulled Sherika back, and Tyrese sort of spun around the room until I browbeat him out the door, but not before another girl started another dustup on his way out about how it was all his fault. Those two got a couple of licks in and continued yelling at each other through the doorway and into the hall.\n\nTheir angry voices brought the librarian from across the hall and the special ed teacher from next door. The women hollered at the kids until the security officer came and took all three of the fighters away.\n\nTyrese's father, who had foster children, adopted children, biological children and grandchildren at the school, often dropped by unannounced. He reminded me of a drill sergeant, and he made a lot of tough decisions when it came to his children, especially his teenagers. I respected him immensely. There he was!\n\n\"This isn't the first time you've been in trouble for hitting girls,\" he berated Tyrese in the hallway. \"What are you, some kind of faggot? Is that what it is with you? You have no business putting your hands on this lady, your teacher. You have no business disobeying her or fighting in school. I've had it with you, boy. You belong in boot camp and that's where you're going.\n\n\"That's the problem with you boys. Around thirteen, fourteen, you start feeling like you're a man. But you're not a man. It takes a real man to walk away from a fight. It takes a real man not to hit a woman, no matter how mad she makes him.\"\n\nMy mentor, who had already suspended the six other seventh graders, lamented the additional paperwork involved with suspending three more. So I asked Tyrese's father to take him home on an early dismissal instead.\n\nI heard him remark as they walked down the hall, \"You are outta control, boy.\"\n\nThe other kids looked somber, exchanged knowing glances. They could only imagine what was in store for Tyrese once his daddy got him home.\n\nThe two girls were back in our classroom by lunchtime.\n\nLater, I had the class copy a slogan written by kids their age at an anti-violence camp: \"Peacekeepers consider themselves responsible for the integrity of the world, whether their world is the classroom, the school, the community, or the Earth.\"\n\n\"Kids your age wrote that,\" I told them. \"What does it mean to you?\"\n\nI asked them, \"If you are not a peacekeeper, must I assume you have no integrity?\"\n\nThen, I had the students give themselves a grade for behavior that day. They were honest. Destinee, who had led cheers at ringside, gave herself an F-minus. Our final exercise of the day was once again rearranging desks to break up the noisy\u2014and sometimes explosive\u2014partnerships that seemed to form no matter who sat with whom. Made me wanna holler.\nChapter 13\n\n* * *\n\n**A Five-Week Reorganization**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nA five-week reorganization brought new levels of angst. I had never heard of such a thing. My children had always had the same teacher from the first day of school to the last. There were no switcheroos unless someone had a baby, got sick, went mental or died.\n\nBut apparently a principal has a right to shake things up through the fifth week of school. He can move teachers around and fine-tune the operation if things aren't going well. This, it seems, is an annual event at some schools. It is discretionary and can be used as a reward or a punishment.\n\nThat is how Ramona got switched from seventh-grade social studies to a sixth-grade, self-contained classroom and Mr. Diaz joined the seventh- and eighth-grade team. Jennifer, an intern with a third-grade class, got switched to second grade.\n\nAt Michelle's school, three fifth grade classes became two. Her twenty-eight students became thirty-six, and her high-achievers went to a veteran teacher. Ramon, an intern who was teaching first grade, was told his position was eliminated. He had a challenging group, but he considered them his, and he was heartbroken. Rather than take another assignment, he dropped out of the program.\n\nAstrid was devastated at leaving her seventh graders and starting over. New faces, new books, new routines. And she had to teach every subject! Her seventh graders gave her a farewell party. They took a collection and raised thirteen dollars. Donna went to Sam's Club and bought a cake decorated with \"Movin' On Up!\" Astrid's new classroom was on the second floor.\n\nAfter all the chaos and turmoil of the week, Thursday night's college class was a two-hour group therapy session.\n\n\"To wait for this late in the game when they've known all along what's going on is totally unfair,\" protested Kim.\n\n\"This is bullshit,\" said our normally soft-spoken teacher, who taught first grade for nineteen years and was one of the most gentle people I'd met. \"This is not putting kids first. It's jerking you guys around. The thing is, you still have to create a safe, secure place for these kids no matter how you feel.\"\n\nShe suspected that class sizes were purposefully deflated at the start of the year so administrators could tell parents there were twenty-five kids per class. Those low numbers look good on paper. The reality turns out to be quite different.\n\n\"How do you make a home when you keep moving?\" raged another professor. \"This is making it easier for administrators and the budget not you or the kids.\"\n\n\"This is unthinkable anyplace else,\" said our professor. Anywhere else, \"it would not happen.\"\n\nOne intern asked a friend, a vice principal at a North Side school, if this was going on in her part of the city. Her reply, \"Where we are, there is no way any of this would be happening.\"\n\nThat intern had to explain to her third graders that they were getting a new teacher. A student asked her, \"Why are you giving us up?\"\n\nThe enormity of the question caused the first-year teacher to lose her composure. She started to cry. Then the kids all started bawling. They spent the rest of the day watching a video. \"We couldn't do anything else,\" she said. \"We were wrecked.\"\n\n\"That's what happens with these kids. They've been left with other people, abandoned, forgotten. Then you have them for five weeks, you're starting to bond, then this,\" said our professor, her face red.\n\nBesides disrupting children's classroom situations, she observed that no one seemed to have given any thought to which children should or shouldn't be together. Most of the kids had been together since they were tiny. They had history together. Yet no teachers seemed to have been asked for insight on the group dynamic. There were cousins with the same surname in the same classroom. At my children's public school, teachers met at the end of the school year to make their lists with an eye toward who worked well with whom and who needed to be separated. At some schools, children spend the last weeks of the school year in their \"new\" classrooms.\n\nThen again, at a school like mine with a forty percent mobility rate, who knew who would be back?\n\nYear to year, five weeks into the year, changes came.\n\n\"Basically what you do is start over,\" our teacher told us.\nChapter 14\n\n* * *\n\n**Learning**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\n\"Love and respect, people,\" Donna's voice rang in the corridor. \"Love and respect.\"\n\nThat was her mantra, her catch-phrase for interrupting undesirable behavior. That was what she expected of her students and she reminded them of it often.\n\nDown at my end of the hall, Kyisha was sitting in the hallway, her back against the lockers, head down. Tears rolled down her face. She \"didn't feel good.\" Her mother would have kept her home from school, but \"had to go to the hospital to visit the twins.\"\n\nHer mom had given birth a week before to twins. This was the first I'd heard about it. The babies were too tiny to come home yet.\n\n\"That makes ten kids,\" Kyisha said. She and her sister, who was a year older, had the same father.\n\nI handed her a book I checked out of the public library, _Blue Tights_ , and let her sit in the overstuffed chair in the book corner. She was soon fast asleep. The chair had become our sick bay and our penalty box, and a prized alternative to the sticky and uncomfortable plastic classroom chairs. With its soft armrests and slanted rolled back, \"the big chair\" was like a friendly, yielding lap. It was a treat to spread out on the big cushy chair with its swirling upholstery and braided fringe that brushed the floor. It was old and elegant. I bought it at an antique shop years before for about $100. Under the cushion was a velvet panel in a deep teal, a buried treasure. Between its seat and arms, it sometimes held four kids at a time.\n\nEvery day I was learning so much about my students and so much from them. In just six weeks I felt so deeply involved in so many lives that the threads wrapped me like a cocoon. I thought of them constantly. I replayed our time together. I talked about them with anyone who would listen. This is what teachers call \"reflecting.\" Pros constantly reflect to troubleshoot and refine their methods and practices. I did it mostly for therapy, as people who survive something cataclysmic keep telling the story until at last they believe it and make a place for it in their psyches.\n\nI found it harder to focus on my own children at home. I had to make a conscious effort to give them my undivided attention when I was with them and not daydream about my other thirty-four children, the ones who perplexed me so. They had changed me.\n\nIn six weeks, my students had made me fierce and hard, and it carried over to my own children. Misbehaviors I had once tolerated with a sigh were now shut down without mercy. Still, I tried to be gentle with my students. I gave them chance after chance to break my heart, thinking that maybe that was the only way we could move forward. \"Maybe this time we'll succeed\" was my constant hope. Finally, it happened.\n\nWe had a big project going on that I called \"What's in a Name?\"\n\n\"This week you will complete a research paper about your name. You will use reference books and interview family members to find out:\n\n1. The meaning of your name\n\n2. How your name was chosen for you\n\n3. Whether you were named after someone in particular (a relative, a hero, etc.). If you were named after someone in particular, tell about the person who had your name before you and your connection to this person.\n\n4. Consider the meaning of your name or your 'namesake.' Tell what qualities you draw from either one that you try to exemplify in your life. For instance, if your name means 'brave one,' how do you try to be brave? If you were named after your grandmother, what do you admire about her and try to copy?\n\n5. Were you almost named something else? If so, what was almost your name? How would you feel about having that name instead of the one you were given?\n\n6. Have you ever helped give someone a name? Maybe you helped name a younger sibling or cousin, or a pet! What about giving a nickname to a friend? Tell how you chose the name. Was it easy or difficult?\n\nYou must answer all questions. You must attribute all information. That means tell who you talked to and where you got your information.\n\nWednesday: First drafts due\n\nThursday: Revisions due\n\nFriday: Present to class\n\nExtra Credit, 5 points each:\n\n\u2022 What famous bard asked 'What's in a name?' (Must give author's name and title of play.)\n\n\u2022 Bring a baby picture to show the class or a picture of the person you were named after.\"\n\nWell, no one answered all the questions. Not surprising. It was just too much. But I saw some wonderful baby pictures and learned a lot about African-American names that tongue-tie many white Americans. For instance, a girl might be named \"Keitha\" by adding the letter \"a\" to her father's name. A hard decision between \"Gwendolyn\" and \"Brandy\" might be solved by inventing the name \"Brandalyn.\" Some names were combinations of parents' names. Some were combinations of mom's best friends' names. Some were traditional African names with significant meaning, like Malik (king) or Imani (faith). Names and naming ceremonies are sacred rites in many cultures.\n\nAll that said, when Destinee came to school with an American Girl \"Bitty Baby\" in her backpack one day, I was astonished that her baby doll had no name. We planned a contest and a naming ceremony to cap our research project.\n\nFirst, we covered a shoebox with baby wrapping paper and made a slot to cast ballots for name suggestions. We used the baby name book I picked up in the grocery store checkout and two African name books I got at the library. I asked Destinee to choose four \"elders\" to help her select the name.\n\nThe elders, who were actually peers, also copied some lovely sayings from one African book\u2014they were like toasts, full of wisdom and hope\u2014onto index cards. They handed them to other students to read aloud at the ceremony.\n\nFinally, the name was chosen. The class gathered in a circle around Destinee, who presented little \"Iglesia Paris Tori Harper-Jones.\" (Well, not the whole class joined the circle. About six of the usual suspects sat on desks and talked among themselves the whole time. There was some love going on between Kyisha and Tyrese.)\n\nI read out loud from Alex Haley's _Roots_ , the part that describes the naming ceremony for Kunta Kinte. Then we passed the baby hand-to-hand, reading the wise sayings from the name book. Freddie was supposed to sing a song but chickened out. Kayla sang something impromptu that sounded like \"Lean on Me.\" DeVille pounded a reggae beat on a desk, and we all joined in. \"Lean on Me\" turned out to be a perfect song for a naming ceremony.\n\nAfter our ceremony it was time for library, but I kept a few students with me to \"prepare the feast.\" To prevent a repeat of the 9/9/99 fiasco, I knew I had to be organized, and I'd thought it out step-by-step beforehand.\n\nIn _Roots_ the villagers ate rice cakes and fruit, so that is what we had. My helpers cut up apples and put blobs of peanut-butter-caramel dip on paper plates at each table, with spoons. There were plenty of napkins. There were no drinks. The helpers were seated at one table, silent and expectant, the perfect dinner guests, when the others came back from library.\n\n\"See what they are doing?\" I asked, pointing to the models. \"Take your seats. Do that.\"\n\nThey did that.\n\nThe rice cakes and apples were handed out. We had our snack. The peanut-butter-caramel dip was a huge hit. Some liked it so much they licked it off the spoons and used their fingers to smear it on their rice cakes. Nate went around with the trash can right on schedule. We wiped off the desks with wet paper towels. Only one person had a bathroom emergency, a major issue since a student from 115 swiped my key.\n\nI attributed the success to organization and no drinks. They pleaded to go to the water fountain. They coughed dramatically. No, I demurred, you can make it twelve minutes to the end of school. No one perished from thirst.\n\nIt was a good day. It occurred to me that we really ought to sing every day. That was on my mind as I punched out and discovered an exciting development: a memo was posted on the office counter that the superintendent of schools, Paul Vallas, was coming for a visit the next week. He had never visited the school before. There was no specific purpose given for the visit. It was billed as just another of his many visits to neighborhood schools. It set off a flurry of cleaning, decorating and other preparations. A stunning, ceiling-high display case of African-American art was quickly assembled in front of the office.\n\nMeanwhile, the kids had been giving Mr. Diaz the treatment because they were mad about the reorganization. Even though they acted like shit for Astrid, they carried on even worse when she was not their teacher anymore.\n\nThe day before the superintendent's visit, my homeroom kids had some sort of riot in social studies. Mr. Diaz called for the assistant principal and our mentor. Next thing I knew, a letter was going home with all seventh graders informing them that they would not be allowed to attend school the next day unless they came with a parent. They were told to come to my room at 9:30.\n\nThe superintendent was due at 8:30 and not expected to stay longer than an hour. It was quite brilliant to send the entire seventh grade packing until the coast was clear instead of having them around showboating and making the school look bad.\n\nI doubt it would have bothered Vallas, who pretty much knew the score. I'd known him since he worked as Mayor Daley's finance chief, and you don't survive the back rooms of city hall in Chicago to get shocked by a few seventh-grade punks in a schoolyard. But then again, I did.\n\nThe next morning, Vallas spoke to the teachers in the lounge before school. Later, I saw him walk past my room with an entourage. He saw me, too, backed up and came into my classroom, perhaps expecting to find me teaching a riveting lesson in language arts.\n\nInstead, I was facing twenty-six pissed-off parents of twenty-six misbehaving students.\n\nI extended my hand in greeting and welcomed \"Mr. Vallas.\" My students were doubtless surprised to see the CEO kiss me on the cheek and call me \"Leslie.\" I recalled that he had once taught seventh grade, so I told him what was going on and asked him to explain to the students and their caring parents who had come to school that day, why this year was so crucial to their future, why they needed to quit fooling around and get down to business.\n\nHe took it from there and delivered an excellent pep talk. I felt certain that the parents took it to heart. They got the main guy, and I got an unexpected boost when Vallas informed them that \"Mrs. Baldacci used to be an editor at the _Sun-Times_ but came here to teach you because she believes in you.\" True enough. It was a kick to see him sitting on the table where I sit, talking to my kids. Al Gore's \"executive order,\" still hanging at the front of the room, hadn't done any good. Would they listen to the superintendent of schools?\n\nAfter Vallas left, the vice principal and the guidance counselor spoke, then Mr. Diaz and myself. I got off my chest some of the careless, dumb stuff that was bugging me. (\"Take a look at your child's desk before you leave and in the front of their textbooks. Is your child's name written in white-out inside the desk? In ink on the desk? How many times did he/she write his/her name in the front of the textbook? Enough times so that no one else can ever sign for that book?\" As a parent, I asked them not to buy any more school supplies, because they would be sick if they saw how the things they paid money for were destroyed and sicker still if they heard their children refuse to clean up the mess they made, saying \"That's the janitor's job.\")\n\nThe meeting ended with the assistant principal's tirade about junk food and candy and soda pop that the children bring to school (Flamin' Hots and strawberry pop\u2014\"Breakfast of Champions\") and me in complete agreement, outlining plans for an upcoming research project on healthy eating and fitness.\n\n\"Coming soon, to a classroom near you!\" I wrapped it up. Everyone laughed. The powwow broke up on a cheerful note. Afterward, parents lingered and I spoke to each one about specific things I was expecting of each child, specific strengths as well as problems each kid needed to work on.\n\nI did not discuss it further with my students. I figured, let them take from it what they would. The message had been clearly delivered: They needed to quit cutting up and engage themselves as learners. The kids fell right back into their bad ways by afternoon, and I made ten phone calls that night.\n\nBut I felt we were engaging ourselves as learners on some levels. The most important thing we were learning was how to be readers. I started on the first day of school reading aloud Roald Dahl's _The Witches_ , smiling mysteriously but giving no answers to all who asked why I was wearing elbow-length black gloves. \"Listen, and you will find out,\" I told them.\n\nWe stopped for the day after the part on page ten that asked, \"Which lady is the witch?\"\n\n\"She might even\u2014and this will make you jump\u2014she might even be your lovely school-teacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment. Look carefully at that teacher. Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a suggestion. Don't let that put you off. It could be part of her cleverness. I am not, of course, telling you for one second that your teacher actually is a witch. All I am saying is that she might be one. It is most unlikely. But\u2014and here comes the big 'but'\u2014it is not impossible.\"\n\nI threw back my head and cackled like a witch before removing the gloves, the signal that the read-aloud was over for the day. \"Awwwww,\" they moaned at my cornball tactics.\n\nNot until page twenty-four did they hear the grandmother explain, \"A real witch is certain always to be wearing gloves when you meet her...Even in the summer.\"\n\n\"Mrs. B.!\" Pierre shouted, pointing. \"The gloves!\"\n\nPandemonium.\n\nI learned that there were many fine artists in my classroom, specialists who turned out detailed drawings of cars and action heroes. I asked the class to work on drawings of transformations that occurred in the book, the part in which the boy is turned into a mouse and the part in which the ladies at the convention remove their wigs and masks and are revealed as witches. I thought it would help my visual learners with sequencing.\n\nThe captain of the safety patrol, who rarely turned in a speck of work, brought a note in his own handwriting, signed by his church deacon: \"Dear Leslie Bodachee. It against my religion to draw evolution, including witchcraft or any other evolution.\"\n\nThe thought had never entered my head that witchcraft, even in a fictional children's story, and especially evolution, would offend some fundamentalist Christians. I had been insensitive. It made me wonder about Halloween and fairy tales and _Harry Potter_. In the future I'd better ask first, I realized, and have another option for those with religious objections. That deacon must have wondered what on earth these children were learning in that classroom with a heathen for a teacher.\n\n\"Find something to read independently while we work on our novel,\" I told the student. When we finished the book, the class watched the movie, and enjoyed it very much. I offered to let the religious protester go to another classroom, but he declined. He seemed to enjoy the movie and even participated in our \"compare and contrast\" exercise on the book vs. movie version, which was rich and detailed. Those kids didn't miss a trick.\n\nOur second novel was _Maniac Magee_ by Jerry Spinelli. It seemed to have a hypnotizing effect on certain surprising individuals: Eric, Freddie, Nichelle, and Destinee. Eric's mouth finally quieted, and I caught Freddie sitting, slack-jawed, looking into space, as I was reading. I could practically see the movie show rolling in his brain. He was somewhere else, and I know exactly where that was because he remembered every fact of the story when we summarized out loud. Every fact.\n\nThe kids complained at first about being read to every day, but when they saw I was not going to stop, they sat back and enjoyed it. Children need to be read to. Big kids think it's babyish, but it's not. It is an act of love and it creates connections. It is helpful to have a story \"modeled\" by a good reader. It hones listening skills. I made up daily quizzes and asked open-ended questions that they had to think about and answer on paper. _Maniac Magee_ gave us much to think about in terms of how Americans divide themselves along color lines and how little some of us know and how much we assume about people whose skin color is different from our own.\n\nThe school had a day when we could dress up as characters from books. I wore a baseball cap and jeans and cut the soles of an old pair of sneakers so that they slapped the ground when I walked. My students knew in an instant that I was Maniac Magee. But outside the classroom, the principal told me to remove the hat. It was against the dress code. He was unmoved by my protest that I was in character and celebrating a book that was important to my class.\n\nWe read three more novels as read-alouds. Through the public library, I gathered enough copies of the book _Shiloh_ for everyone to read along with a partner while I played a books-on-tape version on our boom box. Strangely, that was the novel that bombed, either for lack of interest or the break in our routine. Maybe they missed me reading to them. Maybe that part of our day had become special to them.\n\nI learned that they were ignorant of geography. They didn't know the states; they had vague ideas of continents. I decided to craft a research project around travel so they'd get some geography along with language arts.\n\nThe project was planning their dream trip. I went to a couple of travel agents and grabbed every glossy brochure I could get my hands on.\n\nThey had to decide where they wanted to go and how far it was from Chicago. They had to determine the cost, pack a suitcase and write an itinerary of sight-seeing and other activities specific to their destination. They had to find out the currency, language, what different foods they might eat and what were good souvenirs to buy. They had to convert currency and account for time zones.\n\nDestinations included Mexico, Jamaica, Africa, Wyoming, Florida, California and England. Andre wanted to go to Paris, of course. Good thing we were still working on our French. We had learned numbers, colors, clothing, phrases and an innocuous swear word or two. \" _Zut alors_!\" We worked it in when we could. \" _Bonjour, classe_ ,\" I would often start the day. \" _Bonjour, madame_ ,\" they'd reply with gusto. In Social Studies, it helped to know French when we learned who settled New Orleans and Baton Rouge (\"Red Stick\"). When we were studying the weather in science, we'd ask, \" _Quel temps fait-il_?\" and learned the words for snow and rain and cold and hot. When we wrote letters to Fred Montgomery, curator of the Alex Haley Museum, Andre started his letter, \"Bonjour, Mr. Montgomery,\" which made me smile. We learned some Spanish, too.\n\nThe dream trip project, with its cross-curricular integrations of math and social studies, came in handy when, two days before first-quarter report card pick-up, our principal informed Mr. Diaz and me that our worst fear had been realized: the upper grades would no longer be departmentalized. No more changing classes. Each of us would teach all subjects to our homerooms. Starting that day.\n\nApparently, he had decided this some weeks before. He had informed the eighth-grade teachers the week before. \"I should have told you, too. My fault. Apologies,\" he said curtly before turning on his heel and walking away.\n\nWe were in shock. Suddenly, we were on the hook for lesson plans in all subjects, coming up to speed on the curriculum and teaching the lessons. But that was only a week-by-week crisis. The deeper crisis was whether we were up to the task of teaching our students in all subjects. Seventh-grade standardized test scores determine a child's high school options. What if my ineptitude kept someone from getting into an accelerated program or a better high school? I'd become comfortable with language arts. This new responsibility was daunting.\n\nDonna, who had been a teacher for twenty-six years, was so upset and frustrated at the order that she cussed out the vice principal and walked out. She lined up job interviews at other schools. She tried to console me.\n\n\"This is only your first year,\" she reminded me. \"If I can't handle it after all these years, of course you're gonna be overwhelmed. It's only natural. But God wouldn't give you anything you can't handle, you know that. You'll get through this.\"\n\nIf she left, I would be so sad. She was my rock, and I told her so. I felt like I imagined a rock felt, like _Sylvester and the Magic Pebble_. I was numb.\n\nSomehow I dragged myself to a party downtown, even though it was four days before payday and I was broke. I drove around until I found a meter, then walked. After two months in flats, high heels were agony. But dipping back into my old life for an evening, the shoes fit and I felt like Cinderella. It was great to see everyone. I showed around our class picture, which I had received that day. I thought it was a really nice picture, but one former colleague said it made him want to cry. I shared a piece of fiction writing titled _Pimps Up, Hypes Down_ with Mary. We howled at the depth of lowbrow reached in this particular group-writing exercise. Three boys recounted, with gross misspelling and punctuation errors, their future achievements: They earn tons of money \"selling weed\" and shoot people in the butt who cross them. In the end, they become \"successful rapers.\" We're pretty sure they meant \"rappers.\" On one hand, it made us want to cry. But we had the good sense to laugh instead.\n\n\"You have your work cut out for you,\" Mary observed.\n\nKayla reminded me of Mary, who grew up in public housing on the South Side and whose salvation was the Chicago Public Library Bookmobile. I was floored after our first round-robin when Kayla delivered a splendid read-aloud to rival any radio anchorwoman.\n\nLater that week, she expressed an interest in reading Nancy Farmer's _A Girl Named Disaster_. I had it waiting for her on her desk the next morning. The following day she arrived on the playground with her face in the book, halfway through. She had read about 150 pages. \"Up late last night?\" I asked. She nodded.\n\nI let her stay in that book all day. I didn't bother her. If she was reading, as far as I was concerned, she was participating at the highest possible level.\n\nAs the group left the building that day, she lifted her face from the book, broke out of line and ran to me, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before flitting out the door. She would be done with the book tomorrow, I realized. What should I give her next? Hmmm. Something fatter.\n\nThat year she read _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ , _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , all the _Harry Potter_ s, three Sharon Creech novels, some F. Scott Fitzgerald and at least a dozen other books. Each received the same review: \"This was the best book I have ever read.\"\n\nKayla was also a good reader of emotions. She always seemed to know when I needed a boost. She always had a hug after a particularly grisly day. It wasn't until after she was gone that I would figure out how a child could read adult emotions so clearly and be so generous in sharing her strength and support. I came to depend on her\u2014to know the answers in class, to turn in homework, to offer suggestions on how we could do things better in our class.\n\nShe was used to having adults depend on her. I would not learn why until spring.\nChapter 15\n\n* * *\n\n**An Observation**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nWhen my graduate school advisor came to observe, she was so upset that she called for the mentor and the principal.\n\n\"This is a joke,\" she informed them. The kids were mad about not changing classes any more. They were acting up.\n\n\"Thirty-six middle-class, self-disciplined, academically gifted kids in one class is a joke. These undisciplined children, crammed together with assorted behavior problems, is an unteachable situation.\"\n\nThe principal explained that there were two seventh-grade classrooms and nowhere else to put the kids. He told her the kids were the problem.\n\n\"They didn't get this way since September,\" she noted. Just then, to prove her point, a lower grade classroom ran past, screaming.\n\nShe reminded the mentor that her job was to spend an hour each day in each intern's room, co-teaching and modeling for us how to teach.\n\nThe mentor replied that she was the \"disciplinarian.\"\n\n\"You're the mentor,\" my advisor told her. \"If you can't do that job, maybe someone else should. And maybe if this school can't give these interns the support they need, Teachers For Chicago doesn't belong in this school.\"\n\nI prayed they wouldn't pull us out. In my opinion, this was precisely the sort of school that desperately needed scrutiny, and Teachers For Chicago was the foot in the door that might provide a crack of that light. I decided I couldn't bear to leave. There were so many things I had learned already but much I needed to find out.\n\nWhy didn't any parents know about magnet schools they could apply to so their kids didn't have to go to school here? Why weren't there any television sets or VCRs? The librarian said they were all stolen. Why hadn't insurance paid to replace the stolen equipment? Why were there so few books in the library? Why was it dark and empty so many hours? Why didn't the upper grades get time in the computer lab? Were chronic, truly dangerous kids ever sent to alternative schools? Every warm body that brought in cold cash, it seemed, was allowed to stay. The bottom line was, I couldn't leave the class. The upset of the reorganization made me realize how desperately they needed continuity. There had to be some value in coming back day after day, trying hard, doing my best, even if my best was woefully inadequate. Those were the only terms under which I could ask the same from them.\n\nAfter the advisor left, the principal and mentor returned to my room.\n\n\"Where's your fire escape plan?\" asked my mentor.\n\n\"Hanging right there, by the door,\" I said, pointing to the pink sheets. The children watched, rapt.\n\n\"Where's your schedule?\"\n\n\"Nichelle, please put up the map at the back of the room. The schedule is behind it.\"\n\n\"Where's your grading scale?\"\n\n\"Bulletin board, lower right corner.\"\n\n\"Where's your time distribution chart?\"\n\n\"I don't know what that is.\"\n\n\"You should have it posted in the classroom,\" she said. \"Have it on my desk at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.\"\n\nThey turned and left. It was the second-oldest trick in the book\u2014when someone makes trouble for you, nickle and dime them to death on paperwork that has nothing to do with either teaching or learning.\n\nI was more confused than ever the next morning when my mentor came into my classroom, fuming about how she'd been told to spend more time in our classrooms, before turning on her heel and walking out.\n\nI was confused because the people who were supposed to support me and teach me were treating me like an enemy. They wanted a seating chart. And children's names in books and books numbered. All of which I certainly should have done, if I'd only known.\n\nIn the teachers' lounge I said hello to a substitute. He said he taught at our school for four years before quitting at the end of last year.\n\n\"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"Can't build a house with no tools,\" he said simply.\nChapter 16\n\n* * *\n\n**Crime and Punishment**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nKyisha and a girl across the hall had been at war all week. I picked up on the vibe and watched them like a hawk. In the morning, I separated them before they came to blows. The principal was in the hallway and took them to the office. By the time I had their \"office referral\" forms written up, they were back in their classrooms, claiming that they had put their differences aside.\n\nBut at dismissal, the whole class burst from the room and ran out of the building like a herd of deranged wildebeests. I followed them outside. Something was up. I saw Kyisha standing on the steps with her coat off in the November chill, looking dangerous, breathing heavily.\n\nI steered her aside. \"Where are you going?\" I asked.\n\n\"Home,\" she said. I walked her off the steps and a little way, pointed her toward her house and told her to keep going.\n\nAs I walked back inside the building, the other girl came running down the hall from the far door, claiming that Kyisha had tried to beat her up with a weapon made from a bicycle chain with two combination locks hooked to one end. I sat her in the office and went looking for Kyisha.\n\nThe dangerous vapors of violence lingered in the air. The mood carried over.\n\nPierre, who was attracted to violence as flies to Kool-Aid, picked up the battle cry and had a rock 'em, sock 'em dust-up with a student from across the hall as the kids came in the next morning. The brother of the other student dove into the fray, and furniture was knocked around. I managed to pluck the smallest one from the tangle when he came up for air. I carried him on my hip out into the hallway. A crowd had gathered, hooting and jeering.\n\nA fight could set the tone for the whole day. The kids were off-task, completely juiced up. They wouldn't come back to class from the lunchroom. They couldn't settle down to work on their fiction writing. They couldn't organize themselves into groups of four. My mentor, frosty since the observation, had been missing in action for two days. I screamed so much that day my throat was sore.\n\nBy day's end, one fighter was contrite, but Pierre was acting like a wronged innocent. Each got five days, same as Kyisha.\n\nThe following Monday, four more of my boys got suspended for another episode, so our class was under thirty students.\n\nDeVille, one of the suspended, left shouting a warning over his shoulder that his mother would be at school first thing in the morning \"to get me back in.\" He had gotten in trouble for throwing food in the lunchroom and shooting beans with a rubber band in the classroom. Though I had seen him do both things with my own eyes, he denied everything. He also claimed he didn't break our stapler, but I found the spring in his desk.\n\nWith so many key troublemakers gone, everything changed. It was as if a fog lifted and the sun came out. We finished all of our lessons. We were orderly. We had several discussions, one about what they would do if they were followed by a stranger and another about whether fear is a choice or an instinct. Eric participated for the first time that year. He told three stories and later ordered Tyrese to \"quit fooling around.\" Tyrese was at looser ends than usual without his buddies to clown with. At one point, he sat next to me on the big table, because he simply didn't know what else to do with himself, and it was the only place he could still feel like he was in charge, now that his power base had been eliminated. He was my co-teacher.\n\nI had been keeping records on the number of times he disrupted class. According to my log, on a typical morning, in a two-hour period, he would leave his seat fifteen times, shout out about two dozen times and display \"oppositional behavior\" about five times.\n\nAt the end of the day, I asked the class to respond in writing to the question, \"Does today feel different than other days in 118? How?\"\n\nHere's what they said:\n\n\"Straight because most of the talkers are gone. It was peaceful and quiet today. Okay.\"\n\n\"Things have gotten a little quieter than usual and there is less chaos.\"\n\n\"Today with 27 students is different because the students that talk too much are not here. It's not loud like it use to be when they are here.\"\n\n\"It is going along good and fast with only 30 students. Well my day did.\"\n\n\"Today the class was quiet. I think the teacher got away almost all the troublemakers in I think it's better like this.\"\n\n\"I think that we did more work today than any other day.\"\n\n\"GREAT. And we can get even more work done if you want us to cause everyone cooperated today.\"\n\n\"Yes because it is so quiet and aint no body running around the room.\"\n\n\"It was different because, on most days we don't get most of our lesson done but, today we got our work done. Because the troublemakers isn't here to mess up our day and usually the troublemakers have our teacher stressed out, but, she doesn't seem stressed out today.\"\n\nKayla, the voracious reader, wrote, \"How is today different from most days in 118? Well, it's different because when there here its a mess papers are everywhere it just horrible that why I think today is a grand happy exciting lovely optimistic magical day.\" All that reading was having an impact on her vocabulary, if not her punctuation.\n\n\"It is very different today without most of the bad kids but today is a nice day no hollering, cursing, fighting today is a great day. Without those bad kids in here starting stuff.\"\n\n\"Our class wasn't to loud, we wasn't getting in trouble as much as we always do and there was nobody interrupting our class like almost everyday. And the class didn't get in trouble because of someone else.\"\n\n\"Today is more quiet and peaceful and I like it. I wish we always have a smaller group.\"\n\nI talked to every single student that day. I spent time with children who did excellent work, my hardcore learners whom I never had a chance to really \"be\" with because I was so busy quelling the misbehavers. The kids who had endured nine weeks of that nonsense were still with me, and we reached a critical mass. It truly was a wonderful day. We saw each other at our best.\n\nI wrote a memo to the principal thanking him for his support and sharing with him the students' comments. I gave it to him the next morning. At 12:30, I was summoned for a \"review meeting.\"\n\nI asked Donna what this meant. She advised me to \"go in with the full armor of God,\" along with my grade book and attendance book.\n\nIn the meeting, the principal expressed his displeasure that I did not correct the children's comments into standard English for my memo. Then he gave me an article that appeared on the _Tribune_ op-ed page about how the teachers' union protects the inept.\n\nHe asked me for my impressions of the year so far and to give a self-assessment of my work. I asked whether there were any particular points he would like me to address, any specific areas. He said no. So I told him it had been the most challenging nine weeks of my professional life, that no one could have prepared me for what I face every day. I told him that I found it thrilling, compelling, even despite the hardships, and that I never once regretted my decision. I waited for him to respond.\n\nHe spoke of the suspended students. \"These children are victims.\" He said we must conduct ourselves with love, kindness and understanding. He said that when students were suspended they were unsupervised and that concerned him. He said they needed to be in school not out of school.\n\nHe hinted that he would give me some feedback as to what he thought of my professional performance so far. But we were interrupted when a student's mother came in to complain about a teacher slapping her son, and our meeting was over, to be continued later in the afternoon. It never was, and that was my only \"review\" until the horrible surprise meeting at the end of the year, when all of my misdeeds and shortcomings were thrown in my face.\n\nBut I did listen to what the principal told me, and the next day, when Pierre had a tantrum and sulked all day because I had someone else do the attendance, I tried to behave differently, kinder.\n\nI took him out in the hallway and asked him what he was so all-fired mad about. He confirmed that it was because he wanted to take care of the attendance.\n\n\"But I have to train others so that if you're not here, someone else knows how to do it. You have to share what you know. Do you really think it's worth ruining a whole day over?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, still mad.\n\n\"You know I love you and you are the best assistant any teacher could ever want,\" I said.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, looking at his feet and trying to suppress a smile.\n\nThings went better after that.\nChapter 17\n\n* * *\n\n**Thanksgiving Break**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThanksgiving, my favorite holiday. Bliss. The girls and I went to Baltimore for a three-day house party at my parents'. In the warm embrace of my tribe, I found sustenance among my family's many career educators.\n\nMy brother and his wife and two kids came up from Norfolk, my sister and her two kids were there. My cousins came with their children. The cousins frolicked, we wore ourselves out talking and cooking.\n\nBoth my cousins' parents and mine were career educators. My father was the athletic director at my cousins' high school; my uncle was athletic director at mine. His wife was an elementary principal and my mother taught high school and college. Her sister, my Aunt Joan, worked at a tough high school in Pittsburgh, where she was known as \"the motherfucking nurse.\"\n\nI thought I was the only second-generation teacher in the bunch, which is unusual. In many families, teaching is a craft passed on from generation to generation. Some families are education Mafias. My parents, on the other hand, thought I was crazy to become a teacher, especially in the setting and era I chose. But they had been highly supportive, clipping newspaper articles, sending boxes of books and giving me money to buy supplies for my classroom. They phoned me every weekend for debriefings and advice.\n\n\"How's Kayla?\" my mother would ask. \"What's Tyrese up to?\"\n\nOver the Thanksgiving break, I learned that my sister-in-law taught math for two years fresh out of college at an alternative school for behavior-disordered kids in the South. Wow. I'd known her for fifteen years and never knew she was once a teacher. (One-third of new teachers drop out by the third year; she left because her family moved to another state.) Her experience sounded strangely similar to my own.\n\n\"I thought I was a terrible teacher,\" she said. \"I felt completely incompetent, that it was criminal that I was responsible for those children.\"\n\nShe gave me a great bit of advice\u2014connect with the kids on an emotional level. Be real with them. Her kids voted her \"Teacher of the Year\" the month before she left.\n\nMy cousin's wife taught special education for eight years. They later adopted three daughters, two with special needs. She was home schooling them.\n\nI'd always thought of Mary as unflappable. She was unfailingly calm and jolly. Yet she admitted she thought she'd lost her mind as a first-year teacher.\n\n\"I thought I was having a nervous breakdown,\" she said. \"I had no idea what I was doing, there was no one to help me, I was copying things weekends and evenings for curriculum. I had hives all the time!\"\n\n\"Me, too,\" chimed in Bernadette, my sister-in-law. \"I kept cortisone cream in my top drawer.\"\n\nTry to imagine a job so stressful it gives you hives. But neither one quit over hives. That perspective was far more helpful than the corporate analogy that policymakers drag out when they say schools should run like efficient businesses, with teachers the CEOs of their own small corporations. The teacher/CEO runs all departments: the business office, stocking all supplies and materials; human resources for the \"employees'\" assorted personal needs (especially the team-building issues that far exceed the demands of adults in a professional situation); quality assurance through assessment and retraining. Above all, the CEO/teacher must be accountable.\n\nIn a teacher's corporation, however, the CEO does not hire the employees and cannot fire them. Many come in inept, unreliable and combative. The teacher has nine months to turn the crew into a smooth-running organization. Then they all quit. The next year, the teacher starts over with thirty-five new employees who are inept, unreliable and combative...\n\nIt was a tonic to be in the warm embrace of my sympathetic and supportive family. I came home to Chicago and slept for three hours. On Sunday I went to church and graded papers in bed. Monday I felt great. I got up ready to do battle. My optimism bubbled up once again.\nChapter 18\n\n* * *\n\n**An Intervention**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nDeVille was out of control, so during library one Friday I kept Nate, Kayla and two other responsible souls who comprised my new Peer Intervention Team in the classroom.\n\nDeVille was our subject. The others were to tell him, kindly but firmly, what about his behavior was bothering them personally and the impact it was having on our class. I asked them to begin by reminding him\u2014and themselves\u2014that they were friends and cared about him. We sat around the big table. It was quiet and sunny.\n\nRacquel started: \"DeVille, we've been friends a long time, since preschool, but it's time for you to grow up. You clown around too much. You talk too much. We are here to learn and you are dragging us down...\"\n\nKayla evangalized: \"It's time to quit fooling around DeVille and decide what kind of man do you want to be.\"\n\nNate: \"DeVille, man, we've been knowing each other a long time now, and it's time to quit acting all crazy in school...\"\n\nDeVille was silent. Then he said, \"I don't have to listen to this.\" He got up and walked out of the room. I went after him and quietly implored him to come back. I explained it was now time for him to respond and that we weren't leaving the table without a contract, a promise from him that he would mend his ways and get on board.\n\nHe flounced into his seat. \"You can sit here all day. I'm not going to make a promise I can't keep,\" he said.\n\n\"What makes you think you can't keep a promise, DeVille?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't make promises,\" he said.\n\n\"It's scary to make promises,\" I told him. \"But it's time you took responsibility for yourself and commit yourself. We all believe in you or we wouldn't be here.\"\n\nStonewall. Silence. Arms folded. Looking out the window. It was still and golden in the slanting afternoon sun. A lull fell over us. We were waiting. Donna called this \"God's silence,\" the time after you express a need honestly and wait for something to happen. Sometimes it's a long wait.\n\nI asked, \"DeVille, did someone break a promise to you? Is that why you won't take the chance of making your own promise?\"\n\nHis face crumpled. Huge hot tears sprang from his eyes and rolled down his face. \"It's my daddy,\" he said, sobbing. \"He promised me he'd always be there for me.\"\n\nI felt like I'd been kicked in the chest.\n\nAgain, he walked out of the room. Again, I went after him. I waited. We stood there. I handed him a tissue. He wiped his eyes.\n\n\"You all are ganging up on me,\" he said. \"It's not fair. I'm not going back in there.\"\n\n\"DeVille, you heard everyone in there. The first thing each one said was 'You are my friend.' They all care about you. I care about you. We see your behavior dragging you down. You need to decide what you stand for not your daddy. We wouldn't be here if we didn't believe you could make that stand. Now wipe off your face, take a few deep breaths and give me your hand.\"\n\nHe wiped his eyes. Reluctantly, he trudged back in.\n\nI wrote out the promise. He sat with his arms folded and refused to sign. We sat a while in silence.\n\n\"DeVille,\" I finally asked him, \"is there something I do that really bugs you, something I could promise not to do any more?\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"it really bugs me when you scream 'DeVille!' every time something goes wrong in the classroom.\"\n\n\"Ouch,\" I said. \"Yeah, I can see how that would get old. It's not fair, and it's something I should work on. If I sign a promise to you not to scream 'DeVille!' will you sign your part of the deal?\"\n\nAnother long silence. He looked down at the table. Finally, a nod.\n\nI signed a document that said \"I promise not to scream 'DeVille!' any more.\" I added my middle name to my signature and his mouth twitched the tiniest bit with amusement. He signed his part of the deal\u2014a promise not to talk, walk around the room, goof off in the hallways, disrupt the class. We put the two halves in his pant-leg pocket.\n\n\"You keep it there to remind you of your promise,\" I said. \"All of you can remind me of mine if I mess up. I might mess up, but I'm going to try my best to keep my promise. Our business is finished for now. Everyone shake hands.\"\n\nSome were doing better than others about resolving conflict.\n\nKyisha and Kayla had a dust-up before school one morning that caused Kayla to arrive sobbing. She sat with her face buried in her arms on her desk for the first hour of school.\n\nLater, I heard that Kyisha had told her she was \"so ugly (she) couldn't get a date with a roach.\"\n\nI pulled Kyisha aside after lunch and asked her about it. She confirmed she had said that, but said Kayla \"started it.\"\n\n\"She said she was too smart to be with such a bunch of losers.\"\n\n\"You were both wrong,\" I said. \"Why don't you be the peacemaker and be the first to set things right?\"\n\nI told her I expected a written apology before the close of business that day. Kyisha passed me an envelope late in the afternoon. It was an exchange between the two:\n\n\"Kayla, I'm sorry for saying that mean statement to you. But you owe us (everyone) in this class an apology also because you shouldn't said what you said about your to good because everyone is equal but I am sorry and I expect to hear from you.\n\nDeepest compassion,\n\nKyisha\"\n\nKayla responded, \"Well I am sorry for what I said, but see they like to say un-nice things. I forgive them and especially forgive you Kyisha.\"\n\nI was proud of the way the girls handled their business.\n\nBut my heart ached for the boy who missed his daddy. I understood the secret sadness that his clowning hid. He was one of many millions of children who live every day with a father's absence fraying the edges of their lives. They worry about their fathers and if they're all right. They wonder what it is about them that makes them unworthy of a phone call or a visit. They wonder what is it about them that made their father go away and never come back. They see it not as the profound failure of an adult but as a personal failing of their own. They start believing that they weren't good enough or their daddy would surely come see them, see how they're doing, see how they're growing up, see how they're doing in school.\nChapter 19\n\n* * *\n\n**The Bathroom Incident**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nAs the winter days grew short, I found that going back to school put me back in touch with the seasons of childhood, when emotions and routines are keenly connected to the seasons of nature. Four seasons, four report cards. Forty weeks in a school year, nearly the same amount of time it takes to create human life.\n\nFall crackled with leaves underfoot and the excitement of new beginnings, new challenges, new school supplies, new clothes. Because I was born on Labor Day, I probably clock the start of the school year as the beginning of a cycle more keenly than most people. Some years my birthday falls on the holiday; some years it's the first day of school. I prefer the holiday.\n\nAs fall deepened, the swirling leaves outside our classroom windows reflected the whirlwind of activity inside. The Thanksgiving break and a change of scene, plus the support and wisdom of my extended family, reminded me of the need for connections. The first flurries reminded me that I must make our classroom a haven\u2014not just from the bite of winter but from the bite of the outside world. We had so many forces pulling us apart, would we ever become a unified team? Why had it been so hard for me to take charge of my class, the shortcoming for which I was criticized time and again?\n\n\"Your lesson plans are dynamite, but they don't mean anything if you can't control your class,\" my mentor told me many times. According to her, she had been a master teacher whose students obeyed her every command and performed beyond all expectations. I believed her because she was a commanding presence. She could \"talk the walk,\" as she had once said. However, I had yet to see her in action. She never taught a lesson in my classroom. Her help was limited to crowd control and troop movement, for which I was grateful. A couple of times, she supplied materials from the bookshelves that lined the walls of her office. On occasion, she took small groups of my students to her office.\n\n\"What do you do there?\" I'd ask them.\n\nTalk, do worksheets, help file things, run errands around the school, straighten bookshelves, they told me. I was grateful that her door was open to the students, because it gave me some relief, especially during our long afternoons. That same door was often not open to me, however, especially since the criticism from my college advisor. During the day, the door was often shut and locked. The window had been covered with construction paper, so it was impossible to tell whether anyone was in there. It reminded me of an editor I once worked for who worked behind closed doors while listening to music on headphones. We'd flap our arms from the other side of the glass partitions in deadline emergencies. Our mentor left at 2:30 sharp every afternoon, while we were dismissing our students, so we had no opportunity to meet with her after school.\n\nI was grateful for whatever bone she threw me, though, especially helping with bathroom breaks. I was terrible at bathroom breaks. It seemed I never could accomplish one without an incident. What was so hard about unlocking the bathroom doors, monitoring eighteen boys in one bathroom and eighteen girls in another, getting them all back in line, then relocking the doors? (I'd like to see the chairman of General Motors give it a try.)\n\nThe bathrooms were located at a stairwell, at the intersection of the main hallway and a short hallway with two sets of doors to the outside. There was always some sort of mischief. The girls would sprawl on the steps, talking louder and louder, their voices carrying up the stairwell to the upstairs hallway. Someone feeling frisky might open a door to the outside and take a peek, poised to bolt. The boys roughhoused relentlessly in the privacy of their bathroom, peeing on one another, shooting water from the sink faucets, making toilets overflow, scrawling graffiti on the walls. Fights broke out in there. Tyrese once slammed a kid's head into a pipe and gave him a gash that required stitches.\n\nThere were so many things I needed to be on top of, and time after time I failed. One part of me realized that bathroom breaks have nothing to do with teaching or learning, but I became consumed with the importance of order in the hallways because that is the only time anyone saw my class. No one ever came to observe. Or so I thought.\n\nMy harping about the broken chalkboard of death behind the AV screen finally brought the principal to my room, when I complained again after a staff meeting in the library before school. He walked across the hall to take a look. The liability must have been apparent, because he immediately summoned both janitors. They removed the most dangerous hunks of slate and produced a cork bulletin board to cover the hole and remaining slate. With the principal holding up the cork board and the janitors drilling it in place, our class worked on an assignment amid the din of hammering and drilling. Later, at a meeting during which I was threatened with firing, the principal would resurrect that vignette as evidence that I did not observe the posted time for reading instruction. Another failing he cited was that I allowed students to go to the bathroom in pairs without supervision, which I found necessary as more of my girls began menstruating and needed greater access to the bathroom.\n\nFunny how the girls' bathroom was the setting for an incident that marked a turning point for us. That was where I learned an important lesson that didn't come out of any book.\n\nKyisha had gotten into a loud, profane fight with Tyrese and another boy who had been talking trash about her. She and Tyrese had been \"going out\" for a while. Then they weren't. Then this happened. She was threatened with a twenty-day suspension for \"starting it.\"\n\nAfter school, I found about eight of my girls in the bathroom, where Kyisha was sobbing.\n\n\"It's not fair,\" she wailed. In the high-blown emotion of a teenage girl with her own sharp mind, she saw a ladder of injustice. Why was she getting suspended from school when the grownups in charge were getting away with not doing their jobs?\n\n\"How can he say he's gonna suspend me for twenty days when he's not doing his job?\" she implored. \"We got no books, people steal everything out of your desk and people who get sent out come right back in. Look, our bathrooms got no doors. People wreck everything. And the boys are all up there saying all this mean stuff. It's not fair. It's like everyone's against us.\"\n\nWe looked around us at the bathroom. No doors on the stalls, no mirrors, two stopped-up sinks and peeling paint. Everything around us seemed to prove her point. I thought of my overstuffed chair. A couple of days before, someone had smeared black ink all over the seat cushion and the armrests. I thought of the abandonment I felt as I struggled to be the teacher of these children.\n\nShe was right. It wasn't fair. Tears filled my eyes, too, and spilled down my cheeks. We all started to cry.\n\n\"You have every right to feel that way,\" I told her, my voice breaking. \"It's not fair that we don't have supplies and that people wreck everything. I feel that way, too, sometimes, with our class.\"\n\nWe stood and sniffed in silence a while. I swore I would never cry in front of my students, no matter how bad it got, just as I've never cried in front of a boss when things broke bad. Now I had done that. Even though it was in a broken-down bathroom after school hours, by the next day everyone would know I had cried. I had given up any pretense of control.\n\n\"Girls, we have to pull ourselves together,\" I said, wiping my face off. \"We can't let ourselves get dragged down to someone else's low level. We have to keep going, even when things aren't fair, even when everything seems to be against us. There is no other choice. We have to keep our heads up. We have to go forth with as much dignity as we possibly can and without violence.\"\n\nThey were still crying, but they were listening.\n\nIt isn't going to get any easier, I told them. You girls are smart and sensitive enough to recognize injustice, so you, more than anybody, can't give up. People who see these things are the ones who have to change them. That is our responsibility as thinking women. We have to keep going.\n\nCome on, I said. Let's go.\n\nWe hugged. We wiped our faces. We mustered our dignity. We went forth.\n\nThe pact we made that day is probably what kept me from walking out the schoolhouse door on any given day. Children learn by example, and so did I. As long as they kept coming back, so would I.\n\nThere were no repercussions to my tearful breakdown. Control, I realized, was overrated. Likewise, staying out of trouble. You can have control and stay out of trouble and still not be a good teacher.\n\nI took heart in the example of my college math teacher, Alonza Everage, who taught me more about understanding and appreciating numbers than I'd ever thought possible.\n\n\"I was in trouble the whole time I was a teacher,\" he said. One of the things he got in trouble for was holding class in a beautiful plant-filled atrium at his school. The principal told him, \"Students aren't allowed in this area.\"\n\nHe was back the next day, teaching in the atrium.\n\nOur college professors turned out to be the role models our mentors often were not. I was not the only intern whose reinforcements were no-shows, not the only one whose mentor was used as an extra administrative assistant to the principal. Some interns had it worse. Their mentors were cronies of the principal and treated the year like a sabbatical. They were completely missing in action, attending workshops that had nothing to do with the program, hiding in the computer lab sending e-mails to their friends and making fliers for their outside businesses. None of them ever got in trouble.\nChapter 20\n\n* * *\n\n**A Winning Streak**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThe day before the science fair, the tri-fold display boards were not much to look at. After years of annual science fair projects with my own children, I recognized a lack of parent involvement rather than a lack of student effort. To complete a project and put a board together requires parent backup. It doesn't happen on its own. Kids need parents to take them to the library and shopping for materials and art supplies. Parents first must be aware of the timetable, then police it. They need to make time for kids to get together to conduct experiments and put together the board. They need to help kids compile and analyze the data, to question and help kids make sense and organize their findings. As a parent, I dreaded the science fair every year. It was like being a teacher for the weekend. How ironic to find myself in a classroom surrounded by dozens of problematic science fair projects.\n\nDonna and the special science teacher had taken the kids as far as they could. Donna even had boards for sale, with printed labels: hypothesis, data, conclusion and all that jazz. But what came dragging in the day before the fair was pretty raggedy for the most part. It was utterly predictable who had the good experiments and boards. All were children with involved parents: Carlos, whose mother monitored him closely and came up for conferences, the new girl whose parents took her places on weekends, and a girl whose mother was looking into other schools for her smart, spunky daughter.\n\n\"All right, you rocket scientists, here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna help each other the best we can,\" I informed the fidgety masses. I had them look at each other's boards and suggest improvements. We hauled out all of our glue, construction paper, crayons and rulers and spent the day helping each other with organization, charting data and sprucing up the boards. Now I was grateful for all those dreaded science projects over the years.\n\nThe fair took place on Tuesday in the gym. Everyone dressed to the nines. Some looked like they were going to church, others to a dance. There were three-piece suits and strappy dresses with heels. The excitement of dressing up, getting sprung from class for the day and the schedule change was thrilling. All morning long, they explained their projects for the judges and class after class of little kids.\n\nUnfortunately, when lunchtime finally came, there was a stampede from the gym. The assistant principal decided that was all the science fair the seventh grade could handle. It did not resume after lunch.\n\nThe winners were Nelson, with his box guitar; Carlos and a partner for their rocket balloon; and the two girls with the involved parents, who took first place with their \"layers of liquid\" experiment.\n\nThe class rallied around our winners and took pride in sweeping the competition. They ridiculed the other seventh-grade class, yelling across the hall \"118 rules! 115 sucks!\" I dragged them back inside for a talking-to on the importance of being gracious winners, lest we become losers in the process of winning.\n\nWe'd had so few opportunities to be winners. We were virtually on lockdown due to behavior problems. No field trips were allowed. No computer lab. Many days at gym they sat on the floor while the teacher waited for them to quiet down, and when that didn't happen, they never even stood up. The one teacher to take them outside was the traveling science teacher, to fly their balsa-wood planes.\n\nThe science fair victory lifted expectations for the upcoming Christmas pageant. The kids were dying to perform. Pierre, who was active in his church and had the voice of an angel, stepped up as our choir director. (We had a wonderful art teacher but no music at school.) I asked Pierre to please take one verse for a solo, but he declined.\n\n\"Mrs. B., I'm happy right here where I am,\" he said.\n\n\"All right then, Pierre, stay there,\" I told him. I gave him the official title of \"artistic director of 118.\" To this day, when I watch the video of their performance, I marvel at Pierre's professionalism. There was not a cross word between him and any other student the whole time they worked on the Christmas program. It must have been a Christmas truce. Usually the other students, especially the boys, antagonized Pierre all the time, calling him \"gay\" and inciting him to high drama and violence for their own amusement.\n\nThe children chose their own music: a medley of Kirk Franklin's \"Melody from Heaven\" and \"Joy to the World.\" I had an idea, too, that DeVille and I worked out before we showed it to the class. First I read the beginning of _The Night Before Christmas_ in standard English. But after a few verses I asked DeVille to \"give me a beat\" and I started over, rapping the same parts. By the time I got to \"not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,\" the kids were clapping along. They were excited about it and wanted to do the whole poem as a rap. DeVille and Joseph volunteered to be our drummers. They played the big table with their hands.\n\nWe copied the entire poem by hand, then divided up the verses. Pierre and DeVille figured out a way to segue the beat from the song to the rap, and Racquel's posse put the heat on everyone to get a Santa cap at the Dollar Store.\n\nIn just a few days, they had it down. They performed it for Donna when she stopped by one afternoon on her break. She said it gave her goose bumps.\n\nOn Friday afternoon, she stopped by my house for a glass of wine after school, and we sat around the dining room table, shooting the breeze, laughing, gossiping. All in all, a very good week. I even got paid. However, because I worked only two days Thanksgiving week, my check was a paltry $540. I would not get paid at all for the two-week Christmas break. Obviously, I was too poor to buy presents for thirty-six children, so I decided to make them a treat that related to our healthy eating unit: homemade granola, \"guaranteed to build muscles and enhance beauty and health.\"\n\nI baked batch after batch, then put hefty servings into Ziploc bags. I copied the recipe onto an index card. Across the top, I drew a sun and moon and the motto, \"Good for breakfast or a midnight snack...\" I made thirty-six copies of the card and stapled one recipe to each bag so the kids could make it for their families if they wished.\n\nI asked permission to use the lunchroom for a cooking demonstration and taste test, but my mentor told me it was against the law. She also said that it was against board of education policy to provide any food to the students that was not \"commercially packaged\" and warned me not to give out the granola. I decided to proceed as if I never heard a word she said.\n\nOur performance day finally came. Most of the kids had Santa hats and wore red and white. Freddie wore sunglasses and a red fedora and had something up his sleeve. They looked great. I felt nervous, but they couldn't wait to take the stage.\n\nKayla started with an original poem about the birth of Jesus, which probably broke the law three different ways, but oh well. Then Pierre lead the group in \"Melody from Heaven,\" then came \"The Night Before Christmas Rap.\"\n\nI had brought a small floor tom from home and a couple sets of drumsticks for DeVille and Joseph. They had been practicing in school and out, and their chops were tight. They did more than keep a righteous beat. They actually talked to each other through the drum. When their arrangement called for a pause, they put up their sticks like army guys.\n\nWhoever had a verse stepped up to the mike, said their part, then returned to line in some signature fashion. The cheerleaders did splits. Kyisha and Pierre dirty danced and Tyrese shimmied. The audience hooted and hollered.\n\nBut it was Rap Master Freddie who brought down the house when he walked on stage for the last verse in his hat and shades. No one noticed or cared that his verse was totally out of sequence. He had star quality. He was exciting. He ended the song by screaming into the mike, \"Do your thang! Do your thang!\" and \"Put your hands up!\" with a call-and-response with the audience, \"Whoo whoo,\" \"Whoo whoo.\" The crowd went wild. \"Now SCREAM!!!\" he capped it off, and the audience screamed like crazy. DeVille grabbed the mike and shouted, \"Give it up, y'all, for Room 118.\" Deafening applause. The class left the stage in a dancing, jumping, jubilant tumble to a standing ovation.\n\nThey had established a reputation for themselves, one they could truly be proud of. They were a big hit. They did it all themselves. I was very proud of them.\n\n\"I hope you'll be taking that drum home now,\" the vice principal said. \"I'm tired of hearing that racket all day long.\"\n\nThe children's voices singing, \"Melody from heaven, rain down on me, rain down on me,\" echoed in my head all weekend, making me smile. I recognized a strange feeling I had: happiness. I was happy! After months of hard work and discouragement, a reward at last! Working on my lesson plans over the weekend, I felt anticipation instead of dread. I looked back over the months and realized that maybe we were building something after all. What it would turn out to be I still didn't know yet. But something was beginning to take shape.\n\nThe end was a flurry\u2014a Christmas party in the room. We pushed the desks back and made a dance floor. We blasted CDs and tapes. We cut the lights and enjoyed the pale natural afternoon sun of winter. There was lots of slow dancing. We had a few snacks that people brought but not many.\n\nAt the end of the day, a box of pre-wrapped presents came from the office, labeled \"boy\" or \"girl.\" Charity gifts for poor kids. The children were familiar with the ritual from Christmases past. \"Bootleg!\" they derided the gifts, though they were winter hats, scarves and gloves in assorted colors, brand new with the tags still on.\n\nI handed each student a package of homemade granola and sent them off with wishes for good health in the new year. Some tore into it dry, though I implored them to wait to try it with milk at home, me assuming there was milk in every refrigerator. Tyrese proclaimed it \"good.\"\n\n\"Got any more?\" he asked, checking his muscle for results.\n\nDestinee crabbed, \"Coconut makes me throw up,\" and looked disgusted and disappointed. This from the child I'd spent hours making a tape of Stevie Wonder songs for. \"Well, you can't always get what you want,\" I told her. \"Just try to be gracious about it.\"\n\nHonestly.\n\nAndre lingered and helped me carry things to my car. After the last load, I turned to thank him. \"Well, about all I can say is _merci beaucoup et joyeux Noe\u00a8l!\"_\n\nHe smiled. I knew he was still working on his French because the phrase book was missing. He looked across the street, and I thought he was watching some kids across the way. But he was thinking. Wheels were turning in his mind. He turned his gaze back to me and said, with bravado and a big smile, \" _Adieu, mon professeur_.\" I had not taught him that. He did that all by himself. \" _Tre`s bien_ ,\" I told him. \"Nicely done. _Adieu, mon ami_.\"\n\nAnd off he went across the snowy parking lot, past the dumpsters with the seagulls perched on top, hunkered down against the winter wind.\nChapter 21\n\n* * *\n\n**So Far**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI was trying to collect my thoughts for a TV show taping. It was an education-themed interview show hosted by Vernon Jarrett, a well-known Chicago writer and black historian I'd worked with on the _Sun-Times_ editorial board.\n\nI suspected he'd ask me what I'd learned in four months as a teacher. I made a list:\n\nI learned that you can't teach every child, as hard as you might try.\n\nI learned that every child's learning style is different. Whatever they cannot do one way, they can probably do another way and you have to identify and build on that.\n\nClass size is a key indicator of success or failure. Too many children can diminish expectations. Thirty-six children were too many in one class.\n\nThe internship program was great in theory, spotty in practice. Interns' experience depended not so much on the school or the students as the support the interns received from the institution and their mentors.\n\nI learned that whatever you planned to do would take twice as long as you thought.\n\nI learned to buy the expensive, heavy-duty stapler.\n\nI learned that no matter how many times a teacher has explained something, it was not as effective as showing. Neither was it as effective as letting students do for themselves. Even then, it didn't hurt to explain or show once more.\n\nI learned you have to be fair. I learned that nothing seems fair to seventh graders.\n\nI learned to seek out other teachers for feedback and advice. They were generous.\n\nI learned that staff meetings in education are like hostage situations.\n\nI learned that educators often speak to adults as if they are children, which is annoying.\n\nI learned that the school secretary would make a most excellent administrator.\n\nI learned how important parent support is to a child's success in school. I learned to keep parents informed, to always be happy to see them and to make the most of my time with them.\n\nBefore the TV taping, I asked the assistant principal for permission slips, so I could take the seventh-grade Christmas show video. I was so proud of them and thought they ought to be on TV. She said she didn't have any forms, but she'd ask the principal. Later, she said she asked, but he said no. \"No what?\" I asked. \"Just 'no',\" she said.\n\nThe communications director for the board of education, who'd set up the program, rolled his eyes when I explained why I didn't have the tape.\n\nHe also asked me why I hadn't been in the paper lately. I told him I got heat last time. He was incredulous.\n\nThe last opinion piece I'd written had appeared in October. I heard through the grapevine that a certain principal had \"a hissy fit\" when he saw it. He never said a word to me about it, but my mentor said she spoke for him in informing me that any works submitted for publication \"had to be approved beforehand by the principal and district office.\"\n\nI told her I'd like to see that in writing with the signature of the person who had given the order. And that was the last I heard of that. Still, who needed the grief? Was it worth it to stick my neck out, go to the mat for the First Amendment? Was it good or bad for my students to see their teacher's picture in the paper, writing about our experiences? You could argue both ways.\n\nVeteran teachers knew the drill. It's infinitely easier to say \"no\" or \"we can't do that\" or \"you can't do that\" than it is to go forward with new programs, to support new ideas or personal initiative. That is why teaching, while it attracts creative people, also frustrates them.\n\nThere. Another thing I'd learned.\nChapter 22\n\n* * *\n\n**The Mid-Winter Lull**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI was away from them, but they were with me.\n\nConversations and events replayed in my mind. I worried about them, what they were doing with themselves with all the free time on their hands. I wondered if anyone's parents had gotten them books for Christmas, as I'd asked in a note I sent home before the holiday. I knew Kayla would make it through her latest, _A Tree Grows In Brooklyn_. I checked it out of the library for Kayla at Mary's recommendation. I'd see Mary on TV and in the paper, all out there, kicking butt and taking care of business, and smile at her secret connection to a girl she had never met but cared about deeply, because she was growing up just like Mary had\u2014poor, but sustained by books.\n\nI took down the Christmas tree in record time. It was a relief. My faith was tightly focused in my day-to-day work and bolstered by the hope of the world embodied in the babe in the manger. Yet still I felt caught in the trap of Christmas materialism, in terms of things I couldn't afford and didn't get for people who already had so much.\n\nBecause it was the longest we'd gone since the beginning of the year without seeing each other, it occurred to me what a privilege it was to know these students, to see them every day in their lives away from homes and families. I humbly realized that my own children's teachers had long known them in the context of their independent lives. They knew things about my children I didn't know, just as I knew who slow danced with whom at our Christmas party.\n\nI resolved that when I called parents, I would make one good call (congratulations on your science fair winner) for every bad call (your child is misbehaving in class and derailing the education of thirty-five other kids).\n\nI planned the curriculum for our return: the founding of the U.S., the Constitution and Bill of Rights, geometry and pre-algebra, wrap up healthy eating, then a weather unit for science, poetry and a new novel, _The Outsiders_ , for language arts.\n\nI wrote an e-mail to friends and relations I had horribly neglected while becoming a teacher.\n\nThe good news: I'm still standing. Someone told me that 'if you make it to Christmas you're a veteran. Congratulations. Of seven Teachers For Chicago interns that started the school year, three of us remain.\n\nI have 36 seventh graders, including many foster children, five students with learning disabilities, one student who is autistic. I am the third-shortest kid. Our days are chaotic, frustrating battles of will, interspersed with moments I can only describe as divine grace. Some learning has been detected. We have read two novels, learned to read maps and the stock markets. We are speaking a little French. However, we are still forgetting to capitalize the letter \"I\" when used in the first person. We were a big hit at the Christmas show with our brilliantly ad-libbed rap of \"The Night Before Christmas.\" We also swept the seventh-grade science fair.\n\nMy family is well and happy. Natalie is in the decision process for high school, Mia is her usual upbeat self, Artie is his usual laid-back self and I continue my adventure in humility. Keep us in your thoughts in the New Year and light candles for Room 118 as the Iowa Tests approach in the spring.\n\nAs the return to school grew closer, I started feeling anxious. I felt soft from all the time off, not wired and \"combat-ready.\" I should have copied more stuff at Office Max. I should have written weeks' worth of lesson plans. I should have... I felt frustrated from going to the Field Museum and the Shedd Aquarium, seeing the treasures there that I could not share with my students because of the field trip prohibition. But I met another teacher who was a docent in a fantastic percussion exhibit, and he told me he came to schools and did percussion workshops. I got his information and wrote a memo to the principal asking permission to invite him to work with the seventh graders. I handed him that memo on three occasions but never got a response. Eventually I gave it up.\n\nThe downside of being ignored was that it cheated the kids. The upside was that if I was in trouble, I no longer heard about it from the principal. Speaking of whom, one morning a girl from across the hall ran up to me, breathless, and shoved a piece of colorful mail into my hand. It was a mailer from a Gary, Indiana, Lakeside Casino.\n\n\"Look,\" she said.\n\nOn the cover was an arresting picture of our principal. His first name was over his picture. Under his head shot was the caption: \"Big Winner!\"\nChapter 23\n\n* * *\n\n**The Second Half**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\n\"Why don't we do math anymore?\" they challenged me.\n\nAnymore? We'd been back to school like ten minutes and already the crabbing had begun.\n\n\"We do math,\" I told them, \"when we read the Dow Jones industrial averages, or the year-to-date precipitation, or do our healthy eating stuff\u2014that's math. When we do science experiments, that's math. And we're not going to stop with the graphs until you speak it like a language. You must learn to organize data and present it articulately.\"\n\nThey looked at me like I was a complete dunce, which I had always been when it came to math. I could always count on my students to exploit a weakness. I taught math by studying what I had to teach, the night before I had to teach it. If I forgot it during the night, I'd study it again the next morning before school. If someone challenged my methods, I handed him or her the chalk and let them teach it \"their way.\" All roads led to math. It was the only fair way for us to proceed. As we began the second half of our year together, we were multiplying and dividing fractions and working with decimals. Geometry was on the horizon.\n\nAnd then a strange thing happened. Someone came to observe our class. It was a reading resource teacher from the little kids' building. I think it had something to do with an upcoming review by the state board of education. Or maybe they were building a case to give me the heave-ho. The assistant principal made a threat in the direction of the latter, when my class got on her last nerve in the lunch line.\n\nWe'd had a relatively successful morning, did some handwriting in French, worked on our healthy food project a bit, then moved into two science project presentations. The center started to come apart at the bathroom, and they were a disorganized blob of protoplasm and fists in the lunch line. I was rounding up stragglers like a border collie and policing the line when the assistant principal sent them back to the classroom with a threat of \"no lunch!\" This had happened once before, but the principal overruled her on grounds that it was against the law to deny the children lunch.\n\nWith much griping and moaning, we returned to the room. The assistant principal followed to tell us how sick she was of Room 118, how she could always tell when we were in the hall and that we were a disgrace to the entire school. Then she asked me to clear some \"good\" people for the lunchroom and said that the no-goods were to eat in the room. I kept about a dozen. Time passed and I sent someone to ask how we were to get lunch in the room.\n\nMy messenger reported back, \"No lunch.\"\n\nI went to the office and found the assistant principal behind the counter.\n\n\"I guess you've come to plead their case, but I don't want to hear any of that crap,\" she told me, loudly. She went on to tell me that my students needed a brand of discipline that I was failing miserably to deliver.\n\n\"I am not here about any crap but a point of law,\" I told her. \"The last time this happened, I was told it was illegal to deny the children lunch.\"\n\n\"I take full responsibility,\" she said, \"because I'm an administrator.\"\n\n\"Just so we're clear on that,\" I said, taking my leave.\n\nI wolfed down a sandwich in the teacher's lounge and got the other barrel unloaded on me by the gym teacher.\n\n\"I'm not much of a fan of your program,\" he informed me. \"I don't think anyone should be in the classroom until they're certified. I think you take away certified positions. I went through the regular program, student teaching, and I think you need that to know how to handle a classroom.\"\n\n\"I can appreciate that,\" I said, knowing that part of what he said was true. I did not have the strength to argue that no one was taking away \"certified positions.\" The Chicago Public Schools filled hundreds of chronic vacancies each year with uncertified teachers. Low-performing schools tended to have the highest numbers of uncertified teachers. Schools with the biggest problems had the most vacancies. That is how I happened to be there, not by knocking a certified teacher out of some imaginary employment line clamoring at our schoolhouse door for a job.\n\nThe assistant principal entered, still fuming, and slammed a Lean Cuisine into the microwave.\n\n\"Bad day?\" asked the gym teacher.\n\n\"Terrible,\" she said.\n\n\"Maybe you need to get rid of four or five students,\" he offered.\n\n\"Maybe I need to get rid of four or five teachers,\" she growled, storming out of the lounge. Ouch. But I saw her point. I might have felt the same way if I had to be the editor for a bunch of rank amateurs who couldn't spell and punctuate.\n\nSeven interns had started the year. Three of us were left, including Astrid, who had shown more fortitude and resourcefulness than I had given her credit for. I knew she was smart, but I didn't think she was that tough. She was holding her own with the sixth graders, a motley yet cunning crew, given to violence and stealing. Many things she had bought with her own money (she had paid out of pocket that year to outfit two different classrooms due to her transfer) had disappeared from the classroom.\n\nThe most recent intern defector struggled mightily to hang on until Christmas.\n\n\"I'm in therapy, I'm on Prozac, I'm getting the hell out of here,\" she told me at the Thanksgiving assembly. She thanked me for the Aerosmith picture I gave her in October (\"This is your focal point...\") and said it helped her hang on a little longer. Her fourth graders got a new teacher in January, a relative of an administrator, who settled in with daily help from our mentor, though she was not in our program.\n\nI did not begrudge the interns who left. In time I would see others come and go, some like the white-flight victims of the neighborhood a generation before, who moved out in the middle of the night. The pain and shame of leaving was a personal and professional defeat for the fledgling teachers. They had started with the best intentions to help kids, not to hurt them. Some never came back to claim their supplies. I was hanging on by my fingernails day to day, hour to hour. I knew how precarious we all felt.\n\nExperienced teachers told us not to be so hard on ourselves. \"Write off your first year,\" they said. \"It's a lost year.\" One extraordinary veteran teacher admitted that her first year \"felt like being in a dark cave.\"\n\n\"It wasn't until the second year that I began to see shapes around me,\" she said, \"and at the end of the second year I started to see light at the end of the tunnel.\"\n\nOf course teachers who took the traditional route and had student teaching experience were more qualified as rookie classroom teachers! Those of us who came to the profession through the fire as interns with little supervision or guidance seemed to learn everything the hard way. We made just about every mistake there was to make. But that was no excuse to write off an entire year. According to my count, I wasn't the only one having a year. There were thirty-seven, soon to be thirty-eight, years going on in our classroom. That is practically a lifetime.\n\nRobert, who had noticed the way teachers came and went, asked me, \"Mrs. B., you can go back to your old job any time you want, right?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not,\" I told him. \"I am your teacher today. I will be your teacher tomorrow and every day for the rest of the year.\"\n\nTyrese, angling for a day of frolic with a substitute, forced the issue.\n\n\"Mrs. B., when are you ever going to be absent? Your hair is almost totally gray, you're old. C'mon. When are you going to miss a day?\"\n\n\"Never!\" I told him in my witch voice. \"I will be here to torture you every day!\"\n\nFor good measure, I threw back my head and cackled like a lunatic. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at my dementia.\nChapter 24\n\n* * *\n\n**Hip Hop 101**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nStudents weren't allowed to bring headphones to class, and it hadn't been an issue until one Friday at the slushy end of winter, when I had to tell several people to put the headphones away. I realized it was not a sudden epidemic of headphones; they were listening furtively to a tape player being passed desk to desk at the fringes of the class.\n\nFinally, I seized the headphones and the tape player and put them in my desk drawer.\n\n\"Can I get that back at the end of the day?\" Racquel asked. Aha. So she was the owner. Interesting. Someone who usually followed the rules was breaking them that day. I was curious about what was on the tape. It had been more interesting to my students than what I was trying to teach. I decided to check out the competition and take the tape home for the weekend. I gave Racquel her tape player and headphones with instructions to leave them at home in the future.\n\nAt 7 a.m. Saturday I was sitting in my robe, drinking coffee and grading papers at the dining room table. I slipped the tape in.\n\n\"Pussy on the floor, pussy on the floor, spread your legs. Pussy on the floor, pussy on the floor, I got a big dick.\"\n\nI sucked a sip of coffee into my windpipe as my head whipped around so my eyes could bulge at the tape player, as if I had to see it to believe what I was hearing. Sure enough, the \"song\" continued.\n\nIt was rap, with a drum machine beat and a keyboard pecking out one note at a time. Horrible basement quality production, kindergarten musicianship, words triple-X raw. The second track had rhyming words.\n\n\"Hold up, wait a minute, let me put my dick up in it...\"\n\nThere were about ten songs, and every one was about sex or violence, in the most base, lowbrow terms imaginable. One was a string of insults: \"You look like shit. Your mama look like shit. You smell like shit.\" How hard is it to rhyme \"shit?\" Who were these rappers who didn't even think to try?\n\nThe tape appeared to be a commercially-produced cassette, a major label release by a group whose name I recognized. But the material was such utter swill, it didn't make sense; those guys were on the radio and TV, this stuff could never get airplay. Or was there some new, looser standard operating? Had I become a prude? True, it startled me at red lights when someone in the next car had the windows down, subwoofer vibrating the trunk lid and a rap mix blaring \"motherfucker,\" \"bitch\" and \"kill.\" Maybe I was \"out of time,\" as the Stones put it.\n\nThe household started to wake up when I got to the track \"Bald-headed coochie rat (your hands can't touch that).\" I hid the tape like an ugly secret. When my husband left for work, I slipped it into his pocket. \"Give this a listen, will you?\" I asked. \"I want to know what you think. Ask the other guys at the shop, too.\"\n\nThe guys who work at the drum shop were all drummers. Some were rock 'n' rollers who spent years on the road. Some were young guys who played in bar bands. As working musicians, they understood the power of music, its ideas, its commands, its sway. They weren't exactly sisters of the convent. They were not easily shocked.\n\nThe phone rang in the afternoon. It was the drum shop boys. They were howling with laughter, screaming. The tape was blasting in the background. \"No way!\" I heard guys shout. \"This is insane!\"\n\n\"What is this shit?\" my husband asked. I explained that it was a tape I took from a student. \"You've got to be kidding me,\" he said.\n\n\"Did you listen to the whole thing?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, just the first song.\"\n\n\"Keep going,\" I urged. \"Call me back.\"\n\nWhen they called back later, their initial shouting and hysteria had diminished to moaning. Wave after wave of shock and insult had worn them out, like swimmers in the surf. Tommy, though, grabbed the phone and cracked that his band, The Buckinghams, wanted to cover \"Hold Up, Wait a Minute.\"\n\nKevin, who was a senior in high school, got on the line and apologized to me.\n\n\"What are you sorry for?\" I asked him. \"You didn't do anything.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry you have to teach kids who have been exposed to shit like that,\" he said.\n\nOn Monday, I asked Racquel about the tape. She confirmed that it was not the music of the artists whose name appeared on the cassette, but a \"mix tape\" that had been recorded over.\n\n\"You can't tape over a pre-recorded cassette,\" I argued.\n\n\"Yes, you can.\" The kids were amused that I didn't know the trick with a piece of tissue that made it possible to record over commercially-produced cassette tapes. As usual, they were minding each other's business and had joined in the conversation. Everyone wanted to tell how to bootleg a cassette. Not everyone wanted to talk about what was on the tape.\n\n\"Mrs. B., you listened to the tape?\" Freddie asked.\n\n\"Yes, I did,\" I told them. They were embarrassed. They glanced away, at each other, down at their feet, then looked at me expectantly.\n\n\"You know me, I like songs about loooove,\" I said. \"That tape made me feel slapped around. It was depressing. I heard zero musicianship, no poetry. The images\u2014I can't even call them ideas because there was no thought\u2014were ignorant. It was all insults and hate and disrespect. I didn't like it one bit. It was like music for people who hate themselves and everybody else, even the people they have sex with.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but it was raawww,\" Freddie said, gesturing with his hands out and up and his knees bent, head and body bobbing like a video rapper. The others laughed.\n\n\"Shocking is easy. Ideas are hard,\" I said. \"What do you think Marvin Gaye or Stevie Wonder would say about that tape?\"\n\n\"They'd say it was shit!\" Cortez blurted, dashing behind Eric so I couldn't tell who said it.\n\n\"You're doggone right,\" I said. Discussion over. Now, what to do with the tape itself?\n\nRacquel and three siblings lived with their great-grandmother and two cousins. The mothers of the children (who were sisters) and their mother (Racquel's grandmother) were all \"on the pipe,\" was all I'd heard. Great-grandmother was doing her best despite poor health. It was hard for her to get up to school, but she did. On parent-teacher conference day, she climbed the steps to visit four or five classrooms. The oldest kids, teenagers, were giving her trouble. It was hard to keep them in line. She worried about child welfare taking all the children away if the older ones got into trouble with the law. She didn't want the family broken up any more than it already was.\n\n\"I pray every day that I live long enough to raise these children,\" she said. Two generations of women between hers and her great-grandchildren's had fallen down. She had stepped up.\n\nDid she need this weight added to the load she was already carrying? I didn't think so. So I told Racquel I couldn't give the tape back in good conscience, unless her great-grandmother knew about it. I would return it if we all sat down and listened to it together.\n\n\"No, Mrs. B., why?\" she whined, horrified at the prospect.\n\n\"Grown-ups are nosy. It's our responsibility,\" I said.\n\n\"Please don't call my grandma, Mrs. B.,\" Racquel begged. \"I don't want that tape back. You can keep it.\"\n\n\"I'm gonna burn it.\"\n\n\"Yeah, whatever.\"\nChapter 25\n\n* * *\n\n**Bottoming Out**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nOverwhelmed, exhausted, sick, jealous, lonely, irritable, despairing, I realized it must be late February, the shank of another Chicago winter.\n\nI felt like a robot. The alarm went off at 5:45. Shower. Read the paper. Pack lunches. Get dressed. Go to school. Do battle. Come home. Do homework. Check children. Fix dinner. Go to college. Come home. Fall into bed. Fridays and Saturdays, I slept twelve or thirteen hours a night. That had been the routine for the past six months. I had no social life. I had no time, no energy and no money for a social life. It was a rare event that got me out at night. Twice I got dressed up and started out, only to turn back, too exhausted to go through with it.\n\nWhat did I have in common with my old friends anyway? One sent me a note that he'd written a novel. Another sent his first-place short story from a fiction contest. On the rare occasion that I had time to turn on the television, there were my old friends and colleagues holding forth. It was jarring, surreal, suddenly being in a new world, an anonymous member of the public who went through voice mail hell instead of having the straight-through number and someone on the other end happy to hook me up. Had I really been out with these buddies just nights before, drinking beer and talking politics? Their public presence was part of their workday. Mine was far removed. I would come to call this my Deep Underground Phase.\n\nThe rock critic was throwing a party for his new book. The bash didn't start until 10 at night. Three bands were playing. One was a Black Sabbath tribute band called \"Black Stabbath.\" I couldn't miss that one, so I took a nap and threw a folder of ungraded worksheets in the garbage.\n\nLooking at my old friends' busy, exciting, media lives, part of me was ugly jealous. I was sad, too. I missed them. I was achingly lonely sometimes, so needful of adult companionship and their irreverent perspective. We used to have lunch a couple times a week. We talked many times during the day. Now, I had virtually no adult contact during my working day. Now I wolfed my shitty little lunch from home in seventeen minutes while I policed a bunch of crazy kids in a smelly, deafening lunchroom. Cortez would sometimes swipe me a milk, when the lunch lady wasn't looking. It was his way of taking care of me, a tiny show of kindness, and I was grateful for it. I left thirty-five cents at the lunch lady's window.\n\nStuck in a rut as I was, it was a rare treat one Friday morning to get a break in my daily routine. I'd been asked to speak to high school journalists at their annual convention at my university downtown. I asked my mentor if she would supervise my class while I was gone.\n\n\"I don't sub,\" she replied.\n\nAfter I explained that it was only for an hour, then she could deliver the students to the library, she relented.\n\nOn Thursday, I told her their homework had been to rewrite the first three paragraphs of the _Declaration of Independence_ as a \"Dear John\" letter to King George. They would read their versions aloud for her the next morning.\n\n\"Whoop-de-do,\" she said.\n\nI arrived at school mid-morning after my downtown speaking engagement, uncharacteristically dressed in a business suit and heels. The children were happy to see me, waving and calling to me from the library line, highly complimentary about my stylish look. They usually saw me dressed like a commando: pants, flat boots, simple top. (I admire teachers who wear dresses, heels and hose and accessories to school. I don't know how they manage. I could not do the job dressed like that. I was on my feet all day, up and down ladders, jumping on chairs, chasing down kids, moving around. My perfect school uniform would be a one-piece industrial uniform, one of those pants and shirt combos with buttons or a zipper up the front and lots of pockets. Either special forces khaki or CPD tactical officer black would work, color-wise. Chemical spill containment suit white would not. Combat boots and earrings would complete the ensemble. If I were superintendent, I'd offer them free to all teachers.)\n\nSince it was Friday, the afternoon went down the drain in its typical fashion. Every week had a Friday. Why did every Friday have to be so messed up? By afternoon they were noisy, inattentive, irritable and generally horrible. Tyrese said \"motherfucker\" out loud just to see what I would do about it. I shrugged my shoulders.\n\nI was so frustrated and sick of them that I screamed at poor Carlos, who had merely gotten up to ask me if he could go to Ms. Gamble's class to get something he left there. I tried calling him twice over the weekend to apologize but got the answering machine. I didn't leave a message.\n\nThe following Monday morning was freezing and rainy. I had realized over the weekend that I had an appointment with my new doctor that day. I booked the appointment in late January, but since he only saw new patients one day a week, it took me a while to get in. When I got a reminder message on Saturday, I realized I'd have to take Monday off from school, and I had left nothing behind for a substitute. I felt bad that whoever walked into my classroom would have to wing it.\n\nAt 6 a.m. I phoned the substitute teacher center, protocol for when a teacher was absent. The sub center was a central routing office at the board of education that matched substitutes to vacancies and dispatched troops. It was not easy to get substitutes at our school. I met a woman at a party who told a horrific story about subbing in a first grade classroom at a school where the kids ran wild and the office was so rude and uncooperative that she walked out at 1:30, got in her car and drove away, never to return. I asked her the name of the school. You guessed it\u2014my school.\n\nI continued to get a busy signal at the sub center. I redialed every couple of minutes. I toyed with the idea of going to school at 8 with my lesson plans, teaching until it was time to go to the doctor and leaving an organized day (at least on paper) for whatever victim they rounded up to take my class. Nah. That day, I would be just as unprofessional as those I criticized.\n\nStill busy at 7:30. I got through to the school office at 7:45 to let them know I would not be in. I told the secretary that the phones at the sub center must be broken, that I'd been getting a busy signal for nearly two hours.\n\n\"That's normal,\" she said wearily. \"Keep trying.\"\n\nStill busy at 8:55 a.m. Still busy at 9:11 and 9:15. Schools were already in session. I felt ashamed to work for such an inefficient and uncaring bureaucracy. I felt a rising indignation and with it, a sense of justification for my guilty day off. I felt I owed the system nothing, no courtesy, no loyalty, no support, nothing. On my sick day, I was sick of all the adults who worked for the school system who barely tried to do their jobs even marginally well\u2014sick of the lot of them, absolutely disgusted with them.\n\nThe sub center line was still busy at 9:30. It was still busy at 10:30, when I left for the doctor. I called the school secretary back. She said they had someone to cover my room, and I didn't have to call the sub center any more.\n\nI reminded myself as I drove through the gray mist to the doctor's office that I didn't work for \"the system\" or even for the bungling adults who operated it so poorly. I worked for the children.\n\nI wondered what was going on back in the classroom. I knew that if a stranger was sent, the only reasonable expectation was preserving life and limb. The only other time I'd had a substitute, it was a man, a big man, who became so frustrated by the end of the day that he shoved Tyrese and choked Eric. At least that's what the kids told me. The man was never seen again.\n\nI heard from an aide that the Friday before, during my hour-long absence, my mentor had the class sit silently and copy out of books. They did not read their _Declaration of Independence_ interpretations after all.\n\n\"You could have heard a pin drop,\" the aide said admiringly.\n\nFear, intimidation and copying out of books. That was precisely what I was learning at college not to do. That was not learning, that was a bunch of crap, we were told in our teaching classes. Yet these methods were revered at my school, where quiet and order were prized.\n\nIt was little comfort that a review team from the state, after spending a week at our school conducting eighty observations and interviewing fifty teachers, recommended that the teachers do more hands-on and small-group teaching, more critical thinking activities. They criticized the staff for leaning too heavily on in-the-seat direct instruction and worksheets.\n\nThe state team also interviewed students. The findings: \"Students complained about people acting out in the classroom, talking and yelling out and throwing paper. They said they don't feel anyone listens to them when there's a problem.\"\n\nI felt gratified that both times our class was observed we were doing hands-on, small groups and critical thinking. It was noisy, but we were on the right track, according to these experts. But the validation was little comfort to me in my bottoming-out phase.\n\nI was told that bottoming out happened to all first-year Teachers For Chicago interns at some point. It comes at different times for different people.\n\nI'm sure some of my bottoming out was due to a chronic, escalating lack of respect from the principal. Before the meeting with the state examiners, for instance, an aide ran to fetch me, breathless. \"The principal is calling for you. You'd better get over to the library right now!\" What was so all-fired important? He wanted me to take notes as the state team presented its findings.\n\nIronically, the only paper I had to take notes on was an envelope, marked \"confidential,\" containing a referral from the principal to a classroom management course at the teachers' academy. The course conflicted with graduate school, but my mentor said I could be fired if I didn't obey my principal's order.\n\nI typed up the notes during my prep period and delivered them to the principal early in the afternoon. He asked, \"Where is the rest of it?\" I assured him that the state examiners' comments were complete. \"Where's my part?\" he asked peevishly. He wanted his reaction to their comments, a corny basketball metaphor of the students dribbling down court and the teachers as a team and how what we did determined whether each student made the hook or the jumper, hit the three or missed the easy layup.\n\nMy mind reeled. I fled the office, saying something over my shoulder about how I'd work on that part over the weekend and be sure to add it. Back in the classroom, I picked up rumblings that one of my girls was pregnant. Hints and innuendo were flying around the room. I saw Sherika pat her belly and smile. God, no, I thought, the motherless child pregnant at twelve? It was too much. I put it out of my mind to think over during the weekend.\n\nAt day's end, aliens abducted the vice principal. Someone charming and upbeat claiming to be her came on the intercom told us to have a nice weekend and go straight home. At 3, a half-hour after dismissal, I was called to the office to pick up my check and told to go home. I was the only teacher left.\n\n\"Even the Lord rested on the seventh day,\" sighed the sympathetic alien who had assumed the vice principal's physical shell. She reminded me that she had been at school all the previous weekend preparing for the review team and was ready for some R&R. Pretty crafty of the alien to throw in those details. A convincing performance.\n\nAs part of my bottoming-out phase, I sent mayday messages to people who had offered me help in the past. One offered encouragement; another suggested I was being set up; a third promised to send some classroom management techniques. I never got them.\n\nI also reached out to former colleagues, apologizing for my \"deep underground phase.\"\n\n\"I used my editing skills last week,\" I told them. \"I had the kids write letters to U.S. Education Secretary Richard Riley protesting his proposal to cut summer vacation to one month. One young man closed his letter by telling Riley that he was 'a bogus piece of monkey crap,' and 'Have a nice day!' with a smiley face. I wrote in the margin in my teacher red pen, 'Antwan, I'm not sure it's a good idea to call the U.S. education secretary a piece of monkey crap. Think you can reword that?'\"\n\nI tried to explain to the people I had been so close to just six months before what had become of me, but it was like trying to make contact from the afterlife. It was impossible to convey how exhausting it was working with children, how they sucked the life out of me and fought me every step of the way but needed me at the same time because school was the most positive, consistent thing in their lives. I had flashes of memory, but no words to describe the small moments that revealed to the kids the big world beyond our ugly little corner or the beauty in front of us where we stood.\n\nI felt like Robert DeNiro's character in _The Deer Hunter_ when he returned from Vietnam to his small Pennsylvania steel town, where life had gone on as usual. \"I feel a lot of distance,\" was how he put it.\nChapter 26\n\n* * *\n\n**No Coincidences**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nOne time I interviewed Alice Walker, and she said something that stuck with me. She said there are no coincidences, only markers on the path to let you know you're going the right direction. After that, I never saw coincidences again, only markers.\n\nIt was a cold spring day, the slush had melted and my car was running rough. I dropped it off at the shop after school and walked the mile or so home. Because I was on foot, I found markers right there on my path. Tons of them.\n\nWhen my girls were little and we'd walk around the block, we'd keep an eye out for evidence of the \"rubber band fairies.\" We'd find rubber bands left by the people who drop off mailers at houses. We always found at least one or two, sometimes piles of them. Sometimes red, other times blue or beige, sometimes large ones, sometimes small. The kids would take them home and do Barbie's hair with them.\n\nComing home from the car mechanic, another fairy had been at work: The Twistie Fairy. For blocks, every 10 feet or so, I'd find another blue twist-tie. Nelson used them to make his moveable creatures and he called them \"twisties.\" Just that day he had asked me if I had any twisties, and I did not. When I spotted the first one I laughed out loud and bent to pick it up. As I put it in my pocket, I saw the second one, and another after that.\n\nI must have looked like some sort of nutball as I gathered them up. Burdened down with my teacher bags, I'd walk a couple of steps, stop, bend, pick up another blue twistie. By the time I got home I had a whole bouquet of them, probably 50.\n\n\"Look what I found!\" I crowed to my children as I came in the door, holding out my blue bouquet.\n\n\"Twisties for Nelson!\" they hollered back. They were impressed with my haul.\n\nI thought of Alice Walker and our interview in her suite at the Ritz Carlton. The memory seemed dreamlike and long ago, but the wisdom in her words was immediate and clear and real: There are no coincidences.\n\nGod is with us, always, in the smallest moments, in silence, even in discarded twist-ties someone threw in the street, making a trail as he walked along, not really thinking at all, certainly not thinking that his discarded trash would mean anything to someone coming behind, anything at all. Yet for the person following the path, it was proof that I had not been forgotten. I was not alone.\n\nNot long after that, something happened to my friend, Fred Dobrinski. He played guitar in the band with my husband for years. Later, he went back to school and became a music teacher. After a few months at his suburban Chicago school, he learned that there was a long-forgotten \"instrument room\" behind a locked door in a nondescript hallway near the auditorium. He went to take a look.\n\nHe must have felt like Howard Carter discovering King Tut's tomb when he unlocked the door. Inside were thirty-five guitars. Not trombones, not snare drums, not violins. Guitars. Another friend, a businessman and guitar aficionado, paid for repairs and cases, and Fred added guitar classes to his curriculum. It was no coincidence. Neither were the gift certificates from Borders which would surprise me later on. Neither was the marker I found on the sidewalk at the end of the year, one I almost did not see through tears and nearly stepped on and squashed.\nChapter 27\n\n* * *\n\n**Pierre**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nWhenever there was an ugly crowd on the verge of danger, Pierre was there. In a fight between kids swinging two-by-fours I tried to break up after school one Friday afternoon, Pierre was at the center of the brawl, stripped down to his t-shirt on a winter afternoon, howling at the gray sky, screaming at the top of his lungs, stoking up the crowd.\n\nThere had been a terrible fight between two girls after school another day. One was hospitalized with stab wounds. The other was in the juvenile detention center. Tragedy, all the way around. At that fight, Pierre was ringside. Others were accessories after the fact; they helped hide the weapon.\n\nPierre seemed to have radar for violence and usually insinuated himself into it somehow. He liked to instigate it, too, by being argumentative, manipulative, volatile. He was also sensitive, loving and articulate. He was complex and fragile. I cared for him and worried about him. I was glad to see his mother when she stopped by school.\n\n\"I am concerned about Pierre,\" I said. \"He seems to be on a self-destructive track, but he has so many gifts. He spends a lot of energy stirring up conflict with gossip and insulting people to start fights. A fight is one thing, but I'm worried he's going to shoot off his mouth to the wrong person and get himself hurt. He doesn't seem to realize that his mouth can be a dangerous weapon.\"\n\nI asked Pierre's mother whether he'd ever received counseling, and she said no, but she'd certainly agree to it. She was at her wit's end with him. She said she'd come to school the next morning to talk to the guidance counselor with me. She didn't show.\n\nBut I told the guidance counselor that Pierre's mom had agreed to counseling, and the counselor said she'd arrange services. Soon after that, a social worker visited the mother. She reported back to me that Pierre would get counseling. Bless her. Bless her.\n\nBecause of the help, though, something drastic happened. It was discovered that Pierre lived outside the boundaries for our school.\n\n\"Is this your mother's house or your grandma's?\" I asked him, pointing to the address on a school form.\n\n\"My mama,\" he said.\n\n\"But I thought you lived with your grandmother.\"\n\n\"No. I live with my mama,\" he assured me, clueless that his honest answer would get him booted from our school.\n\nThe die was cast.\n\nTuesday afternoon, an office aide dropped Pierre's transfer documents on my desk. I filled in the information about how many days he had been absent and tardy all year. I shook his hand and wished him good luck. That was it. He was out.\n\n\"Good luck at your new school,\" I told him. \"Keep working hard.\"\n\nThe next morning, Pierre was back, sitting in the office. His mother was behind closed doors with the vice principal.\n\n\"I didn't think I'd see you again,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm here about the fight yesterday after school.\"\n\nLike I said, if there was trouble, Pierre would find the middle of it.\n\nA few minutes later, he left the office looking like a whipped dog. His mother screamed, \"This is the motherfucking last straw! I swear you belong in a mental hospital.\"\n\nI ran after them and caught Pierre at the door. I handed him his portfolio of schoolwork.\n\n\"Thanks, Mrs. B.,\" he said. And then he was gone, a split-second silhouette against the bright morning sun before the big metal doors slammed shut behind him.\n\nPierre had had many difficult days in our classroom. But he had great days, too. I would never forget him. That part was true. He would always be on my conscience.\n\nI felt like I had palmed him off on someone else, like I had passed the buck. I wondered whether I should call his new school, tell them he was approved for counseling services. I would ask the guidance counselor what, if anything, had been lined up in terms of transition services.\n\nOne afternoon the following week I heard a familiar voice behind me say, \"Hey, Mrs. B.\"\n\n\"Pierre,\" I said, \"how are you? How are things at your new school?\"\n\n\"I'm not there yet,\" he said.\n\n\"But it's been a week,\" I said, \"you haven't been in school all this time?\"\n\n\"No, we needed three forms of ID,\" he said.\n\nAn office aide on guard duty at the door interrupted.\n\n\"You are no longer a student here, Pierre, you can't go walking through the school...\"\n\n\"The children will be out in a minute,\" I told him. \"I'll tell them you're right outside. Take care.\"\n\nThe difference between life and death. That's what Haberman said school was to some kids. A week had passed and Pierre still wasn't in school. Had I pulled his lifeline?\nChapter 28\n\n* * *\n\n**Spring Planting**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThe class planned a seed-planting project. It was part science, part sentiment. It was important to me that they take home something living that would sustain them. Any garden is a celebration of life and a symbol of hope, and my hope was that they would become nurturers and caretakers, that they would assume responsibility for tending to living things. I hoped they would take from our classroom living connections that would keep growing after our time together was over. I hoped for surprise when the seeds sprouted and delight at that small yet significant success. They voted for cucumbers, melons and tomatoes.\n\nWe saved our milk cartons at lunchtime until we had two or three for each student. Our wide windowsills with the afternoon sun would serve us well. I bought potting soil with fertilizer pellets and packets of seeds.\n\nIt was chaotic and messy, but we managed to get the crops in. I showed them how to read the packets to know when we could expect to see sprouts popping up from the dirt. They looked at me doubtfully. Urban gardeners are hard cases. They were doubtful that windowsills crowded with milk cartons would soon be a garden.\n\nWe also decided to plant sunflowers all along our window wall outside of Room 118. We'd been studying the poems of Langston Hughes and decided to name our garden in memory of the poet who knew despair but held fast to hope. I picked up a wooden garden marker in the shape of a sunflower, which Nate painted yellow and green. He added in yellow on black in the center of the flower: Langston Hughes Memorial Garden, Room 118, C/O '01.\n\nExhausted and buying time to get grades in for the third-quarter report cards, I rented _The Mighty_ for the class. The only movies we watched that year were _The Witches_ and _The Outsiders_ \u2014after we read the books. But since _The Mighty_ was about writing a book, with a powerful message about courage and chivalry, I let it roll.\n\nThis touching coming-of-age story is about a boy with a fatal disease that makes him need leg braces and crutches. He is assigned to tutor a great big strong kid who has a learning disability in reading. They become friends. Max becomes Kevin's \"legs.\" They identify with the Knights of the Round Table and do honorable deeds because that is what knights do. The movie is divided into six \"chapters,\" and while the ending is sad because Kevin dies, Max learns to read and ends up writing his own book. It ends with Max considering the meaning of the \"once and future king.\"\n\n\"That can either mean he can come again, or, when someone so great once was, someone so great will always be.\"\n\nThe kids talked so much during the movie that I could not tell whether they were watching or listening. Three bodies wrestled for space in the big chair. I was amazed when they burst into applause at the right moments. I was doubly amazed when Sherika, who at the beginning of the year was practically illiterate and who talked more than anyone, recited word for word the advice Kevin gave Max in their first tutoring session: \"Every word is part of a picture. Every sentence IS the picture. All you do is let your imagination connect them together.\"\n\nIt was Sherika again who found the perfect verse for our Langston Hughes garden marker, from his poem, \"Motto.\"\n\n_I play it cool_\n\n_and dig all jive_\n\n_That's the reason_\n\n_I stay alive._\n\n_My motto,_\n\n_As I live and learn is:_\n\n_Dig and Be Dug_\n\n_In Return._\n\nMy mouth dropped open, I ran up and hugged her. The double meaning of \"dig and be dug\" for the garden knocked me out. Her wheels were turning. I proclaimed her an intellectual heavyweight. She took a bow.\n\nIn the middle of all this, the third quarter came to a screeching halt, which meant report cards\u2014a crushing task. I agonized over grades. It was my first time doing report-card pickup solo. When the parents came for first-quarter grades, the four seventh- and eighth-grade teachers met them as a team on the auditorium stage. Second- and fourth-quarter report cards went home with the students. Third-quarter pick-up was a day-long open house for conferences with parents and students.\n\nIt took place in our classroom, which was looking pretty spiffy. Our March weather chart covered two walls. Every day we noted the high and low temperature and our artists made suns, clouds and snowflakes to mark conditions. The thirty-one-day chart showed that \"March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.\" Samples of the kids' work hung everywhere: letters, haiku, graphs, maps and colorful tessellations (pattern repetitions) from geometry.\n\nI had three kinds of cookies and apple juice, a video screening area so parents who missed the Christmas performance could see it on tape, portfolios of every child's work, a Langston Hughes poem and a letter pleading for the return of borrowed paperbacks and textbooks. Twenty-three parents showed; thirteen didn't. I was told that wasn't bad at all.\n\nFreddie's mother left with a big smile on her face after seeing the Christmas video. Carlos' mother was pleased because his grades went up. Racquel got a terrible report card, which was way out of character. But she vowed to bring up her grades in the last quarter.\n\nI had a list of books on tape at the library for Nichelle's grandmother, so she could build on Nichelle's great listening skills to help her become a less reluctant reader. She vowed to get the books so Nichelle could read along with the tape. Kayla was a no-show, and that was strange.\n\nAt the teachers' lunch break, I heard that the Mad Crapper had struck again. A turd on a paper plate had been left inside the teacher's lounge refrigerator the day before. The refrigerator stood empty after that.\nChapter 29\n\n* * *\n\n**Bad Things Happen in Threes**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nIt was strange, very strange, that Kayla didn't come for report card pickup. She had not been sick. She didn't come to school for the rest of that week. When she was absent again the next week, I called her house but the phone was disconnected. I asked Racquel, who lived down the street, to stop by. She reported back, \"Kayla's out of town.\"\n\nAnother week passed. How long could she be gone, this girl who never missed a day of school? Where had she gone? Her family was so poor she hardly had clothes on her back. Where on earth could they be?\n\nToward the end of the second week, the school secretary came to the classroom and said a police officer had been inquiring as to Kayla's whereabouts. I told her what I knew and gave her an accounting of when she had last been to school and how long she'd been absent.\n\nI became alarmed at the \"missing\" reference. The policeman explained that an aunt had filed a missing persons report for Kayla, her mother and sister. We searched Kayla's locker. Empty. All of her schoolbooks and four novels from our classroom, including my personal copy of _The Outsiders_ , were stacked neatly in her desk. No notebooks. No paper.\n\nShe was gone, and she had known she was going. That much was clear in an instant. I turned every book inside out thinking a note might fly out. I flipped through pages looking for clues.\n\nNothing.\n\nOur last conversations had revolved around a special book I bought for her. It was a book of short stories written by an author who shared, almost, her name. I was reading it first to make sure there was nothing glaringly inappropriate in it, but mostly so we could discuss the stories, reader to reader, as we had all year.\n\n\"When I'm done,\" I had told her, \"it will be yours to keep.\"\n\nSeeing the book on my nightstand drove me to tears. I was frantic with worry, sick at heart, grief-stricken. Was she safe? I prayed she was. I prayed that she would come back to us, her friends since she was little and her teacher, who believed in her and loved her. You are not forgotten, I whispered to the air often as the days passed. Still no Kayla.\n\nFinally, after another week, the guidance counselor informed me that Kayla was safe and that she was with family members in another state. For reasons that were not revealed, mother and daughters had left.\n\nThis sort of thing happens to kids and families every day. The reasons that send them fleeing could be homelessness, domestic violence, debts, drugs, gang threats, who knows? Things get out of hand, intolerable. Leaving becomes the only option. It broke my heart that she had to endure whatever situation had become so drastic that there was no other answer.\n\nThere was no address for me to contact her yet. But I vowed I would find her. I would get an address. We would write letters. I would let her know she was missed and pray for her return.\n\nI realized how I had come to depend on her, and it made me feel even worse. She had supported me, while she had dealt with perils she never revealed.\n\nShe had been a young woman of dignity and character who supported others when her own world was crumbling beneath her feet. She had been my strength and my encouragement, a seventh-grade girl. No wonder books had been her escape.\n\nThe honest questions that a teacher must ask were brutal. Had she felt she couldn't confide in me? Did she distrust me or think I was insincere? Had I been such a weakling that she didn't want to burden me with another problem? If she had asked for my help, could I have helped her?\n\nAt the end of April, the guidance counselor told me she had an address and promised to forward a package. I bought the stamp and a bubble envelope. I stuffed the book and a note inside:\n\nDear Kayla,\n\nI hope this letter finds you well. I am happy to learn you are in school, though I am envious of your new teacher! You were a presence and a positive influence in Room 118, and we all miss you very much! Tyrese and Freddie are keeping me busy, but I'm not having many book group conversations.\n\nHere is the special book I promised you. I hope you enjoy it. Short stories are such a delight\u2014so much variety in a collection, so much to think over. Take it slowly and give each one a chance to sink in.\n\nI just finished _Holes_ by Louis Sachar. It won the Newberry Award in 1999. It's about a boy who gets sent to boot camp for a crime he did not commit. Their punishment is that they have to dig a hole every day, five feet wide and five feet deep. It is very funny and adventurous. We are reading it in class now.\n\nWe all think of you. Stay strong. I give thanks every day that my first year as a teacher I had the good fortune to have you as my student.\n\nWith love,\n\nMrs. B\n\nOn an impulse, I threw in a medal I had bought in Rome a year before, an enamel of _La Madonna della Strada_ , the madonna of the streets, on a gold chain.\n\nGod would look out for Kayla, I told myself. She was his child, not mine, and her faith was mighty. Drawing on her example, I chose to believe that I would see her again someday.\n\nPierre was in the hospital. Word had it he had been attacked in an abandoned house. Several versions of what happened were floating around. All sounded like the neighborhood ghost stories about kids getting \"snatched\" and dragged into abandoned houses. But Sherika said Pierre's mother called her and told her the whole story and that she was going to visit him that afternoon.\n\nAt dismissal, the vice principal came on the intercom and told teachers not to let anyone leave, to keep the students in our classrooms because of a \"serious incident\" outside the school. There was much grousing, \"Awwww,\" and \"You can't make us stay,\" and other such nonsense. Two teachers hurried past. I poked my head out in the hallway and asked, \"What's up?\"\n\n\"Shooting outside,\" they whispered.\n\nIt was bound to happen sometime. Now it had. Protect the kids.\n\n\"I don't see anything outside, let's draw the blinds,\" I told them. I turned off the lights. I picked up _The Outsiders_ and started reading out loud where we'd left off.\n\nTen or fifteen minutes later, another announcement told us that we could dismiss the children and told the children to \"go straight home.\"\n\nI added to that before walking them out.\n\n\"This is no joke. There was shooting. Keep your wits about you. Look sharp. Pay attention. No alleys. Main streets only. Move fast. Go straight home. I'll see you tomorrow.\"\n\nThe story was that two guys without guns were running away from two other guys with guns. Shots were fired. The two unarmed men ran through an open door into the little kids' building, where they sought refuge. Asked what they were doing there, they refused to leave (and be shot at again) and stalled for time, talking loudly and posturing in the hallway.\n\nThe alleged gunmen waited outside, across the street.\n\nSomeone called the police, and the gunmen ran off when the squad car pulled up. The police arrested the two guys inside the school.\n\nIt didn't bother me at first, but that evening at college, I found myself crying before math class and again in the bathroom during the break and again on the way home. It was so overwhelmingly sad and stressful, the shooting and Pierre all in one day.\n\nDue to the circumstances, Pierre's transfer was reversed, and when he got out of the hospital he came back to us to complete the rest of the year. He never went a single day to the other school, because the adults in his life could not pull together three forms of identification and organize themselves to register him.\n\nHe was subdued. He seemed weary. The first thing he told me was that he'd been in the hospital. I said I'd heard, and he could stay after school if he wanted to talk. I gave him a hug and told him his desk was where it always had been. He found his chair and settled in at his old spot near the door.\n\nAfter school, we sat on desks in pale gold sunbeams of spring light that made everything seem soft and fuzzy.\n\n\"How does it feel to be back?\" I asked. \"Are you okay?\"\n\nPierre said he was in the hospital for one day, and he had to get two shots. He said the guy approached him as he walked down the street, asked him if he wanted some wine. He told the man he didn't drink. The man asked him if he had any dope. He told the man he didn't use it and didn't sell it. Then the guy grabbed him by the shirt and wrestled him into an abandoned building. Pierre was harmed, but fortunately, some other men arrived, and they held the assailant until police arrived. Pierre had already been to one court appearance and would have to go again.\n\n\"My mother cried,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" I told him. \"Life is hard enough without that kind of sadness and trouble.\"\n\nWe sat a while longer, talking, until it was time to get going.\n\n\"I'm glad you're back,\" I told him. \"We really missed you.\"\n\nI hugged him goodbye.\n\n\"See you tomorrow,\" I said.\n\nHe'd been out of school for exactly one month. His whole life had changed.\nChapter 30\n\n* * *\n\n**\"Remediation\"**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThe Monday after the Mad Crapper left a turd in the fourth-grade fish tank, my intern liaison from downtown showed up at my door. \"Hi, come on in,\" I told her.\n\nBut she was not there to observe. She had been summoned to an \"emergency meeting\" about Mr. Diaz and me.\n\n\"What's going on?\" I asked.\n\nWe were both in the dark. There hadn't been any major blow-ups or notorious incidents of late. Nothing out of the ordinary, just business as usual. Something urgent was afoot, though. When the principal called her, he said it could not wait until the next week. It had to be that day, first thing in the morning. She canceled her appointments and arrived first thing that day. She cooled her heels until 1:30.\n\nMr. Diaz was summoned first. I was called at 2:20. Waiting for me around a conference table in the principal's private office were the principal, the assistant principal, the liaison and the mentor.\n\nI was handed a piece of paper with \"Intern Remediation Plan\" printed in bold letters across the top. They informed me that I was \"in remediation\" and the paper was the plan for how I would correct my shortcomings.\n\nIf I failed to meet the \"desired outcomes,\" I could be fired. It would be up to the principal whether I stayed, was shipped out to another school or kicked out of the program altogether.\n\nDesired Outcomes:\n\n1. Establish ways to discipline students rather than escalating the problem; review discipline policy and techniques.\n\n2. Exhibit professional behaviors and practices; be receptive to criticism and admit mistakes rather than make excuses. Be able to see yourself objectively.\n\n3. Exhibit professional behaviors and practices; develop and maintain organizational techniques to create a conducive learning environment.\n\nTime line for attaining the desired outcomes: two weeks.\n\nThe principal detailed specifics of my shortcomings: poor discipline in the hallway; not walking students all the way out the door at dismissal; allowing students to go two at a time to the washroom unsupervised; using inappropriate language; failing to say the Pledge of Allegiance and sing both anthems every morning; failing to read every morning from 9 to 10 a.m.\n\nI was flummoxed. This was crazy! Everything was in slow motion. When he stopped talking, I heard my own voice.\n\n\"What about this 'being receptive to criticism and not making excuses'? This implies I am an excuse-maker and possibly delusional. I think we need to have specifics\u2014not innuendo\u2014on the record.\"\n\nSilence.\n\nThe principal assured me, in clipped tones, that \"someone\" would be observing me, perhaps on a daily basis, perhaps more often than that. The sheet said my fate depended on his assessment, that he himself would \"observe evidence of discipline techniques, organizational behaviors\" and \"observe and document professional behaviors and practices\" in order to make his decision.\n\nMy mentor would \"give guidance and ideas related to discipline and managing student behavior\" and \"assist with arranging, organizing or analyzing the classroom learning environment.\"\n\nI wanted to pound the table and demand where all this guidance and assistance had been for the first thirty-six weeks of the school year. But that would not have been professional behavior for a teacher. I wanted to call this what it was, bullshit, but that would have been inappropriate language. I wanted to ask how I was supposed to fix in two weeks what had been set in motion long before, from elements beyond any of our control. But that would have been excuse-making.\n\nSo I sucked up. I said, \"I welcome the backup. I also welcome whatever feedback you can share with me to help me succeed.\"\n\nI felt powerless and humiliated.\n\nBefore the meeting broke up, Iowa test scores were passed out. Here's how my kids did: two-thirds improved in reading, ten students by more than a year. Pierre and another boy improved nearly three years; Andre, Tyrese and four other kids jumped nearly two years. Kayla was reading at a tenth-grade level. Five went down in reading, including a girl who had a major literacy breakthrough and experienced reading for pleasure for the first time in her life. Test anxiety?\n\nMath was not good. Two thirds improved, but only about ten showed the expected nine months of growth. Ten actually went down.\n\nI made it to the outside door before tears spilled down my cheeks. I would have to play this close to the vest, but I also needed counsel. Donna's door was open.\n\nShe was aghast when I told her what happened. She just shook her head and opened and shut her mouth without saying any words for the longest time. She fished the ashtray out of her desk drawer and lit a cigarette.\n\n\"They must really want you out of here,\" she finally said, looking over her shoulder as she opened a window, blowing out a plume of smoke. Her eyes were like hot coals. \"Uh, uh. Ain't this the shit.\"\n\nI showed her the test scores, and she said they were \"gorgeous,\" that I had nothing to feel bad about as far as how well the kids had done in spite of everything, my being a first-year teacher and everything else.\n\n\"You know Baldacci,\" she said. \"You gotta go 'full armor' from here on out, just keep going. He won't let you down.\"\n\nBut could He pick me up? I was devastated, flattened.\n\n\"Look at the positives,\" Donna advised. \"Look at Tyrese. Look at Pierre. Look at what you were able to do with these kids your first year. There are a lot of successes here.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but what about the ones that did worse?\" I asked. \"How can you work so hard and have kids not learning?\"\n\n\"Goddamned Virgo,\" she said. \"Just like me. You obsess over the things that go wrong instead of enjoying what went right.\"\n\nShe paused a moment, then delivered a final bit of advice.\n\n\"Girl, don't you worry about that man. He ain't shit.\"\n\nLate that afternoon, I phoned Tyrese's father with the news that he had tested at grade level in both reading and math. After the months of struggle, the happy ending choked him up.\n\n\"That sure is good news,\" he said thickly. He decided not to tell Tyrese the news, merely ask him questions about how he felt he did and what his expectations were. He'd let Tyrese learn his scores for himself.\n\n\"I guess I'm going to have to get him that new pair of Jordans he's been asking for,\" he said, breaking into a chuckle.\n\nThe next day, Donna handed me a laminated, card-sized copy of the famous drawing entitled \"Jesus Laughing.\" It is a simple pen and ink of Christ in a most uncharacteristic carefree pose of delight and mirth.\n\n\"I just love that picture,\" she said. \"You hang on to it. Keep it handy.\"\n\n\"Do you think he is laughing at us, at the silly, pointless games humans play against each other?\" I asked.\n\n\"I think in the middle of all he knew and witnessed, he still managed to be joyful,\" Donna said. \"He wants us to be joyful.\"\nChapter 31\n\n* * *\n\n**Assumptions**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nBeing on remediation did not preclude me from giving a talk to the office of accountability staff downtown at the board of education.\n\nI touched on the insensitivity of assumptions when I faced the bean-counters who defend standardized test scores like they are the holy grail. They, same as most policy-makers, like things to fit in neat little boxes. Wrapping themselves in comfortable assumptions makes it easier to defend their hard and fast policies.\n\nI told them the story of one kid, a fair student, who tanked the Iowa test the year before. On test day, he took the garbage out before school and found a dead body in the alley. His mother sent him to school after he finished talking to the police.\n\nI told them of a pattern I'd noticed about test anxiety, one I hadn't been able to locate any clinical research on but that might make an interesting study someday. Two girls I thought would score highly on their Iowa tests did terribly. According to their scores, they lost two years of learning in reading. I knew the scores were dead wrong. Test anxiety? Maybe, but why? They were smart girls who did fine work, thoughtful readers who had experienced breakthroughs. Later, I learned that both were rape victims.\n\nTry as we might to consider the conditions that children come from before they pass through our doors, we cannot anticipate everything and therefore should not assume anything.\n\nEven as I spoke to the accountability staff at board of education headquarters, I could not assume that I would be a teacher much longer. I might be fired in a couple of weeks, depending on the outcome of my remediation plan. The chief of accountability seemed to think my plight was silly. He laughed it off, told me not to worry.\n\nBut one thing I had learned was to challenge my assumptions. With my background, I thought I would automatically look for the story behind the story, not take things at face value, greet developments with a raised eyebrow and a \"Hmm.\" But I got out of the habit, somehow, or maybe I was so bombarded with new developments that face value was all I could deal with for a while. I had assumed everyone had milk in the refrigerator at home. I wasn't thinking that witches and evolution would offend anyone's religious sensibilities.\n\nTeachers, especially white teachers with middle-class backgrounds, must challenge themselves not to fall into the lazy habit of white privilege. For instance, when I arranged for a student to take a dance class at half-price at my dance studio, half was still too much and transportation was out of the question. The frustration over the lost opportunity felt worse than no opportunity at all.\n\nWe learn from such mistakes.\n\nMichelle told our college cohort about an eye-opening incident at an open house at her school. She'd had a problem with a boy in her fifth-grade class who was always fooling around. His reading skills were exceptional, she said, but he goofed off in class all the time. She was loaded for bear when his mother came for an open house.\n\nThe boy arrived leading his mother by the hand up the stairs. She was blind. By the other hand he held his two-year-old brother. He settled his brother with markers and paper, instructing the little guy to stay put while he and their mother talked to the teacher. Don't forget to put the caps back on the markers, he reminded his brother.\n\nMichelle had handouts that needed parent signatures. The boy read all the paperwork to his mother, then helped her sign them.\n\n\"All this time I thought he was 'irresponsible,'\" Michelle said. \"Now I realize that in school is the only place he can act like a ten-year-old kid.\"\n\nSarah had a story about another boy, a seventh grader, who showed up at a school located in a public housing project at the start of the year. He was in line for breakfast every morning at 7:30 and spent his days attending classes.\n\nSomeone finally realized he wasn't enrolled and found out why: The boy had been on his own since his mother had gone to jail for a drug offense in late August. He heard that police and social workers were looking for him at his old school and worried that he was going to be put in foster care. On his own, he decided to go to the other school for safety, anonymity and meals.\n\nOnce the full story was revealed, the State Department of children and family services was called. Fortunately, an aunt surfaced who lived in the neighborhood near the new school. She agreed to take him in. The boy attended school every day. He read at a ninth-grade level.\n\n\"This is what school means to these kids,\" our college professor told us. \"It's their safe haven. So when you find out what chaos these children are coming from, consider where they have been when they have a hard time settling down to learn in your classrooms.\"\n\nWhen she taught first grade in a western state, she had one student who came to school every day reeking of urine. She figured he was a bed-wetter and was angry at parents who would send a stinking, dirty child to school. Other children held their noses and refused to play with him. What she found when she knocked on the door of the family's home was a young immigrant mother, whose husband was a migrant worker. She was trapped at home with seven tiny children. The first-grader was the oldest. There were four in diapers. There was no washer or dryer in the apartment. At night, everyone threw their dirty clothes in a corner. The diapers went there, too. Every morning, the first-grader pulled clothes out of the pile and went to school.\n\nThe mother welcomed the teacher into her home. Her English wasn't so great, but no matter\u2014she was elated to see an adult. Who knew how long it had been, with all of her family in Texas and she confined and isolated with seven little children? How could anyone move all those babies, and the family's laundry, on a bus to a laundromat?\n\nThe teacher called human services to obtain a washer and dryer for the family and contacted the landlord for the hookups.\n\n\"You never know,\" she said.\n\nYou never know. \nChapter 32\n\n* * *\n\n**Livin' On the Edge**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nMy Teachers For Chicago liaison came for an observation, to see if order had been established in Room 118 in the nick of time to get me out of hot water.\n\nIt had not. I was \"livin' on the edge,\" a situation in which, Aerosmith observed, \"you can't help yourself from falling.\"\n\nAt the time of the observation visit, I was working with small groups on their plant projects. We were measuring and graphing the growth of our seedlings. It was time-consuming and hands-on. The room was stifling, thick with humidity and the full blossom of summer.\n\nOur window garden was lush and green. Some plants stood four inches tall; ambitious cucumber vines were climbing up the screens. Some kids were working well at their task, and a small group was creating a bright green bulletin board with completed graphs, empty seed packets and photographs of our planting project. Others made a show of working at the garden but were actually sabotaging other kids' plants, opening the screens and pushing them to their deaths over the edge of the windowsill. After school, I found about a half-dozen milk cartons and their spilled contents on the ground outside the window.\n\nDestinee and Sherika decided it was a good time to do Eric's hair in braids and worked at it noisily, gossiping like beauticians at a salon. Eric let out occasional yelps as they combed, parted and pulled his hair into the new style. I told them to end it and get started on their plant graphs, but they paid me no mind.\n\nOne of the undocumented realities of the school system's overemphasis on Iowa test scores was a backlash: Once the tests were over, many students, especially in the upper grades, quit working. The test was what they worked toward. After tests were done, and certainly after the results were in, the school year was over as far as they were concerned.\n\nIn my conversation with the liaison, all I could do was admit that my students were acting worse than ever, because I had failed to bring them under control. One of my remediation tasks was to \"be receptive to criticism and admit mistakes rather than make excuses.\" I did not offer excuses. I flat-out admitted I had failed to control these children.\n\nThe principal, who was to \"observe and document\" my progress, had eyeballed me in the hallway a couple of times, but there were no formal observations. The loose oversight in the wake of the dire threat seemed to confirm that my remediation was a paper set-up. The individuals involved would always be able to point to those papers and say I was a lousy teacher.\n\nMy mentor, who was to \"give guidance and ideas related to discipline and managing student behavior\" and \"assist with arranging, organizing or analyzing the classroom environment,\" helped me take my class to the washroom a couple of times and spelled me for an hour one afternoon, so I could play in the faculty basketball game, which gave me an insight I would never forget.\n\nNo one knew I could play ball. But thanks to coaching girls' teams for three years, I managed not to embarrass myself on the court. These opportunities for bonding with kids are vital for building connections. They need to see us in many roles, as guides on field trips, as voices in the class choir, as teammates on the court. We'd had pitiful little opportunity for that. All week after the game the eighth-grade players high-fived me in the hallway, \"Good game, Mrs. Baldacci!\" We should have played every week all year long, I realized forlornly. An opportunity lost.\n\nAt the end of two weeks, I got called to the principal's office to learn my fate. He said I'd made progress. However, I would remain on remediation through the first quarter of the next school year. The \"results\" column of my remediation form said the same thing in all three boxes: \"Somewhat successful at meeting desired outcome, there is still need for improvement. Remediation will continue through first quarter of 2000\u20132001 school year.\"\n\nThe non-resolution left him with the power\u2014and all-important paperwork\u2014to fire me whenever he felt like it.\n\nI stated that I felt that he should honor the timetable\u2014the one that he himself established\u2014instead of leaving me with the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. No, he said, this is what the professional educators on the team believed I \"needed.\" It was for my own good.\n\nAlmost as an afterthought, he informed me that I would be teaching second grade the following year. I assured him I would do my best.\n\nI walked back to my classroom with conflicting emotions. We had filled out wish lists and I had asked for seventh grade again, feeling I could do better now that I knew the pitfalls. My second choice was sixth grade, my third choice fourth. Being sent to second grade, clearly not what I desired, looked like a punishment. This is what others with greater experience felt was best for me. I said the same prayer I'd said the year before, \"Thy will be done,\" and accepted my fate. But not without beating myself up a little bit first.\n\nHad I been such a dismal failure with my seventh graders, self- contained in the largest classroom in the school with all of our personalities and problems? Surely someone else would have been a better teacher for them than I was. Was it criminal to leave them with me all year? Would I be equally as dismal with second graders? What other students would be sacrificed to my ignorance and inexperience? I was having a regular pity party. My eyes were watery with tears.\n\nI blamed myself for every child who didn't do better, for the ones I failed to reach, who clung tightly to their contempt for authority and learning. I had asked the seventh graders to write down one thing they learned that year.\n\nSome said they didn't learn anything. One said he learned to \"smoke weed and drink.\" One said she learned how to plan her dream trip so she can travel when she is older. One said her teacher had told her that she saw something special and beautiful in everyone in our class, and she was trying to see people that way, too.\n\nJust then, on the sidewalk, I nearly stepped on a clover chain I had made on the playground that morning for a little girl whose name I did not know. I picked it up and thought of Alice Walker. Was this another marker on the path? Was it a message from on high telling me that perhaps my place might be with younger children after all? Would that little girl be my student in the fall?\n\nMr. Diaz was not so fortunate. He was cut from the program. He did not come back to complete his year-end paperwork or collect his belongings.\nChapter 33\n\n* * *\n\n**The End of Seventh Grade**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI had no money to speak of, but I wanted to give everyone a book on the last day of school. I put a $150 price tag on that pipe dream. No way I could afford that. I was looking at a summer of no employment and graduate school. This would be the tightest shoestring our family had ever tried to live on.\n\nI was scrutinizing my bills and noticed a fee on American Express for a program called \"Membership Rewards.\" I phoned them to question the fee and cancel the rewards, which I could no longer afford.\n\nThe person on the other end of the line, however, informed me that over the years, I had racked up many points worth of \"rewards,\" which included gift certificates for Borders.\n\n\"How much?\" I asked.\n\n\"You could get three fifty-dollar gift certificates,\" she said.\n\n\"Send them!\" I ordered.\n\nEveryone would get a book after all. I had each kid write down a title. Kyisha wanted a twelve-dollar _Chicken Soup_ book. Nichelle couldn't come up with a title and asked me to choose for her. Many kids asked for _Holes_ , our final novel, which they loved and was the kind of book you could read over and over. Carlos wanted Stephen King's _The Stand_ , and I called his mother for permission because it is a wonderful story of ultimate good vs. evil, but it had sex scenes. She signed off saying she'd read it herself when he finished, it sounded pretty good. I agreed and admitted I reread it every couple of years.\n\nThe shopping was thrilling. I planned our last days together.\n\n\"Sports Day\" threw a wrench into our plans. Most of the class was banned from participation, and those who did participate were quickly disqualified for assorted misbehavior such as running away, and sent back to the classroom, sweaty and out of sorts. \"Sports Day\" was a full day of trying to contain a revolution, apparently.\n\nI had ordered pizza for the class, a luxury I no longer got for my family, and the misbehavers made pigs of themselves, which started off a string of arguments, which led to fights, which got people sent to the office, which\u2014combined with the running away from Sports Day\u2014led to mass suspensions. The vice principal had vowed that anyone who got sent to the office would be sent home for the rest of the year, no questions asked.\n\n\"See you in August,\" she told them as she cast them out with their yellow suspension papers.\n\n\"Come back Tuesday so we can say good-bye,\" I told them. \"Come to the window and get your things...\"\n\nBetween the suspensions and the fact that many children's parents let them take the last week off because it was so hot, we had only about twenty remaining.\n\nWe spent our final days stripping the room and watching the made-for-TV version of _The Stand_. On our last full day together, we had a lovely day.\n\nAll year long I'd been hearing either, \"Mrs. Baldacci, you bring the NASTIEST lunches!\" or \"Mrs. Baldacci, you have a lot of nerve bringing those nice lunches up in here.\"\n\nIt was no big deal, just turkey sandwiches, maybe with a pickle on the side or a salad or leftovers from dinner at home the night before. I shared my homemade lunches time and again. I even made a lunch for Sherika one day just because she asked me to and no mother ever made one for her. I brought cucumbers often for Freddie. He loved them. Racquel swapped me a bag of flamin' hot Cheetos for my sandwich one day.\n\nTrying to organize ourselves for a last-day feast was futile. Some wanted Subway. Some wanted pizza. Some wanted McDonald's. Nothing was resolved. I let it drop and decided to bring mass quantities of stuff to make our own \"Mrs. Baldacci Nasty Lunch.\" Smoked turkey, ham, cheese, wheat bread, five bags of salad, three kinds of dressing. Sun Chips. Jars of sour dill pickles. I wrote a bad check at the grocery store.\n\nThe kids played volleyball in the morning, using our inflatable globe with chairs as a \"net.\" They danced. They sang. When we did not make any movement toward the lunchroom at 11 a.m., when noon came and went, they started looking at me funny, and I told them we were having a buffet luncheon as soon as we could organize ourselves for a washroom break. We did, without incident. Amazing.\n\nAt the buffet, all served themselves and no one hogged. No one threw food. Everyone got enough to eat. There was a minor dust-up in which Destinee and Cortez hurled horrible insults at each other, but other than that, it was quite pleasant. We whiled away the rest of the afternoon cleaning up and fooling around with a lot of kids helping paint a mural in the hallway with the art teacher. At 2:30, the bell rang, but no one made a move to leave.\n\nFinally, after several announcements of the late hour, I told them I was going into the hallway to take their pictures as they emerged.\n\nI treasure the series of pictures of them leaving. When I look at them, I hear the echos of their voices in the hallway. They are in constant motion, a blur of color, arms and legs. One of the suspended masses met us at the doorway for a couple of group shots, then DeVille finally kicked the door open and they all tumbled out, screaming and laughing. And then they were gone. The door closed and it was silent. I stood there looking at the closed door, listening to the silence.\n\n\"They were here just a second ago. Now they are gone,\" I thought. \"It's over.\"\n\nIt didn't feel like it was over because I still had so much paperwork to complete, and we had one last hour together when they came to pick up their report cards and say goodbye. Then it would officially be over.\n\nFor our finale, I had planned to read _Oh, the Places You'll Go!_ by Dr. Seuss, give them the newsletters I made for our class, their report cards, portfolios and the books I bought for them on my coupons at Borders.\n\nBut I had barely handed out report cards when, at 9:20, security came to our door and rousted us. No final read-aloud. Portfolios and books, which should have been tenderly handed over with ceremony, were palmed off in a rush. After nine months of praying for it to be over, how could I feel so cheated at the end?\n\nI wasn't the only one not ready to call it quits. Andre and Nate stayed for a couple of hours more, just hanging on, and helped me with some records work.\n\nI felt disoriented when I finally turned in my records and left school around 1 p.m.\u2014Piaget's \"state of disequilibrium\" was in full force. I went home and fixed lunch for the girls and myself. But I still felt antsy, like I had unfinished business.\n\nAround 2 p.m., I drove to Pierre's and Cortez's houses to return the stuff they'd left in the classroom. No one was home at either place; I left their bags on the doorsteps.\n\nTyrese was suspended, so I still had his portfolio and his book. I went to two wrong addresses I'd taken from school records. Finally, I got his dad on the phone around 2:30 and got the correct address. I'll be right over, I said.\n\nHis father greeted me at the gate.\n\n\"Tyrese isn't here,\" he said. \"He was here a minute ago. I don't know where he got to.\"\n\nJust then, Tyrese burst out of a house across the street and came running. I gave him his stuff, told him if he kept his scores up there would be no stopping him. I didn't hug him or anything, because that would have been mortifying, but I shook his hand and wished him well. Even after all he put me through that year, I was proud of what he had accomplished. I shook his father's hand, said goodbye and drove off.\n\nOn my way home, I turned on the radio. Bad Company's \"Can't Get Enough of Your Love\" was on. I turned it up. I looked at the sky. I saw gleaming white seagulls circling overhead in the afternoon sun. I took a deep breath and smiled at the prospect of ten weeks off. Finally, our year was finished.\nChapter 34\n\n* * *\n\n**Fairyland**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\n\"We need a fan. It's so hot you can't believe it. And we need a reading rug where we can gather for stories. They're little, and they need a soft place to stretch out or play. I saw some rugs at Home Depot for about fifty bucks.\"\n\nMy benefactor handed me $100 and wished me good luck in the second grade. I wanted our classroom to be a magical, wonderful, learning place. It would take much more than a fan and a rug to make it that.\n\nGoing to second grade meant I was no longer in the old brick building with the high ceilings. I knew no one in the new building and would be starting from scratch, establishing new ties with new colleagues. On my floor were four first-grade classrooms and four second grades.\n\nDue to many vacancies, three of the four second-grade teachers and two of the first-grade teachers were Teachers For Chicago interns.\n\nThough a novice to second grade, I was the \"veteran\" intern. The two other second-grade interns were just starting the program. Fortunately, one was a young woman who knew everything already. The other was a career changer from the insurance industry. The only certified teacher in second grade graciously assumed the role of our team leader.\n\nOf the two fresh first-grade interns, one was calm and professional, the other had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her. The third first-grade teacher was a veteran who wore sunglasses all day long and complained to anyone who would listen about how she should have been teaching eighth grade and how she resented being sent to first grade by our spiteful principal. The fourth first-grade teacher, Mrs. Todd, was someone who was clearly in her niche, centered and calm, knowledgeable and businesslike about the craft of teaching. Like Donna, she was a woman whose faith was her strength and guiding light in her daily work.\n\nIt was odd, indeed, that so many first- and second-grade teachers at our school were rookies. Eight of us, and five were completely untrained. Across the city, most teaching vacancies were in the high-pressure seventh and eighth grades, where the kids are ruthless and the heat to get them into high school scorching. How come our turnover rate was so high for primary teachers, I wondered?\n\nThe transient teacher situation had implications that carried over year after year. Many of my second graders were coming from a first-grade classroom that had four different teachers over the course of the year before. I remembered seeing them in the hallways on their way to the art room or the auditorium. They were noisy and badly behaved, running this way and that, slapping each other. Their teachers looked frazzled. A very tall young man who had been a day-to-day substitute took the class for the last months of the school year. He did not come back, though.\n\nA man who had taught fourth grade for part of the year before was in my old classroom, arranging the desks. I poked my head into 118 and wished him a great year. Keenly aware of my shortcomings since remediation, I admired the fact that the principal had sent a strong black man to establish order in the seventh grade. Sadly, even with fewer than twenty-five kids, he wouldn't last the year.\n\nI missed the old building as soon as I set foot in my new room, 401. It was on the second floor of the prefabricated, three-story annex next door to the original building. The newer building housed pre-kindergarten through third-grade classrooms. The poured-concrete shell went up in 1978 with a declared life span of ten years. In the year 2000, it had been limping along on its last legs for fifteen years.\n\nRoom 401 was painted peach. Acoustic ceiling tiles were missing here and there. Dirty yellow tufts of insulation were visible through the holes. Other tiles were stained from leaks.\n\nI discovered that two walls were magnetic; they would hold posters and student work as time went on. I didn't have much to put up at the moment, since all of my materials were geared toward seventh grade. What I did have to put up, I quickly learned not to hang on the other two walls. They were cold and clammy, sometimes beaded with moisture and defied sticky substances. Posters I hung with sticky-tack one day were on the floor the next morning. I tried packing tape with the same results.\n\nThere were three windows, all clouded over from the ravages of time and Chicago weather. Sunlight diffused through them, but we could not see out of them. Only one window opened and closed. Another was permanently fastened shut with screws and bolts. The third was permanently open a crack, its warped metal frame lashed in place with a window shade cord. Any rainfall flooded the metal ledge along the windows. The heating and air conditioning units were housed beneath the ledge, a tragic design flaw that contributed to constant breakdowns and poor air quality. Many of the children had asthma and no business breathing foul fumes and stale air at school. The dampness made me suspect mold was present as well.\n\nThe baseboards were rusted through, especially in the washrooms. Teachers sitting on the toilet in their \"private\" washroom could actually see the feet of children walking into the adjacent boys' bathroom and clearly hear their conversations. Still, the teachers' washroom was luxurious compared to the students'. The girls' bathroom, for instance, had five stalls, but only two were private. Dividers between the other three toilets had been missing for more than a year. Only one girl used the communal three-toilet area at a time, slowing down the breaks considerably.\n\nThe easiest part of creating a classroom was the physical, filthy, dirty work: scrubbing the room and bookshelves, organizing ancient books and tossing out the obsolete ones, cleaning cupboards, scavenging tables and chairs from other rooms and stairwells. I had done this same thing a year before, and now I was moving again, into another new house filled with the worthless junk of previous occupants. My only cupboard was half-filled with record albums. There was a record player, but it had no needle.\n\nGetting ready took three days of cleaning, hauling, arranging, hanging things on the walls, fixing broken things. Hauling water was exhausting but necessary. Every book on every shelf was coated with dust and grime. The scrub water had to be dumped and replenished often. My hands ached. I fell into bed when the sun went down and slept as if drugged until it came up again.\n\nBy the time the children arrived Tuesday morning, the room was clean and cheery with a big blue rug on the floor and a rocking chair. The fan, placed in front of the only window that opened, circulated fresh air through the room.\n\nI was satisfied as I looked around. But I realized the hard part would be making a home away from home that was a living laboratory for learning. \"Patience,\" I reminded myself.\n\nEveryone punched in and out in the office of the old building, and the door was open to Donna's room across the hall. She was always the first one at school.\n\n\"My sister,\" she greeted me. \"Are you ready?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" I told her. \"I've come for a blessing.\"\n\nI bowed my head and Donna prayed over me, asking for strength for the both of us as we undertook the massive job ahead. I tacked on special prayers for my seventh graders, who would be Donna's kids this year. We said amen, took deep breaths and went forth to \"engage our students\" on the playground outside.\n\nI had thirty-two children's names on my roster, but only nineteen arrived for the first day of school. It was the earliest Chicago schools had ever opened, two weeks before Labor Day. Citywide, one in four children failed to show up for the first day. Chicago's attempt to align itself with the early-opening suburbs fell flat on its face. The next year, the system admitted its mistake and returned to the traditional post-Labor Day opening. In the nation's third largest city, we took the agricultural calendar very seriously.\n\nAs I stood in my new spot (marked 401 in fresh yellow paint), the first familiar face I saw was Carlos. He ambled over, wearing sunglasses, and I asked him if he'd read _The Stand_ over the summer. He said yes, the whole thing. Then Destinee, Nichelle, Sherika, Freddie and Cortez came over to say hi, all loud and talking at once. Nearby, some little kids observed them silently. They looked from the big kids to me, back and forth. Joseph walked over to report that his jalapeno pepper plant had borne fruit! Andre, who grew about four inches over the summer, tossed me a \" _bonjour_ \" as he sidled past. I remembered that it was Tyrese's birthday, and I had one of my corny birthday pencils for him. He avoided me on the playground, but I chased him down in Donna's line and gave it to him.\n\nThis year I would be the tallest one in the class, I realized as I gathered my new students. Several children's parents handed them off to me directly and introduced themselves. One little girl was handed to me screaming and crying, clinging to her sister, who needed to get to sixth grade. I told the little one not to worry, that we'd have fun and I'd take good care of her until her sister came to get her at the end of the day. She was as tiny as a fairy and quite inconsolable. I finally picked her up and carried her in, sobbing on my shoulder. She hardly weighed anything at all. The baby oil from her face and hair made a blotch on my shirt, above my heart.\n\nThe children were eager to get to work. We started our day on the rug, sitting in a circle, telling our names. Some of the boys were James, Brandon, Martin, Hakim, Mario and Louis. Some of the girls were Jasmine, Asophane, Vonique and Diandra. My littlest fairy, the crying one, was named Natasha. Even though she sat next to me, she spoke so softly I had to put my ear to her mouth to hear her name.\n\nWe read a _Sesame Street_ story about the first day of school, then made a story called \"All About Us\" on sentence strips that we hung across the front of the room. \"Our room has ten boys and nine girls.\" (We would change the numbers daily in the coming weeks.) \"We love to read!\" \"Our favorite TV show is _Out of the Box_.\" \"Our favorite food is pizza.\" \"Our favorite animals are cats and dogs.\"\n\nWe went over the rules and assigned classroom jobs. I thought lunchtime would never come. We started smelling the food around 10 a.m., but our class somehow pulled the last lunch shift, 12:15, a full hour later than the other second grades. By 11:30, the children were complaining of stomachaches and headaches because they were hungry. So we had a bathroom break and bought time with a little ballet. I had everyone stand with one hand on the back of their chairs and showed them first position. I put on Otis Redding's \"Fa Fa Fa Fa Fa (Sad Song)\" and we started our ballet lesson with _demi plie\u00b4_ and _grand plie\u00b4_. We turned and did them the other way, \"just like in a real ballet school.\" Then we did _tondu_ and _de\u00b4gage\u00b4_. When we finished one side, I asked, \"What do we do next?\"\n\n\"Turn around and do it the other way, just like in a real ballet school,\" Hakim called instantly.\n\n\"You are absolutely right!\" I said, daring to think that this year was starting off pretty well.\n\nBallet and Otis tided us over until lunchtime, but I realized we would need daily snacks if we were to survive all year on this schedule.\n\nLunch went like clockwork. They were quiet in the hallway and kept good lines. I knew this year to walk backward so I could keep an eye on them, or to walk behind them. I told them to stop at the top of the steps. Then I said \"pass\" and they walked down to the bottom and stopped until I said \"pass\" again. This is an old school routine I abhor, but it works. One irony of schools is that they're supposed to be places that foster creativity and self-control but instead are paramilitary installations with rigid rules and imposed control.\n\nI sat down with my students at the lunch table, which teachers are not supposed to do for some reason having to do with our contract and our 2:30 dismissal. Teachers and staff want to get the hell out early, so on the books our lunchtime is 2:30. During the children's lunch period, we are \"on duty\" with our students. Someone decided that being \"on duty\" meant we stand like prison guards. I decided being \"on duty\" meant sitting and eating as a family and learning table manners. I always sat down with my second graders.\n\n\"Who made you that good lunch?\" I asked Mario, the only one with a lunch from home.\n\n\"I made it myself,\" he said.\n\n\"What do you have?\"\n\n\"I have a sandwich, a juice box, some chips, a pudding and cookies. And I have a spoon for the pudding.\"\n\n\"That's a good lunch,\" I said.\n\n\"Here,\" he said, handing me a chip.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said.\n\nAfter lunch we had another bathroom break. Apparently food and liquids go through second graders at a rapid rate. Lunch is only twenty minutes, but the race to the bathroom after lunch was always urgent.\n\nAround 1 p.m., the secretary came on the intercom and said that a Channel 2 news crew and the principal were on their way to our classroom. The year before, a news producer asked three different times to come to my classroom. I refused every request. Why invite disaster? But she had phoned the night before and asked again. I figured, how bad could second grade be? So I told her to call the principal in the morning. I gave him a note to expect a call from the producer, but I was astonished to learn via intercom that he had agreed with the provision that the children's faces not be shown. It would have been much easier to say no, there is too much going on the first day of school, which is the truth. Instead he said, \"Why do you do these things to me?\" as if I spent my days thinking up ways to exasperate him.\n\nMy new mentor came along with the three TV people. She worked with children on one side of the room while I worked on the other. We reviewed alphabetical order and did some more reading. It was nerve-wracking to have the visitors and the camera in the classroom. I felt certain that in the excitement and intensity of day one, I was a blithering idiot. I dreaded watching the piece on TV that night.\n\nAt the end of the day, I walked the children out and waited with Natasha for her sister. She held my hand. Hers was tiny, but strong. Racquel was right outside the door, wearing a green plaid skirt and necktie. She'd transferred to a magnet school, and she looked happy.\n\n\"How's your grandmother?\"\n\n\"Fine.\"\n\n\"Did your plant grow?\"\n\n\"Not very well,\" she said, \"but it's still trying.\"\n\nShe said her book list for eighth grade at her new school included _Holes_ and _The Outsiders_.\n\n\"I told the teacher I already read these in seventh grade,\" she said, tilting her head with sassy pride and a knowing smile.\n\nThe new interns staggered out, shell-shocked, and felt their way to their cars. I felt their pain. I managed to make it home without driving past my own house, an improvement over last year's first day.\n\nI called Teachers For Chicago headquarters to let the leaders downtown know that the TV piece on \"fast track teachers\" was scheduled to air on the ten o'clock news. I left a voice mail with one of the men who had been my point person on media in the past.\n\nMy own TFC liaison called me a few minutes later. At first she was congratulatory, but it quickly became apparent that she was furious that I had called her partner, who was not my liaison.\n\n\"Why didn't you follow the chain of command?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Well, I've always dealt with him on media issues,\" I said. \"He asked me to keep him updated on anything media-related I did while in the program.\"\n\n\"I wonder if you called him because he is Caucasian. Maybe you feel more comfortable with him.\"\n\nThe conversation, already confrontational and angry, had now taken a turn that left me sputtering, stupidly, \"What?\"\n\n\"I wonder if you called him because he is Caucasian,\" she said.\n\n\"That is ridiculous,\" I said. \"I called him because he had asked me to keep him updated on media things. Are you suggesting that I am a racist?\"\n\n\"Don't try to put words in my mouth,\" she snapped.\n\n\"Well it sure sounds like that's what you're saying. Is that what you think?\"\n\nMeanwhile, I was thinking that \"Caucasian\" is such a weird word. I kept saying it over and over in my head. \"Caucasian.\" \"Caucasian.\"\n\n\"This is not about me,\" she said, \"This is about you.\"\n\nThe conversation was going in circles. I felt sick and off-kilter. I apologized for my thoughtlessness, and told her that in the future I would follow the chain and that nothing like this would happen again.\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure it will,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh come on, that is totally unfair,\" I argued. \"I said it wouldn't happen again, and it won't happen again.\"\n\n\"We'll see,\" she said, hanging up on me.\n\nBack on the shit list, I thought, and it's only the first day of school.\n\nI was heartsick about the way this thing had broken, mainly because there was some validity in what she said. Why had I called the white man (the \"Caucasian\") and not her? Was there more to it than the fact that he had been my point man on media? In my previous career, I'd dealt almost exclusively with white men in power positions. That was the power structure I cut my teeth on. That was what I was familiar and comfortable with. I had worked for and with white, black and Latina women and been an editor myself with authority over men and women of all races. But always, white men held the highest power. Had I failed to learn a key lesson about operating in my new profession, which was vastly matriarchal and minority (yet with a white man in the top position)? It seemed terribly complex and confusing, more than I could grasp on the first day of school.\n\nIt was arrogant to proclaim \"I am not a racist\" without taking time to think, \"Am I?\" So I went to church and prayed on it a while.\n\nI searched my heart with questions about racism. I didn't have all the answers. I liked people for who they were. My favorite downtown liaison was Frank Tobin, not just because we were neighbors and I'd known him longest, but because he seemed to be a kindred spirit. He was the reason I'd walked through the door of the program in the first place. He had used the words \"vocation\" and \"social justice,\" the same words I had secretly carried in my heart as an unseen hand seemed to propel me in a new direction. He was always encouraging and kind and always took time to talk to me. Just that week, he had mailed me a wonderful article from _Harper's_ about the failure of public education being a government conspiracy to keep in place a service industry of under-educated people in dead-end jobs.\n\nThen again, maybe it was easier to feel close to him because his feedback was positive. The most encouragement I ever received from my liaison was that she felt I had \"the potential\" to be a good teacher. She never said I was doing anything in particular right. She never sent me articles in the mail she thought I'd enjoy.\n\nI wondered whether my sin was vanity rather than racism. Maybe I connected better with people who affirmed rather than criticized me, which is human nature.\n\nIn the end, I was grateful to my liaison for forcing me to face that ugly question. She was not kind and we did not love each other, but she was a good teacher to me that day. She opened my eyes. She taught me to question my motivations and alliances. She made me think. I left it at that for the time being.\n\nI had a case of nerves all evening. By 10 p.m. I was in the bed, hiding under the covers. The piece aired after the first commercial. I peeked out and watched it with one eye. To my immense relief, it was fine. Thanks to skillful editing, I was not a blithering idiot. Carol Marin smiled and that's money in the bank.\n\nNo more media, I told myself. I would not do anything but teach those second graders to the best of my ability, every day for the rest of the year. It was best to lie completely low, fly under the radar. I was still in remediation, after all, and my fate lay in the hands of my liaison and the principal, both of whom I'd managed to piss off on the first day of school.\nChapter 35\n\n* * *\n\n**The More Things Change...**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nSome things were different in Second Grade Fairyland, but some things were replays of seventh grade. As we found our rhythm that year, I saw the same personality issues, good and bad, the same cases of kids raising themselves, more shocking this year because the kids were so little. I'd see them navigating the neighborhood alone after school, their enormous backpacks bouncing as they crossed streets at a run. Fatherlessness and homelessness were as devastating for seven-year-olds as twelve-year-olds, but the seven-year-olds did not yet have the cunning to act like it didn't matter. They were open about their heartbreak. Sex and violence invaded our days once again.\n\nMost days started in the breakfast line. The United States Department of Agriculture provided poverty-level schoolchildren with free breakfast, and the children lined up for it at 7:30 a.m., a full hour before they needed to be at school. The government and the school bureaucrats realized that kids can't learn on an empty stomach, so in some ways, the lunchroom was more important than the classroom. Despite two significant snowstorms that winter, the schools did not close a single day, because the superintendent feared many children would go hungry. Aside from the rubbery powdered scrambled eggs, there were many yummy breakfast choices: grits, biscuits, bacon, oatmeal and cold cereal, milk and juice. I sometimes bought breakfast and ate at my desk doing paperwork; a teacher's aide delivered breakfast each morning to the principal in his office.\n\nEvery child except Mario also ate free school lunch on the USDA. The choices rolled out every week with little variation: chicken nuggets, pizza, cheeseburgers, rarely warm, with canned vegetables on the side. On rare occasions, the kitchen served Salisbury steak or chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, the sort of institutional school lunch I remembered from childhood.\n\nThe cook prepared a separate meal for the staff each day, often chicken, some kind of greens and potatoes. I wanted it, and for two dollars, it was a good deal. But how could I sit down with my kids with a spread like that when they had fish nuggets, a packet of ketchup and fruit cocktail? It seemed unfair and rude, with possible racist overtones in my case, so I continued to bring my own lunch every day in my red lunchbox.\n\nLunch at 12:15 was hard on all the kids, but it really killed Enrico. Although he was the tallest child in our class, nearly as tall as I was and just seven years old, he was the most immature. The days were long for him. All afternoon he was fretful and asking \"When do we go home?\" He kicked, I noticed, and tripped other kids walking past his desk.\n\nGetting fed on time was do or die for these little ones. We often had pretzels with mustard for a snack, though Cheeze-Its (the white cheddar cheese kind) were our official favorite. We began carrying a basket to the lunchroom and stockpiling our apples and oranges for the next day's snack. It was good practice because everyone had to pass the basket down the table, not hop up and crowd around it. They also had to add their name to a list with \"A\" or \"O\" next to their name. Still, enough people hopped up from the table in our twenty-minute lunch period that I went home every day with ketchup handprints on my back. One habit I never was able to break in the second graders was their maddening habit of patting me for attention. Imagine trying to speak to one child while three or four others are patting various parts of your body and murmuring your name over and over like a mantra.\n\n\"Form a line!\" I'd tell them. \"I'm only one person, and I can only talk to one other person at one time.\"\n\nI wish I could say I was calm, like Mrs. Todd, but I was frazzled.\n\nSo thank heavens for Mario, our class peacemaker. He was calm. He was the first to arrive on the playground every day, scrubbed and well-dressed, wearing a baseball cap and jacket, carrying his lunchbox and backpack.\n\nI hailed him as \"The Gandhi of 401\" after James threw several fierce, quick punches at Brandon, and Mario got between them before it went any further.\n\nSomething did not seem right with James. He was tightly-wound, volatile, and as the oldest, strongest kid in class, seemed on track to be the class bully. I paid a visit at James' house after school the day of the fisticuffs.\n\nIt took his grandmother awhile to reach the door. She moved slowly, aided by a walker. I introduced myself, and she invited me in, explaining that James' mother was at work. We sat down in the living room. It was cluttered with medical paraphernalia, boxes of hypodermic needles, blood sugar monitoring kits. The family dog had recently given birth to puppies and the house smelled like a kennel. James brought a couple puppies out for me to see. His grandmother sent him back to the kitchen to feed the dogs. After he put the puppies in the kitchen, I could see his shadow on the wall in the hallway where he hid, listening to our conversation.\n\nI told her about the fight that day and asked whether James had problems at school before.\n\nHe had, indeed, she said. He'd spent the previous year in a suburban school, but the problems continued. Now James, his mother and sister were living under grandmother's roof once again and were back at their former school.\n\nThe next day, James and Brandon squared off a second time. I called Brandon's mother, and she confirmed that the two boys had trouble in the past and probably shouldn't be in the same class. They shot each other dirty looks from their seats at opposite corners of the room. Invariably, they wound up next to each other in line, ready to go another round. I told Brandon's mom I'd keep an eye on the mood of the room, and see what I could do about separating the two further.\n\nStill, they got into it again on the last day of the week. They started punching each other while lined up for a bathroom break in the hallway. \"Freeze!\" had worked three times so far at stopping second-grade fights. Thankfully, it worked again. Afterward, James stood against the wall, clench-fisted and trembling, his face a frozen mask of anger, veins standing out in his neck. After all the other students had gone back inside the classroom, I gave Brandon and James a talking-to and sent them to their respective corners.\n\nBefore we got busy with \"Show and Tell\" one of our Friday afternoon activities, Brandon told me he wanted to say he was sorry to James.\n\n\"Do you want to do it in private or in front of the class, since the fight was in front of the class?\" I asked.\n\n\"In front of the class.\"\n\n\"That is so brave,\" I told him. The children looked on expectantly as Brandon approached James.\n\n\"I want to say I'm sorry,\" Brandon said.\n\n\"I'm sorry, too,\" James said. They shook hands. We all applauded. I hailed them as peacemakers.\n\nIf only it was that simple. Second grade was at least as complicated as seventh grade. The peace would not last. New conflicts erupted. Problems from their outside lives came with them through our door every morning, and they were not problems that could ever be solved at school. As their teacher, I tried to teach the art of coping and compromise, which some people believe is the practical path to happiness.\n\nSeveral of the children were in foster homes, living with a revolving cast of wards of the state, cared for by older women who received about $400 a month for each child.\n\nMany lived with extended family, most often, like James, with their mother, their mother's mother, siblings and cousins. The men of the house were more often uncles than fathers. Three students were officially the wards of their grandparents; one was an orphan whose mother had died the year before of an asthma attack, two others' mothers were incarcerated for drug offenses. Out of thirty-two children, only three came from homes where both biological parents lived together. There seemed to be a lot of chaos at some homes. Louis told me he and his brother climbed in an upstairs window when their grandmother locked them out one afternoon. His brother was in kindergarten. Tashequa called the classroom cell phone nightly, sometimes after 11 p.m. I could hear the television blaring and loud voices in the background.\n\nFamily, whatever shape it took, was of supreme importance in second grade. Meeting Mario outside on the blacktop one morning, I asked him what he was thinking about.\n\n\"I've been wondering,\" he said, \"why my daddy never comes to see me.\"\n\n\"That's a big thing to wonder about,\" I said. Without realizing it, I'd begun to parrot the speech patterns of young children. Shorter sentences. Declarative statements. Simple language. Concise questions: \"Are you sure?\" \"How can you tell?\" Listening. Letting the children figure things out for themselves. Blocking activities in shorter time periods. Breaking things down to simplest terms.\n\nMario described a far-flung family of half-brothers and sisters, then came back to his feeling of emptiness about his daddy.\n\n\"Maybe when you get bigger you could call him up,\" I said. \"What's your daddy's name?\"\n\nHe couldn't tell me.\n\nWe read a story called _Boundless Grace_ about a girl, Grace, who has grown up without her daddy. He lived in Africa. He sent two tickets for Grace and her grandmother to visit him. She visited. She remembered. She was happy. There are all kinds of families, she realized. Not all mothers and fathers live with their children.\n\nThat day Mario did not eat his lunch.\n\n\"Are you feeling okay?\" I asked him.\n\n\"I guess I'm just missing my daddy,\" he said.\n\nHe was such a beautiful, well-behaved, thoughtful, helpful, wonderful little boy. He was usually cheerful, joyful, even. His mother was great. A man he called his stepfather came on a field trip but spent the day reading a book. He did not sit with Mario on the bus or partner up with him at our destination.\n\nDespite such heavy baggage, second grade could be as golden and effervescent as a glass of ginger ale. One Friday afternoon, Andrea opened a Sucrets box and announced, \"I brought two ants and a roly-poly for Show and Tell.\" We sang songs every day, Girl Scout campfire songs, \"Down By the Bay,\" \"Bingo\" and nursery rhymes like \"London Bridge\" and \"Mary Mack.\" They thought I was a great artist. \"Man, she can really draw,\" they'd say. Every day was a busy day for us.\n\nIt was a big adjustment for me to be with young children and so many of them. Since my children were older, I thought I was done with tying shoes and wiping noses, with loose teeth and hard-to-zip jackets. But there I was again. My patience was often stretched and frayed.\n\nIt was hard for them, too. It was hard to stay in their seats and hard to wait their turn. It was hard when we had multiple activities going on at once, because everyone wanted to do everything right now. When we played a tape of \"Peter and the Wolf\" in the listening lab with five sets of headphones, it was too taxing for the other twenty-seven. They couldn't do anything but stage whisper and gesture to the kids in the listening lab about what they were hearing. Louis commando-crawled across the back of the room to the lab and hid under the table. A sympathizer put his head on the table and shared one ear of his headphones with Louis.\n\nThey did the kinds of things kids do that make you want to laugh out loud. I laughed out loud, but with no other adult to share it with as it happened, the anarchy in Fairyland reached its full flower of appreciation most often in the retelling. Thank heavens for Donna and my college classmates.\n\nIn addition to my new thirty-two, many of my former seventh graders appeared at my doorway to say hello. Pierre ran up behind me after school one Friday and nearly tackled me. He must have grown three inches over summer and he was muscular, more beefed-up than the skinny kid I knew in seventh grade. He seemed good, upbeat.\n\nThe girls were awkward, testing. We had a new relationship, one I liked better, to be frank. With no responsibility for their academics, it was easy to listen to them, encourage them. I wondered if it's like that with all former students as the years go by, and I started to realize that it's never finished; it goes on and on. I wondered what relationship I'd have with my second graders in five years when they were in seventh grade, after I'd known them and watched them grow up all those years in between.\n\nI was tempted to harden my heart and dismiss such silly, dreamy nonsense. Such questions assumed that I would remain and ignored the forty percent chance that they would not. Even second graders knew better than to count on people sticking around.\nChapter 36\n\n* * *\n\n**Cult of Personality**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nWe had been in school two weeks when Labor Day weekend came at last. We were becoming readers and getting to know _Amazing Grace_ and Frances, the little badger, and Miss Nelson and Dr. De Soto, the mouse dentist. Every day, we did phonics, handwriting, math, science, ballet, music and citizenship. We were very busy. The new interns, especially the ones who had come from office backgrounds, were freaking out. Managing a staff of adults, no matter how crazy or inept, was scant preparation for the profound range of personalities and non-stop action in a classroom of busy children with unbridled energy. The first-grade intern who looked like a deer in the headlights was missing in action, and a substitute had taken over the class. My mentor must have been busy trying to hang on to the other new recruits, so I just carried on doing what I thought was best. No one came and told me anything, but I didn't expect it and didn't miss it.\n\nThe mercury hit ninety-three degrees on the Friday before Labor Day. Thank heavens Natasha's sister picked her up promptly at 2:35 because at 2:40, the air conditioner in Room 401 blew up.\n\nI was walking in the classroom door when there was a loud BOOM! Black smoke poured from the vents. Terrified of a fire, I raced across the room, gingerly raised the lid and clicked the switch to \"off.\" The smoke circled menacingly in the shocked silence. My pulse pounded in my ears.\n\nThe engineer was bewildered at the situation. Our unit, broken when I first arrived in 401, had been fixed just a week before. That day another unit in another classroom had blown up. Outside contractors were making a fortune off the board of education to keep these trouble-plagued antiques working. What would happen when winter came and we needed heat?\n\nEven with the air conditioning on high that day, it had been so hot that we did not do much work. The children did not pay attention during _A Bargain for Frances_ , my favorite Frances book. There was too much money changing hands and too many plot twists. Only about five children were attentive. We plowed through to the finish in grim determination when we should have savored the exciting tale of treachery. I missed seventh grade. They had loved that Frances story best of all when the little badger helped us learn about characters, sequels and authors' style.\n\nSecond grade was sweaty and off track even before a mother and aunt arrived with cupcakes and balloons for a child's birthday. After the cupcakes (and a washroom break, of course) we were so sugared up we could do nothing but twirl around the room in ballet skirts and my old pointe shoes, even the boys.\n\nLouis amazed me by finding a ballet book on our shelf and mimicking positions from pictures. A true kinesthetic learner, that kid, always in motion. I was worried about him because he couldn't read a word. Yet he found so many other ways to learn that he became a teacher for me, a template for multiple intelligences. A year later, he would remind me of songs we had learned in 401 and leap across the room to demonstrate his _grand jete\u00b4._ I talked about Louis so often at home that one of my daughters finally snapped, \"If you love Louis so much, why don't you adopt him?\" She was right: I loved Louis. Both daughters quickly saw why when they came to school with me to help out on occasion. They don't begrudge me the Zip-Lock bag of picture notes from Louis that I keep with their own childhood artifacts.\n\nAll that happened over time. On that hot, hot Friday, we were only concerned with surviving until dismissal. By then the birthday girl was overwrought, which can happen from the stress of turning seven. She was mad at me for taking her out of the bathroom line for talking. She was upset when her blue scissors turned up missing. I knew how she felt. My favorite special red stapler had disappeared. I offered a reward for its return, but I held slim hope. It was last seen with Enrico, whom I began to suspect was setting up an office somewhere.\n\nJames did not make it to afternoon. He got into so many fights and tiffs that morning that I asked the office to call his home and have someone pick him up for an early dismissal. I was amazed all over again how one serious problem child can run the whole train off the rails.\n\nIn the course of the morning, James had reduced three children to tears. Natasha cried so hard I let her sit on my lap in the rocking chair. It was probably against the law or something, but a sobbing child who's been smacked in the face by a bully needs comfort.\n\nEnrico saw opportunity in conflict. He could be fun and silly, but also a meanie and a manipulator with a secret, sneaky side. He and Andrea were the king and queen of complaining. It's strange that children so poor they get free lunches can be so spoiled, too. These two had learned to play adults against one another to get things they wanted. What they really wanted and needed, of course, was attention and consistency. In the absence of those things, they felt entitled to a new toy or treat, or going first or having their way. It made things difficult in the classroom. Their parents admitted straight out that the kids were \"spoiled\" but stated it as if the children had been born that way, as if \"spoiled\" was a fact of nature which the parents had no role in creating or responsibility to correct.\n\nThere was one child in the room whom I would never call spoiled. She arrived weeks into the school year. She was as tall as me and skinny as a scarecrow. Her hair was uncombed and she often slept soundly with her head on her desk. She could not spell her name. She was not a \"new girl.\" Everybody seemed to know her. She was someone who came to school for a while, then disappeared, later to return. She was my first homeless child. She would turn ten in November, in the second grade.\nChapter 37\n\n* * *\n\n**Trouble**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nHearing James trill, \"Hey, look at this,\" I turned to see him grabbing his crotch and making wildly sexual gestures at the girl sitting next to him. His zipper was down.\n\nI took him out of the room. I told him to zip up. I told him that was no way to act in our classroom. I seated him by himself again.\n\nI sent the necessary paperwork to the office describing the offense, and James spent the afternoon there. He was back in class the next day. I asked the principal what I should tell James' mother about his status when I talked to her that night.\n\n\"Tell her to come meet with me on Monday morning,\" he said.\n\nWhen I talked to James' mother, I related the problem behaviors: throwing things, hitting people on the head with pencils, punching and slapping other children, repeatedly getting out of his seat and not following classroom rules or directions. He did not complete classwork or turn in homework. When I got to the sexual acting out, she exploded.\n\n\"I told him not to do that,\" she said. \"That's what got him at trouble in his old school, touching a girl in the wrong place.\"\n\n\"So this sort of thing has happened before?\" I asked, concerned that a pattern might be emerging. Did we have a sexual predator in second grade?\n\nI further learned that James had left our school two years earlier after stabbing a fellow kindergartner in the head with scissors. That year, the kindergarten teacher took early retirement.\n\nBefore I could request referrals for evaluating James, I was told I needed to collect ninety days' worth of anecdotal records detailing his problem behaviors in our classroom. That would be Thanksgiving at the earliest. In the meantime, I saw I needed to police James vigilantly, to cut down on wasted time spent tending to children he harmed, breaking up fights and making office referrals. Kids who did not fight back, who did the right thing\u2014\"Tell the teacher\"\u2014did not see the wrongdoer punished. They didn't understand why he came back day after day acting the way he did.\n\nLate one morning, I saw him furtively stuffing something into his pocket from his desk. I asked to see what he had. It was play money from our math kits, which were kept in a cupboard with a broken lock. He claimed the money belonged to him, that a boy he knew gave it to him on his way to school. The money was not folded in any way. It did not appear to have been carried in a child's pocket at all, certainly not for several hours. I asked the name of the friend. He looked at me blankly for a long pause, then said, \"Uh, John.\"\n\nLater that day, during our bathroom break, a student informed me that \"James was kissing a boy in the boy's bathroom.\" Martin said he saw James kiss Louis, but Louis said it was Brandon.\n\nI saw James touch girls' behinds as they walked past his desk. He choked children, spit in their faces, broke their pencils and rulers, hit them with sharp objects he threw or shot from rubber bands. He wrote \"bitch\" on a boy's desk in red crayon. He simulated masturbation at a boy from another class in the lunchroom. He rolled up pieces of paper at his desk and simulated smoking a joint. He smashed our collection of ladybugs, which were in a plastic bag attached to the chalkboard.\n\n\"Write it down. Keep your anecdotals,\" I was told when I related the incidents to my administration.\n\nOne Friday, James seemed especially wound up. He was loud and confrontational. Around 11:30, Asophane asked to speak to me.\n\n\"James has a gun in his desk,\" she said.\n\nIt seemed as if every sound in the room suddenly went silent, then the clatter of the classroom surged up in my ears once again. Asophane was looking up at me.\n\n\"Thank you, sweetheart,\" I told her. \"Sit here in the rocking chair, and read awhile.\"\n\nIn my old job at the newspaper there were many wacky, moody personalities, including a few in the running for \"person most likely to come in with an AK-47 and blow us all away.\" Teachers hate to admit it, but we make the same kind of observations in our classrooms. In our room that year, the most likely suspect was James.\n\nI took a quick look around the room, counting heads, seeing where the other kids were, relative to James. He was in the row near the door, halfway back. I decided to approach him from the door side, so he'd have to face me and the wall behind me. His back would be to everyone else in the worst case scenario. I felt cold but calm and under control. Lives depended on what would happen in the next seconds.\n\nI walked over to James' desk, stopped between his desk and the wall, leaned over and spoke to him quietly.\n\n\"James, I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening? Good. I'm going to give you some instructions. I need you to do exactly what I tell you. We'll go one step at a time. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, looking up at me, nodding his head.\n\n\"Good,\" I said. \"Now the first thing I need you to do is this: Put your hands on top of your desk.\"\n\nIn a split second, he thrust both hands inside his desk and pulled out a small silver object. I put out my hand. He put the gun in my hand. The sound of the room went away again, then surged back as I turned away from him and looked at the small, silver derringer in my hand. It was a cigarette lighter made of metal. When you pulled the trigger, flame came out of the barrel.\n\nI felt weak in the knees and very, very stupid. Why had I expected a child who had not followed directions all year to follow directions in a situation that could have had tragic consequences? I had used traffic stop protocol when the offense called for the SWAT team.\n\nI could have handled it smarter. I could have given him a task elsewhere in the room and searched through his desk. I could have waged a surprise attack, snatching his desk and spinning it away from him, then jamming the opening against the wall. I could have sat on the desk and refused to budge until reinforcements were summoned. The incident shook me up. It was sickening to think that next time I would be smarter.\n\nJames got a ten-day suspension but returned in five with the principal's permission. The fake gun incident fast-tracked his evaluation, however. Eight professionals agreed on a diagnosis of behavior disorder. They recommended he go to a special education classroom with about ten children and three adults, where he could work one-on-one to improve his first-grade reading and math skills.\n\nI walked him to his new room and wished him well. I told him that we were his friends and that we would remember him.\n\nI didn't feel bad about James as I had with Pierre, guilty of passing the buck and palming his problems off on another unsuspecting teacher. That is how he came to be with me, but that is not how he left. He left fully evaluated and \"serviced.\" He would get educational services to meet his special needs. His progress would be closely monitored.\n\n\"Watch out for your girls,\" I told his new teacher.\nChapter 38\n\n* * *\n\n**_Dance Africa_**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nNow that I could take children on field trips, I decided that _Dance Africa_ would be our first destination. A thrilling spectacle of dance and music, it was staged at the landmark Auditorium Theater downtown. It was an event.\n\nMy benefactor agreed to pay for tickets and buses, enough for every child to bring a parent. I thought it would be a wonderful memory for the children, to have a whole day with the undivided attention of their grownups at a fancy show in the city. I was taking my younger daughter, Mia, who was nine, and her friend Sydney. It would be an unusual Saturday afternoon field trip because the show was staged only at night and over the weekend.\n\nThe holdup was that the principal had my memo for eight days but claimed no knowledge of my plan every time I asked him. The memo invited him and the vice principal to come along, along with my mentor and Donna and other faculty friends who had helped me out in the past.\n\nI planned to buttonhole him again Monday, but a teacher's mother was laid to rest and few teachers were at school because everyone went to the funeral, an all-day affair.\n\nAlso missing in action was one of the second-grade Teachers For Chicago interns. The former insurance agent called it quits after not quite a month. It felt like another death in the family.\n\nBut miracle of miracles, later that week we received the go-ahead for our trip, and the permission slips went home. Most of the class was going, and the parents seemed enthusiastic. The kids were in a complete tizzy. I went downtown one day to order the tickets and another day to pick them up. I arranged the buses and acquired the cash to pay the drivers.\n\nAll told, the trip cost close to $1,000. My benefactor did not flinch.\n\nWhile our class counted the days to _Dance Africa_ with growing anticipation, I was a nervous wreck. I had never taken seventy people on a trip before. I would cut a Saturday science class at college. There would be hell to pay.\n\nBut the experience was a learning one for me. One thing I learned is that if you ever make group reservations for a show, do not tell them you are a public school group. Tell them that you are the Chicago Press Club. Tell them that you are a group of visiting dignitaries from Zimbabwe, coming to see their Iwisi group perform at _Dance Africa_ in Chicago.\n\nFor if you say that you are a school group, you will sit in the \"gallery,\" a.k.a. the rafters, gasping, listening to your heart palpitate from fear at the dizzying height and feeling that at any second someone is going to pitch forward and plunge, splat, onto the main floor. For this thrill, you will climb six or eight flights of stairs (I lost count) and sputter in disbelief when they tell you that you must go up yet again.\n\nWe had a wonderful time.\n\nIt was a crisp, sunny fall Saturday as we gathered at the bus. Asophane was the first person I saw when I drove up. She was wearing a beautiful cream-colored party dress with a big bow in the back. She had blue beads in her hair, a cream-colored purse, hose, party shoes and a black leather biker jacket.\n\nI introduced myself to her mother, who quickly scurried off in the opposite direction, \"to the store.\"\n\nOthers were waiting, Natasha and her mom, little Minnie with both of her parents, Lucinda with mother and sister, another girl with mom and a brother. I quickly realized that many who signed up were not going to show. We would have many extra tickets, even with the surprise guests. I sent one bus back to the barn, empty.\n\nWe still had plenty of room on the one bus for siblings and assorted others. We adopted an \"all are welcome\" policy, probably breaking various board of education rules.\n\nTwo foster children were dropped off by adults who said they could not come along. I took charge of them. We roared off, the Sears Tower looming in the far distance, fifteen miles away. The principal and vice principal were no-shows, but my mentor came along, which was crucial since the other faculty members chose to drive themselves instead of accompany us on the bus.\n\nRoosevelt University is in the same building as the Auditorium Theater, owns it, in fact, and I was able to drop off a pile of unclaimed tickets for my classmates and take my daughter, her friend and the two second graders for a bite to eat in the student lunchroom. My students pointed to focaccia, bananas, and barbecued turkey legs.\n\n\"That sure is a big chicken,\" one observed, carrying a tray with a turkey leg the size of my forearm.\n\nThe show was spellbinding, but not to everyone. I told one of my restless charges to memorize all the dance steps, so she could teach the other children on Monday. That kept her busy a while. During the Kenyan dancers, she announced, \"This is boring. When are we going home?\" I told her to take off her jacket because it was hot. That kept her busy awhile longer.\n\nA couple of the grandmothers looked like they might expire up in the \"gallery,\" so at intermission I asked an usher if we could move down. With his gracious help, I resituated everyone in comfortable seats on the main floor for the second half.\n\nIt wasn't until Sweet Honey in the Rock, the Grammy Award- winning a cappella singers, were halfway through their stunningly crafted set that I had a second to enjoy myself. Their rendition of \"Motherless Child\" was breathtakingly moving. Awakened by one grandmother's shrieks of delight, she being likewise moved, I looked around and saw everyone having a wonderful time. In our cushy new seats, the girls were all sitting together, the boys were all together. Asophane's mother was sitting with one of the dads a few rows down, and Asophane was next to me.\n\nShe sat perfectly still, tall atop a pillow made of her jacket and two sweaters. She was intent, a human sponge. She leaned over and whispered, seriously, confidentially, \"I really like this.\"\n\n\"I'm glad,\" I said. \"You look like a princess sitting there in your beautiful dress in this beautiful theater.\"\n\n\"I'm going to write about this in my journal on Monday,\" she whispered, never taking her eyes off the stage.\n\nAs her teacher, I savored the moment with all my heart.\n\nMy greatest fear was making it back to the bus with the same number of people who got on, but when I counted heads, we were all there.\n\nI heard someone calling my name and saw my neighbor Mike, who is an African drummer, as the bus roared away. We all waved out the windows at him. I told the kids he was leaving for Africa in two weeks and wouldn't come back until March but would come to our class with his cousin next week and play for us. I took pictures of everyone as the bus rolled homeward. As we drew close to school, I announced our next field trip, to the Fire Safety House. Everyone applauded.\n\nAs we said our goodbyes outside of school, one grandmother grabbed me in an embrace.\n\n\"These children are blessed to have an enthusiastic teacher like you.\"\n\nIt was a wonderful day. It was worth it.\nChapter 39\n\n* * *\n\n**Loving Louis**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nOne Monday morning, as the children were filing into the classroom, I noticed Louis crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the front wall, holding his hands over his eyes.\n\n\"What happened to Louis?\" I asked.\n\n\"The clock fell off the wall and hit him on the head,\" I was informed. The suspect clock lay on the floor nearby.\n\n\"Speak to me, Louis,\" I said. \"Are you bleeding?\"\n\nSilence. Wincing.\n\nI grabbed the ice pack out of my lunch box, wrapped it in a paper towel and had Louis hold it to his wound, a scrape on the bridge of his nose that was not very bloody.\n\nThe office was out of Band-Aids, so his cut was evident when he went off with his reading tutor, a retired teacher who volunteered at our school.\n\n\"What happened to Louis?\" the tutor asked when she brought him back forty minutes later.\n\n\"The clock fell off the wall and bonked him on the head,\" I explained.\n\nShe looked at me strangely.\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"I meant what happened with his reading. He could read everything today. He did very, very well!\"\n\nWe looked at each other and burst out laughing.\n\nAfter she got her breath back she asked, \"Do you think you could arrange for the clock to fall on a couple others?\"\n\nLouis read that day and one other day. When a teacher's aide came to my room for twenty minutes every morning, I'd sit with a child on the steps outside our classroom and read. Louis and I often worked on _Go, Dog, Go!_ One day, he read about half of _Go, Dog, Go!_ before he stopped, spent. The exertion left him sweaty, and when he went back into the room, he needed a nap on the rug. He tried his best for me, but reading was beyond his grasp all but those two days.\n\nHis other tutors quit on him, because he would crawl on the floor and goof around instead of getting with the program. I offered to tutor him outside school hours, but his parents didn't respond to my phone calls or notes home. I figured there was a lot going on there, because he told hair-raising stories sometimes.\n\n\"Two men busted into our house when me and my brother was watching TV last night. We told them our mother wasn't selling crack anymore, but they took our TV anyway...\"\n\nI loved Louis because with all the impossible shit he had stacked against him, he had the kindest heart. He didn't turn mean or spiteful or shut himself off from the world. He just kept on being Louis.\n\nHe had no hang-ups. When a friend suggested to him that \"Mrs. B. was white,\" he replied, \"No, man, Mrs. B. ain't white, she's light-skinned.\" He never thought twice about putting on pink satin pointe shoes. If he was interested, he dove right in, and so to me, he was a joy. I loved his gravelly voice, I loved the way he showed off his muscles, but had a gentle way with other children. Yes, he would swing on the bathroom door frames and hide in the coatroom and frustrate me with his endless wandering about the room and racing in the lunchroom, but I loved him completely. Maybe it was because of the Beatles, who said \"all you need is love.\"\n\nI'm a big Beatles fan, always have been, and I like to think that I spread some of their magic around the second grade. We did ballet to Otis Redding and mastered all twelve verses of \"Over in the Meadow\" (and God knows the Rolling Stones sustained me more than anything else), but in second grade, we listened the most to the Beatles.\n\nThe winter of second grade the Beatles had both the best-selling book and top album in the world. Louis, my multiple intelligence learner, came in one morning to report that he had seen the Beatles on a new TV at home the night before.\n\n\"What were they doing?\" I asked. Louis slid down on his knees and played air guitar.\n\n\"They were playing 'Yellow Submarine',\" he said. \"And you know what, Mrs. B.?\"\n\nHe looked up at me like the cat that swallowed the canary.\n\n\"They broke up!\"\n\n\"What!\" I said, grabbing my head. \"The Beatles broke up? Oh no!\"\n\n\"What?\" cried the other children.\n\n\"The Beatles broke up!\"\n\n\"Oh no!\" they said, grabbing their heads.\n\nAt lunch I filled Louis in. I told him the Fab Four called it quits thirty years ago, when I was in high school and his mother wasn't even born.\n\n\"But isn't it amazing,\" I said, \"that the music they made back then still matters to us today?\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" he said. \"I love the Beatles.\"\n\nLouis still couldn't read. But he had gotten deep into some words in our classroom. In the listening lab, when I thought he was reading along to _Pecos Bill_ , he was listening to _Abbey Road._ He had secretly switched the tapes. I put two and two together one day when I noticed him singing softly to himself while he was coloring.\n\n\"Mean Mr. Mustard sleeps in the park, shaves in the dark...\" Louis' song faded out as he colored a little more. \"Such a mean old man,\" he started up singing again. \"Such a mean old man!\" he sang with gusto, coloring furiously.\n\nLouis took information from our classroom, connected it to something out in the world and reported back to us. He came to school ready to teach me a thing or two, and that's pretty good for a seven-year-old.\n\nI was figuring out other ways to turn their needs into learning experiences.\n\nDaily, they'd come to me when they had a stomachache or a loose tooth, and they expected me do to something about it. I cannot bear to pull teeth and my ink-stained, broken down overstuffed chair (a.k.a. the \"sick bay\") had long ago gone out into the dumpster. But Trey said he knew how to pull teeth, and that is how he became our official dentist. If you had a loose tooth, you were sent to Trey with a couple of tissues.\n\nWe started a doctor's office in our classroom. The kids had to write down the names of their patients, their complaints, read first-aid procedures and measure blood pressure and temperature. It was so popular, I had to buy more supplies and expand it into a hospital. We went through Band-Aids, gauze and tape like the Battle of Gettysburg. One day, I thought I caught some people fooling around. They were lying on the floor.\n\n\"What's going on here?\" I asked.\n\n\"Rico is having surgery!\"\n\n\"Asophane is having a baby!\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" I said. \"At the same time? In the same operating room?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the fevered team of doctors, as one, not looking up from their work.\n\n\"Carry on!\" I barked as I went to check the next wing, where broken arms and legs were being wrapped in yet more gauze.\n\nMost days left me shell-shocked. The incessant questions! \"Mrs. B.! Mrs. B.!\" a thousand times a day. The patting when they wanted your attention, your arm, your shoulder, your hand, your back. Every day, \"ketchup hands\" on my shirt.\n\nBut in the midst of it all, we managed to find our pace, our groove, and I would not trade anything for those moments of grace when the learning spell charms everyone, when every kid is civil and focused and trying their best.\n\nThey come every so often. One Friday afternoon, we pulled out our watercolor sets. We had learned the colors of the rainbow, we had seen how prisms split white light into colors. Now it was time to mix some colors. We mixed blue and red and made purple. We mixed red and yellow and made orange. We mixed blue and yellow and made green. That was all I knew, so that was a good time to pass out paper and brushes and let the painting settle into a quiet rhythm of its own.\n\n\"Can we listen to some music?\" someone asked.\n\n\"Sure,\" I said, thinking I'd tune in the classical station.\n\n\"Put on the Beatles!\" the class shouted.\n\n\"It would be my pleasure,\" I replied.\n\nThere they all were, painting in the afternoon sun, singing \"We All Live in a Yellow Submarine.\"\n\nIn that moment, we lived the life of ease. Every one of us had all we needed. Sky of blue and sea of green were being brushed on white paper. Our friends were all aboard.\nChapter 40\n\n* * *\n\n**The Downside**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI informed my parents, sadly, that I couldn't come for Thanksgiving. I was too tired. All the interns were exhausted. We had eye infections. We were surly. We were not amused. We were stressed from poverty. I tallied up my school expenses and found I'd spent more than $2,000 on classroom supplies and college textbooks in the year 2000. My reimbursement was $100.\n\nThe butt of our wrath at the moment was our science methods teacher, who did not seem to fully grasp that we were classroom teachers working daily in impossible conditions. When she returned all of our homework to us one Saturday, I noticed that we all got the same grade on every paper. That grade and nothing else. I flipped through the pages looking for comments or feedback, and seeing none, asked her why.\n\n\"I just didn't have time,\" she said. \"If I did that, I'd still be grading them.\"\n\nWe looked at her dumbfounded. We, who include a mother of two young children and the wife of a cop, who regularly gets up at 3:30 a.m. when her house is quiet to work on her college homework. We, who bothered to do her stupid Internet search assignment, even though we had just done the same thing in a more complicated way in our technology class the summer before. We, who teach all day every day, grade our students' papers and return them with comments and feedback.\n\nNice modeling for teachers. She earned $1,800 for teaching five sessions, three of which ended hours early. It took us twelve days to earn that much money. We never got out early. When we graded our students' papers, we looked at their work. We did not give everyone the same grade.\n\nWhile the whole group of interns was exhausted, as the oldest I may have been feeling it more than the others. And the fatigue was not just physical. It was mental as well. I was drained more every day by the limits of poverty, by the racism, the unprofessional manner in which our school was run, the criticism, the nit-picking, the zero encouragement or respect. No one ever told you when you did a good job. It was like no other job situation I had ever experienced.\n\nDespite promises to come to each intern's room for an hour each day, our mentor had not been present. She helped me rearrange my students' desks one day. The intern across the hall adopted the veteran second-grade teacher as her mentor, which was very wise.\n\nWe confronted the academic fraud of \"Walking Reading,\" in which the children are grouped by ability and marched to another room for reading first thing in the morning. We gritted our teeth and endured it because it looked good on paper. Our schedules made it impossible most days. When we did it, it was disruptive. The children hated it. Martin cried every time.\n\n\"I want to stay here with you,\" he'd plead. When he started hiding in the coatroom, I relented and let him stay. He was relieved and happy.\n\nWe administered tests on a quarterly basis, tests abandoned by the board years ago. We didn't have enough instruction manuals because they were out of print. Yet there was no talk of a more modern or authentic testing method. Just do it, get the results in quarterly and don't make waves was the message. It was just something someone could point to on paper that we did.\n\nI had received $900 worth of books for my classroom through a grant, plus about four days of intense instruction in teaching reading over the summer. So my reading program was the most effected because we didn't work out of textbooks known as basal readers.\n\nThe whole \"under my thumb\" vibe prevented any sort of protest, and without a free flow of ideas and opinions, mistrust flourished. I noticed that the office ladies in the other building, who worked alongside me the year before, stopped saying hello unless I spoke first. I wondered why.\n\nThere was talk of \"looping\"\u2014following your students from year to year. People seemed to assume I'd stay after my internship was up. They talked about me following my second graders into third grade.\n\nBut I was tired of it all. I needed to find a place where I was not \"one of the white teachers\" or a pretender or a problem. I had to find a more supportive school where I was viewed as competent and dedicated. I was curious to see how the principal would handle it at year's end. Would he ask me to stay? I rather doubted it.\n\nThere had been no mention of resolving my \"remediation,\" which was up at the quarter, according to terms on the table the previous year. I decided to simply wait it out and see what would happen. Still, it was a constant, nagging worry to me. I wondered whether the unresolved documents were in a personnel file somewhere. In the end, no one ever brought it up again. Not once.\n\nA new layer of stress was introduced when Martin was absent a whole week. I asked the kids if they'd seen him.\n\n\"Martin's gone, Mrs. Baldacci. His house is abandoned,\" Andrea told me.\n\nMy heart sank. I had visions of Kayla's disappearance, which still grieved me. The thought of losing Martin was too much to think about that grim fall.\n\nI decided to wait until Monday to report his extended absence to the office. Maybe he has chicken pox, I told myself. That's good for a week.\n\nTo my great relief and joy, he walked through the door on Monday, scrubbed and in a stiff new white shirt. I hugged him tight and asked him where he had been.\n\n\"My house burned down,\" he said softly. I noticed he didn't have his book bag, just a plastic grocery bag. He apologized, sadly, because _Tiki Tiki Tembo_ , the book he borrowed from the class library, along with his book bag, was in the boarded-up, burned-out house.\n\n\"Don't worry about that one bit,\" I told him. \"You are safe, and your family is safe and that's all that matters. I don't know what we'd do if anything happened to you.\"\n\nHe carried bus tickets and was late every day. He must have been staying far from school.\n\nThe year before, one of my college classmates' first graders was killed in a fire. She didn't ever talk about it. Teachers keep a lot of things bottled up inside.\nChapter 41\n\n* * *\n\n**Another Christmas**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThe second week in December, my car got \"booted\" in the school parking lot. Two three-year-old parking tickets had come back to haunt me. I was caught in a city collection crackdown that targeted municipal employees. The month before, bus drivers with unpaid tickets got the boot at their workplace parking lots. School employees were next in the crosshairs. Without warning, I was called to the principal's office.\n\n\"Is this your license plate number?\" the principal asked me, handing me a piece of paper.\n\n\"Yes, why?\" I asked. No answer.\n\n\"What's going on?\" I asked.\n\n\"Why don't you go take a look at your car?\" he said.\n\n\"What happened? Did a dumpster fall on it?\" I asked. Getting a big insurance check for my old car would not be such a terrible thing. The suspense was killing me, but the principal wouldn't talk, so I dashed outside without my coat to find the big yellow vice on my front wheel. Several other teachers' cars were in the same pinch.\n\nI got a ride home from Astrid, and then my neighbor, Andre, drove me to the payment center fifteen minutes away. In line was the calm first-grade intern with her father, who was bailing her out. We were sort of mortified, but the line was long with scofflaws who were paying fines to the same mayor who signed their paychecks.\n\n\"Come on, we all work for the city. Can't we work something out?\" one man pleaded, trying to bargain with the agent behind the window. No deals were made. I got the boot off by charging $500 on Visa.\n\nWhen the second graders asked, \"Do you give Christmas presents, Mrs. Baldacci?\" I could only groan.\n\nI had planned to give every child a class picture for Christmas. Only two kids had purchased a class picture after \"Ol' Mr. One Shot\" had posed us in the school library one morning in the fall. I called him that because both years, he shot our class pictures in one take. It amazed me that he could get thirty-six people in synch and the lighting right in a single shot. When I saw the results, of course, it was apparent he was not a genius of photography, but a cheapskate in a hurry. In our second-grade class picture, we looked more spiffy than in seventh, when we posed on the auditorium stage. But there were junky magazine racks and other mess in the background and around the edges that made it look cheesy.\n\nAt any rate, I figured I could crop it and print it at home using the computer and give each child a copy for Christmas at a cost of less than $100. Which was still money I didn't have. As I was fretting over the Denver Boot and my perilous finances, a friend called and said her church did something every year for an \"underprivileged\" family and figured I knew one I could recommend.\n\n\"Instead of one family, could you do something for thirty-two children?\" I asked her.\n\nThe result was that every kid in the class would receive a doll and a book, or a Hot Wheels kit and a book. It was so unexpected, so fantastic, I didn't realize until later how sexist our choices were. I should have asked for doctor kits all around.\n\nEarlier in December, we observed the anniversary of John Lennon's death by watching _A Hard Day's Night_. Practically every child in the class had a brush with gun violence. They had lost relatives or friends, had escaped gunfire or heard it in the neighborhood and knew to get down. When they were first graders, the gun drama at our school the year before had taken place practically under their noses. One of my girls, a prolific writer who loved the blue marble composition notebook I'd provided for reading/writing workshop, had written about a friend who was killed.\n\n\"On my weekend I road my bike me and my sister. We went a round the block. Then it was gun shots. When the gun shots where done my mom said come in.\"\n\nNot everyone escaped unscathed that night, I gathered, for the next page was dedicated \"For Nesha, She was my best friend. I wish she was alive.\"\n\nUnderneath was a picture of a lightning bolt colored blue and orange and red, which is how gunfire looks at night coming out of the barrel of a gun. Under the lightning bolt was a small girl with tears dripping down her cheeks, asking \"Why?\"\n\nLater, that same child would write in her journal about leaving school early on a May afternoon to visit a friend in the hospital.\n\n\"I was so happy I mean so happy she got shot in her leg. But she will be OK. She might live with me one day.\"\n\nDuring _A Hard Day's Night_ , the children kept asking when the part was coming where John gets killed.\n\nWe stopped the movie and made a Beatles timeline on the board. When they saw that the movie was about a different place and time, happy and simple, they were vastly relieved. We put the movie back on and jitterbugged to \"Can't Buy Me Love.\" The newest Beatle fans were Tashequa, Mario and Enrico, who we nicknamed Ringo. Tashequa pulled me aside during the movie and explained that she didn't want any boyfriends because she got raped when she was six. I hugged her and told her how sorry I was that happened to her, that it happens to a lot of girls, and that it wasn't her fault. Talking about gun violence stirred up other memories of violence. She said the man who hurt her was in prison just like the man who killed John.\n\nI did not breathe a word about Christmas. When the children arrived for the last day of school before Christmas break, a half-day, there was great suspense about the large, mysterious black bags stacked in the corner. I said I had no idea what they were, that they'd just been there when I came in that morning, but maybe we'd have time to look inside after our lesson.\n\nAfter a read-aloud of _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_ and a bathroom break, we dragged the bags onto the blue rug and spilled out a treasure trove of beautifully gift-wrapped presents. We made a boy pile and a girl pile of the big boxes, then a third pile of the smaller, thin gifts. The children figured out instantly by the shape and hardness that those packages contained books. Two at a time, a boy and a girl went up and made their choices: one box, one book. It took a long time for some people to choose. I watched them with one box in each hand, weighing their choice: \"Do I want the beautiful gold wrapping paper or the box that isn't as pretty, but is bigger?\" When everyone had drawn from the pile, we unwrapped together. Such excitement\u2014flying paper and ribbons, jumping up and down, a frenzy of joy! The best part: Everyone got exactly what they wanted. There was no \"I like yours better.\" There was only, \"Look what I got!\" Each thought their own was best. The Hot Wheels cars were all complete kits, cars with garages and police stations and car washes. The baby dolls were exquisite. No two were the same. We oohed and aahed like relatives outside a hospital nursery. The dolls went home snuggled inside the coats of their new mothers. If you were wondering, they were all babies in beautiful shades of brown. The boys made plans to get together over the holidays to build huge cities out of their car sets.\n\nAfter the children left, there was a Christmas luncheon for the teachers in the library. I was antsy, because ten of my children had not come to school on that bitterly cold half-day. Like Santa, I had deliveries to make.\n\nI peeled out of the parking lot at 2:18, twelve minutes early. First stop was Natasha's grandmother's house. All her brothers, sisters and cousins were there.\n\n\"It was just too cold to send them to school for a half-day,\" grandma explained. I agreed. I met Natasha's grandfather and his brother as the other children ran to the back of the house hollering for Natasha to come quick.\n\nThe shy, tiniest fairy came down the long hallway with a quizzical look on her face. When she saw me standing in her grandmother's living room, she bolted into a run and jumped into my arms, a huge smile on her face. I spun her around and told her we'd missed her at the party.\n\n\"I've come to ask you something,\" I told her. \"If you were picked to be the mother of a special baby doll, would you want a great big one or a tiny little one like you?\"\n\n\"A great big one,\" she said. \"The biggest.\"\n\n\"Wait here,\" I told her. I went to my car trunk and took out the biggest box. She unwrapped it on the spot. It was a beautiful baby with a blue fuzzy sleeper and a stocking cap. \"Thank heavens that baby has warm clothes for a day like this,\" I observed. The book she unwrapped was _Green Eggs and Ham_ , her favorite. Grandma hugged me goodbye and blessed me as I set off into the biting cold.\n\nNext stop was Mario's. He was in his undershirt. His mother made him put his boxes under the tree until Christmas. On my way once again, I turned a corner where three boys playing in the snow paused and shouted out, \"Mrs. Baldacci! Mrs. Baldacci!\"\n\nI couldn't tell who they were because they were so bundled up, but I stopped, waved and told them \"Merry Christmas!\" It had been more than thirty years, back when my husband was a child, since any kids shouted \"Mrs. Baldacci!\" on the streets of Roseland.\n\nNext stop was a second-floor apartment above a storefront, up a steep staircase to a cozy den. \"Tell your teacher thank you and give her a hug,\" Tashequa's mother told her, smiling over her daughter's head at me.\n\nHakim was wearing pajamas and a twinkling smile.\n\n\"Put them under the tree,\" said his beautiful mother.\n\n\"If that book is too easy for you, you can swap when we get back to school,\" I told him.\n\nOne more delivery, to a girl in pajamas whose sister got her nose out of joint when she saw the gift-wrapped box. A condemnation notice was nailed to the doorframe. That was my last delivery, but one present remained in my trunk, a baby doll for a girl with no address. She would have to wait until school resumed, assuming she came back then.\n\nIt was dark as I headed home from my rounds. Christmas lights twinkled in the neighborhood; the all-blue display was popular that year. Trees glowed behind living room windows.\n\nI tuned in the classical station and thought about the day. Far more had come out of those big black bags than surprisingly wonderful toys. The church people who wanted to help had put something in motion that would last long after the toys were cast aside and the books were memorized by heart. They had reinforced the image of our school and classroom as places where good and fun things happen, where people care about each other, where magic occasionally breaks out, where rewards are bestowed and love abounds. For children who learned young that life was uncertain and often cruel, and that institutions were not to be trusted, that was the most important gift of all.\nChapter 42\n\n* * *\n\n**Cruel January**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThe first week back from the long Christmas break was brutal, like a week full of Mondays.\n\nThe kids, predictably, had a hard time getting back with the program. Our time away from school had been blissfully unstructured. By Friday my head was ringing with the incessant drone of \"Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci, Mrs. Baldacci.\" They were happy to see me, I supposed.\n\nAsophane was behaving like a short timer and told me she was transferring out of our school. I called her mother, who said she had no intention of transferring her. She came back the next day as her old hard-working self.\n\nBrandon was angry and refusing to work. I made him line leader and he rose to the challenge. By week's end (and two phone calls home) he was on board.\n\nLouis was crawling on the floor again. I phoned his home from the classroom cell phone and put him on with his mother. It reduced him to tears but got him back in his seat, albeit upside-down.\n\nThe biggest surprise was Enrico. He was back on the job. Didn't fight with anyone. He did not make faces or talk back. I called his mother to report this change. She informed me she had gotten married over the holiday, and they had moved. \"He now has a positive male role model in his life,\" she said. \"It's making all the difference.\"\n\nThey hadn't forgotten how to read. Everyone was eager to get a book out of the library. Three asked me to read to the class the books they'd gotten for Christmas, claiming that no one had read with them at home over the holiday, and they did not take it upon themselves to crack the new books. I thought the truth was that they wanted to show off their books to the class, which was good. It demonstrated that they were proud of their books and wanted to share them.\n\nReading about Dr. King in preparation for the January 15 holiday, there was a passage in one book about how Martin, as a boy, would spend all his allowance on books because he wanted to own his own books. Everyone's head snapped up at that part. Something resonated. They all had their own books. They were impressed that he graduated from high school and started college at age fifteen.\n\n\"See where reading can take you?\" I said.\n\nThere was an open house at a new, all-girl charter school on Sunday afternoon. At the start-up, they were only taking girls in sixth and ninth grades. I planned to take Mia for a look-see, and told some of my former seventh graders, now eighth graders, about it. They came hunting me the next day and asked me to take them, which is probably a violation of the Mann Act or ten different teacher rules. They always warn teachers to never take a student in their cars, never be alone with a student, especially with the classroom door closed. You never know what someone will say about you.\n\nOn Sunday, it was freezing cold. Mia had a fever. I called Nichelle to tell her I didn't think I'd be able to take them without a chaperone. Her mother couldn't come. She worked nights and needed her rest. Destinee's granddad wasn't feeling too good and he begged off. Kyisha's mother was home with the twins, who had just turned one.\n\nHearing the disappointment in Nichelle's voice, I decided to take them anyway. I knocked on each door and personally took the hand-off from each grown-up, along with signed notes from each adult saying it was okay for the girls to go with me. Off we went to the school, which was on the Illinois Institute of Technology campus near Comiskey Park.\n\n\"Put on your seat belts,\" I told each one as we roared off. They admired my Dodge Neon's upholstery.\n\nThey were perfectly behaved, delightful. We looked all around, talked to students, met the principal and went to every classroom. We attracted a few quizzical looks, these three beautiful black teenage girls and one short light-skinned woman. One teacher asked them if their parents were there, and they said they came with me, their old teacher. \"You must be pretty special students,\" she said, smiling. I agreed that yes, they definitely were.\n\nThey were some of the same girls who had been present at the crying-in-the-bathroom incident more than a year before. So of course we checked out the bathroom facilities at the new school. Gleaming new tile. Many, many bathroom stalls, each with a door that closed and locked. Hot and cold running water. Soap. Mirrors, lots of them, reflected our faces. We were all smiling. Smiling at how far we had come. They were about to graduate grammar school. I would finish graduate school in June. I like to think we kept each other going.\n\nAs far as I know, they all sent in their applications. It would be a great environment: fifteen girls in a class. The only all-girl public school. The thing that impressed me the most about that charter school was that they didn't give letter grades. Projects were graded on a level of mastery: complete, in progress and \"not yet.\" Every project was graded on a rubric of about twenty items that must be completed, and how well each detail was presented.\n\nI felt like such a fraud giving letter grades on the report cards of my students that weekend. How can you give a seven-year-old an F because he can't read? Louis felt bad about his grades, and I spent special time with him alone on Friday to show him the progress he had made since the start of the year.\n\n\"Look, Louis, now all your people have hair and hands and shoes. And you are making animals and houses now. My favorite pictures are you doing _grand jete\u00b4._ And look what you did last week\u2014you added a sentence to your drawing. You are coming along. Keep working hard. I will help you.\"\n\nHe was so happy to hear this that he drew a picture for me. He asked my favorite color, the girls' favorite colors and Artie's favorite color.\n\n\"This is you, your daughters and your husband, and the cats, Midnight and Sam,\" he said. Every one of us was drawn in our favorite color. He got every one right. Is it any wonder I adored Louis?\n\nHe had drawn a picture of me with Midnight the week before. Midnight had a turned-down cat mouth.\n\n\"Is Midnight sad?\" I asked.\n\n\"You are at school and he misses you,\" Louis replied.\n\nI gave the picture to Mia, since Midnight is her cat. I asked her could she write a note to Louis. She wrote:\n\n\"Dear Louis,\n\n\"I really like the picture you drew of my mom and Midnight. I don't think he's sad when we are away because he always finds some crazy thing to do to amuse himself. Did you know that we have another cat, Sam? So Midnight has someone to play with when we are gone, and he is never bored.\n\nWrite back!\"\n\nMia was home sick from school that week, and I phoned her after lunch from the classroom. It was very quiet, as it is whenever I pull out the phone, because someone's usually getting a phone call home and everyone wants to hear them get in trouble.\n\n\"How are you feeling?\" I asked. She said she was okay, she guessed. I asked her if she'd say hi to Louis, and passed the phone.\n\n\"Someone wants to talk to you,\" I told him.\n\n\"Hello,\" he said. \"Hi, Mia.\" Big, big smile. Quiet. \"I got your letter,\" he said softly.\n\nThey didn't have too much to say, but Mia told him to write her back, and he said he would.\n\nAfter he hung up, I said, \"Hey, why don't we all write to her? When you're home sick, wouldn't you feel better if someone sent you a get-well note?\"\n\nPaper and pencils at the ready, we brainstormed.\n\nI hope you are feeling better.\n\nI hope you get well.\n\nI hope you get better so you can come visit our classroom.\n\nI hope you get better so you can come on our field trip with us.\n\nI hope you get better soon so you can go back to school and learn something.\n\nMia had eighteen get-well notes that night, some in homemade envelopes sealed with spit. They made her feel much better. It made me feel great. It is the essence of writing to communicate feelings to another person with pencil and paper and, yes, spit. They are getting quite good at it. Some of the boys put: \"Look on back.\"\n\nWe turned over their letters and found that they'd provided their phone numbers.\n\nThere were a few totally original letters in the mix.\n\n\"I'm sorry you are sick. I am sick, too.\"\n\n\"Remember me from the _Dance Africa_ field trip? I hope you feel better.\"\n\nMia wasn't the only one who was sick. I had some horrid virus with a disgusting cough and much nose-blowing and sneezing. My hearing went in and out. Everything that could be infected was, even an earring hole.\n\nI rested all weekend and prayed for a snow day Monday. Freezing rain was predicted. The streets and sanitation department put down tons of road salt, and school was on as usual.\n\nBut not for long. A power outage at school caused us to evacuate.\n\nWe lined up in the darkened hallways and boarded buses to South Side Prep for the day. It was Artie's former Catholic boys' high school, and we spent the day in the gym not doing much of anything. We sang \"Down By the Bay\" about a thousand times. We tried to read a few books, but it was so noisy I just had them read to themselves. We went to the bathroom and for drinks of water a dozen times. We had a very good lunch! We returned to school forty minutes late, all of us wrung out and exhausted. Their homework was to write a story about \"My Crazy Day.\" Only Mario did his homework.\n\nWe noodled around the next day. We had library. We worked with math manipulatives on subtraction regrouping. We watched the dance scenes from a ballet movie called _Center Stage_. They got to see men and women at ballet, an African-American prima ballerina in _Swan Lake_ , the balcony scene from _Romeo and Juliet_ and a _pas de quatre_ from _Swan Lake_ , a rocking jazz class and ballet classes at American Ballet Theater Academy. It was very exciting and got everyone spinning and walking on tiptoes.\n\nMy homeless girl was spending her days sitting under a table or in a corner in the afternoons, frustrated beyond all comprehension. The situation was urgent. My request for referral forms was ten days unanswered.\n\nLater that week, we took our field trip to the Fire Safety House. Afterward, we shared and everyone showed their burn scars. We had several scars from hot irons, a hot pan spilling off the stove, a burn from an exhaust pipe on a motorcycle and assorted curling irons on the neck. Ouch.\n\nI did not turn in my lesson plans on Friday. They were not done. I was a total wreck. I was crying Thursday night because of various roadblocks to getting my second-year book grant application turned in. The line at the one working copy machine in the Roosevelt library included seven people with thick books.\n\nSaturday I went to the doctor. The nurse asked, \"Are you running a fever?\"\n\n\"I don't know. We broke the thermometer.\"\n\nShe took my temp. It was 100.\n\n\"You have a fever,\" she said.\n\n\"That explains the otherworldly feeling I've been having,\" I said.\n\nThe doctor looked in my eyes, ears, throat. He listened to me breathe. He said, \"I'm going to give you a shot. Then you will take Zithromax for a week. If you don't feel better, you have a refill. Take it another week.\"\n\n\"What do I have?\" I ask.\n\n\"A little of this, a little of that,\" he says. I figured as much. Earache, cough, nose-blowing like there's no tomorrow, big fatigue.\n\n\"What have you been doing for it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing. Being a jerk. Going to work every day. Oh, I found some Amoxicillin in the cupboard and took it for three days when my chest started to hurt from coughing.\"\n\n\"How old was it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Expired a year ago July,\" I said. \"I stole it from my husband.\"\n\nThe nurse came back to give me my shot, and I started to drop my pants.\n\n\"No!\" she cried. \"We only do that with little kids. By the time you're a grown-up, you have enough meat on your arms to take a shot up there.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said. I hadn't had a shot for being sick since I was a little kid.\n\nMonday at school I had Brandon dress up like the doctor and Andrea as me. We rolled out a new feature, \"401 Theater.\" We acted out my episode at the doctor's office. I showed them where I got my shot. Everyone applauded.\n\nWe had many volunteers who wanted to act out scenes from their lives. The point: There are many ways to tell a story. I was feeling a bit better by the way.\n\nThe children worked magnificently. They took a reading review quiz of our read-alouds from the week, four questions on each story.\n\nThey did their fire safety quiz. We colored a while. I noticed some children chose sheets with cats in a garden, others picked lions in a jungle. We did a compare and contrast on lions and cats with a Venn diagram. I thought I'd pass out before they finally came up with the words \"wild\" and \"tame.\"\n\nWe had lunch and gym, and then we watched _The Dancing Princesses_ from Shelley Duvall's Fairy Tale Theatre. The next day we would read _Brothers of the Knight_ , about Reverend Knight and his twelve sons in Harlem. The children would see how fairy tales have eternal themes and how stories morph and time travel, in print, on the stage and in film. We were back in the groove.\nChapter 43\n\n* * *\n\n**A Prayer in School**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI had been weary. Beaten down. It was that \"Slipping Into Darkness\" time of year again in Chicago, a time of short days and icy winds and ankle-deep gray slush at every corner. It was hard to get motivated. I was overdue for a moment of grace.\n\nAs I was warming up the room by positioning our fan to pull warm air from the hallway, the office called to say that a parent had come to see me. I went downstairs and found Tashiqua with her grandfather.\n\nWe went upstairs and sat in the yellow chairs at the small desks. He said Tashiqua had been troubled by people \"talking about her mama\" the day before. I recalled a spat between Tashiqua and another girl at her table. Tashiqua had asked to move her desk across the room, and I had allowed it.\n\nHer granddad said that Tashiqua was a compassionate person and that he believed from a prophecy that she would be a great and holy woman. I agreed. I told him what a delight she was and how I loved having such a special person in my class.\n\nI explained that everyone comes through our door with baggage, with issues. I said I wanted our room to be a compassionate community, supportive of each other. I admitted it was a struggle.\n\nJust then, Andrea walked in. It was ten minutes too early, and she knew she was to line up outside with the class, but she blurted out that she was absent the day before because her cousin died and she was at her funeral.\n\nEverything stopped. Andrea handed me the funeral program she carried in her hand. I told her how sorry I was. I asked her about her cousin, how she died, had she been sick, how old was she, and finally, how she herself was doing.\n\nTashiqua's grandfather, who I rightly assumed was a pastor, then asked her would she like to pray on it for a moment? Andrea went right to him. We all bowed our heads. He prayed beautifully, soothing words of comfort and hope. I thought of Kayla.\n\nAfterward, I told Andrea she could put her cousin's program up on the board for the day if she'd like, and she did. Even when someone is gone, we remember them.\n\nTashiqua and her granddad and I talked a while longer about how we have to meet insult with love. I talked about how we each bear crosses. Granddad smiled and said he had uttered those exact words that morning.\n\nI thanked him for his prayer and for supporting Andrea. I felt, too, the healing power of prayer in my public school classroom. I had a calm and centered day.\n\nNot long after that, I learned that Kayla was alive and well! The guidance counselor told me the news. She was enrolled at another school in the neighborhood in eighth grade. She didn't lose any ground in her year away.\n\nI asked whether it would be appropriate to try to contact her. I wondered if I could write a letter of recommendation for her for high school. The guidance counselor said she would let me know.\n\nThe job of teaching, performed with an open heart, carries a burden of grief. I could not dwell on Kayla, in thought or conversation, without becoming teary. I'd slap myself for being such a baby. I'd tell myself to snap out of it, no one died, for crying out loud. I told myself that bad things happen to good people and that kids bounce back. But still I grieved.\n\nFor a year I had lit candles. I had worried and wondered whether I would ever see her again and how it would happen. In one of my sappy daydreams I imagined myself as an old lady teacher meeting a student teacher, a young woman wearing a gold medal of _La Madonna della Strada_.\n\nThe sadness I carried for an entire year, the shock at her disappearance, not knowing where she was or if she was all right, at last lifted. I was overjoyed!\n\nKnowing she was back was not enough, though. I wanted to know how she was doing. I wondered if she might be interested in that Young Women's Leadership Charter School and whether I could help her get in.\n\nOver the next weeks, I phoned the guidance counselor of her new school a number of times. The counselor was always \"not here yet\" or \"just left.\" I finally caught her in the early afternoon one day and explained the situation. I asked if she could tell Kayla I wanted to see her, and if it was okay with Kayla's mother, set up a meeting.\n\nThe counselor agreed. I never got a call back, however. My subsequent calls were not returned.\n\nI tried Kayla's pastor and her aunt with the same results.\n\nFinally, I just had to let it go.\nChapter 44\n\n* * *\n\n**Recess!**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nThere were four days until March, and we started putting our weather time line up. Hakim drew some of his fantastic, fierce lions for our calendar board and we put up the words: \"March comes in like a lion.\"\n\nI had written a memo asking that the class be allowed to go on a walk around the block every day to observe the changing season for our weather unit. We would make scientific notations of the daily changes. In Chicago, March is a monumental month of nature's fury and affirmation.\n\nI got my memo back from the office secretary.\n\n\"He said to tell you that if you send a memo, you should send it to him and 'cc' the others,\" she said. The memo was addressed to my mentor, the vice principal and the principal, in that order.\n\n\"Did he say anything about the content of the memo itself?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" she said.\n\n\"So I should resubmit it with his name first and 'cc' the ladies?\" I asked.\n\nShe nodded her head.\n\nWe never did get permission for our daily walks. The reason given was safety.\n\n\"I don't want my name in the paper if something happens to those children out there,\" said the vice principal.\n\n\"Out there\" was our neighborhood. How could we, as adults responsible for the well-being of children, be fearful of our neighborhood? What kind of message did that send to the children? What kind of line did it draw?\n\nOn the rare occasions that teachers needed to stay until 6 p.m. for report card pickup, they were urged to go out to their cars in groups, reinforcing the perception of the neighborhood as a dangerous, high-crime area. Every day at 2:30, most teachers fled the building like a fire drill. Yet our students walked to and from school, most without adult supervision.\n\nI did not have the fortitude to dig my heels in for a \"take back the neighborhood\" initiative in which the school leadership had no interest. But philosophically I found it sad that the staff was afraid of the neighborhood, as sad as the principal believing that the students were \"victims.\" It showed a lack of faith and encouraged the mindset of excuse-making. It probably had a lot to do with low achievement. I gave up the idea of outdoor science walks.\n\nBut I got a new idea from our \"Math Mania\" day. Math Mania was a circus of math-connected activities in the classroom: Crazy Eights and Old Maid card games; jacks; building blocks and tessellations, which are repeating designs with colorful geometric shapes. Everyone seemed to find an activity they were interested in. The children followed their interests and formed small groups. The groups changed as students became bored with one activity and tried another. No one tormented anyone. No one fought. No one used the free time to go in someone else's desk or coat pockets. Everyone was busy. No one acted stressed out or negative.\n\nIt slowly dawned on me that we needed to do this every day and call it indoor recess. Given the stress levels of the children, with no physical release except gym once a week, the kids needed to play. And since they tended to fuss and fight at the silliest provocation, the children needed to learn to play together.\n\nCleaning out the basement, I found a hopscotch rug that had belonged to my daughters. I brought it to school with four rocks to use as markers. The first time we tried it invited chaos. Everyone crowded in, butted in line and fought over taking turns.\n\nBut when we opened up other activities in the room, we created an indoor playground. Four people at a time played hopscotch while others played ball or jacks on the floor. Someone brought out a jump rope and we moved desks to make room for that. Others gravitated to our popular \"doctor's office\" for role-playing with dolls.\n\nThe children created their own mix of aerobic exercise and simple stress-relieving imaginative play. The next day, we tried it again. Before long, the set-up and clean-up were much quicker, the transitions easier, and groups were cooperating better than before. Children who did not wish to play went next door to read to the kindergartners, another positive example of cooperation.\n\nI was there if they needed me to show how to deal cards, but they were in charge of themselves. They chose their games and their playmates.\n\nAs time went on, I observed the children's activities during our secret recess and the mood of the classroom afterward. Cooperative and imaginative play continued to improve.\n\nI was worried that I'd get in trouble. I figured it was a matter of time before I had to do a tap dance justifying our playtime. I choreographed one that extolled the math skills, especially when we made a store with empty food boxes and a cash register out of a kitchen drawer organizer. Louis was exceptional at counting change.\n\nAll of the fun and games were my best efforts to make our classroom a place where \"a splendid time was guaranteed for all.\"\nChapter 45\n\n* * *\n\n**The Teacher Certification Test**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nIf questions on the Basic Skills Test for teachers two years before had been like the under-$8,000 questions on _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?_ the state certification test was more like _Jeopardy_. We needed to know our teacher stuff and a whole lot more.\n\nIt was a glorious summer-like April day, a far cry from the freezing, snow-covered day that I took the Basic Skills Test in what seemed like another lifetime. The test was at the same place, a high school on the city's southwest side. Hundreds of seagulls circled the green sports fields. My fellow interns clustered on the steps, nervous, giving each other pep talks.\n\nWe had not prepared other than to give ourselves the self-test at the back of the state board of education book, which was quite detailed and explained every answer, right and wrong. I reviewed it twice.\n\nSome people spend weeks or months preparing for the test. They join study groups at their colleges of education or send to the state board of education for additional prep materials.\n\nBut my colleagues and I had no time for that. We were in the waning days of our internship. One more report card and we were out. Our days as classroom intern teachers were coming to an end and so were our nights at graduate school. After living and breathing education day and night, I felt we were perfectly positioned to ace the test.\n\nAgain, it was a multiple choice test. It was like Trivial Pursuit with chart and map reading. \"Who was the president of the Confederacy during the Civil War?\" \"What African country is shown on the map?\" There were diagrams and trick questions. My favorite: \"If you were paving a parking lot with a two-inch-thick coat of asphalt, how many cubic feet of material would you need?\" There were questions about which activities are most appropriate for children of different ages, questions about first aid and team sports, questions about behaviorist theory, how kids learn and how to best handle misbehavers.\n\nThe undergraduate biology lab I had taken the fall before at a Chicago community college served me well in the science area. Again, I did poorest in language arts\u2014after supporting myself as a writer for twenty-five years!\n\nThe results: Language Arts, 93. Mathematics and Science, 96. Social Studies, 100. Health, Physical Education and Fine Arts, 100. Professional Knowledge, 100. Total score: 97. We needed a 70 to pass. Some of my colleagues failed, and some failed for the second time.\n\nWere those who failed poor teachers? Not from what I had seen. I had worked on projects, presentations and lesson plans with them, and their work was thoughtful, creative, solid and mindful of \"best practice.\" Their students did well. In my opinion, their test results didn't reflect their knowledge or talent. I did not know what to make of it. Were they nervous, knowing the career for which they'd prepared for two years was on the line? Did they read too much into the questions or read them incorrectly? It made no sense.\n\nThe experience made me sympathize with my own students, who live and die by their Iowa test scores. It confirmed my skepticism about what standardized tests really measure as far as what we know and how we apply that knowledge.\n\nI realized:\n\n\u2022 How well, how much and what we read greatly influences how well we do on tests.\n\n\u2022 Despite our frenzy to ignite critical thinking in our students, it is deadly to \"over-think\" a question on a standardized test.\n\n\u2022 It is better to stick to a basic formula than to write with passion, style or voice.\n\n\u2022 It is possible to score 100s across the board on the teacher test yet lack the creativity, humanity and stamina it takes to be a teacher in this day and age.\n\nAfter the test, Tammy and Michelle came back to my house. We sat outside and basked in the day, while we peppered each other with questions from the test. We got out an atlas to double-check our geography answers.\n\nBack at college later that week, the class voted to accelerate our course schedule, attending classes every other night for four and a half hours so that we could finish sooner. Since I was a zombie, I did not vote for this speeded up finish. There was another reason, too, one that only a couple of us shared.\n\nMichelle and I were misty-eyed to think that it would soon be over. She had been a sculptor and photographer before her career change. We had walked through the fire during our internships and risen from the ashes as new individuals. We had reinvented ourselves. We loved going to class. We would gladly have gone all summer. We could not imagine our future teaching careers without the support of the twelve people we had come to rely on as sounding boards, and for sustenance.\n\nBut the others were in a lather to get finished, and so we ended our campaign clocking fifteen class hours a week. The grand finale was a party at my house. Only seven people came. Some who had replied in the affirmative offered no explanation for not showing, save for one who called on a cell phone to say that she was furniture shopping on the North Side and caught in traffic. The dark sky poured rain all day long.\nChapter 46\n\n* * *\n\n**Midnight Catches a Snake**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nOn Sunday, Midnight caught a garden snake. I put it in a microwave container with a garden ecosystem, punched some holes for air and set it in the shade. Midnight later produced a second snake, so identical to the first that I had to look in the container to see if the other one was still there. It was. We released the second one, but I took the first to school on Monday.\n\nBig hit! Everyone got to see it move around (quite gingerly, actually, considering it had a cat bite in its side) and flick its tongue. Martin, my naturalist, pleaded to take it home.\n\nSecond graders are natural scientists. They are fascinated with nature and driven to understand the physical world around them.\n\nEarlier in the year we had studied wasps and ladybugs, because of the children's many questions about why these creatures were invading our human space. We had tons of yellow jackets on our playground every fall, swarming the school, flying in the windows and stinging scores of kids. Our research revealed that they were not bees but wasps. We learned: They are social insects, living together in communities; they don't sting if you don't bother them\u2014they sting when they are \"nervous\"; they are \"the paper-makers of the insect world\"; they do not store food, so when fall comes, they act weird because they are hungry and getting ready to die.\n\nWe kept daily tallies of the number of wasps we observed. The number declined until the only wasps we saw were mostly in the garbage cans and only on warm, sunny mornings. We connected the weather forecast to their ultimate demise. One day we captured a wasp so large we concluded she must be the queen.\n\nDuring a citywide ladybug infestation in October, we used information from the newspaper to learn why these biting orange bugs were different from their red relations, why they were introduced to the United States and how they migrated north to Chicago.\n\nBut the snake project was best of all. Everyone made snake books. They were divine. Some were accordion books made by folding a strip of paper like an accordion, some were pages stapled together. Some were scientific, some straightforward reporting about the presence of a snake in our room and its triumphant visit to the kindergarten room, borne by 401 students. Asophane did a research paper, adding complicated snake-related words of her own choosing from the dictionary. Mine was from the snake's point of view, describing the traumatic capture and jarring change of scene.\n\nSpring break snuck up on us, and it was a blissful, endless series of chores in the garden. A startling amount of our backyard grass had died from neglect last year. I scattered bag after bag of seed. Growing grass, I quickly realized, was more trouble than having a newborn in the house. It had to be watered all the time. I wasn't changing diapers or nursing a baby, but I was grimy with dirt every day. Which was not cool because another neglected and long-put-off disaster, the bathroom, was being gutted and remodeled.\n\nThe first week back from break was paralyzing. I was too sapped to move. The children were unruly. I figured they spent as much time over vacation outside as I did. It was hard for all of us to be back indoors.\n\nThe outside temperature was eighty-five degrees, and our room, which had east-facing windows, was stifling by mid-morning. Only a few classrooms had working air conditioning. Mine was not one. We were sweaty and disagreeable. The fan put up a noble effort, but it was meager with all those sweaty little bodies sticking to their plastic chairs.\n\nThe listening lab broke, so I brought that table up front and proclaimed it the writer's workshop. Five students a day brought their journals. We sat in a circle and talked about our writing. It was hugely popular.\n\nWe had many thoughtful discussions about words and storytelling, about generating ideas and the imperative to write down the things that we wonder about, about how writing helps us figure things out.\n\nMy Iowa test prep materials, which I turned over for copying ten days earlier allotting time for practice, came to me half an hour after my class finished the Iowa test. It didn't matter, really. Testing second-graders was optional. I would never know how they did, but it was good practice for third grade, a \"benchmark\" year that mattered to the bean counters.\nChapter 47\n\n* * *\n\n**Lost Parents**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nAsophane was not herself. She was cross and weepy, defiant and clingy. She stole boxes of cookies from our cupboard and stuffed them in her backpack. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were dirty. I sat with her on the stairwell outside our classroom and asked her what was going on.\n\n\"My mother is in jail,\" she said. Fat tears rolled down her face.\n\nIn the course of our year together, there had been hints that all was not well with Asophane's mother. One time, she slept all day when she should have been picking up her daughter's report card. When Asophane tried to wake her, she told the child to go pick it up herself. Asophane sneaked up to our classroom and made a case for picking up her own report card, but the rule was that they were to be handed over to parents only. I let Asophane see her report card and gave her cookies and juice. It was a good report card and she was dying to show it to her mother. It languished in the office until the next grading period.\n\nThe jail term was nearly as long as a grading period. Since Asophane was counting the days, I put her in charge of our classroom calendar. She was efficient. Every morning, she tacked the square for that day in its proper place. Every so often, she'd tell me how many more days it would be until her mother came home. A couple of times, she told me she would not be at school the next day, because she was going to visit her mother.\n\nI'd been to Cook County Jail, and I imagined Asophane standing in line in that noisy, heartbreaking place, waiting her turn to talk to her mother in a small, airless room.\n\nThere was a big party at Asophane's grandmother's house when her mother was released. The months of worry had been hard on the child. She had been so self-assured, so fearless before. Happy as she was when it was over, she still seemed worried and subdued.\n\nThe same week Asophane's mother came home, the father of another second-grader got involved in a dispute with a couple of men two blocks from school. There was some sort of illicit activity involved, and whatever it was broke bad. He saw it coming and told his daughter to run.\n\nBecause the child ran, she was spared the sight of her father getting shot to death.\n\nThe school office had been notified by the police, and the child's teacher, a first-year intern, was informed first thing in the morning. Knowing her student, and how important her father had been in her life, the teacher was grief-stricken. She was surprised and unprepared when the child showed up for school that day and told her, \"My daddy's dead.\"\n\nThe teacher put on a movie for the children and put her head down on her desk so the children wouldn't see her cry.\nChapter 48\n\n* * *\n\n**Mother's Day**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nMother's Day weekend found me in South Haven, Michigan, the place I go to reconnect with my truest self. I took Mia and a friend, but my real objective was to spend the short time away reflecting on my amazing two years that were nearly finished and look ahead to my future as a teacher.\n\nIt was very windy and cold but sunny. We walked the beach, went to town for a bit, then checked into a hotel. I thoroughly enjoyed the company of fifth graders They talk about the most amazing things. They wonder whether we are living in a parallel universe or whether we are really living on a crumb on a table of a much larger place without realizing our insignificance. They consider how weird it is that you can never really \"see\" your own face, only its reflection, and wonder whether what we see in the mirror is really what we look like to the rest of the world.\n\nWhile the girls were shopping in town Saturday, I bought a _Kalamazoo Gazette_ , the first paper I worked for right out of college. There was a front-page story about recruiting teachers from other professions. Michigan, like every other state in the nation, was facing a teacher shortage. Legislation to allow alternative certification had been written, but had no sponsor and therefore hadn't been introduced. The state was already feeling the teacher pinch as retirements soared. So I guessed I could move back to Michigan any time I wanted and have a job waiting. I'd also heard ads on the radio for a California teacher fair. The greatest needs in California were identical to Chicago's: teachers for special education, math, science and bilingual education.\n\nOn Sunday morning, Mother's Day, we revisited the beach. It was a splendid clear morning with the crisp spring air so unique to the Great Lakes. The wind had died down, and the sun was warm. Not a cloud in the sky. One sailboat, one motorboat, seagulls. It was deserted, quiet, deliciously evocative. I settled myself in the sand and watched gentle waves lap the shore.\n\nI thought about motherhood, the most consuming role of my life. I thought about how much mothering the second-graders needed and how poorly-equipped I often felt to do that job. I wondered whether my own two children needed that level of nurturing from their teachers.\n\nI felt angry at parents who had let their children down, the parents who were in jail, on drugs, who were narcissistic at terrible expense to their kids. I was mad at the ones who beat and berate their children, who only gave attention when their children misbehaved and ignored them when they are jumping through hoops for positive attention. I was mad at the parents who abandoned their children, either physically or emotionally, leaving them adrift in the world, unable to make eye contact and refusing to speak. I was angry at the ones who ruined their lives with drugs to the point they couldn't provide a roof over their children's heads and the ones who stayed out all night and kept their kids up at all hours, in harm's way. I had two phone messages on the classroom phone the week before from a seven-year-old at a quarter to midnight. On the messages, she sang me songs about school and how she'd see me the next morning.\n\nAs a teacher, I could never fill those children's needs. That was what parents were for. What I could do seemed so small against the enormity of the risks some students faced, like a single wave nudging the shoreline of their lives. I was grateful for the parents and grandparents of my students who tended their children well. I was in awe of the single mothers who went back to school and of the parents who battled chronic illnesses and still put their children first.\n\nI walked the beach and collected many beautiful stones of different colors, from ebony to alabaster, from teal to tangerine, rocks with pictures in them, rocks in the shapes of Africa, of hearts, rocks that were perfectly round or oblong, rocks with fossils, rocks with different textures, speckled stones, smooth stones. I would bring them to school the next day and tell the children I was thinking of them on Mother's Day and brought them treasures.\n\nWe would look at them dry and regard their shapes and textures. Then we would spray them with water and look at them wet, when their hidden personality and true, deep beauty is revealed.\n\nThey would choose whichever one they liked best. The one that represents their own self. They would write in their journals about their special rock and why they chose it.\n\nI chose a picture rock. It looked like a yellow egg with a lacy black top and bottom, and seagulls flying in the middle.\n\nAfter many false starts, we finally pried ourselves from the splendid beach and piled into the car for the drive back to Chicago. We listened to Terri Hemmert's \"Rampant Beatlemania,\" a once-a-year radio extravaganza of ten straight hours of Beatles music on WXRT. I called twice to win trivia contests but couldn't get through. If I had, I would have asked Terri to dedicate \"Yellow Submarine\" to Room 401 from Mrs. B.\n\nBack at school the next day, the children were thrilled by the Lake Michigan stones. They enjoyed looking at the myriad rocks in detail. Admittedly, the water sprayers got a little carried away, causing a minor flood, but it was so much fun to squeeze the spray bottle handles, who could blame them? The children looked and touched, picking up rocks, putting them back, studying another and another, agonizing over the one stone they loved the best. Ultimately, they made their choices.\n\n\"I pick this rock because it's my best color and it's colorful and pretty that's why I picked it and it's a heart,\" Natasha wrote.\n\n\"I like my rock because it is beautiful and soft and I like my rock because in the middle it is twirly and colorful and it look like a tornado,\" Tashequa wrote.\n\nHakim wrote a thank-you card: \"Mrs. B, I love the rock! The rock is pretty! Thanks for the rock!\" He drew a picture of his rock inside a heart.\n\nWhen we hear the metaphor that someone's heart is like a stone, we think that they are so hardened they cannot love. In second grade, we managed to turn stone into tangible evidence of love and that is what I remember.\nChapter 49\n\n* * *\n\n**Guns of Summer**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nAs the days grew hotter and the leaves on the trees spread out new and green, a kid threatened to \"go home and get my mama's gun and come back up here and shoot\" his sixth-grade teacher, a first-year intern. The teacher called the cops. The police searched the boy's locker. The teacher, a cop and the boy went to the office, where the child continued to make shooting gestures (index finger pointed, thumb up, whispering \"pow, pow, pow\") at the teacher behind the policeman's back. The cop saw him and the police took the kid away. The child was soon back but not the teacher.\n\nI happened to be punching in the following Monday morning, when the wife of the teacher who was threatened called him in sick. Whether out of fear or out of insult, he never came back. With ten days to go in the school year, another ship-jumper was unable to endure another minute. A year's worth of work down the drain seemed a better deal. I never heard of him again.\n\nWhat would I have done, I wondered? How could an adult go back into that classroom and face that child again, knowing that every day would be a showdown, never knowing what might happen? At our school, such incidents were minimized as empty threats or, as the kids said time and again, \"just playing with you.\" How were we supposed to decide when someone was not playing? As we lay bleeding? Yet at school, that teacher's defection was viewed as an overreaction. He was thought to be a silly white man, frightened off by a kid. He was a quitter, a failure. He didn't have what it took.\n\nI wanted to call in sick. My kids had been horrible. I gave detention to six of them, which was twenty-four percent of the class. All but about a half-dozen others deserved it. With the hot weather, the whole place was up for grabs once again. Children were running amok, and the teachers were outnumbered, beaten down, powerless to stop them, it seemed. If only we could hold on until the last bell.\n\nI was so overwhelmed that I barely noticed until Louis collapsed that he had read eighteen pages of _Go Dog Go!_ He was so exhausted that he staggered from the stairwell into the room and immediately put his head down on the desk. When I patted his back as I walked by, he was sweaty. That meant it really did happen. Louis read a book. I experienced a blip of joy.\n\nAs the grisly end wore down, I did what I had done the year before: I let go of the non-behavers and showered my time and attention on the ones who were still working. They bloomed like flowers. I savored our time together in the way that people do when the hourglass is running out.\n\nI did a mental count of the teacher interns who had come through the doors and who had left. By my tally, sixteen interns came on board in my two years. All but five left in one circumstance or another.\n\nOf the original seven, only Astrid and I survived.\n\nThe next year, we started with Astrid, me, a first-grade replacement and four fresh interns. Of the four new interns, three left: that first-grade teacher with the frightened eyes, the second-grade teacher who used to sell insurance and the one who was threatened with shooting.\n\nAt his behest, Astrid tried to get the \"quitter's\" things out of his locked classroom, using the ruse that he had things belonging to her that she needed. The principal told her in clipped tones, \"Since you're his messenger, tell him he needs to go through the principal.\"\n\nIn an incredible display of self-restraint, Astrid kept her mouth shut and left the office. But she sat quaking with rage in her car for a long time afterward, contemplating whether to go back in and tell the principal to shove it up his ass. I wonder what he would have done if she'd gone back in and told him she was going to go home and get her mama's gun and come back and shoot him.\nChapter 50\n\n* * *\n\n**Going from Here**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nI was talking to my mom a couple of days later, and she asked what I had lined up for fall.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I said. \"But the phone will ring.\"\n\nI had made only one effort to find another job. I had written to the principal who had come up to me after a speech I gave to the Annenberg Foundation a year before, a woman with a short blond Afro and fantastic jewelry who told me, \"When you're done with your internship, call me. I like your attitude.\"\n\nWhen I told people I wanted to teach at her school, they laughed and said, \"Right, everyone wants to teach there.\" The school was known throughout the city as an exciting school that works for kids. They said it in such a way that implied I didn't have a prayer of ever teaching there.\n\nThe day after I talked to my mother, that principal called me to set up an interview. When I returned her call at 5:40 p.m., she answered the office phone herself. I was not surprised. By then, I understood the extraordinary dedication it took to be a strong school leader.\n\n\"Are you going to wax the floors on your way out of the building?\" I asked her.\n\n\"No,\" she cracked, \"I already did that.\"\n\nWe had a conversation about the importance of recess, the topic of my master's inquiry project, and how her school had a 3:15 dismissal so the kids get recess at lunchtime and the teachers get a forty-five-minute breather to set up the afternoon.\n\nI set my sights on this school and this leader. I did not make any other calls, though I checked out the Chicago Public Schools job listings web site. There were tons of openings, especially in the upper grades. I also stopped in the office at my children's school near home to sniff around one afternoon, but the principal had left.\n\nI turned down an offer to teach graduate journalism students over the summer at Northwestern University, because an undergraduate algebra class at one of the City Colleges, necessary to fulfill a teacher certification requirement, would require my complete attention. I felt ill-equipped to teach a bunch of motivated rich kids anyway. I was so far removed from where they wanted to go, it wouldn't be fair.\n\nThe end of the school year trudged on at a tormentingly slow pace. Though I hadn't been eaten alive, as one veteran educator had predicted, I felt bitten and torn about my extremities. My mood was dour. I snapped at my students all week, then kicked my children's friends out of my house at 10:30 Friday night, after more than fourteen hours with the shrill voices of children ringing in my ears that day. \"Go home,\" I told them, the first time I'd ever asked someone to leave my home. I just couldn't take any more. I was an open wound. Over the three-day Memorial Day weekend, I slept ten hours one night, eight the next and eleven hours Sunday night. I woke up feeling nearly human, and I thought I recognized a glimmer of the person who used to be me before she got so cranky and ornery and snappish. That night, I watched Ken Burns' _Jazz_ documentary. One of Count Basie's band members said he slept for a year after leaving his orchestra. I know exactly how he felt. I could have spent months curled in bed.\n\nWith bags under my eyes, wearing a ridiculous flowered dress and a jean jacket, I went for my interview at the new school. The day happened to be the day of the annual school carnival.\n\nI arrived as students were being dismissed. I announced myself and settled on the office bench. Directly in my sightline was a small quilt, hanging from a nail on the office counter. \"All you need is love,\" it said in red blocky letters, amid floating red hearts.\n\nThe principal asked me to walk with her to a back door that opened onto a playground where cleanup was in progress. In the office, I had already seen digital images of the day's action. The big hit of the day was a giant slide that was an inflatable model of the _Titanic,_ in sinking position, which people climbed up and slid down. There had been food, games, tattoos, face painting, a petting zoo and pony rides. Some kids were still trying to finish enormous dill pickles on sticks. Seagulls wheeled and cried over the blacktop, looking for scraps to scavenge. We were a mile nearer the lake than my neighborhood. There would always be seagulls here.\n\nI couldn't believe how many children's names the principal knew. As the students left the building, they were walking, not running. They kept their hands to themselves. They did not touch one another. Most were quiet, but if they were talking, it was in normal conversational tones, not screaming. At least twenty kids said to their principal as they left, \"Thanks for the carnival.\" It was jarring to hear children saying thank you.\n\nWe talked for nearly two hours. About teaching children. About testing. About assessment. About curriculum integration. About teams of teachers working collaboratively. The school, with corridors that looked like a museum of African art, had three bands, sports teams, after-school dance and art programs, an entrepreneurship initiative and video club and book clubs, among other programs. We talked about a school paper and what she and the vice principal would like to see on a fifth-grade reading list.\n\nI showed my portfolio and described some of the cross-curricular projects my classes had done in seventh and second grades. She liked the growth charts we kept with our spring planting project. The vice principal liked the dream trip. They both liked the naming ceremony. The vice principal wanted to know how I liked second grade. It was a loaded question. I said I was glad for the experience but would not care to repeat it. I said I couldn't handle the neediness of the students, it was just too grueling. I patted her on the arm and said her name ten times in a row. We laughed. I said I wouldn't mind working my way up to seventh or eighth grade again someday, but the fifth-grade opening they had sounded just right to me as my youngest daughter had just finished fifth, and I knew it well.\n\nI asked point-blank how they felt about a teacher who was also a writer and whether they thought the outside world needed to know what was really going on in schools today. Could they bear to have a colleague who told the stories? I promised that I would do my best to walk the line, to be honest without violating anyone's privacy, exploiting children or harming the innocent. I assured them that I was a teacher first now, but I would always be a storyteller.\n\nI realized that I was poised on the brink of an excellent opportunity to see in action the kind of leadership that made this school stand out among 700 elementary schools in our city. I very much wanted to be part of an organization working hard, plowing forward. The faculty was dedicated, innovative, bright. Initiative was applauded. Everyone wore many hats. There were responsibilities to serve on committees, to formulate policies and philosophies. It was a unique team, constantly evolving, positive.\n\n\"I'm going to do something strange and forgo the secret conference with the vice principal and listen to my heart,\" the principal said. \"I'm going to offer you the job right now.\"\n\nI accepted, on the spot, with sincere gratitude and humility. I thought, \"I will do anything for this woman.\" I got up and hugged her.\n\n\"We'll be here all summer,\" she said.\n\n\"So will I,\" I said. \"So will I.\"\nChapter 51\n\n* * *\n\n**Graduation**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nWhen I had playground duty on Monday mornings, I liked to stand in the corner of the playground near the busiest intersection. From there I felt like I saw the big picture.\n\nI could see kids coming and going from the store across the street, eating chips and drinking soda pop for breakfast. I saw children arrive at school at a run, slipping inside the fence with joy and exuberance at seeing their schoolmates. I loved the deep, pounding beat of the bouncing basketballs under the high slap of the jump ropes and the chorus of voices filling out the middle.\n\nI saw the long picture. I saw children who had been abandoned in heartless ways early in their lives making their way in the world. I saw children who needed our school because it was the only consistent thing in their lives. I saw children who had endured incalculable losses who were still able to learn and to love. Some I knew well enough to see their dreams and aspirations taking shape.\n\nI asked my mentor if she could watch my class so I could go to graduation and see my former seventh-grade students walk across the stage.\n\n\"I always work graduation,\" she said, \"so I can't do it. I line up the students. But I'll see what I can do to get someone to take your class.\"\n\nI suppose many teachers who had been at a school a long time would see all the graduates as their former students. But there's something about a teacher's first class that is like a parent's firstborn. I really wanted to go, but experience had left me with little hope that someone would show up to relieve me on my outpost come graduation day. I tried to cobble together my own plan. It didn't help that no one could give me a straight answer on the actual day of graduation or the time.\n\nOn what turned out to be graduation day, my second graders happened to have library at 9:40. I'd gotten wind that graduation was occurring about that time. I dropped them off, grabbed my umbrella and dashed through the freezing rain to the other building, dripping past my old classroom on my way down the hallway to the auditorium.\n\n\"Hi, Mrs. B.,\" said Pierre, who was standing in the hallway outside the auditorium. I gave him a hug. He looked well. He said he was doing all right. He said he had graduated the day before. I gave him my hearty congratulations.\n\n\"You know how he lies,\" the security guard said as I opened the door and walked through.\n\nThe auditorium was full. I walked to the back, where I could see everything and everyone.\n\nI saw Eric and Andre and Racquel walk down the aisle. I saw Kyisha on stage and Nichelle, Cortez, DeVille and everyone else. They were in bright gold gowns, singing \"Hallelujah in the Tabernacle.\" Donna had once again channeled the students' talents into a stage spectacular. She smiled and waved at me from the front and left, next to the turd section.\n\nThe children's voices soared above the drone of talking from the audience. I waved to parents I knew and they smiled and waved back to me, joyful and proud, cameras in hand. Some of my second graders were there for siblings or cousins. The valedictorian was one of the three girls I had taken to the Sunday open-house at the all-girls school in the dead of winter sixth months before. Many others had speaking parts, and I was so proud of every one of them my face hurt from smiling. They seemed much more polished than last year.\n\nMy mentor scurried past. \"I see you made it after all,\" she observed.\n\nAt 10:19 I tore myself away and picked up my second graders.\n\nThat afternoon, I went to an awards ceremony of The Rochelle Lee Fund, which provides classroom books to about 400 Chicago teachers every year if they write a proposal and attend four days' worth of workshops to learn the best ways to teach reading. It was the second year I'd won the award, and it was a godsend. My school did not allow children to check books out of the library, but children in 401 were required to take books, really good books, home from the classroom library daily as their reading homework. _Chicago Tribune_ columnist Mary Schmich, my former competition, was our speaker. She told a great story about her mother hiding in the bathroom to read.\n\nLater that week, the second graders and I finished _Charlotte's Web_ , my favorite book. Asophane read the last part for me, because I always cry at the end. It's the second-to-last paragraph that gets me every time: \"It was the best place to be, thought Wilbur, this warm delicious cellar, with the garrulous geese, the changing seasons, the heat of the sun, the passage of swallows, the nearness of rats, the sameness of sheep, the love of spiders, the smell of manure and the glory of everything.\" To revel in one's place in the world, barn or classroom, fast lane or busted-up sidewalk, is a rare gift. The children jumped out of their seats to see whether my tears were real.\n\n\"It's okay,\" I explained. \"If a book makes you cry, that means it is a really good book. It made you feel something you really believe in your heart.\"\n\nOn Thursday, Paul Vallas resigned as the chief executive officer of the Chicago Public Schools after six years. A new era lay ahead.\n\nThat afternoon, before our staff development meeting, the principal handed out the assignment list for next year. I was listed for second grade. I had filled out a preference sheet listing fifth grade as my first choice, then fourth grade and finally seventh grade. Astrid's name was not on the sheet. I looked at her with my eyebrows raised and saw she was crying. She explained later that she had asked several times for a preference sheet, which no one ever supplied for her. Suspicious, she asked her mentor what was going on and was told to talk to the principal. She was very upset and rightfully. It was underhanded, exclusionary and mean. She was a sensitive person, so it was also cruel. She would find another job without any trouble. But not being asked to stay was hurtful.\n\nThe principal informed the staff that our school was among the 200 lowest-performing schools in the city and would begin a new reading program, with scripted lessons the following year. That would be the imposed curriculum for ninety minutes a day. We were given the summer school list, which made no sense at all. Some of my better readers were on it, kids who could even read cursive. I could not explain this development to their parents. I told Hakim's mother that the decision was based on one test in which the children read aloud to a stranger.\n\n\"If he goes, it won't hurt him. It'll sharpen his skills. You are a good mother. You know what he needs. If you think the test is bogus, talk to the office and have him retake it,\" I advised her. He had taken books home every day.\n\nI hadn't told anyone I was leaving. My standard answer to the gossips was, \"I have not spoken to the principal yet.\" I doled out my prized possessions, some of which were not even mine, to other teachers. The second-grade teacher who was so helpful to me got the globe I had liberated from the library, dusty with neglect, months earlier, and a set of lovely science books. The kindergarten teacher got the tiny little table and chairs that served as our writers' workshop.\n\nAs the week and the school year bumped to a close, fewer students attended school regularly. Our room was quite empty.\n\nOn the last day, I handed my principal my resignation letter, informing him that I had accepted another teaching position in the Chicago Public Schools.\n\n\"Teaching both seventh grade and second grade here gave me a broad perspective and rich experience. Thank you.\"\n\nThe principal read the letter out loud. He smiled.\n\n\"I know you will be successful,\" he said.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said, reaching out to shake his hand.\n\nThat was it. No \"Wish you were staying,\" no \"What can we do to keep you?\" No mention of \"remediation.\"\n\nBrandon and Tashequa and their older siblings helped me load up my last things, the baskets of books from our classroom library. Those books were like old familiar friends to us, their spines taped and covers curled from the wear of small hands turning their pages day after day for nearly forty weeks.\n\nBefore we left, we looked around the peach-colored classroom. We decided to leave intact our _Charlotte's Web_ bulletin board and our sentence strips above the board about who we are. Standing in the doorway, we read them all again, out loud, taking turns:\n\n\"We read a lot of books.\"\n\n\"We write in our journals.\"\n\n\"Our favorite food is pizza.\"\n\n\"We are learning ballet.\"\n\n\"We are getting our grown-up teeth.\"\n\n\"We keep lists.\"\n\n\"We have snack time.\"\n\n\"We know all about wasps.\"\n\n\"We had a snake.\"\n\n\"We love the Beatles.\"\n\n\"We work in the doctor's office.\"\n\n\"We sing every day.\"\n\nWe wanted the class coming after us to know who had been there before, who we were. We walked out together, making a racket. We passed through the brown metal doors and went down the concrete steps. On the other side of the fence, Louis was hanging by his knees from the monkey bars. He waved to us, upside down. His bookbag was on the ground nearby.\n\n\"Don't forget your bookbag, Louis,\" I called, pointing to where it lay.\n\nHe grinned in response, dangling, his arms outstretched.\n\n\"Cree! Cree!\" the seagulls protested, rising and scattering as our jabbering group crossed the parking lot.\n**Postscript**\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\nIn November 2001 Donnamaria Gamble married Charles Baker in a joyous celebration at St. Sabina Church in Chicago. True to form, the bride staged a spectacular melding of African tradition with her boundless love of the Lord. There were dancers and drummers and a wedding party of twelve. The rafters rang.\n\nTwo months later, many of the same people gathered in the same church for Donna's funeral after she died suddenly of a heart attack at age forty-eight.\n\nMany of our former students were present at the service. Through them, my departed friend, who had already given me so much, gave me one last gift: the realization that the connections between all of us would endure.\n\nThese did not end after one year or two or even after a lifetime. We were woven into each other's lives and memories for all time. We would cross paths in the unknown future as certainly as destiny had reconnected us that sad night. The influence of teachers on the lives of children, and of children on their teachers, goes on and on.\nIndex\n\n[Copyright 2004 by Leslie Baldacci  \nClick here for Terms of Use.](copyright.html)\n\n**A**\n\nAbusive teacher behavior, , \u201358\n\nAccountability staff, talk to, \u2013142\n\nActing,\n\nAfrican-American names,\n\nAir conditioning, \u2013169,\n\nAlternative certification programs, ,  ( _See also_ Teachers For Chicago program)\n\nAndre, , , , ,\n\nAndrea, \u2013202\n\nAngels, \u201329\n\nAntwan,\n\nApologies, student,\n\nArt:\n\nand listening to Beethoven, \u201354\n\nand _The Witches_ ,\n\nArtie,\n\nAsophane, , \u2013178, , , \u2013214,\n\nAssistant principal ( _see_ Vice principal)\n\nAssumptions, \u2013143\n\nAstrid, \u201333, , , , , , , , ,\n\nAttendance books,\n\nAustin, Carrie,\n\nAutistic student, , , , , ,\n\n**B**\n\nBad Company, ,\n\nBaker, Charles,\n\nBallet, , , \u2013199\n\nBasal readers,\n\nBasic Skills Test, \u201311\n\nBasketball game, faculty,\n\nBathroom breaks,\n\nin second-grade year,\n\nin seventh-grade year, \u201395\n\nBathrooms:\n\nat charter school,\n\nfor older students, \u201396\n\nfor primary students,\n\nBeatles, \u2013181, , ,\n\nBeethoven's Ninth Symphony in D Minor, \u201354\n\nBehavior:\n\ndisruptive ( _see_ Disruptive behavior)\n\nof second-graders,\n\nself-grades for,\n\nBennett, William J.,\n\nBernadette,\n\nBilly Goat (bar),\n\nBoard of education, \u201325, \u2013142\n\nBook corner (seventh grade),\n\nBooks:\n\nas Christmas gifts, ,\n\nas gifts to students,\n\nfrom The Rochelle Lee Fund,\n\nfor second-grade reading,\n\nBorders gift certificates,\n\nBottoming out, , \u2013123\n\n_Boundless Grace_ ,\n\nBrandon, \u2013165, , ,\n\nBreakfast,\n\nBreaks, teacher,\n\nBulletin boards, \u201328,\n\nBullying,\n\n**C**\n\nC. C.,\n\nCalifornia,\n\nCallahan, Danny, ,\n\nCar \"booting,\"\n\nCarlos, , , , , ,\n\nCEOs, teachers as,\n\nCertification test, \u2013208\n\n_Charlotte's Web_ ,\n\nCharter schools, \u2013196\n\nChicago Public Schools, \u20137,\n\nChristmas break, \u2013108\n\nChristmas breaks, \u2013193\n\nChristmas program, \u2013102\n\nClass pictures,\n\nClass sizes, , , ,\n\nClassroom supplies:\n\nexpense of,\n\nphotocopies,\n\nClassrooms:\n\nphysical condition of, , , \u2013155\n\ntemperature in, , , ,\n\nClinton, Bill,\n\nCoincidences, ,\n\nCollege professors:\n\nand class size, ,\n\nas role models, , \u2013185\n\nConferences, parent:\n\nfor behavior problems, \u201345, \u201372\n\nfor report cards,\n\nConflict resolution,\n\nConformity,\n\nConsequences, lack of,\n\nContinuity,\n\nControl,\n\nduring bathroom breaks, \u201395\n\nduring dismissal, \u201346\n\ninability to establish, \u201344\n\nirony of,\n\nmentor's claim to, \u201394\n\nand parental conferences, \u201345, \u201372\n\nand staying out of trouble,\n\nwith troublemakers suspended,\n\n( _See also_ Disruptive behavior)\n\nConvention,\n\nCooperative play, \u2013206\n\nCorrecting papers,\n\nCortez, , , , ,\n\nCourage,\n\nCrime,\n\nCritical thinking activities,\n\nCurtis, Christopher Paul,\n\n**D**\n\nDahl, Roald,\n\nDaley, Richard M., \u20137\n\n_Dance Africa_ , \u2013178\n\nDanger, sense of, \u201360\n\nDarnell, ,\n\nDart, Tom,\n\n_Declaration of Independence_ \"Dear John\" letter,\n\nDeep Underground Phase,\n\nDepartmentalization, \u20132,\n\nDestinee, , , , \u201369, , , , , \u2013196\n\nDeVille, , , , \u201390, , ,\n\nDiaz, Mr., , , , , , ,\n\nDismissal procedures, \u201346\n\nDisorder, ,\n\nDisruptive behavior:\n\nclass atmosphere without, \u201384\n\nconferences for, \u201345\n\nparents' meeting about, \u201372\n\nin second-grade class, \u2013174\n\nin seventh-grade class, , \u201345, , \u201372, \u201384\n\nsexual, \u2013174\n\nand Vice Presidential order, \u201349\n\nDobrinski, Fred,\n\nDoctor's office activity,\n\nDream trip project, \u201375\n\nDress code,\n\n\"The Dungeon,\"\n\n**E**\n\nEarrings,\n\nEnrico, , , ,\n\nEric, , , , , ,\n\nEverage, Alonza,\n\nEvolution,\n\nExcuse-making,\n\nExercise,\n\n**F**\n\nFaculty basketball game,\n\nFairy tales,\n\nFake gun incident, \u2013174\n\nFamily life, \u2013143, \u2013166\n\nabsent mothers, \u2013214\n\nfatherlessness, , \u201392, ,\n\nfoster homes, ,\n\nof second graders,\n\nFarmer, Nancy, ,\n\nFatherlessness, , \u201392, ,\n\nFatigue,\n\nFiction, classroom,\n\nField trips,\n\n_Dance Africa_ , \u2013178\n\nFire Safety House,\n\nFighting, student, \u201382\n\nbreaking up, \u201357\n\nFighting, student ( _Cont._ ):\n\nin second-grade year, ,\n\nin seventh-grade year, \u201361, \u201382,\n\nFire Safety House field trip,\n\nFive-week reorganization, \u201365\n\nFoster homes, ,\n\n\"401 Theater,\"\n\nFreddie, , , , , , ,\n\nFrench lessons, ,\n\n**G**\n\nGaines, Earnest,\n\nGamble, Donnamaria, , , , , , , , \u201353, , , , , , , \u2013140, , ,\n\nGames, \u2013206\n\nGangs, , ,\n\nGarden project, \u2013131,\n\n_A Gathering of Old Men_ (Earnest Gaines),\n\nGaye, Marvin,\n\nGeography, \u201375\n\nGet-well notes, \u2013198\n\nGifts, Christmas, \u2013102, \u2013193\n\n_A Girl Named Disaster_ (Nancy Farmer), ,\n\nGiuliani, Rudolph,\n\n\"God's silence,\"\n\nGore, Al, \u201348\n\nGraduate school advisor,\n\nGraduation, eighth-grade, \u2013225\n\nGranola, \u2013102\n\nGun violence, \u2013136\n\nfamiliarity of students with, \u2013190\n\nsecond-grade student's threat of, \u2013174\n\nsixth-grade student's threat of,\n\nThe Guys In Front (TGIF),\n\n**H**\n\nHaberman, Martin,\n\nHakim, , , ,\n\nHaley, Alex,\n\nHand cuffs, \u201358\n\nHands-on activities,\n\nHappiness, showing, \u201330\n\n_A Hard Day's Night_ , ,\n\nHeadphones,\n\nHomelessness, , ,\n\nHope,\n\nHughes, Langston, ,\n\n**I**\n\nIllinois legislature, ,\n\nIllness, , \u2013200\n\nof author, \u2013200\n\nof interns,\n\nof Mia, \u2013198\n\nImaginative play, \u2013206\n\nIndoor recess, \u2013206\n\nInjustice, \u201396\n\nInterns,\n\nattrition of, , \u2013112, ,\n\nbottoming out phase for, , \u2013123\n\nand class size,\n\nexhaustion of, \u2013185\n\nfor first and second grades, \u2013153\n\nhealth of,\n\nmentors of,\n\nschool expenses of,\n\nfor seventh grade year, , \u201331\n\nInterventions, \u201391\n\nIn-the-seat direct instruction,\n\nIowa test, \u2013141, ,\n\n**J**\n\nJ. T.,\n\nJackson, Jesse, Jr.,\n\nJames, \u2013165, \u2013174\n\nJarrett, Vernon,\n\nJennifer,\n\n\"Jesus Laughing,\"\n\nJob offer, postgraduate, \u2013223\n\nJones, Emil, Jr.,\n\nJoseph, , , ,\n\nJustice,\n\n**K**\n\nKayla, , \u201377, , , , , , \u2013134, , \u2013203\n\nKim,\n\nKing, Martin Luther, Jr.,\n\nKyisha, , , , , , , , \u201396, , , \u2013196\n\n**L**\n\nLanguage arts, ,\n\nLast day of school:\n\nin second-grade year, \u2013228\n\nin seventh-grade year, \u2013151\n\nLennon, John,\n\n_A Lesson Before Dying_ (Earnest Gaines),\n\nLesson planning,\n\nLessons learned (by author), \u2013105\n\nLocal control of schools, ,\n\n\"Looping,\"\n\nLouis, , , , \u2013181, , \u2013197, , ,\n\nLucinda,\n\nLunch:\n\nfood served for, \u2013163\n\nwith second graders, \u2013158,\n\nteacher supervision during,\n\n**M**\n\nMad Crapper, , ,\n\nMale role models,\n\n_Maniac Magee_ (Jerry Spinnelli), \u201374\n\nMarin, Carol,\n\nMario, \u2013158, , \u2013166, , ,\n\nMarkers, coincidences vs., ,\n\nMartin, , \u2013187\n\nMary (cousin),\n\nMath:\n\nin dream trip project,\n\nIowa test scores for,\n\nMath Mania,\n\nin seventh grade class,\n\nMelvin, \u201358\n\nMentors:\n\nand control of classes, \u201394\n\nlack of assistance from, ,\n\nlack of guidance from,\n\n\"nickel and diming\" by,\n\nand remediation plan,\n\nrole of,\n\nfor second-grade, ,\n\nfor seventh-grade year,\n\nsubbing by, , \u2013121\n\nand suspensions,\n\nMia, , , \u2013198\n\nMichael, Kevin,\n\nMichelle, , , ,\n\nMichigan,\n\n_The Mighty_ (movie),\n\nMinnie,\n\n\"missing\" student, \u2013134,\n\nMistrust, \u2013186\n\nMitchell, Mary, , ,\n\nMontgomery, Fred,\n\nMontorio,\n\nMotherless families, \u2013214\n\nMother's Day, \u2013217\n\nMultiple intelligences, student with,\n\nMusic:\n\nChristmas, \u2013102\n\nobscene, \u2013116\n\n\"Peter and the Wolf,\"\n\n**N**\n\nNames, \u201370\n\nNatasha, , , , , \u2013192,\n\nNate, , ,\n\nNeighborhood conditions, , \u201318, \u2013205\n\nNelson, , , , , ,\n\nNichelle, , , , \u2013196\n\n_The Night Before Christmas_ , ,\n\n**O**\n\nObservation, intern:\n\nafter remediation meeting, \u2013145\n\ninitial,\n\n**P**\n\nParents:\n\nconferences with, \u201345\n\ndiscipline calls to, ,\n\n\"good\" calls to, \u2013107\n\npoor/good examples of,\n\nrequired school meeting for, \u201372\n\nand science fair projects,\n\nPeacekeepers, \u201362\n\nPeacemakers, ,\n\nPearson, Rick,\n\nPeer Intervention Team, \u201391\n\nPhotocopying,\n\nPictures, class,\n\nPierre, , \u201341, , , , , , , \u201385, \u2013101, \u2013128, , , ,\n\n_Pimps Up, Hypes Down_ ,\n\nPlay, \u2013206\n\nPoverty, ,\n\nPower outage,\n\nPrayer,\n\nPrimary teachers, turnover of,\n\nPrincipal:\n\nand author's media exposure,\n\nand author's resignation,\n\nand belongings of teacher who quit,\n\nand broken chalkboard,\n\nand car \"booting,\"\n\nand class size,\n\nand end of departmentalization,\n\ninitial attitude of,\n\nlack of respect from,\n\nlack of response from,\n\n\"nickel and diming\" by,\n\nof postgraduate position school, \u2013223\n\nand remediation plan, \u2013139, \u2013146\n\nand suspended students,\n\nand teacher assignments,\n\nand television piece,\n\nPromises, \u201391\n\n\"Proud Mary,\"\n\n**R**\n\nRacial attitudes, \u201343, \u2013161\n\nRacquel, , , , , , , , , , \u2013159\n\nRamon,\n\nRamona, ,\n\nRap music (on student's tape), \u2013116\n\nRape,\n\nReading:\n\naloud, \u201374\n\nof fairy tales,\n\nIowa test scores for,\n\nKayla's love for, \u201377\n\nof library books, \u2013226\n\n\"round robin\" method of,\n\nin second grade, , , \u2013195\n\nfor seventh grade,\n\n\"Walking Reading,\"\n\nRecess, indoor, , \u2013206\n\nRedding, Otis,\n\nReflecting,\n\nReligious objections,\n\nRemediation, \u2013139\n\nfirst-year results of, \u2013146\n\nlack of resolution for,\n\nReorganization, five-week, \u201365\n\nReport cards,\n\nRespect:\n\nearning, \u201358\n\nfrom principal,\n\nReviews:\n\nperformance,\n\nstate, \u2013122\n\nRiley, Richard,\n\nRobert, , ,\n\nThe Rochelle Lee Fund,\n\nRocks, \u2013217\n\nRodgers, Paul, ,\n\nRoeper, Richard,\n\nRoosevelt University, ,\n\n_Roots_ (Alex Haley),\n\n**S**\n\nSalary, .14,\n\nSarah,\n\nSchmich, Mary,\n\nSchool:\n\ndisorder in,\n\nlayout of,\n\nneighborhood environment of, \u201318\n\nphysical condition of, , , \u2013154\n\nstudents' image of, \u2013193\n\nSchool report card,\n\nScience:\n\nscience fair projects, \u201399\n\nsecond grade topics in, \u2013211\n\nseed-planting project, \u2013131,\n\nSeagulls,\n\nSeating assignments, \u201336,\n\nSecurity guard, ,\n\nSeed-planting project, \u2013131,\n\nSexual behavior (of young student), \u2013174\n\nSherika, \u201352, \u201361, \u2013131, , ,\n\n_Shiloh_ ,\n\nShooting incident, \u2013136\n\nSmall-group teaching,\n\nSmoking,\n\nSnake, ,\n\nSpecial needs students,\n\nSpinelli, Jerry,\n\nSpoiled students,\n\nSports Day, \u2013149\n\nSpring break (of second year),\n\nStandardization (in education), \u201312\n\nStandardized tests, ,\n\n_Star Teachers of Children in Poverty_ (Martin Haberman), \u201313\n\nState review team, \u2013122\n\nStealing,\n\nSteinberg, Neil,\n\nStones, \u2013217\n\nStudents:\n\nacademic abilities of, \u201352\n\nachievement levels of,\n\nartistic abilities of,\n\nassumptions about, \u2013143\n\nbreaking up fights by, \u201357\n\nconnections with, \u201355\n\nfamily life of, , \u2013166\n\nfighting by, \u201361, \u201382, , ,\n\nlearning about/from, \u201367\n\nreactions to -week reorganization by, ,\n\nas role models,\n\nself-grading of behavior by,\n\nsocial skills of,\n\nspoiled,\n\nSubstitute teacher center, \u2013120\n\nSummer Fun Club,\n\n_Sun-Times_ , \u20137, \u201322\n\nSuspensions:\n\nand change in classroom tone, \u201384\n\nfor fighting, ,\n\nprincipal's perception of,\n\non Sports Day,\n\n**T**\n\nTammy,\n\nTashequa, , , , , ,\n\nTeacher certification test, \u2013208\n\nTeachers:\n\nabuse by, , \u201358\n\nadvice from,\n\nTeachers ( _Cont._ ):\n\nin author's family, \u201387\n\nas CEOs,\n\nincentives for,\n\nshortage of, ,\n\nturnover of, , \u201327,\n\nTeachers For Chicago program:\n\napplication/acceptance process for, , \u201316\n\nconclusion of,\n\nexpectations of school by,\n\ngraduate's gratitude for,\n\ngym teacher's disapproval of, \u2013111\n\nmodeling by teacher in, \u2013185\n\nneed for, \u201327\n\nsalary in, , ,\n\n( _See also_ Interns)\n\nTeacher's washroom,\n\nTeeth-pulling, \u2013182\n\nTelevision coverage, ,\n\nTemperature, classroom, , , ,\n\nTest anxiety,\n\nTesting (second grade),\n\nTextbooks, expense of,\n\nTFC liaison, , , \u2013161\n\nTFC supervisor,\n\nTGIF (The Guys In Front),\n\nThanksgiving break, \u201388\n\nThrow-up incidents,\n\nTobin, Frank,\n\nTodd, Mrs., \u2013153\n\nTransfer of students, \u2013128,\n\nTransient teachers,\n\nTravel project, \u201375\n\n_A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ ,\n\nTrey, \u2013182\n\nTroublemakers,\n\nTurnover, teacher, , \u201327,\n\nTyler, Mr.,\n\nTyler, Steven,\n\nTyrese, \u201361, , , , , , , , , ,\n\n**U**\n\nUnited States Department of Agriculture,\n\nUrban Teacher course, \u201314\n\n**V**\n\nVallas, Paul, \u201371,\n\nVice principal:\n\nchanged attitude of,\n\nand Christmas music,\n\nand disruption at lunch, ,\n\noutdoor walks refused by,\n\nand rowdy bathroom breaks,\n\nand threat of termination,\n\nand thrown-up-on books,\n\nViolence, \u201362\n\nattack on Pierre, ,\n\nchild's acceptance of,\n\ngun, \u2013136, \u2013174, \u2013190,\n\nand peacekeeper role, \u201362\n\nrape,\n\nas reaction to violence,\n\nin school neighborhood,\n\nand sense of danger, \u201360\n\nshooting threat, \u2013136\n\nstudent fights, \u201361, \u201382,\n\nand teachers' abusive behavior, \u201358\n\n**W**\n\nWade, Nigel,\n\nWalker, Alice, ,\n\n\"Walking Reading,\"\n\n_The Watsons Go To Birmingham_ (Christopher Paul Curtis),\n\nWeather studies,\n\n\"What's in a Name?\" project, \u201370\n\nWhite privilege,\n\nWinning, graciousness in,\n\nWitchcraft,\n\n_The Witches_ (Roald Dahl), \u201373\n\nWorksheets, ,\n\nWriting:\n\nabout rocks,\n\non absence of troublemakers, \u201384\n\n_Declaration of Independence_ \"Dear John\" letter,\n\nfirst-day stories,\n\nletters on summer vacation cuts,\n\nand Marvin Gaye lyrics, ,\n\nin second grade,\n\nstandard formula for, \u201312\n\n# About this Title\n\nThis eBook was created using ReaderWorks\u00ae Publisher 2.0, produced by OverDrive, Inc.\n\nFor more information about ReaderWorks, please visit us on the Web at www.overdrive.com/readerworks\n"}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "Is Shakespeare Dead? by Mark Twain", "publication_date": 1909, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2431"}, "text": "\n\nTranscribed from the 1909 Harper & Brothers edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org.  Proofing by Alan Ross, Ana Charlton and David.\n\n\n\n\n\n                            IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?\n\n\n                          FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY\n\n                                MARK TWAIN\n\n                       HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS\n                           NEW YORK AND LONDON\n                                M C M I X\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nScattered here and there through the stacks of unpublished manuscript\nwhich constitute this formidable Autobiography and Diary of mine, certain\nchapters will in some distant future be found which deal with\n\"Claimants\"--claimants historically notorious: Satan, Claimant; the\nGolden Calf, Claimant; the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, Claimant; Louis\nXVII., Claimant; William Shakespeare, Claimant; Arthur Orton, Claimant;\nMary Baker G. Eddy, Claimant--and the rest of them.  Eminent Claimants,\nsuccessful Claimants, defeated Claimants, royal Claimants, pleb\nClaimants, showy Claimants, shabby Claimants, revered Claimants, despised\nClaimants, twinkle starlike here and there and yonder through the mists\nof history and legend and tradition--and oh, all the darling tribe are\nclothed in mystery and romance, and we read about them with deep interest\nand discuss them with loving sympathy or with rancorous resentment,\naccording to which side we hitch ourselves to.  It has always been so\nwith the human race.  There was never a Claimant that couldn't get a\nhearing, nor one that couldn't accumulate a rapturous following, no\nmatter how flimsy and apparently unauthentic his claim might be.  Arthur\nOrton's claim that he was the lost Tichborne baronet come to life again\nwas as flimsy as Mrs. Eddy's that she wrote _Science and Health_ from the\ndirect dictation of the Deity; yet in England near forty years ago Orton\nhad a huge army of devotees and incorrigible adherents, many of whom\nremained stubbornly unconvinced after their fat god had been proven an\nimpostor and jailed as a perjurer, and to-day Mrs. Eddy's following is\nnot only immense, but is daily augmenting in numbers and enthusiasm.\nOrton had many fine and educated minds among his adherents, Mrs. Eddy has\nhad the like among hers from the beginning.  Her church is as well\nequipped in those particulars as is any other church.  Claimants can\nalways count upon a following, it doesn't matter who they are, nor what\nthey claim, nor whether they come with documents or without.  It was\nalways so.  Down out of the long-vanished past, across the abyss of the\nages, if you listen you can still hear the believing multitudes shouting\nfor Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel.\n\nA friend has sent me a new book, from England--_The Shakespeare Problem\nRestated_--well restated and closely reasoned; and my fifty years'\ninterest in that matter--asleep for the last three years--is excited once\nmore.  It is an interest which was born of Delia Bacon's book--away back\nin that ancient day--1857, or maybe 1856.  About a year later my\npilot-master, Bixby, transferred me from his own steamboat to the\n_Pennsylvania_, and placed me under the orders and instructions of George\nEaler--dead now, these many, many years.  I steered for him a good many\nmonths--as was the humble duty of the pilot-apprentice: stood a daylight\nwatch and spun the wheel under the severe superintendence and correction\nof the master.  He was a prime chess player and an idolater of\nShakespeare.  He would play chess with anybody; even with me, and it cost\nhis official dignity something to do that.  Also--quite uninvited--he\nwould read Shakespeare to me; not just casually, but by the hour, when it\nwas his watch, and I was steering.  He read well, but not profitably for\nme, because he constantly injected commands into the text.  That broke it\nall up, mixed it all up, tangled it all up--to that degree, in fact, that\nif we were in a risky and difficult piece of river an ignorant person\ncouldn't have told, sometimes, which observations were Shakespeare's and\nwhich were Ealer's.  For instance:\n\n    What man dare, _I_ dare!\n\n    Approach thou _what_ are you laying in the leads for? what a hell of\n    an idea! like the rugged ease her off a little, ease her off! rugged\n    Russian bear, the armed rhinoceros or the _there_ she goes! meet her,\n    meet her! didn't you _know_ she'd smell the reef if you crowded it\n    like that?  Hyrcan tiger; take any shape but that and my firm nerves\n    she'll be in the _woods_ the first you know! stop the starboard! come\n    ahead strong on the larboard! back the starboard! . . . _Now_ then,\n    you're all right; come ahead on the starboard; straighten up and go\n    'long, never tremble: or be alive again, and dare me to the desert\n    damnation can't you keep away from that greasy water? pull her down!\n    snatch her! snatch her baldheaded! with thy sword; if trembling I\n    inhabit then, lay in the leads!--no, only the starboard one, leave\n    the other alone, protest me the baby of a girl.  Hence horrible\n    shadow! eight bells--that watchman's asleep again, I reckon, go down\n    and call Brown yourself, unreal mockery, hence!\n\nHe certainly was a good reader, and splendidly thrilling and stormy and\ntragic, but it was a damage to me, because I have never since been able\nto read Shakespeare in a calm and sane way.  I cannot rid it of his\nexplosive interlardings, they break in everywhere with their irrelevant\n\"What in hell are you up to _now_! pull her down! more! _more_!--there\nnow, steady as you go,\" and the other disorganizing interruptions that\nwere always leaping from his mouth.  When I read Shakespeare now, I can\nhear them as plainly as I did in that long-departed time--fifty-one years\nago.  I never regarded Ealer's readings as educational.  Indeed they were\na detriment to me.\n\nHis contributions to the text seldom improved it, but barring that detail\nhe was a good reader, I can say that much for him.  He did not use the\nbook, and did not need to; he knew his Shakespeare as well as Euclid ever\nknew his multiplication table.\n\nDid he have something to say--this Shakespeare-adoring Mississippi\npilot--anent Delia Bacon's book?  Yes.  And he said it; said it all the\ntime, for months--in the morning watch, the middle watch, the dog watch;\nand probably kept it going in his sleep.  He bought the literature of the\ndispute as fast as it appeared, and we discussed it all through thirteen\nhundred miles of river four times traversed in every thirty-five\ndays--the time required by that swift boat to achieve two round trips.\nWe discussed, and discussed, and discussed, and disputed and disputed and\ndisputed; at any rate he did, and I got in a word now and then when he\nslipped a cog and there was a vacancy.  He did his arguing with heat,\nwith energy, with violence; and I did mine with the reserve and\nmoderation of a subordinate who does not like to be flung out of a\npilot-house that is perched forty feet above the water.  He was fiercely\nloyal to Shakespeare and cordially scornful of Bacon and of all the\npretensions of the Baconians.  So was I--at first.  And at first he was\nglad that that was my attitude.  There were even indications that he\nadmired it; indications dimmed, it is true, by the distance that lay\nbetween the lofty boss-pilotical altitude and my lowly one, yet\nperceptible to me; perceptible, and translatable into a\ncompliment--compliment coming down from above the snow-line and not well\nthawed in the transit, and not likely to set anything afire, not even a\ncub-pilot's self-conceit; still a detectable compliment, and precious.\n\nNaturally it flattered me into being more loyal to Shakespeare--if\npossible--than I was before, and more prejudiced against Bacon--if\npossible than I was before.  And so we discussed and discussed, both on\nthe same side, and were happy.  For a while.  Only for a while.  Only for\na very little while, a very, very, very little while.  Then the\natmosphere began to change; began to cool off.\n\nA brighter person would have seen what the trouble was, earlier than I\ndid, perhaps, but I saw it early enough for all practical purposes.  You\nsee, he was of an argumentative disposition.  Therefore it took him but a\nlittle time to get tired of arguing with a person who agreed with\neverything he said and consequently never furnished him a provocative to\nflare up and show what he could do when it came to clear, cold, hard,\nrose-cut, hundred-faceted, diamond-flashing reasoning.  That was his name\nfor it.  It has been applied since, with complacency, as many as several\ntimes, in the Bacon-Shakespeare scuffle.  On the Shakespeare side.\n\nThen the thing happened which has happened to more persons than to me\nwhen principle and personal interest found themselves in opposition to\neach other and a choice had to be made: I let principle go, and went over\nto the other side.  Not the entire way, but far enough to answer the\nrequirements of the case.  That is to say, I took this attitude, to wit:\nI only _believed_ Bacon wrote Shakespeare, whereas I _knew_ Shakespeare\ndidn't.  Ealer was satisfied with that, and the war broke loose.  Study,\npractice, experience in handling my end of the matter presently enabled\nme to take my new position almost seriously; a little bit later, utterly\nseriously; a little later still, lovingly, gratefully, devotedly;\nfinally: fiercely, rabidly, uncompromisingly.  After that, I was welded\nto my faith, I was theoretically ready to die for it, and I looked down\nwith compassion not unmixed with scorn, upon everybody else's faith that\ndidn't tally with mine.  That faith, imposed upon me by self-interest in\nthat ancient day, remains my faith to-day, and in it I find comfort,\nsolace, peace, and never-failing joy.  You see how curiously theological\nit is.  The \"rice Christian\" of the Orient goes through the very same\nsteps, when he is after rice and the missionary is after _him_; he goes\nfor rice, and remains to worship.\n\nEaler did a lot of our \"reasoning\"--not to say substantially all of it.\nThe slaves of his cult have a passion for calling it by that large name.\nWe others do not call our inductions and deductions and reductions by any\nname at all.  They show for themselves, what they are, and we can with\ntranquil confidence leave the world to ennoble them with a title of its\nown choosing.\n\nNow and then when Ealer had to stop to cough, I pulled my\ninduction-talents together and hove the controversial lead myself: always\ngetting eight feet, eight-and-a-half, often nine, sometimes even\nquarter-less-twain--as _I_ believed; but always \"no bottom,\" as _he_\nsaid.\n\nI got the best of him only once.  I prepared myself.  I wrote out a\npassage from Shakespeare--it may have been the very one I quoted a while\nago, I don't remember--and riddled it with his wild steamboatful\ninterlardings.  When an unrisky opportunity offered, one lovely summer\nday, when we had sounded and buoyed a tangled patch of crossings known as\nHell's Half Acre, and were aboard again and he had sneaked the\nPennsylvania triumphantly through it without once scraping sand, and the\n_A. T. Lacey_ had followed in our wake and got stuck, and he was feeling\ngood, I showed it to him.  It amused him.  I asked him to fire it off:\nread it; read it, I diplomatically added, as only he could read dramatic\npoetry.  The compliment touched him where he lived.  He did read it; read\nit with surpassing fire and spirit; read it as it will never be read\nagain; for _he_ knew how to put the right music into those thunderous\ninterlardings and make them seem a part of the text, make them sound as\nif they were bursting from Shakespeare's own soul, each one of them a\ngolden inspiration and not to be left out without damage to the massed\nand magnificent whole.\n\nI waited a week, to let the incident fade; waited longer; waited until he\nbrought up for reasonings and vituperation my pet position, my pet\nargument, the one which I was fondest of, the one which I prized far\nabove all others in my ammunition-wagon, to wit: that Shakespeare\ncouldn't have written Shakespeare's works, for the reason that the man\nwho wrote them was limitlessly familiar with the laws, and the\nlaw-courts, and law-proceedings, and lawyer-talk, and lawyer-ways--and if\nShakespeare was possessed of the infinitely-divided star-dust that\nconstituted this vast wealth, how did he get it, and _where_, and _when_?\n\n\"From books.\"\n\nFrom books!  That was always the idea.  I answered as my readings of the\nchampions of my side of the great controversy had taught me to answer:\nthat a man can't handle glibly and easily and comfortably and\nsuccessfully the _argot_ of a trade at which he has not personally\nserved.  He will make mistakes; he will not, and cannot, get the\ntrade-phrasings precisely and exactly right; and the moment he departs,\nby even a shade, from a common trade-form, the reader who has served that\ntrade will know the writer _hasn't_.  Ealer would not be convinced; he\nsaid a man could learn how to correctly handle the subtleties and\nmysteries and free-masonries of any trade by careful reading and\nstudying.  But when I got him to read again the passage from Shakespeare\nwith the interlardings, he perceived, himself, that books couldn't teach\na student a bewildering multitude of pilot-phrases so thoroughly and\nperfectly that he could talk them off in book and play or conversation\nand make no mistake that a pilot would not immediately discover.  It was\na triumph for me.  He was silent awhile, and I knew what was happening:\nhe was losing his temper.  And I knew he would presently close the\nsession with the same old argument that was always his stay and his\nsupport in time of need; the same old argument, the one I couldn't\nanswer--because I dasn't: the argument that I was an ass, and better shut\nup.  He delivered it, and I obeyed.\n\nOh, dear, how long ago it was--how pathetically long ago!  And here am I,\nold, forsaken, forlorn and alone, arranging to get that argument out of\nsomebody again.\n\nWhen a man has a passion for Shakespeare, it goes without saying that he\nkeeps company with other standard authors.  Ealer always had several\nhigh-class books in the pilot-house, and he read the same ones over and\nover again, and did not care to change to newer and fresher ones.  He\nplayed well on the flute, and greatly enjoyed hearing himself play.  So\ndid I.  He had a notion that a flute would keep its health better if you\ntook it apart when it was not standing a watch; and so, when it was not\non duty it took its rest, disjointed, on the compass-shelf under the\nbreast-board.  When the _Pennsylvania_ blew up and became a drifting\nrack-heap freighted with wounded and dying poor souls (my young brother\nHenry among them), pilot Brown had the watch below, and was probably\nasleep and never knew what killed him; but Ealer escaped unhurt.  He and\nhis pilot-house were shot up into the air; then they fell, and Ealer sank\nthrough the ragged cavern where the hurricane deck and the boiler deck\nhad been, and landed in a nest of ruins on the main deck, on top of one\nof the unexploded boilers, where he lay prone in a fog of scalding and\ndeadly steam.  But not for long.  He did not lose his head: long\nfamiliarity with danger had taught him to keep it, in any and all\nemergencies.  He held his coat-lappels to his nose with one hand, to keep\nout the steam, and scrabbled around with the other till he found the\njoints of his flute, then he is took measures to save himself alive, and\nwas successful.  I was not on board.  I had been put ashore in New\nOrleans by Captain Klinefelter.  The reason--however, I have told all\nabout it in the book called _Old Times on the Mississippi_, and it isn't\nimportant anyway, it is so long ago.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nWhen I was a Sunday-school scholar something more than sixty years ago, I\nbecame interested in Satan, and wanted to find out all I could about him.\nI began to ask questions, but my class-teacher, Mr. Barclay the\nstone-mason, was reluctant about answering them, it seemed to me.  I was\nanxious to be praised for turning my thoughts to serious subjects when\nthere wasn't another boy in the village who could be hired to do such a\nthing.  I was greatly interested in the incident of Eve and the serpent,\nand thought Eve's calmness was perfectly noble.  I asked Mr. Barclay if\nhe had ever heard of another woman who, being approached by a serpent,\nwould not excuse herself and break for the nearest timber.  He did not\nanswer my question, but rebuked me for inquiring into matters above my\nage and comprehension.  I will say for Mr. Barclay that he was willing to\ntell me the facts of Satan's history, but he stopped there: he wouldn't\nallow any discussion of them.\n\nIn the course of time we exhausted the facts.  There were only five or\nsix of them, you could set them all down on a visiting-card.  I was\ndisappointed.  I had been meditating a biography, and was grieved to find\nthat there were no materials.  I said as much, with the tears running\ndown.  Mr. Barclay's sympathy and compassion were aroused, for he was a\nmost kind and gentle-spirited man, and he patted me on the head and\ncheered me up by saying there was a whole vast ocean of materials!  I can\nstill feel the happy thrill which these blessed words shot through me.\n\nThen he began to bail out that ocean's riches for my encouragement and\njoy.  Like this: it was \"conjectured\"--though not established--that Satan\nwas originally an angel in heaven; that he fell; that he rebelled, and\nbrought on a war; that he was defeated, and banished to perdition.  Also,\n\"we have reason to believe\" that later he did so-and-so; that \"we are\nwarranted in supposing\" that at a subsequent time he travelled\nextensively, seeking whom he might devour; that a couple of centuries\nafterward, \"as tradition instructs us,\" he took up the cruel trade of\ntempting people to their ruin, with vast and fearful results; that\nby-and-by, \"as the probabilities seem to indicate,\" he may have done\ncertain things, he might have done certain other things, he must have\ndone still other things.\n\nAnd so on and so on.  We set down the five known facts by themselves, on\na piece of paper, and numbered it \"page 1\"; then on fifteen hundred other\npieces of paper we set down the \"conjectures,\" and \"suppositions,\" and\n\"maybes,\" and \"perhapses,\" and \"doubtlesses,\" and \"rumors,\" and\n\"guesses,\" and \"probabilities,\" and \"likelihoods,\" and \"we are permitted\nto thinks,\" and \"we are warranted in believings,\" and \"might have beens,\"\nand \"could have beens,\" and \"must have beens,\" and \"unquestionablys,\" and\n\"without a shadow of doubts\"--and behold!\n\n_Materials_?  Why, we had enough to build a biography of Shakespeare!\n\nYet he made me put away my pen; he would not let me write the history of\nSatan.  Why?  Because, as he said, he had suspicions; suspicions that my\nattitude in this matter was not reverent; and that a person must be\nreverent when writing about the sacred characters.  He said any one who\nspoke flippantly of Satan would be frowned upon by the religious world\nand also be brought to account.\n\nI assured him, in earnest and sincere words, that he had wholly\nmisconceived my attitude; that I had the highest respect for Satan, and\nthat my reverence for him equalled, and possibly even exceeded, that of\nany member of any church.  I said it wounded me deeply to perceive by his\nwords that he thought I would make fun of Satan, and deride him, laugh at\nhim, scoff at him: whereas in truth I had never thought of such a thing,\nbut had only a warm desire to make fun of those others and laugh at\n_them_.  \"What others?\"  \"Why, the Supposers, the Perhapsers, the\nMight-Have-Beeners, the Could-Have-Beeners, the Must-Have-Beeners, the\nWithout-a-Shadow-of-Doubters, the We-are-Warranted-in-Believingers, and\nall that funny crop of solemn architects who have taken a good solid\nfoundation of five indisputable and unimportant facts and built upon it a\nConjectural Satan thirty miles high.\"\n\nWhat did Mr. Barclay do then?  Was he disarmed?  Was he silenced?  No.\nHe was shocked.  He was so shocked that he visibly shuddered.  He said\nthe Satanic Traditioners and Perhapsers and Conjecturers were\n_themselves_ sacred!  As sacred as their work.  So sacred that whoso\nventured to mock them or make fun of their work, could not afterward\nenter any respectable house, even by the back door.\n\nHow true were his words, and how wise!  How fortunate it would have been\nfor me if I had heeded them.  But I was young, I was but seven years of\nage, and vain, foolish, and anxious to attract attention.  I wrote the\nbiography, and have never been in a respectable house since.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nHow curious and interesting is the parallel--as far as poverty of\nbiographical details is concerned--between Satan and Shakespeare.  It is\nwonderful, it is unique, it stands quite alone, there is nothing\nresembling it in history, nothing resembling it in romance, nothing\napproaching it even in tradition.  How sublime is their position, and how\nover-topping, how sky-reaching, how supreme--the two Great Unknowns, the\ntwo Illustrious Conjecturabilities!  They are the best-known unknown\npersons that have ever drawn breath upon the planet.\n\nFor the instruction of the ignorant I will make a list, now, of those\ndetails of Shakespeare's history which are _facts_--verified facts,\nestablished facts, undisputed facts.\n\n\n\nFACTS\n\n\nHe was born on the 23d of April, 1564.\n\nOf good farmer-class parents who could not read, could not write, could\nnot sign their names.\n\nAt Stratford, a small back settlement which in that day was shabby and\nunclean, and densely illiterate.  Of the nineteen important men charged\nwith the government of the town, thirteen had to \"make their mark\" in\nattesting important documents, because they could not write their names.\n\nOf the first eighteen years of his life _nothing_ is known.  They are a\nblank.\n\nOn the 27th of November (1582) William Shakespeare took out a license to\nmarry Anne Whateley.\n\nNext day William Shakespeare took out a license to marry Anne Hathaway.\nShe was eight years his senior.\n\nWilliam Shakespeare married Anne Hathaway.  In a hurry.  By grace of a\nreluctantly-granted dispensation there was but one publication of the\nbanns.\n\nWithin six months the first child was born.\n\nAbout two (blank) years followed, during which period _nothing at all\nhappened to Shakespeare_, so far as anybody knows.\n\nThen came twins--1585.  February.\n\nTwo blank years follow.\n\nThen--1587--he makes a ten-year visit to London, leaving the family\nbehind.\n\nFive blank years follow.  During this period _nothing happened to him_,\nas far as anybody actually knows.\n\nThen--1592--there is mention of him as an actor.\n\nNext year--1593--his name appears in the official list of players.\n\nNext year--1594--he played before the queen.  A detail of no consequence:\nother obscurities did it every year of the forty-five of her reign.  And\nremained obscure.\n\nThree pretty full years follow.  Full of play-acting.  Then\n\nIn 1597 he bought New Place, Stratford.\n\nThirteen or fourteen busy years follow; years in which he accumulated\nmoney, and also reputation as actor and manager.\n\nMeantime his name, liberally and variously spelt, had become associated\nwith a number of great plays and poems, as (ostensibly) author of the\nsame.\n\nSome of these, in these years and later, were pirated, but he made no\nprotest.  Then--1610-11--he returned to Stratford and settled down for\ngood and all, and busied himself in lending money, trading in tithes,\ntrading in land and houses; shirking a debt of forty-one shillings,\nborrowed by his wife during his long desertion of his family; suing\ndebtors for shillings and coppers; being sued himself for shillings and\ncoppers; and acting as confederate to a neighbor who tried to rob the\ntown of its rights in a certain common, and did not succeed.\n\nHe lived five or six years--till 1616--in the joy of these elevated\npursuits.  Then he made a will, and signed each of its three pages with\nhis name.\n\nA thoroughgoing business man's will.  It named in minute detail every\nitem of property he owned in the world--houses, lands, sword, silver-gilt\nbowl, and so on--all the way down to his \"second-best bed\" and its\nfurniture.\n\nIt carefully and calculatingly distributed his riches among the members\nof his family, overlooking no individual of it.  Not even his wife: the\nwife he had been enabled to marry in a hurry by urgent grace of a special\ndispensation before he was nineteen; the wife whom he had left\nhusbandless so many years; the wife who had had to borrow forty-one\nshillings in her need, and which the lender was never able to collect of\nthe prosperous husband, but died at last with the money still lacking.\nNo, even this wife was remembered in Shakespeare's will.\n\nHe left her that \"second-best bed.\"\n\nAnd _not another thing_; not even a penny to bless her lucky widowhood\nwith.\n\nIt was eminently and conspicuously a business man's will, not a poet's.\n\nIt mentioned _not a single book_.\n\nBooks were much more precious than swords and silver-gilt bowls and\nsecond-best beds in those days, and when a departing person owned one he\ngave it a high place in his will.\n\nThe will mentioned _not a play_,_ not a poem_,_ not an unfinished\nliterary work_, _not a scrap of manuscript of any kind_.\n\nMany poets have died poor, but this is the only one in history that has\ndied _this_ poor; the others all left literary remains behind.  Also a\nbook.  Maybe two.\n\nIf Shakespeare had owned a dog--but we need not go into that: we know he\nwould have mentioned it in his will.  If a good dog, Susanna would have\ngot it; if an inferior one his wife would have got a dower interest in\nit.  I wish he had had a dog, just so we could see how painstakingly he\nwould have divided that dog among the family, in his careful business\nway.\n\nHe signed the will in three places.\n\nIn earlier years he signed two other official documents.\n\nThese five signatures still exist.\n\nThere are _no other specimens of his penmanship in existence_.  Not a\nline.\n\nWas he prejudiced against the art?  His granddaughter, whom he loved, was\neight years old when he died, yet she had had no teaching, he left no\nprovision for her education although he was rich, and in her mature\nwomanhood she couldn't write and couldn't tell her husband's manuscript\nfrom anybody else's--she thought it was Shakespeare's.\n\nWhen Shakespeare died in Stratford _it was not an event_.  It made no\nmore stir in England than the death of any other forgotten theatre-actor\nwould have made.  Nobody came down from London; there were no lamenting\npoems, no eulogies, no national tears--there was merely silence, and\nnothing more.  A striking contrast with what happened when Ben Jonson,\nand Francis Bacon, and Spenser, and Raleigh and the other distinguished\nliterary folk of Shakespeare's time passed from life!  No praiseful voice\nwas lifted for the lost Bard of Avon; even Ben Jonson waited seven years\nbefore he lifted his.\n\n_So far as anybody actually knows and can prove_, Shakespeare of\nStratford-on-Avon never wrote a play in his life.\n\n_So far as anybody knows and can prove_, he never wrote a letter to\nanybody in his life.\n\n_So far as any one knows_, _he received only one letter during his life_.\n\nSo far as any one _knows and can prove_, Shakespeare of Stratford wrote\nonly one poem during his life.  This one is authentic.  He did write that\none--a fact which stands undisputed; he wrote the whole of it; he wrote\nthe whole of it out of his own head.  He commanded that this work of art\nbe engraved upon his tomb, and he was obeyed.  There it abides to this\nday.  This is it:\n\n    Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare\n    To digg the dust encloased heare:\n    Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones\n    And curst be he yt moves my bones.\n\nIn the list as above set down, will be found _every positively known_\nfact of Shakespeare's life, lean and meagre as the invoice is.  Beyond\nthese details we know _not a thing_ about him.  All the rest of his vast\nhistory, as furnished by the biographers, is built up, course upon\ncourse, of guesses, inferences, theories, conjectures--an Eiffel Tower of\nartificialities rising sky-high from a very flat and very thin foundation\nof inconsequential facts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV--CONJECTURES\n\n\nThe historians \"suppose\" that Shakespeare attended the Free School in\nStratford from the time he was seven years old till he was thirteen.\nThere is no _evidence_ in existence that he ever went to school at all.\n\nThe historians \"infer\" that he got his Latin in that school--the school\nwhich they \"suppose\" he attended.\n\nThey \"suppose\" his father's declining fortunes made it necessary for him\nto leave the school they supposed he attended, and get to work and help\nsupport his parents and their ten children.  But there is no evidence\nthat he ever entered or retired from the school they suppose he attended.\n\nThey \"suppose\" he assisted his father in the butchering business; and\nthat, being only a boy, he didn't have to do full-grown butchering, but\nonly slaughtered calves.  Also, that whenever he killed a calf he made a\nhigh-flown speech over it.  This supposition rests upon the testimony of\na man who wasn't there at the time; a man who got it from a man who could\nhave been there, but did not say whether he was or not; and neither of\nthem thought to mention it for decades, and decades, and decades, and two\nmore decades after Shakespeare's death (until old age and mental decay\nhad refreshed and vivified their memories).  They hadn't two facts in\nstock about the long-dead distinguished citizen, but only just the one:\nhe slaughtered calves and broke into oratory while he was at it.\nCurious.  They had only one fact, yet the distinguished citizen had spent\ntwenty-six years in that little town--just half his lifetime.  However,\nrightly viewed, it was the most important fact, indeed almost the only\nimportant fact, of Shakespeare's life in Stratford.  Rightly viewed.  For\nexperience is an author's most valuable asset; experience is the thing\nthat puts the muscle and the breath and the warm blood into the book he\nwrites.  Rightly viewed, calf-butchering accounts for _Titus Andronicus_,\nthe only play--ain't it?--that the Stratford Shakespeare ever wrote; and\nyet it is the only one everybody tries to chouse him out of, the\nBaconians included.\n\nThe historians find themselves \"justified in believing\" that the young\nShakespeare poached upon Sir Thomas Lucy's deer preserves and got haled\nbefore that magistrate for it.  But there is no shred of respectworthy\nevidence that anything of the kind happened.\n\nThe historians, having argued the thing that _might_ have happened into\nthe thing that _did_ happen, found no trouble in turning Sir Thomas Lucy\ninto Mr. Justice Shallow.  They have long ago convinced the world--on\nsurmise and without trustworthy evidence--that Shallow _is_ Sir Thomas.\n\nThe next addition to the young Shakespeare's Stratford history comes\neasy.  The historian builds it out of the surmised deer-stealing, and the\nsurmised trial before the magistrate, and the surmised vengeance-prompted\nsatire upon the magistrate in the play: result, the young Shakespeare was\na wild, wild, wild, oh _such_ a wild young scamp, and that gratuitous\nslander is established for all time!  It is the very way Professor Osborn\nand I built the colossal skeleton brontosaur that stands fifty-seven feet\nlong and sixteen feet high in the Natural History Museum, the awe and\nadmiration of all the world, the stateliest skeleton that exists on the\nplanet.  We had nine bones, and we built the rest of him out of plaster\nof paris.  We ran short of plaster of paris, or we'd have built a\nbrontosaur that could sit down beside the Stratford Shakespeare and none\nbut an expert could tell which was biggest or contained the most plaster.\n\nShakespeare pronounced _Venus and Adonis_ \"the first heir of his\ninvention,\" apparently implying that it was his first effort at literary\ncomposition.  He should not have said it.  It has been an embarrassment\nto his historians these many, many years.  They have to make him write\nthat graceful and polished and flawless and beautiful poem before he\nescaped from Stratford and his family--1586 or '87--age, twenty-two, or\nalong there; because within the next five years he wrote five great\nplays, and could not have found time to write another line.\n\nIt is sorely embarrassing.  If he began to slaughter calves, and poach\ndeer, and rollick around, and learn English, at the earliest likely\nmoment--say at thirteen, when he was supposably wrenched from that school\nwhere he was supposably storing up Latin for future literary use--he had\nhis youthful hands full, and much more than full.  He must have had to\nput aside his Warwickshire dialect, which wouldn't be understood in\nLondon, and study English very hard.  Very hard indeed; incredibly hard,\nalmost, if the result of that labor was to be the smooth and rounded and\nflexible and letter-perfect English of the _Venus and Adonis_ in the\nspace of ten years; and at the same time learn great and fine and\nunsurpassable literary form.\n\nHowever, it is \"conjectured\" that he accomplished all this and more, much\nmore: learned law and its intricacies; and the complex procedure of the\nlaw courts; and all about soldiering, and sailoring, and the manners and\ncustoms and ways of royal courts and aristocratic society; and likewise\naccumulated in his one head every kind of knowledge the learned then\npossessed, and every kind of humble knowledge possessed by the lowly and\nthe ignorant; and added thereto a wider and more intimate knowledge of\nthe world's great literatures, ancient and modern, than was possessed by\nany other man of his time--for he was going to make brilliant and easy\nand admiration-compelling use of these splendid treasures the moment he\ngot to London.  And according to the surmisers, that is what he did.\nYes, although there was no one in Stratford able to teach him these\nthings, and no library in the little village to dig them out of.  His\nfather could not read, and even the surmisers surmise that he did not\nkeep a library.\n\nIt is surmised by the biographers that the young Shakespeare got his vast\nknowledge of the law and his familiar and accurate acquaintance with the\nmanners and customs and shop-talk of lawyers through being for a time the\n_clerk of a Stratford court_; just as a bright lad like me, reared in a\nvillage on the banks of the Mississippi, might become perfect in\nknowledge of the Behring Strait whale-fishery and the shop-talk of the\nveteran exercisers of that adventure-bristling trade through catching\ncatfish with a \"trot-line\" Sundays.  But the surmise is damaged by the\nfact that there is no evidence--and not even tradition--that the young\nShakespeare was ever clerk of a law court.\n\nIt is further surmised that the young Shakespeare accumulated his\nlaw-treasures in the first years of his sojourn in London, through\n\"amusing himself\" by learning book-law in his garret and by picking up\nlawyer-talk and the rest of it through loitering about the law-courts and\nlistening.  But it is only surmise; there is no _evidence_ that he ever\ndid either of those things.  They are merely a couple of chunks of\nplaster of paris.\n\nThere is a legend that he got his bread and butter by holding horses in\nfront of the London theatres, mornings and afternoons.  Maybe he did.  If\nhe did, it seriously shortened his law-study hours and his\nrecreation-time in the courts.  In those very days he was writing great\nplays, and needed all the time he could get.  The horse-holding legend\nought to be strangled; it too formidably increases the historian's\ndifficulty in accounting for the young Shakespeare's erudition--an\nerudition which he was acquiring, hunk by hunk and chunk by chunk every\nday in those strenuous times, and emptying each day's catch into next\nday's imperishable drama.\n\nHe had to acquire a knowledge of war at the same time; and a knowledge of\nsoldier-people and sailor-people and their ways and talk; also a\nknowledge of some foreign lands and their languages: for he was daily\nemptying fluent streams of these various knowledges, too, into his\ndramas.  How did he acquire these rich assets?\n\nIn the usual way: by surmise.  It is _surmised_ that he travelled in\nItaly and Germany and around, and qualified himself to put their scenic\nand social aspects upon paper; that he perfected himself in French,\nItalian and Spanish on the road; that he went in Leicester's expedition\nto the Low Countries, as soldier or sutler or something, for several\nmonths or years--or whatever length of time a surmiser needs in his\nbusiness--and thus became familiar with soldiership and soldier-ways and\nsoldier-talk, and generalship and general-ways and general-talk, and\nseamanship and sailor-ways and sailor-talk.\n\nMaybe he did all these things, but I would like to know who held the\nhorses in the meantime; and who studied the books in the garret; and who\nfrollicked in the law-courts for recreation.  Also, who did the\ncall-boying and the play-acting.\n\nFor he became a call-boy; and as early as '93 he became a \"vagabond\"--the\nlaw's ungentle term for an unlisted actor; and in '94 a \"regular\" and\nproperly and officially listed member of that (in those days)\nlightly-valued and not much respected profession.\n\nRight soon thereafter he became a stockholder in two theatres, and\nmanager of them.  Thenceforward he was a busy and flourishing business\nman, and was raking in money with both hands for twenty years.  Then in a\nnoble frenzy of poetic inspiration he wrote his one poem--his only poem,\nhis darling--and laid him down and died:\n\n    Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare\n    To digg the dust encloased heare:\n    Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones\n    And curst be he yt moves my bones.\n\nHe was probably dead when he wrote it.  Still, this is only conjecture.\nWe have only circumstantial evidence.  Internal evidence.\n\nShall I set down the rest of the Conjectures which constitute the giant\nBiography of William Shakespeare?  It would strain the Unabridged\nDictionary to hold them.  He is a Brontosaur: nine bones and six hundred\nbarrels of plaster of paris.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V--\"We May Assume\"\n\n\nIn the Assuming trade three separate and independent cults are\ntransacting business.  Two of these cults are known as the Shakespearites\nand the Baconians, and I am the other one--the Brontosaurian.\n\nThe Shakespearite knows that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's Works; the\nBaconian knows that Francis Bacon wrote them; the Brontosaurian doesn't\nreally know which of them did it, but is quite composedly and contentedly\nsure that Shakespeare _didn't_, and strongly suspects that Bacon _did_.\nWe all have to do a good deal of assuming, but I am fairly certain that\nin every case I can call to mind the Baconian assumers have come out\nahead of the Shakespearites.  Both parties handle the same materials, but\nthe Baconians seem to me to get much more reasonable and rational and\npersuasive results out of them than is the case with the Shakespearites.\nThe Shakespearite conducts his assuming upon a definite principle, an\nunchanging and immutable law--which is: 2 and 8 and 7 and 14, added\ntogether, make 165.  I believe this to be an error.  No matter, you\ncannot get a habit-sodden Shakespearite to cipher-up his materials upon\nany other basis.  With the Baconian it is different.  If you place before\nhim the above figures and set him to adding them up, he will never in any\ncase get more than 45 out of them, and in nine cases out of ten he will\nget just the proper 31.\n\nLet me try to illustrate the two systems in a simple and homely way\ncalculated to bring the idea within the grasp of the ignorant and\nunintelligent.  We will suppose a case: take a lap-bred, house-fed,\nuneducated, inexperienced kitten; take a rugged old Tom that's scarred\nfrom stem to rudder-post with the memorials of strenuous experience, and\nis so cultured, so educated, so limitlessly erudite that one may say of\nhim \"all cat-knowledge is his province\"; also, take a mouse.  Lock the\nthree up in a holeless, crackless, exitless prison-cell.  Wait half an\nhour, then open the cell, introduce a Shakespearite and a Baconian, and\nlet them cipher and assume.  The mouse is missing: the question to be\ndecided is, where is it?  You can guess both verdicts beforehand.  One\nverdict will say the kitten contains the mouse; the other will as\ncertainly say the mouse is in the tomcat.\n\nThe Shakespearite will Reason like this--(that is not my word, it is\nhis).  He will say the kitten _may have been_ attending school when\nnobody was noticing; therefore _we are warranted in assuming_ that it did\nso; also, it _could have been_ training in a court-clerk's office when no\none was noticing; since that could have happened, _we are justified in\nassuming_ that it did happen; it _could have studied catology in a\ngarret_ when no one was noticing--therefore it _did_; it _could have_\nattended cat-assizes on the shed-roof nights, for recreation, when no one\nwas noticing, and harvested a knowledge of cat court-forms and cat\nlawyer-talk in that way: it _could_ have done it, therefore without a\ndoubt it did; it could have gone soldiering with a war-tribe when no one\nwas noticing, and learned soldier-wiles and soldier-ways, and what to do\nwith a mouse when opportunity offers; the plain inference, therefore is,\nthat that is what it _did_.  Since all these manifold things _could_ have\noccurred, we have _every right to believe_ they did occur.  These\npatiently and painstakingly accumulated vast acquirements and competences\nneeded but one thing more--opportunity--to convert themselves into\ntriumphant action.  The opportunity came, we have the result; _beyond\nshadow of question_ the mouse is in the kitten.\n\nIt is proper to remark that when we of the three cults plant a \"_We think\nwe may assume_,\" we expect it, under careful watering and fertilizing and\ntending, to grow up into a strong and hardy and weather-defying \"_there\nisn't a shadow of a doubt_\" at last--and it usually happens.\n\nWe know what the Baconian's verdict would be: \"_There is not a rag of\nevidence that the kitten has had any training_, _any education_, _any\nexperience qualifying it for the present occasion_, _or is indeed\nequipped for any achievement above lifting such unclaimed milk as comes\nits way_; _but there is abundant evidence_--_unassailable proof_, _in\nfact_--_that the other animal is equipped_, _to the last detail_, _with\nevery qualification necessary for the event_.  _Without shadow of doubt\nthe tomcat contains the mouse_.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nWhen Shakespeare died, in 1616, great literary productions attributed to\nhim as author had been before the London world and in high favor for\ntwenty-four years.  Yet his death was not an event.  It made no stir, it\nattracted no attention.  Apparently his eminent literary contemporaries\ndid not realize that a celebrated poet had passed from their midst.\nPerhaps they knew a play-actor of minor rank had disappeared, but did not\nregard him as the author of his Works.  \"We are justified in assuming\"\nthis.\n\nHis death was not even an event in the little town of Stratford.  Does\nthis mean that in Stratford he was not regarded as a celebrity of _any_\nkind?\n\n\"We are privileged to assume\"--no, we are indeed _obliged_ to\nassume--that such was the case.  He had spent the first twenty-two or\ntwenty-three years of his life there, and of course knew everybody and\nwas known by everybody of that day in the town, including the dogs and\nthe cats and the horses.  He had spent the last five or six years of his\nlife there, diligently trading in every big and little thing that had\nmoney in it; so we are compelled to assume that many of the folk there in\nthose said latter days knew him personally, and the rest by sight and\nhearsay.  But not as a _celebrity_?  Apparently not.  For everybody soon\nforgot to remember any contact with him or any incident connected with\nhim.  The dozens of townspeople, still alive, who had known of him or\nknown about him in the first twenty-three years of his life were in the\nsame unremembering condition: if they knew of any incident connected with\nthat period of his life they didn't tell about it.  Would they if they\nhad been asked?  It is most likely.  Were they asked?  It is pretty\napparent that they were not.  Why weren't they?  It is a very plausible\nguess that nobody there or elsewhere was interested to know.\n\nFor seven years after Shakespeare's death nobody seems to have been\ninterested in him.  Then the quarto was published, and Ben Jonson awoke\nout of his long indifference and sang a song of praise and put it in the\nfront of the book.  Then silence fell _again_.\n\nFor sixty years.  Then inquiries into Shakespeare's Stratford life began\nto be made, of Stratfordians.  Of Stratfordians who had known Shakespeare\nor had seen him?  No.  Then of Stratfordians who had seen people who had\nknown or seen people who had seen Shakespeare?  No.  Apparently the\ninquiries were only made of Stratfordians who were not Stratfordians of\nShakespeare's day, but later comers; and what they had learned had come\nto them from persons who had not seen Shakespeare; and what they had\nlearned was not claimed as _fact_, but only as legend--dim and fading and\nindefinite legend; legend of the calf-slaughtering rank, and not worth\nremembering either as history or fiction.\n\nHas it ever happened before--or since--that a celebrated person who had\nspent exactly half of a fairly long life in the village where he was born\nand reared, was able to slip out of this world and leave that village\nvoiceless and gossipless behind him--utterly voiceless, utterly\ngossipless?  And permanently so?  I don't believe it has happened in any\ncase except Shakespeare's.  And couldn't and wouldn't have happened in\nhis case if he had been regarded as a celebrity at the time of his death.\n\nWhen I examine my own case--but let us do that, and see if it will not be\nrecognizable as exhibiting a condition of things quite likely to result,\nmost likely to result, indeed substantially _sure_ to result in the case\nof a celebrated person, a benefactor of the human race.  Like me.\n\nMy parents brought me to the village of Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks\nof the Mississippi, when I was two and a half years old.  I entered\nschool at five years of age, and drifted from one school to another in\nthe village during nine and a half years.  Then my father died, leaving\nhis family in exceedingly straitened circumstances; wherefore my\nbook-education came to a standstill forever, and I became a printer's\napprentice, on board and clothes, and when the clothes failed I got a\nhymn-book in place of them.  This for summer wear, probably.  I lived in\nHannibal fifteen and a half years, altogether, then ran away, according\nto the custom of persons who are intending to become celebrated.  I never\nlived there afterward.  Four years later I became a \"cub\" on a\nMississippi steamboat in the St. Louis and New Orleans trade, and after a\nyear and a half of hard study and hard work the U. S. inspectors\nrigorously examined me through a couple of long sittings and decided that\nI knew every inch of the Mississippi--thirteen hundred miles--in the dark\nand in the day--as well as a baby knows the way to its mother's paps day\nor night.  So they licensed me as a pilot--knighted me, so to speak--and\nI rose up clothed with authority, a responsible servant of the United\nStates government.\n\nNow then.  Shakespeare died young--he was only fifty-two.  He had lived\nin his native village twenty-six years, or about that.  He died\ncelebrated (if you believe everything you read in the books).  Yet when\nhe died nobody there or elsewhere took any notice of it; and for sixty\nyears afterward no townsman remembered to say anything about him or about\nhis life in Stratford.  When the inquirer came at last he got but one\nfact--no, _legend_--and got that one at second hand, from a person who\nhad only heard it as a rumor, and didn't claim copyright in it as a\nproduction of his own.  He couldn't, very well, for its date antedated\nhis own birth-date.  But necessarily a number of persons were still alive\nin Stratford who, in the days of their youth, had seen Shakespeare nearly\nevery day in the last five years of his life, and they would have been\nable to tell that inquirer some first-hand things about him if he had in\nthose last days been a celebrity and therefore a person of interest to\nthe villagers.  Why did not the inquirer hunt them up and interview them?\nWasn't it worth while?  Wasn't the matter of sufficient consequence?  Had\nthe inquirer an engagement to see a dog-fight and couldn't spare the\ntime?\n\nIt all seems to mean that he never had any literary celebrity, there or\nelsewhere, and no considerable repute as actor and manager.\n\nNow then, I am away along in life--my seventy-third year being already\nwell behind me--yet _sixteen_ of my Hannibal schoolmates are still alive\nto-day, and can tell--and do tell--inquirers dozens and dozens of\nincidents of their young lives and mine together; things that happened to\nus in the morning of life, in the blossom of our youth, in the good days,\nthe dear days, \"the days when we went gipsying, a long time ago.\"  Most\nof them creditable to me, too.  One child to whom I paid court when she\nwas five years old and I eight still lives in Hannibal, and she visited\nme last summer, traversing the necessary ten or twelve hundred miles of\nrailroad without damage to her patience or to her old-young vigor.\nAnother little lassie to whom I paid attention in Hannibal when she was\nnine years old and I the same, is still alive--in London--and hale and\nhearty, just as I am.  And on the few surviving steamboats--those\nlingering ghosts and remembrancers of great fleets that plied the big\nriver in the beginning of my water-career--which is exactly as long ago\nas the whole invoice of the life-years of Shakespeare number--there are\nstill findable two or three river-pilots who saw me do creditable things\nin those ancient days; and several white-headed engineers; and several\nroustabouts and mates; and several deck-hands who used to heave the lead\nfor me and send up on the still night air the \"six--feet--_scant_!\" that\nmade me shudder, and the \"_M-a-r-k--twain_!\" that took the shudder away,\nand presently the darling \"By the d-e-e-p--four!\" that lifted me to\nheaven for joy. {1}  They know about me, and can tell.  And so do\nprinters, from St. Louis to New York; and so do newspaper reporters, from\nNevada to San Francisco.  And so do the police.  If Shakespeare had\nreally been celebrated, like me, Stratford could have told things about\nhim; and if my experience goes for anything, they'd have done it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nIf I had under my superintendence a controversy appointed to decide\nwhether Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare or not, I believe I would place\nbefore the debaters only the one question, _Was Shakespeare ever a\npracticing lawyer_? and leave everything else out.\n\nIt is maintained that the man who wrote the plays was not merely\nmyriad-minded, but also myriad-accomplished: that he not only knew some\nthousands of things about human life in all its shades and grades, and\nabout the hundred arts and trades and crafts and professions which men\nbusy themselves in, but that he could _talk_ about the men and their\ngrades and trades accurately, making no mistakes.  Maybe it is so, but\nhave the experts spoken, or is it only Tom, Dick, and Harry?  Does the\nexhibit stand upon wide, and loose, and eloquent generalizing--which is\nnot evidence, and not proof--or upon details, particulars, statistics,\nillustrations, demonstrations?\n\nExperts of unchallengeable authority have testified definitely as to only\none of Shakespeare's multifarious craft-equipments, so far as my\nrecollections of Shakespeare-Bacon talk abide with me--his law-equipment.\nI do not remember that Wellington or Napoleon ever examined Shakespeare's\nbattles and sieges and strategies, and then decided and established for\ngood and all, that they were militarily flawless; I do not remember that\nany Nelson, or Drake or Cook ever examined his seamanship and said it\nshowed profound and accurate familiarity with that art; I don't remember\nthat any king or prince or duke has ever testified that Shakespeare was\nletter-perfect in his handling of royal court-manners and the talk and\nmanners of aristocracies; I don't remember that any illustrious Latinist\nor Grecian or Frenchman or Spaniard or Italian has proclaimed him a\npast-master in those languages; I don't remember--well, I don't remember\nthat there is _testimony_--great testimony--imposing\ntestimony--unanswerable and unattackable testimony as to any of\nShakespeare's hundred specialties, except one--the law.\n\nOther things change, with time, and the student cannot trace back with\ncertainty the changes that various trades and their processes and\ntechnicalities have undergone in the long stretch of a century or two and\nfind out what their processes and technicalities were in those early\ndays, but with the law it is different: it is mile-stoned and documented\nall the way back, and the master of that wonderful trade, that complex\nand intricate trade, that awe-compelling trade, has competent ways of\nknowing whether Shakespeare-law is good law or not; and whether his\nlaw-court procedure is correct or not, and whether his legal shop-talk is\nthe shop-talk of a veteran practitioner or only a machine-made\ncounterfeit of it gathered from books and from occasional loiterings in\nWestminster.\n\nRichard H. Dana served two years before the mast, and had every\nexperience that falls to the lot of the sailor before the mast of our\nday.  His sailor-talk flows from his pen with the sure touch and the ease\nand confidence of a person who has _lived_ what he is talking about, not\ngathered it from books and random listenings.  Hear him:\n\n    Having hove short, cast off the gaskets, and made the bunt of each\n    sail fast by the jigger, with a man on each yard, at the word the\n    whole canvas of the ship was loosed, and with the greatest rapidity\n    possible everything was sheeted home and hoisted up, the anchor\n    tripped and cat-headed, and the ship under headway.\n\nAgain:\n\n    The royal yards were all crossed at once, and royals and sky-sails\n    set, and, as we had the wind free, the booms were run out, and all\n    were aloft, active as cats, laying out on the yards and booms,\n    reeving the studding-sail gear; and sail after sail the captain piled\n    upon her, until she was covered with canvas, her sails looking like a\n    great white cloud resting upon a black speck.\n\nOnce more.  A race in the Pacific:\n\n    Our antagonist was in her best trim.  Being clear of the point, the\n    breeze became stiff, and the royal-masts bent under our sails, but we\n    would not take them in until we saw three boys spring into the\n    rigging of the _California_; then they were all furled at once, but\n    with orders to our boys to stay aloft at the top-gallant mast-heads\n    and loose them again at the word.  It was my duty to furl the\n    fore-royal; and while standing by to loose it again, I had a fine\n    view of the scene.  From where I stood, the two vessels seemed\n    nothing but spars and sails, while their narrow decks, far below,\n    slanting over by the force of the wind aloft, appeared hardly capable\n    of supporting the great fabrics raised upon them.  The _California_\n    was to windward of us, and had every advantage; yet, while the breeze\n    was stiff we held our own.  As soon as it began to slacken she ranged\n    a little ahead, and the order was given to loose the royals.  In an\n    instant the gaskets were off and the bunt dropped.  \"Sheet home the\n    fore-royal!\"--\"Weather sheet's home!\"--\"Lee sheet's home!\"--\"Hoist\n    away, sir!\" is bawled from aloft.  \"Overhaul your clewlines!\" shouts\n    the mate.  \"Aye-aye, sir, all clear!\"--\"Taut leech! belay!  Well the\n    lee brace; haul taut to windward!\" and the royals are set.\n\nWhat would the captain of any sailing-vessel of our time say to that?  He\nwould say, \"The man that wrote that didn't learn his trade out of a book,\nhe has _been_ there!\"  But would this same captain be competent to sit in\njudgment upon Shakespeare's seamanship--considering the changes in ships\nand ship-talk that have necessarily taken place, unrecorded,\nunremembered, and lost to history in the last three hundred years?  It is\nmy conviction that Shakespeare's sailor-talk would be Choctaw to him.\nFor instance--from _The Tempest_:\n\n    _Master_.  Boatswain!\n\n    _Boatswain_.  Here, master; what cheer?\n\n    _Master_.  Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or we run\n    ourselves to ground; bestir, bestir!\n\n    (_Enter mariners_.)\n\n    _Boatswain_.  Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare,\n    yare!  Take in the topsail.  Tend to the master's whistle . . . Down\n    with the topmast! yare! lower, lower!  Bring her to try wi' the main\n    course . . . Lay her a-hold, a-hold!  Set her two courses.  Off to\n    sea again; lay her off.\n\nThat will do, for the present; let us yare a little, now, for a change.\n\nIf a man should write a book and in it make one of his characters say,\n\"Here, devil, empty the quoins into the standing galley and the imposing\nstone into the hell-box; assemble the comps around the frisket and let\nthem jeff for takes and be quick about it,\" I should recognize a mistake\nor two in the phrasing, and would know that the writer was only a printer\ntheoretically, not practically.\n\nI have been a quartz miner in the silver regions--a pretty hard life; I\nknow all the palaver of that business: I know all about discovery claims\nand the subordinate claims; I know all about lodes, ledges, outcroppings,\ndips, spurs, angles, shafts, drifts, inclines, levels, tunnels,\nair-shafts, \"horses,\" clay casings, granite casings; quartz mills and\ntheir batteries; arastras, and how to charge them with quicksilver and\nsulphate of copper; and how to clean them up, and how to reduce the\nresulting amalgam in the retorts, and how to cast the bullion into pigs;\nand finally I know how to screen tailings, and also how to hunt for\nsomething less robust to do, and find it.  I know the _argot_ of the\nquartz-mining and milling industry familiarly; and so whenever Bret Harte\nintroduces that industry into a story, the first time one of his miners\nopens his mouth I recognize from his phrasing that Harte got the phrasing\nby listening--like Shakespeare--I mean the Stratford one--not by\nexperience.  No one can talk the quartz dialect correctly without\nlearning it with pick and shovel and drill and fuse.\n\nI have been a surface-miner--gold--and I know all its mysteries, and the\ndialect that belongs with them; and whenever Harte introduces that\nindustry into a story I know by the phrasing of his characters that\nneither he nor they have ever served that trade.\n\nI have been a \"pocket\" miner--a sort of gold mining not findable in any\nbut one little spot in the world, so far as I know.  I know how, with\nhorn and water, to find the trail of a pocket and trace it step by step\nand stage by stage up the mountain to its source, and find the compact\nlittle nest of yellow metal reposing in its secret home under the ground.\nI know the language of that trade, that capricious trade, that\nfascinating buried-treasure trade, and can catch any writer who tries to\nuse it without having learned it by the sweat of his brow and the labor\nof his hands.\n\nI know several other trades and the _argot_ that goes with them; and\nwhenever a person tries to talk the talk peculiar to any of them without\nhaving learned it at its source I can trap him always before he gets far\non his road.\n\nAnd so, as I have already remarked, if I were required to superintend a\nBacon-Shakespeare controversy, I would narrow the matter down to a single\nquestion--the only one, so far as the previous controversies have\ninformed me, concerning which illustrious experts of unimpeachable\ncompetency have testified: _Was the author of Shakespeare's Works a\nlawyer_?--a lawyer deeply read and of limitless experience?  I would put\naside the guesses, and surmises, and perhapses, and might-have-beens, and\ncould-have beens, and must-have-beens, and we-are\njustified-in-presumings, and the rest of those vague spectres and shadows\nand indefinitenesses, and stand or fall, win or lose, by the verdict\nrendered by the jury upon that single question.  If the verdict was Yes,\nI should feel quite convinced that the Stratford Shakespeare, the actor,\nmanager, and trader who died so obscure, so forgotten, so destitute of\neven village consequence that sixty years afterward no fellow-citizen and\nfriend of his later days remembered to tell anything about him, did not\nwrite the Works.\n\nChapter XIII of _The Shakespeare Problem Restated_ bears the heading\n\"Shakespeare as a Lawyer,\" and comprises some fifty pages of expert\ntestimony, with comments thereon, and I will copy the first nine, as\nbeing sufficient all by themselves, as it seems to me, to settle the\nquestion which I have conceived to be the master-key to the\nShakespeare-Bacon puzzle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII--Shakespeare as a Lawyer {2}\n\n\nThe Plays and Poems of Shakespeare supply ample evidence that their\nauthor not only had a very extensive and accurate knowledge of law, but\nthat he was well acquainted with the manners and customs of members of\nthe Inns of Court and with legal life generally.\n\n\"While novelists and dramatists are constantly making mistakes as to the\nlaws of marriage, of wills, and inheritance, to Shakespeare's law,\nlavishly as he expounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill of\nexceptions, nor writ of error.\"  Such was the testimony borne by one of\nthe most distinguished lawyers of the nineteenth century who was raised\nto the high office of Lord Chief Justice in 1850, and subsequently became\nLord Chancellor.  Its weight will, doubtless, be more appreciated by\nlawyers than by laymen, for only lawyers know how impossible it is for\nthose who have not served an apprenticeship to the law to avoid\ndisplaying their ignorance if they venture to employ legal terms and to\ndiscuss legal doctrines.  \"There is nothing so dangerous,\" wrote Lord\nCampbell, \"as for one not of the craft to tamper with our freemasonry.\"\nA layman is certain to betray himself by using some expression which a\nlawyer would never employ.  Mr. Sidney Lee himself supplies us with an\nexample of this.  He writes (p. 164): \"On February 15, 1609, Shakespeare\n. . . obtained judgment from a jury against Addenbroke for the payment of\nNo. 6, and No. 1. 5_s._ 0_d._ costs.\"  Now a lawyer would never have\nspoken of obtaining \"judgment from a jury,\" for it is the function of a\njury not to deliver judgment (which is the prerogative of the court), but\nto find a verdict on the facts.  The error is, indeed, a venial one, but\nit is just one of those little things which at once enable a lawyer to\nknow if the writer is a layman or \"one of the craft.\"\n\nBut when a layman ventures to plunge deeply into legal subjects, he is\nnaturally apt to make an exhibition of his incompetence.  \"Let a\nnon-professional man, however acute,\" writes Lord Campbell again,\n\"presume to talk law, or to draw illustrations from legal science in\ndiscussing other subjects, and he will speedily fall into laughable\nabsurdity.\"\n\nAnd what does the same high authority say about Shakespeare?  He had \"a\ndeep technical knowledge of the law,\" and an easy familiarity with \"some\nof the most abstruse proceedings in English jurisprudence.\"  And again:\n\"Whenever he indulges this propensity he uniformly lays down good law.\"\nOf _Henry IV._, Part 2, he says: \"If Lord Eldon could be supposed to have\nwritten the play, I do not see how he could be chargeable with having\nforgotten any of his law while writing it.\"  Charles and Mary Cowden\nClarke speak of \"the marvelous intimacy which he displays with legal\nterms, his frequent adoption of them in illustration, and his curiously\ntechnical knowledge of their form and force.\"  Malone, himself a lawyer,\nwrote: \"His knowledge of legal terms is not merely such as might be\nacquired by the casual observation of even his all-comprehending mind; it\nhas the appearance of technical skill.\"  Another lawyer and well-known\nShakespearean, Richard Grant White, says: \"No dramatist of the time, not\neven Beaumont, who was the younger son of a judge of the Common Pleas,\nand who after studying in the Inns of Court abandoned law for the drama,\nused legal phrases with Shakespeare's readiness and exactness.  And the\nsignificance of this fact is heightened by another, that it is only to\nthe language of the law that he exhibits this inclination.  The phrases\npeculiar to other occupations serve him on rare occasions by way of\ndescription, comparison or illustration, generally when something in the\nscene suggests them, but legal phrases flow from his pen as part of his\nvocabulary, and parcel of his thought.  Take the word 'purchase' for\ninstance, which, in ordinary use, means to acquire by giving value, but\napplies in law to all legal modes of obtaining property except by\ninheritance or descent, and in this peculiar sense the word occurs five\ntimes in Shakespeare's thirty-four plays, and only in one single instance\nin the fifty-four plays of Beaumont and Fletcher.  It has been suggested\nthat it was in attendance upon the courts in London that he picked up his\nlegal vocabulary.  But this supposition not only fails to account for\nShakespeare's peculiar freedom and exactness in the use of that\nphraseology, it does not even place him in the way of learning those\nterms his use of which is most remarkable, which are not such as he would\nhave heard at ordinary proceedings at _nisi prius_, but such as refer to\nthe tenure or transfer of real property, 'fine and recovery,' 'statutes\nmerchant,' 'purchase,' 'indenture,' 'tenure,' 'double voucher,' 'fee\nsimple,' 'fee farm,' 'remainder,' 'reversion,' 'forfeiture,' etc.  This\nconveyancer's jargon could not have been picked up by hanging round the\ncourts of law in London two hundred and fifty years ago, when suits as to\nthe title of real property were comparatively rare.  And beside,\nShakespeare uses his law just as freely in his first plays, written in\nhis first London years, as in those produced at a later period.  Just as\nexactly, too; for the correctness and propriety with which these terms\nare introduced have compelled the admiration of a Chief Justice and a\nLord Chancellor.\"\n\nSenator Davis wrote: \"We seem to have something more than a sciolist's\ntemerity of indulgence in the terms of an unfamiliar art.  No legal\nsolecisms will be found.  The abstrusest elements of the common law are\nimpressed into a disciplined service.  Over and over again, where such\nknowledge is unexampled in writers unlearned in the law, Shakespeare\nappears in perfect possession of it.  In the law of real property, its\nrules of tenure and descents, its entails, its fines and recoveries,\ntheir vouchers and double vouchers, in the procedure of the Courts, the\nmethod of bringing writs and arrests, the nature of actions, the rules of\npleading, the law of escapes and of contempt of court, in the principles\nof evidence, both technical and philosophical, in the distinction between\nthe temporal and spiritual tribunals, in the law of attainder and\nforfeiture, in the requisites of a valid marriage, in the presumption of\nlegitimacy, in the learning of the law of prerogative, in the inalienable\ncharacter of the Crown, this mastership appears with surprising\nauthority.\"\n\nTo all this testimony (and there is much more which I have not cited) may\nnow be added that of a great lawyer of our own times, _viz._: Sir James\nPlaisted Wilde, Q.C. created a Baron of the Exchequer in 1860, promoted\nto the post of Judge-Ordinary and Judge of the Courts of Probate and\nDivorce in 1863, and better known to the world as Lord Penzance, to which\ndignity he was raised in 1869.  Lord Penzance, as all lawyers know, and\nas the late Mr. Inderwick, K.C., has testified, was one of the first\nlegal authorities of his day, famous for his \"remarkable grasp of legal\nprinciples,\" and \"endowed by nature with a remarkable facility for\nmarshalling facts, and for a clear expression of his views.\"\n\nLord Penzance speaks of Shakespeare's \"perfect familiarity with not only\nthe principles, axioms, and maxims, but the technicalities of English\nlaw, a knowledge so perfect and intimate that he was never incorrect and\nnever at fault . . . The mode in which this knowledge was pressed into\nservice on all occasions to express his meaning and illustrate his\nthoughts, was quite unexampled.  He seems to have had a special pleasure\nin his complete and ready mastership of it in all its branches.  As\nmanifested in the plays, this legal knowledge and learning had therefore\na special character which places it on a wholly different footing from\nthe rest of the multifarious knowledge which is exhibited in page after\npage of the plays.  At every turn and point at which the author required\na metaphor, simile, or illustration, his mind ever turned _first_ to the\nlaw.  He seems almost to have _thought_ in legal phrases, the commonest\nof legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen in description or\nillustration.  That he should have descanted in lawyer language when he\nhad a forensic subject in hand, such as Shylock's bond, was to be\nexpected, but the knowledge of law in 'Shakespeare' was exhibited in a\nfar different manner: it protruded itself on all occasions, appropriate\nor inappropriate, and mingled itself with strains of thought widely\ndivergent from forensic subjects.\"  Again: \"To acquire a perfect\nfamiliarity with legal principles, and an accurate and ready use of the\ntechnical terms and phrases not only of the conveyancer's office but of\nthe pleader's chambers and the Courts at Westminster, nothing short of\nemployment in some career involving constant contact with legal questions\nand general legal work would be requisite.  But a continuous employment\ninvolves the element of time, and time was just what the manager of two\ntheatres had not at his disposal.  In what portion of Shakespeare's\n(_i.e._ Shakspere's) career would it be possible to point out that time\ncould be found for the interposition of a legal employment in the\nchambers or offices of practising lawyers?\"\n\nStratfordians, as is well known, casting about for some possible\nexplanation of Shakespeare's extraordinary knowledge of law, have made\nthe suggestion that Shakespeare might, conceivably, have been a clerk in\nan attorney's office before he came to London.  Mr. Collier wrote to Lord\nCampbell to ask his opinion as to the probability of this being true.\nHis answer was as follows: \"You require us to believe implicitly a fact,\nof which, if true, positive and irrefragable evidence in his own\nhandwriting might have been forthcoming to establish it.  Not having been\nactually enrolled as an attorney, neither the records of the local court\nat Stratford nor of the superior Courts at Westminster would present his\nname as being concerned in any suit as an attorney, but it might\nreasonably have been expected that there would be deeds or wills\nwitnessed by him still extant, and after a very diligent search none such\ncan be discovered.\"\n\nUpon this Lord Penzance comments: \"It cannot be doubted that Lord\nCampbell was right in this.  No young man could have been at work in an\nattorney's office without being called upon continually to act as a\nwitness, and in many other ways leaving traces of his work and name.\"\nThere is not a single fact or incident in all that is known of\nShakespeare, even by rumor or tradition, which supports this notion of a\nclerkship.  And after much argument and surmise which has been indulged\nin on this subject, we may, I think, safely put the notion on one side,\nfor no less an authority than Mr. Grant White says finally that the idea\nof his having been clerk to an attorney has been \"blown to pieces.\"\n\nIt is altogether characteristic of Mr. Churton Collins that he,\nnevertheless, adopts this exploded myth.  \"That Shakespeare was in early\nlife employed as a clerk in an attorney's office, may be correct.  At\nStratford there was by royal charter a Court of Record sitting every\nfortnight, with six attorneys, beside the town clerk, belonging to it,\nand it is certainly not straining probability to suppose that the young\nShakespeare may have had employment in one of them.  There is, it is\ntrue, no tradition to this effect, but such traditions as we have about\nShakespeare's occupation between the time of leaving school and going to\nLondon are so loose and baseless that no confidence can be placed in\nthem.  It is, to say the least, more probable that he was in an\nattorney's office than that he was a butcher killing calves 'in a high\nstyle,' and making speeches over them.\"\n\nThis is a charming specimen of Stratfordian argument.  There is, as we\nhave seen, a very old tradition that Shakespeare was a butcher's\napprentice.  John Dowdall, who made a tour in Warwickshire in 1693,\ntestifies to it as coming from the old clerk who showed him over the\nchurch, and it is unhesitatingly accepted as true by Mr.\nHalliwell-Phillipps.  (Vol I, p. 11, and see Vol. II, p. 71, 72.)  Mr.\nSidney Lee sees nothing improbable in it, and it is supported by Aubrey,\nwho must have written his account some time before 1680, when his\nmanuscript was completed.  Of the attorney's clerk hypothesis, on the\nother hand, there is not the faintest vestige of a tradition.  It has\nbeen evolved out of the fertile imaginations of embarrassed\nStratfordians, seeking for some explanation of the Stratford rustic's\nmarvellous acquaintance with law and legal terms and legal life.  But Mr.\nChurton Collins has not the least hesitation in throwing over the\ntradition which has the warrant of antiquity and setting up in its stead\nthis ridiculous invention, for which not only is there no shred of\npositive evidence, but which, as Lord Campbell and Lord Penzance point\nout, is really put out of court by the negative evidence, since \"no young\nman could have been at work in an attorney's office without being called\nupon continually to act as a witness, and in many other ways leaving\ntraces of his work and name.\"  And as Mr. Edwards further points out,\nsince the day when Lord Campbell's book was published (between forty and\nfifty years ago), \"every old deed or will, to say nothing of other legal\npapers, dated during the period of William Shakespeare's youth, has been\nscrutinized over half a dozen shires, and not one signature of the young\nman has been found.\"\n\nMoreover, if Shakespeare had served as clerk in an attorney's office it\nis clear that he must have so served for a considerable period in order\nto have gained (if indeed it is credible that he could have so gained)\nhis remarkable knowledge of law.  Can we then for a moment believe that,\nif this had been so, tradition would have been absolutely silent on the\nmatter?  That Dowdall's old clerk, over eighty years of age, should have\nnever heard of it (though he was sure enough about the butcher's\napprentice), and that all the other ancient witnesses should be in\nsimilar ignorance!\n\nBut such are the methods of Stratfordian controversy.  Tradition is to be\nscouted when it is found inconvenient, but cited as irrefragable truth\nwhen it suits the case.  Shakespeare of Stratford was the author of the\n_Plays_ and _Poems_, but the author of the _Plays_ and _Poems_ could not\nhave been a butcher's apprentice.  Away, therefore, with tradition.  But\nthe author of the _Plays_ and _Poems must_ have had a very large and a\nvery accurate knowledge of the law.  Therefore, Shakespeare of Stratford\nmust have been an attorney's clerk!  The method is simplicity itself.  By\nsimilar reasoning Shakespeare has been made a country schoolmaster, a\nsoldier, a physician, a printer, and a good many other things beside,\naccording to the inclination and the exigencies of the commentator.  It\nwould not be in the least surprising to find that he was studying Latin\nas a schoolmaster and law in an attorney's office at the same time.\n\nHowever, we must do Mr. Collins the justice of saying that he has fully\nrecognized, what is indeed tolerably obvious, that Shakespeare must have\nhad a sound legal training.  \"It may, of course, be urged,\" he writes,\n\"that Shakespeare's knowledge of medicine, and particularly that branch\nof it which related to morbid psychology, is equally remarkable, and that\nno one has ever contended that he was a physician.  (Here Mr. Collins is\nwrong; that contention also has been put forward.) It may be urged that\nhis acquaintance with the technicalities of other crafts and callings,\nnotably of marine and military affairs, was also extraordinary, and yet\nno one has suspected him of being a sailor or a soldier.  (Wrong again.\nWhy even Messrs. Garnett and Gosse 'suspect' that he was a soldier!)\nThis may be conceded, but the concession hardly furnishes an analogy.  To\nthese and all other subjects he recurs occasionally, and in season, but\nwith reminiscences of the law his memory, as is abundantly clear, was\nsimply saturated.  In season and out of season now in manifest, now in\nrecondite application, he presses it into the service of expression and\nillustration.  At least a third of his myriad metaphors are derived from\nit.  It would indeed be difficult to find a single act in any of his\ndramas, nay, in some of them, a single scene, the diction and imagery of\nwhich is not colored by it.  Much of his law may have been acquired from\nthree books easily accessible to him, namely Tottell's _Precedents_\n(1572), Pulton's _Statutes_ (1578), and Fraunce's _Lawier's Logike_\n(1588), works with which he certainly seems to have been familiar; but\nmuch of it could only have come from one who had an intimate acquaintance\nwith legal proceedings.  We quite agree with Mr. Castle that\nShakespeare's legal knowledge is not what could have been picked up in an\nattorney's office, but could only have been learned by an actual\nattendance at the Courts, at a Pleader's Chambers, and on circuit, or by\nassociating intimately with members of the Bench and Bar.\"\n\nThis is excellent.  But what is Mr. Collins' explanation.  \"Perhaps the\nsimplest solution of the problem is to accept the hypothesis that in\nearly life he was in an attorney's office (!), that he there contracted a\nlove for the law which never left him, that as a young man in London, he\ncontinued to study or dabble in it for his amusement, to stroll in\nleisure hours into the Courts, and to frequent the society of lawyers.\nOn no other supposition is it possible to explain the attraction which\nthe law evidently had for him, and his minute and undeviating accuracy in\na subject where no layman who has indulged in such copious and\nostentatious display of legal technicalities has ever yet succeeded in\nkeeping himself from tripping.\"\n\nA lame conclusion.  \"No other supposition\" indeed!  Yes, there is\nanother, and a very obvious supposition, namely, that Shakespeare was\nhimself a lawyer, well versed in his trade, versed in all the ways of the\ncourts, and living in close intimacy with judges and members of the Inns\nof Court.\n\nOne is, of course, thankful that Mr. Collins has appreciated the fact\nthat Shakespeare must have had a sound legal training, but I may be\nforgiven if I do not attach quite so much importance to his\npronouncements on this branch of the subject as to those of Malone, Lord\nCampbell, Judge Holmes, Mr. Castle, K.C., Lord Penzance, Mr. Grant White,\nand other lawyers, who have expressed their opinion on the matter of\nShakespeare's legal acquirements.\n\nHere it may, perhaps, be worth while to quote again from Lord Penzance's\nbook as to the suggestion that Shakespeare had somehow or other managed\n\"to acquire a perfect familiarity with legal principles, and an accurate\nand ready use of the technical terms and phrases, not only of the\nconveyancer's office, but of the pleader's chambers and the courts at\nWestminster.\"  This, as Lord Penzance points out, \"would require nothing\nshort of employment in some career involving _constant contact_ with\nlegal questions and general legal work.\"  But \"in what portion of\nShakespeare's career would it be possible to point out that time could be\nfound for the interposition of a legal employment in the chambers or\noffices of practising lawyers? . . . It is beyond doubt that at an early\nperiod he was called upon to abandon his attendance at school and assist\nhis father, and was soon after, at the age of sixteen, bound apprentice\nto a trade.  While under the obligation of this bond he could not have\npursued any other employment.  Then he leaves Stratford and comes to\nLondon.  He has to provide himself with the means of a livelihood, and\nthis he did in some capacity at the theatre.  No one doubts that.  The\nholding of horses is scouted by many, and perhaps with justice, as being\nunlikely and certainly unproved; but whatever the nature of his\nemployment was at the theatre, there is hardly room for the belief that\nit could have been other than continuous, for his progress there was so\nrapid.  Ere long he had been taken into the company as an actor, and was\nsoon spoken of as a 'Johannes Factotum.'  His rapid accumulation of\nwealth speaks volumes for the constancy and activity of his services.\nOne fails to see when there could be a break in the current of his life\nat this period of it, giving room or opportunity for legal or indeed any\nother employment.  'In 1589,' says Knight, 'we have undeniable evidence\nthat he had not only a casual engagement, was not only a salaried\nservant, as many players were, but was a shareholder in the company of\nthe Queen's players with other shareholders below him on the list.'  This\n(1589) would be within two years after his arrival in London, which is\nplaced by White and Halliwell-Phillipps about the year 1587.  The\ndifficulty in supposing that, starting with a state of ignorance in 1587,\nwhen he is supposed to have come to London, he was induced to enter upon\na course of most extended study and mental culture, is almost\ninsuperable.  Still it was physically possible, provided always that he\ncould have had access to the needful books.  But this legal training\nseems to me to stand on a different footing.  It is not only\nunaccountable and incredible, but it is actually negatived by the known\nfacts of his career.\"  Lord Penzance then refers to the fact that \"by\n1592 (according to the best authority, Mr. Grant White) several of the\nplays had been written.  _The Comedy of Errors_ in 1589, _Love's Labour's\nLost_ in 1589, _Two Gentlemen of Verona_ in 1589 or 1590, and so forth,\"\nand then asks, \"with this catalogue of dramatic work on hand . . . was it\npossible that he could have taken a leading part in the management and\nconduct of two theatres, and if Mr. Phillipps is to be relied upon, taken\nhis share in the performances of the provincial tours of his company--and\nat the same time devoted himself to the study of the law in all its\nbranches so efficiently as to make himself complete master of its\nprinciples and practice, and saturate his mind with all its most\ntechnical terms?\"\n\nI have cited this passage from Lord Penzance's book, because it lay\nbefore me, and I had already quoted from it on the matter of\nShakespeare's legal knowledge; but other writers have still better set\nforth the insuperable difficulties, as they seem to me, which beset the\nidea that Shakespeare might have found time in some unknown period of\nearly life, amid multifarious other occupations, for the study of\nclassics, literature and law, to say nothing of languages and a few other\nmatters.  Lord Penzance further asks his readers: \"Did you ever meet with\nor hear of an instance in which a young man in this country gave himself\nup to legal studies and engaged in legal employments, which is the only\nway of becoming familiar with the technicalities of practice, unless with\nthe view of practicing in that profession?  I do not believe that it\nwould be easy, or indeed possible, to produce an instance in which the\nlaw has been seriously studied in all its branches, except as a\nqualification for practice in the legal profession.\"\n\n                                * * * * *\n\nThis testimony is so strong, so direct, so authoritative; and so\nuncheapened, unwatered by guesses, and surmises, and maybe-so's, and\nmight-have-beens, and could-have-beens, and must-have-beens, and the rest\nof that ton of plaster of paris out of which the biographers have built\nthe colossal brontosaur which goes by the Stratford actor's name, that it\nquite convinces me that the man who wrote Shakespeare's Works knew all\nabout law and lawyers.  Also, that that man could not have been the\nStratford Shakespeare--and _wasn't_.\n\nWho did write these Works, then?\n\nI wish I knew.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nDid Francis Bacon write Shakespeare's Works?\n\nNobody knows.\n\nWe cannot say we _know_ a thing when that thing has not been proved.\n_Know_ is too strong a word to use when the evidence is not final and\nabsolutely conclusive.  We can infer, if we want to, like those slaves\n. . . No, I will not write that word, it is not kind, it is not courteous.\nThe upholders of the Stratford-Shakespeare superstition call _us_ the\nhardest names they can think of, and they keep doing it all the time;\nvery well, if they like to descend to that level, let them do it, but I\nwill not so undignify myself as to follow them.  I cannot call them harsh\nnames; the most I can do is to indicate them by terms reflecting my\ndisapproval; and this without malice, without venom.\n\nTo resume.  What I was about to say, was, those thugs have built their\nentire superstition upon _inferences_, not upon known and established\nfacts.  It is a weak method, and poor, and I am glad to be able to say\nour side never resorts to it while there is anything else to resort to.\n\nBut when we must, we must; and we have now arrived at a place of that\nsort.\n\nSince the Stratford Shakespeare couldn't have written the Works, we infer\nthat somebody did.  Who was it, then?  This requires some more inferring.\n\nOrdinarily when an unsigned poem sweeps across the continent like a tidal\nwave, whose roar and boom and thunder are made up of admiration, delight\nand applause, a dozen obscure people rise up and claim the authorship.\nWhy a dozen, instead of only one or two?  One reason is, because there's\na dozen that are recognizably competent to do that poem.  Do you remember\n\"Beautiful Snow\"?  Do you remember \"Rock Me to Sleep, Mother, Rock Me to\nSleep\"?  Do you remember \"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in thy flight!\nMake me a child again just for to-night\"?  I remember them very well.\nTheir authorship was claimed by most of the grown-up people who were\nalive at the time, and every claimant had one plausible argument in his\nfavor, at least: to wit, he could have done the authoring; he was\ncompetent.\n\nHave the Works been claimed by a dozen?  They haven't.  There was good\nreason.  The world knows there was but one man on the planet at the time\nwho was competent--not a dozen, and not two.  A long time ago the\ndwellers in a far country used now and then to find a procession of\nprodigious footprints stretching across the plain--footprints that were\nthree miles apart, each footprint a third of a mile long and a furlong\ndeep, and with forests and villages mashed to mush in it.  Was there any\ndoubt as to who had made that mighty trail?  Were there a dozen\nclaimants?  Were there two?  No--the people knew who it was that had been\nalong there: there was only one Hercules.\n\nThere has been only one Shakespeare.  There couldn't be two; certainly\nthere couldn't be two at the same time.  It takes ages to bring forth a\nShakespeare, and some more ages to match him.  This one was not matched\nbefore his time; nor during his time; and hasn't been matched since.  The\nprospect of matching him in our time is not bright.\n\nThe Baconians claim that the Stratford Shakespeare was not qualified to\nwrite the Works, and that Francis Bacon was.  They claim that Bacon\npossessed the stupendous equipment--both natural and acquired--for the\nmiracle; and that no other Englishman of his day possessed the like; or,\nindeed, anything closely approaching it.\n\nMacaulay, in his Essay, has much to say about the splendor and\nhorizonless magnitude of that equipment.  Also, he has synopsized Bacon's\nhistory: a thing which cannot be done for the Stratford Shakespeare, for\nhe hasn't any history to synopsize.  Bacon's history is open to the\nworld, from his boyhood to his death in old age--a history consisting of\nknown facts, displayed in minute and multitudinous detail; _facts_, not\nguesses and conjectures and might-have-beens.\n\nWhereby it appears that he was born of a race of statesmen, and had a\nLord Chancellor for his father, and a mother who was \"distinguished both\nas a linguist and a theologian: she corresponded in Greek with Bishop\nJewell, and translated his _Apologia_ from the Latin so correctly that\nneither he nor Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration.\"  It\nis the atmosphere we are reared in that determines how our inclinations\nand aspirations shall tend.  The atmosphere furnished by the parents to\nthe son in this present case was an atmosphere saturated with learning;\nwith thinkings and ponderings upon deep subjects; and with polite\nculture.  It had its natural effect.  Shakespeare of Stratford was reared\nin a house which had no use for books, since its owners, his parents,\nwere without education.  This may have had an effect upon the son, but we\ndo not know, because we have no history of him of an informing sort.\nThere were but few books anywhere, in that day, and only the well-to-do\nand highly educated possessed them, they being almost confined to the\ndead languages.  \"All the valuable books then extant in all the\nvernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single\nshelf\"--imagine it!  The few existing books were in the Latin tongue\nmainly.  \"A person who was ignorant of it was shut out from all\nacquaintance--not merely with Cicero and Virgil, but with the most\ninteresting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time\"--a\nliterature necessary to the Stratford lad, for his fictitious\nreputation's sake, since the writer of his Works would begin to use it\nwholesale and in a most masterly way before the lad was hardly more than\nout of his teens and into his twenties.\n\nAt fifteen Bacon was sent to the university, and he spent three years\nthere.  Thence he went to Paris in the train of the English Ambassador,\nand there he mingled daily with the wise, the cultured, the great, and\nthe aristocracy of fashion, during another three years.  A total of six\nyears spent at the sources of knowledge; knowledge both of books and of\nmen.  The three spent at the university were coeval with the second and\nlast three spent by the little Stratford lad at Stratford school\nsupposedly, and perhapsedly, and maybe, and by inference--with nothing to\ninfer from.  The second three of the Baconian six were \"presumably\" spent\nby the Stratford lad as apprentice to a butcher.  That is, the thugs\npresume it--on no evidence of any kind.  Which is their way, when they\nwant a historical fact.  Fact and presumption are, for business purposes,\nall the same to them.  They know the difference, but they also know how\nto blink it.  They know, too, that while in history-building a fact is\nbetter than a presumption, it doesn't take a presumption long to bloom\ninto a fact when _they_ have the handling of it.  They know by old\nexperience that when they get hold of a presumption-tadpole he is not\ngoing to _stay_ tadpole in their history-tank; no, they know how to\ndevelop him into the giant four-legged bullfrog of _fact_, and make him\nsit up on his hams, and puff out his chin, and look important and\ninsolent and come-to-stay; and assert his genuine simon-pure authenticity\nwith a thundering bellow that will convince everybody because it is so\nloud.  The thug is aware that loudness convinces sixty persons where\nreasoning convinces but one.  I wouldn't be a thug, not even if--but\nnever mind about that, it has nothing to do with the argument, and it is\nnot noble in spirit besides.  If I am better than a thug, is the merit\nmine?  No, it is His.  Then to Him be the praise.  That is the right\nspirit.\n\nThey \"presume\" the lad severed his \"presumed\" connection with the\nStratford school to become apprentice to a butcher.  They also \"presume\"\nthat the butcher was his father.  They don't know.  There is no written\nrecord of it, nor any other actual evidence.  If it would have helped\ntheir case any, they would have apprenticed him to thirty butchers, to\nfifty butchers, to a wilderness of butchers--all by their patented method\n\"presumption.\"  If it will help their case they will do it yet; and if it\nwill further help it, they will \"presume\" that all those butchers were\nhis father.  And the week after, they will _say_ it.  Why, it is just\nlike being the past tense of the compound reflexive adverbial\nincandescent hypodermic irregular accusative Noun of Multitude; which is\nfather to the expression which the grammarians call Verb.  It is like a\nwhole ancestry, with only one posterity.\n\nTo resume.  Next, the young Bacon took up the study of law, and mastered\nthat abstruse science.  From that day to the end of his life he was daily\nin close contact with lawyers and judges; not as a casual onlooker in\nintervals between holding horses in front of a theatre, but as a\npracticing lawyer--a great and successful one, a renowned one, a\nLauncelot of the bar, the most formidable lance in the high brotherhood\nof the legal Table Round; he lived in the law's atmosphere thenceforth,\nall his years, and by sheer ability forced his way up its difficult\nsteeps to its supremest summit, the Lord Chancellorship, leaving behind\nhim no fellow craftsman qualified to challenge his divine right to that\nmajestic place.\n\nWhen we read the praises bestowed by Lord Penzance and the other\nillustrious experts upon the legal condition and legal aptnesses,\nbrilliances, profundities and felicities so prodigally displayed in the\nPlays, and try to fit them to the history-less Stratford stage-manager,\nthey sound wild, strange, incredible, ludicrous; but when we put them in\nthe mouth of Bacon they do not sound strange, they seem in their natural\nand rightful place, they seem at home there.  Please turn back and read\nthem again.  Attributed to Shakespeare of Stratford they are meaningless,\nthey are inebriate extravagancies--intemperate admirations of the dark\nside of the moon, so to speak; attributed to Bacon, they are admirations\nof the golden glories of the moon's front side, the moon at the full--and\nnot intemperate, not overwrought, but sane and right, and justified.  \"At\nevery turn and point at which the author required a metaphor, simile or\nillustration, his mind ever turned _first_ to the law; he seems almost to\nhave _thought_ in legal phrases; the commonest legal phrases, the\ncommonest of legal expressions were ever at the end of his pen.\"  That\ncould happen to no one but a person whose _trade_ was the law; it could\nnot happen to a dabbler in it.  Veteran mariners fill their conversation\nwith sailor-phrases and draw all their similes from the ship and the sea\nand the storm, but no mere _passenger_ ever does it, be he of Stratford\nor elsewhere; or could do it with anything resembling accuracy, if he\nwere hardy enough to try.  Please read again what Lord Campbell and the\nother great authorities have said about Bacon when they thought they were\nsaying it about Shakespeare of Stratford.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X--The Rest of the Equipment\n\n\nThe author of the Plays was equipped, beyond every other man of his time,\nwith wisdom, erudition, imagination, capaciousness of mind, grace and\nmajesty of expression.  Every one has said it, no one doubts it.  Also,\nhe had humor, humor in rich abundance, and always wanting to break out.\nWe have no evidence of any kind that Shakespeare of Stratford possessed\nany of these gifts or any of these acquirements.  The only lines he ever\nwrote, so far as we know, are substantially barren of them--barren of all\nof them.\n\n    Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare\n    To digg the dust encloased heare:\n    Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones\n    And curst be he yt moves my bones.\n\nBen Jonson says of Bacon, as orator:\n\n    His language, _where he could spare and pass by a jest_, was nobly\n    censorious.  No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more\n    weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he\n    uttered.  No member of his speech but consisted of his (its) own\n    graces . . . The fear of every man that heard him was lest he should\n    make an end.\n\nFrom Macaulay:\n\n    He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by\n    his exertions in favor of one excellent measure on which the King's\n    heart was set--the union of England and Scotland.  It was not\n    difficult for such an intellect to discover many irresistible\n    arguments in favor of such a scheme.  He conducted the great case of\n    the _Post Nati_ in the Exchequer Chamber; and the decision of the\n    judges--a decision the legality of which may be questioned, but the\n    beneficial effect of which must be acknowledged--was in a great\n    measure attributed to his dexterous management.\n\nAgain:\n\n    While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of\n    law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy.  The noble\n    treatise on the _Advancement of Learning_, which at a later period\n    was expanded into the _De Augmentis_, appeared in 1605.\n\n    The _Wisdom of the Ancients_, a work which if it had proceeded from\n    any other writer would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit\n    and learning, was printed in 1609.\n\n    In the meantime the _Novum Organum_ was slowly proceeding.  Several\n    distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see portions of\n    that extraordinary book, and they spoke with the greatest admiration\n    of his genius.\n\n    Even Sir Thomas Bodley, after perusing the _Cogitata et Visa_, one of\n    the most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great\n    oracular volume was afterward made up, acknowledged that \"in all\n    proposals and plots in that book, Bacon showed himself a master\n    workman\"; and that \"it could not be gainsaid but all the treatise\n    over did abound with choice conceits of the present state of\n    learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means to procure it.\"\n\n    In 1612 a new edition of the _Essays_ appeared, with additions\n    surpassing the original collection both in bulk and quality.\n\n    Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's attention from a work the\n    most arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his\n    mighty powers could have achieved, \"the reducing and recompiling,\" to\n    use his own phrase, \"of the laws of England.\"\n\nTo serve the exacting and laborious offices of Attorney General and\nSolicitor General would have satisfied the appetite of any other man for\nhard work, but Bacon had to add the vast literary industries just\ndescribed, to satisfy his.  He was a born worker.\n\n    The service which he rendered to letters during the last five years\n    of his life, amid ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase\n    the regret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted,\n    to use the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, \"on such study as was not\n    worthy such a student.\"\n\n    He commenced a digest of the laws of England, a History of England\n    under the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of National History,\n    a Philosophical Romance.  He made extensive and valuable additions to\n    his Essays.  He published the inestimable _Treatise De Argumentis\n    Scientiarum_.\n\nDid these labors of Hercules fill up his time to his contentment, and\nquiet his appetite for work?  Not entirely:\n\n    The trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languor\n    bore the mark of his mind.  _The best jestbook in the world_ is that\n    which he dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a\n    day on which illness had rendered him incapable of serious study.\n\nHere are some scattered remarks (from Macaulay) which throw light upon\nBacon, and seem to indicate--and maybe demonstrate--that he was competent\nto write the Plays and Poems:\n\n    With great minuteness of observation he had an amplitude of\n    comprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other\n    human being.\n\n    The \"Essays\" contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of\n    character, no peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden or a\n    court-masque, could escape the notice of one whose mind was capable\n    of taking in the whole world of knowledge.\n\n    His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gave\n    to Prince Ahmed: fold it, and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady;\n    spread it, and the armies of powerful Sultans might repose beneath\n    its shade.\n\n    The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of the\n    mutual relations of all departments of knowledge.\n\n    In a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle, Lord\n    Burleigh, he said, \"I have taken all knowledge to be my province.\"\n\n    Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, he\n    adorned her profusely with all the richest decorations of rhetoric.\n\n    The practical faculty was powerful in Bacon; but not, like his wit,\n    so powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason, and to\n    tyrannize over the whole man.\n\nThere are too many places in the Plays where this happens.  Poor old\ndying John of Gaunt volleying second-rate puns at his own name, is a\npathetic instance of it.  \"We may assume\" that it is Bacon's fault, but\nthe Stratford Shakespeare has to bear the blame.\n\n    No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly\n    subjugated.  It stopped at the first check from good sense.\n\n    In truth much of Bacon's life was passed in a visionary world--amid\n    things as strange as any that are described in the \"Arabian Tales\" .\n    . . amid buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin,\n    fountains more wonderful than the golden water of Parizade,\n    conveyances more rapid than the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more\n    formidable than the lance of Astolfo, remedies more efficacious than\n    the balsam of Fierabras.  Yet in his magnificent day-dreams there was\n    nothing wild--nothing but what sober reason sanctioned.\n\n    Bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the _Novum Organum_\n    . . . Every part of it blazes with wit, but with wit which is\n    employed only to illustrate and decorate truth.  No book ever made so\n    great a revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so many\n    prejudices, introduced so many new opinions.\n\n    But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which,\n    without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science--all the\n    past, the present and the future, all the errors of two thousand\n    years, all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright\n    hopes of the coming age.\n\n    He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close and rendering it\n    portable.\n\n    His eloquence would alone have entitled him to a high rank in\n    literature.\n\nIt is evident that he had each and every one of the mental gifts and each\nand every one of the acquirements that are so prodigally displayed in the\nPlays and Poems, and in much higher and richer degree than any other man\nof his time or of any previous time.  He was a genius without a mate, a\nprodigy not matable.  There was only one of him; the planet could not\nproduce two of him at one birth, nor in one age.  He could have written\nanything that is in the Plays and Poems.  He could have written this:\n\n    The cloud-cap'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,\n    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,\n    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,\n    And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,\n    Leave not a rack behind.  We are such stuff\n    As dreams are made on, and our little life\n    Is rounded with a sleep.\n\nAlso, he could have written this, but he refrained:\n\n    Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare\n    To digg the dust encloased heare:\n    Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones\n    And curst be ye yt moves my bones.\n\nWhen a person reads the noble verses about the cloud-cap'd towers, he\nought not to follow it immediately with Good friend for Iesus sake\nforbeare, because he will find the transition from great poetry to poor\nprose too violent for comfort.  It will give him a shock.  You never\nnotice how commonplace and unpoetic gravel is, until you bite into a\nlayer of it in a pie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nAm I trying to convince anybody that Shakespeare did not write\nShakespeare's Works?  Ah, now, what do you take me for?  Would I be so\nsoft as that, after having known the human race familiarly for nearly\nseventy-four years?  It would grieve me to know that any one could think\nso injuriously of me, so uncomplimentarily, so unadmiringly of me.\nNo-no, I am aware that when even the brightest mind in our world has been\ntrained up from childhood in a superstition of any kind, it will never be\npossible for that mind, in its maturity, to examine sincerely,\ndispassionately, and conscientiously any evidence or any circumstance\nwhich shall seem to cast a doubt upon the validity of that superstition.\nI doubt if I could do it myself.  We always get at second hand our\nnotions about systems of government; and high-tariff and low-tariff; and\nprohibition and anti-prohibition; and the holiness of peace and the\nglories of war; and codes of honor and codes of morals; and approval of\nthe duel and disapproval of it; and our beliefs concerning the nature of\ncats; and our ideas as to whether the murder of helpless wild animals is\nbase or is heroic; and our preferences in the matter of religious and\npolitical parties; and our acceptance or rejection of the Shakespeares\nand the Arthur Ortons and the Mrs. Eddys.  We get them all at\nsecond-hand, we reason none of them out for ourselves.  It is the way we\nare made.  It is the way we are all made, and we can't help it, we can't\nchange it.  And whenever we have been furnished a fetish, and have been\ntaught to believe in it, and love it and worship it, and refrain from\nexamining it, there is no evidence, howsoever clear and strong, that can\npersuade us to withdraw from it our loyalty and our devotion.  In morals,\nconduct, and beliefs we take the color of our environment and\nassociations, and it is a color that can safely be warranted to wash.\nWhenever we have been furnished with a tar baby ostensibly stuffed with\njewels, and warned that it will be dishonorable and irreverent to\ndisembowel it and test the jewels, we keep our sacrilegious hands off it.\nWe submit, not reluctantly, but rather gladly, for we are privately\nafraid we should find, upon examination, that the jewels are of the sort\nthat are manufactured at North Adams, Mass.\n\nI haven't any idea that Shakespeare will have to vacate his pedestal this\nside of the year 2209.  Disbelief in him cannot come swiftly, disbelief\nin a healthy and deeply-loved tar baby has never been known to\ndisintegrate swiftly, it is a very slow process.  It took several\nthousand years to convince our fine race--including every splendid\nintellect in it--that there is no such thing as a witch; it has taken\nseveral thousand years to convince that same fine race--including every\nsplendid intellect in it--that there is no such person as Satan; it has\ntaken several centuries to remove perdition from the Protestant Church's\nprogram of postmortem entertainments; it has taken a weary long time to\npersuade American Presbyterians to give up infant damnation and try to\nbear it the best they can; and it looks as if their Scotch brethren will\nstill be burning babies in the everlasting fires when Shakespeare comes\ndown from his perch.\n\nWe are The Reasoning Race.  We can't prove it by the above examples, and\nwe can't prove it by the miraculous \"histories\" built by those\nStratfordolaters out of a hatful of rags and a barrel of sawdust, but\nthere is a plenty of other things we can prove it by, if I could think of\nthem.  We are The Reasoning Race, and when we find a vague file of\nchipmunk-tracks stringing through the dust of Stratford village, we know\nby our reasoning powers that Hercules has been along there.  I feel that\nour fetish is safe for three centuries yet.  The bust, too--there in the\nStratford Church.  The precious bust, the priceless bust, the calm bust,\nthe serene bust, the emotionless bust, with the dandy moustache, and the\nputty face, unseamed of care--that face which has looked passionlessly\ndown upon the awed pilgrim for a hundred and fifty years and will still\nlook down upon the awed pilgrim three hundred more, with the deep, deep,\ndeep, subtle, subtle, subtle, expression of a bladder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII--Irreverence\n\n\nOne of the most trying defects which I find in these--these--what shall I\ncall them? for I will not apply injurious epithets to them, the way they\ndo to us, such violations of courtesy being repugnant to my nature and my\ndignity.  The furthest I can go in that direction is to call them by\nnames of limited reverence--names merely descriptive, never unkind, never\noffensive, never tainted by harsh feeling.  If _they_ would do like this,\nthey would feel better in their hearts.  Very well, then--to proceed.\nOne of the most trying defects which I find in these Stratfordolaters,\nthese Shakesperoids, these thugs, these bangalores, these troglodytes,\nthese herumfrodites, these blatherskites, these buccaneers, these\nbandoleers, is their spirit of irreverence.  It is detectable in every\nutterance of theirs when they are talking about us.  I am thankful that\nin me there is nothing of that spirit.  When a thing is sacred to me it\nis impossible for me to be irreverent toward it.  I cannot call to mind a\nsingle instance where I have ever been irreverent, except toward the\nthings which were sacred to other people.  Am I in the right?  I think\nso.  But I ask no one to take my unsupported word; no, look at the\ndictionary; let the dictionary decide.  Here is the definition:\n\n    _Irreverence_.  The quality or condition of irreverence toward God\n    and sacred things.\n\nWhat does the Hindu say?  He says it is correct.  He says irreverence is\nlack of respect for Vishnu, and Brahma, and Chrishna, and his other gods,\nand for his sacred cattle, and for his temples and the things within\nthem.  He endorses the definition, you see; and there are 300,000,000\nHindus or their equivalents back of him.\n\nThe dictionary had the acute idea that by using the capital G it could\nrestrict irreverence to lack of reverence for _our_ Deity and our sacred\nthings, but that ingenious and rather sly idea miscarried: for by the\nsimple process of spelling _his_ deities with capitals the Hindu\nconfiscates the definition and restricts it to his own sects, thus making\nit clearly compulsory upon us to revere _his_ gods and _his_ sacred\nthings, and nobody's else.  We can't say a word, for he has our own\ndictionary at his back, and its decision is final.\n\nThis law, reduced to its simplest terms, is this: 1.  Whatever is sacred\nto the Christian must be held in reverence by everybody else; 2, whatever\nis sacred to the Hindu must be held in reverence by everybody else; 3,\ntherefore, by consequence, logically, and indisputably, whatever is\nsacred to _me_ must be held in reverence by everybody else.\n\nNow then, what aggravates me is, that these troglodytes and muscovites\nand bandoleers and buccaneers are _also_ trying to crowd in and share the\nbenefit of the law, and compel everybody to revere their Shakespeare and\nhold him sacred.  We can't have that: there's enough of us already.  If\nyou go on widening and spreading and inflating the privilege, it will\npresently come to be conceded that each man's sacred things are the\n_only_ ones, and the rest of the human race will have to be humbly\nreverent toward them or suffer for it.  That can surely happen, and when\nit happens, the word Irreverence will be regarded as the most\nmeaningless, and foolish, and self-conceited, and insolent, and impudent\nand dictatorial word in the language.  And people will say, \"Whose\nbusiness is it, what gods I worship and what things hold sacred?  Who has\nthe right to dictate to my conscience, and where did he get that right?\"\n\nWe cannot afford to let that calamity come upon us.  We must save the\nword from this destruction.  There is but one way to do it, and that is,\nto stop the spread of the privilege, and strictly confine it to its\npresent limits: that is, to all the Christian sects, to all the Hindu\nsects, and me.  We do not need any more, the stock is watered enough,\njust as it is.\n\nIt would be better if the privilege were limited to me alone.  I think so\nbecause I am the only sect that knows how to employ it gently, kindly,\ncharitably, dispassionately.  The other sects lack the quality of\nself-restraint.  The Catholic Church says the most irreverent things\nabout matters which are sacred to the Protestants, and the Protestant\nChurch retorts in kind about the confessional and other matters which\nCatholics hold sacred; then both of these irreverencers turn upon Thomas\nPaine and charge _him_ with irreverence.  This is all unfortunate,\nbecause it makes it difficult for students equipped with only a low grade\nof mentality to find out what Irreverence really _is_.\n\nIt will surely be much better all around if the privilege of regulating\nthe irreverent and keeping them in order shall eventually be withdrawn\nfrom all the sects but me.  Then there will be no more quarrelling, no\nmore bandying of disrespectful epithets, no more heart burnings.\n\nThere will then be nothing sacred involved in this Bacon-Shakespeare\ncontroversy except what is sacred to me.  That will simplify the whole\nmatter, and trouble will cease.  There will be irreverence no longer,\nbecause I will not allow it.  The first time those criminals charge me\nwith irreverence for calling their Stratford myth an\nArthur-Orton-Mary-Baker-Thompson-Eddy-Louis-the-Seventeenth-Veiled-\nProphet-of-Khorassan will be the last.  Taught by the methods\nfound effective in extinguishing earlier offenders by the Inquisition, of\nholy memory, I shall know how to quiet them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nIsn't it odd, when you think of it: that you may list all the celebrated\nEnglishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen of modern times, clear back to the\nfirst Tudors--a list containing five hundred names, shall we say?--and\nyou can go to the histories, biographies and cyclopedias and learn the\nparticulars of the lives of every one of them.  Every one of them except\none--the most famous, the most renowned--by far the most illustrious of\nthem all--Shakespeare!  You can get the details of the lives of all the\ncelebrated ecclesiastics in the list; all the celebrated tragedians,\ncomedians, singers, dancers, orators, judges, lawyers, poets, dramatists,\nhistorians, biographers, editors, inventors, reformers, statesmen,\ngenerals, admirals, discoverers, prize-fighters, murderers, pirates,\nconspirators, horse-jockeys, bunco-steerers, misers, swindlers,\nexplorers, adventurers by land and sea, bankers, financiers, astronomers,\nnaturalists, Claimants, impostors, chemists, biologists, geologists,\nphilologists, college presidents and professors, architects, engineers,\npainters, sculptors, politicians, agitators, rebels, revolutionists,\npatriots, demagogues, clowns, cooks, freaks, philosophers, burglars,\nhighwaymen, journalists, physicians, surgeons--you can get the\nlife-histories of all of them but _one_.  Just one--the most\nextraordinary and the most celebrated of them all--Shakespeare!\n\nYou may add to the list the thousand celebrated persons furnished by the\nrest of Christendom in the past four centuries, and you can find out the\nlife-histories of all those people, too.  You will then have listed 1500\ncelebrities, and you can trace the authentic life-histories of the whole\nof them.  Save one--far and away the most colossal prodigy of the entire\naccumulation--Shakespeare!  About him you can find out _nothing_.\nNothing of even the slightest importance.  Nothing worth the trouble of\nstowing away in your memory.  Nothing that even remotely indicates that\nhe was ever anything more than a distinctly common-place person--a\nmanager, an actor of inferior grade, a small trader in a small village\nthat did not regard him as a person of any consequence, and had forgotten\nall about him before he was fairly cold in his grave.  We can go to the\nrecords and find out the life-history of every renowned _race-horse_ of\nmodern times--but not Shakespeare's!  There are many reasons why, and\nthey have been furnished in cartloads (of guess and conjecture) by those\ntroglodytes; but there is one that is worth all the rest of the reasons\nput together, and is abundantly sufficient all by itself--_he hadn't any\nhistory to record_.  There is no way of getting around that deadly fact.\nAnd no sane way has yet been discovered of getting around its formidable\nsignificance.\n\nIts quite plain significance--to any but those thugs (I do not use the\nterm unkindly) is, that Shakespeare had no prominence while he lived, and\nnone until he had been dead two or three generations.  The Plays enjoyed\nhigh fame from the beginning; and if he wrote them it seems a pity the\nworld did not find it out.  He ought to have explained that he was the\nauthor, and not merely a _nom de plume_ for another man to hide behind.\nIf he had been less intemperately solicitous about his bones, and more\nsolicitous about his Works, it would have been better for his good name,\nand a kindness to us.  The bones were not important.  They will moulder\naway, they will turn to dust, but the Works will endure until the last\nsun goes down.\n\n                                                               MARK TWAIN.\n\nP.S.  _March_ 25.  About two months ago I was illuminating this\nAutobiography with some notions of mine concerning the Bacon-Shakespeare\ncontroversy, and I then took occasion to air the opinion that the\nStratford Shakespeare was a person of no public consequence or celebrity\nduring his lifetime, but was utterly obscure and unimportant.  And not\nonly in great London, but also in the little village where he was born,\nwhere he lived a quarter of a century, and where he died and was buried.\nI argued that if he had been a person of any note at all, aged villagers\nwould have had much to tell about him many and many a year after his\ndeath, instead of being unable to furnish inquirers a single fact\nconnected with him.  I believed, and I still believe, that if he had been\nfamous, his notoriety would have lasted as long as mine has lasted in my\nnative village out in Missouri.  It is a good argument, a prodigiously\nstrong one, and a most formidable one for even the most gifted, and\ningenious, and plausible Stratfordolater to get around or explain away.\nTo-day a Hannibal _Courier-Post_ of recent date has reached me, with an\narticle in it which reinforces my contention that a really celebrated\nperson cannot be forgotten in his village in the short space of sixty\nyears.  I will make an extract from it:\n\n    Hannibal, as a city, may have many sins to answer for, but\n    ingratitude is not one of them, or reverence for the great men she\n    has produced, and as the years go by her greatest son Mark Twain, or\n    S. L. Clemens as a few of the unlettered call him, grows in the\n    estimation and regard of the residents of the town he made famous and\n    the town that made him famous.  His name is associated with every old\n    building that is torn down to make way for the modern structures\n    demanded by a rapidly growing city, and with every hill or cave over\n    or through which he might by any possibility have roamed, while the\n    many points of interest which he wove into his stories, such as\n    Holiday Hill, Jackson's Island, or Mark Twain Cave, are now monuments\n    to his genius.  Hannibal is glad of any opportunity to do him honor\n    as he has honored her.\n\n    So it has happened that the \"old timers\" who went to school with Mark\n    or were with him on some of his usual escapades have been honored\n    with large audiences whenever they were in a reminiscent mood and\n    condescended to tell of their intimacy with the ordinary boy who came\n    to be a very extraordinary humorist and whose every boyish act is now\n    seen to have been indicative of what was to come.  Like Aunt Beckey\n    and Mrs. Clemens, they can now see that Mark was hardly appreciated\n    when he lived here and that the things he did as a boy and was\n    whipped for doing were not all bad after all.  So they have been in\n    no hesitancy about drawing out the bad things he did as well as the\n    good in their efforts to get a \"Mark Twain story,\" all incidents\n    being viewed in the light of his present fame, until the volume of\n    \"Twainiana\" is already considerable and growing in proportion as the\n    \"old timers\" drop away and the stories are retold second and third\n    hand by their descendants.  With some seventy-three years young and\n    living in a villa instead of a house he is a fair target, and let him\n    incorporate, copyright, or patent himself as he will, there are some\n    of his \"works\" that will go swooping up Hannibal chimneys as long as\n    gray-beards gather about the fires and begin with \"I've heard father\n    tell\" or possibly \"Once when I.\"\n\nThe Mrs. Clemens referred to is my mother--_was_ my mother.\n\nAnd here is another extract from a Hannibal paper.  Of date twenty days\nago:\n\n    Miss Becca Blankenship died at the home of William Dickason, 408 Rock\n    Street, at 2.30 o'clock yesterday afternoon, aged 72 years.  The\n    deceased was a sister of \"Huckleberry Finn,\" one of the famous\n    characters in Mark Twain's _Tom Sawyer_.  She had been a member of\n    the Dickason family--the housekeeper--for nearly forty-five years,\n    and was a highly respected lady.  For the past eight years she had\n    been an invalid, but was as well cared for by Mr. Dickason and his\n    family as if she had been a near relative.  She was a member of the\n    Park Methodist Church and a Christian woman.\n\nI remember her well.  I have a picture of her in my mind which was graven\nthere, clear and sharp and vivid, sixty-three years ago.  She was at that\ntime nine years old, and I was about eleven.  I remember where she stood,\nand how she looked; and I can still see her bare feet, her bare head, her\nbrown face, and her short tow-linen frock.  She was crying.  What it was\nabout, I have long ago forgotten.  But it was the tears that preserved\nthe picture for me, no doubt.  She was a good child, I can say that for\nher.  She knew me nearly seventy years ago.  Did she forget me, in the\ncourse of time?  I think not.  If she had lived in Stratford in\nShakespeare's time, would she have forgotten him?  Yes.  For he was never\nfamous during his lifetime, he was utterly obscure in Stratford, and\nthere wouldn't be any occasion to remember him after he had been dead a\nweek.\n\n\"Injun Joe,\" \"Jimmy Finn,\" and \"General Gaines\" were prominent and very\nintemperate ne'er-do-weels in Hannibal two generations ago.  Plenty of\ngray-heads there remember them to this day, and can tell you about them.\nIsn't it curious that two \"town-drunkards\" and one half-breed loafer\nshould leave behind them, in a remote Missourian village, a fame a\nhundred times greater and several hundred times more particularized in\nthe matter of definite facts than Shakespeare left behind him in the\nvillage where he had lived the half of his lifetime?\n\n                                                               MARK TWAIN.\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{1}  Four fathoms--twenty-four feet.\n\n{2}  From chapter XIII of \"The Shakespeare Problem Restated.\"\n\n\n\n***"}
{"meta": {"title": "284 Amazing Rice Recipes - Jo Frank"}, "text": "\n284\n\nAmazing Rice Recipes\n\nCopyright(c) 2009\n\nNotice of rights\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.\n\nNotice of Liability\n\nThe information in this book is distributed on an \"As Is\" basis without warranty. While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of the book, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the instructions contained in this book or by the products described in it.\n\nTrademarks\n\nMany of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book, and the publisher was aware of a trademark claim, the designations appear as requested by the owner of the trademark. All other product names and services identified throughout this book are used in editorial fashion only and for the benefit of such companies with no intention of infringement of the trademark. No such use, or the use of any trade name, is intended to convey endorsement or other affiliation with this book.\n\n3\n\nIf you like rice, then do yourself a favor, buy this book and let the bliss begin.\n\nThis book is the most lavish and the most complete, ever pub\n\nlished on the subject of that most versatile of all foods-rice.\n\nFilled with 284 of the world's best recipes, This book is literally a rice lover's dream come true.\n\nThis book offers rice lovers 284 ways in which to enjoy their favorite food. Paella, Rice Pudding, Fried Rice, Pilaf, Souffle and every other decadent rice dish imaginable-plus some unusual ones-are all featured in easy-to-read recipes. And even easier to find with a great index and alphabetical table of contents.\n\nThe book opens with a comprehensive overview of the sci ence, history and business of rice, though any true rice lover will likely already be up to speed on the wonderful possibilites and want to dig right into the 284 rice recipes.\n\nThis will make a must-have gift for anyone keen on rice. The instructions are easily understandable, and the book's tips and variations make the recipes easy to follow.\n\nThis book has everything rice!\n\n4\n\n#### Table of Contents\n\nRice ...........................................................................................................13\n\nClassification.........................................................................................16\n\nEtymology .............................................................................................16\n\nPreparation as food ..............................................................................17\n\nCooking.................................................................................................19\n\nRice growing ecology ............................................................................20\n\nHistory of rice domestication & cultivation..........................................20\n\nContinental East Asia ........................................................................21\n\nSouth Asia ......................................................................................... 22\n\nKorean peninsula and Japanese archipelago ...................................22\n\nSoutheast Asia ..................................................................................23\n\nAfrica.................................................................................................24\n\nMiddle East ....................................................................................... 25\n\nEurope ..............................................................................................26\n\nUnited States ....................................................................................26\n\nAustralia ............................................................................................28\n\nWorld production and trade.................................................................28\n\nProduction and export......................................................................28\n\nPrice ..................................................................................................29\n\nWorldwide consumption ..................................................................29\n\nEnvironmental impacts.....................................................................30\n\nPests and diseases ................................................................................30\n\nCultivars ................................................................................................32\n\nBiotechnology .......................................................................................33\n\nHigh-yielding varieties ......................................................................33\n\nPotentials for the future ...................................................................34\n\nGolden rice .......................................................................................34\n\nExpression of human proteins..........................................................34\n\nOthers ...................................................................................................34\n\nReferences ............................................................................................35\n\n5\n\n\"21\" Club Rice Pudding ........................................................................ 38\n\n15-Minute Chicken & Rice Dinner....................................................... 38\n\nAlmond and Rice Flour Bread with Poppy Seeds ............................ 39\n\nAlmond Tuna and Rice .........................................................................40\n\nAntipasto Rice ........................................................................................40\n\nApricot and Rice Muffins.......................................................................41\n\nArmenian Rice Pilaf...............................................................................41\n\nAromatic Chicken with Rice (Malaysia).............................................. 42\n\nArroz Amarillo con Camarones -Yellow Rice & Shrimp Casser .....42\n\nArroz Con Polio (mexican Stewed Chicken With Rice) ...................43\n\nArroz Dulce (sweet Rice)......................................................................44\n\nArroz Verde (Green Rice) .................................................................. 44\n\nBaked Chicken and Rice ...................................................................... 45\n\nBasic Cooked Rice - Prudhomme ....................................................... 46\n\nBeef Teriyaki And Rice .........................................................................46\n\nBlack Beans and Rice ...........................................................................47\n\nBlackeyed Peas and Rice .................................................................... 48\n\nBlackeyed Peas And Rice Salad .......................................................48\n\nBlanched Gai Lan Dressed with Rice Wine and Oyster Sauce...... 49\n\nBombay Rice & Lentils..........................................................................so Brazilian Chicken Rice Soup ...............................................................so Brown Rice & Wheat Berries (Vegan) ................................................ 51\n\nBrown Rice Casserole ...............................................,.......................... 52\n\nBrown Rice Jambalaya ......................................................................... 53\n\nBrown Rice Pilaf ....................................................................,............... 54\n\nBrussels Sprout and Rice ..................................................................... 54\n\nButtered Saffron Rice............................................................................55\n\nCajun Jambalaya Rice .......................................................................... 56\n\nCajun Rice 'N' Sausage ........................................................................ 56\n\nCajun Spiced Chicken and Rice.......................................................... 57\n\nCamp Tuna and Rice ............................................................................ 58\n\nCarrot-Rice Puree.................................................................................. 58\n\nCarrot-Rice Soup................................................................................... 58\n\nCatalan Rice ........................................................................................... 59\n\nCauliflower & Wild Rice Soup.............................................................. 60\n\nChar Kway Teow (Stir-Fried Rice Noodles) ...................................... 60\n\nCheese and Rice Casserole ................................................................ 62\n\nCheese and Rice Casserole ................................................................ 62\n\nChestnuts With Rice.............................................................................. 63\n\nChicken & Rice ...................................................................................... 63\n\n6\n\nChicken & Rice Dinner ..........................................................................64\n\nChicken & Rice Jambalaya Style ........................................................64\n\nChicken and Rice...................................................................................65\n\nChicken and Rice Casserole................................................................65\n\nChicken Baked Rice ..............................................................................66\n\nChicken Breasts With Rice ...................................................................67\n\nChicken Curry Kabobs On Rice...........................................................67\n\nChicken Livers and Mushrooms with Rice 100 .................................68\n\nChicken 'n Rice in a Bag.......................................................................68\n\nChicken Rice Skillet...............................................................................68\n\nChicken Rice Soup ................................................................................69\n\nChicken Yellow Rice..............................................................................70\n\nChicken-Flavored Rice Mix ..................................................................70\n\nChickenlegs with Mango Chutney & Carott-Rice..............................71\n\nChii-Beer Brisket Of Beef Over Wild Rice Amadine .........................71\n\nChinese Chicken Cooked with Rice ....................................................72\n\nChinese Crab Rice.................................................................................72\n\nChinese Fried Rice ................................................................................73\n\nChinese Pork & Shrimp Rice Noodles in Broth.................................74\n\nChinese: Shrimp Fried Rice .................................................................75\n\nChunky Chicken Rice Soup .................................................................76\n\nCoconut Rice Noodles ..........................................................................76\n\nColumbian Squash Stuffed With Dirty Rice .......................................77\n\nCompany Microwave Rice....................................................................78\n\nCooking Rice on the Stove ...................................................................78\n\nCornish Hen Halves and Wild Rice .....................................................79\n\nCosta Rican Beef & Vegetable Soup with Yellow Rice....................80\n\nCountry Rice ...........................................................................................81\n\nCrackling Rice Soup..............................................................................81\n\nCranberry/Wild Rice Stuffing................................................................82\n\nCreamy Chicken and Rice....................................................................82\n\nCreamy Rice Pudding ...........................................................................83\n\nCreole Liver and Rice............................................................................84\n\nCreole-Style Red Beans & Rice ..........................................................84\n\nCrockpot Chicken & Rice......................................................................85\n\nCrockPot Chicken & Rice Casserole .................................................85\n\nCrockpot Chicken and Rice..................................................................86\n\nCrockPot Chicken and Rice Casserole .............................................86\n\nCrockpot Rice Pudding with Fruit........................................................87\n\nCumin Rice With Eggplant And Peppers ...........................................87\n\n7\n\nCurried Rice And Lentils.......................................................................88\n\nCurried Rice With Pineapple................................................................89\n\nDiabetic Chicken Rice Dinner ..............................................................89\n\nDill-Lemon Rice Mix ..............................................................................89\n\nDi Ri................................................................................................90\n\nDixie's Red Beans and Rice ................................................................91\n\nDolmadakia (Stuffed Grapeleaves with Rice.) ..................................91\n\nDouble Rice Stuffing [For a 12-Pound Turkey]...............................92\n\nDuck Soup with Wild Rice ....................................................................93\n\nDuck With Pine Nut Wild Rice .............................................................93\n\nEasy chicken and rice casserole ......................................................... 94\n\nEasy Mexican Chicken And Rice ........................................................ 95\n\nEasy Oriental Fried Rice.......................................................................95\n\nEgg Fried Rice .......................................................................................96\n\nFast Food 1 (Rice & Veggies) (Quick)(Vegan) .................................96\n\nFast Food 4 (Rice & Vegetables) (Vegan)......................................... 97\n\nFennel and Rice.....................................................................................97\n\nFilled Tomatoes on Herbed Rice......................................................... 98\n\nFoil-baked Chicken, Rice And Cabbage ............................................ 98\n\nFoolproof Rice ........................................................................................99\n\nFoolproof Rice Bread for the R2 D2 ................................................... 99\n\nFrench Rice Salad...............................................................................100\n\nFried Curried Rice (Khao Pad Pong Kari)........................................100\n\nFried Rice..............................................................................................101\n\nFried Rice (Chow Fun)........................................................................102\n\nFried Rice with Basil (Khao Pad Krapow)........................................102\n\nFruit And Nut Rice ...............................................................................103\n\nGarlic-Wine Rice Pilaf .........................................................................103\n\nGf Pat's Brown And White Rice Flour Breads And Buns ..............104\n\nGinseng Shreds Stir Rice -for a Special Meal................................104\n\nGlutinous Rice ( Khow Neow) .........................................................105\n\nGlutinous Rice with Ham and Dried Shrimp....................................105\n\nGrape Leaves Stuffed with Rice........................................................106\n\nGreen Bean Almond Rice...................................................................107\n\nGrouse & Wild Rice .............................................................................107\n\nGujar Ka Pullao (Carrot Rice) ............................................................108\n\nHanoi Beef and Rice-Noodel Soup (Pho Bac) ................................108\n\nHarvest Rice .........................................................................................110\n\nHearty Chicken & Rice Soup .............................................................110\n\nHearty Chicken Rice Soup .................................................................111\n\n8\n\nHoney Ribs and Rice...........................................................................111\n\nIndonesian-Style Yogurt Rice ............................................................112\n\nJohn's Garlic Rice ................................................................................113\n\nJoni's Rice Pudding .............................................................................113\n\nKalamarakia Pilafi (Squid Baked With Rice)....................................114\n\nKar-In's Crispy Rice Squares .............................................................114\n\nKathie jenkins wild rice soup..............................................................115\n\nKing's Arms Tavern Raisin Rice Pudding ........................................115\n\nLamb Shanks and Rice Soup ............................................................116\n\nLamb Steamed in Rice Powder .........................................................117\n\nLemon Parsley Chicken and Rice .....................................................118\n\nLemon Rice Soup ................................................................................118\n\nLentil & Brown Rice Soup...................................................................119\n\nLow-Fat Beans and Rice ....................................................................119\n\nMalaysian Braised Chicken with Rice...............................................120\n\nMandarin Rice Pudding.......................................................................120\n\nMangoes with Sticky Rice...................................................................121\n\nManitoba Wild Rice..............................................................................122\n\nMaple Rice Pudding ............................................................................122\n\nMariachi Beefballs And Rice ..............................................................123\n\nMark's Fried Rice .................................................................................124\n\nMel's Mexican Rice (mjnt73c) ............................................................124\n\nMexicali rice ..........................................................................................125\n\nMexican Cinnamon Rice .....................................................................125\n\nMexican Rice ........................................................................................126\n\nMexican Rice Mix .................................................................................126\n\nMexican Rice No. 2 .............................................................................127\n\nMexican Rice Pudding ( Arroz Con Leche ) ....................................127\n\nMexican Spanish Rice.........................................................................128\n\nMinnesota Wild Rice Dressing...........................................................129\n\nMinnesota Wild Rice-Stuffed Chicken ..............................................130\n\nMiss Allie's Chicken and Rice Casserole .........................................130\n\nMushroom Ragout in Rice Ring.........................................................131\n\nMushroom Wild Rice Chowder ..........................................................132\n\nNasi Goreng (Fried Rice)....................................................................132\n\nNew Zealand Brown Rice Salad........................................................133\n\nNo-Egg Rice Pudding..........................................................................133\n\nOkra Chicken & Crab Gumbo with Rice ...........................................134\n\nOld Fashioned Rice Pudding .............................................................135\n\nOnion-Flavored Rice Mix ....................................................................136\n\n9\n\nOranges Filled with Raisins, Chickpeas, and Rice.........................136\n\nPeanut Butter Chocolate Rice Krispie Treats..................................137\n\nPeas with Rice .....................................................................................137\n\nPerfect Chinese Steamed Rice .........................................................138\n\nPicadillo (Rice & Beef Hash/filling) ...................................................138\n\nPicnic Rice Salad.................................................................................139\n\nPineapple Fried Rice...........................................................................139\n\nPoached chicken in cream sauce with rice......................................140\n\nPork Chops and Rice ..........................................................................141\n\nPortuguese-Style Rice ........................................................................141\n\nPumpkin & Rice Soup.........................................................................142\n\nQuick Salsa Chicken and Rice ..........................................................142\n\nQuick, Southern Style Red Beans and Rice....................................143\n\nRed Bean, Rice & Sausage Soup.....................................................144\n\nRed Beans and Rice ...........................................................................144\n\nRed Beans and Rice No. 5.................................................................145\n\nRed Beans and Rice Soup with Shrimp...........................................145\n\nRed Beans and Rice with Smoked Sausage ..................................146\n\nRed Beans With Rice ..........................................................................147\n\nRepublica Dominicana Red Beans & Rice (Arroz Con Habijual ..147\n\nRice & Onion Soup Base....................................................................148\n\nRice and Beans with Cheese.............................................................149\n\nRice And Cheese Casserole..............................................................149\n\nRice and Lentils ...................................................................................150\n\nRice Cheese Croquettes ....................................................................150\n\nRice Con Queso ..................................................................................151\n\nRice Crust For Pizza ...........................................................................151\n\nRice Cutlets ..........................................................................................152\n\nRice Flan Tart with Candied Ginger .................................................152\n\nRice Flour and Yogurt Pancakes ......................................................153\n\nRice in Minutes ....................................................................................154\n\nRice Krispie Squares...........................................................................154\n\nRice Nut Loaf........................................................................................155\n\nRice Pilaf ...............................................................................................155\n\nRice Pilaf with Peas.............................................................................156\n\nRice Pudding ........................................................................................157\n\nRice Pudding (#1)................................................................................157\n\nRice Pudding C/p.................................................................................157\n\nRice Pudding with Bourbon................................................................158\n\nRice Souffle ..........................................................................................159\n\n10\n\nRice Sticks With Vegetables ..............................................................159\n\nRice Stuffed Mushrooms ....................................................................160\n\nRice With Artichokes ...........................................................................160\n\nRice with Cucumbers ..........................................................................161\n\nRice With Garlic And Pine Nuts.........................................................161\n\nRice with Mushrooms and Onions - Grdg72b .................................162\n\nRice With Raisins.................................................................................162\n\nRice With Spinach, Herbs And Cheese ...........................................163\n\nRice, Apple and Raisin Dressing.......................................................163\n\nRice-Stuffed Artichokes ......................................................................164\n\nRoasted Tomato and Rice Salad ......................................................165\n\nRotei-N-Rice Corn Soup (Vegan)......................................................165\n\nSaffron Rice ..........................................................................................166\n\nSaffron Rice Royale.............................................................................166\n\nSalmon-Wild Rice Pasty Filling..........................................................167\n\nSalsa Chicken Over Rice....................................................................168\n\nSan Francisco Rice .............................................................................168\n\nSandy's Lentil/Rice/Barley Soup .......................................................169\n\nSante Fe Chicken with Rice ...............................................................169\n\nSaucy Beef Over Rice.........................................................................170\n\nSavory Chicken and Rice in a Lotus Leaf (China)..........................171\n\nSavory Rice ..........................................................................................172\n\nShrimp & Barbecued Pork Fried Rice...............................................172\n\nShrimp and Rice Casserole ...............................................................173\n\nShrimp Fried Rice ................................................................................174\n\nShrimp Fried Rice, Shanghai.............................................................174\n\nSimple Brown Rice ..............................................................................175\n\nSimple Wild Rice ..................................................................................175\n\nSizzling Rice Soup...............................................................................176\n\nSkillet Chicken and Rice .....................................................................177\n\nSlow Cooker Red Beans & Rice........................................................177\n\nSopa Seca ( Dry Soup with Rice ).....................................................178\n\nSour Cream & Wild Rice Soup ..........................................................178\n\nSpanich Rice 2 .....................................................................................179\n\nSpanish Hot Dogs and Rice ...............................................................180\n\nSpanish Rice ........................................................................................180\n\nSpanish Rice (from Guatemala) ........................................................180\n\nSpanish Rice (Vegan) .........................................................................181\n\nSpanish Rice 2 .....................................................................................182\n\nSpanish Rice Enchiladas ....................................................................182\n\n11\n\nSpanish Rice With Beef ......................................................................183\n\nSpiced Basmati Rice (Masaledar basmati)......................................183\n\nSpicy Rice and Lentils.........................................................................184\n\nSpicy Rice Meatballs...........................................................................184\n\nSpicy Rice Pilaf ....................................................................................185\n\nSpicy Rice Pilaf with Turkey...............................................................185\n\nStar Anise Beef-rice Noodle Soup ....................................................186\n\nSteamed Ginger Rice with Snow Peas ............................................187\n\nSteamed Glutinous Rice.....................................................................187\n\nSteamed Jasmine Rice - Khao Suay * .............................................188\n\nSteamed Rice.......................................................................................189\n\nSteamed Rice ( Khow Jow or Khow Suay )....................................189\n\nStove-Top Rice Pudding? ..................................................................189\n\nStuffed Cabbage With Rice & Pine Nuts Avgolemono ..................190\n\nStuffed Cranberry And Rice Chicken ...............................................191\n\nSweet & Sour Lentils with Brown Rice .............................................191\n\nSweet Fried Rice with Almonds and Cinnamon..............................192\n\nSweet 'n' Sour Pork Over Rice ..........................................................193\n\nTabasco Classic-Red Beans and Rice On Monday ***...............193\n\nThai Rice with Mushroom and Egg...................................................194\n\nTofu Fried Rice ....................................................................................194\n\nTomato and Rice Casserole ..............................................................195\n\nTomato Rice Soup...............................................................................196\n\nTomato Soup with Mushrooms & Rice .............................................196\n\nTuna and Rice Creole .........................................................................197\n\nTurkey And Wild Rice Salad ..............................................................197\n\nTurkey Stew with Tomatoes, Peppers, and Rice............................198\n\nVariations on Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares........................198\n\nVegetable Rice Bake...........................................................................199\n\nVegetarian Chili With Rice .................................................................199\n\nVegetarian Rice Mix ............................................................................ 200\n\nVenison Chops W/ Rice & Tomatos ................................................. 200\n\nVietnamese Pork \"Spaghetti Sauce\" Over Rice ............................. 201\n\nWarm Fajita Rice Salad ...................................................................... 202\n\nWest Indian Rice And Peas With Tempeh ...................................... 202\n\nWild Rice & Mushroom Soup............................................................. 203\n\nWild Rice Amadine .............................................................................. 204\n\nWild Rice and Barley Pilaf .................................................................. 204\n\nWild Rice And Hazelnut Salad........................................................... 205\n\nWild Rice Pancakes ............................................................................ 206\n\n12\n\nWild Rice/Pine Nut Stuffing ................................................................ 206\n\nWild Rice-Stuffed Squash................................................................... 206\n\nWild Rice-Three Grain Bread.............................................................207\n\nWorking Woman's Chicken & Rice ...................................................208\n\n13\n\nRice\n\nRice, white, long-grain, regular, raw, unenriched\n\nNutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz)\n\nEnergy 370 kcal 1530 kJ\n\nCarbohydrates\n\n-Sugars 0.12 g\n\n\\- Dietary fiber 1.3 g\n\nFat Protein Water\n\nThiamin (Vit. B1) 0.070 mg Riboflavin (Vit. B2) 0.049 mg Niacin (Vit. B3) 1.6 mg Pantothenic acid (BS) 1.014 mg Vitamin B6 0.164 mg\n\nFolate (Vit. B9) 8 11g\n\nCalcium 28 mg Iron 0.80 mg Magnesium 25 mg Manganese 1.088 mg Phosphorus 115 mg Potassium 115 mg Zinc 1.09 mg\n\nPercentages are relative to US\n\n## 79 g\n\n0.66g\n\n7.13g\n\n11.62 g\n\n5%\n\n3%\n\n11%\n\n20%\n\n13%\n\n2%\n\n3%\n\n6%\n\n7%\n\n54%\n\n16%\n\n2%\n\n11%\n\n14\n\nrecommendations for adults.\n\nsourte:USDA Nutrientdatabme\n\nOI)'Zasativa\n\nJapanese short-grain rice\n\n15\n\nJapanese short-grain rice\n\nRice is a cereal foodstuff which forms an important part of the diet of many people worldwide and as such it is a staple food fur many.\n\nDomesticated rice comprises two species of food crops in the a\n\nnus of the Poaceae (\"true grass\") family: Asian rice, a\n\ntropical and subtropical southern Asia; African rice, _Oryza glaberrima,_ is\n\nnative to West Africa\n\nThe name wild rice is usually used for species of the different but related genus Zizania, both wild and domesticated, although the term may be used fur primitive or uncultivated varieties of _Oryza._\n\nRice is grown as a monocarpi c annual plant, although in tropical areas it\n\ncan survive as a perennial and can produce a ratoon crop and survive for up to\n\n20 years.Rice can grow to 1-1.8 m tall, occasionally more depending on the\n\nvariety and soil fertility. The grass has long, slender leaves 50-10 0 ern long and 2-2.5 ern broad. The small wind-pollinated ftowers are produced in a branched arching to pendulous inflorescence 30-50 ern long. The edible seed is a grain (caryopsis) 5-12 mm long and 2-3 mm thick.\n\nRice is a staple food for a large part of the world's human population, es pecially in tropical Latin America, and East, South and Southeast Asia, making it the second-most consumed cereal grain. A traditional food plant in Africa, Rice has the potential to improve nutrition, boost fu od security, foster rural development and support sustainable landcare.1'1 Rice provides more than one fifth of the calories consumed worldwide by humans. 151 In early 2008, some governments and retailers began rationing supplies of the grain\n\ndue to fears of a global rice shortage.\n\nRice cultivation is well-suited to countries and regions with I ow labor costs and high rainfall, as it is very labor-intensive to cultivate and requires plenty of water for cultivation. On the other hand, mechanized cultivation is extreme!y oil-intensive, more than other food products with the exception of beef and dairy products. Rice can be grown practically anywhere, even on a 16\n\nsteep hill or mountain. Although its species are native to South Asia and certain parts of Africa, centuries of trade and exportation have made it commonplace in many cultures.\n\nThe traditional method for cultivating rice is flooding the fields whilst, or after, setting the young seedlings. This simple method requires sound plan ning and servicing of the water damming and channeling, but reduces the growth of less robust weed and pest plants that have no submerged growth state, and deters vermin. \\Vhile with rice growing and cultivation the flooding is not mandatory, all other methods of irrigation require higher effort in weed and pest control during growth periods and a different approach for fertilizing the soil.\n\nClassification\n\nThere are two species of domesticated rice, _Oryza sativa_ (Asian) and\n\nOryza glaberrima (African).\n\nOryza sativa contains two major subspecies: the sticky, short-grainedja ponica or sinica variety, and the non-sticky, long-grained indica variety. Japonica are usually cultivated in dry fields, in temperate East Asia, upland areas of Southeast Asia and high elevations in South Asia, while indica are mainly lowland rices, grown mostly submerged, throughout tropical Asia. Rice is known to come in a variety of colors, including: white, brown, black, purple, and red.\n\nA third subspecies, which is broad-grained and thrives under tropical conditions, was identified based on morphology and initially called _javanica,_ but is now known as _tropicaljaponica._ Examples ofthis variety include the medium grain ''Tinawon\" and \"Unoy\" cultivars, which are grown in the high elevation rice terraces of the Cordillera Mountains of northern Luzon, Philippines.\n\nGlaszmann (1987) used isozymes to sort _Oryza sativa_ into six groups:\n\njaponica, aromatic, indica, aus, rayada, and ashina.[ 101\n\nGarris _et al_ (2004) used SSRs to sort _Oryza sativa_ into five groups; _tem perate japonica, tropical japonica_ and _aromatic_ comprise the _japonica_ varieties, while _indica_ and _aus_ comprise the _indica_ varieties.[ 11\n\nEtymology\n\nAccording to the _Microsoft Encarta Dictionary_ (2004) and the _Chambers Dictionary of Etymology_ (1988), the word 'rice' has an Indo-Iranian origin. It came to English from Greek _6ryza,_ via Latin _oriza,_ Italian _riso_ and finally Old French _ris_ (the same as present day French _riz)._\n\n17\n\nIt has been speculated that the Indo-Iranian vrihi itself is borrowed from a Dravidian vari (< PDr. *warinci)1121 or even a Munda language term for rice, or the Tamil name arisi (D DOD D) from which the Arabic ar-!U2Z, from which the Portuguese and Spanish word arrcrz originated.\n\nPreparation as food\n\n  of Mowt Fuji' Hokusd\n\nOld fashioned way of rice polishing in Japan'.36 Views of Mow t Fuji *\n\nHokusd\n\nThe seeds of the rice plant are first milled using a rice huller to remove the chaff (the outer husks of the grain). .At this point in the process, the pro duct is called bro'W!l rice. The milling maybe continued, removing the\n\n'bran' (i.e. the rest of the husk and the germ), thereby creating white rice.\n\nWhite rice, which keeps longer, lacks some important nutrients; in a limited diet which does not supplement the rice, brown rice he!ps to prevent the\n\ndeficiency eli sease beriberi.\n\nWhite rice may be also buffed with glucose or talc powder (often called polished rice, though this term may also refer to white rice in general), parboiled, or processed into flour. White rice may also be enriched by adding nutrients, especially those lost during the milling pro cess. While the cheapest method of enriching involves adding a powdered blend of nutrients that will easily wash off (in the United States, rice which has been so treated requires a label warning against rinsing), more sophisticated methods apply nutrients 18\n\ndirect!y to the grain, coating the grain with a water insoluble substance which is resistant to ':\"'-\n\nTerraced rice paddy on a hill slope in Indonesia.\n\nDespite the hypothetical health risks of talc (such as stomach cancer),Jl3J talc-coated rice remains the norm in some countries due to its attractive shiny appearance, but it has been banned in some and is no longer widely used in others such as the United States. Even where talc is not used, glucose, starch, or other coatings may be used to improve the appearance of the grains; for this reason, many rice I overs still recommend washing all rice in order to create a better-tasting rice with a better consistency, despite the recommenda tion of suppliers. Much of the rice produced today is water polished.\n\nRice bran, called _nuka_ in Japan, is a valuable commodity in Asia and is used for many daily needs. It is a moist, oily inner layer which is heated to produce an oil. It is also used as a pickling bed in making rice bran pickles and Talman.\n\nRaw rice may be ground into flour fur many uses, including making many\n\nkinds of beverages such as arnazake, horchata, rice milk, and sake. Rice flour does not contain gluten and is suitab!e for people on a gluten-free diet. Rice may also be made into various types of noo dies. Raw wild or brown rice may also be consumed by raw-fo odist or fruitarians if soaked and sprouted (usually I week to 30 days), see also _Gaba rice bel ow._\n\n_Processed rice seeds must be boiled or steamed before eating. Cooked rice may be further fried in oil or butter, or beaten in a tub to make mo chi._\n\n_Rice is a good source of protein and a staple food in many parts of the world, but it is not a complete protein: it does not contain all of the essential amino acids in sufficient amounts for good health, and should be combined with other sources of protein, such as nuts, seeds, beans or meat._\n\n_Rice, like other cereal grains, can be puffed (or popped). This pro cess takes advantage of the grains' water content and typically involves heating grains in a special chamber. Further puffing is sometimes accomplished by processing pre-puffed pellets in a low-pressure charnber. The ideal gas law means that either lowering the I ocal pressure or raising the water temperature 19_\n\n_results in an increase in volwne prior to water evaporation, resulting in a puffy texture. Bulk r<NV rice density is about 0.9 em*._\n\n_tenfold when puffed._\n\n_Cooking_\n\n_ _\n\n_See Wikibo o ks' Rice Recipes for information on food preparation using rice._\n\n_There are many varieties of rice; for many purposes the main distinction_\n\n_ _\n\n_is between long*and mediwn*grain rice. The grains of!ong-grain rice tend to remain intact after cooking; mediwn-grain rice becomes more sticky. Me* diwn-grain rice is used for sweet dishes, and for risotto and many Spanish dish.es-. \\--\\---_\n\n_Uncooked, poI ished,white I ong-grain rice_\n\n_Rice is cooked by boiling or steaming, and absorbs water during cooking. It can be cooked in just as much water as it absorbs (the absorption method),_\n\n_or in a larBf quantity of water which is drained before serving (the rapid-boil metho d).l Electric rice cookers, popular in Asia and Latin America, simplify the process of cooking rice. Rice is often heated in oil before boiling, or oil is added to the water; this is thought to make the cooked rice less sticky._\n\n_In Arab cuisine rice is an ingredient of many soups and dishes with fish, poultry, and other types of meat. It is also used to stuff vegetables or is wrapped in grape leaves. When combined with milk, sugar and honey, it is used to make desserts. In some regions, such as Tabaristan, bread is made using rice flour. Medieval Islamic texts spoke of medical uses for the plant.1 161_\n\n_Rice may also be made into rice porridge (also called congee or rice gruel) by adding more water than usual, so that the cooked rice is saturated with water to the point that it becomes very soft, expanded, and ftuffy. Rice porridge is commonly eaten as a breakfast fu od, and is also a traclitiona! food for the sick._\n\n_Rice may be soaked prior to cooking, which saves fuel, decreases cooking_\n\n_time, minimizes exposure to high temperature and thus decreases the sticki._\n\n_20_\n\n_ness of the rice. For some varieties, soaking improves the texture of the cooked rice by increasing expansion of the grains._\n\n_In some countries parboiled rice is popular. Parboiled rice is subjected to_\n\n_a steaming or parboiling process while still a brown rice. This causes nutrients from the outer husk to move into the grain itself. The parboil process causes a gelatinisation of the starch in the grains. The grains become less brittle, and the color of the milled grain changes from white to yellow. The rice is then dried, and can then be milled as usual or used as brown rice. Nfilled parboiled rice is nutritionally superior to standard milled rice. Parboiled rice has an additional benefit in that it does not stick to the pan during cooking, as happens when cooking regular white rice._\n\n_Nfinute Rice, or \"easy-cook rice\", differs from parboiled rice in that it is milled, fully cooked and then dried. It does not share the nutritional benefits of parboiling._\n\n_A nutritionally superior method of preparing brown rice known as GABA Rice or GBR (Germinated Brown RiceP 71 may be used. This involves soaking washed brown rice for 20 hours in warm water (38degC or 100degF) prior to cooking it. This process stimulates germination, which activates various enzymes in the rice. By this method, a result of research carried out for the United Nations Year of Rice, it is possible to obtain a more complete amino acid profile, including GABA._\n\n_Cooked rice can contain Bacillus cereus spores, which produce an emetic toxin when left at 4 degC--60degC [5]. When storing cooked rice for use the next day, rapid cooling is advised to reduce the risk of contamination._\n\n_Rice growing ecology_\n\n_ _\n\n_Rice can be grown in different ecologies, depending upon water availabil_\n\n_ity. [18]_\n\n_1. Lowland, rainfed, which is drought prone, favors medium depth;_\n\n_waterlogged,submergence,and flood prone_\n\n_2. Lowland, irrigated, grown in both the wet season and the dry season_\n\n_3. Deep water or floating rice_\n\n_4. Coastal Wetland_\n\n_5. Upland rice, also known as 'Ghaiya rice', well known for its drought tolerance[191_\n\n_History of rice domestication & cultivation_\n\n_ _\n\n_Based on one chloroplast and two nuclear gene regions, Londo et al (2006) conclude that rice was domesticated at least twice-indica in eastern India, Myanmar and Thailand; andjaponica in southern China-though they concede that there is archaeological and genetic evidence for a single domes tication of rice in the lowlands of China.[zo]_\n\n21\n\n&!il\n\nAbstract pattern of terrace rice fields in Yuanyarg, Yunnan Province,\n\nsouthern China.\n\nBecause the functional allele for non*shattering-the critical indicator of domestication in grains-as well as five other single nucleotide polymer* phisms, is identical in both indica and japol'lica, Vaughan eta/ (2008) detennined that there was a single domestication event for OI)IZasatim in the region of the Yangtze river valley.1211\n\nContinental East Asia Rice appears to have been used by the Early Neolithic populations of Li*\n\njiacun and Yunchanyan.1221 Evidence of possible rice cultivation in China\n\nfrom ca 11,500 BP has been found, however it is still questioned whether the rice was indeed being cultivated, or instead being gathered as wild rice.I::Bl Bruce Smith, an archaeologist at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., who has written on the origins of agriculture, says that evidence has been mounting that the Yangtze was probably the site of the earliest rice cultivation.IllI\n\nZhao (1998) argues that collection of wild rice in the Late Pleistocene had, by 6400 BC, led to the use of primarily domesticated rice.1251 Morpho* logical studies of rice phytoliths from the Diaotonghuan archaeological site clearly show the transition from the collection of wild rice to the cultivation of domesticated rice. The large number of wild rice phytoliths at the Diaotonghuan level dating from 12,000*11,000 BP indicates that wild rice collection was part of the local means of subsistence. Changes in the mor* phology of Diaotonghuan phytoliths dating from I 0,000*8,000 BP show that rice had by this time been domesticated.126J Analysis of Chinese rice residues from Pengtoushan which were C14(carbon dating) dated to 8200*7800 BCE\n\nshow that rice had been domesticated by this time.1271\n\nIn 1998, Crawford & Shen reported that the earliest of 14 AMS or radio* carbon dates on rice from at least nine Early to Middle Neolithic sides is no older than 70 00 BC, that rice from the Hernudu and Luojiajiao sites indicates that rice domestication likely began before 500 0 BC, but that most sites in China from which rice remains have been recovered are younger than 500 0\n\nBC.122J\n\n22\n\nSouth Asia\n\n' # -\n\n\\- .4 -\n\n* - _-.:-_ *\n\n' \\, ,,,.,f. *. t'l *\n\n\\\\\\ ;:. r''-*.:c*:Jv { :,,I_\n\nPaddy fields in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu\n\nWild Oryza rice appeared in the Belan and Ganges valley regions of\n\nnorthern India as early as 4530 BC and 5440 BC respectively,t:lll a!though many believe it may have appeared earlier. The Encyclopedia Britannica-on the subject of the first certain cultivated rice-holds that: 1291\n\nMany cultures have evidence of early rice cultivation, including China, India, and the civilizations of Southeast Asia.However,the earliest archaeo logical evidence comes from central and eastern China and dates to 700D-5000 BC.\n\nDenis J. Murphy (2007l further details the spread of cultivated rice from\n\nIndia into Southeast Asia:OJ\n\nSeveral wild cereals, including rice,grew in the Vindhyan Hills, and rice cultivation, at sites such as Chopani-Mando and M ahagara, may have been underway as early as 7000 BP.The relative i so I ati on of this area and the early development of rice farming imply that it was developed indigenously.\n\nChopani-Mando and Mahagara are located on the upper reaches of the Ganges drainage system and it is likely that migrants from this area spread rice farming down the Ganges valley into the fertile plains of Bengal, and beyond into southeast Asia Rice was cultivated in the Indus Valley Civilization.l3IJ Agricultural activ ity during the second millennium BC included rice cultivation in the Kashmir and Harr Ran economy. 1\n\nPunjab is the largest producer and consumer of rice in India\n\nKorean peninsula and japanese archipelago\n\n23\n\nUtagawa Hiroshige,Rice field in Oki province,view ofO-Ycma.\n\nMainstream archaeological evidence derived from palaeoetlmobotanical investigations indicate that dry-land rice was introduced to Korea and Japan some time between 3500 and 1200 BC. The cultivation of rice in Korea and Japan during that time occurred on a small-seale, fields were impermanent plots, and evidence shows that in some cases domesticated and wild grains were planted together. The technological, subsistence, and social impact of rice and grain cultivation is not evident in archaeological data until after 1500\n\nBC. For example, intensive wet-paddy rice agriculture was introduced into\n\nKorea shortly before or during the Middle Mumun Pottery Period (c. 850-550\n\nBC) and reached Japan by the Final Jomon or Initial Yayoi circa 300\n\nBC.l3lll22J\n\nIn 20 03, Korean archaeologists alleged that they discovered burnt grains of domesticated rice in Soro*ri, Korea, which dated to 13,000 BC. These predate the oldest grains in China, which were dated to I 0,000 BC, and potentially challenge the mainstream explanation that domesticated rice originated in China.1331 The findings were received by academia with strong\n\nskepticism, and the results and their publicizing has been cited as being driven by a combination of nationalist and regional interests.1341\n\n24\n\nUsing water buffalo to plough rice fields in Java; Indonesia is the world's third largest paddy rice producer and its cultivation has transformed much of the country's landscape.\n\nRice is the staple for all classes in contemporary South East Asia, from\n\nMyanmar to Indonesia. In Indonesia, evidence of wild Oryza rice on the island of Sulawesi dates from 3000 BCE. The evidence for the earliest cultivation, however, comes from eighth century stone inscriptions from Java, which show kings levied taxes in rice. Divisions of labor between men, women, and animals that are still in place in Indonesian rice cultivation, can be seen carved into the ninth-century Prambanan temples in Central Java. In the sixteenth century, Europeans visiting the Indonesian islands saw rice as a new prestige food served to the aristocracy during ceremonies and feasts. Rice production in Indonesian history is linked to the development of iron tools and the domestication of water buffalo for cultivation of fields and manure for\n\nfertilizer. Once covered in dense forest, much of the Indonesian landscape has been gradually cleared for permanent fields and settlements as rice cultivation developed over the last fifteen hundred years.[351\n\nIn the Philippines, the greatest evidence of rice cultivation since ancient times can be found in the Cordillera Mountain Range of Luzon in the prov inces of Apayao, Benguet, Mountain Province and Ifugao. The Banaue Rice Terraces (Tagalog: Hagdan-hagdang Palayan ng Banaue) are 2,000 to 3,000-year old terraces that were carved into the mountains by ancestors of the Batad indigenous people. It is commonly thought that the terraces were built with minimal equipment, largely by hand. The terraces are located approxi mately 1,500 meters (5000 ft) above sea level and cover 10,360 square kilometers (about 4,000 square miles) of mountainside. They are fed by an ancient irrigation system from the rainforests above the terraces. It is said that if the steps are put end to end it would encircle half the globe. The Rice Terraces (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) are commonly referred to by Filipinos as the \"Eighth Wonder of the World\".\n\nEvidence of wet rice cultivation as early as 2200 BC has been discovered at both Ban Chiang and Ban Prasat in Thailand.\n\nBy the 19th Century, encroaching European expansionism in the area in creased rice production in much of South East Asia, and Thailand, then known as Siam. British Burma became the world's largest exporter of rice, from the tum of the 20th century up till the 1970s, when neighbouring Thailand exceeded Burma.\n\nAfrica\n\n25\n\nRice crop in Madagascar\n\nAfrican rice has been cultivated for 3500 years. Between !50 0 and 800\n\nBC, 0. _glabemma_ propagated from its original centre, the Niger River delta,\n\nand extended to Senegal. However, it never developed far from its original region. Its cultivation even declined in favour of the Asian species, possibly brought to the African continent by Arabs coming !rom the east coast between the 7th and IIth centuries CE.\n\nIn parts of Africa under Islam, rice was chiefly grown in southern Mo rocco. During the tenth century rice was also brought to east Africa by Muslim traders. .Although, the diffusion of rice in much sub-Saharan Africa remains uncertain, Muslims brought it to the region stretching from Lake\n\nI* **;\"t'*f.;'rr\"** * * *'\n\n'-'!:..' , * . \\/\n\n,-).c !':..=-:'- C '\n\n\\ ,*\n\n. ' ,\n\n. _i\"_ ('.,J\n\n0-.....-*,.\"..)*t'l'>>: l(qo The actual and hypothesized cultivation of rice (areas shown in green) in the 01d World (both Muslim and non-Muslim regions) during lsi ami c times (700-1500).Cultivation of rice during presl amic times have been shown in orange.1:o; 1\n\nMiddle East\n\nAccording to Zohary and Hopf (2000, p. 91), 0. _saliw_ was introduced to the Middle East in Hellenistic times, and was familiar to both Greek and Roman writers. They report that a large sample of rice grains was recovered from a grave at Susa in Iran (dated to the first century AD) at one end of the ancient world, while at the same time rice was grown in the Po valley in Italy. However, Pliny the Elder writes that rice _(oryza)_ is grown only in \"Egypt, Syria, Cilicia, Asia Minor and Greece\" (NH 18.19).\n\n26\n\nAfter the rise of Islam, rice was grown anywhere there was enough water to irrigate it. Thus, desert oases, river valleys, and swamp lands were all important sources of rice during the Muslim Agricultural Revolution.l36J\n\nIn Iraq rice was grown in some areas of southern Iraq. With the rise of lsi am it moved north to Nisibin, the southern shores of the Caspian Sea and then beyond the Muslim world into the valley of Volga. In Israel, rice came to be grown in the Jordan valley. Rice is also grown in _Y_ ernen. 1361\n\nEurope\n\nThe Muslims (later known as Moors) brought Asiatic rice to the Iberian Peninsula in the tenth century. Records indicate it was grown in Valencia and Majorca. In Majorca, rice cultivation seems to have stopped after the Chris tian conquest, although historians are not certain.1361\n\nMuslims also brought rice to Sicily, where it was an important crop.1361\n\nAfter the middle of the 15th century, rice spread throughout Italy and then\n\nFrance, later propagating to all the continents during the age of European\n\nexploration. United States\n\nSouth Carolina rice plantation (Mansfield PIantati on, Georgetown.)\n\nIn 1694, rice arrived in South Carolina, probably originating from Mada\n\ngascar.\n\nIn the United States, colonial South Carolina and Georgia grew and\n\namassed great wealth from the s1ave lab or obtained from the Senegambia area of West Africa and from coastal Sierra Leone. At the port of Charleston, through which 40% of all American slave imports passed, slaves from this region of Africa brought the highest prices, in recognition of their prior knowledge of rice culture, which was put to use on the many rice plantations around Georgetown, Charleston, and Savannah. From the slaves, plantation owners learned how to dyke the marshes and periodically flood the fields. At first the rice was milled by hand with woo den paddles, then winnowed in sweetgrass baskets (the making of which was another skill brought by the slaves). The invention of the rice mill increased profitability of the crop, and the addition of water power for the mills in 1787 by millwright Jonathan 27\n\nLucas was another step forward. Rice culture in the southeastern U.S. became less profitable with the loss of slave labor after the American Civil War, and it finally died out just after the tum of the 20th century. Today, people can visit the only remaining rice plantation in South Carolina that still has the original winnowing bam and rice mill Jrom the mid-1800s at the historic Mansfield Plantation in Georgetown, SC. The predominant strain of rice in the Carolinas was from Africa and was known as \"Carolina Gold.\" The cultivar has been preserved and there are current attempts to reintroduce it as a commercially gro'W!l crop.1371\n\nAmerican long-grain rice\n\nIn the southern United States, rice has been gro'W!l in southem .Arkansas,\n\nLouisiana, and east Texas since the mid 1800s. Many Cajun farmers grew rice\n\nin wet marshes and low Iying prairies. In recent years rice production has risen in North America, especialy! in the Mississippi River Delta areas in the states of .Arkansas and Mississippi.\n\nRice cultivation began in California during the California God! Rush,\n\nwhen an estimated 40,000 Chinese laborers immigrated to the state and grew small amounts of the grain for their own consumption. However, commercial\n\nproduction began only in 1912 in the town of Richvale in Butte County.[181 B\n\n2006, California produced the second largest rice crop in the United States,13\n\nafter .Arkansas, with production concentrated in six counties north of Sacra\n\nmento.J40J Unlike the Mississippi Delta region, Califomis\n\ndominated by short-and medium-grainjaponica varieties, including cultivars developed for the local climate such as Cairose, which makes up as much as eighty five percent of the state's crop.1411\n\nReferences to wild rice in the Americas are to the unrelated Zizania palus\n\nlris\n\nMore than I 00 varieties of rice are commercially produced primarily in\n\nsix states (.Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Missouri, and California)\n\nin the U.S.1421 According to estimates for the 2006 crop year, rice production\n\n28\n\nin the U.S. is valued at $1.88 billion, approximately half of which is expected to be exported. The U.S. provides about 12% of world rice trade.1421 The majority of domestic utilization of U.S. rice is direct food use (58%), while 16 percent is used in processed foods and beer respectively. The remaining I 0\n\npercent is found in pet food.1421\n\nAustralia\n\nAlthough attempts to grow rice in the well-watered north of Australia have been made for many years, they have consistent!y failed because of inherent iron and manganese toxicities in the soils and destruction by pests.\n\nIn the 192Os it was seen as a possible irrigation crop on soils within the\n\nMurray-Darling Basin that were too heavy for the cultivation of fruit and too infertile for wheat.1431\n\nBecause irrigation water, despite the extremely low runoff of temperate\n\nAustralia, was (and remains) very cheap, the growing of rice was taken up by\n\nagricultural groups over the following decades. Californian varieties of rice were found suitable for the climate in the Riverina, and the first mill opened at Leeton in 1951.\n\nEven before this Australia's rice production greatly exceeded local needs,1431 and rice exports to Japan have become a major source of foreign currency. .Ab ave-average rainfall from the 195Os to the middle 1990sl\"l encouraged the expansion of the Riverinarice industry, but its prodigious water use in a practically waterless region began to attract the attention of environmental scientists. These became severely concerned with declining flow in the Snowy River and the I ower Murray River.\n\nAlthough rice growing in .Australia is exceedingly efficient and highly profitable due to the cheapness of!and, several recent years of severe drought have I ed many to call for its elimination because of its effects on extremely fragile aquatic ecosystems. Politicians, however, have not made any plan to reduce rice growing in southern Australia World production and trade\n\nProduction and export\n\n'\n\n1_!_ *c.--\n\nPaddy rice output in 2005.\n\nWorld production of ricel4SJ has risen steadily from about 200 million ton\n\nnes of paddy rice in 1960 to 600 million tonnes in 2004. Milled rice is about\n\n29\n\n68% of paddy rice by weight. In the year 2004, the top four producers were China (26% of world production), India (20%), Indonesia (9%) and Bangla desh.\n\nWorld trade figures are very different, as only about 5-6% of rice pro\n\nduced is traded internationally. The largest three exporting countries are Thailand (26% of world exports), Vietnam (15%), and the United States (11%), while the largest three importers are Indonesia (14%), Bangladesh (4%), and Brazil (3%). Although China and India are the top two largest producers of rice in the world, both of countries consume the majority of the rice produced domestically leaving little to be traded internationally.\n\nPrice\n\nIn March to May 2008, the price of rice rose greatly due to a rice short age. In late April 2008, rice prices hit 24 cents a pound, twice the price that it was seven months earlier.[461\n\nOn the 30th of April, 2008, Thailand announced the project of the crea\n\ntion of the Organisation ofRice Exporting Countries (OREC) with the\n\n48\n\npotential to develop into a price-fixing cartel for rice.[47 ][ 1\n\nWorldwide consumption\n\nConsumption of rice by country-2003/2004 (million metric ton)[491\n\n.China 135\n\n-India 85\n\n-Egypt 39\n\n\\- Indonesia 37\n\nMalaysia 37\n\n\\- Bangladesh 26\n\nD vietnam 18\n\n\\- Thailand 10\n\nIllMyanmar 10\n\nPhilippines 9.7\n\n* Japan 8.7\n\n## aai Brazil 8.1\n\n!*!South Korea 5.0\n\n=United States 3.9\n\nSource:\n\n30\n\nUnited States Department of Agriculture[6] Between 1961 and\n\n2002, per capita consump\n\ntion of rice increased by 40%. Rice consumption is highest in Asia, where average per capita consumption is higher than 80 kg/person per year. In the subtropics such as South America, Africa, and the Middle East, per capita consumption averages between 30 and 60 kg/person per year. People in the developed West, including Europe and the United States, consume less than 10 kg/person per year.[50H511\n\nRice is the most important crop in Asia. In Cambodia, for example, 90% of the total agricultural area is used for rice production. See _The Burning of the Rice_ by Don Puckridge for the story of rice production in Cambodia [7].\n\nU.S. rice consumption has risen sharply over the past 25 years, fueled in part by commercial applications such as beer production.[ 521 Almost one in five adult Americans now report eating at least half a serving of white or brown rice per day.[DJ\n\nEnvironmental impacts\n\nIn many countries where rice is the main cereal crop, rice cultivation is responsible for most of the methane emissionsY41 Farmers in some of the arid regions try to cultivate rice using groundwater bored through pumps, thus increasing the chances of famine in the long run. Rice also requires much more water to produce than other grains.[551\n\nAs sea levels rise, rice will become more inclined to remain flooded for longer periods of time. Longer stays in water cuts the soil off from atmos pheric oxygen and causes fermentation of organic matter in the soil. During the wet season, rice cannot hold the carbon in anaerobic conditions. The microbes in the soil convert the carbon into methane which is then released through the respiration of the rice plant or through diffusion of water. Current contributions of methane from agriculture is15% of anthropogenic green house gases, as estimated by the IPCC. Further rise in sea level of 10-85 centimeters would then stimulate the release of more methane into the air by rice plants. Methane is twenty times more effective as a greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide is.[561\n\nPests and diseases\n\nMain article: List of rice diseases\n\nRice pests are any organisms or microbes with the potential to reduce the yield or value of the rice crop (or of rice seeds)[5 71 (Jahn et al 2007). Rice pests include weeds, pathogens, insects, rodents, and birds. A variety of factors can contribute to pest outbreaks, including the overuse of pesticides and high rates of nitrogen fertilizer application (e.g. Jahn _et al._ 2005) [8]. Weather conditions also contribute to pest outbreaks. For example, rice gall midge and army 31\n\nworm outbreaks tend to follow high rainfall early in the wet season, while thrips outbreaks are associated with drought (Douangboupha et a!. 2006).\n\nOne of the challenges facing crop protection specialists is to develop rice pest management techniques which are sustainable. In other words, to manage crop pests in such a manner that future crop production is not threatened (Jahn eta!. 2001). Rice pests are managed by cultural techniques, pest-resistant rice varieties, and pesticides (which include insecticide). Increasingly, there is evidence that farmers' pesticide applications are often unnecessary (Jahn eta!.\n\n1996, 2004a,b) [9] [10] [11]. By reducing the populations of natural enemies\n\nof rice pests (Jahn 1992), misuse of insecticides can actually lead to pest outbreaks (Cohen eta!. 1994). Botanicals, so-called \"natural pesticides\", are used by some farmers in an attempt to control rice pests, but in general the practice is not common. Upland rice is grown without standing water in the field. Some upland rice farmers in Cambodia spread chopped leaves of the bitter bush ( _Chromolaena odorata (L.)) over the surface of fields after planting. The practice probably helps the soil retain moisture and thereby facilitates seed germination. Farmers also claim the leaves are a natural fertilizer and helps suppress weed and insect infestations (Jahn eta!. 1999)._\n\n_Among rice cultivars there are differences in the responses to, and recov_\n\n_ery from, pest damage (Jahn eta!. 2004c, Khiev eta!. 2000). Therefore, particular cultivars are recommended for areas prone to certain pest problems. The genetically based ability of a rice variety to withstand pest attacks is called resistance. Three main types of plant resistance to pests are recognized_\n\n_(Painter 1951, Smith 2005): as nonpreference, antibiosis, and tolerance. Nonpreference (or antixenosis) (Kogan and Ortman 1978) describes host plants which insects prefer to avoid; antibiosis is where insect survival is reduced after the ingestion of host tissue; and tolerance is the capacity of a plant to produce high yield or retain high quality despite insect infestation. Over time, the use of pest resistant rice varieties selects for pests that are able to overcome these mechanisms of resistance. When a rice variety is no longer able to resist pest infestations, resistance is said to have broken down. Rice varieties that can be widely grown for many years in the presence of pests, and retain their ability to withstand the pests are said to have durable resis tance. Mutants of popular rice varieties are regularly screened by plant breeders to discover new sources of durable resistance (e.g. Liu eta!. 2005, Sangha eta!. 2008)._\n\n_Major rice pests include the brown planthopper[12] (Preap eta!. 2006), armyworms[l3], the green leafhopper, the rice gall midge (Jahn and Khiev_\n\n_2004), the rice bug (Jahn eta!. 2004c), hispa (Murphy eta!. 2006), the rice leaffolder, stemborer, rats (Leung et al2002), and the weed Echinochloa crw;gali (Pheng et a!. 200 I). Rice weevils are also known to be a threat to rice crops in the US, PR China and Taiwan._\n\n32\n\nMajor rice diseases include Rice Ragged Stunt, Sheath Blight and Tungro. Rice blast, caused by the fungus _Magnaporthe grisea,_ is the most significant eli sease affecting rice cultivation.\n\nCultivars\n\nMan artide:Ust of lice varieties\n\nWhile most breeding of rice is carried out fur crop quality and productiv\n\nity, there are varieties selected fur other reasons. Cultivars exist that are adapted to deep floo cling, and these are generally called 'floating rice' [15].\n\nThe largest collection of rice cultivars is at the International Rice Re\n\nsearch Institute (IRRI), with over I 0 0,000 rice accessions [16] held in the\n\nInternational Rice Genebank [17]. Rice cultivars are often classified by their grain shapes and texture. For example, Thai Jasmine rice is long-grain and rei atively less sticky, as long-grain rice contains less amylopectin than short grain cultivars. Chinese restaurants usually serve long-grain as plain unsea soned steamed rice. Japanese mo chi rice and Chinese sticky rice are short grain. Chinese people use sticky rice which is properly known as \"glutinous rice\" (note: glutinous refer to the glue-like characteristic of rice; does not refer to \"gluten\") to make zongzi. The Japanese table rice is a sticky, short-grain rice. Japanese sake rice is another kind as well.\n\nIncli an rice cultivars include long-grained and aromatic Basmati (grown in\n\nthe North), long and medium-grained Patna rice and short-grained Sona\n\nMaso ori (also spelled Sona Masuri). In South India the most prized cultivar is\n\n'ponni' which is primarily grown in the delta regions ofKaveri River. Kaveri is also referred to as ponni in the South and the name reflects the geographic region where it is grown. In the Western Indian state of Maharashtra, a short variety called .Ambemohar is very popular. this rice has a characteristic of blossom.\n\n33\n\nPolished Indian so na masuri rice.\n\nAromatic rices have definite aromas and flavours; the most noted culti vars are Thai fragrant rice, Basmati, Patna rice, and a hybrid cultivar from America sold under the trade name, Texmati. Both Basmati and Texmati have a mild popcorn-like aroma and flavour. In Indonesia there are also red and black cuitivars.\n\nHigh-yield cuitivars of rice suitable for cultivation in Africa and other dry\n\necosystems called the new rice for Africa (NERICA) cultivars have been developed. It is hoped that their cultivation will improve food security in West Africa.\n\nDraft genomes for the two most common rice cuitivars, indica and japon\n\nica, were published in April 2002. Rice was chosen as a model organism for\n\nthe biology of grasses because of its relatively small genome (-430 megab ase\n\npairs). Rice was the first crop with a complete genome sequence.l.lBJ\n\nOn December 16, 20 02, the UN General Assembly declared the year 20 04 the International Year of Rice. The dec!aration was sponsored by more than\n\n40 countries.\n\nBiotechnology\n\nHigh-yielding varieties\n\nMan cnide: High-'jieldmg variety\n\nThe High Yielding Varieties are a group of crops created intentionally during the Green Revolution to increase global food production. Rice, like com and wheat, was genetically manipulated to increase its yield. This project enabled lab or markets in Asia to shift away from agriculture, and into indus trial sectors. The first 'modem rice', IR8 was produced in 1966 at the Interna tional Rice Research Institute which is based in the Philippines at the University of the Philippines' Los Banos site. IR8 was created through across between an Indonesian variety named\"Peta' and a Chinese variety named \"Dee Geo Woo Gen.''JS9J\n\nWith advances in molecular genetics, the mutant genes responsible for reduced height(rht), gibberellin insensitive (gail) and slender rice (sir!) in\n\nArabidopsis and rice were identified as cellular signaling components of gibberellic acid (a phytohormone involved in regulating stem growth via its\n\n34\n\neffect on cell division) and subsequently cloned. Stem growth in the mutant background is significantly reduced leading to the dwatf phenotype. Photo synthetic investment in the stem is reduced dramatically as the shorter plants are inherently more stable mechanically. Assimilates become redirected to grain production, amplifying in particular the effect of chemical fertilizers on commercial yield. In the presence of nitrogen fertilizers, and intensive crop management, these varieties increase their yield 2 to 3 times.\n\nPotentials for the future\n\nAs the UN Millennium Development project seeks to spread global eco nomic development to Africa, the 'Green Revolution' is cited as the model for economic development. With the intent of replicating the successful Asian boom in agronomic productivity, groups like the Earth Institute are doing research on African agricultural systems, hoping to increase productivity. An important way this can happen is the production of 'New Rices for Africa' (NERICA). These rices, selected to tolerate the low input and harsh growing conditions of African agriculture are produced by the African Rice Center, and billed as technology from Africa, for Africa. The NERICA have appeared\n\nin The New York Times (October 10, 2007) and International Herald Tribune (October 9, 2007), trumpeted as miracle crops that will dramatically increase rice yield in Africa and enable an economic resurgence.\n\nGolden rice\n\nMain article: Golden rice\n\nGerman and Swiss researchers have engineered rice to produce Beta carotene, with the intent that it might someday be used to treat vitamin A deficiency. Additional efforts are being made to improve the quantity and quality of other nutrients in golden rice.1601 The addition of the carotene turns the rice gold.\n\nExpression of human proteins\n\nVentria Bioscience has genetically modified rice to express lactoferrin, lysozyme, and human serum albumin which are proteins usually found in breast milk. These proteins have antiviral, antibacterial, and antifungal effects.1611\n\nRice containing these added proteins can be used as a component in oral rehydration solutions which are used to treat diarrheal diseases, thereby shortening their duration and reducing recurrence. Such supplements may also help reverse anemia.l621\n\nOthers\n\n35\n\nIn the Korean and Japanese language, the Chinese character for the rice' kame? ) is composed by two eights (}\\\\_ hachF ) and ten (+ jyii) which is 88, eighty-eight(}\\\\_+}\\\\_ hachi-jyil-hacht). In proverbial saying in Japan, the farmer spends eighty-eight times and efforts on rice from planting to crop and this is also teaching the sense of mottainai and gratitude for farmer and rice itself.[631\n\nReferences\n\n1. \"Crawford,G.W. and C. Shen. 1998. The Origins of Rice Agriculture: Recent Progress in East Asia. Antiquity 72:858-866.\n\n2. \"International Rice Research Institute The Rice Plant and How it Grows Retrieved January 29,\n\n2008\n\n3. \"\"ProdSTAT\". FAOSTAT. Retrieved on 2006*12-26.\n\n4. \"National Research Council (1996-02-14). \"African Rice\". Lost Crops of Africa: Volume 1: Grains. lost Crops of Africa.1. National Academies Press. ISBN 978-0-309-04990-0. http://books.nap.edu/ openbook.php?record_id=2305&page=17. Retrieved on 2008-07-18.\n\n5. \"Smith, Bruce D. The Emergence of Agriculture. Scientific American Library, A Division of\n\nHPHLP, New York, 1998.\n\n6. \"Global rice shortage sparks panic-SBS World News Australia\n\n7. \"BBC World Service-News- Global rice shortage\n\n8. \"0ka(1988)\n\n9. \"CECAP, PhiiRice and IIRR. 2000. \"Highland Rice Production in the Philippine Cordillera.\"\n\n10. \"Glaszmann, J. C. (2004). \"lsozymes and classification of Asian rice varieties\". Theoretical and Applied Genetics.\n\n11. \"Garris eta/ (2004). \"Genetic structure and diversity in Oryza sativa l.\". Genetics.\n\nhttp://www.genetics.org/cgi/content/abstract/genetics.104.03 564 2v1?ck=nck.\n\n12. \"Krishnamurti, Bhadriraju (2003) The Dravidian Languages Cambridge University Press, Cam\n\nbridge. ISBN 0-521-77111-0 at p. 5.\n\n13. \"Risks of Talcum Powder\n\n14. \"Jianguo G. Wu; Chunhai Shia and Xiaoming Zhanga (2003). \"Estimating the amino acid com position in milled rice by near-infrared reflectance spectroscopy\". Field Crops Research. Re trieved on 2008-01-08.\n\n15. \"The latter method of using excess water is not desirable with enriched rice, as much oft he enrichment additives are flushed away when the water is discarded.\n\n16. \"Watson, p. 15\n\n17. \"Shoichi Ito and Yukihiro Ishikawa Tottori University, Japan. \"(Marketing of Value-Added Rice\n\nProducts in Japan: Germinated Grown Rice and Rice Bread.)\". Retrieved on February 12, 2004.\n\n18. \"IRRI rice knowledge bank\n\n19. \"drought tolerance in upland rice\n\n20. \"Londo eta/ (2006). \"Phylogeography of Asian wild rice,Oryza rufipogon, reveals multiple independent domestications of cultivated rice, Oryza sativa\". PNAS.\n\n21. \"Vaughan eta/ (2008). \"The evolving story of rice evolution\". Plant Science 174 (4): 394-408. doi:10.1016/j.piantsc i.2008 .01.016.\n\n22. \"ab' Crawford and Shen 1998\n\n23. \"Harrington, Spencer P.M. (June 11, 1997). \"Earliest Rice\". Archaeology (Archaeological Insti tute of America). http://www.archaeology.org/online/news/rice.html. \"Rice cultivation began in China ca. 11,500 years ago, some 3,500 years earlier than previously believed\".\n\n24. \"Normile, Dennis (1997). \"Yangtze seen as earliest rice site\". Science 275: 309-310.\n\n25. \"Zhao, Z. 1998. The Middle Yangtze Region in China is the Place Where Rice was Domesti\n\ncated: Phytolithic Evidence from the Diaotonghuan Cave, Northern Jiangxi. Antiquity 72:885---\n\n897.\n\n36\n\n26. A MacNeish R. S. and Libby J. eds. (1995) _Origins of Rice Agriculture._ Publications in Anthropol ogy No. 13.\n\n27. A _The Formation of Chinese Civilization_ (2005), pp. 298\n\n28. A _a_ b Smith, C. Wayne (2000). _Sorghum: Origin, History, Technology, and Production._ John Wiley and Sons. ISBN 0471242373.\n\n29. A \"rice\". Encyc/opcedia Britannica. Encyclopcedia Britannica. 2008.\n\nhttp://www. britannica .com/EBchecked/topic/502259/ rice.\n\n30. A Murphy, Denis J. (2007). _People, Plants and Genes: The Story of Crops and Humanity._ Oxford\n\nUniversity Press. 178. ISBN 0199207135.\n\n31. A _a_ b Kahn, Charles (2005). _World History: Societies of the Past._ Portage & Main Press. 92. ISBN\n\n1553790456.\n\n32. A Crawford, G.W. and G.-A. Lee. 2003. Agricultural Origins in the Korean Peninsula. Antiquity\n\n77(295):87-95.\n\n33. A Cf. BBC news (2003) [1]\n\n34. A Kim, Minkoo (2008), \"M ultivocality, Multifaceted Voices, and Korean Archaeology\", Evaluat ing Multiple Narratives: Beyond Nationalist, Colonialist, Imperialist Archaeologies, New York: Springer, ISBN 978-0-387-76459-7\n\n35. A Taylor, Jean Gelman (2003). Indonesia: Peoples and Histories. New Haven and London: Yale\n\nUniversity Press. pp. 8-9. ISBN 0-300-10518-5.\n\n36. AabcdefWatson, p.17-18\n\n37. A http://www.carolinagoldricefoundation.org/ Carolina Gold Rice Foundation\n\n38. A Ching Lee (2005). \"Historic Richvale -the birthplace of California rice\". California Farm Bu\n\nreau Federation. Retrieved on 2007-08-10.\n\n39. A \"California's Rice Growing Region\". California Rice Commission. Retrieved on 2007-08-10.\n\n40. A Daniel A. Sumner; Henrich Brunke (2003). \"The economic contributions ofthe California rice industry\"\". California Rice Commission. Retrieved on 2007-08-10.\n\n41. A \"Medium Grain Varieties\". California Rice Commission. Retrieved on 2007-08-10.\n\n42. A abc States Department of Agriculture August 2006, Release No. 0306.06, U.S. RICE STATISTICS\n\n43. A ab Wad ham, Sir Samuel; Wilson, R. Kent and Wood, Joyce; Land Utilization in Australia, 3rd ed. Published 1957 by Melbourne University Press; p. 246\n\n44. A Australian Bureau of Meteorology; Climatic Atlas of Australia: Rainfall; published 2000 by\n\nBureau of Meteorology, Melbourne, Victoria\n\n45. A all figures from U NCTAD 1998-2002 and the International Rice Research Institute statistics\n\n(accessed September 2005)\n\n46. A \"Cyclone fuels rice price increase\", BBC News, 7 May 2008\n\n47. A \"Mekong nations to form rice price-fixing cartel\", Radio Australia, April 30, 2008.\n\n48. A \"PM floats idea offive-nation rice cartel\", Bangkok Post, May 1, 2008.\n\n49. A Nationmaster.com, Agriculture Statistics> Grains> Rice consumption (most recent) by coun try, http:/Iwww.nat ion master.com/graph/a gr_gra_ric_con-a gricu ltu re-gra ins-rice consumption, retrieved on 24 April2008\n\n50. A United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD), (Rice} Market,\n\nhttp://www.unctad.org/infocomm/anglais/rice/market.htm, retrieved on 24 April2008\n\n51. A Saudi Arabia: Per Capita Rice Consumption Hits 47 Kilogram,\n\nhttp://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1Gl-72731851.html, retrieved on 24 April 2008\n\n52. A United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) Economic Research Service, Briefing Rooms: Rice, http://www.ers.usda.gov/Briefing/Rice/, retrieved on 24 April 2008\n\n53. A Iowa State University (July 2005). \"Rice Consumption in the United States: New Evidence from\n\nFood Consumption Surveys\".\n\n54. A Methane Emission from Rice Fields-Wetland rice fields may make a major contribution to global warming by Heinz-Uirich Neue.\n\n55. A report12.pdf\n\n56. A IPCC. Climate Change 2007: Synthesis Report. United Nations Environment Programme,\n\n2007:Ch5, 8, and 10.[2]\n\n57. AJahnetal.2000\n\n58. A Gillis, Justing (August 11, 2005). \"Rice Genome Fully Mapped\", washingtonpost.com.\n\n59. A Rice Varieties: IRRI Knowledge Bank. Accessed August 2006. [3]\n\n37\n\n60. A Grand Challenges in Global Health, Press release, June 27, 2005\n\n61. A Nature's story\n\n62. A Bethell D. R., Huang J., _et al._ BioMetals, 17.337-342 (2004).[4]\n\n63. A proverbial saying, Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (Japan), (Japanese)\n\nThis article is licensed under the GNU Free Documentation License. It uses material from the Wiki\n\npedia article \"Cake\".Source http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rice\n\n38\n\n\"21\" Club Rice Pudding  \nYield: 10 Servings  \n1 qt Milk  \n1 pt Heavy cream  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1 Vanilla bean  \n3/4 c Long-grained rice  \n1 c Granulated sugar  \n1 Egg yolk  \n1 1/2 c Whipped cream  \nRaisins (optional)  \nIn a heavy saucepan, combine the milk, cream, salt, vanilla bean and /4 cup of the sugar and bring to a boil. Stirring well, add the rice.  \nAllow the mixture to simmer gently, covered, for 1 3/4 hours over a very low flame, until rice is soft. Remove from the heat and cool slightly. Remove the vanilla bean. Blending well, stir in the remaining  \n1/4 cup of sugar and the egg yolk. Allow to cool a bit more. Preheat  \nthe broiler. stir in all but 2 tablespoons of the whipped cream; pour the mixture into individual crocks or a souffle dish. (Raisins my be placed in the bottom of the dishes, if desired.) After spreading the remaining whipped cream in a thin layer over the top, place the crocks or dish under the broiler until the pudding is lightly browned. Chill before serving.  \n15-Minute Chicken & Rice Dinner  \nMain Dish, Poultry  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 T vegetable oil  \n4 (4-6-oz.) fresh boneless,  \n\\- skinless chicken breasts 1 0.75-oz.\n\n\\- can cream of chicken soup  \n1 1/3 c water or 2% milk  \n1 1/2 c quick-cooking rice, uncooked  \nHeat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add  \nchicken; cover. Cook 4 minutes on each side or until cooked thoroughly.\n\n39\n\nRemove chicken from skillet. Add soup and water; stir to mix and bring to a boil. stir in rice, then top with chicken; cover. Reduce heat to  \nlow and cook 5 minutes.  \nComments: Completely cooked in one skillet, this tasty chicken and rice dish is easily and quickly assembled. Add a salad and crusty bread if desired.  \nAlmond and Rice Flour Bread with Poppy Seeds  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1/2 c Whole almonds, with skins  \n1 1/2 c Brown rice flour  \n4 t Baking powder  \n1/4 t Salt  \n3 t Poppy seeds  \n1/2 c Plain low-fat yogurt  \n1/2 c Water  \n1 lg Whole egg  \n1 lg Egg white white  \n2 T Vegetable oil  \nThis and the following two recipes are wheat free, utilizing brown rice flour. They're from an article by Jacqueline Mallorca in the Chron.  \nFor those to whom it is important, she's working on a book about  \nwheat-free baking. No hint as to the release date though. Preheat oven to 350F. Butter an 8 x 4inch loaf pan.  \nPlace almonds and 1/2 cup of the flour in bowl of a food processor and grind until a fine meal is formed++the flour will prevent the nuts from turning oily. Add remaining rice flour, the baking powder, salt and 2 teaspoons of the poppy seeds; process briefly.  \nCombine yogurt, water, whole egg, egg white and oil in a 2-cup  \nmeasuring cup.  \nWith processor motor running, pour liquid ingredients through feed tube over flour mixture, processing just long enough to mix.  \nTransfer batter to prepared pan. Sprinkle with remaining poppy seeds,  \nand bake for 55 minutes. Turn out onto a rack to cool. (Bread slices best after several hours, or the next day).  \nMakes one 18-ounce loaf (18 slices).  \nPER SLICE: 90 calories, 3 g protein, 11 g carbohydrate, 4 g fat (1 g saturated), 12 mg cholesterol, 115 mg sodium, 1 g fiber.\n\n40\n\nAlmond Tuna and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 en VEG-ALL Mixed  \n-Vegetables (16 oz)  \n1 c Mayonnaise  \n1 en Tuna (12.5 oz)  \n2 c Cooked rice  \n1/2 c Chopped green pepper  \n2 t Dill weed  \n1 c Fresh bread crumbs  \n1/2 c Slivered almonds  \nDrain VEG-ALL; combine liquid with mayonnaise, blending until smooth. Stir in tuna, rice, green pepper, dill and vegetables.  \nSpoon into greased 2-quart casserole dish.  \nIn small skillet, melt butter; stir in bread crumbs and almonds, coat well and spoon over mixture in casserole.  \nBake at 375'F. for 30 minutes or until bubbly and lightly browned.  \nAntipasto Rice  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1 1/2 c Water  \n1/2 c Tomato juice  \n1 c Uncooked rice  \n1 t Dried basil leaves  \n1 t Dried oregano leaves  \n1/2 t Salt; optional  \n1 en Artichoke hearts;  \n-drained & quartered (14  \n-oz.)  \nJars Roasted red peppers;  \n\\- dr d and chopped (7 oz.)  \nen Sliced ripe olives;  \n\\- (2-1/4 oz.)  \n2 T Fresh parsley; snipped  \n2 T Lemon juice  \n1/2 t Ground black pepper  \n2 T Parmesan; grated  \nCalories per serving: 131 Fat grams per serving: 1.6g Approx. Cook Time: Cholesterol per serving: 1 mg Combine water, tomato juice, rice, basil, oregano and salt in saucepan. Heat to boiling; stir once or  \ntwice. Lower heat to simmer; cover with a tight-fitting lid. Cook for  \n15 to 20 minutes. Stir in artichokes, red peppers, olives, parsley, lemon juice and black pepper. Cook an additional 5 minutes or until thoroughly heated. Sprinkle with cheese. Serves 8. PER SERVING: 41\n\nCalories: 131 Sodium: mg Cholesterol: 1 mg Fat: 1.6 g  \nApricot and Rice Muffins  \nYield: 18 Servings  \n1 1/2 c Flour  \n2/3 c Whole Wheat Flour  \n1/3 c Rice Bran  \n1 T Baking powder  \n1 t Cinnamon  \n1 c Cooked, brown Rice  \n1 1/2 c Dried Apricots, diced  \n1/2 c Raisins  \n1/2 c Dried Prunes  \n1/4 c Walnuts, chopped  \n1 c No Fat Yogurth  \n2/3 c Maple Syrup  \n1/4 c Oil  \n1/4 c Eggsubstitute or 1 Egg, lightly beaten\n\nIn large bowl combine flours, rice bran, baking powder and cinnamon. 2. Stir in rice, apricots, raisins, prunes and walnuts. 3. In a small  \nbowl, whisk together the yogurth, syrup, oil and egg. 4. Pour over dry  \ningridients and fold together until just moistened. Do not overmix. 5. Line 18 muffin cups with paper liners. Divide the batter amoung cups.  \n6. Bake at 350 F until edges and tops begin to brown, about 45 minutes.  \nArmenian Rice Pilaf  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1/41b Butter or margarine  \n1/2 c Vermicelli  \n2 c Uncooked long-grain rice  \n4 c Boiling hot chicken broth  \n1 t MSG (optional) Salt  \nMelt butter in heavy pan or Dutch oven. Break vermicelli in small pieces, add to pan and cook until golden brown, stirring constantly.\n\n42\n\nAdd rice and stir until rice is well coated with butter. Add boiling  \nbroth and MSG and season to taste with salt. Cook, covered, over low heat until liquid is absorbed, about 25 minutes. Stir lightly with  \nfork. Let stand in warm place 15 to 20 minutes before serving.  \nAromatic Chicken with Rice (Malaysia)  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n3 c Cooked rice  \n1 Chicken (3 pounds)  \n1 Onion  \n3 T Sesame oil  \n2 T Light soy sauce  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/4 t Pepper  \nSpread cooked rice in a pie pan. Chop chicken into large pieces. Cut onion into wedges. In a wok or large pan heat sesame oil and brown the chicken with the onions until the onions are transparent. Add soy  \nsauce and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Put the chicken on the cooked rice in the pie plate. Steam for about 30 minutes or until the chicken  \nis done. Serve warm.  \nIf you have a rice cooker, you can just put the braised onions and chicken on top of the raw rice and cook it that way.  \nArroz Amarillo con Camarones -Yellow Rice & Shrimp Casser  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/2 c Olive oil  \n1 sm Onion; chopped  \n1 sm Green pepper; chopped  \n1 Garlic clove; minced  \n1 Parsley sprig  \n1 lg Ripe tomato peeled,  \n\\- seeded & chopped  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1/4 t Nutmeg  \n1/4 t Cumin 43\n\n1/4 t Thyme  \n1 pn Saffron; toasted  \n1 lb Shrimp, raw shelled, deveined  \n1 c -Hot water  \n1/4 c Dry white wine 1 T Lemon juice\n\n## 1 T Salt\n\n1/2 t Hot sauce  \n2 c Long grain white rice  \n2 1/2 c -Water  \n1/2 c Beer  \nCooked peas Pimiento strips Parsley bouquets  \nUse a 3-quart casserole with lid. An earthenware casserole is  \npreferable, especially if you wish to add a touch of Spain to a dinner party. However, I know that good earthenware is hard to find today. I have 2 casseroles that I've had for 15 years.  \nHeat oil in casserole. Saute onion and pepper until transparent. Add  \ngarlic, parsley, tomato, bay leaf, nutmeg, cumin and thyme. Mix well, cover, and cook over low heat until mushy (about 15 minutes). The saffron should be toasting on the lid in the little brown paper.  \nAdd the shrimp to the saute and cook until it turns pink. Dissolve the saffron in the 1 cup hot water. Combine with wine, lemon juice, salt and hot sauce. Pour into casserole, stir to mix, and cook covered 10 minutes more. Now add the rice and the 2 1/2 cups of water. Distribute ingredients well in casserole. Bring to a quick boil, STIR  \nONCE, and place in preheated 325 degree F. oven for only minutes-Nl  \nUN MINUTO MAS! Remove from oven, uncover, and garnish with peas, pimientos, and parsley. Pour beer over all. Cover again and allow to stand 15 minutes longer, before serving.  \nArroz Con Polio (mexican Stewed Chicken With Rice)  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n31b Chicken, cut into pieces  \n1/4 c Cooking oil  \n1/2 c Chopped onion  \n1 Clove garlic, sliced  \n\\- paper thin  \n1/2 c Chopped green pepper  \n1 en Tomatoes (#2) 1/2 t Sail\n\n1/4 t Pepper  \n1/2 t Paprika  \n4 Cloves  \n2 sm Bay leaves  \n1 c Raw rice\n\n44\n\n1 1 0 ounce package frozen peas,  \n1 Sweet red pepper  \n-cut into 1/4\" pieces  \nDry the pieces of chicken with paper toweling. Place the oil in a large skiilet and saute the chicken until golden brown. Add the onion, garlic and green pepper and saute until tbe onion is transparent and glazed. Then add the tomatoes, salt, pepper, paprika, cloves and bay leaves. Bring to a rollng boil, and then turn the heat back to simmer. Cover and simmer for 25 minutes. Add the rice; stir it in well. Cover and simmer for 20 minutes longer, or until the grains of rice are tender.  \nSprinkle the peas and pepper over the top, and cook, uncovered, for 5 minutes more. Serves 6. If you wish, remove the cloves and bay leaves before serving.  \nArroz Dulce (sweet Rice)  \nYield: 10 Servings  \n1 c Rice  \n1/2 c Raisins  \n1 1/2 Cinnamon sticks  \n1 c Sugar  \n1 T Grated gingerroot  \n1 c Canned coconut cream  \n2 c Milk  \n1/2 t Vanilla  \n1/4 c Unsalted butter  \nGround cinnamon  \nSoak rice and raisins in water to cover 1/2 hour. Bring 2 cups water to boil in large saucepan. Drain rice and raisins and add to boiling water with cinnamon sticks and 1/4 cup sugar. Cook over low heat until rice is tender. Boil gingerroot in 1/2 cup water 5 minutes, strain and blend liquid with remaining 3/4 cup sugar, coconut cream, milk and vanilla. Add this mixture with butter to rice. Cover and cook over low heat  \nuntil milk is absorbed, stirring every 5 to 10 minutes. Spoon into  \nserving dish or individual custard cups, sprinkle with cinnamon and chill.  \nArroz Verde ( Green Rice ) 45\n\nYield: 6 Servings\n\n4 Poblano chilies; or 4 green\n\n;peppers, each 4 inches in  \n;diameter  \n4 c Chicken stock; fresh or can  \n1 c Parsley, fresh; coarsely  \n;chopped  \n1/2 c Onion; coarsely chopped  \n1/4 t Garlic; finely chopped\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n1/8 t Black pepper; freshly ground  \n1/4 c Olive oil  \n2 c Long grain rice; raw  \nRoast the chilies or peppers, remove their skins, stems, seeds and thick white membranes and discard. Chop the chilies into chunks. Combine 1 cup of the chunks and 1/2 cup of stock in the jar of a  \nblender and blend at high speed for 15 seconds{d ohen gradually add the remaining chilies and the parsley, onions, garlic, salt and pepper, blending until the mixture is reduced to a smooth puree. (To make the sauce by hand, puree the chilies, parsley, onions and garlic, a cup or  \nso at a time, in a food mill set over a bowl. Discard any pulp left in the mill. Stir in 1/2 cup of stock and the salt and pepper.) Pour the  \noil into a 2 to 3 quart casserole and set it over moderate heat. When  \nthe oil is hot but not smoking, add the rice and stir constantly for 2 to 3 minutes until the grains are coated with oil. Do not let them brown. Now add the pureed chili mixture and simmer, stirring  \noccasionally, for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the remaining 12 cups of  \nstock to a boil in a small saucepan and pour it over the rice. Return to a boil, cover the casserole and reduce the heat to its lowest point. Simmer undisturbed for 18 to 20 minutes, or until the rice is tender and has absorbed all the liquid. Before serving, fluff the rice with a  \nfork. If the rice must wait, remove the cover and drape the pan loosely with a towel. Place in a preheated 250 degree (F) oven to keep warm.  \nBaked Chicken and Rice  \nMain Dish, Poultry  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1 lb boneless skinless chicken  \n\\- breasts  \ncan cream of mushroom soup  \n1 c water  \n1 envelope onion soup mix  \n1 c rice, (not instant)  \nPlace chicken in prepared casserole dish.  \nIn separate bowl mix together remaining ingredients. Pour over chicken. Cover and bake at 375F. for 1 hour.  \nComments: Very simple baked dish.\n\n46\n\nBasic Cooked Rice-Prudhomme  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c Uncooked rice (see note)  \n2 1/2 c Basic stock (Prudhomme)  \n1 1/2 T Onions, chopped very fine  \n1 1/2 T Celery, chopped very fine  \n1 1/2 T Bell peppers,chopped vy fine  \n1 1/2 T Unsalted butter (preferred)  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/8 t Garlic powder pn white pepper pn black pepper  \npn cayenne pepper  \nIn a 5x9x2-1/2-inch loaf pan, combine all ingredients; mix well. Seal pan snuggly with aluminum foil. Bake at 350F until rice is tender,  \nabout 1 hour, 10 minutes. Serve immediately. However, you can count  \non the rice staying hot for 45 minutes and warm for 2 hours. To reheat leftover rice, either use a double boiler or warm the rice in a skillet  \nwith unsalted butter.  \nBeef Teriyaki And Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n3 T Soy sauce  \n1 T Dry sherry  \n2 t Brown sugar  \n1 1/4 t Garlic powder  \n1 t Ground ginger  \n3/41b Flank steak strips Or  \nChicken breasts\n\n## 1 T Oil\n\n3 c Bite size vegetables *  \n1 c Beef broth  \n4 t Cornstarch  \nWater to thin sauce if\n\n47\n\nNecessary  \n*Three cups of veggies-suggest slant cut carrots, green onions, green or red pepper chunks, a few pea pods if you have them. Mix soy sauce, sherry, brown sugar and seasonings. Add beef or chicken. Let stand 10 minutes to marinate.  \nStir fry meat in hot oil in wok until browned, remove. Add vegetables.  \nStir fry until tender crisp. Mix broth and cornstarch, add to wok. Bring to boil, boil1 minute. Replace meat to wok to coat.  \nServe over rice.  \nBlack Beans and Rice  \nMain Dish, Meat  \nYield: 20 Servings  \n1 1/21b dried black turtle beans  \n1 large bell pepper, diced  \n1 hot pepper (optional)  \ntabasco (optional)  \n4 onions, diced  \n6 cloves garlic, chopped  \n3/4 c celery, diced  \n1/4 c parsley, chopped  \n2 T oregano, chopped  \n2 T basil, chopped  \n2 bay leaves  \npn ground cloves  \n1/2 t ground cumin  \n4 beef boullion cubes  \n1 lb lean bulk pork sausage  \n1 lb pork, boneless cubed  \n1 lb stew beef chunks  \n1/21b ham, smoked (1/2\" cubes)  \n1 1/21b smoked link sausage cut  \n\\- into 1\" to 2\" lengths salt to taste  \npepper to taste  \n2 T vinegar  \n\\----- Beans -----  \nWash and look for gravel then soak overnight in a bowl being sure beans are well covered with water. For cooking use a large crock pot.  \n\\----- Meats-----  \nFirst, brown bulk sausage in a skillet and pour off excess grease. Add other meats and stir to brown. Add bell pepper, onion, garlic, celery, and spices. Salt and pepper moderately, taste after cooking several hours and add more if needed.  \nAdd beans and soak water. If necessary add more water to cover entire  \ningredients by at least two inches. Stir in four bouillon cubes. Cover and cook on crock pot high for three hours then turn to low for at least six hours.\n\n48\n\nServe beans and meat over rice. Serve in a soup bowl and top with fresh chopped onion.  \nBlackeyed Peas and Rice  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1 x Dried blackeyed peas  \n1 x Lipton Rice 'n' Sauce Cajun  \n1 x Stew Meat  \n1 x Bell pepper  \n1 x Onion  \n1 T Pepper  \n1 t Creole or Cajun seasoning  \n1 x Cayenne pepper or hot sauce  \nLook thru peas for rocks and wash through 3 waters. Soak peas in water overnight in fridge. The next day, throw out water they soaked in;  \nsome claim this keeps beans from giving you a problem, but stay on this diet a couple weeks and you won't have a problem anyway. It goes away. Wash stew meat and put stew meat and pre-soaked peas in big pot on stove and bring to boil, with PLENTY of water. Add seasonings to  \ntaste. If you use Cajun seasoning it contains salt; so don't add extra  \nsalt!!!! Otherwise, add salt to taste. When stew meat and peas come to a boil, reduce to Medium and keep watching to add water so they don't scorch. After about 40 minutes add packet of Rice and Sauce, preferably Cajun flavor. Start watching the water really carefully  \nnow, and add a pint from time to time. After about minutes of rice cooking, add bell pepper, onion, and more seasonings if you need. (This dish is good hot and peppery) Everything should be ready at the same time. When test bite shows all is ready, eat!  \nBlackeyed Peas And Rice Salad  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n3 c Hot cooked (boiled) rice  \n1 1/2 c Cooked blackeyed peas =OR=-  \n10 oz -Frozen blackeyed peas  \n-(cooked 49\n\n-according  \n-to package directions)  \n1 T Dijon-style mustard  \n1 t Salt (or to taste) Freshly ground pepper  \n3 T Red wine vinegar  \n3/4 c Extra-virgin olive oil (or  \n\\- part safflower oil) md Onion; minced Garlic clove; minced  \nlg Carrot; peeled and grated  \n1/4 c Minced chives or parsley  \n1 Head of radicchio =OR=-  \n\\- Boston  \n-lettuce (for garnish)  \nThis salad version of the traditional Southern New Year's dish called Hoppin' John can be prepared a day ahead and stored in the refrigerator. Allow it to come to room temperature before serving.  \nCOOK THE RICE AND THE PEAS in advance. PREPARE THE VINAIGRETTE: WHISK  \nTHE MUSTARD, salt, pepper and vinegar until dissolved. Dribble in the oil while whisking. Toss the blackeyed peas and the rice with the vinaigrette until everything is nicely coated. Mix in the onion,  \ngarlic, carrot and chives or parsley. Bring to room temperature before serving. This dish can be prepared a day ahead and refrigerated, covered. Place in a bowl and surround with lettuce leaves; serve at room temperature.  \nBlanched Gai Lan Dressed with Rice Wine and Oyster Sauce  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 T Oyster sauce  \n2 T Chicken stock  \n1 T Shao Hsing wine, or  \n\\- dry sherry  \n1/2 t Sugar  \n1/2 t Sesame oil1 To 1 1/2 lb gai lan (Chinese broccoli)  \n1 t Salt  \n1 T Peanut oil  \nGai lan is Chinese broccoli. It's not much like the Western stuff. It has thinner stems, flowers and leaves and is eaten more as a green. Combine the oyster sauce, chicken stock, Shao Hsing wine, sugar and sesame oil in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil and cook until sauce thickens. Set aside.  \nWash the gai lan in cold water. Trim off and discard the tough bottoms. Peel stalks if they are thick and tough; leave gai Ian whole or cut into thirds.  \nBring 3 to 4 quarts of water to a boil in a wok or stock pot; add the  \nsalt and oil. Add the greens, bring back to a second boil. Turn off 50\n\nthe heat and let greens stand for a minute or two. When the green stalks brighten, test one for doneness. It should be tender and crisp. Drain immediately and shake off excess water.  \nTransfer to a platter, pour dressing over, and serve immediately. Serves 4 to 6.  \nPER SERVING: 35 calories, 2 g protein, 4 g carbohydrates, 1 g fat (0 g  \nsaturated), 0 mg cholesterol, 298 mg sodium, 2 g fiber.  \nBombay Rice & Lentils  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1/2 Onion,medium-size,chopped  \n2 T Salad oil  \n1 c Rice,brown,uncooked  \n1 T Tanato paste  \n2 1/2 c Water  \n1/4 t Cinnamon  \n1/4 c Lentils,uncooked  \n1/2 t Salt,seasoned  \n1/2 c Raisins  \n1/2 c Pinenuts  \nSaute onion in oil in large skillet until soft. Add rice; cook, stirring, several minutes.  \nCombine tomato paste, water, cinnamon and lentils in a bowl; add to  \nrice.  \nBring mixture to a boil; cover tightly, reduce heat and simmer 30 minutes.  \nStir in seasoned salt, raisins and pinenuts.  \nGrease an 8-inch-square baking dish; pour in rice mixture. Cover and bake in preheated 350'F. oven 20 to 30 minutes.  \nBrazilian Chicken Rice Soup  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 3 lb Chicken  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1 Medium onion, quartered  \n1 Whole clove 51\n\n2 Ripe tomatoes, quartered  \n1 Carrot, cut into 1\" pieces\n\n1/4 c Chopped celery leaves\n\n20 Black peppercorns, tied in\n\nA piece of cheesecloth\n\n1/2 c Uncooked white rice\n\nSalt & freshly ground black\n\nPepper\n\n3 Carrots, thinly sliced on\n\nThe diagonal\n\n1/4 c Finely chopped flat-leaf\n\nParsley\n\nWash the chicken thoroughly. Remove the skin and any pieces of fat. Pin the bay leaf to 1 onion quarter with the clove. Place the chicken\n\nin a large pot with the tomatoes, onion quarters, 1 carrot, celery\n\nleaves, and peppercorn bundle. Add 10 cups cold water and bring to a boil. Using a ladle, skim off the fat and foam that rise to the\n\nsurface. Reduce the heat and simmer for 1 hour, skimming often to remove the fat.\n\nRemove the chicken from the broth and let cool. strain the broth into\n\na large saucepan, pressing the vegetables to extract the juices. (There should be about 8 cups of broth.) Pull the chicken meat off the bones and shred or finely dice it.\n\nAdd the rice, salt, and pepper to the broth and simmer for 10 minutes.\n\nAdd the thinly sliced carrots and celery to the soup with the shredded chicken and half the parsley. Simmer the soup for another 10 minutes, or until the rice is tender. Correct the seasoning, adding salt and pepper to taste. Sprinkle with the remaining parsley and serve at once.\n\nBrown Rice & Wheat Berries (Vegan)\n\nYield: 1 Serving\n\n2 1/4 c Water\n\n1/3 c Wheat berries\n\n1/3 c Brown rice\n\n1 T Saute fluid (pick your a\n\nCompatible favoriet)\n\n1/4 c Chopped scallion\n\n1/4 t Salt\n\n1/8 t Pepper\n\nIn 2qt pan, boil water. Add berries, return to boil. Reduce heat,\n\nsimmer, covered, 1 hour. Stir in brown rice. Cover, simmer 50 minutes longer. 5 minutes before rice is finished, saute scallion until\n\nsoftened. Combi ne with rice and wheat mixture, along with spices. Note: The original recipe called for 2 Tbs. pignoli (pine nuts), tested\n\nin 1 Tbs butter, before adding the scallions. I simply eliminated them.\n\n52\n\nI'll run both combinations through my recipe program, andre-post if it can be done<= 10% cff. The original recipe's 'Health Tip' suggested omitting salt, substituting unsalted margarine, and/or eliminating the nuts.  \nBrown Rice Casserole  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n4 c Cooked brown rice  \nHalf block of tofu  \n1 lg Onion  \n2 md Carrots  \n2 Celery stalks  \n1 Green pepper  \n2 md Zucchini =OR=-  \n\\- other summer squash  \n6 oz Mushrooms, wiped clean  \n1 T Olive oil  \n1 T Butter  \n3 Garlic cloves finely chopped  \n1 t Nutritional yeast (optional)  \n1 t Ground cumin seeds  \n1 t Salt  \n1 c Mushroom broth; -=OR=  \n\\- Vegetable stock, or water  \n6 oz Grated cheese (Jack,  \n-muenster, Cheddar or Gouda)  \nPepper  \nFresh herbs, for garnish  \n-(Parsley  \n\\- or Cilantro, Thyme,  \n\\- Marjoram)  \nThis was one of the most popular dishes at Greens Restaurant in San  \nFrancisco.  \nCOOK RICE. SET THE TOFU on a slanted board or pan to drain, and prepare the vegetables. Chop the onion, carrots, celery, pepper, and zucchini  \ninto pieces about 1/2-inch square. Quarter mushrooms if they are small, and cut them into sixths or eighths if they are large. Cut the tofu  \ninto 1/2-inch cubes. Heat the olive oil and the butter and fry the  \nonion over medium heat until it is lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, nutritional yeast, if using, cumin and salt. Stir until blended and cook for 1 minute. Add the carrots, celery, green pepper and 1/2 cup of the liquid, cover pan, and braise the vegetables until  \nthey begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Add the zucchini and mushrooms and cook 7 to 10 minutes. The vegetables should be nearly, but not completely, cooked. If the pan gets dry while they cook, add a little  \nmore liquid. Preheat oven to 350F. Combine the vegetables with rice and  \ncheese. Season with salt and plenty of freshly ground black pepper.\n\n53\n\nGently mix in the tofu, and put mixture into lightly oiled casserole. Add a little more liquid to moisten. Cover with foil and bake 1/2 hour. Remove foil and bake 15 minutes. Garnish with fresh herbs.  \nBrown Rice Jambalaya  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1/21b Diced ham or bacon (cut  \n\\- bacon crosswise into  \n-thin strips)  \n4 Chicken legs (2 1/2 pounds)  \n1 lb Cajun-style sausage  \n3 md Garlic cloves, peeled  \n1 md Onion, peeled, cubed  \n1 md Green bell pepper,  \n-cored, cut in 1-inch  \n-squares  \n2 md Tomatoes, peeled,  \n\\- cored, quartered  \n1 1/2 c Raw brown rice  \n1/2 t Each, dried oregano  \n\\- leaves, dried thyme leaves,  \n-file  \nPowder, ground black pepper  \n1/4 t Each, cayenne pepper,  \n\\- ground cumin  \n3 c Chicken broth  \nSalt  \n1/21b Peeled, deveined raw shrimp  \nI seem to remember you being involved in a conversation about brown rice a few months back.. Here's something that you might find interesting.  \nPut ham or bacon in a 4-quart soup kettle and cook over low heat until  \nfat is rendered. Increase heat to medium and stir until cooked, about  \n5 minutes.  \nRemove chicken skin, cut meat off the bones and then cut boneless chicken into bite-size pieces. Add to kettle or skillet with bacon or  \nham and toss until color turns pale, about 4 minutes. Remove bacon or ham and chicken with a slotted spoon and put on paper toweling; set aside. Add sausage to kettle and brown all over, about to 8 minutes; remove. Leave 2 tablespoons fat in kettle; pour off and discard remaining fat.  \nInsert metal blade in food processor. Mince garlic by adding to  \nmachine with motor on. Add onion and chop very coarsely with half second pulses. Add green pepper and process with half-second pulses until mixture is chopped to medium consistency. Add mixture to kettle and stir over low heat until softened, about 10 minutes. Process tomatoes until pureed; set aside.\n\n54\n\nAdd rice to ingredients in kettle and stir over low heat for 2 minutes. Then stir in oregano Thyme, file, black pepper, cayenne pepper and cumin. Add tomatoes and broth. Stir well and let mixture to boiling. Reduce heat to low, cover and cook rice mixture 15 to 20 minutes. Cut sausage into 1/4-inch thick coin like slices. Mix sausage, ham and chicken pieces into rice. Cover and cook until rice is tender (rice  \nmay not absorb all the liquid) about 20 minutes longer. Taste and adjust seasoning, adding salt as needed. Stir shrimp into hot rice mixture, cover pot and let stand for 8 to 10 minutes. Serve rice with shrimp, meats and liquid.  \nServes 8.  \nBrown Rice Pilaf  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1/2 t Instant chicken bouillon  \n1 c Sliced fresh Mushrooms  \n3/4 c Brown Rice, quick cooking  \n1/2 c Shredded Carrot  \n1/4 t Dried Marjoram, crushed  \n1/4 c Thinly sliced Green Onion  \n2 T Snipped fresh Parsley  \nIn a medium saucepan stir together bouillon granules and 1 cup water. Bring to boiling. Stir in mushrooms, brown rice, carrot, marjoram, and  \ndash pepper. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 12 minutes. Remove  \nfrom heat; let stand for 5 minutes. Add green onion and parsley; toss lightly with a fork. Serve immediately.  \n* ___ _*--*-*--*- ___ _*--*---*-*-**Per serving: 104  \ncalories, 3 g protein, 21 g carbohydrates, 1 g fat, 0 mg cholesterol, mg sodium, 205 mg potassium.  \nBrussels Sprout and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 en 10 3/4 ounces condensed  \nCream of Mushroom soup  \n1 c Milk 55\n\n1 T Butter  \n1 t Salt  \n3/4 t Caraway Seed  \n2/3 c Regular Rice  \n2 package Frozen Brussel  \n-Sprouts  \n10 oz each, cut in half  \nAbout 40 minutes before serving: In 12 inch skillet, over medium heat, heat undiluted soup, milk, 1 cup water, butter, salt and caraway seed to boiling; stirring occasionally. Stir in rice; reduce heat to low;  \ncover and simmer 15 minutes. Stir in brussel sprouts; cover and continue to cook 15 minutes or until rice and brussel sprouts are tender; stirring occasionally.  \nButtered Saffron Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 t Saffron;leaf saffron  \n2 T Milk; warm  \n1 T -Salt  \n2 c Rice, basmati  \n4 T Butter  \n\"The darker (the redder) the saffron colour, the better the quality. It usually comes from Spain, but the best, really expensive stuff, is grown in Kashmir, where I went to see it growing. There are many different grades. Watch out for fake or dyed saffron. Buy it from a reputable source. To use it in a recipe, I roast it in a cast-iron pan until it's crisp to draw out the colour, then crumble it lukewarm milk and let it sit for three to four hours.\"  \nPlace saffron in small, dry, hot pan over medium heat about 1 minute or  \njust until fragrant. Crumble into milk. Fill large pot with about 13  \ncups water; add salt and bring to boil. Meanwhile, place rice in medium bowl and cover with cold water. Immediately drain rice through  \ncolander. Wash and drain two more times. When water is boils, add rice and stir once; bring to boil. Cook 5 minutes; rice should be slightly  \nhard in the centre. Drain in colander and place in ovenproof dish. Drizzle saffron milk over rice, tossing over a couple oftimes very gently. Divide butter into four pieces; place over rice. Cut pieces of aluminium foil 2 inches larger than rim of dish; place on top of dish; place lid on foil. Bake in preheated 300F oven to 50 minutes, checking after 40 minutes to see if rice is cooked. Serve saffron-coloured streaked rice spooned on warmed platter. SERVES:6\n\n56\n\nCajun Jambalaya Rice  \nYield: Makes 41-cup servings  \n1 md Onion - chopped  \n3 Garlic cloves -finely  \nChopped  \nlg Bell pepper-green, cut  \nInto 1/2\" pieces  \n2 1/2 c Basic chicken stock-see  \nRecipe  \n5 Scallions-finely sliced  \n1 c Brown rice -long grained  \n3 Italian plum tomatoes - Cored, seeded, chopped  \n1/41b Turkey ham-baked, all fat  \nRemoved, 1/2\" cubes  \n1/4 t White pepper  \n1/4 t Black pepper-fresh ground  \n3/4 t Cayenne pepper  \n1/2 t Cumin  \n1/4 t Allspice  \n1/41b Shrimp-peeked and deveined ds Tabasco sauce- (optional)  \n1/4c Parsley-fresh, chopped  \nIn an 8-quart pot saute the onion, garlic, and green pepper in 3 Tbsp. of stock for 5 minutes.  \nAdd two-thirds of the scallions, the rice, and tomatoes, and cook for 5  \nminutes over medium-low heat, adding a little more of the stock if necessary.  \nAdd the cubed turkey ham, the three peppers, cumin, allspice, and the remaining stock, and cook on very low heat, covered for 40 minutes. Add the shrimp and cook for 2 minutes.  \nTaste for spiciness. You can add 5-6 drops of Tabasco sauce (I prefer  \nLouisiana Gold Sauce) for a more pungent flavor.  \nServe garnished with parsley and the remaining scallions.  \nCajun Rice 'N' Sausage  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n3/4 t Paprika  \n1/4 t Anise Seed; lightly crushed  \n1 t Fresh Marjoram; minced  \n2 T Fresh Basil; minced  \n2 ds Tabasco Sauce  \n1/2 t Pickled Jalapeno Peppers  \n-minced 57\n\n1 T Worcestershire Sauce  \n1/2 c Canned Tomato Puree  \n141/2 oz Can Cut Tomatoes;  \n\\- with their juices  \n1/41b Chicken Sausage  \n4 c Cooked Brown Rice  \n2 c Stir-Fried Vegetables  \n1/41b Cooked Shrimp 1 Green Onion; minced\n\n1/4 c Parsley; chopped  \nCombine paprika, anise seed, marjoram, basil, Tabasco, jalapeno, Worcestershire, tomato puree and canned tomatoes with juice. Stir to combine. Preheat oven to 375?F. Lightly prick sausages with the tines  \nof a fork. Place in a small baking pan and roast for 15 minutes. Remove from oven; reduce oven temperature to 350?F. Cut sausages into /4\" rounds.  \nCombine rice, sausages, and 1 cup tomato mixture in a 2 quart  \ncasserole; par to an even layer. Combine vegetables and shrimp with remaining tomato mixture; spoon over rice and sausages. Cover and bake for 15 minutes, until hot. Stir in green onions and parsley.  \nPer Serving: 395 calories, 23 g protein, 63 g carbohydrate, 8 g fat, g  \nsaturated fat, 107 mg cholesterol, 529 mg sodium, 5 g fiber.  \nCajun Spiced Chicken and Rice  \nYield: 3 Servings  \n1 T Flour  \n1 Cooking bag  \n1 c Rice, instant  \n1 Bell pepper, cut in chunks  \n1/2 c Onion, chopped  \n1/4 c Celery, sliced  \n1/2 t Thyme leaves  \n1/4 t Salt  \n14 1/2 oz Tomatoes, canned, cut in  \nHalf  \n1/4 c Water  \n4 To 6 pieces chicken  \n1/4 t Cayenne  \n1/4 t Garlic powder  \nPreheat oven to 350. Shake flour in cooking bag; place in 13x9x2-inch baking pan. Combine rice, green pepper, onion, celery, thyme and salt in bag. Add tomatoes and water; squeeze bag to blend ingredients. Arrange ingredients in an even layer. Combine cayenne pepper and garlic powder; sprinkle lightly over chicken. Place chicken in bag on  \ntop of rice mixture. Close bag with nylon tie; make half-inch slits in  \ntop. Bake 1 hour or until tender. Makes 2-3 servings.\n\n58\n\nCamp Tuna and Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 en Tuna; and liquid  \n1 c Quick-cooking brown rice  \n2 T Instant dried onikon  \n2 T Green pepper flakes  \n1 3/4 c Boiling water  \nHeat tuna in its oil in a skillet. Add remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. Cover and cook 15 to 20 minutes.  \nCarrot-Rice Puree  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n2 T Brown rice, uncooked  \n6 Carrots, scrubbed and chopped  \n\\- in small pieces  \n1 1/3 c Water  \nA nutritious, smooth dish with a bit of texture for older infants.  \n(or broth or leftover coking liquid from cooking vegetables) 1 teaspoon sweet butter (optional)  \nPlace rice and carrots in a saucepan with the water and cover. Simmer until the water is absorbed--about 30 to 40 minutes. When cool enough to handle, puree in blender or food processor with butter until smooth Refrigerate, or freeze leftovers in ice cube tray.  \nMakes 1-1/ cups  \nCarrot-Rice Soup 59\n\nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 lb Carrots, peeled and chopped  \n1 md Onion, chopped  \n1 T Margarine  \n4 c Chicken broth, divided  \n1/4 t Dried tarragon leaves  \n1/4 t Ground white pepper  \n2 1/4 c Cooked rice  \n1/4 c Light sour cream  \nSnipped parsley or mint  \n\\- for garnish  \nCook carrots and onion in margarine in large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat 2-3 minutes or until onion is tender. Add 2 cups broth, tarragon, and pepper. Reduce heat; simmer 10 minutes. Combine vegetables and broth in food processor or blender; process until  \nsmooth. Return to saucepan. Add remaining 2 cups broth and rice;  \nthoroughly heat. Dollop soup cream on each serving of soup. Garnish with parsley.  \nMakes 6 servings.  \nCatalan Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 1/2 c Fish Stock  \n1/4 t Saffron Threads  \n1/4 c Dry White Wine  \n6 T Lard  \n1/21b Chorizo, Sliced 1/4\"  \n11/21b Pork Loin, 1\" Cubes  \n1 Onion, Thinly Sliced  \n2 Bell Peppers, Julienned  \n2 Tomatoes, Peeled, Seeded  \n3 Large Squid  \n2 c Long-Grained Rice  \n3/4 c Blanched Almonds  \n1/3 c Pine Nuts  \n3 Garlic Cloves, Minced  \n1 c Artichoke Hearts, Drained  \n18 Clams Or Mussels, Scrubbed  \n1/2 c Peas  \n1/4 c Pimientos, Julienned  \n2 T Fresh Parsley, Minced  \nClean squid and cut body sacs into rings. Cut tentacles in half. In a small saucepan, bring stock to a bare simmer. Crush saffron and combine it with wine in a small bowl. In a flameproof casserole or paella pan, heat the lard over moderately high heat. Saute the chorizo 60\n\nand pork, turning them until they are browned. Add the onion, bell peppers, tomatoes, and squid and cook the mixture over moderate heat, stirring, for 15 minutes. stir in the rice and cook for 1 minute,  \nstirring. Stir in almonds, pine nuts, garlic, saffron mixture, and artichoke hearts. Ladle in enough stock to just cover the rice mixture. Bring to a boil and simmer it, covered, for 20 minutes. Arrange the clams in the rice, add the peas, and simmer for -15 minutes, or until the rice is just tender and the clams open. Discard any clams that do not open. Garnish with pimientos and parsley.  \nCauliflower & Wild Rice Soup  \nYield: 2 Quarts  \n1 md Onion, chopped  \n1 c Thinly sliced celery  \n1 c Sliced fresh mushrooms  \n1/2 c Butter or margarine  \n1/2 c Flour  \n1 qt Chicken broth  \n2 c Cooked wild rice  \n2 c Cauliflower florets, cooked  \n1 c Light cream  \nIn a large saucepan, saute onion, celery and mushrooms in butter until tender. Sprinkle with flour. Stir to coat well. Gradually add chicken broth. Cook and stir until thickned. stir in wild rice, cauliflower and cream until well blended. Cook gently until heated through. Do not  \nboil.  \nChar Kway Teow (Stir-Fried Rice Noodles)  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 Chinese sausages (lop cheong)  \n1/41b Medium shrimp (36 to  \n\\- 40 per pound), shelled  \n\\- and deveined  \n1 t Salt  \n1/41b Cleaned squid, with tentacles 61\n\n-(See Technique Note)  \n1/41b Chinese barbecued pork  \n1/4 t White pepper  \n1 1/2 T Dark soy sauce  \n1 1/2 T Light soy sauce  \n1 T Oyster sauce  \n2 lb Fresh rice noodles,  \n\\- in 5/8-inch-wide strips  \n4 T Peanut oil  \n4 Cloves garlic, chopped  \n4 Shallots, sliced (1/2 cup  \n\\- sliced)  \n6 Fresh red chiles, seeded  \n-and chopped  \n1 c Bean sprouts, tails removed  \n1 c Shredded Chinese cabbage  \n2 lg Eggs  \n4 Green onions, chopped  \nFresh coriander sprigs,  \n\\- for garnish  \nNothing is more fascinating and delicious than eating at the open-air street hawker centers in Asia, particularly in Singapore. Each stall serves a specialty, typically an honest, unpretentious, home-style dish for $1 to $3 a plate. This rice noodle dish is hawker food at its best.  \nIf done right, its fragrance will tell you how good it's going to be as soon as it arrives at your table. Singapore hawkers will use whatever seafoods are available, including cockles and sliced fish cakes in addition to those suggested in this recipe. Feel free to experiment. Steam the sausages for 10 minutes. Cut them in thin diagonal slices. Toss the shrimp with 1/2 teaspoon of the salt. Let them stand for 10 minutes, rinse well with cold water, drain, and pat dry. Cut the squid into 1/4 inch rings and tentacles. Cut the barbecued pork into  \n1/4-inch-thick slices. Combine the white pepper, soy sauces, and  \noyster sauce in a bowl; set aside. Just before cooking, put the noodles in a large bowl and pour boiling water over them. Stir gently with chopsticks to separate the strands, drain, and shake off the excess water. Preheat a wok; when hot, add 2 tablespoons of the oil. Add the remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt and the garlic, shallots, and chiles and cook over medium-high heat until the garlic is golden brown. Increase the heat to high and toss in the shrimp and squid; stiriry until the shrimp turn bright orange and the squid looks opaque white, about 2 minutes. Add the sausage slices, barbecued pork, bean sprouts, and cabbage; toss and stir until the vegetables begin to wilt. Remove everything in the wok to a platter and set aside. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to the wok; when hot, toss in the well-drained noodles. Gently toss and flip the noodles to heat them through. Be careful not to break them; it is okay if they brown slightly. Push the noodles up the sides of the wok to make a well in the middle; pour in the soy sauce mixture, then toss the noodles gently to sauce them  \nevenly. Make a well again and break the eggs into the middle. Without  \nmixing them with the noodles, scramble the eggs lightly. When the eggs begin to set, add the green onions and return the seafood mixture. Gently toss together to reheat and mix. Serve hot, with a hot chill  \nsauce for seasoning to taste. Garnish with coriander sprigs. NOTE: Both here and in Asia, fresh rice noodles are usually purchased rather than made at home. Look for them in Asian markets or Chinese take-out dim sum shops. This dish can be prepared with dried rice noodles; however, it is worth taking the time to seek out the fresh variety.  \nMake certain that your wok is well seasoned or the fragile rice noodles 62\n\nwill break apart and stick to the pan. Although I hesitate recommending that you cook with a non stick wok or skillet, they will  \nwork fine if you are more comfortable with them. TECHNIQUE NOTE; To  \nclean squid, start by separating all the tentacles from the heads, cutting across as close as possible to the eyes. Squeeze out and discard the hard, pea sized beak in the center of each cluster of tentacles. Rinse the tentacles and drain them in a colander. Grasp the mantle (the saclike \"body\" of the squid) in one hand and the head in  \nthe other and pull apart; the entrails will pull out attached to the head. Pull the transparent quill out of each mantle. Discard everything but the tentacles and mantles. Running a little water into each mantle to open it up, reach in with a finger and pull out any  \nentrails remaining inside. (Working over a second colander to catch all the debris will make cleanup easier.) You can remove the spotted outer skin or leave it on (I prefer to remove it). Transfer the cleaned  \nmantles to a cutting board, slice them crosswise to the desired size,and add them to the tentacles in the colander. Give everything another rinse and drain thoroughly.  \nMakes 4 to 6 servings  \nCheese and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 1/2 c Brown rice cooked  \n3 Green onions, chopped  \n1 c Lowfat cottage cheese  \n1 t Dried dill  \n1/4 c Grated Parmesan cheese  \n1/2 c Lowfat milk  \nCombine all ingredients in a mixing bowl. Pour into a lightly oiled casserole. Bake at 350 F for 15 to 20 minutes.  \nCheese and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 1/2 c Brown rice, cooked  \n3 Green onions, chopped 63\n\n1 c Low fat cottage cheese\n\n1 t Dried dill\n\n1/4 c Grated parmesan cheese\n\n1/2c 1%milk\n\nCombine all in a mixing bowl. Pour into casserole dish sprayed with nonstick spray.\n\nBake at 350F for 15-20 minutes.\n\nOne serving= 2 breads, 1 protein, 1/2 milk Per serving-- 235 calories\n\nChestnuts With Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n1 md Onion, sliced finely\n\n1/41b Mushrooms, sliced\n\nMargarine as required\n\n1 t All-purpose flour\n\n1/2 c Stock\n\n1 lb Chestnuts, boiled\n\nSalt & black pepper\n\n1/2 c White wine\n\n2 c Cooked rice\n\nSaute onion & mushrooms in margarine till brown. Add flour & blend. Gradually add stock. Stir till smooth. Add peeled & chopped chestnuts & mix well. Season. Add white wine, heat to boiling point & serve over rice.\n\nChicken & Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n## 2 lg Chicken breasts\n\n\\- [boneless skin on or off] en Cream of chicken soup en Cream of celery soup\n\nen Cream of mushroom soup\n\nen (soup can full)\n\n-rice [do not use minute\n\n64\n\n\\- rice]\n\n3/4 en (soup can) milk\n\n1/8 t Salt\n\n1/4 t Pepper\n\nMix the soups, milk and the rice, and pour into a 9\"x13\" baking pan\n\nSplit the chicken breasts into 4 equal parts and place them on top of the soup mix... Season with the salt and pepper and whatever else you prefer..\n\nBake in a 300? oven for 2 hrs... garnish as desired and serve..\n\nChicken & Rice Dinner\n\nYield: 6 Servings\n\n2 lb To 3 lb broiler/fryer\n\n-chicken, cut up\n\n1/4 c (to 1/3 cup) flour\n\n## 2 TOil\n\n1 1/2 c Long grain rice\n\n1 t Poultry seasoning\n\n1 t Salt\n\n1/2 t Pepper\n\n1 c Milk\n\n2 1/3 c Water\n\nChopped fresh parsley\n\nDredge chicken pieces in flour. In a skillet, heat oil on medium and brown chicken on all sides. Meanwhile, combine rice, poultry seasoning, salt, pepper, milk and water. Pour into a greased 13x9x2\" baking pan. Top with chicken. Cover tightly with foil and bake at 350 degrees for 55 minutes or until rice and chicken are tender. Sprinkle with parsley before serving.\n\nChicken & Rice Jambalaya Style\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n## 2 SLICES OF BACON\n\n2 c WATER\n\n1 package LIPTON CAJUN STYLE\n\n65\n\nTHE  \n-RICE  \n2 T KETCHUP  \n3/41b CHICKEN BREAST MEAT  \n1/2 c FROZEN PEAS (OPTIONAL)  \nCUT CHICKEN INTO 1 INCH SQUARES. SET ASIDE. IN A LARGE SKILLET, COOK BACON UNTIL CRISP. REMOVE FROM SKILLET AND CRUMBLE. SET ASIDE. INTO  \nSKILLET PLACE THE WATER, RICE & CAJUN STYLE SAUCE AND THE KETCHUP. BRING TO A BOIL. REDUCE HEAT AND SIMMER FOR 3 MINUTES, STIRRING OCCASIONALLY. STIR IN CHICKEN AND BACON (ALSO PEAS IF USED). COOK ANOTHER 5 TO 10 MINUTES OR UNTIL CHICKEN AND RICE ARE TENDER. EACH SERVING= 25% CALORIES FROM FAT.  \nChicken and Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n6 Sonless chicken breasts,  \n-skinned  \n2 en Cream of chicken soup  \n1 en Cream of mushroom soup  \n1 package Rice-a-roni (chicken  \n\\- flavor)  \nSalt and pepper to taste  \nIn slow cooker put chicken breast with canned soups, alt and ppper. Cook all day on LOW (approx. 10 hrs. or until chicken is tender). Fix Rice-A-Roni per directions on box. Put on plate and place chicken and gravy on top.  \nChicken and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n31b Chicken; cut up, skinned  \n1 1/2 t Dried thyme leaves  \n1 t Paprika  \n1 t Salt  \n1/2 t Pepper  \n2 T Vegetable oil 66\n\n1 lb Yellow onions; halved,sliced  \n2 T Minced fresh gingerroot  \n4 lg Cloves garlic; minced  \n3/41b Shiitake mushrooms; or  \n3/41b -regular mushrooms stemmed,  \n\\- halved, quartered if big  \nYellow pepper; diced  \n3 c Chicken broth  \n1 1/2 c Jasmine rice ----------------N UTR I TlONAL INFORMATlON/SERV---------------------\n\nx Calories x G protein x G carbohydrate x G fat x My cholesterol x  \nMg sodium  \nPlace chicken in bowl. In cup, mix thyme, paprika, 1/2 t salt and 1/4\n\nt pepper; sprinkle over chicken. Turn to coat.\n\nIn Dutch oven, heat oil over mediumheat; brown chicken in batches, 3  \nto 4 minutes each batch, removing chicken to plate after browning. To drippings in pan, add onions; saute 1 minute. Add remaining ingredients and remaining salt and pepper. Mix; top with chicken. Cover; bake 35 to 40 minutes or until chicken and rice are cooked.  \nChicken Baked Rice  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n4 c Long grain rice (or instant)  \n1/3 c Crisco Oil  \n1 en Mushrooms (optional)  \n\\- save the juice  \n4 c Water, or water+ saved juice  \n1 c Diced celery (optional)  \n1 Green pepper (optional)  \n2 c Cooked chicken or turkey  \n\\- some may want to try  \n\\- to substitute ham or beef package Onion sou[ mix  \n4 T Soya sauce  \nGarlic  \nPepper  \nCombine all ingrediants in a large dish or pot. Add Garlic and Pepper as desired. Cook in oven at 360 F for 1 hour. Place in a container and freeze unused protion till needed.\n\n67\n\nChicken Breasts With Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 Jar (21/2 oz) Dried Beef  \n2 Med. Stalks Celery, Chopped  \n1 Small Onion, chopped  \n1 T Butter or Margarine  \n2 c Cooked Rice  \n2 T Chopped Parsley  \n1 Jar (1 oz) Pine Nuts (opt.)  \n1 1/21b (2 Med.) Chicken Breasts*  \n1/2 t Seasoned Salt  \n1 x Paprika * Have the butcher bone and cut each breast in to halves.\n\n\\---- Snip beef into small pieces. Cover and microwave beef, celery, onion and margarine in 2-Qt casserole on high (100%) until onion is crisp tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Stir in rice, parsley, and pine nuts. Arrange chicken breasts skin sides up and thickest parts ot outside on rice mixture. Sprinkle with seasoned salt and paprika. Cover and  \nmicrowave 5 minutes; turn casserole one half turn. Microwave until  \nchicken is done, 8 to 11 minutes.  \nChicken Curry Kabobs On Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/2 c Yogurt, plain  \n1/4 t Curry powder  \n1/4 t Ginger  \n1 1/21b Chicken breast  \n3 c Rice, cooked  \n2 Green onions, sliced  \n1 t Garlic, minced  \n1/4 t Chili powder  \n1/4 t Salt  \n6 Skewers  \n1 Tomato, large, chopped  \nParsley  \nMix yogurt, garlic and spices. Marinate in refrigerator at least 6  \nhours, turning occasionally. Soak bamboo skewers for 1 hours. Drain and discard marinade. Thread chicken on skewers. Cook 8 to 10 minutes on grill, turning twice. Toss rice with tomato and green onions. Serve  \nskewers over rice.\n\n68\n\nChicken Livers and Mushrooms with Rice 100  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n10 x Minutes preparation time  \n25 x Minutes cooking time  \n\\------------------------1 NGR EDI ENTS----------------------------- c Chicken broth 12 c Rice tb Butter Chicken livers; cut into -1/2 inch  \npieces 12 c Onion; chopped 12 c Mushrooms; sliced Freshly ground pepper tb Dry white wine tb Fresh parsley; chopped 12 c Parmesan cheese; grated  \nIn a medium-size saucepan, bring chicken broth to a boil. Add rice, reduce heat to low, and cook, covered, until broth is absorbed by rice, about 15 minutes.  \nMeanwhile, in a large frying pan, melt butter over medium-low heat.  \nSaute livers, onions, and mushrooms for 5 to 8 minutes. Season with pepper. Add wine and simmer 2 minutes.  \nPack rice into a 5-cup ring mold, unmold onto a platter. Spoon liver mixture into center. Srinkle with parsley and Parmesan cheese.  \nChicken 'n Rice in a Bag  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n-Virginia Sonier (HCMC24B  \n3 lb Chicken parts  \n2/3 c Water  \n1 c Raw converted rice  \n1 package Dry onion soup mix  \n1 en Cream of chicken soup  \nRinse chicken and pat dry. Set aside. Combine rice, soup, and water in crockpot; stir well to mix in soup. Place chicken in a see-through roasting bag; add dry onion soup mix. Shake bag to coat chicken well. Puncture 4-6 holes in bottom of bag. Fold top of bag over chicken and place in crockpot on top of rice. Cover and cook on LOW setting 8-10 hrs.  \nChicken Rice Skillet 69\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 T Oil  \n1/4 c Green onions, chopped  \n1 Garlic cloves, crushed  \n2 Chicken breasts, boneless  \n1 en Cream of mushroom soup  \n1 1/2 c Milk  \n4 oz Mushrooms, canned  \n1/4 t Black pepper  \n1 1/4 c Rice, quick, uncooked  \nCut chicken into thin strips. Heat oil in skillet. Add onions and  \ngarlic and cook two minutes, stirring occasionally. Add chicken. Cook until browned on all sides.  \nStir in soup, milk, mushrooms, and pepper. Heat to boiling. Add rice;  \nreduce heat to low. Cover; simmer until done, stirring occasionally. Garnish with additional chopped green onions.  \nSylvia's comments: This is a keeper. Quick, easy, and VERY low-fat if you trim the fat from the chicken, use Campbell's fat-free soup and  \nlow-fat milk. I threw in 1/21b frozen green beans, too, since I like all-in-one meals.  \nChicken Rice Soup  \nYield: Makes 8-3/4 cup servings  \n2 Garlic cloves -finely  \nChopped  \n2/3 c Onion-chopped (about 1 md Onion)  \n8 c Basic chicken stock- (see  \nRecipe)  \n3 Celery stalks - cut in  \n1/2 -inch slices  \n3 Carrots-peeled and cut  \n1/2 -inch thick  \n2/3 c Brown rice - rinsed  \n1 c Chicken-cooked, cut in  \nBite size chunks  \n1 t Marjoram - dried  \n3/4 t Salt  \n1/2 t Pepper  \nIn a 4-quart soup pot, cook the garlic and onion in 2 tablespoons of the chicken stock until the onion is translucent. Add the celery, carrots, rice, and remaining chicken stock. Simmer for 40 minutes.  \nAdd the cooked chicken pieces, marjoram, salt, and pepper. Simmer for 2  \n\\- 3 more minutes, and serve.\n\n70\n\nChicken Yellow Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 x Chicken Breasts, Halved  \n1 T Extra-Virgin Olive Oil  \nGarlic Clove, Chopped  \nsm Onion, Chopped Fine  \n1 c Raw Rice  \n3 c Water  \n1 pn Saffron Threads Or Powder  \n1 c Chopped Broccoli (Or Frozen)  \nSaute the chicken in the oil with the garlic and onions until lightly browned. Remove mixture to a large pot, discarding excess oil. Add the rice, water, and large pinch of saffron to the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer. tightly covered, until the rice is tender  \n(at least 30 min.), adding extra water if necessary. When the rice is  \nnearly tender, add the broccoli to the top of the pot and cover. Cook for 5 min more. Broccoli should be bright green and tender when the meal is cooked.lfthe rice is done before the broccoli, simply turn  \noff the heat, cover the pot again, and let the broccoli finish cooking by steaming. Children like the novel idea of \"yellow\" rice.  \nChicken-Flavored Rice Mix  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n4 c Uncooked Long Grain Rice\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n2 t Dried Parsley Flakes  \n4 T Instant Chicken Bouillon  \n2 t Dried Tarragon  \n1/4 t White Pepper  \nCombine all ingredients in a large bowl. Stir until evenly distributed. Put about 11/3 cups into three 1-pint containers and  \nlabel as Chicken-Flavored Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to 8 months.  \nMakes about 4 cups of mix.  \nCHICKEN-FLAVORED RICE: Mix 1 113 cups CHICKEN-FLAVORED RICE MIX with cups cold water and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring  \nwater to a boil over high heat. Cover and reduce the heat and cook for  \n15 to 25 minutes, until liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings.\n\n71\n\nChickenlegs with Mango Chutney & Carott-Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n18 oz Chickenlegs,allready cooked  \n\\---Chutney:---  \nMango, fresh or  \n1/3 oz Mango ,canned  \n1 Onion  \n1 Piece of fresh lngwer  \n1 T Oil  \n2 oz Raisins  \n1 T Sugar  \n3 T Vinegar  \n1 T Catsup  \nPepper  \n1/2 t Coriander  \n1/2 t Kurcuma  \n\\---Rice:---  \n5 oz Rice  \n3 T Coconut, shredded  \n3 1/2 oz Carotts  \n1/3 oz Butter  \n2 T Sugar  \nBake the precooked chickenlegs in 200 Coven untill they are brown. 2. Peel the mango, remove stone and cut into small cubes. 3. Peel and chop onion finely. 4. Peel and chop ingvver finely. 5. Heat the oil and saute  \nthe onion; add the mango and ingwer.Saute a minute more.Add the rest  \nand let it simmer 30 minutes. Let it cool and season as hot as you like. 6. Simmer the rice in saltwater until done; keep warm 7. Put the coconut into a dry skillet and brown it. Peel the carotts and cut into fine strips or grate them. 9. Heat the butter in skilett and fry the carotts shortly; add sugar and heat until sugar has become caramel. Stir all the time. 1O.Add carotts and the coconut to the rice, mix and serve with the cold chicken and the cold mango. Good for hot summerdays.  \nChii-Beer Brisket Of Beef Over Wild Rice Amadine  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n2 1/21b Fresh Beef Brisket  \n1/2 c Diced Onion  \n1 t Salt  \n1 t Pepper  \n1/4 t Garlic Powder  \n1 Bottle (12 Oz) Chili Sauce  \n1 Bottle (12 oz) Beer 72\n\n1 x Wild Rice Amadine  \n\\-------------------------GAR NISHE8------------------------------ ea Med. Ripe Tomatoes, Sliced x Parsley Sprigs  \nPlace beef brisket, fat side down, in deep roasting pan. Sprinkle brisket with onion, salt, pepper and garlic powder. Pour chili sauce over brisket. Cover tightly and cook in slow oven (325 degrees F.) for  \n3 hours. Pour beer over brisket. Increase oven temperature to moderate (350 degrees F.) and continue cooking, covered, 30 minutes. Place brisket on large serving platter and surround with Wild Rice Amadine. Garnish with sliced tomatoes and parsley. Slice brisket very thin and serve with hot cooking liquid.  \nChinese Chicken Cooked with Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 1/2 c Long grain white rice  \n8 oz Boneless chicken thighs  \n\\- with skin removed  \n1 T Light soy sauce  \n2 t Dark soy sauce  \n2 t Rice wine or dry sherry\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n2 t Sesame oil  \n1 t Cornstarch  \n1 1/2 T Peanut oil  \n2 t Minced peeled fresh ginger  \n\\--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- tb Dark soy sauce tb Finely chopped scallions  \nPUT RICE IN CLAY POT or medium-sized pot with water to cover about  \n-inch. Bring rice to boil; cook until most water evaporates. Reduce  \nheat to low and cover tightly. Coarsely chop chicken; combine with soy sauces, wine, salt, sesame oil and cornstarch. Heat wok or large saute pan until hot. Add oil and ginger; stirfry for 10 seconds. Add  \nchicken, and stirfry for 2 minutes. Pour the contents of wok on top of  \nthe rice, cover, and continue to cook for 10 minutes. Just before serving, drizzle the soy sauce on top of the rice and garnish with the scallions.  \nChinese Crab Rice 73\n\nYield: 6 Servings  \nStephen Ceideburg  \n2 Green onions, chopped  \n1 Piece fresh ginger,  \n\\- 2-3 em, grated  \n4 T Dry sherry  \n3 T Light soy sauce  \n3 Blue crabs  \n400 g Glutinous rice  \n1 T Soy sauce  \n1 T Oil  \n1 t Sugar  \nThe Chinese have comfort food, too, and this dish qualifies. You will need a large steamer; if you don't yet have one, they can be bought cheaply in large Chinese or Vietnamese food stores where you can also pick up the glutinous rice. The dish takes considerably longer to cook than the previous recipes but little more of the cook's time. By the  \ntime the rice is cooked, it is saturated with crab flavour.  \nFinely chop 2 green (spring) onions and grate 2-3 ems of fresh ginger. Combine them with 4 tablespoons dry sherry and 3 tablespoons light soy sauce. Prepare three green blue swimmers crabs. Chop two of them into several pieces with a large knife or cleaver and crack the hardest  \npieces of the shell with a hammer. Crack the third crab thoroughly all  \nover but do not chop up. Pour the sherry-soy sauce mixture over the crabs and leave to marinate for an hour. Wash 400 grams glutinous rice in several changes of water until the water runs clear.  \nPut the rice into a saucepan and pour over it 1.5 L water. Bring to the  \nboil and boil for 5 minutes. Drain.  \nIn the bottom of a heatproof dish at least 12 em deep and of a size to fit into your steamer, pack in the chopped crab pieces, reserving the marinade. Pour the rice over the top and pack it down. Press the intact crab into the top of the rice. To the marinade, add a further  \ntablespoon soy sauce and a tablespoon oil, teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon sugar. Pour over the crabs and rice.  \nPut the dish in the steamer over boiling water and steam for 35-40 minutes. Serve. Diners deal first with the top crab, now half buried in rice, then fish around, for the rest of the crab pieces in rice.  \nChinese Fried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 c Rice, leftover; cold  \n6 sl Bacon; cooked,crumbled OR-  \n1/4 c BACOs  \n1 T Sugar, white  \n3 T Soy sauce dark  \n3 Eggs 74\n\n4 Green onions; including  \n-green, sliced  \n1/4 c Peas, frozen (optional)  \n\\- Bacon drippings or oil  \nCut bacon into cubes and cook until crisp. Drain but keep drippings. Set bacon aside.  \nBeat 3 eggs in bowl with a little water until well blended Heat wok  \nover med high temp, pour 1 Tbl bacon fat drippings into wok. Pour eggs in wok, scramble until set and remove and set aside.  \nPlace 2 Tbl bacon fat drippings into wok. Place cold rice into wok and  \nstir fry for 2-3 mins. Add sugar and soy sauce, stir fry until  \nuniform in color. Add green onions, (peas-optional), bacon and cooked eggs. Stir fry for another minute, serve hot.  \nYou can add any other meats such as leftover cooked pork, chicken, ham,  \n_etc._ Add with the green onions and peas. MEATLESS VERSION  \nFollow above except use peanut oil instead of bacon drippings. Replace  \nbacon with 1/4 cup of BACOS or BACO chips.  \nChinese Pork & Shrimp Rice Noodles in Broth  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n4 Oriental mushrooms; dried  \n. *OR*  \n. 6 fresh mushrooms  \n6 Leaves of Napa cabbage  \n1/21b Pork chop meat; thinly  \n. sliced into 1/4\" strips  \n1 T Soy sauce  \n1 t Hoisin sauce  \n3 T Water  \n2 t Cornstarch  \n4 T Vegetable oil  \n3 Green onions; cut into 2\"  \n. slivers  \n1 c Small shrimp; peeled & . deveined  \n8 c Chicken stock  \n1/21b Rice stick noodles (may  \n. substitute egg noodles  \n. or vermicelli)  \n1 t Salt  \n1/4 t Black pepper  \nSoak the dried mushrooms in hot water for 10 minutes. Remove the stems and slice the caps into strips. (Just slice the fresh mushrooms, if  \nusing fresh). Set aside.  \nStack the cabbage leaves; then cut across into strips 2 inches wide. Cut each strip across the width into slivers 2 inches in length. Set 75\n\naside.  \nPlace the pork strips in a bowl with the soy sauce, hoisin sauce, water and cornstarch. Mix until the pork is thoroughly coated. set aside to marinate for 20 minutes.  \nHeat the oil in a wok or large skillet over high heat and stirfry the  \npork for 3 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, drain the pork and remove to a paper-towel-lined plate.  \nBring the oil back up to high heat and stirfry the mushrooms and onions for 2 minutes. Add the shredded cabbage and shrimp and fry until the shrimp becomes pink and the cabbage becomes limp.  \nAdd the stock and bring to a boil. Add the rice noodles and boil for  \none minute. Return the pork to the wok just to heat through and season with the salt and pepper.  \nNOTE: Some ingredients may be available only at Asian grocers. Vietnamese variation: Omit the mushrooms. Stirfry the onions with the pork. Substitute 3 large tomatoes, each cut into 6 segments, for the cabbage. Serve the soup in individual bowls, first placing a lettuce  \nleaf torn into a few pieces, a few bean sprouts, 4 or 5 narrow strips  \nof cucumber, 3 mint leaves and a scattering of chopped cilantro leaves in the bottom of each bowl before pouring the soup in. Garnish with a sprinkling of crushed peanuts. This version may also be made with chicken instead of pork.  \nNutritional Information per serving: 411 calories, 20g fat, 122mg cholesterol, 1753mg sodium  \nChinese: Shrimp Fried Rice  \nYield: 3 Servings  \n\\---GATE VANICEK--  \nc Cold cooked rice  \n3 Eggs, slightly beaten  \n1/3 c Raw shrimp, cleaned and  \nSlivered  \n1/3 c BBQ pork  \n1/2 t Corn starch  \n1 tWine  \n1 T Soy sauce  \n1/4 t MSG (optional)  \n2 Green onions, diced  \n1 t Salt  \nPeanut oil  \nPan-fry the eggs into thin sheets in a frying pan. Remove and cut into small strips.  \nHeat peanut oil over high heat. Stirfry shrimp and chicken. When  \ndone, sizzle in 1 tsp. wine.  \nAdd the cooked rice. Stir until well-mixed. Add 1 tbsp. soy sauce, /4 tsp. MSG and the diced green onion. Add 1 tsp. salt (or more).  \nStir-frry for at least 10 minutes over MEDIUM heat. Add egg strips.\n\n76\n\nServe hot.  \nNote: The cooked rice should not be sticky. It might even be better to use day-old rice. If you must use freshly cooked rice, you may spread the rice on a cookie sheet and let cool completely before you stirfry  \nit.  \nChunky Chicken Rice Soup  \nYield: 7 Servings  \n1 c Cooked cubed chicken  \n1 t Oil for frying  \n2 c Chicken broth  \n1 c Water  \n10 oz Frozen mixed vegetables  \n1/2 t Poultry seasoning  \n1/4 t Pepper  \n1 c Minute Rice  \n1 T Dried parsley  \n>. In a skillet, fry chicken in hot oil until browned. Add broth,  \nwater, vegetables (thawed) and seasonings. 2>. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer 5 minutes. stir in Minute Rice and parsley; cover, remove from heat. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.  \nCoconut Rice Noodles  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n150 g Dried rice noodles  \n2 t Sesame oil  \n225 g Firm tofu  \n300 Vegetable stock  \n75 g Creamed coconut  \n2 T Soy sauce  \n1 sm Onion  \n2 lg Red chillies  \n3 Garlic cloves  \n100 g Bean sprouts 77\n\n## 4 Spring onions\n\n2 T Fresh coriander  \nSeasoning  \nPreparation: Cut the tofu into 2.5cm cubes Crumble the creamed coconut  \nGrate the onion Finely slice the chillies Crush the garlic cloves  \nThinly slice the spring onions Chop the fresh coriander  \nPour boiling water over the noodles and leave for one minute then rinse wuth cold water and drain thoroughly.  \nHeat the oil in a large frying pan and fry the tofu cubes until lightly golden on all sides.  \nHeat the vegetable stock in a medium pan, then add the creamed coconut, soy sauce, onion, chillies and garlic and simmer for 5 minutes.  \nAdd the cooked noodles, bean sprouts, spring onion slices and fried tofu and cook for a further 3 minutes. Season to taste, add the coriander  \nand serve.  \ncal per serving 12g protein 35g carbohydrate 29g fat 6g saturated fat  \n(medium)_ no added sugar 4g fibre (medium) 0.78g salt (medium)  \nColumbian Squash Stuffed With Dirty Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 Columbian squash, about  \n\\- 5 pounds  \n1 lb Extra lean ground chuck  \n1/41b Chicken giblets, chopped fine  \n1/41b Bulk sausage  \n2 T Mcilhenny Tabasco pepper  \n\\- sauce 1/4 t Salt\n\n2 Small cayenne peppers,  \n-chop fine  \nOlive oil  \n2 c Beef stock or water  \nThe Columbian squash used in this recipe may be replaced with a small pumpkin, as the edible portions are similar in color, taste and  \ntexture.  \nCut and remove a section of the squash top as if you were about to carve a \"Jack-0-Lantern\". Remove the seeds and stringy parts of the vegetable. Mix the salt and Mcllhenney Co. Tabasco sauce and rub onto the inside of the squash (or pumpkin). Replace the squash top, and microwave on high for about 5 minutes. While squash is in the microwave, brown the ground meats, along with the chicken giblets in a small amount of olive oil in a heavy skillet. When the meats are  \nbrowned, drain off excess fat, then add beef stock or water bring to a boil, add the package of dirty rice mix, return to boil, lower heat and simmer 5 minutes. Place the mixture into the squash or pumpkin, replace the top and microwave on high for about 6 minutes per pound of squash.\n\n78\n\nCompany Microwave Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Rice; unconverted, uncooked  \n2 T Butter  \n1/3 c Celery; finely chopped  \n1/3 c Green onion; finely chopped  \n3 T Soy sauce  \n1 c Bouillon; chicken  \n1/2 c Mushrooms; fresh sliced  \n1/2 c Peas; frozen  \nCombine  \nrice and butter and cook, uncovered on HIGH (100%) for 4 to minutes or till rice has browned. Stir 2 times while cooking. Add celery and green onions and cook an additional minute. Add remaining ingredients except mushrooms and peas. Stir well and return to microwave. Stir and let stand covered for 10 minutes. If mushrooms and peas are done, serve. If not, microwave 3-5 minutes to complete. Fluff and serve.  \nCooking Rice on the stove  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 Free Flow Recipe  \nThis is gonna seem so simple that you won't believe that it will work, but it does. The thing with rice cooking is that folks tend to make it too hard. Get out a nice heavy pan with a tight fitting lid. (Visions  \nis nice for this cause you can see what's going on in the pot.) Get a  \nbag of normal ol' long grain rice++not Rice-A-Roni or Uncle Ben's or any of that \"converted\" stuff. Dump as much into the pot as you like (one cup dry makes about three cups cooked).  \nAt this point, you can either rinse it or not. If you don't the rice  \nwill be a tad stickier when done. (That makes it good for eating with chopsticks.) If you rinse it well it will be a tad \"fluffier\".  \nPersonally, over the years I've come to NOT rinse my rice. It's just  \ntoo much work and I can't really see that much difference in the finished product.\n\n79\n\nLevel the rice in the pot and place your index finger so that it just touches the surface of the rice. Add water until the level comes just up to the crease at the backside of the top of the first knuckle on  \nyour index finger. Crank the heat up on the stove quite high and put the pot of rice on the burner. Stir the rice lightly before it comes  \nto a boil, just once, so it doesn't stick. Let the shebang come to a  \nfull, rolling boil, then lower the heat to about medium. Let it boil, UNDISTURBED, until the free water evaporates and little holes appear in the surface of the rice.  \nWhen this stage is reached, immediately lower the heat to the lowest  \nsetting possible (one of those \"flame tamers\" that you set on the  \nburner can be helpful here), cover the rice and let it simmer and steam  \nfor about twenty minutes. DO NOT LIFT THE LID UNTIL THE TIME HAS ELAPSED-DO NOT STIR THE RICE!!! Sorry++didn't mean to shout.;-} When the time has passed you will have a pot of perfectly cooked rice.  \nFluff it a bit when you put it in the serving dish. No complex procedures, no measurements and very little fuss and muss..  \nThis is an old Chinese method of cooking rice and it works regardless of the amount of rice used. Just remember the \"first knuckle rule\" and things should work well. I don't add salt to mine, but I don't imagine that it would cause any problems. I've never cooked brown rice this way, but I imagine it would work if you doubled the steaming time. Another easy way to get perfect rice is to buy one of those Japanese rice cookers. They run around forty bucks and are really quite good at what they do. I'm using one made by Hitachi that works very well.  \nCornish Hen Halves and Wild Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1/4 c Green onions, sliced  \n1 T Margarine  \n1 t Chicken bouillon granules  \n1/4 t Ground sage  \n1/3 c Wild rice  \n1/3 c Long grain rice  \n1/4 c Carrot, shredded  \n2 T Snipped fresh parsley  \n2 Cornish game hens, halved  \n-lengthwise (1 to 1/2 pounds  \n-each)  \n1/4 c Apple juice concentrate  \n1 t Lemon juice  \n2 md Apples, sliced  \nIn a medium saucepan, combine green onion, margarine, bouillon granules, sage, and 1113 cups water. Bring to boiling. Stir in wild rice; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes. stir in long  \ngrain rice, carrot, and parsley. Cover and simmer for about 20 minutes 80\n\nmore or until rice is done and liquid is absorbed.  \nIn a shallow baking dish, spoon rice mixture into four mounds. Place hens on rice mounds; cover loosely with foil. Roast in a 375F oven for 30 minutes.\n\nMeanwhile, in a small bowl combine the apple juice concentrate and lemon juice. Uncover hens; roast for about 35 minutes more or until drumsticks can be twisted easily in sockets. During the last 15 minutes, add apple slices; brush hens and apples with apple juice mixture.  \nMakes 4 servings.  \nCosta Rican Beef & Vegetable Soup with Yellow Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 Ound Lean, boneless  \n-beef chuck  \n1 1/2 inch cubes  \n1 g Onion, thinly sliced  \n1 Up Celery, thinly sliced  \n3 Cloves garlic, minced  \n1 Dry bay leaf  \n1 g Red bell pepper, seeded and  \nCut into thin, bite-size  \nStrips  \n1 1/2 Up Water  \n2 en (about 14 1/2 oz.@)  \nBeef broth  \n\\------------------------YELLOW RICE----------------------------- g  \nEar corn, cut into 3/4 inch Thick slices Up Coarsely shredded cabbage  \nUp Lightly packed cilantro Leaves Salt and pepper  \nTHE SOUP Arrange beef cubes slightly apart in a single layer in a shallow baking pan. Bake in a 500 oven until well browned (about 20 minutes). Meanwhile, in a 3 1/2 quart or larger crockpot, combine onion, celery, garlic, bay leaf and bell pepper. Transfer browned beef to crockpot. Pour a little of the water into baking pan, stirring to dissolve drippings and pour into crockpot. Add broth and remaining water. Cover and cook on low about 8 hours. About 15 minutes before beef is done, prepare Yellow Rice. While rice is cooking, increase cooker setting to high; add corn. Cover; cook for 5 minutes. Add cabbage; cover and cook until cabbage is bright green, 8 to 10 more minutes. Stir in cilantro; season with salt and pepper. Ladle soup into  \nwide, shallow bowls; add a scoop of rice to each. THE RICE 1 tablespoon  \nsalad oil1 small onion, finely chopped 1 cup long-grain white rice 1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric /4 cups water Heat oil in 2-quart pan over medium heat. Add the onion; cook, stirring until onion is soft but not browned, (3 to 5 minutes). Stir in the rice and tumeric; cook, stirring occasionally, for about 1 minute. Pour in the water and reduce heat to 81\n\nlow and cook until rice is tender, about 20 minutes.  \nCountry Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1/3 c Chicken stock-made without  \n\\- salt or fat  \n1/3 c Green onion-chopped  \n\\- pinch freshly ground  \n\\- black pepper  \n1/3 c Rice-white, uncooked  \nPREPARATION: Bring the stock to a boil with the green onion and pepper. Add the rice; turn down to a simmer and cover; cook for 20 minutes.  \nNOTE: If you want drier rice, remove the cover at 20 minutes and heat just a minute or so longer.  \nVARIATIONS: Rice made with fish stock (see recipe page 89) can be served with fish, beef-stock rich with beef. If you begin adding more vegetables, you will end up with a jambalaya instead of a side course of Country Rice.  \nCalories 115.0 Protein 234.0 g Carbohydrates 25.5 g Dietary Fiber 0.783 g Fat-Total .147 g Fat-Saturated .037 g Fat-Mono .036 g Cholesterol 0.0 mg Calcium 18.7 mg Iron 1.22 mg Sodium 3.93 mg  \nCrackling Rice Soup  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/2 c Rice, raw  \n1 c Water  \n1/2 t Salt  \n2 T Peanut Oil  \n1 1/2 qt Chicken Broth  \n2/3 c Baked Ham, slivered  \n1/3 c Green Onions, chopped  \nSoy Sauce  \nRecipe By :California Cooks! by McDermott and Marks Serving Size  \nPreparation Time :0:00 Categories Chinese 82\n\nSoups  \nCombine rice, water and salt in a small saucepan. Heat to boiling; cover and simmer 25 mins. Cool. Toss cooled rice with peanut oil in a large skillet until rice turns golden brown. Keep hot until ready to serve. Meanwhile heat together chicken broth, ham and green onions.  \nturn into large soup tureen. Serve soup at the table topping each bowl  \nwith a spoonful or two of hot rice which crackles as it goes into the soup. Pass soy sauce, adding individually to taste. Makes 6 servings.  \nNOTES: According to legend; once, when a beginning Chinese cook once over cooked a pot of rice, he tasted the scorched crust and found it good. A rice crust, deep fat fried, is dropped crackling hot into this novel soup in restaurants. This is a home-grown version.  \nCranberryANild Rice Stuffing  \nYield: 4 Servings 12 c Wild Rice, uncooked 1 c Water 1/4 c Raisins, dark or golden 5\n\nGreen Onions (scallions), chopped 1 tb Vegetable Oil1/2 c Celery -or  \nFennel Bulb, chopped 1 c Cranberries, fresh or frozen 1 ts Orange Rind, grated 1/2 t Dried Thyme  \nPut the wild rice in a saucepan. Add the water and raisins and cook over medium heat for 1 hour, or until the rice is tender. Drain  \nSaute the onions and celery (or fennel bulb) in the oil until tender.  \nAdd the cranberries, orange rind, thyme and rice. Stuff into two  \nCornish hens or a 3-pound chicken, or use with turkey breast. Bake in a  \n350-degree oven for 1 hour, or until the poultry is done.  \nCreamy Chicken and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n6 7/8 oz Pkg. chicken flavor rice-  \n2 1/4 c Hot water  \n1 c Sliced mushrooms  \n1 1/21b Skinned, boned chicken breas  \nCut into bite-sized pieces 83\n\n1/2 t Garlic powder  \n3/4 c Non-fat sour cream  \n1/4 t Pepper  \n1 en Low-cal cream  \n\\- of mushroom sp  \n1/4 c Cracker crumbs  \n1 t Melted margarine  \n1/2 t Poppyseeds  \n***This recipe calls for 1 6.9 oz. package of chicken flavored rice  \nand vermicelli mix with chicken broth and herbs. Cook the rice mix in a large nonstick skillet according to package directions, using 1 tb margarine and 2-1/4 cups hot water. When done, remove from the skillet and set aside. Wipe the skillet with a paper towel. Coat the skillet  \nwith cooking spray, and place over high heat until hot. Add the chicken, mushrooms, and garlic powder: saute for minutes or till the chicken loses its pink color. Combine the rice mixture, chicken mixture, sour cream, pepper, and soup in a bowl: stir well. Spoon into  \na greased 2-quart casserole. Combine the cracker crumbs, margarine,  \nand poppyseeds. Stir well, and sprinkle over the chicken mixture. Bake at 350 for 35 minutes or until thoroughly heated. Each 1-1/3 cup  \nserving contains 334 calories and 6.8 grams of fat.  \nYou can freeze this in single servings in containers or zip-lock bags.  \nJust heat it up in the microwave and you've got a home-cooked meal in a hurry.  \nCreamy Rice Pudding  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1/3 c Short grain rice, uncooked  \n1/2 c Whipping cream  \n1 qt Milk  \n1/2 c Sugar  \n1/8 t Nutmeg OR  \n1 t Vanilla  \n3 T Butter or margarine  \nPREHEAT OVEN TO 300F. Sprinkle rice evenly over the bottom of a buttered 1 1/2-quart casserole. Mix milk and sugar, pour over rice, sprinkle with nutmeg and dot with butter. Bake, uncovered, 2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes for the first 11/2 hours, until lightly  \nbrowned. Remove from oven and stir in whipping cream. Bake another 12  \nhour.  \nMakes 4 to 6 Servings 84\n\nCreole Liver and Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1/21b Beef liver  \n1 T Vegetable oil  \n1/3 c Green bell pepper,chopped  \n1 en Stewed tomatoes(8oz)  \n1/2 t Basil  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/2 t Garlic salt  \n1 pn Black pepper  \n2 T Sherry  \n1 c Rice,hot cooked  \nCut liver into serving pieces.  \nIn skillet, brown liver quickly in oil on both sides.  \nAdd remaining ingredients except rice; cover and simmer 45 minutes, or until iver is tender.  \nUncover and allow sauce to thicken, if necessary.  \nServe over mounds of hot rice.  \nCreole-Style Red Beans & Rice  \nYield: 10 Servings  \n1 lb Red beans  \n8 Cloves garlic, chopped  \n1 Rib celery, chopped  \n1/41b Salami  \n1 lb Smoked sausage  \n1 Large onion, chopped  \n1/4 Bell pepper, chopped  \n1 t Sugar  \nSalt & pepper to taste  \n1 pn Thyme  \n1 lb Weiners  \nWash beans thoroughly; cover with water and place on medium fire. Chop sausage and salami and add to beans; add garlic celery, onions, green pepper, sugar, and thyme. Continue cooking until beans are soft, adding more water if necessary  \nWhen beans are soft, add weiners, sliced in 1\" pes., and salt and pepper to taste. Cook until gravy is thick and creamy. Serve over hot cooked rice.\n\n85\n\nCrockpot Chicken & Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/21b Mushrooms, fresh  \n1/2 c Onions, chopped  \n21b Chicken, raw  \n1 t Chicken bouillon  \n1 t Poultry seasoning  \n1/4 t Salt  \n2 c Water  \n3/4 c Rice, uncooked  \nSlice mushrooms. Remove skin from chicken. Spray 12\" skillet with nonstick spray coating. Brown mushrooms, onion, and chicken pieces on all sides over medium heat about 15 minutes. stir in seasonings and transfer to crockpot. Can be refrigerated overnight.  \nStart crockpot on LOW. When ingredients are heated, add rice. Cook  \nuntil done.  \nPER SERVING: 265 cal, 25g prot, 27g carbo, 6g fat, 67mg chol, 20% of calories from fat  \nCrockPot Chicken & Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 lg Chicken breasts  \n1 en Cream of chicken  \n-soup (small  \nen Cream of clery  \n-soup (small)  \nen Cream of mushroom  \n-soup (sm)  \n1/2 c Diced celery  \n1 c Minute rice  \nMix in crockpot the 3 cans of soup and rice. Place the chicken on top of the mixture, then add the diced celery. Cook for 3 hours on high or  \n4 hours on low. Makes 4 servings. More rice, about 1/2 cup, and 2 other  \nchicken breasts may be added to make 6 servings. Linda Scales 86\n\nCrockpot Chicken and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/21b Mushrooms, fresh  \n1/2 c Onions, chopped  \n21b Chicken, raw  \n1 t Chicken bouillon  \n1 t Poultry seasoning  \n1/4 t Salt  \n2 c Water  \n3/4 c Rice, uncooked  \nPreparation: Slice mushrooms. Remove skin from chicken. Spray 12\" skillet with nonstick spray coating. Brown mushrooms, onion, and chicken pieces on all sides over medium heat about 15 minutes. stir in seasonings and transfer to crockpot. Can be refrigerated overnight. Start crockpot on LOW. When ingredients are heated, add rice. Cook until done.  \nPER SERVING: 265 cal, 25g prot, 27g carbo, 6g fat, mg chol.  \nCrockPot Chicken and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 lg Chicken breasts  \n1 en Cream of chicken  \n-soup (small  \nen Cream of clery  \n-soup (small)  \nen Cream of mushroom  \n-soup (sm)  \n1/2 c Diced celery  \n1 c Minute rice  \nMix in crockpot the 3 cans of soup and rice. Place the chicken on top of the mixture, then add the diced celery. Cook for 3 hours on high or  \n4 hours on low. Makes 4 servings. More rice, about 1/2 cup, and 2 other  \nchicken breasts may be added to make 6 servings. Linda Scales Formatted by Dottie Hanssen PBTN79A 87\n\nCrockpot Rice Pudding with Fruit  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1/2 ga Milk;* see note  \n1 c Rice  \n1 c Sugar\n\n3 T Margarine; solid\n\n1/4 t Salt; optional  \n1 t Vanilla extract  \n1/2 c Dried apricots or peaches; m  \n1/4 t Ground cinnamon  \nRecipe by: JoAnne Merrill Preparation Time: 3:00 *Use half nonfat and half whole milk, or all nonfat for lower fat content.  \nSubstitute canned milk for the regular milk for a very rich flavor. The  \ncooking time will vary greatly, anywhere from 1-1/2 to -1/2 hours. The longer it cooks the thicker it will be. It is important to have the  \ndried apricots minced. Put all ingredients into crockpot. Stir to blend well. Cover and cook on high-1/2 hours, stir once after about 1 hour. Or, cook on high for the first 30 minutes, turn to low and cook as long as you desire. Check after the first 2 hours of low cooking and stir.  \nIf rice is not absorbing the milk quickly enough, turn the crockpot up  \nto high again. Keep cover on at all times.  \nCrockpot temperatures vary widely among different brands. Only experimentation can tell you the correct amount of time for cooking in your crockpot. Rarely will a crockpot recipe fail, though, as the long, slow cooking process does not require precise timing.  \nCumin Rice With Eggplant And Peppers  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 1/2 c Brown rice  \n2 T Virgin olive oil  \n1 T Butter  \n1 Eggplant (10-12 oz) cut  \n\\- in 1/2-inch cubes md Onion cut into  \n\\- 1/4-inch squares  \nSalt  \nsm Green bell pepper  \n-cut into 1/2-inch squares sm Red or yellow  \n\\- pepper or a mixture,  \n-cut into 1/2-inch squares  \n2 md Tomatoes; peeled,  \n-seeded and cut into large  \n\\- pieces -OR-88\n\n15 oz -Canned Tomatoes, drained  \n\\- and cut into large pieces  \n4 t Ground cumin  \n1/2 t Turmeric  \n1/4 t Ground ginger  \n1/4 t Ground cinnamon  \n1/2 t Freshly ground pepper  \n1/4 c Chopped parsley or cilantro  \n3 c Water  \n1 c Dried provolone (optional)  \n-=OR=- Monterey Jack  \n\\- =OR=- Muenster cheese  \nRINSE THE RICE, cover it with water and set it aside to soak while you prepare the rest of the vegetables. Preheat the oven to 375F. Warm the oil and butter in a large skillet. Add the eggplant and onion, salt  \nthem lightly, and rapidly saute them to distribute the oil. Cook over medium heat until the eggplant is soft but not mushy, about 5 minutes. Add the peppers, tomatoes, spices (including the pepper), parsley and more salt to taste. Stir carefully, combining everything well. Drain  \nthe rice and add it to the pan along with 3 cups water. Turn up the heat to bring the water to a boil, then transfer everything to a baking dish, such as a large, earthenware gratin dish. Lay a piece of parchment over the top, cover with foil, and bake until the rice is  \ndone, about 45 minutes. Toss the diced cheese, if you're using it, into  \nthe rice and serve. Serves 4 as a main course or 6 to 8 as a side dish.  \nCurried Rice And Lentils  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c Lentils; rinsed  \n4 c Water  \n1/2 c Butter (less if desired)  \n2 Carrots; grated  \n2 Onions; finely chopped  \n2 Cloves garlic;finely chopped  \n6 T Flour  \n2 c Applesauce  \n1 T Curry powder  \n2 c Water  \n1/4 c Lemon juice  \n2 c Cooked rice  \nCook the lentils in the water for 30 minutes; drain. Melt butter and add the carrot, onion, and garlic and saute for a minute. Add the flour, applesauce, curry powder and 2 cups water. Simmer for 30 minutes. Add the lemon juice, lentils, and rice. Heat the dish thoroughly and serve.\n\n89\n\nCurried Rice With Pineapple  \nDiabetic, Low Fat, Side Dish, Vegetarian  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 onion, chopped  \n1 1/2 c water  \n1 1/4 c low-sodium beef broth  \n1 c uncooked rice  \n1 t curry powder  \n1/4 t garlic powder  \n8 oz pineapple chunks, drained  \nIn a medium saucepan, combine onion, water, and beef broth. Bring to a boil, and add rice, curry powder and garlic powder. Cover and reduce heat. Simmer for 25 minutes.  \nAdd pineapple and continue to simmer 5 to 7 minutes more until rice is  \ntender and water is absorbed. Transfer to a serving bowl and serve. This recipe yields 4 servings. Serving size: about 1/2 cup. Exchanges Per Serving: 3 Starch.  \nDiabetic Chicken Rice Dinner  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Uncooked rice\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n1 en Cream of chicken soup  \n1 en Warm water  \n2 lb Chicken parts  \n2 md Carrots, peeled and cut  \nIn a 3 quart microwave casserole mix salt, rice, carrots, soup and water. Place chicken parts, thick side out, around outside of casserole and baste with a bit of the liquid. Cover tightly and cook on high for  \n20 minutes. Shake casserole to stir, don't lift cover. Cook on high an  \nadditional 10-15 minutes. Let carry over cook covered for 10 minutes. Check for doneness. Cook another minute or two if needed.  \nServes 4  \nDill-Lemon Rice Mix 90\n\nYield: 1 Serving  \n4 c Long Grain Rice, Uncooked  \n4 t Dill Weed Or Dill Seed  \n8 t Instant Chicken Bouillon  \n5 t Dried Grated Lemon Peel  \n2 t Salt  \nCombine all ingredients in a large bowl and blend well. Put about 1 12  \ncups of mix into 3 1-pint airtight containers and label as Dill-Lemon  \nRice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to months. Makes about 4 1/2 cups of mix.  \nDill-Lemon Rice: Combine 1 1/2 cups of mix, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T  \nbutter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; cover and reduce heat. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes until liquid is absorbed.  \nMakes 4 to 6 servings.  \nDirty Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n2 T Chicken fat  \n1/21b Chicken gizzards  \n1/41b Ground pork  \n1 Bay leaves  \n1 Yellow onions  \n1 1/2 Celery stalks  \n1/2 Bell peppers, green  \n1 Garlic cloves  \n1 t Tabasco sauce  \n1 t Salt  \n1 t Black pepper  \n2 t Paprika  \n1 t Dry mustard  \n1 t Cumin  \n1/2 t Thyme  \n1/2 t Oregano  \n2 T Butter  \n2 c Pork stock  \n1/21b Chicken livers  \n1 c Rice  \nMince onion, bell pepper, celery and garlic. Grind livers and gizzards. Place fat, gizzards, pork and bay leaves in large heavy skillet over high heat; cook until meat is thoroughly browned, about minutes, stirring occasionally. stir in the onion, celery, bell pepper, garlic, Tabasco, salt, pepper, paprika, mustard, cumin, thyme, and oregano; stir thoroughly, scraping pan bottom well. Add the butter and stir  \nuntil melted. Reduce heat to medium and cook about 8 minutes, stirring  \nconstantly and scraping pan bottom well. Add the stock or water and 91\n\nstir until any mixture sticking to the pan bottom comes loose; cook about 8 minutes over high heat, stirring once. Then stir in the chicken livers and cook about 2 minutes. Add the rice and stir thoroughly;  \ncover pan and turn heat to very low; cook about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and leave covered until rice is tender, about 10 minutes. Remove bay leaves and serve immediately.  \nDixie's Red Beans and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 en Dark Red Kidney Beans  \n1/2 package Sausage, fully cooked  \n1/2 x Onion, Chopped  \n1 c Rice, long cooking white  \n1 x Cajun, Creole seasoning  \n1 x Louisiana hot sauce  \n1 x Cayenne pepper  \n1 x Black pepper  \nCook rice according to package directions. Microwave is best. Takes about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, in saucepan, combine cans of beans, 2 cans water, Louisiana hot sauce (Red Devil is right kind but not Texas Pete or tabasco. Sauce is based on cayenne peppper.) Also onion, Creole and/or Cajun seasoning, avail. in spice or Cajun section of  \nstore; but LOOK OUT FOR THOSE THAT CONTAIN SALT if so, don't add too much and don't add extra salt. If Cajun seasoning contains salt, you  \ncan easily get too salty! Also may add cayenne pepper to taste; Black pepper. Chop up sausage (any kind is OK as long as \"Fully cooked\"; hot is preferable to most who prefer a hot taste!) Taste as you go to make sure not too salty or too hot. Boil slowly for about 20 minutes, until  \nit begins to thicken and smells REAL good. Serve beans in bowl OVER  \nwhite rice.  \nDolmadakia (Stuffed Grapeleaves with Rice.)  \nYield: 75 Servings  \n16 oz Grape leaves  \n3/4 c Extra virgin olive oil 92\n\n3 Onions; more if desired\n\n(shredded or minced finely)\n\n1 3/4 c Rice\n\n1 Lemon, juiced or more,  \n-to taste\n\nDill; very finely chopped\n\n1 3/4 c -Hot water\n\n3/4 t Salt\n\n1/4 t Pepper\n\nSautee the onion with half the oil. Add the rice and let cook for a few minutes. Add the dill, the hot water and salt and pepper. Boil for about 5 minutes. Let it cool.\n\nSteam the grape leaves and rinse with plenty of water in a collander. Wrap the rice mixture with the grape leaves. This is the most difficult and time consuming part, although after you are through it a couple of times you enjoy it the most. It is better if two people work on it\n\nsimultaneously, talking, joking _etc._ You want to make them small in size (about 1-2 inches.) Do not hesitate to cut big leaves in half. Discard the central stem of these leaves and if you can reduce (with a sharp knife) any other tough stems it would be good. You want to wrap the rice very tightly. You place the rice in one end, fold from the short end and the two sides and then roll while pushing the rice downwards to pack it really tight. You have to do it a couple oftimes to understand. If they are not tightly packed they will unroll later.\n\nAlso be careful to wrap totally, do not leave any holes.\n\nYou arrange the dolmadakia in a casserole, tightly. Make more than one layers. Add the lemon juice, the rest of the olive oil and 1 1/2 cups\n\nof hot water. Cover them with a plate or something to keep them in\n\nplace. Let them simmer for 35 minutes.\n\nServe then cold, with strained yogurt or taramosalata. Enjoy.\n\nDouble Rice stuffing [For a 12-Pound Turkey]\n\nYield: 1 Serving\n\n2 package Long-grain & wild\n\n\\- rice\n\n(6 oz. each)\n\n6 T Butter or margarine\n\n4 1/2 c Water\n\n3 c Chopped celery\n\n## 1 lg Onion chopped\n\n7 oz (1 jar) Pimento-stuffed\n\nOlives, drained & sliced\n\n1 t Salt\n\n1/4 t Pepper\n\nPrepare rice mix with 2 tablespoons of the butter or margarine and the\n\n4 12 cups water, following label directions.\n\n93\n\nSaut? celery and onion in remaining butter until soft in a large frying pan; lightly stir in rice mixture, olives, salt, and pepper.  \nMakes approximately 10 cups or enough to stuff a 12-pound bird.  \nDuck Soup with Wild Rice  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n5 lb Duck  \nSalt  \nGround Pepper  \n2 qt Chicken Stock  \n1 c Wild Rice  \n1 md Onion, chopped  \n3 Leeks, cleaned and finely  \nSliced  \n2 c Mushrooms, sliced  \n3 Ribs celery, diced  \n2 T Vegetable Oil  \n1/3 c Sherry Vinegar  \nParsley, chopped  \nSeason the duck lightly with salt and pepper, place in a baking pan on a rack and roast in a preheated 375?F oven for 1 hour, until juices run clear and meat is tender. Let cool. Pull off the meat, discard the skin and dice the meat in small pieces. Set aside.  \nBrown the duck bones in a skillet over high heat. Place in a soup pot  \nwith chicken stock. Brin to a boil and simmer for 35 minutes. Degrease and strain the stock. Set aside. Wash the wild rice and soak in cold water for 30 minutes. In the soup pot, saute the onion, leeks, mushrooms and celery in hot oil (or duck fat) without browning. Drain the wild rice and add to vegetables. Pour in the strained stock. Cook  \nat a simmer for 45 minutes.  \nAdd the sherry vinegar and duck meat. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cook 15 more micutes. Serve with a garnish of chopped parsley. Per Serving: Calories: 355, Protein: 28g, Carbohydrates: 24g, Fat: g, Saturated Fat: 4g, Cholesterol: 80mg, Sodium: 79mg, Fiber: 3g.  \nDuck With Pine Nut Wild Rice 94\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \nApricot Basting Sauce; *  \nDuckling; 4 1/2 to 5 Lbs. Pine Nut Wild Rice; Below  \n\\---------------------PINE NUT WILD RICE--------------------------  \n/2 c Wild Rice; Uncooked tb Green Onions!Tops; Sliced ts Margarine Or  \nButter 12 c Chicken Broth oz Pine Nuts; Toasted, 1/2 Cup 12 c Pears;  \nDried, Chopped /2 c Currants * See Sowest 2 for recipe.\n\n\\---Prepare Apricot Basting Sauce and set aside. Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Place duckling, breast side up, on rack in a shallow roasting pan. Brush with Apricot Basting Sauce. Insert meat thermometer so that the tip is in the thickest part of the inside thigh  \nmuscle and doesn't touch the bone. Do not add water and do not cover. Roast, brushing with the sauce 2 or 3 times, until thermometer  \nregisters 180 to 185 degrees or drumstick meat feels very soft when pressed between fingers, 2 to 2 1/3 hours. Serve with Pine Nut Wild  \nRice. PINE NUT WILD RICE: Cook and stir wild rice and onions in margarine in a 2-quart heavy saucepan over medium heat until onions are tender, about 3 minutes. Stir in broth. Heat to boiling, stirring  \noccasionally, reduce heat and cover. Simmer until wild rice is tender,  \n40 to 50 minutes. Stir in pine nuts, pears and currants.  \nEasy chicken and rice casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 x Chicken (white or dark)  \n1 en Cream of mushroom soup  \n1 package Lipton rice and sauce  \nUncle Ben's box or envelope of flavored rice (wild or pilaf, etc.) can be substituted for Lipton's Rice 'n' Sauce, but if you use plain white rice, use long cooking kind (not Minute) and you will have to add spices to your taste: curry, paprika, pepper, _etc._ whatever you wish. The small packets of Lipton's or Uncle Ben's usually have their own  \nflavor pak and no spices need to be added unless you like extra pepper. Combine dry rice, flavor pak if there is one, can of cream of mushroom (or cream of chicken or cream of celery) soup, and 1/2 to 1 full can of water after that. Stir well with fork as soup will be lumpy. Add washed and skinned pieces of chicken and sink them down into the liquid. Bake at 375 for 45 minutes to an hour depending on type of rice--wild rice takes a little longer. When rice is done, chicken is done. Watch  \nduring cooking and if rice begins to dry out, add water. If bake at  \n400 cooking time is less. If mixture was relatively soupy before  \nputting in oven, bake uncovered, but if mixture was not very soupy bake covered. The soupier the mixture when goes in oven (how much water you added) the less you will need to watch it while baking. If it is 95\n\nlooking like it is going to still be soupy towards time for it to get  \ndone, take cover off. One more thing, cleanup is easier if you sprayed baking dish (glass) with Pam or other cooking spray before you put the ingredients in the dish (sorry!)  \nEasy Mexican Chicken And Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1/3 c Converted rice  \n9/16 c Water  \n1/3 md Onion (chopped)  \n1 1/3 Skinless, chicken breast  \n-halves  \n1/3 c Salsa (the one you like) Salt to taste  \n2/3 Chicken bullion cubes  \nIn a large pan, combine the water and bullion cubes, and bring to a boil. Add rice, onions and salt, boil10 min then remove from the heat. Place into casserole dish, place chicken breasts on top and pour salsa over the chicken breast and rice, cover.  \nPlace into preheated oven (350o), and cook for 1 hr. Serve. Source: Found floating around BBSLand  \nThis was a pretty good dinner, and it required very little of my time  \nin the kitchen. It took a while to cook, but almost no preparation time.  \nThis was originally a 6-serving recipe, and I had it scaled down to  \ntwo. I approximated the measurements, since I'd have to be looney to  \nsit and measure out 9/16 Cups of water. fts it was, I ended up adding a lot more water than that, since the rice took *much* less than 10  \nminutes before it completely sucked up the water.  \nEasy Oriental Fried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 c cooked Rice sl Bacon, chopped 12 c  \nLow-fat Ham **(you may substitute cooked -shrimp, turkey or chicken) c 96\n\nCarrots, diced 12 c Red Pepper, diced 12 c Green Onion, chopped c Frozen Green Peas /2 ts Dried Ginger 13 c Low-Salt Soy Sauce Salt & Pepper to taste Fry bacon in large skillet or wok until crisp. Drain off all butT of\n\nfat.  \nAdd meat and carrots; stirfry about 2 minutes.  \nAdd red pepper and onions; toss or stir to fry until vegetables are cooked.  \nStir in green peas, rice, ginger, soy sauce, salt and pepper. Stir to heat well; cover and let stand about 5 minutes. Serving size depends on amount of rice used.  \nEgg Fried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 Eggs, large  \n2 1/2 t Salt  \n6 T Peanut oil  \n3 1/2 c Rice, cooked (1 c uncooked  \n2 Scallions, large, chopped  \nBeat eggs well with 1/2 t salt. Have rice and scallions ready. Heat wok over high heat until hot; add 3 Toil, coat, and heat for seconds (  \ndon't let oil smoke). Pour in eggs and as they puff at the edges, push  \nmass with spatula across to back of pan as you tilt it towards you; this allows the liquid eggs to slide down in to the hot pan. Repeat this pushing and tilting quickly until the eggs are no longer runny but soft and fluffy. Slide into a dish and set aside. stir rice a little  \nwith wet hands. Add remaining 3 Toil to hot pan and scatter in the rice; stir, poke and flip with spatula to coat each grain with oil. Add rest of salt and stir briskly for 1 minute, until rice is heated  \nthrough. Add eggs and stir to mingle; eggs should remain in decent size  \npieces. Add chopped scallions, give a few quick turns and por into hot serving dish.  \nFast Food 1 (Rice & Veggies) (Quick)(Vegan)  \nYield: 1 Serving 97\n\nx Instant rice x Water  \nx Frozen vegetables  \nx Seasoning, sauce or  \nDressing  \nPour instant rice into a bowl. Add twice the volume of water. Stir.  \nPour in some frozen veggies (broccoli, carrots, peas, 'mixed', whatever happens to be in the freezer.) Pour on a glub or two of flavoring agent (tomato sauce, salad dressing, whatever happens to be in the fridge.) Nuke on high for 3 minutes.  \nNote: This isn't real high nutritional value. Single-serving bricks of  \nfrozen cooked rice/beans/barley/lentils would go a long way towards improving it. I ate this many many times..  \nFast Food 4 (Rice & Vegetables) (Vegan)  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 x Instant rice  \n1 x Bouillon  \n1 x Italian seasoning  \n1 x Onion  \n1 en Crushed tomatoes\n\n## 1 Box thawed frozen spinach\n\nIn large pot, cook up 2 cups of (real or instant) rice. When it's  \nalmost done, stir in a spoon or two of bouillion granules, and/or some italian seasoning, onion, black pepper, whatever. Add a large can of crushed tomatoes. Add a box of thawed frozen spinach.  \nAnd a few hints:  \nWhen you cook, make a big pot of whatever it is you're making. It won't add very much extra work, and you can freeze the leftovers, or just munch on them for a few days.  \nKeep shortcut foods like canned beans, quick-cooking noodles (not ramen  \nbricks, they have a lot offat), instant rice, canned tomato puree, dehydrated onions, quick-cook oatmeal, frozen veggies, _etc._ around. They aren't as good or as nutritious as the 'real thing', and they cost more, but they come in very handy when you don't have time..  \nFennel and Rice 98\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \nmd Fennel Bulb Sweet Red Pepper 1 sm Onion, chopped 1 tb Vegetable Oil  \n1/2 c Brown Rice 1 Bay Leaf 2 c Water  \nTrim off the top of the fennel bulb. Cut the fennel into small cubes. Clean the pepper and cut it into small cubes. Combine the fennel, pepper, onion and vegetable oil in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat for 2 minutes. Add the rice, bay leaf and water. Bring to a boil,  \ncover, and turn the heat to low. Cook for 30 to 35 minutes, or until the rice is tender.  \nFilled Tomatoes on Herbed Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 Bags of cooking rice(like  \nInstant rice)  \n8 sm Tomatoes  \nSalt, Pepper  \n2 Onions  \n12 oz Butter  \n3 1/2 oz Bacon  \n3 oz Lindenberger Cheese  \n1 pn Paprika  \n1 pn Nutmeg  \n4 T Sweet Cream  \n12 oz Cornstarch  \n2 T Herbs, chopped your choice  \nPrepare rice as directed on bags. Cut out the inside of the tomatoes and season the inside. Chop the lids up and strain through a sieve.  \n2.Saute the onions in the butter; add the bacon, cut up and fry for a short while. 3.Grate the cheese finely and with the seasons add to the bacon, stir and fill all into the tomatoes. 4.Butter a pan,shallow, and set the tomatoes inside.mix the tomatoemix ,cream,cornstarch and  \nseasons and poyr over the tomatoes. 5. Bake all in a 200 C oven for 30  \nminutes .Add the herbs to the rice and put on a platter, arrange the tomatoes on top. Serve the sauce separate.  \nFoil-baked Chicken, Rice And Cabbage 99\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n## 1 Frying chicken\n\n1 md Onion, minced\n\n3 T Butter; melted\n\n3 c Cabbage; shredded\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n1 c Rice; cooked  \n1 en Cream of tomato\n\n-soup undiluted\n\n1 c Dry breadcrumbs  \nCut chicken in quarters. Simmer onion in the melted butter for 5  \nminutes. Add cabbage and simmer 10 minutes longer. Add salt, rice and undiluted soup, stirring as it heats. Have ready four pieces of  \naluminum foil, 12 x 12 inches. Lightly oil one side and place a chicken quarter in the center of the oiled side. Spoon rice and cabbage mixture evenly over the chicken; spread crumbs evenly over each top. Fold foil over and seal each package. Place on a baking pan and bake at 450 F for about 35 minutes. Tear foil to expose crumbs and bake 15 minutes longer, or until browned.  \nServe at once.  \nFoolproof Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Converted rice  \n1 c Water\n\n## 2 t Salt\n\n1 T Butter  \nPlace all ingredients together in crockpot. Cover and cook on LOW for two hours.  \nFoolproof Rice Bread for the R2 02  \nYield: 16 Servings  \n1/2 T Yeast  \n2 1/4 c Bread flour 100\n\n1 T Sugar  \n1/2 T Salt  \n1 T Oil\n\n1 c Rice; cooked\n\n1 c Water\n\nBring all ingredients to room temperature and pour into bakery, in order. Set \"baking control\" at 10 o'clock. Select \"white bread\" and push Start.\n\nFor a richer bread, use 1 egg and 3/4 c water instead of 1 c water. In hot, humid weather, use 1/8 c less water.\n\nSylvia's comment: Very soft, nice all-purpose bread. Great for sandwiches. WARNING: the dough will look a little \"wet.\" DO NOT ADD EXTRA FLOUR.\n\nFrench Rice Salad\n\nYield: 6 Servings\n\n3 c Cooked rice\n\n1 c Diced carrots\n\n1 c Diced green bell pepper\n\n1 c Sliced mushrooms\n\n1 c Green peas\n\n1 sm Celery stalk\n\n2 T Chopped fresh parsley\n\n\\---MARINADE---\n\n1/4 c Olive oil\n\n1/4 c Vegetable oil\n\n1/4 c Lemon juice\n\n1 Garlic clove, pressed\n\n1 t Dried tarragon\n\n1 t Dill\n\n1 t Marjoram\n\n1 t Basil\n\nPlace the rice in a large bowl. Steam the carrots, peppers, mushrooms\n\n& peas, separately, till tender but firm. Add steamed vegetables, celery & parsley to rice. Whisk marinade ingredients together. Pour over the rice mixture & toss gently. Refrigerate till well chilled, stirring occasionally. Garnish with tomato wedges & green olives.\n\nFried Curried Rice (Khao Pad Pong Kari)\n\n101\n\nYield: 2 Servings  \n2 TOil  \n1 Garlic clove; finely chopped  \n2 c Plain boiled rice  \n1 sm Potato; diced small  \n1 sm Onion; diced small  \n1/4 c Peas  \n3 T Light soy sauce  \n1/2 t Sugar  \n1 t Curry powder  \n1/2 t Ground white pepper  \n\\-------------------------T0 GAR NISH------------------------------  \nPiece of cucumber (1-inch) --thinly sliced into rounds Coriander leaves  \nIn a wok or frying pan/skillet, heat the oil until a light haze  \nappears, add the garlic and fry until golden brown. Add the boiled rice, stir once, add all the remaining ingredients and stir until  \nthoroughly mixed. Turn on to a serving dish and garnish with cucumber  \nrounds and coriander.  \nFried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 c Cooked rice  \n1 T Cooking oil\n\n## 2 T Sesame oil\n\n1/4 c Peas  \n1/4 c Finely diced red pepper  \n1/2 c Bean sprouts  \n1/2 c Broccoli florets  \n3 T Soy sauce  \nPREPARE RICE ACCORDING to directions and set overnight in the refrigerator, covered. Place a large skillet over medium heat on the stove, add the oils, peas, pepper, sprouts and broccoli. Cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the rice and soy sauce and cook, stirring for another 5 minutes. (Cover the skillet and add additional time if using frozen rice.) Scoop rice into a serving dish and serve immediately.\n\n102\n\nFried Rice (Chow Fun)  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n3 c Cooked Rice  \n3 Bacon strips\n\n3 Slightly beaten eggs\n\n1 1/4 c Meat, finely diced  \n2 Green onion, finely chopped  \n1/21b Fresh bean sprouts (optional  \n6 Mushrooms, sliced  \nSalt to taste as needed ds black pepper  \n2 T Soy sauce  \nCook bacon til lightly browned but not crunchy and set aside. Add beaten eggs to bacon drippings and scramble. Remove and chop very fine. Add cooked rice and fry for approx. 5 minutes stirring constantly then add remaining ingredients; mix well and continue cooking for 10 minutes longer. Serve piping hot. NOTE: Use your favorite meats; pork, chicken, ham, beef, or shrimp, or experiment with whatever tastes good to you.  \nFried Rice with Basil (Khao Pad Krapow)  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1 Garlic clove; finely chopped  \n3 sm Fresh red or green  \n\\- chilis finely chopped  \n1 c Fresh button mushrooms halved  \n1 sm Onion; chopped  \n2 c Cooked rice  \n1 sm Bundle long beans  \n-OR-French/snap beans  \n-cut into 1/2\" pieces  \nsm Red or green pepper; diced  \n1/2 t Sugar  \n3 T Light soy sauce  \n15 Sweet basil leaves  \nIn a wok or frying pan/skillet, heat the oil until a light haze appears. Add the garlic and chilis and fry until the garlic is golden  \nbrown. Add the mushrooms and onions and stir quickly. Add the cooked  \nrice and stir thoroughly. Add the long beans, peppers, sugar and light soy sauce and stir thoroughly. At the last moment quickly stir in the basil leaves and turn on to a serving dish.\n\n103\n\nFruit And Nut Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 kg Basmati rice  \n90 g Ghee  \n2 TOil  \n2 Cloves garlic, crushed  \n1 Onion, finely chopped\n\n## 1 T Cumin seeds\n\n1 T Coriander seeds  \n6 Cardamom seeds  \n1 Cinammon stick  \n4 c Hot water  \nTiny pinch saffron powder  \n3/4 c Chopped dried apricots  \n1 c Sultanas  \n1 c Roasted unsalted cashews  \n1/2 c Pistachio nuts  \nWash rice; drain 30 minutes. Heat ghee and oil in large pan, add garlic, onion and spices, cook stirring, 1 minute. Add rice, stir until rice is coated with ghee, stir in combined water and saffron. Bring to the boil, cover with tight fitting lid, reduce heat to very low, steam  \n20 minutes or until water is absorbed and rice is tender. Add apricots  \nand sultanas, cover, cook over low heat 10 minutes, stir in cashews, serve sprinkled with pistachios.  \nGarlic-Wine Rice Pilaf  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 x Rind Of 1 Lemon  \n8 Cloves Garlic, Peeled  \n1/2 c Parsley  \n6 T Unsalted Butter  \n1 c Regular Rice (Not Instant)  \n1 1/4 c Chicken Stock  \n3/4 c Dry Vermouth  \n1 x Salt & Pepper To Taste  \nChop together the lemon rind, garlic and parsley. Heat the butter in heavy 2-qt pot. Cook the garlic mixture very gently for 10 minutes. Stir in the rice. Stir over medium heat for 2 minutes. Combine the stock and wine in a saucepan. Heat until ti begins to bubble at teh sides. Stir into rice; add salt and freshly ground pepper. Cover tightly and simmer over very low heat for 20 minutes or until liquid is absorbed and rice it tender. Fluff with a fork. Drape a towel over  \nthe pot and cover the towel until it is time to erve. Serve hot or at room temeperature.\n\n104\n\nGf Pat's Brown And White Rice Flour Breads And Buns  \nYield: 14 Servings  \n2 t Sugar  \n1/2 c Wrist-warm water  \n1 package Active dry yeast  \n1 1/4 c Water  \n1/4 c Vegetable shortening  \n1 c Brown rice flour  \n2 c White rice flour  \n1/4 c Sugar  \n4 t Xanthan gum  \nOR 1 tbsp dry pectin  \n2/3 c Non-instant dry milk  \nOR 1/3 cup soy powder  \n1 1/2 t Salt  \n2 lg Eggs  \nBring all ingredients to room temperature and pour into bakery, in order. Set \"baking control\" at 10 o'clock. Select \"white bread\" and push Start.  \nIn hot & humid weather, use 1/8 c less water.  \nRecipe may be doubled. Dough may be shaped for hot dog or hamburger buns after first rising. For herb bread, add 2 Tbsp fennel seeds or  \ndried herbs of choice to dry flour.  \nGinseng Shreds Stir Rice-for a Special Meal  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n9 c Pre steamed rice  \n2 oz finely chopped Ginseng  \n2 T Soy sauce  \n2 T Vegetable oil  \n1 t Salt  \n3 Onions shredded  \n3 Sweet peppers shredded  \n1 lb Celery 105\n\nSteam and simmer rice. Use 1 heaping tablespoon vegetable oil and stir rice in a skillet over a big fire for 1 or 2 minutes. Take out the  \nrice.  \nHeat the remaining vegetable oil over a big fire until hot. Put in  \nfinely chopped Ginseng, onions, peppers, celery and salt and stir for minutes. Let sit, covered, for 7 minutes. Then it's ready.  \nAlmost all Chinese soups and stews are adaptable to Ginseng, with the exception of those having citrus fruits as an ingredient. I've given  \nyou a start here, but experiment. Dig up a Chinese cookbook and try out a few recipes.  \nGlutinous Rice ( Khow Neow)  \nYield: 1 Serving Glutinous Rice Water  \nCane steaming basket  \nPot to suit  \nWash rice well. Soak overnight in plenty of water. If in a hurry 3-4  \nhours will do. Drain rice and place into cane steaming basket and place on pot to suit. Bring water to boil and cover basket with a saucepan  \nlid. Continue until rice is cooked. Transfer rice onto a clean surface and form into a suitable shape. Stored in a cane basket with lid. Traditionally eaten with gai yang, som dum, laap, phat phet, nam prik or a base for Thai sweets.  \nGlutinous Rice with Ham and Dried Shrimp  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n3 c Glutinous rice, washed and  \n-soaked 2 hours, then  \n\\- drained  \n3 c Water  \n1/2 c Slivered ham  \n1/4 c Dried shrimp, soaked  \n\\- to soften  \n4 Dried forest mushrooms,  \n-soaked to soften and 106\n\n\\- cut in match stick  \nPiece Chinese preserved  \n\\- turnip, rinsed and finely\n\n-minced\n\n1 t Oriental sesame oil  \nGlutinous rice is a sticky rice high in the B vitamins. Many Chinese cat it in the winter time because its high protein content keeps them warm.  \nPlace rice in a heat proof earthen pot. Add water and bring to boil. Lower heat to medium and cook, uncovered, until all water is absorbed. Combine remaining ingredients and place on top of rice. Cover and cook at lowest heat for 20 minutes. Let stand for 10 minutes before  \nserving.  \nGrape Leaves Stuffed with Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n5 T Chopped onions  \n1 c Oil  \n2 c Water  \n1 c Brown rice\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n2 t Kelp  \n2 t Dill weed  \n1/4 t Cinnamon  \n1/2 t Peppermint  \n1 t Paprika  \n1/2 t Pepper  \n1/2 t Allspice  \nJuice of 1 lemon  \n12 Grape leaves  \nSaute onions in oil till light brown. Add 1 c water with the rice, salt & kelp. Mix well. Cover & cook till the water is absorbed. Remove from heat, cool slightly & add remaining spices. Place 1  \ngenerous ts offilling onto each grape leaf. Make one fold up from the base of the leaf, tuck in the sides & roll up tightly. Place in a  \nheavy saucepan & fold down, packing the rolls tightly. Add remaining cup of water & lemon juice. Cook slowly over low heat till almost all  \nthe liquid has been absorbed. Serve hot or cold.\n\n107\n\nGreen Bean Almond Rice  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1 T Butter or margarine  \n1/2 c Slivered almonds  \n1/2 c Chopped onions  \n1/3 c Chopped red bell peppers  \n3 c Cooked brown rice, (cooked  \n-in beef broth)  \n1 10 oz package frozen French  \n\\- style green beans, thawed  \n\\- ground white pepper,  \n\\- for taste  \n1/4 t Tarragon  \nMelt butter in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add almonds; stir until lightly browned. Add onions and red pepper; cook for 2 minutes or until tender. Add rice, green beans, white pepper and tarragon. Stir until thoroughly heated.  \nGrouse & Wild Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2/3 c Wild rice  \n2 c Chicken broth  \n1/4 c Butter  \n8 Grouse breast filets  \n3 Eggs [beaten[  \n1 c Flour  \nGarlic salt, oregano, and  \nBasil to taste  \n2 T Butter  \n1/2 c Chicken broth  \n4 oz Mozzarella cheese [sliced]  \nCombine the wild rice with 2 cups of broth and? cup butter in a saucepan, cover and cook 'til tender. (keep warm) 2) Rince grouse filets and pat dry Pound the filets between waxed paper with meat mallet 'til tender, then combine with the eggs in a bowl. Let stand for  \n1 hour... 3) Combine the flour, oregano, garlic salt, basil, and pepper to taste in a bowl and roll the filets in this flour mixture, coating  \nwell. 4) Brown on both sides in 2 tb butter in a skillet. Then add  \nenough broth to cove the bottom of the pan and simmer filets, covered, for 10 min. 5) Place? slice of cheese on each filet and cook 'til  \ncheese is melted... Serve with the rice..\n\n108\n\nGujar Ka Pullao (Carrot Rice)  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Basmati rice  \n1 c -Water  \n1 lg Onion  \n2 T Vegetable oil  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1/2 t Cumin seeds  \n2 Cloves  \n1 Cardamom pod 1/2 Cinnamon stick; 1/2 inch\n\n1/2 t Peppercorns  \n2 c Carrot; grated salt to taste  \n\"Carrots add a mild sweeteness to this pullao, which is lightly flavoured with whole spices. the recipe was given to me by my  \nsister-in-law Rachna, who entices her family to eat carrots this way.\" Wash the rice under running water, then let soak in 1 cup water. Slice the onion into thin half rounds. In a large, heavy bottom saucepan over medium heat, warm the oil. Add the bay leaf. cumin, cloves, cardamom  \npod, cinnamon and peppercorns. cook until the spices puff up and darken  \n( 1 to 2 seconds), then add the sliced onion and saute until browned (8 to 10 minutes). Add the rice and the soaking water and the salt. Stir gently, cover, increase the heat to high and bring to a boil. Then  \nreduce the heat to very low and cook for 25 minutes without uncovering  \nthe pan. Turn off the heat and let the pan stand covered on the burner for 5 minutes. then uncover, fluff up the rice gently and serve. SERVES: 4 as a side dish  \nHanoi Beef and Rice-Noodel Soup (Pho Bac)  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n5 lb Beef bones with marrow  \n5 lb Oxtails  \n2 lb Short rib plate, or  \n\\- 1 lb flank steak  \n2 lg Onions, unpeeled,  \n\\- halved and studded with  \n\\- 8 whole cloves  \n3 Shallots, unpeeled  \n2 oz Fresh ginger root, unpeeled  \n\\- in one piece  \n8 Star anise 1 Cinnamon stick\n\n4 md Parsnips, cut\n\n-into 2-inch chunks\n\n109\n\n2 t Salt  \n1 lb Beef sirloin  \n2 Scallions, thinly sliced  \n1 T Shredded coriander  \n2 md Onions, sliced paper-thin  \n1/4 c Hot chili sauce (tuong  \n\\- ot or sriracha sauce)  \n1 lb 1/4-inch-wide  \n\\- dried rice sticks (banh  \n\\- pho)  \n1/2 c Nuoc mam (Vietnamese  \n-fish sauce)  \nFreshly ground black pepper -----------------------ACCO MPANIMENTS----------------------------\n\nc Fresh bean sprouts Fresh red chile peppers, -sliced Limes, cut into wedges bn Of fresh mint, separated -into leaves bn Fresh Asian basil *  \n*or regular fresh basil, -separated into leaves  \n\"This sublime recipe comes from my mother, a native of Hanoi. She always made the beef stock in large quantities++enough for at least 3 meals++and froze it in batches until needed.\"  \nIn order to cut the beef into paper-thin slices, freeze the pieces of meat for 30 minutes before slicing.  \nThe night before, clean the bones under cold running water and soak  \novernight in a pot with water to cover at room temperature. (This will help loosen the impurities inside the bones. When heat is applied, these impurities are released and come to the top much faster and can be removed, therefore, producing a clear broth.)  \nPlace the beef bones, oxtails and short rib plate in a large stockpot.  \nAdd water to cover and bring to a boil. Cook for 10 minutes. Drain. Rinse the pot and the bones.  \nReturn the bones to the pot and add 6 quarts of water. Bring to a boil. Skim the surface to remove the foam and fat. Stir the bones in the bottom of the pot from time to time to free the impurities. Continue skimming until the foam ceases to rise. Add 3 quarts more water and bring to a boil. Skim off all the residue that forms on the top. Turn the heat to low and simmer.  \nMeanwhile, char the clove-studded onions, shallots and ginger directly  \nover a gas burner or under the broiler until they release their  \nfragrant odors. Tie the charred vegetables, star anise and cinnamon stick in a double thickness of dampened cheesecloth. Add the spice bag, parsnips and salt to the simmering broth. Simmer for hour. Remove the short rib plates. Pull the meat away from the bones. Reserve the meat and return the bones to the pot. Simmer the broth, uncovered, for 4 to 5 hours. Keep an eye on it; as the liquid boils away, add enough fresh water to cover the bones.  \nMeanwhile, slice the beef sirloin against the grain into paper-thin  \nslices, roughly 2 by 2inches in size. Slice the reserved short rib meat paper-thin. Set aside.  \nIn a small bowl, combine the scallions, coriander and half of the slice onions. Place the remaining sliced onions in a small bowl and stir in the hot chili sauce. Blend well.  \nSoak the rice sticks in warm water for 30 minutes. Drain and set aside.  \nWhen the broth is ready, remove and discard all of the bones. Strain the broth through a strainer or colander lined with a double layer of dampened cheesecloth into a clean pot. Add the fish sauce and bring the broth to a boil. Reduce the heat and keep the broth at a bare simmer.  \nIn another pot, bring 4 quarts of water to a boil. Drain the noodles, 110\n\nthen drop them in the boiling water. Drain immediately. Divide the noodles among 41arge soup bowls. Top the noodles with the sliced meats. bring the broth to a rolling boil. Ladle the broth directly  \nover the meat in each bowl (the boiling broth will cook the raw beef instantly). Garnish with the scallion mixture and freshly ground black pepper.  \nServe the onions in hot chili sauce and the accompaniments on the side. Each diner will add these ingredients as desired. Yield: 4 servings.  \nHarvest Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 c Sliced carrots  \n1 T Vegetable oil  \n1 c Sliced green onions  \n2 c Apples, cored, chopped  \n3 c Cooked brown rice  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/2 c Seedless raisins  \n1 T Sesame seeds  \nIn large skillet, cook carrots in oil about 5 minutes over medium heat. Add onions and apples. Cook 3-5 minutes longer. stir in remaining ingredients. Cook until thoroughly heated.  \nNutrition (per serving): 220 calories  \nSaturated fat 1 g Total Fat 4 g (17% of calories) Protein 4 g (7%  \nof calories) Carbohydrates 42 g (76% of calories)  \nCholesterol 0 mg Sodium 208 mg Fiber 1 g Iron 1 mg  \nVitamin A 5243 I U Vitamin C 7 mg Alcohol 0 g  \nHearty Chicken & Rice Soup  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n10 c Chicken broth  \n1 md Onion  \n1 c Celery [sliced]  \n1 c Carrots [sliced]  \n1/4 c Parsley [snipped]\n\n111\n\n1/2 t Black pepper  \n1/2 t Thyme leaves [dried]  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1 1/2 c Chicken [cubed]  \n2 T Lime juice  \nLime slices for garnish  \nCombine the broth, onion, celery, carrots, parsley, pepper, thyme, and bay leaf in a dutch oven, and bring to a boil over high heat, stirring  \nonce or twice... 2) Reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, 10 to 15 min., then add the chicken and simmer for 5 to 10 min. more or 'til the chicken is done... 3) Remove and discard bay leaf, stir in the rice and lime juice just before serving... garnish with lime slices..  \nCalories... 184 Cholesterol... 23mg Fat... 4g Sodium... mg  \nHearty Chicken Rice Soup  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1/2 c Celery; sliced  \n2 Chicken breast halves  \n-frozen, boned, skinned  \n2 Cans chicken broth  \n1/2 c Water  \n2 c Mixed veggies; frozen  \n3/4 c Uncooked instant rice  \n1 T Dried parsley flakes  \n2 t Salt free lemon herb season.  \nSpray large saucepan or Dutch oven with nonstick cooking spray. Heat over med high heat until hot. Add celery; cook and stir 11/2 to 2 mins  \nor until crisp tender. Add chicken breast halves, broth and water.  \nBring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer 10-12 mins or until chicken is fork tender and juices run clear, stirring occasionally. Remove chicken from saucepan; cool slightly. Cut into bite sized pieces.  \nBring broth mixture in saucepan to a boil; stir in frozen veggies.  \nReturn to a boil. stir in rice, chicken, parsely and lemon and herb seasoning. Reduce heat; cover and simmer 10 mins or until rice and veggies are tender.\n\n14 c serving yields 220 calories, and 2 grams of fat.\n\nHoney Ribs and Rice\n\n112\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 lb Extra lean back ribs  \n1 en Condensed beef consomme  \n1/2 c Water  \n2 T Maple syrup  \n2 T Honey  \n3 T Soy sauce  \n2 T Barbecue sauce  \n1/2 t Dry mustard  \n1 1/2 c Quick cooking rice  \nIf ribs are fat, place on broiler rack and broil for 15 to 20 minutes; drain well. Otherwise, wash ribs and pat dry Cut ribs into single servings. Combine remaining ingredients except rice in crockpot; stir to mix. Add ribs. Cover and cook on LOW setting for 6 to 8 hours, or  \nHIGH setting for 3 to 4 hours. Remove ribs and keep warm. Turn crockpot to HIGH setting; add 1-1/2 cups quick cooking rice and cook until done. Serve rice on warm platter surrounded by ribs.  \nIndonesian-Style Yogurt Rice  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 c Arborio rice (240g)  \n1/2 t Saffron threads  \n1 md Onion, minced  \n2 Garlic cloves, minced  \n3 TOil  \n1 Inch piece fresh ginger,  \n\\- grated  \n1 c Milk (240ml)  \n1 c Plain  \n-yogurt, room temperature  \n\\- (1/2 pt.)  \nSalt & pepper  \nIt's only touted as \"Indonesian-style\" but what the hay..  \nAs is the case with most Southeast Asian and South African yellow rice dishes, the coloring agent called for here was turmeric, not saffron. Yogurt appears in many Indian saffron dishes, however, and I suspected saffron would work well here. It does. You can substitute California  \npearl rice successfully.  \nHeat 1/4 cup of milk and steep threads for 20 minutes. Saute onion and garlic in oil. Add ginger and rice and coat grains well. Add the rest  \nof the ingredients, including the saffron. Season with salt and pepper  \nand cover. Cook over low heat until rice is done. Serve immediately.\n\n113\n\nJohn's Garlic Rice\n\nLow Fat, Side Dish\n\nYield: 8 Servings\n\n2 T reduced-fat margarine\n\n2 T minced garlic\n\n2 c long-grain rice\n\n4 c reduced-sodium\n\n\\- reduced-fat chicken broth Salt, (optional), to taste Freshly-ground black pepper,\n\n-(optional), to taste\n\nHeat the margarine in a large skillet and saute the garlic and rice, stirring constantly, until lightly brown.\n\nAdd the chicken broth, salt, and pepper and stir. Bring to a boil, then\n\nreduce heat to simmer, cover, and cook for 20 minutes. This recipe yields 8 servings. Serving size: 1/2 cup. Exchanges Per Serving: 2 1/2 starch.\n\nJoni's Rice Pudding\n\nYield: 8 Servings\n\n1/2 ga Milk\n\n1 c Rice long grain\n\n1 c Sugar\n\n4 T Butter (OPTional) Salt\n\nCinnamon\n\nRaisens\n\nPlace Milk, Rice and Sugar and a pinch of salt into Crock on Hi.Cook for 1 and 1/2 hours. Stir and at this time if you like raisen add them,\n\na couple of hands full and sprinkle in some cinnamon. Cook for another\n\n1 1/2 hours keeping a check on the last hour stirring often. As soon as it starts to thicken turn it off if you like it real creamy, let cook\n\nlonger if you like it thick. It will thicken a lot after it cools. I\n\nuse skim milk, omit the butter, and sometimes if I have it on hand add a can of evaporated milk, gives a little creamer taste, but either way\n\nit is just as good this way and a lot less fat _etc._\n\n114\n\nKalamarakia Pilafi (Squid Baked With Rice)  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 lb Medium squid  \nSalt  \n1/4 c Olive oil  \n3 Garlic cloves; sliced  \n1/4 c Dry white wine  \n2 Tomatoes; peeled & seeded  \n3 T Butter  \n1 c Raw long-grain white rice  \nChopped parsley  \n1 T Chopped fresh rosemary  \nFreshly ground pepper  \nWash and clean the squid, separating the outer sacs from the heads and tentacles, removing and discarding the translucent cartilage, and small sand bag and ink. Rub salt on the outer sacs and rinse them inside and out with cold water. Rinse head and tentacles thoroughly as well. Slice squid into uniform rings, between 1/2 and 1 inch wide. Heat the oil in  \na frying pan and add the squid and garlic and saute for 5 minutes. stir in the wine and sliced tomatoes, cover, and simmer until the squid is almost tender (approximately 30 minutes). Transfer to a baking dish. Meanwhile, heat the butter and saute the rice, without browning, until transparent, stirring constantly. Add the rice to the squid and  \nsprinkle with 1/4 cup chopped parsley, the rosemary, and salt and  \npepper to taste. Add enough hot water to cook the rice, slightly more than 2 cups including the tomato sauce. Cover and bake in a moderate oven (350 F) for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the rice is tender.  \nSprinkle with additional chopped parsley and serve hot.  \nKar-In's Crispy Rice Squares  \nYield: 1 8\"x8\" pan  \n1/4 c Almond butter  \n1/4 c Tahini  \n1/2 c Rice syrup  \n1 t Vanilla extract  \n1/4 t Salt (optional)  \n2 c Crispy brown rice cereal  \n1/3 c Almonds; roasted; chopped  \n-(optional)  \n1/3 c Carob or chocolate chips  \n-(optional)  \n1/3 c Coconut (optional)  \nIn a heavy saucepan over low heat, combine almond butter, tahini and 115\n\nrice syrup until soft. Turn off heat. Add vanilla and salt. Fold in cereal and optional ingredients. Mix well. Press into a lightly oiled\" x 8\" pan. Chill in refrigerator for 1 to 2 hours.  \nKathie jenkins wild rice soup  \nYield: 12 Servings  \n1/4 c Butter  \n4 Celery stalks, chopped  \n2 Carrots peeled and diced  \n1 sm Onion, diced  \n1 sm Red onion, diced  \n1/2 c Green onions, sliced  \n1/3 c Slivered almonds  \n1 T Dill weed  \n2 t Black pepper  \n2 t Garlic salt  \n2 Bay leaves  \n1/2 t Turmeric  \n4 qt Chicken stock  \n1 1/2 c Wild rice, well washed  \n1/2 c White rice, well washed  \n1/2 t Salt  \n4 Egg yolks  \n4 c Cooked chicken diced  \n3 c Mushrooms, sliced  \nMelt butter in skillet over medium heat, add celery, carrots, all onions and almonds and saute until slightly tender, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. Add dill weed, pepper, garlic salt, bay leaves and turmeric. In separate large pot, bring chicken stock, wild rice, white rice and salt to boil. Reduce heat, add celery mixture,  \ncover and simmer 30 minutes, Add more stock if too thick. Whisk 1 C hot soup into yolks, then whisk back into soup. Add chicken and mushrooms, discard bay leaves, Heat gently, Do not boil. Serve immediately. Each serving contains about 282 calories; 1,444 mg sodium;  \n111 mg cholesterol; 12 grams fat; 28 grams carbohydrates; 16 grams  \nprotein; grams fiber.  \nKing's Arms Tavern Raisin Rice Pudding 116\n\nYield: 8 Servings  \n4 c Milk  \n1/4 c Converted rice  \n4 Eggs  \n1/2 c Sugar  \n1 1/2 t Lemon extract  \n1 1/2 t Vanilla  \n1 T Butter; melted  \n1 t Nutmeg  \n3/4 c Light raisins  \nBring 3 cups milk and rice to boil over direct heat. Lower heat and cook, covered, until rice is tender, about 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from heat.  \nPreheat oven to 350 F. Beat eggs well. Add sugar, beating  \ncontinuously. Add remaining milk, lemon extract, vanilla and butter. Combine rice and milk with egg mixture and pour into 8x8-inch pan. Sprinkle with nutmeg. Place pan in larger pan, taking care that sides of smaller pan do not touch larger pan. Bake until custard begins to set, about 30 minutes. Stir in raisins and continue baking until knife  \ninserted in center comes out clean, about 15 minutes. Remove fran oven  \nand set custard pan on cake rack. Cool slightly before refrigerating.  \nLamb Shanks and Rice Soup  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 (1kg) lamb shanks\n\n## 1 T Oil\n\n8 c (21itres) water  \n30 g Butter  \n1 t Chopped fresh dill  \n1 T Chopped fresh parsley  \n3 Shallots, chopped  \n100 g Baby mushrooms, sliced  \n2 T Plain flour  \n1 md (120g) carrot, chopped  \n2 T White rice  \n1/2 bn (20 leaves) English  \n-spinach, shredded  \n2 t Lemon juice  \nPlace shanks in baking dish, brush with oil, bake, uncovered, in hot oven about 25 mins or until well browned. Drain on paper towel.  \nCombine shanks and water in pan, simmer, uncovered, 30 mins. Remove shanks from pan, reserve 5 cups cooking liquid. Remove meat from bones, chop meat and reserve; discard bones.  \nHeat butter in pan, add herbs, shallots and mushrooms, cook, stirring  \nuntil mushrooms are soft. Add flour, cook, stirring, until combined. Remove from heat, gradually stir in reserved cooking liquid, carrot and rice, simmer, partly covered, about 10 mins or until rice is tender.\n\n117\n\nAdd reserved meat, spinach and juice, stir until spinach is just wilted and soup is heated through.  \nLamb Steamed in Rice Powder  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 3/4 lb Piece of boneless lamb  \n2 t Dark soy sauce  \n1 T Light soy sauce pn Salt  \n1/2 t Sugar  \n5 sl Ginger  \n1 T Ginger juice (see note)  \n4 Garlic cloves, crushed  \n2 Scallions, cut in half and  \n-smashed  \n2 sm Dried hot peppers, ground  \n1 c Uncooked long-grain rice  \n2 Star anise  \nFresh banana leaves  \n-(opt, see note)  \nCut the meat into \"butterfly\" slices by making one slice not quite all the way through and the second slice all the way through. Pound the meat lightly.  \nToss the meat with the soy sauces, salt, sugar, ginger, ginger juice, garlic, scallions and hot peppers; marinate for 30 minutes.  \nMeanwhile, make the rice powder by putting the rice and star anise into a dry skillet and cook while stirring until the rice is brown. (It  \nshould be thoroughly browned but not scorched.) Spoon the rice and anise into a blender++a food processor won't work++ and blend until it's the consistency of fine sand. (Don't blend it too finely.)  \nLine two steamer sections with banana leaves cut to fit. Put half the rice powder into a bowl, reserving the rest in a jar for future use,  \nand dredge the lamb pieces in the powder, coating them generously. Arrange them on the banana leaves and steam them for 25 minutes. At the end of 15 minutes, sprinkle them with a little water. Serve in the steamer.  \nNOTES: Ginger juice is made by covering fresh crushed ginger with boiling water and letting it stand for 15 minutes or so.  \nIf you can't get banana leaves, the lamb may be steamed on a plate.\n\n118\n\nLemon Parsley Chicken and Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n3/4 lb Chicken breast halves\n\n-boneless, skinless\n\n## 1 T Oil\n\n1 1/2 c Chicken broth\n\n1 1/2 c Minute instant brown rice\n\n2 T Chopped parsley\n\n1 t Grated lemon peel\n\n1/8 t Pepper\n\n3 T Toasted whole almonds\n\nBrown chicken in hot oil in skillet. Add broth; bring to boil. Stir in rice. Return to boil Reduce heat to low; cover and simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in parsley, lemon peel and pepper; cover. Let stand 5 minutes. Sprinkle with almonds.\n\nLemon Rice Soup\n\nYield: 6 Servings\n\n1 sm Onion; chopped\n\n1/2 Cabbage; shredded\n\n1/2 t Garlic powder\n\n1/8 t Black pepper\n\n1/8 t Turmeric\n\n## 2 TOil\n\n3 c Rice; cooked\n\n8 c ;water OR\n\n8 c Vegetable broth\n\n1 c Nutritional yeast\n\n1 T Tamari\n\nSaute onion or scallions, cabbage and spices in oil for 5-8 minuts. Add rice, water or broth, lemon juice, yeast, and tamari or soy sauce. Simmer for another 10 minutes. Serve hot.\n\nVariation: Instead of cabbage, use 2 cups chopped kale.\n\nPer serving: 232 cal; 11 g prot; 37 g carb; 5 g fat (19% of total); mg calcium; 5 mg iron; 212 mg sod; g fiber\n\n119\n\nLentil & Brown Rice Soup  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n5 c Chicken broth  \n1 1/2 c Lentils, picked over and  \n\\- rin ed  \n1 c Brown rice  \n32 oz Tomatoes, drained, reserving  \n\\- uice, and chopped  \n3 Carrots, in 1/4 inch pieces  \n1 Onion, chopped  \n1 Celery, chopped  \n3 Garlic cloves, minced  \n1/2 t Basil  \n1/2 t Oregano  \n1/4 t Thyme  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1/2 c Fresh parsley, minced  \n2 T Cider vinegar (or to taste)  \nIn a heavy kettle, combine the broth, 3 cups water, lentils, rice, tomatoes and juice, carrots, onion, celery, garlic, basil, oregano, thyme, and bay leaf. Bring mixture to a boil and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, for 45-55 minutes or until lentils and rice are tender. Stir in parsley, vinegar, and salt and pepper to taste. Discard bay leaf. The soup will be thick and will thicken more as it stands. Thin, if desired, with chicken stock.  \nMakes about 14 cups.  \nLow-Fat Beans and Rice  \nYield: 8 Servings Brown or white rice Canned black beans Salsa, mild or medium  \nCook the rice (as you wish with amounts) in water according to  \ndirections with no seasoning (butter, salt, etc). Rinse the beans in a colander. mix the beans with the rice. I use about 1/2 of a can of beans to 4 cups of cooked rice. Mix enough salsa with the rice and beans to make it colorful. Serve over lettuce or alone. This recipe leaves a lot of leeway to add amounts to suit your tastes. The kids love it and it adds a nice touch to BBQ meals. Good way to use left over rice instead ofturning it into fattening rice pudding. Make  \npleanty...it goes FAST! Make sure the beans are well rinsed otherwise that nasty looking black liquid will spoil the appearance. It's a  \npersonal favorite of mine.\n\n120\n\nMalaysian Braised Chicken with Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 lb Chicken Thighs; skinned  \n-and boned  \n1 t Salt  \n1 T Peanut Oil  \n5 Shallots; thinly sliced  \n3 md Yellow Onions;  \n-thinly sliced  \n4 Red Chiles; seeded and minced  \n\\---------------------------SAUCE-------------------------------- c Water tb Dark Soy Sauce tb Sugar ts Salt  \n\\--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- c Cooked Rice 12 c Roasted Peanuts 12 c Cilantro Leaves  \nSeason the chicken with salt and pepper and set aside as you preheat the oil in a 12\" skillet. stir fry the shallots, onions and chiles  \nuntil lightly browned, then add the chicken and cook 5-7 minutes, or  \nuntil the chicken is lightly browned. Mix together the water, soy sauce, sugar and salt. Pour over the chicken, raise to a boil, then reduce heat, cover and cook 15-20 minutes until the chicken is cooked through and tender, and the sauce is thick. Serve over rice topped with peanuts and cilantro.  \nMandarin Rice Pudding  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 1/2 c Cooked rice  \n1 c Undiluted evaporated milk  \n1/2 c Mandarin orange liquid (can)  \n1/2 c Light brown sugar  \n3 T Butter; melted  \n1 t Vanilla  \n3 Eggs; beaten  \n1/2 c Raisins  \n1 c Drained mandarin orange  \nSections 121\n\nCombine rice with all ingredients except orange sections. Mix well. Lightly butter crockpot. Pour in rice mixture. Cover and cook on LOW for 4 to 6 hours or on HIGH for 2 to 3 hours. stir during first 30 minutes. During last half-hour, stir in orange sections.  \nNOTE: For classic rice pudding use 1/2 cup evaporated milk and 2 tsp vanilla. Raisins are optional. Omit orange liquid and sections.  \nMangoes with sticky Rice  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 c Coconut cream  \n4 T Sugar  \n1 t Salt  \n4 Ripe mangoes  \n3 c Sticky coconut rice  \nMix the coconut cream with the sugar and salt, and bring to a boil. Simmer for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.  \nPeel the mangoes and slice them, removing the stones. Arrange the mangoes on individual plates with rice beside them. Spoon the sauce over the rice.  \nCOCONUT RICE (Khao Man):  \nCoconut rice can be prepared with another ordinary or sticky rice, depending on what sort of dish it is to be served with. If using sticky rice, soak it first in plenty of water for at least two hours,  \nbut preferably overnight  \nIf prepared with ordinary rice, serve with Salted Sun-Dried Beef (Nua Dad Diao) or other savoury dishes. Sticky coconut rice is delicious with mangoes.  \n1 cups rice 2 cups water 1 cup coconut cream Salt  \nRinse and drain the rice and put into a pan with the water, coconut cream and salt. Mix well  \nBring to the boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat and cover. Simmer for 10 minutes.  \nWhen all the liquid has been absorbed, cook for a few more minutes over low heat. The resulting slight burning of the rice at the bottom of  \nthe pan gives extra flavour to this dish.  \nThese are typical of the \"street food\" that one buys from the vendors with mini-kitchens on pushcarts all over Thailand. Thai desserts and confections tend to nastily/heavenly sweet and rich. You might be careful using the amount of salt called for in these recipes. The  \nThais tend to like their stuff saltier than we would. They even make lemonade with salt instead of sugar!\n\n122\n\nManitoba Wild Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n1 c Wild rice\n\n4 c Water\n\n1 t Salt  \n6 Slices bacon  \n2 Onions, chopped  \n1 Sweet green pepper chopped  \n3 Stalks celery, chopped\n\n1 1/2 c Sliced mushrooms\n\n2 T Butter\n\n1/4 c Beef stock or water\n\n1 x Salt and pepper to taste\n\nRinse rice in colander with cold running water. In large saucepan, bring water and salt to boil; add rice; reduce heat to medium low and simmer, covered 30 minutes. Drain. Meanwhile, in skillet, over medium high heat, fry bacon 3 to 5 minutes or until crisp. Transfer bacon to paper towel; pat dry and chop. Drain all but 1 tablespoon bacon drippings from skillet; add onions and cook, stirring 3 to 5 minutes or until tender. Add green pepper, celery and mushrooms; cook, stirring 3 minutes. Transfer vegetable mixture to 8 cup casserole. Stir in butter, beef stock and rice. Bake covered, 15 to 20 minutes in 350 F degree oven until rice is tender. Season to taste with salt and pepper..\n\nMaple Rice Pudding\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n1 qt Skim milk\n\n2 c Cooked long-grain white rice\n\n\\---113 c Maple syrup; PLUS:-\n\n2 T Maple syrup\n\n1 t Grated orange rind\n\n1/3 c Broken walnuts\n\nCombine the milk and rice in a large saucepan. Cook, stirring, over medium-low heat until the mixture boils and thickens, about 25 minutes. Stir in 113 cup maple syrup and cook 10 minutes more.\n\nAdd the orange rind and vanilla. Pour into 4 (8-ounce) dessert bowls\n\nor custard cups; then allow to cool at room temperature.\n\nMeanwhile, heat the walnuts in a small heavy frying pan over low heat, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Drizzle with remaining 2 tablespoons maple syrup. Cook over medium heat, stirring, until the syrup boils and coats the walnuts, about 2 minutes. Sprinkle on the puddings.\n\nPer Serving: 377 calories, 6.9 g. fat (16% of calories), 1.5 g dietary fiber, 12.5 g. protein, 66.3 g. carbohydrates, 4 mg. cholesterol, 135\n\n123\n\nmg. sodium.  \nMariachi Beefballs And Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 lb Ground Beef  \n1 c Crushed Corn Chips  \n1/2 c Milk  \n1 Large Egg, Slightly Beaten\n\n## 2 t Salt\n\n2 1/2 T Unbleached Flour  \n2 T Butter or Margarine  \n2 c Sliced Onion  \n1 Clove Garlic, Crushed  \n1 t Chili Powder  \n1/4 t Powdered Cumin  \n19 oz (1 en) Tomatoes, Undrained  \n4 oz (1 en) Green Chilies,Drained  \n1/2 c Sliced Ripe Olives  \n1 x Mexican Rice  \nIn large bowl, lightly combine ground beef with corn chips, milk, egg and 1 t salt. Cover and refrigerate 1 hour. Shape into 15 meatballs, using 2 Rounded Tablespoons meat mixture for each. Lightly roll meatballs in 2 T Flour, coating completely. In large frying-pan, cook meatballs in hot butter, half at a time, stirring until evenly browned. Remove meatballs from frying-pan as they are browned. In same frying-pan, cook onion and garlic about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. In small bowl, combine remaining 1/2 T flour and 1 t salt, chili powder and cumin. Stir into onions. Add tomatoes, green chilies and olives. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly; reduce heat,  \ncover tightly and cook slowly for 30 minutes. Add meatballs to tomato  \nmizture, cover tightly and cook slowly for 20 minutes. Uncover and continue cooking slowly 10 minutes. Serve meatballs and sauce over hot Mexican Rice. Mexican Rice: Pint Dairy Sour Cream 1/2  \nlb Monterey Jack Cheese, 4 Oz (1 en) Chopped Green cut into stripes Chilies 1/4 Cup Grated  \nParmesan Cups Cooked Seasoned Rice Cheese Combine sour cream, chilies and salt. in 13 x 9-inch baking pan, layer 1 cup cooked rice, 1/2 sour cream-chili mixture and 1/2 cheese strips. Repeat layers and top with remaining cup of rice. Bake in moderate oven (350 degrees F.) for 25 minutes. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and top with meatballs and sauce. Continue baking for 5 minutes or until cheese melts.\n\n124\n\nMark's Fried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 c Cooked rice  \n2 T Vegetable oil  \n1 lg Onion, finely chopped  \n2 Garlic cloves, minced  \n1 lg Carrot, scrubbed & diced  \n1 md Green pepper, diced  \n1/2 c Frozen corn &/or peas  \n1 3\" piece ginger, sliced  \n1/2 t Chili pieces, or to taste  \n1 lb Tofu, cut into strips  \nSoy sauce  \nSalt & pepper, to taste  \nEnsure that the rice has been cooked ahead of time & is well cooled. Heat vegetable oil in a wok. When hot, add onions & garlic & fry for minutes. Add the carrots & stirfry for 2 minutes. Add the rest of  \nthe vegetables & continue to stirfry for 2 or 3 minutes. Toss in the chili pieces & ginger root. Cook for a few seconds. Carefully stir in the rice & tofu strips. Lower heat & continue to cook, stirring occasionally for 5 minutes. Add enough soy sauce to coat the rice & cook for a further 5 minutes on low heat, stirring often to prevent sticking. Season if desired with salt & pepper.  \nServe when heated through.  \nThis goes great with spicy tofu dishes or works well on its own as a main dish in its own right. If serving it with another tofu dish, omit the tofu.  \nIf you desire something hotter, add more chili pieces. Use pieces  \nrather than powder because they are hotter.  \nMel's Mexican Rice (mjnt73c)  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c Long-grain rice;uncooked*  \n2 Cloves garlic; crushed  \n1/4 c Corn oil  \n5 c Chicken broth; -  \n*NOT Uncle Ben's converted type or the precooked type. -When using substitutions (see below) always remember to keep the proportions of rice to liquid the same. Heat the oil on med-high in a large skillet or  \n4-5 quart pot. Add the garlic and sautee about 1 minute. Add the rice  \nand fry it, stirring frequently, until the rice is golden brown. Add the liquid and stir. When it comes to a boil, lower to a simmer, stir once more and cover. Cook until all water is absorbed. This is the basic recipe, and there is a lot more you can do with it. For example: 125\n\nSubstitute 1/2 cup tomato juice, or a pureed tomato, for part of the liquid. Substitute part of the liquid with black bean soup broth. Add  \n1/2 cup frozen peas and carrots. Add 1/2 cup sliced mushroom and green  \nonion. Use beef or other broth instead of chicken. Add 1/2 cup cooked chick peas(garbanzo). Substitute part of the rice with some vermicelli. The possibilities are really endless if you use your imagination. Just stick to the basic recipe and proportion of rice to liquid.  \nMexicali rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 lb Ground beef  \n1 lg Onion, minced  \n2 Cloves garlic, minced fine  \n1 en Green salsa  \n1 en Red Salsa  \n1 en Tomato soup  \n1 pt Sour cream  \n1 c Shredded chedder cheese  \nSalt  \nPepper  \n12 Servings cooked rice  \nBrown hamburger and add onions and garlic and cook until soft. Add soups and salsa. Warm all the way through. Add to rice. Mix in sour cream. Salt and pepper to taste. Put in casserole dish and top with cheese and cook for 30 minutes at 350 degrees or until cheese is bubbly and casserole is warm all the way through.  \nMexican Cinnamon Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/2 c Onion; Chopped, 1 Md  \n1 Clove Garlic; Finely Chopped  \n2 T Margarine Or Butter  \n1 c Regular Rice; Uncooked  \n1/2 c Currants  \n2 1/4 c Chicken Broth 126\n\n2 t Cinnamon; Ground  \n1/4 t Salt  \nFresh Cilantro; Snipped,* To taste.  \n\\---Cook and stir the onion and garlic in the margarine in a 3-quart saucepan until the onion is tender. Stir in the remaining ingredients except the cilantro. Heat to boiling, stirring once or twice, then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, 16 minutes. (DO NOT lift the cover or stir.) Remove from the heat and fluff the rice lightly with a fork. Recover and let steam for about 10 minutes before adding the cilantro.  \nMexican Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 en Tomato sauce (8oz.) *  \n1 en Green chillies, chopped  \nChili powder to taste  \n2 c Rice, uncooked lng. grain  \n1 sm Whole kernel corn, drained  \n3 Green onion, diced  \n4 c Water  \n2 Tomatoes, chopped fine  \nRinse rice until water runs clean. Fry uncooked rice in oil in fry pan or wok. Stir until brown. Pour tomato sauce and drained chilies on rice and add water. Mix well, add onion, tomato, and corn. Bring to full boil, then cover and simmer for about 25 mins. or until water is  \nabsorbed. If you wish you may add 1 lb. of browned ground beef to this  \nrecipe before simmering.* If you want \"hotter\" rice use Mexican tomato sauce.  \nMexican Rice Mix  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n4 c Raw Long Grain Rice  \n4 t Salt 127\n\n1 t Dried Basil  \n1/2 c Green Pepper Flakes  \n5 t Parsley Flakes  \nCombine all ingredients in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Put about 1 1/2 cups of mix into three 1-pint airtight containers and label as Mexican Rice Mix. store in a cool, dry place and use within to 8 months.  \nMakes about 41/2 cups of mix. Mexican Rice: Combine 11/2 cups of  \nmix, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; cover and reduce heat. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes, until liquid is absorbed.  \nMakes 4 to 6 servings.  \nMexican Rice No. 2  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Rice  \n1 T Chili pepper, chopped green  \n2 T Salt  \n1 c Tomatoes  \n2/3 c Raisins  \n2 Bacon slices  \n1TOilorfat  \n1 Onion, small chopped  \n1 T Chili powder  \n1 Garlic, sm clove chopped  \n1 1/2 c Water  \n1 lb Hamburger steak, raw  \nWash and drain rice. Wash raisins in hot water and drain. Heat half the oil in frying pan, add washed rice and fry to a light brown,  \nstirring occasionally to prevent burning. Remove rice, add remaining  \nfat, then fry the hamburger, onion, garlic, and chili pepper about ten minutes; add salt, tomatoes and chili powder which has been dissolved in one-fourth cup cold water. Allow the mixture to cook a few minutes, then mix with the rice and raisins. Pour into a baking dish, add water and lay the strips of bacon over the top. Bake until rice is tender,  \nabout forty-five minutes in a moderate oven (350 to degrees F.) If  \nbacon gets too brown, cover dish for part of the baking.  \nMexican Rice Pudding ( Arroz Con Leche) 128\n\nYield: 1 Serving  \n2 Inches cinnamon stick  \n\\- a 2\" strip of lime zest,  \n3/4 \"wide  \n1 c Rice  \n1 qt Milk  \n3/4 c Sugar  \n1/4 t Salt  \n4 lg Egg yolks  \n1/4 c Raisins  \n1 T Unsalted butter, cut into  \n-bits Ground cinnamon,  \n\\- for garnish  \n1/2 t Vanilla extract (mexican  \n-vanilla would be best - it comes in a pretty\n\n-big bottle though.)  \nThe rice. Bring 2 c water to boil in med saucepan, add cinn stick and lime zest, cover and simmer over med heat for 5 min. Pour in rice, let mix return to boil, stir once, then cover and cook over med-low heat  \nfor 20 min, until all the liquid is absorbed and the rice is tender.  \nThe pudding. Stir in milk, sugar, and salt and simmer over med to med-low heat, stirring frequently, until the liquid shows the FIRST  \nsigns of thickening, 20-25 min. Take from the heat and remove the cinn stick and zest. Beat the egg yolks until runny, stir in the vanilla  \nand a few T of the hot rice, the stir yolk concoction back into the  \nrice mixture, Mix in HALF the raisins, then spoon the rice pudding into a decorative 8\"square baking dish.  \nBrowning and finishing the pudding. Preheat the broiler and dot the  \nrice pudding w/butter. Set the dish under the heat long enough to brown the top, 3 or 4 min. Sprinkle with remaining raisins and the ground cinnamon, and serve warm or at room temperature. COOK'S NOTES:  \nTiming and Advance Preparation The rice pudding can be ready in an  \nhour, much of which won't involve your direct participation. It may be prepared through Step 2 a day or two in advance, then buttered and broiled shortly before serving.  \nHistorical Notes:  \nArroz con leche  \nThis dessert is softer and more connamony than our baked rice pudding. The flavors are simple and close to home, but it's easy to develop a  \nreal love for it, spoonful after spoonful. mexican people everywhere serve it as regularly as they do flan; it's creamy and, in its own way, light and soothing.  \nMexican Spanish Rice 129\n\nYield: 1 Serving\n\n\\---1 NGREDIENTS---\n\n## 3 T Shortening\n\n1/2 c Onion, sliced  \n1 14 oz can whole tomatoes  \n1 t Black pepper  \n3 c Water -------------------------DIR ECTI0N&\\-----------------------------\n\n/2 c Rice 12 c Bell pepper,sliced md Clove garlic, minced ts Salt  \nMelt shortening in large skillet. Add rice and brown. When rice is a golden brown, reduce heat and add onion, bell pepper, tomatoes, garlic and pepper. Mix well and add 1 1/2 cups warm water or enough to just cover the rice. Add salt. Cover and let simmer until almost dry Add remaining water, cold, a little at a time, cooking over low heat until  \nfluffy. Note: You may substitue peeled seeded green chili for the bell pepper.  \nMinnesota Wild Rice Dressing  \nYield: 12 Servings\n\n## 4 slices turkey bacon cut\n\n-into 1-inch pieces  \n1 c onion chopped  \n1 c celery chopped  \n1/21b mushrooms sliced  \n1 Package (4 ounces) wild  \n-rice cooked according  \n-to package directions  \n2 c bread crumbs  \n1/21b turkey breakfast sausage  \n-cooked  \n1 t dried oregano  \n1/2 t dried sage  \nSalt  \nPepper  \nPreheat oven to 325.  \nIn medium-size skillet, over medium heat, saute bacon until almost crisp. Add onion, celery and mushrooms; continue cooking until vegetables are tender.  \nIn large bowl combine bacon mixture, wild rice, bread crumbs, sausage, oregano and sage. Season to taste with salt and pepper if desired. Spoon dressing into lightly greased 2-quart casserole dish. Bake, covered, at 325 degrees F. 35 to 40 minutes.\n\n130\n\nMinnesota Wild Rice-Stuffed Chicken  \nYield: 10 Servings  \n1 6-ounce package long grain  \n\\- and wild rice mix  \n2 medium coking apples  \n-(such as Granny Smith  \n-or Jonathan), cored  \n-and chopped  \n8 oz sliced fresh mushrooms  \n\\- (3 cups)  \n1 c shredded carrot  \n1/2 c thinly sliced green onion  \n1/2 t pepper  \n1 5-to 6-pound whole  \n-roasting chicken  \n2-3 T apple jelly, melted  \n1 medium apple, cut into  \n\\- wedges (optional)  \nFor stuffing, cook rice according to package directions, except add apples, mushrooms, carrot, onion, and pepper to rice before cooking. Meanwhile, rinse chicken; pat dry with paper towels. Spoon some of the stuffing loosely into the neck cavity. Pull the neck skin to the back  \nand fasten with a small skewer. Lightly spoon the remaining stuffing into body cavity. Tuck drumsticks under the band of skin that crosses the tail. If there is no band, tie drumsticks to tail. Twist the wing  \ntips under the bird.  \nPlace stuffed chicken, breast side up, on a rack in a shallow roasting pan. Insert meat thermometer into the center of one of the thigh  \nmuscles. The bulb should not touch the bone. Roast, uncovered, in a 325 degree F. oven for 1-3/4 to 2-1/2 hours or until meat thermometer registers 180 degrees F. to 185 degrees F. At this time, chicken is no longer pink and the drumsticks move easily in their sockets. When the bird is two-thirds done, cut the band of skin or string between the drumsticks so the thighs will cook evenly. Brush chicken with melted  \njelly once or twice during the last 10 minutes of roasting.  \nRemove chicken from oven and cover it with foil. Let stand for 10 to 20 minutes before carving. Transfer the chicken to a serving platter. Spoon the stuffing around the chicken. Garnish with apple wedges, if desired. Makes 10 servings.  \nComments: Team up this apple-glazed bird with a chicory and red onion  \nsalad dressed with a blue cheese vinaigrette.  \nMiss Allie's Chicken and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings 131\n\nChicken,3-41b* Salt  \nPepper  \nOnion ,lg,mild,peeled/ch opped en Mushrooms,drained (4 oz)  \n4 T Butter,cut into small pieces  \n3 c Chicken stock,boiling  \n1 c Rice,long-grained,uncooked  \nPreheat oven to 350'F.  \nPlace half of the chicken in a Dutch oven (or heavy casserole with tight-fitting lid) and season with salt and pepper.  \nCover with the onions, mushrooms and half of the butter. Cover with remaining chicken, season, and dot with butter. Cover and bake for  \nabout 45 minutes. Remove chicken pieces; add rice and stir into cooking fat. Add the boiling stock. Place chicken over mixture. Recover and  \nbake for about 1 hour, or until rice and chicken are tender and almost all liquid has been absorbed.  \nMushroom Ragout in Rice Ring  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 Bunch Soupgreens  \n18 oz Veal  \n4 c Saltwater  \n1 Onion  \n18 oz Mushrooms  \n3 oz Butter  \n2 oz Flour  \n2 c Beefbroth ,instant  \n3/4 c Sweet cream  \n1 c White Wine  \nSalt, Pepper, Sugar to taste  \n2 Cooking Bags Rice,Instant  \n1 Hardboiled Egg  \n1 Tomatoe  \n1 T Butter  \n2 T Parsley,finely chopped  \nClean and cut up the soupgreens in small cubes;add the water and meat and cook all for 45 minutes. 2.Chop the onion very fine, half the mushrooms. Melt the butter and saute both for a short while;add the  \nflour and cream, fill up with the broth and simmer for another 20 minutes.Season to taste. 3.Prepare rice as directed. Mix the mushrooms and the meat together.Season and add the egg and the finely chopped tomatoe. 4.Grease a rice ring form and fill in the rice, than invert on  \na platter and fill the ragout in the middle. Garnish with tomatoes and  \nparsley. Typed by Brigitte Sealing Cyberealm BBS 315-786-1120\n\n132\n\nMushroom Wild Rice Chowder  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 T Vegetable oil  \n8 oz Mushrooms, fresh; sliced  \n1 Celery rib; thinly sliced  \n1/2 c Flour, unbleached 3 3/4 c ;water\n\n3 c Wild rice; cooked  \n1 t Salt  \n1/2 t Curry powder  \n1/2 t Mustard, dry  \n1/2 t Cinnamon  \n3 dr Hot pepper sauce  \n1 1/2 c Soymilk  \nPaprika  \n1/2 c Almonds, slivered;toasted  \n-optional  \nIn a soup pot, heat oil. Add mushrooms and celery and saute 2 minutes. Sprinkle flour over vegetables and cook over medium-low heat, stirring,  \n1 minute. Gradually add water, stirring constantly; cook over mediumheat until mixture is somewhat thickened.Stir in remaining ingredients. Heat thoroughly.Garnish with paprika and toasted almonds if desired. Serves 6.  \nPer serving: 195 cal; 9 gprot; 5 g fat; 29 g carb; 0 chol; 680 mg sod;  \n1 g fiber; vegan  \nNasi Goreng (Fried Rice)  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n2 c Long-grain rice  \n4 Shallots or 1 small onion  \n2 Red chillis or 1 tsp  \n-chilli powder and 1 tsp  \n\\- paprika  \n2 T Vegetable oil or clarified  \n\\- butter or pork fat  \nSalt  \n1 t Sweet soya sauce  \n1 t Tomato ketchup  \nThe name Nasi Goreng means simply 'fried rice', and it is really a collective description of an indefinite number of slightly differing dishes. You can vary the trimmings and garnishes to suit your taste; but even the most elaborate Nasi Goreng is quick to make. It is a particularly good luncheon dish. Boil the rice a good long time before you intend to fry it; you can fry freshly boiled rice, but the Nasi 133\n\nGoreng will be better if the boiled rice is allowed to cool. Two hours is a satisfactory interval. Leaving the rice to cool overnight,  \nhowever, gives less good results-the rice has time to go dry and stale.  \nAn important point to note here is that rice for Nasi Goreng must be cooked with the least possible quantity of water; this prevents it from becoming too soft. For 1 cup of rice, use 1 cup of water. Assuming you have now got your cool, boiled rice, proceed like this: slice the  \nshallots or onion, seed and slice the chilli (or pound the shallots and  \nchilli together in a mortar). Heat the oil in a wok; it makes no difference, by the way, whether you use oil, fat, or butter. Saute the shallots and chilli for a minute or so, and season with salt, soya sauce, and tomato ketchup. Put in all the rice, and stir it continuously until it is well heated: this will take 5 to 8 minutes.  \nServe in a good large dish, generously garnished with sliced cucumber, tomatoes, fried onions, and Krupuk.  \nNew Zealand Brown Rice Salad  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 c Brown rice  \n2 Kiwifruit  \n1 New Granny Smith or  \n\\- Braeburn apple  \n1/2 c Thinly sliced celery  \n1/2 c Red pepper strips  \n1/4 c Toasted walnut pieces  \n1/4 c Thinly sliced green onions  \n2 T Chopped parsley  \n3 T Sherry vinegar  \n1 T Olive oil  \nCook rice in water according to package directions. Drain and cool. Peel kiwifruit and cut into 1/4\" thick slices. Cut slices in half to  \nform semi circles. Core and dice apple into 1/2\" cubes. Toss together rice, kiwifruit, apple, celery, red pepper strips, walnuts, green  \nonions and parsley in salad bowl. Mix together vinegar and oil. Drizzle over salad. Toss to mix well. Cover and refrigerate 1-2 hours, to allow flavors to blend, before serving. Makes 6 servings.  \nNo-Egg Rice Pudding 134\n\nYield: 8 Servings  \n\\---DEIDRE ANNE PENROD FGGT98  \n1 c Raw Converted Rice  \n2 1/2 c Milk  \n2/3 c -Granulated Sugar  \n1/2 c Golden Seedless Raisins  \n1/2 t -Salt  \n1/2 t -Nutmeg  \n1/2 Lemon Rind; of half  \n\\- a lemon slivered  \n1/2 t -Vanilla  \n1/2 c Heavy Cream OR Half-And-Half  \n\\- chilled  \nNo-Egg Rice Pudding 4 to 6 hours  \nMadame Bertrand, my landlady in southern France, made rice pudding this way.  \nTo Cook: Place all the ingredients except the cream in the slow cooker and stir once. Cover and cook on Low for 4 to 6 hours. Serve lukewarm with chilled heavy cream or half-and- half. Makes 8 to 10 servings.  \nOkra Chicken & Crab Gumbo with Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1/2 c Onion-chopped  \n1/4 c Green onion-chopped  \n1/4 c Green bell pepper-chopped  \n1/4 c Celery-chopped  \n1/4 c Okra-sliced  \n1 Garlic clove - minced  \n1 t Parsley-fresh, minced  \n2 T Dry brown roux- (see  \nRecipe)  \n2 c Water  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1/4 t Thyme  \n1/4 t Black pepper-freshly  \nGround  \npn Cayenne  \n1 Gumbo- (blue crab) Cleaned and quartered  \n4 oz Chicken breast - cooked, cut  \nInto 1/2\" cubes  \n1 c Rice - hot, cooked (no oil  \nOr salt added)  \nPut the onion, breen onion, bell pepper, celery, okra, garlic, and parsley in a saucepan and cook while stirring for 5 minutes. stir in 135\n\nthe dry roux and slowly blend in the water. Add the bay leaf, thyme, pepper, and cayenne and bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Add the crab and the chicken, cover the pot, and continue simmering for minutes.  \nTO SERVE: Spoon the gumbo into warm soup bowls and top with 1/2 cup rice in the center of each. Serve immediately.  \nNOTE: Since the roux is made before you start the gumbo (always be sure that it is), there are no tricks to getting this right. The preparation  \nis as simple as it sounds and as delicious as some far more complicated preparations.  \nVARIATIONS: There are as many different preparations of gumbo as there are cooks. Make your own substitutions and calculate the dietary differences by using the Dietary Analysis published by both the  \nCanadian and U.S. Governments. Remember though, keep it light! ANALYSIS (per serving): Calories 300, protein 27.6g., carbohydrates g, dietary fiber 2.64g, total fat 3.51g (saturated 0.884g, mono g, poly  \n0.935g, cholesterol76.1mg, calcium 99.7mg, iron 3.72mg, sodium 147mg  \nOld Fashioned Rice Pudding  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1/3 c Rice, raw  \n1 t Cornstarch  \n1 1/3 c Milk  \n1/2 t Vanilla  \n1/3 c Sugar  \n1/4 t Salt  \n1 T Butter  \n2 Eggs  \nCook rice according to package directions until tender. Combine sugar, cornstarch and salt. Add milk and sugar mixture to rice. Heat to  \nboiling; boil1 minute, stirring constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in butter and vanilla. Separate eggs (whites will not be used) and beat yolks. Slowly stir about 1 cup of the hot rice mixture into the beaten egg yolks in a bowl. Blend with the remaining mixture in saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, just until mixture starts to bubble. Serve warm or cold, plain or with favorite topping.  \nOptional: One or more of the following ingredients can be added after the egg yolks and before final cooking. 1/2 c Raisins 1/2 c Chopped Nuts 1/2 c Chopped Apples t Cinnamon 136\n\nOnion-Flavored Rice Mix  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n4 c Uncooked Long Grain Rice  \n1 T Parsley Flakes  \n2 package (1 1/4 oz) Onion  \n-Soup Mix  \n1 t Salt  \nCombine ingredients in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Put about 1 1/3 cups of mix into three 1-pint airtight containers and label as Onion-Flavored Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within  \n6 to 8 months.  \nMakes about 4 cups of mix  \nOnion-Flavored Rice: Combine 11/3 cups ONION-FLAVORED RICE MIX, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan.  \nBring to a boil over high heat; cover and reduce heat. Cook for 15 to  \n25 minutes, until liquid is absorbed. Makes 4 to 6 servings  \nOranges Filled with Raisins, Chickpeas, and Rice  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n\\---ORANGE TAHINI SAUCE---  \n1/4 c Tahini  \n3/4 c Plain yogurt or soft tofu  \n1/4 c Orange juice  \n2 t Ground cumin  \n2 t Paprika  \n2 T Minced fresh cilantro (opt.)  \n\\--------------------------FIL LING-------------------------------  \ntb Unsalted butter -OR-avocado oil md Red onion; chopped c Brown and wild rice blend-- (uncooked) -OR 1/3 brown & 2/3 wildrice c Vegetable broth or water c Chickpeas; cooked, drained /4 c Raisins  \n\\--------------------------0RANGE8-------------------------------  \nJumbo navel oranges-- halved crosswise  \n\\--------------------------GAR NISH-------------------------------  \ntb Sesame seeds tb Chopped scallion whites Cilantro leaves (optional)  \nFOR THE ORANGE-TAHINI SAUCE: In a blender or food processor, combine all ingredients. Refrigerate until ready to use.  \nFOR THE FILLING: Melt the butter or heat the oil in a medium saucepan.  \nSaute the onion until soft, about 10 minutes. Add the rice and stir to coat with the butter. Add the broth, bring to a boil, cover, and  \nsimmer over low heat until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed, about  \n45 minutes. Let cool to room temperature.  \nIn a large bowl, toss together the cooked rice, Orange-Tahini Sauce, chickpeas, and raisins.\n\n137\n\nPrepare the oranges for stuffing by slicing off the rounded ends so that each half stands squarely on a plate. Using a paring knife, carve out the fruit, cut it into bite-size sections, and toss it into the  \nrice mixture. Once the fruit has been removed, cut away as much of the white portion of the peel as possible, leaving the shell intact.  \nSet the orange shells on a serving dish and fill them with the rice  \nmixture. Garnish each with a sprinkling of sesame seeds and scallions topped with a whole cilantro leaf.  \nPeanut Butter Chocolate Rice Krispie Treats  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n2 c Sugar  \n2 c Corn syrup  \n18 oz Peanut butter  \n8 c Rice Krispies  \n6 oz Butterscotch morsels  \n6 oz Semi-sweet chocolate chips  \nBring sugar and syrup to a boil. Add peanut butter and cook, stirring until well blended. Remove from heat and pour hot mixture over cereal. Mix quickly and thoroughly. Spread in a greased 9x12x2 inch pan. Sprinkle butterscotch and chocolate morsels over top. Press morsels into bar mixture lightly with spoon. When cool, cut into bars and  \nstore at room temperature.  \nPeas with Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 Green onions, chopped  \n4 T Butter  \n2 c Shld peas (2 lb unshelled)  \n4 c Chicken broth, hot  \n1 c Short grnd rice (arborio)  \n2 T Minced parsley  \n1/2 c Grated Parmesan cheese  \nSalt to taste 138\n\nChop both the white and green ofteh onions and saute' them gently in the butter in a deep saucepan with a lid. Add the peas and cook -2 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the hot broth, cover and simmer 8-10 minutes. Add rice and parsley, stir once, bring to a boil, cover, and  \nreduce the heat toa simmer. Cook about 15 minutes. Taste for seasoning and add salt if needed. stir in the cheese.  \nPerfect Chinese steamed Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 c Uncooked long-grain rice  \n3 1/2 c Water  \nPUT THE RICE INTO A LARGE BOWL and wash it in several changes of water until the water runs clear. Drain the rice and put in a heavy pot with  \nthe water and bring to a boil. Continue boiling until most of the  \nsurface liquid has evaporated. This should take about 15 to 20 minutes. The surface of the rice should have small indentations like a pitted crater. At this point, cover the pot with a very tight-fitting lid,  \nturn the heat as low as possible and let the rice cook undisturbed for  \n15 to 20 minutes. There is no need to fluff the rice before serving it.  \nPicadillo (Rice & Beef Hash/filling)  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n2 t Olive oil  \n8 oz Cooked ground beef lean  \n1/4 c Diced onions  \n1/2 Garlic clove, minced  \n1 md Tomato chopped and seeded  \n1 sm Apple, pared and chopped  \n1 Sliced canned jalapeno  \n2 T Raisins  \n2 Large stuffed olives, sliced  \n2 Pitted black olives, sliced  \n1/4 t Each salt and pepper  \nds each cinnamon & cloves  \nIn a 10\" skillet heat oil over medium heat; add ground beef and cook, 139\n\nbreaking up large pieces with a wooden spoon, until crumbly. Add onion and garlic and saute until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the remaining ingredients. Reduce heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally until flavors are well blended, about 20 minutes.  \nServe over rice or as a filling for burritos or tacos.  \nPicnic Rice Salad  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 c Rice, cooked, still firm  \n1 Tomato, fresh cut wedges  \n3 Eggs, hard-boiled, quartered  \n1 sm Can tuna fish, shredded  \n1/2 c Celery, diced  \nAny leftovers  \nFRENCH DRESSING  \n3 T Olive or salad oil  \n1 T Vinegar or lemon juice  \n1/8 t Mustard  \n1/2 t Salt  \nPepper  \nBeat the seasonings and oil for the dressing in a bowl (with a fork)  \nfor one minute then add vinegar and beat until mixed, or shake dressing ingredients in a small jar.  \nToss the salad ingredients with the dressing and store in a jar in the  \nrefrigerator with screw-top lid.  \nPineapple Fried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 lg Fresh pineapple  \n2 c Cooked long-grain white rice  \n1 oz Chinese dried mushrooms  \n1 sm Onion; finely chopped  \n2 T Oil, preferably peanut  \n1/41b Chinese long beans (OR  \n-Green Beans), trimmed 140\n\n-and diced  \n2 Eggs  \n2 T Dark soy sauce  \n1 T Fish sauce (optional)  \nCAREFULLY CUT OFF and save the pineapple top, leaving about 1-inch of the pineapple under the leaves. Scoop out the inside fruit leaving the  \nskin of the pineapple whole to use as a bowl for the fried rice.  \nCoarsely chop the pineapple meat. Soak the dried mushrooms in warm water for 20 minutes until they are soft. Squeeze the excess liquid  \nfrom the mushrooms and remove and discard their stems. Cut the caps  \ninto small dice. Heat a wok or large frying pan until it is hot. Then add the oil and wait until it is almost smoking. Add the mushrooms, onions, beans and stirfry for one minute. Mix in the cooked rice and stirfry it for one minute. Add the eggs, soy sauce and fish sauce and continue to stirfry for five minutes over high heat. Add the chopped pineapple and continue to stirfry for about two minutes. Scoop the mixture into the hollowed-out pineapple shell, replace the top and serve the remaining rice on a platter.  \nPoached chicken in cream sauce with rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 1/21b Chicken,trussed  \n5 c Water or chicken broth  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1 Small onion,peel and stick t  \n2 Allspice berries  \n1 Large carrot,peeled and hald  \n3 Large stalks celery  \n6 Black peppercorns  \n2 Sprigs fresh thyme  \nSalt and pepper  \n1 c Rice  \n2 T Butter  \n2 T Flour  \n1 c Heavy cream  \n1/2 Juice of lemon  \n1/8 t Grated nutmeg pn of cayenne  \nPlace the chicken in a small kettle or large saucepan and add the water,bay leaf,onion with cloves,allspice,carrot,celery,peppercorns,thyme and salt to taste.Bring to a boil and partly cover. Simmer 30 min. 2. Remove the chicken,carrot,and celery from the kettle and keep hot.Strain the cooking liquidand reserve it.Discard the flavorings. 3. Place the rice  \nin the saucepan and add 2 c. of the reserved cooking liquid. Bring to a  \nboil,cover and cook 20 min. 4. Meanwhile,melt the butter in another 141\n\nsaucepan and add the flour, stirring with a wire whisk. Add 1 c. of the reserved chicken cooking liquid,stirring rapidly with the wire whisk. Cook for 5 min. Stir in the cream and continue cooking about 10 min. Add the lemon juice,nutmeg,cayenne and salt and pepper to taste. 5.  \nUntruss the chicken and remove the skin(except the wing skin). Cut the carrot and celery into 2-in pieces. 6. Arrange the rice on a warm  \nserving platter. Place the chicken,carrots and celery on the rice. Spoon the sauce over the chicken and serve.  \nPork Chops and Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings 4 Pork chops, lean\n\n2 c Water\n\n1 t Salt\n\n## 2 TOil\n\n1 c Rice  \n1 en Cream of mushroom soup  \n1 x Flour  \n1/4 c Water  \nBring 2c salted water to boil. Add uncooked rice; cook until tender.  \nBrown floured and salted pork chops in oil. Add mushroom soup and 1/4c water. Cover and cook 15 minutes. Line casserole with rice, cover with chops and gravy. Bake 30 to 45 minutes at 350 degrees or until tender.  \nPortuguese-Style Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 Linguica sausage, about  \n\\- 6 ounces, cut on  \n\\- 1/4-inch dice  \n3/4 c Raw long-grain white rice  \n1 1/2 c Water pn Salt  \n2 T Chopped fresh cilantro.  \nSaute diced sausage in a heavy saucepan until browned, about 5 minutes. Drain off excess fat. Add rice, stirring well to coat grains. Add 142\n\nwater and salt, and bring a boil. Lower heat, cover pan, and simmer for 19 minutes, or until grains are soft and water has evaporated.  \nStir in cilantro.  \nServes 4.  \nPER SERVING: 215 calories, 6 g protein, 28 g carbohydrate, 8 g fat (3 g saturated), 2 mg cholesterol, 316 mg sodium, 0 g fiber.  \nPumpkin & Rice Soup  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 md Onion; chopped  \n1 Clove garlic; minced  \n1 T Vegetable oil  \n4 c Chicken broth  \n1 en Pumpkin (16 ounces)  \n1/2 c To 1 cup fresh pumpkin (opt)  \n;finely grated  \n1/2 t Coriander; ground  \n1/4 t Red pepper flakes  \n1/4 t Nutmeg; ground  \n3 c Hot cooked rice  \nCilantro sprigs for garnish  \nCook onion and garlic in oil in a large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium heat until onion is tender. Stir in remaining ingredients except rice and garnish. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; simmer, uncovered, 5 to  \n10 minutes. Top each serving with 1/2 cup rice. Garnish with cilantro sprigs.  \nPer serving: Calories: 215; protein: 7.2g; fat: 3.8g; sodium: 913mg;  \nQuick Salsa Chicken and Rice  \nMain Dish, Poultry  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 T vegetable oil  \n1 lb boneless, skinless chicken  \n-breast halves, cubed  \n1 t garlic powder  \n2 c instant white or brown rice 143\n\n(16-oz) jar Ortega Salsa  \n\\- Prima Homestyle Mild  \n1 1/4 c water  \n1 Maggi Chicken Bouillon Cubes  \n2 chopped green onions (green  \n\\- parts only)  \nHeat oil in stockpot. Add chicken and garlic powder; cook, stirring occasionally, until chicken is no longer pink.  \nAdd rice, salsa, water and bouillon; bring to a boil. Cover; reduce heat to low. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 10 to 12 minutes or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed. Sprinkle with green onions. Comments: In many Mexican households, rice flavored with broth, tomatoes and chiles constitutes a full meal. This dish, featuring flavorful rice and chicken with Ortega Garden Style Salsa, is a speedy version of the classic. Enjoy with a mixed green salad and chilled Libby's Kern's mango nectar.  \nQuick, Southern Style Red Beans and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n6 Slices bacon  \n2 Onions  \n1 Garlic clove  \n1 c Beef broth  \n1 c Rice, raw  \n1 t Thyme\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n1 Bell pepper  \n2 c Kidney beans  \nut bacon into 1 inch pieces. Cut Onions into 1/2 inch wedges. ince Garlic Clove. Dice bell Pepper. Drain Beans. ook bacon in 10 inch skillet over medium heat until browned but not risp, about 5 minutes. Remove bacon from skillet; drain off all but tablespoons drippings. Add Onion and Garlic to skillet; cook until nion is tender but not  \nbrown, about 5 minutes. Add enough Water to eef broth to make 2 1/2 cups. Add to skillet and bring to a bOil. tir in rice, bacon, thyme  \nand Salt. Cover tightly and simmer 15 inutes. Add Green Pepper, cover and continue cooking 5 minutes. emove from heat. Stir in Beans. Let stand covered until all liquid s absorbed, about 5 minutes.\n\n144\n\nRed Bean, Rice & Sausage Soup\n\nYield: 8 Servings\n\n1 lg Onion, chopped  \n1 lg Garlic clove, minced\n\n1 t Olive oil\n\n3 1/2 c Chicken stock, defatted\n\n1 lg Carrot, diced  \n1 lg Celery stalk, diced  \n1/2 Sweet red peppers, diced\n\n1 1/2 c Water\n\n1 en Tomato sauce, (15 ounces)\n\n2 en Red kidney beans, canned, (16 ounces)\n\n1/4 t Dried thyme\n\n## 1 Bay leaf\n\n1/4 t Black pepper\n\n1/3 c Long-grain rice\n\n6 oz Sausage, sliced 1/4\"\n\nThick\n\nIn a Dutch oven or small soup pot, combine onion, garlic, olive oil, and 3 tablespoons of chicken broth. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until onions begin to brown, about 5-6 minutes. Add all remaining ingredients except sausage. Bring soup to a boil over high heat. Lower heat and cover. Simmer, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. Add sausage and cook an additional10 minutes or until flavors are well blended and soup has thickened slightly. Keeps in refrigerator for 3-4 days.\n\nNOTES : Note: that's 1/2 of one sweet red pepper and cans of beans must be drained. Also, for low fat version smoked turkey sausage may be substituted Red Beans and Rice\n\nYield: 8 Servings\n\n## 2 lb Dried red kidney beans\n\n### 2 c Chopped yellow onions\n\n1 bn Of scallions, chopped\n\n## 3 Or 4 finely sliced\n\n### \\- cloves of garlic\n\nbn Parsley (chopped)\n\n3 lb Smoked sausage *\n\nSalt and pepper to taste\n\n3 qt Of cold water\n\n*cut into 2 inch lengths (smoked ham or ham bone works fine)\n\nI just made no-fat refried beans last night completely by accident.\n\n145\n\nI was making this recipe and discovered it in the process.  \nSoak beans overnight if possible. Drain water and add beans to a large  \n8-or 10-quart pot. Then add enough of the cold water to cover the beans. Add chopped yellow onions and garlic and bring to a boil. Cook for one hour and add all the other things and more water if necessary. Simmer (slight bubbling action) for 2 more hours or until the beans are soft. Then remove 2 cups of cooked beans without juice and mash very good. Then return the mashed up beans to the pot and stir into the mixture. This makes a creamy, thicker gravy. If the beans are too dry, add enough water to make them like you like them. Good over boiled rice.  \nServes 8.  \nIf you're in New Orleans on a Monday, this is the only thing you can eat.  \nWhen I got to the point where you take the two cups beans out and mash  \n'em, I put them in the food processor to puree. They came out smelling and tasting just like refried beans. The texture was a tad thin, but  \nthat could be remedied easily. You could probably even \"re-fry\" them in a nonstick skillet to reduce the water content. I used skin-on ham hocks to make this batch of beans, but you could easily leave that out and still come up with something close to what you want, I think.  \nRed Beans and Rice No. 5  \nYield: 4 Servings  \ncloves garlic, minced 1/3 cup diced onion 1/8 tsp cayenne /8  \ntsp cumin 1/8 tsp chili powder 2 tsp Tabasco sauce 2 cup cooked brown rice 2 cup cooked red beans 1 cup diced cooked ham Directions: In a large pan, saute garlic and onion with seasonings. Add rice, beans and ham; cook over medium heat. Stir in approximately 1/4 cup water or liquid from beans. Cook until heated through.  \nRed Beans and Rice Soup with Shrimp  \nYield: 6 Servings 146\n\n1 T Vegetable oil  \n1 c Chopped onion  \n1/2 c Coarsely chopped celery\n\n1 Garlic clove; minced\n\n2 T All-purpose flour  \n1 1/2 c Water  \n1/4 c Long-grain rice, uncooked  \n1 t Chili powder  \n1/2 t Ground cumin  \n1/4 t Salt  \n141/2 oz Canned whole tomatoes  \n\\- (no-salt-added),  \n-undrained chopped  \n10 1/2 oz Low-sodium chicken broth  \n3/41b Small fresh unpeeled shrimp  \n151/2 oz Canned red beans; drained  \n1 T Lime juice  \nHeat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion, celery, and garlic; saute 5 minutes. Sprinkle with flour, stir well, and cook an additional minute, Add 1 1/2 cups water and next 6 ingredients. Bring  \nto a boil; cover, reduce heat, and simmer for 20 minutes.  \nPeel and devein shrimp. Add shrimp and red beans to rice mixture, and stir well. Cook, uncovered, 5 minutes or until shrimp is done. Remove from heat, and stir in lime juice. Yield: 7 1/2 cups (serving size: 1\n\n12 cups).\n\nRed Beans and Rice with Smoked Sausage  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 lb Dried red beans  \n1 Garlic clove chopped  \n1 1/21b Smoked sausage cut  \n1 t Dried thyme  \n1 x Into chunks  \n1 t Ground pepper  \n8 oz Smoked ham shanks  \n1/2 t Sage  \n1 Large onion chopped  \n1 pn Cayenne pepper  \n1 X Salt  \n1 x Freshly cooked rice  \nPlace beans in Dutch oven and cover generously with water. Let soak minutes. Add remaining ingredients to beans except salt and rice. Bring to boil over medium high heat. Reduce heat to medium low, cover and simmer until beans are tender, adding more water if necessary (about  \n2 1/2 hours). Add salt to taste. Discard ham bones. Remove  \nabout 3 tablespoons of beans from mixture and mash to paste; return to Dutch oven and stir. Simmer 15 more minutes. Serve over hot rice.\n\n147\n\nRed Beans With Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 lb Red kidney beans  \n1 lb Salt pork  \n2 Cloves garlic  \n1 t Italian seasoning  \n1 Bell pepper  \n1 Chopped onion  \n1 Stalk celery  \n1 Whole hot pepper  \nBoil pork 5 minutes to get rid of salt. Put pork in second water (hot) and add beans, water, should be one-half inch above beans. Add immediately, one bell pepper, one chopped onion, celery, garlic, Italian seasoning and whole hot pepper. Cook slowly two to three hours, until gravy is thick and beans tender-- just before dishing out add a pinch of italian seasoning again. Salt to taste and serve with rice.  \nRepublica Dominicana Red Beans & Rice (Arroz Con Habijual  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n\\---BEANS---  \n1 c Dry red beans*  \n3 c -Water (approx.)  \n3 c -Fresh water  \n1 T Cumin  \n1 T Raw sugar  \n1 T White vinegar  \n2 Garlic cloves peeled  \n-and chopped  \n1 Onion; peeled and chopped  \n1/2 t Salt  \nFreshly ground black pepper  \n1 ds Tabasco  \n\\--------------------------F0R R ICE-------------------------------\n\n148\n\nc Rice /2 c Water  \n*NOTE: (red beans are not the same as kidney beans-they are smaller) Soak the beans in the water overnight or at least 8 hours. Drain the soaking water.  \nPut the beans and all the rest of the ingredients into a large cooking pot. Bring the water to a boil, then reduce to moderate-low heat and cook for about 1 hour, until most of the water is absorbed. Add more water if you need to, and stir the beans every 10 minutes or so.  \nWhen the beans have 1/2 hour to go, make the rice. Put the rice and water in a saucepan, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and cover. Simmer until all the water is absorbed, about 30 minutes. Then turn the heat off and let sit, with cover on, about 10 minutes.  \nTo serve, serve the beans over the rice.  \nServe with sliced avocado (aguacate), fried plaintain chips (platanos fritos), and cornbread (served fried like hush-puppies). For dessert serve fruit such as papaya with coconut, and expresso coffee (for Dominican style expresso: fill up your demitasse cup 1/2 full of raw sugar, then add outrageously strong expresso coffee!).  \nRice & Onion Soup Base  \nYield: 2 Quarts  \n2 c Onions; thinly sliced  \n2 T Butter  \n8 c Chicken stock  \n1/2 c White rice  \nSalt and pepper to taste  \nIn a 3-quart heavy saucepan, cook the onions in the butter over moderately low heat for 7 to 8 minutes, stirring frequently, until the onions are very tender and colored no more than a buttery yellow. (This is known as \"sweating the onions\".) Pour in 4 cups of the stock, stir  \nin the rice and simmer for 20 minutes or more until the rice is very tender. Puree the soup in the blender until very smooth and lightly thickened, adding a little more stock if needed. Return the puree to the pan, add the rest of the stock and season to taste with salt and pepper.  \nNote: to make a fat-free version, cook the onions in a little stock  \ninstead of butter.\n\n149\n\nRice and Beans with Cheese  \nYield: 5 Servings  \n1 1/3 c Water  \n2/3 c Long grain Rice  \n1 c Shredded Carrots  \n1/2 c Sliced Green Onions  \n1 t Instant chicken bouillon  \n1/2 t Ground Coriander  \n1/4 t Salt  \n1 t Hot pepper Sauce  \n15 oz Can Pinto I Navy Beans,drain  \n1 c Lo-fat Cottage Cheese  \n8 oz Plain lo-fat Yogurt  \n1 T Snipped fresh parsley  \n1/2 c Shredded lo-fat Cheddar chee  \nIn a large saucepan combine water, rice, carrots, green onions, bouillon granules, coriander, salt, and bottled hot pepper sauce. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes or till rice\n\nis tender and water is absorbed. Stir in pinto or navy beans, cottage cheese, yogurt, and parsley. Spoon into a 10x6x2\" baking dish. Bake, covered, in a 350 deg F. oven for 20-25 minutes or till heated through. Sprinkle with cheddar cheese. Bake, uncovered, for 3-5 minutes more or till cheese melts.  \nserving: 282 calories, 19 g fat, 42 g carbohydrates, 4 g fat, 14 mg cholesterol, 489 mg sodium, 548 mg potassium.  \nRice And Cheese Casserole  \nYield: 6 Servings 12 cup cooked brown rice 3 green onions, chopped 1 cup low-fat\n\ncottage cheese 1 tsp dill weed 1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan 12 cup low-fat milk 1/2 tsp Dijon-style mustard Nonstick vegetable spray Directions: Combine all but the last ingredient in a mixing bowl. Pour into a casserole dish coated with nonstick vegetable spray. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes.\n\n150\n\nRice and Lentils  \nYield: 4 Servings  \nmd Onion, chopped Garlic Cloves, minced 2 tb Vegetable Oil1 ts Ground Turmeric _2 ts Paprika 1_ 4 ts Ground Cloves 1/4 ts Ground Cinnamon 1/4 ts Ground Coriander 1/4 ts Ground Black Pepper 1/4 ts Salt 1 c Brown Rice, uncooked 1 c Dried Lentils, sorted and washed 4 c Water  \nSaute the onion and garlic in the oil in a large saucepan. Add the spices and cook over low heat for 4 minutes. Add the rice and lentils and stir to mix well. Pour in the water. Bring to a boil, turn the  \nheat to low and cook for 45 to 50 minutes, or until the rice and lentils are tender.  \nRice Cheese Croquettes  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c Rice; short grained  \n1/4 c Onion; finely minced\n\n## 2 T Olive oil\n\n1 t -salt  \n3 1/2 c -hot water  \n1 c Tomatoes; peeled  \n1 lb Mozzarella; cut in 24 1/4  \n1 c Bread crumbs; fine  \n1 c Vegetable oil; for frying  \nEggs; slightly beaten -inch X 1 inch bits Suppli al Telefono To quote the author, \"It is not easy to make Suppli al Telefono. Nevertheless, it pays to make the effort once in awhile because this dish always  \nmakes family and guests happy. The name comes from the fact that a thread of cheese will spin between your mouth and the suppli while you are eating it, resembling the mouthpiece of an early model telephone from the time this dish was first created. Suppl can be served as an appetizer, as a side dish in a dairy meal, or as a meal in itself for a lunch or brunch ....Suppli should be served piping hot. Tell your  \nguests, who might have never had them before, that suppli should be  \neaten with the fingers.\" Place rice, onion and olive oil in 2 qt  \nsaucepan and saute 2 or 3 minutes, stirring frequently. Add salt and 3  \n1/2 cups hot water. Bring to a boil. Lower heat to minimum and cook, covered, without stirring, 15 minutes. Add tomatoes and cook, uncovered, 5 minutes longer, stirring frequently. The rice should now  \nbe quite dry. Remove from heat and cool for 15 to minutes, add eggs and mix well. With damp hands, shape heaping tablespoons of the mixture into croquettes the size of a large egg; insert one piece of cheese  \ninto each croquette, 151\n\nRice Con Queso  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n3 c Cooked brown rice (1  \n\\- 1/2 cups uncooked),  \n\\- cooked with  \nSalt and pepper  \n1 1/3 c Cooked black beans or  \n\\- blackeyed  \n\\- peas, pinto beans,  \n_Etc._ (about 1/2 cup uncooked)  \n3 Cloves garlic, minced  \n1 lg Onion, chopped  \n1 sm Can chiles, chopped  \n1/21b Ricotta cheese, thinned  \n\\- with a little low fat  \n-milk or  \nYogurt until spreadable  \n3/41b Shredded Monterrey Jack  \n-cheese  \n1/2 c Shredded cheddar cheese  \nGarnishes (optional): chopped black olives, onions, fresh parsley Preheat oven to 350 degree F. Mix together rice, beans, garlic, onion, and chilies. In a casserole, spread alternating layers of the  \nrice-beans mixture, ricotta cheese, and jack cheese, ending with a  \nlayer of rice and beans. Bake for 30 minutes. During the last few minutes of baking, sprinkle cheddar cheese over the top. Garnish before serving.  \nComplementary protein: rice and beans and milk products  \nRice Crust For Pizza  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n3 c Cooked Brown Rice  \n2 Eggs; beaten  \n1 c Grated Mozzarella Cheese  \nMix the rice with eggs and cheese. Press into 10\" pizza pan. Bake for 152\n\n20 minutes at 450*. Put on sauce and toppings of your choice; bake 10 minutes longer. PROTEIN: 45.4 grams; CALORIES: 1066  \nRice Cutlets  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/21b Cooked long grain rice  \n1/41b Mushrooms, chopped  \n4 T Milk, heated  \n2 T Flour  \n2 T Chopped parsley  \n2 Large eggs  \n1 oz Butter  \nBreadcrumbs as required  \nOil for grilling  \nSalt and pepper  \nCook the chopped mushrooms very slowly in the butter until soft, add the flour and blend. Gradually add the heated milk stirring all the  \ntime until the sauce is smooth. Take the pan off the heat and add one of the eggs (beaten), the parsley, the rice and the salt and pepper. Blend well, then leave aside to cool thoroughly. Shape into cutlets,  \ndip ibto the other well beaten egg, and roll ib breadcrumbs. Grill until golden on both sides, basting well with the oil. Drain and serve.  \nRice Flan Tart with Candied Ginger  \nYield: 12 Servings  \n3 c Nonfat milk  \n1/2 Vanilla bean; split  \n1/4 c Medium-grain rice  \n1/2 c Sugar (or more)  \n8 oz Frozen egg substitute thawed  \n1/3 c Low-fat ricotta cheese  \n-OR pureed fat-free  \n\\- cottage cheese  \n1 1/2 T Candied ginger (finely  \n\\- slivered) 153\n\nLow-Fat Sweet Pastry\n\n1 t Cinnamon\n\n1 T Powdered sugar, optional\n\nSliced candied ginger, opt.\n\nThe low-calorie rice pudding flan is so delicious by itself that you may want to save the calories and fat in the crust, and serve it without the pastry.\n\nBring nonfat milk to boil in medium saucepan. Add vanilla bean and rice. Cover partially and simmer until rice is almost tender, about to\n\n30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in sugar and continue and\n\ncontinue cooking 3 minutes. Remove from heat and cool slightly. Remove vanilla bean. Blend egg substitute with ricotta cheese. Stir into rice\n\nmixture with candied ginger. Carefully pour into prepared pastry shell, filling almost to the top (if there is any flan mixture left from\n\nincomplete reduction in cooking, place in small custard dish, cover and\n\nmicrowave 40 to 60 seconds or until set.) Sprinkle with 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon. Bake at 400 degrees F. 25 to 30 minutes or until set. Remove from oven. Sift powdered sugar over and sprinkle with remaining cinnamon. Serve warm and garnish with sliced ginger if desired.\n\nEach serving contains about:\n\ncalories; 102 mg sodium; 11 mg cholesterol; 4 grams fat; 31 grams carbohydrates; 6 grams protein; 0.25 gram fiber.\n\nRice Flour and Yogurt Pancakes\n\nYield: 26 Servings\n\n2/3 c Brown rice flour\n\n1/3 c Corn starch\n\n1 T Sugar\n\n1 t Baking powder pn Salt\n\n## 1 lg Egg\n\n### 2 T Vegetable oil\n\n1/2 c Plain low-fat yogurt\n\n1/2 c Low-fat milk\n\nSift rice flour, cornstarch, sugar, baking powder and salt into a large bowl.mix egg with oil and yogurt; stir in milk. Pour liquid\n\ningredients over dry ingredients and mix until just blended.\n\nHeat a nonstick skillet over medium heat. Pour batter by tablespoonfuls into the dry pan. Cook pancakes until golden brown on both sides, 2 minutes or less. Stack on warm plates. Serve with butter and preserves, or honey.\n\nMakes 26 pancakes, 2 3/4 inches in diameter.\n\nNOTE: If making pancakes for 1 or 2, reserve the remainder of the dry and liquid ingredients separately and combine just before cooking. If refrigerated, the flour mixture will keep for weeks, the liquid mixture for 3 days.\n\nPER 2 PANCAKES: 75 calories, 2 g protein, 11 g carbohydrate, 3 g fat\n\n154\n\n(1 g saturated), 18 mg cholesterol, 62 mg sodium, 0 g fiber.\n\nRice in Minutes\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n\\---START WITH---\n\n3 c Rice; cooked, hot\n\n\\------------------------AND STIR IN-----------------------------\n\n\\-----------------------PAR MESAN PLUS----------------------------\n\n/2 c Parmesan cheese;freshly -grated T Butter\n\n\\---------------------0R: SNAPPY SPINACH-------------------------- c Spinach; cooked, fresh ts Lemon juice: fresh squeezed\n\n\\--------------------OR: SAVORY STUFFING------------------------- T\n\nButter 12 ts Poultry Seasoning Celery stalks;thin sliced\n\n\\---------------------0R: CURRIED ALMON 0-------------------------\n\nts Curry powder 12 c Almonds: chopped\n\n\\-----------------------0R: LEMON DlLL----------------------------\n\n/4 c Dill; fresh, chopped ts Lemon peel; grated\n\n\\---------------------0R: COUNTRY BACON-------------------------- sl Bacon; crumbled, cooked c Peas; cooked\n\n\\-----------------------0R: HOT PEPPER----------------------------\n\n/4 ts Tabasco sauce /2 Red pepper; seeded & chopped\n\nStir additions in with cooked, hot rice. The Snappy Spinach Rice and Lemon Dill Rice are particularly good with fish, the Country Bacon Rice with burgers, the Hot Pepper Rice with steak and the others with chicken SERVES:4\n\nRice Krispie Squares\n\nYield: 1 Serving\n\n4 T Butter\n\n4 c Marshmallows or 10 oz\n\n5 c Rice krispie cereal\n\nFat grams per serving: Approx. Cook Time: :05 Melt butter in saucepan over low heat. Add marshmallows and stir till melted. Cook 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat, add 155\n\nRice Krispies and stir till all are coated. Using buttered spatula, press evenly into buttered 13x9x2\" pan. Cool. Cut into 2\" squares. VARIATIONS: add 1 cup raisins add 1 cup peanuts add 1/4 cup peanut butter to marshmallows melt 2 squares chocolate with marshmallows for Christmas: add green food colouring (if desired), shape into 'trees\" or press into buttered ring or small Bundt mold. Decorate with red  \ncinnamon candies (for tree) or spearmint leaves and jelly berries for ring mold (resembles a wreath)  \nRice Nut Loaf  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n3 c Cooked brown rice  \n8 oz Sharp Cheddar cheese shredded  \n4 Eggs; lightly beaten  \n1 md Onion; chopped  \n1 c Shredded carrots  \n1/2 c Italian-style breadcrumbs  \n1/4 c Chopped walnuts  \n1/4 c Chopped sunflower kernals  \n1/4 c Sesame seeds  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/4 t Ground black pepper  \n16 oz Spaghetti sauce (optional)  \nCombine rice, cheese, eggs, onion, carrots, breadcrumbs, walnuts, sunflower kernals, sesame seeds, salt and pepper; pack into greased  \n-inch loaf pan. Bake at 350 degrees F. for 50 to 60 minutes until firm.  \nLet cool in pan 10 minutes; unmold and slice. Serve with heated spaghetti sauce.  \nEach serving provides:* 444 calories* 20.2 g. protein* 25.9 g. fat*  \n33.6 g. carbohydrate* 2.5 g. dietary fiber* 187 mg. cholesterol* mg. sodium  \nRice Pilaf  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1/2 c Sliced fresh mushrooms 156\n\n2 Green onions, sliced  \n1 T Butter or margarine  \n2/3 c Water  \n1/3 c Regular long grain rice  \n1/4 Med. bell pepper*  \n1/4 t Salt  \n1/4 t Dried sage, crushed  \n2 t Snipped parsley * Bell peppers can be any color, but should be cut into 1-inch\n\njulienne strips.  \n\\---- In a 1-quart casserole micro-cook mushrooms, onion and butter or margarine, uncovered, on 100% power for 1 1/2 to 2 1/2 minutes or till vegetables are tender. Stir in water, rice, bell pepper strips, salt,  \nand sage. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 2 to 3 minutes or  \ntill boiling. micro-cook, covered, on 50% power for 14 to 16 minutes or till rice is tender and liquid is absorbed, stirring once. Stir in parsley. Let stand, covered, for 5 minutes.  \nRice Pilaf with Peas  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 c Rice  \n3 T Olive oil  \n1 Onion, chopped  \n2 Bay leaves  \n1 sm Piece cinnamon  \n1 t Salt  \n1 pn Freshly ground black pepper  \n1 c Peas  \n4 c Water or stock  \n1 T Parsley, chopped Tomato slices Cucumber slices  \nWash rice & leave to soak for half an hour. Allow to drain. Heat oil in a pot & fry onion till it becomes translucent. Add bay leaves, cinnamon, salt, pepper & rice. Cook until the rice grains become opaque, stirring occasionally. Add peas & stir together until the peas are well coated in oil. Add 4 c water or stock. Bring to a boil,  \ncover & simmer over a low heat until the rice is tender (15 to  \nminutes). Serve with the garnish.\n\n157\n\nRice Pudding  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 c Rice, cooked  \n2 c Milk  \n1/2 c Sugar  \n1 T Butter  \n1/2 c Raisins  \n2 Egg, separated  \n2 T Powdered sugar  \nNutmeg  \nBeat the egg yolks and add the sugar and milk and stir into the rice. Add the butter and raisins. Pour into a buttered baking dish. Beat the egg whites until frothy, add the powdered sugar and spread on top of rice pudding. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg. Bake at 325-F for 30 minutes.  \nRice Pudding (#1)  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n-BETTY PINDER  \n1 c Regular rice; cooked  \n3 c Milk  \n3 T Butter  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/2 c Sugar  \n3 Eggs; beaten  \n1 t Vanilla  \n1 c Raisins; (optional) Cinnamon; to taste  \nChoose a baking dish which will fit inside your crockpot. Mix all  \ningredients except cinnamon and place in baking dish. Sprinkle cinnamon on top. Cover dish with foil. Place metal trivet or rack in bottom of crockpot. Add I cup hot water to pot. Set covered dish in water in  \ncrockpot. Cover crockpot and cook on HIGH for 2 hours.  \nRice Pudding C/p 158\n\nYield: 6 Servings  \nBetty Pinder (TKHN51B)  \n1 c Rice; regular, cooked  \n3 c Milk  \n3 T Butter  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1/2 c Sugar  \n3 Eggs; beaten  \n1 t Vanilla  \n1 c Raisins; (optional) Cinnamon  \nChoose a baking dish which will fit inside your crockpot. Mix all  \ningredients except cinnamon and place in baking dish. Sprinkle cinnamon on top. Cover dish with foil. Place metal trivet or rack in bottom of crockpot. Add I cup hot water to pot. Set covered dish in water in  \ncrockpot. Cover crockpot and cook on high for 2 hours. Makes -8  \nservings.  \nRice Pudding with Bourbon  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n\\---DEIDRE ANNE PENROD FGGT98  \n3 1/2 c Milk  \n1 c White Rice; cooked  \n3 Eggs; slightly beaten  \n1/3 c -Granulated Sugar  \n2 t -Vanilla  \n1/2 c Golden Seedless Raisins  \n1 1/2 t Lemon Rind; grated  \n1 t -Nutmeg  \n2 T Butter  \n3 T Bourbon OR Dark Rum  \n1/2 c Sweetened Whipped Cream  \nRice Pudding with Bourbon 4 to 6 hours  \nI make this with leftover rice, but you can start from scratch by cooking 1/2 cup raw rice as directed on the package.  \nTo Cook: Warm the milk and pour it over the rice. Into the eggs, beat  \nthe sugar, vanilla, raisins, and lemon rind. stir the milk and rice  \ninto the egg mixture. Scrape into the slow cooker. Sprinkle with nutmeg and dot with butter. Cover and cook on Low for 4 to 6 hours. Turn into  \na serving bowl and stir in the bourbon. Serve the pudding lukewarm with a dollop of sweetened whipped cream on top. Makes 6 to servings.\n\n159\n\nRice Souffle\n\nYield: 1 Serving\n\n1 c Rice\n\n2 qt Water, boiling\n\n1 T Salt\n\n## 4 Egg\n\n3/4 c Sugar\n\n1/2 c Raisins\n\n1/2 t Cinnamon\n\n1 qt Milk\n\nAdd the salt to the boiling water and after washing rice in several waters, stir slowly into the boiling water. Cook without stirring for\n\nor 25 minutes or until rice is tender. Drain off water. Beat the yolks\n\nof eggs and add the sugar and mix with the milk. Stir into the cooked rice and mix well. Add the cinnamon and raisins. Beat the whites of eggs stiff and fold into the rice mixture. Pour into a buttered baking dish and bake at 325-F for 1 hour.\n\nRice Sticks With Vegetables\n\nYield: 6 Servings\n\n3 qt Water\n\n1 package Rice sticks (13\n\n\\- 3/4 oz)\n\n## 2 Stalks celery\n\n4 oz Chinese pea pods\n\n1 oz Oriental dried mushrooms *\n\n1/4 c Oil\n\n1 lb Bean sprouts\n\n1 T Curry powder\n\n1 c Chicken broth\n\n1 X Salt\n\n1 x Soy sauce\n\n*Note: Mushrooms should be softened in water. Bring water to boil and add rice sticks. Cook 2 minutes, then drain. Rinse with cold water and drain. Cut celery, pea pods and mushrooms into thin slices. Heat oil until hot and add rice sticks. Cook, stirring, until brown. Remove rice sticks from pan and drain. Add celery, pea pods, mushrooms and bean sprouts and cook over high heat minutes, stirring constantly. Combine curry powder and chicken broth and add to pan. Season to taste with salt. Pour over rice sticks and toss to serve. Serve with soy sauce. Makes 6 to 8 servings 160\n\nRice Stuffed Mushrooms  \nYield: 12 Servings\n\n24 lg Fresh Mushrooms\n\n## 1 T Chili Sauce\n\n### 3 T Minced Onion\n\n1 T Lemon Juice\n\n1 T Butter or Margarine\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n1 c Cooked Extra Long Grain Rice  \n1/4 t Ground Black Pepper  \n1/2 c Finely Chopped Nut Meats  \n1/4 c Melted Butter  \nRemove stems, wash and dry mushrooms. In small skillet, cook onion in butter until tender, but not brown. Add remaining ingredients except  \nfor melted butter. Press rice mixture into each mushroom cavity. Place  \nmushroom caps on rack in broiler. Drizzle with melted butter and broil until golden brown. Makes 24 mushrooms (2 per person).  \nRice With Artichokes  \nYield: 6 Servings 6 Artichokes;medium: -OR\n\n4 -Artichokes; large\n\n1/2 c Olive oil  \n3 t -salt freshly ground  \n\\- black pepper  \n3 c -cold water  \n1 1/2 c Rice; short grained;Arborio  \n\\- is best  \nRisotto Coi Carciofi To quote the author,\" In Pitigliano it was traditionally served during Passover*, when artichokes are in season and tender\". *\"Other differences (between Italian Jews and Ashkenazic Jews) stem from the fact that some foods are not considered kosher by the Ashkenazim are permitted by the ltalkim or Sephardim and vice versa. For example, rice, which was a staple for us at Passover, is considered chamtaz, or leavened food, by the Ashkenazim, whereas chocolate, cheese, and other milk products, so widely used by the American Jews during Passover, were absolutely forbidden for us, because we considered them to be chametz.\"  \nTrim artichokes; remove any choke and slice very thin. Heat oil thoroughly in a large skillet and add the artichoke slices. Season with  \n2 teaspoons salt and pepper to taste. Cook over high heat, stirring frequently, for approximately 5 minutes. Lower heat to medium and cook, stirring frequently, another 10 minutes. Bring 3 cups of water with 1 tsp salt to a boil. Add rice and cook, covered, for 12 to 15\n\n161\n\nminutes. Add to skillet with artichokes and stir to combine. SERVES: 6  \nRice with Cucumbers  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 Large cucumber  \n1 1/2 c Cooked long grain rice  \n1/21b Ripe tomoatoes  \n1 Small sweet onion  \n3 oz Grated sharp cheese  \n4 T Milk  \n2 T Butter  \n1 T Chopped parsley  \n1 t Cornstarch  \nSweet basil leaves  \nSalt and pepper Fry the sliced tomoatoes and the sliced onion for a few minutes in a\n\nlittle butter until the tomatoes are soft, sprinkle with sweet basil leaves and blend. Add the cooked rice, mix well and season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook over a low heat while you prepare the cucumber. Peel the cucumber, fry in butter for 3 minutes, then add the milk. Mix well. Blend the cornstarch with a little cold water and add  \nto the cucumber. Stir until boiling and then add the grated cheese,  \nmixing well. Serve very hot, surrounded by the rice mixture.  \nRice With Garlic And Pine Nuts  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n4 T Unsalted Butter  \n1 x Garlic Puree(1 Roasted  \n\\- Head)  \n4 c Cooked Regular Rice  \n3/4 c Pine Nuts  \n1 x Salt & Pepper To Taste  \nHeat the butter in a wide skillet. Swirl in the garlic puree. Add the rice and pine nuts. Saute, stirring and tossing, until the rice is heated through and has absorbed the butter. Season with salt and 162\n\nfreshly ground pepper. Serve hot.  \nRice with Mushrooms and Onions-Grdg72b  \nYield: 2 Servings  \nIngredients Below  \nHere is a rice recipe for you to go with the directions for cooking rice in the crockpot.  \nC converted rice 2 C water 2 t salt 3 T butter 1/2 C fresh mushrooms,  \ncleaned and coarsley chopped 1 large onion, peeled, and finely minced Place all ingredients except onion and mushroom and half the butter into the crock pot, cover, cook on low 6-8 hours.  \nBefore serving; In a large skillet, melt remaining butter and over  \nmedium heat, saute the onion until it is translucent. Add the mushrooms and saute until the moisture is gone, for 3-4 minutes. Add the rice and mix well with the onions and mushrooms. Serve hot. 2-4 servings.  \nRice With Raisins  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n4 T Olive oil  \n1 Garlic clove finely minced  \n1 T Parsley; fresh - chopped  \n1 1/2 c Rice; short grain  \n1/2 c Raisins; dark seedless 1/2 t Salt\n\n3 c Broth; hot  \nPepper; black  \n\"Riso coii'Uvetta is an ancient Venetian dish prepared mainly during Chanuka. It has an interesting taste, nut is not for every palate.\" Heat oil in large skillet. Add garlic, parsley and rice. Cook over high heat, stirring with wooden spoon, till garlic begins to discolour. Add raisins and salt. Add hot broth, 1/4 cup at a time and continue to cook, uncovered over high heat till rice is done-about minutes in  \nall. Taste for salt and pepper and add if necessary. Serve hot or at room temperature.\n\n163\n\nRice With Spinach, Herbs And Cheese  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c White or brown rice  \nSalt and pepper; to taste  \n1 lb Fresh spinach  \n1 T Olive oil  \n1 Onion; minced  \n1 Garlic clove; minced  \n1 t Chopped thyme  \n1/4 c Minced parsley  \n1 pn Red pepper flakes  \n1/41b Grated provolone cheese  \n3 Eggs; beaten (optional)  \nPREHEAT OVEN TO 350F. Cook rice in salted water until tender but still undercooked (15 minutes for white rice, 30 minutes for brown). Drain, rinse with cold water, drain again and set aside. Wash spinach and remove stems. Cook spinach in the water that clings to the leaves,  \nuntil wilted. Cool and chop coarsely. Heat the oil, add the onion and saute until softened. Add the garlic and thyme. Combine all the ingredients together and season with salt and pepper to taste. Lightly oil a baking dish and add the spinach mixture. Drizzle more oil over the top, if desired. Cover with foil and bake for 25 minutes. Remove foil and cook for 5 minutes more.  \nRice, Apple and Raisin Dressing  \nYield: 8 Servings ---SEASONING MIX---\n\n2 t Salt  \n1 1/2 t White pepper  \n1 t Garlic powder  \n1 t Dry mustard  \n1 t Ground cayenne pepper  \n1/2 t Black pepper\n\n\\---------------------- R ICE INGR EDIENTS---------------------------\n\n164\n\n14 c Vegetable oil c Chopped onions c Chopped green bell peppers 12 c Pecan halves, dry roasted 12 c Raisins T Unsalted butter 12 c Uncooked rice (converted) c Pork, beef or chicken stock c Chopped unpeeled apples Combine the seasoning mix ingredients in a small bowl and set aside. In a 2-quart saucepan, heat the oil over high heat until very hot, about 2 minutes. Add the onions and bell peppers; saute about 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the pecans (we ran out of pecans, so Lucy substituted hickory nuts-good!) and continue cooking for about 3 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the raisins and butter (these are added together so the raisins will absorb as much butter as possible). Stir until butter is melted, then cook until raisins are plump, about 4 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the rice and seasoning mix and  \ncook until rice starts looking frizzly (a bit like ce Krispies) Chef Prudhomme recommended using converted rice. Lucy used brown, long grain rice-super!. This will require about 2 to minutes, stirring  \nalmost constantly before the rice looks \"frizzly\". Stir in the stock, scraping pan bottom well, then stir in the apples. Cover pan and bring  \nto boil; lower heat and simmer covered for 5 minutes. Remove from heat  \nand let sit, *COVERED*, until rice is tender and stock is absorbed, about 30 minutes. 0fVe cook the rice this slow way to let the flavors build to their maximum.) Serve immediately, allowing about 3/4 cup per person.  \nRice-Stuffed Artichokes  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n2 Med. artichokes  \n2 t Lemon juice  \n1/4 c Water  \n1/2 c Shredded carrot  \n1/4 c Sliced green onion  \n2 T Butter or margarine  \n1/4 t Dried sage, crushed  \n1 c Cooked rice  \n1/2 c Chicken broth  \n1 t Lemon juice  \n3/4 t Cornstarch  \n1 x Dash white pepper  \n1 Large beaten egg yolk  \nCut off stems and loose outer leaves from artichoke. Cut of 1-inch from tops. Snip off sharp leaf tips. Brush cut edges with 2 t lemon juice. Place artichokes and water in a casserole. Cover with vented clear plastic wrap. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 7 to 9 minutes or just till tender, rotating casserole a half-turn after 4 minutes. Let stand, covered, while preparing stuffing. For stuffing, in a small nonmetal bowl stir together carrot, onion, butter or  \nmargarine, and sage. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 2 1/2 to 165\n\n12 minutes or till vegetables are tender, stirring once. Stir together vegetable mixture and rice. Drain artichokes. Remove the center leaves and chokes from artichokes. Spread artichoke leaves slightly. Spoon rice stuffing into the center of each artichoke and behind each large leaf. Return artichokes to casserole. Cover with vented clear plastic warp. Micro-cook, covered, on 100% power for 2 to 3 minutes or  \ntill stuffing is hot and bases of artichokes are fork-tender, rotating the casserole a half-turn every minute. Let stand, covered, while preparing sauce. For sauce, in a 2-cup measure stir together chicken broth, 1 t lemon juice, cornstarch, and pepper. Micro-cook, uncovered, on 100% power for 2 to 3 minutes or till thickened and bubbly, stirring every 30 seconds. Stir HALF the hot mixture into the egg yolk. Return all to the 2-cup measure. Micro-cook, uncovered, on 100% power for 30 seconds. Transfer stuffed artichokes to a warm serving platter. Pour sauce around the artichokes.  \nRoasted Tomato and Rice Salad  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 Tomatoes  \n3 c White or Brown Rice; cooked  \n\\--------------------------DR ESSI NG-------------------------------  \n/3 c Olive Oil/4 c Wine Vinegar Lemon; juice of /4 c Parsley;  \nchopped Salt Pepper  \nRoast the tomatoes over the high flame of a gas range or a broiler. Turn every 20 seconds, so skins blister evenly. Peel by running under cold water and rubbing with your fingers. Chop the tomatoes coarsely and toss with warm rice. Mix the dressing ingredients together and toss with the rice and tomatoes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.  \nPer serving: 349 calories, 4 g protein, 42 g carbohydrate, 19 g fat, g saturated fat, 7 mg sodium, 4 g fiber, no cholesterol.  \nRotei-N-Rice Corn Soup (Vegan)  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1 en (10 oz) diced RoteI Tomatoes, with liquid  \n1 1/2 c Cooked rice (give or take  \nSome; I like lots of rice)  \n1/2 package Frozen corn (perhaps  \n-1cupor  \nSo of corn)  \n3 To 4 c stock of your  \nChoice, or water 166\n\n\\--------------------------0PTI0NAL-------------------------------  \nTo 3 corn tortillas, cut Into 2inch strips 12 Red pepper, seeded and cut In strips  \nIf using red pepper, saute at the bottom of a large soup pot, using a little bit of the broth. Add the tomatoes, cooked rice, corn, and stock  \nto the pot, and heat thouroughly, about 10 minutes or so. about minutes or so. Just before serving, stir in tortilla strips.  \nSaffron Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 T Butter  \n1 t Cumin Seeds  \n1 1 Inch Cinnamon Stick  \n3 Brown Cardamon Pods, Crushed  \n4 Whole Cloves  \n1/2 t Black Peppercorns  \n2 Bay Leaves  \n1/2 c Uncooked Rice  \n1 t Salt  \n1 1/2 c Chicken Stock  \n1/4 t Saffron  \nHeat butter in medium heavy saucepan and fry cumin seeds, cinnamon stick, cardamom, cloves, peppercorns and bay leaves for about 2 minutes. Add rice and fry for 2-3 minutes more. Stir in salt, chicken stock and saffron. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cook for 10 minutes.  \nSaffron Rice Royale 167\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 Slices bacon  \n1 Large onion, chopped  \n1 Red bell pepper, chopped  \n1 1/2 c Uncd extra long grain rice  \n1 package (10 oz) frozen  \n-green peas  \n1/4 c Sherry  \n1/4 c Grated Parmesan cheese  \n1/4 t Ground white pepper  \n2 3/4 c Chicken broth  \n\\---1 pn Saffron OR:---  \n1/2 t Ground turmeric  \nCook bacon in large skillet over medium heat until crisp and brown. Remove bacon to absorbent paper, set aside. Add onion and pepper to skillet and cook until tender. Add rice, peas, broth, sherry and  \nsaffron or turmeric. Bring to a boil; stir. Reduce heat, cover, simmer  \n15 minutes or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed. Add crumbled bacon, cheese, and pepper. Toss.  \nSalmon-Wild Rice Pasty Filling  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1 lb Salmon, poached or barbecued 2 To 2 1/2 c cooked wild rice  \n-(cooked in chicken or other  \nFlavorful stock)  \n3 Green onions, chopped  \n1 Red Bell pepper, finely  \n-chopped  \n2 T Butter  \n1 T Olive oil  \n1 lg Clove garlic, minced  \n3/4 c Apricot or favorite chutney  \nCut salmon into chunks.  \nPut rice in a mixing bowl. Saute onions and pepper in butter and olive oil until soft. Stir in garlic and saute for 1 minute longer.  \nCombine with rice and mix well.  \nTo assemble pasty, place a layer of rice on the pastry square, top with chunks of salmon and 1 or 2 teaspoons of chutney. Fold over and, bake as directed in yeast dough recipe.\n\n168\n\nSalsa Chicken Over Rice  \nMain Dish, Poultry  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 c cooked white rice, held warm\n\n## 1 T vegetable oil\n\n1 lb boneless, skinless chicken  \n\\- breast halves, cut into  \n\\- strips  \nmedium onion, chopped small red bell pepper, sliced (16-oz.) jar Ortega Salsa  \n\\- Prima Homestyle Mild  \n1/2 c 4 cheese Mexican blend,  \n-divided  \n\\---Garnish suggestions--- sour cream  \nchopped fresh cilantro  \nHeat oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken, onion and bell pepper; cook, stirring occasionally, for 10 to 12 minutes or until chicken is no longer pink. Stir in salsa; bring to a boil. Remove from heat; sprinkle with cheese. Cover; let stand for 5 minutes or until cheese is melted.  \nServe over rice. Garnish as desired.  \nComments: Make this salsa chicken dinner in under 30 minutes. All you need to add is a steamed or fresh vegetable to enjoy on the side.  \nSan Francisco Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings -----------------------8EASONING MIX----------------------------\n\nts Salt ts Dry mustard 12 ts Dried cilantro leaves ts White pepper ts Dried sweet basil leaves /4 ts Ground ginger 12 ts Black pepper 12 ts Onion powder 12 ts Garlic powder ---------------------0THER INGR EDIENTS-------------------------\n\n/4 c Peanut oil c Converted long grain rice- (uncooked) c  \nSpaghetti; uncooked-in two-inch pieces c Onions; chopped c Celery;  \nchopped tb Unsalted butter /4 c Sesame seeds ts Fresh garlic; minced 12 c Fresh parsley; chopped c Chicken stock\n\nCombine the seasoning mix ingredients thoroughly in a small bowl. Makes  \n3 Tbl plus 3/4 tsp. Heat the oil in a 12-inch skillet over high heat until very hot, about 4 minutes. Add the rice, spaghetti, onions, celery, butter, and 2 Tbl of the seasoning mix. Stir well and cook, shaking the pan and stirring occasionally, until the rice and spaghetti are golden brown, about 6 minutes. Add the sesame seeds and the  \nremaining seasoning mix. stir well and cook 2 minutes. Add the garlic 169\n\nand cook, stirring occasionally, until the rice and spaghetti are brown, about 3 to 5 minutes. stir in the parsley and chicken stock, cover the skillet, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat  \nto low and simmer 12 minutes. Remove from the heat and let the skillet sit, covered, 8 minutes. This is a great dinner side dish to accompany almost any kind of meat, poultry, or fish. Or serve for lunch with a  \nsalad.  \nSandy's Lentil/Rice/Barley Soup  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 c Lentils  \n1 c Rice  \n2/3 c Barley  \n1 Onion, chopped  \n1 Bay Leaf  \n2 en Corn  \n1 1/2 t Sweet Basil  \n1 1/2 en Evaporated Milk  \nSalt to taste  \nWash and sort lentils, rice, barley. Simmer lentils, rice and barley in 6 cups water with salt, onion, bay leaf and sweet basil until tender. Add corn and milk. Add additional salt to taste. Warm to desired eating temperature.  \nServe in a bowl with generous servings on Cottage Cheese on top of the  \nsoup. Charrin' off the 01' Point..from the 0 :-)  \nSante Fe Chicken with Rice  \nMain Dish, Poultry  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 1/21b fresh boneless, skinless  \n\\- chicken breasts, sliced  \n-thinly  \n1 t paprika  \n1 t salt  \n1/4 t ground black pepper  \n1 onion, peeled and chopped 170\n\ngreen bell pepper, seeded  \n-and chopped  \nclove garlic, crushed  \n2 T vegetable oil  \n1 c chicken broth  \n1 1/2 c quick-cooking rice  \n1 (10-oz.) can diced tomatoes  \n-and green chiles, undrained  \n3/4 c shredded Monterey Jack cheese  \nSeason sliced chicken with paprika, salt, and pepper.  \nCombine onion, green bell pepper and garlic with seasoned chicken in a bowl; mix well. Heat a large skillet or paella pan over medium-high  \nheat; add oil and heat until hot but not smoking. Carefully add chicken and vegetable mixture into skillet and saut5 until everything is golden brown and chicken is cooked, about 8 minutes. Remove from heat, cover to keep warm.  \nIn a medium saucepan add chicken broth and bring to a boil; stir in  \ninstant rice and undrained tomatoes. Bring to a boil; cover, remove from heat and set aside for 5 minutes. Sprinkle with Monterey Jack cheese and let melt. Serve rice topped with chicken.  \nComments: Seasoned chicken shares the limelight with this quickly  \ncooked white rice flavored with sweet tomatoes and chilies. Convenient weekday dish to prepare on busy nights.  \nSaucy Beef Over Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 Oven bag (14x20) large size  \n2 T Flour  \n1 en (141/2 oz.) stewed  \n-tomatoes  \nUndrained  \nEnvelope onion soup mix  \n1/2 c Water  \n1/4 t Pepper  \n1 lb Beef sirloin steak, cut in  \nThin strips  \n2 c Hot cooked rice  \nPreheat oven to 350. Shake flour in oven bag and place in 13x9 baking pan. Add tomatoes, soup mix, water and pepper to bag. Squeeze bag to blend in flour. Add beef strips to bag. Turn bag to coat beef with  \nsauce. Arrange ingredients in an even layer. Close bag with nylon tie;  \ncut six 1/2-inch slits in top. Bake until beef is tender, 40 to minutes. Serve over rice.\n\n171\n\nSavory Chicken and Rice in a Lotus Leaf (China)  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n8 lg Dried lotus leaves  \n1 c Long-grain rice  \n3/4 c Sweet glutinous rice  \n-(see Note)  \n2 c Chicken stock  \n3 Chinese sausages lop cheong)  \n8 Chinese dried black mushrooms  \n2 T Small dried shrimp*-  \n1 Whole chicken breast,  \n-boned and skinned  \n2 T Soy sauce, plus more  \n\\- for dipping  \n1 t Sugar  \n1/4 t White pepper  \n1 t Asian sesame oil ----------------------CHICKEN MAR INADE---------------------------\n\n_2 ts Grated ginger ts Soy sauce ts Dry vermouth or Shao Hsing -wine_ 2 ts Sugar /4 ts White pepper ts Asian sesame oil  \n*cut diagonally into 1-inch slices- soaked in warm water until soft  \nand pliable (about 30 minutes)-* soaked in warm water for 30 minutes Foods wrapped in dried lotus leaves become infused with an exotic earthy flavor. If lotus leaves are not available, you can wrap the  \nrice filling in oiled parchment. Besides being an unusual appetizer, this dish can be served as a snack, for lunch, or as a light meal. Note that the first step must be done the night before. Because lotus  \nleaves vary so much in size, eight packets may require anywhere from four to ten leaves. (Larger leaves can be split in half, smaller leaves may need to be overlapped.)  \nThe night before, pour boiling water over the lotus leaves and let them  \nsoak for 1 hour. Rinse and squeeze them dry Mix the long-grain and glutinous rice together in a large bowl. Wash the rice under running cold water; gently stir and rub the grains between your fingers to  \nloosen all the excess starch. Continue until the water runs clear.  \nDrain thoroughly. Mix the rice with the chicken stock in a 2-quart saucepan; soak overnight in the refrigerator.  \nThe next day, set the saucepan of rice uncovered over high heat; bring  \nto a boil. Stir just enough to loosen the rice grains. Reduce the  \nheat to medium-high and boil until the liquid is absorbed, about to 10 minutes. Put the sausages on top of the rice and cover the pan. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 20 minutes. Turn off the heat but do not remove the cover. Let the rice stand for 10 minutes, then, with a wet wooden spoon, transfer it to a large bowl; set aside.  \nSqueeze the mushrooms dry Cut off the stems at the base and discard them; cut the caps in half. Combine the marinade ingredients in a medium bowl. Cut the chicken breast into 3/4-inch chunks and toss it with the marinade. Add the mushrooms and marinate for 20 minutes. Drain and coarsely chop the shrimp.  \nIn a small bowl combine the soy sauce, sugar, white pepper, and sesame oil; mix into the cooked rice. Add the chicken-mushroom mixture and  \nthe shrimp.  \nFold a lotus leaf in half and put it on a cutting board. If the middle 172\n\nstem or edges are tough and hard, trim and discard them. (If the leaves are small, you may need to overlap halves.) Divide the rice mixture into 8 portions; place one portion in the center of a leaf  \nhalf. Fold the edges over the rice to make a 4-inch square packet. Tie it with twine. Repeat with the remaining leaves and rice. Arrange the packets in a single layer in a bamboo steaming basket.\n\nPrepare a wok for steaming. steam the packets over medium-high heat for 20 minutes. Remove them from the steamer and cut each packet across the top to expose its contents. Serve with small dishes of soy sauce for dipping.  \nNOTE: Sweet glutinous rice is also known as \"sticky rice\" because when it is cooked it becomes sticky. It is used to make poultry stuffing and leaf-wrapped rice packages; it is called sweet rice because it is often used to make sweet dishes. Soak it overnight before cooking for the best results.  \nMakes 8 packets.  \nSavory Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Rice (raw)  \n1 en Chicken broth soup  \n1/41b Butter or margarine  \n1/2 c Mushrooms, chopped  \n1/2 c Onions, diced  \n1/2 c Celery, diced\n\n## 1 t Salt\n\n1 en Beef consomme soup  \nMelt butter in skillet and cook onions and celery until translucent. Into buttered casserole dish put alternate layers of rice, onion/celery mixture, and mushrooms. Add salt and a little pepper. Pour the two cans of broth over the mix and place covered in oven at degrees for 45 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. If rice seems dry, add a little  \nwater.  \nShrimp & Barbecued Pork Fried Rice 173\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \n3 c Cooked long-grain rice,  \n\\- preferably cold  \n3 T Peanut or vegetable oil  \n1/2 t Salt  \n1 t Shrimp paste, or more (opt.)  \n1/2 t Sugar  \n1 1/2 T Soy sauce  \n2 t Oyster sauce  \n2 lg Eggs; lightly beaten with  \n1 Egg yolk  \n1/2 c Cooked bay shrimp  \n1/2 c Chinese barbecued pork  \n-cut into 1/4-inch pieces  \n1/2 c Leftover cooked chicken  \n-cut into 1/4-inch pieces  \n1/2 c Fresh or frozen peas blanched  \n1 c Finely shredded romaine  \n\\- =OR=- Iceberg lettuce  \n1/2 c Chopped green onions  \nBREAK UP CLUMPS OF RICE by gently rubbing between the palms of your hands into a large bowl. Over medium-high heat, preheat wok until hot.  \nAdd oil; tilt wok to coat sides. When oil is moderately hot, add salt and the optional shrimp paste, stir until fragrant or for 5 seconds. Immediately add rice and quickly stirfry, pressing and poking at clumps of rice until all grains are separated, without browning rice (about 3 minutes). Season with sugar, soy sauce and oyster sauce. Stirfry until each grain is evenly coated (about 1 minute). Push rice  \nto sides of wok. Add beaten egg mixture to center of wok, and allow to cook, lightly beating eggs in center only (about minute). Toss together with rice. (Small flecks of egg will appear interspersed in the rice.)  \nAdd shrimp, barbecued pork, chicken, peas, lettuce, and green onions;  \ntoss and stir until mixed and heated through and lettuce is wilted  \n(about 2 minutes).  \nShrimp and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 5 Servings  \n1 1/21b Cooked shrimp  \n2 c Cooked rice  \n1 pt Light cream  \n1 t Butter  \n8 T Catsup  \n3 T Worcestershire sauce  \n1/4 t Tabasco sauce  \nPlace rice, cream, and seasonings in pan and bring to boil. Add shrimp and cool. Refrigerate overnight. Turn into greased casserole and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until nearly firm. Mrs. William W.\n\n174\n\nLaViolette  \nShrimp Fried Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 oz Cooked bay shrimp  \n1/41b Fresh or frozen peas  \n2 T Oil, preferably peanut  \n2 c Long-grain rice steamed and  \n\\- chilled  \n1 t Salt  \n2 Eggs, beaten  \n4 oz Fresh bean sprouts  \n\\--------------------------GAR NISH-------------------------------  \ntb Finely chopped scallions  \nCUT THE SHRIMP INTO FINE DICE. Blanch the peas in a saucepan of boiling water for about 5 minutes if they are fresh or 2 minutes if they are  \nfrozen. Drain them in a colander. Heat a wok or large skillet until it is hot. Then add the oil and wait until it is almost smoking. Add the cooked rice and stirfry it for 1 minute, and then add the shrimp, peas and salt. Continue to stirfry the mixture for 5 minutes over high  \nheat. Next add the beaten eggs and bean sprouts and continue to stirfry for 2 minutes or until the eggs have set. Turn the mixture onto a plate and garnish it with the scallions.  \nShrimp Fried Rice, Shanghai  \nYield: 3 Servings  \n1/41b Shrimp, shelled and deveined  \n5 TOil  \n3 Eggs, beaten  \n1/4 t Salt  \n3 1/2 c Rice, cold cooked  \n1/2 t Salt  \n2 Scallions, finely chopped  \n\\--------------------------COATl N8-------------------------------\n\n14 ts Salt ts Cornstarch ts Water\n\n175\n\nIf shrimp is large, cut crosswise into 1/2 \" pieces. Dissolve  \ncornstarch in water and add salt to make coating. Mix with shrimp and set aside. 2. Heat wok over high heat until hot. Add 2 Toil, coat and  \nheat for a few seconds. Reduce heat to medium, add shrimp, and stirfry  \nbriskly for 1-2 minutes until shrimp are pink and firm. Pour into dish  \nand set aside. 3. Clean wok and heat over high heat. Beat eggs with 1/4\n\nt salt. Add 3 Toil to pan, coat, and heat until very hot. Pour in eggs\n\nand as they puff around edges, push the mass with spatula to far end of pan. tilting pan toward you so that the runny eggs slide onto the hot surface. Continue this process until the eggs are soft and fluffy. Give one big whirl and scrape into a dish. Set pan over medium heat (don't add oil). Add rice and stirfry about 1 minute. Add salt to taste. Add scallions and stir in briefly. Add shrimp and eggs and stir rapidly,  \nturning and folding, for about 1 minute. The eggs should be in small  \npieces and well mingled with the rice and shrimp. Pour into a hot serving dish.  \nSimple Brown Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Brown rice  \n2 1/2 c Liquid (water, stock, juice)  \n1 T Butter  \n1 t Salt (optional)  \nPLACE RICE, LIQUID, BUTTER and salt in a 2-to-3-quart saucepan. Bring to the boil; stir once or twice. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer -to-50 minutes, or until rice is tender and liquid is absorbed. Fluff with a  \nfork.  \nSimple Wild Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 c Wild rice  \n6 c Boiling water  \n1 T Olive oil  \nSalt 176\n\nTO PREPARE THE WILD RICE, wash it in a sieve under cold running water for 2 minutes. Put the rice in a heavy pan, add the boiling water, and  \nthe olive oil. Cover, and let the rice simmer about 55 minutes until it is cracked and puffy. Drain, and salt to taste. (Be sure to drain rice after soaking.)  \nSizzling Rice Soup  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n6 c Chicken broth  \n2 T Shredded Smithfield ham  \n4 sm Cakes Chinese  \n\\- bean curd cubed, rinsed  \n\\- in cold water  \n6 lg Chinese black  \n-mushrooms soaked, squeezed  \n-dry and shredded  \n4 c Peanut oil for deep-frying -------------------------R ICE CR UST------------------------------\n\nRice Oil, peanut  \n\\--------------------------GAR NISH------------------------------- Chopped scallions Sesame oil  \nBRING THE BROTH TO A SIMMER in a pot and add the ham, bean curd and  \nmushrooms. Let it simmer 5 minutes. Heat the oil in a wok to very hot (about 380F). Test the oil by dropping a small piece of Rice Crust into it. It should float immediately. Slip the whole Rice Crust into the  \noil. As it begins to puff up like popcorn, break it up into large  \nchunks with long chopsticks. Turn it to brown on all sides (about 1 minute). Remove the rice and drain it. At the table, add the rice to the serving bowl of soup. It will sizzle as the steam rises and provide quite a show. Add the scallions and sesame oil just before serving. (The oil used for deep-frying can be cooled, strained through a fine sieve and stored in a jar for future use.)  \nFOR RICE CRUST: Prepare rice as you normally would, but cook it in a  \nwide, heavy pot at least 15 minutes after the rice is soft so that a crust forms on the bottom of the pot. Spoon off the top layer of loose rice and set aside for Fried Rice or freeze it for future use. If left  \nto stand overnight at room temperature, the crust will be easier to  \nremove from the pot. To use the rice right away, keep the pot on low heat and dribble peanut oil around the edge. Heat for a few minutes, then loosen the crust with a spatula. It should come out in one whole piece. Invert the crust onto a plate. It can now be frozen for future use or used while still hot.\n\n177\n\nSkillet Chicken and Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 lb Chicken pieces, skinned  \n3 c Mushrooms, fresh, sliced  \n4 x Carrots; peeled, sliced  \n\\- 1/2\"  \n3/4 c Rice, long grain  \n1/2 c Onion, chopped  \n1 t Poultry seasoning  \n1 t Bouillon, chicken, granules  \n1/4 t Salt  \nPER SERVING: 265 Cal., 25g Pro., 27g Carbo., 6g fat, 67mg Chol., Spray a 12-inch skillet with nonstick spray coating. Brown chicken pieces on  \nall sides over medium heat about 15 minutes. Remove chicken. Drain fat from skillet, if neccessary. Add mushrooms, carrots, rice, onion,  \nbouillon, poultry seasoning, 2 cups water, salt. Place chicken atop rice mixture. Cover; simmer 30 minutes or till chicken and rice are done.  \nSlow Cooker Red Beans & Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 lb DRIED SMALL RED CHILl BEANS  \n3 CELERY STALKS, CHOPPED  \n1 GREEN PEPPER, CHOPPED  \n2 GARLIC, MINCED  \n2 2/3 c DOUBLE STRENGTH BEEF BROTH  \n1 HAM HOCK, SCORED IN DIAMONDS  \n4 c HOT COOKED RICE  \n2 T OIL  \n1 ONION, CHOPPED  \n3 GREEN ONIONS. CHOPPED  \n31/3 c WATER  \n1/2 t CRUSHED RED HOT PEPPER  \n1 t SALT  \nIN A LARGE POT, COMBINE THE BEANS WITH ENOUGH COLD WATER TO COVER BY  \nBRING TO A BOIL OVER HIGH HEAT, AND BOIL FOR 2 MINUTES. REMOVE FROM HEAT, COVER THE POT, AND LET STAND FOR 1 HOUR; DRAIN WELL. (BEANS CAN ALSO BE SOAKED OVERNIGHT) IN A LARGE SKILLET, HEAT THE OIL OVER MEDIUM-HIGH HEAT. ADD THE CELERY, ONION, BELL PEPPER, GREEN ONIONS,  \nAND GARLIC. COOK, STIRRING OFTEN, UNTIL ONIONS ARE SOFTENED, ABOUT 6  \nMINUTES. TRANSFER TO SLOW COOKER. STIR IN THE DRAINED BEANS, WATER, BEEF BROTH, AND RED PEPPER. BURY THE HAM HOCK IN THE BEAN MIXTURE.\n\n178\n\nCOVER AND SLOW-COOK UNTIL THE BEANS ARE VERY TENDER, 9 TO 10 HOURS ON LOW. REMOVE THE HAM HOCK. REMOVE MEAT AND DISCARD REST. RETURN MEAT TO POT, AND STIR IN SALT. SERVE BEANS IN BOWLS, SPOONED OVER HOT COOKED\n\nRICE, AND SPRINKLED WITH CHOPPED GREEN ONIONS, (READY AND WAITING)\n\nSopa Seca ( Dry Soup with Rice )\n\nYield: 1 Serving\n\n2 t Olive oil\n\n1/2 t Minced garlic\n\n1/2 c Chopped onion\n\n1 lg Tomato, chopped\n\n1 c Uncooked converted rice\n\n1 sm Green pepper, chopped\n\n1 (13 oz.) can chicken broth ds Cayenne pepper\n\n1/2 t Oregano\n\n1/2 t Salt\n\nHeat oil in large pan. Add garlic, onion and tomato. Cover and cook minutes or until onion is soft. Add rice and cook for another 2 minutes stirring until rice is shiny and hot. Stir in green pepper, chicken broth, red pepper, oregano and salt. Bring to a boil. Place in oven proof dish, cover and bake for 20 minutes at degrees.\n\nSour Cream & Wild Rice Soup\n\nYield: 8 Servings\n\n\\---POACHING INGREDIENTS---\n\n2 Chicken Breasts; excess\n\n\\- fat and skin removed\n\n1 qt Water\n\n1 Onion; quartered\n\n1 Carrot; cut in large chunks\n\n1 Celery Rib; cut in half\n\n## 1 Bay Leaf\n\n10 Black Peppercorns; whole\n\nSalt to taste\n\n179\n\n\\----------------------SOUP I NGR EDIENTS---------------------------  \nts Olive Oillg Red Onion; thinly sliced md Celery Ribs; thinly sliced  \nlg Carrots; peeled and shredded Garlic Cloves; chopped c Mushrooms; sliced /4 c Flour Salt Black Pepper; freshly ground c Evaporated Skim Milk c Sour Cream Substitute tb Corn Starch c Wild Rice; Cooked  \n-according to package dir -without fat or salt tb Thyme; fresh chopped  \nIn a heavy saucepan, combine the chicken and water, bring to a boil, reduce the heat to low and carefully skim off any scum. Add onion, carrot, celery, bay leaf, peppercorns, and salt. Cover and simmer the chicken for 45 minutes to one hour. Remove the chicken from the broth and set aside to cool. strain the remaining broth, discarding the  \nsolids, and place in the refrigerator to chill, or use fat separator to  \nremove all fat from broth. When the chicken is cool enough to handle, remove the meat from the bone and tear or shred into bite sized pieces. Cover and refrigerate until needed. Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, heat the olive oil until sizzling, add the onions, celery, carrots and  \ngarlic and cook over medium high heat for about 5 minutes. Lower the  \nheat to medium, add the mushrooms and cook for 5 minutes more. Add the flour, salt and pepper and stir to combine, cooking for 2 minutes. Add  \nthe chicken stock (remove the fat that has accumulated at the top of the stock) and the evaporated skim milk. In a small bowl, whisk together the sour cream and the cornstarch. Add to the soup, stirring until thickened and heated through. Add the cooked rice, shredded chicken and thyme, stirring until thick and bubbly. Serve at once.  \nSpanich Rice 2  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n2 lb Ground chuck or beef  \n2 md Onions, chopped  \n2 Green peppers, chopped  \n1 en Tomatoes (28 oz.)  \n1 en Tomato sauce (8 oz.)  \n1 c Water  \n2 1/2 t Chili powder  \n2 1/2 t Salt  \n2 t Worcestershire sauce  \n1 c Raw rice (converted)  \nBrown beef in skillet and drain off fat. Put all ingredients in  \nCROCKPOT. Stir thoroughly. Cover and cook on Low 6 to 8 hours. (High:  \n3 hours).\n\n180\n\nSpanish Hot Dogs and Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n1 en Stewed tomatoes.\n\n1/21b Hot dogs sliced 1/2\"\n\nThick\n\n3/4 c Green pepper, diced\n\n3/4 c Onion, diced\n\nRice for 4 people\n\nContributed to the echo by: Marge Clark The recipe has no real measurments...is a \"what you have\"... Spanish hot dogs & rice: Enough rice for four people... put rice on to cook...while it's cooking slice as many hot dogs as you have (lets say 1/2 pound or more) into pennies, about 1/2 inch thick. dice 1 green pepper ...l used to use the frozen\n\ndiced pepper and use a couple of handsful..maybe 3/4 cup? Diced onion. ditto on the amount. combine all the above, heat, while the rice is cooking...set the table and spray on some perfume.\n\nThis is obviously not a gourmet feast for company. But everyone ATE it!\n\nand there is little that's faster or easier!\n\nSpanish Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n## 6 Strips bacon crisp\n\n### 3 c Cooked rice\n\n1 Can 16oz peeled tomatoes\n\n1 Medium green pepper\n\n## 1 Medium onion\n\n### 1 T Bacon drippings\n\nFry bacon & conserve 1 Tablespoon drippings. Combine cooked rice & add drippings,tomatoes & veggies. Heat through. Crumble bacon on top. Salt and pepper to taste. (If you would like,add hot banana peppers and juice)\n\nSpanish Rice (from Guatemala)\n\n181\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \n1/21b Rice  \n2 md Ripe tomatoes  \n1/2 md Onion  \n1/2 Carrot  \n1 md Potato  \n1/4 c Fresh peas  \n1/2 Bell Pepper, green or red  \nCut all the vegetables, except the peas and potato, into small slivers. Cut the potato into 8 cubes. Wash the rice and then combine all the ingredients in a skillet and cook on a medium flame, WITH OUT water, for 5 minutes then cover and cook on low flame until done.  \nSpanish Rice (Vegan)  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n1/2 c Uncooked brown rice  \n2 c Water  \n1 T Wine Vinegar  \nWater  \n4 Cloves garlic  \n4 Stalks celery  \n1 Green pepper  \n1 Carrot  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1 sm Can stewed tomatoes  \n1 t Dry oregano  \n1 t Dry basil  \n1/4 t Cumin  \nFresh cilantro  \nPut the brown rice on to cook. Put vinegar and water in a heavy skillet and cook garlic, celery and green pepper (all chopped). Add enough water to the skillet to steam the carrot, add chopped carrot and bay leaf and cover skillet. When carrot is soft, add stewed tomatoes, oregano, basil and cumin. By now the rice should be done. Add the brown rice, lower flame and simmer for 15 minutes. Garnish with fresh cilantro and eat. Yum Yum Yum!  \nI hope you like it!  \nAlso, just wanted to note, I started this program just before  \ntravelling home from Christmas at my parents' house. I stopped at a restaurant with a salad bar, got veggie soup, salade and a plain baked potato on the side. They had fruit on the salad bar too, so I could  \nhave had that for dessert, but I didn't have any room left in the tum.\n\n182\n\nSpanish Rice 2  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 c Uncooked long grain rice  \n4 TOil  \n2 T Diced bell pepper  \n3 T Diced onion  \n1 t Dried parsley flakes  \n3 oz Tomato paste  \n2 Cloves garlic, minced  \n2 1/2 c Cold water  \n3/4 t Salt  \nLightly brown rice in oil over medium heat, stirring constantly. Add bell pepper and onion and saute' five minutes more, stirring often. Remove from heat; add parsley, tomato paste and garlic. Stir well and then add water and salt. Heat mixture to boiling, cover tightly and simmer 20 to 30 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. Remove from heat and let steam 10 minutes before serving.  \nSpanish Rice Enchiladas  \nYield: 1012 Servings  \n1/4 c Water  \n1 Onion, chopped  \n2 c Fresh spinach, chopped  \n3 c Cooked brown rice  \n1 T Soy sauce  \n1 t Ground cumin  \nor 6 c Enchilada sauce 10 or 12 Soft corn tortillas  \nPlace water and onion in a medium saucepan. Saute until onion softens slightly. Add the spinach. Cover and steam until just tender, 4 to 5 minutes. Remove from heat. Add rice and seasonings. Mix and set aside. (I would probably use a little wine, Bragg's Amino, and/or some veggie broth instead of the water for sauteing.) 4. Preheat oven to 350  \ndegrees. Spread 1 cup of Enchilada sauce over the bottom of a casserole  \ndish. Spread a line of the spinach-rice mixtue down the center of a tortilla. Roll up and place, seam-side down, in the casserole. Repeat until all of the ingredients are used. Pour the remaining sauce over  \nthe tortillas. 10. Cover and bake for 30 minutes. (Anyone NOT following the McDougall Plan, could top this off with some no-fat cheddar cheese and/or serve with a bit of no-fat sour cream.\n\n183\n\nSpanish Rice With Beef  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 lb Lean Ground Beef  \n1/2 c Onion; Chopped, 1 Md  \n1 c Rice; Regular, Uncooked  \n2/3 c Green Bell Pepper; Chopped  \n16 oz stewed Tomatoes; 1 Cn  \n5 Bacon Slices; Crisp,Crumbled  \n2 c Water  \n1 t Chili Powder  \n1/2 t Oregano Leaves  \n1 1/4 t Salt  \n1/8 t Pepper  \nCook and stir the meat and onion in a large skillet until the meat is brown. Drain off the excess fat. Stir in the remaining ingredients.  \nTO COOK IN A SKILLET: Heat the mixture to boiling then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, until the rice is tender,  \nabout 30 minutes. (A small amount of water can be added if necessary.) TO COOK IN THE OVEN: Pour the mixture into an ungreased 2-quart casserole. Cover and bake at 375 degrees F, stirring occasionally,  \nuntil the rice is tender, about 45 minutes. Serve hot.  \nSpiced Basmati Rice (Masaledar basmati)  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c basmati rice  \n3 T vegetable oil  \n1 Small onion finely chopped  \n1/2 t finely minced garlic  \n1/2 t garam masala  \n1 t salt  \n2 2/3 c chicken stock  \nPick over the rice an put in a bowl. Wash in several changes of water. Drain. Pour fresh water over the rice and let it soak for 12 hour. Drain in sieve for 20 minutes. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed  \nsaucepan over a medium flame. When hot, put in the onion. Stir and fry until the onion bits have browned. Add the rice, green chili,  \ngarlic, garam masala and salt. Stir gently for 3 to 4 minutes until all the grains are coated with oil. If the rice begins to stick to  \nthe bottom of the pan, turn down the heat. Now pour in the stock and bring the rice to a boil. Cover with a very tight-fitting lid,  \nturn heat to very, very low and cook for 15 to 20 minutes.\n\n184\n\nSpicy Rice and Lentils  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1/2 c Brown lentils soaked for 1hr  \n1 Onion, finely chopped  \n1/2 t Mashed garlic  \n1/2 t Grated ginger  \n1 Fresh green chilli  \nSeeded and finely chopped  \n4 T Ghee  \n1 Cinnamon stick  \n2 Cloves  \n1 Bay leaf  \n1/2 t Turmeric  \n1 t Salt  \n1 c Long grain rice  \nSoaked for 1 hour  \n1/2 c Red lentils  \n2 T Chopped spring onions  \nPreparation time: 25 minutes+ 1 hour standing Cooking time: 25 minutes  \nDrain the brown lentils, cover with boiling water and boil for 15 minutes until beginning to soften. Drain Cook the onion, garlic, ginger and chilli in the ghee until soft and lightly coloured. Add the  \ncinnamon, cloves, bay leaf and turmeric. Cook for 2 minutes, stirring. Add the drained rice and lentils, mix well, then add water to cover by  \n3-cm. Bring to boil, then cook on very low heat until the liquid has been absorbed, about 20 minutes. Stir in the chopped spring onion. Remove cinnamon stick before serving.  \nSpicy Rice Meatballs  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n\\- Marne Parry PKKW92A\n\n## 1 Egg\n\n1/2 t Salt  \n1/2 t Italian herb seasoning  \n-or 1/8 ea. basil,  \n-marjoram, oregano, thyme  \n1/4 t Pepper  \n1 Garlic, minced  \n1/4 c Finely chopped onion  \n1 lb Extra lean gr. beef  \n8 oz Ground veal (or turkey)  \n1/2 c Long grain white rice  \n1/2 c Fine dry bread crumbs  \n1 lg Can tomato sauce (15 oz)  \n1/2 c Tomato juice  \n1 t Chili powder  \n1 en Green chilies (4oz), diced 185\n\nIn a large bowl, beat eggs with salt, herb seasoning and pepper. Add garlic, onion, beef, veal, rice and crumbs; mix well. Shape mixture into 1 1/2 inch balls. Place meatballs in a 5 quart or larger electric slow cooker.  \nIn same bowl, mix tomato sauce, tomato juice, chili powder and chilies;  \nour over meatballs. Cover and cook at low setting until meatballs are no longer pink in center and rice is tender; cut a meatball to test (5  \n1/2-6 hrs). Gently lift meatballs to a warm serving dish and keep warm. Skim and discard fat from sauce, if necessary; Stir then spoon over meatballs.  \n\"This slow cooker variation on a long-time family favorite is  \nespecially easy to assemble. Chili powder and mild green chilies update the flavor.\"  \nSpicy Rice Pilaf  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n1/2 c Brown rice  \n1/8 t Ground cumin  \n1/8 t Ground ginger  \n1/8 t Ground cinnamon ds Ground cardamom ds Ground cloves  \n1/2 T Vegetable oil  \n1 c Chicken broth  \nSaute the rice, cumin seeds, ginger, cinnamon, cardamom seeds and cloves in the oil in a saucepan until the rice is browned. Add the chicken broth and bring the mixture to a boil.  \nLower the heat and simmer for 20 to 30 minutes or until all the liquid is absorbed. Serve with Turkey Patties in Wine Sauce.  \nSpicy Rice Pilaf with Turkey  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Brown rice 186\n\n1/2 t Cumin seeds\n\n1/4 t Ground ginger\n\n1/4 t Ground cinnamon\n\n4 Cardamom seeds  \n4 Whole cloves\n\n1 T Vegetable oil\n\n2 c Turkey stock or water\n\n1/4 c Dark or golden raisins\n\n2 c Chopped cooked turkey\n\n1/4 c Pine nuts; or cashews\n\n(chop cashews)\n\nToast cashews if using. Saute the rice, cumin seeds, ginger, cinnamon, cardamom seeds and cloves in the oil in a saucepan until the rice is browned. Add the stock or water and bring the mixture to a boil.\n\nLower the heat and simmer for 45 to 50 minutes or until the rice is\n\ncooked. Add the raisins, turkey, and nuts to the rice mixture. Serve hot or cold.\n\n14 recipe- 317 calories, 31ean meat, 1 bread, 1/2 fruit, 1 fat exchange 24 grams carbohydrate, 25 grams protein, 14 grams fat, 190 mg sodium, 381 mg potassium, 54 mg cholesterol\n\nStar Anise Beef-rice Noodle Soup\n\nYield: 8 Servings\n\n2 (1-in) chunks fresh ginger\n\n3 Shallots; unpeeled\n\n1 Onion; unpeeled\n\n2 1/2 qt Water\n\n1 1/21b Oxtails chopped into sections\n\n1 lb Beef shank\n\n2 Whole star anise\n\n1 Cinnamon stick\n\n## 3 Whole cloves\n\n1/4 c Vietnamese fish sauce (nuoc\n\n\\- mam)-\n\n1 t Salt; or to taste\n\n1/21b Flat rice-stick noodles\n\n\\- soaked in water for 20\n\n-minutes\n\n6 oz Sirloin steak trimmed\n\n\\- of fat & sliced into\n\n\\- paper-thin slices\n\nOnion; sliced thin\n\n2 c Bean sprouts\n\n1/4 c Fresh coriander leaves\n\n-(coarsely chopped)\n\n## 2 Green onions cut into\n\n### \\- 2-in-long thin julienne\n\n187\n\n\\- slices  \n1 Lime; sliced into 8 wedges\n\n2 Red chiles; thinly sliced\n\nPUT GINGER, SHALLOTS AND ONION on a baking sheet; place under a hot broiler until charred. In a stock pot, bring the water, oxtails and  \nbeef shank to a boil. Thoroughly skim and discard the scum from the  \nsurface of the stock. Drop the charred ingredients, star anise, cinnamon stick and cloves into pot, reduce to low heat; simmer for 2  \nhours. Remove the meat. Remove and shred the meat from the shank and reserve. Return the bone to the simmering stock. Simmer 1 hour longer. When soup is done, remove and discard bones. Strain and degrease stock; add fish sauce and salt. Keep warm. In a separate pot, bring 3 quarts  \nwater to a boil. Drain noodles and add to boiling water; cook for 1 minute. Drain in a colander. Divide noodles among 8 soup bowls (about  \n1-to-2-cup-size bowls). Divide and top each bowl of noodles with  \nshredded cooked beef, the raw sirloin steak slices, onion slices and bean sprouts. Ladle about 1 1/4 cups hot soup stock (this will cook the beef) to cover the noodles and beef, top with fresh coriander and green onions. Serve with squeeze of lime and chiles.  \nSteamed Ginger Rice with Snow Peas  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c Long grain rice  \n3 c Cold water  \n1 t Finely grated ginger  \n1/41b Snow peas, chopped  \nWash rice in several of changes of water until the water runs clear. Place rice in a 3 quart saucepan that has a tight fitting lid. Add water and grated ginger. Bring to a boil, uncovered. Reduce heat  \nslightly but continue to cook uncovered until surface water disappears  \nand holes appear in the surface of the rice. Cover tightly, turn heat  \nvery low and cook 20 minutes. Add snow peas and cover. Cook 2 minutes longer then remove from heat and let stand 3 to 5 minutes before  \nserving. Stir gently to combine rice with snow peas.  \nSteamed Glutinous Rice 188\n\nYield: 6 Servings  \nText Only  \nHow to Save a Pot of Burnt Rice:  \nIf the rice should scorch while it is cooking, the pot of rice may  \nstill be rescued. Simply place a dampened cloth or a slice of bread and I or 2 tablespoons of water over the surface of the rice, cover, lower the heat to a simmer and cook until rice is tender. The cloth or bread will absorb the burnt smell.  \n[This really does work quite well. I've done the bread version and it saved the meal. S.C.] Steamed Glutinous Rice:  \nGlutinous rice may be prepared in the same manner as steamed long grain rice by increasing the soaking period to 4 hours and the cooking time to 35 minutes.  \nHow to Reheat Rice:  \nCooked rice may be reheated in several ways. To reheat by simmering, place the rice in a saucepan with a tight-fitting lid. Then for each  \ncup of rice, sprinkle 1 tablespoon of water over the surface of the rice, cover and simmer over low heat until the rice is hot. To reheat  \nby steaming, place the rice in a heat proof bowl, sieve or colander and  \nplace this with about 2 inches of water in a large pot. Cover and steam over medium heat for 10 minutes or until heated through. To reheat in the oven, place rice in heat proof dish or pan and sprinkle 1  \ntablespoon of water for each cup of rice over the surface. Place, covered, in a preheated 400F oven for 20 minutes.  \nSteamed Jasmine Rice-Khao Suay *  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n3 c Jasmine Rice  \n3 c Water  \nThe wonderful aroma and subtle flavor of jasmine rice compliment every dish perfectly. Thais cook rice almost instinctively-it is their  \nstaple food.  \n\\---Place rice in a large saucepan. Rinse twice to clean the rice, draining thoroughly. Add the water to the rice.  \nCover the saucepan and heat to boiling. Allow to boil on high heat for  \n1 minute. Turn the temperature to low and steam for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to the lowest setting and allow to steam for 10 minutes more.\n\n189\n\nSteamed Rice  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Long grain rice  \n1 3/4 c Water  \n1 x Salt (optional)  \nRinse rice well. Combine with water and salt, if using, in a 8 cup microwaveable casserole. Cover and microwave at high for 5 minutes, then at medium for 8 to 12 minutes or until most of water is absorbed. Let stand covered, 5 to 10 minutes to absorb remaining liquid.  \nSteamed Rice ( Khow Jow or Khow Suay )  \nYield: 1 Serving  \nRice  \nWater  \nThis is a fool proof way of cooking any amount of rice.  \nWash rice well. Place rice into sauce pan. Add water until it covers  \nthe rice. To gauge the correct amount of water the water should come up to the first joint of the index finger. Boil the rice until the rice is  \nat surface level then close the lid and turn the heat down low. The rice should be cooked in about 10 minutes or when all the water is absorbed. Check periodically.  \nI use this method but have a rice cooker. No measuring required. With  \nthe old harder rice add more water.  \nStove-Top Rice Pudding?  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n6 c Milk  \n6 oz Rice (3/4 c)  \n3 Eggs  \n1 c Sugar  \n2 t Vanilla  \n1 1/2 t Cinnamon 190\n\n1/2 t Nutmeg  \nRaisins (Optional)  \nUsing a teflon coated pan, bring the milk and the rice to a boil and then let it simmer for? hr... When the rice is done and starts to  \nthicken beat the eggs and sugar together and add to the rice... Add the remainder of the ingredients and cook for 1 to 2 min. stirring occasionally... Let set to cool, stirring occasionally... Thickens as it cools..\n\nStuffed Cabbage With Rice & Pine Nuts Avgolemono  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 md Cabbage heads  \n3 T Clarified butter  \n1 md Onion; chopped fine  \n1 c Water  \n1 c Raw long grain rice  \n1/4 c Raisins or currants  \n1/2 c Pine nuts  \n1/4 c Chopped fresh parsley  \n1/4 c Chopped fresh dill  \nSalt & freshly ground pepper  \n3 Eggs  \n1 Lemon, juice only  \n2 T Butter; cut into bits  \nPlunge cabbages into boiling salted water and cook about 8 minutes, then drain thoroughly and set aside while you prepare the filling. In a heavy skillet heat the clarified butter, add the chopped onions and cook until soft and transparent. Add the water and bring to a boil,  \nthen add the rice and stir. Lower the heat and simmer gently until the rice has absorbed the liquid, approximately 15 minutes. Remove from heat and add the raisins or currants, pine nuts, parsley, dill and  \nseason with salt and pepper. Cool. Separate 2 of the eggs and mix the egg whites into filling. Reserve the yolks for the avgolemono. Stuff  \nand roll the cabbage leaves, using one heaping tablespoon filling, roll up snugly, then place, seam side down, in a casserole. Dot with butter and add water to cover, then cover cabbage rolls with an inverted plate and cover casserole. Simmer for approximately 1 hour, then transfer to a warm serving dish and keep warm. Strain the remaining liquid for the avgolemono sauce. Beat the remaining eggs and yolks for 2 minutes. Continuing to beat, gradually add the lemon juice. Then add the 1-1/2 cups cooking liquid by droplets, beating steadily, until all has been added. Cook over hot water, not boiling, stirring constantly until the  \nsauce thickens enough to coat a spoon. Pour over the cabbage rolls and serve hot.\n\n191\n\nStuffed Cranberry And Rice Chicken\n\nChicken, Diabetic, Main Dish, Poultry\n\nYield: 6 Servings\n\n3 whole chicken breasts,\n\n-halved, boned, skinned,\n\n\\- and pounded to 1/2\"\n\n\\- thickness\n\n3 c cooked brown rice\n\n1/2 c rehydrated\n\n-cranberries, drained  \n1 T olive oil\n\n1/2 c diced celery\n\n1/2 c diced onion\n\n2 t minced fresh thyme\n\n1 c dry white wine\n\nPrepare the chicken breasts and set aside. Combine the rice and rehydrated cranberries and mix well. Set aside.\n\nHeat the oil in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the celery\n\nand onion and saute for 5 minutes. Add the vegetables and thyme to the rice.\n\nOn a flat surface, take about 1/2 cup of the rice mixture and place on\n\nthe lower third of each chicken breast. Fold over the sides of the chicken breast and roll up. Secure each breast with a toothpick. Continue with all chicken breasts.\n\nPlace all the chicken rolls in a casserole dish. Pour wine in the\n\nbottom of the dish. Cover and bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for\n\n20 minutes. Uncover and bake for 10 more minutes. Comments: Juicy, tart cranberries surprise you in every bite!\n\nSweet & Sour Lentils with Brown Rice\n\nYield: 4 Servings\n\n1/2 c Dry lentils\n\n3 c Water\n\n2 T Vinegar\n\n2 T Honey\n\n1 T Tamari\n\n1/2 t Grated ginger\n\n1/2 c Water\n\n1 t Cornstarch\n\n1 sm Onion, sliced\n\n## 2 TOil\n\n4 Celery sliced diagonally\n\nBring water to a boil & cook lentils for 25 minutes. Drain & set aside. combine vinegar, honey, tamari, ginger & water. Bring to a boil. mix cornstarch with a little water & add to sauce. Saute onion 192\n\nin oil till soft. Add pieces of celery & cook for 5 minutes over medium heat. Add lentils, mix well. Add sauce, simmer 5 minutes. Serve over rice.  \nSweet Fried Rice with Almonds and Cinnamon  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 c Mixed dried fruit, diced  \n1 1/4 c Water  \n2 t Of vanilla  \n1 T Peanut oil  \n1/2 c Whole almonds  \n4 T Butter  \n1/3 c Thinly sliced onion  \n1/3 c Sugar  \n1 1/2 t Cinnamon  \n3 c Cooked rice  \npn Salt  \n1/8 t Ground cloves  \nHere's an unusual use of the wok. I don't usually think of fried rice and fruit going together..  \nSoak the dried fruit in the water with 1 teaspoon of the vanilla for  \nminutes.  \nHeat the oil in a wok; add almonds and stirfry until toasted, about 1 minute. Remove with a slotted spoon.  \nReduce the heat to moderate and add 2 tablespoons of the butter.  \nAdd the onions and stirfry until lightly browned.  \nAdd 1/4 cup of the sugar and continue to stirfry until the sugar is melted and lightly caramelized.  \nAdd 1/2 teaspoon of the cinnamon and the dried fruit mixture. stir  \nfry for 1 minute. Remove to a bowl.  \nMelt remaining 2 tablespoons butter in the wok; add rice, remaining vanilla, sugar and the salt. Stirfry until rice is in separate grains and some grains have toasted lightly.  \nPush the rice up the sides of the wok and pour the fruit in the center.  \nMix in the rice.  \nTurn out onto a platter and decorate with the toasted almonds. Sprinkle with the remaining cinnamon mixed with cloves. Serves 4.\n\n193\n\nSweet 'n' Sour Pork Over Rice  \n4 lb Pork tenderloin, cut into 4-inch cubes Onion, cut into thin  \nwedges Sweet green pepper, chopped Sweet red pepper, chopped en (8 oz.) Pineapple chunks,- -packed in juice, undrained tb Cider vinegar tb  \nPacked brown sugar ts Low-sodium soy sauce 12 c Quick-cooking rice en  \n(81/2 oz.) Sliced peaches Water tb Cornstarch  \nCoat a skillet with nonstick spray; warm ot over medium heat for 1 minute. Add pork and cook, stirring occasionally, until it loses its pink color, 5 to 6 minutes. Add onions, sweet peppers, undrained  \npineapples, vinegar, sugar and soy sauce. Bring to a boil, cover and simmer until vegetables are crisp-tender, about 5 minutes. Meanwhile, cook rice. Drain peaches,reserving juice. Add enough water to make 1/2 cup liquid. Blend in cornstarch. Cut each peach slice into thirds.  \nStir cornstarch mixture and peaches into skillet. Cook, 1 minute more. Serve over rice.  \nPer Serving: 418 Calories, 3.1 g fat (7% of calories), 51 mg cholesterol mg sodium, 3.4 g dietary fiber.  \nTabasco Classic-Red Beans and Rice On Monday*-  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n1 lb Dried Red Beans, Picked Over  \n8 c Cold Water  \n1/21b Lean Salt Pork, Bacon,  \n\\- Or Ham, Diced  \n1 T Olive Oil  \n1 c Chopped Onion  \n1 Minced Garlic Clove  \n2 T Chopped Fresh Parsley 3/4 t Salt\n\n1 1/2 t Tabasco Pepper Sauce  \n4 c Hot Cooked Rice  \nIn New Orleans, Red Beans and Rice has evolved into a traditional Monday dish, but it's a fine accompaniment anytime for fried chicken, pork chops, ham, or sausage.  \n\\---In a large saucepan combine the dried beans and the water, cover, and soak overnight. Add the pork, bacon, or ham and bring to a simmer. Cook, covered, for 15 minutes.  \nMeanwhile, in a medium skillet heat the oil and saute the onion and garlic for 3 minutes or until golden. Add the mixture to the beans  \nalong with the parsley, salt, and Tabasco sauce. Cover and simmer -1/2 to 1-3/4 hours longer, or until the beans are tender enough to mash one easily with a fork. Add hot water as needed to keep the beans covered, and stir occasionally. When the beans are finished they will have 194\n\nsoaked up most of the liquid. Serve over the hot cooked rice.  \nThai Rice with Mushroom and Egg  \nYield: 2 Servings  \n175 g Thai jasmine rice  \n1/2 T Sunflower oil  \n1 Beaten eggs  \n3 1/2 g Porcini or cap mushrooms  \n2 Spring onions  \n1/2 Garlic clove 112 1/2 g Flat mushrooms  \n1 1/2 T Dry sherry 1 1/2 T Japanese soy sauce\n\n1/2 T Sugar  \n3 3/4 Cm piece of cucumber  \nPreparation: beat the eggs slice the spring onions soak the porcini or cap mushrooms in warm water for 30 mins. crush the garlic cloves slice the flat mushrooms cut the cucumber into matchsticks.  \nNotes: There is a lot of sauce with this recipe-don't worry! If  \nyou can't find dried porcini or cap mushrooms then use 225g of shittake mushrooms (to serve 4) for all the mushrooms in the dish.  \n, Rinse the rice under running water and drain. Place in a heavy-based pan witl600ml (to serve 4) of water and bring to the boil. Simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the surface water has been absorbed and there are craters over the top of the rice. Turn off the heat, cover  \nthe pan tightly and leave to stand.  \nHeat a teaspoon of the oil in a wok or frying pan and add the beaten eggs. Cook on one side to make a thin omelette. Slide on to a plate, roll up, cut into strips and set aside.  \nDrain the dried mushrooms, reserving the liquid, and chop roughly. Heat the remaining oil in the wok, add the spring onions, garlic and mushrooms. Stir fry for 3 minutes, then add the sherry, soy sauce,  \nsugar and six tablespoons of the mushroom liquor. Bring to the boil and simmer for two minutes.  \nTransfer rice to a shallow serving dish, spoon over the mushrooms and their sauce and garnish with omelette, cucumber matchsticks and spring onion curls.  \nNB: the eggs can be omitted from this dish, with no problem.  \nTofu Fried Rice 195\n\nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 T Dark sesame oil  \n10 1/2 oz Firm tofu cut into  \n\\- 1/2-inch cubes\n\n2 Garlic cloves; minced\n\n1 t Ground ginger  \n10 oz Frozen peas; thawed  \n1 c Bean sprouts  \n1 c Sliced mushrooms 4 Green onions; sliced\n\n## 2 md Carrots cut into\n\n\\- diagonal slices  \n4 c Cooked brown rice; chilled  \n1/2 c Slivered almonds; toasted  \n1/4 c Soy sauce  \nHeat oil in large skillet or wok over medium-high heat. Stirfry tofu  \nin oil with garlic and ginger 3 minutes. Add peas, bean sprouts, mushrooms, onions and carrots. Stirfry until peas and carrots are tender. Stir in rice, almonds and soy sauce; heat thoroughly.\n\nEach serving provides:* 423 calories* 18.7 g. protein* 17.4 g. fat*\n\n52.4 g. carbohydrates * 7.9 dietary fiber * 0 mg. cholesterol * 937 mg. sodium.  \nTomato and Rice Casserole  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n4 t Butter  \n1/2 c Uncooked Rice  \n1 c Liquid from canned tomatoes  \n1 3/4 c Canned tomatoes, drained  \n2 t Chopped parsley 1 1/2 t Salt\n\n1/2 t Pepper  \n4 T Grated Parmesan cheese  \nChopped chives  \nSaute the rice in the butter in a fry pan until the rice is golden brown. Put into the crock pot. 2. Pour the tomato liquid, tomatoes, parsley, salt and pepper into the crock pot and mix well. 3. Cover and cook on low setting (200oF-100oC) for six to eight hours. 4. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and chopped chives before serving.\n\n196\n\nTomato Rice Soup  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n3 Chicken Stock Cubes  \n40 Boiling water  \n1 lg Onion, Finely Chopped  \n1 T Short-grain Rice  \n2 T Tomato Puree  \nCrusty Bread to Serve  \nPut stock cubes in a pan and dissolve in boiling water. add onion and rice, and simmer for a further 5 minutes until all the flavours have combined. Serve with crusty bread.  \nTomato Soup with Mushrooms & Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 oz Dried porcini mushrooms  \n2 c Beef or chicken broth  \n2 T Butter or vegetable oil  \n1/2 c Onion(s), finely chopped  \n8 c Canned Italian tomatoes  \nWith their juice  \n1 c Cooked medium, long-grain  \nOr Italian arborio rice  \nSalt and pepper to taste  \n3 T Heavy cream (opt)  \n1 T Thyme leaves or  \nFinely chopped parsley  \nCombine the dried mushrooms and broth in a small saucepan and heat to boiling. Remove from the heat, cover, and let stand for 30 min. Drain through a sieve lined with a dampened paper towel, setting aside the porcini-flavored broth. Pick over the mushrooms and rinse off or  \ndiscard any hard or gritty parts. Finely chop the mushrooms and set aside the mushrooms and broth separately.  \nMeanwhile, heat the butter or oil in a large saucepan. Add the onion  \nand saute over low heat, stirring, until golden, about 10 min. Press the tomatoes through a sieve or food mill; discard the seeds. Add the strained tomatoes, porcini broth, and chopped mushrooms to the onions. Heat to boiling, then cover and simmer for 10 min.  \nAdd the rice, cover, and simmer for 10 min, stirring occasionally.  \nSeason with salt and pepper.  \nTo serve, ladle into bowls and drizzle with 1/2 tbs of heavy cream, if desired. Sprinkle with fresh thyme leaves or parsley. Serve immediately.\n\n197\n\nTuna and Rice Creole  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 T Butter or bacon fat  \n3/4 c Rice  \n1/2 c Chopped green pepper  \n1/2 c Chopped onion\n\n## 1 Garlic clove\n\n1 en VEG-ALL Mixed  \n-Vegetables (16 oz)  \nen Stewed tomatoes (16 oz)  \nen Chicken broth (12 oz)  \nen Tuna, flaked (12.5 oz)  \n1/2 c Shredded cheddar cheese  \nHeat fat in skillet. Add rice, green pepper, onion and garlic; cook 5 minutes.  \nDrain VEG-ALL.  \nCombine rice with stewed tomatoes and chicken broth. Bring to boil, cover and simmer until rice is cooked, about 25 minutes.  \nStir in tuna and vegetables; sprinkle cheese over top. Heatt until cheese is melted.  \nTurkey And Wild Rice Salad  \nDiabetic, Salad  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n\\---Salad---  \n3 c diced cooked turkey  \n-(preferably white meat)  \n2 c leftover cooked wild rice  \n1/2 c rehydrated  \n-cranberries, drained  \n1/4 c diced red onion  \n1/4 c diced yellow pepper  \n\\---Dressing---  \n1/2 c raspberry vinegar  \n2 T olive oil  \n2 T minced fresh parsley  \n1 T minced scallions  \nFreshly-ground black pepper,  \n-to taste  \nCombine all salad ingredients. In a blender, combine all dressing ingredients. Pour the dressing over the salad and toss well. Serve at room temperature.\n\n198\n\nTurkey Stew with Tomatoes, Peppers, and Rice  \nMain Dish, Soup  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 T olive oil  \n1-1/21b turkey thighs boneless,  \n\\- skinless, quartered  \n1/4 t salt  \n1/4 t freshly ground pepper  \n1 c onion chopped  \n1/2 c red bell pepper seeded  \n-and sliced  \n1/2 c green bell pepper seeded  \n-and sliced  \n14 oz turkey broth  \n1 Can (14-1/2 ounces)  \n-whole peeled tomatoes  \n-with juice  \n1-1/3 c white rice uncooked  \n1 c frozen green peas thawed  \nHeat oil in large skillet. Add turkey and cook until brown; season with salt and pepper.  \nStir in onion; cover tightly and cook over low heat, 10 minutes.  \nStir in peppers, broth, tomatoes with juice, and rice; heat to boiling, stirring to break up tomatoes.  \nCover and cook over low heat 20 minutes or until liquid is absorbed.  \nSprinkle peas on top; cover and cook 5 minutes more.  \nVariations on Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares  \nYield: 8 Servings  \nRecipe Of Marshmallow Sqs. VARIATIONS:  \nUse Cocoa Krispies instead of Rice Krispies. Melt 2 squares of  \nunsweetened chocolate with the marshmallows. Add 1/4 cup peanut butter to marshmallows. Add 1 cup raisins with Rice Krispies. Add 1 cup of  \nsalted peanuts with Rice Krispies.\n\n199\n\nVegetable Rice Bake  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 t Instant Chicken Bouillon  \n2/3 c Long grain Rice  \n1/2 c Chopped Green Pepper  \n2 x Beaten Eggs 2 c Shredded Zucchini*\n\n1 c Skim Milk  \n1/2 t Onion powder  \n1/2 t Dried Basil, crushed  \n1/2 t Dried Oregano, crushed  \n3/4 c Shredded lo-fat Cheddar chee  \n4 oz Lo-cal cream cheese (soft)\n\n## 2 T Diced Pimento\n\nor chopped broccoli In a saucepan combine bouillon granules and 1  \n1/2 cups water. Bring to boiling; add rice. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 20 minutes or till tender. Meanwhile, in a med saucepan combine green pepper and 1/2 cup water. Bring to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 2 minutes. Add shredded zucchini or chopped broccoli. Cover and simmer for 3-5 minutes or till crisp-tender; drain well. Set aside. In a large mixing bowl combine eggs, milk, onion  \npowder, basil, oregano, and 1/8 t pepper. Stir cheddar cheese and cream  \ncheese into hot rice. Stir rice mixture into egg mixture. Stir in  \ncooked vegetables and pimento. Spoon into a x6x2\" baking dish. Bake, uncovered, in a 350 deg F. oven for 30-35 minutes or till center is  \nset. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.\n\n* ___ _ ___ _* ___ _ ___ _*-**** ___ _*--*-*-** Per serving:\n\n315 calories, 17 g protein, 33 g carbohydrates, 12 g fat, mg cholesterol, 574 mg sodium, 407 mg potassium.  \nVegetarian Chili With Rice  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n3 en Pinto beans  \n1 lg Can crushed tomatoes  \n1 lg Onion, chopped  \n1/2 c Vegetable stock  \n1 T Garlic  \n1 T Cumin  \n2 Packets achiote (annato mix  \nIn ethnic section of  \nGrocery)  \n1 T Parsley  \n2 T Paprika  \n2 T Hot sauce 200\n\nSaute onions, cumin, parsley, garlic and paprika in vegetable stock in large stock pot. Add pinto beans, tomato, and achiote and simmer for about 1 hour. Add about 4 cups of cooked brown rice and let stand for about 1 hour.  \nI usually make this in a crock pot. Just add sauted onions and spices to the rest of the ingredients in a crock pot and let it cook  \novernight.  \nI add the cooked rice the next morning and leave the pot on all day. The chili usually comes out quite runny until you add the cooked rice and let it sit. The rice absorbes most of the moisture leaving a thick hearty chili.  \nI use the Lundberg Farms rice blends especially the japonica blend and  \nthe christmas blend.  \nVegetarian Rice Mix  \nYield: 1 Serving  \n4 c Raw Long-grained Rice\n\n## 2 t Salt\n\n4 t Onion Flakes  \n4 t Red Pepper Flakes  \n3 T Instant Vegetarian Bouillon  \n4 t Celery Flakes  \n4 t Green Pepper Flakes  \nCombine all ingredients in a large bowl; stir until well blended. Put about 1 1/2 cups of mix into 3 1-pint containers and label as Vegetarian Rice Mix. Store in a cool, dry place and use within 6 to months.  \nMakes about 4 1/2 cups of mix. Vegetarian Rice: Combine 1 1/2 cups  \nmix, 2 cups cold water, and 1 T butter or margarine in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over high heat; reduce heat and cover. Cook for 15 to 25 minutes, until all liquid is absorbed.  \nMakes 4 to 6 servings.  \nVenison Chops W/ Rice & Tomatos  \nYield: 6 Servings 201\n\n6 1-inch venison chops  \n1 md Onion; sliced  \n2 c Cooked white rice  \n1 lg Fresh tomato  \n1 lg Green Bell pepper\n\n2 #3 cans tomatos\n\nSalt & pepper to taste  \nClove garlic; minced  \n1 c Sauterne wine  \n1 t Angostura bitters  \n2 c Water  \n1 Lemon Uuice only)  \nMix the wine, water, & lemon juice together. Pour over the chops, cover, & marinate in the fridge for 4-8 hours. Brown the chops in a large skillet after seasoning with the salt & pepper.  \nPlace each chop on the bottom of a large baking dish. Cut the green pepper into 1/4\" thick rings. Place on top of each chop. Put a scoop of rice in each ring. Top with a slice of onion and top each with a slice  \nof tomato. Dump the canned tomatos into a bowl and chop them into small  \nchunks. Add the bitters & garlic and season with salt & pepper. Pour these around the chops. Cover & steam for 1 hour in 375 degree F oven. Venison chops, or any others for that matter, are excellent when fixed this way. It is another Cajun recipe that I have had passed to me by relatives from Louisiana. Enjoy-  \nVietnamese Pork \"Spaghetti Sauce\" Over Rice  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n1 T Vegetable Oil  \n1 1/21b Ground Pork  \n1 1/2 T Sugar  \n4 1/2 T Vietnamese style Fish Sauce  \n1 1/2 T Lime Juice  \n2 Serrano Chiles; seeded  \n-and chopped  \n1/4 c Garlic; chopped  \n1 1/2 c Shallots; chopped  \n1/2 t Black Pepper  \n5 lg Tomatoes; seeded  \n-and chopped  \n1/4 c Tomato Paste  \n1 1/2 c Chicken Stock Coriander Leaves Hot Steamed Rice  \nPour oil into a saucepan and place over high heat. Add pork and saute  \nuntil lightly browned, about 5 minutes, breaking up lumps. Add sugar, 12 tb fish sauce, the lime juice and chiles. Cook 1 minute. Set aside\n\nin a bowl.\n\n202\n\nPut garlic, shallots, pepper and more oil if needed into the saucepan; fry over medium heat until fragrant. Add tomato and cook until reduced to a slightly lumpy sauce, about 5 minutes. Add pork, tomato paste,  \nremaining fish sauce and chicken stock; simmer 10 minutes. Garnish with coriander. Serve over hot steamed rice.  \nWarm Fajita Rice Salad  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n3/41b Top sirloin,1\" thick  \n1/4 c Lime juice,fresh  \n1/2 t Garlic salt  \n1/2 t Cumin,ground  \n1/2 t Black pepper,coarse  \n3/4 c Rice,long-grain  \n1 en Corn,whole-kernel(8oz)  \n1 en Black olives,ripe(2 1/2oz)  \n1 c Cherry tomatoes,halved  \n1/4 c Red onion rings,sliced  \n2 T Cilantro,chopped  \n1/2 Lettuce hd,iceberg,shredded ---------------------- PICANTE DR ESSING--------------------------\n\n/3 c Pic ante sauce /4 c Italian dressing t Lime juice  \nPicante Dressing: Place picante sauce, Italian dressing and lime juice in jar with tight-fitting cover. Shake well.  \nPlace beef in plastic bag or shallow dish. Combine lime juice, garlic salt, cumin and pepper; pour over steak. Seal bag, or cover dish. Refrigerate 2-4 hours, turning once or twice.  \nCook rice following package directions, salt optional. Reserve.  \nRemove steak from marinade. Broil steak on rack in broiler pan -4\" from source of heat, 8-10 minutes for medium-rare, turning once.  \nCombine warm rice, corn, olives. tomatoes, onion rings and cilantro in bowl. Pour half the Pic ante Dressing over top; toss gently. Place lettuce on platter; top with rice mixture.  \nSlice steak diagonally across grain into thin slices. Place slices on  \ntop of rice. Drizzle with remaining dressing. Sprinkle with remaining cilantro. Serve warm or at room temperature.  \nWest Indian Rice And Peas With Tempeh 203\n\nYield: 6 Servings  \n2 c Uncooked brown rice  \n1/2 c Unsweetened grated coconut  \n2 1/2 T Vegetable oil  \n4 c Water  \n1 c Dried black eyed peas  \n-(soaked for 5 hours at  \n-least)  \n3 Bay leaves  \n1 md Onion; chopped  \n3 Garlic cloves; minced  \n1/4 c Vegetable oil  \n1 sm Chile; sliced  \n1/2 Red or green bell pepper  \n8 oz Tempeh; cubed  \n1 pn Fennel (generous pinch)  \n\\- salt & pepper to taste  \n2 Scallions; chopped  \nSaute rice & coconut in the 2 1/2 tablespoons oil for 2-3 minutes, stirring constantly. Add the water & cinnamon stick. Cover the pot & bring it to a rapid boil. Do not peek at the rice, but when the steam starts escaping, turn the heat down. Simmer for 40 minutes. Meanwhile, cook the black eyed peas with the bay leaf in salted, boiling water till tender (only takes abot 20-25 minutes). Drain them  \n& remove the bay leaves. Keep warm till the rice & tempeh are ready. Saute the garlic & onion with the 1/4 cup of oil till the onions  \nsoften. Stir in chile & bell pepper. Saute for 2 minutes. Add fennel,  \ntempeh, salt & pepper. Lower heat, but stir frequently til tempeh is crisp & golden.  \nCombine everything, mixing together well.  \nWild Rice & Mushroom Soup  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n1 1/2 pt Vegetable stock  \n1 sm Onion, finely chopped  \n1 sm Green bell pepper, diced  \n1 T Parsley, chopped  \n1 oz Wild rice, washed & drained  \n4 oz Button mushrooms, sliced  \n5 T Red wine  \nSalt & pepper  \nPut the stock into a soup pot. Add the chopped onions, bell pepper & parsley. Bring to a boil, cover & simmer for 15 minutes. Add the washed wild rice & continue to simmer for another 40 minutes.  \nAdd the mushrooms & the wine. Season to taste. Cover & simmer for a  \nfurther 15 minutes. Serve hot.\n\n204\n\nMary Norwak, \"Grains, Beans & Pulses\"  \nWild Rice Amadine  \nYield: 8 Servings  \n2 T Slivered almonds  \n1 1/2 T Chopped Green Pepper  \n1 T Chopped Onion  \n1 T Chopped Chives  \n1/3 c Margarine  \n2 2/3 c Hot Water  \n1 t Instant Beef Bouillon  \n4 1/2 oz (2 Pks) 5-minute Wild Rice  \nCook almonds, green pepper, onion and chives in melted margarine in heavy 2-quart frying-pan, until almonds begin to brown. (Do not over brown.) Add hot water and instant bouillon, stirring to combine. Add rice, bring to a boil and cook slowly, uncovered 10 minutes. Cover and let stand 5 minutes. Drain any excess liquid from rice.  \nWild Rice and Barley Pilaf  \nYield: 5 Servings  \n1 sm Onion; minced  \n1/21b Mushrooms, sliced 1 Garlic clove; minced\n\n1 c Wild rice  \n3 1/2 c Chicken broth  \n1/2 c Pearl barley  \nSalt and pepper  \nIn a 12-inch frying pan or 2-to 3-quart pan, combine onion, mushrooms, garlic, and 1/2 cup water. Cook, uncovered, on high heat until liquid evaporates and a brown film forms in pan, about 15 minutes; stir often. Add 2 or 3 tablespoons water and stir to free the brown film; cook  \nuntil the film forms again. Repeat this step 4 or 5 times until onions are richly browned, about 15 minutes.  \nRinse and drain rice. Mix with broth in pan. Bring to a boil on high heat; cover, and simmer 30 minutes. Rinse and drain barley. Add to 205\n\nrice; simmer until grains are tender to bite but just slightly chewy,  \nabout 20 minutes longer. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Makes 5 or 6 servings.  \nPer serving: 184 cal. (7.3 percent from fat); 7.8 g protein; 1.5 g fat  \n(0.7 g sat.); 217 g carbo.; 36 mg sodium; 0 mg chol.  \nWild Rice And Hazelnut Salad  \nYield: 6 Servings  \n3/4 c Wild rice 1/2 t Salt\n\n1/2 c Hazelnuts\n\n## 5 T Currants\n\n1 lg Orange, juice only  \nCitrus Vinaigrette with  \n\\- Hazelnut Oil (See RECIPE)  \nsm Fennel bulb cut\n\n-into small squares\n\nCrisp apple  \nFreshly ground black pepper\n\nSalt\n\nPREHEAT OVEN TO 350F. Rinse the wild rice, and soak it in water for a  \nhalf hour, then drain. Add 4 cups fresh water and salt, and bring to a boil. Cook, covered, at a simmer until the grains are swollen and tender, but still chewy, about 30 to 35 minutes. Pour the cooked rice into a colander and let it drain briefly. While the rice is cooking,  \ntoast the hazelnuts in the oven, 7 to 10 minutes, or until they smell toasty. Let them cool a few minutes; then rub them in a small kitchen towel to remove most of the skins. Don't worry about any flecks of skins that won't come off. Roughly chop the hazelnuts, leaving the  \npieces fairly large. Rinse the currants in warm water and squeeze them dry; then cover them with the orange juice and let them soak until needed. Prepare the vinaigrette. Add the soaked currants and the fennel to the warm rice, and toss with the dressing. Just before serving, cut  \nthe apple into small pieces, add it to the rice, along with the  \nhazelnuts, and toss. Season with freshly ground black pepper, and additional salt, if needed, and serve.\n\n206\n\nWild Rice Pancakes  \nYield: 4 Servings  \n2 c Flour  \n1 t Salt  \n4 t Baking powder  \n3 T Sugar\n\n## 1 Egg\n\n1 1/2 c Milk  \n1/3 c Oil  \n1 T Sour cream  \n3/4 c Cooked wild rice  \nMix flour, salt, baking powder and sugar. Set aside. Beat eggs; add milk,oil, sour cream and wild rice. Add to dry ingredients. Batter will  \nbe lumpy. Cook on heated griddle. ALTERNATIVE: Add 1 cup cooked wild rice to your favorite pancake mix. Makes 12-14 pancakes.  \nWild Rice/Pine Nut Stuffing  \nYield: 2 Servings 14 c Wild Rice, uncooked 1 c Water 1 Green Onion (scallion) 1 sm\n\nGarlic Clove, minced 1 ts Vegetable Oil1/4 c Pine Nuts, lightly toasted 1/2 ts Dried Thyme  \nCook the wild rice in the water until tender, about 1 hour. Add more  \nwater, if needed.  \nMeanwhile, saute the onion, garlic, pine nuts and thyme in the oil. Add the wild rice. Simmer for 10 minutes to blend the flavors. Cool enough to stuff into quail or one Cornish hen.  \nWild Rice-stuffed Squash  \nYield: 4 Servings  \nmd Acorn Squash 1/2 c Wild Rice, cooked 1 ts Orange Rind, grated 12 c  \nWalnuts, chopped 1-2 tb Frozen Orange Juice Concentrate  \nCut the squash in half and remove the seeds. Combine the remaining 207\n\ningredients and fill the squash with the mixture. Place in a baking pan. Cover with aluminum foil or a lid and bake in a 400-degree oven for about 35 minutes, or until the squash is fork-tender. Extra orange juice concentrate can be drizzled over the squash just before serving.  \nWild Rice-Three Grain Bread  \nYield: 1 To 21oafs\n\n## 1 package Active Dry Yeast\n\n1/3c Warm Water; 105-115?F  \n2 c Milk; scalded and cooled\n\n-to 105-115?F\n\n2 T Butter or Margarine; melted\n\n## 2 t Salt\n\n1/2 c Honey  \n1/2 c Rolled Oats; uncooked  \n1/2 c Rye Flour  \n2 c Whole-Wheat Flour  \n4 1/2 c Bread or All-Purpose Flour  \n1 c Wild Rice; cooked 1 Egg; beaten with\n\n## 1 T Water\n\n1/2 c Sunflower Seeds; hulled  \nIn a large bowl, dissolve yeast in water. Let stand 5 minutes. Mixture should become foamy; if not, either yeast was too old or water was too hot. In either case, start again. Add milk, butter, salt and honey.  \nStir in oats, rye flour. whole-wheat flour and 2 cups of bread flour to  \nmake a soft dough. Knead in wild rice. Cover and let rest for 15 minutes. Then mix in enough additional bread flour to make a stiff dough.  \nTurn onto bread board and knead for 10 minutes, adding more flour as necessary to keep dough from sticking. Turn dough into lightly greased bowl, cover and leave in draft-free place until doubled in bulk, about  \n2 hours.  \nPunch down dough and knead briefly. To shape, divide dough into 3 parts; shape each part into a strand and braid together to form a wreath. Or divide dough into 2 parts and place in 2 greased 9\" baking pans.  \nLet rise until doubled, about 45 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat oven to  \n350F. Brush tops with egg-water mixture. Sprinkle with sunflower seeds. Bake about 45 minutes, until loaf or loaves sound hollow when tapped. Cool on rack.\n\n208\n\nWorking Woman's Chicken & Rice  \nYield: 1 Serving\n\n\\---1 NGREDIENTS---\n\n6 Boneless chicken breasts,  \n-skinned  \n2 en Cream of chicken soup  \n1 en Cream of mushroom soup  \nSalt and pepper to taste -------------------------DIR ECTI0N&\\----------------------------\n\nPk Rice-A-Roni (Chicken -flavor)  \nIn slow cooker put chicken breast with canned soups, salt and pepper. Cook all day on LOW (approx. 10 hrs. or until chicken is tender). Fix Rice-A-Roni per directions on box. Put on plate and place chicken and gravy on top 209\n\nINDEX'\n\n1-cup servings 56\n\n15-Minute Chicken & Rice Dinner 5, 38\n\n2-cup measure stir 165\n\n4-inch cubes Onion 193\n\n4-inch pieces 173\n\nA\n\nAbstract pattern of terrace rice fields 21 accompaniments 109-10, 193\n\nAfrica 4, 16, 25, 27, 30, 33-4\n\nAfrican rice 15, 25\n\nAfrican Rice 35\n\nAfrican Rice Center 34 agriculture 22, 31, 34-7\n\nintensive wet-paddy rice 24\n\nAllie's Chicken and Rice Casserole 8, 130 allspice 56, 106, 140\n\nAlmond and Rice Flour Bread 5, 39 almond butter 114\n\nAlmond Tuna and Rice 5, 40\n\nalmonds 11, 39-40, 60, 107, 114-15, 118, 132, 154, 192, 195, 204\n\nAmerican long-grain rice 28\n\nAnalysis of Chinese rice residues 22 anise, star 108-9, 117, 186-7 antibiosis 32\n\nAntipasto Rice 5, 40\n\nAntiquity 35-6\n\napples 80, 110, 130, 133, 164, 205 applesauce 88\n\nApricot and Rice Muffins 5, 41\n\nApricot Basting Sauce 94 apricots, dried 41, 87\n\nArab cuisine rice 20\n\nArkansas 28\n\nArmenian Rice Pilaf 5, 41 aromatic 17\n\nAromatic Chicken 5, 42 artichoke hearts 59-60 artichokes 10, 40, 160-1, 164-5\n\nAshkenazim 160\n\nAsia 19, 30, 34, 61\n\nAsian rice 15\n\nAsian rice varieties 35\n\nAsian sesame oil 171\n\nAsiatic rice 26\n\nAustralia 4, 28-9\n\nAustralia's rice production 29\n\n210\n\nB\n\nbacon 53, 64-5, 74, 98, 127, 143, 167, 193\n\nbacon drippings 74, 102, 180\n\nbag 6, 57, 68, 78, 98, 170\n\nBags of cooking rice 98\n\nbake 39-41, 45-6, 53, 57, 62-4, 82-3, 94, 98-9, 116, 122-3, 131, 149,\n\n151-3, 182-3, 191, 207 [19]\n\nBake for Rice Con Queso 151\n\nBaked Chicken and Rice 5, 45\n\nbaked dish 45\n\nbakery 100, 104\n\nbaking dish 88, 114, 116, 127, 149, 157-8, 163, 199\n\nbuttered 157, 159\n\nbaking pan 57, 64, 80, 93, 99, 170, 207\n\nbaking powder 39, 41, 153, 206\n\nbanana 117\n\nbanana peppers, hot 180\n\nBanaue Rice Terraces 25\n\nBangladesh 29-30\n\nBarbecued Pork Fried Rice 172 barley 169\n\nBasic chicken stock 56, 69\n\nBasic Cooked Rice 5, 46\n\nbasil 7, 40, 47, 57, 84, 100, 102, 107, 119, 181, 184, 199\n\nbasket, cane steaming 105\n\nbasmati 33, 55\n\nbatches 66, 109, 145\n\nbay 44, 47, 90-1, 115, 156, 166, 203\n\nbay leaf 42-3, 50-1, 80, 98, 108, 111, 119, 134-5, 140, 144, 169, 178-9,\n\n181, 184, 203\n\nBC 22-5\n\nbean curd 176\n\nbean sprouts 61, 75, 101, 159, 174, 186-7, 195\n\nbeans 9, 19, 47-8, 84, 91, 119, 140, 143, 145-9, 151, 177-8, 193\n\ncans of 91, 144\n\ncooked 145 long 102, 139 navy 149\n\npinto 151, 200\n\nrefried 144-5\n\nbeansprouts 76-7\n\nbeat 74, 128, 139, 157-9, 190, 194\n\nBeat eggs 96, 116, 175, 185, 206\n\nbeaten 19, 41, 75, 107, 120, 150-2, 155, 157-8, 163, 173-4, 207\n\nbeef 6, 11, 16, 47, 66, 71, 80-1, 102, 109, 125, 164, 170, 179, 183-5,\n\n187, 196 [1]\n\nshredded cooked 187\n\nbeef bones 108-9\n\nbeef shank 186-7 beef sirloin 109\n\nbeef stock 77, 109, 122\n\nbeer 28, 43, 71-2\n\n211\n\nbell pepper 46-8, 57, 59-60, 80, 84, 90, 129, 134, 143, 147, 156, 164,\n\n168, 177, 181-2, 203\n\ngreen 53, 84, 87, 134, 170, 183, 198, 203 large 47\n\nred 80, 167-8, 198 bell pepper strips 156 birds 31, 130\n\nBlack Beans and Rice 5, 47 blackeyed peas 5, 48-9\n\nblack pepper 40, 45-6, 52-4, 56, 63, 69, 74, 81, 84, 90-1, 97, 109-11,\n\n155-6, 168-9, 201-2, 205 [11]\n\nBlack peppercorns 51, 140\n\nBlack Peppercorns 166, 178\n\nBlackeyed Peas and Rice 5, 48\n\nblend 45, 63, 87, 90, 109, 117, 133, 135, 152, 161, 170, 193, 200, 206\n\nblender 45, 58-9, 117, 136, 148, 197\n\nboil 43-5, 47-51, 55, 72-3, 75-7, 88-93, 108-9, 111, 118-24, 126-8, 135-8, 140-6, 166-71, 177-9, 183-91, 203-5 [26]\n\nbOil 143\n\nboil, rapid 203\n\nboil gingerroot 44\n\nboil pork 147 boil water 51 boiler, double 46\n\nboiling 20, 40-1, 54-5, 69, 79, 82, 94, 126, 131, 135, 138, 149, 182-3,\n\n190, 196, 198-9 [4]\n\nboiling broth 42, 110 boiling stock 131\n\nboiling water 44, 58, 61, 73, 77, 110, 117, 159, 171, 174-6, 184, 187,\n\n196,203\n\nBombay Rice & Lentils 5, 50\n\nboned chicken breas 82 boneless chicken 53\n\nboneless chicken breasts 208 boneless skinless chicken 45\n\nbones 51, 53, 94, 109, 116, 130, 179, 187\n\nSonless chicken breasts 65 book 3, 39\n\nbottle 71, 128\n\nbouillon 78, 97, 143, 177\n\nBourbon 9, 158\n\nbowl 39, 45, 49-50, 61, 66, 74-5, 82-3, 89, 91, 97, 107, 110, 117, 139-40, 169-70, 201-2 [9]\n\nlarge 41, 61, 70, 90, 100, 123, 127, 129, 136, 138, 171, 173, 185,\n\n200,207\n\nsmall 41, 59, 80, 109, 123, 164, 168, 171, 179\n\nBP 22-3\n\nbraised onions 42\n\nBrazil 29-30\n\nBrazilian Chicken Rice Soup 5, 50 bread 20, 63, 100, 186, 188, 207\n\ncrusty 39, 196\n\nbread crumbs 40, 129, 150 bread flour 99, 207 breadcrumbs 152, 155 brisket 72\n\nbroccoli 70, 97, 101 chopped 70, 199\n\nbroccoli finish cooking 70\n\nbroiler 38, 109, 128, 160, 165\n\nBroker of rice 17\n\n212\n\nbroth 6, 51, 54, 58-9, 68, 74, 76, 80, 94, 107, 109-11, 118-19, 125, 166-7, 179, 196 [8]\n\ncans chicken 111 en Chicken 197 cups of 51, 107 hot chicken 41 mushroom 52\n\nqt Chicken 60, 81 reduced-fat chicken 113 simmering 109\n\nBrown chicken pieces 177\n\nBrown mushrooms 85-6\n\nbrown rice 10-11, 18-20, 30, 33, 51, 53-4, 56, 58, 62, 69, 87, 98, 118-19, 175, 181-2, 185 [7]\n\npreparing 21\n\nwashed 21\n\nBrown Rice & Wheat Berries 5, 51\n\nBrown Rice Casserole 5, 52 brown rice cereal 114\n\nBrown rice flour 39, 104, 153\n\nBrown Rice Jambalaya 5, 53\n\nBrown Rice Pilaf 5, 54\n\nBrown Rice Soup 119\n\nBrussels Sprout and Rice 5, 54 bulk raw rice density 19\n\nburner 79, 108\n\nBurnt Rice 188\n\nButte County 28\n\nbutter 55, 87-8, 90, 92-4, 98-9, 107, 113-16, 122-3, 131-3, 135-8, 152---\n\n4, 156-8, 160-2, 164, 166-8, 195-7 [23]\n\nclarified 190 hot 123\n\ntbs 51\n\nbutter crackpot 121\n\nButtered Saffron Rice 5, 55\n\nbutterfly slices 117 buttery 148\n\nc\n\n213\n\ncabbage 7, 61, 74-5, 80, 98-9, 118, 190 cabbage rolls 190\n\nCajun 91\n\nCajun Jambalaya Rice 5, 56\n\nCajun Rice 5, 56\n\nCajun seasoning 48, 91\n\nCajun Spiced Chicken and Rice 5, 57 cal 77, 85-6, 118, 132, 177, 205\n\nCalifornia 28\n\nCalifornia Cooks 81\n\nCalifornia rice 36\n\nCalifornia Rice Commission 36\n\nCalifornia rice industry 36\n\nCalifornian varieties of rice 29\n\nCalifornia's Rice Growing Region 36\n\ncalories 16, 39-41, 50, 54, 57, 63, 65-6, 75, 81, 83, 85, 110-11, 122,\n\n142, 152-3, 193 [9] Cambodia 30-1\n\nCamp Tuna and Rice 5, 58 canned tomatoes 57, 88, 195 carbo 85-6, 177, 205\n\ncarbon 31 cardamom pod 108 cardamom seeds 103, 185-6\n\ncarotts 71\n\nCarrot Rice 7, 108\n\nCarrot-Rice Puree 5, 58\n\nCarrot-Rice Soup 5, 58\n\ncarrots 47, 51-2, 58-9, 69, 79, 88-9, 96-7, 108, 110-11, 115-16, 119,\n\n124-5, 140-1, 177-9, 181, 195 [7]\n\ncasserole 40, 43, 45, 67, 89, 92, 125, 141, 151, 164-5, 182, 190 casserole dish, buttered 172\n\nCatalan Rice 5, 59\n\nCauliflower & Wild Rice Soup 5, 60 cayenne 57, 135, 140-1\n\ncayenne pepper 48, 53-4, 56-7, 91\n\nds 178\n\ncelery 46-7, 51-2, 57, 78, 80, 82, 90, 93-4, 104-5, 110-11, 119, 129,\n\n132-4, 139-41, 146-7, 191-2 [12]\n\ncelery rib 132, 178 celery soup 63\n\ncelery stalks 52, 69, 90, 115, 177 ts Poultry Seasoning 154\n\ncentury 16, 25-7 century rice 25\n\ncereal, rice krispie 154\n\nCharleston 27\n\n214\n\ncheese 9-10, 40, 52, 98, 107, 125, 138, 149-51, 155, 160, 163, 167-8,\n\n197\n\nricotta 151, 153\n\nCheese and Rice Casserole 5, 62 cheesecloth, dampened 109\n\nChestnuts 5, 63 chewy 205\n\nchicken 6-7, 38-9,42-5, 50-1, 64-70, 74-5, 83, 85-6, 94-5, 111, 120,\n\n130-1, 140-1, 143, 177, 179 [16]\n\n3-pound 82\n\nbrown 64, 66, 118 brush 130\n\nchop 42, 72\n\nen Cream of 85-6\n\ncoat 68 cold 71\n\ncooked 66, 115, 173 fried 193\n\nfry 76 frying 99\n\nmexican Stewed 5, 43 pieces 57\n\nremoving 66\n\nrice tb butter 68 rinse 68, 130 roasting 130 seasoned 170 shredded 51, 179 skinless 142, 168 sliced 170\n\nstuffed 130\n\nthread 67\n\nChicken & Rice 5, 63\n\nChicken & Rice Dinner 6, 64\n\nChicken & Rice Jambalaya Style 6, 64\n\nChicken and Rice Casserole 6, 65\n\nChicken Baked Rice 6, 66 chicken bouillon 85-6\n\nchicken bouillon granules 79\n\nchicken breast halves 111, 118\n\nCHICKEN BREAST MEAT 65\n\nchicken breasts 6, 46, 64-5, 67, 69-70, 85-6, 95, 169, 171, 178, 191,\n\n208 skinless 38\n\nchicken breasts skin sides 67\n\nchicken broth 53, 59-60, 66, 68, 76, 82-3, 94, 107, 118-19, 124-5, 159,\n\n164-5, 170, 178, 185, 196-7 [9]\n\nchicken bullion cubes 95\n\nChicken Curry Kabobs 6, 67\n\n215\n\nchicken fat 90\n\nChicken-Flavored Rice 70\n\nChicken-Flavored Rice Mix 6, 70 chicken giblets 77\n\nchicken gizzards 90 chicken legs 53 chicken livers 90-1\n\nChicken Livers and Mushrooms 6, 68\n\nCHICKEN MARINADE 171 chicken meat 51\n\nchicken mixture 83\n\nchicken-mushroom mixture 171 chicken parts 68, 89\n\nchicken pieces 54, 85-6, 131, 177\n\ncooked 69 dredge 64\n\nchicken quarter 99\n\nChicken Rice Skillet 6, 68\n\nChicken Rice Soup 6, 69 chicken rolls 191\n\nChicken Sausage 57\n\nchicken skin 53 chicken soup 38\n\nen Cream of 63, 65, 68, 89, 208\n\nchicken stock 45, 49, 69, 74, 81, 93, 103, 115, 119, 131, 144, 148, 166,\n\n168-9, 171, 201-2 [3] Chicken Stock Cubes 196\n\nChicken Thighs 120\n\nChicken Yellow Rice 6, 70\n\nChickenlegs 6, 71 chickpeas 136\n\nChickpeas 9, 136\n\nchiles 61, 102, 120, 143, 151, 187, 200-1, 203 chili pieces 124\n\nchili powder 67, 123, 126-7, 146, 179, 183, 185 chili sauce 71-2, 160\n\nhot 109-10\n\nchilies 45, 123, 151, 170, 185 green 123, 185\n\nchilli 133, 184\n\nChina 10, 21-4, 29-30, 171 southern 21\n\nChinese 6, 33, 61, 73, 75, 139, 171, 173\n\nChinese broccoli 49\n\nChinese Chicken Cooked 6, 72\n\nChinese cook 82\n\nChinese cookbook\n\n105\n\nChinese Crab Rice\n\n6, 72\n\nChinese Fried Rice\n\n6, 73\n\nChinese method of cooking rice 79\n\n216\n\nChinese Pork & Shrimp Rice Noodles 6, 74 chives, chopped 195, 204\n\nchol 85-6, 132, 177, 205\n\ncholesterol 39-41, 50, 54, 57, 66, 75, 81, 93, 110-11, 115, 122, 142,\n\n149, 153-5, 165, 186 [3]\n\nchop 45, 52-3, 73, 77, 91, 98, 102-3, 122, 131, 138, 140-1, 163, 165,\n\n171, 194, 201 [2] Chopani-Mando 23\n\nchopped celery 51, 92, 146\n\nChopped cooked turkey 186\n\nChopped fresh parsley 64, 100, 116, 190\n\nChopped green bell peppers 164\n\nchopped green onions 69, 143, 173, 178\n\nChopped green pepper 40, 43, 197\n\nChopped Green Pepper 199, 204\n\nchopped onions 43, 106-7, 146-7, 164, 178, 184, 190, 193, 197, 203-4 fresh 48\n\nchopped parsley 67, 88, 93, 114, 118, 133, 152, 161, 195-6\n\nChopped red bell peppers 107\n\nchopped Salt Pepper 165\n\nChopped spring onions 184\n\nchorizo 59\n\nchunks 45, 57, 146, 167, 186, 201\n\nChunky Chicken Rice Soup 6, 76\n\ncilantro 52, 80, 88, 120, 126, 142, 202 cilantro sprigs 142\n\ncinnamon 11, 41, 44, 50, 106, 108, 113, 126, 132, 135, 138, 153, 156-9,\n\n184-6, 189, 192\n\ncinnamon stick 44, 108-9, 128, 166, 184, 186-7, 203 clams 59-60\n\nclery, en Cream of 85-6\n\nClove garlic 43, 123, 125, 142, 170, 201\n\ncloves 43-4, 50-1, 108, 138, 140, 166, 184-7, 192\n\nCloves garlic 47, 61, 80, 84, 88, 103, 124-5, 145, 147, 151, 181-2\n\nClub Rice Pudding 5, 38\n\nCLUMPS of RICE 173\n\nen 40, 54, 63-4, 80, 84, 89, 97, 112, 123, 125-6, 144, 165, 170, 180,\n\n183, 185 [2]\n\ncoat 40, 47, 60, 66, 83, 96, 122, 124, 136, 175, 190, 193 coating 18-19, 107, 117, 123, 174-5\n\nnonstick spray 85-6, 177 coconut 71, 114, 148, 203\n\ncreamed 76-7\n\ncoconut cream 44, 121 coconut rice 121\n\nCoconut Rice Noodles 6, 76\n\ncolander 55, 62, 109, 119, 122, 174, 187-8, 205\n\nCold cooked rice 75\n\nColumbian squash 77\n\nCompany Microwave Rice 6, 78\n\nConverted long grain rice 168\n\n217\n\ncook 38-44, 52-6, 60-2, 65-70, 80-95, 106-14, 119-28, 134-41, 143-8,\n\n156-64, 166-9, 176-81, 183-5, 187-8, 192-5, 200-6 [18]\n\ncook almonds 204\n\ncook bacon 65, 102, 167 cook carrots 59, 110 cook garlic 181\n\ncook lentils 191 cook meatballs 123 cook minutes 178\n\ncook onion 123, 142, 160, 172 cook overnight 200\n\ncook pancakes 153\n\ncook rice 52, 91, 130, 133, 135, 163, 193, 202 cook rice mixture 54\n\ncook spinach 163\n\ncook stirring 103\n\nCook Time 40, 154\n\nCooked bay shrimp 173-4\n\nCooked black beans 151\n\nCooked blackeyed peas 48\n\ncooked brown rice 52, 57, 79, 107, 110, 145, 149, 151, 155, 182, 191,\n\n195,200\n\ncooked chick peas 125\n\nCooked cubed chicken 76\n\nCooked Extra Long Grain Rice 160\n\nCooked ground beef lean 138\n\nCooked long grain rice 152, 161\n\nCooked long-grain rice 173\n\nCooked long-grain white rice 122, 139\n\nCooked medium 196\n\nCooked peas 43\n\nCooked Regular Rice 161\n\ncooked rice 19-21,40, 42, 59, 63, 67, 75-6, 79, 88, 100-2, 119-20, 123---\n\n5, 166, 173-4, 179-80, 200 [10] Cooked shrimp 173\n\nCooked Shrimp 57\n\ncooked vegetables 199 cooker setting 80 cookie sheet 76\n\ncooking 4, 19-21,47, 54, 61, 72, 78, 80, 84, 87, 94, 102, 129-30, 153,\n\n179-80, 188-9 [7]\n\nfinal\n\n135\n\nlong\n\n91\n\nlow\n\n87\n\ncooking bag 57\n\nCooking Bags Rice 131 cooking fat 131\n\ncooking liquid, hot 72\n\ncooking liquidand reserve it.Discard 140\n\ncooking oil 43, 101 cooking pot, large 148\n\n218\n\ncooking rice 6, 20, 48, 78-9, 98, 112, 162 cooking slice 180\n\ncooking spray 83, 95 nonstick 111\n\ncooking time, hour standing 184\n\ncooking vegetables 58\n\nCOOK'S NOTES 128\n\ncook's time 73\n\ncoriander 71, 77, 101, 109, 142, 149, 201-2 fresh 77, 186-7\n\ncorn 34, 80, 126, 166, 169, 202\n\nCornish Hen Halves and Wild Rice 6, 79\n\ncornstarch 46-7, 72, 74-5, 98, 135, 153, 161, 164-5, 179, 191, 193 countries 16, 18, 20, 30-1, 34, 37\n\nCountry Bacon Rice 154\n\nCountry Rice 6, 81\n\ncouple 48, 55, 92, 113, 180\n\ncrabs 73, 135 crack 73\n\nCrackling Rice Soup 6, 81\n\ncranberries 82, 191, 197\n\nCranberry/Wild Rice Stuffing 6, 82\n\nCrawford 35-6\n\ncream 38, 45, 60, 94, 98, 123, 131, 134, 141, 173 whipping 83\n\nCream of Mushroom soup 54\n\nCreamy Chicken and Rice 6, 82\n\nCreamy Rice Pudding 6, 83\n\nCreole Liver and Rice 6, 84\n\nCreole-Style Red Beans & Rice 6, 84\n\ncrisp 50, 55, 65, 67, 74, 96, 111, 122, 129, 167, 183, 203 crackpot 47,195,200\n\ncrockpot 68, 85-6\n\nCrockPot Chicken & Rice Casserole 6, 85\n\nCrockPot Chicken and Rice Casserole 6, 86\n\ncrackpot 80, 85-7, 99, 112, 157-8, 162 start 85-6\n\nCrackpot Chicken & Rice 6, 85\n\nCrackpot Chicken and Rice 6, 86\n\nCrackpot Rice Pudding 6, 87\n\ncrocks 38\n\ncrops 26-7, 30, 33-6 croquettes 150\n\ncrumbs, cracker 83\n\nCRUSHED RED HOT PEPPER 177 crust 153, 176\n\ncubes 47, 56, 59, 71, 74, 77, 98, 131, 133-4, 181\n\ncucumber 10, 75, 101, 161, 194\n\ncultivars 4, 17, 27-8, 32-3 cultivation 4, 16, 21-2, 24-5, 29, 33\n\n219\n\ncumin 42-3, 52, 54, 56, 90, 108, 123, 147, 181, 199-200, 202\n\nCumin Rice 6, 87\n\ncumin seeds 103, 108, 166, 185-6 cup butter 107\n\ncup coconut cream Salt 121 cup peanut butter 155, 198 cup raw rice 158\n\ncup servings 69 cup sugar 44\n\ncups 38-9,45, 51-2, 70, 78, 83, 85-6, 89-90, 92-4, 112-14, 118-19, 123,\n\n125, 145-6, 148-51, 205-7 [27]\n\ncustard 44, 122 cups beans 145 cups broth 59\n\ncups cooking liquid 116, 190\n\ncups milk 116\n\nCups of water 95\n\ncups rice 121\n\ncups water 44, 55, 79, 88, 92, 119, 121, 146, 169, 177, 199 cups water Heat oil 80\n\ncurrants 94, 125, 190, 205\n\nCurried Rice 7, 88-9\n\ncurry powder 67, 88-9, 101, 132, 159\n\nCyclone fuels rice price 37\n\nD\n\ndark soy sauce, water tb 120\n\ndegrees 43, 45, 64, 72, 94, 123, 125, 127, 129-30, 141, 151, 153, 155,\n\n172-3, 178, 182-3 [1]\n\nDiabetic Chicken Rice Dinner 7, 89 dice bell pepper 143\n\nDiced bell pepper 182 diced celery 66, 85-6, 191\n\ndiced cooked ham Directions 145\n\nDiced green bell pepper 100\n\ndiced green onion 75\n\nDiced onions 71, 138, 145, 180, 182, 191 dill 40, 92, 100, 106, 115, 154, 190\n\nDill-Lemon Rice 90\n\nDill-Lemon Rice Mix 7, 89\n\ndinner, salsa chicken 168\n\nDirty Rice 6-7, 77, 90\n\ndiscard 45, 49, 53, 60, 62, 92-3, 109, 140, 171-2, 178, 187, 196 diseases 4, 31-2\n\ndish 20, 38, 47-9, 55, 73, 88, 95-6, 121, 127-8, 142-3, 150, 157-8, 168-9, 171-2, 175, 194 [9]\n\ncovered 157-8\n\nheatproof 73\n\ndogs, hot 180 dolmadakia 7, 91-2\n\nDouble Rice Stuffing 7, 92 dough 100, 104, 207\n\n220\n\ndrain 55, 61-2, 73-5, 77, 88, 109-10, 121-2, 148-9, 159, 163, 171, 176-7, 183, 190-1, 194, 203-5 [21] Drain Beans 143\n\nDrain Cook 184\n\nDrain VEG-ALL 40, 197\n\nDRAINED BEANS 177\n\ndressing 50, 97, 139, 165, 197, 202, 205\n\nDried dill 62-3\n\nDried hot peppers 117\n\nDried parsley flakes 111, 182\n\nDried thyme 53, 65, 82, 144, 146\n\ndrizzle 72, 122, 133, 160, 163, 196, 202\n\nDuck 7, 93 duckling 94\n\nDutch oven 41, 59, 66, 111, 131, 142, 144, 146\n\nE\n\nEarliest Rice 36\n\nEasy Mexican Chicken 95\n\nedges 41, 96, 164, 172, 175-6\n\nEgg Fried Rice 7, 96 egg-water mixture 207\n\negg yolks 38, 115, 128, 135, 157, 159, 165, 173 eggplant 6, 87-8\n\neggs 11, 39, 41, 61, 73-5, 96, 107, 135, 139-40, 150-2, 155, 157-9,\n\n173-5, 189-90, 194, 206-7 [8]\n\nbeaten 102, 152, 174, 194, 199 cooked 74\n\nlarge bowl.mix 153\n\nlg 39, 61, 104, 153, 173\n\nElectric rice cookers 20\n\nEnchilada sauce 182\n\nEncyclopaedia Britannica 36\n\nentrails 62 en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rice 37 evidence 22-4, 31\n\nEvidence of wet rice cultivation 25 experiment 61, 102, 105\n\nF\n\nfarmers 31-2, 35\n\nFashioned Rice Pudding 8\n\nFast Food 7, 96-7\n\nfat 39-41, 50-1, 53-4, 56-7, 65-6, 81-3, 85-6, 96-7, 111-13, 127, 132-3,\n\n142, 149, 153-5, 177-9, 186 [15]\n\nfennel 7, 97-8, 203, 205\n\n221\n\nfiber 39, 50, 57, 81, 93, 110, 115, 118, 132, 142, 154, 165 dietary 13, 122, 155, 193, 195\n\nfields 16, 23-4, 27, 31 plough rice 24\n\nfile 53-4 filets 107\n\nFilled Tomatoes on Herbed Rice 7, 98 fingers, index 79, 189\n\nfive-nation rice cartel 37\n\nFix Rice-A-Rani 65, 208\n\nflan, low-calorie rice pudding 153\n\nFlat rice-stick noodles 186 flavor pak 94\n\nflavors 65, 87, 128, 133, 139, 144, 164, 185, 188, 206, 208\n\nflavours 33, 196 flooding 16, 32\n\nflour 18-19, 39, 41, 57, 60, 63-4, 88, 107, 116, 123, 131-2, 140-1, 146,\n\n152, 170, 206-7 [1]\n\nrye 207\n\nwhole-wheat 207\n\nFlour Salt Black Pepper 179\n\nfluff 45, 78-9, 103, 108, 126, 138, 175\n\nfoam 51, 109\n\nfoil 53, 55, 64, 80, 88, 99, 130, 157-8, 163\n\nFoil-baked Chicken 7, 98\n\nfold 41, 92, 106, 115, 159, 167, 171-2, 191 food processor 39, 53, 58-9, 117, 136, 145 foods 3-4, 17, 160\n\nFoolproof Rice 7, 99\n\nFoolproof Rice Bread 7, 99\n\nfork 42, 45, 54, 57, 94, 103, 111, 126, 139, 175, 193\n\nFrench Rice Salad 7, 100\n\nfresh cilantro 126, 181 fresh mushrooms 74, 162\n\nsliced 54, 60, 130, 155\n\nFresh parsley 40, 68, 119, 168\n\nFresh red chile peppers 109\n\nFried Curried Rice 7, 100\n\nFried Rice 3, 7-8, 101-2, 124, 132, 140, 176, 192 frozen cooked rice/beans/barley/lentils 97\n\nfrozen diced pepper 180\n\nfrozen peas 44, 65, 125, 173-4, 195\n\nfruit 6-7, 29, 87, 103, 137, 140, 148, 181, 186, 192\n\nfry 52, 71, 75, 77, 96, 98, 101-2, 124, 126-7, 132, 161, 166, 183, 202 fry onion 156\n\nfrying-pan 123\n\nfrying pan/skillet 101-2\n\nFully cooked 91\n\nG\n\nga Milk 87, 113\n\nGaba rice 19\n\nGABA Rice 21 gai ian 49\n\ngaram masala 183\n\n222\n\ngarlic 43-5, 60-1, 66-7, 69-70, 90, 101-3, 112-14, 123-7, 142-7, 150-1,\n\n161-3, 167-8, 177-9, 182-5, 193-5, 199-204 [16]\n\nminced 113, 178, 183 garlic celery 84\n\nGarlic cloves 42, 49, 52, 56, 59, 69-70, 76-7, 90, 100-2, 112, 114, 143---\n\n4, 146-7, 162-3, 194-5, 203-4 [6]\n\ngarlic powder 46, 57, 71-2, 83, 89, 118, 142-3, 163 garlic puree 161\n\ngarlic salt 84, 107, 115, 202\n\nGarlic-Wine Rice Pilaf 7, 103\n\ngarnish 43, 49, 52-3, 59-61, 64, 69, 72, 75, 100-1, 110-11, 130-2, 136-7, 142, 151, 168, 174 [9] Georgetown 27\n\nGerminated Brown Rice 21\n\nGerminated Grown Rice and Rice Bread 36\n\nGhaiya rice 21\n\nghee 103, 184\n\nginger 67, 72, 96, 109, 112, 117, 124, 184-7, 191, 195 candied 9, 152-3\n\nfresh 73, 112, 186 grated 184, 187, 191\n\nginger juice 117\n\nGinseng, chopped 104-5\n\nGinseng Shreds Stir Rice 7, 104 gizzards 90\n\nGlobal rice shortage sparks panic 35 glucose 18-19\n\nglutinous rice 7, 33, 73, 105-6, 171, 188\n\ngolden 41, 44, 61, 77, 82, 101-2, 124, 129, 152-3, 160, 168, 170, 193,\n\n195-6, 203\n\nGolden rice 4, 35\n\ngrains 16, 18-21, 24, 28, 31, 33, 35, 37, 45, 96, 109, 126, 142, 173,\n\n192, 204-5 [3]\n\nGranulated Sugar 134, 158 grape 7, 20, 92, 106 grasses 15-16, 33\n\ngrate 71, 73, 98\n\nGreen Bean Almond Rice 7, 107\n\ngreen beans 107, 139\n\nGreen pepper flakes 58\n\nGreen Pepper Flakes 127, 200\n\nGreen peppers 179\n\nGreen Rice 5, 44 greens 49-50\n\nground 19, 40, 45, 51-3, 59, 81, 101, 107, 109-10, 117, 126, 134, 142,\n\n147, 155-6, 205 [5]\n\nground beef 123, 125, 138\n\nGround Black Pepper 160 ground cayenne pepper 163\n\n223\n\nGround cinnamon 44, 87-8, 128, 185-6 ground cumin 47, 53, 88, 136, 146, 182, 185 ground ginger 46, 88, 185-6, 195\n\nground pepper 49, 88, 93, 103, 114, 146, 162, 190, 198 ground pepper tb 68\n\ngroundwater 31 groups 17, 34\n\nGrouse & Wild Rice 7, 107 guests 150\n\ngumbo 134-5\n\nH\n\nham 47, 53-4, 74, 82, 102, 145, 176, 193\n\nHAM HOCK 177-8\n\nHanoi Beef and Rice-Noodel Soup 7, 108\n\nHarvest Rice 7, 110 hazelnuts 205\n\nHearty Chicken & Rice Soup 7, 110\n\nHearty Chicken Rice Soup 7, 111\n\nheat 50-5, 68-72, 75-7, 79-83, 88-91, 94-6, 108-9, 111-16, 120-4, 126-9, 135-40, 166-71, 174-7, 182-3, 185-92, 194-6 [20]\n\ndirect 116\n\nhigh 59, 70, 75, 83, 90-1, 93, 96, 111, 122, 127, 136, 162, 168-9,\n\n173-5, 200-1, 204 [9]\n\nlow 42-4, 53-4, 56, 103, 106, 112, 114, 121-2, 124, 129, 136, 148,\n\n150, 154, 187-8, 198 [5]\n\nlowest 106 med-low 128\n\nmedium-low 56, 68, 122, 132 moderate 45, 60\n\nmoderate-low 148\n\nthe 44\n\nheat butter 116, 166\n\nheat fat 197 heat ghee 103 heat mixture 182\n\nHeat oil 38, 43, 64, 66, 69, 132, 143, 146, 156, 159-60, 162, 168, 178,\n\n195, 198 heat oven 94\n\nheat proof earthen pot 106\n\nHeat thoroughly.Garnish 132\n\nheat toa simmer 138 heat tuna 58\n\nheat wok 72, 96, 175 blended 74\n\nheated griddle 206\n\nheated milk stirring 152\n\nheated spaghetti sauce 155 heating grains 19\n\nHeatt 197\n\nHeavy cream 38, 134, 140, 196 heavy skillet heat 190\n\nhens 80\n\nherbs 10, 83, 98, 116, 163 fresh 52-3\n\nHi.Cook 113\n\nhigh heat minutes 159\n\nHigh-yield cultivars of rice 33\n\nHigh-yielding varieties 4, 34\n\nHighland Rice Production 35\n\nHistory 36\n\nHistory of rice domestication 4, 21\n\nHokusai 17-18\n\nhoney 20, 112, 153, 191, 207\n\nHoney Ribs and Rice 8, 111\n\nHot Pepper Rice 154\n\nHot pepper sauce 132\n\nHot pepper Sauce 149\n\nHot pepper sauce, bottled 149 hotter 124\n\nhour stirring 113\n\n224\n\nhours 38-9, 44-7, 51, 66-7, 72-3, 82-3, 85-7, 93-4, 112-13, 121, 133-4,\n\n145-8, 156-9, 177-9, 187-8, 200-3 [20]\n\nhalf 205\n\nhrs 64-5, 68, 185, 208\n\nhusks 18, 20\n\nI\n\nimpurities 109\n\nIndia 23, 29-30\n\nIndian rice cultivars 33 indica 16-17, 21, 33\n\nIndonesia 18, 24, 29-30, 33, 36\n\nIndonesian rice cultivation 24\n\nIndonesian-Style Yogurt Rice 8, 112\n\ningredients 20, 46-7, 54, 57, 62, 68, 85-7, 99-100, 104-5, 134-6, 148-9,\n\n157-8, 162-3, 181-2, 200, 207-8 [14]\n\nremaining 45, 58, 66, 78, 84, 101-2, 106, 110, 112, 126, 132, 139,\n\n142, 144, 146, 160 [1] insect infestations 32 insecticides 31\n\ninsects 31-2\n\ninstant 45, 57-8, 66, 97, 103, 131, 142\n\n225\n\ninstant chicken bouillon 54, 70, 90, 149, 199 instructions 3\n\nInternational Rice Genebank 32\n\nInternational Rice Research Institute (IRRI) 32\n\nInternational Rice Research Institute 34-5, 37\n\nInternational Year of Rice 34\n\nIRS 34\n\nIraq rice 26\n\nIRRI (International Rice Research Institute) 32\n\nIRRI rice knowledge bank 36\n\nIslam 25-6\n\nItalian arborio rice 196\n\nItalian dressing 202\n\nJ\n\nJahn 31-2, 37\n\nJapan 18-19, 23-4, 29-30, 35-7\n\nJapanese mochi rice and Chinese sticky rice 32\n\nJapanese rice cookers 79\n\nJapanese short-grain rice 15\n\nJapanese table rice 33 japonica 16-17, 21, 33\n\ntropical 17\n\njar 45, 67, 92, 117, 139, 176, 202\n\nJasmine rice 66\n\njasmine rice compliment 188\n\nJava 24\n\nJohn's Garlic Rice 8, 113\n\nJoni's Rice Pudding 8, 113\n\njuice 51, 57, 66, 93, 106, 111, 117, 119, 145, 165, 175, 180, 190, 193,\n\n196, 198 [2] apple 79-80 reserving 193\n\nJulienned 59\n\nK\n\nKar-In's Crispy Rice Squares 8, 114\n\nKathie jenkins wild rice soup 8, 115 kelp 106\n\nKETCHUP 65 kettle 53-4, 140 kg/person 30\n\nKhiev 32\n\nKing's Arms Tavern Raisin Rice Pudding 8, 115 kiwifruit 133\n\nknead 207\n\nKorea 23-4\n\nL\n\nlabor, slave 27\n\n226\n\nlamb 117\n\nLamb Shanks and Rice Soup 8, 116\n\nLamb Steamed in Rice Powder 8, 117 lard 59\n\nLarge eggs 123, 150, 152\n\nLarge onion 84, 146, 162, 167 largest paddy rice producer, third 24 layers 57, 92, 123, 151, 167, 170, 172 leaf-wrapped rice packages 172\n\nLean Salt Pork 193 leeks 93\n\nleftovers 73-4, 97, 139, 173, 197\n\nlemon 92, 103, 106, 111, 134, 140, 190, 201 lemon extract 116\n\nlemon juice 40, 43, 79-80, 88, 92, 100, 106, 116, 118, 139-41, 160, 164-5, 190, 201\n\nLemon Parsley Chicken and Rice 8, 118\n\nLemon Rice Soup 8, 118 lemon rind 103, 134, 158\n\nLentil & Brown Rice Soup 8\n\nlentils 7, 9, 11, 50, 88, 119, 150, 169, 184, 192 brown 184\n\nlettuce 49, 119, 173, 202\n\nlg 39, 76, 131, 139, 171, 184, 199, 201, 205 lg Bell pepper 56\n\nlg Carrot 49, 124, 144\n\nlg Chicken breasts 63, 85-6\n\nlg Green Bell pepper 201\n\nlg Onion 52, 92, 108, 124-5, 144, 151, 196, 199 lid 43, 55, 79, 98, 105, 138, 189, 207\n\nlight haze 101-2\n\nLight soy sauce 42, 61, 72-3, 101-2, 117\n\nlime 187\n\nlime juice 111, 146, 201-2\n\nlime slices 111 lime zest 128\n\nLipton Rice 48\n\nLipton's Rice 94\n\nliquid 40, 42, 45, 52-4, 58, 70, 89-90, 124-5, 127-8, 136, 143, 171-2,\n\n175, 184-5, 189-90, 194-5 [13]\n\norange 120-1 liquid boils 109 liquid eggs 96\n\nliquid ingredients 39, 153 loafs 207\n\nlong grain rice 45, 64, 66, 78-9, 90, 149, 164, 184, 187, 189-90, 199 long-grain rice 19, 32, 113, 124, 132, 144, 146, 171, 174\n\nlong grain rice, extra 167\n\nlong-grain rice, white 20\n\nLong-grained rice 38\n\nLong-Grained Rice 59 loosen 109, 171, 176\n\nLost Crops of Africa 35\n\nlotus 171\n\ndried 171\n\nlotus leaf 10, 171\n\nLouisiana 28, 91, 201\n\nLow-Fat Beans and Rice 8, 119\n\nlow-fat milk 69, 153\n\n227\n\nLow-Salt Soy Sauce Salt & Pepper 96\n\nLow-sodium chicken broth 146\n\nLower heat 40, 77, 106, 116, 124, 142, 144, 150, 160, 164, 203\n\nLowland 21\n\nLucy 164\n\nlunch 150, 169, 171\n\nM\n\nMadagascar 25, 27\n\nMaggi Chicken Bouillon Cubes 143\n\nMahagara 23\n\nMajorca 26\n\nMalaysian Braised Chicken 8, 120\n\nMandarin Rice Pudding 8, 120 mango 71\n\nMango Chutney & Carott-Rice 6, 71 mangoes 8, 121\n\nManitoba Wild Rice 8, 122\n\nmantle 62\n\nMaple Rice Pudding 8, 122\n\nMaple syrup 112, 122\n\nmargarine 41, 59-60, 63, 67, 70, 79, 83, 87, 90, 92, 94, 107, 113, 125-7,\n\n156, 164 [7]\n\nmarinade 73, 100, 171, 202 marjoram 52, 54, 57, 69, 100, 184\n\nMarketing of Value-Added Rice Products in Japan 36\n\nmarshmallows 154-5, 198 mash 145-6, 193 mayonnaise 40\n\nMcDermott and Marks Serving Size Preparation Time 81\n\nmd 53, 116, 124-5, 183 md Carrots 52, 89, 195\n\nmd Onion 49, 53, 56, 59-60, 63, 69, 87, 93, 95, 99, 109-10, 112, 142,\n\n150, 155, 179 [4]\n\nmd Yellow Onions 120\n\nmeat 19-20, 47-8, 53-4, 74, 77, 90, 93, 96, 102, 109-10, 116-17, 131,\n\n169, 178-9, 183, 187 meatballs 123, 185\n\nMed 67, 156, 164\n\nmedium 48, 53, 64, 77, 79, 90, 106, 119, 122, 146, 160, 166, 173, 175,\n\n179-80, 189\n\n228\n\nmedium heat 52, 55, 80, 82, 85-6, 88, 94, 98, 101, 103, 108, 110, 115,\n\n121-2, 142-6, 192-3 [11]\n\nmediumheat 66\n\nMEDIUM heat 75\n\nmedium-high heat 38, 59, 61, 107, 168, 170, 172, 177, 191, 195 medium saucepan 70, 79, 89-90, 127, 136, 153, 170, 182, 200 medium saucepan stir 54\n\nmedium skillet heat 193\n\nmediumheat 132\n\nMel's Mexican Rice 8, 124\n\nMelt butter 40-1, 68, 88, 107, 115, 154, 172 melted butter 99, 160\n\nmetal trivet 157-8\n\nmethane 31\n\nMexicali rice 8, 125\n\nMexican Chicken 7\n\nMexican Cinnamon Rice 8, 125\n\nMexican Rice 8, 123, 126-7 hot 123\n\nMexican Rice Mix 8, 126-7\n\nMexican Rice Pudding 8, 127\n\nMexican Spanish Rice 8, 128 micro-cook 156\n\nMicro-cook 156, 164-5 microbes 31\n\nmicrowave 67, 77-8, 83, 91, 153, 189\n\nmiddle 26, 29, 61, 131, 171\n\nmilk 20, 38, 44, 54-5, 63-4, 69, 87, 112-13, 116, 122-3, 134-5, 151-3,\n\n157-9, 161, 189-90, 206-7 [3]\n\nevaporated 113, 121 milk products 151, 160\n\nMilled parboiled rice 20\n\nmilled rice 29, 36 standard 20\n\nmills 27, 29, 45\n\nMince onion 90\n\nMinced Onion 160\n\nMinced parsley 137, 163\n\nMinnesota Wild Rice Dressing 8, 129\n\nMinnesota Wild Rice-Stuffed Chicken 8, 130 mins 74, 82, 111, 116, 126, 194\n\nMinute rice 85-6\n\nMinute Rice 20, 76 minutes stirring 102, 178\n\nMississippi 28\n\nmix 39, 43, 46, 63-4, 66, 70-1, 85-6, 119-21, 125-9, 133, 150-1, 157-9,\n\n161-2, 170-2, 184-5, 190-2 [21] cups of 70, 90, 127, 136, 200 seasoning 163-4, 168\n\nmixing bowl 62-3, 149, 167\n\nmixture boils 122\n\nMountFuji 17-18\n\nMSG 41-2, 75\n\n229\n\nMushroom Ragout in Rice Ring 8, 131\n\nmushroom soup 45, 54, 141\n\nen Cream of 63, 65, 69, 94, 141, 208\n\nMushroom Wild Rice Chowder 8, 132\n\nmushrooms 10-11, 63, 68-9, 75, 78, 85-6, 93-4, 102, 115-16, 129-32,\n\n159-60, 162, 171-2, 176-7, 194-6, 203-4 [10]\n\n1-quart casserole micro-cook 156 chopped 152, 196\n\nen 66, 131\n\nen Cream of 85-6\n\ndried 74, 139-40, 159, 194, 196 flat 194\n\nMushrooms & Rice 11, 196\n\nMuslims 26\n\nMutants of popular rice varieties 32\n\nN\n\nNasi Goreng 8, 132-3\n\nNERICA 33-4\n\nNew Zealand Brown Rice Salad 8, 133\n\nNo-Egg Rice Pudding 8, 133-4\n\nnonfat milk 152-3 nonmetal bowl stir 164 nonpreference 32\n\nnoodles 19, 61, 77, 109-10, 187 cooked 77\n\ndried rice 61, 76 fragile rice 61\n\nfresh rice 61 rice stick 74\n\nNut Rice 7, 103\n\nnutmeg 42-3, 83, 116, 134, 141-2, 157-8, 190\n\nnutrients 18, 20, 35\n\n0\n\noil 19-20,44-6, 49-50, 69-77, 96, 99-103, 118, 126-7, 133-4, 139-42,\n\n152-3, 163-4, 173-7, 182-3, 191-6, 201-3 [25]\n\nokra 134\n\nOkra Chicken & Crab Gumbo 8, 134\n\nOld Fashioned Rice Pudding 135\n\nolive oil 42, 45, 52, 77, 92, 100, 114, 133, 138, 144, 150, 162-3, 167,\n\n175-6, 178-9, 197-8 [5]\n\nolives 40, 92-3, 123, 202 omitting salt, suggested 52 onion/celery mixture 172\n\nOnion Flakes 200\n\nOnion-Flavored Rice 136\n\nOnion-Flavored Rice Mix 8, 136 onion powder 199\n\nonion quarters 51 onion rings 202\n\nonion slices 187 spring 77\n\nonion softens 182\n\nonion soup mix 45, 170\n\n230\n\nonions 42, 44-50, 66-73, 80, 84-6, 88-98, 102-5, 122-7, 129-34, 142-8,\n\n150-1, 162-4, 167-70, 177-80, 182-7, 195-8 [19]\n\nbreen 134 chop 71\n\nclove-studded 109\n\ndehydrated 97\n\nfried 133\n\ngreen 47, 54, 57, 61-2, 67, 69, 73-5, 78-9, 81-2, 96, 102, 125-6, 133-4, 149, 177, 186-7 [8] medium 50, 168, 180 sauted 200\n\nslice 109\n\nsliced 108-9, 123, 161, 192 spring 77, 194\n\nteh 138\n\nonions soften 203\n\nOrange-Tahini Sauce 136 oranges 136-7\n\nOREC (Organisation of Rice Exporting Countries) 30\n\noregano 40, 47, 90, 107, 119, 129, 178, 181, 183-4, 199\n\nOrganisation of Rice Exporting Countries (OREC) 30\n\nOriental Fried Rice 7, 95\n\nOrigins of Rice Agriculture 35-6 oryza glaberrima 15-16\n\noryza sativa 14-17, 22, 36\n\nounces 54, 129, 141-2, 144, 198\n\noven 43, 45, 50, 55, 57, 64, 66, 80, 83, 88, 93-4, 98, 116, 130, 149, 188\n\n[6]\n\noven bag 170\n\novernight, refrigerated 85-6 oxtails 108-9, 186-7\n\noyster sauce 5, 49, 61,173\n\noz 13, 40, 48, 52, 67, 71, 87-8, 92, 123, 129-31, 146, 149, 174, 178-9,\n\n193, 195-7 [18]\n\noz Butter 71, 98, 131, 152\n\noz Butterscotch morsels 137 oz Chicken breast 134\n\noz Chickenlegs 71\n\noz Mushrooms 52, 69, 131-2 oz Peanut butter 137\n\noz Wild rice 203\n\np\n\npack 73, 92, 155\n\n231\n\npackage 68, 77, 83, 92, 99, 104, 129, 136, 158, 166-7 package directions 49, 83, 91, 129-30, 133, 135, 202 package Rice-a-rani 65\n\npackage Rice sticks 159\n\npackets 48, 94, 171-2\n\nPaddy rice output 29\n\npan 20, 41, 45, 51-2, 62, 66, 88, 91, 96, 107-8, 114-16, 121, 155, 159,\n\n175, 204 [12]\n\nhot 55, 96\n\npan bottom, scraping 90, 164 pancakes 153, 206\n\npaper-thin slices 109, 186\n\npaprika 43-4, 56-7, 65-7, 90, 94, 106, 132, 136, 169-70, 199-200\n\nParmesan cheese 68, 123, 154, 195\n\nParmesan Cups Cooked Seasoned Rice 123\n\nparsley 43, 45, 49, 51-2, 56-7, 59-60, 67-8, 103, 110-11, 118-19, 131,\n\n133-4, 156, 162, 195-6, 199-200 [19]\n\nParsley Flakes 127, 136\n\nParsley Sprigs 42, 72\n\nPassover 160\n\nPatna rice 33\n\nmedium-grained 33\n\npea pods 47, 159\n\npeanut 120, 139, 173-4, 176 salted 198\n\npeanut butter 137\n\nPeanut Butter Chocolate Rice Krispie 9, 137\n\nPeanut oil 49, 61, 72, 74-5, 81-2, 96, 120, 168, 176, 192\n\npears 94\n\npeas 9, 11, 43-4, 48-9, 59-60, 62, 65, 74, 78, 97, 100-1, 124, 137-8,\n\n156, 173-4, 195 [5]\n\npecans 164\n\nPeel 71, 121, 146, 161, 165\n\npepper 42-5, 47-9, 51-2, 64-6, 68-9, 83-4, 87-8, 92-4, 111-15, 118-20,\n\n124-5, 129-31, 138-41, 160-3, 195-6, 201-5 [27]\n\nchili\n\n127\n\ndash\n\n54\n\nextra\n\n94\n\ngreen 40, 42, 44, 52-3, 56-7, 66, 84, 102, 122, 124, 143, 177-8, 180-1, 193, 197, 199 [2]\n\nhot 47, 117, 147, 154\n\nwhite 46, 56, 59, 61, 70, 101, 107, 163-4, 167, 171 peppercorn bundle 51\n\npeppercorns 108, 140, 166, 179\n\nPeppermint 106 peppery 48\n\nPer Capita Rice Consumption Hits 37\n\nPerfect Chinese Steamed Rice 9, 138\n\n232\n\npest outbreaks 31 pesticides 31\n\npests 4, 29, 31-2\n\nPhiiRice 35\n\nPhylogeography of Asian wild rice 36\n\nPicante Dressing 202\n\nPickled Jalapeno Peppers 56\n\nPicnic Rice Salad 9, 139 pimientos 43, 59-60\n\nPinder, Betty 157-8\n\nPine Nut Wild Rice 7, 93-4\n\npine nuts 10, 51, 59-60, 67, 94, 161, 186, 190, 206 pineapple 7, 89, 140\n\nPineapple Fried Rice 9, 139\n\npinenuts 50 pinto 149\n\nPk Rice-A-Rani 208\n\nPlain boiled rice 101 plants 20, 32, 34, 36\n\nplate 61, 65-6, 92, 117, 121, 137, 174, 176, 194, 208 short rib 108-9\n\nplatter 50, 61, 68, 72, 98, 130-1, 140-1, 165, 192, 202\n\nPLENTY of water 48\n\npn 46, 84, 140, 156, 163 pn cayenne pepper 46\n\npn Cayenne pepper 146\n\nPoached chicken 9, 140 panni 33\n\npoppyseeds 83\n\npopular rice varieties 32 porcini 194\n\npork 47, 60, 75, 90, 102, 147, 164, 193, 201-2\n\nbarbecued 61, 173 cooked 74\n\npork chops, salted 141\n\nPork Chops and Rice 9, 141\n\nPortuguese-Style Rice 9, 141\n\npot 48, 54,66, 70,78-9,97,103,105,109,135,138,145,156-8,166,\n\n176-8, 187 [2]\n\nPot of Burnt Rice 188 pot of rice 79, 82, 188 potato 181\n\npoultry 20, 38, 45, 82, 142, 168-9, 191\n\npoultry seasoning 64, 76, 85-6, 177 power 156, 164-5\n\nprecooked chickenlegs 71 preheat 120\n\nPreheat 38, 61, 88, 128\n\nPreheat oven 39, 52, 57, 116, 129, 131, 170, 182, 207\n\nPREHEAT OVEN 83, 163, 205\n\n233\n\nPreheat oven, fresh parsley 151 preheat wok 173\n\nprice 4, 30\n\nproblem 48, 79, 194\n\nprocess\n\nparboil 20\n\nslow cooking 87\n\nProcessed rice seeds 19 producers 29-30\n\nproduction 4, 28-9, 34, 36 prot 85-6, 118\n\nprotein 13, 19, 35, 39, 50, 54, 57, 63, 66, 77, 81, 93, 110, 115, 142,\n\n152-3 [7]\n\nPrudhomme 5, 46 pudding 38, 122, 128 puff 96, 175-6 pumpkin 77\n\nPumpkin & Rice Soup 9, 142 puree 45, 58, 145, 148\n\nQ\n\nqt Milk 38, 83, 128, 159\n\nquart microwave casserole mix salt 89 quick-cook oatmeal 97\n\nQuick-cooking rice en 193\n\nQuick Salsa Chicken and Rice 9, 142\n\nR\n\nrack 39, 93-4, 130, 157-8, 160, 202, 207 raisen 113\n\nraisins 9-10, 38, 41, 44, 50, 82, 116, 121, 127-8, 135-6, 138, 157-9,\n\n162, 164, 186, 190 rapid-boil method 20\n\nraw 13, 43, 45, 53, 68, 81, 85-6, 114, 127, 135, 141, 143, 172, 190\n\nRaw Converted Rice 134\n\nRaw Long Grain Rice 126\n\nRaw Long-grained Rice 200\n\nRaw rice 19,42-3,70,179\n\nrecipe 3, 39, 51-2, 55-6, 61, 69, 73, 77, 81, 87, 89, 94, 104-5, 108, 113,\n\n119 [8]\n\n6-serving 95 basic 124-5\n\nRed Beans 9, 84, 144, 146-8 cooked 145\n\nRed Beans and Rice 7, 9, 11, 91, 144-6, 193\n\nRed Beans and Rice Soup 9, 145\n\nRed kidney beans 144, 147\n\nRed onion 115, 136 diced 197\n\nRed onion rings 202\n\n234\n\nred pepper 40, 44, 96, 107, 144, 154, 166, 177-8, 193 diced 101\n\nmd Fennel Bulb Sweet 98\n\nred pepper chunks 47\n\nRed pepper flakes 142, 163\n\nRed Pepper Flakes 200 red pepper strips 133 regions 16, 20, 22, 25, 27\n\nwaterless 29\n\nRegular long grain rice 156\n\nRegular rice 157\n\nRegular Rice 55, 103, 125 reheat 61, 188\n\nreheat leftover rice 46\n\nReheat Rice 188\n\nRepublica Dominicana Red Beans & Rice 9, 147 reserve 109, 116, 153, 187, 190, 202\n\nreserved chicken cooking liquid 141 reserved cooking liquid 116, 140 resistance 32\n\ndurable 32\n\nreturn 45, 51, 59, 61, 75, 77-8, 109, 111, 118, 145-6, 148, 165, 187 ribs 112\n\nrice\n\narborio 112 aromatic 33\n\nbasmati 103, 108, 183 better-tasting 19 boiled 101, 132-3, 145 brown 41\n\nbrowning 173 chicken flavor 82 cold 74\n\nconverted 68, 95, 99, 116, 162, 164\n\ncooled 82 cultivated 23, 36 cup 135, 142\n\ncup of 133, 188 day-old 76\n\ndomesticated 15-16, 22, 24 drain 44, 55, 105, 127, 176, 204 drained 184\n\ndrier 81\n\ndry 94\n\ndry-land 23 easy-cook 20 engineered 35\n\nenriched\n\n36\n\nflavored\n\n83, 94\n\nflavorful\n\n143\n\n235\n\nfloating 21, 32 frozen 101\n\nhot 82, 84, 128, 146, 154, 199\n\nhot cooked 84, 142, 170, 177, 193-4 hotter 126\n\ninstant 97-8, 170\n\nleftover 158 lowland 17 masuri 33\n\nmedium-grain 19, 152 modified 35\n\nordinary 121 oz 71, 189 pack 68\n\npackage Lipton 94 paddy 29\n\nparboiled 20 perfect 79 polished 18 push 173\n\nquick-cooking 38, 170\n\nrinse 122, 126, 189\n\nsaffron-coloured streaked 55 saute 203\n\nscoop 101 short grain 83\n\nshort-grain 33, 196 short grnd 137 slender 34\n\nsprinkle 83\n\nsteamed long-grain 188 sticky 8, 33, 106, 121, 172 stir 96, 105\n\nsubstitute California pearl 112\n\ntalc-coated 18 time 26\n\ntoss 67\n\ntransfer 105, 194 upland 21, 31, 36 warm 165, 202, 205\n\nwash 103, 105, 156, 187, 189 washed 127\n\nwashing 159 wild Oryza 24\n\nRice & Beef Hash/filling 9, 138\n\nRICE & CAJUN STYLE SAUCE 65\n\nRice & Onion Soup Base 9, 148\n\nRice & Pine Nuts Avgolemono 11, 190\n\nRice & Sausage Soup 9, 144\n\nRice & Tomatos 11, 200\n\n236\n\nRice & Vegetables 7, 97\n\nRice & Veggies 7, 96\n\nRice, Jasmine 188\n\nRice-A-Rani 78 rice absorbes 200 rice accessions 32\n\nRice Agriculture 35-6\n\nrice-beans mixture 151 rice blast 32\n\nrice bran 19, 41\n\nrice bran pickles 19 rice bug 32\n\nRice Casserole 5-7, 10-11, 62, 65, 94, 173, 195\n\nRice Cheese Croquettes 9, 150\n\nRice Chicken 11, 191\n\nRice Con Queso 9, 151 rice consumption 30, 37 rice cook 138\n\nrice cooker 42, 189\n\nRice Creole 11, 197\n\nRice crop in Madagascar 25 rice crops 31-2\n\nlargest 28\n\nRice Crust 9, 82, 151, 176 rice cultivars 32\n\ncommon 33\n\nrice cultivation 16, 22-6, 28, 31-2, 36 earliest 22\n\nearly 23\n\nrice culture 27\n\nRice Cutlets 9, 152 rice diseases 31-2 rice dish 39\n\ndecadent 3\n\nrice domestication 4, 21-2 rice downwards 92\n\nrice evolution 36\n\nrice exports 29 rice farming 23\n\nRice field in Oki province 23\n\nRice Fields 37\n\nRice Flan Tart 9, 152 rice flour 19-20, 39\n\nRice Flour and Yogurt Pancakes 9, 153\n\nRice Flour Bread 5, 39 rice gall midge 31-2\n\nRice Genome Fully Mapped 37 rice gold 35\n\nrice grains 26, 44, 156, 171 rice gruel 20\n\n237\n\nrice huller 18\n\nRice Ingredients 163\n\nRice Krispie Squares 9, 154\n\nRice Krispies 137, 155, 198\n\nRice Krispies Marshmallow Squares 11, 198 rice leaffolder 32\n\nrice lovers 3, 19\n\nrice lover's dream 3 rice milk 19\n\nrice mill 27\n\nrice mix 83, 90, 92\n\ncups Chicken-Flavored 70 cups Onion-Flavored 136 dirty 77\n\nrice mixture 50, 57, 60, 67, 83, 92-3, 100, 121, 128, 137, 146, 153, 159,\n\n161, 172, 177 [3]\n\nhot 54, 135 press 160\n\nrice mounds 80\n\nRice Muffins 5, 41 rice noodle dish 61\n\nRice Noodles in Broth 6, 74\n\nRice Nut Loaf 9, 155\n\nRice Oil 176\n\nrice pest management techniques 31 rice pests 31-2\n\ncontrol 31\n\nrice phytoliths 22\n\nRice Pilaf 9, 155-6 rice plant 18, 31, 35 rice plantations 27 rice polishing 18\n\nrice porridge 20 rice powder 8, 117 rice prices 30\n\nrice production 28, 30 increased 25\n\nRice production in Indonesian history 24 rice pudding 3, 9, 128, 134, 157-8\n\nbaked 128 fattening 119\n\nRice Ragged Stunt 32\n\nrice recipes 3, 162\n\nRice Salad 5, 48 rice seeds 31 rice shortage 30\n\nglobal 16, 35\n\nrice simmer 176\n\nrice site, earliest 36\n\nRice Souffle 9, 159\n\n238\n\nRice Soup 8, 116\n\nRICE STATISTICS 36 rice sticks 10, 109, 159\n\ndried 109\n\nRice-Stuffed Artichokes 10, 164\n\nRice Stuffed Mushrooms 10, 160 rice syrup 114-15\n\nRice Terraces 25\n\nrice varieties 32, 37\n\npest resistant 32 pest-resistant 31\n\nrice weevils 32 rice wine 72\n\nRice Wine and Oyster Sauce 5, 49\n\nrinse 61-2, 78, 88, 92, 109, 114, 119, 121, 159, 163, 171, 188, 194,\n\n196, 204-5\n\nrisen 28-30\n\nRiverina rice industry 29\n\nroast 45, 55, 57, 80, 93-4, 130, 165\n\nRoasted Tomato and Rice Salad 10, 165 roll 92, 106-7, 152, 182, 190-1, 194 rolling boil 79, 110\n\nrollng boil 44\n\nroom temperature 49, 100, 104, 109, 112, 122, 128, 136-7, 162, 176,\n\n197,202\n\nRotei-N-Rice Corn Soup 10, 165\n\nrunning water 108, 194 cold 109, 122, 176\n\ns\n\nsacs 114\n\nsaffron 43, 55, 70, 103, 112, 166-7\n\nSaffron Rice 10, 166\n\nSaffron Rice Royale 10, 166 salad 39, 133, 169, 197\n\nred onion 130 salad bar 181 salami 84 salmon 167\n\nSalmon-Wild Rice Pasty 10, 167\n\nsalsa 95, 119, 125, 143, 168\n\nSalsa Chicken 10, 168\n\nsalt 38-55, 63-7, 69-72, 79-82, 84-93, 95-6, 98-100, 102-6, 108-15,\n\n119-29, 131-44, 146-53, 155-63, 172-80, 182-7, 200-8 [11]\n\nextra 48, 91 grated 108\n\npn 117, 141, 153, 192 rub 114\n\nseasoned 50, 67\n\nteaspoon 61, 73\n\n239\n\nteaspoons 160 tsp 160\n\nSalt & Pepper 103, 161\n\nsalt pork 147\n\nsalt tb Thyme 179\n\nSalted Sun-Dried Beef 121\n\nsaltwater 71, 131 salty 91\n\nSan Francisco Rice 10, 168\n\nSante Fe Chicken 10, 169\n\nsauce 45, 48, 61, 77, 84, 91, 94, 97-8, 120-1, 123, 141, 152, 165, 170,\n\n191-2, 194 [2]\n\nfish 109, 140, 187, 202 hoisin 74-5\n\nhot 43, 48, 91, 199 picante 202\n\nsaucepan 40, 45, 49, 58-9, 73, 82, 91, 98, 103, 111, 134-5, 140-1, 185-6, 188, 199, 201-2 [9]\n\nlarge 44, 51, 59-60, 111, 122, 140, 142, 149-50, 179, 188, 193, 196\n\nsausages 5, 53-4, 56-7, 61, 91, 129, 144, 171, 193\n\nsaute 43-4, 59, 66, 70-1, 82-3, 88, 113-15, 131-3, 138-9, 150, 161-4,\n\n166-7, 182, 185-6, 195-6, 203 [10]\n\nsaute garlic 145\n\nSaute onions 43, 50, 60, 63, 106, 112, 118, 167, 191, 200\n\nSavory Chicken and Rice 10, 171\n\nSavory Rice 10, 172\n\nscallions 51, 56, 72, 82, 96, 109, 117-18, 137, 144, 174-6, 203, 206\n\nscoop 140\n\nscoop of rice 80, 201 sea levels 25, 31\n\nseason 42, 52, 63-4, 68, 71, 75, 77, 80, 93, 98, 112, 120, 122, 131, 159-61, 205 [13]\n\nSeasoned chicken shares 170 seasoning mix ingredients 164, 168\n\nseasonings 47-8, 51, 54, 61, 76-7, 85-6, 97, 119, 138-9, 145, 173, 182,\n\n201\n\nitalian 97, 147\n\nseconds 45, 72, 96, 108, 124, 153, 165, 173, 175 seeds 18-19, 45, 77, 196, 206\n\npoppy 5, 39\n\nsesame 110, 137, 155, 168 sunflower 207\n\nserving dish 44, 79, 101-2, 137\n\nhot 96, 175 shallow 194 warm 185, 190\n\nservings 57, 59, 62, 70, 80, 82, 85-6, 89-90, 110, 113, 127, 130, 133-4,\n\n136, 158-9, 162 [2]\n\ngenerous 169\n\nsingle 83, 112\n\n240\n\nsesame oil 42, 49, 72, 76, 101, 171, 176 large pan heat 42\n\nset 45, 49, 52-3, 61, 65, 74-5, 93-4, 109, 153, 157-8, 163-4, 170-1,\n\n174-6, 179-80, 190-1, 199 [19]\n\nshallots 61, 108-9, 116, 120, 132-3, 186-7, 201-2 shanks 116, 187\n\nShao Hsing 49, 171\n\nShen 35-6\n\nsherry 47, 84, 167, 194 dry 46, 49, 72-3, 194\n\nsherry vinegar 93, 133\n\nShredded Carrots 54, 130, 149, 164\n\nshrimp 9, 43, 54, 56-7, 61, 75, 95, 102, 145-6, 171-5\n\nShrimp & Barbecued Pork Fried Rice 10\n\nShrimp and Rice Casserole 10, 173\n\nShrimp Fried Rice 6, 10, 75, 174 sieve 98, 176, 183, 188, 196\n\nSift rice flour 153\n\nsimmer 44-5, 50-1, 58-60, 68-71, 76-7, 79, 92-4, 111, 113-16, 142-6,\n\n175-7, 185-8, 192-4, 196-7, 199-200, 202-6 [28]\n\nbare 59, 109 simmer filets 107 simmer lentils 169 simmer onion 99\n\nsimmer rice 105 simmering 126, 135, 188\n\nSingle-serving bricks of frozen cooked rice/beans/barley/lentils 97\n\nSizzling Rice Soup 10, 176 skewers 67, 130\n\nskillet 39-40,46-7, 53, 58, 62, 64-5, 69, 76, 83-6, 93, 122, 143, 160-1,\n\n169-70, 181, 193 [12]\n\nlarge 50, 65, 75, 82, 88, 96, 101, 107, 110, 113, 124, 129, 160, 162,\n\n167-8, 170 [6]\n\nSkillet Chicken and Rice 10, 177 skillet heat oil 138\n\nskim 51, 109, 179, 185, 187 skim milk 113, 199\n\nevaporated 179\n\nskins 39, 45, 51, 62, 72, 85-6, 93, 140-1, 178, 205 band of 130\n\nsl Bacon, cooked Rice 95 slaves 27\n\nslice 39, 54, 62, 74, 77, 107-9, 117, 121, 133, 155, 160, 187-8, 201-2 slice mushrooms 85-6\n\nsliced carrots 51, 110 sliced celery 60, 133 sliced Green Onion 54\n\nsliced green onions 110, 130, 133, 149, 164\n\nSliced mushrooms 82, 100, 122, 125, 195\n\nSliced peaches Water 193\n\nslide 96, 194 slivers 74, 181\n\nslow cooker 65, 134, 158, 177, 208\n\nelectric 185\n\n241\n\nSlow Cooker Red Beans & Rice 10, 177 slow cooker variation 185\n\nsm 42, 85-7, 102, 115, 117, 126, 139, 151, 178, 181, 203 sm Onion 42, 70, 76, 98, 101-2, 115, 118, 139, 191, 203-4\n\nSmall cayenne peppers 77\n\nSmall sweet onion 161\n\nSmith 32, 35-6\n\nSmoked sausage 84, 144, 146\n\nSnappy Spinach Rice and Lemon Dill Rice 154\n\nSnipped fresh parsley 79, 149\n\nSnipped parsley 59, 156 snow peas 11, 187\n\nsoak 74, 88, 93, 108-9, 121, 140, 148, 156, 171-2, 183, 192, 205 spring onions 194\n\nsoak rice 44 soak water 47 soaking 20-1, 176\n\nsodium 39, 41, 50, 54, 57, 66, 75, 81, 93, 110-11, 115, 123, 135, 142,\n\n149, 153-5 [6]\n\nsoften 52, 105, 184 soils 16, 29, 31\n\nsou, package Onion 66\n\nsoup 20, 39, 51, 59, 63-4, 68-9, 75, 80, 82-3, 85-6, 89, 94, 99, 115,\n\n117, 119 [8]\n\ncans of 85-6\n\nen Chicken broth 172 soup bowls 48, 187 soup mix, dry onion 68\n\nsoup pot 93, 132, 144, 203 soupy 94-5\n\nsoupy bake 94\n\nsour cream 83, 125, 168, 179, 206\n\nSour Cream & Wild Rice Soup 10, 178\n\nSouth Asia 4, 16, 22\n\nSouth Carolina 27\n\nSoutheast Asia 4, 16, 23-4\n\nSouthern Style Red Beans and Rice 9, 143\n\nsoy sauce 42, 46, 61, 72-8, 81, 96, 101-2, 104, 112, 117-18, 120, 124,\n\n140, 159, 171-3, 193-5 [1]\n\nspaghetti 168-9\n\nSpanich Rice 10, 179\n\nSpanish Hot Dogs and Rice 10, 180\n\nSpanish Rice 10-11, 180-3\n\nSpanish Rice Enchiladas 10, 182 spatula 96, 175-6\n\nbuttered 155\n\nspecies 15-16\n\nSpiced Basmati Rice 11, 183\n\n242\n\nspices 47, 51, 67, 88, 91, 94, 103, 106, 108, 118, 150, 200\n\nSpicy Rice and Lentils 11, 184\n\nSpicy Rice Meatballs 11, 184\n\nSpicy Rice Pilaf 11, 185\n\nspinach 10, 116-17, 154, 163, 182 thawed frozen 97\n\nspinach-rice mixtue 182\n\nspoon 40, 44, 57, 83, 97, 117, 121, 128, 130, 135, 137, 141, 149, 176,\n\n185, 190 [2]\n\nspoon rice 99\n\nspoon rice mixture 80\n\nSpray 85-6, 111, 177\n\nspring onion curls 194 spring onions Chop 77\n\nsprinkle 39-40, 42, 44, 51, 57, 60, 64, 66-7, 83, 113-14, 116-18, 122-3,\n\n153, 157-8, 188, 195-6 [10]\n\nsprinkle butterscotch 137 sprinkle cinnamon 157-8 sprouts, brussel 55 squares, 2-inch 52, 87 squash 77, 206-7\n\nsquash top 77\n\nsqueeze 62, 140, 171, 187, 205 squid 60-2, 114\n\nSquid Baked 8, 114\n\nStalks celery 122, 159, 181 staple food 15-16, 19, 188\n\nStar Anise Beef-rice Noodle Soup 11, 186\n\nstarch 19-20, 89, 113 states 28\n\nsteak 154, 202\n\nsteam 42, 61, 73, 79, 92, 100, 103, 105, 117, 126, 172, 176, 181-2,\n\n188, 201, 203\n\nSteamed Ginger Rice 11, 187\n\nSteamed Glutinous Rice 11, 187-8\n\nSteamed Jasmine Rice 11, 188\n\nSteamed Rice 11, 104, 189 hot 201-2\n\nplain unseasoned 32 steamer 73, 117, 172 steaming 20, 70, 172, 188 stew meat 48\n\nstick, cinn 128\n\nsticky 16, 19-20, 32-3, 76, 172 sticky coconut rice 121\n\nstir 38-45, 50-5, 60-1, 78-80, 85-91, 96-8, 101-3, 107-14, 116-19, 121-4, 126-8, 133-6, 145-6, 153-9, 164-71, 182-5 [24]\n\nstir additions 154\n\nstir cheddar cheese 199\n\nstir cornstarch mixture 193\n\nStir-Fried Rice Noodles 5, 60\n\nStir-Fried Vegetables 57\n\nStir-frry 75\n\nstir fry 47, 74, 120, 194\n\n243\n\nstirfry 72, 75-6, 96, 124, 140, 173-5, 192, 195\n\nStirfry 192\n\nstir fry meat 47\n\nstirfry shrimp 75 stirfry tofu 195\n\nStir in Minute Rice 76 stir rice mixture 199 stir shrimp 54\n\nstir wild rice 94\n\nstir yolk concoction 128\n\nstirfry 61\n\nstirring 80, 90-1, 99-101, 113-17, 121-4, 126-8, 134-5, 137-9, 141, 143---\n\n4, 150, 159-62, 164-5, 168-9, 182-4, 190 [22]\n\nstock 45, 56, 59-60, 63, 75, 81, 90, 93, 103, 115, 148, 156, 164, 166,\n\n175, 186-7 [3]\n\ncup of 45\n\nqt Chicken 93, 115 simmering 187\n\nvegetable 52, 76-7, 199-200, 203 stove 6, 48, 78-9, 101\n\nStove-Top Rice Pudding 11, 189\n\nstrips 71, 74-5, 80, 124, 128, 156, 166, 168, 194 stuff saltier 121\n\nstuffing 130, 137, 164-5\n\nspoon rice 165 subsistence 22, 24 substitute part 125\n\nsugar 38, 49, 71, 73-4, 83-4, 100-2, 104, 113, 116-17, 120-1, 128, 135,\n\n137, 152-3, 157-9, 192-4 [11]\n\nbrown 46-7, 120 powdered 153, 157 raw 147-8\n\nsugar ts salt 120\n\nsultanas 103 suppli 150\n\nsurface 31, 51, 79, 109, 138, 187-8\n\nsurface water 187, 194 sweating the onions 148\n\nsweet 11, 44, 121-2, 144, 193 sweet basil 102, 161, 169\n\nSweet Fried Rice 11, 192 sweet glutinous rice 171-2\n\nsweet peppers 104, 193 sweet rice 172\n\nsweet Rice 5, 44 syrup boils 122\n\n244\n\nT\n\ntabasco 47, 57, 90-1, 193\n\nTabasco Pepper Sauce 193\n\ntablespoons 38, 61, 69, 73, 92, 144, 146, 188, 192, 194 tablespoons butter 192\n\ntablespoons water 204\n\ntahini 114, 136 tails 61, 130 talc 18-19\n\ntamari 118, 191 tarragon 59, 107\n\ntaste 47-9, 77, 84, 91-6, 102-3, 107-8, 113-14, 119, 122, 124-6, 131-2,\n\n137-8, 146-8, 159-63, 169, 175-6 [21]\n\ntb butter 107 tbe onion 44\n\nTbl 168\n\nTbl bacon fat drippings 74 teaspoon sweet butter 58\n\nteaspoons 39, 61, 167, 192, 194\n\nTelefono 150 tempeh 11, 202-3 tentacles 59-62, 114 terrace rice fields 21\n\nTerraced rice paddy 18\n\nterraces 25\n\nhigh-elevation rice 17\n\nTexmati 33\n\nThai fragrant rice 33\n\nThai jasmine rice 194\n\nThai Rice 11, 194\n\nThailand 21, 25, 29-30, 121\n\nThais cook rice 188\n\nthick 16, 45, 49, 84, 113, 115,119-20, 144,147, 179-80,202 thickened.Stir 132\n\nthickens 84, 91, 113, 119, 122, 190 thighs, oz Boneless chicken 72\n\nthyme 43, 52, 57, 82, 84, 90, 111, 119, 134-5, 140, 143, 163, 179, 184,\n\n191, 196 [1]\n\ntofu 52-3, 76-7, 124, 195\n\nTofu Fried Rice 11, 194 tolerance 32\n\ntomato 43, 67, 99, 126, 139, 178, 200-2\n\nTomato and Rice Casserole 11, 195 tomato juice 40, 185\n\ntomato ketchup 132-3\n\ntomato liquid 195\n\ntomato paste 50, 182, 201-2\n\nTomato Rice Soup 11, 196\n\nTomato Soup 11, 196\n\n245\n\ntomatoes 11, 44, 51, 54, 56-7, 59-60, 98, 123, 126-7, 129, 131, 150,\n\n165-6, 170, 195-6, 198 [9]\n\ncrushed 97, 199\n\nstewed 84, 180-1, 197\n\nundrained 170 tonnes 29 tortillas 182\n\ntoss 49, 53-4, 61, 82, 88, 96, 100, 117, 124, 133, 136-7, 139, 159, 165,\n\n173, 205 [4]\n\ntowel 45, 83, 103, 116, 122, 130, 196 trade, world rice 28\n\ntransfer 50, 62, 80, 85-6, 88-9, 114, 122, 130, 165, 171, 177, 190\n\ntrees 155\n\nts 168, 171\n\nts Ground Black Pepper 150\n\nts Olive Oil lg Red Onion 179 ts Onion powder 168\n\nts Salt 150 minced 129\n\nts Salt ts 168\n\ntsp 75, 132, 168\n\nTuna and Rice Creole 11, 197 turkey 11, 66, 95, 184-6, 197-8\n\ndiced cooked 197\n\nturmeric 88, 112, 115, 118, 167, 184\n\nu\n\nUncooked brown rice 181, 203\n\nUncooked converted rice 178\n\nUncooked instant rice 111\n\nUncooked long grain rice 182\n\nUncooked long-grain rice 41, 117, 138\n\nUncooked Long Grain Rice 70, 136\n\nuncooked rice 40, 46, 89, 126, 141, 164, 166, 195\n\nUncooked tb Green Onions/Tops 94\n\nUncooked white rice 51\n\nUNCTAD (United Nations Conference on Trade and Development) 37\n\nUnited Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD) 37\n\nUnited Nations Year of Rice 21\n\nUnited States 4, 18-19, 26-30, 37\n\nUnited States Department of Agriculture (USDA) 30, 37\n\nUnpolished rice 15\n\nUnsalted butter 44, 46, 103, 128, 136, 161, 164, 168 upland rice farmers 31\n\nUSDA (United States Department of Agriculture) 30, 37\n\nv\n\nvanilla 44, 83, 115-16, 120, 122, 128, 134-5, 157-8, 189, 192\n\nvanilla bean 38, 152-3\n\n246\n\nVariations on Rice Krispies Marshmallow Squares 11, 198 varieties 16-17, 19-20, 28, 31-2, 34\n\nVegan 5, 7, 10, 51, 96-7, 165, 181\n\nvegetable oil 38-9, 65, 74, 84, 93, 98, 100, 104-5, 108, 110, 124, 132,\n\n142, 146, 185-6, 203 [9]\n\nVegetable Rice Bake 11, 199\n\nvegetables 10, 40, 47, 51-2, 57, 59, 61, 76, 81, 88, 93, 96, 124, 129,\n\n132, 197 [6] Vegetarian Rice 200\n\nVegetarian Rice Mix 11, 200 veggies, frozen 97, 111\n\nVietnam 29-30\n\nvinaigrette 49, 205\n\nvinegar 47, 49, 71, 119, 133, 139, 181, 191, 193\n\nVit 13\n\nvitamin 35, 106, 110\n\n#### w\n\nwalnuts 41, 122, 133, 155, 206\n\nWarm Fajita Rice Salad 11, 202\n\nwarm water 21, 89, 109, 129, 140, 171, 194, 205, 207\n\nwash 18, 47-9, 51, 55, 73, 93, 108, 114, 127, 138, 160, 169, 171, 176,\n\n181, 183 washing 18-19\n\nwater 18-21, 43-52, 72-7, 79-82, 88-90, 94-5, 97-100, 103-6, 116-22,\n\n126-9, 131-6, 140-50, 156-9, 181-4, 186-94, 205-7 [25]\n\ncans 91\n\ncold 49, 51, 55, 61, 70, 77, 90, 93, 114, 127, 136, 144-5, 159-61, 163,\n\n165, 176-7 [4]\n\ncombined 103\n\ncup 44, 54-5, 108, 145, 199, 204\n\ncups of 43, 160 drain 145\n\nexcess 36, 50, 61\n\nextra 70\n\nfresh 109, 147, 183, 205\n\nhot 43, 74,82-3,92,103,114,127,150,157-8,190,193,204 irrigation 29\n\nplenty of 16, 92, 105, 121 qt 159, 178, 186\n\nquarts 187 running cold 171\n\nsalted 141, 163, 190 soaking 108, 148 standing 31 tablespoon of 188\n\nts Salt ts Cornstarch ts 175 water availability 21\n\nwater buffalo 24\n\n247\n\nwater content 19, 145 water damming 16 water evaporates 72\n\nfree 79\n\nwater evaporation 19 water overnight 48, 148 water power 27\n\nWatson 36\n\nweiners 84\n\nwell-watered north 29\n\nWest Indian Rice 11, 202 wet rice cultivation 25\n\nwet season 21, 31\n\nWetland rice fields 37 wheat 29, 34, 39 wheat berries 51\n\nWheat Flour 41\n\nwheat mixture 51 whipped cream 38 sweetened 158\n\nwhisk 41, 49, 115, 179\n\nwire 141\n\nWhite pepper ts 168, 171\n\nwhite rice 18, 43, 72, 91, 115-16, 119, 148, 158, 163, 184, 198 cooked 168, 170, 201\n\nlong-grain 80, 114, 141\n\nplain 94 regular 20\n\nWhite rice flour 104\n\nWhite Rice Flour Breads 7, 104 white wine 63, 131\n\nWikibooks' Rice Recipes 19\n\nwild 15, 92, 94, 129\n\nwild rice 6-7, 10-11, 22, 28, 60, 79, 82, 93-4, 107, 115, 122, 129, 132,\n\n175-6, 179, 204-7\n\n5-minute 204\n\ncooked 60, 167, 197, 206 name 15\n\nwashed 203\n\nWild Rice & Mushroom Soup 11, 203\n\nWild Rice Amadine 6, 11, 71-2, 204\n\nWild Rice and Barley Pilaf 11, 204 wild rice blend 136\n\nwild rice collection 22 wild rice mix 130\n\nWild Rice Pancakes 11, 206 wild rice phytoliths 22\n\nWild Rice/Pine Nut Stuffing 12, 206\n\nWild Rice Salad 11, 197\n\nWild Rice-Stuffed Squash 12, 206\n\n248\n\nWild Rice-Three Grain Bread 12, 207 wildrice 136\n\nwine 43, 59, 68, 72, 75, 103, 114, 171, 182, 191, 201, 203\n\nwok 42, 47, 49, 61, 72, 74-5, 96, 101-2, 124, 126, 133, 140, 172-4, 176,\n\n192, 194-5\n\nWoman's Chicken & Rice 12, 208 world 3, 16, 19, 24-5, 30\n\nWorld production of rice 29\n\nWrist-warm water 104 www.ers.usda.gov/Briefing/Rice 37\n\ny\n\nyears rice production 28 years.Rice 16\n\nyeast, nutritional 52, 118\n\nYellow onions 66, 90 chopped 144-5\n\nYellow pepper 66 diced 197\n\nYellow Rice 6, 70, 80\n\nYellow Rice & Shrimp Casser 5, 42 yellow rice dishes 112\n\nyogurt 39, 67, 112, 149, 151, 153 yolks 115, 190\n\n### z\n\nzucchini 52\n\nshredded 199\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Titus Andronicus (Dover Thrift) - William Shakespeare (retail)"}, "text": "\n\n# Titus Andronicus\n\n## William Shakespeare\n\n### DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.  \nMineola, New York\nDOVER THRIFT EDITIONS\n\nGENERAL EDITOR: MARY CAROLYN WALDREP EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: ALISON DAURIO\n\n_Copyright_\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 by Dover Publications, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\n_Theatrical Rights_\n\nThis Dover Thrift Edition may be used in its entirety, in adaptation, or in any other way for theatrical productions, professional and amateur, in the United States, without fee, permission, or acknowledgment. (This may not apply outside of the United States, as copyright conditions may vary.)\n\n_Bibliographical Note_\n\nThis Dover edition, first published in 2014, contains the unabridged text of _Titus Andronicus_ as published in Volume XIV of _The Caxton Edition of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ , Caxton Publishing Company, London, n.d. The introductory Note was prepared specially for this edition, and the explanatory footnotes from the Caxton edition have been revised.\n\n_International Standard Book Number_\n\n_eISBN-13: 978-0-486-79004-6_\n\nwww.doverpublications.com\n\n### Note\n\nWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564\u20131616) was born in Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, England. Although much of his early life remains sketchy, it is known that he moved to London around 1589 to earn his way as an actor and playwright. He joined an acting company known as Lord Chamberlain's Men in 1594, a decision that finally enabled him to share in the financial success of his plays. Only eighteen of his thirty-seven plays were published during his lifetime, and these were usually sold directly to theater companies and printed in quartos, or single-play editions, without his approval.\n\nThe bloodiest and most violent of all Shakespeare's tragedies, _Titus Andronicus_ was completed sometime between 1588 and 1593, and was likely modeled after the \"revenge plays\" that were so popular during this time. When Titus, an aging Roman general, returns from war, he finds the emperor of Rome dead, and his two sons vying for the crown. To his surprise, Titus himself is offered the crown. But as he is old and tired, he decides to turn it over to the emperor's eldest son, Saturninus\u2014thus setting off the whirlwind of killings, severed limbs, rape, cannibalism, live burial, and insanity that characterize the bard's most brutal tale.\n\n### DRAMATIS PERSON\u00c6\n\nSATURNINUS, son to the late Emperor of Rome, afterwards emperor.\n\nBASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus.\n\nTITUS, ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman.\n\nMARCUS, ANDRONICUS, tribune of the people, and brother to Titus.\n\nLUCIUS, sons to Titus Andronicus.\n\nQUINTUS, sons to Titus Andronicus.\n\nMARTIUS, sons to Titus Andronicus.\n\nMUTIUS, sons to Titus Andronicus.\n\nYOUNG, LUCIUS, a boy, son to Lucius.\n\nPUBLIUS, son to Marcus Andronicus.\n\n\u00c6MILIUS, a noble Roman.\n\nALARBUS, sons to Tamora.\n\nDEMETRIUS, sons to Tamora.\n\nCHIRON, sons to Tamora.\n\nAARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora.\n\nA Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown; Romans and Goths.\n\nTAMORN, Queen of the Goths.\n\nLAVINIA, daughter to Titus Andronicus.\n\nA Nurse, and a black Child.\n\nKinsmen of Titus, Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants.\n\nSCENE: _Rome, and the country near it_\n\n### Contents\n\n**ACT I.**\n\nSCENE I. _Rome. Before the Capitol\u2014The Tomb of the Andronici Appearing_\n\n**ACT II.**\n\nSCENE I. _Rome. Before the Palace_\n\nSCENE II. _A Forest near Rome. Horns and Cry of Hounds Heard_\n\nSCENE III. _A Lonely Part of the Forest_\n\nSCENE IV. _Another Part of the Forest_\n\n**ACT III.**\n\nSCENE I. _Rome. A Street_\n\nSCENE II. _A Room in Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_\n\n**ACT IV.**\n\nSCENE I. _Rome. Titus's Garden_\n\nSCENE II. _The Same. A Room in the Palace_\n\nSCENE III. _The Same A Public Place_\n\nSCENE IV. _The Same. Before the Palace_\n\n**ACT V.**\n\nSCENE I. _Plains near Rome_\n\nSCENE II. _Rome. Before Titus's House_\n\nSCENE III. _Court of Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_\n\n### ACT I.\n\n#### SCENE I. _Rome. Before the Capitol\u2014The Tomb of the Andronici Appearing_.\n\n_Flourish, Enter the_ Tribunes _and_ Senators _aloft. And then enter below,_ SATURNINUS _and his_ Followers _from one side, and_ BASSIANUS _and his_ Followers _from the other side, with drum and colours_\n\nSATURNINUS. Noble patricians, patrons of my right,\n\nDefend the justice of my cause with arms;\n\nAnd, countrymen, my loving followers,\n\nPlead my successive title with your swords: 4\n\nI am his first-born son, that was the last\n\nThat ware the imperial diadem of Rome;\n\nThen let my father's honours live in me,\n\nNor wrong mine age with this indignity.8\n\nBAS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right,\n\nIf ever Bassianus, C\u00e6sar's son, 10\n\nWere gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,\n\nKeep then this passage to the Capitol;\n\nAnd suffer not dishonour to approach\n\nThe imperial seat, to virtue consecrate,\n\nTo justice, continence and nobility:15\n\nBut let desert in pure election shine;16\n\nAnd, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.\n\n_Enter_ MARCUS ANDRONICUS, _aloft, with the crown_\n\nMARC. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends\n\nAmbitiously for rule and empery,19\n\nKnow that the people of Rome, for whom we stand 20\n\nA special party, have by common voice,21\n\nIn election for the Roman empery,\n\nChosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius\n\nFor many good and great deserts to Rome:\n\nA nobler man, a braver warrior,\n\nLives not this day within the city walls:\n\nHe by the senate is accited home27\n\nFrom weary wars against the barbarous Goths;\n\nThat, with his sons, a terror to our foes,29\n\nHath yoked a nation strong, train'd up in arms. 30\n\nTen years are spent since first he undertook\n\nThis cause of Rome, and chastised with arms\n\nOur enemies' pride: five times he hath return'd\n\nBleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons\n\nIn coffins from the field.\n\nAnd now at last, laden with honour's spoils,\n\nReturns the good Andronicus to Rome,\n\nRenowned Titus, flourishing in arms.\n\nLet us entreat, by honour of his name,\n\nWhom worthily you would have now succeed, 40\n\nAnd in the Capitol and senate's right,41\n\nWhom you pretend to honour and adore,\n\nThat you withdraw you and abate your strength,43\n\nDismiss your followers and, as suitors should,\n\nPlead your deserts in peace and humbleness.\n\nSAT. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts!\n\nBAS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy47\n\nIn thy uprightness and integrity,\n\nAnd so I love and honour thee and thine,\n\nThy noble brother Titus and his sons, 50\n\nAnd her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,\n\nGracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament,\n\nThat I will here dismiss my loving friends,\n\nAnd to my fortunes and the people's favour\n\nCommit my cause in balance to be weigh'd.\n\n[ _Exeunt the Followers of Bassianus._\n\nSAT. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right,\n\nI thank you all, and here dismiss you all,\n\nAnd to the love and favour of my country\n\nCommit myself, my person and the cause. 60\n\n[ _Exeunt the Followers of Saturninus._\n\nRome, be as just and gracious unto me,\n\nAs I am confident and kind to thee.\n\nOpen the gates, and let me in.\n\nBAS. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.\n\n[ _Flourish. Saturninus and Bassianus go up into the Capitol._\n\n_Enter a_ Captain\n\nCAP. Romans, make way: the good Andronicus,\n\nPatron of virtue, Rome's best champion,\n\nSuccessful in the battles that he fights, 70\n\nWith honour and with fortune is return'd\n\nFrom where he circumscribed with his sword,\n\nAnd brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.\n\n_Drums and trumpets sounded. Enter_ MARTIUS _and_ MUTIUS _after them, two_ Men _bearing a coffin covered with black; then_ LUCIUS _and_ QUINTUS _After them,_ TITUS ANDRONICUS, _and then_ TAMORN Queen of Goths, _with_ ALARBUS, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, AARON, _and other_ Goths, _prisoners;_ Soldiers _and_ People _following. The_ Bearers _set down the coffin, and_ TITUS _speaks_\n\nTIT. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!\n\nLo, as the bark that hath discharged her fraught\n\nReturns with precious lading to the bay\n\nFrom whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage,\n\nCometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,\n\nTo re-salute his country with his tears,\n\nTears of true joy for his return to Rome. 80\n\nThou great defender of this Capitol,\n\nStand gracious to the rites that we intend!\n\nRomans, of five and twenty valiant sons,\n\nHalf of the number that King Priam had,\n\nBehold the poor remains, alive and dead!\n\nThese that survive let Rome reward with love;\n\nThese that I bring unto their latest home,\n\nWith burial amongst their ancestors:\n\nHere Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword.\n\nTitus, unkind, and careless of thine own, 90\n\nWhy suffer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet,\n\nTo hover on the dreadful shore of Styx?\n\nMake way to lay them by their brethren.\n\n[ _They open the tomb._\n\nThere greet in silence, as the dead are wont,\n\nAnd sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars!\n\nO sacred receptacle of my joys,\n\nSweet cell of virtue and nobility,\n\nHow many sons hast thou of mine in store,\n\nThat thou wilt never render to me more! 100\n\nLUC. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,\n\nThat we may hew his limbs and on a pile\n\n\"Ad manes fratrum\" sacrifice his flesh,\n\nBefore this earthy prison of their bones,\n\nThat so the shadows be not unappeased,\n\nNor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.\n\nTIT. I give him you, the noblest that survives,\n\nThe eldest son of this distressed queen.\n\nTAM. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror,\n\nVictorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, 110\n\nA mother's tears in passion for her son:\n\nAnd if thy sons were ever dear to thee,\n\nO, think my son to be as dear to me!\n\nSufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome,\n\nTo beautify thy triumphs and return,\n\nCaptive to thee and to thy Roman yoke;\n\nBut must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets,\n\nFor valiant doings in their country's cause?\n\nO, if to fight for king and commonweal\n\nWere piety in thine, it is in these. 120\n\nAndronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood.\n\nWilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?\n\nDraw near them then in being merciful:\n\nSweet mercy is nobility's true badge:\n\nThrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son.\n\nTIT. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.126\n\nThese are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld\n\nAlive and dead; and for their brethren slain\n\nReligiously they ask a sacrifice:\n\nTo this your son is mark'd, and die he must, 130\n\nTo appease their groaning shadows that are gone.\n\nLUC. Away with him! and make a fire straight;\n\nAnd with our swords, upon a pile of wood,\n\nLet's hew his limbs till they be clean consumed.\n\n[ _Exeunt the sons of Andronicus with Alarbus._\n\nTAM. O cruel, irreligious piety!\n\nCHI. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?\n\nDEM. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.138\n\nAlarbus goes to rest, and we survive\n\nTo tremble under Titus' threatening look. 140\n\nThen, madam, stand resolved; but hope withal,\n\nThe self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy\n\nWith opportunity of sharp revenge\n\nUpon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,\n\nMay favour Tamora, the queen of Goths,\n\nWhen Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen,\n\nTo quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.147\n\n_Re-enter the sons of_ ANDRONICUS, _with their swords bloody_\n\nLUC. See, lord and father, how we have perform'd\n\nOur Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd,\n\nAnd entrails feed the sacrificing fire, 150\n\nWhose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.\n\nRemaineth nought but to inter our brethren,\n\nAnd with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome.\n\nTIT. Let it be so; and let Andronicus\n\nMake this his latest farewell to their souls.\n\n[ _Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the tomb._\n\nIn peace and honour rest you here, my sons;\n\nRome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest,\n\nSecure from worldly chances and mishaps!\n\nHere lurks no treason, here no envy swells, 160\n\nHere grow no damned drugs; here are no storms,\n\nNo noise, but silence and eternal sleep:\n\nIn peace and honour rest you here, my sons!\n\n_Enter_ LAVINIA\n\nLAV. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long;\n\nMy noble lord and father, live in fame!\n\nLo, at this tomb my tributary tears\n\nI render, for my brethren's obsequies;\n\nAnd at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy\n\nShed on the earth, for thy return to Rome:\n\nO, bless me here with thy victorious hand, 170\n\nWhose fortunes Rome's best citizens applaud!\n\nTIT. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved\n\nThe cordial of mine age to glad my heart!174\n\nLavinia, live; outlive thy father's days,\n\nAnd fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise!\n\n_Enter, below,_ MARTIUS ANDRONICUS _and_ Tribunes; _re-enter_ SATURNINUS,. _and_ BASSIANU, _attended_\n\nMARC. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother,\n\nGracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!\n\nTIT. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus.\n\nMARC. And welcome, nephews, from successful wars,\n\nYou that survive, and you that sleep in fame! 180\n\nFair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,\n\nThat in your country's service drew your swords:\n\nBut safer triumph is this funeral pomp,\n\nThat hath aspired to Solon's happiness,184\n\nAnd triumphs over chance in honour's bed.\n\nTitus Andronicus, the people of Rome,\n\nWhose friend in justice thou hast ever been,\n\nSend thee by me, their tribune and their trust,188\n\nThis palliament of white and spotless hue;189\n\nAnd name thee in election for the empire, 190\n\nWith these our late-deceased emperor's sons:\n\nBe candidatus then, and put it on,\n\nAnd help to set a head on headless Rome.\n\nTIT. A better head her glorious body fits194\n\nThan his that shakes for age and feebleness:\n\nWhat should I don this robe, and trouble you?196\n\nBe chosen with proclamations to-day,\n\nTo-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,\n\nAnd set abroad new business for you all?199\n\nRome, I have been thy soldier forty years, 200\n\nAnd led my country's strength successfully,\n\nAnd buried one and twenty valiant sons,\n\nKnighted in field, slain manfully in arms,\n\nIn right and service of their noble country:\n\nGive me a staff of honour for mine age,\n\nBut not a sceptre to control the world:\n\nUpright he held it, lords, that held it last.\n\nMARC. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.208\n\nSAT. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell?\n\nTIT. Patience, Prince Saturninus. 210\n\nSAT. Romans, do me right;\n\nPatricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not\n\nTill Saturninus be Rome's emperor.\n\nAndronicus, would thou wert shipp'd to hell,\n\nRather than rob me of the people's hearts!\n\nLUC. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good\n\nThat noble-minded Titus means to thee!\n\nTIT. Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee\n\nThe people's hearts, and wean them from themselves.\n\nBAS Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, 220\n\nBut honour thee, and will do till I die:\n\nMy faction if thou strengthen with thy friends,\n\nI will most thankful be; and thanks to men\n\nOf noble minds is honourable meed.\n\nTIT. People of Rome, and people's tribunes here,\n\nI ask your voices and your suffrages:\n\nWill you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?\n\nTRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus,\n\nAnd gratulate his safe return to Rome,\n\nThe people will accept whom he admits. 230\n\nTIT. Tribunes, I thank you: and this suit I make,\n\nThat you create your emperor's eldest son,\n\nLord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope,\n\nReflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth,\n\nAnd ripen justice in this commonweal:\n\nThen, if you will elect by my advice,\n\nCrown him, and say \"Long live our emperor!\"\n\nMARC. With voices and applause of every sort,\n\nPatricians and plebeians, we create\n\nLord Saturninus Rome's great emperor, 240\n\nAnd say \"Long live our Emperor Saturnine!\"\n\n[ _A long flourish till they come down._\n\nSAT. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done\n\nTo us in our election this day,\n\nI give thee thanks in part of thy deserts,\n\nAnd will with deeds requite thy gentleness:\n\nAnd, for an onset, Titus, to advance247\n\nThy name and honourable family,\n\nLavinia will I make my empress,\n\nRome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart, 250\n\nAnd in the sacred Pantheon her espouse:251\n\nTell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?252\n\nTIT. It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match\n\nI hold me highly honour'd of your grace:\n\nAnd here, in sight of Rome, to Saturnine,\n\nKing and commander of our commonweal,\n\nThe wide world's emperor, do I consecrate\n\nMy sword, my chariot and my prisoners;\n\nPresents well worthy Rome's imperious lord:\n\nReceive them then, the tribute that I owe, 260\n\nMine honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet.\n\nSAT. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life!\n\nHow proud I am of thee and of thy gifts,\n\nRome shall record; and when I do forget\n\nThe least of these unspeakable deserts,\n\nRomans, forget your fealty to me.\n\nTIT. _To Tamora_ ] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor;\n\nTo him that, for your honour and your state,\n\nWill use you nobly and your followers.\n\nSAT. A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue 270\n\nThat I would choose, were I to choose anew.\n\nClear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance;\n\nThough chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer,273\n\nThou comest not to be made a scorn in Rome:\n\nPrincely shall be thy usage every way.\n\nRest on my word, and let not discontent\n\nDaunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you\n\nCan make you greater than the Queen of Goths.\n\nLavinia, you are not displeased with this?\n\nLAV. Not I, my lord; sith true nobility 280\n\nWarrants these words in princely courtesy.\n\nSAT. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go:\n\nRansomless here we set our prisoners free:\n\nProclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum.\n\n[ _Flourish. Saturninus courts Tamora in dumb show._\n\nBAS. [ _Seizing Lavinia_ ] Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine.\n\nTIT. How, sir! are you in earnest then, my lord?\n\nBAS. Ay, noble Titus, and resolved withal\n\nTo do myself this reason and this right.\n\nMARC. \"Suum cuique\" is our Roman justice:\n\nThis prince in justice seizeth but his own.\n\nLUC. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live.\n\nTIT. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor's guard?\n\nTreason, my lord! Lavinia is surprised!\n\nSAT. Surprised! by whom?\n\nBAS. By him that justly may\n\nBear his betroth'd from all the world away.\n\n[ _Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia._\n\nMUT. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, 300\n\nAnd with my sword I'll keep this door safe.\n\n[ _Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, and Martius._\n\nTIT. Follow, my lord, and I'll soon bring her back.\n\nMUT. My lord, you pass not here.\n\nTIT. What, villain boy!\n\nBarr'st me my way in Rome? [ _Stabbing Mutius._\n\nMUT. Help, Lucius, help! [ _Dies._\n\n[ _During the fray, Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius,_ _Chiron and Aaron go out, and re-enter above._\n\n_Re-enter_ LUCIUS\n\nLUC. My lord, you are unjust; and, more than so, 310\n\nIn wrongful quarrel you have slain your son.\n\nTIT. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine;\n\nMy sons would never so dishonour me:\n\nTraitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor.\n\nLUC. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife,\n\nThat is another's lawful promised love. [ _Exit._ 316\n\nSAT. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not,\n\nNor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock:\n\nI'll trust by leisure him that mocks me once;319\n\nThee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, 320\n\nConfederates all thus to dishonour me.\n\nWas none in Rome to make a stale322\n\nBut Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus,\n\nAgree these deeds with that proud brag of thine,\n\nThat saidst, I begg'd the empire at thy hands.\n\nTIT. O monstrous! what reproachful words are these?\n\nSAT. But go thy ways; go give that changing piece 327\n\nTo him that flourish'd for her with his sword:328\n\nA valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy;\n\nOne fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, 330\n\nTo ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.331\n\nTIT. These words are razors to my wounded heart.\n\nSAT. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths,\n\nThat, like the stately Ph\u0153be 'mongst her nymphs,334\n\nDost overshine the gallant'st dames of Rome,\n\nIf thou be pleased with this my sudden choice,\n\nBehold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,\n\nAnd will create thee empress of Rome.\n\nSpeak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice?\n\nAnd here I swear by all the Roman gods, 340\n\nSith priest and holy water are so near,\n\nAnd tapers burn so bright, and every thing\n\nIn readiness for Hymen\u00e6us stand,343\n\nI will not re-salute the streets of Rome,\n\nOr climb my palace, till from forth this place\n\nI lead espoused my bride along with me.\n\nTAM. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I swear,\n\nIf Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths,\n\nShe will a handmaid be to his desires,\n\nA loving nurse, a mother to his youth. 350\n\nSAT. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany\n\nYour noble emperor and his lovely bride,\n\nSent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine,\n\nWhose wisdom hath her fortune conquered:\n\nThere shall we consummate our spousal rites.\n\n[ _Exeunt all but Titus._\n\nTIT. I am not bid to wait upon this bride.\n\nTitus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,\n\nDishonour'd thus and challenged of wrongs?\n\n_Re-enter_ MARCUS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, _and_ MARTIUS\n\nMARC. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! 360\n\nIn a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.\n\nTIT. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine,\n\nNor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed\n\nThat hath dishonour'd all our family;\n\nUnworthy brother, and unworthy sons!\n\nLUC. But let us give him burial, as becomes;\n\nGive Mutius burial with our brethren.\n\nTIT. Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb:\n\nThis monument five hundred years hath stood,\n\nWhich I have sumptuously re-edified: 370\n\nHere none but soldiers and Rome's servitors\n\nRepose in fame; none basely slain in brawls:\n\nBury him where you can, he comes not here.\n\nMARC. My lord, this is impiety in you:\n\nMy nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him;\n\nHe must be buried with his brethren.\n\nQUIN. And shall, or him we will accompany.\n\nMART. And shall, or him we will accompany.\n\nTIT. And shall! what villain was it spake that word?\n\nQUIN. He that would vouch it in any place but here. 380\n\nTIT. What, would you bury him in my despite?\n\nMARC. No, noble Titus; but entreat of thee\n\nTo pardon Mutius and to bury him.\n\nTIT. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest,\n\nAnd with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded:\n\nMy foes I do repute you every one;\n\nSo trouble me no more, but get you gone.\n\nMART. He is not with himself; let us withdraw.\n\nQUIN. Not I, till Mutius' bones be buried.\n\n[ _Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel._ 390\n\nMARC. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,\u2014\n\nQUIN. Father, and in that name doth nature speak,\u2014\n\nTIT. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed.\n\nMARC. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,\u2014\n\nLUC. Dear father, soul and substance of us all,\u2014\n\nMARC. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter\n\nHis noble nephew here in virtue's nest,\n\nThat died in honour and Lavinia's cause.\n\nThou art a Roman; be not barbarous:\n\nThe Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax 400\n\nThat slew himself; and wise Laertes' son\n\nDid graciously plead for his funerals:\n\nLet not young Mutius then, that was thy joy,\n\nBe barr'd his entrance here.\n\nTIT. Rise, Marcus, rise:\n\nThe dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw,\n\nTo be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome!\n\nWell, bury him, and bury me the next.\n\n[ _Mutius is put into the tomb._\n\nLUC. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, 410\n\nTill we with trophies do adorn thy tomb.\n\nALL. [ _Kneeling_ ] No man shed tears for noble Mutius;\n\nHe lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.\n\nMARC. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps,\n\nHow comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths\n\nIs of a sudden thus advanced in Rome?\n\nTIT. I know not, Marcus; but I know it is,\n\nWhether by device or no, the heavens can tell:418\n\nIs she not then beholding to the man\n\nThat brought her for this high good turn so far? 420\n\nYes, and will nobly him remunerate.\n\n_Flourish. Re-enter, from one side,_ SATURNINUS. _attended,_ TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, _and_ AARON, _from the other,_ BASSINUNS, LAVINIA, _with others_\n\nSAT. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize:422\n\nGod give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride!\n\nBAS. And you of yours, my lord! I say no more,\n\nNor wish no less; and so I take my leave.\n\nSAT. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have power,\n\nThou and thy faction shall repent this rape.\n\nBAS. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own,\n\nMy true-betrothed love, and now my wife?\n\nBut let the laws of Rome determine all; 430\n\nMeanwhile I am possess'd of that is mine.\n\nSAT. T is good, sir: you are very short with us;\n\nBut, if we live, we'll be as sharp with you.\n\nBAS. My lord, what I have done, as best I may,\n\nAnswer I must, and shall do with my life.\n\nOnly thus much I give your grace to know:436\n\nBy all the duties that I owe to Rome,\n\nThis noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,\n\nIs in opinion and in honour wrong'd;\n\nThat, in the rescue of Lavinia, 440\n\nWith his own hand did slay his youngest son,\n\nIn zeal to you and highly moved to wrath\n\nTo be controll'd in that he frankly gave:443\n\nReceive him then to favour, Saturnine,\n\nThat hath express'd himself in all his deeds\n\nA father and a friend to thee and Rome.\n\nTIT. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds:447\n\n'T is thou and those that have dishonour'd me.\n\nRome and the righteous heavens be my judge,\n\nHow I have loved and honour'd Saturnine! 450\n\nTAM. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora\n\nWere gracious in those princely eyes of thine,\n\nThen hear me speak indifferently for all;453\n\nAnd at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.\n\nSAT. What, madam! be dishonour'd openly,\n\nAnd basely put it up without revenge?456\n\nTAM. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend\n\nI should be author to dishonour you!458\n\nBut on mine honour dare I undertake459\n\nFor good Lord Titus' innocence in all; 460\n\nWhose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs:\n\nThen, at my suit, look graciously on him;\n\nLose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,463\n\nNor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.\n\n[ _Aside to Sat._ ] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at last;\n\nDissemble all your griefs and discontents:\n\nYou are but newly planted in your throne;\n\nLest then the people, and patricians too,\n\nUpon a just survey, take Titus' part,\n\nAnd so supplant you for ingratitude, 470\n\nWhich Rome reputes to be a heinous sin,\n\nYield at entreats, and then let me alone:472\n\nI'll find a day to massacre them all,\n\nAnd raze their faction and their family,\n\nThe cruel father and his traitorous sons,\n\nTo whom I sued for my dear son's life;\n\nAnd make them know what 't is to let a queen\n\nKneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.\u2014\n\nCome, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus;\n\nTake up this good old man, and cheer the heart 480\n\nThat dies in tempest of thy angry frown.\n\nSAT. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevail'd.\n\nTIT. I thank your majesty, and her, my lord:\n\nThese words, these looks, infuse new life in me.\n\nTAM. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,\n\nA Roman now adopted happily,\n\nAnd must advise the emperor for his good.\n\nThis day all quarrels die, Andronicus.\n\nAnd let it be mine honour, good my lord,\n\nThat I have reconciled your friends and you. 490\n\nFor you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd\n\nMy word and promise to the emperor,\n\nThat you will be more mild and tractable.\n\nAnd fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia;\n\nBy my advice, all humbled on your knees,\n\nYou shall ask pardon of his majesty.\n\nLUC. We do; and vow to heaven, and to his highness,\n\nThat what we did was mildly as we might,\n\nTendering our sister's honour and our own.499\n\nMARC. That, on mine honour, here I do protest. 500\n\nSAT. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more.\n\nTAM. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends:\n\nThe tribune and his nephews kneel for grace;\n\nI will not be denied: sweet heart, look back.504\n\nSAT. Marcus, for thy sake and thy brother's here,\n\nAnd at my lovely Tamora's entreats,506\n\nI do remit these young men's heinous faults:\n\nStand up.\n\nLavinia, though you left me like a churl,\n\nI found a friend; and sure as death I swore 510\n\nI would not part a bachelor from the priest.\n\nCome, if the emperor's court can feast two brides,\n\nYou are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends.\n\nThis day shall be a love-day, Tamora.514\n\nTIT. To-morrow, an it please your majesty\n\nTo hunt the panther and the hart with me,\n\nWith horn and hound we'll give your grace bonjour.\n\nSAT. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.518\n\n[ _Flourish. Exeunt._\n\n* * *\n\n4 _my successive title_ ] my hereditary right to succeed.\n\n8 _mine age_ ] my seniority in point of age.\n\n15 _continence_ ] self-restraint.\n\n16 _in pure election_ ] in the purity of free election (instead of in right of birth).\n\n19 _empery_ ] empire, a common form.\n\n21 _by common voice_ ] unanimously.\n\n27 _accited_ ] summoned.\n\n29 _That_ ] He who.\n\n41 _in the Capitol... right_ ] in the name of the Capitol and the senate's authority.\n\n43 _abate your strength_ ] reduce your numbers\n\n47 _affy_ ] trust.\n\n126 _Patient yourself_ ] calm yourself, be patient.\n\n130 _mark'd_ ] destined.\n\n138 _Oppose not... Rome_ ] Do not contrast Scythia with ambitious Rome, which is much more cruel.\n\n147 _quit_ ] requite, avenge.\n\n174\u2013175 _outlive... praise_ ] a poetical exaggeration; a wish that, in order to preserve eternally the example of virtue, Lavinia may live for ever.\n\n184 _That hath... Solon's happiness_ ] An allusion to Solon's well-known saying \"Call no man happy till he is dead.\" The warriors who die in honourable warfare alone realise final happiness.\n\n188 _trust_ ] trustee, the man in whom they put their trust.\n\n189 _palliament_ ] a rare coinage from the medieval Latin \"palliamentum,\" a robe or cloak.\n\n194\u2013195 _A better head... feebleness_ ] Titus gives himself a character which is quite out of harmony with his conduct throughout the play.\n\n196 _What...?_ ] Why?\n\n199 _And set abroad... all_ ] And put you all again to the trouble of making a new election; augment your public responsibilities.\n\n208 _obtain and ask_ ] obtain by asking.\n\n247 _onset_ ] beginning.\n\n251 _Pantheon_ ] the temple built in the Campus Martius at Rome by Agrippa, $.&. 27.\n\n252 _motion_ ] proposal, proposition.\n\n273 _change of cheer_ ] change of condition (from happiness to sorrow).\n\n316 _That_ ] She ( _i.e.,_ Lavinia).\n\n319 _I'll trust by leisure_ ] I'll trust when I have the leisure (an unlikely condition). The speaker ironically means that he is not likely to trust.\n\n322 _stale_ ] laughing-stock, object of ridicule.\n\n327 _that changing piece_ ] that fickle baggage.\n\n328 _flourish'd_ ] brandished insolently.\n\n331 _ruffle_ ] swagger, behave boisterously.\n\n334 _Ph\u0153be_ ] the name applied by classical authors to Diana, chiefly in her character of goddess of the moon.\n\n343 _Hymen\u00e6us_ ] the god of marriage.\n\n418 _by device_ ] by stratagem.\n\n422 _play'd your prize_ ] won your match.\n\n436 _Only thus much... to know_ ] This is sufficient information for me to impart to you.439 _opinion_ ] credit.\n\n443 _To be controll'd... gave_ ] To be checked or interfered with when offering a free gift.\n\n447 _leave to plead my deeds_ ] cease making my achievements the ground of your plea.\n\n453 _indifferently_ ] impartially.\n\n456 _put it up_ ] put up with it.\n\n458 _I should be author... you_ ] I should do anything derogatory to you.\n\n459 _undertake_ ] become surety, pledge my word.\n\n463 _suppose_ ] surmise.\n\n472 _Yield at entreats_ ] Yield to entreaties.\n\n480 _Take up_ ] Lift up, cause to rise.\n\n499 _Tendering_ ] Having tender regard for.\n\n504 _look back_ ] reconsider\n\n506 _entreats_ ] entreaties.\n\n514 _a love-day_ ] a day of friendly settlement, of reconciliation.\n\n518 _gramercy_ ] A French phrase for \"grand merci\" ( _i.e.,_ best thanks); \"bonjour\" has much the same significance in the previous line.\n\n### ACT II.\n\n#### SCENE I. _Rome. Before the Palace_.\n\n_Enter_ AARON\n\nAARON. Now climbeth Tamora\n\nOlympus' top,\n\nSafe out of fortune's shot, and sits aloft,\n\nSecure of thunder's crack or lightning flash,4\n\nAdvanced above pale envy's threatening reach.\n\nAs when the golden sun salutes the morn,\n\nAnd, having gilt the ocean with his beams,\n\nGallops the zodiac in his glistering coach,\n\nAnd overlooks the highest-peering hills;\n\nSo Tamora: 10\n\nUpon her wit doth earthly honour wait,\n\nAnd virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.\n\nThen, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts,\n\nTo mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,\n\nAnd mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long15\n\nHast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains,\n\nAnd faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes17\n\nThan is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.\n\nAway with slavish weeds and servile thoughts!\n\nI will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, 20\n\nTo wait upon this new-made empress.\n\nTo wait, said I? to wanton with this queen,\n\nThis goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,23\n\nThis siren, that will charm Rome's Saturnine,\n\nAnd see his shipwreck and his commonweal's.\n\nHolloa! what storm is this?\n\n_Enter_ DEMETRIUS _and_ CHIRON, _braving_\n\nDEM. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge,\n\nAnd manners, to intrude where I am graced,\n\nAnd may, for aught thou know'st, affected be.29\n\nCHI. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all,30\n\nAnd so in this, to bear me down with braves.\n\n'T is not the difference of a year or two\n\nMakes me less gracious, or thee more fortunate:\n\nI am as able and as fit as thou\n\nTo serve, and to deserve my mistress' grace;\n\nAnd that my sword upon thee shall approve,36\n\nAnd plead my passions for Lavinia's love.\n\nAAR. _Aside_ ] Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not keep the peace.38\n\nDEM. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised,39\n\nGave you a dancing-rapier by your side, 40\n\nAre you so desperate grown, to threat your friends?\n\nGo to; have your lath glued within your sheath42\n\nTill you know better how to handle it.\n\nCHI. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,\n\nFull well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.\n\nDEM. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave? [ _They draw._\n\nAAR. [ _Coming forward_ ] Why, how now, lords!\n\nSo near the emperor's palace dare you draw,\n\nAnd maintain such a quarrel openly?\n\nFull well I wot the ground of all this grudge:50\n\nI would not for a million of gold\n\nThe cause were known to them it most concerns;\n\nNor would your noble mother for much more\n\nBe so dishonour'd in the court of Rome.\n\nFor shame, put up.\n\nDEM. Not I, till I have sheathed\n\nMy rapier in his bosom, and withal\n\nThrust those reproachful speeches down his throat,\n\nThat he hath breathed in my dishonour here.\n\nCHI. For that I am prepared and full resolved. 60\n\nFoul-spoken coward! that thunder'st with thy tongue,\n\nAnd with thy weapon nothing darest perform.\n\nAAR. Away, I say!\n\nNow, by the gods that warlike Goths adore,\n\nThis petty brabble will undo us all.\n\nWhy, lords, and think you not how dangerous\n\nIt is to jet upon a prince's right?67\n\nWhat, is Lavinia then become so loose,\n\nOr Bassianus so degenerate,\n\nThat for her love such quarrels may be broach'd 70\n\nWithout controlment, justice, or revenge?\n\nYoung lords, beware! an should the empress know\n\nThis discord's ground, the music would not please.73\n\nCHI. I care not, I, knew she and all the world:\n\nI love Lavinia more than all the world.\n\nDEM. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice:\n\nLavinia is thine elder brother's hope.\n\nAAR. Why, are ye mad? or know ye not, in Rome\n\nHow furious and impatient they be,\n\nAnd cannot brook competitors in love? 80\n\nI tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device.\n\nCHI. Aaron, a thousand deaths\n\nWould I propose to achieve her whom I love.\n\nAAR. To achieve her! how?84\n\nDEM. Why makest thou it so strange?\n\nShe is a woman, therefore may be woo'd;\n\nShe is a woman, therefore may be won;\n\nShe is Lavinia, therefore must be loved.\n\nWhat, man! more water glideth by the mill 90\n\nThan wots the miller of; and easy it is\n\nOf a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:92\n\nThough Bassianus be the emperor's brother,\n\nBetter than he have worn Vulcan's badge.94\n\nAAR. [ _Aside_ ] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.\n\nDEM. Then why should he despair that knows to court it\n\nWith words, fair looks, and liberality?\n\nWhat, hast not thou full often struck a doe,\n\nAnd borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose?99\n\nAAR. Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or so 100\n\nWould serve your turns.\n\nCHI. Ay, so the turn were served.\n\nDEM. Aaron, thou hast hit it.\n\nAAR. Would you had hit it too!\n\nThen should not we be tired with this ado.\n\nWhy, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools\n\nTo square for this? would it offend you,107\n\nthen, That both should speed?\n\nCHI. Faith, not me.\n\nDEM. Nor me, so I were one. 110\n\nAAR. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar:111\n\n'T is policy and stratagem must do\n\nThat you affect; and so must you resolve,\n\nThat what you cannot as you would achieve,\n\nYou must perforce accomplish as you may.\n\nTake this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love.118\n\nA speedier course than lingering languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path.\n\nMy lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; 120\n\nThere will the lovely Roman ladies troop:\n\nThe forest walks are wide and spacious;\n\nAnd many unfrequented plots there are\n\nFitted by kind for rape and villany:124\n\nSingle you thither then this dainty doe,125\n\nAnd strike her home by force, if not by words:\n\nThis way, or not at all, stand you in hope.\n\nCome, come, our empress, with her sacred wit128\n\nTo villany and vengeance consecrate,\n\nWill we acquaint with all that we intend; 130\n\nAnd she shall file our engines with advice,131\n\nThat will not suffer you to square yourselves,132\n\nBut to your wishes' height advance you both.\n\nThe emperor's court is like the house of Fame,\n\nThe palace full of tongues, of eyes and ears:\n\nThe woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf and dull;\n\nThere speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your turns;\n\nThere serve your lust, shadow'd from heaven's eye,\n\nAnd revel in Lavinia's treasury.\n\nCHI. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. 140\n\nDEM. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream141\n\nTo cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits,\n\nPer Styga, per manes vehor.\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n#### SCENE II. _A Forest near Rome. Horns and Cry of Hounds Heard_.\n\n_Enter_ TITUS ANDRONICUS, _with_ Hunters, &c., MARCUS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, _and_ MARTIUS\n\nTIT. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,1\n\nThe fields are fragrant, and the woods are green:\n\nUncouple here, and let us make a bay,3\n\nAnd wake the emperor and his lovely bride,\n\nAnd rouse the prince, and ring a hunter's peal,\n\nThat all the court may echo with the noise.\n\nSons, let it be your charge, as it is ours,\n\nTo attend the emperor's person carefully.\n\nI have been troubled in my sleep this night,\n\nBut dawning day new comfort hath inspired. 10\n\n_A cry of hounds, and horns winded in a peal. Enter_ SATURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSINUNS, LAVINIA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, _and their_ Attendants.\n\nMany good morrows to your majesty;\n\nMadam, to you as many and as good:\n\nI promised your grace a hunter's peal.\n\nSAT. And you have rung it lustily, my lords;\n\nSomewhat too early for new-married ladies.\n\nBAS. Lavinia, how say you?\n\nL AV. I say, no;\n\nI have been broad awake two hours and more.\n\nSAT. Come on then; horse and chariots let us have,\n\nAnd to our sport. [ _To Tamora_ ] Madam, now shall ye see 20\n\nOur Roman hunting.\n\nMARC. I have dogs, my lord,\n\nWill rouse the proudest panther in the chase,\n\nAnd climb the highest promontory top.\n\nTIT And I have horse will follow where the game\n\nMakes way, and run like swallows o'er the plain.\n\nDEM. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound,\n\nBut hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground.\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n#### SCENE III. _A Lonely Part of the Forest_.\n\n_Enter_ AARON, _with a bag of gold_\n\nAAR. He that had wit would think that I had none,\n\nTo bury so much gold under a tree,\n\nAnd never after to inherit it.\n\nLet him that thinks of me so abjectly3\n\nKnow that this gold must coin a stratagem,\n\nWhich, cunningly effected, will beget\n\nA very excellent piece of villany:\n\nAnd so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest [ _Hides the gold._\n\nThat have their alms out of the empress' chest.8\n\n_Enter_ TAMORN,\n\nTAM. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad, 10\n\nWhen every thing doth make a gleeful boast?\n\nThe birds chant melody on every bush;\n\nThe snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun;13\n\nThe green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,\n\nAnd make a chequer'd shadow on the ground:\n\nUnder their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,\n\nAnd, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,\n\nReplying shrilly to the well-tuned horns,\n\nAs if a double hunt were heard at once,\n\nLet us sit down and mark their yellowing noise; 20\n\nAnd, after conflict such as was supposed\n\nThe wandering prince and Dido once enjoy'd,\n\nWhen with a happy storm they were surprised,23\n\nAnd curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave,\n\nWe may, each wreathed in the other's arms,\n\nOur pastimes done, possess a golden slumber;26\n\nWhiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds\n\nBe unto us as is a nurse's song\n\nOf lullaby to bring her babe asleep.\n\nAAR. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, 30\n\nSaturn is dominator over mine:31\n\nWhat signifies my deadly-standing eye,32\n\nMy silence and my cloudy melancholy,\n\nMy fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls\n\nEven as an adder when she doth unroll35\n\nTo do some fatal execution?\n\nNo, madam, these are no venereal signs:37\n\nVengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,\n\nBlood and revenge are hammering in my head.\n\nHark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, 40\n\nWhich never hopes more heaven than rests in thee,\n\nThis is the day of doom for Bassianus:\n\nHis Philomel must lose her tongue to-day,43\n\nThy sons make pillage of her chastity,\n\nAnd wash their hands in Bassianus' blood.\n\nSeest thou this letter? take it up,\n\nI pray thee, And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll.\n\nNow question me no more; we are espied;\n\nHere comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,49\n\nWhich dreads not yet their lives' destruction. 50\n\nTAM. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life!\n\nAAR. No more, great empress; Bassianus comes:\n\nBe cross with him, and I'll go fetch thy sons\n\nTo back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be. [ _Exit._\n\n_Enter_ BASSINUNS _and_ LAVINIA\n\nBAS. Who have we here? Rome's royal empress,\n\nUnfurnish'd of her well-beseeming troop?\n\nOr is it Dian, habited like her,\n\nWho hath abandoned her holy groves\n\nTo see the general hunting in this forest?\n\nTAM. Saucy controller of my private steps! 60\n\nHad I the power that some say Dian had,\n\nThy temples should be planted presently\n\nWith horns, as was Act\u00e6on's, and the hounds\n\nShould drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,64\n\nUnmannerly intruder as thou art!\n\nLAV. Under your patience, gentle empress,\n\n'T is thought you have a goodly gift in horning;\n\nAnd to be doubted that your Moor and you\n\nAre singled forth to try experiments:\n\nJove shield your husband from his hounds to-day! 70\n\n'T is pity they should take him for a stag.\n\nBAS. Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian\n\nDoth make your honour of his body's hue,\n\nSpotted, detested, and abominable.\n\nWhy are you sequester'd from all your train,\n\nDismounted from your snow-white goodly steed,\n\nAnd wander'd hither to an obscure plot,\n\nAccompanied but with a barbarous Moor\n\nIf foul desire had not conducted you?\n\nLAV. And, being intercepted in your sport, 80\n\nGreat reason that my noble lord be rated\n\nFor sauciness. I pray you, let us hence,\n\nAnd let her joy her raven-colour'd love;\n\nThis valley fits the purpose passing well.\n\nBAS. The king my brother shall have note of this.\n\nLAV. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long:\n\nGood king, to be so mightily abused!\n\nTAM. Why have I patience to endure all this?\n\n_Enter_ DEMETRIUS _and_ CHIRON\n\nDEM. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother!\n\nWhy doth your highness look so pale and wan? 90\n\nTAM. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?\n\nThese two have ticed me hither to this place:\n\nA barren detested vale, you see it is;\n\nThe trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,\n\nO'ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:95\n\nHere never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,\n\nUnless the nightly owl or fatal raven:\n\nAnd when they show'd me this abhorred pit,\n\nThey told me, here, at dead time of the night,\n\nA thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, 100\n\nTen thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,101\n\nWould make such fearful and confused cries,\n\nAs any mortal body hearing it\n\nShould straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.\n\nNo sooner had they told this hellish tale,\n\nBut straight they told me they would bind me here\n\nUnto the body of a dismal yew,\n\nAnd leave me to this miserable death:\n\nAnd then they call'd me foul adultress,\n\nLascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms110\n\nThat ever ear did hear to such effect:\n\nAnd, had you not by wondrous fortune come,\n\nThis vengeance on me had they executed.\n\nRevenge it, as you love your mother's life,\n\nOr be ye not henceforth call'd my children.\n\nDEM. This is a witness that I am thy son\n\n.[ _Stabs Bassianus._\n\nCHI. And this for me, struck home to show my strength\n\n.[ _Also stabs Bassianus, who dies._\n\nLAV. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora, 120\n\nFor no name fits thy nature but thy own!\n\nTAM. Give me the poniard; you shall know, my boys,\n\nYour mother's hand shall right your mother's wrong.\n\nDEM. Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her;\n\nFirst thrash the corn, then after burn the straw;\n\nThis minion stood upon her chastity,\n\nUpon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,\n\nAnd with that painted hope braves your mightiness:128\n\nAnd shall she carry this unto her grave?\n\nCHI. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch. 130\n\nDrag hence her husband to some secret hole,\n\nAnd make his dead trunk pillow to our lust.\n\nTAM. But when ye have the honey ye desire,\n\nLet not this wasp outlive, us both to sting.\n\nCHI. I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure.\n\nCome, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy\n\nThat nice-preserved honesty of yours.\n\nLAV.O Tamora! thou bear'st a woman's face\u2014\n\nTAM. I will not hear her speak; away with her!\n\nLAV. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word. 140\n\nDEM. Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory\n\nTo see her tears, but be your heart to them\n\nAs unrelenting flint to drops of rain.\n\nLAV. When did the tiger's young ones teach the dam?\n\nO, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee;145\n\nThe milk thou suck'dst from her did turn to marble;\n\nEven at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.\n\nYet every mother breeds not sons alike:\n\n[ _To Chiron_ ] Do thou entreat her show a woman pity.\n\nCHI. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? 150\n\nLAV.'T is true; the raven doth not hatch a lark:\n\nYet have I heard,\u2014O, could I find it now!\u2014\n\nThe lion, moved with pity, did endure\n\nTo have his princely paws pared all away:\n\nSome say that ravens foster forlorn children,\n\nThe whilst their own birds famish in their nests:\n\nO, be to me, though thy hard heart say no,\n\nNothing so kind, but something pitiful!\n\nTAM. I know not what it means: away with her!\n\nLAV.O, let me teach thee! for my father's sake, 160\n\nThat gave thee life, when well he might have slain thee,\n\nBe not obdurate, open thy deaf ears.\n\nTAM. Hadst thou in person ne'er offended me,\n\nEven for his sake am I pitiless.\n\nRemember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain,\n\nTo save your brother from the sacrifice;\n\nBut fierce Andronicus would not relent:\n\nTherefore, away with her, and use her as you will;\n\nThe worse to her, the better loved of me.\n\nLAV. O Tamora, be call'd a gentle queen, 170\n\nAnd with thine own hands kill me in this place!\n\nFor 't is not life that I have begg'd so long;\n\nPoor I was slain when Bassianus died.\n\nTAM. What begg'st thou then? fond woman, let me go.\n\nLAV.'T is present death I beg; and one thing more\n\nThat womanhood denies my tongue to tell:\n\nO, keep me from their worse than killing lust,\n\nAnd tumble me into some loathsome pit,\n\nWhere never man's eye may behold my body:\n\nDo this, and be a charitable murderer. 180\n\nTAM. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee:\n\nNo, let them satisfy their lust on thee.\n\nDEM. Away! for thou hast stay'd us here too long.\n\nLAV. No grace? no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature!\n\nThe blot and enemy to our general name!\n\nConfusion fall\u2014\n\nCHI. Nay, then I'll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband:\n\nThis is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.\n\n[ _Demetrius throws the body of Bassianus into the pit; then exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, dragging off Lavinia._ 190\n\nTAM. Farewell, my sons; see that you make her sure.\n\nNe'er let my heart know merry cheer indeed,\n\nTill all the Andronici be made away.\n\nNow will I hence to seek my lovely\n\nMoor, And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower.\n\n[ _Exit._\n\n_Re-enter_ AARON, _with_ QUINTUS _and_ MARTIUS\n\nAAR. Come on, my lords, the better foot before:\n\nStraight will I bring you to the loathsome pit\n\nWhere I espied the panther fast asleep.\n\nQUIN. My sight is very dull, whate'er it bodes.\n\nMART. And mine, I promise you; were it not for shame, 200\n\nWell could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.\n\n[ _Falls into the pit._\n\nQUIN. What, art thou fall'n? What subtle hole is this,\n\nWhose mouth is cover'd with rude-growing briers,\n\nUpon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood\n\nAs fresh as morning dew distill'd on flowers?\n\nA very fatal place it seems to me.\n\nSpeak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?\n\nMART. O brother, with the dismal'st object hurt\n\nThat ever eye with sight made heart lament! 210\n\nAAR. _Aside_ ] Now will I fetch the king to find them here,\n\nThat he thereby may have a likely guess\n\nHow these were they that made away his brother. [ _Exit._\n\nMART. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out\n\nFrom this unhallow'd and blood-stained hole?\n\nQUIN. I am surprised with an uncouth fear;\n\nA chilling sweat o'er-runs my trembling joints;\n\nMy heart suspects more than mine eye can see.\n\nMART. To prove thou hast a true-divining heart,\n\nAaron and thou look down into this den, 220\n\nAnd see a fearful sight of blood and death.\n\nQUIN. Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart\n\nWill not permit mine eyes once to behold\n\nThe thing whereat it trembles by surmise:\n\nO, tell me how it is; for ne'er till now\n\nWas I a child to fear I know not what.\n\nMART. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,227\n\nAll on a heap, like to a slaughter'd lamb,\n\nIn this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.\n\nQUIN. If it be dark, how dost thou know 't is he? 230\n\nMART. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear\n\nA precious ring, that lightens all the hole,232\n\nWhich, like a taper in some monument,\n\nDoth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks,\n\nAnd shows the ragged entrails of the pit:235\n\nSo pale did shine the moon on Pyramus\n\nWhen he by night lay bathed in maiden blood.\n\nO brother, help me with thy fainting hand\u2014\n\nIf fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath\u2014\n\nOut of this fell devouring receptacle, 240\n\nAs hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth.241\n\nQUIN. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out;\n\nOr, wanting strength to do thee so much good,\n\nI may be pluck'd into the swallowing womb\n\nOf this deep pit, poor Bassianus' grave.\n\nI have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.\n\nMART. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help.\n\nQUIN. Thy hand once more; I will not loose again,\n\nTill thou art here aloft, or I below:\n\nThou canst not come to me: I come to thee. [ _Falls in._ 250\n\n_Enter_ SATURNINUS. _with_ AARON,\n\nSAT. Along with me: I'll see what hole is here,\n\nAnd what he is that now is leap'd into it.\n\nSay, who art thou that lately didst descend\n\nInto this gaping hollow of the earth?\n\nMART. The unhappy son of old Andronicus;\n\nBrought hither in a most unlucky hour,\n\nTo find thy brother Bassianus dead.\n\nSAT. My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest:\n\nHe and his lady both are at the lodge\n\nUpon the north side of this pleasant chase;260\n\n'T is not an hour since I left them there.\n\nMART. We know not where you left them all alive;\n\nBut, out, alas! here have we found him dead.\n\n_Re-enter_ TAMORN _with_ Attendants; TITUS ANDRONICUS _and_ LUCIUS\n\nTAM Where is my lord the king?\n\nSAT. Here, Tamora; though grieved with killing grief.\n\nTAM Where is thy brother Bassianus?\n\nSAT. Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound:\n\nPoor Bassianus here lies murdered.\n\nTAM. _Giving a letter_ ] Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,\n\nThe complot of this timeless tragedy;270\n\nAnd wonder greatly that man's face can fold\n\nIn pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.\n\nSAT. [ _Reads_ ] \"An if we miss to meet him handsomely\u2014\n\nSweet huntsman, Bassianus 't is we mean\u2014\n\nDo thou so much as dig the grave for him:\n\nThou know'st our meaning. Look for thy reward\n\nAmong the nettles at the elder-tree,\n\nWhich overshades the mouth of that same pit\n\nWhere we decreed to bury Bassianus.\n\nDo this and purchase us thy lasting friends.\" 280\n\nO Tamora! was ever heard the like?\n\nThis is the pit, and this the elder-tree.\n\nLook, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out\n\nThat should have murder'd Bassianus here.\n\nAAR. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold.\n\nSAT. [ _To Titus_ ] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind,286\n\nHave here bereft my brother of his life.\n\nSirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison:\n\nThere let them bide until we have devised\n\nSome never-heard-of torturing pain for them. 290\n\nTAM. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing!\n\nHow easily murder is discovered!\n\nTAM. High emperor, upon my feeble knee\n\nI beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed,\n\nThat this fell fault of my accursed sons,\n\nAccursed, if the fault be proved in them\u2014\n\nSAT. If it be proved! you see it is apparent.\n\nWho found this letter? Tamora, was it you?\n\nTAM. Andronicus himself did take it up.\n\nTAM. I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail; 300\n\nFor, by my fathers' reverend tomb,\n\nI vow They shall be ready at your highness' will,\n\nTo answer their suspicion with their lives.\n\nSAT. Thou shalt not bail them: see thou follow me.\n\nSome bring the murder'd body, some the murderers:\n\nLet them not speak a word; the guilt is plain;\n\nFor, by my soul, were there worse end than death,\n\nThat end upon them should be executed.\n\nTAM. Andronicus, I will entreat the king:\n\nFear not thy sons; they shall do well enough.310\n\nTAM. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them.\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n#### SCENE IV. _Another Part of the Forest_.\n\n_Enter_ DEMETRIUS _and_ CHIRON _with_ LAVINIA _ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out_\n\nDEM. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,\n\nWho 't was that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.\n\nCHI. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,\n\nAn if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.\n\nDEM. See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.\n\nCHI. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.\n\nDEM. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;\n\nAnd so let's leave her to her silent walks.\n\nCHI. An 't were my case, I should go hang myself.\n\nDEM. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. 10\n\n[ _Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron._\n\n_Horns winded within. Enter_ MARCUS, _from hunting_\n\nMAR. Who is this? my niece, that flies away so fast!\n\nCousin, a word; where is your husband?\n\nIf I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!\n\nIf I do wake, some planet strike me down,\n\nThat I may slumber in eternal sleep!\n\nSpeak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands\n\nHave lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare\n\nOf her two branches, those sweet ornaments,\n\nWhose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, 20\n\nAnd might not gain so great a happiness\n\nAs have thy love? Why dost not speak to me?\n\nAlas, a crimson river of warm blood,\n\nLike to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,\n\nDoth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,\n\nComing and going with thy honey breath.\n\nBut, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee,\n\nAnd, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.\n\nAh, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame!\n\nAnd, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, 30\n\nAs from a conduit with three issuing spouts,\n\nYet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face32\n\nBlushing to be encounter'd with a cloud.\n\nShall I speak for thee? shall I say 't is so?\n\nO, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,\n\nThat I might rail at him, to ease my mind!\n\nSorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,\n\nDoth burn the heart to cinders where it is.\n\nFair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue,\n\nAnd in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind: 40\n\nBut, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;\n\nA craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,42\n\nAnd he hath cut those pretty fingers off,\n\nThat could have better sew'd than Philomel.\n\nO, had the monster seen those lily hands\n\nTremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute,\n\nAnd make the silken strings delight to kiss them,\n\nHe would not then have touch'd them for his life!\n\nOr, had he heard the heavenly harmony\n\nWhich that sweet tongue hath made, 50\n\nHe would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep\n\nAs Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.\n\nCome, let us go and make thy father blind;\n\nFor such a sight will blind a father's eye:\n\nOne hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads;\n\nWhat will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?\n\nDo not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:\n\nO, could our mourning ease thy misery!\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n* * *\n\n4 _Secure_ ] Careless or fearless.\n\n15 _pitch_ ] the full height to which a falcon soars; a hawking term.\n\n17 _charming_ ] bewitching, in the literal sense.\n\n23 _Semiramis_ ] a semi-mythical Queen of Babylon.\n\n29 _affected_ ] loved.\n\n30 _thou dost over-ween in all_ ] thou hast an excessive opinion of thyself in all regards.31 _braves_ ] brags, bravado.\n\n36 _approve_ ] prove.\n\n38 _Clubs, clubs!_ ] the common Elizabethan street cry summoning the watchman to stop a brawl.\n\n39 _unadvised_ ] imprudently.\n\n40 _a dancing-rapier_ ] a light sword worn by dancers for ornament, not for use.\n\n42 _your lath_ ] your sword of lath or wood.\n\n50 _the ground of all this grudge_ ] the source of all this ill feeling.\n\n67 _jet_ ] encroach.\n\n73 _ground_ ] a musical term for the simple melody on which the harmony of a song was developed.\n\n84 _achieve_ ] win.\n\n92 _shive_ ] slice; the expression is proverbial.\n\n94 _Vulcan's badge_ ] the cuckold's badge. Vulcan was the deluded husband of Venus.\n\n99 _cleanly_ ] neatly, adroitly.\n\n100 _snatch_ ] hurried enjoyment.\n\n107 _square_ ] quarrel.\n\n111 _join for that you jar_ ] combine to obtain what you quarrel over.\n\n118 _lingering languishment_ ] prolonged sentimental wooing.\n\n124 _by kind_ ] by nature.\n\n125 _Single_ ] Single out, isolate.\n\n128 _sacred_ ] ironically used for accursed.\n\n131 _file our engines_ ] help our projects, make them run smooth.\n\n132 _square yourselves_ ] put yourselves in the attitude of fight, quarrel with one another.\n\n141\u2013143 _Sit fas_... _vehor_ ] The Latin words mean \"Be it right or wrong, willy-nilly,... I am borne through the river Styx and through (the land of) disembodied spirits.\"\n\n1 _The hunt is up_ ] The cry of the huntsmen in starting the chase. _grey_ ] blue grey, or blue.\n\n3 _Uncouple_ ] Slip off the leashes. _make a bay_ ] rouse a barking in unison.\n\n3 _inherit_ ] possess.\n\n8 _for their unrest_ ] to cause disquiet to those.\n\n13 _rolled_ ] coiled.\n\n20 _yellowing_ ] a form of \"yelling.\"\n\n23 _happy_ ] opportune.\n\n26 _golden slumber_ ] The epithet is conventional in poetry of earlier and later date.\n\n31 _Saturn_ ] the planet of hate and moroseness.\n\n32 _deadly-standing eye_ ] murderously glaring eye.\n\n35 _unroll_ ] uncoil.\n\n37 _venereal_ ] amorous.\n\n43 _His Philomel_... _to-day_ ] There are many references in this play to the classical myth of Philomel, who was ravished by Tereus, husband of her sister Progne, and had her tongue cut out, so that the secret might not be revealed.\n\n49 _parcel_ ] part, portion.\n\n64 _drive upon_ ] rush upon.\n\n95 _O'ercome_ ] Overspread. _baleful mistletoe_ ] mistletoe berries are poisonous.\n\n101 _urchins_ ] hedgehogs.\n\n110 _Goth_ ] \"Goth\" was usually pronounced like \"goat.\"\n\n128 _painted hope_ ] specious assurance.\n\n145 _learn_ ] teach.\n\n227 _embrewed here_ ] steeped in blood\n\n232 _A precious ring_... _all the hole_ ] The gem known as the carbuncle was commonly credited with emitting light.\n\n235 _ragged entrails_ ] rugged interior.\n\n241 _Cocytus'_ ] One of the six rivers of Hades.\n\n260 _chase_ ] any unenclosed tract of land.\n\n270 _timeless_ ] untimely; a very common usage.\n\n286 _kind_ ] nature or strain.\n\n310 _Fear not thy sons_ ] Have no fear about thy sons.\n\n32 _Titan's face_ ] The sun's face.\n\n42\u201344 _A craftier Tereus... Philomel_ ] In the Ovidian tale the outraged and tongueless Philomela embroiders on a piece of stuff words narrating her misfortunes and forwards it to her sister Progne.\n\n### ACT III.\n\n#### SCENE I. _Rome. A Street_.\n\n_Enter_ Judges, Senators, _and_ Tribunes, _with_ MARTIUS _and_ QUINTUS, _bound, passing on to the place of execution;_ TITUS _going before, pleading_\n\nTITUS. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!\n\nFor pity of mine age, whose youth was spent\n\nIn dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept;\n\nFor all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed;\n\nFor all the frosty nights that I have watch'd;\n\nAnd for these bitter tears which now you see\n\nFilling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;\n\nBe pitiful to my condemned sons,\n\nWhose souls are not corrupted as 't is thought.\n\nFor two and twenty sons I never wept, 10\n\nBecause they died in honour's lofty bed.\n\n[ _Lieth down; the Judges, &c., pass by him, and Exeunt._\n\nFor these, tribunes, in the dust I write\n\nMy heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears:\n\nLet my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;\n\nMy sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.\n\nO earth, I will befriend thee more with rain,\n\nThat shall distil from these two ancient urns,\n\nThan youthful April shall with all his showers:\n\nIn summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still; 20\n\nIn winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow,\n\nAnd keep eternal spring-time on thy face,\n\nSo thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.\n\n_Enter_ LUCIUS, _with his weapon drawn_\n\nO reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men!\n\nUnbind my sons, reverse the doom of death;\n\nAnd let me say, that never wept before,\n\nMy tears are now prevailing orators.\n\nLUC. O noble father, you lament in vain:\n\nThe tribunes hear you not; no man is by;\n\nAnd you recount your sorrows to a stone. 30\n\nTIT Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.\n\nGrave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,\u2014\n\nLUC. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.\n\nTIT Why, 't is no matter, man: if they did hear,\n\nThey would not mark me; or if they did mark,\n\nThey would not pity me; yet plead I must,\n\nAnd bootless unto them....\n\nTherefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;\n\nWho, though they cannot answer my distress,\n\nYet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, 40\n\nFor that they will not intercept my tale:\n\nWhen I do weep, they humbly at my feet\n\nReceive my tears, and seem to weep with me;\n\nAnd, were they but attired in grave weeds,\n\nRome could afford no tribune like to these.\n\nA stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones;\n\nA stone is silent and offendeth not,\n\nAnd tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. [ _Rises._\n\nBut wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?\n\nLUC. To rescue my two brothers from their death: 50\n\nFor which attempt the judges have pronounced\n\nMy everlasting doom of banishment.\n\nTIT. O happy man! they have befriended thee.\n\nWhy, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive\n\nThat Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?\n\nTigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey\n\nBut me and mine: how happy art thou then,\n\nFrom these devourers to be banished!\n\nBut who comes with our brother Marcus here?\n\n_Enter_ MARCUS _and_ LAVINIA\n\nMARC Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; 60\n\nOr, if not so, thy noble heart to break:\n\nI bring consuming sorrow to thine age.\n\nTIT. Will it consume me? let me see it then.\n\nMARC. This was thy daughter.\n\nTIT. Why, Marcus, so she is.\n\nLUC. Ay me, this object kills me!\n\nTIT. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.\n\nSpeak, Lavinia, what accursed hand\n\nHath made thee handless in thy father's sight?\n\nWhat fool hath added water to the sea, 70\n\nOr brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?\n\nMy grief was at the height before thou camest;\n\nAnd now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.73\n\nGive me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too;\n\nFor they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;\n\nAnd they have nursed this woe, in feeding life;\n\nIn bootless prayer have they been held up,\n\nAnd they have served me to effectless use:\n\nNow all the service I require of them\n\nIs, that the one will help to cut the other. 80\n\n'T is well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands;\n\nFor hands to do Rome service is but vain.\n\nLUC. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?\n\nMARC. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,84\n\nThat blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence,\n\nIs torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,\n\nWhere, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung\n\nSweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!\n\nLUC. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?\n\nMARC. O, thus I found her, straying in the park, 90\n\nSeeking to hide herself, as doth the deer\n\nThat hath received some unrecuring wound.92\n\nTIT. It was my dear; and he that wounded her 93\n\nHath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead:\n\nFor now I stand as one upon a rock,\n\nEnviron'd with a wilderness of sea;\n\nWho marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,\n\nExpecting ever when some envious surge\n\nWill in his brinish bowels swallow him.\n\nThis way to death my wretched sons are gone; 100\n\nHere stands my other son, a banish'd man;\n\nAnd here my brother, weeping at my woes:\n\nBut that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,\n\nIs dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.\n\nHad I but seen thy picture in this plight,\n\nIt would have madded me: what shall I do,\n\nNow I behold thy lively body so?107\n\nThou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears;\n\nNor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr'd thee:\n\nThy husband he is dead; and for his death 110\n\nThy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.\n\nLook, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her!\n\nWhen I did name her brothers, then fresh tears\n\nStood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew114\n\nUpon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.\n\nMARC. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband;\n\nPerchance because she knows them innocent.\n\nTIT. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,\n\nBecause the law hath ta'en revenge on them.\n\nNo, no, they would not do so foul a deed; 120\n\nWitness the sorrow that their sister makes.\n\nGentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips;\n\nOr make some sign how I may do thee ease:\n\nShall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,\n\nAnd thou, and I, sit round about some fountain,\n\nLooking all downwards, to behold our cheeks\n\nHow they are stain'd, as meadows yet not dry\n\nWith miry slime left on them by a flood?\n\nAnd in the fountain shall we gaze so long\n\nTill the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, 130\n\nAnd made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?\n\nOr shall we cut away our hands, like thine?\n\nOr shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows\n\nPass the remainder of our hateful days?\n\nWhat shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,\n\nPlot some device of further misery,\n\nTo make us wonder'd at in time to come.\n\nLUC. Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief,\n\nSee how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.\n\nMARC. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. 140\n\nTIT. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot\n\nThy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,\n\nFor thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own.\n\nLUC. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.\n\nTIT. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs:\n\nHad she a tongue to speak, now would she say\n\nThat to her brother which I said to thee:\n\nHis napkin, with his true tears all bewet,\n\nCan do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.\n\nO, what a sympathy of woe is this, 150\n\nAs far from help as Limbo is from bliss!151\n\n_Enter_ AARON\n\nAAR. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor\n\nSends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons,\n\nLet Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,\n\nOr any one of you, chop off your hand,\n\nAnd send it to the king: he for the same\n\nWill send thee hither both thy sons alive;\n\nAnd that shall be the ransom for their fault.\n\nTIT. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!\n\nDid ever raven sing so like a lark, 160\n\nThat gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?\n\nWith all my heart, I'll send the emperor\n\nMy hand:\n\nGood Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?\n\nLUC. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,\n\nThat hath thrown down so many enemies,\n\nShall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn:\n\nMy youth can better spare my blood than you;\n\nAnd therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives.\n\nMARC. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, 170\n\nAnd rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,\n\nWriting destruction on the enemy's castle?\n\nO, none of both but are of high desert:\n\nMy hand hath been but idle; let it serve\n\nTo ransom my two nephews from their death;\n\nThen have I kept it to a worthy end.\n\nAAR. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,\n\nFor fear they die before their pardon come.\n\nMARC. My hand shall go.\n\nLUC. By heaven, it shall not go! 180\n\nTIT. Sirs, strive no more: such wither'd herbs as these\n\nAre meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.\n\nLUC. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,\n\nLet me redeem my brothers both from death.\n\nMARC. And, for our father's sake and mother's care,\n\nNow let me show a brother's love to thee.\n\nTIT. Agree between you; I will spare my hand.\n\nLUC. Then I'll go fetch an axe.\n\nMARC. But I will use the axe.\n\n[ _Exeunt Lucius and Marcus._ 190\n\nTIT. Come hither, Aaron; I'll deceive them both:\n\nLend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.\n\nAAR. [ _Aside_ ] If that be call'd deceit,\n\nI will be honest, And never, whilst I live, deceive men so:\n\nBut I'll deceive you in another sort,\n\nAnd that you'll say, ere half an hour pass.\n\n[ _Cuts off Titus's hand._\n\n_Re-enter_ LUCIUS _and_ MARCUS\n\nTIT. Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch'd.\n\nGood Aaron, give his majesty my hand:\n\nTell him it was a hand that warded him 200\n\nFrom thousand dangers; bid him bury it;\n\nMore hath it merited; that let it have.\n\nAs for my sons, say I account of them\n\nAs jewels purchased at an easy price;\n\nAnd yet dear too, because I bought mine own.\n\nAAR. I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand\n\nLook by and by to have thy sons with thee.\n\n[ _Aside_ ] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villany\n\nDoth fat me with the very thoughts of it!209\n\nLet fools do good, and fair men call for grace, 210\n\nAaron will have his soul black like his face.\n\n[ _Exit._\n\nTIT. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven,\n\nAnd bow this feeble ruin to the earth:\n\nIf any power pities wretched tears,\n\nTo that I call! [ _To Lav._ ] What, would thou kneel with me?\n\nDo, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers;\n\nOr with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim,\n\nAnd stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds\n\nWhen they do hug him in their melting bosoms.\n\nMARC. O brother, speak with possibilities, 220\n\nAnd do not break into these deep extremes.\n\nTIT. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?\n\nThen be my passions bottomless with them.\n\nMARC. But yet let reason govern thy lament.\n\nTIT. If there were reason for these miseries,\n\nThen into limits could I bind my woes:\n\nWhen heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?\n\nIf the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,\n\nThreatening the welkin with his big-swoln face?\n\nAnd wilt thou have a reason for this coil? 230\n\nI am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow!\n\nShe is the weeping welkin, I the earth:\n\nThen must my sea be moved with her sighs;\n\nThen must my earth with her continual tears\n\nBecome a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd:\n\nFor why my bowels cannot hide her woes,236\n\nBut like a drunkard must I vomit them.\n\nThen give me leave; for losers will have leave\n\nTo ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.\n\n_Enter a_ Messenger, _with two heads and a hand_\n\nMESS. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid 240\n\nFor that good hand thou sent'st the emperor.\n\nHere are the heads of thy two noble sons;\n\nAnd here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back,\n\nThy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock'd:\n\nThat woe is me to think upon thy woes,\n\nMore than remembrance of my father's death, [ _Exit._\n\nMARC. Now let hot \u00c6tna cool in Sicily,\n\nAnd be my heart an ever-burning hell!\n\nThese miseries are more than may be borne.\n\nTo weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, 250\n\nBut sorrow flouted at is double death.\n\nLUC. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound,\n\nAnd yet detested life not shrink thereat!\n\nThat ever death should let life bear his name,\n\nWhere life hath no more interest but to breathe!\n\n[ _Lavinia kisses Titus._\n\nMARC. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless\n\nAs frozen water to a starved snake.\n\nTIT. When will this fearful slumber have an end?\n\nMARC. Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus; 260\n\nThou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons' heads,\n\nThy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here,\n\nThy other banish'd son with this dear sight\n\nStruck pale and bloodless, and thy brother, I,\n\nEven like a stony image, cold and numb.\n\nAh, now no more will I control thy griefs:\n\nRend off thy silver hair, thy other hand\n\nGnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight\n\nThe closing up of our most wretched eyes:\n\nNow is a time to storm; why art thou still? 270\n\nTIT. Ha, ha, ha!\n\nMARC. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.\n\nTIT. Why, I have not another tear to shed:\n\nBesides, this sorrow is an enemy,\n\nAnd would usurp upon my watery eyes,\n\nAnd make them blind with tributary tears:\n\nThen which way shall I find Revenge's cave?\n\nFor these two heads do seem to speak to me,\n\nAnd threat me I shall never come to bliss\n\nTill all these mischiefs be return'd again 280\n\nEven in their throats that have committed them.\n\nCome, let me see what task I have to do.\n\nYou heavy people, circle me about,\n\nThat I may turn me to each one of you,\n\nAnd swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.\n\nThe vow is made. Come, brother, take a head;\n\nAnd in this hand the other will I bear.\n\nLavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in these things:\n\nBear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.\n\nAs for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight; 290\n\nThou art an exile, and thou must not stay:\n\nHie to the Goths, and raise an army there:\n\nAnd, if you love me, as I think you do,\n\nLet's kiss and part, for we have much to do.\n\n[ _Exeunt all but Lucius._\n\nLUC. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father,\n\nThe wofull'st man that ever lived in Rome:\n\nFarewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,\n\nHe leaves his pledges dearer than his life:\n\nFarewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; 300\n\nO, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been!\n\nBut now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives\n\nBut in oblivion and hateful griefs.\n\nIf Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs;\n\nAnd make proud Saturnine and his empress\n\nBeg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen.\n\nNow will I to the Goths and raise a power,\n\nTo be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. [ _Exit._\n\n#### SCENE II. _A Room in Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_.\n\n_Enter_ TITUS MARCUS LAVINIA _and young_ LUCIUS _a_ Boy307\n\nTIT. So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more\n\nThan will preserve just so much strength in us\n\nAs will revenge those bitter woes of ours.\n\nMarcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:4\n\nThy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,\n\nAnd cannot passionate our tenfold grief6\n\nWith folded arms. This poor right hand of mine\n\nIs left to tyrannize upon my breast;\n\nWho, when my heart, all mad with misery,\n\nBeats in this hollow prison of my flesh, 10\n\nThen thus I thump it down.\n\n[ _To Lavinia_ ] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!\n\nWhen thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,\n\nThou canst not strike it thus to make it still.\n\nWound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;15\n\nOr get some little knife between thy teeth,\n\nAnd just against thy heart make thou a hole;\n\nThat all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall\n\nMay run into that sink, and soaking in\n\nDrown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.20\n\nMARC. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay\n\nSuch violent hands upon her tender life.\n\nTITUS How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?\n\nWhy, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.\n\nWhat violent hands can she lay on her life?\n\nAh, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;\n\nTo bid \u00c6neas tell the tale twice o'er,\n\nHow Troy was burnt and he made miserable?\n\nO, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,\n\nLest we remember still that we have none. 30\n\nFie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,31\n\nAs if we should forget we had no hands,\n\nIf Marcus did not name the word of hands!\n\nCome, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:\n\nHere is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says;\n\nI can interpret all her martyr'd signs;36\n\nShe says she drinks no other drink but tears,\n\nBrew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks: 38\n\nSpeechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;\n\nIn thy dumb action will I be as perfect 40\n\nAs begging hermits in their holy prayers:\n\nThou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,\n\nNor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,\n\nBut I of these will wrest an alphabet,\n\nAnd by still practice learn to know thy meaning.45\n\nBOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:\n\nMake my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.\n\nMARC. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,\n\nDoth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.\n\nTITUS Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, 50\n\nAnd tears will quickly melt thy life away.\n\n[ _Marcus strikes the dish with a knife._\n\nWhat dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?\n\nMARC. At that that I have kill'd, my lord,\u2014a fly.\n\nTITUS Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart;\n\nMine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:\n\nA deed of death done on the innocent\n\nBecomes not Titus' brother: get thee gone;\n\nI see thou art not for my company.\n\nMARC. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. 60\n\nTITUS \"But!\" How, if that fly had a father and mother?\n\nHow would he hang his slender gilded wings,\n\nAnd buzz lamenting doings in the air!63\n\nPoor harmless fly,\n\nThat, with his pretty buzzing melody,\n\nCame here to make us merry! and thou hast kill'd him.\n\nMARC. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,\n\nLike to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.\n\nTIT. O, O, O,\n\nThen pardon me for reprehending thee, 70\n\nFor thou hast done a charitable deed.\n\nGive me thy knife, I will insult on him; 72\n\nFlattering myself, as if it were the Moor\n\nCome hither purposely to poison me.\n\nThere's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.\n\nAh, sirrah!\n\nYet, I think, we are not brought so low,\n\nBut that between us we can kill a fly\n\nThat comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.\n\nMARC. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, 80\n\nHe takes false shadows for true substances.\n\nTITUS Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me:\n\nI'll to thy closet; and go read with thee\n\nSad stories chanced in the times of old.\n\nCome, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,\n\nAnd thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n* * *\n\n73 _like Nilus_ ] an allusion to the annual overflow of the river Nile.\n\n84 engine of her thoughts] tongue.\n\n92 unrecuring] incurable.\n\n93 my dear] a favourite pun with Shakespeare.\n\n107 _lively_ ] living.\n\n114 _the honey-dew_ ] the sweet sticky secretion deposited by the tiny insect, generically called aphis, on the leaves of flowers.\n\n151 _Limbo_ ] A region on the borders of hell to which the fathers or patriarchs of old were believed to be consigned.\n\n209 _fat_ ] fatten.\n\n230 _coil_ ] commotion.\n\n236 _For why_ ] Because.\n\n307 _a power_ ] an army\n\n4 _that sorrow-wreathen knot_ ] Marcus' folded arms, the posture ordinarily associated with deep melancholy.\n\n6 _passionate_ ] express with passionate gesture.\n\n15 _Wound it with sighing_ ] It was a common belief that sighs consumed the heart's blood.\n\n20 _fool_ ] here a term of endearment.\n\n31 _square_ ] shape, regulate.\n\n36 _her martyr'd signs_ ] signs of martyrdom, suffering.\n\n38 _mesh'd_ ] mixed up together, a variant of \"mashed.\"\n\n45 _still_ ] constant, continual.\n\n63 _lamenting doings_ ] tidings of woe.\n\n72 _insult on him_ ] triumph insolently over him.\n\n### ACT IV.\n\n#### SCENE I. _Rome. Titus's Garden_.\n\n_Enter young_ LUCIUS _and_ LAVINIA _running after him, and the boy flies from her, with his books under his arm. Then enter_ TITUS _and_ MARCUS\n\nBOY. Help, Grandsire, Help! my aunt Lavinia\n\nFollows me every where, I know not why:\n\nGood uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes.\n\nAlas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.\n\nMARC. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.\n\nTIT. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.\n\nBOY. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.\n\nMARC. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?\n\nTIT. Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean:\n\nSee, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee: 10\n\nSomewhither would she have thee go with her.\n\nAh, boy, Cornelia never with more care12\n\nRead to her sons than she hath read to thee\n\nSweet poetry and Tully's Orator.14\n\nMARC. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?\n\nBOY. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,\n\nUnless some fit or frenzy do possess her:\n\nFor I have heard my grandsire say full oft,\n\nExtremity of griefs would make men mad;\n\nAnd I have read that Hecuba of Troy 20\n\nRan mad for sorrow: that made me to fear;\n\nAlthough, my lord, I know my noble aunt\n\nLoves me as dear as e'er my mother did,\n\nAnd would not, but in fury, fright my youth:24\n\nWhich made me down to throw my books and fly,\n\nCauseless perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt:\n\nAnd, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,\n\nI will most willingly attend your ladyship.\n\nMARC. Lucius, I will. [ _Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall._ 30\n\nTIT. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?\n\nSome book there is that she desires to see.\n\nWhich is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy.\n\nBut thou art deeper read, and better skill'd:\n\nCome, and take choice of all my library,\n\nAnd so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens\n\nReveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.\n\nWhy lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?\n\nMARC. I think she means that there were more than one\n\nConfederate in the fact; ay, more there was; 40\n\nOr else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.\n\nTIT. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?42\n\nBOY. Grandsire, 't is Ovid's Metamorphoses: 43\n\nMy mother gave it me.\n\nMARC. For love of her that's gone,\n\nPerhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.\n\nTIT. Soft! so busily she turns the leaves!\n\nHelp her:\n\nWhat would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?\n\nThis is the tragic tale of Philomel, 50\n\nAnd treats of Tereus' treason and his rape; 51\n\nAnd rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.52\n\nMARC. See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves.53\n\nTIT. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl,\n\nRavish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was,\n\nForced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?\n\nSee, see!\n\nAy, such a place there is, where we did hunt,\u2014\n\nO, had we never, never hunted there!\u2014\n\nPattern'd by that the poet here describes, 60\n\nBy nature made for murders and for rapes.\n\nMARC. O, why should nature build so foul a den,\n\nUnless the gods delight in tragedies?\n\nTIT. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,\n\nWhat Roman lord it was durst do the deed:\n\nOr slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,\n\nThat left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?\n\nMARC. Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down by me.\n\nApollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,\n\nInspire me, that I may this treason find! 70\n\nMy lord, look here: look here, Lavinia:\n\nThis sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,\n\nThis after me.72\n\nThis after me.\n\n[ _He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth._ ] I have writ my name\n\nWithout the help of any hand at all.\n\nCursed be that heart that forced us to this shift!\n\nWrite thou, good niece; and here display at last\n\nWhat God will have discovered for revenge:\n\nHeaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,\n\nThat we may know the traitors and the truth! 80\n\n[ _She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes._\n\nTIT. O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?\n\n\"Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.\"\n\nMARC. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora84\n\nPerformers of this heinous, bloody deed?\n\nTIT. Magni Dominator poli,\n\nTam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?\n\nMARC. O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know\n\nThere is enough written upon this earth 90\n\nTo stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,\n\nAnd arm the minds of infants to exclaims.\n\nMy lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;\n\nAnd kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;94\n\nAnd swear with me, as, with the woful fere95\n\nAnd father of that chaste dishonour'd dame,\n\nLord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,\n\nThat we will prosecute by good advice98\n\nMortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,\n\nAnd see their blood, or die with this reproach. 100\n\nTIT.'T is sure enough, an you knew how.\n\nBut if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:\n\nThe dam will wake; and if she wind you once,\n\nShe's with the lion deeply still in league,\n\nAnd lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,\n\nAnd when he sleeps will she do what she list.\n\nYou are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone;\n\nAnd, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,\n\nAnd with a gad of steel will write these words,109\n\nAnd lay it by: the angry northern wind 110\n\nWill blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad,\n\nAnd where's your lesson then? Boy, what say you?\n\nBOY. I say, my lord, that if I were a man,\n\nTheir mother's bed-chamber should not be safe\n\nFor these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.115\n\nMARC. Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft\n\nFor his ungrateful country done the like.\n\nBOY. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.\n\nTIT. Come, go with me into mine armoury;\n\nLucius, I'll fit thee, and withal, my boy 120\n\nShall carry from me to the empress' sons\n\nPresents that I intend to send them both:\n\nCome, come; thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not?\n\nBOY. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.\n\nTIT. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.\n\nLavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house:\n\nLucius and I'll go brave it at the court;\n\nAy, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on.\n\n[ _Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and young Lucius._\n\nMARC. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan, 130\n\nAnd not relent, or not compassion him?131\n\nMarcus, attend him in his ecstasy,132\n\nThat hath more scars of sorrow in his heart\n\nThan foemen's marks upon his batter'd shield,\n\nBut yet so just that he will not revenge.\n\nRevenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus! [ _Exit._\n\n#### SCENE II. _The Same. A Room in the Palace_.\n\n_Enter_ AARON, CHIRON _and_ DEMETRIUS _at one door; and at another door, young_ LUCIUS, _and an_ Attendant, _with a bundle of weapons and verses writ upon them_\n\nCHI. Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius;\n\nHe hath some message to deliver us.\n\nAAR. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.\n\nBOY. My lords, with all the humbleness I may,\n\nI greet your honours from Andronicus.\n\n[ _Aside_ ] And pray the Roman gods confound you both!\n\nDEM. Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what's the news?\n\nBOY. [ _Aside_ ] That you are both decipher'd, that's the news,\n\nFor villains mark'd with rape.\u2014May it please you,\n\nMy grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me 10\n\nThe goodliest weapons of his armoury\n\nTo gratify your honourable youth,\n\nThe hope of Rome; for so he bid me say;\n\nAnd so I do, and with his gifts present\n\nYour lordships, that, whenever you have need,\n\nYou may be armed and appointed well:16\n\nAnd so I leave you both, [ _Aside_ ] like bloody villains.\n\n[ _Exeunt Boy and Attendant_\n\nDEM. What's here? A scroll, and written round about!\n\nLet's see: 20\n\n\"Integer vit\u00e6, scelerisque purus,21\n\nNon eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.\"22\n\nCHI. O, 't is a verse in Horace; I know it well:\n\nI read it in the grammar long ago.24\n\nAAR. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it.\n\n[ _Aside_ ] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!\n\nHere's no sound jest: the old man hath found their guilt,27\n\nAnd sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines,\n\nThat wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.29\n\nBut were our witty empress well afoot, 30\n\nShe would applaud Andronicus' conceit:\n\nBut let her rest in her unrest awhile.\u2014\n\nAnd now, young lords, was't not a happy star\n\nLed us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,\n\nCaptives, to be advanced to this height?\n\nIt did me good, before the palace gate\n\nTo brave the tribune in his brother's hearing.\n\nDEM. But me more good, to see so great a lord\n\nBasely insinuate and send us gifts.39\n\nAAR. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? 40\n\nDid you not use his daughter very friendly?\n\nDEM. I would we had a thousand Roman dames\n\nAt such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.43\n\nCHI. A charitable wish and full of love.\n\nAAR. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.\n\nCHI. And that would she for twenty thousand more.\n\nDEM. Come, let us go, and pray to all the gods\n\nFor our beloved mother in her pains.\n\nAAR. [ _Aside_ ] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.\n\n[ _Trumpets sound within._ 50\n\nDEM. Why do the emperor's trumpets flourish thus?\n\nCHI. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.\n\nDEM. Soft! who comes here?\n\n_Enter_ Nurse, _with a blackamoor_ Child\n\nNUR Good morrow, lords:\n\nO, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?\n\nAAR. Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all,\n\nHere Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?\n\nNUR. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone!\n\nNow help, or woe betide thee evermore!\n\nAAR. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! 60\n\nWhat dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?\n\nNURO, that which I would hide from heaven's eye,\n\nOur empress' shame and stately Rome's disgrace!\n\nShe is deliver'd, lords, she is deliver'd.\n\nAAR. To whom?\n\nNUR. I mean, she is brought a-bed.\n\nAAR. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her?\n\nNUR. A devil.\n\nAAR. Why, then she is the devil's dam;\n\nA joyful issue. 70\n\nNUR. A joyless, dismal, black and sorrowful issue:\n\nHere is the babe, as loathsome as a toad\n\nAmongst the fairest breeders of our clime:73\n\nThe empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,\n\nAnd bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point.\n\nAAR. 'Zounds, ye whore! is black so base a hue?\n\nSweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure.77\n\nDEM. Villain, what hast thou done?\n\nAAR.That which thou canst not undo.\n\nCHI. Thou hast undone our mother. 80\n\nAAR. Villain, I have done thy mother.\n\nDEM. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her.\n\nWoe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice!\n\nAccursed the offspring of so foul a fiend!\n\nCHI. It shall not live.\n\nAAR. It shall not die.\n\nNUR Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.\n\nAAR. What, must it, nurse? then let no man but I\n\nDo execution on my flesh and blood.\n\nDEM. I'll broach the tadpole on my rapier's point:90\n\nNurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.\n\nAAR. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.\n\n[ _Takes the Child from the Nurse, and draws._\n\nStay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother?\n\nNow, by the burning tapers of the sky,\n\nThat shone so brightly when this boy was got,\n\nHe dies upon my scimitar's sharp point\n\nTitus Andronicus\n\nThat touches this my first-born son and heir!\n\nI tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,99\n\nWith all his threatening band of Typhon's brood, 100\n\nNor great Alcides, nor the god of war,101\n\nShall seize this prey out of his father's hands.\n\nWhat, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! 103\n\nYe white-limed walls! ye alehouse painted signs!104\n\nCoal-black is better than another hue,\n\nIn that it scorns to bear another hue;\n\nFor all the water in the ocean\n\nCan never turn the swan's black legs to white,\n\nAlthough she lave them hourly in the flood.\n\nTell the empress from me, I am of age 110\n\nTo keep mine own, excuse it how she can.\n\nDEM. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?\n\nAAR. My mistress is my mistress, this myself,\n\nThe vigour and the picture of my youth:\n\nThis before all the world do I prefer;\n\nThis maugre all the world will I keep safe,\n\nOr some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.\n\nDEM. By this our mother is for ever shamed.\n\nCHI. Rome will despise her for this foul escape. 119\n\nNUR The emperor in his rage will doom her death. 120\n\nCHI. I blush to think upon this ignomy.121\n\nAAR. Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears:\n\nFie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing\n\nThe close enacts and counsels of the heart!124\n\nHere's a young lad framed of another leer:125\n\nLook, how the black slave smiles upon the father,\n\nAs who should say \"Old lad, I am thine own.\"\n\nHe is your brother, lords, sensibly fed\n\nOf that self-blood that first gave life to you;\n\nAnd from that womb where you imprison'd were 130\n\nHe is enfranchised and come to light:\n\nNay, he is your brother by the surer side,\n\nAlthough my seal be stamped in his face.\n\nNUR Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress?\n\nDEM. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,\n\nAnd we will all subscribe to thy advice:\n\nSave thou the child, so we may all be safe.\n\nAAR. Then sit we down, and let us all consult.\n\nMy son and I will have the wind of you:139\n\nKeep there: now talk at pleasure of your safety. 140\n\n[ _They sit._\n\nDEM. How many women saw this child of his?\n\nAAR. Why, so, brave lords! when we join in league,\n\nI am a lamb: but if you brave the Moor,\n\nThe chafed boar, the mountain lioness,\n\nThe ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.\n\nBut say, again, how many saw the child?\n\nNUR Cornelia the midwife and myself;\n\nAnd no one else but the deliver'd empress.\n\nAAR. The empress, the midwife, and yourself: 150\n\nTwo may keep counsel when the third's away:151\n\nGo to the empress, tell her this I said.\n\n[ _He kills the Nurse._\n\nWeke, weke!\n\nSo cries a pig prepared to the spit.\n\nDEM. What mean'st thou, Aaron? wherefore didst thou this?\n\nAAR.O Lord, sir, 't is a deed of policy:\n\nShall she live to betray this guilt of ours,\n\nA long-tongued babbling gossip? no, lords, no:\n\nAnd now be it known to you my full intent. 160\n\nNot far, one Muliteus, my countryman,\n\nHis wife but yesternight was brought to bed;\n\nHis child is like to her, fair as you are:\n\nGo pack with him, and give the mother gold,164\n\nAnd tell them both the circumstance of all;\n\nAnd how by this their child shall be advanced,\n\nAnd be received for the emperor's heir,\n\nAnd substituted in the place of mine,\n\nTo calm this tempest whirling in the court;\n\nAnd let the emperor dandle him for his own. 170\n\nHark ye, lords; you see I have given her physic,\n\n[ _Pointing to the Nurse._\n\nAnd you must needs bestow her funeral;\n\nThe fields are near, and you are gallant grooms:174\n\nThis done, see that you take no longer days,175\n\nBut send the midwife presently to me.\n\nThe midwife and the nurse well made away,\n\nThen let the ladies tattle what they please.\n\nCHI. Aaron; I see thou wilt not trust the air\n\nWith secrets. 180\n\nDEM. For this care of Tamora,\n\nHerself and hers are highly bound to thee.\n\n[ _Exeunt Dem. and Chi. bearing off the Nurse's body._\n\nAAR. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies;\n\nThere to dispose this treasure in mine arms,\n\nAnd secretly to greet the empress' friends.\n\nCome on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you hence;\n\nFor it is you that puts us to our shifts:188\n\nI'll make you feed on berries and on roots,\n\nAnd feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat, 190\n\nAnd cabin in a cave, and bring you up\n\nTo be a warrior and command a camp. [ _Exit._\n\n#### SCENE III. _The Same A Public Place_.\n\n_Enter_ TITUS _bearing arrows with letters at the ends of them; with him,_ MARCUS _young_ LUCIUS _and other_ Gentlemen (PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, _and_ CAIUS),. _with bows_\n\nTIT. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.\n\nSir boy, let me see your archery;\n\nLook ye draw home enough, and 't is there straight.3\n\nTerras Astr\u00e6a reliquit:4\n\nBe you remember'd, Marcus, she's gone, she's fled.\n\nSirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall\n\nGo sound the ocean, and cast your nets;\n\nHappily you may catch her in the sea;8\n\nYet there's as little justice as at land:\n\nNo; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; 10\n\n'T is you must dig with mattock and with spade,\n\nAnd pierce the inmost centre of the earth:\n\nThen, when you come to Pluto's region,\n\nI pray you, deliver him this petition;\n\nTell him, it is for justice and for aid,\n\nAnd that it comes from old Andronicus,\n\nShaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.\n\nAh, Rome! Well, well; I made thee miserable\n\nWhat time I threw the people's suffrages\n\nOn him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me. 20\n\nGo get you gone; and pray be careful all,\n\nAnd leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd:\n\nThis wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence;\n\nAnd, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.24\n\nMARC. O Publius, is not this a heavy case,\n\nTo see thy noble uncle thus distract?\n\nPUB. Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns\n\nBy day and night to attend him carefully,\n\nAnd feed his humour kindly as we may,\n\nTill time beget some careful remedy. 30\n\nMARC. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.\n\nJoin with the Goths, and with revengeful war\n\nTake wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,33\n\nAnd vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.\n\nTIT. Publius, how now! how now, my masters!\n\nWhat, have you met with her?\n\nPUB. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,\n\nIf you will have Revenge from Hell, you shall:\n\nMarry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,\n\nHe thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, 40\n\nSo that perforce you must needs stay a time.\n\nTIT. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.\n\nI'll dive into the burning lake below,\n\nAnd pull her out of Acheron by the heels.44\n\nMarcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,\n\nNo big-boned men framed of the Cyclops' size;\n\nBut metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,\n\nYet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear:\n\nAnd sith there's no justice in earth nor hell,\n\nWe will solicit heaven, and move the gods 50\n\nTo send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.\n\nCome, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus;52\n\n[ _He gives them the arrows._\n\n\"Ad Jovem,\" that's for you: here, \"Ad Apollinem:\"\n\n\"Ad Martem,\" that's for myself:\n\nHere, boy, to Pallas: here, to Mercury:\n\nTo Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine;\n\nYou were as good to shoot against the wind.\n\nTo it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid.\n\nOf my word, I have written to effect; 60\n\nThere's not a god left unsolicited.\n\nMARC. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court:\n\nWe will afflict the emperor in his pride.\n\nTIT. Now, masters, draw. [ _They shoot._ ] O, well said, Lucius! 64\n\nGood boy, in Virgo's lap; give it Pallas.65\n\nMARC. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;66\n\nYour letter is with Jupiter by this.\n\nTIT. Ha, ha!\n\nPublius, Publius, what hast thou done?\n\nSee, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns. 70\n\nMARC. his was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,\n\nThe Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock\n\nThat down fell both the Ram's horns in the court;\n\nAnd who should find them but the empress' villain?\n\nShe laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose\n\nBut give them to his master for a present.\n\nTIT. Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy!\n\n_Enter a_ Clown, _with a basket, and two pigeons in it_\n\nNews, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.\n\nSirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?\n\nShall I have justice? what says Jupiter? 80\n\nCLO. O, the gibbet-maker! he says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week.\n\nTIT. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?\n\nCLO. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life.\n\nTIT. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?\n\nCLO. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.\n\nTIT. Why, didst thou not come from heaven?\n\nCLO. From heaven! alas, sir, I never came there: God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I 90 am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial's men.91\n\nMARC. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you.\n\nTIT. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace?\n\nCLO. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.\n\nTIT. Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado,\n\nBut give your pigeons to the emperor:\n\nBy me thou shalt have justice at his hands. 100\n\nHold, hold; meanwhile here's money for thy charges.\n\nGive me pen and ink.\n\nSirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?\n\nCLO. Ay, sir.\n\nTIT. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot;\n\nthen deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I'll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely.\n\nCLO. I warrant you, sir, let me alone.\n\nTIT. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see it. 110\n\nHere, Marcus, fold it in the oration;\n\nFor thou hast made it like an humble suppliant:\n\nAnd when thou hast given it to the emperor,\n\nKnock at my door, and tell me what he says.\n\nCLO. God be with you, sir; I will. [ _Exit._\n\nTIT. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me.\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n#### SCENE IV. _The Same. Before the Palace_.\n\n_Enter_ SATURNINUS,.TAMORN, CHIRON, DEMETRIUS, _and others;_ SATURNINUS _with the Arrows in his hand that_ TITUS _shot_\n\nSAT. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! was ever seen\n\nAn emperor in Rome thus overborne,\n\nTroubled, confronted thus, and for the extent3\n\nOf egal justice used in such contempt?4\n\nMy lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,\n\nHowever these disturbers of our peace\n\nBuzz in the people's ears, there nought hath pass'd\n\nBut even with law against the wilful sons8\n\nOf old Andronicus. And what an if\n\nHis sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits, 10\n\nShall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,11\n\nHis fits, his frenzy and his bitterness?\n\nAnd now he writes to heaven for his redress:\n\nSee, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury;\n\nThis to Apollo; this to the god of war:\n\nSweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!\n\nWhat's this but libelling against the senate,\n\nAnd blazoning our unjustice every where?\n\nA goodly humour, is it not, my lords?\n\nAs who would say, in Rome no justice were. 20\n\nBut if I live, his feigned ecstasies21\n\nShall be no shelter to these outrages:\n\nBut he and his shall know that justice lives\n\nIn Saturninus' health; whom, if he sleep,\n\nHe'll so awake, as he in fury shall\n\nCut off the proud'st conspirator that lives.\n\nTAM. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,\n\nLord of my life, commander of my thoughts,\n\nCalm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,\n\nThe effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, 30\n\nWhose loss hath pierced him deep and scarr'd his heart;\n\nAnd rather comfort his distressed plight\n\nThan prosecute the meanest or the best\n\nFor these contempts. [ _Aside_ ] Why, thus it shall become\n\nHigh-witted Tamora to gloze with all:35\n\nBut, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,\n\nThy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise,37\n\nThen is all safe, the anchor in the port.\n\n_Enter_ Clown\n\nHow now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us?\n\nCLO. Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial. 40\n\nTAM. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor.\n\nCLO.'T is he. God and Saint Stephen give you god-den:\n\nI have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.\n\n[ _Saturninus reads the letter._\n\nSAT. Go, take him away, and hang him presently.\n\nCLO. How much money must I have?\n\nTAM. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged.\n\nCLO. Hanged! by 'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end.\n\n[ _Exit, guarded._\n\nSAT. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! 50\n\nShall I endure this monstrous villany?\n\nI know from whence this same device proceeds:\n\nMay this be borne? As if his traitorous sons,\n\nThat died by law for murder of our brother,\n\nHave by my means been butcher'd wrongfully!\n\nGo, drag the villain hither by the hair;\n\nNor age nor honour shall shape privilege:\n\nFor this proud mock I'll be thy slaughter-man;\n\nSly frantic wretch, that holp'st to make me great,\n\nIn hope thyself should govern Rome and me. 60\n\n_Enter_ \u00c6MILIUS\n\nWhat news with thee, \u00c6milius?\n\n\u00c6MIL. Arm, my lords; Rome never had more cause.63\n\nThe Goths have gather'd head, and with a power\n\nOf high-resolved men, bent to the spoil,\n\nThey hither march amain, under conduct\n\nOf Lucius, son to old Andronicus;\n\nWho threats, in course of this revenge, to do\n\nAs much as ever Coriolanus did.\n\nSAT. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?\n\nThese tidings nip me, and I hang the head 70\n\nAs flowers with frost or grass beat down with storms:\n\nAy, now begin our sorrows to approach:\n\n'T is he the common people love so much;\n\nMyself hath often heard them say,\n\nWhen I have walked like a private man,\n\nThat Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,\n\nAnd they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor.\n\nTAM. Why should you fear? is not your city strong?\n\nSAT. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,\n\nAnd will revolt from me to succour him. 80\n\nTAM. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name.\n\nIs the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?\n\nThe eagle suffers little birds to sing,\n\nAnd is not careful what they mean thereby,\n\nKnowing that with the shadow of his wings\n\nHe can at pleasure stint their melody:86\n\nEven so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome.\n\nThen cheer thy spirit: for know, thou emperor,\n\nI will enchant the old Andronicus\n\nWith words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, 90\n\nThan baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep; 91\n\nWhenas the one is wounded with the bait,\n\nThe other rotted with delicious feed.\n\nSAT. But he will not entreat his son for us.\n\nTAM. If Tamora entreat him, then he will:\n\nFor I can smooth, and fill his aged ears96\n\nWith golden promises; that, were his heart\n\nAlmost impregnable, his old ears deaf,\n\nYet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.\n\n[ _To \u00c6milius_ ] Go thou before, be our ambassador: 100\n\nSay that the emperor requests a parley\n\nOf warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting\n\nEven at his father's house, the old Andronicus.\n\nSAT. \u00c6milius, do this message honourably:\n\nAnd if he stand on hostage for his safety,\n\nBid him demand what pledge will please him best.\n\n\u00c6MIL. Your bidding shall I do effectually. [ _Exit._\n\nTAM. Now will I to that old Andronicus,\n\nAnd temper him with all the art I have,\n\nTo pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. 110\n\nAnd now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,\n\nAnd bury all thy fear in my devices.\n\nSAT. Then go successantly, and plead to him.113\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n* * *\n\n12 _Cornelia_ ] The courageous mother of the Gracchi.\n\n14 _Tully's Orator_ ] One of Cicero's two treatises on oratory was called _Orator._ The second more famous treatise was called _De Oratore._\n\n24 _fury_ ] fury of madness.\n\n42 _tosseth_ ] turns over (the leaves of).\n\n43 _Ovid's Metamorphoses_ ] the most popular of Ovid's works.\n\n50\u201351 _This is_... _rape_ ] See note on II, iii, 43.\n\n52 _annoy_ ] suffering.\n\n53 _quotes_ ] observes, marks.\n\n72 _This sandy_... _plain_ ] This sandy plot of earth is level.\n\n84 _Stuprum_ ] Latin for \"violation.\"\n\n94 _Roman Hector's hope_ ] The Trojan Hector's son was Astyanax.\n\n95 _fere_ ] companion; here \"husband.\"\n\n98 _by good advice_ ] deliberately.\n\n109 _gad_ ] piercing instrument, sharp point.\n\n115 _bondmen to the yoke of Rome_ ] Rome's prisoners of war, and thus of the status of slaves.\n\n131 _compassion_ ] pity.\n\n132 _ecstasy_ ] fit of madness, frenzy.\n\n16 _appointed_ ] equipped.\n\n21\u201322 \"Integer ... nec arcu\"] the first two lines of Horace's well-known ode, Bk. I, no. xxii. \"The man of spotless life and free from guilt needs no Moorish javelins or bow\" (to protect him).\n\n24 _the grammar_ ] Lily's Grammar, a book in common use in Elizabethan grammar schools.\n\n27 _Here's no sound jest_ ] This is no safe jest. This is a perilous jest.\n\n29 _beyond their feeling_ ] without their perceiving it.\n\n30 _witty_ ] clever. _well afoot_ ] well recovered from childbed.\n\n39 _Basely insinuate_ ] Ingratiate himself with us in undignified fashion.\n\n43 _At such a bay_ ] At such an extremity, within our power.\n\n73 _breeders_ ] women (who bear children).\n\n77 _blowse_ ] blowsy, red-faced wench.\n\n90 _broach_ ] spit.\n\n99\u2013101 _Enceladus_... _Typhon_... _Alcides_ ] giants of classical mythology who warred against the gods.\n\n103 _sanguine_ ] red-complexioned.\n\n104 _white-limed_ ] whitewashed.\n\n119 _foul escape_ ] escapade, transgression.\n\n121 _ignomy_ ] a common contraction of \"ignominy.\"\n\n124 _enacts_ ] enactments, resolutions.\n\n125 _leer_ ] complexion.\n\n139 _have the wind of you_ ] keep the advantage of you; an archer's expression when contriving to shoot with the wind at his back, and in his opponent's face.\n\n151 _Two... away_ ] a common proverb.\n\n164 _Go pack_ ] Go and plot, contrive.\n\n174 _gallant grooms_ ] strong fellows.\n\n175 _take no longer days_ ] take as short a time as possible.\n\n188 _puts us to our shifts_ ] drives us to cunning schemes.\n\n3 _draw home_ ] shoot with force.\n\n4 _Terras Astr\u00e6a reliquit_ ] From Ovid, _Metamorphoses,_ I, 149, 150: \"Victa iacet pietas, et uirgo c\u00e6de madentes Ultima c\u00e6lestum _terras Astr\u00e6a reliquit_ \" (\"Goodness lies conquered, and the virgin Astr\u00e6a, last of the immortals, has left the slaughter-stained earth\"). Astr\u00e6a was the goddess of justice.\n\n8 _Happily_ ] Haply, perhaps.\n\n24 _go pipe_ ] go whistle.\n\n30 _careful_ ] possibly \"provident,\" \"efficient.\"\n\n33 _wreak_ ] vengeance.\n\n44 _Acheron_ ] properly a river of Hades.\n\n52 _this gear_ ] the business.\n\n64 _well said_ ] well done; a common usage.\n\n65 _in Virgo's lap_ ] as far as the constellation Virgo.\n\n66 _a mile beyond the moon_ ] out of reach or range.\n\n91 _tribunal plebs_ ] an ignorant mispronunciation of \"tribunus plebis.\" _take up_ ] make up, settle.\n\n3\u20134 _for the extent Of egal justice_ ] in consequence of the impartial administration of justice.\n\n8 _even with_ ] in agreement with.\n\n11 _wreaks_ ] efforts at vengeance.\n\n21 _ecstasies_ ] fits of frenzy.\n\n35 _gloze with_ ] wheedle, cajole.\n\n37 _Thy life-blood out_ ] So that thy life-blood is drawn\n\n63 _gather'd head_ ] collected an army.\n\n86 _stint_ ] stop.\n\n91 _honey-stalks_ ] sweet-clover flower, which eaten to excess kills cattle.\n\n96 _smooth_ ] wheedle, cajole.\n\n113 _successantly_ ] a word unknown elsewhere. It may be an error for _successfully,_ or may be formed from an invented present participle meaning \"following after.\"\n\n### ACT V.\n\n#### SCENE I. _Plains near Rome_.\n\n_Flourish. Enter_ LUCIUS _and_ Goths, _with drum and colours_\n\nLUCIUS. Approved warriors, and my faithful friends,\n\nI have received letters from great Rome,\n\nWhich signify what hate they bear their emperor,\n\nAnd how desirous of our sight they are.\n\nTherefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,\n\nImperious, and impatient of your wrongs;\n\nAnd wherein Rome hath done you any scath,7\n\nLet him make treble satisfaction.\n\nFIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,\n\nWhose name was once our terror, now our comfort; 10\n\nWhose high exploits and honourable deeds\n\nIngrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,\n\nBe bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,13\n\nLike stinging bees in hottest summer's day,\n\nLed by their master to the flowered fields,\n\nAnd be avenged on cursed Tamora.\n\nALL THE GOTHS And as he saith, so say we all with him.\n\nLUCI humbly thank him, and I thank you all.\n\nBut who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?\n\n_Enter a_ Goth, _leading_ AARON _with his Child in his arms_\n\nSEC GOTHS. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd 20\n\nTo gaze upon a ruinous monastery;21\n\nAnd, as I earnestly did fix mine eye\n\nUpon the wasted building, suddenly\n\nI heard a child cry underneath a wall.\n\nI made unto the noise; when soon I heard\n\nThe crying babe controll'd with this discourse:\n\n\"Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!\n\nDid not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,\n\nHad nature lent thee but thy mother's look,\n\nVillain, thou mightst have been an emperor: 30\n\nBut where the bull and cow are both milk-white,\n\nThey never do beget a coal-black calf.\n\nPeace, villain, peace!\"\u2014even thus he rates the babe\u201433\n\n\"For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth;\n\nWho, when he knows thou art the empress' babe,\n\nWill hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.\"\n\nWith this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,\n\nSurprised him suddenly, and brought him hither,\n\nTo use as you think needful of the man.\n\nLUC. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil 40\n\nThat robb'd Andronicus of his good hand;\n\nThis is the pearl that pleased your empress' eye;42\n\nAnd here's the base fruit of his burning lust.\n\nSay, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey 44\n\nThis growing image of thy fiend-like face?\n\nWhy dost not speak? what, deaf? not a word?\n\nA halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree,\n\nAnd by his side his fruit of bastardy.\n\nAAR. Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood.\n\nLUC. Too like the sire for ever being good. 50\n\nFirst hang the child, that he may see it sprawl;\n\nA sight to vex the father's soul withal.\n\nGet me a ladder.\n\n[ _A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend._\n\nAAR. Lucius, save the child,\n\nAnd bear it from me to the empress.\n\nIf thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things,\n\nThat highly may advantage thee to hear:\n\nIf thou wilt not, befall what may befall,\n\nI'll speak no more but \"Vengeance rot you all!\" 60\n\nLUC. Say on: an if it please me which thou speak'st,\n\nThy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.\n\nAAR. An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lucius,\n\n'T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;\n\nFor I must talk of murders, rapes and massacres,\n\nActs of black night, abominable deeds,\n\nComplots of mischief, treason, villanies\n\nRuthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd: 68\n\nAnd this shall all be buried in my death,\n\nUnless thou swear to me my child shall live. 70\n\nLUC. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.\n\nAAR. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.\n\nLUC. Who should I swear by? thou believest no god:\n\nThat granted, how canst thou believe an oath?\n\nAAR. What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not;\n\nYet, for I know thou art religious,\n\nAnd hast a thing within thee called conscience,\n\nWith twenty popish tricks and ceremonies,\n\nWhich I have seen thee careful to observe,\n\nTherefore I urge thy oath; for that I know 80\n\nAn idiot holds his bauble for a god,81\n\nAnd keeps the oath which by that god he swears,\n\nTo that I'll urge him: therefore thou shalt vow\n\nBy that same god, what god soe'er it be,\n\nThat thou adorest and hast in reverence,\n\nTo save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;\n\nOr else I will discover nought to thee.\n\nLUC. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.\n\nAAR. First know thou, I begot him on the empress.\n\nLUC. O most insatiate, and luxurious woman!90\n\nAAR. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity\n\nTo that which thou shalt hear of me anon.\n\n'T was her two sons that murder'd Bassianus;\n\nThey cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her,\n\nAnd cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou saw'st.\n\nLUC. O detestable villain! call'st thou that trimming?\n\nAAR. Why, she was wash'd and cut and trimm'd, and 't was\n\nTrim sport for them that had the doing of it.\n\nLUC. O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself!\n\nAAR. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them: 100\n\nThat codding spirit had they from their mother,101\n\nAs sure a card as ever won the set;\n\nThat bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me,\n\nAs true a dog as ever fought at head.104\n\nWell, let my deeds be witness of my worth.\n\nI train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole,106\n\nWhere the dead corpse of Bassianus lay:\n\nI wrote the letter that thy father found,\n\nAnd hid the gold within the letter mention'd,\n\nConfederate with the queen and her two sons: 110\n\nAnd what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,\n\nWherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?\n\nI play'd the cheater for thy father's hand;\n\nAnd, when I had it, drew myself apart,\n\nAnd almost broke my heart with extreme laughter:\n\nI pried me through the crevice of a wall\n\nWhen for his hand he had his two sons' heads;\n\nBeheld his tears and laugh'd so heartily,\n\nThat both mine eyes were rainy like to his:\n\nAnd when I told the empress of this sport, 120\n\nShe swounded almost at my pleasing tale,121\n\nAnd for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.\n\nFIRST GOTH. What, canst thou say all this, and never blush?\n\nAAR. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.124\n\nLUC. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?\n\nAAR. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.\n\nEven now I curse the day\u2014and yet, I think,\n\nFew come within the compass of my curse\u2014\n\nWherein I did not some notorious ill:\n\nAs kill a man, or else devise his death; 130\n\nRavish a maid, or plot the way to do it;\n\nAccuse some innocent, and forswear myself;\n\nSet deadly enmity between two friends;\n\nMake poor men's cattle break their necks;\n\nSet fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,\n\nAnd bid the owners quench them with their tears.\n\nOft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,\n\nAnd set them upright at their dear friends' doors,\n\nEven when their sorrows almost were forgot;\n\nAnd on their skins, as on the bark of trees, 140\n\nHave with my knife carved in Roman letters\n\n\"Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.\"\n\nTut, I have done a thousand dreadful things\n\nAs willingly as one would kill a fly;\n\nAnd nothing grieves me heartily indeed,\n\nBut that I cannot do ten thousand more.\n\nLUC. Bring down the devil; for he must not die147\n\nSo sweet a death as hanging presently.\n\nAAR. If there be devils, would I were a devil,\n\nTo live and burn in everlasting fire, 150\n\nSo I might have your company in hell,\n\nBut to torment you with my bitter tongue!\n\nLUC. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.\n\n_Enter a_ Goth\n\nTHIRD GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome Desires to be admitted to your presence.\n\nLUC. Let him come near.\n\n_Enter_ \u00c6MIL\n\nWelcome, \u00c6milius: what's the news from Rome?\n\n\u00c6MIL. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths,\n\nThe Roman emperor greets you all by me;\n\nAnd, for he understands you are in arms, 160\n\nHe craves a parley at your father's house,\n\nWilling you to demand your hostages,\n\nAnd they shall be immediately deliver'd.\n\nFIRST GOTH. What says our general?\n\nLUC. \u00c6milius, let the emperor give his pledges\n\nUnto my father and my uncle Marcus,\n\nAnd we will come. March away. [ _Flourish. Exeunt._\n\n#### SCENE II. _Rome. Before Titus's House_.\n\n_Enter_ TAMORN, DEMETRIUS, _and_ CHIRON, _disguised_\n\nTAM. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,\n\nI will encounter with Andronicus,\n\nAnd say I am Revenge, sent from below\n\nTo join with him and right his heinous wrongs.\n\nKnock at his study, where, they say, he keeps,\n\nTo ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;5\n\nTell him Revenge is come to join with him,\n\nAnd work confusion on his enemies. [ _Knock._\n\n_Enter_ TITUS, _above_\n\nTIT. Who doth molest my contemplation?\n\nIs it your trick to make me ope the door, 10\n\nThat so my sad decrees may fly away,11\n\nAnd all my study be to no effect?\n\nYou are deceived: for what I mean to do\n\nSee here in bloody lines I have set down;\n\nAnd what is written shall be executed.\n\nTAM. Titus, I am come to talk with thee.\n\nTIT. No, not a word: how can I grace my talk,\n\nWanting a hand to give it action?\n\nThou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.\n\nTAM. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. 20\n\nTIT. I am not mad; I know thee well enough:\n\nWitness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;\n\nWitness these trenches made by grief and care;\n\nWitness the tiring day and heavy night;\n\nWitness all sorrow, that I know thee well\n\nFor our proud empress, mighty Tamora:\n\nIs not thy coming for my other hand?\n\nTAM. Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora;\n\nShe is thy enemy, and I thy friend:\n\nI am Revenge; sent from the infernal kingdom, 30\n\nTo ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,\n\nBy working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.32\n\nCome down and welcome me to this world's light;\n\nConfer with me of murder and of death:\n\nThere's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,\n\nNo vast obscurity or misty vale,\n\nWhere bloody murder or detested rape\n\nCan couch for fear, but I will find them out,\n\nAnd in their ears tell them my dreadful name,\n\nRevenge, which makes the foul offender quake. 40\n\nTIT. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me,\n\nTo be a torment to mine enemies?\n\nTAM. I am; therefore come down and welcome me.\n\nTIT. Do me some service ere I come to thee.\n\nLo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;\n\nNow give some surance that thou art Revenge,\n\nStab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels;\n\nAnd then I'll come and be thy waggoner,\n\nAnd whirl along with thee about the globes.\n\nProvide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, 50\n\nTo hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,\n\nAnd find out murderers in their guilty caves:\n\nAnd when thy car is loaden with their heads,\n\nI will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel\n\nTrot like a servile footman all day long,\n\nEven from Hyperion's rising in the east56\n\nUntil his very downfall in the sea:\n\nAnd day by day I'll do this heavy task,\n\nSo thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.59\n\nTAM. These are my ministers and come with me. 60\n\nTIT. Are these thy ministers? what are they call'd?\n\nTAM. Rapine and Murder; therefore called so,\n\n'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.\n\nTIT. Good Lord, how like the empress' sons they are,\n\nAnd you the empress! but we worldly men\n\nHave miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.\n\nO sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee;\n\nAnd, if one arm's embracement will content thee,\n\nI will embrace thee in it by and by. [ _Exit above._\n\nTAM. This closing with him fits his lunacy: 70\n\nWhate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits,\n\nDo you uphold and maintain in your speeches,\n\nFor now he firmly takes me for Revenge;\n\nAnd, being credulous in this mad thought,\n\nI'll make him send for Lucius his son;\n\nAnd, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,\n\nI'll find some cunning practice out of hand,77\n\nTo scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,\n\nOr at the least make them his enemies.\n\nSee, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. 80\n\n_Enter_ TITUS _below_\n\nTIT. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee:\n\nWelcome, dread Fury, to my woful house:\n\nRapine and Murder, you are welcome too:\n\nHow like the empress and her sons you are!\n\nWell are you fitted, had you but a Moor:\n\nCould not all hell afford you such a devil?\n\nFor well I wot the empress never wags\n\nBut in her company there is a Moor;\n\nAnd, would you represent our queen aright,\n\nIt were convenient you had such a devil: 90\n\nBut welcome, as you are. What shall we do?\n\nTAM. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?\n\nDEM. Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him.\n\nCHI. Show me a villain that hath done a rape,\n\nAnd I am sent to be revenged on him.\n\nTAM. Show me a thousand that have done thee wrong,\n\nAnd I will be revenged on them all.\n\nTIT. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,\n\nAnd when thou find'st a man that's like thyself,\n\nGood Murder, stab him; he's a murderer. 100\n\nGo thou with him, and when it is thy hap\n\nTo find another that is like to thee,\n\nGood Rapine, stab him; he's a ravisher.\n\nGo thou with them; and in the emperor's court\n\nThere is a queen, attended by a Moor;\n\nWell mayst thou know her by thine own proportion,\n\nFor up and down she doth resemble thee:107\n\nI pray thee, do on them some violent death;\n\nThey have been violent to me and mine.\n\nTAM. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do.\n\nBut would it please thee, good Andronicus,\n\nTo send for Lucius, thy thrice valiant son,\n\nWho leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths,\n\nAnd bid him come and banquet at thy house;\n\nWhen he is here, even at thy solemn feast,\n\nI will bring in the empress and her sons,\n\nThe emperor himself, and all thy foes;\n\nAnd at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,\n\nAnd on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.\n\nWhat says Andronicus to this device? 120\n\nTIT. Marcus, my brother! 't is sad Titus calls.\n\n_Enter_ MARCUS\n\nGo, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;\n\nThou shalt inquire him out among the Goths:\n\nBid him repair to me and bring with him\n\nSome of the chiefest princes of the Goths:\n\nBid him encamp his soldiers where they are:\n\nTell him the emperor and the empress too\n\nFeast at my house, and he shall feast with them.\n\nThis do thou for my love, and so let him,\n\nAs he regards his aged father's life. 130\n\nMARC. This will I do, and soon return again. [ _Exit._\n\nTAM. Now will I hence about thy business,\n\nAnd take my ministers along with me.\n\nTIT. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me;\n\nOr else I'll call my brother back again,\n\nAnd cleave to no revenge but Lucius.\n\nTIT. _Aside to her sons_ ] What say you, boys? will you bide with him,\n\nWhiles I go tell my lord the emperor\n\nHow I have govern'd our determined jest?140\n\nYield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, 141\n\nAnd tarry with him till I turn again.\n\nTIT. [ _Aside_ ] I know them all, though they suppose me mad;\n\nAnd will o'er-reach them in their own devices:\n\nA pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam.\n\nDEM. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.\n\nTAM. Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes\n\nTo lay a complot to betray thy foes.\n\nTIT. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.\n\n[ _Exit Tamora._ 150\n\nCHI. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd?\n\nTIT. Tut, I have work enough for you to do.\n\nPublius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine!\n\n_Enter_ PUBLIUS _and others_\n\nPUB. What is your will?\n\nTIT. Know you these two?\n\nPUB. The empress' sons, I take them, Chiron and Demetrius.\n\nTIT. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceived;\n\nThe one is Murder, Rape is the other's name;\n\nAnd therefore bind them, gentle Publius:\n\nCaius and Valentine, lay hands on them: 160\n\nOft have you heard me wish for such an hour,\n\nAnd now I find it; therefore bind them sure;\n\nAnd stop their mouths, if they begin to cry. [ _Exit._\n\n[ _Publius, &c. lay hold on Chiron and Demetrius._\n\nCHI. Villains, forbear! we are the empress' sons.\n\nPUB. And therefore do we what we are commanded.\n\nStop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.\n\nIs he sure bound? look that you bind them fast.\n\n_Re-enter_ TITUS, _with_ LAVINIA. _he bearing a knife, and she a basin_\n\nTIT. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.\n\nSirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me; 170\n\nBut let them hear what fearful words I utter.\n\nO villains, Chiron and Demetrius!\n\nHere stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud,\n\nThis goodly summer with your winter mix'd.\n\nYou kill'd her husband, and for that vile fault\n\nTwo of her brothers were condemn'd to death,\n\nMy hand cut off and made a merry jest;\n\nBoth her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear\n\nThan hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,\n\nInhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forced. 180\n\nWhat would you say, if I should let you speak?\n\nVillains, for shame you could not beg for grace.\n\nHark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you.\n\nThis one hand yet is left to cut your throats,\n\nWhilst that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold\n\nThe basin that receives your guilty blood.\n\nYou know your mother means to feast with me,\n\nAnd calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad:\n\nHark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust,\n\nAnd with your blood and it I'll make a paste; 190\n\nAnd of the paste a coffin I will rear,191\n\nAnd make two pasties of your shameful heads;\n\nAnd bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam,\n\nLike to the earth, swallow her own increase.194\n\nThis is the feast that I have bid her to,\n\nAnd this the banquet she shall surfeit on;\n\nFor worse than Philomel you used my daughter,197\n\nAnd worse than Progne I will be revenged:198\n\nAnd now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come,\n\n[ _He cuts their throats._ 200\n\nReceive the blood: and when that they are dead,\n\nLet me go grind their bones to powder small,\n\nAnd with this hateful liquor temper it;\n\nAnd in that paste let their vile heads be baked.\n\nCome, come, be every one officious205\n\nTo make this banquet; which I wish may prove\n\nMore stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast.\n\nSo, now bring them in, for I'll play the cook,\n\nAnd see them ready against their mother comes.\n\n[ _Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies._ 210\n\n#### SCENE III. _Court of Titus's House. A Banquet Set Out_.\n\n_Enter_ LUCIUS, MARCUS, _and_ Goths, _with_ AARON, _prisoner_\n\nLUC. Uncle Marcus, since it is my father's mind\n\nThat I repair to Rome, I am content.\n\nFIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will. 3\n\nLUC. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,\n\nThis ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;\n\nLet him receive no sustenance, fetter him,\n\nTill he be brought unto the empress' face,\n\nFor testimony of her foul proceedings:\n\nAnd see the ambush of our friends be strong;\n\nI fear the emperor means no good to us. 10\n\nAAR. Some-devil whisper curses in mine ear,\n\nAnd prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth\n\nThe venomous malice of my swelling heart!\n\nLUC. Away, inhuman dog! unhallow'd slave!\n\nSirs, help our uncle to convey him in,\n\n[ _Exeunt Goths, with Aaron. Flourish within._\n\nThe trumpets show the emperor is at hand.\n\n_Enter_ SATURNINUS. _and_ TAMORN, _with_ \u00c6MILIUS. Tribunes, Senators, _and others_\n\nSAT. What, hath the firmament moe suns than one?\n\nLUC. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?\n\nMARC. Rome's emperor, and nephew, break the parle;20\n\nThese quarrels must be quietly debated.\n\nThe feast is ready, which the careful Titus\n\nHath ordain'd to an honourable end,\n\nFor peace, for love, for league and good to Rome:\n\nPlease you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places.\n\nSAT. Marcus, we will.\n\n[ _Hautboys sound. The Company sit down at table._\n\n_Enter_ TITUS, _like a Cook, placing the meat on the table, and_ LAVINIA _with a veil over her face, young_ LUCIUS, _and others_\n\nTIT. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen;\n\nWelcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; 30\n\nAnd welcome, all: although the cheer be poor,\n\n'T will fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.\n\nSAT. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus?\n\nTIT. Because I would be sure to have all well,\n\nTo entertain your highness and your empress.\n\nTAM. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.\n\nTIT. An if your highness knew my heart, you were.\n\nMy lord the emperor, resolve me this:\n\nWas it well done of rash Virginius\n\nTo slay his daughter with his own right hand,\n\nBecause she was enforced, stain'd, and deflower'd? 40\n\nSAT. It was, Andronicus.\n\nTIT. Your reason, mighty lord?\n\nSAT. Because the girl should not survive her shame,\n\nAnd by her presence still renew his sorrows.\n\nTIT. A reason mighty, strong and effectual,\n\nA pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,46\n\nFor me, most wretched, to perform the like.\n\nDie, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee,\n\nAnd with thy shame thy father's sorrow die!\n\n[ _Kills Lavinia._ 50\n\nSAT. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?\n\nTIT. Kill'd her, for whom my tears have made me blind.\n\nI am as woful as Virginius was,\n\nAnd have a thousand times more cause than he\n\nTo do this outrage, and it now is done.\n\nSAT. What, was she ravish'd? tell who did the deed.\n\nTIT. Will't please you eat? will't please your highness feed?\n\nTAM. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?\n\nTIT. Not I; 't was Chiron and Demetrius:\n\nThey ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue; 60\n\nAnd they, 't was they, that did her all this wrong.\n\nSAT. Go fetch them hither to us presently.\n\nTIT. Why, there they are both, baked in that pie;\n\nWhereof their mother daintily hath fed,\n\nEating the flesh that she herself hath bred.\n\n'T is true, 't is true; witness my knife's sharp point.\n\n[ _Kills Tamora._\n\nSAT. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!\n\n[ _Kills Titus._\n\nLUC. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed? 70\n\nThere's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed!\n\n[ _Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others go up into the balcony._\n\nMARC. You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome,\n\nBy uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl\n\nScatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts,\n\nO, let me teach you how to knit again\n\nThis scatter'd corn into one mutual sheaf,78\n\nThese broken limbs again into one body;\n\nLest Rome herself be bane unto herself, 80\n\nAnd she whom mighty kingdoms court'sy to,\n\nLike a forlorn and desperate castaway,\n\nDo shameful execution on herself.\n\nBut if my frosty signs and chaps of age,84\n\nGrave witnesses of true experience,\n\nCannot induce you to attend my words,\u2014\n\n[ _To Lucius_ ] Speak, Rome's dear friend: as erst our ancestor,87\n\nWhen with his solemn tongue he did discourse\n\nTo love-sick Dido's sad attending ear\n\nThe story of that baleful burning night, 90\n\nWhen subtle Greeks surprised King Priam's Troy;\n\nTell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,\n\nOr who hath brought the fatal engine in93\n\nThat gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.\n\nMy heart is not compact of flint nor steel;\n\nNor can I utter all our bitter grief,\n\nBut floods of tears will drown my oratory,\n\nAnd break my utterance, even in the time\n\nWhen it should move you to attend me most,\n\nLending your kind commiseration. 100\n\nHere is a captain, let him tell the tale;\n\nYour hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak.\n\nLUC. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you,\n\nThat cursed Chiron and Demetrius\n\nWere they that murdered our emperor's brother;\n\nAnd they it were that ravished our sister:\n\nFor their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,\n\nOur father's tears despised, and basely cozen'd\n\nOf that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out,\n\nAnd sent her enemies unto the grave. 110\n\nLastly, myself unkindly banished,\n\nThe gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,\n\nTo beg relief among Rome's enemies;\n\nWho drown'd their enmity in my true tears,\n\nAnd oped their arms to embrace me as a friend.\n\nI am the turned forth, be it known to you,116\n\nThat have preserved her welfare in my blood,\n\nAnd from her bosom took the enemy's point,\n\nSheathing the steel in my adventurous body.\n\nAlas, you know I am no vaunter, I; 120\n\nMy scars can witness, dumb although they are,\n\nThat my report is just and full of truth.\n\nBut, soft! methinks I do digress too much,\n\nCiting my worthless praise: O, pardon me;\n\nFor when no friends are by, men praise themselves.\n\nMARC. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child:\n\n[ _Pointing to the Child in the arms of an Attendant._\n\nOf this was Tamora delivered;\n\nThe issue of an irreligious Moor,\n\nChief architect and plotter of these woes: 130\n\nThe villain is alive in Titus' house,\n\nAnd as he is, to witness this is true.\n\nNow judge what cause had Titus to revenge\n\nThese wrongs, unspeakable, past patience,\n\nOr more than any living man could bear.\n\nNow you have heard the truth, what say you,\n\nRomans? Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,\n\nAnd, from the place where you behold us now,\n\nThe poor remainder of Andronici\n\nWill, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down, 140\n\nAnd on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,141\n\nAnd make a mutual closure of our house.142\n\nSpeak, Romans, speak, and if you say we shall,\n\nLo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.\n\n\u00c6MIL. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,\n\nAnd bring our emperor gently in thy hand,\n\nLucius our emperor; for well I know\n\nThe common voice do cry it shall be so.\n\nALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal emperor!\n\nMARC. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house, 150\n\n[ _To Attendants._\n\nAnd hither hale that misbelieving Moor,\n\nTo be adjudged some direful slaughtering death,\n\nAs punishment for his most wicked life.\n\n[ _Exeunt Attendants._\n\nLUCIUS, MARCUS, _and the others descend_\n\nALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor!\n\nLUC. Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so,\n\nTo heal Rome's harms and wipe away her woe!\n\nBut, gentle people, give me aim awhile,159\n\nFor nature puts me to a heavy task; 160\n\nStand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near,\n\nTo shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.\n\nO, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,\n\n[ _Kissing Titus._\n\nThese sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,\n\nThe last true duties of thy noble son!\n\nMARC. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss\n\nThy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips:\n\nO, were the sum of these that I should pay\n\nCountless and infinite, yet would I pay them! 170\n\nLUC. Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us\n\nTo melt in showers: thy grandsire loved thee well:\n\nMany a time he danced thee on his knee,\n\nSung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;\n\nMany a matter hath he told to thee,\n\nMeet and agreeing with thine infancy;\n\nIn that respect then, like a loving child,177\n\nShed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,\n\nBecause kind nature doth require it so:\n\nFriends should associate friends in grief and woe: 180\n\nBid him farewell; commit him to the grave;\n\nDo him that kindness, and take leave of him.\n\nBOY, O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart\n\nWould I were dead, so you did live again!\n\nO Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping;\n\nMy tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.\n\n_Re-enter_ Attendants _with_ AARON\n\nA ROMAN. You sad Andronici, have done with woes:\n\nGive sentence on this execrable wretch,\n\nThat hath been breeder of these dire events.\n\nLUC. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him; 190\n\nThere let him stand and rave and cry for food:\n\nIf any one relieves or pities him,\n\nFor the offence he dies.\n\nThis is our doom:\n\nSome stay to see him fasten'd in the earth.\n\nAAR. O, why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb?\n\nI am no baby, I, that with base prayers\n\nI should repent the evils I have done:\n\nTen thousand worse than ever yet I did\n\nWould I perform, if I might have my will:\n\nIf one good deed in all my life I did, 200\n\nI do repent it from my very soul\n\nLUC. Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,\n\nAnd give him burial in his father's grave:\n\nMy father and Lavinia shall forthwith\n\nBe closed in our household's monument.\n\nAs for that heinous tiger, Tamora,\n\nNo funeral rite, nor man in mourning weeds,\n\nNo mournful bell shall ring her burial;\n\nBut throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey:\n\nHer life was beastly and devoid of pity,\n\nAnd, being so, shall have like want of pity.\n\nSee justice done on Aaron, that damn'd Moor,\n\nBy whom our heavy haps had their beginning:\n\nThen, afterwards, to order well the state,214\n\nThat like events may ne'er it ruinate.215\n\n[ _Exeunt._\n\n* * *\n\n7 _scath_ ] injury.\n\n13 _Be bold in us_ ] Have confidence in us.\n\n21 _ruinous monastery_ ] These words, like \"popish tricks,\" are curious anachronisms, considering the historical date of the play's action.\n\n33 _villain_ ] a term of endearment.\n\n42 _This is the pearl_... _eye_ ] a proverbial phrase.\n\n44 _wall-eyed_ ] fierce-eyed.\n\n68 _piteously perform'd_ ] done so as to excite pity.\n\n81 _bauble_ ] the toy-stick surmounted by a doll's head, ordinarily carried by the professional fool.\n\n90 _luxurious_ ] lustful.\n\n101 _codding_ ] lecherous.\n\n104 _a dog_... _head_ ] a mastiff or bull-dog, which when fighting a bull or bear was wont to rush at its head and seize its nose.\n\n106 _train'd_ ] drew, enticed.\n\n121 _swounded_ ] an old form of \"swooned.\"\n\n124 _Ay, like a black dog_... _is_ ] To blush like a black dog is an old proverb, meaning that one has a brazen face, one cannot blush at all.\n\n147 _Bring down the devil_ ] Bring Aaron down from the ladder _._\n\n5 _keeps_ ] resides.\n\n11 _decrees_ ] resolution.\n\n32 _wreakful_ ] vengeful.\n\n56 _Hyperion's_ ] Hyperion here, as elsewhere in Shakespeare, is loosely used as the sun-god.\n\n59 _Rapine_ ] here used for \"rape\" _._\n\n70 _closing with_ ] coming to terms with, humouring.\n\n77 _practice out of hand_ ] stratagem at once.\n\n107 _up and down_ ] altogether.\n\n140 _govern'd_ ] managed.\n\n141 _smooth_ ] flatter, cajole.\n\n191 a _coffin_ ] a term technically applied in culinary matters to the raised crust of a pie.\n\n194 _increase_ ] offspring.\n\n197\u2013198 _Philomel_... _Progne_ ] For the story, see II, iii, 43.\n\n205 _officious_ ] helpful.\n\n3 _ours with thine_ ] our mind agrees with thine.\n\n20 _break the parle_ ] begin the parley (of peace).\n\n46 _lively warrant_ ] warrant from real life.\n\n78 _mutual_ ] common.\n\n84 _chaps_ ] furrows.\n\n87 _our ancestor_ ] \u00c6neas.\n\n93 _the fatal engine_ ] the Trojan horse.\n\n116 _the turned forth_ ] the castaway.\n\n141 _ragged_ ] rough, rugged.\n\n142 _closure_ ] ending.\n\n159 _give me aim_ ] give me scope or guidance, show me consideration.\n\n177 _In that respect_ ] On that account.\n\n214 _Then_... _state_ ] Then will we apply ourselves to set the state in order.\n\n215 _ruinate_ ] ruin.\nwww.doverpublications.com\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Sherry Argov - Why Men Love Bitches"}, "text": " \n# Also by Sherry Argov\n\n**WHY MEN MARRY BITCHES:**  \nA Woman's Guide To Winning Her Man's Heart\n\n# Praise for Sherry Argov's work\n\n\"The Best of Culture.\"\n\n\u2014Esquire\n\n\"We're talking about having so much self-respect, Aretha Franklin would high-five you.\"\n\n\u2014Los Angeles Times\n\n\"The pejorative meaning of the word 'bitch' has been reclaimed...it means a strong, feisty woman who has moxie, and knows when to use it. A bitch is like a Tarantino movie\u2014sap free.\"\n\n\u2014Pursuit Magazine\n\n\"[Argov is] talking about a strong woman. Someone who knows what she's doing in life. Someone who will share the load, but who will stand her ground.\"\n\n\u2014Joy Behar, Co-host of The View\n\n\"Sherry Argov shows women how to transform a casual relationship into a committed one.\"\n\n\u2014The Today Show\n\n\"The whole Mary Ann vs. Ginger thing notwithstanding, men don't really go for 'nice.' They go for 'interesting.'\"\n\n\u2014Chicago Sun-Times\n\n\"A must-read at Sunday brunch.\"\n\n\u2014New York Daily News\n\n\"A hot new book!\"\n\n\u2014Fox News Channel\n\n\"Sherry Argov's national bestseller, Why Men Love Bitches, flew off the shelves....Men thrive with women who can set boundaries and who push back when they try to cross the line.\"\n\n\u2014Cosmopolitan\n\n\"An anti-whining manifesto that encourages women who feel like doormats to develop a sense of independence.\"\n\n\u2014Playboy\n\n\"If you've been too nice, run out and get this book now!\"\n\n\u2014Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider, authors of the New York Times Bestseller The Rules\n\n\"Her sassy book is filled with scenarios and advice aimed at making women subtly stronger and self-empowered. The book, which as already been featured on The View and The O'Reilly Factor, should make waves with its controversial view of relationships.\"\n\n\u2014Publishers Weekly\n\n# WHY MEN  \nLOVE  \nBitches\u00ae\n\n## **Sherry Argov**\n\n# Dedication\n\nFor Mom, with love.\n\n# CONTENTS\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nIntroduction\n\n1 FROM DOORMAT TO Dreamgirl\n\n_Act Like a Prize and You'll Turn Him into a Believer_\n\nMeet the Nice Girl\n\nShe Has That \"Je Ne Sais Quoi\"\n\nMeet the \"New and Improved\" Bitch\n\n2 WHY MEN Prefer BITCHES\n\n_Cracking the Code: What Every Nice Girl Needs to Know_\n\nThe Thrill of the Chase\n\nThe Mama/Ho Complex\n\nThe No Cage Rule\n\nThe Power of Choice\n\n3 THE Candy STORE\n\n_How to Make the Most of Your Feminine and Sexual Powers_\n\nOne Jujube at a Time\n\nA Sweeter Victory\n\nThe Jujube Installment Plan\n\nThe Sweet Spot\n\n4 Dumb LIKE A FOX\n\n_How to Convince Him He's in Control While You Run the Show_\n\nThe Dumb Fox Handles His Ego with Kid Gloves\n\nThe Dumb Fox Is a Clever Negotiator\n\nThe Dumb Fox Is More Mysterious\n\nThe Dumb Fox Is True To Herself\n\n[5 JUMPING THROUGH Hoops  \nLIKE A CIRCUS POODLE](Argo_9781605501550_epub_c5.html)\n\n_When Women Give Themselves Away and Become Needy_\n\nA New School: Who Is the Boss of You?\n\nFrom Sappy to Sassy\n\nBasic Bitch 101\n\n6 NAGGING No MORE\n\n_What to Do When He Takes You for Granted and Nagging Doesn't Work_\n\nA Lover or a Mother?\n\nRx: Treat Him Like a Friend\n\n\"Show\" Is Better Than \"Tell\"\n\n7 THE OTHER TEAM'S Secret \"PLAYBOOK\"\n\n_Things You Suspected but Never Heard Him Say_\n\nWhat Men Think about How Women Communicate\n\nThe Top...Fifteen Signs That a Woman Is Needy\n\nFifteen Reasons Men \"Play It Cool\"\n\nFifteen Male Views on Keeping the Romance Alive\n\nFifteen Things That Turn Men Off\n\nFifteen Reasons Men Prefer a Feisty Woman\n\nTen Ways to Tell Whether a Man Is in Love\n\n8 KEEPING YOUR Pink SLIP\n\n_The Reasons That Holding Your Own Financially Gives You Power_\n\nFinancial Independence: Who Has the Title on You?\n\nDollars and No Sense\n\n9 HOW TO Renew THE MENTAL CHALLENGE\n\n_How to Regain That \"Spark\"_\n\nStep #1: Instead of Asking Him to Focus on You, Focus on Yourself\n\nStep #2: Alter the Routine\n\nStep #3: Regain Your Sense of Humor\n\n10 GAINING Control OF YOUR EMOTIONS\n\n_Q &A\u2014Letters from Readers_\n\nCrazy in Love\n\nA Hint of Indifference Acts as a Trigger, and Hooks Him\n\n11 THE New AND Improved BITCH\n\n_The Survival Guide for Women Who Are Too Nice_\n\nThe Bitch Stands Her Ground\n\nThe Bitch Is Never Fully Conquered\n\nThe Bitch Is Defined from Within\n\nThe Bitch Has a Strong Will and Faith in Herself\n\nAppendix SHERRY'S Attraction PRINCIPLES\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nFirst and foremost, I thank and acknowledge my beautiful mother, Judy. Aside from being the best mother and my favorite person in this world, she taught me everything I know about how to be a strong woman, and how to see humor in everything. Making Mom proud is the only accomplishment that really matters.\n\nI also want to thank the super teams at both Adams Media and F+W Media. I thank David Nussbaum, CEO and President of F+W Media. David Nussbaum is the kind of CEO someone is fortunate enough to work with once or twice in an entire career. I thank him for his special brand of leadership. I thank Chris Duffy, Royalties Manager at Adams Media, for being a consummate professional. I appreciate all the times he's gone the extra mile. I extend my gratitude to Sara Domville, President of the Book Division at F+W Media, and Karen Cooper, the newly appointed Publisher of Adams Media. How cool it is to see two great women at the helm. I offer special thanks to Stephanie McKenna, Foreign Rights Manager at Adams Media, who is the reason this book is selling in so many languages. I recognize Amy Collins, former Director of Sales at Adams Media, as the talented mind who originally led the book-launch efforts; she is my dear friend.\n\nI want to thank Edward Colbert of Looney & Grossman, who is my brilliant lawyer, advisor, and counselor. I thank him for being in my corner, and for being someone I can _always_ count on.\n\nI want to thank my accountants, Kathryn Schmidt of Schmidt & Co., and Ali Adawiya of SongCare. They are both geniuses. I thank Dan Dydzak, lawyer and friend, for his friendship and pep talks at the local diner.\n\nI want to thank Jeff Hyman, my photographer. His kindness will always be remembered. I thank Christine Serrao, of the Artist Relations department at MAC cosmetics, for her gracious help with my TV makeup.\n\nI thank my special guy, who is my rock. (Fortunately for me, he doesn't read these kinds of books or take me too seriously.) Nevertheless, I thank him for his great suggestions on what I \"really need to tell those bitches\" after spending a day with \"the guys.\"\n\nI thank my favorite relatives who watch over me like angels: Tova, Samuel, Arnon, and Yossi Chait.\n\nI thank my readers\u2014my sisters\u2014who tell all their girlfriends about my books, and who have taken the time to write me letters. I thank the good men out there who were kind enough to share how men think. The best part about writing a book such as this is meeting interesting people with a great sense of humor. I thank them for the privilege.\n\n# Introduction\n\nWhy Men Love Bitches is a relationship guide for women who are \"too nice.\" The word _bitch_ in the title does not take itself too seriously\u2014I'm using the word in a tongue-in-cheek way representative of the humorous tone of this book.\n\nThe title and the content address what many women think, but don't say. _Every_ woman has felt embarrassed by appearing too needy with a man. _Every_ woman has had a man pursue her, only to lose interest the minute she gave in. _Every_ woman knows what it feels like to be taken for granted. These problems are common to most women, married and single alike.\n\nSo why do men love bitches? An important distinction should be made between the pejorative way the word is usually used, and the way it is used here. Certainly, I'm not recommending that a woman have an abrasive disposition. The bitch I'm talking about is not the \"bitch on wheels\" or the mean-spirited character that Joan Collins played on _Dynasty_. Nor is it the classic \"office bitch\" who is hated by everyone at work.\n\nThe woman I'm describing is kind yet strong. She has a strength that is ever so subtle. She doesn't give up her life, and she won't chase a man. She won't let a man think he has a 100 percent \"hold\" on her. And she'll stand up for herself when he steps over the line.\n\nShe knows what she wants but _won't_ compromise herself to get it. But she's feminine, like a \"Steel Magnolia\"\u2014flowery on the outside and steel on the inside. She uses this very femininity to her own advantage. It isn't that she takes undue advantage of men, because she plays fair. She has one thing the nice girl doesn't: a _presence of mind_ because she isn't swept away by a romantic fantasy. This presence of mind enables her to wield her power when it is necessary.\n\nIn addition, she has the ability to remain cool under pressure. Whereas a woman who is \"too nice\" gives and gives until she is depleted, the woman with presence of mind knows when to pull back.\n\nAmong the hundreds of interviews I conducted with men for the book, over 90 percent laughed and agreed with the title within the first thirty seconds. Some men chuckled as though their best-kept secret had just been revealed. \"Men need a mental challenge,\" they said. Time and time again, this was the recurrent theme.\n\nThe men I interviewed all phrased it slightly differently, but the message didn't change. \"Men like it when a woman has a bit of an _edge_ to her,\" they said. Two things became clear across the board: First, they would regularly use the phrase _mental challenge_ to describe a woman who didn't appear needy. And second, the word _bitch_ was synonymous with their concept of _mental challenge._ And this characteristic, above all, they found attractive.\n\nWhen I used the phrase _mental challenge_ with men, it was immediately clear to them the quality I meant. On the other hand, when I interviewed hundreds of women, rarely did they understand the same phrase. They often related the phrase to intelligence, rather than to neediness. It wasn't just that my hunch was confirmed by these interviews; they also strengthened my sense of purpose. I thought that anything this _obvious_ to men should not be kept a secret from women.\n\nThis book addresses the very issues that men _won't_. He won't say, \"Look, don't be a doormat,\" \"Don't always say yes,\" \"Don't revolve your whole world around me.\" This book is necessary because _these are things a man will not spell out for his partner_.\n\nIn the chapters that follow, you'll find one message coming through loud and clear: Success in love isn't about looks; it's about attitude. The media would have us believe differently. A teenage girl picks up a magazine and reads: \"Get that boy's attention\" with an item of clothing, or a certain look. \"This nail color or lipstick will wow him,\" the magazine assures her. And what does the girl learn? How to obsess over someone else's approval.\n\nThen there is the issue of how the media treats aging. The teenage woman evolves into a twenty-something woman with confidence, and the media bombards her with negative images of aging. The message here is: Two wrinkles and a stretch mark, and she's \"marked down\" like last season's merchandise that's sold at half price. And what does she learn? How to obsess over someone else's _disapproval_.\n\nSo what's the message of this book? It's that a bit of irreverence is necessary to have any self-esteem at all. _Not_ _irreverence for people, but rather, for what other people think_. The bitch is an empowered woman who derives tremendous strength from the ability to be an independent thinker, particularly in a world that still teaches women how to be self-abnegating. This woman doesn't live someone else's standards, only her own.\n\nThis is the woman who plays by her _own_ rules, who has a feeling of confidence, freedom, and empowerment. And it's this feeling that I hope women will glean from reading this book.\n\nThe woman who has a positive experience with men possesses the ever-so-subtle qualities I discuss in this book: a sense of humor and an aura that conveys, \"I'm driving the train here. I'll tell you where we get on and where we get off.\" This woman has that presence of mind to do what is in her best interest and an attitude that says she doesn't need to be there. She is there _by choice_.\n\nThe bitchy women who are so loved by men give off a devil-may-care quality and, yes, have that \"edge.\" This is that same edge, coincidentally, that men say they find so magnetic. The difference is this woman isn't looking for it outside herself; it is a special quality she carries within.\n\nNote: Throughout this book, some names have been changed at the request of those interviewed.\n\n# 1\n\n## FROM DOORMAT  \nTO  \nDreamgirl\n\n### Act Like a Prize and You'll Turn Him into a Believer\n\n\"Sex appeal is 50% what you've got, and 50% what people _think_ you've got.\"\n\n\u2014SOPHIA LOREN\n\n#### Meet the Nice Girl\n\nEveryone has known a \"nice girl.\" She is the woman who will overcompensate, giving everything to a man she barely knows, without him having to invest much in the relationship. She's the woman who gives blindly because she wants so much for her attentions to be reciprocated. She's the woman who goes along with what she thinks her man will like or want because she wants to keep the relationship at all costs. Every woman, at some point, has been there.\n\nCertainly, the average fashion magazine gives women ridiculous relationship advice that makes it easy to understand why women are so eager to overcompensate: \"Play hard to get, then cook him a four-course meal... bake him Valentine's cookies with exotic sprinkles shipped from Malaysia (just like Martha Stewart). Don't forget the little doilies and the organic strawberries that you drove two hours to get. Then serve it all to him on the second date, wearing a black lace nightie.\" And what is this a recipe for? _Disaster._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #1\n\nAnything a person chases in life runs away.\n\nEspecially when it comes to dealing with a man. With one caveat: If you chase him in a black nightie, first he'll have sex with you... and then he'll run.\n\nWhy does a man run from a situation like this one? He runs because the woman's behavior doesn't suggest that she places a high value on herself. The relationship is new, and the bond between them is relatively shallow. Yet she's already dealt him her best card.\n\nThe fact that she is willing to overcompensate to a virtual stranger immediately suggests one of two things. He'll either assume she is desperate, or he'll assume she is willing to sleep with all men right away. Or _both._ What gets lost is his appreciation for her extra effort. Once a man begins to lose respect for a woman because she is willing to subtly devalue herself, he will also lose the desire to get closer to her. Nightie or no nightie.\n\nA dreamgirl, on the other hand, won't kill herself to impress anyone. This is why the woman he really falls in love with doesn't serve a four-course meal. And you won't see her breaking out the fancy china, either. She'll start out cooking him a one-course meal. (Popcorn.) No fancy doilies. A Tupperware bowl does the trick. She simply asks her guest, \"Hey, do you want the bag or the bowl?\" Six months later, the same woman throws together a meal and puts down a hot plate in front of him. And what does he say to himself? \"Man! I'm special!\"\n\nIt doesn't matter if it is pasta with Ragu topped by a meatball you picked up at the corner deli. He'll say, \"This is the best pasta I have ever had in my life!\"\n\nNow he feels like a king. And the only difference is the amount of time and effort he had to invest, first. He didn't get it all right up front and he appreciated it more.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #2\n\nThe women who have the men climbing the walls for them aren't always exceptional. Often, they are the ones who don't appear to care that much.\n\nThis isn't about how to play a game or how to manipulate someone. This is about whether you are genuinely needy, or whether you can genuinely show him that you'll be an equal partner in the relationship. It's about whether you are capable of _holding your own_ in a relationship.\n\nWhat would happen if you let him know from day one that you are willing to bend over backward? He'd think you're desperate, and he'd want to see just how far you'd be willing to bend. It is human nature. He'd immediately start to test the waters. The more malleable you'd become, the more he'd expect you to bend. He'll instantly perceive you as a Duracell battery, as in, \"Just how far will she go? How much can I get out of her?\"\n\nNice girls need to know what a bitch understands. Overcompensating or being too eager to please will lessen a man's respect; it will give the kiss of death to his attraction, and it will put a time limit on the relationship.\n\nMost men don't perceive a woman who jumps through hoops as someone who offers a mental challenge. Intelligent women make the mistake of assuming that if they hold a higher degree, they can hold their own in a political debate, and they have a good understanding of mid-caps, they offer a man mental stimulation during dinner. But the mental challenge has little to do with conversation. (Granted, if she thinks that Al Green and Alan Greenspan are the same person, then Houston? We have a problem.)\n\nIn general, the mental challenge has to do with whether you expect to be respected. It has to do with how you relate to him. It has to do with whether he knows that you aren't afraid to be without him.\n\nThe nice girl makes the mistake of being available all the time. \"I don't want to play games,\" she says. So, she lets him see how afraid she is to be without him and he soon comes to feel as though he has a 100 percent hold on her. This is often the point when women begin to complain: \"He doesn't make enough time for me. He isn't as romantic as he used to be.\"\n\nA bitch is more selective about her availability. She's available sometimes; other times she's not. But she's nice. Nice enough, that is, to consider his preferences for when he'd like to see her so that she can _sometimes_ accommodate them. Translation? No 100 percent hold.\n\nWhat about the woman who will drop everything and drive to see a man? The man also knows he has a 100 percent hold on her. After a couple of dates, he goes out with the boys, comes in at midnight, calls her, and off she goes to see him. When a woman drives to see a man in the middle of the night, the only thing missing is a neon sign on the roof of her car that says WE DELIVER.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #3\n\nA woman is perceived as offering a mental challenge to the degree that a man doesn't feel he has a 100 percent hold on her.\n\nYour time with him is telling. The nice girl sits in a chair after a week of knowing the guy, bored out of her mind as he does something that interests him. He may be watching sports on TV, cleaning his fishing gear, strumming his guitar, or working on his car. She is miserable but doesn't say a peep. Instead, she tries to make the best of it and twiddles her thumbs politely, just so she can be in his company.\n\nThe bitch, on the other hand, makes plenty of peeps. In fact, she is bitching the whole way through. This is not a bad thing, because then he knows he can't walk all over her. But remember, a mental challenge has little to do with being verbally combative. It has to do with your actions and how much of yourself you are willing to _give up_. For example, he says he likes blondes. You have dark skin, dark eyes, and black hair. The next time he sees you, you've bleached your hair and dyed your eyebrows to match. Translation? He'll sense he has a 100 percent hold on you.\n\n\"A man's love comes from his stomach,\" they say. That's true, but no one said to slave for six hours to feed him. Whether he eats out or you order take-out, the stomach is full, and there is plenty of love to go around. Rule of thumb: If it is warm, he'll eat it. The rest is wasted effort.\n\nWomen are conditioned to give themselves away. I have yet to see a men's magazine with an article on how to cook a woman a four-course meal. The closest they ever come to a recipe is in the bodybuilder section, when they tell guys to mix up a few egg whites with some wheat germ.\n\nI raise the issue of cooking because it's one of many ways that women overcompensate. This doesn't mean you should forgo cooking altogether. Perhaps it's your anniversary, and you've been together a whole year. Perhaps it is his birthday, and you want to do something special for him.\n\nOn a special occasion, and after he has earned it, cooking him a meal is a nice \"treat.\" But it isn't a treat if you give it to him right off the bat. Since this is a book for women, I would be remiss if I didn't include some recipes for those first weeks in a relationship. And, unlike Martha Stewart's recipes, the following are easy to remember. You don't even need recipe cards.\n\n### Appetizer  \nPopcorn \u00e0 la Carte\n\nI recommend popcorn for its convenience and quick preparation time. First, place the bag in the microwave. When all the kernels have popped, remove the popcorn from the microwave carefully, because it will be very hot. Be sure to wear a cooking mitt, an apron, and a spatula to assist in the removal of the popcorn from the microwave. This will not only impress your guest, it will also make it look like you really know what you're doing.\n\nIf you find that the popcorn is burned, notice where it is burned. If it's black at the top, dump out the black part and salvage the rest by pouring it into a bowl. Serve the yellow part to your guest, and then adjust the time when you make a new bag for yourself.\n\nServes: one and a half. (Good enough.)\n\n### Main Course  \nGourmet Delicate Dippings\n\nBring a pot of water to a boil, and plop in two wieners. Cook them for five minutes so the wieners are tough or slightly al dente. Pour your guest a refreshing beverage (Kool-Aid). Then send him onto your balcony so he can enjoy the lovely view\u2014as ambience is everything. When he isn't looking, slice and dice the little wieners and stick a toothpick into each piece. Like Martha, you can truly express your creativity with a wide assortment of different colored toothpicks. Now serve the little weiners with two \"delicate dipping\" sauces, served side by side: ketchup and mustard. And never refer to them as weiner slices, always refer to them as \"Gourmet Delicate Dippings.\"\n\nNow for dessert: a jelly roll (Hostess) served with coffee (instant). And an after-dinner mint always makes a classy finishing touch. I recommend peppermint, spearmint, or Trident.\n\nYou'll know dinner was a smashing success when he insists on taking you out to eat next time. Never again will you hear him utter the words, \"Hey, what's for dinner?\"\n\nIf, after some time, he ever slips and asks you to cook, simply offer to make your specialty: popcorn, wieners, and a jelly roll, with coffee and Kool-Aid to help wash it down. Then start getting ready because you'll have reservations within the hour.\n\nThe bitch is not the woman who will sit at home and work overtime to refine her \"man-catching\" skills. All she feels she has to do in the beginning is focus on being good company. This is more than enough until he earns the \"catbird seat\" at the top of the yacht.\n\nIn the beginning, pay close attention and take note of the following: If he's unwilling to lift a finger during the courtship, he is showing you right up front that he has nothing to offer you in the future. This behavior has nothing to do with your worth. It has everything to do with what he has to offer. And it also has to do with how you present yourself. Are you working overtime? If he has a lot to offer but you don't allow him to come your way, he'll have no other option but to back off. When a nice girl overcompensates, her behavior says, \"What I have to offer isn't enough, and who I am isn't enough.\" The bitch, on the other hand, gives a very different message. \"Who I am is enough. Take it or leave it.\" And now, a comparison:\n\n\"I AM NOT ENOUGH.\" | vs. | \"I'm ENOUGH. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT.\"\n\n---|---|---  \nShe calls him often and says, \"Please return my call.\" |  | She gets back to him when she's free  \nShe is on call like a rookie flight attendant. |  | She sees him when it is convenient for her.  \nShe makes it obvious a relationship is her goal before she knows much about him. |  | She goes out to have fun and doesn't make promises to a virtual stranger  \nWhen he does call her, she is mad he didn't call sooner. |  | When he calls her, he is curious where _she_ is, and why she's not there.  \nShe often drives. |  | He'll pick her up or happily go out of his way.  \nShe asks, \"Where's our relationship going?\" |  | He has no clue where the relationship is going, and she leaves it like that.  \nShe talks about having babies. |  | She can't remember his last name.  \nShe asks him about the \"ex.\" |  | He brings up the ex; she looks at her watch.  \n**ONE = DOORMAT** |  | **THE OTHER = DREAMGIRL**\n\nThe foundation is laid from day one. From the very beginning, he consciously (yes, consciously) tries to figure out what the parameters are _and how much he can get away with_.\n\nPhone etiquette is also telling. Do you wait to hear from him before you make plans? Do you get bent out of shape if he doesn't call, check in, or show up as expected?\n\nIf so, you are not giving him a lesson in punctuality. What you are doing is showing him he has a 100 percent hold on you, which isn't a good message to give someone you've just met.\n\nIt's a fact that most men deliberately don't call, just to see _how you'll respond._ When a woman is upset, she is easy to read. And a man can easily gauge how much a woman wants or needs the relationship by simply pulling back a little bit. So forget all those other theories from magazines about why men don't call.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #4\n\nSometimes a man deliberately won't call, just to see how you'll respond.\n\nIt is human nature for a man to test the waters to see how much he can get away with. You see it in the behavior of children and even in the behavior of pets. It's par for the course.\n\nPulling back is also something men do to gain reassurance. No man is going to say, \"Honey, I need reassurance about where I stand with you.\" Instead he'll pull back to see how you'll react. When you react emotionally, it gives him a feeling of control. And if you react emotionally frequently, over time he will come to see you as less of a mental challenge. If he can't predict how you'll always react, you remain a challenge.\n\nIt also gives him something he absolutely needs: the freedom to breathe. If you don't hear from him for a little longer than usual, show him that you have absolutely no \"attitude\" about it. This behavior will make him a little unsure about whether you miss him (i.e., \"need him\") when he isn't around. It gives him a reason to come your way because he won't perceive you as needy.\n\nTry not to say things such as \"Why haven't you called me?\" or \"Why haven't I heard from you in a week?\" If you act as though you haven't even noticed (because time flies when you're having fun), he will come your way. Why? Because he doesn't feel as though he has a 100 percent hold on you.\n\nA top teen magazine recently gave women the following bad advice. They said to slip notes in unexpected places like his backpack or locker, or to \"write a poem and slip it under his windshield wiper.\" As if this wasn't enough to give his attraction the kiss of death... Wait, it gets better. In addition, they advised catching him off guard by \"having a pizza delivered.\" Okay. Put it all together and what do you get? A magic recipe for convincing him you are a _stalker_.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #5\n\nIf you start out dependent, it turns him off. But if it is something he can't have, it becomes more of a challenge for him to get it.\n\nAgain, it isn't about learning how to play a game. It's about understanding human nature and behaving accordingly. A man will always want what he can't have. When a man meets a woman and she seems nonchalant, it becomes a challenge for him to win her affections.\n\nOr, if he tries to get a woman to react in an insecure way but she holds herself with a level of dignity and pride, suddenly the dynamic changes. The same guy who was gun-shy of relationships becomes a believer. Now he begins to fantasize about getting the so-called bitch to cook him a meal, fold his socks, or chase him around. But if you _start out_ dependent on him, he simply doesn't value it the same.\n\nAnother mistake that a woman can make is to put herself down. When you're on a date, you should never talk about the plastic surgery you want to have or the weight you want to lose. Don't talk him out of a compliment. This is the time to be sure of who you are.\n\nSo, what's the right attitude? \"This is me, in all of my splendor... and it doesn't get any better than this.\" Don't spend a fortune on a therapist. Just say it to yourself until you believe it. Eventually you _will_ believe it, and so will he.\n\nHumility? Don't worry. It's a treatable affliction, a mental glitch. If you catch yourself being modest or humble or any of that nonsense, correct the problem immediately. Go directly back to believing you are \"a catch.\" Period. End of story. Case closed. If someone else doesn't like your confidence, that's their problem. _Why? You always come before they do, that's why._\n\nCase in point: Ever hear a man say that all the guys wanted his ex-girlfriend? He'll build her up so much that when you finally see a picture, you are dumbfounded. What you really want to say is, \"Honey, she looks like she had the starring role in _Lassie Comes Home_.\" Don't bother because he'll rush to her defense: \"She looked better in real life.\" No sale... try again. \"She looked better back then? (Pause.) It was a really bad picture, no, really.\" (Still, no sale.)\n\nWhat women need to understand is that when a man considers a woman to be a prize, looks have very little to do with it. In the above example, it was a simple mind trick that goes like this: She acted like a prize, and then a funny thing happened. He completely _forgot who he was looking at._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #6\n\nIt is your attitude about yourself that a man will adopt.\n\nThe same works in reverse. A beautiful woman can make herself look ugly in the eyes of a man if she is very insecure.\n\nHe pursued you; therefore, he finds you attractive. An understated demeanor and a confident attitude will convince him you're gorgeous.\n\nNever assume you are not attractive enough, and therefore you have to overcompensate or chase a man. Taste is subjective. One man's \"ugly\" is another man's \"beautiful.\" The first date is about looks. When he falls in love, it's about your attitude. It's about whether you can hold your own. Which is all about how you hold _yourself._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #7\n\nAct like a prize and you'll turn him into a believer.\n\nA woman also demeans herself when she compares herself to another woman. So, don't let on when you feel threatened by another attractive woman who walks into the room. If you want to make a woman who is a 6 on a scale of 10 look like a 12, what do you need to do? Simple. Act threatened by her. If you pretend not to notice her, he'll see your confidence in yourself and then he'll become intrigued with _you_. Then another curious thing will happen. Suddenly she won't look so good. She only has as much power as you give her.\n\nA girlfriend of mine named Samantha went on a first date with a man who took her to a local boxing match. In between rounds, as always, there was a sexy, barely dressed stripper who came out holding the round number. Her date looked at the woman and then, in an effort to be a gentleman, turned to look at Samantha. She acted as though she was oblivious as to why he had turned to look at her.\n\nWhen the woman came out again in the following round in a see-through lace nightie, my friend leaned down under the seat and nonchalantly asked her date if she could drink some of the water in his water bottle. He said, \"Sure.\" At no time did she behave as if she was threatened. Instead, she remained very composed as though the other woman didn't even exist. By the end of the third round, he no longer noticed the woman in the boxing ring.\n\nThe end result was that he was completely enamored with Samantha. And while driving home, he kept saying how incredibly beautiful he thought she was. The proof was in the pudding. He continued to pursue her, not the stripper who overcompensated, to get the kind of attention _that is often very short-lived._\n\nWhile my friend's behavior was exemplary, his wasn't all that romantic. It should not go unnoticed that a man is willing to take you somewhere unromantic on the first date. If a man takes you to a boxing match, a strip joint, or a place he might typically hang out with a bunch of guys, he's telling you by the choices he is making that he doesn't plan to have you around that long. If this is where he takes you on a first date, _don't_ go out with him a second time.\n\nIf you are in an uncomfortable situation, don't feel compelled to compete with another woman. In addition, you don't need to expose a lot of skin or feel as if you have to work harder to earn a man's sexual attention. I know a woman who takes off layers of clothes based on how the other women in the room are dressed. The issue again is overcompensation. No need.\n\nWearing your sexuality on your sleeve isn't advantageous in luring a man. The issue is not about whether you are successful in turning him on; this is no big achievement. He can get aroused from riding a motorcycle or from sleeping. The issue is not whether you turn him on; it's whether he _stays_ turned on _after_ he has been satisfied. This is the key.\n\nQuality men are attracted by less, not more. If he sees a pretty secretary wearing her hair in a bun, right there in broad daylight he's going to start wondering what she looks like with her hair down. If he sees a woman dressed in a way that shows there is something moving behind a sweater that he can't see, his desire to see is greater than if she's showing it right off the bat. When you show your shape, but don't expose every inch, the \"unwrapping of the gift\" becomes much more stimulating. If he has to unbutton an item of clothing to get to what he wants to see, it turns him on _more_. Not less.\n\nYou often hear a man say of a provocatively dressed woman, \"I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers.\" This is true until he's had \"his way\" with her and then crackers or no crackers, he moves on. The difficult part isn't getting a man's interest. The trick is knowing how to _sustain_ it.\n\nMuch of holding your own in a relationship begins with _how you hold yourself._ Overcompensating is overcompensating, and it includes everything from calling a man too much to cooking a four-course meal to dressing too provocatively. Remember the saying: The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.\n\nIf, at a later date, you dress provocatively, that's another story. Then he knows you are doing it just for him, so it becomes a treat. This is why you often hear men say they want a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom. It's what you don't show that keeps him intrigued.\n\nDon't let the advertisements on TV be your guide. The woman who sustains a man's interest is not the one who feels confident because of a particular miniskirt, a belly ring, or a black dress with a plunging neckline. A bitch doesn't rely on these things to feel good about herself. She relies on _who she_ _is as a woman_.\n\n\"He should accept me as I am!\" says the woman who is too nice. Accept you? Oh no, sister. Slap yourself. He should want you madly. Acceptance has nothing to do with it. He _accepts_ a doormat. But he _desires_ his dreamgirl. If you want acceptance, go to a self-help group. We're talking about what he craves. It started when he was a kid. When he received a toy for Christmas that he didn't even ask for, he played with it for a whole five minutes. The toy he cherished was the one he bought with two months' allowance that sat on the top shelf in the toy store. He couldn't reach it but went in to look at it all the time. He got up every morning at the crack of dawn to toss papers on a paper route to get that toy. It's the one toy he will always remember because he had to earn it.\n\nIN HER MIND | IN HIS MIND\n\n---|---  \n\"I am going the extra mile.\" | \"She is trying too hard. She's desperate.\"  \n\"I don't want to play games.\" | \"She talks too much.\"  \n\"I am nurturing.\" | \"She is mothering.\"  \n\"I am giving 100 percent so I can make it work.\" | \"She is really nice, but there just isn't any chemistry.\"\n\nBut with the bitch? There's no lack of sexual chemistry.\n\n#### She Has That \"Je Ne Sais Quoi\"\n\n_Je ne sais quoi_ is a French expression that translates to \"I don't know what.\" It implies \"that something special\" that there aren't words for. It is that elusive charming quality you just cannot put your finger on. What does this quality boil down to? A woman who is comfortable in her own skin and cannot be made to feel bad about herself.\n\nIt isn't about looks; gorgeous women get dumped every day. It isn't about intelligence. Women of all types, from brilliant women to women with the IQ equivalent of plant life, pull it off every day. It's about mystery and learning how to create intrigue.\n\nWhen you lose your _edge_ , the relationship loses its _fire_. Think of him as the match. You are the striking board on the back of the match cover. When the rough edge or sand wears off and starts to become dull, it is much harder to get that spark.\n\nFor example, the man may say, \"Maybe I need a little time to think things over.\" The woman who is too nice responds, \"Please don't leave me.\" Not the bitch. She offers to help him pack. Why (choose _A, B,_ or _C_ )?\n\nA. She is helpful.\n\nB. He can't pack.\n\nC. She loves herself.\n\n_Hint:_ The correct answer is _C._ Because she loves herself, the bitch doesn't want anyone who doesn't want her. She doesn't grab his ankles and beg for mercy. She keeps that edge. And, in doing so, she prevents him from wanting to go.\n\nHer aura says she doesn't want him desperately enough, need him desperately enough, or let him get under her skin enough. She is driving that train. _Effortlessly_. And it is that very ease that translates into charm.\n\n_Je ne sais quoi_ is a sexy devil-may-care attitude. Not only isn't the bitch needy of him, she often isn't focused on him.\n\nEver notice that when you are on the phone ignoring the man you are with, suddenly he'll kiss your neck and try to get your attention? Ignore him and he is intrigued. Make him the center of attention all the time and he runs.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #8\n\nThe biggest variable between a bitch and a woman who is too nice is fear. The bitch shows that she's not afraid to be without him.\n\nMargaret Atwood said, \"Fear has a smell, as love does.\" It is said that excitement and fear come from the same part of the brain. When a man is slightly afraid of losing a woman, his excitement is piqued.\n\nHis psyche is like a plant. It needs water but also air to breathe. To give a man too much reassurance too soon is the same as overwatering a plant. It kills it.\n\nOne of the things women have to get out of their mindset is the notion of what a bitch is. A bitch is _nice_. She's sweet as a Georgia peach. She smiles and she is feminine. She just doesn't make decisions based on the fear of losing a man.\n\nThe difference between the bitch and the nice girl is not so much in their personalities or in their demeanor. It has nothing to do with how abrasive a woman is. A bitch is a bitch with her actions, because she isn't willing to give herself up.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #9\n\nIf the choice is between her dignity and having a relationship, the bitch will prioritize her dignity above all else.\n\nThe bitch remains the person she is throughout her relationship with a man. She doesn't lose her friends. She doesn't give up her career or her hobbies. She doesn't give up all of her time or bend over backward. And, unlike the nice girl, she is not _too tolerant_ of disrespect.\n\nShe also keeps her edge and has enormous self-respect; she holds the conviction that her self-worth governs her decisions. Because she is not afraid, ironically he becomes _afraid to lose her_. Because she is not needy, he starts to need her. Because she isn't dependent on him, he begins to depend on her. It's like a reverse magnet. The person who is least dependent on the outcome of the relationship will automatically draw the other person in.\n\n#### Meet the \"New and Improved\" Bitch\n\nLet us conclude this chapter by redefining the word _bitch._ Think of it as a \"term of endearment.\" A bitch is not a woman Dreamgirl who speaks in a harsh tone of voice. It is not a woman who is abrasive or rude. She is polite but clear. She communicates directly with a man, in much the same way men communicate with one another. In this way, it's easier for a man to deal with her than with a woman who waffles or appears too emotional, because the emotionally sensitive type of woman confuses him. The bitch knows what she likes and has an easier time expressing it directly. As a result, she usually gets what she wants. Here are the ten characteristics that define her.\n\n  1. _She maintains her independence._  \nIt doesn't matter if she is the CEO of a company or a waitress at Denny's. She earns an honest living. She has honor, and she isn't standing there with her hand out.\n  2. _She doesn't pursue him._  \nThe moon and the sun and the stars don't revolve around him. She doesn't make her dates with him when her horoscope advises that his big Mercury is about to retrograde in her little Venus. She doesn't chase him or keep tabs on him. He is not the center of the world.\n  3. _She is mysterious._  \nThere is a difference between honesty and disclosure. She is honest but does not reveal everything. She isn't verbally putting her cards on the table. Familiarity breeds contempt and predictability breeds boredom.\n  4. _She leaves him wanting._  \nShe doesn't see him every night or leave long messages on his machine. She isn't on a first-name basis with his secretary in one week. Men equate longing with love. Longing is good.\n  5. _She doesn't let him see her sweat._  \nShe keeps communication from getting messy and avoids communicating when upset. When she clears her head, she is succinct and speaks in a \"bottom line\" way.\n  6. _She remains in control of her time._  \nShe takes it slowly, _especially_ when he wants to hurry. She moves to her rhythm, not his, preventing him from taking control of her.\n  7. _She maintains a sense of humor._  \nA sense of humor lets him know she is detached. However, she doesn't treat disrespect as a laughing matter.\n  8. _She places a high value on herself._  \nWhen he gives her a compliment, she says thank you. She doesn't talk him out of it. She doesn't ask what the ex looked like and doesn't compete with other women.\n  9. _She is passionate about something other than him._  \nWhen he feels he isn't the \"be all and end all\" of her existence, it makes her more desirable. Staying busy ensures she isn't resentful if he is unavailable. He doesn't have a monopoly on the rent space in her head. He doesn't get Park Place, and he doesn't get Boardwalk. He gets one of those little purple properties next to Go.\n  10. _She treats her body like a finely tuned machine._  \nShe maintains her appearance and health. A person's self-respect is reflected in how he or she maintains physical appearance. If he tells her he doesn't like red lipstick, she wears it anyway, if it makes her feel good.\n\n# 2\n\n## WHY MEN  \nPrefer  \nBITCHES\n\n### Cracking the Code:  \nWhat Every Nice Girl Needs to Know\n\n\"Happiness? A good cigar, a good meal, a good cigar, and a good woman\u2014or a _bad woman._ It depends on how much happiness you can handle.\"\n\n\u2014GEORGE BURNS\n\n#### The Thrill of the Chase\n\nWomen need to understand that men love the \"thrill of the chase\" and are highly competitive. They like racing cars, engaging in athletics, and hunting. They like to fix things, to figure things out, to pursue.\n\nThe cat-and-mouse game that women find maddening is actually very exciting to men. This is a very basic difference between the sexes. For a woman, the objective is often a committed relationship, also known as the destination. For a man, the road trip _on the way_ to the destination is often the most fun.\n\nThe bitch understands that when a man wants something he'll go after it, and going after it makes him want it even more. If he doesn't succeed right away, he starts to crave it. It captures his interest and excites his imagination. A woman who is too nice throws cold water on this process. A man is more likely to get bored when he hasn't really invested much of himself.\n\nNo one respects a freebie or a handout in any facet of life. When a woman sleeps with a man right away, it doesn't pull him in. The men I interviewed often admitted that if the sex was too easy to get, it was not that great.\n\nIt's like blackjack. If he wins big right up front, he's done for the night. But with the slow win, things develop differently. He wins a few hands and then loses a couple. At this point, wild horses couldn't pull him away, because he feels so close to winning again. He can almost taste it. His inborn, competitive male nature kicks in and makes _him stay there and fight_. And if he's losing, he'll fight even harder.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #10\n\nWhen a woman doesn't give in easily and doesn't appear docile or submissive, it becomes more stimulating to obtain her.\n\nAnother example is when he goes on a hunting trip with \"the boys.\" They go out for a whole week. He sleeps in a grungy sleeping bag and gets chewed up by mosquitoes. He eats food that prison inmates wouldn't touch. For what? The hunt. Then if he actually kills a moose, he comes home prouder than a peacock and wants to hang the moose head on the wall in the den. (Look out\u2014the hunter is now a decorator.)\n\nLet's notice something, because it is significant. If you were to drop a dead moose on his doorstep, he'd want nothing to do with it. It could be the very _same moose_ he had hunted, and yet it could have a totally different effect on him. This is how the pursuit affects his interest in a woman. When a woman chases a man, it has the same effect as if she were to deliver a dead moose to his front door.\n\nThe objective while dating is not to be mean. It's to give him the thrill of the chase by taking it slowly and letting him _be a man_. It's easy to understand his nature because it is our human nature, too.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #11\n\nBeing right on the verge of getting something generates a desire that has to be satisfied.\n\nMen often admit, \"You always want what you can't have.\" The bitch never lets him feel that he has her under his thumb. Since he never quite has her, he never stops pursuing her.\n\nSo when he thinks he's making progress and he has you right where he wants you, sometimes it's appropriate to gently remind him that you aren't under his thumb. Here are just a few comparisons between the nice girl and the bitch.\n\n**SCENARIO #1:** HE CALLS YOU AND EXPECTS YOU TO BE AT HOME.  \n---  \nIf the nice girl leaves, she calls first to tell him where she'll be and what time she'll be back. | The bitch lets him think about where she is every now and then.  \nOften she'll assure him that her cell phone's on, should he want to get ahold of her. | She lets him wonder if she's outside his reach by not always reporting her whereabouts.  \n**SCENARIO #2:** HE SAYS HE'LL CALL AT AROUND A CERTAIN TIME AFTER HE GETS IN. THE CALL IS FOUR HOURS LATE.  \n---  \nThe nice girl yells at him and says she was worried. \"You should have called!\" | The bitch isn't so easily upset, so she isn't so easy to read. She may or may not pick up the phone, which makes him miss her.  \n**SCENARIO #3:** HE SEEMS A LITTLE WITHDRAWN, PENSIVE, AND NOT PARTICULARLY TALKATIVE.  \n---  \nThe nice girl continually pries and asks, \"What are you thinking about?\" She worries that he is pulling away. | The bitch is in her own thoughts. She doesn't panic, which makes him come her way.  \n**SCENARIO #4:** HE IS VERY LATE FOR A DATE AND KEEPS HER WAITING.  \n---  \nThe nice girl waits, calls him on his cell phone four times, and tells him he should \"value her more.\" | The bitch waits a half-hour and then makes other plans.\n\nThe difference in these situations isn't as much how you treat him as how you treat yourself. The bitch's behavior lets him know without any words that she will not pull the plug on her life to accommodate him.\n\n* * *\n\n### Are You _Too_ Nice?  \nA Pop Quiz\n\n* * *\n\n  1. Do you feel guilty when you say no, or do you say no and then second-guess yourself?\n  2. Do you often try to tell your partner that you want to be treated with respect?\n  3. Do you find yourself bartering or negotiating for what you want or need?\n  4. Do you often pass up sleep or the need for personal time to meet his needs?\n  5. Do you regularly see him on short notice or when it is convenient for him?\n  6. Do you find that you repeat what you've asked for as though he didn't hear it the first time?\n  7. After a fight, are you always the first one to contact him or apologize?\n  8. Do you find you are much more doting and affectionate than he is?\n  9. Do you often feel depleted after he has been with you?\n  10. Do you constantly want more attention or reassurance?\n\n* * *\n\nIf you've answered yes to five or more of these ten questions, you are giving far more than you are receiving. Let's explore why giving yourself up is never in your best interests.\n\nWomen understand the concept of balance between work Prefer and play. They balance time with family and time with friends. They balance a job with getting an education. But when it comes to a man, the nice girl abandons all sense of balance and immediately makes the man the whole pie. But with a bitch, he is just a piece of it. She keeps the other pieces intact.\n\nIt all starts out subtly. \"What are you doing right now?\" he asks when he calls her from his cell phone. \"Well, I was going to catch a movie with a girlfriend,\" she answers. The operative word is _was_ (past tense). Then he asks, \"Want to hook up?\" She pauses for two seconds. \"Okay.\"\n\nA man will try to get you to be very accessible because it's natural that he'll want to make things more convenient for himself. And he'll do so by saying the following to pressure you to accommodate him:\n\n\"I don't like to plan things.\"\n\n\"I like to be spontaneous.\"\n\n\"I like to fly by the seat of my pants.\"\n\nAnother key factor that distinguishes the nice girl from the bitch is how much of herself she'll give up. Once you're in a relationship and he's shown a pattern of being interested over time, then it's okay to be a little more spontaneous. In the beginning, however, don't make yourself so accessible. If you do, the relationship will always be on his terms.\n\nThe nice girl will often cancel plans with a girlfriend if she gets a last-minute date. The bitch will hold her own simply by keeping her previously set plans. I know one bitchy woman whose partner absolutely adores her. If she's painting her toenails when he calls, she'll still say, \"Thank you so much, but I'm a little busy right now.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #12\n\nA man knows which woman will give in to last-minute requests.\n\nSometimes a man will get tickets to something at the last minute. Or he'll plan a romantic surprise. He is spontaneous, but clearly you're his first priority\u2014so this is harmless. You're in good shape if he's calling you all the time and wants to see a lot of you.\n\nWhat you want to guard against is going on last-minute dates or getting those last-minute calls to do something because he didn't have anything better planned. Sometimes when a woman has feelings for a man, she can't distinguish between the two.\n\nTHE SPONTANEOUS GUY WHO IS TREATING YOU LIKE A BACKUP |  VS. |  THE SPONTANEOUS GUY WHO ADORES YOU  \n---|---|---\n\nYou don't hear from him for two weeks at a time and then all of a sudden you get a phone call.\n\n|  |\n\nHe makes dates ahead of time, and he also wants to see you spontaneously in between.\n\nHe prioritizes social engagements with his drinking buddies\n\n|  |\n\nHis buddies complain that he fell off the face of the earth. They hassle him but he doesn't seem to care.\n\nHe makes travel arrangements with friends and never asks you to accompany him.\n\n|  |\n\nHe's constantly asking you to take time off from work so you can get away together.\n\nHe's irritable when he's around you and frequently complains of not having more time to himself.\n\n|  |\n\nHe's happy to be in your company. His friends and family all think he looks happier than he's ever looked.\n\nHe calls you to cancel plans for that evening. Later that night, you call right back and it goes directly to voice mail. Then he calls the following day with a good excuse\n\n|  |\n\nIf he has to cancel, he feels badly about it. He calls you when he gets in from wherever he is because he has nothing to hide and he wants you to know he's being totally \"on the level.\"\n\nHe won't ever take you out or spend much money. He may ask you for a loan. Before you know it, you're supporting the guy through college.\n\n|  |\n\nHe'll do anything just to see you smile\n\nYou make it known that you're available on a weekend night. And even though he works during the week, he doesn't make himself available to see you.\n\n|  |\n\nHe almost always sees you whenever you have time, unless he has a professional commitment or there's an important extenuating circumstance.\n\nA common example is the typical \"booty call.\" First, the guy waits to hear back from someone _else_ before confirming whether he can see you. He'll call at 5:00 and say he hasn't showered yet and he's on the way. At 7:00 he calls again and pulls the plug: \"My friend Troy stopped by.\" Then he says he'll make it an early night with Troy and tells you he wants to get together afterward. He gets in late, and that's when he offers to see you, providing you drive to his place.\n\nNo matter how much you want to see him, don't go. At this point, you want to _seriously_ consider not ever seeing him again. If you do go, you won't be more appealing to him; you'll be turning the dimmer switch down on his attraction for you.\n\nA friend of mine named Crystal was in this exact situation and handled it perfectly. A man named Brett called her on a Saturday night; it was well after midnight and raining, and he asked her in a seductive tone of voice to drive to his place. A classic booty call. Crystal hadn't heard from Brett in two weeks, since he'd indicated he wanted to \"see other people.\" He also lived 35 miles away from her at the time.\n\nCrystal said, \"Okay, sweetie. I'm on my way. Give me five minutes to put on a garter belt under my raincoat. I'll be there in forty minutes.\" She also asked Brett to wait downstairs for her in the rain with an umbrella, so she wouldn't get drenched walking to the front of his apartment complex. He waited and waited and waited. Three hours later, it occurred to him like a stunning revelation: No booty cometh.\n\nIn the morning Crystal awoke to several messages from Brett. In one of them, he mentioned that he had come down with a severe case of the flu from standing in the rain. (Not her fault. He should have gotten his flu shot.)\n\nAgain, the bitch is very nice. She is as sweet as a Georgia peach. But inside every sweet peach is a strong pit. And this means she won't explain the obvious when a man is disrespectful. There is no way to hold your own in a relationship and simultaneously accept rude behavior. A quality man doesn't want a woman he can trot all over. There is nothing wrong with having a little self-respect\u2014and a few conditions.\n\n### Condition #1.  \nHe books in advance.\n\nThe message? Your time and attention are valuable.\n\nIf you treat yourself as a valuable commodity, he will naturally put more stock in you. For example, he calls and says, \"When can I see you?\" Don't say, \"I'm wide open around the clock. Pick a time. _Anytime_!\" He suggests Friday. \"Okay!\" He suggests Tuesday. \"Okay!\" He suggests three weeks from next Sunday. \"Okay!\"\n\nInstead, politely tell him you have two nights that are good for you. Then let him choose one. He'll probably choose both.\n\nHere's a similar circumstance. A doctor I know started a private practice. He didn't want his receptionist to say, \"Sure, we have tons of openings. Drop in any time.\" Instead, he instructed her to say, \"We can get you in at 2:15 or at 4:15. Which would work for you?\" Most people would tend to value an appointment more with a doctor who appears to be fairly busy _but is willing to accommodate them_ than with one who is always open like an all-night convenience store.\n\n### Condition #2.  \nDon't see him when you are \"running on empty.\"\n\nThe message? He does not come before basic necessities (i.e., rest).\n\nHe says he'd like to see you at 9:00 p.m., and you don't want to be out too late? Tell him, \"I'd prefer to get together earlier.\" If he can't because he is working late, make no issue of it. Simply suggest getting together another night.\n\n### Condition #3.  \nIf you aren't having fun or he isn't good company, end the date immediately, and give a superficial explanation as to why.\n\nThe message? You have a standard of how you expect to be treated.\n\nFor example, you are on a first date. He gets drunk and behaves badly. For starters, never get into a car with someone who is drinking. Always keep a credit card in your back pocket or a $20 bill in your bra. Tell him you are going home early. Excuse yourself, go to the little girl's room, and call a cab.\n\nAnother friend named Kelly snagged a guy whom a lot of women wanted by setting the tone from the very beginning. She did so simply by being reticent. The man was extremely successful, very attractive, and charismatic. He first saw Kelly when he was eating his lunch at a cafeteria where she often eats. He had that confident vibe and was used to women hitting on him.\n\nKelly was the exception to the rule. He was trying to get her attention while she remained absolutely riveted by her BLT sandwich. She knew that he was watching her, but she pretended not to notice. He came back Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. When he finally asked her out, she paused before she answered, \"I don't know you, so I can't look at you in a romantic way. We could start as friends and see where it leads.\"\n\nHere's a guy who was used to women clamoring to be with him, but with Kelly, he was presented with a challenge to pursue a woman who let him know she won't be so easily won over. In this way, she _held her own_.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #13\n\nWhether you have terms and conditions indicates whether you have options. Almost immediately, you present yourself as a doormat or a dreamgirl.\n\n\"Terms and conditions\" are a novel idea for the woman who is too nice. (And you shouldn't leave home without them.) Don't get me wrong: Unconditional love is a beautiful thing. Just be sure to give it _after_ your conditions have been met.\n\n#### The Mama/Ho Complex\n\nIn the field of psychoanalysis, there's a male hang-up called the Madonna/Whore Syndrome. Let's forget all the fancy psychobabble and refer to the informal Mama/Ho version to better understand our male counterparts.\n\nThe Mama/Ho theory holds that a man will either see you as his \"mama\" or his \"ho.\" The word _ho_ is a derivative of the word _whore._ It is not a garden tool. A ho is any woman he is having sex with, any woman he wants to have sex with, or any woman he has had sex with.\n\nThe antonym for ho is mama. A man will feel affectionate toward a woman who is really sweet and nice, much like the affection he has for his mother. Because she doesn't present a challenge and she's always there, he begins to take her for granted. This is when you hear men say, \"She's really nice, but there just wasn't any chemistry.\" Therefore:\n\n**SAFE + BORING + MAMA = _NO SPARK_**\n\n**&**\n\n**UNPREDICTABLE + NOT MONOTONOUS + HO** = **_FIREWORKS_**\n\nEven though a man is turned on by the independent woman he can't have, he'll still try to get you to be like his mama. He'll want you to cook, clean, and do his laundry.\n\nOne woman I know nipped the issue of laundry in the very beginning. Early in her marriage, she threw a red sweatshirt in with all of her husband's white cotton underwear. Then she turned the water on hot to seal the deal. The only underwear he had left was the pair he was wearing. No self-respecting, heterosexual male would ever be caught dead wearing _pink_ underwear. On seeing the ruined garments, her husband threatened her with the very words she wanted to hear, \"You will never, ever, ever do my laundry again!\"\n\nWhat a nice girl should know is that even if you make every effort to be an exemplary housekeeper, he'll still want a ho behind closed doors. The two are related. Why? Constant mothering will eventually turn a man off. Yes, they say that every man is looking for his mother. This is a nice theory, but it doesn't mean you should run out and do his laundry or treat him as though you are his keeper. There are four things that make a man feel suffocated or mothered, that often turn him off, and that make him distance himself from you like a rebellious teenager. These are the major Mommy no-no's:\n\nDo not appear to check up on him or ask him to check in with you.\n\nDo not expect him (without asking first) to spend all his free time with you.\n\nDo not ask him to account for the time that he isn't with you.\n\nDo not be overly doting, leaving him no room to come your way.\n\nNever give the appearance that you are closing in on him. For example, suppose he gets off the phone with his long-lost Auntie Mae. If you immediately start questioning him or you jump down his throat and demand to know who was on the phone, it has the same effect as throwing on an apron and assuming the role of mama. Like a teenager, he'll rebel.\n\nThere are many things women inadvertently say that sound very motherly: \"Get some rest,\" \"Don't stay out late,\" \"Call me when you get in,\" or \"Eat something before you go out.\" You will make him feel _emasculated_. It's no different than telling a two-year-old, \"After naptime we'll have a little cookie.\"\n\nAsking a man to explain himself or check in with you is mothering. Maybe he ran a half-hour late coming home. Perhaps he was having a friend help him fix his lawnmower, or maybe he was having a beer under the hood of his friend's car. The very second he thinks he has to explain himself to you, he'll feel as though he is losing his freedom. Then he'll make up a story to conceal something that didn't need to be concealed, just to protect his \"territory\" or his \"turf.\" And he'll feel cornered.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #14\n\nIf you smother him, he'll go into defense mode and look for an escape route to protect his freedom.\n\nDon't make him feel as though he has to ask permission for the day-to-day things he wants to do. It's smothering to him when you watch him too closely. Don't give him the feeling he's _under a microscope_. He'll feel controlled and will instantly want to get away.\n\nWhen he's shaving and he's late for work, don't push your way into the bathroom to watch him. Don't look in his car's glove compartment as though there's something suspicious in there. Don't appear to eavesdrop on his phone conversations. Don't try to take over his kitchen or leave girlie things in his bathroom as though you're marking your turf. Don't ask him to spend all his time with you, and don't say, \"I miss you\" when he hasn't seen you in two hours. If you do these things, _you are subtly doing the chasing_.\n\nDon't say things like, \"Tuck in your shirt,\" \"Go wash your hands,\" or \"Go brush your hair.\" Don't ask him if he's hungry three times in a row, and don't wait on him hand and foot\u2014unless he has a cold. (One little sniffle and you can treat it like a terminal illness.)\n\nDon't plan all of your weekends together so he has to ask permission to go fishing. Let him catch a couple of fish. Otherwise, he'll start to break dates. Why? Because he's acting like a rebellious teenager who's been given a curfew by mama. He'll do it deliberately so you don't get used to _dictating_ how his time is spent.\n\nWhen you treat your time together as something he _has_ to do, you've taken something that was a pleasure and made it a chore. If you are nice, but you give of yourself with strings attached, the demand for reciprocity will send him several steps backward. Whenever you make him feel as though he _has to_ see you, it will feel like work. When it's _not_ an obligation to see you, the very same thing will feel like pleasure.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #15\n\nWhenever a woman requires too many things from a man, he'll resent it. Let him give what he wants to give freely; then observe who he is.\n\nMen like things that are difficult. They like to drive stick-shift automobiles. They like to jump out of airplanes, and they like to climb mountains. They like to do the impossible. Therefore, when he has to go out of his way to see you, he is actually happier. It will not feel like work to him.\n\nThis theory applies to anything\u2014a phone call, time together, sex, or whether he checks in at the end of the day. If you always make him feel he has plenty of space to do his own thing, he'll always feel that lust. You'll be like a lover not like his mother. He'll perceive you as a privilege rather than an obligation, and he'll come your way.\n\n#### The No Cage Rule\n\nThe minute a man feels vulnerable, he fears being devastated emotionally. When he meets a nice girl, she could potentially represent \"forever.\" Heaven forbid she lets the word _relationship_ trip off her tongue a couple of times? Call 911. He immediately thinks she wants to latch onto him and have babies. Heaven forbid you get excited to see a cute baby? Trauma. He has nightmares and sees it as a sign that he's in dire need of a backup form of birth control.\n\nSometimes you hear men say, \"I want to leave my options open\" or \"I don't want to get tied down.\" Or they use catch phrases like _ball and chain_ or _henpecked._ My favorite is a hyphenated term that begins with a female body part and is followed by the word _whipped._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #16\n\nA bitch gives a man plenty of space so he doesn't fear being trapped in a cage. Then...he sets out to trap her in his.\n\nClearly, men are scared to death of losing control of their freedom. The thought of being stuck with one woman frightens them. If a woman immediately acts as if she _expects_ a man to behave like a serious boyfriend without much effort on his part, he'll get scared and run off. With the nice girl, it only takes a few dates for him to feel trapped. And then \"lockdown mode\" begins.\n\nWHAT SHE SAYS... | WHAT HE HEARS\n\n---|---\n\n\"I'd love it if you'd let me know where you are at night. It's just common courtesy.\" | Limited supervised outings followed by check-in time with the warden\n\n\"I get upset when you don't call me when we aren't together.\" | The ringing of the keys that are attached to his ball and chain.\n\n\"We should be together. Why do you need the boys if you have me?\" | \"Lights out and lockdown\" in fifteen minutes!\n\n\"I'd like to get married and have kids within a year.\" | Nothing. (Inmate on the loose.)\n\nSuddenly, _poof!_ The magic is gone. He panics about being an inmate crammed into a cell. By contrast, the bitchier woman is a little more aloof, so it appears as if she has far less interest in taking away his freedom or locking him down. This is one of the major qualities that attract a man to a bitch.\n\nAsk yourself the following...\n\n  * Ever have a pillow fight and notice that you and your partner are more turned on?\n  * Ever notice that when you play-wrestle with a man, he gets all fired up?\n  * Ever notice when a man steps over the line and you put him in his place, he gets turned on?\n  * Ever wonder why the men you _aren't_ interested in won't stop chasing you?\n  * When you're dating someone and you don't pay attention to him, does he seem more intrigued and chase you even more?\n  * Have you ever played with your pet and noticed that your man seems jealous?\n\nTo fully understand these occurrences, we must focus our attention on where the true answer lies: The Animal Channel.\n\nMen are hunters, and like any hunting animal, they are more intrigued by conquering prey when it resists the predator. Most men are turned on by a bitch because it's a thrill to take down a powerful woman.\n\nLet's look at how this has practical applications. A grad student named Nancy was taking an evening class, and she had an interest in a male classmate. He kept sitting closer and closer until finally he asked her out. She said, \"Okay, I'd love to. But while we are in this class, I just want you to know that I'd like to keep it professional.\" There was clearly an undeniable amount of chemistry between them, so her comment was hardly a deterrent. It became: Operation Get That Girl.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #17\n\nIf you tell him you are not interested in jumping into a relationship with both feet, he will set out to try to change your mind.\n\nThe way to quell his fears is to say you aren't interested in anything \"too serious.\" As long as you appear interested in him, he'll keep coming your way. In his mind, you'll always be able to be convinced otherwise because men are so conditioned to meeting women who want commitment. By not appearing to want commitment, you throw a monkey wrench in the lock-down program. He no longer knows what to expect.\n\n### Things You Can Say to Avoid the Cage\n\nWhen you go on a first date, tell him you \"don't want to be in a serious relationship, for the time being.\" (Of course, things may change.)\n\nWhen you work together, say, \"I don't know if it's a good idea for us to mix business with pleasure.\" (You need a little convincing.)\n\nWhen it's a long-distance relationship, say, \"I'm not sure long-distance relationships can work.\" (Tentative is good.)\n\nThis is how you get in the conductor's seat of the train, and this is when he wants to stay on board. When he's driving, there is no \"thrill\" and no \"chase.\" But when you're driving, suddenly it's a fun ride because he can't anticipate what will happen next. (I submit to you, my fellow sisters, it's very selfish _not_ to indulge him in so much fun.)\n\nThe opposite is also true. If, for example, you _don't_ like him and wish he'd stop calling, try, \"Babies? I love babies! I want at least a half a dozen of them, maybe more. My clock is ticking so I'd like to have them soon. _Real soon_. Perhaps six of them in the next four years...\" Keep talking about those babies.\n\nThis is the perfect approach for that friendly guy you aren't interested in and you don't want to hurt. It's a perfect way to get rid of him. \"Diapers? It's easy to get the hang of it. And, don't worry...you'll get used to the smell of the poop! It won't last too long, just until they get potty trained...\" Just make sure you're on the ground floor when you tell him, so he doesn't get hurt when he jumps off the balcony. (Open windows and high altitudes should also be avoided.)\n\nIf you don't make him feel locked down, he'll come your way. Think of him as a frightened stray dog. Eventually, he'll drop his guard and come around. But if you charge at him or try to corner him, he'll bolt.\n\nThis also relates to why men prefer bitches. When he meets a woman who is unavailable or a little bitchy, he has a built-in excuse for why he isn't going to get too close. \"She's a bitch, so I won't get too serious. I'll just have a little fun,\" he says to himself. Fun equals freedom. That is, until he gets attached and then it's checkmate. Men don't _choose_ to be in love. It happens by accident. That's why they coined the phrase _to fall in love_. As in \"Oops!\" He _fell._ He had a plan...\n\nbut it went terribly awry.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #18\n\nAlways give the appearance that he has plenty of space. It gets him to drop his guard.\n\nThe more relaxed he is, the less guarded he'll be; and then it's only a matter of time before he reaches the point of no return. When he's in madly in love, you won't need to say things like \"Where are you going?\" or \"What are you doing?\" He'll tell you everything you ever wanted to know because he _wants_ to, not because you had to ask. And, if and when he does go out with the boys, he won't be able to wait to get home to you.\n\n#### The Power of Choice\n\nWho can forget the scene in _Coming to America_ in which Eddie Murphy, as the prince, stands before the altar prepared to wed his beautiful bride in a prearranged marriage? Before the ceremony, he takes the bride into a back room and asks her, \"What do you like?\" She responds, \"Whatever you like.\" Then he asks her what she likes to eat. \"Whatever you like.\" Her answers become more and more subservient. Then he tells her to bark like a dog and hop on one leg. When she does, he realizes he can't go through with the wedding.\n\nA man wants a woman who has a mind of her own. An _opinion._ The way you assert yourself lets him know whether you have self-confidence. It lets him know you can hold up your end of the bargain. When he gives you a \"little crap,\" you can give him a \"little crap\" right back. He respects a woman who can \"trade blows\" with him _and hold her own._\n\nYou don't have to always agree with everything he believes. A man falls in love with a woman when he feels he has \"met his match.\"\n\nIf you feel strongly about something, don't be afraid to say so. When he asks, \"What movie do you want to see?\" don't always tell him to choose. How about saying, \"Hey, I sat through two of your 'shoot-'em-up-bang-bang' movies, so we're seeing a 'chick-flick' tonight.\" Men are attracted to a woman who can speak her mind. As one married man described, \"Sometimes, get dressed to go out and tell _him_ to stay home with the kids. Don't ask him. _Tell him.\"_\n\nAnother said something even more poignant. \"I don't think most men would mind if a woman was the one in control at home. Just as long as no one else knew about it.\"\n\nSo begin your dating relationship with a voice. Don't give the impression you are spineless. Remember the scene in _When_ _Harry Met Sally_ when Meg Ryan's character takes an hour to order her sandwich? Have an opinion. State a preference. Be polite, but don't be afraid to express yourself.\n\nFor example, suppose you're at the video store deciding between two movies to rent. Don't get the one that you've already seen. \"I'll see it again if you haven't seen it.\" Slap yourself. \"There are a lot of good movies. How about we get one neither one of us has seen?\"\n\nIf he suggests Indian food and you absolutely hate it, say, \"Hey, I heard there's a really good new restaurant right next door.\" Show him that you aren't afraid to make a suggestion or take the initiative. Assume that a man wants to be a gentleman. And if he wants to be a gentleman, he wants to _please you_.\n\nThe bitch requires an equivocal situation, whereas the nice girl does not. If the guy insists on picking the movie or restaurant all the time and has no regard for what she likes, the bitch will not have any contact with him. It isn't about Italian or Chinese. It isn't about one movie over another. It's about whether he shows her he is selfish. This is a character flaw the bitch won't tolerate.\n\nThis is a silly example, but I'll offer it because evidently it worked. A Swedish girlfriend of mine named Anna recently had dinner with a man, and he ordered two lobsters. The waiter brought the two live lobsters to the table and asked, \"Will this be okay, sir?\" My friend is not a vegetarian, but she grew up with a couple of pet frogs in Sweden and was alarmed to see the lobsters' little legs kicking. She said, \"I just couldn't sit through the next five minutes knowing these two things would be boiled alive,\" and she insisted that he change the order.\n\nAnna would have bet her life savings that this guy would never call her again, but he did. He called almost every day that week. He wanted to please her more than he wanted lobster. That's a gentleman. I'm not saying the lobster example is a trick you should try at home, but it's far better than the Eddie Murphy bride who said, \"Whatever you like.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #19\n\nMore than anything else, he watches to see if you'll be too emotionally dependent on him.\n\nIt isn't that a man wants a woman who is \"bitching\" all the time or complaining about everything that's wrong in her life. He wants a woman who isn't afraid to disagree or express an opinion.\n\nWhen he asks on the first date, \"What do you like to do?\" don't shrug and say, \"Um. You know. Stuff.\" You don't need to say you'll bungee jump, climb mountains, and then come home and have sex all night. But show him that you have an \"appetite for life.\" _Your life_.\n\nIt's all in how you describe things. \"Occasionally, _(yawn)_ I pick up a book.\" This not the same as \"There is this _amazing_ book I'm reading by Susan Faludi, and it's so intriguing. She's such an incredible writer.\"\n\nTo better understand why men are put off by needy women, keep this example in mind. Ever had a girlfriend who always comes around when she is upset over some guy? In between relationships, she is nowhere to be found. After not hearing from her for two months, she cries on your shoulder when the guy blows her off. Then you don't see her again until the next guy dumps her.\n\nEventually you won't want to be around her because you _won't feel as though she is contributing_ to your friendship. That's how a guy feels when you are too dependent on him. It becomes a burden if you lean on him too much. He is only human, and he has his own problems. Show him that you'll be an equal partner, which means that you also have something to contribute.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #20\n\nHe must feel that you choose to be with him, not that you need to be with him. Only then will he perceive you as an equal partner.\n\nThe mere fact that the bitch can throw a little weight around or put him in his place once in a while gives him the impression she doesn't need to be with him. She can stand on her own two feet. So, instead of feeling as if he's lost his freedom, he feels as though he's gained a strong woman. The relationship is a contributing force, rather than an obligation he's stuck with.\n\nThis is also why giving him space is so important. It makes you look proud rather than desperate. It enables you to remain a challenge indefinitely. Why? You _chose_ to be with him. You didn't _need_ to be. As a person, you feel you are complete with him or without him. This is the most important thing you can convey: independence rather than dependence. This is what gives him the perception you can _hold your own_.\n\n# 3\n\n## THE  \nCandy  \nSTORE\n\n### How to Make the Most of Your Feminine and Sexual Powers\n\n\"Sex is like a small business. Ya' gotta watch over it.\"\n\n\u2014MAE WEST\n\n#### One Jujube at a Time\n\nIf you look at the run-of-the-mill survey of what men find attractive in a woman, you'll get the basic, boring, predictable answers: \"Studies have concluded that what men look for is...appearance, chemistry, and the way a woman carries herself.\" What a shocker!\n\nThen you turn the page. \"Buy a new lip gloss...pluck out all your eyebrows and draw them back in...stick three vials of collagen in your glossed-up lips...\" And this will get him eating out of your hand, right? Not in _this_ life. You'll be right back where you started but with no eyebrows.\n\nEver wonder why you see a gorgeous guy marry the girl-next-door? To your eye she looks plain, but to his eye she's a \"natural beauty.\" It doesn't matter if her most glamorous moment was winning the Miss Pumpkin Patch contest on a farm at age six. When he goes to bed with her, he's happier than a fat rat in a cheese factory.\n\nIn general, there are two things a woman does to encourage a man to fall madly in love _after_ he is attracted to her. First, she appeals to his imagination, sexually. Second, she waits a little while before consummating the relationship, sexually. This brings us to the \"candy store\" theory: _Don't give up the candy store at once. Give it one jujube at a time._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #21\n\nIf a man has to wait before he sleeps with a woman, he'll not only perceive her as more beautiful, he'll also take time to appreciate who she is.\n\nWhat men don't want women to know is that, almost immediately, they put women into one of two categories: \"good time only\" or \"worthwhile.\" And the minute he slides you into that \"good time only\" category, you'll almost never come back out.\n\nIt's not that the bitch is slutty or more conservative\u2014it's that she demands that he treat her as though she is \"worthwhile.\" And, more often than not, it means revealing her sexuality a little at a time.\n\nWith her demeanor, the bitch is subtly \"driving that train.\" Because he perceives her as slightly standoffish, he knows a lot of other men can't get to her. In fact, he's not even sure if _he_ can have her. So he'll rarely get the luxury of being able to assume that she's a \"good time only\" companion.\n\nThe doormat is more likely to be perceived as a pushover sexually because she's more likely to sleep with a man for the wrong reasons\u2014and _much_ too soon. It has nothing to do with whether she appears conservative. Whether her style is long skirts and a ponytail and she attends napkin-folding class\u2014or she wears sexy clothes and seems like a party girl\u2014the outcome can be the same. In either scenario, if she has sex with a man because she feels she _needs to do so in order to win him_ , he'll sense it and begin to lose respect for her.\n\nA man named Brad described this distinction: \"There are two types of sexy. The woman who is obviously _trying_ to be sexy. Then there is the woman who _isn't trying_ to be sexy\u2014she just is. Most guys find the second one to be much sexier. It may not seem like that, because the woman who is _trying hard_ will get you to do a double-take because she's more obvious about it. But the woman who isn't trying is sexier. And that's the girl you'll take seriously.\"\n\nWhat is more interesting is that Brad is just out of college. And if a guy in his early twenties saw this with 20/20 vision, rest assured\u2014so will most men you meet.\n\nThe following table shows how a man can quickly make these observations with relatively little information. Note that both types of women exude sexiness, yet one appears _needy_ and the other doesn't.\n\nA \"GOOD TIME ONLY\" WOMAN | VS. | A \"WORTHWHILE\" WOMAN.  \n---|---|---\n\nShe talks a lot about sex on the first date or in the first phone conversation.\n\n|  |\n\nShe flirts more subtly and uses body language to convey her sensuality.\n\nShe wears an outfit that is very short, showing leg, cleavage, and back. Her sexuality is _overstated_. She follows the pattern of what he sees all the time.\n\n|  |\n\nShe shows one physical attribute. Or she wears something that's slightly sheer. Her sexuality seems like it's a part of who she is. It doesn't seem forced.\n\nShe compliments him incessantly or hangs all over him.\n\n|  |\n\nShe keeps him interested by giving him compliments when he's hoping to have sex, so he feels he's \"in the game.\"\n\nShe wears a black lace teddy for him on the third date, leaving nothing for him to imagine.\n\n|  |\n\nShe hangs the same nightie on the back of her bathroom door, so he sees it when he uses her bathroom. Then his eyes almost burn a hole through her clothes as he imagines seeing her in it.\n\nOn the second date she invites him in. He promised they'd \"just cuddle.\" They end up sleeping together; but she ends up feeling insecure about it. He has then had the whole candy store.\n\n|  |\n\nThey kiss passionately at the door. She'd love to invite him in, but she controls her own urges and tells him good night on her porch.\n\nThe spark fizzles.\n\n|  |\n\nThe spark doesn't fizzle...it ignites.\n\nHow long should you wait before having sex? _As long as_ _you can._ At the very least, keep it platonic for the first _month_. This tactic gives you time to learn about him. You don't want to wait until after you sleep with him to learn he's married. Or that he has an ex-girlfriend who has chronic car problems and regularly needs a lift. Or that his first cousin recently dumped him when he cheated on her with her older sister.\n\nGiving up the candy store one jujube at a time isn't about being celibate or virginal. It is about ensuring that you look out for number one. It ensures that the man develops a habit of putting forth effort so that you are treated _the way you want to be treated_.\n\nNot having sex right away is about playing your cards right so that small things matter. This is when he'll get a chill down his spine because you gently hold his hand in a public place. Or he'll call you several times just to get a glimpse of you. And in his mind, you are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. It's all about having _that magic spark._ And men live for that spark.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #22\n\nSex and the \"spark\" are not one and the same.\n\n#### A Sweeter Victory\n\nIf a man feels as though he has to _win_ you over first\u2014sexually with his manliness, wit, or charm\u2014he will place a higher value on you. Men are possessive. He likes knowing that other men cannot easily get to where he is trying to go. Like he's Captain Kirk and Christopher Columbus all wrapped up in one, he wants to explore new terrain not trampled on by too many men before him. And he judges whether you make \"the rounds\" by one thing and one thing only: how quickly you give it up to him.\n\nIt is true that there are those rare \"chance\" liaisons between two people who are generally not promiscuous, and it ends up working out well. But this is the exception, not the rule.\n\nOne of my closest girlfriends, Brittany, is a pharmacist and a beautiful \"worthwhile\" woman with a lot going for her. Almost always, she sleeps with a man on the first couple of dates.\n\nRecently she slept with a guy she really liked. Right after they had sex, he appeared to be in his own thoughts. Then he looked at her and asked, \"Do you do this with all the guys?\" She recalled how it made her feel: \"I was _mildly_ insulted!\"\n\nIf you have sex immediately with a man, he'll say to himself, for a short while, \"She just couldn't resist me!\" But then he'll begin to scratch his head and wonder how many _other_ men you also couldn't resist.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #23\n\nBefore sex, a man isn't thinking clearly and a woman is thinking clearly. After sex, it reverses. The man is thinking clearly and the woman isn't.\n\nWhen sex happens at lightning speed, the man has achieved what he wanted. The reason he thinks more clearly after sex is that he's relieved and has already attained his goal. Meanwhile, the woman is just starting to pursue her goal. She has unfinished business. Then she chases _him_...and he runs.\n\nLike it or not, in the beginning you're subtly negotiating the terms of your relationship. And if you strike a deal too soon, you give up all your bargaining power. The bitch takes her time deciding whether the man is someone she wants to strike a deal with in the first place. And she won't be a pit stop or a notch on a belt.\n\nAt first, he wants to sleep with you. He doesn't care what you do for a living. He doesn't care what kind of car you drive. He doesn't care that you like a doughnut and coffee in the morning with Equal and nonfat milk. So you have to _turn it into_ something else.\n\nWhen you make him wait, he begins to notice that you are \"different.\" And that's when he begins to care that you like nonfat milk, not cream, in your coffee.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #24\n\nEvery man wants to have sex _first;_ whether he wants a girlfriend is something he thinks about _later_. By not giving him what he wants up front, you become his girlfriend without him realizing it.\n\nMen _like_ the game that women find maddening. Picture the following scenario: A red-blooded American male is watching a Super Bowl game in which the score is 47 to 3. That's not very exciting, right? But if he's watching a Super Bowl game that goes into overtime\u2014now he's on the edge of his seat for three hours. His team triumphs and he starts screaming: \"Yes! Yes!\" His favorite sports idol on TV is now spanking everyone else on the rear while he's breaking out the drinks for a celebration.\n\nTen years later, if you were to ask him about that game-winning final play, he'd describe it as though it happened yesterday. The same thing happens when a woman gives herself over slowly. He becomes much more excited about it.\n\nThis may sound \"old school,\" but rest assured it is advice based on _countless_ interviews I conducted with men, both young and old. A perfect example is Nathan. He just turned twenty-five, and he does pretty well with the ladies. Here's what he had to say, word-for-word:\n\n_If she gives it up too soon, we stop with the romance and we stop working at it. And truthfully, we'd_ rather _be working hard at it. We enjoy playing the game, and if it ends too soon, we're disappointed. We even struggle inside, subconsciously. We know we want to get it, but we know we want the girl to make us wait. Otherwise, it's a one- or a two-time thing. And then you move on._\n\nGranted, there are some men who don't want to invest any effort. These are the men who subscribe to the \"three-date rule.\" This rule holds that if a woman doesn't put out by the third date, the man should stop pursuing her altogether.\n\nThere are men who truly want to find a woman they can spend time with. However, the \"three-date rule\" is for men who have ruled out this option entirely; they just want to hit and run. If a man leaves because he didn't score by the third date, it's a clear signal he would have left after getting it anyway.\n\nThe nice girl is more likely to feel _obligated, pressured_ , or _manipulated_ to sleep with a man early on. She sleeps with him and then believes she'll hook him with great sex, as though what she has to offer sexually is \"golden.\" The bitch understands that the sex only becomes \"golden\" when he doesn't get it right away.\n\nDon't be misled by the fact that men want it quick and they are accustomed to having it be easy. If given the option, most men would love to know how much it would take\u2014the bottom-line dollar figure\u2014to get a woman into bed. It's almost as if there is an _unspoken_ transaction between the guy and the nice girl, in which a bartered transaction takes place: \"Lookie, here. I'm willing to spend the equivalent of two dinners, a bouquet of flowers, and a movie\u2014for a grand total of $255.92. And not a penny more.\"\n\nHe budgets how much he can spend and wants to know how much it will cost.\n\n_The bitch is smarter._ She knows that if he's not pursuing her, he'll pursue someone else. So whatever his budget is, large or small, she makes sure it is spent on her and on no one else. In her mind, she's the best investment he'll ever make.\n\nThe \"three-date rule\" will fall on deaf ears with the bitch. She'll let the guy walk\u2014and she won't barter. He will end up marrying the woman who doesn't play by his rules; she plays by her own. Since she has no problem allowing the words _See ya later_ to trip lightly off her tongue, he usually doesn't feel as if he can get away with disrespecting her.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #25\n\nA man intuitively senses whether sexuality comes from a place of security or from a place of neediness. He knows when a woman is having sex to appease him.\n\nUnlike the nice girl, the bitch believes that she has much more to offer than _just_ her sexuality. So she has sex when the feeling strikes her\u2014if and when she's comfortable with the relationship. She is plenty sexy, which is precisely why she _doesn't_ throw it out there as if it's all she has.\n\nAfter they consummate the relationship, this doesn't change. He is still unable to predict when he will make love to her. He doesn't know if it will happen Tuesday or Wednesday. Or Saturday or Sunday. So the mystery and the chase never go away, and he never quite feels he has fully conquered her. And that is because when she has sex with him it's _on her terms._\n\nWhen sex happens early on because the nice girl wants desperately to hold on to a man, his behavior changes completely. The dinners, the candlelight, the flowers-it all comes to a screeching halt. Instead of taking her out to dinner and a movie, now he's dropping by unannounced with a video because he already knows what's going to happen.\n\nHowever, when a woman makes him wait and he's romantic over time, the dinners and the flowers keep on coming. Why? Because he formed the _habit_ of treating her with respect before he got what he wanted.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #26\n\nBad habits are easier to form than good ones, because good habits require conscious effort. Waiting encourages this effort.\n\nA quality guy will stick around as long as he is being reassured in two areas: He wants to know that he is sexually desirable to you, and he wants to see signs that he is still in \"the game.\" As long as he can see the light at the end of the tunnel, he'll continue to make his way down the tunnel.\n\nHowever, it won't take much for him to get a mixed message or to feel he's being teased. Therefore, the next section will help you with the delicate balancing act you'll need to perform so he does not feel as though you are _teasing_ him.\n\n#### The Jujube Installment Plan\n\nAs you're making a concerted effort to keep the relationship out of the bedroom, remember his objective will be different than yours. You want your feet on the floor; he wants them in the air.\n\nIt's not necessarily helpful that you absolutely dig the guy and that you are _just as turned on_ as he is. Giving him a mixed message will be easy, because he's ever so sexy and he's trying to seduce you. And he'll be on the lookout for any signal whatsoever that you've given him a green light. So it's important to keep the signals very clear:\n\n  * Red means no.\n  * Green means go.\n  * Yellow means you're a tease, which will piss him off.\n\nFor example, perhaps your top comes off, or there's a little bit of grinding action while you're kissing on the couch. A few minutes later, he'll think you're ready to roll. This is not the time to say, \"No, I'm just not ready.\" Telling him this is like taking candy away from a child after you've already let him taste it.\n\nYou can't titillate him to the point of no return and then say, \"No, I just don't feel right about it.\" He'll be thinking, \"How do you not feel right about it when you're topless, you've been grinding me for an hour, and your pants are unbuttoned?\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #27\n\nIf you pull the sexual plug at the last minute, he'll label you a tease.\n\nThis is where we get the term _hot and bothered._ After he's no longer hot, he will be pissed off and \"bothered.\" He'll have far less desire to engage in the game because you've taken all the fun out of it. He no longer thinks you are playing fair, and his feelings will change from lust to _resentment._ If he feels he's being teased, he may stop pursuing you altogether.\n\nThink about it. You can't show a dog a T-bone steak for an hour and then throw him a celery stick. If you want a man to respect you, you have to play fair.\n\nThe following guidelines will allow you to delay the time before you have sex without being perceived as a tease:\n\n  * In the beginning, try not to be alone at his place or at yours, especially very late at night.\n  * Do things socially that require that you to meet somewhere in public. Or have him pick you up and then have somewhere to go.\n  * Do fun things during the daylight hours. If you go biking, it will seem like a red light. But if you're both wrapped up in a blanket in front of a fireplace with a bottle of wine at midnight, he'll assume you've given him a green light.\n  * Give kisses that are sexy and sensual. But do it while you're _out,_ where it is unlikely to last too long. Don't get him worked up when you're alone together, while rolling around on the floor, a bed, or the couch.\n  * The first few times you go out, he may want to come in late at night, after your date. If you think he's going to make a move but you aren't quite ready, abort the mission at the door. If you live in an apartment building, say good night in the lobby. \"Thanks so much, I've had a great time.\"\n  * Smile a lot, laugh at his jokes, and be good company. You want him to think of you as a friend _as well as_ a lover. It's a great sign if he babbles on about himself, especially if he's a little nervous. If he likes you, he'll want to open up.\n  * Flirt in moderation. Be careful of sexual joking because it's never really a joke. A lot of times men will use humor to see where the parameters lie. Don't be a prude\u2014you can laugh at the jokes and be playful. But don't stay on the subject of sex for a long time, or he'll view it as a green light.\n  * Compliment him. Let him know he's desirable to you. For example, lean close and smell his cologne when he gives you a hug. Or tell him he looks gorgeous. This subtly confirms you choose to wait for reasons that have nothing to do with _his_ desirability.\n  * Show that you are affectionate and loving. Hold hands or put your head on his shoulder so he feels manly. Rub his leg lightly while you are at the movies. But don't tease him; this means stay close to the _knee_. Don't graze private areas or he'll see a green light.\n  * Try not to get into heavy petting in the car when he drops you off, or he'll want to get busy. Even the guy with the new BMW who makes you wipe your feet before sitting on his leather seats won't hesitate to get some \"play\" in his car. That's why he bought it in the first place.\n  * If it's late at night, don't say, \"Okay, come in...just for a minute.\" Don't ask him to come in to meet your cat, Cushy. Don't offer coffee. Don't offer tea. Don't show him your remodeled place. There's no such thing as \"just for a minute\" after midnight.\n  * Don't let on you are pacing it, even though you are. Don't ever tell him he'll be waiting at least a month. Don't indicate whether he's \"getting warm\" and try not to give him a three-day weather forecast for predicting that you'll soon be ready. _Just don't create the opportunity for something to happen if you aren't ready to allow it to happen._\n  * Don't believe him when he says, \"We'll just cuddle.\" Even if you've known him for a long time and he's a perfect gentleman with extraordinary restraint, the objective is not to tease him.\n  * Be affectionate _in public_. It's generally pretty safe, because it can't go any further.\n\nA textbook example of a sexual mixed message happened with my friend Pam. Last winter, she invited a guy to come into her home after a date because it was really cold in his car. She made hot chocolate and put on comfortable baggy flannel pajamas. They started to kiss. She assumed the flannel pajamas were so conservative that he wouldn't perceive it as an invitation to have sex. She was surprised to discover that he had much more than hot chocolate on his mind.\n\nBedroom clothes are _b-e-d-r-o-o-m clothes_ to a man. Wearing something cozy that you sleep in (even ugly boxers or flannel sleepers) will be perceived as a green light.\n\nEven though he'll subtly pressure you, if he really likes you, a part of him deep down will want you to make him wait. He wants to believe you are \"different.\" He wants you to think he is neat, cool, and handsome. He wants you to laugh at his jokes and think he is funny. He wants a goddess. He wants...Wonder Woman.\n\nSo how do you give him this impression? Simple. Let him pursue you and don't give yourself over too easily. Throw on a pair of go-go boots and suddenly you become the Wonder Woman of his dreams.\n\n#### The Sweet Spot\n\nWhen a man and a woman become lovers, there are still behaviors that differentiate the doormat and the dreamgirl.\n\nOne of the biggest mistakes the nice girl makes is she competes with other women. She may ask him about another woman in the room, \"Is she pretty?\" Or, she may be competing with whatever she _thinks_ he fantasizes about: a model, a centerfold, a stripper, or a porn star.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #28\n\nIf he makes you feel insecure, let your insecurity be your guide.\n\nIt's often said that a woman doesn't reach her sexual peak until after she turns thirty. It takes a lot of women until then to overcome their insecurity or the feeling that they have to compete with other women. Sex becomes better because she can tell him what she likes. She's more secure. She's more assertive. She can let go because she is not self-conscious.\n\nA lot of women feel pressured to live up to an ideal. Or they feel that in the bedroom they have to put on a riveting performance. I've even heard some men critique women and say, \"The louder she screams, the better.\"\n\nA look at how widespread pornography has become only confirms how unrealistic the standards have become. Even porn movies utilize fake \"voiceovers.\" This means that the girl screaming, \"Yes! Yes! Give it to me, yes!\" is often a fully dressed 400-pound woman who is sitting on a stool in a studio and screaming into a microphone.\n\nThe bitch doesn't usually define herself by outside standards. But often, women who are _too_ nice are _too_ busy trying to measure up. When a woman is _too_ concerned with performance issues in bed, she completely forgets why she's there in the first place. It's not sex; it's \"animation\" time.\n\n### How to Fake an Orgasm\u2014  \nThe Animated Guide\n\n  * Arch your back at a 45-degree angle and pant like a dog.\n  * Recite a couple of bad lines from a B-rated blue movie. Example: Tell Big Poppa he does it for you like no one else can.\n  * And the basics: \" _Yes, yes, yes...harder, harder...don't stop!_ \" Then you'll want to immediately slap the nearest pillow.\n  * Mix it up. This means sometimes you'll want to slap the pillow then scream, other times you want to scream first, then slap the pillow. Men love variety.\n  * Don't forget to suck your finger.\n  * Now for show and tell: Ask him whose \"it\" is, and tell him that it's his!\n  * If he switches positions, stops for a rest, or reaches for a drink of water, pay no attention and keep screaming anyway.\n  * Now for the alleged orgasm: Scream like a banshee, and begin those Kegel exercises. Squeeze...release...squeeze...release.\n  * And after sex, don't forget pillow talk. You've had two men before him. (Okay, three, tops. But that's your final offer.)\n\n_WARNING:_ If your man sees this page, it could have an adverse effect (erectile dysfunction).\n\nA bitch is far less likely to put on a \"cartoon\" show. She is much more honest. She asks for what she wants. If he doesn't do it right, she _won't_ encourage him by giving disingenuous feedback. Yet then he doesn't learn how to please her, and that won't work because the bitch rightly cares about her own pleasure.\n\nI don't recommend that a woman fake an orgasm. This little lesson is a satire on the pressures women feel to perform. If a man makes you feel as though you are on stage competing in a pageant, don't sleep with him.\n\nIt is much more of a turn-on to a man when a woman is able to be herself and she's honest about what she likes and dislikes. A man loves watching a woman get off; it's an automatic turn-on. And that's much more important than putting on an award-winning performance.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #29\n\nA quality guy fantasizes about a woman who genuinely loves sex.\n\nHalf of pleasing him is getting off yourself, not faking it. It's true that a man's ego has to be stroked and properly dealt with, but that's what _your_ satisfaction accomplishes. The same principle that holds true outside the bedroom holds true inside the bedroom: The bitch can better please him because she is more concerned with pleasing herself. He knows without question that she loves every minute of it. And this feeds his ego like nothing else can.\n\nThe nice girl will also make the mistake of being disingenuous in other ways. For example, suppose she sleeps with him on the second date and he asks how many lovers she's had. She gives the oldest line in the book: \"I've only had three lovers.\"\n\nThe bitch will not go there. She won't sleep with a guy right away and then try to give the almost-virgin shtick: \"I've only had three lovers...the first one hurt...the second wasn't as good as you...the third one had three inches and thirty seconds of fury...and the fourth...uh, oops...there wasn't a fourth. Okay, yes, there was a fourth. But we didn't go all the way, so it doesn't count...the fifth one doesn't matter either because I was drunk....\"\n\nIf you tell him you've had three lovers and you are over the age of a fetus, he'll know you're a straight-up liar. Show him with your actions that you are a classy woman by letting him wait. And if he pries or wants to know about your private life say, \"I probably haven't been with as many men as you've been with women.\" If you become defensive as if you have something to hide, up goes the red flag.\n\nWhat do you do when he boasts about his past conquests? The _last_ thing you want to do is listen, because you'll get the embellished version\u2014and you might actually believe some of it is true.\n\nThe bitch is the woman who will look at her watch in an effort to drop a hint when he brings up another woman. She already knows what she has to offer is enough\u2014take it or leave it. And if he doesn't change the subject by the time she's done winding her watch, she will. \"Honey, I'm not one of the guys. Please don't tell me about other women you've been with.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #30\n\nAny time a woman competes with another woman, she demeans herself.\n\nRemember, inside the bedroom as well as outside the bedroom, men are used to women who are insecure, which is all the more reason to be different. You need to exude the attitude that you are confident and that you aren't concerned with whether you measure up or whether another woman can steal him away.\n\nIf the subject of other women comes up, casually throw this into one of your conversations: \"If any woman can steal a guy away from me, then she can have him because I wouldn't want him anymore.\" Then smile, take a sip of your wine, and change the subject. \"Seen any good movies lately?\"\n\nIf you don't trust him, stop seeing him. But until he gives you a reason not to trust him, behave as though you trust him. It will make you look secure with yourself as if you are saying with your actions, \"Well, _of course,_ you want to be with me!\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #31\n\nWhen there is that undeniable \"spark,\" there is only one key to the lock.\n\nA quality guy wants to feel trusted because it makes him feel as though you believe in his character. Until he gives you a reason not to trust him, trust him. If he's falling in love with you, he won't tell you he wants to be with you exclusively\u2014you'll automatically know. He'll be calling you every day and he will insist that you date only him. Because he won't want anyone else coming near his _dreamgirl._\n\n# 4\n\n## Dumb  \nLIKE A FOX\n\n### How to Convince Him He's in Control While You Run the Show\n\n\"I have an idea that the phrase 'weaker sex' was coined by some woman to disarm the man she was preparing to overwhelm.\"\n\n\u2014OGDEN NASH\n\n#### The Dumb Fox Handles His Ego with Kid Gloves\n\nIn the last chapter we touched on why power is intoxicating to a man in the very same way that romance is intoxicating to a woman. And now...a closer look.\n\nIn order to motivate a man to give, he must feel good when he gives. He wants to feel appreciated and revered. Ego is the reason men go to war. It's the reason they build large corporations. Ego is the reason they stick needles in their butts at the gym before lifting heavy weights. It's the reason they beg, steal, and borrow. And ego is the reason they fall in love.\n\nThe explanation may sound obvious, but it's not: A man needs to feel \"manly.\" That's why he won't stop to ask for directions. It doesn't matter if you tell him that six exits ago he was supposed to go west. He'll still push the pedal to the metal and hightail it in the opposite direction. Men don't get lost. They merely...\n\n  * \"Get familiar with another area.\"\n  * \"Change destinations.\"\n  * \"Look to see what is down another street.\"\n  * \"Explore new terrain.\"\n\nHe's never lost. No, Inspector Gadget is merely \"checking things out\" in every last square foot of a 37-mile radius that is outside the intended destination.\n\nIf you want him to turn right, tell him \"I think it might be to the left.\" In a man's mind, his navigation skills will always be superior to a woman's. It's all about his ego, which has no direction and no line of rotation.\n\nThe three words guaranteed to turn any man on? \"You are right.\" You'll never convince him otherwise, so don't bother trying.\n\nLet him be _right_. You be _smart_. This is precisely the reason the dumb fox lets a man think he's in control. When you appeal to his feeling of power, you \"charge up his batteries.\" Then you're giving him what he needs and he _doesn't even_ _know it._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #32\n\nLet him think he's in control. He'll automatically start doing things you want done because he'll always want to look like \"a king\" in your eyes.\n\nA couple of times a week when he's kind or generous, let him know he's the top dog. Make him feel as though he's the alpha-dog and the Grand Poo-Bah. He wears the pants, and he is the man. Meanwhile, guess who is getting her way?\n\nMy friend Annette learned this the hard way. She made the mistake of telling her new boyfriend about how she had killed a snake in her backyard. He asked her, \"How in the world did you kill it?\" She went on in detail about how she used a very large shovel to \"do battle.\" A look of complete and utter horror came over his face as she gave him a graphic play-by-play of the brutal \"massacre.\" Later that night, he couldn't get an erection.\n\nAn obvious \"penile\" code infraction: When you act too much like Tarzan, he feels too much like Jane. Don't even kill a bug when he's around. Don't change a tire. In fact, don't even change a light bulb. (Heaven forbid, sister.)\n\nFor any red-blooded male, the feeling that he is the \"man\" is the ticket. This doesn't mean that you should be docile all the time. At the same time that you show him you offer him \"a mental challenge,\" remember that he needs to have his ego stroked. There is a very big difference between catering to his ego and appearing _needy_. You shouldn't show that you \"need\" him to help you with:\n\n  * Common sense\n  * Coping with everyday life\n  * Emotional stability\n  * Reassurance of your self-worth\n  * Self-esteem\n  * Feeling complete as a person\n\nThese things signify _neediness_. However, you _can_ show that you need and appreciate his _masculinity_. He'll absolutely eat out of your hand when he feels that you like his \"manliness\" or that you admire his...brawn.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #33\n\nWhen you cater to his ego in a soft way, he doesn't try to get power in an aggressive way.\n\nPraise is an effective tool in getting him to treat you the way you want. Don't complain, \"Well, you _used_ to bring me flowers.\" From this point forward, every bouquet he gives you is the \"prettiest you have ever seen.\" Don't complain that he doesn't take you out enough. Instead, every restaurant he takes you to is \"unbelievable\" or \"amazing.\"\n\nWhen he asks if you've been to the restaurant before, don't tell him about the two ex-boyfriends who took you to the very same romantic corner table you are now sitting at. (Unless you never want to go back to that restaurant again.)\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #34\n\nWhen you appear softer and more feminine, you appeal to his instinct to _protect_.\n\nWhen you appear more aggressive, you appeal to his instinct to _compete_.\n\nWhenever you give a man the impression that you want to \"wear the pants,\" you'll almost always have a battle on your hands, in which case, congrats\u2014you've become his opponent. If he competes, he plays to win at your expense, and good luck getting anything that way.\n\nMen need a little coaching, and the way to coach them is to praise them when they behave well. A man's favorite word? \"Best.\" It doesn't matter if you say, \"Honey, you eat those beer nuts the best\u2014like no one I have ever met in my life.\" Use the word _best,_ and you'll always have his full attention.\n\n_Make friends_ with his ego. For example, suppose you live together and he wants to help decorate. Chances are at some point he will have a need to \"express\" his virility by hanging something on the wall. (Something that clashes with _everything_.) When he gleefully breaks out those elephant tusks, the African sword, or the 1986 Super Bowl poster that he calls \"art,\" keep a straight face and appear sincere. \"Yes, honey, Grandpa's eighteenth-century rifle is to die for!\" Then immediately enlist his \"much needed help\" in decorating the garage or the basement.\n\nWant him to pitch in around the house? Just make him feel needed (i.e., powerful). Give him little assignments. It doesn't matter if you ask him to program the VCR or help hang a photo on the wall. When he uses that noisy electric drill, he will feel just like Rambo. When the picture hangs crooked\u2014and it will\u2014pretend it's perfect. Simply wait until he leaves the room and then straighten it.\n\nWhen he hands over that paycheck, thank him for working so hard for \"the benefit of everyone in the family.\" Again, wait until he leaves the room. Then review the stub to make sure that he got paid all of his overtime.\n\nRemember, when he behaves like a man and he treats you well, pay a little \"homage\" to that ego. He should feel like Conan the Barbarian a couple of times a week.\n\nWhenever he does something handy around the house like putting up a shelf, praise him. It doesn't matter if the shelf hangs at a 45-degree angle and the stuff keeps sliding off the other end. Clap like the happiest seal at the zoo, and then have a handyman come over to fix it when he isn't around. The minute you say, \"It's crooked,\" it's all over. He'll never do anything handy around the house again. It will make him feel worse than a little kid who got scolded in arts and crafts class.\n\nMen have big egos and they need to have them stroked. This is what the \"dumb fox\" does. In small ways, she makes him feel like he is the King Kong of her world. Here are a few more dumb fox tips on how to make him feel \"studly.\"\n\n  * If you're walking your dog at dusk, ask him to come with you because you want him to \"keep you safe.\"\n  * If he kills a little bug, look away. And don't turn back around until he lets you know he has \"secured the premises.\"\n  * If you hear a noise at night (like a bird pooping on the roof), act really scared. Tell him to check to see \"what that noise is about.\"\n  * After he checks out the source of the noise, tell him you like having him in the house or apartment because it makes you \"feel so much safer.\"\n  * Ask him to open a jar that you can't open (even if you can) or unzip your dress (even if you can reach it). Or, you can ask him to lift a small box for you.\n  * At a scary movie, hang on to him tightly. If there's violence, cover your eyes and let him tell you when it's over.\n  * If it's cold outside, crawl under his coat and hang on to him for warmth.\n  * Let him move a piece of furniture (even one you could move yourself). When he does this with ease, tell him how heavy it was. \"You are so strong! Gee, I don't know how you moved that.\"\n  * Let him parallel park your car or back it out of a tight spot. If you tell him he's a \"much better driver\" than you are, he'll really be eating out of your hand. He'll probably wash your car or fill your tank with gas.\n\nHandling his ego with kid gloves is as easy as learning your _A-B-C_ s. When her child brings home a crayon drawing from kindergarten-no matter how ugly it is-a mother doesn't criticize it. She'd never say, \"Is that a dog or a cow? Hey kid\u2014don't quit your day job.\" Instead she tells him, \"This is a masterpiece!\" Then the child thinks he is the next Picasso, and he draws ten more pictures.\n\nPraise is important. When he takes you out to eat, say thank-you _once_ at dinner, and again when you say good night. The nice girl often makes the mistake of saying thank-you over and over. Then she calls the following day to say thank-you three times on his answering machine. As though no one's ever bought her a hot meal before.\n\nIn the beginning, without question let _him_ pay for dinner. After you've been dating for a while, you can reciprocate. But don't do a 50/50 split or go Dutch\u2014he's not a long-lost professional colleague.\n\nWhen a man is really crazy about a woman, he isn't concerned with splitting a check. He won't say, \"You had the turkey salad and I had the beef. So your total comes to...\" If he adores her, he won't be thinking about petty cash. What he'll be thinking about is how he can win her over.\n\nIf he can't afford it, suggest an inexpensive place or do something that doesn't cost money. Visit a museum. Go on a bike ride. Split a dinner plate, and don't order alcohol. However, if he asks you to split the check on the first few dates, don't see him again. It has less to do with a few dollars than with the fact that he's not very concerned with impressing you. And that's never a good sign.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #35\n\nHe'll let a woman who becomes his doormat pay for dinner on the first couple of dates, but he wouldn't _think_ of it with his _dreamgirl._\n\nThis conversation came up on my radio show. A caller asked if she should let the man pay, and I said, \"In the beginning, _yes_.\" Both my male guest and the male sound engineer jumped in and said, \"But that's not fair.\" Then I got a spelling lesson: \"Fair. It's spelled _f-a-i-r.\"_ I see their point. But it also isn't fair that we get sixty cents on the dollar in the workplace, that we wear painful pushup bras and high heels, and that we carry the babies and give birth. So let him be the man. A _gentleman._\n\nThe important thing is that when he pays, let him know at the end of the dinner you _really do appreciate it._ And compliment him on his taste in food, wine, or the restaurant. If it wasn't good, don't comment.\n\nThe dumb fox knows that the less she criticizes, the better. Which is why she doesn't nag. Instead, she _maneuvers_.\n\nFor example, when he leaves his clothes on the floor next to the bed before he turns in for the night...don't worry about it. He'll probably get out of bed in the morning and pick them up. And then he'll put them right back on.\n\nAbout those socks and underwear that are peppered throughout your home? That was your fault, because you bought a hamper _with_ a lid. (Much too complicated.) Get a hamper with no lid and strategically put it in a corner. Congrats. You've erected your very own basketball hoop. Every time he makes a dunk shot out of his dirty underwear? Two points.\n\nDo you always change the toilet paper roll? Does he always get a full roll, while you get the last crummy little square, half of which is stuck to the cardboard? Nothing a little housebreaking won't fix.\n\nOne Sunday morning, he'll go in the bathroom and take his seat with the sports section. He won't notice the absence of toilet paper for twenty minutes because he'll be fixated on the stats from Saturday's football game. Then, when he's finished reading he'll call, \"Honey? Honey?! Can you hear me?!\" (No response.)\n\nThis is your cue to take out the kitchen trash. After all, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the birds are chirping. (Trivia question: How long before he realizes there's more toilet paper under the sink?)\n\nIf he doesn't help out around the house, the dumb fox doesn't complain and say, \"You can't put a price on what I do around the house.\" Instead, she gets an estimate from a maid service. See how easy? Now not only does she \"put a price on it,\" she even pays it to someone _else_.\n\nHere's another example of how a dumb fox might \"maneuver.\" A friend named Sharon was running herself ragged trying to clean up after her kids and her husband. She wanted to have someone come in to help her once a week. Her husband was very opposed to paying $50 for a maid every week, even though they could afford it. He kept insisting on \"just once a month.\"\n\nDumb Sharon played the dumb fox and agreed to a maid once a month\u2014sort of. She wrote a check to the maid once a month, and each of the other three weeks she asked for $50 in cash back when she wrote a check at the market. Not only did this prevent weekly arguments, he came home to a beautifully cleaned house every week.\n\nThe Dumb Fox Credo as outlined here, allows for smooth sailing and no room for conflict:\n\n  * Agree with everything.\n  * Explain nothing.\n  * Then do what is best for you. It will make life a whole lot easier.\n\nFor example, the dumb fox is smart enough to save herself the grief by insisting on separate bathrooms. First of all, the concept of guest towels or decorative towels is foreign to men. To him, a towel is a towel, which means a bath towel is a beach towel is a car-wash towel is an oil-changing towel. You would think he'd \"spare\" the pretty one with the pink bow, but no such luck. And the towels you use on your face? Say hello to your new floor mop.\n\nOnce in a while, you'll come across a man who is extra clean. But generally, sharing a bathroom with a man will be sheer misery. Ten minutes after you've cleaned the sink and mirror with streak-free Windex, he'll come in there and spray water everywhere. It's like sharing a bathroom with your very own, in-house, adopted walrus. Scientists have not yet joined with zoologists to do a study on why it is that men \"spray.\" So, until they figure it out, insist that you have your own bathroom.\n\nThe dumb fox also cleverly divides up the personal space in the home with the utmost fairness. She gives him 20 percent of the closet, but \"the whole garage\" or basement to himself. He also controls the lawnmower, the cars, the barbecue, and the tools. Remember: Men are very territorial, so you'll also want to designate the yard as his domain in the \"habitat.\" It will come in handy when you're hogging the bathroom.\n\nIn Japan, there is an interesting motto: A smart eagle does not show her claws. American women perceive Japanese women as submissive because they bow to men and walk behind them in the streets. However, Japanese men typically bring their paychecks home and give them to their wives. _The wife controls the purse strings in the Japanese home and decides how the money is spent_.\n\nNow we uncover the _real_ reason why a Japanese woman may walk behind her man in the street: It is those deep, heavy pockets that are slowing her down. The poor thing can hardly keep up.\n\nIn addition to having to feel he's \"right,\" a man needs to have things be \"his idea.\" So, remember, it's _always_ his idea. Even if it _isn't_ , convince him that it is.\n\nWhen you're in front of a group of friends and he steps in and takes credit for something that you thought of, don't make a fuss over it. He needs to show that he's the chief. Don't correct him or try to \"show him up\" in front of your mutual friends because he'll feel emasculated. It's like a mommy scolding her little boy in front of his friends at school. Publicly, he needs to \"save face.\"\n\nIf it's absolutely necessary, wait until you are alone with him to bring up something he did that may have bothered you. Address it _privately,_ not in front of people. If it's unimportant nonsense, let him take all the credit. Who cares? The dumb fox knows better. She never starts a fight over something trivial, particularly if she knows in advance she'll gain absolutely nothing from winning. The dumb fox is strong in a demure way. She stands her ground, but she's not a ball-buster. She employs the \"Science of Compliance.\" She appears to give up power, but gains leverage in the process.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #36\n\nThe token power position is for public display, but the true power position is for private viewing only. And this is the only one that matters.\n\nFor all \"ego-intensive\" purposes, help him look manly in front of other people. Let him open doors and let him address the hostess at the restaurant. \"Johnson. Party of 4.\" This is just the _token_ power position which is meaningless.\n\nWhen you are truly running the show, you don't need to tip your hand or flaunt it. If he is treating you like you are his dreamgirl, you have all the power you need. Remember, feminine strength is equally as powerful. It's poetic justice: Men control the world, but women control the men.\n\nAlice, an attractive older woman who has been married for many years, shared the following advice. \"Whenever I want to do something, I convince my husband it was his idea. I'll say 'Sweetie, would you like to go to this restaurant or that one?' He's paying, so I always let him think he's the one choosing. And after we're done eating? I tell him, 'What a great idea that was!'\"\n\nMost men know it's a turn-on to a woman if they do romantic things, but women don't understand that giving men the feeling of power has the same effect. It melts them like butter. It is a good-natured way of gaining leverage in your relationship.\n\nMen do the very same thing. They know that we like roses. If they never saw another rose, it would be no loss to them. They're as attached to the roses as they are to a plant in their office building or a weed growing in the cracks of a sidewalk.\n\nMost women generally won't say no to any reasonable request made by a man who has just brought a beautiful bouquet of roses. When you appeal to his ego, it has the same effect. He'll want to remain a king in your eyes, and he'll want to please you. Men work their whole lives just to have a woman look at them adoringly and say, \"You're wonderful\" and \"I admire you.\" He'll climb a whole mountain just to feel admired by a woman he loves.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #37\n\nIf you give him a feeling of power, he'll want to protect you and he'll want to give you the world.\n\nOnce you're in charge of that relationship, you're giving him what he needs (power) and he _doesn't even know it_. It works with even the smartest men. Here's what Albert Einstein said about his wife on their fiftieth wedding anniversary:\n\n_When we first got married, we made a pact. It was this: In our life together, it was decided I would make all of the big decisions and my wife would make all of the little decisions. For fifty years, we have held true to that agreement. I believe that is the reason for the success in our marriage. However, the strange thing is that in fifty years, there hasn't been one big decision._\n\nThe dumb fox doesn't have to \"obey\" her man as in, \"I promise to love, honor, and _obey_ until death do us part.\" She has her own rendition of the marital vows. She \"promises to love, honor, and _appear to be agreeable some of the time.\"_\n\nThis is not a lesson in how to give up your power or become more docile. This is a lesson in how to gain power because you appeal to a man and make him channel his energies _toward you._ Men need a little help when it comes to emotions, because they aren't always aware of what motivates them. You have to make him think he's in charge; then he'll be much more attuned to what you need and he'll apply much more effort to please you. It keeps him stimulated and it keeps his interest. Then he wants to give you the reins; at which point, you will have all the power that you need.\n\n#### The Dumb Fox Is a Clever Negotiator\n\nNow that women are long established in the work force, men don't feel they're _needed_ as much. Even though they work as hard, they don't get the feeling of being appreciated as the \"man of the house\" as much as they used to. As Erica Jong said, \"Beware of the man who praises women's liberation. He's about to quit his job.\"\n\nWomen who are successful in other areas of life are often the ones who find themselves saying, \"I should not have to apologize for being strong.\" Then the following week they wonder why they \"can't find a good man.\" Because a good man wants a good _w-o-m-a-n._ Being a bitch does not mean you lose your femininity. And it also doesn't mean you overtly try to wear the pants in the house. It just means you don't allow anyone to walk all over you.\n\nThe classic superwoman wants a relationship in which the man and woman are \"equals.\" This is a nice theory, but in practice it becomes a one-sided relationship pretty quickly.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #38\n\nWhen a woman acts as though she's capable of everything, she gets stuck doing everything.\n\nFor this reason, be careful how you set the tone in the beginning. Never start what you don't want to continue. If you don't want to cook every night, don't start out cooking every night. If you don't want to go to the grocery store all the time, don't set the pattern of doing it all the time. Let him come your way.\n\nIn the beginning, men are so willing to make an impression, and this is why they are especially accommodating. This is precisely when you'll want to help him form good habits. Later, when everything has been done for him, he'll be too set in his ways to change.\n\nFor example, after a few dates you may find yourself standing under the arch of your front door, kissing him good night. It's a moment to behold. The stars are twinkling, the moonlight is breathtaking, and you both look up to find a shooting star. He'll barely notice your kitchen trash is under his left arm.\n\nIf a man offers to take you to lunch or dinner, let him. If he asks if he can bring over takeout, bring on the egg rolls. If he asks to get you something from the grocery store, let him pick up sorbet in the flavor you like. It isn't about him paying the three dollars. It makes him happy to feel he's meeting your needs. And it makes him feel as if he's \"driving that train.\" Even though you really are.\n\nThe hardest lesson for the nice girl to learn is how to receive. Let him give to you, because part of his manhood is defined by feeling \"responsible.\"\n\nThe dumb fox doesn't give up power, she simply creates the appearance that she does. And this very much helps her positioning power because she gets what she wants.\n\nHere's a classic example. A woman I know named Michelle told me about a man she's seeing. On the second date, he asked her if she'd drive to his place. She was put on the spot and then pulled a dumb fox move. She ignored the request and very sweetly asked, \"Would you prefer to get together another night? If tonight is inconvenient, I do understand.\"\n\nMichelle averted the question completely. She didn't act upset or tell him what to do. She simply gave him a couple of alternatives, one of which is that she may not participate. Then she let _him_ choose.\n\nThe beauty is that the dumb fox is agreeable, tactful, and always polite, so he thinks he's in control (even though he isn't). Even though the dumb fox _appears_ oblivious, she is very aware. It's no different than a successful business negotiation:\n\n  1. She doesn't spell out where she's coming from.\n  2. She's prepared to walk away, if the terms aren't favorable to her.\n\nThe dumb fox does both, without words. She negotiates with her willingness (or lack thereof) to participate. If the offer sounds good, she says, \"I'd love to.\" If the offer doesn't sound good, she answers, \"I'd love to, but I'm pooped.\" She responds favorably when he behaves like a gentleman and backs off in a subtle way if his manners fall short.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #39\n\nMen don't respond to words.  \nThey respond to no contact.\n\nBeing dumb like a fox can also defuse a situation in which he is slightly disrespectful. For example, let's say you're waiting to be seated for dinner on your first date, and he puts his hand on your lower back\u2014 _very_ low on your back\u2014as in, any lower and he knows whether you prefer to wear a brief or a thong. All you need to do is play dumb, step aside as if it were a complete accident, and say, \"Oops, excuse me.\"\n\nAnother example happened with my friend Talia. She was at dinner and the waiter brought the check to the table. Her date made a joke to the waiter about giving the bill to her and then looked at her to get her reaction. She titled her head sideways and looked confused as if to suggest that she's never heard anything like this before. Then she started to blink as though she might have been hallucinating.\n\nThe dumb fox doesn't spell things out. The nice girl, on the other hand, makes the mistake of wearing her heart on her sleeve almost all the time. As one man named Paul said, \"Women talk too much. If she's upset, she'll go on and on. I'd rather get into a ring with Mike Tyson for six rounds than hear a woman repeat herself over and over.\"\n\nThink about the last time a man spilled his guts. At first it feels like \"bonding.\" But the novelty wears off very quickly. Men want bonding, sure\u2014 _below_ the waist.\n\nThe two-hour phone calls you love are a big mistake. He likes it the first time because he knows you're interested. After that, he _hates_ it. Don't let conversations on the phone last too long. Don't let yourself be perceived as a tiresome _obligation_. Keep the phone calls short and sweet\u2014and he'll never get tired of calling.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #40\n\nTalking about the \"relationship\" too much takes away the element of the \"unknown\" and thus the mystery.\n\nWhen you aren't needy, you don't require a play-by-play from the sidelines about the relationship. When you are secure with yourself, he _doesn't feel he has a 100 percent hold on you_. And when he doesn't have a 100 percent hold on you, he eats out of your hand.\n\nEliminate the following words from your vocabulary: _We need to talk._ My friend Jeanette shared her observations on men with me: \"You have to sneak up on them. Feed them, get them a beer, and then casually bring it up. Go through the back door. In and out\u2014before they realize what has happened.\"\n\nWhen men talk to each other, they say their piece and then the other one responds. One nods. The other grunts. One takes a shot; the other buys him a beer. The most feedback he'll get is a couple of sentences. Did you blink? The \"bonding\" has commenced.\n\nMost men have a concentration threshold for the \"mushy\" stuff that lasts about two minutes. Right around the second minute, his mind will start to wander. He'll be thinking, \"Man, I'm getting hungry. I wonder what we're having for dinner?\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #41\n\nMen respect women who communicate in a succinct way, because it's the language men use to talk to one another.\n\nThe bitch communicates differently from the nice girl. A bitch tells it like it is in a matter-of-fact way and gets her point across succinctly. The nice girl wears her heart on her sleeve and pours out her guts. And what does he hear? Nothing at all. However, he does see her neediness, which eventually turns him off.\n\n#### The Dumb Fox Is More Mysterious\n\nThe dumb fox knows that familiarity breeds contempt, so she doesn't spill her guts on the first couple of dates. She lets the \"cream rise to the top\" without rushing things.\n\nWhen you first meet a man, don't overcompensate by doing all the talking. Don't talk constantly _out of nervousness_. Keeping cool and quiet will give you more appeal, not to mention the ability to wield more power.\n\nI was once on a date with a man I had just met. He began to share all the sordid details of his last relationship. I had no desire to listen, but I didn't criticize him or make him feel \"wrong.\" I was polite. I simply asked, \"So John, what's your workload like at the office this week?\"\n\nThe dumb fox does _not_ ask, \"May we change the subject?\" Permission isn't necessary.\n\nThe dumb fox also doesn't tell him about her past relationships. You're \"a prize,\" and you don't have a long list of calamities to report. He doesn't need to know that your ex-husband stole your appliances, is defaulting on his child support, and has a Mafioso brother who is doing time for racketeering. If he's classy, he won't be impressed that your last boyfriend is \"still stalking you and can't let go.\"\n\nIf he asks about your ex, you say, \"We went our separate ways.\" Here's another option: \"We wanted different things.\" The dumb fox relies on a \"vague generality\" when he asks for information that's none of his business.\n\nAs far as what _you_ disclose? Don't volunteer bad information about yourself. He doesn't need to know that you're insecure about your thighs or that you haven't been on a date in 7.2 months. Inquiring minds do _not_ need to know.\n\nMen automatically assume that, if you're interested, you'll do anything to \"nail him down.\" He immediately thinks you want \"exclusivity\" you want to break open the hope chest and have babies with him. It's important for him to think you're different: You are relaxed, secure, and happy _with him_ or _without him_. This is known as the happy-go-lucky formula, described in Attraction Principle #42.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #42\n\nWhen you are always HAPPY;  \nAnd he is always free to GO;  \nHe feels LUCKY.\n\nIf you want to talk about your favorite ice cream, go for it. Traveling to Belize? Yes. Your problems at work or your disappointing visit to the fertility doctor? No.\n\nIt's perfectly okay to leave some of his questions about you _unanswered_. In fact, it is advisable to do so. When all is said and done, a person shows you who he or she is. No one will come out and tell you. Therefore, what a person shows you with actions is the _only_ language that matters.\n\n#### The Dumb Fox Is True to Herself\n\nThe fox is the smaller animal, and in the animal kingdom, the smaller animal is the prey. Therefore, the fox knows it is incumbent on her to look out for her own best interests, especially in the beginning of a relationship. On the other hand, the nice girl believes everything she's told because it sounds good, which puts her out there to get hurt. The fox knows that, in the beginning, a man is likely to \"flower up\" his intentions; therefore, she must stay alert.\n\nWHAT HE _W ON'T_ SAY | WHAT HE _W ILL_ SAY\n\n---|---\n\n\"I want sex and only sex, with no strings attached.\" | \"I'm interested in having a longterm relationship!\"\n\n\"Give me sex, and I'll pretend to be your boyfriend for a week.\" | \"Trust me.\"\n\n\"Hey, can I rotate you with three other women, like a pitching staff?\" | \"You are so different.\"\n\n\"Wanna be the flavor of the month?\" | \"I am so tired of the dating scene.\"\n\nTrivia question: Which guy scores more women: the guy who \"flowers up\" his intentions, or the guy who tells it like it is? The point is, if he has a hidden agenda the last thing he'll do is spell it out for her. So it's up to the fox to figure things out on her own.\n\nThe reason the dumb fox doesn't reveal what she observes is that he'll show his true colors much more quickly when he doesn't realize he is being watched. When a man talks about himself or past relationships, he may do so as a way of helping her \"get to know him.\" Rather than getting into heavy question-and-answer sessions, the fox keeps the conversation light. Why? The truest things are said in jest. He'll tell you everything you need to know in passing conversation, with a joke or an off-the-cuff remark here and there. If he's a wolf dressed up as a sheep, his whiskers will inevitably pop out.\n\nWhen the dumb fox senses something's \"just not right\" with a man's character, she does _not_ bring it to his attention. The only conversation the dumb fox has is _between her two ears_. As President Lyndon B. Johnson said, \"You've got to know when to keep your mouth shut.\"\n\nWhen you tell someone who may be manipulating you what you observe, he will immediately try to talk you out of it. He'll say, \"You're insecure\" or \"You're prejudging me.\" Are you prejudging him? You had _better_ be. The only mistake is letting him know it.\n\nThe dumb fox is self-reliant. She judges people by her own experiences. The dumb fox takes better care of herself and makes better choices because she lets time elapse and she watches to see how the man _behaves_. She trusts her observations and she trusts her animal instincts.\n\nNo hunted animal gives the \"benefit of the doubt.\" The fox senses danger and hightails it out of there. Never be around a person who has shown you he is a hurtful person. If he does this by accident, that's one thing. But if he's hurtful on purpose? Game over. You've learned everything you need to know.\n\nIn the beginning, have fun and go out...but keep your cards close to your vest. Most important, _take your time_. This will not only make you smart as a fox, it will help you keep your independence.\n\nThe nice girl loses an important protective mechanism when she assumes that life is fair, or that Prince Charming will always protect her. The smart fox is not governed by wishful thinking or the hope of a fantasy outcome, like Cinderella. Despite appearances, she trusts herself to watch her _own_ back instead of giving a man the responsibility of doing it for her.\n\nIt's what every animal in the wild does to survive, so that they don't become \"din din.\" Above all, the smart fox understands\u2014and adheres to\u2014the first law of nature: Every animal for herself.\n\n# 5\n\n## JUMPING THROUGH  \nHoops  \nLIKE A CIRCUS POODLE\n\n### When Women Give Themselves Away and Become Needy\n\n\"Let us never negotiate out of fear.\"\n\n\u2014JOHN F. KENNEDY\n\n#### A New School: Who Is the Boss of You?\n\nWhen a nice girl meets a man, it's not uncommon for her to make concessions in her life that seem relatively insignificant. She stops doing the routine everyday things. She stops seeing friends. She stops going to a yoga class, and she stops playing tennis on weekends. She stops making time for the things she did when she was \"solo.\" Here's what she _does_ do:\n\n  * She cancels a hair appointment... for a date with _him_.\n  * She stops going to the gym after work... to accommodate seeing _him._\n  * She stops spending time with friends... to give _him_ the feeling \"he is special.\"\n  * She cancels plans... because there's a chance that she'll get a call from _him_.\n  * She isn't focused at school... she keeps checking to see if a message came from _him_.\n  * She isn't focused at work... she keeps checking her e-mail to see if she received something in her inbox from _him_.\n  * She gives up her career... to further his career and support _him_.\n  * She stops having dreams outside of her relationship... because her only dream is _him_.\n\nThe bitch does not stop _moving to her own rhythm_. This, in and of itself, prevents her from becoming off-balance like a nice girl who abandons her routine.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #43\n\nIf you allow your rhythm to be interrupted, you'll create a void. Then, to replace what you give up, you'll start to expect and need more from your partner.\n\nA classic example is Theresa. She takes salsa dance classes two nights a week. When she met her last boyfriend, she stopped going to her dance classes because he didn't like to dance. She also played tennis, but he didn't play; so she stopped that hobby as well.\n\nSeems harmless, right? Not really. She's giving up what she likes. The reason the nice girl gives up these activities is also telling of her self-confidence. Often she gives up something because she fears he won't like her the way she is.\n\nIn addition, this cumulative reduction of activities eventually adds up to a significant change in _who_ she is. At some point the man notices, and it turns him off because he realizes\u2014before she does\u2014that she's lost her independence.\n\nWhat happens after she's lost her independence? Let's take a look at the \"state of the union\" with Theresa, the woman who gave up salsa classes and tennis. She said, \"We spent almost every night of the week together and fell into that pattern almost immediately. He didn't tell me it was 'too much' for him. He just didn't smile much and it seemed like he wasn't happy anymore. I was becoming more insecure and I kept trying harder to be affectionate. I just wanted him to be like he was in the beginning.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #44\n\nMost women are starving to receive something from a man that they need to give to themselves.\n\nThe nice girl thinks she's giving up something to get something _better_ in return. She gives up control over her own life. When the time comes for her to get what she had expected, she winds up disappointed. In addition to being empty-handed, she's depleted.\n\nA man rarely realizes just how much the nice girl gives up. He doesn't make the same sacrifices because she's adjusting her life to be with him. After she gives up everything in her life, she begins to demand the same of him. She wants him to stop seeing family and friends. She wants him to spend all of his free time with her. If he goes to the gym, she wants to accompany him.\n\nHe doesn't feel this pressure from a bitchier woman, so he wants to be around her more, not less, and he respects her because she appears to have \"a life.\" Suppose a woman says to a guy she can't go on a date with him that night because of her weekly pottery class. He scratches his head and thinks, \"She'd rather go to a pottery class than be with me?\" It not only attracts him; it blows his mind.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #45\n\nA woman looks more secure in a man's eyes when he can't pull her away from her life, because she is _content_ with her life.\n\nWhen you love life _with him_ or _without him_ , that is when he will accept and value you for who you are.\n\n##### WHO IS THE BOSS OF YOU?\n\nTHE NICE GIRL | THE BITCH\n\n---|---  \nThe nice girl dismisses what she used to value and what used to be important in her life. | The bitch values her priorities, her values, and her preferences. Always.  \nHe is the boss... of her. | She stays the boss... of herself.  \nThe nice girl searches for a sign from him to see when the closeness is \"too much.\" | The bitch acts as her own guide. She doesn't allow him an opportunity to be bored.  \nHe is the boss... of her. | She stays the boss... of herself.  \nThe nice girl senses how happy he is, paying close attention to his approval of her. | The bitch doesn't obsess over his opinion or need his approval.  \nHe is the boss... of her. | She stays the boss... of herself.  \nWhen he's \"into it\" with the nice girl, she feels good; when he snubs her, she feels bad. | The bitch has more confidence, so someone else's mood doesn't have much impact. Instead she plays tennis.  \nHe is the boss... of her. | She stays the boss... of herself.  \nThe nice girl treats her interests as \"little things\" or secondary. | The bitch doesn't treat her interests as minor little things. They are _her_ things.  \nHe is the boss... of her. | She stays the boss... of herself.  \nThe nice girl gives too much first, and then negotiates reciprocity later. | The bitch gives _only_ when it is reciprocal.  \nHe is the boss... of her. | She stays the boss... of herself.\n\nWhen a relationship starts off at lightning speed, the man will at some point pull back to regain his need for space and then the woman will be left off-balance. It's then that the nice girl appears needy, trying to \"win back\" his affections. This is when she jumps through hoops. A man loses respect for a woman who needs his approval, particularly when she will overcompensate to get it.\n\nA man needs to \"bring offerings.\" He needs to be on his toes a little bit. He has to make sure his shoes are tied, his pants are pulled up, and his manners are existent. When he opens car doors, when he minds his p's and q's, and when he shows his best manners, it means she has his respect. In this way, she remains a bit of a bitch in his eyes because he has to keep himself in check; he doesn't relax in terms of how he behaves around her.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #46\n\nThe second a woman works overtime to make herself fit his criteria, she has lowered the standard of that relationship.\n\nAs long as a woman stays in control of remaining who she is, he will need her. When a man thinks about a woman who has control over herself, he automatically thinks about her preferences and about ways to please her.\n\nWomen are much more likely to cancel plans. Men don't give up \"boys' night out.\" Men don't give up their work, or their sleep, or their food. (Most don't even give up their mothers.) Likewise, they respect a woman who will hold onto what is important to her.\n\nWhen was the last time you heard a guy call his barber and say, \"Yeah, Sam... I'll need to cancel my 2:15 haircut. Sally and I need to spend more time bonding.\" It just ain't happening. It doesn't matter if you swung from the chandelier the night before with show-stopping sex accompanied by screaming that scared off the alley cats. At 2:15, your man will belong to Sam. Men can shift gears from romantic to practical\u2014and so can the bitch. She speaks to him in his own language.\n\nThe nice girl, however, is too needy to let go. \"But he did all of the pursuing,\" says the nice girl. This may be true, but you have the power to decide when you show up\u2014and this is how you stay the boss of you.\n\nEven in a racing event, the car has to pull into the pit to have the tires changed or it won't be able to stay on the track, it won't be able to control its direction, and it will lose traction. Men don't always think long term, so if you let him control the speed, he's likely to let the relationship crash at high speed into a wall. As the adage goes, \"The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.\" That's why you absolutely must set the pace and keep your own rhythm. Otherwise, he'll have you jumping through hoops. Again, it doesn't matter if he wants to see you constantly. Even if he's an incredible guy and you feel great temptation, _don't give him all of your time_.\n\nIn the beginning, try to see him two-thirds of the time that he asks. For the remaining third, you have \"something else going on.\" Don't sit at home twiddling your thumbs waiting for his next call. Keep in mind that this isn't about \"playing hard to get.\" _Keep it real_. Force yourself to keep the routine you had before you met him. Once you lose your rhythm, you lose your psychological equilibrium and you become needy.\n\nMy former roommate Gale was always very good at this. She'd often turn off her ringer and wouldn't take any calls. In the afternoon, if she felt tired and wanted to stay home for the evening, she'd cancel her date. She'd have a glass of wine and chill with a good book or her favorite TV program. Gale always had a quality man pursuing her.\n\nBeing a bitch isn't about exuding a certain kind of arrogance. Contrary to what the media would have us believe, it doesn't matter how \"hip,\" \"cool,\" or \"cocky\" you appear to be. Power is the control you have over yourself. In fact, when a woman is trying too hard to be \"cocky,\" she's usually not moving to her own rhythm because she's trying too hard to convince herself that she is stronger than she really is.\n\nAs Gregory Corso said, \"Standing on a street corner waiting for no one is power.\" When you don't wait for anyone, it's because you don't _need_ anyone. When you approach men this way, any man who steps up to the plate will have to meet you at your level. First, you have to stop needing his approval\u2014only then will your needs be met.\n\nFor example, Lynn had just started dating a plastic surgeon named Kevin. They had separate residences, and one night she cooked dinner for him. He called at the last minute to cancel their preplanned dinner date because he had switched shifts with another surgeon. Lynn had already cooked an elaborate meal. His call came only a half-hour before he was supposed to show up. Had he called her early in the day right after he agreed to switch shifts, she wouldn't have labored tirelessly.\n\nHere's where she made a mistake of jumping through hoops. She offered to cook the same dinner again the following night. _And_ she agreed to drive to his place to do it. What she should have done is put \"the skids\" on the cooking plans altogether. She should have said, \" _Mmm._ It's really good, Kevin. Too bad you missed out.\"\n\nWhen a man treats a woman with disrespect and she takes it, he begins to lose respect for her. Predictably, Lynn was at Kevin's place the following evening; he wasn't appreciative, which hurt her feelings. They stopped dating a short while later.\n\nA bitch prioritizes herself over \"melting\" into someone else. Because of this, her no means _no,_ and her yes means _yes._ The objective isn't to be obnoxious but to have the ability to be clear. You can be very nice and still be clear. A man will respect a woman who is clear and direct about what she needs, without waffling or second-guessing herself. If a man is late for a date, for example, the bitch will become annoyed because she is inconvenienced. Annoyance is different than becoming emotional. She'll say something more along the lines of, \"Don't waste my time. If you are going to be late, please let me know so I can make other arrangements. I have better things I can be doing with my time than waiting around.\"\n\nIf he chooses not to respect her the next time around, she allows fifteen or twenty minutes and then leaves without him. Her time and priorities are important to her. At no time does she give herself up.\n\nWhen you're in this type of situation, ask yourself the following questions: What does this look like from his vantage point? What message am I sending by my reactions to his behavior?\n\nYour true power, therefore, is marked by:\n\n  * Realizing what your rhythm is, and moving to it\n  * Knowing who you are, and what you will or will not accept\n  * Having the ability to make a decision _without_ second-guessing yourself afterward, and without being talked out of how you feel\n  * Having self-control, because _true_ power is the control you have over _yourself_\n\nWhen you have control of yourself, you don't need to be emotional all the time. When you have a sassy \"edge,\" you stay the boss... of you. Ironically, this is also when you become the boss... of him.\n\n#### From Sappy to Sassy\n\nWhenever a woman is too emotional or sappy, it can be too much for a man, especially with a woman he barely knows. The bitch is sassier, which is easier for a man to deal with. It's similar to the rougher tone men use to speak to one another.\n\nOne man described a perfect example of how men get spooked by too much sappy emotional talk, particularly early on in the relationship. He was put off by receiving several tear-jerking Hallmark cards from a woman he'd just met.\n\nAnother example of this is a man who was constantly read poems by a woman he'd just met. \"They always seemed so long and drawn out. Some of them were short and boring. But the one thing in common is that they all sucked. 'My love for thee.' Or, 'My heart is heavy with love and it's pushing against my rib cage.' And she'd cry when she read them. I started avoiding her calls.\"\n\nOne man described dating a woman whom he'd known for three weeks. He said, \"A man doesn't need to hear a woman tell him that she loves him every thirty seconds. This woman said it over and over again. It was like dating a cockatoo... Love you... Love you... Love you... Love you... Love you!\"\n\nMen also notice if you are trying too hard to get into a relationship. Do you have twelve sappy relationship books about feelings on your coffee table? Do you have an ad running in the \"personals\" while you pursue online dating? Do you have that one pushy girlfriend who gives you away? You walk into your home with him after a date and you hit the play button on your answering machine. \"Hey, girlfriend. There's another singles event at the car wash this Sunday. Free coffee. And I hear there's a new batch of divorc\u00e9s coming through. The early bird catches the worm!\"\n\n_Being sassy means you won't knock yourself out._ The minute a man feels you're trying too hard, the challenge is over. Once you accidentally step into that arena, you have to win him back by showing him that you won't wait. You have a life. You have other priorities, some of which come before him.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #47\n\nYou jump through hoops any time you repeatedly make it very obvious you're giving your \"all.\"\n\n  * Don't talk for hours on the phone before your first date. Joke around. Be sassy. Make your plans or arrangements to meet and then politely end the conversation.\n  * Don't discuss deep issues in the beginning. Don't use catch phrases from therapy like _cathartic, processing, triggered, owning it,_ or _inner child._ Don't make chicken soup and tell him you \"wanna midwife each other's soul.\"\n  * If you believe in astrology, don't tell him that you can only get together when Mercury is \"tiptoeing\" around the moon, making a three-week \"retrograde\" around Jupiter (with a quick stop for coffee on Pluto).\n  * Don't tell him who you were in a \"past life,\" or what you plan to come back as in your next one. He'll think your cheese is sliding off the cracker.\n  * In the beginning, avoid seeing him more than one night in a row. Start out seeing him one to two nights a week.\n  * Don't pout or whimper when he doesn't call. You have to make him wonder every now and then about what you're doing when you're not with him. When you regulate the timing, it keeps him wanting and it charges up his batteries.\n  * If he takes you to a nice restaurant, don't order a celery stick \"with oil and vinegar on the side,\" and then continue to nibble off his plate like a hummingbird. Don't be so nervous or concerned with impressing him with your table etiquette. Have an appetite for enjoying life.\n  * Don't disclose over your first dinner what you're \"working through\" from childhood.\n  * Don't try to fix his flaws either. I know one woman who bought a man the book _Tuesdays with Morrie_. She thought the book would help him with his workaholism. Too much psychological analysis comes across as too sappy.\n  * Don't accompany him when he goes out with his friends. You don't want to be one of the \"boys.\"\n  * Don't do any slow drive-bys with your headlights turned off to see if he's at home. And no high-speed flybys, either.\n  * If he calls you and asks you to come over late at night after he's been out with his friends, don't happily go skipping over, kicking your heels together like Julie Andrews in _The Sound of Music_.\n  * Don't date someone who has addictions of any kind, hoping to \"help\" him by going to AA meetings with him. Let him work out his own stuff. If he can't treat himself well, he'll never treat you well.\n  * Never call more than once in a row, even if his machine cuts you short. Don't leave long mushy messages. Keep the messages friendly, but short and sweet.\n  * Don't e-mail more than once in a row or send long e-mails about \"feelings,\" \"issues,\" and what you \"need\" that you aren't getting. If he sends you an email, don't respond within thirty seconds each and every time.\n  * Don't stop eating, sleeping, or exercising. Keep your routine. If he wants to spend more time with you than you can comfortably give, invite him to join you in one of your activities\u2014like a walk with your dog or going for a weekend bike ride.\n  * Avoid last-minute dates because you \"miss him.\"\n  * Don't walk in the door, check your messages, and call him right back. Settle in, take a bath or shower, eat dinner, and relax. Move to your own rhythm, and then call back. He has to know you have a life... _every_ day.\n  * If you're on the phone and you get another call that beeps through, don't say \"Stay right there. Don't hang up! Whoever it is, I'll get rid of him!\" When you do come back on the line, don't always be so quick to report the identity of the other caller. \"That was the vet. Tigger had an earache.\"\n  * Don't regularly travel forty minutes in traffic to see him because you have a roommate and he has his own place. Look at a map and take note: It's just as far from his house to your house as it is from your house to his house. So don't feel guilty about having him come your way.\n  * Don't ask for affection. Don't coax affection out of him. Don't give affection when he isn't being affectionate. If he's ignoring you, don't try harder. \"Honey, can I give you a backrub?\"\n  * Don't be a slave to the phone. Don't play his voice message back to your girlfriend to dissect every detail of your situation. Pay attention to the big picture. Does he add to your life as a whole, and do you feel good after he's been around? (If not, \"fast forward\" the message and hit \"delete.\")\n  * Don't memorize his phone number in the first week of dating or call him all the time and hang up. He'll know it's you.\n  * If he's in a bad mood, make an excuse and then go do your own thing.\n  * Above all, make every concerted effort to stay focused on _your_ life. That's how you stay sassy in his eyes.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #48\n\nYou have to keep from being sucked down into quicksand. Unless you maintain control over yourself, the relationship is doomed.\n\n#### Basic Bitch 101\n\nA man notices something from the very first phone message that he leaves on a woman's answering service: whether she is trying too hard. She may be trying too hard to impress him; she may be trying too hard to win him over; or she may be trying too hard to be sexy. Whether she is too needy or trying too hard, it has the same effect. _The bitch never tries that hard to make an impression._\n\nHe dials her number and the machine picks up. _Beep!_ Then comes the breathy voice, which sounds as if she's half asleep. \"Hello there. You've reached Susan's answering service. I am out and about and just a little bit busy at the moment doing, well, [giggle]... If you would be sooooooo kind to leave a message after the tone, I will try my very best to get back to you as sooooooon as I am available. Although I just got in from Portugal, I haven't quite unpacked yet. But if I have a free moment, I'll call you. Wait for the beep... _ciao_... ta, ta... kisses... have a spiritual day... and bless you for calling me.\" _Beep!_ All she needs is a 900 number and a pimp, and girlfriend is in business.\n\nAs men often say, \"Men like a woman who is natural.\" This has nothing to do with makeup or dyed hair. Natural does not mean he wants a vegetarian who drinks wheat-grass juice or a woman who wears organic lip-gloss. Natural implies that the minute something is excessive it becomes a turn-off, because it looks as if a woman is _trying too hard to get the attention_. Whenever a woman is trying too hard, she is jumping through hoops.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #49\n\nJumping through hoops often has a negative outcome: He sees it as an opportunity to have his cake and eat it, too. But when you stay just outside his reach, he'll stay on his best behavior.\n\nLet's look at how one relationship unfolded when the woman was willing to jump through hoops. It's a classic scenario. Sarah bought an airplane ticket to go see Mickey, a man she'd met only once before when he had been in town for a holiday weekend. They'd kept in touch for a month via e-mail and over the phone. Convinced he was \"the one,\" Sarah decided she'd like to see Mickey again.\n\nThe ticket cost $400. Mickey agreed to pay for the accommodations, which ended up being $40 for a motel. After Sarah arrived, they had sex in the motel. Then he took her to a coffee shop with coupons that were complimentary with the room. Afterward they had sex again\u2014 _while_ he watched the World Series.\n\nA Kodak moment, isn't it? No foreplay. No candle. No soft music. No showering together. Instead, one eye is on the game, and he's listening for the score. \"The count is three to two... and the bases are loaded. _Steeeeerike!\"_ Any man\u2014even one who was raised in a jail\u2014has sense enough to know that watching a game while having sex is rude. Hardly a \"romantic getaway\" for two. After two days of being romantic, they couldn't wait to \"getaway\" from each other.\n\nNow let's do a financial comparison. He got plenty of food, plenty of sex, and he got to watch the game (not bad for $40). Her bill exceeded $400. She did, however, get two extra packets of peanuts on the airplane, each containing 2.5 peanuts, for a total of five peanuts. Even if she divided them up into peanut halves, she still wouldn't come out ahead.\n\nA bitch would never have put herself in this position. She would have required that he come to see her, _and_ she would have suggested a hotel that is conveniently located.\n\nWhen the nice girl jumps through hoops or bends over backward and overcompensates, she does so because she has a fantasy that he will \"complete her.\" To keep the spark from fizzling, it's sometimes best to stay ever-so-slightly just outside a man's reach, because it charges up his batteries.\n\nThe nice girl fails to take a \"breather\" because of her fantasy that he is \"the one\" or her \"soul mate.\" But this fantasy is a liability because it feeds a myopic view that he is the center of her life.\n\nAnother reason women rush into a relationship is _fear._ A woman named Mary said, \"I can't say 'no' to my boyfriend. For example, I drive to his place and I wait outside in my car until he comes home from work. Then I eat dinner later and I stay up late even though I have to be up early. I feel totally depleted the next day.\"\n\nI asked Mary why she doesn't just say, \"Not tonight, honey. I really need some down time.\" She answered, \"Because then he pouts. I guess deep down I'm afraid he'll get another girlfriend.\"\n\nThe bitch is not governed by fear of losing a man, because she knows the real price to pay is when she loses _herself._ Almost immediately, women give themselves up _in small ways._ The cumulative effect of these subtle concessions, however, is what amounts to feeling depleted.\n\nHere's the cycle:\n\n  * She develops a myopic view that what he gives is absolutely vital.\n  * Because of this fantasy, she gives up everyday needs.\n  * She feels more and more drained but continues to try harder, believing that he'll be the one to make her feel fulfilled again.\n  * He senses her willingness to exert herself, and _relaxes_ what he gives even more.\n  * She senses this and works even harder to jump through hoops.\n  * The cycle gets worse, as she becomes more and more depleted.\n\nThe solution? Lose the fantasy. And if you feel you are going to resent something after you give it, don't give it. Give only what feels comfortable to give. This will enable you to stay firmly planted with both feet on the ground.\n\nRemember when you learned the golden rule in kindergarten? This was a nice theory, but in the real world we'll need to modify it just a bit.\n\nLET'S REPLACE... | WITH...\n\n---|---  \n\"Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.\" | \"Do unto others, after they show you they are worthy.\"  \n\"Love conquers all.\" | \"Love conquers her, when she gives all.\"  \n\"To give is better than to receive.\" | \"It is better to give and receive.\"  \n\"Charity begins at home.\" | \"There is no charity case in this home.\"  \n\"All's well that ends well.\" | \"All's well for those who cover their 'ends' well.\"  \n\"Love thy neighbor.\" | \"Love thyself first, and your neighbor will be happier living next to you.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #50\n\nThe nice girl gives away too much of herself when pleasing him regularly becomes more important than pleasing herself.\n\nMany times, when you are going through your daily life, Attraction Principle #50 will be very subtle. For example, a woman may have spread herself very thin between her career and her time to herself, and she's exhausted. He asks her out:\"How about Wednesday?\" She tells him Wednesday isn't good because of work demands on Thursday morning. So he asks, \"How about Tuesday or Thursday?\" Then she accepts. Her needs are swept under the rug, and worse yet, _she_ is doing the sweeping. Then she goes out and she is cranky and irritated because she is overworked and hasn't rested.\n\nThe bitch doesn't take the more difficult course; she takes the easier course. How hard is it to suggest, \"The weekend would really be better.\" It's better for _everyone_ involved. The bitch is her own guide.\n\nCathy was on a first date when she found that the guy wouldn't let her order what she wanted off the menu. He kept saying, \"You _have_ to try this...\" She was firm but polite, and finally, he ordered what she wanted. Then he ordered a bottle of wine after she had said she didn't want to \"drink and drive,\" particularly because it was a weeknight. He poured her a glass and they made a toast, so she didn't argue. They clinked glasses and she took one sip to be gracious, but not another sip thereafter. Her glass of wine didn't move.\n\nWhat is important in this example is that she didn't explain herself. She just did what she wanted to do. She didn't need to ask his permission to honor her own wishes, she just honored them.\n\nAnother woman I know shared a story about a man she dated. After two dates, the man asked her to take him to the airport at 4 A.M. (yes, in the morning).\n\nOn their second date, he was coordinating while she listened. \"You could get up at 4 A.M., pick me up at 5 A.M., get to the airport at 6 A.M., go home by 7 A.M., shower, and get to work by 8 A.M.\" (The ringmaster had the poodle hoop-circuit all planned out.) Here's a novel idea that never crossed his mind: He could pay seven bucks for a shuttle, rather than yank her out of bed at such a ridiculous hour. She politely said, \"I'm sorry. I'm going to be busy.\" And he said, \"What do you mean busy? Busy what? Sleeping?\" She smiled and politely said, \"Yes.\"\n\nIf he acts as though it's perfectly normal for you to jump through hoops, don't let that be your guide. Ignore what he says. When he says, \"I'm spiritual,\" don't listen. Just look at how he acts. If he said he was spiritual, but he expects a lot of \"unholy compromising,\" let your observations be your guide.\n\nAnother way a woman may jump through hoops is to \"tell time\" by when a man calls. How many times have you called a girlfriend to say let's \"hook up\" and she has to wait for a call from a guy she's dating to give you an answer? These are always the women who get treated poorly. She becomes depleted because she is willing to wait \"at bay,\" never making plans until she rules out the possibility \"beyond a reasonable doubt\" that she is seeing a man. Then you get a call back, \"Okay let's get together,\" but now it's 10 P.M.\n\nIf you don't hear from him in enough time to suggest he respects your time, there is a simple solution: Don't give him any.\n\nHere's an example of a woman who jumps through hoops\u2014and at the same time, it defies the stereotype that beauty and youth are what are most attractive to a man. Karla was nineteen and so pretty you could have placed her on the cover of any men's magazine without airbrushing. She was the one who cried on my shoulder about the fact that her boyfriend, Bart, told her that when he goes out with his friends he looks at the sixteen-year-olds.\n\nNow let's hear Bart's version: \"I'm not in love with her the way she is with me.\" He shared with me a story of when she was doing his laundry for him in his apartment. \"I was being a total jerk. You know what she said to me? 'After I finish your laundry, I'm going home.' There were three more loads, and she did them. I really would have respected her if she had said, 'Screw you' and walked out.\"\n\nA tip: When you are at his place any day of the week, don't do any housework. The only laundry you do is your own. The only tub you scrub is your own. The only person you clean up after is yourself. If his place is a mess, go to yours. If he asks you to help him clean, be subtle. Just tell him the maidservant has the day off on Sundays.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #51\n\nThe relationship may not be right for you if you find yourself jumping through hoops. When something is right, it will feel easier and much more effortless.\n\nJust remember, it isn't about a man. This is your life... and it's too precious to waste. Do things when it is convenient, especially if it regards your relationships of choice and who you let in on the \"inside.\" It will yield a much better return on investment... especially in the dignity department.\n\n# 6\n\n## NAGGING  \nNo  \nMORE\n\n### What to Do When He Takes You for Granted and Nagging Doesn't Work\n\n\"Well done is better than well said.\"\n\n\u2014BEN FRANKLIN\n\n#### A Lover or a Mother?\n\nIt's a scenario that is all too familiar: a nice girl on \"overdrive\" trying to please her man. He comes home from work and she tries to have a conversation. He tunes her out saying, \"I'm tired.\" She makes dinner, but he eats in front of the TV so he can watch _Monday Night Football_. She tries to look pretty; he doesn't notice. But watch what happens when he realizes the swimsuit issue got delivered; he almost hyperventilates. Diagnosis? She feels taken for granted.\n\nLike the bum on the street with a sign that says _Will work_ _for food,_ your sign now reads _Will work for attention._ Well, no more \"slummin',\" girlfriend. We are under new management. Under the old management, you dealt with his lack of attention by nagging. And if you'll notice, it hasn't worked. This is why all of the steps discussed in this chapter involve changes in demeanor. When you nag at a man, he becomes more reclusive.\n\nEssentially, you always want to remember that although he is a grown man, inside there is a three-year-old causing him to have Appreciation Deficit Disorder. Whenever you nag, you activate this toddler, and you have a thirty second window before you've activated the \"little boy gland.\"\n\nIt's as easy as changing a radio station. In thirty seconds, he'll tune you out and won't tune you back in until the nagging is over. It doesn't matter if his pants are on fire and smoke has filled the room. He won't hear a word you say. This is why you should communicate with your actions...rather than your words. Since a man won't discuss feelings as a woman does, anything past the second repetition seems like nagging. Never ask a man to do something more than twice or he'll feel as though he's being scolded by Mom. And whenever you nag, he'll behave like a stubborn teenager and rebel.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #52\n\nWhen you nag, he tunes you out. But when you speak with your actions, he pays attention.\n\nWomen often say, \"Little boys are so sweet. What changes?\" According to Freud, it gets messed up somewhere around the potty-training years. To better understand the origin of the \"little boy gland\" and to see how a man takes a woman for granted, let's now turn our attention to examine the behavior of a toddler.\n\nA three-year-old wants to be independent of Mommy, but he also wants to take for granted that she is still right there within his reach. So he tests to see how far he can go. The disobedient little boy wobbles around a corner mischievously and pauses. Then he runs back around the corner to make sure Mommy's still right there.\n\nWith a grown man, there's one extra step in the middle. After he wobbles off but before he runs back, he will turn to look over his shoulder to see, \"What will Mommy do next? Does she nag? Does she panic? Will she chase me?\" Your reaction determines whether he'll take one step closer or another step farther away.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #53\n\nWhen a man takes a woman for granted, he still looks for reassurance that she is still \"right there.\"\n\nThink about how futile nagging is. It gives him the reassurance that he can continue to be distant and you will still be there. Very little is negotiated with words. He doesn't sit down and say, \"Look, I want to be lazy in this relationship. But I'd like you to keep cooking me meals and I'd like you to keep having sex with me whenever it is convenient for me. In fact, I'm a little horny right now...wanna hop on?\"\n\nOne would think a woman who'd accept these terms would have to be high on crack. Yet women accept these terms every day. Nonstop. \"What went wrong?\" she asks. In the beginning he went out of his way to show her he's a gentleman; he opened car doors, he let her order first, and so on. So he knows how to treat a woman. The slacking off happens gradually without any negotiation and certainly without her consent, so she doesn't fully realize it is happening until things have gotten so off course. Then she nags to try to get them back on.\n\nOnce a woman realizes a man is going into \"couch potato\" mode, she often mistakenly tries to address it. \"You never take me out or bring me flowers anymore.\" Or, \"We never spend time together.\" This is a sign to a man that he _has her right where he wants her._ Now he doesn't participate because, in his mind, all it takes to satisfy her is his presence. He quips, \"I'm with you, aren't I?\"\n\nTo get the three-year-old to run back to Mommy, she has to stay just _outside his reach_. The reason nagging keeps her within his reach is that he senses she is \"locked down\" waiting for him. She may be waiting for him to give more, participate more, or be more attentive in some way. But she's still waiting. _On hold._\n\nThe only thing worse than him being locked in a cage is the feeling that he has you locked in his. Hence the need for a 180-degree change as prescribed in this chapter.\n\nWhen he takes you for granted, you've triggered the same kind of love he had for his mother, grandmother, or some other woman who raised him. Now you've become \"old faithful.\" No matter how much you scream at him, he knows you aren't going anywhere. \"She may kick my ass, but she'll still love me and I can do whatever I want.\" And it's this very security blanket you _don't_ want him to have.\n\nMen know it's wrong, but they'll still try to see how far they can push the envelope. As one man said to me, \"Men will get away with what you let them get away with.\" That isn't to say there aren't great guys out there. But a man with integrity, or anyone with integrity for that matter, doesn't want something they haven't earned. That's why a high-caliber self-respecting guy will be attracted to a woman who won't let someone walk all over her.\n\nIf he takes you for granted and you pull back a little with no explanation, it catches him off-guard and gets his attention bigtime. You're no longer acting in a way he is used to and you are no longer his mommy. This action generates desire for you as a lover. But if you posture yourself as \"old faithful,\" he'll perceive you as his mother and he'll take you for granted.\n\nFailure to get enough attention isn't the only thing women complain about. Often women nag about household chores. Again, you have to condition him _without_ words. Most men don't particularly care if the place doesn't look great or if it's messy. Most guys are happy to come home and plunk down on the couch with the worn-out spot and his butt imprint on it. He doesn't care if the sink is full of dishes from the day before or that his shoes left muddy prints all over the carpet.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #54\n\nWhen the routine becomes predictable, he's more likely to give you the same type of love he had for his mother-and the odds that he will take you for granted increase.\n\nWhen you're standing in a grocery line and you look at people with children, you'll notice that the mother who has control over her child doesn't nag or holler. She says one sentence or she gives the child a look. Because the child respects her and he is not sure what will happen next, he'll straighten up. Words are not needed to teach a man how to treat you. A little bit of silence or distance will often do the trick.\n\nSometimes as a lover you will have to set forth terms that are also in the best interest of the \"diapered one.\" Why? _He_ _is a man_. And there will forever be a three-year-old trapped inside him.\n\nAll of the behavioral changes discussed in this chapter allow you to keep a calm, charming, and pleasant demeanor. The objective is to avoid being his mother and to make the transition back to being his lover.\n\nA man can't correlate sexual feelings with feelings for his mother. So be careful of the female figure that you become in his life. To stay his lover, you have to keep him on his toes. This behavior incites his interest and makes him come your way. He is happier being your lover than he is when you become his mother. Granted, he looks comfortable and content on the couch. But he isn't content when you become his mother because he no longer has a lover...and neither do you.\n\nThe balance of this chapter gives you insight into how to turn things around and bring him back to pursuit mode when his mind drifts elsewhere. Men are hunters. What he gets from the nice girl is a protective kind of motherly love that lessens his sexual desire. He doesn't pursue his mom. What the nice girl needs to understand is that it takes the heat out of it for a man when you give him a predictable security blanket.\n\nWomen often reassure, or try to convince, a man to win him over. But the bitch wins him over by acting as though she could take him or leave him. Therefore, backing off in a subtle way will give your man renewed \"pep\" in his step. You can also apply the advice in this chapter:\n\n  * When he seems complacent\n  * When he waffles about whether to be in the relationship\n  * When he isn't respectful\n  * When he repeatedly ignores what you need\n\nLet's get started. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200\u2014because sister, there will be plenty of time for that later.\n\n#### Rx : Treat Him Like a Friend\n\nThink back to the beginning of your relationship when you first met your partner. You didn't nag him. Chances are, you treated him much as you would a friend. You were relaxed; you had fun and laughed more. You felt comfortable speaking your mind. He wasn't the \"be all and end all\" of your existence.\n\nWhen you started nagging, your behavior began to tell a different story. \"I'm affected by every move you make.\" For this reason and this reason alone, nagging rewards him. Not because he enjoys it, but because it reassures him you care.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #55\n\nNegative attention is still attention. It lets a man know that he has you\u2014right where he wants you.\n\nIt doesn't matter if you're a high-powered litigation attorney and can give a closing argument that makes his head spin. Nagging still reassures him of where he stands and where you stand. It doesn't give him anything to worry about, think about, or mull over. It doesn't intrigue him or pull him in. Instead, he tunes you out.\n\nNow you want to \"talk\" and he wants to do anything _except_ talk. And if you press the issue, he'll shift the blame.\n\n### How to Shift the Blame...The Textbook Guide\n\n  * First, tell her that the timing to discuss it isn't right. Remember, it's never a good time to \"talk.\"\n  * Before hearing a word, tell her she took everything wrong and is being \"too sensitive.\"\n  * Get a rotation going: Monday and Wednesday she's \"overreacting.\" Tuesday and Thursday she's \"blowing it out of proportion.\" And on weekends she's \"imagining things.\"\n  * Change the subject. Say, \"You're starting your period, aren't you?\"\n  * If this doesn't work, pick a fight. Be very combative, but repeatedly point out that _she_ was the one who started the argument.\n  * If she has six good points, and you have one semi-good little point, place all of the emphasis on your _one semi-good little point_.\n  * Don't veer. Keep asking about your one little point over and over, then demand a quick answer. If she hesitates, use this as evidence that you are right.\n  * If she is clearly right, find fault with her that has nothing to do with the incident, and use that.\n  * Be sure to create your own imaginary panel of experts (composed of people she's never met). Say, \"Even Joe and Jim agree with me and think you are being completely unreasonable.\"\n  * When she tries to explain the same thing in a different way, roll your eyes.\n  * Appoint yourself her in-house therapist. Say, \"You do this to _yourself. Why_ do you do this to yourself?\"\n  * Keep count of how many times she repeats herself, and be sure to remind her.\n  * It's like boxing. Jab with the left; uppercut with the right. Then run...\n  * As Muhammad Ali used to say: \"Float like a butterfly; sting like a bee.\" Float by dodging the issue, and sting by asking why she \"can't let it go.\"\n  * Keep dancing, and stay _light_ on those feet.\n  * And, remember, it's always _her_ fault. That's your story, and you are _stickin'_ to it.\n\nThe other thing he'll do is tune you out completely. He can see lips moving, but he cannot hear what you are saying. Like a remote control in his head, you've been \"muted.\" Ideally, his hope is that you'll \"nag yourself silly\" to the point of exhaustion. He figures if he bides his time, eventually you'll wear yourself out and go away.\n\nWomen differ in terms of how long it takes them to run out of steam. Evidently, according to the men I interviewed, each woman-as with clothing, perfume, and lovemaking-has her own \"personalized style\" of nagging. Here are some just to name a few:\n\n  * **The Marathon Nagger:** This woman will nag for a longer time so she paces herself, for two to three hours.\n  * **The Sprint Nagger:** This woman will nag for a shorter period of time. It's a more intense burst, so she'll get tired much more quickly.\n  * **The Momentum Whiner:** This woman will start out with a whine and then will slowly pick up momentum, building up to a nag. Then she'll cry. The longer she goes, the more momentum she builds and the less likely she is to stop.\n  * **The Sunrise Whiner:** It starts as the sun comes up over the horizon. His eyes begin to open and he hears his first morning whine. Or he's still asleep, and it wakes him like a rooster.\n  * **The Nightcap Nagger:** Just as he is falling into a deep REM sleep, she nudges him and reminds him of something he has to do the following day.\n  * **The Bushwhacker:** This nagger employs the element of surprise. She catches him off-guard at any moment in the day. One minute everything is going along fine and then, without any warning, she jumps out of the bushes and whacks him.\n  * **The Sniper:** This is the premeditated nagger who will make one cutting remark. It's usually a well-placed shot that delivers a devastating blow.\n\nMany times, when a man steps on a woman's toes, he doesn't have a clue. She has to remember that if something happens that she doesn't like, he may not know any better.\n\nTherefore, if she wants to tell him something he did that put her off, she should stay calm. Then she should say, \"Could I explain something to you?\" She needs to approach it as though he did not intend to hurt her because more often than not he _doesn't have an inkling._\n\nShaquille O'Neal said, \"This is a tough game. There are times when you've got to play hurt, when you've got to block out the pain.\" The reason that you block out the pain is that it impairs your decision-making. Long term, how you communicate will affect his desire for you.\n\nIf a woman is losing a man's attention, it's because the woman is following a _predictable_ routine and she's becoming an opponent rather than a partner. Therefore:\n\n**Nagging = A woman who is predictable = A feeling of obligation = Decreased lust**\n\n**Indifference = Less predictable response = Renewed interest**\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #56\n\nWhen you treat him casually as though he's a friend, he'll come your way. Because he wants things to be romantic, but he also _wants_ to be the pursuer.\n\nEnvisioning him as just a friend enables you to relate to him without the heaviness or the intensity of the nagging. Don't say, \"Hey, buddy. Hey pal,\" and throw down a cold beer in front of him with a fake, peppermint-refreshing smile. Don't offer to girl-watch with him or chew tobacco. Don't overdo it.\n\nAgain, treat him as you would a friend, which means exude a demeanor that seems _unlikely given the circumstances._ If you've been uptight, needy, or clingy, appearing casual, relaxed, and _un_ concerned is the unlikely response that he would expect.\n\nFor example, if he has excuses for why he isn't spending time with you, you need to make excuses for why you can't spend time with _him_. Is it a game? No. If he's too busy and you've already tried telling him how you feel, it's time to show him with your actions that he will no longer be dictating the terms. Because his terms will most likely continue to drive a wedge between you-and that's not the outcome you want.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #57\n\nA little distance combined with the appearance of self-control makes him nervous that he may be losing you.\n\nHere is a classic case in point. You want to see more of him and you suggest going away for the weekend together. He says, \"No, I can't because of work.\" You've typically whined over the issue of him not spending enough time with you. What will throw him and get his attention is if you go left when he thinks you'll go right.\n\nIf you _don't_ cop an attitude or you appear to lose interest in going away, he'll immediately be concerned. Most men are used to women wanting to be around them all the time. He gets concerned when he's busy trying to defend something you mysteriously no longer want. If you don't bring it up and pretend to forget all about it, he second-guesses himself: \" _Hmm..._ why is this okay with her when I know it's wrong?\" Now his clout or leverage with you will be called into question, and he no longer knows if he has a 100 percent hold on you. When he _doesn't_ get the nagging but he _knows_ he deserves it, he begins to wonder what's going on.\n\nLet's say he likes seeing you two nights a week, but he likes to do his own thing on the weekends. Some weekends you get together and other weekends he leaves you hanging when he goes out with the boys. The last thing you want to let Yogi Bear think is that you are Boo Boo the fool. \"Gee, Yogi what are we going to do next? Okay!\"\n\nYou need to alter the pattern that has become convenient for him _with no attitude and no warning_. Use the same type of excuses that he wanted you to accept. See him half as much as he wants to see you. \"I'd love to see you Thursday, but I can't. I am really behind in my work. I want to go to the gym after work, and I'm going to be too tired. We'll get together next week.\" In that one gesture, you've done something you could have never accomplished with all the whining and nagging in the world. You've just rekindled the flame.\n\nThe second you take away the security of a predictable routine, his orientation changes. Instead of worrying about buying time or making excuses about work, he has to think of something fun to do so you'll want to be with him. When you're not available, _he'll go out of his way to make more time for you._\n\nIf you ask any parrot trainer how to train a parrot, he or she will tell you to raise the perch to about shoulder level. The trainer will tell you not to raise the bird up higher than you, because the bird will think he is better than you. No matter how much the bird loves you, if you put your finger up over your head to touch him, he'll be more inclined to bite you. This dynamic with birds is where the term _cocky_ originated.\n\nIf, on the other hand, you put the bird on the ground, the bird feels vulnerable. Trainers suggest doing this to keep the bird \"in check.\" If you put your finger out, instead of biting you, he'll crawl up on your finger and want to get on your arm. When your man behaves as though he is more worthy than you, re-create the balance and equality in the relationship by gently taking the \"little birdie\" and putting him on the ground.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #58\n\nA man takes a woman for granted when he's interested, but will no longer go out of his way.\n\nFor example, Rhonda was being taken for granted by her boyfriend. He asked her to \"come over\" late one night. She indicated she didn't have a car because it was in the shop. He was seven minutes away with a car that was running fine, parked right there in his driveway. He asked, \"So, Rhonda, when will your car be ready?\" After realizing that she had no wheels, he dropped the subject of getting together.\n\nIn this example, Rhonda was \"dissed\" by a guy who wanted her to keep him warm at night but wouldn't drive seven minutes to pick her up. Typically, she would have nagged, but she didn't this time. The next time he called, Rhonda spoke to him very casually as though he were an acquaintance. A friend. A pal. A _muchacho_. She said, \"Hey, great to hear from you. Can you call me back in a few? I am on the other line.\" He called back and she was in the shower. Then he called a third time. They chatted a bit casually. For the first time in their relationship, her disposition changed from _intense_ to _indifferent_. After a short while, her call waiting beeped through and she politely ended the conversation. \"Talk to you soon. Bye, sweetie.\" Almost immediately, the guy started to become much more attentive.\n\nLet's hit the \"pause\" button. Rewind...now, let's review play-by-play. Notice how simple it was for Rhonda to get him to realize he needs to give more.\n\n  1. He wasn't nice.\n  2. He _knows_ he wasn't nice.\n  3. He expected her to nag.\n  4. She didn't nag.\n  5. He was unsure.\n  6. She was relaxed and self-assured.\n  7. She gave no explanation and no attitude.\n  8. He said to himself, \"Uh oh. I better get busy.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #59\n\nWhen you nag, _you_ become the problem, and he deals with it by tuning you out.  \nBut when you don't nag, he deals with _the problem._\n\nWhen there is a problem, men love to \"fix\" it. By nagging, you make it seem as though the problem lies with you. A perfect example is Diana, who started nagging her husband to fix a latch in the laundry room. After the third time she asked, he became so irritated that no force on earth could get him to fix that latch.\n\nOne evening some friends came over. While her husband was within earshot, Diana asked her friend's husband to fix the latch in the laundry room, in that sweet \"damsel in distress\" tone of voice that men eat up. Then she started looking for a screwdriver. Before she could even turn around, her husband ran up the stairs like Speedy Gonzales and fixed the latch in two minutes flat.\n\nMen despise it when other men fix things for them. It's a territorial thing-like some other man is treading on his turf. When you've asked him to do something a few times and he doesn't do it, say, \"Honey, it's okay. I don't need you to do it anymore. Ed, our next-door neighbor, said he'd come over and do it.\" If you don't have a neighbor, tell him his best friend will come do it. This is how you will get whatever it is you want done, right then and there.\n\nMy friend Lucy noticed that when she asked her husband for help in various ways, he was less attentive. For example, she often asked him to help bring in the groceries when she came back from the market. He was always in the middle of something, so he said, \"Give me a minute.\" A minute later she said, \"The food is going to spoil.\" And she kept repeating herself. \"The food is going to go bad. If you're going to do it, please do it now.\" Every time she went to the market, it became a power struggle.\n\nThen she stopped asking for his help and she noticed a change. When she brought in the groceries and he asked if she wanted a hand she said, \"No thanks, sweetie. I've got it.\" Suddenly, he was out there insisting on bringing in the groceries.\n\nThen there's my friend Rayanna, who found herself repeatedly nagging her husband to take their child to school. He always made excuses to avoid doing the driving. But instead of nagging him, Rayanna found a single dad down the street to carpool with. When her husband got wind of the fact that a neighbor was doing the driving, suddenly Papa Bear put a chauffeur hat on.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #60\n\nIf you take his chores away from him and praise someone else for doing it, he'll want his chores back.\n\nRemember, men need a little coaxing. They aren't the most talented when it comes to running a household. Before he was Papa Bear, he lived the life of the untamed bear, living in his bachelor's habitat (with furniture). Think back to your first walk-through. The sheets didn't match and the pillows didn't have cases on them. His lamp consisted of a velour hand-me-down shade on a contemporary silver stand with air fresheners stuck to each side. It was so ugly that even the Salvation Army truck kept driving when you put it on the edge of the driveway.\n\nSo the day the \"live-in bear\" sets the living standard is the day your living standard plummets. Stake your claim, but do it without nagging him. There's a better way.\n\nWhen you use guilt or nagging to motivate him, he feels bad. If you stroke his ego, however, he feels good. He needs to be praised. When he goes out to straighten the mailbox and he comes back inside, say, \"Thank you so much, sweetie!\" Praise him the whole way. Then he'll say, \"Why don't I fix that latch in the laundry room?\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #61\n\nWhen you nag, he sees weakness.\n\nBarbara told a funny story of how she engaged her husband in helping out one lazy Sunday afternoon. She sneaked down into the garage when her husband wasn't looking and figured out which circuit breaker turned off the lights to the part of the house he was in. Then she flipped it off and tiptoed back into the house and pretended as though she had no idea what happened. \"Honey? I'm scared! What happened to the power?\" He'd never think she had the brains to turn off a circuit breaker. Now she gave him a jolt with a jumper cable that got him right up off the couch. Big Papa to the rescue! Then he helped out because he felt needed\u2014as the \"man of the house.\"\n\nHe found a flashlight and went downstairs to the circuit-breaker box. He assigned her the very complicated duty of holding the flashlight for him. \"Hold it steady.\" When he flipped the circuit breaker back on, she appeared proud and impressed. \"Wow! I can't believe it. How did you do that?\" Then she called his mom. \"Mom, he is so smart...\"\n\nWhen you make him feel like the man? The stud-muffin? The legend? You can ask him to do anything and he'll jump to do it. He won't do it because you nagged him, he'll do it because he _wants_ to. And he'll now feel good about it.\n\nAs John Churton Collins said, \"Never claim as a right what you can ask as a favor.\" Nagging makes it a right; asking for a favor makes it a positive experience. He'll come running to help if he's going to be praised. Just as a woman wants to be perceived as a \"dream girl\" to a man, a man wants to be perceived as a \"hero\" in his woman's eyes.\n\n#### \"Show\" Is Better Than \"Tell\"\n\nIf you've been nagging and you want to get his attention, try something new on for size. Don't show your feelings for a little while. And don't explain why. Don't tell him that you've had an epiphany. Don't say this is the \"new me.\" Don't exaggerate the change. \"Feelings? What feelings?\" Show-rather than tell-him that you aren't spilling your guts anymore.\n\nPop psychologists would suggest that you shouldn't withhold how you feel. They tell you to \"express yourself.\" Begin every sentence with \"I feel...\" Ask for feedback. Then sit in a circle, hold hands, and pass around the Kleenex. Promise never to do it again and live happily ever after. Then pay the therapist $175. It's a wonderful theoretical ideal. It feels warm and fuzzy just thinking about \"expressing those feelings.\" And I'm sure on rare occasions it even works (because after spending $20,000 total on a therapist, you can't bear to think that it hasn't). But don't kid yourself. No man changes because of couples therapy. Men think of therapy as a form of blackmail\u2014coercion with a ransom. The only reason they straighten up is to keep from going broke. Half a session will usually do the trick. \"Okay. I'm all better. Can we stop the clock now?\"\n\nExpressing yourself when he takes you for granted doesn't work. You have to show him with actions. Expressing your feelings constantly is like pleading. It comes across as needy rather than dignified. But backing away when he crosses the line? _Plenty dignified._\n\nWhen he is intrigued because the cards aren't out on the table, he is forced to see you differently. It isn't the love he had for his mother. Or his sister. Or his grandma. Now you have his attention because he is no longer in the \"safety zone\" that enables him to have his cake and eat it, too.\n\nThis isn't being mean. Men are turned on by it. Think about the average run-of-the-mill male fantasy he had growing up: It's always a woman who has power over him. There's the teacher he had in the eighth grade, the nurse at the doctor's office, the babysitter who gave him a few extra cookies, the policewoman with the handcuffs. All of these women, in their own feminine ways, have power over him and leave him at a disadvantage and _he likes it_.\n\nWhen you tell a man how you feel, most of the time he doesn't understand what you're talking about. You'll probably just confuse and frustrate him. If you take a look at Attraction Principle #62, you'll see what he _does_ understand.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #62\n\nHe perceives an emotional woman as more of a pushover.\n\nMy friend Gary races cars, and he shared a story about a girlfriend who nagged him. After a particular racing event, Gary was sitting next to his girlfriend in the stands. A couple of friendly women approached them and asked for his autograph. He recalls, \"I couldn't believe my girlfriend got so upset because I didn't introduce her as my girlfriend. I just forgot, but she kept nagging. She even pouted.\" What he said next is interesting: \"Do you know what the biggest turnoff is? A _martyr.\"_\n\nWe don't know if she overreacted because he may have been flirting up a storm. But what's interesting about this story is his choice of the word _martyr_. She was trying to use guilt to control and manipulate him; and men resent being manipulated. On the other hand, if she had backed off subtly, he'd have seen a woman who has pride and dignity-both of which are powerfully attractive qualities.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #63\n\nIn the same way that familiarity breeds contempt, a slightly aloof demeanor can often renew his respect.\n\nIf a man isn't being nice when you're out, all you have to do is remain polite and then go home early. \"I have a big day tomorrow. _[Yawn.]_ We need to call this an early night.\" The next time you go out, he'll be on his best behavior.\n\nAn acquaintance of mine named Cynthia told me a funny story about her boyfriend. They were seeing each other exclusively, and one night he went to a strip-bar. She was not a happy camper and wanted to discourage him from going again. She did not nag. A couple of days later, she pretended that she had gotten a job at a local strip club. \"Checking coats. Isn't that great?\" Then she talked about finding the right platform shoes.\n\nOn their next date, she wore hot pink lipstick and teased her hair as though she'd been electrocuted. Then came the light blue eyeshadow on the entire lid, all the way up to the eyebrow. He wanted to see \"hoochies\" and girlfriend delivered a \"super-deluxe hoochie\" package.\n\nIt didn't take long before he came unglued: \"I don't want my woman in a place like that!\" This began a discussion that ended in a mutual agreement that they would both stay out of \"places like that.\" (See? Why argue your case when you can get him to argue it for you?)\n\nThere are times when a serious issue arises, and there is a need for a more serious discussion. If and when this situation presents itself, there is still a way of emphasizing your position _without_ nagging or repeating yourself several times. If he asks, \"Is something wrong?\" take a breath and respond calmly. \"Yes, something is wrong, but I'd like to talk about it later. I really don't want to talk about it now.\"\n\nInstead of being muted, the volume is now turned up and the surround-sound is on. Chances are you won't have to say a word because by the time you do get around to discussing it, he's already made sure he won't do it again. Meanwhile, he's thinking of ways to make it up to you. All before you've said one word. Better, no?\n\nIt's like he's defragmenting his hard drive. You're making him clean up his own hard drive without any nagging whatsoever. You walk away and do your own thing...while he is \"self-correcting\" himself.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #64\n\nHe'll forget what he has in you...unless you remind him.\n\nA lot of women think they need to \"cattle prod\" the guy out of his oblivion by nagging. \"I'll sting him.\" Or they don't realize that they're nagging.\n\nEvery now and then remind yourself: \"Hey, men are people too.\" And put yourself in his shoes\u2014being around someone who acts like your mother isn't a whole lot of fun.\n\nIt's with your behavior, not with your words, that you let him know where you stand.\n\nAfter all, a strong woman is everything men dream and fantasize about. Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and...bitches\u2014it doesn't get any better than that.\n\n# 7\n\n## THE OTHER TEAM'S  \nSecret  \n\"PLAY BOOK\"\n\n### Things You Suspected but Never Heard Him Say\n\n\"Don't learn the tricks of the trade. Learn the trade.\"\n\n\u2014ANONYMOUS\n\n#### What Men Think about How Women Communicate\n\nWomen often assume that men aren't \"in touch\" with their feelings and don't have a clue about what is going on in romantic relationships. Because men aren't as likely to express themselves, women presume men \"just don't get it.\"\n\nMen have an aversion to talking about feelings. They even avoid watching movies about \"feelings.\" Mike described to me how men view emotional movies that women like: \"There is always a mother, a daughter, and the mother's best friend. The whole movie they are at a beach, or they are squeezing tomatoes in a garden with a stupid straw hat on. And everyone is whimpering the whole time. 'Mama? Boo, hoo, hoo.' Then the mom starts crying. A bunch of women whimpering is not a plot. I can't sit through two hours of that.\"\n\nMen are about as interested in talking about feelings or watching \"chick flicks\" as we are watching them get under a car and rebuild an engine. To them, watching a movie like _Terms of Endearment_ or _Steel Magnolias_ is cruel and unusual punishment. One guy named Chris recalled: \"It was horrible! And I had to watch that shit for three hours just to prove that I wasn't an asshole.\" This statement even brought support from a guy standing nearby: \"I feel for you, man. That sucks. That's almost as bad as having to listen to Michael Bolton. All that wailing and weeping? I can't listen to it.\"\n\nWhat is also interesting is how men discuss \"feelings.\" If you ask a man to say that word out loud, he'll pronounce it with a tone of dread. \" _Fff-fffff\u2014feeeee-_ lings.\" As the conversation continues, you'll notice a pained facial expression as if he's \"going in\" for some kind of invasive surgical procedure. Side effects vary; usually digestive problems occur. (Therefore, before discussing \"feelings,\" make sure to steam some rice to quell his upset stomach.)\n\nThis lack of sentiment leads women to believe men are \"out of touch.\" But nothing could be further from the truth. I spoke with hundreds of men of all ages while researching this book. The youngest was eighteen and the oldest was seventy; some were married and some were single. To my surprise, they were more articulate about their perceptions than any girlfriends I've ever talked with were about theirs. I found the men to be surprisingly forthcoming and truthful.\n\nIn the balance of this chapter, I've taken the best, most revealing quotes and put them all together in list form to help women learn what men notice. I've highlighted the quotes that reveal what men think about a needy woman, a feisty woman, and what turns men on or off.\n\nThis information will \"connect the dots,\" confirming the advice given in the other chapters. You'll understand not only what the advice is, but also, _why the advice thoughout this book_ was given.\n\n#### The Top Fifteen Signs That a Woman Is Needy\n\n1. \"If a woman doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve, she comes off as less emotional and more appealing. It makes the relationship go smoothly. For example, a guy _has_ to go to work. It isn't that he doesn't want to spend time with a woman; it's that a lot of times he _can't._ So when a woman gives you room to live your life without getting upset, you'll feel she's adding much more to your life.\"\n\n2. \"I like a woman who's quiet at times because then you're not sure what she's thinking. She'll seem more secure with herself, like she has control over herself and her emotions. You want to be with a person who can think before she speaks.\"\n\n3. \"Some women seem defensive or guarded, and that can be viewed as insecurity, also. There was one woman who turned me off before we even went out. She was so concerned about _protecting_ herself that she told me what she wouldn't tolerate in our first phone conversation. She gave me this warning based on what happened with the _last_ guy. We hadn't even had our first date, and already she was laying down the law. I hadn't even made a traffic violation and she'd already sentenced me to death. All I did was ask her out on a date!\"\n\n4. \"I went out with a woman who interrogated me. I got the impression that she had been burned. Actually, it was more like she'd been _scorched._ No guy wants to feel like he's paying for some other guy's mistakes.\"\n\n5. \"I dated a woman who loved to talk and talk. We'd fall asleep talking, and I'd wake up and she'd still be talking. I realized that she wasn't doing it because she wanted to tell me anything, she was doing it because she just couldn't shut up.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #65\n\nMany women talk a lot out of nervousness-which is something that men will often perceive as insecurity.\n\n6. \"One woman I dated was really needy. She needed constant reassurance about everything. Her family, her friends, and her job. _During sex,_ she said to me, 'Do you know what happened to me today at work?' That one killed my ego!\"\n\n7. \"The conversation is part of the companionship, but it isn't everything. Women overdo talking about feelings. If it feels like you've run out of things to talk about, that's not a good thing. There has to be a balance somewhere in between.\"\n\n8. \"One woman tried to change me. She tried to get me to talk about my 'feelings' more. Hey, look. I can deal with my _own_ problems.\"\n\n9. \"When someone tries to get me to open up and I don't want to, there is no way they are getting the information out of me. I'll close up even more. I don't need a woman to 'help' me.\"\n\n10. \"It really makes us happy when a woman lets us go out with the guys and has no attitude about it. Like if I get tickets to a hockey game at the last minute. If she's cool even when I cancel plans with her, it wins my respect. It feels like she is secure with herself, and she cares about what makes me happy, too.\"\n\n11. \"I had one girlfriend who talked so much I could walk away into another room and she'd still be talking. One time I was in the bathroom trying to have some privacy and she was talking to me through the crack of the door. I really think there was something wrong with her.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #66\n\nTalking about feelings to a man will feel like _work._ When he's with a woman, he wants it to feel like _fun_.\n\n12. \"When a guy talks about something, it's over in thirty seconds. But for a woman, it goes on and on. What seems like a trivial thing to him seems like it's life threatening to her. So then you try to help and you say, 'Honey, it doesn't matter.' But that makes it worse because she thinks you don't care.\"\n\n13. \"I think a woman who talks less is more attractive because it makes her more mysterious. It is not a good thing to just ramble on. Communication should be about quality not quantity. If a woman is uncomfortable or bothered, he should be able to feel it without her saying a word.\"\n\n14. \"One woman wanted the two of us to always be together. She tried to change how I spend all my time. And every guy has his own special time or recreation. She wanted me to do stuff I didn't want to do. If she knows I am not the 'artsy' type, she should let me be who I am. She shouldn't be dragging me to an art gallery or a museum. If a guy treats a woman well, but he doesn't write poetry or buy stupid cards expressing his _feelings,_ she should just leave well enough alone.\"\n\n15. \"I don't mind a woman who changes the decor in the house, but when she is obsessed with changing me, it gets old. I want a woman who has a sense of purpose in her own life, so she doesn't waste all her energy trying to control mine.\"\n\nWhat you can glean from this feedback is that, no matter how much a woman wants intimacy, she can't force it out of a man\u2014much less change his stripes. Notice that in the last quote, the man even says the woman is _wasting her time_. Whenever a woman speaks in language that appears in any way emotional, most men will immediately discredit it and think of it as \"girlie babble.\" Keeping it short and to the point is essential, otherwise he won't hear a single word.\n\nNot only this, but constantly trying to force a man to talk about feelings or pay an inordinate amount of attention to your feelings is counterproductive. Here's why:\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #67\n\nForcing him to talk about feelings all the time will not only make you seem needy, it will eventually make him lose respect. And when he loses respect, he'll pay even less attention to your feelings.\n\nTherefore, if you feel as if he's ignoring you, be \"dumb like a fox.\" When he isn't meeting your needs, just pull back slightly and don't explain a thing. As explored in the last chapter, men don't respond to words.\n\nWomen chase men by trying to force-feed conversations about feelings. And predictably, they run. In order for the child to run to Mommy, Mommy has to first stop chasing the child.\n\nIf, however, you're not _demanding_ it, or chasing it, or trying to inflict \"cruel and unusual girlie babble,\" you'll have his respect. Whenever you keep your piece short and sweet and pull back in a slightly mysterious way, you'll appear more dignified and he'll pay much more attention to what you feel\u2014without any words at all.\n\n#### The Top Fifteen Reasons Men \"Play It Cool\"\n\nI asked men why they hide their feelings, or \"play it cool.\" I asked why they often put up pretenses that they are cool, \"macho,\" and tougher than they feel. They do this because they feel they have to, _especially_ when dealing with women.\n\nWomen often wonder why men take so long to make a phone call. For example, a man asks for her phone number and then waits six days before calling. Then he takes her out on a really fun date and waits another five days before calling again. Meanwhile, she's scratching her head and asking, \"What's up with that?\"\n\nMen are used to being turned down by women so this delaying tactic is how they keep their guard up. In the beginning, he'll be calculated. He'll be rational as opposed to \"emotional,\" because to him appearing too obvious, or \"emotional,\" will be perceived as a sign of weakness. On Tuesday, he'll say to himself, \"I think I'll call her on Thursday.\" Most men don't have a clue that the woman would have preferred a call on Tuesday.\n\nSo why do they do it? They do it to \"save face\" and to give the impression they're \"in control\" of the situation. An attractive guy by the name of Steven surprised me with his candor. He said, \"You have to approach women looking like you do it all the time, and it isn't a big deal to you. The minute you act like it's important to you, the woman smells it and she treats you differently.\" This is the reason men will wait before calling and then act a little bit cavalier. _They believe that women disrespect men who appear weak or vulnerable._\n\nWhat you can take away from this is: _Do not take it personally_ if he doesn't call for a day or two. Often when it seems as though he's slightly rejecting you, it can be a compliment in disguise; he wants you _so much_ that he doesn't want to appear too obvious about it. Other times men pull back deliberately to see what your reaction will be, because they are curious to see how much _you_ care. If you don't believe me, keep reading. Here's what these sneaky devils copped to:\n\n1. \"Guys want women to think they have other options with women, even when they don't. So they exaggerate. They do it to make themselves look more attractive to a woman.\"\n\n2. \"Sure, men play cool. Because they think the woman is going to find them more attractive or appealing. I know some guys that check out a woman who isn't even that beautiful, just to make his girlfriend a little insecure.\"\n\n3. \"Guys don't want to admit it to themselves that one woman can have that kind of control over them. It deflates our egos to think that women can affect us that much. We don't want to feel like we have no control over ourselves.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #68\n\nIn the beginning, the only thing you need to pay attention to is whether he keeps coming around, because he'll only be able to suspend or hide his emotions for so long.\n\n4. \"I may not call a girl too much in the beginning because I don't want to give the impression that I'm too eager.\"\n\n5. \"Guys are just as emotional as women are. They just don't show it because society says you aren't supposed to. As a guy, you have to appear to be in control of yourself.\"\n\n6. \"When she acts like she doesn't care, it can scare you. Women can crush men and they don't even know it. If a woman puts her foot down and walks away? It can crush a guy...\"\n\n7. \"If a man is really falling for a particular woman, a lot of times he'll try to conceal it. Very few men will ever break down and cry over a woman in front of her.\"\n\n8. \"Of course men play cool...to get women interested in us. We want women to like us and don't want them to think we are too eager. If you show you're too interested right off the bat, women will think you are desperate.\"\n\n9. \"Sometimes I'll pretend to ignore a woman in the beginning, or I won't call as much to keep a woman's interest. No guy wants to look too desperate.\"\n\n10. \"Men are needier sexually. Women can control their sex drives, whereas men are controlled by theirs.\"\n\n11. \"Guys do it to appeal to women. Most guys believe that nice guys finish last and that women on some level want a bad boy.\"\n\n12. \"If you appear weak, people take advantage of you. Some men think if you open up too much, a woman will use it against you.\"\n\n13. \"If you let a woman know that you haven't been in the company of a woman recently, she could get the impression you're desperate or just trying to be with any woman.\"\n\n14. \"Women are in control, because they control the sex. In fact, women have a lot more control than they know. A lot of guys feel like this puts us at a disadvantage.\"\n\n15. \"When a guy plays cool, he thinks he's impressing the woman with his power or his strength. He's just trying to be hip, like he knows what's up. No guy wants to be perceived as a Mommy's boy or a wimp.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #69\n\nMen treat women the way they treat other men. They \"play it cool\" because they don't want to appear weak or desperate.\n\n#### The Top Fifteen Male Views on Keeping the Romance Alive\n\nA number of men also spoke to me about keeping the passion alive, particularly those who are married or have been married. During this part of the interview, I always felt like it was a word game. I said \"romance,\" and they thought _sex._ I said \"passion,\" and they thought _sex._ I said \"new experiences,\" and they thought about _sex._ I said, \"variety,\" and they responded with a question, \"You mean _sex,_ right?\" Given this, the most obvious thing men would want a woman to take away from a conversation on the subject of how to keep the passion alive is with respect to...you guessed it... _sex!_ While men are less likely to talk about feelings, they still need to feel connected with the person they are in love with and it's equally important for them to keep the magic \"spark.\" When a man stops having sex, he starts to doubt his manhood, and his desirability gets called into question. It isn't just about the physical act.\n\n1. \"A guy needs to always feel that he's desirable to his wife or girlfriend. We need that feedback.\"\n\n2. \"Do something different in bed. Anything. As long as it's different than what he's used to. The element of surprise is a turn-on. If you always get on top, do it sideways.\"\n\n3. \"Late in the evening you're so exhausted. The daily grind can really take the passion out of a relationship. You have to make the time for each other. Go out for a dinner and get a babysitter if you have to.\"\n\n4. \"People use the excuse of money, time, being away from the kids to stop being intimate or romantic. It's really important to keep the passion.\"\n\n5. \"Men like a woman to be creative so it doesn't get stale. If she's too predictable because you talk about the relationship all the time instead of going out and having one, he'll get bored quickly.\"\n\n6. \"Recently, my wife and I started leaving the kids with family once a month and we go away for a Friday night or a Saturday night. It keeps the romance alive. It's the adult conversation one-on-one.\"\n\n7. \"It's easy to say, 'We can't afford to eat out.' Or, 'We can't afford to go away for the weekend.' The bills may be racking up or you feel like you should spend the money on the kids. But you really can't afford to give up the romantic things or your sex life. It's also very important.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #70\n\nThe element of surprise both inside and outside of the bedroom is important to men, and it adds to the excitement.\n\n8. \"Anything that surprises a guy will add excitement. It's about having new experiences with someone.\"\n\n9. \"If a guy keeps getting turned down sexually, eventually the passion will die. Guys want sex a minimum of a couple of times a week, and ideally, they want a woman who doesn't have to be asked.\"\n\n10. \"Just once I would like to have a woman take my hand and lead me to the bedroom. Guys _always_ have to be the aggressors. We _always_ have to do the work to get a woman 'in the mood.' Sometimes guys just don't want to have to work that hard.\"\n\n11. \"I like a woman who takes the initiative sexually from time to time. Maybe not the first time, but definitely when you are in a relationship. It makes him feel like you want him more.\"\n\n12. \"I think it keeps the romance if you have time apart even when you're living together. It is important to be able to do stuff alone and not have her give you a hard time about it. When I go fishing, I find that I really miss my wife. And that's a _good_ thing, isn't it?\"\n\n13. \"Sometimes a woman can make a guy feel important by asking questions or expressing an interest in what he likes. They can try something new together that they wouldn't normally do. I'd suggest planning a weekend away with him that you can both look forward to.\"\n\n14. \"The weekends can be filled with a lot of busywork. Shuttling the kids around or doing housework. I think it can help keep the romance to do some of the mundane things apart from one another. Sometimes in the morning I can take the kids while she does chores, and then she can take the kids out while I stay at home and do certain duties. In the evenings you have a better time being together. I don't need to see my wife cleaning the floors with a bandana on.\"\n\n15. \"It's comforting if you've been with someone awhile to do the same three tricks in bed that you know they like. But it becomes routine after awhile. Throw in a change-up or a curve ball. It doesn't have to be outrageous, just something you don't normally do.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #71\n\nDon't always do the same thing over and over in the bedroom. Vary it so that it doesn't become a predictable routine.\n\n#### The Top Fifteen Things That Turn Men Off\n\nThere were just a few miscellaneous comments men had about other things that put them off. This section may be self-explanatory to some, while others may find these things not so obvious. In any event, since your man is not likely to say these things directly, you might want to make a small mental note of the following:\n\n  1. \"A woman should always keep the bathroom door closed when she's on the toilet. I think it's really disgusting to watch a woman on the toilet. And don't leave feminine pads and stuff around for the guy to look at, either. We don't even like it when we see douche commercials on TV.\"\n  2. \"I get a little turned off by a woman who is too materialistic. If she pays attention to what kind of shoes I'm wearing or what kind of watch I have on or what kind of car I drive, I'll back off.\"\n  3. \"When a woman is jealous, it can be a turnoff. One time I was on a date and this person with long blonde hair was in the car next to us. My date accused me of checking her out. It turned out to be a guy!\"\n  4. \"Mystery is important. I was on the phone with a woman and the first time we spoke she said that she was going to lose weight so we could have sex. How much does a guy need to be talked into having sex?\"\n  5. \"I don't like a woman who doesn't have a life, or a job. Or messed-up credit. Or an old boyfriend who's a nut case. I like a woman who is responsible.\"\n  6. \"I like a woman I can see without any pressure involved. If a guy is under a lot of pressure and she adds to it, he'll immediately shut down.\"\n  7. \"I don't like it when a woman makes me look bad in front of people. If I do something wrong, she should bring it up at home.\"\n  8. \"When he walks in the door after a long day, let him do his own thing for a half-hour. Acknowledge his presence and give him a kiss and don't immediately drop what you need on him.\"\n  9. \"A woman shouldn't let a guy know she is centering her world around him. One girl told me she spent three hours getting ready to meet me for the first time. That's a little too much.\"\n  10. \"The fear every guy has is that after marriage the girl is going to cut her hair off, gain a bunch of weight, and stop putting out.\"\n  11. \"No woman who wants to be involved with a halfway decent guy should ever get drunk with him. If you're home drinking and you get a buzz, that's one thing. If you're at a bar and you make an idiot of yourself, it's a total turnoff. No one likes to be with a drunk.\"\n  12. \"Never let a guy know you're sitting home waiting for his call, or that he's your whole life. He also likes knowing other men want you, just as long as you aren't sleeping with any of them.\"\n  13. \"When a woman chases you, it will turn you off. I remember when the sorority girls would come over to the fraternities. In a way, I felt like the cows were coming to graze on our turf. It was too easy.\"\n  14. \"It's like punching a clock when you're with a woman who makes you feel like you have to report back to her. That's an instant turnoff.\"\n  15. \"A woman should never show up _unannounced,_ both at a guy's house or at his work. He'll instantly think of her as a 'fatal attraction' type.\"\n\n#### The Top Fifteen Reasons Men Prefer a Feisty Woman\n\nWomen are almost brainwashed since kindergarten that they should be _nice_. Just think about the nursery rhyme that says girls are made of \"sugar and spice and everything _nice_.\" Pop culture does not encourage women to be feisty, so women get the idea that being nice, and agreeable is the winning ticket. It's good to be nice. It's when a woman feels she has to be nice independent of how she is treated that there's a problem. It often means the woman is nice at the expense of being self-abnegating.\n\nAs you've read throughout these chapters, a man will often be turned off by a woman who _doesn't_ stand her ground. When you read the following quotes, this message should come full circle, since now you will be hearing it directly from men: They are secretly turned on by a bitch, or a woman who _will_ stand up for herself. At this point we are getting to the meat and potatoes of the \"Other Team's Secret Playbook.\" Here's where men\u2014in their own words\u2014disclose why they are turned on by bitches. This is one of their best-kept secrets of all.\n\n1. \"When you banter with a woman and she can give it right back to you, it's a turn-on.\"\n\n2. \"I like a woman who can put me in my place. If I'm being a jerk and she brings it to my attention, it makes me respect her.\"\n\n3. \"The childlike qualities in us [men] propel us to try to take advantage. It's a good thing to know the woman you love won't put up with it.\"\n\n4. \"Yes, I admit it. Sometimes I start a fight with my wife. It isn't that I deliberately want to give her a hard time; it's just that sometimes I have a hard day and misery loves company. When she puts me in my place, it makes me respect her.\"\n\n5. \"I like a woman who won't play games. Her confidence says that she must know something I don't. Then I say to myself, 'Hey, she _must be_ worth keeping.'\"\n\n6. \"When a woman is always really sweet and nice, it can become monotonous.\"\n\n7. \"If a guy thinks a woman is stupid, he won't take her attention that seriously because he doesn't respect her opinion. If she's really smart and appears to have her act together, I am more flattered that she wants to be with me. I feel like I have something of value.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #72\n\nMost men tend to disrespect a woman who appears to be too _malleable._\n\n8. \"When you try to get away with doing something you know isn't right and a woman says, 'I don't have time for that,' it can be a turn-on. It depends on the situation, but I like a woman who has the integrity to stand by what she believes.\"\n\n9. \"She is so sexy to me when she has that spiciness about her. She isn't afraid to disagree or tell me what she thinks. She doesn't always kiss my ass and that keeps me on my toes.\"\n\n10. \"She didn't take anything lying down. I complained at the time, but I admit this turned me on.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #73\n\nDon't be afraid to stand up for yourself or speak your mind. It will not only earn his respect, in some cases it will even turn him on.\n\n11. \"I like a woman to put me in my place, if I know I deserve it. What is sexy is when a woman is comfortable enough with her own power. Or when she isn't so timid or afraid to rock the boat.\"\n\n12. \"A man respects a woman who won't tolerate being treated badly.\"\n\n13. \"I treat women as equals, so I like to compete in a fun way with my wit. I like a woman who mentally challenges me in a fun way by bantering with me, or with her sense of humor. It can be competitive in a playful kind of way.\"\n\n14. \"I actually like a woman with a little bit of a temper. Because then I know she won't let me take advantage of her. Pride is sexy.\"\n\n15. \"A woman who is feisty is sexually stimulating. You assume she'll be wilder. With a nice girl, you are afraid she'll run home and tell her mommy what you did to her.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #74\n\nMen often automatically assume that a bitchier woman will be more assertive in bed, and that a nice girl will be more timid.\n\n#### The Top Ten Ways to Tell Whether a Man Is in Love\n\nSince men are so good at hiding the way they feel, a woman often wonders how she can tell whether a man is in love with her or just \"going through the motions.\" Here is the most important thing to remember when asking yourself this question: If you have to second-guess whether he loves you, and you've been together for a very long time, you might be settling for less.\n\nWhat the men shared with me is that it's often the little things a man will do for a woman that are most telling.\n\n  1. \"You know a guy's in love when it's a Monday night and she says, 'Why don't we do this?' and he does. He's in love when he starts to regularly pick her over his friends.\"\n  2. \"When he seems to be overjoyed. Suddenly he's really happy and he seems different. When he suddenly appears more alive to his friends and family.\"\n  3. \"You know a guy is 'in deep' when he'll let the girl keep feminine stuff in the house. Suddenly he's proud to have feminine decor. He'll buy the furniture that she likes. And he'll let her keep tampons under his sink. He'll want her in his life in every way.\"\n  4. \"He'll start taking better care of himself, and he'll start to think about long term. Financially, physically, and in every other way.\"\n  5. \"He'll go out of his way [for her]. He'll fly to see her. If she has a craving, he'll get out of bed to get her a doughnut in the middle of the night.\"\n  6. \"Men are into variety until they fall madly in love. If he really wants one woman, it doesn't matter who else he can have because he wants to be with _her_. Other women aren't a threat when he's attached. A lot of temptations go away when you really fall hard.\"\n  7. \"When he thinks about her all the time, when he does thoughtful things for her, or when he's always thinking of ways to please her.\"\n  8. \"Suddenly, he feels like he can stop looking around the corner for someone else.\"\n  9. \"When he's willing to do something out of character to please her. He never thought of having children or getting married, but with this woman he is willing to do all of the above.\"\n  10. \"She won't have to ask. She'll just know it in her gut.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #75\n\nWhen a man falls in love, suddenly he'll go out of his way and think nothing of it. He'll do things for _this_ woman he wouldn't have done for anyone else.\n\nMuch of the advice given in this book has been based on the admissions men have made to me. At one point, I asked a doctor named George why he won't share this secret information with his partner. He answered, \"Because with you there is no consequence. But with her there _would_ be a consequence.\" The consequence George is speaking of is a loss of power for men. In other words, _the attraction a man has for a feisty or bitchy woman is rarely something he'll want her to know about._\n\nI knew the information the men were giving up was not only truthful but also very loaded, because there was such a \"hush, hush\" quality to it. Men would regularly ask me not to use their names because they said that other men would feel betrayed by what they had disclosed.\n\nObviously, it's helpful to know how men think. But the information in this chapter isn't intended to give you ways to work _even harder_ to appease a man. The nice girl does that already, to a fault. If there are two eggs in a frying pan, she'll take the broken yolk for herself. If she bakes two cookies and one breaks, she'll keep the broken one and give him the good cookie. The nice girl has no idea why overcompensating backfires when it's done day-in and day-out. She doesn't realize that she becomes so involved in him that she loses herself, and in the process, she risks losing him as well.\n\nRefer to the Top Fifteen Lists in this chapter again and again, but don't take the information and work _even harder_ to please your man. Instead of working so hard to please him, work harder to please yourself...because ultimately, this is what will truly please him.\n\n# 8\n\n## KEEPING YOUR  \nPink  \nSLIP\n\n### The Reasons That Holding Your Own Financially Gives You Power\n\n\"Elegance does not consist of putting on a new dress.\"\n\n\u2014COCO CHANEL\n\n#### Financial Independence:  \nWho Has the Title on You?\n\nThere's one aspect of holding your own in a relationship that cannot be overlooked: money. Many women dream of having a knight in shining armor pay all the bills. The part they don't show is what happens after Prince Charming sweeps you off your feet. If he's paying all the bills in the castle, he'll also be calling the shots. That is when the princess stops feeling like a princess and starts feeling like a servant.\n\nThis chapter explores what happens when you give up your \"pink slip\" and the ability to provide for yourself.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #76\n\nHe'll never respect you as being able to hold your own unless you can stand on your own two feet financially.\n\nWhen you have the clear title on a vehicle, you are the legal owner and you have the \"pink slip,\" or certificate of ownership, to it. The \"Pink Slip\" in some states means you've been fired. However, the meaning here pertains to _ownership of a vehicle_. When you have the pink slip, there are no lien-holders. There are no monies owed. There are no debts unpaid. This means you own it _free and clear,_ so what you do with that vehicle is entirely up to you. Likewise, when a woman keeps the pink slip over herself, she gains leverage in the relationship.\n\nThis is what many mothers tell their daughters: If a woman gives up her independence and becomes financially dependent on a man, she'll have far fewer choices in life. She'll end up at someone else's beck and call. She'll be at _someone else's mercy._ This is why a woman should maintain her independence, her \"pink slip,\" and full ownership of _herself._\n\n**Work = Money = Keeping your pink slip = The ability to choose the way you want to be treated = Dignity**\n\nWhat mothers may or may not elaborate on is how a man feels about a woman when he has to carry her financially. Before long he'll feel as though she's an added responsibility instead of an asset. At that point, he'll stop viewing her as a privilege to be with.\n\nThis doesn't apply to a woman taking care of children. When a family is involved, no doubt she will be doing her part...and then some. He won't perceive her as dead weight, because he knows her job can sometimes be harder than his. In this case a father recognizes that he prefers his job over hers, so he can't help but _respect her_ for her work.\n\nAs long as you have the resources to choose your terms, you keep your pink slip and you keep your power. If you choose to leave, you can always grab a suitcase and go. This very independence makes him _not want you to leave._\n\nAll the \"feistiness,\" or \"sexiness,\" or bitchy attitude in the world won't change a man's awareness that you cannot hold your own with respect to your livelihood.\n\nOnce you hand over that pink slip, he feels trapped because you've now become a _responsibility,_ rather than a privilege. And that feels like something he is _stuck_ with. He has to provide food for two, housing for two, and pay all the other bills for two. It doesn't take long for him to feel the added pressure and the doubled responsibility of carrying not only himself but also another person.\n\nA bitch will usually maintain her independence and contribute to the relationship in some way because her pride won't allow her to be perceived as a burden on someone else. And she won't put herself in a position where she can't rock the boat, which she _will_ do if and when she feels that she isn't being regarded highly enough.\n\nIt's important to let him know you place your dignity above all else, even if you're dating a very successful man. He has to feel that, if he mistreats you, you'll pack up and move out of his mansion into a one-bedroom without any hesitation. He has to feel you'll drive a Pinto rather than a Mercedes Benz, if it means you'll be tolerating disrespect. He has to know you'll give up a comfortable lifestyle before you'll accept being misused or mistreated.\n\nUsually this can be conveyed with actions, but sometimes it can be expressed with words. For example, let's say you're watching the TV movie _The Burning Bed_ in which Farrah Fawcett plays an abused woman who, in every other scene, is sporting a new black eye. You can use this as a tender \"lovey-dovey moment\" in which to express your _Terms of Endearment_ for your man, while eating popcorn. Simply turn and look at him, gaze into his eyes and say, \"I would sooner be flipping burgers at McDonalds.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #77\n\nYou have to show that you won't accept mistreatment. Then you will keep his respect.\n\nWhen faced with an independent woman, a guy is too busy trying to keep his \"welcome\" to get bored. But with a financially dependent woman, he thinks he can slack off and _she'll take it_. Even if he isn't the type to mistreat a woman, he'll grow bored if he gets the sense that she'll take whatever he dishes out.\n\nYou don't have to be rich; you just have to maintain the ability to take care of yourself. This directly relates to whether he's respectful at all times. He can't buy you a dinner because you're hungry. It has to be a gift that he chooses to give and that you choose to receive. Then the gifts keep coming.\n\nJeanette told me about how her ex-husband had made her feel when he was the only one working. She recalled:\n\n_He was a surgeon and made a lot of money. But for four years, I didn't own a coat. I felt that I couldn't justify spending a couple of hundred dollars on a good coat when I wasn't bringing any money in. So I would wear jackets that I had owned since high school, or I would borrow his coats. The minute I went out and got a part-time job, I felt so much better about myself. Not only because I could buy things, but because I didn't have to ask him for everything._\n\nIf you can take care of yourself, everything he gives you becomes gravy. He isn't providing the whole meatloaf. The whole four courses. He doesn't provide you with your livelihood.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #78\n\nYour pink slip is maintained when you can stand on your own\u2014with him or without him. He should never feel that you are completely at his mercy.\n\nSusan B. Anthony said, \"I never felt I could give up my life of freedom to become a man's housekeeper.\" It _isn't_ about whether a woman is a man's housekeeper or whether she's bringing in \"dollar for dollar\" that's important. And it also isn't about whether she stays at home to raise children, because this is even harder work. The variable is this: Whether a woman _has the resources or ability to leave if and when she wants to go._\n\nWhen a man financially supports a woman completely, one of two things will happen:\n\n  1. He'll begin to feel \"locked in,\" or trapped in a dead-end situation.\n  2. He'll begin to view her as a little girl.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #79\n\nWhen a man views a woman as a \"little girl\" or a sister he has to take care of, the passion diminishes. He doesn't want to make love to his sister.\n\nAgain, a man wants a strong woman, not a helpless little kid. Sexually, this will impact the float in his boat.\n\nI know one couple in which the husband, Michael, is the breadwinner. They have no children, and he pulls all of the financial weight. Every time his wife, Nancy, walks in the house with a new pair of shoes, she gets the \"two feet\" speech.\n\n**The Two Feet Speech**\n\n_\"You only have two feet. Why do you need so many shoes? There are 365 days in a year. You have 100 pairs of shoes. That's one pair of shoes for every 3.65 days. I have flip-flops, sneakers, and a couple of pairs of work shoes. Why do you need so many shoes? Do you see these shoes I have on? I have worn these every day for the past two years. I don't understand. Why do you need so many shoes?\"_\n\nIf she were working, would he give her this speech? Not likely. But if a man pays all the bills, the \"money gets funny and the change gets strange.\" Better for her to be a waitress at Denny's one day a week, and he won't say a word. She would put on her new shoes, strut her stuff, and not have to explain \"nothin' to nobody.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #80\n\nThe ability to choose how you want to live, and the ability to choose how you want to be treated are the two things that will give you more power than any material object ever will.\n\nWhen he views you as a little girl, he may do things that demonstrate his loss of respect. He may assign you an \"allowance\" or tell you how much money you can spend. Or he'll tell you what you can or cannot buy. All of these restrictions reflect your loss of freedom and a loss of your ability to make your _own_ choices. Here's why this is relevant:\n\n  * The ability to remain an independent thinker is what keeps his interest and the mental challenge.\n  * The ability to make your own choices in life is your most important tool. It is the very thing that gives you power.\n\nNot only will he tell you what you should have, the man who is paying all the bills will eventually begin to tell you what you like or don't like as well. He won't ask for your opinion, he'll _tell_ you what your opinion should be. It sets you up to be treated like a Barbie doll that he can control. Then the following will occur:\n\n  * He'll begin to think that he's entitled to the last word.\n  * He'll behave as if what he says goes.\n  * He'll have control over your happiness and sadness.\n  * You'll be treated as though he's the boss and you're the subordinate.\n  * He may offer his help on his own terms, and you'll wait at bay.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #81\n\nIn a relationship of any kind, if one person feels the other person isn't bringing anything to the table, he or she will begin to disrespect that person.\n\nAgain, it's not a question of whether he pays most of the bills, it's a question of whether you can still stand on your own two feet, if push comes to shove. Then he doesn't have the title, he's merely leasing with the option to buy. He can feel like the \"head of household.\" Remember, he should feel like the Grand Poo-Bah over his habitat and his domain. But he should never feel that he holds the key to your livelihood.\n\nThe ability to take care of yourself ensures that all of the following will remain intact:\n\n  1. The mental challenge\n  2. The respect\n  3. The longevity of the relationship\n  4. The sexual desire\n\nA case in point. Roxanne, who could be described as a \"gold digger,\" lived with Kent at his Malibu estate. She drove a Mercedes Benz and made regular shopping sprees on Rodeo Drive. Her survival, her livelihood, and her whole existence were contingent on Kent, a man she didn't particularly care for. Although on the surface she appeared to have it all, she had completely given up her pink slip.\n\nOne day, I drove to Roxanne's place to pick her up for lunch. Before we left, she opened a drawer and took out some cash, and said she had to make a quick deposit into her account. She had bounced a check for $20. She then said, \"Kent lets me keep my pride. He puts the money in a drawer, so I don't have to ask for it.\"\n\nIn this example, there was no pride to be \"kept.\" Pride is...having your own paycheck. There is only one thing better than \"With Love\" and that is the phrase, \"Pay to the order of.\"\n\nIn the above example with Roxanne, there is no question that the problem was financial. Kent even suggested that she get a part-time job. He said, \"I'd respect you more if you had a job.\" Still, she didn't make an effort to look for work. And two weeks later, she was tearfully packing her Gucci bags.\n\nBeing a gold digger never pays, as evident by the headline stories on the news. As a matter of fact, gold diggers recently suffered an even bigger setback: _Viagra._ Now she's working twice as hard for equal pay. And no dental benefits.\n\nAll a woman has to do to balance the relationship is pay an electric bill with her own money or bring home groceries from time to time. Any of these things express her gratitude; then the man is happy to pay for everything else. He doesn't have to feel it's always equal, just _reciprocal._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #82\n\nFinancial neediness is no different than emotional neediness; in both instances, he can still get the feeling that he has a 100 percent hold on you.\n\nAnother woman I know, Michelle, was living with a man for four years. For most of that time, he paid every bill and never complained because Michelle didn't have any money coming in. Then she inherited some money. She had $120,000 sitting idle in a savings account. At that point, he asked Michelle to help pay some bills; she declined.\n\nHe didn't ask her to carry all the weight, or even half the weight. He merely asked her to pitch in. The interest from her capital would have been more than enough to show him that she was pitching in for a few bills. Still, Michelle insisted that the money was for \"her retirement.\"\n\nShortly thereafter, he \"retired\" from the relationship\u2014at which point she moved out. She was then forced to pay several times the amount of money for her own living expenses. Contributing within her means would have been the right thing to do. It was also the financially advantageous thing to do. But the point is not purely financial. The relationship would have had a better chance of working if she had _balanced things out_ by pitching in.\n\nOne self-made millionaire named Benji described his perspective: \"One thing a successful man learns very quickly is that women respond to his money. They realize that women will line up for a man with deep pockets. All he has to do is show them that he is wealthy or that he drives a nice car and that he owns a big house. And they line up like ducks.\"\n\nGranted, there are plenty of affluent men who like having an accoutrement or a Barbie doll on their arms who, they hope, will graduate into the esteemed ranks of a \"Stepford Wife.\" But this man is not a \"quality catch,\" and this woman will not have any \"staying power.\" He'll be much more likely to trade in a helpless \"dingy\" type of woman for a newer model because he sees her as a toy to begin with. What a quality man wants \"for keeps\" is a strong woman. He wants a partner he respects and one who is worth catching: an _equal._ He may provide more monetarily, and she may be a stay-at-home mother. But she is contributing. In other words, she isn't \"on the take\" and she can stand on her two feet. This means she is there by _choice_.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #83\n\nRegardless of how pretty a woman is, looks alone will not sustain his respect. Appearance may pull him in, but it is your independence that will keep him turned on.\n\nDignity and pride aren't about whether you pull money out of a drawer, a sack, or a wallet. It isn't about being given a credit card or pulling cash out of a Versateller. If you have an income, however small, it enables you to:\n\n  1. Live by your own rules\n  2. Move to your rhythm, instead of dancing to the beat of someone else's drum\n  3. Decide how you want to be treated\n  4. Choose what you will or will not tolerate\n  5. Leave if you don't get what you want\n\nEverything in this list is precisely what the bitch values most. She keeps her power in _every_ way. And as Henry Kissinger said, \"Power is the great aphrodisiac.\"\n\n#### Dollars and No Sense\n\nWhile conducting research for this book, I was surprised to find that, generally speaking, men don't mind picking up the tab on a date. What they do mind is the overriding sense that women act as if they are entitled to it\u2014or as if they _expect_ it.\n\nWhen you act as if you expect something, you make a man feel unappreciated. If he pays, it's always best to help him realize that you took time to notice that he went out of his way, and that you are grateful.\n\nOver and over, men have expressed to me their frustration with women who lack gratitude and those who automatically expect a man to pay. There are some women who, even when it's a man's birthday, will take him out and expect him to pay. There were many men who, when interviewed for this book, shared stories about birthdays or holidays in which their partners still expected them to pick up the tab.\n\nIn one instance, a woman invited other people to a birthday party and expected the \"birthday boy\" to pay for everybody. The bill came and people reached for their wallets at the dinner table. \"Oh, no, you guys. Marc will get that,\" the woman said. (Needless to say, Marc was not too happy.) It was the automatic expectation that made him feel unappreciated.\n\nThe same goes for flowers or a gift. Do you act excited and appreciative, or do you barely mumble a thank-you and then put the flowers in water? If he brings you a wilted, week-old bunch of flowers from the supermarket that cost $2.99, hold back. Just muster up a thank you, smile, and put them in water.\n\nIf he gives you a gift, don't fess up that you always go back and exchange it, or he'll stop bringing you little tokens of his affection. If you can, exchange it for something similar, then tell him it's the same one he bought you. Say, \"It looks different on, huh?\" (He'll never know the difference.)\n\nIf you want him to give you jewelry, don't ever utter the words \"pawn shop.\" If you pawned jewelry given to you by an ex-boyfriend or husband, never disclose that information to a man you're seeing.\n\nAcknowledgment is very important to men. A man I know, John, once ended a relationship with Kate, a woman he was dating, because he felt she was not grateful for a gift that he gave her. One day, when he was at her place, she asked him to move an old television from one room to the next. It had sentimental value to her because her father had given it to her. Without intending to, he dropped the TV and it broke. He described what happened: \"I felt really bad, so I went out and bought her a twenty-six-hundred-dollar entertainment center with an amazing TV and stereo. A week later some friends came over and said, 'Wow! What a nice TV.' Then she said in a sarcastic tone, 'John broke the other one.' I just about fell off my chair.\"\n\nJohn left her apartment that evening and never saw her again.\n\nBecause men aren't conditioned to express their emotions, women sometimes assume that when men spend their money, it doesn't mean anything to them or they didn't have to do anything to earn it. If a man gives you something, show him the respect he deserves by thanking him for the kindness. If you want to be treated well, you have to _encourage_ it by making him feel important and special whenever he does something generous and gracious. Otherwise, he won't have an incentive to do it again.\n\nVinnie, who is very generous by nature, talked about a woman named Shawna who ordered lobster when they went to an expensive restaurant. He said, \"I don't mind that she ordered the lobster, but after that she just picked at it. Then she said, 'I wasn't really hungry, anyway.' That bothered me.\"\n\nAgain, the issue is whether you _act as though you expect or are owed what he gives you,_ or whether you appreciate his generosity and kindness. Many men enjoy feeling like the provider, as long as they feel _appreciated for what they give_.\n\nIf he opens doors for you, let him know that you admire that, too. Whenever he feels that you admire his masculinity, and his brawn, it makes him feel rewarded. This is a way you can build him up.\n\nMoney can also be a telling barometer of where a man is coming from, or what a man's intentions are. One woman I know named Carla dated a man named Guy, who made it very clear that he couldn't afford to pay for dates. Guy always had an elaborate explanation as to why he couldn't pay. Each time they went out, it was a Dutch treat. Nevertheless, he insisted on terms that would be \"even Steven.\" Fair and square. Without exception.\n\nOne time Carla accompanied Guy to a bar with several of his friends. To her surprise, he had no problem buying his buddies one drink after another. He paid for two rounds in twenty minutes, dropping $80 on drinks without thinking twice. \"Waitress? My buddy Steve wants another Long Island iced tea.\" It was only that morning he had asked his date to pay $7 for her scrambled eggs and bacon at breakfast.\n\nNeedless to say, this showed Carla that Guy didn't have sufficient value for the relationship so she stopped seeing him. Usually when a man insists on splitting a check on the first few dates, he's showing you right up front he doesn't value you or the relationship.\n\nGranted, some women refuse to have a man open doors or pick up a tab. They refuse to be \"paid for.\" A bitch has no problem and no \"issues\" surrounding being treated well, so she lets a man give\u2014and she allows herself to receive. The nice girl who won't allow herself to be treated to a dinner, deep down usually doesn't want to feel obligated to a man and she knows she will be if he pays for dinner. The bitch has no such complex. She says thank-you politely and graciously. And at no time does she feel guilty or obligated. Nor does she feel compromised in any way.\n\nIf he's a student or is truly struggling financially but he still wants to impress you, he'll suggest doing something that costs less. Or he'll suggest doing something that doesn't cost anything at all. He can grab some inexpensive wine and a blanket and take you to a beautiful park. Or, he can get movie screening tickets. Or, he can invite you to a party. If he's absolutely crazy about you, he won't let you pay for the tab or go Dutch.\n\nI know of a female doctor named Susie who was living with a man named George, who was also a doctor. She had just graduated and was doing her residency, so her income was less than that of a part-time nurse. George, on the other hand, was a well-established surgeon and was earning a substantial income.\n\nThey lived together in his Hollywood Hills home, which was almost paid off; still he insisted that Susie pay a sizable sum of money for so-called \"rent.\" They also split everything right down the middle: groceries, the electric bill, and so on, with the exception of cat litter and cat food, which Susie was required to buy (since it was her cat).\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #84\n\nWhen a man is very consumed with not being taken advantage of, this is a sign that he's \"on the take.\"\n\nWhereas George earned half a million a year, almost all of Susie's disposable income went toward her student loans. Compare the household expenses as they relate to the income of both people:\n\n  * His income is $500,000.\n  * Her income is $25,000.\n  * They each pay $25,000.\n  * The cat lives rent-free.\n\nIn this example, George earns twenty times Susie's income, but she's paying half the bills. Not only this, the rent deposits transferred from \"Bank of Susie\" were paying into the equity of _his_ home. What does this prove? That even an educated, brilliant woman like Susie can be _too nice._\n\nThe financial part of any relationship has to be give and take. No one person should be doing all of the giving. If he's taking you to an expensive play or ballet and you don't have time for dinner because he ran late at the office, order some Chinese food and have it ready when he arrives at your front door. If he takes you out to dinner, pick up some movie tickets on your way home from the gym and surprise him.\n\nWhen he offers to take you out and wants you to plan the evening, take into account _his_ preferences as well as your own. For example, Linda insisted that her boyfriend, Benny, take her to a play. Benny is a \"man's man\" and hates the ballet or seeing live plays. Still, she insisted that she wanted to go. He described the evening: \"I gave her my credit card and she got the tickets and rented me a tux. There I am, holding 'wussy' little binoculars with the long stick on one side. It was an affront to my manhood. I could not believe I had spent a fortune and then counted the minutes hoping it would end. That was the last time I let her plan anything with my credit card.\"\n\nWhen a man asks you to go on a trip with him, be considerate. If he offers to pay and asks you to make the reservations, consult with him about the price of various hotels and let him decide. Men love to feel that they are \"in charge\" and that their opinion really counts. (At the very least, pretend.) If he pays for the trip, surprise him and pay to have breakfast delivered to the room. Or take him out to dinner to thank him. Buy him a bright colored shirt if you go somewhere tropical or a warm sweater if you're hitting the slopes. Again, it's all in showing that you respect what he gives. Men, like women, don't want to feel taken for granted.\n\nThe same goes for a gift that he gives you. If he gives you something, act excited\u2014even if it's ugly. \"I love it!\" One girlfriend of mine got a T-shirt from her husband. It looked like a cross between a tie-dye and a paisley print and was so hideous it could scare small children. Even though she hated the shirt, she wore it for him when they were at home, just to make him feel good.\n\nMore often than not, women who are too nice err on the side of giving too much. They give to a fault. The woman who is too nice senses that he \"needs her\" and she runs to his aid like a Red Cross rescue missionary. And she gives\u2014 _blindly_.\n\nFor example, Abby married an Italian man named Franco to help him get his green card. Somewhere along the line during the staged marriage, he convinced her that he was madly in love with her. He found out she was a vegetarian, so he gave up pasta and ate vegetables. She loved hiking, so he took up hiking. She was \"spiritual\" and he decided he was \"spiritual\" too. The couple's interview with the INS was successful and Franco was approved to get his green card. A day later he packed his bags and said, \" _Ciao, bella_!\" Then he rode off into the sunset. She didn't have an engagement ring, but she did end up with a huge legal bill for their divorce.\n\nI've also seen women who are too nice loan money to men. Usually it's the women who are struggling who don't think twice about handing out their hard-earned money. She'll loan him money to buy a stereo for his car when she needs regular maintenance done on her own. The rule on loaning money? _Don't_.\n\nFor example, Cheryl, who fits the profile of a bitch, told me the following story. She had dated Rick a couple of times, but she didn't see him consistently because he traveled a lot. After their third date, he hit her up for a loan. As she describes, \"Rick called me from Tahoe and said he had 'an emergency.' He asked me to wire him a thousand dollars to a Western Union office that was on the other side of the river. But then he kept changing his story about what the money was for. One story was it was a child-support payment to some woman named Babs, for a kid he never even told me he had. He said that he would need to board a riverboat to get to the Western Union station across the river. The fee was thirty-five dollars each way. So I said, 'Absolutely! I will wire the money. Hurry up and catch that boat.'\"\n\nRick didn't quite catch on. He called later that evening after his roundtrip boat ride and told her that the money hadn't arrived. Cheryl acted stunned and then insisted profusely that she had, in fact, wired the money. \"You really have to watch those money wires. I am going to go right down to that office and see what went wrong tomorrow morning!\"\n\nThe following day Rick went on a second boat ride to get his \"loot\" from Western Union. To his complete and utter surprise, no funds were forthcoming.\n\nObviously, Cheryl had no desire to see him again because it was in bad taste for him to call someone he barely knew and make this request. But she remembers the incident with a certain fondness. \"Hey, I figured the fresh air might do Rick some good. And, if all else fails, he can get a job on the ferryboat.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #85\n\nPeople will show you they have self-respect simply by virtue of the fact that they _want_ to carry their own weight.\n\nA bitch is not mean; she just doesn't volunteer for any \"joyrides.\" If the man wants to go on a joyride and extends an open invitation, she can choose not to go. Yes, treat others the way you want to be treated. But, at the same time, expect that the man in your life treats you the same way.\n\nThe bitchier woman would never let a man think that she's there because she has \"nowhere else to go.\" Her financial independence is a constant reminder to him, however subtle, that if he makes her \"stay\" unpleasant, she won't be staying for very long. This ensures that the relationship remains respectful, reciprocal, and kind... _to all._\n\n# 9\n\n## HOW TO  \nRenew  \nTHE MENTAL CHALLENGE\n\n### How to Regain That \"Spark\"\n\n\"One of the things about equality is not that you be treated equally to a man, but that you treat yourself equally to the way you treat a man.\"\n\n\u2014MARLO THOMAS\n\n#### Step 1: Instead of Asking Him to Focus on You, Focus on Yourself\n\nWhat turns a man on about an independent woman is that she is independent _of him_. When a man is with an independent woman, he feels as though he has an equal partner. When she gives up her everyday activities, he slowly begins to view her as less interesting. Instead of thinking that he's scored a wonderful prize, he now begins to view her as extra weight.\n\nThe first thing a woman has to do to get that sexy \"spark\" back is to _shift her focus and energy back onto herself_. She has to develop interests outside her man, just as she did when he was new in her life. Men often find a woman who has passionate interests and activities of her own to be more exciting. They don't have to be things he's interested in necessarily, just as long she has _interests of her own_.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #86\n\nThe more independent you are of him, the more interested he will be.\n\nThe story that follows proves my point. Rob, an attractive, successful man who could have his pick of any woman he wanted, was mystified by a most unlikely woman. He describes Laura as a \"conservative computer nerd\" who wears long pleated skirts. After a few dates, he invited her to go on a cruise. Rob wasn't lacking in the confidence department, and he thought he'd teach Laura how to have fun. He thought he'd \"rock her world.\" Laura said she couldn't go. The reason? She had a preplanned Tupperware party.\n\nRob told what happened next: \"I kept hoping she'd change her mind. I ended up going on the cruise by myself and ended up flying home after one day to see what she was up to. A Tupperware party? It couldn't be. I simply could not believe that she'd pass on an exotic vacation with _me_ for a Tupperware party. I figured she had to be seeing some other man. I had to see for myself.\"\n\nHe flew home and dropped by that Saturday evening when Laura's party was supposed to be going on. Sure enough, lo and behold, he was dumbfounded and astonished to find that she was actually having a Tupperware party.\n\nWhen he showed up, Laura was happy to see him. She invited him in and offered him a finger sandwich. Rob could have just as easily been eating spiny lobster or exotic seafood en route to the Bahamas at that very moment with _any woman_ he wanted. Instead, he was nibbling on a soggy little tuna sandwich with a toothpick in it. He could have been watching a world-class Vegas-style show, instead the highlighted entertainment on the agenda was Tupperware containers: Gingerbread-shaped ones, star-shaped ones, and even heart-shaped ones.\n\nRob still remembers it with disbelief. \"There I am listening to a bunch of cackling women, watching them go awol over some plastic bowls. I drank coffee in a fancy teacup with a teeny tiny spoon. I could not believe it. I was thinking, 'No. This cannot be so. I don't hold a candle to a this?'\"\n\nWas Laura being mean? Not at all. She just didn't go down the beaten path of giving up her own interests in exchange for something he thought would be better. What blew Rob's mind was that her activity meant more to her than the cruise or being with him. He said, \"From that point on, she had my full attention.\" And the unlikely couple became a hot item.\n\nRob had put on his best \"mack-daddy\" show-stopping routine, and Laura _wasn't that impressed_. Unlike the bitchier woman, the nice girl will often appear easily impressed. She'll make her desire to have a relationship much too obvious, which often _invites_ mistreatment.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #87\n\nIf you make it too obvious that you're excited to get something, some people will be tempted to dangle a carrot in front of your face.\n\n\"Getting a life\" will make it seem like you are no longer impetuous, or impatient. When you are relaxed, you've taken the \"need\" out of the equation. You no longer appear needy, which immediately changes the dynamic of a stale relationship.\n\nIf you want to renew the challenge, it is imperative to _continue the activities you did before he came on the scene_. He'll notice the very first time you tell him that you can't see him because of something else you have planned. It will catch him off guard\u2014and it will fester.\n\nIt really throws men off if the activity appears to be something mundane. In the previous example, it was a Tupperware party; but anything along the lines of knitting, gardening, or pottery will do the trick. Rest assured, his ego won't let him lose out to a sweater, a potted plant, or a mound of clay.\n\nNo matter what you choose, as long as you are passionate about something _other than him_ , it will draw him back in. Guaranteed. He'll be asking himself the same question he asked himself in the first weeks of dating you. \"How could she want to do that, when she could be with me?\"\n\nWhen you will not drop everything to be with him, you'll appear as though you have more going for you. This will remind him of your worth, and invariably, he will begin to come your way.\n\n#### Step 2: Alter the Routine\n\nIt's essential when renewing the mental challenge to _alter the routine_ that he's become accustomed to. When the mental challenge is gone, the routine becomes predictable and he is on \"automatic pilot.\" His mind can drift elsewhere because he isn't sufficiently being stimulated by you. So, let's let the stimulation commence, shall we?\n\nAs Harry Truman said, \"If you can't convince 'em, confuse 'em.\" How? By altering the pattern completely. Give no attitude and no complaints. Instead of seeing him regularly, make the schedule _random_. _Random_ means he shouldn't be able to predict like clockwork when he'll see you next or when he'll hear from you next.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #88\n\nWhen you alter the routine, _your not being there_ at times is what will make him come around. Men don't respond to words. What they respond to is _no contact._\n\nThis applies to whether you are dating or married. If you need to renew the mental challenge, alter the pattern. Whenever he seems complacent, just alter the pattern. Single women often make plans based on when the man calls. Married women often wait for a man to come home from work. And single and married women alike regularly wait by the phone for a call.\n\nTracy is a woman who benefited from altering the pattern in her marriage. She used to feel as though her husband, Allen, took her for granted when he would travel out of town on business. Tracy used to wait for Allen's long-distance call every night, even if it meant giving up her own plans to do so. Predictably, Allen started to behave as if calling her was a chore, as though he was \"checking in.\" Or punching a clock. He'd call around 7:30 P.M. and then rush her off the phone so he could go out for drinks with his colleagues.\n\nGirlfriend decided to rock the boat. How? By staying just outside his reach. When he went on his next business trip, she drove him to the airport and didn't say, \"Call me when you get there.\" For the entire trip, half the time she was there when he called; the other half she couldn't be reached. She was out visiting some girlfriends she hadn't seen in awhile, and didn't rush home to wait for his call.\n\nThe first evening that Tracy didn't wait for his call, Allen flipped. His whole orientation changed immediately. He called at 7:30 P.M. and virtually every half-hour after that until 10:30 P.M. He went out, had _half_ a drink, and then went right back to his room to call his wife again. Tracy walked in at 10:59; the phone rang at 11:01.\n\nWhereas before it was a chore, now Allen was happy to reach her. She was happy, too, especially when she looked down at the answering machine and saw that it was flashing a big red _9._ (Six messages from him, and three mysterious hang-ups.) And everyone went to bed happy.\n\nSuddenly Allen missed Tracy. Why? Because she had a life of her own outside of their relationship.\n\nNever stop living your life. Take a class. Develop a hobby. Meet people. You are only as interesting as the depths of your _own_ interests.\n\nThe mere fact that you are content with your life keeps you interesting. You are happy with him or without him and this keeps you...just outside his reach.\n\nA textbook example is Ellen, a married woman who felt taken for granted. She regularly cooks dinner for her husband, Sydney, and their two kids. Sydney was the only one working, and he frequently stayed late at the office. Usually he didn't show up for dinner. What upset her most, however, was that Sydney would leave her guessing about his dinner plans, and didn't call if he was running very late. Sometimes she'd reheat his plate three times before he got home.\n\nShe had formed a pattern of saying, \"The kids need to see you at the dinner table, Sydney.\" But night after night, she found herself reheating his dinner, long after their kids had gone to bed.\n\nEllen, like many nice girls, was too tolerant. The bitch, on the other hand, would rearrange the dinner agenda. She would _alter the routine._ In a nice quiet moment, she'd look at her husband and casually say, \"Hey sweetie, I can see you aren't going to be home during the week. So, I'm not going to bother to cook for you. If there are leftovers from the kids, I'll put them in the fridge. But it may be better if you picked something up on the way home.\"\n\nFor a few nights he'd pick up some food on the way home. The first night he'd grab some Kentucky Fried Chicken, perhaps. The second night he'd upgrade to a deli. And after the cold pastrami sandwich from the corner deli, he'd have a little Alka-Seltzer to help with the heartburn. It wouldn't be long before he'd be coming home for a home-cooked meal, _happily_. And sliding into home...right on time.\n\nAnother woman named Sandy told me about how she felt taken for granted when she was on her hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor, after she had cooked for her husband, Wade. He had just started eating and then he came over to her and said, \"It is really inconsiderate of you to clean the floor right now. That stuff stinks. Could you please wait until I'm finished eating?\" She resisted the urge to strangle him.\n\nFor the rest of the week, Sandy backed off. She spoke to him very superficially and became aloof. He had to ask her, \"What's wrong?\" a dozen times before she addressed what was on her mind. She went from \"worker bee\" to \"queen bee\" in just a few short days.\n\nFirst stop on Sandy's agenda? A maid. She absolutely insisted on it. Then she addressed some table etiquette. Wade often started eating without her and got up before she ever sat down. She said she didn't cook for two, so that she could eat alone. She also suggested going out to eat sometimes, even if it was to a less expensive place. Then she stuck to her guns. Not only do they now have a maid, they also have \"date night\" once a week.\n\nIn both of these instances, by altering the \"dinner agenda,\" the women let their husbands know without words that they, too, had something to lose. Their actions said: \"Either we meet in the middle or we don't meet.\" (And you won't eat.)\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #89\n\nDon't give a reward for bad behavior.\n\nWomen often make the mistake of going down the beaten path of catering to a man, even when feeling taken for granted. A perfect example is a woman named Laurie who recently called into my radio show. Laurie is a single mom who doesn't have a lot of money. She ran around for two entire days looking for a special heart-shaped pan in order to bake her boyfriend a cake for Valentine's Day.\n\nTrivia question: Do you think a guy's going to care if the cake is shaped like a heart?\n\nHe'd probably have preferred a cake in the shape of a wrench or a remote control. In fact, right around Valentine's Day, and shortly after Super Bowl Sunday, you can get a football-shaped cake at the bakery. All you have to do is take the little football people off, throw an asymmetrical \"Happy Valentine's Day\" on there. Time expenditure? Reduced from two whole days to twelve minutes.\n\nAny woman who feels taken for granted should definitely ease up on the Betty Crocker efforts. It's true that men say, \"A man's love comes from his stomach.\" But there's nothing in this statement that requires you to cook the food before it ends up in his stomach. The question must then be asked: Who should cook it? So many choices, so little time.\n\nThe fortune cookie says, it can be delivered. Or, you can pick it up. He can take you out. He can cook on the six-foot beast of a barbecue that he just \"had to have.\" Think of how much fun it is for him. He can spread out both burgers one on each side of the grill, two feet apart from each other. And the bigger the grill, the more virile he'll feel when using it.\n\nIf he suggests using the grill, definitely encourage it. Then offer to do the dishes. When he starts cooking, set the table like the classy lady you are. Put out two paper plates and two Dixie cups, and plastic silverware. No table linens needed\u2014just fold a couple of Bounty paper towels.\n\nIt's never too early to invite him to participate in kitchen activities. In fact, I'd suggest engaging him on this issue the first time he comes over to your place. Usually by then you'll have gone out a few times, and there is a comfortable rapport.\n\nWalk him into the kitchen and take him on a nice little \"Tour de France.\" Say, \"Here are the glasses...here are the cups...here are the plates. The drinks are right here. If there is anything else you need, please do not hesitate to help yourself. My home is _your_ home.\"\n\nWhile you're showing your guest where the drinks are, you'll want to casually add, \"I only have one little request. I have a little ant problem and, _uh,_ all the dishes need to go directly into the dishwasher.\" What he doesn't realize is that you've just told him you won't wait on him, and that there's no busboy on the premises. If he wants a drink, you've let him know he's welcome to help himself. If he wants a snack, he now knows where to find it.\n\nDon't try to be the \"happy helper.\" He won't value your efforts when you automatically assume the role of a servant. If, however, you are reciprocating for kindness that he has been consistently extending to you, he'll think of everything you give as a special treat.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #90\n\nHe simply won't respect a woman who automatically goes into overdrive to please him.\n\nSometimes changing the routine is a matter of changing the dinner agenda; at other times, it's a matter of changing the times or dates of your little rendezvous.\n\nA college student named Anita provided a classic example of what happens when a woman doesn't pay close attention to the way the pattern is set up in the first place. _The first symptom will almost always be that you sense you are being put \"on hold.\"_\n\nAnita describes how the pattern was set up. \"I saw Dave several times a week. He'd call me on my cell phone after class around 4 P.M. and we'd make plans. He started calling later and later. I'd be on pins and needles all afternoon not knowing if he and I had plans that night. I gave up a lot of activities because he was always keeping me 'at bay.'\"\n\nWomen like Anita end up \"at bay\" for the simple reason that they are willing to wait. Once he knows you're waiting he'll make you wait forever. This is when it's time to _alter the routine._\n\nIn Anita's situation, the solution is straightforward. She should make herself less available, and schedule the time he is picking her up at least a day earlier. (Notice that she does not offer to travel to see him.) All she needs to do is ask, \"What time were you thinking of getting together?\" Dave could respond, \"I'll call you tomorrow when I get off work.\" The trick is not to leave it at that. Simply say, \"Gee, I may not be here and I'd sure hate to miss you. Just to be safe, let's pick a time now.\"\n\nWhether it's early or late, agree to a time the day before the scheduled date. If he insists on \"letting you know later,\" just tell him that your cell phone isn't working, your pager won't be on, or you can't take personal calls at work.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #91\n\nIf he doesn't give you a time, you don't have a date.\n\nSometimes men blame a friend. If you hear anything along the lines of: \"My buddy is stopping by tomorrow night. I haven't seen him in a while. I'm not sure how long it's going to take. I can't be rude to him and throw him out.\" Simply say, \"No problem. Have a good time tomorrow night.\" Then, without showing any \"attitude,\" tell him you'll be available to see him a _different_ night. Again, what men respond to is _no contact_.\n\nThe alternative is that you waste two hours waiting for a call. That's two hours you can spend going to the gym or doing something else that's important to you. Most professional women, or mothers, or students who juggle busy schedules don't have two hours in the day to _themselves_. But they'll spend that time, without flinching, waiting on a phone call.\n\nAltering the routine means mixing things up. If you call twice a day and he doesn't seem happy to hear from you, call more sporadically and less often. If you generally get together on weekends, tell him you can see him that week on a weekday. This week you can see him Tuesday and Friday. Next week? Thursday and Saturday.\n\nOne happily married woman I know named Margaret, shared one of her secrets. She said, \"Whenever I feel like my husband is getting a little distant, I'll just take off for the weekend to visit friends or family. I'll let him know Thursday that I'm heading out Friday and that I'll be back late on Sunday. I may call once while I'm gone to let him know where I am. And it never fails...he's always his usual, loving self again when I come back home.\"\n\nHere are a few more suggestions on how to alter the routine:\n\n  * If you always call the office to find out when he's coming home, from time to time, don't be home when he gets in.\n  * Don't tell him your whereabouts for every moment of the day.\n  * If he calls you on your cell phone, don't always rush to pick up.\n  * If he pages you, don't call back within thirty seconds. Or, don't call back. Let him get hold of you at home\u2014not when you're out and about.\n  * If he calls on the phone, don't go out of your way to answer it. Let him leave a message. Or, you if want to be considerate, tell him you won't be around before-hand.\n  * If you sit by the phone and check your \"caller ID\" or dial \"*69\" as if your next breath depended on it, turn the ringer off. Read a book. Rent a movie.\n  * If you live together, leave and go have some fun. And stay out a couple of hours longer than he expected. If he always expects you home at a certain time, come home a little later.\n\nThe second he doesn't know where _his woman_ is he'll come looking for you. He's a hunter. He'll pursue you. He has an inborn drive that's very territorial...over _you_. But if you try too hard, you won't tap that hunger. He'll be satiated\u2014and that means, you won't leave him wanting more.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #92\n\nOften the best way to adjust or fix the problem is by not letting _him_ know it's being fixed. When you alter your availability or change a predictable routine, it will mentally pull him back in.\n\n#### Step 3: Regain Your Sense of Humor\n\nWhen you lose your sense of humor in a relationship, it's usually around the time that you become \"sprung.\" This means, you've become consumed with your partner's \"every move.\" And chances are, you're often easily upset by what you _aren't_ getting in the relationship.\n\nA sense of humor is a sexy quality. Men may not come out and say it, but they notice when you lose that \"edge.\" In the beginning, you probably bantered with him more and had a quick wit. When the mental challenge goes, so does the sense of humor.\n\nA very effective way to put a man in his place or to keep him in check is with humor. You can let him know in a fun, playful way that your security as a woman doesn't _depend on him_.\n\nA sense of humor is more than just finding something funny to say; it's about a person's composure. It lets people know you are comfortable in your skin. It lets him know you aren't sprung. The goal is not to become a knee-slapping standup comic; that's not effective because it makes it seem like you're trying too hard.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #93\n\nOnce you start laughing, you start healing.\n\nIt's sexy to be able to banter because humor suggests you're an independent thinker. Not only can you think for yourself, but you can laugh at what you see happening around you. If you verbally play-fight with him a little, it's unlikely that he will perceive you as needy.\n\nWhen he teases you, it's as if he is asking you, \"Still got that edge?\" Your sense of humor answers him and lets him know that he isn't always going to call the shots.\n\nHere's a case in point. A girlfriend of mine went on a couple of dates with a guy who criticized the color of her nail polish. She said, \"The suggestion department is closed for the evening. But fax your idea tomorrow and we'll file it right over there in the suggestion box.\" (Then she pointed to the kitchen trash.) These two are still together and he is absolutely crazy about her. To this day, she wears the same nail polish color.\n\nHumor not only defuses a situation, it also makes you come out smelling like a rose. Tom Hanks exemplified this in an interview with Barbara Walters. Paraphrasing what she said, \"I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Tom, but you aren't considered a sex symbol.\" He said, \"Yeah, but I embrace that. And I think that makes me kinda sexy.\" He could have chosen to become defensive. Instead he was disarming.\n\nIf you don't become defensive and you laugh things off from time to time, he'll respect you more. This is when you show whether you believe in yourself. For example, he may make fun of the way you parked your car. This kind of joking makes him feel manly. A relaxed aura from a woman who can laugh at herself turns him on because he thinks she'll be entertaining and fun.\n\nIt doesn't matter if you're wearing a potato sack. A feisty quality will do it for him more than a black nightie on a woman who behaves as though she is desperate for approval. (Yes, even if you're wearing the thigh highs that cut off your circulation and practically cause you to lose a limb.)\n\nSuccessful politicians are coached on how to use humor to win people over and show confidence. When Ronald Reagan ran for president, he was asked in a debate about the detriment of being the oldest candidate to ever run for the highest office. His response was \"I refuse to exploit for my political gain the _youth and inexperience_ of my opponent.\"\n\nIn a relationship with a man, whenever you want to keep him on his toes, banter with him. If he says something a little out of line, just say, \"We'll let that one slide.\" Or, \"Why do I put up with this?\" Or ask him if he wants one broken leg or two...\n\nOne woman I know named Darla dated a man who made a complete mess every time he came over. They also had a good sex life. He made a pass at Darla and she playfully snubbed him. Then she walked over to the sink and started doing all his dishes. She said jokingly, \"The more time I spend doing dishes, the less time we spend doing 'the deed'.\" Suddenly, the happy helper started pitching in.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #94\n\nYou can get away with saying much more with humor than you can with a straight face.\n\nThe man in your life watches you. He watches to see how you stand your ground. He watches to see how you respond when he teases you and when you receive criticism from him or someone else. He'll test the waters, because he wants to see how you fight back. He wants to see if you can _hold your own._\n\nAnd while we're on the subject of humor, let us now focus our attentions on the word _bitch._ If that fateful day ever does arrive when he tells you that you are a bitch? Stop, and take a deep breath. Then enjoy the moment. Smile internally as you say to yourself, \"Okay. Now I know he _truly_ does love me.\"\n\n# 10\n\n## GAINING  \nControl  \nOF YOUR EMOTIONS\n\n### Q&A\u2014Letters from Readers\n\n\"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.\"\n\n\u2014NINA POTTS-JEFFERIES\n\n#### Crazy in Love\n\nI often hear men say that all women are crazy or emotionally unstable. Some men even break it down by category. In their view, women range from _mildly_ irrational...to completely psychotic. Men have been known to get together for a few rounds of golf, or a few beers, and exchange notes on the mental health of their newest acquaintance. \"I met a new girl, and she seems like she's in charge of her hormones.\" Perhaps you've noticed that there's always an ex-girlfriend he speaks of. You know, that one ex who snapped and became possessed by demons, causing the demise of their relationship. Of course, he never had anything to do with it. He was a perfect angel...and lo and behold...one day he woke up next to the Exorcist.\n\nMaybe this is why women blame themselves for everything. I've lost count of how many times I have heard from women, \"I keep screwing up my relationships. I feel like there's something wrong with me.\" They get the mental analysis from the boyfriend (the self-appointed therapist) and before long, she's second-guessing herself. \"He tells me I am acting crazy. And that I'm not normal. I feel like I'm a little crazy.\" Then she picks up a two-by-four and beats herself with it. Over and over.\n\nConfident women laugh when they receive ridiculous feedback. If a man were to tell a bitch she was \"a little crazy,\" she would tell him to count his blessings. \"That's true, and you are so lucky that I'm a little bit crazy. It could have been much worse because most other bitches are completely psychotic. No telling what they would be capable of doing to you....\"\n\nWhen a woman can laugh at herself, doesn't take these things personally, and has control over her emotions, she seems more \"stable,\" safe, and trustworthy. Now the guy thinks there is a better chance of things working out.\n\nThis chapter is designed to help the woman who is nice to everyone...except herself. She believes everything negative that happens to her is _her own fault_. To help you control your emotions (or, as men say, \"remain in charge of your hormones\") it might help to read what other women are experiencing. The following dating scenario might sound familiar...\n\nDear Sherry,\n\nI started seeing this guy and the first few months I thought I had died and gone to heaven. He was romantic and wonderful. He called every day, talked on the phone for hours, and we both said we could see ourselves being together forever. I didn't ask him to promise me the moon; he offered this information. That's why I'm so confused. After we slept together I noticed a change. I wanted to get together more often than he did. Although he had time for his friends, family, and work, he made less time for me. I find myself calling and e-mailing him more and I feel rejected much of the time. Is there something wrong with me?\n\n\u2014Anonymous Nice Girl\n\nLet's go back to that \"romantic and wonderful\" beginning because this is where the miscommunication started. In the beginning, when a man first meets you, you have to understand\u2014the majority of men see a woman as a hump-toy. It's not that men don't eventually fall in love, because they do. But that happens _later_. Even when you see a man who is married, with a minivan, and a Baby-Bjorn hammock and a newborn swinging off his back...that was not what he set out to achieve. At first, the game-plan was to get the woman's clothes off. He's a red-blooded creature with plenty of testosterone. And because of _his hormones_...he only has three emotions:\n\n  * Crabby\n  * Hungry\n  * Horny\n\nTherefore, anything he says in the beginning is said most likely to get the desired result: throw-down in the bedroom. It's verbal foreplay. You wear perfume...he opens the car door...you tell him you've only had three lovers in your whole entire life (with a straight face)...and he tells you he is looking for a relationship and you have all the qualities the other women didn't have. It's a sales pitch.\n\nHere is an analogy. Think of him the way you would a trained animal performing tricks in front of a live audience. Like a seal, or a sea otter at Sea World. When a seal balances a beachball on the end of its nose, he's not trying to demonstrate how well-coordinated he is. And the seal isn't doing the tricks to impress the audience. He's doing it for one reason only: to get a salmon. Same goes for men: If he buys dinner and sends flowers, he's balancing a ball on his nose. Some men do it better than others...and some seals can even clap three times while the ball is on their nose. But it's all being done for the same reason: to get a reward. If he wants to get the \"treat,\" he has to do the \"trick.\"\n\nWomen say, \"I refuse to sleep with a guy who is not interested in a serious relationship.\" That's ammo for him to use against you. If he saw one episode of _Sex and the City_ , he knows that using key phrases about \"love and commitment\" is a one-way ticket to the bedroom. Men watch that stuff to learn what women want to hear, so they can promise those things. One man named Bradley explained: \"Men say very little and women 'grab onto it.' A guy could just be making a simple statement and next thing you know she thinks her dreams are coming true.\" Men believe that women mislead themselves. He puts ideas in your head, and you do all the rest. As Bradley put it, \"Women are in love before they even meet the guy.\" Now, that doesn't mean he doesn't like you, adore you, and think you are the sexiest thing in his eyes. What it means is that to keep the sex coming, men will mislead you about their level of intended involvement, long-term.\n\n#### A Hint of Indifference Acts as a Trigger, and Hooks Him\n\nThere's a way to get a relationship, but sleeping with the guy right away and announcing you want a \"relationship\" or allowing him to put a poodle leash around your neck is not the way to go about it. Instead, you have to knock him off his stride. How? By keeping your emotions in check. Why? Because it's what he is _not_ used to seeing.\n\nIn the beginning, all it takes is a _hint of indifference_. If a man can't tell where you're coming from (completely) and doesn't have assurances of what you want, he respects you more and treats you better. This hooks him because he doesn't have the \"pull\" he's used to having.\n\nHere's how. You have to be able to sit next to a man while hugging and kissing...and at the same you have to _keep yourself emotionally ten feet away_. Even if you are sitting _in_ his lap, your heart has to stay locked in the trunk of your car\u2014next to the spare tire. You can be warm and affectionate. But stop telling yourself \"He is the one!\" And stop rationalizing, \"He is different. He makes me feel something I haven't felt in years.\" Instead, you have to think: \"I'm willing to learn more. I'm enjoying myself, but if it doesn't work out, there are other ducks on the pond.\"\n\nMost women start off on \"tilt\" because they show they care _too_ much _too_ soon. Soon after, she's freefalling (by herself) after which he makes the following observation: \"She is not in control of her emotions.\" Or as one man named Connor explained, \"When I meet a woman and take her out a few times, I'm wondering, 'Who is in control? Her...or her emotions?'\" If it's your emotions, you will be at his mercy. It's a guy thing. They learn very early that showing too much emotion is the same as showing weakness. They respect women who are strong. So you have to keep watch on how much emotion you show.\n\nTherefore:\n\n**FORMULA FOR FAILURE:**\n\n**No Emotional Control = Desperation to Keep Him = A Free Ride for Him**\n\n**FORMULA FOR SUCCESS:**\n\n**Emotional Self-Control = Control over How You Are Treated and Control over Whether You Are Respected**\n\nMen think that if you are deeply attached right away and no longer in charge of yourself emotionally, you will _tolerate almost anything_ (only to cry about it later). And you'll even make excuses. \"He really is busy with work\" or \"He just got out of a relationship.\" A man is more inclined to treat a woman like a sex toy or trophy when she lacks emotional self-control and buys the B.S. That's when he rides the horsey...without putting a quarter in the meter.\n\nIn other words, he'll continue to see her, but whenever it's convenient for him. When a woman becomes too attached too soon _because of her emotions_...or shows signs she's not in control after sex _because of her emotions_...or expects a fairy-tale happy ending _because of her emotions_...she is putting herself on the dinner table.\n\nConversely: When she is less tolerant and has her wits about her, she'll call him out when he attempts to \"condition\" her to receive less. The first time he tries to come over late at night, he gets intercepted at the door. \"Don't call me five minutes before you want to see me. Although I am deeply touched that you decided to shove me into your busy schedule, please give me a bit more notice next time.\" Then her stock goes up.\n\nMen size women up and feel them out. He wants to know if you live in a fairy tale and want to grow up to be a \"princess\"\u2014or whether you are independent and level-headed, with goals of your own. If they cannot tell where you're coming from and don't always know what you will do next, they respect you more and treat you better. And that opens up avenues for him to become attached and fall for you.\n\nA side-by-side comparison:\n\nEMOTIONAL INTENSITY... | VS. | A HINT OF INDIFFERENCE...  \n---|---|---  \nIf he senses you are 100% hooked within the first month... |  | If he senses you're curious and willing to learn more, and you aren't following the pattern that most women follow...\n\n... he will think he has complete control. That makes him lose interest and see you less often.\n\n|  |\n\n... he thinks: \"Gee, I wonder why she's not buying into it?\"\n\n... then he'll begin to see what he can get away with. If behaves in a less-than-gentlemanly way, he assumes you'll forgive him.\n\n|  |\n\n... then he'll begin to see you as an individual and a real person\u2014not just a hump toy. He'll begin to see, \"there is a lot more here.\" that keeps his interest.\n\nThe most important thing is to break the pattern of what he's used to seeing. When a man sees you keep your distance ever-so-slightly, and you are outside his reach\u2014and that you don't give him a \"free pass\"\u2014that hooks him and keeps him interested. He gets hooked when he doesn't have the mental \"pull\" he's used to having because he has not yet won. That's when it becomes a mental challenge. \"I have to be a better man to get and keep this one.\" That's how you get a proper courtship.\n\nSome women try to communicate their strategy, and approach these issues verbally. The next letter illustrates this.\n\nDear Sherry,\n\nI have my own career and my own life. Men see this. And I tell them I will not tolerate bullshit of any kind. And I express that I want to be able to be who I am. I want to be able to show what makes me happy and sad. I want to be able to talk about everything and anything. Wouldn't the right guy want me to be myself? I am a strong woman. But men often seem intimidated by me.\n\n\u2014Anonymous Nice Girl\n\nMen are not afraid of strong women. A man named Michael explained, \"Men are not afraid of strong women, they are afraid of a woman with very strong jaw muscles and overly-active vocal cords.\" Then he told a story:\n\n_\"A lot of women don't realize that their own worst enemy is their mouth. If she whines and complains a lot, it doesn't matter if she's the most beautiful woman in the world._\n\n_(Translation? No emotional control.) I remember a blind date where I picked up a woman and started driving to meet two other couples at a restaurant forty minutes away. The whole way to the restaurant my date kept saying, 'I'm hungry. I'm starved. I'm hungry. I'm starved. How much longer is it going to be?' She knew where the restaurant was, and how long it would take to get there. But she nagged the whole way and didn't stop venting her discomfort. I decided before we got to the restaurant that I'd never take her out again.\"_\n\nThe less you telegraph or dictate verbally, the better. The more you talk, the less you can read what he's doing and where he's coming from. To a man, the worst kind of partner is the one to whom\u2014no matter what he gives\u2014it will never be good enough.\n\nYou get a lot further by \"flying below radar\" and playing up your feminine side. Your feminine side disarms men because they have no defense to it. Men are not afraid of strong women...they are put off by women who have _lost their femininity_. Dolly Parton, who is one of the most successful businesswomen and well-respected songwriters in Nashville, said something interesting in a _60 Minutes_ interview recently. She said: \"A lot of men thought I was as silly as I looked. I look like a woman but I think like a man. And in this world of business, that has helped me a lot. Because by the time they think that I don't know what's going on...I done got the money, and gone.\" Her femininity keeps her stealth. She stays ahead of the game by flying below radar.\n\nAs a general rule, don't telegraph or announce what you want. Not only do you communicate your strategy, you also reduce the mystery in the relationship. If you don't like what you see, raise the issue when it comes up. If his response is not acceptable, then leave. But don't telegraph to a guy _up front_ (who you barely know) what makes you happy or what makes you upset. If you do, many men will use the information to manipulate you. He'll do what you like just long enough to get what he wants. Or, he'll do it to get forgiveness for something he's done wrong.\n\nThis is how that plays out....\n\nDear Sherry,\n\nI've been dating a guy on and off. It seems like a vicious cycle. We have been on this insane merry-go-ride for two years. We are very passionate in bed, but outside the bed he is emotionally unavailable and the relationship is not progressing. I have left him a million times only for him to chase me with e-mails, phone calls, and showing up at my home or work. He tells me \"this time will be different\" and he is \"going to change.\" He begs me not to leave him and tells me he needs me. I take him back and he is good for a day or two then goes back to his selfish ways. I do love him but this emotional merry-go-round is making me dizzy.\n\n\u2014Anonymous Nice Girl\n\nIf there are any men reading this scenario, they are green with envy. \"Man, all that great sex...for free?\"\n\nIf a relationship is on-and-off within the first year, that's an immediate sign you are wasting your time. He's not \"hot and cold\" because he's indecisive. He's \"hot and cold\" because he is manipulating you. Let's define:\n\n**THE \"HOT-AND-COLD\" RELATIONSHIP**\n\n**When he's \"hot,\" he is manipulating you. When he's \"cold,\" he is showing his true colors.**\n\nIf you think, \"If only we can reconnect and sleep together. Then it will escalate into a relationship,\" you are helping him manipulate you. When a guy you've known a while calls once a week, you can't think, \"Yay! My plan is finally working.\" Because what he's saying to himself is, \"Cool, this one I can sleep with every two weeks,\" and then he tries to find another woman he can sleep with in between. What I often hear from women is: \"But I really want this guy. We had great chemistry. How can I spike his interest?\" They are just not willing to accept that \"this guy\" is manipulating them, or that _that is who he is_.\n\nThe question I often hear from women is, \"How do I stop thinking about him? How do I stop caring so much?\" If you are on a diet, you can't think about chocolate cake constantly, right? Same goes for relationships. Many women are so gripped with fear over the loss of a man that they think of him constantly. Stopping that unhealthy obsession solves 90 percent of the problem, and lifts all the pain. When you are no longer obsessed, men sense it. You often get what you want. This gives the power back to you.\n\nIf you want to control your emotions, you have to control your thoughts. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, \"You must do the thing you think you cannot do.\" The best chance at success with a particular guy is when you are not intensely attached. Whether you are starting a relationship and you want to keep your feet on the ground, or you are ending one and need to detach, the following exercise will help. The key is to stop thinking about him altogether\u2014cold turkey.\n\n##### How to Stop Thinking about Him\n\n  * Whenever you think about him, STOP.\n  * Consciously replace the thought of him with another thought or activity.\n  * It must be a feel-good thought or activity.\n  * The key is to distract yourself, immediately.\n  * Do this repeatedly, each time he pops into your head.\n  * Get creative. Immediately turn on your favorite show, eat your favorite meal, go to the gym, or get out for a walk.\n  * Each and every time you think of him\u2014without exception\u2014stop the worry and pain and force yourself to experience the opposite. Do something that _feels_ good.\n\nIf you are at work, get your favorite coffee. If you are in the car, put in a feel-good CD. When children cry, you distract them with a toy, right? You have to break the downward spiral of negativity and force yourself to focus on positive things that have _nothing to do with him_. If you do this ten times a day for a few days, you will break the habit of obsessing over him. That is how you lift the pain and pull yourself back up by your own bootstraps.\n\nIn _Paradise Lost_ , John Milton wrote, \"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.\" In Chapter 2 we talked about not seeing a new guy all the time or for too many consecutive nights in a row. And readers follow this advice. Where they screw up is that while they are not in his company, they think about the guy constantly\u2014and form an unhealthy dependence. You may as well move in with him the first week if you are going to think of him twenty-four hours a day.\n\nWhile you detach, always re-evaluate your \"prize.\" If he still isn't giving you what you want, the question to ask yourself is whether you really want him. Maybe he's a bratty child in an adult body and never went through the rites of passage from \"boy\" to \"man\"...and his mamma still does his laundry which gives him a false sense of grandiosity. When you encounter a guy like that, don't assume you are no longer desirable. You have to get up, dust yourself off, and say, \"He isn't the person I thought he was. I need to dust myself off and invest my energy elsewhere.\" As Maya Angelou said, \"When people show you who they are, believe them...the _first_ time.\"\n\nWith a good man, he's not thinking, \"How can I take?\" He's thinking, \"How can I give?\" A quality man wants to keep his wife or girlfriend happy\u2014emotionally. It's ego: \"I am _man enough_ to please my woman!\" That makes him feel like a stud. Now let's define happy: Happiness is not getting scraps.\n\nDon't take it personally. Very little has anything to do with you. Many people lack the basic equipment to be in a relationship and there's nothing you can do to change it. You can't take a skunk and dip it in perfume and hope it becomes a puppy. Eventually, the perfume will wear off and you'll still have a skunk on your hands.\n\n_Always look at who you are dealing with_ ; what you see is what you get. His character won't change. His career might change, his clothing might change, his priorities might change, his residence might change. But his character will stay the same.\n\nThe men who think it's okay to give scraps to you lack this basic equipment necessary for a good relationship.\n\n##### What Is the Basic Emotional Equipment?\n\n  * Character and decency\n  * A stand-up person\n  * Consideration for others\n  * Appreciation for kindness\n  * A sense of proportion with respect to how much a person gives, and how much they take\n  * Loyalty to those who are loyal to you\n\nI remember that a teacher of mine once said, \"Make those people important...those people who make _you_ important.\" It's not that hard, if everyone makes an effort. And if it's become hard, and you feel like a slave laborer in this relationship, stop punishing yourself. Misery is not a return. You have full control over how you are made to feel. You may feel like you are handcuffed and bound\u2014but you are holding the key to those cuffs and can very easily take them off.\n\nIf you are seeing a guy for several months, and you allow him to see you once a week\u2014for sex\u2014and on top of that you are wanting more from the relationship, you are signaling to him that he can take advantage of you. Sex is not something you do to reward someone or to score a relationship. Sex is something you do with a man who already cares about you. If months have gone by and you aren't talking at least every other day, that's not a relationship. This is often when the nice girl instinct kicks into overdrive. Here's the succession of logic:\n\n_\"He was wonderful in the beginning.\"_\n\n_\"I just have screwed things up.\"_\n\n_\"I need to...do more...work harder...jump higher...\"_\n\n_\"... and pick up a two-by-four and beat myself up with it by wearing myself out and telling myself I'm not worthy.\"_\n\nLife is hard enough; you don't need anyone around darkening your doorstep to make it worse. It's not always you. Maybe it's just not a good fit. Maybe he just doesn't have the basic equipment (and nor will he with _any_ woman).\n\nSo remember, have a wait-and-see attitude and, while you learn about him, keep a parachute on your heart. With a good guy, if you regulate or slow down what you give early on, you will see what kind of person you are dealing with. The cream will rise to the top. When you give a little and then wait to see what comes back, the guy who is worth having around will give also. If he cools off, a hint of indifference acts as a trigger. He will be concerned about what you are feeling. A woman can tell how much a man cares by how much he remembers what she likes, and whether he's doing things to make her happy.\n\nThat's the big picture: your happiness. And health. You should never care what a man thinks of you\u2014 _until he demonstrates to you that he cares about making you happy_. If he isn't trying to make you happy, then send him back from \"whence\" he came because winning him over will have no benefit. At the end of the day, happiness, joy,...and yes...your \"emotional stability\"...those comprise the only measuring stick you really need to have.\n\n# 11\n\n## THE  \nNew  \nAND  \nImproved  \nBITCH\n\n### The Survival Guide for Women Who Are Too Nice\n\n\"Always give them the old fire. Even when you feel like a squashed cake of ice.\"\n\n\u2014ETHEL MERMAN\n\n#### The Bitch Stands Her Ground\n\nThe \"new and improved\" bitch is not a bad thing. She is a refined version of the proverbial, \"old\" bitch. She's not abrasive or mean, nor does she nag to get what she wants. She speaks with her actions, and she's only a bitch when she _has to be._ One of the most telling signs that a woman \"has arrived\" is that she's not obsessed with pleasing a man, or anyone other than herself. Who is this \"new and improved bitch?\" See the following definition:\n\n**Bitch** (noun) **:** A woman who won't bang her head against the wall obsessing over someone else's opinion\u2014be it a man or anyone else in her life. She understands that if someone does not approve of her, it's just one person's opinion; therefore, it's of no real importance. She doesn't try to live up to anyone else's standards\u2014only her own. Because of this, she relates to a man very differently.\n\nThe bitch also perceives _herself_ differently. She'll get into the \"boxing ring,\" so to speak, with the mindset that she's an \"equal opponent\" to a man. With a nice girl, a man automatically thinks of himself as the \"heavyweight\" and of her as the \"featherweight\" (a.k.a., the underdog). A confident woman who enters the ring and doesn't go down without a fight earns the respect of a man, even if she loses. Why? Because then he knows she's a woman with _heart_. If she goes down, she goes down swinging. And when they step out of the ring, he can't help but have more respect for her.\n\nThe bitch behaves in a way that a man understands. She speaks to him in the same language he uses when he talks to his male friends, which, again, lets him know she's on a level playing field. She is able to communicate without a lot of \"gray area,\" and she's forthright. Don't think this matters? Take a peek at a side-by-side comparison:\n\nTHE NICE GIRL | THE BITCH  \n---|---  \nShe'll try to sweet-talk a man into giving her what she wants on a regular basis. If she doesn't get it, she'll cry, get upset, or pout. | She won't sugarcoat anything or use euphemisms. She is direct about what her preferences are and lets him know what the dos and don'ts are, with respect to how he treats her.  \nShe'll play the guilt card or talk about her \"inner child\"; she seems to possess a childlike quality. | She is a grown woman, so there's nothing \"childlike\" about her. She has a no-nonsense philosophy.  \nIf he hurts her in some way, she'll cry. Then she'll make him apologize and promise not to do it again. | She'll back off and let her silence do the talking. Then she'll communicate when she's ready, on her own terms; at this point, she makes it clear it won't happen again, because if it does she won't be around.  \nShe tells herself, \"He didn't mean that.\" Or, she makes excuses if he behaves badly. | She notices his disrespect instantly and, without hesitation, calls him on the carpet over it.  \nShe forces herself to do something she is uncomfortable with in order to please a man. She also puts on a happy face and pretends that she likes it. | She won't do anything she's not comfortable with and won't hesitate to let him know. She meets him on a level playing field.  \nONE = A DOCILE WOMAN = LOSS OF RESPECT | THE OTHER = A DESIRABLE WOMAN = INCREASED RESPECT\n\nRarely, if ever, will two grown men have a drawn-out conversation that ends with: \"You hurt my feelings!\" The closest thing a man will say to another man about feelings is, \"You really pissed me off.\"\n\nAs an example, hypothetically, one guy may borrow money from his friend and not pay it back. A long mushy conversation will not take place. If any exchange happens at all, it's short and sweet and ends with, \"Screw you, asshole!\" Then they stop hanging out together and that's the end of it.\n\nBecause the bitch will \"tell it like it is,\" a man will respect the way she communicates. In a man's eyes, anger isn't weakness. He'll think she has more _self-control_ than a woman who is emotional. With the emotional woman, he'll rationalize that she's hormonally unbalanced because of her monthly cycle. Or he'll think she's weak. But, with a bitch, he'll think she knows what she does and doesn't want. She knows what she likes and what she dislikes. She has \"spirit.\" (And I don't mean the cheerleading kind.)\n\nWhen you say the word _B-I-T-C-H_ out loud, don't say it like it's a _bad_ thing. According to some, the word derives from the first letters in the following phrase: **B** abe **I** n **T** otal **C** ontrol of **H** erself. The only higher crown, the only higher _honor,_ is to be called a \"High-Maintenance Bitch.\" It's a sign of success, indicating that this is the woman the guy _ends up keeping._ If nothing else, he keeps her for the very practical reason that he's invested so much that he can't let her go. And he's _still_ trying to win her over.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #95\n\nA man feels he's won, or conquered a woman, when she eats out of the palm of his hand. At which point, he begins to get bored.\n\n#### The Bitch Is Never Fully Conquered\n\nSo why do men love bitches? With a bitch, they never feel as though they've quite conquered her, so they keep trying. Some men try for a lifetime.\n\nWhen a man is with a woman who is willing to bend over backward, it almost invites mistreatment. Charlotte catered to her boyfriend, Tom, _constantly._ His interest was starting to fade.\n\nCharlotte thought she'd win Tom back by throwing a party for him on the beach. She planned an elaborate party and invited all his friends. She also decided to pay over $3,000 to hire a sky-writing service for the event. There were two planes and they made a big beautiful heart in the sky followed by the words, \"I love you always.\" Once the planes arrived overhead, it took almost a half-hour for them to do an exquisite job. When they were finished, everyone was in awe. It was breathtaking, and everyone thought so\u2014 _except_ Tom (who had unfortunately called an hour previously to say he couldn't make it). By then, it was too late for Charlotte to get a refund on the fortune she had spent. She tried to cancel, but it was too late. The planes had already taken off and were en route to the party.\n\nThe example with Charlotte is not uncommon. This is what happens when a woman is _too nice_ and will jump through hoops: _It invites bad behavior._\n\nWhile the nice girl loses her mind, the bitch, on the other hand, makes the man lose his. When a woman keeps a level head, a man will often become much more intrigued with her. He'll think about her constantly, he won't be able to get enough of her, and he'll eventually decide he can't live without her.\n\nIt's a basic difference between men and women: Women want safety and predictability and men long for excitement, danger, and unpredictability. As a child, the nice girl played with Barbie and her Ken doll; she grew up with the mental image that she, too, would live \"happily ever after.\" Little boys want nothing to do with the Ken doll\u2014they identify with _exciting_ figures who live dangerously, like Batman, Superman, and Spiderman.\n\nAsk any mother which child she finds more troublesome\u2014a son or a daughter. Most mothers confess that boys are more difficult, especially if there are more than one. Why? For most men, safe = boring. So they look for ways to add excitement and danger, and go out of their way to pursue things that are difficult. It's this very _element of danger_ that draws him to a bitch.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #96\n\nThe tension that arises with a slightly bitchy woman gives a subtle feeling of danger to a man. He feels slightly unsure because she is never in the palm of his hand.\n\nThink about what things men collect, or the things that fascinate them. Guns, ammunition, sports cards, sci-fi magazines, pocket knives, little metal cars, power tools, and a \"rechargeable\" flashlight. (Your job is to act riveted. \"Wow, rechargeable?\") Oh, and let's not forget the \"priceless\" collection of little army men (just to die for) and the high-speed stuff: cars, Jet Skis, motorcycles, and airplanes.\n\nThe nice girl makes the mistake of nurturing a man and making him feel too \"safe.\" Men get bored very easily, which is why too much predictability and safety makes the relationship seem _monotonous_ to him. With the bitch, it isn't monotonous.\n\nThe nice girl buries her head in the sand when she ignores a man's need for stimulation, danger, or \"a challenge.\" This is to her detriment. She's like an ostrich. When an ostrich sees a hunting animal, instead of facing the tiger head-on, it'll bury its head in the sand. Hence, it becomes \"din din.\"\n\nThe bitch takes the head-on approach, but the nice girl takes the \"buried head\" approach. The bitch sees what's actually there. _The nice girl sees what she wants to see._\n\nIn the first month alone, here's what the \"nice girl\" will do...She'll give him a foot massage. Then she'll cook eggs with six ingredients and pancakes on the side. She'll drive to do his laundry and iron his shirts. Then she'll read him poems and want to cuddle all day. After he dumps her, she'll say, \"I can't believe he did this to me!\"\n\nMany women believe that men want a woman who will do... _whatever_ they tell her to do. In theory, men want this. But in practice, when they actually get it, _they'll tire of it almost instantaneously_.\n\nThe minute a man thinks he can \"do no wrong\" in your eyes and you'll accept anything he dishes out, you've already \"waved a white flag\" with regard to his having the hots for you. His desire will come to a screeching halt.\n\nDon't buy the one about him wanting a \"damsel in distress,\" either. As one man said, \"When you rescue a damsel in distress, all you get stuck with is a distressed damsel.\"\n\nThe notion that a woman has to \"spill her guts out\" in order to truly be in love isn't a sign of love, it's about becoming \"din din.\" He sees a docile woman and he says to himself, \"Oh, no. A cling-on. Am I going to have to carry around this bag of Jell-O forever?\" Once he realizes this, he calls less often or stops calling altogether\u2014 _after_ he has sex with her.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #97\n\nA \"yes\" woman who gives too much sends the impression that she believes in the man more than she believes in herself. Men view this as _weakness_ not _kindness._\n\nWhen the nice girl needs a man too much and puts him on a pedestal, she treats him with a view of himself that _even he_ doesn't hold. And it makes him very uncomfortable because he knows (better than anyone) that he \"ain't no white knight.\" But he knows it's her fantasy, so he gives it the \"good ol' college try.\" He makes a forced effort to try to be romantic, and it isn't long before he begins to question whether she's being disingenuous, too. He thinks to himself, \" _Hmm..._ I wonder what she's really like. She can't possibly be _that_ nice.\" Like a low-interest-rate credit card that's only good for the first month, he'll start to feel he's getting the \"promo package.\" Not the real deal.\n\nWith the bitch, it's straight-up and real. There's no concern that either side will do a \"bait and switch.\" He tests her once or twice, and she puts him in his place each time. Then two things happen. First, he says to himself, \"This one's not dumb. She won't buy my bullcrap.\"\n\nSecond, he feels as though she's seen him for who he really is. She's seen \"the worst,\" and she likes him anyway. Likewise, he's seen \"the worst\" in her, so he doesn't feel as though there is a surprise \"lurking\" inside her. When he's with a bitch, he may be annoyed from time to time, but he believes that what they share is _real._\n\n#### The Bitch Is Defined from Within\n\nEddie Murphy once said in an interview: \"The best advice I ever heard is, don't take anyone else's advice.\" There's power in this because it puts you in the conductor's seat, right at \"the controls\" in your life. It doesn't mean you should stop seeking information or outside input, it just means that you're the one driving. You choose your own destination.\n\nThis attitude directly impacts whether a man will view you as independent. The minute you stop being an independent thinker and he starts having to think for you, you catapult right out of the \"driver's\" seat and land right in the \"doormat\" seat. _The minute someone else can dictate what you think or how you feel about yourself, you are at their mercy._\n\nThis attitude also influences success in many other areas. As long as you let someone else make decisions regarding your career, dreams, or aspirations, you've limited yourself drastically. _You'll only be as good as that person allows you to become._\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #98\n\nBe an independent thinker at all times, and ignore anyone who attempts to define you in a limiting way.\n\nWhether it's your taste in clothing, your needs in a relationship, or what you do for a living\u2014don't let anyone else be at the controls. Define yourself.\n\nThe minute you become an independent thinker, two things will happen. First, positive people and things will be drawn to you like a magnet. Second, it will serve as a deterrent for negative people who will try to distract you from achieving your goals. There will always be people who will be there to plant negative seeds in your garden, _if you make yourself available for that._\n\nStanding up for yourself doesn't always involve verbal confrontation. Sometimes it's about not wasting energy on people who are negative.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #99\n\nTruly powerful people don't explain why they want respect. They simply don't engage someone who doesn't give it to them.\n\nThis may seem very simple and obvious to a person with self-esteem, but it's usually the very thing that the nice girl does _not_ do. She'll cosign on the dotted line for a guy who has lousy credit. She'll sleep with him before knowing his middle name. And above all, she'll let him decide what her value is as a woman, instead of deciding this for herself.\n\nKindness is always the first choice. But there are times when you can't be kind to someone who doesn't have your best interests in mind. When you see this behavior, it's appropriate to be kind to _yourself_ by responding to it, either by correcting the situation or by not allowing the person to have access to you.\n\nThe bitch can be a soft\u2014and very feminine\u2014woman, but she still has a quiet dignity. This woman lets people know in a graceful way that she won't be easily manipulated. She won't jump through hoops. And she won't define herself by what other people think.\n\nA perfect example is my soft-spoken Japanese friend Masae. She's been living in the United States for less than a year, and she speaks broken English with a Japanese accent. Nevertheless, she's a wonderful example of the grace and quiet strength that I'm describing.\n\nMasae was seeing an American man named Steven for some time. It was his birthday, so she decided to cook him a Japanese feast. She made miso soup, several types of sushi, and two authentic hot main courses. She was also an exemplary hostess. The only feedback Steven gave was that the soy sauce was too salty. \"Next time get the one with the green lid, because it's lower in sodium.\"\n\nMasae was astonished, but she kept her composure. She said to him, with her limited language skills, \"I cook for you. But if you complain? I no do for you.\" She's had nothing but praise ever since.\n\nAs Eleanor Roosevelt said, \"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.\" A positive person will say _positive_ things, especially when you aren't feeling up. When you leave his company, you'll feel as though your batteries have been recharged. When you meet someone who is truly great, he makes you believe you can be great, too. This is the kind of relationship you want, and it's the only kind of relationship worth having.\n\nThe longer you practice being an independent thinker, the more attractive you'll be. You'll put a \"magic spell\" on a man. A deadly \"mojo.\" You'll wake up and feel happier than you've ever been. Your aura and your life force will slowly come back.\n\nThe media doesn't perpetuate this; instead they fuel a \"cookie cutter\" mentality that women are supposed to fit into a box. \"Wear this because this is hot.\" (Change the channel.)\"You have got to get this look.\" (Change the channel.) \"Say those affirmation jingles: Claim it; then shame it. Own it and condone it...\" (Change the channel.) \"This organic hair color will turn heads.\"\n\nWhen a woman is secure with herself, she isn't afraid to define herself and defy public opinion. She has her own look. Her own style. Her own charisma. Her own brand of charm. A man wants something he doesn't see every day. Not in terms of a redhead versus a blonde. He wants the rare woman _who can think for herself._\n\nWhen it comes to a commitment or a relationship with most women, many men feel like lion trainers. It's as though they have to use a chair to get the lions to back away. \"Back off...back off...\" So when they meet a woman who has the confidence to hold her own\u2014or make them come her way\u2014it has a different effect. They're not used to it, so they become intrigued.\n\nThe bitch isn't afraid to be different, which is why she won't be a \"booty call\" or a pearl on a long string of pearls. She won't be a man's late-night convenience. She won't be doing lap dances. She won't be afraid to turn thirty or forty years old. At any age, this woman will feel like a \"prize.\" She won't be defined by the media's perception of aging; she won't be made to feel like defective livestock because she is no longer a teenager. Married, single, or divorced, this woman feels good about herself.\n\nA woman with an exterior that is too tough is not the \"new and improved\" bitch I'm speaking of. Abrasiveness is _not_ the objective. In Italy, there is a very common expression: _\u00c8 tutto fumo e niente arrosto_. Literally, it means, \"There is plenty of smoke, but nothing is getting roasted.\" When a woman is too abrasive or too bitchy, or she pretends to be too much of anything, she rarely has anything to back it up. The \"new and improved bitch\" is truly strong, because she is nice. But she also demands the same kindness in return.\n\n#### The Bitch Has a Strong Will and Faith in Herself\n\nWhen I set out to talk to men about this book, I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought that some might react to the title, _Why Men Love Bitches_ , and say, \"Men don't love bitches!\" What happened was the exact opposite. They absolutely confirmed\u2014over and over\u2014that a strong woman is very much a turn-on. Sometimes they described why they love bitches. Other times they asked, \"Yeah, why do we love bitches?\" But over 90 percent of the time, they didn't deny the fact that they're turned on by strong women.\n\nPutting yourself first is not something men resent. On the contrary, a man actually respects it. He feels as though there is far less weight on his shoulders when you are independent, and he doesn't have to make you happy all the time. He'll regard you as a secure woman, instead of as a ditsy or flighty woman who doesn't know what she wants.\n\nPutting yourself first means going back and relearning how to count. In math, the number one comes before the number two (1...2...again...1...2...). You are number one and\u2014are you sitting down?- _he is number two!_ Until now, you've made the mistake of starting to count at \"number two.\" Number one wasn't even counted. You skipped over _numero uno_ because you didn't seem to feel you mattered.\n\nLife is an extension of grade school. A third grader approaches another kid and bullies him. He slaps the kid, steals his lunch money, and runs. The child who won't be bullied is the child who slaps the bully and takes his lunch money back. (With an extra little slap, just for thinking he could have gotten away with it.)\n\nThe _new and improved bitch_ understands this principle in adult day-to-day life. People will do the same thing on a daily basis. They'll try to slap you and run, whether it's a coworker, a family member, a friend, or yes...even a lover. The only difference is none of these people will try to steal your lunch money. Instead, consciously or not, they'll steal your self-confidence.\n\nWhen it comes to believing in yourself, put your eye on the mark and don't blink. If you have a goal, a dream, or an aspiration...believe in yourself while you are _on the way_ to your destination, and you will have already arrived.\n\nThroughout life, people will try to shake your faith _in yourself_. When this happens, remind yourself that the only way they can succeed is if you allow it. When you walk down the street of life, always hold your head high and keep walking. Don't _ever_ let anyone shake your faith in yourself, because that's really _all_ that you have.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #100\n\nThe most attractive quality of all is dignity.\n\n# Appendix\n\n## SHERRY'S  \nAttraction  \nPRINCIPLES\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #1\n\nAnything a person chases in life runs away.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #2\n\nThe women who have the men climbing the walls for them aren't always exceptional. Often, they are the ones who don't appear to care that much.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #3\n\nA woman is perceived as offering a mental challenge to the degree that a man doesn't feel he has a 100 percent hold on her.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #4\n\nSometimes a man deliberately won't call, just to see how you'll respond.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #5\n\nIf you start out dependent, it turns him off. But if it is something he can't have, it becomes more of a challenge for him to get it.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #6\n\nIt is your attitude about yourself that a man will adopt.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #7\n\nAct like a prize and you'll turn him into a believer.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #8\n\nThe biggest variable between a bitch and a woman who is too nice is fear. The bitch shows that she's not afraid to be without him.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #9\n\nIf the choice is between her dignity and having a relationship, the bitch will prioritize her dignity above all else.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #10\n\nWhen a woman doesn't give in easily and doesn't appear docile or submissive, it becomes more stimulating to obtain her.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #11\n\nBeing right on the verge of getting something generates a desire that has to be satisfied.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #12\n\nA man knows which woman will give in to last-minute requests.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #13\n\nWhether you have terms and conditions indicates whether you have options. Almost immediately, you present yourself as a doormat or a dreamgirl.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #14\n\nIf you smother him, he'll go into defense mode and look for an escape route to protect his freedom.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #15\n\nWhenever a woman requires too many things from a man, he'll resent it. Let him give what he wants to give freely; then observe who he is.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #16\n\nA bitch gives a man plenty of space so he doesn't fear being trapped in a cage. Then...he sets out to trap her in his.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #17\n\nIf you tell him you are not interested in jumping into a relationship with both feet, he will set out to try to change your mind.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #18\n\nAlways give the appearance that he has plenty of space. It gets him to drop his guard.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #19\n\nMore than anything else, he watches to see if you'll be too emotionally dependent on him.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #20\n\nHe must feel that you choose to be with him, not that you need to be with him. Only then will he perceive you as an equal partner.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #21\n\nIf a man has to wait before he sleeps with a woman, he'll not only perceive her as more beautiful, he'll also take time to appreciate who she is.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #22\n\nSex and the \"spark\" are not one and the same.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #23\n\nBefore sex, a man isn't thinking clearly and a woman is thinking clearly. After sex, it reverses. The man is thinking clearly and the woman isn't.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #24\n\nEvery man wants to have sex first; whether he wants a girlfriend is something he thinks about later. By not giving him what he wants up front, you become his girlfriend without him realizing it.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #25\n\nA man intuitively senses whether sexuality comes from a place of security or from a place of neediness. He knows when a woman is having sex to appease him.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #26\n\nBad habits are easier to form than good ones, because good habits require conscious effort. Waiting encourages this effort.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #27\n\nIf you pull the sexual plug at the last minute, he'll label you a tease.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #28\n\nIf he makes you feel insecure, let your insecurity be your guide.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #29\n\nA quality guy fantasizes about a woman who genuinely loves sex.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #30\n\nAny time a woman competes with another woman, she demeans herself.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #31\n\nWhen there is that undeniable \"spark,\" there is only one key to the lock.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #32\n\nLet him think he's in control. He'll automatically start doing things you want done because he'll always want to look like \"a king\" in your eyes.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #33\n\nWhen you cater to his ego in a soft way, he doesn't try to get power in an aggressive way.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #34\n\nWhen you appear softer and more feminine, you appeal to his instinct to protect. When you appear more aggressive, you appeal to his instinct to compete.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #35\n\nHe'll let a woman who becomes his doormat pay for dinner on the first couple of dates, but he wouldn't think of it with his dreamgirl.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #36\n\nThe token power position is for public display, but the true power position is for private viewing only. And this is the only one that matters.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #37\n\nIf you give him a feeling of power, he'll want to protect you and he'll want to give you the world.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #38\n\nWhen a woman acts as though she's capable of everything, she gets stuck doing everything.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #39\n\nMen don't respond to words. They respond to no contact.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #40\n\nTalking about the \"relationship\" too much takes away the element of the \"unknown\" and thus the mystery.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #41\n\nMen respect women who communicate in a succinct way, because it's the language men use to talk to one another.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #42\n\nWhen you are always HAPPY; And he is always free to GO; He feels LUCKY.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #43\n\nIf you allow your rhythm to be interrupted, you'll create a void. Then, to replace what you give up, you'll start to expect and need more from your partner.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #44\n\nMost women are starving to receive something from a man that they need to give to themselves.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #45\n\nA woman looks more secure in a man's eyes when he can't pull her away from her life, because she is content with her life.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #46\n\nThe second a woman works overtime to make herself fit his criteria, she has lowered the standard of that relationship.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #47\n\nYou jump through hoops any time you repeatedly make it very obvious you're giving your \"all.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #48\n\nYou have to keep from being sucked down into quicksand. Unless you maintain control over yourself, the relationship is doomed.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #49\n\nJumping through hoops often has a negative outcome: He sees it as an opportunity to have his cake and eat it, too. But when you stay just outside his reach, he'll stay on his best behavior.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #50\n\nThe nice girl gives away too much of herself when pleasing him regularly becomes more important than pleasing herself.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #51\n\nThe relationship may not be right for you if you find yourself jumping through hoops. When something is right, it will feel easier and much more effortless.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #52\n\nWhen you nag, he tunes you out. But when you speak with your actions, he pays attention.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #53\n\nWhen a man takes a woman for granted, he still looks for reassurance that she is still \"right there.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #54\n\nWhen the routine becomes predictable, he's more likely to give you the same type of love he had for his mother-and the odds that he will take you for granted increase.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #55\n\nNegative attention is still attention. It lets a man know that he has you\u2014right where he wants you.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #56\n\nWhen you treat him casually as though he's a friend, he'll come your way. Because he wants things to be romantic, but he also wants to be the pursuer.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #57\n\nA little distance combined with the appearance of self-control makes him nervous that he may be losing you.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #58\n\nA man takes a woman for granted when he's interested, but will no longer go out of his way.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #59\n\nWhen you nag, you become the problem, and he deals with it by tuning you out. But when you don't nag, he deals with the problem.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #60\n\nIf you take his chores away from him and praise someone else for doing it, he'll want his chores back.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #61\n\nWhen you nag, he sees weakness.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #62\n\nHe perceives an emotional woman as more of a pushover.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #63\n\nIn the same way that familiarity breeds contempt, a slightly aloof demeanor can often renew his respect.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #64\n\nHe'll forget what he has in you...unless you remind him.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #65\n\nMany women talk a lot out of nervousness-which is something that men will often perceive as insecurity.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #66\n\nTalking about feelings to a man will feel like work. When he's with a woman, he wants it to feel like fun.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #67\n\nForcing him to talk about feelings all the time will not only make you seem needy, it will eventually make him lose respect. And when he loses respect, he'll pay even less attention to your feelings.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #68\n\nIn the beginning, the only thing you need to pay attention to is whether he keeps coming around, because he'll only be able to suspend or hide his emotions for so long.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #69\n\nMen treat women the way they treat other men. They \"play it cool\" because they don't want to appear weak or desperate.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #70\n\nThe element of surprise both inside and outside of the bedroom is important to men, and it adds to the excitement.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #71\n\nDon't always do the same thing over and over in the bedroom. Vary it so that it doesn't become a predictable routine.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #72\n\nMost men tend to disrespect a woman who appears to be too malleable.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #73\n\nDon't be afraid to stand up for yourself or speak your mind. It will not only earn his respect, in some cases it will even turn him on.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #74\n\nMen often automatically assume that a bitchier woman will be more assertive in bed, and that a nice girl will be more timid.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #75\n\nWhen a man falls in love, suddenly he'll go out of his way and think nothing of it. He'll do things for this woman he wouldn't have done for anyone else.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #76\n\nHe'll never respect you as being able to hold your own unless you can stand on your own two feet financially.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #77\n\nYou have to show that you won't accept mistreatment. Then you will keep his respect.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #78\n\nYour pink slip is maintained when you can stand on your own\u2014with him or without him. He should never feel that you are completely at his mercy.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #79\n\nWhen a man views a woman as a \"little girl\" or a sister he has to take care of, the passion diminishes. He doesn't want to make love to his sister.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #80\n\nThe ability to choose how you want to live, and the ability to choose how you want to be treated are the two things that give you more power than any material object ever will.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #81\n\nIn a relationship of any kind, if one person feels the other person isn't bringing anything to the table, he or she will begin to disrespect that person.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #82\n\nFinancial neediness is no different than emotional neediness; in both instances, he can still get the feeling that he has a 100 percent hold on you.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #83\n\nRegardless of how pretty a woman is, looks alone will not sustain his respect. Appearance may pull him in, but it is your independence that will keep him turned on.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #84\n\nWhen a man is very consumed with not being taken advantage of, this is a sign that he's \"on the take.\"\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #85\n\nPeople will show you they have self-respect simply by virtue of the fact that they want to carry their own weight.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #86\n\nThe more independent you are of him, the more interested he will be.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #87\n\nIf you make it too obvious that you're excited to get something, some people will be tempted to dangle a carrot in front of your face.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #88\n\nWhen you alter the routine, your not being there is what will make him come around. Men don't respond to words. What they respond to is no contact.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #89\n\nDon't give a reward for bad behavior.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #90\n\nHe simply won't respect a woman who automatically goes into overdrive to please him.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #91\n\nIf he doesn't give you a time, you don't have a date.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #92\n\nOften the best way to adjust or fix the problem is by not letting him know it's being fixed. When you alter your availability or change a predictable routine, it will mentally pull him back in.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #93\n\nOnce you start laughing, you start healing.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #94\n\nYou can get away with saying much more with humor than you can with a straight face.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #95\n\nA man feels he's won, or conquered a woman, when she eats out of the palm of his hand. At which point, he begins to get bored.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #96\n\nThe tension that arises with a slightly bitchy woman gives a subtle feeling of danger to a man. He feels slightly unsure because she is never in the palm of his hand.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #97\n\nA \"yes\" woman who gives too much sends the impression that she believes in the man more than she believes in herself. Men view this as weakness not kindness.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #98\n\nBe an independent thinker at all times, and ignore anyone who attempts to define you in a limiting way.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #99\n\nTruly powerful people don't explain why they want respect. They simply don't engage someone who doesn't give it to them.\n\n##### ATTRACTION PRINCIPLE #100\n\nThe most attractive quality of all is dignity.\nCopyright \u00a9 2009, 2004, 2002, 2000 by Sherry Argov. All rights reserved.  \nThis book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.\n\n_Why Men Love Bitches_ is a registered trademark of Sherry Argov.\n\nPublished by  \nAdams Media, a division of F+W Media, Inc.  \n57 Littlefield Street, Avon, MA 02322 U.S.A.  \n_www.adamsmedia.com_\n\nISBN 13: 978-1-58062-756-6 (paperback)  \nISBN 10: 1-58062-756-0 (paperback)  \nISBN 13: 978-1-60550-155-0 (ePub)\n\nThis e-book edition: January 2012 (v.1.1)\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Argov, Sherry.  \nWhy men love bitches / Sherry Argov.  \np. cm.  \nISBN 1-58062-756-0  \n1. Mate selection. 2. Single women - Life skills guides.  \n3. Self-esteem in women. 4. Dating (Social customs)  \n5. Man-woman relationships. I. Title.  \nHQ801 .A724 2002  \n646.7'7 - dc21  \n2002009981\n\nThis publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information with regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional advice. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.\n\n\u2014From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations\n\nMany of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Adams Media was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters.\n\n_This book is available at quantity discounts for bulk purchases._  \n_For information, call 1-800-289-0963._\n"}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "The Theatrical Primer by Harold Acton Vivian", "publication_date": 1904, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52491"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by deaurider, Dianne Nolan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n    TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:\n\n    Italics are indicated by _underscores_.\n\n    Hyphenation inconsistencies: both Bald-headed and Baldheaded are\n    used.\n\n\n\n\n  The\n\n  Theatrical Primer\n\n\n  BY\n\n  HAROLD ACTON VIVIAN\n\n\n\n\n  _Illustrations by\n  FRANCIS P. SAGERSON_\n\n\n  G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY\n\n  PUBLISHERS       NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY\n\n  H. A. VIVIAN\n\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY\n\n  G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY\n\n\n  _The Theatrical\n  Primer_\n\n\n\n\nThe Theatrical Primer\n\n\n\n\n1\n\n\nHere, children, is a Theatre. A Theatre is a big Playhouse where actors\nAct--sometimes. It is a pretty building, is it Not? It costs two big\nDollars to get into a Theatre but People are always in a Great Hurry to\nget out. This is right, as it Helps the actors to act. When you go to a\ntheatre you should always Cry as Loud and as Long as you can. It gives\ngreat Pleasure to all the People, and makes your Mother feel Good.\n\n\n\n\n2\n\n\nOh, see the Press Agent! Is he not a wonderful Thing? Next to the\nTheatre, he is the most Important Thing in the Business. He is much\nGreater than the Manager, but he does not get so much Money. The Press\nAgent always tells the Truth, and loves to give away Free Tickets. Do\nnot offer him a Drink or a Cigar, because he will surely refuse, and\nthen You will feel Badly.\n\n\n\n\n3\n\n\nThe Man looks Anxious. He is a Manager, and he thinks the Treasurer\nis Swiping his Money. Fie on the Treasurer! The Poor Manager has so\nlittle money that He can only take one Drink at a Time. Ask the Manager\nfor tickets. He will pay for them out of his own Pocket. He is such a\nCharitable man. Try to be like the Manager, little children, and when\nyou grow Up, you will always be without Money. Money is a great Curse.\n\n\n\n\n4\n\n\nThis is a Chappie. No, it is not an animal; it is a human Being.\nIts real name is E. Z. Thing. What do you think the Chappie is Good\nfor--Nothing? Oh, fie, it is surely good for Something. Yes; it is\nGood to buy suppers for Chorus Girls. Sometimes it buys Flowers Also,\nand has them Charged to Papa. Papa is sometimes a Chappie himself. That\nis right; yell \"Chappie\" as Loud as you can. It is not Vulgar to Yell\non the Street, and the man likes to be called by such a nice name.\n\n\n\n\n5\n\n\nHere we see an Actor. No; do not Touch him or you will soil his\nClothes. Are not his Clothes wonderful? And just Think, they are all\nPaid for! He wears his Hair long because the Barber shops are Closed\non Sunday. He is Very busy all the week, you know. He has to walk up\nand down Broadway several Times every day. Actors are very Nice men.\nThey always say good Things about other Actors, and never talk of\nThemselves. No; none of them wears corsets.\n\n\n\n\n6\n\n\nIsn't that dog Tiny? It's the Leading lady's pet Poodle. Oh, see how\nnicely it snaps at Everything! The Leading lady has Taught it to do\nthat; Snaps are right in her line. Everyone loves the Little Dog.\nIt is so Gentle and Loving. Kick the Dog in the Ribs, Johnny. It\nwill please the lady if you do--and the Dog--and the Manager. See the\nManager laugh.\n\n\n\n\n7\n\n\nHere we see a Lobster. The Lobster is going to Buy a Ticket from the\nSpeculator. Will they let the Lobster into the Theatre? Oh, I guess\nYes. See; the Speculator has put the Money in his Pocket. Will he\ngive the Treasurer some of the Dough? Perhaps; if he is a very Kind\nSpeculator. How fortunate for the Speculator that there are Lobsters.\n\n\n\n\n8\n\n\nDo you see the Clever Usher? He has Sold two seats in the Front Row.\nWhat will he do when the man who Bought the Seats at the box office\ncomes in? He will say that there is a Mistake, and the Man will sit in\nthe Sixth Row. The Man is from the Country. All ushers are clever. They\nneed the Money to buy clean Shirts.\n\n\n\n\n9\n\n\nCome, children, we will Leave now. The last Act is not Over, but the\nAudience would sooner see your Clothes than the Play. Run out in the\nAisle and make a Noise. The People will be glad; they are Tired and do\nnot want to hear the rest of the Play. People do not go to the Theatre\nto Hear the Play. What a foolish idea!\n\n\n\n\n10\n\n\nSee the Leading Lady. She is the Greatest Actress in the World. Oh,\nno; she does Not think so. She is Modest and Unassuming. She does not\nlike the Star Dressing Room, but the Manager makes her take it. What\na Cruel Manager! Poor Lady, she has to wear her nice stage Clothes on\nthe Street. Do not Rubber at her. She does not Like being Rubbered\nat. How fond the Leading Lady is of the Leading Man! Last night she\nembraced him so Fervently that the Powder came off Her Arms on his\nCoat. He likes such Things. They are marks of Affection.\n\n\n\n\n11\n\n\nHere is a Programme. Is it not a Pretty Book? What lovely pictures of\nCorsets and False Teeth. Do not look for Cast of the Play. We will find\nthat Next Week. The Advertisements are much More Interesting. It would\nbe Foolish to Print the Cast in Large type, because then We could See\nit. How Artistic is the Cover of the Programme! Does it not remind you\nof the Delirium Tremens?\n\n\n\n\n12\n\n\nOh, see; there is a Chorus Girl. What a beautiful Complexion she has.\nAnd what very White Shoulders. No; of course she cannot sing. But what\na cunning Wink she is making at her Baldheaded Father in the Front Row.\nShe will meet Him after the Show and take him Riding in her Automobile.\nThen they will have Supper in a lovely Restaurant. Father will pay for\nthe Supper, just like he pays for the Auto. Is he not a good Father to\nthe Poor Hard-working Chorus Girl? The Chorus Girl is a much better\nactress than the Leading Lady, but she is not jealous of the Leading\nLady's success. Not a bit.\n\n\n\n\n13\n\n\nWhat a funny little Man that is. He is a Big part of the Syndicate. He\nis a very Big Bug, and so kind to Actors. He just Loves to Pay them\nMoney. But he does Not like to make them work Hard. Oh, No; they just\ndo what They want to. By and By they Will get too old to Work, and then\nhe will Buy them a House to live in. All the other Managers love the\nBig Bug, because he does not try to Hog the Whole thing.\n\n\n\n\n14\n\n\nDo you see the Man with the Bald Head in the Second Row? He is a Great\nCritic. He gets a Million Dollars for every day that He works. He\nKnows all About every Show that will Ever be written. He is good to\nthe Actors, and will tell Them how to Act Properly. The Actors and\nActresses just Love to read what he Writes. When you Grow up, little\nChildren, you should try and be Critics, and when you Die you will go\nto a place where there are lots of Actors, and they will Give you a\nHot time.\n\n\n\n\n15\n\n\nHere we have the Little Comedienne. Isn't she the Real Thing? Only\nthink, she used to be in the Chorus! But she had a very beautiful\nVoice, and now she owns the Whole Show. The Police will not let You\nwalk on the same side of the Street with Her, and the Manager says\nno one Else in the Company must Give Pictures to the Papers. She is\nvery Kind to the Others, and they love her. By and By she will be a\nHas-been, and then the other girls will send her Part of their Salary.\nIt always pays to be Kind, little Children.\n\n\n\n\n16\n\n\nWhat do we see here? Oh, this is a Playwright. He has Written a Play.\nWill the Manager accept the Play? Oh, no; the Manager could not do\nthat. It is a Good play, but the Playwright Has not Got a Reputation.\nIf he should Kill a man he would get a Reputation and then his Play\nwould be accepted. Perhaps he will go to England and Sell the Play.\nThen it will be a Great Success, and the Cruel Manager will be sorry\nbecause he has Missed a chance to Make Money.\n\n\n\n\n17\n\n\nThis is another Playwright. He is a very successful one Because he\nWorks very Hard. He writes a Dozen plays every year. If one is Good he\nGets Paid for All the rest. Of course he has a Reputation. He made it\nby Knitting Socks.\n\n\n\n\n18\n\n\nWhat a Large Chest that man has. Yes; he is a Star. He is the only\nactor who can Play Hamlet. Did you Know that he Owns a Large part of\nBroadway? What is he Saying? He says that he is Not a great Actor. He\nthinks the Juvenile plays his Part very Well. He does not Like to\nbe Applauded. Did he say he got a Hundred Dollars a week? That must\nbe a Mistake. All stars get at Least Five Hundred. Modesty is a great\nvirtue, Children. You should Try and be as Modest as the Star.\n\n\n\n\n19\n\n\nHere we have a Four Hundredth Performance. How young it looks. Has the\nPlay run a Year? Oh, dear, No. But then there are Matinees, you know.\nAnd Rehearsals. The Piece has played Four Hundred Times. The Press\nAgent and the Manager say so. Of Course they ought to Know, and They\nalways tell the Truth. What pretty Souvenirs! They are Real Gold and\ncost More than the Theatre Tickets. How Charitable of the Management to\ngive them Away.\n\n\n\n\n20\n\n\nSee the Fat Policeman. He walks right past the Doorkeeper. Has he got a\nTicket? No, he has a shield. Why do they Let him in Free? Because he is\na Policeman. Will he make the standees, settees? Of course not. He will\nWatch the Show, and if he Likes it He will ask for Two tickets. Will he\npay for them? Don't ask foolish questions, you silly boy.\n\n\n\n\n21\n\n\nWatch the Pretty lady buy two Fifty-cent tickets. She wants to know\nif they are Down stairs. No, they are in the Gallery. In the front\nrow? Yes. Has the man nothing further in Front? she asks. The Poor\nlady would like them in the Centre. Yes, those would do. But are they\non the Aisle? No, there is no Centre Aisle. She says it is not a nice\nTheatre, but she Supposes she Must take the Tickets. Are they for\nThursday night? Yes. Oh, that is too bad. She is going to Play cards\non Thursday night, and she wants the Tickets for Friday night. Now she\nWill pay for them. How careful she is with her money! She has opened\nHer little Bag, and Taken out her Pocket book. Now she has closed the\nBag. She has taken a Two-Dollar Bill out of the Pocket book and laid\nit down. She opens the Bag and puts the pocket book back. There; she\nhas Closed the bag. Now she has got the Tickets. She has opened the Bag\nagain and put the Tickets inside. The Bag is Closed again now. The man\nis Giving her her change. She has opened the Bag, taken out the Pocket\nbook, closed the Bag, opened the Pocket book, put in the change,\nclosed the Pocket book, opened the Bag, put in the Pocket book, and\nClosed the Bag. How quickly she does not do it. Are there other People\nwaiting to buy seats? Oh, a few Dozen.\n\n\n\n\n22\n\n\nHere we have a Box party. Isn't it nice of Them to Come Late, that\nMany people can see Them? No, Johnny, they Do not come to Show off\nTheir clothes. How happy they are. How Mirthful. You can hear them\nlaugh right Across the Theatre. The Girl in the pink cr\u00eape de Chine\nis saying that Pickles do Not Agree with her. Isn't that too bad? The\nman is telling her a Story. Pretty soon they Will Laugh out Loud again.\nSee, the Lovely lady with The Charming manners is looking through her\nopera glasses at a Man in the Front Row. Does she Know him? Of course\nnot, or she wouldn't look at him. When the Curtain goes down, the Men\nwill Go out on Important Business Matters and the Women will stroll up\nand down so That other Women can See their Dresses. Do not try to Watch\nthe Play, children. The Box party is much more fun.\n\n\n\n\n23\n\n\nWhat is this? A Matin\u00e9e Idol. What a Meek man he is. He says he is Not\nhandsome. That is not True. The Girls all adore him. How careless he is\nwith his Clothes. His Pants have not been Pressed in Fifteen minutes.\nHe is going to Have his picture taken. He had some Taken yesterday, but\nThey did not Do him Justice. Is the Idol married? Hist! children, some\nthings are Sacred. Whose little boy is that Following him? That is a\nMessenger boy; he reminds the Idol of His dates.\n\n\n\n\n24\n\n\nLet us steal into the dressing room. See what a cute little place It\nis. The leading Juvenile and the Comedian dress here. They like a small\nroom; it is So easy to make a quick change in One. The management\nwanted to Make the Dressing room Larger but there was Not enough\nlumber. See; in his hurry, the Actor has left a pair of shoes in Front\nof that Chair. Put them behind the Trunk, Clara, and the Actor will\nthank you.\n\n\n\n\n25\n\n\nThis is a stick of Grease paint. The Leading lady uses it to Make\nherself look beautiful. In this way she can make many dates. The\nleading lady is very fond of Dates. Her friends say she always has\ndates for Supper. Hold the Grease paint in the Gas flame, Johnny, and\nsee it Fizzle. Now rub the wet paint on the Looking Glass. Put some in\nthe Powder box. The Leading lady always uses powder after Paint; now\nshe can Use both together. Let us hide the Grease paint in the Slipper.\nThe leading lady will Think it a Great joke.\n\n\n\n\n26\n\n\nHere we have the Property man. He is making a Ship. Will the ship go?\nNo. But it will _look_ Real. What a Dusty room this is. Let's dust the\nThings off and arrange them. How glad the Property man will be To-night\nwhen he has to Get ready for the First act in a hurry. Oh, here is the\nproperty Man back again. Clara, help Johnny up! The Property man Wears\npointed Shoes.\n\n\n\n\n27\n\n\nSee the Man who was once a Great Actor! He says he is too Good for the\nManagers now. His was a Great Hamlet. Does he mean the hamlet where\nhe was Born? Why does he Not go to work? He will soon Go to work his\nfriends. He has a very good memory. He remembers ----. Some time,\nchildren, we will take a Month off, and then He will tell us What he\nremembers.\n\n\n\n\n28\n\n\nLook at the Man in the Front row. He has a Clean shave on the back of\nhis Head. See how hard he laughs. Does he enjoy the jokes? No; he has\nseen the Show seven times. What large opera glasses he has. Yes, he\nis very short-sighted. The show is a Burlesque. The Soubrette winks\nat him. That is because he is Old--and Easy. Will he go on to a Club\nafter the Show? No; he will go on a Bat.\n\n\n\n\n29\n\n\nHere we have the Soubrette. No; she is not seventy-seven, she is only\nseventeen. Her father was a Blacksmith, and she is very clever with the\nHammer herself. Hasn't she a lovely Shape? It is all her own, too. The\nBill says she Paid twenty-five Dollars for it. She is talking to the\nchorus girl. She says she had a Lobster at dinner. Soubrettes are very\nFond of Lobsters. There is an Old saying: \"Wherever the Soubrette is,\nthere will the Lobsters be found also.\"\n\n\n\n\n30\n\n\nThe programme says the Ushers must not be Tipped. It hurts an usher's\nFeelings to be Given money. If we were to give an usher Money he would\ngive up his Job. You would not Like to see the poor man out of a Job,\nwould you? All his wants Are provided for by the Management and he\nHas no need of money. He gets a very Fat salary and his Family live\nin Elegance. How kind of the management to Treat the usher so well!\nOf course we will not give the usher money as the Management does not\nwish us to. It would be cruel, and Besides we would get very little in\nReturn.\n\n\n\n\n31\n\n\nLet us listen to the Manager talking to the actor. The Manager says it\nis a fine day. That is not so, for it is Raining. The Actor says he\nwould Like his Salary. Why does the Manager laugh and say next Tuesday?\nThe actor tells the manager to go to Yuma, Arizona. Will the manager\ngo? No, but the Actor will soon begin Counting railroad Neckwear.\n\n\n\n\n32\n\n\nChildren, observe the Bouncer. He is a kind and Gentle man, and carries\na Stick to protect Himself. He is very weak. Clara, yell as loud as\nyou can. Now, Johnny, whistle on Your fingers. Will the Bouncer tell\nyou to Stop? Bang! The hospital is just round the Corner. The children\nwill Come again and see the rest of the Show.\n\n\n\n\n33\n\n\nHere we see a Poster. The poster says there are Three hundred people\non the Stage. Are there three hundred people on the Stage? Oh! no; not\nto-night. One of the Ladies is sick, and Two hundred of the Others are\nnursing her. Call the Manager a Liar, Johnny. There! Now we know why\nthe manager Carries a Cane.\n\n\n\n\n34\n\n\nOh! see the Lady crying. She is very Young to be so Tearful. She is a\nMatin\u00e9e girl. Why does she Cry? Is it because the Lovely heroine is in\nDistress? No; it is because the Leading man has had His hair cut. She\nwanted a Lock of his Lovely hair to Stuff a cushion With. What will she\nDo now? She will have to go to Another theatre until the Hair grows\nagain.\n\n\n\n\n35\n\n\nThis is a Vaudeville joke. How tired it Looks! Yes, it is Worn out.\nIt has been doing Two a day for Nineteen Years. Once it was nearly\nMurdered by a Mean audience. Luckily it Changed its disguise. Will it\never Die? No; it will Get a Shave and a New disguise, and will go on\nworking forever. How cruel to treat a good Joke so. What is the name of\nthe Joke? It is the Mother-in-law joke.\n\n\n\n\n36\n\n\nOh, see the Hat. It is a Stovepipe hat, and Belongs to the Manager.\nThat is, he Wore it until last night. Now he will Have to buy Another\nhat. But this hat is good. It Cost Five dollars, and has been Worn\nonly a Month. Yes, children, but there are other Points about the hat\nbesides Wear. The size must be considered. Last night a great star,\nwhom the Manager had Discovered, made a Hit. The Manager's head is\nBigger now, and he must Have a new Hat. Let us take this one and put a\nBrick in It. Then when some other manager Cops the Star this manager\ncan Kick the Hat.\n\n\n\n\n37\n\n\nHere we have the leading Lady's gown. It cost one Hundred and eighty\nDollars. The leading lady Said so. How pretty and Fluffy it is. Is the\nFluff chiffon or Organdie? The Leading Lady says it is French chiffon,\nbut the Chorus Girls say it is Organdie from an old Summer gown. How\nmean of the Chorus girls! How economic of the Leading lady! Johnny,\ntread on the train of the Gown, and we can all see the Fireworks.\n\n\n\n\n38\n\n\nAre you Cold, children? See, the Snow is Falling. It is very Realistic,\nthis Snow. It looks like the Real thing, and Makes you shiver. Do not\nbe Afraid, we will not Freeze to Death. The show is a Frost, but the\nManager is hot. The Snow is made from the Passes taken in last night.\nIt will not Hurt you. If the Snow keeps up it will be so cold the Poor\nghost will not Be able to Walk. Let us Pray that the Snow will Stop, so\nthe Hungry actors may see the Ghost walk.\n\n\n\n\n39\n\n\nIs this a New kind of Music? No; it is a Baby crying. How kind of its\nMother to bring it Out on a Night like this. Babies should Always be\nbrought to the Theatre. They do so much to Amuse an audience. This is\na very Noisy baby. Perhaps it has Ideas about the Show. That's right,\nHarry; get out Your bean shooter and Hit the Baby on the Nut. That will\namuse the Child and perhaps it will Sing for us. If the Mother were\nnot so big we would Soak her, too.\n\n\n\n\n40\n\n\nHere we have a Real sword. It is Carried by the Hero. He is a Brave\nman, and the sword is very Sharp. Johnny, try and Shave Harry with the\nSword. Try hard! Now Clara, get a Mop, and wipe Up the Blood before the\nStage manager returns. Johnny, hit Harry on the Head with a Hammer. He\nshould not Make so Much noise. Little children should be Seen and not\nHeard. Stick him in the Ribs with the sword.\n\n\n\n\n41\n\n\nThis Man is the Man who has seen the Show. Are you not glad that it\nis raining, so that you can Hear him Swear? No; he did not have an\nUmbrella when he went in, but he has one Now. He Found it. He is saying\nthat the Show was Rotten. That is because the Girl who sat next to\nhim got Mad when he Squeezed her Hand when it was Dark. Of course he\nThought he was Squeezing his wife's hand. Always squeeze hands when You\ngo to the theatre. It will keep you Warm.\n\n\n\n\n42\n\n\nHow pompous is the Orchestra leader! Do you notice his white gloves?\nHow they add to his appearance. Perhaps his appearance needs adding to.\nWatch him lean over the footlights. See the funny little bald spot on\nhis head. How commanding he is; all the musicians are afraid of him he\nis so fierce. But why the bald spot? S-h-h-h, children, that is where\nhis little wife pulled the hair out last night.\n\n\n\n\n43\n\n\nShades of Napoleon, what have we here? Can you not Guess? Look very\ncarefully. Ah, it is the uniform that The actor wears. What a shame!\nThe beautiful Silk that we saw from the Audience last night has All\nbeen taken off and Turkey-red put on Instead. And the silver braid!\nSomebody must have Stolen it and put Common rope with Silver paper\nround it in Its place. Johnny, run quickly and Get the scissors and we\nwill Cut off all this make-believe Finery so that the Actor can put on\nthe Real thing more easily. When the Actor comes he will give Us his\nblessing for What we have done.\n\n\n\n\n44\n\n\nLet us get a Bag of Peanuts. Eat all you want to, children. They will\nmake you grow. Throw the shells on the floor, and then Step on them.\nWhat a Pretty noise they make! See who can hit the Bald-headed man with\na Peanut. Now the Man is mad. How strange.\n\n\n\n\n45\n\n\nLet us listen to the actor Make a speech. He is a Great actor, and will\nMake a Great Speech. He says he Thanks us for our Kindness. Perhaps he\nwill lend us a Dollar. He says New York is the Only place. That is\nbecause the hens had stopped laying before he got to Philadelphia. What\na Happy expression the Actor wears, and How glad he is To see us. If we\ndo Not applaud the Rest of the Piece he will say that We are a lot of\nSlobs. But there are Other Actors in the show Besides this one. Yes;\none of them Wrote the Speech.\n\n\n\n\n46\n\n\nThis is the professional d\u00e9but of the Great amateur. She is a Pretty\ngirl, and Her friends say she is very, Very clever. How Gracefully she\nBows. Just like a Subway derrick. Her voice is like a Bell. Johnny, do\nyou Remember the Bells on the Cows up country? You naughty boy, she\ndoes Not resemble the Cow! See; she has just come in out of the Rain.\nShe says it is Bitt-e-r cold. She lays her Wraps before the Fire. Why\ndoes she not Shut the Window? Now she is going Out again. But why does\nshe leave her Wraps behind? Perhaps she is going to Commit Suicide. In\nthe Morning, when she sees the Papers, she will wish she Had. The world\nis very C-r-u-e-l. So are the Other papers.\n\n\n\n\n47\n\n\nHere we have the House manager. He says he Is being robbed. While he\nis in Business, he will not be lonely if that is true. He is counting\nup with the Show Manager. The Show manager also says he is being\nrobbed. Why don't they go To the Police? The Show manager says there\nWere Nineteen tickets in the Box. The house manager says there were\nonly Seventeen. One of the men is Lying; which one is it? Let us count\nthe tickets and See. Oh! there are eighteen. Then they were both lying.\nWell, they are both Managers.\n\n\n\n\n48\n\n\nNow we see the Heavy lady. The manager says she is a Light weight.\nHe calls her that Because she has asked For her Salary Twice in Two\ndays. Will she get her Salary? No; we do not think she will. To-night\nshe will do a Shrieking stunt on the stage. To-morrow she will Do a\nserio-comic on the Hotel man, and then she will Have a walking part all\nthe way back to Broadway.\n\n\n\n\n49\n\n\nHere we have the First-nighter. He comes to the First performance\nalways. The fifth row Back for his. The manager Knows him. He knows\nall the actors and Calls them by their first names. He would like to\nbelong to the Lambs' Club. After the Show is over he will tell the\nManager, confidentially, just what he thinks about it. The Manager\nwill listen very carefully and then Forget. Managers have excellent\nforgetories. But no Play ever succeeds unless it has the approbation of\nthe first Nighter. One of them Told me that, confidentially, so it must\nbe so.\n\n\n\n\n50\n\n\nThe Table is Loaded. There is a real Fowl and a Roast. It is a Banquet\nscene. How the actors will enjoy a square meal; they will Think they\nhave just got their back Salaries. Listen; the leading man says\nit is his Birthday feast. He has a Birthday every night and twice\non Saturday. Now he is carving the fowl. Oh! Oh! it is a Pasteboard\nchicken! The roast is all wood and paint. But the wine; that looks\nvery real. Oh, woe! the wine is Naught but Cold tea! How cruel of the\nmanager to Fool the actors so. The Table is loaded, but Not so the\nActors. At least, not at this kind of a Table.\n\n\n\n\n51\n\n\nThe Kind gentle lady is crying. She is the Actor's landlady. She\nspends half the day picking up cigarette stumps from the Floor of\nthe actor's room. It is a labor of love that she does, for she thinks\nthe actor is the Most beautiful ever. Such nice Manners as he has, and\nhe is always so Immaculate. But why is the Little lady crying? Ah, it\nis because the Actor is very Poor. He is always waiting for money from\nHome, but his people are forgetful. No; he has not Paid his rent for\nMany a day. When he pays up will the lady stop Crying? We fear not, for\nshe will have been in her Grave long since.\n\n\n\n\n52\n\n\nSee the tall <DW64>. Is not his uniform Gorgeous? What is that he is\nSaying? Ah, it is, \"Foourr, elseven, emniine,\" Do you not understand\nthat he is calling the Carriages? No; it is not necessary for Him\nto make such a Noise, but it is very impressive. Why does he use a\nMegaphone? Because the Drivers would hear him plainly if he did not and\nthe Carriages would get Away too soon to Make a great impression.\n\n\n\n\n53\n\n\nThis is a Theatrical photograph. How lovely is the Young woman; how\npensive. She looks like the Madonna. So kind; so good and so sweet.\nDoes the picture resemble the Actress? Certainly not. Her best friends\nwould Not know it was a photo of Her. That is right, Johnny; draw a\nMustache on the face. Do not put a beard on Her. Only managers are\nAllowed to Beard actresses. Why did the Lady take the pictures if they\ndo Not look like her? Perhaps she wants to _look_ good anyway. Yes; the\nPhotographer knows his business. He is a Scotchman and Very canny. He\ntalks with a Burr.\n\n\n\n\n54\n\n\nHere we see the Deluded heroine. She has been Deserted by her Cru-el\nand faithless Lover. See how Poorly she is clothed. She is trying to\nMake an honest living selling Matches. It is snowing and the poor Girl\nmust sleep on the Doorstep. She is starving; but Why does she not Pawn\nher diamond rings? Hush! they are heirlooms. No, Johnny; if she got a\nDivorce and became a Chorus girl she would Spoil the whole Show. Then\nthe manager would be Very angry. Managers are not Always considerate.\n\n\n\n\n55\n\n\nThis man is in a Hurry. He will push the Lady out of His way. That\nis Right, because the Lady should have Seen him Coming. He has\nstepped on the Lady's dress! Will he say \"excuse me\"? Certainly not.\nHow unnecessary, and besides he is in a Hurry. Why does he Hurry\nso? Because he is very Thirsty. Thirst is a Dreadful thing. Little\nChildren, never be Thirsty.\n\n\n\n\n56\n\n\nHere we have an engaged Couple. Are they not Very loving? See how\naccidentally he clasps her hand on the arm of the Chair. Now his\nnose is nestling in Her Hair. What lovely hair oil she uses. How\nimmaculate is his Dress suit. It cost him Two whole dollars and a Half\nfor the Evening. The Seats cost Him two Dollars. He gets eight per. How\ncan he afford such luxuries? Oh, he will stand off his Landlady for\na Week. Will the landlady mind that? No, the Landlady was young once\nherself. It was a long time Ago.\n\n\n\n\n57\n\n\nDo you see the Man who has just come in? How Important is his Bearing.\nHe is going to take the seat next to you, Johnny, so you must be a\nGood boy. What a big man he is. He spreads over half your seat, and\nhis Feet stick out in the aisle. He is sending the Usher to get him\na Programme. How bored he looks; he must Have seen the play several\ntimes. See, he has stopped the Water-boy, and has taken Two glasses\nof Water. How interested he is in the Ladies who go up the Aisle. He\nmust know a Great many of them. No; he is not the Manager, he is the\nProverbial Dead-head.\n\n\n\n\n58\n\n\nHere we see the Stage Manager at rehearsal. How quietly he sits in his\nChair. His voice is low and he never raises it; his manner is gentle.\nOne of the ladies does not know her part. Notice how encouragingly the\nManager speaks to her. He says the best Actresses are poor studies. Oh,\none of the men has Forgotten a piece of Business. The low sweet voice\nof the Stage Manager is heard again. He wants to Know what the Blankety\nblank blank the Man means. Always keep your temper, children. A soft\nanswer Turneth away Wrath, but a good stiff Punch is more often used.\nBe like the Stage Manager, little ones, and when you Die you will have\nlots of company.\n\n\n\n\n59\n\n\nWhat a large number of Letters. Yes; this is the Actor's mail. Tear\nsome of the letters Open, and let us see who sent them. In this way we\nwill save the Actor trouble and he will Love us. Here is one on Pink\npaper from Gwendoline. She says the Actor is her Idol. Isn't that nice\nof Gwendoline? All young girls should encourage the Poor Hard-working\nActor with kind words. My! Here is one from Gwendoline's Mother.\nPerhaps she wants him to meet her daughter. No. She says he reminds her\nof an old Sweetheart, and will he go Driving with her in the Park!\nHere is a laundry bill Six months old. Throw it away, Johnny; the Actor\nwill not want to see it. Another letter is from a woman who Wants to\nknow when He is going to pay the alimony. We had better hang this One\nup where the rest of the Company can see It.\n\n\n\n\n60\n\n\nWhat lovely diamonds the Actress is wearing. See, she has them all\nover her. They Must have cost as Much as Five dollars. No; they are\nnot imitation; that is a cruel slander started by a Rival. Perhaps it\nis the Base rival who steals the Actress's jewels every time they go\nto a New town. All actresses' diamonds are Real. They wouldn't wear\nImitations. Oh, Horrors, no! But they are very unfortunate, for the\nDiamonds are often Stolen. Are they not Lucky to get them back?\n\n\n\n\n61\n\n\nThis play is a Musical Comedy. It says so on the Bills. Bills are very\nuseful, for they tell us a lot of Things we wouldn't know Otherwise.\nThere are two Singing Comedians in the Play. See what Foolish antics\nthey cut up. No, they are not Crazy; they are very, very funny. Listen;\none of them is Saying a song. Is it not a shame That they Cannot sing!\nThey would have beautiful voices if they could sing. But then they\nwould not be called Singing Comedians.\n\n\n\n\n62\n\n\nThis Man must be a Millionaire. He says he is only a Speculator.\nWhy does he have Wads of Bills between his fingers? That is to show\nHow many Good things he has met. He is a very kind and considerate\nGentleman, for he will Sell you Better seats than you can get at the\nBox Office. They are so Cheap, too. Why, he almost gives them away.\nHow does the Poor man make a Living? Isn't it real Mean of the\nManagement to Try and Drive the Nice Speculator out of Business? And\nthey Try so Hard, too! How does the Speculator get the Tickets if the\nManagement don't want him to? Well, perhaps You will Know when You grow\nup, because this is the age of Miracles. Most likely he uses Psychic\npower.\n\n\n\n\n63\n\n\nHere is a voice. It comes from an Aperture in the Face of the Girl\nsitting behind me. I am glad the voice is very loud and Shrill, because\nI can hear it above the Silly noise that is being made on the Stage.\nThe Girl says she is an Intimate Friend of the Leading lady. The\nleading lady has advised her to have her voice cultivated. She is going\nto Do it, and then she is going on the Stage and Act! Little children,\nwe should be very thankful that it Will take a Long time to Cultivate\nthat Voice.\n\n\n\n\n64\n\n\nHow quickly the Usher runs Down the Aisle with the Basket of Flowers.\nThe curtain is coming down; he will be Too late. Ah, the curtain goes\nUp again. How Gracefully the Orchestra Leader hands the Flowers to the\nLeading Lady. What a look of Surprise and pleasure is on her face. What\na pretty Bow she makes to the Box. Does she Know any one in the Box?\nDear me, no. Then where do the Flowers come from? Did the Lady order\nthe Flowers herself? Children, you ask too many questions.\n\n\n\n\n65\n\n\nThis is the Child Actress. She is just the Cutest Ever. So childish,\nand such a good little Actress. She is only seven. Her manager says\nshe is the Wonder of the Age. She can act even better than the Leading\nlady. Her salary is very Big, for she has to Keep her poor old Mother.\nSee, she is winking at the young Lady in the Box. How much alike they\nare. Yes, they are Mother and Daughter. But the young Lady is too young\na thing to have a Child. Well?\n\n\n\n\n66\n\n\nHere we have the Seat in the Gallery. Is it not Lovely; and so cheap.\nIt and its counterparts are occupied by True Lovers of Art. They are\npoor, and cannot Afford to sit downstairs. The Gallery Seat has many\nCharms. There is no room for One's knees, so one cannot grow out of\none's clothes while watching the Show. The Fire Commissioner allows\nPoor People to sit in the Aisles in the Gallery. Is he not Kind?\n\n\n\n\n67\n\n\nThis is the Water Boy. He is a very Smart little fellow, and hopes\nsome day to be an Actor. He has many Glasses of water. The people are\nThirsty; they all call and beckon to him. How strange that he does not\nRespond. No; it is not strange either. The poor Little Fellow is both\nDeaf and Blind. That is why he Got the Job.\n\n\n\n\n68\n\n\nThis young man is Smiling. He is listening to a Group of real actors.\nHe smiles because he is in such Distinguished company. He is Hoping\nthat some of his Friends will see Him. Perhaps his Best girl will pass\nby. Is he a Thespian? What a Silly question. No; he is a Clerk in a\nshoe store. He gets Nine dollars and fifty cents Every week. Listen; he\nsays his Mother's brother's Great uncle was the son of an Actor. He was\non the Stage once himself, he says. Was it the Landing stage at Ellis\nIsland? Now he is lending the actors Money. He says he is Tickled to\ndeath. So are the Actors. They may get him Passes to the Show--if they\ndon't forget.\n\n\n\n\n69\n\n\nWho is this Stately chocolate lady? She must be the Queen of Dahomey.\nHow haughty is her Mien; how Proud, how Superior. The vulgar Stage\nhands call her Little Eva. What does she do On the Stage? She is the\nLeading lady's maid. No Leading lady could act if she had not got a\nMaid. A maid is an Absolute necessity. Also, she is sometimes Useful.\nShe can tell in One minute whether her Mistress' hat is on Straight\nor not. What else does she Do? Oh, she carries the Poodle. Some day\nshe Will help herself to too much of the Actress' cologne and will Get\ncaught with the Goods. Then there Will be Another chocolate Drop on the\nSidewalk.\n\n\n\n\n70\n\n\nWhat a Loud voice the Boy has. Yes; he is a Call boy. What are his\nFunctions? Why, he Calls upon the actors to Act, of course. Then again,\nhe Smokes cigarettes. Why does he Call the leading man \"Charlie\"?\nBecause he has Known him a long, long Time; as much as Two weeks!\nSometimes the Boy is condescending and gives the actors Tips on how\nto act. He tells them confidentially how Rotten the others are. He says\nhe Thinks the ingenue is a Stupid child! Perhaps she Slapped his face\nwhen he tried to Kiss her. Emulate the Call boy, children. He knows\nmore about the Business than Any one else.\n\n\n\n\n71\n\n\nWhat Beautiful figures these Two men have. The figures are on paper.\nThey represent the Enormous profits made by the Show. Later they will\nbe published in the Papers. The public will Be told how enormously\nSuccessful the Show has been. There are Other figures over on the\nTable. There is nothing beautiful about the Second set. What are they\nfor? They are to reckon the Royalty on. The Royalty goes to the Man who\nwrote the play. Are either set of figures correct? Ask the managers.\n\n\n\n\n72\n\n\nYou must always believe what you see in the Papers. This paper says the\nShow has made a big Hit. What does that Mean? Does it mean that the\nmanagement has been hit? Or the public? The paper says the Leading lady\nis a Dream. Dear me! Did you Ever have Bad Dreams? Why, this must be\na Press notice; there's a drawback in every Line. Good press notices\nswell the Box office receipts. Yes; and sometimes they Swell the press\nagent's Head.\n\n\n\n\n73\n\n\nHark! Do you Hear the real Fire bells? Oh, see the real Fire engine\n_dash_ across the Stage! The horses move Almost as quickly as a\nBroadway car. How red the real Flames are. Yes; the Gas bill will be\nvery High. Do not scream, children; no one will get Burnt. This is\nnot a Real fire; there is no Smoke. The show is Certainly a Hot one.\nIt will be Hotter to-morrow--after the Critics have Roasted it. The\nprogramme says the Fire scene is marvellously Realistic. Let us Light\ntwo or three programmes and Throw them into the aisle. There! Do you\nnotice any Difference?\n\n\n\n\n74\n\n\nSee the Gallery usher. He must be Very tired, for he leans indolently\nagainst the doorpost. Perhaps he does not like his High station. How\nGraceful is his pose; how airy his demeanor. His clothes are shabby--or\nperhaps it is a new style. We will Ask him to Take us to our seats.\nSurely you Did not expect him to Move? Oh, no; he would Not think of\ndoing That. Instead, he waves His hand gracefully. He says, \"First two,\nfirst row.\" How kind! We will not disturb his rest. But if you will tap\nhis forehead Gently with a Brick, Johnny, he may wake up.\n\n\n\n\n75\n\n\nLet us listen to the Popular song. It is being sung by a Charming\ndamsel. No; Johnny, we are not referring to the Song but to the Singer.\nThe song ends in _oo-oo-oo_. Isn't it a Masterpiece! And the music\nsounds like yellow hosiery. How sublimely entrancing! The song is a\nGreat success. Everybody will Buy several copies. The song is popular\nbecause it ends in _oo-oo-oo_! No one cares for the rest of the words.\nNoble words like These will make any Song popular. If you are a Genius,\nClara, you will write an _oo-oo-oo_ song.\n\n\n\n\n76\n\n\nThis is the Man who plays the Drums. How short he is--and how Fat. He\nhas three Kettle drums, a tenor and a bass. Sometimes he is a Cuckoo\nclock. Oh, listen! Now he is a church Bell. Pretty soon he will Play\non some sticks of Kindling wood tied together. Isn't he clever? Music\nseems to come from His finger tips. How deft he is. Of course, he has\nnever upset a Sugar bowl, Johnny. How did he Get his Wonderful Musical\neducation? Perhaps it was drummed into him. His wife says She can't get\nhim to Practise on the kindling Wood at home. What a pity.\n\n\n\n\n77\n\n\nIsn't this a cute Little envelope? It contains the Actor's salary.\nThe actor has Told his friends just what Salary he is getting. This\nlooks like a Very small envelope to hold Such a Large sum. Maybe it\nis in very large bills. Actors often do get large Bills. Shall we\nlook at the Figures on the outside of the Envelope? No; we Might be\ndisappointed in the actor If we did. Perhaps the actor will Pay back\nthe Fiver he borrowed, now that he Has got his salary. Can you define\nthe Word \"perhaps,\" children?\n\n\n\n\n78\n\n\nWho are all these People standing around? Oh, this is a booking Agency;\na place where They put your name in a Book. Let us listen to what\nThe people say. From their Talk they must be the Greatest actors and\nactresses in the Country. No doubt that is Correct. This large man\nsays he has Made more great Hits than any Other actor in the Land. Is\na touch a hit? Surely these Great Artists do not come Here looking for\nWork. Dear me, no; they Just drop in to get their Mail.\n\n\n\n\n79\n\n\nDo you Notice the chilly feeling, children? Yes; the lady Star has\nQuarrelled with the Manager. She says she will Have her friends Back on\nthe stage Whenever she likes. The manager says it is against the Rules.\nWhy is he So angry about a little Thing? Why, don't you know? One of\nthe friends was a Particular friend. The manager likes to be The\nparticular friend himself. Will he fire the pretty Lady star? No; they\nwill have Supper together and all will be Serene. If he should Fire the\npretty lady they Would both go Broke.\n\n\n\n\n80\n\n\nThe monologue artist is a Funny fellow. His salary is very Large and he\nis the Real thing. If a joke is not funny he will Tell it over and Over\nagain. All vaudeville people Think it is a Sin to waste a good Joke.\nCan you tell Me where the Monologue artist Gets his jokes from? No; no\none knows that, but He is very fond of Reading ancient Roman books.\nYou would Never think it from his Talk, would you? Oh, never!\n\n\n\n\n81\n\n\nWhy is this Man called the Low comedian? Is it because he Comes high?\nHow humorous are his Antics on the stage! On the Street he looks like a\nBelated funeral. See what a curt Nod he gives the Leading man as they\nPass each other. Are they not Good friends? Oh, yes, they are Very good\nfriends, but the Comedian thinks the Show would be Much better if the\nleading man were Out of the Cast. Is the comedian Jealous then? No.\nActors are never jealous.\n\n\n\n\n82\n\n\nWhat a wonderful thing is the Positively last appearance! The Great\nsinger is going to Retire. We must Hurry up and get seats so that\nWe can hear her. Do not delay or we will Miss a great Treat. Is it\nnot nice of the Singer to give a farewell tour? So considerate! We\nremember that she did it when Mother was young. Perhaps, when we have\nGrand-children, she will give a Farewell tour for them. Do great\nsingers never Grow old? No; people who give Last appearances grow\nyounger every day.\n\n\n\n\n83\n\n\nChildren, observe the Curtain. Is it not a work of Art? The painting\non it is very, very beautiful. The Art is so far above us that we\ncannot Tell what the Picture is meant for. Is that a Horse in the lower\ncorner? Surely it is. How strong the horse is. His limbs are like Iron.\nThey look it! Why has the Lady with Pink hair got on a Green sheet?\nThat's a very simple question. The Painter was an Irishman and so by\nPutting a fold of the Sheet over the Lady's head he got the Green above\nthe Red. Patriotic painter!\n\n\n\n\n84\n\n\nWhat a crush in the Lobby. The handsome couple are Hurrying to Catch\ntheir train. The man behind has Caught the lady's train for her. He\nsays, \"Excuse me.\" The lady Smiles and says it is no Matter. She\nwhispers to her Husband. She says, Blankety blank Ham bones! Is she\nnot a great linguist? The lady in the Pretty dress in Front of her is\nLifting her skirt very High. She does not want to get it Dirty. What\nlong stockings she Has. How angry she would Be if she Thought we had\nNoticed.\n\n\n\n\n85\n\n\nWhat a beautiful Hat the lady has on. It cost Thirty-five dollars.\nShe is going to sit down. Will she take the Hat off? Dear me, no!\nThat would be Wasting Thirty-five Dollars. See the Pretty Flowers and\nPlumage. How much more beautiful They are than the Old scenery on the\nStage. How kind of the Lady to keep her Hat on so that every one can\nAdmire it. That is right, Johnny; make paper balls and throw them at\nthe Hat. Try to hit the Lady on the Ear. She likes playful children.\nSee, there is another Lady with a hat on. This is not a Play; it is a\nMillinery Display.\n\n\n\n\n86\n\n\nNow, children, you must be very Quiet for we are Up in the Flies and\nthe Performance is going On. Do you know what those ropes are? They are\nto Pull the scenes up and down. Isn't there a lot of Dust up here? Yes;\nbut it is nothing to the Dust the Manager would raise if He knew we\nwere up Here. It is not at all Necessary for the manager to raise the\nWind in order to raise a Dust. Oh, dear me, no. Why do they Call the\nplace the Flies? Because the scenes fly up and Down. Loosen the ropes,\nClara. Yes, three of them. There, do you see how it is Done? But what\nis that Noise on the stage? Come, children, I think we had Better go.\n\n\n\n\n87\n\n\nWhat a very Nice-looking man that is, sitting Next to you, Harry. He\nlooks so happy, too. Is he Talking to himself? No, no, silly, he is\njust Humming the airs of the Opera. He does that so that We will know\nthat He has heard the Music before. How thoughtful of Him. Pretty soon\nhe Will begin to tell the Lady he is with just what is Going to happen.\nNaturally she will enjoy the play much Better after he does that. But\nwould it not Be a nice thing to Repay him for his Trouble? Suppose we\nhit him With a Brick when he comes out. That will be a Thoughtful thing\nto do.\n\n\n\n\n88\n\n\nWho is the Handsome man in the Beautiful greasy overalls? Is it not the\nMan we saw on the Street car that Every one took for an Actor? What is\nhe Doing here on the Stage at so Early an hour? Ah! little children,\nhe is a poor but Honest scene-shifter, and he is About to go to Work.\nCan any one tell where He got the Lovely clothes he Wore in the Car?\nNo? Well, we will not Press the question, and The clothes have already\nbeen pressed.\n\n\n\n\n89\n\n\nCan you tell me What that thing is Right in front of the Gallery?\nClever boy, Johnny; it _is_ the Calcium light. It is used to Make\npretty colors on the Stage. When the very Interesting scene is on,\nthe Man who runs it will take particular trouble to Get in the way of\nthe People behind him. Why does he Do this? Is it Simply because he\nis a Calcium man? But you ought to See how Brave and lion-like he is\nWhen he has Forgotten to Throw the Spot light on the Star. He is Very\nconsiderate of the Audience, oh, yes, but He doesn't care a Hang for\nthe Manager.\n\n\n\n\n90\n\n\nHold your breaths, Children, this is Going to be a dark change. All the\nlights have gone out, so we Will not be able to See the things on the\nStage. Do you see anything with White shirt sleeves Running across the\nStage? Ah! See the Table get up and Walk off. The scenes are Swinging\naround and Disappearing. How funny it is that we think we See things.\nOf course we don't, for this is a Dark change. Biff! the lights have\nBeen lit again. Why does the man in the White shirt sleeves run off the\nStage in such a Hurry?\n\n\n\n\n91\n\n\nHave you noticed the Wires under your seats, children? They are called\nHat Racks. Some silly people say they Are nerve racking. They are put\nunder The seats to hold person's Hats. It Never takes more than fifteen\nMinutes to get a hat into one, but You can get a hat out in Half an\nhour! If you want to Make your Tall hat look like a Derby put it In a\nhat rack. The man who Invented them knew how to take Care of a hat,\nfor the Rack is so arranged that the Hat will fall down on to the Dusty\nfloor, just when somebody is Going to stick his Feet out under your\nChair.\n\n\n\n\n92\n\n\nWait till all the Other folks are gone, my dears, so that we can See\nthe Sweeper. Ah, here he is. He is the man who sweeps out the Theatre.\nNotice how gently he Puts the chair seats up. If any one should lose\ntheir Diamonds, and he Were to find them, would He turn them in at the\nBox office? Of course he would! Sometimes he Finds umbrellas. What does\nhe do with those?--Ah, well, even the poor should Lay something away\nfor a Rainy day. The Box-office man will Tell you that the Sweeper once\nfound a set of False teeth and Turned them in.\n\n\n\n\n93\n\n\nHere we have the Foreign Artiste. See; a reporter is going to Interview\nher. She says _bon jour_ to the Reporter. That is so he will Know she\nis French. If we listen we will hear Her talk about \"gay Par-ee and ze\nNobilitee she have met on ze Continong.\" What a beautiful accent she\nHas. The reporter is Smiling. When he comes out he Will say that she\nwas Born in Ireland and that her Right name is Murphy. But then, of\ncourse, Reporters always think they Know everything. Ah, the Foreign\nArtiste has lost her Handkerchief. Is the language she Uses now, French?\n\n\n\n\n94\n\n\nThe really Great Actress is going to Europe. Her friends are all down\nto See her off. They have brought huge Bunches of flowers labelled\n\"Bon Voyage.\" With all the Candy she has, she ought to have a bon bon\nVoyage. She will go to London first, she Says. Will she stay in London\nlong? Oh, yes; she will get a Little room in Bloomsbury and Cook\nher own meals. When she comes Back she will tell of the Delightfully\nBohemian customs of the English. Will she enjoy her Trip to Europe?\nRahther!\n\n\n\n\n95\n\n\nOh, look! the actor is putting on his Shirt. Don't you remember how\nClean and white it Looked last night? But this shirt is Dirty. Or are\nthese stains of toil? Surely the Actor will not wear this shirt Again.\nDo not take too much for Granted, children. Clean shirts are a Very\nexpensive Luxury. If the actor were a Manager now, he Might wear a\nclean shirt Every night. Managers always have Money, but Actors put\nso Much in the Bank that they can not afford many Clean shirts. And,\nbesides, what's the use?\n\n\n\n\n96\n\n\nDid you notice the Check room? Isn't it a lovely arrangement? There\nis Absolutely no charge. The programme says so. When you check your\nOvercoat, Johnny, be sure and Leave your change in the Pocket. Then you\nwill know Where it is. Do not think of Asking for your Overcoat again\nUntil the next morning. You might inconvenience the Boy in charge\nif you did and then he Might make you Wait. There is no Charge for\nchecking, but If you were to Give the Boy anything for himself he Would\nbe very grateful. He might even say Thank you.\n\n\n\n\n97\n\n\nThis is a Sad sight that greets us, Little children. Do you know What\nit is? It is the newspaper man who has to Go to all the Theatres every\nnight. He must do this so that If there is anything doing it will be In\nthe papers. Is there anything Doing to-night? Yes; the Actors are doing\nthe Managers and the Managers are doing the public. Do the public Like\nto be done? There is no such thing as the Public, children; each Man\nthinks he is too wise to be Done. But the newspaper man; what About\nhim? Ah, that is the Sad part of it. The press agents Do him every time\nthey Get a chance.\n\n\n\n\n98\n\n\nLet us look into the actor's Trunk. It has just been Brought up to the\nDressing room. The poor actor; he must have Packed his trunk in a Great\nhurry. See; here is a Panama hat that he Wears in the First scene,\nright on Top. The place for hats is the Bottom of the trunk. Johnny,\ntake the Things all out and We will re-pack the trunk. There now;\nthat's much better. Everything that was on top is now on the Bottom.\nHow Glad the actor will be when he sees what We have done. He will come\nin in a Hurry and will be Tickled to death. In spite of his hurry He\nwill try to find us so that he can Thank us.\n\n\n\n\n99\n\n\nThe hotel Clerk has been to see the Show. He is trying to Make an\nimpression on the Soubrette. He sent her a Big bunch of Flowers and a\nLittle note. He would like to Take her to Supper. Does he Know the\nSoubrette? Oh, dear, no. He has never seen her Off the stage. He will\nwait at the Stage door for Her and will Wear a big Carnation in his\nButtonhole. The man With the broad Shoulders will be there, Too. The\nSoubrette will call the Latter \"Pop\" and will introduce the two Men.\nThen the Hotel clerk will say how Pleased he will be to Buy supper for\nThree.\n\n\n\n\n100\n\n\nStep softly, children dear; the actor is dying. He has played many\nparts in his life and has made many enemies. Some of them are gathered\nround him now; the others have always been his friends. Once he was\nrich, but of late he has been poor. His friends and enemies alike have\nhelped him. They have given their services at benefits and have visited\nhim. Some who have spoken harshly of him are sorry now, and they say\nso. Are there many people as good to their kind as actors and actresses?\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Theatrical Primer, by Harold Acton Vivian\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "Fodor's Germany - Fodor's"}, "text": "\n\nImages of Germany\n\nGermany Maps\n\nExperience Germany\n\nMunich\n\nThe Bavarian Alps\n\nThe Romantic Road\n\nFranconia and the German Danube\n\nThe Bodensee\n\nThe Black Forest\n\nHeidelberg and the Neckar Valley\n\nFrankfurt\n\nThe Pfalz and Rhine Terrace\n\nThe Rhineland\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road\n\nHamburg\n\nSchleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast\n\nBerlin\n\nSaxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia\n\nUnderstanding Germany\n\nTravel Smart Germany\n\nAbout Our Writer\n\nCredits and Copyright\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\n### Munich\n\nMunich: The City Center\n\nMunich: Royal Munich\n\nMunich: Schwabing and Maxvorstadt\n\n### Bavarian Alps\n\nWerdenfesler Land and Wetterstein Montains\n\nChiemgau\n\nBerchtesgadener Land\n\n### The Romantic Road\n\nToward the Alps\n\nNorthern and Central Romantic Road\n\nAugsburg\n\nRothenburg-ob-der-Tauber\n\nW\u00fcrzburg\n\n### Franconia and the German Danube\n\nNorthern Franconia\n\nN\u00fcrnberg (Nuremberg)\n\nRegensburg\n\nPassau\n\n### The Bodensee\n\nUpper Swabia and the Northern Shore\n\nAround the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula\n\n### The Black Forest\n\nThe Northern Black Forest\n\nThe Central and Southern Black Forest\n\nFreiburg\n\n### Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley\n\nHeidelberg\n\nThe Burgenstrasse (Castle Road)\n\nSwabian Cities\n\n### Frankfurt\n\nFrankfurt: Altstadt and City Center\n\nFrankfurt: West End and Sachsenhausen\n\n### The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace\n\nThe German Wine Road\n\nThe Rhine Terrace\n\nWorms\n\n### The Rhineland\n\nThe Rheingau and The Mittelrhein\n\nKoblenz\n\nThe Mosel Valley\n\nTrier\n\nBonn and the K\u00f6ln Lowlands\n\nBonn\n\nK\u00f6ln (Cologne)\n\n### The Fairy-Tale Road\n\nHesse\n\nLower Saxony\n\nHannover\n\n### Hamburg\n\nHamburg: Altstadt, Neustadt, and Hafencity\n\nHamburg: St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel\n\n### Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast\n\nSchleswig-Holstein\n\nThe Baltic Coast\n\n### Berlin\n\nBerlin: Mitte\n\nBerlin: Tiergarten and Potsdamer Platz\n\nBerlin: Kreuzberg\n\nBerlin: Charlottenburg\n\nPotsdam and Sansoucci\n\n### Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia\n\nSaxony\n\nLeipzig\n\nDresden\n\nSaxony-Anhalt and Thuringia\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nGermany Today\n\nWhat's Where\n\nGermany Planner\n\nQuintessential Germany\n\nTop Attractions in Germany\n\nBest Things to Do in Germany\n\nIf You Like\n\nFlavors of Germany\n\nBeers of Germany\n\nWines of Germany\n\nGreat Itineraries\n\nLodging Primer\n\nDiscovering Your German Ancestors\n\nWorld War II Sites\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAbout the size of Montana but home to Western Europe's largest population, Germany is in many ways a land of contradictions. The land of \"Dichter und Denker\" (\"poets and thinkers\") is also one of the world's leading export countries, specializing in mechanical equipment, vehicles, chemicals, and household goods. It's a country that is both deeply conservative, valuing tradition, hard work, precision, and fiscal responsibility, and one of the world's most liberal countries, with a generous social welfare state, a strongly held commitment to environmentalism, and a postwar determination to combat xenophobia. But Germany, which reunited 22 years ago after 45 years of division, is also a country in transition. As the horrors of World War II, though not forgotten, recede, the country that is Europe's most important economic powerhouse has once again taken a leading economic and political role in Europe, setting, for example, the EU's austerity-oriented policies in an attempt to counteract Europe's current economic downturn.\n\n### Integration\n\nDuring the \"Wirtschaftswunder,\" the postwar economic boom of the 1950s and 1960s, West Germany invited \"guest workers\" from Italy, Greece, and above all Turkey to help in the rebuilding of the country. Because the Germans assumed these guest workers would return home, they provided little in the way of cultural integration policies. But the guest workers, usually manual workers from the countryside with little formal education, often did not return to the economically depressed regions they had come from. Instead, they brought wives and family members to join them and settled in Germany, often forming parallel societies cut off from mainstream German life. Today, Germany's largest immigrant group is Turkish. In fact, Berlin is the largest Turkish city after Istanbul. Though these Turkish communities are now an indelible part of the German society\u2014one blond-hair, blue-eyed German soldier deployed to Afghanistan famously said that the thing he missed most about home was the d\u00f6ner kebab, the ubiquitous Turkish-German fast-food dish\u2014thus far, the country has fumbled somewhat when it comes to successful integration. Efforts, however, are currently underway to redress the situation. Unlike the United States, Germany is historically a land of emigrants, not immigrants, but Germany's demographics are undergoing a radical shift: one in three children in Germany today is foreign-born or has a parent who is a foreign-born; in bigger cities, as many as two-thirds of school-age children don't speak German at home.\n\n### Worldwide Recession\n\nGermany, the world's fourth-largest economy, was the world's largest exporter until 2009, when China overtook it. The worldwide recession hit Germany squarely, though thanks to a strong social network, the unemployed and underemployed did not suffer on the level we are used to in the United States. In Germany, losing your job does not mean you lose your health insurance, and the unemployed receive financial help from the state to meet housing payments and other basic expenses. More recently, Germany has been a bastion of economic strength during the euro zone crisis, maintaining a solid economy while countries like Greece, Spain, and Portugal have entered into economic tailspins. By far the most important economy in the European Union, Germany, with its traditional, don't-spend-more-than-you-earn culture, has a strong voice in setting the EU's economic agenda and has traditionally acted as a kind of rich uncle that other countries turn to when they need an economic bailout. But Germany's push for austerity measures hasn't always been met with enthusiasm: on an official visit to Greece, Angela Merkel was met by protesters dressed in Nazi uniforms.\n\n### Engineer This!\n\nGermany has a well-deserved reputation as a land of engineers. The global leader in numerous high-tech fields, German companies are hugely successful on the world's export markets, thanks to lots of innovation, sophisticated technology and quality manufacturing. German cars, machinery, and electrical and electronic equipment are all big sellers. But recent years have seen series of bloopers. Three major building projects in Germany\u2014the Elbphilharmonie concert hall in Hamburg; Stuttgart 21, a new train station in Stuttgart; and the new airport in Berlin\u2014have run way over budget and dragged on for years. Of the three, the airport is the most egregious: Originally planned to open in 2010, Berlin Brandenburg Airport has suffered delays due to poor construction planning, management, and execution (in 2012, the airport canceled its grand opening only days before flights were scheduled to begin). No one knows when it will open, and numerous politicians have expressed concern that failures like these will tarnish Germany's reputation as a country of can-do engineers.\n\n### Privacy, Please!\n\nThe Germans are not big fans of Facebook. With good reason: With recent experiences of life in a police state under both the Nazi regime and the East German regime, they don't like the idea of anyone collecting personal information about them. Germany has some of the most extensive data privacy laws in the world, with everything from credit card numbers to medical histories strictly protected.\n\n### To the Left, to the Left\n\nBy American standards, German politics are distinctly left-leaning. One thing that's important to know is that the Germans don't have a two-party system; rather they have several important parties, and these must form alliances after elections to pass initiatives. Thus, there's an emphasis on cooperation and deal-making, sometimes (but not always) making for odd bedfellows. A \"Red-Green\" (or \"stoplight\") coalition between the Green Party and the socialist SPD held power from 1998 to 2002; since then, there has been a steady move to the center-right in Germany, with recent reforms curtailing some social welfare benefits and ecological reforms. In 2005, Germany elected the first female chancellor, center-right Christian Democratic party member Angela Merkel. A politician from the former East Germany who speaks Russian, Merkel has enjoyed much popularity.\n\n### Renew, Recycle, Reuse\n\nThe Green Party, founded in 1980, is an established and important player in the German government. Thanks to aggressive government legislation initiated by the Greens in the past decades, Germany today is a leader in green energy technology and use\u2014in 2012, 25% of the electricity used in Germany came from renewable sources.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nMunich. Beautiful Munich boasts wonderful opera, theater, museums, and churches\u2014and the city's chic residents dress their best to visit them. This city also has lovely outdoor spaces, from parks, beer gardens, and caf\u00e9s, to the famous Oktoberfest grounds.\n\nThe Bavarian Alps. Majestic peaks, lush green pastures, and frescoed houses brightened by flowers make for one of Germany's most photogenic regions. Quaint villages like Mittenwald, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Oberammergau, and Berchtesgaden have preserved their charming historic architecture. Nature is the prime attraction here, with the country's finest hiking and skiing.\n\nThe Romantic Road. The Romantische Strasse is more than 355 km (220 miles) of soaring castles, medieval villages, fachwerk (half-timber) houses, and imposing churches, all set against a pastoral backdrop. Winding its way from W\u00fcrzburg to F\u00fcssen, it features such top destinations as Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber and Schloss Neuschwanstein, King Ludwig II's fantastical castle.\n\nFranconia and the German Danube. Thanks to the centuries-old success of craftsmanship and trade, Franconia is a proud, independent-minded region in northern Bavaria. Franconia is home to historic N\u00fcrnberg, the well-preserved medieval jewel-box town of Bamberg, and Bayreuth, where Wagner lived and composed.\n\nThe Bodensee. The sunniest region in the country, the Bodensee (Lake Constance) itself is the highlight. The region is surrounded by beautiful mountains, and the dense natural surroundings offer an enchanting contrast to the picture-perfect towns and manicured gardens.\n\nThe Black Forest. Synonymous with cuckoo clocks and primeval woodland that is great for hiking, the Black Forest includes the historic university town of Freiburg\u2014one of the most colorful and hip student cities in Germany\u2014and proud and elegant Baden-Baden, with its long tradition of spas and casinos.\n\nHeidelberg and the Neckar Valley. This medieval town is quintessential Germany, full of cobblestone alleys, half-timber houses, vineyards, castles, wine pubs, and Germany's oldest university.\n\nFrankfurt. Nicknamed \"Mainhattan\" because it is the only German city with appreciable skyscrapers, Frankfurt is Germany's financial center and transportation hub.\n\nThe Pfalz and Rhine Terrace. Wine reigns supreme here. Bacchanalian festivals pepper the calendar between May and October, and wineries welcome drop-ins for tastings year-round. Three great cathedrals are found in Worms, Speyer, and Mainz.\n\nThe Rhineland. The region along the mighty Rhine River is one of the most dynamic in all of Europe. Fascinating cities such as K\u00f6ln (Cologne), steeped in Roman and medieval history, offer stunning symbols of Gothic architecture, such as the K\u00f6lner Dom. Visit during Karneval for boisterous celebrations.\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road. The M\u00e4rchenstrasse, stretching 600 km (370 miles) between Hanau and Bremen, is definitely the Brothers Grimm country. They nourished their dark and magical imaginations as children in Steinau an der Strasse, a beautiful medieval town in this region of misty woodlands and ancient castles.\n\nHamburg. Hamburg, with its long tradition as a powerful and wealthy Hanseatic port city, is quintessentially elegant. World-class museums of modern art; the wild red-light district along the Reeperbahn; and HafenCity, a new supermodern, environmentally, and architecturally avant-garde quarter currently under construction, make Hamburg well worth a visit.\n\nSchleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast. Off the beaten path, this region is scattered with medieval towns, fishing villages, unspoiled beaches, and summer resorts like Sylt, where Germany's jet set go to get away.\n\nBerlin. No trip to Germany is complete without a visit its capital, Europe's hippest urban destination. Cheap rents drew artists from all over the world to this gritty, creative, and broke city. Cutting-edge art exhibits, stage dramas, musicals, and bands compete for your attention with two cities' worth of world-class museums, three opera houses, eight state theaters, and two zoos.\n\nSaxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia. The southeast is a secret treasure trove of German high culture. Friendly, vibrant cities like Dresden, Leipzig, Weimar, and Eisenach are linked to Schiller, Goethe, Bach, Luther, and the like.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWhen to Go | Getting Here | Getting Around | Dining: The Basics | Money | Social Mores | Dress and Undress\n\n## When to Go\n\nA year-round destination, Germany is particularly wonderful May through September for the long mild days that stretch sightseeing hours and are perfect for relaxing in beer gardens.\n\nIn the north, January can be dark, cold, and moody, with wind that cuts to the bone. Southern Germany, on the other hand, is a great winter destination, with world-class skiing, spas, and wellness options.\n\n## Getting Here\n\nMost flights into Germany arrive at Frankfurt's Flughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA) or Munich's Flughafen M\u00fcnchen (MUC). Eventually, the Berlin Brandenburg Willy Brandt Airport (BER) will open (in the meantime, Berlin has two smaller airports, Tegel in the north, and Sch\u00f6nefeld in the south). Flying time to Frankfurt is 1\u00bd hours from London, 7\u00bd hours from New York, 10 hours from Chicago, and 12 hours from Los Angeles. Some international carriers serve K\u00f6ln (Cologne), Hamburg, and Berlin. Germany has a fantastic train system, and is well connected to all overland European destinations. Hamburg, followed by Bremen, is Germany's most important harbor, and cruise ships and ferries connect the German north coast to England, Scandinavia, Russia, and the Baltics.\n\n## Getting Around\n\nOnce in Germany you can travel by train, car, bus, or air. Travel by train is the most relaxing and often fastest way to go. The Deutsche Bahn (German Railways) serves most destinations with great frequency, speed, and comfort. Train stations are in the city center, and served by extensive intercity public transportation networks. Domestic air travel can be cheaper than the train, especially between bigger cities. Air Berlin and Germanwings offer low fares on inter-German routes.\n\nAll major car-rental companies are represented in Germany. Gasoline is expensive (about \u20ac5.96 per gallon), and parking in major cities can be difficult. Germany has one of the world's best maintained and most extensive highway systems, and a car gives you the flexibility to explore on your own, particularly in less densely populated areas. Most cars in Germany have manual transmission. If you are going to drive, be sure to familiarize yourself with the rules of the road in Germany. And, while it is true that some stretches of the autobahn have no speed limit, you'll need to be sure you know where that does and does not apply as you drive.\n\n## Dining: The Basics\n\nA Tageskarte lists the menu of the day. Seasonal menus, or Saisonkarten, feature seasonal dishes, like white asparagus or red cabbage.\n\nIn most restaurants it is not customary to wait to be seated. Simply walk in and take any unreserved space.\n\nGerman restaurants do not automatically serve water. If you order water, you will be served mineral water and be expected to pay for it. The concept of free refills or the bottomless cup of coffee is also completely foreign.\n\nWhile German restaurants will occasionally accept credit cards, most expect you to pay cash (even for large and expensive meals). If you are having something small, like coffee and cake, you will definitely need to pay in cash.\n\nTipping: When you get the check for something small, like a cup of coffee, round up to the next even euro. For larger amounts, tip 10%. Also, instead of leaving the tip on the table, add it to the total amount when you pay. For example, if the bill is \u20ac14, and you want to tip \u20ac2, when the waitress comes to collect the bill, tell her the total amount (cost plus tip) you want to pay (\"\u20ac16, please\").\n\nGerman waitstaff are more than happy to split the check so that everyone can pay individually. Remember to pay the waiter directly; do not place the money on the table and leave.\n\n## Money\n\nMost Germans still make most of\u2014if not all\u2014their purchases the old-fashioned way: with cash. The use of credit cards in Germany is among the lowest in Europe. That said, you should be able to pay your hotel bill, train tickets, or car rental with a credit card.\n\nBut if you're picking up a snack at a bakery, a little souvenir, or having a cup of coffee, you'll need cash. The same goes for buying tickets on public transportation or paying for a taxi.\n\nExchange services and banks are plentiful in cities and towns. However keep in mind that you'll generally get the best exchange rate at a Geldautomat (ATM), not to mention the convenience of 24-hour access. Before starting your trip, check on the fees your bank charges for international ATM transactions. You may find that these are less than the commissions charged at currency exchange booths and banks.\n\n## Social Mores\n\nWhen addressing someone always use the formal Sie until you are begged by them to switch to the informal du. When in doubt, shake hands; both as a greeting and at parting.\n\nIt's polite to ask if someone speaks English (Sprechen Sie Englisch?) before addressing them in English.\n\nGermans have done a lot of soul searching as a nation as to their role in and responsibility for the atrocities of World War II. They tend to be very well informed about world affairs\u2014and often know more about the minute workings of the American political process than Americans do. Discussions about history and politics will almost always make for an interesting evening.\n\n## Dress and Undress\n\nCasual clothes and jeans can be worn just about anywhere (even to the opera). If you want to be on the safe side, make sure they're clean and neat. Don't be surprised to find nude sunbathers, even in the most public parks. It's also normal to see children running around without clothes on in parks, at swimming pools, or at the beach. Plus, if there's no changing room at the beach, don't worry: Germans change right out in public.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n### Culture Vultures\n\nWith more theaters, concert halls, and opera houses per capita than any other country in the world, high culture is an important part of German life. Before the formation of the German state, regional courts competed to see who had the best artists, actors, musicians, and stages, resulting in the development of a network of strong cultural centers that exists to this day. For Germans, high culture is not just for the elite, and they consider it so important to provide their communities with a rich cultural life that they use their tax money to do it. One of the results, aside from a flourishing, world-class cultural scene, is that tickets to these publicly funded operas, classical music concerts, ballet, and plays are quite inexpensive, with tickets readily available in the \u20ac10 to \u20ac40 range. Drop in on a performance or concert\u2014it's one of the best travel bargains around.\n\n### Another Beer, Bitte\n\nThe German Kneipekultur, or pub culture, is an important and long-standing tradition. Stammg\u00e4ste, or regulars, stop by their local pub as often as every evening to drink beer and catch up. In summer, Kneipe life moves outdoors to beer gardens. Some, such as the famous Chinese Pavilion in Munich's English Garden, are institutions, and might seat hundreds. Others are more casual, consisting of a caf\u00e9's graveled back garden under soaring chestnut trees. Most beer gardens offer some sort of food: self-serve areas might sell pastas or lamb in addition to grilled sausages and pretzels. Although beer gardens are found all over Germany, the smoky beer-hall experience\u2014with dirndls and oompah bands\u2014is traditionally Bavarian. You'll discover how different the combinations of three key ingredients\u2014malt, hops, and water\u2014can taste.\n\n### Easy Being Green\n\nGermany has one of the world's most environmentally conscious societies. Conserving resources, whether electricity or food, is second nature for this country where postwar deprivation has not yet faded from memory. Recycling is practically a national sport, with separate garbage bins for regular trash, clear glass, green glass, plastics and cans, and organic garbage. Keep your eyes out for the giant brown, green, and yellow pods on the streets\u2014these are used for neighborhood recycling in cities. Particularly in cities, there are well-defined bike lanes and many people ride their bikes to work (even in high heels or business suits) much of the year. Drivers know to look for them, and as a visitor you'll need to be careful not to walk in the bike lanes, or you'll hear a bell chiming to let you know a biker is nearby. Great public transportation is also part of this environmental commitment.\n\n### Kaffe und Kuchen\n\nThe tradition of afternoon coffee and cake, usually around 3 pm, is a serious matter. If you can, finagle an invitation to someone's house to get the real experience, which might involve a simple homemade Quarkkuchen (cheese cake), or a spread of several decadent creamy cakes, topped with apples, rhubarb, strawberries, or cherries and lots of whipped cream. Otherwise, find an old-fashioned Konditorei, or pastry shop and choose from their amazing selection. Germans bake more than a thousand different kinds of cakes, with infinite regional variations. Among the most famous is the Schwarzw\u00e4lder Kirschtorte (Black Forest cake), a chocolate layer cake soaked in Kirsch schnapps, with cherries, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings. Another favorite is the Bienenstich (bee sting), a layered sponge cake filled with cream and topped with a layer of crunchy honey-caramelized almonds.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n### Berlin, Capital City\n\nBerlin was the capital of Prussia, the German Empire, the Weimar Republic, and the Third Reich before being divided after World War II. The must-visit Reichstag (parliament building) was reconstructed with a special glass dome after reunification. From the dome, you can see directly down into the parliament chambers below\u2014a symbol of government transparency. The iconic East German TV tower, a symbol of political power, also makes a great stop. The Checkpoint Charlie museum details accounts of people escaping the GDR. The Topography of Terror exhibit hall, another must-see, is a rich source of information on the Nazi regime.\n\n### Frauenkirche, Dresden\n\nDresden's Church of Our Lady is a masterpiece of baroque architecture. Completed in 1743, the magnificent domed church was destroyed as a result of Allied bombing in February 1945. In 2005, the church was rebuilt from the original rubble, thanks entirely to private donations.\n\n### Heidelberg Castle\n\nHeidelberg's immense ruined fortress is a prime example of Gothic and Renaissance styles. It inspired the 19th-century Romantic writers, especially the poet Goethe, who admired its decay amidst the beauty of the Neckar Valley.\n\n### J\u00fcdisches Museum, Berlin\n\nUnder the Nazis, at least 6 million Jews, along with homosexuals, the disabled, Gypsies, and political and religious dissidents, were rounded up and sent to slave labor and death camps. Berlin's Jewish Museum, a riveting, angular building designed by Daniel Libeskind, documents Jewish life in Germany and confronts the scars of World War II.\n\n### K\u00f6lner Dom\n\nK\u00f6ln's breathtaking cathedral, one of Germany's best-known monuments, is the first thing that greets you when you step out of the train station. The Gothic marvel took more than 600 years to build.\n\n### Munich's Oktoberfest\n\nFor 12 days at the end of September and into early October, Munich hosts the world's largest beer bonanza.\n\n### Neuschwanstein Castle\n\nWalt Disney modeled the castle in Sleeping Beauty and later the Disneyland castle itself on Neuschwanstein. \"Mad\" King Ludwig II's creation is best admired from the heights of the Marienbr\u00fccke, a delicate-looking bridge over a deep, narrow gorge.\n\n### The Berlin Wall\n\nWhen the wall fell in 1989 Berliners couldn't wait to get rid of it. As a result, there is very little of it left. The longest is \"The East Side Gallery,\" a mile-long stretch where international artists converged in 1990 to paint murals in a tribute to peace. The excellent Berlin Wall Memorial, located along another remaining stretch, has a museum and open-air exhibition dedicated to the years of division. Cobblestones mark the streets where the wall once ran throughout the city.\n\n### The Lorelei rock\n\nThe beautiful Lorelei rock soars above the Rhine river at this UNESCO World Heritage site in the Rhineland.\n\n### Weimar: Goethe, Schiller, Bauhaus\n\nWeimar was once home to such German luminaries as Goethe and Schiller, whose homes are now museums. The Bauhaus movement, which gave rise to much of modern architecture and design, was also born here\u2014as you'll learn on a visit to the Bauhaus Museum Weimar.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n### Imbibe in a Beer Garden\n\nAs soon as the sun comes out, beer gardens sprout all over Germany. With as much sunshine per year as Anchorage, Alaska, the Germans know a good thing when they see it, and are quick to set up tables and chairs under the open skies as soon as temperatures allow. Bavaria is the \"home\" of the beer garden, but you can sample local variations of beer and bratwurst outdoors wherever you happen to be. If the sun's out and you don't see a beer garden, take a beer to the park: Germany has no open-container laws.\n\n### Hike a Mountain\n\nThe Germans are a fiercely outdoor folk, and if you are anywhere near the mountains (or a hill, or even a relatively flat open space), you'll likely see plenty of people out walking. Pack a bag lunch and some extra bandages and join the crowd\u2014it's a great way to get a feel for the real Germany.\n\n### Eat White Asparagus\n\nIf you visit between April and June, you're in luck: it's asparagus season. Not just any asparagus, either. Germans are crazy for their very own white asparagus, which is only available during this season. Thicker and larger than green asparagus, the white stuff has to be peeled of its hard sheath (done before cooking). Enjoy it with a slice of ham and potatoes with butter or hollandaise sauce.\n\n### Go to a Museum\n\nNo matter where you are in Germany, chances are you're close to a museum. Every big city has major, world-class art museums. Technical museums, like Munich's Deutsches Museum, are also impressive and informative. Freiluft, or open-air museums, offer collections of buildings from previous epochs that visitors can walk through to get a sense of daily life in the past. Even sparsely populated areas have their own quirky museums that depict the history of everything from marzipan to beds.\n\n### Take a Bike Tour through the City\n\nWhether you're discovering Munich, Dresden, Cologne, Hamburg, Berlin, or one of Germany's many smaller cities, a bike tour is the way to do it. Tour companies offer guided tours (and bikes and helmets, though Germans often don't wear them), or you can rent a bike and set out on your own. Wind your way through Munich's English Garden or along Hamburg's harbor and you'll find that you see much more than you would from a tour bus.\n\n### Eat a German Breakfast\n\nThe German breakfast is a major affair, involving several types of bread rolls, a salami and dry sausage spread, hard cheeses, butter, chocolate spread, honey, jam, sliced tomatoes, sliced cucumber, liver pate, other meats, hard-boiled eggs eaten in the shell, and coffee. Show up hungry.\n\n### Visit the Baker\n\nGermany has an incredible Brotkultur, or bread culture. Bread is a historically important part of the German diet, and there are many, many types of bread to sample. Breads vary greatly from region to region, but they are without exception delicious. Go to a good artisanal bakery and you will be astounded by what you find.\n\n### Take a Curative Bath\n\nWith more than 300 Kurorte (health spas) and Heilb\u00e4der (spas with healing waters), Germany has a long tradition of spa destinations. Located by the sea, near mineral-rich mud sources, near salt deposits, or natural springs, these spas date back to the time of the Kaisers. Visit, and you'll be treated to salt baths, mud baths, saunas, thermal hot springs, and mineral-rich air, depending on the special attributes of the region you're visiting.\n\n### Cruise along the Rhine\n\nNo trip to Germany is complete without a boat tour of the Rhine. Board in Rudesheim and follow the river to Bingen (or do the reverse). Along the way, you'll see an unparalleled number of castles rising up from the banks along the river. Keep a look out for the rock of the Loreley, the beautiful river maiden of legend who lures sailors to their deaths with her song.\n\n### Visit a Christmas Market\n\nJust about every city, town, and village has a Christmas market (and larger cities have more than one\u2014in Berlin, for example, there are as many as 60 small markets each year). The most famous are the markets in Dresden and Nuremburg, both of which have long traditions. Christmas markets, which are held outdoors, open the last week of November and run through Christmas. Bundle up and head to one with money in your pocket to buy handmade gifts like the famous wooden figures carved in the Erzgebirge region as you sip traditional, hot-spiced Gl\u00fchwein wine to stay warm.\n\n### Find a Volksfest\n\nNearly every city, town, and village hosts an annual Volksfest, or folk festival. These can be very traditional and lots of fun. A cross between a carnival and county fair, these are great places to sample local food specialties, have a home-brewed beer, and generally join in the fun.\n\n### Take a Spin in a Fine German Automobile\n\nGermany is the spiritual home of precision auto engineering, and Germans love their cars. You can rent a Porsche, Mercedes, or BMW for a day to see what it's like to drive like the Germans. Take your car-for-a-day to the N\u00fcrburgring, a world-famous racetrack built in the 1920s. There, you can get a day pass to drive your car around the track. Visit the on-site auto museum afterward. Both BMW and Mercedes-Benz have recently opened fantastic new museums, as well.\n\n### Swim in a Lake\n\nGermany is dotted with lakes, and when the weather is warm, locals strip down and go swimming. Don't worry if you don't have your suit with you: it's usually fine (even normal) to skinny-dip.\n\n### Rent a Paddleboat\n\nIf swimming's not your thing, most lakes have paddleboat rentals in summer. While away the afternoon in the company of the ducks. This is what summer is all about.\n\n### Go to a Soccer Game\n\nSoccer is the national sport and it provokes even the most stoic German man's passion (some women follow eagerly, as well). Even if you aren't a soccer fan, going to a live game is exciting. There's a palpable energy and it's easy to follow the action. You can catch a soccer game just about anywhere, anytime except for June and July, and over the Christmas break.\n\n### Go Sledding\n\nIn winter, children and adults alike head for the nearest incline, sleds in hand. If you don't have a sled, just stand back and enjoy the spectacle. The children's old-fashioned wooden sleds are truly charming.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n### Being Outdoors\n\nThe Germans have a long-standing love affair with Mother Nature. The woods, as well as the mountains, rivers, and oceans, surface repeatedly in the works of the renowned German poets and thinkers. That nature is the key to the mysteries of the soul can be seen in works as different as those of naturalist Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich and the 20th-century philosopher Martin Heidegger. Today, Germany has designated large tracts of land as national recreation areas, and cities boast extensive urban parks and gardens.\n\nA particularly lovely mountain landscape of twisting gorges and sheer cliffs can be found about 30 km (19 miles) south of Dresden, in the S\u00e4chsische Schweiz park. Rock climbers fascinate those driving up the steep switchbacks to reach bald mesas. At a much higher altitude are the Bavarian Alps, where the Winter Olympics town Garmisch-Partenkirchen offers cable cars to ascend Germany's highest mountain. This is one of the country's best spots for skiing in winter and hiking in summer.\n\nLakes such as Chiemsee and Bodensee dot the area between the Alps and Munich and many hikers and bikers enjoy circling them. Boat rentals are possible, but you'll often need a German-recognized license. On the island of R\u00fcgen, the turn-of-the-20th-century resort town Binz fronts the gentle (and cold) waters of the Baltic Sea. Even on windy days you can warm up on the beach in a sheltered beach chair for two. Among the Baltic Coast's most dramatic features are R\u00fcgen's white chalk cliffs in Jasmund National Park, where you can hike, bike, or sign up for nature seminars and tours.\n\n### Medieval Towns\n\nThe trail of walled towns and half-timber houses known as the Romantic Road is a route long marketed by German tourism, and therefore the road more traveled. The towns, particularly Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, are lovely, but if you'd prefer fewer tour groups spilling into your photographs, venture into the Harz Mountains in the center of Germany.\n\nGoslar, the unofficial capital of the Harz region, is one of Germany's oldest cities, and is renowned for its Romanesque Kaiserpfalz, an imperial palace. Goslar has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, as has the town of Quedlinburg, 48 km (30 miles) to the southeast. With 1,600 half-timber houses, Quedlinburg has more of these historic, typically northern German buildings than any other town in the country.\n\nA mighty fortress south of the Harz Mountains is the Wartburg, in the ancient, half-timber town of Eisenach. Frederick the Wise protected Martin Luther from papal proscription within these stout walls in the 16th century.\n\nOptions for exploring closer to Munich include Regensburg and N\u00fcrnberg. The former is a beautiful medieval city, relatively unknown even to Germans, and has a soaring French Gothic cathedral that can hold 6,000 people. N\u00fcrnberg dates to 1050, and is among the most historic cities in the country. Not only emperors but artists convened here, including the Renaissance genius Albrecht D\u00fcrer. If you're in Hessen, the birthplace of the brothers Grimm, you can follow the Fairy-Tale Route. Stop off for a day natural saltwater swimming in the idyllic medieval town of Bad Sooden-Allendorf.\n\n### The Arts\n\nWith as many as 600 galleries, world-class private collections, and ateliers in every Hinterhof (back courtyard), Berlin is one of Europe's contemporary art capitals. For not-so-modern art, Berlin's Museumsinsel (Museum Island), a UNESCO World Heritage site, is the absolute must-see. A complex of five state museums packed onto one tiny island, these include the Altes Museum, with a permanent collection of classical antiquities; the Alte Nationalgalerie, with 18th- to early-20th-century paintings and sculptures from the likes of C\u00e9zanne, Rodin, Degas, and Germany's own Max Liebermann; the Bode-Museum, containing German and Italian sculptures, Byzantine art, and coins; and the Pergamonmuseum, whose highlight is the world-famous Pergamon Altar, a Greek temple dating from 180 BC.\n\nLeipzig is a \"new\" star in the European art world. The Museum der Bildenden K\u00fcnste (Museum of Fine Arts) is the city's leading gallery, followed closely by the Grassimuseum complex. The Spinnerei (a former cotton mill) has become Leipzig's prime location for contemporary art, and houses more than 80 artists and galleries, especially those of the New Leipzig School.\n\nFans of old master painters must haunt the halls of the Zwinger in Dresden, where most works were collected in the first half of the 18th century, and the Alte Pinakothek in Munich, which has one of the world's largest collections of Rubens.\n\n### Castles and Palaces\n\nWatching over nearly any town whose name ends in \"-burg\" is a medieval fortress or Renaissance palace, often now serving the populace as a museum, restaurant, or hotel.\n\nThe Wartburg in Eisenach is considered \"the mother of all castles\" and broods over the foothills of the Thuringian Forest. Abundant vineyards surround Schloss Neuenburg, which dominates the landscape around the sleepy village of Freyburg (Unstrut). The castle ruins overlooking the Rhine River are the result of ceaseless fighting with the French, but even their remains were picturesque enough to inspire 19th-century Romantics. Burg Rheinstein is rich with Gobelin tapestries, stained glass, and frescoes.\n\nSchloss Heidelberg mesmerizes with its Gothic turrets, Renaissance walls, and abandoned gardens. Other fortresses lord over the Burgenstrasse (Castle Road) in the neighboring Neckar Valley. You can stay the night (or just enjoy an excellent meal) at the castles of Hirschhorn or Burg Hornberg, or at any of a number of other castle-hotels in the area.\n\nThe medieval Burg Eltz in the Mosel Valley looms imposingly, and with its high turrets looks like it's straight out of a Grimm fairy tale. The castle has been perfectly preserved and has been owned by the same family for almost a thousand years.\n\nLouis XIV's Versailles inspired Germany's greatest castle-builder, King Ludwig II, to construct the opulent Schloss Herrenchiemsee. One of Ludwig's palaces in turn inspired a latter-day visionary\u2014his Schloss Neuschwanstein is the model for Walt Disney's Sleeping Beauty Castle. Schloss Linderhof, also in the Bavarian Alps, was Ludwig's favorite retreat.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTraditional German cuisine fell out of fashion several decades ago, and was replaced by Italian and Mediterranean food, Asian food, and Middle Eastern food. But there's a growing movement to go back to those roots, and even high-class German chefs are rediscovering old classics, from sauerkraut to Sauerbraten (traditional German pot roast). Traditional fruits and vegetables, from parsnips and pumpkins to black salsify, sunchoke, cabbage, yellow carrots, and little-known strawberry and apple varietals, are all making a comeback. That said, \"German food\" is a bit of a misnomer, as traditional cooking varies greatly from region to region. Look for the \"typical\" dish, wherever you are, to get the best sense of German cooking in that region.\n\nGenerally speaking, regions in the south, like Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg and Bavaria, have held onto their culinary traditions more than regions in the North. But with a little effort, you can find good German food just about anywhere you go.\n\n### Bavaria: White Sausage and Beer (for Breakfast)\n\nIn Bavaria, a traditional farmer's Zweites Fr\u00fchst\u00fcck (second breakfast) found at any beer hall consists of fat white sausages, called Weisswurst made of veal and eaten with sweet mustard, pretzels, and, yes, a big glass of Helles or Weissbier (light or wheat beer). Other Bavarian specialties include Leberk\u00e4se (literally, \"liver cheese\"), a meat loaf of pork and beef that can be eaten sliced on bread and tastes a lot better than it sounds. Kn\u00f6delgerichte, or noodle dishes are also popular.\n\n### Swabia: The Sausage Salad\n\nSwabia (the area surrounding Stuttgart) is generally thought to have some of the best traditional food in Germany, having held on to its culinary heritage better than other areas. Schw\u00e4bische Wurstsalat (Swabian sausage salad), a salad of sliced sausage dressed with onions, vinegar, and oil, is a typical dish, as is K\u00e4ssp\u00e4tzle (Swabian pasta with cheese), a noodlelike dish made from flour, egg, and water topped with cheese. Linsen mit Sp\u00e4tzle (lentils and sp\u00e4tzle) could be considered the Swabian national dish: it consists of egg noodles topped with lentils and, often, a sausage.\n\n### Franconia: N\u00fcrnberger Bratw\u00fcrste\n\nPerhaps the most beloved of all bratw\u00fcrste (sausages) in a country that loves sausages is the small, thin sausage from the city of N\u00fcrnberg. Grilled over a beech-wood fire, this sausage is served 6 or 12 at a time with horseradish and sauerkraut or potato salad. Fresh marjoram and ground caraway seeds give the pork-based sausage its distinctive flavor.\n\n### Hessen: Apfelwein in Frankfurt\n\nApfelwein (hard apple cider) is a specialty in and around Frankfurt. Look for an Apfelweinkneipe (cider bar), where you can spend a pleasant evening sipping this tasty alcoholic drink. Order Handk\u00e4se, traditional Hessian curdled milk cheese, to go with it. If you order Handk\u00e4se mit Musik (Handk\u00e4se with music), you'll get it with onions. Another winner is Frankfurter Rippchen, spareribs served with sauerkraut.\n\n### Rhineland: Horse Meat and K\u00f6lsch\n\nIn K\u00f6ln, influenced by nearby Belgium and Holland, there's a traditional taste for horse meat, which they use in their local version of the pot roast, Rheinische Sauerbraten. Wash this down with the local beer, K\u00f6lsch. Or try the K\u00f6lsche Kaviar\u2014blood sausage with onions.\n\n### Northwest Germany: Herring with That?\n\nStates on the north coast, like Bremen, Hamburg, Westphalia, and Schleswig-Holstein, all have cuisines that are oriented toward the sea. Cod, crab, herring, and flatfish are all common traditional foods. Labskaus, a meat stew, is also a traditional northern German dish that might be served with a fried egg, pickle, and red beets. Potatoes, cabbage, and rutabagas are all important vegetables, and are served stewed or pickled. Rote Gr\u00fctze, a traditional dessert, is a berry pudding often served with whipped cream.\n\n### Northeast Germany: Currywurst and More\n\nBerlin is known for its Eisbein (pork knuckle), Kasseler (smoked pork chop), Bockwurst (large sausage), and Boulette (a kind of hamburger made of beef and pork), though its most famous dish might be its Currywurst, a Berlin-born dish that consists of sausage cut in pieces and covered in ketchup with curry. Idyllic Spreewald is famous for its pickles.\n\n### The East: Da, Soljanka\n\nIn former GDR states like Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia, the Soviet influence can be felt in the popularity of traditionally Russian dishes like Soljanka (meat soup). Rotk\u00e4ppchen sparkling wines come from Saxony-Anhalt, Germany's northernmost wine-making region (named for the company's bottles with red tops, Rotk\u00e4ppchen is also the German name for Little Red Riding Hood). Another local treat is Baumkuchen, or tree cake, so named because it is formed by adding layer upon layer of batter on a spit and rotating this around a heat source, such that when you cut into it, it looks like the rings of a tree.\n\n### The D\u00f6ner: It's for Dinner\n\nAlthough not a traditional German dish, the Turkish d\u00f6ner kebab is ubiquitous in Germany and it would be hard to spend much time here without trying one. Made from some combination of lamb, chicken, pork, or beef roasted on a spit then sliced into pita pockets with cabbage, lettuce, and yogurt sauce, d\u00f6ners are one of the most popular fast foods around. A spicy, inexpensive alternative to German fare, they're good for a meal or a pick-me-up.\n\n### Seasonal Favorites\n\nGermans are still very much attuned to seasonal fruits and vegetables. Traditional German produce like white asparagus, strawberries, plums, cherries, blueberries, and apples are available in supermarkets, farmers' markets, and sidewalk sellers in abundance, and are eagerly snapped up by locals. When in season, these are delicious items to add to your diet and a healthy way to keep your blood sugar up as you set off to explore Germany.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nBeer, or \"liquid bread\" as it was described by medieval monks who wanted to avoid God's anger, is not just a vital element of German cuisine, but of German culture. The stats say Germans are second only to the Czechs when it comes to per capita beer consumption, though they have been losing their thirst recently\u2014from a peak of 145 liters (38.3 gallons) per head in 1980, each German now only manages 102 liters (26.9 gallons) every year. And yet the range of beers has never been wider.\n\n### Reinheitsgebot (Purity Law)\n\nThere are precisely 1,327 breweries in Germany, offering more than 5,000 types of beer. Thanks to Germany's legendary \"Beer Purity Law,\" or Reinheitsgebot, which allows only three ingredients (water, malt, and hops), they are pretty much all terrific. The water used in German beer also has to meet certain standards\u2014a recent discussion about introducing fracking in certain parts Germany was roundly criticized by the German Beer Association because the water in the area would become too dirty to be made into beer.\n\n### Germany's Major Beer Varieties\n\nPils: One effect of the Beer Purity Law was that Germany became dominated by one kind of beer: Pils. Invented in Bohemia (now the Czech Republic) in 1842, and aided by Bavarian refrigeration techniques, Pils was the first beer to be chilled and stored thus allowing bottom fermentation, better clarity, and a longer shelf-life. Today, the majority of German beers are brewed in the Pils, or Pilsner, style. German Pils tends to have a drier, bitterer taste than what you might be used to, but a trip to Germany is hardly complete without the grand tour along these lines: Augustiner in Bavaria, Bitburger in the Rhineland, Flensburger in the North.\n\nHelles: Hell is German for \"light,\" but when it comes to beer, that refers to the color rather than the alcohol content. Helles is a crisp and clear Bavarian pale lager with between 4.5% and 6% alcohol. It was developed in the mid-19th century by a German brewer named Gabriel Sedlmayr, who adopted and adapted some British techniques to create the new beer for his famous Spaten Brewery in Bavaria. Another brewer, Josef Groll, used the same methods to produce one of the first German Pils, Pilsner Urquell. Spaten is still one the best brands for a good Helles, as are L\u00f6wenbr\u00e4u, Weihenstephaner, and Hacker-Pschorr\u2014all classic Bavarian beers.\n\nDunkelbier: At the other end of the beer rainbow from Helles is dark beer, or Dunkelbier. The dark, reddish color is a consequence of the darker malt that is used in the brewing. Despite suspicions aroused by the stronger, maltier taste, Dunkelbier actually contains no more alcohol than Helles. Dunkelbier was common in rural Bavaria in the early 19th century. All the major Bavarian breweries produce a Dunkelbier to complement their Helles.\n\nBock: Dunkelbier should not be confused with Bock, which also has a dark color and a malty taste but is a little stronger. It was first created in the middle ages in the northern German town of Einbeck, before it was later adopted by the Bavarian breweries, which had come to regard themselves as the natural home of German beer. In fact, the name Bock comes from the Bavarian interpretation of the word \"Einbeck.\" Bock often has a sweeter flavor, and is traditionally drunk on public holidays. There are also subcategories, like Eisbock and Doppelbock, which have been refined to make an even stronger beverage.\n\nK\u00f6lsch: If you're looking for lighter refreshment, then K\u00f6lsch is ideal. The traditional beer of Cologne, K\u00f6lsch is a mild, carbonated beer that goes down easily. It is usually served in a small, straight glass, called a Stange, which is much easier to wrangle than the immense Bavarian Mass (liter) glasses. If you're part of a big party, you're likely to get K\u00f6lsch served in a Kranz, or wreath\u2014a circular wooden rack that holds up to 18 Stangen. K\u00f6lsch is very specific to Cologne and its immediate environs, so there's little point in asking for it anywhere else. Consequently, the major K\u00f6lsch brands are all relatively small; they include Reissdorf, Gaffel, and Fr\u00fch.\n\nHefeweizen: Also known as Weissbier or Weizenbier, Hefeweizen is essentially wheat beer, and it was originally brewed in southern Bavaria. It has a very distinctive taste and cloudy color. It's much stronger than standard Pils or Helles, with an alcohol content of more than 8%. On the other hand, that content is slightly compensated for by the fact that wheat beer can be very filling. For a twist, try the clear variety called Kristallweizen, which tastes crisper, and is often served with half a slice of lemon. Hefeweizen is available throughout Germany, and the major Bavarian breweries all brew it as part of their range.\n\n### Top Brews by Region\n\nBavaria: Helles, Dunkelbier, Hefeweizen.  \nThe six most famous brands, and the only ones allowed to be sold at the Oktoberfest are: L\u00f6wenbr\u00e4u, Augustiner, Paulaner, Hacker-Pschorr, Spaten-Franziskanerbr\u00e4u and Hofbr\u00e4u. Tegernseer Hell is also very good.\n\nRhineland: K\u00f6lsch, Pils.  \nApart from K\u00f6lsch, which is impossible to avoid, look out for Krombacher and Bitburger.\n\nEastern Germany: Pils.  \nRadeberger and Hasser\u00f6der, are two of the few beers in the region to have survived the fall of communism in the former East Germany.\n\nBerlin: Pils.  \nThe most famous brands are Berliner Kindl, Schultheiss, and Berliner Pilsner, which are all worth trying.\n\nHamburg: Pils.  \nAstra\u2014with its anchor-heart logo\u2014is a cult Pils that is very much identified with Germany's biggest port city.\n\nNorthern Germany: Pils, Bock.  \nThe best brands include Flensburger, Jever, and, of course, Beck's, which comes from the northern city of Bremen.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nGermany produces some of the finest white wines in the world. Although more and more quality red wine is being produced, the majority of German wines are white due to the northern continental climate. Nearly all wine production in Germany takes place by the River Rhine in the southwest. As a result, a single trip to this lovely and relatively compact wine region can give you a good overview of German wines.\n\n### German Wines: Then and Now\n\nA Brief History  \nThe Romans first introduced viticulture to the southernmost area of what is present-day Germany about 2,000 years ago. By the time of Charlemagne, wine making centered on monasteries. A 19th-century grape blight necessitated a complete reconstitution of German grape stock, grafted with pest-resistant American vines, and formed the basis for today's German wines. With cold winters, a relatively northern climate, and less sun than other wine regions, the Germans have developed a reputation for technical and innovative panache. The result has traditionally been top-quality sweet Rieslings, though Germany has been making excellent dry and off-dry white wines and Rieslings in the past 30 years.\n\nToday's Wine Scene  \nFor years, German wines were known by their lowest common denominator, the cheap, sweet wine that was exported en masse to the United States, England, and other markets. However, more recently there has been a push to introduce the world to the best of German wines. Exports to the United States, Germany's largest export market, have grown steadily, followed by England, The Netherlands, Sweden, and Russia. Eighty-three percent of its exports are white wines. The export of Liebfraumilch, the sugary, low-quality stuff that gave German wine a bad name, has been steadily declining, and now 66% of exports are so-called Qualit\u00e4tswein, or quality wines. Only 15% of exports are destined to be wine-in-a-box. This is a more accurate representation of German wine as it exists in Germany.\n\n### Germany's Dominant Varietals\n\n#### Whites\n\nM\u00fcller-Thurgau: Created in the 1880s, this grape is a cross between a Riesling and a Madeleine Royale. Ripening early, it's prone to rot and, as the grape used in most Liebfraumilch, has a less than golden reputation.\n\nRiesling: The most widely planted (and widely famous) of German grapes, the Riesling ripens late. A hardy grape, it's ideal for late-harvest wines. High levels of acidity help wines age well. When young, grapes have a crisp, floral character.\n\nSilvaner: This grape is dying out in most places, with the exception of Franconia, where it is traditionally grown. With low acidity and neutral fruit, it can be crossed with other grapes to produce sweet wines like Kerner, Grauburgunder (pinot gris), Weissburgunder (pinot blanc), Bacchus, and others.\n\n#### Reds\n\nDornfelder: A relatively young varietal. Dornfelder produces wines with a deep color, which distinguishes them from other German reds, which tend to be pale, light, and off-dry.\n\nSp\u00e4tburgunder (Pinot Noir): This grape is responsible for Germany's full-bodied, fruity wines, and is grown in more southerly vineyards.\n\n### Terminology\n\nGerman wine is a complex topic, even though the wine region is relatively small. Wines are ranked according to the ripeness of the grapes when picked, and instead of harvesting a vineyard all at once, German vineyards are harvested up to five times. The finest wines result from the latest harvests of the season, due to increased sugar content. Under the category of \"table wine\" fall Deutscher Tafelwein (German table wine) and Landwein (like the French Vin de Pays). Quality wines are ranked according to when they are harvested. Kabinett wines are delicate, light, and fruity. Sp\u00e4tlese (\"late-harvest\" wine) has more-concentrated flavors, sweetness, and body. Auslese wines are made from extra-ripe grapes, and are even richer, even sweeter, and even riper. Beerenauslese are rare and expensive, made from grapes whose flavor and acid has been enhanced by noble rot. Eiswein (\"ice\" wine) is made of grapes that have been left on the vine to freeze and may be harvested as late as January. They produce a sugary syrup that creates an intense, fruity wine. Finally. Trockenbeerenauslese (\"dry ice\" wine) is made in tiny amounts using grapes that have frozen and shriveled into raisins. These can rank amongst the world's most expensive wines. Other terms to keep in mind include Trocken (dry) and Halbtrocken (half-dry, or \"off-dry\").\n\n### Wine Regions\n\nMosel: The Mosel's steep, mineral-rich hillsides produce excellent Rieslings. With flowery rather than fruity top-quality wines, the Mosel is a must-stop for any wine lover. The terraced hillsides rising up along the banks of the River Mosel are as pleasing to the eye as the light-bodied Rieslings are to the palate.\n\nNahe: Agreeable and uncomplicated: this describes the wines made from M\u00fcller-Thurgau and Silvaner grapes of the Nahe region. The earth here is rich not just in grapes, but also in semiprecious stones and minerals, and you might just detect a hint of pineapple in your wine's bouquet.\n\nRheinhessen: The largest wine-making region of Germany, Rheinhessen's once grand reputation was tarnished in the mid-20th century, when large, substandard vineyards were cultivated and low-quality wine produced. Nonetheless, there's plenty of the very good stuff to be found, still. Stick to the red sandy slopes over the river for the most full-bodied of Germany's Rieslings.\n\nRheingau: The dark, slatey soil of the Rheingau is particularly suited to the German Riesling, which is the major wine produced in this lovely hill country along the River Rhine. Spicy wines come from the hillsides, while the valley yields wines with body, richness, and concentration.\n\nPfalz: The second-largest wine region in Germany, the Pfalz stretches north from the French border. Mild winters and warm summers make for some of Germany's best pinot noirs and most opulent Rieslings. Wine is served here in a special dimpled glass called the Dubbeglas.\n\nBaden: Farther to the south, Baden's warmer climate helps produce ripe, full-bodied wines that may not be well known but certainly taste delicious. The best ones, both red and white, come from Kaiserstuhl-Tuniberg, between Freiburg and the Rhine. But be forewarned: The best things in life do tend to cost a little extra.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nGrand Tour of Germany | German ABCs: Architecture, Beer, Castles and Capitals | Castles in Wine Country\n\n## Grand Tour of Germany\n\nComing to Germany for the first time? Consider a journey of the best the country has to offer: stunning landscapes, charming medieval towns, and cosmopolitan capital cities. Make the most of your time by taking the train between stops. You'll eliminate the hassles of parking and the high cost of gasoline. Best of all, you'll take in the views\u2014in complete relaxation\u2014as they roll by your window.\n\n### Days 1 and 2: Munich\n\nKick off your circle tour of quintessential Germany in Bavaria's capital city. Get your bearings by standing in the center of Munich's Marienplatz, and watch the charming, twirling figures of the Glockenspiel in the tower of the Rathaus (town hall). Visit the world-class art museums, then wander through the Englischer Garten (English Garden) to the beer garden for a cool beer and pretzel.\n\n### Day 3: Garmisch-Partenkirchen\n\nTake a day trip to visit Germany's highest mountain peak (9,731 feet), the Zugspitze. You'll take in astounding views of the mountains and breathe the bracing Alpine air. Have lunch at one of two restaurants on the peak, then bask in the sun like the Germans on the expansive terrace. If you're feeling sporty, hundreds of kilometers of trails offer some of Germany's best hiking across blooming mountain meadows and along steep mountain gorges. Otherwise take the cable car up and down and savor the dramatic vistas.\n\n### Days 4 and 5: Freiburg\n\nIn the late morning, arrive in Freiburg, one of Germany's most beautiful historic cities. Damaged during the war, it's been meticulously rebuilt to preserve its delightful medieval character. Residents love to boast that Freiburg is the country's sunniest city, which is true according to meteorological reports. Freiburg's cathedral is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, built over three centuries. Explore on foot, or by bike, and look out for the B\u00e4chle, or little brooks, that run for kilometers through Freiburg.\n\n### Day 6: The Black Forest\n\nFreiburg puts you at the perfect point from which to explore the spruce-covered low-lying mountains of the Black Forest. Set out for Titisee, a placid glacial lake, visiting dramatic gorges along the way. Or, head toward the northern Black Forest to visit tony Baden-Baden. Then spend the afternoon relaxing in the curative waters at one of the famous spas.\n\n### Day 7: W\u00fcrzburg\n\nThis gorgeous city sits on the Main River, and as you look out onto the hills that surround the city, you'll see that lush vineyards encircle the valley. W\u00fcrzburg's two must-see attractions are the massive Festung Marienburg (Marienburg Fortress) and the Residenz an awe-inspiring baroque palace. The palace is considered to be one of Europe's most luxurious. The best way to sample the local wine is to go straight to the source: the vineyards. In the afternoon, follow the Stein-Wein-Pfad, a pathway that takes you straight to the local vintners, and try their wines while also drinking in incredible views of the city below.\n\n### Day 8: Bamberg\n\nIn the morning, arrive in Bamberg, which is on UNESCO's World Heritage Site list. The town is remarkable for not having sustained damage during World War II, and for looking much as it has for hundreds of years. Narrow cobblestone streets lead you to Bamberg's heart, a small island ringed by the Regnitz River. Bamberg has almost a dozen breweries\u2014try the Rauchbier, a dark beer with a smoky flavor.\n\n### Days 9 and 10: Hamburg\n\nHamburg is one of Germany's wealthiest cities. It's also an important port, and served as a leader of the medieval Hanseatic League. If you're in Hamburg on Sunday, visit the open-air Fischmarkt (fish market) early in the morning. Then, take a cruise through the city's canals to see the historic warehouse district. Exploring the harbor you'll see the enormous ocean liners that stop in Hamburg before crossing the Atlantic. The city offers exclusive shopping along the Junfernstieg, a lakeside promenade.\n\n### Days 11 and 12: Berlin and Potsdam\n\nBerlin is Germany's dynamic capital, a sprawling and green city. No matter where you go, it's hard to escape Berlin's recent history as a divided city. You're brought face-to-face with the legacy of World War II, and contrast of East and West. Walk from the Brandenburg Gate to the famous Museum Island and visit the Pergamon Alter. In the afternoon, visit KaDeWe, Europe's largest department store, and walk along the Kurf\u00fcrstendamm, the posh shopping boulevard. Spend the next morning in Potsdam, touring the opulent palaces and manicured gardens. Return to the city to explore its neighborhoods, like Turkish Kreuzberg or hip Prenzlauer Berg.\n\n## German ABCs: Architecture, Beer, Castles and Capitals\n\n### Day 1: Arrival Munich\n\nThough it is a wealthy city with Wittelsbach palaces, great art collections, and a technology museum holding trains, planes, and even an imitation coal mine, what really distinguishes Munich from other state capitals are its beer halls, beer gardens, and proud identity: even designer-conscious M\u00fcncheners wear traditional dirndls and hunter-green jackets for special occasions. Stroll the streets of the Altstadt (Old City), visit the Frauenkirche, choose a museum (the best ones will occupy you for at least three hours), and save the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus or any other teeming brew house for last. Munich might be touristy, but hordes of German tourists love it as well.\n\n### Day 2: Neuschwanstein\n\nFrom Munich it's an easy day trip to Germany's fairy-tale castle in Schwangau. Though the 19th-century castle's fantastic silhouette has made it famous, this creation of King Ludwig II is more opera set than piece of history\u2014the interior was never even completed. A tour reveals why the romantic king earned the nickname \"Mad\" King Ludwig. Across the narrow wooded valley from Schloss Neuschwanstein is the ancient castle of the Bavarian Wittelsbach dynasty, Schloss Hohenschwangau, also open for tours.\n\n### Day 3: Munich to Dresden\n\nThat Saxony's capital, Dresden, is the pinnacle of European baroque is obvious in its courtyards, newly rebuilt Frauenkirche, and terrace over the Elbe River. The city was largely shaped by Augustus the Strong, who in 1730 kindly invited the public to view the works crafted from precious stones in his Green Vault. Many of Dresden's art treasures lie within the Zwinger, a baroque showpiece. Spend the evening at the neo-Renaissance Semper Opera, where Wagner premiered his works, and drink Radeberger Pilsner at intermission. It's the country's oldest pilsner.\n\n### Day 4: Dresden and Berlin\n\nSpend the morning touring some of Dresden's rich museums before boarding a train to Berlin. Germany's capital is not only unique for its division between 1949 and 1989, but is unlike any other German city in its physical expanse and diversity. Attractions that don't close until 10 pm or later are Sir Norman Foster's glass dome on the Reichstag, the TV tower at Alexanderplatz, and the Checkpoint Charlie Museum.\n\n### Days 5 and 6: Berlin\n\nBegin your first Berlin morning on a walk with one of the city's excellent tour companies. They'll connect the broadly spaced dots for you and make the events of Berlin's turbulent 20th century clear. Berlin is a fascinating city in and of itself, so you don't have to feel guilty if you don't get to many museums. Since the mid-1990s, world-renowned architects have changed the city's face. You'll find the best nightlife in hip neighborhoods like Kreuzberg, Friedrichshain, or Mitte. Berlin is a surprisingly inexpensive city, so you can treat yourself to more here than in Munich.\n\n### Day 7: Munich\n\nOn your last day, have breakfast with the morning shoppers at the open-air Viktualienmarkt. Try to find Weisswurst, a mild, boiled sausage normally eaten before noon with sweet mustard, a pretzel\u2014and beer!\n\n## Castles in Wine Country\n\n### Day 1: Arrival Koblenz\n\nStart your tour in Koblenz, at the confluence of the Rhine and Mosel rivers. Once you have arrived in the historic downtown area, head straight for the charming little Hotel Zum weissen Schwanen, a half-timber inn and mill since 1693. Explore the city on the west bank of the Rhine River and then head to Europe's biggest fortress, the impressive Festung Ehrenbreitstein on the opposite riverbank.\n\n### Day 2: Koblenz and Surrounding Castles\n\nGet up early and drive along the most spectacular and historic section of \"Vater Rhein.\" Stay on the left riverbank and you'll pass many mysterious landmarks on the way, including Burg Stolzenfels, and later the Loreley rock, a 430-foot slate cliff named after a legendary, beautiful, blonde nymph. Stay the night at St. Goar or St. Goarshausen, both lovely river villages.\n\n### Day 3: Eltville and the Eberbach Monastery\n\nThe former Cistercian monastery Kloster Eberbach, in Eltville, is one of Europe's best-preserved medieval cloisters. Parts of the film The Name of the Rose, based on Umberto Eco's novel and starring Sean Connery, were filmed here. If you're interested in wine, spend the night at the historic wine estate Schloss Reinhartshausen. This is a great opportunity to sample the fantastic wines of the region.\n\n### Day 4: Heidelberg\n\nOn Day 4, start driving early so you can spend a full day in Heidelberg (the drive from Eltville takes about an hour). No other city symbolizes German spirit and history better than this meticulously restored, historic town. Do not miss the impressive Schloss, one of Europe's greatest Gothic-Renaissance fortresses. Most of the many pubs and restaurants here are touristy, overpriced, and of poor quality\u2014so don't waste your time at them. Instead, head for the Romantik Hotel zum Ritter St. Georg, a charming 16th-century inn with a great traditional German restaurant.\n\n### Days 5 and 6: The Burgenstrasse and the Neckar Valley\n\nSuperb food and wine can be enjoyed in the quaint little villages in the Neckar Valley just east of Heidelberg\u2014the predominant grapes here are Riesling (white) and Sp\u00e4tburgunder (red). Try to sample wines from small, private wineries\u2014they tend to have higher-quality vintages. Sightseeing is equally stunning, with a string of castles and ruins along the famous Burgenstrasse (Castle Road). Since you have two days for this area, take your time and follow B-37 to Eberbach and its romantic Zwingenberg castle, tucked away in the deep forest just outside the village. In the afternoon, continue on to Burg Hornberg at Neckarzimmern, the home to the legendary German knight G\u00f6tz von Berlichingen. Stay the night here, in the former castle stables.\n\nThe next morning, continue farther to Bad Wimpfen, the most charming valley town at the confluence of the Neckar and Jagst rivers. Spend half a day in the historic city center and tour the Staufer Pfalz (royal palace). Soaring high above the city, the palace was built in 1182, and emperor Barbarossa liked to stay here.\n\n### Day 7: German Wine Route\n\nDevote your last day to the German Wine Route, which winds its way through one of the most pleasant German landscapes, the gentle slopes and vineyards of the Pfalz. The starting point for the route is Bad D\u00fcrkheim, a spa town proud to have the world's largest wine cask, holding 1.7 million liters (450,000 gallons). You can enjoy wine with some lunch in the many Weinstuben here or wait until you reach Neustadt farther south, Germany's largest wine-making community. Thirty of the vintages grown here can be sampled (and purchased) at the downtown Haus des Weines. If time permits, try to visit one of the three major castles along the route in the afternoon: Burg Trifels near Annweiler is a magnificent Hohenzollern residence, perched dramatically on three sandstone cliffs, the very image of a medieval castle in wine country.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWhen it comes to hotels, Germans do it right. Whether budget and spare, or luxurious and opulent, German lodgings tend to be wonderfully spic and span. You'll find top-quality accommodations throughout Germany to rest your travel-weary bones at the end of the day. From a chic, big-city design hotel to a cozy village Gasthof to life on the farm at a Bauernhof, there's a broad spectrum of choices wherever your journey takes you.\n\n### Hotels\n\nGerman hotels adhere to a high standard, and you'll find that even the most basic offerings are scrupulously clean and comfortable. Of course, as the number of stars goes up, so do the amenities, and you can count on the largest and best city hotels to offer concierge services and fine dining. If you prefer something more intimate, Gasth\u00f6fe (country inns that also serve food) offer a great value. You can also opt to stay at a winery's Winzerhof or at an historic castle (Schloss). Families can consider a Familienhotel, which cater to children with special menus, activities, pools, and play areas. Depending on the hotel, rates are calculated by room or by person. Prices are generally higher in summer, so consider visiting during the off-season. Most resorts offer between-season (Zwischensaison) and off-season (Nebensaison) rates, and tourist offices can provide lists of hotels that offer low-price weekly packages (Pauschalangebote). It's wise to avoid cities during major trade fairs as rates skyrocket. Consider staying in nearby towns and commuting in.\n\n### Bed-and-Breakfasts\n\nIf you're looking for a more personal\u2014and less expensive\u2014alternative to a hotel, B&Bs are a good choice. Often called Pensions, they offer simple rooms and friendly, helpful staff. Keep in mind that not all rooms will have a private bathroom, but your stay will, of course, include breakfast. Another option is a Fremdenzimmer, meaning simply \"rooms,\" normally in private houses. These are found most often in resort towns. And although it's not nearly as private as staying in a hotel or inn, it will give you a peek at how the locals live. For a taste of rural life, try an Urlaub auf dem Bauernhof, a farm that rents rooms.\n\n### Apartment and House Rentals\n\nTo really get a sense of how the natives live, rent a house or apartment. Known as Ferienwohnung or Ferienappartements, it's a popular option in Germany. In a city, you'll feel the pulse of a neighborhood, or in the country you might step out onto your balcony to take in a mountain view. When traveling with family or a group, a private home may be a better deal than booking multiple hotel rooms. Not to mention that you're likely to end up with more space.\n\n### Wellness Hotels\n\nGermany has a long-established tradition of spa towns (Kurorte). Officially recognized for having special mineral waters, particularly fresh sea air, or other health-enhancing natural resources, these spa towns are found throughout the country, and often have lovely hotels for visitors who want to relax and improve their health. Look for sauna and massage on offer, here.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nMore than 51 million Americans claim German ancestry, and many of these Americans have a strong desire to trace their long-lost roots. The first significant waves of immigration from Germany came after the failed democratic revolutions of 1848, a time period coupled with potato blight in parts of Germany. The numbers of German immigrants did not let up until the early 20th century. Of course, Jewish Germans fleeing fascism also left much of what had been their cultural heritage (as well as material possessions), behind. If you've ever been curious about wandering your family's ancestral village, standing in the church where your great-grandmother was baptized, or meeting the cousins who share your name, it's easier than ever to make it happen.\n\n### Before You Go\n\nThe more you can learn about your ancestors before you go, the more fruitful your search will be. The first place to seek information is directly from members of your family. Even relatives who don't know any family history may have documents stored away that can help with your sleuthing\u2014old letters, wills, diaries, photo albums, birth and death certificates, and Bibles or other religious books can be great sources of information. The first crucial facts you'll need are the name of your ancestor; his or her date of birth, marriage, or death; town or city of origin in Germany; date of emigration; ship on which he or she emigrated; and where in America he or she settled.\n\nIf family resources aren't leading you anywhere, try turning to the Mormon Church. The Mormon Church has made it its mission to collect mountains of genealogical information, much of which it makes available free of charge at www.familysearch.org. The National Archives (www.nara.gov) keeps census records, and anyone can, for a fee, get information from the censuses of 1940 and earlier.\n\nThe spelling of your family name may not be consistent through time. Over the course of history varying rates of literacy in Germany meant that the spelling of names evolved through recent centuries. And on arrival in the States many names changed again to make them more familiar to American ears.\n\nOnce you've established some basic facts about your ancestor it's possible to start searching some German resources. Because Germany as we know it today didn't unify until 1871, records are scattered. Lists of German ship passengers\u2014many of which are now available online\u2014are a good next step since they often included a person's \"last residence.\" So if you can target your ancestor's hometown, you'll open the door to a potential trove of records. Many parish registers go back to the 15th century and document births, baptisms, marriages, deaths, and burials.\n\nCheck out the links at the German National Tourist Office's websites germanoriginality.com, www.germany.travel, and if you're tracking down living cousins, try the German phonebook at DasTelefonbuch.de.\n\n### On the Ground in Germany\n\nOnce you arrive, you can use the computerized facilities of Bremerhaven's German Emigration Center (www.dah-bremerhaven.de) or enlist the help of an assistant to search the passenger lists of the HAPAG shipping line, at Hamburg's Family Research Center (www.BallinStadt.de).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nGermany's darkest days began with Adolf Hitler's rise to power in 1933. Hitler led Germany into war in 1939 and perpetrated the darkest crimes against humanity, murdering 6 million Jews in the Holocaust. To gain perspective on the extent of the horror, it's possible to visit sites around Germany that document the atrocities.\n\nUpon his election, Hitler set about turning Obersalzburg into the southern headquarters for the Nazi party and as a mountain retreat for its elite. Located in the Bavarian Alps, the enormous compound included luxurious homes for party officials. Today you can walk through the extensive bunker system while learning about the Nazi's takeover of the area. Not far from Obersalzburg you'll find the Kehlsteinhaus, Hitler's private home. Designed as a 50th birthday gift for Hitler by the Nazi party, the house is also known as Adlerhorst (Eagle's Nest). It's perched on a cliff, seemingly at the top of the world. The house's precarious location probably saved it from British bombing raids.\n\nThe Nazis organized nationwide book-burnings, one of which took place in Berlin on Bebelplatz. On an evening in May 1933, Nazis and Hitler Youth gathered here to burn 20,000 books considered offensive to the party. Today there is a ghostly memorial of empty library shelves sunken in the center of the square.\n\nMasters of propaganda, the Nazis staged colossal rallies intended to impress the German people. Hitler considered N\u00fcrnberg so quintessentially German he developed an enormous complex here, the Nazi Party Rally Grounds, to host massive parades, military exercises, and major assemblies of the Nazi party. The Congress Hall, meant to outshine Rome's Colosseum, is the largest remaining building from the Nazi era. It houses a Documentation Center that explores the Nazi's tyranny. At the N\u00fcrnberg Trials Memorial you'll see where the war crimes trials took place between November 1945 and October 1946. In this courthouse Nazi officials stood before an international military tribunal to answer for their crimes. The Allied victors chose N\u00fcrnberg on purpose\u2014it's the place Germany's first anti-Semitic laws passed, decreeing the boycott of Jewish businesses.\n\nThe KZ-Gedenkst\u00e4tte Dachau is a memorial and site of the former notorious death camp. Hitler created Dachau soon after taking power, and it became the model for all other camps. Tens of thousands of prisoners died here. Today you'll see a few remaining cell blocks and the crematorium, along with moving shrines and memorials to the dead.\n\nBergen-Belsen, another infamous concentration camp, is where Anne Frank perished along with more than 80,000 others. The starving and sick prisoners lived in abject squalor, deliberately neglected by their captors. A meadow is all that remains of the camp, but it is still a chilling place to visit. The documentation center shows wrenching photos of unburied bodies and emaciated prisoners.\n\nIn fact, nearly anywhere you are in Germany, you should be able to visit a concentration camp: Others include Buchenwald, Oranienburg, Sachsenhausen, and Dora-Mittelbau.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter |Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Munich\n\nExploring Munich\n\nWhere to Eat\n\nWhere to Stay\n\nNightlife and the Arts\n\nSports and the Outdoors\n\nShopping\n\nSide Trips from Munich\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Viktualienmarkt | Market Etiquette | Viktualienmarkt Best Buys | Munich's Beer Gardens | Biergarten Etiquette\n\nUpdated by Paul Wheatley\n\nKnown today as the city of laptops and lederhosen, modern Munich is a cosmopolitan playground that nevertheless represents what the rest of the world incorrectly sees as \"typically German\": world-famous Oktoberfest, traditional lederhosen (leather pants), busty Bavarian waitresses in dirndls (traditional dresses), beer steins, and sausages.\n\nMunich's cleanliness, safety, and Mediterranean pace give it a slightly rustic feel. The broad sidewalks, fashionable boutiques and eateries, views of the Alps, a sizable river running through town, and a huge green park make Munich one of Germany's most visited cities. When the first rays of spring sun begin warming the air, follow the locals to their beloved beer gardens, shaded by massive chestnut trees.\n\nThe number of electronics and computer firms\u2014Siemens, Microsoft, and SAP, for starters\u2014makes Munich a sort of mini\u2013Silicon Valley of Germany, but for all its business drive, this is still a city with roots in the 12th century, when it began as a market town on the \"salt road\" between mighty Salzburg and Augsburg.\n\nThat Munich was the birthplace of the Nazi movement is a difficult truth that those living here continue to grapple with. To distance the city from its Nazi past, city leaders looked to Munich's long pre-Nazi history to highlight what they decreed was the real Munich: a city of great architecture, high art, and fine music. Many of the Altstadt's architectural gems were rebuilt postwar, including the lavish Cuvilli\u00e9s-Theater, the Altes Rathaus, and the Frauenkirche.\n\nThe city's appreciation of the arts began under the kings and dukes of the Wittelsbach Dynasty, which ruled Bavaria for eight centuries, until 1918. The Wittelsbach legacy is alive and well in many of the city's museums and exhibition centers, the Opera House, the philharmonic, and, of course, the Residenz, the city's royal palace. Any walk in the City Center will take you past ravishing baroque decoration and grand 19th-century neoclassical architecture.\n\nKnown as the city of laptops and lederhosen, Munich traces its history back to the 12th century, when it began as a market town on the salt road between mighty Salzburg and Augsburg. For all its business drive and the cosmopolitan style of its millionaires, Munich represents what the rest of the world sees as \"typical Germany,\" embodied in the world-famous Oktoberfest, traditional lederhosen (leather pants), busty Bavarian waitresses in dirndls (traditional dresses), beer steins, and sausages. There are myriad local brews to say Prost (cheers) with, either in one of the cavernous beer halls or a smaller Kneipe, a bar where all types of people get together for meals and some drinks.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nDeutsches Museum: The museum has an impressive collection of science and technology exhibits, and its location on the Isar River is perfect for a relaxing afternoon stroll.\n\nEnglischer Garten: With expansive greens, beautiful lakes, and beer gardens, the English Garden is a great place for a bike ride or a long walk.\n\nG\u00e4rtnerplatz: G\u00e4rtnerplatz and the adjoining Glockenbachviertel are the hip hoods of the moment, with trendy bars, restaurants, caf\u00e9s, and shops.\n\nViews from the Frauenkirche: This 14th-century church tower gives you a panorama of downtown Munich that can't be beat. There are 86 steps in a circular shaft to get to the elevator, but the view is worth it.\n\nViktualienmarkt: Experience farmers'-market-style shopping, where there's fresh produce, finger food, and a beer garden; it's not to be missed.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nIn the relaxed and sunnier southern part of Germany, Munich (M\u00fcnchen) is the proud capital of the state of Bavaria. Even Germans come here to vacation, mixing the city's pleasures with the nearby natural surroundings\u2014on clear days, from downtown the Alps appear to be much closer than around 40 miles away. The city bills itself \"Die Weltstadt mit Herz\" (\"The Cosmopolitan City with Heart\"), but in rare bouts of self-deprecatory humor, friendly Bavarians will remind you that it isn't much more than a country town with 1.4 million people. M\u00fcnchners will also tell visitors that the city is special because of its Gem\u00fctlichkeit\u2014loosely translated as \"conviviality.\" This can be overdone, but with open-air markets, numerous parks, the lovely Isar River, and loads of beer halls, Munich has a certain charm that few cities can match.\n\n## What's Where\n\nThe City Center. Marienplatz, the Rathaus, and the surrounding streets are a hub for locals and tourists alike. Here you'll find the soaring towers of the Frauenkirche, Munich's landmark church. East of Marienplatz, down toward the Isar River, is the maze of the Old Town's smaller streets.\n\nRoyal Munich. The Residenz, or royal palace, is the focus here. Bordering the Residenz to the north is the Hofgarten, or Court Garden. Farther northeast is the Englischer Garten, great for sunbathing or something sportier.\n\nSchwabing and Maxvorstadt. On one side of Maxvorstadt is Ludwigstrasse, a wide avenue flanked by impressive buildings, running from the Feldherrnhalle and Odeonsplatz to the Victory Arch. A block farther west are Maxvorstadt's smaller streets, lined with shops and restaurants frequented by students. The big museums lie another two blocks west. Schwabing starts north of the Victory Arch, where Ludwigstrasse becomes Leopoldstrasse.\n\nOutside the Center. Ludwigvorstadt is southwest of the City Center and includes the Oktoberfest grounds. The western part of the city is dominated by Nymphenburg Castle and its glorious grounds. Across the Isar is fashionable Lehel, and Au-Haidhausen areas.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nMunich is a year-round city, but it's nicer to walk through the Englischer Garten and have your beer under a shady chestnut tree when the weather's fine in summer. If fate takes you to Munich through its long, cold winter, though, there are world-class museums and good restaurants to keep you entertained. Theater and opera fans will especially enjoy the winter season, when the tour buses and the camera-toting crowds are gone. A few postsummer sunny days are usual, but the Oktoberfest is also an indication that fall is here, and the short march to winter has arrived.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nMunich comes alive during Fasching, the German Mardi Gras, in the pre-Easter season. The festival of festivals, Oktoberfest, takes place from the end of September to early October.\n\nLong Night of Music.  \nIn late May the Long Night of Music is devoted to live performances through the night by untold numbers of groups, from heavy-metal bands to medieval choirs, at more than 100 locations throughout the city. One ticket covers everything, including transportation on special buses between locations. | 089/3061\u20130041 | www.muenchner.de/musiknacht | \u20ac15.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nMunich's International Airport is 28 km (17 miles) northeast of the City Center and has excellent air service from all corners of the world. An excellent train service links the airport with downtown. The S-1 and S-8 lines operate from a terminal directly beneath the airport's arrival and departure halls. S-bahn trains leave at 20-minute intervals on both lines, and the journey takes around 40 minutes. The easiest way is to buy a Tageskarte (day card) for the Gesamtnetz, costing \u20ac10.80, which allows you to travel anywhere on the system for the rest of the day until 6 am the next morning. The similarly priced bus service is slower than the S-bahn link and not recommended. A taxi from the airport costs around \u20ac56. During rush hours (7 am\u201310 am and 4 pm\u20137 pm), allow up to an hour of driving time. If you're driving from the airport to the city yourself, take the A-9 and follow the signs for \"M\u00fcnchen Stadtmitte\" (downtown). If you're driving from the City Center, head north through Schwabing, join the A-9 autobahn at the Frankfurter Ring intersection, and follow the signs for the \"Flughafen\" (airport).\n\nAirport Information  \nFlughafen M\u00fcnchen. | 089/97500 | www.munich-airport.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nWith its futuristic architecture, Munich's 2009-finished Central Bus Terminal (ZOB) means that many excursions and longer trips are now centralized five minutes from the main train station. As well as numerous shops and banks, travel firms offer bus tickets and destination advice at the ZOB.\n\nTouring Eurolines buses arrive at and depart from the ZOB. Check their excellent website for trips to Neuschwanstein and the Romantic Road.\n\nBus Information  \nCentral Bus Station Munich (ZOB). | Hackerbr\u00fccke, Ludwigvorstadt | ZOB is about 800 m from the main train station along Arnulfstrasse; if traveling by S-bahn, it's adjacent to Hackerbr\u00fccke S-bahn station | 089/4520\u20139890 | www.muenchen-zob.de.   \nTouring Eurolines. | DTG-Ticket-Center M\u00fcnchen, Hackerbr\u00fccke 4, ZOB, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/8898\u20139513 | www.eurolines.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nIf you're driving to Munich from the north (N\u00fcrnberg or Frankfurt), leave the autobahn at the Schwabing exit. From Stuttgart and the west, the autobahn ends at Obermenzing, one of Munich's most westerly suburbs. The autobahns from Salzburg and the east, Garmisch and the south, and Lindau and the southwest all join the Mittlerer Ring (city beltway). When leaving any autobahn, follow the signs reading \"Stadtmitte\" for downtown Munich.\n\n#### Public Transit\n\nMunich has one of the most efficient and comprehensive public-transportation systems in Europe, consisting of the U-bahn (subway), the S-bahn (suburban railway), the Strassenbahn (streetcar, also called \"Tram\"), and buses. Marienplatz forms the heart of the U-bahn and S-bahn network, which operates regularly from around 5 am to 1 am (intermittently otherwise, so check times if you're expecting a long night or early start). The main service counter under Marienplatz sells tickets and gives out information, also in English. The website www.muenchen.de has an excellent and extensive transportation section, also in English.\n\nA basic Einzelfahrkarte (one-way ticket) costs \u20ac1.30 for a journey of up to four stops, \u20ac2.60 for a longer ride in the inner zone. If you're taking a number of trips around the city, save money by buying a Streifenkarte, or multiple 10-strip ticket for \u20ac12.50. On a journey of up to four stops validate one ticket, for the inner zone, two. If you plan to do several trips during one day, buy a Tageskarte (day card) for \u20ac11.20, which allows you to travel anywhere until 6 am the next morning. For a family of up to five (two adults and three children under age 15) the Tageskarte costs \u20ac20.40. A three-day card costs \u20ac14.30 for a single and \u20ac24.60 for the partner version. All tickets must be validated at one of the blue time-stamping machines at the station, or on buses and trams as soon as you board (wait till you've found a seat, and if an inspector's around you'll get a fine). Spot checks for validated tickets are common, and you'll be fined \u20ac40 if you're caught without a valid ticket. All tickets are sold at the blue dispensers at U- and S-bahn stations and at some bus and streetcar stops. Bus drivers have only single tickets (the most expensive kind). TIP Holders of a EurailPass, a Youth Pass, or an Inter-Rail card can travel free on all suburban railway trains (S-bahn). Be forewarned: If caught on anything but the S-bahn without a normal public transport ticket, you will be fined \u20ac40, with no exceptions.\n\nPublic Transportation Information  \nMunich Transport Company (MVG). | 089/4142\u20134344 | www.mvg-mobil.de.\n\n#### Taxi Travel\n\nMunich's cream-color taxis are numerous. Hail them in the street or phone for one (there's an extra charge of \u20ac1.20 if you call). Rates start at \u20ac3.10. Expect to pay \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac10 for a short trip within the city. There's a \u20ac0.60 charge for each piece of non\u2013hand luggage.\n\nTaxi Information  \nTaxi M\u00fcnchen. | 089/21610, 089/19410 | www.taxi-muenchen.com.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nAll long-distance rail services arrive at and depart from the Hauptbahnhof; trains to and from some destinations in Bavaria use the adjoining Starnberger Bahnhof, which is under the same roof. The high-speed InterCity Express (ICE) trains connect Munich, Augsburg, Frankfurt, and Hamburg on one line, Munich, N\u00fcrnberg, W\u00fcrzburg, and Hamburg on another. Regensburg can be reached from Munich on Regio trains. You can purchase tickets by credit card at vending machines. For travel information at the main train station, go to one of the Deutsche Bahn (German Rail) counters at the center of the main arrival and departures hall with German- and English-speaking personnel or contact www.bahn.de. With more complex questions, go to the EurAide office, which also serves English-speaking train travelers.\n\nTrain Information  \nDeutsche Bahn. | 0800/150\u20137090 | www.bahn.de.   \nEurAide. | www.euraide.com.\n\n### Tours\n\nThe tourist office offers individual guided tours in English for fees ranging between \u20ac115 and \u20ac290. Bookings must be made at least 10 days in advance.\n\nA novel way of seeing the city is to hop on one of the bike-rickshaws. The bike-powered two-seater cabs operate from Marienplatz and cost around \u20ac35 an hour; you can also let a driver take you on one of various city tours, from \u20ac35 for 30 minutes.\n\n#### Bus Tours\n\nThe best way to get a feel of Munich is to board one of the double-decker sightseeing buses with big signs that read \"Stadtrundfahrten\" (city sightseeing). They leave from across the main railway station. There are the blue ones run by Autobus Oberbayern and, 80 meters to the left, yellow and red ones run by Yellow Cab Muenchen. Tours cost \u20ac15 per person (cheaper if booked online) and offer hop-on, hop-off service throughout the City Center with commentary via headphones available in eight languages. There are numerous stops and the full tour takes about an hour. Both bus lines run about every 20 to 30 minutes, between 9 am and 5 pm. The only difference is that the blue line has\u2014in addition to the headphones for other languages\u2014a live host who offers running commentary in English and German, so seamlessly that after five minutes you're sure you speak both languages. On the bus ask for a brochure with many other suggestions for bus trips.\n\n#### Walking Tours\n\nRadius Tours & Bikes has theme walks of Munich highlights, Third Reich Munich, and the Dachau concentration camp. Third Reich tours depart from the Radius offices, in the Hauptbahnhof, just across from Platform 32, daily at 3 pm between early April and mid-October (Friday to Tuesday at 11:30 am the rest of the year). The Dachau tour is daily at 9:15 and 12:15 from early April to mid-October and daily at 10 for the rest of the year. Advance booking is not necessary for individuals.\n\nGray Line Sightseeing Munich. | Hauptbanhof, Bahnhofpl. 7, Ludwigvorstadt | Wait outside Karstadt department store | 089/5490\u20137560 | www.sightseeing-munich.com.\n\nTour Information  \nMunich Tourist Office. | 089/2339\u20136500 | www.muenchen.de/tam.   \nRadius Tours & Bike Rental. | Hauptbahnhof, Arnulfstr. 3, Ludwigvorstadt | The office is at the Hauptbahnhof, near Track 32 | 089/54348\u201377740 | www.radiustours.com.   \nCity Sightseeing Tours Munich. | Bahnhofplatz, Elisenhof, Maxvorstadt | Wait outside Elisenhof | www.citysightseeing-muenchen.de.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nThe Munich Tourist office has two locations. The Hauptbahnhof (main train station) tourist office is open Monday through Saturday 9\u20138 and Sunday 10\u20136. The Tourist office in the Rathaus (town hall) is open weekdays 9\u20137, Saturday 9\u20136, and Sunday 10\u20134.\n\nFor information on the Bavarian mountain region south of Munich, contact the Tourismusverband M\u00fcnchen-Oberbayern.\n\nAs well as tourist offices, a great way to start your Munich visit is to go to infopoint, in the Alterhof's Kaiserburg, an information center for castles across Bavaria. Here, in a superbly atmospheric vaulted cellar, there are two films (ask for English versions), which combined make a great introduction to any Munich visit. One film is about the city's history, the other about the Alterhof. From Marienplatz, walk 170 meters down the attractive Burgstrasse, through the Alterhof tower. On the right is infopoint. Around 100 meters farther, you'll pass the M\u00fcnzhof entrance, and another 50 meters is the Residenz Theater, next to the Residenz. Along with the films, this walk is an incredible 350-meter introduction to 1,000 years of Munich history.\n\nVisitor Information  \nMunich Tourist Office\u2014Hauptbahnhof. | Hauptbahnhof, Bahnhofpl. 2, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/23396500 | www.muenchen.de/tam.   \nMunich Tourist Office\u2014Rathaus. | Tourist Office at Rathaus, Marienplatz 2, City Center | 089/2339\u20136500.   \nTourismusverband M\u00fcnchen-Oberbayern (Upper Bavarian Regional Tourist Office). | www.oberbayern.de.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nSet aside at least a whole day for the Old Town, hitting Marienplatz when the glockenspiel plays at 11 am or noon before a crowd of spectators. There's a reason why Munich's Kaufingerstrasse has Germany's most expensive shop rents. Munich is Germany's most affluent city and M\u00fcnchners like to spend. The pedestrian zone can get maddeningly full between noon and 2, when everyone in town seems to be taking a quick shopping break, though it's hardly any better up until around 5. If you've already seen the glockenspiel, try to avoid the area at that time. Avoid the museum crowds in Maxvorstadt by visiting as early in the day as possible. All Munich seems to discover an interest in art on Sunday, when most municipal and state-funded museums are \u20ac1; you might want to take this day off from culture and have a late breakfast or brunch at the Elisabethmarkt or around the G\u00e4rtnerplatz-Glockenbach areas. Some beer gardens and taverns have Sunday-morning jazz concerts. Many Schwabing bars have happy hours between 6 and 8\u2014a relaxing way to end your day.\n\n## Viktualienmarkt\n\nIt's not just the fascinating array of fruit, vegetables, olives, breads, cheeses, meats, pickles, and honey that make Viktualienmarkt (victuals market) so attractive. The towering maypole, small Wirtsh\u00e4user (pub-restaurants), and beer gardens also set the scene for a fascinating trek through Munich's most famous market.\n\nThe Viktualienmarkt's history can be traced to the early 19th century, when King Max I Joseph decreed that Marienplatz was too small to house the major city market. In 1807, a bigger version was created a few hundred meters to the south, where it stands today. You are just as likely to find a M\u00fcnchner buying something here as you are a visitor. Indeed, a number of City Center restaurants proudly proclaim that they get their ingredients \"fresh from the market.\" This is the place to pick up a Brotzeit: bread, olives, cheeses, gherkins, and whatever else strikes your fancy, then retreat to a favorite Biergarten to enjoy the bounty.\n\n\u2014Paul Wheatley\n\n## Market Etiquette\n\nAll stalls are open weekdays 10\u20136 and Saturday 10\u20133, though some stalls open earlier or close later. It's not kosher to touch the fresh produce but it is to ask to taste a few different olives or cheeses before buying. The quality of the various produce is invariably good; competition is fierce, so it has to be. Therefore, buy the best of what you fancy from a number of stalls, not just one or two.\n\n## Viktualienmarkt Best Buys\n\n#### Beer and Prepared Food\n\nIf it's just a beer you're after, there are a number of beer stalls not far from the towering maypole. Biergarten am Viktualienmarkt is the main location, but there are also small Imbissst\u00e4nde (snack bars) where you can pick up roast pork and beer. Kleiner Ochsenbrater sells delicious organic roast dishes. Poseidon and the nearby Fisch Witte rustle up a fine selection of fish dishes, including very good soups and stews. Luigino's Bio Feinkost, an organic deli that also has fine cheeses and wines, is the spot for a quick grilled sandwich. And the modest-looking M\u00fcnchner Suppenk\u00fcche dishes out delightful helpings of soup, including oxtail, chicken, and spicy lentil.\n\n#### Fruits and Vegetables\n\nThe mainstay of the market is fruit and vegetables, and there are a number of top-quality stalls to choose from. The centrally located Fruitique has some of the freshest, most attractive-looking, and ripest produce on display. For something a little more exotic, try out Exoten M\u00fcller, which specializes in unusual fruits and vegetables from around the world.\n\n#### Honigh\u00e4usel am M\u00fcnchner Viktualienmarkt\n\nHonigh\u00e4usel means \"small honey house\" and is an apt description of this petite honey wonderland. Much of the produce comes from Bavaria, but there's also a selection of honeys from farther afield: Italy, France, even New Zealand. This is also the place to buy honey marmalades and soaps, and beeswax candles. For a chilly evening, pick up a bottle of Bavarian honey schnapps.\n\n#### Ludwig Freisinger's \"Saure Ecke\"\n\nThis is the place to create the perfect Biergarten Brotzeit (beer garden snack). Ask for a mixture of green and black olives with different fillings. You can also pick up the traditional biergarten cheese spread, Obatzter, which is made of Camembert and other white cheeses, butter, paprika, and onions. There's a huge selection of peppers filled with cheese, plus feta salad, hummus, and the enormous Essiggurke (gherkins). The best are crunchy when you bite into them but tender inside, with a light tanginess. A Fladenbrot, a circular, flat white bread, is enough for two people, and the perfect accompaniment.\n\n#### Schenk's\n\nThere are numerous stalls at the market that serve mouthwatering, freshly pressed fruit drinks, so no matter where you buy, you won't be disappointed. Schenk's is a favorite because the drinks are top-notch and the staff are engaging, speak English, and take the time to explain the ingredients in each drink.\n\n## Munich's Beer Gardens\n\nWith a bit of sunshine, a handful of picnic tables, and a few of the finest beers around, you have yourself a Biergarten (beer garden). There are beer gardens throughout Germany, and many imitations across the world but the most traditional, and the best, are still found in and around Munich. The elixir that transforms the traditional Munich beer garden into something special is the unbeatable atmosphere.\n\nBeer gardens formed out of necessity. Brewers in the 18th and 19th centuries struggled to keep beer cool to prevent it from spoiling in warm weather. As early as 1724, Munich brewers dug cellars and began to store beer next to the shady shores of the Isar River. Local residents promptly took along their beer glasses for a cool drink and before long the odd table and bench appeared, and the beer garden tradition was born.\n\n\u2014Paul Wheatley\n\n## Biergarten Etiquette\n\nOften, a beer garden is separated between where guests can bring food and where they must buy it. Simply ask to avoid confusion, or look for tablecloths\u2014generally these are table-service only. The basis of a beer garden Brotzeit is delicious black bread, Obatzter, sausage, gherkin, and radish. As tradition dictates, remember to also order Ein Mass Bier bitte! (A liter of beer please!)\n\n### Munich's Best Beer Gardens\n\n#### Augustiner Keller Biergarten\n\nThis is perhaps the most popular beer garden in Munich and certainly one of the largest. It is part of the Augustiner Keller restaurant, a few hundred meters from Hackerbr\u00fccke S-bahn station, or 5\u20136 minutes from the Hauptbahnhof. The main garden is separated half between where you can bring your own food and half where you buy food from the beer garden. The leaves from countless horse chestnut trees provide a canopy covering, which adds to the dreamy atmosphere.\n\n#### Hofbr\u00e4ukeller am Wiener Platz\n\nSome of the best beer gardens are found away from the City Center. This one is a 15-minute walk (or take Tram No. 18 or 19 from the Hauptbahnhof) over the Isar River, past the Maximilianeum, to Wiener Platz, a delightful square well worth visiting. The beer garden attracts M\u00fcnchners, as well as groups of British, Australian, and American expats. The staple beer garden chicken, fries, roast pork, and spare ribs are better here than most.\n\n#### K\u00f6niglicher Hirschgarten\n\nWith seating for 8,000, this is the biggest and most family-friendly beer garden in Munich. In a former royal hunting area outside the City Center, it takes a little time and effort to reach. Your best bet is to rent a bike and cycle there. The rewards are clear: surrounded by trees and green parkland, the tables and benches seem to go on forever. The food and beer is good and there is even a small deer sanctuary, lending the \"Deer Park\" its name.\n\n#### Park Caf\u00e9\n\nThis is where trendsetters head for a more modern and sunny\u2014there isn't much shade here\u2014take on the traditional beer garden. Set in Munich's old botanical garden, five minutes from the Hauptbanhof, this medium-size beer garden regularly has DJs and other musical events in the evenings. It also has a good selection of cakes and a hip indoor bar.\n\n#### Seehaus im Englischen Garten\n\nWithin Munich's very own oasis, the Englischer Garten, it was an inspired decision to build this beer garden next to a boating lake. A leisurely stroll through the garden to the Seehaus takes about an hour, but go early because it's popular after 11:30. Lots of people visit the Englischer Garten to play soccer and other sports, and if you want to join in you might want to pass on the roast dinner and instead snack on a Brezn (pretzel), Obatzter, and salad.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCity Center | Royal Munich | Schwabing and Maxvorstadt | Outside the Center\n\nMunich is a wealthy city\u2014and it shows. At times this affluence may come across as conservatism. But what makes Munich so unique is that it's a new city superimposed on the old. Hip neighborhoods are riddled with traditional locales, and flashy materialism thrives together with a love of the outdoors.\n\n## City Center\n\nMunich's Old Town (Altstadt) has been rebuilt so often over the centuries that it no longer has the homogeneous look of so many other German towns. World War II leveled a good portion of the center, but an amazing job has been done to restore a bit of the fairy-tale feel that once prevailed here.\n\nNext Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Deutsches Museum (German Museum).  \nAircraft, vehicles, cutting-edge technology, historic machinery, and even a mine fill a monumental building on an island in the Isar River, which comprises one of the best science and technology museums in the world. The collection is spread out over 47,000 square meters, six floors of exhibits, and about 50 exhibition areas. The Centre for New Technologies includes interactive exhibitions, such as nanotechnology, biotechnology, and robotics. It could change the way you think about science forever. Children have their own area, the Kinderreich, where they can learn about modern technology and science through numerous interactive displays (parents must accompany their children). One of the most technically advanced planetariums in Europe has four shows daily. The Internet caf\u00e9 on the third floor is open daily 9\u20133, other caf\u00e9s until 4.TIP To arrange for a two-hour tour in English, call at least six weeks in advance. The Verkehrszentrum (Center for Transportation), on the former trade fair grounds at the Theresienh\u00f6he, has been completely renovated and houses an amazing collection of the museum's transportation exhibits. | Museumsinsel 1, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/21791 | www.deutsches-museum.de | Museum \u20ac8.50 | Daily 9\u20135 | Station: Isartor (S-bahn).\n\nFrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nMunich's Dom (cathedral) is a distinctive late-Gothic brick structure with two huge towers. Each is 99 meters high, an important figure today because, in a nonbinding referendum, M\u00fcnchners narrowly voted to restrict all new buildings to below this height within the city's middle ring road. The main body of the cathedral was completed in 20 years (1468\u201388)\u2014a record time in those days\u2014and the distinctive onion dome\u2013like cupolas were added by 1525. Shortly after the original work was completed in 1688, J\u00f6rg von Halspach, the Frauenkirche's architect, died, but he became celebrated for the unique achievement of seeing through a project on such a scale from start to finish. The twin towers are easily the most recognized feature of the city skyline and a Munich trademark. In 1944\u201345, the building suffered severe damage during Allied bombing raids, and was restored between 1947 and 1957. Inside, the church combines most of von Halspach's plans, with a stark, clean modernity and simplicity of line, emphasized by slender, white octagonal pillars that sweep up through the nave to the tracery ceiling. As you enter the church, look on the stone floor for the dark imprint of a large foot\u2014the Teufelstritt (Devil's Footprint). According to lore, the devil challenged von Halspach to build a church without windows. The architect accepted the challenge. When he completed the job, he led the devil to a spot in the bright church from which the 66-foot-high windows could not be seen. The devil triumphantly stomped his foot and left the Teufelstritt, only to be enraged when he ventured further inside and realized that windows had been included. The cathedral houses an elaborate 15th-century black-marble tomb guarded by four 16th-century armored knights. It's the final resting place of Duke Ludwig IV (1302\u201347), who became Holy Roman Emperor Ludwig the Bavarian in 1328. One of the Frauenkirche's great treasures is the collection of numerous wooden busts of the apostles, saints, and prophets above the choir, carved by the 15th-century Munich sculptor Erasmus Grasser. The observation platform high up in the south tower offers a splendid view of the city and the Alps. But beware, you must climb 86 steps to reach the tower elevator. | Frauenpl. 2, City Center | 089/290\u20130820 | Cathedral free, tower \u20ac3 | Tower closed until at least 2015 for renovation | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMarienplatz.  \nBordered by the Neues Rathaus, shops, and caf\u00e9s, this square is named after the gilded statue of the Virgin Mary that has watched over it for more than three centuries. It was erected in 1638 at the behest of Elector Maximilian I as an act of thanksgiving for the city's survival of the Thirty Years War, the cataclysmic, partly religious struggle that devastated vast regions of Germany. When the statue was taken down from its marble column for cleaning in 1960, workmen found a small casket in the base containing a splinter of wood said to be from the cross of Christ. TIP On the fifth floor of a building facing the Neues Rathaus is Caf\u00e9 Glockenspiel. It overlooks the entire square and provides a perfect view of the glockenspiel from the front and St. Peter's Church from the back terrace. Entrance is around the back. | Bounded by Kaufingerstr., Rosenstr., Weinstr., and Dienerstr., City Center | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMichaelskirche (St. Michael's Church).  \nA curious story explains why this hugely impressive Renaissance church, adjoining a former extensive Jesuit college, has no tower. Seven years after the start of construction, in 1583, the main tower collapsed. Its patron, pious Duke Wilhelm V, regarded the disaster as a heavenly sign that the church wasn't big enough, so he ordered a change in the plans\u2014this time without a tower. Completed in 1597, the barrel vaulting of St. Michael's is second in size only to that of St. Peter's in Rome. The duke is buried in the crypt, along with 40 other Wittelsbach family members, including the eccentric King Ludwig II. A severe neoclassical monument in the north transept contains the tomb of Napoleon's stepson, Eug\u00e8ne de Beauharnais, who married a daughter of King Maximilian I and died in Munich in 1824. Once again a Jesuit church, it is the venue for free performances of church music. A poster to the right of the front portal gives the dates. | Neuhauserstr. 6, City Center | 089/231\u20137060 | \u20ac2 crypt | Mon. and Fri. 10\u20137, Tues.\u2013Thurs. and Sat. 8\u20137, Sun. 7\u201310:15; closed during services | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nNeues Rathaus (New Town Hall).  \nMunich's present neo-Gothic town hall was built in three sections and two phases between 1867 and 1908. It was a nessesary enlargement on the nearby Old Town Hall, but city fathers also saw it as presenting Munich as a modern city, independent from the waning powers of the Bavarian Wittelsbach royal house. Architectural historians are divided over its merits, although its dramatic scale and lavish detailing are impressive. Perhaps the most serious criticism is that the Dutch and Flemish styles of the building seem out of place amid the baroque and rococo styles of parts of the Altstadt. The main tower's 1908-finished glockenspiel (a chiming clock with mechanical figures), the largest in Germany, plays daily at 11 am, noon, and 9 pm, with an additional performance at 5 pm March through October. As chimes peal out over the square, the clock's doors flip open and brightly colored dancers and jousting knights act out two events from Munich's past: a tournament held in Marienplatz in 1568 and the Sch\u00e4fflertanz (Dance of the Coopers), which commemorated the end of the plague of 1515\u201317. TIP You, too, can travel up there, by elevator, to an observation point near the top of one of the towers. On a clear day the view across the city and the Alps behind is spectacular. | Neues Rathaus, Marienpl. 8, City Center | Tower \u20ac2.50 | Nov.\u2013Apr., weekdays 10\u20135; May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sun. 10\u20137 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nPeterskirche (St. Peter's Church).  \nThe Altstadt's oldest parish church (called locally \"Alter Peter,\" or \"Old Peter\") traces its origins to the 12th century, and has been restored in various architectural styles, including Gothic, baroque, and rococo. The rich baroque interior has a magnificent high altar and aisle pillars decorated with exquisite 18th-century figures of the apostles. In clear weather it's well worth the long climb up the approximately 300-foot-high tower, with a panoramic view of the Alps. | Rindermarkt 1, City Center | 089/260\u20134828 | Tower \u20ac1.50 | Summer, weekdays 9\u20136:30, weekends 10\u20136:30; winter, weekdays 9\u20135:30, weekends 10\u20135:30 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nViktualienmarkt (Victuals Market).  \nThe city's open-air market really is the beating heart of downtown Munich. It has just about every fresh fruit or vegetable you can imagine, as well as German and international specialties. All kinds of people come here for a quick bite, from well-heeled businesspeople and casual tourists to mortar- and paint-covered workers. It's also the realm of the garrulous, sturdy market women who run the stalls with dictatorial authority.TIP Whether here, or at a bakery, do not try to select your pickings by hand. Ask, and let it be served to you. Try Poseidon's for quality fish treats, Mercado Latino on the south side of the market for an empanada and fine wines from South America, or Freisinger for Bavarian and Mediterranean delights. There's also a great beer garden (open pretty much whenever the sun is shining), where you can enjoy your snacks with cold local beer. A sign above the counter tells you what's on tap. The choice rotates throughout the year among the six major Munich breweries, which are displayed on the maypole. These are also the only six breweries officially allowed to serve their wares at the Oktoberfest. | 15 Viktualienmarkt, City Center | Weekdays 10\u20136; Sat. 10\u20133 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n* * *\n\nTips for Saving Money in Munich\n\nPrices for decent accommodations drop substantially when you choose a hotel outside the City Center. A small, nice suburban hotel will be clean, quiet, and often provide free parking either at its own lot or on a side street.\n\nTo save money on meals, go to where the students eat. Take the U-bahn 3 or 6 past Odeonsplatz to Universit\u00e4t. At the back of the main university building is a solid block bordered by the parallel Amalienstrasse and T\u00fcrkenstrasse, and Schellingstrasse to the south and Adalbertstrasse to the north. Along these streets are more than 35 eateries, restaurants, or bakeries with a few stand-up tables, all catering to the hundreds of students who come out of class throughout the day.\n\n* * *\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nAlter Hof (M\u00fcnchner Kaiserburg).  \nThe Alter Hof was the original medieval residence of the Wittelsbachs, the ruling dynasty of Bavaria, established in 1180. The palace now serves various functions. Its infopoint serves as a tourist information center for Bavaria's many castles. Beneath this, in the atmospheric late-Gothic vaulted hall of the M\u00fcnchner Kaiserburg, there is a multimedia presentation about the palace's history. The west wing was previously home to the refined restaurant Vinorant Alter Hof; it's now closed, but rumor has it that another restaurant will take its place in 2014. | Alter Hof 1, City Center | 089/2101\u20134050 | www.alter-hof-muenchen.de | Infopoint: Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nMuch of the work on Munich's first town hall was done in the 15th century, though it had various alterations through the centuries. Its great hall\u2014destroyed in 1943\u201345 but now fully restored\u2014was the work of great architect J\u00f6rg von Halspach. Postwar the tower was rebuilt as it looked in the 15th century and now it's used for official receptions and is not usually open to the public. The tower provides a fairy-tale-like setting for the Spielzeugmuseum (Toy Museum), accessible via a winding staircase. Its toys, dolls, and teddy bears are on display, with a collection of Barbies from the United States. | Marienpl. 15, City Center | 089/294\u2013001 for Spielzeugmuseum | Museum \u20ac4 adults | Daily 10\u20135:30 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nAsamkirche (St.-Johann-Nepomuk-Kirche).  \nPerhaps Munich's most ostentatious church, it has a suitably extraordinary entrance, framed by raw rock foundations. The insignificant door, crammed between its craggy shoulders, gives little idea of the opulence and lavish detailing within the small 18th-century church (there are only 12 rows of pews). Above the doorway St. Nepomuk, the 14th-century Bohemian monk and patron saint of Bavaria, who drowned in the Danube, is being led by angels from a rocky riverbank to heaven. The church's official name is Church of St. Johann Nepomuk, but it's known as the Asamkirche for its architects, the brothers Cosmas Damian and Egid Quirin Asam. The interior of the church is a prime example of true southern German late-baroque architecture. Frescoes by Cosmas Damian Asam and rosy marble cover the walls. The sheer wealth of statues and gilding is stunning\u2014there's even a gilt skeleton at the sanctuary's portal. | Sendlinger Str. 32, City Center | Daily 9\u20135:30 | Station: Sendlingertor (U-bahn).\n\nDeutsches Jagd- und Fischereimuseum (German Museum of Hunting and Fishing).  \nThis quirky museum is in the enormous former St. Augustus Church, and it contains the world's largest collection of fishhooks, some 500 stuffed animals (including a 6\u00bd-foot-tall North American grizzly bear), a 12,000-year-old skeleton of a deer found in Ireland, and a valuable collection of hunting weapons. You'll even find the mythical Wolpertinger, the Bavarian equivalent of the jackalope. The museum also sells fine hunting equipment, from knives and rifles to sturdy clothing. | Neuhauserstr. 2, City Center | 089/220\u2013522 | www.jagd-fischerei-museum.de | \u20ac3.50 | Fri.\u2013Wed. 9:30\u20135, Thurs. 9:30\u20139 | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Klosterkirche St. Anna  \n(Franciscan Monastery Church of St. Anne).  \nThis striking example of the two Asam brothers' work in the Lehel district impresses visitors with its sense of movement and heroic scale. The ceiling fresco from 1729 by Cosmas Damian Asam glows in all its original glory. The ornate altar was also designed by the Asam brothers. Towering over the delicate little church, on the opposite side of the street, is the neo-Romanesque bulk of the 19th-century parish church of St. Anne. TIP Stop at one of the stylish caf\u00e9s, restaurants, and patisseries gathered at the junction of St.-Anna-Str. and Gew\u00fcrzm\u00fchlstr., about 250 feet from the churches. | St.-Anna-Str. 19, Lehel | 089/211\u2013260 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 8:30\u201311:45 and 2\u20135:45, Sun. 9:30\u201311:45 | Station: Lehel (U-bahn); or Tram 17.\n\nHauptbahnhof (Central Station).  \nThe train station isn't a cultural site, but it's a particularly handy starting point for exploring. The city tourist office here has maps and helpful information on events around town. On the underground level are all sorts of shops that remain open even on Sunday and holidays. There are also a number of places to get a late-night snack in and around the station. | Bahnhofpl., Hauptbahnhof | 089/1308\u201310555 | www.hauptbahnhof-muenchen.de | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nJewish Center Munich (J\u00fcdisches Zentrum).  \nThe striking new Jewish Center at St.-Jakobs-Platz has transformed a formerly sleepy area into an elegant, busy modern square. The buildings signify the return of the Jewish community to Munich's city center, six decades after the end of the Third Reich. The center includes a museum focusing on Jewish history in Munich (plus kosher caf\u00e9), and the impressive Ohel Jakob Synagogue (www.juedisches-museum-muenchen.de), with its rough slabs topped by a latticelike cover, manifesting a thought-provoking sense of permanence. The third building is a community center, which includes the kosher Einstein restaurant (www.einstein-restaurant.de). Guided tours of the synagogue are in great demand, so to see it, arrange a time weeks in advance (089/202400\u2013100). | St.-Jakobspl. 16, City Center | 089/233\u2013989\u201396096 | www.ikg-m.de | Museum \u20ac6; synagogue tour \u20ac5 | Museum Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; synagogue by appointment | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nKarlsplatz.  \nIn 1728 Eustachius F\u00f6derl opened an inn and beer garden here, which, according to one theory, is why it became known as Stachus. The beer garden is long gone, but the name has remained\u2014locals still refer to this busy intersection as Stachus. One of Munich's most popular fountains is here\u2014it acts as a magnet on hot summer days, when city shoppers and office workers seek a place to relax. TIP In winter it makes way for an ice-skating rink. It's a bustling meeting point, more so since the complete renovation and extension of the underground shopping center in 2010\u201311. | Karlspl. | www.stachus-passagen.com | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nM\u00fcnchner Stadtmuseum (City Museum).  \nOn St.-Jakobs-Platz, this museum is as eclectic inside as the architecture is outside. The buildings, facing St.-Jakobs-Platz, originally date to the 15th century, though were destroyed by Allied bombs in 1944\u201345 and subsequently rebuilt. Recent extensive renovation has revitalized the City Museum, exemplified by its fabulous Typical Munich! exhibition, charting a riotous history few other city's can match: royal capital, brewery center, capital of art and classical music, and now wealthy, high-tech and cultural center par excellence. There is also a separate, permanent exhibtion dealing with the city's Nazi past. The museum is home to a film museum showing rarely screened movies, a puppet theater, while there are numerous photo and other temporary exhibitions. Checkout the museum shop, servus.heimat, with the great and good of Munich kitsch, and some pretty good Munich souvenirs. TIP Even the threat of sunshine makes it difficult to get a table outside the lively museum caf\u00e9 on St.-Jakobs-Platz. Try the inner courtyard, which still catches the sun but can be less packed. | St.-Jakobs-Pl. 1, City Center | 089/2332\u20132370 | www.stadtmuseum-online.de | \u20ac4 (\u20ac6 special exhibitions), \u20ac1 Sun. | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nM\u00fcnzhof (Mint).  \nOriginally built between 1563 and 1567, the ground floor was home to Duke Albrecht V's stables, the second to living quarters for the servants, and the third for the ducal collection of high art and curiosities (6,000 pieces by 1600). Between 1809 and 1983 it was home to the Bavarian mint, and a neoclassical facade, with allegories to copper, silver, and gold, was added in 1808\u201309. Today, with its slightly garish green exterior on three sides, it can appear to be little more than the slightly undistinguished home to the Bavarian Land Bureau for the Conservation of Historic Monuments. But step inside the inner arcade to see a jewel of German Renaissance architecture. | Hofgraben 4, City Center | Entrance via Pfisterstr. | Free | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20134, Fri. 8\u20132 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Royal Munich\n\nFrom the modest palace of the Alter Hof, the Wittelsbachs expanded their quarters northward, away from the jumble of narrow streets in the old quarter. Three splendid avenues radiated outward from their new palace and garden grounds, and fine homes arose along them. One of them\u2014Prinzregentenstrasse\u2014marks the southern edge of Munich's huge public park, the Englischer Garten, a present from the royal family to the locals. Lehel, an upmarket residential neighborhood that straddles Prinzregentenstrasse, plays host to one of Munich's most famous museums, the Haus der Kunst, as well as to some lesser-known but architecturally stunning museums.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nEnglischer Garten (English Garden).  \nBigger than New York's Central Park and London's Hyde Park, this seemingly endless green space blends into the open countryside at the north of the city. It was a former favorite royal hunting ground until partly opened to the public by Benjamin Thompson, later Count Rumford, a great American-British reformer and scientist. Born in Massachusetts, he left after siding with the British during the Revolutionary War. Thompson's Munich garden plans were expanded on and the park became a gift from Elector Karl Theodor to the people of Munich. Today's park covers more than 1,000 acres and has 78 km (48 miles) of paths, 8.5 km (5.2 miles) of streams, and more than 100 foot- and other bridges. The open, informal landscaping\u2014reminiscent of the rolling parklands with which English aristocrats of the 18th century liked to surround their country homes\u2014gave the park its name. It has a boating lake, four beer gardens, and a series of curious decorative and monumental constructions, including the Monopteros, a Greek temple designed by Leo von Klenze for King Ludwig I, and built in 1837 on an artificial hill in the southern section of the park. There are great sunset views of Munich from the Monopteros hill. In the center of the park's most popular beer garden is a Chinese pagoda, erected in 1790. It was destroyed during the war and then reconstructed.TIP The Chinese Tower beer garden is hugely popular, but the park has prettier places for sipping a beer: the Aumeister, for example, along the northern perimeter, is in an early-19th-century hunting lodge. At the Seehaus, on the shore of the Kleinhesseloher See (lake), choose between a smart restaurant or a cozy Bierstube (beer tavern) in addition to the beer garden right on the lake.\n\nThe Englischer Garten is a paradise for joggers, cyclists, musicians, soccer players, sunbathers, and, in winter, cross-country skiers. The park has semi-official areas for nude sunbathing\u2014the Germans have a positively pagan attitude toward the sun\u2014so in some areas don't be surprised to see naked bodies bordering the flower beds and paths. | Main entrances at various points on Prinzregentenstr. and K\u00f6niginstr., City Center/Schwabing.\n\nFeldherrnhalle (Field Marshals' Hall).  \nErected in 1841\u201344, this open pavilion, fronted with three huge arches, was modeled on the 14th-century Loggia dei Lanzi in Florence. It opens the grand Ludwigstrasse (closed by the Siegestor) on Odeonsplatz, and was built to honor Bavarian military leaders and the Bavarian army. Two huge Bavarian lions are flanked by the larger-than-life statues of Count Johann Tserclaes Tilly, who led Catholic forces in the Thirty Years' War, and Prince Karl Philipp Wrede, hero of the 19th-century Napoleonic Wars.\n\nThere's an astonishing photograph of a 25-year-old Adolf Hitler standing in front of the Feldherrnhalle on August 2, 1914, amid a huge crowd gathered to celebrate the beginning of World War I. The imposing structure was turned into a militaristic shrine in the 1930s and '40s by the Nazis, to whom it was significant because it marked the site of Hitler's abortive coup, or Putsch, in 1923 (today, there's a plaque on the ground, 20 meters from the lion on the left, commemorating the four policemen who were killed in the putsch attempt). During the Third Reich, all who passed it had to give the Nazi salute. Viscardigasse, a tiny alley behind the Feldherrnhalle, linking Residenzstrasse and Theatinerstrasse, and now lined with exclusive boutiques, was used by those who wanted to dodge the routine. Its nickname was Dr\u00fcckebergergassl, or Dodgers' Alley. | South end of Odeonspl., Residenzstr. 1, City Center | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nHaus der Kunst (House of Art).  \nThis colonnaded, classical-style building is one of Munich's most significant examples of Hitler-era architecture, and was officially opened as Haus der Deustchen Kunst (House of German Art) by the F\u00fchrer himself. During the Third Reich it showed only work deemed to reflect the Nazi aesthetic. One of its most successful postwar exhibitions was devoted to works banned by the Nazis. It now hosts cutting-edge exhibitions on art, photography, and sculpture, as well as theatrical and musical happenings. After the departure to London's prestigious Tate Modern in October 2011 of the gallery's hugely successful director Chris Derkon, Nigerian-born (formerly U.S.-based) Okwui Enwezor has made a good start. The survival-of-the-chicest disco, P1, is in the building's west wing. | Prinzregentenstr. 1, Lehel | 089/2112\u20137113 | www.hausderkunst.de | Varies \u20ac5\u2013\u20ac15 | Mon.\u2013Sun. 10\u20138, Thurs. 10\u201310 | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nHofbr\u00e4uhaus.  \nDuke Wilhelm V founded Munich's most famous brewery in 1589; it's been at its present location since 1808. As beer and restaurants became major players in the city's economy, it needed to be completely rebuilt and modernized in 1897. The last major work was its reconstruction in 1950 after its destruction in the war. Hofbr\u00e4u means \"court brewery,\" and the golden beer is poured in pitcher-size liter mugs. If the cavernous ground-floor hall is too noisy for you, there is a quieter restaurant upstairs. In this legendary establishment Americans, Australians, and Italians often far outnumber locals, who regard it as too much of a tourist trap. The brass band that performs here most days adds modern pop and American folk music to the traditional German numbers. | Platzl 9, City Center | 089/2913\u20136100 | Daily 9\u201311:30 | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHofgarten (Court Garden).  \nThe formal court garden was once part of the royal palace grounds, dating back to at least the early 15th century. It's now bordered on two sides by arcades designed in the 19th century by court architect Leo von Klenze. On the east side of the garden is the state chancellery (office of the Bavarian Minister President), built in 1990\u201393 around the ruins of the 19th-century Army Museum and incorporating the remains of a Renaissance arcade. Bombed during World War II air raids, the museum stood untouched for almost 40 years as a reminder of the war. Critics were horrified that a former army museum building could be used to represent modern, democratic Bavaria, not to mention about the immense cost. In front of the chancellery stands one of Europe's most unusual\u2014some say most effective\u2014war memorials. Instead of looking up at a monument, you are led down to a sunken crypt covered by a massive granite block. In the crypt lies a German soldier from World War I. The crypt is a stark contrast to the memorial that stands unobtrusively in front of the northern wing of the chancellery: a simple cube of black marble bearing facsimiles of handwritten wartime manifestos by anti-Nazi leaders, including the youthful members of the White Rose resistance movement. TIP As you enter the garden from Odeonsplatz, take a look at the frescoes (drawn by art students 1826\u201329 and of varying degrees of quality) in the passage of the Hofgartentor with depictions from Bavarian history. | Hofgartenstr., north of Residenz, City Center | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nResidenz (Royal Palace).  \nOne of Germany's true treasures, Munich's royal Residenz (Residence) began in 1363 as the modest Neuveste (New Fortress) on the northeastern city boundary. By the time the Bavarian monarchy fell, in 1918, the palace could compare favorably with the best in Europe. The Wittelsbach dukes moved here when the tenements of an expanding Munich encroached on their Alter Hof. In succeeding centuries the royal residence developed according to the importance, requirements, and whims of its occupants. It came to include, for example, the K\u00f6nigsbau (on Max-Joseph-Platz); the Festsaal (Banquet Hall); the newly renovated Cuvilli\u00e9s-Theater (Altes Residenztheater); the Allerheiligen-Hofkirche (All Saints' Church); and the adjoining Nationaltheater (Bavarian State Opera).\n\nFire was one of the biggest fears for all citizens for centuries: in 1674, fire destroyed large parts of the palace on Residenzstr., while most of the Neuevest complex burned to the ground in 1750, including the theater. This meant a new court theater was needed, and the result was the incomparable rococo Cuvilli\u00e9s-Theater.\n\nWith the Residenz's central location, it was pretty much inevitable that the Allied bombing of 1944\u201345 would cause immense damage, and susbequent reconstruction took decades. For tourists today, however, it really is a treasure chamber of delight. To wander around the Residenz can last anywhere from 3 hours to all day. The 16th-century, 70-meter-long arched Antiquarium, built for Duke Albrecht V's collection of antiques and library, is recognized as one of the most impressive Renaissance creations outside Italy (today it's used chiefly for state receptions). There are a number of halls and courtyards that show concerts, from the postwar Neuer Herkulessaal to the outdoor Brunnenhof. And particular favorites for visitors are the re-creation of many private royal chambers and apartments. The accumulated Wittelsbach treasures are on view in several museums that comprise the Residenz. TIP All the different rooms, halls, galleries, chapels, and museums within the Residenzmuseum, as well as the Cuvilli\u00e9s-Theater and Treasury, can be visited with a combination ticket that costs \u20ac13. | Max-Joseph-Pl. 3, City Center | 089/290\u2013671 | www.residenz-muenchen.de | Museum and Treasury mid-Apr. \u2013mid-Oct., daily 9\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 10\u20135 | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nSchatzkammer (Treasury).  \nThe Schatzkammer comprises many hundreds of masterworks, including a host of treasures from the Wittelsbach royal crown jewels. A highlight is the crown belonging to Bavaria's first king, Maximilian I, created in Paris in 1806\u201307. The Schatzkammer collection has a staggering centerpiece\u2014a renowned 50-cm-high Renaissance statue of St. George studded with diamonds, pearls, and rubies. | 1a Residenzstr. | \u20ac7, combined ticket with Residenzmuseum \u20ac11 | Mid-Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 9\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\nResidenzmuseum (Museum).  \nThe Residenzmuseum comprises everything in the Residenz apart from the Schatzkammer and the Cuvilli\u00e9s-Theater. Paintings, tapestries, furniture, and porcelain are housed in various rooms and halls. Look out for the Gr\u00fcne Galerie (Green Gallery), named after its green silk decoration, and the great and the good of the Wittelsbach royal family in the Ahnengalerie (Ancestral Gallery). Entrance on Max-Jospeh-Platz. | Max-Koseph-Pl., Altstadt-Lehel | \u20ac7 | Mid-Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 9\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\nStaatliche M\u00fcnzsammlung (State Coin Collection). More than 300,000 coins, bank notes, medals and stones, some 5,000 years old, star in the Staatliche M\u00fcnzsammlung. | 1 Residenzstr. | Entrance via Residenzstr. | 089/227\u2013221 | \u20ac2.50, \u20ac1 Sun. | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nStaatliche Sammlung \u00c4gyptischer Kunst (State Collection of Egyptian Art).  \nVarious Bavarian rulers were fascinated with the ancient world and in the 19th century accumulated huge quantities of significant Egyptian treasures, part of which make up the Staatliche Sammlung \u00c4gyptischer Kunst. In 2013 the collection moved from the Residenz to an impressive new building in Munich's superb Kunstareal (Art Quarter). | Arcisstr. 16, Maxvorstadt | 089/2892\u20137630 | www.aegyptisches-museum-muenchen.de | \u20ac7, Sun. \u20ac1 | Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Tues. 10\u20138 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nCuvilli\u00e9s-Theater (Bavarian State Opera).  \nThis stunning example of a rococo theater was originally built by court architet Fran\u00e7ois Cuvilli\u00e9s between 1751 and 1753 and it soon became the most famous in Germany. In 1781 it premiered Mozart's Idomeneo, commissioned by the Elector of Bavaria, Karl Theodor. The lavish rococo style went out of fashion with the emergence of the less ostentatious, more elegant period of 18th classicism. But in 1884 it became the first theater in Germany to be fitted out with electric lighting and in 1896 the first to have a revolving stage. As with so much of the Altstadt, it was destroyed during Allied bombing raids, although some of the original rococo decoration had been removed. In its place the New Residenztheater (now the Bavarian State Drama Theatre Company) was built (1948\u201351). In 1956\u201358, using some of the original rococo furnishings, Cuvilli\u00e9s's lavish theater was rebuilt in its present location, at a corner of the Residenz's Apothekenhof (courtyard). After extensive restoration work, it reopened in 2008 with a performance of Idomeneo. It's home to the hugely respected Bavarian State Opera, led by American conductor Kent Nagano. | Max-Joseph-Pl. 2 | Enter via Residenzstr. 1 | www.bayerische.staatsoper.de for opera tickets | \u20ac3 to view the theater | Closed during rehearsals.\n\nTheatinerkirche (St. Kajetan) (Theatine Church).  \nThis glorious baroque church owes its Italian appearance to its founder, Princess Henriette Adelaide of Savoy, who commissioned it in gratitude for the birth of her son and heir, Max Emanuel, in 1662. A native of Turin, the princess distrusted Bavarian architects and builders and thus summoned Agostino Barelli, a master builder from Bologna, to construct her church. It is modeled on Rome's Sant'Andrea della Valle. Barelli worked on the building for 12 years, but he was dismissed for being too quarrelsome. It was another 100 years before the building was finished in a style similar to today's. Its striking yellow facade stands out, and its two lofty towers, topped by delightful cupolas, frame the entrance, with the central dome at the back. The superb stuccowork on the inside has a remarkably light feeling owing to its brilliant white color.TIP The expansive Odeonsplatz in front of the Feldherrnhalle and Theatinerkirche is often used for outdoor stage events. | Theatinerstr. 22, City Center | 089/210\u20136960 | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nQuick Bites: Tambosi.  \nOpen since 1775, Tambosi is Munich's longest-running caf\u00e9. As well as an impressive provenance, its location is superb, partly sitting in full view of Theatinerkirche on Odeonsplatz and partly in the Hofgarten. Watch the hustle and bustle of Munich's street life from an outdoor table in the city side, or retreat through a gate in the Hofgarten's western wall to the caf\u00e9's tree-shaded beer garden. If the weather is cool or rainy, find a corner in the cozy, eclectically furnished interior. | Odeonspl. 18, City Center | 089/298\u2013322 | www.tambosi.de.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nArch\u00e4ologische Staatssammlung (Bavarian State Archaeological Collection).  \nThis is Bavaria's fascinating record of its prehistoric, Roman, and Celtic past. The perfectly preserved body of a ritually sacrificed young girl, recovered from a Bavarian peat moor, is among the more spine-chilling exhibits. Head down to the basement to see the fine Roman mosaic floor. | Lerchenfeldstr. 2, Lehel | 089/211\u20132402 | www.archaeologie-bayern.de | \u20ac1 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135 | Station: Lehel (U-bahn), Nationalmuseum (Tram).\n\nBayerisches Nationalmuseum (Bavarian National Museum).  \nAlthough the museum places emphasis on Bavarian cultural history, it has art and artifacts of international importance and regular exhibitions that attract worldwide attention. The museum is a journey through time, principally from the early Middle Ages to the 20th century, with medieval and Renaissance wood carvings, works by the great Renaissance sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider, tapestries, arms and armor, a unique collection of Christmas cr\u00e8ches (the Krippenschau), Bavarian and German folk art and a significant Jugendstil collection. | Prinzregentenstr. 3, Lehel | 089/211\u20132401 | www.bayerisches-nationalmuseum.de | \u20ac7 combined ticket for museum and Bollert collection, \u20ac1 Sun. | Tues., Wed., Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: Lehel (U-bahn).\n\nDenkSt\u00e4tte Weisse Rose (Memorial to the White Rose Resistance Group).  \nSiblings Hans and Sophie Scholl, fellow students Alexander Schmorell and Christian Probst, and Kurt Huber, professor of philosophy, were the key members of the Munich-based resistance movement against the Nazis in 1942\u201343 known as the Weisse Rose (White Rose). All were executed by guillotine. A small exhibition about their work is in the inner quad of the university, where the Scholls were caught distributing leaflets and denounced by the janitor. | Ludwig-Maximilians-Universit\u00e4t, Geschwister-Scholl-Pl. 1, Maxvorstadt | 089/2180\u20133053 | Free | Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 10\u20134; Apr.\u2013Oct., Sat. 11:30\u20132:30 | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn).\n\nKunsthalle der Hypo-Kulturstiftung (Hall of the Hypobank's Cultural Foundation).  \nChagall, Giacometti, Picasso, and Gauguin are among the artists featured in the past at this highly regarded exhibition hall in the middle of the commercial pedestrian zone, within the upscale F\u00fcnf H\u00f6fe shopping mall, designed by the Swiss architect team Herzog and de Meuron, who also designed London's Tate Modern. Exhibitions at the Kunsthalle rarely disappoint, making it one Germany's most interesting exhibition venues. It often works in cooperation with international institutes of the highest repute, such as in its 2010 version of London's Victorian & Albert Museum Maharja exhibition. The accompanying Cafe Kunsthalle is a destination for exhibition visitors and general public alike. The very good main menu changes weekly, though it's worth a visit just for the cakes. | Theatinerstr. 8, City Center | 089/224\u2013412 | www.hypo-kunsthalle.de | Varies but usually around \u20ac10 | Daily 10\u20138; Cafe Kunsthalle weekdays 8:30\u20138, Sat. 9\u20138, Sun. 10\u20138 | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nLudwigskirche (Ludwig's Church).  \nPlanted halfway along the stark, neoclassical Ludwigstrasse is this superb twin-towered Byzantine- and Italian-influenced church, built between 1829 and 1838 at the behest of King Ludwig I to provide his newly completed suburb with a parish church. From across the other side of the road, look up to see the splendidly colored, 2009-finished mosaic on the church's roof. Inside, see one of the great modern frescoes, the Last Judgment by Peter von Cornelius, in the choir. At 60 feet by 37 feet, it's also one of the world's largest. | Ludwigstr. 20, Maxvorstadt | 089/287\u20137990 | Daily 7\u20137 | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn).\n\nMaximilianstrasse.  \nMunich's most expensive and exclusive shopping street was named after King Maximilian II, who wanted to break away from the Greek-influenced classical architecture favored by his father, Ludwig I. He thus created this broad boulevard lined with majestic buildings culminating on a rise above the river Isar at the stately Maximilianeum. Finished in 1874, this building was conceived as an elite education foundation for the most talented young people across Bavaria, regardless of status or wealth. It is still home to an education foundation, but its principle role is as the grand, if slightly confined, home to the Bavarian state parliament. TIP Rather than take the tram to see the Maximilianeum, the whole walk along Maximilianstrasse (from Max-Joesph-Platz) is rewarding. You'll pass various boutiques, plus the five-star Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten, the Upper Bavarian Parliament, the Museum f\u00fcr V\u00f6lkerkunde (State Museum of Ethnology) and cross the picturesque river Isar. Five minutes past the Maximilianeum, on the charming Wiener Platz, is the Hofbr\u00e4ukeller and its excellent beer garden. | Maximilianstrasse | Station: Maximilianeum (Tram).\n\nMuseum Villa Stuck.  \nThis dramatic neoclassical villa is the former home of one of Germany's leading avant-garde artists from the turn of the 20th century, Franz von Stuck (1863\u20131928). His work, at times haunting, frequently erotic, and occasionally humorous, covers the walls of the ground-floor rooms. Stuck was prominent in the Munich art Secession (1892), though the museum is today famous for its fabulous Jugendstil (art nouveau) collections. The museum also features the artist's former quarters as well as special exhibits. | Prinzregentenstr. 60, Haidhausen | 089/455\u20135510 | www.villastuck.de | \u20ac9 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136 (1st Fri. of month till 10) | Station: Prinzregentenplatz (U-bahn).\n\nNationaltheater (National Theater).  \nBavaria's original National Theater at Max-Joseph-Platz didn't last long. Though opened in 1818, in 1823, before it was completely finished, it burned to the ground. It had been rebuilt by 1825 with its eight-column portico, and went on to premiere Richard Wagner's world-famous Tristan und Isolde (1865), Meistersinger von N\u00fcrnberg (1868), Rheingold (1869), and Walk\u00fcre (1870). Allied bombs destroyed much of the interior in 1943, and its facade and elements of its interior were rebuilt as it was prewar. It finally reopened in 1963. Today, it is one of Europe's largest opera houses and contains some of the world's most advanced stage technologies. Moreover, as the principle home to the Bavarian State Opera, it is considered one of the world's outstanding opera houses. | Max-Joseph-Pl. 2, City Center | 089/218\u2013501 for tickets | www.bayerische.staatsoper.de | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nSammlung Schack (Schack-Galerie).  \nAround 180 German 19th-century paintings from the Romantic era up to the periods of Realism and Symbolism make up the collections of the Sammlung Schack, originally the private collection of Count Adolf Friedrich von Schack.TIP A day ticket to the state museums of the three Pinakotheks, Brandhorst, and Sammlung Schack costs \u20ac12. | Prinzregentenstr. 9, Lehel | 089/2380\u20135224 | www.sammlungschack.de | \u20ac4, \u20ac1 Sun. | Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 (1st and 3rd Wed. of the month till 8) | Station: Lehel (U-bahn).\n\n* * *\n\nA Brief History of Bavaria\n\nFor most visitors, Bavaria, with its own sense of Gem\u00fctlichkeit, beer gardens, quaint little villages, and culturally rich cities, is often seen as the quintessence of Germany. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Of the 16 German L\u00e4nder, as the German federal states are called, none is more fiercely independent than Bavaria. In fact, it was an autonomous dukedom and later kingdom until 1871, when it was incorporated into the German nation state.\n\nFor Bavarians, anything beyond the state's borders remains foreign territory. The state has its own anthem and its own flag, part of which\u2014the blue-and-white lozenges in the center\u2014has virtually become a regional trademark symbolizing quality and tradition. Bavarian politicians discussing the issue of Europe in speeches will often refer to Bavaria almost as if it were a national state. They inevitably call it by its full official name: Freistaat Bayern, or simply \"der Freistaat,\" meaning \"the Free State.\" The term was coined by Kurt Eisner, Minister President of the Socialist government that rid the land of the Wittelsbach dynasty in 1918. It is simply a German way of saying republic\u2014a land governed by the people. Bavaria's status as a republic is mentioned in the first line of the separate Bavarian constitution that was signed under the aegis of the American occupation forces in 1946.\n\nBavaria is not the only Freistaat in Germany, a fact not too many Germans are aware of. Thuringia and Saxony also boast that title. But the Bavarians are the only ones who make such a public point of it. As they say, clocks in Bavaria run differently. Now you know why.\n\n\u2014Marton Radkai\n\n* * *\n\nSiegestor (Victory Arch).  \nBuilt to bookend the Feldherrnhalle and mark the end of Ludwigstrasse, Siegestor nowadays also marks the beginning of Leopoldstrasse. Unsurprisingly, it has Italian origins and was modeled on the Arch of Constantine in Rome, and was built (1849) to honor the achievements of the Bavarian army during the Wars of Liberation (1813\u201315) against Napol\u00e9on. It received heavy bomb damage in 1944, and at the end of the war Munich authorities decided it should be torn down for safety reasons. Major Eugene Keller, the head of the U.S. military government in the postwar city intervened and saved it. Its postwar inscription on the side facing the inner city is best translated as: \"dedicated to victory, destroyed by war, a monument to peace.\"|Intersection of Leopoldstr. and Shackstr., Maxvorstadt | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn).\n\nStaatliches Museum f\u00fcr V\u00f6lkerkunde (State Museum of Ethnology).  \nArts and crafts from around the world are displayed in this extensive museum. There are also regular special exhibits. | Maximilianstr. 42, Altstadt-Lehel | 089/2101\u201336100 | www.voelkerkundemuseum-muenchen.de | \u20ac5, \u20ac1 Sun. | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135:30 | Station: Lehel (U-bahn), Maxmonument (Tram).\n\n## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt\n\nSome of the finest museums in Europe are in lower Schwabing and Maxvorstadt, particularly the Kunstareal (Art Quarter), crossing Barer Strasse and Theresienstrasse. Schwabing, the former artists' neighborhood, is no longer quite the bohemian area where such diverse residents as Lenin and Kandinsky were once neighbors, but the cultural foundations of Maxvorstadt are immutable. Where the two areas meet, in the streets behind the university, life hums with a creative vibrancy probably only matched in the G\u00e4rtnerplatz-Glockenbach areas. The difficult part is having time to see it all.\n\nHead east or west of Leopoldstrasse to explore the side streets: around Wedekindplatz near M\u00fcnchner Freiheit, a few hundred yards from the Englischer Garten, or enjoy the shops and caf\u00e9s in the student quarter to the west of Leopoldstrasse. On Sunday, \u20ac1 gets you admission to all three of the fantastic Pinakothek museums and Museum Brandhorst. As for snacks along the way as you explore, Elisabethmarkt is the place to pick up a quick bite to eat or to relax with a beer in the small beer garden.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Alte Pinakothek.  \nWith numerous Old Master paintings from the Netherlands, Italy, France, and Germany, the long redbrick Alte Pinakothek holds one of the most significant art collections in the world. It was originally constructed by Leo von Klenze between 1826 and 1836 to exhibit the collection of 14th- to 18th-century works (started by Duke Wilhelm IV in the 16th century). Wittelsbach rulers through the centuries were avid collectors and today the collection comprises about 700 pieces. Among the European masterpieces on view are paintings by D\u00fcrer, Titian, Rembrandt, da Vinci, Rubens (the museum has one of the world's largest Rubens collections), and two celebrated Murillos. Most of the picture captions are in German only, so it is best to rent an English audio guide, although the audio tour does not cover every painting. Nevertheless, this museum is not to be missed. Along with the Pinakothek der Moderne, Neue Pinakothek, and Museum Brandhorst, the Alter Pinakothek forms a central part of Munich's world-class Kunstareal. Museums and collections here are of the highest quality, and are a few hundred meters apart. TIP To save money, get a Tageskarte, which provides entry to all these museums (plus the Schack Gallery, in Lehel) for just \u20ac12. | Barerstr. 27(entrance facing Theresienstr.), Maxvorstadt | 089/2380\u20135216 | www. pinakothek.de | \u20ac9, \u20ac1 Sun. | Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Tues. 10\u20138 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nK\u00f6nigsplatz.  \nBavaria's greatest monarch, Ludwig I, was responsible for Munich in the 19th century becoming known as Athens on the Isar, and the impressive buildings designed by Leo von Klenze that line this elegant and expansive square bear testement to his obsession with antiquity. The two templelike structures facing one another are now the Antikensammlungen (an acclaimed collection of Greek and Roman antiquities) and the Glyptothek (a fine collection of Greek and Roman statues) museums. During the Third Reich, this was a favorite parade ground for the Nazis, and it was paved over for that purpose in the 1930s. Although today a busy road passes through it, Munich authorities ensured the square returned to the more dignified appearance intended by Ludwig I. Today, the broad green lawns in front of the museums attract students and tourists in the warmer months, who gather for concerts, films, and other events. TIP The area around here, focused on Briennerstrasse, became the national center of the Nazi Party in the 1930s and '40s, with various buildings taken over or built by Nazi authorities. Nazi headquarters\u2014the Brown House\u2014was between K\u00f6nigsplatz and the obelisk at Karolinenplatz. Destroyed in the war, the new Munich Documentation Centre for the History of National Socialism is due to open here in 2014. On Arcisstrasse 12 is the Nazi-era building (now a music school) where in 1938 Britain's Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, infamously thought he had negotiated \"peace in our time\" with Hitler. | 1 K\u00f6nigspl., Maxvorstadt | 089/5998\u20138830 for Antikensammlungen, 089/286\u2013100 for Glyptothek | Both \u20ac3.50; combination card \u20ac5.50 | Antikensammlungen: Thurs.\u2013Tue. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138. Glyptothek: Fri.\u2013Wed. 10\u20135; Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum Brandhorst.  \nThis multicolor abstract box is filled with videos, painting, sculptures, and installations by artists such as Andy Warhol, Damien Hirst, Gerhard Richter, and Joseph Beuys, and is a real treat for contemporary art fans. The location in the middle of the historic Kunstareal art district, although shocking to some less progressive art aficionados, highlighted that the city has broken out of the shackles of its postwar conservatism. TIP K\u00f6nigsplatz U-Bahn is a simple way to get to the Kunstareal, though it involves a pleasant 15-minute walk. Tram No. 27 takes you directly from Karlsplatz to the Pinakothek stop, in the heart of the Kunstareal. | Theresienstr. 35a, Maxvorstadt | 089/2380\u201352286 | www.museum-brandhorst.de | \u20ac7, \u20ac1 Sun. | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn), Pinakotheken (Tram).\n\nFodor's Choice | Neue Pinakothek.  \nAnother museum packed with masters, the fabulous Neue Pinakothek reopened in 1981 to house the royal collection of modern art left homeless and scattered after its original building was destroyed in the war. The exterior of the modern building mimics an older one with Italianate influences. The interior offers a magnificent environment for picture gazing, partly owing to the natural light flooding in from skylights. French impressionists\u2014Monet, Degas, Manet\u2014are all well represented, while the comprehensive collection also includes great Romantic landscape painters Turner and Caspar David Friedrich, and other artists of the caliber of Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Monet. This is another must-see. | Barerstr. 29, Maxvorstadt | 089/2380\u20135195 | www.neue-pinakothek.de | \u20ac7, \u20ac1 Sun. | Wed. 10\u20138, Thurs.\u2013Mon. 10\u20136 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn), Pinakotheken (Tram).\n\nPinakothek der Moderne.  \nOpened to much fanfare in 2002, this fascinating, light-filled building is home to four outstanding museums under one cupola-topped roof: art, graphic art, architecture, and design. The striking 12,000-meter-square glass-and-concrete complex by Stefan Braunfels has permanent and temporary exhibitions throughout the year in each of the four categories. The design museum is particularly popular, showing permanent exhibitions in vehicle design, computer culture, and design ideas. | Barerstr. 40, Maxvorstadt | 089/2380\u20135360 | www.pinakothek.de | \u20ac10, \u20ac1 Sun. | Tues., Wed., Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn), Pinakotheken (Tram).\n\nQuick Bites: Brasserie Tresznjewski.  \nA good spot, especially if you're visiting the neighboring Pinakothek museums, the ever-popular Brasserie Tresznjewski serves an eclectic menu, well into the wee hours. | Theresienstr. 72, corner of Barerstr., Maxvorstadt | 089/282\u2013349 | www.tresznjewski.com | Sun.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20131, Fri. and Sat. 8\u20132.\n\nSt\u00e4dtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus. Art aficionados were waiting in anticipation for the reopening of this exquisite late-19th-century Florentine-style villa, the former home and studio of the artist Franz von Lenbach (1836\u20131904). In the middle of the 19th century, Munich was one of the most important art centres in Europe, and in the 1880s, Lenbach was one of the most famous artists in Germany. He painted Germany's Chancellor Bismarck around 80 times. Nowadays, Lenbachhaus is home to the stunning assemblage of art from the early-20th-century Blaue Reiter (Blue Rider) group: Kandinsky, Klee, Jawlensky, Macke, Marc, and M\u00fcnter. Indeed, only New York's Guggenheim comes close to holding as many works from a group that was at the forefront in the development of abstract art. There are also vivid pieces from the New Objectivity movement, and a variety of local Munich artists are represented here. Renowned British architecture firm Foster+Partners was commissioned with the renovation work, and crucially to design a new building on the grounds. Now with the addition of a significant Joseph Beuys collection, its new gallery and renovated exhibition spaces were met with great acclaim on the museum's unveiling in spring 2013. TIP The adjoining Kunstbau (art building) within the K\u00f6nigsplatz U-Bahn station hosts changing exhibitions of modern art. | Luisenstr. 33, Maxvorstadt | 089/2333\u20132000 | www.lenbachhaus.de | \u20ac10 | Tues. 10\u20139, Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20138 | Station: K\u00f6nigsplatz (U-bahn).\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nDreifaltigkeitskirche (Church of the Holy Trinity).  \nTake a quick look at this characteristic church built to commemorate Bavaria's part in the Spanish War of Succession. A further motivation for its construction was a prophecy from the devout Maria Anna Lindmayr that if the city survived the war intact and a church was not erected in thanks the city was doomed. The city was saved and a church was built between 1711 and 1718. It has a striking baroque exterior, and its interior is brought to life by frescoes by Cosmas Damian Asam depicting various heroic scenes. Remarkably, it is the only church in the city's Altstadt spared destruction in the war. | Pacellistr. 6, City Center | 089/290\u20130820 | Daily 7\u20137, except during services | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nElisabethmarkt (Elisabeth Market).  \nFounded in 1903, Schwabing's permanent outdoor market is smaller than the more famous Viktualienmarkt, but hardly less colorful. It has a pocket-size beer garden, where a jazz band performs Saturday in summer. | Elisabethpl., Arcisstr. and Elisabethstr., Schwabing | Weekdays 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20133 | Station: Josephsplatz (U-bahn), Elisabethplatz (Tram).\n\n## Outside the Center\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nOktoberfest Grounds at Theresienwiese.  \nThe site of Munich's famous Oktoberfest and the winter version of the city's Tollwood music, art, and food festival (it's at the Olympic area in summer) is a 10-minute walk from the Hauptbahnhof, or one stop on the subway (U-4 or U-5). The enormous exhibition ground is named after Princess Therese von Sachsen-Hildburghausen, who celebrated her marriage to future King Ludwig I here in 1810 with thousands of M\u00fcnchners. The event was such a success that it became an annual celebration that has now grown into a 16-day international beer and fair-ride bonanza attracting more than 6 million people each year (it is the Oktoberfest because it always ends on the first Sunday in October). | Theresienwiese, Ludwigvorstadt-Isarvorstadt | Station: Theresienwiese (U-bahn).\n\nBavaria Statue.  \nOverlooking the Theresienwiese, home of the Oktoberfest, is a 19th-century hall of fame (Ruhmeshalle) featuring busts of famous Bavarian scientists, artists, engineers, generals, and philosophers, and a monumental bronze statue of the maiden Bavaria. Unsurprisingly, it was commissioned by the art- and architecture-obsessed King Ludwig I, though not finished before his abdication in 1848. The Bavaria is more than 60 feet high and at the time was the largest bronze figure since antiquity. The statue is hollow, and an initial 48 steps take you up to its base. Once inside, there are 66 steps to her knee, and a further 52 all the way into the braided head, the reward being a view of Munich through Bavaria's eyes. | Theresienh\u00f6he 16 | \u20ac3.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct. 15, daily 9\u20136 (till 8 during Oktoberfest).\n\nFAMILY | Olympiapark (Olympic Park).  \nBuilt for the 1972 Olympic Games on the staggering quantities of rubble delivered from the war-time destruction of Munich, the Olympiapark was\u2014and still is\u2014considered an architectural and landscape wonder. The jewel in the crown is the Olympic Stadium, former home of Bayern Munich soccer team. With its truly avant-garde sweeping canopy roof, winding its way across various parts of the complex, it was an inspired design for the big events of the 1972 Olympic Games. Tragically, a bigger event relegated what was heading to be the most successful Games to date to the sidelines. It was from the adjacent accommodation area that a terrorist attack on the Israeli team began, eventually leaving 17 people dead.\n\nUnlike many former Olympic sites around the world, today the area is heavily used and is home to numerous events, such as the summer Tollwood festival, concerts, sporting events, and it is a haven for joggers and people just wishing to relax. Tours of the park are conducted on a Disneyland-style train throughout the day. For the more adventurous, how about climbing the roof of the Olympic Stadium and rappelling down? For the best view of the whole city and the Alps, take the elevator up the 955-foot Olympiaturm (Olympic Tower) or try out the revolving Michelin-starred Restaurant 181 on the same level. | Spiridon-Louis-Ring, Milbertshofen | 089/3509\u201348181 for restaurant | www.olympiapark-muenchen.de | Stadium tour \u20ac7.50; tower \u20ac5.50 | Tour schedules vary; call ahead for departure times | Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn).\n\nSchloss Nymphenburg.  \nThis glorious baroque and rococo palace, the largest of its kind in Germany, draws around 500,000 visitors a year; only the Deustches Museum is more popular in Munich. The palace grew in size and scope over more than 200 years, beginning as a summer residence built on land given by Prince Ferdinand Maria to his beloved wife, Henriette Adelaide, on the occasion of the birth of their son and heir, Max Emanuel, in 1663. The princess hired the Italian architect Agostino Barelli to build both the Theatinerkirche and the palace, which was completed in 1675 by his successor, Enrico Zuccalli. It represents a tremendous high point of Italian cultural influence, in what is undoubtedly Germany's most Italian city. Within the original building, now the central axis of the palace complex, is the magnificent Steinerner Saal (Great Hall). It extends over two floors and is richly decorated with stucco and grandiose frescoes by masters such as Francois Cuvilli\u00e9s the Elder and Johann Baptist Zimmermann. In summer, chamber-music concerts are given here. One of the surrounding royal chambers houses Ludwig I's famous Sch\u00f6nheitsgalerie (Gallery of Beauties). The walls are hung from floor to ceiling with portraits of women who caught the roving eye of Ludwig, among them a shoemaker's daughter and Lady Jane Ellenborough, the scandal-thriving English aristocrat. Lady Jane's affair with Ludwig, however, was a minor dalliance compared with the adventures in Munich of the most famous female on the walls here. Lola Montez was born in Ireland and passed herself off as a Spanish dancer during a tour of Europe's major cities, during which time she became the mistress of Franz Liszt and later Alexandre Dumas. Montez arrived in Munich in 1846 and so enchanted King Ludwig I that she became his closest advisor, much to the chagrin of his ministers and many M\u00fcnchners. With revolution in the air across France and the German lands in 1848, Bavaria's greatest monarch abdicated rather than be told whom he could and could not appoint as his advisor. And Lola? She left Munich and left the king for adventures in the U.S., where she eventually died.\n\nThe palace is in a park laid out in formal French style, with low hedges and gravel walks extending into woodland. Among the ancient tree stands are three fascinating pavilions. The Amalienburg hunting lodge is a rococo gem built by Fran\u00e7ois Cuvilli\u00e9s. The detailed stucco work of the little Amalienburg creates an atmosphere of courtly high life, making clear that the pleasures of the chase did not always take place outdoors. Of the lodges, only Amalienburg is open in winter. In the lavishly appointed kennels you'll see that even the dogs lived in luxury. The Pagodenburg was built for slightly informal royal tea parties. Its elegant French exterior disguises an Asian-influenced interior, in which exotic teas from India and China were served. Swimming parties were held in the Badenburg, Europe's first post-Roman heated pool. Take Tram No. 17 or Bus No. 51 from the city center to the Schloss Nymphenburg stop. | Schloss Nymphenburg, Nymphenburg | 089/179\u2013080 | www.schloss-nymphenburg.de | Schloss Nymphenburg complex (combined ticket includes Marstallmuseum and Museum Nymphenburger Porzellan): Apr.\u2013mid-Oct. \u20ac11.50; mid-Oct.\u2013Mar. \u20ac8.50 | Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 9\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nMarstallmuseum & Porzellan Manufaktur Nymphenburg (Museum of Royal Carriages & Porcelain Manufacturer Nymphenburg).  \nNymphenburg contains so much of interest that a day hardly provides enough time. Don't leave without visiting the former royal stables, now the Marstallmuseum. It houses a fleet of vehicles, including an elaborately decorated sleigh in which King Ludwig II once glided through the Bavarian twilight, flaming torches lighting the way. Also exhibited in the Marstallmuseum are examples of the world-renowned Nymphenburg porcelain, which has been produced on the palace grounds since 1761. TIP Nymphenburg porcelain has dedicated stores at Odeonsplatz and in the luxurious Bayerischer Hof hotel (Promenadeplatz), but it is also available at numerous other retailers around the city. | 208 Schloss Nymphenburg, Nymphenburg | 089/179\u2013080 Schloss Nymphenburg | \u20ac4.50 | Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 9\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134\n\nMuseum Mensch und Natur (Museum of Man and Nature).  \nThis popular museum in the north wing of Schloss Nymphenburg has nothing to do with the Wittelsbachs but is one of the palace's major attractions. The Museum Mensch und Natur concentrates on three areas of interest: the variety of life on Earth, the history of humankind, and our place in the environment. Main exhibits include a huge representation of the human brain and a chunk of Alpine crystal weighing half a ton. | Schloss Nymphenburg, Nymphenburg | 089/179\u20135890 | www.musmn.de | \u20ac3, Sun. \u20ac1 | Tues., Wed., Fri. 9\u20135, Thurs. 9\u20138, weekends 10\u20136.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nFAMILY | Bavaria Filmstadt.  \nFor real movie buffs, Munich has its own Hollywood-like neighborhood, the Geiselgasteig, in the affluent Gr\u00fcnwald district, on the southern outskirts of the city. A number of notable films, such as Das Boot (The Boat) and Die Unendliche Geschichte (The Neverending Story), were made here. It was also here that in 1925 British filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock shot his first film, The Pleasure Garden. There are a number of tours and shows, and extra events for kids. | Bavaria Filmpl. 7, Geiselgasteig | 089/6499\u20132000 | www.filmstadt.de | Tour \u20ac12.50 | Daily 9\u20136; English tour daily at 1.\n\nBMW Museum.  \nMunich is the home of the famous BMW car company. The circular tower of its museum is one of the defining images of Munich's modern cityscape. It contains not only a dazzling collection of BMWs old and new but also items and exhibitions relating to the company's social history and its technical developments. It's a great place to stop in if you're at the Olympiapark already. | Am Olympiapark 2, Milbertshofen | 089/1250\u201316001 for tours | www.bmw-welt.com | BMW Museum \u20ac9, \u20ac12 tour; BMW Welt free | BMW Museum, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; BMW Welt, daily 7:30 am\u201311 pm | Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn).\n\nBMW Welt.  \nOpened in 2007, the cutting-edge design of BMW Welt, with its sweeping, futuristic facade, is just one structure helping to overcome the conservative image Munich has had in the realm of architecture since 1945. Even if you have just a passing interest in cars and engines, this is the place to see. This is also where around 15,000 of the firm's cars are handed over to customers every year. It is already one of the most popular must-sees in the city, averaging 2 million visitors a year since opening. As well as tours of the building, there are readings, concerts, and exhibitions. Tours can only be booked via telephone or email.\n\nThe adjacent BMW factory can be toured on weekdays. Registration for plant tours (which last a maximum of 2\u00bd hours) is only possible in advance via phone. The tours start (from 4 o'clock) and finish at the information counter at BMW Welt. Due to plant reconstruction, the tour does not include the car assembly area, which also means there is no wheelchair access at present. TIP Reserve at least two weeks in advance for all tours. | BMW Welt, Am Olympiapark 1, Milbertshofen | 01802/118\u2013822 for tours | infowelt@bmw-welt.com for tours | www.bmw-plant-munich.com | BMW Welt tour \u20ac7; factory tour \u20ac8 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20136, Sun. 10\u20136 | Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn).\n\nBotanischer Garten (Botanical Garden).  \nOn the northern edge of Schloss Nymphenburg, this collection of 14,000 plants, including orchids, cacti, cycads, Alpine flowers, and rhododendrons, makes up one of the most extensive botanical gardens in Europe. Take Tram No. 17 from the city center. | Menzingerstr. 65, Nymphenburg | 089/1786\u20131350 | www.botmuc.de | \u20ac4 | Garden: Nov.\u2013Jan. daily 9\u20134:30; Feb., Mar., and Oct., daily 9\u20135; Apr. and Sept., daily 9\u20136; May\u2013Aug., daily 9\u20137. Hothouses close 30 mins early.\n\nDeutsches Museum Flugwerft Schleissheim.  \nConnoisseurs of airplanes and flying machines will appreciate this magnificent offshoot of the Deutsches Museum, some 20 km (12 mi) north of the city center. It's an ideal complement to a visit to Schloss Schleissheim. TIP A combination ticket with the Deutsches Museum costs \u20ac15. | Effnerstr. 18, Oberschleissheim | 089/315\u20137140 | www.deutsches-museum.de/flugwerft | \u20ac6, combined ticket with Deutsches Museum and Verkehrszentrum (Travel Museum) \u20ac15 | Daily 9\u20135 | Station: Oberschleissheim (S-bahn).\n\nNeues Schloss Schleissheim (Schleissheim Palace).  \nDuke Wilhelm V found the perfect peaceful retreat outside Munich, and in 1598 built what is now known as the Altes Schloss Schleissheim (Schleissheim Old Palace). In 1685 Elector Max Emanuel added Lustheim, which houses one of Germany's most impressive collections of Meissen porcelain, and at the beginning of the 18th century the Neues Schloss Schleissheim (Schleissheim New Palace). Take the S-bahn Line No. 1 to Oberschleissheim station and then walk about 15 minutes or take Bus No. 292 (no weekend service). | Maximilianshof 1, Oberschleissheim | 089/315\u20138720 | www.schloesser-schleissheim.de | Combined ticket for 3 palaces \u20ac8 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nFAMILY | Tierpark Hellabrunn.  \nOn the Isar, just upstream from the city, this attractive zoo has many parklike enclosures but a minimum of cages. This zoo is slightly different from most others in that it's a self-styled nature reserve, and it follows a concept called Geo-Zoo, which means care has been taken to group animals according to their natural and geographical habitats. Critics of the concept of zoos won't agree, but supporters appreciate the extra attention to detail. As well as the usual tours, there are also nighttime guided tours with special night-vision equipment (call ahead of time). The huge zoo area also includes restaurants and children's areas, and some of the older buildings are in typical Jugendstil (art nouveau) style. From Marieneplatz, take U-bahn Line No. 3 to Thalkirchen, at the southern edge of the city. | Tierparkstr. 30, Thalkirchen | 089/625\u2013080 | www.tierpark-hellabrunn.de | \u20ac12 | Late Mar.\u2013late Oct., daily 9\u20136; late Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135 | Station: Thalkirchen (U-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCity Center | Royal Munich | Schwabing and Maxvorstadt | Leopoldvorstadt | Haidhausen\n\nMunich claims to be Germany's gourmet capital. It certainly has an inordinate number of fine restaurants, but you won't have trouble finding a vast range of options in both price and style.\n\nTypical, more substantial dishes in Munich include Tellerfleisch, boiled beef with freshly grated horseradish and boiled potatoes on the side, served on wooden plates. Among roasts, Sauerbraten (beef) and Schweinebraten (roast pork) are accompanied by dumplings and sauerkraut. Hax'n (ham hocks) are roasted until they're crisp on the outside and juicy on the inside. They are served with sauerkraut and potato puree. Game in season (venison or boar, for instance) and duck are served with potato dumplings and red cabbage. As for fish, the region has not only excellent trout, served either smoked as an hors d'oeuvre or fried or boiled as an entr\u00e9e, but also the perchlike Rencke from Lake Starnberg.\n\nYou'll also find soups, salads, casseroles, hearty stews, and a variety of baked goods\u2014including pretzels. For dessert, indulge in a bowl of Bavarian cream, apple strudel, or Dampfnudel, a fluffy leavened-dough dumpling usually served with vanilla sauce.\n\nThe generic term for a snack is Imbiss, and thanks to growing internationalism you'll find a huge variety, from the generic Wiener (hot dogs) to the Turkish d\u00f6ner kebab sandwich (pressed and roasted lamb, beef, or chicken). Almost all butcher shops and bakeries offer some sort of Brotzeit, which can range from a modest sandwich to a steaming plate of goulash with potatoes and salad.\n\nSome edibles come with social etiquette attached. The Weisswurst, a tender minced-veal sausage\u2014made fresh daily, steamed, and served with sweet mustard and a crisp roll or a pretzel\u2014is a Munich institution and, theoretically, should be eaten before noon with a Weissbier (wheat beer), supposedly to counteract the effects of a hangover. Some people use a knife and fork to remove the inside from the skin, while others might indulge in auszuzeln, sucking the sausage out of the Weisswurst.\n\nAnother favorite Bavarian specialty is Leberk\u00e4s\u2014literally \"liver cheese,\" though neither liver nor cheese is among its ingredients. Rather, it's a sort of meat loaf baked to a crust each morning and served in pink slabs throughout the day. A Leberk\u00e4s Semmel\u2014a wedge of the meat loaf between two halves of a bread roll slathered with a slightly spicy mustard\u2014is the favorite Munich on-the-go snack.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n## City Center\n\nAndechser am Dom.  \nGERMAN | At this Munich mainstay for both locals and visitors, the vaulted, frescoed ceiling and the old stone floor recall the nearby Andechs monastery. As with many smaller Bavarian Wirtsh\u00e4user (pub-restaurant), it's invariably pretty full, so be prepared to find seats on a table already half full, though this is part of the lively charm of the place. The boldly Bavarian food\u2014blood sausage with potatoes or roast duck\u2014and fine selection of delectable Andechs beers will quickly put you at ease. The covered terrace, steps from the Frauenkirche, is a favorite meeting place, rain or shine, for shoppers, local businesspeople, and even the occasional VIP. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Weinstr. 7a, City Center | 089/298\u2013481 | www.andechser-am-dom.de | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nBier- und Oktoberfest Museum.  \nGERMAN | In one of the oldest buildings in Munich, dating to the 14th century, the museum takes an imaginative look at the history of this popular elixir, the monasteries that produced it, the purity laws that govern it, and Munich's own long tradition with it. The rustic Museumsst\u00fcberl restaurant, consisting of a few heavy wooden tables, accompanies the museum. It serves traditional Brotzeit (breads, cheeses, and cold meats) during the day and hot Bavarian dishes from 6 pm. TIP You can visit the Museumsst\u00fcberl restaurant without paying the museum's admission fee and try beer from one of Munich's oldest breweries, the Augustiner Br\u00e4u. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Sterneckerstr. 2, City Center | 089/2424\u20133941 | www.bier-und-oktoberfestmuseum.de | Museum \u20ac4 | Museum, Tue.\u2013Sat. 1\u20136; restaurant, Mon. 6 pm\u2013midnight, Tue.\u2013Sat. 1 pm\u2013midnight | Station: Isartor (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nBrasserie OskarMaria.  \nFRENCH | After New York, Munich has more publishing houses than any other city in the world. Literaturhaus is a converted Renaissance-style schoolhouse that, as the name suggests, is now a \"literature\" center, for authors, publishers, and book fans. The front side of the building is a stylish brasserie, named after Munich writer Oskar Maria Graf, an exile after the Nazis took power in Germany in 1933, and who eventually settled in New York. The brasserie's vaulted high ceiling and plate-glass windows create a light and spacious atmosphere. The range of dishes here is pretty eclectic, from beetroot with garden vegetables and goat's cheese to lobster risotto. It has a sprawling terrace, and it's one of the city's best outdoor eating locations, whether for a main meal or cappaccino and Kuchen (cake). TIP About 100 meters away, on Jungfernturmstrasse, is one of the oldest remaining remnants of the city wall. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Salvatorpl. 1, City Center | 089/2919\u20136029 | www.oskarmaria.com | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn) |.\n\nBratwurstherzl.  \nGERMAN | Tucked into a quaint little square off the Viktualienmarkt, this delightful Bratwurst joint cooks up specialty sausages right in the main room over an open grill. For those looking for a bit less meat, there is also a hearty farmer's salad with veal strips and tasty oyster mushrooms. They have outdoor seating, perfect for people-watching when the weather is good. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Dreifaltigkeitspl. 1, City Center | 089/295\u2013113 | www.bratwurstherzl.de | Closed Sun. and public holidays | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nBuffet Kull.  \nEUROPEAN | This simple yet comfortable international bistro delivers a high-quality dining experience accompanied by a good variety of wines and friendly service. Dishes range from bouillabaisse (halibut with king prawns and calamari) to the excellent New York steak. The daily specials are creative, portions are generous, and the prices are good value for the quality. Reservations are recommended (dinner service starts at 6). | Average main: \u20ac18 | Marienstr. 4, City Center | 089/221\u2013509 | www.buffet-kull.de | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nDue passi.  \nITALIAN | So small it's easy to miss, this former dairy shop, now an Italian specialty shop, offers Italian meals for a quick lunch. There's a small but fine selection of fresh antipasti and pasta. You can eat at the high wooden tables and counters or have your food to go. Menus change daily. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Ledererstr. 11, City Center | 089/224\u2013271 | www.duepassi.de | No credit cards | Closed weekends | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nCaf\u00e9 Dukatz.  \nFRENCH | This caf\u00e9 has been a popular, relatively upmarket eatery on the Munich scene for years. Even with the closure of their city-center restaurant, it has been a busy time for owners as they now have two caf\u00e9s\u2014one in Maxvorstadt on Klenzestrasse 69 and another in Lehel at St.-Anna-Strasse 11. They specialize in French-style p\u00e2tisseries, with daily home-baked delights and fine coffees expected of such a renowned name. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Klenzestr. 69, Maxvorstadt | 089/7104\u201307373 for Klenzestr., 089/2303\u20132444 for St.-Anna-Pl. | www.dukatz.de | Station: Frauenhoferstrasse (U-bahn) |.\n\nFaun.  \nECLECTIC | Not quite city center, but still central to the action, the beloved Faun is on Hans-Sachs-Strasse, one of the city's most interesting streets, with great restaurants and boutique shops\u2014even a century-old cinema. It's a happy combination of Munich tavern and international bistro, with great outdoor seating on a small square where five streets meet and five trees are planted. The Thai curries are wonderful, and their juicy Schweinebraten will satisfy any meat cravings. The dishes on the daily changing menu are tasty, filling, and easy on your wallet. The beer served is Augustiner, so you can't go wrong there. Build up your appetite by browsing your way through the neighborhood shops and boutiques, or walk off your meal along the river back toward Isartor and the city center. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Hans-Sachs-Str. 17, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/263\u2013798 | www.faun.mycosmos.biz | No credit cards |.\n\nHalali.  \nGERMAN | With nearly 100 years of history to its credit, polished wood paneling, and antlers on the walls, the Halali is an old-style Munich restaurant that is the place to try traditional dishes of venison, pheasant, partridge, and other game in a quiet and elegant atmosphere. Save room for the cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e with potted nectarine-and-mocha-bean ice cream. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Sch\u00f6nfeldstr. 22, City Center | 089/285\u2013909 | www.restaurant-halali.de | Reservations essential | Jacket and tie | Closed Sun. and public holidays. No lunch Sat. | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nHofbr\u00e4uhaus.  \nGERMAN | The Hofbr\u00e4uhaus is simply the most famous beer hall not just in Munich but in the world. Regulars aside, many Bavarians see it as the biggest tourist trap ever created, and few ever go more than once, but they are still proud that it attracts so many visitors. Yes, it's a little kitschy, but the pounding oompah band draws the curious, and the singing and shouting drinkers contribute to the festive atmosphere. This, then, is no place for the fainthearted, and a trip to Munich would be incomplete without at least having a look. Upstairs is a quieter restaurant, where the food is fine, although there are better places for Bavarian cuisine. In March, May, and September ask for one of the special, extra-strong seasonal beers (Starkbier, Maibock, M\u00e4rzen) which complement the traditional Bavarian fare. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Platzl 9, City Center | 089/2901\u201336100 | www.hofbraeuhaus.de | Reservations not accepted | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nHotel Lux Restaurant.  \nECLECTIC | The chef here learned his trade at Munich's much-vaunted K\u00f6nigshof. Much of the meat here is organic; ask the ever-charming staff for information. The creamy asparagus risotto is a real treat for lunch, while the duck with ratatouille and potato-celery gratin is a highlight of the evening menu. Though the restaurant is small, it deliberately has a front-room feel, with red velvetlike upholstery complementing the wooden ceiling and walls that survived the recent renovation. The small bar is also terrific. Hotel Lux is also a hotel with 17 rooms (\u20ac149), free Wi-Fi, and simply furnished rooms\u2014except for the top floor Ponyhof room, designed by Hans Langner, who is famous for his bird depictions. This extraordinary blue, bird-filled room is not to everyone's taste, but good fun for a night or two. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Ledererstr. 13, City Center | 089/4520\u20137300 | www.hotel-lux-muenchen.de |.\n\nJodlerwirt.  \nGERMAN | This cozy Alpine lodge\u2013style restaurant in a small street behind the Rathaus is a treat for those craving an Old World tavern, complete with live accordion playing. As its name suggests, yodelers perform most nights, telling jokes and poking fun at their adoring guests in unintelligible Bavarian slang. The food is traditional, including K\u00e4sesp\u00e4tzle (a hearty German version of macaroni and cheese), goulash, and meal-size salads. The tasty beer is from the Ayinger brewery. The place is small and fills up fast. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Altenhofstr. 4, City Center | 089/221\u2013249 | www.jodlerwirt-muenchen.net | No credit cards | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nK\u00f6nigshof.  \nECLECTIC | Don't be fooled as you cross the threshold of the dour and unremarkable-looking postwar Hotel K\u00f6nigshof. The contrast with the opulent interior is remarkable. From a window table in this elegant and luxurious restaurant in one of Munich's grand hotels, you can watch the hustle and bustle of Munich's busiest square, Karlsplatz, below. You'll forget the outside world, however, when you taste the outstanding French- and Japanese-influenced dishes created by Michelin-starred chef Martin Fauster, former sous-chef at Tantris. Ingredients are fresh and menus change often, but you might see lobster with fennel and candied ginger, or venison with goose liver and celery, and for dessert, flamb\u00e9ed peach with champagne ice cream. Service is expert and personal; let the sommelier help you choose from the fantastic wine selection. | Average main: \u20ac45 | Karlspl. 25, City Center | 089/551\u2013360 | www.koenigshof-hotel.de | Reservations essential | Jacket and tie | Closed 1st wk in Aug.\u20131st wk in Sept.; closed Sun. and Mon., Jan.\u2013Sept. | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nL'Atelier Art & Vin.  \nFRENCH | Take a seat by the wall of windows, or at the long blond-wood bar, in this airy, casual brasserie, which specializes in French food and wine. On nice days, tables are also set outside on the sidewalk of the pleasant, relatively quiet street. The light, crisp quiches, in particular, are a delight, and the wine list is a curated list of French wines. The Bier & Oktoberfest Museum is a few doors away, highlighting the wonderful contrasts that are so typical of this city. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Westenriederstr. 43, City Center | 089/2126\u20136782 | www.atelier-artetvin.de | No credit cards | Closed Sun. and public holidays | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nFodor's Choice | Mark's.  \nEUROPEAN | A wonderful culinary experience is reached on three literal levels at Mark's in the Hotel Mandarin Oriental, itself synonymous with excellence and luxury. You can enjoy lunch either in the hotel lobby or\u2014weather permitting\u2014eight floors up on the magnificent roof terrace, which has 360-degree views of the city. And at dinnertime, Mark's is set on the balcony of the luxurious lobby, with a wide white marble staircase leading up to it. The 2011 appointed head chef, Simon Larese, creates decadent dishes, for example a starter of langoustine with grilled watermelon, charentais melon, and coriander pistou. Equally impressive is the pan-fried Pommerian beef tenderloin calf's-head carpaccio with braised oxtail praline and foie gras\u2013saut\u00e9ed baby vegetables. Desserts are impressive: try the beetroot meringue with mascarpone lemon cream and \"fromage blanc\" sherbet. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Neuturmstr. 1, City Center | 089/290\u2013980 | www.mandarinoriental.com |.\n\nNero Pizza & Lounge.  \nITALIAN | The pizzas and pastas are great at this independent restaurant: try the Diavola, with spicy Neopolitan salami. On a side street between G\u00e4rtnerplatz and Isartor, Nero has high ceilings and large windows that give it an open, spacious feel; you can sit upstairs in the lounge for a cozier experience. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Rumfordstr. 34, City Center | 089/2101\u20139060 | www.nero-muenchen.de | Station: Isartor (S-bahn) |.\n\nN\u00fcrnberger Bratwurst Gl\u00f6ckl am Dom.  \nGERMAN | One of Munich's most popular beer taverns is dedicated to the delicious N\u00fcrnberger Bratw\u00fcrste (finger-size sausages), a specialty from the rival Bavarian city of N\u00fcremberg. They're served by a busy team of friendly waitresses dressed in Bavarian dirndls who flit between the crowded tables with remarkable agility. There are other options available as well. In warmer months, tables are placed outside, partly under a large awning, beneath the towering Frauenkirche. In winter the mellow dark-panel dining rooms provide relief from the cold. TIP For a quick, cheaper beer go to the side door where, just inside, there is a little window serving fresh Augustiner from a wooden barrel. You can stand around with the regulars or enjoy the small courtyard if the weather is nice. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Frauenpl. 9, City Center | 089/291\u20139450 | www.bratwurst-gloeckl.de | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nPf\u00e4lzer Residenz Weinstube.  \nGERMAN | A huge stone-vaulted room, a few smaller rooms on the side, wooden tables, flickering candles, dirndl-clad waitresses, and a long list of wines add up to a storybook image of a timeless Germany. The wines are mostly from the Pfalz (Palatinate), as are many of the specialties on the limited menu. Beer drinkers, take note\u2014it is not served here. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Residenzstr. 1, City Center | 089/225\u2013628 | www.bayernpfalz.de | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn) |.\n\nPrinz Myshkin.  \nVEGETARIAN | Traditional Bavarian dishes can sometimes be heavy affairs, and after a meal or three they can become a bit much. This restaurant is one of the finest in the city, and it's vegetarian to boot, with a selection of vegan dishes. The delightful holiday from meat here provides an eclectic choice of skillfully prepared antipasti, quiche, pizza, gnocchi, tofu, crepes, stir-fried dishes, plus excellent wines. The airy room has a high, vaulted ceiling, and there's always some art exhibited to feed the eye and mind. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Hackenstr. 2, City Center | 089/265\u2013596 | www.prinzmyshkin.com | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nFodor's Choice | Restaurant Dallmayr.  \nEUROPEAN | Enter one of Munich's premier delicatessens, where rows of specialties tempt your nose. If you can tear yourself away from the mesmerizing displays of foods, take a carpeted flight of stairs either to the much-vaunted Restaurant Dallmayr or the adjoining elegant-yet-casual Caf\u00e9-Bistro. Whether your choice is restaurant or caf\u00e9, this place is a sheer delight, showcasing delicacies from the delicatessen, while the service is friendly and attentive. Few are surprised that Diethard Urbansky, head chef at Restaurant Dallmayr, has won Michelin stars from 2009 onward. Menus change often, but a typical starter might be red king prawns with vegetables and yogurt. For mains, try the Nebraska beef with goose liver, tarragon, and pineapple. | Average main: \u20ac48 | Dienerstr. 14\u201315, City Center | 089/213\u201350 | www.dallmayr.de | Restaurant closed Sun. and Mon. |\n\nSchmalznudel Caf\u00e9 Frischhut.  \nGERMAN | From the deep Bavarian accent to the food on offer, this is as Bavarian as one could get, though it serves neither typical great slabs of meat nor Kn\u00f6del. The fryers are turned on each day and by mid-day lines of people are waiting for helpings of freshly cooked Schmalznudel, a selection of doughnut-type creations, from apple to sugar-coated to plain. It's really no more than a narrow-passage, kind-of caf\u00e9, located on a busy street between the Stadtmuseum and Viktualienmarkt, and easily missed by those not in the know. Regulars are equally happy whether they manage to find a seat inside or at the handful of tables outside. And there's always the option to take away and eat as you wind your way through the ever-colourful market. | Average main: \u20ac2 | Pr\u00e4lat-Zistl-Str. 8, City Center | No credit cards | Closed Sun. |\n\nSpatenhaus an der Oper.  \nGERMAN | The best seats are the window tables on the second floor. The quiet dining room walls and ceiling are paneled with old hand-painted wood and have a wonderful view of the square and the opera house. Make a reservation if you want to come after a performance. The outdoor tables are a favorite for people-watching. There are few better places for roasted fillet of brook trout, lamb with ratatouille, or duck with apple and red cabbage. And they do the best Wiener Schnitzel in the city. Leave room for one of the wonderful desserts featuring fresh fruit. | Average main: \u20ac26 | Residenzstr. 12, City Center | 089/290\u20137060 | www.kuffler-gastronomie.de | Station: Odeonsplatz (U-bahn) |.\n\nWeinhaus Neuner.  \nGERMAN | Munich's oldest wine tavern serves good food as well as superior wines in its two nooks: the wood-panel restaurant and the Weinstube. The choice of food is remarkable, from roast duck to fish to traditional Bavarian. | Average main: \u20ac26 | Herzogspitalstr.8, City Center | 089/260\u20133954 | www.weinhaus-neuner.de | Closed Sun. and holidays | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nWeisses Br\u00e4uhaus.  \nGERMAN | If you've developed a taste for Weissbier, this institution in downtown Munich is the place to indulge. The tasty brew from Schneider, a Bavarian brewery in existence since 1872, is served with hearty Bavarian dishes, mostly variations of pork and dumplings or cabbage. The restaurant itself was beautifully restored in 1993 to something approaching how it would have looked when first opened in the 1870s. The waitresses here are famous in Munich for being a little more straight talking than visitors might be used to in restaurants back home. But if you're good-natured, the whole thing can be quite funny. There is the possibility to sit outside, though it is quite a busy street. Credit cards are accepted for totals over 20 euros, but with the good beer and food, this shouldn't be difficult to reach. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Tal 7, City Center | 089/290\u20131380 | www.weisses-brauhaus.de | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\nZum D\u00fcrnbr\u00e4u.  \nGERMAN | In existence in one form or another since 1487, this is easily one of the oldest establishments serving food in Munich, and there's little surprise that the food is resolutely traditional: lots of roast meat, potato and bread dumplings, fish, and equally hearty desserts. As the \"Br\u00e4u\" in the name suggests, this was also a brewery centuries ago. The front Biergarten is small so get there early in good weather. Inside, the central 21-foot table is a favorite spot and fills up first. It's popular and attracts everyone from business people to students. | Average main: \u20ac16 | D\u00fcrnbr\u00e4ugasse 2, City Center | 089/222\u2013195 | www.zumduernbraeu.de | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\n## Royal Munich\n\nGandl.  \nITALIAN | This Italian specialty shop, where you can buy various staples from vinegar to coffee, doubles as a comfortable, relaxed restaurant. Their extensive Saturday buffet breakfast is popular in the neighborhood. Seating can become a little crowded inside, but the excellent service will make up for it and you'll feel right at home. For lunch it's just the place for a quick pastry or excellent antipasto misto before proceeding with the day's adventures. Dinner is more relaxed, with Mediterranean-influenced cuisine. | Average main: \u20ac21 | St.-Anna-Pl. 1, Lehel | 089/2916\u20132525 | www.gandl.de | Closed Sun. | Station: Lehel (U-bahn) |.\n\nGasthaus Isarthor.  \nGERMAN | This old-fashioned Wirtshaus is one of the few places that serve Augustiner beer exclusively from wooden kegs, freshly tapped on a daily basis. Beer simply doesn't get any better than this. The traditional Bavarian fare is good, and the mid-day menu changes daily. All kinds are drawn to the simple wooden tables of this unspectacular establishment. Antlers and a wild boar look down on actors, government officials, apprentice craftspersons, journalists, and retirees, all sitting side by side. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Kanalstr. 2, Altstadt-Lehel | 089/227\u2013753 | www.gasthaus-isarthor.de | No credit cards | Station: Isartor (S-bahn) |.\n\n## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt\n\nAlter Simpl.  \nGERMAN | Named after Germany's most famous satirical magazine, Simplicissimus, this pub-restaurant has been a Munich institution since 1903, when it was a meeting and discussion center for leading writers, comedians, and artists. Today the pictures of those days hang on the dark wood-panel walls. It's quite small inside and far from salubrious, but the beer's good and the equally good food is served until 2 am (beer until 3 am). The menu includes filling options like roast pork, Munich schnitzel, and a bacon-cheeseburger with french fries. Students are at home here and will welcome anyone at their table when the others are all taken. | Average main: \u20ac11 | T\u00fcrkenstr. 57, Maxvorstadt | 089/272\u20133083 | www.altersimpl.com | No credit cards | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn) |.\n\nCohen's.  \nISRAELI | There is little overly fancy at Cohen's. There doesn't need to be. Reviving the old Jewish central European tradition of good, healthy cooking combined with hospitality and good cheer seems to be the underlying principle. Dig into a few hearty latkes, a steaming plate of Chulend stew, or standard gefilte fish doused with excellent Golan wine from Israel. The kitchen is open from noon to 3 and 6 to 10:30, later when patrons and staff are in the mood to chatter until the wee hours. TIP Klezmer singers perform on some Friday evenings. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Theresienstr. 31, Maxvorstadt | 089/280\u20139545 | www.cohens.de | Closed Sun. | Station: Theresienstrasse (U-bahn) |.\n\nG\u00f6rrreshof.  \nGERMAN | In 1893 Augustiner, the oldest brewery in Munich, built this sturdy Wirtshaus to sustain travelers on the 12-km trek from Munich to the castles at Schleissheim. This pub-restaurant has been renovated over the years and is today as much a forum for good eating and drinking as it was more than 100 years ago. You'll get hearty food in a dining room festooned with antlers. If you want to relax further, retire to the small Bibliothek (library), or head outside to sit on the covered terrace. | Average main: \u20ac14 | G\u00f6rresstr. 38, Maxvorstadt | 089/2020\u20139550 | www.goerreshof.de | Station: Josephsplatz (U-bahn) |.\n\nKaisergarten.  \nGERMAN | Locals get together for a beer or two and some traditional Bavarian food at this understated neighborhood standby. Beef served several ways is the specialty, but the kitchen also does a good job with fish, fresh from a Bavarian stream. Outside, the small Biergarten under chestnut trees faces the church in the middle of Kaiserplatz (Emperor's Square); inside, racks of wine provide atmosphere and a good alternative to beer. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Kaiserstr. 34, Schwabing | 089/3402\u20130203 | www.kaisergarten.com | Station: M\u00fcnchner Freiheit (U-bahn) |.\n\nFodor's Choice | Limoni.  \nITALIAN | It's not just Munich's neoclassical architecture that underpins its playful, centuries-old moniker as Italy's most northern city. There are a number of fine Italian restaurants around the city, but this is certainly one of the best. You'll pay more for meat and fish dishes, but there are also lovely pasta dishes that are a little more budget friendly. There is a Bavarian professionalism combined with Italian grace and elegance in how the delicacies are served: pea and ginger cream soup, fusilli and veal ragout, artichokes and grated horseradish to name just a few, and then the fantastic chocolate cake with mascarpone cream. TIP Be sure to reserve your table in good weather so you can sit on the charming patio in the back; note that warm food is only served from 6:30 pm to 11 pm. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Amalienstr. 38, Maxvorstadt | 089/2880\u20136029 | www.limoni-ristorante.com | Closed Sun. and holidays | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn) |.\n\nMax-Emanuel-Brauerei.  \nGERMAN | This historic old brewery tavern, first opened in 1880, is a great value, with great-value Bavarian dishes. The best part about this place, however, is the cozy, secluded little beer garden with huge chestnut trees, tucked in the back amid the apartment blocks. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Adalbertstr. 33, Schwabing | 089/271\u20135158 | www.max-emanuel-brauerei.de | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn) |.\n\nFodor's Choice | Tantris.  \nEUROPEAN | Despite the slightly dramatic exterior, which is adorned by three concrete animals, few restaurants in Germany can match the Michelin-starred Tantris. Select the menu of the day and accept the suggestions of the sommelier or choose from the \u00e0 la carte options and you'll be in for a treat, for example: variation of char with marinated white asparagus and orange hollandaise, followed by roast lamb filets with spinach, beans and fennel-curry puree, superbly complemented by stuffed semolina dumpling with raspberries and curd cheese ice cream. It surprises few that head chef Hans Haas has kept his restaurant at the top of the critics' charts in Munich for so long. TIP Look out for the Tantris Standl, a small outlet at the city-centre Schrannenhalle, selling spirits, wines, coffees, chutneys, and sweets. | Average main: \u20ac100 | Johann-Fichte-Str. 7, Schwabing | 089/361\u20139590 | www.tantris.de | Reservations essential | Jacket and tie | Closed Sun., Mon., and bank holidays | Station: M\u00fcnchener Freiheit (U-bahn) |.\n\nVorstadt Caf\u00e9.  \nGERMAN | Young professionals mix with students at this lively restaurant on the corner of Adalbert and T\u00fcrkenstrasse. The 13 different breakfasts are a big draw: the Vorstadt Classic includes ham and eggs, rolls and several kinds of bread, with a plate of salami and home made jam; the Veggie has scrambled eggs with tomatoes, cheese and spinach, and muesli with fresh fruit, and cheese with nuts. Their daily lunch specials, served quickly, are good value. The atmosphere at dinner is relaxed, complete with candlelight. Reservations are advised at weekends. | Average main: \u20ac13 | T\u00fcrkenstr. 83, Maxvorstadt | 089/272\u20130699 | www.vorstadtcafe.de | No credit cards | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn) |.\n\n## Leopoldvorstadt\n\nAugustiner Keller.  \nGERMAN | This flagship beer restaurant of one of Munich's oldest breweries originated about 1812. It is also the location of the unbeatable Augustiner beer garden, which should be at the top of any visitor's beer-garden list. The menu offers Bavarian specialties, including half a duck with a good slab of roast suckling pig, dumpling, and blue cabbage. If you're up for it, end your meal with a Dampfnudel (yeast dumpling served with custard), though you probably won't feel hungry again for quite a while. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Arnulfstr. 52, Maxvorstadt | 089/594\u2013393 | www.augustinerkeller.de | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn) |.\n\n## Haidhausen\n\nVinaiolo.  \nITALIAN | Munich is sometimes referred to as Italy's northernmost city, and this bright, busy place is the proof. In the setting of an old apothecary, diners can enjoy specialties from Venice and other northern Italian regions, such as spaghetti with sardines or roast goat, prepared to perfection by chef Marco Pizzolato. Service is good-humored and conscientious and the menu changes regularly. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Steinstr. 42, Haidhausen | 089/4895\u20130356 | www.vinaiolo.de | Station: Rosenheimer Platz (S-bahn) |.\n\nWirtshaus in der Au.  \nGERMAN | Wirtshaus is a word that describes a kind of bar-restaurant serving traditional Bavaria food and beer. This has been serving since 1901 and it's one of the best. A stone's throw from the Deutsches Museum, it has a great vaulted room and collections of beer steins, providing one of the best atmospheres around. It has a combination of fantastic service and outstanding local dishes, and it serves everything from Hofente (roast duck) to Schweinsbraten (roast pork). But the real specialty, and for which it is renowned, is Kn\u00f6del (dumplings), which, in addition to traditional Semmel (bread) and Kartoffel (potato) varieties, come in spinach, cheese, and even red-beet flavors. Weather permitting, you can sit in the small beer garden under, of course, chestnut trees. A day in the Deutsches Museum followed by an evening here, and Munich doesn't get much better. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Lilienstr. 51, Haidhausen | 089/4809\u20130589 | www.wirtshausinderau.de | Station: Isartor (S-bahn and Tram) |.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCity Center | Royal Munich | Schwabing and Maxvorstadt | Hauptbahnhof | Isarvorstadt | Ludwigvorstadt | Theresienh\u00f6he | Nymphenburg | Bogenhausen | Outside the Center\n\nThough Munich has a vast number of hotels in all price ranges, booking one can be a challenge, as this is a trade-show city as well as a prime tourist destination. If you're visiting during any of the major trade fairs such as the ISPO (sports, fashion) in January or the IHM (crafts) in mid-March, or during Oktoberfest at the end of September, try to make reservations at least a few months in advance. It is acceptable practice in Europe to request to see a room before committing to it, so feel free to ask the concierge.\n\nSome of the large, upscale hotels that cater to expense-account business travelers have attractive weekend discount rates\u2014sometimes as much as 50% below normal prices. Conversely, most hotels raise their regular rates by at least 30% during big trade fairs and Oktoberfest. Online booking sites like Hotel Reservation Service (www.hrs.com) often have prices well below the hotel's published prices (i.e., price ranges in this book) in slow periods and on short notice. Look for the names we suggest here and search online for potential deals.\n\nTIP Munich's tourist information office has two outlets that can help you with hotel bookings if you haven't reserved in advance. One is at the central station and the other is on Marienplatz, in the Rathaus. Your best bet is to visit in person.\n\nA technical note: A few years ago, some hotels in Munich chose to farm out their wireless Internet services to third parties\u2014meaning that you could get online with their Wi-Fi hotspot, but you had to log in with a credit card and pay with a separate service provider. Thankfully, this is changing, and most of the newer hotels, plus some forward-thinking older establishments, offer Wi-Fi for free throughout.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n## City Center\n\nAnna Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Modern, slightly minimalist decor and features are the characteristic of this design hotel. The suite on the sixth floor has fabulous views through the panorama windows, and its sumptuous bathroom, with delightful colored lights, comes with a TV. The bistro restaurant has a large terrace overlooking one of Munich's central squares and Sch\u00fctzenstrasse, a pedestrian street leading to the train station. The location and good food makes it a busy place where locals stop in for a drink and a bite to eat. Its sister hotel, the K\u00f6nigshof, is a few hundred meters away, and use of the spa there is free for Anna guests. Pros: terrific location; fabulous views from the top floor; beds are huge; free Wi-Fi throughout. Cons: bar and restaurant get hectic from passersby on the busy street; no single rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac220 | Sch\u00fctzenstr. 1, City Center | 089/599\u2013940 | www.annahotel.de | 73 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Bayerischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | There's the Michelin-starred restaurant, the swanky suites, the rooftop Blue Spa and Lounge with panoramic city views, fitness studio, pool, private cinema, and to top it all suites in Palais Montgelas, the adjoining early 19th-century palace. Yes, it would be easy to pigeonhole the Bayerischer Hof as just another expensive luxury hotel. But this 1841-opened hotel is an almost unique combination of luxury, history, and accessibility. M\u00fcnchners, for example, are encouraged to visit the traditional Bavarian restaurant while it is also a top jazz venue. Even King Ludwig I of Bavaria paid regular visits to take a \"royal bath,\" as his own residence lacked hot running water. When meeting someone at \"the bar,\" or \"restaurant,\" specify which one: there are seven bars (includes a night club) and five restaurants. Pros: superb public rooms with valuable oil paintings; the roof garden restaurant has an impressive view of the Frauenkirche two blocks away; Atelier restaurant has again been awarded a Michelin star. Cons: expensive; Wi-Fi is extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac360 | Promenadepl. 2\u20136, City Center | 089/21200 | www.bayerischerhof.de | 340 rooms, 65 suites | Breakfast | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn), Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nCortiina.  \nHOTEL | One of Munich's design hotels, Cortiina follows the minimalist gospel. The reception is done in sleek gray stone with a high-tech gas fireplace along one wall. For guests, the emphasis is on subtle luxury - fresh flowers, mattresses made from natural rubber, sheets made of untreated cotton. The rooms are paneled in dark moor oak and come with all the amenities. In the Annex, 54 yards away, are 30 apartments with cooking facilities. Free Wi-Fi throughout. Pros: welcoming modern reception and bar; nice, comfortable rooms; personalized service. Cons: Hotel's Bar Central is over the road. | Rooms from: \u20ac169 | Ledererstr. 8, City Center | 089/242\u20132490 | www.cortiina.com | 75 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel am Markt.  \nHOTEL | You can literally stumble out the door of this hotel onto the Viktualienmarkt. Excellent location, fair prices, and simple rooms are what you get. Good meals are served in the renovated restaurant connected with the hotel. Pros: excellent location; friendly and helpful staff; free Wi-Fi; decent restaurant. Cons: rooms are simple; some spots could use fresh paint; no credit cards. | Rooms from: \u20ac77 | Heiliggeiststr. 6, City Center | 089/225\u2013014 | www.hotel-am-markt.eu | 22 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Kraft.  \nHOTEL | Conveniently located between the city center and the Oktoberfest grounds, the lobby of this basic hotel is inviting with wood paneled walls and comfortable armchairs. The same goes for the comparably spacious rooms with room for an armchair, an ample sized writing desk, and natural light from a large window. Unlike most city center hotels, you can even open the window without letting in too much street noise because the university hospitals which surround the hotel prevent thru traffic. Pros: privately owned; hotel and rooms well cared for; quiet neighborhood. Cons: quiet neighborhood, so no nightlife. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Schillerstr. 49, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/550\u20135940 | www.hotel-kraft.com | 33 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Vier Jahreszeiten Kempinski M\u00fcnchen.  \nHOTEL | It likes to call its lobby the \"most beautiful living room in Munich,\" and just as the world's wealthy and titled have felt for more than 150 years, you'll feel at home enjoying a drink and a bite in this \"lived-in\" spacious and luxurious room with glass dome and with dark-wood paneling. Trend and tradition blend throughout the property, especially in the new guest rooms, where flat-screen TVs hang on the walls alongside original oil paintings and Bose stereos rest on antique cupboards. In the Vue Maximilian restaurant your attention may be torn between the excellent food and watching people on Maximilianstrasse, Munich's premier shopping street. Pros: great location; occasional special packages that are a good value; Wi-Fi free. Cons: everything is expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac260 | Maximilianstr. 17, City Center | 089/2125\u20132799 | www.Kempinski-Vierjahreszeiten.de | 230 rooms, 67 suites | Breakfast | Station: Tram 19 Kammerspiele (Tram).\n\nFodor's Choice | The Louis Hotel.  \nHOTEL | No other hotel in Munich manages to combine the subdued elegance of a design hotel, first-rate service, and perhaps the best city center location, overlooking Viktualienmarkt, as this hotel. Opened in 2009, this former bank is aiming for a slightly more affluent clientele, though some room prices are competitive. All of the interiors are unique, and the owners put their individual stamp on many of the designs. The oak floor in the Louis Room suite has been oiled just once, and provides an organic, natural feel. On entering this room, you get the feeling of walking into a cabin on a luxury cruise liner, with its curved lines and an elongated corridor. The huge pull-out, trunklike contraption reveals a TV and minibar, a similar device is a cupboard for clothes. A few feet below, you can see the hustle and bustle of the Viktualienmarkt, and opening the balcony door allows you to hear Prost! as beer glasses are cracked together at the Biergarten. Close the door and all is quiet again. There is a compact rooftop terrace with bar, with the historic St Peter's Church towering above and free Wi-Fi throughout. lLook for the tiny, enticing chocolate store below the hotel. Pros: brilliant location; attentive service; modern designs; very good restaurant. Cons: some rooms pricey; the bustle of the Viktualienmarkt is not for everyone; parking costs \u20ac24 a day. | Rooms from: \u20ac189 | Viktualienmarkt 6, City Center | 089/4111\u20139080 | www.louis-hotel.com | 72 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMercure Hotel Muenchen Altstadt.  \nHOTEL | This straightforward, comfortable hotel is a decent deal for its great location; there are a number of Mercure hotels in Munich, but this location, between Marienplatz and Sendlingertor, is in the city center. Breakfast, now included in the price, is better than breakfasts you'll get at some restaurants. Pets are allowed for an extra \u20ac13. Pros: central location; moderate price; free mineral water; free Wi-Fi. Cons: public parking garage is a bit of a hike. | Rooms from: \u20ac168 | Hotterstr. 4, City Center | 089/232\u2013590 | www.mercure-muenchen-altstadt.de | 75 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMotel One M\u00fcnchen-Sendlinger Tor.  \nHOTEL | With well-thought-out designs and free Wi-Fi, the Motel One chain jumped ahead of the game with its simple but classy concept. This series of design hotels caters to the young, fast-paced professional. Boisterous furniture and offbeat colors give the place a slightly edgy feel. The service is terrific and there are no hidden costs. This location is one of seven throughout Munich (there are more across Germany, plus a few further afield) and they are a great option for the price. Pets, parking, and breakfast cost extra. The location, near Sendlinger Tor, is perfect for the historic Altstadt. Pros: great prices and location; decent designs; amiable, attentive service; kids ages 1\u20136 get a free breakfast. Cons: staying in one is like staying in all of them; no restaurant or room service; breakfast, parking, and pets cost extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac84 | Herzog-Wilhelm-Str. 28, City Center | 089/5177\u20137250 | www.motel-one.com/de | 241 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Karlsplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nPlatzl Hotel.  \nHOTEL | The privately owned Platzl has won awards and wide recognition for its ecologically aware management, which uses heat recyclers in the kitchen, environmentally friendly detergents, recyclable materials, waste separation, and other eco-friendly practices. In 2011 the hotel won a gold award from the Bavarian Ministry for the Environment for such work. It stands in the historic heart of Munich, near the famous Hofbr\u00e4uhaus beer hall and a couple of minutes' walk from Marienplatz and many other landmarks. Its Pfisterm\u00fchle restaurant, with 16th-century vaulting, is one of the area's oldest and most historic establishments. Pros: good restaurant; progressive environmental credentials; around the corner from the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus; free Wi-Fi throughout. Cons: rooms facing the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus get more noise; some rooms are on the small side. | Rooms from: \u20ac212 | Sparkassenstr. 10, City Center | 089/2370\u20133722 | www.platzl.de | 167 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nTorbr\u00e4u.  \nHOTEL | The welcoming Torbr\u00e4u has been looking after guests in one form or another since 1490, making it the oldest hotel in Munich, and it has been run by the same family for more than a century. It's next to one of the ancient city gates - Isartor, originating in the 14th century - and the location is perfect for an amble up to Marienplatz, or to the river Isar, then onto the Deutsches Museum. The comfortable rooms are modestly decorated in a plush and ornate Italian style, rather than cutting-edge modern design. Pros: nice rooms; central location; good restaurant; very attentive service. Cons: underground parking difficult; front rooms a little noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac205 | Tal 41, City Center | 089/242\u2013340 | www.torbraeu.de | 90 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Isartor (S-bahn).\n\n## Royal Munich\n\nAdria.  \nHOTEL | This modern hotel is near a number of great museums and the English Garden. Rooms are large and tastefully decorated. A breakfast buffet (including a glass of sparkling wine) is included in the room rate. There's no hotel restaurant, but there's free coffee and tea in the lobby. Wi-Fi Internet costs extra. Pros: good location; nice lobby. Cons: no bar or restaurant; Wi-Fi costs extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac124 | Liebigstr. 8a, Lehel | 089/242\u20131170 | www.adria-muenchen.de | 45 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Lehel (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Concorde.  \nHOTEL | The privately owned Concorde is in the middle of Munich and yet peaceful owing to its location on a narrow side street. The nearest S-bahn station, Isartor, is a two-minute walk away. Rooms in one tract are done in pastel tones and light woods; in the other tract they tend to be somewhat darker and more rustic. Fresh flowers and bright prints add a colorful touch. A large breakfast buffet is served in a stylish, mirrored dining room. Pros: quiet; functional; good location. Cons: no restaurant or bar; Wi-Fi costs extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac136 | Herrnstr. 38\u201340, Lehel | 089/224\u2013515 | www.concorde-muenchen.de | 72 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Isartor (S-bahn).\n\nHotel Opera.  \nHOTEL | In the quiet residential district of Lehel, Hotel Opera offers rooms decorated in an elegant style\u2014lots of Empire, some art deco; some rooms even have glassed-in balconies. There are no minibars, but guests can order room service around the clock. Enjoy summer breakfast in the back courtyard decorated with orange and lemon trees. The street it's on is a cul-de-sac accessed through the neo-Renaissance arcades of the Ethnology Museum. Pros: free Wi-Fi throughout; elegant; pleasant courtyard; quiet location; special service. Cons: not enough parking close to the hotel; no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac175 | St.-Anna-Str. 10, Lehel | 089/2104\u20139410 | www.hotel-opera.de | 25 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Lehel (U-bahn).\n\n## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt\n\nBiederstein.  \nHOTEL | A modern, block of a building, but covered with geraniums in summer, the Biederstein seems to want to fit into its old Schwabing surroundings at the edge of the English Garden. The many advantages here: peace and quiet; excellent service; and comfortable, well-appointed and renovated rooms. The breakfast buffet is very good, and there is free Wi-Fi throughout. Pros: wonderfully quiet location; all rooms have balconies; exemplary service; U-bahn is four blocks away. Cons: not the most handsome building; no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Keferstr. 18, Schwabing | 089/3302\u20139390 | www.hotel-biederstein.de | 34 rooms, 7 suites | Breakfast | Station: M\u00fcnchner Freiheit (U-bahn).\n\nCarlton Astoria.  \nHOTEL | Its downtown location, near the Pinakotheken (art museums) and the university, means you can reach many places on foot. A three- or four-minute walk will take you to Amalienstrasse and T\u00fcrkenstrasse, two of the most lively places in town, with more than 35 restaurants, eateries, and student pubs. Pros: centrally located; fairly priced; free Wi-Fi. Cons: rooms on main street can be noisy; parking is a short walk away. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | F\u00fcrstenstr. 12, Maxvorstadt | 089/383\u20139630 | www.carlton-astoria.de | 48 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn), Odeonsplatz (U-bahn).\n\nCosmopolitan.  \nHOTEL | The entrance to this inviting hotel is on the lively Hohenzollernstrasse, but once you pass through what looks like a garage opening, you'll find yourself in a quiet courtyard. Rooms are a good size and the large windows make them light and airy. Some rooms have a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Request a room not facing the street and ask about weekend rates. Free Wi-Fi throughout the property. Pros: right in the middle of Schwabing, M\u00fcnchner Freiheit a city block away; quiet courtyard rooms. Cons: no restaurant; streetside rooms are noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | Hohenzollernstr. 5, Schwabing | 089/383\u2013810 | www.cosmopolitanhotel.de | 71 rooms, 8 suites | Breakfast | Station: M\u00fcnchner Freiheit (U-bahn).\n\nG\u00e4stehaus am Englischen Garten.  \nHOTEL | Reserve well in advance for a room at this popular converted water mill, more than 300 years old, adjoining the English Garden. The hotel is only a five-minute walk from the bars, shops, and restaurants of Schwabing. Be sure to ask for one of the 12 nostalgically old-fashioned rooms in the main building, which has a garden on an island in the old millrace; a modern annex down the road has 13 apartments, all with cooking facilities. In summer, breakfast is served on the terrace of the main house. There is free Internet access at their partner hotel, the Biederstein around the corner. Pros: quiet location; ideal for walking or cycling; wonderfully cozy rooms. Cons: no elevator; no restaurant; you have to go to their partner hotel, around the corner, for free Internet access. | Rooms from: \u20ac83 | Liebergesellstr. 8, Schwabing | 089/383\u20139410 | www.hotelenglischergarten.de | 12 rooms, 6 with bath or shower; 13 apartments | Breakfast | Station: M\u00fcnchner Freiheit (U-bahn).\n\nH'otello F'22.  \nHOTEL | This is a high-caliber example of the design- and style-driven nature of the new Munich hotel scene\u2014the style is minimalist, but with a roomy feel. The king-size beds are big plus, as is the breakfast buffet, which includes homemade yogurt and lots of fresh fruit. This location is a few minutes from Luitpold Park and equidistant from the Olympiapark and the Englischer Garten. Some rooms have balconies. There are three H'otellos in Munich, two of which are within five minutes of one another in the still trendy Schwabing district, both equally attractive (the third is near Viktualienmarkt); there's also one in Berlin. Pros: great location; well-thought-out design; some rooms have balconies; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac126 | Fallmerayerstr. 22, Schwabing | 089/4583\u20131200 | www.hotello.de | 74 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hohenzollernplatz (U-bahn).\n\nH'otello H'09.  \nHOTEL | The second in the H'otello chain to open in Munich, this high-design hotel is a five-minute walk to the Englischer Garden; the style is minimalist but still luxurious with king-size beds and a breakfast buffet. The nearby garden's green-space is a plus, and it's even closer to the long Leopoldstrasse, which is filled with bars and restaurants; it's just the place to begin your tour of Bohemian Schwabing. Pros: free Wi-Fi; great location; well-thought-out design; uncomplicated rooms. Cons: no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac126 | Hohenzollernstr. 9, Schwabing | 089/4583\u20131200 | www.hotello.de | 71 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Giselastrasse (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Pension Am Siegestor.  \nB&B/INN | Modest but appealing, the pension\u2014which takes up three floors of a fin de si\u00e8cle mansion between the Siegestor monument, on Leopoldstrasse, and the university\u2014is a great deal in Germany's most expensive city. An ancient elevator with a glass door brings you to the fourth-floor reception desk. Most of the simply furnished rooms face the impressive Arts Academy across the street. Rooms on the fifth floor are particularly cozy, tucked up under the eaves. Pros: a delightful and homey place to stay; very good value stay for the price; not far to walk to the English Garden. Cons: if elevators make you nervous, don't use this old one; no restaurant or bar. | Rooms from: \u20ac74 | Akademiestr. 5, Maxvorstadt | 089/399\u2013550 | www.siegestor.com | 20 rooms | No credit cards | Breakfast | Station: Universit\u00e4t (U-bahn).\n\n## Hauptbahnhof\n\nCreatif Hotel Elephant.  \nHOTEL | Tucked away on a quiet street near the train station, this hotel appeals to a wide range of travelers, from businesspeople to tourists on a budget. The recently renovated rooms are simple and quiet. A bright color scheme in the reception and breakfast (\u20ac9 extra) room creates a cheery atmosphere. Wi-Fi costs \u20ac2 for 24 hours throughout the building. Pros: close to main station. Cons: no restaurant; modest furnishings; Wi-Fi costs extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac102 | L\u00e4mmerstr. 6, Maxvorstadt | 089/555\u2013785 | www.creatifelephanthotel.com | 40 rooms | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nEden-Hotel Wolff.  \nHOTEL | Beyond a light-filled lobby, a spacious bar with dark-wood paneling beckons, contributing to the old-fashioned elegance of this downtown favorite. It's directly across the street from the northern exit of the main train station with U-bahn, S-bahn, and trams at your service. The rooms are well furnished with large, comfortable beds, and the colors are relaxing pastels; the back rooms face a quiet street. You can dine on excellent Bavarian specialties in the intimate Zirbelstube restaurant. Pros: all rooms have a/c; breakfast is included. Cons: a little too close to the hustle and bustle of the main station; Wi-Fi costs extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac188 | Arnulfstr. 4, Hauptbahnhof | 089/551\u2013150 | www.ehw.de | 210 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Excelsior.  \nHOTEL | Just a short walk along an underpass from the Hauptbahnhof station, the Excelsior welcomes you with smiles after the hustle and bustle of the busy train station. Warm wood helps create the atmosphere of a luxury Alpine resort, and although some aspects of the decor, like the fake awning near the ceiling, are close to kitsch, altogether it works. Rooms are spacious and inviting, with elements of Alpine wood and luxury. The Vinothek restaurant has excellent food, and a wine list to match. Pros: welcoming reception; spacious rooms; excellent breakfast; free Wi-Fi throughout. Cons: Sch\u00fctzenstrasse can get very busy. | Rooms from: \u20ac220 | Sch\u00fctzenstr. 11, Hauptbahnhof | 089/551\u2013370 | www.excelsior-hotel.de | 118 rooms, 9 suites | No lunch Sun. in restaurant | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Amba.  \nHOTEL | Right across the street from the main train station, Amba provides clean, bright rooms, good service, no expensive frills, and everything you need to plug and play. The lobby, with a small bar, invites you to relax in a Mediterranean atmosphere of wicker sofas with bright-color upholstery. After a solid breakfast buffet (with sparkling wine) on the second floor overlooking the station, you can hit the nearby sights on foot or use the public transportation options a few yards away. There are also occasional special deals on weekends. Wi-Fi costs \u20ac10 for 24 hours. Pros: convenient to train station and sights. Cons: no restaurant; rooms that face the main street and the station are noisy; there's a cost for Wi-Fi. | Rooms from: \u20ac101 | Arnulfstr. 20, Hauptbahnhof | 089/545\u2013140 | www.hotel-amba.de | 86 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Mirabell.  \nHOTEL | This family-run hotel is used to American tourists who appreciate the friendly service, central location (between the main railway station and the Oktoberfest fairgrounds), and reasonable room rates. Three apartments are available for small groups or families. Rooms are furnished in modern light woods and bright prints. A breakfast buffet is included. Pros: Wi-Fi free throughout; family-run; personalized service. Cons: no restaurant; this area of the Hauptbahnhof is not the most salubrious. | Rooms from: \u20ac115 | Landwehrstr. 42, entrance on Goethestr., Hauptbahnhof | 089/549\u20131740 | www.hotelmirabell.de | 65 rooms, 3 apartments | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Pr\u00e4sident.  \nHOTEL | The location\u2014just a block from the main train station\u2014is the biggest draw of this hotel; the second draw is the price. For those who want a basic and inexpensive place to stay, this is a good place to rest your weary feet before you set off again to enjoy Munich. The satisfying breakfast will give you a good start. Wi-Fi is \u20ac14.99 for 24 hours. Pros: central location; filling breakfast. Cons: rooms toward the street are noisy; streets around the hotel are not the most salubrious; parking 100 yards away costs \u20ac5. | Rooms from: \u20ac97 | Schwanthalerstr. 20, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/549\u20130060 | www.hotel-praesident.de | 42 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Isarvorstadt\n\nFodor's Choice | Admiral.  \nHOTEL | The small, privately owned, tradition-rich Admiral enjoys a quiet side-street location and its own garden, close to the river Isar, minutes from the Deutsches Museum. A comfortable bar with regal-looking chairs is right behind the lobby. Many of the nicely furnished and warmly decorated bedrooms have a balcony overlooking the quiet secluded garden. The breakfast buffet is a dream, complete with homemade jams, fresh bread, and Italian and French delicacies. An increasing proportion of the breakfast is organic and it can be taken in the garden. The use of the minibar is included in the room price and Wi-Fi is free throughout. Pros: attention to detail; quiet; excellent service. Cons: no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac199 | Kohlstr. 9, Isarvorstadt | 089/216\u2013350 | www.hotel-admiral.de | 33 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Isartor (S-bahn).\n\nPension Seibel.  \nHOTEL | If you're looking for an affordable little \"pension\" a stone's throw from the Viktualienmarkt, this is the place. You can't get any closer than this for the price, with the added bonus that it is also just a few minutes' walk from the trendy G\u00e4rtnerplatz and Glockenbach areas. The rooms are simple; there are also three larger rooms for four to six people. Pets cost \u20ac5 extra. Pros: great location at a great price; pets are welcome. Cons: tiny breakfast room; no elevator; Wi-Fi and pets cost extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac79 | Reichenbachstr. 8, Isarvorstadt | 089/231\u20139180 | www.seibel-hotels-munich.de | 15 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Ludwigvorstadt\n\nBrack.  \nHOTEL | A nice, light-filled lobby makes a first good impression, but Oktoberfest revelers value Brack's proximity to the beer-festival grounds, and its location\u2014on a busy, tree-lined thoroughfare just south of the city center\u2014is handy for city attractions. The rooms are furnished in light, friendly veneers and are soundproof (a useful feature during Oktoberfest) and have amenities such as hair dryers. The buffet breakfast, which lasts until noon, will prepare you for the day. Free Wi-Fi throughout the hotel. Pros: good location for accessing Oktoberfest and city; late breakfast; free use of bikes. Cons: noisy front rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Lindwurmstr. 153, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/747\u20132550 | www.hotel-brack.de | 50 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Poccistrasse (U-bahn).\n\nHotel am Viktualienmarkt.  \nHOTEL | This highly recommendable middle-market design-led hotel is perfectly located a few hundred meters from Viktualienmarkt and the G\u00e4rtnerplatz quarter. The lobby is now dominated by large windows, oozing with natural light. Breakfast is good, served in a stylish couple of adjoining areas, with neat tables and high-back chairs. The impressive five-person apartment is remarkably just \u20ac170 a night. Next door is a small cupcake store and there's a decent Thai restaurant at the end of the street (Utzschneiderstrasse 6). Free Wi-Fi throughout, and thankfully the hotel now has an elevator. Pros: refreshing atmosphere; service attentive but not overbearing; great location; lovely courtyard for breakfast; competitive prices. Cons: no a/c; no restaurant; parking around the corner. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Utzschneiderstr. 14, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/231\u20131090 | www.hotel-am-viktualienmarkt.de | 26 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Marienplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Mariandl.  \nHOTEL | The American armed forces commandeered this turn-of-the-20th-century neo-Gothic mansion in May 1945 and established Munich's first postwar nightclub, the Femina, on the ground floor. Breakfast is served downstairs in the Caf\u00e9 am Beethovenplatz, which also has free Wi-Fi. Most rooms are mansion size, with high ceilings and large windows overlooking a leafy avenue. The Oktoberfest grounds and the main railway station are both a 10-minute walk away. lPrices during Oktoberfest increase substantially. Pros: hotel and caf\u00e9 are charmingly worn and a bit bohemian. Cons: no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac70 | Goethestr. 51, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/552\u20139100 | www.hotelmariandl.com | 28 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel-Pension Schmellergarten.  \nB&B/INN | Popular with young budget travelers, this genuine family business tries to make everyone feel at home. It's a little place on a quiet street off Lindwurmstrasse, a few minutes' walk from the Theresienwiese (Oktoberfest grounds). The Poccistrasse subway station is around the corner to take you into the center of town. Pros: good location; good price; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no elevator; no hotel services. | Rooms from: \u20ac64 | Schmellerstr. 20, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/773\u2013157 | www.schmellergarten.de | 14 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Poccistrasse (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Uhland.  \nHOTEL | This stately villa is a landmark building and is additionally special in that the owner and host was born here and will make you feel at home, too. She and her staff welcome all questions and seem to love answering them. The spacious, inviting breakfast room filled with light and the excellent food will get you ready for the day ahead. Some of the pleasant rooms are quite large and can accommodate three people. Pros: a real family atmosphere; care is given to details; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant or bar. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Uhlandstr. 1, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/543\u2013350 | www.hotel-uhland.de | 27 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Theresienwiese (U-bahn).\n\n## Theresienh\u00f6he\n\nPark-Hotel Theresienh\u00f6he.  \nHOTEL | The Park-Hotel claims that none of its rooms is less than 400 square feet and its suites are larger than many luxury apartments, and some of them come with small kitchens. The sleek, modern rooms are mostly decorated with light woods and pastel-color fabrics and carpeting; larger rooms and suites get a lot of light, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Families are particularly welcome. There's no in-house restaurant, but you can order in. Pros: spacious rooms; good quiet location. Cons: no restaurant; modern but not great charm; Wi-Fi costs extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Parkstr. 31a, Theresienh\u00f6he | 089/519\u2013950 | www.parkhoteltheresienhoehe.de | 40 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Theresienwiese (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Westend.  \nHOTEL | Visitors have praised the friendly welcome and service they receive at this well-maintained and affordable lodging above the Oktoberfest grounds. Rooms are comfortable, if furnished in a manner only slightly better than functional. Pros: good location; good prices; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant; rooms are simple; it's best to confirm your reservation. | Rooms from: \u20ac49 | Schwanthalerstr. 121, Theresienh\u00f6he | 089/540\u20139860 | www.kurpfalz-hotel.de | 44 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hackerbr\u00fccke (S-bahn).\n\n## Nymphenburg\n\nErzgiesserei Europe.  \nHOTEL | Rooms in this modern hotel are bright, decorated in soft pastels with good reproductions on the walls. The cobblestone garden caf\u00e9 is quiet and relaxing. Rates vary greatly, even on their own website. The English Cinema is around the corner if you're hankering for a film, and the subway station is a seven-minute walk. Pros: relatively quiet location; nice courtyard; air-conditioning in all rooms. Cons: charm of a business hotel; Wi-Fi costs extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Erzgiessereistr. 15, Nymphenburg | 089/126\u2013820 | www.topinternational.com | 106 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast | Station: Stiglmaierplatz (U-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Kriemhild.  \nHOTEL | This welcoming, family-run pension is in a quiet western suburb. If you're traveling with children, you'll appreciate that it's a 10-minute walk from Schloss Nymphenburg and around the corner from the Hirschgarten Park. The tram ride (No. 16 or 17 to Kriemhildenstrasse stop) from the train station is 10 minutes. Pros: quiet location; family run; free Wi-Fi. Cons: far from the city sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac88 | Guntherstr. 16, Nymphenburg | 089/171\u20131170 | www.kriemhild.de | 18 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast | Station: Kriemhildstrasse (Tram).\n\n## Bogenhausen\n\nWestin Grand M\u00fcnchen.  \nHOTEL | The building itself, with 22 floors, may raise a few eyebrows as it stands on a slight elevation and is not the shapeliest of the Munich skyline. What goes on inside, however, is sheer five-star luxury. Guests of the top four floors, the Tower Rooms and Suites, are greeted with a glass of champagne; snacks, drinks, and a fantastic view of the city and the Bavarian Alps are available in the Towers Lounge. Room service is available around the clock. There are several spots within the hotel to eat, including ZEN, which serves Pan-Asian food, and Paulaner's Wirtshaus, which also has a biergarten. If you want to add a special Bavarian flavor to your stay, book one of the \"Bavarian rooms\" on the 15th and the 16th floors with antique wood furniture and a country feel. Pros: luxurious lobby and restaurant; rooms facing west toward the city have a fabulous view. Cons: it's not possible to reserve west-facing rooms; hotel is difficult to reach via public transportation; at \u20ac27, breakfast is expensive; high-speed Wi-Fi cost is expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Arabellastr. 6, Bogenhausen | 089/92640 | www.westin.com/munich | 627 rooms, 28 suites | Breakfast | Station: Arabellapark (U-bahn).\n\n## Outside the Center\n\nJagdschloss.  \nHOTEL | This century-old hunting lodge in Munich's leafy Obermenzing suburb is a delightful hotel. The rustic look has been retained, with lots of original woodwork and white stucco. Many of the comfortable pastel-tone bedrooms have wooden balconies with flower boxes bursting with color. In the beamed restaurant or sheltered beer garden you'll be served Bavarian specialties by a staff dressed in traditional lederhosen (shorts in summer, breeches in winter). Free Wi-Fi in rooms. Pros: peaceful location; beer garden; easy parking. Cons: away from the city center; convenient only with a car; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Alte Allee 21 | M\u00fcnchen-Obermenzing | 089/820\u2013820 | www.jagd-schloss.com | 35 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nThe Arts | Nightlife\n\n## The Arts\n\nBavaria's capital has an enviable reputation as an artistic hot spot. Details of concerts and theater performances are listed in in m\u00fcnchen and Monatsprogramm, booklets available at most hotel reception desks, newsstands, and tourist offices. Prinz magazine lists almost everything happening in the city, as do a host of other city magazines, while the superb and official city website (www.muenchen.de) has listings. Otherwise, just keep your eye open for advertising pillars and posters.\n\nBox Office of the Bavarian State Theaters.  \nTickets for performances at the Bavarian State Theater, Nationaltheater, Staatstheater am G\u00e4rtnerplatz, plus many other locations, are sold at the central box office. It's open Monday to Saturday 10\u20137. | Marstallpl. 5, City Center | 089/2185\u20131920 | www.staatstheater-tickets.bayern.de.\n\nM\u00fcnchen Ticket.  \nThis ticket agency has a German-language website where tickets for most Munich venues can be booked. | 089/5481\u20138181 | www.muenchenticket.de.\n\nZentraler Kartenverkauf.  \nTwo Zentraler Kartenverkauf ticket kiosks are in the underground concourse at Marienplatz, and one at Stachus. | City Center | 089/292\u2013540 for Marienplatz, 089/5450\u20136060 for Stachus | www.zkv-muenchen.de.\n\n### Concerts\n\nMunich and music go together. The city has two world-renowned orchestras. The Philharmonic has been directed by Lorin Maazel, formerly of the New York Philharmonic, since the 2012/2013 season; the Bavarian State Opera Company is managed by Japanese-American director Kent Nagano (he leaves in 2015 for the equivalent position in Hamburg). The leading choral ensembles are the Munich Bach Choir, the Munich Motettenchor, and Musica Viva, the last specializing in contemporary music. The choirs perform mostly in city churches.\n\nBayerischer Rundfunk Ticket.  \nThe Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra sometimes performs at the Bayerischer Rundfunk and other city venues, such as Gasteig. The box office is open weekdays 9\u20135:30. | Arnulfstr. 42, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/5900\u201310880 | info.br-klassikticket.de.\n\nGasteig Culture Center.  \nThis world-class concert hall is in the Gasteig Culture Center, a hugely expensive, not particularly beautiful brick complex standing high above the Isar River, east of downtown. Its Philharmonic Hall is the permanent home of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra and the largest concert hall in Munich. Gasteig also hosts the occasional English-language work. It hosts the annual book fair and numerous other events and celebrations. TIP The sizeable open kitchen Gast (www.gast-muenchen.de), part of the Gasteig complex, is a good option for a range of quick foods, from Thai curries to pizzas. | Rosenheimerstr. 5, Haidhausen | 089/480\u2013980 | www.gasteig.de | Station: Rosenheimerplatz (S-bahn).\n\nHerkulessaal in der Residenz.  \nThis highly regarded orchestral and recital venue is in the former throne room of King Ludwig I. | Residenzstr. 1, City Center | 0180/5481\u20138181 via M\u00fcnchen Ticket | www.muenchenticket.de.\n\nHochschule f\u00fcr Musik.  \nFree concerts featuring conservatory students are given at the Hochschule f\u00fcr Musik. | Arcisstr. 12, Maxvorstadt | 089/28903 | www.musikhochschule-muenchen.de.\n\nNationaltheater (Bayerische Staatsoper).  \nThe Bavarian State Orchestra is based at the Nationaltheater. | Max-Joseph-Pl. 2, City Center | 089/218\u2013501 | www.staatsorchester.de.\n\nOlympiahalle.  \nOne of Munich's major pop-rock concert venue is the Olympiahalle, and the official ticket seller is M\u00fcnchen Ticket. | Spiridon-Louis-Ring 21 Olympiazentrum stop, Milbertshofen | www.olympiapark-muenchen.de; www.muenchenticket.de for tickets.\n\nStaatstheater am G\u00e4rtnerplatz.  \nUnder renovation until 2015, the romantic art nouveau Staatstheater am G\u00e4rtnerplatz has a variety of performances including operas, ballet, and musicals. Tickets from the theater weekdays 10\u20136, Saturday 10\u20131 or Zentraler Kartenvorverkauf in Marienplatz, and Stachus. | G\u00e4rtnerpl. 3, Isarvorstadt | 089/2185\u20131960 | www.staatstheater-am-gaertnerplatz.de.\n\n### Opera, Ballet, and Musicals\n\nNationaltheater.  \nMunich's Bavarian State Opera Company and its ballet ensemble perform at the Nationaltheater. | Max-Joseph-Pl. 2, City Center | 089/218\u2013501.\n\n### Theater\n\nMunich has scores of theaters and variety-show venues, although most productions will be largely impenetrable if your German is shaky. Listed here are all the better-known theaters, as well as some of the smaller and more progressive spots. Note that most theaters are closed during July and August.\n\nCuvilli\u00e9s-Theater.  \nThis is an incredible venue, and though not used too frequently, it is particularly famous for its Mozart productions. | Max-Joseph-Pl., entrance on Residenzstr., City Center | 089/2185\u20131940 | www.residenztheater.de; www.staatstheater-tickets.bayern.de for tickets.\n\nAmerika Haus (America House).  \nAmerika Haus is the venue for the very active American Drama Group Europe, which presents regular English-language productions and talks. | Karolinenpl. 3, Maxvorstadt | 089/552\u20135370 | www.amerikahaus.de.\n\nBayerisches Staatsschauspiel (Bavarian State Theater).  \nBayerisches Staatsschauspiel is Munich's leading ensemble for classic playwrights such as Goethe, Schiller, Lessing, Shakespeare, and Chekhov. Its main home is the Residenz Theater, but it also plays at the Cuvilli\u00e9s-Theater and at Marstall. | Max-Joseph-Pl. 1, City Center | 089/2185\u20131940 | www.bayerischesstaatsschauspiel.de; www.staatstheater-tickets.bayern.de for tickets.\n\nDeutsches Theater.  \nAfter years of renovation work, the Deutsches Theater has reopened and is again the premier spot for musicals, revues, balls, and big-band shows. | Schwanthalerstr. 9\u201311, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/5523\u20134444 for tickets | www.deutsches-theater.de.\n\nM\u00fcnchner Kammerspiele.  \nA city-funded rival to the nearby state-backed Bayerisches Staatschauspiel, M\u00fcnchner Kammerspiele-Schauspielhaus presents the classics as well as new works by contemporary playwrights. | Maximilianstr. 26\u201328, City Center | 089/2339\u20136600 | www.muenchner-kammerspiele.de.\n\n## Nightlife\n\nMunich has a lively night scene ranging from beer halls to bars to chic clubs. The fun areas for a night out are the City Center, Isarvorstadt (G\u00e4rtnerplatz and Glockenbachviertel are arguably the best in the city), and Schwabing around Schellingstrasse and M\u00fcnchner Freiheit. Regardless of their size or style, many bars, especially around G\u00e4rtnerplatz, have DJs spinning either mellow background sounds or funky beats.\n\nHowever many fingers you want to hold up, just remember the easy-to-pronounce Bier (beer) bit-te (please) when ordering a beer. The tricky part is, Germans don't just produce one beverage called beer; they brew more than 5,000 varieties. Germany has about 1,300 breweries, 40% of the world's total.\n\nIn Munich you'll find the most famous breweries, the largest beer halls and beer gardens, the biggest and most indulgent beer festival, and the widest selection of brews. Even the beer glasses are bigger: a Mass is a 1-liter (almost 2-pint) serving; a Halbe is half a liter and the standard size. The Hofbr\u00e4uhaus is Munich's best-known beer hall, but you'll find locals in one of the English Garden's four beer gardens or in a Wirtshaus (tavern).\n\nIn summer, last call at the beer gardens is around 11 pm. Most of the traditional places stay open until 1 am or so and are great for a few hours of wining and dining before heading out on the town. Most bars stay open until at least 3 am on weekends; some don't close until 5 or 6 am.\n\nMunich has hundreds of beer gardens, ranging from huge establishments that seat several hundred to small terraces tucked behind neighborhood pubs; the rest of the beer gardens are a bit farther afield and can be reached handily by bike or S- and U-bahn. Beer gardens are such an integral part of Munich life that a council proposal to cut down their hours provoked a storm of protest in 1995, culminating in one of the largest demonstrations in the city's history. They open whenever the thermometer creeps above 10\u00b0C (50\u00b0F) and the sun filters through the chestnut trees that are a necessary part of the scenery.\n\nEverybody in Munich has at least one favorite beer garden, so you're usually in good hands if you ask someone to point you in the right direction. You do not need to reserve. No need to phone either: if the weather says yes, then go. Some\u2014but not all\u2014allow you to bring your own food, but if you do, don't defile this hallowed territory with something so foreign as pizza or a burger. Note that Munich has very strict noise laws, so beer gardens tend to close around 11.\n\nThere are a few dance clubs in town worth mentioning, but be warned: the larger the venue, the more difficult the entry. In general, big nightclubs are giving way to smaller, more laid-back lounge types of places scattered all over town. If you're really hankering for a big club, go to Optimolwerke in the Ostbahnhof section. Otherwise, enjoy the handful of places around the City Center.\n\nMunich also has a decent jazz scene, and some beer gardens have even taken to replacing their brass oompah bands with funky combos. Jazz musicians sometimes accompany Sunday brunch, too.\n\n### City Center\n\n#### Bars\n\nAtomic Caf\u00e9.  \nNear the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus, this club/lounge has excellent DJs nightly, playing everything from '60s Brit pop to '60s/'70s funk and soul. Atomic also has great live acts on a regular basis. | Neuturmstr. 5, City Center | 089/228\u20133053 | www.atomic.de.\n\nBar Centrale.  \nAround the corner from the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus, Bar Centrale is very Italian\u2014the waiters don't seem to speak any other language. The coffee is excellent; small fine meals are served as well. They have a retro-looking back room with leather sofas. | Ledererstr. 23, City Center | 089/223\u2013762 | www.bar-centrale.com.\n\nEisbach.  \nThis bar occupies a corner of the Max Planck Institute building opposite the Bavarian Parliament. It is among Munich's biggest and is overlooked by a mezzanine restaurant area where you can choose from a limited but ambitious menu. Outdoor tables nestle in the expansive shade of huge parasols. The nearby Eisbach brook, which gives the bar its name, tinkles away, lending a relaxed air. | Marstallpl. 3, City Center | 089/2280\u20131680 | www.eisbach.eu.\n\nHotel Vier Jahreszeiten Kempinski.  \nThe hotel offers piano music until 9 pm, and then dancing to recorded music or a small combo. | Maximilianstr. 17, City Center | 089/2125\u20132799 | www.kempinski.com/de/munich.\n\nKilian's Irish Pub and Ned Kelly's Australian Bar.  \nJust behind the Frauenkirche, Kilian's Irish Pub and Ned Kelly's Australian Bar offer an escape from the German tavern scene. Naturally, they have Guinness and Foster's, but they also serve Munich's lager, Augustiner, and regularly televise international soccer, rugby, and sports in general. | Frauenpl. 11, City Center | 089/2421\u20139899 for both bars | www.kiliansirishpub.com; www.nedkellysbar.com.\n\nNight Club Bar.  \nThe Bayerischer Hof's Night Club Bar has live music, most famously international stars from the jazz scene, but also reggae to hip-hop and everything in between. | Promenadepl. 2\u20136, City Center | 089/212\u20130994 for table reservation | www.bayerischerhof.de/en/bars.\n\nSchumann's.  \nAt Schumann's, Munich's most famous bar, the bartenders are busy shaking cocktails after the curtain comes down at the nearby opera house. | Odeonspl. 6\u20137, City Center | 089/229\u2013060 | www.schumanns.de.\n\nTrader Vic's.  \nExotic cocktails are the specialty at Trader Vic's, a smart cellar bar in the Hotel Bayerischer Hof that's as popular among out-of-town visitors as it is locals. It's open till 3 in the morning. | Promenadenpl. 2\u20136, City Center | 089/212\u20130995 | www.bayerischerhof.de/en/bars.\n\nPusser's Bar Munich.  \nAt the American-inspired, nautical-style Pusser's Bar Munich, great cocktails and Irish-German black-and-tans (Guinness and strong German beer) are made to the sounds of live jazz. Try the \"Pain Killer,\" a specialty of the house. | Falkenturmstr. 9, City Center | 089/220\u2013500 | www.pussersbar.de.\n\n#### Beer Gardens\n\nBiergarten am Viktualienmarkt.  \nThe only true beer garden in the city center, and therefore the easiest to find, is the one at the Viktualienmarkt. The beer on tap rotates every six weeks among the six Munich breweries to keep everyone happy throughout the year. | Viktualienmarkt | 089/2916\u20135993 | www.biergarten-viktualienmarkt.com.\n\nPark Caf\u00e9.  \nThis is one of Munich's hippest caf\u00e9s, restaurants, nightclubs, and beer gardens. It often draws a younger crowd, attracted by a thriving music scene in the caf\u00e9 itself, which ranges from DJs to live bands, and the occasional celebrity spotting. There's a great atmosphere to go with the good food and drinks, even better when the sun is shining and the beer garden is open. | Sophienstr. 7, City Center | 089/5161\u20137980 | www.parkcafe089.de.\n\n### Royal Munich\n\n#### Beer Gardens\n\nBiergarten am Chinesischen Turm.  \nThe famous Biergarten is at the five-story Chinese Tower in the Englischer Garten. Enjoy your beer to the strains of oompah music played by traditionally dressed musicians. | Englischer Garten 3 | 089/383\u20138730 | www.chinaturm.de.\n\nHirschau.  \nThe Hirschau, pleasantly located in the Englischer Garten, has room for 2,500 guests, and it's about 10 minutes north of the Kleinhesselohersee. | Gysslingstrasse 15, Englischer Garten | 089/3609\u20130490 | www.hirschau-muenchen.de.\n\nSeehaus im Englischen Garten.  \nThe Seehaus is on the banks of the artificial lake Kleinhesseloher See, where all of Munich converge on hot summer days. Take Bus No. 44 and exit at Osterwaldstrasse or U-bahn No. 3/6 and stroll through the park. | Kleinhesselohe 3 | 089/381\u20136130 | www.kuffler-gastronomie.de/de/muenchen/seehaus.\n\n#### Dance Clubs\n\nP1.  \nBordering the Englischer Garten, in a wing of Haus der Kunst, P1 is definitely one of the most popular clubs in town for the see-and-be-seen crowd. It is chockablock with the rich and the wannabe rich and can be fun if you're in the mood. The bouncers can be choosy about whom they let in, so you'll need to dress in style. It also includes the 2013-opened Studio Schwarz, a so-called \"performative, excessive, alternative and experimental club area.\" | Prinzregentenstr. 1, on west side of Haus der Kunst, Altstadt-Lehel | 089/211\u20131140 | www.p1-club.de.\n\n### Schwabing\n\n#### Bars\n\nAlter Simpl.  \nMedia types drink Weissbier, Helles, as well as Guinness and Kilkenny, at the square bar at Alter Simpl. More than 100 years old, this establishment serves German food until 2 am (weekends till 3 am). | T\u00fcrkenstr. 57, Maxvorstadt | 089/272\u20133083 | www.eggerlokale.de.\n\nSchall und Rauch.  \nUp on Schellingstrasse, this legendary student hangout, whose name literally means \"Noise and Smoke,\" has great music and food. | Schellingstr. 22, Schwabing | 089/2880\u20139577.\n\nSchelling Salon.  \nAnother absolute cornerstone in the neighborhood is the Schelling Salon. On the corner of Barerstrasse, this sizeable bar has several pool tables and even a secret ping-pong room in the basement with an intercom for placing beer orders. The food's not bad and pretty inexpensive. It's closed Tuesday and Wednesday. | Schellingstr. 54, Schwabing | 089/272\u20130788 | www.schelling-salon.de.\n\nT\u00fcrkenhof.  \nAcross the street is the T\u00fcrkenhof, another solid local joint that serves Augustiner and good food. | T\u00fcrkenstr. 78, Schwabing | 089/280\u20130235 | www.augustiner-braeu.de.\n\n#### Jazz\n\nAlfonso's Live Music Club.  \nAt tiny Alfonso's the nightly live music redefines the concept of intimacy. | Franzstr. 5, Schwabing | 089/338\u2013835 | www.alfonsos.de.\n\n### Hauptbahnhof\n\n#### Beer Gardens\n\nAugustiner Keller Biergarten.  \nThe Augustiner Keller is one of the more authentic of the beer gardens, with excellent food, beautiful chestnut shade trees, a mixed local crowd, and Munich Augustiner beer. It's a few minutes from the Hauptbahnhof and Hackerbrucke. | Arnulfstr. 52, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/594\u2013393 | www.augustinerkeller.de.\n\n### Isarvorstadt\n\n#### Bars\n\nAround G\u00e4rtnerplatz and Glockenbachviertel are a number of cool bars and clubs for a somewhat younger, hipper crowd.\n\nCaf\u00e9 am Hochhaus.  \nIf you're looking for a bit more action, check out the Caf\u00e9 am Hochhaus. The glass-fronted former coffee shop is now a scene bar with funky DJs playing music to shake a leg to (if it's not too crowded). | Blumenstr. 29, City Center | 089/8905\u20138152 | www.cafeamhochhaus.de.\n\nCafe Trachtenvogl.  \nTake a seat on Grandma's retro couches at Cafe Trachtenvogl. The cafe serves all sorts of tasty treats from good sandwiches to hearty Bavarian meals, which you can top off with a Tegernseer beer\u2014a Munich favorite. | Reichenbachstr. 47, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/201\u20135160 | www.trachtenvogl.de.\n\nHoly Home.  \nFor a New York City, corner-bar type experience, check out Holy Home. A hip local crowd frequents this smoky hole-in-the-wall that books great low-key DJs. | Reichenbachstr. 21, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/201\u20134546.\n\n#### Gay and Lesbian Bars\n\nMunich's well-established gay scene stretches between Sendlingertorplatz and Isartorplatz in the Glockenbach neighborhood. For an overview, check www.munich-cruising.de.\n\nOchsengarten.  \nThis is Munich's bar for lovers of leather and rubber. | M\u00fcllerstr. 47, Isarvorstadt | 089/266\u2013446 | www.ochsengarten.de.\n\nParadiso Tanzbar.  \nFormerly Old Mrs. Henderson, this is still one of the most lively clubs on the scene, combining dance, champagne, and open to all kinds of music. | Rumfordstr. 2, Isarvorstadt | 089/263\u2013469 | www.paradiso-tanzbar.de.\n\n#### Jazz\n\nJazzbar Vogler.  \nThe Vogler is a nice bar with jam sessions on Monday nights and regular jazz concerts. | Rumfordstr. 17, City Center/Isarvorstadt | 089/294\u2013662 | www.jazzbar-vogler.com.\n\n### Nymphenburg\n\n#### Beer Gardens\n\nK\u00f6niglicher Hirschgarten.  \nOut in the district of Nymphenburg is the huge K\u00f6niglicher Hirschgarten, a great family-oriented beer garden. To get there, rent bikes and make a day of it in the park and beer garden, or take Bus No. 51 or 151 to Hirschgarten, then walk for 10 to 15 minutes. Bike or bus, use a map, it'll be worth it. | Hirschgarten 1, Nymphenburg | 089/1799\u20139119 | www.hirschgarten.de.\n\nTaxisgarten.  \nThe crowd at the Taxisgarten in the Gern district (U-bahn Gern, Line No. 1 toward Olympia Einkaufszentrum) is more white-collar and tame, but the food is excellent, and while parents refresh themselves, children exhaust themselves on the playground. | Taxisstr. 12, Neuhausen-Nymphenburg | 089/156\u2013827 | www.taxisgarten.de.\n\n#### Dance Clubs\n\nBackstage.  \nThe Backstage is mostly a live-music venue for alternative music of all kinds, but there's also a chilled-out club and a beer garden. Purchase tickets at various websites, including M\u00fcnchen Ticket (www.muenchenticket.de). | Reitknechtstr. 6, Neuhausen-Nymphenburg | 0180/5481\u20138181 for tickets, 089/126\u20136100 for club | www.backstage.eu | Station: Hirschgarten (S-bahn).\n\n#### Jazz\n\nThe Big Easy.  \nThis classy restaurant features jazz-accompanied Sunday brunch for \u20ac16.50\u2013\u20ac18.50, not including drinks. It's pricey, but good. | Frundsbergstr. 46, Nymphenburg | 089/1589\u20130253 | www.thebigeasy.de.\n\n### Ludwigvorstadt\n\n#### Jazz\n\nMr. B's.  \nThe tiny Mr. B's is a treat. It's run by New Yorker Alex Best, who also mixes great cocktails and, unlike so many other barkeeps, usually wears a welcoming smile. | Herzog-Heinrich-Str. 38, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/534\u2013901 | www.misterbs.eu.\n\n### Haidhausen\n\n#### Beer Gardens\n\nHofbr\u00e4ukeller am Wiener Platz.  \nThis is of the city's middle-size beer gardens but undoubtedly one of the best. Situated off Wiener Platz makes it attractive enough, plus the food's good, and it serves the same beer as the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus. Inside, the restaurant is well worth a look. Take Tram No. 19 to Wiener-Platz, or U-bahn Line No. 4 or 5 to Max-Weber-Platz. | Innere Wiener Str. 19, Haidhausen | 089/459\u20139250 | www.hofbraeukeller.de.\n\n#### Dance Clubs\n\nOptimolwerke.  \nA former factory premises hosts the city's largest late-night party scene: the Optimolwerke has no fewer than eight clubs (the number changes) including a Brazil bar; self-styled \"party bar\" Die Burg; and Theaterfabrik, venue for concerts and more partys. | Friedenstr. 10, Haidhausen | 089/450\u20136920 | www.optimolwerke.de | Station: Ostbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nMuffathalle.  \nOne of the best live venues in the city, this club puts on up-and-coming bands as well as ones on their second or third or more appearances after making it big. Many leading acts from the U.K. and U.S. scenes have played here. The caf\u00e9-bar here has different DJs nearly every night of the week, and the modest beer garden serves organic food. Muffathalle is five minutes from Rosenheimer Platz S-bahn station. | Muffatwerk, Zellstr. 4, behind M\u00fcllersches Volksbad near river, Haidhausen | 089/4587\u20135010 | www.muffatwerk.de.\n\n#### Jazz\n\nUnterfahrt.  \nThe Unterfahrt is the place for the serious jazzologist, though hip-hop is making heavy inroads into the scene. | Einsteinstr. 42, Haidhausen | 089/448\u20132794 | www.unterfahrt.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nOlympiapark.  \nThe Olympiapark, built for the 1972 Olympics, is one of the largest sports and recreation centers in Europe. The Olympic-size pool is open for swimming. | Spiridon-Louis-Ring 21, Milbertshofen | 089/30670 | www.olympiapark.de | Station: Olympiazentrum (U-bahn).\n\nSporthaus Schuster.  \nThe focus here is on adventure sports, so if it's climbing, trekking, biking, or walking you're into, this huge store, meters off Marienplatz, is the place. | Rosenstr. 1\u20135, City Center | 089/237\u2013070 | www.sport-schuster.de.\n\nSportScheck.  \nFor general information about sports in and around Munich, contact the sports emporium SportScheck. Recently moved to Neuhauser Strasse, this big store not only sells every kind of equipment but is very handy with advice. | Neuhauser Str. 19\u201321, City Center | 089/2166\u20131219 | www.sportscheck.com.\n\n### Bicycling\n\nA bike is hands-down the best way to experience this flat, pedal-friendly city. There are loads of bike lanes and paths that wind through its parks and along the Isar River. The rental shop will give you maps and tips, or you can get a map at any city tourist office.\n\nWeather permitting, here is a route to try: Go through Isartor to the river and head north to the Englischer Garten. Ride around the park and have lunch at a beer garden. Exit the park and go across Leopoldstrasse into Schwabing, making your way back down toward the museum quarter via the adorable Elisabethmarkt. Check out one or two of the galleries then head back to town passing K\u00f6nigsplatz.\n\nYou can also take your bike on the S-bahns (except during rush hours from 6 am to 9 am and from 4 pm to 6 pm), which take you out to the many lakes and attractions outside town. Bicycles on public transportation cost either one strip on a multiple ticket or \u20ac2.50 for a day ticket.\n\n##### Rentals\n\nRadius Tours and Bikes.  \nBased at the central station, Radius Tours and Bikes rents bikes. A three- to eight-gear bike costs \u20ac14.50 a day. A 24\u201327-gear bike costs \u20ac22. Hourly rates are \u20ac3 and \u20ac5, respectively. E-Bikes (regular bikes that also use electricity) are also available, from \u20ac29 a day. | Opposite platform 32, Hauptbahnhof | 089/54348\u201377730 | www.radiustours.com.\n\nMike's Bike Tours.  \nMike's Bike Tours also rents bikes, which is around the corner from the rear entrance of the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus. Day rental is \u20ac15 for the first day, \u20ac70 for a week. Return time is 8 pm May through August, earlier in other seasons. | Br\u00e4uhausstr. 10, City Center | 089/2554\u20133987 | www.mikesbiketours.com.\n\n##### Tours\n\nMike's Bike Tours.  \nThe oldest bike tour operation in Munich, Mike's tours last 4\u20137 hours, typically with an hour break at a beer garden, and cover upward of 6 km (4 miles). Tours start daily at the Altes Rathaus at the end of Marienplatz. A standard tour costs \u20ac25 (bike included) and starts at 11:30 and 4:30 (April 15\u2013August 31) and 12:30 (September 1\u2013November 10); November 11\u2013March by appointment. Reserve to be sure, though you'll probably get a bike if you just show up. Bus Bavaria, part of the same company, also offers day trips by bus to Neuschwanstein castle, which costs \u20ac49. | Br\u00e4uhausstr. 10, City Center | 089/2554\u20133987 | www.mikesbiketours.com.\n\n### Golf\n\nMunich Golf Club.  \nThe Munich Golf Club has several courses that admit visitors on weekdays. Visitors must be members of a club at home. The greens fee for 18 holes is \u20ac90; you can only play on the weekends with a member. | T\u00f6lzer Stra\u00dfe 95, Stra\u00dflach-Hailafing | 08170/929\u20131811 | www.golf.de/golfclub/mgc/home.cfm.\n\nGolf Club M\u00fcnchen Riem.  \nThe Golf Club M\u00fcnchen Riem is to the east of Munich on the way to the congressional center at Riem. The greens fee is \u20ac50 Mon.\u2013Thurs. before 2; \u20ac60 after 2, plus all weekends and holidays. | Golf Club M\u00fcnchen-Riem, Graf-Lehndorff-Str. 36 | 089/9450\u20130800 | www.gcriem.de.\n\n### Ice-Skating\n\nGlobal warming permitting, there's outdoor skating on the lake in the Englischer Garten and on the Nymphenburger Canal in winter. Watch out for signs reading \"gefahr\" (danger), warning you of thin ice.\n\nKarlsplatz.  \nIn winter the fountain on Karlsplatz is turned into a public rink with music and an outdoor bar.\n\nEissportstadion.  \nThe Eissportstadion in Olympiapark has an indoor rink. | Spiridon-Louis-Ring 3, Schwabing | 089/3077\u20139452 | www.olympiapark.de.\n\nEisbahn West.  \nIn the west of Munich is another outdoor rink, the Eisbahn West\u2014open from October each year until spring. | Agnes-Bernauer-Str. 241, Pasing-Obermenzing | 089/8968\u20139007.\n\n### Jogging\n\nEnglischer Garten.  \nThe best place to jog is the Englischer Garten, which is 11 km (7 miles) around and has dirt and asphalt paths throughout.\n\nIsar River.  \nThe banks of the Isar River are a favorite route for local runners.\n\nOlympiapark.  \nThe 500-acre park of Schloss Nymphenburg is also ideal for running, as is the Olympiapark, if you're in the area. | Tram No. 12 to Romanpl.\n\n### Swimming\n\nMunich set itself a goal of making the Isar River drinkable by 2005, and nearly did it. Either way, the river is most definitely clean enough to wade in on a hot summer day. Hundreds of people sunbathe on the banks upriver from the Deutsches Museum and take the occasional dip. If you prefer stiller waters, you can try swimming outdoors in the Isar River at the Maria-Einsiedel public pool complex. However, because the water comes from the Alps, it's frigid even in summer. Warmer lakes near Munich are the Ammersee and the Starnbergersee.\n\nThere are also a number of public pools and spas in Munich if you just have to get in the water while you're here.\n\nCosima Bad.  \nCosima Bad has man-made waves. | Cosimastra\u00dfe 5, Bogenhausen | 089/2361\u20135050 | www.swm.de.\n\nDante-Winter-Warmfreibad.  \nThe Dantebad has a heated, outdoor Olympic-size pool; in summer the place is packed. They also have a pool available in winter, which is usually not too crowded and provides a nice respite in the frigid months. | Postillonstra\u00dfe 17, Gern | 089/2361\u20135050 | www.swm.de.\n\nM\u00fcller'sches Volksbad.  \nThe M\u00fcller'sches Volksbad is in a glorious Jugendstil (the Munich-based Art Nouveau movement) building right on the Isar. Even if not to swim, take a look inside and out. The pool is small but functional. There is also a sauna and steam bath area (mixed, birthday suit required) that is fantastic for a chilly winter's afternoon. Tuesday (and Friday until 3) is reserved for women in the sauna section. | Rosenheimerstr. 1, Haidhausen | 089/2361\u20135050 | www.swm.de.\n\nNordbad.  \nThe Nordbad has a small, pleasant sauna section. | Schlei\u00dfheimer Stra\u00dfe 142, Schwabing | 089/2361\u20135050 | www.swm.de.\n\nOlympia-Schwimmhalle.  \nThe Olympia-Schwimmhalle has not only an Olympic-size pool but also a sauna area with a \"steam cavern\" as an extra delight. | Olympiapark, Coubertinplatz 1, Milbertshofen | 089/2361\u20135050 | www.swm.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCity Center | Schwabing and Maxvorstadt | Hauptbahnhof | Isarvorstadt\n\nMunich has three of Germany's most exclusive shopping streets as well as flea markets to rival those of any other European city. In between are department stores, where acute German-style competition assures reasonable prices and often produces outstanding bargains. Artisans bring their wares of beauty and originality to the Christmas markets. Collect their business cards\u2014in summer you're sure to want to order another of those little gold baubles that were on sale in December.\n\nMunich has an immense central shopping area, a 2-km (1-mile) Fussg\u00e4ngerzone (pedestrian zone) stretching from the train station to Marienplatz and then north to Odeonsplatz. The two main streets here are Neuhauser Strasse and Kaufingerstrasse, the sites of most major department stores. For upscale shopping, Maximilianstrasse, Residenzstrasse, and Theatinerstrasse are unbeatable. Schwabing, north of the university, has more offbeat shopping streets\u2014Schellingstrasse and Hohenzollernstrasse are two to try. TIP The neighborhood around G\u00e4rtnerplatz also has lots of new boutiques.\n\nA few small shops around Viktualienmarkt sell Bavarian antiques, though their numbers are dwindling under the pressure of high rents. Antique shoppers should also try the area north of the university\u2014T\u00fcrkenstrasse, Theresienstrasse, and Barerstrasse are all filled with antiques stores.\n\nStrictly for window-shopping\u2014unless you're looking for something really rare and special and money's no object\u2014are the exclusive shops lining Prannerstrasse, at the rear of the Hotel Bayerischer Hof. Interesting and inexpensive antiques and assorted junk from all over Europe are laid out at the weekend flea market at the Olympiapark (not far from the Olympic Stadium), which has around 460 sellers.\n\nIf you want to deck yourself out in lederhosen or a dirndl, or acquire a green loden coat and little pointed hat with feathers, you have a wide choice in the Bavarian capital. TIP There are a couple of other shops along Tal Street that have new and used lederhosen and dirndls at good prices in case you want to spontaneously get into the spirit of the 'Fest.\n\nMunich is also a city of beer, and items related to its consumption are obvious choices for souvenirs and gifts. Munich is also the home of the famous Nymphenburg Porcelain factory. Between Karlsplatz and the Viktualienmarkt there are loads of shops for memorabilia and trinkets.\n\n## City Center\n\n### Antiques\n\nAntike Uhren Eder.  \nIn Antike Uhren Eder, the silence is broken only by the ticking of dozens of highly valuable German antique clocks and by discreet negotiation over the high prices. | Prannerstr. 4, opposite back of Hotel Bayerischer Hof, City Center | 089/220\u2013305 | www.uhreneder.ch.\n\nRoman Odesser.  \nAntique German silver is the specialty at Roman Odesser. | Westenriederstr. 21, City Center | 089/226\u2013388.\n\n### Books\n\nHugendubel.  \nThere is a good selection of novels in English on the fifth floor of Hugendubel. | Marienpl. 22, City Center | 089/3075\u20137575 | www.hugendubel.de | Karlspl. 11\u201312, City Center.\n\n### Ceramics and Glass\n\nKunstring.  \nFor Dresden and Meissen porcelain wares, go to Kunstring near Odeonsplatz. | Briennerstr. 4, City Center | www.meissen.com/de/geschaefte/de/kunstring.\n\nPorzellan Nymphenburg.  \nThis opulent space resembles a drawing room in the Munich palace of the same name. It has delicate, expensive porcelain safely locked away in bowfront cabinets. | Odeonspl. 1, City Center | 089/282\u2013428 | www.nymphenburg.com/de/nymphenburg.\n\nSchloss Nymphenburg. You can buy directly from the factory called Porzellanmanufaktur Nymphenburg on the grounds of Schloss Nymphenburg. | N\u00f6rdliches Schlossrondell 8, Nymphenburg | Take Tram No. 17 from Karlsplatz Stachus to Schloss Nymphenburg | 089/179\u20131970 | Weekdays 10\u20135, Sat. 11\u20134.\n\n### Clothing\n\nC&A.  \nFor a more affordable option on loden (water-resistant woolen material used for traditional coats and hats) and general fashion, try the department store C&A in the pedestrian zone. | Kaufingerstr. 13, City Center | 089/231\u2013930.\n\nLederhosen Wagner.  \nThe tiny Lederhosen Wagner, right up against the Heiliggeist Church, carries lederhosen, woolen sweaters called Walk (not loden), and children's clothing. | Tal 2, City Center | 089/225\u2013697.\n\nLoden-Frey.  \nMuch of the fine loden clothing on sale at Loden-Frey is made at the company's own factory, on the edge of the Englischer Garten. | Maffeistr. 7, City Center | 089/210\u2013390.\n\n### Crafts\n\nBayerischer Kunstgewerbe\u2013Verein.  \nBavarian craftspeople have a showplace of their own, the Bayerischer Kunstgewerbe\u2013Verein; here you'll find every kind of handicraft, from glass and pottery to textiles. | Pacellistr. 6\u20138, City Center | 089/290\u20131470.\n\nMax Krug.  \nIf you've been to the Black Forest and forgot to acquire a clock, or if you need a good Bavarian souvenir, try Max Krug in the pedestrian zone. | Neuhauser Strasse 2, City Center | 089/224\u2013501 | www.max-krug.com.\n\n### Food and Beer\n\nChocolate & More.  \nOpened in 2001, this tiny shop, located in the Viktualienmarkt, specializes in all things chocolate. | Westenrieder Str. 15, City Center | 089/2554\u20134905 | www.chocolate-and-more-munich.de.\n\nDallmayr.  \nDallmayr is the city's most elegant and famous gourmet food store, with delights that range from exotic fruits and English jams to a multitude of fish and meats, all served by efficient Munich matrons in smart blue-and-white linen costumes. The store's famous specialty is coffee, with more than 50 varieties to blend as you wish. It even has its own chocolate factory. This is the place to prepare a high-class\u2013if pricey\u2013picnic. | Dienerstr. 14\u201315, City Center | 089/21350 | www.dallmayr.com.\n\n### Gift and Souvenirs\n\nSebastian Wesely.  \nLocated on this street since 1923, Sebastian Wesely is the place to come for beer-related vessels and schnapps glasses (Stampferl), walking sticks, scarves, and napkins with the famous Bavarian blue-and-white lozenges. | Rindermarkt 1, at Peterspl., City Center | 089/264\u2013519 | www.wesely.de.\n\n### Markets\n\nChristkindlmarkt.  \nFrom the end of November until December 24, the open-air stalls of the Christkindlmarkt (Christmas market) are a great place to find gifts and warm up with mulled wine. Two other perennial Christmas-market favorites are those in Schwabing (M\u00fcnchner-Freiheit Square) and at the Chinese Tower, in the middle of the Englischer Garten. | Marienpl., City Center.\n\nFarmers' markets.  \nIn addition to Elisabethplatz and Viktualienmarkt, there are about 40 other weekly farmers' markets in Munich. Some are just a few fruit and vegetable stands on a side street, and some are also the weekly meeting point for the neighborhood. There's a farmers' market out near the zoo on Wednesday and Saturday, from 8 am to 1 pm: Take Bus 52, which leaves every 5\u201310 minutes from central Marienplatz to the Tiergarten (zoo). Get off at Mariahilfplatz, stroll the farmers' market at the foot of the church, grab a bite, and take the next bus to the zoo. Also on Saturday from 8 am to 1 pm is the farmers market near the university: take Subway 3 or 6 to Universit\u00e4t and walk through the university to the corner of Gabersbergerstrasse/T\u00fcrkenstrasse, where the market stalls are erected on the eastern wall of the museum Pinakothek der Moderne. You can get a good glass wine from the Rhineland wine grower and a made-to-order sandwich from the butcher at the next stall then grab a place at one of the stand-up tables and you're set. Thursday afternoon is the time to visit the farmers' market with the prettiest and most historic site\u2014and it's the closest to the city center. Take the number 4 or 5 subway from Odeonsplatz to the Lehel stop at St. Anna Platz. | www.muenchener-bauernmaerkte.de.\n\nViktualienmarkt.  \nMunich's Viktualienmarkt is the place to shop and to eat. Just south of Marienplatz, it's home to an array of colorful stands that sell everything from cheese to sausages, flowers to wine. A visit here is more than just an opportunity to find picnic makings; it provides an opening into M\u00fcncheners' robust\u2014though friendly\u2014nature, especially at the Viktualienmarkt's Bavarian Bierg\u00e4rten (beer garden). | Viktualienmarkt, City Center | Weekdays 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20133.\n\n### Shopping Malls and Department Stores\n\nBreiter.  \nFor a classic selection of German clothing, including some with a folk touch, and a specialism in hats, try Munich's traditional family-run Breiter. | Kaufingerstrasse 23\u201326, City Center | 089/599\u20138840 | www.hutbreiter.de.\n\nF\u00fcnf H\u00f6fe.  \nFor a more upscale shopping experience, visit the many stores, boutiques, galleries, and caf\u00e9s of the F\u00fcnf H\u00f6fe, a modern arcade carved into the block of houses between Theatinerstrasse and Kardinal-Faulhaber-Strasse. The architecture of the passages and courtyards is cool and elegant, in sharp contrast to the facades of the buildings. There's a decent Thai restaurant in there as well. | Between Theatinerstr. and Kardinal-Faulhaber-Str., City Center | www.fuenfhoefe.de.\n\nGaleria Kaufhof.  \nShop here for mid-price goods. TIP The end-of-season sales are bargains. | Kaufingerstr. 1\u20135, Marienplatz, City Center | 089/231\u2013851.\n\nHirmer.  \nWith a markedly friendly and knowledgeable staff, Hirmer has Munich's most comprehensive collection of German-made men's clothes. International brands are also here, such as Polo, Diesel, and Levi's. | Kaufingerstr. 28, City Center | 0800/063\u20138190 | www.hirmer.de.\n\nKarstadt.  \nKarstadt commands an entire city block between the train station and Karlsplatz. It is the largest and one of the best department stores in the city. On the fourth floor is a cafeteria with a great selection of excellent and inexpensive dishes. | Bahnhofpl. 7, City Center | 089/55120 | www.karstadt.de.\n\nKaufinger Tor.  \nKaufinger Tor has several floors of boutiques and caf\u00e9s packed neatly together under a high glass roof. | Kaufingerstr. 117, City Center | www.kaufingertor.de.\n\nLudwig Beck.  \nLudwig Beck is considered a step above other department stores by M\u00fcncheners. It's packed from top to bottom with highly original wares and satisfies even the pickiest of shoppers. | Marienpl. 11, City Center | 089/236\u2013910 | www.kaufhaus.ludwigbeck.de.\n\nPool.  \nPool is a hip shop on the upscale Maximilianstrasse, with fashion, music, and accessories for house and home. It's a shopping experience for the senses. | Maximilianstr. 11, City Center | 089/266\u2013035 | www.verypoolish.com.\n\n### Textiles\n\nJohanna Daimer Filze aller Art.  \nIn an arcade of the Neues Rathaus is tiny Johanna Daimer Filze aller Art, a shop founded in 1883 that sells every kind and color of felt imaginable. | Dienerstr.,im Rathaus, City Center | 089/776\u2013984 | www.daimer-filze.com.\n\n### Toys\n\nSpielwaren Obletters.  \nSpielwaren Obletters has two extensive floors of toys, with the usual favorites plus many handmade playthings of great charm and quality. | Karlspl. 11\u201312, City Center | 089/5508\u20139510.\n\n## Schwabing and Maxvorstadt\n\n### Antiques\n\nDie Puppenstube.  \nFor Munich's largest selection of dolls and marionettes, head to Die Puppenstube. | Luisenstr. 68, Maxvorstadt | 089/272\u20133267.\n\n### Books\n\nLehmkuhl.  \nLehmkuhl is Munich's oldest and one of its finest bookshops; it also sells beautiful cards. | Leopoldstr. 45, Schwabing | 089/380\u20131500 | www.lehmkuhl.net | Station: M\u00fcnchner Freiheit (U-Bahn).\n\n### Food and Beer\n\nLudwig Mory.  \nThis shop has everything relating to beer, from mugs of all shapes and sizes and in all sorts of materials to warmers for those who don't like their beer too cold. | Amalienstr. 16, Maxvorstadt | 089/224\u2013542.\n\n### Markets\n\nElisabethplatz.  \nIf you're in the Schwabing area, the daily market at Elisabethplatz is worth a visit\u2014it's much smaller than the Victualienmarkt but the range and quality of produce are comparable. Whereas at the Viktualienmarkt you have visitors from many lands pushing past the stands, here life is more peaceful and local. There is a beer garden here as well. | Elisabethpl., Schwabing | Daily 8\u20136.\n\n### Shopping Malls and Department Stores\n\nOberpollinger.  \nThe more-than-100-year-old Oberpollinger\u2014one of Germany's finest upscale department stores\u2014was renovated in 2008. It's seven floors are packed with pricey, glamorous fashion, furniture, and beauty items. The large, open-plan self-service restaurant on the top floor is well worth a visit, and isn't expensive. | Neuhauserstr. 18, City Center | 089/290\u2013230 | www.oberpollinger.de\n\n## Hauptbahnhof\n\n### Books\n\nInternationale Presse.  \nLocations in the main train station, Ostbahnhof, and Stachus have magazines and novels. | Opposite Track 23, Hauptbahnhof | 089/5511\u20137170 | www.einkaufsbahnhof.de.\n\n## Isarvorstadt\n\n### Food and Beer\n\nG\u00f6tterspeise.  \nAcross the street from the restaurant Faun in Glockenbachviertel, the name of this delectable chocolate shop means \"ambrosia,\" a fitting name for their gifts, delights, and hot drinks. | Jahnstr. 30, Ludwigvorstadt | 089/2388\u20137374 | www.goetterspeise-muenchen.de.\n\n### Shopping Malls and Department Stores\n\nSlips.  \nA beautiful shop on G\u00e4rtnerplatz, Slips has a wide range of dresses, jeans, shoes, and accessories. Prices are a bit outrageous, but it's a successful store, so they must be doing something right. | G\u00e4rtnerplatz. 2, Isarvorstadt | 089/202\u20132500 | www.slipsfashion.com.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nStarnbergersee | Ammersee | Dachau | Landshut\n\nMunich's excellent suburban railway network, the S-bahn, brings several quaint towns and attractive rural areas within easy reach for a day's excursion. The two nearest lakes, Starnbergersee and the Ammersee, are popular year-round. Dachau attracts overseas visitors, mostly because of its concentration-camp memorial site, but it's a picturesque and historic town in its own right. Landshut, north of Munich, is way off the tourist track, but if it were the same distance south of Munich, this jewel of a Bavarian market town would be overrun. All these destinations have a wide selection of restaurants and hotels, and you can bring a bike on any S-bahn train. German Railways, DB, often has weekend specials that allow a family or group of five to travel inexpensively. (Inquire at the main train station for a Bayern ticket, which costs \u20ac22 for up to five people to travel in Bavaria for a day, and the Wochenendticket, or weekend ticket, which costs \u20ac42.) Also look for a Tageskarte, or day ticket, in the ticket machines in the subway stations.\n\nTIP Keep in mind that there are quite a few options for day trips to the famous castles built by King Ludwig, which are only a couple of hours away. Mike's Bike Tours organizes trips, or ask at your hotel for bus-tour excursions. A train out to F\u00fcssen and Schloss Neuschwanstein takes two hours.\n\n## Starnbergersee\n\n20 km (12 miles) southwest of Munich.\n\nStarnbergersee was one of Europe's first pleasure grounds. Royal coaches were already trundling out from Munich to the lake's wooded shores in the 17th century. In 1663 Elector Ferdinand Maria threw a shipboard party at which 500 guests wined and dined as 100 oarsmen propelled them around the lake. Today pleasure steamers provide a taste of such luxury for the masses. The lake is still lined with the small baroque palaces of Bavaria's aristocracy, but their owners now share the lakeside with public parks, beaches, and boatyards. Starnbergersee is one of Bavaria's largest lakes\u201420 km (12 miles) long, 5 km (3 miles) wide, and 406 feet at its deepest point\u2014so there's plenty of room for swimmers, sailors, and windsurfers. The water is very clean (like most Bavarian lakes), a testimony to stringent environmental laws and the limited number of motorboats allowed.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nStarnberg and the north end of the lake are a 25-minute drive from Munich on the A-95 autobahn. Follow the signs to Garmisch and take the Starnberg exit. Country roads then skirt the west and east shores of the lake, but many are closed to the public.\n\nThe S-bahn 6 suburban line runs from Munich's central Marienplatz to Starnberg and three other towns on the lake's west shore: Possenhofen, Feldafing, and Tutzing. The journey from Marienplatz to Starnberg takes 36 minutes. The east shore of the lake can be reached by bus from the town of Wolfratshausen, the end of the S-bahn 7 suburban line. A wonderful way to spend a summer day is to rent bicycles in Munich, take the S-bahn to Starnberg and ride along the eastern shore and back. Another appealing option is to take the train to Tutzing and ride up the western shore back to Starnberg.\n\nThe nicest way to visit Starnbergersee area is by ship. On Saturday evening the ship Seeshaupt has dancing and dinner.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor and Tour Information  \nTourismusverband Starnberger F\u00fcnf-Seen-Land. This is the place to get all the information you need to enjoy trips to the lakes, towns, villages, and countryside between Munich and the Alps. | Wittelsbacher Str. 2c | 08151/90600 | www.sta5.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBuchheim Museum.  \nThe Buchheim Museum, on the western shore of the lake, has one of the finest private collections of German expressionist art in the form of paintings, drawings, watercolors, and prints. Among the artists represented are Otto Dix, Max Beckmann, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Karl Schmitt-Rotluff, and other painters of the so-called Br\u00fccke movement (1905\u201313). The museum is housed in an impressive modern building on the lakeside. Some areas of the museum are reserved for African cultic items and Bavarian folk art. The nicest way to get to the museum from Starnberg is by ship. | Am Hirschgarten 1 | 08158/99700 | www.buchheimmuseum.de | \u20ac8.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nK\u00f6nig Ludwig II Votivkapelle Berg (King Ludwig II Memorial Chapel).  \nOn the lake's eastern shore, at the village of Berg, you'll find the K\u00f6nig Ludwig II Votivkapelle Berg. A well-marked path leads through thick woods to the chapel, built near the point in the lake where the drowned king's body was found on June 13, 1886. He had been confined in nearby Berg Castle after the Bavarian government took action against his withdrawal from reality and his bankrupting castle-building fantasies. A cross in the lake marks the point where his body was recovered. | Near Berg Castle | Berg.\n\nPossenhofen.  \nThe castle of Possenhofen, home of Ludwig's favorite cousin, Sissi, stands on the western shore, practically opposite Berg. Local lore says they used to send affectionate messages across the lake to each other. Sissi married the Austrian emperor Franz Joseph I, but spent more than 20 summers in the lakeside castle. The inside of the castle cannot be visited, but there is a nice park around it. The Kaiser Elisabeth Museum (Sissi-Museum) is in the historical Possenhofen railway station (yards from S-Bahn Possenhofen). It is open from around May to mid\u2013October, Fri.\u2013Sun. and entry is \u20ac4. | Berg | 08157/925\u2013932 Sissi-Museum | www.kaiserin-elisabeth-museum-ev.de.\n\nRoseninsel (Rose Island).  \nJust offshore is the tiny Roseninsel, where King Maximilian II built a summer villa. You can swim to its tree-fringed shores or sail across in a dinghy or on a Windsurfer (rentals are available at Possenhofen's boatyard and at many other rental points along the lake). There is a little ferry service (0171/722\u20132266 | www.faehre-roseninsel.de) for \u20ac4. It runs daily between 11 and 6 from May to the end of September. | Roseninsel | Possenhofen | www.sta5.de/reisefuehrer/wasser/roseninsel.html.\n\nStarnberg.  \nThe Starnbergersee is named after its chief resort, Starnberg, the largest town on the lake and the nearest to Munich. Pleasure boats set off from the jetty for trips around the lake. The resort has a tree-lined lakeside promenade and some fine turn-of-the-20th-century villas, some of which are now hotels. There are abundant restaurants, taverns, and chestnut-tree-shaded beer gardens both along the shore and in town, but on warm days the whole place is packed.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nSeerestaurant Undosa.  \nEUROPEAN | This restaurant is a short walk from the Starnberg railroad station. Most tables command a view of the lake, which provides very good fish specials. This is the place to try the mild-tasting Renke, a perch-type fish. The Undosa also has jazz evenings and a large caf\u00e9, the Oberdeck, also overlooking the lake. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Seepromenade 1 | 08151/998\u2013930 | www.undosa.de | Reservations not accepted | Closed 2 wks in Feb.\n\nForsthaus am See.  \nHOTEL | The handsome, geranium-covered Forsthaus faces the lake, and so do most of the large, pinewood-furnished rooms. The excellent restaurant ($$) has a daily changing international menu, with lake fish a specialty. The hotel has its own lake access and boat pier, with a chestnut-shaded beer garden nearby. The hotel is not in Starnberg, but rather in the village of Possenhofen. To reach this village, drive through Starnberg, heading south along the lake; you'll see signs for the hotel after about 10 km (6 mi). Pros: welcoming, wood-paneled rooms facing the lake; secluded location. Cons: a little remote; rooms that don't face lake are inferior; need a car to get here. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Am See 1 | Possenhofen | 08157/93010 | www.forsthaus-am-see.de | 21 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Schloss Berg.  \nHOTEL | King Ludwig II spent his final days in the small castle of Berg, from which this comfortable hotel gets its name. It's on the edge of the castle park where Ludwig liked to walk and a stone's throw from where he drowned. The century-old main hotel building is on the lakeside, and a modern annex overlooks the lake from the woods - in either, make sure you get a room facing the lake. All rooms are spacious and elegantly furnished. The restaurant ($$) and waterside beer garden are favorite haunts of locals and weekenders. Schloss Berg is in the village of Berg, along the lake near Starnberg. From Munich, head toward Starnberg on the autobahn, but turn toward Berg at the end of the off ramp. Pros: very nice view across the lake; free Wi-Fi. Cons: the reception desk is in the annex; you need a car to get here. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Seestr. 17 | Berg | 08151/9630 | www.hotelschlossberg.de | 60 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Seehof.  \nHOTEL | This small hotel right next to the train station has several rooms with a lake view. Rooms are simply done, with light colors and flower prints on the walls. The Italian restaurant attached, Al Gallo Nero ($), has dishes ranging from pizzas to satisfying and pricey fish dishes. Pros: good location and restaurant; free Wi-Wi throughout. Cons: rooms facing the street are noisy; some rooms are simply furnished. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Bahnhofpl. 6 | 08151/908\u2013500 | www.hotel-seehof-starnberg.de | 38 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Ammersee\n\n40 km (25 miles) southwest of Munich.\n\nAmmersee, or the Peasants' Lake, is the country cousin of the better-known, more cosmopolitan Starnbergersee (the Princes' Lake), and, accordingly, many Bavarians (and tourists, too) like it all the more. Munich cosmopolites of centuries past thought it too distant for an excursion, not to mention too rustic, so the shores remained relatively free of villas and parks. Though some upscale holiday homes claim some stretches of the eastern shore, Ammersee still offers more open areas for bathing and boating than the larger lake to the east. Bicyclists circle the 19-km-long (12-mile-long) lake (it's nearly 6 km [4 miles] across at its widest point) on a path that rarely loses sight of the water. Hikers can spread out the tour for two or three days, staying overnight in any of the comfortable inns along the way. Dinghy sailors and windsurfers zip across in minutes with the help of the Alpine winds that swoop down from the mountains. A ferry cruises the lake at regular intervals in summer, stopping at several piers. Board it at Herrsching.\n\nHerrsching has a delightful promenade, part of which winds through the resort's park. The 100-year-old villa that sits so comfortably there seems as if it had been built by Ludwig II; such is the romantic and fanciful mixture of medieval turrets and Renaissance-style facades. It was actually built for the artist Ludwig Scheuermann in the late 19th century, and became a favorite meeting place for Munich and Bavarian artists. It's now a municipal cultural center and the setting for chamber-music concerts on some summer weekends.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTake A-96, follow the signs to Lindau, and 20 km (12 miles) west of Munich take the exit for Herrsching, the lake's principal town.\n\nHerrsching is also the end of S-bahn Line No. 8, a 53-minute ride from Munich's Marienplatz. From the Herrsching train station, Bus No. 952 runs north along the lake, and Bus No. 951 runs south and continues on to Starnberg in a 40-minute journey.\n\nGetting around by boat is the best way to visit. Each town on the lake has an Anlegestelle (pier).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nTour Information  \nStarnberg Five-Lake-RegionTourist-Information. | Wittelsbacherstr. 2c, | Starnberg | 08151/90600 | en.sta5.de | May\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20131 and 2\u20136, Sat. 9\u20131; Nov.\u2013Apr., weekdays 10\u20135.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAndechs Monastery.  \nThe Benedictine monastery Andechs, one of southern Bavaria's most famous pilgrimage sites, lies 5 km (3 miles) south of Herrsching. You can reach it on Bus No. 951 from the S-bahn station (the bus also connects Ammersee and Starnbergersee). This extraordinary ensemble, surmounted by an octagonal tower and onion dome with a pointed helmet, has a busy history going back more than 1,000 years. The church, originally built in the 15th century, was entirely redone in baroque style in the early 18th century. The Heilige Kapelle contains the remains of the old treasure of the Benedictines in Andechs, including Charlemagne's \"Victory Cross\" and a monstrance containing the three sacred hosts brought back from the crusades by the original rulers of the area, the Counts of Diessen-Andechs. One of the attached chapels contains the remains of composer Carl Orff, and one of the buildings on the grounds has been refurbished as a concert stage for the performance of his works.\n\nAdmittedly, however, the crowds of pilgrims are drawn not just by the beauty of the hilltop monastery but primarily by the beer brewed here (600,000 liters 159,000 gallons] annually) and the stunning views. The monastery makes its own cheese as well, and serves hearty Bavarian food, an excellent accompaniment to the rich, almost black beer. You can enjoy both at large wooden tables in the monastery tavern or on the terrace outside. | Bergstr. 2, 5 km (3 miles) south of Herrsching | 08152/3760 | [www.andechs.de | Church daily 9\u20137; restaurant daily 10\u20138.\n\nDiessen.  \nThe little town of Diessen at the southwest corner of the lake has one of the most magnificent religious buildings of the whole region: the Augustine abbey church of St. Mary. No lesser figure than the great Munich architect Johann Michael Fischer designed this airy, early rococo structure. Fran\u00e7ois Cuvilli\u00e9s the Elder, whose work can be seen all over Munich, did the sumptuous gilt-and-marble high altar. Visit in late afternoon, when the light falls sharply on its crisp gray, white, and gold facade, etching the pencil-like tower and spire against the darkening sky over the lake. Don't leave without at least peeping into neighboring St. Stephen's courtyard, its cloisters smothered in wild roses. | Diessen.\n\nCarl-Orff-Museum.  \nDiessen may be home to one of the region's most impressive churches, but it's also attracted artists and craftspeople since the early 20th century. Among the most famous who made their home here was the composer Carl Orff, author of numerous works inspired by medieval material, including the famous Carmina Burana. His life and work\u2014notably the pedagogical Schulwerk instruments\u2014are exhibited in the Carl-Orff-Museum | Hofmark 3 | Diessen | 08807/91981 | www.orff.de | Weekends 2\u20135\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAmmersee Hotel.  \nHOTEL | This very comfortable, modern resort hotel is located on the lake. It has views from an unrivaled position on the lakeside promenade. Rooms overlooking the lake are more expensive and in demand. The Artis restaurant ($$) has an international menu with an emphasis on fish. You can enjoy a spicy bouillabaisse or catfish from the Danube. Pros: prime location (request a room with balcony); good restaurant. Cons: rooms facing the street are noisy; limited balcony rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Summerstr. 32 | 08152/96870, 08152/399\u2013440 for restaurant | www.ammersee-hotel.de | 40 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Seehof Herrsching.  \nHOTEL | The hotel's long lakefront turns into a huge beer garden in summer. Guest rooms are full of light, and for a slightly higher price you can stay in one with a balcony overlooking the lake. The restaurant ($) serves resolutely Bavarian food - tasty pretzel soup, suckling pig, dumplings with sauerkraut, and fish, fresh from the lake, of course. You'll find peak prices during Oktoberfest. Pros: Great views; food in the restaurant is good. Cons: Restaurant gets packed in summer. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Seestr. 58 | 08152/9350 | www.seehof-ammersee.de | 43 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nLandhotel Piushof.  \nHOTEL | In a parklike garden, the family-run Piushof has elegant Bavarian guest rooms, with oak and hand-carved cupboards. The beamed and pillared restaurant has unfortunately closed, and nowadays there is a greater focus on business seminars. Pros: Great views and location; great place for a business gathering. Cons: no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac128 | Sch\u00f6nbichlstr. 18 | 08152/96820 | www.piushof.de | 21 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Dachau\n\n20 km (12 miles) northwest of Munich.\n\nDachau predates Munich, with records going back to the time of Charlemagne. It's a handsome town, too, built on a hilltop with views of Munich and the Alps, which was why it became such a favorite for numerous artists. A guided tour of the town, including the castle and church, leaves from the Rathaus on Saturday at 11, from May through mid-October. Dachau is infamous worldwide as the site of the \"model\" Nazi concentration camp, which was built just outside it. Dachau preserves the memory of the camp and the horrors perpetrated there with deep contrition while trying, with commendable discretion, to signal that the town has other points of interest.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTake the B-12 country road or the Stuttgart autobahn to the Dachau exit from Munich. Dachau is also on S-bahn Line No. 2, a 25-minute ride from Munich's Marienplatz.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Dachau. | Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 1 | 08131/75286 | www.dachau.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBezirksmuseum.  \nTo get a sense of the town's history, visit the Bezirksmuseum, the district museum, which displays historical artifacts, furniture, and traditional costumes from Dachau and its surroundings. | Augsburgerstr. 3 | 08131/56750 | www.dachauer-galerien-museen.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 11\u20135, weekends 1\u20135.\n\nDachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site (Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial).  \nThe site of the infamous camp, now the KZ-Gedenkst\u00e4tte Dachau, is just outside town. Photographs, contemporary documents, the few cell blocks, and the grim crematorium create a somber and moving picture of the camp, where more than 41,000 of the 200,000-plus prisoners lost their lives. A documentary film in English is shown daily at 11:30 and 3:30. The former camp has become more than just a grisly memorial: it's now a place where people of all nations meet to reflect upon the past and on the present. Several religious shrines and memorials have been built to honor the dead, who came from Germany and nations around the world. By public transport take S-bahn Line No. 2 from Marienplatz or Hauptbahnhof in the direction of Petershausen, and get off at Dachau. From there, take the clearly marked bus from right outside the Dachau S-bahn station (No. 726 towards Saubachsiedlung, it leaves about every 20 minutes). If you are driving from Munich, take the autobahn toward Stuttgart, get off at Dachau, and follow the signs. | Alte R\u00f6merstrasse 75 | 08131/669\u2013970 | www.kz-gedenkstaette-dachau.de | Free | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20135. Tours in English Tues.\u2013Sun. at 11 and 1.\n\nGem\u00e4ldegalerie.  \nAn artists' colony formed here during the 19th century, and the tradition lives on. Picturesque houses line Hermann-Stockmann-Strasse and part of M\u00fcnchner Strasse, and many of them are still the homes of successful artists. The Gem\u00e4ldegalerie displays the works of many of the town's 19th-century artists. | Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 3 | 08131/56750 | www.dachauer-galerien-museen.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 11\u20135, weekends 1\u20135.\n\nSchloss Dachau.  \nThis hilltop castle, dominates the town. What you'll see is the one remaining wing of a palace built by the Munich architect Josef Effner for the Wittelsbach ruler Max Emanuel in 1715. During the Napoleonic Wars the palace served as a field hospital and then was partially destroyed. King Max Joseph lacked the money to rebuild it, so all that's left is a handsome cream-and-white building, with an elegant pillared and lantern-hung caf\u00e9 on the ground floor and a former ballroom above. About once a month the grand Renaissance hall, with a richly decorated and carved ceiling, covered with painted panels depicting figures from ancient mythology, is used for chamber concerts. The east terrace affords panoramic views of Munich and, on fine days, the distant Alps. There's also a 250-year-old Schlossbrauerei (castle brewery), which hosts the town's beer and music festival each year in the first two weeks of August. The Schloss restaurant serves good Bavarian food with regional ingredients, as well as great homemade cakes. | Schlossstr. 2 | 08131/279\u20139278 for restaurant, 08131/87923 for castle | www.schloss-dachau.com | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nSt. Jakob.  \nDachau's parish church was built in the early 17th century in late-Renaissance style on the foundations of a 13th-century Gothic structure. Baroque features and a characteristic onion dome were added in the late 17th century. On the south wall you can admire a very fine sundial from 1699. | Pfarrstr. 7 | 08131/36380 | www.pv-dachau-st-jakob.de | Daily 7\u20137.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Fischer.  \nHOTEL | You can see this hotel across the square from the S-bahn station. The family atmosphere is welcoming, the rooms are pleasantly modern, and good traditional Bavarian meals are served in the restaurant. Order the \"Weisswurst\" special with a drop of Weissbier and you'll get a good laugh at how the \"drop\" is served. Pros: free Wi-Fi; prime location; good restaurant. Cons: on nice evenings, noise from the patio may filter up to your room. | Rooms from: \u20ac84 | Bahnhofstr. 4, City Center | 08131/612\u2013200 | www.hotelfischer-dachau.de | 28 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Landshut\n\n64 km (40 miles) north of Munich.\n\nIf fortune had placed Landshut south of Munich, in the protective folds of the Alpine foothills, instead of the same distance north, in the subdued flatlands of Lower Bavaria\u2014of which it is the capital\u2014the historic town would be teeming with tourists. Landshut's geographical misfortune is the discerning visitor's good luck, for the town is never overcrowded, with the possible exception of the three summer weeks when the Landshuter Hochzeit (Landshut Wedding) is celebrated (it takes place every four years). The festival commemorates the marriage in 1475 of Prince George of Bavaria-Landshut, son of the expressively named Ludwig the Rich, to Princess Hedwig, daughter of the king of Poland. Within its ancient walls the entire town is swept away in a colorful reconstruction of the event. The wedding procession, with the \"bride\" and \"groom\" on horseback accompanied by pipes and drums and the hurly-burly of a medieval pageant, is held on three consecutive weekends, while a medieval-style fair fills the central streets throughout the three weeks.\n\nLandshut has two magnificent cobblestone market streets. The one in the Altstadt (Old Town) is one of the most beautiful city streets in Germany; the other is in Neustadt (New Town). The two streets run parallel to each other, tracing a course between the Isar River and the heights overlooking the town.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nLandshut is a 45-minute drive northwest of Munich on either the A-92 autobahn\u2014follow the signs to Deggendorf\u2014or the B-11 highway. A Deutsche Bahn train brings you from Munich in about 50 minutes. A round-trip costs about \u20ac30.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nLandshut Tourismus. | Altstadt 315 | 0871/922\u2013050 | www.landshut.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFreising.  \nThis ancient episcopal seat, 35 km (22 miles) southwest of Landshut, houses a cathedral and old town well worth visiting. The town is also accessible from Munich (at the end of the S-bahn 1 line, a 45-minute ride from central Munich). | Freising.\n\nRathaus (Town Hall).  \nStanding opposite the Stadtresidenz, this elegant, light-color building has a typical neo-Gothic roof design. It was originally a set of 13th-century burghers' houses, taken over by the town in the late 1300s. The famous bride and groom allegedly danced in the grand ceremonial hall during their much-celebrated wedding in 1475. The frescoes here date to 1880, however. The tourist-information bureau is on the ground floor. | Altstadt 315 | 0871/881\u2013217 Rathausprunksaal | www.landshut.de | Free | Weekdays 2\u20133, and on official tours.\n\nSkulpturenmuseum im Hofberg.  \nBuilt into a steep slope of the hill crowned by Burg Trausnitz is an unusual art museum, the Skulpturenmuseum im Hofberg, containing the entire collection of the Landshut sculptor Fritz Koenig. His own work forms the permanent central section of the labyrinthine gallery. | Am Prantlgarten 1 | 0871/89021 | www.skulpturenmuseum-im-hofberg.de | \u20ac3.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10:30\u20131 and 2\u20135.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nBurg Trausnitz.  \nA steep path from the Altstadt takes you up to Burg Trausnitz. This castle was begun in 1204, and accommodated the Wittelsbach dukes of Bavaria-Landshut until 1503. | Burg Trausnitz 168 | 0871/924\u2013110 | www.burg-trausnitz.de | \u20ac5.50, including guided tour | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nMartinskirche (St. Martin's Church).  \nThe Martinskirche, with the tallest brick church tower (428 feet) in the world, soars above the other buildings. The church, which was elevated to the rank of basilica minor in 2002, contains some magnificent late-Gothic stone and wood carvings, notably a 1518 Madonna by the artist Martin Leinberger. It's surely the only church in the world to contain an image of Hitler, albeit in a devilish pose. The F\u00fchrer and other Nazi leaders are portrayed as executioners in a 1946 stained-glass window showing the martyrdom of St. Kastulus. In the nave of the church is a clear and helpful description of its history and treasures in English. Every first Sunday of the month a tour is conducted between 11:30 and 12:30 that will take you up the tower and to the Schatzkammer, the church's treasure chamber. | Kirchgasse | 0871/922\u20131780 | www.st.martin-landshut.de | Summer months: Tues.\u2013Thurs. and weekends 7:30\u20136:30; winter months: Tues.\u2013Thurs. and weekends 7:30\u20135.\n\nStadtresidenz Landshut.  \nThe Stadtresidenz in the Altstadt was the first Italian Renaissance building of its kind north of the Alps. It was built from 1536 to 1537, but was given a baroque facade at the end of the 19th century. The Wittelsbachs lived here during the 16th century. The facade of the palace forms an almost modest part of the architectural splendor and integrity of the Altstadt, where even the ubiquitous McDonald's has to serve its hamburgers behind a baroque facade. The Stadtresidenz includes exhibitions on the history of Landshut. TIP A combination card with Burg Trausnitz costs just \u20ac8. | Altstadt 79 | 0871/25142 | www.schloesser.bayern.de | \u20ac3.50 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nThere are several attractive Bavarian-style restaurants in the Altstadt and Neustadt, most of them with beer gardens. Although Landshut brews a fine beer, look for a Gastst\u00e4tte offering a Weihenstephaner, from the world's oldest brewery, in Freising. Helles (light) is the most popular beer variety.\n\nHotel-Gasthof zur Insel.  \nHOTEL | This \"Island Hotel\" is right on the river and only a two-minute walk from the center of town. The restaurant serves good Bavarian food. If on summer evenings you hear singing coming from the beer garden under your window, remember the old saying, \"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.\" Pros: nice location; good Bavarian restaurant. Cons: no elevator; beer garden can be noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac75 | Badstr. 16 | 0871/923160 | www.insel-landshut.de | 15 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Goldene Sonne.  \nHOTEL | The steeply gabled Renaissance exterior of the \"Golden Sun\" fronts a hotel of great charm and comfort. It stands in the center of town, near all the sights. Its dining options are a paneled, beamed restaurant ($); a vaulted cellar; and a courtyard beer garden, where the service is friendly and helpful. The menu follows the seasons and toes the \"quintessential Bavarian\" line, with pork roast, steamed or smoked trout with horseradish, white asparagus in spring (usually accompanied by potatoes and ham), and venison in fall. Pros: spacious reception; comfortable rooms; good restaurant. Cons: street-facing rooms are sometimes noisy; hotel often booked; Wi-Fi isn't free. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Neustadt 520 | 0871/92530 | www.goldenesonne.de | 60 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nLindner Hotel Kaiserhof.  \nHOTEL | The green Isar River rolls outside the bedroom windows of Landshut's most distinctive hotel. Its steep red roof and white facade blend harmoniously with the waterside panorama. The Herzog Ludwig restaurant ($$) serves a sumptuous but reasonably priced lunch buffet and is an elegant place for dinner. The hotel offers special weekend rates on request. Pros: central location, a few minutes from the city centre; free use of computers and printer in foyer; fitness and sauna area. Cons: wireless access isn't free; 20 minutes to train station on foot. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Papiererstr. 2 | 0871/6870 | www.lindner.de | 125 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRomantik Hotel F\u00fcrstenhof.  \nHOTEL | This handsome Landshut city mansion, a few minutes on foot from the center of town, had no difficulty qualifying for inclusion in the Romantik group of hotels\u2014it just breathes romance, from its plush gourmet restaurant ($$$), covered in wood paneling, to the cozy bedrooms. A vine-covered terrace shadowed by a chestnut tree adds charm. Price includes breakfast buffet and sauna use. Pros: nice restaurant; pleasant rooms. Cons: no elevator; restaurant closed Sunday. | Rooms from: \u20ac125 | Stethaimerstr. 3 | 0871/92550 | www.fuerstenhof.la | 22 rooms | Restaurant closed Sun. | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Bavarian Alps\n\nWerdenfelser Land and Wetterstein Mountains\n\nChiemgau\n\nBerchtesgadener Land\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Outdoors in the Bavarian Alps | Lederhosen | Best Ways to Explore | Best Photo Ops\n\nUpdated by Paul Wheatley\n\nFir-clad mountains, rocky peaks, lederhosen, and geranium-covered houses: the Bavarian Alps come closest to what many of us envision as \"Germany.\" Quaint towns full of frescoed half-timber houses covered in snow pop up among the mountain peaks and shimmering hidden lakes, as do the creations of \"Mad\" King Ludwig II. The entire area has sporting opportunities galore, regardless of the season.\n\nUpper Bavaria (Oberbayern) fans south from Munich to the Austrian border, and as you follow this direction, you'll soon find yourself on a gently rolling plain leading to lakes surrounded by ancient forests. In time the plain merges into foothills, which suddenly give way to jagged Alpine peaks. In places such as K\u00f6nigsee, near Berchtesgaden, snowcapped mountains rise straight up from the gemlike lakes.\n\nContinuing south, you'll encounter cheerful villages with richly painted houses, churches, and monasteries filled with the especially sensuous Bavarian baroque and rococo styles, and several spas where you can \"take the waters\" and tune up your system. Sports possibilities are legion: downhill and cross-country skiing, snowboarding, and ice-skating in winter; tennis, swimming, sailing, golf, and, above all (sometimes literally), hiking, paragliding, and ballooning in summer.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nHerrenchiemsee: Take the old steam-driven ferry to the island in Chiemsee to visit the last and most glorious castle of \"Mad\" King Ludwig II.\n\nGreat nature: From the crystalline K\u00f6nigsee lake and grandiose Karwendel Mountains, to Garmisch's powdery snow, and the magical forests, it's everything a nature lover needs.\n\nMeditating in Ettal monastery: If it isn't the sheer complexity of the baroque ornamentation and the riot of frescoes, then it might be the fluid sound of the ancient organ that puts you in a deep, relaxing trance. A great brewery and distillery round out the deeply religious experience.\n\nRejuvenation in Reichenhall: The new Rupertus spa in Bad Reichenhall has the applications you need to turn back your body's clock, from saltwater baths to mudpacks.\n\nConfronting History in Berchtesgaden: Explore the darkest chapter of German history at Obersalzberg, Hitler's mountain retreat.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nAsk a Bavarian about the \"Bavarian Alps\" and he'll probably shake his head in confusion. To Bavarians \"the Alps\" consist of several adjoining mountain ranges spanning the Ammergau, Wetterstein, and Karwendel Alps in the West to the Chiemgauer and Berchtesgadener Alpen in the East. Each region has its die-hard fans. The constants, however, are the incredible scenery, clean air, and a sense of Bavarian Gem\u00fctlichkeit (coziness) omnipresent in every H\u00fctte (cottage), Gasthof (guesthouse), and beer garden. The area is an outdoor recreation paradise, and almost completely lacks the high-culture institutions that dominate German urban life.\n\n## What's Where\n\nWerdenfelser Land and Wetterstein Mountains. Like a village lost in time, Mittenwald and Oberammergau are both famous for their half-timber houses covered in L\u00fcftlmalerei frescoes. The entire region sits serenely in the shadow of Germany's highest point: the Zugspitze. The Wetterstein Mountains offer fantastic skiing and hiking.\n\nChiemgau. Bavaria's Lake District is almost undiscovered by Westerners but has long been a secret destination for Germans. Several fine, hidden lakes dot the area. The Chiemsee dominates the Chiemgau, with one of the most impressive German palaces and great water sports. Residents, or Chiemgauer, especially in Bad T\u00f6lz, often wear traditional Trachten, elaborate lederhosen and dirndl dresses, as an expression of their proud cultural heritage.\n\nBerchtesgadener Land. The Berchtesgadener Land is not the highest point in the country, but is certainly one of the most ruggedly beautiful regions. Hundreds of miles of hiking trails with serene Alpine cottages and the odd cow make the area a hiking and mountaineering paradise. Berchtesgaden and Bad Reichenhall are famous for the salt trade, and the salt mines provide the visitor with a unique and entertaining insight into the history and wealth of the region. The K\u00f6nigsee is the most photographed place in the country, and for good reason.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThis mountainous region is a year-round holiday destination. Snow is promised by most resorts from December through March, although there's year-round skiing on the glacier slopes at the top of the Zugspitze. Spring and autumn are ideal times for leisurely hikes on the many mountain trails. November is a between-seasons time, when many hotels and restaurants close down or attend to renovations. Note, too, that many locals take a vacation after January 6, and businesses may be closed for anywhere up to a month. The area is extremely popular with European visitors, who flood the Alps in July and August.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nMunich, 95 km (59 miles) northwest of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, is the gateway to the Bavarian Alps. If you're staying in Berchtesgaden, consider the closer airport in Salzburg, Austria\u2014it has fewer international flights, but it is a budget-airline and charter hub.\n\nAirport Information   \nSalzburg Airport (SZG). | Salzburg, Austria | 0662/8580\u20130 | www.salzburg-airport.com.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nThe Bavarian Alps are well connected to Munich by train, and an extensive network of buses links even the most remote villages. Since bus schedules can be unreliable and are timed for commuters, the best way to visit the area is by car. Three autobahns reach into the Bavarian Alps: A-7 comes in from the northwest (Frankfurt, Stuttgart, Ulm) and ends near F\u00fcssen in the western Bavarian Alps; A-95 runs from Munich to Garmisch-Partenkirchen; take A-8 from Munich for Tegernsee, Chiemsee, and Berchtesgaden. TIP The A-8 is statistically the most dangerous autobahn in the country, partially due to it simultaneously being the most heavily traveled highway and the road most in need of repair. The driving style is fast, and tailgating is common, though it is illegal. The \"guideline speed\" (Richtgeschwindigkeit) on the A-8 is 110 kph (68 mph); if an accident occurs at higher speeds, your insurance will not necessarily cover it. It is a good idea to pick a town like Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bad T\u00f6lz, or Berchtesgaden as a base and explore the area from there. The Bavarian Alps are furnished with cable cars, steam trains, and cog railroads that whisk you to the tops of Alpine peaks allowing you to see the spectacular views without hours of mountain climbing.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nMost Alpine resorts are connected with Munich by regular express and slower service trains. Due to the rugged terrain, train travel in the region can be challenging, but with some careful planning\u2014see www.bahn.de for schedules and to buy tickets\u2014you can visit this region without a car.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nRestaurants in Bavaria run the gamut from the casual and gem\u00fctlich (cozy) Gasthof to formal gourmet offerings. More-upscale establishments try to maintain a feeling of casual familiarity, but you will probably feel more comfortable at the truly upscale restaurants if you dress up a bit. Note that many restaurants take a break between 2:30 and 6 pm. If you want to eat during these hours, look for the magic words Durchgehend warme K\u00fcche, indicating warm food is served throughout the day, possibly snacks during the off-hours. Many restaurants in the region still don't accept credit cards.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nWith few exceptions, a hotel or Gasthof in the Bavarian Alps and lower Alpine regions has high standards and is traditional in style, with balconies, pine woodwork, and gently angled roofs on which the snow sits and insulates. Many in the larger resort towns offer special packages online. Private homes all through the region offer Germany's own version of bed-and-breakfasts, indicated by signs reading \"Zimmer frei\" (\"Rooms available\"). Their rates may be less than \u20ac25 per person. As a general rule, the farther from the popular and sophisticated Alpine resorts you go, the lower the rates. Note, too, that many places offer a small discount if you stay more than one night. By the same token, some places frown on staying only one night, especially during the high seasons, in summer, at Christmas, and on winter weekends. In spas and many mountain resorts a \"spa tax,\" or Kurtaxe, is added to the hotel bill. It amounts to no more than \u20ac3 per person per day and allows free use of spa facilities, entry to local attractions and concerts, and use of local transportation at times. Breakfast is included, unless indicated otherwise.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nThe Alps are spread along Germany's southern border, but are fairly compact and easy to explore. Choose a central base and fan out from there. Garmisch-Partenkirchen and Berchtesgaden are the largest towns with the most convenient transportation connections.\n\nAlthough the area is a popular tourist destination, the smaller communities like Mittenwald and Ettal are quieter and make for pleasant overnight stays. For an unforgettable experience, try spending the night in an Alpine hut, feasting on a simple but hearty meal and sleeping in the cool night air.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nOne of the best deals in the area is the German Railroad's Bayern Ticket. The Bayern Ticket allows between one and five people to travel on any regional train\u2014and almost all buses in the Alps. Prices range between \u20ac22 for a single traveler to \u20ac38 for five people. Ticket holders receive discounts on a large number of attractions in the area, including the Zugspitzbahn, a cog railroad and cable car that takes you up to the top of the Zugspitze. The ZugspitzCard (three days \u20ac49) offers discounts in almost every city near the Zugspitze. Visitors to spas or spa towns receive a Kurkarte, an ID that proves payment of the spa tax. The document allows discounts and often free access to sights in the town or area. If you've paid the tax, be sure to show the card everywhere you go.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nTourismusverband M\u00fcnchen Oberbayern. | Radolfzeller Str. 15, | Munich | 089/829\u20132180 | www.oberbayern-tourismus.de.\n\n* * *\n\nMaibaum: Bavaria's Maypole\n\nThe center of every town in Bavaria is the Maibaum or Maypole. The blue-and-white-striped pole is decorated with the symbol of every trade and guild represented in the town, and is designed to help visitors determine what services are available there. The effort and skill required to build one is a source of community pride.\n\nThe tradition dates back to the 16th century, and is governed by a strict set of rules. Great care is taken in selecting and cutting the tree, which must be at least 98 feet tall. Once completed, it cannot be erected before May 1. In the meantime, tradition and honor dictate that men from surrounding towns attempt to steal the pole and ransom it for beer and food, so it must be guarded 24 hours a day. Once the pole goes up, with quite a bit of leveraging and manual labor, it cannot be stolen and may only stand for three years.\n\n* * *\n\n## Outdoors in the Bavarian Alps\n\nBursting up from the lowlands of southern Germany like a row of enormous, craggy teeth, the Bavarian Alps form both an awe-inspiring border with Austria and a superb natural playground for outdoor enthusiasts.\n\nVisible from Munich on a clear day, this thin strip of the Alps stretches over 300 km (186 miles) from Lake Constance in the west to Berchtesgaden in the east, and acts as a threshold to the towering mountain ranges that lie farther south. Lower in altitude than their Austrian, Swiss, and French cousins, the Bavarian Alps have the advantage of shorter distances between their summits and the valleys below, forming an ideal environment for casual walkers and serious mountaineers alike.\n\nIn spring and summer cowbells tinkle and wild flowers blanket meadows beside trails that course up and down the mountainsides. In winter snow engulfs the region, turning trails into paths for cross-country skiers and the mountainsides into pistes for snowboarders and downhill skiers to carve their way down.\n\n\u2014Jeff Kavanagh\n\n## Lederhosen\n\nAlong with sausages and enormous mugs of frothy beer, lederhosen form the holy trinity of what many foreigners believe to be stereotypically \"German.\" The reality, however, is that the embroidered leather breeches are traditionally worn in the south of the country, particularly in Alpine areas, where the durability and protection of leather have their advantages. Nowadays they are worn at special events.\n\n## Best Ways to Explore\n\n#### By Foot\n\nIt's not without good reason that wanderlust is a German word. The desire to travel and explore has been strong for hundreds of years in Germany, especially in places like the Alps where strenuous strolls are rewarded with breathtaking vistas. There are more than 7,000 km (4,350 miles) of walking trails in the Allg\u00e4u region alone to wander, conveniently divided into valley walks, mid-altitude trails, and summit hikes reflecting the varying altitude and difficulty. Hikes can be undertaken as day trips or as weeks-long endeavors, and there are campsites, mountain huts, farmhouses, and hotels to overnight in along the way, as well as a decent infrastructure of buses, trains, and cable cars to get you to your starting point. The Bavaria Tourism Office (www.bavaria.by)has more information on hiking trails.\n\n#### By Bike\n\nYou don't actually need to venture onto their slopes to appreciate the Alps' beauty, and cycling through the foothills at their base affords stunning views of the mountains combined with the luxury of refreshing stop-offs in beer gardens and dips in beautiful lakes like the Tegernsee. There's plenty of accommodation tailored to cyclists throughout the region and local trains are normally equipped with a cycle carriage or two to transport you to more remote locations. The Alps also have thousands of miles of mountain-bike-friendly trails and a number of special bike parks serviced by cable cars.\n\n#### By Skis\n\nNeither as high nor famous as their neighbors, the Bavarian Alps are frequently overlooked as a winter sport destination. Resorts on the German side of the border may have shorter seasons than places like Zermatt and Chamonix, but they're also generally cheaper in terms of food and accommodation, and many, including Zugspitze, are easily accessed from Munich for day trips.\n\n## Best Photo Ops\n\nNo matter where you are around the Alps you'll be inundated with sights worth snapping. Here are a few:\n\n\u2022 More Disney than Disney, Neuschwanstein Castle sits theatrically on the side of a mountain, its grand towers set against a background of tree- and snow-covered peaks.\n\n\u2022 The panoramic view from close to 10,000 feet at the peak of Germany's highest mountain, the Zugspitze takes in 400 peaks in four countries.\n\n\u2022 Reputedly the cleanest lake in Germany, K\u00f6nigsee is also endowed with steep rock formations that soar thousands of meters up above the lake, beautifully framing its crystalline waters.\n\n\u2022 If sitting outside Tegernsee's lovely Benedictine monastery with a liter of the local beer in one hand and a bratwurst in the other isn't the shot you're after, you can wander down to the lake for spectacular vistas of its glittering surface and the Alps beyond.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nGarmisch-Partenkirchen | Ettal | Schloss Linderhof | Oberammergau | Mittenwald\n\nWith Germany's highest peak and picture-perfect Bavarian villages, the Werdenfelser Land offers a splendid mix of natural beauty combined with Bavarian art and culture. The region spreads out around the base of the Zugspitze, where the views from the top reach from Garmisch-Partenkirchen to the frescoed houses of Oberammergau, and to the serene Cloister Ettal.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Garmisch-Partenkirchen\n\n90 km (55 miles) southwest of Munich.\n\nGarmisch, as it's more commonly known, is a bustling, year-round resort and spa town and is the undisputed capital of Alpine Bavaria. Once two separate communities, Garmisch and Partenkirchen fused in 1936 to accommodate the Winter Olympics. Today, with a population of 28,000, the area is the center of the Werdenfelser Land and large enough to offer every facility expected from a major Alpine resort. Garmisch is a spread-out mess of wide car-friendly streets, hordes of tourists, and little charm. The narrow streets and quaint architecture of smaller Partenkirchen make it a slightly better choice. In both parts of town pastel frescoes of biblical and bucolic scenes decorate facades.\n\nWinter sports rank high on the agenda here. There are more than 99 km (62 miles) of downhill ski runs, 40 ski lifts and cable cars, and 180 km (112 miles) of Loipen (cross-country ski trails). One of the principal stops on the international winter-sports circuit, the area hosts a week of races every January. You can usually count on good skiing from December through April (and into May on the Zugspitze).\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nGarmisch-Partenkirchen is the cultural and transportation hub of the Werdenfelser Land. The autobahn A-95 links Garmisch directly to Munich. Regional German Rail trains head directly to Munich (90 minutes), Innsbruck (80 minutes), and Mittenwald (20 minutes). German Rail operates buses that connect Garmisch with Oberammergau, Ettal, and the Wieskirche. Garmisch is a walkable city, and you probably won't need to use its frequent city-bus services.\n\nPartenkirchen was founded by the Romans, and you can still follow the Via Claudia they built between Partenkirchen and neighboring Mittenwald, which was part of a major route between Rome and Germany well into the 17th century.\n\nBus tours to King Ludwig II's castles at Neuschwanstein and Linderhof and to the Ettal Monastery, near Oberammergau, are offered by DER travel agencies. Local agencies in Garmisch also run tours to Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Ettal, and into the neighboring Austrian Tyrol.\n\nThe Garmisch mountain railway company, the Bayerische Zugspitzbahn, offers special excursions to the top of the Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain, by cog rail and cable car.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nBus Tours  \nBiersack. | Omnibusse und Reiseb\u00fcro, Chamonixstr. 4 | 08821/4920 | www.bus-biersack.com.   \nDER Travel Office. | Bahnhofstr. 33 | 08821/55125 | www.der.com.   \nWeiss-Blau-Reisen. | Promenadestr. 5 | 08821/3805 | www.weiss-blau-reisen.de.\n\nRailway Tour   \nBayerische Zugspitzbahn. | 08821/7970 | www.zugspitze.de.\n\nVisitor Information   \nGarmisch-Partenkirchen. | Richard-Strauss-Pl. 2 | 08821/180\u2013700 | www.gapa.de | Mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Dec. and mid-Mar.\u2013mid-May, weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 9\u20133; mid-Dec.\u2013mid-Mar. and mid-May\u2013mid-Oct., weekdays 9\u20136, Sun. 10\u2013noon.\n\n### Exploring\n\nRichard Strauss Institut.  \nOn the eastern edge of Garmisch, at the end of Z\u00f6ppritzstrasse, stands the home of composer Richard Strauss, who lived here until his death in 1949. It's not open to visitors but across town the Richard Strauss Institut is the center of activity during the Richard-Strauss-Tage, an annual music festival held in mid-June that features concerts and lectures on the town's most famous son. Other concerts are given year-round and there is also a Strauss exhibition (\u20ac3.50). | Schnitzschulstr. 19 | Garmisch | www.richard-strauss-institut.de.\n\nSt. Martin Church.  \nGarmisch-Partenkirchen isn't all sports and cars, however. In Garmisch, some beautiful examples of Upper Bavarian houses line Fr\u00fchlingstrasse, and a pedestrian zone begins at Richard-Strauss-Platz. Off Marienplatz, at one end of the car-free zone, is the 18th-century parish church. It contains some significant stuccowork by the Wessobrunn artist Jospeh Schmutzer and rococo work by Matth\u00e4us G\u00fcnther. | Marienplatz | Garmisch | www.erzbistum-muenchen.de/Pfarrei/Page007033.aspx.\n\nSt. Martin Church.  \nAcross the Loisach River, on Pfarrerhausweg, stands another St. Martin church, dating from 1280, whose Gothic wall paintings include a larger-than-life-size figure of St. Christopher. | Pfarrerhausweg 4 | www.erzbistum-muenchen.de/Pfarrei/Page002550.aspx.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat in the Bavarian Alps\n\nBavarian cooking originally fed a farming people, who spent their days out of doors doing heavy manual labor. Semmelkn\u00f6del (dumplings of old bread), pork dishes, sauerkraut, bread, and hearty soups were felt necessary to sustain a person facing the elements. The natural surroundings provided further sustenance, in the form of fresh trout from brooks, Renke (pike-perch) from the lakes, venison, and mushrooms. This substantial fare was often washed down with beer, which was nourishment in itself, especially during the Lenten season, when the dark and powerful \"Doppelbock\" was on the market. Today this regimen will suit sporty types who have spent a day hiking in the mountains, skiing in the bracing air, or swimming or windsurfing in chilly lakes.\n\nBavaria is not immune to eclectic culinary trends, however: minimalist Asian daubs here, a touch of French sophistication and Italian elegance there, a little Tex-Mex to brighten a winter evening, even some sprinklings of curry. Menus often include large sections devoted to salads, and there are tasty vegetarian dishes even in the most traditional regions. Schnapps, which customarily ended meals, has gone from being a step above moonshine to a true delicacy extracted from local fruit by virtuoso distillers. Yes, Bavarian cooking\u2014hearty, homey, and down-to-earth\u2014is actually becoming lighter.\n\nOne area remains an exception: desserts. The selection of sinfully creamy cakes in the Konditorei (cake shop), often enjoyed with whipped-cream-topped hot chocolate, continues to grow. These are irresistible, of course, especially when homemade. A heavenly experience might be a large portion of warm Apfelstrudel (apple-and-nut-filled pastry) fresh from the oven in some remote mountain refuge.\n\n* * *\n\nWerdenfelser Museum.  \nObjects and exhibitions on the region's history can be found in this excellent museum, which is itself housed in a building dating back to around 1200. The museum is spread over 19 rooms and five floors, and explores every aspect of life in the Werdenfelser region, which was an independent state for more than 700 years (until 1802). | Ludwigstr. 47 | Partenkirchen | 08821/751\u2013710 | www.werdenfels-museum.de | \u20ac2.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nFodor's Choice | Zugspitze.  \nThe highest mountain (9,717 feet) in Germany, this is the number one attraction in Garmisch. There are two ways up the mountain: a leisurely 75-minute ride on a cog railway from the train station in the town center, combined with a cable-car ride up the last stretch; or a 10-minute hoist by cable car, which begins its giddy ascent from the Eibsee, 10 km (6 miles) outside town on the road to Austria. There are two restaurants with sunny terraces at the summit and another at the top of the cog railway. TIP A round-trip combination ticket allows you to mix your modes of travel up and down the mountain. Prices are lower in winter than in summer, even though winter rates include use of all the ski lifts on the mountain. You can rent skis at the top. TIP Ascending the Zugspitze from the Austrian side is cheaper and more scenic. The Tiroler Zugspitzbahn departs three times per hour from near the village of Ehrwald. The round-trip ticket costs \u20ac37.50 and buses connect the gondolas to the Ehrwald train station. There are also a number of other peaks in the area with gondolas, but the views from the Zugspitze are the best. A four-seat cable car goes to the top of one of the lesser peaks: the Wank or the Alpspitze, many thousand feet lower than the Zugspitze. You can tackle both mountains on foot, provided you're properly shod and physically fit. | Cog railway leaves from Olympiastr. 27 (approximately 100 m from the Garmisch train station) | 08821/7970 | www.zugspitze.de | Summer: funicular or cable car \u20ac50 round-trip; winter: funicular or cable car \u20ac41.50 round-trip; parking \u20ac3 | Daily (depends on weather and season) 7:39\u20135:15.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nSee-Hotel Riessersee.  \nGERMAN | On the shore of a small, blue-green, tranquil lake\u2014a leisurely 3-km (2-mile) walk from town\u2014this caf\u00e9-restaurant is an ideal spot for lunch or afternoon tea (on summer weekends there's live zither music from 3 to 5). House specialties are fresh trout and seasonal local game (which fetches the higher prices on the menu). | Average main: \u20ac13 | Riess 5 | 08821/758\u2013123 | www.riessersee.de | Closed Mon. and Dec. 1\u201315.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFor information about accommodation packages with ski passes, call the Zugspitze or get in touch with the tourist office in Garmisch (08821/180\u2013700 | www.zugspitze.de).\n\nEdelweiss.  \nB&B/INN | Like its namesake, the \"nobly white\" Alpine flower of The Sound of Music fame, this small downtown hotel has plenty of mountain charm. Inlaid with warm pinewood, it has Bavarian furnishings and individually decorated rooms. Pros: small; comfortable; homey; great for families with children. Cons: small hotel; lacking in many services. | Rooms from: \u20ac112 | Martinswinkelstr. 15\u201317 | 08821/2454 | www.hoteledelweiss.de | 31 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nGasthof Fraundorfer.  \nB&B/INN | You can ride to dreamland in this beautiful old Bavarian Gasthof\u2014some of the bed frames are carved like antique automobiles and sleighs. The colorfully painted facade is covered with geraniums most of the year. The tavern-restaurant ($), its walls covered with pictures and other ephemera, presents \"Bavarian evenings\" of folk entertainment every evening except Tuesday. Pros: free Wi-Fi; great location and dining experience. Cons: noise a problem for the rooms in the back of hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac86 | Ludwigstr. 24 | 08821/9270 | www.gasthof-fraundorfer.de | 20 rooms, 7 suites | Breakfast.\n\nHotel-Gasthof Drei Mohren.  \nHOTEL | All the simple, homey comforts you'd expect can be found in this 150-year-old Bavarian inn tucked into Partenkirchen village. All rooms have mountain views, and most are furnished with farmhouse-style painted beds and cupboards. A free bus to Garmisch and the cable-car stations will pick you up right outside the house. The restaurant ($$) serves solid fare, including a series of Pfanderl, large portions of meat and potatoes, or delicacies like venison in juniper sauce, served in the pan. Pros: perfect setting in a quaint corner of the town center; free Wi-Fi. Cons: restaurant noise on the first floor; some double rooms too small. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Ludwigstr. 65 | 08821/9130 | www.dreimohren.de | 29 rooms, 1 apartment | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Waxenstein.  \nRESORT | It's worth the 7-km (4\u00bd-mile) drive eastward to Grainau just to spend a night or a few at the delightful Waxenstein. The rooms are generous in size, with luxurious bathrooms. Furnishings combine Bavarian rustic with flights of fancy. The restaurant ($$) provides a breathtaking view of the Zugspitze, but the excellent food will keep you occupied, from the crispy bread to dishes such as gnocchi in ginger-pumpkin sauce, or veal fillet with foie gras. Pros: great service; beautiful views of the Zugspitze from the north-facing rooms. Cons: only accessible by car; rooms somewhat small; no views of the Zugspitze from the south-facing rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | H\u00f6henrainweg 3 | 08821/9840 | www.waxenstein.de | 35 rooms, 6 suites | Breakfast.\n\nReindl's Partenkirchner Hof.  \nHOTEL | Karl Reindl ranked among the world's top hoteliers, and his daughter Marianne Holzinger has maintained high standards since taking over this hotel. The kitchen cooks up excellent Bavarian and international dishes, from roasted suckling pig to coq au vin. The light-filled bistro annex ($) serves meals, coffee, and cake in an atmosphere that contrasts sharply with the heavier wood-and-velvet main building. Each guest room has pinewood furniture and a balcony or patio. Some of the double rooms are huge. An infrared sauna and whirlpools soothe tired muscles. If you're planning to stay for several days, ask about specials. Pros: ample-size rooms; great views. Cons: front rooms are on a busy street. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Bahnhofstr. 15 | 08821/943\u2013870 | www.reindls.de | 35 rooms, 17 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nIn season there's a busy apr\u00e8s-ski scene. Many hotels have dance floors, and some have basement discos that pound away until the early hours. Bavarian folk dancing and zither music are regular features of nightlife.\n\nBayernhalle.  \nIn summer there's entertainment, such as traditional Bavarian singing and dancing, every Saturday evening at the Bayernhalle. | Brauhausstr. 19 | 08821/4877 | www.vtv-garmisch.de/bayernhalle.\n\nGarmisch-Partenkirchen-Ticket.  \nConcerts are presented from Saturday to Thursday, mid-May through September, in the park bandstand in Garmisch, and on Friday in the Partenkirchen park. Tickets are available at Garmisch-Partenkirchen-Ticket. | Richard-Strauss-Pl. 1 | 08821/730\u20131995 | www.ticketshop-gap.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9:30\u20131 and 2\u20136, Sat. 9\u2013noon.\n\nGasthof Fraundorfer.  \nWednesday through Monday the cozy tavern-restaurant Gasthof Fraundorfer hosts yodeling and folk dancing. | Ludwigstr. 24 | 08821/9270 | www.gasthof-fraundorfer.de.\n\nSpielbank Garmisch.  \nThe casino is open Sunday through Thursday 3 pm\u20132 am and Friday and Saturday 3 pm\u20133 am, with more than 150 slot machines and roulette, blackjack, and poker tables. | Am Kurpark 10 | 08821/95990 | www.spielbanken-bayern.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Hiking and Walking\n\nThere are innumerable spectacular walks on 300 km (186 miles) of marked trails through the lower slopes' pinewoods and upland meadows. If you have the time and good walking shoes, try one of the two trails that lead to striking gorges (called Klammen).\n\nDeutscher Alpenverein (German Alpine Association).  \nCall here for details on hiking and on staying in the mountain huts. | Von-Kahr-Str. 2\u20134 | Munich | 089/140\u2013030 | www.alpenverein.de.\n\nH\u00f6llentalklamm.  \nThe H\u00f6llentalklamm route starts in the town and ends at the mountaintop (you'll want to turn back before reaching the summit unless you have mountaineering experience). You can park in the villages of Hammersbach and Grainau, and start your tour. | 08821/8895 | www.hoellentalklamm-info.de | May\u2013Oct. (depending on weather).\n\nPartnachklamm.  \nThe Partnachklamm route is quite challenging, and takes you through a spectacular, tunneled water gorge (entrance fee), past a pretty little mountain lake, and far up the Zugspitze; to do all of it, you'll have to stay overnight in one of the huts along the way. Ride part of the way up in the Eckbauer cable car, which sets out from the Skistadion off Mittenwalderstrasse. The older, more scenic Graseckbahn takes you right over the dramatic gorges. Day cards for the cable car cost \u20ac23 (cheaper depending on how far you want to ride and time of year). There's a handy inn at the top, where you can gather strength for the hour-long walk back down to the Graseckbahn station. | Olympia-Skistadion | www.eckbauerbahn.de.\n\nLohnkutschevereinigung.  \nHorse-drawn carriages also cover the first section of the route in summer; in winter you can skim along it in a sleigh. The carriages wait near the Skistadion. Or you can call the local coaching society, the Lohnkutschevereinigung, for information. | Olympia Skistadion | 0172/860\u20134105 | www.kutschenfahrten-garmisch.de\n\n#### Skiing and Snowboarding\n\nGarmisch-Partenkirchen was the site of the 1936 Winter Olympics, and remains Germany's premier winter-sports resort. The upper slopes of the Zugspitze and surrounding mountains challenge the best ski buffs and snowboarders, and there are also plenty of runs for intermediate skiers and families. The area is divided into two basic regions. The Riffelriss with the Zugspitzplatt is Germany's highest skiing area, with snow pretty much guaranteed from November to May. Access is via the Zugspitzbahn funicular. Cost for a day pass is \u20ac41.50; for a 2\u00bd-day pass \u20ac93 (valid from noon on the first day). The Garmisch-Classic has numerous lifts in the Alpspitz, Kreuzeck, and Hausberg regions. Day passes cost \u20ac38.50, and a 2\u00bd-day pass \u20ac93. The town has a number of ski schools and tour organizers.\n\nAlpine Auskunftstelle.  \nThe best place for information for all your snow-sports needs is the Alpine office at the Garmisch tourist-information office. | Richard-Strauss-Pl. 2 | Garmisch | 08821/180\u2013700 | www.gapa.de | Mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Dec. and mid-Mar.\u2013mid-May, weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 9\u20133; mid-Dec.\u2013mid-Mar. and mid-May\u2013mid-Oct., weekdays 9\u20136, Sun. 10\u2013noon.\n\nErste Skilanglaufschule Garmisch-Partenkirchen.  \nCross-country skiers should check with the Erste Skilanglaufschule Garmisch-Partenkirchen at the eastern entrance of the Olympic stadium in Garmisch. | Olympia-Skistadion | 08821/1516 | www.ski-langlauf-schule.de.\n\nSkischule Alpin.  \nSkiers looking for instruction can try the Skischule Alpin. | Reintalstr. 8 | Garmisch | 08821/945\u2013676 | www.alpin-skischule.de.\n\n## Ettal\n\n16 km (10 miles) north of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, 85 km (53 miles) south of Munich.\n\nThe village of Ettal is presided over by the massive bulk of Kloster Ettal, a great monastery and centuries-old distillery.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nEttal is easily reached by bus and car from Garmisch and Oberammergau. Consider staying in Oberammergau and renting a bike. The 4-km (2\u00bd-mile) ride along the river is clearly marked, relatively easy, and a great way to meet locals.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist Information Ettal. | Ammergauer Str. 8 | 08822/923\u2013634 | www.ammergauer-alpen.de/ettal.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Kloster Ettal.  \nThe great monastery was founded in 1330 by Holy Roman Emperor Ludwig the Bavarian for a group of knights and a community of Benedictine monks. This is the largest Benedictine monastery in Germany; approximately 55 monks live here. The abbey was replaced with new buildings in the 18th century and now serves as a school. The original 10-sided church was brilliantly redecorated in 1744\u201353, becoming one of the foremost examples of Bavarian rococo. The church's chief treasure is its enormous dome fresco (83 feet wide), painted by Jacob Zeiller circa 1751\u201352. The mass of swirling clouds and the pink-and-blue vision of heaven are typical of the rococo fondness for elaborate ceiling painting.\n\nToday, the Kloster owns most of the surrounding land and directly operates the Hotel Ludwig der Bayer, the Kloster-Laden, and the Kloster-markt. All of the Kloster's activities, from beer production to running the hotel serve one singular purpose: to fund the famous college-prep and boarding schools which are tuition-free.\n\nEttaler liqueurs, made from a centuries-old recipe, are still distilled at the monastery. The monks make seven different liqueurs, some with more than 70 mountain herbs. Originally the liqueurs were made as medicines, and they have legendary health-giving properties. The ad tells it best: \"Two monks know how it's made, 2 million Germans know how it tastes.\" TIP You can visit the distillery right next to the church and buy bottles of the libation from the gift shop and bookstore. The honey-saffron schnapps is the best. It's possible to tour the distillery (\u20ac6) and the brewery (\u20ac9). | Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 1 | 08822/740 for guided tour of church, 08822/746\u2013228 for distillery, 08822/746\u2013450 for brewery | www.abtei.kloster-ettal.de | Free | Church: winter, daily 8\u20136; summer, daily 8\u20137:45. Distillery tours: call ahead. Brewery tours: Tues. and Thurs. at 1:30, register before 11 on day of tour.\n\nSchauk\u00e4serei.  \nBesides its spirit and spirits, Ettal has made another local industry into an attraction: namely cheese, yogurt, and other milk derivatives. You can see cheese, butter, cream, and other dairy products in the making at this public cheese-making plant. There is even a little buffet for a cheesy break. | Mandlweg 1 | 08822/923\u2013926 | www.milch-und-kas.de | Free, \u20ac3.50 with tour and interpreter | June\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013May, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nEdelweiss.  \nGERMAN | This friendly caf\u00e9 and restaurant next to the monastery is an ideal spot for a light lunch or coffee and homemade cakes. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 3 | 08822/92920 | www.restaurant-edelweiss-ettal.de | No credit cards.\n\nHotel Ludwig der Bayer.  \nRESORT | Backed by mountains, this fine old hotel is run by the Benedictine order. There's little monastic about it, except for the exquisite religious carvings and motifs that adorn the walls. Most come from the monastery's carpentry shop, which also made much of the solid furniture in the comfortable bedrooms. The hotel has two excellent restaurants ($) with rustic, Bavarian atmosphere and a vaulted tavern that serves sturdy fare and beer brewed at the monastery. The extensive wellness area includes a Finnish sauna, herbal steam bath, pool, solarium, beauty section, and massage. Pros: good value; close to Kloster; indoor pool. Cons: no Wi-Fi, just cable. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 10 | 08822/9150 | www.ludwig-der-bayer.de | 70 rooms, 30 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nHotel zur Post.  \nHOTEL | Families are warmly welcomed at this traditional hotel in the center of town. There's a playground in the shady garden, and a hearty breakfast buffet is included in the price. Pros: quiet; relaxing; near Kloster. Cons: no air-conditioning; no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Kaiser-Ludwig-Pl. 18 | 08822/3596 | www.posthotel-ettal.de | 21 rooms, 4 apartments | Closed late-Oct.\u2013mid-Dec. | Breakfast.\n\n## Schloss Linderhof\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss Linderhof.  \nBuilt between 1870 and 1879 on the spectacular grounds of his father's hunting lodge, Schloss Linderhof was the only one of Ludwig II's royal residences to have been completed during the monarch's short life. It was the smallest of this ill-fated king's castles, but his favorite country retreat among the various palaces at his disposal. TIP If you plan on visiting more of Ludwig's castles, purchase the Kombiticket K\u00f6nigsschl\u00f6sser. The ticket costs \u20ac24 and allows the holder to visit Neuschwanstein, Linderhof, and Herrenchiemsee, one time each, within six months. Set in sylvan seclusion, between a reflecting pool and the green slopes of a gentle mountain, the charming, French-style, rococo confection is said to have been inspired by the Petit Trianon at Versailles. From an architectural standpoint it's a whimsical combination of conflicting styles, lavish on the outside, somewhat overly decorated on the inside. But the main inspiration came from the Sun King of France, Louis XIV, who is referred to in numerous bas-reliefs, mosaics, paintings, and stucco pieces. Ludwig's bedroom is filled with brilliantly colored and gilded ornaments, the Hall of Mirrors is a shimmering dream world, and the dining room has a clever piece of 19th-century engineering\u2014a table that rises from and descends to the kitchens below.\n\nThe formal gardens contain still more whimsical touches. There's a Moorish pavilion\u2014bought wholesale from the 1867 Paris Universal Exposition\u2014and a huge artificial grotto in which Ludwig had scenes from Wagner operas performed, with full lighting effects. It took the BASF chemical company much research to develop the proper glass for the blue lighting Ludwig desired. The gilded Neptune in front of the castle spouts a 100-foot water jet. According to hearsay, while staying at Linderhof the eccentric king would dress up as the legendary knight Lohengrin to be rowed in a swan boat on the grotto pond; in winter he took off on midnight sleigh rides behind six plumed horses and a platoon of outriders holding flaring torches. TIP In winter be prepared for an approach road as snowbound as in Ludwig's day\u2014drive carefully. | Schloss- und Gartenverwaltung Linderhof, Linderhof 12 | Linderhof | 08822/92030 | www.schlosslinderhof.de | Summer \u20ac8.50, winter \u20ac7.50; the palace is only accessible with the guided tour; palace grounds only in summer \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134; pavilion and grotto closed in winter.\n\n## Oberammergau\n\n20 km (12 miles) northwest of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, 4 km (2\u00bd miles) northwest of Ettal, 90 km (56 miles) south of Munich.\n\nIts location alone, in an Alpine valley beneath a sentinel-like peak, makes this small town a major attraction (allow a half hour for the drive from Garmisch). Its main streets are lined with painted houses (such as the 1784 Pilatushaus on Ludwig-Thoma-Strasse), and in summer the village bursts with color. Many of these lovely houses are occupied by families whose men are highly skilled in the art of wood carving, a craft that has flourished here since the early 12th century. Oberammergau is completely overrun by tourists during the day, but at night you'll feel like you have a charming Bavarian village all to yourself.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe B-23 links Oberammergau to Garmsich-Partenkirchen and to the A-23 to Munich. Frequent bus services connect to Garmisch, Ettal, the Wieskirche, and F\u00fcssen. No long-distance trains serve Oberammergau, but a short ride on the Regional-Bahn to Murnau will connect you to the long-distance train network.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist Information Oberammergau. | Eugen-Papst-Str. 9a | 08822/922\u2013740 | www.oberammergau.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nOberammergau Museum.  \nHere you'll find historic examples of the wood craftsman's art and an outstanding collection of Christmas cr\u00e8ches, which date from the mid-18th century. Numerous exhibits also document the wax and wax-embossing art, which also flourishes in Oberammergau. A notable piece is that of a German soldier carved by Georg Korntheuer on the Eastern Front in 1943: the artist was later killed in 1944. | Dorfstr. 8 | 08822/94136 | \u20ac6, includes Pilatushaus | Mar. 23\u2013Nov. 3 and Nov. 30\u2013Jan. 5, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nPilatushaus.  \nYou'll find many wood-carvers at work in town, and shop windows are crammed with their creations. From June through October a workshop is open free to the public here at Pilatushaus; working potters and painters can also be seen. Pilatushaus was completed in 1775, and the frescoes\u2014considered among the most beautiful in town\u2014were done by Franz Seraph Zwinck, one of the greatest L\u00fcftlmalerei painters. The house is named for the fresco over the front door depicting Christ before Pilate. A collection of reverse glass paintings depicting religious and secular scenes has been moved here from the Heimatmuseum. Contact the tourist office to sign up for a weeklong course in wood carving (classes are in German), which costs about \u20ac450 to \u20ac600, depending on whether you stay in a Gasthof or a hotel. | Ludwig-Thoma-Str. 10 | 08822/949\u2013511 for tourist office | www.oberammergaumuseum.de | \u20ac6 | Mar. 23\u2013Nov. 11, Tue.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Nov. 30\u2013Dec. 23, Tue.\u2013Sun. 10\u20131.\n\nSt. Peter and St. Paul Church.  \nThe 18th-century church is regarded as the finest work of rococo architect Josef Schmutzer, and it has striking frescoes by Matth\u00e4us G\u00fcnther and Franz Seraph Zwinck (in the organ loft). Schmutzer's son, Franz Xaver Schmutzer, also did a lot of the stuccowork. | Pfarrpl. 1 | Daily 9 am\u2013dusk.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAmmergauer Stub'n.  \nGERMAN | A homey restaurant at Hotel Wittelsbach with pink tablecloths and a lot of wood, the Ammergauer Stub'n has a comprehensive menu that serves both Bavarian specialties and international dishes. You can expect nice roasts and some Swabian dishes, such as Maultaschen, a large, meat-filled ravioli. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Wittelsbach Hotel, Dorfstr. 21 | 08822/92800 | www.hotelwittelsbach.de | Closed late Oct.\u2013late Nov. No lunch.\n\nGasthaus zum Stern.  \nGERMAN | This is a traditional place (around 500 years old), with coffered ceilings, thick walls, an old Kachelofen (enclosed, tiled, wood-burning stove) that heats the dining room beyond endurance on cold winter days, and smiling waitresses in dirndls. The food is hearty, traditional Bavarian. For a quieter dinner or lunch, reserve a space in the B\u00e4ckerstube (Baker's Parlor). | Average main: \u20ac13 | Dorfstr. 33 | 08822/867 | www.gasthaus-stern-oberammergau.de | Closed Wed.\n\nHotel Alte Post.  \nGERMAN | You can enjoy carefully prepared local cuisine, including several venison and boar dishes, at the original pine tables in this 350-year-old inn. There's a special children's menu, and, in summer, meals are also served in the beer garden. The front terrace of this delightful old building is a great place to watch traffic, both pedestrian and automotive. A part of the caf\u00e9 has been reserved for web surfing. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Dorfstr. 19 | 08822/9100 | www.altepost.com | Closed Nov.\u2013mid-Dec.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nGasthof zur Rose.  \nB&B/INN | Everything is pretty rustic in this spacious remodeled barn, but the welcome and hospitality are genuine and gracious, even for Bavarian standards. The 19 rooms are pretty basic. The family-run restaurant serves some of the best Semmelkn\u00f6del (bread dumplings) in Germany. Pros: quiet; affordable; right off the city center; friendly service. Cons: rustic and worn; few amenities. | Rooms from: \u20ac80 | Dedlerstr. 9 | 08822/4706 | www.rose-oberammergau.de | 19 rooms | No credit cards | Restaurant closed Mon. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Landhaus Feldmeier.  \nHOTEL | This quiet family-run hotel, idyllically set just outside the village, has mostly spacious rooms with modern pinewood furniture. All have geranium-bedecked balconies, with views of the village and mountains. The rustic restaurant ($$) is one of the region's best. You can dine on the sunny, covered terrace in summer. Only hotel guests can use credit cards in the restaurant. Pros: small and distinguished; quiet; Internet access in the rooms. Cons: outside the city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | Ettalerstr. 29 | 08822/3011 | www.hotel-feldmeier.de | 27 rooms, 4 apartments | Closed mid-Nov.\u2013mid-Dec. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Turmwirt.  \nHOTEL | Rich wood paneling reaches from floor to ceiling in this transformed 18th-century inn, set in the shadow of Oberammergau's mountain, the Kofel. The hotel's own band presents regular folk evenings in the sizeable breakfast room. The Ammergauer Pfanne, a combination of meats and sauces, will take care of even industrial-size hunger. Rooms have corner lounge areas, and most come with balconies and sweeping mountain views. Prices are based on length of stay, so you'll pay less if you stay longer. Pros: great for families with children. Cons: service can be brusque; nearby church bells ring every 15 minutes. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Ettalerstr. 2 | 08822/92600 | www.turmwirt.de | 22 rooms, 1 suite | Closed 1 wk in early Dec. | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nThough the Passion Play theater was traditionally not used for anything other than the Passion Play (next performance, 2020), Oberammergauers decided that using it for opera or other theatrical events during the 10-year pause between the religious performances might be a good idea. The first performances of Verdi's Nabucco and Mozart's Magic Flute in 2002 established a new tradition. Other passion plays are also performed here. Ticket prices are between around \u20ac19 and \u20ac50.\n\nOberammergau Passionsspielhaus.  \nThis immense theater is where the Passion Play is performed. Visitors are given a glimpse of the costumes, the sceneries, the stage, and even the auditorium. TIP The Combi-ticket for the Oberammergau Museum, Pilatushaus, and the Passionsmuseum costs \u20ac6. | Passionstheater, Passionswiese, Theaterstr. 16 | 08822/945\u20138888 for tickets for performances, 08822/94136 for tickets for guided tour | www.oberammergaumuseum.de; www.passionstheater.de | \u20ac6 | Mar. 23\u2013Nov. 3 and Dec. 23\u2013Jan. 6, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Nov. 30\u2013Dec. 23, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20131.\n\nPassion Play.  \nOberammergau is best known for its Passion Play, first presented in 1634 as an offering of thanks after the Black Death stopped just short of the village. In faithful accordance with a solemn vow, it will next be performed in the year 2020, as it has every 10 years since 1680. Its 16 acts, which take 5\u00bd hours, depict the final days of Christ, from the Last Supper through the Crucifixion and Resurrection. It's presented daily on a partly open-air stage against a mountain backdrop from late May to late September. The entire village is swept up in the production, with some 1,500 residents directly involved in its preparation and presentation. Men grow beards in the hope of capturing a key role; young women have been known to put off their weddings\u2014the role of Mary went only to unmarried girls until 1990, when, amid much local controversy, a 31-year-old mother of two was given the part. | Passionstheater, Theaterstr. 16 | www.passionstheater.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Bicycling\n\nIt's easy to bike to Schloss Linderhof (14 km) and to Ettal (4 km) along the scenic paths along the river, where there are several good places to go swimming and have a picnic. The trail to Ettal branches off in the direction of Linderhof (marked as Graswang) where it becomes part of an old forestry road. Take the branch of the Ettal path that goes via the Ettaler-M\u00fchle (Ettal Mill); it's quieter, the river is filled with trout, and the people you meet along the way give a friendly Gr\u00fcss Gott! (Greet God!). The path opens up at a local-heavy restaurant with fantastic views of the Kloster.\n\nSport-Zentrale Papistock.  \nThis outfit rents bikes for \u20ac10 per day. They are located across the street from the train station, directly at the trailhead to Ettal and Linderhof. | Bahnhofstr. 6a | 08822/4178 | www.sportzentrale-papistock.de | Closed Sun.\n\n## Mittenwald\n\n20 km (12 miles) southeast of Garmisch, 105 km (66 miles) south of Munich.\n\nMany regard Mittenwald as the most beautiful town in the Bavarian Alps. It has somehow avoided the architectural sins found in other Alpine villages by maintaining a balance between conservation and the needs of tourism. Its medieval prosperity is reflected on its main street, Obermarkt, which has splendid houses with ornately carved gables and brilliantly painted facades. Goethe called it \"a picture book come alive,\" and it still is. The town has even re-created the stream that once flowed through the market square. In the Middle Ages, Mittenwald was the staging point for goods shipped from the wealthy city-state of Venice by way of the Brenner Pass and Innsbruck. From Mittenwald, goods were transferred to rafts, which carried them down the Isar River to Munich. By the mid-17th century the international trade routes shifted to a different pass, and the fortunes of Mittenwald evaporated.\n\nIn 1684 Matthias Klotz, a farmer's son turned master violin maker, returned from a 20-year stay in Cremona, Italy. There, along with Antonio Stradivari, he studied under Nicolo Amati, who developed the modern violin. Klotz taught the art of violin making to his brothers and friends and before long, half the men in the village were crafting the instruments, using woods from neighboring forests. Mittenwald became known as the Village of a Thousand Violins and the locally crafted instruments are still treasured around the world. In the right weather\u2014sunny, dry\u2014you may even catch the odd sight of laundry lines hung with new violins out to receive their natural dark hue. The violin has made Mittenwald a small cultural oasis in the middle of the Alps. Not only is there an annual violin- (and viola-, cello-, and bow-) building contest each year in June, with concerts and lectures, but also an organ festival in the church of St. Peter and St. Paul held from the end of July to the end of September. The town also boasts a violin-making school.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe B-11 connects Mittenwald with Garmisch. Mittenwald is last stop on the Munich-Garmisch train line.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist Information Mittenwald. | Dammkarstr. 3 | 08823/33981 | www.alpenwelt-karwendel.de/mittenwald.\n\n### Exploring\n\nThe Geigenbaumuseum.  \nThe local museum describes in fascinating detail the history of violin making in Mittenwald. Ask the museum curator to direct you to the nearest of several violin makers\u2014they'll be happy to demonstrate the skills handed down to them. | Ballenhausg. 3 | 08823/2511 | www.geigenbaumuseum-mittenwald.de | \u20ac4.50 | Early Feb\u2013mid-Mar., mid-May\u2013mid-Oct., and early Dec.\u2013early Jan., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; early Jan.\u2013late Jan., mid-Mar.\u2013mid-May, and mid-Oct.\u2013early Nov., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20134.\n\nSt. Peter and St. Paul Church.  \nOn the back of the altar in this 18th-century church (as in Oberammergau, built by Josef Schmutzer and decorated by Matth\u00e4us G\u00fcnther), you'll find Matthias Klotz's name, carved there by the violin maker himself. TIP Note that on some of the ceiling frescoes, the angels are playing violins, violas da gamba, and lutes. In front of the church, Klotz is memorialized as an artist at work in vivid bronze sculpted by Ferdinand von Miller (1813\u201379), creator of the mighty Bavaria Monument in Munich. The church, with its elaborate and joyful stuccowork coiling and curling its way around the interior, is one of the most important rococo structures in Bavaria. Note its Gothic choir loft, added in the 18th century. The bold frescoes on its exterior are characteristic of L\u00fcftlmalerei, where images, usually religious motifs, were painted on the wet stucco exteriors of houses and churches. On nearby streets you can see other fine examples on the facades of three famous houses: the Goethehaus, the Pilgerhaus, and the Pichlerhaus. Among the artists working here was the great Franz Seraph Zwinck. | Ballenhausg., next to Geigenbaumuseum.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nArnspitze.  \nEUROPEAN | Get a table at the large picture window and soak in the views of the towering Karwendel mountain range as you ponder a menu that combines the best traditional ingredients with international touches. Chef and owner Herbert Wipfelder looks beyond the edge of his plate all the way to Asia, if need be, to find inspiration. The fish pot-au-feu has a Mediterranean flair; the jugged hare in red wine is truly Bavarian. The restaurant also offers accommodations in a separate house. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Innsbrucker Str. 68 | 08823/2425 | www.arnspitze-mittenwald.de | Closed Nov.\u2013mid-Dec., and Tues. and Wed.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAlpenrose.  \nHOTEL | Once part of a monastery and later given one of the town's most beautiful painted baroque facades, the Alpenrose is one of the area's handsomest hotels. The typical Bavarian bedrooms and public rooms have lots of wood paneling, farmhouse cupboards, and finely woven fabrics. The restaurant ($) is famous for featuring venison dishes the entire month of October. A zither player strums away most evenings in the Josefi wine cellar. Pros: great German decor; friendly staff. Cons: some rooms are cramped; accommodations can get warm in summer. | Rooms from: \u20ac76 | Obermarkt 1 | 08823/92700 | www.hotel-alpenrose-mittenwald.de | 16 rooms, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nBichlerhof.  \nHOTEL | Carved oak furniture gives the rooms of this Alpine-style hotel a solid German feel. A breakfast buffet is served until 11 am and will keep the hardiest hiker going all day. Although the restaurant serves only breakfast, there's no shortage of taverns in the area. Most guest rooms have mountain views. Pros: amazing views; well-kept spa area. Cons: disorganized reservation system; built to look traditionally Bavarian, but is actually only 30 years old. | Rooms from: \u20ac74 | Adolf-Baader-Str. 5 | 08823/9190 | www.bichlerhof-mittenwald.de | 30 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nGasthof Stern.  \nB&B/INN | This white house with brilliant blue shutters is right in the middle of Mittenwald. The painted furniture is not antique, but reminiscent of old peasant Bavaria, and the featherbeds are incredibly soft. Locals meet in the dining room ($) for loud conversation, and the beer garden is a pleasant, familial place to while away the hours with a Bauernschmaus, a plate of sausage with sauerkraut and homemade liver dumplings. The restaurant is closed Thursday. More than one night at the inn makes the price cheaper. Pros: friendly service; clean, basic hotel with a great beer garden. Cons: needs a renovation; upper rooms warm in summer; credit cards not accepted. | Rooms from: \u20ac70 | Fritz-Pl\u00f6ssl-Pl. 2 | 08823/8358 | www.stern-mittenwald.de | 5 rooms | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\nPost.  \nHOTEL | The hotel retains much of its historic charm\u2014stagecoaches carrying travelers and mail across the Alps stopped here as far back as the 17th century\u2014though the elegant rooms come in various styles, from modern to art nouveau to Bavarian rustic. The indoor swimming pool has views of the Karwendel peaks, and a small rose garden is an inviting spot for coffee and cake. Excellent Bavarian fare such as roasts and great Semmelkn\u00f6del (bread dumplings) is served in the wine tavern or at the low-beam Postklause ($) Pros: art-nouveau rooms in the back. Cons: no elevator; street noise in the evening. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Obermarkt 9 | 08823/938\u20132333 | www.posthotel-mittenwald.de | 74 rooms, 7 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nMittenwald lies literally in the shadow of the mighty Karwendel Alpine range, which rises to a height of nearly 8,000 feet. There are a number of small lakes in the hills surrounding Mittenwald. You can either walk to the closer ones or rent bikes and adventure farther afield. The information center across the street from the train station has maps, and they can help you select a route.\n\nThe Dammkar run is nearly 8 km (5 miles) long and offers some of the best free-riding skiing, telemarking, and snowboarding in the German Alps.\n\nErste Schischule Mittenwald.  \nSkiers, cross-country and downhill, and snowboarders can find all they need, including equipment and instruction, at the Erste Schischule Mittenwald. | Bahnhofspl. 14 | 08823/3582 | www.skischule-mittenwald.de.\n\nKarwendelbahn cable car.  \nThe cable car carries hikers and skiers to a height of 7,180 feet, the beginning of numerous trails down, or farther up into the Karwendel range. | Karwendelbahn, Alpenkorpsstr. 1 | 08823/937\u20136760 | www.karwendelbahn.de | \u20ac15 one-way, \u20ac24 round-trip | May\u2013Oct., daily 8:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr. 9\u20134.\n\n### Shopping\n\nIt's not the kind of gift every visitor wants to take home, but if you'd like a violin, a cello, or even a double bass, the Alpine resort of Mittenwald can oblige. There are more than 30 craftspeople whose work is coveted by musicians throughout the world.\n\nAnton Maller.  \nIf you're buying or even just feeling curious, call on Anton Maller. He's been making violins and other stringed instruments for more than 25 years. | Obermarkt 2 | 08823/5865 | www.violin-maller.de.\n\nGabriele Schneider's SchokoLaden.  \nFind out where all the milk from the local cows goes with a visit to Gabriele Schneider's SchokoLaden, a homemade-chocolate shop. | Obermarkt 42 | 08823/938\u2013939 | www.schokoladen-mittenwald.de.\n\nTrachten Werner.  \nFor traditional Bavarian costumes\u2014dirndls, embroidered shirts and blouses, and lederhosen\u2014try Trachten Werner. | Obermarkt 39 | 08823/8282 | www.trachten-werner.de | Closed Mon.\u2013Thurs.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nBad T\u00f6lz | Tegernsee | Bayrischzell | Chiemsee\n\nWith its rolling hills and serene lakes in the shadow of the Alpine peaks, the Chiemgau is a natural paradise and a good transition to the Alps. The main attraction is, without a doubt, the Chiemsee with the amazing palace on the Herreninsel, the biggest of the islands on the lake. The area is dotted with clear blue lakes and, although tourism is fairly well established, you'll feel that you have much of the area all to yourself. Beer lovers flock to the Tegernsee and relax afterward in the iodine spa in Bad T\u00f6lz.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Bad T\u00f6lz\n\n14 km (8 miles) north of Sylvenstein Lake, 48 km (30 miles) south of Munich.\n\nBad T\u00f6lz's new town, dating from the mid-19th century, sprang up with the discovery of iodine-laden springs, which allowed the locals to call their town Bad (bath or spa) T\u00f6lz. You can take the waters, either by drinking a cupful from the local springs or going all the way with a full course of health treatments at a specially equipped hotel. TIP If you can, visit on a Friday morning, when a farmers' market stretches along the main street to the Isar River and on the Jungmayr-Fritzplatz.\n\nThis town clings to its ancient customs more tightly than any other Bavarian community. It is not uncommon to see people wearing traditional clothing as their daily dress. If you're in Bad T\u00f6lz on November 6, you'll witness one of the most colorful traditions of the Bavarian Alpine area: the Leonhardiritt equestrian procession, which marks the anniversary of the death in 559 of St. Leonhard of Noblac, the patron saint of animals, specifically horses. The procession ends north of town at an 18th-century chapel on the Kalvarienberg, above the Isar River.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBad T\u00f6lz is on the B-472, which connects to the A-8 to Munich. Hourly trains link Bad T\u00f6lz with Munich. Bad T\u00f6lz is easily walkable and has frequent city-bus services.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBad T\u00f6lz Tourist-Information. | Max-H\u00f6fler-Pl. 1 | 08041/78670 | www.bad-toelz.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nThe Alpamare.  \nBad T\u00f6lz's very attractive spa complex pumps spa water into its pools, one of which is disguised as a South Sea beach complete with surf. Its five waterslides include a 1,082-foot-long adventure run. Another\u2014the Alpa-Canyon\u2014has 90-degree drops, and only the hardiest swimmers are advised to try it. A nightmarish dark tunnel is aptly named the Thriller. There is a complex price structure, depending on time spent in the spa and other wellness activities for the various individual attractions, or combo tickets for more than one. | Ludwigstr. 14 | 08041/509\u2013999 | www.alpamare.de | \u20ac29 4-hr ticket, \u20ac27 till 11 am, \u20ac23 after 5 pm | Daily 9:30 am\u201310 pm.\n\nThe Stadtmuseum.  \nLocated in the Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall), you'll find many fine examples of Bauernm\u00f6bel (farmhouse furniture), as well as a fascinating exhibit on the history of the town and its environs. | Marktstr. 48 | 08041/793\u20135156 | www.bad-toelz.de | \u20ac4 | Late Nov.\u2013late Dec., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Jan.\u2013late Nov., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Jodquellenhof-Alpamare.  \nRESORT | The Jodquellen are the iodine springs that have made Bad T\u00f6lz wealthy. You can take advantage of these revitalizing waters at this luxurious spa, where the emphasis is on fitness. Vegetarian and low-calorie entr\u00e9es are served in the restaurant ($$$). The imposing 19th-century building, with private access to the Alpamare Lido (water park), contains stylish rooms with granite and marble bathrooms. Rate includes full use of the spa facilities. There are discounts for children. Pros: elegant hotel; free access to the spa. Cons: busy during local school holidays. | Rooms from: \u20ac199 | Ludwigstr. 13\u201315 | 08041/5090 | www.jodquellenhof.com | 71 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Kolbergarten.  \nHOTEL | Located right near the Old Town and surrounded by a quiet garden with old trees, this hotel offers comfortable rooms, each carefully done in a particular style such as baroque or Biedermeier. The grand restaurant ($$) in fin de si\u00e8cle style offers a wide range of gourmet dishes created by the Viennese chef Johann Mikschy, from sashimi of yellowfin tuna, to veal boiled with grape leaves. The wine list will take you around the world. Pros: large clean rooms; staff is great with children. Cons: often fully booked. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | Fr\u00f6hlichg. 5 | 08041/78920 | www.hotel-kolbergarten.de | 12 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nBoys' choir.  \nBad T\u00f6lz is world renowned for its outstanding boys' choir. When not on tour, the choir gives regular concerts in the Kurhaus. Check the Bad T\u00f6lz website for details. | Kurhaus Bad T\u00f6lz, Ludwigstr. 25 | www.bad-toelz.de.\n\nTanzBar KULT.  \nTanzBar KULT has a rather wide range of themes, and it features live music in the terrific setting of an old brewery, with barrel vaults and painted brick walls. | Wachterstr. 19 | 08041/799\u20133699 | www.kult-toelz.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nFAMILY | Blomberg.  \nBad T\u00f6lz's local mountain, the Blomberg, 3 km (2 miles) west of town, has moderately difficult ski runs and can also be tackled on a toboggan in winter and on a luge in summer. The winter run of 5 km (3 miles) is the longest in Bavaria. The concrete summer luge-run snakes 3,938 feet down the mountain and is great fun; you'll want the three-ride ticket. A ski-lift ride to the start of the run and toboggan or roller luge are included in the price. | 08041/3726 | www.blombergbahn.de | Winter tobogganing from Nov. (weather permitting), daily 9\u20134; summer tobogganing, daily 10\u20134; check website for skiing.\n\n### Shopping\n\nBad T\u00f6lz is famous for its painted furniture, particularly farmhouse cupboards and chests. Several local shops specialize in this type of Bauernm\u00f6bel (farmhouse furniture, usually hand carved from pine) and will usually handle export formalities. Ask at your hotel or tourist-information center for a recommendation on where to shop.\n\nAntiquit\u00e4ten Schwarzw\u00e4lder.  \nFor traditional Bauernm\u00f6bel furniture, try Antiquit\u00e4ten Schwarzw\u00e4lder. | Badstr. 2 | 08041/41222 | www.antiquitaeten-schwarzwaelder.de.\n\n## Tegernsee\n\n16 km (10 miles) east of Bad T\u00f6lz, 50 km (31 miles) south of Munich.\n\nThe beautiful shores of the Tegernsee are among the most expensive property in all of Germany. The interest in the region shown by King Maximilian I of Bavaria at the beginning of the 19th century attracted VIPs and artists, which led to a boom that has never really faded. Most accommodations and restaurants, however, still have reasonable prices, and there are plenty of activities for everyone. Tegernsee's wooded shores, rising gently to scalable mountain peaks of no more than 6,300 feet, invite hikers, walkers, and picnicking families. The lake itself draws swimmers and yachters. In fall the russet-clad trees provide a colorful contrast to the snowcapped mountains. Beer lovers are drawn to Tegernsee by one of the best breweries in Europe. There are three main towns on the lake: Tegernsee, Rottach-Egern, and Bad Wiessee.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe best way to reach all three towns is to take the BOB train from Munich to Tegernsee (hourly) and then take a boat ride on one of the eight boats that circle the lake year-round. The boats dock near the Tegernsee train station and make frequent stops, including stops at the Benedictine monastery in Tegernsee, in Rottach-Egern, and in Bad Wiessee. The monastery is a pleasant half-mile walk from the train station. Buses connect Tegernsee to Bad T\u00f6lz.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nRottach-Egern/Tegernsee Tourist Information. | Hauptstr. 2 | 08022/180\u2013140 | www.tegernsee.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBenedictine monastery.  \nOn the eastern shore of the lake, the laid-back town of Tegernsee is home to this large Benedictine monastary. Founded in the 8th century, this was one of the most productive cultural centers in southern Germany; the Minnes\u00e4nger (wandering lyrical poets) Walther von der Vogelweide (1170\u20131230) was a welcome guest. Not so welcome were Magyar invaders, who laid waste to the monastery in the 10th century. During the Middle Ages the monastery made a lively business producing stained-glass windows, thanks to a nearby quartz quarry, and in the 16th century it became a major center of printing. The late-Gothic church was refurbished in Italian baroque style in the 18th century. The frescoes are by Hans Georg Asam, whose work also graces the Benediktbeuren monastery in Bavaria. Secularization sealed the monastery's fate at the beginning of the 19th century: almost half the buildings were torn down. Maximilian I bought the surviving ones and had Leo von Klenze redo them for use as a summer retreat.\n\nToday there is a high school on the property, and students write their exams beneath inspiring baroque frescoes in what had been the monastery. The Herzogliches Br\u00e4ust\u00fcberl, a brewery and beer hall, is also on site. TIP Try a Mass (a liter-size mug) of their legendary Tergernseer Helles or Spezial beer. | Schlosspl.\n\nThe Grosses Paraplui.  \nMaximilian showed off this corner of his kingdom to Czar Alexander I of Russia and Emperor Franz I of Austria during their journey to the Congress of Verona in October 1821. You can follow their steps through the woods to the Grosses Paraplui, one of the loveliest lookout points in Bavaria. A plaque marks the spot where they admired the open expanse of the Tegernsee and the mountains beyond. The path starts opposite Schlossplatz in Tegernsee town and is well marked. | Schlosspl.\n\nThe Olaf Gulbransson Museum.  \nThis museum is devoted to the Norwegian painter Olaf Gulbrannson, who went to Munich in 1902 and worked as a caricaturist for the satirical magazine Simplicissimus. His poignant caricatures and numerous works of satire depict noisy politicians and snooty social upper-crusters as well as other subjects. The museum is housed in a discreet modern building set back from the main lakeside road of Tegernsee. | Im Kurgarten 5 | 08022/3338 | www.olaf-gulbransson-museum.de | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBoutique Hotel Relais-Chalet Wilhelmy.  \nGERMAN | Although everything is modern, this inn in Bad Wiessee takes you back to a less-frantic era. Classical music accompanies unpretentious yet tasty meals. Try the fish specialties or the light guinea fowl with herb rice and enjoy tea and cake in the little garden. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Freihausstr. 15 | Bad Wiessee | 08022/98680.\n\nFreihaus Brenner.  \nEUROPEAN | Proprietor Josef Brenner has brought a taste of nouvelle cuisine to the Tegernsee. His attractive restaurant commands fine views from high above Bad Wiessee. Try any of his suggested dishes, ranging from roast pheasant in wine sauce to fresh lake fish. There are flexible portion sizes for smaller appetites. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Freihaus 4 | Bad Wiessee | 08022/86560 | www.freihaus-brenner.de.\n\nHerzogliches Br\u00e4ust\u00fcberl.  \nGERMAN | Once part of Tegernsee's Benedictine monastery, then a royal retreat, the Br\u00e4ust\u00fcberl is now an immensely popular beer hall and brewery. The tasty Bavarian snacks (sausages, pretzels, all the way up to steak tartare), all under \u20ac10, can't be beat. Next to here, more-substantial fare can be had in the adjoining Schlossbrennerei (www.tegernseer-schlossrestaurant.de). In summer, quaff your beer beneath the huge chestnut trees and admire the delightful view of the lake and mountains. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Schlosspl. 1 | 08022/4141 for Br\u00e4ust\u00fcberl, 08022/4560 for Schlossbrennerei | www.braustuberl.de | Reservations not accepted | No credit cards | Closed Mon.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nDas Tegernsee Hotel & Spa.  \nHOTEL | The elegant, turreted Hotel Tegernsee and its two spacious annexes sit high above the Tegernsee, backed by the wooded slopes of Neureuth Mountain. Rooms overlooking the lake are in demand despite their relatively high cost, so book early. All guests can enjoy panoramic views of the lake and mountains from the extensive terrace fronting the main building. You can dine in the hotel's stylish little restaurant ($$$) or the cozy tavern. The extensive spa includes a heavenly musical tub and a colored-light and aroma solarium. Pros: hotel in almost mint condition due to renovations completed in 2009; historical elegance; Czar Nicholas I was a frequent guest; great views. Cons: a little away from the hub of the town. | Rooms from: \u20ac159 | Neureuthstr. 23 | 08022/1820 | www.dastegernsee.de | 63 rooms, 10 suites | Breakfast.\n\nSeehotel Zur Post.  \nHOTEL | The lake views from most rooms are somewhat compromised by the main road outside, but a central location, a winter garden, a terrace, and a little beer garden are pluses. The restaurant ($), with a panoramic view of the mountains and the lake, serves fresh fish and seasonal dishes; the \"venison weeks\" draw diners from far and wide. Pros: great views; friendly service; excellent breakfast. Cons: the property is a little old fashioned and could do with an update. | Rooms from: \u20ac55 | Seestr. 3 | 08022/66550 | www.seehotel-zur-post.de | 43 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nEvery resort has its spa orchestra\u2014in summer they play daily in the music-box-style bandstands that dot the lakeside promenades. A strong Tegernsee tradition is the summer-long program of festivals, some set deep in the forest. Tegernsee's lake festival in August, when sailing clubs deck their boats with garlands and lanterns, is an unforgettable experience.\n\nCasino.  \nBad Wiessee's casino lies near the entrance of town coming from Gmund. The main playing rooms are open daily from 3 pm, and it is the biggest and liveliest venue in town for the after-dark scene. | Spielbank Bad Wiessee, Winner 1 | Bad Wiessee | 08022/98350 | www.spielbanken-bayern.de/wDeutsch/wiessee/.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nTourist Information Tegernsee.  \nContact the tourist office in the town of Tegernsee for hiking maps. | Hauptstr. 2 | Bad Wiessee | 08022/180\u2013140 | www.tegernsee.de.\n\nWallberg.  \nFor the best vista in the area, climb the Wallberg, the 5,700-foot mountain at the south end of the Tegernsee. It's a hard four-hour hike or a short 15-minute cable-car ride up (\u20ac10 one-way, \u20ac18 round-trip). At the summit are a restaurant and sun terrace and several trailheads; in winter the skiing is excellent. | Wallbergbahn, Wallbergstr. 28 | Rottach-Egern | www.wallbergbahn.de.\n\n#### Golf\n\nTegernseer Golf-Club e.V.  \nBesides swimming, hiking, and skiing, the Tegernsee area has become a fine place for golfing. The Tegernseer Golfclub e. V. has an 18-hole course overlooking the lake with a clubhouse and excellent restaurant. It also has fine apartments for rent. | Rohbognerhof | Bad Wiessee | 08022/271\u2013130 | www.tegernseer-golf-club.de.\n\nGreif.  \nGreif has a fine selection of tastefully modern Bavarian fashions and a large stock of handwoven fabrics that you can either buy outright or have fitted into clothing. | N\u00f6rdliche Hauptstr. 24 | Rottach-Egern | 08022/5540 | www.trachten-greif.de.\n\n## Bayrischzell\n\n10 km (6 miles) east of Schliersee, 65 km (40 miles) southeast of Munich.\n\nBayrischzell is in an attractive family-resort area and is much quieter than Spitzingsee. The wide-open slopes of the Sudelfeld Mountain are ideal for carefree skiing; in summer and fall you can explore countless upland walking trails. Access to the Sudelfeld area costs \u20ac2 per car.\n\nThe town sits at the end of a wide valley overlooked by the 6,000-foot Wendelstein mountain, which draws expert skiers. At its summit is a tiny stone-and-slate-roof chapel that's much in demand for wedding ceremonies. The cross above the entrance was carried up the mountain by Max Kleiber, who designed the 19th-century church. An instructive geopark, laid out beneath the summit, explains the 250-million-year geological history of the area on 36 graphic signboards. You can reach the summit from two directions: the cable car sets out from Osterhofen on the Bayrischzell-Munich road and costs \u20ac17.50 round-trip, \u20ac11 one-way (its last descent is at 4 pm). The cable car closes for two weeks in mid-April. The historic cog railway leaves from Brannenburg, on the north side of the mountain, between Bayrischzell and the Inn Valley autobahn, and a one-way trip costs \u20ac15. The cog is closed in November and the first three weeks of December. TIP A round-trip, combination ticket, with trips on both the cable car and the cog, costs \u20ac24.50.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBayrischzell Tourist Information. | Kirchpl. 2 | 08023/648 | www.bayrischzell.de.\n\n## Chiemsee\n\n80 km (50 miles) southeast of Munich, 120 km (75 miles) northeast of Garmisch-Partenkirchen.\n\nChiemsee is north of the Deutsche Alpenstrasse, but it demands a detour, if only to visit King Ludwig's huge palace on one of its idyllic islands. It's the largest Bavarian lake, and although it's surrounded by reedy flatlands, the nearby mountains provide a majestic backdrop. The town of Prien is the lake's principal resort. TIP The tourist offices of Prien and Aschau offer a \u20ac26 transportation package covering a boat trip, a round-trip rail ticket between the two resorts, and a round-trip ride by cable car to the top of Kampen Mountain, above Aschau.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nPrien is the best jumping-off point for exploring the Chiemsee. Frequent trains connect Prien with Munich and Salzburg. The regional trains are met by a narrow-gauge steam train for the short trip to Prien-Stock, the boat dock. The only way to reach the Herreninsel and the Fraueninsel is by boat.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nChiemsee Infocenter. | Felden 10, | Bernau am Chiemsee | 08051/96555\u20130 | www.chiemsee-alpenland.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFraueninsel.  \nBoats going between Stock and Herrenchiemsee Island also call at this small retreat known as Ladies' Island. The Benedictine convent there, founded 1,200 years ago, now serves as a school. One of its earliest abbesses, Irmengard, daughter of King Ludwig der Deutsche, died here in the 9th century. Her grave in the convent chapel was discovered in 1961, the same year that early frescoes there were brought to light. The chapel is open daily from dawn to dusk. Otherwise, the island has just a few private houses, a couple of shops, and a hotel. TIP The Benedictine Sisters make delicious fruit liqueurs and marzipan. | Fraueninsel | Chiemsee | www.frauenwoerth.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss Herrenchiemsee.  \nDespite its distance from Munich, the beautiful Chiemsee drew Bavarian royalty to its shores. Its dreamlike, melancholy air caught the imagination of King Ludwig II, and it was on one of the lake's three islands that he built Schloss Herrenchiemsee, his third and last castle. The palace was modeled after Louis XIV's Versailles, but this was due to more than simple admiration: Ludwig, whose name was the German equivalent of Louis, was keen to establish that he, too, possessed the absolute authority of his namesake, the Sun King. As with most of Ludwig's projects, the building was never completed, and Ludwig spent only nine days in the castle. Moreover, Herrenchiemsee helped empty the state coffers and Ludwig's private ones as well. The gold leaf that seems to cover more than half of the rooms is especially thin. Nonetheless, what remains is impressive\u2014and ostentatious. Regular ferries out to the island depart from Stock, Prien's harbor. If you want to make the journey in style, board the original 1887 steam train from Prien to Stock to pick up the ferry. A horse-drawn carriage (\u20ac3) takes you from the boat dock to the palace itself.\n\nMost spectacular is the Hall of Mirrors, a dazzling gallery where candlelit concerts are held in summer. Also of interest are the ornate bedrooms Ludwig planned, the \"self-rising\" table that ascended from the kitchen quarters, the elaborately painted bathroom with a small pool for a tub, and the formal gardens. The south wing houses a museum containing Ludwig's christening robe and death mask, as well as other artifacts of his life. While the palace was being built, Ludwig stayed in a royal suite of apartments in a former monastery building on the island, the Altes Schloss. Germany's postwar constitution was drawn up here in 1948, and this episode of the country's history is the centerpiece of the museum housed in the ancient building, the Museum im Alten Schloss. | Schloss Herrenchiemsee, Herrenchiemsee | Chiemsee | 08051/68870 palace | www.herren-chiemsee.de | Palace, including Museum im Alten Schloss \u20ac8 | Apr.\u2013late Oct., daily 9\u20136; late Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134:45; English-language palace tours daily; once per hr.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Amerang.  \nThere are two interesting museums in this town northwest of Chiemsee. | Wasserburger Str. 11 | Amerang | www.amerang.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Luitpold am See.  \nHOTEL | Boats to the Chiemsee islands tie up right outside your window at this handsome old Prien hotel, which organizes shipboard disco evenings as part of its entertainment program. Rooms have either traditional pinewood furniture, including carved cupboards and bedsteads, or are modern and sleek (in the new annex). Fish from the lake is served at the pleasant restaurant ($) Pros: directly on the lake (though the sister property is 328 feet away); \"limousine service\" offers pick-up from Munich airport for \u20ac100. Cons: near a busy boat dock. | Rooms from: \u20ac82 | Seestr. 110 | Prien am Chiemsee | 08051/609\u2013100 | www.luitpold-am-see.de | 54 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nInselhotel zur Linde.  \nHOTEL | Catch a boat to this enchanting inn on the car-free Fraueninsel for dinner: but remember, if you miss the last connection to the mainland (at 9 pm), you'll have to stay the night. The island is by and large a credit-card-free zone, so be sure to bring cash. Rooms are simply furnished and decorated with brightly colored fabrics. The Linde is one of Bavaria's oldest hotels, founded in 1396 as a refuge for pilgrims. Artists have favored the inn for years, and one of the tables in the small Fischerst\u00fcberl dining room ($) is reserved for them. This is the best place to try fish from the lake. Pros: set in lush gardens; nice beer garden. Cons: the Fraueninsel isn't exactly famous for its nightlife. | Rooms from: \u20ac126 | Fraueninsel | Chiemsee | 08054/90366 | www.linde-frauenchiemsee.de | 14 rooms | Closed mid-Jan.\u2013mid-Mar. | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nChiemsee Golf-Club Prien e.V.  \nThe gentle hills of the region are ideal for golf. Chiemsee Golf-Club Prien e.V., in Prien, has a year-round 9-hole course. | Bauernberg 5 | 08051/62215 | www.cgc-prien.de.\n\nSportLukas.  \nEquipment can be provided for any kind of sport imaginable, from skiing to kayaking, climbing to curling, and it organizes tours. | Hauptstr. 3 | Schleching | 08649/243 | www.sportlukas.de.\n\nSurfschule Chiemsee.  \nFor those wanting to learn windsurfing or to extend their skills, the Surfschule Chiemsee provides lessons and offers a package deal including board, stand up paddling, and bike rentals. | Surfschule Bernau am Chiemsee, Rasthausstr. 11 | Bernau | 08051/8877 | www.surfschule-chiemsee.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nBad Reichenhall | Berchtesgaden | Berchtesgaden National Park\n\nBerchtesgadener Land is the Alps at their most dramatic and most notorious. Although some points are higher, the steep cliffs, hidden mountain lakes, and protected biospheres make the area uniquely beautiful. The salt trade brought medieval Berchtesgaden and Bad Reichenhall incredible wealth, which is still apparent in the large collection of antique houses and quaint streets. Bad Reichenhall is an impressive center of German spa culture. Berchtesgaden's image is a bit tarnished by its most infamous historical resident, Adolf Hitler. Berchtesgaden National Park is a hiker's dream, and the resounding echo of the trumpet on the K\u00f6nigssee shouldn't be missed.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Bad Reichenhall\n\n60 km (30 miles) east of Prien, 20 km (12 miles) west of Salzburg.\n\nBad Reichenhall is remarkably well located, near the mountains for hiking and skiing, and near Salzburg in Austria for a lively cultural scene. The town shares a remote corner of Bavaria with another prominent resort, Berchtesgaden. Although the latter is more famous, Bad Reichenhall is older, with saline springs that made the town rich. Salt is so much a part of the town that you can practically taste it in the air. Europe's largest source of brine was first tapped here in pre-Christian times; salt mining during the Middle Ages supported the economies of cities as far away as Munich and Passau. The town prospered from a spa in the early 20th century. Lately, it has successfully recycled itself from a somewhat sleepy and stodgy \"cure town\" to a modern, attractive center of wellness.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBad Reichenhall is well connected to Berchtesgaden and Salzburg Hauptbahnhof once every hour. The hourly trains to Munich require a change in Freilassing. To reach the B\u00fcrgerbr\u00e4u and the Predigtstuhl cable car, take Bus No. 180 and Bus No. 841 to K\u00f6nigssee.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Info Bad Reichenhall. | Wittelsbacherstr. 15 | 08651/6060 | www.bad-reichenhall.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nThe Alte Saline und Quellenhaus.  \nIn the early 19th century King Ludwig I built this elaborate saltworks and spa house, in vaulted, pseudomedieval style. The pump installations, which still run, are astonishing examples of 19th-century engineering. A \"saline\" chapel is part of the spa's facilities, and was built in exotic Byzantine style. An interesting museum in the same complex looks at the history of the salt trade. | Alte Saline 9 | 08651/700\u20132146 | www.alte-saline-bad-reichenhall.de | \u20ac7.50, combined ticket with Berchtesgaden's salt mine \u20ac19 | May\u2013Oct., daily 10\u201311:30 and 2\u20134; Nov.\u2013Apr., Tues., Fri., and 1st Sun. in the month 2\u20134.\n\nPredigtstuhl.  \nThe pride and joy of the Reichenhallers is the steep, craggy mountain appropriately named the Preacher's Pulpit, which stands at 5,164 feet, southeast of town. A ride to the top offers a splendid view of the area. You can hike, ski in winter, or just enjoy a bite to eat and drink at the Alm\u00fctte Schlegemuldel ($), 15 minutes from the cable car station. The cable-car ride costs \u20ac11 one-way, \u20ac18 round-trip. Departures begin at 9:30 am and continue (as needed) until the last person is off the mountain. The hotel is closed in winter. | S\u00fcdtiroler Pl. 1 | 08651/2127 | www.predigtstuhl-bahn.de.\n\nRupertus Therme.  \nPart of Bad Reichenhall's revival included building this new spa facility, the brand-new \"spa and fitness resort.\" Pools, saunas, and steam rooms are rounded off with a host of special applications using salt, essential oils, mud packs, and massages. The therme can be popular, especially in winter, so online reservations are a good idea | Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 21 | 08651/76220 for reservation hotline | www.rupertustherme.de | \u20ac21 all day ticket; \u20ac18 4 hrs | Daily 9 am\u201310 pm.\n\nSt. Zeno.  \nThis ancient church is dedicated to the patron saint of those imperiled by floods and the dangers of the deep, an ironic note in a town that flourishes on the riches of its underground springs. This 12th-century basilica, the largest in Bavaria, was remodeled in the 16th and 17th centuries, but some of the original Romanesque cloisters remain, although these can be seen only during services and from 11 to noon on Sunday and holidays. | Salzburger Str. 30 | www.kath-stadtkirche-badreichenhall.de.\n\nWandelhalle.  \nHotels here base spa treatments on the health-giving properties of the saline springs and the black mud from the area's waterlogged moors. The waters can also be taken in this elegant, pillared pavilion of the attractive spa gardens throughout the year. Breathing salt-laden air is a remedy for various lung conditions. All you need to do is walk along the 540-foot Gradierhaus, a massive wood-and-concrete construction that produces a fine salty mist by trickling brine down a 40-foot wall of dense blackthorn bundles. | K\u00f6niglichen Kurgarten | 08651/6060 Touristinformation Wandelhalle im Kurgarten | Nov.\u2013May.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBrauereigasthof B\u00fcrgerbr\u00e4u.  \nGERMAN | Each dining area in this old brewery inn reflects the social class that once met here: politicos, peasants, burghers, and salt miners. Reichenhallers from all walks of life still meet here to enjoy good conversation, hearty local beer, and excellent food. Rooms at the inn are simple, but airy and modern, and centrally located. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Waagg. 1\u20132 | 08651/6089 | www.brauereigasthof-buergerbraeu.de.\n\nGasthaus Oberm\u00fchle.  \nGERMAN | Tucked away off the main road leading from Bad Reichenhall to the autobahn, this 16th-century mill is a well-kept secret. Fish is the specialty here, though meats (the game in season is noteworthy) are also on the menu. The terrace is an inviting place for a few helpings of excellent homemade pastries. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Tumpenstr. 11 | 08651/2193 | No credit cards | Closed Mon. and Tues.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nParkhotel Luisenbad.  \nHOTEL | If you fancy spoiling yourself in a typical German fin de si\u00e8cle spa hotel, consider staying here. This fine porticoed and pillared building with an imposing pastel-pink facade promises luxury within. Rooms are large, furnished in deep-cushioned, dark-wood comfort, most with flower-filled balconies or loggias. The elegant restaurant ($$) serves international and traditional Bavarian cuisine with an emphasis on seafood (scallops or tuna steak, for example), and a pine-panel tavern, Die Holzstubn'n, pours excellent local brew. Pros: quiet; centrally located. Cons: Slightly old-fashioned for some tastes. | Rooms from: \u20ac118 | Ludwigstr. 33 | 08651/6040 | www.parkhotel-luisenbad-bad-reichenhall-berchtesgaden.de | 70 rooms, 8 suites | Breakfast.\n\nPension Hubertus.  \nB&B/INN | This delightfully traditional family-run lodging stands on the shore of the tiny Thumsee, 5 km (3 miles) from the town center. The Hubertus's private grounds lead down to the lake, where guests can swim or boat (the water is bracingly cool). Rooms, some with balconies overlooking the lake, are furnished with hand-carved beds and cupboards. Excellent meals or coffee can be taken at the neighboring rustic Madlbauer ($). There are special rates in the off-season (October - April). Pros: incredible views; private guests-only sunbathing area. Cons: far from city center; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac66 | Thumsee 5 | 08651/2252 | www.hubertus-thumsee.de | 18 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nCasino.  \nAs a spa town and winter resort, Bad Reichenhall is a natural for night haunts. The big draw is the elegant casino, open daily starting at noon. | Wittelsbacherstr. 17 | 08651/95800 | www.spielbanken-bayern.de/wDeutsch/reichenhall | Jacket and tie.\n\nOrchesterb\u00fcro.  \nBad Reichenhall is proud of its long musical tradition and of its orchestra, founded more than a century ago. It performs on numerous occasions throughout the year in the chandelier-hung Kurgastzentrum Theater or, when weather permits, in the open-air pavilion, and at a special Mozart Week in March. Call the Orchesterb\u00fcro for program details. | Salzburger Str. 7 | 08651/762\u20138080 | www.bad-reichenhaller-philharmonie.de.\n\nTanzcafe am Kurgarten.  \nFor some traditional ballroom dancing to live music in the evenings, head for the Tanzcafe am Kurgarten. Occasionally they also show soccer games. | Salzburger Str. 7 | 08651/1691 | www.kurcafe-bgl.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nThough Berchtesgaden definitely has the pull for skiers, Bad Reichenhall is proud of its Predigtstuhl, which towers over the town to the south. Besides fresh air and great views, it offers some skiing, lots of hiking, biking, and even rock climbing. The tourist information office on Wittelsbacherstrasse, a couple of hundred yards from the train station, has all the necessary information regarding the numerous sporting activities possible in Bad Reichenhall and its surrounding area.\n\n### Shopping\n\nJosef Mack Company.  \nUsing flowers and herbs grown in the Bavarian Alps, the Josef Mack Company has made medicinal herbal preparations since 1856. | Ludwigstr. 36 | 08651/78280 | www.macknatur.de.\n\nPaul Reber.  \nYour sweet tooth will be fully satisfied at the confection emporium of Paul Reber, makers of the famous chocolate, nougat, and marzipan Mozartkugel and many other caloric depth-charges. | Ludwigstr. 10\u201312 | 08651/60030 | www.reber-spezialitaeten.de/home.html.\n\n## Berchtesgaden\n\n18 km (11 miles) south of Bad Reichenhall, 20 km (12 miles) south of Salzburg.\n\nBerchtesgaden's reputation is unjustly rooted in its brief association with Adolf Hitler, who dreamed of his \"1,000-year Reich\" from the mountaintop where millions of tourists before and after him drank in only the superb beauty of the Alpine panorama. The historic old market town and mountain resort has great charm. In winter it's a fine place for skiing and snowboarding; in summer it becomes one of the region's most popular (and crowded) resorts. An ornate palace and working salt mine make up some of the diversions in this heavenly setting.\n\nSalt was once the basis of Berchtesgaden's wealth. In the 12th century Emperor Barbarossa gave mining rights to a Benedictine abbey that had been founded here a century earlier. The abbey was secularized early in the 19th century, when it was taken over by the Wittelsbach rulers. Salt is still important today because of all the local wellness centers. The entire area has been declared a Kurgebiet (\"health resort region\"), and was put on the UNESCO biosphere list.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe easiest way to reach Berchtesgaden is with the hourly train connection, or with the bus from Salzburg Hauptbanhof. To get to Berchtesgaden from Munich requires a change in Freilassing or Salzburg. Salzburg's newly renovated main train station connects regularly to Berchtesgaden (choose the train without a Freilassing change). Frequent local bus service makes it easy to explore the town and to reach Berchtesgaden National Park and the K\u00f6nigssee. Local bus services, except from Documentation center to the Eagle's Nest, are included when you pay the Kurtaxe. The Schwaiger bus company runs tours of the area and across the Austrian border as far as Salzburg. An American couple runs Berchtesgaden Mini-bus Tours out of the local tourist office, opposite the railroad station.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor and Tour Information  \nBerchtesgaden Land Tourismus. | Bahnhofpl. 4 | 08652/656\u20135050 | www.berchtesgadener-land.com.   \nEagle's Nest Historical Tours. | K\u00f6nigsseer Str. 2 | 08652/64971 | www.eagles-nest-tours.com.   \nSchwaiger. | 08652/2525 | www.bus-schwaiger.de/en.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Legend of Edelweiss\n\nEdelweiss (Leontopodium alpinum) is the flower most commonly associated with the Alps, thanks to that memorable song from The Sound of Music. It usually grows in the inaccessible regions of the Alps and is a protected species (don't pick it). The unique beauty of the white flower is a symbol of purity in Bavaria and a plant shrouded in myth.\n\nAs the story goes, high in the Alps lived a hauntingly beautiful queen with a heart of pure ice. The queen's melodious singing lured many forlorn shepherds to her cave. Since her frozen heart was unable to love, she soon tired of them and ordered her loyal gnome slaves to throw the hapless men to their deaths. One day an ordinary shepherd found his way to her cave and the queen fell in love with him. The jealous gnomes, fearing their mistress would marry this mortal and abandon them, threw him into a valley where his heart was crushed. When she learned of the tragedy, her heart melted enough for her to shed one tear. That tear became an Edelweiss.\n\n* * *\n\n### Exploring\n\nThe Heimatmuseum.  \nThis museum located in the Schloss Adelsheim displays examples of wood carving and other local crafts. Wood carving in Berchtesgaden dates to long before Oberammergau established itself as the premier wood-carving center of the Alps. | Schroffenbergallee 6 | 08652/4410 | www.heimatmuseum-berchtesgaden.de | \u20ac2.50 | Dec.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nK\u00f6nigliches Schloss Berchtesgaden Museum.  \nThe last royal resident of the Berchtesgaden abbey, Crown Prince Rupprecht (who died here in 1955), furnished it with rare family treasures that now form the basis of this permanent collection. Fine Renaissance rooms exhibit the prince's sacred art, which is particularly rich in wood sculptures by such great late-Gothic artists as Tilman Riemenschneider and Veit Stoss. You can also visit the abbey's original, cavernous 13th-century dormitory and cool cloisters. | Schlosspl. 2 | 08652/947\u2013980 | www.haus-bayern.com | \u20ac9.50 with tour | Mid-May\u2013mid-Oct., Sun.\u2013Fri. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-May, Sun.\u2013Fri. 11\u20132.\n\nThe Obersalzberg  \nThe site of Hitler's luxurious mountain retreat is part of the north slope of the Hoher Goll, high above Berchtesgaden. It was a remote mountain community of farmers and foresters before Hitler's deputy, Martin Bormann, selected the site for a complex of Alpine homes for top Nazi leaders. Hitler's chalet, the Berghof, and all the others were destroyed in 1945, with the exception of a hotel that had been taken over by the Nazis, the Hotel zum T\u00fcrken. The round trip from Berchtesgaden's post office by bus and elevator costs \u20ac16.10 per person. The bus runs mid-May through September, daily from 9 to 4:50. By car you can travel only as far as the Obersalzberg bus station. The full round trip takes one hour. TIP To get the most out of your visit to the Kehlsteinhaus, consider taking one of the informative tours offered by David Harper. Reserve in advance online or by phone at | 08652/64971. Tours meet across from the train station and cost \u20ac50. | K\u00f6nigsseer Str. 2 | www.eagles-nest-tours.com.\n\nBunkers.  \nBeneath the hotel is a section of the labyrinth of tunnels built as a last retreat for Hitler and his cronies; the macabre, murky bunkers can be visited. | Hintereck 2 | 08652/2428 | www.hotel-zum-tuerken.de/hotel.html | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., by appointment.\n\nDokumentation Obersalzberg..  \nNearby, the Dokumentation Obersalzberg documents the notorious history of the Third Reich, and a special focus on Obersalzberg, with some surprisingly rare archive material. | Salzbergstr. 41 | 08652/947\u2013960 | www.obersalzberg.de | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20133.\n\nKehlsteinhaus.  \nBeyond Obersalzberg, the hairpin bends of Germany's highest road come to the base of the 6,000-foot peak on which sits the Kehlsteinhaus, also known as the Adlerhorst (Eagle's Nest), Hitler's personal retreat and his official guesthouse. It was Martin Bormann's gift to the f\u00fchrer on Hitler's 50th birthday. The road leading to it, built in 1937\u201339, climbs more than 2,000 dizzying feet in less than 6 km (4 miles). A tunnel in the mountain will bring you to an elevator that whisks you up to what appears to be the top of the world (you can walk up in about half an hour). There are refreshment rooms and a restaurant. | Kehlstein Busabfahrt, Hintereck | 08652/2969 | www.kehlsteinhaus.de.\n\nThe Salzbergwerk.  \nThis salt mine is one of the chief attractions of the region. In the days when the mine was owned by Berchtesgaden's princely rulers, only select guests were allowed to see how the source of the city's wealth was extracted from the earth. Today, during a 90-minute tour, you can sit astride a miniature train that transports you nearly 1 km (\u00bd mile) into the mountain to an enormous chamber where the salt is mined. Included in the tour are rides down the wooden chutes used by miners to get from one level to another and a boat ride on an underground saline lake the size of a football field. Although the tours take about an hour, plan an extra 45\u201360 minutes for purchasing the tickets and changing into and out of miners clothing. You may wish to partake in the special four-hour brine dinners down in the mines (\u20ac90). These are very popular, so be sure to book early. | 2 km (1 mile) from center of Berchtesgaden on B\u2013305 Salzburg Rd., Bergwerkstr. 83 | 08652/600220 | www.salzzeitreise.de | \u20ac15.50, combined ticket with Bad Reichenhall's saline museum \u20ac18.50 | May\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr., Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20133.\n\nWatzmann Therme.  \nHere you'll find fragrant steam rooms, saunas with infrared cabins for sore muscles, an elegant pool, whirlpools, and more. If you happen to be staying a few days, you might catch a tai chi course, enjoy a bio-release facial massage, or partake in an evening of relaxing underwater exercises. | Bergwerkstr. 54 | 08652/94640 | www.watzmann-therme.de | 2 hrs \u20ac10.50, 4 hrs \u20ac13.90, day pass including sauna \u20ac15.50 | Sun.\u2013Wed. 10\u201310; Fri. and Sat. 10 am\u2013midnight.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAlpenhotel Denninglehen.  \nHOTEL | The house was built in 1981 in Alpine style, with lots of wood paneling, heavy beams, and wide balconies with cascades of geraniums in summer. Skiers enjoy the fact that the slopes are about 200 yards away. The restaurant has a large fireplace to warm up winter evenings. The menu ($$) is regional (the usual schnitzels and roasts) with a few items from the French repertoire (a fine steak in pepper sauce, for example). Price includes breakfast buffet and use of the wellness facilities. Pros: heated pool with views of the Alps; great hotel for kids. Cons: narrow and steep access road difficult to find. | Rooms from: \u20ac74 | Am Priesterstein 7 | Berchtesgaden-Oberau | 08652/97890 | www.denninglehen.de | 23 rooms | Restaurant closed Tues. evening | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Gr\u00fcnberger.  \nHOTEL | Only a few strides from the train station in the town center, the Gr\u00fcnberger overlooks the River Ache\u2014it even has a private terrace beside the river you can relax on. The cozy rooms have farmhouse-style furnishings and some antiques. The wellness area has in-house acupuncture and traditional Chinese medicine treatments. The hotel restaurant focuses on German fare, with some international dishes to lighten the load. Those who need to check e-mail head to the Internet caf\u00e9 nearby. Pros: quaintly situated on the river; close to the train station. Cons: quite far from skiing and outdoor activities. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Hansererweg 1 | 08652/976\u2013590 | www.hotel-gruenberger.de | 65 rooms | Closed Nov.\u2013mid-Dec. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Wittelsbach.  \nHOTEL | This is one of the oldest (built in 1892) and most traditional lodgings in the area, so it is wise to reserve well ahead of time. The small rooms have dark pinewood furnishings and deep red and green drapes and carpets. Ask for one with a balcony. The breakfast room has a mountain view. Pros: nice, comfortable rooms; exceptional staff; daily pamphlets show local events and weather. Cons: horrible parking; street-side rooms can get noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac94 | Maximilianstr. 16 | 08652/96380 | www.hotel-wittelsbach.com | 26 rooms, 3 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nHotel zum T\u00fcrken.  \nHOTEL | The view alone is worth the 10-minute journey from Berchtesgaden to this hotel. Confiscated during World War II by the Nazis, the hotel is at the foot of the road to Hitler's mountaintop retreat. Beneath it are remains of Nazi wartime bunkers. The decor, though fittingly rustic, is a bit dated. There's no restaurant, although evening meals can be ordered in advance. Pros: great location; sense of history; Frau Schafenberg can cook! Cons: not all rooms have attached bathrooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Hintereck 2 | Obersalzberg-Berchtesgaden | 08652/2428 | www.hotel-zum-tuerken.de | 17 rooms, 12 with bath or shower | Closed Nov.\u2013Dec. 20 | Breakfast.\n\nStoll's Hotel Alpina.  \nHOTEL | Set above the K\u00f6nigsee in the delightful little village of Sch\u00f6nau, the Alpina offers rural solitude and easy access to Berchtesgaden. Families are catered for with apartments, a resident doctor, and a playroom. The hotel also has an annex about a half a mile away, the Sporthotel, where rooms are somewhat cheaper. Pros: bedrooms are large and comfortable; good for families with children; great view of the Adlershorst. Cons: service can be brusque. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Ulmenweg 14 | Sch\u00f6nau | 08652/65090 | www.stolls-hotel-alpina.de | 52 rooms, 8 apartments | Closed early Nov.\u2013mid-Dec. | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nBuried as it is in the Alps, Berchtesgaden is a place for the active. The Rossfeld ski area is one of the favorites, thanks to almost guaranteed natural snow. The piste down to Oberau is nearly 6 km (4 miles) long (with bus service at the end to take you back to Berchtesgaden). There is a separate snowboarding piste as well. Berchtesgaden also has many cross-country trails and telemark opportunities. The other popular area is on the slopes of the G\u00f6tschenkopf, which is used for World Cup races. Snow is usually artificial, but the floodlit slopes at night and a lively apr\u00e8s-ski scene make up for the lesser quality.\n\nIn summer, hikers, power-walkers, and paragliders take over the region. The Obersalzberg even has a summer luge track. Avid hikers should ask for a map featuring the refuges (Bergh\u00fctten) in the mountains, where one can spend the night either in a separate room or a bunk. Simple, solid meals are offered. In some of the smaller refuges you will have to bring your own food. For more information, check out www.berchtesgaden.de. And though the K\u00f6nigsee is beautiful to look at, only cold-water swimmers will appreciate its frigid waters.\n\nConsider walking along the pleasant mountain path from the Eagle's Nest back to Berchtesgaden.\n\nBerchtesgaden Golf Club.  \nGermany's highest course, the Berchtesgaden Golf Club, is on a 3,300-foot plateau of the Obersalzberg. Only fit players should attempt the demanding 9-hole course. Ten Berchtesgaden hotels offer their guests a 30% reduction on the \u20ac40 (\u20ac50 for weekends) green fee\u2014contact the tourist office or the club for details. | Salzbergstr. 33 | 08652/2100 | www.golfclub-berchtesgaden.de.\n\nErste Bergschule Berchtesgadenerland.  \nWhatever your mountain-related needs, whether it's climbing and hiking in summer or cross-country tours in winter, you'll find it at the Erste Bergschule Berchtesgadenerland. | Silbergstr. 25 | Bischofswiesen | 08652/5371 | www.berchtesgaden-bergschule.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nBerchtesgadener Handwerkskunst.  \nThis shop offers handicrafts\u2014such as wooden boxes, woven tablecloths, wood carvings, and Christmas-tree decorations\u2014from Berchtesgaden, the surrounding region, and other parts of Bavaria. | Schlosspl. 1\u00bd | 08652/979\u2013790 | www.berchtesgadener-handwerkskunst.de.\n\n## Berchtesgaden National Park\n\n5 km (3 miles) south of Berchtesgaden.\n\nThe park covers 210 square km (81 square miles), around two-thirds of the park's border is shared with Austria, and is characterized by mountain vistas and the beautiful K\u00f6nigsee. In 2012 alone, the region had 3.4 million overnight stays, which is a true testament to the area's popularity.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBerchtesgaden National Park is around 150 kilometers (93 miles) southeast of Munich by car. Many people find the train connection, with a change at Freilassing, and a 30-minute bus journey (total time is around two hours 50 minutes), a more rewarding, if adventurous journey.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBerchtesgaden National Park.  \nThe deep, mysterious, and fabled K\u00f6nigsee is the most photographed panorama in Germany. Together with its much smaller sister, the Obersee, it's nestled within the Berchtesgaden National Park, 210 square km (82 square miles) of wild mountain country where flora and fauna have been left to develop as nature intended. No roads penetrate the area, and even the mountain paths are difficult to follow. The park administration organizes guided tours of the area from June through September. | Nationalparkhaus, Franziskanerpl. 7 | 08652/64343 | www.nationalpark-berchtesgaden.de.\n\nK\u00f6nigsee.  \nOne less strenuous way into the Berchtesgaden National Park is by boat. A fleet of 21 excursion boats, electrically driven so that no noise disturbs the peace, operates on the K\u00f6nigsee (King Lake). Only the skipper of the boat is allowed to shatter the silence\u2014his trumpet fanfare demonstrates a remarkable echo as notes reverberate between the almost vertical cliffs that plunge into the dark green water. A cross on a rocky promontory marks the spot where a boatload of pilgrims hit the cliffs and sank more than 100 years ago. The voyagers were on their way to the tiny, twin-tower baroque chapel of St. Bartholom\u00e4, built in the 17th century on a peninsula where an early-Gothic church once stood. The princely rulers of Berchtesgaden built a hunting lodge at the side of the chapel; a tavern and restaurant now occupy its rooms.\n\nSmaller than the K\u00f6nigsee but equally beautiful, the Obersee can be reached by a 15-minute walk from the second stop (Salet) on the boat tour. The lake's backdrop of jagged mountains and precipitous cliffs is broken by a waterfall, the Rothbachfall, which plunges more than 1,000 feet to the valley floor.\n\nBoat service.  \nBoat service on the K\u00f6nigsee runs year-round, except when the lake freezes. A round-trip to St. Bartholom\u00e4 and Salet, the landing stage for the Obersee, lasts almost two hours, without stops, and costs \u20ac16.30. A round trip to St. Bartholom\u00e4 lasts a little over an hour and costs \u20ac13.30. In summer the Berchtesgaden tourist office organizes evening cruises on the K\u00f6nigsee, which include a concert in St. Bartholom\u00e4 Church and a four-course dinner in the neighboring hunting lodge. | Seestr. 29 | Sch\u00f6nau | 08652/96360 | www.bayerische-seenschifffahrt.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Romantic Road\n\nToward the Alps\n\nCentral Romantic Road\n\nNorthern Romantic Road\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning\n\nUpdated by Catherine Moser Horlacher\n\nOf all the tourist routes that crisscross Germany, none rivals the Romantische Strasse, or Romantic Road. The scenery is more pastoral than spectacular, but the route is memorable for the medieval towns, villages, castles, and churches that anchor its 355-km (220-miles) length. Many of these are tucked away beyond low hills, their spires and towers just visible through the greenery.\n\nThe Romantic Road concept developed as this corner of West Germany, occupied by the American forces, sought to rebuild its tourist industry after World War II. A public-relations wizard coined the catchy title for a historic passage through Bavaria and Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg that could be advertised as a unit. In 1950 the Romantic Road was born. The name itself isn't meant to attract lovebirds, but rather uses the word romantic as meaning wonderful, fabulous, and imaginative. And, of course, the Romantic Road started as a road on which the Romans traveled 2,000 years ago.\n\nAlong the way, the road crosses centuries-old battlefields. The most cataclysmic conflict, the Thirty Years' War, destroyed the region's economic base in the 17th century. The depletion of resources prevented improvements that would have modernized the area\u2014thereby assuring that these towns would become the quaint tourist destinations they are today.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nNeuschwanstein: Emerald lakes, the pastoral countryside, and the rugged peaks of the Alps surround what's become the most famous storybook castle in the world.\n\nRothenburg-ob-der-Tauber: The Middle Ages never looked so good as in this quaint walled village. If you stay overnight, you can patrol the city walls with the night watchman after the tour buses have left town.\n\nWieskirche: Join the local Bavarians who flock to this pilgrimage church, a rococo gem in pristine Alpine fields.\n\nUlm's M\u00fcnster: Work off all that hearty Swabian cuisine with a climb up the 768 steps of this church's tower, the highest of its kind in the world.\n\nW\u00fcrzburg's Residenz: Explore the gilt and crystal splendor of this lavish palace, once the home of prince-bishops.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nTo a large degree, the Romantic Road is Germany in a nutshell. The route runs from F\u00fcssen, on the mountainous Austrian border, and near Neuschwanstein, \"Mad\" King Ludwig II's fantastical castle, through the handsome Renaissance city of Augsburg. From there it continues on to the northwest, to the best-preserved medieval town on the continent, Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, finishing up in W\u00fcrzburg, in central Germany and an hour from Frankfurt.\n\n## What's Where\n\nToward the Alps. In this region, vineyards are replaced by Alpine meadows, and beer beats out wine in the small inns of towns like Landsberg and Schongau. The marvelous Wieskirche (Church of the Meadow) is here, just a bit off the Romantic Road, and mountains give way to the baroque and the genuinely medieval as the Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castles come into view.\n\nCentral Romantic Road. After crossing the Danube from the south, the route takes you through the affluent city of Augsburg and its countryside, before continuing on through the lovely Tauber valley. Vineyards slope down to the hills to the small valleys as make your way to charming old towns such as Dinkelsb\u00fchl and Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber.\n\nNorthern Romantic Road. Wine lovers should plan an extra day for the Frankish capital of W\u00fcrzburg, where they can sample delicious local wines at reasonable prices. Bad Mergentheim is also well worth a look.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nLate summer and early autumn are the best times to travel the Romantic Road, when the grapes ripen on the vines around W\u00fcrzburg and the geraniums run riot on the medieval walls of towns such as Rothenburg and Dinkelsb\u00fchl. You'll also miss the high-season summer crush of tourists. Otherwise, consider visiting the region in the depths of December, when Christmas markets pack the ancient squares of the Romantic Road towns and snow gives the turreted Schloss Neuschwanstein a final magic touch.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nThe two bigger cities on the Romantic Road, Augsburg and W\u00fcrzburg, can handle large influxes of visitors at any time. But when it comes the two most popular places, Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber and Neuschwanstein, it pays to stay overnight. You can follow the night watchman in Rothenburg as he makes his rounds, and then tour the town in the early morning. Have a late but leisurely breakfast as you watch the bus-tour groups push through the streets around 11. The crowds at Neuschwanstein mean it's even more important to get an early start. Reserve your tickets ahead of time, too.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe major international airports serving the Romantic Road are Frankfurt and Munich. Regional airports include N\u00fcrnberg and Augsburg.\n\nAirport Contacts   \nN\u00fcrnberg Airport. | Flughafenstr. | 0911/93700 | www.airport-nuernberg.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nDaily bus service covers the northern stretch of the Romantic Road, between Frankfurt and Munich, from April through October. A second bus covers the section of the route between Dinkelsb\u00fchl and F\u00fcssen. All buses stop at the major sights along the road. Deutsche Touring also operates six more-extensive tours along the Romantic Road; make a reservation ahead of time for these.\n\nBus Contact  \nDeutsche Touring. | Am R\u00f6merhof 17, | Frankfurt am Main | 069/790\u20133501 | www.touring.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nThe Romantic Road is most easily traveled by car. If you're coming up from the south and using Munich as a gateway, Augsburg is 70 km (43 miles) from Munich via A-8. The roads are busy, and most have only two lanes, so figure on covering no more than 70 km (43 miles) each hour, particularly in summer. From there, you will continue north and end in W\u00fcrzburg, the northernmost city on the route, which is 124 km (77 miles) from Frankfurt. If you're traveling from the north, begin in W\u00fcrzburg and follow country highway B-27 south to meet roads B-290, B-19, B-292, and B-25 along the W\u00f6rnitz River. It's on the Frankfurt\u2013N\u00fcrnberg autobahn, A-3, and is 115 km (71 miles) from Frankfurt. For route maps, with roads and sights highlighted, contact the Romantische Strasse Touristik-Arbeitsgemeinschaft (Romantic Road Central Tourist-Information) based in Dinkelsb\u00fchl.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nInfrequent trains link most major towns of the Romantic Road, but both W\u00fcrzburg and Augsburg are on the InterCity and high-speed InterCity Express routes, and have fast, frequent service to and from Munich, Stuttgart, and Frankfurt.\n\n### Bike Tours\n\nFrom April through September, Velotours offers a five-day bike trip from W\u00fcrzburg to Rothenburg for \u20ac365 per person, and a five-day trip from Rothenburg to Donauw\u00f6rth for \u20ac365 per person. These two trips can be combined for an eight-day tour for \u20ac583. The tour operator Alpenland-Touristik offers several guided six- to eight-day bike tours that start from Landsberg am Lech into the Alpine foothills.\n\nBike Tour Contacts  \nAlpenlandtouristik. | 08191/308\u2013620 | www.alpenlandtouristik.de.   \nVelotours. | B\u00fccklestr. 13, | Konstanz | 07531/98280 | www.velotours.de.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nDuring peak season, restaurants along the Romantic Road tend to be crowded, especially in the larger towns. TIP You may want to plan your mealtimes around visits to smaller villages, where there are fewer people and the restaurants are often more low-key. The food will be more basic Franconian or Swabian, but it will also be generally less expensive than in the well-known towns, and it might also be locally sourced. You may find that some of the small, family-run restaurants close around 2 pm, or whenever the last lunch guests have left, and then open again at 5 or 5:30 pm. Some serve cold cuts or coffee and cake during that time, but no hot food.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nWith a few exceptions, Romantic Road hotels are quiet and rustic, and you'll find high standards of comfort and cleanliness. If you plan to stay in one of the bigger hotels in the off-season, ask about discounted weekend rates. Make reservations as far in advance as possible if you plan to visit in summer. Hotels in W\u00fcrzburg, Rothenburg, and F\u00fcssen are often full year-round. Augsburg hotels are in great demand during trade fairs in nearby Munich. Tourist-information offices can usually help with accommodations, especially if you arrive early in the day.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nContacts   \nRomantische Strasse Touristik-Arbeitsgemeinschaft (Romantic Road Central Tourist-Information). | Segringerstr. 19, | Dinkelsb\u00fchl | 09851/551\u2013387 | www.romantischestrasse.de.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nHohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein | F\u00fcssen\n\nAn hour west of Munich, the Romantic Road climbs gradually into the foothills of the Bavarian Alps, which burst into view between Landsberg and Schongau. The route's most southern tip can be found at the northern wall of the Alps at F\u00fcssen, on the Austrian border. Landsberg was founded by the Bavarian ruler Heinrich der L\u00f6we (Henry the Lion) in the 12th century, and the town grew wealthy from the salt trade. Solid old houses are packed within its turreted walls; the early-18th-century Rathaus is one of the finest in the region.\n\nSchongau has virtually intact wall fortifications, complete with towers and gates. In medieval and Renaissance times the town was an important trading post on the route from Italy to Augsburg. The steeply gabled 16th-century Ballenhaus was a warehouse before it was elevated to the rank of Rathaus. A popular M\u00e4rchenwald (\"fairy-tale forest\") lies 1\u00bd km (1 mile) outside Schongau, suitably set in a clearing in the woods. It comes complete with mechanical models of fairy-tale scenes, deer enclosures, and an old-time miniature railway.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein\n\n103 km (64 miles) south of Augsburg, 121 km (75 miles) southwest of Munich.\n\nThese two famous castles belonging to the Wittelbachs are 1 km (\u00bd mile) across a valley from each other, near the town of Schwangau. Bavaria's King Ludwig II (1845\u201386) spent much of his youth at Schloss Hohenschwangau (Hohenschwangau Castle). It's said that its neo-Gothic atmosphere provided the primary influences that shaped his wildly romantic Schloss Neuschwanstein (Neuschwanstein Castle), the fairy-tale castle he built after he became king. It has long been one of Germany's most recognized sights.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFrom Schwangau (5 km [3 miles] north of F\u00fcssen, 103 km [64 miles] south of Augsburg, 121 km [75 miles] southwest of Munich), follow the road signs marked \"K\u00f6nigschl\u00f6sser\" (King's Castles). After 3 km (2 miles) you come to Hohenschwangau, a small village consisting of a few houses, some good hotels, and five big parking lots (parking \u20ac5). You have to park in one of them and then walk to the ticket center serving both castles. If you are staying in F\u00fcssen, take the bus to Hohenschwangau. The clearly marked bus leaves from the train station in F\u00fcssen every hour from morning to night, and the cost is \u20ac1.60 per person one-way. Tickets are for timed entry, and the average wait to enter Neuschwanstein is one hour. With a deposit or credit-card number you can book your tickets up to two days in advance for either castle through the ticket center. You can change entrance times or cancel up to two hours before the confirmed entrance time. The main street of the small village Hohenschwangau is lined with many restaurants\n\n#### Timing\n\nThe best time to see either castle without waiting a long time is a weekday between January and April. The prettiest time, however, is in fall. TIP Bear in mind that more than 1 million people pass through one or both castles every year. If you visit in summer, get there early and reserve ahead if possible.\n\n* * *\n\nKing Ludwig II\n\nKing Ludwig II (1845\u201386), the enigmatic presence indelibly associated with Bavaria, was one of the last rulers of the Wittelsbach dynasty, which ruled Bavaria from 1180 to 1918. Though his grandfather and father had created grandiose Parisian-inspired buildings in Munich, Ludwig II disliked the city and preferred isolation in the countryside, where he constructed monumental edifices born of fanciful imagination. He spent most of the royal purse on his endeavors. Although he was also a great lover of literature, theater, and opera (he was Richard Wagner's great patron), it is his fairy-tale-like castles that are his legacy.\n\nLudwig II reigned from 1864 to 1886, all the while avoiding political duties whenever possible. By 1878 he had completed his Schloss Linderhof retreat and immediately began Schloss Herrenchiemsee, a tribute to Versailles and Louis XIV. The grandest of his extravagant projects is Neuschwanstein, one of Germany's top attractions and concrete proof of the king's eccentricity. In 1886, before Neuschwanstein was finished, members of the government became convinced that Ludwig had taken leave of his senses. A medical commission declared the king insane and forced him to abdicate. Within two days of incarceration in the Berg Castle, on Starnbergersee, Ludwig and his doctor were found drowned in the lake's shallow waters. Their deaths are still a mystery.s\n\n* * *\n\n#### Essentials\n\nTicket Center. | Alpseestr. 12, | Hohenschwangau | 08362/930\u2013830 | www.hohenschwangau.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Neuschwanstein.  \nIt's hard to believe that this over-the-top creation that soars from its mountainside is real\u2014it's no surpise that Walt Disney took it as the model for his castle in the movie Sleeping Beauty and later for the Disneyland castle itself. The life of this spectacular castle's king reads like one of the great Gothic mysteries of the 19th century, and the castle symbolizes that life. Yet during the 17 years from the start of Schloss Neuschwanstein's construction until King Ludwig's death, the king spent less than six months here, and the interior was never finished. The Byzantine-style throne room is without a throne; Ludwig died before one could be installed. However, the walls of the rooms leading to Ludwig's bedroom are painted with murals depicting characters from Wagner's operas. Ludwig's bed and its canopy are made of intricately carved oak. A small corridor behind the bedroom was styled as a ghostly grotto, reminiscent of Wagner's Tannh\u00e4user. On the walls outside the castle's gift shop are plans and photos of the castle's construction (it was conceived by a set designer instead of an architect, thanks to King Ludwig II's deep love of the theater). There are also some spectacular walks around the castle. The delicate Marienbr\u00fccke (Mary's Bridge) is spun like a medieval maiden's hair across a deep, narrow gorge. From this vantage point there are giddy views of the castle and the great Upper Bavarian Plain beyond. TIP Tickets need to be purchased at the ticket center in the village of Hohenschwangau, so be sure to stop there first. To reach Neuschwanstein from the ticket center below, take one of the clearly marked paths (about a 40-minute uphill walk) or one of the horse-drawn carriages that leave from Hotel M\u00fcller (uphill \u20ac6, downhill \u20ac3). A shuttle bus leaves from the Hotel Lisl (uphill \u20ac1.80, downhill \u20ac1) and takes you halfway up the hill past an outlook called Aussichtspunkt Jugend to a spot just above the castle. TIP From there it's a steep 10-minute downhill walk to the castle (not recommended for those with mobility problems) or a 5-minute uphill walk to the Marienbr\u00fccke. | Neuschwansteinstr. 20 | Hohenschwangau | 08362/930\u2013830 | www.neuschwanstein.de | \u20ac12, including guided tour; combined ticket for Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau \u20ac23 | Late Mar.\u2013mid-Oct. daily 8\u20135:30; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 9\u20133:30.\n\nCastle concerts.  \nCastle concerts are held in September in the Neuschwanstein Castle's lavishly decorated minstrels' hall. Tickets are hard to come by as performers generally include world-famous classical singers and orchestras and the concerts are a cultural highlight of the area. TIP Tickets go on sale in early February for the coming September, so plan ahead if you want to go. | Neuschwanstein, Neuschwansteinstr. 20 | Hohenschwangau | 01805/819\u2013831 | www.schlosskonzerte-neuschwanstein.de\n\nMuseum of the Bavarian Kings.  \nOnce the Alpenrose hotel, this grand building opened in 2012 as a museum chronicling the history of the Wittelsbach kings and queens, from the 11th century to the present day. Focusing primarily on King Maximilian II and his son Ludwig, it tells the story behind their neighboring castles. The influence of the Wittelsbach family in the region, from the development of Munich, their founding of the first Oktoberfest, and the family's role as resistors of the Nazi regime and their eventual imprisonment during World War II, are detailed. The interactive exhibits couple state-of-the-art technology with the gold and gilt belongings of the royal family. TIP The caf\u00e9 overlooking the lake is the good spot to relax and take in the views after a day of castles. | Alpseestr. 27 | Hohenschwangau | 08362/926\u20134640 | www.museumderbayerischenkoenige.de | \u20ac9.50, combinaiton ticket with both castles and museum \u20ac29.50 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20137; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20136.\n\nSchloss Hohenschwangau.  \nBuilt by the knights of Schwangau in the 12th century, this castle was remodeled later by King Ludwig II's father, the Bavarian crown prince and future king Maximilian, between 1832 and 1836. Unlike Ludwig's more famous castle across the valley, Neuschwanstein, the mustard-yellow Schloss Hohenschwangau actually feels like a noble home, where comforts would be valued as much as outward splendor. Ludwig spent his childhood summers surrounded by the castle's murals, depicting ancient Germanic legends. It was here that the young prince met the composer Richard Wagner. Their friendship shaped and deepened the future king's interest in theater, music, and German mythology\u2014the mythology Wagner drew upon for his Ring cycle of operas.\n\nAfter obtaining your ticket at the ticket center in the village, you can take a 25-minute walk up either of two clearly marked paths to the castle, or board one of the horse-drawn carriages that leave from the ticket center (uphill \u20ac4, downhill \u20ac2) or the Hotel M\u00fcller (uphill \u20ac6, downhill \u20ac3). | Alpseestr. 12 | Hohenschwangau | 08362/930\u2013830 | www.hohenschwangau.de | \u20ac12, including guided tour; combined ticket for Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein \u20ac23 | Late Mar.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 8\u20135:30; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 9\u20133:30.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nAlpenrose am See.  \nEUROPEAN | There is no spot more idyllic in Hohenschwangau to enjoy excellent food and stunning views over the Alpsee and mountains beyond. The caf\u00e9, which is next to the Museum of Bavarian Kings, is a good way spot to escape the crowded streets in the center of town. Enjoy lunch or afternoon coffee and cake on the terrace. The continental European dishes include several game and pork dishes, as well as several vegetarian dishes. The romantic five-course \"Rosendinner\" is served in a private room off the terrace that's filled with roses. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Alpseestr. 27 | Hohenschwangau | 08362/926\u20134660 | www.alpenrose-am-see.de.\n\nHotel M\u00fcller.  \nHOTEL | With a convenient location between the two Schwangau castles, the M\u00fcller fits beautifully into the stunning landscape, its creamy Bavarian baroque facade a contrast to the mountain forest. Although the lobby is modern, the rest of the hotel has a major baroque influence, from the finely furnished bedrooms to restaurant ($ - $$), which is decorated with chandeliers. The mahogany-paneled, glazed veranda (with open fireplace) provides a magnificent view of Hohenschwangau Castle. Round out your day with a local specialty such as the Allg\u00e4uer Lendentopf (sirloin) served with spaetzle. Pros: view of the castles; personalized service; variety of rooms. Cons: crowds during the day; expensive in season. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | Alpseestr. 16 | Hohenschwangau | 08362/81990 | www.hotel-mueller.de | 39 rooms, 4 suites | Closed Nov. and early Jan.\u2013late Mar. | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## F\u00fcssen\n\n5 km (3 miles) southwest of Schwangau, 129 km (80 miles) south of Munich.\n\nThe red roofs and turrets of this small town fit in well with the famous castles nearby. The town is easily toured on foot; its tidy, meandering streets and small squares are filled with caf\u00e9s, restaurants, and shops. F\u00fcssen is at the foot of the mountains that separate Bavaria from the Austrian Tyrol; the Lech River, which accompanies much of this section of the Romantic Road, embraces the town as it rushes northward.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nF\u00fcssen Tourismus und Marketing. | Kaiser-Maximilian-Pl. 1 | 08362/93850 | www.tourismus-fuessen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nHohes Schloss (High Castle).  \nOne of the best-preserved late-Gothic castles in Germany, Hohes Schloss was built on the site of the Roman fortress that once guarded this Alpine section of the Via Claudia, the trade route from Rome to the Danube. Evidence of Roman occupation of the area has been uncovered at the foot of the nearby Tegelberg Mountain, and the excavations next to the Tegelberg cable-car station are open for visits daily. The Hohes Schloss was the seat of Bavarian rulers before Emperor Heinrich VII mortgaged it and the rest of the town to the bishop of Augsburg for 400 pieces of silver. The mortgage was never redeemed, and F\u00fcssen remained the property of the Augsburg episcopate until secularization in the early 19th century. The bishops of Augsburg used the castle as their summer Alpine residence. It has a spectacular 16th-century Rittersaal (Knights' Hall) with a carved ceiling, and a princes' chamber with a Gothic tile stove. | Magnuspl. 10 | 08362/903\u2013146 | \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Fri.\u2013Sun. 1\u20134.\n\nRathaus (Town Hall).   \nF\u00fcrstensaal (Princes' Hall). Program details are available from the tourist office. | Lechalde 3 | www.stadt-fuessen.de.\n\nReichenstrasse.  \nF\u00fcssen's main shopping street Reichenstrasse was once part of the Roman Via Claudia. This cobblestone walkway is lined with high-gabled medieval houses and backed by the bulwarks of the castle and the easternmost buttresses of the Allg\u00e4u Alps.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat on the Romantic Road\n\nTo sample the authentic food of this area, venture off the beaten track of the official Romantic Road into any small town with a nice-looking Gasthof or Wirtshaus. Order Sauerbraten (roast beef marinated in a tangy sauce) with Sp\u00e4tzle (small boiled ribbons of rolled dough), or try Maultaschen (oversize Swabian ravioli stuffed with meat and herbs), another typical regional dish.\n\nFranconia (the Franken region, which has its \"capital\" in W\u00fcrzburg) is the sixth-largest wine-producing area of Germany. Franconian wines\u2014half of which are made from the M\u00fcller-Thurgau grape hybrid, made from crossing Riesling with another white-wine grape\u2014are served in distinctive green, flagon-shape wine bottles. Riesling and red wines account for only about 5% of the total production of Franconian wine.\n\nBefore you travel north on the Romantic Road, be sure to enjoy the beer country in the south. There is a wide range of Franconian and Bavarian brews available, from Rauchbier (literally, \"smoked beer\") to the lighter Pilsners of Augsburg. If this is your first time in Germany, beware of the potency of German beer\u2014some can be quite strong. (In the past few years more and more breweries offer excellent alcohol-free versions of their products.) The smallest beers are served at 0.3 liters (slightly under 12 ounces). Restaurants typically serve 0.5 liters at a time; in most beer tents and beer gardens the typical service is a full 1-liter stein.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nMarkthalle.  \nGERMAN | At this farmers' market you can grab a quick bite and drink at reasonable prices. Try the fish soup. The building started in 1483 as the Kornhaus (grain storage) and then became the Feuerhaus (fire station). It's open weekdays from 10 to 6 and on Saturday from 10 to 2. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Schranneg. 12 | No credit cards | Closed Sun.\n\nAltstadthotel Zum Hechten.  \nHOTEL | Directly below the castle, this is one of the town's oldest inns; its updated, airy rooms are tidy and comfortable, and geraniums flower most of the year from its balconies. The two restaurants here ($) both have sturdy, round tables and colorful frescoed walls. Pros: in the center of town; parking available; good value restaurant. Cons: difficult stairs to climb; some rooms are noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac97 | Ritterstr. 6 | 08362/91600 | www.hotel-hechten.com | 35 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Hirsch.  \nHOTEL | A mother-and-daughter team provides friendly service at this traditional F\u00fcssen hotel. Outside the majestic building is its trademark stag (Hirsch in German), and inside has all the Bavarian style you'd expect. You can stay in the King Ludwig room, which has his pictures on the walls and books about him, or stay with King Maximilian or with Spitzweg, a Biedermeier-era artist who painted in F\u00fcssen. Both restaurants ($ - $$) serve an interesting variety of seasonal and local specialties. In season, try venison or wild duck with blue cabbage and dumpling. If it's on the menu, the local trout, caught locally, is excellent. Pros: in the center of town; eclectic rooms; good restaurant. Cons: front rooms noisy; modern lobby. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | Kaiser-Maximilian-Pl. 7 | 08362/93980 | www.hotelhirsch.de | 53 rooms | Closed Dec. 23\u2013Jan. 7 | Breakfast.\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Schlossanger Alp.  \nB&B/INN | One hundred years of family tradition embrace guests of this superb hotel, which combines the surroundings of a grand alpine hotel with the intimacy of a bed-and-breakfast. Located in a small valley below the peak of the ruins of Falkenstein Castle, it's romantic and first class but also good for families, with a playground and open fields where kids can frolic with the owners' two dogs. The comfortable rooms are individually decorated, and most come with a kitchenette, but don't miss the generous breakfast buffet and soup and snacks served throughout the day. This is a spot to spend a few days if time allows, relaxing in the spa and heated pools looking out to the Alps, cozying up to the fire, and enjoying refined food served by the head chef, Barbara Schlachter-Ebert, who was raised here and who now owns and operates the hotel with her husband. The wine cellar is opened for tastings every Thursday; reserve ahead for a night in the treehouse in the woods. Pros: great food; attentive service; great for families. Cons: you'll need GPS to find it; a half-hour drive from Neuschwanstein; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac210 | Am Schlossanger 1 | Pfronten | 08363/914\u2013550 | www.schlossanger.de | 35 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nPleasure boats cruise Forggensee lake mid-May\u2013early October. Alpine winds ensure good sailing and windsurfing.\n\nForggensee-Yachtschule.  \nThe Forgensee-Yachtschule offers sailing courses for adults and children, as well as boat rentals and sailing trips. | Seestr. 10, Dietringen | Rieden | 08367/471 | www.segeln-info.de.\n\nSkischule Tegelberg A. Geiger.  \nThere's good downhill skiing in the mountains above F\u00fcssen. Cross-country fans have more than 20 km (12 mi) of trails. F\u00fcssen's highest peak, the Tegelberg, has a ski school, Skischule Tegelberg A. Geiger, which offers classes for adults and children. | 08362/8418 | www.skischule-tegelberg.de.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Wieskirche.  \nThis church\u2014a glorious example of German rococo architecture\u2014stands in an Alpine meadow just off the Romantic Road. Its yellow-and-white walls and steep red roof are set off by the dark backdrop of the Trauchgauer Mountains. The architect Dominicus Zimmermann, former mayor of Landsberg and creator of much of that town's rococo architecture, built the church in 1745 on the spot where six years earlier a local woman saw tears running down the face of a picture of Christ. Although the church was dedicated as the Pilgrimage Church of the Scourged Christ, it's now known simply as the Wieskirche (Church of the Meadow). TIP Visit it on a bright day if you can, when light streaming through its high windows displays the full glory of the glittering interior. A complex oval plan is animated by brilliantly colored stuccowork, statues, and gilt. A luminous ceiling fresco completes the decoration. Concerts are presented in the church from the end of June through the beginning of August. To get here from the village of Steingaden (22 km 14 miles] north of F\u00fcssen on the B-17), turn east and follow the signs to Wieskirche. | Wies 12 | Steingaden | 8862/932\u2013930 | [www.wieskirche.de | Free | Summer, daily 8\u20138; winter, daily 8\u20136.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAugsburg | Ulm | N\u00f6rdlingen | Dinkelsb\u00fchl | Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber\n\nPicturesque Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber is the highlight of this region, though certainly not the road less traveled. For a more intimate experience check out the medieval towns of Dinkelsb\u00fchl or N\u00f6rdlingen, or go off the beaten track and off the Romantic Road to see the tower at Ulm's famous M\u00fcnster (church).\n\n## Augsburg\n\n70 km (43 miles) west of Munich.\n\nAugsburg is Bavaria's third-largest city, after Munich and N\u00fcrnberg. It dates to 15 BC, when a son of Augustus set up a military camp here on the banks of the Lech River. The settlement that grew up around it was known as Augusta, which is what Italians call it to this day. The fashionable Maximilianstrasse lies on the Via Claudia Augusta, the same route that led from Italy to the silver-rich Augsburg and onward to the north. City rights were granted Augsburg in 1156, and 200 years later the Fugger family were first noted in municipal records. This family of bankers would become to Augsburg what the Medici were to Florence. Their wealth surpassed that of their Italian counterparts, though, such that they loaned funds to them from time to time. Some present-day members of the family run local charitable foundations.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nAugsburg is on a main line of the high-speed ICE trains, which run hourly and take 45 minutes the get here from Munich. The center of town and its main attractions can be visited on foot. To continue on the Romantic Road, take a regional train from the main train station to Ulm, Donauw\u00f6rth, or N\u00f6rdlingen.\n\nWalking tours (\u20ac8) set out from the tourist office on the Rathaus square daily at 2. The tours, which are available in German and English, include entrance to the Fuggerei and the Goldener Saal of the Rathaus.\n\n#### Timing\n\nIt's easy to see the sights here, because signs on almost every street corner point the way to the main ones. See the tourist board's website for some additional walking-tour maps. You'll need a complete day to see Augsburg if you linger in any of the museums.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nAugsburg Tourist-Information. | Rathauspl. 1 | 0821/324\u20139410 | www.augsburg.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nDom St. Maria (Cathedral of St. Mary).  \nAugsburg's cathedral, which was built in the 9th century, stands out because of its square Gothic towers, the product of a 14th-century update. A 10th-century Romanesque crypt also remains from the cathedral's early years. The 11th-century windows on the south side of the nave, depicting the prophets Jonah, Daniel, Hosea, Moses, and David, form the oldest cycle of stained glass in central Europe. Five important paintings by Hans Holbein the Elder adorn the altar.\n\nA short walk from the cathedral will take you to the quiet courtyards and small raised garden of the former episcopal residence, a series of 18th-century baroque and rococo buildings that now serve as the Swabian regional government offices. | Dompl., Johannisg. 8 | www.bistum-augsburg.de | Daily 9\u2013dusk.\n\nDi\u00f6zesanmuseum St. Afra.  \nThe cathedral's treasures are on display at this museum, which is directly behind the Dom. | Kornhausg. 3\u20135 | www.bistum-augsburg.de/museum | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. noon\u20136\n\nFuggerei.  \nThis neat little settlement is the world's oldest social housing project. It was established by the Fugger family in 1516 to accommodate the city's deserving poor. The 67 homes with 140 apartments still serve the same purpose and house about 150 people today. It's financed almost exclusively from the assets of the foundation, because the annual rent of \"one Rhenish guilder\" (\u20ac1) hasn't changed, either. Residents must be Augsburg citizens, Catholic, and destitute through no fault of their own\u2014and they must pray three times daily for their original benefactors, the Fugger family. The most famous resident was Mozart's great-grandfather. | Main entrance on Jakoberstr., Fuggerei 56 | 0821/3198\u20138114 | www.fugger.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 8\u20138; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20136.\n\nMaximilian-Museum.  \nAugsburg's main museum houses a permanent exhibition of Augsburg arts and crafts in a 16th-century merchant's mansion. | Fuggerpl. 1, Philippine-Welser-Str. 24 | 0821/324\u20134102 | www.kunstsammlungen-museen.augsburg.de | \u20ac7 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nPerlachturm (Perlach Tower).  \nThis 258-foot-high plastered brick bell tower has foundations dating to the 12th century. Although it's a long climb to the top of the tower, the view over Augsburg and the countryside is worth it. | Rathauspl. | \u20ac1.50 | May\u2013Nov., daily 10\u20136.\n\nRathaus.  \nAugsburg's town hall was Germany's largest when it was built in the early 17th century; it's now regarded as the finest secular Renaissance structure north of the Alps. Its Goldener Saal (Golden Hall) was given its name because of its rich decoration\u2014eight pounds of gold are spread over its wall frescoes, carved pillars, and coffered ceiling. | Rathauspl. 2 | www.augsburg.de | \u20ac2.50 | Daily 10\u20136 (closed for official functions).\n\nSts. Ulrich and Afra.  \nStanding at the highest point of the city, this Catholic basilica with an attached Protestant chapel symbolizes the Peace of Augsburg, the treaty that ended the religious struggle between the two groups. Built on the site of a Roman cemetery where St. Afra was martyred in AD 304, the original structure was begun in the late-Gothic style in 1467. St. Afra is buried in the crypt, near the tomb of St. Ulrich, a 10th-century bishop who helped stop a Hungarian army at the gates of Augsburg in the Battle of the Lech River. The remains of a third patron of the church, St. Simpert, are preserved in one of the church's most elaborate side chapels. From the steps of the magnificent altar, look back along the high nave to the finely carved baroque wrought iron and wood railing that borders the entrance. As you leave, look into the separate but adjacent church of St. Ulrich, the Baroque preaching hall that was added for the Protestant community in 1710, after the Reformation. | Ulrichspl. 19 | www.ulrichsbasilika.de | Daily 9\u2013dusk.\n\nSchaezlerpalais.  \nThis elegant 18th-century city palace was built by the von Liebenhofens, a family of wealthy bankers. Schaezler was the name of a baron who married into the family. Today the palace rooms contain the Deutsche Barockgalerie (German Baroque Gallery), a major art collection that features works of the 17th and 18th centuries. The palace adjoins the former church of a Dominican monastery. A steel door behind the banquet hall leads into another world of high-vaulted ceilings, where the Staatsgalerie Altdeutsche Meister, a Bavarian state collection, highlights old-master paintings, among them a D\u00fcrer portrait of one of the Fuggers. | Maximilianstr. 46 | 0821/324\u20134102 | \u20ac7 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nBrechthaus.  \nThis modest artisan's house was the birthplace of the renowned playwright Bertolt Brecht (1898\u20131956), author of Mother Courage and The Threepenny Opera. It's now a museum documenting his life and work. | Auf dem Rain 7 | 0821/324\u20132779 | \u20ac2 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nFuggerh\u00e4user.  \nThe 16th-century house and business quarters of the Fugger family now has restaurant in its cellar and offices on the upper floors. In the ground-floor entrance are busts of two of Augsburg's most industrious Fuggers, Raymund and Anton. Beyond a modern glass door is the Damenhof (Ladies' Courtyard), originally reserved for the Fugger women. Only the three courtyards here are open to the public. | Maximilianstr. 36\u201338 | Courtyards: summer, daily 11\u20133 and 6\u2013midnight.\n\nHolbein Haus.  \nThe rebuilt 16th-century home of painter Hans Holbein the Elder, one of Augsburg's most famous residents, and birthplace of his son the Younger, is now a city art gallery with changing modern art exhibitions. | Vorderer Lech 20 | www.kunstverein-augsburg.de | Admission varies | May\u2013Oct., Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Thurs. 10\u20138; Nov.\u2013Apr., Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134, Thurs. 10\u20138.\n\nMaximilianstrasse.  \nMost of the city's sights are on Augsburg's main shopping street or a short walk away. It was once a medieval wine market along the Roman road. Two monumental and elaborate fountains punctuate the long street. At the north end is the Merkur, designed in 1599 by the Dutch master Adrian de Vries (after a Florentine sculpture by Giovanni da Bologna), which shows winged Mercury in his classic pose. Farther up Maximilianstrasse is another de Vries fountain: a bronze Hercules struggling to subdue the many-headed Hydra.\n\nMozart-Haus (Mozart House).  \nLeopold Mozart, the father of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, was born in this bourgeois 17th-century residence; he was an accomplished composer and musician in his own right. The house now serves as a Mozart memorial and museum, with some fascinating contemporary documents on the Mozart family. Many descendants still live in the area today. | Frauentorstr. 30 | 0821/518\u2013588 | www.mozartgesellschaft.de | \u20ac3.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nRotes Tor (Red Gate).  \nThe city's most important medieval gate once straddled the main trading road to Italy. It's the backdrop to an open-air opera and operetta festival in June and July. | Rote-Torwall-Str.\n\nSt. Anna-Kirche (St. Anna's Church).  \nThis site was formerly part of a Carmelite monastery, where Martin Luther stayed in 1518 during his meetings with Cardinal Cajetanus, the papal legate sent from Rome to persuade the reformer to renounce his heretical views. Luther refused, and the place where he publicly declared his rejection of papal pressure is marked with a plaque on Maximilianstrasse.TIP You can wander through the quiet cloisters, dating from the 14th century, and view the chapel used by the Fugger family until the Reformation. | Anna-Str., west of Rathauspl. | Mon. noon\u20135, Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u201312:30 and 3\u20135, Sun. 10\u201312:30 (for services) and 3\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nFodor's Choice | Die Ecke.  \nEUROPEAN | In season, the venison dishes are among Bavaria's best at this imaginative restaurant, on an Ecke (corner) of the small square right behind Augsburg's town hall. The fish, in particular the Zander (green pike) or the trout (saut\u00e9ed in butter with herbs and lemon), is magnificent, and complemented nicely by the Riesling Gimmeldinger Meersspinne, the house wine for 40 years. In summer ask for a table on the patio. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Elias-Holl-Pl. 2 | 0821/510\u2013600 | www.restaurant-die-ecke.de | Reservations essential.\n\nRatskeller Augsburg.  \nGERMAN | Underneath the impressive Ratshaus lies this vaulted redbrick destination for Bavarian food and drink, especially at the end of a long day. It's surprisingly airy here, despite being underground. The friendly staff serve up traditional fare with plenty of choices, and it stays open late (till 1 am most nights, and 2 am on Friday and Saturday), when most other local restaurants have closed. There's an expansive cocktail menu, and you can make the most of it during the daily happy hour. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Ratshauspl. 2 | 0821/319\u201388238 | www.ratskeller-augsburg.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nDom Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Just around the corner from Augsburg's cathedral, this snug establishment has personality to spare. lAsk for one of the attic rooms, where you'll sleep under beam ceilings and wake to a rooftop view of the city. Or try for one of the rooms on the top floor that have a small terrace facing the cathedral. A garden terrace borders the old city walls, and in summer you'll have your breakfast in the garden under old chestnut trees. Pros: family-run; attention paid to details; nice view from upper rooms, complimentary parking. Cons: stairs to entrance and some rooms; no restaurant or bar. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Frauentorstr. 8 | 0821/343\u2013930 | www.domhotel-augsburg.de | 44 rooms, 8 suites | Closed late Dec.\u2013mid-Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel-Garni Schl\u00f6ssle.  \nHOTEL | From the main railroad station, a 10-minute ride on tram Number 3 to the end of the line at Stadtbergen brings you to this friendly, family-run hotel. Rooms under the steep eaves are particularly cozy. The location allows for fresh country air, walks, and sporting facilities (a golf course is within a good tee-shot's range). Pros: good value, friendly; family-run. Cons: no restaurant or bar; small rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac74 | Bauernstr. 37 | Stadtbergen | 0821/243\u2013930 | 14 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRomantikhotel Augsburger Hof.  \nHOTEL | A preservation order protects the beautiful Renaissance facade of this old Augsburg mansion, but the hotel itself is full of modern comfort. The guest rooms are bright and cheerful, with natural-wood finishing and beds with thick down comforters. The restaurant ($ - $$) serves excellent Swabian specialties and international dishes. In season, try the duck. The cathedral is around the corner; the town center is a five-minute stroll away. Pros: welcoming lobby; rooms with a personal touch; good food and handy location. Cons: noisy front rooms; must book far in advance. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Auf dem Kreuz 2 | 0821/343\u2013050 | www.augsburger-hof.de | 36 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nSteigenberger Drei Mohren Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Kings and princes, Napol\u00e9on, and the Duke of Wellington have all slept here, and these days all the rooms have been modernized without losing their traditional luxury. Dining options include Maximilian's ($ - $$), a Mediterranean-style restaurant with an open kitchen; its Sunday jazz brunch has been a town favorite for decades. The thoroughly French Sartory ($$ - $$$) has some excellent prix-fixe menus. Pros: spacious lobby with inviting bar; very good restaurants; cheaper weekend rates. Cons: some rooms on top floor are small, with only one window. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Maximilianstr. 40 | 0821/50360 | www.augsburg.steigenberger.de | 131 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nAugsburg has chamber and symphony orchestras, as well as ballet and opera companies. The city stages a Mozart Festival of international stature in September.\n\nFAMILY | Augsburger Puppenkiste (Puppet theater).  \nThis children's puppet theater has been an institution in Germany since its inception in 1948. It's still loved by kids and parents alike. | Spitalg. 15, next to Rotes Tor | 0821/450\u20133450 | www.augsburger-puppenkiste.de.\n\nFreilichtb\u00fchne.  \nOne of Germany's most beautiful open-air theaters, Augsburg's Freilichtb\u00fchne is the setting for a number of operas, operettas and musicals from mid-June through July. | Am Roten Tor | 0821/324\u20134900 for tourist office | www.theater.augsburg.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nSeveral streets of the inner city, including part of Maximilianstrasse (the city's broad main street), are part of a pedestrian-only zone that makes window-shopping its many shops and boutiques a pleasure.\n\nEn Route: Traveling to Augsburg northward on the B-17 from F\u00fcssen, you'll drive across the Lech battlefield, where Hungarian invaders were stopped in 955. Rich Bavarian pastures extend as far as the Lech River, which the Romantic Road meets at the historic town of Landsberg.\n\n## Ulm\n\n85 km (49 miles) west of Augsburg.\n\nUlm isn't considered part of the Romantic Road, but it's definitely worth visiting, if only for one reason: its mighty M\u00fcnster, which has the world's tallest church tower (536 feet). Ulm grew as a medieval trading city thanks to its location on the Danube River. Today the proximity of the Old Town to the river adds to Ulm's charm. In the Fishermen's and Tanners' quarters the cobblestone alleys and stone-and-wood bridges over the Blau (a small Danube tributary) are especially picturesque. And down by the banks of the Danube, you'll find long sections of the old city wall and fortifications intact.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTo get to Ulm from Augsburg, take Highway A-8 west or take a 40-minute ride on one of the ICE (InterCity Express) trains that run to Ulm every hour.\n\nThe tourist office's 90-minute tours include a visit to the M\u00fcnster, the Old Town Hall, the Fischerviertel (Fishermen's Quarter), and the Danube riverbank. The departure point is the tourist office (Stadthaus) on M\u00fcnsterplatz. The cost is \u20ac8, and tours take place throughout the day.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nUlm Tourist-Information. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 50 | 0731/161\u20132830 | www.tourismus.ulm.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nMarktplatz.  \nThe central Marktplatz is bordered by medieval houses with stepped gables. Every Wednesday and Saturday farmers from the surrounding area arrive by 6 am to erect their stands and unload their produce. Potatoes, vegetables, apples, pears, berries, honey, fresh eggs, poultry, homemade bread, and many other edible things are carefully displayed. TIP Get here early; the market packs up around noon.\n\nM\u00fcnster.  \nUlm's M\u00fcnster is the largest evangelical church in Germany, but its true claim to fame is its church tower, the world's highest. It stands over the huddled medieval gables of Old Ulm, visible long before you hit the ugly suburbs encroaching on the Swabian countryside. The single, filigree tower challenges the physically fit to plod 536 feet up the 768 steps of a giddily twisting spiral stone staircase to a spectacular observation point below the spire. On clear days the steeple will reward you with views of the Swiss and Bavarian Alps, 160 km (100 miles) to the south. The M\u00fcnster was begun in the late-Gothic age (1377) and took five centuries to build, with completion in the neo-Gothic years of the late 19th century. It contains some notable treasures, including late-Gothic choir stalls and a Renaissance altar. Ulm itself was heavily bombed during World War II, but Allied forces avoided the tower, using it instead as a navigational aid. TIP The mighty organ can be heard in special recitals every Sunday at noon from Easter until November. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 21 | www.ulmer-muenster.de | Tower \u20ac4 | Church daily 9\u20136:45, tower daily 9\u20133:45.\n\nMuseum der Brotkultur (German Bread Museum).  \nGerman bread is world renowned, so it's not surprising that a national museum is devoted to it. It's by no means as crusty or dry as you might fear, with some amusing exhibits showing how bread has been baked over the centuries. The museum is in a former salt warehouse, just north of the M\u00fcnster. | Salzstadelg. 10 | 0731/69955 | www.museum-brotkultur.de | \u20ac4 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nRathaus.  \nA reproduction of the local tailor Ludwig Berblinger's flying machine hangs inside the elaborately painted Rathaus. In 1811 Berblinger, a tailor and local eccentric, cobbled together a pair of wings and made a big splash by trying to fly across the river. He didn't make it, but he grabbed a place in German history books for his efforts. | Marktpl. 1.\n\nUlmer Museum (Ulm Museum).  \nExhibits at this natural history and art museum, illustrate centuries of development in this part of the Danube Valley; it also has works by such modern artists as Kandinsky, Klee, L\u00e9ger, and Lichtenstein. | Marktpl. 9 | 0731/161\u20134330 | www.museum.ulm.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nEinstein Denkmal (Einstein Monument).  \nEinstein's house was destroyed in an Allied raid and was never rebuilt. The Einstein Denkmal, erected in 1984, marks the site, which is opposite the main railway station. Sculptor J\u00fcrgen Goertz created a memorial that consists of three elements. The rocket represents technology, the conquest of space, and the atomic threat. In contrast to the rocket is the large snail shell, which represents nature, wisdom, and skepticism toward technology. From the snail shell protrudes Albert Einstein's head, which mocks us by sticking out his tongue. | Am Zeughausg.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nZunfthaus der Schiffleute.  \nGERMAN | The sturdy half-timber Zunfthaus (Guildhall) has stood here for more than 500 years, first as a fishermen's pub and now as a charming tavern-restaurant that was renovated in 2013. Ulm's fishermen had their guild headquarters here, and when the nearby Danube flooded, the fish swam right up to the door. Today they land on the menu, which also includes dry-aged steak as well as \"Swabian oysters\" (actually snails, drenched in garlic butter). The local beer makes an excellent accompaniment. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Fischerg. 31 | 0731/64411 | www.zunfthaus-ulm.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Zur Forelle.  \nGERMAN | For more than 350 years Forelle (\"Trout\") has stood over the small, clear River Blau, which flows through a large trout basin right under the restaurant. In addition to the trout, there are five other fish dishes available, as well as excellent venison in season. TIP On a nice summer evening, try to get a table on the small terrace. You sit over the small river, with a weeping willow on one side, half-timber houses around you, and the towering cathedral in the background. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Fischerg. 25 | 0731/63924 | www.zurforelle.com.\n\nHotel am Rathaus/Reblaus.  \nHOTEL | Some of the rooms have vintage furniture at this family-owned hotel, which is also furnished with antique paintings, furniture, and dolls. In the annex, the half-timber Reblaus, most rooms have hand-painted cupboards. If you take a room toward the front, look up from your window and you'll see the M\u00fcnster and its huge spire a few hundred feet away. The hotel is behind the old historic Rathaus, on the fringe of the Old City, where you'll find more than a dozen restaurants and taverns. Pros: center of the city; artistic touches; good value. Cons: no elevator; not enough parking; no breakfast in annex. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | Kroneng. 8\u201310 | 0731/968\u2013490 | www.rathausulm.de | 34 rooms | Closed Christmas\u2013early Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nMaritim.  \nHOTEL | Whether you come here to eat or stay, be prepared for incredible views. Reserve a room in the top three floors or head up to the restaurant on the 16th floor for an unparalleled outlook over the Old Town of Ulm: the cathedral, the Danube, and the Swabian Alb, a long plateau, are all visible. The rooms are fairly basic, however. The large, luxurious bar, which has live piano music every night, is a favorite with guests. Pros: spacious lobby and rooms; romantic views; nice bar. Cons: rooms expensive on weekdays; chain-hotel atmosphere. | Rooms from: \u20ac160 | Basteistr. 40 | 0731/9230 | www.maritim.de | 287 rooms | No meals.\n\n## N\u00f6rdlingen\n\n28 km (17 miles) southeast of Donauw\u00f6rth, 72 km (44 miles) northwest of Augsburg.\n\nIn N\u00f6rdlingen a medieval watchman's cry still rings out every night across the ancient walls and turrets. As in Rothenburg, its sister city, the medieval walls are completely intact, but the riot of architecture here, from the medieval to the Renaissance and the baroque, doesn't come with the same masses of tourists. The ground plan of the town is two concentric circles. The inner circle of streets, whose central point is St. Georg, marks the earliest medieval boundary. A few hundred yards beyond it is the outer boundary, a wall built to accommodate expansion. Fortified with 11 towers and punctuated by five massive gates, it's one of the best-preserved town walls in Germany. And if the Old Town looks a little familiar, it might be because the closing aerial shots in the 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory were filmed over its red roofs.\n\nN\u00f6rdlingen was established along the same Roman road that goes through Augsburg, but its \"foundation\" goes much farther back\u2014the town is built in the center of a huge, basinlike depression, the Ries, which was at first believed to be the remains of an extinct volcano. In 1960 it was proven by two Americans that the 24-km-wide (15-mile-wide) crater was caused by an asteroid at least 1 km (\u00bd mile) in diameter that hit the spot some 15 million years ago. The compressed rock, or Suevit, formed by the explosive impact of the meteorite was used to construct many of the town's buildings, including St. Georg's tower.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nN\u00f6rdlingen Tourist-Information. | Marktpl. 2 | 09081/84116 | www.noerdlingen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nSt. Georg.  \nWatchmen still sound out the traditional \"So G'sell so\" (\"All's well\") message from the 300-foot tower of the central parish church of St. Georg at half-hour intervals between 10 pm and midnight. The tradition goes back to an incident during the Thirty Years' War, when an enemy attempted to slip into the town and was detected by a resident. You can climb the 365 steps up the tower\u2014known locally as the Daniel\u2014for an unsurpassed view of the town and countryside, including, on clear days, 99 villages. | Marktpl. | Tower \u20ac3 | Church: Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9:30\u201312:30 and 2\u20135, weekends 9:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10:30\u201312:30. Tower: Jan. Feb., and Nov., daily 10\u20134; Mar. Apr., and Oct., daily 10\u20135; May Jun., and Sep., daily 9\u20136; Jul. and Aug., daily 9\u20137; Dec. 9\u20135.\n\nBayerisches Eisenbahnmuseum.  \nOne of Germany's largest steam railway\u2013engine museums organizes trips about a dozen times a year, during which its old trains are put on the rails again to and from Harburg. Contact the museum for more information. | Am Hohen Weg 6a | 09083/340 | www.bayerisches-eisenbahnmuseum.de | \u20ac6 | May\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sat. noon\u20134, Sun. 10\u20135; Mar., Apr., and Oct., Sat. noon\u20134, Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFAMILY | Hotel Goldene Rose.  \nHOTEL | This small, modern hotel just inside the town wall is ideal for those wishing to explore N\u00f6rdlingen on foot. The kitchen serves wholesome, inexpensive dishes and will happily fulfill special orders. Families feel welcome, and kids can roam the premises. Pros: family-friendly; parking in courtyard. Cons: front rooms noisy; restaurant closed Sunday. | Rooms from: \u20ac65 | Baldingerstr. 42 | 09081/86019 | www.goldene-rose-noerdlingen.de | 17 rooms, 1 apartment | Breakfast.\n\n### Festivals\n\nTheater festival.  \nFrom the end of June through July, an annual open-air theater festival takes place in front of the ancient walls of N\u00f6rdlingen's Alter Bastei (Old Bastion). Check Freilichtb\u00fchne N\u00f6rdlingen's website for more information. | Alte Bastei | 09081/84116, 09081/5400 on performance days | www.freilichtbuehne-noerdlingen.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nN\u00f6rdlingen Ries.  \nEver cycled around a huge meteor crater? You can do just that in the N\u00f6rdlingen Ries, the depression left by an asteroid that hit the area 14.5 million years ago. This impact crater is a designated national geopark and the best-preserved impact crater in all of Europe.\n\nN\u00f6rdlingen tourist office.  \nThe tourist office has a list of 10 recommended bike routes, including one 47-km (29-mile) trail around the northern part of the meteor crater. | Marktpl. 2 | 09081/84116 | www.noerdlingen.de.\n\nRieser Flugsportverein.  \nFor a spectacular view of the town and Ries crater, contact the local flying club, the Rieser Flugsportverein, for a ride in a light aircraft. The website is in German, but English flying tours and pilots are both available. | 09081/4099 | www.flugplatz-noerdlingen.de.\n\nZweirad M\u00fcller.  \nRent a bike from this company to explore the Ries. | Gewerbestr. 16 | 09081/5675 | www.zweiradcenter-mueller.de.\n\nEn Route: Schloss Harburg.  \nAt the point where the little W\u00f6rnitz River breaks through the Franconian Jura Mountains, 20 km (12 mi) southeast of N\u00f6rdlingen, you'll find one of southern Germany's best-preserved medieval castles. Schloss Harburg was already old when it passed into the possession of the counts of Oettingen in 1295; before that time it belonged to the Hohenstaufen emperors. The same family still owns the castle. TIP The castle is literally on B\u201325, which runs under it through a tunnel in the rock. | Harburg | 09080/96860 | www.burg-harburg.de | \u20ac5, with obligatory guided tour | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nEn Route: Donauw\u00f6rth.  \nAt the old walled town of Donauw\u00f6rth, 28 km (17 miles) southeast of N\u00f6rdlingen, the W\u00f6rnitz River meets the Danube. If you're driving, pull off into the clearly marked lot on B-25, just north of town. Below you sprawls a striking natural relief map of Donauw\u00f6rth and its two rivers. | www.donauwoerth.de.\n\nK\u00e4the-Kruse-Puppen-Museum.  \nDonauw\u00f6rth is the home of the famous K\u00e4the Kruse dolls, beloved for their sweet looks and frilly, floral outfits. You can buy them at several outlets in town, and they have their own museum, where more than 130 examples dating from 1912 are displayed in a renovated monastery building. | Pflegstr. 21a | Donauw\u00f6rth | 0906/789\u2013170 | www.museen.de/kaethe-kruse-puppen-museum-donauwoerth.html | \u20ac2.50 | Tues.-Sun.: May-Sep., 11-5; Apr.&Oct, 2-5; Weekends & Wed. only: Nov.-Mar., 2-5\n\n## Dinkelsb\u00fchl\n\n32 km (20 miles) north of N\u00f6rdlingen.\n\nWithin the walls of Dinkelsb\u00fchl, a beautifully preserved medieval town, the rush of traffic seems a lifetime away. Although there is less to see here than in Rothenburg, the town is a pleasant break from the crowds, and you can relax among the locals at one of the Gasthauses in the town's central Marktplatz. You can patrol the illuminated Old Town with the night watchman at 9 pm free of charge, starting from the M\u00fcnster St. Georg.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nDinkelsb\u00fchl Tourist-Information. | Marktpl., Altrathauspl. 14 | 09851/902\u2013440 | www.dinkelsbuehl.de | May\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20136, weekends 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 10\u20135.   \nRomantische Strasse Touristik-Arbeitsgemeinschaft (Romantic Road Central Tourist-Information). | Segringerstr. 19 | 09851/551\u2013387 | www.romantischestrasse.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nM\u00fcnster St. Georg (Church of St. George).  \nDinkelsb\u00fchl's main church is the standout sight in town. At 235 feet long it's large enough to be a cathedral, and it's among the best examples in Bavaria of the late-Gothic style. Note the complex fan vaulting that spreads sinuously across the ceiling. If you can face the climb, head up the 200-foot tower for amazing views over the jumble of rooftops. | Marktpl., Kirchh\u00f6flein 6 | 09851/2245 | www.st-georg-dinkelsbuehl.de | Tower \u20ac1.50 | Church: summer, daily 9\u2013noon and 2\u20137; winter, daily 9\u2013noon and 2\u20135. Tower: May\u2013Sept., Fri.\u2013Sun. 2\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nGoldene Rose.  \nB&B/INN | Since 1450 the inhabitants of Dinkelsb\u00fchl and their guests\u2014among them Queen Victoria in 1891\u2014have enjoyed a good night's sleep, great food, and refreshing drinks in this half-timber house. The comfortable guest rooms are decorated with half-timber walls, and two family suites are available. Dark paneling makes the restaurant ($ - $$) feel cozy; the menu emphasizes fresh regional cuisine, especially fish and game. Pros: family-friendly; good food; parking lot. Cons: some rooms need renovating; front rooms are noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac78 | Marktpl. 4 | 09851/57750 | www.hotel-goldene-rose.com | 34 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Deutsches Haus.  \nHOTEL | As you step into this medieval inn with a facade of half-timber gables and flower boxes, an old sturdy bar gives you a chance to register while sitting down and enjoying a drink. The rooms are fitted with antique furniture, including one with a romantic four-poster bed. Dinner is served beneath heavy oak beams in the restaurant ($ - $$) Pros: modern touches like free Wi-Fi. Cons: some rooms noisy; pricey; steps to climb. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Weinmarkt 3 | 09851/6058 | www.deutsches-haus-dkb.de | 16 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Kunst Stuben.  \nB&B/INN | A husband and wife team welcomes guests at this charming B and B, which is filled with handmade furniture, four-poster beds, and the owners' artwork on the walls. The rooms are cozy, and the inn has plenty of areas to relax, whether in the lounge-like Knight's Room or the lush garden. Pros: unique, local atmosphere; parking available. Cons: older building, with creaky floorboards; must check in before 6 pm. | Rooms from: \u20ac80 | Segringer Str. 52 | 09851/6750 | www.kunst-stuben.de | 9 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nDeleika.  \nThis store makes barrel organs to order. The firm also has a museum of barrel organs and other mechanical instruments. It's just outside Dinkelsb\u00fchl. Call ahead. | Waldeck 33 | 09857/97990.\n\n## Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber\n\n50 km (31 miles) north of Dinkelsb\u00fchl, 90 km (56 miles) west of N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nRothenburg-ob-der-Tauber (literally, the \"red castle on the Tauber\") is the kind of medieval town that even Walt Disney might have thought too picturesque to be true, with half-timber architecture galore and a wealth of fountains and flowers against a backdrop of towers and turrets. Truth be told, it's partly a tourist trap these days, but it's genuine all the same. As late as the 17th century, it was a small but thriving market town that had grown up around the ruins of two 12th-century churches destroyed by an earthquake. Then it was laid low economically by the havoc of the Thirty Years' War, and with its economic base devastated, the town remained a backwater until modern tourism rediscovered it.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe easiest way to get here is by car. There are large parking lots just outside the town wall. You can also come by the Romantic Road bus from Augsburg via Donauw\u00f6rth, N\u00f6rdlingen, and Dinkelsb\u00fchl, with an optional layover on the way. By local train it takes about 2\u00bd hours from Augsburg, with two train changes.\n\nAll attractions within the walled town can easily be reached on foot. The costumed night watchman conducts a nightly tour of the town, leading the way with a lantern. From Easter to December a one-hour tour in English begins at 8 pm and costs \u20ac6 (a 90-minute daytime tour begins at 2 pm). All tours start at the Marktplatz. Private group tours with the night watchman can be arranged through www.nightwatchman.de.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nDer Meistertrunk Festspiel (The Meister Drink Historical Fest).  \nFor four days over Whitsun (Pentecost) weekend (in early summer) every year, the town celebrates the famous wager said to have saved the town from destruction in the Thirty Years' War. A play of the events takes place every day, and handicraft and artisan markets, along with food stands, fill the town squares. | www.meistertrunk.de.\n\nReichsstadt Festage (Imperial City Festival).  \nLocals in period costume gather in town over the first weekend in September to commemorate Rothenburg's being named Free Imperial City in 1274. Concerts are played throughout the city; the highlight is the Saturday fireworks show.\n\nSch\u00e4fertanz (Shepherd's Dance).  \nA Sch\u00e4fertanz was once performed around the Herterichbrunnen, the ornate Renaissance fountain on the central Marktplatz, whenever Rothenburg celebrated a major event. Although its origins go back to local shepherds' annual gatherings, the dance is now celebrated with locals from the area costumed as maids, shepherds, soldiers, and nobility. It takes place in front of the Rathaus several times a year, chiefly at Easter, Pentecost, and in September. | Marktpl. 1 | www.schaefertanzrothenburg.de.\n\n#### Timing\n\nSights are dotted around town, and the streets don't lend themselves to a particular route. Be aware that crowds will affect the pace at which you can tour the town. Early morning is the only time to appreciate the place in relative calm. The best times to see the mechanical figures on the Rathaus wall are in the evening, at 8, 9, or 10.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nRothenburg-ob-der-Tauber Tourist-Information. | Rathaus, Marktpl. 2 | 09861/404\u2013800 | www.tourismus.rothenburg.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nMeistertrunkuhr.  \nTales of the Meistertrunk (Master Drink) and a mighty civil servant are still told in Rothenburg. The story originates from 1631, when the Protestant town was captured by Catholic forces during the Thirty Years' War. During the victory celebrations, the conquering general was embarrassed to find himself unable to drink a great tankard of wine in one go, as his manhood demanded. He volunteered to spare the town further destruction if any of the city councilors could drain the mighty six-pint draft. The mayor took up the challenge and succeeded, and Rothenburg was preserved. The tankard itself is on display at the Reichsstadtmuseum. On the north side of the main square is a fine clock, placed there 50 years after the mayor's feat. A mechanical figure acts out the epic Master Drink daily on the hour from 11 to 3 and in the evening at 8, 9, and 10. The feat is also celebrated at two annual pageants, when townsfolk parade through the streets in 17th-century garb. | Marktpl. 1.\n\nMittelalterliches Kriminalmuseum (Medieval Criminal Museum).  \nThe gruesome medieval implements of torture on display here are not for the fainthearted. The only museum in Europe that provides an overview of the history of law also soberly documents the history of German legal processes in the Middle Ages. Guided tours can be arranged in advance. | Burgg. 3\u20135 | 09861/5359 | www.kriminalmuseum.rothenburg.de | \u20ac5 | Jan., Feb., and Nov., daily 2\u20134; Mar. and Dec., daily 1\u20134; Apr., 11\u20135; May\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136.\n\nStadtmauer (City Wall).  \nRothenburg's city walls are more than 2 km (1 mile) long and provide an excellent way of circumnavigating the town from above. Let your imagination take you back 500 years as you explore the low, covered sentries' walkway, which are punctuated by cannons, turrets, and areas where the town guards met. Stairs every 200 or 300 yards provide ready access. There are superb views of the tangle of pointed and tiled red roofs and of the rolling country beyond.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nFAMILY | Puppen und Spielzeugmuseum (Doll and Toy Museum).  \nThis complex of medieval and baroque buildings houses more than 1,000 dolls, the oldest dating from 1780, the newest from 1940, as well as a collection of dollhouses, model shops, and theaters guaranteed to charm the kids. | Hofbronneng. 13 | 09861/7330 | www.spielzeugmuseum.rothenburg.de | \u20ac4 | Jan. and Feb., daily 11\u20135; Mar.\u2013Dec., daily 9:30\u20136.\n\nRathaus.  \nThe Rathaus's tower gives you a good view of town. Half of the town hall is Gothic, begun in 1240; the other half is neoclassical, started in 1572, and renovated after its original facade was destroyed by a fire 500 years ago. | Rathauspl., Marktpl. 1 | www.rothenburg.de | Tower \u20ac2 | Jan.\u2013Mar. and Nov., weekends noon\u20133; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9:30\u20135; daily 10:30\u20136.\n\nHistoriengew\u00f6lbe (Historic Vaults).  \nBelow the Rathaus building are the historic vaults and dungeons, which house a museum that brings the Thirty Years' War to life. | Rathaus Building | \u20ac2 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Apr., daily 10\u20134; May\u2013Oct., daily 9:30\u20135:30; Dec., weekdays 1\u20134, weekends 10\u20134. | Closed Nov., Jan., and Feb.\n\nReichsstadtmuseum (Imperial City Museum).  \nThis city museum is two attractions in one. Its artifacts illustrate Rothenburg and its history. Among them is the great tankard, or Pokal, of the Meistertrunk. The setting of the museum is the other attraction; it's in a former Dominican convent, the oldest parts of which date from the 13th century. Tour the building to see the cloisters, the kitchens, and the dormitory; then see the collections. | Klosterhof 5 | 09861/939\u2013043 | www.reichsstadtmuseum.rothenburg.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 1\u20134.\n\nSt. Wolfgang.  \nLocal shepherds gathered for prayer and protection at this spot for for years before building this historic parish church. Despite its Gothic origins and a baroque interior, St. Wolfgang's is most notable for the way it blends into the forbidding city wall. | Klingeng. | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Wed.\u2013Mon. 11\u20131 and 2\u20135; Oct., Wed.\u2013Mon. 11\u20134.\n\nStadtpfarrkirche St. Jakob (Parish Church of St. Jacob).  \nThe towers of this pilgrimage church dominate the skyline; much of its art and artifacts have been donated by local townspeople over the centuries. The church has notable Riemenschneider sculptures, including the famous Heiliges Blut (Holy Blood) altar. Above the altar is a crystal capsule said to contain drops of Christ's blood. There are three 14th- and 15th-century stained-glass windows in the choir, and the Herlin-Altar is famous for its 15th-century painted panels. | Klosterg. 15 | 09861/700\u2013620 | \u20ac2 | Jan.\u2013Mar. and Nov., daily 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135; Dec. daily 10\u20134:45. English tours Sat. at 3:30.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nRestaurant-Burgerkeller.  \nGERMAN | An especially good choice for a blustery fall or winter day, this restaurant in an Old Town cellar has in a rustic, family-friendly atmosphere. For a sampling of all the traditional pork dishes, tuck into the Bauernschmaus, smoked and roasted pork and sausages with a potato dumpling and gravy. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Herrng. 24 | 09861/2126.\n\nRestaurant-Zur H\u00f6ll.  \nGERMAN | This restaurant \"To Hell\" is a great place to head for a snack after a night watchman's tour. The basic but delicious main menu is complemented throughout the year by seasonal and local dishes and ingredients, such as Pfefferlinge (chanterelles, served in soups, salads, and sauces); you'll probably also want to try the house beer. In the busier months, reserve a table ahead of time to guarantee a spot for later in the evenings. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Burgg. 8 | 098/614\u2013229 | www.hoell.rothenburg.de | Closed Mon.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Burg-Hotel.  \nB&B/INN | At this exquisite little hotel most rooms have a view of the romantic Tauber Valley, and they also have plush furnishings, with antiques or fine reproductions. There are also two family apartments available for rent that are separate from the hotel. Breakfast is served on the terrace on top of the town wall in good weather, affording a stunning wide-angle view into the Tauber Valley and the hills beyond. The owner and staff are gracious hosts. The Steinway Cellar holds a grand piano, and there is a small spa area open for all guests. Pros: no crowds; terrific view from most rooms; nice touches throughout; parking and bike rentals available for small fee. Cons: no restaurant; too quiet for kids. | Rooms from: \u20ac165 | Klosterg. 1\u20133 | 09861/94890 | www.burghotel.eu | 30 rooms, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nGasthof Klingentor.  \nB&B/INN | This sturdy former staging post run by the welcoming Wagenl\u00e4nder Family is outside the city walls but still within a 10-minute walk of Rothenburg's historic center. Rooms are spacious and furnished in the local rustic style. The inexpensive restaurant serves substantial Franconian fare. A well-marked path for hiking or biking starts outside the front door. Pros: good value; friendly restaurant liked by locals and guests. Cons: front rooms noisy; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac70 | Mergentheimerstr. 14 | 09861/3468 | www.hotel-klingentor.de | 20 rooms, 16 with bath | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Eisenhut.  \nHOTEL | It's fitting that the prettiest small town in Germany should have one of the prettiest small hotels in its center. Each of the 79 rooms is different - each with its own charming color scheme, most with antique furniture. lTry for a room on the top floor toward the back, overlooking the Old Town and the Tauber River valley. The restaurant ($$ - $$$), one of the region's best, offers impeccable service along with delicious food and a lovely view of the garden. In summer you'll want to eat on the terrace, surrounded by flowers. Pros: elegant lobby; exceptional service; good food. Cons: expensive; nothing for kids. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | Herrng. 3\u20135/7 | 09861/7050 | www.eisenhut.com | 78 rooms, 2 suites | No meals.\n\nHotel-Gasthof Post.  \nB&B/INN | This small family-run hotel, two minutes on foot from the eastern city gate, must be one of the friendliest in town. The rooms are simple but pleasant, and all have shower or bath. Pros: good value; friendly-family. Cons: front rooms noisy; no elevator, some bathrooms need renovating. | Rooms from: \u20ac70 | Ansbacherstr. 27 | 09861/938\u2013880 | www.post-rothenburg.com | 23 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Reichs-K\u00fcchenmeister.  \nB&B/INN | Master chefs in the service of the Holy Roman Emperor were the inspiration for the name of this historic hotel-restaurant, one of the oldest trader's houses in Rothenburg. For five generations it's been run by the same energetic family. Rooms are furnished in a stylish mixture of old and new; light veneer pieces share space with heavy oak bedsteads and painted cupboards. You can have meals on the tree-covered terrace overlooking a small square. Pros: central; excellent restaurant. Cons: small reception area. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Kirchpl. 8 | 09861/9700 | www.reichskuechenmeister.com | 45 rooms, 2 suites, 5 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nFAMILY | Hotel-Restaurant Burg Colmberg.  \nB&B/INN | East of Rothenburg, this thousand year old castle-turned-hotel maintains a high standard of comfort within its original medieval walls. Logs are often burning in the fireplace of the entrance hall, illuminating an original Tin Lizzy Model T Ford from 1917. The restaurant Zur Remise ($ - $$) serves venison from the castle's own hunting grounds. Pros: romantic; you're staying in a real castle. Cons: remote location; quite a few stairs to climb. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | An der Burgenstr., 18 km (11 miles) east of Rothenburg | Colmberg | 09803/91920 | www.burg-colmberg.de | 24 rooms, 2 suites | Closed Feb. | Breakfast.\n\nRomantik-Hotel Markusturm.  \nB&B/INN | The Markusturm began as a 13th-century customs house, an integral part of the city defense wall, and has since developed over the centuries into an inn and staging post and finally into a luxurious small hotel. Some rooms have beams, others have Laura Ashley decor or brightly painted bedsteads, and some have valuable antiques from the Middle Ages. Try to book a reservation for dinner when you arrive, since the beamed, elegant restaurant ($ - $$) does fill up. The fish is excellent. Along with well-selected wines, you can also enjoy your dinner with three kinds of home-brewed beer. In summer head for the patio. Pros: tasteful decor; elegant atmosphere; responsive owner. Cons: no bar; steps to climb. | Rooms from: \u20ac145 | R\u00f6derg. 1 | 09861/94280 | www.markusturm.de | 23 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nAnneliese Friese.  \nYou'll find cuckoo clocks, beer tankards, porcelain, glassware, and much more at this old and atmospheric shop run by the delightful Anneliese herself. | Gr\u00fcner Markt 7\u20138, near Rathaus | 09861/7166.\n\nHaus der 1000 Geschenke.  \nIf you are looking for Hummel figurines, you've found the right place. | Obere Schmiedeg. 13 | 09861/4801.\n\nK\u00e4the Wohlfahrt.  \nThe Christmas Village part of this store is a wonderland of mostly German-made toys and decorations, particularly traditional ornaments. Go to Christmas museum within the store for a full history of the traditions over the centuries. | Herrng. 1 | 09861/4090 | www.wohlfahrt.com | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20136:30, Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nFAMILY | Teddyland.  \nGermany's largest teddy-bear population, numbering more than 5,000, is housed here. TIP Children adore the place, but be prepared: these toys don't come cheap. | Herrng. 10 | 09861/8904 | www.teddyland.de | Mon.\u2013Sat., 9\u20136; Sun., Apr.\u2013Dec. 10\u20136.\n\nEn Route: Schloss Schillingsf\u00fcrst.  \nThis baroque castle of the Princes of Hohenlohe-Schillingsf\u00fcrst is 20 km (12 miles) south of Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber. Standing on an outcrop, it can be seen from miles away. You can watch eagles and falcons shoot down from the sky to catch their prey during one of the Bavarian falconry demonstrations held in the courtyard here, at 11 and 3 from March to October. | Am Wall 14 | Schillingsf\u00fcrst | 09868/812 | www.schloss-schillingsfuerst.de | \u20ac4.50, \u20ac8 with falconry demonstration | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10:30\u20135; tours at 10, noon, 2, and 4.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCreglingen | Bad Mergentheim | W\u00fcrzburg\n\nAfter heading through the plains of Swabia in the south, your tour of the Romantic Road skirts the wild, open countryside of the Spessart uplands. It's worth spending a night in W\u00fcrzburg, but Bad Mergentheim can be a quick stop.\n\n## Creglingen\n\n18 km (11 miles) northwest of Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber, 40 km (25 miles) south of W\u00fcrzburg.\n\nTouring the Romantic Road brings you through bustling tourist towns, but smaller, quieter villages along the way are what will probably be most worth the visit. Creglingen is a peaceful vision of Fachwerkh\u00e4user (half-timber houses). In the 14th century, a farmer plowing his field had a vision of the heavenly host. A church that was built on the site has been an important pilgrimage site since then.\n\nFingerhutmuseum (Thimble Museum).  \nThe only museum of its kind worldwide, the privately run Fingerhutmuseum features a large selection of thimbles and sewing tools from antiquity to modern times. | Kohlesm\u00fchle 6 | 07933/370 | www.fingerhutmuseum.de | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u201312:30 and 2\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 1\u20134.\n\nHerrgottskirche (Chapel of Our Lord).  \nThis chapel was built by the counts of Hohenlohe on the exact spot where a farmer in the 14th century had a religious vision, and in the early 16th century Riemenschneider carved an altarpiece for it. This enormous work, 33 feet high, depicts in minute detail the life and ascension of the Virgin Mary. Riemenschneider entrusted much of the background detail to the craftsmen of his W\u00fcrzburg workshop, but he allowed no one but himself to attempt its lifesize figures. Its intricate detail and attenuated figures are a high point of late-Gothic sculpture. The Herrgottskirche is in the Herrgottstal (Valley of the Lord), 3 km (2 mi) south of Creglingen; the way is well signposted. | Herrgottskirche | 07933/338 | www.herrgottskirche.de | \u20ac2 | Feb.\u2013March, Tues.\u2013Sun. 1\u20134; April\u2013Aug. 14, daily 9:15\u20136; Aug. 15\u201331, daily 9:15\u20136:30; Sept.\u2013Oct. daily 9:15\u20136; Nov.\u2013Dec. 23, Tues.\u2013Sun. 1\u20134; Dec. 26\u201330, Tues.\u2013Sun. 1\u20134.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFAMILY | Heuhotel Ferienbauernhof.  \nB&B/INN | For a truly memorable experience, book a space in the hayloft of the Stahl family's farm in a suburb of Creglingen. Guests bed down in freshly turned hay in the farmhouse granary. Bed linen and blankets can be rented. The nightly rate includes a cold supper and breakfast. If sleeping on hay is not for you, you can swap the granary for one of three double rooms or the three-bedroom apartment or two-bedroom cottage, but you reserve ahead of time. Pros: kids love it; easy on the wallet. Cons: in the middle of nowhere; nearly impossible to find without GPS. | Rooms from: \u20ac37 | Weidenhof 1 | 07933/378 | www.ferienpension-heuhotel.de | Granary accommodates 20 people, 1 cottage, 1 apartment, 3 rooms | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\n## Bad Mergentheim\n\n24 km (15 miles) west of Creglingen.\n\nBetween 1525 and 1809, Bad Mergentheim was the home of the Teutonic Knights, one of the most successful medieval orders of chivalry. In 1809, Napol\u00e9on expelled them as he marched toward his ill-fated Russian campaign. The expulsion seemed to sound the death knell of the little town, but in 1826 a shepherd discovered mineral springs on the north bank of the river. They proved to be the strongest sodium sulfate and bitter spa waters in Europe, with supposedly health-giving properties that ensured the town's future prosperity.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBad Mergentheim Tourist-Information. | Marktplatz 1 | 07931/57135 | www.bad-mergentheim.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDeutschordensschloss.  \nThe Deutschordensschloss, the Teutonic Knights' former castle, at the eastern end of the town, has a museum that follows the history of the order. The castle also hosts classical concerts, lectures, and events for families and children. | Schloss 16 | 07931/52212 | www.deutschordensmuseum.de | \u20ac6, tours \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 2\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Wildpark Bad Mergentheim.  \nYou can help feed the animals twice a day, at 9:45 and 1:30, at this wildlife park that's a few miles outside of Bad Mergentheim. It has the continent's largest selection of European species, including wolves and bears. | Wildpark 1 | Off B-290, 1 km (\u00bd mile) south of town | 07931/41344 | www.wildtierpark.de | \u20ac9 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; last entrance at 4:30.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Stuppacher Madonna.  \nThe Pfarrkirche Mari\u00e4 Kr\u00f6nung chapel guards one of the great Renaissance German paintings, the Stuppacher Madonna, by Matthias Gr\u00fcnewald (circa 1475\u20131528). It was only in 1908 that experts finally recognized it as the work of Gr\u00fcnewald; repainting in the 17th century had turned it into an unexceptional work. Though Gr\u00fcnewald was familiar with the developments in perspective and natural lighting of Italian Renaissance painting, his work remained resolutely anti-Renaissance in spirit: tortured, emotional, and dark. The chapel is in the village of Stuppach, 11 km (7 mi) southeast of Bad Mergentheim/ | Pfarrkirche Mari\u00e4 Kr\u00f6nung, Gr\u00fcnewald Str. 45 | Bad Mergentheim Stuppach | www.stuppacher-madonna.de | Daily 8:30\u20136:30.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Victoria.  \nHOTEL | An elegant lounge, complete with library and open fireplace, greets you as you enter this hotel, which makes it a sophisticated alternative to the many small guesthouses in the area. The restaurant Zirbelstube ($$$ - $$$$, dinner only) is one of the best in the region. In the Vinothek ($ - $$), open all day, you can eat at the bar and watch the chefs prepare your next dish in a large open kitchen. Pros: good food with excellent service; spacious rooms. Cons: some rooms are not well ventilated; reception understaffed. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Poststr. 2\u20134 | 07931/5930 | www.victoria-hotel.de | 40 rooms, 6 junior suites, 1 suite | Zirbelstube closed Jan., Aug., and Sun. and Mon. | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Schloss Weikersheim.  \nIt's slightly surprising to find a stately castle, Schloss Weikersheim, inside a village as sleepy as Weikersheim, some 10 km (6 miles) east of Bad Mergentheim on the Romantic Road. The perfectly preserved palatial residence and its surroundings embody the Renaissance ideals in their designs. You can stroll through the vast gardens and enjoy the view of the Tauber River. Inside, the Rittersaal (Knights' Hall) contains life-size stucco wall sculptures of animals, reflecting the counts' love of hunting. In the cellars you can drink a glass of wine drawn from the huge casks that seem to prop up the building. | Marktpl. 11 | www.schloss-weikersheim.de | \u20ac6, gardens only \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u2013noon and 1\u20135.\n\n## W\u00fcrzburg\n\n200 km (124 miles) north of Ulm, 115 km (71 miles) east of Frankfurt.\n\nThe baroque city of W\u00fcrzburg, the pearl of the Romantic Road, shows what happens when great genius teams up with great wealth. Beginning in the 10th century, W\u00fcrzburg was ruled by powerful (and rich) prince-bishops, who created the city with all the remarkable attributes you see today.\n\nThe city is at the junction of two age-old trade routes, in a calm valley backed by vineyard-covered hills. Festung Marienberg, a fortified castle on the steep hill across the Main River, overlooks the town. Constructed between 1200 and 1600, the fortress was the residence of the prince-bishops for 450 years.\n\nPresent-day W\u00fcrzburg is by no means completely original. On March 16, 1945, seven weeks before Germany capitulated, W\u00fcrzburg was all but obliterated by Allied saturation bombing. The 20-minute raid destroyed 87% of the city and killed at least 4,000 people. Reconstruction has returned most of the city's famous sights to their former splendor. Except for some buildings with modern shops, it remains a largely authentic restoration.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nW\u00fcrzburg is on a main line of the superfast InterCity Express (ICE) trains, two hours from Munich and a bit more than an hour from Frankfurt. Most attractions in the old part of town are easily reached on foot. There's a bus to take you to Marienberg Castle, up on the hill across the river. A car is the best means of transport if you want to continue your journey, but you can also use regional trains and buses.\n\nOne-hour guided strolls (in English) through the Old Town start at the Haus zum Falken tourist office and take place from mid-June to mid-September, daily at 6:30 pm. Tickets (\u20ac5) can be purchased from the guide. If you'd rather guide yourself, pick up a map from the same tourist office and follow the extremely helpful directions that are marked throughout the city by distinctive signposts.\n\nThe W\u00fcrzburger Schiffstouristik Kurth & Schiebe operates excursions. A wine tasting (\u20ac8) is offered as you glide past the vineyards.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nW\u00fcrzburg's cultural year starts with the International Film Weekend in January and ends with a Johann Sebastian Bach Festival in November. The annual jazz festival is also in November.\n\nBarbarossa Spectaculum.  \nEvery other August, in even-numbered years, the Marienberg Fortress comes back to its full medieval glory with a fest of the court of Barbarossa. A Middle Ages market, acrobats, pyrotechnic shows, and court jesters are all on hand. Each day culminates with the Drachenzepter Ritterturnier, in which knights battle to win the Dragon Scepter in a fiery jousting tournament. | Festung Marienberg, Oberer Burgweg | 0931/372\u2013398 | www.barbarossa-spectaculum.de | \u20ac6 entrance, \u20ac15 entrance and evening show.\n\nFr\u00fchjahrs-Volksfest (Spring Fair).  \nDuring this spring festival, the biggest in the region, more than 50 carnival rides, roller coasters, games, and (of course) a huge beer tent await. The fest takes place every year in the three weeks preceding Easter. | Talavera | 0931/373\u2013692 | www.wuerzburg.de.\n\nHofkeller W\u00fcrzburg.  \nThis cellar-level wine bar hosts a series of wine festivals throughout the year. | Residenzpl. 3 | 0931/305\u2013090 | www.hofkeller.de.\n\nInternational Africa Festival.  \nThe largest festival of African culture in Europe is celebrated along the banks of the Main River every May. For 25 years, artists and musicians from across Africa have traveled to W\u00fcrzburg to bring their traditions. Be sure to visit the bazaar for crafts and a variety of food. | Talavera-Mainwiesen | 0931/150\u201360 | www.africafestival.org.\n\nMozartfest.  \nThe city of W\u00fcrzburg hosts its annual Mozart Festival between May and July. Most concerts are held in the magnificent setting of the Residenz and feature world-class performers interpreting Mozart's works. Be sure to reserve tickets early. | R\u00fcckermainstr. 2 | 0931/372\u2013336 | www.mozartfest-wuerzburg.de.\n\nWeindorf W\u00fcrzburg (W\u00fcrzburg Wine Village).  \nDuring this annual festival, thatched-roof \"cottages\" erected in the central square are stocked with wine and international foods for two weeks starting in late May. | Marktpl. | 0931/35170 | www.weindorf-wuerzburg.de.\n\nWeinparade am Marktplatz.  \nIt is no surprise that a region known for its wine and love of good party has so many wine fests. This one, held for a week in early September, is the largest and the best. More than 100 wineries gather on the Marktplatz and are joined by some of the finest restaurants in the city. | Marktpl. | 0931/35170 | www.weinparade.de.\n\nW\u00fcrzburger Barockfeste (W\u00fcrzburg Baroque Festival).  \nThe spectacular grounds of the Residenz are decked out in full baroque splendor for this wine and food festival, which takes place on a weekend in early May. | Residenzpl. 2 | 0931/390\u20131111 | www.wuerzburg.de.\n\n#### Timing\n\nYou need two days to do full justice to W\u00fcrzburg. The Residenz alone demands several hours of attention. If time is short, head for the Residenz as the doors open in the morning, before the first crowds assemble, and aim to complete your tour by lunchtime. Then continue to the nearby Juliusspital Weinstuben or one of the many traditional taverns in the area for lunch. In the afternoon, explore central W\u00fcrzburg. The next morning cross the Main River to visit the Festung Marienberg.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nStadt W\u00fcrzburg Tourist Information. | R\u00fcckermainstra. 2 | 0931/372\u2013398 | www.wuerzburg.de.   \nW\u00fcrzburger Schiffstouristik Kurth & Schiebe. | St.-Norbert-Str. 1, | Zell | 0931/58573 | www.schiffstouristik.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAlte Mainbr\u00fccke (Old Main Bridge).  \nA stone bridge\u2014Germany's first\u2014built in 1120 once stood on this site, over the Main River. That ancient structure was restored beginning in 1476. Twin rows of graceful statues of saints now line the bridge. They were placed here in 1730, at the height of W\u00fcrzburg's baroque period, and were largely destroyed in 1945, but have been lovingly restored since then. Note the Patronna Franconiae (commonly known as the Weeping Madonna). There's a beautiful view of the Marienberg Fortress from the bridge.\n\nDom St. Kilian (St. Kilian Basilica).  \nConstruction on W\u00fcrzburg's Romanesque cathedral, the fourth-largest of its kind in Germany, began in 1045. Centuries of design are contained under one roof; the side wings were designed in a late Gothic style in the 16th century, followed by extensive baroque stucco work 200 years later. The majority of the building collapsed in the winter, after bombs fell on the city near the end of World War II. Reconstruction, completed in 1967, brought a combination of modern design influences alongside a faithful restoration of the past thousand years of the church's history. Visit the side chapel designed by the baroque architect Balthasar Neumann, and a series of tombs of the bishops of W\u00fcrzburg, designed by Tilman Riemenschneider. | Domerpfarrg. 10 | 0931/3866\u20132800 | www.dom-wuerzburg.de | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nFestung Marienberg (Marienberg Fortress).  \nThis complex was the original home of the prince-bishops, beginning in the 13th century. The oldest buildings, including the Marienkirche (Church of the Virgin Mary) on the hilltop, date from around 700, although excavations have disclosed evidence that there was a settlement here in the Iron Age, 3,000 years ago. In addition to the rough-hewn medieval fortifications, there are a number of Renaissance and baroque apartments. Tours in English, held at 3 pm, meet at the Pferdeschwemme. TIP To reach the Marienberg, make the fairly steep climb on foot through vineyards or take Bus No. 9, starting at the Residenz, with several stops in the city. It runs about every 40 minutes from April to October. From April through October, tours around the fortress itself are offered for \u20ac2 per person, starting from the Scherenberg Tor. | Oberer Burgweg | www.schloesser.bayern.de | Tours \u20ac3.50 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nMainfr\u00e4nkisches Museum (Main-Franconian Museum).  \nA highlight of any visit to Festung Marienberg is likely to be this remarkable collection of art treasures. Be sure to visit the gallery devoted to W\u00fcrzburg-born sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider (1460\u20131531). Also on view are paintings by Tiepolo and Cranach the Elder, as well as exhibits of porcelain, firearms, antique toys, and ancient Greek and Roman art. Other exhibits include enormous old winepresses and exhibits about the history of Franconian wine making. | Festung Marienberg, Oberer Burgweg | 0931/205\u2013940 | www.mainfraenkisches-museum.de | \u20ac8 | Mid-May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013May, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nF\u00fcrstenbaumuseum (Princes' Quarters Museum).  \nThe Marienberg collections are so vast that they spill over into another outstanding museum that's also part of the fortress. This one, the F\u00fcrstenbaumuseum, traces 1,200 years of W\u00fcrzburg's history. The holdings include breathtaking exhibits of local goldsmiths' art. | Festung Marienberg, Oberer Burgweg | www.schloesser.bayern.de | Combined ticket for Mainfr\u00e4nkisches and F\u00fcrstenbau museums \u20ac8 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136.\n\nJuliusspital.  \nFounded in 1576 by Prince-Bishop Julius Echter as a foundation for the poor, the elderly, and the sick, this enormous edifice now houses a hospital and the second largest wine estate in Germany. Wander through the hospital park and grounds, then do a wine tasting, which includes six half-glasses of wine from the vineyards. All profits from the Vinothek and the neighboring restaurant are used to fund the foundation. | Juliuspromenade 19 | 0931/393\u20131401 | www.juliusspital.de | Tour \u20ac22 | Vinothek weekdays 9:30\u20136, Sat. 9\u20134.\n\nFodor's Choice | Residenz (Residence).  \nW\u00fcrzburg's prince-bishops lived in this glorious baroque palace after moving down from the hilltop Festung Marienberg. Construction started in 1719 under the brilliant direction of Balthasar Neumann. Most of the interior decoration was entrusted to the Italian stuccoist Antonio Bossi and the Venetian painter Giovanni Battista Tiepolo. It's the spirit of the pleasure-loving prince-bishop Johann Philipp Franz von Sch\u00f6nborn, however, that infuses the Residenz. Now considered one of Europe's most sumptuous palaces, this dazzling structure is a 10-minute walk from the railway station, along pedestrian-only Kaiserstrasse and then Theaterstrasse.\n\nTours start in the Vestibule, which was built to accommodate carriages drawn by six horses. The king's guests were swept directly up the Treppenhaus, the largest baroque staircase in the country. Halfway up, the stairway splits and peels away 180 degrees to the left and to the right. Soaring above on the vaulting is Tiepolo's giant fresco The Four Continents, a gorgeous exercise in blue and pink that's larger than the Sistine Chapel's. Each quarter of the massive ceiling depicts the European outlook on the world in 1750\u2014the savage Americas; Africa's and its many unusual creatures; cultured Asia, where learning and knowledge originated; and finally the perfection of Europe, with W\u00fcrzburg as the center of the universe. Take a careful look at the Asian elephant's trunk and find the ostrich in Africa. Tiepolo had never seen these creatures but painted on reports of them; he could only assume that the fast largest bird in the world would have large muscular legs. He immortalized himself and Balthasar Neumann as two of the figures\u2014they're not too difficult to spot.\n\nNext, make your way to the Weissersaal (White Room) and then beyond to the grandest of the state rooms, the Kaisersaal (Throne Room). Tiepolo's frescoes show the 12th-century visit of Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, when he came to W\u00fcrzburg to claim his bride. If you take part in the guided tour, you'll also see private chambers of the various former residents (guided tours in English are given daily at 11 and 3). The Spiegelkabinett (Mirror Cabinet) was completely destroyed by Allied bombing but then reconstructed using the techniques of the original rococo artisans.\n\nFinally, visit the formal Hofgarten (Court Gardens), to see its stately gushing fountains and trim ankle-high shrubs that outline geometric flowerbeds and gravel walks.\n\nTIP On weekends, the Hofkeller wine cellar, below the Residenz, runs tours that include tasting seven wines. Ask at the ticket counter. | Residenzpl. 2 | 0931/355\u2013170 | www.residenz-wuerzburg.de | \u20ac7.50, including guided tour | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134:30.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAlte Universit\u00e4t (Old University).  \nFounded by Prince-bishop Julius Echter and built in 1582, this rambling institution is one of W\u00fcrzburg's most interesting Renaissance structures. You may want to take some time to wander its grounds and soak in the student culture of one of Germany's best universities. | Sanderring 2 | www.uni-wuerzburg.de.\n\nAlter Kranen.  \nNear the Main River and north of the Old Main Bridge, the \"Old Crane\" was erected in 1772\u201373 by Balthasar Neumann's son, Franz Ignaz Michael. It was used to unload boats; beside it is the old customs building, which now has some lovely outdoor cafes overlooking the river. | Kranenkai 1.\n\n* * *\n\nTilman Riemenschneider, Germany's Master Sculptor\n\nTilman Riemenschneider, Germany's master of late-Gothic sculpture (1460\u20131531), lived an extraordinary life. His skill with wood and stone was recognized at an early age, and he soon presided over a major W\u00fcrzburg workshop. Riemenschneider worked alone, however, on the life-size figures that dominate his sculptures. Details such as the folds of a robe or wrinkles on a face highlight his grace and harmony of line.\n\nAt the height of his career Riemenschneider was appointed city counselor; later he became mayor of W\u00fcrzburg. In 1523, however, he made the fateful error of siding with the small farmers and guild members in the Peasants' War. He was arrested and held for eight weeks in the dungeons of the Marienberg Fortress, above W\u00fcrzburg, where he was frequently tortured. Most of his wealth was confiscated, and he returned home a broken man. He died in 1531.\n\nFor nearly three centuries he and his sculptures were all but forgotten. Only in 1822, when ditch diggers uncovered the site of his grave, was Riemenschneider once again included among Germany's greatest artists. Today Riemenschneider is recognized as the giant of German sculpture. The richest collection of his works is in W\u00fcrzburg, although other masterpieces are on view in churches and museums along the Romantic Road and in other parts of Germany. The renowned Windsheim Altar of the Twelve Apostles is in the Palatine Museum in Heidelberg.\n\n* * *\n\nAugustinerkirche (Church of St. Augustine).  \nThis baroque church, a work by Balthasar Neumann, was built onto a 13th-century Dominican chapel. Neumann retained the soaring, graceful choir and commissioned Antonio Bossi to add colorful stuccowork to the rest of the church. | Dominikanerpl. 2 | 0931/30970 | www.augustinerkirche-wuerzburg.de | Daily 7\u20137.\n\nB\u00fcrgerspital (Almshouse).  \nWealthy businessmen founded this refuge for the city's poor and needy in 1319. The buildings also house a winery, which produces highly respected wines (sales are used to support the facility). The arcade courtyard is baroque in style and features its own glockenspiel. The winery offers tours of the facilities with wine tastings on the first Friday of each month; there's also a wine festival in mid-June. | Theaterstr. 19 | 0931/3503\u2013441 | www.buergerspital.de | Tour \u20ac7 | Store: Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20135, Fri. 8\u20133.\n\nHaus zum Falken.  \nThe city's most splendid baroque mansion, once a humble inn, now houses the city tourist office. Its colorful rococo facade was added in 1751. | Falkenhaus, Am Marktpl. 9 | 0931/372\u2013398 | www.wuerzburg.de | Jan.\u2013Mar., weekdays 10\u20134, Sat. 10\u20132; Apr., Nov., and Dec., weekdays 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20132; May\u2013Oct., weekdays 10\u20136, weekends 10\u20132.\n\nMarienkapelle (St. Mary's Chapel).  \nThis tranquil Gothic church (1377\u20131480) that stands modestly away at one end of W\u00fcrzburg's market square is almost lost among the other old facades; keep an eye out for its red bell tower. The architect Balthasar Neumann lies buried here. | Marktpl. | 0931/3861\u20131150 | www.wuerzburger-markt.de | Daily 9\u20136.\n\nNeum\u00fcnster (New Cathedral).  \nNext to the Dom St. Kilian, this 11th-century Romanesque basilica was completed in 1716. The original church was built above the grave of the early Irish martyr St. Kilian, who brought Christianity to W\u00fcrzburg and, with two companions, was put to death here in 689. Their missionary zeal bore fruit, however\u201417 years after their death a church was consecrated in their memory. By 742 W\u00fcrzburg had become a diocese, and over the following centuries 39 flourishing churches were established throughout the city. | Domerpfarrg. 10 | 0931/3866\u20132800 | www.neumuenster-wuerzburg.de | Daily 8\u20135.\n\nStift Haug.  \nFranconia's first baroque church, designed by the Italian architect Antonio Petrini, was built between 1670 and 1691. Its elegant twin spires and central cupola make an impressive exterior. The altarpiece is a 1583 Crucifixion scene by Tintoretto. | Haugerpfarrg. 14 | 0931/54102 | stift-haug.de | Daily 8\u20137.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Schloss Veitsh\u00f6chheim.  \nThe first summer palace of the prince-bishops is 8 km (5 mi) north of W\u00fcrzburg. Enlarged and renovated by Balthasar Neumann in 1753, the castle became a summer residence of the Bavarian kings in 1814. You reach the castle by walking down a long Allee of trees on the extensive grounds. To your right are the \"formal\" rococo gardens, planned and laid out at the beginning of the 18th century. On the other side of the castle are the \"utility\" gardens, cared for by the Bavarian State College for Wines and Gardens. The college was founded here in 1902 as the Royal School for Gardening and Wine Culture. Walls, pavilions, a small lake teeming with fish, and gardens laden with fruit complete the picture of this huge park. From April to October fountains come to life every hour on the hour from 1 to 5, the water shooting into the air and then cascading into small ponds. The palace itself shows the rooms of the Bavarian royal family. It can only be visited with the 30-minute guided tour, with a tour each hour. A bus service runs from W\u00fcrzburg's Kirchplatz to the palace. From mid-April to mid-October there is also a boat operating between W\u00fcrzburg and the palace from 10 to 4 daily. The 40-minute trip costs \u20ac9 round-trip. | Echterstr. 10 | Veitsh\u00f6chheim | 0931/355\u2013170 | www.residenz-wuerzburg.de | \u20ac4.50, including tour; gardens free | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAlte Mainm\u00fchle.  \nGERMAN | Sample Frankish bratwurst cooked over a wood-fire grill and other regional dishes in this converted mill alongside the Main River. The menu also includes local fish and a variety of vegetarian options. In good weather, you can sit outside on the terrace for the best views of the Alte Mainbr\u00fccke and the Festung Marienberg. The small bar at the entrance of this easygoing restaurant serves local wine streetside, so you can get a glass of crisp Silvaner and watch the sun set over the city and surrounding vineyards. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Mainkai 1 | 0931/16777 | www.alte-mainmuehle.de.\n\nBack\u00f6fele.  \nGERMAN | More than 400 years of tradition are embedded in this old tavern. Hidden away behind huge wooden doors on a backstreet, the Back\u00f6fele's cavelike interior is a popular meeting and eating place. The surprisingly varied menu includes local favorites such as suckling pig and marinated pot roast, as well as good fish entr\u00e9es and classic desserts, all at reasonable prices. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Ursulinerg. 2 | 0931/59059 | www.backoefele.de.\n\nJuliusspital Weinstuben.  \nGERMAN | Giving a gastropub's twist to traditional Franconian fare, this restaurant is also a draw for its local wines. The 400-year-old Juliusspital foundation still funds the neighboring hospital, school, and local nature preserves with profits from its vineyards and this bustling spot. Sample local game and fish specialties, you can also buy a bottle of wine to take home directly from the wait staff. TIP In summer you can enjoy your food and drinks on a quiet terrace in the courtyard. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Juliuspromenade 19, Ecke Barbarossapl. | 0931/54080 | www.juliusspital-weinstuben.de.\n\nRatskeller.  \nGERMAN | Practically every German city has a restaurant in its city hall, but W\u00fcrzburg's stands out. The daily menu offers excellent regional food, such as Fr\u00e4nkischer Sauerbraten, along with plenty of fish and vegetarian offerings. The smaller dishes offered throughout the day are a good excuse to take a break while touring. Beer is available, but local wine is what the regulars drink. As for the Gothic town hall itself, it's been the center of municipal government since 1316. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Beim Grafeneckart, Langg. 1 | 0931/13021 | www.wuerzburger-ratskeller.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Greifensteiner Hof.  \nHOTEL | The modern Greifensteiner offers comfortable, individually furnished rooms in a quiet corner of the city, just off the market square. The Fr\u00e4nkische Stuben ($ - $$) has excellent cuisine with mostly Franconian specialties; full or half pension plans are available with room reservations. There's also a basement wine bar that serves local varieties. Pros: center of town; excellent restaurants; nice bar packed with locals. Cons: no spectacular views or grand lobby. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Dettelbacherg. 2 | 0931/35170 | www.greifensteiner-hof.de | 49 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Rebstock zu W\u00fcrzburg.  \nHOTEL | This hotel's rococo facade has welcomed guests for centuries; the rooms are all individually decorated and furnished in an English country-house style. The spacious lobby, with an open fireplace and beckoning bar, sets the tone, and there's an attractive winter garden where you can enjoy a cup of coffee. Pros: historical building with modern amenities and quick access to the town's sights. Cons: sometimes fills up with conferences and large groups. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Neubaustr. 7 | 0931/30930 | www.rebstock.com | 63 rooms, 9 suites | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Walfisch.  \nB&B/INN | Guest rooms are furnished in solid Franconian style, with farmhouse cupboards, bright fabrics, and heavy drapes. You can breakfast in a dining room on the bank of the Main, with views of the vineyard-covered Marienberg. For lunch and dinner try the hotel's cozy Walfisch-Stube restaurant ($ - $$). The restaurant's namesake (Walfisch means \"whale\") isn't on the menu, but they do have excellent fish as well as a good selection of white wines. Weather permitting you can dine on the terrace, which has good views of the river and the Festung Marienberg. Pros: nice view from front rooms; good restaurant. Cons: difficult parking; small improvements needed. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Am Pleidenturm 5 | 0931/35200 | www.hotel-walfisch.com | 40 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nSchloss Steinburg.  \nHOTEL | Set atop vineyards and overlooking the towers of W\u00fcrzburg, the Schloss Steinburg offers regal manor rooms as well as crisp and calm modern lodgings. The castle was first built in 1898 over the ruins of a medieval monastery; the Bezold family have expanded upon it over the last 75 years. The original rooms have many original details intact; the newer rooms are closer to the hotel's spa, which has panoramic views of the old city. The hotel restaurant serves regional as well as more pan-European dishes. Pros: beautiful views; nice variety of rooms; pool open year-round. Cons: outside the city center; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac210 | Mittlerer Steinburgweg 100 | 0931/970\u201320 | www.steinburg.com | 69 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nStrauss.  \nHOTEL | Close to the river and the pedestrians-only center, the pink-stucco Strauss has been in the same family for more than 100 years. Rooms are simply furnished in light woods and have comfortable beds. The beamed restaurant W\u00fcrzburg serves Franconian cuisine. Pros: close to main station and Old Town. Cons: small lobby; some rooms need updating. | Rooms from: \u20ac82 | Juliuspromenade 5 | 0931/30570 | www.hotel-strauss.de | 75 rooms, 3 suites | Restaurant closed Tues. and late Dec.\u2013late Jan. | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nStein-Wein-Pfad.  \nWine lovers and hikers should visit the Stein-Wein-Pfad, a signposted trail through the vineyards that rise up from the northwest edge of W\u00fcrzburg. The starting point is the Weingut am Stein (Ludwig Knoll vineyard), 10 minutes on foot from the main railway station. A two-hour round trip affords stunning views of the city as well as the chance to try the excellent local wines directly at the source. TIP From May through mid-October, you can join a guided tour of the wineries every other Saturday for \u20ac7. This includes a glass of wine. | Mittlerer Steinbergweg 5 | www.wuerzburger-steinweinpfad.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nW\u00fcrzburg is the true wine center of the Romantic Road. Visit any of the vineyards that rise from the Main River and choose a Bocksbeutel, the distinctive green, flagon-shape wine bottle of Franconia. One fanciful claim is that the shape came about because wine-guzzling monks found it the easiest to hide under their robes.\n\nDie Murmel.  \nA large selection of unique and hand-picked toys are available in this shop. | Augustinerstr. 7 | 0931/59349 | www.die-murmel.de.\n\nEbinger.  \nFine antique jewelry, clocks, watches, and silver are for sale here, along with exquisite antiques. | Karmelitenstr. 23 | 0931/59449.\n\nEckhaus.  \nIn summer the selection consists mostly of garden and terrace decorations; from October through December the store is filled with delightful Christmas ornaments and candles. | Langg. 8, off Marktpl. | 0931/12001 | www.eckhaus-wuerzburg.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Franconia and the German Danube\n\nNorthern Franconia\n\nN\u00fcrnberg (Nuremberg)\n\nThe German Danube\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Cruising the Danube | When to Go | A Day on the Danube | Cruising All of the Danube | Germany's Christmas Markets\n\nUpdated by Lee A. Evans\n\nAll that is left of the huge, ancient kingdom of the Franks is the region known today as Franken (Franconia), stretching from the Bohemian Forest on the Czech border to the outskirts of Frankfurt. The Franks were not only tough warriors but also hard workers, sharp tradespeople, and burghers with a good political nose. The word frank means bold, wild, and courageous in the old Frankish tongue. It was only in the early 19th century, following Napol\u00e9on's conquest of what is now southern Germany, that the area was incorporated into northern Bavaria.\n\nAlthough more closely related to Thuringia, this historic homeland of the Franks, one of the oldest Germanic peoples, is now begrudgingly part of Bavaria. Franconian towns such as Bayreuth, Coburg, and Bamberg are practically places of cultural pilgrimage. Rebuilt N\u00fcrnberg (Nuremberg in English) is the epitome of German medieval beauty, though its name recalls both the Third Reich's huge rallies at the Zeppelin Field and its henchmen's trials held in the city between 1945 and 1950.\n\nFranconia is hardly an overrun tourist destination, yet its long and rich history, its landscapes and leisure activities (including skiing, golfing, hiking, and cycling), and its gastronomic specialties place it high on the enjoyment scale. Franconia is especially famous for its wine and for the fact that it's home to more than half of Germany's breweries.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nBamberg's Altstadt: This one isn't just for the tourists. Bamberg may be a UNESCO World Heritage site, but it's also a vibrant town living very much in the present.\n\nVierzehnheiligen: Just north of Bamberg, this church's swirling rococo decoration earned it the nickname \"God's Ballroom.\"\n\nN\u00fcrnberg's Kaiserburg: Holy Roman emperors once resided in the vast complex of this imperial castle, which has fabulous views over the entire city.\n\nSteinerne Br\u00fccke in Regensburg: This 12th-century Stone Bridge was considered an amazing feat of engineering in its time.\n\nAn organ concert in Passau: You can listen to the mighty sound the 17,774 pipes of Dom St. Stephan's organ create at weekday concerts.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nFranconia's northern border is marked by the Main River, which is seen as the dividing line between northern and southern Germany. Its southern border is the Danube, where Lower Bavaria (Niederbayern) begins. Despite its size, Franconia is a homogeneous region of rolling agricultural landscapes and thick forests climbing the mountains of the Fichtelgebirge. N\u00fcrnberg is a major destination in the area and makes a good base for exploration. The towns of Bayreuth, Coburg, and Bamberg are an easy day trip from one another.\n\nThe Danube River defines the region as it passes through the Bavarian Forest on its way from Germany to Austria. West of Regensburg, river cruises and cyclists follow its path.\n\n## What's Where\n\nNorthern Franconia. As one of the few towns not destroyed by World War II, Bamberg lives and breathes German history. Wagner fans flock to Bayreuth in July and August for the classical music festival. The beer produced in Kulmbach is famous all over the country.\n\nN\u00fcrnberg (Nuremberg). It may not be as well-known as Munich, Heidelberg, or Berlin, but when you visit N\u00fcrnberg you feel the wealth, power, and sway this city has had through the centuries. Standing on the ramparts of the Kaiserburg (Imperial Castle) and looking down on the city, you'll begin to understand why emperors made N\u00fcrnberg their home.\n\nThe German Danube. Regensburg and Passau are two relatively forgotten cities tucked away in the southeast corner of Germany in an area bordered by Austria and the Czech Republic. Passau is one of the oldest cities on German soil, built by the Celts and then ruled by the Romans 2,000 years ago. Regensburg is a bit younger; about a thousand years ago it was one of the largest and most affluent cities in Germany.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nSummer is the best time to explore Franconia, though spring and fall are also fine when the weather cooperates. Avoid the cold and wet months from November to March; many hotels and restaurants close, and no matter how pretty, many towns do seem quite dreary. If you're in N\u00fcrnberg in December, you're in time for one of Germany's largest and loveliest Christmas markets. Unless you plan on attending the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth, it's best to avoid this city in July and August.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe major international airport serving Franconia and the German Danube is Munich. N\u00fcrnberg's airport is served mainly by regional carriers.\n\nAirport Information   \nAirport N\u00fcrnberg. | Flughafenstr. 100, | N\u00fcrnberg | 0911/93700 | www.airport-nuernberg.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nFranconia is served by five main autobahns: A-7 from Hamburg, A-3 from K\u00f6ln and Frankfurt, A-81 from Stuttgart, A-6 from Heilbronn, and A-9 from Munich. N\u00fcrnberg is 167 km (104 miles) north of Munich and 222 km (138 miles) southeast of Frankfurt. Regensburg and Passau are reached by way of the A-3 from N\u00fcrnberg.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nFranconia boasts one of southern Germany's most extensive train networks and almost every town is connected by train. N\u00fcrnberg is a stop on the high-speed InterCity Express (ICE) north\u2013south routes, and there are hourly trains from Munich direct to N\u00fcrnberg. Regular InterCity services connect N\u00fcrnberg and Regensburg with Frankfurt and other major German cities. Trains run hourly from Frankfurt to Munich, with a stop at N\u00fcrnberg. The trip takes about three hours to Munich, two hours to N\u00fcrnberg. There are hourly trains from Munich to Regensburg.\n\nSome InterCity Express trains stop in Bamberg, which is most speedily reached from Munich. Local trains from N\u00fcrnberg connect with Bayreuth and areas of southern Franconia. Regensburg and Passau are on the ICE line from N\u00fcrnberg to Vienna.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nMany restaurants in the rural parts of this region serve hot meals only between 11:30 am and 2 pm, and 6 pm and 9 pm. TIP \"Durchgehend warme K\u00fcche\" means that hot meals are also served between lunch and dinner.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nMake reservations well in advance for hotels in all the larger towns and cities if you plan to visit anytime between June and September. During the N\u00fcrnberg Toy Fair at the beginning of February, rooms are at a premium. If you're visiting Bayreuth during the annual Wagner Festival in July and August, consider making reservations up to a year in advance. Remember, too, that during the festival prices can be double the normal rates.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nN\u00fcrnberg warrants at least a day of your time. It's best to base yourself in one city and take day trips to others. Bamberg is the most central of the northern Franconia cities and makes a good base. It is also a good idea to leave your car at your hotel and make the trip downstream to Regensburg or Passau by boat, returning by train.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nFranconia Tourist Board. | Tourismusverband Franken e.V., Wilhelminenstr. 6, | N\u00fcrnberg | 0911/941\u2013510 | www.frankentourismus.de.\n\n## Cruising the Danube\n\nRising from the depths of the Black Forest and emptying into the Black Sea, the Danube is the queen of rivers; cloaked in myth and legend, it cuts through the heart and soul of Europe.\n\nThe name D\u0101nuvius, borrowed from the Celts, means swift or rapid, but along the Danube, there is no hurry. Boats go with the flow and a river journey is a relaxed affair with plenty of time to drink in the history.\n\nWhether you choose a one-hour, one-week, or the complete Danube experience, cruising Europe's historical waterway is a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Of the Danube's 1,770-mile length, almost 1,500 miles is navigable and the river flows through some of Europe's most important cities. You can head to major boating hubs, like Passau, Vienna, and Budapest or through historical stretches from Ulm to Regensburg. The Main-Donau Canal connects N\u00fcrnberg.\n\n\u2014Lee A. Evans\n\n## When to Go\n\nBetween May and July the Danube is busy with passenger and commercial traffic; this is the best time of year for a cruise. Fall is also good, when the changing leaves bathe the river in a sea of color. The Danube rarely freezes in the winter and several companies offer Christmas market tours from N\u00fcrnberg to Regensburg, Passau, and Vienna. Spring is the least optimal time to go as the river often floods.\n\n## A Day on the Danube\n\nOn a map, the sheer length of the Danube is daunting at best. A great option is to choose an idyllic daylong boat excursion.\n\nOne of the best day cruises leaves from Regensburg and reaches the imposing temple Walhalla, a copy of the Parthenon erected by Ludwig I. Personenschifffahrt Klinger boats depart from the Steinerne Br\u00fccke daily at 10:30 and 2. Each departure gives you about an hour to explore the temple and the whole trip lasts three hours.\n\nDonauschiffahrt Wurm + K\u00f6ck offers a variety of Danube day trips. Their most popular is a daily excursion from Passau to the Austrian city of Linz, which departs at 9 am. If you don't have all day, they also offer a three-river tour that explores Passau at the convergence of the Ilz, Inn, and Danube that lasts about 45 minutes.\n\n## Cruising All of the Danube\n\nAlthough Passau is the natural gateway to the cruising destinations of Eastern Europe on the Danube, it is by no means the only starting point. You can board a deluxe river cruise ship in N\u00fcrnberg, landlocked but for the very small Pegnitz River, then cruise \"overland\" through Franconia on the Main-Danube canal across the Continental Divide until you join the Danube at Kelheim, a few miles west of Regensburg. After Passau you enter Austria, where you come to the city that most people automatically associate with the \"Blue Danube,\" Vienna. The next border crossing brings you into Slovakia and to your second capital, Bratislava. Budapest, Hungary is next, and capital number four is Belgrade, Serbia. Some of the Danube cruises begin in Amsterdam, making them five-capital cruises.\n\nAmadeus Cruises (888/829\u20131394 | www.amadeuscruises.com) offers half a dozen cruises through Franconia and the German Danube, including a Christmastime cruise, which stops at the fascinating Christmas markets between N\u00fcrnberg and Budapest. The reverse direction is also available.\n\nViking River Cruises (800/304\u20139616 | www.vikingrivercruises.com) has a Grand European Tour from Amsterdam to Budapest. The two-week Eastern European Odyssey starts in N\u00fcrnberg and ends at Bucharest. The reverse direction is also available on both cruises.\n\nThe British Blue Water Holidays (01756/706\u2013500 | www.cruisingholidays.co.uk) has nine cruises starting on the Rhine, some from Basel in Switzerland, which follow the Main-Danube Canal to the Danube and four cruises from N\u00fcrnberg or Passau to Vienna or Budapest.\n\n## Germany's Christmas Markets\n\nFew places in the world do Christmas as well as Germany, and the country's Christmas markets, sparkling with white fairy lights and rich with the smells of gingerbread and mulled wine, are marvelous traditional expressions of yuletide cheer.\n\nFollowing a centuries-old tradition, more than 2,000 Weihnachtsm\u00e4rtke spring up outside town halls and in village squares across the country each year, their stalls brimming with ornate tree decorations and handmade pralines. Elegant rather than kitsch, the markets last the duration of Advent\u2014the four weeks leading up to Christmas Eve\u2014and draw festive crowds to their bustling lanes, where charcoal grills sizzle with sausages and cinnamon and spices waft from warm ovens. Among the handcrafted angels and fairies, kids munch on candy apples and ride old-fashioned carousels while their parents shop for stocking stuffers and toast the season with steaming mugs of Gl\u00fchwein and hot chocolate.\n\n\u2014Jeff Kavanagh\n\nDating from the late Middle Ages, Christmas markets began as a way to provide people with supplies, food, and clothing for the winter; families came for the sugary treats and Christmas shopping. Now a bit more touristy, a visit to a traditional Christmas Market is still a truly a quintessential German experience. Starting on the first Sunday of Advent, the pace of life slows down when the cheerful twinkling lights are lit and the smells of hot wine linger in the air, promising respite during the drab winter.\n\nThe most famous markets are in N\u00fcrnberg and Dresden; each drawing more than 2 million visitors every year. While these provide the essential market experience, it's well worth visiting a market in a smaller town to soak in some local flavor. Bautzen hosts Germany's oldest Christmas market, while Erfurt's market, set on the Cathedral Square, is the most picturesque. No matter which you choose, keep in mind that the best time to visit is during the week when the crowds are the smallest; try to go in the early evening, when locals visit the markets with their friends and family. You'll experience a carnival-like atmosphere and won't be able to resist trying a mulled wine before heading home.\n\nDespite the market theme, the real reason to visit is to endlessly snack on greasy, sweet, and warm market food. Each market has its own specialties\u2014gingerbread in N\u00fcrnberg and stollen in Dresden\u2014but the thread through all is candied almonds, warm chestnuts, and roasted, local sausages. Be sure to pair your snacks with a cup of hot-spiced-wine, which is served in small mugs that make great souvenirs. The wine varies from region to region and special hot white wine is a trendy alternative. Other drinks include a warm egg-punch, hot chocolate, and warm berry juices for children.\n\n#### Gl\u00fchwein\n\nThe name for mulled wine, Gl\u00fchwein, literally means \"glowing wine\" and a few cups of it will definitely add some color to your cheeks. Usually made with red wine, it can be fortified with a Schuss or shot of schnapps, often rum or amaretto. Feuerzangenbowle, a supercharged version, is made by dripping burning, rum-soaked sugar into the wine. The nonalcoholic version is called Kinderpunsch, or children's punch.\n\n#### Tips for Visiting\n\nAlways ask for local goods. Craftspeople, especially from the Ore Mountains in Saxony, produce some of the finest smoking-man incense burners, nativity scenes, candle pyramids, glass balls, and advent stars in the world.\n\nThink about how you're getting your purchases home. Although some larger vendors will ship your purchases for you, it's wise to plan some extra baggage space and purchase some bubble wrap.\n\nDress warmly and wear comfortable shoes. All markets are outside and even the smallest require walking.\n\nBring some small bills and coins. This will make food and wine transactions faster and more efficient. All plastic dishes and cups require a deposit, which is politely refunded to you when you return the items.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCoburg | Kronach | Kulmbach | Bayreuth | Bamberg\n\nThree major German cultural centers lie within easy reach of one another: Coburg, a town with blood links to royal dynasties throughout Europe; Bamberg, with its own claim to German royal history and an Old Town area designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site; and Bayreuth, where composer Richard Wagner finally settled, making it a place of musical pilgrimage for Wagner fans from all over the world.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Coburg\n\n105 km (65 miles) north of N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nCoburg is a surprisingly little-known treasure that was founded in the 11th century and remained in the possession of the dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha until 1918; the current duke still lives here. The remarkable Saxe-Coburg dynasty established itself as something of a royal stud farm, providing a seemingly inexhaustible supply of blue-blood marriage partners to ruling houses the length and breadth of Europe. The most famous of these royal mates was Prince Albert (1819\u201361), who married the English Queen Victoria, after which she gained special renown in Coburg. Their numerous children, married off to other kings, queens, and emperors, helped to spread the tried-and-tested Saxe-Coburg influence even farther afield. Despite all the history that sweats from each sandstone ashlar, Coburg is a modern and bustling town.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nCoburg. | Tourismus Coburg, Herrng. 4 | 09561/898\u2013000 | www.coburg-tourist.de.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nBrazilian Samba Festival.  \nThis three-day bacchanal is held in mid-July. Check the Coburg tourist office's Web site for more information about the event. | wwww.coburg-tourist.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nMarktplatz (Market Square).  \nCoburg's Marktplatz has a statue of Prince Albert, Victoria's high-minded consort, surrounded by gracious Renaissance and baroque buildings. The Stadhaus, former seat of the local dukes, begun in 1500, is the most imposing structure here. A forest of ornate gables and spires projects from its well-proportioned facade. Opposite is the Rathaus (Town Hall). TIP Look on the building's tympanum for the statue of the Bratwurstm\u00e4nnla (it's actually St. Mauritius in armor); the staff he carries is said to be the official length against which the town's famous bratwursts are measured. These tasty sausages, roasted on pinecone fires, are available on the market square. | Marktplatz.\n\nSchloss Callenberg.  \nPerched on a hill 5 km (3 miles) west of Coburg is Schloss Callenberg, until 1231 the main castle of the Knights of Callenberg. In the 16th century it was taken over by the Coburgs. From 1842 on it served as the summer residence of the hereditary Coburg prince and later Duke Ernst II. It holds a number of important collections, including that of the Windsor gallery; arts and crafts from Holland, Germany, and Italy from the Renaissance to the 19th century; precious baroque, Empire, and Biedermeier furniture; table and standing clocks from three centuries; a selection of weapons; and various handicrafts. The best way to reach the castle is by car via Baiersdorf. City Bus No. 5 from Coburg's Marktplatz stops at the castle only on Sunday; on other days you need to get off at the Beirsdorf stop and walk 25 minutes. | Callenberger Str. 1 | 09561/55150 | www.schloss-callenberg.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nSchloss Ehrenburg.  \nPrince Albert spent much of his childhood in Schloss Ehrenburg, the ducal palace. Built in the mid-16th century, it has been greatly altered over the years, principally following a fire in the early 19th century. Duke Ernst I invited Karl Friedrich Schinkel from Berlin to redo the palace in the then-popular neo-Gothic style. Some of the original Renaissance features were kept. The rooms of the castle are quite special, especially those upstairs, where the ceilings are heavily decorated with stucco and the floors have wonderful patterns of various woods. The Hall of Giants is named for the larger-than-life caryatids that support the ceiling; the favorite sight downstairs is Queen Victoria's flush toilet, which was the first one installed in Germany. Here, too, the ceiling is worth noting for its playful, gentle stuccowork. The baroque chapel attached to Ehrenburg is often used for weddings. | Schlosspl. 1 | 09561/80880 | www.sgvcoburg.de | \u20ac4.50 | Tours Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20133 on the hr.\n\nQuick Bites: Burgsch\u00e4nke.  \nRelax and soak up centuries of history while sampling a traditional Coburg beer at this tavern. The basic menu has traditional dishes. | Veste Coburg | 09561/80980 | Closed Mon. and Jan.\u2013mid-Feb.\n\nVeste Coburg. This fortress, one of the largest and most impressive in the country, is Coburg's main attraction. The brooding bulk of the castle guards the town from a 1,484-foot hill. Construction began around 1055, but with progressive rebuilding and remodeling today's predominantly late-Gothic/early-Renaissance edifice bears little resemblance to the original crude fortress. One part of the castle harbors the Kunstsammlungen, a grand set of collections including art, with works by D\u00fcrer, Cranach, and Hans Holbein, among others; sculpture from the school of the great Tilman Riemenschneider (1460\u20131531); furniture and textiles; magnificent weapons, armor, and tournament garb spanning four centuries (in the so-called Herzoginbau, or Duchess's Building); carriages and ornate sleighs; and more. The room where Martin Luther lived for six months in 1530 while he observed the goings-on of the Augsburg Diet has an especially dignified atmosphere. The Jagdintarsien-Zimmer (Hunting Marquetry Room), an elaborately decorated room that dates back to the early 17th century, has some of the finest woodwork in southern Germany. Finally, there's the Carl-Eduard-Bau (Carl-Eduard Building), which contains a valuable antique glass collection, mostly from the baroque age. Inquire at the ticket office for tours and reduced family tickets. | Veste Coburg | 09561/8790 | www.kunstsammlungen-coburg.de | \u20ac6, combination ticket with with Schloss Ehrenburg \u20ac12 | Museums Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 1\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nRatskeller.  \nGERMAN | The basic local specialties taste better here beneath the old vaults and within earshot of the Coburg marketplace. Try the Tafelspitz (boiled beef with creamed horseradish), along with a glass of crisp Franconian white wine. The prices become a little higher in the evening, when the menu adds a few more dishes. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Markt 1 | 09561/92400 | www.ratskeller-coburg.de | No credit cards.\n\nGoldene Rose.  \nHOTEL | One of the region's oldest, this agreeable inn is located about 5 km (3 miles) southeast of Coburg. The interior has simple wooden paneling and floors. On a warm summer evening, the beer garden is the best place to enjoy traditional Franconian dishes, or a plate of homemade sausages, and meet some of the locals. Rooms are well appointed and comfortable - the wooden theme is continued, but the style is definitely modern. Pros: friendly; family run; very good value; large parking lot behind the hotel. Cons: in a small village; front rooms noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac49 | Coburgerstr. 31, Grub am Forst | 09560/92250 | www.goldene-rose.de | 14 rooms | Restaurant closed Mon. | Breakfast.\n\nRomantic Hotel Goldene Traube.  \nHOTEL | Rooms are individually decorated in this fine historical hotel (1756), and for dining you can choose between the elegant restaurant Esszimmer or the more casual Meer und Mehr (Sea and More), which serves fine seafood and regional specialties. After a day of sightseeing, relax in the sauna complex with solarium or with one of the vintages from the small wine boutique just opposite the reception. Pros: welcoming spacious lobby; two good restaurants; center of town; nice small wineshop. Cons: traffic noise in front rooms; stairs up to the lobby. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Am Viktoriabrunnen 2 | 09561/8760 | www.goldenetraube.com | 72 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nArcadia Hotel Coburg.  \nHOTEL | You can expect modern, clean, well-designed rooms that are airy and functional here. This hotel is about 20 minutes, on foot, east of Coburg's center. Pros: modern three-star business hotel; easy access; free parking and garage. Cons: modern three-star business hotel; edge of town; surrounded by garages and shopping outlets; breakfast costs \u20ac15 extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac66 | Ketschendorfer Str. 86 | 09561/8210 | www.arcadia-hotel.de | 123 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nTIP Coburg is full of culinary delights; its Schm\u00e4tzen (gingerbread) and Elizenkuchen (almond cake) are famous. You'll find home-baked versions in any of the many excellent patisseries or at a Grossman store (there are three in Coburg).\n\nHummel Museum.  \nR\u00f6dental, northeast of Coburg, is the home of the world-famous M. I. Hummel figurines, made by the G\u00f6bel porcelain manufacturer. There's a Hummel Museum devoted to them, and 18th- and 19th-century porcelain from other manufacturers. Besides the museum's store, there are several retail outlets in the village. | Coburgerstr. 7 | R\u00f6dental | 09563/92303 | www.goebel.de | Weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 9\u2013noon.\n\nSchloss Rosenau.  \nNear the village of R\u00f6dental, 9 km (5\u00bd mi) northeast of Coburg, the 550-year-old Schloss Rosenau sits in all its neo-Gothic glory in the midst of an English-style park. Prince Albert was born here in 1819, and one room is devoted entirely to Albert and his queen, Victoria. Much of the castle furniture was made especially for the Saxe-Coburg family by noted Viennese craftsmen. In the garden's Orangerie is the Museum f\u00fcr Modernes Glas (Museum of Modern Glass), which displays nearly 40 years' worth of glass sculptures (dating from 1950 to 1990) that contrast sharply with the venerable architecture of the castle itself. | Rosenau 1 | R\u00f6dental | 09563/1606 | www.kunstsammlungen-coburg.de | Castle \u20ac6, museum \u20ac3 | Tours Apr.\u2013Oct., daily at 10, 11, noon, 2, 3, and 4.\n\n## Kronach\n\n23 km (15 miles) east of Coburg, 120 km (74 miles) north of N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nKronach is a charming little gateway to the natural splendor of the Frankenwald region.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nKronach. | Tourismus Kronach, Marktpl. | 09261/97236 | www.kronach.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Festung Rosenberg (Rosenberg Fortress).  \nThis fortress is a few minutes' walk from the town center. As you stand below its mighty walls it's easy to see why it was never taken by enemy forces. During World War I it served as a POW camp, with no less a figure than Charles de Gaulle as a \"guest.\" Today Rosenberg houses a youth hostel and, more importantly, the Fr\u00e4nkische Galerie (Franconian Gallery), an extension of the Bavarian National Museum in Munich, featuring paintings and sculpted works from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Lucas Cranach the Elder and Tilman Riemenschneider are represented, as well as artists from the D\u00fcrer School and the Bamberg School. In July and August the central courtyard is an atmospheric backdrop for performances of Goethe's Faust. The grounds of the fortress are also used by wood sculptors in summer. | 09261/60410 | www.kronach.de | \u20ac8 | Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135:30.\n\nObere Stadt (Upper Town).  \nIn its old medieval section of town, harmonious sandstone houses are surrounded by old walls and surmounted by a majestic fortress. Kronach is best known as the birthplace of Renaissance painter Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472\u20131553), but there's a running argument as to which house he was born in\u2014Am Marktplatz 1 or in the house called Am Scharfen Eck, at Lucas-Cranach-Strasse 38. The latter served as a local pub for more than a hundred years. Today it is a good place to enjoy a very good, inexpensive Franconian meal.TIP On the last weekend in June, Kronach celebrates its past with a medieval festival featuring authentic garb, food, and troubadours. | Obere Stadt.\n\n## Kulmbach\n\n19 km (12 miles) southeast of Kronach.\n\nA quarter of Kulmbachers earn their living directly or indirectly from beer. Kulmbach celebrates its brewing traditions every year in a nine-day festival that starts on the last Saturday in July. The main festival site, a mammoth tent, is called the Festspulhaus\u2014literally, \"festival swill house\"\u2014a none-too-subtle dig at nearby Bayreuth and its tony Festspielhaus, where Wagner's operas are performed. If you're here in winter, be sure to try the seasonal Eisbock, a special dark beer that is frozen as part of the brewing process; making it stronger.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nKulmbach Tourismusservice. | Stadthalle, Sutte 2 | 09221/958\u2013820 | www.kulmbach.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nKulmbacher Brewery.  \nThis brewery, which merged four Kulmbach breweries into one, produces, among others, the Doppelbock Kulminator 28, which takes nine months to brew and has an alcohol content of 12%. | Lichtenfelserstr. 9 | 09221/7050 | www.kulmbacher.de.\n\nBayerisches Brauereimuseum Kulmbach (Bavarian Brewery Museum).  \nThe Kulmbacher Brewery runs this museum jointly with the nearby M\u00f6nchshof-Br\u00e4u brewery and inn. TIP The price of admission includes a \"taste\" from the museum's own brewery. | Hoferstr. 20 | 09221/80514 | www.kulmbacher-moenchshof.de | \u20ac4.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135\n\nFAMILY | Neuenmarkt.  \nIn this \"railway village\" near Kulmbach, more than 25 beautifully preserved gleaming locomotives huff and puff in a living railroad museum. Every now and then a nostalgic train will take you to the Brewery Museum in Kulmbach, or you can enjoy a round-trip to Marktschorgast; both trips take you up the very steep \"schiefe Ebene\" stretch (literally, \"slanting level\"). The museum also has model trains set up in incredibly detailed replicas of landscapes. | Birkenstr. 5 | Neuenmarkt | 09227/5700 | www.dampflokmuseum.de | \u20ac7 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Plassenburg.  \nThe most impressive Renaissance fortress in the country, it stands on a rise overlooking Kulmbach, a 20-minute hike from the Old Town. The first building here, begun in the mid-12th century, was torched by marauding Bavarians who were eager to put a stop to the ambitions of Duke Albrecht Alcibiades\u2014a man who spent several years murdering, plundering, and pillaging his way through Franconia. His successors built today's castle, starting in about 1560. Externally, there's little to suggest the graceful Renaissance interior, but as you enter the main courtyard the scene changes abruptly. The tiered space of the courtyard is covered with precisely carved figures, medallions, and other intricate ornaments, the whole comprising one of the most remarkable and delicate architectural ensembles in Europe. Inside, the Deutsches Zinnfigurenmuseum (Tin Figures Museum), with more than 300,000 miniature statuettes and tin soldiers, holds the largest collection of its kind in the world. The figures are arranged in scenes from all periods of history. During the day you cannot drive up to the castle. There's a shuttle bus that leaves from the main square every half hour from 9 to 6; cost is \u20ac2.20. | Plassenburg | 09221/947\u2013505 | \u20ac4.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Kronprinz.  \nHOTEL | This old hotel tucked away in the middle of Kulmbach's Old Town, right in the shadow of Plassenburg Castle, covers all basic needs, with the help of an extraordinary breakfast buffet. The furnishings are somewhat bland except in the higher-priced rooms. The caf\u00e9 serves snacks and cakes. Pros: center of town; excellent cakes in caf\u00e9; 3 nice rooms in annex. Cons: plain rooms above caf\u00e9; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Fischerg. 4\u20136 | 09221/92180 | www.hotel-kulmbach.eu | 22 rooms | Closed Dec. 24\u201329 | Breakfast.\n\n## Bayreuth\n\n24 km (15 miles) south of Kulmbach, 80 km (50 miles) northeast of N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nThe small town of Bayreuth, pronounced \"bye-roit,\" owes its fame to the music giant Richard Wagner (1813\u201383). The 19th-century composer, musical revolutionary, ultranationalist, and Nazi poster-child finally settled here after a lifetime of rootless shifting through Europe. Here he built his great theater, the Festspielhaus, as a suitable setting for his grand operas on Germanic mythological themes. The annual Wagner Festival dates to 1876, and brings droves of Wagner fans who push prices sky-high, fill hotels to bursting, and earn themselves much-sought-after social kudos in the process. The festival is held from late July until late August, so unless you plan to visit the town specifically for it, this is the time to stay away.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTo reach Bayreuth, take the Bayreuth exit off the N\u00fcrnberg\u2013Berlin autobahn. It's 1\u00bd hours north of N\u00fcrnberg. The train trip is an hour from N\u00fcrnberg. In town you can reach most points on foot.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBayreuth Kongress- und Tourismuszentrale. | Luitpoldpl. 9 | 0921/88588 | www.bayreuth.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltes Schloss Eremitage.  \nThis palace, 5 km (3 miles) north of Bayreuth on B-85, makes an appealing departure from the sonorous and austere Wagnerian mood of much of the town. It's an early 18th-century palace, built as a summer retreat and remodeled in 1740 by the Margravine Wilhelmine. Although her taste is not much in evidence in the drab exterior, the interior, alive with light and color, displays her guiding hand in every elegant line. The extraordinary Japanischer Saal (Japanese Room), filled with Asian treasures and chinoiserie furniture, is the finest room. The park and gardens, partly formal, partly natural, are enjoyable for idle strolling. Fountain displays take place at the two fake grottoes at the top of the hour 10\u20135 daily. | Eremitagestr. 4 | 0921/759\u20136937 | Schloss \u20ac4.50, park free | Schloss Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136.\n\nBrauerei und B\u00fcttnerei-Museum (Brewery and Coopers Museum).  \nNear the center of town, in the 1887 Maisel Brewery building, this museum reveals the tradition of the brewing trade over the past two centuries with a focus on the Maisel's trade, of course. The brewery operated here until 1981, when its much bigger home was completed next door.TIP After the 90-minute tour you can quaff a cool, freshly tapped traditional Bavarian Weissbier (wheat beer) in the museum's pub. The pub is also one of a handfull of places to try Maisel's Dampfbier; a delicious steam-brewed ale. | Kulmbacherstr. 40 | 0921/401\u2013234 | www.maisel.com | \u20ac5 | Tour daily at 2 pm; individual tours by appointment.\n\nMarkgr\u00e4fliches Opernhaus (Margravial Opera House).  \nIn 1745 Margravine Wilhelmine commissioned the Italian architects Guiseppe and Carlo Bibiena to build this rococo jewel, sumptuously decorated in red, gold, and blue. Apollo and the nine Muses cavort across the baroque frescoed ceiling. It was this delicate 500-seat theater that originally drew Wagner to Bayreuth; he felt that it might prove a suitable setting for his own operas. It's a wonderful setting for the concerts and operas of Bayreuth's \"other\" musical festivals, which the theater hosts throughout the year. You can still visit the Theater despite the ongoing reconstruction. | Opernstr. | 0921/759\u20136922 | \u20ac2.50 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134. Closed during performances and on rehearsal days.\n\nNeues Schloss (New Palace).  \nThis glamorous 18th-century palace was built by the Margravine Wilhelmine, sister of Frederick the Great of Prussia and a woman of enormous energy and decided tastes. Though Wagner is the man most closely associated with Bayreuth, his choice of this setting is largely due to the work of this woman, who lived 100 years before him. Wilhelmine devoured books, wrote plays and operas (which she directed and, of course, acted in), and had buildings constructed, transforming much of the town and bringing it near bankruptcy. Her distinctive touch is evident at the palace, built when a mysterious fire conveniently destroyed parts of the original one. Anyone with a taste for the wilder flights of rococo decoration will love it. Some rooms have been given over to one of Europe's finest collections of faience. | Ludwigstr. 21 | 0921/759\u20136921 | \u20ac12 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Wagner in Bayreuth\n\nFestspielhaus (Festival Theater).  \nThis high temple of the Wagner cult\u2014where performances take place only during the annual Wagner Festival\u2014is surprisingly plain. The spartan look is explained partly by Wagner's desire to achieve perfect acoustics. The wood seats have no upholstering, for example, and the walls are bare. The stage is enormous, capable of holding the huge casts required for Wagner's largest operas. The festival is still meticulously controlled by Wagner's family. | Festspielh\u00fcgel 1 | 0921/78780 | www.bayreuther-festspiele.de | \u20ac5 | Tours Dec.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. at 10, 2, and 3. Closed during rehearsals and on performance days during festival.\n\nRichard-Wagner-Museum.  \n\"Wahnfried,\" built by Wagner in 1874 and the only house he ever owned, is now the Richard-Wagner-Museum. It's a simple, austere neoclassical building whose name, \"peace from madness,\" was well earned. Wagner lived here with his wife Cosima, daughter of pianist Franz Liszt, and they were both laid to rest here. King Ludwig II of Bavaria, the young and impressionable \"Fairy-Tale King\" who gave Wagner so much financial support, is remembered in a bust before the entrance. The exhibits, arranged along a well-marked tour through the house, require a great deal of German-language reading, but it's a must for Wagner fans. The original scores of such masterpieces as Parsifal, Tristan und Isolde, Lohengrin, Der Fliegende Holl\u00e4nder, and G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung are on display. You can also see designs for productions of his operas, as well as his piano and huge library. A multimedia display lets you watch and listen to various productions of his operas. The little house where Franz Liszt lived and died is right next door and can be visited with your Richard-Wagner-Museum ticket, but be sure to express your interest in advance. It, too, is heavy on the paper, but the last rooms\u2014with pictures, photos, and silhouettes of the master, his students, acolytes, and friends\u2014are well worth the detour. TIP The museum will be closed until 2015, but true loyalists will still want to come to see the outside of the house. | Richard-Wagner-Str. 48 | 0921/757\u20132816 | www.wagnermuseum.de | Closed until 2015.\n\n* * *\n\nWagner: Germany's Top Romantic\n\nUnderstanding Wagner\n\nBorn in 1813, Richard Wagner has become modern Germany's most iconic composer. His music, which is best understood in its simple message of national glory and destiny, contributed greatly to the feeling of pan-Germanism that united Germany under the Prussian crown in 1871. However, his overtly nationalistic themes and blatant anti-Semitism also makes his music a bit controversial as it's also connected to the Nazi movement and Adolf Hitler; Hitler adored Wagner and saw him as the embodiment of his own vision for the German people. Wagner's focus on the cult of the leader and the glories of victory are prevalent in his works Lohengrin and Parsifal. Some of his most famous compositions are the four opera cycle The Ring of the Nibelung (aka Ring Cycle), Parsifal, and Lohengrin.\n\nWagner Today\n\nIn 1871 Wagner moved to the city of Bayreuth and began construction of the Festspielhaus, an opera house that would only perform Wagner's operas. The performance space opened its doors in 1876 with a production of Das Rheingold and the first full performance of the four-part Ring Cycle. The Festspielhaus continues to showcase Wagner's works during the annual Bayreuther Festspiel, a pilgrimage site for die-hard Wagner fans. The waiting list for tickets is years long; it's almost impossible for mere mortals to gain entrance to the holy temple. However, almost all German opera and symphony companies perform Wagner's works throughout the year. The best places to see Wagner's longer works are at Berlin's State Opera; the National Theater in Weimar; the Gewandhaus Orchestra and Opera in Leipzig; and Munich's Bavarian State Opera.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nOskar.  \nGERMAN | A huge glass ceiling gives the large dining room a light atmosphere even in winter. In summer, try for a table in the beer garden to enjoy fine Franconian specialties and Continental dishes. The kitchen uses the freshest produce. The room fills up at night and during Sunday brunch, especially if a jazz band is playing in one of the alcoves. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Maximilianstr. 33 | 0921/516\u20130553 | www.oskar-bayreuth.de | No credit cards.\n\nWolffenzacher.  \nGERMAN | This self-described \"Franconian nostalgic inn\" harks back to the days when the local Wirtshaus (inn-pub) was the meeting place for everyone from the mayor's scribes to the local carpenters. Beer and hearty traditional food are shared at wooden tables either in the rustic interior or out in the shady beer garden, weather permitting. The hearty Franconian specialties are counterbalanced by a few lighter Mediterranean dishes. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Sternenpl. 5 | 0921/64552 | www.wolffenzacher.de.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat in Franconia\n\nFranconia is known for its good and filling food and for its simple and atmospheric Gasth\u00e4user. Pork is a staple, served either as Schweinsbraten (a plain roast) or with Kn\u00f6del (dumplings made from either bread or potatoes). The specialties in N\u00fcrnberg, Coburg, and Regensburg are the Bratw\u00fcrste\u2014short, spiced sausages. The N\u00fcrnberg variety is known all over Germany; they are even on the menu on the ICE trains. You can have them grilled or heated in a stock of onions and wine (saurer Zipfel). Bratw\u00fcrste are traditionally served in denominations of 3, 6, or 8 with sauerkraut and potato salad or dark bread.\n\nOn the sweet side, try the Dampfnudel, a kind of sweet yeast-dough dumpling that is tasty and filling. N\u00fcrnberger Lebkuchen, a sort of gingerbread eaten at Christmastime, is loved all over Germany. A true purist swears by Elisen Lebkuchen, which are made with no flour. Both Lebkuchen and Bratw\u00fcrste are protected under German law and are only \"legal\" when made in or around N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nNot to be missed are Franconia's liquid refreshments from both the grape and the grain. Franconian wines, usually white and sold in distinctive flat bottles called Bocksbeutel, are renowned for their special bouquet. (Silvaner is the traditional grape.) The region has the largest concentration of local breweries in the world (Bamberg alone has 9, Bayreuth 7), producing a wide range of brews, the most distinctive of which is the dark, smoky Rauchbier and the even darker and stronger Schw\u00e4rzla. Then, of course, there is Kulmbach, with the Doppelbock Kulminator 28, which takes nine months to brew and has an alcohol content of 12%.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Goldener Anker.  \nHOTEL | No question about it, Bayreuth's grande dame is the place to stay; the hotel is right next to the Markgr\u00e4fliches Opernhaus and has been entertaining composers, singers, conductors, and instrumentalists for hundreds of years. The establishment has been run by the same family since 1753. Some rooms are small; others have a royal splendor. One huge suite has a spiral staircase leading up to the bedroom. All are individually decorated, and many have antique pieces. The restaurant is justly popular. Book your room far in advance during festival times. Pros: authentic historic setting with all modern amenities; exemplary service; excellent restaurant. Cons: no elevator; some rooms are on the small side; restaurant closed Monday and Tuesday. | Rooms from: \u20ac138 | Opernstr. 6 | 0921/65051 | www.anker-bayreuth.de | 38 rooms, 2 suites | Restaurant closed Mon. and Tues., except during the festival | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Lohm\u00fchle.  \nHOTEL | The old part of this hotel is in Bayreuth's only half-timber house, a former sawmill by a stream. It's just a two-minute walk from the town center. The rooms are rustic, with visible beams; the newer, neighboring building has correspondingly modern rooms. The restaurant offers traditional, hearty cooking ($$), such as Sch\u00e4ufele (pork) or carp. Pros: nice setting with reasonable prices; good food. Cons: stairs between hotel and restaurant; front rooms let in traffic noise. | Rooms from: \u20ac166 | Badstr. 37 | 0921/53060 | www.hotel-lohmuehle.de | 42 rooms | No dinner Sun. | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nMarkgr\u00e4fliches Opernhaus.  \nIf you don't get Wagner Festival tickets, console yourself with visits to the exquisite 18th-century Markgr\u00e4fliches Opernhaus. In May the Fr\u00e4nkische Festwochen (Franconian Festival Weeks) take the stage with works of Wagner, of course, but also Paganini and Mozart. | Opernstr. | 0921/759\u20136922.\n\nWagner Festival.  \nOpera lovers swear that there are few more intense operatic experiences than the annual Wagner Festival in Bayreuth, held July and August. You'll do best if you plan your visit several years in advance. TIP It is nearly impossible to find a hotel room during the festival: try finding a room in Kronach instead of Bayreuth.\n\nBayreuther Festspiele Kartenb\u00fcro.  \nFor tickets to the Wagner Festival, write to the Bayreuther Festspiele Kartenb\u00fcro by the middle of October the year before, at the latest. Be warned: The waiting list is years long, and they only offer tickets by mail or online and will ignore any other inquiries. | 0921/78780 | www.bayreuther-festspiele.de\n\n### Shopping\n\nHofgarten Passage.  \nOff Richard-Wagner-Strasse, you'll find one of the fanciest shopping arcades in the region; it's full of smart boutiques selling everything from German high fashion to simple local craftwork. | Richard-Wagner-Str. 22.\n\nEn Route: Fr\u00e4nkische Schweiz.  \nThe B\u201322 highway cuts through the Fr\u00e4nkische Schweiz\u2014or Franconian Switzerland\u2014which got its name from its fir-clad upland landscape. Just north of Hollfeld, 23 km (14 mi) west of Bayreuth, the Jurassic rock of the region breaks through the surface in a bizarre, craggy formation known as the Felsgarten (Rock Garden). | B\u201322. 27 Loch | Hollfeld.\n\n## Bamberg\n\n65 km (40 miles) west of Bayreuth, 80 km (50 miles) north of N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nFew towns in Germany survived the war with as little damage as Bamberg, which is on the Regnitz River. TIP This former residence of one of Germany's most powerful imperial dynasties is on UNESCO's World Heritage Site list. Bamberg, originally nothing more than a fortress in the hands of the Babenberg dynasty (later contracted to Bamberg), rose to prominence in the 11th century thanks to the political and economic drive of its most famous offspring, Holy Roman Emperor Heinrich II. He transformed the imperial residence into a flourishing Episcopal city. His cathedral, consecrated in 1237, still dominates the city center. For a short period Heinrich II proclaimed Bamberg the capital of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. Moreover, Bamberg earned fame as the second city to introduce book printing, in 1460.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTraveling to Bamberg by train will take about 45 minutes from N\u00fcrnberg; from Munich it takes about two hours. Bamberg is a worthwhile five-hour train trip from Berlin. Bamberg's train station is a 30-minute walk from the Altstadt (Old Town). On the A-73 autobahn, Bamberg is two hours from Munich. Everything in town can be reached on foot.\n\n#### Tours\n\nIn Bamberg, Personenschiffahrt Kropf boats leave daily from March through October beginning at 11 am for short cruises on the Regnitz River and the Main-Donau Canal; the cost is \u20ac7.\n\nThe Bamberg Tourist Information center offers an audio tour in English for \u20ac8.50 for four hours. It also offers brewery and beer-tasting tours of the nine Bamberg breweries.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nBoat Tours   \nPersonenschiffahrt Kropf. | Kapuzinerstr. 5 | 0951/26679 | www.personenschiffahrt-bamberg.de.\n\nVisitor Information   \nBamberg Tourismus und Congresservice. | Geyersw\u00f6rthstr. 5 | 0951/297\u20136200 | www.bamberg.info.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nAt Bamberg's historic core, the Altes Rathaus, is tucked snugly on a small island in the Regnitz. To the west of the river is the so-called Bishops' Town; to the east, Burghers' Town. The citizens of Bamberg built this rickety, extravagantly decorated building on an artificial island when the Bishop of Bamberg refused to give the city the land for a town hall. The excellent collection of porcelain is a sampling of 18th-century styles, from almost sober Meissens with bucolic Watteau scenes to simple but rare Haguenau pieces from Alsace and faience from Strasbourg. | Obere Br\u00fccke 1 | 0951/871\u2013871 | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20134:30.\n\nQuick Bites: Rathaus-Sch\u00e4nke.  \nBefore heading up the hill to the main sights in the Bishops' Town, take a break with coffee, cake, small meals, or cocktails in the half-timber Rathaus-Sch\u00e4nke. It overlooks the river on the Burghers' Town side of the Town Hall. | Obere Br\u00fccke 3 | 0951/208\u20130890 | www.rathausschaenke-bamberg.com.\n\nDi\u00f6zesanmuseum (Cathedral Museum).  \nDirectly adjacent to the Bamberg Dom, this museum contains one of many nails and splinters of wood reputed to be from the cross of Jesus. The \"star-spangled\" cloak stitched with gold that was given to Emperor Heinrich II by an Italian prince is among the finest items displayed. More macabre exhibits in this rich ecclesiastical collection are the elaborately mounted skulls of Heinrich and Kunigunde. The building itself was designed by Balthasar Neumann (1687\u20131753), the architect of Vierzehnheiligen, and constructed between 1730 and 1733. | Dompl. 5 | 0951/502\u2013325 | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; tour in English by appointment.\n\nDom (Cathedral).  \nBamberg's great cathedral is a unique building that tells not only the town's story but that of Germany as well. The first building here was begun by Heinrich II in 1003, and it was in this partially completed cathedral that he was crowned Holy Roman Emperor in 1012. In 1237 it was destroyed by fire, and replaced by present late-Romanesque/early-Gothic building. The dominant features are the massive towers at each corner. Heading into the dark interior, you'll find a striking collection of monuments and art treasures. The most famous piece is the Bamberger Reiter (Bamberg Horseman), an equestrian statue carved\u2014no one knows by whom\u2014around 1230 and thought to be an allegory of chivalrous virtue or a representation of King Stephen of Hungary. Compare it with the mass of carved figures huddled in the tympana above the church portals. In the center of the nave you'll find another masterpiece, the massive tomb of Heinrich and his wife, Kunigunde. It's the work of Tilman Riemenschneider. Pope Clement II is also buried in the cathedral, in an imposing tomb beneath the high altar; he's the only pope buried north of the Alps. | Dompl. | 0951/502\u2013330 | Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136. Closed during services.\n\nKloster St. Michael (Monastery of St. Michael).  \nOnce a Benedictine monastery, this structure has been gazing over Bamberg since 1015. After being overwhelmed by so much baroque elsewhere, entering this haven of simplicity can be a relief. The entire choir is intricately carved, but the ceiling is gently decorated with very exact depictions of 578 flowers and healing herbs. The tomb of St. Otto is in a little chapel off the transept, and the stained-glass windows hold symbols of death and transfiguration. The monastery is now used as a home for the aged. One tract, however, was taken over by the Franconian Brewery Museum, which exhibits everything that has to do with beer, from the making of malt to recipes. | Michelsberg 10f | 0951/53016 | Museum \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Wed.\u2013Sun. 1\u20135.\n\nNeue Residenz (New Residence).  \nThis glittering baroque palace was once the home of the prince-electors. Their plan to extend the immense palace even further is evident at the corner on Obere Karolinenstrasse, where the ashlar bonding was left open to accept another wing. The most memorable room in the palace is the Kaisersaal (Throne Room), complete with impressive ceiling frescoes and elaborate stucco. The rose garden behind the Neue Residenz provides an aromatic and romantic spot for a stroll with a view of Bamberg's roof landscape. You have to take a tour to see the Residenz itself, but you can visit the library free of charge at any time during its open hours. | Neue Residenz, Dompl. 8 | 0951/955\u2013030 | \u20ac4.50 | Neue Residenz by tour only, Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nStaatsbibliothek (State Library).  \nThe Neue Residenz is also home to the Staatsbibliothek. Among the thousands of books and illuminated manuscripts here are the original prayer books belonging to Heinrich II and his wife, a 5th century codex of the Roman historian Livy, and manuscripts by the 16th-century painters D\u00fcrer and Cranach. | Dompl. 8 | 0951/955\u2013030 | www.staatsbibliothek-bamberg.de | Free | Weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 9\u2013noon\n\nObere Pfarre (Upper Parish).  \nBamberg's wealthy burghers built no fewer than 50 churches. The Church of Our Lady, known simply as the Obere Pfarre, dates back to around 1325, and is unusual because the exterior is entirely Gothic, while the interior is heavily baroque. The grand choir, which lacks any windows, was added much later. An odd square-ish box tops the church tower; this watchman's post was placed there to keep the tower smaller than the neighboring cathedral, thus avoiding a medieval scandal. Note the slanted floor, which allowed crowds of pilgrims to see the object of their veneration, a 14th-century Madonna. Don't miss the Ascension of Mary by Tintoretto at the rear of the church. Around Christmas, the Obere Pfarre is the site of the city's greatest Nativity scene. Avoid the church during services, unless you're worshipping. | Untere Seelg. | Daily 7\u20137.\n\n### Near Bamberg\n\nKloster Banz (Banz Abbey).  \nThis abbey, which some call the \"holy mountain of Bavaria,\" proudly crowns the west bank of the Main north of Bamberg. There had been a monastery here since 1069, but the present buildings\u2014now a political-seminar center and think tank\u2014date from the end of the 17th century. The highlight of the complex is the Klosterkirche (Abbey Church), the work of architect Leonard Dientzenhofer and his brother, the stuccoist Johann Dientzenhofer (1663\u20131726). Balthasar Neumann later contributed a good deal of work. Concerts are occasionally held in the church, including some by members of the renowned Bamberger Symphoniker. To get to Banz from Vierzehnheiligen, drive south to Unnersdorf, where you can cross the river. | Kloster-Banz-Str. 1 | Bad Staffelstein | 09573/7311 | May\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 9\u2013noon. Call to request a tour.\n\nFodor's Choice | Vierzehnheiligen.  \nIn Bad Staffelstein, on the east side of the Main north of Bamberg, is a tall, elegant yellow-sandstone edifice whose interior represents one of the great examples of rococo decoration. The church was built by Balthasar Neumann (architect of the Residenz at W\u00fcrzburg) between 1743 and 1772 to commemorate a vision of Christ and 14 saints\u2014vierzehn Heiligen\u2014that appeared to a shepherd in 1445. The interior, known as \"God's Ballroom,\" is supported by 14 columns. In the middle of the church is the Gnadenaltar (Mercy Altar) featuring the 14 saints. Thanks to clever play with light, light colors, and fanciful gold-and-blue trimmings, the interior seems to be in perpetual motion. Guided tours of the church are given on request; a donation is expected. On Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday the road leading to the church is closed and you have to walk the last half mile. | Vierzehnheiligen 2, 36 km (22 miles) north of Bamberg via Hwy. 173 | Bad Staffelstein | 09571/95080 | www.vierzehnheiligen.de | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 7\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 8\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBischofsm\u00fchle.  \nGERMAN | It doesn't always have to be beer in Bamberg. The old mill, its grinding wheel providing a sonorous backdrop for patrons, specializes in wines from Franconia and elsewhere. The menu offers Franconian specialties such as the French-derived B\u00f6fflamott, or beef a la mode. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Geyersw\u00f6rthstr. 4 | 0951/27570 | www.bischofsmuehle-mueller.de | No credit cards | Closed Wed.\n\nKlosterbr\u00e4u.  \nGERMAN | This massive old stone-and-half-timber house has been standing since 1533, making it Bamberg's oldest brewpub. Regulars nurse a dark, smoky beer called Schw\u00e4rzla near the big stove\u2014though the best beer is the Klosterbraun. If you like the brew, you can buy a 5-liter bottle (called a Siphon) as well as other bottled beers and the requisite beer steins at the counter. The cuisine is basic, robust, filling, and tasty, with such items as a bowl of beans with a slab of smoked pork, or marinated pork kidneys with boiled potatoes. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Obere M\u00fchlbr\u00fccke | 0951/52265 | www.klosterbraeu.de | No credit cards.\n\nSchlenkerla.  \nGERMAN | Set in the middle of the old town, this tavern has been serving beer inside an ancient half-timbered house since 1405. The fare, atmosphere, and partons are the definition of traditional Bamberg. Be sure to try the Bamberger Zwiebel, a local onion stuffed with pork. The real reason to come here is to try the Aecht Schenkerla Rauchbier, a beer brewed with smoked malt. This Rauchbier (smoked beer) is served from huge wooden barrels and tastes like liquid ham\u2014it's an aquired taste, but one worth sampling. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Dominikanerstr. 6 | 951/56050 | www.schlenkerla.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel-Restaurant St. Nepomuk.  \nB&B/INN | This half-timber house seems to float over the river Regnitz; many of the comfortable rooms have quite a view of the water and the Old Town Hall on its island. The dining room, with its podium fireplace, discreet lights, and serene atmosphere, has a direct view of the river. The Gr\u00fcner family makes a special effort to bring not only high-quality food to the restaurant ($$$) but a world of excellent wines as well. Pros: nice view; an elegant dining room with excellent food. Cons: hotel on a pedestrian-only street; in need of some renovation; public garage 200 meters away. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Obere M\u00fchlbr\u00fccke 9 | 0951/98420 | www.hotel-nepomuk.de | 47 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRomantik Hotel Weinhaus Messerschmitt.  \nHOTEL | This comfortable hotel has spacious and luxurious rooms, some with exposed beams and many of them lighted by chandeliers. Willy Messerschmitt of aviation fame grew up in this beautiful late-baroque house with a steep-eave, green-shuttered, stucco exterior. You'll dine under beams and a coffered ceiling in the excellent Messerschmitt restaurant ($$), one of Bamberg's most popular culinary havens for Franconian specialties. Pros: elegant dining room with good food; variety of rooms to choose from. Cons: older property; front rooms are noisy; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac145 | Langestr. 41 | 0951/297\u2013800 | www.hotel-messerschmitt.de | 67 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nCapella Antiqua Bambergensis.  \nThe city's first-class choir, Capella Antiqua Bambergensis, concentrates on ancient music. They play at several venues in town. | www.capella-antiqua.de.\n\nDom.  \nThroughout summer organ concerts are given Saturday at noon in the Dom. Call for program details and tickets to all cultural events. | Dompl. | 0951/297\u20136200.\n\nHoffmann Theater.  \nOpera and operettas are performed here from September through July. | E.-T.-A.-Hoffmann-Pl. 1 | 0951/873\u2013030.\n\nSinfonie an der Regnitz.  \nThis fine riverside concert hall, is home to Bamberg's own world-class resident symphony orchestra, the Bamberger Symphoniker. | Muss-Str. 1 | 0951/964\u20137200.\n\n### Shopping\n\nTIP If you happen to be traveling around Christmastime, make sure you keep an eye out for cr\u00e8ches, a Bamberg specialty. Check the tourism website (www.bamberg.info) for the locations of nativity scenes and descriptions.\n\nCaf\u00e9 am Dom.  \nFor an edible souvenir, take home handmade chocolates like the only-in-Bamberg Rauchbier truffles made with Schlenkerla smoked beer. This caf\u00e9 also has a roomy seating area to take a load off while you nibble a delicious pastry. | Ringleinsg. 2 | 0951/519\u2013290.\n\nMagnus Klee.  \nThis shop sells nativity scenes, called Krippen in German, of all different shapes and sizes, including wood-carved and with fabric clothes. | Obstmarkt 2 | 0951/26037.\n\nVinothek im Sand.  \nHead to this wine store for Franconian wine as well as a sampling of Bamberg's specialty beers. | Obere Sandstr. 8 | 0151/5473\u20138779.\n\nEn Route: From Bamberg you can take either the fast autobahn (A-73) south to N\u00fcrnberg or the parallel country road (B-4) that follows the Main-Donau Canal (running parallel to the Regnitz River at this point) and joins A-73 just under 25 km (15 miles) later at Forchheim-Nord.\n\nLevi-Strauss Museum. Eighteen kilometers (11 miles) south of Bamberg in the village of Buttenheim is a little blue-and-white half-timber house where L\u00f6b Strauss was born\u2014in great poverty\u2014in 1829. Take the audio tour of the Levi-Strauss Museum and learn how L\u00f6b emigrated to the United States, changed his name to Levi, and became the first name in denim. The stonewashed color of the house's beams, by the way, is the original 17th-century color. | Marktstr. 33 | Buttenheim | 09545/442\u2013602 | www.levi-strauss-museum.de | \u20ac2.60 | Tues. and Thurs. 2\u20136, weekends 11\u20135 and by appointment.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nN\u00fcrnberg's Old Town | N\u00fcrnberg's Nazi Sights | Where to Eat | Where to Stay | Shopping\n\nWith a recorded history stretching back to 1050, the main city in Bavarian is among the most historic of all of Germany; the core of the Old Town, through which the Pegnitz River flows, is still surrounded by its original medieval walls. N\u00fcrnberg has always taken a leading role in German affairs. It was here, for example, that the Holy Roman emperors traditionally held the first Diet, or convention of the estates, of their incumbency. And it was here, too, that Hitler staged the most grandiose Nazi rallies; later, this was the site of the Allies' war trials, where top-ranking Nazis were charged with\u2014and almost without exception convicted of\u2014crimes against humanity. The rebuilding of N\u00fcrnberg after the war was virtually a miracle, considering the 90% destruction of the Old Town. As a major intersection on the medieval trade routes, N\u00fcrnberg became a wealthy town where the arts and sciences flowered. Albrecht D\u00fcrer (1471\u20131528), the first indisputable genius of the Renaissance in Germany, was born here. He married in 1509 and bought a house in the city where he lived and worked for the rest of his life. Other leading N\u00fcrnberg artists of the Renaissance include painter Michael Wolgemut (a teacher of D\u00fcrer), stonecutter Adam Kraft, and the brass founder Peter Vischer. The tradition of the Meistersinger also flourished here in the 16th century, thanks to the high standard set by the local cobbler Hans Sachs (1494\u20131576). The Meistersinger were poets and musicians who turned songwriting into a special craft, with a wealth of rules and regulations. They were celebrated three centuries later by Wagner in his Meistersinger von N\u00fcrnberg.\n\nThe Thirty Years' War and the shift to sea routes for transportation led to the city's long decline, which ended only in the early 19th century when the first railroad opened in N\u00fcrnberg. Among a great host of inventions associated with the city, the most significant are the pocket watch, gun casting, the clarinet, and the geographic globe. Among N\u00fcrnberg's famous products are Lebkuchen (gingerbread of sorts) and Faber-Castell pencils.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nN\u00fcrnberg is centrally located and well connected, an hour north of Munich and two hours east of Frankfurt by train. Five autobahns meet here: A-3 D\u00fcsseldorf\u2013Passau, A-6 Mannheim\u2013N\u00fcrnberg, A-9 Potzdam\u2013M\u00fcnchen, A-73 Coburg\u2013Feucht, and B-8 (four lane near N\u00fcrnberg) W\u00fcrzburg\u2013Regensburg. Most places in the Old Town may be reached on foot.\n\nEnglish-language bus tours of the city are conducted April\u2013October and in December, daily at 9:30, starting at the Mauthalle, Hallplatz 2. The 2\u00bd-hour tour costs \u20ac15. For more information, call | 0911/202\u2013290. An English-language tour on foot through the Old Town is conducted daily May\u2013October at 1; it departs from the tourist-information office on the Hauptmarkt. The tour costs \u20ac9 (plus entrance to the Kaiserburg \u20ac2). City tours are also conducted in brightly painted trolley buses April\u2013October, daily at one-hour intervals beginning at 10 at the Sch\u00f6ner Brunnen. The cost is \u20ac6. For more information call the N\u00fcrnberg tourist office.\n\n#### Timing\n\nYou'll need a full day to walk around N\u00fcrnberg's Old Town, two if you wish to take more time at its fascinating museums and churches. Most of the major sights are within a few minutes' walk of each other. The Kaiserburg is a must-visit on any trip to N\u00fcrnberg. Plan at least half a day for the Germanisches Nationalmuseum, which is just inside the city walls near the main station. Add another half a day to visit the Nazi Party Rally Grounds.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nBy far the most famous local festival is the Christkindlesmarkt (Christmas Market), an enormous pre-Christmas fair that runs from the Friday before Advent to Christmas Eve. One of the highlights is the candle procession, held every second Thursday of the market season, during which thousands of children parade through the city streets.\n\nChristkindlesmarkt.  \nPerhaps the most famous Christmas Market in Germany, the N\u00fcrnberg Christkindlesmarkt sits on the town's cobble-stoned main square beneath the wonderful Frauenkirche. Renowned for its food, particularly N\u00fcrnberger Bratwurstchen, tasty little pork and marjoram sausages, and Lebkuchen, gingerbread made with cinnamon and honey, the market is also famed for its little figures made out of prunes called N\u00fcrnberger Zwetschgenm\u00e4nnla or \"N\u00fcrnberg Prune People.\" | Hauptmarkt | www.christkindlesmarkt.de | Nov. 25\u2013Dec. 24, Mon.\u2013Thurs. 9:30\u20138, Fri. and Sat. 9:30\u201310, Sun. 10:30\u20138, Christmas Eve 9:30\u20132.\n\nKaiserburg.  \nFrom May through July classical music concerts are given in the Rittersaal of the Kaiserburg. | 0911/244\u20136590.\n\nSommer in N\u00fcrnberg.  \nN\u00fcrnberg has an annual summer festival, Sommer in N\u00fcrnberg, from May through July, with more than 200 events. Its international organ festival in June and July is regarded as Europe's finest.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nN\u00fcrnberg Congress-und Tourismus-Zentrale. | Frauentorgraben 3 | 0911/23360 | www.nuernberg.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## N\u00fcrnberg's Old Town\n\nWalls, finished in 1452, surround N\u00fcrnberg's Old Town. Year-round floodlighting adds to the brooding romance of their moats, sturdy gateways, and watchtowers.\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nAlbrecht-D\u00fcrer-Haus (Albrecht D\u00fcrer House).  \nThe great painter Albrecht D\u00fcrer lived here from 1509 until his death in 1528. This beautifully preserved late-medieval house is typical of the prosperous merchants' homes that once filled N\u00fcrnberg. D\u00fcrer, who enriched German art with Italianate elements, was more than a painter. He raised the woodcut, a notoriously difficult medium, to new heights of technical sophistication, combining great skill with a haunting, immensely detailed drawing style and complex, allegorical subject matter, while earning a good living at the same time. A number of original prints adorn the walls, and printing techniques using the old press are demonstrated in the studio. An excellent opportunity to find out about life in the house of D\u00fcrer is the Saturday 2 pm tour with a guide role-playing Agnes D\u00fcrer, the artist's wife. | Albrecht-D\u00fcrer-Str. 39 | 0911/231\u20132568 | \u20ac5, with tour \u20ac7.50 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Thurs. 10\u20138; guided tour in English Sat. at 2.\n\nFodor's Choice | Germanisches Nationalmuseum (German National Museum).  \nYou could spend days visiting this vast museum, which showcases the country's cultural and scientific achievements, ethnic background, and history. It's the largest of its kind in Germany, and perhaps the best arranged. The museum is in a former Carthusian monastery, complete with cloisters and monastic outbuildings. The extensions, however, are modern. The exhibition begins outside, with the tall, sleek pillars of the Strasse der Menschenrechte (Street of Human Rights), designed by Israeli artist Dani Karavan. Thirty columns are inscribed with the articles from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. One highlight is the superb collection of Renaissance German paintings (with D\u00fcrer, Cranach, and Altdorfer well represented). Others may prefer the exquisite medieval ecclesiastical exhibits\u2014manuscripts, altarpieces, statuary, stained glass, jewel-encrusted reliquaries\u2014the collections of arms and armor, the scientific instruments, or the toys. | Kart\u00e4userg 1 | 0911/13310 | www.gnm.de | \u20ac8 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. 10\u20139.\n\nQuick Bites: Bistro Arte.  \nOpposite the Germanisches Nationalmuseum is Bistro Arte. Al dente pasta or meat and fish dishes with excellent wines will revive you after the long hours spent in the museum. | Kart\u00e4userg. 12 | 0911/244\u20139774 | www.arte-cafe.de | Closed Mon.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kaiserburg (Imperial Castle).  \nThe city's main attraction is a grand yet playful collection of buildings standing just inside the city walls; it was once the residence of the Holy Roman Emperor. The complex comprises three separate groups. The oldest, dating from around 1050, is the Burggrafenburg (Castellan's Castle), with a craggy old pentagonal tower and the bailiff's house. It stands in the center of the complex. To the east is the Kaiserstallung (Imperial Stables), built in the 15th century as a granary and now serving as a youth hostel. The real interest of this vast complex of ancient buildings, however, centers on the westernmost part of the fortress, which begins at the Sinwell Turm (Sinwell Tower). The Kaiserburg Museum is here, a subsidiary of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum that displays ancient armors and has exhibits relating to horsemanship in the imperial era and to the history of the fortress. This section of the castle also has a wonderful Romanesque Doppelkappelle (Double Chapel). The upper part\u2014richer, larger, and more ornate than the lower chapel\u2014was where the emperor and his family worshipped. Also visit the Rittersaal (Knights' Hall) and the Kaisersaal (Throne Room). Their heavy oak beams, painted ceilings, and sparse interiors have changed little since they were built in the 15th century. | Burgstr. | 0911/2446\u201359115 | www.kaiserburg-nuernberg.de | \u20ac7 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nNeues Museum (New Museum).  \nAnything but medieval, this museum is devoted to international design since 1945. The collection, supplemented by changing exhibitions, is in a slick, modern edifice that achieves the perfect synthesis between old and new. It's mostly built of traditional pink-sandstone ashlars, while the facade is a flowing, transparent composition of glass. The interior is a work of art in itself\u2014cool stone, with a ramp that slowly spirals up to the gallery. Extraordinary things await, including a Joseph Beuys installation (Ausfegen, or Sweep-out) and Avalanche by Fran\u00e7ois Morellet, a striking collection of violet, argon-gas-filled fluorescent tubes. The caf\u00e9-restaurant adjoining the museum contains modern art, silver-wrapped candies, and video projections. | Luitpoldstr. 5 | 0911/240\u2013200 | www.nmn.de | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20138, weekends 10\u20136.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nThis ancient building on Rathausplatz abuts the rear of St. Sebaldus Kirche; it was erected in 1332, destroyed in World War II, and subsequently reconstructed. Its intact medieval dungeons, consisting of 12 small rooms and one large torture chamber called the Lochgef\u00e4ngnis (or the Hole), provide insight into the gruesome applications of medieval law. G\u00e4nsem\u00e4nnchenbrunnen (Gooseman's Fountain) faces the Altes Rathaus. This lovely Renaissance bronze fountain, cast in 1550, is a work of rare elegance and great technical sophistication. | Rathauspl. 2 | 0911/231\u20132690 | \u20ac3.50, minimum of 5 people for tours | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nFrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nThe fine late-Gothic Frauenkirche was built in 1350, with the approval of Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV, on the site of a synagogue that was burned down during the1349 pogrom. The modern tabernacle beneath the main altar was designed to look like a Torah scroll as a memorial to that despicable act. The church's main attraction is the M\u00e4nnleinlaufen, a clock dating from 1509, which is set in its facade. It's one of those colorful mechanical marvels at which Germans have long excelled. TIP Every day at noon the seven electors of the Holy Roman Empire glide out of the clock to bow to Emperor Charles IV before sliding back under cover. It's worth scheduling your morning to catch the display. | Hauptmarkt | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20136, Sun. 12:30\u20136.\n\nHauptmarkt (Main Market).  \nN\u00fcrnberg's central market square was once the city's Jewish Quarter. When the people of N\u00fcrnberg petitioned their emperor, Charles IV, for a big central market, the emperor was in desperate need of money and, above all, political support. The Jewish Quarter was the preferred site, but as the official protector of the Jewish people, the emperor could not just openly take away their property. Instead, in 1349 he instigated a pogrom that left the Jewish Quarter in flames and more than 500 dead. He then razed the ruins and resettled the remaining Jews.\n\nTowering over the northwestern corner of the Hauptmarkt, Sch\u00f6ner Brunnen (Beautiful Fountain) looks as though it should be on the summit of some lofty cathedral. Carved around the year 1400, the elegant 60-foot-high Gothic fountain is adorned with 40 figures arranged in tiers\u2014prophets, saints, local noblemen, sundry electors of the Holy Roman Empire, and one or two strays such as Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. TIP A gold ring is set into the railing surrounding the fountain, reportedly placed there by an apprentice carver. Touching it is said to bring good luck. A market still operates in the Hauptmarkt. Its colorful stands are piled high with produce, fruit, bread, homemade cheeses and sausages, sweets, and anything else you might need for a snack or picnic. It's here that the Christkindlesmarkt is held. | Hauptmarkt.\n\nJ\u00fcdisches Museum Franken.  \nThe everyday life of the Jewish community in Franconia and F\u00fcrth is examined in this Jewish museum: books, seder plates, old statutes, and children's toys are among the exhibits. Among the most famous members of the F\u00fcrth community was Henry Kissinger, born here in 1923. Changing exhibitions relate to contemporary Jewish life in Germany, and in the basement is the Mikwe, the ritual bath, which was used by the family who lived here centuries ago. In the museum you will also find a good Jewish bookshop as well as a nice small caf\u00e9. A subsidiary to the museum, which houses special exhibitions, is in the former synagogue in nearby Schnaittach. To get to the museum from N\u00fcrnberg, you can take the U1 U-bahn to the Rathaus stop. | K\u00f6nigstr. 89, 10 km (6 miles) west of N\u00fcrnberg | F\u00fcrth | 0911/770\u2013577 | \u20ac3 | Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Tues. 10\u20138.\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Kommunikation (Communication Museum).  \nTwo museums have been amalgamated under a single roof here: the German Railway Museum and the Museum of Communication\u2014in short, museums about how people stay connected. The first train to run in Germany did so on December 7, 1835, from N\u00fcrnberg to nearby F\u00fcrth. A model of the epochal train is here, along with a series of original 19th- and early-20th-century trains and stagecoaches. Philatelists will want to check out some of the 40,000-odd stamps in the extensive exhibits on the German postal system. You can also find out about the history of sending messages\u2014from old coaches to optical fiber networks. | Lessingstr. 6 | 0911/219\u20132428 | www.mfk-nuernberg.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nSt. Lorenz Kirche (St. Laurence Church).  \nIn a city with several striking churches, St. Lorenz is considered by many to be the most beautiful. Construction began around 1250 and was completed in about 1477; it later became a Lutheran church. Two towers flank the main entrance, which is covered with a forest of carvings. In the lofty interior, note the works by sculptors Adam Kraft and Veit Stoss: Kraft's great stone tabernacle, to the left of the altar, and Stoss's Annunciation, at the east end of the nave, are their finest works. There are many other carvings throughout the building, testimony to the artistic wealth of late-medieval N\u00fcrnberg. | Lorenzer Pl. | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. noon\u20134.\n\nSt. Sebaldus Kirche (St. Sebaldus Church).  \nAlthough St. Sebaldus lacks the quantity of art treasures found in its rival St. Lorenz, its nave and choir are among the purest examples of Gothic ecclesiastical architecture in Germany: elegant, tall, and airy. Veit Stoss carved the crucifixion group at the east end of the nave, while the elaborate bronze shrine containing the remains of St. Sebaldus himself was cast by Peter Vischer and his five sons around 1520. Not to be missed is the Sebaldus Ch\u00f6rlein, an ornate Gothic oriel that was added to the Sebaldus parish house in 1361 (the original is in the Germanisches Nationalmuseum). | Albrecht-D\u00fcrer-Pl. 1 | 0911/214\u20132500 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Spielzeugmuseum (Toy Museum).  \nYoung and old are captivated by this playful museum, which has a few exhibits dating from the Renaissance; most, however, are from the 19th century. Simple dolls vie with mechanical toys of extraordinary complexity, such as a wooden Ferris wheel from the Ore Mountains adorned with little colored lights. The top floor displays Barbies and intricate Lego constructions. | Karlstr. 13\u201315 | 0911/231\u20133164 | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nStadtmuseum (City Museum).  \nThis city history museum is in the Fembohaus, a dignified patrician dwelling completed in 1598. It's one of the finest Renaissance mansions in N\u00fcrnberg. Each room explores another aspect of N\u00fcrnberg history, from crafts to gastronomy. The 50-minute multivision show provides a comprehensive look at the city's long history. | Burgstr. 15 | 0911/231\u20132595 | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Tiergarten N\u00fcrnberg.  \nThe well-stocked N\u00fcrnberg Zoo has a dolphinarium where dolphins perform to the delight of children; it's worth the extra admission fee. The zoo is on the northwest edge of town; reach it by taking the No. 5 streetcar from the city center. | Am Tiergarten 30 | 0911/54546 | www.tiergarten.nuernberg.de | \u20ac18 | Zoo and dolphinarium Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 8\u20137:30; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135; dolphin show daily at 11, 2, and 4.\n\n## N\u00fcrnberg's Nazi Sights\n\nDocumentation Centre Nazi Party Rally Grounds.  \nOn the eastern outskirts of the city, the Ausstellung Faszination und Gewalt (Fascination and Terror Exhibition) documents the political, social, and architectural history of the Nazi Party. The sobering museum helps illuminate the whys and hows of Hitler's rise to power during the unstable period after World War I and the end of the democratic Weimar Republic. This is one of the few museums that documents how the Third Reich's propaganda machine influenced the masses. The 19-room exhibition is within a horseshoe-shape Congressional Hall that was intended to harbor a crowd of 50,000; the Nazis never completed it. The Nazis did make famous use of the nearby Zeppelin Field, the enormous parade ground where Hitler addressed his largest Nazi rallies. Today it sometimes shakes to the amplified beat of pop concerts. TIP To get to the Documentation Center, take Tram No. 9 from the city center to the Doku-Zentrum stop. | Bayernstr. 110 | 0911/231\u20135666 | www.museen.nuernberg.de | \u20ac5 | Museum daily 9\u20136, weekends 10\u20136.\n\nN\u00fcrnberg Trials Memorial.  \nNazi leaders and German organizations were put on trial here in 1945 and 1946 during the first international war-crimes trials, conducted by the victorious Allied forces of World War II. The trials were held in the Landgericht (Regional Court) in courtroom No. 600 and resulted in 11 death sentences, among other convictions. The guided tours are in German, but English-language material is available. TIP Take the U1 subway line to B\u00e4renschanze. | B\u00e4renschanzstr. 72 | 0911/231\u20138411 | www.memorium-nuremberg.de | \u20ac5 | Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20136.\n\n## Where to Eat\n\nFodor's Choice | Essigbr\u00e4tlein.  \nGERMAN | The oldest restaurant in N\u00fcrnberg is also the top restaurant in the city and among the best in Germany. Built in 1550, it was originally used as a meeting place for wine merchants. Today its tiny but elegant period interior caters to the distinguishing gourmet with a taste for special spice mixes (owner Andr\u00e9e K\u00f6the's hobby). The menu changes daily, but the four-course menu can't be beat. Don't be put off if the restaurant looks closed, just ring the bell and a friendly receptionist will help you. | Average main: \u20ac28 | Weinmarkt 3 | 0911/225\u2013131 | Reservations essential | Closed Sun., Mon., and late Aug.\n\nHausbrauerei Altstadthof.  \nGERMAN | For traditional regional food, such as N\u00fcrnberg bratwurst, head to this atmospheric brewery. You can see the copper kettles where the brewery's organic Rotbier (red beer) is made. For a bit of shopping after lunch, the brewery store sells a multitude of beer-related products such as beer vinegar, brandy, and soap. Located above a network of deep, dark cellars where beer was once brewed and stored, this brewery is the meeting point for cellar tours (www.historische-felsengaenge.de), which are offered in English on Sunday at 11:30 am and cost \u20ac5.50. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Bergstr. 19\u201321 | 911/244\u20139859.\n\nHeilig-Geist-Spital.  \nGERMAN | Heavy wood furnishings and a choice of more than 100 wines make this huge, 650-year-old wine tavern\u2014built as the refectory of the city hospital\u2014a popular spot. Try for a table in one of the alcoves, where you can see the river below you as you eat your seasonal fresh fish. The menu also includes grilled pork chops, panfried potatoes, and other Franconian dishes. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Spitalg. 16 | 0911/221\u2013761 | www.heilig-geist-spital.de.\n\nFAMILY | Historische Bratwurst-K\u00fcche Zum Gulden Stern.  \nGERMAN | The city council meets here to decide the official size and weight of the N\u00fcrnberg Bratw\u00fcrste, so this should be your first stop to try the ubiquitous N\u00fcrnberg delicacy. The sausages have to be small enough to fit through a medieval keyhole, which in earlier days enabled pub owners to sell them after hours. It's a fitting venue for such a decision, given that this house, built in 1375, holds the oldest bratwurst restaurant in the world. The famous N\u00fcrnberg bratwursts are always freshly roasted on a beech-wood fire; the boiled variation is prepared in a tasty stock of Franconian wine and onions. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Zirkelschmiedg. 26 | 0911/205\u20139288 | www.bratwurstkueche.de.\n\n## Where to Stay\n\nAgneshof.  \nHOTEL | This comfortable hotel is north of the Old Town between the fortress and St. Sebaldus Church. Interiors are very modern and tastefully done. The hotel also has a small wellness center and even some lounges for sunning in the small garden. Pros: many rooms have great views of the castle; warm yet professional welcome; lobby and rooms modern yet tasteful. Cons: deluxe rooms overpriced; parking and hotel access difficult; no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac77 | Agnesg. 10 | 0911/214\u2013440 | www.agneshof-nuernberg.de | 72 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nBurghotel Stammhaus.  \nHOTEL | At this quaint hotel the accommodations are small but cozy and the service is familial and friendly. If you need more space, ask about the wedding suite. The breakfast room with its balcony overlooking the houses of the Old Town has a charm all its own. Pros: great location in the city center; comfortable; pool; good value. Cons: small rooms; tiny lobby; parking not easy; service sometimes too casual. | Rooms from: \u20ac59 | Schildg. 14 | 0911/203\u2013040 | www.invite-hotels.de | 22 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Drei Raben.  \nHOTEL | Legends and tales of N\u00fcrnberg form the leitmotif running through the designer rooms at this hotel. One room celebrates the local soccer team with a table-soccer game; in another room sandstone friezes recall sights in the city. There are also more-conventional rooms in the lower price category. The reception room, with its pods, is modeled after 2001: A Space Odyssey, yet doesn't seem overbearingly modern. The location is three minutes from the train station, just within the Old Town walls. Pros: free drink at the reception desk; designer rooms; valet parking; Wi-Fi. Cons: neon-lighted bar isn't relaxing; no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | K\u00f6nigstr. 63 | 0911/274\u2013380 | www.hotel-drei-raben.de | 25 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel-Weinhaus Steichele.  \nHOTEL | An 18th-century bakery has been skillfully converted into this hotel, which has been managed by the same family for four generations. It's close to the main train station, on a quiet street of the old walled town. The cozy rooms are decorated in rustic Bavarian style. Two wood-paneled, traditionally furnished taverns ($) serve Franconian fare with an excellent fish menu. Pros: comfortable; good location; good restaurants. Cons: small rooms and lobby; some rooms show their age. | Rooms from: \u20ac109 | Knorrstr. 2\u20138 | 0911/202\u2013280 | www.steichele.de | 56 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nLe Meridien Grand Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Across the square from the central railway station is this stately building with the calling card \"Grand Hotel\" arching over its entranceway. The spacious and imposing lobby with marble pillars feels grand and welcoming. Since 1896, kings, politicians, and celebrities have soaked up the luxury of large rooms and tubs in marble bathrooms. On Friday and Saturday evenings and on Sunday at noon, locals arrive for the candlelight dinner or exquisite brunch ($$$) with live piano music in the restaurant of glittering glass and marble. The trout is a standout in an impressive list of fish dishes, and the lamb is a good pick from the meat entr\u00e9es. Be sure to ask for weekend rates. Pros: luxury property; impressive lobby; excellent food; valet parking. Cons: expensive, with additional fees for every possible contingency; Germanic efficiency at reception desk; difficult to reach the hotel with big bags from the main station as you have to go through an underpass with stairs. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Bahnhofstr. 1 | 0911/23220 | www.nuremberg.lemeridien.com | 186 rooms, 5 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\n## Shopping\n\nHandwerkerhof.  \nStep into this \"medieval mall,\" in the tower at the Old Town gate (Am K\u00f6nigstor) opposite the main railway station, and you'll think you're back in the Middle Ages. Craftspeople are busy at work turning out the kind of handiwork that has been produced in N\u00fcrnberg for centuries: pewter, glassware, basketwork, wood carvings, and, of course, toys. The Lebkuchen specialist Lebkuchen-Schmidt has a shop here as well. | Am K\u00f6nigstor | Mid-Mar.\u2013Dec. 24, weekdays 10\u20136:30, Sat. 10\u20134; Dec. 1\u201324 also open Sun. 10\u20136:30.\n\nScherenschnittstudio.  \nYou can come and pose for owner Karin D\u00fctz, send a picture (profile, do not smile), or just browse the scissor-cut silhouettes here, an old and skilled craft. | Albrecht-D\u00fcrer-Str. 13 | 0911/244\u20137483 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 1\u20136 or by appointment.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nRegensburg | Passau\n\nFor many people, the sound of the Danube River (Donau in German) is the melody of The Blue Danube, the waltz written by Austrian Johann Strauss. The famous 2,988-km-long (1,800-mile-long) river, which is actually a pale green, originates in Germany's Black Forest and flows through 10 countries. In Germany it's mostly a rather unremarkable stream as it passes through cities such as Ulm on its southeasterly route. However, that changes at Kelheim, just west of Regensburg, where the Main-Donau Canal (completed in 1992) brings big river barges all the way from the North Sea. The river becomes sizable in Regensburg, where the ancient Steinerne Br\u00fccke (Stone Bridge) needs 15 spans of 30 to 48 feet each to bridge the water. Here everything from small pleasure boats to cruise liners joins the commercial traffic. In the university town of Passau, two more rivers join the waters of the Danube before Europe's longest river continues into Austria.\n\n## Regensburg\n\n85 km (52 miles) southeast of N\u00fcrnberg, 120 km (74 miles) northwest of Munich.\n\nFew visitors to Bavaria venture this far off the well-trodden tourist trails, and even Germans are surprised when they discover medieval Regensburg. TIP The town escaped World War II with no major damage, and it is one of the best-preserved medieval cities in Germany.\n\nRegensburg's story begins with the Celts around 500 BC. In AD 179, as an original marble inscription in the Historisches Museum proclaims, it became a Roman military post called Castra Regina. The Porta Praetoria, or gateway, built by the Romans, remains in the Old Town, and whenever you see huge ashlars incorporated into buildings, you are looking at bits of the old Roman settlement. When Bavarian tribes migrated to the area in the 6th century, they occupied what remained of the Roman town and, apparently on the basis of its Latin name, called it Regensburg. Anglo-Saxon missionaries led by St. Boniface in 739 made the town a bishopric before heading down the Danube to convert the heathen in even more far-flung lands. Charlemagne, first of the Holy Roman emperors, arrived at the end of the 8th century and incorporated Regensburg into his burgeoning domain. Regensburg benefited from the fact that the Danube wasn't navigable to the west, and thus it was able to control trade as goods traveled between Germany and Central Europe.\n\nBy the Middle Ages Regensburg had become a political, economic, and intellectual center. For many centuries it was the most important city in southeast Germany, serving as the seat of the Perpetual Imperial Diet from 1663 until 1806, when Napol\u00e9on ordered the dismantling of the Holy Roman Empire.\n\nToday the ancient and hallowed walls of Regensburg continue to buzz with life. Students from the university fill the restaurants and pubs, and locals tend to their daily shopping and run errands in the inner city, where small shops and stores have managed to keep international consumer chains out.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegensburg is at the intersection of the autobahns 3 and 93. It is an hour away from N\u00fcrnberg and two hours from Munich by train. Regensburg is compact; its Old Town center is about 1 square mile. All of its attractions lie on the south side of the Danube, so you won't have to cross it more than once\u2014and then only to admire the city from the north bank.\n\nEnglish-language guided walking tours are conducted May through September and during the Christmas markets, Wednesday and Saturday at 1:30. They cost \u20ac6 and begin at the tourist office.\n\nIn Regensburg all boats depart from the Steinerne Br\u00fccke. The most popular excursions are boat trips to Ludwig I's imposing Greek-style Doric temple of Walhalla. There are daily sailings to Walhalla from Easter through October. The round trip costs \u20ac10.50 and takes three hours. Don't bother with the trip upriver from Regensburg to Kelheim.\n\n#### Timing\n\nAlthough the Old Town is quite small, you can easily spend half a day strolling through its narrow streets. Any serious tour of Regensburg includes an unusually large number of places of worship. If your spirits wilt at the thought of inspecting them all, you should at least see the Dom, famous for its Domspatzen (boys' choir\u2014the literal translation is \"cathedral sparrows\"). You'll need about another two hours or more to explore Schloss Emmeram and St. Emmeram church.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nBoat Tours   \nPersonenschifffahrt Klinger. | Thundorfstr. 1 | 0941/55359 | www.schifffahrtklinger.de.\n\nVisitor Information   \nRegensburg Tourismus. | Altes Rathaus, Rathauspl. 4 | 0941/507\u20134410 | www.regensburg.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nThe picture-book complex of medieval half-timber buildings, with windows large and small and flowers in tubs, is one of the best-preserved town halls in the country, as well as one of the most historically important. It was here, in the imposing Gothic Reichssaal (Imperial Hall), that the Perpetual Imperial Diet met from 1663 to 1806. This parliament of sorts consisted of the emperor, the electors (seven or eight), the princes (about 50), and the burghers, who assembled to discuss and determine the affairs of the far-reaching German lands of the Holy Roman Empire. The hall is sumptuously appointed with tapestries, flags, and heraldic designs. Note the wood ceiling, built in 1408, and the different elevations for the various estates. The Reichssaal is occasionally used for concerts. The neighboring Ratssaal (Council Room) is where the electors met for their consultations. The cellar holds the city's torture chamber; the Fragstatt (Questioning Room); and the execution room, called the Armes\u00fcnderst\u00fcbchen (Poor Sinners' Room). Any prisoner who withstood three degrees of questioning without confessing was considered innocent and released\u2014which tells you something about medieval notions of justice. | Rathauspl. | 0941/507\u20134411 | \u20ac8 | Guided tours in English Apr.\u2013Oct., daily at 3.\n\nQuick Bites: Prinzess Confiserie Caf\u00e9.  \nJust across the square from the Altes Rathaus is the Prinzess Confiserie Caf\u00e9, Germany's oldest coffeehouse, which first opened its doors in 1686. The homemade chocolates are highly recommended, as are the rich cakes. | Rathauspl. 2 | 0941/595\u2013310.\n\nBr\u00fcckturm Museum (Bridge Tower Museum).  \nWith its tiny windows, weathered tiles, and pink plaster, this 17th-century tower stands at the south end of the Steinerne Br\u00fccke. The tower displays a host of items relating to the construction and history of the old bridge. It also offers a gorgeous view of the Regensburg roof landscape. The brooding building with a massive roof to the left of the Br\u00fcckturm is an old salt warehouse. | Steinerne Br\u00fccke, Weisse-Lamm-G. 1 | 0941/507\u20135888 | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; call ahead for tours in English.\n\nDom St. Peter (St. Peter's Cathedral).  \nRegensburg's transcendent cathedral, modeled on the airy, powerful lines of French Gothic architecture, is something of a rarity this far south in Germany. Begun in the 13th century, it stands on the site of a much earlier Carolingian church. Remarkably, the cathedral can hold 6,000 people, three times the population of Regensburg when building began. Construction dragged on for almost 600 years, until Ludwig I of Bavaria, then ruler of Regensburg, finally had the towers built. These had to be replaced in the mid-1950s. Behind the Dom is a little workshop where a team of 15 stonecutters is busy full-time in summer re-cutting and restoring parts of the cathedral.\n\nBefore heading into the Dom, take time to admire the intricate and frothy carvings of its facade. Inside, the glowing 14th-century stained glass in the choir and the exquisitely detailed statues of the archangel Gabriel and the Virgin in the crossing (the intersection of the nave and the transepts) are among the church's outstanding features.\n\nBe sure to visit the Kreuzgang (Cloisters), reached via the garden. There you'll find a small octagonal chapel, the Allerheiligenkapelle (All Saints' Chapel), a Romanesque building that is all sturdy grace and massive walls, a work by Italian masons from the mid-12th century. You can barely make out the faded remains of stylized 11th-century frescoes on its ancient walls. The equally ancient shell of St. Stephan's Church, the cloisters, the chapel, and the Alter Dom (Old Cathedral), are included in the Cathedral tour. | Dompl. 50 | 0941/586\u20135500 | Tour \u20ac3, in German only (call ahead for tours in English) | Cathedral tour daily at 2.\n\nDomschatzmuseum (Cathedral Museum).  \nThis museum contains valuable treasures going back to the 11th century. Some of the vestments and the monstrances, which are fine examples of eight centuries' worth of the goldsmith's trade, are still used during special services. The entrance is in the nave. | Dompl. | 0941/597\u20132530 | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. noon\u20135; Dec.\u2013Mar., Fri. and Sat. 10\u20134, Sun. noon\u20134\n\nQuick Bites: Haus Heuport.  \nThe restaurant Haus Heuport, opposite the entrance to the Dom, was once one of the old and grand private ballrooms of the city. The service is excellent, and the tables at the windows have a wonderful view of the Dom. In summer, head for the bistro area in the courtyard for sandwiches and salads. | Dompl. 7 | 0941/599\u20139297.\n\nHistorisches Museum (Historical Museum).  \nThe municipal museum vividly relates the cultural history of Regensburg. It's one of the highlights of the city, both for its unusual and beautiful setting\u2014a former Gothic monastery\u2014and for its wide-ranging collections, from Roman artifacts to Renaissance tapestries and remains from Regensburg's 16th-century Jewish ghetto. The most significant exhibits are the paintings by Albrecht Altdorfer (1480\u20131538), a native of Regensburg and, along with Cranach, Gr\u00fcnewald, and D\u00fcrer, one of the leading painters of the German Renaissance. | Dachaupl. 2\u20134 | 0941/507\u20132448 | www.museen-regensburg.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. noon\u20134.\n\nSchloss Emmeram (Emmeram Palace).  \nFormerly a Benedictine monastery, this is the ancestral home of the princely Thurn und Taxis family, which made its fame and fortune after being granted the right to carry official and private mail throughout the empire and Spain by Emperor Maximilian I (1493\u20131519) and by Philip I, the king of Spain, who ruled during the same period. Their business extended over the centuries into the Low Countries (Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg), Hungary, and Italy. The horn that still symbolizes the post office in several European countries comes from the Thurn und Taxis coat of arms. In its heyday Schloss Emmeram was heavily featured in the gossip columns thanks to the wild parties and somewhat extravagant lifestyle of the young dowager Princess Gloria von Thurn und Taxis. After the death of her husband, Prince Johannes, in 1990, she had to auction off belongings in order to pay inheritance taxes. Ultimately a deal was cut, allowing her to keep many of the palace's treasures as long they were put on display.\n\nThe Thurn und Taxis Palace, with its splendid ballroom and throne room, allows you to witness the setting of courtly life in the 19th century. A visit usually includes the fine Kreuzgang of the former Benedictine abbey of St. Emmeram. TIP The palace can only be visited by taking the guided tour. The items in the Thurn und Taxis Museum, which is part of the Bavarian National Museum in Munich, have been carefully selected for their fine craftsmanship\u2014be it dueling pistols, a plain marshal's staff, a boudoir, or a snuffbox. The palace's Marstallmuseum (former royal stables) holds the family's coaches and carriages as well as related items. | Emmeramspl. 5 | 0941/504\u20138133 | www.thurnundtaxis.de | Museum \u20ac4.50, palace and cloisters \u20ac13.50 | Museum: Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 1\u20135. Tours of palace and cloisters: premium tour (90 mins), daily at 10:30, 12:30, 2:30, and 4:30; compact tour (60 mins), daily at 11:30 and 2:30.\n\nFodor's Choice | Steinerne Br\u00fccke (Stone Bridge).  \nThis impressive old bridge resting on massive pontoons is Regensburg's most celebrated sight. It was completed in 1146 and was rightfully considered a miraculous piece of engineering at the time. As the only crossing point over the Danube for miles, it effectively cemented Regensburg's control over trade. The significance of the little statue on the bridge is a mystery, but the figure seems to be a witness to the legendary rivalry between the master builders of the bridge and those of the Dom. | Steinerne Br\u00fccke.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAlte Kapelle (Old Chapel).  \nErected by the Calolingian order in the 9th century, the Old Chapel's dowdy exterior hides joyous rococo treasures within\u2014extravagant concoctions of sinuous gilt stucco, rich marble, and giddy frescoes, the whole illuminated by light pouring in from the upper windows. | Alter Kornmarkt 8 | Daily 9\u2013dusk.\n\nKarmelitenkirche (Church of the Carmelites).  \nThis lovely church, in the baroque style from crypt to cupola, stands next to the Alte Kapelle. It has a finely decorated facade designed by the 17th-century Italian master Carlo Lurago. | Alter Kornmarkt.\n\nNeupfarrplatz.  \nThis oversize square was once the heart of the Jewish ghetto. Hard economic times and superstition led to their eviction by decree in 1519. While the synagogue was being torn down, one worker survived a very bad fall. A church was promptly built to celebrate the miracle, and before long a pilgrimage began. The Neupfarrkirche (New Parish Church) was built as well to accommodate the flow of pilgrims. During the Reformation, the Parish Church was given to the Protestants, hence its bare-bones interior. In the late 1990s, excavation work (for the power company) on the square uncovered well-kept cellars and, to the west of the church, the old synagogue, including the foundations of its Romanesque predecessor. Archaeologists salvaged the few items they could from the old stones (including a stash of 684 gold coins) and, not knowing what to do with the sea of foundations, ultimately carefully reburied them. Recovered items were carefully restored and are on exhibit in the Historisches Museum. Only one small underground area to the south of the church, the Document, accommodates viewing of the foundations. In a former cellar, surrounded by the original walls, visitors can watch a short video reconstructing life in the old Jewish ghetto. Over the old synagogue, the Israeli artist Dani Karavan designed a stylized plaza where people can sit and meet. Call the educational institution VHS for a tour of the Document (reservations are requested). For spontaneous visits, tickets are available at Tabak G\u00f6tz on the western side of the square, at Neupfarrplatz 3. | Neupfarrpl. | 0941/507\u20132433 for tours led by VHS | www.vhs-regensburg.de | Document \u20ac5 | Church daily 9\u2013dusk, document tour Thurs.\u2013Sat. at 2:30.\n\nQuick Bites: Dampfnudel Uli.  \nA Dampfnudel is a steamed, often sweet but sometimes savory, yeast-dough dumpling that is tasty and filling. The best in Bavaria can be had at this small establishment in a former chapel. The decoration is incredibly eclectic, from Bavarian crafts to an autographed portrait of Ronald Reagan. | Watmarkt 4 | 0941/53297 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20134.\n\nNiederm\u00fcnster. This 12th-century building with a baroque interior was originally the church of a community of nuns, all of them from noble families. | Alter Kornmarkt 5.\n\nPorta Praetoria.  \nThe rough-hewn former gate to the old Roman camp, built in AD 179, is one of the most interesting relics of Roman Regensburg. Look through the grille on its east side to see a section of the original Roman road, about 10 feet below today's street level. | North side of Alter Kornmarkt, Unter den Schwibb\u00f6gen.\n\nSt. Emmeram.  \nThe family church of the Thurn und Taxis family stands across from their ancestral palace, the Schloss Emmeram. The foundations of the church date to the 7th and 8th centuries. A richly decorated baroque interior was added in 1730 by the Asam brothers. St. Emmeram contains the graves of the 7th-century martyred Regensburg bishop Emmeram and the 10th-century saint Wolfgang. | Emmeramspl. 3 | 0941/51030 | Mon.\u2013Thurs. and Sat. 10\u20134:30, Fri. 1\u20134:30, Sun. noon\u20134:30.\n\nSt. Kassian.  \nRegensburg's oldest church was founded in the 8th century. Don't be fooled by its plain exterior; inside, it's filled with ornate rococo decoration. | St.-Kassianpl. 1 | Daily 9\u20135:30.\n\n### Near Regensburg\n\nWeltenburg Abbey (Abbey Church of Sts. George and Martin).  \nRoughly 25 km [15 miles] southwest of Regensburg you'll find the great Weltenburg Benedictine Abbey perched on the bank of the Danube River. The most dramatic approach to the abbey is by boat from Kelheim, 10 km (6 miles) downstream. On the stunning ride the boat winds between towering limestone cliffs that rise straight up from the tree-lined riverbanks. The abbey, constructed between 1716 and 1718, is commonly regarded as the masterpiece of the brothers Cosmas Damian and Egid Quirin Asam, two leading baroque architects and decorators of Bavaria. Their extraordinary composition of painted figures whirling on the ceiling, lavish and brilliantly polished marble, highly wrought statuary, and stucco figures dancing in rhythmic arabesques across the curving walls is the epitome of Bavarian baroque. Note especially the bronze equestrian statue of St. George above the high altar, reaching down imperiously with his flamelike, twisted gilt sword to dispatch the winged dragon at his feet. In Kelheim there are two boat companies that offer trips to Kloster Weltenburg every 30 minutes in summer. You cannot miss the landing stages and the huge parking lot.TIP No Bavarian monastary is complete without a brewery, and Kloster Weltenburg's is well worth visiting. | Asamstr. 32 | Kelheim | Daily 9\u2013dusk.\n\nWalhalla.  \nWalhalla (11 km [7 miles] east of Regensburg) is an excursion you won't want to miss, especially if you have an interest in the wilder expressions of growing 19th-century German nationalism. Walhalla\u2014a name resonant with Nordic mythology\u2014was where the god Odin received the souls of dead heroes. Ludwig I erected this monumental temple in 1840 to honor important Germans from ages past. In keeping with the neoclassic style of the time, the Greek-style Doric temple is actually a copy of the Parthenon in Athens. The expanses of costly marble are evidence of both the financial resources and the craftsmanship at Ludwig's command. Walhalla may be kitschy, but the fantastic view it affords over the Danube and the wide countryside is definitely worth a look.\n\nA boat ride from the Steinerne Br\u00fccke in Regensburg is the best way to go. On the return trip, you can steer the huge boat about half a mile, and, for \u20ac5 extra, you can earn an \"Honorary Danube Boat Captain\" certificate. Kids and grown-ups love it. To get to the temple from the river, you'll have to climb 358 marble steps.\n\nTo drive to it, take the Danube Valley country road (unnumbered) east from Regensburg 8 km (5 miles) to Donaustauf. The Walhalla temple is 1 km (\u00bd mile) outside the village and well signposted. | Walhalla-Str. 48 | Donaustauf | www.walhalla-regensburg.de.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nCaf\u00e9 Felix.  \nCAF\u00c9 | A modern bilevel caf\u00e9 and bar, Felix offers everything from sandwiches to steaks, and buzzes with activity from breakfast until the early hours. Light from an arty chandelier and torchlike fixtures bounces off the many large framed mirrors. The crowd tends to be young. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Fr\u00f6hliche-T\u00fcrkenstr. 6 | 0941/59059 | www.cafefelix.de | No credit cards.\n\nHistorische Wurstk\u00fcche.  \nGERMAN | At the world's oldest, and possibly smallest, bratwurst grill, succulent Regensburger sausages\u2014the best in town\u2014are prepared right before your eyes on an open beech-wood charcoal grill. If you want to eat them inside in the tiny dining room, you'll have to squeeze past the cook to get there. On the walls\u2014outside and in\u2014are plaques recording the levels the river reached in over a century of floods that temporarily interrupted service. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Thundorferstr. 3, just by stone bridge | 0941/466\u2013210 | No credit cards.\n\nLeerer Beutel.  \nECLECTIC | The \"Empty Sack\" serves excellent international cuisine\u2014from antipasti to solid pork roast\u2014is served in a pleasant vaulted room supported by massive rough-hewn beams. The restaurant is in a huge warehouse that's also a venue for concerts, exhibitions, and film screenings, making it a good place to start or end an evening. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Bertoldstr. 9 | 0941/58997.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAm Peterstor.  \nHOTEL | The clean and basic rooms of this popular hotel in the heart of the Old Town are a solid value. The many local eateries, including the excellent Caf\u00e9 Felix a few doors away, more than compensate for the lack of an in-house restaurant. Pros: low prices; good location. Cons: spartan rooms; no restaurant or bar; no phones in rooms; breakfast extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac48 | Fr\u00f6hliche-T\u00fcrken-Str. 12 | 0941/54545 | www.hotel-am-peterstor.de | 36 rooms | No meals.\n\nHotel M\u00fcnchner Hof.  \nHOTEL | This little hotel provides top service at a good price with Regensburg at your feet. The original arches of the ancient building are visible in some of the rooms. It's close to the Neupfarrkirche. The restaurant is quiet and comfortable, serving Bavarian specialties and good Munich beer. Pros: some rooms with historic touch; center of town; nice little lobby. Cons: entrance on narrow street; difficult parking. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | T\u00e4ndlerg. 9 | 0941/58440 | www.muenchner-hof.de | 53 rooms | Multiple meal plans.\n\nFodor's Choice | H\u00f4tel Orph\u00e9e.  \nHOTEL | It's difficult to choose from among the very spacious rooms at the three different properties of this establishment\u2014the Grand Hotel Orph\u00e9e; the Petit Hotel Orph\u00e9e on the next street; and the Country Manor Orph\u00e9e on the other side of the river about 2 km (1 mile) away. You may decide to take an attic room with large wooden beams or an elegant room with stucco ceilings on the first floor. The French bistro - style restaurant ($$) prepares a selection of crepes, salads, and tasty meat dishes. Pros: very tastefully renovated; excellent restaurant; center of town. Cons: difficult parking; front rooms are noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Grand H\u00f4tel Orphee, Untere Bachg. 8 | 0941/596\u2013020 | www.hotel-orphee.de | 56 rooms | Multiple meal plans.\n\nHotel-Restaurant Bischofshof am Dom.  \nHOTEL | This is one of Germany's most historic hostelries, a former bishop's palace where you can sleep in an apartment that includes part of a Roman gateway. Other chambers are only slightly less historic, and some have seen emperors and princes as guests. The hotel's restaurant ($) serves regional cuisine (including the famous Regensburger sausages) at reasonable prices. The beer comes from a brewery founded in 1649. Pros: historic building; nonsmoking rooms only; nice courtyard beer garden. Cons: nonsmoking rooms only; restaurant not up to hotel's standards. | Rooms from: \u20ac147 | Krauterermarkt 3 | 0941/58460 | www.hotel-bischofshof.de | 55 rooms, 4 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\nKaiserhof am Dom.  \nHOTEL | Renaissance windows punctuate the green facade of this historic city mansion, but the rooms are 20th-century modern. Try for one with a view of the cathedral, which stands directly across the street. Breakfast is served beneath the high-vaulted ceiling of a 14th-century chapel. Pros: front rooms have a terrific view; historic breakfast room. Cons: front rooms are noisy; no restaurant or bar. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Kramg. 10\u201312 | 0941/585\u2013350 | www.kaiserhof-am-dom.de | 30 rooms | Closed Dec. 21\u2013Jan. 8 | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nThe winding alleyways of the Altstadt are packed with boutiques, ateliers, jewelers, and other small shops offering a vast array of arts and crafts. You may also want to visit the Neupfarrplatz market (Monday through Saturday 9\u20134), where you can buy regional specialties such as Radi (juicy radish roots), which locals wash down with a glass of wheat beer.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nRegensburg offers a range of musical experiences, though none so moving as a choral performance at the cathedral. TIP Listening to the Regensburger Domspatzen, the boys' choir at the cathedral, can be a remarkable experience, and it's worth scheduling your visit to the city to hear them. The best sung Mass is held on Sunday at 9 am. If you're around in summer, look out for the Citizens Festival (B\u00fcrgerfest) and the Bavarian Jazz Festival (Bayerisches Jazzfest www.bayernjazz.de) in July, both in the Old Town.\n\nThe kind of friendly, mixed nightlife that has become hard to find in some cities is alive and well in this small university city in the many Kneipen, combination bars and restaurants, such as the Leerer Beutel.\n\nEn Route: It's about a two-hour drive on the autobahn between Regensburg and Passau. Be forewarned, however, that if your trip coincides with a German holiday, it can be stop-and-go traffic for hours along this stretch. Halfway between Regensburg and Passau, the village of Metten is a worthwhile diversion or break. Stop to refuel at Cafe am Kloster (Marktplatz 1 | 0991/998\u20139380). Once you are seated in the beer garden, the quality and the prices may well tempt you to linger longer than you had anticipated.\n\nBenedictine monastery. Metten's Benedictine monastery, founded in the 9th century by Charlemagne, is an outstanding example of baroque art. The 18th-century library has a collection of 160,000 books whose gilt leather spines are complemented by the heroic splendor of their surroundings\u2014Herculean figures support the frescoed, vaulted ceiling, and allegorical paintings and fine stuccowork identify different categories of books. In the church is Cosmas Damian Asam's altarpiece Lucifer Destroyed by St. Michael; created around 1720, it has vivid coloring and a swirling composition that are typical of the time. | 7 km (4\u00bd mile) west of Deggendorf, Abteistr. 3 | Metten | 0991/91080 | \u20ac3 | Guided tours Tues.\u2013Sun. at 10 and 3 except church holidays.\n\n## Passau\n\n137 km (86 miles) southeast of Regensburg, 179 km (111 miles) northeast of Munich.\n\nFlanking the borders of Austria and the Czech Republic, Passau dates back more than 2,500 years. Originally settled by the Celts, then by the Romans, Passau later passed into the possession of prince-bishops whose domains stretched into present-day Hungary. At its height, the Passau episcopate was the largest in the entire Holy Roman Empire.\n\nPassau's location is truly unique. Nowhere else in the world do three rivers\u2014the Ilz from the north, the Danube from the west, and the Inn from the south\u2014meet. Wedged between the Inn and the Danube, the Old Town is a maze of narrow cobblestone streets lined with beautifully preserved burgher and patrician houses and riddled with churches. Many streets have been closed to traffic making the Old Town a fun and mysterious place to explore.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nPassau is on the A-3 autobahn from Regensburg to Vienna. It's an hour from Regensburg and about four hours from Vienna by train.\n\n#### Tours\n\nThe Passau tourist office leads tours May through October at 10:30 and 2:30 on weekdays and at 2:30 on Sunday; November through April the tours are held weekdays at noon. Tours start at the entrance to the cathedral. A one-hour tour costs \u20ac4.\n\nIn Passau cruises on the three rivers begin and end at the Danube jetties on Fritz-Sch\u00e4ffer Promenade. Donauschiffahrt Wurm + K\u00f6ck runs eight ships.\n\n#### Timing\n\nPassau can be toured leisurely in the course of one day. Try to visit the Dom at noon to hear a recital on the world's largest organ. Early morning is the best time to catch the light falling from the east on the Old Town walls and the confluence of the three rivers.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nChristkindlmarkt.  \nPassau's Christmas fair is the biggest and most spectacular of the Bavarian Forest. It's held in front of Dom St. Stephan from late November until just before Christmas. | Dompl.\n\nEurop\u00e4ische Wochen (European Weeks).  \nPassau is the cultural center of Lower Bavaria. Its Europ\u00e4ische Wochen festival\u2014featuring everything from opera to pantomime\u2014is a major event on the European music calendar. The festival runs from June to July and is held in venues all over the city. For program details and tickets for the Europ\u00e4ische Wochen, register on the website. | Dr.-Hans-Kapfinger-Str. 22 | www.ew-passau.de.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nBoat Tours   \nDonauschiffahrt Wurm + K\u00f6ck. | 0851/929\u2013292 | www.donauschiffahrt.de.\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Passau. | Rathauspl. 3 | 0851/955\u2013980 | www.passau.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Dom St. Stephan (St. Stephan's Cathedral).  \nThe cathedral rises majestically on the highest point of the earliest-settled part of the city. A baptismal church stood here in the 6th century. Two hundred years later, when Passau became a bishop's seat, the first basilica was built. It was dedicated to St. Stephan and became the original mother church of St. Stephan's Cathedral in Vienna. A fire reduced the medieval basilica to ruins in 1662; it was then rebuilt by Italian master architect Carlo Lurago. What you see today is the largest baroque basilica north of the Alps, complete with an octagonal dome and flanking towers. Little in its marble- and stucco-encrusted interior reminds you of Germany, and much proclaims the exuberance of Rome. Beneath the dome is the largest church organ assembly in the world. Built between 1924 and 1928 and enlarged in 1979\u201380, it claims no fewer than 17,774 pipes and 233 stops. The church also houses the most powerful bell chimes in southern Germany. | Dompl. | 0851/3930 | Concerts midday \u20ac4, evening \u20ac8 | Daily 6:30\u201310:45 and 11:30\u20136. Tours: May\u2013Oct., weekdays at 12:30; Nov.\u2013Apr., weekdays at noon.\n\nDomplatz (Cathedral Square).  \nThis large square in front of the Dom is bordered by sturdy 17th- and 18th-century buildings, including the Alte Residenz, the former bishop's palace and now a courthouse. The neoclassical statue at the center is Bavarian king Maximilian I, who watches over the Christmas Market in December. | Dompl.\n\nDomschatz- und Di\u00f6zesanmuseum (Cathedral Treasury and Diocesan Museum).  \nThe cathedral museum houses one of Bavaria's largest collections of religious treasures, the legacy of Passau's rich episcopal history. The museum is part of the Neue Residenz, which has a stately baroque entrance opening onto a magnificent staircase\u2014a scintillating study in marble, fresco, and stucco. | Residenzpl. | \u20ac1.50 | May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134.\n\nVeste Oberhaus (Upper House Stronghold).  \nThe powerful fortress and summer castle commissioned by Bishop Ulrich II in 1219 looks over Passau from an impregnable site on the other side of the river, opposite the Rathaus. Today the Veste Oberhaus is Passau's most important museum, containing exhibits that illustrate the city's 2,000-year history.TIP From the terrace of its caf\u00e9-restaurant (open Easter\u2013October), there's a magnificent view of Passau and the convergence of the three rivers. | Oberhaus 125 | 0851/493\u20133512 | Museum \u20ac5 | May\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20135, weekends 10\u20136 | Bus (\u20ac5) from Rathauspl. to museum Apr.\u2013Nov., daily every \u00bd hr 10:30\u20135.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nGlasmuseum (Glass Museum).  \nThe world's most comprehensive collection of European glass is housed in the lovely Hotel Wilder Mann. The history of Central Europe's glassmaking is captured in 30,000 items, from baroque to art deco, spread over 35 rooms. | H\u00f6llg. 1 | 0851/35071 | \u20ac7 | Daily 1\u20136.\n\nRathaus.  \nPassau's 14th-century town hall sits like a Venetian merchant's house on a small square fronting the Danube. It was the home of a wealthy German merchant before being declared the seat of city government after a 1298 uprising. Two assembly rooms have wall paintings depicting scenes from local history and legend, including the (fictional) arrival in the city of Siegfried's fair Kriemhild, from the Nibelungen fable. TIP The Rathaus tower has Bavaria's largest glockenspiel, which plays daily at 10:30, 2, and 7:25, with an additional performance at 3:30 on Saturday. | Rathauspl. | 0851/3960 | \u20ac1.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct. and late Dec.\u2013early Jan., daily 10\u20134.\n\nR\u00f6mermuseum Kastell Boiotro (Roman Museum).  \nWhile excavating a 17th-century pilgrimage church, archaeologists uncovered a stout Roman fortress with five defense towers and walls more than 12 feet thick. The Roman citadel Boiotro was discovered on a hill known as the Mariahilfberg on the south bank of the river Inn, with its Roman well still plentiful and fresh. Pottery, lead figures, and other artifacts from the area are housed in this museum at the edge of the site. | Ledererg. 43 | 0851/34769 | \u20ac4 | Mar.\u2013Nov., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nGasthaus zur blauen Donau.  \nEUROPEAN | Passau's esteemed chef Richard Kerscher turned this old house with thick walls and recessed windows into a simple but stylish restaurant. The first-floor dining room has a commanding view of the Danube. His delicacies are all based on traditional German recipes. | Average main: \u20ac17 | H\u00f6llg. 14 | 0851/490\u20138660 | No credit cards.\n\nHacklberger Br\u00e4ust\u00fcberl.  \nGERMAN | Shaded by magnificent old trees, locals sit in this famous brewery's enormous beer garden (seating more than 1,000), sipping a Hacklberger and tucking into a plate of sausages. In winter they simply move to the wood-panel interior, where beer has been on tap from the brewery next door since 1618. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Br\u00e4uhauspl. 7 | 0851/58382 | www.hacklbergers.de.\n\nHeilig-Geist-Stiftsschenke.  \nGERMAN | For atmospheric dining this 14th-century monastery-turned-wine-cellar is a must. In summer eat beneath chestnut trees; in winter seek out the warmth of the vaulted, dark-paneled dining rooms. The wines\u2014made in Austria from grapes from the Spitalkirche Heiliger Geist vineyards\u2014are excellent and suit all seasons. The fish comes from the Stift's own ponds. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Heilig-Geist-G. 4 | 0851/2607 | www.stiftskeller-passau.de | Closed Wed. and last 3 wks in Jan.\n\nPeschel Terrasse.  \nGERMAN | The beer you sip on the high, sunny terrace overlooking the Danube is brought fresh from Peschl's own brewery below, which, along with this traditional Bavarian restaurant, has been in the same family since 1855. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Rosstr\u00e4nke 4 | 0851/2489 | www.peschl-terrasse.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel K\u00f6nig.  \nHOTEL | Though built in 1984, the K\u00f6nig blends successfully with the graceful Italian-style buildings alongside the elegant Danube waterfront. Rooms are large and airy; some have a fine view of the river. Pros: some rooms with an impressive view of the Danube; spacious rooms. Cons: no restaurant; uninspired bathrooms; some small rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac119 | Untere Donaul\u00e4nde 1 | 0851/3850 | www.hotel-koenig.de | 61 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Weisser Hase.  \nHOTEL | The \"White Rabbit\" began accommodating travelers in the early 16th century but is thoroughly modernized. Rooms are decorated with cherrywood and mahogany veneers and soft matching colors. The large bathrooms are finished in Italian marble. The hotel stands sturdily in the town center, at the start of the pedestrian shopping zone, a short walk from all the major sights. Pros: good, central location; friendly staff; great breakfast. Cons: street noise in the early morning; no a/c. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Heiliggeistgasse 1 | 0851/92110 | www.weisser-hase.de | 108 rooms, 1 suite | Closed Jan.\u2013mid-Feb. | Multiple meal plans.\n\nHotel Wilder Mann.  \nHOTEL | Passau's most historic hotel dates from the 11th century and is near the ancient town hall on the waterfront market square. Empress Elizabeth of Austria and American astronaut Neil Armstrong have been among its guests. On beds of carved oak you'll sleep beneath chandeliers and richly stuccoed ceilings. For sheer indulgence, ask for either the King Ludwig or Sissi (Empress Elisabeth) suite. The esteemed Glasmuseum is within the hotel. Pros: luxurious suites; center of town; some rooms with nice view of the river; others are a good value. Cons: some rooms in need of updating; some face bell tower; no restaurant or bar. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Am Rathauspl. 1 | 0851/35071 | www.wilder-mann.com | 49 rooms, 5 suites | Breakfast.\n\nRotel Inn.  \nHOTEL | The first permanent Rotel Inn is on the bank of the Danube in central Passau and resembles an ocean liner \"Rotels\" are usually hotels on wheels, an idea developed by a local entrepreneur to accommodate tour groups in North Africa and Asia. Its rooms are truly shipshape - hardly any wider than the bed inside - but they're clean, decorated in a pop-art style, and amazingly cheap. The building's unique design - a red, white, and blue facade with flowing roof lines - has actually been patented. It's definitely for young travelers, but also fun for families. Pros: very easy on the wallet. Cons: very, very small rooms; bathrooms down the hall; no restaurant, breakfast \u20ac6. | Rooms from: \u20ac50 | Am Hauptbahnhof/Donauufer | 0851/95160 | www.rotel-inn.de | 100 rooms with shared bath | No credit cards | Closed Oct.\u2013late Apr. | No meals.\n\nSchloss Ort.  \nHOTEL | This 13th-century castle's large rooms have views of the Inn River, which flows beneath the hotel's stout walls. The rooms are decorated in a variety of styles, with old-fashioned four-poster beds or modern wrought-iron details. The restaurant is closed in winter and on Monday, but the kitchen will always oblige hungry hotel guests. In summer the garden terrace is a delightful place to eat and watch the river. Pros: great views; nice garden; good restaurant. Cons: old linens; thin walls; not in the center of town. | Rooms from: \u20ac68 | Ort 11 | 0851/34072 | www.schlosshotel-passau.de | 18 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Bodensee\n\nThe Northern Shore\n\nThe Upper Swabian Baroque Road\n\nAround the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Biking the Bodensee\n\nUpdated by Leonie Adeane\n\nLapping the shores of Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, the Bodensee (Lake Constance), at 65 km (40 miles) long and 15 km (9 miles) wide, is the largest lake in the German-speaking world.\n\nThough called a lake, it's actually a vast swelling of the Rhine, gouged out by a massive glacier in the Ice Age and flooded by the river as the ice receded. The Rhine flows into its southeast corner, where Switzerland and Austria meet, and flows out at its west end. On the German side, the Bodensee is bordered almost entirely by the state of Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg (a small portion of the eastern tip, from Lindau to Nonnenhorn, belongs to Bavaria).\n\nA natural summer playground, the Bodensee is ringed with little towns and busy resorts. It's one of the warmest areas of the country, not just because of its southern latitude but also owing to the warming influence of the water, which gathers heat in summer and releases it in winter. The lake itself practically never freezes over\u2014it has done so only once in the past two centuries. The climate is excellent for growing fruit, and along the roads you'll find stands and shops selling apples, peaches, strawberries, jams, juices, wines, and schnapps, much of it homemade.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nZeppelin Museum, Friedrichshafen: Step inside the gracious passenger rooms of the airship, and you may question whether the air transport of today, though undeniably bigger and faster, is a real improvement.\n\nAltes Schloss in Meersburg: Explore the oldest continuously inhabited castle in Germany, from the sinister dungeons to the imposing knights' hall.\n\nSchloss Salem, near \u00dcberlingen: The castle itself has plenty to see, with furnished rooms, stables, gardens, and museums.\n\nWallfahrtskirche Birnau, near \u00dcberlingen: A vineyard slopes down from this pilgrimage church to Schloss Maurach on the lakeshore. The scene inside the church is a riot of color and embellishment.\n\nMainau Island: More than a million tulips and narcissi grace the flower island in spring\u2014later they're followed by rhododendrons and azaleas, roses, and dahlias.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThe Bodensee (Lake Constance) is off the beaten path for visitors from overseas and from other parts of Europe. If you venture here, you can be pretty sure you won't meet anyone else from back home. Even the Swiss and the Austrians, who own part of the shore of the Bodensee, tend to vacation elsewhere. For Germans, however, it's a favorite summer vacation spot, so it's wise to reserve rooms in advance.\n\n## What's Where\n\nThe Northern Shore. A dozen charming little villages and towns line the northern shore of the lake. In good weather there's a wonderful view across the water to the Swiss mountains.\n\nThe Upper Swabian Baroque Road. Nearly every village has its own baroque treasure, from the small village church to the mighty Basilica Weingarten. The more miles between you and the Bodensee, the easier it is on your wallet, which may be reason enough to venture to this region.\n\nAround the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula. Konstanz is the biggest city on the international lakeshore, situated on the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula and separated from the northern shore by a few miles of water. Konstanz survived WWII unscathed by leaving its lights burning every night, so the Allied bomber pilots could not distinguish it from the neighboring Swiss city of Kreuzlingen. The small towns of the \"Untersee\" (Lower Lake), as this part of the Bodensee is called, have a more rural atmosphere than those of the northern shore.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThe Bodensee's temperate climate makes for pleasant weather from April to October. In spring, orchard blossoms explode everywhere, and on Mainau, the \"island of flowers,\" more than a million tulips, hyacinths, and narcissi burst into bloom. Holiday crowds come in summer, and autumn can be warm and mellow. Some hotels and restaurants as well as many tourist attractions close for winter.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe closest major international airport is in Z\u00fcrich, Switzerland, 60 km (37 miles) from Konstanz, connected by the autobahn. There are also direct trains from the Z\u00fcrich airport to Konstanz. There are several domestic and international (primarily of United Kingdom and European origin) flights to the regional airport at Friedrichshafen\u2014these are mostly operated by budget airlines.\n\nAirport Contacts   \nFlughafen Friedrichshafen (FDH). | Am Flugpl. 64, | Friedrichshafen | 07541/284\u201301 | www.fly-away.de.   \nZ\u00fcrich Airport (ZRH). | Flughafenstr., | Kloten, Switzerland | 410/4381\u201362211 | www.zurich-airport.com.\n\n#### Boat and Ferry Travel\n\nTIP Note that the English pronunciation of \"ferry\" sounds a lot like the German word \"f\u00e4hre,\" which means car ferry. \"Schiffe\" is the term used for passenger ferries. Car and passenger ferries have different docking points in the various towns. The car ferries run all year; in summer you may have to wait in line. The passenger routes, especially the small ones, often do not run from November to March. Sailing on a car ferry as a passenger can be cheaper than taking a passenger ferry\u2014and most car ferries are reasonably comfortable. Bicycles can be taken on both types of ferry.\n\nThe Weisse Flotte line of boats, which is run by the BSB, or Bodensee-Schiffsbetriebe, links most of the larger towns and resorts. One of the nicest trips is from Konstanz to Meersburg and then on to the island of Mainau. Excursions around the lake last from one hour to a full day. Many cross to Austria and Switzerland; some head west along the Rhine to Schaffhausen and the Rheinfall, the largest waterfall in Europe. Information on lake excursions is available from all local tourist offices and travel agencies.\n\nBoat and Ferry Contacts   \nBodensee-Schiffsbetriebe. Ticket offices for this ferry line are in Konstanz, \u00dcberlingen, Meersburg, Friedrichshafen and Lindau. | Hafenstr. 6, | Konstanz | 07531/364\u20130389 | www.bsb.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nBuses serve most smaller communities that have no train links, but service is infrequent. Along the shore there are buses that run regularly throughout the day from \u00dcberlingen to Friedrichshafen, stopping in towns such as Meersburg, Hagnau, and Immenstaad.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nThe A-96 autobahn provides the most direct route between Munich and Lindau. For a more scenic, slower route, take B-12 via Landsberg and Kempten. For another scenic and slower route from Frankfurt, take B-311 at Ulm and follow the Oberschw\u00e4bische Barockstrasse (Upper Swabian Baroque Road) to Friedrichshafen. From Stuttgart, follow the A-81 autobahn south. At Exit 40 take B-33 to Konstanz, or the A-98 autobahn and B-31 for the northern shore. Lindau is also a terminus of the picturesque Deutsche Alpenstrasse (German Alpine Road), running east\u2013west from Salzburg to Lindau.\n\nLakeside roads, particularly those on the northern shore, boast wonderful vistas but experience occasional heavy traffic in summer, and on weekends and holidays year-round. Stick to the speed limits in spite of tailgaters\u2014speed traps are frequent, especially in built-up areas. Formalities at border-crossing points are few. However, in addition to your passport you'll need insurance and registration papers for your car. For rental cars, check with the rental company to make sure you are allowed to take the car into other countries. Crossing into Switzerland, you're required to have an autobahn tax sticker (CHF40, but purchasable in euros) if you plan to drive on the Swiss autobahn. These are available from border customs offices, and from petrol stations and post offices in Switzerland. This sticker is not necessary if you plan to stick to nonautobahn roads. Car ferries link Romanshorn, in Switzerland, with Friedrichshafen, as well as Konstanz with Meersburg. Taking either ferry saves substantial mileage. The fare depends on the size of the car.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nFrom Frankfurt to Friedrichshafen and Lindau, take the ICE (InterCity Express) to Ulm and then transfer (total time 4\u00bd hours). A combination of ICE and regional train gets you to Konstanz from Frankfurt in 4\u00bd hours, passing through the beautiful scenery of the Black Forest. From Stuttgart to Konstanz, take the IC (InterCity) to Singen, and transfer to an RE or IRE (Regional/Inter Regio Express) for the brief last leg to Konstanz (total time 2\u00bd hours). From Munich to Lindau, the EC (Europe Express) train or the ALX (Alex) train take 2\u00bd hours. From Z\u00fcrich to Konstanz, the trip lasts 1\u00bd hours. Local trains encircle the Bodensee, stopping at most towns and villages.\n\n### Tours\n\nMost of the larger tourist centers have city tours with English-speaking guides. The Bodensee is a great destination for bike travelers, with hundreds of miles of well-signposted paths that keep riders safe from cars. You can go on your own or enjoy the comfort of a customized tour with accommodations and baggage transport (and a rental bike, if need be). Wine-tasting tours are available in \u00dcberlingen, Konstanz, and Meersburg. Call the local tourist offices for information. Zeppelin tours operated by the DZR (Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei) are not cheap (sightseeing trips cost \u20ac200\u2013\u20ac745), but they do offer a special experience and a reminder of the grand old days of flight. The zeppelins depart from the airport in Friedrichshafen.\n\nTour Contacts  \nRadweg-Reisen GmbH. | Fritz-Arnold-Str. 16a, | Konstanz | 07531/819\u2013930 | www.radweg-reisen.com.   \nDeutsche Zeppelin Reederei. | Allmannsweilerstr. 132, | Friedrichshafen | 07541/59000 | www.zeppelinflug.de.   \nVelotours Touristik GmbH. | B\u00fccklestr. 13, | Konstanz | 07531/98280 | www.velotours.de.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nIn this area, international dishes are not only on the menu but also on the map\u2014you have to drive only a few miles to try the Swiss or Austrian dish you're craving in its own land. Seeweine (lake wines) from vineyards in the area include M\u00fcller-Thurgau, Sp\u00e4tburgunder, Rul\u00e4nder, and Kerner.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nAccommodations in the towns and resorts around the lake include venerable wedding-cake-style, fin de si\u00e8cle palaces as well as more modest Gasth\u00f6fe. If you're visiting in July and August, make reservations in advance. For lower rates in a more rural atmosphere, consider staying a few miles away from the lake.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nChoosing a place to stay is a question of finance and interest. The closer you stay to the water, the more expensive and lively it becomes. Many visitors pass by on their way from one country to another, so during the middle of the day, key hubs like Konstanz, Mainau, Meersburg, and Lindau tend to be crowded. Try to visit these places either in the morning or in the late afternoon, and make your day trips to the lesser-known destinations: the baroque churches in upper Swabia, the Swiss towns along the southern shore, or the nearby mountains.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nInternationale Bodensee Tourismus. | Hafenstr. 6, | Konstanz | 07531/9094\u201390 | www.bodensee.eu.\n\n## Biking the Bodensee\n\nThe best way to experience the Bodensee area is by bike. In as little as three days, you can cross the borders of three nations. The largely flat landscape makes this cycle tour suitable for all ages and fitness levels.\n\nYou could start and finish anywhere, but this three-day tour circumnavigates the entire lake. Book a room in Meersburg or Konstanz for the first night; in Arbon, Switzerland, for the second; and in Lindau for the third. Store your baggage, bringing with you only what you can comfortably carry on your back or in panniers (don't forget your bathing suit). A sign displaying a bicyclist with a blue back wheel will be your guide through all three countries. Much of the route follows dedicated bike paths\u2014some lakeside, some farther away. However, you'll occasionally find yourself riding along the road, so a helmet is recommended, although it's not required by law. At some points, you might like to disregard this official route in favor of a more scenic path. Follow your instincts\u2014even without the signs or a map, the water is an easy point of reference.\n\n\u2014Leonie Adeane\n\nDeparting Lindau, head west along the lake toward Wasserburg, 5 km (3 miles) away. Continue on through meadows, marshland, and orchards, passing charming villages like Nonnenhorn and Langenargen\u20149 km (5\u00bd miles) from Wasserburg. Friedrichshafen is another 10 km (6 miles) from Langenargen. Pay a visit to the Zeppelin Museum. After Friedrichshafen the path runs along the main road; follow the sign to Immenstaad (10 km [6 miles]) to get away from the traffic. Pass through the village and continue to Hagnau. After another 5 km (3 miles), stay overnight in lovely Meersburg, rising early to catch the ferry to Konstanz.\n\nWhen you come off the ferry, head to the flower island of Mainau to enjoy the blooms. Continue onward to Konstanz, pass the ferry dock again, and keep as close as you can to the water, which will bring you into Konstanz through the scenic \"back entrance.\" Cross the bridge over the Rhine. Take in the old town, and the buzzing small harbor. When you set off again, you'll be in the Swiss city of Kreuzlingen in a few minutes. Head east out of the city. After 32 km (20 miles) of rolling Swiss countryside, you'll arrive in Arbon for your second overnight.\n\nLeave Arbon early in the morning, passing Rorschach (after 7 km [4\u00bd miles]) and Rheineck on the Austrian border (another 9 km [5\u00bd miles]). After the border, keep as close to the lake as possible, and you'll pass through protected marshlands and lush meadows. Twenty kilometers (12 miles) beyond the border is Bregenz, Austria. Ascend the Pf\u00e4nder cablecar 3,870 feet for a marvelous view. If you're too tired to bike the 9 km (5\u00bd miles) back to Lindau, you can board a train or ferry with your bicycle in Bregenz.\n\n#### Biking Essentials\n\nYou can rent a bike as a guest at many hotels, at some tourist offices, from bike shops, and from bicycle tour operators. Biking maps are available from newspaper stands, bookshops, and tourist offices, and you can leave your baggage in the long-term storage available at the train stations in Konstanz, \u00dcberlingen, Friedrichshafen, and Lindau. You can cut across the lake on a ferry at numerous points.\n\n#### Refueling\n\nCopious amounts of fresh lake air and pedaling are bound to trigger your appetite. If the weather is ripe for a picnic, be on the lookout for supermarket chains such as Rewe, Edeka, and Lidl, where you can fill your picnic basket.\n\nFor Brot (bread), a fresh Brezel (pretzel) or Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake), seek out a local B\u00e4ckerei (bakery) or Stehcaf\u00e9 (standing caf\u00e9). Don't be shy about venturing into the village Metzgerei (butcher), either. Most of them offer delicious Leberk\u00e4ssemmel or Fleischk\u00e4sweckle (its respective names in Bavaria and Baden W\u00fcrttemburg)\u2014a slice of warm sausage-meat loaf in a bread roll. Or, try some sliced Fleischwurst (bologna sausage) in various flavors, or tangy Fleischsalat (sliced sausage-meat salad and pickles with salad dressing)\u2014both best eaten on bread fresh from the bakery.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nLindau | Friedrichshafen | Meersburg | \u00dcberlingen\n\nThere's a feeling here, in the midst of a peaceful Alpine landscape, that the Bodensee is part of Germany and yet separated from it\u2014which is literally the case for Lindau, which sits in the lake tethered to land by a causeway. \u00dcberlingen, a beautiful resort at the northwestern finger of the lake, attracts many vacationers and spa goers. Clear days reveal the snowcapped mountains of Switzerland to the south and the peaks of the Austrian Vorarlberg to the east.\n\n## Lindau\n\n180 km (112 miles) southwest of Munich.\n\nBy far the best way to get to know this charming old island town is on foot. Lose yourself in the maze of small streets and passageways flanked by centuries-old houses. Wander down to the harbor for magnificent views, with the Austrian shoreline and mountains close by to the east. Just 13 km (8 miles) away, they are nearer than the Swiss mountains visible to the southwest.\n\nLindau was made a Free Imperial City within the Holy Roman Empire in 1275. It had developed as a fishing settlement and then spent hundreds of years as a trading center along the route between the rich lands of Swabia and Italy. The Lindauer Bote, an important stagecoach service between Germany and Italy in the 18th and 19th centuries, was based here; Goethe traveled via this service on his first visit to Italy in 1788. The stagecoach was revived a few years ago, carrying passengers on a 13-day journey to Italy. This service only runs occasionally\u2014ask at the Lindau tourist office.\n\nAs the German empire crumbled toward the end of the 18th century, battered by Napol\u00e9on's revolutionary armies, Lindau fell victim to competing political groups. It was ruled by the Austrian Empire before passing into Bavarian control in 1805. Lindau's harbor was rebuilt in 1856.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nLindau is halfway between Munich and Zurich, and about two hours from both on the EC (European Express) train. From Frankfurt it takes about four hours\u2014change from the ICE (InterCity Express) train in Ulm to the IRE (InterRegio Express) train. You can also reach Lindau by boat: it takes about 20 minutes from Bregenz across the bay. Once in Lindau, you can reach everything on foot. Its Altstadt (old town) is a maze of ancient streets with half-timber and gable houses making up most of the island. The center and main street is the pedestrian-only Maximilianstrasse.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nLindau Tourist-Information. | Alfred-Nobel-Pl. 1 | 08382/260\u2013030 | www.lindau-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nThe Old Town Hall is the finest of Lindau's handsome historic buildings. It was constructed between 1422 and 1436 in the midst of a vineyard and given a Renaissance face-lift 150 years later, though the original stepped gables remain. Emperor Maximilian I held an imperial diet (deliberation) here in 1496; a fresco on the south facade depicts the scene. The building now houses offices and is closed to the public. | Bismarckpl. 4 | www.lindau-tourismus.de.\n\nBavarian Lion (Der Bayerische L\u00f6we).  \nA proud symbol of Bavaria, Der Bayerische L\u00f6we (the Bavarian Lion) is Lindau's most striking landmark. Carved from Bavarian marble and standing 20 feet high, the lion stares out across the lake from a massive plinth. | Lindau Harbor entrance, R\u00f6merschanze | www.lindau-tourismus.de.\n\nMangenturm (Mangturm).  \nAt the harbor's inner edge, across the water from the Neuer Leuchtturm, stands this 13th century former lighthouse, one of the lake's oldest. Although the structure is old, its vibrantly colored rooftop is not\u2014after a lightning strike in the 1970s, the roof tiles were replaced, giving the tower the bright top it now bears. | Hafenpl. 4.\n\nNeuer Leuchtturm (New Lighthouse; Neuer Lindauer Leuchtturm).  \nGermany's southernmost lighthouse stands sentinel, with the Bavarian Lion across the inner harbor's passageway. | Sch\u00fctzingerweg 2.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nBarf\u00fcsserkirche\u2014Stadttheatre Lindau and Lindauer Marionettenoper (Church of the Barefoot Pilgrims).  \nThis church, built from 1241 to 1270, is now Lindau's principal theater, and it also hosts the Lindauer Marionettenoper (Puppet Theater). Tickets for shows\u2014starring humans or puppets\u2014are available at the adjacent box office. | Barf\u00fcsserpl. 1a | 08382/944\u2013650 | www.kultur-lindau.de | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20131:30 and 3\u20136.\n\nHaus zum Cavazzen (Stadtmuseum Lindau).  \nDating to 1728, this house belonged to a wealthy merchant and is now considered one of the most beautiful in the Bodensee region, owing to its rich decor of frescoes. Today it serves as a local history museum, with collections of glass and pewter items, paintings, and furniture from the past five centuries, alongside touring exhibitions. | Marktpl. 6 | 08382/944073 | www.kultur-lindau.de/museum | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136.\n\nMarktplatz.  \nLindau's market square is lined by a series of sturdy and attractive old buildings. The Gothic Stephanskirche (St. Stephen's Church) is simple and sparsely decorated, as befits a Lutheran place of worship. It dates to the late 12th century but went through numerous transformations. One of its special features is the green-hue stucco ornamentation on the ceiling, which immediately attracts the eye toward the heavens. In contrast, the Catholic M\u00fcnster Unserer Lieben Frau (St. Mary's Church), which stands right next to the Stephanskirche, is exuberantly baroque. | Marktpl.\n\nPeterskirche (St. Peter's Church).  \nThis solid 10th-century Romanesque building may be the oldest church in the Bodensee region. On the inside of the northern wall, frescoes by Hans Holbein the Elder (1465\u20131524) depict scenes from the life of St. Peter, the patron saint of fishermen. Peterskirche houses a memorial to fallen German soldiers from World Wars I and II, and a memorial plaque for victims of Auschwitz. Attached to the church is the 16th-century bell foundry, now a pottery works. Also of note is the adjacent fairy-tale-like Diebsturm. Look closely and you might see Rapunzel's golden hair hanging from this 13th-century tower, awaiting a princely rescuer. Follow the old city wall behind the tower and church to the adjoining Unterer Schrannenplatz, where the bell-makers used to live. A 1989 fountain depicts five of the Narren (Fools) that make up the VIPs of Fastnacht, the annual Alemannic Carnival celebrations. | Oberer Schrannenpl.\n\nStadtgarten (City Park; Oskar-Groll-Anlage).  \nLudwigstrasse and Fischergasse lead to a watchtower, once part of the original city walls with a little park behind it. If it's early evening, you'll see the first gamblers of the night making for the neighboring casino. | Oskar-Groll-Anlage | www.lindau-tourismus.de.\n\n* * *\n\nRecommended Bodensee Foods\n\nOn a nice day you could sit on the terrace of a Bodensee restaurant forever, looking across the sparkling waters to the imposing heights of the Alps in the distance. The fish on your plate, possibly caught that very morning in the lake, is another reason to linger. Fish predominates on the menus of the region; 35 varieties swim in the lake, with Felchen (whitefish) the most highly prized. Felchen belongs to the salmon family and is best eaten blau (\"blue\"\u2014poached in a mixture of water and vinegar with spices, called Essigsud) or M\u00fcllerin (baked in almonds). A white Seewein (lake wine) from one of the vineyards around the lake provides the perfect pairing. Sample a German and a Swiss version. Both use the same kind of grape, from vineyards are only a few miles apart, but they produce wines with very different tastes. The Swiss like their wines very dry, whereas the Germans prefer them slightly sweeter.\n\nOne of the best-known Swabian dishes is Maultaschen, a kind of ravioli, usually served floating in a broth strewn with chives. Another specialty is Pfannkuchen (pancakes), generally filled with meat, or chopped into fine strips and scattered in a clear consomm\u00e9 known as Fl\u00e4dlesuppe. Hearty Zwiebelrostbraten (beef steak with lots of fried onions) is often served with a side of Sp\u00e4tzle (hand-cut or pressed, golden soft-textured egg noodles) and accompanied by a good strong Swabian beer.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nGasthaus zum S\u00fcnfzen.  \nGERMAN | This ancient inn was serving warm meals to the patricians, officials, merchants, and other good burghers of Lindau back in the 14th century. The current chef insists on using fresh ingredients preferably from the region, such as fish from the lake in season, venison from the mountains, and apples\u2014pressed to juice or distilled to schnapps\u2014from his own orchard. Try the herb-flavored Maultaschen (large ravioli), the excellent Felchen (whitefish) fillet in wine sauce, or the peppery Sch\u00fcbling sausage. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Maximilianstr. 1 | 08382/5865 | www.suenfzen.de | Closed Thurs. mid-Jan.\u2013mid-Mar.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Bayerischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | This is the address in town, a stately hotel directly on the edge of the lake, its terrace lush with semitropical, long-flowering plants, trees, and shrubs. Most of the luxuriously appointed rooms have views of the lake and the Austrian and Swiss mountains beyond. Freshly caught pike-perch is a highlight of the extensive menus in the stylish restaurants ($$$). Rooms at the Hotels Reutemann and Seegarten next door (under the same management) are a little cheaper than those at the Bayerischer Hof. Pros: pretty lake view from many rooms; elegant dining room with good food, nearly all rooms have a/c. Cons: not all rooms have a lake view; no free parking; on weekends in summer parking is difficult; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac194 | Seepromenade | 08382/9150 | www.bayerischerhof-lindau.de | 91 rooms, 6 suites | Breakfast.\n\nFAMILY | Hotel Garni Brugger.  \nHOTEL | This small, family-run hotel stands on the site occupied by the city wall in the Middle Ages. It's especially appealing for families, as you can always add another bed to your three-bed room. During the colder months, make use of the Finnish sauna and herbal steam room. Pros: center of town; family-run atmosphere; good value for families. Cons: caters to families; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac116 | Bei der Heidenmauer 11 | 08382/93410 | www.hotel-garni-brugger.de | 23 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nInsel-Hotel.  \nHOTEL | In fine weather, you can enjoy breakfast al fresco as you watch the town come alive at this friendly central hotel on the pedestrian-only Maximilianstrasse. The rooms aren't the most modern, but the location is superb and the service is warm. Pros: center of town; family run. Cons: some rooms need some new furnishings and paint; parking is difficult. | Rooms from: \u20ac123 | Maximilianstr. 42 | 08382/5017 | www.insel-hotel-lindau.de | 26 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nBregenzer Festspiele (Bregenz Music Festival).  \nA dramatic floating stage supports orchestras and opera stars during the famous Bregenzer Festspiele from mid-July to the end of August. Make reservations well in advance. The Austrian town of Bregenz is 13 km (8 miles) from Lindau, on the other side of the bay. | Platz Der Wiener Symphoniker 1 | Bregenz, Austria | 0043/5574\u20134076 | www.bregenzerfestspiele.com.\n\nSpielbank Lindau Casino.  \nYou can play roulette, blackjack, poker, and slot machines at the town's modern and elegant casino. The dress code requires that men wear a blazer or sports jacket. | Chelles-Allee 1 | 08382/27740 | www.spielbanken-bayern.de | Sun.\u2013Thu. noon\u20132 am, Fri.\u2013Sat. noon\u20133 am.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nBodensee Yachtschule.  \nThis sailing school in Lindau charters yachts and offers sailing courses for all ages, from beginner to advanced levels. | Christoph Eychm\u00fcller Schiffswerfte 2 | 08382/944\u2013588 | www.bodensee-yachtschule.de.\n\nSurfschule Kreitmeir.  \nYou can rent boards and take windsurfing and stand-up paddleboarding lessons at Surfschule Kreitmeir. | Strandbad Eichwald, Eichwaldstr. 20 | 08382/279\u20139459 | www.surfschule-lindau.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nBiedermann en Vogue.  \nThis high-end boutique carries various luxury fashion brands, as well as custom-made clothing, cashmere sweaters, and Italian shoes. | Maximilianstr. 2 | 08382/944\u2013913.\n\nB\u00f6hm.  \nA destination for interior decorators, B\u00f6hm consists of three old houses full of lamps, mirrors, precious porcelain, and elegant furniture. | Maximilianstr. 21 | 08382/94880 | www.boehm-dieeinrichtungen.de.\n\nInternationale Bodensee-Kunstauktion.  \nMichael Zeller organizes the celebrated International Bodensee Art Auction, held four times yearly. Visit the website for the catalog and dates of upcoming auctions. | Binderg. 7 | 08382/93020 | www.zeller.de.\n\nEn Route: Wasserburg.  \nSix kilometers (4 miles) west of Lindau lies Wasserburg, whose name means \"water castle,\" a description of what this enchanting island town once was\u2014a fortress. It has some of the most photographed sights of the Bodensee: the yellow, stair-gabled presbytery; the fishermen's St. Georg Kirche, with its onion dome; and the little Malhaus museum, with the castle, Schloss Wasserburg, in the background. | www.wasserburg-bodensee.de.\n\nSchloss Montfort (Montfort Castle). Another 8 km (5 miles) west of Wasserburg is the small, pretty town of Langenargen, famous for the region's most unusual castle, Schloss Montfort. Named for the original owners, the counts of Montfort-Werdenberg, this structure was a conventional medieval fortification until the 19th century, when it was rebuilt in pseudo-Moorish style by its new owner, King Wilhelm I of W\u00fcrttemberg. If you can, see it from a passenger ship on the lake; the castle is especially memorable in the early morning or late afternoon. The tower is open to visitors, and the castle houses a caf\u00e9-restaurant, which is open for dinner from Tuesday to Sunday, March through October. The caf\u00e9 is also open for Sunday brunch year-round. | Untere Seestr. 3 | Langenargen | 07543/912\u2013712 | www.vemax-gastro.de | Tower \u20ac2 | Tower mid-Mar.\u2013Oct., 10\u2013noon and 1\u20135.\n\n## Friedrichshafen\n\n24 km (15 miles) west of Lindau.\n\nNamed for its founder, King Friedrich I of W\u00fcrttemberg, Friedrichshafen is a relatively young town (dating to 1811). In an area otherwise given over to resort towns and agriculture, Friedrichshafen played a central role in Germany's aeronautics tradition, which saw the development of the zeppelin airship before World War I and the Dornier seaplanes in the 1920s and '30s. The zeppelins were once launched from a floating hangar on the lake, and the Dornier water planes were tested here. The World War II raids on its factories virtually wiped the city off the map. The current layout of the streets is the same, but the buildings are all new and not necessarily pretty. The atmosphere, however, is good and lively, and occasionally you'll find a plaque with a picture of the old building that stood at the respective spot. The factories are back, too. Friedrichshafen is home to such international firms as EADS (airplanes, rockets, and helicopters) and ZF (gear wheels).\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nIt takes about two hours from Ulm on the IRE (InterRegio Express) train, then a bus or BOB (Bodensee Oberschwaben Bahn). Most trains stop at Friedrichshafen airport. The car ferry takes you on a 40-minute run across the lake to Romanshorn in Switzerland, where you have direct express trains to the airport and Z\u00fcrich. In town you can reach most places on foot.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nAirplane Tours  \nKonair. Konair provide scenic flights, flight lessons, and an air-taxi service around the Bodensee region. | Riedstr. 82, | Konstanz | 07531/361\u20136905 | www.konair.de.\n\nVisitor Information   \nFriedrichshafen Tourist-Information. | Bahnhofpl. 2 | 07541/30010 | www.friedrichshafen.info.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDeutsche Zeppelin Reederei GmbH.  \nFor an unforgettable experience, take a scenic zeppelin flight out of Friedrichshafen airport. The flying season runs from March to November, and prices start at \u20ac200 for half an hour. For those who prefer to stay grounded, you can also tour the Zeppelin NT (New Technology) in its hangar. | Allmannsweilerstr. 132 | 07541/59000 | www.zeppelinflug.de.\n\nZeppelin Museum.  \nGraf Zeppelin (Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin) was born across the lake in Konstanz, but Friedrichshafen was where, on July 2, 1900, his first \"airship\"\u2014the LZ 1\u2014was launched. The story is told in the Zeppelin Museum, which holds the world's most significant collection of artifacts pertaining to airship history. In a wing of the restored Bauhaus Friedrichshafen Hafenbahnhof (harbor railway station), the main attraction is the reconstruction of a 108-foot-long section of the legendary Hindenburg, the LZ 129 that exploded at its berth in Lakehurst, New Jersey, on May 6, 1937. (The airships were filled with hydrogen, because in 1933 the United States had passed an act banning helium sales to foreign governments due to its military utility and scarcity at that time.) Climb aboard the airship via a retractable stairway and stroll past the authentically furnished passenger room, the original lounges, and the dining room. The illusion of traveling in a zeppelin is followed by exhibits on the history and technology of airship aviation: propellers, engines, dining-room menus, and films of the airships traveling or at war. Car fans will appreciate the great Maybach standing on the ground floor; passengers once enjoyed being transported to the zeppelins in it. The museum's restaurant, a good place to take a break, is open for lunch and dinner. | Seestr. 22 | 07541/38010 | www.zeppelin-museum.de | \u20ac8 | May\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135 (last entry at 4:30); Nov.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nSchloss Hofen (Hofen Castle).  \nA short walk from town along the lakeside promenade is a small palace that served as the summer residence of W\u00fcrttemberg kings until 1918. The palace was formerly a priory\u2014its foundations date from the 11th century. Today it is the private home of Duke Friedrich von W\u00fcrttemberg and isn't open to the public. You can visit the adjoining priory church, a splendid example of regional baroque architecture. The swirling white stucco of the interior was executed by the Schmuzer family from Wessobrunn whose master craftsman, Franz Schmuzer, also created the priory church's magnificent marble altar. | Easter\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Easter, Sun. 9\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nLukullum.  \nECLECTIC | This lively, novel restaurant is divided into seven Stuben (rooms), all themed: sit in a wine barrel, dine in Tirol, relax under the image of an airship in the Zeppelin Br\u00e4ust\u00fcble\u2014or enjoy the beer garden in summer. Dishes are good and basic, with some international touches. Friendly service keeps up with the pace of the socializing at this friendly dining spot. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Friedrichstr. 21 | 07541/6818 | www.lukullum.de | Closed Mon. No lunch Tues.\u2013Fri.\n\nZeppelin-Museumrestaurant.  \nGERMAN | A grand view of the harbor and the lake is only one of the attractions of this art deco-styled restaurant in the Zeppelin Museum. Soak up the retro airship travel theme as you enjoy cakes and drinks, a wide range of Swabian specialties, and several Italian dishes. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Seestr. 22 | 07541/953\u20130088 | www.zeppelinmuseum-restaurant.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nBuchhorner Hof.  \nHOTEL | This traditional family-run hotel near the train station is decorated with hunting trophies, leather armchairs, and Turkish rugs; bedrooms are large and comfortable. One floor is reserved for business travelers, with extra-large desks and Wi-Fi in the rooms. The restaurant ($$$) is plush and subdued, with delicately carved chairs and mahogany-panel walls. Its menus include dishes such as pork medallions, perch fillet, and lamb chops. Pros: business floor; cozy and big lobby; excellent restaurant; many rooms have nice views. Cons: many rooms look onto a busy main street; parking is difficult. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Friedrichstr. 33 | 07541/2050 | www.buchhorn.de | 92 rooms, 4 suites, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nFlair Hotel Gerbe.  \nHOTEL | A former farm and tannery that's about 5 km (3 miles) from the city center, is now a pleasant, spacious hotel; its rooms (many with balconies) overlook the gardens, the countryside, and\u2014on a clear day\u2014the Swiss mountains. In summer you can enjoy Swabian food ($$) on the big terrace that leads into the garden. Even if you don't swim in the indoor pool, take a peek at it and its surprising barrel ceiling, which was constructed for the tannery more than 400 years ago. Pros: spacious rooms with good views; ample parking. Cons: 5 km (3 miles) from center of town; some rooms have street noise. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Hirschlatterstr. 14, Ailingen | 07541/5090 | www.hotel-gerbe.de | 59 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRinghotel Krone.  \nHOTEL | This large Bavarian-themed hotel in the Schnetzenhausen district's semirural surroundings, 6 km (4 miles) from the center of town, has a lot to offer active guests, including tennis, minigolf, bicycles to rent, a gym, saunas, and an indoor pool. The restaurant ($$) specializes in game dishes and fish. Pros: great variety of rooms; good food; lots of parking. Cons: not near the center of town; a few rooms have street noise. | Rooms from: \u20ac152 | Untere M\u00fchlbachstr. 1, Schnetzenhausen | 07541/4080 | www.ringhotel-krone.de | 135 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nCafebar Belushi.  \nCollege students and a mostly young crowd raise their glasses and voices above the din at Cafebar Belushi. | Montfortstr. 3 | 07541/32531 | www.cafe-bar-belushi.de | Closed Sun.\n\nGraf-Zeppelin-Haus.  \nThis modern convention center on the lakeside promenade also functions as a cultural center, where musicals, light opera, and classical as well as pop-rock concerts take place several times a week. The Graf-Zeppelin-Haus has a good modern restaurant with a big terrace overlooking the harbor. | Olgastr. 20 | 07541/2880 | www.gzh.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nMarktk\u00f6rble Ebe.  \nThis century-old gift shop sells tableware and kitchenware, handmade candles, toys, stationary, and postcards, alongside some clothing and accessories. | Buchhornpl. 5 | 07541/388\u2013430 | www.marktkoerble.de.\n\nWeber & Weiss.  \nLook for the zeppelin airship\u2013shape chocolates and candies at this excellent candy store. | Charlottenstr. 11 | 07541/21771 | www.weber-weiss.de.\n\n## Meersburg\n\n18 km (11 miles) west of Friedrichshafen.\n\nMeersburg is one of the most romantic old towns on the German shore of the lake. Seen from the water on a summer afternoon with the sun slanting low, the steeply terraced town looks like a stage set, with its bold castles, severe patrician dwellings, and a gaggle of half-timber houses arranged around narrow streets. It's no wonder that cars have been banned from the center: the crowds of people who come to visit the sights on weekends fill up the streets. The town is divided into the Unterstadt (Lower Town) and Oberstadt (Upper Town), connected by several steep streets and stairs.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourism Meersburg. | Kirchstr. 4 | 07532/440\u2013400 | www.meersburg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltes Schloss (Old Castle; Burg Meersburg).  \nMajestically guarding the town is the Altes Schloss, the original Meersburg (\"sea castle\"). It's Germany's oldest inhabited castle, founded in 628 by Dagobert, king of the Franks. The massive central tower, with walls 10 feet thick, is named after him. The bishops of Konstanz used it as a summer residence until 1526, at which point they moved in permanently. They remained until the mid-18th century, when they built themselves what they felt to be a more suitable residence\u2014the baroque Neues Schloss. Plans to tear down the Altes Schloss in the early 19th century were shelved when it was taken over by Baron Joseph von Lassberg, a man much intrigued by the castle's medieval romance. He turned it into a home for like-minded poets and artists, among them the Grimm brothers and his sister-in-law, the poet Annette von Droste-H\u00fclshoff (1797\u20131848). The Altes Schloss is still private property, but much of it can be visited, including the richly furnished rooms where Droste-H\u00fclshoff lived and the chamber where she died, as well as the imposing knights' hall, the minstrels' gallery, and the sinister dungeons. The Altes Schloss Museum (Old Castle Museum) contains a fascinating collection of weapons and armor, including a rare set of medieval jousting equipment. | Schlosspl. 10 | 07532/80000 | www.burg-meersburg.de | \u20ac8.50 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136:30; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 10\u20136.\n\nDroste Museum (F\u00fcrstenh\u00e4usle).  \nAn idyllic retreat almost hidden among the vineyards, the F\u00fcrstenh\u00e4usle was built in 1640 by a local vintner and later used as a holiday house by the poet Annette von Droste-H\u00fclshoff. It's now the Droste Museum, containing many of her personal possessions and giving a vivid sense of Meersburg in her time. | Stettenerstr. 11, east of Obertor, the town's north gate | 07532/6088 | www.fuerstenhaeusle.de | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u201312:30 and 2\u20136, Sun. 2\u20136.\n\nNeues Schloss.  \nThe spacious and elegant \"New Castle\" is directly across from its predecessor. Designed by Christoph Gessinger at the beginning of the 18th century, it took nearly 50 years to complete. The grand double staircase, with its intricate grillwork and heroic statues, was the work of Balthasar Neumann. The interior's other standout is the glittering Spiegelsaal (Hall of Mirrors). | Schlosspl. 12 | 07532/440\u20134900 | www.neues-schloss-meersburg.de | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136:30; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekends and holidays 11\u20134.\n\nStadtmuseum.  \nRight next to the local tourist office stands the City Museum, in a former Dominican priory. You can see an overview of the town's history that celebrates some of its famous residents, such as Franz Anton Mesmer, who developed the theory of \"animal magnetism.\" (His name gave rise to the verb \"mesmerize.\") | Kirchstr. 4 | 07532/440\u20134801 | www.meersburg.de/158 | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Wed., Thurs., and Sat. 2\u20136.\n\nWeinbau Museum (Vineyard Museum).  \nSunbathed, south-facing Meersburg and the neighboring towns have been the center of the Bodensee wine trade for centuries. You can pay your respects to the noble profession in the Weinbau Museum. A barrel capable of holding 50,000 liters (over 13,000 gallons) and an immense winepress dating from 1607 are highlights of the collection. | Vorburgg. 11 | 07532/440\u2013400 | www.meersburg.de/160 | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues., Fri., and Sun. 2\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nWinzerstube zum Becher.  \nGERMAN | Fresh fish from the lake is a specialty at this traditional restaurant, which has been in the Benz family for three generations. You can pair the day's catch with white wine from their own vineyard. A popular entr\u00e9e is badische Ente (duck with bacon and apples in a wine-kirsch sauce). The restaurant is near the New Castle, and reservations are recommended. | Average main: \u20ac20 | H\u00f6llg. 4 | 07532/9009 | www.winzerstube-zum-becher.de | Closed Mon. and for 1 wk in Jan.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nG\u00e4stehaus am Hafen.  \nHOTEL | This family-run, half-timber pension is in the middle of the Old Town, near the harbor. The rooms are small but have room for a child's bed, if needed. There's a place to store bikes as well. Pros: close to the harbor; in the center of the Lower Town; good value. Cons: small rooms; no credit cards; parking is five minutes away on foot. | Rooms from: \u20ac54 | Spitalg. 3\u20134 | 07532/7069 | www.amhafen.eu | 7 rooms | No credit cards | Closed Nov.\u2013Mar. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Weinstube L\u00f6wen.  \nHOTEL | Rooms at this local landmark\u2014a centuries-old, ivy-clad tavern on Meersburg's market square\u2014have their own corner sitting areas, some with genuine Biedermeier furniture. The welcoming restaurant ($$), with pine paneling, serves regional and seasonal specialties, notably a tasty stew of local fish. Pros: center of town; pleasant rooms; good food in a cozy restaurant. Cons: lots of daytime noise from tourists; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Marktpl. 2 | 07532/43040 | www.hotel-loewen-meersburg.de | 20 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRomantik Hotel Residenz am See.  \nHOTEL | This tastefully modern hotel overlooking the lake features two restaurants, including the Michelin-starred Casala, and Residenz Restaurant, which specializes in regional fare. Most of the elegant rooms face the lake, but the quieter ones look out onto a vineyard. The hotel is about a 10-minute walk from the harbor and Old Town. Pros: good food; pleasant rooms with lake view; quiet rooms toward the vineyards. Cons: not in center of town. | Rooms from: \u20ac180 | Uferpromenade 11 | 07532/80040 | www.hotel-residenz-meersburg.com | 25 rooms | Multiple meal plans.\n\nSee Hotel Off.  \nHOTEL | Nearly all rooms at this bright, airy and crisply renovated hotel just a few steps from the shore offer balconies with views across the lake or vineyards. Owner Elisabeth Off has added many personal touches to make guests feel completely at home, and has designed several rooms according to the guidelines of feng shui. In the restaurant ($$) her husband, chef Michael Off, transforms local ingredients into gustatory adventures, with a nod to nouvelle cuisine. The wellness area includes all sorts of alternative healing measures, including Reiki and aromatherapy. And there's swimming in the lake. Pros: close to the lake; individually decorated rooms; away from center of town. Cons: not in center of town. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Uferpromenade 51 | 07532/44740 | www.seehotel-off.de | 13 rooms, 7 junior suites | Closed Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nZum B\u00e4ren.  \nHOTEL | Individually furnished rooms lend character to this historic hotel, whose ivy-covered facade, with its characteristic steeple, hasn't changed much over the centuries. Built in 1605 and incorporating 13th-century Gothic foundations, the building was an important staging point for Germany's first postal service. The restaurant ($ - $$) is rustic in an uncluttered way; people travel from afar to enjoy the rack of lamb. Some rooms are furnished with Bodensee antiques and brightly painted rustic wardrobes. Try to book Room 23 or 13: both have semicircular alcoves with armchairs and windows overlooking the marketplace. Pros: center of town; historic building; good value. Cons: no elevator; some rooms are small; no credit cards. | Rooms from: \u20ac86 | Marktpl. 11 | 07532/43220 | www.baeren-meersburg.de | 20 rooms | No credit cards | Closed mid-Nov.\u2013mid-Mar. | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nFAMILY | Meersburg Therme (Meersburg Spa).  \nThis lakeside pool complex east of the harbor has three outdoor pools, an indoor \"adventure\" pool, an indoor-outdoor thermal bath (34\u00b0C 93.2\u00b0F]), a sauna, and a beach-volleyball court. | Uferpromenade 12 | 07532/440\u20132850 | [www.meersburg-therme.de | Bathing and sauna \u20ac16.50 (3 hrs), \u20ac18.50 (full day) | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 10\u201310, Fri.\u2013Sat. 10 am\u201311 am, Sun. 9 am\u201310 pm.\n\n### Shopping\n\nFAMILY | Omas Kaufhaus.  \nIf you can't find something at this incredible gift shop (with toys, enamelware, books, dolls, model cars, and much more), then you should at least see the exhibition of toy trains and tin boats on the first floor. The boats are displayed in a long canal filled with real water. | Steigstr. 2 | 07532/433\u20139611 | Exhibition \u20ac2 | Daily 10\u20136:30.\n\nEn Route: Pfahlbauten.  \nAs you proceed northwest along the lake's shore, a settlement of \"pile dwelling\"\u2014a reconstructed village of Stone Age and Bronze Age houses built on stilts\u2014sticks out of the lake. This is how the original lake dwellers lived, surviving off the fish that swam outside their humble huts. Real dwellers in authentic garb give you an accurate picture of prehistoric lifestyles. The on-site Pfahlbaumuseum (Open-Air Museum and Research Institute) contains actual finds excavated in the area. Admission includes a 45-minute tour. | Strandpromenade 6 | Unteruhldingen | 07556/928\u2013900 | www.pfahlbauten.de | \u20ac8 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20137; Oct., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., hrs vary.\n\n## \u00dcberlingen\n\n13 km (8 miles) west of Meersburg, 24 km (15 miles) west of Friedrichshafen.\n\nThis Bodensee resort has an attractive waterfront and an almost Mediterranean feel. It's midway along the north shore of the \u00dcberlingersee, a narrow finger of the Bodensee that points to the northwest. \u00dcberlingen is ancient\u2014it's first mentioned in records dating back to 770. In the 14th century it earned the title of Free Imperial City and was known for its wines. No fewer than seven of its original city gates and towers remain from those grand days, as well as substantial portions of the old city walls. What was once the moat is now a grassy walkway, with the walls of the Old Town towering on one side and the Stadtpark stretching away on the other. The Stadtgarten (city garden), which opened in 1875, cultivates exotic plants and has a famous collection of cacti, a fuchsia garden, and a small deer corral. The heart of the city is the M\u00fcnsterplatz.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \n\u00dcberlingen Tourist-Information. | Landungspl. 5 | 07551/947\u20131522 | www.ueberlingen-bodensee.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nInside the late-Gothic Altes Rathaus is a high point of Gothic decoration, the Rathaussaal, or council chamber, which is still in use today. Its most striking feature amid the riot of carving is the series of figures, created between 1492 and 1494, representing the states of the Holy Roman Empire. To visit the interior, you'll need to take the short, guided tour. Tours are free; simply show up shortly before the set start time. | M\u00fcnsterstr. 15 | www.ueberlingen-bodensee.de | Free | Tours Wed. and Thurs. 11.\n\nM\u00fcnster St. Nikolaus (Church of St. Nicholas).  \nThe huge M\u00fcnster St. Nikolaus was built between 1512 and 1563 on the site of at least two previous churches. The interior is all Gothic solemnity and massiveness, with a lofty stone-vaulted ceiling and high, pointed arches lining the nave. The single most remarkable feature is not Gothic at all but opulently Renaissance\u2014the massive high altar, carved by J\u00f6rg Z\u00fcrn from lime wood that almost looks like ivory. The focus of the altar is that of the Nativity. | M\u00fcnsterpl.\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Schloss Salem (Salem Castle).  \nThis huge castle in the tiny inland village of Salem, 10 km (6 miles) north of \u00dcberlingen, began its existence as a convent and large church. After many architectural permutations, it was transformed into a palace for the Baden princes, though traces of its religious past can still be seen. You can view the royally furnished rooms of the abbots and princes, a library, stables, and the church. The castle also houses an interesting array of museums, workshops, and activities, including a museum of firefighting, a potter, a musical instrument builder, a goldsmith shop, a glassblowing shop, pony farms, a golf driving range, and a fantasy garden for children. There is a great path that leads from the southwestern part of the grounds through woods and meadows to the pilgrimage church of Birnau. The route was created by the monks centuries ago and is still called the Pr\u00e4latenweg (path of the prelates) today. It's an 8-km (5-mile) walk (no cars permitted).|Salem | 07553/916\u20135336 | www.salem.de | \u20ac7 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9:30\u20136, Sun. 10:30\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., guided tours only, Sun. at 3.\n\nSt\u00e4dtisches Museum (City Museum).  \nThis museum is housed in the Reichlin-von-Meldegg house, built in 1462, one of the earliest Renaissance dwellings in Germany. It displays exhibits tracing Bodensee history and Germany's largest collection of antique dollhouses. | Krummebergstr. 30 | 07551/991\u2013079 | www.museum-ueberlingen.de | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sat. 9\u201312:30 and 2\u20135, Sun. 10\u20133.\n\nWallfahrtskirche Birnau (Pilgrimage Church; Basilika Birnau).  \nJust northwest of Unteruhldingen, the Wallfahrtskirche Birnau stands among vineyards overlooking the lake. The church was built by the master architect Peter Thumb between 1746 and 1750. Its exterior consists of pink-and-white plaster and a tapering clock-tower spire above the main entrance. The interior is overwhelmingly rich, full of movement, light, and color. It's hard to single out highlights from such a profusion of ornament, but look for the Honigschlecker (\"honey sucker\"), a gold-and-white cherub beside the altar, dedicated to St. Bernard of Clairvaux, \"whose words are sweet as honey\" (it's the last altar on the right as you face the high altar). The cherub is sucking honey from his finger, which he's just pulled out of a beehive. The fanciful spirit of this play on words is continued in the small squares of glass set into the pink screen that rises high above the main altar; the gilt dripping from the walls; the swaying, swooning statues; and the swooping figures on the ceiling. | Birnau-Maurach 5 | Uhldingen-M\u00fchlhofen | 07556/92030 | www.birnau.de | May\u2013Sept., daily 7:30\u20137; Oct.\u2013Apr., daily 7:30\u20135:30.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Affenberg  \n(Monkey Mountain). On the road between \u00dcberlingen and Salem, the Affenberg (Monkey Mountain) is a 50-plus-acre park that serves as home to more than 200 free-roaming Barbary apes, as well as deer, aquatic birds, gray herons, ducks, coots, and\u2014during nesting time\u2014a colony of white storks. | Mendlishauser Hof, on rd. between \u00dcberlingen and Salem | 07553/381 | www.affenberg-salem.de | \u20ac8 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Nov., daily 9\u20136; last entry at 5:30.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFAMILY | Landgasthof zum Adler.  \nHOTEL | This unpretentious, rustic country inn in a village a few miles north of \u00dcberlingen has a blue-and-white half-timber facade, scrubbed wooden floors, maple-wood tables, and thick down comforters on the beds. There are also 10 apartments in a separate house for families at very affordable rates, and a large playground. The food ($$) is simple and delicious; trout is a specialty, as are several vegetarian dishes, such as potato gratin with fennel. Pros: good food in old wooden restaurant; modern rooms in annex; family friendly. Cons: rooms on the street side can be noisy; a bit far from \u00dcberlingen; family-oriented. | Rooms from: \u20ac78 | Hauptstr. 44, Lippertsreute | 07553/82550 | www.adler-lippertsreute.de | 16 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRomantik Hotel Johanniter Kreuz.  \nHOTEL | Parts of this half-timber hotel in a small village north \u00dcberlingen date from the 17th century, setting a romantic tone that's further enhanced by the huge fireplace in the center of the restaurant. In the modern annex you can relax on your room's balcony. An 18-hole golf course overlooking the lake is 1\u00bd km (1 mi) away. Pros: choice of very different rooms; spacious; modern, and yet welcoming lobby; family run; cozy restaurant; golf course close by. Cons: 3 km (2 miles) from center of town; long corridors from historic part of hotel to reach elevator in new part of the hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Johanniterweg 11, Andelshofen | 07551/937\u2013060 | www.johanniter-kreuz.de | 29 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nSch\u00e4pfle.  \nHOTEL | The charm of this ivy-covered hotel in the center of town has been preserved and supplemented through time\u2014in the hallways you'll find quaint furniture and even an old Singer sewing machine painted with flowers. The rooms are done with light, wooden Scandinavian farm furniture. Guests and \u00dcberlingen residents congregate in the comfortable taproom, where the regional and international dishes are reasonably priced ($). The chef prides himself on his homemade sp\u00e4tzle (Swabian egg noodles). For lake views, the hotel has a second, larger building a few steps away right on the lake, complete with a terrace caf\u00e9. Pros: center of town; local atmosphere in restaurant; annex with lake view. Cons: parking nearby, but for a fee; no credit cards. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Jakob-Kessenringstr. 12 and 14 | 07551/83070 | www.schaepfle.de | 32 rooms in 2 houses | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nThe beauty and charm of \u00dcberlingen is one reason so many artists work and live here; there are more than 20 workshops and artists' shops where you can browse and buy at reasonable prices. TIP Ask at the tourist office for the brochure listing all the galleries.\n\nHolzer Goldschmiede.  \nYou'll find this master goldsmith's studio near the city's Franziskanertor. | Turmg. 8, Am Franziskanertor | 07551/61525 | www.goldschmiede-holzer.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nRavensburg | Weingarten\n\nFrom Friedrichshafen, B-30 leads north along the valley of the little River Schussen and links up with one of Germany's less-known but most attractive scenic routes. The Oberschw\u00e4bische Barockstrasse (Upper Swabian Baroque Road) follows a rich series of baroque churches and abbeys, including Germany's largest baroque church, the basilica in Weingarten.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Ravensburg\n\n20 km (12 miles) north of Friedrichshafen.\n\nThe Free Imperial City of Ravensburg once competed with Augsburg and N\u00fcrnberg for economic supremacy in southern Germany. The Thirty Years' War put an end to the city's hopes by reducing it to little more than a medieval backwater. The city's loss proved fortuitous only in that many of its original features have remained much as they were built (in the 19th century, medieval towns usually tore down their medieval walls and towers, which were considered ungainly and constraining). Fourteen of Ravensburg's town gates and towers survive, and the Altstadt is among the best preserved in Germany.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nConsider taking an official tour of the city, which grants you access to some of the towers for a splendid view of Ravensburg and the surrounding countryside. Tours are available at the tourist office.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nRavensburg Tourist-Information. | Kirchstr. 16 | 0751/82800 | www.ravensburg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nDefensive Towers.  \nRavensburg is home to a remarkable collection of well-preserved medieval towers and city gates. Highlights include the Gr\u00fcner Turm (Green Tower), so called for its green tiles, many of which are 14th-century originals. Another stout defense tower is the massive Obertor (Upper Tower), the oldest gate in the city walls. The curiously named Mehlsack (Flour Sack) tower\u2014so called because of its rounded shape and whitewash exterior\u2014stands 170 feet high and sits upon the highest point of the city. From April to October, visitors can climb to the top of the Mehlsack or the equally tall Blaserturm (Trumpeter's Tower) for rooftop views over the city. | 0751/82800 | www.ravensburg.de | Towers \u20ac1.50 | Mehlsack: Apr. and Oct., weekends 10\u20133; May\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20133. Blaserturm: Apr.\u2013July, Sept., and Oct., weekdays 2\u20135, Sat. 10\u20133; Aug., weekdays 10\u20135, Sat. 10\u20133.\n\nMarienplatz.  \nMany of Ravensburg's monuments that most recall the town's wealthy past are concentrated on this central square. To the west is the 14th-century Kornhaus (Granary); once the corn exchange for all of Upper Swabia, it now houses the public library. The late-Gothic Rathaus is a staid, red building with a Renaissance bay window and imposing late-Gothic rooms inside. Next to it stands the 15th-century Waaghaus (Weighing House), the town's weigh station and central warehouse. Its tower, the Blaserturm (Trumpeter's Tower), which served as the watchman's abode, was rebuilt in 1556 after a fire and now bears a pretty Renaissance helmet. Finally there's the colorfully frescoed Lederhaus, once the headquarters of the city's leather workers, and now home to a caf\u00e9. TIP On Saturday morning the square comes alive with a large market.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nEvangelische Stadtkirche (Protestant Church).  \nThat ecclesiastical and commercial life were never entirely separate in medieval towns is evident in this church, once part of a 14th-century monastery. The stairs on the west side of the church's chancel lead to the meeting room of the Ravensburger Gesellschaft (Ravensburg Society), an organization of linen merchants established in 1400. After the Reformation, Catholics and Protestants shared the church, but in 1810 the Protestants were given the entire building. The neo-Gothic stained-glass windows on the west side, depicting important figures of the Reformation such as Martin Luther and Ulrich Zwingli, were sponsored by wealthy burghers. | Marienpl. 5 | www.ravensburg-evangelisch.de.\n\nHumpis-Quartier Museum.  \nGlass walkways, stairways, and a central courtyard connect the well-preserved medieval residences at this museum, where visitors can take a close look into the lives of Ravensburgers in the middle ages. The residences once belonged to the Humpis family, who were traders in the 15th century. | Marktstr. 45 | 0751/82820 | www.museum-humpis-quartier.de | \u20ac4 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136, Thurs. 11\u20138.\n\nKirche St. Peter und Paul (St. Petrus und Paulus).  \nJust to the southwest of Ravensburg in the village of Weissenau stands this old church, which was part of a 12th-century Premonstratensian monastery and now has a high baroque facade. The interior is a stupendous baroque masterpiece, with ceiling paintings by Joseph Hafner that create the illusion of cupolas, and vivacious stuccowork by Johannes Schmuzer, one of the famous stucco artists from Wessobrunn. | Abteistr. 2\u20133, Weissenau | 0751/61590 | www.pfarrgemeinde-weissenau.de | Daily 9\u20136.\n\nLiebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nRavensburg's true parish church, the Gothic 14th-century Liebfrauenkirche, is elegantly simple on the outside but almost entirely rebuilt inside, having reopened in early 2011 following major renovations. Among the finest treasures within are the 15th-century stained-glass windows in the choir and the heavily gilt altar. In a side altar is a copy of a carved Madonna, the Schutzmantelfrau; the late-14th-century original is in Berlin's Dahlem Museum. | Kirchstr. 18 | www.kath-rv.de | Daily 7\u20137.\n\nFAMILY | Museum Ravensburger.  \nRavensburg is a familiar name to all jigsaw-puzzle fans, because the Ravensburg publishing house produces the world's largest selection of puzzles, in addition to many other children's games. Here you can explore the history of the company, founded in 1883 by Otto Robert Maier. Be sure to try out new and classic games via the interactive game stations throughout the museum. | Marktstr. 26 | 07542/400\u2013110 | www.museum-ravensburger.de | \u20ac5.50 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nFAMILY | Ravensburger Spieleland.  \nThis amusement park is located 10 km (6 mi) from Ravensburg, in the direction of Lindau. Entrance is free to children on their birthday. | Am Hangenwald 1, Liebenau | Meckenbeuren | 07542/4000 | www.spieleland.de | \u20ac26.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136. Park closes sporadically, check ahead of time.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nFirenze Caff\u00e9 e Gelateria.  \nITALIAN | This bustling multilevel caf\u00e9 opens early and closes late and offers a mind-boggling array of ice-cream dishes and other sweet and savory fare. For a quick and inexpensive meal, consider the tasty breakfasts, sandwiches, and German- and Italian-influenced items on offer. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Marienpl. 47 | 0751/24665 | No credit cards.\n\nCaf\u00e9-Restaurant Central.  \nECLECTIC | This popular place, with two floors and a large terrace on Marienplatz, has an international range of dishes, from kebabs and curries to pastas and local specialties. You can also enjoy coffee, cakes, or an aperitif. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Marienpl. 48 | 0751/32533 | www.cafebar-central.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Rebleutehaus.  \nGERMAN | Follow a small alley off the Marienplatz to this warm, relaxed restaurant set in an old guildhall with a beautiful Tonnendecke (barrel ceiling). The restaurant shares a kitchen with the Restaurant Waldhorn; the quality is the same, but the prices at Rebleutehaus are easier on the wallet. Try fish from the Bodensee in season. Reservations are a good idea for dinner. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Schulg. 15 | 0751/36120 | www.waldhorn.de | Closed Sun.\n\nGasthof Ochsen.  \nHOTEL | At this typical, family-owned Swabian inn, the personable Kimpfler family extends a warm welcome. When checking in, reserve a table for dinner, as the wood-paneled restaurant ($$) can often book up. This is the place to try Maultaschen (Swabian ravioli) and Zwiebelrostbraten (steak with lots of fried onions). Pros: warm atmosphere and good Swabian food in the cozy restaurant; many rooms newly refurbished. Cons: parking not on site. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Burgstr. 1 | 0751/25480 | www.ochsen-rv.de | 26 rooms | Restaurant closed to public Sun. | Breakfast.\n\n## Weingarten\n\n5 km (3 miles) north of Ravensburg.\n\nWeingarten is famous throughout Germany for its huge and hugely impressive basilica, which you can see up on a hill from miles away, long before you get to the town. The city has grown during the last century as several small and midsize industries settled here. It's now an interesting mixture, its historic old town surrounded by a small, prosperous industrial city.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nWeingarten Amt f\u00fcr Kultur- und Tourismus. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 1 | 0751/405\u2013232 | www.weingarten-online.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAlemannenmuseum.  \nIf you want to learn about early Germans\u2014residents from the 6th, 7th, and 8th centuries whose graves are just outside town\u2014visit the Alemannenmuseum in the Kornhaus, which was once a granary. Archaeologists discovered the hundreds of Alemannic graves in the 1950s. | Karlstr. 28 | 0751/49343 for general info, 0751/405\u2013255 for tours | www.weingarten-online.de | \u20ac2 | Wed.\u2013Sun. 2\u20135.\n\nWeingarten Basilica (St. Martin Basilica).  \nAt 220 feet high and more than 300 feet long, Weingarten Basilica is the largest baroque church in Germany. It was built as the church of one of the oldest and most venerable convents in the country, founded in 1056 by the wife of Guelph IV. The Guelph dynasty ruled large areas of Upper Swabia, and generations of family members lie buried in the church. The majestic edifice was renowned because of its little vial said to contain drops of Christ's blood. First mentioned by Charlemagne, the vial passed to the convent in 1094, entrusted to its safekeeping by the Guelph queen Juditha, sister-in-law of William the Conqueror. Weingarten then became one of Germany's foremost pilgrimage sites.TIP To this day, on the day after Ascension Thursday, the anniversary of the day the vial of Christ's blood was entrusted to the convent, a huge procession of pilgrims wends its way to the basilica. It's well worth seeing the procession, which is headed by nearly 3,000 horsemen (many local farmers breed horses just for this occasion). The basilica was decorated by leading early-18th-century German and Austrian artists: stuccowork by Franz Schmuzer, ceiling frescoes by Cosmas Damian Asam, and a Donato Frisoni altar\u2014one of the most breathtakingly ornate in Europe, with nearly 80-foot-high towers on either side. The organ, installed by Josef Gabler between 1737 and 1750, is among the largest in the country. | Kirchpl. 6 | www.st-martin-weingarten.de | Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 8\u20135; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 8\u20137.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Hopfenmuseum Tettnang  \n(Tettnang Hops Museum). This museum, dedicated to brewing, is in the tiny village of Siggenweiler, 3 km (2 miles) northwest of Tettnang\u2014the second-largest hops-growing area in Germany. Tettnang exports most of its so-called \"green gold\" to the United States. In the museum there is a small pub where you can buy a pretzel and of course a beer made with Tettnang hops. | Hopfengut 20, Siggenweiler | 07542/952\u2013206 | www.hopfenmuseum-tettnang.de | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10:30\u20136.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nKonstanz | Mainau | Reichenau\n\nThe immense Bodensee owes its name to a small, insignificant town, Bodman, on the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula, at the northwestern edge of the lake. TIP The peninsula's most popular destinations, Konstanz and Mainau, are reachable by ferry from Meersburg\u2014by far the most romantic way to get to the area. The other option is to take the road (B-31, then B-34, and finally B-33) that skirts the western arm of the Bodensee and ends its German journey at Konstanz.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Konstanz\n\nA \u00bd-hr ferry ride from Meersburg.\n\nThe university town of Konstanz is the largest on the Bodensee; it straddles the Rhine as it flows out of the lake, placing itself both on the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula and the Switzerland side of the lake, where it adjoins the Swiss town of Kreuzlingen. Konstanz is among the best-preserved medieval towns in Germany; during the war the Allies were unwilling to risk inadvertently bombing neutral Switzerland. On the peninsula side of the town, east of the main bridge connecting Konstanz's two halves, runs Seestrasse, a stately promenade of neoclassical mansions with views of the Bodensee. The Old Town center is a labyrinth of narrow streets lined with restored half-timber houses and dignified merchant dwellings. This is where you'll find restaurants, hotels, pubs, and much of the nightlife.\n\nIt's claimed that Konstanz was founded in the 3rd century by Emperor Constantine Chlorus, father of Constantine the Great. The story is probably untrue, though it's certain there was a Roman garrison here. In the late 6th century Konstanz was made a bishopric; in 1192 it became a Free Imperial City. What put it on the map was the Council of Constance, held between 1414 and 1418 to settle the Great Schism (1378\u20131417), the rift in the church caused by two separate lines of popes, one ruling from Rome, the other from Avignon. The Council resolved the problem in 1417 by electing Martin V as the true, and only, pope. The church had also agreed to restore the Holy Roman emperor's (Sigismund's) role in electing the pope, but only if Sigismund silenced the rebel theologian Jan Hus, of Bohemia. Even though Sigismund had allowed Hus safe passage to Konstanz for the Council, he won the church's favor by having Hus burned at the stake in July 1415. In a satiric short story, the French author Honor\u00e9 de Balzac created the character of Imperia, a courtesan of great beauty and cleverness, who raised the blood pressure of both religious and secular VIPs during the council. No one visiting the harbor today can miss the 28-foot statue of Imperia standing out on the breakwater. Dressed in a revealing and alluring style, in her hands she holds two dejected figures: the emperor and the pope. This hallmark of Konstanz, created by Peter Lenk, caused controversy when it was unveiled in April 1993.\n\nMost people enjoy Konstanz for its worldly pleasures\u2014the elegant Altstadt, trips on the lake, walks along the promenade, elegant shops, the restaurants, the views. The heart of the city is the Marktst\u00e4tte (Marketplace), near the harbor, with the simple bulk of the Konzilgeb\u00e4ude looming behind it. Erected in 1388 as a warehouse, the Konzilgeb\u00e4ude (Council Hall) is now a concert hall. Beside the Konzilgeb\u00e4ude are statues of Jan Hus and native son Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin (1838\u20131917). The Dominican monastery where Hus was held before his execution is still here, doing duty as a luxurious hotel, the Steigenberger Insel-Hotel.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nKonstanz is in many ways the center of the lake area. You can reach Z\u00fcrich airport by direct train in about an hour, and Frankfurt in 4\u00bd hours. Swiss autobahn access to Z\u00fcrich is about 10 minutes away, and you can reach the autobahn access to Stuttgart in about the same time. To reach the island of Mainau, you can take a bus, but a much more pleasant way to get there is by boat, via Meersburg. You can take another boat downriver to Schaffhausen in Switzerland, or east to the northern shore towns as well as Bregenz in Austria. The Old Town is manageable on foot.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Konstanz. | Bahnhofpl. 43 | 07531/133\u2013030 | www.konstanz-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nThis old town hall was built during the Renaissance and painted with vivid frescoes\u2014swags of flowers and fruits, shields, and sturdy knights wielding immense swords. Walk into the courtyard to admire its Renaissance restraint. | Kanzleistr. 13.\n\nM\u00fcnster.  \nKonstanz's cathedral, the M\u00fcnster, was the center of one of Germany's largest bishoprics until 1827, when the seat was moved to Freiburg. Construction on the cathedral continued from the 10th through the 19th century, resulting in an interesting coexistence of architectural styles: the twin-tower facade is sturdily Romanesque; the elegant and airy chapels along the aisles are full-blown 15th-century Gothic; the complex nave vaulting is Renaissance; and the choir is severely neoclassical. The Mauritius Chapel behind the altar is a 13th-century Gothic structure, 12 feet high, with some of its original vivid coloring and gilding. It's studded with statues of the Apostles and figures depicting the childhood of Jesus. TIP Climb the M\u00fcnsterturm (M\u00fcnster Tower) for views over the city and lake. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 4 | \u20ac2 | Daily 8\u20136. Tower: Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135:30, Sun. 12:30\u20136.\n\nNiederburg.  \nThe Niederburg, the oldest part of Konstanz, is a tangle of twisting streets leading to the Rhine. From the river take a look at two of the city's old towers: the Rheintorturm (Rhine Tower), the one nearer the lake, and the aptly named Pulverturm (Powder Tower), the former city arsenal.\n\nRosgartenmuseum (Rose Garden Museum).  \nWithin the medieval guildhall of the city's butchers, this museum has a rich collection of art and artifacts from the Bodensee region. Highlights include exhibits of the life and work of the people around the Bodensee, from the Bronze Age through the Middle Ages and beyond. There's also a collection of sculpture and altar paintings from the Middle Ages. | Rosgartenstr. 3\u20135 | 07531/900\u2013246 | www.rosgartenmuseum-konstanz.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Sealife.  \nThis huge aquarium has gathered all the fish species that inhabit the Rhine and the Bodensee, from the river's beginnings in the Swiss Alps to its end in Rotterdam and the North Sea. Also check out the Bodensee Naturmuseum at the side entrance, which gives a comprehensive overview of the geological history of the Bodensee and its fauna and flora right down to the microscopic creatures of the region. You can buy tickets in advance online for a significantly cheaper price. | Hafenstr. 9 | 07531/128\u2013270 | www.sealife.de | \u20ac16.50 | Sept.\u2013June, daily 10\u20135, July and Aug., daily 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBrauhaus Joh. Albrecht.  \nGERMAN | This small brewery with shiny copper cauldrons, part of a chain of five throughout Germany, serves simple dishes as well as regional specialties and vegetarian food on large wooden tables. Tuesday is schnitzel day, with half a dozen varieties on the menu, all of them filling\u2014and all costing \u20ac9.99. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Konradig. 2 | 07531/25045 | konstanz.brauhaus-joh-albrecht.de.\n\nHafenhalle.  \nGERMAN | Enjoy eclectic cooking\u2014including Italian, Bavarian, and Swabian fare\u2014at this warm-weather spot on the harbor. Sit outside on the terrace and watch the busy harbor traffic, or enjoy the beer garden with sandbox for children and big TV screen for watching sports. The restaurant frequently presents sporting, culinary, and live-music events. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Hafenstr. 10 | 07531/21126 | www.hafenhalle.com | Closed Jan. and Feb.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nABC Hotel.  \nHOTEL | This hotel offers large, comfortable, individually furnished rooms, all with kitchen facilities; book the unusual Turmsuite (Tower Suite) for an especially memorable stay among exposed beams and steeply sloping walls, and with private access to the top of the tower. The sturdy building served as both a barracks and a casino in years gone by. It's about 15 minutes on foot or 5 minutes by bus from the center of Konstanz. Pros: warm welcome; large airy rooms; quiet location; enough parking space; free Wi-Fi. Cons: not in the center of town; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Steinstr. 19 | 07531/8900 | www.abc-hotel.de | 37 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nBarbarossa.  \nHOTEL | This historic hotel in the heart of Old Town has been modernized inside, but such original elements as wooden support beams lend a romantic, authentic feel. Rooms are individually furnished, with several newly redecorated. The stained-glass windows and dark-wood paneling give the restaurant ($$$) a cozy, warm atmosphere. Fish and game in season are the specialties. Enjoy sunshine and views over the city from the rooftop terrace. Pros: historic building; cozy restaurant with good food; free hotel-wide Wi-Fi. Cons: some rooms simply furnished; parking available but a third of a mile walk away. | Rooms from: \u20ac97 | Obermarkt 8 | 07531/128\u2013990 | www.hotelbarbarossa.de | 50 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nStadthotel.  \nHOTEL | It's a five-minute walk to the lake from this friendly hotel, where rooms are modern, airy, and decorated in bright colors. Try for the rooms on the top floor, which have good views. Pros: center of town; quiet location with little traffic. Cons: no restaurant; parking garage five minutes away on foot. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Bruderturmg. 2 | 07531/90460 | www.stadthotel-konstanz.com | 24 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Steigenberger Insel-Hotel.  \nHOTEL | With its original cloisters intact, this former 16th-century monastery is now the most luxurious lodging in town. But in earlier days, the church reformer Jan Hus was held prisoner here, and later, Graf Zeppelin was born here. Bedrooms are spacious and stylish, more like those of a private home than a hotel, and most have lake views. The formal terrace restaurant has superb views of the lake, while the Dominikanerstube is smaller and more intimate. Both restaurants ($$$) feature regional specialties. For drinks, there's the clubby, relaxed Zeppelin Bar and Susos Bar - Caf\u00e9, which also has a terrace. Pros: wonderful lake views; luxurious; good restaurants. Cons: a few rooms look out on railroad tracks; some others need refurnishing; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac188 | Auf der Insel 1 | 07531/1250 | www.konstanz.steigenberger.com | 100 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nCasino.  \nTry your luck on the machines and tables of the casino in Konstanz. You must be over 21 to enter the casino. | Seestr. 21 | 07531/81570 | www.casino-konstanz.de | \u20ac3 | Sun.\u2013Thurs. 2 pm\u20132 am, Fri.\u2013Sat. 2 pm\u20133 am.\n\nK9 (Kommunales Kunst- und Kulturzentrum K9).  \nThis cultural center draws all ages with its music and dance club, theater, comedy, and cabaret. It's in the former Church of St. Paul. | Hieronymusg. 3 | 07531/16713 | www.k9-kulturzentrum.de.\n\nKulturladen (Kula).  \nConcerts and variously themed DJ nights are held at Kulturladen. | Joseph Belli Weg 5 | 07531/52954 | www.kulturladen.de.\n\nRock am See.  \nThis annual late-summer rock music festival has been drawing rock fans to the Bodensee since 1985. Held at Bodensee-Stadion in Konstanz, the festival features both German and international acts. | Bodensee-Stadion, Eichhornstr. 89 | 07531/908844 for ticket service | www.rock-am-see.de.\n\nSeekuh.  \nThis cozy and crowded Italian restaurant and bar features the occasional live jazz night and also screens live football games from time to time. | Konzilstr. 1 | 07531/27232 | www.seekuh.de.\n\nSeenachtfest (Lake Night Festival).  \nIn August, Konstanz shares this one-day city festival with neighboring Kreuzlingen in Switzerland, with street events, music, clowns, and magicians, and ending with fireworks over the lake. | Lakefront | www.seenachtfest.de.\n\nStadttheater (Theater Konstanz).  \nThe Stadttheater, Germany's oldest active theater, has staged plays since 1609 and has its own repertory company. | Konzilstr. 11 | 07531/900\u2013150 for tickets | www.theaterkonstanz.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Bicycling\n\nBike rentals generally cost \u20ac12 per day.\n\nVelotours Touristik GmbH.  \nYou can book bicycle tours and rent bikes at Velotours Touristik GmbH. | B\u00fccklestr. 13 | 07531/98280 | www.velotours.de.\n\nKultur-R\u00e4dle.  \nThis friendly store rents bikes at the main train station. A two-day rental costs 20 euros. | Bahnhofpl. 29 | 07531/27310 | www.kultur-raedle.de.\n\n#### Boating\n\nWilde Flotte\u2014Segel & Wassersportschule Konstanz Wallhausen (Wild Fleet).  \nThis sailing school offers boat charters\u2014both skippered and solo\u2014as well as lessons in sailing, wakeboarding and waterskiing. | Uferstr. 16 | Wallhausen | 07533/997\u20138802 | www.wilde-flotte.de.\n\nYachtcharter Konstanz.  \nSail and motor yachts are available at Yachtcharter Konstanz. | Hafenstr. 7b | 07531/363\u20133970 | www.yachtcharter-konstanz.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nIt's worthwhile to roam the streets of the old part of town, where there are several gold- and silversmiths and jewelers.\n\nModehaus Fischer.  \nThis elegant fashion store has enough style for a city ten times the size of Konstanz. Much of its business comes from wealthy Swiss who visit Konstanz for what they consider bargain prices. Modehaus Fischer deals in well-known international fashion stock, including handbags and exquisite shoes. The store is actually spread over three branches a few blocks apart\u2014two for women, and one for men at Obermarkt. | Rosgartenstr. 36, Hussenstr. 29, and Obermarkt. 1 | 07531/22990 | www.modefischer.de.\n\n## Mainau\n\n7 km (4\u00bd miles) north of Konstanz by road; by ferry, \u00bd\u20131 hr from Konstanz (depending on route), or 20 mins from Meersburg.\n\nOne of the most unusual sights in Germany, Mainau is a tiny island given over to the cultivation of rare plants and splashy displays of more than a million tulips, hyacinths, and narcissi. Rhododendrons and roses bloom from May to July; dahlias dominate the late summer. A greenhouse nurtures palms and tropical plants.\n\nThe island was originally the property of the Teutonic Knights, who settled here during the 13th century. In the 19th century Mainau passed to Grand Duke Friedrich I of Baden, a man with a passion for botany. He laid out most of the gardens and introduced many of the island's more exotic specimens. His daughter Victoria, later queen of Sweden, gave the island to her son, Prince Wilhelm, and it has remained Swedish ever since. Today it's owned by the family of Prince Wilhelm's son, Count Lennart Bernadotte. In the former main reception hall in the castle are changing art exhibitions.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFerries to the island from Meersburg and Konstanz depart from April to October approximately every 1\u00bd hours between 9 and 5. You must purchase a ticket to enter the island, which is open year-round from dawn until dusk. There's a small bridge to the island. At night you can drive across it to the restaurants.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nInsel Mainau. | Mainaustr. 1, | Konstanz | 07531/3030 | www.mainau.de | Late Mar.\u2013late Oct., dawn\u20135 pm \u20ac17.50, 5 pm\u2013dusk, \u20ac8.75; late Oct.\u2013late Mar., \u20ac8.75 anytime | Daily dawn\u2013dusk.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDas Schmetterlinghaus.  \nBeyond the flora, the island of Mainau's other colorful extravagance is Das Schmetterlinghaus, Germany's largest butterfly conservatory. On a circular walk through a semitropical landscape with water cascading through rare vegetation, you'll see hundreds of butterflies flying, feeding, and mating. The exhibition in the foyer explains the butterflies' life cycle, habitats, and ecological connections. Like the park, this oasis is open year-round. | Insel Mainau, Mainaustr. 1 | Konstanz | www.mainau.de/schmetterlingshaus.html | Daily 10\u20137.\n\nG\u00e4rtnerturm.  \nIn the island's information center in the G\u00e4rtnerturm (Gardener's Tower) in the middle of the island, several films on Mainau and the Bodensee are shown.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nThere are nine restaurants and caf\u00e9s on the island, but nowhere to stay overnight.\n\nSchwedenschenke.  \nSCANDINAVIAN | The lunchtime crowd gets what it needs here\u2014fast and good service. At dinnertime candlelight adds some extra style. The resident Bernadotte family is Swedish, and so are the specialties of the chef. Have your hotel reserve a table for you. TIP After 6 pm your reservation will be checked at the gate, and you can drive onto the island without having to pay admission. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Insel Mainau | 07531/303\u2013156 | www.mainau.de/schwedenschenke.html | Closed Jan.\u2013mid-Mar. No dinner Nov. or Dec.\n\n## Reichenau\n\n10 km (6 miles) northwest of Konstanz, 50 mins by ferry from Konstanz.\n\nReichenau is an island rich in vegetation, but unlike Mainau, it features vegetables, not flowers. In fact, 15% of its area (the island is 5 km [3 miles] long and 1\u00bd km [1 mile] wide) is covered by greenhouses and crops of one kind or another. It also has three of Europe's most beautiful Romanesque churches, a legacy of Reichenau's past as a monastic center in the early Middle Ages. The churches are in each of the island's villages\u2014Oberzell, Mittelzell, and Niederzell, which are separated by only 1 km (\u00bd mile). Along the shore are pleasant pathways for walking or biking.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nReichenau Tourist-Information. | Pirminstr. 145 | 07534/92070 | www.reichenau.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nM\u00fcnster of St. Maria and St. Markus.  \nBegun in 816, the M\u00fcnster of St. Maria and St. Markus, the monastery's church, is the largest and most important of Reichenau's island's of Romanesque churches. Perhaps its most striking architectural feature is the roof, whose beams and ties are open for all to see. The monastery was founded in 725 by St. Pirmin and became one of the most important cultural centers of the Carolingian Empire. It reached its zenith around 1000, when 700 monks lived here. It was then probably the most important center of book illumination in Germany. The building is simple but by no means crude. Visit the Schatzkammer (Treasury) to see some of its more important holdings. They include a 5th-century ivory goblet with two carefully incised scenes of Christ's miracles, and some priceless stained glass that is almost 1,000 years old. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 3 | Mittelzell | 07534/92070 | Schatzkammer: Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u2013noon and 3\u20135.\n\nMuseum Reichenau.  \nThis museum of local history, in the Old Town Hall of Mittelzell, lends interesting insights into life on the island over the centuries. | Ergat 1\u20133, Mittelzell | 07534/999\u2013321 | www.museumreichenau.de | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013July, Sept., and Oct., daily 10:30\u20134:30; July and Aug., daily 10:30\u20135:30; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekends and holidays 2\u20135.\n\nStiftskirche St. Georg (Collegiate Church of St. George).  \nThe Stiftskirche St. Georg, in Oberzell, was built around 900; now cabbages grow in ranks up to its rough plaster walls. Small round-head windows, a simple square tower, and massive buttresses signal the church's Romanesque origin from the outside. The interior is covered with frescoes painted by the monks in around 1000. They depict the eight miracles of Christ. | Seestr. 4, Oberzell | www.reichenau.de.\n\nStiftskirche St. Peter und Paul (St. Peter and Paul Parish Church).  \nThis Stiftskirche, at Niederzell, was revamped around 1750. The faded Romanesque frescoes in the apse contrast with bold rococo paintings on the ceiling and flowery stucco. | Cnr. Eginostr. and Fischerg., Niederzell | www.reichenau.de.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nKiosk am Yachthafen.  \nGERMAN | This small restaurant is an ideal lunch, drink, or snack stop. In good weather, you can sit outside and watch the boats come and go. It's also a perfect place to try the Bodensee specialty Zanderknusperle (crispy battered pike-perch bites). | Average main: \u20ac10 | Yacht Harbor, Hermannus-Contractus-Str. 30 | 07534/999\u2013655 | www.sbrestaurant-reichenau.de | No credit cards | Closed Nov.\u2013Mar.\n\nStrandhotel L\u00f6chnerhaus.  \nHOTEL | Standing commandingly on the water's edge fronted by its own boat pier, the Strandhotel (Beach Hotel) L\u00f6chnerhaus exudes a retro Riviera feel. Fresh lake fish figures prominently on the menu of the restaurant ($ - $$), as do the island's famous vegetables. Most rooms have lake views; those that don't look out over a quiet, shady garden. Pros: nice location; views over the lake into Switzerland; quiet. Cons: closed in winter; some rooms expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | An der Schiffsl\u00e4nde 12 | 07534/8030 | www.loechnerhaus.de | 41 rooms | Closed Nov.\u2013Feb. | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Black Forest\n\nThe Northern Black Forest\n\nThe Central Black Forest\n\nThe Southern Black Forest\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Spas | Spa Etiquette\n\nUpdated by Lee A. Evans\n\nThe name conjures up images of a wild, isolated place where time passes slowly. The dense woodland of the Black Forest\u2014Schwarzwald in German\u2014stretches away to the horizon, but this southwest corner of Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg (in the larger region known as Swabia) is neither inaccessible nor dull.\n\nThe Black Forest is known the world over for cuckoo clocks; the women's native costume with huge red or black hat pom-poms; and the wild, almost pagan way the Carnival season is celebrated. Swabians are the butt of endless jokes about their frugality and supposedly simplistic nature. The first travelers checked in here 19 centuries ago, when the Roman emperor Caracalla and his army rested and soothed their battle wounds in the natural-spring waters at what later became Baden-Baden.\n\nEurope's upper-crust society discovered Baden-Baden when it convened nearby for the Congress of Rastatt from 1797 to 1799, which attempted to end the wars of the French Revolution. In the 19th century kings, queens, emperors, princes, princesses, members of Napol\u00e9on's family, and the Russian nobility, along with actors, writers, and composers, flocked to the little spa town. Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy were among the Russian contingent. Victor Hugo was a frequent visitor. Brahms composed lilting melodies in this calm setting. Queen Victoria spent her vacations here. Mark Twain put the Black Forest on the map for Americans by stating, \"Here [. . .] you lose track of time in ten minutes and the world in twenty,\" in his 1880 book A Tramp Abroad. Today it's a favorite getaway for movie stars and millionaires. The spa is the great social equalizer where you can \"take the waters,\" just as the Romans first did 2,000 years ago. The Black Forest sporting scene caters particularly to the German enthusiasm for hiking. The Schwarzwald-Verein, an outdoor association in the region, maintains no fewer than 30,000 km (18,000 miles) of hiking trails. In winter the terrain is ideally suited for cross-country skiing.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nExtraordinary regional specialties: Dig into Black Forest cake, Schwarzwald ham (only authentic if smoked over pinecones), and the incredible brews from the Alpirsbach Brewery.\n\nFreiburg M\u00fcnster: One of the most beautiful gothic churches in Germany, the Cathedral of Freiburg survived the war unscathed. The view from the bell tower is stunning.\n\nGoing cuckoo: Look for a cuckoo clock from Triberg (or a nice watch from Pforzheim).\n\nHealing waters: More than 30 spas with a wide range of treatments await to make visitors feel whole again, but nothing beats the 3\u00bd-hour session at the Friedrichsbad in Baden-Baden.\n\nLibations at Kaiserstuhl: Enjoy a local wine in the winemaker's yard or cellar with Black Forest ham and dark bread. It's especially nice when the grapes are being harvested.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThe southwest corner of Germany divides itself neatly into two distinct geographical regions. The western half borders France and lies in the wide flat plains of the Rhine Valley, where all the larger cities are located. To the east tower the rugged hills of the Black Forest itself, crisscrossed by winding mountain roads and dotted with picturesque villages.\n\n## What's Where\n\nThe Northern Black Forest. The gem of the northern Black Forest is the genteel spa town of Baden-Baden, full of quiet charm and dripping with elegance.\n\nThe Central Black Forest. The central Black Forest typifies the region as a whole. Alpirsbach's half-timber houses, Triberg's cuckoo clocks, and the nation's highest waterfalls all nestle among a series of steep-sided valleys.\n\nThe Southern Black Forest. In the south, Freiburg is one of the country's most historic cities, and even the hordes of summer visitors can't quell the natural beauty of the Titisee Lake.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThe Black Forest is one of the most heavily visited mountain regions in Europe, so make reservations well in advance for the better-known spas and hotels. In summer the area around Titisee is particularly crowded. In early fall and late spring, the Black Forest is less crowded (except during the Easter holidays) but just as beautiful. Some spa hotels close for winter.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe closest major international airports in Germany are Stuttgart and Frankfurt. Strasbourg, in neighboring French Alsace, and the Swiss border city of Basel, the latter just 70 km (43 miles) from Freiburg, are also reasonably close. An up-and-coming airport is the Baden-Airpark, now known more commonly as Karlsruhe-Baden, near Baden-Baden. It is used by European budget carriers including Ryanair (www.ryanair.com) and Air Berlin (www.airberlin.com), serving short-haul international destinations such as London, Dublin, and Barcelona.\n\nAirport Information  \nAeroport International de Strasbourg. | 00333/8864\u20136767 | www.strasbourg.aeroport.fr.   \nEuroAirport Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg. | 0389/9031\u201311 in France | www.euroairport.com.   \nFlughafen Frankfurt Main. | 01805/372\u20134636 | www.frankfurt-airport.de.   \nFlughafen Stuttgart. | 01805/948\u2013444 | www.flughafen-stuttgart.de.   \nKarlsruhe-Baden. | 07229/662\u2013000 | www.badenairpark.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nThe bus system is partially owned by and coordinated with the German Railways, so it's easy to reach every corner of the Black Forest by bus and train. Bus stations are usually at or near the train station. For more information, contact the Regionalbusverkehr S\u00fcdwest (Regional Bus Lines) in Karlsruhe.\n\nBus Information   \nRegionalbusverkehr S\u00fcdwest (Regional Bus Lines). | Karlsruhe | 0721/84060 | www.suedwestbus.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nThe main autobahns are the A-5 (Frankfurt\u2013Karlsruhe\u2013Basel), which runs through the Rhine Valley along the western length of the Black Forest; A-81 (Stuttgart\u2013Bodensee) in the east; and A-8 (Karlsruhe\u2013Stuttgart) in the north. Good two-lane highways crisscross the entire region. B-3 runs parallel to A-5 and follows the Baden Wine Road. Traffic jams on weekends and holidays are not uncommon. Taking the side roads might not save time, but they are a lot more interesting. The Schwarzwald-Hochstrasse is one of the area's most scenic (but also most trafficked) routes, running from Freudenstadt to Baden-Baden. The region's tourist office has mapped out thematic driving routes: the Valley Road, the Spa Road, the Baden Wine Road, the Asparagus Road, and the Clock Road. Most points along these routes can also be reached by train or bus.\n\nFreiburg, the region's major city, is 275 km (170 miles) south of Frankfurt and 410 km (254 miles) west of Munich.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nKarlsruhe, Baden-Baden, and Freiburg are served by fast ICE trains zipping between Frankfurt-am-Main and Basel in Switzerland. Regional express trains also link these hubs with many other places locally, including Freudenstadt, Titisee, and, in particular, the spectacular climb from Baden-Baden to Triberg, one of the highest railways in Germany.\n\nLocal lines connect most of the smaller towns. Two east\u2013west routes\u2014the Schwarzwaldbahn (Black Forest Railway) and the H\u00f6llental Railway\u2014are among the most spectacular in the country. Many small towns participate in the KONUS program that allows you to travel for free on many Black Forest train lines while staying in the region. Details are available from Deutsche Bahn.\n\nTrain Information   \nDeutsche Bahn. | 11861 | www.bahn.de.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nRestaurants in the Black Forest range from award-winning dining rooms to simple country inns. Old Kachel\u00f6fen (tile stoves) are still in use in many area restaurants; try to sit near one if it's cold outside.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nAccommodations in the Black Forest are varied and plentiful, from simple rooms in farmhouses to five-star luxury. Some properties have been passed down in the same family for generations. Gasth\u00f6fe offer low prices and local color. Keep in mind that most hotels in the region do not offer air-conditioning.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nThe lively, student-driven city of Freiburg, Germany's \"greenest\" town, is the obvious base from which to explore the Black Forest. Don't miss \"taking the water\" at a spa in Baden-Baden, a charming place with all facilities on tap. Bear in mind that driving times and distances push the farthest points in the Black Forest out of reach of easy day trips from these cities. The winding, often steep Black Forest highways can make for slow driving, so you may want to consider adding overnight stays at other locations. Freudenstadt's vast market square lends it a uniquely pleasant atmosphere, and Triberg's mountain location is popular, but it remains picturesque. If there is one place in the region to go out of your way to get a beer, head to Alpirsbach.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nSchwarzwald Tourismus GmbH. | Ludwigstr. 23, | Freiburg | 0761/896\u2013460 | www.schwarzwald-tourismus.info.\n\n## Spas\n\nThe restorative powers of a good soak in a hot pool or sweating it out in a 190-degree sauna are the cornerstones of the German notion of physical and mental wellness and relaxation. The concept of Erholiung (regeneration) is taken seriously.\n\nEndowed with mountain air, salty coastlines, and natural thermal springs, Germany has long enjoyed a spa tradition. Seeking relief from the pains of battle, the Romans erected baths here almost 2,000 years ago, and the 19th century saw spa towns across the country flourish as Europe's upper classes began to appreciate the soothing effects of fresh air and mineral waters. These days there are hundreds of facilities throughout the country ranging from huge, sophisticated resorts offering precious stone massages and chocolate baths to smaller \"wellness\" hotels with not much more than a sauna and a relaxation room. There are also plenty of public spas, where a day's bathing won't set you back much more than the price of a movie ticket.\n\n\u2014Jeff Kavanagh\n\n#### Drinking It In\n\nTaking the waters in a spa town often involves imbibing some as well. Bad Mergentheim and Baden-Baden are renowned for their drinking-water springs and the healing properties of the mineral waters that spill from them. Used for everything from the stimulation of the pancreas to curing a sore throat, they are drunk by thousands of visitors every year.\n\n## Spa Etiquette\n\n#### Nudity\n\nSitting naked in a dimly lit, scorching-hot room or floating au naturel in a thermal pool among a group of strangers may not be everyone's idea of relaxation. Most Germans have been taken in by the Frei K\u00f6rper Kultur (Free Body Culture) that stresses a connection to nature through public nudity. Saunas and steam rooms are almost always \"textile-free\" areas, as are some hot pools. They're also all mainly mixed sex. The theory is that the body needs to be unencumbered to enjoy the full curative effects of the heat and water. You'll also be expected to strip down if you've booked a massage, although a towel will be provided to preserve some modesty. If you're not sure what to take off and what to leave on, don't be afraid to ask.\n\n#### Bathrobes, Towels, and Sandals\n\nMore upmarket wellness locations will provide you with all three, while public spas will expect you to at least bring your own towel. Bathrobes and sandals should be worn in relaxation areas and left outside saunas and steam baths, and towels laid beneath you in the sauna to absorb excess sweat. Most facilities provide these items for purchase or will loan them to you for a small fee.\n\n#### Showering\n\nA quick shower before first jumping in a pool or entering a sauna is expected, and required between transferring yourself from a sweaty sauna to a plunge pool. A refreshing rinse between each sauna session is part of the procedure, not just for hygiene but also for its therapeutic effects.\n\n#### Talking\n\nGiven that spas are designed to be oases of wellness and relaxation, loud conversation in \"adult\" areas of the facility, particularly in saunas, steam rooms, and relaxation areas, may be met with sighs of disapproval or even a telling-off.\n\n#### Spa Glossary\n\nAlgae and mud therapy: Applied as packs or full-body bath treatments to nourish the skin and draw out toxins.\n\nAromatherapy baths: Oils such as bergamot, cypress, and sandalwood are added to hot baths in order to lift the spirits and reduce anxiety.\n\nAyurveda: Refers to Indian techniques including massage, oils, herbs, and diet to encourage perfect body balance.\n\nJet massage: Involves standing upright and being sprayed with high-pressure water jets that follow the direction of your blood flow, thereby stimulating circulation.\n\nLiquid sound therapy: A relaxation technique that entails lying in body temperature saltwater and listening to classical or electronic music being played through the water while a kaleidoscope of colors illuminates your surroundings.\n\nReflexology: Massage on the pressure points of feet, hands, and ears.\n\nThalasso therapy: A spa treatment employing sea air, water, and mud to heal the body.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPforzheim | Calw | Freudenstadt | Baiersbronn | Baden-Baden | Karlsruhe\n\nThis region is densely wooded, and dotted with little lakes such as the Mummelsee and the Wildsee. The Black Forest Spa Route (270 km [167 miles]) links many of the spas in the region, from Baden-Baden (the best known) to Bad Wildbad. Other regional treasures are the lovely Nagold River; ancient towns such as Hirsau; and the magnificent abbey at Maulbronn, near Pforzheim.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Pforzheim\n\n35 km (22 miles) southeast of Karlsruhe, just off the A-8 autobahn, the main Munich\u2013Karlsruhe route.\n\nAlthough Pforzheim is not exactly the attractive place the Romans found at the junction of three rivers\u2014the Nagold, the Enz, and the W\u00fcrm\u2014it is the \"gateway to the Black Forest.\" Allied bombs almost completely destroyed the city center, and postwar reconstruction is hardly inspired. Pforzheim still owes its prosperity to its role in Europe's jewelry trade and its wristwatch industry. To get a sense of the \"Gold City,\" explore the jewelry shops on streets around Leopoldplatz and the pedestrian area.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nPforzheim Tourist-Information. | Marktpl. 1 | 07231/393\u2013700 | www.pforzheim.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nKloster Maulbronn (Maulbronn Monastery).  \nKloster Maulbronn, in the little town of Maulbronn, 18 km (11 miles) northeast of Pforzheim, is the best-preserved medieval monastery north of the Alps, with an entire complex of 30 buildings on UNESCO's World Heritage list. The name Maulbronn (Mule Fountain) derives from a legend. Monks seeking a suitably watered site for their monastery considered it a sign from God when one of their mules discovered and drank at a spring. The Kloster is also known for inventing the Maultasche, a kind of large ravioli. The monks thought that by coloring the meat filling green by adding parsley and wrapping it inside a pasta pocket, they could hide it from God on fasting days. Today the Maultasche is the cornerstone of Swabian cuisine.TIP An audio guide in English is available. | Klosterhof 31, off B-35 | Maulbron | 07043/926\u2013610 | www.kloster-maulbronn.de | \u20ac6 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135:30; Nov.\u2013Feb., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135; guided tour daily at 11:15 and 3.\n\nSt. Michael.  \nThe restored church of St. Michael, near the train station, is the final resting place of Baden royalty. The original mixture of 13th- and 15th-century styles has been faithfully reproduced; compare the airy Gothic choir with the church's sturdy Romanesque entrance. | Schlossberg 10 | Oct.\u2013Apr., weekdays 3\u20136; May\u2013Sept., Mon. and Wed.\u2013Fri. 3\u20136.\n\nSchmuckmuseum (Jewelry Museum).  \nThe Reuchlinhaus, the city cultural center, houses the Schmuckmuseum. Its collection of jewelry from five millennia is one of the finest in the world. The museum nearly doubled in size in 2006, adding pocket watches and ethnographic jewelry to its collection, plus a shop, a caf\u00e9, and a gem gallery where young designers exhibit and sell their work. Guided tours in English are available on request. | Jahnstr. 42 | 07231/392\u2013126 | www.schmuckmuseum-pforzheim.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nTechnisches Museum (Technical Museum).  \nPforzheim has long been known as a center of the German clock-making industry. In the Technisches Museum, one of the country's leading museums devoted to the craft, you can see makers of watches and clocks at work; there's also a reconstructed 18th-century clock factory. | Bleichstr. 81 | 07231/392\u2013869 | www.technisches-museum.de | Free | Wed. 9\u2013noon and 3\u20136, 2nd and 4th Sun. of month 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nChez Gilbert.  \nMODERN FRENCH | The Alsatian owners of this cozy restaurant serve classic French-inspired cuisine, using the freshest local seasonal ingredients. The menu and wine lists are relatively small, but from the moment that you're greeted by Frau Nosser until the time you leave, you'll be convinced that everything was planned just for you. The best bet is one of Chef Gilbert Noesser's seasonal four-course menus for \u20ac57. If you must dine a la carte, try the duck with raspberries or the foie gras with peaches. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Altst\u00e4dter Kirchenweg 3 | 07231/441\u2013159 | www.chez-gilbert.de | Closed 2 wks in Aug. No lunch Sat.; no dinner Sun.\n\nEn Route: Weil der Stadt.  \nWeil der Stadt, a former imperial city, is in the hills 17 km (10 miles) southeast of Pforzheim. This small, sleepy town of turrets and gables has only its well-preserved city walls and fortifications to remind you of its onetime importance. | Paul-Reusch-Str. 27 | Weil der Stadt | www.weil-der-stadt.de.\n\nKepler Museum.  \nThe astronomer Johannes Kepler, born here in 1571, was the first man to track and accurately explain the orbits of the planets, although most experts agree that Kepler stole his calculations from, and then quite possibly murdered, Tycho de Brahe. And, appropriately, the town now has a planetarium to graphically show you what he learned. The little half-timber house in which he was born is now the Kepler Museum in the town center. It's devoted to his writings and discoveries. | Keplerg. 2 | Weil der Stadt | 07033/6586 | www.kepler-museum.de | \u20ac2 | Thurs. and Fri. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134, Sat. 11\u2013noon and 2\u20134, Sun. 11\u2013noon and 2\u20135\n\n## Calw\n\n24 km (14 miles) south of Pforzheim on B-463.\n\nCalw, one of the Black Forest's prettiest towns, is the birthplace of Nobel Prize\u2013winning novelist Hermann Hesse (1877\u20131962). The town's market square, with its two sparkling fountains surrounded by 18th-century half-timber houses whose sharp gables pierce the sky, is an ideal spot for relaxing, picnicking, or people-watching, especially during market time.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nStadtinformation Calw. | Marktbr\u00fccke 1 | 07051/167\u2013399 | www.calw.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nHermann Hesse Museum.  \nThe museum recounts the life of the Nobel Prize\u2013winning writer, Hermann Hesse, author of Steppenwolf and The Glass Bead Game, who rebelled against his middle-class German upbringing to become a pacifist and the darling of the Beat Generation. The museum tells the story of his life in personal belongings, photographs, manuscripts, and other documents. TIP An audioguide in English available | Marktpl. 30 | 07051/7522 | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 2\u20135.\n\nHirsau.  \nThree km (2 miles) north of Calw, Hirsau has ruins of a 9th-century monastery, now the setting for the Klostersummer (open-air theater performances) in July and August. Buy advance tickets at the Calw tourist office. | Wildbader Stra\u00dfe 2 | Calw-Hirsau.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Kloster Hirsau.  \nHOTEL | This hotel, a model of comfort and gracious hospitality, is in Hirsau, 3 km (2 miles) from Calw. The Klosterschenke restaurant ($$) serves such regional specialties as Fl\u00e4delsuppe (containing strips from a very thin pancake) and Schw\u00e4bischer Rostbraten (panfried beefsteak topped with saut\u00e9ed onions). Pros: quiet location; homey atmosphere. Cons: located a bit far out of town. | Rooms from: \u20ac107 | Wildbaderstr. 2 | Calw-Hirsau | 07051/96740 | www.hotel-kloster-hirsau.de | 42 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRatsstube.  \nHOTEL | Most of the original features, including 16th-century beams and brickwork, are preserved at this historic house in the center of Calw, next to Hesse's birthplace. Rooms are small but half-timber like the exterior. The restaurant ($) serves a selection of sturdy German and Greek dishes. A salad buffet will take care of smaller appetites, and lunchtime always has several good-value dishes of the day. There's also an asparagus (Spargel) menu in season. Pros: great location overlooks historical market square; beautiful old half-timber building. Cons: parking around the corner; some rooms quite small; historic building means no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac70 | Marktpl. 12 | 07051/92050 | www.hotel-ratsstube-calw.de | 13 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Freudenstadt\n\n65 km (35 miles) south of Calw, 22 km (14 miles) southwest of Altensteig.\n\nAt an altitude of 2,415 feet, Freudenstadt claims to be the sunniest German resort town. The French Army flattened the town in April 1945, but it has since been painstakingly rebuilt. Refugees and silver miners founded the \"city of joy\" in 1599 after escaping religious persecution in the Austrian province of Carinthia. The expansive central square, more than 650 feet long and edged with arcaded shops, is Germany's largest marketplace. The square still awaits the palace that was supposed to be built here for the city's founder, Prince Frederick I of W\u00fcrttemberg, who died before work could begin. It is difficult to admire its vastness, since a busy, four-lane street cuts it nearly in half. TIP When the fountains all spout on this square, it can be quite a sight, and a refreshing one as well.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFreudenstadt is served by regular trains from both Karlsruhe and Stuttgart. The huge main square makes the city feel larger than it actually is. The central zone can easily be covered on foot.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nFreudenstadt. | Marktpl. 64 | 07441/8640 | www.freudenstadt.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nStadtkirche.  \nDon't miss Freudenstadt's Protestant Stadtkirche, just off the Market Square. Its lofty L-shaped nave is a rare architectural liberty from the early 17th century. It was constructed in this way so the sexes would be separated and unable to see each other during services. | Marktpl. 36.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nRatskeller.  \nGERMAN | Though there's a cellar, this restaurant with pine furnishings is more a modern bistro than traditional Ratskeller. Meatless Black Forest dishes, served in frying pans, are huge and filling. Also offered are such Swabian dishes as Zwiebelrostbraten (steak and fried onions), served with sauerkraut, and pork fillet with wild-mushroom sauce. A special menu for senior citizens has smaller portions. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Marktpl. 8 | 07441/952\u2013805.\n\nTurmbr\u00e4u Freudenst\u00e4dter.  \nGERMAN | Lots of wood paneling, exposed beams, and a sprinkling of old sleds and hay wagons give this place, right on the main square, its rustic atmosphere. So do the large brass kettle and the symphony of pipes that produce the establishment's own beer. The restaurant serves hearty solid local fare, including the Alsatian flatbread Flammkuchen, and a kebab of various types of meat marinated in wheat beer. Fondue is offered on Wednesday. Part of the restaurant turns into a disco on weekends. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Brauhaus am Markt, Marktpl. 64 | 07441/905\u2013121 | www.turmbraeu.de.\n\nWarteck.  \nGERMAN | The leaded windows with stained glass, vases of flowers, and beautifully upholstered banquettes create a bright setting in the two dining rooms. Chef Werner Gl\u00e4ssel uses only organic products and spotlights individual ingredients. The variety of seasonal menus (\u20ac40) are always a good choice. Top off the meal with one of the many varieties of schnapps. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Stuttgarterstr. 14 | 07441/91920 | www.warteck-freudenstadt.de | Closed Tues.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nB\u00e4ren.  \nHOTEL | The Montigels have owned this sturdy old hotel and restaurant, just two minutes from the marketplace, since 1878. The family strives to maintain tradition with personal service, comfortable modern hotel rooms, and, especially, a lovely restaurant ($$). Local specialties include an incredible roast goose with chestnuts. In the beamed restaurant the wine is served in a Viertele glass with a handle and a grape pattern. If you order schnapps, it will come from the family's own distillery. Pros: great central location; friendly atmosphere. Cons: some rooms on the small side. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Langestr. 33 | 07441/2729 | www.hotel-baeren-freudenstadt.de | 33 rooms | Restaurant closed Fri. No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Adler.  \nHOTEL | This simple hotel sits between the main square and the train station. Some of the very affordable rooms even have balconies, so you can enjoy a view of behind-the-scenes Freudenstadt. The restaurant ($) provides a hearty meal with local dishes. House specialties include Flammkuchen, a this flatbread topped with sour cream, bacon, and onions. Pros: friendly; informal; centrally located. Cons: some rooms small; furnishings from 1970s quite modest. | Rooms from: \u20ac82 | Forststr. 15\u201317 | 07441/91520 | www.adler-fds.de | 16 rooms | Restaurant closed Wed. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Schwanen.  \nHOTEL | This bright, white building just a few steps from the main square has a guest room with a water bed for those with allergies. Many locals come to the restaurant ($) to enjoy fine regional specialties, not to mention pancakes. The pancakes, big as a platter, are topped with everything from salmon and mushrooms to applesauce and plums. Come on Thursday evening, when they are half price. Pros: great location; excellent-value restaurant. Cons: no elevator in historic building. | Rooms from: \u20ac94 | Forststr. 6 | 07441/91550 | www.schwanen-freudenstadt.de | 17 rooms, 1 apartment | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nGermans prize Black Forest ham (Schwarzwaldschinken) as an aromatic souvenir. You can buy one at any butcher shop in the region, but it's more fun to visit a Schinkenr\u00e4ucherei (smokehouse), where the ham is actually cured in a stone chamber. TIP By law the ham must be smoked over pinecones.\n\nHermann Wein.  \nHermann Wein, in the village of Musbach, near Freudenstadt, has one of the leading smokehouses in the area. If you have a group of people, call ahead to find out if the staff can show you around. TIP If you are looking for Black Forest Ham, this is the place to go. | Dornstetterstr. 29 | Musbach | 07443/2450 | www.schinken-wein.de.\n\n## Baiersbronn\n\n7 km (4\u00bd miles) northwest of Freudenstadt.\n\nThe mountain resort of Baiersbronn has an incredible collection of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts providing rest and relaxation in beautiful surroundings. Most people come here to walk, ski, golf, and ride horseback. TIP You may want to walk through the streets to preview the many restaurants.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBaiersbronn Touristik. | Rosenpl. 3 | 07442/84140 | www.baiersbronn.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nHauffs M\u00e4rchenmuseum (Fairy-Tale Museum).  \nNear the town hall and church in the upper part of town is the little Hauffs M\u00e4rchenmuseum, devoted to the crafts and life around Baiersbronn and the fairy-tale author Wilhelm Hauff (1802\u201327). | Alte Reichenbacherstr. 1 | 07442/84100 | \u20ac1.50 | Wed. and weekends 2\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFAMILY | Hotel-Caf\u00e9 Sackmann.  \nHOTEL | This imposing cluster of white houses, set in the narrow Murg Valley north of Baiersbronn, has broad appeal\u2014families can nest here thanks to children's programs; wellness-seekers can take advantage of the spa facilities on the roof; and sightseers can use this as a base for exploring much of the Black Forest. Comfortable guest rooms are in high-end country style, all with generously sized bathrooms. But best of all are the two restaurants under the leadership of one of Germany's finest chefs, J\u00f6rg Sackmann. The Anita-Stube ($$) serves regional specialties, and the Restaurant Schlossberg ($$$) delights diners with stunning creations such as John Dory with grapefruit, marinated bacon, and fresh coriander. Pros: good for families; beautiful location. Cons: far from the sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac160 | Murgtalstr. 602 | Schwarzenberg-Baiersbronn | 07447/2980 | www.hotel-sackmann.de | 65 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Lamm.  \nHOTEL | The steep-roof exterior of this 200-year-old typical Black Forest building presents a clear picture of the heavy oak fittings and fine antiques inside. In winter the lounge's fireplace is a welcome sight when you are returning from the slopes (the ski lift is nearby). In its beamed restaurant ($$) you can dine on fresh fish, which you may choose to catch yourself from one of the hotel's trout pools. Pros: beautiful traditional building; friendly staff. Cons: can feel remote in winter. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Ellbacherstr. 4 | Mitteltal-Baiersbronn | 07442/4980 | www.lamm-mitteltal.de | 33 rooms, 13 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Traube Tonbach.  \nHOTEL | Dating from 1778, this luxurious hotel is true to the original, yet the rooms, each of which presents a sweeping view of the Black Forest, meet contemporary standards; there are four fine restaurants on-site to choose from as well. The small army of extremely helpful and friendly staff, whom nearly outnumber the guests, also adds to the extravagance. If the classic French cuisine of the Schwarzwaldstube ($$$$) is too expensive, try either the international fare of the K\u00f6hlerstube ($$) or the Swabian dishes of the Bauernstube ($$). The Silberberg ($$$) serves gourmet classics and is open only to hotel guests. In the K\u00f6hlerstube and Bauernstube you'll dine beneath beamed ceilings at tables bright with fine silver and glassware. Pros: beautiful countryside setting; friendly and efficient staff; good choice of dining. Cons: expensive; credit cards only accepted in the restaurants, not in the hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac269 | Tonbachstr. 237 | 07442/4920 | www.traube-tonbach.de | 135 rooms, 23 apartments, 12 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Baden-Baden\n\n51 km (32 miles) north of Freudenstadt, 24 km (15 miles) north of Mummelsee.\n\nBaden-Baden, the most famous and fashionable spa town rests in a wooded valley north of the Mummelsee on B-500. The town sits atop an extensive underground hot springs that gave the city its name. Roman legions of the emperor Caracalla discovered the springs and named the area Aquae Aureliae. The upper classes of the 19th century, seeking leisurely pursuits, rediscovered the bubbling waters, establishing Baden-Baden as the unofficial summer residence of many European royal families. The town's fortunes also rose and fell with gaming: gambling began in the mid-18th century but was banned by the Kaiser between 1872 and 1933. Palatial homes and stately villas grace the tree-lined avenues, and the spa tradition continues at the ornate casino and two thermal baths, one historic and luxurious, the other modern and well used by families. Since Baden-Baden is only two hours from Frankfurt Airport by train, the spa makes a nice last stop on the way home.\n\nThough some Germans come here for two- to three-week doctor-prescribed treatments (German health insurance pays for a weeklong Kur [cure] once every five years), the spa concept also embraces facilities for those just looking for pampering. Shops line several pedestrian streets that eventually climb up toward the old marketplace. Two theaters present frequent ballet performances, plays, and concerts (by the excellent Southwest German Radio Symphony Orchestra).\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nHigh-speed ICE trains stop at Baden-Baden en route between Frankfurt and Basel. However, the station is some 4 km (2\u00bd miles) northwest of the center. To get downtown, take one of the many buses that leave from outside the station. Once in the center, Baden-Baden is manageable on foot, but there is a range of alternatives available if you get tired, including a tourist train and horse-drawn carriages.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBaden-Baden Kur- und Tourismus GmbH. | Solmsstr. 1 | 07221/275\u2013266 | www.baden-baden.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nCasino.  \nBaden-Baden is quite proud of its casino, Germany's oldest, opened in 1855 after Parisian interior decorators and artists polished the last chandelier. Its concession to the times is that you may wear your jeans amid all the frescoes, stucco, and porcelain (but why would you?). Gentlemen must wear a jacket and tie with their jeans, but whatever you do, leave your sneakers at the hotel. If you don't have a jacket and tie, one will be provided for a minimal charge. In 1853 a Parisian, Jacques B\u00e9nazet, persuaded the sleepy little Black Forest spa to build gambling rooms to enliven its evenings. The result was a series of richly decorated gaming rooms in which even an emperor could feel at home\u2014and did. Kaiser Wilhelm I was a regular visitor, as was his chancellor, Bismarck. The Russian novelist Dostoyevsky, the Aga Khan, and Marlene Dietrich all patronized the place. The minimum stake is \u20ac2; maximum, \u20ac7,000. Passports are necessary as proof of identity. Guided tours (25 minutes) are offered in English, on request. | Kaiserallee 1 | 07221/30240 | www.casino-baden-baden.de | \u20ac5, tour \u20ac5 | Sun.\u2013Thurs. 2 pm\u20132 am, Fri. and Sat. 2 pm\u20133 am. Tours: Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9:30\u201311:30 am; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u201311:30 am.\n\nRussian church.  \nThe sandstone church is located on the corner of Robert Kochstrasse and Lichtentalerstrasse. The Russian diaspora community in Baden-Baden consecrated it in 1882; it's identifiable by its golden onion dome. | Lichtentalerstr. 76 | \u20ac2 | Feb.\u2013Nov., daily 10\u20136.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAbtei Lichtenthal.  \nThe Lichtentaler Allee ends at Abtei Lichtenthal, a medieval Cistercian abbey surrounded by stout defensive walls. The small royal chapel next to the church was built in 1288 and was used from the late 14th century onward as a final resting place for the Baden dynasty princes. Call ahead if your group wants a tour in English. | Hauptstr. 40 | 07221/504\u2013910 | www.abtei-lichtenthal.de | Tours \u20ac5 | Tours Wed. and weekends at 3.\n\nLichtentaler Allee.  \nBordering the slender Oos River, which runs through town, the Lichtentaler Allee is a groomed park with two museums and an extensive rose garden, the G\u00f6nneranlage, which contains more than 300 types of roses. | Lichtentaler Allee 64.\n\nMuseum Frieder Burda.  \nThe Museum Frieder Burda occupies a modern structure by acclaimed New York architect Richard Meier. Construction of this institution contributed greatly to pulling Baden-Baden out of its slumber. The private collection focuses on classic modern and contemporary art. Highlights are works of Picasso, German expressionists, the New York School, and American abstract expressionists. | Lichtentaler Allee 8b | 07221/398\u2013980 | www.museum-frieder-burda.de | \u20ac12 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nGut N\u00e4gelsf\u00f6rst Vineyard.  \nThe region's wines, especially the dry Baden whites and delicate reds, are highly valued in Germany. TIP Buy them directly from any vintner on the Baden Wine Road. At Yburg, outside Baden-Baden, the 400-year-old Gut N\u00e4gelsf\u00f6rst vineyard has a shop where you can buy the product and sample what you buy (weekdays 9\u20136, Saturday 10\u20134). | N\u00e4gelsf\u00f6rst 1 | 07221/398\u2013980.\n\n### Spas\n\nThe history of \"taking the waters\" in Baden-Baden dates back to AD 75, when the Roman army established the city of Aqu\u00e6 Aureli\u00e6. The legions under Emporer Caracalla soon discovered that the regions' salty underground hot springs were just the thing for aching joints.\n\nIn a modern sense, bathing became popular within the upper-class elite when Friedrich I banned gambling in 1872. Everyone from Queen Victoria to Karl Marx dangled their feet in the pool and sang the curative praises of the salty warm water bubbling from the ground.\n\nCaracalla Therme.  \nIf you are a bit modest and prefer to wear a swimsuit in the water, walk across the square to the more modern Caracalla Therme, named in honor of the Roman emperor who brought bathing to Baden-Baden. The indoor-outdoor pool area has three separate baths, with temperatures between 18\u00b0C and 38\u00b0C (64\u00b0F\u2013100\u00b0F). Supplement the soaking experience with whirlpools, Jacuzzis, and waterfalls. Children under 7 are not allowed in the spa and children under 14 must be accompanied by an adult. | R\u00f6merpl. 1 | 07221/275\u2013940 | www.carasana.de | \u20ac18 for 3 hrs | Daily 8 am\u201310 pm.\n\nFriedrichsbad.  \nIn a city with many spa options, the Friedrichsbad, also known as the Roman-Irish Baths, is the most noble and elegant choice. If you choose to take the waters, the Friedrichbad's ornate copper and terra-cotta temple is the best place to do it, though keep in mind that you'll have to bathe in the buff, as swimsuits aren't allowed. The spa treatment offers everything from a soap and brush massage to thermal steam baths. TIP Spend at least a half hour in the relaxation area afterward to ease the transition back into the real world. Note children under 14 are not allowed. | R\u00f6merpl. 1 | 07221/275\u2013920 | www.carasana.de | \u20ac55 for 4 hrs all-inclusive, \u20ac23 with no massage. | Daily 9 am\u201310 pm. Tues., Wed., Fri., and Sun. mixed bathing. Mon., Thurs., and Sat. gender-separate bathing.\n\nR\u00f6mische Badruinen.  \nThe remains of the original Roman settlement can be seen at the R\u00f6mische Badruinen. The remains of the Roman bathhouse are explained with a computer animation that virtually reconstructs the entire area. | R\u00f6merpl. 1, D\u201376530 | \u20ac2.50 | Mar.\u2013Nov., daily 11\u20131 and 2\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nDer Kleine Prinz.  \nFRENCH | This gourmet hotel restaurant is a local favorite in Baden-Baden. The cheery fireplace, lighted in winter, and candlelit dining provide an elegant atmosphere that complements the finest French-inspired dishes. The extensive wine list includes some excellent local offerings. As in the hotel, all the decor\u2014designed by the owner's wife\u2014right down to the dinner plates, reflect the children's tale from which the restaurant takes its name. | Average main: \u20ac27 | Lichtentalerstr. 36 | 07221/346\u2013600 | www.derkleineprinz.de | Reservations essential.\n\nLe Jardin de France.  \nFRENCH | This clean, crisp little French restaurant, whose owners are actually French, emphasizes elegant, imaginative dining in a modern setting. The restaurant sits in a quiet courtyard away from the main street, offering the possibility of alfresco dining in summer. The milk-fed suckling pig and Russian cuisine are well worth the visit. It also runs a school for budding chefs. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Lichtentalerstr. 13 | 07221/300\u20137860 | www.lejardindefrance.de | Closed Sun. and Mon.\n\nWeinstube im Baldreit.  \nWINE BAR | This lively little wine bar enchants you with its lovely terraces and courtyard. It's nestled in the middle of the Old Town, making the garden and terrace the perfect place to meet friends over a dry Riesling. Enjoy some of the best Maultaschen (ravioli) and solid Black Forest cuisine in the huge barrel-vaulted cellar near the fireplace. | Average main: \u20ac11 | K\u00fcferstr. 3 | 07221/23136 | Closed Sun. No lunch weekdays Nov.\u2013Mar.\n\n* * *\n\nWord of Mouth: A German Spa Experience\n\n\"On a recent trip to Germany, friends told us about the [Friedrichsbad] spa at Baden-Baden. You go through 17 different stations involving water, heat, and cold. Men on one side and women on another. In the middle, men and women meet in the thermal therapy pool. On certain days, men and women share all the facilities, on others the sexes are separated. On holidays, it is coed. Why must you know this? Because the spa is not a clothing-optional zone. Clothing is not allowed. . . . Nudity here is no big thing. In the summer people in the parks of Munich sunbathe topless and no one bats an eye. Going to a spa is just part of life here and it's considered therapeutic. . . . You change into your birthday suit, and take from your locker a sheet, which turns out is your towel. At each station, there are instructions on the wall, in English, telling you how long to stay in that particular room. After a good dousing, you go to the 'warm air bath.' It's then you discover that the sheet is not for covering you up, but to lay upon on the very hot wood tables in the sauna where the temperature is a balmy 129 degrees. Next, it's the 'hot air bath' and you ask yourself, what did I just have. Then you find out what hot is. 154 degrees for 5 minutes, I think. . . . Next you get to shower again before heading to the steam baths, 113 and 118 degrees, after which you start to cool down in the thermal whirlpool and therapy pools. The latter is under a huge domed room done in the Roman style. Next it's another shower before the cold water immersion bath at 64 degrees, which after what you just experienced feels like 30 degrees. Next you get a warm towel to dry off before going to the cream service room, where if you choose, you can rub various lotions on your body. Hey, I paid for it, I'm doing it. Lastly the relaxation room for 30 minutes. Here you lay on a table and the attendant wraps you in a warm sheet and blanket. The whole thing takes about 2.5 hours and you never have felt so relaxed and clean. . . . Was it worth it? You bet. Did I feel uncomfortable? Only for the first 5 minutes when I didn't know what to do with the sheet. Would I do it again? Why not?\"\n\n\u2013dgassa\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAm Markt.  \nHOTEL | This 250-plus-year-old building houses a modest inn run for more than 50 years by the Bogner family. In the oldest part of town - a traffic-free zone, reached via an uphill climb - it's close enough to the Roman Baths to stumble home. Ask for a room overlooking the city. Pros: quiet location; some rooms have great views. Cons: a stiff climb up from the main sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac86 | Marktpl. 17\u201318 | 07221/27040 | www.hotel-am-markt-baden.de | 25 rooms, 17 with bath | Breakfast.\n\nBrenner's Park Hotel & Spa.  \nHOTEL | With some justification, this stately hotel set in a private park claims to be one of the best in the world. Behind it passes leafy Lichtentaler Allee, where Queen Victoria and Czar Alexander II strolled in their day, although probably not together. Luxury abounds in the hotel, and all rooms and suites are umptuously furnished and appointed. An extensive beauty-and-fitness program is available. Pros: elegant rooms; good location; quiet. Cons: professional staff sometimes lack personal touch. | Rooms from: \u20ac375 | Schillerstr. 6 | 07221/9000 | 70 rooms, 30 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\nFodor's Choice | Der Kleine Prinz.  \nHOTEL | Owner Norbert Rademacher, a veteran of New York's Waldorf-Astoria, and his interior-designer wife Edeltraud have skillfully combined two elegant city mansions into a unique, antiques-filled lodging. Antoine de Saint-Exup\u00e9ry's illustrations for his 1943 French children's classic Le Petit Prince charmingly adorn the rooms. The hotel's restaurant (Fsee dining review above) is worthy of your attention whether you are staying as a guest or not. Pros: friendly and welcoming; some rooms have wood-burning fireplaces; most bathrooms have whirlpool tubs. Cons: rooms in one of the hotel's two buildings are only accessible via stairs. | Rooms from: \u20ac199 | Lichtentalerstr. 36 | 07221/346\u2013600 | www.derkleineprinz.de | 26 rooms, 15 suites | Breakfast.\n\nDeutscher Kaiser.  \nHOTEL | This centrally located hotel provides homey and individually styled rooms at prices that are easy on the wallet. Some of the double rooms have balconies on a quiet street. The hotel is just a short walk from the casino. Pros: some rooms have balconies; central location. Cons: some rooms quite small; down side street so views not great. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Merkurstr. 9 | 07221/2700 | www.deutscher-kaiser-baden-baden.de | 28 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Belle Epoque.  \nHOTEL | The sister hotel to Der Kleine Prinz is in a building with large rooms, soaring ceilings, spacious beds, genuine antiques from Louis XV to art deco, and luxurious baths\u2014in some cases cleverly built to comply with strict monument-protection laws. High tea in the salon or the romantic little garden with fountain is a must. Contemporary furnishings distinguish the rooms in the new wing. Pros: beautiful gardens; room price includes afternoon tea; personal and friendly service. Cons: only the newer wing has an elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac230 | Maria-Viktoriastr. 2c | 07221/300\u2013660 | www.hotel-belle-epoque.de | 20 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nSchlosshotel B\u00fchlerh\u00f6he.  \nHOTEL | This \"castle-hotel\" stands majestically on its own extensive grounds 10 km (6 miles) from Baden-Baden, with spectacular views over the heights of the Black Forest. Walking trails start virtually at the hotel door. Its restaurant, the Imperial ($$$$; closed Monday and Tuesday and January - mid-February), features French fare with international touches, such as lamb in feta cheese crust with ratatouille and gnocchi. In the Schlossrestaurant ($$$), overlooking the Rhine Valley, regional and international dishes are offered. Rooms are cheaper during the week. Pros: quiet location; great for hikers. Cons: a long way from downtown. | Rooms from: \u20ac180 | Schwarzwaldhochstr. 1 | B\u00fchl | 07226/550 | www.buehlerhoehe.de | 77 rooms, 13 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nNightlife revolves around Baden-Baden's elegant casino.\n\nFestspielhaus.  \nThis state-of-the-art concert hall is actually a renovated old train station. | Beim Alten Bahnhof 2 | 07221/301\u20133101 | www.festspielhaus.de.\n\nKurhaus.  \nThe Kurhaus adjoining the casino is an intimate concert venue that hosts classical music concerts year-round. | Kaiserallee 1 | 07221/353\u2013202 | www.kurhaus-baden-baden.de.\n\nLiving Room.  \nThe Hotel Merkur has a small nightclub called the Living Room that serves a slightly older crowd. | Merkurstr. 8 | 07221/303\u2013366.\n\nOleander Bar.  \nFor a subdued evening in a quiet horse-racing-themed lounge, stop by the Oleander Bar and enjoy cocktails among a diverse adult crowd. | Schillerstr. 6 | 07221/9000.\n\nTheater Baden-Baden.  \nBaden-Baden has one of Germany's most beautiful performance halls, Theater Baden-Baden, a late-baroque jewel built in 1860\u201362 in the style of the Paris Op\u00e9ra. It opened with the world premiere of Berlioz's opera Beatrice et Benedict. Today the theater presents a regular series of dramas, operas, and ballets. | Goethepl. 1 | 07221/932\u2013700 | www.theater.baden-baden.de.\n\nTrinkhalle.  \nBaden-Baden attracts an older crowd, but the deep leather seats of the Trinkhalle make a hip lounge for those under 40. At night this daytime bistro also takes over the portion of the hall where the tourist office has a counter, transforming it into a dance floor. | Kaiserallee 3.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n##### Golf\n\nBaden-Baden Golf Club.  \nThe 18-hole Baden-Baden course is considered one of Europe's finest. Built in 1901, it's also the third oldest course in Germany. Contact the Golf Club for rates and tee times. | Fremersbergstr. 127 | 07221/23579 | www.golf-club-baden-baden.de | \u20ac80 for 18 holes.\n\n#### Horseback Riding\n\nIffezheim.  \nThe racetrack at nearby Iffezheim harks back to the days when Baden-Baden was a magnet for royalty and aristocrats. Its tradition originated in 1858; now annual international meets take place in late May, late August, early September, and October. | Rennbahnstr. 16 | Iffezheim | 07229/1870.\n\nReitzentrum Balg.  \nThose wishing to ride can rent horses and get instruction at the Reitzentrum Balg. | Buchenweg 42 | 07221/55920.\n\nEn Route: Merkur.  \nThe road to Gernsbach, a couple of miles east of Baden-Baden, skirts the 2,000-foot-high mountain peak Merkur, named after a monument to the god Mercury that dates from Roman times and still stands just below the mountain summit. You can take the cable car to the summit, but it's not a trip for the fainthearted\u2014the incline (54 degrees) is one of Europe's steepest. | 2 Merkuriusberg | Round-trip \u20ac5 | Daily 10\u201310.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Schloss.  \nTwo chateaulike castles are found between Baden-Baden and Ettlingen. The pink-sandstone, three-wing Schloss forms the centerpiece of the small town of Rastatt. Built at the end of the 17th century by Margrave Ludwig Wilhelm of Baden (known as Ludwig the Turk for his exploits in the Turkish wars), its highlights include the chapel, gardens, and a pagoda. Inside the palace itself are museums of German history. Guided tours are possible if you call ahead. | Herrenstr. 18 | 07222/34244 | www.wgm-rastatt.de | \u20ac7 | Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20134:30; Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135:30.\n\nSchloss Favorite. Five kilometers (3 miles) south of Rastatt, in F\u00f6rch, Ludwig the Turk's Bohemian-born wife, Sibylle Augusta, constructed her own charming little summer palace, Schloss Favorite, after his death. Inside, in an exotic, imaginative baroque interior of mirrors, tiles, and marble, her collection of miniatures, mosaics, and porcelain is strikingly displayed. | Am Schloss Favorite 5 | 07222/41207 | www.schloss-favorite.de | \u20ac8 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Oct.\u2013mid-Nov., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Fahrzeugmuseum Marxzell  \n(Vehicle Museum). A group of ancient locomotives and other old machines at the side of the road lures you into the remarkable Fahrzeugmuseum. It looks more like a junkyard, with geese and ducks waddling freely about, but every kind of early engine is represented. The focus is on German automobile pioneer Karl Benz (1844\u20131929), who built the first practical automobile, in 1888. A farm-machine exhibition shows old steam-driven tractors. There is a room filled with old motorbikes, another displaying Rolls-Royces, Alfa Romeos, Jaguars, and a vintage fire engine. It's in Marxzell, just south of Etlingen. | Albtalstr. 2 | Marxzell | 07248/6262 | www.fahrzeugmuseum-marxzell.de | \u20ac5 | Daily 2\u20135.\n\n## Karlsruhe\n\n10 km (6 miles) north of Ettlingen.\n\nKarlsruhe, founded at the beginning of the 18th century, is a young upstart, but what it lacks in years it makes up for in industrial and administrative importance, sitting as it does astride a vital autobahn and rail crossroads. It's best known as the seat of Germany's Supreme Court, and has a high concentration of legal practitioners.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe Autobahn A-5 connects Freiburg, Baden-Baden, and Karlsruhe. Karlsruhe's train station is an easy 15-minute walk from the city center and trains run frequently throughout the region; south to baden Baden (15 minutes) and Freiburg (1 hour), and east to Pforzheim (25 minutes) and Frankfurt (1 hour).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nKarlsruhe Tourist-Information. | Bahnhofpl. 6 | 0721/3720\u20135383 | www.karlsruhe.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBadisches Landesmuseum (Baden State Museum).  \nThe Badisches Landesmuseum, in the palace, has a large number of Greek and Roman antiquities and trophies that Ludwig the Turk brought back from campaigns in Turkey in the 17th century. Most of the other exhibits are devoted to local history. | Schloss, Schlossbezirk 10 | 0721/926\u20136514 | www.landesmuseum.de | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20135, Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nSchloss.  \nThe town quite literally grew up around the former Schloss of the Margrave Karl Wilhelm, which was begun in 1715. Thirty-two avenues radiate from the palace, 23 leading into the extensive grounds, and the remaining 9 forming the grid of the Old Town. | Schlossbezirk 10.\n\nStaatliche Kunsthalle (State Art Gallery).  \nOne of the most important collections of paintings in the Black Forest region hangs in the Staatliche Kunsthalle. Look for masterpieces by Gr\u00fcnewald, Holbein, Rembrandt, and Monet, and also for work by the Black Forest painter Hans Thoma. In the Kunsthalle Orangerie, next door, is work by such modern artists as Braque and Beckmann. | Hans-Thoma-Str. 2\u20136 | 0721/926\u20133359 | www.kunsthalle-karlsruhe.de | Both museums \u20ac8 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20135, weekends 10\u20136.\n\nFAMILY | Zentrum f\u00fcr Kunst und Medientechnologie (Center for Art and Media Technology).  \nIn a former munitions factory, the vast Zentrum f\u00fcr Kunst und Medientechnologie, or simply ZKM, is an all-day adventure consisting of two separate museums. At the Medienmuseum (Media Museum) you can watch movies, listen to music, try out video games, flirt with a virtual partner, or sit on a real bicycle and pedal through a virtual New York City. TIP Take Tram No. 6 to ZKM to get here. | Lorenzstr. 19 | 0721/81000 | www.zkm.de | Either museum \u20ac6, combined ticket \u20ac10, free after 2 on Fri. | Wed.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20136.\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Neue Kunst (Museum of Modern Art). There is a top-notch collection of media art in all genres from the end of the 20th century. | Lorenzstr. 19 | 0721/81000 | www.mnk.zkm.de | \u20ac4\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nBuchmanns.  \nGERMAN | Elke and G\u00fcnter Buchmann run a \"linen tablecloth and real silver\" establishment, with a beer garden and a bar. The various suggested courses are grouped on the fancy handwritten menu, along with the fancy price of each dish. You can just order one of the courses, but be prepared for a disapproving look. The proprietors are Austrian, and the specialties of their homeland, such as Tafelspitz (boiled beef with horseradish applesauce) and Kaiserschmarrn (torn-up fluffy egg pancakes with apples, raisins, cinnamon, and jam), are recommended, but the Wiener schnitzel is divine. If you have trouble with the extensive wine list, the waitstaff is ready and willing to help. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Mathystr. 22 | 0721/820\u20133730 | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nSchlosshotel.  \nHOTEL | A few steps from the main station, this hotel looks, and sometimes behaves, like a palace. It's proud of its marble bathrooms, a mirrored elevator dating from 1914, and a menu from 1943, but the guest rooms are similar to those of modern hotels. The restaurant Zum Grossherzog ($$$; closed Sunday) serves international haute cuisine, and the very gem\u00fctlich (cozy) Schwarzwaldstube ($$) has Baden specialties. Pros: elegant hotel; friendly service; advanced onilne booking saves can save up to \u20ac50. Cons: on a noisy street; modern rooms don't live up to the historic feel of the hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Bahnhofpl. 2 | 0721/38320 | www.schlosshotel-karlsruhe.de | 93 rooms, 3 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\n### The Arts\n\nBadisches Staatstheater.  \nOne of the best opera houses in the region is Karlsruhe's Badisches Staatstheater. | Baumeisterstr. 11 | 0721/35570 | www.staatstheater.karlsruhe.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAlpirsbach | Gutach | Triberg\n\nThe Central Black Forest takes in the Simonswald, Elz, and Glotter valleys as well as Triberg and Furtwangen, with their clock museums. The area around the Triberg Falls\u2014the highest falls in Germany\u2014is also renowned for pom-pom hats, thatch-roof farmhouses, and mountain railways. The Schwarzwaldbahn (Black Forest Railway; Offenburg\u2013Villingen line), which passes through Triberg, is one of the most scenic in all of Europe.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Alpirsbach\n\n16 km (10 miles) south of Freudenstadt.\n\nThe hamlet of Alpirsbach was founded in 1035 and developed around the Benedictine monastery Kloster Alpirsbach. Although the wages of the reformation forced the abbey to close its doors in 1535, the tradition of brewing is still going strong. Locals claim that it's the pristine artesian water that makes the beer from the Alpirsbacher Klosterbr\u00e4u (brewery) so incredible. The village maintains a preserved historic core with a fine collection of half-timber houses that only add to the charm.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nAlpirsbach is on the direct train line between Freudenstadt and Offenburg. Alpirsbach is a great day trip by train from Freiburg (two hours with a change in Offenburg)\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nAlpirsbach Tourist-Information. | Hauptstr. 20 | 07444/951\u20136281 | www.alpirsbach.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBrauerei (Brewery).  \nThe Brauerei was once part of the monastery, and has brewed beer since the Middle Ages. The unusually soft water gives the beer a flavor that is widely acclaimed. There are guided tours of the brewery museum daily at 2:30. If there's one place in Germany to go out of your way for a beer, Alpirsbach is it. | Marktpl. 1 | 07444/67149 | www.alpirsbacher-brauwelt.de | Tour \u20ac6.90 | Mar.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9:30\u20134:30, weekends 11\u20133; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 11\u20133.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nZwickel & Kaps.  \nGERMAN | The name is a highly sophisticated brewing term, describing the means by which the brewmaster samples the fermenting product. Sit down at one of the simple beech-wood tables and order a satisfying Swabian lentil stew with dumplings and sausages, or something more Mediterranean, such as salmon with pesto. All the pasta, bread, and sauces are home-made. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Marktstr. 3 | 07444/51727 | Closed Mon.\n\n## Gutach\n\n17 km (11 miles) north of Triberg.\n\nGutach lies in Gutachtal, a valley famous for the traditional costumes, complete with pom-pom hats, worn by women on feast days and holidays. Married women wear black pom-poms, unmarried women red ones. The village is one of the few places in the Black Forest where you can still see thatch roofs. However, escalating costs caused by a decline in skilled thatchers, and soaring fire-insurance premiums, make for fewer thatch roofs than there were 20 years ago.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nGutach is a 20-minute train ride from Freiburg. Trains leave once per hour.\n\n### Exploring\n\nSchwarzw\u00e4lder Freilichtmuseum Vogtsbauernhof (Black Forest Open-Air Museum).  \nNear Gutach is one of the most appealing museums in the Black Forest, the Schwarzw\u00e4lder Freilichtmuseum Vogtsbauernhof. Farmhouses and other rural buildings from all parts of the region have been transported here from their original locations and reassembled, complete with traditional furniture, to create a living museum of Black Forest building types through the centuries. Demonstrations ranging from traditional dances to woodworking capture life as it was in centuries past. | B-33, Vogtsbauernhof | 07831/93560 | www.vogtsbauernhof.org | \u20ac8 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135 (Aug. until 6).\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Schwarzwalder Trachtenmuseum.  \nRegional traditional costumes can be seen at this museum in a former monastery in the village of Haslach, 10 km (6 miles) northwest of Gutach. The village is quaint, with a fine collection of half-timber houses. Pom-pom-topped straw hats, bejeweled headdresses, embroidered velvet vests, and Fasnet (Carnival) regalia of all parts of the forest are on display. | Klosterstr. 1 | 07832/706\u2013172 | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., Tues.\u2013Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. 10\u20135; mid-Oct.\u2013Dec., Feb.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u2013noon and 1\u20135; Jan. by appointment.\n\n* * *\n\nGerman Cuckoo Clocks\n\n\"In Switzerland they had brotherly love\u2014they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.\"\n\nSo says Harry Lime, played by Orson Welles in the classic 1949 film The Third Man. He misspoke in two ways. First, the Swiss are an industrious, technologically advanced people. And second, they didn't invent the cuckoo clock. That was the work of the Germans living in the adjacent Black Forest.\n\nThe first Kuckucksuhr was designed and built in 1750 by Franz Anton Ketterer in Sch\u00f6nwald near Triberg. He cleverly produced the cuckoo sound with a pair of wooden whistles, each attached to a bellows activated by the clock's mechanism.\n\nThe making of carved wooden clocks developed rapidly in the Black Forest. The people on the farms needed ways to profitably occupy their time during the long snowbound winters, and the carving of clocks was the answer. Wood was abundant, and the early clocks were entirely of wood, even the works.\n\nCome spring one of the sons would don a traditional smock and hat, mount the family's winter output on a big rack, hoist it to his back, and set off into the world to sell the clocks. In 1808 there were 688 clock makers and 582 clock peddlers in the districts of Triberg and Neustadt. The Uhrentr\u00e4ger (clock carrier) is an important part of the Black Forest tradition. Guides often wear the traditional costume.\n\nThe traditional cuckoo clock is made with brown stained wood with a gabled roof and some sort of woodland motif carved into it, such as a deer's head or a cluster of leaves. The works are usually activated by cast-iron weights, in the form of pinecones, on chains.\n\nToday's clocks can be much more elaborate. Dancing couples in traditional dress automatically move to the sound of a music box, a mill wheel turns on the hour, a farmer chops wood on the hour, the Uhrentr\u00e4ger even makes his rounds. The cuckoo itself moves its wings and beak and rocks back and forth when calling.\n\nThe day is long past when the clocks were made entirely of wood. The works are of metal and therefore more reliable and accurate. Other parts of the clock, such as the whistles, the face, and the hands, are usually of plastic now, but hand-carved wood is still the rule for the case. The industry is still centered in Triberg. There are two museums in the area with sections dedicated to it, and clocks are sold everywhere, even in kiosks.\n\n* * *\n\n## Triberg\n\n16 km (10 miles) south of Gutach.\n\nThe cuckoo clock, that symbol of the Black Forest, is at home in the Triberg area. It was invented here, it's made and sold here, it's featured in two museums, and there are two house-size cuckoo clocks here.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTriberg is accessible via one of the prettiest train rides in Germany, with direct services to Lake Constance and Karlsruhe. The train station is at the lower end of the long main street, and the waterfalls are a stiff uphill walk away. You can take a bus up the hill from the train station to the entrance to the waterfalls, relieving most of the uphill struggle.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTriberg Tourist-Information. | Wahlfahrtstr. 4 | 07722/866\u2013490 | www.triberg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nEble Uhren-Park.  \nYou can buy a cuckoo clock, or just about any other timepiece or souvenir, at the huge Eble Uhren-Park, about 3 km (2 miles) from the town center in the district of Schonachbach. It's also the location of one of the house-size cuckoo clocks. You can enter it for \u20ac2 and examine the works. | Schonachbach 27, on B-33 between Triberg and Hornberg | 07722/96220 | www.eble-uhren-park.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20136, Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20136, Sun. 11\u20134:30.\n\nHaus der 1000 Uhren (House of 1,000 Clocks).  \nThe Haus der 1000 Uhren has a shop right at the waterfall. The main store, just off B-33 toward Offenburg in the suburb of Gremmelsbach, boasts another of the town's giant cuckoo clocks. Both stores offer a rich variety of clocks, some costing as much as \u20ac3,000. | Hauptstr. 79\u201381 | 07722/96300 | www.houseof1000clocks.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20135, Sun. 11\u20134.\n\nHubert Herr.  \nHubert Herr is the only factory that continues to make nearly all of its own components for its cuckoo clocks. The present proprietors are the fifth generation from Andreas and Christian Herr, who began making the clocks more than 150 years ago. The company produces a great variety of clocks, including one that, at 5\u00bc inches high, is claimed to be \"the world's smallest.\" | Hauptstr. 8 | 07722/4268 | www.hubertherr.de | Weekdays 9\u2013noon and 1:30\u20134.\n\nSchwarzwaldbahn (Black Forest Railway).  \nThe Hornberg\u2013Triberg\u2013St. Georgen segment of the Schwarzwaldbahn is one of Germany's most scenic train rides. The 149-km (93-mile) Schwarzwaldbahn, built from 1866 to 1873, runs from Offenburg to Lake Constance via Triberg. It has no fewer than 39 tunnels, and at one point climbs almost 2,000 feet in just 11 km (6\u00bd miles). It's now part of the German Railway, and you can make inquiries at any station. | 11861 | www.bahn.de.\n\nSchwarzwaldmuseum (Black Forest Museum).  \nTriberg's famous Schwarzwaldmuseum is a treasure trove of the region's traditional arts: wood carving, costumes, and handicrafts. The Schwarzwaldbahn is described, with historical displays and a working model. The Black Forest was also a center of mechanical music, and, among many other things, the museum has an \"Orchestrion\"\u2014a cabinet full of mechanical instruments playing like an orchestra. | Wallfahrtstr. 4 | 07722/4434 | www.schwarzwaldmuseum.de | \u20ac5 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nTriberg Waterfalls.  \nAt the head of the Gutach Valley, the Gutach River plunges more than 500 feet over seven huge granite cascades at Triberg's waterfall, Germany's highest. The pleasant 45-minute walk from the center of town is well signposted. A longer walk goes by a small pilgrimage church and the old Mesnerh\u00e4uschen, the sacristan's house. | Friedrichstr. | Waterfall \u20ac3.50.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel-Restaurant-Pfaff.  \nHOTEL | Rooms at this restaurant-hotel are very comfortable; some have balconies overlooking the famous waterfall. The old post-and-beam restaurant ($$), with its blue-tile Kachel\u00f6fen, attracts people of all types with affordable regional specialties. Try the fresh Forelle (trout), either steamed or Gasthof-style (in the pan), garnished with mushrooms. Pros: friendly service; close to waterfall. Cons: some rooms quite small; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac76 | Hauptstr. 85 | 07722/4479 | www.hotel-pfaff.com | 10 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nParkhotel Wehrle.  \nHOTEL | This large mansion, which dominates the town center, has a wisteria-covered facade, steep eaves, and individually furnished, wood-accented rooms. The hotel offers some pleasant touches such as fresh flowers, and there is a fitness facility. The Ochsenstube ($$) serves duck breast with three types of noodles and a sauce of oranges, pears, and truffles; the Alte Schmiede ($$) tends toward specialties from Baden, such as trout done a dozen different ways, all delicious. Pros: elegant rooms; friendly service. Cons: main street outside can be noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac149 | Gartenstr. 24 | 07722/86020 | www.parkhotel-wehrle.de | 50 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Stadtmuseum.  \nRottweil, 26 km (16 miles) east of Triberg, has the best of the Black Forest's Fasnet celebrations. Outside the Black Forest, the celebrations are good-natured and sophisticated, but here and in adjacent areas of Switzerland they're pagan and fierce. In the days just before Ash Wednesday, usually in February, witches and devils roam the streets wearing ugly wooden masks and making fantastic gyrations as they crack whips and ring bells. If you can't make it to Rottweil during the Carnival season, you can still catch the spirit of Fasnet. There's an exhibit on it at the Stadtmuseum, and tours are organized to the shops where they carve the masks and make the costumes and bells. The name \"Rottweil\" may be more familiar as the name for a breed of dog. The area used to be a center of beef production, and locals bred the Rottweiler to herd the cattle. | Hauptstr. 20 | Rottweil | 0741/494\u2013330 | \u20ac2 | Tues.\u2013Sun. noon\u20134 | Closed Mon.\n\nEn Route: Uhren Museum (Clock Museum).  \nIn the center of Furtwangen, 16 km (10 miles) south of Triberg, drop in on the Uhren Museum, the largest such museum in Germany. It charts the development of Black Forest clocks and exhibits all types of timepieces, from cuckoo clocks, church clock mechanisms, kinetic wristwatches, and old decorative desktop clocks to punch clocks and digital blinking objects. The most elaborate piece is the \"art clock\" by local artisan August Noll, built from 1880 to 1885 and featuring the time in Calcutta, New York, Melbourne, and London, among other places. It emits the sound of a crowing rooster in the morning, and other chimes mark yearly events. | Robert-Gerwig-Pl. 1 | 07723/920\u20132800 | www.deutsches-uhrenmuseum.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTitisee | Freiburg | Staufen | Kaiserstuhl | Rust\n\nIn the south you'll find the most spectacular mountain scenery in the area, culminating in the Feldberg\u2014at 4,899 feet the highest mountain in the Black Forest. The region also has two large lakes, the Titisee and the Schluchsee. Freiburg is a romantic university city with vineyards and a superb Gothic cathedral.\n\n## Titisee\n\n37 km (23 miles) south of Furtwangen.\n\nBeautiful Titisee, carved by a glacier in the last ice age, is the most scenic lake in the Black Forest. The heavily wooded landscape is ideal for long bike tours, which can be organized through the Titisee tourist office. The lake measures 2\u00bd km (1\u00bd miles) long and is invariably crowded in summer. Stop by one of the many lakeside caf\u00e9s to enjoy some of the region's best Black Forest cherry cake with an unparalleled waterside view. TIP Boats and Windsurfers can be rented at several points along the shore.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTitisee-Neustadt Tourist-Information. | Strandbadstr. 4, | Titisee-Neustadt | 07651/98040 | www.titisee.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nGasthaus Sonnenmatte.  \nHOTEL | There are countless hotels and restaurants clustered around the lakeshore, but for a quieter time and to escape the crowds in summer, it's worth heading farther from the lake. This guesthouse is about 2 km (1 mi) inland, in the middle of a meadow. There's a swimming pool, a barbecue grill, and an outdoor chess set in the garden. Weekly dances are a feature year-round, and in summer the restaurant ($) stages regular grill parties. Pros: quiet rural location; friendly service; away from the Titisee crowds. Cons: away from the Titisee views; some rooms quite small. | Rooms from: \u20ac49 | Spriegelsbach 5 | Titisee-Neustadt | 07651/8277 | www.sonnenmatte.de | 30 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: To get to Freiburg, the largest city in the southern Black Forest, you have to brave the curves of the winding road through the H\u00f6llental (Hell Valley). In 1770 Empress Maria Theresa's 15-year-old daughter\u2014the future queen Marie Antoinette\u2014made her way along what was then a coach road on her way from Vienna to Paris. She traveled with an entourage of 250 officials and servants in some 50 horse-drawn carriages. The first stop at the end of the valley is a little village called Himmelreich, or Kingdom of Heaven. Railroad engineers are said to have given the village its name in the 19th century, grateful as they were to finally have laid a line through Hell Valley. At the entrance to H\u00f6llental is a deep gorge, the Ravennaschlucht. It's worth scrambling through to reach the tiny 12th-century chapel of St. Oswald, the oldest parish church in the Black Forest (there are parking spots off the road). Look for a bronze statue of a deer high on a roadside cliff, 5 km (3 miles) farther on. It commemorates the legend of a deer that amazed hunters by leaping the deep gorge at this point. Another 16 km (10 miles) will bring you to Freiburg.\n\n## Freiburg\n\n25 km (15\u00bd miles) northwest of Hinterzarten.\n\nDuke Berthold III founded Freiburg im Breisgau in the 12th century as a free trading city. World War II left extensive damage, but skillful restoration helped re-create the original and compelling medieval atmosphere of one of the loveliest historic towns in Germany. The 16th-century geographer Martin Waldseem\u00fcller was born here; in 1507 he was the first to put the name \"America\" on a map.\n\nFor an intimate view of Freiburg, wander through the car-free streets around the M\u00fcnster or follow the main shopping artery of Kaiser-Joseph-Strasse. After you pass the city gate (Martinstor), follow Gerberau off to the left. You'll come to quaint shops along the banks of one of the city's larger canals, which continues past the former Augustinian cloister to the equally picturesque area around the Insel (island). This canal is a larger version of the B\u00e4chle (brooklets) running through many streets in Freiburg's Old Town. The B\u00e4chle, so narrow you can step across them, were created in the 13th century to bring freshwater into the town. Legend has it that if you accidentally step into one of them\u2014and it does happen to travelers looking at the sights\u2014you will marry a person from Freiburg. The tourist office sponsors English walking tours daily at 10:30, with additional tours on Friday and Saturday at 10. The two-hour tour costs \u20ac8.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFreiburg is on the main railway line between Frankfurt and Basel, and regular ICE (InterCity Express) trains stop here. The railway station is a short walk from the city center. Although Freiburg is a bustling metropolis, the city center is compact. In fact, the bulk of the Old Town is closed to traffic, so walking is by far the most practical and pleasurable option. The Old Town is ringed with parking garages for those who arrive by car.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nFreiburg Tourist-Information. | Rathauspl. 2\u20134 | 0761/388\u20131880 | www.freiburg.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\nAugustinermuseum.  \nA visit to Freiburg's cathedral is not really complete without also exploring the Augustinermuseum, in the former Augustinian cloister. Original sculpture from the cathedral is on display, as well as gold and silver reliquaries. The collection of stained-glass windows, dating from the Middle Ages to today, is one of the most important in Germany. | Augustinerpl. | 0761/201\u20132531 | www.museen.freiburg.de | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nFodor's Choice | M\u00fcnster unserer Lieben Frau (Cathedral of Our Dear Lady).  \nThe M\u00fcnster unserer Lieben Frau, Freiburg's most famous landmark, towers over the medieval streets. The cathedral took three centuries to build, from around 1200 to 1515. You can easily trace the progress of generations of builders through the changing architectural styles, from the fat columns and solid, rounded arches of the Romanesque period to the lofty Gothic windows and airy interior of the choir. The delicately perforated 380-foot spire has been called the finest in Europe.TIP If you can summon the energy, climb the tower. In addition to a magnificent view, you'll get a closer look at the 16 bells, including the 1258 \"Hosanna,\" one of Germany's oldest functioning bells. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 1 | 0761/388\u2013101 | Bell tower \u20ac1.50 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9:30\u20135, Sun. 1\u20135.\n\nM\u00fcnsterplatz.  \nThe square around Freiburg's cathedral once served as a cemetery; today it holds a market Monday to Saturday. You can stock up on local specialties, from wood-oven-baked bread to hams, wines, vinegars, fruits, and Kirschwasser (cherry brandy). The southern side, in front of the Renaissance Kaufhaus (Market House), is traditionally used by merchants. On the northern side of the square are farmers with their produce. This is where you can sample some local sausages served with a white roll and heaps of onions. The square is also lined with traditional taverns.\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Stadtgeschichte (Museum of City History).  \nThe former home of painter, sculptor, and architect Johann Christian Wentzinger (1710\u201397) houses the Museum f\u00fcr Stadtgeschichte. It contains fascinating exhibits on the history of the city, including the poignant remains of a typewriter recovered from a bombed-out bank. The ceiling fresco in the stairway, painted by Wentzinger himself, is the museum's pride and joy. | M\u00fcnsterpl. 30 | 0761/201\u20132515 | www.museen.freiburg.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nRathaus.  \nFreiburg's famous Town Hall is actually two 16th-century patrician houses joined together. Among its attractive Renaissance features is an oriel, or bay window, clinging to a corner and bearing a bas-relief of the romantic medieval legend of the Maiden and the Unicorn. | Rathauspl. 2\u20134 | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20135:30, Fri. 8\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nDer Goldene Engel.  \nGERMAN | Oak beams festooned with plaster casts of cherubs, and angelic paintings on the walls, combine to create a charmingly kitschy atmosphere in \"the golden angel.\" Local dishes are the specialty here, and the Flammkuchen in particular are a good choice. Try the Schwarzw\u00e4lder Kirchsteak, a wonderful pork-chop with cherries. | Average main: \u20ac14 | M\u00fcnsterpl. 14 | 0761/37933 | www.goldenerengel-freiburg.de.\n\nK\u00fchler Krug.  \nGERMAN | Fresh fish and wild game are the specialties at this elegant yet homey restaurant around 2 km (1\u00bd miles) south of the Old Town. Interesting dishes include rabbit in hazelnut sauce with baby vegetables, as well as salmon in saffron foam with a Riesling risotto. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Torpl. 1 | 0761/29103 | Closed Wed.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nBest Western Premier Hotel Victoria.  \nHOTEL | Despite its traditional appearance and comfort, this is a very eco-friendly hotel. Black Forest sawdust has replaced oil for heating, solar panels provide some of the electricity and hot water, windows have thermal panes, bathtubs are ergonomically designed to use less hot water, and everything from the stationery to the toilet tissue is made from recycled paper. None of this detracts from the fact that the hotel, built in 1875 and carefully restored, is totally in line with Black Forest hospitality. Pros: eco-friendly; free city bus tickets available to guests. Cons: outside the medieval center. | Rooms from: \u20ac137 | Eisenbahnstr. 54 | 0761/207\u2013340 | www.victoria.bestwestern.de | 63 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Colombi.  \nHOTEL | Freiburg's most luxurious hotel is one of the few where the owners are there to make sure your stay is perfect. Its tastefully furnished rooms have floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the romantic old city. Despite its central location, the hotel basks in near-countryside quiet. The Hans Thoma Stube ($$$$, reservations essential) has outfitted itself with venerable tables, chairs, tile stoves, and wood paneling from some older establishments. It has its own bakery, which even makes fancy chocolate creams. The black-tied waiters will also serve you small dishes at merciful prices. Pros: friendly service; quiet location; comfortable rooms. Cons: business hotel; often fully booked by conference visitors. | Rooms from: \u20ac220 | Rotteckring 16 | 0761/21060 | www.colombi.de | 111 rooms, 5 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\nGasthaus zur Sonne.  \nHOTEL | The downside: the bathroom is down the hall for some rooms, there are no eggs at breakfast, the bedside lamps may or may not work, and it's a long way from the center of town. The upside: the hotel is spotlessly clean, the food in the restaurant ($) sticks to your ribs, a bus at the door gets you downtown with ease, and you'll find a piece of chocolate on your bedside table each night. Not a bad choice for travelers on a budget. Pros: clean; friendly; good value. Cons: some shared bathrooms; far from the sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac53 | Hochdorfstr. 1 | 07665/2650 | www.sonne-hochdorf.de | 15 rooms, 7 with bath | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Schwarzw\u00e4lder Hof.  \nHOTEL | Located in a downtown pedestrian zone, part of this hotel occupies a former mint, complete with graceful cast-iron railings on the spiral staircase. Despite its unfortunately paper-thin walls, it's close to both a parking garage and public transportation. The Badische Winzerstube ($) provides all you could want in local atmosphere, wine, and food. Pros: good central location; clean rooms. Cons: parking in public garage around the corner; can be noisy; thin walls. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Herrenstr. 43 | 0761/38030 | www.shof.de | 42 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\nOberkirchs Weinstube.  \nHOTEL | Across from the cathedral, this wine cellar, restaurant, and hotel is a bastion of tradition and Gem\u00fctlichkeit (comfort and conviviality). The proprietor personally bags some of the game that ends up on the menu ($$$). Simple but filling dishes include the fresh trout and the lentils with a sausage called Saitenwurst. In summer the dark-oak dining tables spill onto a garden terrace. Approximately 20 Baden wines are served by the glass, many supplied from the restaurant's own vineyards. The charming guest rooms are in the main building and in a neighboring centuries-old house. Pros: great central location; personal charm. Cons: difficult parking access. | Rooms from: \u20ac139 | M\u00fcnsterpl. 22 | 0761/202\u20136868 | www.hotel-oberkirch.de | 26 rooms | Restaurant closed Sun. and 2 wks in Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nPark Hotel Post Meier.  \nHOTEL | This century-old building near the train station has a copper dome and stone balconies overlooking a park. You'll be greeted with a drink upon your arrival, find fresh fruit in your room, and can use the phone beside the bed, at the desk, or even in the bathroom. Pros: friendly; some rooms have park views. Cons: outside the medieval center. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Eisenbahnstr. 35\u201337 | 0761/385\u2013480 | www.park-hotel-post.de | 43 rooms, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nRappen.  \nHOTEL | This hotel's brightly painted rooms are on the sunny side of the cobblestone cathedral square and marketplace. Three rooms are designated \"anti-allergy.\" At the restaurant ($$), tables are set out amid the lively chatter of the square in summer. The kitchen serves fresh vegetables, game, and fish, though a simple, filling Hochzeitssuppe (wedding soup) with pasta, carrots, spring onions, and other vegetables might be enough. Locals come in for a glass of wine (there are about 40 wines available, German and French). Pros: central location; friendly service; clean rooms. Cons: difficult to access by car-located in pedestrian zone. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | M\u00fcnsterpl. 13 | 0761/31353 | www.rappen-freiburg.de | 24 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nZum Roten B\u00e4ren.  \nHOTEL | Like several other hotels, the \"Red Bear\" claims to be the \"oldest in Germany,\" but this one has authenticated documentation going back 700 years to prove its heritage. The inn dates from 1311 and retains its individual character, with very comfortable lodgings and excellent dining choices. Book at least two weeks in advance for great discounts. lOn request, you may tour the two-story wine cellar dating from the 12th century. Pros: dripping with history; great location. Cons: some rooms quite small. | Rooms from: \u20ac158 | Oberlinden 12 | 0761/387\u2013870 | www.roter-baeren.de | 22 rooms, 3 suites | Restaurant closed Sun. | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nNightlife in Freiburg takes place in the city's Kneipen (pubs), wine bars, and wine cellars, which are plentiful on the streets around the cathedral. For student pubs, wander around St\u00fchlinger, the neighborhood immediately south of the train station.\n\nCocktailbar Hemingway.  \nPlenty of people take their nightcap in the Best Western Premier Hotel Victoria at the Cocktailbar Hemingway, which stays open until 2 am on weekends. | Eisenbahnstr. 54 | 0761/207\u2013340.\n\nJazzhaus.  \nJazzhaus sometimes has live music and draws big acts and serious up-and-coming artists to its brick cellar. | Schnewlinstr. 1 | 0761/34973 | www.jazzhaus.de.\n\nKagan.  \nA very mixed crowd meets daily and nightly at Kagan on the 18th floor of the skyscraper over the train station, with an incomparable view of the Old Town. The club is open Wednesday through Saturday from 10 pm until the wee hours. The caf\u00e9 is open Tuesday through Sunday. | Bismarckallee 9 | 0761/767\u20132766 | \u20ac6.\n\n## Staufen\n\n20 km (12 miles) south of Freiburg via B-31.\n\nOnce you've braved Hell Valley to get to Freiburg, visit the nearby town of Staufen, where Dr. Faustus is reputed to have made his pact with the devil. The Faustus legend is remembered today chiefly because of Goethe's Faust (published in two parts, 1808\u201332). In this account, Faust sells his soul to the devil in return for eternal youth and knowledge. The historical Faustus was actually an alchemist whose pact was not with the devil but with a local baron who convinced him that he could make his fortune by converting base metal into gold. The explosion leading to his death at Gasthaus zum L\u00f6wen produced so much noise and sulfurous stink that the townspeople were convinced the devil had carried him off.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTo reach Staufen, take the twice-hourly train from Freiburg and change at Bad Krozingen. The train station is a 15-minute walk northwest of the town center. The B-31 highway connects Staufen with Freiburg and the A-5 motorway.\n\n### Exploring\n\nGasthaus zum L\u00f6wen.  \nYou can visit the ancient Gasthaus zum L\u00f6wen, where Faust lived, allegedly in room No. 5, and died. Guests can stay overnight in the room, which has been decked out in period furniture and had all-modern conveniences removed (including the telephone) to enhance the effect. The inn is right on the central square of Staufen, a town with a visible inclination toward modern art in ancient settings. | Rathausg. 8 | 07633/908\u20139390 | www.fauststube-im-loewen.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nLandgasthaus zur Linde.  \nHOTEL | Guests have been welcomed here for more than 350 years, but the comforts inside the inn's old walls are contemporary. The kitchen ($$$) creates splendid trout specialties and plays up seasonal dishes, such as asparagus in May and June and mushrooms from the valley in autumn. The terrace is a favorite for hikers passing through, as are the various snacks. Pros: friendly; quiet; good restaurant. Cons: remote; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Krumlinden 13, 14 km (9 miles) southeast of Staufen | M\u00fcnstertal | 07636/447 | www.landgasthaus.de | 11 rooms, 3 suites | Restaurant closed Mon. | Breakfast.\n\n## Kaiserstuhl\n\n20 km (12 miles) northwest of Freiburg on B-31.\n\nOne of the unusual sights of the Black Forest is the Kaiserstuhl (Emperor's Chair), a volcanic outcrop clothed in vineyards that produce some of Baden's best wines\u2014reds from the Sp\u00e4tburgunder grape and whites that have an uncanny depth. A third of Baden's wines are produced in this single area, which has the warmest climate in Germany. TIP The especially dry and warm microclimate has given rise to tropical vegetation, including sequoias and a wide variety of orchids.\n\n### Exploring\n\nWeinbaumuseum (Wine Museum).  \nThe fine little Weinbaumuseum is in a renovated barn in the village center. A small vineyard out front displays the various types of grapes used to make wine in the Kaiserstuhl region. | Schlossbergstr. | Vogtsburg im Kaiserstuhl | 07662/81263 | \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Fri. 2\u20135, weekends 11\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Zur Krone.  \nB&B/INN | You could spend an entire afternoon and evening here even if you don't stay overnight in the comfortable guest rooms. Choose between the terrace or the dining room ($$), trying the wines and enjoying, say, a fillet of wild salmon in a horseradish crust, a boar's roast, or some lighter asparagus creation (in season). The house dates to 1561, and the H\u00f6fflin-Sch\u00fcssler family, now in its fourth generation as hoteliers, knows how to make visitors feel welcome. Pros: friendly; quiet. Cons: can feel remote. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Schlossbergstr. 15 | Vogtsburg-Achkarren | 07662/93130 | www.Hotel-Krone-Achkarren.de | 23 rooms | Restaurant closed Wed., and Thurs. in winter | Breakfast.\n\nPosthotel Kreuz-Post.  \nB&B/INN | Set right in the middle of the Kaiserstuhl vineyards, this somewhat plain but contemporarily furnished establishment has been in the hands of the Gehr family since its construction in 1809. The restaurant ($$) serves regional and French cuisines with the famous local wines, and the family-owned schnapps distillery can be visited. All rooms are no-smoking. Pros: quiet; in the middle of nowhere. Cons: quiet; in the middle of nowhere. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Landstr. 1 | Vogtsburg-Burkheim | 07662/90910 | www.kreuz-post.de | 35 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Rust\n\n35 km (22 miles) north of Freiburg.\n\nThe town of Rust, on the Rhine almost halfway from Freiburg to Strasbourg, boasts a castle dating from 1577 and painstakingly restored half-timber houses. But its big claim to fame is Germany's biggest amusement park, with its own autobahn exit.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Europa Park.  \nOn an area of 160 acres, Europa Park draws more than 3 million visitors a year with its variety of shows, rides, dining, and shops. Among many other things, it has the \"Eurosat\" to take you on a virtual journey past clusters of meteors and falling stars; the \"Silver Star,\" Europe's highest roller coaster; a Spanish jousting tournament; and even a \"4-D\" movie in which you might get damp in the rain or be rocked by an earthquake. | Europa-Park-Str. 2 | 01805/776\u2013688 | www.europapark.de | \u20ac39 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel am Park.  \nHOTEL | This handy hotel, with a waterfall and a statue of a \"friendly dragon\" in the lobby, is just across the road from the entrance to Europa Park. It's also only 300 yards from a nature preserve and swimming area, and guests can park there free. Knowing that a lot of park visitors will have their kids with them, the restaurant has set up its Casa Nova restaurant ($) with pizza, pasta, and a play area. Its other restaurant, the Am Park, serves German cuisine. Pros: friendly; great for kids; convenient for Europa Park. Cons: proximity to Europa Park means it can get noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Austr. 1 | 07822/444\u2013900 | www.hotels-in-rust.de | 47 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley\n\nHeidelberg\n\nThe Burgenstrasse (Castle Road)\n\nSwabian Cities\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning\n\nUpdated by Evelyn Kanter\n\nHeidelberg remains one of the best-known and most visited cities in Germany, identifiable by its graceful baroque towers and the majestic ruins of its red sandstone castle. From this grand city, the narrow and quiet Neckar Valley makes its way east, then turns to the south, taking you past villages filled with half-timber houses and often guarded by their own castle\u2014sometimes in ruins but often revived as a museum or hotel. This part of Germany is aptly named the Burgenstrasse (Castle Road).\n\nThe valley widens into one of the most industrious areas of Germany, with Stuttgart at its center. In this wealthy city, world-class art museums like the Staatsgalerie or the Kunstmuseum in the center of town contrast with the new and striking Mercedes and Porsche museums in the suburbs, adjoining their sprawling manufacturing facilities.\n\nA bit farther south, the rolling Swabian Hills cradle the university town of T\u00fcbingen, a center of learning in a beautiful historic setting on the banks of the Neckar River. Overlooking the town is\u2014of course\u2014a mighty castle.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nHeidelberg Castle: The architectural highlight of the region's most beautiful castle is the Renaissance courtyard\u2014harmonious, graceful, and ornate.\n\nHeidelberg's Alte Br\u00fccke: Walk under the twin towers that were part of medieval Heidelberg's fortifications, and look back for a picture postcard view of the city and the castle.\n\nBurg Hornberg: With its oldest parts dating from the 12th century, this is one of the best of more than a dozen castles between Heidelberg and Stuttgart.\n\nStuttgart's museums: Top art collections in the Staatsgalerie and the Kunstmuseum contrast with the Mercedes and Porsche museums, where the history of theauto mobilis illustrated by historic classic cars and sleek racing cars.\n\nT\u00fcbingen Altstadt: With its half-timber houses, winding alleyways, and hilltop setting overlooking the Neckar, T\u00fcbingen is the quintessential German experience.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nAlthough not as well known as the Rhine, the Neckar River has a wonderful charm of its own. After Heidelberg, it winds through a small valley guarded by castles. It then flows on, bordered by vineyards on its northern slopes, passing the interesting and industrious city of Stuttgart, before it climbs toward the Swabian Hills. You follow the Neckar until the old half-timber university town of T\u00fcbingen. The river continues toward the eastern slopes of the Black Forest, where it originates less than 80 km (50 miles) from the source of the Danube.\n\n## What's Where\n\nHeidelberg. The natural beauty of Heidelberg is created by the embrace of mountains, forests, vineyards, and the Neckar River, all crowned by the famous ruined castle. The Neckar and the Rhine meet at nearby Mannheim, the biggest train hub for the superfast ICE (InterCity Express) trains of Germany, a major industrial center, and the second-largest river port in Europe.\n\nThe Burgenstrasse (Castle Road). If you or your kids like castles, this is the place to go. The crowded Heidelberg Castle is a must-see, but the real fun starts when you venture up the Neckar River. There seems to be a castle on every hilltop in the valley, including Burg Hohenzollern, home to the most powerful family in German history.\n\nSwabian Cities. Stuttgart, the state capital, has elegant streets, shops, hotels, and museums, as well as some of Germany's top industries, among them Mercedes, Porsche, and Bosch. Ludwigsburg, with its huge baroque castles and baroque flower gardens, is worth a visit. The most charmingly \"Swabian\" of all these cities is the old half-timber university town of T\u00fcbingen.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nIf you plan to visit Heidelberg in summer, make reservations well in advance and expect to pay top rates. To get away from the crowds, consider staying out of town and driving or taking the bus or train into the city. Hotels and restaurants are much cheaper just a little upriver. A visit in late fall, when the vines turn a faded gold, or early spring, with the first green shoots of the year, can be captivating. In the depths of winter, river mists creep through the narrow streets of Heidelberg's Old Town and awaken the ghosts of a romantic past.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nFrom the Frankfurt and Stuttgart airports, there's fast and easy access, by car and train, to all major centers along the Neckar.\n\n#### Bus and Shuttle Travel\n\nFrom Frankfurt Airport to Heildelberg, hop aboard the Lufthansa Airport Bus, which takes about an hour and is not restricted to Lufthansa passengers. Buses depart 11 times a day between 7 am and 10:30 pm from Arrivals Hall B of Terminal 1. Airport-bound buses leave the Crowne Plaza Heidelberg between 5:30 am and 8 pm. One-way tickets are \u20ac24 per person, or \u20ac22 with a Lufthansa flight ticket. With advance reservations you can also get to downtown Heidelberg via the shuttle service TLS. The trip costs \u20ac34 per person.\n\nBus Information   \nLufthansa Airport Bus. | 06152/976\u20139099 | www.transcontinental-group.com/en/frankfurt-airport-shuttles.   \nTLS. | 06221/770\u2013077 | www.tls-heidelberg.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nHeidelberg is a 15-minute drive (10 km [6 miles]) on A-656 from Mannheim, a major junction of the autobahn system. The Burgenstrasse (Route B-37) follows the north bank of the Neckar River from Heidelberg to Mosbach, from which it continues south to Heilbronn as B-27, the road parallel to and predating the autobahn (A-81). B-27 still leads to Stuttgart and T\u00fcbingen.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nHeidelberg is 17 minutes from Mannheim, by S-bahn regional train, or 11 minutes on hourly InterCity Express (ICE) trains. These sleek, super-high-speed trains reach 280 kph (174 mph), so travel time between Frankfurt Airport and Mannheim is a half hour. From Heidelberg to Stuttgart, direct InterCity (IC) trains take 40 minutes. Local services link many of the smaller towns.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nMittagessen (lunch) in this region is generally served from noon until 2 or 2:30, Abendessen (dinner) from 6 until 9:30 or 10. Durchgehend warme K\u00fcche means that hot meals are also served between lunch and dinner. While credit cards are widely accepted, many small family owned restaurants, caf\u00e9s, and pubs will accept only cash or debit cards issued by a German bank. Casual attire is typically acceptable at restaurants here, and reservations are generally not needed.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nThis area is full of castle-hotels and charming country inns that range in comfort from upscale rustic to luxurious. For a riverside view, ask for a Zimmer (room) or Tisch (table) mit Neckarblick (with a view of the Neckar). The Neckar Valley offers idyllic alternatives to the cost and crowds of Heidelberg. Driving or riding the train from Neckargem\u00fcnd, for example, takes 20 minutes.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nTo fully appreciate Heidelberg, try to be up and about before the tour buses arrive. After the day-trippers have gone and many shops have closed, the good restaurants and the nightspots open up. Visit the castles on the Burgenstrasse at your leisure, perhaps even staying overnight. Leaving the valley toward the south, you'll drive into wine country. Even if you are not a car enthusiast, the museums of Mercedes and Porsche in Stuttgart are well worth a visit. Try to get to T\u00fcbingenduring the week to avoid the crowds of Swabians coming in for their Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake). During the week, try to get a room and spend a leisurely evening in this charming half-timber university town.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nDie Burgenstrasse. | Allee 28, | Heilbronn | 07131/564\u2013028 | www.burgenstrasse.de.\n\nState Tourist Board Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg. | Esslingerstr. 8, | Stuttgart | 0711/238\u2013580 | www.tourismus-bw.de.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nExploring | Where to Eat | Where to Stay | Nightlife and the Arts | Sports and the Outdoors | Shopping\n\n57 km (35 miles) northeast of Karlsruhe.\n\nIf any city in Germany encapsulates the spirit of the country, it is Heidelberg. Scores of poets and composers\u2014virtually the entire 19th-century German Romantic movement\u2014have sung its praises. Goethe and Mark Twain both fell in love here: the German writer with a beautiful young woman, the American author with the city itself. Sigmund Romberg set his operetta The Student Prince in the city; Carl Maria von Weber wrote his lushly Romantic opera Der Freisch\u00fctz here. Composer Robert Schumann was a student at the university. The campaign these artists waged on behalf of the town has been astoundingly successful. Heidelberg's fame is out of all proportion to its size (population 140,000); more than 3\u00bd million visitors crowd its streets every year.\n\nHeidelberg was the political center of the Lower Palatinate. At the end of the Thirty Years' War (1618\u201348), the elector Carl Ludwig married his daughter to the brother of Louis XIV in the hope of bringing peace to the Rhineland. But when the elector's son died without an heir, Louis XIV used the marriage alliance as an excuse to claim Heidelberg, and in 1689 the town was sacked and laid to waste. Four years later he sacked the town again. From its ashes arose what you see today: a baroque town built on Gothic foundations, with narrow, twisting streets and alleyways.\n\nAbove all, Heidelberg is a university town, with students making up some 20% of its population. And a youthful spirit is felt in the lively restaurants and pubs of the Altstadt (Old Town). In 1930 the university was expanded, and its buildings now dot the entire landscape of Heidelberg and neighboring suburbs. Modern Heidelberg changed as U.S. Army barracks and industrial development stretched into the suburbs, but the old heart of the city remains intact, exuding the spirit of romantic Germany.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nHeidelberg is 15 minutes from Mannheim, where four ICE trains and five Autobahn routes meet. Everything in town may be reached on foot, but wear sturdy, comfortable shoes, since much of the Old City is uneven cobblestones. A funicular takes you up to the castle and Heidelberg's K\u00f6nigstuhl Mountain, and a streetcar runs from the city center to the main train station. From April through October there are daily walking tours of Heidelberg in German (Friday and Saturday also in English) at 10:30 am; from November through March, tours are in German only, Friday at 2:30 and Saturday at 10:30; the cost is \u20ac7. They depart from the main entrance to the Rathaus (Town Hall). Bilingual bus tours run April through October on Thursday and Friday at 1:30 and on Saturday at 1:30 and 3. From November through March, bus tours are on Saturday at 1:30. They cost \u20ac17 and depart from Universit\u00e4tsplatz.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe two-day HeidelbergCARD, which costs \u20ac14.50 per person or \u20ac31.50 for a family of up to five people, includes free or reduced admission to most tourist attractions as well as free use of all public transportation\u2014including the Bergbahn (funicular) to the castle\u2014and other extras such as free entrance to the castle courtyard, free guided walking tours, discounts on bus tours, and a city guidebook. It can be purchased at the tourist-information office at the main train station or the Rathaus, and at many local hotels.\n\n#### Timing\n\nWalking the length of Heidelberg's Hauptstrasse (main street) will take an hour\u2014longer if you are easily sidetracked by the shopping opportunities. Strolling through the Old Town and across the bridge to look at the castle will add at least another half hour, not counting the time you spend visiting the sites.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nHeidelberg Tourist Information. | Im Rathaus, Marktpl. | 06221/58444 | Am Hauptbahnhof, Willy-Brandt-Pl. 1 | 06221/19433 | www.heidelberg-marketing.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Exploring\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nAlte Br\u00fccke (Old Bridge).  \nFramed by two Spitzhelm towers (so called for their resemblance to old German helmets), this bridge was part of Heidelberg's medieval fortifications. In the west tower are three dank dungeons that once held common criminals. Above the portcullis you'll see a memorial plaque that pays warm tribute to the Austrian forces that helped Heidelberg beat back a French attempt to capture the bridge in 1799. The bridge itself is one of many to be built on this spot; ice floes and floods destroyed its predecessors. The elector Carl Theodor, who built it in 1786\u201388, must have been confident this one would last: he had a statue of himself erected on it, upon a plinth decorated with river gods and goddesses (symbolic of the Neckar, Rhine, Danube, and Mosel rivers). As you enter the bridge from the Old Town, you'll also notice a statue of an animal that appears somewhat catlike. It's actually a monkey holding a mirror. Legend has it the statue was erected to symbolize the need for both city-dwellers and those who lived on the other side of the bridge to take a look over their shoulders as they cross\u2014that neither group was more elite than the other. The pedestrian-only bridge is at the end of Steingasse, not far from the Marktplatz. | End of Steing.\n\nAlte Universit\u00e4t (Old University).  \nThe three-story baroque structure was built between 1712 and 1735 at the behest of the elector Johann Wilhelm, although Heidelberg's Ruprecht Karl University was originally founded in 1386. Today it houses the University Museum, with exhibits that chronicle the history of Germany's oldest university. The present-day Universit\u00e4tsplatz (University Square) was built over the remains of an Augustinian monastery that was destroyed by the French in 1693. | Grabeng. 1\u20133 | 06221/542\u2013152 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134.\n\nFriedrich-Ebert-Gedenkst\u00e4tte (Friedrich Ebert Memorial).  \nThe humble rooms of a tiny backstreet apartment were the birthplace of Friedrich Ebert, Germany's first democratically elected president (in 1919) and leader of the ill-fated Weimar Republic. The display tells the story of the tailor's son who took charge of a nation accustomed to being ruled by a kaiser. | Pfaffeng. 18 | 06221/91070 | www.ebert-gedenkstaette.de | Free | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 (to 8 Thurs.).\n\nHeiliggeistkirche (Church of the Holy Ghost).  \nThe foundation stone of this Gothic church was laid in 1398, but it was not actually finished until 1544. The gargoyles looking down on the south side (where Hauptstrasse crosses Marktplatz) are remarkable for their sheer ugliness. The church fell victim to plundering by the Catholic League during the Thirty Years' War, when the church's greatest treasure\u2014the Bibliotheca Palatina, at the time the largest library in Germany\u2014was loaded onto 500 carts and trundled off to the Vatican. Few volumes found their way back. At the end of the 17th century, French troops plundered the church again, destroying the tombs; only the 15th-century tomb of Elector Ruprecht III and his wife, Elisabeth von Hohenzollern, remain. Today, the huge church is shared by Heidelberg's Protestant and Catholic populations. | Marktpl. | 06221/21117 | www.heiliggeistkirche.de | Late Mar.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20135, Sun. 12:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013mid-Mar., Fri. and Sat. 11\u20133, Sun. 12:30\u20133.\n\nHotel zum Ritter.  \nThe name refers to the statue of a Roman knight (Ritter) atop one of the many gables, and there's a suit of armor standing at the entrance to the building, now a hotel. Its French builder, Charles B\u00c8lier, had the Latin inscription \"Persta Invicta Venus\" added to the facade in gold letters\u2014\"Venus, Remain Unconquerable.\" It appears this injunction was effective, as this sturdy stone building was the city's only Renaissance structure to survive the fires from the invading French in 1689 and 1693. Between 1695 and 1705 it was used as Heidelberg's town hall; later it became an inn. | Hauptstr. 178 | 06221/1350 | www.ritter-heidelberg.de.\n\nK\u00f6nigstuhl (King's Throne).  \nThe second-highest hill in the Odenwald range\u20141,800 feet above Heidelberg\u2014is only a hop, skip, and funicular ride from Heidelberg. On a clear day you can see as far as the Black Forest to the south and west to the Vosges Mountains of France. The hill is at the center of a close-knit network of hiking trails. Signs and colored arrows from the top lead hikers through the woods of the Odenwald.\n\nK\u00f6nigstuhl Bergbahn (funicular).  \nHoisting visitors to the summit of the K\u00f6nigstuhl in 17 minutes, the funicular stops on the way at the ruined Heidelberg Schloss and Molkenkur. A modern funicular usually leaves every 10 minutes, and a historical train comes every 20 minutes. | Kornmarkt | www.bergbahn-heidelberg.de | K\u00f6nigstuhl \u20ac12 (round-trip), Schloss \u20ac6.50 (round-trip; additional charge to visit Schloss) | Mid-Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 9\u20138:25; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Apr., daily 9\u20135:45.\n\nKurpf\u00e4lzisches Museum (Palatinate Museum).  \nIt's a pleasure just to wander around this baroque palace\u2014built as a residence for a university professor in 1712\u2014which is more or less unavoidable, since the museum's layout is so confusing. Among the exhibits are two standouts. One is a replica of the jaw of Heidelberg Man, a key link in the evolutionary chain thought to date from a half million years ago (the original was unearthed near the city in 1907). The larger attraction is the Windsheimer Zw\u00f6lfbotenaltar (Twelve Apostles Altarpiece), one of the largest and finest works of early Renaissance sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider. Its exquisite detailing and technical sophistication are evident in the simple faith that radiates from the faces of the Apostles. The top floor of the museum showcases 19th-century German paintings and drawings, many depicting Heidelberg. TIP The restaurant in the museum's quiet courtyard is a good place for a break. | Hauptstr. 97 | 06221/583\u20134020 | www.museum-heidelberg.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nMarktplatz (Market Square).  \nHeidelberg's main square, with the Rathaus (town hall) on one side and the Heiliggeistkirche on the other, has been its focal point since the Middle Ages. Public courts of justice were held here in earlier centuries, and people accused of witchcraft and heresy were burned at the stake. The baroque fountain in the middle, the Herkulesbrunnen (Hercules Fountain), is the work of 18th-century artist H. Charrasky. Until 1740 a rotating, hanging cage stood next to it. For minor crimes, people were imprisoned in it and exposed to the abuse of their fellow citizens. TIP Today the Marktplatz hosts outdoor markets every Wednesday and Saturday.\n\nMolkenkur.  \nThe next stop after the castle on the K\u00f6nigstuhl funicular, Molkenkur was the site of Heidelberg's second castle. Lightning struck it in 1537, and it was never rebuilt. Today it's occupied by a small restaurant\u2014which bears the creative name Molkenkur Restaurant\u2014with magnificent views of the Odenwald and the Rhine plain. | Molkenkurweg, off Klingenteichstr.\n\nPhilosophenweg (Philosophers' Path).  \nYou can reach this trail high above the river in one of two ways\u2014either from Neuenheim or by taking the Schlangenweg (Snake Path). Both are steep climbs, but you'll be rewarded with spectacular views of the Old Town and castle. From Neuenheim, turn right after crossing the bridge and follow signs to a small alleyway.\n\nRathaus (Town Hall).  \nWork began on the town hall in 1701, a few years after the French destroyed the city. The massive coat of arms above the balcony is the work of Heinrich Charrasky, who also created the statue of Hercules atop the fountain in the middle of the square. | Marktpl.\n\nSchlangenweg (Snake Path).  \nThis walkway starts just above the Alte Br\u00fccke opposite the Old Town and cuts steeply through terraced vineyards until it reaches the woods, where it crosses the Philosophenweg (Philosophers' Path). | Off Ziegelh\u00e4user Landstr.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss (Castle).  \nWhat's most striking is the architectural variety of this great complex. The oldest parts still standing date from the 15th century, though most of the castle was built during the Renaissance in the baroque styles of the 16th and 17th centuries, when the castle was the seat of the Palatinate electors. There's an \"English wing,\" built in 1612 by the elector Friedrich V for his teenage Scottish bride, Elizabeth Stuart; its plain, square-window facade is positively foreign compared to the castle's more opulent styles. (The enamored Friedrich also had a charming garden laid out for his young bride; its imposing arched entryway, the Elisabethentor, was put up overnight as a surprise for her 19th birthday.) The architectural highlight remains the Renaissance courtyard\u2014harmonious, graceful, and ornate.\n\nEven if you have to wait, make a point of seeing the Grosses Fass (Great Cask) in the cellar, possibly the world's largest wine barrel, made from 130 oak trees and capable of holding 58,500 gallons. It was used to hold wines paid as taxes by wine producers in the Palatinate. In summer there are fireworks displays (on the first Saturday in June and September and the second Saturday in July). In July and August the castle hosts a theater festival. Performances of The Student Prince often figure prominently. TIP Take the K\u00f6nigstuhl Bergbahn, or funicular (\u20ac6.50 round-trip), faster and less tiring than hiking to the castle on the Burgweg. Audioguides are available in seven languages. | Schlosshof | 06221/538\u2013431 | www.heidelberg-schloss.de | \u20ac6 (funicular round-trip an additional \u20ac6.50); audioguide \u20ac4 | Daily, 8\u20135; tours in English daily 11:15\u20133:15, when demand is sufficient.\n\nDeutsches Apotheken\u2013Museum (German Apothecary Museum). The castle includes the Deutsches Apotheken\u2013Museum. This museum, on the lower floor of the Ottheinrichsbau (Otto Heinrich Building), is filled with ancient flagons and receptacles (each with a carefully painted enamel label), beautifully made scales, little drawers, shelves, dried beetles and toads, and marvelous reconstructions of six apothecary shops from the 17th through the 20th centuries. The museum also offers young visitors the chance to smell various herbs and mix their own teas. | 06221/25880 | www.deutsches-apotheken-museum.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136, Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135:30\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nDeutsches Verpackungs-Museum (German Packaging Museum).  \nA former church was innovatively converted to house this fascinating documentation of packaging and package design of brand-name products. Representing the years 1800 to the present, historic logos and slogans are a trip down memory lane. The entrance is in a courtyard reached via an alley. | Hauptstr. 22 | 06221/21361 | www.verpackungsmuseum.de | \u20ac4.50 | Wed.\u2013Fri. 1\u20136, weekends and public holidays 11\u20136.\n\nKornmarkt (Grain Market).  \nA baroque statue of the Virgin Mary is in the center of this old Heidelberg square, which has a view of the castle ruins.\n\nNeue Universit\u00e4t (New University).  \nThe plain building on the south side of Universit\u00e4tsplatz was erected between 1930 and 1932 through funds raised by the U.S. ambassador to Germany, J. G. Schurman, who had been a student at the university. The only decoration on the building's three wings is a statue of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, above the entrance. The inner courtyard contains a medieval tower from 1380, the Hexenturm (Witches' Tower). Suspected witches were locked up there in the Middle Ages. It later became a memorial to former students killed in World War I. | Grabeng.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Neuenheim.  \nTo escape the crowds of central Heidelberg, walk across the Theodor Heuss Bridge to the suburb of Neuenheim. At the turn of the 20th century this old fishing village developed into a residential area full of posh art nouveau villas. North of the Br\u00fcckenkopf (bridgehead) you'll find antiques and designer shops, boutiques, and caf\u00e9s on Br\u00fcckenstrasse, Bergstrasse (one block east), and Ladenburger Strasse (parallel to the river). To savor the neighborhood spirit, visit the charming farmers' market on Wednesday or Saturday morning at the corner of Ladenburger and Luther streets.\n\nPeterskirche (St. Peter's Church).  \nMany famous Heidelberg citizens' tombstones, some more than 500 years old, line the outer walls of the city's oldest parish church (1485\u20131500). | Pl\u00f6ck 70 | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays.\n\nStudentenkarzer (Student Prison).  \nBetween 1778 and 1914, university officials used this as a lock-up for students, mostly incarcerated for minor offenses. They could be held for up to 14 days and were left to subsist on bread and water for the first 3 days; thereafter, they were allowed to attend lectures, receive guests, and have food brought in from the outside.TIP There's bravado, even poetic flair, to be deciphered from two centuries of graffiti that cover the walls and ceilings of the narrow cells. | Augustinerg. 2 | 06221/543\u2013554 | \u20ac2.50; free with Heidelberg Card | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun., 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sat., 10\u20134.\n\nSynagogueplatz.  \nThe site of the former Heidelberg Synagogue, built in 1877 and burned down in 1938, is now a memorial to the local Jewish population lost in World War II, their names listed on a bronze plaque on an adjoining building. On this residential corner, 12 stone blocks represent the synagogue's pews and the 12 tribes of Israel. | Corner of Lauerstrafle and Grosse Mantelg., Alte Stadt | www.tourism-heidelberg.com.\n\nUniversit\u00e4tsbibliothek (University Library).  \nThe 3\u00bd million volumes here include the 14th-century Manesse Codex, a unique collection of medieval songs and poetry once performed in the courts of Germany by the Minnes\u00e4nger (troubadors). The original is too fragile to be exhibited, so a copy is on display. | Pl\u00f6ck 107\u2013109 | 06221/542\u2013380 | www.ub.uni-heidelberg.de | Free | Weekdays 9\u20137, Sat. 9\u20131.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat in the Neckar Valley\n\nFish and Wild (game) from the streams and woods lining the Neckar Valley, as well as seasonal favorites\u2014Spargel (asparagus), Pilze (mushrooms), Morcheln (morels), Pfifferlinge (chanterelles), and Steinpilze (porcini)\u2014are regulars on menus. Pf\u00e4lzer specialties are also common, but the penchant for potatoes yields to Kn\u00f6del (dumplings) and pasta farther south. The latter includes the Swabian and Baden staples Maultaschen (\"pockets\" of pasta stuffed with meat or spinach) and Sp\u00e4tzle (roundish egg noodles), as well as Schupfnudeln (finger-size noodles of potato dough), also called Buwespitzle. Look for Linsen (lentils) and sauerkraut in soups or as sides. Schw\u00e4bischer Rostbraten (beefsteak topped with fried onions) and Sch\u00e4ufele (pickled and slightly smoked pork shoulder) are popular meat dishes, along with a variety of W\u00fcrste.\n\nConsiderable quantities of red wine are produced along the Neckar Valley. Crisp, light Trollinger is often served in the traditional Viertele, a round, quarter-liter (8-ounce) glass with a handle. Deeper-color, more-substantial reds include Sp\u00e4tburgunder (pinot noir) and its mutation Schwarzriesling (pinot meunier), Lemberger, and Dornfelder. Riesling, Kerner, and M\u00fcller-Thurgau (synonymous with Rivaner), as well as Grauburgunder (pinot gris) and Weissburgunder (pinot blanc), are the typical white wines. A birch broom or wreath over the doorway of a vintner's home signifies a Besenwirtschaft (\"broomstick inn\"), a rustic pub where you can enjoy wines with snacks and simple fare. Many vintners offer economical B&Bs. These places are ideal spots to try out your newly learned German phrases; you'll be surprised how well you speak German after the third glass of German wine.\n\n* * *\n\n## Where to Eat\n\nCaf\u00e9 Kn\u00f6sel.  \nCAF\u00c9 | Heidelberg's oldest (1863) coffeehouse has always been a popular meeting place for students and professors, and offers traditional Schwabian food, pastries and ambiance. A historic change is that caf\u00e9 no longer is producing caf\u00e9 founder Fridolin Kn\u00f6sel's Heidelberger Studentenkuss. This iconic \"student kiss\" is a chocolate wrapped in paper showing two sets of touching lips\u2014an acceptable way for 19th-century students to \"exchange kisses\" in public. They are now being sold exclusively in Kn\u00f6sel Chocolatier, a small, charming shop, owned by the Kn\u00f6sel family, just down the street. | Average main: \u20ac5 | Haspelg. 20 | 06221/727\u20132754 | www.cafek-hd.de.\n\nScharff's Schlossweinstube.  \nGERMAN | Elegant, romantic and expensive, this baroque dining room inside the famous Heidelberg castle specializes in Ente von Heidelberg (roast duck), but there's always something new on the seasonal menu. Whatever you order, pair it with a bottle from the extensive selection of international wines. Less pricey is the adjacent Bistro Backhaus, which has rustic furnishings and a nearly 50-foot-high Backkamin (baking oven). Light fare as well as coffee and cake are served indoors and on the shaded terrace. You can sample rare wines (Eiswein, Beerenauslese) by the glass in the shared wine cellar, or pick up a bottle with a designer label depicting Heidelberg. Reservations are essential for terrace seating in summer. | Average main: \u20ac100 | Schlosshof, on castle grounds | 06221/872\u20137010 | www.heidelberger-schloss-gastronomie.de | Closed late Dec.\u2013Jan. and Wed. No lunch.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schnitzelbank.  \nGERMAN | Little more than a hole in the wall, this former cooper's workshop has been transformed into a candlelit pub. No matter when you go, it seems to be filled with people seated around the wooden tables. The menu features specialties from Baden and the Pfalz, such as Sch\u00e4ufele (pickled and slightly smoked pork shoulder); or a hearty platter of bratwurst, Leberkn\u00f6del (liver dumplings), and slices of Saumagen (a spicy meat-and-potato mixture encased in a sow's stomach). | Average main: \u20ac11 | Bauamtsg. 7 | 06221/21189 | www.schnitzelbank-heidelberg.de | No lunch weekdays.\n\nSimplicissimus.  \nMEDITERRANEAN | Olive oil and herbs of Provence accentuate many of the chef's culinary delights. Saddle of lamb and saut\u00e9ed liver in honey-pepper sauce are specialties, as are season specialties with asparagus and mushrooms. The Dessertteller, a sweet sampler, is a crowning finish to any meal. The wine list focuses on old-world estates, particularly clarets. The elegant art-nouveau interior is done in shades of red with dark-wood accents, and a quiet courtyard offers alfresco dining in summer. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Ingrimstr. 16 | 06221/183\u2013336 | www.restaurant-simplicissimus.de | Closed Mon. No lunch.\n\nTrattoria Toscana.  \nITALIAN | Traditional Italian fare is on offer here, including antipasti platters, pasta dishes, pizzas, and special daily offerings, all served in generous portions. The restaurant is in a central location in the main square, and in warm weather you can opt for a table outside on the cobblestones\u2014perfect for people-watching with your meal. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Marktpl. 1 | 06221/28619.\n\nFodor's Choice | Zum Roten Ochsen.  \nGERMAN | Many of the rough-hewn oak tables here have initials carved into them, a legacy of the thousands who have visited Heidelberg's most famous old tavern. Mark Twain, Marilyn Monroe, and John Wayne may have left their mark\u2014they all ate here, and Twain's photo is on one of the memorabilia-covered walls. Wash down simple fare, such as goulash soup and bratwurst, or heartier dishes like Tellerfleisch (boiled beef) or Swabian Maultaschen (meat filled raviolis) with regional German wines or local Heidelberg beer. The \"Red Ox\" has been run by the Spengel family for more than 170 years. Come early to get a good seat, and stay late for the piano player and Gem\u00fctlichkeit (easy-going friendliness). | Average main: \u20ac12 | Hauptstr. 217 | 06221/20977 | www.roterochsen.de | Closed Sun. and mid-Dec.\u2013mid-Jan. No lunch Nov.\u2013Mar.\n\nZum Weissen Schwanen.  \nGERMAN | Founded in 1398 and in this location on Heidelberg's Hauptstrasse (main street) since 1778\u2014so you know they are doing something right\u2014the White Swan specializes in regional fare. The menu includes several versions of Maultaschen and local mushrooms feature in season. Unlike most German restaurants and pubs, which serve one local brew, there are a dozen on tap here; the most popular are Klosterhof and Heidelberger. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Hauptstr. 143 | 06221/659\u2013692 | zumweissenschwanen.trineca.de.\n\nZur Herrenm\u00fchle.  \nEUROPEAN | A 17th-century grain mill has been transformed into this romantic restaurant in the heart of Altstadt (Old Town). The old beams add to the warm atmosphere. In summer, try to arrive early to get a table in the idyllic courtyard. Fish, lamb, and homemade pasta are specialties. Or, opt for the three- or four-course prix-fixe menu | Average main: \u20ac21 | Near Karlstor, Hauptstr. 239 | 06221/602\u2013909 | www.herrenmuehle-heidelberg.de | Closed Sun. No lunch.\n\n## Where to Stay\n\nBergheim 41.  \nHOTEL | Sleek and trendy, this new hotel (it opened in 2013) in the \"new\" part of Heidelberg, is built into one side of the Alten Hallenbad, the covered former city pool that is now a popular upscale international food court. Rooms are decorated in neutral tones, floors are bare hardwood, and the hallways are stark white. Rooms on the top floors have small terraces, and one suite has its own sauna. Pros: roof garden and some rooms have view of the Schloss. Cons: no parking; 15 minutes from Old Town; on a busy street (although windows are soundproofed); no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Bergheim 41 | 06221/750\u2013040 | www.bergheim41.de | 32 rooms, 4 suites | Breakfast.\n\nCrowne Plaza Heidelberg.  \nHOTEL | This grand hotel has a spacious lobby, stylish furnishings, soaring ceilings, and an enviable location\u2014it's a five-minute walk from Old Town. The nice accommodations are priced according to demand, so you may be able to snag a great rate at the last minute. The indoor swimming pool and spa on the hotel's lower level is luxurious - it even includes a poolside bar. lOn the first weekend of every month a North American - style brunch buffet is offered for \u20ac31. Pros: parking garage; pool; direct shuttle from Frankfurt airport (80 km 50 miles] away). Cons: chain hotel feel. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Kurf\u00fcrsten-Anlage 1 | 06221/9170 | [www.crowneplaza.com | 232 rooms, 4 suites | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Der Europ\u00e4ische Hof\u2013Hotel Europa.  \nHOTEL | On secluded grounds next to the Old Town, this most luxurious of Heidelberg hotels has been welcoming guests since 1865. Public areas have stunning turn-of-the-20th-century furnishings while bedrooms are modern, spacious and tasteful, and all suites have whirlpool tubs. The elegant Continental restaurant, the Kurf\u00fcrstenstube, contains original inlay woodwork. In summer, meals are served on the fountain-lined terrace. Pros: indoor pool; castle views from the two-story fitness and spa center. Cons: restaurant closed in July and August. | Rooms from: \u20ac170 | Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage 1 | 06221/5150 | www.europaeischerhof.com | 100 rooms, 14 suites, 3 apartments, 1 penthouse | Breakfast.\n\nGasthaus Backmulde.  \nB&B/INN | This traditional Gasthaus in the heart of Heidelberg has very nice modern rooms at\u2014for Heidelberg\u2014affordable prices. You can even enjoy fresh air, as the windows open onto a small, quiet courtyard. The kitchen offers a surprising range of delicious items for its buffet breakfast, from delicately marinated vegetables to imaginative soups. Pros: quiet rooms; nice restaurant. Cons: difficult parking; some rooms have shared baths; restaurant closed Sunday and for lunch on Monday. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Schiffg. 11 | 06221/53660 | www.gasthaus-backmulde.de | 25 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHoll\u00e4nder Hof.  \nHOTEL | Opposite the Alte Br\u00fccke, and with views across the busy Neckar River to the forested hillside beyond, this ornate 19th-century building is in a good Old Town location. It's pink-and-white-painted facade stands out in its row, and many of its modern and pleasant rooms overlook the busy waterway. The staff is very friendly. Pros: nice view of river and beyond; comfortable accommodations; some rooms are handicap accessible. Cons: noisy at times; no restaurant or bar (although both are in adjoining building). | Rooms from: \u20ac108 | Neckarstaden 66 | 06221/60500 | www.hollaender-hof.de | 38 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Die Hirschgasse.  \nHOTEL | A stunning castle view, fine restaurants, a literary connection, and a touch of romance distinguish this historic inn (1472) across the river from the Old Town, opposite Karlstor. Convivial Ernest Kraft and his British wife Allison serve upscale regional specialties (and wines from the vineyard next door) in the Mensurstube, once a tavern where university students indulged in fencing duels, as mentioned in Mark Twain's A Tramp Abroad. Beamed ceilings, stone walls, and deep red fabrics make for romantic dining in elegant Le Gourmet. The hotel's interior is also romantic, filled with floral prints, artwork, and deep shades of red. The suites are quite large, comfortable, and elegantly appointed. Pros: terrific view; very good food in both restaurants; close to \"museum row.\" Cons: limited parking; 15-minute walk to Old Town. | Rooms from: \u20ac205 | Hirschg. 3 | 06221/4540 | www.hirschgasse.de | 20 suites | Le Gourmet closed Sun. and Mon., 2 wks in early Jan., and 2 wks in early Aug.; Mensurstube closed Sun. No lunch at either restaurant | Multiple meal plans.\n\nKulturBrauerei Heidelberg.  \nHOTEL | Rooms with warm, sunny colors and modern style are brilliantly incorporated into this old brewery in the heart of Old Town. There are additional newly renovated rooms a block away, in a former student dormitory above the Zum Seppl restaurant, which both date from the mid-1800s. While these rooms also are sunny and modern, access via steep stairs and a walk to the main building for breakfast makes them less appealing. The restaurant (credit cards only accepted for groups) is lively until well past midnight. House-brewed Scheffel's beer is the beverage of choice, although there are some good wines as well. The cellar houses the brewery (tours and tasting possible) and a weekend jazz club; in the courtyard is a huge beer garden. Pros: stylish rooms; lively restaurant; Wi-Fi in most rooms; beer garden. Cons: noisy in summer; difficult parking; rooms above Zum Seppl restaurant are accessed by steep, narrow stairs and dark hallways, and you have to walk a block to get breakfast. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Leyerg. 6 | 06221/502\u2013980 | www.heidelberger-kulturbrauerei.de | 41 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\nNH Heidelberg.  \nHOTEL | The glass-covered entrance hall of this primarily business hotel is spacious\u2014not surprising, as it was the courtyard of a former brewery. You can dine at one of three on-site restaurants, including the Br\u00e4ust\u00fcberl, which specializes in regional German fare. Rooms are colorful and cozy, and you get good room rates in summer, especially in August. Pros: good food; reasonably priced, free Wi-fi. Cons: lacks charm; located about 1 km (\u00bd mile) from the Old Town; parking expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Bergheimerstr. 91 | 06221/13270 | www.nh-hotels.com | 156 rooms, 18 suites | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel zum Ritter.  \nHOTEL | If this is your first visit to Germany, try to stay here\u2014it's the only Renaissance building in Heidelberg (1592), built as the private home of a wealthy merchant, and has an unbeatable location opposite the market square in the heart of Old Town. The staff is exceptionally helpful and friendly. Some rooms are more modern and spacious than others, but all are comfortable, and the hallways are decorated with antiques. You can enjoy German and international favorites in the restaurants Belier and Ritterstube. Both are wood paneled and have old-world charm. Pros: charm and elegance; nice views; spacious rooms. Cons: off-site parking, rooms facing the square can be noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac118 | Hauptstr. 178 | 06221/1350 | www.ritter-heidelberg.de | 36 rooms, 1 suite | No meals.\n\nWeisser Bock.  \nHOTEL | Exposed beams, stucco ceilings, warm wood furnishings, and individually decorated, comfortable rooms are all part of this hotel's charm. The restaurant has art deco touches and pretty table settings. Its creative menu changes seasonally, but fresh fish - especially salmon - remains a highlight year-round. The proprietor is a wine fan, and the extensive wine list reflects it. Pros: nicely decorated rooms; exceptional food; this is a smoke-free facility. Cons: parking difficult to find. | Rooms from: \u20ac115 | Grosse Mantelg. 24 | 06221/90000 | www.weisserbock.de | 21 rooms, 2 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\n## Nightlife and the Arts\n\nInformation on all upcoming events can be found in the monthly Heidelberg aktuell, free and available from the tourist office or on the Internet (www.heidelberg-aktuell.de).\n\nheidelbergTicket.  \nTheater tickets may be purchased here. | Theaterstr. 4 | 06221/582\u20130000 | www.theaterheidelberg.de.\n\n### The Arts\n\nHeidelberg has a thriving theater and concert scene.\n\nKulturhaus Karlstorbahnhof.  \nThis 19th-century train station has been repurposed as a theater and concert venue. | Am Karlstor 1 | 06221/978\u2013911 | www.karlstorbahnhof.de.\n\nSchlossfestspiele.  \nTheatrical and musical performances are held at the Heidelberg castle during this annual festival from late June through July. | 06221/582\u20130000 for tickets | www.schlossfestspiele-heidelberg.de.\n\nTheater & Orchester Heidelberg.  \nThis is the best-known theater company in town, with a variety of theater, opera and concert performances. The historic theater reopened in 2013 after a renovation and the addition of a modern second stage in the new adjoining building. | Theaterstr. 10 | 06221/582\u20130000 | www.theaterheidelberg.de.\n\nZimmertheater.  \nAvant-garde theater productions are staged here. | Hauptstr. 118 | 06221/21069 | www.zimmertheaterhd.de.\n\n### Nightlife\n\nHeidelberg nightlife is concentrated in the area around the Heiliggeistkirche (Church of the Holy Ghost), in the Old Town. Don't miss a visit to one of the old student taverns that have been in business for generations.\n\nFodor's Choice | Zum Roten Ochsen.  \nMark Twain rubbed elbows with students here during his 1878 stay in Heidelberg\u2014look for his photo on one of the memorabilia-covered walls. Zum Roten Oschen is popular with students and local residents for its hearty meals at reasonable prices and friendly atmosphere, and has been operated by the same family for more than 170 years. A pianist plays German and international favorites, starting at 9 pm. | Hauptstr. 217 | 06221/20977 | www.roterochsen.de.\n\nZum Seppl.  \nWhen this traditional restaurant and bar opened at the end of the 17th century, it even had its own brewery on the premises (it's now a block away and called KulturBrauerei Heidelberg). The Seppl crowd is a mix of Heidelberg students, local residents and visitors, all attracted by the traditional old-world charm and ample servings of traditional German specialties. Every inch of wall space is covered with historic photos, menus, and other memorabilia. | Hauptstr. 213 | 06221/23085 | www.heidelberger-kulturbrauerei.de/en/scheffels-wirtshaus-zum-seppl.\n\nToday's students, however, are more likely to hang out in one of the dozen or more caf\u00e9s and bars on Untere Strasse, which runs parallel to and between Hauptstrasse and the Neckar River, starting from the market square.\n\nBilly Blues (im Ziegler).  \nThis restaurant, bar, and disco, popular with university students, has live music on Thursday and a Salsa party on Wednesday. | Bergheimer Str. 1b | 06221/25333 | www.billyblues.de.\n\nDestille.  \nThe club plays rock music until 2 am on weekdays and 3 am on weekends, and the young crowd that packs the place is always having a good time. A tree in the middle of this club is decorated according to season. | Untere Str. 16 | 06221/22808 | www.destilleonline.de.\n\nNachtschicht.  \nIn the Landfried complex near the main train station, this is Heidelberg's biggest disco, pulsing with 15,000 LEDs that change colors and pattern with the music. Nachtschicht (night story) is open until 4 am Thursday through Saturday. | Bergheimer Str. 147 | 06221/438\u2013550 | www.nachtschicht.com.\n\nPrint Media Lounge.  \nFacing the main train station, this is a chic, modern place where you can dine all day or dance till the wee hours. It's open Monday\u2013Saturday, with DJs Friday and Saturday and live bands on Monday. | Kurf\u00fcrsten\u2013Anlage 60 | 06221/653\u2013949 | www.printmedialounge.de | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nSchwimmbad Musikclub.  \nNear the zoo, this is a fixture of Heidelberg's club scene. It occupies what was once a swimming pool, hence the name. It's open Thursday to Saturday with two floors plus an open air disco when weather permits. | Tiergartenstr. 13 | 06221/470\u2013201 | www.schwimmbad-club.de.\n\nVetters Alt-Heidelberger Brauhaus.  \nIt's worth elbowing your way into this bar for the brewed-on-the-premises beer. As with most German brewpubs, there's a full menu, too, including a long list of wurst dishes. | Steing. 9 | 06221/165\u2013850 | www.brauhaus-vetter.de.\n\n## Sports and the Outdoors\n\nThe riverside path is an ideal route for walking, jogging, and bicycling, since it's traffic-free and offers excellent views of the area. If you access the paved pathway in the center of town, you can follow it for many kilometers in either direction.\n\n## Shopping\n\nHeidelberg's Hauptstrasse, or Main Street, is a pedestrian zone lined with shops, sights, and restaurants that stretches more than 1 km (\u00bd mile) through the heart of town. But don't spend your money before exploring the shops on such side streets as Pl\u00f6ck, Ingrimstrasse, and Untere Strasse, where there are candy stores, bookstores, and antiques shops on the ground floors of baroque buildings. If your budget allows, the city can be a good place to find reasonably priced German antiques, and the Neckar Valley region produces fine glass and crystal.\n\nAurum & Argentum.  \nThe finely executed, modern gold and silver pieces here are impeccably crafted. Prices start at \u20ac150. | Br\u00fcckenstr. 22 | 06221/473\u2013453 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 2:30\u20136:30, Sat. 10\u20132.\n\nFarmers' markets.  \nHeidelberg has open-air farmers' markets on Wednesday and Saturday mornings on Marktplatz and Tuesday and Friday mornings, as well as Thursday afternoons, on Friedrich-Ebert-Platz.\n\nHeidelberger Zuckerladen.  \nThe old glass display cases and shelves here are full of lollipops and \"penny\" candy. If you're looking for an unusual gift or special sweet treat, the shop fashions colorful, unique items out of sugary ingredients such as marshmallow and sweetened gum. TIP Avoid early afternoon, when the tiny shop is crowded with schoolchildren. | Pl\u00f6ck 52 | 06221/24365 | www.zuckerladen.de | Weekdays noon\u20137, Sat. 11:15\u20133.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: A rare pleasure awaits you if you are in Schwetzingen in April, May, or June. This is Germany's asparagus center, and nearly every local restaurant has a Spargelkarte, a special menu featuring fresh white asparagus dishes such as Spargel mit Schinken (asparagus with ham). The town also has a beautiful castle you can visit before or after a meal.\n\nSchloss Schwetzingen. This formal 18th-century palace was constructed as a summer residence by the Palatinate electors. It is a noble rose-color building, imposing and harmonious; a highlight is the rococo theater in one wing. The extensive park blends formal French and informal English styles, with neatly bordered gravel walks trailing off into the dark woodland. Fun touches include an exotic mosque, complete with minarets and a shimmering pool (although they got a little confused and gave the building a very baroque portal), and the \"classical ruin\" that was de rigueur in this period. The palace interior can only be visited by tour. | Schloss Mittelbau | Schwetzingen | 06202/128\u2013828 | www.schloss-schwetzingen.de | \u20ac9 Apr.\u2013Oct., \u20ac7 Nov.\u2013Mar. (includes palace tour and gardens). Gardens only: \u20ac5 Apr.\u2013Oct., \u20ac3 Nov.\u2013Mar. | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20138; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135, last admission 30 mins before closing. Palace tours (in German): Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays hrly 11\u20134, weekends and holidays hrly 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Fri. at 2, weekends and holidays at 11, 1:30, and 3. Palace tours (in English) weekends at 2, or by appointment.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nNeckargem\u00fcnd | Hirschhorn | Neckarzimmern | Bad Wimpfen\n\nThe Neckar Valley narrows upstream from Heidelberg, presenting a landscape of orchards, vineyards, and wooded hills crowned with castles rising above the gently flowing stream. It's one of the most impressive stretches of the Burgenstrasse. Along the B-37 are small valleys\u2014locals call them Klingen\u2014that cut north into the Odenwald and are off-the-beaten-track territory. One of the most atmospheric is the Wolfsschlucht, which starts below the castle at Zwingenberg. The dank, shadowy little gorge inspired Carl Maria von Weber's opera Der Freisch\u00fctz (The Marksman).\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Neckargem\u00fcnd\n\n11 km (7 miles) from Heidelberg.\n\nComing from the hustle and bustle of Heidelberg, you'll find the hamlet of Neckargem\u00fcnd is a quiet place where you can relax by the Neckar River and watch the ships go by. The town also makes a good base from which to visit Heidelberg. Leave the car here and enjoy the 10-minute ride by bus or train.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe S1, S2, S5, and S51 commuter trains from Heidelberg run every few minutes and will get you here in less than 10 minutes. By car, it will take 25 minutes via the B-37. Once here, the Altstadt (Old Town) and Neckar River views are walkable, but you'll need a car or take a taxi to visit the Schloss Zwingennberg, about a half-hour distant via the S1 (toward Osterburken) or the B-37 and B-45.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nArt Hotel.  \nB&B/INN | In a historic building in the heart of the Altstadt (Old Town), this stylish hotel has spacious rooms and suites, including three- and four-bed junior suites that are perfect for families. Each is individually decorated, and modern amenities combine well with antique furnishings. The Stalinger family also runs the Reinbach, a restaurant about a mile from town, and will take you there by shuttle service. Pros: good for families; reasonable rates. Cons: on a busy street; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac92 | Hauptstr. 40 | 06223/862\u2013768 | www.art-hotel-neckar.de | 7 rooms, 6 suites | Breakfast.\n\nGasthaus Reber.  \nB&B/INN | If you're looking for a clean, simple and inexpensive room, this small inn is an ideal candidate, and it's conveniently located opposite the railway station for trips to or from Heidelberg. The one drawback: in some of the cheaper rooms, the showers are in the rooms and the toilets are down the hall. In the restaurant or in the beer garden you can order a simple meal for a good price. Pros: unbeatable rates; close to public transportation. Cons: on busy street; not all rooms have an en suite bathroom. | Rooms from: \u20ac70 | Bahnhofstr. 52 | 06223/8779 | www.gasthaus-reber.de | 10 | Restaurant closed Wed. No lunch weekdays | Breakfast.\n\n## Hirschhorn\n\n23 km (14 miles) east of Heidelberg.\n\nHirsch (stag) and Horn (antlers) make up the name of the knights of Hirschhorn, the medieval ruling family that gave its name to both its 12th-century castle complex and the village over which it presided. The town's coat of arms depicts a leaping stag. Ensconced on the hillside halfway between the castle and the river is a former Carmelite monastery and its beautiful 15th-century Gothic church with remarkable frescoes (open for visits). Hirschhorn's position on a hairpin loop of the Neckar can best be savored from the castle terrace, over a glass of wine, coffee and cake, or a fine meal.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nGetting here by public transportation from Neckarzimmern isn't the easiest\u2014local trains take between 35 and 60 minutes and require at least one transfer. By car, it's a scenic and leisurely 45-minute drive through farmland and forests on the B-27 and B-37. Once there, stroll around the charming little medieval village on foot.\n\n#### Tours\n\nJune\u2013September there are free (German) tours of Hirschhorn on Saturday at 10.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nRitterfest.  \nThe past comes to life the first weekend of September at the annual, two-day Ritterfest, a colorful \"Knights' Festival\" complete with a medieval arts-and-crafts market.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nHirschhorn. | Tourist-Information, Alleeweg 2 | 06272/1742 | www.hirschhorn.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nSchlosshotel auf der Burg Hirschhorn.  \nHOTEL | This very pleasant hotel and restaurant is set in historic Hirschhorn Castle, perched high over the medieval village. The terrace offers splendid views (ask for Table 30 in the corner). The rooms are combination of antiques and more contemporary furnishings. Eight are in the castle and 17 in the old stables. Wildschwein (wild boar), Hirsch (venison), and fresh fish are the house specialties, or choose a 3, 4 or 5 course prix fixe dinner. The friendly proprietors, the Oberrauners, bake a delicious, warm Apfelstrudel based on a recipe from their home in Vienna. Pros: terrific view over the valley; good choice of rooms. Cons: difficult to get to, via a winding road or steep path, plus stairs to lobby. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Auf der Burg | Hirschhorn/Neckar | 06272/92090 | www.castle-hotel.de | 21 rooms, 4 suites | Closed mid-Dec.\u2013Jan. Restaurant closed Mon. and day after a bank holiday | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Mosbach.  \nThe little town of Mosbach, 78 km (48 miles) southeast of Heidelberg, is one of the most charming towns on the Neckar. Its main street is pure half-timber, and its ancient market square contains one of Germany's most exquisite half-timber buildings\u2014the early 17th-century Palm'sches Haus (Palm House), its upper stories laced with intricate timbering. The Rathaus, built 50 years earlier, is a modest affair by comparison. | Mosbach.\n\nSchloss Zwingenberg. Many people say this castle on a crag above the village of Zwingenberg, about 53 km (33 miles) from Heidelberg, is the most romantic of all the castles along the Neckar (except for Heidelberg, of course). It is the residence of Ludwig, Prince of Baden and his family, so castle tours are by advance arrangement only, and can include the family vineyards. The woodland trails around the castle, including to a deep gorge, are open daily. | Schlossstr. | Zwingenberg | 6263/411\u2013010 | www.schloss-zwingenberg.de.\n\nSchlossfestspiele Zwingenberg.  \nThe annual castle festival, which features theater and concert performances, takes place within the ancient walls of the Zwingenberg in August. | Schloss | Zwingenberg | 06263/771 | www.schlossfestspiele-zwingenberg.de\n\n## Neckarzimmern\n\n83 km (52 miles) from Heidelberg.\n\nThe main attraction here is the Burg Hornberg castle high above the town, but visitors will find the village itself to be a charming respite, with a traditional town square surrounded by historic buildings, and pleasant riverfront walks.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBy road from Heidelberg, take the E-5 Autobahn south (toward Bruschal) then the E-6 east to Sinsheim, where you connect with local road 292 northeast past Mossbach to Neckarzimmern, then follow signs. If you have time en route, stop off at the Sinsheim Auto & Technik Museum for displays including Formula 1 racecars and a Concorde supersonic jet.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Burg Hornberg.  \nThe largest and oldest castle in the Neckar Valley, the circular bulk of Burg Hornberg rises above the town of Neckarzimmern. The road to the castle leads through vineyards that have been providing dry white wines for centuries. These days, the castle is part hotel (23 rooms, 1 suite) and part museum. In the 16th century it was home to the larger-than-life G\u00f6tz von Berlichingen (1480\u20131562). When the knight lost his right arm in battle, he had a blacksmith fashion an iron replacement. Original designs for this fearsome artificial limb are on view in the castle, as is his suit of armor. For most Germans, this larger-than-life knight is best remembered for a remark that was faithfully reproduced in Goethe's play G\u00f6tz von Berlichingen. Responding to an official reprimand, von Berlichingen told his critic, more or less, to \"kiss my ass\" (the original German is substantially more earthy). To this day the polite version of this insult is known as a G\u00f6tz von Berlichingen. Inquire at the hotel reception about visiting the castle, or just enjoy the walking trails and views from the top of the hilltop. | Hornbergerweg | www.burg-hornberg.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Burg Hornberg Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Your host at this hotel with comfortable, modern rooms is the present baron of the Burg Hornberg castle. Try for one of the tower rooms overlooking the valley. From the heights of the terrace and glassed-in restaurant ($$) - housed in the former Marstall, or royal stables - there are stunning views. Fresh fish and game are specialties, as are the estate-bottled wines. There are good Riesling wines and the rarities Traminer and Muskateller - also sold in the wine shops in the courtyard and at the foot of the hill. Pros: historic setting; nice restaurant; on-site wine shop. Cons: no elevator; restaurant can be crowded in season on weekends; not enough parking. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Marucs Freiherr von Gemmingen | 06261/92460 | www.castle-hotel-hornberg.com | 23 rooms, 1 suite | Closed late Dec.\u2013late Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Burg Guttenberg.  \nOne of the best-preserved Neckar castles is the 15th-century Burg Guttenberg. Within its stone walls are a museum and a restaurant (closed January, February, and Monday) with views of the river valley. The castle also is home to Europe's leading center for the study and protection of birds of prey, the German Raptor Research Center, with 100 falcons and other birds of prey. There are demonstration flights from the castle walls from April through October, daily at 11 and 3. | Burgstr., 6 km (4 miles) west of Gundelsheim | Neckarm\u00fchlbach | 06266/388 | www.burg-guttenberg.de | Castle \u20ac4, castle and flight demonstration \u20ac11 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Mar., weekends 10\u20135.\n\n## Bad Wimpfen\n\n8 km (5 miles) south of Neckarzimmern.\n\nAt the confluence of the Neckar and Jagst rivers, Bad Wimpfen is one of the most stunning towns of the Neckar Valley. The Romans built a fortress and a bridge here, on the riverbank site of an ancient Celtic settlement, in the 1st century AD. A millennium later, the Staufen emperor Barbarossa chose this town as the site of his largest Pfalz (residence). The ruins of this palace still overshadow the town and are well worth a stroll.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThere's a direct regional commuter train from Heidelberg that will get you to Bad Wimpfen in 45 minutes, and from Neckarzimmern there's an hourly service that takes 30 minutes. By road, take the B-27 east from Neckarzimmern to the L-1100. The old city is good for walking, but wear comfortable shoes for the uneven cobblestones.\n\n#### Tours\n\nMedieval Bad Wimpfen offers a town walk year-round, Sunday at 2 (\u20ac2), departing from the visitor center inside the old train station. Private group tours may also be arranged for other days by calling the visitor center in advance.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nOn arrival, ask your hotel for a free Bad Wimpfen \u00e0 la card for reduced or free admission to historic sights and museums.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nZunftmarkt.  \nOn the last weekend in August, the Old Town's medieval past comes alive during the Zunftmarkt, a historical market dedicated to the Z\u00fcnfte (guilds). \"Artisans\" in period costumes demonstrate the old trades and open the festivities with a colorful parade on horseback. | www.zunftmarkt.de.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBad Wimpfen\u2013Gundelsheim Tourist-Information. | Carl-Ulrich-Str. 1 | 07063/97200 | www.badwimpfen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nRitterstiftskirche St. Peter.  \nWimpfen im Tal (Wimpfen in the Valley), the oldest part of town, is home to the Benedictine monastery of Gruessau and its church, Ritterstiftskirche St. Peter, which dates from the 10th and 13th centuries. The cloisters are delightful, an example of German Gothic at its most uncluttered. | Lindenpl.\n\nStadtkirche (city church).  \nThe 13th-century stained glass, wall paintings, medieval altars, and the stone piet\u00e0 in the Gothic Stadtkirche are worth seeing, as are the Crucifixion sculptures (1515) by the Rhenish master Hans Backoffen on Kirchplatz, behind the church. | Kirchsteige 8 | www.kirche-badwimpfen.de.\n\nSteinhaus.  \nGermany's largest Romanesque living quarters and once the imperial women's apartments, this is now a history museum with relics from the Neolithic and Roman ages along with the history of the Palatinate, including medieval art and ceramics. Next to the Steinhaus are the remains of the northern facade of the palace, an arcade of superbly carved Romanesque pillars that flanked the imperial hall in its heyday. The imperial chapel, next to the Red Tower, holds a collection of religious art. | Burgviertel 25 | 07063/97200 | \u20ac2.50 | Apr. 15\u2013Oct. 15, Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134:30.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWeinstube Feyerabend.  \nGERMAN | There are three adjoining eateries here: the Weinstube for a glass of good Swabian wine with a snack, the Restaurant for a full meal at lunch or dinner, or let yourself be tempted by the good-looking cakes from their own bakery in the Konditorei Caf\u00e9. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Hauptstr. 74 | 07063/950\u2013566 | www.friedrich-feyerabend.de | Closed Mon.\n\nHotel Neckarblick.  \nHOTEL | You get a good Neckarblick (Neckar view) from the terrace, the dining room, and most guest rooms of this pleasant lodging. The furniture is comfortable and modern, like the hotel building. For medieval atmosphere, the heart of Bad Wimpfen is only a few blocks away. Pros: terrific view; personal touch. Cons: no restaurant or bar; not enough parking. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Erich-Sailer-Str. 48 | 07063/961\u2013620 | www.neckarblick.de | 14 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Deutsches Zweirad\u2013Museum  \n(German Motorcycle Museum). Although its name is the German Motorcycle Museum, there are historic cars here, too. Displays include the the 1885 Daimler machine that started us on the road to motorized mobility, the world's first mass-produced motorcycles (Hildebrand and Wolfm\u00fcller), and exhibits on racing. Also here is the NSU Museum, for an early motorbike manufacturer acquired by the precedessor of the company now called Audi, which has an auto production facility in Neckarsulm. The collections are arranged over five floors in a handsome 400-year-old castle that belonged to the Teutonic Knights until 1806. TIP The Audi factory offers tours. | Urbanstr. 11 | Neckarsulm | 07132/35271 | www.zweirad-museum.de | \u20ac4.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20135.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nLudwigsburg | Stuttgart | Bebenhausen | T\u00fcbingen\n\nLudwigsburg, Stuttgart, and T\u00fcbingen are all part of the ancient province of Swabia, a region strongly influenced by Protestantism and Calvinism. The inhabitants speak the Swabian dialect of German. Ludwigsburg is known for its two splendid castles. Stuttgart, the capital of the state of Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg, is one of Germany's leading industrial cities, home to both Mercedes and Porsche, and is cradled by hills on three sides, with the fourth side opening up toward its river harbor. The medieval town of T\u00fcbingen clings to steep slopes and hilltops above the Neckar.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Ludwigsburg\n\n15 km (9 miles) north of Stuttgart.\n\nAlthough its residents would never call it a suburb of Stuttgart, its proximity to the modern industrial and commercial center of Baden-Wurttenberg has made it one. Ludwigsburg's attraction is its fabulous Baroque castle, with more than 450 rooms spread over 18 buildings, surrounded by the beautiful Schlosspark (gardens). A music festival, held each summer since 1932, features performances both outdoors and in the original palace theater.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThere is regular commuter rail service from Stuttgart's Hauptbahnhof (main train station). Take the S4 or S5 for the journey of around 45 minutes. The castle is close enough to the station to walk, or you can take a taxi.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Residenzschloss Ludwigsburg.  \nOne of Europe's largest palaces to survive in its original condition, Residenzschloss Ludwigsburg certainly merits a visit for its sumptuous interiors and exquisite gardens. The main palace is also home to the Keramikmuseum, a collection of historical treasures from the porcelain factories in Meissen, Nymphenburg, Berlin, Vienna, and Ludwigsburg, as well as an exhibit of contemporary ceramics. The Barockgalerie is a collection of German and Italian baroque paintings from the 17th and 18th centuries. The Modemuseum showcases three centuries of fashion, particularly royal clothing of the 18th century. In another part of the palace you'll find the Porzellan-Manufaktur Ludwigsburg (www.ludwigsburger-porzellan.de); you can tour the porcelain factory where each piece is handmade and handpainted. The castle is surrounded by the fragrant, colorful 74-acre park Bl\u00fchendes Barock (Blooming Baroque), filled with thousands and thousands of tulips, huge masses of rhododendrons, and fragrant roses. A M\u00e4rchengarten (fairy-tale garden) delights visitors of all ages. In the midst of it all, you can take a break in the cafeteria in the Rose Garden. TIP Guided tours in English are at 1:30 on weekdays, with addiitional tours on weekends at 11 and 3. | Schloss Str. 30 | 07141/182\u2013004 | www.schloesser-und-gaerten.de | Palace \u20ac7, park \u20ac8, museums with audioguide \u20ac3.50, museum tour with audio \u20ac6.50, guide combination ticket \u20ac16 | Park daily 7:30 am\u20138:30 pm, palace and museums daily 10\u20135.\n\n## Stuttgart\n\n50 km (31 miles) south of Heilbronn.\n\nStuttgart is a city of contradictions. It has been called, among other things, \"Germany's biggest small town\" and \"the city where work is a pleasure.\" For centuries Stuttgart, whose name derives from Stutengarten, or \"stud farm,\" remained a pastoral backwater along the Neckar. Then the Industrial Revolution propelled the city into the machine age. Leveled in World War II, Stuttgart has regained its position as one of Germany's top industrial centers.\n\nThis is Germany's can-do city, whose natives have turned out Mercedes-Benz and Porsche cars, Bosch electrical equipment, and a host of other products exported worldwide. Yet Stuttgart is also a city of culture and the arts, with world-class museums, opera, and ballet. Moreover, it's the domain of fine local wines; the vineyards actually approach the city center in a rim of green hills. Forests, vineyards, meadows, and orchards compose more than half the city, which is enclosed on three sides by woods. Each year in October, Stuttgart is home to Germany's second largest Oktoberfest (after Munich), called the Canstatter Volksfest.\n\nAn ideal introduction to the contrasts of Stuttgart is a guided city bus tour. Included is a visit to the needle-nose TV tower, high on a mountaintop above the city, affording stupendous views. Built in 1956, it was the first of its kind in the world. The tourist office also offers superb walking tours. On your own, the best place to begin exploring Stuttgart is the Hauptbahnhof (main train station); from there walk down the pedestrian street K\u00f6nigstrasse to Schillerplatz, a small, charming square named after the 18th-century poet and playwright Friedrich Schiller, who was born in nearby Marbach. The square is surrounded by historic buildings, many of which were rebuilt after the war.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nStuttgart is the major hub for the rail system in southwestern Germany, and two autobahns cross here. It's about 2\u00bd hours away from Munich and a bit more than an hour from Frankfurt. The downtown museums and the main shopping streets are doable on foot. For the outlying attractions and to get to the airport, there is a very efficient S-bahn and subway system.\n\n#### Tours\n\nThe tourist office is the meeting point for city walking tours in German (year-round, Saturday at 10) for \u20ac8. There are daily bilingual walks April\u2013October at 11 am for \u20ac18. Bilingual bus tours costing \u20ac8 depart from the bus stop around the corner from the tourist office, in front of Hotel am Schlossgarten (April\u2013October, daily at 1:30; November\u2013March, Friday\u2013Sunday at 1:30). All tours last from 1\u00bd to 2\u00bd hours. Stuttgart Tourist-Information offers altogether 12 different special-interest tours. Call for details.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe three-day StuttCard (\u20ac9.70) offers discounts to museums and attractions, with or without a free public transit pass. (\u20ac22 includes a transit card valid in the whole city or \u20ac18 for a transit card for the city center). All the cards are available from the Stuttgart tourist office opposite the main train station.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nStuttgart Touristik-Information i-Punkt. | K\u00f6nigstr. 1A | 0711/222\u20138246 | www.stuttgart-tourist.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nKunstmuseum Stuttgart (Stuttgart Art Museum).  \nThis sleek structure encased in a glass facade is a work of art in its own right. The museum contains artwork of the 19th and 20th centuries and the world's largest Otto Dix collection, including the Grossstadt (Metropolis) triptych, which captures the essence of 1920s Germany. TIP The bistro-caf\u00e9 on the rooftop terrace affords great views; the lobby houses another caf\u00e9 and the museum shop. | Kleiner Schlosspl.1 | 0711/216\u20132188 | www.kunstmuseum-stuttgart.de | \u20ac6; special exhibitions \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac11; guided tours \u20ac2.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 (Fri. until 9).\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Mercedes-Benz Museum.  \nThe stunning futuristic architecture of this museum is an enticement to enter, but the stunning historic and futuristic vehicles inside are the main attraction. Visitors are whisked to the top floor to start this historical timeline tour of motorized mobility in the 1880s, with the first vehicles by Gottleib Daimler and Carl Benz. Other museum levels focus on a particular decade or category of vehicle, such as trucks and buses, race cars, concept cars, and future technology, including fuel cells. Historic photos and other artifacts line the walls of the circular walkway that links the levels. A restaurant on the lower level serves mostly German cuisine with a modern twist, and stays open after the museum has closed, and there's a huge gift shop with all kinds of Mercedes-Benz branded items. In the adjoining new car showroom you can muse over appealing models that are sold in Europe but not in North America. TIP Guided tours of the factory are also available. | Mercedesstr. 100 | Stuttgart-Untert\u00fcrkheim | 0711/173\u20130000 | www.mercedes-benz-classic.com | \u20ac8 (\u20ac4 after 4:30), guided tour \u20ac4; factory tour \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136 (last admission at 5).\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Porsche Museum.  \nIn the center of the Porsche factory complex in the northern suburb of Zuffenhausen, the architecturally dramatic building expands outward and upward from its base. Inside is a vast collection of around 100 legendary and historic Porsche cars including racing cars, nearly 1,000 racing trophies and design and engineering awards, and several vehicles designed by Ferdinand Porsche that eventually became the VW Beetle. It is astounding how some 1930s models still look contemporary today. The museum includes a coffee shop, snack bar, and the sophisticated Christophorus restaurant, regarded as the best American-style steakhouse in Stuttgart, open for lunch and dinner beyond museum hours. The gift shop sells some Porsche logo clothing, but mostly miniature collectibles. TIP Stand under the special \"cones\" on the upper level to hear the different engine sounds of various Porsche models. | Porschepl. 1 | Stuttgart-Zuffenhausen | 0711/911\u201320911 | www.porsche.com/museum | \u20ac8 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136.\n\nSchlossplatz (Palace Square).  \nA huge area enclosed by royal palaces and planted gardens, the square has elegant arcades branching off to other stately plazas. The magnificent baroque Neues Schloss (New Palace), now occupied by Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg state government offices, dominates the square. Schlossplatz is the extension of the Kaiserstrasse pedestrian shopping street. | Corner of Koenigstr. and Planie, Mitte.\n\nFodor's Choice | Staatsgalerie (State Gallery).  \nThis not-to-be-missed museum displays one of the finest art collections in Germany. The old part of the complex, dating from 1843, has paintings from the Middle Ages through the 19th century, including works by Cranach, Holbein, Hals, Memling, Rubens, Rembrandt, C\u00e9zanne, Courbet, and Manet. Connected to the original building is the Neue Staatsgalerie (New State Gallery), designed by British architect James Stirling in 1984 as a melding of classical and modern, sometimes jarring, elements (such as chartreuse window mullions). Considered one of the most successful postmodern buildings, it houses works by such 20th-century artists as Braque, Chagall, de Chirico, Dal\u00cc, Kandinsky, Klee, Mondrian, and Picasso. | Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 30\u201332, Mitte | 0711/470\u2013400, 0711/470\u201340249 for info-line | www.staatsgalerie.de | Permanent collection \u20ac7 (free Wed. and Sat.), special exhibitions \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac12, guided tours \u20ac5 | Tues. and Thurs. 10\u20138, Wed. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Altes Schloss (Old Castle).  \nAcross the street from the Neues Schloss stands this former residence of the counts and dukes of W\u00fcrttemberg, which was originally built as a moated castle around 1320. Wings were added in the mid-15th century, creating a Renaissance palace. The palace now houses the Landesmuseum W\u00fcrttemberg (W\u00fcrttemberg State Museum), with imaginative exhibits tracing the area's development from the Stone Age to modern times. There's also a separate floor as a dedicated children's museum. TIP The second floor, which reopened in 2012 after an extensive renovation, includes jaw-dropping family jewels of the fabulously rich and powerful W\u00fcrttemberg royals. | Schillerpl. 6, Mitte | 0711/279\u20133498 | www.landesmuseum-stuttgart.de | \u20ac12 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nHaus der Geschichte Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg (Museum of the History of Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg).  \nAdjoining the Staatsgalerie (State Gallery), this museum chronicles the history of Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg state during the 19th and 20th centuries. Multimedia presentations enable you to interact with the thousands of objects on display. | Konrad-Adenauer-Str. 16, Mitte | 0711/212\u20133989 | www.hdgbw.de | \u20ac4 | Tues., Wed., Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20139.\n\nFAMILY | Schweine Museum.  \nBilled as the world's only pig museum, it is housed in a former slaughterhouse, with displays on more than you ever wanted to know about breeding and porcine anatomy. The fun stuff are the exhibits of piggy banks and other pig-themed memorabilia. There's also a restaurant and an outdoor beer garden, and play area for the kids where everything is pig-themed, from the seesaws to the garbage containers. | Schlachthofstr. 2 | www.schweinemuseum.de | \u20ac4.90; playground free | Daily 11\u20137:30 (last admission 6:45).\n\nSchlossgarten (Palace Garden).  \nThis huge city park borders the Schlossplatz and extends northeast across Schillerstrasse all the way to Bad Cannstatt on the Neckar River. The park is graced by an exhibition hall, planetarium, lakes, sculptures, and the hot-spring mineral baths Leuze and Berg. | Off Cannstatterstr.\n\nStiftskirche (Collegiate Church of the Holy Cross).  \nJust off Schillerplatz, this is Stuttgart's most familiar sight, with its two oddly matched towers. Built in the 12th century, it was later rebuilt in a late-Gothic style. The choir has a famous series of Renaissance figures of the counts of W\u00fcrttemberg sculpted by Simon Schl\u00f6r (1576\u20131608). | Stiftstr. 12, Mitte.\n\nFAMILY | Wilhelma Zoologische-Botanische Garten (Wilhelma Zoological and Botanical Garden).  \nAdjacent to Rosenstein Park, this wildlife park and zoological garden, with more than 9,000 animals in more than 1,000 species and around 7,000 species of plants and flowers, was originally intended as a garden for King Wilhelm I. The Moorish style buildings led it to be called the \"Alhambra on the Neckar.\" There are two restaurants on site and a less formal bistro/cafe with outdoor seating in warm weather.TIP A modern Ape House opened in 2013, with gorillas and bonobos. | Neckartalstr., Wilhelma | 0711/54020 | www.wilhelma.de | \u20ac14; \u20ac10 Nov.\u2013Feb. and after 4 pm Mar.\u2013Oct. | May\u2013Aug., daily 8:15\u20136; Sept.\u2013Apr., daily 8:15\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nWielandsh\u00f6he.  \nEUROPEAN | One of Germany's top chefs, Vincent Klink, and his wife Elisabeth, are very down-to-earth, cordial hosts. Her floral arrangements add a baroque touch to the otherwise quiet interior, designed to focus on the artfully presented cuisine. To the extent possible, all ingredients are grown locally. House specialties, such as saddle of lamb with a potato gratin and green beans or the Breton lobster with basil potato salad, are recommended. The wine list is exemplary. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Alte Weinsteige 71, Degerloch | 0711/640\u20138848 | www.wielandshoehe.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAm Schlossgarten.  \nHOTEL | Stuttgart's top accommodations are in a modern structure set in spacious gardens, a stone's throw from many of the top sights and opposite the main station. Stylish, modern rooms and luxurious baths and business amenities add to the overall comfort. In addition to receiving first-class service, you can wine and dine in the elegant French restaurant Zirbelstube, the less-expensive Schlossgarten, the bistro Vinothek, or the caf\u00e9 overlooking the garden. Pros: views of the park; welcoming lobby. Cons: not all rooms face the park; rates are on the high end; driving here is not straightforward; parking limited and expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac300 | Schillerstr. 23, Mitte | 0711/20260 | www.hotelschlossgarten.com | 106 rooms, 10 suites | Zirbelstube closed 1st 2 wks in Jan., 3 wks in Aug., Sun. and Mon. Schlossgarten closed Fri. and Sat. Vinothek closed Sun. and Mon. | Breakfast.\n\nDer Zauberlehrling.  \nB&B/INN | The \"Sorcerer's Apprentice\" is aptly named, as Karen and Axel Heldmann have conjured up a lovely luxury hotel with each room's style based on a theme (Asian, Mediterranean, country manor). Many people come for the popular restaurant, Z-Bistro (no credit cards; no lunch weekends), which has entrancing evening entertainment called Tischzauberei (which translates as \"table magic\"). Innovative dishes, a three-course menu of organic products, and regional favorites are all part of the culinary lineup, enhanced by a very good wine list. Enjoy it all on the terrace in summer. Pros: fabulous rooms with lots of surprises; enjoyable restaurant. Cons: minuscule lobby; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac290 | Rosenstr. 38, Bohnenviertel | 0711/237\u20137770 | www.zauberlehrling.de | 17 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Wartburg.  \nHOTEL | This comfortable hotel is on a quiet side-street a five-minute walk from the Konigstrasse pedestrian mile and the museums around Schlossplatz. It attracts mostly businesspeople during the week, and theatergoers and shoppers on weekends, in part for the free hotel parking so close to the heart of downtown. Rooms are clean and modern, and there is free and fast Wi-Fi. There is a lobby bar and a restaurant open for lunch on weekdays (no dinner), and the hotel offers printed jogging and biking maps for the nearby Schlosspark. Pros: free parking; free Internet. Cons: rooms facing street can be noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Langestr. 49 | 0711/20450 | www.hotel-wartburg-stuttgart.de | 74 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nM\u00f6venpick Hotel Stuttgart Airport.  \nHOTEL | Across the street from Stuttgart Airport, the doors of this hotel open into a completely soundproof glass palace. Look up from the spacious and light-filled lobby to see the glass ceiling; the airy guest rooms have wall-to-wall windows, and the suites beckon with all the amenities. There is also an inviting lounge and bar. The Stuttgart fairgrounds are within walking distance from the hotel, which tends to fill with business travelers - ask for weekend rates. Pros: spacious; modern yet welcoming. Cons: swells with business travelers; not convenient to downtown museums, theater or shopping. | Rooms from: \u20ac200 | Flughafenstr. 50, Flughafen | 0711/553\u2013440 | www.moevenpick-stuttgart-airport.com | 326 rooms, 12 junior suites | No meals.\n\nFodor's Choice | Wald Hotel.  \nRESORT | On the edge of a forest (wald) with miles of hiking and biking trails, yet just a 10-minute streetcar ride from downtown, this modern resort hotel offers lots of amenities and peaceful nights. It's in the residential suburb of Degerloch, and occupies a 100-year-old building that had previous lives as an orphanage and a religious retreat, but a 2011 makeover created a chic interior that blends natural elements with fine modern art. There are tennis courts and electric bikes (free for guests), and an outdoor sauna overlooking a lush garden. Rooms are decorated in soothing neutral tones, and there are two restaurants, one of which is a fine dining destination. Pros: free Wi-Fi; ample free parking; spacious modern bathrooms. Cons: walk from streetcar station after dark is not well lit. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Guts-Muths-Weg 18, Degerloch | 0711/185\u2013720, 0711/185\u201372120 for reservations | www.waldhotel-stuttgart.de | 94 rooms, 2 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\ni-Punkt tourist office.  \nAcross the street from the main train station, this is the place to check out a current calendar of events and buy tickets. | K\u00f6nigstr. 1A, Mitte | 0711/22280 for tickets (weekdays 8:30\u20136) | www.stuttgart-tourist.de | Weekdays 9\u20138, Sat. 9\u20136, Sun. 1\u20136 (10\u20136 May\u2013Oct.).\n\n#### The Arts\n\nSI-Centrum.  \nBuilt to showcase big-budget musicals, including American imports such as 42nd Street, this entertainment complex contains theaters, hotels, bars, restaurants, a casino, a wellness center, movie theaters, and shops. A calendar of events can be found on its website. | Plieninger Str. 100 | Stuttgart-M\u00f6hringen | 0711/721\u20131111 | www.si-centrum.de.\n\nStaatstheater.  \nStuttgart's internationally renowned ballet company performs at this elegant historic theater. The ballet season\u2014including works choreographed by Stuttgart Ballet's John Cranko\u2014runs from September through July and alternates with the highly respected State Opera. The box office is open weekdays 10\u20138, Saturday 10\u20132. | Oberer Schlossgarten 6, Mitte | 0711/20320 | www.staatstheater.stuttgart.de.\n\n#### Nightlife\n\nThere's no shortage of rustic beer gardens, wine pubs, or sophisticated cocktail bars in and around Stuttgart. Night owls should head for the Schwabenzentrum on Eberhardstrasse; the Bohnenviertel, or \"Bean Quarter\" (Charlotten-, Olga-, and Pfarrstrasse); the \"party mile\" along Theodor-Heuss-Strasse; Calwer Strasse; and Wilhelmsplatz.\n\nCaf\u00e9 Stella.  \nIf you enjoy live music, visit this trendy restaurant and bar, perfect for an evening of dinner and drinks. The entertainment focus is on singer-songwriters, but includes jazz, comedy, and literary events, with swing dance every Sunday. | Hauptst\u00e4tterstr. 57, Mitte | 0711/640\u20132583 | www.cafe-stella.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Boat Trips\n\nNeckar-K\u00e4pt'n.  \nFrom the pier opposite the entrance to the zoo, Neckar-K\u00e4pt'n offers a wide range of boat trips, as far north as scenic Besigheim. | Off Neckartalstr., Am Leuzebad | 0711/5499\u20137060 | www.neckar-kaeptn.de.\n\n#### Hiking\n\nStuttgart has a 53-km (33-mile) network of marked hiking trails in the nearby hills; follow the signs with the city's emblem: a horse set in a yellow ring.\n\n#### Swimming and Spas\n\nMineralbad Berg.  \nTake the waters in the indoor and outdoor pools and sauna here; there are also therapeutic water treatments. | Am Schwanenpl. 9, Bad Canstatt | 0711/216\u20137090.\n\nMineralbad Cannstatt.  \nBad Cannstatt's mineral springs are more than 2,000 years old and, with a daily output of about 5.8 million gallons, the second most productive in Europe (after Budapest). There are indoor and outdoor mineral pools, hot tubs, a sauna, a steam room, and spa facilities. | Sulzerrainstr. 2, Canstatt | 0711/216\u20139240.\n\nMineralbad Leuze.  \nOn the banks of the Neckar near the K\u00f6nig-Karl Bridge is the Mineralbad Leuze, with eight pools indoors and out and an open-air mineral-water sauna. | Am Leuzebad 2\u20136, Bad Canstatt | 0711/216\u20134210.\n\n### Shopping\n\nStuttgart is a shopper's paradise, from the department stores on the K\u00f6nigstrasse to the boutiques in the Old Town's elegant passages and the factory outlet stores.\n\nBohnenviertel (Bean Quarter).  \nSome of Stuttgart's more unique shops are found in this older quarter. A stroll through the neighborhood's smaller streets reveals many tucked-away shops specializing in fashion, jewelry, artwork, and gifts.\n\nBreuninger.  \nThis leading regional department-store chain has glass elevators that rise and fall under the dome of the central arcade, whisking you to multiple floors of designer boutiques. | Marktstr. 1\u20133, Mitte | 0711/2110.\n\nCalwer Passage.  \nThis glitzy chrome-and-glass arcade is lined with boutique shops selling everything from local women's fashion (Beate M\u00f6ssinger) to furniture. The adjoining Calwer Strasse is a pedestrian zone of restaurants and more shops. | Off Calwerstr.\n\nMarkthalle.  \nThe beautiful art nouveau Markthalle on Dorotheenstrasse is one of Germany's finest market halls, with a curved glass ceiling for natural light to show off a mouthwatering selection of exotic fresh fruits, spices, meats, cheeses, chocolates, and flowers (closed Sunday). TIP Check out the recently renovated fountain, which spouts water from the original well. | Dorotheenstr. 4 | www.markthalle-stuttgart.de.\n\n## Bebenhausen\n\n6 km (4 miles) north of T\u00fcbingen.\n\nBetween Stuttgart and T\u00fcbingen lies this small hamlet consisting of a few houses, a monastery, and the Waldhorn, an excellent and well-known restaurant. The monastery was founded in the 12th century by the count of T\u00fcbingen. Today it belongs to the state.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTo get here by public transportation, take the train from Stuttgart to T\u00fcbingen (45 minutes) then a bus to Bebenhausen (15 minutes). Trains and bus connections are several times an hour on weekdays, less on weekends. If you're driving, take the B-27 and B-464 south from Stuttgart.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Zisterzienzerkloster (Cistercian Monastery).  \nThis is a rare example of a well-preserved medieval monastery from the late 12th century. Following the secularization of 1806, the abbot's abode was rebuilt as a hunting castle for King Frederick of W\u00fcrttemberg. Expansion and restoration continued as long as the palace and monastery continued to be a royal residence. Visits to the palace are with guided tours only. | Im Schloss | 07071/602\u2013802 | Monastery \u20ac4, palace \u20ac4.50 | Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u2013noon and 1\u20135; Apr.\u2013Oct. daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nFodor's Choice | Waldhorn.  \nEUROPEAN | Old favorites such as the Vorspeisenvariation (a medley of appetizers), local fish and goose keep people coming back to this historic eatery. The wine list features a well-chosen selection of top Baden and W\u00fcrttemberg wines. Garden tables have a castle view. A meal here is a perfect start or finale to the concerts held on the monastery-castle grounds in the summer. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Sch\u00f6nbuchstr. 49 | 07071/61270 | www.waldhorn-bebenhausen.de | Reservations essential | Closed Mon. and Tues.\n\n## T\u00fcbingen\n\n40 km (25 miles) south of Stuttgart.\n\nWith its half-timber houses, winding alleyways, and hilltop setting overlooking the Neckar, T\u00fcbingen provides the quintessential German experience. The medieval flavor is quite authentic, as the town was untouched by wartime bombings. Dating to the 11th century, T\u00fcbingen flourished as a trade center; its weights and measures and currency were the standard through much of the area. The town declined in importance after the 14th century, when it was taken over by the counts of W\u00fcrttemberg. Between the 14th and the 19th century, its size hardly changed as it became a university and residential town, its castle the only symbol of ruling power.\n\nYet T\u00fcbingen hasn't been sheltered from the world. It resonates with a youthful air. Even more than Heidelberg, T\u00fcbingen is virtually synonymous with its university, a leading center of learning since it was founded in 1477. The best way to see and appreciate T\u00fcbingen is simply to stroll around, soaking up its age-old atmosphere of quiet erudition.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBy regional train or by car on the autobahn, T\u00fcbingen is an hour south of Stuttgart on B-27. Trains run several times an hour on weekdays, less often on weekends. In the Old Town you reach everything on foot.\n\n#### Tours\n\nThe T\u00fcbingen tourist office runs guided city tours year-round at 2:30. From March through October there are also tours that take place daily and cost \u20ac9. From November through February, tours are on weekends only. Tours start at the Rathaus on the market square.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nOvernight guests receive a free Tourist-Regio-Card from their hotel (ask for it) for reduced admission fees to museums, concerts, theaters, and sports facilities.\n\n#### Timing\n\nA leisurely walk around the old part of town will take you about two hours, if you include the castle on the hill and Platanenallee looking at the Old Town from the other side of the river.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nVerkehrsverein T\u00fcbingen. | An der Neckarbr\u00fccke | 07071/91360 | www.tuebingen-info.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nMarktplatz (Market Square).  \nHouses of prominent burghers of centuries gone by surround this square. At the open-air market on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday you can buy flowers, bread, pastries, poultry, sausage, and cheese.\n\nRathaus (Town Hall).  \nBegun in 1433, this building slowly expanded over the next 150 years. Its ornate Renaissance facade is bright with colorful murals and a marvelous astronomical clock dating from 1511. The halls and reception rooms are adorned with half-timber and paintings from the late 19th century. | Marktpl.\n\nStiftskirche (Collegiate Church).  \nThe late-Gothic church has been well preserved; its original features include the stained-glass windows, the choir stalls, the ornate baptismal font, and the elaborate stone pulpit. The windows are famous for their colors and were much admired by Goethe. The dukes of W\u00fcrttemberg, from the 15th through the 17th century, are interred in the choir. | Holzmarkt. | Daily 9\u20134.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAlte Aula (Old Auditorium).  \nErected in 1547, the half-timber university building was significantly altered in 1777, when it acquired an Italian roof, a symmetrical facade, and a balcony decorated with two crossed scepters, symbolizing the town's center of learning. In earlier times grain was stored under the roof as part of the professors' salaries. | M\u00fcnzg.\n\nBursa (Student Dormitory).  \nThe word bursa meant \"purse\" in the Middle Ages and later came to refer to student lodgings such as this former student dormitory. Despite its classical facade, which it acquired in the early 19th century, the building actually dates back to 1477. Medieval students had to master a broad curriculum that included the septem artes liberales (seven liberal arts) of grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. The interior of the Bursa is not open for visits, but it's worth strolling by for a look at the outside. | Bursag. 4.\n\nH\u00f6lderlinturm (H\u00f6lderlin's Tower).  \nFriedrich H\u00f6lderlin, a visionary poet who succumbed to madness in his early thirties, lived here until his death in 1843, in the care of the master cabinetmaker Zimmer and his daughter. There's a small literary museum and art gallery inside, and a schedule of events includes concerts and poetry readings. | Bursag. 6 | 07071/22040 | www.hoelderlin-gesellschaft.de | \u20ac2.50 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u2013noon and 3\u20135.\n\nKornhaus (Grain House).  \nDuring the Middle Ages, townspeople stored and sold grain on the first floor of this structure built in 1453; social events took place on the second floor. It now houses the City Museum. | Kornhausstr. 10 | 07071/204\u20131711 | \u20ac2.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Kunsthalle  \n(Art Gallery). An art gallery north of the Neckar, the Kunsthalle has become a leading local exhibition venue and generates a special kind of \"art tourism,\" making it difficult to find lodging if a popular exhibition is shown. | Philosophenweg 76 | 07071/96910 | www.kunsthalle-tuebingen.de | \u20ac7 | Tues. 11\u20137, Wed.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nSchloss Hohent\u00fcbingen. The original castle of the counts of T\u00fcbingen (1078) was significantly enlarged and altered by Duke Ulrich during the 16th century. Particularly noteworthy is the elaborate Renaissance portal patterned after a Roman triumphal arch. The coat of arms of the duchy of W\u00fcrttemberg depicted in the center is framed by the emblems of various orders, including the Order of the Garter. Today the castle's main attraction is its magnificent view over the river and town. It's a 90-minute walk from Schlossbergstrasse, over the Spitzberg, or via the Kapit\u00e4nsweg that ends north of the castle. | Burgsteige 11.\n\nStudentenkarzer (Student Prison).  \nThe oldest surviving university prison in Germany consists of just two small rooms. For more than three centuries (1515\u20131845) students were locked up here for such offenses as swearing, failing to attend sermons, wearing clothing considered lewd, or playing dice. The figures on the walls are not graffiti but scenes from biblical history that were supposed to contribute to the moral improvement of the incarcerated students. You can enter the prison on a guided tour organized by the T\u00fcbingen tourist board. | M\u00fcnzg. 20 | 07071/91360 | \u20ac1 | Tour weekends at 2.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Forelle.  \nGERMAN | Beautiful ceilings painted with vine motifs, exposed beams, wooden wainscoting and an old tile stove make for a gem\u00fctlich (cozy) atmosphere. This small restaurant fills up fast, not least because of the Swabian cooking, including the region's signature Maultaschen. The chef makes sure the ingredients are from the region, including the inn's namesake, trout, often served in French-style amandine. Save room for dessert, especially the housemade Schw\u00e4bische Apfelk\u00fcchle (Schwabian applecake) with vanilla sauce. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Kronenstr. 8 | 07071/24094 | www.weinstube-forelle.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Wurstk\u00fcche.  \nGERMAN | For more than 200 years, all sorts of people have come here: students, because many of the dishes are filling yet inexpensive; locals, because the food is the typical Swabian fare their mothers made; and out-of-town visitors, who love the old-fashioned atmosphere. In summer you may get a seat at one of the tables on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Try the Alb-Leisa ond Schbatza, or sausages with sp\u00e4tzle and lentils. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Am Lustnauer Tor 8 | 07071/92750 | www.wurstkueche.com.\n\nHotel Am Schloss.  \nHOTEL | There are lovely views of the Old Town from the rooms in this charming small hotel, and it's close to the castle that towers over the town. In its excellent restaurant you can try a dozen versions of Maultaschen (Swabian-style ravioli) and many other regional dishes. In season, local trout with a white wine from Swabia is a popular choice. In summer, reserve or try for a table on the terrace. Pros: very nice views; valet parking. Cons: no elevator, difficult parking. | Rooms from: \u20ac118 | Burgsteige 18 | 07071/92940 | www.hotelamschloss.de | 37 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Hospiz.  \nHOTEL | This modern, family-run hotel provides friendly service, comfortable rooms, and a convenient Altstadt location near the castle. Some of the rooms are on the small side, so see a few before you decide. As parking is difficult, the hotel will help you park your car. Pros: some old beams; convenient location. Cons: many stairs in spite of elevator; rooms simply furnished; no bar or restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Neckarhalde 2 | 07071/9240 | www.hotel-hospiz.de | 45 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nDie Kelter.  \nYou'll find jazz, light fare, and a wine shop here. | Schmiedtorstr. 17 | 07071/254\u2013690 | www.diekelter.de | Closed Mon.\n\nJazzkeller.  \nLike dozens of other Old Town student pubs, Jazzkeller attracts a lively crowd after 9. | Haagg. 15/2 | 07071/550\u2013906 | www.jazz-keller.eu | Closed Sun. and Mon.\n\nTangente-Jour.  \nThis cafe morphs into a bistro and cocktail lounge after dark, so you can find action from breakfast until past midnight, next to the Stiftskirche. | M\u00fcnzg. 17 | 07071/24572 | www.tangente-marktschenke.de.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nThe T\u00fcbingen tourist office has maps with hiking routes around the town, including historical and geological Lehrpfade, or educational walks. A classic T\u00fcbingen walk goes from the castle down to the little chapel called the Wurmlinger Kapelle, taking about two hours. On the way you can stop off at the restaurant Schw\u00e4rzlocher Hof (closed Monday and Tuesday) for a glass of Most (apple wine), bread, and sausages\u2014all are homemade.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Burg Hohenzollern.  \nThe majestic silhouette of this massive castle is visible from miles away. The Hohenzollern House of Prussia was the most powerful family in German history. It lost its throne when Kaiser William II abdicated after Germany's defeat in World War I. The Swabian branch of the family owns one third of the castle, the Prussian branch two thirds. Today's neo-Gothic structure, perched high on a conical wooded hill, is a successor of a castle dating from the 11th century. On the fascinating castle tour you'll see the Prussian royal crown and beautiful period rooms, all opulent from floor to ceiling, with such playful details as door handles carved to resemble peacocks and dogs. The restaurant on the castle grounds, Burgsch\u00e4nke (closed January, and Monday in February and March) serves regional food. From the castle parking lot (\u20ac2) it's a 20-minute walk to the entrance, or in summer take the shuttle bus (\u20ac3 round-trip, \u20ac1.85 one-way). | 25 km (15 miles) south of T\u00fcbingen on B-27 | Hechingen | 07471/2428 | www.burg-hohenzollern.com | \u20ac10 | Castle and shuttle bus, mid-Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135:30; Nov.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 10\u20134:30.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Frankfurt\n\nExploring Frankfurt\n\nWhere to Eat\n\nWhere to Stay\n\nNightlife and the Arts\n\nSports and the Outdoors\n\nShopping\n\nSide Trips from Frankfurt\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | German Sausages | Weisswurst Etiquette\n\nUpdated by Evelyn Kanter\n\nAlthough many consider Frankfurt more or less a gateway to their Europe travels, the city's rich culture and history, dining, and amusement options might just surprise you.\n\nStanding in the center of the R\u00f6merberg (medieval town square), you'll see the city's striking contrasts at once. Re-creations of neo-Gothic houses and government buildings enfold the square, while just beyond them modern skyscrapers pierce the sky. The city cheekily nicknamed itself \"Mainhattan,\" using the name of the Main River that flows through it to suggest that other famous metropolis across the Atlantic. Although only fifth in size among German cities, with a population of nearly 700,000, Frankfurt is Germany's financial powerhouse. The German Central Bank (Bundesbank) is here, as is the European Central Bank (ECB), which manages the Euro. Some 300 credit institutions (more than half of them foreign banks) have offices in Frankfurt, including the headquarters of five of Germany's largest banks. You can see how the city acquired its other nickname, \"Bankfurt am Main.\" It's no wonder that Frankfurt is Europe's financial center. The city's stock exchange, one of the most important in the world, was established in 1585, and the Rothschild family opened their first bank here in 1798.\n\nThe long history of trade might help explain the temperament of many Frankfurters\u2014competitive but open-minded. It's also one of the reasons Frankfurt has become Germany's most international city. Close to a quarter of its residents are foreign, with a growing number from Eastern Europe and the Middle East.\n\nBecause of its commercialism, Frankfurt has a reputation for being cold and boring, but people who know the city think this characterization is unfair. The district of Sachsenhausen is as gem\u00fctlich (fun, friendly, and cozy) as you will find anywhere. The city has world-class ballet, opera, theater, and art exhibitions; an important piece of Germany's publishing industry (and the world's largest annual book fair); a large university (43,000 students); and two of the three most important daily newspapers in Germany. Despite the skyscrapers, especially in the Hauptbahnhof (main train station) area and adjoining Westend district, there's much here to remind you of the Old World, along with much that explains the success of postwar Germany.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nSachsenhausen: Frankfurt's \"South Bank\"\u2014with upscale restaurants, fast-food joints, bars with live music, and traditional Apfelwein pubs\u2014is one big outdoor party in summer.\n\nPaleontology paradise: Beyond a huge dinosaur skeleton, the Senckenberg Natural History Museum has exhibits of many other extinct animals and plants, plus dioramas of animals in their habitats.\n\nEnjoy the outdoors: The parks and riverbanks are popular with locals and tourists for strolls, sunbathing, and picnics.\n\nGet some wheels: Hop on and tour the city sites from a bike; you'll be in good company alongside locals.\n\nExotic experience: Head to the Frankfurt Zoo's \"exotarium,\" where coral, fish, snakes, alligators, amphibians, insects, and spiders are on display.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nLegend has it that the Frankish Emperor Charlemagne was chasing a deer on the Main's south bank when the animal plunged into the river and, to the emperor's amazement, crossed it with its head always above water. A stone ridge had made the river shallow at that point. That supposedly was the origin of Frankfurt (literally \"Frankish Ford\") as an important river crossing. Commerce flourished from then on: to this day Frankfurt is an important center of business and finance.\n\n## What's Where\n\nAltstadt and City Center. Frankfurt downtown includes the Altstadt (Old City), parts of which have been carefully restored after wartime destruction; the Zeil, allegedly Germany's number-one \"shop 'til you drop\" mile; the Fressgass (\"Pig-Out Alley\"); and the bank district.\n\nOstend. This area near the East Harbor is where you'll find lots of corporations and banks, although there are also some sights, including the zoo, as well as restaurants, caf\u00e9s, and clubs catering to those working in the neighboring skyscrapers.\n\nMesse and Westend. The Westend is a mix of the villas of the prewar rich and a skyscraper extension of the business district. It's a popular place for the city's elite to live. Messe is the area around Frankfurt's huge and busy convention center (Messe), but unless you are attending the huge book fair here or Europe's largest auto show and need a nearby beer or meal to refuel, there's not much reason to go.\n\nNordend and Bornheim. These residential areas are a great place to get away from the crowds and enjoy small neighborhood restaurants and shops.\n\nSachsenhausen. Just across the river from downtown, Sachsenhausen is distinguished by the Apfelwein (Apple Wine) district and the Museumufer (Museum Riverbank). The Apple Wine district, now with every sort of restaurant and tavern, is one big party, especially in summer, when the tables spill out onto traffic-free streets. The Museum Riverbank has seven museums within as many blocks along the riverfront street Schaumainkai.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThe weather in Frankfurt is moderate throughout the year, though often damp and drizzly. Summers are mild, with the occasional hot day, and it rarely gets very cold in winter and hardly ever snows. Because Frankfurt is one of the biggest trade fair cities in all of Europe, high season at all hotels is considered to be during trade shows throughout the year. Be sure to check dates to avoid paying premium price for a room or even finding yourself without a place to stay.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThere are two airports with the name \"Frankfurt\": Flughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA), which receives direct flights from many U.S. cities and from all major cities in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Mideast; and Frankfurt-Hahn (HHN), a former U.S. air base a full 112 km (70 miles) west of Frankfurt that handles some bargain flights, mainly to and from secondary European airports.\n\nAirport Contacts  \nFlughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA). | 200 Flughafen Frankfurt am Main | 0800/2345679 | www.frankfurt-airport.de.   \nFrankfurt-Hahn (HHN). | 1 Saonestr., | Hahn-Flughafen | 06543/509\u2013113 | www.hahn-airport.de.\n\n#### Airport Transfers\n\nFlughafen Frankfurt Main is 10 km (6 miles) southwest of downtown via the A-5 autobahn, and has its own railway station for high-speed InterCity (IC) and InterCity Express (ICE) trains. Getting into Frankfurt from the airport is easy, via S-bahn line nos. 8 and 9 that run between the airport and downtown. Most travelers get off at the Hauptbahnhof (main train station, or HBF) or at Hauptwache, in the heart of Frankfurt. Trains run at least every 15 minutes, and the trip takes about 15 minutes. The one-way fare is \u20ac4.25. A taxi from the airport into the City Center normally takes around 25 minutes (double that during rush hours). The fare is around \u20ac35. If you are driving a rental car from the airport, take the main road out of the airport and follow the signs reading \"Stadtmitte\" (downtown).\n\nBohr Busreisen offers a regular bus service to and from Frankfurt-Hahn Airport. It leaves every hour to every 1\u00bd hours, 3 am to 8 pm, from the south side of the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, with a stop 15 minutes later at the Terminal 1 bus station at Flughafen Frankfurt Main. The trip to Frankfurt-Hahn takes an hour and 45 minutes, and costs \u20ac14.\n\n#### Bus and Subway Travel\n\nFrankfurt's smooth-running, well-integrated public transportation system (called RMV) consists of the U-bahn (subway), S-bahn (suburban railway), Strassenbahn (streetcars), and buses. Buses are the public-transit option between 1 am and 4 am.\n\nFares for the entire system, which includes an extensive surrounding area, are uniform, though they are based on a complex zone system. Within the time that your ticket is valid (one hour for most inner-city destinations), you can transfer from one part of the system to another.\n\nTickets may be purchased from automatic vending machines, which are at all U-bahn and S-bahn stations. Weekly and monthly tickets are sold at central ticket offices and newsstands. A basic one-way ticket for a ride in the inner zone costs \u20ac2.60 during the peak hours of 6 am\u20139 am and 4 pm\u20136:30 pm weekdays (\u20ac2.30 the rest of the time). There's also a reduced Kurzstrecke (\"short stretch\") fare of \u20ac1.60 the whole day. A day ticket for unlimited travel in the inner zones costs \u20ac6.60. If you're caught without a ticket, there's a fine of \u20ac40.\n\nSome 200 European cities have bus links with Frankfurt, largely through Deutsche Touring. Buses arrive at and depart from the south side of the Hauptbahnhof and terminal 1 at the Frankfurt Main airport.\n\nBus Contacts  \nBohr Busreisen. | 0654/350190 | www.omnibusse.bohr.de.   \nDeutsche Touring. | Mannheimerstr. 15, City Center | 069/46092780 | www.touring.de.   \nVerkehrsgesellschaft Frankfurt am Main (Municipal Transit Authority). | 069/19449 | www.vgf-ffm.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nFrankfurt is the meeting point of a number of major autobahns. The most important are A-3, running south from K\u00f6ln and then on east to W\u00fcrzburg and N\u00fcrnberg, and A-5, running south from Giessen and then on toward Heidelberg and Basel.\n\nIn Frankfurt, hidden cameras are used to catch speeders, so be sure to stick to the speed limit. Tow trucks cruise the streets in search of illegal parkers. There are many reasonably priced parking garages around the downtown area and a well-developed \"park-and-ride\" system with the suburban train lines. The transit map shows nearly a hundred outlying stations with a blue \"P\" symbol beside them, meaning there is convenient parking there.\n\n#### Taxi Travel\n\nCabs are not always easy to hail from the sidewalk; some stop, but others will pick up only from the city's numerous taxi stands or outside hotels or the train station. You can always order a cab. Fares start at \u20ac2.80 (\u20ac3.30 in the evening) and increase by a per-kilometer (\u00bd mile) charge of \u20ac1.75 (\u20ac1.60 after 10 km). Frankfurt also has Velotaxis, covered tricycles seating two passengers and a driver that are useful for sightseeing or getting to places on the traffic-free downtown streets. They charge \u20ac2.50 per kilometer.\n\nTaxi Contacts  \nTaxis. | 069/230001.   \nVelotaxi. | 0700/8356\u20138294.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nEuroCity, InterCity (IC), and InterCity Express (ICE) trains connect Frankfurt with all German cities and many major European ones. The InterCity Express line links Frankfurt with Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, and a number of other major hubs. All long-distance trains arrive at and depart from the Hauptbahnhof, and many also stop at the long-distance train station at the main airport. The red-light district southwest of the main station should be avoided.\n\nTrain Contact   \nDeutsche Bahn (German Railways). | 01805/996633 | www.bahn.de.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nTourismus und Congress GmbH Frankfurt\u2013Main has its main office at R\u00f6merberg 27, in Old Town. It's open weekdays 9:30\u20135:30 and weekends 9\u20136.\n\nThe airport's information office is on the first floor of Arrivals Hall B and open daily 7 am\u201310:30 pm. Another information office in the main hall of the railroad station is open weekdays 8 am\u20139 pm, weekends 9\u20136. Both can help you find accommodations.\n\nVisitor Information  \nTourismus und Congress GmbH Frankfurt/Main. | R\u00f6merberg 27, City Center | 069/2123\u20138800 | www.frankfurt-tourismus.de.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe Frankfurt tourist office offers a one- or two-day ticket\u2014the Frankfurt Card (\u20ac9.20 for one day, \u20ac13.50 for two days)\u2014allowing unlimited travel on public transportation in the inner zone, and to the airport. It also includes a 50% reduction on admission to 24 museums, the zoo, and the Palmengarten, and price reductions at some restaurants and stores.\n\n### Tours\n\n#### Apple Wine Express Tour\n\nThe one-hour Apple Wine Express (Ebbelwei Express) tour in a vintage streetcar is offered hourly weekends and some holidays. It gives you a quick look at the city's neighborhoods, a bit of Frankfurt history, and a chance to sample Apfelwein (a bottle, along with pretzels, is included in the \u20ac7 fare).\n\nContacts  \nEbbelwei Express. | 069/213\u201322425 | www.ebbelwei-express.com.\n\n#### Boat Trips\n\nDay trips on the Main River and Rhine excursions run from April through October and leave from the Frankfurt Mainkai am Eiserner Steg, just south of the R\u00f6mer complex. TIP The boats are available for private parties, too.\n\nContact  \nFrankfurt Personenschiffahrt Primus-Linie. | Mainkai 36, Altstadt | 069/1338370 | www.primus-linie.de.\n\n#### Bus Tours\n\nTwo-hour city bus tours with English-speaking guides are available from the Frankfurt Tourist Office throughout the year.\n\n#### Walking Tours\n\nThe tourist office's walking tours cover a variety of topics, including Goethe, Jewish history, apple wine, architecture, and banking. Tours can also be tailored to your interests. For an English-speaking guide, a group tour cost starts at \u20ac110 for up to two hours (prices vary depending on the type of tour).\n\nTour Contact  \nTourismus und Congress GmbH Frankfurt/Main. | 069/2123\u20138800 | www.frankfurt-tourismus.de.\n\n## German Sausages\n\nThe one thing you're guaranteed to find wherever your travels in Germany take you: sausages. Encased meats are a serious business here, and you could spend a lifetime working your way through 1,500 varieties of German sausages, also known as Wurst.\n\nThe tradition of making sausages goes back centuries, both as a method to preserve food long before refrigeration and as the best way to use every last piece of precious meat. Sausage recipes go back for generations, and like most German cooking, sausage types vary from region to region. There's also an abundance of ways to serve a sausage\u2014grilled sausages are served up in a small roll, essentially just a sausage \"holder\"; Weisswursts come to the table after a gentle bath in warm water; cured sausages often are served sliced, while other cooked sausages are dished up with sauerkraut. Germans don't mess around when it comes to their love for sausage, eating about 62 pounds of sausage per person each year.\n\n\u2014Tania Ralli\n\n## Weisswurst Etiquette\n\nWeisswurst is a delicate white sausage made with veal, bacon, lemon, and parsley. It's traditional in the southern state of Bavaria, where they are sticklers about the way of eating them. The casing is never eaten; instead, you zuzeln (suck) out the meat. Make a slit at the top, dunk it in sweet mustard, and suck out the insides. It's all right to slit and peel it as well.\n\n#### Frankfurter\n\nIn Germany a frankfurter isn't something that must be doused in condiments to make it palatable, like a subpar ballpark frank\u2014instead you'll immediately notice the crisp snap of the frankfurter's skin and a delicious smoky taste. Frankfurters are long and narrow by design, to absorb as much flavor as possible during cold smoking. When served on a plate for lunch or dinner, they're normally served in a pair, and you should eat them dipped in mustard, with your fingers. Frankfurters and other w\u00fcrste also are served inside a small roll, called a Brotchen. The only condiment used is mustard, never sauerkraut or other toppings.\n\n#### Th\u00fcringer Rostbratwurst\n\nThis bratwurst dates back to 1613 and it's clear why it has stood the test of time: it's one of Germany's most delicious sausages. The Rostbratwurst is a mix of lean pork belly, veal, and beef, seasoned with herbs and spices. Most families closely guard their recipes, but often use garlic, caraway, or nutmeg. You'll smell the scent of grilled Th\u00fcringer wafting through the streets because they're popular at street markets and festivals.\n\n#### Landj\u00e4ger\n\nThis small, narrow, and dense rectangular sausage is sold in pairs. It's cured by air-drying, so it resembles a dry salami in color and texture Landj\u00e4ger are made of beef, sometimes with pork, and red wine and spices. Historically, fieldworkers and wine grape harvesters liked to eat these salty sausages. Landj\u00e4ger keep well, so they're a great snack to tuck in your backpack when you head out for a day of hiking in the mountains.\n\n#### Blutwurst\n\nSometimes called Rotwurst (red sausage), Blutwurst is a combination of ground pork, spices, and\u2014the key ingredient\u2014blood, fresh from the slaughter. After it's been cooked and smoked, the blood congeals, and the sausage takes on a dark hue and looks almost black. Depending on the region, it can be studded with bacon, pickled ox tongue, or potatoes. For most of its history Blutwurst has been considered a luxury item.\n\n#### Bockwurst\n\nThis sausage got its name when hungry students ordered it with a round of Bockbier, a style of beer, in Berlin in 1889. The sausage came from a nearby Jewish butcher, who made it with veal and beef. Bockwurst is a thick sausage seasoned with salt, white pepper, and paprika, in a natural casing. It's usually boiled and served hot, but it can also be grilled. It's one of Germany's most popular sausages, so you'll find it on menus all over the country.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAltstadt | City Center | Ostend | Messe and Westend | Nordend and Bornheim | Sachsenhausen\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Altstadt\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nAlte Oper (Old Opera House).  \nKaiser Wilhelm I traveled from Berlin for the gala opening of this opera house in 1880. Gutted in World War II, the house remained a hollow shell for 40 years while controversy raged over its reconstruction. The exterior and lobby are faithful to the original, though the remainder of the building is more like a modern multipurpose hall. Although classical music performances are held here, most operas these days are staged at the Frankfurt Opera. | Opernpl. 1, Altstadt | 069/13400 | www.alteoper.de | Station: Alte Oper (U-bahn).\n\nFressgass.  \nGrosse Bockenheimer Strasse is the proper name of this pedestrian street, but it's nicknamed \"Pig-Out Alley\" because of its amazing choice of delicatessens, wine merchants, caf\u00e9s, and restaurants, offering everything from crumbly cheeses and smoked fish to vintage wines and chocolate creams. TIP Check the side streets for additional cafes and restaurants. | Grosse Bockenheimerstr., Altstadt | www.frankfurt-fressgass.de | Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn), Alte Oper (U-bahn).\n\nGoethehaus und Goethemuseum (Goethe's Residence and Museum).  \nThe house where Germany's most famous poet was born is furnished with many original pieces that belonged to his family, including manuscripts in his own hand. The original house, which was destroyed by Allied bombing, has been carefully rebuilt and restored in every detail. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749\u20131832) studied law and became a member of the bar in Frankfurt. He was quickly drawn to writing, however, and in this house he eventually wrote the first version of his masterpiece, Faust. The adjoining museum contains works of art that inspired Goethe (he was an amateur painter) and works associated with his literary contemporaries. | Grosser Hirschgraben 23\u201325, Altstadt | 069/138\u2013800 | www.goethehaus-frankfurt.de | \u20ac7 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 10\u20135:30 | Station: Hauptwache or Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Historisches Museum (Historical Museum).  \nThis fascinating museum encompasses 2,000 years of all aspects of Frankfurt's history. It contains a scale model of historic Frankfurt, with every street, house, and church, plus photos of the devastation of World War II. Parts of the building date from the 1300s. A new wing is scheduled to open by early 2015. | Fahrtor 2 (R\u00f6merberg), Altstadt | 069/2123\u20135599 | www.historisches-museum.frankfurt.de | \u20ac6 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. 10\u20139 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nKaiserdom.  \nBecause the Holy Roman emperors were chosen and crowned here from the 16th to the 18th century, the church is known as the Kaiserdom (Imperial Cathedral), even though it isn't the seat of a bishop. Officially the Church of St. Bartholomew, but called simply \"The Dom\" by locals, it was built largely between the 13th and 15th century and survived World War II with the majority of its treasures intact. The most impressive exterior feature is the tall, red sandstone tower (almost 300 feet high), which was added between 1415 and 1514. Climb it for a good view. The Dommuseum (Cathedral Museum) occupies the former Gothic cloister. | Dompl. 1, Altstadt | 069/1337\u20136184 | www.dom-frankfurt.de | Dommuseum \u20ac3 | Church Mon.\u2013Thurs. and Sat. 9\u2013noon and 2:30\u20136, Fri. and Sun. 2:30\u20136. Dommuseum Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20135 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Moderne Kunst (Museum of Modern Art).  \nAustrian architect Hans Hollein (born in 1934) designed this distinctive triangular building, shaped like a wedge of cake. The collection features works by artists such as Andy Warhol and Joseph Beuys. | Domstr. 10, Altstadt | 069/21230447 | www.mmk-frankfurt.de | \u20ac10 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. 10\u20138 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nPaulskirche (St. Paul's Church).  \nThe first all-German parliament was held here in 1848. The parliament lasted only a year, having achieved little more than offering the Prussian king the crown of Germany. Today the church, which has been extensively restored, remains a symbol of German democracy and is used mainly for ceremonies. The most striking feature of the interior is a giant, completely circular mural showing an \"endless\" procession of the people's representatives into the Paulskirche. The work of Johannes Gr\u00fctzke, completed in 1991, it also shows such symbols as a mother and child, a smith to represent the common people, and a rejected crown. The plenary chamber upstairs is flanked by the flags of Germany, the 16 states, and the city of Frankfurt. | Paulspl. 11, Altstadt | 069/212\u201338934 | Daily 10\u20135 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nR\u00f6merberg.  \nThis square north of the Main River, restored after wartime bomb damage, is the historical focal point of the city. The R\u00f6mer, the Nikolaikirche, and the half-timber Ostzeile houses are all clustered around this huge plaza. The 16th-century Fountain of Justitia (Justice), which flows with wine on special occasions, stands in the center of the R\u00f6merberg. The square is also the site of many public festivals throughout the year, including the Christmas market in December. Kleine Krame is a pedestrian street just north of the square that's lined with snack shops and cafes. | Between Braubachstr. and Main R., Altstadt | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nZeil.  \nThe heart of Frankfurt's shopping district is this bustling pedestrian street running east from Hauptwache Square. It's lined with department stores, a few smaller boutiques, drugstores, cell-phone franchises, electronics shops, restaurants, and more. TIP Stop in at the outdoor farmers' market every Thursday and Saturday for a freshly grilled bratwurst and a beer. | Hauptwache Sq., Altstadt | Station: Hauptwache, Konstablerwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nAlte Nikolaikirche (Old St. Nicholas Church).  \nThis small red sandstone church was built in the late 13th century as the court chapel for emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. Try to time your visit to coincide with the chimes of the carillon, which rings three times a day, at 9:05 in the morning, and at 12:05 and 5:05 in the afternoon. | South side of R\u00f6merberg, Altstadt | 069/284\u2013235 | Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20136; Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20138 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nArchaologisches Museum.  \nThe soaring vaulted ceilings make the Gothic Karmeliterkirche (Carmelite Church) an ideal setting for huge Roman columns and other local and regional artifacts, including Stone Age and Neolithic tools and ancient papyrus documents. Modern wings display Greek, Roman and Persian pottery, carvings and more. Adjacent buildings house the city's Institut f\u00fcr Stadtgeschichte (Institute of History). The basement, titled \"Die Schmiere\" (The Grease), is a satirical theater. | Karmeliterg. 1, Altstadt | 069/2123\u20135896 | www.archaeologisches-museum.frankfurt.de | Museum \u20ac7, free last Sat. of month | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138 | Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nMain Cloister.  \nThe main cloister displays the largest religious fresco north of the Alps, a 16th-century representation of Christ's birth and death by J\u00f6rg Ratgeb. | Free\n\nEiserner Steg (Iron Bridge).  \nA pedestrian walkway and the first suspension bridge in Europe, the Eiserner Steg connects the city center with Sachsenhausen and offers great views of the Frankfurt skyline. Excursions by boat and an old steam train leave from here. | Mainkai, Altstadt.\n\nHauptwache.  \nThe attractive baroque building with a steeply sloping roof is the actual Hauptwache (Main Guardhouse), from which the square takes its name. The 1729 building, which had been tastelessly added to over the years, was partly demolished to permit excavation for a vast underground shopping mall. The building was then restored to its original appearance and is now considered the heart of the Frankfurt pedestrian shopping area. TIP The outdoor patio of the building's restaurant-caf\u00e9 is a popular \"people-watching\" spot on the Zeil. | An der Hauptwache 15, Altstadt | Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nKatharinenkirche (St. Catherine's Church).  \nFrankfurt's first independent Protestant church in Gothic style was built between 1678 and 1681. The church it replaced, dating from 1343, was the setting of the first Protestant sermon preached in Frankfurt, in 1522. | An der Hauptwache 1, Altstadt | 069/770\u20136770 | Weekdays 2\u20137 | Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nLeonhardskirche (St. Leonard's Church).  \nBegun in the Romanesque style and continued in the late-Gothic style, this beautifully preserved Catholic church has 15th-century stained glass that survived the air raids. Masses are held in English on Saturday at 5 pm and Sunday at 9:30 am. | Am Leonhardstors 25, Altstadt | 069/283177 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u2013noon and 3\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20135 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nLiebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nThe peaceful, concealed courtyard of this Catholic church makes it hard to believe you're in the swirl of the shopping district. Dating from the 14th century, the late-Gothic church still has a fine relief over the south door and ornate rococo wood carvings inside. | Sch\u00e4rfeng\u00e4flchen 3, Altstadt | 069/297\u20132960 | Daily 5:30 am\u20139 pm | Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nR\u00f6mer (City Hall).  \nThree individual patrician buildings make up the R\u00f6mer, Frankfurt's town hall. The mercantile-minded Frankfurt burghers used the complex not only for political and ceremonial purposes but also for trade fairs and other commercial ventures. Its gabled facade with an ornate balcony is widely known as the city's official emblem.\n\nThe most important events to take place in the R\u00f6mer were the festivities celebrating the coronations of the Holy Roman emperors. The first was in 1562 in the glittering Kaisersaal (Imperial Hall), which was last used in 1792 to celebrate the election of the emperor Francis II, who would later be forced by Napol\u00e9on to abdicate. Unless official business is being conducted you can see the impressive, full-length 19th-century portraits of the 52 emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, which line the walls of the reconstructed banquet hall. | West side of R\u00f6merberg, R\u00f6merberg 27, Altstadt | 069/2123\u20134814 | \u20ac3 | Daily 10\u20131 and 2\u20135; often closed for events, so check hrs before going | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nSchirn Kunsthalle (Schirn Art Gallery).  \nOne of Frankfurt's most modern museums is devoted exclusively to changing exhibits of modern art and photography. The gallery, right beside the Kaiserdom, has a restaurant. | R\u00f6merberg, Altstadt | 069/299\u20138820 | www.schirn.de | Admission varies from \u20ac7 to \u20ac9 depending on exhibit. | Tues. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20137, Wed. and Thurs. 10\u201310 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\n## City Center\n\nFrankfurt was rebuilt after World War II with little attention paid to the past. Nevertheless, important historical monuments can still be found among the modern architecture. The city is very walkable; its growth hasn't encroached on its parks, gardens, pedestrian arcades, or outdoor caf\u00e9s. The riverbank paths make for great strolls or bike rides.\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nJ\u00fcdisches Museum (Jewish Museum).  \nThe story of Frankfurt's Jewish community is told in the former Rothschild Palais, which overlooks the river Main. Prior to the Holocaust, Frankfurt's Jewish quarter was the second largest in Germany (after Berlin), and the silver and gold household items on display are a testament to its prosperity. The museum contains a library of 5,000 books, a large photographic collection, and a documentation center.TIP Be sure to check out the wall of ceremonial menorahs. | Untermainkai 14/15, City Center | 069/2123\u20135000 | www.juedischesmuseum.de | \u20ac6 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138 | Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum Judengasse.This branch of the Jewish museum is built on the site of the B\u00f6rneplatz Synagogue, destroyed in 1938, and the foundations of mostly 18th-century buildings that were once part of the Jewish quarter. | Kurt-Schumacher-Str. 10, City Center | 069/297\u20137419 | \u20ac3 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138 | Station: Bornerplatz (U-bahn).\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Alter J\u00fcdischer Friedhof  \n(Old Jewish Cemetery). Containing hundreds of moss-covered gravestones, this cemetery was in use between the 13th and mid-19th centuries, and is one of the few reminders of prewar Jewish life in Frankfurt. It suffered minimal vandalization in the Nazi era, even though its adjoining grand B\u00f6rneplatz Synagogue was destroyed on Kristallnacht, in 1938. That space is now part of Museum Judengasse; ask the admissions desk for the key to open the vandal-proof steel gates to the cemetery. Mayer Amschel Rothschild, founder of the banking family, who died in 1812, is buried here, along with some family members (the Rothschild mansion is now the main Jewish Museum). The wall around the cemetery is dotted with more than 1,000 small memorial plaques, each with the name of a Jewish Frankfurter and the concentration camp where they died. There is a newer Jewish cemetery at Eckenheimer Landstrasse 238 (about 2\u00bd km 1\u00bd miles] north). | Battonnstr. 2, City Center | 069/212\u201340000 | [juedischesmuseum.de/museumjudengasse | Free | Sun.\u2013Fri. 8:30\u20134:30 | Station: Bornerplatz (S-bahn).\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nB\u00f6rse (Stock Exchange).  \nThis is the center of Germany's stock and money market. The B\u00f6rse was founded in 1585, but the present domed building dates from the 1870s. These days computerized networks and telephone systems have removed much of the drama from the dealers' floor, but it's still fun to visit the visitor gallery and watch the hectic activity. You must reserve your visit 24 hours in advance. | B\u00f6rsenpl. 4, City Center | 069/2110 | www.boerse-frankfurt.de | Free | Visitor gallery weekdays 10\u20138 | Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nEschenheimer Turm (Eschenheim Tower).  \nBuilt in the early 15th century, this tower, a block north of the Hauptwache, remains the finest example of the city's original 42 towers. It now contains a restaurant-bar. | Eschenheimer Tor, City Center | Station: Eschenheimer Tor (U-bahn).\n\n## Ostend\n\nNamed for its location around the city's East Harbor, the business-oriented Ostend is sprouting new restaurants and caf\u00e9s, attracting by the 2014 opening of the new European Central Bank headquarters building.\n\nFAMILY | Zoologischer Garten (Zoological Garden).  \nFounded in 1858, this is one of the most important and attractive zoos in Europe. Its remarkable collection includes some 4,500 animals of 500 different species, an exotarium (an aquarium plus reptiles), a large ape house, and an aviary, one of the largest in Europe. Nocturnal creatures move about in a special section. | Bernhard-Grzimek-Allee 1, Ostend | 069/2123\u20133735 | www.zoo-frankfurt.de | \u20ac10, family ticket \u20ac25 | Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20137 | Station: Zoo (U-bahn).\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Messe and Westend\n\nThe city's huge, sprawling convention center (Messe) is one of the busiest in Europe, and the area around it isn't especially interesting. Westend, on the other hand, is a charming residential neighborhood dotted with some good restaurants.\n\nFAMILY | Naturkundemuseum Senckenberg (Natural History Museum).  \nThe important collection of fossils, animals, plants, and geological exhibits here is upstaged by the permanent dinosaur exhibit: it's the most extensive of its kind in all of Germany. The diplodocus dinosaur here, imported from New York, is the only complete specimen of its kind in Europe.TIP Many of the exhibits of prehistoric animals here, including a series of dioramas, have been designed with children in mind. | Senckenberganlage 25, Westend | 069/75420 | www.senckenberg.de | \u20ac8 | Mon., Tues., Thurs., and Fri. 9\u20135, Wed. 9\u20138, weekends 9\u20136 | Station: Bockenheimer Warte (U-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Palmengarten und Botanischer Garten (Tropical Garden and Botanical Gardens).  \nThe splendid cluster of tropical and semitropical greenhouses here contains cacti, orchids, palms, and other plants. The surrounding park, which can be surveyed from a miniature train, has many recreational facilities, including a small lake where you can rent rowboats, a play area for children, and a wading pool.TIP The Palmengarten offers free tours on a variety of topics on Sunday. In summer there's also an extensive concert program that takes place in an outdoor pavilion. | Siesmayerstr. 63, Westend | 069/2123\u20133939 | palmengarten.frankfurt.de | \u20ac7 | Feb.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Jan., daily 9\u20134 | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Struwwelpeter Museum (Slovenly Peter Museum).  \nThis charming little museum honors the Frankfurt physician who created the sardonic children's classic Struwwelpeter, or Slovenly Peter. Heinrich Hoffmann wrote the poems and drew the rather amateurish pictures in 1844, to warn children of the dire consequences of being naughty. The book has seen several English translations, including one by Mark Twain, which can be purchased at the museum. The kid-friendly museum has a puppet theater and game room, and is popular for birthday parties. | Schubertstr. 20, Westend | 069/747\u2013969 | www.struwwelpeter-museum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 2\u20135 | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\n## Nordend and Bornheim\n\nNordend was the center of antigovernment student demonstrations in the 1960s and 1970s\u2014it still retains a little shabby, bohemian flavor. For its part, Bornheim holds on to some of the liveliness it had as the city's red-light district a century ago. Both have some pleasant, small shops and restaurants.\n\n## Sachsenhausen\n\nThe old quarter of Sachsenhausen, on the south bank of the Main River, has been sensitively preserved, and its cobblestone streets, half-timber houses, and beer gardens make it a popular area to stroll. Sachsenhausen's two big attractions are the Museumufer (Museum Riverbank), which has nine museums almost next door to one another and offers beautiful views of the Frankfurt skyline, as well as the famous Apfelwein taverns around the Rittergasse pedestrian area. You can eat well\u2014and quite reasonably\u2014in these small traditional establishments.\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFAMILY | Deutsches Filmmuseum (German Film Museum).  \nGermany's first museum of cinematography, set in a historical villa on \"museum row\" on the Sachenhausen side of the river Main, offers visitors a glimpse at the history of film, with artifacts that include \"magic lanterns\" from the 1880s, costume drawings from Hollywood and German films, and multiple screens playing film clips. Interactive exhibits show how films are photographed, given sound, and edited, and let visitors play with lighting and animation. A theater in the basement screens every imaginable type of film, from historical to avant-garde. | Schaumainkai 41, Sachsenhausen | 069/9612\u201320220 | www.deutschesfilmmuseum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues., Thurs., and Fri. 10\u20136, Sun. and Wed. 10\u20137, Sat. 2\u20137 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nIkonen-Museum.  \nThis is one of very few museums in the world to exhibit a wide spectrum of the Christian Orthodox world of images. The art and ritual of icons from the 15th to the 20th century are on display here in a collection that totals more than 1,000 artifacts. Admission is free on the last Saturday of the month. | Br\u00fcckenstr. 3\u20137, Sachsenhausen | 069/21236262 | www.ikonenmseum.de | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138.\n\nMuseum Giersch.  \nThis museum, set in a beautiful neoclassical villa along the strip of museums in Sachsenhausen, focuses on paintings from the 19th century and early 20th century. The artists are drawn mainly from the Rhine-Main region. | Schaumainkai 83, Sachsenhausen | 069/631\u201348724 | www.museum-giersch.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Thurs. noon\u20137, Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Kommunikation (Museum for Communication).  \nThis is the place for talking on picture telephones and learning about the newest advances in communication technology. Exhibitions on historic methods include mail coaches, a vast collection of stamps from many countries and eras, and ancient dial telephones, with their clunky switching equipment. | Schaumainkai 53, Sachsenhausen | 069/60600 | www.museumsstiftung.de | \u20ac2.50 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u20136, weekends 11\u20137 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nSt\u00e4delsches Kunstinstitut und St\u00e4dtische Galerie (St\u00e4del Art Institute and Municipal Gallery).  \nOne of Germany's most important art collections is housed at this museum, with a vast collection of paintings by D\u00fcrer, Vermeer, Rembrandt, Rubens, Monet, Renoir, and other masters. An annex features a large collection of works from contemporary artists, including a huge portrait of Goethe by Andy Warhol.TIP The section on German Expressionism is particularly strong, with representative works by the Frankfurt artist Max Beckmann and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. | Schaumainkai 63, Sachsenhausen | 069/605\u20130980 | www.staedelmuseum.de | \u20ac14 | Tues. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. and Thurs. 10\u20139 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nDeutsches Architekturmuseum.  \nThe German Architecture Museum is housed in a late 19th-century villa, which was converted in the early 1980s by the K\u00f6ln-based architect Oswald Mathias Ungers. He created five levels, including a simple basement space with a visible load-bearing structure, a walled complex on the ground floor, and a house-within-a-house on the third floor. The museum features a wealth of documents on the history of architecture and hosts debates on its future. Each year, several major and numerous smaller exhibitions highlight issues in architectural history and current topics in architecture and urban design, including sustainability. A permanent exhibit features the most comprehensive collection of model panoramas in the history of German architecture. | Schaumainkai 43, Sachsenhausen | 069/2123\u20138844 | www.dam-online.de | \u20ac9 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sat. 11\u20136, Sun., 11\u20137, Wed. 11\u20138 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum der Weltkulturen (Museum of World Cultures).  \nThe lifestyles and customs of aboriginal societies from around the world are examined through items such as masks, ritual objects, and jewelry. The museum has an extensive exhibition of contemporary Indian, African, Oceanic, and Indonesian art. | Schaumainkai 29-37, Sachsenhausen | 069/2123\u20131510 | www.mwk-frankfurt.de | \u20ac5; free on last Sat. of the month | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136, Wed. 11\u20138 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Angewandte Kunst (Museum of Applied Arts).  \nMore than 30,000 decorative objects are exhibited in this modern white building set back in grassy grounds along \"museum row\" in Saschenhausen. Chairs and furnishings and medieval craftwork are some of the thematic sections you'll find on the same floor. The exhibits are mainly from Europe and Asia. | Schaumainkai 17, Sachsenhausen | 069/2123\u20134037 | www.museumfuerangewandtekunst.frankfurt.de | \u20ac10, free last Sat. of month | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20139 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nSt\u00e4dtische Galerie Liebieghaus (Liebieg Municipal Museum of Sculpture).  \nThe sculpture collection in this museum, from 5,000 years of civilizations and epochs, is considered one of the most important in Europe. Antiquity, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, classicism, and the baroque are all represented. Some pieces are exhibited in the lovely gardens surrounding the house.TIP Don't miss out on the freshly baked German cakes in the museum caf\u00e9. | Schaumainkai 71, Sachsenhausen | 069/650\u20130490 | www.liebieghaus.de | \u20ac9 | Tues. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. and Thurs. 10\u20139 | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAltstadt | City Center | Messe and Westend | Nordend and Bornheim | Sachsenhausen | Outer Frankfurt\n\nMany international cuisines are represented in the financial hub of Europe. For vegetarians there's usually at least one meatless dish on a German menu, and substantial salads are popular, too (though often served with bacon). The city's most famous contribution to the world's diet is the Frankfurter W\u00fcrstchen\u2014a thin smoked pork sausage\u2014better known to Americans as the hot dog. Gr\u00fcne Sosse is a thin cream sauce of herbs served with potatoes and hard-boiled eggs. The oddly named Handk\u00e4s mit Musik (literally, \"hand cheese with music\") consists of slices of cheese covered with raw onions, oil, and vinegar, served with bread and butter (an acquired taste for many). There is the Rippchen or cured pork chop, served on a mound of sauerkraut, and the Schlachtplatte, an assortment of sausages and smoked meats. All these things are served with Frankfurt's distinctive drink, Apfelwein.\n\nSmoking is prohibited inside Frankfurt's bars and restaurants, but allowed in most beer gardens.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n* * *\n\nApfelwein: Frankfurt's Local Hard Cider\n\nApfelwein, the local hard cider and the quintessential Frankfurt drink, is more sour than the sweet versions you may be used to. To produce Apfelwein, the juice of pressed apples is fermented for approximately eight weeks. Its alcohol content of 5%\u20137% makes it comparable to beer. Straight up, it is light and slightly fizzy. You can also try it carbonated with seltzer (Sauergespritzer), or sweetened with lemonade (S\u00fcssgespritzer).\n\nApfelwein is drunk from a lattice-patterned glass called a Gerippte. When among friends, it is poured from blue stoneware pitchers called Bembels, which range in size from big (a liter) to enormous (4 liters and up).\n\nPopular throughout the state of Hesse, locals drink Apfelwein with pride. The largest concentration of Frankfurt's Apfelwein establishments is in the old neighborhood of Sachsenhausen. Look for establishments with a pine wreath hanging over the door; this signifies that Apfelwein is sold.\n\n* * *\n\n## Altstadt\n\nLangosch am Main.  \nVEGETARIAN | This eclectic vegetarian and vegan spot, one of the few in Frankfurt, serves breakfast, lunch, dinner, and late-night snacks made only with organic ingredients. There's also wine and beer (also organic) and homemade drinks such as lemonade garnished with sprigs of fresh mint and rosemary. Homemade desserts are made with honey instead of refined sugar. Centrally located a few blocks from the Dom, the caf\u00e9 has low lighting and rough-hewn wood tables; the rock 'n' roll and Motown tunes are played here at a volume low enough not to discourage quiet conversation. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Fahrg. 3, Altstadt | 069/9203\u20139510 | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nMetropol.  \nCAF\u00c9 | Breakfast is the main attraction at this caf\u00e9 near the R\u00f6merberg and Dom. The dining room is large, and in the warmer months there are also tables on a garden patio. In addition to the daily selection of tantalizing cakes and pastries, the menu features salads, pastas, and a few traditional German dishes. The kitchen serves until 11 pm. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Weckmarkt 13\u201315, Altstadt | 069/288\u2013287 | www.metropolcafe.de | No credit cards | Closed Mon. | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\nSouper.  \nFAST FOOD | Hearty soups seem to be the favorite light lunch in Frankfurt these days. The best selection can be found in this place near the Hauptwache, although the bowls seem a little small for the price. The daily selection may include such creations as Thai-style coconut chicken or lentil with sausage. Eat at the counter or take your soup and sandwich to go. | Average main: \u20ac5 | Weissadlerg. 3, Altstadt | 069/2972\u20134545 | www.souper.de | No credit cards | Closed Sun. No dinner | Station: Hauptwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nSteinernes Haus.  \nGERMAN | At this friendly spot, diners share long wooden tables beneath traditional clothing that's been mounted on the walls. The house specialty is a raw steak brought to the table with a heated rock tablet (Stein is the German word for stone) for cooking it on. The beef broth is the perfect antidote to cold weather. The menu has other old German standards along with daily specials. Note that if you don't specify a Kleines, or small glass of beer, you'll automatically get a liter. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Braubachstr. 35, Altstadt | 069/283\u2013491 | www.steinernes-haus.de | Reservations essential | Station: R\u00f6mer (U-bahn).\n\n## City Center\n\nEmbassy.  \nECLECTIC | Embassy's location near many of the city's largest banks makes it a natural for business lunches, but it's also a popular spot for socializing. This modern restaurant, bar, and lounge attracts many young professionals for dinner and drinks. The moderately priced menu of contemporary dishes includes pizzas, pastas, salads, steaks, duck, and a long list of appetizers. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Zimmerweg 1 (corner of Mainzer Landstr.), City Center | 069/7409\u20130844 | www.embassy-frankfurt.de | Closed weekends | Station: Taunusanlage (S-bahn).\n\nFrankfurter Botschaft.  \nECLECTIC | Frankfurt's Westhafen (West Harbor), once busy and commercial, has been transformed into an upscale neighborhood of apartments, a yacht club, and waterfront restaurants. One of the chicest is Frankfurter Botschaft, with a glass facade and a big terrace overlooking the Main River. Frankfurt's elite descend here for business lunches, a cocktail on the terrace at sunset, or the Sunday brunch. There is also a sandy beach area with folding chairs and umbrellas. The international food is mainly organic, and even the dinnerware is of a prizewinning design. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Westhafenpl. 6\u20138, City Center | 069/2400\u20134899 | www.frankfurter-botschaft.de | Closed Sun. | Station: Hauptbahnhof.\n\nL'Emir.  \nMIDDLE EASTERN | The atmosphere is right out of One Thousand and One Nights at this restaurant near the train station, with belly dancers performing every Friday and Saturday night urging patrons to join in. Those who are so inclined can retire to the lounge and smoke flavored tobacco from a water pipe. The exotic menu is largely vegetarian and heavy on garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice. The falafel is made from crushed beans and chickpeas, leeks, onions, parsley, coriander, peppermint, and more than 15 spices. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Ramada Hotel, Weserstr. 17, City Center | 069/2400\u20138686 | www.lemir.de | Reservations essential | Station: Hauptbahnhof.\n\nMaintower.  \nGERMAN | Atop the skyscraper that houses the Helaba Landesbank Hessen-Th\u00fcringen, this popular cocktail bar and high-end restaurant captures an unbeatable view. Through 25-foot floor-to-ceiling windows, you can take in all of \"Mainhattan.\" The cuisine is part global, part regional. Dinner is a three- or five-course affair starting at \u20ac65 per person, not counting drinks or the \u20ac4.50 fee for the elevator. There's also a lounge for drinks and snacks, with a \u20ac37 minimum. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Neue Mainzerstr. 52\u201358, City Center | 069/3650\u20134770 | www.maintower-restaurant.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch Sat. | Station: Alte Oper (U-Bahn), oder (S-Bahn) Taunusanlage.\n\nFodor's Choice | Vinum Weinkeller.  \nGERMAN | Housed in a former wine cellar that dates from 1893 in one of the alleys off Fressgasse, Vinum specializes in regional wines, by the glass or bottle, and the burnished brickwork and low lighting adds to the charm. The wine-themed decor includes such items as glass bowls filled with wine corks. Menu choices focus on wine-friendly dishes, including cheese platters, as well as German specialties more often associated with beer, such as wursts and sauerbraten with dumplings and red cabbage. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Kleine Hochstr. 9, Center City | 069/293\u2013037 | www.vinum-frankfurt.de | Closed Sun., Oct.\u2013Apr. No lunch.\n\nZw\u00f6lf Apostel.  \nGERMAN | There are few inner-city restaurants that brew their own beer, and the Twelve Apostles is one of the pleasant exceptions. Enjoy homemade pilsners in the dimly lighted, cavernous cellar, and sample traditional international and Croatian dishes. Servings are large, prices are reasonable, and you can have a small portion at half price. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Rosenbergerstr. 1, City Center | 069/288\u2013668 | www.12aposteln-frankfurt.de | Station: Konstablerwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Messe and Westend\n\nCaf\u00e9 Laumer.  \nCAF\u00c9 | The ambience of an old-time Viennese caf\u00e9 pervades this popular spot, where there's a lovely garden in summer\u2014as well as some of the city's best freshly baked cakes year-round. It owes its literary underpinnings to Theodor Adorno, a philosopher and sociologist of the Frankfurt School who dined here frequently. The caf\u00e9 closes at 7. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Bockenheimer Landstr. 67, Westend | 069/727\u2013912 | www.cafe-laumer.de | No dinner | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\nCaf\u00e9 Siesmayer.  \nGERMAN | This sleek establishment is at the Palmengarten, accessible either from the botanical garden or from the street. It has a terrace where you can enjoy your coffee and cake with a splendid garden view. It's also popular for breakfast, with a full range of main courses. Note that it closes at 7. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Siesmayerstr. 59, Westend | 069/9002\u20139200 | www.palmengarten-gastronomie.de | No dinner | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\n* * *\n\nTasting German Riesling\n\nGermany's mild, wet climate and a wine-making tradition that dates back 2,000 years combine to produce some of the world's finest white wines.\n\nThe king of German varietals is Riesling. Grown on the banks of Germany's many rivers, most notably the Rhine, the grape produces wines of stunning variety and quality. Rieslings are noted for their strong acidity, sometimes-flowery aroma, and often mineral-tasting notes\u2014stemming from the grape's susceptibility to influences from the soil. Riesling made its name throughout the world through sweet (lieblich) wines, but many Germans prefer them dry (trocken). Importers, especially in the United States, don't bring over many dry German Rieslings, so take the opportunity to sample some while in Frankfurt.\n\nSip It Here\n\nThe Bockenheimer Weinkontor (Schlossstr. 92 | 069/702\u2013031 | www.bockenheimer-weinkontor.de | Station: Bockenheimer Warte [U-bahn]) is nearby the Messegel\u00e4nde (Exhibition Center), in the Bockenheim area. Through a courtyard and down a set of stairs, the cozy bar offers 15\u201320 reasonably priced local wines by the glass. The trellis-covered back garden is a treat.\n\nFor prestige wines, head to Piccolo (Bornheimer Landstr. 56 | 069/9441\u20131277 | www.weinbar-piccolo.de | Station: Merianplatz [U-bahn]), where the bilingual staff make solid recommendations. Try a glass from the Markus Molitor or Alexander Freimuth wineries. Along with wine, they serve a range of snacks and main courses. The space is small, so make reservations if you plan to dine here.\n\n* * *\n\nFodor's Choice | Erno's Bistro.  \nFRENCH | This tiny, unpretentious place in a quiet Westend neighborhood seems an unlikely candidate for the best restaurant in Germany. Yet that's what one French critic called it. The bistro's specialty, fish, is often flown in from France, as are the wines. It's closed weekends, during the Christmas and Easter seasons, and during much of summer\u2014in other words, when its patrons, well-heeled business executives, are unlikely to be in town. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Liebigstr. 15, Westend | 069/721\u2013997 | www.ernosbistro.de | Reservations essential | Jacket required | Closed weekends and for 6 wks during Hesse's summer school vacation | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\nLa Boveda.  \nSPANISH | This quaint, somewhat expensive restaurant is inside the dimly lit basement of a Westend residential building. (Appropriate, as the name means \"wine cellar.\") In addition to the smaller plates of tapas, the menu features a long list of entr\u00e9es. Especially interesting are the creative seafood combinations. And true to its name, La Boveda offers an extensive wine menu. Reservations are recommended on weekends. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Feldbergstr. 10, Westend | 069/723\u2013220 | www.la-boveda.de | No lunch weekends | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | M Steakhouse.  \nSTEAKHOUSE | Many say the M Steakhouse serves the best steak in Germany. A set of steps leads down into the restaurant's beautifully lit outdoor patio, which is the perfect setting for a private romantic dinner. The main dining room inside is warm, welcoming, and offers an intimate setting for an unforgettable meal. The restaurant doesn't serve any seafood main courses, but why should it? The beef, imported from the U.S., doesn't disappoint. Prices are in line with the quality of meat, and the sides complement the dishes perfectly. TIP Be sure to make reservations, and ask for a table on the patio in nice weather. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Feuerbachstr. 11a, Westend | 069/7103\u20134050 | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nOmonia.  \nGREEK | This cozy cellar serves the city's best Greek cuisine. If you have a big appetite, try the Omonia platter, with lamb cooked several ways and accompanied by Greek-style pasta. Vegetarians go for the mestos sestos, a plate of lightly breaded grilled vegetables served in a rich tomato-and-feta sauce. This family-owned place is popular, so make a reservation for one of the few tables. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Vogtstr. 43, Westend | 069/593\u2013314 | www.restaurant-omonia.de | Reservations essential | No lunch weekends | Station: Holzhausenstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nSurf'n Turf.  \nSTEAKHOUSE | This staple among businesspeople and steak connoisseurs alike is in a residential area near the Gr\u00fcneburgpark. The restaurant feels intimate and warm, with dark leather, wood paneling, and small tables scattered throughout the main dining room. The beef is imported from Nebraska, and each cut of meat is presented to guests before taking their orders. The waitstaff is knowledgeable, helpful, and friendly, making this as great a place for a romantic dinner for two as for a casual business lunch. Highlights on the menu include the beer carpaccio with truffles and the yellowfin tuna tartare. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Gr\u00fcneburgweg 95, Westend | 069/722\u2013122 | www.mook-group.de/surfnturf | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nZenzakan.  \nJAPANESE | Hailed as a sort of pan-Asian supper club, this large restaurant with Buddha heads and other Asian decor has a bar scene that's just as good a reason to visit as its exceptional food, especially its sushi. Beef lovers also will find plenty to choose from, including sliced hanger steak with Japanese BBQ sauce. The equally innovative cocktails at the bar include a lemograss martini and the Balsamic Touch. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Taunusanlage 15, Westend | 069/9708\u20136908 | www.mook-group.de/zenzakan | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch.\n\n## Nordend and Bornheim\n\nEl Pacifico.  \nMEXICAN | Some of Frankfurt's best Mexican cuisine is found in this festive little place. Warm and colorful, this restaurant serves a variety of fruity margaritas and is well known for its hearty chicken-wing appetizer. The dimly lighted dining room is fairly small; reservations are recommended on weekends, including for its good Sunday brunch. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Sandweg 79, Bornheim | 069/446\u2013988 | www.elpacifico-ffm.de | No lunch | Station: Merianplatz (U-bahn).\n\nGr\u00f6ssenwahn.  \nCONTEMPORARY | The Nordend is noted for its trendy establishments, and this corner restaurant, which is often crowded, is one of the best. The name translates as \"megalomania,\" which says it all. The menu is creative, with German, Greek, Italian, and French elements. Reservations are a good idea. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Lenaustr. 97, Nordend | 069/599\u2013356 | www.cafe-groessenwahn.de | No lunch | Station: Glauburgstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Weisse Lilie.  \nSPANISH | Come to this Bornheim favorite for the delicious selection of tapas, paella, and other Spanish specialties and reasonably priced red wines. The dark interior has wooden tables brightened by fresh-cut flowers and candles, making it a good spot for an intimate dinner. In summer you can dine outside, German style, at long tables. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Berger str. 275, Bornheim | 069/453\u2013860 | www.weisse-lilie.com | Reservations essential | No lunch | Station: Bornheim Mitte (U-bahn).\n\n## Sachsenhausen\n\nFodor's Choice | Adolf Wagner.  \nGERMAN | With sepia-tone murals of merrymaking, this Apfelwein classic succeeds in being touristy and traditional all at once, and it's a genuine favorite of local residents. The kitchen produces the same hearty German dishes as other apple-cider taverns, only better. Try the schnitzel or the Tafelspitz mit Frankfurter Gr\u00fcner Sosse (stewed beef with a sauce of green herbs), or come on Friday for fresh fish. Cider is served in large quantity in the noisy, crowded dining room. TIP Warning: it serves no beer! | Average main: \u20ac12 | Schweizerstr. 71, Sachsenhausen | 069/612\u2013565 | www.apfelwein-wagner.com | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Doepfner's im Maingau.  \nGERMAN | Chef J\u00f6rg D\u00f6pfner greets you himself and lights your candle at this excellent restaurant. A polished clientele is drawn by the linen tablecloths, subdued lighting, and such nearly forgotten practices as carving the meat at your table. The menu includes asparagus salad with homemade wild-boar ham, braised veal cheek with wild-garlic risotto, and some vegetarian dishes. The place also has a cellar full of rare German wines. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Schifferstr. 38\u201340, Sachsenhausen | 069/610\u2013752 | maingau.de/de/restaurant | Closed Mon. No lunch Sat.; no dinner Sun. | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nExenberger.  \nFAST FOOD | In many ways this place is typical of Old Sachsenhausen: apple wine and sauerkraut are served, there's no menu, and old sayings are written on the walls. But the interior is modern and the Frankfurt specialties are a cut above the rest. As proprietor Kay Exenberger puts it, \"We're nearly as fast as a fast-food restaurant, but as gem\u00fctlich as an apple-wine locale must be.\" You order your food at the counter or by calling ahead, and everything can be wrapped up to go. It's so popular that reservations are a good idea even at lunch. Many rave about the chocolate pudding with vanilla sauce. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Bruchstr. 14, Sachsenhausen | 069/6339\u20130790 | www.exenberger-frankfurt.de | No credit cards | Closed Sun. | Station: S\u00fcdbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHolbeins.  \nECLECTIC | Portions are not large at this restaurant in the St\u00e4del museum, but selections on the international menu are creative. Choose from a variety of pastas, fish, steak, even sushi and a few traditional German dishes. Holbein's changes from a casual bistro at lunch to an elegant restaurant open until midnight. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Holbeinstr. 1, Sachsenhausen | 069/6605\u20136666 | www.holbeins.de | Reservations essential | No lunch Mon. | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nLobster.  \nSEAFOOD | This small restaurant is a favorite of locals and visitors alike. The menu, dramatically different from those of its neighbors, includes mostly seafood. Oddly, lobster's not on the menu, but it does occasionally come up as a special. The fish and shellfish here are prepared in a variety of styles, but the strongest influence is French. For dessert, try the vanilla ice cream with warm raspberry sauce. Reservations are strongly recommended on weekends. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Wallstr. 21, Sachsenhausen | 069/612\u2013920 | www.lobster-weinbistrot.de | Closed Sun. No lunch | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\nPizza Pasta Factory.  \nITALIAN | This restaurant started off with a proven theory: if you offer your food cheaply enough, you can make up the difference by selling a lot of it. So between 11:30 am and 4 pm and after 10 pm, this place sells its pizzas and pastas (except lasagna) for only \u20ac3.80. There are 37 possible toppings, including some unlikely ones like pineapple, corn, and eggs. | Average main: \u20ac5 | Martin Luther Str. 33, Sachsenhausen | 069/6199\u20135004 | www.pizzapastafactory.de | No credit cards | Station: Lokalbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Zum Gemalten Haus.  \nGERMAN | There aren't many classic Apfelwein locales left, but this is one of them. It's just as it has been since the end of the 19th century: walls covered with giant paintings darkened with age, giant stoneware pitchers called Bembels, glasses that are ribbed to give greasy hands traction, long tables that can seat 12 people, schmaltzy music, hearty food, and, as is traditional, no beer. Try this one if you want to truly capture the spirit of Old Sachsenhausen. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Schweizerstr. 67, Sachsenhausen | 069/614\u2013559 | www.zumgemaltenhaus.de | Closed. Mon. and mid-July\u2013early Aug. | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\n## Outer Frankfurt\n\nAltes Zollhaus.  \nGERMAN | Excellent versions of traditional German and international specialties are served in this 230-year-old half-timber house on the edge of town. If you're here in season, try a game dish. In summer you can eat in the beautiful garden. Menu specials change monthly. To get here, take Bus 30 from Konstablerwache to Heiligenstock, or drive out on Bundestrasse 521 in the direction of Bad Vilbel. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Friedberger Landstr. 531, Seckbach | 069/472\u2013707 | www.altes-zollhaus-frankfurt.de | Closed Mon. No lunch Tues.\u2013Sat.\n\nArche Nova.  \nVEGETARIAN | This sunny establishment is a feature of Frankfurt's \u00d6kohaus, which was built according to environmental principles (solar panels, catching rainwater, etc.). It's mainly vegetarian, with such dishes as a vegetable platter with feta cheese or curry soup with grated coconut and banana. Much of what's served, including some of the beer, is organic. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Kasselerstr. 1a, Bockenheim | 069/707\u20135859 | www.arche-nova.de | No dinner Sun. | Station: Westbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nGerberm\u00fchle.  \nGERMAN | So beautiful that it inspired works by Goethe, a frequent visitor, this 14th-century building is now a restaurant once again, and the century-long-plus tradition of hiking or biking to the chestnut-tree-shaded, riverside beer garden has returned. The garden is as nice as ever, and there's an indoor restaurant, guest rooms, an attractive bar with the original stone walls, burnished leather chairs, and even a bust of Goethe. An hour eastward down the Main's south bank, the place is so remote it is difficult to reach with public transportation. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Gerberm\u00fchlestr. 105, Oberrad | 069/6897\u20137790 | www.gerbermuehle.de.\n\nWeidemann.  \nMEDITERRANEAN | This half-timber farmhouse dating from the 19th century is in a quiet neighborhood across the river from downtown. It's little wonder that business executives and gourmets have discovered this inviting place with a chestnut-tree-shaded beer garden and a glassed-in winter garden. Customers are cordially greeted by proprietor Angelo Vega, a Spaniard who has set out to prove to Germans that there's a lot more to his country's cuisine than tapas and gazpacho. He has won a steady clientele with imaginative versions of Spanish, French, Italian, and other Mediterranean dishes. | Average main: \u20ac28 | Kelsterbacher Str. 66, Niederrad | 069/675\u2013996 | www.weidemann-online.de | Closed Sun. | Station: Odenwaldstr. (streetcar).\n\nZum Rad.  \nGERMAN | Named for the huge Rad (wagon wheel) that serves as a centerpiece, this is one of the few Apfelwein taverns in Frankfurt that makes its own apple wine, which it's been doing since 1806. It's located in the villagelike district of Seckbach, on the northeastern edge of the city. Outside tables are shaded by chestnut trees in an extensive courtyard. The typically Hessian cuisine, with giant portions, includes such dishes as Ochsenbrust (brisket of beef) with the ubiquitous herb sauce. Take the U-4 subway to Seckbacher Landstrasse, then Bus No. 43 to Draisbornstrasse. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Leonhardsg. 2, Seckbach | 069/479\u2013128 | www.zum-rad.de | No credit cards | Closed Tues. No dinner Sun. and holidays.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCity Center | Messe and Westend | Nordend and Bornheim | Sachsenhausen | Outer Frankfurt\n\nBusinesspeople descend on Frankfurt year-round, so most hotels in the city are frequently booked up well in advance and are expensive (though many offer significant reductions on weekends). Many hotels add as much as a 50% surcharge during trade fairs (Messen), of which there are about 30 a year. The majority of the larger hotels are close to the main train station, fairgrounds, and business district (Bankenviertel). The area around the station has a reputation as a red-light district, but is well policed. More atmosphere is found at smaller hotels and pensions in the suburbs; the efficient public transportation network makes them easy to reach.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n## City Center\n\nBristol.  \nHOTEL | You'll notice that great attention is paid to making you comfortable at the Bristol, one of the nicest hotels in the neighborhood around the main train station. The modern hotel features minimalist decor in soothing earth tones. A daily breakfast buffet is included in the room rate. Pros: lobby bar is open 24 hours; beautiful garden patio. Cons: unappealing neighborhood; small rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac160 | Ludwigstr. 15, City Center | 069/242\u2013390 | www.bristol-hotel.de | 145 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Hilton Frankfurt.  \nHOTEL | This international chain's downtown Frankfurt outpost has all the perks the business traveler wants, from secretarial services to video conferencing facilities and a hip lobby bar, Gekkos, which is definitely worth a visit. Smoking rooms are available. Pros: child-friendly facilities; indoor pool, and a large terrace overlooking a park. Cons: expensive; small bathrooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac260 | Hochstr. 4, City Center | 069/133\u20138000 | www.frankfurt.hilton.com | 342 rooms | No meals | Station: Eschenheimer Tor (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Nizza.  \nHOTEL | This beautiful Victorian building close to the main train station is filled with antiques and hand-painted murals by the owner, and features a lovely roof garden with a view of the skyline. Its small size (26 rooms) gives it the feel of a B&B. Pros: antique furnishings; roof garden with shrubbery and a view of the skyline; very comfortable. Cons: the hotel is in the Bahnhof district, which can be a bit seedy at night. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Elbestr. 10, City Center | 069/242\u20135380 | www.hotelnizza.de | 26 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn) or Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Ibis Frankfurt Centrum.  \nHOTEL | The Ibis is a reliable budget hotel chain, and this location offers simple, straightforward rooms on a quiet street near the river. Pros: short walk from the station and museums; 24-hour bar. Cons: far from stores and theaters. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Speicherstr. 4, City Center | 069/273\u2013030 | www.ibishotel.com | 233 rooms | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nLeonardo.  \nHOTEL | Across the street from the main train station, this modern, sparkling hotel has its own underground garage. The rooms are some of the least expensive in town. This is part of an international chain with locations throughout Europe and in Israel, Pros: underground garage; quiet summer garden. Cons: on a busy street; in the red-light district. | Rooms from: \u20ac59 | M\u00fcnchenerstr. 59, City Center | 069/242\u2013320 | www.leonardo-hotels.com | 106 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nManhattan.  \nHOTEL | Get to all parts of town quickly from this centrally located hotel. Rooms are fairly spacious and modern, and there are both nonsmoking and smoking rooms. There's no restaurant, but the hotel's bar is open around the clock. Pros: opposite the main train station; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no restaurant; in the red-light district. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | D\u00fcsseldorferstr. 10, City Center | 069/269\u20135970 | www.manhattan-hotel.com | 60 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nPension Aller.  \nB&B/INN | Quiet, solid comforts come with a modest price and a friendly welcome at this pension near the river. Frau Kraus, the owner, was born in this house and is always eager to share city history and sightseeing recommendations with you. Pros: economical; near the station. Cons: need to reserve well in advance. | Rooms from: \u20ac49 | Gutleutstr. 94, City Center | 069/252\u2013596 | www.pension-aller.de | 10 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Steigenberger Hotel Frankfurter Hof.  \nHOTEL | The neo-Gothic Frankfurter Hof is the first choice of visiting heads of state and business moguls, who keep coming back because of its service and luxurious rooms. It fronts on a grand courtyard, and there's little that guests desire that isn't available: massive suites in dark woods and brass with air-conditioning (rare in Germany); marble baths with whirlpool tubs; slippers; mirrored walk-in closets; 24-hour room service; and a day spa and gym. It's one of the city's oldest hotels, but its modern services earn it kudos, including for its day spa and gym. Pros: old-fashioned elegance; burnished wood floors; fresh flowers; thick carpeting. Cons: expensive rates. | Rooms from: \u20ac249 | Am Kaiserplatz, City Center | 069/21502 | www.frankfurter-hof.steigenberger.de | 280 rooms, 41 suites | No meals | Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nWestin Grand.  \nHOTEL | Those who like downtown Frankfurt will appreciate the Westin's location, just steps from the famous Zeil shopping street, plus all the features of a high-end chain hotel, including a fitness room, spa, pool, and sauna. It's a Westin, so each room has a Westin Heavenly Bed (they're also available for your dog). There is an impressive collection of museum-quality vintage cars in the lobby, and in an unusual retreat from the public areas, where smoking is forbidden, a swanky cigar lounge. Pros: every luxury; handy to downtown. Cons: on a noisy street. | Rooms from: \u20ac199 | Konrad Adenauer Str. 7, City Center | 069/29810 | www.westingrandfrankfurt.com | 371 rooms | No meals | Station: Konstablerwache (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nWyndham Grand.  \nHOTEL | Opened in late 2013, this newest addition to the \"Mainhattan\" skyline caters to business guests with free Wi-Fi, air-conditioning (unusual in German hotels), and great city views from floor-to-ceiling windows. The lobby bar has an open-pit fireplace. Pros: central location; modern decor. Cons: expensive; busy lobby. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | Wilhelm-Leuschner-Str. 32/34, City Center | 69/9074\u20135335 | www.wyndhamgrandfrankfurt.com | 285 rooms, 8 suites | No meals.\n\n## Messe and Westend\n\nHessischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | This is the choice of many businesspeople, not just for its location across from the convention center but also for the air of class that pervades its handsome interior. Many of the public-room furnishings are antiques once owned by the family of the princes of Hesse. The S\u00e8vres Restaurant, so called for the fine display of that porcelain arranged along the walls, features excellent contemporary cuisine. A day spa with a sauna, steam room, and gym equipment is set to open in 2014. Pros: close to the convention center and public transportation; site of Jimmy's, one of the town's cult bars. Cons: far from the stores and theaters; lobby can be crowded; very expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac350 | Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage 40, Messe | 069/75400 | www.hessischer-hof.de | 110 rooms, 7 suites | No meals | Station: Messe (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | InterCity Hotel.  \nHOTEL | If there ever was a hotel at the vortex of arrivals and departures, it's this centrally located one in an elegant Old World building across the street from the main train station. InterCity hotels were set up by the Steigenberger chain with the business traveler in mind. The station's underground garage is at your disposal. Pros: free passes for local transportation; discount rates for seniors. Cons: overlooks a cargo facility. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Poststr. 8, Bahnhof | 069/273\u2013910 | www.intercityhotel.com | 384 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMaritim.  \nHOTEL | It's so close to the Messegel\u00e4nde (Exhibition Center) that you can reach the exhibition halls, as this top-notch business hotel puts it, \"with dry feet.\" It has its own underground garage, a sauna, steam bath and pool, and a sushi bar that draws many non - hotel guests. The executive floor has splendid views, especially at night, plus a lounge with breakfast and complimentary snacks, state-of-the-art business services, and many other amenities. Pros: direct access to the convention center. Cons: fairly expensive; hectic during fairs. | Rooms from: \u20ac145 | Theodor-Heuss-Allee 3, Messe | 069/75780 | www.maritim.de | 519 rooms, 24 suites | No meals | Station: Messe (S-bahn).\n\nPalmenhof.  \nHOTEL | This luxuriously modern hotel, held in the same family for three generations, occupies a renovated art nouveau building dating from 1890. The high-ceiling rooms retain the elegance of the old building, and modern decor is enhanced with a sprinkling of antique furniture, such as an armoire or chair, in each room. Pros: near the Palmengarten; less expensive than similar hotels. Cons: no restaurant; top floor can get very hot. | Rooms from: \u20ac165 | Bockenheimer Landstr. 89\u201391, Westend | 069/753\u20130060 | www.palmenhof.com | 45 rooms, 37 apartments, 1 suite | Breakfast | Station: Westend (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Roomers Hotel.  \nHOTEL | This lively boutique hotel features modern and sleek designs everywhere you look. On arrival, guests are greeted with a glass of cider or sparkling wine in the dark yet welcoming lobby, before being sent off to their beautifully designed rooms. If you stay here, you won't need to go far to grab a drink or something to eat, as the hotel bar and adjacent restaurant are some of the most popular places to be seen at in Frankfurt. lGrab a cocktail in the hotel bar between 5 and 9 pm and you'll receive a variety of complimentary appetizers for each drink order. Pros: great-looking rooms. Cons: expensive; probably not the best choice for families. | Rooms from: \u20ac220 | Gutleutstr. 85, Gutleutviertel | 069/271342\u20130 | www.roomers.eu | 116 rooms | No meals.\n\n## Nordend and Bornheim\n\nVilla Orange.  \nHOTEL | The moderately priced rooms at this bright, charming hotel include canopy beds and spacious bathrooms. The high-ceiling lobby and breakfast room are decorated with modern art. The organic breakfast is served on a terrace in good weather, the staff is friendly and accommodating, and a library includes some English-language books. Pros: centrally located; on a quiet residential street; all rooms are smoke-free; free Wi-Fi. Cons: hard beds. | Rooms from: \u20ac155 | Hebelstr. 1, Nordend | 069/405\u2013840 | www.villa-orange.de | 38 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Musterschule (U-bahn).\n\n## Sachsenhausen\n\nJugendherberge Frankfurt.  \nB&B/INN | This combination youth hostel and family hotel offers clean, inexpensive, and very central accommodations in what is usually a pricey city. It's on the river in Sachsenhausen, directly across from downtown. A stay in a 10-bed dormitory room will cost you \u20ac18 a night (\u20ac23.50 if you're over 27), or have a private room with bath for a reasonable \u20ac42). That price includes breakfast, and a lunch or dinner buffet is yours for \u20ac7. In warm weather, you can eat in the outdoorgarden. You must be in by 2 am or get a key. Pros: inexpensive; no smoking, central location. Cons: basic rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac18 | Deutschherrnufer 12, Sachsenhausen | 069/610\u20130150 | www.jugendherberge-frankfurt.de | 110 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Lokalbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nMaingau.  \nHOTEL | This pleasant hotel in the middle of the lively Sachsenhausen quarter has rooms that are modest but comfortable; the nightly rate includes a substantial breakfast buffet. The restaurant, Doepfner's im Maingau, is pricey, but is also one of Frankfurt's best. Pros: handy to nightlife; fantastic restaurant. Cons: on a busy street. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Schifferstr. 38\u201340, Sachsenhausen | 069/609\u2013140 | www.maingau.de | 78 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Schweizer Platz (U-bahn).\n\n## Outer Frankfurt\n\nFalk Hotel.  \nHOTEL | In the heart of Bockenheim and near numerous caf\u00e9s, bars, and shops, this hotel is a good deal. The nightly rate includes a full breakfast and a discount at a nearby fitness studio. Pros: fairly low rates. Cons: well outside the city center; small rooms; no restaurant. | Rooms from: \u20ac115 | Falkstr. 38A, Bockenheim | 069/7191\u20138870 | www.hotel-falk.de | 29 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Leipzigerstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nSheraton Frankfurt.  \nHOTEL | This huge hotel is connected to one of Frankfurt Airport's terminals. No need to worry about noise, though - the rooms are all soundproofed. A 24-hour business center offers everything businesspeople are likely to need, including video projectors and simultaneous interpreters. In addition to three restaurants and snack shops, there is a cigar bar and lounge, and a busy lobby bar called Lemons and Limes. Pros: handy to the airport and the autobahn. Cons: far from the city center; long walk to the elevator; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac559 | Hugo-Eckener-Ring 15, Flughafen Terminal 1, Airport | 069/69770 | www.sheraton.com/frankfurt | 1,008 rooms, 28 suites | Breakfast | Station: Flughafen (S-bahn).\n\nSteigenberger Airport Hotel.  \nHOTEL | The sylvan beauty of this skyscraper hotel is surprising, considering that it's a half-mile from the airport and connected to it by a steady stream of shuttle buses. It's right on the edge of the city forest out of which the airport was carved, and has lots of paths for hiking and biking, plus a 250-year-old forest house that is now a hotel restaurant. There's a rooftop recreation area, with everything from a sauna to a pool, and a spectacular view of the airport and the Frankfurt skyline. Pros: near the airport; forest location. Cons: restaurants are expensive; far from downtown. | Rooms from: \u20ac200 | Unterschweinstiege 16, Airport | 069/69750 | www.steigenberger.com/en/Frankfurt_Airport | 550 rooms, 20 suites | No meals | Station: Flughafen (S-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nThe Arts | Nightlife | City Center | Ostend | Hausen | Messe and Westend | Sachsenhausen | Fechenheim\n\n## The Arts\n\nThe St\u00e4dtische B\u00fchnen\u2014municipal theaters, including the city's opera company\u2014are the prime venues for Frankfurt's cultural events. The city has what is probably the most lavish theater in the country, the Alte Oper, a magnificently ornate 19th-century opera house that's now a multipurpose hall for pop and classical concerts, and dances. (These days operas are presented at the St\u00e4dtische B\u00fchnen.)\n\nBest Tickets.  \nTheater tickets can be purchased from Best Tickets downtown in the Zeilgalerie. | Zeil 112\u2013114, City Center | 069/9139\u20137621 | www.journal-ticketshop.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20138.\n\nFrankfurt Ticket.  \nTheater, concert, and sports event tickets are all available. | Hauptwache Passage, City Center | 069/134\u20130400 | www.frankfurtticket.de.\n\n### Ballet, Concerts, and Opera\n\nAlte Oper.  \nThe most glamorous venue for classical-music concerts is the Alte Oper, one of the most beautful buildings in Frankfurt. Tickets to performances can range from \u20ac20 to nearly \u20ac150. | Opernpl., City Center | www.alteoper.de | Weekdays 10\u20132.\n\nBockenheimer Depot.  \nFrankfurt's ballet company performs in the Bockenheimer Depot, a former trolley barn also used for other theatrical performances and music events. | Carlo-Schmidt-Pl. 1, Bockenheim.\n\nFesthalle.  \nThe Festhalle, on the city's fairgrounds, is the scene of many rock concerts, horse shows, ice shows, sporting events, and other large-scale spectaculars. Tickets are available through Frankfurt Ticket. | Ludwig-Erhard-Anlage 1, Messe | 069/92 00 92\u201313 | festhalle.messenfrankfurt.de.\n\nFrankfurt Opera.  \nWidely regarded as one of the best in Europe, the Frankfurt Opera is known for its dramatic artistry. Richard Wagner and Richard Strauss both oversaw their own productions for the company. | St\u00e4dtische B\u00fchnen, Untermainanlage 11, City Center | 069/2124\u20139494 | www.oper-frankfurt.de.\n\nKammermusiksaal.  \nThe city is the home of the Radio-Sinfonie-Orchester Frankfurt, part of Hessischer Rundfunk. Considered one of Europe's best orchestras, it performs regularly in the 850-seat Kammermusiksaal, part of that broadcasting operation's campuslike facilities. | Bertramstr. 8, Dornbusch | 069/155\u20132000.\n\n### Theater\n\nTheatrical productions in Frankfurt are usually in German, except for those at the English Theater.\n\nDie Schmiere.  \nFor a zany theatrical experience, try Die Schmiere, which offers trenchant cabaret-style satire and also disarmingly calls itself \"the worst theater in the world.\" The theater is closed in summer for a \"creative break.\" | Seckb\u00e4cherg. 4, City Center | 069/281\u2013066 | www.die-schmiere.de.\n\nEnglish Theatre.  \nFor English-language productions, try the English Theater, continental Europe's largest English-speaking theater, which offers an array of musicals, thrillers, dramas, and comedy with British or American casts. | Gallusanlage 7, City Center | 069/2423\u20131620 | www.English-theatre.org.\n\nInternationales Theater Frankfurt.  \nThis theater bills itself as presenting \"the art of the world on the Main.\" It also has regular performances in English, as well as in German, French, Spanish, Italian, Romanian, and Russian. | Hanauer Landstr. 7, Ostend | 069/499\u20130980 | www.internationales-theater.de.\n\nK\u00fcnstlerhaus Mousonturm.  \nThis cultural center hosts a regular series of concerts of all kinds, as well as plays, dance performances, and exhibits. | Waldschmidtstr. 4, Nordend | 069/4058\u20139520 | www.mousonturm.de.\n\nSchauspielhaus.  \nThe municipally owned Schauspielhaus has a repertoire that includes works by Sophocles, Goethe, Shakespeare, Brecht, and Beckett, along with more contemporary plays. | Willy-Brandt-Pl., Neue Mainzer Strafle 17, City Center | 069/2124\u20139494 | www.schauspielfrankfurt.de.\n\n## Nightlife\n\nMost bars close between 2 am and 4 am. Nightclubs typically charge entrance fees ranging from \u20ac5 to \u20ac20. In addition, some trendy places, such as King Kamehameha, enforce dress codes\u2014usually no jeans, sneakers, shorts or khaki pants admitted.\n\nSachsenhausen (Frankfurt's \"Left Bank\") is a good place for bars, clubs, and traditional Apfelwein taverns. The fashionable Nordend has an almost equal number of bars and clubs but fewer tourists. Frankfurt was a real pioneer in the German jazz scene, and also has done much for the development of techno music. Jazz musicians make the rounds from smoky backstreet caf\u00e9s all the way to the Old Opera House, and the local broadcaster Hessischer Rundfunk sponsors the German Jazz Festival in fall. The Frankfurter Jazzkeller has been the most noted venue for German jazz fans for decades.\n\n* * *\n\nGerman Beers\n\nThe lager style that most of the world has come to know as \"beer\" originated in Germany. However, Germans don't just produce one beverage called beer; they brew more than 5,000 varieties in about 1,300 breweries. The hallmark of the country's dedication to beer is the Purity Law, das Reinheitsgebot, unchanged since Duke Wilhelm IV introduced it in Bavaria in 1516. The law decrees that only malted barley, hops, yeast, and water may be used to make beer, except for the specialty Weiss or Weizenbier (wheat beers). Although the law has been repealed, many breweries continue to follow its precepts.\n\nThe beer preferred in most of Germany is Pils (Pilsner), which has a rich yellow hue, hoppy flavor, and an alcohol content of about 5%. Frankfurt's local Pils brands are Binding and Henninger, but Licher, from the village of Lich nearby, is especially well balanced and crisp. The area is also home to Sch\u00f6fferhofer, which brews Germany's number-two style, Hefeweizen (wheat beer), which is cloudy and yeasty. Light, or helles, is sweeter than dunkel, or dark.\n\nFew German bars offer more than one type of Pils or Weizen on tap, so you'll need to hit a few bars to sample a good variety. Not a bad proposition.\n\nQuaff It Here\n\nBegin a night at Klosterhof (Weissfrauenstr. 3 | 069/9139\u20139000 | www.klosterhof-frankfurt.de | Station: Willy-Brandt-Platz [U-bahn]), a traditional restaurant and beer garden in the City Center, where you can try Hessian favorites like Handk\u00e4s mit Musik (literally, hand cheese with music, a strong soft cheese served with chopped onions, oil, and vinegar), as well as their custom-brewed Naturtr\u00fcb, an unfiltered (and thus naturally cloudy) lager.\n\nEckhaus (Bornheimer Landstr. 45 | 069/491\u2013197 | Station: Merianplatz [U-bahn]) is the perfect neighborhood bar to down a cold Binding or two. The restaurant, in a great location just off the Berger Strasse strip in leafy Nordend, offers a solidly executed menu of standards like schnitzel and roast chicken, along with a few creative specials.\n\n* * *\n\n## City Center\n\n### Bars\n\nCafe Extrablatt.  \nIn good weather the tables at this popular restaurant/caf\u00e9 chain are scattered around the pleasant plaza in front of the medieval Eschenheimer Tower. There are happy-hour specials, and the American-style menu choices including burgers with fries, plus traditional German selections. | Grosse Eschenheimer Str. 45, Center City | 069/2199\u20134899 | www.cafe-extrablatt.de.\n\nEuroDeli.  \nBecause this bar is near many of the city's major banks, its happy hour is weekdays from 5 to 7. There's a DJ on Tuesday. | Neue Mainzerstr. 60\u201366, City Center | 069/2980\u20131950 | www.eurodeli.de | Closed weekends and holidays.\n\nGibson Club.  \nThis nightclub in the heart of the Zeil attracts a mostly young crowd with its live music performances by international musicians. It's open Thursday from 8 pm and Friday and Saturday from 11 pm. | Zeil 85\u201393, City Center | 069/9494\u20137770 | www.gibson-club.de.\n\n### Dance and Nightclubs\n\nOdeon.  \nThe type of crowd at Odeon depends on the night. The large club hosts student nights on Thursday, a \"27 Up Club\" on Friday (exclusively for guests 27 or older), disco nights on Saturday, as well as \"Black Mondays\"\u2014a night of soul, hip-hop, and R&B. It's housed in a beautiful white building that looks like a museum. | Seilerstr. 34, City Center | 069/285\u2013055 | www.theodeon.de.\n\nTigerpalast.  \nThere's not much that doesn't take place at Frankfurt's international variety theater, the Tigerpalast. Guests are entertained by international cabaret performers and the Palast's own variety orchestra. There's an excellent French restaurant that has been awarded a Michelin star, and the cozy Palastbar, under the basement arches, looks like an American bar from the 1920s. Despite pricey show tickets, shows often sell out, so book tickets as far in advance as possible. It's closed Monday. | Heiligkreuzg. 16\u201320, City Center | 069/9200220 | www.tigerpalast.de.\n\n### Jazz\n\nDer Frankfurter Jazzkeller.  \nThe oldest jazz cellar in Germany, Der Frankfurter Jazzkeller was founded by legendary trumpeter Carlo Bohl\u00e4nder. The club, which once hosted such luminaries as Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, now offers hot, modern jazz, at a cover of \u20ac5 to \u20ac25. There are jam sessions on Wednesday and \"Latin-funky\" dances on Friday. It's closed Sunday to Tuesday. | Kleine Bockenheimerstr. 18, City Center | 069/284\u2013927 | www.facebook.com/jazzkeller.frankfurt.\n\nZoom.  \nSinkkasten, a Frankfurt musical institution, was renamed Zoom in 2013. By any name it is a class act\u2014a great place for blues, jazz, pop, and rock, with live performances nightly, often up-and-coming ones. It's open from 9 pm to 1 am every day but Monday. | Br\u00f6nnerstr. 5, City Center | 069/280\u2013385 | www.zoomfrankfurt.de.\n\n## Ostend\n\nJazzlokal Mampf.  \nWith posters of Chairman Mao on the walls, time seems to have stood still at the Jazzlokal Mampf. It looks straight out of the 1970s, but with live music to match, many don't think that's so bad. Since it opens at 6 pm, there's a lively after work crowd on weekdays. Closed Mondays. | Sandweg 64, Ostend | 069/448\u2013674 | www.mampf-jazz.de.\n\nKing Kamehameha Club.  \nOne of Frankfurt's biggest clubs occupies several floors in the Japan Tower; there's a concert area and DJs who spin everything from soul to salsa. Get there early if you want the free buffet (6\u20138 pm), and stay until the wee hours if your ears can last that long. Admission is free Monday through Wednesday; other days it ranges from \u20ac3 to \u20ac5. | Hanauer Landstr. 192, Ostend | 069/4800\u20139610 | www.king-kamehameha.de.\n\n## Hausen\n\nBrotfabrik.  \nAn important address for jazz, rock, and disco, the \"Bread Factory\" really is set in a former bakery. The building houses two stages, a concert hall, two restaurants, three not-for-profit projects, an ad agency, and a gallery. | Bachmannstr. 2\u20134, Hausen | 069/2479\u20130800 | www.brotfabrik.info.\n\n## Messe and Westend\n\nChampion's Bar.  \nLike the rest of the Marriott Hotel, the Champion's Bar is designed to make Americans feel at home. The wall of this sports bar is lined with team jerseys, autographed helmets, and photographs of professional athletes. The 23 TVs can be tuned to the American Forces Network, which carries the full range of American sports. Food leans toward buffalo wings, hamburgers, and brownies. | Hamburger Allee 2, Messe | 069/7955\u20138305 | www.champions-frankfurt.de.\n\nFox and Hound.  \nFrankfurt is teeming with Irish pubs, but there is an occasional English pub, too. A good example is the Fox and Hound. Its patrons, mainly British, come to watch the latest football (soccer to Americans), rugby, and cricket matches. Enjoy the authentic British pub food; 35 whiskies, bitters and stouts; and the basket of chips. | Niedenau 2, Westend | 069/9720\u20132009 | 10 am\u20131 am.\n\nJimmy's Bar.  \nJimmy's Bar, the meeting place of business executives since 1951, is classy and expensive\u2014just like the hotel it's in. There is live piano music, mostly jazz, and the kitchen is open every evening from 10 pm to 3 am. TIP You must ring the doorbell to get in, although regulars have their own keys. | Hessischer Hof, Friedrich-Ebert-Anlage 40, Messe | 069/7540\u20132461 | www.hessischer-hof.de/en/hotel-bar-frankfurt | Daily 8 pm\u20134 am.\n\n## Sachsenhausen\n\nBalalaika.  \nThe spacious Balalaika has an intimate feel, as candles are just about the only source of light. The proprietor is Anita Honis, an American singer from Harlem, who likes to get out her acoustic guitar and perform on occasion. Everyone is invited to sing or play on the piano, which is set up for impromptu and scheduled performances. | Schifferstr. 3, Sachsenhausen | 069/612\u2013226 | Closed Sun.\n\nStereobar.  \nUniversity students and young professionals frequent this bar in a cellar beneath a narrow Sachsenhausen alleyway. DJs usually spin the music, although there are occasional live acts. There's a tiny dance floor if you feel like showing off your moves. | Abstg\u00e4sschen 7, Sachsenhausen | 069/617\u2013116 | www.stereobar.de.\n\n## Fechenheim\n\nMoon 13.  \nOne of Germany's most revered electro-techno DJs, Sven V\u00e4th, spins regularly at what was formerly known as Cocoon Club. This ultramodern nightclub has several spacious dance floors that play different types of music, three bars, and two restaurants serving Asian\u2013European dishes. Comfort is a priority throughout the expansive club filled with reclining chairs and couches, some of which are built into the walls. Techno is the presiding music genre and draws a mostly young crowd; the club is open Friday and Saturday only. TIP A night out here will take a toll on your wallet: a taxi is required to reach its location on the eastern edge of town, cover charges average \u20ac15, and cocktails are pricey. | Carl-Benz-Str. 21, Fechenheim | 069/900\u2013200 | www.moon13.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nDespite an ever-growing number of skyscrapers, Frankfurt is full of parks and other green oases where you can enjoy wide-open spaces.\n\nLohrberg Hill.  \nIn the Seckbach district, northeast of the city, Frankfurters hike the 590-foot Lohrberg Hill for a fabulous view of the town and the Taunus, Spessart, and Odenwald hills. Along the way you'll also see the last remaining vineyard within the Frankfurt city limits, the Seckbach Vineyard. Take the U-4 subway to Seckbacher Landstrasse, then Bus 43 to Draisbornstrasse.\n\nStadtwald.  \nSouth of the city lies Sachsenhausen, the huge, 4,000-acre Stadtwald (city forest) makes Frankfurt one of Germany's greenest metropoles. TIP The forest has innumerable paths and trails, bird sanctuaries, impressive sports stadiums, and a good restaurant. The Oberschweinstiege stop on streetcar Line No. 14 is right in the middle of the park. | Sachsenhausen.\n\nTaunus Hills.  \nThe Taunus Hills are also a great getaway for Frankfurters. Take U-bahn 3 to Hohemark.\n\n### Bicycling\n\nThere are numerous biking paths within the city limits. The Stadtwald in the southern part of the city is crisscrossed with well-tended paths that are nice and flat. The city's riverbanks are, for the most part, lined with paths open to bikers. These are not only on both sides of the Main but also on the banks of the little Nidda River, which flows through Heddernheim, Eschersheim, Hausen, and R\u00f6delheim before joining the Main at H\u00f6chst. Some bikers also like the Taunus Hills, but note that word \"Hills.\"\n\n### In-line Skating\n\nFor those who travel with their in-line skates, the Main riverbanks and Stadtwald are great destinations. And between April and October, you can tour Frankfurt on wheels with Tuesday's In-line Skating Night, beginning at 8:30 pm in Sachsenhausen. Starting outside the Zwischendurch Sandwich Bar (Dreieichstr. 34), you cross the river and loop around the city for three hours. Only experienced skaters, with helmet and reflective clothing, are allowed to participate.\n\n### Jogging\n\nAnlagenring.  \nThe Anlagenring (\"Cityring\") consists of two parallel roads that were formerly the city walls. Both are one-way streets, with the inner ring running clockwise and the outer counterclockwise to form the city center. Today it is a popular running route along many of Frankfurt's sights.\n\n### Swimming\n\nBrentanobad.  \nThe often-crowded Brentanobad is an outdoor pool open in the summer and surrounded by lawns and old trees. There's a kids pool, a playground, a space to play beach volleyball and a beer garten | R\u00f6delheimer Parkweg, R\u00f6delheim | 069/27108\u201392200.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nCity Center | Westend | Sachsenhausen\n\nFrankfurt, and the rest of Germany, no longer has restrictive laws that kept stores closed evenings and Saturday afternoons, the very times working people might want to shop. Stores now can stay open until 10 pm, but pretty much everything is still closed on Sunday except for restaurants and bakeries.\n\nThe tree-shaded pedestrian zone of the Zeil is said to be one of the richest shopping strips in Germany. The section between Hauptwache and Konstablerwache famous for its incredible variety of department and specialty stores. But there's much more to downtown shopping. The subway station below the Hauptwache also doubles as a vast underground mall, albeit a rather droll one. West of the Hauptwache are two parallel streets highly regarded by shoppers. One is the luxurious Goethestrasse, lined with trendy boutiques, art galleries, jewelry stores, and antiques shops. The other is Grosse Bockenheimer Strasse, better known as the Fressgass (\"Pig-Out Alley\"), an extension of the Zeil that's lined with caf\u00e9s, restaurants, and pricey food shops.\n\nOne gift that's typical of the city is the Apfelwein. You can get a bottle of it at any grocery store, but more enduring souvenirs would be the Bembel pottery pitchers and ribbed glasses that are an equal part of the Apfelwein tradition. Then there is the sausage. You can get the \"original hot dog\" in cans or vacuum-packed at any grocery store.\n\n## City Center\n\nCaf\u00e9 Mozart.  \nReminiscent of a traditional coffeehouse, this caf\u00e9 offers all types of sweets and pastries, along with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Open daily, it's on a quiet, tucked-away street that's steps from the main shopping area. | T\u00f6ngesg. 23, City Center | 069/291\u2013954 | www.cafemozart-frankfurt.de/english.\n\nGaleria Kaufhof.  \nOne of Germany's biggest and most popular department stores, the Galeria Kaufhof carries clothing, jewelry, sports equipment, cosmetics, toys, and more. The Frankfurt branch has a food hall on the bottom floor; the restaurant on the top floor has great city views. | Zeil 116\u2013126, City Center | 069/21910.\n\nKarstadt.  \nOne of Germany's biggest department store chains, Karstadt is known for both its brand name designer offerings and its splendid food and drink department, with plenty of opportunity to try the offerings. | Zeil 90, City Center | 069/929\u2013050 | www.karstadt.de/jsp/filialen/frankfurt-zeil.jsp.\n\nKleinmarkthalle.  \nThe Kleinmarkthalle is a treasure trove of stands selling spices, herbs, teas, exotic fruits, cut flowers, and live fish flown in from the Atlantic. Plus, it offers all kinds of snacks in case you need a break while shopping. | Haseng. 5\u20137, City Center | 069/2123\u20133696 | Weekdays 8\u20136, Sat. 8\u20134.\n\nPeek & Cloppenburg.  \nAt this huge branch of the clothing chain, men and women can find what they need for the office, gym, and nightclub. Prices range from easily affordable to sky-high for certain designer labels. | Zeil 71\u201375, City Center | 069/298\u2013950.\n\nPf\u00fcller Modehaus.  \nIn addition to being a major source for kids' designer clothing, Pf\u00fcller Modehaus also carries a wide range of choices on three floors for women, from classic to trendy. You're likely to find items and labels you've never seen before. | Goethestr. 12, City Center | 069/1337\u20138070.\n\nSchillerpassage.  \nThe Schillerpassage shopping area is lined with men's and women's fashion boutiques. | Rahmhofstr. 2, City Center.\n\nWeinhandlung Dr. Teufel.  \nWeinhandlung Dr. Teufel is well known for its wide selection of regional wines, including rare vintages costing three figures or more. There are also chocolate and cigars, a complete line of glasses, carafes, corkscrews, and other accessories, and books on all aspects of viticulture. The store also has a location in the Westend. | Kleiner Hirschgraben 4, City Center | 069/448989 | www.weinteufel.de/aktuelles.htm.\n\nZeilgallerie.  \nThe moderately priced Zeilgallerie has nearly 60 shops and an outstanding view from the rooftop terrace. | Zeil 112\u2013114, City Center | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20138.\n\n## Westend\n\nCaf\u00e9 Laumer.  \nThe pastry shop at Caf\u00e9 Laumer has local delicacies such as Bethm\u00e4nnchen und Brenten (marzipan cookies) and Frankfurter Kranz (a kind of creamy cake). It's open daily. | Bockenheimer Landstr. 67, Westend | 069/727\u2013912 | www.cafelaumer.de.\n\n## Sachsenhausen\n\nSachsenhausen's weekend flea market is on Saturday from 9 to 2 on the riverbank between D\u00fcrerstrasse and the Eiserner Steg. Purveyors of the cheap have taken over, and there's lots of discussion as to whether it is a good use for the elegant, museum-lined riverbank. TIP Get there early for the bargains, as the better-quality stuff gets snapped up quickly. Shopping success or no, the market can be fun for browsing.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nBad Homburg | Kronberg | H\u00f6chst\n\nDestinations reachable by the local transportation system include H\u00f6chst and the Taunus Hills, which include Bad Homburg and Kronberg. Just to the northwest and west of Frankfurt, the Taunus Hills are an area of mixed pine and hardwood forest, medieval castles, and photogenic towns many Frankfurters regard as their own backyard. It's home to Frankfurt's wealthy bankers and business executives, and on weekends you can see them enjoying their playground: hiking through the hills, climbing the Grosse Feldberg, taking the waters at Bad Homburg's health-enhancing mineral springs, or just lazing in elegant stretches of parkland.\n\n## Bad Homburg\n\n12 km (7 miles) north of Frankfurt.\n\nEmperor Wilhelm II, the infamous \"Kaiser\" of World War I, spent a month each year at Bad Homburg, the principal city of the Taunus Hills. Another frequent visitor to Bad Homburg was Britain's Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, who made the name Homburg world famous by associating it with a hat.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBad Homburg is reached easily by the S-bahn from Hauptwache, the main station, and other points in downtown Frankfurt. The S5 goes to Bad Homburg. There's also a Taunusbahn (from the main station only) that stops in Bad Homburg and then continues into the far Taunus, including the R\u00f6merkastell-Saalburg and Wehrheim, with bus connections to Hessenpark. Bad Homburg is about a 30- to 45-minute drive north of Frankfurt on A-5.\n\nThe Bad Homburg tourist office is open until 6:30 pm weekdays, 2 pm Saturday, and is closed Sunday.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nKur- und Kongress GmbH Bad Homburg. | Louisenstr. 58 | 06172/178\u2013110 | www.bad-homburg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nCasino Bad Homburg.  \nThis casino boasts with some justice that it is the \"Mother of Monte Carlo.\" The first casino in Bad Homburg, and one of the first in the world, was established in 1841, but closed in 1866 because Prussian law forbade gambling. Proprietor Fran\u00e7ois Blanc then established the famous Monte Carlo casino on the French Riviera, and the Bad Homburg casino wasn't reopened until 1949. A bus from south side of Frankfurt's Hauptbahnhof leaves every 60 to 90 minutes between 2 pm and 1 am. Buses back to Frankfurt run every 1\u20132 hours from 4:30 pm to 4 am. The \u20ac6.10 fare will be refunded after the casino's full entry fee has been deducted. You must show a passport or other identification to gain admission. | Kisseleffstr. 35 | 06172/17010 | Slot-machine area free, gaming area \u20ac2.50 | Slot machines noon\u20134 am, gaming area 2:30 pm\u20133 am (until 4 am Thurs.\u2013Sat.).\n\nFAMILY | Freilichtmuseum Hessenpark.  \nAbout an hour's walk through the woods along a well-marked path from the R\u00f6merkastell-Saalburg is an open-air museum at Hessenpark, near Neu-Anspach. The museum presents a clear picture of the world in which 18th- and 19th-century Hessians lived, using 135 acres of rebuilt villages with houses, schools, and farms typical of the time. The park, 15 km (9 miles) outside Bad Homburg in the direction of Usingen, can also be reached by public transportation. Take the Taunusbahn from the Frankfurt main station to Wehrheim; then transfer to Bus No. 514. | Laubweg 5 | Neu-Anspach | 06081/5880 | www.hessenpark.de | \u20ac6 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov., daily 10\u20135.\n\nGrosser Feldberg.  \nA short bus ride from Bad Homburg takes you to the highest mountain in the Taunus, the 2,850-foot, eminently hikable Grosser Feldberg.\n\nKurpark (Spa).  \nBad Homburg's greatest attraction has been the Kurpark, in the heart of the Old Town, with more than 31 fountains. Romans first used the springs, which were rediscovered and made famous in the 19th century. In the park you'll find not only the popular, highly salty Elisabethenbrunnen spring, but also a Thai temple and a Russian chapel, mementos left by royal guests\u2014King Chulalongkorn of Siam and Czar Nicholas II.\n\nFAMILY | R\u00f6merkastell-Saalburg (Saalburg Roman Fort).  \nThe remains of a Roman fortress built in AD 120, the R\u00f6merkastell-Saalburg could accommodate a cohort (500 men) and was part of the fortifications along the Limes Wall, which ran from the Danube to the Rhine and was meant to protect the Roman Empire from barbarian invasion. The fort was restored more than a century ago. The site, which includes a museum of Roman artifacts, is 6\u00bd km (4 miles) north of Bad Homburg on Route 456 in the direction of Usingen. It's accessible by direct bus service. | Arch\u00e4ologischer Park, Saalburg 1 | 06175/93740 | www.saalburgmuseum.de | \u20ac5 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20134.\n\nSchloss Homburg.  \nThe most historically noteworthy sight in Bad Homburg is the 17th-century Schloss, where the Kaiser stayed when he was in town. The state apartments are exquisitely furnished, and the Spiegelkabinett (Hall of Mirrors) is especially worthy of a visit. In the surrounding park look for two cedars from Lebanon, both now about 200 years old. | Schlofl | Bad Homburg vor der H\u00f6he | 06172/926\u20132148 | www.schloss-homburg.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nKartoffelk\u00fcche.  \nGERMAN | This simple restaurant serves traditional dishes accompanied by potatoes cooked every way imaginable. The potato and broccoli gratin and the potato pizza are excellent. For dessert, try potato strudel with vanilla sauce. The charming decor includes colorful Art Deco dishes and lamps. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Audenstr. 4 | 06172/21500 | www.restaurant-kartoffelkueche.de | No lunch Mon.\n\nSteigenberger Bad Homburg.  \nHOTEL | This hotel, which opened in 1883, was renowned for catering to Europe's royalty in its pre\u2013World War I heyday, and it's still good at pleasing a well-heeled clientele. Charley's Bistro evokes Paris elegance with literary dinners and jazz brunches. Pros: old-world class; handy to the Kurpark. Cons: expensive; parking is difficult. | Rooms from: \u20ac180 | Kaiser-Friedrich-Promenade 69\u201375 | 06172/1810 | www.bad-homburg.steigenberger.de | 152 rooms, 17 suites | No meals.\n\n## Kronberg\n\n15 km (9 miles) northeast of Frankfurt.\n\nThe Taunus town of Kronberg, 15 km (9 miles) northwest of Frankfurt, has a magnificent castle-hotel originally built by a daughter of Queen Victoria, and an open-air zoo. Kronberg's half-timber houses and crooked, winding streets, all on a steep hillside, were so picturesque that a whole 19th-century art movement, the Kronberger Malerkolonie, was inspired by them.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nKronberg is easily reached by the S-bahn from Hauptwache, the main station, and other points in downtown Frankfurt. It's about a 30- to 45-minute drive north of Frankfurt on A66 (Frankfurt\u2013Wiesbaden) to the Eschborn exit, following the signs to Kronberg.\n\nThe tourist-information office is open Tuesday and Thursday 8\u20136, Wednesday 8\u20138, Friday 7\u20133, and Saturday 10\u20131.\n\n#### Essentials\n\n###### Visitor Information\n\nB\u00fcrgerb\u00fcro Kronberg.  \nThis central tourist office is in the quaint suburb of Kronberg. | Berlinerpl. 3\u20135 | 06173/7030 | www.kronberg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Opel Zoo.  \nEstablished by a wealthy heir of the man who created the Opel automobile, the large Opel Zoo has more than 1,400 native and exotic animals, plus a petting zoo and an area where birds fly freely. There's also a playground, a geological garden, and a picnic area with grills. Camel and pony rides are offered in summer. The zoo is spread across a large area and requires quite a bit of walking or outright hiking, so wear comfortable shoes. | K\u00f6nigsteinerstr. 35 | 06173/325\u20139030 | www.opel-zoo.de | \u20ac13; \u20ac7 children 3\u201314 | Apr., May, Sept., and Oct., daily 9\u20136; June\u2013Aug., daily 9\u20137; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nSchlosshotel Kronberg.  \nHOTEL | This magnificent palace was built for Kaiserin Victoria, daughter of the British queen of the same name and mother of Wilhelm II. It's richly filled with furnishings and works of art and is surrounded by a park with old trees, a grotto, a rose garden, and an 18-hole golf course. It's one of the few hotels left where you can leave your shoes outside your door for cleaning. Jimmy's Bar, with pianist, is a local rendezvous. Or opt for a traditional British afternoon tea. Pros: fit for royalty; shuttle service to the airport. Cons: expensive; additional \u20ac23 for breakfast. | Rooms from: \u20ac165 | Hainstr. 25 | Kronberg im Taunus | 06173/70101 | www.schlosshotel-kronberg.de | 51 rooms, 7 suites | No meals.\n\n## H\u00f6chst\n\nTake S1 or S2 suburban train from Frankfurt's main train station, Hauptwache, or Konstablerwache.\n\nH\u00f6chst, a town with a castle and an Altstadt right out of a picture book, is now part of Frankfurt. It wasn't devastated by wartime bombing, so its castle and the market square, with its half-timber houses, are well preserved. It's a romantic place for outdoor dining and drinking. For a week in July the whole Altstadt is hung with lanterns for the Schlossfest, one of Frankfurt's more popular outdoor festivals.\n\nJustinuskirche.  \nH\u00f6chst's most interesting attraction is the Justinuskirche, Frankfurt's oldest building. Dating from the 7th century, the church is part early Romanesque and part 15th-century Gothic. The view from the top of the hill is well worth the walk. The organ concerts here are famous. | Justinuspl. at Bolongerostr. | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 2\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekends 2\u20134.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotelschiff   \nHOTEL | This \"hotel ship\" is moored on the Main River, close to the H\u00f6chst Altstadt. Guest cabins are on the small side, but the river views more than compensate, and there's a common room with a television. The restaurant serves traditional German meals along with unusual scenery. Pros: pleasant river view; not good if you're subject to seasickness, but ideal if you like to be rocked to sleep. Cons: small rooms; hard-to-navigate stairs. | Rooms from: \u20ac65 | Batterie (H\u00f6chst Mainufer) | 069/300\u20134643 | www.hotelschiffschlott.de | 19 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nLindner Congress Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Americans like this hotel, which is a 15-minute drive from the Frankfurt airport: if not for the American food it proudly offers, then for the sports bar and its giant TV screens. With a location on the river Main, there's ample opportunity for jogging or biking along the river. Pros: perfect for the business traveler; in a pleasant district. Cons: removed from downtown. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Bolongarostr. 100 | 069/330\u20130200 | www.lindner.de/de/LCH | 258 rooms, 18 apartments | No meals.\n\n### Shopping\n\nH\u00f6chster Porzellan Manufaktur.  \nThe one real gift item produced by the area in and around Frankfurt is fine porcelain. The H\u00f6chster Porzellan Manufaktur is the second oldest porcelain producer in Germany, and draws on a tradition dating back 200 years. The workshop is open weekday 9:30 to 6 and Saturday from 9:30 to 2. | Palleskestr. 32 | 069/300\u20139020 | www.hoechster-porzellan.de.\n\nH\u00f6chster Porzellan Manufaktur.  \nH\u00f6chst was once a porcelain-manufacturing town to rival Dresden and Vienna. Production ceased in the late 18th century, but was revived by an enterprising businessman in 1965. The H\u00f6chster Porzellan Manufaktur produces exquisite and expensive tableware, but the intriguing part of its output is its accessories. There are replicas of 18th-century items, including vases, cuff links, and bottle stoppers. You can tour the workshop and shop at the store. | Palleskestr. 32 | 069/300\u20139020 | www.hoechster-porzellan.de/en | Tours \u20ac5 | Shop: weekdays 9:30\u20136, Sat. 9:30\u20132; tours: Tues. at 10 and 3.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace\n\nThe German Wine Road\n\nThe Rhine Terrace\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Driving the German Wine Road | Drinking and Driving | Quick Bites\n\nUpdated by Liz Humphreys\n\nPfalz and wine go hand in hand. This region of vineyards and picturesque villages is the home of the German Wine Road and the country's greatest wine festival at Bad D\u00fcrkheim. Six of Germany's 13 wine-growing regions are in the area.\n\nThe Pfalz has a mild, sunny climate, and that seems to affect the mood here, too. Vines carpet the foothills of the thickly forested Haardt Mountains, an extension of the Alsatian Vosges. The Pf\u00e4lzerwald (Palatinate Forest) with its pine and chestnut trees is the region's other natural attraction. Hiking and cycling trails lead through the vineyards, the woods, and up to castles on the heights.\n\nThe border between the Pfalz and Rheinhessen is invisible, but a few miles after crossing it you begin to get a sense of Rheinhessen's character. It's a region of gentle, rolling hills and expansive farmland, where grapes are but one of many crops; vineyards are often scattered miles apart. The slopes overlooking the Rhine between Worms and Mainz\u2014the so-called Rhine Terrace\u2014are a notable exception, with a nearly uninterrupted ribbon of vines, including the famous vineyards of Oppenheim, Nierstein, and Nackenheim on the outskirts of Mainz.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nWine: German Rieslings are some of the most versatile white wines in the world\u2014on their own or with food. If you've only had the sweeter style, then the rest may be a revelation.\n\nFestivals: Wine is a great excuse for merrymaking, and there are scores of wine festivals throughout the region. The biggest and best is in the town of Bad D\u00fcrkheim, which features a wine barrel the size of a building.\n\nPf\u00e4lzerwald: The Palatinate Forest is a paradise for hiking and cycling. Even a brief walk under the beautiful pine and chestnut trees is relaxing and refreshing.\n\nCastles: Burg Trifels and Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he are a contrast in style, inside and out. Both are wonderful settings for concerts.\n\nCathedrals: The cathedrals in Speyer, Worms, and Mainz are the finest examples of grand-scale Rhenish Romanesque architecture in Germany.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nIf you're arriving from the dramatic stretch of the Rhine centered on the Loreley and Koblenz to the north, you'll notice how the landscape here is far gentler. So, too, is the climate in this region of the Rhine Valley, guarded at its northern edge by the medieval city of Mainz and touching the French border at its southern extreme. This helps the land give birth to some of Germany's greatest wines.\n\n## What's Where\n\nThe German Wine Road. The picturesque Deutsche Weinstrasse (German Wine Road) weaves through the valleys and among the lower slopes of the Haardt Mountains. Along its length is a string of pretty half-timber wine-producing villages, each more inviting than the last.\n\nThe Rhine Terrace. Rheinhessen, or \"Rhine Terrace,\" is a broad fertile river valley, where grapes are but one of many crops. Here the medieval cities of Mainz, Worms, and Speyer all bear testament to the great power and wealth brought by the important trading route created by the mighty Rhine itself.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThe wine-festival season begins in March with the Mandelbl\u00fcten (blossoming of the almond trees) along the Wine Road and continues through October. By May the vines' tender shoots and leaves appear. As the wine harvest progresses in September and October, foliage takes on reddish-golden hues.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nAttending a wine festival is fun and a memorable part of any vacation in wine country. You can sample local food and wine inexpensively, and meet winegrowers without making an appointment. Wine, Sekt (sparkling wine), and Schorle (wine spritzer) flow freely from March through October at festivals that include parades, fireworks, and rides. See www.germanwines.de for an events calendar with an up-to-date overview of the many smaller, local wine festivals that take place in virtually every village.\n\nBrezelfest (Pretzel Festival).  \nBeer and pretzels are central to this annual six-day celebration, held the second weekend in July in Speyer. Other highlights include carnival rides and games, and a grand parade. | Festpl. | Speyer | www.brezelfest-speyer.de.\n\nDeidesheim Weinkerwe.  \nFor 10 days in August, the wine town of Deidesheim fills up with stalls where visitors can sample local wines and hearty cuisine. Deidesheim's wineries also stay open late, offering live entertainment most nights during the festival. | Marktpl. | Deidesheim.\n\nDeutsches Weinlesefest (German Wine Harvest Festival).  \nIn Neustadt, the German Wine Queen is crowned during this 10-day wine festival in early October. The festival includes the largest wine festival parade in Germany and a huge fireworks display on the final night. | Near Neustadt train station | Neustadt | www.neustadt.eu/Wein-Tourismus/Deutsches-Weinlesefest.\n\nD\u00fcrkheimer Wurstmarkt (Sausage Market).  \nThe Pfalz is home to the world's largest wine festival, held in Bad D\u00fcrkheim in mid-September. Some 400,000 pounds of sausage are consumed during eight days of merrymaking. | Sankt-Michaels-Allee 1 | Bad D\u00fcrkheim | www.duerkheimer-wurstmarkt.de.\n\nMainzer Johannisnacht (Mainz Midsummer St. John's Night Festival).  \nLive performances from local and international bands, as well as theater and cabaret performances, are done on six stages in the city center in late June. Since the festival is at least nominally in honor of Johannes Gutenberg, printers' apprentices are also dunked in water as part of a \"printers' baptism\" ceremony in front of the Gutenberg Museum. | Various locations | Mainz | www.johannisnacht.de.\n\nWormser Backfischfest (Fried Fish Festival).  \nCarnival rides, traditional folk music and dance, jousting on the Rhine, and fireworks create a jovial atmosphere at this annual festival, starting in late August, which honors the city's fishermen. Don't pass up the chance to taste more than 400 wines at the festival's Wonnegauer Wine Cellar. | Festpl. | Worms | www.backfischfest.de | Late Aug.\u2013early Sept.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nCentral hubs such as Bad D\u00fcrkheim or Neustadt make good bases for exploring the region; smaller towns such as St. Martin and Gleiszellen are worth an overnight stay because of their charm. Driving the Wine Road takes longer than you might expect, and will probably involve spur-of-the-moment stops, so you may want to consider a stopover in one of the many country inns en route.\n\nWhen traveling with children, Neustadt and Worms are convenient bases from which to explore nearby Holiday Park.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nFrankfurt is the closest major international airport for the entire Rhineland. International airports in Stuttgart and France's Strasbourg are closer to the southern end of the German Wine Road. If you're traveling from within Europe, the frequently disliked Ryanair hub in the remote Frankfurt suburb of Hahn is actually a convenient jumping-off point for a tour of the region, with bus service to Koblenz, Heidelberg, and Karlsruhe.\n\n#### Bike Travel\n\nThere's no charge for transporting bicycles on local trains throughout Rheinland-Pfalz weekdays after 9 am and anytime weekends and holidays. For maps, suggested routes, bike-rental locations, and details on Pauschalangebote (package deals) or Gep\u00e4cktransport (luggage-forwarding service), contact Pfalz.Touristik or Rheinhessen-Touristik.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nIt's 162 km (100 miles) between Schweigen-Rechtenbach and Mainz, the southernmost and northernmost points of this region. The main route is the Deutsche Weinstrasse, which is a Bundesstrasse, abbreviated \"B,\" as in B-38, B-48, and B-271. The route from Worms to Mainz is B-9.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nMainz is on the high-speed ICE (InterCity Express) train route linking Wiesbaden, Frankfurt, and Dresden, and so forms a convenient gateway to the region. An excellent network of public transportation called Rheinland-Pfalz-Takt operates throughout the region with well-coordinated RegioLinie (buses) and Nahverkehrsz\u00fcge (local trains). Regional trains link Mainz with other towns along the Rhine Terrace, including Worms and Speyer, while local branch lines serve key hubs along the Wine Road such as Neustadt and Bad D\u00fcrkheim. (Even more direct express trains are on schedule to be added by 2015 as part of a large-scale expansion project.) Smaller towns and villages connect with these hubs by an excellent network of local buses.\n\nTIP The Rheinland-Pfalz Ticket is a great value if you plan to travel on the train. The ticket costs \u20ac22 for the first person and \u20ac4 for each additional person, up to five people. It's valid for a whole day, beginning at 9 am on weekdays and midnight on weekends and holidays. It can be used on all regional trains and buses, but not the high-speed ICE trains.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nLunch in this region is generally served from noon until 2 or 2:30, dinner from 6 until 9:30 or 10. Credit cards have gained a foothold, but many restaurants will accept only cash or debit cards issued by a German bank. Casual attire is typically acceptable at restaurants here, and reservations are generally not needed.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nBook in advance if your visit coincides with a large festival. Bed-and-breakfasts abound. Look for signs reading \"Fremdenzimmer\" or \"Zimmer frei\" (rooms available). A Ferienwohnung (holiday apartment), abbreviated FeWo in tourist brochures, is an economical option if you plan to stay in one location for several nights.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe Freizeit Card (\u20ac14 for one day, \u20ac41.50 for three days, \u20ac66 for six days) offers free or reduced admission to 168 museums, castles, and other sights, as well as city tours and boat trips throughout Rheinland-Pfalz and Saarland. The days you use the three- and six-day cards needn't be consecutive, as long as they're in the same season. The six-day card also includes admission to the Holiday Park in Hassloch. The website www.freizeitcard.info lists all of the sites you can visit with the card, and also gives you the opportunity to order it online. You can also buy it at all the community tourist offices in the region.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nContacts  \nDeutsche Weinstrasse. | Martin-Luther-Str. 69, | Neustadt a.d. Weinstrasse | 06321/912\u2013333 | www.deutsche-weinstrasse.de | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8:30\u20135, Fri. 8:30\u20131.   \nPfalz.Touristik. | Martin-Luther-Str. 69, | Neustadt a.d. Weinstrasse | 06321/39160 | www.pfalz.de | Jan.\u2013Mar., Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20135, Fri. 8\u20134; Apr.\u2013Dec., Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20135, Fri. 8\u20134, Sat. 10\u2013noon.   \nPfalzwein. | Martin-Luther-Str. 69, | Neustadt a.d. Weinstrasse | 06321/912\u2013328 | www.pfalzwein.de | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8:30\u20135, Fri. 8:30\u20131.   \nRheinhessen-Touristik. | Friedrich-Ebert-Str. 17, | Ingelheim | 06132/44170 | www.rheinhessen.de | Weekdays 9\u20135.   \nRheinhessenwein. | Otto-Lilienthal-Str. 4, | Alzey | 06731/951\u20130740 | www.rheinhessenwein.de.   \nRheinland-Pfalz Tourismus. | 01805/915\u2013200 for info hotline, \u20ac.14/min., mobile max \u20ac.42/min. | www.rlp-info.de. S\u00fcdliche Weinstrasse.  \n| An der Kreuzm\u00fchle 2, | Landau | 06341/940\u2013407 | www.suedlicheweinstrasse.de.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Wines of Rheinland-Pfalz\n\nThe Romans planted the first Rhineland vineyards 2,000 years ago, finding the mild, wet climate hospitable to grape growing. By the Middle Ages viticulture was flourishing and a bustling wine trade had developed. Wine making and splendid Romanesque cathedrals are the legacies of the bishops and emperors of Speyer, Worms, and Mainz. This region, now the state of Rheinland-Pfalz (Rhineland Palatinate), remains a major wine center, with two of the largest wine districts in the country, Rheinhessen and the Pfalz.\n\nIn the Pfalz, you can follow the Deutsche Weinstrasse as it winds its way north from the French border. Idyllic wine villages beckon with flower-draped facades and courtyards full of palms, oleanders, and fig trees. \"Weinverkauf\" (wine for sale) and \"Weinprobe\" (wine-tasting) signs are posted everywhere\u2014an invitation to stop in to sample the wines.\n\nMost of the wines from both Pfalz and Rheinhessen are white, and the ones from Rheinhessen are often fragrant and sweeter than their counterparts from the Pfalz. Many are sold as offene Weine (wines by the glass). The classic white varieties are Riesling, Silvaner, M\u00fcller-Thurgau (also called Rivaner), Grauburgunder (pinot gris), and Weissburgunder (pinot blanc). Sp\u00e4tburgunder (pinot noir), Dornfelder, and Portugieser are the most popular red wines. The word Weissherbst, after the grape variety, indicates a ros\u00e9 wine.\n\nRiesling is the king of German grapes. It produces wines that range widely in quality and character; Rieslings are noted for their strong acidity, sometimes-flowery aroma, and often mineral-tasting notes\u2014all reflections of the soil in which they're grown. Riesling made its name throughout the world as a sweet (lieblich) wine, but many Germans (and, increasingly, others) prefer dry (trocken) versions. Importers, especially in the United States, have tended not to bring over many dry Rieslings, so take the opportunity to sample some while in Germany.\n\n* * *\n\n## Driving the German Wine Road\n\nDue to its sunny skies, warm weather, and fertile fields, many Germans consider the Pfalz their version of Tuscany. In addition to vineyards, the mild climate fosters fig, lemon, and chestnut trees.\n\nThe best time for a drive is early spring, when the path is awash in pink and white almond blossoms, or early fall, when you can sample sweet young wines. The Deutsche Weinstrasse begins in Schweigen-Rechtenbach and runs alongside the Bundesstrassen (highways) B-38 and B-271. Yellow signs depicting a cluster of grapes guide visitors along a picturesque path of villages and vineyards north, to the end of the route at the \"House of the German Wine Road\" in Bockenheim. The entire road is just a little more than 50 miles and can be driven in a few hours. However, it can easily turn into a two-day drive if you stop to sample the local wines. Get an early start and allow yourself to get lost in the charming villages along the way, leaving ample time for a hike or two (or perhaps a bike ride) among the beautiful vines.\n\nThe entire route is scenic, but if you're short on time, the stretch between Gleiszellen and Bad D\u00fcrkheim is particularly rich with castles, vineyards, and vistas. If you opt to start at Schweigen-Rechtenbach on the French border, the southernmost point of the route, you can begin by snapping a photo in front of the Deutsches Weintor (German Wine Gate). Otherwise, pick up the route in Gleiszellen, where you should stop to savor a glass of the hard-to-find Muskateller wine, with its distinctly sweet aroma. Weinstube Wissing has a homey atmosphere and offers Muskateller in red, yellow, and ros\u00e9 varieties.\n\nDepending on the time of year, your trip may coincide with a local wine or produce festival\u2014as you drive, keep your eyes peeled for signs advertising \"Weinfest.\" Summer is the best time for festivals, but there are roadside stands with seasonal produce year-round. When you arrive in Edenkoben, stretch your legs at the Pompeian-style palace Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he, then continue uphill via the Rietburgbahn chairlift to the vantage point at the Rietburg Castle Ruins. Evening is the perfect time for the journey, when the pathway is lit by Chinese lanterns (the chairlift is open until midnight in summer). If you plan to split the drive into two days, the neighboring village of St. Martin is an ideal place to overnight because it's about halfway through the drive. Spend the next morning exploring the winding streets of this charming village on foot.\n\nContinue north, driving leisurely through the vineyards of Deidesheim and Forst, and stopping off at the imposing ruins of Burgruine Hardenburg (Hardenburg Fortress). End your day with a visit to the world's biggest wine barrel in Bad D\u00fcrkheim.\n\n## Drinking and Driving\n\nGermany has strict laws against driving (and biking) under the influence, so if you're planning to take advantage of the numerous Weinprobe (wine samples) offered along the route, make sure you have a designated driver. Alternatively, just let the vintner know what you like, and he can help you pick a bottle to enjoy when you reach your final destination.\n\n## Quick Bites\n\nAlter Kastanienhof.  \nFor a delicious rendition of the regional specialty Saumagen (meat and potatoes cooked in a sow's stomach), stop here. The restaurant has a charming interior courtyard and sunny south-facing terrace. | Theresienstr. 79 | Rhodt u. Rietburg | 06323/81752 | No credit cards.\n\nConsulat des Weines.  \nOenophiles won't want to miss this Vinothek in the charming village of St. Martin. It offers more than 80 varieties of wine from its vineyards in St. Martin and nearby Edenkoben (cash only). There's also a hotel and restaurant on-site. | Maikammerer Str. 44 | St. Martin | 06323/8040 | www.schneider-pfalz.de | No credit cards | Closed Sun. after noon.\n\nWochenmarkt.  \nHead to this farmers' market on Saturday for flowers, bread, wine, meats, cheeses, and vinegars. | Am Obermarkt | Bad D\u00fcrkheim | 06323/8040 | www.wochenmarkt-duerkheim.de | Sat. 7 am\u20131 pm.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nSchweigen-Rechtenbach | Bad Bergzabern | Gleiszellen | Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he | St. Martin | Neustadt | Speyer | Deidesheim | Bad D\u00fcrkheim\n\nThe Wine Road spans the length of the Pfalz wine region. You can travel from north to south or vice versa. Given its central location, the Pfalz is convenient to visit before or after a trip to the Black Forest, Heidelberg, or the northern Rhineland.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Schweigen-Rechtenbach\n\n21 km (13 miles) southwest of Landau on B-38.\n\nThe southernmost wine village of the Pfalz lies on the French border. During the economically depressed 1930s, local vintners established a route through the vineyards to promote tourism. The German Wine Road was inaugurated in 1935; a year later the massive stone Deutsches Weintor (German Wine Gate) was erected to add visual impact to the marketing concept. Halfway up the gateway is a platform that offers a fine view of the vineyards\u2014to the south, French, to the north, German. Schweigen's 1-km (\u00bd-mile) Weinlehrpfad (educational wine path) wanders through the vineyards and, with signs and exhibits, explains the history of viticulture from Roman times to the present.\n\n## Bad Bergzabern\n\n10 km (6 miles) north of Schweigen-Rechtenbach on B-38.\n\nThe landmark of this little spa town is the baroque Schloss (palace) of the dukes of Zweibr\u00fccken. The Gasthaus Zum Engel (K\u00f6nigstr. 45) is an impressive Renaissance house with elaborate scrolled gables and decorative oriels. TIP Visit Caf\u00e9 Herzog (Marktstr. 48) for scrumptious, homemade chocolates, cakes, and ice creams made with unexpected ingredients, such as wine, pepper, cardamom, curry, thyme, or Feigenessig (fig vinegar). The caf\u00e9 is closed Monday.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFrom Landau, you can take the regional train to Bad Bergzabern, which takes about an hour and requires a change in Winden (Pfalz). Bus No. 543 also connects Bad Bergzabern along the Wine Road to Schweigen, over the French border to Wissembourg. The Rheinland-Pfalz ticket is valid on the train and the bus until the French border.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel\u2013Restaurant Zur Krone.  \nHOTEL | Behind a simple facade is this inn, with modern facilities, upscale and tasteful furnishings, an open fireplace perfect for cold winters, and, above all, a warm welcome from the Kuntz family. In the hotel's Michelin-starred restaurant, chef Karl-Emil Kuntz prepares a set menu with French/Mediterranean touches ($$$, reservations essential). Terrines and parfaits are favorites, as is the homemade goat cheese. The same kitchen team also serves regional specialties at the Pf\u00e4lzer Stube ($$ - $$$). The wine list is excellent. The hotel's in Hayna, a suburb of Herxheim 20 km (12 mi) east of Bad Bergzabern via B-427. Pros: quiet location; friendly atmosphere; great food. Cons: a detour off the Wine Road (about a half-hour drive); not many activities in the surrounding area. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | Hauptstr. 62\u201364 | Herxheim-Hayna | 07276/5080 | www.hotelkrone.de | 66 rooms, 8 suites | Restaurant Zur Krone closed Mon. and Tues., 1st 2 wks in Jan., and 3 wks in Aug. No lunch. | Breakfast.\n\n## Gleiszellen\n\n4 km (2\u00bd miles) north of Bad Bergzabern on B-48.\n\nGleiszellen's Winzergasse (Vintners' Lane) is a little vine-canopied street lined with a beautiful ensemble of half-timber houses. Try a glass of the town's specialty: spicy, aromatic Muskateller wine, a rarity seldom found even elsewhere in Germany.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nGleiszellen is on the No. 543 bus line that runs from Landau to the French border town of Wissembourg. The bus runs hourly.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Burg Trifels.  \nBurg Trifels is on the highest of three sandstone bluffs overlooking Annweiler, which is 15 km (9 miles) northwest of Gleiszellen. Celts, Romans, and Salians all had settlements on this site, but it was under the Hohenstaufen emperors (12th and 13th centuries) that Trifels was built on a grand scale. It housed the crown jewels from 1125 to 1274 (replicas are on display today). It was also an imperial prison, perhaps where Richard the Lionheart was held captive in 1193\u201394.\n\nAlthough it was never conquered, the fortress was severely damaged by lightning in 1602. Reconstruction began in 1938, shaped by visions of grandeur to create a national shrine of the imperial past. Accordingly, the monumental proportions of some parts of today's castle bear no resemblance to those of the original Romanesque structure. The imperial hall is a grand setting for the Serenaden (concerts) held in summer.\n\nArriving on foot: From the main train station in Annweiler, follow the local signs for Burg Trifels. The hike is about an hour. Arriving by car: Follow the A65 direction Karl-Ludwigshafen, take exit Landau-Sued, then B10 to Annweiler West. From there follow the local signs. Parking is at the foot of the fortress, a 20-minute walk from the top. | Trifels | Annweiler | 06346/8470 | www.burgen-rlp.de | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct., Nov., and Jan.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWeinstube Wissing.  \nGERMAN | Friendly service and a homey atmosphere awaits guests this restaurant. Wines, fine spirits, and regional delicacies are offered in the former premises of the family-owned distillery. Don't miss a chance to sample their fruity Muskateller wine, and you might also want to pick up a bottle of their fresh Pf\u00e4lzer Traubensaft (grape juice) for a tasty souvenir. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Winzerg. 34 | 06343/4711 | www.weingut-wissing.de | No credit cards | Closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch Wed.\u2013Sat.\n\nFodor's Choice | Gasthof Zum Lam.  \nB&B/INN | Flowers cascade from the windowsills of this half-timber inn in the heart of town, where the good rates include free Wi-Fi and an enjoyable breakfast buffet. Pros: quiet location; charming courtyard; beautiful old building. Cons: no elevator; no a/c. | Rooms from: \u20ac86 | Winzerg. 37 | 06343/939\u2013212 | www.zum-lam.de | 11 rooms, 1 apartment | Restaurant closed Wed. No lunch Nov.\u2013Mar. | Breakfast.\n\n## Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he\n\n24 km (15 miles) north of Annweiler, slightly west of Edenkoben on the Wine Road.\n\nFor a cultural break from all that wine tasting, head to this Pompeian-style palace, followed by a chairlift ride with wonderful views to reach the vantage point of the Rietburg Castle Ruins. Or get your heart racing by following the example of the hardy German tourists who can often be seen hiking uphill between the two sights.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he.  \nBavaria's King Ludwig I built a summer residence on the slopes overlooking Edenkoben, in what he called \"the most beautiful square mile of my realm.\" The layout and decor of the palace\u2014Pompeian-style murals, splendid parquet floors, and Biedermeier and Empire furnishings\u2014are quite a contrast to those of medieval castles elsewhere in the Pfalz.\n\nYou can reach the neoclassical Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he by car, bus, or walking. The No. 506 Palatina bus goes directly from Edenkoen on Sunday and holidays. If you opt to walk, the Weinlehrpfad takes about 45 minutes. Historical winepresses and vintners' tools are displayed at intervals along the path, which starts at the corner of Landauer Strasse and Villa Strasse in Edenkoben. | Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he, Villastr. 64 | Edenkoben | 06323/93016 | www.schloss-villa-ludwigshoehe.de | \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20136; Oct., Nov., and Jan.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Rietburg Castle Ruins.  \nFrom Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he you can hike (30 minutes) or ride the Rietburgbahn chairlift (10 minutes) up to the Rietburg ruins for a sweeping view of the Pfalz. During a festive Lampionfahrt in July and August (dates vary each year), the chairlift operates until midnight on Saturdays, and the route is lit by dozens of Chinese lanterns. A restaurant, game park, and playground are on the grounds. | Villa Strasse 67 | Edenkoben | 06323/1800 | www.rietburgbahn-edenkoben.de | Chairlift \u20ac6.50 round-trip, \u20ac4.50 one-way | Mar., Sun. 9\u20135; Apr. and May, weekdays 9\u20135, weekends 9\u20136; June\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20135:30, weekends 9\u20136; Nov. 1\u201310, daily 9\u20135.\n\n* * *\n\nEating Well in the Pfalz\n\nWine has a big influence on the cuisine here, turning up as an ingredient in dishes as well as an accompaniment to them. The Weinkraut is sauerkraut braised in wine; Dippe-Has is hare and pork baked in red wine; and Backes Grumbeere is scalloped potatoes cooked with bacon, sour cream, white wine, and a layer of pork. During the grape harvest, from September through November, there is Federweisser\u2014fermenting grape juice. Among the regional dishes well suited to wine is the Pf\u00e4lzer Teller\u2014a platter of bratwurst, Leberkn\u00f6del (liver dumplings), and slices of Saumagen (a spicy meat-and-potato mixture cooked in a sow's stomach), with Kartoffelp\u00fcree (mashed potatoes) on the side. Spargel (asparagus), Wild (game), chestnuts, Zwiebelkuchen (onion quiche), and mushrooms, particularly Pfifferlinge (chanterelles), are seasonal favorites.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAlte Rebschule.  \nHOTEL | Fireside seating in the lobby lounge and spacious rooms (all with a balcony) make for a pleasant, peaceful stay in this former Rebschule (vine nursery) on the edge of the forest. The prices include a breakfast buffet, four-course dinner, and use of the sauna, steam room, pool, and gym. The restaurant ($$) serves light, seasonal cuisine with Asian and Mediterranean accents. Themed excursions (wine, culture, nature) are available, as are health and wellness treatments. Rhodt proper is a 15-minute walk from the hotel. lBe sure to take a stroll along Theresienstrasse with its venerable old chestnut trees. It's one of the most picturesque lanes of the Pfalz. Pros: beautiful vineyard views; quiet; good restaurant. Cons: room decor a bit old-fashioned; no Wi-Fi in rooms, only DSL. | Rooms from: \u20ac194 | 3 km (2 miles) west of Schloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he, Theresienstr. 200 | Rhodt u. Rietburg | 06323/70440 | www.alte-rebschule.de | 34 rooms, 3 suites | Some meals.\n\n## St. Martin\n\n26 km (16 miles) north of Annweiler, slightly west of the Wine Road. Turn left at the northern edge of Edenkoben.\n\nThis is one of the most charming wine villages of the Pfalz. Narrow cobblestone streets go past historic half-timber houses that now hold appealing inns, restaurants, and wine shops, making the compact, historically preserved Altstadt (Old Town) a pleasure to stroll.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe easiest way to reach St. Martin is by car. There's no train station, but Bus No. 501 connects St. Martin with Neustadt and Edenkoben. The trip takes about 20 minutes, and the buses run approximately every half hour.\n\n### Exploring\n\nKropsburg.  \nNow romantic ruins, this castle was originally constructed in the early 13th century and was used by the bishops of Speyer; from the 15th to the 19th centuries, the Knights of Dalberg resided there. You can see Kropsburg from the hills above St. Martin. Hike up to the castle's outskirts, where you can have a traditional sausage lunch at the charming inn and restaurant Burgsch\u00e4nke an der Kropsburg ($) while admiring the views. | Kropsburg 1 | Restaurant closed Tues. No dinner.\n\nPfarrkirche St. Martin (Church of St. Martin).  \nPerched dramatically on the northern edge of St. Martin with a backdrop of vineyards, this late-Gothic church was thought to have been built around 1200 (the interior was renovated in the mid-1980s). Renaissance tombstones and a Madonna sculpture carved from a single piece of oak are among the intriguing artworks found inside. | Kirchgasse 6 | 06323/5100.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nLandhaus Christmann.  \nB&B/INN | This bright, modern house in the midst of the vineyards outside of St. Martin has stylish rooms decorated with both antiques and modern furnishings, and is close enough to walk into town. Some rooms have balconies with a view of the Hambacher Schloss. You can also buy antiques here. Pros: excellent value rooms; quiet location. Cons: rooms are very simple; breakfast costs extra (\u20ac10) if you're staying in an apartment. | Rooms from: \u20ac92 | Riedweg 1 | 06323/94270 | www.landhaus-christmann.de | 6 rooms, 3 apartments | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | St. Martiner Castell.  \nHOTEL | The M\u00fccke family transformed a simple vintner's house into a fine hotel and restaurant, retaining many of the original features, such as exposed beams and an old winepress. Modern amenities include an elevator, a sauna, and freshly renovated bathrooms. Though it's in the center of town, the hotel is peaceful, particularly the rooms with balconies overlooking the garden. A native of the Loire Valley, Frau M\u00fccke includes French influences in the menu ($$ - $$$). The wine list offers a good selection of bottles from a neighboring estate. Pros: beautiful old house; central location; free Wi-Fi in rooms. Cons: can be noisy; not all rooms are nonsmoking. | Rooms from: \u20ac104 | Maikammerer Str. 2 | 06323/9510 | www.hotelcastell.de | 24 rooms, 2 suites | Restaurant closed Tues. | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nSchloss Villa Ludwigsh\u00f6he, Kloster Heilsbruck (a former Cistercian convent near Edenkoben), and Schloss Edesheim serve as backdrops for concerts and theater in summer. For a calendar of events, contact the S\u00fcdliche Weinstrasse regional tourist office in Landau (06341/940\u2013407 | www.suedlicheweinstrasse.de).\n\n### Shopping\n\nDoktorenhof.  \nArtist Georg Wiedemann is responsible for both the contents and the design of the containers at Germany's premier wine-vinegar estate, Doktorenhof. Make an appointment for a unique vinegar tasting and tour of the cellars or pick up a gift at his shop (cash only). The estate's in Venningen, 2 km (1 mile) east of Edenkoben. | Raiffeisenstr. 5 | Venningen | 06323/5505 | www.doktorenhof.de | Weekdays 8\u20134, Wed. 8\u20136, and Sat. 9\u20132.\n\nEn Route: Leave St. Martin via the Totenkopf-H\u00f6henstrasse, a scenic road through the forest. Turn right at the intersection with Kalmitstrasse and proceed to the vantage point atop the Kalmit, the region's highest peak (2,200 feet). The view's amazing.\n\nHambacher Schloss. On the Wine Road, it's a brief drive to the Neustadt suburb of Hambach. The sturdy block of Hambacher Schloss is considered the cradle of German democracy. It was here, on May 27, 1832, that 30,000 patriots demonstrated for German unity, raising the German colors for the first time. Inside there are exhibits about the uprising and the history of the castle. The French destroyed the 11th-century imperial fortress in 1688. Reconstruction finally began after World War II, in neo-Gothic style, and the castle is now an impressive setting for theater and concerts. On a clear day you can see the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral and the northern fringe of the Black Forest from the terrace restaurant.\n\nTours take about 45 minutes and begin at 11, noon, 2, 3, and 4 from April to October, and at 11, noon, and 2 from November to March. | Hambach | Neustadt | 06321/926\u2013290 | www.hambacher-schloss.de | \u20ac8 | Mar.\u2013Nov., daily 10\u20136; Dec.\u2013Feb., daily 11\u20135.\n\n## Neustadt\n\n8 km (5 miles) north of St. Martin, 5 km (3 miles) north of Hambach on the Wine Road.\n\nNeustadt and its nine wine suburbs are at the midpoint of the Wine Road and the edge of the district known as Deutsche Weinstrasse\u2013Mittelhaardt. With around 5,000 acres of vines, they jointly make up Germany's largest wine-making community.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegular trains connect Neustadt with Ludwigshafen (connecting to Worms and Mainz). Coming from Speyer, change in Schifferstadt. Local buses connect Neustadt to other towns along the Wine Road. Once you're in Neustadt, the best way to get around is on foot. Neustadt tours cost \u20ac5 and take place April through October, Wednesday and Saturday at 10:30.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nNeustadt-an-der-Weinstrasse. | Tourist-Information, Hetzelpl. 1 | 06321/926\u2013892 | www.neustadt.pfalz.com | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9:30\u20136, Sat. 9:30\u20132; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 9:30\u20135.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Eisenbahn Museum.  \nThirty historic train engines and railway cars are on display at the Eisenbahn Museum, behind the main train station. Take a ride through the Palatinate Forest on one of the museum's historic steam trains, the Kuckucksb\u00e4hnel (\u20ac14 round-trip), which departs from Track 5 around 10:45 am some Sundays and Wednesdays between Easter and mid-October (check the website for the latest schedule). It takes a little over an hour to cover the 13-km (8-mile) stretch from Neustadt to Elmstein. | Neustadt train station, Schillerstr. entrance | 06321/30390 | www.eisenbahnmuseum-neustadt.de | \u20ac5 for adults, \u20ac2 for children 4\u201314 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20131, weekends 10\u20134.\n\nFAMILY | Elwetrischen fountain.  \nWhile in the Pfalz, keep your eyes peeled for the elusive Elwetritschen\u2014mythical, birdlike creatures rumored to roam the forest and vineyards at night. Hunting the creatures is something of a local prank. Sculptor Gernot Rumpf has immortalized the Elwetrischen in a fountain on Marstallplatz. Near the market square, hunt for the one that \"escaped\" from its misty home. End a walking tour of the Old Town on the medieval lanes Metzgergasse, Mittelgasse, and Hintergasse to see beautifully restored half-timber houses, many of which are now pubs, caf\u00e9s, and boutiques. | Marstallplatz.\n\nHaus des Weines (House of Wine).  \nAt the Haus des Weines, opposite the town hall, you can sample some 30 of the 100 Neustadt wines sold. The Gothic house from 1276 is bordered by a splendid Renaissance courtyard, the Kuby'scher Hof. | Rathausstr. 6 | 06321/355\u2013871 | www.haus-des-weines.com | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20132.\n\n* * *\n\nBiking, Hiking, and Walking\n\nCountry roads and traffic-free vineyard paths make the area perfect for cyclists. There are also well-marked cycling trails, such as the Radwanderweg Deutsche Weinstrasse, which runs parallel to its namesake from the French border to Bockenheim, and the Radweg (cycling trail) along the Rhine between Worms and Mainz. The Palatinate Forest, Germany's largest single tract of woods, has more than 10,000 km (6,200 miles) of paths.\n\nThe Wanderweg Deutsche Weinstrasse, a walking route that traverses vineyards, woods, and wine villages, covers the length of the Pfalz. It connects with many trails in the Palatinate Forest that lead to Celtic and Roman landmarks and dozens of castles dating primarily from the 11th to 13th century. In Rheinhessen you can hike along two marked trails parallel to the Rhine: the Rheinterrassenwanderweg and the Rheinh\u00f6henweg along the heights.\n\n* * *\n\nMarktplatz (market square).  \nThe Marktplatz is the focal point of the Old Town and a beehive of activity on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, when farmers come to sell their wares. The square itself is ringed by baroque and Renaissance buildings (Nos. 1, 4, 8, and 11) and the Gothic Stiftskirche (Collegiate Church), built as a burial church for the Palatinate counts. In summer, concerts take place in the church (Saturday 11:30\u2013noon). Afterward, you can ascend the southern tower (187 feet) for a bird's-eye view of the town. The world's largest cast-iron bell\u2014weighing more than 17 tons\u2014hangs in the northern tower. Indoors, see the elaborate tombstones near the choir and the fanciful grotesque figures carved into the baldachins and corbels. | Marktplatz | www.stiftskirche-nw.de.\n\nQuick Bites: Caf\u00e9 Sixt.  \nFor the best coffee and cake or handcrafted pralines in town, head to Caf\u00e9 Sixt. The Pf\u00e4lzer Kirschtorte (cherry torte) is a favorite. | Hauptstr. 3 | 06321/2192 | www.cafesixt.de.\n\nOtto Dill Museum.  \nThe impressionist painter Otto Dill (1884\u20131957), a native of Neustadt, is known for powerful animal portraits (especially lions, tigers, and horses) and vivid landscapes. The Otto Dill Museum displays some 100 oil paintings and 50 drawings and watercolors from the Manfred Vetter collection. | Rathausstr. 12, at Bachg\u00e4ngel 8 | 06321/398\u2013321 | www.otto-dill-museum.de | \u20ac2.50 | Wed. and Fri. 2\u20135, weekends 11\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAltstadtkeller bei J\u00fcrgen.  \nGERMAN | Tucked behind a wooden portal on a cobblestone street, this vaulted sandstone \"cellar\" (it's actually on the ground floor) feels very cozy. Equally inviting is the terrace, with its citrus, olive, palm, and fig trees. The regular menu includes a number of salads and a good selection of fish and steaks. Owner J\u00fcrgen Reis is a wine enthusiast, and his well-chosen list shows it. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Kunigundenstr. 2 | 06321/32320 | www.altstadtkeller-neustadt.de | Closed Mon. No dinner Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Nett's Restaurant-Weinbar.  \nGERMAN | Susanne and Daniel Nett operate a chic wine restaurant-bar filled with modern art within a 16th-century vaulted stone cellar at Weingut A. Christmann, a top wine estate. The short, seasonal menu has Spanish and Italian influences, with such dishes as gnocchi and pot au feu with crayfish, which is served with asparagus, morels, peas, and tomatoes. The thoughtful wine list includes lots of Pf\u00e4lzer wines by the glass, including those from the Christmann winery. Dining in the intimate courtyard overlooking the vineyards is a romantic option in summer. The Netts also offer seven rooms ($) for overnight guests, each with hardwood floors and Wi-Fi. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Meerspinnstr. 46 | Neustadt-Gimmeldingen | 06321/60175 | www.nettsrestaurant.de | Closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch except summer Sun. and some holidays.\n\nFodor's Choice | Urgestein.  \nGERMAN | Dine inside the cozy brick-lined former horse stables or outside on the lovely patio at this restaurant inside the historic stone houses of the Steinhauser Hof hotel (its name, Urgestein, translates as \"stone\"). The ambitious tasting menus highlight local products and are best when paired with one of the 350 wines from the massive wine list, all from the Pfalz region. Splurge on the six-course surprise menu for \u20ac130 (including wine pairings), or try the \u20ac95 six-course or \u20ac70 four-course menus (wine is extra); you can also order such \u00e0 la carte dishes as pigeon marinated for a week with carrots that have been roasted for an hour, chanterelle cream, and sunflower seeds; or sea turbot with a prune cream and baby cabbage. Leave room for the tasty desserts, including brioche with caramel sauce and honey ice cream. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Rathausstr. 6 | 06321/489\u2013060 | www.restaurant-urgestein.de | Closed Mon. No dinner Sun.\n\nWeinstube Eselsburg.  \nGERMAN | The Esel (donkey) lends its name to his wine pub and one of its specialties, Eselssuppe, a hearty soup of pork, beef, and vegetables. The season dictates the menu here, but it's packed with regulars throughout the year. In spring, you can enjoy locally produced goat's cheese. In summer, savor top Pf\u00e4lzer wines in the flower-filled courtyard, or in the warmth of an open hearth in winter. From October to April, try the Schlachtfest (meat and sausages from freshly slaughtered pigs) the first Tuesday of the month. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Kurpfalzstr. 62 | Neustadt-Mussbach | 06321/66984 | www.eselsburg.de | Closed Sun. and Mon., and 5 days in Aug. No lunch, except during Schlachtfest.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nG\u00e4stehaus Rebst\u00f6ckel.  \nB&B/INN | This 17th-century stone guesthouse has its beautiful cobblestone courtyard and magnificent fig tree; all the rooms have blond-wood furnishings, and some have kitchenettes. Wine tastings and vineyard hikes can be arranged, and cycling fans can rent bikes at a shop around the corner. Neustadt proper is 5 km (3 mi) north. A winter garden and wine caf\u00e9 have been added to the courtyard. Pros: quiet; friendly; rustic location. Cons: no Internet; light from street lamp may bother light sleepers. | Rooms from: \u20ac79 | Kreuzstr. 11 | Neustadt-Diedesfeld | 06321/484\u2013060 | www.gaestehaus-rebstoeckel-pfalz.de/en | 5 rooms | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\nMithras-Stuben/Weinstube Kommerzienrat.  \nRENTAL | In the picturesque village of Gimmeldingen, the convivial proprietor and wine devotee Bernd Hagedorn rents four spacious apartments with contemporary furnishings, Oriental rugs, and modern baths. Even if you're staying elsewhere, the restaurant ($ - $$) is worth a visit. On a garden terrace edged by lemon trees, diners can sample from 30 Pf\u00e4lzer wines by the glass (and 250 imported wines by the bottle). Rumpsteak (beef steak), served with tasty Bratkartoffeln (home-fried potatoes), and Pf\u00e4lzer Gyros (thin slices of beef topped with cheese and onions) are perennial favorites. Pros: spacious; perfect for longer stays. Cons: no elevator; no a/c. | Rooms from: \u20ac65 | Loblocherstr. 34 | Neustadt-Gimmeldingen | 06321/679\u20130335, 06321/68200 after 6 pm | www.weinstube-kommerzienrat.de | 4 apartments | No credit cards | Closed 2 wks in late Apr. Restaurant closed Thurs.; no lunch | No meals.\n\nSteinh\u00e4user Hof.  \nHOTEL | This architectural gem dates back to 1276 and is one of the oldest preserved stone mansions in Rhineland-Palatinate. The rooms are on the small side and have few frills, but are a good value for the prime location in the center of the Altstadt. A jazz club attached to the handsome restaurant draws in German and international musicians several times a month. Though there's no parking on-site, it's available in a public lot a couple blocks away. Pros: beautiful old building; central location; friendly staff; renowned restaurant. Cons: basic rooms; some street noise; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac82 | Rathausstr. 6 | 06321/489\u2013060 | www.steinhaeuserhof.de | 6 rooms | Restaurant closed Mon. No dinner Sun. | No meals.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nHerrenhof.  \nConcerts, art exhibits, and wine festivals are held at the Herrenhof in the suburb of Mussbach. Owned by the Johanniter-Orden (Order of the Knights of St. John) from the 13th to 18th century, it's the oldest wine estate in the Pfalz. Contact the Neustadt tourist office for program details and tickets. | An der Eselshaut 18 | 06321/963\u20139990 | www.herrenhof-mussbach.de.\n\nSaalbau.  \nThe Saalbau, opposite the train station, is Neustadt's convention center and main venue for concerts, theater, and events. | Bahnhofstr. 1 | 06321/926\u2013812.\n\nVilla B\u00f6hm.  \nIn summer there's open-air theater at Villa B\u00f6hm, which also houses the city's history museum. | Maximilianstr. 25 | 06321/855\u2013540 | www.stadtmuseum-neustadt.de | Museum open Wed. and Fri. 4\u20136 and Sat. and Sun. 11\u20131 and 3\u20136.\n\n### Shopping\n\nKeramik-Atelier Ingrid Zinkgraf.  \nAfter seeing the water-spewing Elwetritschen fountain in action, you might want to take one home. The pottery store Keramik-Atelier Ingrid Zinkgraf has amusing ceramic renditions of the mythical birds, as well as modern and traditional pottery and sculptures. | Weinstr. 1, Am Klemmhof | 06345/942\u2013143 | www.keramikatelier-zinkgraf.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., Wed.\u2013Sat. 2\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar. by appt.\n\nEn Route: Holiday Park.  \nThe Holiday Park, in Hassloch, 10 km (6 mi) east of Neustadt, is one of Europe's largest amusement parks. The admission fee covers all attractions, shows including the Waterski Stuntshow, special events, and the children's world. The free-fall tower, hell barrels, and Thunder River rafting are long-standing favorites, and Expedition GeForce has the steepest drop (82 degrees) of any roller coaster in Europe. For a great panoramic view of the surroundings, whirl through the air on Lighthouse-Tower, Germany's tallest carousel (265 feet). On Friday and Saturday in summer, the \"Summer Nights\" spectacular features live music and an outdoor laser light show. | Holiday Parkstr. 1\u20135 | 06324/59930 | www.holidaypark.de | \u20ac27.99 | Mid-Mar.\u2013June, Sept., and Oct., daily 10\u20136; July and Aug., Sun.\u2013Fri. daily 10\u20136, most Sat. 10 am \u201310:30 pm.\n\n## Speyer\n\n25 km (15 miles) east of Neustadt via B-39, 22 km (14 miles) south of Mannheim via B-9 and B-44.\n\nSpeyer was one of the great cities of the Holy Roman Empire, founded in pre-Celtic times, taken over by the Romans, and expanded in the 11th century by the Salian emperors. Between 1294, when it was declared a Free Imperial City, and 1570, no fewer than 50 imperial diets were convened here. The term \"Protestant\" derives from the Diet of 1529, referring to those who protested when the religious freedom granted to evangelicals at the Diet of 1526 was revoked and a return to Catholicism was decreed. The neo-Gothic Ged\u00e4chtniskirche on Bartolom\u00e4us-Weltz-Platz commemorates those 16th-century Protestants.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nSpeyer is a little ways off the German Wine Road. It is served by regular trains from Mannheim and Mainz. Buses go down the main street, but the center is compact enough that getting around on foot is not a problem. Tours (\u20ac5) are Saturday at 11 and 2, and Sunday at 11 year-round.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nSpeyer. | Tourist-Information, Maximilianstr. 13 | 06232/142\u2013392 | www.speyer.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 10\u20133, Sun. 10\u20132; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 10\u2013noon.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltp\u00f6rtel.  \nAscend the Altp\u00f6rtel, the impressive town gate, for a grand view of Maximilianstrasse, the street that once led kings and emperors straight to the cathedral. | Rossmarktstr. 1 | \u20ac1.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nHistorisches Museum der Pfalz (Palatinate Historical Museum).  \nOpposite the cathedral, the museum houses the Domschatz (Cathedral Treasury). Other collections chronicle the art and cultural history of Speyer and the Pfalz from the Stone Age to modern times. Don't miss the \"Golden Hat of Schifferstadt,\" a Bronze Age headdress used in religious ceremonies dating back to approximately 1300 BC. The Wine Museum houses the world's oldest bottle of wine, which is still liquid and dates to circa AD 300. The giant 35-foot-long wooden winepress from 1727 is also worth a look. | Dompl. 4 | 06232/620\u2013222, 06232/13250 | www.museum.speyer.de | \u20ac7, special exhibitions \u20ac12 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nFodor's Choice | Jewish Quarter.  \nSpeyer was an important medieval Jewish cultural center. In the Jewish quarter, behind the Palatinate Historical Museum, are synagogue remains from 1104; Germany's oldest (circa 1126) Mikwe, the 33-foot-deep ritual baths; and the Museum SchPIRA, which displays objects such as grave stones and coins from the Middle Ages. | Kleine Pfaffeng. 21, near Judeng. | 06232/291\u2013971 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kaiserdom (Imperial Cathedral).  \nThe Kaiserdom, one of the finest Romanesque cathedrals in the world and a UNESCO World Heritage site, conveys the pomp and majesty of the early Holy Roman Emperors. It was built between 1030 and 1061 by the emperors Konrad II, Henry III, and Henry IV.TIP There's a fine view of the east end of the structure from the park by the Rhine. Much of the architectural detail, including the dwarf galleries and ornamental capitals, was inspired and executed by stonemasons from Lombardy, which belonged to the German Empire at the time. The four towers symbolize the four seasons and the idea that the power of the empire extends in all four directions. Look up as you enter the nearly 100-foot-high portal. It's richly carved with mythical creatures. In contrast to Gothic cathedrals, whose walls are supported externally by flying buttresses, allowing for a minimum of masonry and a maximum of light, at Speyer the columns supporting the roof are massive. The Krypta (crypt) lies beneath the chancel. It's the largest crypt in Germany and is strikingly beautiful in its simplicity. Four emperors, four kings, and three empresses are buried here. | Edith-Stein-Pl. | 06232/102\u2013118 | Donation requested | Apr.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20137, Sun. noon\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. noon\u20135; closed during services.\n\nFAMILY | Sea Life.  \nIf you're traveling with kids or just need some indoor entertainment on a rainy day, Sea Life, in Speyer's old harbor, has aquariums that offer a look at marine life in the Rhine as well as the world's oceans. TIP Save money on the entrance fee by booking your tickets online in advance. | Im Hafenbecken 5, 15-min walk from large parking lot on Festpl. | 06232/69780 | www.sealife.de | \u20ac15.50 | Daily 10\u20135 or 10\u20136, depending on dates (check website).\n\n* * *\n\nThe Altrhein\n\nFrom April to October, you can take a brief river cruise to the north or south of Speyer to discover the idyllic landscape of the ancient, forested islands along the Altrhein, the original course of the Rhine. The islands are home to rare flora, fauna, and many birds. There are grand views of the cathedral from the boat.\n\nFahrgastschifffahrt Speyer.  \nIn the summer months, boat tours depart from just outside the Sea Life Aquarium at noon, 2, and 4. The trip lasts about 1\u00bd hours and offers a unique look at Speyer's old harbor. | Hafenstr. 22 | 06232/291\u2013150 | www.ms-sealife.de | \u20ac9.\n\nPf\u00e4lzerland Fahrgastschiff.  \nEnjoy a peaceful tour of the Speyer harbor on a ship built for 200 passengers. Homemade cakes and drinks are available on board. On Tuesday through Friday, 1\u00bd-hour tours depart at 1 and 3, and on Saturday at 3. The pick-up and drop-off point is on the Leinpfad. | Dock: Leinpfad (via Rheinallee), on the Rhine riverbank, Rheinalle 2 | 06232/71366 | www.personenschifffahrt-streib.de | \u20ac9.50.\n\n* * *\n\nFAMILY | Technik-Museum (Technology Museum).  \nA turn-of-the-20th-century factory hall houses the Technik-Museum, an impressive and vast collection of locomotives, aircraft, old automobiles, and fire engines. Automatic musical instruments, historical dolls and toys, and 19th-century fashion are displayed in the Wilhelmsbau. Highlights of the complex are the 420-ton U-boat (you can go inside) and the massive 3-D IMAX cinemas. There is also an exhibition hall devoted to outer space.TIP Allow at least three hours to visit this extensive museum, which covers several large buildings. | Am Technik Museum 1 | 06232/67080 | www.technik-museum.de | Museum \u20ac14, IMAX \u20ac10, combined ticket \u20ac19 | Weekdays 9\u20136, weekends 9\u20137.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nKutscherhaus.  \nGERMAN | Charming rustic decor and a profusion of flowers have replaced the Kutschen (coaches) in this turn-of-the-20th-century coachman's house. The menu offers Flammkuchen (similar to pizza but with a wafer-thin crust) as well as creative fish, vegetarian, and pasta dishes. Ochsenbrust mit Meerrettichsauce (beef brisket with horseradish sauce) is a favorite. In summer you can sit beneath the old plane trees in the beer garden for a sumptuous buffet. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Fischmarkt 5a | 06232/70592 | www.kutscherhaus-speyer.de | Closed Wed. No lunch Thurs. Beer garden closed Oct.\u2013Apr.\n\nRabennest.  \nGERMAN | It's small and often packed with local families, but the rustic cooking in this cozy restaurant is worth the wait. Hearty portions of regional specialties will delight both your mouth and your wallet. The Leberknoedel (liver dumplings) and Rumpsteak (round steak) are both excellent, and there's also a nice the selection of fresh salads. In the summer months, the patio seating is great for people-watching. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Korngasse 5 | 06232/623\u2013857 | No credit cards | Closed Sun.\n\nRatskeller.  \nGERMAN | Friendly service and fresh seasonal dishes make for an enjoyable dining experience in the town hall's vaulted cellar (1578). The frequently changing menu offers creative soups and other starters (pretzel soup, Tuscan bread soup) and entr\u00e9es, such as Sauerbraten nach Grossmutters Art (grandmother's marinated pot roast) or Bachsaibling (brook trout in a red wine\u2013butter sauce). Wines from the Pfalz predominate, with 18 available by the glass. Small plates and drinks are served in the courtyard May through September. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Maximilianstr. 12 | 06232/78612 | www.ratskeller-speyer.de | Closed Mon. and 2\u20133 wks in Feb. No dinner Sun.\n\nWirtschaft Zum Alten Engel.  \nGERMAN | This 200-year-old vaulted brick cellar has rustic wood furnishings and cozy niches. Seasonal dishes made from local ingredients supplement the large selection of Pf\u00e4lzer and Alsatian specialties, such as Ochsenfetzen (slices of beef in garlic sauce), Fleeschknepp (spicy meatball in horseradish sauce), or a hearty Pf\u00e4lzer Platte (a platter of bratwurst, Saumagen, and Leberkn\u00f6del with sauerkraut and home-fried potatoes). The wine list features about 180 Pf\u00e4lzer, European, and New World wines. | Average main: \u20ac17 | M\u00fchlturmstr. 7 | 06232/70914 | www.zumaltenengel.de | No lunch.\n\nHotel Goldener Engel.  \nHOTEL | A scant two blocks west of the Altp\u00f6rtel is the \"Golden Angel,\" a friendly, family-run hotel furnished with antiques and innovative metal-and-wood designer furniture. Paintings by contemporary artists and striking photos of Namibia and the Yukon line the walls - the photos are a tribute to proprietor Paul Schaefer's wanderlust. Though the guestrooms themselves are a tad dated, they're very comfortable. Pros: friendly; good location. Cons: some rooms are a little small; air conditioned rooms cost \u20ac10 extra; charge for Wi-Fi. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | M\u00fchlturmstr. 5\u20137 | 06232/13260 | www.goldener-engel-speyer.de | 44 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nCity highlights for music lovers are Orgelfr\u00fchling, the organ concerts in the Ged\u00e4chtniskirche (Memorial Church) in spring, the jazz festival in mid-August, and the concerts in the cathedral during September's Internationale Musiktage. Contact the Speyer tourist office for program details and tickets.\n\nKulturhof Flachsgasse.  \nWalk into the town-hall courtyard to enter the Kulturhof Flachsgasse, home of the city's art collection and special exhibitions. | Flachsg. 3 | 06232/142\u2013399 | Free | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\n## Deidesheim\n\n8 km (5 miles) north of Neustadt via the Wine Road, B-271.\n\nThe half-timber houses and historical facades on Deidesheim's Marktplatz make a handsome group. Sites of interest include the Gothic Church of St. Ulrich, the Rathaus, and the elegant Hotel Deidesheimer Hof. In August, the Deidesheim Weinkerwe (wine festival) begins at the Markplatz, and in December, it's the site of a lively Christmas market.\n\nDeidesheim is the first of three Wine Road villages that are renowned for their vineyards and the wine estates in the area, known as the Three Bs of the Pfalz\u2014Bassermann, Buhl, and B\u00fcrklin-Wolf. As for Deidesheim itself, it's got some romantic restaurants tucked into hidden courtyards and some of the most upscale hotels in the region\u2014though the main reason to visit remains the chance to taste some of the best wines the Pfalz has to offer at the numerous Weing\u00fcter (wineries) lining the streets. Most are open to visitors daily year-round.\n\n#### Tours\n\nThe Deidesheim visitor center conducts tours May through October on Saturday at 10 (\u20ac3).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nDeidesheim. | Tourist-Information, Bahnhofstr. 5 | 06326/96770 | www.deidesheim.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u2013noon and 2\u20135, Sat. 9\u201312:30; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 9\u2013noon and 2\u20135.\n\n### Exploring\n\nChurch of St. Ulrich.  \nA Gothic gem inside and out, this is the only 15th-century church in the Palatinate region whose walls have been entirely preserved, though the interior has changed according to the style of the times. Though looted during the French Revolution and turned into a wine warehouse and later a military prison, the basic exterior structure of the church hasn't been altered. The interior includes stained glass that dates from the Middle Ages and wooden figures from around 1500. | Pfarrgasse 3 | 06326/345 | www.st-ulrich-deidesheim.de.\n\nRathaus und Museum f\u00fcr Weinkultur (Town Hall and Museum of Wine Culture).  \nThe old Rathaus, whose doorway is crowned by a baldachin and baroque dome, is on the Marktplatz. The attractive open staircase leading up to the entrance is the site of the festive Geissbock-Versteigerung (billy-goat auction) every Pentecost Tuesday, followed by a parade and folk dancing. The goat is the tribute neighboring Lambrecht has paid Deidesheim since 1404 for grazing rights. Inside, in addition to a richly appointed Ratssaal (council chamber), is a museum of wine culture, which examines the importance of wine throughout history. There's also a wine bar where you can taste and buy wines from the area. | Marktpl. 9 | 06326/981\u2013561 | www.weinkultur-deidesheim.de | Donation requested | Mar.\u2013Dec., Wed.\u2013Sun. 4\u20136.\n\nSchloss Deidesheim.  \nVines, flowers, and Feigenb\u00e4ume (fig trees) cloak the houses behind St. Ulrich on Heumarktstrasse and its extension, Deichelgasse (nicknamed Feigengasse). To see the workshops and ateliers of about a dozen local artists and goldsmiths, follow the K\u00fcnstler-Rundweg, a signposted trail (black on yellow signs). The tourist office has a brochure with a map and opening hours. Cross the Wine Road to reach the grounds of Schloss Deidesheim, now a wine estate and pub. The bishops of Speyer built a moated castle on the site in the 13th century. Twice destroyed and rebuilt, the present castle dates from 1817, and the moats have been converted into gardens. | Schlossstr. 4 | 06326/96690 | www.schloss-deidesheim.de | Pub: Apr.\u2013Oct., closed Tues., no lunch Mon.\u2013Thurs.; Nov.\u2013Mar., dinner only Fri.\u2013Sun., lunch weekends only.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nGasthaus Zur Kanne.  \nGERMAN | This friendly family-run restaurant, with an outdoor stone-walled patio hidden inside a lovely courtyard, has been a guesthouse of some sort since 1160. The short but smart menu focuses on the local and seasonal, listing the producers of every product; the Pfalz-focused wine list is organized by the towns where the bottles were produced. The set menu of three courses for \u20ac27 (\u20ac37 with wine pairings) is a good deal. If they're available, the red-deer meatballs and chanterelles with dumplings are both delicious regional options. As a bonus, this is one of the only dining options in the region with an English menu. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Weinstr. 31 | 06326/96600 | www.gasthauszurkanne.de | Closed Mon. and Tues.\n\nFodor's Choice | Restaurant Freundst\u00fcck im Ketschauer Hof.  \nGERMAN | An 18th-century complex in a beautiful park is the home to the Bassermann-Jordan wine estate and an elegant restaurant, which has one Michelin star. Inside the restaurant and the bistrolike wine bar, elements of the original structures harmonize with modern, minimalist decor. The chef prepares elaborate dishes in the restaurant and upscale regional dishes in the wine bar. To truly take in the range of dishes, try one of the tasting menus, priced from \u20ac89 to \u20ac109, though you can also order \u00e0 la carte. | Average main: \u20ac55 | Ketschauerhofstr. 1 | 06326/70000 | www.ketschauer-hof.com | Closed 3 wks in Jan. Restaurant closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch Sat. and Tues.\n\nRestaurant St. Urban.  \nGERMAN | Named after the patron saint of the wine industry, this upscale wine restaurant offers traditional Palatinate cuisine and wines from more than 50 local wineries. If the weather is nice, have a ginger fizz (an aperitif of lemon, gin, and ginger) on the terrace before sampling one of the hearty regional dishes. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Hotel Deidesheimer Hof, Am Marktpl. 1 | 06326/96870 | www.deidesheimerhof.de | Closed 2 wks in Jan.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Deidesheimer Hof.  \nHOTEL | Despite the glamour of some of its clientele\u2014the heads of state, entertainers, and sports stars line the guest book\u2014this hotel retains its country charm and friendly service. Rooms are luxurious, and several have baths with round tubs or whirlpools. Half the rooms were renovated with modern decor; others retain a more old-fashioned, rustic appearance. Chef Stefan Neugebauer heads the one Michelin-starred restaurant Schwarzer Hahn ($$$$). Among the specialties are Alsatian foie gras with sauternes jelly, brioche, and honey-yogurt, and veal heart with ponzu, mint, pea, and sesame. Pros: some rooms have whirlpool baths; friendly staff; central location on the Marktplatz. Cons: breakfast costs an impressive \u20ac21. | Rooms from: \u20ac125 | Am Marktpl. 1 | 06326/96870 | www.deidesheimerhof.de | 24 rooms, 4 suites | Hotel closed 2 wks in Jan. Restaurant closed Sun. and Mon., Jan. to mid-Feb., and early July to late Aug. No lunch. | No meals.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Ketschauer Hof.  \nHOTEL | This sleek, sophisticated former manor-house, one of the only modern design hotels in the region attracts a discerning crowd. Rooms are decorated in soothing neutral colors and bedecked with funky chandeliers; the glass-enclosed bathrooms feature luxurious oversized tubs. There's also a small but inviting wellness area, which offers beauty treatments in addition to a steam room and sauna. Pros: beautiful design; close to the center of town; friendly service. Cons: expensive, and breakfast costs \u20ac25 extra; few public spaces in the hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac230 | Ketschauerhofstr. 1 | 06326/70000 | www.ketschauer-hof.com | 5 rooms, 13 suites | No meals.\n\nLandhotel Lucashof.  \nHOTEL | The beautifully decorated, modern guest rooms are named after famous vineyards in Forst, and six have balconies\u2014the Pechstein room is particularly nice. You can enjoy excellent wines in the tasting room, beneath a shady pergola in the courtyard, or in the privacy of your room (the refrigerator in the breakfast room is stocked for guests). The pubs in Forst's Old Town are a three-minute walk away. Pros: quiet location; friendly; good value. Cons: far from the sights; difficult to reach without a car. | Rooms from: \u20ac82 | Wiesenweg 1a | Forst | 06326/336 | www.lucashof.de | 7 rooms | No credit cards | Closed mid-Dec.\u2013Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Forst and Wachenheim, both a few minutes' drive north of Deidesheim, complete the trio of famous wine villages. As you approach Forst, depart briefly from B-271 (take the left fork in the road) to see the Old Town and its vine- and ivy-clad sandstone and half-timber vintners' mansions. Peek through the large portals to see the lush courtyards. Many estates on this lane have pubs, as does the town's Winzerverein (cooperative winery). Wachenheim is another 2 km (1 mile) down the road. Its cooperative, Wachtenburg Winzer (with a good restaurant), is on the left at the entrance to town. Head for the Wachtenburg (castle) ruins up on the hill for a glass of wine. The Burgsch\u00e4nke (castle pub) is open if the flag is flying.\n\n## Bad D\u00fcrkheim\n\n6 km (4 miles) north of Deidesheim on B-271.\n\nThis pretty spa-town is nestled into the hills at the edge of the Palatinate Forest and ringed by vineyards. The saline springs discovered here in 1338 are the source of today's drinking and bathing cures, and at harvest time there's a detoxifying Traubenkur (grape-juice cure). The town is the site of the D\u00fcrkheimer Wurstmarkt, the world's largest wine festival, held in mid-September. Legendary quantities of Weck, Worscht, un Woi (dialect for rolls, sausage, and wine) are consumed at the fair, including enough wine to fill half a million Schoppen, the region's traditional glasses, which hold a half-liter (about a pint). The festival grounds are also the site of the world's largest wine cask, the D\u00fcrkheimer Riesenfass, with a capacity of 450,000 gallons. Built in 1934 by an ambitious cooper, the cask is now a restaurant that can seat more than 450 people.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegional trains link Bad D\u00fcrkheim with Freinsheim and Neustadt. Once in town, all the hotels and restaurants are within easy walking distance. Bad D\u00fcrkheim has tours (\u20ac4\u2013\u20ac5.50, including a glass of champagne) May through October. The departing on Monday at 11 and on Thursday and Saturday at 10:30 in front of the Tourist-Information office. You can check with Tourist-Information for a number of other interesting programs, including a Wine Road tour, wine tastings, and visits to the cure facilities.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBad D\u00fcrkheim. | Tourist-Information, Kurbrunnenstr. 14 | 06322/956\u20136250 | www.bad-duerkheim.com | Mar.\u2013early Nov., weekdays 9\u20136; early Nov.\u2013Feb., weekdays 9\u20135.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBurgruine Hardenburg (Hardenburg Fortress).  \nThe massive ruins of 13th-century Hardenburg Castle lie 3 km (2 miles) west (via B-37) of Kloster Limburg. In its heyday, it was inhabited by more than 200 people. It burned down in 1794. | B-37 | 06322/7530 | www.schloss-hardenburg.de | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Jan.\u2013Mar., Oct., and Nov., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20134:30.\n\nHeidenmauer (literally, \"heathen wall\").  \nOne kilometer northwest of town lies the Heidenmauer, the remains of an ancient Celtic ring wall more than 2 km (1 mile) in circumference and up to 20 feet thick in parts. The remnants are on the Kastanienberg, above the quarry. Nearby are the rock drawings at Kriemhildenstuhl, an old Roman quarry where the legionnaires of Mainz excavated sandstone.\n\nKloster Limburg (Limburg Monastery).  \nOverlooking the suburb of Grethen are the ruins of Kloster Limburg. Emperor Konrad II laid the cornerstone in 1030, supposedly on the same day that he laid the cornerstone of the Kaiserdom in Speyer. The monastery was never completely rebuilt after a fire in 1504, but it's a majestic backdrop for open-air performances in summer. From the tree-shaded terrace of the adjacent restaurant Sp\u00f6tzl's Klostersch\u00e4nke Limburg ($\u2013$$), you can combine good food and wine with a great view. | Luitpoldweg 1 | 06322/935\u2013140 | www.klosterschaenkelimburg.de | \u20ac1 for tower visit | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20138; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135:30. Restaurant closed Mon. mid-Apr.\u2013Nov., and closed Mon. and Tues. Nov.\u2013mid-Apr.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nD\u00fcrkheimer Riesenfass.  \nGERMAN | Sure, it's a bit of a tourist trap, but then again, how often do you get the chance to eat in the world's biggest wine barrel? The two-story \"giant cask\" is divided into various rooms and niches with rustic wood furnishings. Venture upstairs to see the impressive Festsaal mit Empore (banquet hall with gallery). There's also extensive outdoor seating if the weather's nice. Regional wines, Pf\u00e4lzer specialties, and international dishes are served year-round. | Average main: \u20ac14 | St. Michael Allee 1 | 06322/2143 | www.duerkheimer-fass.de.\n\nPetersilie.  \nGERMAN | Behind a group of lush, potted plants and a sign on a pink-and-white house reading \"bier- und weinstube tenne\" stands this gem, which stands out from the many other caf\u00e9s and eateries on R\u00f6merplatz. Patio seating is great for people-watching; indoors is warm and cozy, with rustic wooden tables, beamed ceilings, and pillow-lined benches. The three-course Sunday menu ($) is a great value and a good way to experience the homey Pf\u00e4lzer cuisine here. | Average main: \u20ac15 | R\u00f6merpl. 12 | 06322/4394 | www.weinstube-petersilie.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nMercure Hotel Bad D\u00fcrkheim an den Salinen.  \nHOTEL | Within walking distance to the center of town, this well-maintained chain hotel offers free admission to the Salinarium water park and spa next door, where there are indoor and outdoor pools and wellness treatments. Though rooms are rather basic, they all have work desks, and the superior guestrooms do have pleasant balconies. Pros: free Wi-Fi; plenty of free parking; three restaurants and two bars in the hotel. Cons: not a lot of character. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | Kurbrunnenstr. 30\u201332 | 06322/6010 | www.mercure.com | 100 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nWeingut Fitz-Ritter.  \nB&B/INN | At the Fitz-Ritter wine estate there are two different places to stay: a centuries-old stone cottage that sleeps up to four people and has its own pool on the parklike grounds, and four more rooms in a courtyard full of oleanders, palms, fig trees, and nesting swallows. There are concerts and festivals in the garden, courtyard, and vaulted cellars. You can also taste the Fitz-Ritter wines in a wine bar and shop. Pros: quiet location amid the vines; friendly staff; short walk to the town center. Cons: minimum stay in the cottage is seven nights; on weekends Apr.\u2013Oct. all four rooms need to be rented together. | Rooms from: \u20ac100 | Weinstr. Nord 51 | 06322/5389 | www.fitz-ritter.de | 1 cottage, 4 rooms | No meals.\n\nWeingut und G\u00e4stehaus Ernst Karst und Sohn.  \nB&B/INN | Rooms at this cheerful guesthouse in the middle of the vineyards are airy and furnished mostly in pine; all of them have splendid views of the countryside, which you are invited to explore on bikes that you can borrow. The guesthouse is next to the Karst family's wine estate, and tastings and cellar tours are available (Tues. - Sat. 10 - noon and 2 - 6; Sun. and holidays by appointment). Pros: quiet vineyard location; friendly staff. Cons: rooms include breakfast, but apartments don't; far from the sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac75 | In den Almen 15 | 06322/2862 | www.weingut-karst.de | 3 rooms, 6 apartments | No credit cards | Closed Nov.\u2013Feb. | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nSpielbank (Casino).  \nThis casino is open daily at 11 am for the slot machines, 2 pm for roulette and poker, and 6 pm for blackjack. Jacket and tie are no longer required, but tennis shoes, T-shirts, and shorts are not allowed. Be certain to bring your passport for identification; the minimum age is 18. | Kurparkhotel, Schlosspl. 6 | www.casino-bad-duerkheim.de | \u20ac3.50.\n\n### Shopping\n\nWeindom.  \nSeveral hundred wines from Bad D\u00fcrkheim and vicinity can be sampled and purchased at this shop, next to the D\u00fcrkheimer Riesenfass (giant cask). The shop also sells other grape products and accessories. | St.-Michaels-Allee 10 | www.weindom.de | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nEn Route: Roman wine estate.  \nWhen the vineyards of Ungstein, a suburb north of Bad D\u00fcrkheim, were modernized in 1981, a Roman wine estate was unearthed. Among the finds was an ancient Kelterhaus (pressing house). Although you can view the open-air ancient wine estate at any time, because it's basically alongside the road, you can see the winepress at work only during an annual wine festival that held in late June. To get here, look for signs to Villa Weilberg, to the left of the Wine Road (B-271). | Villa Weilberg | 06322/935\u2013140.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nKurhaus Staatsbad.  \nThe Kurhaus Staatsbad houses all kinds of bathing facilities, including thermal baths, herbal steam baths, a sauna, and a hammam (Turkish bath). | Kurbrunnenstr. 14 | 06322/9640 | www.kurzentrum-bad-duerkheim.de | Mon., Tues., Thurs., and Fri. 9\u20138, Wed. 9\u20138, Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. 9\u20132:30.\n\nEn Route: Neuleiningen is 4 km (2\u00bd miles) west of the Wine Road town Kirchheim. Bockenheim, 10 km (6 miles) north, is dominated by an imposing gateway. There's a panoramic view of the Pfalz's \"sea of vineyards\" from the viewing platform. Like its counterpart in Schweigen-Rechtenbach, the Haus der Deutschen Weinstrasse marks the end (or start) of its namesake, the German Wine Road.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWorms | Oppenheim | Nierstein | Nackenheim | Mainz\n\nLike Speyer, the cities of Worms and Mainz were Free Imperial Cities and major centers of Christian and Jewish culture in the Middle Ages. Germany's first synagogue and Europe's oldest surviving Jewish cemetery, both from the 11th century, are in Worms. The imperial diets of Worms and Speyer in 1521 and 1529 stormed around Martin Luther (1483\u20131546) and the rise of Protestantism. In 1455 Johannes Gutenberg (1400\u201368), the inventor of the printing press and of movable type in Europe, printed the first Gutenberg Bible in Mainz.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Worms\n\n15 km (9 miles) east of Bockenheim via B-47 from Monsheim, 45 km (28 miles) south of Mainz on B-9.\n\nIn addition to having a great Romanesque cathedral, Worms is a center of the wine trade, as well as one of the most storied and cities in Germany, with a history going back some 6,000 years. Settled by the Romans, Worms (pronounced vawrms) later became one of the imperial cities of the Holy Roman Empire. More than 100 imperial diets (assemblies) were held here, including the 1521 meeting where Martin Luther pleaded his cause.\n\nWorms developed into an important garrison town under the Romans, but it's better known for its greatest legend, the Nibelungenlied, derived from the short-lived kingdom established by Gunther and his Burgundian tribe in the early 5th century. The complex and sprawling story was given its final shape in the 12th century and tells of love, betrayal, greed, war, and death. It ends when Attila the Hun defeats the Nibelungen (Burgundians), who find their court destroyed, their treasure lost, and their heroes dead. One of the most famous incidents tells how Hagen, treacherous and scheming, hurls the court riches into the Rhine. Near the Nibelungen Bridge there's a bronze statue of him caught in the act. The Nibelungenlied may be legend, but the story is based on fact. A Queen Brunhilda, for example, is said to have lived here. It's also known that a Burgundian tribe was defeated in 436 by Attila the Hun in what is present-day Hungary.\n\nNot until Charlemagne resettled Worms almost 400 years later, making it one of the major cities of his empire, did the city prosper again. Worms was more than an administrative and commercial center\u2014it was a great ecclesiastical city as well. The first expression of this religious importance was the original cathedral, consecrated in 1018. Between 1130 and 1181 it was rebuilt in three phases into the church you see today.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nWorms can be reached by direct trains from both Mannheim and Mainz (approximately 30 minutes from each). The city center is quite compact and negotiable on foot. Worms begins its tours at the southern portal (main entrance) of the cathedral on Saturday at 10:30 and Sunday at 2 March through October. The cost is \u20ac6.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nWorms. | Tourist-Information, Neumarkt 14 | 06241/853\u20137306 | www.worms.de | Late Mar.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20136, weekends 10\u20132; Nov.\u2013late Mar., weekdays 9\u20135.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nHeylshofgarten.  \nAn imperial palace once stood in this park just north of the cathedral. It was the site of the fateful 1521 meeting between Luther and Emperor Charles V that ultimately led to the Reformation. Luther refused to recant his theses demanding Church reforms and went into exile in Eisenach, where he translated the New Testament in 1521-22. | Stephansg. 9.\n\nJudenfriedhof Heiliger Sand (Holy Sand Cemetery).  \nThis is the oldest Jewish cemetery in Europe and also one of the most atmospheric and picturesque. The oldest of some 2,000 tombstones date from 1076. Entry is via the gate on Willy-Brandt-Ring. | Andreasstr. and Willy-Brandt-Ring | Daily 8\u20138 in summer and 8\u2013sunset in winter.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kunsthaus Heylshof (Heylshof Art Gallery).  \nLocated in the Heylshofgarten, this is one of the leading art museums of the region. It has an exquisite collection of German, Dutch, and French paintings as well as stained glass, glassware, porcelain, and ceramics dating from the 15th to the 19th century. | Stephansg. 9 | 06241/22000 | www.museum-heylshof.de | \u20ac3.50 | May\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135; Oct.\u2013Dec. and mid-Feb.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sat. 2\u20135, Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nLiebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nThis twin-towered Gothic church is set amid vineyards on the northern outskirts of Worms. It's the namesake of the popular, sweet white wine Liebfraumilch, literally, the \"Milk of Our Lady.\" The wine (Blue Nun is one brand) was originally made from the grapes of the small vineyard surrounding the church, but today it's produced throughout Rheinhessen, the Pfalz, the Nahe, and the Rheingau wine regions. | Liebfrauenring 21 | www.liebfrauen-worms.de.\n\nLutherdenkmal.  \nThis monument commemorates Luther's appearance at the Diet of Worms. He ended his speech with the words: \"Here I stand. I have no choice. God help me. Amen.\" The 19th-century monument includes a large statue of Luther ringed by other figures from the Reformation. It's set in a small park on the street named Lutherring. | Lutherpl.\n\nNibelungen Museum.  \nThis stunning sight-and-sound exhibition is dedicated to Das Nibelungenlied (Song of the Nieblungs), the epic German poem dating to around 1200. Cleverly installed in two medieval towers and the portion of the Old Town wall between them, the exhibition brings to life the saga of the dragon slayer Siegfried. The architecture of the structure itself is also fascinating, and the rampart provides a wonderful view of the town. The tour script (via headphones and printed matter) is offered in English. TIP Allow 1\u00bd hours for a thorough visit. | Fischerpf\u00f6rtchen 10 | 06241/202\u2013120 | www.nibelungen-museum.de | \u20ac5.50 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20135, weekends 10\u20136.\n\nSynagogue.  \nThis first synagogue in Worms was built in 1034, rebuilt in 1175, and expanded in 1213 with a building for women. Destroyed in 1938, it was rebuilt in 1961 using as much of the original masonry as had survived. It is located in the Jewish quarter, which is along the town wall between Martinspforte and Friesenspitze and between Judengasse and Hintere Judengasse. | Hintere Judeng. | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u201312:30 and 1:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134; closed during services.\n\nFodor's Choice | Wormser Dom St. Peter.  \nIn contrast to Speyer's Romanesque cathedral, the Worms Cathedral of St. Peter is much more Gothic. In part this is simply a matter of chronology, since Speyer Cathedral was finished in 1061, nearly 70 years before the one in Worms was even begun\u2014and long before the lighter, more vertical lines of the Gothic style evolved. In addition, Speyer Cathedral was left largely untouched, but the Worms Cathedral underwent frequent remodeling. The Gothic influence here can be seen both inside and out, from the elaborate tympanum with biblical scenes over the southern portal (today's entrance) to the great rose window in the west choir to the five sculptures in the north aisle recounting the life of Christ. The cathedral was gutted by fire in 1689 in the War of the Palatinate Succession. For this reason many of the furnishings are baroque, including the magnificent gilt high altar from 1742, designed by the master architect Balthasar Neumann (1687\u20131753). The choir stalls are no less decorative. They were built between 1755 and 1759 in rococo style. Walk around the building to see the artistic detail of the exterior. | Lutherring 9 | 06241/6115 | www.wormser-dom.de | Donation requested | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135; closed during services.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nDreifaltigkeitskirche (Church of the Holy Trinity).  \nThis Lutheran church is across the square from the Heylshofgarten. Remodeling during the 19th and 20th centuries produced today's austere interior, although the facade and tower are still joyfully baroque. | Marktpl. 12 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20135; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nMuseum der Stadt Worms (Municipal Museum).  \nTo find out more about the history of Worms, visit this museum, housed in the cloisters of a Romanesque church in the Andreasstift. The collection includes artifacts from the Roman period, including one of the largest collections of Roman glass in Germany, all the way up to local art from the 20th century. | Weckerlingpl. 7 | 06241/946\u2013390 | \u20ac2 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nRaschi-Haus.  \nNext door to the city's synagogue, this former study hall, dance hall, and Jewish home for the elderly now houses the city archives and the Jewish Museum. The well-written illustrated booklet Jewish Worms chronicles a millennium of Jewish history in Worms. The scholar Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac of Troyes [1040\u20131105]) studied at the Worms Talmud academy circa 1060. | Hintere Judeng. 6 | 06241/853\u20134707, 06241/853-4701 | \u20ac1.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u201312:30 and 1:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u201312:30 and 1:30-4:30.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nGasthaus Hagenbr\u00e4u.  \nGERMAN | Located a little to the west of the center, by the banks of the Rhine, this house brewery serves a good range of classic German dishes and regional specialties such as Saumagen. Service and decor are bright and cheery, and you will be surrounded by copper vats and oak barrels as you dine. The summer terrace by the river is a chance to enjoy a brew with a view. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Am Rhein 3 | 06241/921\u2013100 | www.hagenbraeu.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nDom-Hotel.  \nHOTEL | The appeal of this hotel, with comfortable if somewhat bland rooms, lies in its friendly staff and its terrific location in the heart of the pedestrian zone (a parking garage is available for free). Though the hotel itself is a bit on the dated side, you can't beat the value for the price, plus its spacious conference rooms make it a popular choice for those in town on business. Pros: central location; breakfast included. Cons: building design doesn't have much charm; hotel in need of a refresh; Wi-Fi only free for first hour, then \u20ac6 per day. | Rooms from: \u20ac72 | Obermarkt 10 | 06241/9070 | www.dom-hotel.de | 55 rooms, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nLand- und Winzerhotel Bechtel.  \nHOTEL | The friendly Bechtel family, winegrowers and proud parents of a former German Wine Queen, offer very pleasant accommodations on the grounds of their wine estate in the suburb of Heppenheim, about 10 km (6 miles) west of Worms. The rooms all have balconies. You can enjoy country cooking (daily specials) as well as more refined fare with the estate's wines in the restaurant ($ - $$). Wine tastings in the vaulted cellars are also possible. To get here, leave Worms on Speyerer Strasse, an extension of Valckenbergstrasse, which runs parallel to the east side of the Dom. Pros: quiet location; excellent value; rooms have balconies. Cons: far from the sights; extra charge for breakfast; check out is on the early side, at 10 am. | Rooms from: \u20ac65 | Pf\u00e4lzer Waldstr. 100 | Worms-Heppenheim | 06241/36536 | www.landhotel-bechtel.de | 11 rooms | Restaurant closed Tues. No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat. | No meals.\n\nLandhotel Zum Schwanen.  \nHOTEL | B\u00e4rbel Berkes runs this lovingly restored country inn in Osthofen, 10 km (6 miles) northwest of Worms. You can linger over a meal or a glass of wine in its pretty courtyard, the hub of the 18th-century estate. Like the rooms, the restaurant ($ - $$) is light, airy, and furnished with sleek, contemporary furniture. Regional favorites are served as well as dishes with a Mediterranean touch. The selection of local wines is exemplary. The beer garden is also inviting. Pros: quiet location; friendly staff; free Wi-Fi in rooms. Cons: far from the sights; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | Friedrich-Ebert-Str. 40, west of B-9 | Osthofen | 06242/9140 | www.zum-schwanen-osthofen.de | 30 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nDer Weinladen.  \nFor wine accessories and other grape-related products, drop by this shop near the Municipal Museum, opposite the cathedral. | Weckerlingpl. 1 | 06241/911\u2013180 | www.derweinladenworms.de | No credit cards | Closed Sun. and Mon.\n\nStar Region.  \nThis store and restaurant specializes in culinary items from Rheinhessen, Odenwald, and Pfalz. There's also an excellent lunch buffet ($) featuring local specialties like creamed sauerkraut and Sp\u00e4tburgundergulasch (red wine goulash). | Kammererstr. 60 | 06241/269\u2013796 | www.starregion.de | Closed Sun.\n\n## Oppenheim\n\n26 km (16 miles) north of Worms, 23 km (14 miles) south of Mainz on B-9.\n\nOppenheim is slightly off the beaten path, making it an ideal destination if you're looking to avoid the hordes of tourists that often descend on the Wine Road in mid-summer.\n\nThe Katharinenkirche is the obvious crown of Oppenheim, but the picturesque Altstadt also hides a mysterious gem: the Oppenheimer Kellerlabyrinth, a 40-km, five-level-deep, underground passageway system. Tours cost \u20ac7.50; contact the Oppenheim Tourist Office in advance for tickets.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nAn excellent network of regional trains connect Oppenheim with Mainz and Worms. Either journey takes about 15\u201320 minutes, and trains depart about every half hour. Nierstein is just one stop away on the same regional train.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nOppenheim Tourist Office. | Merianstr. 2 | 06133/490\u2013919, 06133/490\u2013914 | www.stadt-oppenheim.de/index.php?id=10 | Apr. 15\u2013Oct. 15, weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20135; Oct. 16\u2013Apr. 14, Sat. 11\u20132 and Sun. 11-4.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDeutsches Weinbaumuseum (German Viticultural Museum).  \nOppenheim and its neighbors to the north, Nierstein and Nackenheim, are home to some of Rheinhessen's best-known vineyards. The Deutsches Weinbaumuseum has wine-related artifacts that chronicle the region's 2,000-year-old wine-making tradition, not to mention the world's largest collection of mousetraps and more than 2,000 corkscrews. | Wormser Str. 49 | 06133/2544 | www.dwb-museum.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Fri. 2\u20135, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nKatharinenkirche (St. Katharine's Church).  \nOn the way to Oppenheim, the vine-covered hills parallel to the Rhine gradually steepen. Then, unexpectedly, the spires of Oppenheim's Gothic Katharinenkirche come into view. The contrast of its pink sandstone facade against a bright blue sky is striking. Built between 1220 and 1439, it's the most important Gothic church between Strasbourg and K\u00f6ln. The interior affords a rare opportunity to admire original 14th-century stained-glass windows and two magnificent rose windows, the Lily Window and the Rose of Oppenheim. The church houses masterfully carved tombstones, and the chapel behind it has a Beinhaus (charnel house) that contains the bones of 20,000 citizens and soldiers from the 15th to 18th century. | Merianstr. 6, just north of Marktpl. | 06133/2381 | www.katharinen-kirche.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 8\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nBurgruine Landskrone.  \nConcerts are held in St. Katharine's, and open-air theater takes place in the Burgruine Landskrone, the 12th-century imperial fortress ruins. TIP From here there's a wonderful view of the town and the vineyards, extending all the way to Worms on a clear day. The castle ruins are northwest of the church. Follow the Dalbergerstrasse north; from there it's a short walk up to the ruins. For tickets to the open-air theater performances contact the Oppenheim tourist office.\n\n## Nierstein\n\n3 km (2 miles) north of Oppenheim on B-9.\n\nSurrounded by 2,700 acres of vines, Nierstein is the largest wine-growing community on the Rhine. It also has Gl\u00f6ck, Germany's oldest documented vineyard (AD 742), which surrounds St. Kilian's Church.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegional trains leave roughly every hours between Neirstein and both Mainz and Worms. The trips take about 30 minutes.\n\n### Exploring\n\nWinzergenossenschaft (Cooperative winery).  \nThe Winzergenossenschaft can be the starting point of an easy hike or drive to the vineyard heights and the vantage point at the Wartturm (watchtower). In mid-June, wine tasting stands are set up along the route, which is called roten Hang, or \"red slope\"\u2014the soil here has a lot of red clay in it. | Karolingerstr. 6 | 06133/971\u2013720 | www.roter-hang.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nBest Western Wein & Parkhotel.  \nHOTEL | Spacious, light rooms decorated in warm shades of ocher, chic bathrooms, and an inviting lounge and terrace make for comfortable, relaxing quarters here. Quiet elegance and Mediterranean influences mark this centrally located inn; it's convenient to the sights of Nierstein and the surrounding Rhinehessen vineyards. The restaurant Am Heyl'schen Garten ($$) serves barbecue on the terrace as well as well-prepared regional specialties and dishes with an Asian touch. Sunday lunch is a generous family buffet ($$$). The staff is exceptionally cheerful and competent. Pros: friendly; quiet location; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel. Cons: a chain hotel with few surprises. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | An der Kaiserlinde 1 | 06133/5080 | www.weinhotel.bestwestern.de | 55 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Jordan's Unterm\u00fchle.  \nB&B/INN | The spacious grounds of an old mill are home to a country inn, a restaurant, and a Vinothek (wine store). The upper two stories of the inn have dormer rooms with wooden floors and furnishings. Some rooms have been renovated in a more modern style (and are slightly more expensive), and four larger studio rooms with kitchens opened in 2013. For dining you have an airy restaurant, with a shady courtyard for summer use. Or you can sit beneath exposed beams in the Vinothek and choose from a remarkable selection of red and white Rheinhessen wines. Pros: beautiful buildings; great value; very quiet. Cons: a long way from anywhere; difficult to reach without a car. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Ausserhalb 1 | K\u00f6ngernheim | West of B-9, at Nierstein turn left on B-420 (toward W\u00f6rrstadt), drive through K\u00f6ngernheim and turn right toward Selzen | 06737/71000 | www.jordans-untermuehle.de | 25 rooms, 1 suite, 4 studios | Restaurant: No lunch except Sun. | Breakfast.\n\n## Nackenheim\n\n5 km (3 miles) north of Nierstein on B-9.\n\nThis wine village is the birthplace of the writer Carl Zuckmayer (1896\u20131977) who immortalized the town in his farce Der fr\u00f6hliche Weinberg (The Merry Vineyard) in 1925. He described Rheinhessen wine as \"the wine of laughter . . . charming and appealing.\" You can put his words to the test the last weekend of July, when wine-festival booths are set up between the half-timber town hall on Carl-Zuckmayer-Platz and the baroque Church of St. Gereon. The church's scrolled gables, belfry, and elaborate altars are worth seeing.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThis wine village lies slightly to the west of B-9; from the south, turn left and cross the railroad tracks (opposite the tip of the island in the Rhine) to reach the town center, 2 km (1 mile) down the country road. Regional trains arrive from Mainz (a 14-minute trip) and Worms (about a 25-minute journey).\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nSt. Gereon Restaurant and Landhotel.  \nHOTEL | The modern rooms in this half-timber country inn have blond-wood floors and light-color furnishings. Stone walls and light pine furniture on terra-cotta tiles give the restaurant ($ - $$) a warm, rustic look, too. The food in the restaurant is traditional, and on Friday and Saturday evenings from October to March hearty regional specialties and Flammkuchen are served in the Weinstube ($) in the vaulted cellar. The selection of Rheinhessen and Rheingau wines is small but very good. Pros: friendly; quiet; good-value restaurant. Cons: some rooms on the small side. | Rooms from: \u20ac88 | Carl-Zuckmayer-Pl. 3 | 06135/704\u2013590 | www.landhotel-st-gereon.com | 15 rooms | No lunch Mon. (restaurant only) | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Biking\n\nThe old towpath along the riverbank is an ideal cycling trail to Mainz or Worms, and the vineyard paths are well suited for exploring the countryside.\n\n#### Hiking\n\nEnjoy the views from the vineyard heights on the Rheinh\u00f6henweg trail. Allow three hours to hike the 10-km (6-mile) stretch between Nackenheim, Nierstein, and Oppenheim. Start at the corner of Weinbergstrasse and Johann-Winkler-Strasse. The educational wine path through the St. Alban vineyard is a pleasant walk in Bodenheim (4 km [2\u00bd miles] northwest of Nackenheim).\n\n## Mainz\n\n14 km (9 miles) north of Nackenheim, 45 km (28 miles) north of Worms on B-9, and 42 km (26 miles) west of Frankfurt on A-3.\n\nMainz is the capital of the state of Rheinland-Pfalz. Today's city was built on the site of a Roman citadel dating to 38 BC. Given its central location at the confluence of the Main and Rhine rivers, it's not surprising that Mainz has always been an important trading center, rebuilt time and again in the wake of wars.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nAs the regional hub, Mainz is well served by trains, with fast connections to Frankfurt (40 minutes) and K\u00f6ln (1 hour, 40 minutes). The station is a short walk west of the center. A comprehensive network of local buses makes getting around the city a breeze (route maps and timetables are posted at bus stops), while the upper areas of town are also served by trams. Although the sights are fairly spread out, they're manageable on foot if you're in reasonably good shape.\n\n#### Tours\n\nMainz has year-round tours departing Saturday at 11 and 2 (\u20ac7) from the Touristik Centrale. The office is one story above street level on the footbridge over Rheinstrasse. There are additional tours from May through October, on Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 2.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nTIP To see the sights, head for the Touristik Centrale (tourist office) to pick up a MainzCard, a two-day pass, for about \u20ac10. It covers a basic walking tour, unlimited use of public transportation (including travel to and from Frankfurt Airport), and free entry to museums and the casino, as well as a reduction in price on some KD cruises and theater tickets. The card can also be bought from the station, some hotel receptions, and participating museums.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nMainz. | Touristik Centrale, Br\u00fcckenturm am Rathaus | 06131/286\u2013210 | www.touristik-mainz.de | Weekdays 9\u20136, Sat. 10\u20134, Sun. 11\u20133.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Dom (Cathedral of St. Martin and St. Stephan).  \nThis cathedral's interior is a virtual sculpture gallery of elaborate monuments and tombstones of archbishops, bishops, and canons, many of which are significant artworks in their own right. Emperor Otto II began building the oldest of the Rhineland's trio of grand Romanesque cathedrals in 975, the year in which he named Willigis archbishop and chancellor of the empire. Henry II, the last Saxon emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, was crowned here in 1002, as was his successor, Konrad II, the first Salian emperor, in 1024. In 1009, on the very day of its consecration, the cathedral burned to the ground. It was the first of seven fires the Dom has endured. Today's cathedral dates mostly from the 11th to 13th century. During the Gothic period, remodeling diluted the Romanesque identity of the original; an imposing baroque spire was added in the 18th century. Nevertheless, the building remains essentially Romanesque, and its floor plan demonstrates a clear link to the cathedrals in Speyer and Worms. | Domstr. 3 | 06131/253\u2013412 | www.mainz-dom.de | Donations requested | Mar.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20136:30, Sat. 9\u20134, Sun. 12:45\u20133 and 4\u20136:30; Nov.\u2013Feb., weekdays 9\u20135, Sat. 9\u20134, Sun. 12:45\u20133 and 4\u20135; closed during services.\n\nDom und Di\u00f6zesanmuseum.  \nFrom the Middle Ages until secularization in the early 19th century, the archbishops of Mainz, who numbered among the imperial electors, were extremely influential politicians and property owners. The wealth of religious art treasures they left behind can be viewed in the cathedral cloisters. | Domstr. 3 | 06131/253\u2013344 | www.dommuseum-mainz.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20136.\n\nGutenberg Museum.  \nOpposite the east end of the cathedral (and closest to the Rhine) stands this fascinating museum, which is devoted to the history of writing and printing. Exhibits include historical printing presses, incunabula (books printed in Europe before 1501), and medieval manuscripts with illuminated letters, as well as three precious 42-line Gutenberg bibles printed circa 1455. A replica workshop demonstrates how Gutenberg implemented his invention of movable type. | Liebfrauenpl. 5 | 06131/122\u2013640 | www.gutenberg-museum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. 11\u20133.\n\nKupferberg Terrasse (sparkling wine cellars).  \nThese hillside cellars were built in 1850 on a site where the Romans had cultivated vines and cellared wine. The Kupferberg family expanded, creating 60 seven-story-deep vaulted cellars\u2014the deepest in the world. The winery has a splendid collection of glassware; posters from the belle-\u00e9poque period (1898\u20131914); richly carved casks from the 18th and 19th centuries; and the Traubensaal (Grape Hall), a tremendous example of the art-nouveau style. Tours lasting from 1\u00bd to 2 hours are offered most Saturdays and some Wednesdays and Fridays in summer and fall, and include several glasses of sparkling wines and champagne. Online reservations are required. The Kupferberg Terrassen restaurant ($$$) here is a lovely place to dine before or after your tour. | Kupferbergterrasse 17\u201319 | 06131/9230 | www.kupferbergterrasse.com | \u20ac16 1\u00bd-hr tour, \u20ac21\u2013\u20ac28.50 2-hr tour.\n\nLandesmuseum.  \nThe various collections of the Museum of the State of Rheinland-Pfalz are in the former electors' stables, easily recognized by the statue of a golden stallion over the entrance. Exhibits range from the Middle Ages to the 20th century. Among the highlights are paintings by Dutch masters, artworks from the baroque to art-nouveau period, and collections of porcelain and faience. | Grosse Bleiche 49\u201351 | 06131/28570 | www.landesmuseum-mainz.de | \u20ac6 | Tues. 10\u20138, Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nR\u00f6misch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum.  \nThe wonderful collection here chronicles cultural developments in the area up to the early Middle Ages. One of the highlights is a tiny Celtic glass dog from the 1st or 2nd century BC. The entrance for the museum, which is in the Kurf\u00fcrstliches Schloss (Electoral Palace), is around the back, on the river (east) side of the building. | Ernst-Ludwig-Pl. 2 | 06131/91240 | web.rgzm.de/rgzmmuseum.html | Free | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nFodor's Choice | St. Stephanskirche (St. Stephen's Church).  \nIt's just a short walk up Gaustrasse from Schillerplatz to the church, which affords a hilltop view of the city. Nearly 200,000 people make the trip each year to see the nine magnificent blue stained-glass windows designed by the Russian-born artist Marc Chagall. | Kleine Weissg. 12, via Gaustr. | 06131/231\u2013640 | www.st-stephan-mainz.de | Mar.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. noon\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134:30, Sun. noon\u20134:30.\n\n* * *\n\nGutenberg: The Father of Modern Printing\n\nHis invention\u2014printing with movable type\u2014transformed the art of communication, yet much about the life and work of Johannes Gutenberg is undocumented, starting with his year of birth. It's estimated that he was born in Mainz circa 1400 into a patrician family that supplied the city mint with metal to be coined. Gutenberg's later accomplishments attest to his own skill in working with metals. Details about his education are unclear, but he probably helped finance his studies by copying manuscripts in a monastic scriptorium. He moved to Strasbourg circa 1434, where he was a goldsmith by day and an inventor by night. It was here that he worked\u2014in great secrecy\u2014to create movable type and develop a press suitable for printing by adapting the conventional screw press used for wine making. By 1448 Gutenberg had returned to Mainz. Loans from a wealthy businessman enabled him to set up a printer's workshop and print the famous 42-line Bible. The lines of text are in black ink, yet each of the original 180 Bibles printed from 1452 to 1455 is unique, thanks to the artistry of the hand-painted illuminated letters.\n\nDespite its significance, Gutenberg's invention was not a financial success. His quest for perfection rather than profit led to a legal battle during which his creditor was awarded the workshop and the Bible type. Gutenberg's attempts to set up another print shop in Mainz failed, but from 1465 until his death in 1468 he received an allowance for service to the archbishop of Mainz, which spared the \"father of modern printing\" from dying in poverty.\n\n* * *\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nMarktplatz.  \nThe area around the cathedral and the H\u00f6fchen (little courtyard) are the focal points of the town. TIP Both are especially colorful on Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, when farmers set up their stands to sell produce and flowers.\n\nFAMILY | Naturhistorisches Museum.  \nThe animals here may all be stuffed and mounted, but these lifelike groups can demonstrate the relationships among various families of fauna better than any zoo. Fossils and geological exhibits show the evolution of the region's plants, animals, and soils. The museum also holds events especially for kids, including guided tours and movie nights. | Reichklarastr. 10 | 06131/122\u2013646 | www.mainz.de/nhm | \u20ac4.50 | Tues. 10\u20138, Wed. 10\u20132, Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Schillerplatz.  \nThis square, ringed by beautiful baroque palaces, is the site of the ebullient Fastnachtsbrunnen (Carnival Fountain), with 200 figures related to Mainz's \"fifth season\" of the year. | Schillerpl.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nEisgrub-Br\u00e4u.  \nGERMAN | It's loud, it's busy, and the beer is brewed in the vaulted cellars on-site. An Eisgrub brew is just the ticket to wash down a hearty plate of Schweinehaxen (pork knuckle) or Meterwurst (yard-long, rolled bratwurst), Bratkartoffeln (home fries), and sauerkraut. During the week, there's a lunch special for \u20ac5.90. Brewery tours are free, but make reservations in advance. It's open most days from 11:30 am\u2013midnight, and on Friday and Saturday until 1 am. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Weisslilieng. 1a | 06131/221\u2013104 | www.eisgrub.de.\n\nGebert's Weinstuben.  \nGERMAN | Gebert's traditional wine restaurant serves refined versions of regional favorites. In summer, the fresh asparagus dishes are popular. The geeister Kaffee (coffee ice cream and chocolate praline in a cup of coffee) uses delicious, handmade chocolate pralines. German wines, especially Rheinhessen, dominate the excellent wine list. You can also dine outside in the appealing courtyard. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Frauenlobstr. 94, near the Rhine | 06131/611\u2013619 | www.geberts-weinstuben.de | Closed Mon. and 3 wks in July or Aug. No lunch Sat.\n\nHaus des Deutschen Weines.  \nGERMAN | Late hours and luncheon specials are among the crowd-pleasers here, and the menu is broad enough to encompass both snacks and full-course meals, with huge salads and game year-round. Mainz specialties include Spundek\u00e4s (cheese whipped with cream and onions) or Handk\u00e4se mit Musik (pungent, semihard cheese served with diced onions in vinaigrette). As the name suggests, there's also a great selection of German wines. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Gutenbergpl. 3\u20135 | 06131/221\u2013300 | www.hdw-gaststaetten.de.\n\nHeiliggeist.  \nMEDITERRANEAN | This lively caf\u00e9-bistro-bar serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner on weekends and dinner until midnight during the week. The compact menu includes elaborate salad platters as well as creatively spiced and sauced fish and meat dishes. In summer the beer garden is always packed, and there's an extensive drink list. One house specialty worth trying is the Croustarte, an upscale version of pizza. Heiliggeist's modern, minimal decor is an interesting contrast to the historic vaulted ceilings in this former almshouse and hospital church, which was built in 1236. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Mailandsg. 11 | 06131/225\u2013757 | www.heiliggeist-mainz.de | Reservations not accepted | No credit cards | No lunch weekdays.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFAVORITE parkhotel.  \nHOTEL | Mainz's city park is a lush setting for this amenity-filled hotel; it's a 10-minute downhill walk through the park to the Old Town. The rooms are quite comfortable, and there are wellness facilities and a rooftop sundeck with a Jacuzzi and enclosed gym. The one-Michelin-star restaurant Favorite ($$$$) serves international cuisine (lobster is a specialty); more casual dining is available in the hotel's three other restaurants ($$ - $$$). The on-site beer garden, which has Rhine views, is a favorite in summer. Pros: quiet location; friendly staff; good views. Cons: a bit far from the sights; you can hear the train from some rooms; daily charge for Wi-Fi; not all rooms have air-conditioning. | Rooms from: \u20ac167 | Karl-Weiser-Str. 1 | 06131/80150 | www.favorite-mainz.de | 115 rooms, 7 suites | Favorite restaurant closed Mon. and Tues. | Breakfast.\n\nIbis Mainz City.  \nHOTEL | Here you'll find modern and functional rooms and a great location on the edge of the Old Town. Ask about the various discount rates that may be available. Pros: central location; good rates and deals; a/c in all rooms. Cons: chain hotel lacking in character; buffet breakfast costs \u20ac10 extra; fee for garage parking. | Rooms from: \u20ac59 | Holzhofstr. 2, at Rheinstr. | 06131/2470 | www.ibishotel.com | 144 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHyatt Regency Mainz.  \nHOTEL | From the spacious atrium lobby to the luxurious rooms, everything is sleek, modern, and comfortable at this hotel. The way the building integrates contemporary art and architecture with the old stone walls Fort Malakoff makes it a stunner. The M-Lounge & Bar in the lobby serves light fare, and tables in the garden courtyard are always at a premium in summer. The boutiques and pubs of the Old Town are a 5- to 10-minute walk away. Pros: grand public spaces; friendly staff; riverside location. Cons: expensive; breakfast costs extra; Wi-Fi charges are \u20ac18 a day. | Rooms from: \u20ac229 | Malakoff-Terrasse 1 | 06131/731\u2013234 | www.mainz.regency.hyatt.com | 265 rooms, 3 suites.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nMainz supports a broad spectrum of cultural events\u2014classical as well as avant-garde music, dance, opera, and theater performances\u2014at many venues throughout the city. Music lovers can attend concerts in venues ranging from the cathedral and the Rathaus to the market square and historic churches.\n\nGrosses Haus.  \nThe home stage of the Staatstheater Mainz is the Grosses Haus. A smaller stage, the Kleines Haus, is also on the premises. | Gutenbergpl. 7 | 06131/28510, 06131/285\u20131222 box office | www.staatstheater-mainz.com.\n\nUnterhaus.  \nThe Mainzer Forum-Theater (cabaret) performs in the Unterhaus. | M\u00fcnsterstr. 7 | 06131/232\u2013121 | www.unterhaus-mainz.de.\n\nKUZ.  \nKUZ and its beer garden (open May to late September) are used for international rock, jazz, and pop concerts. | Dagobertstr. 20b | 06131/286\u2013860 | www.kuz.de.\n\nFrankfurter Hof.  \nThe Frankfurter Hof hosts many (often contemporary) musical events and dance parties. | Augustinerstr. 55 | 06131/220-438 | www.frankfurter-hof-mainz.de.\n\nVilla Musica.  \nA traditional setting for concerts in town. | Auf der Bastei 3 | 06131/925-1800 | www.villamusica.de.\n\nNightlife centers on its numerous wine pubs. Rustic and cozy, they're packed with locals who come to enjoy a meal or snack with a glass (or more) of local wine. Most are on the Old Town's main street, Augustinerstrasse, and its side streets (Grebenstrasse, Kirschgarten, Kart\u00e4userstrasse, Jakobsbergstrasse), or around the Gutenberg Museum, on Liebfrauenplatz.\n\nWeinhaus Schreiner.  \nAn old Mainz favorite, Schreiner attracts a mixed, jovial clientele who come to enjoy local wine and beer paired with German cuisine. During periods of warm weather, the outdoor \"vineyard\" stays open till 9:45, Tuesday through Thursday, and till 10:45, Friday and Saturday. | Rheinstr. 38 | 06131/225\u2013720 | www.weinhausschreiner.de | Closed Sun. and Mon.\n\nWeinhaus Wilhelmi.  \nThis wood-panel pub is a favorite with postcollegiates, who come to enjoy glasses of local wine while nibbling on traditional sausage and cheeses or heartier fare such as fried pork steak and meatballs with pepper sauce. | Rheinstr. 53 | 06131/224\u2013949 | www.weinhaus-wilhelmi.de | No lunch.\n\n### Shopping\n\nThe Old Town is full of boutiques, and the major department stores (Karstadt and Kaufhof-Galeria) typically have food halls in their lower levels. The shopping district lies basically between the Grosse Bleiche and the Old Town and includes the Am Brand Zentrum, an ancient marketplace that is now a pedestrian zone full of shops.\n\nFodor's Choice | Gutenberg-Shop.  \nLocated in the building of the local newspaper, Allgemeine Zeitung Mainz, the Gutenberg-Shop has splendid souvenirs and gifts\u2014including pages from the Bible, books, posters, pens, and stationery. The friendly staff will also arrange to ship your purchases outside the country. There's a similar selection at the shop in the Gutenberg Museum. | Marktpl. 17 | 06131/143\u2013666 | www.gutenberg-shop.de | Closed Sun.\n\nKrempelmarkt.  \nAntiques and perhaps a few hidden treasures await the patient shopper at Krempelmarkt. The flea market is on the banks of the Rhine (Rheinufer) between the Hilton hotel and Kaiserstrasse. At the Theodor Heuss Bridge is the the children's flea market, where the youngest sellers offer clothes, toys, and books. | Rheinufer | Apr.\u2013Oct., 1st and 3rd Sat. of month 7\u20134; Nov.\u2013Mar., 3rd Sat. 7\u20133.\n\nR\u00f6merpassage.  \nThis city-center shopping mall offers 100,000 square feet of stores and restaurants. It also houses the remains of a Roman temple (AD 1) discovered in 1999 during construction of the mall. The temple, which is dedicated to the goddess Isis and Magna Mater, is in the basement. | Adolf-Kolping-Str. 4 | 06131/600\u20137100 | www.roemerpassage.com | Closed Sun.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Rhineland\n\nThe Rheingau\n\nThe Mittelrhein\n\nThe Mosel Valley\n\nBonn and the K\u00f6ln (Cologne) Lowlands\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Cruising the Rhine and Mosel Rivers | When to Go\n\nUpdated by Dan Allen\n\nThe banks of the Rhine are crowned by magnificent castle after castle and by breathtaking, vine-terraced hills that provide the livelihood for many of the villages hugging the shores. In the words of French poet Victor Hugo, \"The Rhine combines everything. The Rhine is swift as the Rh\u00f4ne, wide as the Loire, winding as the Seine . . . royal as the Danube and covered with fables and phantoms like a river in Asia.\"\n\nThe importance of the Rhine can hardly be overestimated. Although not the longest river in Europe (the Danube is more than twice as long), the Rhine has been the main river-trade artery between the heart of the continent and the North Sea (and Atlantic Ocean) throughout recorded history. The Rhine runs 1,230 km (765 miles) from the Bodensee (Lake Constance) west to Basel, then north through Germany, and, finally, west through the Netherlands to Rotterdam.\n\nVineyards, a legacy of the Romans, are an inherent part of the Rhine landscape from Wiesbaden to Bonn. The Rhine tempers the climate sufficiently for grapes to ripen this far north, and the world's finest Rieslings come from the Rheingau and from the Rhine's most important tributary, the Mosel. Thanks to the river, these wines were shipped far beyond the borders of Germany, giving rise to the wine trade that shaped the fortune of many riverside towns. R\u00fcdesheim, Bingen, Koblenz, and K\u00f6ln (Cologne) remain important commercial wine centers to this day.\n\nThe river is steeped in legend and myth. The Loreley, a jutting sheer slate cliff, was once believed to be the home of a beautiful and bewitching maiden who lured boatmen to a watery end in the swift currents. Heinrich Heine's poem Song of Loreley (1827), inspired by Clemens Brentano's Legend of Loreley (1812) and set to music in 1837 by Friedrich Silcher, has been the theme song of the landmark ever since. The Nibelungen, a legendary Burgundian people said to have lived on the banks of the Rhine, serve as subjects for Wagner's epic opera cycle Der Ring des Nibelungen (1852\u201372).\n\nWilliam Turner captured misty Rhine sunsets on canvas. Famous literary works, such as Goethe's Sankt-Rochus-Fest zu Bingen (The Feast of St. Roch; 1814), Lord Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1816), and Mark Twain's A Tramp Abroad (1880), captured the spirit of Rhine Romanticism on paper, encouraging others to follow in their footsteps.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nDrachenfels: This dramatic castle in K\u00f6nigswinter crowns a high hill overlooking the Rhine.\n\nFastnacht: Germany's Carnival season culminates with huge parades, round-the-clock music, and dancing in D\u00fcsseldorf, K\u00f6ln, and Mainz the week before Ash Wednesday.\n\nRhine in Flames: These massive displays of fireworks take place the first Saturday in May in Linz-Bonn; the first Saturday in July in Bingen-R\u00fcdesheim; the second Saturday in August in Koblenz; the second Saturday in September in Oberwesel; and the third Saturday in September in St. Goar.\n\nThe romance of the Rhine: From cruises to Rhine-view rooms, castles to terraced vineyards, the Rhine does not disappoint.\n\nSpectacular wine: A whole culinary tradition has grown up around the distinctive light white wines of the Rhine and Mosel.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThe most spectacular stretch of the Rhineland is along the Middle Rhine, between Mainz and Koblenz, which takes in the awesome castles and vineyards of the Rhine Gorge. Highways hug the river on each bank (B-42 on the north and eastern sides, and B-9 on the south and western sides), and car ferries crisscross the Rhine at many points. Cruises depart from many cities and towns, including as far south as Frankfurt. Trains service all the towns, and the Mainz\u2013Bonn route provides river views all the way.\n\n## What's Where\n\nThe Rheingau. Though the course of the Rhine is generally south to north, it bends sharply at Wiesbaden and flows east to west for 31 km (19 miles) to R\u00fcdesheim. This means that the steep hills on its right bank have a southern exposure, and that vineyards there produce superb wines.\n\nThe Mittelrhein. The romance of the Rhine is most apparent in the Middle Rhine, from Bingen to Koblenz. The 65-km (40-mile) stretch of the Upper Middle Rhine Valley was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2002 with its concentration of awesome castles, medieval towns, and the vineyards of the Rhine Gorge.\n\nThe Mosel Valley. Koblenz and Trier aren't very far apart as the crow flies, but the driving distance along the incredible twists and turns of the Mosel River is 201 km (125 miles). The journey is worth it, though. The region is unspoiled, the towns gemlike, the scenery a medley of vineyards and forests, and there's a wealth of Roman artifacts, medieval churches, and castle ruins to admire.\n\nBonn and the K\u00f6ln (Cologne) lowlands. North of Koblenz, the Rhine is less picturesque, but it does shoulder the cosmopolitan cities K\u00f6ln and D\u00fcsseldorf, as well as the former capital city of Bonn.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThe peak season for cultural, food, and wine festivals is March\u2013mid-November, followed by colorful Christmas markets in December. The season for many hotels, restaurants, riverboats, cable cars, and sights is from Easter through October, particularly in smaller towns. Opening hours at many castles, churches, and small museums are shorter in winter. Orchards blossom in March, and the vineyards are verdant from May until late September, when the vines turn a shimmering gold.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe Rhineland is served by three international airports: Frankfurt, D\u00fcsseldorf, and K\u00f6ln-Bonn. Bus and rail lines connect each airport with its respective downtown area and provide rapid access to the rest of the region. There are direct trains from the Frankfurt airport to downtown K\u00f6ln and D\u00fcsseldorf.\n\nNo-frills carriers that fly within Europe are based at smaller Frankfurt-Hahn Airport in Lautzenhausen, between the Rhine and Mosel valleys (a 1-hour drive from Wiesbaden or Trier; a 1\u00bd-hour bus ride from Frankfurt Airport). The Luxembourg Findel International Airport (a 30-minute drive from Trier) is close to the upper Mosel River valley.\n\nAirport Contacts  \nFlughafen D\u00fcsseldorf. | 0211/4210 | www.dus.com.   \nFlughafen Frankfurt. | 01805/372\u20134636 | www.frankfurt-airport.de.   \nFlughafen Frankfurt-Hahn. | 06543/509\u2013200 | www.hahn-airport.de.   \nFlughafen K\u00f6ln/Bonn. | 02203/404\u2013001 | www.koeln-bonn-airport.de.   \nLuxembourg Findel International Airport. | 00352/24640 | www.luxairport.lu.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nInterCity and EuroCity expresses connect all the cities and towns of the area. Hourly InterCity routes run between D\u00fcsseldorf, K\u00f6ln, Bonn, and Mainz, with most services extending as far south as Munich and as far north as Hamburg. The city transportation networks of Bonn, K\u00f6ln, and D\u00fcsseldorf are linked by S-bahn, regional and local trains (for information contact the KVB).\n\nTrain Contacts  \nDeutsche Bahn. | 0180/599\u20136633 | www.bahn.de.   \nK\u00f6lner Verkehrs-Betriebe (KVB). | 01803/504\u2013030 | www.kvb-koeln.de.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat in the Rhineland\n\nThe Rhineland's regional cuisine features fresh fish and Wild (game), as well as sauces and soups based on the local Riesling and Sp\u00e4tburgunder (pinot noir) wines. Boiled beef, once known in the region as Tellerfleisch (\"dish meat\") or Ochsenbrust (brisket), is nowadays called by the more familiar Austrian name Tafelspitz. Rheinischer Sauerbraten (Rhenish marinated pot roast in a sweet-and-sour raisin gravy) is another traditional favorite. The Kartoffel (potato) is prominent in soups, Reibekuchen and R\u00f6sti (potato pancakes), and Dibbe- or Dippekuchen (dialect: D\u00f6ppekoche), a casserole baked in a cast-iron pot and served with apple compote. Himmel und Erde, literally \"heaven and earth,\" is a mixture of mashed potatoes and chunky applesauce, topped with panfried slices of blood sausage and onions.\n\nThe region is known for its wines: Riesling is the predominant white grape, and Sp\u00e4tburgunder the most important red variety in the Rheingau, Mittelrhein, and Mosel wine regions, all covered in this chapter. Three abutting wine regions\u2014Rheinhessen and the Nahe, near Bingen, and the Ahr, southwest of Bonn\u2014add to the variety of wines available along the route.\n\nWines of Germany and the German Wine Institute provide background information and brochures about all German wine-producing regions. Tips on wine-related events and package offers are available from regional wine-information offices and any visitor information center along the Rhine and Mosel will put you in touch with local winegrowers.\n\nWine Information German Wine Institute.  \n| www.germanwines.de. Wines of Germany.  \n| 212/994\u20137523 | www.germanwineusa.com.\n\n* * *\n\n### Restaurants\n\nAlthough D\u00fcsseldorf, K\u00f6ln, and Wiesbaden are home to many talented chefs, some of Germany's most creative classic and contemporary cooking is found in smaller towns or country inns.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nThe most romantic places to lay your head are the old riverside inns and castle hotels. Ask for a Rheinblick (Rhine-view) room. Hotels are often booked well in advance, especially for festivals and when there are trade fairs in K\u00f6ln, D\u00fcsseldorf, or Frankfurt, making rooms even in Wiesbaden and the Rheingau scarce and expensive. Many hotels close for winter.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nThose seeking \"Rhine romance\" should probably concentrate on its southern part, particularly the Rhine Gorge, with its castles, vineyards, and the Loreley. If nightlife and culture are your preferences, you'll like the cathedral city of K\u00f6ln and cosmopolitan D\u00fcsseldorf; you can still take a day cruise along the Rhine from K\u00f6ln.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe FreizeitCARD (\u20ac14 for one day, \u20ac41.50 for three days, \u20ac66 for six days) gives you free or reduced admission to museums, castles, and other sights, plus city tours and boat trips throughout the Rhineland, as well as scores of attractions across nearby Saarland, Lorraine, Luxembourg, Wallonia and East Belgium. It's available at tourist offices throughout the region.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nRheingau\u2013Taunus Kultur & Tourismus. | Pfortenhaus-Kloster Eberbach, | Eltville | 06723/99550 | www.rheingau-taunus-info.de.  \nRheinland-Pfalz Tourismus. | L\u00f6hrstr. 103\u2013105, | Koblenz | 01805/915\u2013200 | www.romantic-germany.info.\n\n## Cruising the Rhine and Mosel Rivers\n\nLined by some of Europe's oldest, steepest vineyards, the Rhine and Mosel rivers boast breathtaking scenery marked by storybook castles and half-timber villages. A river cruise is a must.\n\nToday, the Rhine and Mosel rivers are best known for their Riesling wines and the formidable medieval castles once used by robber barons to extort tolls from passing ships. But the rivers' history goes back even further to the Romans, who first established the region's viniculture.\n\nAlthough the fastest way to get around the rivers is by car or train (and there are some gorgeous train routes directly on the Rhine), the rivers have been navigated by ship for thousands of years, and this option remains the most scenic, and the safest for visitors looking to drink a little wine as well as a little history. The Rhine is the more popular of the two rivers, but many find its little sister, the Mosel, even more beautiful with its narrow, twisting landscapes.\n\n\u2014David Levitz\n\n## When to Go\n\nDay cruises on the Rhine and Mosel generally start around Easter and run through October. In summer, the hills are at their greenest and crowds gather to celebrate the Rhein in Flammen fireworks festivals. However, most wine festivals don't take place until August or September. Some multiday cruises also make extra trips in November and December to stop at Christmas markets.\n\nDay-trippers don't generally need advance reservations and the tourist offices in any major Rhine or Mosel town can give you information about short round-trip cruises (Rundfahrten) or waterbuses (Linienfahrten), which allow you to hop on or off the boat, and generally run on the Rhine daily from Easter to late October and on the Mosel from June through September. Although there are many boat trips available from K\u00f6ln and D\u00fcsseldorf, the Rhine doesn't truly turn scenic until south of Bonn. The most popular starting point is Koblenz, where the two rivers converge. The area between Koblenz and Bingen, the Rhine Gorge, offers the shortest cruises with the highest concentration of castles.\n\nFrom Koblenz, you can take a water taxi run by one of the biggest operators on the Rhine, K\u00f6ln-D\u00fcsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt (KD Rhine Line | 0221/208\u20138318 | www.k-d.com), which has many special offers, such as half-price travel on your birthday; 30% off for seniors; and free travel for up to three children for every adult on Wednesday. One good place to disembark and stretch your legs is Boppard. Take some time to sample the local wine, Bopparder Hamm. This route provides not only fantastic white wines, but also views of the legendary Loreley cliff and the Marksburg, the only Rhine castle never laid to ruin.\n\nPersonenschiffahrt Merkelbach (0261/76810 | www.merkelbach-personenschiffe.de) also does round-trip castle cruises on the Rhine from Koblenz to Schloss Stolzenfels (one hour) or the Marksburg (two hours).\n\nMeanwhile, the Mosel's stunning, medieval Burg Eltz castle, and the towns of Cochem and Bernkastel-Kues between Koblenz and Trier, rival any sights along the Rhine. Mosel-Schiffstouristic Hans Michels of Bernkastel-Kues (06531/8222 | www.mosel-personenschifffahrt.de), goes from Bernkastel to Traben-Trarbach. Personenschiffahrt Kolb of Briedern (02673/1515 | www.moselfahrplan.de) runs a fleet of boats that cruise shorter stretches between Koblenz and Trier.\n\n#### Multiday Cruises\n\nViking River Cruises (0800/188\u2013710\u2013033, 800/304\u20139616 in U.S. | www.vikingrivers.com) offers various multiday cruises on cabin ships between Amsterdam and Basel. The luxury Uniworld cruise line (800/555\u20138333 in U.S. | www.uniworld.com) offers a two-week cruise of both rivers.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWiesbaden | Eltville | Oestrich-Winkel | R\u00fcdesheim\n\nThe heart of the region begins in Wiesbaden, where the Rhine makes a sharp bend and flows east to west for some 30 km (19 miles) before resuming its south to north course at R\u00fcdesheim. Wiesbaden is a good starting point for touring any of the well-marked cycling, hiking, and driving routes through the Rheingau's villages and vineyards. TIP Nearly every Rheingau village has an outdoor Weinprobierstand (wine-tasting stand), usually near the riverbank. It is staffed and stocked by a different wine estate every weekend in summer.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Wiesbaden\n\n40 km (25 miles) west of Frankfurt via A-66.\n\nWiesbaden, the capital of the state of Hesse, is a small city of tree-lined avenues with elegant shops and handsome facades. Its hot mineral springs have been a drawing card since the days when it was known as Aquis Mattiacis (\"the waters of the Mattiaci\")\u2014the words boldly inscribed on the portal of the Kurhaus\u2014and Wisibada (\"the bath in the meadow\").\n\nIn the 1st century AD the Romans built thermal baths here, a site then inhabited by a Germanic tribe, the Mattiaci. Modern Wiesbaden dates from the 19th century, when the dukes of Nassau and, later, the Prussian aristocracy commissioned the grand public buildings and parks that shape the city's profile today. Wiesbaden developed into a fashionable spa that attracted the rich and the famous. Their ornate villas on the Neroberg and turn-of-the-20th-century town houses are part of the city's flair.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nEnglish-language walking tours of Wiesbaden depart from the tourist information office every Saturday from April through October at 11. For a one-hour ride through the city, board the little train THermine (www.thermine.de). The one-day ticket (\u20ac7) enables you to get on and off as often as you'd like to explore the sights. From Easter to October it departs seven times daily (10\u20134:30) from Caf\u00e9 Lumen (behind the Marktkirche) and stops at the Bowling Green, Greek Chapel, and Neroberg railway station. In winter, it operates only on weekends.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nWiesbaden Tourist-Information. | Marktpl. 1 | 0611/172\u20139930 | www.wiesbaden.eu.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltstadt.  \nWiesbaden's Old Town is just behind the Stadtschloss (a former duke's palace, now the seat of state parliament, the Hessischer Landtag) on Grabenstrasse, Wagemannstrasse, and Goldgasse.\n\nKaiser-Friedrich-Therme.  \nYou can \"take the waters\" in an ambience reminiscent of Roman times in the Kaiser-Friedrich-Therme, a superb art-nouveau bathhouse from 1913. | Langg. 38\u201340 | 0611/317\u2013060.\n\nKochbrunnen Fountain.  \nFifteen of Wiesbaden's 26 springs converge at the steaming Kochbrunnen Fountain, where the sulfurous but at least theoretically healthful waters are there for the tasting. | Kochbrunnenpl.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kurhaus.  \nBuilt in 1907, the neoclassical Kurhaus is the cultural center of town. It houses the casino and the Thiersch-Saal, a splendid setting for concerts. The Staatstheater (1894), opulently appointed in baroque and rococo revival styles, and two beautifully landscaped parks flank the Kurhaus. | Kurhauspl. 1 | www.wiesbaden.de/kurhaus.\n\nMarktplatz (Market Square).  \nHistoric buildings ring the Schlossplatz (Palace Square) and the adjoining Marktplatz, site of the annual wine festival (mid-August) and Christmas market (December). The farmers' market (Wednesday and Saturday) takes place behind the neo-Gothic brick Marktkirche (Market Church).\n\nMuseum Wiesbaden.  \nNature and culture come together under one roof at the Museum Wiesbaden, where two long-closed wings reopened after renovation in 2013. The museum's natural history section exhibits a wealth of geological finds and preserved animals; the art collection ranges from 12th-century polychromes to present-day installations. The museum is best-known for its expressionist paintings, particularly the works of Russian artist Alexej Jawlensky. | Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 2 | 0611/335\u20132250 | www.museum-wiesbaden.de | \u20ac6 | Tues. and Thurs. 10\u20138, Wed. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nK\u00e4fer's Bistro.  \nECLECTIC | This popular bistro with striking art-nouveau decor, a grand piano (live music nightly), and a good-size bar attracts an upscale clientele. Book a table for two in one of the window alcoves (Nos. 7, 12, 25, and 29) at least four weeks in advance for some privacy among the otherwise close-set tables. Lachstatar (salmon tartare) and Bauernente (farmer's duck) are standard favorites. A few champagnes are available by the glass and bottle. K\u00e4fer's also caters the beer garden behind the Kurhaus and the Bowling Green's terrace with concerts in summer. | Average main: \u20ac26 | Kurhauspl. 1 | 0611/536\u2013200 | www.kurhaus-gastronomie.de | Reservations essential.\n\nSherry & Port.  \nECLECTIC | Austrian expat Gerd Royko's friendly neighborhood bistro hosts live music on Friday and Saturday from October through March. During warm months, you can dine at outdoor tables surrounding a fountain on tree-lined Adolfsallee. In addition to the fantastic number of sherries and ports (60), there are more than 20 malt whiskies served by the glass. There is also a good selection of beers and wines to accompany the menu's tapas, salads, steaks, and well-priced daily specials. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Adolfsallee 11 | 0611/373\u2013632 | www.sherry-und-port.de | No credit cards.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel de France.  \nHOTEL | Behind this 1880 facade is a lovingly restored hotel and a restaurant that serves good upscale food; both have sleek, modern furnishings and lots of fresh flowers. Rooms in the front overlook a busy street, while those at the back have a view of a lovely Mediterranean garden courtyard. Despite being rather small, the restaurant M ($$$; closed Sunday; no lunch) feels light and spacious. Pros: centrally located. Cons: on a busy street; small rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Taunusstr. 49 | 0611/959\u2013730 | www.hoteldefrance.de | 34 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Nassauer Hof.  \nHOTEL | Wiesbaden's premier address for well over a century boasts luxuriously appointed rooms, top-flight service, and three restaurants\u2014and a guest list ranging from Dostoyevsky to the Dalai Lama. It's on the site of a Roman fortress that was converted into a spa and, ultimately, a guesthouse. Breakfast is extra and costs \u20ac29. Pros: nice location opposite the Kurhaus; warm spring-fed pool. Cons: expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac225 | Kaiser-Friedrich-Pl. 3\u20134 | 0611/1330 | www.nassauer-hof.de | 136 rooms, 23 suites | No meals.\n\nibis Wiesbaden City.  \nHOTEL | This modern hotel opposite the Kochbrunnen on Kranzplatz is an excellent value and has a location within walking distance of the shop-filled pedestrian zone, the Old Town, and all sights. The well-kept rooms have contemporary furnishings. The breakfast buffet costs \u20ac10. Pros: bar stays open 24 hours; four wheelchair-accessible rooms. Cons: small rooms; breakfast not included. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Georg-August-Zinn-Str. 2 | 0611/36140 | www.ibishotel.com | 131 rooms | No meals.\n\nFodor's Choice | Town Hotel.  \nHOTEL | The Gerbers' modern hotel is a five-minute walk from the Kurhaus, Old Town, and the shopping district. Terra-cotta and beige tones and parquet floors lend the rooms warmth. Although they are small, they are very cleverly designed for maximum use of space. The staff is particularly friendly and helpful. Pros: a good deal; free telephone calls to North America and most of Europe. Cons: often full during the week. | Rooms from: \u20ac119 | Spiegelg. 5 | 0611/360\u2013160 | www.townhotel.de | 24 rooms | No meals.\n\n* * *\n\nGerman Sauna Etiquette\n\nVisiting one of Germany's fabulous saunas and bathhouses can be the perfect way to unwind from a busy travel itinerary, and it generally costs no more than a decent meal (between 10 and 20 euros). But be aware: These day spas are enjoyed in the buff, but as you might expect, Germany has many rules when it comes to the bathhouses. Although bathing suits are required at German swimming pools, you can expect a stern talking to for wearing one in a sauna or steam room that's classified as textilfrei (textile-free, meaning no clothing allowed). Hygiene is also a big concern: in steam rooms, find the hose to rinse off your seat before sitting down. In a dry sauna, bring a large towel and make sure to place it underneath you, especially under your feet, to avoid sweat getting on the wood. Those who like it really hot should check for an Aufguss schedule in front of dry saunas. The event, which literally means \"on-pouring,\" gets visitors packed elbow to elbow for a good sweat as the Saunameister pours scented water over the sauna's coals. He or she might also distribute melted honey to rub into your skin, or even give you some sort of healthy snack at the end. After each time in the sauna, Germans take a cold shower to cool down. Note that saunas are generally mixed-sex, except on special women's days.\n\n* * *\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nIn addition to the casino, restaurants, bars, and beer garden at the Kurhaus, nightlife is centered on the many bistros and pubs on Taunusstrasse and in the Old Town. The tourist office provides schedules and sells tickets for most venues listed here.\n\nCaligari Filmb\u00fchne.  \nClassics and avant-garde films are the specialties at this theater. | Marktpl. 9, behind Marktkirche | 0611/315\u2013050 | www.wiesbaden.de/caligari.\n\nHenkell & Co.  \nThe sparkling-wine cellars of Henkell & Co. host a series of concerts by young classical musicians from September to March. | Biebricher Allee 142 | 0611/630 | www.henkell-sektkellerei.com.\n\nHessisches Staatstheater.  \nClassical and contemporary opera, theater, ballet, and musicals are presented on the Hessisches Staatstheater's four stages: Grosses Haus, Kleines Haus, Studio, and Wartburg. | Chr.-Zais-Str. 3 | 0611/132\u2013325 | www.staatstheater-wiesbaden.de.\n\nKurhaus.  \nThe Hessian State Orchestra performs several programs a year at the Kurhaus. | Kurhauspl. 1 | 0611/17290.\n\nMarktkirche.  \nMany churches offer concerts, including the free organ concerts that are held Saturday at 11:30 am in the Marktkirche. | Schlosspl. 4 | 0611/900\u20131611 | www.marktkirche-wiesbaden.de.\n\nPariser Hoftheater.  \nSmaller dramatic productions and cabaret are performed at this intimate theater. | Spiegelg. 9 | 0611/300\u2013607 | www.pariserhoftheater.de.\n\nRhein-Main-Hallen.  \nConcerts and musicals are staged at this civic center. | Rheinstr. 20 | 0611/1440 | www.rhein-main-hallen.de.\n\nSpielbank (casino).  \nThe Klassische Spiel (roulette, blackjack) in the Kurhaus is busy from 2:45 pm to 4 am, while the Automatenspiel (slots and poker) in the neighboring Kolonnade is hopping from noon to 4 am. The former is one of Europe's grand casinos, where a jacket is required and tie recommended. You can be less formal at the Automatenspiel. To enter either, you must be 18 or over (bring your passport). | Kurhauspl. 1 | 0611/536\u2013100 | www.spielbank-wiesbaden.de.\n\nThalhaus.  \nIn addition to having an art gallery and theater, this lively multiarts venue has featured music performances, cabaret revues (sometimes performed in drag), and the occasional dance party. | Nerotal 18 | 0611/185\u20131267 | www.thalhaus.de.\n\nWalhalla Studio Theater.  \nLive concerts (jazz, blues, rock, and pop), often accompanied by theater, are held here. | Mauritiusstr. 3a, use entrance of movie theater Bambi Kino] | 0611/910\u20133743 | [www.walhalla-studio.de.\n\n### Thermal Springs, Spas, and Pools\n\nKaiser-Friedrich-Therme.  \nPamper yourself with the thermal spring and cold-water pools, various steam baths and saunas, two solaria, and a score of health- and wellness treatments in elegant art-nouveau surroundings. Towels and robes can be rented on-site, but come prepared for bathing nude. Children under 16 are not admitted. On Tuesday the facility is for women only. | Langg. 38\u201340 | 0611/317\u2013060 | May\u2013Aug. \u20ac4.50 per hr, Sept.\u2013Apr. \u20ac6 per hr | Sept.\u2013Apr., Mon.\u2013Thurs. 10\u201310, Fri. and Sat. 10 am\u2013midnight; May\u2013Aug., daily 10\u201310.\n\nThermalbad Aukammtal.  \nThere's year-round swimming indoors and out thanks to the thermal springs (32\u00b0C [90\u00b0F]) that feed the pools here. The facility includes seven saunas, a whirlpool, massage, and various other treatments. | Leibnizstr. 7, Bus No. 18 from Wilhelmstr. to Aukamm Valley | 0611/317\u2013080 | Pools \u20ac10, saunas \u20ac18, combined ticket \u20ac23 | Sun., Mon., Wed. and Thurs. 8 am\u201310 pm, Tues. 6 am\u20131 am, Fri. and Sat. 8 am\u2013midnight.\n\n### Shopping\n\nBroad, tree-lined Wilhelmstrasse, with designer boutiques housed in its fin de si\u00e8cle buildings, is one of Germany's most elegant shopping streets. Wiesbaden is also known as one of the best places in the country to find antiques; Taunusstrasse and Nerostrasse have excellent antiques shops. The Altstadt is full of upscale boutiques; Kirchgasse and its extension, Langgasse, are the heart of the shops-filled pedestrian zone.\n\n## Eltville\n\n14 km (9 miles) west of Wiesbaden via A-66 and B-42.\n\nThe largest town in the Rheingau, Eltville rose to prominence in the Middle Ages as the residence of the Archbishops of Mainz. Today it's cherished for its wine and roses, which are celebrated most colorfully during its Rosentage (Rose Days), held the first weekend of June.\n\nBurg Crass (Crass Castle), located on the riverbank, is well worth a look, as are the half-timber houses and aristocratic manors on the lanes between the river and Rheingauer Strasse (B-42), notably the Bechterm\u00fcnzer Hof (Kirchgasse 6), Stockheimer Hof (Ellenbogengasse 6), and Eltzer Hof (at the Martinstor gateway).\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nJust 9 miles from Wiesbaden and 12 from Mainz, Eltville is easily accessible by road, rail, or bus service via RTV.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nEltville Tourist-Information. | Burgstr. 1 (in Kurf\u00fcrstliche Burg) | 06123/90980 | www.eltville.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nKiedrich.  \nFor a good look at the central Rheingau, make a brief circular tour from Eltville. Drive 3 km (2 miles) north via the Kiedricher Strasse to the Gothic village of Kiedrich. In the distance you can see the tower of Scharfenstein Castle (built in 1215) and the spires of St. Valentine's Basilica and St. Michael's Chapel, both from the 15th century. The latter, once a charnel house (a building near a cemetery used for storing dug-up bones), has a unique chandelier sculpted around a nearly life-size, two-sided Madonna. These Gothic gems have survived intact thanks to 19th-century restorations sponsored by the English baronet John Sutton.\n\nWeingut Robert Weil.  \nBuilt by the English aristocrat John Sutton, this beautiful villa south of St. Valentine's Church is home to one of Germany's leading wine estates, Weingut Robert Weil. Its famed Kiedricher Gr\u00e4fenberg Riesling wines can be sampled in the tasting room. | M\u00fchlberg 5 | Kiedrich | 06123/2308 | www.weingut-robert-weil.com | Weekdays 8\u20135:30, Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 11\u20135\n\nFodor's Choice | Kloster Eberbach.  \nThe former Cistercian monastery Kloster Eberbach is idyllically set in a secluded forest clearing 3 km (2 miles) west of Kiedrich. TIP Its Romanesque and Gothic buildings (12th\u201314th century) look untouched by time\u2014one reason why the 1986 film of Umberto Eco's medieval murder mystery The Name of the Rose was filmed here. The monastery's impressive collection of old winepresses bears witness to a viticultural tradition that spans nearly nine centuries. The wines can be sampled year-round in the Vinothek (wine shop) or restaurant on the grounds. The church, with its excellent acoustics, and the large medieval dormitories are the settings for concerts, wine auctions, and festive wine events. | Stiftung Kloster Eberbach | 06723/917\u20138115 | www.klostereberbach.de | \u20ac6.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 11\u20135.\n\nKurf\u00fcrstliche Burg (Electors' Castle).  \nEltville flourished as a favorite residence of the archbishops of Mainz in the 14th and 15th centuries, and it was during this time that the castle\u2014which now houses Eltville's tourist information center\u2014was built. More than 300 varieties of roses grow in the castle's courtyard garden, on the wall, and along the Rhine promenade. During \"Rose Days\" (the first weekend in June) the flower is celebrated in shops and restaurants (as an ingredient in recipes) throughout town. | Burgstr. 1 | 06123/909\u2013840 | www.eltville.de | Tower \u20ac2.50, rose garden free | Tower: Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., Fri. 2\u20136, weekends 11\u20136. Garden: Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 9:30\u20137; mid-Oct.\u2013March, daily 10:30\u20134:30.\n\nSts. Peter und Paul.  \nThe parish church of Saints Peter and Paul has late-Gothic frescoes, Renaissance tombstones, and a carved baptismal likely created by the Rhenish sculptor Hans Backoffen. | Roseng.\n\nSteinberg.  \nKloster Eberbach's premier vineyard, Steinberg, is surrounded by a 3-km-long (2-mile-long) stone wall (13th\u201318th century). In warmer months you can enjoy its vintages outdoors, overlooking the vines. To visit from Eberbach, take the road toward Hattenheim, stopping at the first right-hand turnoff. Other prominent wineries in the area, Nussbrunnen, Wisselbrunnen, and Marcobrunn, get their name from the Brunnen (wells) that are beneath the vineyards. | Dom\u00e4ne Steinberg | www.kloster-eberbach.de/en/wine-estate/das-weingut-seine-domaenen/domaene-steinberg.html | Wine cellar tour \u20ac10 with tasting | Guided cellar tour: Apr.\u2013Oct., weekends at 1 and 3; Nov.\u2013Mar., Sun. at 2. Group tours available at other times via Eltville tourist center.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nGutsausschank im Baiken.  \nGERMAN | This restaurant is on a hilltop amid the Rauenthaler Baiken vineyard. The panorama from the vine-canopied terrace, the regional cooking, and local wines make for a complete \"Rheingau Riesling\" experience. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Wiesweg 86, via Eltville | 06123/900\u2013345 | www.baiken.de | Closed Feb. Closed Mon. Apr.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Wed. Nov.\u2013Mar. No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat.\n\nKlostersch\u00e4nke und G\u00e4stehaus Kloster Eberbach.  \nGERMAN | Beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Klostersch\u00e4nke you can pair local wines with regional cuisine. Try the Weinfleisch (pork goulash in Riesling sauce) or Zisterzienser Brot, which translates to \"Cistercian bread\" (minced meat in a plum-and-bacon dressing with boiled potatoes). | Average main: \u20ac16 | Kloster Eberbach, via Kiedrich or Hattenheim | 06723/993\u2013299 | www.klostereberbach.de | No credit cards.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kronenschl\u00f6sschen.  \nFRENCH | The young chef Sebastian L\u00fchr, who took over in 2013, carries on the acclaimed culinary traditions that made this stylish and intimate art nouveau house one of the Rheingau's top restaurants. The wine list focuses on the finest local estates for whites, and old- and new-world estates for reds. In warmer months, you can also enjoy sensational fish creations in the parklike garden. | Average main: \u20ac44 | Rheinallee | Eltville-Hattenheim | 06723/640 | www.kronenschloesschen.de.\n\nSchloss Reinhartshausen.  \nGERMAN | A palace in every sense of the word, this hotel and wine estate overlooks the Rhine and beautifully landscaped gardens. Antiques and artwork fill the house. You can enjoy breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea with Rieslingtorte in the airy, glass-lined Wintergarten. Upscale dinners are served in the elegant Prinzess von Erbach. The less pricey Schloss Sch\u00e4nke, located in the old press house, serves light fare and hearty snacks. The estate's wines are also sold daily in the Vinothek. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Hauptstr. 41 | Eltville-Erbach | 06123/6760 | www.kempinski.com/en/eltville.\n\nZum Krug.  \nGERMAN | Winegrower Josef Laufer more than lives up to the hospitality promised by the wreath and Krug (an earthenware pitcher) hanging above the front door. The wood-panel restaurant, with its old tiled stove is cozy. The German fare includes wild duck, goose, game, or sauerbraten served in rich, flavorful sauces and gravies. The wine list is legendary for its scope (600 Rheingau wines) and selection of older vintages. In 2011, the former Hattenheim City Hall became part of Zum Krug's Rheingau-themed inn, nearly doubling its rooms to 15. | Average main: \u20ac23 | Hauptstr. 34 | Eltville-Hattenheim | 06723/99680 | www.hotel-zum-krug.de | Closed 4 wks in Dec. and Jan., and 2 wks in July and Aug.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nWeinhotel Hof Bechterm\u00fcnz.  \nHOTEL | Set within a 15th-century structure on Eltville's Weingut Koegler complex, Weinhotel Hof Bechterm\u00fcnz brings modern style to its historic setting (Johannes Gutenberg printed the world's first dictionary here in 1467). The 10 rooms are individually designed, and overseen by the charming Ferdinand and Renata Koegler. The wine cellar is noted for its Gr\u00fcner Veltliner, Riesling and Pinot Noir, while the Weingut's restaurant serves Rheingau specialties like Handk\u00e4s (hand-formed sour milk cheese). From Easter to October there's a lovely rose garden. Pros: historic and central setting; delicious wine selection. Cons: no a/c. | Rooms from: \u20ac140 | Kirchg. 5 | 06123/2437 | www.weingut-koegler.de/weinhotel | 10 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Oestrich-Winkel\n\n21 km (13 miles) west of Wiesbaden, 7 km (4\u00bd miles) west of Eltville on B-42.\n\nOestrich's vineyard area is the largest in the Rheingau. Lenchen and Doosberg are the most important vineyards. You can sample the wines at the outdoor wine-tasting stand, opposite the 18th-century wine-loading crane on the riverbank of Oestrich (nearly opposite Hotel Schwan).\n\n### Exploring\n\nBrentanohaus.  \nThe village of Winkel (pronounced vin-kle) lies west of Oestrich. A Winkeler Hasensprung wine from the 1811 vintage was Goethe's wine of choice during his stay here with the Brentano family in 1814. The Brentanohaus's Goethe Zimmer (Goethe Room), with mementos and furnishings from Goethe's time, is open to the public a few times a year, or by appointment. | Am Lindenpl. 2 | 06723/2068 | www.brentano.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss Johannisberg.  \nThe origins of this grand wine estate date from 1100, when Benedictine monks built a monastery and planted vines on the slopes below. The palace and remarkable cellars (tours by appointment) were built in the early 18th century. There are tastings at the estate's restaurant. To get here, first head to Winkel, to the west of Oestrich. From itsmain street, drive north on Schillerstrasse and proceed all the way uphill. After the road curves to the left, watch for the left turn to the castle. | Weinbaudom\u00e4ne Schloss Johannisberg | Geisenheim-Johannisberg | 06722/70090 | www.schloss-johannisberg.de | Wine shop: Mar., Apr., and Oct., weekdays 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20136; May\u2013Sept., weekdays 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20137; Nov.\u2013Feb., weekdays 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20135.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss Vollrads.  \nBuilt in 1211, Schloss Vollrads is the oldest of Germany's major wine estates. The tower, built in 1330 and surrounded by a moat, was the Greiffenclau residence for 350 years until the present palace was built in the 17th century. There is a wineshop, and the period rooms are open during concerts, festivals, and wine tastings. It's 3 km (2 miles) north of town. | Vollradser Allee | North on Kirchstr., continue on Vollradser Allee | 06723/6626 | www.schlossvollrads.com | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20136, weekends 11\u20137; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 9\u20135, weekends 11\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nDie Wirtschaft.  \nGERMAN | Beate and Florian Kreller provide you with a warm welcome to their historic building on Winkel's Hauptstrasse (main street). Fresh flowers and candles top the tables set in a labyrinth of cozy niches with exposed beams and old stone walls. No less inviting is the pretty courtyard. Special emphasis is placed on fresh, local ingredients in season. Their lunch (\u20ac9.50 for two courses and \u20ac11 for three) is a good deal. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Hauptstr. 70 | Winkel | 06723/7426 | www.die-wirtschaft.net | No credit cards | Closed Mon., and 2 wks in July and Aug. No dinner Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Gutsrestaurant Schloss Vollrads.  \nMEDITERRANEAN | Chef Alexander Ehrgott's seasonal German and light Mediterranean dishes are served with the estate's wines in the cavalier house (1650) or on the flower-lined terrace facing the garden. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Schloss Vollrads, Vollradser Allee, north of Winkel | 06723/660 | www.schlossvollrads.com/restaurant.html | Closed late Dec.\u2013Apr.; closed Mon. and Tues. Nov.\u2013mid-Dec.; closed Wed. May\u2013Oct.\n\nGutssch\u00e4nke Schloss Johannisberg.  \nGERMAN | The glassed-in terrace affords a spectacular view of the Rhine and the vineyards where the wine you're drinking originated. Rheingau Riesling soup and Bauernente (farmer's duck) are among the house specialties. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Schloss Johannisberg | Geisenheim-Johannisberg | 06722/96090 | www.schloss-johannisberg.de | Reservations essential.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Schwan.  \nB&B/INN | Owned by the Wenckstern family since it was built in 1628, this green-and-white half-timber inn offers considerable comfort, though the rooms in the guesthouse are simpler than in the historic main building. Many rooms have a Rhine view (Rooms 103, 106, 107, and 108 are especially nice), as does the beautiful terrace. The staff is friendly and helpful, and you can sample the family's wines in the cavernous wine cellar and in the restaurant, which has a lovely terrace ($ - $$) Pros: nice location right at the 18th-century crane on the river; outdoor wine stands. Cons: rooms in the guesthouse are plain. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | Rheinallee 5, Oestrich | 06723/8090 | www.hotel-schwan.de | 52 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## R\u00fcdesheim\n\n30 km (19 miles) west of Wiesbaden, 9 km (5\u00bd miles) west of Oestrich-Winkel on B-42.\n\nTourism and wine are the heart and soul of R\u00fcdesheim. With south-facing slopes reaching down to the riverbanks, wine growing has thrived here for 1,000 years. Since being discovered by English and German romanticists in the early 19th century for its picturesque solitude, R\u00fcdesheim has long lost its quiet innocence, as the narrow, medieval alleys fill with boatloads of cheerful visitors from all over the world.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nR\u00fcdesheim Tourist-Information. | Rheinstr. 29a | 06722/906\u2013150 | www.ruedesheim.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDrosselgasse (Thrush Alley).  \nLess than 500 feet long, Drosselgasse is a narrow, pub-lined lane that buzzes with music and merrymaking from noon until well past midnight every day from Easter through October. | between Rheinstr. and Oberstr.\n\nLuftsport-Club Rheingau.  \nWith the wings of a glider you can silently soar over the Rhine Valley. At the Luftsport-Club Rheingau you can catch a 30- to 60-minute Segelflug (glider flight) on a glider plane between R\u00fcdesheim and the Loreley; allow 1\u00bd hours for pre- and postflight preparations. | Flugplatz Eibinger Forstwiesen, Kammerforsterstr., 3 km (2 miles) north of Niederwald-Denkmal and Landgut Ebenthal | 06722/2979 | www.lsc-rheingau.de | First 5 mins \u20ac15, each additional min \u20ac0.50; first 15 mins in glider with motor \u20ac30, each additional min \u20ac2 | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekends 10\u20137.\n\nNiederwalddenkmal.  \nHigh above R\u00fcdesheim and visible for miles stands Germania, a colossal female statue crowning the Niederwald Monument. This tribute to German nationalism, all spruced up following a renovation in 2012, was built between 1877 and 1883 to commemorate the rebirth of the German Empire after the Franco-Prussian War (1870\u201371). Germania faces across the Rhine toward its eternal enemy, France. At her base are the words to a stirring patriotic song: \"Dear Fatherland, rest peacefully! Fast and true stands the watch, the watch on the Rhine!\" There are splendid panoramic views from the monument and from other vantage points on the edge of the forested plateau. You can reach the monument on foot, by car (via Grabenstrasse), or over the vineyards in the Seilbahn (cable car). There's also a Sessellift (chairlift) to and from Assmannshausen, a red-wine enclave, on the other side of the hill; for \u20ac13, a \"Ringticket\" will take you from the Old Town to Niederwald by Seilbahn, from Niederwald to Assmannshausen by Sessellift, and back to R\u00fcdesheim by boat. | Oberstr. 37 | 06722/2402 | www.seilbahn-ruedesheim.de | One-way \u20ac5, round-trip \u20ac7, combined ticket for cable car and chairlift \u20ac7.50 | Mar., Apr., and Oct., weekdays 9:30\u20135, weekends 9:30\u20136; May, daily 9:30\u20136; June and Sept., weekdays 9:30\u20136, weekends 9:30\u20137; July and Aug., daily 9:30\u20137; Nov., daily 9:30\u20134; early and mid-Dec., weekdays 11\u20136, weekends 11\u20137.\n\nWeinmuseum Br\u00f6mserburg (Br\u00f6mserburg Wine Museum).  \nHoused in one of the oldest castles on the Rhine (it was built around the year 1000), the museum displays wine-related artifacts and drinking vessels dating from Roman times.TIP There are great views from the roof and the terrace, where there are occasionally wine tastings (ask at the desk). | Rheinstr. 2 | 06722/2348 | www.rheingauer-weinmuseum.de | \u20ac5 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nBreuer's R\u00fcdesheimer Schloss.  \nHOTEL | Vineyard views grace most of the rooms at this stylish, historic hotel where guests are welcomed with a drink from the family's Rheingau wine estate. Gracious hosts Susanne and Heinrich Breuer, whose daughter Maresa was named Rheingau Wine Queen, can arrange cellar and vineyard tours as well as wine tastings. Live piano music is played at the family's restaurant. Pros: right off the Drosselgasse; if you stay a week you only pay for six days. Cons: noisy tourist area. | Rooms from: \u20ac155 | Steing. 10 | 06722/90500 | www.ruedesheimer-schloss.com | 23 rooms, 3 suites | Closed late Dec.\u2013early Jan. | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Krone Assmannshausen.  \nHOTEL | From its humble beginnings in 1541 as an inn for sailors and ferrymen, the Krone evolved into an elegant, antique-filled hotel with a fine restaurant ($$$$). Rooms at the back of the hotel face busy railroad tracks, but thick glass provides good soundproofing. Two of the suites have their own sauna. Pros: restaurant has a terrace overlooking the Rhine; lovely views of vineyards as well as river. Cons: right on a main rail line; rooms at the back have a less than spectacular view. | Rooms from: \u20ac139 | Rheinuferstr. 10 | R\u00fcdesheim-Assmannshausen | 06722/4030 | www.hotel-krone.com | 53 rooms, 12 suites, 1 penthouse | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nBingen | Bacharach | Oberwesel | St. Goar | St. Goarshausen | Boppard | Koblenz\n\nBingen, like R\u00fcdesheim, is a gateway to the Mittelrhein. From here to Koblenz lies the greatest concentration of Rhine castles. Most date from the 12th and 13th centuries, but were destroyed after the invention of gunpowder, mainly during invasions by the French. It's primarily thanks to the Prussian royal family and its penchant for historical preservation that numerous Rhine castles were rebuilt or restored in the 19th and early 20th centuries.\n\nTwo roads run parallel to the Rhine: B-42 (east side) and B-9 (west side). The spectacular views from the heights can best be enjoyed via the routes known as the Loreley-Burgenstrasse (east side), from Kaub to the Loreley to Kamp-Bornhofen; or the Rheingoldstrasse (west side), from Rheindiebach to Rhens.\n\n## Bingen\n\n35 km (22 miles) west of Wiesbaden via Mainz and A-60; ferry from wharf opposite R\u00fcdesheim's train station.\n\nBingen overlooks the Nahe-Rhine conflux near a treacherous stretch of shallows and rapids known as the Binger Loch (Bingen Hole). Early on, Bingen developed into an important commercial center, for it was here\u2014as in R\u00fcdesheim on the opposite shore\u2014that goods were moved from ship to shore to circumvent the impassable waters. Bingen was also the crossroads of Roman trade routes between Mainz, Koblenz, and Trier. Thanks to this central location, it grew into a major center of the wine trade and remains so today. Wine is celebrated during 11 days of merrymaking in late August and early September at the annual Winzerfest.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBingen Tourist-Information. | Rheinkai 21 | 06721/184\u2013205 | www.bingen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBasilika St. Martin.  \nThe late-Gothic Basilika St. Martin was built on the site of a Roman temple and first mentioned in 793. The 11th-century crypt and Gothic and baroque furnishings make it worth a visit. Not far away is the thousand-year-old Drususbr\u00fccke, a stone bridge that runs over the Nahe. | Basilikastr. 1 | Mon. and Wed.\u2013Fri. 8\u20135; Tues. and weekends 8\u20138.\n\nBurg Klopp.  \nBingen was destroyed repeatedly by wars and fires; thus there are many ancient foundations but few visible architectural remains of the past. Since Celtic times the Kloppberg (Klopp Hill), in the center of town, has been the site of a succession of citadels, all named Burg Klopp, since 1282. Here you'll find a terrace with good views of the Rhine, the Nahe, and the surrounding hills. From April to October, the castle's tower can be climbed from 8 to 6 daily. | Kloppg. 1.\n\nFodor's Choice | Historisches Museum am Strom (History Museum).  \nHere you can see the most intact set of Roman surgical tools ever discovered (2nd century), period rooms from the Rhine Romantic era, and displays about Abbess St. Hildegard von Bingen (1098\u20131179), one of the most remarkable women of the Middle Ages. An outspoken critic of papal and imperial machinations, she was a highly respected scholar, naturopath, and artist whose mystic writings and (especially) music became very popular from the 1990s onward. An excellent illustrated booklet in English on Rhine Romanticism, The Romantic Rhine, is sold at the museum shop. The museum is housed in a former power station (1898) on the riverbank. | Museumsstr. 3 | 06721/184\u2013350, 06721/184\u2013353 | www.bingen.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nRochuskapelle (St. Roch Chapel).  \nThe forested plateau of the Rochusberg (St. Roch Hill) is the pretty setting of the Rochuskapelle. Originally built in 1666 to celebrate the end of the plague, it has been rebuilt twice. On August 16, 1814, Goethe attended the consecration festivities, the forerunner of today's Rochusfest, a weeklong folk festival in mid-August. The chapel (open during Sunday services at 8 and 10) contains an altar dedicated to St. Hildegard and relics and furnishings from the convents she founded on the Ruppertsberg (in the suburb of Bingerbr\u00fcck) and in Eibingen (east of R\u00fcdesheim). | Rochusberg 3 | 06721/14225.\n\nHildegard Forum.  \nLocated near the St. Roch Chapel, the Hildegard Forum has exhibits related to St. Hildegard, a medieval herb garden, and a restaurant serving tasty, wholesome foods\u2014many based on Hildegard's theories of nutrition. The lunch buffets are a good value. | Rochusberg 1 | 06721/181\u2013000 | www.hildegard-forum.de | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nFodor's Choice | Johann Lafer's Stromburg.  \nEUROPEAN | It's a pretty 15-minute drive through the Binger Wald (Bingen Forest) to this luxurious castle hotel and restaurant overlooking Stromberg. Johann Lafer is a prolific chef who pioneered cooking shows in Germany. In the elegant Val d'Or the Variationen (medley) of foie gras and the Hirschr\u00fccken mit Rosenkohl (venison with Brussels sprouts) are classics. The less formal Bistro d'Or serves tasty regional dishes. The wine list features some 200 top Nahe wines and several hundred Old and New World wines, with a particularly fine collection from Bordeaux and Burgundy. | Average main: \u20ac46 | Am Schlossberg 1, 12 km (7\u00bd miles) west of Bingerbr\u00fcck via Weiler and Waldalgesheim | Stromberg | 06724/93100 | www.johannlafer.de/stromburg | Reservations essential | Le Val d'Or closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch weekdays.\n\nWeinstube Kruger-Rumpf.  \nGERMAN | It's well worth the 10-minute drive from Bingen (just across the Nahe River) to enjoy Cornelia Rumpf's refined country cooking with Stefan Rumpf's exquisite Nahe wines. Seasonal house specialties include geschmorte Schweinebacken (braised pork jowls) with kohlrabi, boiled beef with green herb sauce, and Winzerschmaus (a casserole of potatoes, sauerkraut, bacon, cheese, and herbs). The house dates from 1790; the wisteria-draped garden beckons in summer. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Rheinstr. 47, 4 km (2\u00bd miles) southwest of Bingen | M\u00fcnster-Sarmsheim | 06721/43859 | www.kruger-rumpf.com | Reservations essential | Closed Mon. and 2 wks in Jan. No lunch weekdays.\n\nEn Route: M\u00e4useturm (Mouse Tower).  \nOn the 5-km (3-mile) drive on B-9 to Trechtingshausen you will pass by Bingen's landmark, the M\u00e4useturm, perched on a rocky island near the Binger Loch. The name derives from a gruesome legend. One version tells that during a famine in 969 the miserly Archbishop Hatto hoarded grain and sought refuge in the tower to escape the peasants' pleas for food. The stockpile attracted scads of mice to the tower, where they devoured everything in sight, including Hatto. In fact, the tower was built by the archbishops of Mainz in the 13th and 14th centuries as a Mautturm (watch tower and toll station) for their fortress, Ehrenfels, on the opposite shore (now a ruin). It was restored in neo-Gothic style by the king of Prussia in 1855, who also rebuilt Burg Sooneck. | M\u00e4useturminsel.\n\nThe three castles open for visits near Trechtingshausen (turnoffs are signposted on B-9) will especially appeal to lovers of history and art. As you enter each castle's gateway, consider what a feat of engineering it was to have built such a massive Burg (fortress or castle) on the stony cliffs overlooking the Rhine. They have all lain in ruin once or more during their turbulent histories. Their outer walls and period rooms still evoke memories of Germany's medieval past as well as the 19th-century era of Rhine Romanticism.\n\nBurg Rheinstein.  \nThis castle was the home of Rudolf von Habsburg from 1282 to 1286. To establish law and order on the Rhine, he destroyed the neighboring castles of Burg Reichenstein and Burg Sooneck and hanged their notorious robber barons from the oak trees around the Clemens Church, a late-Romanesque basilica near Trechtingshausen. The Gobelin tapestries, 15th-century stained glass, wall and ceiling frescoes, a floor of royal apartments, and antique furniture\u2014including a rare \"giraffe spinet,\" which Kaiser Wilhelm I is said to have played\u2014are the highlights here. All of this is illuminated by candlelight on some summer Fridays. Rheinstein was the first of many a Rhine ruin to be rebuilt by a royal Prussian family in the 19th century. | From the A-61, take exit AS Bingen center. Continue on the B-9 heading toward Bingerbr\u00fcck, driving through Bingerbr\u00fcck; the castle is between Bingerbr\u00fcck and Trechtingshausen; parking is below the castle, at B-9 | Trechtingshausen | 06721/6348 | www.burg-rheinstein.de | \u20ac5 | Mid-Mar.\u2013mid-Nov., daily 9:30\u20136; mid-Nov.\u2013late Dec. and early to mid-Mar., weekends only 10\u20135 (weather permitting\u2014call ahead).\n\nBurg Reichenstein.  \nThis castle has collections of decorative cast-iron slabs (from ovens and historical room-heating devices), hunting weapons and armor, period rooms, and paintings. It's the only one of the area's three castles directly accessible by car. | Burgweg 7 | Trechtingshausen | 06721/6117 | www.burg-reichenstein.de | \u20ac4.50 | Mar.\u2013mid-Nov., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; mid-Nov.\u2013Feb., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135 (weather permitting\u2014call ahead).\n\nBurg Sooneck.  \nOn the edge of the Soon (pronounced zone) Forest, this castle houses a valuable collection of Empire, Biedermeier, and neo-Gothic furnishings, medieval weapons, and paintings from the Rhine Romantic era. | Sooneckstr. 1 | Niederheimbach | 06743/6064 | www.burgen-rlp.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Oct., Nov., and Jan.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20135.\n\n## Bacharach\n\n16 km (10 miles) north of Bingen, ferry 3 km (2 miles) north of town, to Kaub.\n\nBacharach, whose name may derive from the Latin Bacchi ara (altar of Bacchus), has long been associated with wine. Like R\u00fcdesheim, Bingen, and Kaub, it was a shipping station where barrels would interrupt their Rhine journey for land transport. Riesling wine from the town's most famous vineyard, the Bacharacher Hahn, is served on the KD Rhine steamers, and Riesling is used in local cooking for marinades and sauces; you can even find Riesling ice cream. In June you can sample wines at the Weinbl\u00fctenfest (Vine Blossom Festival) in the side-valley suburb of Steeg, and, in late August, at Kulinarische Sommernacht in Bacharach proper (www.kulinarische-sommernacht.de).\n\nPark on the riverbank and enter the town through one of its medieval gateways. You can ascend the 14th-century town wall for a walk along the ramparts around the town, then stroll along the main street (one street but three names: Koblenzer Strasse, Oberstrasse, and Mainzer Strasse) for a look at patrician manors, typically built around a Hof (courtyard), and half-timber houses. Haus Sickingen, Posthof, Zollhof, Rathaus (Town Hall), and Altes Haus are fine examples.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBacharach Tourist-Information. | Oberstr. 10 | 06743/919\u2013303 | www.rhein-nahe-touristik.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nSt. Peter.  \nThe massive tower in the center of town belongs to the parish church of St. Peter. A good example of the transition from Romanesque to Gothic styles, it has an impressive four-story nave. | Bl\u00fccherstr. 1.\n\nWernerkapelle.  \nFrom the parish church a set of stone steps (signposted) leads to Bacharach's landmark, the sandstone ruins of the Gothic Wernerkapelle, highly admired for its filigree tracery. The chapel's roof succumbed to falling rocks in 1689, when the French blew up Burg Stahleck. Originally a Staufen fortress (11th century), the castle lay dormant until 1925, when a youth hostel was built on the foundations. The sweeping views from there are worth the 10-minute walk. | Obertstr.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Altes Haus.  \nGERMAN | This charming medieval half-timber house (1368) is a favorite setting for films and photos. The restaurant uses the freshest ingredients possible and buys meat and game from local butchers and hunters. Rieslingrahmsuppe (Riesling cream soup), Reibekuchen (potato pancakes), and a refined version of boiled beef with horseradish sauce, Tafelspitz mit Wasabi, are favorites, in addition to the seasonal specialties. There is also a good selection of local wines. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Oberstr. 61 | 06743/1209 | Closed Wed. and Dec.\u2013Easter; closed weekdays in Apr. and Nov.\n\nGutsausschank Zum Gr\u00fcnen Baum.  \nGERMAN | The Bastian family (also owners of the vineyard Insel Heyles'en Werth, on the island opposite Bacharach) runs this cozy tavern in a half-timber house dating from 1421. The \"wine carousel\" is a great way to sample a full range of wine flavors and styles (15 wines). Snacks are served (from 1 pm), including delicious Wilds\u00fclze (game in aspic), with potato salad, sausages, and cheese. Reservations are a good idea on summer weekends. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Oberstr. 63 | 06743/1208 | www.weingut-bastian-bacharach.de | Closed Thurs. and Jan.\u2013mid-Mar.\n\nAltk\u00f6lnischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | Flowers line the windows of country-style rooms in this pretty half-timber hotel near the market square. The Scherschlicht family provides simply but attractively furnished lodgings, and some of the rooms have balconies. Four apartments with kitchens round out the offerings. Pros: half-timber romance. Cons: noisy tourist area; 10-minute walk from the station. | Rooms from: \u20ac60 | Bl\u00fccherstr. 2 | 06743/1339 | www.altkoelnischer-hof.de | 18 rooms, 2 suites, 4 apartments | Closed Nov.\u2013Mar. | Breakfast.\n\nRhein-Hotel Bacharach.  \nHOTEL | The modern rooms in this friendly, family-run operation, each of them named after a vineyard, come with Rhine and castle views. The hotel is right at the town wall, a few steps from the town center and beneath a castle. The St\u00fcber family's restaurant has an excellent selection of Bacharacher wines to accompany the elegantly prepared Bacharacher Rieslingbraten (braised beef) and other regional specialties. Pros: Rhine and castle views; free bike and laptop loans for hotel guests. Cons: no elevator; next to railway. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Langstr. 50 | 06743/1243 | www.rhein-hotel-bacharach.de | 13 rooms, 1 apartment | Closed late Dec.\u2013Feb. | Breakfast.\n\n## Oberwesel\n\n8 km (5 miles) north of Bacharach.\n\nOberwesel retains its medieval silhouette. Sixteen of the original 21 towers and much of the town wall still stand in the shadow of Sch\u00f6nburg Castle. The \"town of towers\" is also renowned for its Riesling wines, which are celebrated during a festival held the first half of September. Both Gothic churches, on opposite ends of town, are worth visiting.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nOberwesel Tourist-Information. | Rathausstr. 3 | 06744/710\u2013624 | www.oberwesel.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nLiebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nPopularly known as the \"red church\" because of its brightly colored exterior, Liebfrauenkirche has superb sculptures, tombstones and paintings, and one of Germany's oldest altars (1331). | Kirchstr. 1.\n\nSt. Martin.  \nSet on a hill and with a fortresslike tower, the so-called \"white church\" has beautifully painted vaulting and a magnificent baroque altar. | Martinsberg 1.\n\nStadtmuseum Oberwesel.  \nOberwesel's city museum offers a virtual tour of the town, as well as a multimedia \"journey through time\" showing the area from the Stone Age to present day. It also houses a fine collection of old etchings and drawings of the Rhine Valley, including one by John Gardnor, an English clergyman and painter, who published a book of sketches upon his return to England and kicked off a wave of Romantic tourism in the late 18th century. | Rathausstr. 23 | 06744/714\u2013726 | www.kulturhaus-oberwesel.de | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20135, weekends 2\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20132.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nHistorische Weinwirtschaft.  \nGERMAN | Tables in the flower-laden garden in front of this lovingly restored half-timber house are at a premium in summer, thought the seats in the nooks and crannies indoors are just as inviting. Dark beams, exposed stone walls, and antique furniture set the mood on the ground and first floors, and the vaulted cellar houses contemporary-art exhibitions. Ask Iris Marx, the ebullient proprietor, for an English menu if you're stumbling over the words in local dialect. She offers country cooking at its best. The wine list has 32 wines by the glass. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Liebfrauenstr. 17 | 06744/8186 | www.historische-weinwirtschaft.de | Closed Tues. and Jan. No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat.\n\nHotel R\u00f6merkrug.  \nGERMAN | Rooms with exposed beams, pretty floral prints, and historic furnishings are tucked behind the half-timber facade (1458) of Elke Matzner's small inn on the market square. Fish (such as fresh trout from the Wisper Valley) and game are house specialties, but Marc Matzner also prepares local favorites, such as Himmel und Erde (mashed apples and potatoes with bacon and onions). There's a well-chosen selection of Mittelrhein wines that can be bought to take home. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Marktpl. 1 | 06744/7091 | www.hotel-roemerkrug.rhinecastles.com | Closed Wed. and 3 wks in Nov. and Feb.\n\nFodor's Choice | Burghotel \"Auf Sch\u00f6nburg\"B&B/INN | Antique furnishings and historic rooms (a library, chapel, and prison tower) make for an unforgettable stay at this lovingly restored hotel and restaurant in the 12th-century Sch\u00f6nburg Castle complex. The restaurant ($$$; no lunch Monday), has a Rhine view and terrace seating in the castle's courtyard; the experience is further enhanced by the extraordinarily friendly and personal service. If you have only a night or two in the area, this hotel's first-rate lodging, food, and wine make it a great place to splurge. Pros: castle right out of a storybook. Cons: lots of climbing; parking lot 100 yards downhill; train tracks nearby; very expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac220 | Oberwesel | 06744/93930 | www.hotel-schoenburg.com | 20 rooms, 5 suites | Closed early Jan.\u2013mid-Mar. | Breakfast.\n\n## St. Goar\n\n7 km (4\u00bd miles) north of Oberwesel, ferry to St. Goarshausen.\n\nSt. Goar and St. Goarshausen, its counterpoint on the opposite shore, are named after a Celtic missionary who settled here in the 6th century. He became the patron saint of innkeepers\u2014an auspicious sign for both towns, which now live off tourism and wine. September is especially busy, with Weinforum Mittelrhein (a major wine-and-food presentation in Burg Rheinfels) on the first weekend, and the annual wine festivals and the splendid fireworks display \"Rhine in Flames\" on the third weekend.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nHighway B-9 and rail service link St. Goar to other towns on the Mittelrhein's west side; ferries to St. Goarshausen connect it to the east.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nSt. Goar Tourist-Information. | Heerstr. 86 | 06741/383 | www.st-goar.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Burg Rheinfels.  \nThe castle ruins overlooking the town bear witness to the fact that St. Goar was once the best-fortified town in the Mittelrhein. From its beginnings in 1245, it was repeatedly enlarged by the counts of Katzenelnbogen, a powerful local dynasty, and their successors, the Landgraviate of Hesse. Rheinfels was finally blasted by the French in 1797. Take time for a walk through the impressive ruins and the museum, which has a detailed model of how the fortress looked in its heyday. To avoid the steep ascent on foot, buy a round-trip ticket (\u20ac4) for the Burgexpress, which departs from the bus stop on Heerstrasse, opposite the riverside parking lot for tour buses. | Off Schlossberg Str. | 06741/7753 | www.burg-rheinfels.com | \u20ac4 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; early Nov., daily 9\u20135; mid-Nov.\u2013mid-Mar., weekends 11\u20135.\n\nStiftskirche.  \nThis 15th-century collegiate church was built atop the tomb of St. Goar, despite the fact that the tomb itself (an ancient pilgrimage site) was discovered to be empty during the church's construction. The 11th-century crypt has been called the most beautiful to be found on the Rhine, between K\u00f6ln and Speyer. | Marktpl. | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 11\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWeinhotel Landsknecht.  \nGERMAN | Members of the Nickenig family make everyone feel at home in their riverside restaurant and hotel north of St. Goar. Daughter Martina and her winemaker husband, Joachim Lorenz, operate the Vinothek, where you can sample his delicious Bopparder Hamm wines. These go well with the hearty local dishes, such as Rhine-style Sauerbraten or seasonal specialties (asparagus, game), at the Ausblick restaurant. TIP The hotel is an official Rheinsteig and Rhein-Burgen trail partner\u2014perfect for hikers. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Rheinuferstr. B-9 | St. Goar\u2013Fellen | 06741/2011 | www.hotel-landsknecht.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Romantik Hotel Schloss Rheinfels.  \nHOTEL | Directly opposite Burg Rheinfels, this hotel offers modern comfort and expansive views from rooms furnished in country-manor style. The hotel's three restaurants serve local, home-style cooking as well as elaborate seven-course meals. Pros: marvelous views of the Rhine and the town. Cons: villa section, with one of the suites and all three of the apartments, is well removed from the hotel and lacking charm. | Rooms from: \u20ac170 | Schlossberg 47 | 06741/8020 | www.schloss-rheinfels.de | 55 rooms, 4 apartments, 4 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## St. Goarshausen\n\n29 km (18 miles) north of R\u00fcdesheim, ferry from St. Goar.\n\nThe town closest to the famous Loreley rock, the pretty St. Goarshausen even calls itself Die Loreleystadt (Loreley City). It's a popular destination for Rhineland travelers, especially during the Weinwoche (Wine Week festival), which leads up to the third weekend in September.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRoads (B-42 and B-274) and rail service connect St. Goarshausen to neighboring towns on the east side of the Mittelrhein. Ferries to St. Goar link it to the west.\n\n### Exploring\n\nKatz and Maus Castles.  \nSt. Goarshausen lies at the foot of two 14th-century castles whose names, Katz (Cat) and Maus (Mouse), reflect but one of the many power plays on the Rhine in the Middle Ages. Territorial supremacy and the privilege of collecting tolls fueled the fires of rivalry. In response to the construction of Burg Rheinfels, the archbishop of Trier erected a small castle north of St. Goarshausen to protect his interests. In turn, the masters of Rheinfels, the counts of Katzenelnbogen, built a bigger castle directly above the town. Its name was shortened to Katz, and its smaller neighbor was scornfully referred to as Maus. Both castles are closed to the public.\n\nLiebenstein and Sterrenberg.  \nSome 10 km (6 miles) north of the Maus castle, near Kamp-Bornhofen, is a castle duo separated by a \"quarrel wall\": Liebenstein and Sterrenberg, known as the Feindliche Br\u00fcder (rival brothers). Both impressive ruins have terrace caf\u00e9s with good views. | Zu den Burgen 1 | Kamp-Bornhofen.\n\nLoreley.  \nOne of the Rhineland's main attractions lies 4 km (2\u00bd miles) south of St. Goarshausen: the steep (430-foot-high) slate cliff named after the beautiful blond nymph Loreley. Here she supposedly sat, singing songs so lovely that sailors and fishermen were lured to the treacherous rapids\u2014and their demise. The rapids really were treacherous: the Rhine is at its narrowest here and the current the swiftest. The Loreley nymph was invented in 1801 by author Clemens Brentano, who drew his inspiration from the sirens of Greek legend. Her tale was retold as a ballad by Heinrich Heine and set to music by Friedrich Silcher at the height of Rhine Romanticism in the 19th century. The haunting melody is played on the PA systems of the Rhine boats whenever the Loreley is approached. | Lorely Visitor Center, Auf der Loreley 7.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Loreley Besucherzentrum.  \nThe 3-D, 20-minute film and hands-on exhibits at this visitor center are entertaining ways to learn about the region's flora and fauna, geology, wine, shipping, and, above all, the myth of the Loreley. You can stock up on souvenirs in the shop and have a snack at the bistro before heading for the nearby vantage point at the cliff's summit. The center is on the Rheinsteig trail, and other hiking trails are signposted in the landscaped park. From Easter to October there's hourly bus service to and from the KD steamer landing in St. Goarshausen. | Auf der Loreley 7 | 06771/599\u2013093 | www.loreley-besucherzentrum.de | \u20ac2.50 | Mar., daily 10\u20135; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., weekends 11\u20134.\n\n## Boppard\n\n17 km (11 miles) north of St. Goar, ferry to Filsen.\n\nBoppard is a pleasant little resort that evolved from a Celtic settlement into a Roman fortress, Frankish royal court, and Free Imperial City. Boppard's tourism board conducts walking tours (in German, \u20ac3) mid-April to mid-October, Saturday at 11, starting at its office on the market square. Special tours in English are also bookable for groups.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBoppard Tourist-Information. | Am Marktplatz, Altes Rathaus | 06742/3888 | Fax 06742/81402 | www.boppard-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBodobrica.  \nThe Roman garrison Bodobrica, established here in the 4th century, was enclosed by a 26-foot-high rectangular wall (1,010 by 505 feet) with 28 defense towers. You can see portions of these in a fascinating open-air archaeological park. | Angertstr., near B-9 and the railroad tracks.\n\nKarmeliterkirche (Carmelite Church).  \nTwo baroque altars dominate the interior of the Gothic Karmeliterkirche on Karmeliterstrasse, near the Rhine. It houses intricately carved choir stalls and tombstones and several beautiful Madonnas. Growers still observe the old custom of laying the first-picked Trauben (grapes) at the foot of the Traubenmadonna (1330) to ensure a good harvest. The annual wine festival takes place in late September or early October, just before the Riesling harvest. | Rheinallee 44.\n\nSeveruskirche (Church of St. Severus).  \nExcavations in the 1960s revealed ancient Roman baths beneath the twin-tower, Romanesque Severuskirche on the market square. The large triumphal crucifix over the main altar and a lovely statue of a smiling Madonna date from the 13th century. | Marktpl.\n\nVierseenblick.  \nFrom the M\u00fchltal station, let the Sesselbahn (chairlift) whisk you a half-mile uphill to the Vierseenblick, where the Rhine looks like a chain of lakes. | M\u00fchltal 12 | 06742/2510 | www.sesselbahn-boppard.de | Round-trip \u20ac7 | Mid-Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20136; 1st half of Apr. and last half of Oct., daily 10\u20135; 1st half of Oct., daily 10\u20135:30.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWeinhaus Heilig Grab.  \nGERMAN | This wine estate's tavern, Boppard's oldest, is full of smiling faces: the wines are excellent, the food is simple and hearty, and the welcome is warm. Old chestnut trees shade tables in the courtyard. If you'd like to visit the cellars or vineyards, ask the friendly hosts. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Zelkesg. 12 | 06742/2371 | www.heiliggrab.de | Closed Tues. and 3 wks late Dec.\u2013early Jan. No lunch.\n\nBest Western Bellevue Rheinhotel.  \nHOTEL | You can enjoy a Rhine view from many of the rooms in this traditional hotel or from the terrace next to the waterfront promenade. Afternoon tea and dinner are served in the upscale restaurant Le Chopin ($$$$), while Le Bristol ($$) serves more regional fare. Pros: marvelous view. Cons: parking is a problem; breakfast costs \u20ac11 extra. | Rooms from: \u20ac170 | Rheinallee 41 | 06742/1020 | www.bellevue-boppard.de | 93 rooms, 1 suite | No meals.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\nMittelrhein Klettersteig.  \nFor those with Alpine hiking ambitions, there is this climbing path, a \"via ferrata\" complete with cables, steps, and ladders to help reach heights more quickly. It's an alternate route of the Rhein-Burgen-Wanderweg (hiking trail from Koblenz to Bingen). The trail starts at St.-Remigius-Platz, about 1 km (\u00bd mile) from Boppard Hauptbahnhof. Allow two to three hours for the climb, though there are several possibilities to return to the \"normal\" path in-between climbs. Rent the necessary gear at the Aral gas station on Koblenzer Strasse in Boppard. | St.-Remigius-Pl. | 06742/2447 for Aral gas station.\n\nWeinwanderweg (Wine Hiking Trail).  \nThe 10-km (6-mile) hiking trail from Boppard to Spay begins north of town on Peternacher Weg. Many other marked trails in the vicinity are outlined on maps and in brochures available from the tourist office.\n\nEn Route: Marksburg.  \nOn the eastern shore overlooking the town of Braubach is the Marksburg. Built in the 13th century to protect the silver and lead mines in the area, it's the only land-based castle on the Rhine to have survived the centuries intact. Within its massive walls are a collection of weapons and manuscripts, a medieval botanical garden, and a self-service restaurant. Try to get a table on the terrace to enjoy the stunning view. | 02627/206 | www.marksburg.de | \u20ac6 | Easter\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Easter, daily 11\u20134.\n\nSchloss Stolzenfels. On the outskirts of Koblenz, the neo-Gothic towers of Schloss Stolzenfels come into view. The castle's origins date to the mid-13th century, when the archbishop of Trier sought to counter the influence (and toll rights) of the archbishop of Mainz, who had just built Burg Lahneck, a castle at the confluence of the Lahn and Rhine rivers. Its superbly furnished period rooms and beautiful gardens are well worth a visit. From B-9 (curbside parking) it's about a 15-minute walk to the castle entrance. | 0261/51656 | stolzenfels.gdke.webseiten.cc | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Oct., Nov., and Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20135; Jan. and Feb., weekends 9\u20135.\n\n## Koblenz\n\n20 km (12 miles) north of Boppard.\n\nThe ancient city of Koblenz is at a geographic nexus known as the Deutsches Eck (German Corner) in the heart of the Mittelrhein region. Rivers and mountains converge here: the Mosel flows into the Rhine on one side; the Lahn flows in on the other a few miles south; and three mountain ridges intersect.\n\nFounded by the Romans in AD 9, the city was first called Castrum ad Confluentes (Fort at the Confluence). It became a powerful city in the Middle Ages, when it controlled trade on both the Rhine and the Mosel. Air raids during World War II destroyed 85% of the city, but extensive restoration has done much to re-create its former atmosphere. As the host of Germany's Federal Horticultural Show in 2011, the city saw widespread urban development, including the new Seilbahn that transports visitors across the river and up to the Ehrenbreitstein fortress.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nYou can get here speedily by autobahn or train, or via a leisurely scenic drive along the Rhine (or even more mellow, by cruise boat). The Koblenz tourist office has guided English-language tours on Saturday at 3 from May to October. Tours are \u20ac3 and depart from the Historisches Rathaus on Jesuitenplatz.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nKoblenz Tourist-Information. | Jesuitenpl. 2\u20134, in Forum Confluentes | 0261/130\u2013920 | www.koblenz-touristik.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nDeutsches Eck (German Corner).  \nThis pointed bit of land, jutting into the river like the prow of an early ironclad warship, is at the sharp intersection of the Rhine and Mosel rivers. One of the more effusive manifestations of German nationalism\u2014an 1897 equestrian statue of Kaiser Wilhelm I, first emperor of the newly united Germany\u2014was erected here. It was destroyed at the end of World War II and replaced in 1953 with a ponderous monument to Germany's unity. After German reunification a new statue of Wilhelm was placed atop this monument in 1993. Pieces of the Berlin Wall stand on the Mosel side\u2014a memorial to those who died as a result of the partitioning of the country.\n\nFestung Ehrenbreitstein.  \nEurope's largest fortress, towering 400 feet above the left bank of the Rhine, offers a magnificent view over Koblenz and where the Mosel and the Rhine rivers meet. The earliest buildings date from about 1100, but the bulk of the fortress was constructed in the 16th century. In 1801 it was partially destroyed by Napol\u00e9on, and the French occupied Koblenz for the next 18 years. For an introduction to the fortress and its history, head for the Besucherdienst (visitor center). English-language tours are for groups only, but you can often join a group that is registered for a tour.\n\nA Seilbahn carries you from the street Konrad-Adenauer-Ufer over the river to Ehrenbreitstein, with spectacular views of the Deutsches Eck below. The half-mile trip can accommodate 7,000 passengers in an hour. Lifts run continually throughout the day starting at 10 am. From late March to late October they run until 6 pm, from late April to early September till 7 pm, and from November to late March they run on weekdays only until 5 pm. | 0261/6675\u20134000 | www.diefestungehrenbreitstein.de | Fortress entrance \u20ac6, Seilbahn \u20ac8 round-trip, combined ticket \u20ac11.80 | Mid-Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013mid-Apr., daily 10\u20135; year-round, free access to grounds and dining usually till midnight.\n\nLandesmuseum Koblenz (State Museum).  \nThe Festung Ehrenbreitstein's museum has exhibits on the history of local technologies, from wine growing to technology. Pride of place is given over to the fortress's 16th-century Vogel Greif cannon, which has done a lot of traveling over the years. The French absconded with it in 1794, the Germans took it back in 1940, and the French commandeered it again in 1945. The 15-ton cannon was peaceably returned by French president Fran\u00e7ois Mitterrand in 1984. | Festung Ehrenbreitstein | 0261/66750 | www.landesmuseum-koblenz.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\nLudwig Museum.  \nJust behind the Deutsches Eck, housed in the spic-and-span Deutschherrenhaus, is this restored 13th-century building. Industrialist Peter Ludwig, one of Germany's leading contemporary-art collectors, has filled this museum with part of his huge collection. | Danziger Freiheit 1 | 0261/304\u2013040 | www.ludwigmuseum.org | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sat. 10:30\u20135, Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nMittelrhein Museum.  \nRelocated in 2013 to the new Forum Confluentes, this museum houses the city's art collection, including extensive holdings of landscapes focusing on the Rhine. It also has a notable collection of secular medieval art and works by regional artists. | Zentralpl. 1 | 0261/129\u20132520 | www.mittelrhein-museum.de | \u20ac6, \u20ac6\u20138 for special exhibition, \u20ac10 for both | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nSt. Kastor Basilika (St. Castor Basilica).  \nIt was in this sturdy Romanesque basilica, consecrated in 836, that plans were drawn for the Treaty of Verdun a few years later, formalizing the division of Charlemagne's great empire and leading to the creation of Germany and France as separate states. Inside, compare the squat Romanesque columns in the nave with the intricate fan vaulting of the Gothic sections. The St. Kastor Fountain outside the church is an intriguing piece of historical one-upmanship. It was built by the occupying French to mark the beginning of Napol\u00e9on's ultimately disastrous Russian campaign of 1812. | Kastorhof | www.sankt-kastor-koblenz.de | Daily 9\u20136.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nKurf\u00fcrstliches Schloss.  \nStrolling along the promenade toward town, you'll pass this gracious castle. It was built in the late 18th century by Prince-Elector Clemens Wenzeslaus as an elegant escape from the grim Ehrenbreitstein fortress. Though the palace is primarily used these days as a congress and event center, its Grand Caf\u00e9 is open to the public.\n\nLiebfrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nWar damage is evidenced by the blend of old buildings and modern store blocks on and around Am Plan. This church stands on Roman foundations at the Old Town's highest point. The bulk of the church is of Romanesque design, but its choir is one of the Rhineland's finest examples of 15th-century Gothic architecture, and the west front is graced with two 17th-century baroque towers. | Am Plan | Mon.\u2013Sat. 8\u20136, Sun. 9\u20138.\n\nRheinkran (Rhine Crane).  \nThe squat form of this crane, built in 1611, is one of Koblenz's landmarks. Marks on the side of the building indicate the heights reached by floodwaters of bygone years. In the mid-19th century a pontoon bridge consisting of a row of barges spanned the Rhine here; when ships approached, two or three barges were simply towed out of the way to let them through.\n\nWeindorf.  \nJust off the Pfaffendorf Bridge, which marks the beginning of the Old Town, and between the modern blocks of the Rhein-Mosel-Halle and the Hotel Mercure, is the Weindorf, a wine \"village\" constructed for a mammoth exhibition of German wines in 1925. It's now a restaurant. Running along the riverbank past the Weindorf is a 10-km (6-mile) promenade, the Rheinanlagen (Rhine Gardens). | www.weindorf-koblenz.de.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nCaf\u00e9 Einstein.  \nECLECTIC | Portraits of Einstein line the walls of this busy restaurant, where locals gather to watch live soccer matches. The friendly Tayhus family serves tasty fare daily, from a hearty breakfast buffet (there's brunch on Sunday\u2014reservations recommended) to late-night finger food. Fish specials are served year-round. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Firmungstr. 30 | 0261/914\u20134999 | www.einstein-koblenz.de.\n\nDa Vinci.  \nGERMAN | At this smart restaurant in the heart of the Old Town, Da Vinci reproductions, including an original-size rendition of The Last Supper, adorn the walls. Leather upholstery, an elegant bar, and soft lighting round out the ambience. Celebrity chef Thomas Jaumann, who came aboard in 2013, presents a seasonally changing local menu with a European slant, with classic dishes like sirloin steak, rack of lamb, and loup de mer (European sea bass). The wine list includes more than 200 bottles, with a focus on German, Italian, and French wines. | Average main: \u20ac23 | Firmungstr. 32b | 0261/921\u20135444 | www.davinci-koblenz.de.\n\nWeindorf-Koblenz.  \nGERMAN | This reconstructed \"wine village\" of half-timber houses is grouped around a tree-shaded courtyard with an adjacent vineyard. The fresh renditions of traditional Rhine and Mosel specialties, a good selection of local wines, and a fabulous Sunday brunch (reservation recommended) where wine, beer, and nonalcoholic beverages are included in the price (\u20ac26.40) all make this a popular spot. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Julius-Wegeler-Str. 2 | 0261/133\u20137190 | www.weindorf-koblenz.de | No lunch Nov.\u2013Mar.\n\nWeinhaus Hubertus.  \nGERMAN | Hunting scenes and trophies line the wood-panel walls of this cozy wine restaurant named after the patron saint of hunters. The decorations also include 100-year-old murals. Hearty portions of fresh, traditional fare are what you'll find on offer. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Florinsmarkt 6 | 0261/31177 | weinhaus-hubertus.de | Closed Tues. No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat.\n\nZum Weissen Schwanen.  \nGERMAN | Guests have found a warm welcome in this half-timber inn and mill since 1693, a tradition carried on by the Kunz family. This is a charming place to overnight or enjoy a dinner of well-prepared, contemporary German cuisine with regional specialties. Brasserie Brentano ($) serves lighter dishes as well as lunch and Sunday brunch. It's located next to the 13th-century town gateway of Braubach, just below the Marksburg. The hotel is an official Rheinsteig trail partner. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Brunnenstr. 4, 12 km (7\u00bd miles) south of Koblenz via B-42 | Braubach | 02627/9820 | www.zum-weissen-schwanen.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Kleiner Riesen.  \nHOTEL | You can literally watch the Rhine flowing by from the four front rooms of this friendly, family-operated hotel about a 10-minute walk from the station. It's in a tranquil location perfect for strolling along the river promenade or for catching a tour boat from the pier. Pros: quiet; on the river; close to piers. Cons: 20-minute walk from city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Januarius-Zick Str. 11, on the Rhine promenade | 0261/303\u2013460 | www.hotel-kleinerriesen.de | 19 rooms, 3 Suites | Breakfast.\n\n* * *\n\nRhine and Mosel River Cruises\n\nNo visit to the Rhineland is complete without at least one river cruise. Trips along the Rhine and Mosel range in length from a few hours to days or weeks. Many smaller, family-operated boat companies, such as Rhein- und Moselschiffahrt H\u00f6lzenbein, offer daytime trips and, often, nighttime dinner-dance cruises. Two important Mittelrhein specialists traveling from Bingen or R\u00fcdesheim to the Loreley and making brief castle cruises are the Bingen-R\u00fcdesheimer Fahrgastschiffahrt and R\u00f6sslerlinie.\n\nBingen-R\u00fcdesheimer Fahrgastschiffahrt.  \n| 06721/14140 | www.bingen-ruedesheimer.de.\n\nHebel-Linie.  \nLoreley Valley trips from Boppard are available. | 06742/2420 | www.hebel-linie.de.\n\nK\u00f6ln-D\u00fcsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt (KD Rhine Line).  \nPopular for its day trips. the K\u00f6ln-D\u00fcsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt travels the Rhine between K\u00f6ln and Mainz, daily from Easter to late October, and the Mosel from Koblenz to Cochem, daily from June to September. There are many special offers, such as half-price travel on your birthday, and 30% off for seniors on certain days. | 0221/208\u20138318 | www.k-d.com.\n\nMosel-Schiffstouristic Hans Michels of Bernkastel-Kues.  \nThis company goes from Bernkastel to Traben-Trarbach. | 06531/8222 | www.mosel-personenschifffahrt.de.\n\nPersonenschiffahrt Kolb of Briedern.  \nThis company's route goes from Cochem to Trier. | 02673/1515 | www.moselfahrplan.de.\n\nPersonenschiffahrt Merkelbach.  \nThis company makes round-trip \"castle cruises\" to Schloss Stolzenfels (one hour) or the Marksburg (two hours), passing by six castles en route. | 0261/76810 | www.merkelbach.personenschiffe.de.\n\nPrimus-Linie.  \nThe Frankfurt-based Primus-Linie cruises between Frankfurt and the Loreley via Wiesbaden and, occasionally, between Wiesbaden and Heidelberg. | 069/133\u20138370 | www.primus-linie.de.\n\nPrincesse Marie-Astrid.  \nThe spacious, luxurious Princesse Marie-Astrid, headquartered in Grevenmacher, Luxembourg, cruises along the Mosel, across the German\u2013Luxembourgian border from Trier or Grevenmacher to Schengen. Meals are served on-board, and there are also occasional evening shows or live music. | 00352/758\u2013275 | www.moselle-tourist.lu.\n\nRhein- und Moselschiffahrt H\u00f6lzenbein.  \nThe Koblenz operator Rhein- und Moselschiffahrt H\u00f6lzenbein travels between Koblenz and Winningen on the Mosel and between Koblenz and R\u00fcdesheim on the Rhine. | 0261/37744 | www.hoelzenbein.de.\n\nR\u00f6sslerlinie.  \n| 06722/2353 | www.roesslerlinie.de.\n\nViking River Cruises.  \nViking offers various multiday cruises on cabin ships. | 800/188\u2013710\u2013033, 866/200\u20135395 in the U.S. | www.vikingrivers.com.\n\n* * *\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nCaf\u00e9 Hahn.  \nLocated in the suburb of G\u00fcls, this place features cabaret, stand-up comedians, popular musicians and bands. and other shows. | Neustr. 15 | 0261/42302 | www.cafehahn.de.\n\nCircus Maximus.  \nYou'll find dancing, live music, and theme parties practically every evening here. On a balmy night, visit Circus Maximus's Statt Strand beach bar, on Universit\u00e4tsstrasse on the banks of the Mosel near the university. | Stegemannstr. 30, at Viktoriastr | 0261/300\u20132357 | www.circus-maximus.org.\n\nStaatsorchester Rheinische Philharmonie (Rhenish Philharmonic Orchestra).  \nThe Philharmonic plays regularly at different concert venues around town. | Eltzerhofstr. 6a | 0261/301\u20132272 | www.rheinische-philharmonie.de.\n\nTheater Koblenz.  \nBuilt in 1787, this gracious neoclassic theater is still in regular use. | Clemensstr. 1\u20135 | 0261/129\u20132870 | www.theater-koblenz.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nKoblenz's most pleasant shopping is in the Old Town streets around the market square Am Plan.\n\nL\u00f6hr Center.  \nThis modern, American-style mall has some 130 shops and restaurants. | Hohenfelder Str. 22 | www.loehr-center.de.\n\nEn Route: Garten der Schmetterlinge Schloss Sayn (Garden of Butterflies).  \nButterflies from South America, Asia, and Africa flit back and forth over your head between the branches of banana trees and palms at this park. The palace proper houses a small museum of decorative cast-iron objects, a restaurant, and a caf\u00e9. It's 15 km (9 mi) north of Koblenz (Bendorf exit off B-42). | Im F\u00fcrstlichen Schlosspark | Bendorf-Sayn | 02622/15478 | www.sayn.de | \u20ac9 | Mar.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov., daily 10\u20134.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWinningen | Alken | Cochem | Ediger-Eller | Traben-Trarbach | Bernkastel-Kues | Dhrontal | Trier\n\nThe Mosel is one of the most hauntingly beautiful river valleys on Earth\u2014with the added draw of countless ancient vineyards on the banks, creating abundant opportunities for sampling some of Germany's best wines. Here, as in the Rhine Valley, forests and vines carpet steep hillsides; castles and church spires dot the landscape; and medieval wine hamlets line the riverbanks. The Mosel landscape is no less majestic, but narrower and more peaceful than that of the Rhine Gorge; the river's countless bends and loops slow its pace and lend the region a leisurely charm.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Winningen\n\n11 km (7 miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-416.\n\nWinningen is a gateway to the Terrassenmosel (Terraced Mosel), the portion of the river characterized by steep, terraced vineyards. Winches help haul miniature monorails with the winegrowers and their tools aboard up the steep incline, but tending and harvesting the vines are all done by hand. TIP For a bird's-eye view of the valley, drive up F\u00e4hrstrasse to Am Rosenhang, the start of a pleasant walk along the Weinlehrpfad (Educational Wine Path).\n\nAs you head upstream toward Kobern-Gondorf, you'll pass the renowned vineyard site Uhlen. In Kobern the Oberburg (upper castle) and the St. Matthias Kapelle, a 12th-century chapel, are good vantage points. Half-timber houses reflecting the architectural styles of three centuries ring the town's pretty market square.\n\n* * *\n\nWine Tasting in the Mosel Valley\n\nThe Mosel Valley's storybook castles and hill-hugging vineyards make it a popular alternative to the busier Rhine, be it for a soothing day or two or a week of rejuvenation. The charming town of Cochem, 55 km (32 miles) upriver from Koblenz, is a favorite destination, with its bendy medieval streets and its proximity to the magnificent Burg Eltz. Others prefer the town of Bielstein, 10 km (6 miles) farther on, which is sometimes called the \"Sleeping Beauty of the Mosel.\"\n\nThe true wine connoisseurs often focus on the heart of the region, the Mittelmosel (or Middle Mosel), which begins about 18 km (11 miles) upstream from Beilstein, at Zell. Here vineyards tumble down steep slate slopes to riverside villages full of half-timber, baroque, and belle \u00e9poque buildings. Famed for its warm climate and 2,000-year-old winemaking tradition, the Middle Mosel produces some of the best Rieslings in the world. Its many wineries are concentrated along a meandering 120-km (75-mile) stretch of the lush river valley, with picture-perfect towns and rural estates that run almost to the ancient town of Trier, near the Luxembourg border.\n\nIn the Tasting Room\n\nThe Middle Mosel is dominated by small, family-run wineries that have been producing high-quality wines for generations. Their tasting rooms, when not part of the wineries themselves, are frequently extensions of family homes, sometimes giving you the opportunity to meet the winemakers, who generally speak English at least well enough to describe their wines. Varietals like Muller-Thurgau, Weissburgunder, and Sp\u00e4tburgunder are produced here too, but the staple of most estates is Riesling. Opening hours vary, and although you can visit most tasting rooms outside of these times, there may not always be someone around to serve you. To avoid disappointment, check websites ahead of time for wineries' opening hours.\n\nWhen to Go\n\nThe best time to visit the region is between May and September, when a lightly chilled glass or two of wine is the perfect complement to a sunny spring day or a warm summer evening. This coincides with high season in the valley, when roads and cycle paths swell with tourists, particularly in September, during the harvest. Fortunately, wine villages are never that far apart. If you find a tasting room that's too busy, there's invariably another around the corner. (Note: Most wineries won't charge to taste a couple of their wines, but will expect you to purchase a bottle or two if you try more. Those that do have tasting fees\u2014commonly between \u20ac5 and \u20ac15\u2014often waive them if you buy a bottle.)\n\nDon't Miss\n\nOptions for estate visits abound in the Mosel Valley, but a few not to miss include the Grand Cru excellence of Weingut Martin M\u00fcllen, and the fantastic dry whites at Schmitges. If you decide to spend a few days in the Middle Mosel, some perfect places for overnights include the stately Weinromantik Richtershof Hotel, and the stylish Jugendstilhotel Bellevue.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nAlte M\u00fchle Thomas H\u00f6reth.  \nGERMAN | Thomas and Gudrun H\u00f6reth's enchanting country inn is a labyrinth of little rooms and cellars grouped around oleander-lined courtyards. They have restored this former mill, originally dating to 1026, and furnished it with thoughtful details and authentic materials. Highlights of the menu include homemade cheeses, terrines, p\u00e2t\u00e9s, and Entens\u00fclze (goose in aspic), served with the H\u00f6reths' own wines. For those who want to get away from the river, the H\u00f6reths have a pleasing hotel in the forest, H\u00f6reth im Wald ($$$). | Average main: \u20ac23 | M\u00fchlental 17, via B-416 | Kobern-Gondorf | 02607/6474 | www.thomas-hoereth.de | No lunch weekdays.\n\nHotel Simonis.  \nB&B/INN | Two of the suites in this traditional hotel on Kobern-Gondorf's market square are across the courtyard, in what might be Germany's oldest half-timber house (1321). Light fare is served in the Weinstube, which has an open fireplace, and in warmer months there's a beer garden. Pros: half-timber setting. Cons: no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Marktpl. 4 | Kobern-Gondorf | 02607/203 | www.hotelsimonis.com | 13 rooms, 2 suites | Closed Jan. and Feb. | Breakfast.\n\n## Alken\n\n22 km (13\u00bd miles) southwest of Koblenz.\n\nOne of the Mosel's oldest towns (the Celts were here by 450 BC), today Alken is best known for its 12th-century castle, Burg Thurant. With a pretty seaside setting backdropped by rolling vineyards and the castle above, Alken's among the lovelier wine village stops along the Untermosel (Lower Mosel) between Koblenz and P\u00fcnderich.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe B-49 connects Alken to Koblenz, about 14 miles away. The nearest train stop (Regionalbahn from Koblenz) is at L\u00f6f across the river, linked to Alken by a bridge and a mile and a half walk.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBurg Thurant.  \nThis 12th-century castle towers over the village and the Burgberg (castle hill) vineyard. Wine and snacks are served in the courtyard; castle tours include the chapel, cellar, tower, and a weapons display. Allow a good half hour for the climb from the riverbank. Call ahead in winter to make sure it's open. | 02605/2004 | www.thurant.de | \u20ac3.50 | Mar. and Apr., daily 10\u20135; May\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb. (weather permitting), daily 10\u20134.\n\nEn Route: Burg Eltz (Eltz Castle).  \nGenuinely medieval (12th\u201316th century) and genuinely stunning, Burg Eltz deserves as much attention as King Ludwig's trio of castles in Bavaria. For the 40-minute English-language tour, given when enough English speakers gather, ask at the souvenir shop. It guides you through the period rooms and massive kitchen. There's also a popular treasure vault filled with gold and silver. To get here, exit B-416 at Hatzenport (opposite and southwest of Alken), proceed to M\u00fcnstermaifeld, and follow signs to the parking lot near the Antoniuskapelle. From here it's a 15-minute walk, or take the shuttle bus (\u20ac2). Hikers can reach the castle from Moselkern in about an hour. | Burg Eltz | M\u00fcnstermaifeld | 02672/950\u2013500 | www.burg-eltz.de | Tour and treasure vault \u20ac9 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9:30\u20135:30.\n\n## Cochem\n\n51 km (31\u00bd miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-49, approximately 93 km (58 miles) from Trier.\n\nCochem is one of the most attractive towns of the Mosel Valley, with a riverside promenade to rival any along the Rhine. It's especially lively during the wine festivals in June and late August. If time permits, savor the landscape from the deck of a boat\u2014many excursions are available, lasting from one hour to an entire day. From the Enderttor (Endert Town Gate) you can see the entrance to one of Germany's longest railway tunnels, the Kaiser-Wilhelm, an astonishing example of 19th-century engineering. The 4-km-long (2\u00bd-mile-long) tunnel saves travelers a 21-km (13-mile) detour along one of the Mosel's great loops.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nCochem Tourist-Information The tourist office has an excellent English-language outline for a walking tour of the town. | Endertpl. 1 | 02671/60040 | www.cochem.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nCochemer Sesselbahn (Cochem Chairlift).  \nA ride on the chairlift to the Pinner Kreuz provides great vistas. | Endertstr. 44 | 02671/989\u2013063 | www.cochemer-sesselbahn.de | Round-trip \u20ac6.30 | Late Mar.\u2013June, Sept., and Oct., daily 10\u20136; early July\u2013Aug., daily 9:30\u20137; Sept., daily 10\u20136:30; early\u2013mid-Nov., daily 11\u20134.\n\nHistorische Senfm\u00fchle.  \nWolfgang Steffens conducts daily tours at 11, 2, 3, and 4, showing how he produces the gourmet mustard at his 200-year-old mill. Garlic, cayenne, honey, curry, and Riesling wine are among the flavors you can sample and buy in the shop. From the Old Town, walk across the bridge toward Cond. The mill is to the left of the bridgehead. | Stadionstr. 1 | 02671/607\u2013665 | www.senfmuehle.net | Tours \u20ac2.50 | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nReichsburg (Imperial Fortress).  \nThe 15-minute walk to this 1,000-year-old castle overlooking the town will reward you with great views of the area. In a tie-in with the fortress's past, falconry demonstrations are put on from Good Friday through October, Tuesday to Sunday at 11, 1, 2:30, and 4. With advance reservations, you can also get a taste of the Middle Ages at a medieval banquet, complete with costumes, music, and entertainment. Banquets take place on Friday (7 pm) and Saturday (6 pm) and last four hours; the price (\u20ac45) includes a castle tour. During the Burgfest (castle festival) the first weekend of August, there's a medieval market and colorful tournaments. | Schlossstr. 36 | 02671/255 | www.reichsburg-cochem.de | \u20ac5, including 40-min tour; falconry \u20ac4 | Mid-Mar.\u2013early Nov., daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAlte Gutssch\u00e4nke.  \nGERMAN | Locals and tourists mingle naturally here, near the open fireplace and antique wine-making equipment. The food is local and fortifying: sausages, cheeses, ham, and homemade soups served with the wines from host Arthur Schmitz's own estate. As the night progresses, locals might unpack their musical instruments and start playing. Note that this place doesn't serve beer. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Schlossstr. 6, on the way up to the castle | 02671/8950 | No credit cards | No lunch weekdays.\n\nLohspeicher\u2013l'Auberge du Vin.  \nFRENCH | In times past, oak bark for leather tanners was dried and stored in this building, built in 1834. Now it's a charming inn; the French-German delicacies on the menu are a pleasure for the palate and the eye. Don't miss the dessert Variation (medley). Some 20 French and Italian wines supplement the restaurant's own estate-bottled wines. Of the nine rooms available, four have a view of the castle. | Average main: \u20ac29 | Oberg. 1, at Marktpl. | 02671/3976 | www.lohspeicher.de | Closed Wed. and Feb.\n\nFAMILY | Moselromantik Hotel Weissm\u00fchle.  \nGERMAN | This rustic family inn is set amid the forested hills of the Enderttal (Endert Valley) on the site of a historic mill that belonged to the current proprietor's great-great-grandfather. Lined with photos and memorabilia from the original mill, it's an oasis from traffic and crowds yet only 2\u00bd km (1\u00bd miles) from Cochem. Beneath the exposed beams and painted ceiling of the restaurant, trout from the hotel's own fish farm will grace your table. German and French wines are served. TIP The inn's underground bar, originally built to become a swimming pool, opens around 9 pm and is a bit of a time capsule with lots of 1970s German kitsch. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Wilde Endert 2 | 02671/8955 | www.hotel-weissmuehle.de.\n\nEn Route: Beilstein.  \nTen kilometers (6 mi) south of Cochem, on the opposite shore, the ruins of Metternich Castle crown the Schlossberg (Castle Hill) vineyard next to the romantic village of Beilstein, also known as Sleeping Beauty on the Mosel. Take in the stunning Mosel loop panorama from the castle's terrace caf\u00e9 before heading for the market square below. Then ascend the Klostertreppe (monastery steps) leading to the baroque monastery church for views of the winding streets lined with half-timber houses.\n\n## Ediger-Eller\n\n61 km (38 miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-49.\n\nEdiger-Eller, once two separate hamlets, is another photogenic wine village with well-preserved houses and remnants of a medieval town wall. It's particularly romantic at night, when the narrow alleys and half-timber buildings are illuminated by historic streetlights.\n\n### Exploring\n\nMartinskirche (St. Martin's Church).  \nThe church is a remarkable amalgamation of art and architectural styles, inside and out. Take a moment to admire the 117 carved bosses in the star-vaulted ceiling of the nave. Among the many fine sculptures throughout the church and the chapel is the town's treasure: a Renaissance stone relief, Christ in the Winepress. | Kirchstr.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nZum L\u00f6wen.  \nHOTEL | This simply furnished hotel comes with friendly service and a splendid terrace overlooking the Mosel. Some rooms have a balcony facing the river, though rooms at the back of the hotel are quieter. In addition to arranging wine tastings and hikes in Calmont, Europe's steepest vineyard site, the hotel can also help you plan fishing trips and lunch in the Saffenreuther's own vineyard. Pros: fine view of the Mosel. Cons: on a busy street; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Moselweinstr. 23 | 02675/208 | www.mosel-hotel-loewen.de | 20 rooms | Hotel and restaurant closed late Dec.\u2013Mar. | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Calmont.  \nAs you continue along the winding course of the Mosel, you'll pass Europe's steepest vineyard site, Calmont, just before the loop at Bremm. Opposite Calmont are the romantic ruins of a 12th-century Augustinian convent.\n\nZell. This popular village is full of pubs and wineshops that ply the crowds with Zeller Schwarze Katz, \"Black Cat\" wine, a commercially successful product and the focal point of a large wine festival in late June. Some 6 million vines hug the slopes around Zell, making it one of Germany's largest wine-producing communities. The area between Zell and Schweich (near Trier), known as the Middle Mosel, is home to some of the world's finest Riesling.\n\n## Traben-Trarbach\n\n30 km (19 miles) south of Cochem.\n\nThe Mosel divides Traben-Trarbach, which has pleasant promenades on both sides of the river. Its wine festivals are held the second and last weekends in July. Traben's art nouveau buildings are worth seeing (Hotel Bellevue, the gateway on the Mosel bridge, the post office, the train station, and town hall).\n\n### Exploring\n\nMittelmosel Museum.  \nFor a look at fine period rooms and exhibits on the historical development of the area, visit the Mittelmosel Museum, in the Haus B\u00f6cking (1750). | Casino Str. 2 | 06541/9480 | \u20ac2.50 | Easter\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nWeingut Martin M\u00fcllen.  \nEstablished in 1991, this winery is very new compared to many others here. Its success has its roots in modern and traditional winemaking principles, and it has one of the best Grand Cru vineyards in the region. Try the light but complex Trarbacher H\u00fchnerberg Riesling Sp\u00e4tlese. | Alte Marktstr. 2 | 06541/9470 | www.muellen.de.\n\nJugendstilhotel Bellevue.  \nHOTEL | Traben-Trarbach's premier hotel has a first-class reputation that derives from its belle \u00e9poque architecture, fine cuisine, professional, knowledgeable staff, and superb wine list. Pros: fantastic art nouveau surroundings matched with a prime Mosel-side location. Cons: expensive; some rooms lack river views. | Rooms from: \u20ac170 | An der Mosel 11 | 06541/7030 | www.bellevue-hotel.de | 68 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: During the next 24 km (15 miles) of your drive down the Mosel you'll pass by world-famous vineyards, such as Erdener Treppchen, \u00dcrziger W\u00fcrzgarten, the Sonnenuhr (sundial) sites of Zeltingen and Wehlen, and Graacher Himmelreich, before reaching Bernkastel-Kues.\n\n## Bernkastel-Kues\n\n22 km (14 miles) southwest of Traben-Trarbach, 100 km (62 miles) southwest of Koblenz on B-53.\n\nBernkastel and Kues straddle the Mosel, on the east and west banks, respectively. Bernkastel is home to famed Bernkasteler Doctor, a small, especially steep vineyard that's also one of Europe's most expensive. Early German humanist Nikolaus Cusanus (1401\u201364) was from Kues: Today his birthplace and St.-Nikolaus-Hospital are popular attractions.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBy car, Bernkastel-Kues is about 45 minutes northeast of Trier and 90 minutes southwest of Koblenz. The closest train station (Regionalbahn) is in Wittlich, about a 20-minute taxi ride away.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBernkastel-Kues Tourist-Information. | Gestade 6 | 06531/500\u2013190 | www.bernkastel.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDr. Pauly-Bergweiler.  \nThis winery's presence in the Mosel includes vineyards in seven different villages and a grand villa in the center of Bernkastel, where a cozy Vinothek (shop) is found inside the mansion's vaulted cellars. TIP Try the light and flinty Alte Badstube am Doktorberg Riesling. | Gestade 15 | 06531/3002 | www.pauly-bergweiler.com.\n\nRebenhof.  \nYou'll find only Rieslings in Rebenhof's stylish, contemporary tasting room, which shares space with stainless-steel fermentation tanks. Try the flinty, old-vine \u00dcrziger W\u00fcrtgarten Riesling Sp\u00e4tlese. | H\u00fcwel 2\u20133 | \u00dcrzig | 06532/4546 | www.rebenhof.de.\n\nSchmitges.  \nThis winery specializes in the production of high-quality dry whites that, along with the modern, winebar style of their Vinothek, distinguishes them from many other local establishments. They're located down an unassuming village lane. One standout is the light, summery Rivaner. | Hauptstr. 24 | Erden | 06532/2743 | www.schmitges-weine.de.\n\nBurg Landshut.  \nFrom the hilltop ruins of the 13th-century castle, Burg Landshut, there are splendid views. It was here that Trier's Archbishop Boemund II is said to have recovered from an illness by drinking the local wine. This legendary vineyard, still known as \"the Doctor,\" soars up from Hinterm Graben street near the town gate, Graacher Tor. You can purchase these well-regarded wines at some of the shops around town.\n\nJewish Cemetery.  \nBernkastel's former Jewish population was well assimilated into town society until the Nazis took power. You can ask the tourist center to borrow a key to the town's Jewish cemetery, reachable by a scenic half-hour hike through the vineyards in the direction of Traben-Trarbach. Opened in the mid-19th century, it contains a few headstones from a destroyed 17th-century graveyard. | About 1 km from Graacher Tor, Old Town.\n\nKerpen.  \nA friendly husband-and-wife team run this winery, which has eight generations of winemaking tradition behind it. They make a special collection of Rieslings with labels designed by visiting artists, and have an unpretentious tasting room close to the river. Try the dry Graacher Himmelreich Riesling Kabinett Feinherb. | Uferallee 6 | Bernkastel-Wehlen | 06531/6868 | www.weingut-kerpen.de.\n\nMarket square.  \nElaborately carved half-timber houses (16th\u201317th centuries) and a Renaissance town hall (1608) frame St. Michael's Fountain (1606) on Bernkastel's photogenic market square. In early September the square and riverbank are lined with wine stands for one of the region's largest wine festivals, the Weinfest der Mittelmosel.\n\nSt.-Nikolaus-Hospital.  \nThe Renaissance philosopher and theologian Nikolaus Cusanus (1401\u201364) was born in Kues. The St.-Nikolaus-Hospital is a charitable Stiftung (foundation) he established in 1458, and it still operates a home for the elderly and a wine estate. | Cusanusstr. 2 | 06531/2260 | www.cusanus.de | Tours \u20ac5 | Tours Tues. at 10:30 and Fri. at 3.\n\nMosel-Weinmuseum (Wine museum).  \nWithin St.-Nikolaus-Hospital is a wine museum as well as a bistro. There's also a Vinothek in the vaulted cellar, where you can sample more than 150 wines from the entire Mosel-Saar-Ruwer region. | St.-Nikolaus-Hospital, Cusanusstr. 2 | www.moselweinmuseum.de | Museum \u20ac5, Vinothek \u20ac15 for admission and wine tasting | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 11\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nDer Ratskeller.  \nGERMAN | Just off Bernkastel's main square, Der Ratskeller serves uncomplicated regional food that can be enjoyed at an outside table with a view of the action, or inside cozily surrounded by dark wood and leaded windows. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Markt 30 | 06531/973\u20131000 | www.ratskeller-bernkastel.de | Closed Thurs.\n\nRotisserie Royale.  \nFRENCH | The fish menu, vegetarian selection, and fancy twists on traditional and regional dishes are what set this initially unassuming restaurant apart from the crowd. It's in one of Burgstrasse's charming half-timber houses. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Burgstr. 19 | 06531/6572 | www.rotisserie-royale.de | Closed Wed.\n\nFodor's Choice | Waldhotel Sonnora.  \nFRENCH | At their elegant country inn in the forested Eifel Hills, Helmut and Ulrike Thieltges offer guests one of Germany's absolute finest dining experiences. Helmut is an extraordinary chef, renowned for transforming truffles, foie gras, and Persian caviar into masterful dishes. Challans duck in an orange-ginger sauce is his specialty. The wine list is equally superb. The dining room, with gilded and white-wood furnishings and plush red carpets, has a Parisian look, and the pretty gardens add to a memorable visit. TIP Sonnora can prepare a vegetarian menu, but call ahead. | Average main: \u20ac50 | Auf'm Eichelfeld, 8 km (5 miles) southwest of Wittlich, which is 18 km (11 miles) west of Kues via B-50; from A-1, exit Salmtal | Dreis | 06578/98220 | www.hotel-sonnora.de | Reservations essential | Restaurant and hotel closed Mon. and Tues., Jan., and 1st 2 wks in July.\n\nWeinhotel St. Stephanus.  \nEUROPEAN | Rita and Hermann Saxler operate a comfortable, modern hotel and upscale restaurant in a 19th-century manor house on the Ufer (riverbank) at Zeltingen. Whether you opt for the handsome dining room or the terrace overlooking the Mosel, Saxler's Restaurant is a good destination refined regional cooking with a Mediterranean touch. The spa offers vinotherapy\u2014treatments using grape-based products, such as grapeseed oil. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Uferallee 9 | Zeltingen-Rachtig | 06532/680 | www.hotel-stephanus.de | No lunch Mon.\u2013Thurs. Jan.\u2013Mar.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nWein- & Landhaus S. A. Pr\u00fcm.  \nB&B/INN | The traditional wine estate S. A. Pr\u00fcm has state-of-the-art cellars and an attractive Vinothek for cellar tours and tastings, as well as a stunning dining room and an idyllic patio facing the Mosel and the vineyards. The spacious rooms and baths are individually decorated in a winning mixture of contemporary and antique furnishings. Pros: good rooms, some of which have vineyard and Mosel views. Cons: no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Uferallee 25, north of Kues | Bernkastel-Wehlen | 06531/3110 | www.sapruem.com | 8 rooms, 2 self-catering apartments | Rooms closed mid-Dec.\u2013Feb. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel zur Post.  \nHOTEL | The R\u00f6ssling family makes you feel welcome at their comfortable hotel, which dates from 1827. It's near the riverbank, and the market square is just around the corner. The wine list at the inviting Alpine-style restaurant is devoted mainly to Mosel Rieslings. Pros: near the market square. Cons: on a busy street. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Gestade 17 | 06531/96700 | www.hotel-zur-post-bernkastel.de | 42 rooms, 1 suite | Closed Jan. and Feb. | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Weinromantikhotel Richtershof.  \nHOTEL | This renovated 17th-century manor in a shady park offers comfortable rooms and first-class friendly service. Relax over a great breakfast or a glass of wine on the garden terrace - or taste the Richtershof estate wines during a visit to the centuries-old vaulted cellars. The hotel has 3 restaurants, including a regionally inspired gourmet restaurant and a handsome bistro-bar, which serves lunch daily. The spa, reminiscent of Roman baths, has treatments using grapeseed oil and other products from the vineyard. Pros: garden terrace; wheelchair-accessible rooms; 24-hour room service. Cons: thin walls. | Rooms from: \u20ac156 | Hauptstr. 81\u201383, 5 km (3 miles) south of Bernkastel via B-53 | M\u00fclheim | 06534/9480 | www.weinromantikhotel.de | 38 rooms, 5 suites | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Paulinshof.  \nThe 55-km (34-mi) drive from Bernkastel to Trier takes in another series of outstanding hillside vineyards, including the Brauneberg, 10 km (6 mi) upstream from Bernkastel. On the opposite side of the river is the Paulinshof, where Thomas Jefferson was impressed by a 1783 Brauneberger Kammer Auslese during his visit here in 1788. You can sample contemporary vintages of this wine in the beautiful chapel on the estate grounds. | Paulinsstr. 14 | Kesten | 06535/544 | www.paulinshof.de | Weekdays 8\u20136, Sat. 9\u20134.\n\nEn Route: Piesport.  \nOn a magnificent loop 12 km (7\u00bd mi) southwest of Brauneberg stands the famous village of Piesport, whose steep, slate cliff is known as the Loreley of the Mosel. The village puts a fireworks display for its Loreleyfest the first weekend in July. Wines from its 35 vineyards are collectively known as Piesporter Michelsberg. The finest individual vineyard site, and one of Germany's very best, is the Goldtr\u00f6pfchen (\"little droplets of gold\").\n\n## Dhrontal\n\n25 km (15 miles) from Bernkastel-Kues.\n\nIf the heat of the Mosel's slate slopes becomes oppressive in summer, you can revitalize body and soul with a scenic drive through the cool, fragrant forest of the Dhrontal (Dhron Valley), south of Trittenheim, and make a stop at one of its restaurants or wineries.\n\n### Exploring\n\nSektgut St. Laurentius.  \nWhether in the spacious tasting room, on the outdoor terrace, or in the modern little wine bar near the river, there are plenty of places to taste this winery's Sekt (sparkling wine), considered some of the best in the region. Try the fruity, creamy, and yeasty cr\u00e9mant, a sparkler with less bubbles than most others. | Laurentiusstr. 4 | Leiwen | 06507/3836 | www.st-laurentius-sekt.de.\n\nWeingut Bauer.  \nThe Bauers' simple, modern tasting room was built as an extension of the family home, and four generations reside beneath its roof. This winery's a good place to sample award-winning still and sparkling white wines presented with old-fashioned hospitality. Try the fruity, refreshing Winzersekt Riesling Brut. | Moselstr. 3 | M\u00fclheim | 06534/571 | www.weingut-bauer.de.\n\nWeingut Karp-Schreiber.  \nThis welcoming winery's varietals include Riesling, Weissburgunder, and Regent; and it also produces a nice Rotling, which is a cuv\u00e9e (blend) of all three. When the sun's shining, the best place to taste them is on the winery's small trellised veranda. Try the fresh, elegant \"my karp\" Riesling. | Moselweinstr. 186 | Brauneberg | 06534/236 | www.karp-schreiber.de.\n\nWeingut Lehnert-Veit.  \nIn addition to Riesling, visitors can sample merlot, pinot noir, and chardonnay in this winery's Mediterranean-style garden on the banks of the Mosel. The delicately flinty, well-balanced Falkenberg Riesling Mineral Kabinett Feinherb is a good choice. | In der Dur 6\u201310 | Piesport | 06507/2123 | www.weingut-lv.net.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nR\u00fcssels Landhaus St. Urban.  \nGERMAN | Aromatic, visually stunning food presentations are served among comfortable surroundings with wines from Germany's leading producers, including the owners' family's Weingut St. Urbans-Hof in Leiwen. The house decor is stylish, and like the food, it has Mediterranean influences. | Average main: \u20ac25 | B\u00fcdlicherbr\u00fcck 1, 8 km (5 mi) south of Trittenheim, toward Hermeskeil; from A-1, exit Mehring | Naurath/Wald | 06509/91400 | www.landhaus-st-urban.de | Closed Tues., Wed., and 2 wks in Jan.\n\nWein- und Tafelhaus.  \nAUSTRIAN | For first-class wining and dining in a charming country inn or on its idyllic terrace overlooking the Mosel, this is well worth a detour. Alexander Oos and his Austrian wife are friendly, attentive hosts. The soups are delicious, as are the creative renditions of fish and shellfish. Some desserts reflect his wife's Tirolean homeland. Every month there are three new suggestions for a four- or five-course menu\u2014they're expensive, but good value for a restaurant of this caliber. Four rooms are available for staying overnight. | Average main: \u20ac35 | Moselpromenade 4 | Trittenheim | 06507/702\u2013803 | wein-tafelhaus.de | No credit cards | Closed Mon. and Tues. and 2 wks Jan. and July.\n\n## Trier\n\n55 km (34 miles) southwest of Bernkastel-Kues via B-53, 150 km (93 miles) southwest of Koblenz; 30 mins by car from Luxemburg airport.\n\nThanks to its deep history, the Trier of today holds a wealth of ancient sites. It's also an important university town, and accordingly boasts a surprisingly rich modern cultural landscape for a city of its size (just over 100,000 residents).\n\nIts roots reach back to at least 400 BC, by which time a Celtic tribe, the Treveri, had settled the Trier Valley. Eventually Julius Caesar's legions arrived at this strategic point on the river, and Augusta Treverorum (\"the town of [Emperor] Augustus in the land of the Treveri\") was founded in 16 BC. It was described as an opulent city, as beautiful as any outside Rome.\n\nAround AD 275 an Alemannic tribe stormed Augusta Treverorum and reduced it to rubble. But it was rebuilt in even grander style and renamed Treveris. Eventually it evolved into one of the leading cities of the empire, and was promoted to \"Roma secunda\" (a second Rome) north of the Alps. As a powerful administrative capital it was adorned with all the noble civic buildings of a major Roman settlement, as well as public baths, palaces, barracks, an amphitheater, and temples. The Roman emperors Diocletian (who made it one of the four joint capitals of the empire) and Constantine both lived in Trier for years at a time.\n\nTrier survived the collapse of Rome and became an important center of Christianity and, ultimately, one of the most powerful archbishoprics in the Holy Roman Empire. The city thrived throughout the Renaissance and baroque periods, taking full advantage of its location at the meeting point of major east\u2013west and north\u2013south trade routes and growing fat on the commerce that passed through.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe area is excellent for biking. The train station in Trier rents bikes; call the Deutsche Bahn bicycle hotline to reserve. Cyclists can follow the marked route of the Radroute Nahe-Hunsr\u00fcck-Mosel from Trier to Bingen.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nEuropa-Volksfest.  \nHeld in May or in early June, this festival features wine and food specialties from several European countries, in addition to rides and entertainment. | trier.volksfest-trier.de.\n\nAltstadtfest.  \nIn late June, more than 100,000 people come out for this musical festival in the Old Town, which also features a citywide run. | www.altstadtfest-trier.de.\n\nMoselfest Zurlauben.  \nWine, sparkling wine, beer, and fireworks fill this annual July celebration along the riverbank in Zurlauben district. | www.zurlaubener-heimatfest.de.\n\nWeinfest (Wine Festival).  \nThis popular wine-focused event happens over a four-day weekend in early August in the Olewig district.\n\nWeihnachtsmarkt.  \nThis Christmas market and festival features nearly a hundred booths, and takes place on the market square and in front of the cathedral. | www.trierer-weihnachtsmarkt.de.\n\n#### Tours\n\nYou can circumnavigate the town with the narrated tours of the R\u00f6mer-Express trolley (\u20ac9) or a tourist office bus (\u20ac8.50). Both depart from Porta Nigra, near the tourist office. There is also a hop-on, hop-off bus. A 24-hour ticket on it costs \u20ac11.\n\nThere are also toga tours every Saturday at 12:30 May through October, in which actors dressed in Roman costume bring the history of the amphitheater, the Kaiserthermen (Imperial Baths), and the old town gate to life. A tour lasts two hours and costs \u20ac9.50. Reservations are essential. If you don't speak German, speak up. The tour guide or someone else in the group probably speaks some English and will translate the basic points. The tourist office sells tickets for all tours and also leads various walks. A tour in English (\u20ac8.50) departs Saturday, May through October, at 1:30.\n\n#### Timing\n\nTo do justice to Trier, consider staying for at least two full days. A walk around Trier will take a good two hours, and you will need extra time to climb the tower of the Porta Nigra, walk through the vast interior of the Dom and its treasury, visit the underground passageways of the Kaiserthermen, and examine the cellars of the Amphitheater. Allow at least another half hour each for the Bisch\u00f6fliches Museum and Viehmarktthermen, as well as an additional hour for the Rheinisches Landesmuseum.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe Trier Card, available from the visitor center's website or at the center in Porta Nigra, entitles the holder to free public transportation and discounts on tours and admission fees to Roman sights, museums, and sports and cultural venues. It costs \u20ac9.90 and is valid for three successive days.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nTour Information  \nDeutsche Bahn. | 01805/151\u2013415 for bicycle hotline.\n\nVisitor Information  \nTrier Tourist-Information. | An der Porta Nigra | 0651/978\u2013080 | www.trier.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Amphitheater.  \nThe sheer size of Trier's oldest Roman structure (circa AD 100) is impressive; in its heyday it seated 20,000 spectators. You can climb down to the cellars beneath the arena\u2014animals were kept in cells here before being unleashed to do battle with gladiators. | Olewiger Str. | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct. and Mar., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 9\u20134.\n\nMuseum am Dom Trier (Museum at the Trier Cathedral).  \nThis collection, just behind the Dom, focuses on medieval sacred art, and there are also fascinating models of the cathedral as it looked in Roman times. Look for 15 Roman frescoes, discovered in 1946, that may have adorned the Emperor Constantine's palace. | Bischof-Stein-Pl. 1 | 0651/710\u20135255 | www.bistum-trier.de/museum | \u20ac3.50, combined ticket with Domschatzkammer \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. 1\u20135.\n\nFodor's Choice | Dom (Cathedral).  \nThe oldest Christian church north of the Alps, the Dom stands on the site of the Palace of Helen. Constantine tore the palace down in AD 330 and put up a large church in its place. The church burned down in 336, and a second, even larger one was built. Parts of the foundations of this third building can be seen in the east end of the present structure (begun in about 1035). The cathedral you see today is a weighty and sturdy edifice with small round-head windows, rough stonework, and asymmetrical towers, as much a fortress as a church. Inside, Gothic styles predominate\u2014the result of remodeling in the 13th century\u2014although there are also many baroque tombs, altars, and confessionals. | Domfreihof | 0651/979\u20130790 | www.dominformation.de | Tours \u20ac3.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 6:30\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 6:30\u20135:30.\n\nDomschatzkammer (Cathedral Treasure Chamber).  \nThe highlight of the cathedral's museum is the 10th-century Andreas Tragaltar (St. Andrew's Portable Altar), constructed of oak and covered with gold leaf, enamel, and ivory by local craftsmen. It's a reliquary for the soles of St. Andrew's sandals, as signaled by the gilded, life-size foot on the top of the altar. | Dom, Domfreihof | \u20ac1.50, combined ticket with Bisch\u00f6fliches Museum \u20ac4 | Mid-Mar.\u2013Oct. and Dec., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 12:30\u20135; Nov. and Jan.\u2013mid-Mar., Tues.\u2013Sat. 11\u20134, Sun. 12:30\u20134\n\nEpiscopal Wine Estates (Bisch\u00f6fliche Weing\u00fcter).  \nDrop down into a labyrinth of cellars beneath Trier's streets or visit the estate's elegant Vinothek (wine store) to sample fine Rieslings, which were built on almost two millennia of priestly tradition. The Scharzhofberger Riesling is fruity and elegant. | Gervasiusstr.1 | 0651/145760 | www.bwgtrier.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kaiserthermen (Imperial Baths).  \nThis enormous 4th-century bathing palace once housed cold- and hot-water baths and a sports field. Although only the masonry of the Calderium (hot baths) and the vast basements remain, they are enough to give a fair idea of the original splendor and size of the complex. Originally 98 feet high, the walls you see today are just 62 feet high. | Weimarer-Allee and Kaiserstr. | 0651/436\u20132550 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct. and Mar., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 9\u20134.\n\nFodor's Choice | Porta Nigra (Black Gate).  \nThe best-preserved Roman structure in Trier was originally a city gate, built in the 2nd century (look for holes left by the iron clamps that held the structure together). The gate served as part of Trier's defenses and was proof of the sophistication of Roman military might and its ruthlessness. Attackers were often lured into the two innocent-looking arches of the Porta Nigra, only to find themselves enclosed in a courtyard. In the 11th century the upper stories were converted into two churches, in use until the 18th century. The tourist office is next door. | Porta-Nigra-Pl. | 0651/718\u20132451 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct. and Mar., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 9\u20134.\n\nFodor's Choice | Rheinisches Landesmuseum (Rhenish State Museum).  \nThe largest collection of Roman antiquities in Germany is housed here. The highlight is the 4th-century stone relief of a Roman ship transporting barrels of wine up the river. This tombstone of a Roman wine merchant was discovered in 1874, when Constantine's citadel in Neumagen was excavated. Have a look at the 108-square-foot model of the city as it looked in the 4th century\u2014it provides a sense of perspective to many of the sights you can still visit today. | Weimarer-Allee 1 | 0651/97740 | www.landesmuseum-trier.de | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nKonstantin Basilika (Constantine Basilica).  \nAn impressive reminder of Trier's Roman past, this edifice is now the city's major Protestant church. This structure was built by the emperor Constantine around AD 310 as the imperial throne room of the palace. At 239 feet long, 93 feet wide, and 108 feet high, it demonstrates the astounding ambition of its Roman builders and the sophistication of their building techniques.TIP The basilica is one of the two largest Roman interiors in existence (the other is the Pantheon in Rome). Look up at the deeply coffered ceiling; more than any other part of the building, it conveys the opulence of the original structure. An ornate rococo garden now separates the basilica from the Landesmuseum. | Konstantinpl. | 0651/42570 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. noon\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sat. 11\u2013noon and 3\u20134, Sun. noon\u20131.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nHauptmarkt.  \nThe main market square of Old Trier\u2014lined with gabled houses from several ages\u2014is easily reached via Simeonstrasse. The market cross (958) and richly ornate St. Peter's Fountain (1595), dedicated to the town's patron saint, stand in the square. TIP There is a flower and vegetable market held here every weekday, while a farmers' market can be found at Viehmarktplatz on Tuesday and Friday 8\u20132.\n\nKarl-Marx-Haus.  \nMarx was born on May 5, 1818, in this bourgeois house built in 1727. Visitors with a serious interest in social history will be fascinated by its small museum. Some of Marx's personal effects, as well as first-edition manifestos are on display. Audio guides are available in English, and English-language tours can be arranged on request. | Br\u00fcckenstr. 10 | 0651/970\u2013680 | www.fes.de/karl-marx-haus | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Mon. 2\u20135, Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Roscheider Hof.  \nFor a look at 19th- and 20th-century rural life in the Mosel-Saar area, visit this hilltop Freilichtmuseum (open-air museum) near Konz-Saar, 10 km (6 miles) southwest of Trier via B-51. Numerous farmhouses and typical village buildings in the region were saved from the wrecking ball by being dismantled and brought to the Roscheider Hof, where they were rebuilt and refurnished as they appeared decades ago. Old schoolrooms, a barbershop and beauty salon, a tavern, a shoemaker's workshop, a pharmacy, a grocery, and a dentist's office have been set up in the rooms of the museum proper, along with period rooms and exhibitions on local trades and household work, such as the history of laundry. A large collection of tin figures is here too, and there's also a Biedermeier rose garden, museum shop, and restaurant with beer garden (closed Monday, cash only) on the grounds. | Roscheiderhof 1 | Konz | 06501/92710 | www.roscheiderhof.de | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u20136, weekends 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar. (indoor facilities only), Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u20135, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nStadtmuseum Simeonstift Trier (Simeon Foundation City Museum).  \nBuilt around the remains of the Romanesque Simeonskirche, this church is now a museum. It was constructed in the 11th century by Archbishop Poppo in honor of the early medieval hermit Simeon, who for seven years shut himself up in the east tower of the Porta Nigra. Collections include art and artifacts produced in Trier from the Middle Ages to the 19th century. | Simeonstr. 60 | 0651/718\u20131459 | www.museum-trier.de | \u20ac5.50, \u20ac1 on 1st Sun. of month | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nViehmarktthermen.  \nTrier's third Roman bath (early 1st century) was discovered when ground was broken for a parking garage. Finds of the excavations from 1987 to 1994 are now beneath a protective glass structure. You can visit the baths and see the cellar of a baroque Capuchin monastery. | Viehmarktpl. | 0651/994\u20131057 | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBecker's Hotel.  \nGERMAN | This wine estate in the peaceful suburb of Olewig features a gourmet restaurant with prix-fixe menus, a second restaurant serving regional cuisine, and a casual Weinstube. Dining alfresco is a nice option in summer. Bordeaux and Burgundy wines are available in addition to the estate's own wines, and wine tastings, cellar visits, and guided tours on the wine path can be arranged. | Average main: \u20ac27 | Olewiger Str. 206 | Trier-Olewig | 0651/938\u2013080 | www.beckers-trier.de | Gourmet restaurant closed Sun. and Mon.\n\nSchlemmereule.  \nGERMAN | The name means \"gourmet owl,\" and, indeed, chef Peter Schmalen caters to gourmets in the 19th-century Palais Walderdorff complex opposite the cathedral. Truffles are a specialty, and the fish is always excellent. Wines from top German estates, particularly from the Mosel, and an extensive selection of red wines are available. Lots of windows lend a light, airy look to the restaurant, and a replica of one of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel paintings is on the ceiling. There's courtyard seating in summer. | Average main: \u20ac27 | Palais Walderdorff, Domfreihof 1B | 0651/73616 | www.schlemmereule.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun.\n\nWeinstube Kesselstatt.  \nGERMAN | The interior has exposed beams and polished wood tables; the shady terrace is popular in summer. Two soups daily, hearty fare, and fresh, regional cuisine are served with wines from the Reichsgraf von Kesselstatt estate. The Tagesgericht (daily special) and Aktionsmen\u00fc (prix-fixe menu) are a good bet. Das Beste der Region (the region's best) is an ample selection of local hams, cheeses, fish, and breads, served on a wooden board for two. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Liebfrauenstr. 10 | 0651/41178 | www.weinstube-kesselstatt.de.\n\nZum Domstein.  \nGERMAN | Whether you dine inside or out, don't miss the collection of Roman artifacts displayed in the cellar. In addition to the German dishes on the regular menu, you can order \u00e0 la carte or prix-fixe menus based on recipes attributed to the Roman gourmet Marcus Gavius Apicius in the evening. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Hauptmarkt 5 | 0651/74490 | www.domstein.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Ambiente.  \nB&B/INN | Markus and Monika Stemper\u2014a passionate cook and a gracious hostess\u2014bring modern style to their country inn near the Luxembourg border. The garden (with palms, ponds, and flowers galore), comfortable rooms, and personal service are all remarkable. Stempers Brasserie ($ - $$) serves dishes with Mediterranean touches, enhanced by an extensive wine list. Pros: country atmosphere; legendary garden. Cons: removed from city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac109 | In der Acht 1\u20132, 7 km (4\u00bd miles) southwest of Trier via B-49 | Trier-Zewen | 0651/827\u2013280 | www.ambiente-trier.de | 12 rooms | Restaurant closed Sun. and Thurs. | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Petrisberg.  \nHOTEL | The Pantenburgs' friendly, family-run hotel is high on Petrisberg hill overlooking Trier, not far from the amphitheater and a 20-minute walk to the Old Town. The individually decorated rooms have solid-pine furnishings; all but two have balconies - some with a fabulous view of the city. In the evening, you can sit down for snacks and good local wines in the pub. Pros: fine view of Trier. Cons: somewhat removed from the city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Sickingenstr. 11\u201313 | 0651/4640 | www.hotelpetrisberg.de | 24 rooms, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nR\u00f6mischer Kaiser.  \nHOTEL | Centrally located near the Porta Nigra, this handsome patrician manor from 1885 offers well-appointed rooms with handsome baths. Rooms 317 and 318 are quite spacious and have little balconies overlooking flower-filled Porta-Nigra-Platz. While some of Trier's other restaurants are more stylish, the food here is tasty, as is the ample breakfast buffet. Pros: near the Porta Nigra; free Wi-Fi. Cons: some rooms are dark due to a neighboring building. | Rooms from: \u20ac116 | Porta-Nigra-Pl. 6 | 0651/977\u20130100 | www.friedrich-hotels.de | 43 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nMost of the town's pubs and caf\u00e9s are on Viehmarktplatz and Stockplatz in the Old Town. TIP For up-to-the-minute information on performances, concerts, and events all over town, visit | www.trier-today.de.\n\nMetropolis.  \nInternational DJs, theme parties, and live music are all featured here. | Hindenburgstr. 4 | 0651/710\u2013378\u2013000 | www.metropolis-trier.de.\n\nTheater Trier.  \nThe theater puts on opera, theater, and ballet performances as well as concerts. | Am Augustinerhof | 0651/718\u20131818 | www.theater-trier.de.\n\nTUFA\u2013Tuchfabrik.  \nConcerts, theater, and cultural events are all staged here. | Wechselstr. 4, at Weberstr. | 0651/718\u20132412 | www.tufa-trier.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nBonn | K\u00f6nigswinter | Br\u00fchl | K\u00f6ln (Cologne) | Aachen | D\u00fcsseldorf\n\nBonn, the former capital of West Germany, and of reunified Germany until 1999, is the next major stop after Koblenz on the Rhine. It's close to the legendary Siebengebirge (Seven Hills), a national park and site of western Germany's northernmost vineyards. According to German mythology, Siegfried (hero of the Nibelungen saga) killed a dragon here and bathed in its blood to make himself invincible. The lowland, a region of gently rolling hills north of Bonn, lacks the drama of the Rhine Gorge upstream but offers the urban pleasures of K\u00f6ln (Cologne), an ancient cathedral town, and D\u00fcsseldorf, an elegant city of art and fashion. Although not geographically in the Rhineland proper, Aachen is an important side trip for anyone visiting the region. Its stunning cathedral and treasury are the greatest storehouses of Carolingian art and architecture in Europe.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Bonn\n\n61 km (38 miles) north of Koblenz, 28 km (17 miles) south of K\u00f6ln.\n\nBonn was the postwar seat of the federal government and parliament until Berlin became its capital again in 1999. Aptly described by the title of John le Carr\u00e9's spy novel A Small Town in Germany, the quiet university town was chosen as a stopgap measure to prevent such weightier contenders as Frankfurt from becoming the capital, a move that would have lessened Berlin's chances of regaining its former status. With the exodus of the government from Bonn, the city has become a bit less cosmopolitan. Still, Bonn thrives as the headquarters of two of Germany's largest multinational corporations (Deutsche Telekom and Deutsche Post/DHL), and the UN has expanded its presence in the city as well. The fine museums and other cultural institutions that once served the diplomatic elite are still here to be enjoyed.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe town center is a car-free zone; an inner ring road circles it with parking garages on the perimeter. A convenient parking lot is just across from the railway station and within 50 yards of the tourist office, which is on Windeckstrasse near the Hauptbahnhof. Bonn has extensive bike paths downtown; these are designated paths (often demarcated with blue-and-white bicycle symbols) on the edges of roads or sidewalks. TIP Pedestrians, beware: anyone walking on a bike path risks getting mowed down. Bicyclists are expected to follow the same traffic rules as cars. In Bonn the Radstation, at the main train station, will not only rent you a bike and provide maps, but will also fill your water bottle and check the pressure in your tires for free.\n\nBilingual bus tours of Bonn cost \u20ac16 and start from the tourist office. They're conducted daily at 2 from Easter to October, and Saturday only November to March. A variety of walking tours are also available, including the \"Bonn zu Fuss\" city tour (\u20ac9), offered Saturday at 11 am from late April to October.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nBeethoven-Festival.  \nConcerts are held at numerous indoor and outdoor venues during September's month-long Beethoven-Festival. | 0228/201\u20130345 | www.beethovenfest.de.\n\nBonner Sommer.  \nFrom May through September, the Bonner Sommer festival offers folklore, music, and street theater, much of it outdoors and most of it free. Information is available at the tourist office. | 0228/775\u2013000.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nBonn's tourism office sells the Bonn Regio Welcome Card, which offers an array of reductions, plus free entry into most museums, in combination with low- or no-cost transportation; the card costs \u20ac9 per 24-hour period.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nBicycle Contact  \nRadstation. | Quantiusstr. 26 | 0228/981\u20134636.\n\nVisitor Information  \nBonn Information. | Windeckstr. 1, on Cathedral Square | 0228/775\u2013000 | www.bonn.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nBeethoven-Haus (Beethoven House).  \nBeethoven was born in Bonn in 1770 and, except for a short stay in Vienna, lived here until the age of 22. You'll find scores, paintings, a grand piano (his last, in fact), and an ear trumpet or two. Thanks to the modern age, there's now a \"Stage for Music Visualization,\" an interactive exhibit involving 3-D glasses that shows Beethoven's best-loved works. The attached museum shop carries everything from kitsch to elegant Beethoven memorabilia. | Bonng. 20 | 0228/981\u20137525 | www.beethoven-haus-bonn.de | \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nBundesviertel (Federal Government District).  \nWalking through the pleasant area that was once the government district is like taking a trip back in time, to an era when Bonn was still the sleepy capital of West Germany. Bordered by Adenauerallee, Kaiser-Friedrich-Strasse, Franz-Josef-Strasse, and the Rhine, the quarter boasts sights such as the Bundeshaus, which includes the Plenarsaal (plenary hall). Designed to serve as the new Federal Parliament, the Bundeshaus was completed only seven years before the capital was relocated to Berlin in 1999. A few steps away, you'll find the historic Villa Hammerschmidt, the German equivalent of the White House. This stylish neoclassical mansion began serving as the Federal president's permanent residence in 1950, and is still his home when he stays in Bonn. Equally impressive is the Palais Schaumburg, another fine example of the Rhein Riveria estates that once housed the Federal Chancellery (1949\u201376). It became the center of Cold War politics during the Adenauer administration. Tours of the quarter, including a visit to the Villa Hammerschmidt, are offered by the Bonn Tourist Office. | Heussallee (U-bahn).\n\nKunstmuseum Bonn (Art Museum).  \nChanging exhibits are generally excellent at this large museum that focuses on Rhenish expressionists and German art since 1945 (Beuys, Baselitz, and Kiefer, for example). The museum's airy and inexpensive caf\u00e9 is better than the stuffier version across the plaza at the Kunst- und Ausstellungshalle. | Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 2 | 0228/776\u2013260 | www.kunstmuseum-bonn.de | \u20ac7 | Tues., Thurs.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136, Wed. 11\u20139.\n\nKurf\u00fcrstliches Schloss (Prince-Electors' Palace).  \nBuilt in the 18th century by the prince-electors of K\u00f6ln, this grand palace now houses Bonn's university. If the weather is good, stroll through Hofgarten park in front of it. When Bonn was a capital, this patch of grass drew tens of thousands to antinuclear demonstrations. Today it's mostly used for games of pickup soccer and ultimate Frisbee. | Am Hofgarten.\n\nM\u00fcnster (Minster).  \nThe 900-year-old church is vintage late Romanesque, with a massive octagonal main tower and a soaring spire. It stands on a site where two Roman soldiers were executed in the 3rd century for being Christian. It saw the coronations of two Holy Roman Emperors (in 1314 and 1346) and was one of the Rhineland's most important ecclesiastical centers in the Middle Ages. The 17th-century bronze figure of St. Helen and the ornate rococo pulpit are highlights of the interior; outside you'll find two giant stone heads: those of Cassius and Florentius, the martyred soldiers. | M\u00fcnsterpl. | 0228/985\u2013880 | www.bonner-muenster.de | Free | Mon.\u2013Sat. 8\u20137, Sun. 9\u20138.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nThis 18th-century rococo town hall looks somewhat like a pink dollhouse. Its elegant steps and stair entry have seen a great many historic figures, including French president Charles de Gaulle and U.S. president John F. Kennedy. For information about possible tours, contact the visitor center. | Am Markt | 774\u2013288.\n\nHaus der Geschichte (House of History).  \nGerman history since World War II is the subject of this museum, which begins with \"hour zero,\" as the Germans call the unconditional surrender of 1945. The museum displays an overwhelming amount of documentary material organized on five levels and engages various types of media. It's not all heavy either\u2014temporary exhibits have featured political cartoonists, Cold War\u2013era sporting contests pitting East Germany versus West Germany, and an in-depth examination of the song \"Lili Marleen,\" sung by troops of every nation during World War II. | Willy-Brandt-Allee 14 | 0228/91650 | www.hdg.de | Free (with audio guide in English) | Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u20137, weekends 10\u20136.\n\nKunst- und Ausstellungshalle der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Art and Exhibition Hall of the German Federal Republic).  \nThis is one of the Rhineland's most important venues for major temporary exhibitions about art, culture, andarchaeology. Its modern design, by Viennese architect Gustave Peichl, is as interesting as anything on exhibit in the museum. It employs three enormous blue cones situated on a lawnlike rooftop garden. | Friedrich-Ebert-Allee 4 | 0228/91710 | www.bundeskunsthalle.de | \u20ac10 for one exhibition, \u20ac15 for all exhibitions (\u20ac6 2 hrs before closing) | Tues. and Wed. 10\u20139, Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20137.\n\nPoppelsdorfer Schloss (Poppelsdorf Palace).  \nThis former electors' palace, built in the baroque style between 1715 and 1753, now houses the university's mineralogical collection. Its botanical gardens are home to 12,000 species, among the largest variety in Germany. | Meckenheimer Allee 171 | 0228/732\u2013764 | www.steinmann.uni-bonn.de/museen; www.botgart.uni-bonn.de | Mineralogical collection \u20ac2.50; botanical garden free weekdays, Sun. \u20ac2 | Mineralogical collection: Wed. and Fri. 3\u20136, Sun. 10\u20135. Botanical garden: Apr.\u2013Oct., Sun.\u2013Wed. and Fri. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 10\u20134.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Alter Friedhof  \n(Old Cemetery). This ornate, leafy cemetery is the resting place of many of the country's most celebrated sons and daughters. Look for the tomb of composer Robert Schumann (1810\u201356) and his wife, Clara, also a composer and accomplished pianist. To reach the cemetery from the main train station, follow Quantiusstrasse west, parallel to the tracks until it becomes Herwarthstrasse; before the street curves to the left, turning into Endenicherstrasse, take the underpass below the railroad line. You'll then be on Thomastrasse, which borders the cemetery. | Bornheimerstr. | Jan., Nov., and Dec., daily 8\u20135; Feb., daily 8\u20136; Mar.\u2013Aug., daily 7:15\u20136; Sept., daily 8\u20138; Oct., daily 8\u20137.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nEm H\u00f6ttche.  \nGERMAN | Beethoven was a regular at this tavern, which has been around since the late 14th century. Today it offers one of the best-value lunches in town, and the kitchen stays open until 1 am. The interior is rustic, the food hearty and non-fussy. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Markt 4 | 0228/690\u2013009 | www.em-hoettche.de.\n\nRistorante Sassella.  \nITALIAN | When the Bundestag was still in town, this Bonn institution used to be cited in the press as frequently for its backroom political dealings as for its Lombardy-influenced food. Locals, prominent and otherwise, still flock to the restaurant, in an 18th-century house in the suburb of Kessenich. The style is pure Italian farmhouse, with stone walls and exposed beams, but the handmade pastas often stray from the typical, as in the salmon-filled black-and-white pasta pockets in shrimp sauce. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Karth\u00e4userpl. 21 | 0228/530\u2013815 | www.ristorante-sassella.de | Reservations essential | Closed Mon. No lunch Sat., no dinner Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Strandhaus.  \nEUROPEAN | On a quiet residential street, and hidden from view in summer by an ivy-covered patio, this restaurant feels like a true escape\u2014befitting its laid-back name (\"beach house\"). Chef Astrid Kuth insists on local produce, and presents her delicate, innovatively spiced food with elegance, but no fuss. A carefully compiled wine list long on Geman bottles, along with a frequently changing menu, means locals come here often. | Average main: \u20ac27 | Georgstr. 28 | 0228/369\u20134949 | www.strandhaus-bonn.de | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nBest Western Domicil.  \nHOTEL | A group of buildings around a quiet, central courtyard has been converted into a charming and comfortable hotel, with rooms individually furnished and decorated in styles ranging from fin de si\u00e8cle romantic to Italian modern. Huge windows help make the public rooms feel airy. Pros: quiet courtyard; handy to the train station. Cons: plain exterior. | Rooms from: \u20ac185 | Thomas-Mann-Str. 24\u201326 | 0228/729\u2013090 | domicil-bonn.bestwestern.de | 43 rooms, 1 apartment | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Mozart.  \nHOTEL | Elegant on the outside and simple on the inside, this small, attractive hotel is often recommended to friends by locals. Part of its appeal is its location amid traditional townhouses in the romantic, residential \"musician's quarter,\" a four-minute walk from the main train station and the city center. Pros: quiet tree-lined street; close to the train station. Cons: thin walls. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Mozartstr. 1 | 0228/659\u2013071 | www.hotel-mozart-bonn.com | 38 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nSternhotel.  \nHOTEL | For solid comfort and a picturesque, central location, the Sternhotel is tops\u2014and their weekend rates are a bargain. Rooms are in a Danish-modern style. Pros: in the center of town; partnership with gym across the square, allowing guests free entry. Cons: market square location can be noisy in the morning; expensive for the area. | Rooms from: \u20ac185 | Markt 8 | 0228/72670 | www.sternhotel-bonn.de | 80 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nBeethovenhalle.  \nThe Bonn Symphony Orchestra opens its season in grand style every year in late summer with a concert on the market square, in front of town hall. Many of its other concerts are held in the Beethovenhalle. | Wachsbleiche 16 | 0228/722\u201320 | www.beethovenhalle.de.\n\nBeethoven-Haus.  \nIn the Beethoven-Haus, recitals are sometimes given on a 19th-century grand piano, and concerts take place regularly in the chamber music hall. | Bonng. 20 | 0228/981\u2013750.\n\nPantheon Theater.  \nThis is a major venue for comedy and cabaret. | Bundeskanzlerpl. 2\u201310 | 0228/212\u2013521 | www.pantheon.de.\n\nSchumannhaus.  \nChamber-music concerts are given regularly at the Schumannhaus, where composer Robert Schumann spent his final years. | Sebastianstr. 182 | 0228/773\u2013656 | www.schumannhaus-bonn.de.\n\nTheater Bonn.  \nOperas are staged regularly at the Theater Bonn, which also hosts musicals and performances by world-renowned dance companies, including ballet. | Am Boeselagerhof 1 | 0228/778\u2013000 | www.theater-bonn.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nThere are plenty of department stores and boutiques in the pedestrian shopping zone around the Markt and the M\u00fcnster.\n\nFlohmarkt (Flea Market).  \nBargain hunters search for secondhand goods and knickknacks at the city's renowned\u2014and huge\u2014flea market. It's held in Rheinaue south of the Konrad-Adenauer-Br\u00fccke on the third Saturday of each month from April through October. | Rheinaue.\n\nWochenmarkt (Weekly Market).  \nBonn's Wochenmarkt is open every day but Sunday, filling the Markt with vendors of produce and various edibles. Things get really busy in springtime, when the locals flock to find the best asparagus and strawberries. | Markt.\n\n## K\u00f6nigswinter\n\n12 km (7 miles) southeast of Bonn.\n\nHome to one of Germany's most popular castles, Drachenfels, K\u00f6nigswinter is also the gateway to the 30 large and small hills that makes up the Siebengebirge, the country's oldest nature reserve. In early May, festivities and fireworks light up the town as part of the \"Rhine in Flames\" fireworks display.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nK\u00f6nigswinter is 15 minutes south of Bonn by car. It can also be reached by a 40-minute train ride (via Regionalbahn) from K\u00f6ln.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Drachenfels.  \nThe town of K\u00f6nigswinter has one of the most-visited castles on the Rhine, the Drachenfels. Its ruins crown one of the highest hills in the Siebengebirge, with a spectacular view of the Rhine. It's also part of Germany's oldest nature reserve, with more than 100 km (62 miles) of hiking trails. The castle was built in the 12th century by the archbishop of K\u00f6ln, and takes its name from a dragon said to have lived in a nearby cave. (The dragon was slain by Siegfried, hero of the epic Nibelungenlied.)\n\nThe castle ruins can be reached via two different hikes, each of about 45 minutes. One route begins at the Drachenfelsbahn station, and passes the Nibelungenhalle reptile zoo along the way. The other route starts at Rh\u00f6ndorf on the other side of the hill. The Siebengebirge Tourist Office at Drachenfelstrasse 51 in K\u00f6nigswinter can provide a map that includes these and other local hiking trails.\n\nDrachenfelsbahn.  \nIf hiking to Drachenfels isn't for you, you can also reach the castle ruins by taking the Drachenfelsbahn, a steep, narrow-gauge train that makes trips to the summit every half hour March through October, and hourly in winter (except late November and December). | Drachenfelsstr. 53 | 02223/92090 | www.drachenfelsbahn-koenigswinter.de | \u20ac10 round-trip | Mar. and Oct., daily 10\u20136; Apr., daily 10\u20137; May\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20137; early Nov. and Jan.\u2013Feb., weekdays noon\u20135, weekends 11\u20136\n\nFAMILY | Sea Life.  \nK\u00f6nigswinter's huge aquarium features 2,000 creatures from the sea. The biggest pool has a glass tunnel that enables you to walk on the \"bottom of the sea.\" | Rheinallee 8 | 0180/5666\u201390101 for tickets (\u20ac0.20\u2013\u20ac0.60 per call) | www.visitsealife.com | \u20ac14.95 | Easter\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Easter, weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 10\u20136.\n\n## Br\u00fchl\n\n20 km (12 miles) northwest of Bonn.\n\nIn the center of Br\u00fchl stands the Rhineland's most important baroque palace, the Augustusburg. Br\u00fchl is also home to one of Germany's most popular theme parks, Phantasialand.\n\n### Exploring\n\nSchloss Augustusburg.  \nThis castle and the magnificent pleasure park that surrounds it were created in the time of Prince Clemens August, between 1725 and 1768. The palace contains one of the most famous achievements of rococo architecture, a staircase by Balthasar Neumann. The castle can be visited only on guided tours, which leave the reception area every hour or so. An English-language recorded tour is available. | Max-Ernst-Allee | 02232/44000 | www.schlossbruehl.de | \u20ac6 | Feb.\u2013Nov., Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u2013noon and 1:30\u20134, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nJagdschloss Falkenlust.  \nThis small castle, at the end of an avenue leading under the tracks across from Schloss Augustusburg's grounds, was built as a getaway where the prince could indulge his passion for falconry. | Otto-Wels-Str. | 02232/44000 | www.schlossbruehl.de | \u20ac4.50 | Feb.\u2013Nov., Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u2013noon and 1:30\u20134, weekends 10\u20135.\n\n## K\u00f6ln (Cologne)\n\n28 km (17 miles) north of Bonn, 47 km (29 miles) south of D\u00fcsseldorf, 70 km (43 miles) southeast of Aachen.\n\nK\u00f6ln (Cologne in English) is the largest city on the Rhine (the fourth largest in Germany) and one of the most interesting. The city is vibrant and bustling, with a lightness and cheerfulness that's typical of the Rhineland. At its heart is tradition, manifested in the abundance of bars and brew houses serving the local K\u00f6lsch beer and old Rhine cuisine. These are good meeting places to start a night on the town. Tradition, however, is mixed with the contemporary, found in a host of elegant shops, sophisticated restaurants, modern bars and dance clubs, and a contemporary-art scene that's now just hanging on against unstoppable competition from Berlin.\n\nAlthough not as old as Trier, K\u00f6ln has been a dominant power in the Rhineland since Roman times, and it remains a major commercial, intellectual, and ecclesiastical center. K\u00f6ln was first settled in 38 BC. For nearly a century it grew slowly, in the shadow of imperial Trier, until a locally born noblewoman, Julia Agrippina, daughter of the Roman general Germanicus, married the Roman emperor Claudius. Her hometown was elevated to the rank of a Roman city and given the name Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium (Claudius Colony at the Altar of Agrippina). For the next 300 years Colonia (hence Cologne, or K\u00f6ln) flourished. Evidence of the Roman city's wealth resides in the R\u00f6misch-Germanisches Museum. In the 9th century Charlemagne, the towering figure who united the sprawling German lands (and ruled much of present-day France) as the first Holy Roman Emperor, restored K\u00f6ln's fortunes and elevated it to its preeminent role in the Rhineland by appointing the first archbishop of K\u00f6ln. The city's ecclesiastical heritage is one of its most striking features; it has a full dozen Romanesque churches and one of the world's largest and finest Gothic cathedrals. In the Middle Ages it was a member of the powerful Hanseatic League, occupying a position of greater importance in European commerce than either London or Paris.\n\nK\u00f6ln was a thriving modern city until World War II, when bombings destroyed 90% of it. Only the cathedral remained relatively unscathed. But like many other German cities that rebounded during the \"Economic Miracle\" of the 1950s, K\u00f6ln is a mishmash of old and new, sometimes awkwardly juxtaposed. A good part of the former Old Town along the Hohe Strasse (old Roman High Road) was turned into a remarkably charmless pedestrian shopping mall. It's all framed by six-lane expressways winding along the rim of the city center\u2014barely yards from the cathedral\u2014illustrating the problems of postwar reconstruction. However, much of the Altstadt, ringed by streets that follow the line of the medieval city walls, is closed to traffic. Most major sights are within this area and are easily reached on foot. Here, too, you'll find the best shops.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nAs one of Germany's most important rail hubs, K\u00f6ln is connected by fast trains to cities throughout northwestern Europe, including Paris, Brussels, and Frankfurt. German rail lines link K\u00f6ln to the entire nation. You can reach K\u00f6ln from Bonn in about 20 minutes, and Br\u00fchl in about 15.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nWeihnachtsmarkt am K\u00f6lner Dom.  \nOf Cologne's four main Christmas markets the Weihnachtsmarkt am K\u00f6lner Dom, in the shadow of the city's famed cathedral, is the most impressive. Set against the backdrop of the church's magnificent twin spires, a giant Christmas tree stands proudly in the middle of the market's 160 festively adorned stalls, which sell mulled wine, roasted chestnuts, and many other German yuletide treats. | www.koelnerweihnachtsmarkt.com | Late Nov.\u2013Dec. 23, Sun.\u2013Wed. 11\u20139, Thurs. and Fri. 11\u201310, Sat. 10\u201310.\n\n#### Tours\n\nCity bus tours leave from the tourist office and from Trankgasse, beside the cathedral, once per hour from 10 am, year-round. The 90-minute tours cost \u20ac12\u2013\u20ac15, leave every hour, from 10 am, year-round, and are conducted in English and German. Walking tours in English are often available by arrangement with the tourist office. Bus trips into the countryside (to the Eifel Hills, the Ahr Valley, and the Westerwald) are organized by several city travel agencies.\n\nRadstation K\u00f6ln offers bike rental by the day (\u20ac10) from April through October as well as three-hour guided bike tours of the city (\u20ac15), departing daily at 1:30.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nMost central hotels sell the K\u00f6lnTourismus Card (\u20ac9 for one day, \u20ac14 for two days), which entitles you to discounts on sightseeing tours, admissions to all the city's museums, free city bus and tram travel, and other reductions.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nBicycle Contacts  \nRadstation K\u00f6ln. | Markmannsg. next to Deutzer Br\u00fccke (bridge) | 0221/629\u20138796 | www.radstationkoeln.de.\n\nVisitor Information  \nK\u00f6ln Tourismus Office. | Kardinal-H\u00f6ffner-Pl. 1, opposite cathedral | 0221/2213\u20130400 | www.cologne-tourism.com.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Dom (Cathedral).  \nK\u00f6ln's landmark embodies one of the purest expressions of the Gothic spirit in Europe. The cathedral, meant to be a tangible expression of God's kingdom on Earth, was conceived with such immense dimensions that construction, begun in 1248, was not completed until 1880, after the original plan was rediscovered. At 515 feet high, the two west towers of the cathedral were briefly the tallest structures in the world when they were finished (before being eclipsed by the Washington Monument). The cathedral was built to house what are believed to be the relics of the Magi, the three kings who paid homage to the infant Jesus (the trade in holy mementos was big business in the Middle Ages\u2014and not always scrupulous). The size of the building was not simply an example of self-aggrandizement on the part of the people of K\u00f6ln, however; it was a response to the vast numbers of pilgrims who arrived to see the relics. The ambulatory, the passage that curves around the back of the altar, is unusually large, allowing cathedral authorities to funnel large numbers of visitors up to the crossing (where the nave and transepts meet and where the relics were originally displayed), around the back of the altar, and out again.\n\nToday the relics are kept just behind the altar, in the original, enormous gold-and-silver reliquary. The other great treasure of the cathedral, in the last chapel on the left as you face the altar, is the Gero Cross, a monumental oak crucifix dating from 971. The Altar of the City Patrons (1440), a triptych by Stephan Lochner, K\u00f6ln's most famous medieval painter, is to the right. Other highlights are the stained-glass windows, some dating from the 13th century and another, designed by Gerhard Richter with help from a computer program, from the 21st; the 15th-century altarpiece; and the early-14th-century high altar, with its glistening white figures and intricate choir screens. If you're up to it, climb to the top of the bell tower to get the complete vertical experience (but be aware that viewing K\u00f6ln from the Dom itself removes the skyline's most interesting feature). The treasury includes the silver shrine of Archbishop Engelbert, who was stabbed to death in 1225. Allow at least an hour for the whole tour of the interior, treasury, and tower climb. | Dompl., Altstadt | 0221/9258\u20134730 | www.koelner-dom.de | Tower \u20ac3, cathedral treasury \u20ac5, guided tours \u20ac7.\n\nMuseum Ludwig.  \nThis museum is dedicated to art from the beginning of the 20th century to the present day. Its American pop-art collection (including Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Claes Oldenburg, and Roy Lichtenstein) rivals that of most American museums. | Heinrich-B\u00f6ll-Pl., Innenstadt | 0221/2212\u20136165 | www.museum-ludwig.de | \u20ac10 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, 1st Thurs. of every month 10\u201310. Closed 1 wk during Karneval, mid-Feb.\u2013early Mar.\n\nFodor's Choice | R\u00f6misch-Germanisches Museum (Roman-Germanic Museum).  \nThis cultural landmark was built in the early 1970s around the famous Dionysius mosaic discovered here during the construction of an air-raid shelter in 1941. The huge mosaic, more than 800 square feet, once formed the dining-room floor of a wealthy Roman trader's villa. Its millions of tiny earthenware and glass tiles depict some of the adventures of Dionysius, the Greek god of wine. The pillared 1st-century tomb of Lucius Publicius (a prominent Roman officer), some stone Roman coffins, and everyday objects of Roman life are among the museum's other exhibits. Bordering the museum on the south is a restored 90-yard stretch of the old Roman harbor road. | Roncallipl. 4, Altstadt | 0221/2212\u20134438 | www.museenkoeln.de | \u20ac6 (sometimes higher during special exhibitions) | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, 1st Thurs. of every month 10\u201310.\n\nWallraf-Richartz-Museum.  \nThis museum contains paintings spanning the years 1300 to 1900. The Dutch and Flemish schools are particularly well represented, as is the 15th- to 16th-century K\u00f6ln school of German painting. Its two most famous artists are the Master of the St. Veronica (whose actual name is unknown) and Stefan Lochner, represented by two luminous works, The Last Judgment and The Madonna in the Rose Bower. Large canvases by Rubens, who spent his youth in K\u00f6ln, hang prominently on the second floor. There are also outstanding works by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, and Frans Hals, and the largest collection of French Impressionism in Germany. | Obenmarspforten, Altstadt | 0221/2212\u20131119 | www.wallraf.museum | \u20ac8 | Tues. and Wed. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20139, Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n* * *\n\nKarneval in K\u00f6ln\n\nAs the biggest city in the traditionally Catholic Rhineland, K\u00f6ln puts on Germany's most exciting and rowdy carnival. The K\u00f6lsch starts flowing on November 11 at 11:11 am with screams of the famous motto K\u00f6lle alaaf! (\"K\u00f6ln is alive!\"). Karneval then calms down for a few months, only to reach a fever pitch in February for the last five days before Lent. On Fat Thursday, known as Weiberfastnacht, women roam the streets with scissors and exercise merciless precision in cutting off the ties of any men foolish enough to wear them. Starting then, bands, parades, and parties go all night, and people of all ages don silly costumes, including the customary red clown nose. It's a good time to meet new people; in fact, it is practically impossible not to, as kissing strangers is considered par for the course. TIP During this time, visitors who are claustrophobic or who don't want to risk having beer spilled on them should avoid the Heumarkt area in the Old Town, and possibly the whole city. The festivities come to an end Tuesday at midnight with the ritual burning of the \"Nubbel\"\u2014a dummy that acts as the scapegoat for everyone's drunken, embarrassing behavior. Note: Many museums are closed during Karneval.\n\n* * *\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAlter Markt (Old Market).  \nThe square has an eclectic assembly of buildings, most of them postwar. However, two 16th-century houses survived the war intact\u2014Nos. 20 and 22, which are today a K\u00f6lsch brewpub. The oldest structure dates from 1135. | Altstadt.\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nThe Rathaus is worth a look, even from the outside. (Tours of the interior, for groups only, must be booked at the tourist office.) It's the oldest town hall in Germany, with elements remaining from the 14th century. The famous bell tower rings its bells daily at 9, noon, 3, and 6. Standing on pedestals at one end of the town hall are figures of prophets made in the early 15th century. Ranging along the south wall are nine additional statues, the so-called Nine Good Heroes, carved in 1360. Charlemagne, Alexander the Great, and King David are among them. Sculptures of 124 later Cologne heroes, up through the 20th-century, have been added outside at the Town Hall Tower. Beneath a small glass pyramid near the south corner of the Rathaus is the Mikwe, a 12th-century ritual bath from the medieval Jewish quarter that surrounded it at that time. | Rathauspl. 2, Altstadt | 0221/2212\u20133332.\n\nGross St. Martin (Great St. Martin).  \nThis remarkable Romanesque parish church was rebuilt after being flattened in World War II. Its massive 13th-century tower, with distinctive corner turrets and an imposing central spire, is another K\u00f6ln landmark. The church was built on the site of a Roman granary. | Martinspf\u00f6rtchen 8, Altstadt | 1642\u20135650 | Sept.\u2013July, Tues.\u2013Sat. 9\u20137:30, Sun. 1\u20137:15; Aug., Tues.\u2013Sat. noon\u20137:30, Sun. 1\u20137:15.\n\nG\u00fcrzenich.  \nThis Gothic structure, located at the south end of Martinsviertel, was all but demolished in World War II, but carefully reconstructed afterward. It's named after a medieval knight from whom the city acquired valuable real estate in 1437. The official reception and festival hall here has played a central role in civic life through the centuries. At one end of the complex are the remains of the 10th-century Gothic church of St. Alban, which were left ruined after the war as a memorial. On what's left of the church floor you can see a sculpture of a couple kneeling in prayer, Mourning Parents, by K\u00e4the Kollwitz, a memorial to the ravages of war. | Martinstr. 29\u201337, Altstadt | www.koelnkongress.de.\n\nK\u00e4the Kollwitz Museum.  \nThe works of K\u00e4the Kollwitz (1867\u20131945), the most important German female artist of the 20th century, focus on social themes like the plight of the poor and the atrocities of war. This is the larger of the country's two Kollwitz collections and comprises all of her woodcuts, as well as paintings, etchings, lithographs, and sculptures. There are also changing exhibits of other modern artists. | Neumarkt 18\u201324, in Neumarkt Passage, Innenstadt | 0221/227\u20132899 | www.kollwitz.de | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20136.\n\nK\u00f6lnisches Stadtmuseum (Cologne City Museum).  \nThe triumphs and tragedies of K\u00f6ln's rich past are packed into this museum at the historic Zeughaus, the city's former arsenal. Here you'll find an in-depth chronicle of K\u00f6ln's history\u2014including information about the lives of ordinary people and high-profile politicians, the industrial revolution (car manufacturer Henry Ford headquartered his European operations here), and the destruction incurred during World War II. For those who've always wanted to be privy to the inside stories surrounding local words such as Kl\u00fcngel, K\u00f6lsch, and Karneval, the answers are waiting to be discovered within the museum's walls. | Zeughausstr. 1\u20133, Altstadt | 0221/2212\u20135789 | www.museenkoeln.de | \u20ac5 | Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Tues. 10\u20138, 1st Thurs. of every month 10\u201310.\n\nKolumba.  \nThe origins of the official art museum of the Archdiocese of Cologne stretch back to 1853, but the institution received a big boost in 2007, with the opening of a unique new home atop\u2014and masterfully incorporating\u2014 the ruins of the Gothic parish church of St. Kolumba. Designed by the Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, the new building pays homage to the site's Roman, Gothic, and medieval heritage, while unstuffily presenting a collection of art spanning from late antiquity to the present. | Kolumbastr. 4, Innenstadt | 0221/933\u20131930 | www.kolumba.de | \u20ac5 | Wed.\u2013Mon. noon\u20135.\n\nMuseum Schn\u00fctgen.  \nA treasure house of medieval art from the Rhine region, the museum has an ideal setting in a 12th-century basilica. Don't miss the crucifix from the St. Georg Kirche or the original stained-glass windows and carved figures from the Dom. Other exhibits include intricately carved ivory book covers, rock-crystal reliquaries, and illuminated manuscripts. | C\u00e4cilienstr. 29, Innenstadt | 0221/2212\u20132310 | www.museenkoeln.de | \u20ac6 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138, 1st Thurs. of every month 10\u201310.\n\nSt. Gereon.  \nThis exquisite Romanesque basilica stands on the site of an old Roman burial ground six blocks west of the train station. An enormous dome rests on walls that were once clad in gold mosaics. Roman masonry forms part of the medieval structure, which is believed to have been built over the grave of its namesake, the 4th-century martyr and K\u00f6ln's patron. | Gereonskloster 2\u20134 | 0221/134\u2013922 | www.stgereon.de | Free | Weekdays 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20135:30, Sun. 12:30\u20136.\n\nSt. Kunibert.  \nThe most lavish of the churches from the late-Romanesque period is by the Rhine, three blocks north of the train station. The apse's precious stained-glass windows have filtered light for more than 750 years (they were put in protective storage during World War II). Consecrated in 1247, the church contains an unusual room, concealed under the altar, which gives access to a pre-Christian well once believed to promote fertility in women. | Kunibertsklosterg. 2, Altstadt-Nord | 0221/121\u2013214 | www.basilika-st-kunibert.de | Free | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20131 and 3\u20136, Sun. 3\u20136.\n\nSt. Maria im Kapitol.  \nBuilt in the 11th and 12th centuries on the site of a Roman temple, St. Maria is best known for its two beautifully carved 16-foot-high doors and its enormous crypt, the second-largest in Germany. The powerful organ shakes the building. | Marienpl. 17\u201319, Altstadt | 0221/214\u2013615 | www.maria-im-kapitol.de | Free | Daily 9\u20136, except during services.\n\nFAMILY | Schokoladenmuseum (Chocolate Museum).  \nThis riverside museum south of the cathedral is a real hit, and so crowded on weekends that it can be unpleasant. It recounts 3,000 years of civilization's production and enjoyment of chocolate, from the Central American Maya to the colonizing and industrializing Europeans. It's also a real factory, with lava flows of chocolate and a conveyer belt jostling thousands of truffles. The museum shop, with a huge variety of chocolate items, does a brisk business, and the riverside panorama caf\u00e9 serves some of the best cake in town. | Am Schockoladenmuseum 1a, Rheinufer | 0221/931\u20138880 | www.schokoladenmuseum.de | \u20ac8.50 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20137; Mon. 10\u20136 (Dec. only).\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nCaf\u00e9 Elefant.  \nEUROPEAN | For three decades, writers and artists from K\u00f6ln's elegant Agnesviertel neighborhood have been meeting at this cosy locale on a quiet, tree-lined street. Inside, the ambience\u2014like a little corner of Montmartre\u2014is just right for thinking deep thoughts, or simply chatting over a slice of chocolate cake. Even when the cake's all gone, night owls can enjoy the caf\u00e9's delicious camembert and lingonberry blintzes. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Weissenburgstr. 50 | 0221/734\u2013520 | No credit cards.\n\nFodor's Choice | Capricorn i Aries.  \nFRENCH | This corner brasserie\u2014part neighborhood bistro, part upscale restaurant\u2014serves the staples of French rural cuisine with a Rhineland twist, whether it's a simple soup or a five-course dinner. The owners' award-winning, four-table restaurant across the street is also available for special events. Those aiming to improve their own skills can participate in a Sunday cooking class, in which students prepare and then eat four courses. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Alteburger Str. 31, Neustadt S\u00fcd | 0221/397\u20135710 | www.capricorniaries.com | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nFodor's Choice | Casa di Biase.  \nITALIAN | The sophisticated Italian cuisine is served here in a warm, elegant setting. The seasonally changing menu focuses on fish and game, and the wine list is interesting and extensive\u2014although sometimes pricey. Next door is Casa di Biase's smaller and more casual sister, the Teca di Biasi. This cozy, wood-panel wine bar serves antipasti, salads, and main dishes for under \u20ac15. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Eifelpl. 4, S\u00fcdstadt | 0221/322\u2013433 | www.casadibiase.de | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nFr\u00fch am Dom.  \nGERMAN | For real down-home cooking, there are few places that compare with this time-honored former brewery in the shadow of the Dom. It's often crowded, but the mood's fantastic. Bold frescoes on the vaulted ceilings establish the mood, and the authentically Teutonic experience is completed by such dishes as H\u00e4mmchen (pork knuckle). The beer garden is perfect for summer dining. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Am Hof 12\u201318, Altstadt | 0221/261\u20133211 | www.frueh.de | No credit cards.\n\nHeising & Adelmann.  \nECLECTIC | A young crowd gathers here to do what people along the Rhine have done for centuries\u2014talk, drink, and enjoy good company. There's a party every Friday and Saturday with a DJ. Consistently voted one of the best deals in town, this restaurant offers good German beer, tangy cocktails, and a creative mixture of German and French food. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Friesenstr. 58\u201360, Neustadt-Nord | 0221/130\u20139424 | www.heising-und-adelmann.de | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch.\n\nP\u00e4ffgen.  \nGERMAN | There's no better Br\u00e4uhaus in K\u00f6ln for drinking K\u00f6lsch, the city's home brew. You won't sit long in front of an empty glass before a blue-aproned waiter sweeps by and places another one before you. With its worn wooden decor, colorful clientele, and typical Rhenish fare (Sauerbraten, pork knuckle, and potato pancakes), P\u00e4ffgen sums up local tradition. The brewery is the family business of the late singer-actress Nico, n\u00e9e Christa P\u00e4ffgen, who became famous in the '60s through her collaborations with Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Friesenstr. 64\u201366, Friesenviertel | 0221/135\u2013461 | www.paeffgen-koelsch.de | No credit cards.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nThe tourist office, across from the cathedral, can make hotel bookings for you for the same night, at a cost of \u20ac3 per booking. If you plan to be in town for Karneval, be sure to reserve a room well in advance.\n\nDas Kleine Stapelh\u00e4uschen.  \nB&B/INN | One of few medieval houses along the riverbank to survive World War II bombings, this family-run inn boasts an unbeatable location overlooking the river and right by Gross St. Martin. The hotel's quaintly furnished rooms are far from luxurious, but the place wins points for its history and reasonable prices. Ancient wooden beams grace some of the older rooms, but claustrophobic guests are advised to take up quarters in the \"new\" rooms. The inn's antique restaurant downstairs offers authentic Rhenish flair and spruced-up versions of traditional German dishes. Pros: right on the Rhine. Cons: somewhat down at the heels. | Rooms from: \u20ac136 | Fischmarkt 1\u20133, Altstadt | 0221/272\u20137777 | www.kleines-stapelh\u00e4uschen.de | 31 rooms, 6 without bath | Breakfast.\n\nExcelsior Hotel Ernst.  \nHOTEL | Old-master paintings, including a Van Dyck, grace this 1863 hotel's sumptuous Empire-style lobby, while Gobelin tapestries hang in the ballroom; the rooms are spacious, with upscale linens on the beds. During the afternoon, a tea sommelier can guide you through the high-tea brews in the classic hotel bar, which has live piano music six nights a week. The hotel's Taku Restaurant ($$$ - $$$$) specializes in pan-Asian cuisine. Pros: Van Dyck paintings and Gobelins. Cons: expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac270 | Dompl., Trankg. 1, Altstadt | 0221/2701 | www.excelsiorhotelernst.de | 108 rooms, 34 suites | No meals.\n\nHopper Hotel et cetera.  \nHOTEL | The rooms in this former monastery in the Belgian Quarter are spare but not spartan, though a startlingly realistic sculpture of a bishop, sitting in the reception area, serves as a constant reminder of the building's ecclesiastic origins. Modern paintings by K\u00f6ln artists don the walls of the hotel, located on a quiet street lined with ginkos. The rooms are not huge but are well-kept, and the atmosphere is airy. The smartly appointed restaurant Et Cetera serves upscale Mediterranean cuisine and has delightful garden seating. Pros: chicly renovated; attractive neighborhood. Cons: not centrally located, showers tricky for older guests. | Rooms from: \u20ac125 | Br\u00fcsselerstr. 26, Belgisches Viertel | 0221/924\u2013400 | www.hopper.de | 48 rooms, 1 suite, 1 apartment | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Chelsea.  \nHOTEL | This designer hotel with classic modern furnishings has a strong following among artists and art dealers, as well as with the musicians who come to play at the nearby Stadtgarten jazz club. Breakfast is served in the hotel's sleek Cafe Central ($). The rooms are well lit, and each has its own quirks, including original minimalist murals and some bizarre, avant-garde layouts. Pros: an artsy clientele and neighborhood. Cons: some rooms need freshening up and not all have their own bathroom. | Rooms from: \u20ac165 | J\u00fclicherstr. 1, Belgisches Viertel | 0221/207\u2013150 | www.hotel-chelsea.de | 35 rooms (3 without bath), 3 suites, 1 apartment | No meals.\n\nHotel im Kupferkessel.  \nHOTEL | The best things about this small, unassuming, family-run hotel are its immaculate housekeeping\u2014the very model of German fastidiousness\u2014and the price (small single rooms with shared bath can be had for as low as \u20ac40). Fresh flowers smarten up the rustic breakfast area, while the no-frills rooms are sunny, nicely renovated, and very functional. The direct surroundings aren't action-packed, but the hotel is in the shadow of St. Gereon church and a 15-minute walk to the Dom. Be prepared to deal with stairs here, as most rooms are on the third and fourth floors. Pros: inexpensive, with breakfast included. Cons: no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | Probsteig. 6, Alstadt-Nord | 0221/270\u20137960 | www.im-kupferkessel.de | 12 rooms (5 without bath) | Breakfast.\n\nHotel im Wasserturm.  \nHOTEL | What used to be Europe's tallest water tower is now an independent, 11-story luxury hotel that's welcomed guests like Brad Pitt and fashion mogul Wolfgang Joop. The neoclassical look of the 140-year-old brick exterior remains, while the interior is modern and sedately restful. Visitors to the restaurant \"La Vision\" ($$$$) will find a daily-changing menu of Continental haute cuisine and a wraparound balcony with 360-degree views of the city. For lighter fare, the hotel runs the bizarrely named d/\\blju 'W' on the ground floor ($$). The only thing left to be desired is a huge pool, but swim fanatics can head to the Agrippabad, next door. Pros: modern luxury at its finest. Cons: expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac210 | Kayg. 2, Altstadt | 0221/20080 | www.hotel-im-wasserturm.de | 45 rooms, 33 suites | No meals.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nK\u00f6lnticket.  \nTickets to most arts events can be purchased through K\u00f6lnticket. | 0221/2801 | www.koelnticket.de.\n\n#### The Arts\n\nAntoniterkirche.  \nOrgan recitals and chamber concerts are presented in many of the Romanesque churches around town, and in the Antoniterkirche. | Schilderg. 57, Innenstadt | 0221/925\u20138460 | www.antonitercitykirche.de.\n\nOper der Stadt K\u00f6ln.  \nK\u00f6ln's opera company is known for exciting classical and contemporary productions, including collaborative efforts with the French fashion designer Christian Lacroix. The opera house on Offenbachplatz is under major renovation until late 2015, so the primary performance space is currently the striking Oper am Dom, between the main train station and the Rhine. | Oper am Dom, Goldg. 1, Innenstadt | 0221/2212\u20138400 | www.operkoeln.com.\n\nPhilharmonie.  \nK\u00f6ln's Westdeutsche Rundfunk (WDR) Orchestra performs regularly in the city's excellent concert hall. | Bischofsgartenstr. 1, Altstadt | 0221/204\u2013080 | www.koelner-philharmonie.de.\n\nSchauspielhaus.  \nK\u00f6ln's principal theater is the Schauspielhaus, home to the 20 or so private theater companies in the city. While its main space on Offenbachplatz is being renovated (it's due to reopen in late 2015), Schauspielhaus productions have been moved to an industrial space in the M\u00fclheim neighborhood. | Carlswerk, Depots 1 and 2, Schanzenstr. 6\u201320, M\u00fclheim | 0221/2212\u20138400 | www.schauspielkoeln.de.\n\n#### Nightlife\n\nK\u00f6ln's nightlife is centered on three distinct areas: along the river in the Old Town, which seems to be one big party on weekends; on Zulpicherstrasse near the university; and around the Friesenplatz U-bahn station. Many streets off the Hohenzollernring and Hohenstaufenring, particularly Roonstrasse and Aachenerstrasse, also provide a broad range of nightlife. In summer the Martinsviertel, a part of the Altstadt around the Gross St. Martin church, which is full of restaurants, brew houses, and Kneipen (pubs), is a good place to go around sunset.\n\nAlter Wartesaal.  \nFor a true disco experience, make for the Alter Wartesaal in the Hauptbahnhof on Friday or Saturday night. The old train-station waiting room has been turned into a concert hall and dance club, where groovers swivel on ancient polished parquet and check their style in mirrors with mahogany frames. | Am Hauptbahnhof, Johannisstr. 11, Altstadt | 0221/912\u20138850 | www.wartesaal.de.\n\nPapa Joe's Biersalon.  \nThis classic, kitschy Altstadt bar plays oldies from Piaf to Porter. | Alter Markt 50\u201352, Altstadt | 0221/258\u20132132 | www.papajoes.de.\n\nPapa Joe's Jazzlokale.  \nFor live jazz, head to the tiny Papa Joe's Jazzlokale, where there's never a cover charge. | Buttermarkt 37, Altstadt | 0221/257\u20137931 | www.papajoes.de.\n\nStadtgarten.  \nIn summer, head straight for the Stadtgarten and sit in the Biergarten for some good outdoor Gem\u00fctlichkeit (coziness). At other times of the year it's still worth a visit for its excellent jazz club. TIP Stadtgarten also runs a beer garden with cheap, tasty eats in the shaded Rathenauplatz park, by K\u00f6ln's synagogue. | Venloerstr. 40 | 0221/952\u20139940 | www.stadtgarten.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nA good shopping loop begins at the Neumarkt Galerie. From there, head down the charmless but practical pedestrian shopping zone of the Schildergasse. From Schildergasse, go north on Herzogstrasse to arrive at Glockengasse. A block north is Breite Strasse, another pedestrian shopping street. At the end of Breite Strasse is Ehrenstrasse, where the young and young-at-heart can shop for hip fashions and trendy housewares. After a poke around here, explore the small boutiques on Benesisstrasse, which will lead you to Mittelstrasse, best known for high-tone German fashions and luxury goods. Follow Mittelstrasse to the end to return to the Neumarkt.\n\nGlockengasse.  \nK\u00f6ln's most celebrated product, Eau de Cologne No. 4711, was first concocted here by the 18th-century Italian chemist Johann Maria Farina. At the company's flagship store there's a small exhibition of historical 4711 bottles, as well as a perfume fountain you can dip your fingers in. | House of 4711, Glockeng. 4, Innenstadt | 0221/2709\u20139910 | www.4711.com.\n\nNeumarkt Galerie.  \nThis bright, modern indoor shopping arcade has a web of shops and caf\u00e9s surrounding an airy atrium. Just look for the huge sculpture of an upside-down ice cream cone above the entrance. | Richmodstr. 8 | www.neumarktgalerie.com.\n\nPeek & Cloppenburg.  \nThis big clothing store is a highlight of Shildergasse. The 2005 building, designed by the architect Renzo Piano, looks like a spaceship, and its selection of fashions\u2014for men and women, from budget to couture\u2014is out of this world. | Schilderg. 65\u201367, Innenstadt | 0221/453\u2013900 | www.peek-cloppenburg.com.\n\n## Aachen\n\n70 km (43 miles) west of K\u00f6ln.\n\nAt the center of Aachen, the characteristic three-window-wide facades, give way to buildings dating from the days when Charlemagne made Aix-la-Chapelle (as it was then called) the great center of the Holy Roman Empire. Thirty-two German emperors were crowned here, gracing Aachen with the proud nickname \"Kaiserstadt\" (Emperors' City). Roman legions had been drawn here for the healing properties of the sulfur springs emanating from the nearby Eifel Mountains. (The name \"Aachen,\" based on an old Frankish word for \"water,\" alludes to this.) Charlemagne's father, Pepin the Short, also settled here to enjoy the waters, and to this day the city is also known as Bad Aachen and still drawing visitors in search of a cure. One-and-a-half-hour walking tours depart from the tourist office throughout the year at 11 on weekends, as well as at 2 on weekdays from April to December. The Saturday tours are conducted in English as well as German.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nAachen Tourist-Information. | Friedrich-Wilhelm-Pl. | 0241/180\u20132960 | www.aachen.de | Weekdays 9\u20136, Sat. 9\u20132.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Dom (Cathedral).  \nAachen's stunning cathedral, the \"Chapelle\" of the town's earlier name of Aix-la-Chapelle, remains the single greatest storehouse of Carolingian architecture in Europe, and it was the first place in Germany to be named a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Though it was built over the course of 1,000 years and reflects architectural styles from the Middle Ages to the 19th century, its commanding image remains the magnificent octagonal royal chapel, rising up two arched stories to end in the cap of the dome. It was this section, the heart of the church, that Charlemagne saw completed in AD 800. His bones now lie in the Gothic choir, in a golden shrine surrounded by wonderful carvings of saints. Another treasure is his marble throne. Charlemagne had to journey all the way to Rome for his coronation, but the next 32 Holy Roman emperors were crowned here in Aachen, and each marked the occasion by presenting a lavish gift to the cathedral. In the 12th century Emperor Friederich I (aka Barbarossa) donated the great chandelier now hanging in the center of the Palatine chapel; his grandson, Frederick II, donated Charlemagne's shrine. English-language guided tours of the cathedral (\u20ac4) are offered daily at 2. | M\u00fcnsterpl., Domhof 1 | 0241/477\u2013090 | www.aachendom.de | Free | Apr.\u2013Dec., daily 7\u20137; Jan.\u2013Mar., daily 7\u20136.\n\nDomschatzkammer (The Cathedral Treasury).  \nThe cathedral houses sacred art from late antiquity and the Carolingian, Ottonian, and Hohenstaufen eras. A bust of Charlemagne on view here was commissioned by Emperor Karl IV in the late 14th century, who traveled here from Prague for the sole reason of having it made. The bust incorporates a piece of Charlemagne's skull. Other highlights include the Cross of Lothair and the Persephone Sarcophagus. | Klosterpl. 2 | 0241/4770\u20139127 | www.aachendom.de/schatzkammer.html | \u20ac5 | Jan.\u2013Mar., Mon. 10\u20131, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Apr.\u2013Dec., Mon. 10\u20131, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nElisenbrunnen (Elisa Fountain).  \nSoutheast of the cathedral and the site of the city's tourist-information center is an arcaded, neoclassical structure built in 1822. The central pavilion contains two fountains with thermal water\u2014the hottest north of the Alps\u2014that is reputed to help cure a wide range of ailments in those who drink it. If you can brave a gulp of the sulfurous water, you'll be emulating the likes of D\u00fcrer, Frederick the Great, and Charlemagne, who drank it before you. | Friedrich-Wilhelm-Pl.\n\nRathaus (Town Hall).  \nAachen's town hall sits behind the Dom, across Katschhof Square. It was built in the early 14th century on the site of the Aula Regia, or \"great hall,\" of Charlemagne's palace. Its first major official function was the coronation banquet of Emperor Karl IV in 1349, held in the great Gothic hall you can still see today (though this was largely rebuilt after World War II). On the north wall of the building are statues of 50 emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. The greatest of them all, Charlemagne, stands in bronze atop the Karlsbrunnen in the center of the market square. | Marktpl. | 0241/432\u20137310 | \u20ac5 | Daily 10\u20136.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nCarolus-Thermen Bad Aachen.  \nIf you're a steam-lover, try this high-tech spa with a venerable history. In D\u00fcrer's time there were regular crackdowns on the orgiastic goings-on at the baths. Today taking the waters is done with a bathing suit on, but be aware that the sauna area is a completely \"textile-free\" (i.e. clothes-free) zone. | Passstr. 79 | 0241/182\u2013740 | www.carolus-thermen.de | \u20ac11, \u20ac22 with sauna for up to 2\u00bd hrs; \u20ac15/\u20ac30 for full day | Daily 9 am\u201311 pm.\n\nLudwig Forum f\u00fcr Internationale Kunst.  \nOne of the world's most important art collectors, chocolate magnate Peter Ludwig, who died in 1996, endowed two museums in the town he called home. The Forum, the larger of the two, holds a portion of Ludwig's enormous collection of contemporary art and hosts traveling exhibits. | J\u00fclicher Str. 97\u2013109 | 0241/180\u20137104 | www.ludwigforum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues., Wed., and Fri. noon\u20136, Thurs. noon\u201310, weekends 11\u20136.\n\nSuermondt-Ludwig Museum.  \nThe smaller of the two Ludwig art institutions in town (the Ludwig Forum is the larger one) has a collection that concentrates paintings from the 12th to the early 20th century. | Wilhelmstr. 18 | 0241/479\u201380 | www.suermondt-ludwig-museum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues., Thurs., and Fri. noon\u20136, Wed. noon\u20138, weekends 11\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAm Knipp.  \nGERMAN | At this Bierstube dating from 1698, guests dig into their regional dishes at low wooden tables next to the tile stove. Pewter plates and beer mugs line the walls. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Bergdriesch 3 | 0241/33168 | www.amknipp.de | Closed Tues., Dec. 24\u2013Jan. 2, and 2 wks in Apr. and Oct. No lunch.\n\nFodor's Choice | Der Postwagen.  \nGERMAN | This annex of the more upscale Ratskeller is worth a stop for the building alone, a half-timber medieval edifice at one corner of the old Rathaus. You'll be impressed by the food as well, which also comes from the kitchen of Ratskeller chef Maurice de Boer. Sitting at one of the low wooden tables, surveying the marketplace through the wavy old glass, you can dine well on solid German fare. If you really want to go local, try Himmel und Erde (mashed potatoes and applesauce topped by panfried slices of blood sausage and onions). | Average main: \u20ac15 | Markt 40 | 0241/35001 | www.ratskeller-aachen.de.\n\nLa Becasse.  \nFRENCH | Chef Christof Lang's sophisticated French nouvelle cuisine and attentive staff are a hit with upscale locals. The restaurant, which is named for the woodcock, has been in operation just outside the Old Town by the Westpark for three decades. Try the distinctively light veal kidney or the Wagyu beef salad. The five-course lunch menu (around \u20ac35) changes daily. | Average main: \u20ac37 | Hanbrucherstr. 1 | 0241/74444 | www.labecasse.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. or Mon.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nibis Styles Aachen City.  \nHOTEL | A 15-minute walk from the Dom, this colorfully furnished modern budget hotel (formerly the All Seasons) is a good value, especially for families with children. The well-lit rooms don't have much in them - generally just a bed, a small sitting space, and a TV - but Wi-Fi and domestic calls are included in the price, and there's a video game area in the spacious lobby. Pros: kids under 16 get their own room at half price. Cons: on a busy street somewhat removed from the center. | Rooms from: \u20ac88 | J\u00fclicherstr. 10\u201312 | 0241/51060 | www.ibis.com | 102 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nPullmann Aachen Quellenhof.  \nHOTEL | This old-fashioned and grand hotel has rooms with high ceilings, a Roman-style spa area, and an inviting pool. High tea is served in the marvelous fireside hall. Flowers fill La Brasserie Restaurant ($$$$), where light German and French dishes are served. Pros: spacious; elegant; formal. Cons: on a busy street; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac185 | Monheimsallee 52 | 0241/91320 | www.accorhotels.com | 183 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nMost activity in town is concentrated around the market square and Pontstrasse, a pedestrian street that radiates off the square.\n\nDomkeller.  \nAachen's most popular bar is a good place to mingle with locals of all ages at old wooden tables, enjoying an impressive selection of Belgian beers in a historic building from 1658. There are free concerts every Monday, apart from a short break in summer. | Hof 1 | 0241/34265 | www.domkeller.de.\n\nWild Rover.  \nThis Irish pub has Murphy's Stout on tap. On most nights, there's live music starting at 8:30. It's closed Sunday and Monday, except for special occasions. | Hirschgraben 13 | 0241/35453.\n\nEurogress Aachen.  \nThe Aachen Symphony, along with touring bands and orchestras from across Europe, give regular concerts in Aachen's Eurogress convention center. | Monheimsallee 48 | 0241/91310 | www.eurogress-aachen.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nDon't leave Aachen without stocking up on the traditional local gingerbread, Aachener Printen. Each bakery in town offers its own varieties (topped with whole or crushed nuts, milk or dark chocolate, etc.), and guards its recipe like a state secret.\n\nCaf\u00e9 Van den Daele.  \nOne of Aachen's most beloved caf\u00e9s, Van den Daele (also known as Alt Aachener Kaffeestuben) is worth a visit if for nothing more than its atmosphere and tempting aromas. Some of the best Aachener Printen (gingerbread) can be found here, as can another tasty Aachen specialty, Reisfladen (a sort of tart filled with milk rice and often topped with fruit\u2014often pears, apricots, or cherries). The caf\u00e9 can also mail its goods to you (or others) back home. | B\u00fcchel 18 | 0241/35724 | www.van-den-daele.de.\n\n## D\u00fcsseldorf\n\n47 km (29 miles) north of K\u00f6ln.\n\nD\u00fcsseldorf, the state capital of North Rhine\u2013Westphalia, may suffer by comparison to K\u00f6ln's remarkable skyline, but the elegant city has more than enough charm\u2014and money\u2014to keeps its own self-esteem high. By contrast to Cologne's boisterous, working-class charm, D\u00fcsseldorf is known as one of the country's richest cities, with an extravagant lifestyle that epitomizes the economic success of postwar Germany. Because 80% of D\u00fcsseldorf was destroyed in World War II, the city has since been more or less rebuilt from the ground up\u2014and that includes re-creating landmarks of long ago and restoring a medieval riverside quarter.\n\nAt the confluence of the Rhine and D\u00fcssel rivers, this dynamic city started as a small fishing town. The name means \"village on the D\u00fcssel,\" but obviously this Dorf is a village no more. Raised expressways speed traffic past towering glass-and-steel structures; within them, glass-enclosed shopping malls showcase the finest clothes, furs, jewelry, and other goods that money can buy.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTrains connect D\u00fcsseldorf to the Rheinland region's main cities; a trip from K\u00f6ln takes under 25 minutes. The impressive Flughafen D\u00fcsseldorf, Germany's third largest airport, serves more than 180 destinations.\n\n#### Tours\n\nHop-on, hop-off bus tours of D\u00fcsseldorf depart from the main train station at 10 and every half hour from 11 to 5 from mid-March to early November; hourly 10 to 6 from early November to late December; and at 11, 1 and 3 from late December to mid-March. Tickets (\u20ac15, or \u20ac13 with no intermediate stops) can be purchased on the bus or at the information center. A walking tour of the Old Town (April to October, daily at 3, plus 4 on Friday, and 1 and 4 on Saturday; November to March, Friday and Saturday at 3, Sunday at 11) is offered for \u20ac10. The tour leaves from the Altstadt tourist-info center (Marktstrasse/Rheinstrasse corner).\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe D\u00fcsseldorf WelcomeCard costs \u20ac9 for 24 hours, \u20ac14 for 48 hours, and \u20ac19 for 72 hours, and allows free public transportation and reduced admission to museums, theaters, and even boat tours on the Rhine.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nD\u00fcsseldorf Tourist-Information. | Marktstr. 6 | 0211/172\u2013020 | www.duesseldorf-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAltstadt (Old Town).  \nThis party-hearty district has been dubbed \"the longest bar in the word\" by locals. Narrow alleys thread their way to some 300 restaurants and taverns. All crowd into the 1-square-km (\u00bd-square-mile) area between the Rhine and Heinrich-Heine-Allee. When the weather cooperates, the area really does seem like one big sidewalk caf\u00e9.\n\nK\u00f6nigsallee.  \nD\u00fcsseldorf's main shopping avenue epitomizes the city's affluence, lined as it is with designer boutiques and stores. Known as the K\u00f6, this wide, double boulevard is divided by an ornamental waterway fed by the River D\u00fcssel. Rows of chestnut trees line the K\u00f6, shading a string of sidewalk caf\u00e9s. Beyond the Triton Fountain, at the street's north end, begins a series of parks and gardens. In these patches of green you can sense a joie de vivre that might be surprising in a city devoted to big business.\n\nKunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen (Art Collection of North Rhine\u2013Westphalia).  \nThis important fixture on D\u00fcsseldorf's art scene is split into two parts, plus an installation space. Behind the sleek, polished black stone facade of K20 is a treasure trove of art (kunst, hence the K) of the 20th century, including works from masters like Picasso, Klee, and Richter. Within the more conservative 19th-century architecture of K21 is edgier fare\u2014international art since about 1980, including the works of Thomas Ruff and Nam June Paik. Rounding things off is the quirky, modern Schmela Haus (1967), a former commercial gallery, which the museum uses as a space for experimental art. | K20, Grabbepl. 5 | 0211/838\u20131130 | www.kunstsammlung.de | \u20ac12 K20, \u20ac12 K21, \u20ac21 for both (prices vary), free 1st Wed. of month, 6\u201310. Schmela Haus free of charge. | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20136; 1st Wed. of each month 10\u201310. | K21, St\u00e4ndehausstr..\n\nNeanderthal Museum.  \nJust outside D\u00fcsseldorf, the D\u00fcssel River forms a valley, called the Neanderthal, where the bones of a Stone Age relative of modern man were found. The impressive museum, built at the site of discovery in the suburb of Mettmann, includes models of the original discovery, replicas of cave drawings, and life-size models of Neanderthal Man. Many scientists think he was a different species of human; short, stocky, and with a sloping forehead. The bones were found in 1856 by workers quarrying the limestone cliffs to get flux for blast furnaces. | Talstr. 300 | Mettmann | 02104/97970 | www.neanderthal.de | \u20ac10 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nRhine Promenade.  \nTraffic is routed away from the river and underneath this pedestrian strip, which is lined by chic shopping arcades and caf\u00e9s. Joggers, rollerbladers, and folks out for a stroll make much use of the promenade as well.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nHeinrich-Heine-Institut.  \nThis museum and archive houses significant manuscripts from the German poet and man of letters, Heinrich Heine. Part of the complex was once the residence of the composer Robert Schumann. | Bilkerstr. 12\u201314 | 0211/899\u20132902 | www.duesseldorf.de/heineinstitut | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Fri. and Sun. 11\u20135, Sat. 1\u20135.\n\nHofgarten Park.  \nThe oldest remaining parts of the Hofgarten date back to 1769, when it was transformed into Germany's first public park. The promenade leading to what was once a hunting palace, Schloss J\u00e4gerhof, was all the rage in late 18th\u2013century D\u00fcsseldorf before the park was largely destroyed by Napol\u00e9on's troops. Today it's an oasis of greenery at the heart of downtown.\n\nMedienHafen.  \nThis stylish, revamped district is a mix of late-19th-century warehouses and ultramodern restaurants, bars, and shops: it's one of Europe's masterpieces in urban redevelopment. Surrounding the historic commercial harbor, now occupied by yachts and leisure boats, are the many media companies that have made this area their home. On the riverbank you'll find Frank Gehry's Neuer Zollhof, a particularly striking ensemble of three organic-looking high-rises. The best way to tackle the buzzing architecture is to take a stroll down the promenade.\n\nMuseum Kunst Palast.  \nThis impressive art museum lies at the northern extremity of the Hofgarten, close to the Rhine. Its excellent German expressionist collection (Beckmann, Kirchner, Nolde, Macke, etc.) makes it worth a trip, as does its collection of glass art\u2014among the largest in Europe. | Ehrenhof 4\u20135 | 0211/899\u20132460 | www.smkp.de | \u20ac5 for permanent collection, special exhibition prices vary | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136, Thurs. 11\u20139.\n\nSt. Lambertus.  \nThis Gothic church is near the palace tower on Burgplatz. Its spire became distorted because unseasoned wood was used in its construction. The Vatican elevated the 14th-century brick church to a basilica minor (small cathedral) in 1974 in recognition of its role in church history. Built in the 13th century, with additions from 1394, St. Lambertus contains the tomb of William the Rich and a graceful late-Gothic tabernacle. | Stiftspl. 7 | www.lambertuspfarre.de.\n\nSchloss J\u00e4gerhof.  \nAt the far-east edge of the Hofgarten, this baroque structure is more a combination town house and country lodge than a palace. It houses the Goethe-Museum, featuring original manuscripts, first editions, personal correspondence, and other memorabilia of Germany's greatest writer. There's also a museum housing a collection of Meissen porcelain. | Jacobistr. 2 | 0211/899\u20136262 | www.goethe-museum.com | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Fri. and Sun. 11\u20135, Sat. 1\u20135.\n\nSchlossturm (Palace Tower).  \nA squat tower is all that remains of the palace built by the Berg family, which ruled D\u00fcsseldorf for more than five centuries. The tower also houses the SchifffahrtMuseum, which charts 2,000 years of Rhine boatbuilding and navigation. | Burgpl. 30 | 0211/899\u20134195 | www.freunde-schifffahrtmuseum.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBerens am Kai.  \nFRENCH | Set in the redeveloped D\u00fcsseldorf harbor, this glass-and-steel building with ceiling-to-floor windows looks more like a modern office complex than the sleek restaurant it is. Head here for creative French recipes, a wine list with vintages from around the world, and tempting desserts\u2014it's a good option if you're hankering for a change from old-style German cooking. The steep, expense-account-ready prices are warranted by chef Holger Berens' exquisite cuisine, the refined service, and the great setting with magnificent views of the harbor and the city, which are particularly stunning at night. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Kaistr. 16 | 0211/300\u20136750 | www.berensamkai.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\nBistro Zicke.  \nFRENCH | Weekend brunch (served until 4 pm) can get busy at this French-inspired artists' caf\u00e9 on a quiet square one block from the riverfront. Otherwise, the bistro\u2014with its big windows and walls plastered with old movie and museum posters\u2014is an oasis from the hustle and bustle of the busy Altstadt. The word Zicke (\"nanny goat\") is a common insult for a moody woman, but whatever your feelings, this is a friendly place to stop in for a drink or to try the simple French-Italian cooking. | Average main: \u20ac13 | B\u00e4ckerstr. 5a | 0211/327\u2013800 | www.bistro-zicke.de | No credit cards.\n\nBrauerei Zur Uel.  \nGERMAN | A nontraditional brew house, the Uel is the popular hangout for D\u00fcsseldorf's students. The basic menu consists of soups, salads, and pastas; the ingredients are fresh and the portions are generous. What seems like every cultural and political event in the city is advertised in the entry hall. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Ratingerstr. 16 | 0211/325\u2013369 | www.zuruel.de | No credit cards.\n\nFodor's Choice | Im Schiffchen.  \nFRENCH | Although Im Schiffchen is out of the way, it's also one of Germany's best restaurants and more than worth the trip. This is grande luxe, with cooking turned into fine art through the skills of chef Jean-Claude Bourgueil and his staff. The restaurant Enzo im Schiffchen (formerly Jean-Claude's) on the ground floor features lighter Continental created by the same chef but at lower prices. There are more than 1,100 wines in the cellar, many available by the glass. | Average main: \u20ac42 | Kaiserswerther Markt 9 | 0211/401\u2013050 | www.im-schiffchen.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch.\n\nWeinhaus Tante Anna.  \nGERMAN | This charming restaurant, six generations in the same family, is furnished with antiques. The cuisine (courtesy of the chef, Murat Avcioglu) presents modern versions of German classics, demonstrating that there's a lot more to the country's cooking than wurst and sauerkraut\u2014a specialty is a hearty rump steak baked with mustard and onions. The restaurant also offers a full vegetarian prix-fixe menu. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Andreasstr. 2 | 0211/131\u2013163 | www.tanteanna.de | Closed Sun. No lunch.\n\nZum Uerige.  \nGERMAN | D\u00fcsseldorf is famous for its Altbier, so called because of the old-fashioned brewing method. This tavern, which brews its own beer, provides the perfect atmosphere for drinking it. The beer is poured straight out of polished oak barrels and served with hearty local food by busy waiters in long blue aprons. The food offered is mainly snacks, with a few entr\u00e9es. After dinner, try the bar's tasty house liquor, called \"Stickum\"\u2014a sort of beer brandy. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Bergerstr. 1 | 0211/866\u2013990 | www.uerige.de | No credit cards.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nBreidenbacher Hof.  \nHOTEL | The owners razed the original, two-centuries-old hotel of the same name to the ground to open this opulent, high-tech establishment in 2008. The hotel's got it all - even an in-house plastic surgeon. Gadget bugs will love watching the TVs built into the bathroom mirrors, closing their curtains by remote control, and being able to charge their iPods in the room safes. The rooms are spacious and comfortable, though the hotel may be too flashy for fans of its old-world predecessor. Pros: luxury; fun gadgets; great location on the K\u00f6. Cons: expensive; somewhat charmless. | Rooms from: \u20ac290 | K\u00f6nigsallee 11 | 0211/1609\u20130909 | www.capellahotels.com/dusseldorf | 79 rooms, 16 suites | Breakfast.\n\ncarathotel D\u00fcsseldorf.  \nHOTEL | Besides bright, good-size rooms, the true strength of this modern hotel is its location, near the market in the Altstadt. After a generous buffet breakfast you can quickly reach either the Rhine or the K\u00f6 with a three-block walk. Pros: right in the Altstadt; free Wi-Fi. Cons: modern exterior may be a little jarring to some. | Rooms from: \u20ac155 | Benratherstr. 7a | 0211/13050 | www.carat-hotel-duesseldorf.de | 72 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Orangerie.  \nHOTEL | Steps away from Altstadt action and the Rhine, this small hotel on a cobblestone road offers simple comfort and a surprising amount of quiet. The amenities are few, but the staff is accommodating and the small rooms are all tastefully furnished. lThe hotel mostly has single rooms for business travelers, but these beds can easily sleep two people, so couples who don't need much space can often share a single room for a cheaper rate. Pros: unbeatable location; free Wi-Fi. Cons: small rooms; no parking at the hotel; caters to business travelers. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | B\u00e4ckerg. 1 | 0211/866\u2013800 | www.hotel-orangerie-mcs.de | 27 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nThe Altstadt is a landscape of pubs, dance clubs, ancient brewery houses, and jazz clubs in the vicinity of the Marktplatz and along cobblestone streets named Bolker, Kurze, Flinger, and M\u00fchlen. These places may be crowded, but some are very atmospheric. The local favorite for nightlife is the Hafen neighborhood. Its restaurants and bars cater to the youngish professionals who work and party there.\n\nDeutsche Oper am Rhein.  \nThe city's highly regarded opera company and ballet troupe are showcased here. | Heinrich-Heine-Allee 16a | 0211/892\u20135210 | www.rheinoper.de.\n\nRobert-Schumann-Saal.  \nClassical and pop concerts, symposia, film, and international theater are presented at the Robert-Schumann-Saal. | Ehrenhof 4\u20135 | 0211/899\u20132450 | www.smkp.de.\n\nTonhalle.  \nThe finest concert hall in Germany after Berlin's Philharmonie is a former planetarium on the edge of the Hofgarten. It's the home of the D\u00fcsseldorfer Symphoniker, which plays from September to June. | Ehrenhof 1 | 0211/899\u20136123 | www.tonhalle-duesseldorf.de.\n\nTanztheater Wuppertal.  \nA 30-minute ride outside D\u00fcsseldorf by car, train, or S-bahn (from the Hauptbahnhof) will get you to the industrial city of Wuppertal, whose main claim to fame is its transit system of suspended trains that often run directly over the River Wupper, the Schwebebahn. It's also well known for the Tanztheater Wuppertal, the world-famous dance-theater company of the choreographer Pina Bausch (1940\u20132009). | Kurt-Drees-Str. 4 | Wuppertal | 0202/563\u20134253 | www.pina-bausch.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nFor antiques, go to the area around Hohe Strasse. The east side of the K\u00f6nigsallee is lined with some of Germany's trendiest boutiques, grandest jewelers, and most extravagant furriers.\n\nK\u00f6 Center.  \nThis shopping arcade houses clothing stores like Eickhoff, a D\u00fcsseldorf institution with more than 10,000 square feet of very high-end goods, many straight from the runways of Paris and Milan. | K\u00f6nigsallee 28\u201330.\n\nK\u00f6 Galerie.  \nHigh-end boutiques and half a dozen restaurants line this luxurious two-story mall. | K\u00f6nigsallee 60 | www.koe-galerie.com.\n\nSchadow Arkaden.  \nThis mall caters to normal budgets, with stores such as H&M and Habitat. | Schadowstr. 11, at end of K\u00f6 Galerie, at end of K\u00f6 Galerie | www.schadow-arkaden.com.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to The Fairy-Tale Road\n\nHesse\n\nLower Saxony\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Driving the Fairy-Tale Road\n\nUpdated by Jeff Kavanagh\n\nWith a name evocative of magic and adventure, the Fairy-Tale Road (M\u00e4rchenstrasse) takes its travelers on a path through the land of the Brothers Grimm and a rolling countryside of farmland and forests that inspired tales of sleeping princesses, hungry wolves, and gingerbread houses. Flowing through the heart of western Germany to its North Sea coast, the M\u00e4rchenstrasse stops along the way at towns and villages where the brothers spent much of their lives two centuries ago.\n\nIt was here among medieval castles and witch towers that the brothers, first as young boys, and then later as students and academics, listened to legends told by local storytellers, and adapted them into the fairy tales that continue to be read around the world today; enchanted and frequently dark tales that include \"Sleeping Beauty,\" \"Little Red Riding Hood,\" and \"Hansel and Gretel.\"\n\nFollowing the Grimms' footsteps through a landscape of river valleys and wide-open skies, or down cobblestone streets flanked by half-timber houses and baroque palaces, it's possible to imagine things haven't changed that much since the brothers' time. Traditional taverns serving strong German beers and thick slabs of beef and pork dot the way, and storytelling continues to be a major attraction along the Fairy-Tale Road, though nowadays more commonly in the form of guided tours and interactive museum displays.\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road, of course, is also a modern route, and its wide, smooth roads pass through larger urban areas, such as Kassel and Bremen, full of contemporary hotels, eateries, and stores. Like large parts of the rest of the country, many of these towns and cities were greatly damaged during World War II, and their hurried reconstruction often favored functionality over form, so that many buildings are much more stark than those they replaced. This contrast, however, often only serves to emphasize the beauty of what remained.\n\nNot every town on the road can lay claim to a connection to the Brothers Grimm or the inspiration for a specific tale, but many continue to celebrate the region's fairy-tale heritage with theme museums, summer festivals, and outdoor plays.\n\nIt's this heritage, the natural appeal of the countryside, and the tradition and culture found in its towns and cities that attract travelers along the M\u00e4rchenstrasse; that, mixed with the promise of adventure and the opportunity to create some tales of their own.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nValley Road: Drive or bike the scenic highway between Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden and Hameln\u2014it's a landscape of green hills, Weser Renaissance towns, and inviting riverside taverns.\n\nMarburg: Staircase streets cover the steep hillsides of this half-timber university town; sit outdoors and soak up the atmosphere.\n\nBremen: Browse the shops and galleries lining the picturesque B\u00f6ttcherstrasse and Schnoorviertel, then savor the city's rich coffee tradition.\n\nDornr\u00f6schenschloss Sababurg: The supposed inspiration for Sleeping Beauty's castle. Its spiral staircases, imposing turrets, and fairy-tale setting will delight lovers of the tale.\n\nSchlosspark Wilhelmsh\u00f6he: Home to a stunning, crescent-moon palace and a fairy-tale castle, the park's trees, ponds, and wide-open spaces offer a dramatic contrast to the urbanity below.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road begins 20 minutes east of Frankfurt in the city of Hanau, and from there heads north 700 km (about 430 miles) to the North Sea port of Bremerhaven, through the states of Hesse and Lower Saxony, following the Fulda and Weser rivers and traversing countryside as beguiling as any other in northern Europe. It may not have the glamour of the Romantic Road or the cosmopolitan flair of Germany's great cities, but it doesn't have the crowds and commercialism either.\n\n## What's Where\n\nHesse. Eighth in area among Germany's 16 states and fifth in population, Hesse has most of its major cities to the south. Its northern part, a place of forests and castles, inspired the tales recorded by the Grimm brothers.\n\nLower Saxony. Germany's second-largest state after Bavaria and fourth most populous, Lower Saxony (Niedersachsen) has a diverse landscape, including the Weser River, which forms a picturesque part of the Fairy-Tale Road, and the L\u00fcneburg Heath. Its capital and largest city is Hannover.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nSummer is the ideal time to travel through this varied landscape, although in spring you'll find the river valleys carpeted in the season's first flowers, and in fall the sleepy Weser is often blanketed in mist. Keep in mind that retail stores and shops in the smaller towns in this area often close for two to three hours at lunchtime.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe closest international airports to this region are in Frankfurt, Hannover, and Hamburg. Frankfurt is less than a half hour from Hanau, and Hamburg is less than an hour from Bremen.\n\nAirport Information  \nCity Airport Bremen. | Flughafenallee 20, | Bremen | 0421/55950 | www.airport-bremen.de.   \nHannover-Langenhagen Airport. | Petzelstr. 84, | Hannover | 0511/9770 | www.hannover-airport.de.\n\n#### Bike Travel\n\nThe Fulda and Werra rivers have 190 km (118 miles) of bike paths, and you can cycle the whole length of the Weser River from Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden to the outskirts of Bremen without making too many detours from the river valley. Five- and seven-day cycle tours of the Fulda and Werra river valleys are available. These typically include bike rentals, overnight accommodations, and luggage transport between stops.\n\nBike Tours  \nSRJ G\u00e4steService. | Herrmannstr. 46, | Minden | 0571/889\u20131900 | www.srj.de.\n\n#### Boat Travel\n\nThe eight boats of Flotte Weser operate short summer excursions along a considerable stretch of the Weser River between Bremen and Bad Karlshafen. The trip between Corvey and Bad Karlshafen, for example, takes slightly less than three hours and costs \u20ac15.\n\nRehbein-Linie Kassel operates a service from Kassel to Bad Karlshafen. It also prides itself on the only \"three-river tour\" in the area. In a single trip you travel on the Fulda and Werra rivers and also on the river formed when these two meet at the tour's starting point of Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden, the Weser. Personenschifffahrt K. & K. S\u00f6llner's excursion boat that go between Kassel and Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden.\n\nBoat Tours  \nFlotte Weser. | Am Stockhof 2, | Hameln | 05151/939\u2013999 | www.flotte-weser.de.   \nPersonenschiffahrt K. & K. S\u00f6llner. | Die Schlagd, | Kassel | 0561/774\u2013670 | www.personenschiffahrt.com/kassel/route.html.   \nRehbein-Linie Kassel. | Ostpreussenstr. 8, | Fuldatal | 0561/18505 | www.fahrgastschiffahrt.com.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nBremen, Kassel, G\u00f6ttingen, Fulda, and Hanau are all reachable via Deutsche Touring's Europabus. A local bus serves the scenic Weser Valley Road stretch (B-80 and B-83), between Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden and Hameln.\n\nYear-round tours of the region are offered by Herter-Reisen.\n\nBus Tours  \nEurolines Germany. | 069/7903\u2013501 | www.eurolines.de.   \nHerter-Reisen. | Hildesheimer Str. 6, Hameln/Afferde | 05159/969\u2013244 | www.herter-reisen.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nThe best way to travel is by car. The autobahn network serves Hanau, Fulda, Kassel, G\u00f6ttingen, and Bremen directly, but you can't savor the fairy-tale country from this high-speed superhighway. Bremen is 60 km (35 miles) northwest of Hannover.\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road incorporates one of Germany's loveliest scenic drives, the Wesertalstrasse, or Weser Valley Road (B-80 and B-83), between Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden and Hameln; the total distance is approximately 103 km (64 miles).\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nHanau, Fulda, Kassel, G\u00f6ttingen, Hannover, and Bremen are reachable via InterCity Express (ICE) trains from Frankfurt and Hamburg. Rail service, but not ICE service, is available to Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden, Marburg, and Hameln.\n\nTrain Information  \nDeutsche Bahn. | 0800/150\u20137090 | www.bahn.de.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nIn this largely rural area many restaurants serve hot meals only between 11:30 am and 2 pm, and 6 pm and 9 pm. You rarely need a reservation here, and casual clothing is generally acceptable.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nMake hotel reservations in advance if you plan to visit in summer. Though it's one of the less-traveled tourist routes in Germany, the main destinations on the Fairy-Tale Road are popular. Hannover is particularly busy during trade-fair times.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road isn't really for the traveler in a hurry. If you only have a day or two to savor it, concentrate on a short stretch. A good suggestion is the Weser River route between Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden and Hameln. The landscape is lovely, and the towns are romantic. If you have more time, but not enough to travel the whole route, focus on the southern half of the road. It's more in character with the fairy tales.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nFree summer weekend performances along the Fairy-Tale Road include M\u00fcnchhausen plays in Bodenwerder, the Dr. Eisenbart reenactments in Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden, the Town Musicians shows in Bremen, and especially the Pied Piper spectacle at Hameln. Kassel, Hannover, and Bremen also sell visitor cards that let you ride free on public transportation, grant reduced admissions at museums, and give other perks.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nDeutsche M\u00e4rchenstrasse. | Kurf\u00fcrstenstr. 9, | Kassel | 0561/9204\u20137911 | www.deutsche-maerchenstrasse.de.\n\n## Driving the Fairy-Tale Road\n\nWeaving its way through rolling hills and a gentle river valley, between whispering woods and past stone castles, this drive along the Fairy-Tale Road connects G\u00f6ttingen, a vibrant university town, with tranquil riverside villages and the modern state capital of Hannover along the way.\n\nBeginning in the south of Lower Saxony and ending in the heart of the state, with a brief excursion into Hesse, this two-day drive is best enjoyed in early spring, when cherry and apple blossoms dot the countryside. Late summer is another good time to go\u2014the weather is at its best and the roads are no longer cluttered with peak-season traffic. Avoiding the high-speed stress of the autobahns, the drive keeps mainly to country roads, which allow time to take in the surroundings between stops. Gazing out at the landscape, it's not difficult to conjure images of wicked witches lurking among the trees, kind woodsmen, and fair maidens trapped in distant towers.\n\nA hearty German breakfast at Bullerjahn in the lively town square in front of G\u00f6ttingen's Altes Rathaus is a great way to start your trip. Once sated, jump in the car and drive 29 km (18 miles) west through the Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden nature reserve to the town itself. Here, you can stroll among its delightful Renaissance architecture and watch the Fulda and Werra rivers converge to form the Weser River. Half an hour up the road is the town of Sababurg, and perhaps the Fairy-Tale Road's most famous landmark, the Dornr\u00f6schenschloss, Sleeping Beauty's castle. Spend some time wandering the castle's rose gardens and contemplating the princess's enchanted 100-year slumber. From the castle it's an easy 20-minute drive across the border to Hesse and the baroque spa town of Bad Karlshafen, where you can soothe whatever ails you with a long soak in a thermal, saltwater spring at Weser-Therme. Suitably relaxed, head to the peaceful riverside town of Bodenweder, which lies just more than 50 km (31 miles) to the north along winding country roads. Stay overnight here, and visit the small but fun M\u00fcnchhausen Museum in the morning and enjoy the gentle murmur of the Weser as it flows its way past. Before lunch, travel 25 minutes north to Hameln and the home of the Rattenf\u00e4nger, the Pied Piper, where you can experience rat-themed dining at the Rattenf\u00e4ngerhaus. Afterward, drive the 47 km (29 miles) up to Hannover for an afternoon of culture in one of the city's impressive museums and a predinner drink on the terrace of the stunning Neues Rathaus.\n\n#### Paddle the Weser\n\nFlowing placidly between Hannoversch M\u00fcnden and Hameln, and on to the North Sea, the Weser passes through many towns offering canoe and boating equipment for rent. If time and weather permit, swap the car for a canoe and paddle the river's glassy waters. Check out www.weserbergland-tourismus.de for details on canoe operators.\n\n#### Quick Bites\n\nBack und Naschwerk.  \nDelicious breads are baked in the back of this little bakery, using only natural ingredients and real butter. Their maple syrup and walnut or poppy seed and nougat muffins are worth a visit alone. | Average main: \u20ac5 | Kramerstr. 14 | Hannover | 0511/7003\u20135221 | www.back-und-naschwerk.de | No credit cards.\n\nBullerjahn.  \nFor a hearty breakfast at this cellar-level restaurant, order the enormous \"Ratsfr\u00fchst\u00fcck,\" which consists of bread rolls, jams, honey, Gouda, cold cuts, salmon, yogurt and fruit, orange juice, coffee, sparkling wine, and a boiled egg. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Markt 9 | G\u00f6ttingen | 0551/307\u20130100 | www.bullerjahn.info.\n\nMuseums Caf\u00e9.  \nAfternoon coffee and cake is as a strong a culinary tradition in Germany as tea and scones are in England. This elegant cafe in Hameln has cakes and tortes that'll have you embracing the custom like a local in no time. | Average main: \u20ac5 | Osterstr. 8 | Hameln | 05151/21553 | www.museumscafe.de.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nHanau | Gelnhausen | Steinau an der Strasse | Fulda | Marburg | Kassel | Bad Karlshafen | Sababurg\n\nThe first portion of the Fairy-Tale Road, from Hanau to Bad Karlshafen, lies within the state of Hesse. Much of its population is concentrated in the south, in such cities as Frankfurt, Darmstadt, and Wiesbaden; the northern part is quite rural, hilly, forested, and very pretty. Here you'll find Steinau, the almost vertical city of Marburg, and Kassel, all of which have associations with the Grimm brothers.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Hanau\n\n16 km (10 miles) east of Frankfurt.\n\nThe Fairy-Tale Road begins in Hanau, the town where the Brothers Grimm were born. Although Grimm fans will want to start their pilgrimage here, Hanau is now a traffic-congested suburb of Frankfurt, with post\u2013World War II buildings that are not particularly attractive.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nLess than a 50-minute S-bahn (Line No. 9) journey from Frankfurt Airport, Hanau is also reachable by high-speed ICE trains from Berlin and Munich, or a combination of ICE and regional trains from Hannover, Bremen, and Hamburg.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nTourist-Information Hanau. | Am Markt 14\u201318 | 06181/295\u2013950 | www.hanau.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nNationaldenkmal Br\u00fcder Grimm (Brothers Grimm Memorial).  \nHanau's main attraction can be reached only on foot. The bronze memorial, erected in 1898, is a larger-than-life-size statue of the brothers, one seated, the other leaning on his chair, the two of them pondering an open book. | Marktpl.\n\nSchloss Philippsruhe.  \nThis palace museum has a small Grimm exhibit that includes clothing, artifacts, and writings. It's on the bank of the Main in the suburb of Kesselstadt (Bus No. 5 will take you there in 10 minutes). TIP Historical Hanau treasures, including a priceless collection of faience, are also on display here. | Philippsruher Allee 45 | 06181/295\u2013564 | www.museen-hanau.de | \u20ac2.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nRathaus.  \nHanau's bulky, 18th-century town hall stands behind the Grimm brothers statue. Every day at noon its bells play tribute to another of the city's famous sons, the composer Paul Hindemith (1895\u20131963), by chiming out one of his canons. | Marktpl. 14.\n\n## Gelnhausen\n\n20 km (12 miles) northeast of Hanau, 35 km (21 miles) northeast of Frankfurt.\n\nPerched elegantly on the side of a hill above the Kinzig River, Gelnhausen's picturesque Altstadt (Old Town) offers the first taste of the half-timber houses and cobblestone streets that lie in abundance farther north. In spring and summer tours of school children dressed in traditional garb are guided down its winding streets and through lively little squares flanked by ice cream parlors and outdoor caf\u00e9s, and listen to tales of Red Beard, and the fate of those poor townswomen suspected of being witches.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nIf you're flying into Frankfurt, Gelnhausen is an ideal spot for your first night on the Fairy-Tale Road. It's smaller and more charming than Hanau, and is still less than an hour's drive from Frankfurt's main airport. Trains to Gelnhausen leave from Frankfurt's main station every half hour and take approximately 35 minutes, and there are frequent connections from Hanau. Once here, the historic Old Town is hilly, but small enough to walk around. April through October, a walking tour leaves from the town hall at 2 on Sunday.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nGelnhausen Tourist-Information. | Obermarkt 7 | 06051/830\u2013300 | www.gelnhausen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nHexenturm (Witches' Tower).  \nThe Hexenturm, once a grim prison, remains from the time when Gelnhausen was the center of a witch hunt in the late 16th century. Dozens of women were either burned at the stake or bound hand and foot and then thrown into the Kinzig River. Suspects were held in the Hexenturm of the town battlements. Today it houses a bloodcurdling collection of medieval torture instruments. The tower is being renovated until sometime in 2014, so until then visitors who wish to venture inside are required to join a tour, which are offered in German on Sunday afternoon from May through October. English-language tours for groups of up to 30 people can be booked in advance for \u20ac52. | Am Fratzenstein | 06051/830\u2013300 | May\u2013Oct., tour Sun. at 2.\n\nKaiserpfalz.  \nOn an island in the gentle little Kinzig River you'll find the remains of the Kaiserpfalz. Emperor Friedrich I\u2014known as Barbarossa, or Red Beard\u2014built the castle in this idyllic spot in the 12th century; in 1180 it was the scene of the first all-German Imperial Diet, a gathering of princes and ecclesiastical leaders. Today only parts of the russet walls and colonnaded entrance remain. Still, you can stroll beneath the castle's ruined ramparts on its water site and you'll get a tangible impression of the medieval importance of the court of Barbarossa. | Burgstr. 14 | 06051/3805 | \u20ac3 | Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Nov. and Dec., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nRomantisches Hotel Burg M\u00fchle.  \nHOTEL | This peaceful hotel, a few steps from the Kaiserpfalz and within an easy walk of the Altstadt, was once the castle's mill (\"M\u00fchle\") and sawmill. In the restaurant ($ - $$) the mill wheel still away as you eat. Should your require more relaxation, the hotel's wellness facilities include massages, a sauna, and a solarium. Pros: large rooms (many with balconies). Cons: showing a little wear. | Rooms from: \u20ac77 | Burgstr. 2 | 06051/82050 | www.burgmuehle.de | 40 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n* * *\n\nThe Brothers Grimm\n\nThe Grimm fairy tales originated in the southern part of the M\u00e4rchenstrasse. This area, mainly in the state of Hesse, was the home region of the brothers Jacob (1785\u20131863) and Wilhelm (1786\u20131859) Grimm. They didn't create the stories they are famous for. Their feat was to mine the great folklore tradition that was already deeply ingrained in local culture.\n\nFor generations, eager children had been gathering at dusk around the village storyteller to hear wondrous tales of fairies, witches, and gnomes, tales passed down from storytellers who had gone before. The Grimms sought out these storytellers and recorded their tales.\n\nThe result was the two volumes of their work Kinder- und Hausm\u00e4rchen (Children's and Household Tales), published in 1812 and 1814 and revised and expanded six times during their lifetimes. The last edition, published in 1857, is the basis for the stories we know today. Earlier versions contained more violence and cruelty than was deemed suitable for children.\n\nThat is how the world got the stories of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Rumpelstiltskin, Puss-in-Boots, Mother Holle, Rapunzel, and some 200 others, many of which remain unfamiliar.\n\nBoth Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm had distinguished careers as librarians and scholars, and probably would be unhappy to know that they are best remembered for the fairy tales. Among other things, they began what would become the most comprehensive dictionary of the German language and produced an analysis of German grammar.\n\nThe brothers were born in Hanau, near Frankfurt, which has a statue memorializing them as well as a Grimm exhibit at Schloss Philippsruhe. They spent their childhood in Steinau, 30 km (18 miles) to the north, where their father was magistrate. There are two Grimm museums there, one in their home. On their father's untimely death they moved to their mother's home city of Kassel. It, too, has an important Grimm museum. They attended the university at Marburg from 1802 to 1805, then worked as librarians in Kassel. It was in the Kassel area that they found the best of their stories. They later worked as librarians and professors in the university town of G\u00f6ttingen, and spent their last years as academics in Berlin.\n\n* * *\n\n## Steinau an der Strasse\n\n30 km (18 miles) northeast of Gelnhausen, 65 km (40 miles) northeast of Frankfurt.\n\nThe little town of Steinau\u2014full name Steinau an der Strasse (Steinau \"on the road,\" referring to an old trade route between Frankfurt and Leipzig)\u2014had a formative influence on the Brothers Grimm. They were preschoolers on arrival and under age 12 when they left after their father's death.\n\nSteinau dates from the 13th century, and is typical of villages in the region. Marvelously preserved half-timber houses are set along cobblestone streets; an imposing castle bristles with towers and turrets. In its woodsy surroundings you can well imagine encountering Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White, or Hansel and Gretel. A major street is named after the brothers; the building where they lived is now named after them.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegional trains leave hourly from Gelnhausen and take about 15 minutes to reach Steinau an der Strasse. The train station is just more than a kilometer from the Old Town's center and, should the walk be too far, the MKK90 bus goes into the town, albeit at irregular and sometimes lengthy intervals (get off at Ringstrasse). Or you can take a taxi. A city walking tour takes place April to October, the first Sunday of the month, leaving at 2 from the M\u00e4rchenbrunnen (fountain).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nSteinau an der Strasse Verkehrsb\u00fcro. | Br\u00fcder-Grimm-Str. 70 | 06663/96310 | www.steinau.eu.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Br\u00fcder Grimm Haus and Museum Steinau.  \nOccupying both the house where the Brothers Grimm lived for much of their childhoods as well as the house's old barn, the Br\u00fcder Grimm Haus and Museum Steinau are fun and engaging museums. Featuring a reconstruction of the family's old kitchen, the brothers' former house also displays old personal posessions such as letters and reading glasses, and has an upper floor divided into nine rooms with interactive displays that celebrate the Grimms' stories and other fairy tales from around Europe. Across a small courtyard, the town's museum documents what life was like on the old trade route that ran through Steinau, incorporating into its exhibits a coach, inn signs, milestones, and the type of pistols travelers used to defend themselves from bandits. | Br\u00fcder-Grimm-Str. 80 | 06663/7605 | www.museum-steinau.de | \u20ac5 | Daily 10\u20135; closed 2 wks in late Dec.\n\nSchloss Steinau (Steinau Castle).  \nSchloss Steinau is straight out of a Grimm fairy tale. It stands at the top of the town, with a \"Fairy-tale Fountain\" in front of it. Originally an early-medieval fortress, it was rebuilt in Renaissance style between 1525 and 1558 and first used by the counts of Hanau as their summer residence. Later it was used to guard the increasingly important trade route between Frankfurt and Leipzig. It's not difficult to imagine the young Grimm boys playing in the shadow of its great gray walls or venturing into the encircling dry moat.\n\nThe castle houses a Grimm Museum, one of two in Steinau, as well as an exhibition of marionettes from the marionette theater. The Grimm Museum exhibits the family's personal effects, including portraits of the Grimm relatives, the family Bible, an original copy of the Grimms' dictionary (the German equivalent of the Oxford English Dictionary), and all sorts of mundane things such as spoons and drinking glasses. Climb the tower for a breathtaking view of Steinau and the countryside. | 06663/6843 | Museum \u20ac2.50, tower \u20ac1, tour of castle and museum \u20ac6 | Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013mid-Dec., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nFAMILY | Steinauer Marionettentheater.  \nLocated in what was once the stables at Schloss Steinau, this marionette theater portrays Grimm fairy tales and other children's classics. Performances are held most weekends at 3. | Schloss Steinau, Am Kumpen 2 | 06663/245 | www.die-holzkoeppe.de | \u20ac7.50.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nBrath\u00e4hnchenfarm.  \nGERMAN | This cheery hotel-restaurant is a long, long way from the center of Steinau, uphill all the way. But it's worth it. As your nose will tell you immediately, just about everything on the menu is charcoal-grilled. The name (\"Roast Chicken Farm') sets the theme, though other grilled meats are available. It's also good for peace and quiet. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Im Ohl 1 | 06663/228 | www.brathaehnchenfarm.de | Closed Mon. and late Dec.\u2013mid-Feb.\n\nBurgmannenhaus.  \nB&B/INN | Previously a 16th-century customs house, sitting on 1,000-year old foundations and a secret tunnel that runs to the nearby Schloss and church, this friendly travelers' inn is the type of place made for history buffs. The inn's half-timbered rooms have been restored to resemble what life might have been like in the time of the Brothers Grimm, but with modern comforts like proper bathrooms and beds, and Wi-Fi. Weary travelers can rest their feet beneath the 100-year-old chestnut tree in the inn's beer garden in summer or around a table in the \"fire room\" in winter. Pros: in the middle of Steinau; tasty regional beer on tap. Cons: restaurant ($) serves solid, if unspectacular German food; Wi-Fi sometimes hard to pick up in guest rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac78 | Br\u00fcder Grimm Str. 49 | 06663/911\u20132902 | www.burgmannenhaus-steinau.de | 5 rooms | No meals.\n\n## Fulda\n\n32 km (20 miles) northeast of Steinau an der Strasse, 100 km (62 miles) northeast of Frankfurt.\n\nThe cathedral city of Fulda is well worth a detour off the Fairy-Tale Road. There are two distinct parts to its downtown area. One is a stunning display of baroque architecture, with the cathedral, orangery, and formal garden, which grew up around the palace. The other is the Old Town, where the incredibly narrow and twisty streets are lined with boutiques, bistros, and a medieval tower. TIP You'll find Kanalstrasse and Karlstrasse in the Old Town lined with good, inexpensive caf\u00e9s and restaurants, serving German, Mediterranean, and other dishes.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nInterCity Express trains connect Fulda with Frankfurt, Hannover and Hamburg, while regional trains link the city with many other Fairy-Tale Road destinations. Within Fulda itself, the Old Town and the city's other main attractions are all in walking distance of each other. Fulda's walking tours include a recording with earphones, enabling you to follow the German tours in English. These start at the tourist office on Bonifatiusplatz, daily at 11:30 and 3.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nFulda Tourismus- und Kongressmanagement. | Bonifatiuspl. 1 | 0661/102\u20131813 | www.tourismus-fulda.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDom.  \nFulda's 18th-century cathedral, which has two tall spires, stands on the other side of the broad boulevard that borders the palace park. The basilica accommodated the ever-growing number of pilgrims who converged on Fulda to pray at the grave of the martyred St. Boniface, the \"Apostle of the Germans.\" A black alabaster bas-relief depicting his death marks the martyr's grave in the crypt. | Eduard Schick Pl. 1\u20133 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\nCathedral Museum.  \nThe Cathedral Museum contains a document bearing St. Boniface's writing, along with several other treasures, including Lucas Cranach the Elder's fine 16th-century painting Christ and the Adulteress. | 0661/87207 | \u20ac2.10 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135:30, Sun. 12:30\u20135:30; Nov., Dec., and mid-Feb.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u201312:30 and 1:30\u20134, Sun. 12:30\u20134.\n\nFAMILY | Kinder-Akademie-Fulda.  \nGermany's first children's museum has interactive exhibits to help explain science and technology, including a \"walk-through heart.\" | Mehlerstr. 4 | 0661/902\u2013730 | www.kaf.de | \u20ac6.50 | Weekdays 10\u20135:30, Sun. 1\u20135:30, and Apr.\u2013Oct., Sat. 1\u20135:30.\n\nFodor's Choice | Stadtschloss (City Palace).  \nThe city's grandest example of baroque design is the immense Stadtschloss, formerly the residence of the prince-bishops. The F\u00fcrstensaal (Princes' Hall), on the second floor, provides a breathtaking display of baroque decorative artistry, with ceiling paintings by the 18th-century Bavarian artist Melchior Steidl, and fabric-clad walls. The palace also has permanent displays of the Fulda was once known for, as well as some fine Fulda porcelain.\n\nAlso worth seeing is the Spiegelsaal, with its many tastefully arranged mirrors. Pause at the windows of the Gr\u00fcnes Zimmer (Green Chamber) to take in the view across the palace park to the Orangery, a large garden with summer-flowering shrubs and plants. | Schlossstr. 1 | 0661/102\u20131813 | \u20ac3.50 | Sat.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20135, Fri. 2\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Vonderau Museum.  \nThe Vonderau Museum is housed in a former Jesuit seminary. Its exhibits chart the cultural and natural history of Fulda and eastern Hesse. A popular section of the museum is its planetarium, which has a variety of shows, including one for children. Since it has only 35 seats, an early reservation is advisable. Shows take place Friday at 7, and on weekends at 2:30 and 3:30. | Jesuitenpl. 2 | 0661/928\u2013350 | www.kultur-fulda.de/vonderau-museum | Museum \u20ac3.50, planetarium \u20ac4.00 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nLa Gondola.  \nPIZZA | The faded interior of this popular Italian restaurant in the Altstadt pedestrian zone may be at odds with the gold lettering and elegant window frames adorning its facade, but it's cozy and welcoming nonetheless. A local favorite for more than a quarter century, La Gondola serves homemade pasta, pizza (also family size), and salad. Note that it's closed from 2:30 to 5. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Karlstr. 29 | 0661/71711.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat on the Fairy-Tale Road\n\nA specialty of northern Hesse is sausages with Beulches, made from potato balls, leeks, and black pudding. Weck, which is local dialect for \"heavily spiced pork,\" appears either as Musterweck, served on a roll, or as Weckewerk, a frying-pan concoction with white bread. Heading north into Lower Saxony, you'll encounter the ever-popular Speckkuchen, a heavy and filling onion tart. Another favorite main course is Pfefferpothast, a sort of heavily browned goulash with lots of pepper. Trout and eels are common in the rivers and streams around Hameln, and by the time you reach Bremen, North German cuisine has taken over the menu. Aalsuppe gr\u00fcn, eel soup seasoned with dozens of herbs, is a must in summer, and the hearty Gr\u00fcnkohl mit Pinkel, a cabbage dish with sausage, bacon, and cured pork, appears in winter. Be sure to try the coffee. Fifty percent of the coffee served in Germany comes from beans roasted in Bremen. The city has been producing the stuff since 1673, and knows just how to serve it in pleasantly cozy or, as locals say, gem\u00fctlich surroundings.\n\n* * *\n\nMaritim Hotel am Schlossgarten.  \nHOTEL | At the luxurious showpiece of the Maritim chain, guests can breakfast beneath frescoed ceilings and enormous chandeliers in a stunning 18th-century orangery overlooking Fulda Palace Park. Guest rooms are housed in a modern wing with a large central atrium; the hotel's Dianakeller restaurant ($ - $$) is inside an impressive cavern of centuries-old vaulted arches. If this isn't the best place to stay in Fulda, it's certainly one of the top two. Pros: large, comfortable rooms; lovely terrace with views of park and nearby cathedral. Cons: no a/c; expensive for the area. | Rooms from: \u20ac175 | Pauluspromenade 2 | 0661/2820 | www.maritim.de | 111 rooms, 1 suite | No meals.\n\nFodor's Choice | Romantik Hotel Goldener Karpfen.  \nHOTEL | An institution in Fulda for more than a hundred years, the Goldener Karpfen has remained family-owned and -run, with an elegant disposition and engaging hosts that have brought singers, actors, and archbishops through its doors. A couple other points in the hotel's favor are its Hollywood rooms with diner-style furniture and checkered tiles, and the high quality of the German food and wines on offer in its restaurant ($$$) Pros: luxury lodging; a short stroll to the town's major attractions; excellent breakfast buffet. Cons: expensive; public spaces can feel cluttered with knickknacks. | Rooms from: \u20ac165 | Simpliziusbrunnen 1 | 0661/86800 | www.hotel-goldener-karpfen.de | 46 rooms, 4 suites | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: Marburg is the next major stop on the road. Take B-254 to Alsfeld (34 km [21 miles] northwest of Fulda), where you can make a short stop to admire its half-timber houses and narrow streets; then take B-62 into Marburg.\n\nAlsfeld's Altes Rathaus (Old Town Hall) was built in 1512. Its exterior\u2014combining a ground floor of stone arcades; half-timber upper reaches; and a dizzyingly steep, top-heavy slate roof punctuated by two pointed towers shaped like witches' hats\u2014would look right at home in Walt Disney World.\n\n## Marburg\n\n60 km (35 miles) northwest of Fulda.\n\n\"I think there are more steps in the streets than in the houses.\" That is how Jacob Grimm described the half-timber hillside town of Marburg, which rises steeply from the Lahn River to the spectacular castle that crowns the hill. Many of the winding, crooked \"streets\" are indeed stone staircases, and several of the hillside houses have back doors five stories above the front doors. The town's famous university and its students are the main influence on its social life, which pulses through the many caf\u00e9s, restaurants, and hangouts around the marketplace. The Grimms themselves studied here from 1802 to 1805.\n\nMany of the streets are closed to traffic, and are filled with outdoor tables when the weather cooperates. There is a free elevator near the tourist-information office on Pilgrimstein that can transport you from the level of the river to the Old Town.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTwo hours away from Fulda by train, the cheapest way to get here is by taking a regional train to the town of Giessen, and changing there; and every two hours a regional train runs between Marburg and Kassel. By car, take the B-254 and then B-62 from Fulda.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nMarburg Tourismus und Marketing. | Pilgrimstein 26 | 06421/99120 | www.marburg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nElisabethkirche (St. Elizabeth Church).  \nMarburg's most important building is the Elisabethkirche, which marks the burial site of St. Elizabeth (1207\u201331), the town's favorite daughter. She was a Hungarian princess, betrothed at age 4 and married at 14 to a member of the nobility, Ludwig IV of Thuringia. In 1228, when her husband died in the Sixth Crusade, she gave up all worldly pursuits. She moved to Marburg, founded a hospital, gave her wealth to the poor, and spent the rest of her very short life (she died at the age of 24) in poverty, caring for the sick and the aged. She is largely responsible for what Marburg became. Because of her selflessness she was made a saint four years after her death. The Teutonic Knights built the Elisabethkirche, which quickly became the goal of pilgrimages, enabling the city to prosper. You can visit the shrine in the sacristy that once contained her bones, a masterpiece of the goldsmith's art. The church is a veritable museum of religious art, full of statues and frescoes. Walking tours of Marburg begin at the church on Saturday at 3, year-round. | Elisabethstr. 1.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nCafe Vetter.  \nCAF\u00c9 | This caf\u00e9 has the most spectacular view in town\u2014and Marburg is famous for its panoramas. Both an outdoor terrace and a glassed-in terrace take full advantage of the site. It's all very \"Viennese coffeehouse traditional\" here, and the homemade cakes and chocolate creams are hard to resist. This institution, four generations in the same family, has piano music on weekend afternoons. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Reitg. 4 | 06421/25888 | www.cafe-vetter-marburg.de | No credit cards | No dinner.\n\nWeinl\u00e4dele.  \nGERMAN | If you've tired of the big glasses of beer and plates of enormous schnitzel on offer in many of Marburg's traditional eating establishments, this half-timbered wine bar's fine selection of German wines, and light, crispy Flammkuchen (a flamb\u00e9ed tart) is a welcome break. Just up the street from the Old Town's main marketplace, it's a busy spot, popular with patrons of all ages. When the weather is good, get there early, grab a table on its little terrace for a view down the hill, order a cheese platter and glass of white, and watch the world idle by. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Schlosstreppe 1 | 06421/14244 | www.weinlaedele.com.\n\nWelcome Hotel Marburg.  \nHOTEL | While the plain facade of this large, modern hotel may suffer in comparison with much of Marburg's traditional architecture, its generous rooms, comfy beds, and excellent breakfast buffet draw guests back. At river level just below the Old Town, its Tartaruga restaurant ($$) serves seasonal menus of German fare, and there's a terrace for fair-weather dining. You can retire to the hotel's bar for an after-dinner nightcap, or sweat off some of the calories in the sauna. Pros: across from the elevator to the Altstadt. Cons: no real views from many of the rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac131 | Pilgrimstein 29 | 06421/9180 | www.welcome-hotels.com | 147 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Kassel\n\n100 km (62 miles) northeast of Marburg.\n\nThe Brothers Grimm lived in Kassel, their mother's hometown, as teenagers, and also worked there as librarians at the court of the king of Westphalia, Jerome Bonaparte (Napol\u00e9on's youngest brother), and for the elector of Kassel. In their researching of stories and legends, their best source was not books but storyteller Dorothea Viehmann, who was born in the Knallh\u00fctte tavern, which is still in business in nearby Baunatal.\n\nMuch of Kassel was destroyed in World War II, and the city was rebuilt with little regard for its architectural past. The city's museums and the beautiful Schloss Wilhelmsh\u00f6he and Schlosspark, however, are well worth a day or two of exploration.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nOn a main InterCity Express line between Munich and Hamburg, you can also travel to Kassel-Wilhelmsh\u00f6he from Hannover and Bremen by high-speed train. By car, travel northeast from Marburg on the B-3 to Borken, then take autobahn A-49 into Kassel.\n\n#### Tours\n\nGuided bus tours of Kassel set off from the Stadttheater on Saturday at 11.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nWhen you arrive, you may want to buy a Kassel Card, which gives you a reduced rate for the city bus tour, free travel on the local transportation system, and reduced admission to the museums and the local casino. It's available at the tourist office for \u20ac9 for 24 hours and \u20ac12 for 72 hours.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nKassel Marketing GmbH. | Obere K\u00f6nigstr. 15 | 0561/707\u2013707 | www.kassel.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Br\u00fcder Grimm Museum (Brothers Grimm Museum).  \nDespite the widespread destruction suffered by Kassel during World War II, some architectural gems remain. One of them, the 18th-century, baroque Palais Bellevue, is home to the city's Brothers Grimm Museum. Eschewing modern technology in its exhibits in favor of relics from the Grimm's family home and original illustrations of their stories, the museum seeks to create an authentic experience of what life was like in the brothers' time. Pride of place among the memorabilia is taken up by first and second editions of the brothers' collection of tales. There's plenty to excite younger visitors to the museum, too, and every three months it has a new interactive children's exhibition based on a different fairy tale originally recorded in German, English, Russian or Turkish. | Sch\u00f6ne Aussicht 2 | 0561/103\u2013235 | www.grimms.de | \u20ac3 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss und Bergpark Wilhelmsh\u00f6he (Wilhelmsh\u00f6he Palace and Palace Park).  \nThe magnificent grounds of the 18th-century Schloss and the Bergpark Wilhelmsh\u00f6he, at the western edge of Kassel, are said to be Europe's largest hill park. If you have time, plan to spend an entire day at this UNESCO World Heritage Site, exploring its wonderful gardens, water features, museums, and castle. Wear good walking shoes and bring some water if you want to hike all the way up to the giant statue of Hercules that crowns the hilltop.\n\nThe Wilhelmsh\u00f6her Park was laid out as a baroque park in the early 18th century, its elegant lawns separating the city from the thick woods of the Habichtswald (Hawk Forest). Schloss Wilhelmsh\u00f6he was added between 1786 and 1798. The great palace stands at the end of the 5-km-long (3-mile-long) Wilhelmsh\u00f6her Allee, an avenue that runs straight as an arrow from one side of the city to the other.\n\nKassel's leading art gallery and the state art collection lie within Schloss Wilhelmsh\u00f6he as part of the Museumslandschaft Hessen Kassel. Its collection includes 11 Rembrandts, as well as outstanding works by Rubens, Hals, Jordaens, Van Dyck, D\u00fcrer, Altdorfer, Cranach, and Baldung Grien. | Schloss Wilhelmsh\u00f6he, Schlosspark 1 | 0561/316\u2013800 | www.wilhelmshoehe.de | Museum Schloss Wilhelmsh\u00f6he \u20ac6 | Tues., Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Wed. 10\u20138. Closed Mon.\n\nL\u00f6wenburg (Lion Fortress).  \nAmid the thick trees of the Wilhelmsh\u00f6her Park, it comes as something of a surprise to see the turrets of a medieval castle breaking the harmony. There are more surprises at the L\u00f6wenburg, for this is not true medieval castle but a fanciful, stylized copy of a Scottish castle, built in 1793 (70 years after the Hercules statue that towers above it). The L\u00f6wenburg contains a collection of medieval armor and weapons, tapestries, and furniture. | Schlosspark 9 | 0561/3168\u20130244 | www.museum-kassel.de | \u20ac4 including tour | Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nStatue of Hercules.  \nThe giant 18th-century statue of Hercules that crowns the Wilhelmsh\u00f6he heights is an astonishing sight. You can climb the stairs of the statue's castlelike base\u2014and the statue itself\u2014for a rewarding look over the entire city. At 2:30 pm on Sunday and Wednesday from mid-May through September, water gushes from a fountain beneath the statue, rushes down a series of cascades to the foot of the hill, and ends its precipitous journey in a 175-foot-high jet of water. A caf\u00e9 lies a short walk from the statue. | Schlosspark 3 | 0561/312\u2013456 | Hercules Octagon \u20ac3 | Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nBrauhaus Knallh\u00fctte.  \nGERMAN | This brewery and inn, established in 1752, was the home of the village storyteller Dorothea Viehmann, who supplied The Grimms with some of the best of their stories, including \"Little Red Riding Hood,\" \"Hansel and Gretel,\" and \"Rumpelstiltskin.\" To this day \"Dorothea\" tells her stories here (in German only) every first and third Saturday of the month at 5:30. Once a wayside inn on the road to Frankfurt, the Knallh\u00fctte now sits alongside a busy highway. However, this hasn't diminished its popularity, and if you're planning on visiting on the weekend, it's best to book ahead. Those that arrive hungry can tour the brewery and then eat and drink as much as they want for \u20ac24.90. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Knallh\u00fctte. 1 | Baunatal-Rengershausen | 0561/492\u2013076 | www.knallhuette.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Gude.  \nHOTEL | It may be 10 minutes by tram away from the city center, but this modern, friendly hotel and its spacious rooms, sauna, and excellent restaurant ($$$) justify the journey. The Pfefferm\u00fchle's one of the region's finest places to eat, and its superb breakfast buffet is in keeping with the inventive international menu served at night. A modern terrace catches the sun until late in the day, and the hotel's Salz bar serves reasonably priced cocktails. Massage and physiotherapy can also be arranged. Pros: close to the autobahn; easy parking; comfortable beds. Cons: removed from the city center; on a busy street. | Rooms from: \u20ac119 | Frankfurter Str. 299 | 0561/48050 | www.hotel-gude.de | 84 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nSchlosshotel Wilhelmsh\u00f6he.  \nHOTEL | Positioned beside the lovely baroque gardens and woodland paths of the hilltop Wilhelmsh\u00f6he Park, this comfortable, modern hotel and its rooms take in views on the park grounds on one side and stunning vistas over Kassel on the other. The hotel's elegant restaurant ($$) serves contemporary cuisine with an emphasis on German and Mediterranean dishes, and its sunny terrace is not only popular with guests, but also with day-trippers to the park and celebrities in town for the city's renowned Documenta festival. Pros: tranquil atmosphere; historic setting; views. Cons: no minifridge minibar in \"classic\" rooms; a modern-looking hotel, despite its romantic name. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Am Schlosspark 8 | 0561/30880 | www.schlosshotel-kassel.de | 120 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Bad Karlshafen\n\n50 km (31 miles) north of Kassel.\n\nPopular with holidaymakers in mobile homes and trailers, who park up on the banks of the Weser directly across from its historic center, Bad Karlshafen's a pretty little spa town whose baroque architecture, while impressive, is showing some signs of wear and tear. Best viewed from the campsite side of the river, the town is surrounded by hills covered in dense forest and has for some time also found favor as a health resort. Its elevation and rural location provide fresh air, and there are salt springs that the locals believe can cure just about whatever ails you.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegional trains run here from G\u00f6ttingen, but only infrequently, so check train timetables well ahead of any visit.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBad Karlshafen Kur- und Touristik-Information. | Hafenpl. 8 | 05672/999\u2013922 | www.bad-karlshafen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nRathaus.  \nBad Karlshafen's baroque beauty stands in surprising contrast to the abundance of half-timber architecture found along the rest of the Weser. Its stately Rathaus is the town's best baroque example. A walking tour leaves from there on Sunday at 3, May through October. | Hafenpl. 8.\n\nFAMILY | Weser-Therme.  \nThis huge spa facility sitting on the banks of the Weser River has whirlpools, sauna and steam baths, thermal saltwater pools, and an outdoor pool that supposedly is as salty as the Dead Sea. The spa's waters are famed for their therapeutic benefits, and a couple of hours bathing in them often helps relieve aches and stress. Massages are available to further aid the relaxation process. | Kurpromenade 1 | 05672/92110 | www.wesertherme.de | \u20ac10.50 pools, \u20ac14 pools and sauna (3 hrs) | Sun.\u2013Thurs. 9 am\u201310 pm, Fri. and Sat. 9 am\u201311 pm.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHessischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | Located in the heart of town, this inn started as a tavern and now includes several comfortably furnished bedrooms, plus an apartment for larger families and the numerous cycling groups that visit. The restaurant ($$) serves good, hearty German fare. Pros: centrally located; reasonable rates; friendly staff. Cons: no elevator; d\u00e9cor dated in places. | Rooms from: \u20ac78 | Carlstr. 13\u201315 | 05672/1059 | www.hess-hof.de | 20 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel zum Weserdampfschiff.  \nHOTEL | From the snug riverside rooms of this popular hotel-tavern, guests can watch passengers step directly off Weser pleasure boats and into the hotel's welcoming beer garden below. With some of the best views in town (despite the campsite full of camper vans on the opposite bank), the hotel is also only a short wander along the Weser away from the town's thermal pools. Its simple, lace-curtained restaurant ($) offers the type of solid meat and fish dishes you might crave after a swim. Pros: river view; low rates; near spa facilities. Cons: on a busy street; rooms a bit small. | Rooms from: \u20ac88 | Weserstr. 25 | 05672/2425 | www.weserdampfschiff.de | 14 rooms | No credit cards | Breakfast.\n\nEn Route: F\u00fcrstenberg Porcelain factory.  \nGermany's second-oldest porcelain factory is at F\u00fcrstenberg, 24 km (14 mi) north of Bad Karlshafen and 8 km (5 mi) south of H\u00f6xter, in a Weser Renaissance castle high above the Weser River. The crowned Gothic letter F, which serves as its trademark, is known worldwide. You'll find F\u00fcrstenberg porcelain in Bad Karlshafen and H\u00f6xter, but it's more fun to journey to the 18th-century castle itself, where production first began in 1747, and buy directly from the manufacturer. F\u00fcrstenberg and most dealers will take care of shipping arrangements and any tax refunds. Porcelain workshops can be booked ahead of time, and there's also a sales outlet, museum, and caf\u00e9. TIP The view from the castle is a pastoral idyll, with the Weser snaking through the immaculately tended fields and woods. You can also spot cyclists on the riverside paths. | Schloss F\u00fcrstenberg, Meinbrexener Str. 2 | F\u00fcrstenberg | 05271/401\u2013161 | www.fuerstenberg-porzellan.com | Museum \u20ac5.50 | Museum: Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekends 10\u20135. Shop: mid-Jan.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n## Sababurg\n\n50 km (31 miles) west of G\u00f6ttingen, 100 km (62 miles) south of Hannover.\n\nSababurg's not really a village as such, but it is the location of an enchanting, 700-year-old Renaissance castle, an impressive animal park, and Germany's oldest forest nature reserve, all of which lie within the peaceful, wooded surrounds of the Reinhardswald. The castle, which sits proudly on the crest of a hill in the forest, is also known as Dornr\u00f6schenschloss, and is widely believed to be the source of inspiration for the tale of \"Sleeping Beauty.\"\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nGiven that Sababurg is removed from the main highway and has no rail connection, visits to Dornr\u00f6schenschloss and the nearby Sababurg Tierpark are best made by car.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Dornr\u00f6schenschloss (Sleeping Beauty's Castle).  \nThe story goes that after Sleeping Beauty had slumbered for a hundred years, the thick thorn hedge surrounding her castle suddenly burst into blossom, thereby enabling a daring prince a way in to lay a kiss upon her lips and reawaken her. Nowadays home to a handsome hotel, the stony exterior of Dornr\u00f6schenschloss continues to be clad in colorful roses, and its walled garden is home to an impressive collection of the flowers. Even if you don't stay the night, a drive here is scenic, and there are ruins as well as the garden to explore, and a pleasant outdoor terrace with views over forest-covered hills to enjoy afterward.\n\nFAMILY | Tierpark Sababurg.  \nThe Tierpark Sababurg is one of Europe's oldest wildlife refuges. Bison, red deer, wild horses, and all sorts of waterfowl populate the park. There's also a petting zoo for children. | Sababurg 1 | 05671/766-4990 | www.tierpark-sababurg.de | \u20ac7 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 8\u20137; Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 10\u20134; Mar., daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nDornr\u00f6schenschloss Sababurg.  \nHOTEL | The medieval fortress thought to have inspired the tale of \"Sleeping Beauty\" is today a small luxury hotel, complete with domed turrets, spiral staircases,and tower rooms with four-poster beds and spa baths. Sitting on the crest of a hill, surrounded by a forest of ancient oaks, wild deer, and boar, the castle's an understandably popular spot for weddings and honeymoons. Game and fresh trout are served in the hotel's excellent restaurant ($$ - $$$), which also specializes in rose-themed dishes, including pasta and desserts made with the flowers. Pros: sylvan setting; incredibly romantic. Cons: some dated rooms; takes some effort to find the place. | Rooms from: \u20ac165 | Im Reinhardswald | Hofgeismar | 05671/8080 | www.sababurg.de | 17 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Burg Trendelburg.  \nHOTEL | Ivy-bedecked towers, a shadowy foyer decorated with suits of armor and swords, and guest rooms with four-poster beds and little bathrooms hidden behind cupboard doors endow this fine establishment with an atmosphere of fairy-tale adventure. Guests can climb the Rapunzel tower for views of the surrounding countryside, or relax in a sauna in another tower. The hotel's leafy courtyard and hilltop terrace are perfect for spending warm summer evenings sipping cool drinks; the hotel's restaurant ($$) serves a good selection of meat and fish dishes and regular fairy-tale-themed dining experiences. Pros: great views; authentic castle experience. Cons: some rooms small; in a otherwise uninspiring village. | Rooms from: \u20ac155 | Steinweg 1 | Trendelburg | 05675/9090 | www.burg-hotel-trendelburg.com | 22 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nHannoversch-M\u00fcnden | G\u00f6ttingen | H\u00f6xter | Bodenwerder | Hameln | Hannover | Bremen | Bremerhaven\n\nLower Saxony (Niedersachsen) was formed from an amalgamation of smaller states in 1946. Its picturesque landscape includes one of Germany's most haunting river roads, along the Weser River between Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden and Hameln. This road, part of the Fairy-Tale Road, follows green banks where it's hard to see where the water ends and the land begins. Standing sentinel are superb little towns whose half-timber architecture gave rise to the term \"Weser Renaissance.\" The Lower Saxon landscape also includes the juniper bushes and flowering heather of the L\u00fcneburg Heath.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden\n\n24 km (15 miles) north of Kassel, 150 km (93 miles) south of Hannover.\n\nYou'll have to travel a long way through Germany to find a grouping of half-timber houses as harmonious as those in this delightful town, seemingly untouched by the modern age\u2014there are some 700 of them. Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden is surrounded by forests and the Fulda and Werra rivers, which join here and flow northward as the Weser River.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegional trains linking Hannoversch M\u00fcnden to both Kassel and G\u00f6ttingen run every hour. A walking tour of town takes place May to October, leaving daily at 10:30 and 2:30 from the town hall.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nHannoversch-M\u00fcnden. | Touristik Naturpark M\u00fcnden, Lotzestr. 2 | 05541/75313 | www.hann.muenden.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nJohann Andreas Eisenbart.  \nMuch is made of the fact that the quack doctor to end all quacks died in Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden. Dr. Johann Andreas Eisenbart (1663\u20131727) would be forgotten today if a ribald 19th-century drinking song (\"Ich bin der Doktor Eisenbart, widda, widda, wit, boom! boom!\") hadn't had him shooting out aching teeth with a pistol, anesthetizing with a sledgehammer, and removing boulders from the kidneys. He was, as the song has it, a man who could make \"the blind walk and the lame see.\" This is terribly exaggerated, of course, but the town takes advantage of it.\n\nThe good Dr. Eisenbart has \"office hours\" in the town hall at 1:30 on Saturday, May through December; and a glockenspiel on the town hall depicts Eisenbart's feats, to the tune of the Eisenbart song, daily throughout the year at noon, 3, and 5. There's a statue of the doctor in front of his home at Langestrasse 79, and his grave is outside the St. \u00c4gidien Church. | 05541/75313 | www.hann.muenden.de.\n\n## G\u00f6ttingen\n\n30 km (19 miles) northeast of Hannoversch-M\u00fcnden, 110 km (68 miles) south of Hannover.\n\nDistinguished by its famous university, where the Brothers Grimm served as professors and librarians between 1830 and 1837, the fetching town of G\u00f6ttingen buzzes with student life. Young people on bikes zip past bookshops and secondhand boutiques; when night falls, the town's cozy bars and caf\u00e9s swell with students making the most of the drinks specials and free Wi-Fi on offer.\n\nFull of elegant, gable-roofed architecture, it's also a large and modern place and boasts the shiny stores, chain coffee shops, and other trappings you'd expect of a 21st-century German town. Though not strictly on the Fairy-Tale Road, despite its association with the Grimms, G\u00f6ttingen is still well worth visiting.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nG\u00f6ttingen is a stop on the same InterCity Express line between Munich and Hamburg as Kassel-Wilhelmsh\u00f6he, and is also easily reached from Bremen.\n\n#### Tours\n\nG\u00f6ttingen offers walking tours in English on the first and third Saturday of the month, April to October at 11 from the Old Town Hall.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nG\u00f6ttingen Tourist-Information. | Altes Rathaus, Markt 9 | 0551/499\u2013800 | www.goettingen-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAltes Rathaus.  \nThe Old Town Hall was begun in the 13th century but is basically a part-medieval, part-Renaissance building. The tourist-information office is on the first floor. | Markt 9 | 0551/499\u2013800 | www.goettingen.de | Free | Weekdays 9:30\u20136, Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nG\u00e4nseliesel.  \nThe statue of G\u00e4nseliesel, the little Goose Girl of German folklore, stands in G\u00f6ttingen's central market square, symbolizing the strong link between the students and their university city. The girl, according to the story, was a princess who was forced to trade places with a peasant, and the statue shows her carrying her geese and smiling shyly into the waters of a fountain. The students of G\u00f6ttingen gave her a ceremonial role: Traditionally, graduates who earn a doctorate bestow a kiss of thanks upon G\u00e4nseliesel. G\u00f6ttingen's citizens say she's the most kissed girl in the world.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nGaudi.  \nMEDITERRANEAN | In a town rich with cozy taverns and hearty local food, the appearance of this Mediterranean restaurant, with its terra-cotta and blue color scheme, arty chandeliers, and light, airy spaces, stands out as much as its cuisine. Right in the middle of G\u00f6ttingen's historic B\u00f6rner Viertel, the restaurant is a favorite with staff from the university, who feast on its fine consomm\u00e9s, tapas, pasta, and fish and meat dishes. The food and excellent service are worth the extra cost here. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Rote Str. 16 | 0551/531\u20133001 | www.restaurant-gaudi.de | Closed Sun. No lunch Mon.\n\nLandgasthaus Lockemann.  \nGERMAN | If you like to walk and hike, consider this half-timber lodge at the edge of the Stadtwald (city forest). Locals descend on the friendly, country-style restaurant for hearty German cooking ($), particularly on weekends, when it's also open for lunch. Take Bus No. 10 from the Busbahnhof, direction Herbershausen, to the last stop; then walk left on Im Beeke. The trip will take 20 minutes. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Im Beeke 1 | 0551/209\u2013020 | www.landgasthaus-lockemann.de | No credit cards | Closed Mon. No lunch weekdays.\n\nRomantik Hotel Gebhards.  \nHOTEL | This family-run hotel stands aloof and unflurried on its own grounds, a modernized 18th-century building that's something of a local landmark. Rooms are furnished in dark woods and floral prints highlighted by bowls of fresh flowers. It has a whirlpool and a sauna. Pros: across from the train station. Cons: on a busy street; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac208 | Goethe-Allee 22\u201323 | 0551/49680 | www.gebhardshotel.de | 45 rooms, 5 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife\n\nAmong the delights of G\u00f6ttingen are the ancient taverns where generations of students have lifted their steins. Among the best known are the Kleiner Ratskeller and Trou. Don't be shy about stepping into either of these taverns or any of the others that catch your eye; the food and drink are inexpensive, and the welcome is invariably warm and friendly.\n\n## H\u00f6xter\n\n24 km (14 miles) north of Bad Karlshafen, 100 km (62 miles) south of Hannover.\n\nH\u00f6xter is not actually in Lower Saxony, but just over the border in North Rhine-Westphalia. The town appeal lies in its Rathaus, a perfect example of the Weser Renaissance style, and its proximity to the impressive Reichsabtei Corvey, an abbey that's a short drive away. There's not much Grimm here; overshadowed by Sababurg's claim to Sleeping Beauty's castle and Bodenwerder's Baron von M\u00fcnchhausen, H\u00f6xter's connection to a fairy tale is limited to a small Hansel and Gretel fountain in the middle of town.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nEvery couple of hours buses and regional trains run from Bad Karlshafen to H\u00f6xter Rathaus and take about 45 minutes, or you can take a combination of regional trains from G\u00f6ttingen that take from 90 minutes to 2\u00bd hours.\n\nBetween April and October, a town walking tour leaves from the Rathaus at 3 on Wednesday and 11 on Saturday.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nH\u00f6xter Tourist-Info. | Weserstr. 11 | 05271/963\u2013431 | www.hoexter-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Reichsabtei Corvey (Imperial Abbey of Corvey).  \nThe impressive Reichsabtei Corvey, or Schloss Corvey, is idyllically set between the wooded heights of the Solling region and the Weser River. During its 1,200-year history it has provided lodging for several Holy Roman emperors. Heinrich Hoffmann von Fallersleben (1798\u20131874), author of the poem \"Deutschland, Deutschland \u00fcber Alles,\" worked as librarian here in the 1820s. The poem, set to music by Joseph Haydn, became the German national anthem in 1922. A music festival is held in the church and great hall, the Kaisersaal, in May and June. Corvey is reached on an unnumbered road heading east from H\u00f6xter (3 km 2 miles]) toward the Weser. There are signposts to \"Schloss Corvey.\"|Schloss Corvey | 05271/68120 | [www.schloss-corvey.de | \u20ac6, abbey church \u20ac0.80 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nSchlossrestaurant.  \nGERMAN | In summer you can dine on flamb\u00e9ed tart and salad under centuries-old trees. When it's cooler, slip inside the Reichsabtei Corvey's excellent and elegant restaurant for a hot coffee and a piece of one its delicious cakes. TIP With advance notice, a F\u00fcrstenbankett, or princely banquet, can be arranged for groups in the vaulted cellars. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Schloss Corvey | 05271/8323 | Closed Mon. and Nov.\u2013Mar. Closed Tues. in May and Oct.\n\n## Bodenwerder\n\n34 km (21 miles) north of H\u00f6xter, 70 km (43 miles) south of Hannover.\n\nThe charming Weser town of Bodenwerder is the home of the L\u00fcgenbaron (Lying Baron) von M\u00fcnchhausen (1720\u201397), who was known as a teller of whoppers and whose fantastical tales included a story about riding a cannonball toward an enemy fortress but then, having second thoughts, returning to where he started by leaping onto a cannonball heading the other way. Stretched out along a peaceful valley, the nicest part of the town is around the Baron's old home, now the town hall, its half-timber architecture set against a backdrop of the river and surrounding hills. A regular stop for cyclists on the Wesertal route, the town also attracts canoeists, and anglers who can tell their own whoppers about the one that got away.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nReachable from H\u00f6xter by a combination of bus and regional train, or by bus from Hameln, changes are required along the way and any visits requiring public transport should be planned in advance.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBodenwerder Tourist-Information. | M\u00fcnchausenpl. 3 | 05533/40542 | www.muenchhausenland.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nM\u00fcnchhausen Museum.  \nHoused in an old, renovated farm building right next to the imposing family home in which Baron von M\u00fcnchhausen grew up (it's now the Rathaus), the M\u00fcnchhausen Museum is crammed with mementos of his adventurous life, including his cannonball. A fountain in front of the house represents another story. The baron, it seems, was puzzled when his horse kept drinking insatiably at a trough. Investigating, he discovered that the horse had been cut in two by a closing castle gate and that the water ran out as fast as the horse drank. The water in the fountain, of course, flows from the rear of a half-horse. At 3 on the first, second, and fourth Sundays of the month from May through October, townspeople retell von M\u00fcnchhausen's life story with performances in front of the Rathaus. | M\u00fcnchhausenpl. 1 | 05533/409\u2013147 | Museum \u20ac2.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Goldener Anker.  \nGERMAN | The Weser boats tie up outside this pretty, half-timber tavern, which prepares hearty German fare and fresh fish year-round. Secure a table by the window for lovely views of the river and hills beyond. TIP In summer a beer garden right on the river beckons. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Br\u00fcckenstr. 5 | 05533/400\u2013730 | www.bodenwerder-hotel.de.\n\nHotel Goldener Anker.  \nHOTEL | The riverside rooms of this friendly, family-owned and run hotel on the banks of the Weser river come with the best view in town. Its restaurant ($), which has the same pleasing outlook, serves seasonal varieties of regional cuisine, with plenty of fish and red meat on offer. If the weather's good, the best place to be is in the hotel's beer garden. Flanked by a couple of leafy birch trees, it's popular with cyclists who fuel their travels through the valley with a cold drink and some Flammkuchen (tart flamb\u00e9). Pros: directly beside the river; friendly staff. Cons: standard rooms are very simple; close to the town's main bridge. TIP Pay the extra few euros and upgrade to a deluxe room with a river view, it's well worth the money spent. | Rooms from: \u20ac79 | Br\u00fcckenstr. 5 | 05533/400\u2013730 | www.bodenwerder-hotel.de | 19 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nParkhotel Deutsches Haus.  \nHOTEL | Clean, comfortable, and friendly, this country hotel combines a traditional half-timber facade with uncomplicated, if a little dated, interior styling. Directly across the road from the old home of Baron von M\u00fcnchhausen, now Bodenwerder's town hall, the hotel's extensive grounds adjoin the town park, and the Weser River is a short walk away. Its tidy rooms are a decent size, and guests have the choice of two restaurants (\u00a2 - $$) to dine in. Pros: elevator; rooms get plenty of natural light. Cons: on a busy street; next to a large parking lot. | Rooms from: \u20ac83 | M\u00fcnchhausenpl. 4 | 05533/400\u2013780 | www.parkhotel-bodenwerder.de | 39 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Hameln\n\n24 km (15 miles) north of Bodenwerder, 47 km (29 miles) southwest of Hannover.\n\nGiven their relationship with one of the most famous fairy-tale characters of all time, it's unsurprising that Hameln's townsfolk continue to take advantage of the Pied Piper. Known locally as the Rattenf\u00e4nger, or \"rat-catcher,\" these days he tends to be celebrated more than exploited (even if his name does adorn everything from coffee mugs to restaurants), and regular costumed tours through the town relive his deeds, while a bronze statue of him stands proudly in the town's lovely pedestrian zone. Not as exciting as Hannover to the north or as relaxing as Bodenwerder to the south, Hameln's fairy-tale legacy, elegantly painted and inscribed half-timber buildings, and laid-back atmosphere will, nonetheless, please plenty of its visitors.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\n45 minutes away from Hannover by S-bahn (Line No. 5), Hameln is within easy reach of the Lower Saxon capital.\n\n#### Tours\n\nWalking tours of Hameln are held year-round, leaving from the tourist office (April to October, daily at 10:30 and 2:30; November to March, Saturday at 2:30, Sunday at 10:30; December, daily at 10:30).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nHameln Marketing und Tourismus. | Deisterallee 1 | 05151/957\u2013823 | www.hameln.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nHochzeitshaus (Wedding House).  \nOn central Osterstrasse you'll see several examples of Weser Renaissance architecture, including the Rattenf\u00e4ngerhaus (Rat-Catcher's House) and the Hochzeitshaus, a beautiful 17th-century building now used for city offices. From mid-May to mid-September the Hochzeitshaus terrace is the scene of two free open-air events commemorating the legend. From May to September, local actors and children present a half-hour reenactment each Sunday at noon, and there is also a 40-minute musical, Rats, each Wednesday at 4:30 during the same months. The carillon of the Hochzeitshaus plays tunes every day at 9:35 and 11:35, and mechanical figures enact the piper story on the west gable of the building at 1:05, 3:35, and 5:35.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nRattenf\u00e4ngerhaus.  \nGERMAN | This brilliant example of Weser Renaissance architecture is Hameln's most famous building, where the Pied Piper supposedly stayed during his rat-extermination assignment (it wasn't actually built until centuries after his supposed exploits). A plaque in front of it fixes the date of the incident at June 26, 1284. \"Rats\" are all over the menu, from the \"rat-killer liqueur\" to a \"rat-tail flamb\u00e9.\" But don't be put off by the names: the traditional dishes are excellent. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Osterstr. 28 | 05151/3888 | www.rattenfaengerhaus.de.\n\nHotel zur B\u00f6rse.  \nHOTEL | A few paces off Hameln's picturesque pedestrian and shopping zone, this pleasant, modern hotel is also within easy walking distance of the rest of the town's main attractions. Many of its rooms on the upper floors offer views over the town's half-timbered architecture. The B\u00f6rsenbistro ($$) here complements the usual fare of steaks and schnitzels with dishes from around Europe. Friendly staff and underground parking round off the package. Pros: in the pedestrian zone; flat-screen TVs. Cons: modern look seems out of place; bathrooms on the small side. | Rooms from: \u20ac93 | Osterstr. 41a, entrance on Kopmanshof | 05151/7080 | www.hotel-zur-boerse.de | 31 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel zur Krone.  \nHOTEL | On the Old Town's pedestrian zone, Hotel zur Krone has a terrace that lets you watch locals coming and going, and afternoon coffee here is a summer delight. The hotel's half-timber architecture, dating from 1645, fits in nicely with the romantic surroundings. The rooms in the older section are on the small side, but some have old-fashioned touches like beams from the 17th century. Pros: a half-timber marvel; lovely terrace. Cons: modern annex lacks charm; new guest rooms a little small. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Osterstr. 30 | 05151/9070 | www.hotelzurkrone.de | 32 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Hannover\n\n47 km (29 miles) northeast of Hameln.\n\nA little off the Fairy-Tale Road, and better known internationally as a trade-fair center than a tourist destination, the Lower Saxon capital holds an attractive mix of culture, arts, and nature that justifies a visit here all the same. With several leading museums, an opera house of international repute, and the finest baroque park in the country, it's a place that packs a surprising amount into a city of only half a million people. Conveniently centered between the city's main train station and its pleasant inner city lake, most of Hannover's major attractions, including its fine New and Old Town Halls, are within an easy walk of one another. In spring and summer the city's parks fill with picnicking families, while fall and winter are celebrated first with the second biggest Oktoberfest in the world and then cheery Christmas markets.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTravel northeast from Hameln on autobahn A-33 to Hannover. There is also frequent direct rail service from Hameln. Hannover has an airport, and is served by the InterCity Express (ICE) trains and the Europabus. From mid-April through the end of October, hop-on, hop-off city bus tours of Hannover leave from the tourist office daily at 10:30, 12:30, and 2:30 (and 4:30 on Saturday).\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nA Hannover Card entitles you to free travel on local transportation, reduced admission to seven museums, and discounts on certain sightseeing events and performances at the theater and opera. It's available through the tourist office for \u20ac9.50 per day (\u20ac17.50 for three days).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nHannover Tourismus. | Ernst-August-Pl. 8 | 0511/1684\u20139700 | www.hannover.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAltes Rathaus (Old Town Hall).  \nIt took nearly 100 years, starting in 1410, to build this gabled brick edifice that once contained a merchants' hall and an apothecary. In 1844 it was restored to the style of about 1500. The facade's fired-clay frieze depicts coats of arms and representations of princes, and a medieval game similar to arm wrestling. Inside is a modern interior with boutiques and a restaurant. | K\u00f6belingerstr. 2.\n\nFodor's Choice | Herrenhausen.  \nThe gardens of the former Hannoverian royal summer residence are the city's showpiece (the 17th-century palace was never rebuilt after wartime bombing). The baroque park is unmatched in Germany for its formal precision, with patterned walks, gardens, hedges, and chestnut trees framed by a placid moat. There is a fig garden with a collapsible shelter to protect it in winter and dining facilities behind a grotto. From Easter until October there are fireworks displays and fountains play for a few hours daily (weekdays 10\u2013noon and 3\u20135, weekends 10\u2013noon and 2\u20135). Herrenhausen is outside the city, a short ride on Tram No. 4 or 5. | Herrenhauserstr. 5 | 0511/1684\u20134543 | www.hannover.de/herrenhausen | \u20ac8 | Mar., Apr., and Sept., daily 9\u20137; May\u2013Aug., daily 9\u20138; Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 9\u20134:30.\n\nLandesmuseum Hannover.  \nThe priceless art collection of this regional museum includes works by Tilman Riemenschneider, Veit Stoss, Hans Holbein the Younger, Claude Monet, and Lucas Cranach. There are also historical and natural history sections. | Willy-Brandt-Allee 5 | 0511/980\u20137686 | www.landesmuseum-hannover.niedersachsen.de | \u20ac4 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135, Thurs. 10\u20137.\n\nLeineschloss.  \nThe former royal palace of the Hanovers\u2014whose members sat on the British throne from 1714 to 1837 as kings George I\u2013IV\u2014stands grandly beside the River Leine, and is now home to the Lower Saxony State Parliament. Although the interior of the palace is largely closed to the public, its imposing Corinthian columns and river setting provide some excellent photo ops. | Hinrich-Wilhelm-Kopf-Pl. 1.\n\nSprengel Museum.  \nAn important museum of modern art, the Sprengel holds major works by Max Beckmann, Max Ernst, Paul Klee, Emil Nolde, Oscar Schlemmer, Hans Arp, and Pablo Picasso. The street where it's located is named after Kurt Schwitters, a native son and prominent dadaist, whose works are also exhibited. | Kurt-Schwitters-Pl. 1 | 0511/1684\u20133875 | www.sprengel-museum.de | \u20ac7 | Tues. 10\u20138, Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nNeues Rathaus.  \nThe massive New Town Hall was built at the start of the 20th century in Wilhelmine style (named for Kaiser Wilhelm). The pomp and circumstance were important ingredients of the heavy German bureaucracy of the time. Four scale models on the ground floor depict Hannover in various stages of development and destruction: as a medieval walled city, in the years before World War II, immediately following World War II, and in its present-day form. An elevator rises diagonally to the dome for a splendid view. | Trammpl. 2 | 0511/1684\u20135333 | Dome \u20ac3 | Mar.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9:30\u20136:00, weekends 10\u20136:00.\n\nOpernhaus.  \nHannover's neoclassical opera house, completed in 1852, has two large wings and a covered, colonnaded portico adorned with statues of great composers and poets. The building originally served as the court theater, but now is used almost exclusively for opera. It was gutted by fire in a 1943 air raid and restored in 1948. TIP Unless you have tickets to a performance, the only part of the interior you can visit is the foyer. | Opernpl. 1 | 0511/9999\u20131111 | www.staatstheater-hannover.de/oper.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Wilhelm Busch Museum.  \nThis section of the Georgenpalais, near Herrenhausen, is devoted to the works of cartoonists and caricaturists through the centuries. The emphasis is on Wilhelm Busch, the \"godfather of the comic strip,\" whose original drawings and effects are on display. More than a century ago, Busch (1832\u20131908) wrote and illustrated a very popular children's book, still in print, called Max und Moritz. The story tells of two boys who mixed gunpowder into the village tailor's pipe tobacco and, with fishing lines down the chimney, filched roasting chickens off the fire. The first American comic strip, The Katzenjammer Kids (1897), drew not only on Busch's naughty boys (they even spoke with a German accent) but also on his loose cartoon style. | Georgengarten 1 | 0511/1699\u20139916 | www.karikatur-museum.de | \u20ac4.50 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBasil.  \nECLECTIC | Constructed in 1867 as a riding hall for the Royal Prussian military, this upmarket restaurant's home is as striking as the menu. Cast-iron pillars support the vaulted brick ceiling, and two-story drapes hang in the huge windows. The menu, which changes every few weeks, includes dishes from the Mediterranean to Asia. Game and white Spargel (asparagus) are served in season. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Dragonerstr. 30 | 0511/622\u2013636 | www.basil.de | Closed Sun. No lunch.\n\nBrauhaus Ernst August.  \nGERMAN | This brewery has so much artificial greenery that you could imagine yourself in a beer garden. Hannoverian pilsner is brewed on the premises, and regional specialties are the menu's focus. Besides beer paraphernalia such as mugs and coasters, you can also buy, empty or full, a huge old-fashioned beer bottle with a wired porcelain stopper. There's also live music and DJs on Friday nights and weekends. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Schmiedstr. 13 | 0511/365\u2013950 | www.brauhaus.net.\n\nBroyhan Haus.  \nGERMAN | The claim of \"Hannoverian hospitality over three floors\" written on the exterior of this half-timber tavern in the middle of town isn't made frivolously. Convivial waitstaff ferry plates loaded with sauerkraut and pork, and large glasses of the local, crisp-tasting Einbecker beer to diners in the tavern's upstairs room, and to tables outside on the pedestrian zone in summer. On the ground floor there's a well-stocked bar to pull up a seat at, and downstairs the cellar can be booked for private parties and events. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Kramerstr. 24 | 0511/323\u2013919 | www.broyhanhaus.de.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nConcorde Hotel am Leineschloss.  \nHOTEL | Near the elegant Altes Rathaus and the stately Leineschloss, and only a leisurely stroll from the Neues Rathaus, Opernhaus, and the city's main museums, this simple, modern hotel has easily one of the best locations in the city. Popular with those headed to Hannover's many trade fairs, the Concorde has the type of features generally favored by business travelers, including helpful staff, a generous breakfast buffet, and uncomplicated, comfortable rooms. Pros: in the middle of the shopping district; close to the U-bahn (Line Nos. 3, 7, and 9); every double room has a bath. Cons: no restaurant; not much character. | Rooms from: \u20ac136 | Am Markte 12 | 0511/357\u2013910 | www.concordehotel-am-leineschloss.de | 81 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kastens Hotel Luisenhof.  \nHOTEL | Antiques are everywhere in this elegant hotel, which is traditional both in appearance and service; tapestries adorn the lobby walls, oil paintings hang in the foyer, and copper engravings enliven the bar. Modern amenities include generous guest rooms, a fitness center with a sauna on the sixth floor, and a restaurant ($$$$) serving international cuisine with French touches. Pros: near the train station; helpful staff; elegant. Cons: expensive; on a narrow, ordinary street. | Rooms from: \u20ac169 | Luisenstr.1\u20133 | 0511/30440 | www.kastens-luisenhof.de | 131 rooms, 11 suites, 4 apartments | No meals.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nHannover's nightlife is centered on the Bahnhof and the Steintor red-light district.\n\nCasino.  \nThe town's elegant casino is open daily from 10 am to 3 am. | Osterstr. 40 | 0511/980\u2013660.\n\nOpera company.  \nThe opera company of Hannover is internationally known, with productions staged in one of Germany's finest 19th-century classical opera houses. Call or visit the website for program details and tickets. | Opernpl. 1 | 0511/9999\u20131111 | www.staatstheater-hannover.de/oper.\n\n### Shopping\n\nHannover is one of northern Germany's most fashionable cities, and its central pedestrian zone has international shops and boutiques, as well as the very best of German-made articles, including stylish clothes and handmade jewelry.\n\nGalerie Luise.  \nIn the glassed-over Galerie Luise, accessible from an underground garage, you can spend a couple of hours browsing, with a leisurely lunch or afternoon tea at one of the restaurants and caf\u00e9s. | Luisenstr. 5 | www.galerie-luise.de | Weekdays 10\u20137, Sat. 10\u20136.\n\nEn Route: The Fairy-Tale Road continues north of Hannover as far as Bremen, though any connection to the Grimm brothers is faint here. You can reach Bremen in less than an hour by taking autobahn A-7 to the Walsrode interchange and then continuing on autobahn A-27. An alternative is to return to Hameln and follow the Weser as it breaks free of the Wesergebirge upland at Porta Westfalica. The meandering route runs through the German plains to the sea and Bremen. You can also take a quick side trip to the northeast, to the L\u00fcneburg Heath and Bergen-Belsen.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Gedenkst\u00e4tte Bergen-Belsen  \n(Bergen-Belsen Memorial). The site of the infamous POW and concentration camp is now a memorial to the victims of World War II and the Holocaust. Anne Frank was among the more than 70,000 Jews, prisoners of war, homosexuals, Roma, and others who died here.\n\nA place of immense cruelty and suffering, the camp was burned to the ground by British soldiers, who liberated the camp in April 1945, arriving to find thousands of unburied corpses and typhus, typhoid fever, tuberculosis, and other diseases spreading rapidly among the survivors. All that physically remains of the camp today, which is inside a nature preserve, are the foundations of some of its prisoner barracks and a number of burial mounds overgrown with heather and grass and bearing stark inscriptions such as \"Here lie 1,000 dead.\"\n\nThe history of the camp and its victims is explained further through a series of moving video, audio, photo, and text exhibits within the slender, minimalist structure of the 200-meter-long, 18-meter-wide Documentation Center. Built almost entirely of plain concrete panels, the center is softly lit and peaceful inside, its floor sloping gently upward from the entrance and beyond the exhibits to windows that let in light and views of the trees outside.\n\nVisitors to the Memorial should plan to stay at least two or three hours. Free 90-minute tours of the site in German and English leave the Documentation Center information desk at 2:30 on Thursday and Fridays and at 11:30 and 2:30 on weekends, from March to September. TIP Don't try to see everything when visiting the memorial, but do take some time to walk around outside, visiting the site of the barracks to gain a better understanding of the atrocious living conditions inmates of the camp were forced to suffer.\n\nBergen-Belsen is 58 km (36 miles) northeast of Hannover. Although it's possible to get here on public transport, it requires traveling first to the town of Celle by train, and then taking an hour-long bus journey. Buses run every two hours and require multiple changes. By car, take autobahn exits Mellendorf or Solltau S\u00fcd and follow the signposts to the memorial. | Anne-Frank-Pl. | Lohheide | 05051/47590 | www.bergenbelsen.de | Free | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135.\n\n## Bremen\n\n110 km (68 miles) northwest of Hannover.\n\nGermany's smallest city-state, Bremen, is also Germany's oldest and second-largest port (only Hamburg is larger). Together with Hamburg and L\u00fcbeck, Bremen was an early member of the merchant-run Hanseatic League, and its rivalry with the larger port on the Elbe River is still tangible. Though Hamburg may still claim its title as Germany's \"gateway to the world,\" Bremen likes to boast, \"But we have the key.\" Bremen's symbol is, in fact, a golden key, which you will see displayed on flags and signs throughout the city.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBremen's international airport is a gate to many European destinations, and Intercity (IC) trains connect the city with much of the rest of Germany.\n\n#### Tours\n\nBremen offers both bus and walking tours in English. The bus tours depart Tuesday through Sunday at 10:30 from the central bus station on Breiteweg, the walking tours daily at 2 from the Tourist-Information Center on Oberstrasse.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBremen Tourist-Information. | Obernstr. 1 | 0421/101\u2013030 | www.bremen-tourism.de.\n\n#### Discounts and Deals\n\nBremen has an ErlebnisCARD, which lets you ride free on the public transportation, gets you into museums and other cultural facilities at half price, and gets you a reduction on tours. It costs \u20ac9.50 for one day and \u20ac11.50 for two days. You can buy it at tourist information centers.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nB\u00f6ttcherstrasse (Barrel Maker's Street).  \nDon't leave Bremen's Altstadt without strolling down this street, at one time inhabited by coopers. Between 1924 and 1931 the houses were torn down and reconstructed, in a style at once historically sensitive and modern, by the Bremen coffee millionaire Ludwig Roselius. (He was the inventor of decaffeinated coffee, and held the patent for decades.) Many of the restored houses are used as galleries for local artists.\n\nMarktplatz.  \nBremen's impressive market square sits in the charming Altstadt. It's bordered by the St. Petri Dom, an imposing 900-year-old Gothic cathedral; an ancient Rathaus; a 16th-century guildhall; and a modern glass-and-steel state parliament building, with gabled town houses finishing the panorama. Alongside the northwest corner of the Rathaus is the famous bronze statue of the four Bremen Town Musicians, one atop the other in a sort of pyramid. Their feats are reenacted in a free, open-air play at the Neptune Fountain near the cathedral, at noon each Sunday, from May to September. Another well-known figure on the square is the stone statue of Roland, a knight in service to Charlemagne, erected in 1404. Three times larger than life, the statue serves as Bremen's good-luck piece and a symbol of freedom and independence. It is said that as long as Roland stands, Bremen will remain a free and independent state.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schnoorviertel.  \nStroll through the narrow streets of this idyllic district, a jumble of houses, taverns, and shops. This is Bremen's oldest district, dating back to the 15th and 16th centuries. The neighborhood is fashionable among artists and craftspeople, who have restored the tiny cottages to serve as galleries and workshops. Other buildings have been converted into popular antiques shops, caf\u00e9s, and pubs. The area's definitely a great source for souvenirs, with incredibly specialized stores selling porcelain dolls, teddy bears, African jewelry, and smoking pipes, among many other things. There's even an all-year-round Christmas store.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nRathaus.  \nA 15th-century statue of Charlemagne, together with seven princes, adorns the Gothic town hall. It was he who established a diocese here in the 9th century. The Rathaus acquired a Weser Renaissance facade during the early 17th century. Tours, given when no official functions are taking place, are in German and English. | Am Markt 21 | Tour \u20ac5 | Tours Mon.\u2013Sat. at 11, noon, 3, and 4; Sun. at 11 and noon.\n\nRoselius-Haus.  \nThis 14th-century building, now a museum, stands at one end of B\u00f6ttcherstrasse. It showcases German and Dutch art, notably the paintings of Paula Modersohn-Becker, a noted early expressionist of the Worpswede art colony. Notice also the arch of Meissen bells at the rooftop. TIP Except when freezing weather makes them dangerously brittle, the bells chime daily on the hour from noon to 6 from May to December (and only at noon, 3, and 6 January\u2013April). | B\u00f6ttcherstr. 6\u201310 | 0421/336\u20135077 | www.pmbm.de | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nSt. Petri Dom (St. Peter's Cathedral).  \nConstruction of the cathedral began in the mid-11th century. Its two prominent towers, one of which can be climbed, are Gothic, but in the late 1800s the cathedral was restored in the Romanesque style. It served as the seat of an archbishop until the Reformation turned the cathedral Protestant. It has a small museum and five functioning organs. | Sandstr. 10\u201312 | Free | June\u2013Sept., weekdays 10\u20138, Sat. 10\u20132, Sun. 2\u20136; Oct.\u2013May, weekdays 10\u20135, Sat. 10\u20132, Sun. 2\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Grashoffs Bistro.  \nFRENCH | An enthusiastic crowd, willing to put up with cramped conditions, descends at lunchtime on this restaurant and deli. The room is so small that there's little room between the square tables; a table has to be pulled out for anyone who has a seat next to the wall. The menu has a French touch, with an emphasis on fresh fish from the Bremerhaven market. The deli has a whole wall of teas, another of cheeses, and a huge assortment of wines. | Average main: \u20ac27 | Contrescarpe 80 | 0421/178\u20138952 | www.grashoff.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No dinner.\n\nRatskeller.  \nGERMAN | This cavernous cellar with vaulted ceilings is said to be Germany's oldest and most renowned town-hall restaurant\u2014it's been here for 600 years. Is walls are lined with wine casks, and there are small alcoves with sliding wooden doors, once shut tight by merchants as they closed their deals. The food's solid traditionally North German fare. TIP By long tradition only German wines are served here, and the only beer you can get is Beck's and Franziskaner from the barrel. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Am Markt 1 | 0421/321\u2013676 | www.ratskeller-bremen.de.\n\nHotel Pension Weidmann.  \nHOTEL | There are only five rooms in this small and friendly family-run pension in one of the brick buildings so characteristic of Bremen. It has the most luxurious bathroom you'll find (but you have to share it). Pros: English-speaking staff; welcomes dogs (even large ones). Cons: no restaurant; shared bathroom. | Rooms from: \u20ac50 | Am Schwarzen Meer 35 | 0421/498\u20134455 | www.pension-weidmann.de | 5 rooms | No credit cards | No meals.\n\nFodor's Choice | Dorint Park Hotel Bremen.  \nHOTEL | This palatial hotel comes with an enviable location between a small lake and an extensive area of park and forest not far from the main train station. Full of large, open spaces and light, the hotel also has a heated outdoor pool and a fireplace in the lounge, which may tempt you to linger in the public areas, no matter what the season. The rooms have large windows and swank furnishings. The Park Restaurant ($$$$) serves classic French and German dishes in a room of shimmering crystal chandeliers. Pros: traditional luxury; on a lake. Cons: expensive; outside the city. | Rooms from: \u20ac239 | Im B\u00fcrgerpark | 0421/340\u2013800 | www.parkhotel-bremen.de | 160 rooms, 15 suites | No meals.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nBremen may be Germany's oldest seaport, but it can't match Hamburg for racy nightlife. Nevertheless, the streets around the central Marktplatz and in the historic Schnoor District are filled with all sorts of taverns and caf\u00e9s. The Bremen coffee tradition will be evident when you have your coffee and cake at a caf\u00e9 in a charming old building with plush sofas, huge mirrors, and chandeliers.\n\nBremen casino.  \nTry your luck at American roulette, poker, slot machines, and blackjack at the Bremen casino, open daily noon\u20133 am. | An der Schlachte 26 | 0421/329\u2013000 | \u20ac3.\n\n## Bremerhaven\n\n66 km (41 miles) north of Bremen.\n\nThis busy port city, where the Weser empties into the North Sea, is part of Bremen, which is an hour to the south. You can take in the enormity of the port from a promenade, which runs its length. In addition to being a major port for merchant ships, it is the biggest fishery pier in Europe, and its promenade is lined with excellent seafood restaurants.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nRegional trains run every two hours from Bremen to this North Sea port, and take 35 minutes to get here. Reederei HaRuFa offers a one-hour trip around the Bremerhaven harbor for \u20ac10. If you'd like to go farther afield and view Schnoorviertel and the stark, red cliff island of Helgoland from the sky, OFD has a daily round-trip flight for \u20ac175 per person.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nBremerhaven Touristik. | H.-H.-Meierstr. 6 | 0471/946\u20134610 | www.bremerhaven-touristik.de.   \nOFD Airlines. | Flughafen, Am Luneort 15 | 0471/77188 | www.fliegofd.de.   \nReederei HaRuFa. | H.-H.-Meierstr. 4 | 0471/415\u2013850 | www.hafenrundfahrt-bremerhaven.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Deutsches Auswandererhaus (German Emigration Center).  \nLocated at the point where seven million Europeans set sail for the New World, the Deutsches Auswandererhaus is made to order for history buffs and those wanting to trace their German ancestry. \"Passengers\" get boarding passes; wait on dimly lit docks with costumed mannequins and piles of luggage; and once on board navigate their way through cramped and creaky sleeping and dining cabins. After being processed at Ellis Island, visitors can then research their genealogy using the museum's emigration database and its extensive collection of passenger lists. Further on, there is a section of the museum dedicated to immigrants to Germany, complete with an impressive 1970s-era shopping mall, and a retro movie theater screens short films about German emigrants and their families. | Columbusstr. 65 | 0471/902\u2013200 | www.dah-bremerhaven.de | \u20ac12.50 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 10\u20135.\n\nDeutsches Schifffahrtsmuseum (German Maritime Museum).  \nThe country's largest and most fascinating maritime museum, the Deutsches Schifffahrtsmuseum, includes a harbor, open from April through October, that shelters seven old trading ships. | Hans-Scharoun-Pl. 1, from Bremen take A\u201327 to exit for Bremerhaven-Mitte | 0471/482\u2013070 | www.dsm.national.museum | \u20ac6 | Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Haverkamp.  \nHOTEL | Not far from Bremerhaven's harbor and world-class museums, this modern hotel may not look much from the outside, but its enviable reputation is built on excellent service, a fine restaurant, and quiet, tidy guest rooms. Add to this a cozy whiskey and cigar bar, a sauna, and the only indoor pool in Bremerhaven, and it's hard to find a better place to stay in town. Pros: convenient location; quiet area; good restaurant. Cons: plain exterior; pool is very small; no views. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Pragerstr. 34 | 0471/48330 | www.hotel-haverkamp.de | 85 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Hamburg\n\nExploring Hamburg\n\nWhere to Eat\n\nWhere to Stay\n\nNightlife and the Arts\n\nSports and the Outdoors\n\nShopping\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Coffee and Cake | Visiting the Konditorei | Best Cakes to Try\n\nUpdated by Jeff Kavanagh\n\nFrequently described as \"the gateway to the world\" by its proud citizens, the handsome port city of Hamburg has for centuries welcomed merchants, traders, and sailors to a rich assortment of grand hotels, fine restaurants, and, yes, seedy bars and brothels.\n\nThis vibrant, affluent city's success began with its role as a founding member of the Hanseatic League, a medieval alliance of northern European cities that once dominated the shipping trade in the North and Baltic Seas. To this day, the city is known as \"the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg,\" reflecting both its association with the league and its status as an independent city-state.\n\nShipping continues to be a major industry. Straddling the mighty Elbe River, over 100 km (62 miles) inland from the North Sea, Hamburg's inner city harbor is the third biggest port in Europe. The city is now also one of Germany's major media hubs, serving as headquarters for the publishing giants Axel Springer, Gr\u00fcner + Jahr, and Bau Verlag; and for such influential publications as Die Zeit, Der Spiegel, and Stern.\n\nThe profits of these endeavors are apparent throughout Hamburg, from its imposing neo-Renaissance town hall, to the multitude of luxury boutiques studding the adjacent Neuerwall, to the Elbchausee, a long, leafy stretch of road lined with Hollywood-like mansions and overlooking the Elbe. Hamburg has more millionaires per capita than any other German city.\n\nLike many other of the country's urban centers, however, the city has suffered a tumultuous history. Since its founding as \"Hammaburg\" in 811, Hamburg has been destroyed by Vikings, burned down by Poles, and occupied by Danish and French armies. The Great Fire of 1842 devastated much of its commercial center, and in 1943 the Allied Forces' Operation Gomorrah bombing raids and the resulting firestorms left 40,000 people dead and large swathes of Hamburg in ruins.\n\nScars from World War II still remain, and you need only walk down a residential street to see the plain, functional apartment buildings that were built to replace those destroyed by bombs. There are also frequent reminders of the terrible fate suffered by Hamburg's Jews, and others considered enemies of the state during this time. Memorials in HafenCity and near Dammtor train station mark where those persecuted by Nazis were deported to concentration camps. As part of a Germany-wide project, small brass plaques set into sidewalks outside apartment buildings commemorate former residents executed by the regime.\n\nModern-day Hamburg is a progressive city endowed with attractive architecture, cultural diversity, and liberal attitudes. It's notable for its parks and trees and a pair of beautiful inner city lakes, but it's famous for its enormous red-light party district, which fans off from the seamy, neon-lit Reeperbahn. Shabby but chic quarters such as St. Pauli and the Schanzenviertel are as beloved by locals as the affluent Blankenese and Eppendorf, and the city's annual schedule of spring and summer festivals has enough room for a huge gay-pride parade in the middle of town, as well as a celebration of Hafengeburtstag\u2014the harbor's birthday.\n\nAs you'd expect in such a wealthy city, Hamburg has more than its share of world-class museums and art galleries, as well as an assortment of grand theaters and music venues, an opera company, and an internationally renowned ballet company. Not content to rest on its laurels, the city is also steaming ahead with the ambitious HafenCity, an urban-renewal project that has transformed a significant section of the city's port front. The Elbphilharmonie\u2014a futuristic concert hall that the city hopes will become as iconic as the Sydney Opera House\u2014is to be its centerpiece.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nAlster cruises: Marvel at the luxurious villas gracing the shores of the Alster lakes and its canals, relax and sip Gl\u00fchwein (mulled wine) or a cool beer while listening to the major and minor details about the city.\n\nHistoric harbor district: Travel back in time and walk the quaint cobblestone alleys around Deichstrasse and the Speicherstadt.\n\nHamburger Kunsthalle and the Deichtorhallen: Spend an afternoon browsing through the fantastic art collections at two of Germany's leading galleries of modern art.\n\nRetail therapy: Indulge your inner shopper as you weave your way through the streets behind the elegant Jungfernstieg, move up and down M\u00f6nckebergstrasse, stroll through Altona and the Schanzenviertel and end the afternoon at one of the funky caf\u00e9s nearby.\n\nSin City: Stroll down Reeperbahn, browse in the quirky sex shops, and dive into the nightlife of Europe's biggest party district.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThe second-largest city in Germany after Berlin, Hamburg sits on northern Germany's fertile lowlands, within easy reach of the North and Baltic seas. A city-state of 1.8 million inhabitants, Hamburg covers an area of 755 square km (291 square miles), making it one of the least densely populated cities to have more than a million people. Taking up some of that space are its many parks and trees; it's centered on two major bodies of water. The Elbe River is the site of the city's busy port, and it's near some of its most colorful quarters. The inner and outer Alster lakes, meanwhile, are encircled by Hamburg's downtown, and a cluster of upscale neighborhoods. It's here, somewhere between the commerce of the river and the tranquility of the lakes, that visitors to the city tend to spend most of their time.\n\n## What's Where\n\nAltstadt and Neustadt. Together, \"Old Town\" and the \"New Town\" make up the Innenstadt, or inner city. Humming with locals and tourists on Saturday afternoons and public holidays, the center of town is the place to come for shopping, culture, and snaps in front of the Inner Alster lake and town hall.\n\nSt. Pauli and Schanzenviertel. An entertainment district since the 17th century, St. Pauli continues to draw fun seekers and night owls to its massive red light and party district. Just down the road, the Schanzenviertel is filled with little shops and chilled-out caf\u00e9s.\n\nSt. Georg. The center of Hamburg's gay and lesbian scene and also home to a large Turkish community, St. Georg is an intriguing mix of affluence, relaxed attitudes, and cultures. It's also full of many nice little shops and caf\u00e9s.\n\nSpeicherstadt and HafenCity. The old and the new are both part of Hamburg's inner city port, with formidable 19th-century redbrick warehouses at the Speicherstadt and state-of-the-art riverside apartment and office complexes at HafenCity.\n\nAltona and Ottensen. These forming working-class areas are now particularly desirable places to live and visit. Many of the old buildings and factories have been refurbished to accommodate fancy restaurants, art-house cinemas, and design hotels.\n\nBlankenese and Beyond. Many of Hamburg's outlying suburbs have their own distinct atmosphere and feel\u2014none more so than the elegant riverside neighborhood of Blankenese, which some locals compare to the French and Italian Rivieras.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nKnown for its long, gray winters, Hamburg is frequently treated to a pleasant spring come late March or early April. Once the weather warms, the city's mood visibly improves. One of the highlights of the season is Hafengeburtstag, in early May, when the Elbe comes alive with a long parade of ships and riverside festivities.\n\nSummer may be the best time of the year to visit. Temperatures rarely exceed the mid-80s, and the days are long, with the sun rising at around 5 am and light still in the sky till after 10 pm. Tables outside caf\u00e9s and bars fill up with alfresco diners and drinkers; plumes of smoke rise from grills in parks and beaches along the Elbe. From mid-June to August, the Schlemmersommer (Gourmet Summer) comes to tempt food lovers. During this time, more than 100 restaurants throughout the city, including a number of award-winners, offer four-course dinners for two for \u20ac59.\n\nSeptember and October are usually good months to visit, despite the fact that October can often be quite cold and wet. September's Reeperbahn Festival is great for music fans hoping to see the next big thing, and Hamburg's small but popular film festival (held the same month) usually attracts one or two of the leading lights of European and world cinema.\n\nThe mercury drops quickly once the clocks go back an hour at the end of October. Happily, Christmas markets selling Gl\u00fchwein begin to spring up on street corners and in public squares around the last week of November, and many continue on to Silvester (New Year's Eve). December, despite temperatures frequently dropping below zero, is a fun time to visit the city. January and February, however, are quiet and fairly uneventful.\n\n#### Events\n\nHistorischer Weihnachtsmarkt.  \nHamburg's Historischer Weihnachtsmarkt enjoys a spectacular backdrop\u2014the city's Gothic town hall. The market's stalls are filled with rows of candy apples, chocolates, and doughnuts. Woodcarvers from Tyrol, bakers from Aachen, and gingerbread makers from Nuremburg come to sell their wares. And in an appearance arranged by the circus company Roncalli, Santa Claus ho-ho-hos his way along a tightrope high above the market every evening at 4, 6, and 8. | Rathausmarkt 1 | www.hamburger-weihnachtsmarkt.com | Nov. 25\u2013Dec. 23, Sun.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20139, Fri. and Sat. 10\u201310.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nHamburg Airport is 5 miles northwest of the city. S-bahn Line No. 1 runs about every 10 minutes from the airport to Hamburg's main station (Hauptbahnhof) on its way to Altona. The trip takes 25 minutes, and tickets are \u20ac2.90. A taxi to the center of the city (Alstadt and Neustadt) will cost about \u20ac20. If you're driving a rental car from the airport, follow the signs to Zentrum (Center). TIP There is an Edeka supermarket on the arrivals level between Terminal 1 and 2. It's a bit smaller than a full-size German supermarket and the prices are a bit higher than they would be in town. However, it is a great place to pick up some snacks or drinks for your hotel room or some food for an extended journey.\n\nAirport Information   \nHamburg Airport. | Flughafenstr. 1\u20133 | 040/50750 | www.airport.de.\n\n#### Bus and Subway Travel\n\nThe HVV, Hamburg's public transportation system, includes the U-bahn (subway), the S-bahn (commuter train), ferries, buses, and express buses (which cost an additional \u20ac1.80). Distance determines fares; a single trip costs \u20ac2.95 for longer journeys (such as the airport into Hamburg's main station); \u20ac1.90 for shorter distances (for instance, from St. Pauli or Altona into the center of town); and \u20ac1.40 if you're only traveling a couple of stops. If you're planning to make multiple trips about the city, then you may want to get the Tageskarte, or day pass, which for an adult and three children under 15 costs \u20ac7.10 when purchased before 9 am and \u20ac5.80 after that. A \u20ac10.40 Gruppenkarte is the best option for those traveling in a group. A group of five adults can use this card after 9 am on weekdays and all day on weekends.\n\nTickets and passes are available on all buses and from vending machines in every U- or S-bahn station. HVV is partially based on the honor system. You only need to show a ticket to the bus driver after 9 pm and all day on Sunday to bus drivers, but not on trains or ferries unless asked by a ticket inspector during random checks. Those caught without a ticket are fined \u20ac40 on the spot. Subway and commuter trains run throughout the night on weekends, but stop running around 12:30 am during the week. After that, night buses (Nos. 600\u2013640) take over.\n\nInformation is available in English at www.hvv.de/en. The trip planner function gives the times, prices, walking directions, and maps for each journey. If you don't know the address of a site, you can simply type in the name of the popular destination, such as \"Hamburg airport.\" Prepared commuters can buy tickets (even the \u20ac1.30 ticket) and passes from the website and print them out, or use HVV's smart phone app\n\nDon't be afraid to take the bus. Buses have dedicated traffic lanes, and most of their stops aren't too close together, so travel tends to be fast. It's a good way to see more of this beautiful city.\n\nHamburg's intercity bus station, the Zentral-Omnibus-Bahnhof (ZOB), is located diagonally across from the south exit of the main train station.\n\nContacts   \nHVV (Hamburg Transportation Association). | Johanniswall 2, Altstadt | 040/19449 | www.hvv.de.   \nZentral-Omnibus-Bahnhof (ZOB). | Adenauerallee 78, St. Georg | 040/247\u2013576 | www.zob-hamburg.de.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nWith its popular public transportation system, Hamburg is easier to negotiate by car than many other German cities, and traffic here is relatively free flowing outside of rush hours. Several autobahns (A-1, A-7, A-23, A-24, and A-250) connect with Hamburg's three beltways, which then lead to the Downtown area. Follow the \"Zentrum\" signs.\n\n#### Taxi Travel\n\nTaxi meters start at \u20ac2.90, then add \u20ac2.00 for the first 4 km; \u20ac1.90 for the next 6 km; and \u20ac1.40 after that. You can hail taxis on the street, outside subway and train stations, and at popular locations (like along M\u00f6nckebergstrasse). You can also order one by phone or online.\n\nTaxi Information   \nTaxi. | 040/211\u2013211 | www.taxi211211.de.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nHamburg Hauptbahnhof (Hamburg Main Station) is the city's central hub for local, regional, long-distance, and international trains. InterCity Express (ICE) trains going to and from Basel, Stuttgart, and Munich all start and terminate in Hamburg-Altona, and pass through Hauptbahnhof and Dammtor stations on the way.\n\nTrain Information   \nDeutsche Bahn. | 0180/699\u20136633 | www.bahn.de.\n\n#### Visitor Information\n\nHamburg Tourismus (Hamburg Tourism Office) has several outlets around the city. The main office is in the Hauptbahnhof and is open Monday to Saturday 9\u20137, Sunday 10\u20136. The airport branch is open from 6 am to 11 pm daily and sits on the departure level between Terminals 1 and 2. At the harbor there's an office at the St. Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken, between Piers 4 and 5, open 9\u20136 Sunday to Wednesday and 9\u20137, Thursday to Saturday. All tourist offices can help with accommodations, and there's a central call-in booking office for hotel and ticket reservations and general information, the Hamburg-Hotline.\n\nVisitor Information  \nHamburg Tourismus. | Steinstr. 7, Altstadt | 040/3005\u20131300 for hotline | www.hamburg-travel.com.\n\n### Tours\n\n#### Boat Tours\n\nThere are few better ways to get to know the city than by taking a trip on its waters. Alster Touristik operates a variety of picturesque boat trips around the Alster lakes and through the canals. Alster and canal tours leave from a small dock at the Jungfernstieg. The round-trip Alster cruise lasts one hour, costs \u20ac14.50, and leaves every half hour, daily 10\u20136 from the end of March to the end of September. From the end of September until the end of October, it leaves at 10 and 5, and every half hour from 11 to 4. The Winter Warmer Trip offers trips with hot chocolate and gl\u00fchwein (for an additional charge) several times a day from the end of October through to the end of March. Alster Touristik also offers twilight tours through the canals from Jungfernstieg to the bucolic Harvestehude neighborhood May through August and the waters around the historic warehouse district in September. Both tours start at 8 and run May through October, and cost \u20ac20. A one-hour Speicherstadt canal tour costs \u20ac20 and runs April through October daily at 10:45, 1:45, and 4:45, and November through December at 1:45 Friday through Sunday. All tours offer commentary in English.\n\nRainer Abicht offers one-hour tours of the harbor in English aboard one of its small fleet of boats, which include its famous Louisiana Star riverboat. The tours leave every day at midday from April until October from Landungsbr\u00fccken Pier 4. They cost \u20ac18.\n\nEvery day of the year, Kapit\u00e4n Pr\u00fcsse offers cruises around the Elbe harbor that last 60\u201390 minutes. These include a night cruise that costs \u20ac20 and leaves between 6 and 9 at night (depending on the time of the year) from Pier 3.\n\nThe Maritime Circle Line tours major attractions on the Elbe; passengers embark at St Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken Pier 10 and can hop on and hop off at a number of stops including BallinStadt, Hamburg Harbor Museum, HafenCity, and the historic ship MV Cap San Diego. The tours run every two hours daily from 10 to 4, April through October, and every two hours from noon to 4 on weekends, November to March. Tickets, which can be bought at the pier or online, are \u20ac14.50 and include discounts at all the venues.\n\nTIP An HVV public transport day pass is valid for trips on the number 62 HADAG ferry between Landungsbr\u00fccken Pier 1 and Finkenwerder, a suburb on the south side of the Elbe river. There's no commentary on the ferry, but on a fine day the top deck's a great spot to watch ships sailing in and out of the harbor, and for superb views of the city from the river.\n\nBoat Contacts  \nAlster Touristik. | 040/357\u20134240 | www.alstertouristik.de.   \nHADAG. | 040/311\u20137070 | www.hadag.de.   \nKapit\u00e4n Pr\u00fcsse. | 040/357\u20134240 | www.kapitaen-pruesse.de.   \nMaritime Circle Line. | Landungsbr\u00fccken 10, St. Pauli | 040/2849\u20133963 | www.maritime-circle-line.de.   \nRainer Abicht. | 040/317\u20138220 | www.abicht.de.\n\n#### Orientation Tours\n\nSightseeing bus tours of the city, all with guides, who rapidly narrate in both English and German, leave from Kirchenallee by the main train station. A 90-minute bus tour sets off at varying times daily and costs \u20ac17.50. For \u20ac30, one of the bus tours can be combined with a one-hour boat trip on the harbor. Departure times for tours vary according to season.\n\nContacts   \nHamburger Stadtrundfahrt. | 040/792\u20138979 | www.die-roten-doppeldecker.de.\n\n#### Walking Tours\n\nA great way to learn more about the city while also getting some exercise is on a walking tour. There are plenty of tours to choose from, although many only run from April through November. In addition to guided walks of the Altstadt and Neustadt, the harbor district, HafenCity, and St. Pauli, there are also themed excursions, such as Beatles tours and a red-light walking tour of the Reeperbahn. To find a guided walk in English, contact Hamburg Tourismus, the tourist office.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nHamburg's almost custom-made for a long weekend visit. Its airport is less than half an hour by train or taxi from the city center; it has an efficient and extensive public transport system; taxis are reasonably priced and plentiful; and the city's flat terrain is perfectly suited to walking and cycling. Exploring the Altstadt and Neustadt areas, where Hamburg's Rathaus (Town Hall), the Alster lakes, the Kunsthalle and Deichtorhallen galleries, and a number of the city's churches are all within a short stroll of one another, can easily fill a day and night\u2014particularly if you throw in some shopping, and then dinner in nearby St. Georg. Another day can be spent wandering the harbor, taking a cruise and perhaps bicycling around the Speicherstadt and HafenCity, followed by a night out in St. Pauli or the Schanzenviertel. A less vigorous day's activities might include brunch in a caf\u00e9 in Altona, lunch and a riverside walk in Blankenese, and some dinner back in Ottensen.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nHamburg is one of Germany's most expensive cities, but the several citywide deals can make attractions more affordable.\n\nThe Hamburg Card allows unlimited travel on all public transportation (including express buses) within Hamburg and discounts on more than 130 museums, cruises, restaurants, and stores. A one-day card, which is valid until 6 am the following morning, costs \u20ac8.90 for one adult and up to three children under 15. The three-day card will set you back \u20ac21.90. A Gruppenkarte costs \u20ac14.90 for one day, \u20ac38.90 for three days, and covers five people. The Hamburg Card is available from HVV buses, vending machines, and service centers; tourist offices; and many hotels and hostels; as well as online at www.hvv.deand www.hamburg-travel.com.\n\n## Coffee and Cake\n\nWhen the afternoon rolls around, it's time for Kaffee und Kuchen, one of Germany's most beloved traditions. In villages and cities alike, patrons still stroll into their favorite Konditorei (pastry shop) for a leisurely cup of coffee and slice of cake.\n\nThe tradition stretches back hundreds of years, when coffee beans were first imported to Germany in the 17th century. Coffee quickly became the preferred hot drink of the aristocracy, who paired it with cake, their other favorite indulgence. Within time, the afternoon practice trickled down to the bourgeoisie, and was heartily embraced. Now everyone can partake in the tradition.\n\nThere are hundreds of German cakes, many of which are regional and seasonal with an emphasis on fresh fruits in summer, and spiced cakes in winter. Due to modern work schedules, not as many Germans take a daily coffee and cake break anymore. Families will have theirs at home on the weekend, and it's often an occasion for a starched tablecloth, the best china, and candles.\n\n\u2014Tania Ralli\n\n## Visiting the Konditorei\n\nSeek out the most old-fashioned shops, as these tend to have the best cakes. Check out what's in the glass case, since most Konditorein don't have printed menus. Don't worry about a language barrier, when it comes time to order just point to the cake of your choice.\n\n## Best Cakes to Try\n\n#### Frankfurter Kranz\n\nThe Frankfurter Kranz, or Frankfurt wreath, is a butter cake flavored with lemon zest and a touch of rum. It's then split into three layers and spread with fillings of buttercream and red preserves. The cake's exterior is generously coated with crunchy cookie crumbs or toasted nuts, and each slice is graced with a swirl of buttercream frosting and a bright red cherry.\n\n#### Gugelhupf\n\nOf all cakes, the Gugelhupf has the most distinctive shape, one that you'll likely recognize as a bundt cake. It tends to be more popular in southern Germany. Gugelhupf had its start as a bready yeast cake, studded with raisins and citrus peel, but today you're just as likely to have it as a marble cake. During the Biedermeier period, in the early 19th century, the wealthy middle class regarded the Gugelhupf as a status symbol.\n\n#### Herrentorte\n\nA layer cake of dark chocolate, Herrentorte means \"gentleman's cake.\" It's not as sweet or creamy as most layer cakes, and thus meant to appeal to a man's palate. A Torte refers to a fancier layered cake, as opposed to the more humble Kuchen, which is more rustic. The Herrentorte has a rich and refined taste\u2014in Germany, all chocolate is required to have a high cocoa content, improving its overall taste and texture.\n\n#### Mohnkuchen\n\nMohnkuchen is a poppy seed cake\u2014in fact, this is a cake so completely brimming with poppy seeds you could mistake it for a piece of chocolate cake. You'll come across it as a tall wedge, sprinkled with powdered sugar, or a fat square glazed with a lick of icing. The poppy seeds are mixed with sugar, butter, and sometimes milk. Lightly crushed they make for a very moist filling.\n\n#### Streuselkuchen\n\nThis cake became especially popular in the 19th century, in Prussia. Owing to its versatility, you'll find it today all over Germany. The simple, buttery yeast cake's selling point is its sugary, crunchy topping of pebbled Streusel, which can stand on its own or be combined with rhubarb, apricots, cherries, apples, or other fruit. Streuselkuchen is baked on large sheet pans and cut into generous squares\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAltstadt and Neustadt | St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel | St. Georg | Speicherstadt and HafenCity | Altona and Ottensen | Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nDespite being a large, sprawling city that covers about as much ground as Berlin, Hamburg feels a lot more compact. The bulk of its major attractions and sights are between the Alster lakes to the north and the city's harbor and the Elbe River to the south. At the center of the city are the Altstadt and Neustadt\u2014the city's historical core. East of the Altstadt is St. Georg, a major gay neighborhood. To the west of the Neutstadt lie the nightlife district of St. Pauli and its neighbor the Schanzenviertel, while farther down the river are the more multicultural areas of Altona and Ottensen, and the quaint settlement of Blankenese. Just south of the Altstadt are the portside districts of the Speicherstadt and the HafenCity.\n\n## Altstadt and Neustadt\n\nDivided by the Binnenalster (inner Alster lake) and the Kleine Alster canal, the Altstadt (Old Town) and Neustadt (New Town) form the heart of Hamburg's Innenstadt (inner city). Stretching from Hauptbahnhof to Hamburg's town hall and down to the canals of the Speicherstadt and the Elbe, the Altstadt was heavily bombed during World War II (as was the Neustadt). Much of its splendor was restored during the postwar reconstruction of the city. Sprinkled between its office blocks and modern department stores are a number of majestic churches, handsome museums, and stately government buildings.\n\nTo the west of the Altstadt, and bordered by the Aussenalster (outer Alster) to the north and the Elbe to the south, lies the Neustadt. The area dates back to the 17th century, when a second wall was built to protect the city during the Thirty Years' War. The Neustadt these days is more or less indistinguishable from its older neighbor. Similarly blessed with a number of stunning buildings, including those that line the pretty lakeside promenade of Jungfernsteig, the Neustadt is also famed many great stores.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe best way to get to the center of the city is to take the U-bahn or S-bahn to the Hauptbahnhof or the U-bahn stations of M\u00f6nckebergstrasse, Jungfernstieg, Rathaus or G\u00e4nsemarkt. Once here, most of the sights and attractions are within an easy walk of each other.\n\n#### Timing\n\nIf you plan four hours for visits to the museums and the Rathaus and two more hours for a boat tour on the Alster lakes, you'll comfortably end up spending a full day here.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Alster Lakes.  \nThe twin lakes of the Binnenalster (Inner Alster) and Aussenalster (Outer Alster) provide Hamburg with some of its most celebrated vistas. The two lakes meet at the Lombardsbr\u00fccke and Kennedybr\u00fccke (Lombard and Kennedy bridges). The boat landing at the Jungfernstieg, below the Alsterpavillon, is the starting point for lake and canal cruises. Small sailboats and rowboats, hired from yards on the shores of the Alster, are very much a part of the summer scene.\n\nEvery Hamburger dreams of living within sight of the Alster, but only the wealthiest can afford it. Those that can't still have plenty of opportunities to enjoy the waterfront, however, and the outer Alster is ringed by 7 km (4.3 miles) of tree-lined public pathways. TIP Popular among joggers, these paths are also a lovely place for a stroll. | Altstadt | Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn).\n\n* * *\n\nThe Beatles in Hamburg\n\nIt was on the mean streets of St. Pauli, and specifically Grosse Freiheit, that four young lads from Liverpool cut their teeth playing to frequently hostile crowds of sailors, prostitutes, and thugs before going on to become the biggest band in the world. Signed by Bruno Koschmider, a nightclub owner and entrepreneur of dubious character, the Beatles first arrived in Hamburg in August 1960. Their first gig was at Koschmider's Indra Club, a seedy joint that doubled as a strip club, and their first lodgings consisted of a couple of windowless rooms in the back of a cinema, the Bambi Kino. Over the next two and a half years, the young Beatles would visit Hamburg five times and play almost 300 concerts in the city. During one stint in 1961, they performed 98 nights in a row, often starting at 8:30 at night and playing their last song around the same time the next morning.\n\nPerhaps surprisingly, some of the venues where the Beatles strutted their stuff remain. The Star Club, the site of their last Hamburg concert, on New Year's Eve 1962, may be gone, but the Indra Club is still at Grosse Freiheit 64. Down the road, at No. 36, is the Kaiserkeller, where the boys moved after the Indra was closed down for being too rowdy. In addition to hitting the clubs, fans of the Fab Four can pose beside the life-size, metal sculptures of the five original Beatles on the Beatles-Platz, and also retrace the band's steps on a number of walking tours, which take in the Bambi Kino and other venues they played at, along with the Gretel und Alfons pub, a favorite haunt.\n\n* * *\n\nFodor's Choice | Deichstrasse.  \nThe oldest residential area in the Old Town of Hamburg now consists of lavishly restored houses from the 17th through the 19th century. Many of the original, 14th-century houses on Deichstrasse were destroyed in the Great Fire of 1842, which broke out in No. 38 and left approximately 20,000 people homeless; only a few of the early dwellings escaped its ravages. Today Deichstrasse and nearby streets, which are steps away from the site of former city wall, are of great historical interest. At No. 35\u201339 Peterstrasse, for example, is the replica of baroque facade of the Beylingstift complex, built in 1751. Today, the Johannes Brahms Museum sits in No. 39, the composer's former home. All the buildings in the area have been painstakingly designed to look like the original buildings, thanks largely to nonprofit foundations. | Altstadt | Station: R\u00f6dingsmarkt (U-bahn) | Neustadt | Station: St. Pauli (U-bahn).\n\nHamburger Kunsthalle (Art Gallery).  \nOne of the most important art museums in Germany, the Kunsthalle has 3,500 paintings, 650 sculptures, and a coin and medal collection that dates from the ancient Roman era. In the postmodern, cube-shaped building designed by Berlin architect O. M. Ungers, the Galerie der Gegenwart has housed a collection of international modern art since 1960, including works by Andy Warhol, Joseph Beuys, Georg Baselitz, and David Hockney. With 1,200 drawings and other works, graphic art is well represented, including works by Pablo Picasso and Horst Janssen, a Hamburg artist famous for his satirical worldview. In the other areas of the museum, you can view works by local artists dating from the 16th century. The outstanding collection of German Romantic paintings includes pieces by Caspar David Friedrich. Paintings by Holbein, Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Tiepolo, and Canaletto are also on view, while late-19th-century Impressionism is represented by works by Leibl, Liebermann, Manet, Monet, and Renoir. | Glockengiesserwall, Altstadt | 040/4281\u201331200 | www.hamburger-kunsthalle.de | \u20ac12 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20139. | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nJungfernstieg.  \nThis wide promenade looking out over the Alster lakes is the beginning of the city's premier shopping district. Laid out in 1665, it used to be part of a muddy millrace that channeled water into the Elbe. Hidden from view behind the sedate facade of Jungfernstieg is a network of several small shopping centers that together account for almost a mile of shops selling everything from souvenirs to haute couture. Many of these passages have sprung up in the past two decades, but some have been here since the 19th century; the first glass-covered arcade, called Sillem's Bazaar, was built in 1845. | Neustadt | Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn).\n\nQuick Bites: Alex im Alsterpavillon.  \nPerhaps Hamburg's best-known caf\u00e9, the Alex im Alsterpavillon is sleek yet comfortable, and an ideal spot for observing the constant activity on the Binnenalster. | Jungfernstieg 54, Neustadt | 040/350\u20131870.\n\nM\u00f6nckebergstrasse.  \nThis broad street of shops\u2014Hamburg's major thoroughfare\u2014cuts through the city's Altstadt. Built between 1908 and 1911 to connect the main train station to the town hall, but only open to taxis and buses, the street is perfect for a stroll. Home to the Karstadt and Galeria Kaufhof department stores, electronics mega-store Saturn, as well as a host of global brand stores from Adidas to Zara, it swells with local and out-of-town shoppers on Saturday and public holidays. TIP The best caf\u00e9s and restaurants tend to be found on side streets off M\u00f6nckebergstrasse, where the rents for shop space are generally not as high. | Altstadt | Station: M\u00f6nckebergstrasse (U-bahn), Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Rathaus (Town Hall).  \nTo most Hamburgers this impressive neo-Renaissance building is the symbolic heart of the city. The seat of the city's Senate (State Government) and B\u00fcrgerschaft (Parliament), it was constructed between 1886 and 1897, with 647 rooms and an imposing clock tower. Along with much of the city center, the Rathaus was heavily damaged during World War II, but was faithfully restored to its original beauty in the postwar years, and it's now one of the most photographed sights in Hamburg. The forty-minute tours of the building begin in the ground floor Rathausdiele, a vast pillared hall. Although visitors are only shown the state rooms, their tapestries, glittering chandeliers, coffered ceilings, and grand portraits give you a sense of the city's great wealth in the 19th century and the Town Hall's status as an object of civic pride. Outside, the Rathausmarkt (Town Hall Square) is the site of regular festivals and events, including the annual Stuttgarter Wine Festival and the city's biggest Christmas market. | Rathausmarkt, Altstadt | 040/42831\u20132064 | www.hamburgische-buergerschaft.de | \u20ac4 | Daily tours in English hourly from 10:15 on | Station: Rathaus (U-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nSt. Jacobi Kirche (St. James's Church).  \nThis 15th-century church was almost completely destroyed during World War II. Only the interiors survived, and reconstruction was completed in 1963. The interior is not to be missed\u2014it houses such treasures as a massive baroque organ and three Gothic altars from the 15th and 16th centuries. | Jacobikirchhof 22, at Steinstr., Altstadt | 040/303\u20137370 | www.jacobus.de | Apr.\u2013Sept., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. after service; Oct.\u2013Mar., Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20135, Sun. after service. German guided tours: 1st Sat. at 2 and 3; 3rd Fri. at 12:30. English guided tours available on request by emailing ahead of time. | Station: Rathaus (U-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | St. Michaelis Kirche (St. Michael's Church).  \nThe Michel, as it's called locally, is Hamburg's principal church and northern Germany's finest baroque-style ecclesiastical building. Its first incarnation, built between 1649 and 1661 (the tower followed in 1669), was razed after lightning struck almost a century later. It was rebuilt between 1750 and 1786 in the decorative Nordic baroque style, but was gutted by a terrible fire in 1906. The replica, completed in 1912, was demolished during World War II. The present church is a reconstruction.\n\nThe distinctive 436-foot brick-and-iron tower bears the largest tower clock in Germany, 26 feet in diameter. Just above the clock is a viewing platform (accessible by elevator or stairs) that affords a magnificent panorama of the city, the Elbe River, and the Alster lakes. TIP Twice a day, at 10 am and 9 pm (Sunday at noon), a watchman plays a trumpet solo from the tower platform. In the crypt a 30-minute movie about the 1,000-year history of Hamburg and its churches is shown.\n\nFor a great view of Hamburg's skyline, head to the clock tower at night. In the evenings you can sip a complimentary soft drink while listening to classical music in a room just below the tower. This is usually held from 5:30 to 11:00: check www.nachtmichel.de to confirm times. | Englische Planke 1, Neustadt | 040/376\u2013780 | www.st-michaelis.de | Tower \u20ac5; crypt and movie \u20ac4; show, tower, and crypt \u20ac7 | May\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20137:30; Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 10\u20135:30 | Station: R\u00f6dingsmarkt (U-bahn), Stadthausbr\u00fccke (S-bahn).\n\nSt. Petri Kirche (St. Peter's Church).  \nThis church was created in 1195 and has been in continuous use since then. St. Petri is the only one of the five main churches in Hamburg that came out of World War II relatively undamaged. The current building was built in 1849, after the previous building burned down in the Great Fire of 1842.TIP Every Wednesday at 5:15 pm brings the Stunde der Kirchenmusik, an hour of liturgical organ music. | Bei der Petrikirche 2, Altstadt | 040/325\u20137400 | www.sankt-petri.de | Mon., Tues., Thurs., Fri. 10\u20136:30, Wed. 10\u20137, Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 9\u20138. Tower: Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20135, Sun. 11:30\u20134. Tours: Thurs. at 3 and 1st Sun. of month at 11:30 | Station: Rathaus (U-bahn), Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nQuick Bites: Old Commercial Room.  \nJust opposite the St. Michaelis Kirche is one of Hamburg's most traditional and best loved restaurants, the Old Commercial Room. Book a table in one of its cozy booths for one of the local specialties, such as Labskaus (a curious mixture of potato, corned beef, beet, and herring). If you don't make it to the restaurant, you can buy cans of the stuff in Hamburg supermarkets and department stores. | Englische Planke 10, Neustadt | 040/366\u2013319 | www.oldcommercialroom.de.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nBucerius Kunst Forum.  \nThis independent art gallery, considered one of the leading exhibition houses in northern Germany, has staged four major exhibitions a year since opening in 2002 inside a historic Reichsbank building next door to the Rathaus. The museum commissions guest curators from around the world to create shows that cover every art period and style. | Rathausmarkt 2, Neustadt | 040/360\u20139960 | www.buceriuskunstforum.de | \u20ac8, \u20ac5 on Mon. | Fri.\u2013Wed. 11\u20137, Thurs. 11\u20139 | Station: Rathaus (U-bahn).\n\nDeichtorhallen.  \nA pair of large markets built in 1911\u201312, not far from the main train station, now house two of Germany's largest exhibition halls for contemporary art and photography. One of the Deichtorhallen's modern, airy interiors resembles an oversized loft space, and its changing exhibits have presented the works of such artists as Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and Mir\u00f3. | Deichtorstr. 1\u20132, Altstadt | 040/321\u2013030 | www.deichtorhallen.de | \u20ac9 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136 | Station: Steinstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nHamburg Hauptbahnhof (Main Train Station).  \nThis central train station's cast-iron-and-glass architecture evokes the grandiose self-confidence of imperial Germany. The chief feature of the enormous 680-foot-long structure is its 446-foot-wide glazed roof. One of the largest structures of its kind in Europe, it's remarkably spacious and bright inside. Though completed in 1906 and having gone through many modernizations, it continues to have tremendous architectural impact. Today it sees a heavy volume of international, national, and suburban rail traffic. | Steintorpl., St. Georg | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Hamburg Museum (Museum of Hamburg History).  \nThe museum's vast and comprehensive collection of artifacts gives you an excellent overview of Hamburg's development, from its origins in the 9th century to the present. Pictures and models portray the history of the port and shipping here, from 1650 onward. | Holstenwall 24, Neustadt | 040/42813\u201322380 | www.hamburgmuseum.de | \u20ac7.50 | Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 10\u20136 | Station: St. Pauli (U-bahn), Hamburger Museum (Bus No. 112).\n\nKrameramtswohnungen (Shopkeepers' Houses).  \nThe shopkeepers' guild built this tightly packed group of courtyard houses between 1620 and 1626 for members' widows. The houses became homes for the elderly after 1866. The half-timber, two-story dwellings, with unusual twisted chimneys and decorative brick facades, were restored in the 1970s. A visit inside gives you a sense of what life was like in these 17th-century dwellings. | Historic House C, Krayenkamp 10, Neustadt | 040/3750\u20131988 | \u20ac2 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135 | Station: R\u00f6dingsmarkt (U-bahn), Stadtbahnstrasse (S-bahn).\n\nMahnmal St. Nikolai (St. Nicholas Memorial).  \nOriginally erected in 1195 and destroyed by fire in 1842, the church was rebuilt in neo-Gothic style, before it burned down again during the air raids of World War II. Today, the remains of the church serve as a memorial for the victims of war and persecution from 1933 to 1945. The memorial features an exhibition on the air raids and the destruction of Hamburg and other European cities. A glass elevator on the outside of the building takes visitors 250 feet up to the steeple, which offers magnificent views of the surrounding historic streets. Lectures, film screenings, panel discussions, and concerts also take place at the memorial. | Willy-Brandt-Str. 60, at Hopfenmarkt, Altstadt | 040/371\u2013125 | www.mahnmal-st-nikolai.de | \u20ac5 | Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20135; Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20138 | Station: R\u00f6dingsmarkt (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg (Arts and Crafts Museum).  \nThe museum houses a wide range of exhibits, from 15th- to 18th-century scientific instruments to an art-nouveau interior complete with ornaments and furnishings. It was built in 1876 as a combination museum and school. Its founder, Justus Brinckmann, intended it to be a bastion of the applied arts that would counter what he saw as a decline in taste owing to industrial mass production. A keen collector, Brinckmann amassed a wealth of unusual objects, including ceramics from around the world. | Steintorpl., Altstadt | 040/4281\u201334880 | www.mkg-hamburg.de | \u20ac10, \u20ac7 Thurs. after 5 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136, Thurs. 11\u20139 | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Planten un Blomen (Plants and Flowers Park).  \nIn 1821, a botanist planted a sycamore tree in a park near Dammtor train station. From this tree, a sanctuary for birds and plants evolved and a botanical garden that resembles the current park opened in 1930. This 116-acre oasis features a grand Japanese garden, a mini-golf course, an outdoor roller-skating rink, trampolines, pony rides, and water features. The original sycamore tree still stands near an entrance. If you visit on a summer evening, you'll see the Wasserlichtkonzerte, the play of an illuminated fountain set to organ music. TIP Make sure you get to the lake in plenty of time for the nightly show, which begins at 10 May through August and at 9 in September. | Stephanspl., Neustadt | 040/4285\u201344723 | www.plantenunblomen.hamburg.de | Free | Apr., daily 7 am\u201310 pm; May\u2013Sept., daily 7 am\u201311 pm; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 7 am\u20138 pm | Station: Dammtor-Bahnhof (S-bahn), Messehallen (U-bahn), St. Pauli (S-bahn), Handwerkskammer (Bus No. 112).\n\nPortugiesenviertel (Portuguese Quarter).  \nOn the edge of the harbor, tucked in between Landungsbr\u00fccken and Baumwall, lies a small slice of Iberia in Hamburg. Famed for its cluster of tapas restaurants and little caf\u00e9s on and around Ditmar-Koel-Strasse, the Portugiesenviertel is a great place to go to feast on a plate of grilled sardines or have a creamy gal\u00e3o (espresso with foamed milk). Head here in summer, when the streets are flooded with tables and diners making the most of the good weather. | Ditmar-Koel-Str., Neustadt | Station: Landungsbr\u00fccken (U-bahn and S-bahn), Baumwall (U-bahn).\n\nSt. Katharinen Kirche (St. Katharine's Church).  \nFounded in 1250 and completed in 1660, this house of worship was severely damaged during World War II, but has since been carefully reconstructed. The interior was once dotted with plaques honoring different people, but only two of the epitaphs remain. | Katharinenkirchhof 1, near Speicherstadt, Altstadt | 040/3037\u20134730 | www.katharinen-hamburg.de | Weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20135 | Station: Messberg (U-bahn), Brandstwiete (Bus 3, 4, and 6).\n\n## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel\n\nThe harborside quarter of St. Pauli is perhaps the city's best-known neighborhood, its web of narrow streets branching off the bright neon vein of the Reeperbahn. Named after the rope makers that once worked here, the long street runs the length St Pauli's extensive red-light district\u2014one of the largest in Europe. The broad sidewalks here are lined with strip joints, sex shops, and bars. In the early 1960s, the Beatles famously cut their teeth in clubs just off the street, playing 12-hour-long gigs in front of drunken revelers. These days St. Pauli's all-night bars, nightclubs, and pubs continue to be a big draw. Despite the seediness of its sex industry, however, the area has undergone some serious gentrification over the years, and those dive bars and flophouses now rub shoulders with trendy eateries and design hotels.\n\nThe neighboring Schanzenviertel has also experienced a significant makeover in the last decade. Once filled with artists, punks, and students, and infused with an antiestablishment culture, the \"Schanze\" remains a neighborhood whose most recognizable building is the Rote Flora, an old theater occupied by squatters who use it for concerts and cultural events. Now, however, it's also a place where cool young Hamburgers go to browse through clothes boutiques and then drink and dine in laid-back, reasonably priced bars and restaurants. Germany's answer to Jamie Oliver, Tim M\u00e4lzer has a hugely popular caf\u00e9 and restaurant here, and global labels such as Adidas and American Apparel have also set up shop in recent years. Ten minutes from the center of town by S-bahn, Schanzenviertel has elegant old apartment buildings that have found favor with Hamburg's media and finance professionals. This has driven the rents up, and forced out many of the same tenants who once imbued the Schanzenviertel with its original edginess.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe harbor can be reached by taking a U-bahn or S-bahn train to Landungsbr\u00fccken. The mile-long Reeperbahn is bookended by the Reeperbahn S-bahn and St. Pauli U-bahn stations. The Schanzenviertel is served by the Sternschanze U-bahn and S-bahn station.\n\n#### Timing\n\nYou can easily spend a full day and a long night here, starting with breakfast and shopping in the Schanzenviertel, then lunch and a river cruise at the harbor and a night on the Reeperbahn afterwards.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFischmarkt (Fish Market).  \nA trip to the Altona Fischmarkt is definitely worth getting out of bed early\u2014or staying up all night\u2014for. The Sunday markets hark back to the 18th century, when fishermen sold their catch before church services. Today, freshly caught fish sold by salty auctioneers to the locals from little stalls is only a part of the scene. You can find almost anything here: live parrots and palm trees, armloads of flowers and bananas, valuable antiques, and fourth-hand junk. Those keen to continue partying from the night before can get down to live bands rocking the historic Fischauktionshalle. | Grosse Elbestr. 9, St. Pauli | Apr.\u2013Oct., Sun. 5 am\u20139:30 am; Nov.\u2013Mar., Sun. 7 am\u20139:30 am | Station: Landungsbr\u00fccken (U-bahn and S-bahn), Fischmarkt (Bus No. 112).\n\nFAMILY | Landungsbr\u00fccken (Piers).  \nHamburgers and tourists flock to the city's impressive port (Germany's largest) to marvel at the huge container and cruise ships gliding past, pick up maritime-themed gifts from souvenir stores, and treat themselves to something from the many snack- and ice-cream stands. It's best to take a tour to get a complete idea of the massive scale of the place, which is one of the most modern and efficient harbors in the world. Barge tours leave from the main passenger terminal, along with a whole range of ferries and boats heading to other destinations on the Elbe and in the North Sea.TIP There's frequently a breeze here, so it's worth packing something warm, particularly if you're planning on taking an open-top harbor tour. | Bei den St. Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken, St. Pauli | 040/3005\u20131300 | Station: Landungsbr\u00fccken (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nRickmer Rickmers. This majestic 19th-century sailing ship once traveled as far as Cape Town. Now it's permanently docked at Hamburg's piers, where it serves as a museum and site for exhibitons and readings. | St. Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken Ponton 1a, St. Pauli | 040/319\u20135959 | www.rickmer-rickmers.de | \u20ac4 | Sun.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20136, Fri. and Sat. 10\u20138 | Station: Landungsbr\u00fccken (U-bahn).\n\nCap San Diego Cap San Diego. Close to the Rickmer Rickmers ship at Hamburg's piers sits the Cap San Diego, a seaworthy museum and hotel. Before it docked at Hamburg permanently, it regularly sailed between Germany and South America. | \u00dcberseebr\u00fccke, Landungsbr\u00fccken, St. Pauli | 040/364\u2013209 | www.capsandiego.de | Cap San Diego \u20ac7 | Daily 10\u20136 | Station: Landungsbr\u00fccken (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Reeperbahn.  \nThe hottest nightspots in town are concentrated on and around St. Pauli's pulsating thoroughfare, the Reeperbahn, and a buzzing little side street known as Grosse Freiheit (\"Great Freedom\"). It was there, in the early 1960s, that a then-obscure band called the Beatles polished their live act. The Kiez, as the area is known colloquially, is a part of town that never sleeps\u2014literally, in the case of at least a couple of bars that claim to never close their doors. It has long been famed for its music halls and drinking holes, but also for its strip clubs, sex shops, and brothels. The first brothel was registered here in the 15th century, and although the love-hungry sailors that the area became famous for no longer roam the streets, street walkers still line Davidstrasse; around the corner, on Herbertstrasse, skimpily dressed women sit in windows and offer their services to passersby.\n\nThe Kiez is about more than just its red-light activities, however, and the Reeperbahn swells on evenings and weekends with bar hoppers and nightclubbers, concert- and theatergoers, and locals and out-of-towners out for dinner and a few drinks. And maybe a walk on or at least through the wild side afterward. | Reeperbahn, St. Pauli | Station: St. Pauli (U-bahn), Reeperbahn (S-bahn).\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nBeatles-Platz.  \nAt the entrance to Grosse Freiheit stand life-size steel silhouettes commemorating the five original Beatles\u2014John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Pete Best and Stuart Sutcliffe. In the summer of 1960, they played in the area while seeking fame and fortune. Although the statues are rather ordinary looking during the day, they make for a good photo op when they're lit up at night. | Reeperbahn end of Grosse Freiheit, St. Pauli | Station: Reeperbahn (S-bahn).\n\n## St. Georg\n\nFirst-time visitors to Hamburg may have some trouble, at least initially, getting their heads around this vibrant quarter. Fanning out to the northeast of the Altstadt, St. Georg is a place whose rich diversity is best understood by trips down its three main streets: Steindamm, Lange Reihe, and An der Alster. Just across the main station, Steindamm begins as a one-way street full of sex shops and prostitutes lurking in doorways and turns into a busy road lined with Middle Eastern restaurants and minimarkets and a large mosque. A few blocks over, in the middle of the three, is Lange Reihe, a long, narrow thoroughfare brimming with gay and lesbian bars and caf\u00e9s and some of the best places to drink and eat in town. Lastly, a short walk from Lange Reihe to the outer Alster lake's edge, sits An der Alster and a row of luxury hotels and penthouse apartments that come with million-euro views.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe closest station for U-bahn and S-bahn trains is Hauptbahnhof, and the No. 6 bus runs the length of Lange Reihe. St. Georg is compact, making it easy enough to stroll around.\n\n#### Timing\n\nWith all its caf\u00e9s and little restaurants, St. Georg is an ideal spot for a lazy breakfast or an afternoon coffee or two. Factor in a stroll along the lake, and a few hours here can soon slip by.\n\n## Speicherstadt and HafenCity\n\nNo two places in Hamburg embody the changing commerce of the city and its love affair with the Elbe as vividly as the harbor districts of the Speicherstadt and the HafenCity. Built around a series of narrow canals, the stunning redbrick, Gothic architecture of the former's warehouses (which make up the largest complex of integrated warehouses in the world) sits next to the gleaming glass and steel of Europe's largest urban renewal development project. The Speicherstadt's 100-year-old warehouses continue to store and trade in everything from coffee to oriental carpets, but now count restaurants, museums and the world's largest model railway amongst their tenants. The HafenCity, meanwhile, has become a popular site for the headquarters of many of the city's largest firms, as well as home to a number of new apartment blocks, hotels and restaurants, a university, and the jewel in its crown, the hugely ambitious Elbphilarmonie concert hall, which is scheduled to open in 2015.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTo get to the Speicherstadt, take the U-bahn to Messberg or Baumwall stations, or walk or bike over from the Altstadt. The HafenCity is now served by the city's new U4 train line, which stops at the U-bahn stations of \u00dcberseequartier and HafenCity Universit\u00e4t. Both areas are close enough to each other to walk between.\n\n#### Timing\n\nThis part of town is a popular spot for Sunday strollers, and ambling along its canals, taking snaps of the area's impressive riverside edifices, combined with a visit to a museum or the Miniatur Wunderland can happily fill half a day.\n\nQuick Bites: There are two good basement restaurants in this area.\n\nAlt-Hamburger Aalspeicher. The Alt-Hamburger Aalspeicher specializes in fish dishes, including Hamburg's famous Aalsuppe (a clear broth with a variety of vegetables, seafood, and meat\u2014everything that is leftover). Over time the German word for everything\u2014alle\u2014became mistaken for the word for eel (aal), so some restaurants make eel the focus, while others stick with creating their own light soup. | Deichstr. 43, Altstadt | 040/362\u2013990.\n\nDas Kontor.  \nSeasonal dishes such as plaice in spring and game in winter are served at this upscale Hamburg tavern. You could also head here for some of the city's best fried potatoes and traditional desserts. | Deichstr. 32, Altstadt | 040/371\u2013471 | www.das-kontor-hamburg.de.\n\nHafenCity Infocenter Kesselhaus (HafenCity Information Center).  \nIn an old 19th-century boiler house, this popular information center documents the HafenCity urban development project. In addition to changing photographic and architectural exhibitions, the center also has an impressive 1:500 scale-model of the HafenCity. Free walking and cycling tours in English of the HafenCity are also available. They last approximately two hours and can be booked ahead of time on the center's website. | Am Sandtorkai 30, HafenCity | 040/3690\u20131799 | www.hafencity.com | Free | May\u2013Sept., Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138; Oct.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 | Station: Baumwall (U-bahn), \u00dcberseequartier (U-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Fodor's Choice | Miniatur Wunderland.  \nYou don't need to be a model railway enthusiast or a 10-year-old to be blown away by the sheer scale and attention to detail of the Miniatur Wunderland. The largest model railway in the world features more than 14,000 square feet of little trains click-clacking their way through wonderfully faithful miniature replicas of Hamburg itself as well as foreign towns in Switzerland, Austria, the United States, and elsewhere. Planes land at a little airport; every 15 minutes, day turns into night and hundreds of thousands of LED lights illuminate the trains, buildings and streets. Unsurprisingly, it's one of Hamburg's most popular attractions, so it's best to book ahead, particularly on weekends and school holidays, when waiting times for entry can stretch to a couple of hours. | Kehrwieder 2\u20134, Block D, Speicherstadt | 040/300-6800 | www.miniatur-wunderland.com | \u20ac12 | Mon., Wed., and Thurs. 9:30\u20136, Tues. 9:30\u20139, Fri. 9:30\u20137, Sat. 8 am\u20139 pm, Sun. 8:30\u20138 | Station: Baumwall (U-bahn), Messberg (U-bahn).\n\nSpeicherstadtmuseum.  \nThe Speicherstadt's old warehouses are still used to store many products, and although you won't be able to tour them, the nonstop comings and goings of the merchants that still trade carpets and spices in the area will give you a good sense of a port at work. If you want to learn more about the area's history and architecture, detour to the small but informative Speicherstadtmuseum. | Am Sandtorkai 36, Speicherstadt | 040/321\u2013191 | www.speicherstadtmuseum.de | \u20ac3.60 | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135 | Station: Baumwall (U-bahn).\n\n## Altona and Ottensen\n\nGenerally the closer an area is to water in Hamburg, the more desirable a place it is to live. This is particularly true of the borough of Altona and Ottensen, an upscale neighborhood. Bordered by the Elbe, where Altona forms part of the port, and centered on a large domestic and international train station, the area has an allure heightened by a lively shopping boulevard and narrow side streets with bakeries, boutiques, and bars.\n\nMuch of this predominantly working-class area has been transformed over the last few decades. Nineteenth-century factories and industrial plants now accommodate cultural centers, movie theaters, offices, and hotels. Despite its increasingly middle-class makeup the quarter remains multicultural, and a large Turkish population continues to live and run all sorts of businesses here. It's a part of Hamburg that in many ways feels separate from the city surrounding it, which is unsurprising given its history. Part of Denmark until 1864, Altona was an independent city as late as 1937, and its stately town hall above the river is a reminder of its distinguished past.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThe Altona train station, 15 minutes from Hauptbahnhof, is the starting and finishing point for all domestic and international InterCity Express trains that pass through the main station. It's also a stop on a number of local S-bahn lines. The main shopping area surrounds the station.\n\n#### Timing\n\nThe area is a good place to while away an afternoon people-watching and browsing through shops, perhaps followed by a drink or two in one the area's many fine caf\u00e9s.\n\nHolsten Brauerei.  \nUntil the 20th century, German beer consumption was a regional thing. A thirsty German would walk in to a pub and say, \"Grosses Bier, bitte\" and a large beer simply appeared. There was no need to request a certain brand because there was only one or, if you were lucky, two to choose from. In Hamburg's case it was Holsten and Astra, which are still brewed in the city, although both brands are now owned by the Danish brewery giant Carlsberg. To learn more about about how these brews are made and how they taste, Holsten brewery offers guided tours of the factory, with a complimentary beer or two at the end. | Holstenstr. 224, Altona | 040/3099\u20133098 | www.carlsbergdeutschland.de | \u20ac5 | Tours: weekdays at 9, 11:15, and 1:15. | Station: Holstenstrasse (S-bahn).\n\nQuick Bites: Elbe beach.  \nNo Hanseatic summer would be complete without a visit to the Elbe beach, which is alive with activity then. Chic bars, volleyball games, pulsating dance clubs, barbecue grills, and sunbathers appear on sand trucked onto the banks of the Elbe. | Am Schulberg, Altona | Station: Neum\u00fchlen/\u00d6velg\u00f6nne (Bus No. 112), Neum\u00fchlen (Ferry No. 62).\n\n## Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nTwenty or so minutes along the Elbe by car or by S-bahn from the middle of the city lies the lovely riverside suburb of Blankenese. It's nicely situated on the side of a hill, with steep flights of narrow steeps that snake between its handsome villas. It makes a popular destination for weekend walks and coffee and cake afterward.\n\nOther parts of town within easy reach of the main station, and worth a visit, include the upmarket neighborhood of Eppendorf, its more modest, less self-conscious neighbor Eimsb\u00fcttel, and the lakeside suburbs of Harvestehude, Winterhude, and Uhlenhorst.\n\nFarther afield are the BallinStadt emigration museum in Veddel and the Neuengamme Concentration Camp.\n\nOther than driving, the best way to get to Blankenese and Veddel is to take the S-bahn to their respective stations. Neuengamme is reachable by a combination of S-bahn and bus. The other suburbs are no more than 15 minutes away from the center of town by U-bahn.\n\n#### Timing\n\nGiven that a major selling point of Blankenese is that's a place far from the hustle and bustle of the city, and the fact that you'll need an hour to get there and back, it's best to give yourself half a day to visit. Excursions to Ballinstadt and Neuengamme shouldn't be rushed either.\n\nBallinStadt.  \nThis museum and family-research center tells the story of European emigration to the United States and elsewhere. The complex on the peninsula here, completed in 1901, was built by the HAPAG shipping line for its passengers, which came from all across Europe to sail across the Atlantic.\n\nWhen the immigrants landed in the United States, there were subjected to thorough physical examinations. Those who were deemed sick were quarantined for weeks or returned to their home country. To reduce the likelihood of trouble, HAPAG began examining passengers before they left Hamburg for new shores. During the first 34 years of the 20th century, about 1.7 million people passed through emigration halls. Processing this many people took a long time, and Hamburg officials did not want foreigners roaming the city. To accommodate visitors for several days or months, the shipping company built a town, complete with a hospital, church, music hall, housing, and hotels. The emigrant experience comes to life with artifacts; interactive displays; detailed reproductions of the buildings (all but one was demolished); and firsthand accounts of oppression in Europe, life in the \"city,\" conditions during the 60-day ocean crossing, and life in their new home.\n\nAs compelling as the exhibits are, the main draw is the research booths, where you can search the complete passenger lists of all ships that left the harbor. TIP Research assistants are available to help locate and track your ancestors. From St. Pauli, the museum can be reached by S-bahn or Maritime Circle Line at St. Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken No. 10. | Veddeler Bogen 2, Veddel | 040/3197\u20139160 | www.ballinstadt.de | \u20ac12.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134:30 | Station: Veddel (S-bahn).\n\nKonzentrationslager Neuengamme (Neuengamme Concentration Camp).  \nHamburg is a city of great beauty but also tragedy. On the southeastern edge of the city, between 104,000 and 106,000 people, including children, were held at Neuengamme concentration camp in its years of operation from 1938 to 1945. It was primarily a slave-labor camp, not an area focused on extermination, where bricks and weapons were the main products. German political prisoners and Europeans pushed into servitude composed most of the population. Neuengamme held gays, Roma (gypsies), and Jews. Jewish children were the subjects of cruel medical experiments; others worked with their parents or simply grew up in prison. To keep people in line, there were random acts of violence, including executions, and atrocious living conditions. Officials estimate that as many as 50,000 people died at Neuengamme before it ceased operation in May 1945.\n\nA memorial opened on the site in 2005. Where the dormitories, dining hall, and hospital once sat, there are low pens filled with large rocks. With so much open space, the camp has an eerie silence. There is still a gate at the entrance. The camp has several regions. The main area has exhibits describing working conditions in an actual factory as well as a museum. The museum has interactive displays describing the prisoner experience. Firsthand accounts, photographs from prisoners, furniture, clothing, and possessions make the experience even more affecting. | Jean-Dolidier-Weg 75, Neuengamme | 040/4281\u201331500 | www.kz-gedenkstaette-neuengamme.de | Free | Grounds 24 hrs. Exhibits: Apr.\u2013Sept., weekdays 9:30\u20134, weekends noon\u20137; Oct.\u2013Mar., weekdays 9:30\u20134, weekends noon\u20135 | Station: Bergedorf (S-bahn), then Bus No. 227 or 327.\n\nFAMILY | Tierpark Hagenbeck (Hagenbeck Zoo).  \nOne of the country's oldest and most popular zoos, the Tierpark Hagenbeck was founded in 1907 and is family owned. It was the world's first zoo to let wild animals such as lions, elephants, chimpanzees, and others roam freely in vast, open-air corrals. In summer, you can ride a pony.\n\nThe Tropen-Aquarium, on the same property as the zoo, is like a trip around the world. Sealife, insects, curious reptiles, marvelous birds, and exotic mammals live in replicas of their natural habitat. Detailed re-creations of deserts, oceans, rain forests, and jungles are home to birds, fish, mammals, insects, and reptiles from almost every continent, including black-tailed lemurs living in a \"Madagascar\" village. | Lokstedter Grenzstr. 2, Stellingen | 040/530\u20130330 | www.hagenbeck.de | \u20ac20 for zoo, \u20ac14 for aquarium, \u20ac30 for combination ticket | Zoo: Mar.\u2013June, Sept., and Oct., daily 9\u20136; July and Aug., daily 9\u20137; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 9\u20134:30. Aquarium daily 9\u20136 | Station: Hagenbecks Tierpark (U-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAltstadt and Neustadt | St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel | St. Georg | Speicherstadt and HafenCity | Altona and Ottensen | Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nHamburg has plenty of chic restaurants to satisfy the fashion-conscious local professionals, as well as the authentically salty taverns typical of a harbor town. There may not be a huge range of restaurants, but what's available is delicious.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n## Altstadt and Neustadt\n\nCaf\u00e9 Paris.  \nFRENCH | This busy restaurant is across from the Rathaus. The excellent traditional French fare includes steak frites, beef tartare, croque-monsieur, and other classics. Breakfast here is a treat and a far cry from the traditional German bread-and-meat options. The main dining room is crowded with tables. For a more intimate experience, reserve a table in the salon. Caf\u00e9 Paris also has an excellent French wine list. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Rathausstr. 4, Altstadt | 040/3252\u20137777 | www.cafeparis.net | Station: Rathaus (U-bahn).\n\nDeichgraf.  \nSEAFOOD | This small and elegant fish restaurant in the heart of the historic district is a Hamburg classic. It's one of the best places to get traditional dishes such as Hamburger Pannfisch (fried pieces of the day's catch in a wine-and-mustard sauce) at a very reasonable price. The restaurant is in an old merchant house, and oil paintings in the dining room feature ships from the 19th century. Reservations are essential on weekends. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Deichstr. 23, Altstadt | 040/364\u2013208 | www.deichgraf-hamburg.de | Closed Sun. Sept.\u2013June. No lunch Sat. | Station: R\u00f6dingsmarkt (U-bahn).\n\nDie Bank.  \nFRENCH | Venture beyond the grand exterior of this 19th-century bank building and you'll find yourself in an elegant bar and brasserie where opulent chandeliers droop from a ceiling supported by handsome black columns. Diners can feast on steaks, lobster, and sashimi at white-clothed tables or out on the restaurant's spacious, sunny terrace. | Average main: \u20ac27 | Hohe Bleichen 17, Neustadt | 040/238\u20130030 | www.diebank-brasserie.de | Closed Sun. | Station: G\u00e4nsemarkt (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Fillet of Soul.  \nGERMAN | The art of fine dining is celebrated in the open show kitchen of this hip, fairly casual restaurant set among the modern art exhibits of the Deichtorhallen. The chefs prepare straightforward, light German dishes with an emphasis on fresh fish. The minimalist dining room, highlighted only by an orange wall, might not be to everyone's liking, but the buzzing atmosphere, artsy clientele, fragrant food, and great personal attention from the waitstaff make this a top choice. TIP Although it's not as sophisticated as the evening's offerings, the lunch menu here is still very good. And with most dishes hovering around \u20ac10, it's also a good deal. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Deichtorstr. 2, Altstadt | 040/7070\u20135800 | www.fillet-of-soul.de | No dinner Sun. and Mon. | Station: Steinstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nManee Thai.  \nTHAI | After a move to a location near the Speicherstadt, this long-running restaurant continues to deliver authentic and delicious Thai food to hungry locals and visiting businesspeople. Hamburg isn't known for its love of spicy, aromatic food, but pad thai sits happily on the menu here beside fiery red curries. The predominantly white d\u00e9cor, decorated with lithographs of a Buddhist temple, won't distract you from the food, but the extensive wine list is worth a look, particularly for Rieslings, which go so well with Thai dishes. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Brandstwiete 46, Altstadt | 040/3339\u20135005 | www.manee-thai.com | Closed Sun. | Station: Messberg.\n\nParlament.  \nGERMAN | Set in what was once the Ratsweinkeller, the town hall's traditional pub, this restaurant is an almost ironic tribute to the basement's former occupant, with an eclectic mix of historic and modern styles. On the menu are no-nonsense meat and fish meals with a light touch of German nouvelle cuisine. This grand restaurant also creates amazing Flammkuchen, Alsace's take on pizza. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Rathausmarkt 1, Altstadt | 040/7038\u20133399 | www.parlament-hamburg.de | Closed Sun. Apr.\u2013Oct. | Station: Rathaus (U-Bahn).\n\nSaliba Alsterarkaden.  \nMIDDLE EASTERN | Underneath the arches of an elegant arcade, this popular caf\u00e9 has superb views of the Town Hall. If the sun peeks out, the inside is empty, because everyone is perched at a canalside table. There they can sip on some excellent German wine and watch swans glide across the water. The menu includes may Syrian and other Middle Eastern dishes. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Neuer Wall 13, Neustadt | 040/345\u2013021 | www.saliba.de.\n\nSe7en Oceans.  \nECLECTIC | It may not have the best location, being as it's inside a busy shopping mall, but this intriguing combination of a Michelin-starred restaurant, sushi bar, bistro, and cigar lounge, is worth a visit nonetheless. Located on the upper floor (OG2) of the large Europa Passage, Se7ven Oceans has a wall of windows to provide amazing views of the inner Alster lake and Jungfernstieg, its promenade. Promoting itself as a \"multidimensional\" culinary experience, the restaurant aims to cater to every size of wallet and appetite, with scallop and Persian caviar starters in the high-end restaurant, sashimi and sake, or cocktails and chicken wings at the Oceans Bar. TIP The sushi bar is a great option for lunch. It's reasonably priced and rarely crowded. | Average main: \u20ac35 | Europa Passage, Ballindamm 40, Altstadt | 40/3250\u20137944 | www.se7en-oceans.de | Reservations essential | Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel\n\nAbendmahl.  \nECLECTIC | On a quiet square off the Reeperbahn, Abendmahl is a great launching point for a night out on the town. Candlelight, wooden tables, and deep red decor set the tone. Relaxed yet romantic, it's the type of place where you can show up in everything from jeans and a T-shirt to a suit, and still get the same attentive service. In addition to a small selection of primarily Mediterranean and northern German dishes on the \u00e0 la carte menu, there's also a four-course menu that changes daily. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Hein-K\u00f6llisch-Pl. 6, St. Pauli | 040/312\u2013758 | www.restaurantabendmahl.de | No credit cards | No lunch | Station: Reeperbahn (S-bahn).\n\nBullerei.  \nSTEAKHOUSE | The success of this extremely popular caf\u00e9 and restaurant derives from being owned and run by celebrity chef Tim M\u00e4lzer (an old colleague and friend of Jamie Oliver) and its menu's heavy emphasis on meat. The stripped-down interior with exposed brick and pipes is inside a former livestock hall in the heart of the Schanze. Every night, the busy but friendly waitstaff ferries large plates of steak and pork to tables, while diners dig into bowls of lamb bolognese in the white-tiled \"deli\" next door. TIP If you can't get a table, grab a place at the busy bar and eat there instead. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Lagerstr. 34 B, Schanzenviertel | 040/3344\u20132100 | www.bullerei.com | Reservations essential | No lunch | Station: Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nJuwelier.  \nMODERN EUROPEAN | Despite its luxurious name (\"Jeweler\"), this excellent little restaurant not far from Schanzenpark is simply laid out. Its wood tables are covered in white tablecloths, and the cream-color walls are gently lit by art deco lampshades. The food, however, is anything but plain. Diners can order enticing dishes that include chicken with asparagus, strawberries, and wild herbs, or turbot with mashed peas and bacon. There are also three- or four-course prix-fixe menus. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Weidenallee 27, Schanzenviertel | 040/2548\u20131678 | www.juwelier-restaurant.de | No credit cards | No lunch | Station: Christuskirche (U-bahn), Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Mess.  \nGERMAN | This is one of the most popular restaurants in the hip Karolinenviertel (called \"Karo-Viertel\" by Hamburgers). It serves wild flavors like Thunfisch-Mangostapel mit Gr\u00fcne Tomatenmarmelade, Pak Choi und Jasminreis (a tower of tuna and mango with green-tomato chutney served with bok choi and jasmine rice) along with more traditional German fare such as Wiener schnitzel and Bratkartoffeln (fried potatoes). For lunch, order the two-course lunch menu (\u20ac20) or the pasta special for \u20ac9. TIP In summer, try to get a table in the small garden under the pergola and sample vintages from the restaurant's own wine store. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Turnerstr. 9, Schanzenviertel | 040/4325\u20130152 | www.mess.de | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. | Station: Feldstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nNil.  \nGERMAN | The simple but cool style, excellent service, and high-quality food at this busy bistro keep the locals coming back. The focus is on seafood and modern German dishes, with seasonal variations using local produce. Inventive four-course menus merge typical German cuisine with international flavors. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Neuer Pferdemarkt 5, St. Pauli | 040/439\u20137823 | www.restaurant-nil.de | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Closed Tues. No lunch | Station: Feldstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nRiver-Kasematten.  \nECLECTIC | There is no other restaurant in town that better embodies Hamburg's international spirit and its lust for style, entertainment, and good seafood. This former jazz club, now elegantly decorated with black oak floors, leather seats, and redbrick walls, hosts a mix of hip guests. New Zealand lamb, Angus steak, spiced-up regional fish dishes, and exotic soups are the order of the day. | Average main: \u20ac21 | Fischmarkt 28\u201332, St. Pauli | 040/892\u2013760 | www.river-kasematten.de | Reservations essential | No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat. Closed Mon.\u2013Wed. | Station: Fischmarkt (Bus 112), Reeperbahn (S-bahn).\n\n## St. Georg\n\nCaf\u00e9 Gnosa.  \nGERMAN | Very much a part of Hamburg's gay and lesbian neighborhood, this local favorite has produced delicious desserts and the perfect breakfasts since 1987. It also serves delicious comfort foods like pasta and schnitzel as well as salads. The friendly service and occasional drag performances both add to its popularity. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Lange Reihe 93, St. Georg | 040/243\u2013034 | www.gnosa.de.\n\nCox.  \nGERMAN | Cox has delighted guests with its nouvelle German cuisine for years. It remains one of the hippest places around, but the waitstaff (and the patrons, for that matter) won't give you any attitude. The dishes feature the careful use of fresh produce and spices from around the globe. The simple and cool interior with red-leather banquettes is reminiscent of a French brasserie. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Lange Reihe 68, at Greifswalder Str. 43, St. Georg | 040/249\u2013422 | www.restaurant-cox.de | No lunch weekends. | Station: Gurlittstrasse (Bus No. 6), Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-Bahn).\n\n* * *\n\nHamburg's Chain Restaurants\n\nAfter a long day of shopping or for a break between museums, stop for delicious as well as economical bite at one of these chain restaurants.\n\nBlock House. Founder Eugen Block opened the first Block House steakhouse in Hamburg in 1968 after falling in love with the concept in San Francisco. Today, there are 14 outlets in Hamburg and dozens more in the rest of Germany and Spain and Portugal. The good-size steaks come with a baked potato or fries, salad, and garlic bread. | www.block-house.de.\n\nCampus Suite. This northern German chain started on a university campus in Kiel. The restaurant, with 14 outposts in Hamburg, serve reasonably priced Asian and pasta dishes, couscous, sandwiches, muffins, croissants, and coffee drinks. Beer, wine, and champagne are also available. | www.campussuite.de.\n\nSchweinske. This is Germany's answer to T.G.I. Friday's. Crowds turn out for after-work drink specials and German comfort food, like schnitzel and curry wurst. This Hamburg creation has 33 outlets in the city and more throughout the rest of the country. | www.schweinske.com.\n\nVapiano. This hugely popular Italian restaurant was born in downtown Hamburg; there are three in central locations, and many more scattered around Germany and the world. To customize your dish, you first choose the type of pasta or pizza you want, then select the toppings, sauces, and ingredients to go with it. | www.vapiano.com.\n\n* * *\n\nFodor's Choice | Doria.  \nMODERN EUROPEAN | At the end of 2010, Doria started drawing adventurous food-lovers to the seedy Hansaplatz. Ignoring the prostitutes and junkies outside, they came for the modern European cuisine that the convivial owner Hasko Sadrina expertly prepared\u2014and for Doria's softly lit, rustic ambience. These days the square isn't quite as sketchy, but the food and service is just as good. You still might have to sidestep the occasional streetwalker, but you'll be rewarded with expertly prepared dishes that include poached salmon with asparagus and wild venison with cranberry sorbet. | Average main: \u20ac20 | Hansapl. 14, St. Georg | 040/3867\u20132848 | www.doria14.de | Closed Mon. | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn).\n\nIl Buco.  \nITALIAN | This neighborhood favorite is easily missed, sitting as it does on a street off Hansaplatz. Intrepid diners must then descend five steps and open a door to the warm and cozy dining room. The atmosphere is definitely more grandmother's living room than downtown trattoria. There's even a sofa-size painting of a cliff perched over water. In place of a menu, a server asks what you are in the mood for, describes the evening's options, and makes recommendations. In a typical evening, a hearty saltimbocca may follow a colorful antipasti plate. Even if you're dining alone, meals are comforting\u2014and they're always quite filling. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Zimmerpforte 5, St. Georg | 040/247\u2013310 | Closed Sun. No lunch | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Speicherstadt and HafenCity\n\nCarl's an der Elbphilharmonie.  \nFRENCH | This extension of the Hotel Louis C. Jacob, at the edge of the Elbe and next to the site of the Elbphilharmonie, is a pleasure on many levels. The relaxed Bistro restaurant serves quiche, tartines, and other small dishes. The more formal Brasserie looks like typically Parisian brasserie and features a large bay window with excellent views of ships gliding up the Elbe. The French menu has touches of German flavors and local fish dishes, and service here is warm and knowledgeable. Below the two restaurants sits an elegant bar and the Kultur Salon, with live classical music concerts and jazz performances. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Am Kaiserkai 69, HafenCity | 40/3003\u201322400 | www.carls-brasserie.de | Reservations essential.\n\nDas Feuerschiff.  \nEUROPEAN | This bright-red lightship served in the English Channel before it retired to the city harbor in 1989 and became a landmark restaurant, guesthouse, and pub. Local favorites such as Hamburger Pannfisch (panfried fish with mustard sauce) and Labskaus (a mixture of corned beef, potato, onion, beet, and, if you're brave, herring) are on the ship's extensive menu, along with Argentinian steaks and Iberian pork. TIP Jazz musicians take the stage on Monday, and a variety of bands play a few times a month. | Average main: \u20ac22 | Vorsetzen, City Sporthafen, Speicherstadt | 040/362\u2013553 | www.das-feuerschiff.de | Station: Baumwall (U-bahn).\n\nVlet.  \nGERMAN | Inspired by its location inside a Speicherstadt warehouse, this modern restaurant has exposed brick and beams that add a rustic charm to the large dining room and its sleek furniture and lighting. Like the architecture, Vlet's menu combines traditional German methods with new techniques. The restaurant's Labskaus, in a twist on the old Hamburg favorite of beef, potato and beet, is made as a clear soup instead of a stew. The kitchen also offers diverse \u00e0 la carte menus, including a tasting menu that can be accompanied by corresponding glasses of wine, and the permanent \"Durable\" menu, which includes beef tartare prepared at the table. Although service is formal, the dining room is relaxed. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Am Sandtorkai 23/24, entrance at Kibbelstegbr\u00fccke, Speicherstadt | 040/3347\u201353750 | www.vlet.de | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat.\n\n## Altona and Ottensen\n\nAu Quai.  \nINTERNATIONAL | The Au Quai is still a shining star in the row of romantic restaurants that are along the waterfront. The dining room, like the menu, is eclectic. An Asian goddess statue looks over a koi pond, and groovy overhead lamps light a room of modernistic tables and chairs after the sun has stopped shining through the wall of windows. The outside terrace is a big draw in summer, and the restaurant is a firm favorite with the fashion and business crowds. TIP The \u20ac18 three-course Business Lunch includes parking. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Grosse Elbstr. 145B-D, Altona | 040/3803\u20137730 | www.au-quai.com | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch Sat. | Station: K\u00f6nigstrasse (S-bahn).\n\nFischereihafen Restaurant Hamburg.  \nSEAFOOD | For some of the best fish in Hamburg, book a table at this splendid portside restaurant. Plain from the outside, the restaurant feels like a dining room aboard a luxury liner inside, with oil paintings of nautical scenes hanging on the walls and white linen on the tables. The menu changes daily according to what's available in the fish market that morning; the elegant oyster bar here is a favorite with the city's beau monde. TIP In summer, try to get a table on the sun terrace for a great view of the Elbe. | Average main: \u20ac29 | Grosse Elbstr. 143, Altona | 040/381\u2013816 | www.fischereihafenrestaurant.de | Reservations essential | Station: Altona (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Landhaus Scherrer.  \nGERMAN | Though this establishment is just a 10-minute drive from the center of town, its parklike setting seems worlds away from the high-rise clamor of the city. A proud owner of a Michelin star since it opened its doors in 1978, Landhaus Scherrer continues to be one of the city's best-known and most celebrated restaurants. The restaurant's focus is on the use of organic, sustainable ingredients to produce classic and modern German cuisine with international touches. Wood-panel walls and soft lighting create a low-key mood in the main building, which was once a brewery. Unsurprisingly, the accompanying wine list is exceptional. There's also a small bistro here, where diners can feast on similar fare at lower prices. For delicious German comfort food (currywurst and potato salad), try the sister property, \u00d61. | Average main: \u20ac32 | Elbchaussee 130, Ottensen | 040/880\u20131325 | www.landhausscherrer.de | Closed Sun. | Station: Hohenzollernring (Bus Nos. 15 and 36), K\u00f6nigstrasse (S-bahn).\n\nRestaurant Eisenstein.  \nITALIAN | A longtime neighborhood favorite, Eisenstein serves fantastic food at affordable prices. The bubbly and mostly stylish crowd enjoys the Italian and Mediterranean dishes. The Pizza Helsinki (made with cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, onions, and salmon) is truly delicious. The setting, a 19th-century industrial complex with high ceilings and dark brick walls, feels very rustic. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Friedensallee 9, Ottensen | 040/390\u20134606 | www.restaurant-eisenstein.de | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Station: Altona (S-bahn).\n\nRive.  \nSEAFOOD | This handsome harborside oyster bar is known for both its German nouvelle cuisine and its classic local dishes. Media types come to this shiplike building for the fresh oysters and clams, as well as its spectacular views. Choose between such dishes as hearty Matjes mit dreierlei Saucen (herring with three sauces) or Loup de Mer in der Salzkruste (European sea bass in a salt crust). | Average main: \u20ac23 | Van-der-Smissen-Str. 1, Kreuzfahrt-Center, Altona | 040/380\u20135919 | www.rive.de | Reservations essential | Station: K\u00f6nigstrasse (S-bahn).\n\n## Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nVienna.  \nAUSTRIAN | The trick to getting a table at this much-loved little bistro in Eimsb\u00fcttel is to get there early. The kitchen officially opens for business at 7, but Vienna opens its doors midafternoon for those wanting an espresso or aperitif from their tiny bar. Early arrivers might still be asked to share a table in the dining room or outside in the courtyard but, given the delicious schnitzels, fresh fish dishes, and hearty deserts coming out of the kitchen, it will matter little to most. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Fettstr. 2, Eimsb\u00fcttel | 040/439\u20139182 | www.vienna-hamburg.de | Reservations not accepted | No credit cards | Closed Mon. No lunch | Station: Christuskirche (U-bahn).\n\nZipang.  \nJAPANESE | Hamburg may not have that many good Japanese restaurants, but this modern bistro-style restaurant is undoubtedly a gem. It's in the middle of Eppendorfer Weg, a long artery of little eateries and clothes and jewelry shops between Eppendorf and Eimsb\u00fcttel. Zipang has developed a loyal clientele of locals and Japanese expats through its warm service and modern interpretation of Japanese haute cuisine. As well as the typical offerings of sushi and tempura udon, the menu here features such treats as Wagyu beef with dipping sauces and duck and eggplant in red miso sauce. TIP The restaurant has a daily lunch special with a small miso soup and a dessert for around \u20ac10. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Eppendorfer Weg 171, Eppendorf | 040/4328\u20130032 | www.zipang.de | Closed Tues. No lunch Sun. | Station: Hoheluftbr\u00fccke (U-bahn).\n\nGenno's.  \nITALIAN | Genno's is far from the downtown district, in Hamburg-Hamm\u2014a rundown residential area where you would hardly expect to find such a gem of high-quality dining. Chef Eugen Albrecht makes you feel at home with warm service and tasty dishes. The cuisine is a mixture of his personal preferences, including dishes such as Lammfilet mit Rotweinsauce (filet of lamb with red-wine sauce). | Average main: \u20ac16 | Hammer Steindamm 123, Hamm | 040/202\u2013567 | www.gennos.de | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Closed Sun. No lunch | Station: Hasselbrook (S-bahn).\n\nSeven Seas.  \nFRENCH | The location of this sophisticated hotel and restaurant complex, a small hill in the countryside along the Elbe, comes with one of the greatest views of the river you'll find anywhere. The Seven Seas' award-winning French kitchen is run by one of Europe's premier chefs, Karlheinz Hauser, and features fish specialties served in three- to five-course dinners. | Average main: \u20ac36 | S\u00fcllbergsterrasse 12, Blankenese | 040/8662\u20135212 | www.suellberg-hamburg.de | Reservations essential | Closed Mon. and Tues. No lunch Wed.\u2013Sat. | Station: Blankenese (S-bahn), Kahlkamp (Bus No. 48).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAltstadt and Neustadt | St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel | St. Georg | Speicherstadt and HafenCity | Altona and Ottensen | Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nHamburg has simple pensions as well as five-star luxury enterprises. Nearly year-round conference and convention business keeps most rooms booked well in advance, and the rates are high. But many of the more expensive hotels lower their rates on weekends, when businesspeople have gone home. The tourist office can help with reservations if you arrive with nowhere to stay. In Hamburg, independent hotels may not have coffeemakers or an information book in the guest rooms, but, in general, you will find generously sized rooms and staffs willing to answer questions about the hotel. Hotels without business centers will fax and copy for you. At hotels without concierges, front-desk staff will whip out a map and give recommendations.\n\nAll accommodations offer no-smoking rooms. Although breakfast is not usually included, those who opt for the meal are usually greeted with an all-you-can-eat masterpiece with hot food options that sometimes includes an omelet station.\n\nKeep in mind that you'll probably encounter nudity in coed saunas at most hotels. Also, most double beds are made of two single beds on a large platform and an individual blanket for each mattress.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n## Altstadt and Neustadt\n\nAdina Apartment Hotel Hamburg Michel.  \nHOTEL | The Adina is less like a hotel and more like an apartment swap involving some really cool friends. The decor is neither too slick nor too generic, and the incredible amount of space and amenities are the stars here. The modern guest rooms feature full kitchens with dishwashers and full-size fridges, which can be prestocked for a \u20ac5 fee. The hominess might keep businesspeople and families coming back, but the location near the Reeperbahn also draws in a younger crowd on weekends. lThe hotel is down the street from an Edeka supermarket. Pros: excellent location; huge guest rooms with many amenities; free Wi-Fi in public spaces. Cons: indoor pool area is small and can be rowdy; Wi-Fi fee in guest rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Neuer Steinweg 26, Altstadt | 040/226\u20133500 | www.adina.eu | 128 apartments | No meals | Station: Stadhausbr\u00fccke (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Fairmont Vier Jahreszeiten.  \nHOTEL | Some claim that this beautiful 19th-century town house on the edge of the Binnenalster is the best hotel in Germany. Antiques - the hotel has a set of near-priceless Gobelin tapestries - fill the public rooms and accentuate the stylish bedrooms; fresh flowers overflow from massive vases; rare oil paintings adorn the walls; and all rooms are individually decorated with superb taste. Thankfully the technology found in the rooms is up-to-date, with Nespresso pod coffeemakers, DVD players, and iPod docking stations. lWith ten different places for dining and drinking within its premises, you don't necessarily need to stay overnight to get a taste of the Vier Jahreszeiten's famous luxury. Pros: luxury hotel with great view of Alster lakes; close to shopping on Jungfernstieg; large, charming rooms. Cons: high prices even in off-season; not much in way of nightlife outside of the hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac395 | Neuer Jungfernstieg 9\u201314, Neustadt | 040/34940 | www.fairmont-hvj.de | 123 rooms, 33 suites | No meals | Station: Jungfernstieg (U-bahn).\n\nGrand Elys\u00e9e Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | The \"grand\" at the Grand Elys\u00e9e Hamburg refers to its size, from the near 11,000-square-foot wellness area and five restaurants to the 511 guest rooms and extra-wide beds. The centerpiece of the hotel is the Boulevard, which was modeled after the Champs Elys\u00e9e and is lined with restaurants and a bar. The Grand Foyer features a lush, tropical installation with a waterfall and an accompanying bar, a large, quiet sitting area, and abstract art. Outside the Bourbon Street Bar, a piano player fills the air with music throughout the afternoon and evening. Pros: large guest rooms; close to tourist sites; diverse art throughout hotel; free Wi-Fi. Cons: rooms are rather plain; busy public spaces. | Rooms from: \u20ac200 | Rothenbaumchaussee 10, Altstadt | 040/414\u2013120 | www.grand-elysee.com | 494 rooms, 17 suites | No meals | Station: Dammtor (S-bahn).\n\nHenri Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Concealed down a side street not far from the main station, this small boutique hotel, with its retro-styled rooms, furniture, and phones, will undoubtedly please fans of film noir and Mad Men. The hotel's designers wanted regular business clients to feel at home, too, so guest rooms are softly lit, their dark, wooden chairs and cabinets offset by light green walls, gray curtains, and white wood panels behind the beds. As a result, the Henri feels a lot like a stylish bachelor pad, a sensation heightened by the hotel's small, denlike lobby and lounge, which flow on to an open-plan kitchen space, where there's a communal refrigerator stacked with bottles of beer and tubs of ice cream. Pros: intimate, friendly service; very quiet; excellent house cocktail; stylish black-and white-tiled bathrooms. Cons: may seem a little masculine for some tastes; on an otherwise uninspiring side street; limited nightlife in the area. | Rooms from: \u20ac118 | Bugenhagenstr. 21, Altstadt | 040/554\u20133570 | www.henri-hotel.com | 65 rooms | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), M\u00f6nckebergstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Baseler Hof.  \nHOTEL | It's hard to find fault with this handsome central hotel near the Binnenalster and the opera house; the service is friendly and efficient, the rooms are neatly albeit plainly furnished, and the prices are reasonable for such an expensive city. The hotel caters to both individuals and convention groups, so the otherwise roomy lounge area can be crowded at times. A small gym, a bar, and a restaurant ($$) specializing in German and French cuisine round off the facilities. Pros: directly across from the casino; walking distance from Dammtor train station. Cons: small rooms; rooms at the front of the hotel face onto a busy street. | Rooms from: \u20ac154 | Esplanade 11, Neustadt | 040/359\u2013060 | www.baselerhof.de | 176 rooms, 8 suites | No meals | Station: Stephansplatz (U-bahn).\n\nHotel F\u00fcrst Bismarck.  \nHOTEL | Despite its slightly sketchy location on a busy street opposite the Hauptbahnhof, the F\u00fcrst Bismarck is a surprisingly attractive hotel that feels homey yet contemporary. Grandfather clocks and old-fashioned chests of drawers decorate the hundred-year-old hallways, and the hotel's rooms are reasonably sized and comfortable, although sometimes a little plain. Shopping on M\u00f6nckebergstrasse, whiling away afternoons at museums, and dining on Lange Reihe are just footsteps away from here. lGuests get a free three-day public transport pass. Pros: centrally located; competitive prices; free pass for public transportation. Cons: basic bathrooms; small rooms; small additional fee for Wi-Fi. | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Kirchenallee 49, Altstadt | 040/280\u20131091 | www.fuerstbismarck.de | 102 rooms | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMotel One Am Michel.  \nHOTEL | This branch of the Motel One chain is ideal for those looking for a trendy, design-minded, central yet inexpensive base. The bed linens are sumptuous, towels are lush, and the bed is crowned with real leather and dark wood. The bathrooms have rainfall showerheads, and the shampoo and conditioner are made from organic ingredients. The rooms are small, however, and lack basics like telephones, chairs, closets (there is a bar for hanging clothes), and information about the hotel or the city in the guest rooms (you can't call anyone to ask a question, either). There are flat-screen TVs, though. The coffee machines and juice dispenser used at breakfast are hidden behind panels in the lobby, which is a breakfast room in the morning and a bar at night. Despite this efficiency, breakfast can be chaotic. It's close to the convention center, the Reeperbahn, St. Michaelis Kirche, and Planten un Blomen. Pros: close to the best nightlife in town; bar open 24 hours; free Wi-Fi. Cons: no amenities; no restaurant; small rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac84 | Ludwig-Erhard-Str. 26, Altstadt | 040/3571\u20138900 | www.motel-one.com | 437 rooms | No meals.\n\nFodor's Choice | Park Hyatt Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | Housed within the historic Levantehaus, a luxury mall on the city's main shopping drag, the Park Hyatt delivers the hospitality and comfort expected of one of Germany's best hotels, with plush beds, marble bathrooms, and peace and quiet. The open lobby is full of wood panels and soft illumination, and this feeling of space and light extends to the hotel's large guest rooms and bathrooms. Those weary after a long day can relax in the hotel's stylish bar, or book a massage in the huge, 10,800-square-foot wellness area, which includes a 20-meter-long pool and a fully equipped gym. Suitably refreshed, guests can take high tea in the Park Lounge or indulge in something more substantial from the grill in the Apples Restaurant ($$$$). lThe hotel's back faces busy M\u00f6nckebergstrasse, making this the most centrally located five-star property in town. Pros: close to museums; warm interior design; large, quiet rooms with all modern amenities; friendly and helpful service. Cons: area can feel dead on Sunday, when all the stores are closed; far from most nightlife. | Rooms from: \u20ac235 | Bugenhagenstr. 8, Neustadt | 040/3332\u20131234 | www.hamburg.park.hyatt.com | 176 rooms, 21 suites, 31 apartments | No meals | Station: M\u00f6nckebergstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nRadisson Blu Hotel, Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | There's no missing the black glass and gray concrete form of the Radisson Blu, which towers 100 meters above Dammtor train station, with sweeping views of Planten un Blomen and the city. Built in 1973, it's a bold yet welcoming property that resembles a giant harmonica balanced on one end. Guest rooms here have three modern design styles: pale wood and earth tone furnishings; bold aquas and mustard interiors; and black lacquer accents, dark wood, and turquoise carpets. Connected to a congress center, the hotel is a favorite of business travelers, and has all the amenities to keep them happy. Pros: some of the best views in town; very stylish; next to a major train station; ladies-only sauna. Cons: small gym; sleeping area has a window into bathroom, and the blinds are controlled from outside the bathroom; few good restaurants in immediate area. | Rooms from: \u20ac175 | Marseiller Str. 2, Neustadt | 040/35020 | www.radissonblu.de | 556 rooms, 9 suites | No meals | Station: Dammtor (S-bahn).\n\nSIDE.  \nHOTEL | Futuristic, minimalistic\u2014call it what you like, but this hip five-star hotel has been a byword for inner city cool since its opening in 2001. On a side street near the opera, SIDE stands out from the rest of the crowd not because of its exterior, which is rather bland, but because of what's on the inside. Guests are greeted by a soaring, glass-paneled atrium and sleek, space-age interiors decorated with brightly colored cubes and pebble-shape furniture, all designed by the Milanese maestro Matteo Thun. The hotel's popularity with its business clientele and local fashionistas is enhanced by its excellent cocktail bar and eatery restaurant, which many claim does the best dry-aged beef in town. Pros: Nespresso pod coffeemakers in rooms; convenient but quiet location. Cons: some might find decor sterile; most guest rooms lack views. | Rooms from: \u20ac160 | Drehbahn 49, Neustadt | 040/309\u2013990 | www.side-hamburg.de | 168 rooms, 10 suites | No meals | Station: G\u00e4nsemarkt (U-bahn).\n\nSofitel Hamburg Alter Wall.  \nHOTEL | Behind the facade of a centrally located, former Deutsche Post building hides the sleek d\u00e9cor and famously comfortable beds of one of the city's finest business hotels. Dominated by gray, white, and dark-brown hues, rooms are furnished with tasteful, contemporary furniture, huge beds (by German standards), and even bigger marble bathrooms. The Sofitel's Ticino restaurant serves flavors from around the world, its lunch bistro and Seagull restaurants focus on specialties from France. Downstairs there's a cozy indoor pool and spa area, decked out in Italian tiles and natural stone, as well as a small gym. Pros: in the historic downtown area; close to luxury shops; large rooms. Cons: somewhat cold design; no real nightlife within walking distance. | Rooms from: \u20ac215 | Alter Wall 40, Altstadt | 040/369\u2013500 | www.sofitel.com | 223 rooms, 18 suites | No meals | Station: R\u00f6dingsmarkt (U-bahn).\n\n## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel\n\nThe Boston.  \nHOTEL | Taking its cue from the funky Sternschanze neighborhood where it's located, The Boston is ultramodern and sleek, and its small staff works hard for its mostly business clientele. The hotel's public spaces are created with a dark palette of black and grays, with white and orange highlights. The bright guest rooms are enormous and comfortable. The so-called Design rooms are a bit more adventurous, than the Classic ones, with clever innovations like closets hidden behind fake walls. The gym is small but rarely used; people come to the Boston for its proximity to the convention center, the Neue Flora Theatre, and the cool bars and restaurants in Sternschanze, not to work out. Pros: the design is chic and comfortable; staff is very helpful; close to great bars and restaurants. Cons: no a/c (the hotel has some fans for guests); windows open but noise from street traffic can be a problem. | Rooms from: \u20ac160 | Missundestr. 2, Schanzenviertel | 040/5896\u201366700 | www.boston-hamburg.de | 34 rooms, 12 suites | No meals | Station: Holstenstrasse (S-bahn).\n\nEmpire Riverside Hotel.  \nHOTEL | The location near the Reeperbahn and the harbor, the clever use of space and light, and a cool bar that attracts thousands every weekend make the Empire a favorite. The white-walled guest rooms feel spacious and airy, and most have river views. Dark-wood banquettes replace traditional desks, and pocket doors allow entry into the bright bathrooms. Even though the hotel is three short blocks from the center of the Reeperbahn, there is little noise. You cannot even hear the revelers who line up to sip expensive cocktails in the 20 Up bar, which sits on the hotel's top level and has awesome views of the Elbe and Hamburg. On Saturday night, the line for the popular bar snakes through the lobby. lAfter 5 pm, a sushi bar opens in David's bar on the ground floor. Pros: close to nightlife; excellent view of the city and river; bright rooms; free Wi-Fi. Cons: a steep hill separates the hotel from the harbor; top-floor bar gets crowded after 9 pm on weekends. | Rooms from: \u20ac159 | Bernhard-Nocht-Stra. 97, St. Pauli | 040/311\u2013190 | www.empire-riverside.de | 315 rooms, 12 suites | No meals | Station: Reeperbahn (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | east Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Not content to limit itself to merely being a place to sleep, this chic landmark hotel combines a buzzing cocktail bar with a similarly trendy sushi and steak restaurant to create one of the hottest spots in town. In contrast to the brickwork on its facade, the inside of this former iron foundry is full of curvy, funky shapes and forms and open spaces of deep oranges, dark browns, and creams. The effect, whether in the hotel's lobby bar or in one of its funky, open-plan guest rooms, is one of almost immediate comfort and a sense of escape from the frenetic nighttime activity of the Reeperbahn, a few blocks away. Pros: unique; popular nightclub on third floor (Friday and Saturday only); excellent service. Cons: a small fee for the gym after 6 pm; parking garage is removed from main building; area around the hotel can be frenetic on weekends. | Rooms from: \u20ac190 | Simon-von-Utrecht-Str. 31, St. Pauli | 040/309-930 | www.east-hamburg.de | 122 rooms, 6 suites | No meals | Station: St Pauli (U-bahn).\n\nfritzhotel.  \nHOTEL | Squeezed into an old apartment building in the center of the Schanzenviertel, the hotel has small but modern and comfortable rooms that are best for those who just want somewhere good to lay their head for a night or two. There may not be much in the way of amenities, and breakfast is limited to free coffee and fresh fruit, but the hotel's location in the middle of an area famous for its cool caf\u00e9s, restaurants, and bars will be more than enough for some. Pros: tidy, clean rooms for reasonable prices; the S- and U-bahn are across the street. Cons: noisy due to the S-bahn tracks; area crowded on weekend nights; can be difficult to find a parking place near the hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac97 | Schanzenstr. 101\u2013103, Schanzenviertel | 040/8222\u20132830 | www.fritzhotel.com | 15 rooms | No meals | Station: Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Hafen Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | This harbor landmark, just across from the famous St. Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken, is a good value considering its four-star status. The main part of the hotel has small but nicely renovated rooms, while the modern tower annex offers a great view of the harbor. The location makes this hotel a perfect starting point for exploring St. Pauli and the Reeperbahn. Venture to the Portuguese Quarter to try unbelievable food from the Iberian Peninsula. lThe Tower Bar is a popular Hamburg hangout and a great spot for a sundowner. Pros: top location for harbor and St. Pauli sightseeing; great views; comfortable, fairly large rooms; free Wi-Fi. Cons: smoking allowed in Tower Bar; poor restaurant selection in immediate neighborhood; a bit of a climb to reach hotel from the pier. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Seewartenstr. 7\u20139, St. Pauli | 040/311\u2013130 | www.hotel-hafen-hamburg.de | 380 rooms | No meals | Station: Landungsbr\u00fccken (U-bahn).\n\nM\u00f6venpick Hotel Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | For its Hamburg outpost, the M\u00f6venpick chain transformed a 19th-century water tower on a hill in the middle of the leafy Schanzenpark into a state-of-the-art business hotel. Inside the handsome facade, much of the original tower still remains; the lobby features brick walls and vaulted ceilings, while steel from the structure frames guest-room doors. The guest rooms are all reasonably sized and stylishly modern, but the further you climb the hotel, the greater the comfort and views. The many amenities here include an excellent restaurant serving international and Swiss cuisine, as well as a gym, pool, and spa. Pros: in the middle of a quiet park; unique building; amazing views from upper floors; English-language newspaper available in restaurant. Cons: paid Wi-Fi in some guest rooms; some lower level rooms have ordinary views. | Rooms from: \u20ac139 | Sternschanze 6, Schanzenviertel | 040/334\u20134110 | www.moevenpick-hamburg.com | 226 rooms, 10 suites | No meals | Station: Sternschanze (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## St. Georg\n\nThe George Hotel.  \nHOTEL | At the end of a strip of funky caf\u00e9s and bars, the George, with its groovy New British styling, fits right in; despite the sleek look and the hip guests, the staff is eager to please. Champagnes, grays, and browns mix throughout guest rooms, and large arty photographs add life throughout the hotel. In the small lobby, wingback chairs and textured wallpaper, both covered in shades of black, are illuminated by candlelight. The hotel has a rooftop bar that offers views of the Alster and the setting sun. lKeeping with the British theme, afternoon tea is served in the bar at 3 pm. Pros: free Wi-Fi; DJs play in the hotel on weekends; a stone's throw from the Alster. Cons: can be noisy, particularly for guests on the first floor; some may find the design unwelcoming. | Rooms from: \u20ac185 | Barcastr. 3, St. Georg | 040/280\u20130300 | www.thegeorge-hotel.de | 118 rooms, 7 suites | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), AK St. Georg (Bus No. 6).\n\nHotel Village.  \nHOTEL | Near the central train station and once a thriving brothel, this hotel and its red-and-black carpets, glossy wallpaper, and dinky chandeliers still exudes lasciviousness. In keeping with the hotel's sordid past, some rooms even have replicas of the old large beds, complete with a canopy and revolving mirror. It's a popular location for magazine shoots. Pros: in the heart of downtown; individually designed rooms; fun decor; free coffee at reception. Cons: sometimes casual service; although it's slowly being gentrified, the neighborhood remains a little seedy. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Steindamm 4, St. Georg | 040/480\u20136490 | www.hotel-village.de | 20 rooms, 3 suites, 4 apartments | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Atlantic Kempinski Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | There are few hotels in Germany more sumptuous than this gracious Edwardian palace facing the Aussenalster, which draws both celebrities and the not-so-famous searching for a luxe retreat. Built in 1909 for first-class passengers about to travel across the Atlantic, the hotel still exudes class. Tasteful desert hues mingle with deep-color furnishings in guest rooms, and Murano crystal chandeliers light belle -\u00e9poque interiors. The marble-covered bathrooms have heated floors, and there are Bose sound systems and iPod docking stations in the large rooms. Guests can relax in the stately elegance of the lobby or in the outdoor courtyard, with only a gurgling fountain to disturb the peace. Pros: large rooms; great views of lakeside skyline; impeccable service; historic flair; free Wi-Fi throughout the hotel. Cons: public areas can be crowded; faces onto a busy thoroughfare. | Rooms from: \u20ac229 | An der Alster 72\u201379, St. Georg | 040/28880 | www.kempinski.com | 215 rooms, 30 suites | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Le Royal M\u00e9ridien Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | This luxury hotel along the Alster offers you beauty inside and outside its walls. Contemporary art is on view throughout the hotel, including the elevator. The sleek but unassuming facade and ultramodern interior might border on cold, but the outstanding spa and wellness area (complete with an indoor lap pool) and the impeccable service make you feel comfortably at ease. The staff is the perfect blend of helpful and friendly. lYou can snack on fruit at the reception. In warm weather, a free ferry takes you across the Aussenalster to Jungfernstieg. Pros: great location with views of the Alster; smartly designed, large rooms; outstanding pool area; Wi-Fi free in lobby. Cons: pricey Wi-Fi; top-floor bar and restaurant can get crowded. | Rooms from: \u20ac189 | An der Alster 52\u201356, St. Georg | 040/21000 | www.leroyalmeridienhamburg.com | 265 rooms, 19 suites | No meals | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nSteen's Hotel.  \nHOTEL | This small, family-run hotel in a four-story town house near the central train station provides modest but congenial service. The rooms have enough space but lack atmosphere. Bathrooms are tiny. A great plus are the comfortable beds with reclining head and foot rests. The breakfasts amply make up for the uninspired rooms, and the hotel's garage is a blessing, because there's never a parking space in this neighborhood. Pros: highly competitive prices; good breakfast; friendly service. Cons: rooms fairly plain; few amenities and hotel services; no elevator; fee for Wi-Fi. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Holzdamm 43, St. Georg | 040/244\u2013642 | www.steens-hotel.com | 15 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nWedina.  \nHOTEL | A laid-back oasis in the bustling neighborhood of St. Georg, this unique small hotel is spread over four different buildings a short amble from the outer Alster. The Wedina's red, blue, green, and yellow houses bear themes that include \"Tuscany\" as well as \"Literature.\" It's renowned for the famous authors, including J. K. Rowling and Jonathan Safran Foer, who have stayed here while giving readings at the nearby Literaturhaus. The red house has a small library of books signed by the hotel's literary guests, while the green \"architecture\" house is distinguished by smooth concrete and natural wood and views on to a peaceful \"Swiss Zen\" garden. lAll lodgings are a half block from the Aussenalster and a brisk 10-minute walk from the train station. Rent a bike from the hotel to tour the Alster. Pros: cozy, comfortable, and quiet rooms; very accommodating; knowledgeable staff; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel; great breakfast. Cons: hotel spread over several buildings; smallish rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac145 | Gurlittstr. 23, St. Georg | 040/280\u20138900 | www.wedina.de | 46 rooms, 13 apartments | Breakfast | Station: Hauptbahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn), Gurlittstrasse (Bus No. 6).\n\n## Speicherstadt and HafenCity\n\n25Hours Hotel HafenCity.  \nHOTEL | Although the trendy 25hours Hotel HafenCity is a little more kitsch than absolutely necessary, it does take guests on a fun trip back to Hamburg's maritime past. The hotel information book is called a Logbook, which, along with guidance about the property and the city, contains the stories of 25 sailors. Guest rooms are outfitted with wooden buckets and rope ladders, and some rooms have bunks. The rooms include modern touches like iPod docking stations. The Club Room is a relaxing spot where guests can play vintage vinyl; the lobby boasts a Skype Cabin for calling home; and there's space for local bands to jam. There's also a little shop selling magazines and souvenirs, and a groovy bar and restaurant to hang out in on the ground floor. Pros: cool design; up-and-coming part of town; free Wi-Fi. Cons: trendy decor might be too trendy for some; not a lot of other nightlife options within walking distance. | Rooms from: \u20ac125 | \u00dcberseeallee 5, Speicherstadt | 040/257\u20137770 | www.25hours-hotels.com | 170 rooms | Station: \u00dcberseequartier (U-bahn).\n\n## Altona and Ottensen\n\n25hours Hotel Number One.  \nHOTEL | Packing fun and retro design into a relaxed package that includes beanbag chairs, shag carpets, and bold wallpapers, this is the type of place for travelers seeking something a bit different. Happily for those who decide to stay here, there's a load of freebies that come on top. Guests get a free bottle of beer at check-in, free ice cream in summer, free songs from a jukebox in the lounge, and free use of a MINI car or bikes during the day. There's also a 15% discount for those under 26, but given all the extras and the hotel's friendly staff, it's unsurprising that it's popular with families and business travelers as well. Pros: free Wi-Fi; shopping center and supermarket nearby. Cons: removed from the city center; a 10-minute walk to the nearest train station. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | 2 Paul-Dessau-Str., Altona | 040/855\u2013070 | www.25hours-hotels.com | 128 rooms | No meals | Station: Bahrenfeld (S-bahn).\n\nGastwerk Hotel Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | Proudly dubbing itself Hamburg's first design hotel, the Gastwerk, named after the 100-year-old gasworks housed inside, is certainly one of the most stylish places to stay in town. Incredibly chic furnishings, warm woods, and thick carpets complement the industrial grandeur of the hotel, and its large, modern guest rooms all have newly renovated bathrooms and flat-screen TVs. lThe loft rooms, with large windows, exposed brick walls, and tons of space, are well worth the extra cost. Pros: large and well-equipped health club; free use of a MINI car. Cons: removed from downtown area and most sightseeing spots; breakfast room, bar and other public spaces can get crowded. | Rooms from: \u20ac160 | Beim Alten Gaswerk 3, Altona | 040/890\u2013620 | www.gastwerk.com | 127 rooms, 14 suites | No meals | Station: Bahrenfeld (S-bahn).\n\n## Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Louis C. Jacob.  \nHOTEL | Those who make the effort to travel 20 minutes from the center of town to this small yet luxurious hotel perched above Elbe will gain a mixture of sophistication, Michelin-starred dining, and fine Hanseatic hospitality. Founded in 1791, the hotel has drawn plenty of famous names to its chandeliered dining room and oak floored guest rooms over the years. Artist Max Liebermann stayed here and painted its leafy terrace with linden trees, and a suite still bears his name. From one of the hotel's tastefully appointed, river-view rooms you can watch passing ships, while the spacious rooms of the hotel's more modern wing across the road look on to manicured little courtyards. Pros: outstanding service with attention to personal requests; quiet, serene setting; historic building; extremely comfortable beds. Cons: lounge is a little stuffy; away from downtown area and most nightlife, restaurants, and shopping; expensive. | Rooms from: \u20ac275 | Elbchausee 401\u2013403, Blankenese | 040/822\u2013550 | www.hotel-jacob.de | 66 rooms, 19 suites | No meals | Station: Hochkamp (S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Lindner Park-Hotel Hagenbeck.  \nHOTEL | Everything at this hotel is aimed at transporting you from metropolitan Hamburg to the wilds of Asia and Africa. Inspired by its location right next to the zoo, the hotel features artwork, furnishings, and even smells from these continents to create spaces reminiscent of 19th-century safari outposts. The hotel also has every modern amenity, and the staff is friendly and competent. Because it is not in the heart of Hamburg, rooms are generous in size and many have balconies. Restaurant Augila produces an eclectic array of Indian and African dishes, which taste great but are not overly spicy. lYou can buy tickets to Tierpark Hagenbeck and the Tropen Aquarium at a 25% discount from the concierge. Pros: smartly designed Africa and Asia theme carried throughout hotel; a/c in guest rooms; good restaurants. Cons: removed from the city center; not much else going on in the immediate area; fee for Wi-Fi. | Rooms from: \u20ac149 | Hagenbeckstr. 150 | 040/8008\u201308100 | www.lindner.de | 151 rooms, 7 suites | No meals | Station: Hagenbecks Tierpark (U-bahn).\n\nNippon Hotel.  \nHOTEL | You'll be asked to remove your shoes before entering your room at this small but welcoming Japanese-style hotel, where tatami mats line the floor and shoji blinds cover the windows. The authenticity might make things a bit too spartan for some, but by cutting some Western-style comforts without skimping on service, the hotel offers good value in the attractive lakeside neighborhood of Uhlenhorst. Pros: quiet, residential neighborhood; a/c in guest rooms; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel. Cons: location removed from major sightseeing sights; limited parking. | Rooms from: \u20ac126 | Hofweg 75, Uhlenhorst | 040/227\u20131140 | www.nipponhotel.de | 41 rooms, 1 suite | No meals | Station: Mundsburg (U-bahn), Zimmerstrasse (Bus No. 6).\n\nYoHo.  \nHOTEL | Housed in a historic villa that's an easy walk from the Schanzenviertel, this friendly, modern little hotel was originally designed and priced to attract a young, cosmopolitan crowd, but lots of others head here, too. Guest rooms, can sometimes be on the small side, but they are all tastefully outfitted with wooden shutters on the windows and black slate in the bathrooms. Most rooms also have flat-screen TVs, and despite the minimal decor, the hotel has an obvious warmth. Staff are helpful, and if you find yourself wanting a quiet night in, there's a good Middle Eastern restaurant, Mazza, on the ground floor, as well as DVDs you can borrow from reception. Pros: quiet neighborhood; free Wi-Fi throughout hotel; free parking. Cons: sometimes noisy due to young travelers; removed from all major sightseeing sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Moorkamp 5, Eimsb\u00fcttel | 040/284\u20131910 | www.yoho-hamburg.de | 30 rooms | No meals | Station: Christuskirche (U-bahn), Schlump (U-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nThe Arts | Nightlife\n\n## The Arts\n\nThe arts flourish in this cosmopolitan city. Hamburg's ballet company is one of the finest in Europe, and the Hamburger Ballett-Tage, its annual festival, brings the best from around the world to Hamburg.\n\nAt the end of September, the city comes alive with movie showings. The Hamburg Film Festival features the best feature films, documentary, short films, and children's movies. About 80% of the films are in English or have English subtitles. For two weeks, thousands of people watch mainstream and quirky films in various theaters around town.\n\nInformation on all major events are available on the Hamburg Tourism Office website. TIP The best way to order tickets for all major Hamburg theaters, musicals, and most cultural events is through the Hamburg-Hotline ( 040/3005\u20131300).\n\nFunke Konzertkassen.  \nHamburg's largest ticket seller has box offices throughout Hamburg, including one at Dammtor train station with English-speaking agents. The website is only in German, but a ticket hotline will connect you with English-speaking representatives. | Dammtorbahnhof, Dag-Hammarskj\u00f6ldpl., Neustadt | 040/663\u2013661 | www.funke-ticket.de.\n\nHamburg.de.  \nThe city's official website is a good source for information about cultural and arts events going on in the city. Just click the \"What's on\" tab. | www.english.hamburg.de.\n\nLandungsbr\u00fccken.  \nA number of agencies, including the Hamburg tourist office at Landungsbr\u00fccken, sell tickets for plays, concerts, and the ballet. | Between Piers 4 and 5,between Br\u00fccke 4 and 5, St. Pauli | 040/3005\u20131300 | www.hamburg-travel.com.\n\n### Ballet and Opera\n\nHamburgische Staatsoper.  \nOne of the most beautiful theaters in the country, the Hamburgische Staatsoper is the leading northern German venue for opera and ballet. The Hamburg Ballet is directed by the American John Neumeier. | Grosse Theaterstr. 25, Neustadt | 040/356\u2013868 | www.hamburgische-staatsoper.de.\n\nTUI Operettenhaus.  \nThe TUI Operettenhaus stages productions of top musicals. A musical adaptation of Rocky has called the theater home since November 2011. Tour of the theater are also available. | Spielbudenpl. 1, St. Pauli | 01805/4444 for tickets | www.stage-entertainment.de.\n\n### Concerts\n\nLaeiszhalle.  \nBoth the Philharmoniker Hamburg (Hamburg Philharmonic) and the Hamburger Symphoniker (Hamburg Symphony) appear regularly in the magnificent neo-baroque interior of the Laeiszhalle, which also hosts international orchestras and some of the biggest names in contemporary music. | Johannes-Brahms-Pl., Neustadt | 040/3576\u20136666 | www.elbphilharmonie.de.\n\n### Film\n\nAbaton.  \nMainstream, art-house, and independent films are shown at this comfy, three-screen movie theater next to the University of Hamburg. | Allendepl. 3, Neustadt | 040/320\u2013320 | www.abaton.de.\n\nSavoy Filmtheater.  \nThe Savoy's a fantastic, old-school movie theater with impressive modern features that include high-quality sound and enormous, reclinable leather seats. It shows mainstream and independent movies in English. | Steindamm 54, St. Georg | 040/2840\u201393628 | www.savoy-filmtheater.de.\n\n### Theater\n\nTicket and theater information is available at www.stage-entertainment.de or by calling | 01805/4444.\n\nDeutsches Schauspielhaus.  \nOne of Germany's leading drama stages, Deutsches Schauspielhaus has been lavishly restored to its full 19th-century opulence. It's the most important venue in town for classical and modern theater. | Kirchenallee 39, St. Georg | 040/248\u2013710 | www.schauspielhaus.de.\n\nEnglish Theatre of Hamburg.  \nThe name says it all: the English Theatre, first opened in 1976, is the city's premier theater for works in English. Actors from near and far bring contemporary and classic drama to life on the small stage of this historic building. | Lerchenfeld 14, Uhlenhorst | 040/227\u20137089 | www.englishtheatre.de.\n\nNeue Flora Theater.  \nHandily located just across the street from the Holstenstrasse S-bahn, the 2,000-seat Neuer Flora attracts big crowds, who come for popular, long-running musicals such as Tarzan and The Phantom of the Opera. | Stresemannstr. 159a, at Alsenstr., Schanzenviertel | 01805/4444 for tickets, 040/4316\u20135133 for theater | www.stage-entertainment.de.\n\nTheater im Hamburger Hafen.  \nTheater im Hamburger Hafen is home to Der K\u00f6nig der L\u00f6wen, a German version of the hit musical The Lion King. The easiest way to reach the theater, which is on the south side of the Elbe, is by ferry from St. Pauli Landungsbr\u00fccken. | Norderelbstr. 6, at Hamburger Hafen, follow signs to Schuppen 70, St. Pauli | 01805/4444 | www.stage-entertainment.de.\n\n## Nightlife\n\n### Altstadt and Neustadt\n\n#### Jazz and Live Music\n\nCotton Club.  \nA visit to the Cotton Club, Hamburg's oldest jazz club, is worth it for the house beer alone. Throw in the club's relaxed vibe and nights devoted to jazz, blues, soul and Dixieland, and it's not difficult to find a reason to drop in. | Alter Steinweg 10, Neustadt | 040/343\u2013878 | www.cotton-club.de.\n\nBrahmskeller.  \nGuests at this relaxed bar can easily get caught up in friendly conversation. It's the kind of place where everyone is a regular, even newcomers. | Grosse Bleichen 31, on the ground floor inside Kaufmannshaus, Neustadt | 040/353\u2013306 | www.brahmskeller.de.\n\n### St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel\n\nWhether you think it sexy or gross, the Reeperbahn, in the St. Pauli District, is as important to the Hamburg scene as the classy shops along Jungfernstieg. On nearby Grosse Freiheit you'll find a number of the better-known dance clubs. Hans-Elber-Platz has a cluster of bars, some with live music.\n\n#### Bars\n\nHamburg has many buzzy and upscale bars, with many spots that feature live music or DJs and dancing.\n\n20 Up at the Empire Riverside Hotel.  \nFor a smooth cocktail, cool lounge music, and amazingly good views over the city and harbor, try this bar, which is one of the most popular nightspots in town. It's best to book ahead. | Bernhard-Nocht-Str. 97, St. Pauli | 040/31119\u201370470 | www.empire-riverside.de.\n\nChristiansen's.  \nThe cozy Christiansen's Fine Drinks & Cocktails, a short distance from the Fischmarkt, mixes some of the best cocktails in town. | Pinnasberg 60, St. Pauli | 040/317\u20132863 | www.christiansens.de.\n\nMandalay.  \nThis is one of several upscale, sleek bars catering to thirtysomethings that are in and around St. Pauli and Sternschanze. | Neuer Pferdemarkt 13, Schanzenviertel | 040/4321\u20134922 | www.mandalay.tv.\n\nTower Bar at Hotel Hafen Hamburg.  \nThe view from this bar that's almost 200 feet up, on top of a riverside hotel, makes it an ideal spot to sip cocktails and watch the sun go down\u2014particularly if you're a smoker. | Seewartenstr. 9, St. Pauli | 040/31113\u201370450 | www.hotel-hafen-hamburg.de.\n\nYakshi's Bar at the East Hotel.  \nWith its combination of exposed brickwork, soft lighting, and soothing, curvy shapes\u2014not to mention a drink list that runs to over 250 drinks\u2014it's little wonder that this popular cocktail bar draws fashionable people of all ages. | Simon-von-Utrecht-Str. 31, St. Pauli | 040/309\u2013930 | www.east-hamburg.de.\n\n#### Cabaret Theater\n\nSchmidts Theater and Schmidts Tivoli.  \nThe quirky Schmidt Theater and Schmidts Tivoli has become Germany's most popular variety theater, presenting a classy repertoire of live music, vaudeville, and cabaret. | Spielbudenpl. 24\u201328, St. Pauli | 040/3177\u20138899 | www.tivoli.de.\n\n* * *\n\nNightlife in Hamburg\n\nPeople flock to Hamburg for shopping, but there's much more to experience come nightfall. The city has plenty of places where you can hop from bar to bar or lounge to lounge. Here are some of the most fun streets in Hamburg:\n\nGrindelallee and side streets in the Univiertel: Home to the Universit\u00e4t der Hamburg, the quarter, with its mix of affordable caf\u00e9s and Asian and Middle Eastern restaurants, is popular with students and townies alike.\n\nGrosse Elbstrasse in Altona: This is the home of the Altona Fischmarkt and a variety of popular riverside restaurants and bars.\n\nGrossneumarkt: This square is packed with comfortable, relaxing pubs and German restaurants. In summer it's a popular meeting point for Hamburgers who want to sit outside and eat and drink in relaxed surroundings.\n\nReeperbahn, Grosse Freiheit, and the streets around Spielbudenplatz in St. Pauli: This sinful mile has everything\u2014strip clubs, pubs, live music, dive bars, and nightclubs. It's loud and crazy and fun just to walk up and down the streets.\n\nSchanzenstrasse in Sternschanze: Hipsters flock to this compact row of buzzing bars and laid-back lounges that pour onto the sidewalk when the weather is warm.\n\n* * *\n\n#### Dance Clubs\n\nChina Lounge.  \nThe China Lounge, in a former Chinese restaurant, remains one of Hamburg's coolest lounges, attracting many hip and beautiful thirtysomethings. | Nobistor 14, St. Pauli | 040/3197\u20136622 | www.china-hamburg.de.\n\nMojo Club.  \nAfter changing locations, the storied Mojo Club has been reborn and is now located beneath a spaceship-like hatch, which rises out of the sidewalk to allow in revelers who come to dance to its live DJs and their eclectic mix of jazz, funk, soul, and electronic beats. | Reeperbahn 1, St. Pauli | 040/430\u20134616 | www.mojo.de.\n\nStage Club.  \nOne of the most appealing and entertaining clubs in Hamburg, Stage Club, on the first floor of the Theater Neue Flora, welcomes a varied crowd for soul, funk, or jazz every night, followed by a DJ. | Stresemannstr. 163, Schanzenviertel | 040/4316\u20135460 | www.stageclub.de.\n\n#### Jazz and Live Music\n\nDocks.  \nThere's a stylish bar here, as well as one of Hamburg's largest venues for live music acts from around the world. When the concert stage is empty, a hip-hop club takes over. | Spielbudenpl. 19, St. Pauli | 040/317\u20138830 | www.docks.de.\n\nGrosse Freiheit 36.  \nOne of the best-known nightspots in town, Grosse Freiheit 36 has made its name as both a popular venue for big names from around the world and as the location of the Kaiserkeller, a nightclub where the Beatles once played that's still going strong. | Grosse Freiheit 36, St. Pauli | 040/317\u20137780 | www.grossefreiheit36.de.\n\nIndra Club.  \nThe Beatles' first stop on the road to fame was the Indra Club. The club's owner, Bruno Koschmider, asked for one thing, and that was a wild show. These days, the Indra is still a nightclub, with live music acts nearly every night. | Grosse Freiheit 64, St. Pauli | www.hotel-jacob.de.\n\n#### Pubs\n\nAltes M\u00e4dchen.  \nBeer fans will be hard pressed to find a better spot in town to sample that amber nectar. With a number of local beers on tap and more than 60 craft beers to order from, plus a decent selection of German pub food, it's unsurprising that this gastropub quickly developed a glowing reputation after opening in early 2013. | Lagerstr. 28b, Schanzenviertel | 040/8000\u201377750 | www.altes-maedchen.com.\n\nGretel und Alfons.  \nGermans are not known for mingling, but at this small pub in the middle of Grosse Freiheit, you can strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you. Perhaps that's why it was a firm favorite with the Beatles, who could often be found here when not performing at a number of clubs on the street. | Grosse Freiheit 29, St. Pauli | 040/313\u2013491 | www.gretelundalfons.de.\n\n### St. Georg\n\n#### Bars\n\nBar DaCaio at the George Hotel.  \nThis bar has a black-on-black design, good looks all over, great service, and endless drink options. It's also located in one of the hottest hotels in town. | Barcastr. 3, St. Georg | 040/280\u20130300 | www.thegeorge-hotel.de.\n\n#### Dance Clubs\n\nGolden Cut.  \nAt Golden Cut, just across from the main train station, DJs spin house, hip-hop, and electronic music. | Holzdamm 61, St. Georg | 040/8510\u20133532 | www.goldencut.org.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n### Bicycling\n\nMore or less flat as a pancake, and with dedicated cycle paths running parallel to sidewalks throughout the city, Hamburg's an incredibly bike-friendly place. A number of hotels let their guests borrow bikes, but perhaps the most convenient option is to hire a \"Stadtrad\"\u2014a city bike. Chunky and red-framed, and outfitted with locks and lights, they can be picked up and dropped off at a multitude of locations around the city, including at the Hauptbahnhof, at larger U-bahn and S-bahn stations, and near popular tourist spots. Bikes are free for the first 30 minutes, and then cost 8\u00a2 per minute up to a maximum daily rate of \u20ac12. For more information and to register, visit www.stadtradhamburg.de.\n\nHamburg City Cycles.  \nFrom a central location, this friendly little outfit rents bikes and also offers guided tours and day trips to destinations that are farther afield. | Bernhard-Nocht-Str. 89\u201391, St. Pauli | 040/7421\u20134420 | www.hhcitycycles.de.\n\n### Jogging\n\nThe best places for going for a run are the Planten un Blomen and Alter Botanischer Garten parks and along the leafy promenade around the Alster. The latter route is about 7 km (4.3 miles) long.\n\n### Sailing\n\nYou can rent rowboats and sailboats on the Alster in summer between 10 am and 9 pm. Rowboats cost around \u20ac10 to \u20ac12 an hour, sailboats around \u20ac16 an hour (and they usually accommodate two adults). The largest selection of boats is at the Gurlitt-Insel pier off An der Alster (on the east bank of the Aussenalster). Another rental outlet is at the very tip of the Alster, at the street Fernsicht.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nShopping Districts | Altstadt and Neustadt | St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel | Altona and Ottensen | Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\nAlthough not appearing as rich or sumptuous as D\u00fcsseldorf or Munich, Hamburg is nevertheless expensive, and ranks first among Germany's shopping experiences. Some of the country's premier designers, such as Karl Lagerfeld, Jil Sander, and Wolfgang Joop, are native Hamburgers, or at least worked here for quite some time. Hamburg has the greatest number of shopping malls in the country\u2014they're mostly small, elegant Downtown arcades offering entertainment, fashion, and fine food.\n\nAll the big luxury names\u2014Chanel, Versace, Armani, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Tiffany\u2014are found in the warren of streets bounded by Jungferstieg, the Rathaus, and Neue ABC-Strasse. International chain stores, like Fossil, Adidas and MAC, and European chains, such as G\u00f6rtz shoe stores, Zara clothing stores, and Christ jewelry stores, and German department stores mingle on M\u00f6nckebergstrasse. Independent boutiques sell primarily distinguished and somewhat conservative fashion; understatement is the style here. Eppendorf offers miles of unique shops for shoes, clothes, home design, and housewares with quaint caf\u00e9s sprinkled among them. Sternschanze offers a funky mix of stores selling cool home accessories and fashion, with dive bars and small restaurants for pit stops.\n\n## Shopping Districts\n\nHamburg's shopping districts are among the most elegant on the continent, and the city has Europe's largest expanse of covered shopping arcades, most of them packed with small, exclusive boutiques. The streets Grosse Bleichen and Neuer Wall, which lead off Jungfernstieg, are a big-ticket zone. The Grosse Bleichen holds four malls with the most sought-after labels, and several of these shopping centers are connected. The marble-clad Galleria is reminiscent of London's Burlington Arcade. Daylight streams through the immense glass ceilings of the Hanse-Viertel, an otherwise ordinary reddish-brown brick building. At 101, Kaufmannshaus is one of the oldest malls in Hamburg. Steps away from these retail giants are the fashionable Hamburger Hof, the historic Alte Post with a beautiful, waterfront promenade, the posh Bleichenhof, and the stunningly designed, larger Europa Passage.\n\nIn the fashionable Rotherbaum district, take a look at Milchstrasse and Mittelweg. Both are filled with small boutiques, restaurants, and caf\u00e9s.\n\nWalk down Susannenstrasse and Schanzestrasse in Sternschanze to find unique clothes, things for the home, and even LPs. Eppendorfer Landstrasse and Eppendorfer Weg are brimming with stores that sell clothing in every flavor\u2014high-end labels, casual wear, sportswear, German designers\u2014and elegant and fun home decor.\n\nRunning from the main train station to Gerhard-Hauptmann-Platz, the boulevard Spitalerstrasse is a pedestrians-only street lined with stores. TIP Prices here are noticeably lower than those on Jungfernstieg.\n\n## Altstadt and Neustadt\n\n### Antiques\n\nNeustadt and St.Georg.  \nABC-Strasse in the Neustadt is a happy hunting ground for antiques lovers, as are the shops in the St. Georg district behind the train station, especially those along Lange Reihe and Koppel. You'll find a mixture of genuine antiques (Antiquit\u00e4ten) and junk (Tr\u00f6del) there. You'll also be lucky if you find many bargains, however.\n\n### Department Stores\n\nAlsterhaus.  \nHamburg's large and high-end department store is a favorite with locals, as well as an elegant landmark. A food hall and a champagne bar on the top level are both worth a stop. | Jungfernstieg 16\u201320, Neustadt | 040/3590\u20131218 | www.alsterhaus.de.\n\nKarstadt.  \nGermany's leading department-store chain isn't as posh as the Alsterhaus, but it still has a good and varied selection of clothing, perfume, watches, household goods, and food. TIP Hamburg's downtown Karstadt Sports, which is up the street from the main store at Lange M\u00fchrn 14, is the city's best place to shop for sports clothing and gear. | M\u00f6nckebergstr. 16, Altstadt | 040/30940 | www.karstadt.de.\n\n### Jewelry\n\nWempe.  \nGermany's largest seller of fine jewelery has two locations in Hamburg, and this is its flagship. The selection of watches here is particularly outstanding. | Jungfernstieg 8, Neustadt | 040/3344\u20138824 | www.wempe.com.\n\n### Men's Clothing\n\nThomas I-Punkt.  \nThe five-story Thomas I-Punkt, a Hamburg tradition, sells fashion-conscious clothes and its own private-label suits and shirts. | M\u00f6nckebergstr. 21, Altstadt | 040/327\u2013172 | www.thomas-i-punkt.de.\n\nWormland.  \nThe Hamburg outlet of the chain store is the city's largest store for men's clothes. Wormland offers both affordable no-name yet very fashionable clothes, as well as (much more expensive) top designer wear. | Europa Passage, Ballindamm 40, Altstadt | 040/4689\u201392700 | www.wormland.de.\n\n### Women's Clothing\n\nHamburger Hof.  \nThe historic Hamburger Hof is one of the most beautiful, upscale shopping complexes, with a wide variety of designer clothing, jewelry, and gift stores that are primarily for women. | Jungfernstieg 26\u201330/Grosse Bleichen, Neustadt | 040/350\u20131680 | www.hhof-passage.de.\n\nLinette.  \nA small but elegant store, Linette stocks only top designers. | Hohe Bleichen 17, Neustadt | 040/346\u2013411 | www.linette-hamburg.de.\n\n## St. Pauli and Schanzenviertel\n\n### Antiques\n\nFlohschanze.  \nGermans in search of a great deal love a good Flohmarkt (flea market). These markets unfold every weekend throughout Hamburg, and the best of the lot may be the one at Flohschanze. With acres of clothes, furniture, books, CDs, records, home accessories, jewelry, and art, the market attracts both collectors and bargain hunters every Saturday from 8 until 4. | Neuer Kamp 30, Schanzenviertel | 040/270\u20132766 | www.marktkultur-hamburg.de.\n\n### Gifts\n\nBaqu.  \nThe two storefronts of this store are filled with wacky knickknacks, useful home appliances, and modern decor. | Susannenstr. 39, Schanzenviertel | 040/433\u2013814.\n\nCaptain's Cabin.  \nDon't miss this Hamburg institution, which is the best place for all of the city's specialty maritime goods, including elaborate model ships and brass telescopes. This souvenir emporium is open daily. | Landungsbr\u00fccken 3, St. Pauli | 040/316\u2013373 | www.captains-cabin.de.\n\nLille/Stor.  \nHead here for a mix of casual clothes, shoes, colorful items for the home, and small jewelry. | Schanzenstr. 97, Schanzenviertel | 040/343\u2013741 | www.lille-stor.de.\n\nMimulus Naturkosmetik.  \nThe all-natural cosmetics and toiletries here, as well as the facial and body treatments, are available at surprisingly reasonable prices. | Schanzenstr. 39a, Schanzenviertel | 040/430\u20138037 | www.mimulus-kosmetik.de.\n\nYokozuna.  \nAt this funky little shop, the quirky notebooks, earrings, handbags and postcards are all made by local designers, who rent shelves in the shop to sell their products. It's a great place for creative gift ideas. | Weidenallee 17, Schanzenviertel | 040/3199\u20133729 | www.yokozuna.de.\n\n### Men's Clothing\n\nHerr von Eden.  \nFine suits and everything else you need to become a true gentleman are sold at this elegant store on the vintage-clothing-filled Marktstrasse. | Marktstr. 33, Schanzenviertel | 040/439\u20130057 | www.herrvoneden.com.\n\n### Women's Clothing\n\nAnna Fuchs.  \nOne of Hamburg's most famous fashion designers is widely known for her modern and elegant but still-affordable dresses. | Karolinenstr. 27, Schanzenviertel | 040/4018\u20135408 | annafuchs.de.\n\nFr\u00e4uleinwunder.  \nThis small emporium sells trendy sportswear, shoes, accessories, and jewelry for women. There's also a small selection of casual clothing for men. | Susannenstr. 13, Schanzenviertel | 40/3619\u20133329.\n\nKauf dich gl\u00fccklich.  \nWith a name that translates to \"Shop yourself happy,\" this inviting store selling clothes and shoes for men and women, as well as sunglasses, jewelry, scarves, hats, and other accessories. | Susannenstr. 4, Schanzenviertel | 040/8000\u20136155 | www.kaufdichgluecklich-shop.de.\n\nLa Paloma.  \nThis small store features a well-edited collection of trendy clothes from casual labels from around the world. There's a focus on Danish designers. | Susannenstr. 5, Schanzenviertel | 040/4321\u20135333.\n\nPurple Pink.  \nA tiny shop that sells a good selection of cool Scandinavian labels, such as Stine Goya, Carin Wester, and Minimarket. It's also great for jewelery and bags. | Weidenallee 21, Schanzenviertel | 040/4321\u20135379 | www.purple-pink.de.\n\n## Altona and Ottensen\n\n### Antiques\n\nKleidermarkt.  \nThis massive secondhand clothes shop is a few blocks down the road from the Altona train station. If the normal thrift-store prices for these duds from the 1960s through '80s aren't enough of an enticement, keep in mind that the store offers shoppers a 30% discount from 11 to 4 each Wednesday. | Max-Brauer-Allee 174, Altona | 040/433\u2013717 | www.kleidermarkt.de.\n\n### Department Stores\n\nStilwerk.  \nThis ultra-stylish shopping center next to the fish market is a one-stop source for contemporary furniture and home accessories. | Grosse Elbstr. 68, Altona | 040/3062\u20131100 | www.stilwerk.de.\n\n## Blankenese and Elsewhere\n\n### Food Markets\n\nWochenmarkt Blankenese.  \nThis small but top-class food market in the heart of Blankenese manages to preserve the charm of a small village. It sells only fresh produce from what it considers environmentally friendly farms. | Blankeneser Bahnhofstr., Blankenese | Tues. 8\u20132, Fri. 8\u20136, Sat. 8\u20131 | Station: Blankenese (S-bahn).\n\n### Gifts\n\nWohnDesign Cos\u00ec.  \nThe most interesting pieces of contemporary design from around the world are on view at this home-furnishings store. | Eppendorfer Landstr. 48, Eppendorf | 040/470\u2013670 | www.wohndesign-cosi.de.\n\n### Women's Clothing\n\nAnita Hass.  \nThis impressive store covers several storefronts and carries the newest apparel, shoes, jewelry, handbags, and accessories, such as iPhone covers. It's a Hamburg classic that carries both international brands and several German designers. | Eppendorfer Landstr. 60, Eppendorf | 040/465\u2013909 | www.anitahass.de.\n\nJonas Ariaens Schuhe.  \nThis boutique sells a variety of women's shoes, including many comfortable styles. There's a good stock of shoes size 10 and larger. | Eppendorfer Landstrasse 8, Eppendorf | 040/4609\u20133248.\n\nKaufrausch.  \nThe upscale shop Kaufrausch carries mostly clothing and accessories stores for women. | Isestr. 74, Harvestehude | 040/477\u2013154 | www.kaufrausch-hamburg.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast\n\nSchleswig-Holstein\n\nWestern Mecklenburg\n\nVorpommern\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Baltic Coast Beaches | Baltic Amber | Baltic Coast Best Beaches\n\nUpdated by Lee A. Evans\n\nGermany's true north is a quiet and peaceful region that belies, but takes a great deal of pride in, its past status as one of the most powerful trading centers in Europe. The salty air and lush, green landscape of marshlands, endless beaches, fishing villages, and lakes are the main pleasures here, not sightseeing. The Baltic coast is one of the most visited parts of Germany, but because most visitors are German, you'll feel like you have discovered Germany's best-kept secret. On foggy November evenings, or during the hard winter storms that sometimes strand islanders from the mainland, you can well imagine the fairy tales spun by the Vikings who lived here.\n\nIn Schleswig-Holstein, Germany's most northern state, the Danish-German heritage is the result of centuries of land disputes, flexible borders, and intermarriage between the two nations\u2014you could call this area southern Scandinavia. Since the early 20th century its shores and islands have become popular weekend and summer retreats for the well-to-do from Hamburg. The island of Sylt, in particular, is known throughout Germany for its rich and beautiful sunbathers.\n\nThe rest of Schleswig-Holstein, though equally appealing in its green and mostly serene landscape, is far from rich and worldly. Most people farm or fish, and often speak Plattd\u00fctsch, or Low German, which is difficult for outsiders to understand. Cities such as Flensburg, Husum, Schleswig, Kiel (the state capital), and even L\u00fcbeck all exude a laid-back, small-town charm.\n\nThe neighboring state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern includes the Baltic Coast and is even more rural. On the resort islands of Hiddensee and Usedom, the clock appears to have stopped before World War II. Though it has long been a popular summer destination for families and city-weary Berliners, few foreign tourists venture here.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nGothic architecture: The historic towns of L\u00fcbeck, Wismar, and Stralsund have some of the finest redbrick Gothic architecture in northern Europe. A walk through medieval Stralsund, in particular, is like a trip into the proud past of the powerful Hansetic League.\n\nR\u00fcgen: One of the most secluded islands of northern Europe, R\u00fcgen is a dreamy Baltic oasis whose endless beaches, soaring chalk cliffs, and quiet pace of life have charmed painters, writers, and artists for centuries.\n\nSchwerin: Nestled in a romantic landscape of lakes, rivers, forests, and marshland, the Mecklenburg state capital and its grand water palace make a great place to relax.\n\nSylt: A windswept outpost in the rough North Sea, Sylt is home to Germany's jet set, who come here for the tranquility, the white beaches, the gourmet dining, and the superb hotels throughout the year.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThe three major areas of interest are the western coastline of Schleswig-Holstein, the lakes inland in Western Mecklenburg, and Vorpommern's secluded, tundralike landscape of sandy heath and dunes. If you only have three days, slow down to the area's pace and focus on one area. In five days you could easily cross the region. Berlin is the natural approach from the east; Hamburg is a launching point from the west.\n\n## What's Where\n\nSchleswig-Holstein. Rural Schleswig-Holstein is accented by laid-back, medieval towns and villages famed for their fresh seafood and great local beers (such as Asgaard in Schleswig), and the bustling island of Sylt, a summer playground for wealthy Hamburgers.\n\nWestern Mecklenburg. Lakes, rivers, and seemingly endless fields of wheat, sunflowers, and yellow rape characterize this rural landscape. Although the area is extremely popular with Germans, only a few western tourists or day-trippers from nearby Berlin venture here to visit beautiful Schwerin or enjoy the serenity. The area is famous for its many wellness and spa hotels, making it a year-round destination.\n\nVorpommern. Remote and sparsely populated, Vorpommern is one of Europe's quietest corners. Compared to the coast and islands in the West, sleepy Vorpommern sea resorts like Putbus, Baabe, and the Darss area have preserved a distinct, old-fashioned charm worth exploring. Bismarck popularized the area by saying that it was like going back 20 years in time.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nThe region's climate is at its best when the two states are most crowded with vacationers\u2014in July and August. Winter can be harsh in this area, and even spring and fall are rather windy, chilly, and rainy. TIP To avoid the crowds, schedule your trip for June or September. But don't expect tolerable water temperatures or hot days on the beach.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nThe international airport closest to Schleswig-Holstein is in Hamburg. For an eastern approach to the Baltic Coast tour, use Berlin's Tegel or Sch\u00f6nefeld Airports.\n\n#### Boat and Ferry Travel\n\nThe Weisse Flotte (White Fleet) line operates ferries linking the Baltic ports, as well as short harbor and coastal cruises. Boats depart from Warnem\u00fcnde, Zingst (to Hiddensee), Sassnitz, and Stralsund. In addition, Scandlines ferries run from Stralsund and Sassnitz to destinations in Sweden, Denmark, Poland, and Finland.\n\nScandlines also operates ferries between Rostock/Warnem\u00fcnde and the Danish island of Bornholm, as well as Sweden.\n\nContacts  \nScandlines. | 01805/116\u2013688 | www.scandlines.de.   \nWeisse Flotte. | 0180/321\u20132120 for Warnem\u00fcnde and Stralsund, 0385/557\u2013770 for Schwerin | www.weisseflotte.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nLocal buses link the main train stations with outlying towns and villages, especially the coastal resorts. Buses operate throughout Sylt, R\u00fcgen, and Usedom islands.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nThe two-lane roads (Bundesstrassen) along the coast can be full of traffic in summer. The ones leading to Usedom Island can be extremely log-jammed, as the causeway bridges have scheduled closings to let ships pass. Using the Bundesstrassen takes more time, but these often tree-lined roads are by far more scenic than the autobahn.\n\nSylt island is 196 km (122 miles) from Hamburg via Autobahn A-7 and Bundesstrasse B-199 and is ultimately reached via train. B-199 cuts through some nice countryside, and instead of A-7 or B-76 between Schleswig and Kiel you could take the slow route through the coastal hinterland (B-199, B-203, or B-503). L\u00fcbeck, the gateway to Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, is 56 km (35 miles) from Hamburg via A-1. B-105 leads to all sightseeing spots in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. A faster route is the A-20, connecting L\u00fcbeck and Rostock. From Stralsund, B-96 cuts straight across R\u00fcgen Island, a distance of 51 km (32 miles). From Berlin, take A-11 and head toward Prenzlau for B-109 all the way to Usedom Island, a distance of 162 km (100 miles). A causeway connects the mainland town of Anklam to the town of Peenem\u00fcnde, on Usedom Island; coming from the west, use the causeway at Wolgast.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nTrains connect almost every notable city in the area and it's much more convenient than bus travel. Sylt, Kiel, L\u00fcbeck, Schwerin, and Rostock have InterCity train connections to either Hamburg or Berlin, or both.\n\nA north\u2013south train line links Schwerin and Rostock. An east\u2013west route connects Kiel, Hamburg, L\u00fcbeck, and Rostock, and some trains continue through to Stralsund and Sassnitz, on R\u00fcgen Island.\n\n### Tours\n\nAlthough tourist offices and museums have worked to improve the English-language literature about this area, English-speaking tours are infrequent and must be requested ahead of time through the local tourist office. Because most tours are designed for groups, there's usually a flat fee of \u20ac20\u2013\u20ac30. Towns currently offering tours are L\u00fcbeck, Stralsund, and Rostock. Schwerin has two-hour boat tours of its lakes. Many of the former fishermen in these towns give sunset tours of the harbors, shuttle visitors between neighboring towns, or take visitors fishing in the Baltic Sea, which is a unique opportunity to ride on an authentic fishing boat. In Kiel, Rostock, and on Sylt, cruise lines make short trips through the respective bays and/or islands off the coast, sailing even as far as Denmark and Sweden. Inquire at the local tourist office about companies and times, as well as about fishing-boat tours.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nDon't count on eating a meal at odd hours or after 10 pm in this largely rural area. Many restaurants serve hot meals only between 11:30 am and 2 pm, and 6 pm and 9 pm. You rarely need a reservation here, and casual clothing is generally acceptable.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nIn northern Germany you'll find both small Hotelpensionen and fully equipped large hotels; along the eastern Baltic Coast, some hotels are renovated high-rises dating from GDR (German Democratic Republic, or East Germany) times. Many of the small hotels and pensions in towns such as K\u00fchlungsborn and Binz have been restored to the romantic, quaint splendor of German B\u00e4derarchitektur (spa architecture) from the early 20th century. In high season all accommodations, especially on the islands, are in great demand. TIP If you can't book well in advance, inquire at the local tourist office, which will also have information on the 150 campsites along the Baltic Coast and on the islands.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nThe bigger coastal Hanse cities make for a good start before exploring smaller towns. L\u00fcbeck is a natural base for exploring Schleswig-Holstein, particularly if you arrive from Hamburg. From here it's easy to venture out into the countryside or explore the coastline and towns such as Schleswig, Flensburg, or Husum. The island of Sylt is a one- or two-day trip from L\u00fcbeck, though.\n\nIf you have more time, you can also travel east from L\u00fcbeck into Mecklenburg-Vorpommern: Some of the must-see destinations on an itinerary include Schwerin and the surrounding lakes, the island of R\u00fcgen, and the cities Wismar and Rostock.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nLarger cities such as Kiel, L\u00fcbeck, Wismar, Schwerin, and Rostock offer tourism \"welcome\" cards, which include sometimes-considerable discounts and special deals for attractions and tours as well as local public transport. Ask about these at the visitor information bureaus.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nTourismusverband Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. | Pl. der Freundschaft 1, | Rostock | 0381/403\u20130500 | www.tmv.de.\n\n## Baltic Coast Beaches\n\nAlthough Germany may not be the first place on your list of beach destinations, a shore vacation on the Baltic never disappoints. The coast here ranges from the remote bucolic shores of Usedom to the chic beaches of Sylt.\n\nBe sure to rent a Strandkorb, a kind of beach chair in a wicker basket, which gives you all of the sun, but protects you from the wind and flying sand. You can rent these chairs by the hour, half day, or day. There is usually an office near the chairs; look for the kiosk that sells sundries and beach toys nearest the chair you want.\n\nLook for the blue flag on the beach that indicates that the water is safe for swimming. But, be aware that water temperatures even in August rarely exceed 20\u00b0C (65\u00b0F). There's a Kurtaxe (a tax that goes to the upkeep of the beaches) of \u20ac1.50\u2013\u20ac5 for most resort areas; the fees on Sylt average \u20ac3 per day. Fees are usually covered by your hotel; you should get a card indicating that you've paid the tax. You can use the card for discounted services, but don't need to present it to visit the beach.\n\n## Baltic Amber\n\nIt is believed that a pine forest once grew in the area that is now the Baltic Sea about 40 million years ago. Fossilized resin from these trees, aka amber, lies beneath the surface. In fact, this area has the largest known amber deposit, at about 80% of the world's known accessible deposits. The best time for amber \"fishing,\" dipping a net into the surf, is at low tide after a storm when pieces of amber dislodge from the sea floor.\n\n## Baltic Coast Best Beaches\n\n#### Hiddensee Island\n\nIf you're looking for bucolic and tranquil, head to the car-free island of Hiddensee, R\u00fcgen's neighbor to the west. With a mere 1,300 inhabitants, Hiddensee is the perfect place to look for washed-up amber.\n\n#### R\u00fcgen Island\n\nGermany's largest island, R\u00fcgen is dotted with picture-perfect beaches, chalk cliffs, and pristine nature. It also served as the stomping ground for the likes of Albert Einstein, Christopher Isherwood, and Caspar David Friedrich. An easy day trip from Berlin, the town of Binz is the perfect R\u00fcgen getaway. Binz has a nice boardwalk, a pretty beach dotted with Strandk\u00f6rbe, and fine mansions.\n\nYou'll find a wonderful white sand beach at Prora and a smattering of artist studios; the hulking abandoned resort here was designed by the Nazis to house 20,000 vacationers in the Kraft durch Freude (Strength Through Joy) program.\n\n#### Sylt\n\nGermany's northernmost island is the granddaddy of all beach resorts and by far the most popular seaside destination in Germany. Sylt is chic and trendy, but, despite being overrun by tourists, it is still possible to find your own romantic abandoned stretch of beach. Westerland is the most popular beach, with its long promenade and sun-drenched sand. The \"Fun-Beach Brandenburg\" bursts at the seams with family-friendly activities, volleyball, and other sporting contests. Farther afield, the red cliffs of Kampen are the perfect backdrop for a little mellow sun and schmoozing with the locals. It's a lovely place for a walk along the shore and up the cliffs, where the view can't be beat. The best beach for families is at H\u00f6rnum, where a picture-perfect red-and-white lighthouse protects the entrance to the bay.\n\n#### Usedom Island\n\nThe towns of Ahlbeck and Herringsdorf are the most popular on Usedom Island, with pristine 19th-century villas and mansions paired with long boardwalks extending into the sea. For the true and unspoiled experience, head west to \u00dcckeritz, where the beach feels abandoned.\n\n#### Warnem\u00fcnde\n\nA resort town popular with German tourists and local day-trippers from Rostock, the 20 km (12.4 miles) of wind-swept white-sand beach can't be beat. A fun beach promenade stretches the length of the beach and features daily music performances and restaurants ranging from fine dining to fish shacks where you can get a paper bag filled with fried mussels.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nHusum | Sylt | Schleswig | Kiel | L\u00fcbeck\n\nThis region once thrived, thanks to the Hanseatic League and the Salzstrasse (Salt Route), a merchant route connecting northern Germany's cities. The kings of Denmark warred with the dukes of Schleswig and, later, the German Empire over the prized northern territory of Schleswig-Holstein. The northernmost strip of land surrounding Flensburg became German in 1864. The quiet, contemplative spirit of the region's people, the marshland's special light, and the ever-changing face of the sea are inspiring. Today the world-famous Schleswig-Holstein-Musikfestival ushers in classical concerts to farmhouses, palaces, and churches.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Husum\n\n158 km (98 miles) northwest of Hamburg.\n\nThe town of Husum is the epitome of northern German lifestyle and culture. Immortalized in a poem as the \"gray city upon the sea\" by its famous son, Theodor Storm, Husum is actually a popular vacation spot in summer.\n\nThe central Marktplatz (Market Square) is bordered by 17th- and 18th-century buildings, including the historic Rathaus (Town Hall), which houses the tourist-information office. The best impression of Husum's beginnings in the mid-13th century is found south of the Marktplatz, along Kr\u00e4merstrasse; the Wasserreihe, a narrow and tortuous alley; and Hafenstrasse, right next to the narrow Binnenhafen (city harbor).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nHusum. | Grossstr. 27 | 04841/89870 | www.husum.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nSchloss vor Husum (Husum Castle).  \nDespite Husum's remoteness, surrounded by the stormy sea, wide marshes, and dunes, the city used to be a major seaport and administrative center. The Husum Castle, which was originally built as a Renaissance castle in the late 16th century, was transformed in 1752 by the dukes of Gottorf into a redbrick baroque country palace. | Professor-Ferdinand-T\u00f6nnies-Allee, K\u00f6nig-Friedrich V. \u2013Allee | 04841/897\u20133130 | \u20ac5 | Mar.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nTheodor-Storm-Haus.  \nThis is the most famous house on Wasserreihe, where writer Theodor Storm (1817\u201388) lived between 1866 and 1880. It's a must if you're interested in German literature or if you want to gain insight into the life of the few well-to-do people in this region during the 19th century. The small museum includes the poet's living room and a small Poetenst\u00fcbchen (poets' parlor), where he wrote many of his novels. | Wasserreihe 31 | 04841/803\u20138630 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20135, Mon. and Sun. 2\u20135, Sat. 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues., Thurs., and Sat. 2\u20135.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Geniesser Hotel Altes Gymnasium.  \nHOTEL | In a former redbrick high school behind a pear orchard, you'll find a surprisingly elegant country-style hotel. The rooms are spacious, with wood floors and modern office amenities. The restaurant Eucken ($$) serves game (from its own hunter) and German country cooking such as R\u00fccken vom Salzwiesenlamm mit Kartoffel-Zucchini-R\u00f6sti (lamb fed on saltwater grass with potato and zucchini hash browns). Pros: stylish and quiet setting; a perfect overnight stop on the way to Sylt. Cons: far from any other sights. | Rooms from: \u20ac179 | S\u00fcderstr. 2\u201310 | 04841/8330 | www.altes-gymnasium.de | 66 rooms, 6 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Sylt\n\n44 km (27 miles) northwest of Husum, 196 km (122 miles) northwest of Hamburg.\n\nSylt (pronounced ts-oo-LT) is a long, narrow island (38 km [24 miles] by as little as 220 yards) of unspoiled beaches and marshland off the western coast of Schleswig-Holstein and Denmark. Famous for its clean air and white beaches, Sylt is the hideaway for Germany's rich and famous.\n\nA popular activity here is Wattwanderungen (walking in the Watt, the shoreline tidelands), whether on self-guided or guided tours. The small villages with their thatch-roof houses, the beaches, and the nature conservation areas make Sylt one of the most enchanting German islands.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nTrains are the only way to access Sylt (other than flying from Hamburg or Berlin). The island is connected to the mainland via the train causeway Hindenburgdamm. Deutsche Bahn will transport you and your car from central train stations at Dortmund, D\u00fcsseldorf, Hamburg, Stuttgart, and Frankfurt directly to the station Westerland on the island. In addition, a daily shuttle car train leaves Nieb\u00fcll roughly every 30 minutes from 5:10 am to 10:10 pm (Friday and Sunday from 5:10 am to 9:40 pm). There are no reservations on this train.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nTourismus-Service Kampen. | Hauptstr. 12, | Kampen | 04651/46980 | www.kampen.de.   \nMarketing GmbH. | Stephanstr. 6, | Sylt / OT Rantum | 04651/82020 | www.sylt.de.   \nWesterland. There's also a location at Stephanstr. 6. | Strandstr. 35, | Westerland | 04651/9988 | www.westerland.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nKampen.  \nThe Sylt island's unofficial capital is the main destination for the wealthier crowd and lies 9 km (6 miles) northeast of Westerland. Redbrick buildings and shining white thatch-roof houses spread along the coastline. The real draw\u2014apart from the fancy restaurants and chic nightclubs\u2014is the beaches.\n\nRotes Kliff (Red Cliff).  \nOne of the island's best-known features is this dune cliff on the northern end of the Kampen beaches, which turns an eerie dark red when the sun sets. | Kampen.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAltfriesisches Haus (Old Frisian House).  \nFor a glimpse of the rugged lives of 19th-century fishermen, visit the small village of Keitum to the south, and drop in on the Old Frisian House, which preserves an Old World peacefulness in a lush garden setting. The house also documents a time when most seamen thrived on extensive whale hunting. | Am Kliff 13, Keitum | 04651/31101 | \u20ac3.50 | Easter\u2013Oct., weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Easter, Tues.\u2013Fri. 1\u20134.\n\nFAMILY | The Naturschutzgebiet Kampener Vogelkoje (Birds' Nest Nature Conservation Area).  \nBuilt in the mid-17th century, this conservation area once served as a mass trap for wild geese. Today it serves as a nature preserve for wild birds. | Lister Str., Kampen | 04651/871\u2013077 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20135.\n\nSt. Severin Church.  \nThe 800-year-old church was built on the highest elevation in the region. Its tower once served the island's fishermen as a beacon. Strangely enough, the tower also served as a prison until 1806. Today the church is a popular site for weddings. | Pr\u00f6stwai 20, Keitum | 04651/31713 | www.st-severin.de | Free | Church daily 9\u20136. Tours: Apr.\u2013Oct., Sun. at 10; Nov.\u2013Mar., Sun. at 4.\n\nSylter Heimatmuseum (Sylt Island Museum).  \nThis small museum tells the centuries-long history of the island's seafaring people. It presents traditional costumes, tools, and other gear from fishing boats and tells the stories of islanders who fought for Sylt's independence. | Am Kliff 19, Keitum | 04651/31669 | \u20ac3.50 | Easter\u2013Oct., weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Easter, Tues.\u2013Fri. 1\u20134.\n\nFAMILY | Westerland.  \nThe island's major town is not quite as expensive as Kampen, but it's more crowded. An ugly assortment of modern hotels lines an undeniably clean and broad beach. Each September windsurfers meet for the Surf Cup competition off the Brandenburger Strand, the best surfing spot.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nDorfkrug Rotes Kliff.  \nGERMAN | The Dorfkrug has fed the island's seafaring inhabitants since 1876. Enjoy meals such as Steinbuttfilet (turbot filet) or Gebratener Zander (fried perch filet) in a homey setting where the walls are covered in traditional blue-and-white Frisian tiles. The same owners run the Wiink\u00f6\u00f6v wine bar next door. Visitors to both venues can take advantage of their impressive wine knowledge and cellar | Average main: \u20ac16 | Braderuper Weg 3, Kampen | 04651/43500 | Closed Mon. in Jan.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotelrestaurant J\u00f6rg M\u00fcller.  \nSEAFOOD | Set in an old thatch-roof farmhouse, which doubles as a small hotel, chef and owner J\u00f6rg M\u00fcller is considered by many to be the island's leading chef, delivering haute cuisine served in a gracious and friendly setting. M\u00fcller even makes his own salt from the North Sea water. Of the two restaurants, the Pesel serves local fish dishes, whereas the formal J\u00f6rg M\u00fcller offers a high-quality blend of international cuisines, where any of the four- to six-course menus are a nice option. | Average main: \u20ac46 | S\u00fcderstr. 8, Westerland | 04651/27788 | www.hotel-joerg-mueller.de | Reservations essential.\n\nSansibar.  \nECLECTIC | A longtime favorite, Sansibar is the island's most popular restaurant\u2014more a way of life than a place to eat. A diverse clientele often make it a rambunctious night out by imbibing loads of drinks under the bar's maverick logo, crossed pirates' sabers. The cuisine includes seafood and fondue; more than 800 wines are on offer. The Sunday brunch is incredible. TIP To get a table even in the afternoon, you must reserve at least six weeks in advance. | Average main: \u20ac28 | Strand, Rantum-S\u00fcd, H\u00f6rnumer Str. 80 | 04651/964\u2013546 | www.sansibar.de | Reservations essential.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Dorint S\u00f6l'ring Hof.  \nRESORT | This luxurious resort is set on the dunes in a white, thatch-roof country house: the view from most of the rooms is magnificent\u2014with some luck you may even spot frolicking harbor porpoises. The brightly furnished rooms are spacious, covering two floors, and equipped with a fireplace. The real attraction here, however, is the restaurant ($$$), where renowned chef Johannes King creates delicious German-Mediterranean fish dishes. The hotel is in quiet Rantum, at the southeast end of the island. Pros: one of the few luxury hotels on the island with perfect service and a top-notch restaurant; right on the beach. Cons: remote location; often fully booked; rooms tend to be small. | Rooms from: \u20ac395 | Am Sandwall 1 | 04651/836\u2013200 | www.soelring-hof.de | 11 rooms, 4 suites | Breakfast.\n\nUlenhof Wenningstedt.  \nB&B/INN | The Ulenhof, one of Sylt's loveliest old thatch-roof apartment houses, is a quiet alternative to the busier main resorts in Kampen and Westerland. The Ulenhof has two buildings 750 yards away from the beach in Wenningstedt. lThe larger apartments, for up to three persons, are a good deal. A separate bathing facility offers a huge wellness area with two saunas, a pool, and a Tecaldarium, a Roman bathhouse. Pros: a great, but small, spa. Cons: off the beaten track and away from the main action in Kampen and Westerland. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | Friesenring 14, Wenningstedt | 04651/94540 | www.ulenhof.de | 35 apartments | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nClub Rotes Kliff.  \nThe nightspots in Kampen are generally more upscale and more expensive than the pubs and clubs of Westerland. One of the most classic clubs on Sylt is the Club Rotes Kliff, a bar and dance club that attracts a hip crowd of all ages. | Braderuper Weg 3, Kampen | 04651/43400.\n\nCompass.  \nThe Compass is not as trendy as the typical Sylt nightclub. The mostly young patrons, however, create a cheerful party atmosphere on weekend nights. | Friedrichstr. 40, Westerland | 04651/23513.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Beaches\n\nBuhne 16 and Roter Kliff.  \nKampen's beach\u2014divided into the Buhne 16 and the Roter Kliff\u2014is the place where the rich and famous meet average joes. Bunhe 16 is Germany's most popular nudist beach and Germans call this section the great equalizer, as managers, stars, bus drivers, and carpenters are all equal without clothing. The Red Cliff section is less crowded than Buhne 16 and clothing is required. The beach access point offers one of the best views of the Cliffs and North Sea; the viewing platform is wheelchair accessible. The beaches are surrounded by a ring of dunes that beg for exploration. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; nudists; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking; windsurfing. | Kurstr. 33, Kampen.\n\nFun-Beach Brandenburg.  \nWesterland's Fun-Beach Brandenburg bursts at the seams in the summer months. More than 4 miles of pristine white sand is filled with more than 4,000 Strandkorbs, a kind of beach chair in a wicker basket, which are all for rent. There's also volleyball, soccer, darts, and other beach sports, and everyone is invited to participate in the Beach Olympics, which are held every Friday at 2 in the summer months. Despite its popularity, it is easy to find some privacy on the many secluded bike and foot paths. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; swimming; walking. | Kurpromenade | Westerland.\n\nHornum Beach.  \nThe town of Hornum is surrounded on three sides by a rock-free, fine-white-sand beach that is perfect for paddling, quick dips in the sea, or simply lounging in one of the ever-present Strandkorben. The main beach is one of the most family-friendly on the island and it's easily accessible from the promenade. A magnificent red-and-white lighthouse looms over the beach. Hornum is the best place to take long walks along the Wattenmeer. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking; windsurfing. | An Der Dune | Hornum.\n\n## Schleswig\n\n82 km (51 miles) southeast of Sylt, 114 km (71 miles) north of Hamburg.\n\nSchleswig-Holstein's oldest city is also one of its best-preserved examples of a typical north German town. Once the seat of the dukes of Schleswig-Holstein, it has not only their palace but also ruins left by the area's first rulers, the Vikings. The Norse conquerors, legendary and fierce warriors from Scandinavia, ruled northern Germany between 800 and 1100. Although they brought terror and domination to the region, they also contributed commerce and a highly developed social structure. Under a wide sky, Schleswig lies on the Schlei River in a landscape of freshwater marshland and lakes, making it a good departure point for bike or canoe tours.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nSchleswig's train station is 3 km (2 miles) from the city center. It's easiest to take Bus No. 1501, 1505, or 1506 into town. The buses leave from across the street from the front of the train station, and all stop at Schloss Gottorf.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat in Schleswig-Holstein\n\nThe German coastline is known for fresh and superb seafood, particularly in summer. A few of the region's top restaurants are on Sylt and in L\u00fcbeck. Eating choices along the Baltic Coast tend to be more down-to-earth. However, restaurants in both coastal states serve mostly seafood such as Scholle (flounder) or North Sea Krabben (shrimp), often with fried potatoes, eggs, and bacon. Mecklenburg specialties to look for are Mecklenburger Griebenroller, a custardy casserole of grated potatoes, eggs, herbs, and chopped bacon; Mecklenburger Fischsuppe, a hearty fish soup with vegetables, tomatoes, and sour cream; Gef\u00fcllte Ente (duck with bread stuffing); and Pannfisch (fish patty). A favorite local nightcap since the 17th century is Grog, a strong blend of rum, hot water, and local fruits.\n\n* * *\n\n### Exploring\n\nThe Holm.  \nThe fishing village comes alive along the Holm, an old settlement with tiny and colorful houses. The windblown buildings give a good impression of what villages in northern Germany looked like 150 years ago. | S\u00fcderholmstr., Holm.\n\nSchloss Gottorf.  \nThe impressive baroque Schloss Gottorf, dating from 1703, once housed the ruling family. It has been transformed into the Schleswig-Holsteinisches Landesmuseum (State Museum of Schleswig-Holstein) and holds a collection of art and handicrafts of northern Germany from the Middle Ages to the present, including paintings by Lucas Cranach the Elder. | Schlossinsel 1 | 04621/8130 | www.schloss-gottorf.de | \u20ac9 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20134, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Wikinger-Museum Haithabu (Haithabu Viking Museum).  \nThe most thrilling museum in Schleswig is at the site of an ancient Viking settlement. This was the Vikings' most important German port, and the boats, gold jewelry, and graves they left behind are displayed in the museum. Be sure to walk along the trail to the Viking village, to see how the Vikings really lived. The best way to get there is to take the ferry across the Schlei from the Schleswigs main fishing port. | Haddeby, Am Haddebyer Noor 2 | Busdorf | 04621/813\u2013222 | www.schloss-gottorf.de | \u20ac7 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nAsgaard Brauerei.  \nGERMAN | Taste the \"Divine beer of the Vikings\" at Schleswig's only brewery. While the restaurant offers typical brewpub fare, it is the small Viking twists, like roast meat served only with a knife and horned glasses that make this place worth a visit. The Divine beer is a malty cold-fermented amber lager that can be highly addictive. | Average main: \u20ac12 | K\u00f6nigstr. 27 | 04621/29206 | www.asgaard.de.\n\nStadt Flensburg.  \nGERMAN | This small restaurant in a city mansion dating back to 1699 serves mostly fish from the Schlei River. The food is solid regional fare such as Zanderfilet (pike-perch filets) or Gebratene Ente (roast duck). The familial, warm atmosphere and the local dark tap beers more than make up for the simplicity of the setting. Reservations are advised. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Lollfuss 102 | 04621/23984 | Closed Wed.\n\nRinghotel Strandhalle Schleswig.  \nHOTEL | A modern hotel overlooking the small yacht harbor, this establishment has surprisingly low rates. The rooms are furnished in timeless dark furniture. Pros: hotel occupies central spot in the heart of Schleswig with great views. Cons: lack of flair; rather bland rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Strandweg 2 | 04621/9090 | www.hotel-strandhalle.de | 25 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Shopping\n\nKeramik-Stube.  \nThe tiny Keramik-Stube offers craft work and beautiful traditional handmade pottery. | Rathausmarkt 14 | 04621/24757.\n\nTeekontor Hansen.  \nNorthern Germans are devout tea-drinkers, and the best place to buy tea is Teekontor Hansen. Try the Schliekieker, a strong blend of different types, or the Ostfriesenmischung, the traditional daily tea. | Kornmarkt 3 | 04621/23385.\n\n## Kiel\n\n53 km (33 miles) southeast of Schleswig, 130 km (81 miles) north of Hamburg.\n\nThe state capital of Schleswig-Holstein, Kiel, is known throughout Europe for the annual Kieler Woche, a regatta that attracts hundreds of boats from around the world. Despite the many wharves and industries concentrated in Kiel, the Kieler F\u00f6hrde (Bay of Kiel) has remained mostly unspoiled. Unfortunately, this cannot be said about the city itself. Because of Kiel's strategic significance during World War II\u2014it served as the main German submarine base\u2014the historic city, founded more than 750 years ago, was completely destroyed. Sadly, due to the modern reconstruction of the city, there is no real reason to spend more than half a day in Kiel.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nKiel. | Andreas-Gayk-Str. 31 | 0431/679\u2013100 | www.kiel.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Kieler Hafen (Kiel Harbor).  \nAt Germany's largest passenger-shipping harbor, you can always catch a glimpse of one of the many ferries leaving for Scandinavia from the Oslokai (Oslo Quay). | Oslokai.\n\nKunsthalle zu Kiel (Kiel Art Gallery).  \nOne of northern Germany's best collections of modern art can be found here. Russian art of the 19th and early 20th centuries, German expressionism, and contemporary international art are on display. | D\u00fcsternbrooker Weg 1 | 0431/880\u20135756 | www.kunsthalle-kiel.de | \u20ac7 | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. 10\u20138.\n\nFAMILY | Schifffahrtsmuseum (Maritime Museum).  \nHoused in a hall of the old fish market, this museum pays tribute to Kiel's impressive maritime history. The exhibit includes two antique fishing boats. Althought the museum is currently under renovation, it is scheduled to re-open in early 2014. | Wall 65 | 0431/901\u20133428 | www.kiel.de | \u20ac3 | Mid-Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 10\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nU-Boot-Museum (Submarine Museum).  \nA grim reminder of a different marine past is exhibited at this museum in Kiel-Laboe. The vessels of the much-feared German submarine fleet in both World Wars were mostly built and stationed in Kiel, before leaving for the Atlantic, where they attacked American and British supply convoys. Today the submarine U995, built in 1943, serves as a public-viewing model of a typical World War II German submarine. The 280-foot-high Marineehrenmal (Marine Honor Memorial), in Laboe, was built in 1927\u201336. You can reach Laboe via ferry from the Kiel harbor or take B\u2013502 north. | Strandstr. 92 | Kiel-Laboe | 04343/42700 | Memorial \u20ac5.50, museum \u20ac4, combination \u20ac8.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9:30\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9:30\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nKieler Brauerei.  \nGERMAN | The only historic brewery in town has produced beer since the Middle Ages. You can try the Naturtr\u00fcbes Kieler and other north German beers in pitchers. TIP You can also order a small barrel for your table and tap it yourself (other patrons will cheer you). The hearty food\u2014mostly fish, pork, and potato dishes\u2014does not earn awards, but it certainly helps get down just one more beer. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Alter Markt 9 | 0431/906\u2013290.\n\nQuam.  \nECLECTIC | Locals aren't looking for old-fashioned fish dishes\u2014that's why there isn't a traditional fish restaurant in town. They prefer preparations of fish from all over the world. The stylish Quam, its yellow walls and dimmed lights paying homage to Tuscany, serves specialties from Germany, Italy, France, and Japan to a mostly young, very chic crowd. | Average main: \u20ac15 | D\u00fcppelstr. 60 | 0431/85195 | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. No lunch.\n\nHotel Kieler Yachtclub.  \nHOTEL | This traditional hotel provides standard yet elegant, newly refurbished rooms in the main building and completely new, bright accommodations in the Villentrakt. The restaurant ($$$) serves mostly fish dishes; in summer try to get a table on the terrace. The club overlooks the Kieler F\u00f6hrde. Pros: central location in the heart of Kiel; nice views. Cons: service and attitude can feel a bit too formal at times. | Rooms from: \u20ac197 | Hindenburgufer 70 | 0431/88130 | www.hotel-kyc.de | 57 rooms, 4 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nHemingway.  \nThis is one of the many chic and hip bars in Kiel. | Alter Markt 19 | 0431/96812.\n\nTraumfabrik.  \nA college crowd goes to Traumfabrik to eat pizza, watch a movie, or dance (Friday is best for dancing). | Grasweg 19 | 0431/544\u2013450.\n\n## L\u00fcbeck\n\n60 km (37 miles) southeast of Kiel, 56 km (35 miles) northeast of Hamburg.\n\nThe ancient core of L\u00fcbeck, dating from the 12th century, was a chief stronghold of the Hanseatic merchant princes. But it was the roving Heinrich der L\u00f6we (King Henry the Lion) who established the town and, in 1173, laid the foundation stone of the redbrick Gothic cathedral. The town's famous landmark gate, the Holstentor, built between 1464 and 1478, is flanked by two round squat towers and serves as a solid symbol of L\u00fcbeck's prosperity as a trading center.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nL\u00fcbeck is accessible from Hamburg in 45 minutes either by InterCity trains or by car via the A-24 and A-1, which almost takes you from one city center to the other. L\u00fcbeck is also well connected by autobahns and train service to Kiel, Flensburg, and the neighboring eastern coastline. The city, however, should be explored on foot or by bike, as the many tiny, medieval alleys in the center cannot be accessed by car. Tours of Old L\u00fcbeck depart daily from the tourist Welcome Center on Holstentorplatz (\u20ac7 | June\u2013Aug., Sat. at 11:30).\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nL\u00fcbeck. | Holstentorpl. 1 | 00451/889\u20139700 | www.luebeck.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAltstadt (Old Town).  \nIn the egg-shaped Altstadt, proof of L\u00fcbeck's former position as the golden queen of the Hanseatic League is found at every step.TIP More 13th- to 15th-century buildings stand in L\u00fcbeck than in all other large northern German cities combined. This fact has earned the Altstadt a place on UNESCO's register of the world's greatest cultural and natural treasures.\n\nL\u00fcbecker Dom (L\u00fcbeck Cathedral).  \nConstruction of this, the city's oldest building, began in 1173. | Domkirchhof | 0451/74704 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nRathaus.  \nDating from 1240, the Rathaus is among the buildings lining the arcaded Marktplatz, one of Europe's most striking medieval market squares. | Breitestr. 64 | 0451/122\u20131005 | Guided tour in German \u20ac4 | Tour weekdays at 11, noon, and 3, Sat. at 1:30.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nBuddenbrookhaus.  \nTwo highly respectable-looking mansions are devoted to two of Germany's most prominent writers, Thomas Mann (1875\u20131955) and G\u00fcnter Grass (born 1927). The older mansion is named after Mann's saga Buddenbrooks. Mann's family once lived here, and it's now home to the Heinrich und Thomas Mann Zentrum, a museum documenting the brothers' lives. A tour and video in English are offered. | Mengstr. 4 | 0451/122\u20134240 | www.buddenbrookhaus.de | \u20ac6 | Jan.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135; Apr.\u2013Dec., daily 10\u20135.\n\nG\u00fcnter Grass-Haus.  \nNear the museum is the second mansion, which is devoted to Germany's most famous living writer and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1999), G\u00fcnter Grass. | Glockengiesserstr. 21 | 0451/122\u20134230 | grass-haus.de | \u20ac6 | Jan.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135; Apr.\u2013Dec., daily 10\u20135.\n\nHeilig-Geist-Hospital (Hospital of the Holy Ghost).  \nTake a look inside the entrance hall of this Gothic building. It was built in the 14th century by the town's rich merchants and was one of the country's first hospitals. It still cares for the sick and infirm. | Am Koberg 11 | 0451/790\u20137841 | Free | Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135; Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nMarienkirche (St. Mary's Church).  \nThe impressive redbrick Gothic structure, which has the highest brick nave in the world, looms behind the Rathaus.TIP Look for the old bells, as they are still in the spot where they fell during the bombing of L\u00fcbeck. | Marienkirchhof | 0451/397\u2013700 | www.st-marien-luebeck.de | Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 10\u20134; Mar. and Oct., daily 10\u20135; Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nFodor's Choice | Schiffergesellschaft.  \nGERMAN | This dark, wood-paneled restaurant dating back to 1535 is the city's old Mariners' Society house, which was off-limits to women until 1870. Today locals and visitors alike enjoy freshly brewed beer and great seafood in church-style pews at long 400-year-old oak tables. Above are a bizarre collection of low-hanging old ship models. A good meal here is the Ostseescholle (plaice), fried with bacon and served with potatoes and cucumber salad. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Breitestr. 2 | 0451/76776 | schiffergesellschaft.com | Reservations essential.\n\nWullenwever.  \nGERMAN | This restaurant has set a new standard of dining sophistication for L\u00fcbeck. Committed to the city's maritime heritage, Wullenwever serves fish such as bass, halibut, plaice, pike, and trout, which is fried or saut\u00e9ed according to local country cooking. It's certainly one of the most attractive establishments in town, with dark furniture, chandeliers, and oil paintings on pale pastel walls. In summer, tables fill a quiet flower-strewn courtyard. Don't order \u00e0 la carte here; instead choose one of the three- to seven-course menus, paired with wine. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Beckergrube 71 | 0451/704\u2013333 | www.wullenwever.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel zur Alten Stadtmauer.  \nB&B/INN | This historic town house in the heart of the city is L\u00fcbeck's most charming hotel with small, modest, well-kept guest rooms on two floors. Comfortable beds, bright birch-wood furniture, a quiet setting, and a great (not to mention nutritious) German breakfast buffet make this a perfect choice for budget travelers looking for romance. Pros: cozy hotel with personal, friendly service; great location. Cons: rather simply furnished rooms; if fully booked, the hotel feels cramped. | Rooms from: \u20ac93 | An der Mauer 57 | 0451/73702 | www.hotelstadtmauer.de | 22 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRinghotel Friederikenhof.  \nHOTEL | A lovely country hotel set in 19th-century, redbrick farmhouses 10 minutes outside L\u00fcbeck, the family-run Friederikenhof is a perfect hideaway with a soothing garden and great view of the city's skyline. Rooms are fairly large and appointed in a slightly modernized, country-house style with all the amenities of a four-star hotel. If you don't want to drive into the city for dinner, try the fresh seafood at their intimate restaurant. Pros: charming, old-style farmhouse typical of the region; personal and very friendly service. Cons: distant location outside L\u00fcbeck. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Langjohrd 15\u201319 | 0451/800\u2013880 | www.friederikenhof.de | 30 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRinghotel Jensen.  \nHOTEL | Only a stone's throw from the Holstentor, this hotel is close to all the main attractions and faces the moat surrounding the Old Town. It's family run and very comfortable, with modern rooms, mostly decorated with bright cherrywood furniture. Though small, the guest rooms are big enough for two twin beds and a coffee table and come with either a shower or a bath. Pros: perfect location in the heart of L\u00fcbeck's downtown area; major sights are all within walking distance. Cons: small pensionlike hotel without many of the amenities of larger hotels; blandly decorated rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac93 | An der Obertrave 4\u20135 | 0451/702\u2013490 | www.hotel-jensen.de | 41 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nSAS Radisson Senator Hotel L\u00fcbeck.  \nHOTEL | Close to the famous Holstentor, this ultramodern hotel, with its daring architecture, still reveals a north German heritage: the redbrick building, with its oversize windows and generous, open lobby, mimics an old L\u00fcbeck warehouse. lWhen making a reservation, ask for a (larger) Superior Class room, whose price includes a breakfast. A big plus are the very comfortable beds, which are large by German standards. The Nautilo restaurant ($$) serves light Mediterranean cuisine. Pros: luxury hotel in a central location. Cons: lacks the historic charm typical of medieval L\u00fcbeck. | Rooms from: \u20ac137 | Willy-Brandt-Allee 6 | 0451/1420 | www.senatorhotel.de | 217 rooms, 7 suites | Multiple meal plans.\n\n### The Arts\n\nMusik und Kongresshallen L\u00fcbeck.  \nContact the Musik und Kongresshallen L\u00fcbeck for schedules of the myriad concerts, operas, and theater performances in L\u00fcbeck. | Willy-Brandt-Allee 10 | 0451/79040 | www.muk.de.\n\nSchleswig-Holstein Music Festival.  \nIn summer, try to catch a few performances at this annual music festival (mid-July\u2013late August), which features orchestras composed of young musicians from more than 25 countries. Some concerts are held in the Dom or the Marienkirche; some are staged in barns in small towns and villages. For exact dates and tickets, contact Schleswig-Holstein Konzertorganisation. | 0431/570\u2013470 | www.shmf.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nLocal legend has it that marzipan was invented in L\u00fcbeck during the great medieval famine. According to the story, a local baker ran out of grain for bread and, in his desperation, began experimenting with the only four ingredients he had: almonds, sugar, rosewater, and eggs. The result was a sweet almond paste known today as marzipan. The story is more fiction than fact; it is generally agreed that marzipan's true origins lie in the Middle East. TIP L\u00fcbecker Marzipan, an appellation that has been trademarked, is now considered among the best in the world. Any Marzipan that uses the appellation L\u00fcbecker, must be made within the city limits.\n\nHolstentor-Passage.  \nThe city's largest downtown shopping mall is next to the Holstentor and is filled with stores selling clothing or home accessories. | An der Untertrave 111 | 0451/75292.\n\nKonditorei-Caf\u00e9 Niederegger.  \nL\u00fcbeck's most famous marzipan maker, Konditorei-Caf\u00e9 Niederegger, sells the delicacy molded into a multitude of imaginative forms at its flagship store. | Breitestr. 89 | 0451/530\u20131127.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWismar | Schwerin | Bad Doberan | Rostock | Warnem\u00fcnde\n\nThis long-forgotten Baltic Coast region, pinned between two sprawling urban areas\u2014the state capital of Schwerin, in the west, and Rostock, in the east\u2014is thriving with trade, industry, and tourism. Though the region is close to the sea, it's made up largely of seemingly endless fields of wheat and yellow rape and a hundred or so wonderful lakes. \"When the Lord made the Earth, He started with Mecklenburg,\" wrote native novelist Fritz Reuter.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Wismar\n\n60 km (37 miles) east of L\u00fcbeck on Route 105.\n\nThe old city of Wismar was one of the original three sea-trading towns, along with L\u00fcbeck and Rostock, which banded together in 1259 to combat Baltic pirates. From this mutual defense pact grew the great and powerful private-trading bloc, the Hanseatic League (the Hanse in German), which dominated the Baltic for centuries. The wealth generated by the Hanseatic merchants can still be seen in Wismar's ornate architecture.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nWismar Stadthaus. | Am Markt 11 | 03841/19433 | www.wismar.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nMarktplatz (Market Square).  \nOne of the largest and best-preserved squares in Germany is framed by patrician gabled houses. Their style ranges from redbrick late Gothic through Dutch Renaissance to 19th-century neoclassical. The square's Wasserkunst, the ornate pumping station built in Dutch Renaissance style, was constructed between 1580 and 1602 by the Dutch master Philipp Brandin.\n\nSt. Georgen zu Wismar.  \nThis church, another victim of the war, stands next to the F\u00fcrstenhof. One of northern Germany's biggest Gothic churches, built between 1315 and 1404, it has been almost completely restored. | St.-Georgen-Kirchhof 6.\n\nTo'n Z\u00e4genkrog.  \nIf you have an hour to spare, wander among the jetties and quays of the port, a mix of the medieval and the modern. To'n Z\u00e4genkrog, a seamen's haven decorated with sharks' teeth, stuffed seagulls, and maritime gear, is a good pit stop along the harbor. | Ziegenmarkt 10 | 03841/282\u2013716.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nF\u00fcrstenhof (Princes' Court).  \nThe home of the former dukes of Mecklenburg stands next to the Marienkirche. It's an early-16th-century Italian Renaissance palace with touches of late Gothic. The facade is a series of fussy friezes depicting scenes from the Trojan War. | F\u00fcrstenhof 1.\n\nMarienkirche (St. Mary's Church).  \nThe ruins of this church with its 250-foot tower, bombed in World War II, lie just behind the Marktplatz; the church is still undergoing restoration.TIP At noon, 3, and 5, listen for one of 14 hymns played on its carillon. | St.-Marien-Kirchhof.\n\nSt. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas's Church).  \nThe late-Gothic church, with a 120-foot-high nave, was built between 1381 and 1487. A remnant of the town's long domination by Sweden is the additional altar built for Swedish sailors. | St.-Nikolai-Kirchhof 15 | 03841/210\u2013143 | May\u2013Sept., daily 8\u20138; Apr. and Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 11\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAlter Schwede.  \nGERMAN | Regarded as one of the most attractive, authentic taverns on the Baltic\u2014and correspondingly busy\u2014this eatery focuses on Mecklenburg's game and poultry dishes, such as the traditional Mecklenburger Ente (Mecklenburg duck). This filling dish is filled with baked plums, apples, raisins, and served with red cabbage and potatoes. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Am Markt 19 | 03841/283\u2013552.\n\nBrauhaus am Lohberg.  \nGERMAN | Wismar's first brewery (1452) is the only place that still brews Wismarer Mumme, a dark beer with enough alcohol to keep it fresh for export as far away as St. Petersburg. The restaurant serves up good-value typical pub food in an old half-timber house near the harbor. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Kleine Hohe Str. 15 | 03841/250\u2013238.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nCitypartner Hotel Alter Speicher.  \nB&B/INN | This small and very personal family-owned hotel is behind the facade of an old merchant house in the downtown area. Some of the rooms may be tiny, but their size contributes to the warm and cozy atmosphere. The lobby and restaurants are decorated with wooden beams and panels. The main restaurant ($$$) primarily serves game, but it also prepares regional dishes. Pros: good location, as medieval parts of Wismar are within easy walking-distance. Cons: rooms have outdated furnishings and ambience. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Bohrstr. 12\u201312a | 03841/211\u2013746 | www.hotel-alter-speicher.de | 70 rooms, 3 suites, 2 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nSeehotel Neuklostersee.  \nB&B/INN | Set at the dreamy Naun Lake, this country hotel is a hidden gem 15 km (9 miles) east of Wismar. The redbrick farmhouse and old thatch-roof barn constitute an upscale yet casual hotel. Each room has a different design (the owners are acclaimed Berlin interior designers), with white walls and terra-cotta tiles. There's a fine restaurant ($) serving German-Italian seafood on a terrace. Pros: great rural setting in quaint surroundings. Cons: outside Wismar; many day-trip visitors. | Rooms from: \u20ac135 | Seestr. 1 | Nakenstorf | 038422/4570 | www.seehotel-neuklostersee.de | 10 suites, 3 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nSteigenberger\u2013Hotel Stadt Hamburg.  \nHOTEL | This first-class hotel hides behind a rigid gray facade dating back to the early 19th century. The interior is surprisingly open and airy, with skylights and a posh lobby. The rooms have elegant cherrywood art deco style furnishings. Downstairs, the Bierkeller, a cavernous 17th-century room with vaulted ceilings, is a trendy nightspot. Pros: the only upscale hotel in town, with an appealing interior design; great package deals available. Cons: lacks atmosphere and personal touches. | Rooms from: \u20ac96 | Am Markt 24 | 03841/2390 | www.wismar.steigenberger.de | 102 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Schwerin\n\n32 km (20 miles) south of Wismar on Route 106.\n\nSchwerin, the second-largest town in the region after Rostock and the capital of the state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, is worth a trip just to visit its giant island castle.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nSchwerin. | Am Markt 14 | 0385/592\u20135212 | www.schwerin.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFAMILY | Alter Garten (Old Garden).  \nThe town's showpiece square was the setting of military parades during the years of Communist rule. It's dominated by two buildings: the ornate neo-Renaissance state theater, constructed in 1883\u201386; and the Kunstsammlungen Schwerin (Schwerin Art Collection), which houses an interesting collection of paintings by Max Liebermann and Lovis Corinth. | Alter Garten 3 | 0385/595\u20138119 | www.museum-schwerin.de | \u20ac8 | Mid-Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nSchweriner Dom (Schwerin Cathedral).  \nThis Gothic cathedral is the oldest building (built 1222\u201348) in the city. The bronze baptismal font is from the 14th century; the altar was built in 1440. Religious scenes painted on its walls date from the late Middle Ages. Sweeping views of the Old Town and lake await those with the energy to climb the 219 steps to the top of the 320-foot-high cathedral tower. | Am Dom 4 | 0385/565\u2013014 | Tower and nave: May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. noon\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr., weekdays 11\u20134, Sat. 11\u20134, Sun. noon\u20134.\n\nSchlossmuseum.  \nNorth of the main tower is the Neue Lange Haus (New Long House), built between 1553 and 1555 and now used as the Schlossmuseum. The Communist government restored and maintained the fantastic opulence of this rambling, 80-room reminder of an absolutist monarchy\u2014and then used it to board kindergarten teachers in training. Antique furniture, objets d'art, silk tapestries, and paintings are sprinkled throughout the salons (the throne room is particularly extravagant), but of special interest are the ornately patterned and highly burnished inlaid wooden floors and wall panels. | Lenn\u00e9str. 1 | 0385/525\u20132920 | www.museum-schwerin.de | \u20ac6 | Mid-Apr.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 10\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nSchweriner Schloss.  \nOn island near the edge of Lake Schwerin, the meticulously restored palace once housed the Mecklenburg royal family. The original palace dates from 1018, but was enlarged by Henry the Lion when he founded Schwerin in 1160. Portions of it were later modeled on Chambord, in the Loire Valley. As it stands now, the palace is surmounted by 15 turrets, large and small, and is reminiscent of a French ch\u00e2teau. The portions that are neo-Renaissance in style are its many ducal staterooms, which date from between 1845 and 1857. | Lenn\u00e9str. 1.\n\nFAMILY | Weisse Flotte.  \nThe quintessential experience in Schwerin is one of the Weiss Flotte boat tours of the lakes\u2014there are seven in the area. A trip to the island of Kaninchenwerder, a small sanctuary for more than 100 species of waterbirds, is an unforgettable experience. Boats for this 1\u00bd-hour standard tour depart from the pier adjacent to the Schweriner Schloss. | Anlegestelle Schlosspier | 0385/557\u2013770 | www.weisseflotteschwerin.de | \u20ac12.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135:30.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAlt-Schweriner Schankstuben.  \nGERMAN | A small family-owned restaurant and hotel with 16 guest rooms, the Schankstuben emphasizes Mecklenburg tradition. Its inviting restaurant is perfect for sampling local recipes such as Rullbraten von Spanferkel (roast suckling pig) or Maisscholle (corn-fed plaice). | Average main: \u20ac12 | Schlachtermarkt 9\u201313 | 0385/592\u2013530 | www.alt-schweriner-schankstuben.de.\n\nWeinhaus Kr\u00f6mer.  \nGERMAN | One of the most traditional and popular eateries in Schwerin, this restaurant has a long history of serving good wines that date from 1740. The Weinbistro offers primarily German wine and a small menu (mostly cheese plates or soups such as lobster cream soup). Regional and international specialties are served in the modern restaurant, while in summer the Weingarten courtyard is one of the city's most secluded spots to enjoy a good glass of wine. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Grosser Moor 56 | 0385/562\u2013956.\n\nZum Stadtkrug-Altstadtbrauhaus.  \nGERMAN | Don't be fooled by the prefab exterior, Schwerin's only brewery is an oasis of great beer and down-to-earth regional and Brauhaus specialties like the Malzsack (a cordon bleu breaded with brewing malt) or Mecklenburger lamb. Wash it down with the house-brewed unfiltered light or dark beer. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Wismarsche Str. 126 | 0385/593\u20136693 | www.altstadtbrauhaus.de | No credit cards.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Niederl\u00e4ndischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | The city's most elegant hotel has a 4\u00bd-star rating in view of its luxurious interior, decorated in a classic style; its romantic, airy rooms; the impeccable service; and, of course, the fine nouvelle cuisine \u00e0 la Mecklenburg (mostly seafood dishes). All this is tucked inside a late-19th-century historic mansion located on old Schwerin's Pfaffenteich. Pros: interesting packages include tours, dinner, and more; great location right off a lake and within walking distance of the Schloss, boat docks, and downtown museums. Cons: formal atmosphere. | Rooms from: \u20ac150 | Alexandrinnenstr. 12\u201313 | 0385/591\u2013100 | www.niederlaendischer-hof.de | 27 rooms, 6 suites | Breakfast.\n\nSorat-Hotel Speicher am Ziegelsee.  \nHOTEL | Towering seven stories above the old harbor, the Speicher am Ziegelsee was once a wheat warehouse. The 1939 building's rooms and spacious apartments are decorated with natural materials and earthy tones and have all the amenities of a modern, first-class hotel. A choice spot for sitting is the wooden terrace bordering the lake. Pros: unbeatable location on a lovely lake and lakeside dining; very friendly and professional service. Cons: old-style warehouse building, whose rooms may seem cramped for some travelers; a bit far from the action. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Speicherstr. 11 | 0385/50030 | www.speicher-hotel.com | 59 rooms, 20 apartments | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nMecklenburgisches Staatstheater.  \nThe Mecklenburgisches Staatstheater stages German drama and opera. | Am Alten Garten | 0385/53000 | www.theater-schwerin.de.\n\nMexxclub.  \nThis is the city's hottest dance club. It features house and soul DJs who attract a stylish young crowd every Saturday night. | Kl\u00f6resgang 2.\n\nSchlossfestspiele.  \nStarted in 1993, this annual summertime festival features open-air drama or comedy performances, which are held at various venues around Schwerin including the Mecklenburg State Theatre, the castle garden, the National Theatre, and the National Museum. | Schlossstr. 1 | Schwein.\n\n### Shopping\n\nAntiques and bric-a-brac that have languished in cellars and attics since World War II are still surfacing throughout eastern Germany, and the occasional bargain can be found. The best places to look in Schwerin are on and around Schmiedestrasse, Schlossstrasse, and Mecklenburgstrasse.\n\n## Bad Doberan\n\n60 km (37 miles) east of Wismar on Route 105, 90 km (56 miles) northeast of Schwerin.\n\nBad Doberan, mostly famous for its cathedral, is a quaint town that also has Germany's oldest sea resort, Heiligendamm. The city is a popular weekend and summer getaway for people from Rostock and Berlin, but it's managed to maintain its laid-back charm.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nBad Doberan. | Severinstr. 6 | 038203/62154 | www.bad-doberan.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDoberaner M\u00fcnster (Monastery church).  \nBad Doberan is home to the meticulously restored redbrick church, one of the finest of its kind in Germany. It was built by Cistercian monks between 1294 and 1368 in the northern German brick Gothic style, with a central nave and transept. The main altar dates from the early 14th century. | Klosterstr. 2 | 038203/62716 | www.doberanermuenster.de | \u20ac2 | May\u2013Sept., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20136, Sun. 11\u20136; Mar., Apr., and Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 11\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134, Sun. 11\u20134. Tours: May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. at noon and 3; Nov.\u2013Apr., Mon.\u2013Sat. at 11 and 1.\n\nFAMILY | Molli.  \nNo visit to this part of the country would be complete without a ride on this narrow-gauge steam train that has been chugging the 16 km (10 miles) through the streets of Bad Doberan to the nearby beach resorts of Heiligendamm and K\u00fchlungsborn since 1886. The train was nicknamed after a little local dog that barked its approval every time the smoking iron horse passed by. In summer Molli runs 13 times daily between Bad Doberan and K\u00fchlungsborn. | Mecklenburgische B\u00e4derbahn Molli, K\u00fcstenbus GmbH, Am Bahnhof | 038203/4150 | www.molli-bahn.de | Same-day round-trip \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac12 | From Bad Doberan: May\u2013Sept., daily 8:35\u20136:45; Oct.\u2013Apr., daily 8:35\u20134:40.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWeisser Pavillon.  \nGERMAN | Here's a mixed setting for you: a 19th-century Chinese-pagoda-type structure in an English-style park. Come for lunch or high tea; regional specialties are featured. In summer the caf\u00e9 stays open until 10 pm. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Auf dem Kamp | 038203/62326 | No credit cards.\n\nFodor's Choice | Grand Hotel Heiligendamm.  \nHOTEL | The small beach resort of Heiligendamm has regained its prewar reputation as a getaway for Berlin's up-and-coming crowd. Nestled in five meticulously restored, gleaming white structures on a secluded beach, the hotel displays an almost Californian Bel Air charm and offers timelessly furnished rooms decorated in soft colors. There are endless activities offered, and the spa area is breathtaking. Pros: the only real first-class hotel on the Baltic Coast, with a wide range of sports and activities. Cons: very large hotel spread out in somewhat long distances; service is formal and stiff at times; books up quickly in high season. | Rooms from: \u20ac220 | Grand Hotel at Heiligendamm, Prof.-Dr.-Vogel-Str. 16\u201318 | Heiligendamm | 038203/7400 | www.grandhotel-heiligendamm.de | 118 rooms, 107 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Rostock\n\n14 km (9 miles) east of Bad Doberan on Route 105.\n\nRostock, the biggest port and shipbuilding center of the former East Germany, was founded around 1200. Of all the Hanseatic cities, the once-thriving Rostock suffered the most from the dissolution of the League in 1669. The GDR reestablished Rostock as a major port, but shipbuilding work has been cut in half since unification. Ferries from Gedser (Denmark) and Trelleborg (Sweden) come here. The population of Rostock doubles in the summer due to Baltic cruise ships that dock in Warnem\u00fcnde. TIP The biggest local annual attraction is Hanse Sail, a week of yacht racing held in August.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nRostock. | Universit\u00e4tspl. 6 | 0381/32222 | www.rostock.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nKr\u00f6pelinerstrasse.  \nThis pedestrian-only shopping street stretches from the old the Kr\u00f6peliner Tor (the old western gate) to the Neuer Markt. Here you'll find the finest examples of late-Gothic and Renaissance houses of rich Hanse merchants.\n\nSt. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church).  \nThis four-century-old church, the Gothic architectural prize of Rostock, boasts a bronze baptismal font from 1290 and some interesting baroque features, notably the oak altar (1720) and organ (1770). The huge astronomical clock, dating from 1472, has a calendar extending to 2017. | Am Ziegenmarkt 4 | 0381/492\u20133396 | Oct.\u2013Apr., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u201312:15 and 2\u20134, Sun. 11\u201312:15; May\u2013Sept., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 11:15\u20135.\n\nUniversit\u00e4tsplatz (University Square).  \nThe triangular University Square, commemorating the founding of northern Europe's first university here in 1419, is home to Rostock University's Italian Renaissance\u2013style main building, finished in 1867.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nNeuer Markt (Town Square).  \nHere, you'll immediately notice the architectural potpourri of the Rathaus. The pink baroque facade from the 18th century hides a wonderful 13th-century Gothic building underneath. The town hall spouts seven slender, decorative towers that look like candles on a peculiar birthday cake. Walk around back to see more of the Gothic elements. Historic gabled houses surround the rest of the square.\n\nFAMILY | Schifffahrtsmuseum (Maritime Museum).  \nTracing the history of shipping on the Baltic, this museum displays models of ships, which especially intrigue children. It's just beyond the city wall, at the old city gateway, Steintor. | August-Bebel-Str. 1 | 0381/492\u20132697 | www.schifffahrtsmuseum-rostock.de | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136.\n\nFAMILY | Zoologischer Garten (Zoological Garden).  \nHere you'll find one of the largest collections of exotic animals and birds in northern Germany. This zoo is particularly noted for its polar bears, some of which were bred in Rostock. If you're traveling with children, a visit is a must. | Rennbahnallee 21 | 0381/20820 | www.zoo-rostock.de | \u20ac16 | Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 9\u20135; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20137.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nPetrikeller.  \nGERMAN | Once you've crossed the threshold of the Petrikeller, you'll find yourself in the medieval world of Hanseatic merchants, seamen, and wild pirates such as Klaus St\u00f6rtebecker. The restaurant's motto, \"Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang\" (\"He who doth not love wine, woman and song will be a fool his whole life long\"), a quote from reformer Martin Luther no less, sets the right tone. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Harte Str. 27 | 0381/455\u2013855 | www.petrikeller.de | No credit cards | Closed Mon. No lunch.\n\nRestaurant & Bar Silo 4.  \nASIAN | Rostock's latest culinary venture is proof that eastern Germany can do sleek and modern. At the top of a waterfront office tower, this innovative restaurant offers spectacular views of the river and a fun and interesting approach to Asian-fusion cuisine. The buffet consists of a list of ingredients and seasonings. Guests choose what they like and then leave it to the experts in the show kitchen to work their magic. | Average main: \u20ac23 | Am Strande 3d | 0381/458\u20135800 | www.silo4.de | Closed Mon. No lunch.\n\nZur Kogge.  \nSEAFOOD | Looking like the cabin of a Kogge, a Hanseatic sailing vessel, the oldest sailors' beer tavern in town serves mostly fish. Order the Mecklenburger Fischsuppe (fish soup) if it's on the menu. The Grosser Fischteller, consisting of three kinds of fish\u2014depending on the day's catch\u2014served with vegetables, lobster and shrimp sauce, and potatoes, is also a popular choice. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Wokrenterstr. 27 | 0381/493\u20134493 | Reservations essential.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nPental Hotel.  \nHOTEL | A 19th-century mansion, this hotel is a genuine part of Rostock's historic Old Town. It provides smooth service, and the modern rooms are tastefully decorated. Despite its downtown location, it's a quiet place to stay. Pros: good location; very quiet backstreet. Cons: restaurant isn't very good; bland room design. | Rooms from: \u20ac76 | Schwaansche Str. 6 | 0381/49700 | www.pentahotels.com | 150 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\nSteigenberger\u2013Hotel zur Sonne Rostock.  \nHOTEL | With more than 200 years of history behind it, the \"Sun,\" located within the Old Town, is one of the nicest hotels in Rostock. Guests here relax and enjoy the Hanseatic mansion's maritime atmosphere, the inviting wine bar, very friendly service, and large, modern rooms. lAsk for a top-floor room, cozily fitted under the eaves. Pros: nice view and near many sights; good restaurants, caf\u00e9s, and bars nearby. Cons: rooms get direct sunlight in summer, and therefore are very warm; open setting of bed in the middle of the room may be unsettling for some. | Rooms from: \u20ac159 | Neuer Markt 2 | 0381/49730 | www.rostock.steigenberger.de | 90 rooms, 21 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\nThe summer season brings with it a plethora of special concerts, sailing regattas, and parties on the beach.\n\nVolkstheater.  \nThe Volkstheater presents plays and concerts, from the classics to more contemporary works. | Patriotischer Weg 33 | 0381/4600.\n\n### Shopping\n\nEchter Rostocker Doppel-K\u00fcmmel und -Korn, a kind of schnapps made from various grains and flavored with cumin, is a traditional liquor of the area around Rostock. Fishermen have numbed themselves to the cold for centuries with this 80-proof beverage. A bottle costs \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac11; Lehmmet is the best brand of this local moonshine.\n\n## Warnem\u00fcnde\n\n14 km (9 miles) north of Rostock on Route 103.\n\nWarnem\u00fcnde is a quaint seaside resort town with the best hotels and restaurants in the area, as well as 20 km (12 miles) of beautiful white-sand beach. It's been a popular summer getaway for families in eastern Germany for years.\n\nThere is little to do in Warnem\u00fcnde except relax, and the town excels brilliantly at that. However, Warnem\u00fcnde is a major cruise ship terminal. Whenever there is more than one ship at dock, the town explodes with a county fair\u2013like atmosphere, where shops and restaurants stay open until the ships leave at midnight. The city celebrates the dreifache Anlauf, when three ships dock simultaneously, with fireworks.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nThanks to its close location to Rostock and the A-20, Warnem\u00fcnde is easily accessible from any major city in the region. Traffic between the seaside district of Rostock and the downtown area can be heavy on summer weekends. The best way to explore the city is by riding a bike or walking.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAlter Strom (Old Stream).  \nInland from the lighthouse is this yacht marina. Once the entry into the port of Warnem\u00fcnde, it now has bars, plenty of good restaurants, and touristy shops. The fishing boats lining the Strom sell the day's catch, smoked fish, and bags of fried mussels. | Alter Strom 1.\n\nFAMILY | Leuchtturm.  \nChildren enjoy climbing to the top of the town landmark, a 115-foot-high lighthouse, dating from 1898; on clear days it offers views of the coast and Rostock Harbor. | Seepromenade.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nFischerklause.  \nSEAFOOD | Sailors have stopped in at this restaurant's bar since the turn of the 20th century. The smoked fish sampler, served on a lazy Susan, is delicious, and the house specialty of fish soup is best washed down with some Rostocker Doppel-K\u00fcmmel schnapps. An accordionist entertains the crowd on weekends. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Am Strom 123 | 0381/52516 | Reservations essential.\n\nLandhotel Ostseetraum.  \nRESORT | This family-owned hotel, in a thatch-roof farmhouse outside Warnem\u00fcnde, blends contemporary style with rural architecture. The refurbished apartments all feature a kitchenette and separate sitting or living areas. The standard rooms are smaller - some have a maritime flair with dark, heavy furniture and large beds; others, which are even smaller, have a country feel with bright pinewood furnishings. The hotel is 500 yards from the beach. Pros: quiet; green setting not far away from the sea; friendly and personalized service; very private apartments. Cons: old-fashioned interior design in need of updating in some rooms and public areas; located outside Warnem\u00fcnde proper. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Stolteraerweg 34b | Warnem\u00fcnde-Diedrichshagen | 0381/519\u20131848 | www.ostseetraum.de | 18 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nYachthafenresidenz Hohe D\u00fcne.  \nRESORT | The star on the Baltic Coast is this huge, modern resort comfortably residing on a peninsula between the yacht harbor, a sandy beach, and the port entrance. Setting a new standard of luxury in the region, the smartly designed Hohe D\u00fcne offers maritime-themed rooms and suites with names reminiscent of ship quarters, such as \"Boatman's Cabin\" or \"Captain's Suite.\" A real catch is the spa, taking up a full three floors with a pool, several saunas, and plenty of massage rooms. Pros: very well run; stylish hotel with a great ambience and all the amenities; impressive wellness and spa area. Cons: outside Warnem\u00fcnde; accessible only by ferry from the town center and not along the central promenade; only a few attractions and restaurants in walking distance, pretentious staff. | Rooms from: \u20ac205 | Hohe D\u00fcne, Am Yachthafen 1\u20138 | 0381/5040 | www.yhd.de | 345 rooms, 23 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife\n\nThe pubs in the marina Alter Strom are fun gathering places.\n\nSkybar.  \nThe Skybar is open Friday and Saturday until 3 am. TIP Roof access gives you the chance to sit under the stars and watch ship lights twinkle on the sea. | Neptun Hotel, Seestr. 19, 19th fl. | Rostock-Warnem\u00fcnde | 0381/7770.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Beaches\n\nWarnem\u00fcnde.  \nThe beach fronting the resort town of Warnem\u00fcnde is one of Germany's most popular beaches and it can get fairly crowded in summer. The expansive beach, with its soft, clean sand, is fabulous for sunbathing, relaxing, or walking. The pleasant sea breeze invites kite-flyers and you can purchase different kinds of kites from the open-air market along the promenade. Food and drink are available from many vendors and at several supermarkets in the town itself. Amenities: food and drink; parking; showers; toilets; water sports.Best for: partiers; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking. | Seepromende 1.\n\nEn Route: Ribnitz-Damgarten.  \nThis town, 30 km (19 miles) northeast of Warnem\u00fcnde, is the center of the amber (in German, Bernstein) business, unique to the Baltic Coast. Amber is a yellow-brown fossil formed from the sap of ancient conifers. Head for a beach and join the locals seeking the amber stones washed up among the seaweed.\n\nDeutsches Bernsteinmuseum (German Amber Museum). At this museum, which adjoins the main amber factory, you can see a fascinating exhibit of how \"Baltic gold\" is collected from the sea and refined to make jewelry. Some of the amber here is between 35 and 50 million years old. | Im Kloster 1\u20133 | Ribnitz-Damgarten | 03821/2931 | www.deutsches-bernsteinmuseum.de | \u20ac8.50 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9:30\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135; last entry 30 mins before closing.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nStralsund | R\u00fcgen Island | Usedom Island\n\nThe best description of this region is found in its name, which simply means \"before Pomerania.\" This area, indeed, seems trapped between Mecklenburg and the authentic, old Pomerania farther east, now part of Poland. Its remoteness ensures an unforgettable view of unspoiled nature, primarily attracting families and younger travelers.\n\n## Stralsund\n\n68 km (42 miles) east of Rostock on Route 105.\n\nThis jewel of the Baltic has retained its historic city center and parts of its 13th-century defensive wall. The wall was built following an attack by the L\u00fcbeck fleet in 1249. In 1815 the Congress of Vienna awarded the city, which had been under Swedish control, to the Prussians.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nStralsund is well linked to both Rostock and Berlin by A-20 and A-19. The city is an ideal base for exploring the coast via the well-developed network of Bundesstrassen around it. Inside the city, walking or biking are better options, though, as the dense, historic downtown area makes it difficult to drive.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nStralsund. | Alter Markt 9 | 03831/24690 | www.stralsund.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nAlter Markt (Old Market Square).  \nThe Alter Markt has the best local architecture, ranging from Gothic to Renaissance to baroque. Most homes belonged to rich merchants, notably the late-Gothic Wulflamhaus, with 17 ornate, steeply stepped gables. Stralsund's architectural masterpiece, however, is the 14th-century Rathaus, considered by many to be the finest secular example of redbrick Gothic. The Rathaus is a mirror image of the a similar building in L\u00fcbeck, Stralsund's main rival in the Hanseatic League | Alter Markt 1.\n\nFAMILY | Deutsches Meeresmuseum (German Sea Museum).  \nThe Stralsund aquarium of Baltic Sea life is part of this three-floor museum, which also displays the skeletons of a giant whale and a hammerhead shark, and a 25-foot-high chunk of coral. | Katharinenberg 14\u201320, entrance on M\u00f6nchstr. | 03831/265\u2013021 | www.meeresmuseum.de | \u20ac9 | Oct.\u2013May, daily 10\u20135; June\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20136.\n\nSt. Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church).  \nThis enormous church is the largest of Stralsund's three redbrick Gothic churches. With 4,000 pipes and intricate decorative figures, the magnificent 17th-century Stellwagen organ (played only during Sunday services) is a delight to see and hear. The view from the church tower of Stralsund's old city center is well worth climbing 349 steps. | Neuer Markt, entrance at Bleistr., Marienstr. | 03831/293\u2013529 | Tour of church tower \u20ac4 | May\u2013Oct., weekdays 9\u20136, weekends 10\u2013noon; Nov.\u2013Apr., weekdays 10\u2013noon and 2\u20136, weekends 10\u2013noon.\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nKatherinenkloster (St. Catherine's Monastery).  \nA former cloister, 40 of its rooms now house two museums: the famed Deutsches Meeresmuseum, and the Kulturhistorisches Museum. | Bielkenhagen.\n\nKulturhistorisches Museum (Cultural History Museum).  \nThis museum exhibits diverse artifacts from more than 10,000 years of this coastal region's history. Highlights include a toy collection and 10th-century Viking gold jewelry found on Hiddensee. You reach the museums by walking along Ossenreyerstrasse through the Apollonienmarkt on M\u00f6nchstrasse. | Kulturhistorisches Museum, M\u00f6nchstr. 25\u201327 | 03831/28790 | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun.10\u20135.\n\nSt. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas's Church).  \nThe treasures of the 13th-century Gothic church include a 15-foot-high crucifix from the 14th century, an astronomical clock from 1394, and a famous baroque altar. | Alter Markt | 03831/297\u2013199 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 11\u2013noon and 2\u20134; Oct.\u2013Mar., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134, Sun. 11\u2013noon and 2\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWulflamstuben.  \nSEAFOOD | This restaurant is on the ground floor of the Wulflamhaus, a 14th-century gabled house on the old market square. Steaks and fish are the specialties; in late spring or early summer, get the light and tasty Ostseescholle (grilled plaice), fresh from the Baltic Sea. In winter the hearty Stralsunder Aalsuppe (Stralsund eel soup) is a must. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Alter Markt 5 | 03831/291\u2013533 | www.wulflamstuben.de | Reservations essential.\n\nZum Alten Fritz.  \nGERMAN | It's worth the trip here just to see the rustic interior and copper brewing equipment. Since the restaurant is owned by the Stralsunder Brewery, all Stralsunder and several St\u00f6rtebecker beers are on tap, including the rare St\u00f6rtebecker Roggen-Weizen, a wheat beer made with rye, and Germany's first India Pale Ale. In summer the beer garden gets somewhat rambunctious. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Greifswalder Chaussee 84\u201385, at B\u201396a | 03831/25550.\n\nHotel zur Post.  \nHOTEL | This redbrick hotel is a great deal for travelers looking for a homey yet first-class ambience. It's on the market square near the Old Town. The hotel's interior is a thoughtful mix of traditional north German furnishings and modern design. Pros: very good location in the heart of the historic downtown area; good deals offered on hotel website. Cons: very small rooms with too much furniture; some rooms in need of updating. | Rooms from: \u20ac122 | Am Neuen Markt, Tribseerstr. 22 | 03831/200\u2013500 | www.hotel-zur-post-stralsund.de | 104 rooms, 2 suites, 8 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nNorddeutscher Hof.  \nHOTEL | Don't let the weathered facade fool you; this hotel is in good shape, even if the lobby and restaurant were not as tastefully redecorated as the guest rooms. You get the basics at a fair price. Pros: small family-run hotel with friendly service in a perfect downtown location. Cons: very basic; small and simple rooms in need of updating. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Neuer Markt 22 | 03831/293\u2013161 | www.norddeutscher-hof.de | 13 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRadisson Blu Hotel Stralsund.  \nHOTEL | This hotel, part of the Radisson brand, is a modern property with winning amenities and great hospitality at an unbeatable price. The high-rise hotel doesn't look appealing at first glance, but the spacious rooms (featuring many extras such as a baby bed, satellite TV, and a work desk) are furnished in bright colors and ensure a most pleasant stay. The biggest attraction, the hotel's Vital Spa, is a huge wellness facility. Pros: top spa; solid and reliable services and amenities; long breakfast service (until 11 am). Cons: for Stralsund, this is a large; busy hotel; far away from city center (15 minutes). | Rooms from: \u20ac129 | Gr\u00fcnhofer Bogen 18\u201320 | 03831/37730 | www.radissonblu.com/hotel-stralsund | 109 rooms, 5 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife\n\nBar Hemingway.  \nThis bar lures a thirtysomething clientele with the best cocktails in town. | Tribseerstr. 22 | 03831/200\u2013500.\n\nFun und Lollipop.  \nA young crowd dances at Fun und Lollipop. | Gr\u00fcnhofer Bogen 11 | 03834/399\u2013039.\n\nSt\u00f6rtebeker-Keller.  \nFor a genuine old harbor Kneipe (tavern), head to the St\u00f6rtebeker-Keller, named for an infamous pirate. | Ossenreyerstr. 49 | 03831/292\u2013758.\n\n### Shopping\n\nBuddelschiffe (ships in a bottle) are a symbol of the magnificent sailing history of this region. They look easy to build, but they aren't, and they're quite delicate. Expect to pay more than \u20ac70 for a 1-liter bottle. Also look for Fischerteppiche (fishermen's carpets). Eleven square feet of these traditional carpets take 150 hours to create, which explains why they're meant only to be hung on the wall\u2014and why they cost from \u20ac260 to \u20ac1,200. They're decorated with traditional symbols of the region, such as the mythical griffin.\n\n## R\u00fcgen Island\n\n4 km (2\u00bd miles) northeast of Stralsund on B-96.\n\nR\u00fcgen's diverse and breathtaking landscapes have inspired poets and painters for more than a century. Railways in the mid-19th century brought the first vacationers from Berlin and many of the grand mansions and villas on the island date from this period. The island's main route runs between the Grosser Jasmunder Bodden (Big Jasmund Inlet), a giant sea inlet, and a smaller expanse of water, the Kleiner Jasmunder Bodden (Little Jasmund Inlet Lake), to the port of Sassnitz. You're best off staying at any of the island's four main vacation centers\u2014Sassnitz, Binz, Sellin, and G\u00f6hren.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nR\u00fcgen is an easy two-hour drive from Rostock and a 15-minute drive from Stralsund via the B-96. As there is only one bridge connecting the island to the mainland, the road can get clogged occasionally in summer. On the island, a car is highly recommended to reach the more-remote beaches, but watch out for island teenagers and their infatuation with muscle cars; give them a wide berth.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information  \nR\u00fcgen Island. | Tourismusverband R\u00fcgen, Bahnhofstr. 15, | Bergen | 03838/807\u2013780 | www.ruegen.de.   \nSassnitz. | Bahnhofstr. 19a, | Sassnitz | 038392/6490 | www.insassnitz.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nBinz.  \nThe largest resort town on R\u00fcgen's east coast, it has white villas and a beach promenade. Four kilometers (2\u00bd miles) north of Binz are five concrete quarters of Bad Prora, where the Nazis once planned to provide vacation quarters for up to 20,000 German workers. The complex was never used, except by the East German army. Museums and galleries here today include one that documents the history of the site. | Strandpromenade 1, Binz.\n\nJagdschloss Granitz.  \nStanding on the highest point of East R\u00fcgen is the Jagdschloss Granitz, a hunting lodge built in 1836. It offers a splendid view in all directions from its lookout tower and has an excellent hunting exhibit. | 2 km (1 mile) south of Binz | 038393/663\u2013814 | www.jagdschloss-granitz.de | \u20ac3 | May\u2013Sept., daily 9\u20136; Oct.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134\n\nKap Arkona.  \nMarking the northernmost point in eastern Germany is the lighthouse at Kap Arkona, a nature lover's paradise filled with blustery sand dunes. The redbrick lighthouse was designed by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, the architect responsible for so many of today's landmarks in Berlin. | Kap Arkona, Putgarten.\n\nSassnitz.  \nThis small fishing town is the island's harbor for ferries to Sweden. Sassnitz is surrounded by some of the most pristine nature to be found along the Baltic Coast. Ten kilometers (6 miles) north of Sassnitz are the twin chalk cliffs of R\u00fcgen's main attraction, the Stubbenkammer headland. From here you can best see the much-photographed white-chalk cliffs called the K\u00f6nigstuhl, rising 350 feet from the sea. A steep trail leads down to a beach. | Merkelstr., Sassnitz.\n\nJasmund Nationalpark.  \nFrom Sassnitz, walk to Jasmund Nationalpark to explore the marshes, lush pine forests, and towering chalk cliffs. | Johanniskirchstr., Sassnitz | www.nationalpark-jasmund.de\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nBergen.  \nThis small town is the island's administrative capital, founded as a Slavic settlement some 900 years ago. The Marienkirche (St. Mary's Church) has geometric murals dating back to the late 1100s and painted brick octagonal pillars. The pulpit and altar are baroque. Outside the front door and built into the church facade is a gravestone from the 1200s. | Bergen.\n\nPutbus.  \nThe heart of this town, 28 km (17 miles) southwest of Binz, is the Circus, a round central plaza dating back to the early 19th century. The immaculate white buildings surrounding the Circus give the city its nickname, \"Weisse Stadt\" (White City). In summer the blooming roses in front of the houses (once a requirement by the ruling noble family of Putbus) are truly spectacular. | Alleestr., Putbus.\n\nRasender Roland (Racing Roland).  \nFrom Putbus you can take a ride on the 90-year-old narrow-gauge steam train, which runs 24 km (16 miles) to G\u00f6hren, at the southeast corner of R\u00fcgen. Trains leave hourly from G\u00f6hren to Binz and every two hours from Binz to Putbus; the ride takes 70 minutes one way. | Binzer Str. 12, Putbus | 038301/8010 | www.rasender-roland.de | \u20ac20 day ticket | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 7:48 am\u20137:46 pm; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 7:48 am\u20135:44 pm.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Hiddensee.  \nOff the northwest corner of R\u00fcgen is a smaller island called Hiddensee. The undisturbed solitude of this sticklike island has attracted such visitors as Albert Einstein, Thomas Mann, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Sigmund Freud. As Hiddensee is an auto-free zone, leave your car in Schaprode, 21 km (13 miles) west of Bergen, and take a ferry. Vacation cottages and restaurants are on the island. | Insel Hiddensee.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nPanoramahotel Lohme.  \nGERMAN | Dinner at this restaurant dubbed \"R\u00fcgen's balcony\" offers some of the most beautiful views on the island. While enjoying fresh fish from local waters, prepared with a light Italian touch, you can watch the sunset over the cliffs of Kap Arkona. Chef Marcus Uhlich uses fresh produce from local farmers, and the superb vintages are from small private wineries. TIP Make a reservation, and insist on a table in the Fontane-Veranda (in winter) or the Arkonablick-Terrasse (in summer). | Average main: \u20ac15 | An der Steilk\u00fcste 8, Lohme | 038302/9110.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel Godewind.  \nB&B/INN | This small hotel offers food and lodging at very reasonable prices. In addition, the hotel rents small cottages and apartments around the island, which are a good value if you intend to stay for more than a few days. lGodewind's restaurant ($) is known on the island for its regional dishes. Pros: quiet setting; very cozy rooms with nice furniture. Cons: almost no amenities and services offered. | Rooms from: \u20ac98 | S\u00fcderende 53, Vitte-Hiddensee | 038300/6600 | www.hotelgodewind.de | 23 rooms, 19 cottages | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Villa Granitz.  \nRENTAL | This mostly wooden mansion is a small and quiet retreat for those who want to avoid the masses. All rooms are spacious and have a large terrace or balcony; pastel colors (a soft white and yellow) add to the tidy, fairy-tale look of the building. The apartments have small kitchenettes. Pros: cozy hotel in the traditional architectural style of the area; very competitive prices for the size and comfort of rooms. Cons: off the beaten track at the outskirts of the city; a distance from the beach. | Rooms from: \u20ac78 | Birkenallee 17, Baabe | 038303/1410 | www.villa-granitz.de | 44 rooms, 6 suites, 8 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nTravel Charme Hotel Kurhaus Binz.  \nHOTEL | The grand old lady of the Baltic Sea, the neoclassical 19th-century Kurhaus Binz is reviving the splendor of times past, when Binz was called the Nice of the North. The four-star Kurhaus is right on the beach, with a breathtaking sea view from most of the spacious and elegantly furnished rooms. The huge Egyptian-themed spa and wellness area is a real treat. Of the two restaurants, the Kurhaus-Restaurant ($$ - $$$) is the better choice - it serves traditional seafood but adds exotic touches with special fusion-cuisine. Pros: great breakfast buffet; extremely clean rooms and public areas; highly trained and friendly personnel; all the amenities. Cons: lacks the feel of a typical R\u00fcgen hotel; not very personal or intimate. | Rooms from: \u20ac206 | Strandpromenade 27, Binz | 038393/6650 | www.travelcharme.com | 106 rooms, 20 suites | Breakfast.\n\nVier Jahreszeiten.  \nHOTEL | This first-class beach resort in Binz is a sophisticated blend of historic seaside architecture and modern elegance. Behind the ornamental white facade the hotel boasts spacious rooms decorated with 19th-century reproduction furniture, as well as more-secluded apartments. A great plus is the nearly 6,000-square-foot spa and wellness center, one of the best in Mecklenburg-Pomerania. Pros: one of the area's few four-star hotels; varied cultural and entertainment programs; stylish spa with great massages. Cons: small rooms and bathrooms; many rooms with worn-out mattresses. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Zeppelinstr. 8, Binz | 038393/500 | www.vier-jahreszeiten.de | 69 rooms, 7 suites, 50 apartments | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Beaches\n\nVitte.  \nTucked away on the west coast of Hiddedsee near Vitte, is a 5-km-long (3-mile-long) beach with shimmering turquoise waters and sand so fine that you might mistake it for the Caribbean. The 50-meter-wide beach is ideal for families with children, but is only accessible by bicycle. The water is quite shallow and it's easy to walk out to the sandbanks. Vitte is divided between a nudist section to the south and a textile section to the north. Locals decorate the beach with baskets of flowers in summer. Amenities: showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: solitude; nudists; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; swimming; walking. | S\u00fcderende, Insel Hiddensee.\n\nBinz.  \nThe rule of the Baltics most exclusive beach is \"see and be seen.\" The 5-km-long (3-mile-long) and 54-yard-wide beach is the perfect place to sunbathe and swim, as well as stroll\u2014there's a 150-year-old beach path promenade. The somewhat rocky beach is punctuated by the Seebr\u00fccke, a boardwalk that extends into the sea, and the nearby Smart Beach Tour Stadium, which regularly hosts parties, beach volleyball tournaments, and other events. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; swimming; walking. | Strandpromenade | Binz.\n\nProra.  \nThis is one of the finest beaches on R\u00fcgen, and there's probably not another place like it in the world\u2014think fine white beach bordered by a dense pine forest sitting in the shadows of the ruins of a monstrous Nazi beach resort. Prora actually sits in the Prorer Wiek, a pleasant cove with shallow water and plentiful sandbanks. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: solitude, partiers; nudists; snorkeling; sunrise; sunset; surfing; swimming; walking; windsurfing. | Binz.\n\n## Usedom Island\n\n67 km (42 miles) to Wolgast bridge from Stralsund.\n\nUsedom Island has almost 32 km (20 miles) of sandy shoreline and a string of resorts. Much of the island's untouched landscape is a nature preserve that provides refuge for a number of rare birds, including the giant sea eagle, which has a wingspan of up to 8 feet. Even in summer this island is more or less deserted, and is ready to be explored by bicycle.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFrom the west, Usedom is accessed via the causeway at Wolgast. The bridge closes to traffic at times to allow boats to pass through. From the south, the B-110 leads from Anklam to Usedom. In summer, particularly before and after weekends, traffic can be very heavy on both roads.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nUsedom Island Tourismus GmbH. | Waldstr. 1, | Seebad Bansin | 038378/47710 | www.usedom.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAhlbeck.  \nThe island's main town is also one of its best resorts. The tidy and elegant resort is one of the three Kaiserb\u00e4der (imperial baths)\u2014the two others are Heringsdorf and Bansin\u2014where the Emperor Wilhelm II liked to spend his summers in the early 20th century. Noble families and rich citizens followed the emperor, turning Ahlbeck into one of the prettiest villas on the Baltic Coast. Ahlbeck's landmark is the 19th-century wooden pier with four towers. Stroll the beach to the right of the pier and you'll arrive at the Polish border. | 1 Kurstr., Ahlbeck.\n\nPeenem\u00fcnde.  \nAt the northwest tip of Usedom, 16 km (10 miles) from landside Wolgast, is the launch site of the world's first jet rockets, the V1 and V2, developed by Germany during World War II. You can view these rockets as well as models of early airplanes and ships at the extensive | F\u00e4hrstr. 10, Peenem\u00fcnde.\n\nDas Historisch-Technische Museum Peenem\u00fcnde (Historical-Technical Museum Peenem\u00fcnde).  \nAt this museum housed in the former factory power plant, one exhibit in particular covers the moral responsibility of scientists who develop new technology, by focusing on the secret plants where most of the rocket parts were assembled and where thousands of slave laborers died. Explanations of the exhibits in English are available. | Im Kraftwerk, Peenem\u00fcnde | 038371/5050 | www.peenemuende.de | \u20ac8 | Apr.\u2013Sept., daily 10\u20136; Oct.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134; Nov.\u2013Feb., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nRomantik Seehotel Ahlbecker Hof.  \nHOTEL | The first lady of Ahlbeck, this four-star hotel calls to mind the island's past as a getaway for Prussian nobility in the 19th century. The restored building sits rights on the beach, just a few steps from the pier. It offers spacious, elegantly appointed rooms overlooking the water. Pros: has one of the area's best spas; two gourmet restaurants; near beach. Cons: no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac207 | D\u00fcnenstr. 47, Ahlbeck | 038378/620 | www.seetel.de | 70 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n#### Beaches\n\n\u00dcckeritz.  \nOne of the best-kept secrets on Usedom, this 7\u00bd-mile-long beach is quite busy in the north but almost abandoned further south. The area is quite rustic and the perfect beach to feel like you have the place to yourself. Amenities: food and drink; parking Best for: solitude; nudists; sunrise; sunset; walking. | Uferpromenade | \u00dcckeritz.\n\nKaiserb\u00e4der.  \nThe Kaiserb\u00e4der Strand stretches for more than 12 km (7 miles) along Usedom Island's northeast coast from Bansin to Herringsdorf to Ahlbeck. A promenade connects the three towns and the Imperial Bathing Beaches are a mix of 19th-century beach architecture on one side and beach chair relaxation on the other. A stroll through the windy sea air is said to have magical recuperative powers and the beach is so pure and pristine that the locals claim that when the conditions are right, the sand actually sings when the grains rub together. The wide beach bustles with weekend Berliners and long-term visitors in summer. Amenities: food and drink; lifeguards; parking; showers; toilets; water sports. Best for: partiers; sunrise; sunset; swimming; walking. | Strandpromenade | Herringsdorf.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Berlin\n\nExploring Berlin\n\nWhere to Eat\n\nWhere to Stay\n\nNightlife and the Arts\n\nShopping\n\nSide Trip to Potsdam\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Berlin Wall Walk | Follow the Cobblestones | Two Berlin Wall Walks | Iconic East Berlin\n\nUpdated by Sally McGrane and Giulia Pines\n\nSince the fall of the Iron Curtain, no other city in Europe has seen more change than Berlin, the German capital. The two Berlins that had been physically separated for almost 30 years have become one, and the reunited city has become a cutting-edge destination for architecture, culture, entertainment, nightlife, and shopping.\n\nAfter successfully uniting its own East and West, Berlin now plays a pivotal role in the European Union. But even as the capital thinks and moves forward, history is always tugging at its sleeve. Between the wealth of neoclassical and 21st-century buildings there are constant reminders, both subtle and stark, of the events of the 20th century.\n\nBerlin is quite young by European standards, beginning as two separate entities in 1237 on two islands in the Spree River: C\u00f6lln and Berlin. By the 1300s, Berlin was prospering, thanks to its location at the intersection of important trade routes, and rose to power as the seat of the Hohenzollern dynasty. The Great Elector Friedrich Wilhelm, in the nearly 50 years of his reign (1640\u201388), touched off a cultural renaissance. Later, Frederick the Great (1712\u201386) made Berlin and Potsdam glorious centers of his enlightened yet autocratic Prussian monarchy.\n\nIn 1871, Prussia, ruled by the \"Iron Chancellor\" Count Otto von Bismarck, unified the many independent German states into the German Empire. Berlin maintained its status as capital for the duration of that Second Reich (1871\u20131918), through the post\u2013World War I Weimar Republic (1919\u201333), and also through Hitler's so-called Third Reich (1933\u201345). The city's golden years were the Roaring '20s, when Berlin evolved as the energetic center for the era's cultural avant-garde. World-famous writers, painters, and artists met here while the impoverished bulk of its 4 million inhabitants lived in heavily overpopulated quarters. This \"dance on the volcano,\" as those years of political and economic upheaval have been called, came to a grisly and bloody end after January 1933, when Adolf Hitler became chancellor. The Nazis made Berlin their capital but ultimately failed to remake the city into a monument to their power, as they had planned. By World War II's end, 70% of the city lay in ruins, with more rubble than in all other German cities combined.\n\nAlong with the division of Germany after World War II, Berlin was partitioned into American, British, and French zones in the West and a Soviet zone in the East. The three western-occupied zones became West Berlin, while the Soviets, who controlled not only Berlin's eastern zone but also all of the east German land surrounding it tried to blockade West Berlin out of existence. (They failed thanks to the year-long Berlin Airlift [1948\u201349], during which American airplanes known in German as \"raisin bombers,\" dropped supplies until the blockade lifted.) In 1949 the Soviet Union established East Berlin as the capital of its new satellite state, the German Democratic Republic (GDR). The division of the city was cruelly finalized in concrete in August 1961, when the GDR erected the Berlin Wall, the only border fortification in history built to keep people from leaving rather than to protect them.\n\nFor nearly 30 years, the two Berlins served as competing visions of the new world order: Capitalist on one side, Communist on the other. West Berlin, an island of democracy in the Eastern bloc, was surrounded by guards and checkpoints. Nonetheless, thanks in part to being heavily subsidized by Western powers, the city became a haven for artists and freethinkers. Today, with the Wall long relegated to history (most of it was recycled as street gravel), visitors can appreciate the whole city and the anything-goes atmosphere that still pervades.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nAffordability: Of the European capitals, Berlin is the best bargain. It's a city of high culture and low prices\u2014tickets for the opera, theater, and museums tend to hover around \u20ac10.\n\nLong, creative nights: The only European city without official closing hours, Berlin's young artists put on installations, performance events, and parties to keep you up all night.\n\nMuseum Island (Museuminsel): The architectural monuments and art treasures here will take you from an ancient Greek altar to Egyptian busts and a Roman market town to 18th-century Berlin and back.\n\nThe Reichstag's cupola: Reserve a coveted spot on a tour of Berlin's seat of parliament to admire the spectacular glass cupola, and to enjoy great views of Berlin.\n\nTrace history's path: The division of Berlin was a major historical event and an anomaly in urban history. Follow the cobblestone markers of the Wall's path.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nIn eastern Germany, almost halfway between Paris and Moscow, Berlin is Germany's largest city. When the city-state of Berlin was incorporated in 1920, it swallowed towns and villages far beyond what had been the downtown area around the two main rivers, the Spree and the Havel. After World War II, Berlin was divided among the conquering powers, and in 1961 the East German government built a wall through the middle of the city, more or less overnight. For the next decades, the city was divided. In November 1989, the wall fell, and a peaceful revolution put an end to the Communist East German regime. In 1999, Berlin became the capital of a reunified Germany, once again.\n\n## What's Where\n\nMitte. It means \"center\" or \"middle\" in German, and it's the neighborhood at the center of the city. Once home to the city's Jewish quarters, after the war Mitte was part of East Berlin. Today, it's the center of the city once again, packed with monuments, museums, galleries, and shops.\n\nTiergarten. The Tiergarten neighborhood extends around the Tiergarten (\"animal garden\"), which is Berlin's version of New York's Central Park.\n\nPotsdamer Platz. One of the busiest squares in prewar Europe, Potsdamer Platz is still the center of commercial action.\n\nFriedrichshain. In the former East, Friedrichshain's offbeat bars, restaurants, clubs, and parks draw creative types from around the world.\n\nKreuzberg. When Berlin was divided, West Berlin's Kreuzberg was right alongside the wall. The neighborhood drew punks, artists, and anarchists, as well as a large Turkish population. Today, it's still edgy and artsy.\n\nPrenzlauer Berg. Once a working class neighborhood, Prenzlauer Berg is now one of the city's most gentrified areas, perfect for strolling leafy streets, past sidewalk caf\u00e9s.\n\nWedding. A working class neighborhood in the former West, this is where Berlin's artists are heading, as rents rise elsewhere. Whether you're looking for an underground art gallery or authentic Turkish coffee, Wedding is the place to go.\n\nNeuk\u00f6lln. Neuk\u00f6lln has gone from bleak to chic. Abandoned storefronts have turned into DIY art galleries, homemade fashion shops, secondhand shops, and funky wine bars.\n\nCharlottenburg. Lovely Charlottenburg is as elegant as Berlin gets. This beautifully sedate West Berlin neighborhood hasn't changed as much as much of the rest of the city.\n\nWannsee and Oranienburg. The concentration camp in Oranienburg is a somber excursion; Wannsee also has a dark past but there are also parks and lakes to explore.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nBerlin tends to be gray and cold; it can be warm and beautiful in summer but there's no guarantee, so it's best to always pack a jacket. The best time to visit is from May to early September, though late July and early August can get hot\u2014in which case, everyone heads to one of the city's many lakes. Many open-air events are staged in summer, when the exceedingly green city is at its most beautiful. October and November can be overcast and rainy, though the city occasionally sees crisp blue autumn skies. If you want to get a real feel for Berlin, come during the long winter months, when a host of indoor cultural events combat perpetually gray skies, but bring a heavy winter coat to combat the sleet, icy rain, strong winds, and freezing temperatures.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nThe Berlin WelcomeCard (sold by EurAid, Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe offices, the tourist office, and some hotels) entitles one adult and three children up to age 6 to two, three, or five days of unlimited travel in the ABC zones for \u20ac20.50, \u20ac26.50, or \u20ac36.50, respectively, and includes admission and tour discounts detailed in a booklet. The CityTourCard, good for two, three, or five days of unlimited travel in the ABC zones, costs \u20ac18.90, \u20ac24.90, and \u20ac34.90, respectively, and details 50 discounts on a leaflet; up to three children under age 6 can accompany an adult.\n\nMany of the 17 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin (state museums of Berlin) offer several ticket options (children up to 18 are welcomed free of charge). A single ticket ranges \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac12. A three-day pass (Tageskarte or SchauLust Museen Ticket) to all state museums costs \u20ac24. This ticket allows entrance to all state museums plus many others for three consecutive days. State museums tend to cluster near one another, and usually a single entrance ticket grants admission to all museums in that area. These areas include Charlottenburg (\u20ac12), Dahlem (\u20ac8), the Kulturforum in Tiergarten (\u20ac12), Hamburger Bahnhof in Moabit (\u20ac14), and all museums on Museum Island (\u20ac18) in Mitte. Except for the Hamburger Bahnhof ticket, which includes all temporary exhibits, all these entrance tickets are for the permanent exhibitions only, and include an audio guide.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Airport Transfers\n\nTegel Airport is 6 km (4 miles) from the downtown area. The express X9 airport bus runs at 10-minute intervals between Tegel and Bahnhof Zoologischer Garten (Zoo Station), the center of west Berlin. From here you can connect to bus, train, or subway. The trip takes 19 minutes; the fare is \u20ac2.60. The express bus TXL runs at 10-minute intervals between Tegel and Alexanderplatz via Hauptbahnhof and takes about 30 minutes. Alternatively, you can take Bus No. 128 to Kurt Schumacher Platz or Bus No. 109 to Jakob-Kaiser-Platz and change to the U-bahn, where your bus ticket is also valid. Expect to pay about \u20ac20 for a taxi from the airport to most destinations in central Berlin. If you rent a car at the airport, follow the signs for the Stadtautobahn into Berlin. The exit to Kurf\u00fcrstendamm is clearly marked.\n\nAt Sch\u00f6nefeld, which is quite a bit farther out, buy an Einzelfahrschein or single ride ticket (\u20ac3.20) for the ABC zone from the DB (Deutsche Bahn) office or from an S-bahn platform vending machine (no credit cards) to get you into town. This ticket is good for both the S-bahn and the Airport Express train, which runs about every half hour from a track that has no vending machine. To take the Airport Express, look for a small dark-blue sign at the foot of the stairs leading to its platform. Bus 171 also leaves Sch\u00f6nefeld every 20 minutes for the Rudow U-bahn station. A taxi ride from Sch\u00f6nefeld Airport takes about 40 minutes and will cost around \u20ac35. By car, follow the signs for Stadtzentrum Berlin.\n\nAirport Information   \nCentral airport service. | 030/500\u20130186 | www.berlin-airport.de.\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nMajor airlines will continue to serve western Berlin's Tegel Airport (TXL) after a first stop at a major European hub (such as Frankfurt or London) until eastern Berlin's Sch\u00f6nefeld Airport, about 24 km (15 miles) outside the center, has been expanded into BBI \"Berlin-Brandenburg International,\" otherwise known as \"Willy Brandt\"\u2014the international airport of the capital region. Until then, Sch\u00f6nefeld is mostly used by charter and low-budget airlines. The two working Berlin airports share a central phone number.\n\n#### Bicycle Travel\n\nBerlin is a great city for biking. Particularly in summer, you can get just about anywhere you want by bike. An extensive network of bike paths are generally marked by red pavement or white markings on the sidewalks (when you're walking, try to avoid walking on bike paths if you don't want to have cyclists ring their bells at you). Many stores that rent or sell bikes carry the Berlin biker's atlas, and several places offer terrific bike tours of the city.\n\nBicycle Information   \nFahrradstation. This company rents bikes for \u20ac15 per day (12 hours) or \u20ac35 for three days. Bring ID and call for its other locations. | Dorotheenstr. 30, Mitte | 0180/510\u20138000 | www.fahrradstation.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nBerlinLinien Bus is the only intra-Germany company serving Berlin. Make reservations through ZOB-Reiseb\u00fcro, or buy your ticket at its office at the central bus terminal, the Omnibusbahnhof. Public buses are the best way to reach the bus terminal, served by line nos. X34, X49, 104, 139, 218, and 349. A more central place to buy bus tickets is Mitfahrzentrale, a tiny, busy office that also arranges car-ride shares. Only EC bank cards and cash are accepted.\n\nBus Information  \nMitfahrzentrale. | 01805/194\u2013444 | www.mf24.de | Weekdays 9\u20136, weekends 10\u20132.   \nZOB-Reiseb\u00fcro. | Zentrale Omnibusbahnhof, Masurenallee 4\u20136, at Messedamm, Charlottenburg | 030/301\u20130380 for reservations | www.zob-reisebuero.de | Weekdays 6 am\u20139 pm, weekends 6 am\u20138 pm.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nRush hour is relatively mild in Berlin, but the public transit system is so efficient here that it's best to leave your car at the hotel altogether (or refrain from renting one in the first place). All cars entering downtown Berlin inside the S-bahn ring need to have an environmental certificate. All major rental cars will have these\u2014if in doubt, ask the rental-car agent, as without one you can be fined \u20ac40. Daily parking fees at hotels can run up to \u20ac18 per day. Vending machines in the city center dispense timed tickets to display on your dashboard. Thirty minutes costs \u20ac0.50.\n\n#### Public Transit\n\nThe city has an efficient public-transportation system, a smoothly integrated network of subway (U-bahn) and suburban (S-bahn) train lines, buses, and trams (almost exclusively in eastern Berlin). Get a map from any information booth. TIP Don't be afraid to try buses and trams\u2014in addition to being well marked, they often cut the most direct path to your destination.\n\nFrom Sunday through Thursday, U-bahn trains stop around 12:45 am and S-bahn trains stop by 1:30 am. All-night bus and tram service operates seven nights a week (indicated by the letter N next to bus route numbers). On Friday and Saturday nights some S-bahn and all U-bahn lines except U4 run all night. Buses and trams marked with an M for Metro mostly serve destinations without an S-bahn or U-bahn link.\n\nMost visitor destinations are in the broad reach of the fare zones A and B. The \u20ac2.60 ticket (fare zones A and B) and the \u20ac3.20 ticket (fare zones A, B, and C) allow you to make a one-way trip with an unlimited number of changes between trains, buses, and trams. There are reduced rates for children ages 6\u201313. Buy a Kurzstreckentarif ticket (\u20ac1.50) for short rides of up to six bus or tram stops or three U-bahn or S-bahn stops. The best deal if you plan to travel around the city extensively is the Tageskarte (day card for zones A and B), for \u20ac6.70, good on all transportation until 3 am (\u20ac7.20 for A, B, and C zones). A 7-Tage-Karte (seven-day ticket) costs \u20ac28.80, and allows unlimited travel for fare zones A and B; \u20ac35.60 buys all three fare zones.\n\nTickets are available from vending machines at U-bahn and S-bahn stations. After you purchase a ticket, you are responsible for validating it when you board the train or bus. Both Einzelfahrt and Kurzstreckentarif tickets are good for 120 minutes after validation. If you're caught without a ticket or with an unvalidated one, the fine is \u20ac40.\n\nTIP The BVG website (www.bvg.de) makes planning any trip on public transportation easier. Enter your origin and destination point into their \"Journey Planner\" to see a list of your best routes, and a schedule of the next three departure times. If you're not sure which station is your closest, simply type in your current address and the system will tell you (along with the time it takes to walk there).\n\nMost major S-bahn and U-bahn stations have elevators, and most buses have hydraulic lifts. Check the public transportation maps or call the Berliner Verkehrsbetriebe. The Deutscher Service-Ring-Berlin e.V. runs a special bus service for travelers with physical disabilities, and is a good information source on all travel necessities, that is, wheelchair rental and other issues.\n\nPublic Transit Information  \nBerliner Verkehrsbetriebe (BVG). | 030/19449 | www.bvg.de.   \nS-Bahn Berlin GmbH. | 030/2974\u20133333 | www.s-bahn-berlin.de.   \nVBB. | 030/2541\u20134141 for info | www.vbbonline.de | Weekdays 8\u20138, weekends 9\u20136.\n\n#### Taxi Travel\n\nThe base rate is \u20ac3.20, after which prices vary according to a complex tariff system. Figure on paying around \u20ac8\u2013\u20ac10 for a ride the length of the Ku'damm. TIP If you've hailed a cab on the street and are taking a short ride of up to 2 km (1 mile), ask the driver as soon as you start off for a special fare (\u20ac4) called \"Kurzstreckentarif.\" You can also get cabs at taxi stands or order one by calling; there's no additional fee if you call a cab by phone. U-bahn employees will call a taxi for passengers after 8 pm.\n\nBikeTaxi, rickshawlike bicycle taxis, pedal along Kurf\u00fcrstendamm, Friedrichstrasse, Unter den Linden, and in Tiergarten. Just hail a cab on the street along the boulevards mentioned. The fare is \u20ac5 for up to 1 km (\u00bd mile) and \u20ac3 for each additional kilometer, and \u20ac22.50 to \u20ac30 for longer tours. Velotaxis operate April\u2013October, daily noon\u20137. TIP Despite these fixed prices, make sure to negotiate the fare before starting the tour.\n\nTaxi Information   \nTaxis. | 030/210\u2013101, 030/443\u2013322, 030/261\u2013026.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nAll long-distance trains stop at the huge and modern central station, Hauptbahnhof, which lies at the northern edge of the government district in central Berlin. Regional trains also stop at the two former \"main\" stations of the past years: Bahnhof Zoo (in the West) and Ostbahnhof (in the East), as well as at the central eastern stations Friedrichstrasse and Alexanderplatz.\n\n### Visitor Information\n\nThe main information office of Berlin Tourismus Marketing is in the Neues Kranzler Eck, a short walk from Zoo Station. There are branches in the south wing of the Brandenburg Gate, at Hauptbahnhof (Level 0), and in a pavilion opposite the Reichstag that are open daily 10\u20136. The tourist-information centers have longer hours April\u2013October. The tourist office publishes the Berlin Kalender (\u20ac1.60) six times a year and Berlin Buchbar (free) two times a year; both are written in German and English. The tourist office and Berlin's larger transportation offices (BVG) sell the Berlin WelcomeCard (\u20ac18.50 to \u20ac36.50), which pays for between three and five days of transportation depending on which one you get, along with 25%\u201350% discounts at museums and theaters (it does not include the state museums). Some Staatliche (state) museums are closed Monday. A free audio guide is included at all state museums. The MD Infoline provides comprehensive information about all of Berlin's museums, exhibits, and themed tours.\n\nVisitor Information  \nVisit Berlin (Berlin Tourist Info). | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 22, in the Neues Kranzler Eck, Charlottenburg | 030/250\u2013025 | www.visitberlin.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9:30\u20138, Sun. 10\u20136.   \nMuseumsinformation Berlin. | 030/2474\u20139888 | Weekdays 9\u20134, weekends 9\u20131.   \nStaatliche Museen zu Berlin. | 030/2664\u201324242 operator | www.smb.museum | Weekdays 9\u20134.   \nTourist-Information Center in Prenzlauer Berg. | Kuturbrauerei closest entrance Sch\u00f6nhauser Allee 36, Sch\u00f6nhauser Allee 36, in the Kulturbrauerei, entrances on Knaackstr. or Sredzkistr., Prenzlauer Berg | 030/4435\u20132170 | www.tic-berlin.de | Daily, 11-7.\n\n### Tours\n\n#### Boat Tours\n\nTours of central Berlin's Spree and the canals give you up-close views of sights such as Museum Island, Charlottenburg Palace, the Reichstag, and the Berliner Dom. Tours usually depart twice a day from several bridges and piers in Berlin, such as Schlossbr\u00fccke in Charlottenburg; Hansabr\u00fccke and Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Tiergarten; Friedrichstrasse, Museum Island, and Nikolaiviertel in Mitte; and near the Jannowitzbr\u00fccke S-bahn and U-bahn station. Drinks, snacks, and wurst are available during the narrated trips. Reederei Riedel offers multiple inner-city trips that range from \u20ac11.50 to \u20ac20 depending on theme and distance.\n\nA tour of the Havel Lakes (which include Tegeler See and Wannsee) begins at the Wannsee, where you can sail on either the whale-shape vessel Moby Dick or the Havel Queen, a Mississippi-style boat, and cruise 28 km (17 miles) through the lakes and past forests (Stern- und Kreisschiffahrt). Tours can last from one to seven hours, and cost between \u20ac10.50 and \u20ac20. There are 20 operators.\n\nBoat Tour Information  \nReederei Bruno Winkler. | 030/349\u20139595 | www.reedereiwinkler.de.   \nReederei Riedel. | 030/6796\u20131470 | www.reederei-riedel.de.   \nStern und Kreisschiffahrt. | 030/536\u20133600 | www.sternundkreis.de.\n\n#### Bus Tours\n\nFour companies (Berliner B\u00e4ren Stadtrundfahrten, Berolina Berlin-Service, Bus Verkehr Berlin, and BEX Sightseeing) jointly offer city tours on yellow, double-decker City Circle buses, which run every 15 or 30 minutes, depending on the season. The full circuit takes two hours, as does the recorded narration listened to through headphones. For \u20ac20 you can jump on and off at between 13 and 20 stops depending on the company. The bus driver sells tickets. During the warmer months, the last circuit leaves at 6 pm from the corner of Fasanenstrasse and Kurf\u00fcrstendamm. Most companies have tours to Potsdam.\n\nThe Stadtrundfahrtb\u00fcro Berlin offers a 2\u00bc-hour (\u20ac15) or 2\u00be-hour (\u20ac20) tour at 10:15, 10:45, 11, 11:30, 1, and 1:30, 2, 3:30, and 4. A guide narrates in both German and English. The bus departs from Tauentzienstrasse 16, at the corner of Marbuger Strasse.\n\nBus Tour Information  \nBBS Berliner B\u00e4ren Stadtrundfahrt (BBS). | 030/3519\u20135270 | www.bbsberlin.de.   \nBerolina Berlin-Service. | 030/8856\u20138030 | www.berolina-berlin.com.   \nBEX Sightseeing. | Mannheimer Str. 33\u201334, Wilmersdorf | 030/880\u20134190 | www.bex.de.   \nStadtrundfahrtb\u00fcro Berlin. | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 236, Western Downtown | 030/261\u20132001 | www.stadtrundfahrtbuero-berlin.de.\n\n#### Walking and Bike Tours\n\nGetting oriented through a walking tour is a great way to start a Berlin visit. In addition to daily city highlight tours, companies have themed tours such as Third Reich Berlin, Potsdam, and pub crawls. Berlin Walks offers a Monday \"Jewish Life\" tour, a Potsdam tour on Thursday and Sunday, and visits to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. Insider Tours has a \"Cold War\" Berlin tour about the Soviet era and a bike tour as well as a Cruise'n'Walk tour, a combination of boating and walking. Brit Terry Brewer's firsthand accounts of divided and reunified Berlin are a highlight of the all-day \"Brewer's Best of Berlin\" tour. Tours cost \u20ac15. Printable discount coupons may be available on the tour operators' websites; some companies grant discounts to WelcomeCard and CityCard holders. Fat Tire Bike Tours rides through Berlin daily early March\u2013November and has a Berlin Wall tour; the 4\u00bd-hour city tour costs \u20ac24, bike rental included. For a truly memorable experience, check out Berliner Unterwelten, which translates as \"Berlin Underworlds.\" The company offers access to several of Berlin's best-preserved WWII bunkers that are normally closed to the public on intriguing yet eerie tours that take you literally underground.\n\nWalking and Bike Tour Information  \nBerliner Unterwelten e. V. | Brunnenstr. 105, at the U Gesundbrunnen exit, Wedding | 030/499\u20131517 | www.berliner-unterwelten.de.   \nBrewer's Berlin Tours. | 0177/388\u20131537 | www.brewersberlintours.com.   \nFat Tire Bike Tours. | Panoramastr. 1a, base of TV tower, Mitte | 030/2404\u20137991 | www.fattirebiketoursberlin.com.   \nInsider Tour. | Bahnhof Zoologischer Garten, outside McDonalds, Charlottenburg | 030/692\u20133149 | www.insidertour.com.   \nOriginal Berlin Walks. | 030/301\u20139194 | www.berlinwalks.com.\n\n## Berlin Wall Walk\n\nThe Berlin Wall (Berliner Mauer) came down more than 20 years ago, but it's still a major tourist draw. How does a structure no longer standing affect the city even in its absence?\n\nWhen the Wall fell on November 9, 1989, it followed massive protests, an astonishing amount of community organizing, and the prayers of thousands in both west and east, all of whom couldn't quite believe such a momentous event was happening in their lifetimes. Many had felt the same way 28 years earlier, when the East German government, in an attempt to keep their beleaguered citizens from leaving, built the wall practically overnight. Now, except for a few sections left standing, all that remains of one of history's most notorious symbols of postwar oppression and imprisonment is a line of cobblestones wending its way through the streets of Berlin.\n\n## Follow the Cobblestones\n\nWhen the wall fell, Berliners couldn't wait to get rid of it and there are few places where it remains intact. One is the East Side Gallery; another is the Gedenkst\u00e4tte Berliner Mauer (the Berlin Wall Memorial Site) at the former Checkpoint Charlie. Or just look down: where the wall used to stand, a cobblestone path bifurcates the city, with plaques stating \"Berliner Mauer 1961\u20131989.\"\n\n## Two Berlin Wall Walks\n\n#### Friedrichshain to Treptow via the Oberbaumbr\u00fccke and the Flutgraben\n\nStarting at the East Side Gallery, cross the Oberbaumbr\u00fccke, a former border checkpoint, and turn left at Schlesische Strasse. There's no sign of the Wall here, but ubiquitous graffiti and crumbling buildings make it easy to imagine isolated Kreuzberg when it stood. At Am Flutgraben, you'll pick up the trail again, and up ahead is the Grenzwachturm (border watchtower). Stop at the nonprofit art collective Flutgraben e.V., which hosts infrequent exhibitions. Turn right to follow the Flutgraben (small canal) south until you reach an overpass, part of an elevated railway that used to lead to the prewar train station G\u00f6rlitzer Bahnhof. Now, the railway is a park connecting Treptow with G\u00f6rlitzer Park, the site of the old station and a meeting point for anarchist groups, punks, and revolutionaries before the Wall fell.\n\n#### Bernauer Strasse to Bornholmer Br\u00fccke via Mauer Park\n\nBehind Nordbahnhof (S-bahn), follow Bernauer Strasse to the Gedenkst\u00e4tte Berliner Mauer, located in the former \"death strip,\" where a church was blown up by the East because it was an obstruction to guards and an alleged hiding place for those trying to flee. Follow Bernauer Strasse until you reach the corner of Schwedter Strasse, then take the path that cuts through Mauer Park. Also in the former death strip, the park has one of the best flea markets in town (and, in summer, massive karaoke shows). At the park's northern end, Schwedter Strasse turns into the Schwedter Steg, a footbridge over an impressive chasm of connecting train tracks and S-bahn lines. Turn around for a spectacular view of the TV tower. Head down steps on your left and continue along Norwegerstrasse. After going under the famous Bornholmer Br\u00fccke, take the flight of steps up to it. This is where East Berliners, having heard an official announcement that the wall was open, first pushed through to West Berlin.\n\n## Iconic East Berlin\n\nMany East Berlin designs have crept into daily life in Berlin, including the stocky East Berlin Ampelmann (\"streetlight man\") that appears on the crosswalk traffic lights. He wears a wide-brim hat and walks with an animated gait. After the wall fell, this icon found himself at the center of heated controversy, as the city decided to replace him with the more dour West Berlin traffic men. Easterners felt like this was a symbol of the ways in which the West was acting like a colonizing power, rather than an equal partner in reunification, and mounted a protest. The Ampelmann was saved. And he's now a mini-franchise: adorning coffee cups and T-shirts, and there's even candy made in his image. Entire gift shops are dedicated to selling items imprinted with his likeness.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nMitte | Tiergarten | Potsdamer Platz | Kreuzberg | Prenzlauer Berg | Wedding | Neuk\u00f6lln | Charlottenburg | Wannsee | Oranienburg\n\nWith so much to see, a good place to start your visit is in Mitte. You can walk around the Scheunenviertel, which used to be the city's Jewish quarter and is now a center for art galleries and upscale shops, punctuated by memorials to the Holocaust.\n\nFor culture buffs, great antique, medieval, Renaissance, and modern art can be found at the Kulturforum in the Tiergarten, and on Museum Island in Mitte\u2014both cultural centers are a must, and either will occupy at least a half day. On your way to the Tiergarten, visit the emotionally moving Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (referred to by many as simply the Holocaust Memorial), the Brandenburg Gate, and the Reichstag with its astonishing cupola. Most of the historic sights of German and Prussian history line the city's other grand boulevard, Unter den Linden, in Mitte. Unter den Linden, which can be strolled in a leisurely two hours, with stops. Other spots not to miss are Potsdamer Platz and the Kulturforum in Tiergarten, and the hip and edgy neighborhoods of Wedding and Neuk\u00f6lln. Walk along the East Side Gallery in Freidrichshain, then head to Simon-DachStrasse or cross the bridge over the Spree to Kreuzberg for something to eat. Head over to Charlottenburg for an elegant, old-fashioned afternoon of coffee and cake.\n\nIf you need to spiff up your wardrobe with major labels, Kurf\u00fcrstendamm is the city's premier shopping boulevard. Note that most shops are closed on Sunday, with the exception of those located in major train stations.\n\nThe city's outlying areas offer palaces, lakes, and museums set in lush greenery. In Zehlendorf, just a short ride on the S-Bahn from the center, you can swim in the lovely Schlachtensee Lake. The nearby town of Potsdam has the fabulous palace, Schloss Sanssouci, as well as extensive parks and lakes. To the north, in Oranienburg, is the Gedenkst\u00e4tte und Museum Sachsenhausen concentration camp.\n\n## Mitte\n\nAfter the fall of the wall, Mitte, which had been in East Germany, became the geographic center of Berlin, once again. The area has several minidistricts, each of which has its own distinctive history and flair. Alexanderplatz, home of the TV Tower, was the center of East Berlin. With its communist architecture, you can still get a feel for the GDR aesthetic here. The Nikolaiviertel nearby, was part of the medieval heart of Berlin. Left largely intact by the war, it was destroyed for ideological reasons, then rebuilt decades later by the Communist regime. The Scheunenviertel, part of the Spandauer Vorstadt, was home to many of the city's Jewish citizens. Today, the narrow streets that saw so much tragedy house art galleries and upscale shops. Treasures once split between East and West Berlin museums are reunited on Museuminsel, the stunning Museum Island, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Bordering Tiergarten and the government district is the meticulously restored Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate), the unofficial symbol of the city, and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, whose design and scope engendered many debates.\n\nThe historic boulevard Unter den Linden proudly rolls out Prussian architecture and world-class museums. Its major cross street is Friedrichstrasse, which was revitalized in the mid-1990s with car showrooms (including Bentley, Bugatti, and Volkswagen) and upscale malls.\n\nThe Scheunenviertel (Barn Quarter) is the hip part of Mitte and the historic core of Berlin. It's made up of narrow streets and courtyard mazes in the old Spandauer Vorstadt (the old Jewish neighborhood), and the area around Oranienburger Strasse. There are upscale shops, tony bars, and increasingly excellent restaurants, as well as successful art galleries. During the second half of the 17th century, artisans, small-businessmen, and Jews moved into this area at the encouragement of the Great Elector, who sought to improve his financial situation through their skills. As industrialization intensified, the quarter became poorer, and in the 1880s many East European Jews escaping pogroms settled here.\n\n#### Timing\n\nYou must reserve a spot on a tour in advance in order to visit the Reichstag, but don't let that stop you: the new rules have done a lot to dissipate the lines that used to snake around the building. The Hamburger Bahnhof, Museum f\u00fcr Gegenwart\u2013Berlin is just down the street from Hauptbahnhof. A quick ride on Berlin's newest\u2014and with only three stops, shortest\u2014underground line, the U55, will get you there from the Brandenburg Gate or the Reichstag.\n\nTo speed your way down Unter den Linden, there are three bus lines that make stops between Wilhelmstrasse and Alexanderplatz and act as unofficial tourist buses. Note that a few state museums in this area are closed Monday.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nBebelplatz.  \nAfter he became ruler in 1740, Frederick the Great personally planned the buildings surrounding this square (which has a huge parking garage cleverly hidden beneath the pavement). The area received the nickname \"Forum Fridericianum,\" or Frederick's Forum. On May 10, 1933, Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi minister for propaganda and \"public enlightenment,\" organized one of the nationwide book-burnings here. The books, thrown on a pyre by Nazi officials and students, included works by Jews, pacifists, and Communists. In the center of Bebelplatz, a modern and subtle memorial (built underground but viewable through a window in the cobblestone) marks where 20,000 books went up in flames. The Staatsoper Unter den Linden (State Opera) is on the east side of the square. St. Hedwigskathedrale is on the south side. The Humboldt-Universit\u00e4t is to the west. | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nBerliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral).  \nA church has stood here since 1536, but this enormous version dates from 1905, making it the largest 20th-century Protestant church in Germany. The royal Hohenzollerns worshipped here until 1918, when Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated and left Berlin for Holland. The massive dome wasn't restored from World War II damage until 1982; the interior was completed in 1993. The climb to the dome's outer balcony is made easier by a wide stairwell, plenty of landings with historic photos and models, and even a couple of chairs. The 94 sarcophagi of Prussian royals in the crypt are significant, but to less trained eyes can seem uniformly dull. Sunday services include communion. | Am Lustgarten 1, Mitte | 030/2026\u20139136 | www.berlinerdom.de | \u20ac8 with audio guide, \u20ac5 without | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20138, Sun. noon\u20138 | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | Berliner Fernsehturm (TV Tower).  \nFinding Alexanderplatz is no problem: just head toward the 1,207-foot-high tower piercing the sky. Built in 1969 as a signal to the west\u2014clearly visible over the Wall, no less\u2014that the East German economy was thriving, it is deliberately higher than both western Berlin's broadcasting tower and the Eiffel Tower in Paris. You can get the best view of Berlin from within the tower's disco ball\u2013like observation level; on a clear day you can see for 40 km (25 miles). One floor above, the city's highest restaurant rotates for your panoramic pleasure.TIP During the summer season, order VIP tickets online to avoid a long wait. | Panoramastr. 1a, Mitte | 030/247\u20135750 | \u20ac12.50 | Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 10 am\u2013midnight; Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 9 am\u2013midnight; last admission \u00bd hr before closing | Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate).  \nOnce the pride of Prussian Berlin and the city's premier landmark, the Brandenburger Tor was left in a desolate no-man's-land when the Wall was built. Since the Wall's dismantling, the sandstone gateway has become the scene of the city's Unification Day and New Year's Eve parties. This is the sole remaining gate of 14 built by Carl Langhans in 1788\u201391, designed as a triumphal arch for King Frederick Wilhelm II. Its virile classical style pays tribute to Athens's Acropolis. The quadriga, a chariot drawn by four horses and driven by the Goddess of Victory, was added in 1794. Troops paraded through the gate after successful campaigns\u2014the last time in 1945, when victorious Red Army troops took Berlin. The upper part of the gate, together with its chariot and Goddess of Victory, was destroyed in the war. In 1957 the original molds were discovered in West Berlin, and a new quadriga was cast in copper and presented as a gift to the people of East Berlin. A tourist-information center is in the south part of the gate.\n\nThe gate faces one of Europe's most famous historic squares, Pariser Platz, with bank headquarters, the ultramodern French embassy, and the offices of the federal parliament. On the southern side, Berlin's sleek Academy of Arts, integrating the ruins of its historic predecessor, and the DZ Bank, designed by star architect Frank Gehry, stand next to the new American embassy, rebuilt on its prewar location and reopened on July 4, 2008. The legendary Hotel Adlon (now the Adlon Kempinski) looks on from its historic home at the southeast edge of the square. | Pariser Pl., Mitte | Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | DDR Museum.  \nHalf museum, half theme park, the DDR Museum is an interactive and highly entertaining exhibit about life during socialism. It's difficult to say just how much the museum benefits from its prime location beside the Spree, right across from the Berliner Dom, but it's always packed, filled with tourists, families, and student groups trying to get a hands-on feel for what the East German experience was really like. Exhibitions include a re-creation of an East German kitchen, all mustard yellows and bilious greens; a simulated drive in a Trabi, the only car the average East German was allowed to own; and a walk inside a very narrow, very claustrophobic interrogation cell. For an added glimpse into the life of an \"Ossi\" (an \"easterner\"), stop at the DDR Restaurat Domklause, where traditional East German dishes provide sustenance with a side of history. | Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 1, at the Spree opposite the Berliner Dom, Mitte | 030/8471-23731 | www.ddr-museum.de | \u20ac6 | Sun.-Fri. 10-8, Sat. 10-10 | Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn), Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Denkmal f\u00fcr die Ermordeten Juden Europas (Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe).  \nAn expansive and unusual memorial dedicated to the 6 million Jews who were killed in the Holocaust, the monument was designed by American architect Peter Eisenman. The stunning place of remembrance consists of a grid of more than 2,700 concrete stelae, planted into undulating ground. The abstract memorial can be entered from all sides and offers no prescribed path.TIP An information center that goes into specifics about the Holocaust lies underground at the southeast corner. | Cora-Berliner-Str. 1, Mitte | 030/2639\u20134336 | www.stiftung-denkmal.de | Free | Daily 24 hrs. Information center: Oct.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20137; Apr.\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20138 (last admission 45 mins before closing) | Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn).\n\nDeutsches Historisches Museum (German History Museum).  \nThe museum is composed of two buildings. The magnificent pink, baroque Prussian arsenal (Zeughaus) was constructed between 1695 and 1730, and is the oldest building on Unter den Linden. It also houses a theater, the Zeughaus Kino, which regularly presents a variety of films, both German and international, historic and modern. The new permanent exhibits, reopened after much debate in mid-2006, offer a modern and fascinating view of German history since the early Middle Ages. Behind the arsenal, the granite-and-glass Pei-Bau building by I. M. Pei holds often stunning and politically controversial changing exhibits, such as 2010's unprecedented blockbuster \"Hitler und die Deutschen\" (\"Hitler and the Germans\"), which explored the methods of propaganda used by Hitler and the Nazis to gain power, and 2013's \"Zerst\u00f6rte Vielfalt\" or \"Destroyed Diversity,\" which documents the multi-faceted societal, ethnic, and political ruination of Berlin in the years leading up to WWII. The museum's Caf\u00e9 im Zueghaus is a great place to stop and restore your energy. | Unter den Linden 2, Mitte | 030/203\u2013040 | www.dhm.de | \u20ac8 | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nEhemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule.  \nThis boxy brick building in central Berlin, which formerly served as a Jewish girls' school and then a military hospital during WWII, sat neglected until recently. Now it is one of the city's newest star attractions: a renovated multiplex with art galleries, restaurants, and a bar. The former gymnasium is now the restaurant Pauly Saal; upstairs, three art galleries share space with the newly relocated Kennedys museum. Berlin's now-thriving Jewish community still owns the building and leases it out to the current management. Both Jewish and non-Jewish visitors will rejoice at the inclusion of Mogg & Melzer, a deli dedicated to Jewish delicacies like matzoh ball soup, pastrami, and shakshuka. | Auguststr. 11\u201313, Mitte | www.maedchenschule.org | Varies according to business | Station: Oranienburger Strasse (S-bahn).\n\nFriedrichstrasse.  \nThe once-bustling street of caf\u00e9s and theaters of prewar Berlin has risen from the rubble of war and Communist neglect to reclaim the crowds with shopping emporiums. Heading south from the Friedrichstrasse train station, you'll pass hotels and various stores (including the sprawling, comprehensive bookstore Dussmann and its large but cozy new English-language bookshop around the corner). After crossing Unter den Linden, you'll come upon the Berlin outpost of the Parisian department store Galeries Lafayette on your left. North of the train station you will see the rejuvenated heart of the entertainment center of Berlin's Roaring Twenties, including the Admiralspalast and the somewhat kitschy Friedrichstadt Palast.\n\nAdmiralspalast.  \nThe meticulously restored Admiralspalast is the successful rebirth of a glittering Jazz Age entertainment temple. Reopened with a hotly debated production of Brecht's Threepenny Opera, it now houses two stages, a club, and an upscale but generic Italian restaurant. | Friedrichstr. 101, Mitte | 030/4799\u20137499.\n\nGendarmenmarkt.  \nThis is without a doubt the most elegant square in former East Berlin. Anchored by the beautifully reconstructed 1818 Konzerthaus and the Deutscher Dom and Franz\u00f6sischer Dom (German and French cathedrals) and lined with some of the city's best restaurants, it also hosts one of Berlin's classiest annual Christmas markets.\n\nHugenottenmuseum.  \nInside the Franz\u00f6sischer Dom (French Cathedral), built by Kaiser Friedrich II for the Protestant Huguenots who fled France and settled in Berlin, is the Hugenottenmuseum, with exhibits charting their history and art. The Huguenots were expelled from France at the end of the 17th century by King Louis XIV. Their energy and commercial expertise contributed much to Berlin. | Franz\u00f6sischer Dom, Gendarmenmarkt 5, Mitte | 030/229\u20131760 | \u20ac2 | Tues.\u2013Sun. noon\u20135.\n\nHackesche H\u00f6fe (Hacke Courtyards).  \nBuilt in 1905\u201307, this series of eight connected courtyards is the finest example of art-nouveau industrial architecture in Berlin. Most buildings are covered with glazed white tiles, and additional Moorish mosaic designs decorate the main courtyard off Rosenthaler Strasse. Shops (including one dedicated to Berlin's beloved street-crossing signal, the \"Ampelmann\"), restaurants, the variety theater Cham\u00e4leon Variet\u00e9, and a movie theater populate the spaces once occupied by ballrooms, a poets' society, and a Jewish girls' club. | Rosenthaler Str. 40\u201341, and Sophienstr. 6, Mitte | 030/2809\u20138010 | www.hackesche-hoefe.com | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Museumsinsel (Museum Island).  \nOn the site of one of Berlin's two original settlements, this unique complex of five state museums\u2014a UNESCO World Heritage Site\u2014is an absolute must.\n\nThe Alte Nationalgalerie (Old National Gallery, entrance on Bodestrasse) houses an outstanding collection of 18th-, 19th-, and early 20th-century paintings and sculptures. Works by C\u00e9zanne, Rodin, Degas, and one of Germany's most famous portrait artists, Max Liebermann, are part of the permanent exhibition. Its Galerie der Romantik (Gallery of Romanticism) collection has masterpieces from such 19th-century German painters as Karl Friedrich Schinkel and Caspar David Friedrich, the leading members of the German Romantic school. The Altes Museum (Old Museum), a red-marble, neoclassical building abutting the green Lustgarten, was Prussia's first structure purpose-built to serve as a museum. Designed by Karl Friedrich Schinkel, it was completed in 1830. The permanent collection of the Altes Museum consists of everyday utensils from ancient Greece as well as vases and sculptures from the 6th to 4th century BC. Etruscan art is its highlight, and there are a few examples of Roman art. Antique sculptures, clay figurines, and bronze art of the Antikensammlung (Antiquities Collection) are also housed here; the other part of the collection is in the Pergamonmuseum. At the northern tip of Museum Island is the Bode-Museum, a somber-looking gray edifice graced with elegant columns. The museum presents the state museums' stunning collection of German and Italian sculptures since the Middle Ages, the Museum of Byzantine Art, and a huge coin collection. Even if you think you aren't interested in the ancient world, make an exception for the Pergamonmuseum (entrance Am Kupfergraben), one of the world's greatest museums. The museum's name is derived from its principal display, the Pergamon Altar, a monumental Greek temple discovered in what is now Turkey and dating from 180 BC. The altar was shipped to Berlin in the late 19th century. Equally impressive are the gateway to the Roman town of Miletus and the Babylonian processional way. Museum Island's new shining star, however, is the Neues Museum (New Museum), which reopened in 2009. Originally designed by Friedrich August St\u00fcler in 1843\u201355, the building was badly damaged in World War II and has only now been elaborately redeveloped by British star architect David Chipperfield, who has been overseeing the complete restoration of Museum Island. Instead of completely restoring the Neues Museum, the architect decided to integrate modern elements into the historic landmark, while leaving many of its heavily bombed and dilapidated areas untouched. The result is a stunning experience, considered by many to be one of the world's greatest museums. Home to the Egyptian Museum, including the famous bust of Nefertiti (who, after some 70 years, has returned to her first museum location in Berlin), it also features the Papyrus Collection and the Museum of Prehistory and Early History. If you get tired of antiques and paintings, drop by any of the museums' caf\u00e9s. | Museumsinsel, Mitte | 030/2664\u201324242 | www.smb.museum | All Museum Island museums: \u20ac18 | Pergamonmuseum: Fri.\u2013Wed. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138. Alte Nationalgalerie: Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138. Altes Museum: Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138. Neues Museum: Fri.\u2013Wed. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138. Bode-Museum: Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nNeue Synagoge (New Synagogue).  \nThis meticulously restored landmark, built between 1859 and 1866, is an exotic amalgam of styles, the whole faintly Middle Eastern. Its bulbous, gilded cupola stands out in the skyline. When its doors opened, it was the largest synagogue in Europe, with 3,200 seats. The synagogue was damaged on November 9, 1938 (Kristallnacht\u2014Night of the Broken Glass), when Nazi looters rampaged across Germany, burning synagogues and smashing the few Jewish shops and homes left in the country. It was destroyed by Allied bombing in 1943, and it wasn't until the mid-1980s that the East German government restored it. The effective exhibit on the history of the building and its congregants includes fragments of the original architecture and furnishings. TIP Sabbath services are held in a modern addition. | Oranienburger Str. 28\u201330, Mitte | 030/8802\u20138300 | www.zentrumjudaicum.de | \u20ac3.50 | Apr.\u2013Sept., Sun. and Mon. 10\u20138, Tues.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20136, Fri. 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., Sun.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20136, Fri. 10\u20132; Mar. and Oct., Sun. and Mon. 10\u20138, Tues.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20136, Fri. 10\u20132. English/Hebrew audio guides \u20ac3 | Station: Oranienburger Tor (U-bahn), Oranienburger Strasse (S-bahn).\n\nNikolaiviertel (Nicholas Quarter).  \nRenovated in the 1980s and a tad concrete-heavy as a result, this tiny quarter grew up around Berlin's oldest parish church, the medieval, twin-spire St. Nikolaikirche (St. Nicholas's Church), now a museum, dating from 1230. The adjacent Fischerinsel (Fisherman's Island) area was the heart of Berlin 765 years ago, and retains a bit of its medieval character. At Breite Strasse you'll find two of Berlin's oldest buildings: No. 35 is the Ribbeckhaus, the city's only surviving Renaissance structure, dating from 1624, and No. 36 is the early baroque Marstall, built by Michael Matthais between 1666 and 1669. The area feels rather artificial, but draws tourists to its gift stores, caf\u00e9s, and restaurants. | Nikolaikirchpl., Mitte | 030/2400\u20132162 | www.stadtmuseum.de | Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nOff the Beaten Path: The Kennedys.  \nJohn F. Kennedy, whose historic 1963 speech in West Berlin secured his fame throughout Germany, is honored in this small but intriguing museum, which used to reside opposite the American embassy on Pariser Platz, but has since found a new home in the Ehemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule. Presenting photographs, personal memorabilia, documents, and films, the collection traces the fascination JFK and the Kennedy clan evoked in Berlin and elsewhere. | Auguststr. 11-13, in the Ehemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule, Mitte | 030/2065\u20133570 | www.thekennedys.de | \u20ac5 | Daily 11\u20137 | Station: Oranienburger Strasse (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Reichstag (Parliament Building).  \nAfter last meeting here in 1933, the Bundestag, Germany's federal parliament, returned to its traditional seat in the spring of 1999. British architect Sir Norman Foster lightened up the gray monolith with a glass dome, which quickly became one of the city's main attractions: you can circle up a gently rising ramp while taking in the rooftops of Berlin and the parliamentary chamber below. At the base of the dome is an exhibit on the Reichstag's history, in German and English. Completed in 1894, the Reichstag housed the imperial German parliament and later served a similar function during the ill-fated Weimar Republic. On the night of February 27, 1933, the Reichstag burned down in an act of arson, a pivotal event in Third Reich history. The fire led to state protection laws that gave the Nazis a pretext to arrest their political opponents. The Reichstag was rebuilt but again badly damaged in 1945. The graffiti of the victorious Russian soldiers can still be seen on some of the walls in the hallways. After terrorism warnings at the end of 2010, the Reichstag tightened its door policy, asking all visitors to register their names and birthdates in advance and reserve a place on a guided tour. Since then, the crowds that used to snake around the outside of the building have subsided, and a visit is worth the planning.TIP As always, a reservation at the pricey rooftop K\u00e4fer restaurant ( | 030/2262\u20139933) will also get you in. Those with reservations can use the doorway to the right of the Reichstag's main staircase. The building is surrounded by ultramodern federal government offices, such as the boxy, concrete Bundeskanzleramt (Federal Chancellery), which also has a nickname of course: the \"Washing Machine.\" Built by Axel Schultes, it's one of the few new buildings in the government district by a Berlin architect. Participating in a guided tour of the Chancellery is possible if you apply in writing several weeks prior to a visit. A riverwalk with great views of the government buildings begins behind the Reichstag. | Pl. der Republik 1, Mitte | 030/2273\u20132152 for Reichstag Bundeskanzleramt | www.bundestag.de | Free with prior registration | Daily 8 am\u201311 pm | Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn), Bundestag (U-bahn).\n\nUnter den Linden.  \nThe name of this historic Berlin thoroughfare, between the Brandenburg Gate and Schlossplatz, means \"under the linden trees,\" and it was indeed lined with fragrant and beloved lindens until the 1930's. Imagine Berliners' shock when Hitler decided to fell the trees in order to make the street more parade-friendly. The grand boulevard began as a riding path that the royals used to get from their palace to their hunting grounds (now the central Berlin park called Tiergarten). It is once again lined with linden trees planted after World War II.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nAlexanderplatz (Alexander Square).  \nThis bleak square, bordered by the train station, the Galeria Kaufhof department store, and the 37-story Park Inn Berlin-Alexanderplatz hotel, once formed the hub of East Berlin and was originally named in 1805 for Czar Alexander I. German writer Alfred D\u00f6blin dubbed it the \"heart of a world metropolis\"\u2014text from his 1929 novel Berlin Alexanderplatz is written on a building across the northeastern side of the square. Today it's a basic center of commerce and the occasional demonstration. The unattractive modern buildings are a reminder not just of the results of Allied bombing but also of the ruthlessness practiced by East Germans when they demolished what remained. A famous meeting point in the south corner is the World Time Clock (1969), which even keeps tabs on Tijuana.\n\nFAMILY | AquaDom & Sea Life Berlin.  \nThese commercially run, giant indoor tanks showcase local marine life, beginning with the Spree River, moving on to Berlin's lakes, and then taking you from fresh- to saltwater. Waterfront city scenes are part of the decor, which gradually give way to starfish-petting beds, overhead tanks, and a submarine-like room. Don't come looking for sharks or colorful tropical fish: the most exotic creatures here are perhaps the tiny sea horses and spotted rays. The aquarium's finale is the Aquadom, a state-of-the-art glass elevator that brings you through a silo-shaped fish tank to the exit. Young children love this place, but the timed wait for the elevator can be frustrating for all ages. Be prepared for a line at the entrance, too. | Spandauer Str. 3, Mitte | 030/992\u2013800 | www.sealife.de | \u20ac17.50, \u20ac11.35 in advance | Daily 10\u20137 (last admission at 6) | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nBerliner Rathaus (Berlin Town Hall).  \nNicknamed the \"Rotes Rathaus\" (Red Town Hall) for its redbrick design, the town hall was completed in 1869. Its most distinguishing features are its neo-Renaissance clock tower and frieze that depicts Berlin's history up to 1879 in 36 terra-cotta plaques, each 20 feet long. Climb the grand stairwell to view the coat-of-arms hall and a few exhibits. TIP The Rathaus has a very inexpensive, cafeteria-style canteen offering budget lunches. The entrance is inside the inner courtyard. | Rathausstr. 15, Mitte | 030/90260 | Free | Weekdays 9\u20136 | Station: Alexanderplatz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nDeutscher Dom.  \nThe Deutscher Dom holds an extensive exhibition on the emergence of the democratic parliamentary system in Germany since the late 1800's. The free museum is sponsored by the German parliament. Leadership and opposition in East Germany are also documented. TIP An English-language audio guide covers a portion of the exhibits on the first three floors. Floors four and five have temporary exhibitions with no English text or audio. | Gendarmenmarkt 1, Mitte | 030/2273\u20130431 | Free | Oct.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; May\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20137.\n\nHamburger Bahnhof - Museum f\u00fcr Gegenwart (Museum of Contemporary Art).  \nThis light-filled, remodeled train station is home to a rich survey of post-1960 Western art. The permanent collection includes installations by German artists Joseph Beuys and Anselm Kiefer, as well as paintings by Andy Warhol, Cy Twombly, Robert Rauschenberg, and Robert Morris. An annex presents the hotly debated Friedrich Christian Flick Collection, the largest and most valuable collection of the latest in the world's contemporary art. The 2,000 works rotate, but you're bound to see some by Bruce Naumann, Rodney Graham, and Pipilotti Rist. | Invalidenstr. 50\u201351, Mitte | 030/3978\u20133411 | www.smb.museum | \u20ac12 | Tues., Wed., Fri. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138, weekends 11\u20136 | Station: Naturkundemuseum (U-bahn), Hauptbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nM\u00e4rkisches Museum (Brandenburg Museum).  \nThis redbrick attic includes exhibits on the city's theatrical past, its guilds, its newspapers, and the March 1848 revolution. Paintings capture the look of the city before it crumbled in World War II.TIP On Sunday at 3 pm, fascinating mechanical musical instruments from the collection are played. | Am K\u00f6llnischen Park 5, Mitte | 030/2400\u20132162 | www.stadtmuseum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 | Station: M\u00e4rkisches Museum (U-bahn).\n\nNeue Wache (New Guardhouse).  \nOne of many Berlin projects by the early-19th-century architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel, this building served as both the Royal Prussian War Memorial (honoring the dead of the Napoleonic Wars) and the royal guardhouse until the kaiser abdicated in 1918. In 1931 it became a memorial to those who fell in World War I. Badly damaged in World War II, it was restored in 1960 by the East German state and rededicated as a memorial for the victims of militarism and fascism. After unification it regained its Weimar Republic appearance and was inaugurated as Germany's central war memorial. Inside is a copy of Berlin sculptor K\u00e4the Kollwitz's Piet\u00e0, showing a mother mourning over her dead son. The inscription in front of it reads, \"To the victims of war and tyranny.\" | Unter den Linden, Mitte | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nStaatsoper Unter den Linden (State Opera).  \nFrederick the Great was a music lover and he made the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, on the east side of Bebelplatz, his first priority. The lavish opera house was completed in 1743 by the same architect who built Sanssouci in Potsdam, Georg Wenzeslaus von Knobelsdorff. The house is currently undergoing a complete makeover, set to be completed in 2015, when the historic interior will be replaced with a modern design. The show goes on at the Schiller Theater across town, where maestro Daniel Barenboim continues to oversee a diverse repertoire. | Unter den Linden 7, Mitte | www.staatsoper-berlin.de | Box office: Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20138, Sun. 12\u20138 | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nSiegess\u00e4ule (Victory Column).  \nThe 227-foot granite, sandstone, and bronze column is topped by a winged, golden goddess and has a splendid view of Berlin. It was erected in front of the Reichstag in 1873 to commemorate Prussia's military successes and then moved to the Tiergarten in 1938\u201339. You have to climb 270 steps up through the column to reach the observation platform, but the view is rewarding. The gold-tipped cannons surrounding the column are those the Prussians captured from the French in the Franco-Prussian War. | Str. des 17. Juni, am Grossen Stern, Mitte | 030/391\u20132961 | \u20ac2.20 | Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 10\u20135:30; Apr.\u2013Oct., weekdays 9:30\u20136:30, weekends 9:30\u20137; last admission \u00bd hr before closing. | Station: Tiergarten (S-bahn), Bellevue (S-bahn).\n\nSowjetisches Ehrenmal Tiergarten (Soviet Memorial).  \nBuilt immediately after World War II, this monument stands as a reminder of the Soviet victory over the shattered German army in Berlin in May 1945. The Battle of Berlin was one of the deadliest on the European front. A hulking bronze statue of a soldier stands atop a marble plinth taken from Hitler's former Reichkanzlei (headquarters). The memorial is flanked by what are said to be the first two T-34 tanks to have fought their way into the city. | Str. des 17. Juni, Mitte | Station: Unter den Linden (S-bahn).\n\n## Tiergarten\n\nThe Tiergarten, a bucolic 630-acre park with lakes, meadows, and wide paths, is the \"green heart\" of Berlin. In the 17th century it served as the hunting grounds of the Great Elector (its name translates into \"animal garden\"). Now it's the Berliners' backyard for sunbathing and barbecuing.\n\nThe government district, Potsdamer Platz, and the embassy district ring the park from its eastern to southern edges.\n\n#### Timing\n\nA leisurely walk from Zoo Station through the Tiergarten to the Brandenburger Tor and the Reichstag will take at least 90 minutes.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nTiergarten (Animal Garden).  \nThe quiet greenery of the 630-acre Tiergarten is a beloved oasis, with some 23 km (14 miles) of footpaths, meadows, and two beer gardens. The inner park's 6\u00bd acres of lakes and ponds were landscaped by garden architect Joseph Peter Lenn\u00e9 in the mid-1800s. | Tiergarten.\n\nCaf\u00e9 am Neuen See.  \nOn the shore of the lake in the southwest corner of the park, you can relax at the Caf\u00e9 am Neuen See, a caf\u00e9 and beer garden. TIP For a particularly nice walk here from the S-bahn stop at Zoologischer Garten, take the path into the Tiergarten, then turn right at Schleusenkrug to follow the Landwehrkanal around the back of the zoo. Sneak a peek at the owls, flamingoes, and ostriches for free. | Lichtensteinallee 2, Tiergarten | 030/254\u20134930 | www.cafe-am-neuen-see.de | Daily 9\u2013late.\n\nHaus der Kulturen der Welt.  \nOff the Spree River and bordering the Kanzleramt (Chancellery) is the former congress hall, now serving as the Haus der Kulturen der Welt. It is fondly referred to as the \"pregnant oyster\" because the sweeping, 1950's design of its roof resembles a shellfish opening. Thematic exhibits, festivals, and concerts take place here, and it's also a boarding point for Spree River cruises. | House of World Cultures, John-Foster-Dulles Allee 10, Tiergarten | 030/397\u2013870 | www.hkw.de | Daily 10\u20137.\n\nQuick Bites: Schleusenkrug.  \nForget the fast-food options at Zoo Station. Instead, follow the train tracks to the back of the taxi and bus queues, where you'll enter Tiergarten and within 100 yards come upon the best hideaway in the area: Schleusenkrug. In warmer weather you can order at the window and sit in the beer garden or on the back patio, watching pleasure ships go through the lock. Inside is a casual restaurant with a changing daily menu. Between November and mid-March the Krug closes at 7 pm. | M\u00fcller-Breslau-Str., Tiergarten | 030/313\u20139909 | www.schleusenkrug.de/ | Daily 10 ammidnight.\n\n## Potsdamer Platz\n\nThe once-divided Berlin is rejoined at Potsdamer Platz, which now links Kreuzberg with the former East once again. Potsdamer Platz was Berlin's inner-city center and Europe's busiest plaza before World War II. Bombings and the Wall left this area a sprawling, desolate lot, where tourists in West Berlin could climb a wooden platform to peek into East Berlin's death strip. After the Wall fell, various international companies made a rush to build their German headquarters on this prime real estate. In the mid-1990s, Potsdamer Platz became Europe's largest construction site. Today's modern complexes of red sandstone, terra-cotta tiles, steel, and glass have made it a city within a city.\n\nA few narrow streets cut between the hulking modern architecture, which includes two high-rise office towers owned by Daimler, one of which was designed by star architect Renzo Piano. The round atrium of the Sony Center comes closest to a traditional square used as a public meeting point. Farther down Potsdamer Strasse are the state museums and cultural institutes of the Kulturforum.\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Kulturforum (Cultural Forum).  \nThis unique ensemble of museums, galleries, and the Philharmonic Hall was long in the making. The first designs were submitted in the 1960s and the last building completed in 1998. Now it forms a welcome modern counterpoint to the thoroughly restored Prussian splendor of Museum Island, although Berliners and tourists alike hold drastically differing opinions on the area's architectural aesthetics. Whatever your opinion, Kulturforum's artistic holdings are unparalleled and worth at least a day of your time, if not more. The Kulturforum includes the Gem\u00e4ldegalerie (Picture Gallery), the Kunstbibliothek (Art Library), the Kupferstichkabinett (Print Cabinet), the Kunstgewerbemuseum (Museum of Decorative Arts), which is closed until at least 2014 for renovations, the Philharmonie, the Musikinstrumenten-Museum (Musical Instruments Museum), and the Staatsbibliothek (National Library). | Potsdamer Platz.\n\nGem\u00e4ldegalerie (Picture Gallery).  \nThe Kulturforum's Gem\u00e4ldegalerie reunites formerly separated collections from East and West Berlin. It's one of Germany's finest art galleries, and has an extensive selection of European paintings from the 13th to 18th century. Seven rooms are reserved for paintings by German masters, among them D\u00fcrer, Cranach the Elder, and Holbein. A special collection has works of the Italian masters\u2014Botticelli, Titian, Giotto, Lippi, and Raphael\u2014as well as paintings by Dutch and Flemish masters of the 15th and 16th centuries: Van Eyck, Bosch, Brueghel the Elder, and van der Weyden. The museum also holds the world's second-largest Rembrandt collection. | Kulturforum, Matth\u00e4ikirchpl., Potsdamer Platz | 030/2664\u201324242 | www.smb.museum | \u20ac10 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn)\n\nKunstbibliothek (Art Library).  \nWith more than 400,000 volumes on the history of European art, the Kunstbibliothek, in the Kulturforum, is one of Germany's most important institutions on the subject. It contains art posters and advertisements, examples of graphic design and book design, ornamental engravings, prints and drawings, and a costume library. Visitors can view items in the reading rooms, but many samples from the collections are also shown in rotating special exhibitions. | Kulturforum, Matth\u00e4ikirchpl., Potsdamer Platz | 030/2664\u201324242 | www.smb.museum | Varies according to exhibition | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 11-6. Reading room weekdays 9\u20138.\n\nKupferstichkabinett (Drawings and Prints Collection).  \nOne of the Kulturforum's smaller museums, Kupferstichkabinett has occasional exhibits, which include European woodcuts, engravings, and illustrated books from the 15th century to the present (highlights of its holdings are pen-and-ink drawings by D\u00fcrer and drawings by Rembrandt). You can request to see one or two drawings in the study room. Another building displays paintings dating from the late Middle Ages to 1800. | Kulturforum, Matth\u00e4ikirchpl. 4, Potsdamer Platz | 030/2664\u201324242 | www.smb.museum | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, weekends 11\u20136.\n\nMusikinstrumenten-Museum (Musical Instruments Museum).  \nAcross the parking lot from the Philharmonie, the Kulturforum's Musikinstrumenten-Museum has a fascinating collection of keyboard, string, wind, and percussion instruments. TIP These are demonstrated during an 11 am tour on Saturday, which closes with a 20-minute Wurlitzer organ concert for an extra \u20ac2. | Kulturforum, Ben-Gurion-Str. 1, Potsdamer Platz | 030/2548\u20131178 | www.sim.spk-berlin.de | \u20ac6 | Tues., Wed., and Fri. 9\u20135, Thurs. 9\u20138, weekends 10\u20135.\n\nStaatsbibliothek (National Library).  \nThe Kulturforum's Staatsbibliothek is one of the largest libraries in Europe, and was one of the Berlin settings in Wim Wenders's 1987 film Wings of Desire. | Kulturforum, Potsdamer Str. 33, Potsdamer Platz | 030/2664-32333 | staatsbibliothek-berlin.de | Weekdays 9\u20139, Sat. 10\u20137.\n\nNeue Nationalgalerie (New National Gallery).  \nBauhaus member Mies van der Rohe originally designed this glass-box structure for Bacardi Rum in Cuba, but Berlin became the site of its realization in 1968. The main exhibits are below ground. Highlights of the collection of 20th-century paintings, sculptures, and drawings include works by expressionists Otto Dix, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, and Georg Grosz. Special exhibits often take precedence over the permanent collection. | Potsdamer Str. 50, Potsdamer Platz | 030/2664\u201324242 | www.smb.museum | Varies according to exhibition | Tues., Wed., and Fri. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138, weekends 11\u20136 | Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nPanoramapunkt.  \nLocated 300 feet above Potsdamer Platz at the top of one of its tallest towers, the new Panoramapunkt (Panoramic Viewing Point) not only features the world's highest-standing original piece of the Berlin wall, but also a fascinating, multimedia exhibit about the dramatic history of Berlin's former urban center. A caf\u00e9 and a sun terrace facing west make this open-air viewing platform one of the city's most romantic. | Potsdamer Pl. 1, Potsdamer Platz | 030/2593\u20137080 | www.panoramapunkt.de | \u20ac5.50 | Summer, daily 10\u20138; winter, daily 10\u20135 (last entrance 30 mins before closing).\n\nSony Center.  \nThis glass-and-steel construction wraps around a spectacular circular forum. Topping it off is a tentlike structure meant to emulate Mount Fuji. The architectural jewel, designed by German-American architect Helmut Jahn, is one of the most stunning public spaces of Berlin's new center, filled with restaurants, caf\u00e9s, movie theaters, and apartments. A faint reminder of glorious days gone by is the old Kaisersaal (Emperor's Hall), held within a very modern glass enclosure, and today a pricey restaurant. The hall originally stood 75 yards away in the Grand Hotel Esplanade (built in 1907) but was moved here lock, stock, and barrel. Red-carpet glamour returns every February with the Berlinale Film Festival, which has screenings at the commercial cinema within the center. | Potsdamer Platz.\n\nDeutsche Kinemathek Museum f\u00fcr Film und Fernsehen.  \nWithin the Sony Center is the small but fun Museum f\u00fcr Film und Fernsehen, which presents the groundbreaking history of German moviemaking with eye-catching displays. Descriptions are in English, and there's an audio guide as well. Memorabilia includes personal belongings of Marlene Dietrich and other German stars, while special exhibitions go into depth about outstanding directors, movements, and studios. A good selection of films, from the best classics to the virtually unknown art house finds, are shown in the theater on the lower level. During the Berlinale film festival in February, this place becomes one of the centers of the action. | Sony Building, Potsdamer Str. 2, Potsdamer Platz | 030/300\u20139030 | www.deutsche-kinemathek.de | \u20ac7 | Tues., Wed., and Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138.\n\nLegoland Discovery Centre.  \nA must-see when traveling with children is the Legoland Discovery Centre, the Danish toy company's only indoor park. Children can build their very own towers while their parents live out their urban development dreams, even testing if the miniature construction would survive an earthquake. In a special section, Berlin's landmarks are presented in a breathtaking miniature world made up of thousands of tiny Lego bricks. | Potsdamer Str. 4, Tiergarten | 030/301\u20130400 | www.legolanddiscoverycentre.de | \u20ac15.95, \u20ac7 online | Daily 10\u20137; last admittance.\n\nFriedrichshain\n\nThere's plenty to see in Friedrichshain, including Karl-Marx-Allee, a long, monumental boulevard lined by grand Stalinist apartment buildings (conceived of as \"palaces for the people\" that would show the superiority of Communist system over the Capitalist one); the area's funky parks; the East Side Gallery; and lively Simon-Dach-Strasse. It's cool, it's hip, it's historical. If you're into street art, this is a good place to wander.\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | East Side Gallery.  \nThis 1-km (\u00bd-mile) stretch of concrete went from guarded border to open-air gallery within three months. East Berliners breached the Wall on November 9, 1989, and between February and June of 1990, 118 artists from around the globe created unique works of art on its longest-remaining section. Restoration in 2010 renewed the old images with a fresh coat of paint, but while the colors of the artworks now look like new, the gallery has lost a bit of its charm. One of the best-known works, by Russian artist Dmitri Vrubel, depicts Brezhnev and Honnecker (the former East German leader) kissing, with the caption \"My God. Help me survive this deadly love.\" The stretch along the Spree Canal runs between the Warschauer Strasse S- and U-bahn station and Ostbahnhof. The redbrick Oberbaumbr\u00fccke (an 1896 bridge) at Warschauer Strasse makes that end more scenic. Just past the bridge there's also a man-made beach with a bar, restaurant, and club popular with the after-work crowd, called Strandgut (www.strandgut-berlin.com). | M\u00fchlenstr., Friedrichshain | Station: Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn), Ostbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\n## Kreuzberg\n\nKreuzberg, stretching from the West Berlin side of the border crossing at Checkpoint Charlie all the way to the banks of the Spree next to Friedrichshain, was and is a lively Berlin district. A large Turkish population shares the residential streets with a variegated assortment of political radicals and bohemians of all nationalities. In the minds of most Berliners, it is split into two even smaller sections: Kreuzberg 61 is a little more upscale, and contains a variety of small and elegant shops and restaurants, while Kreuzberg 36 has stayed grittier, as exemplified by the garbage-strewn, drug-infested, but much-beloved G\u00f6rlitzer Park. Oranienstrasse, the spine of life in the Kreuzberg 36 district, has mellowed from hardcore to funky since reunification. When Kreuzberg literally had its back against the Wall, West German social outcasts, punks, and the radical left made this old working-class street their territory. Since the 1970s the population has also been largely Turkish, and many of yesterday's outsiders have turned into successful owners of shops and caf\u00e9s. The most vibrant stretch is between Skalitzer Strasse and Oranienplatz. Use Bus No. M29 or the G\u00f6rlitzer Bahnhof or Kottbusser Tor U-bahn stations to reach it.\n\n#### Timing\n\nOwing to its small size and popularity, you may experience a wait or slow line at the Checkpoint Charlie Museum. Monday is a popular day for this museum\u2014and for the nearby, must-see J\u00fcdisches Museum\u2014since the state museums are closed that day.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Mauermuseum-Museum Haus am Checkpoint Charlie.  \nJust steps from the famous crossing point between the two Berlins, the Wall Museum\u2013House at Checkpoint Charlie presents visitors with the story of the Wall and, even more riveting, the stories of those who escaped through, under, and over it. An infamous hot spot during the Cold War, this border crossing for non-Germans was manned by the Soviet military in East Berlin's Mitte district and, several yards south, by the U.S. military in West Berlin's Kreuzberg district. Tension between the superpowers in October 1961 led to an uneasy standoff between Soviet and American tanks. Today the touristy intersection consists of a replica of an American guardhouse and signage, plus cobblestones that mark the old border.\n\nThis homespun museum reviews the events leading up to the Wall's construction and, with original tools and devices, plus recordings and photographs, shows how East Germans escaped to the West (one of the most ingenious contraptions was a miniature submarine). Exhibits about human rights and paintings interpreting the Wall round out the experience. TIP Come early or late in the day to avoid the multitudes dropped off by tour buses. Monday can be particularly crowded because the state museums are closed on Mondays. | Friedrichstr. 43\u201345, Kreuzberg | 030/253\u20137250 | www.mauermuseum.com | \u20ac12.50 | Daily 9 am\u201310 pm | Station: Kochstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Topographie des Terrors (Topography of Terror).  \nBefore 2010, Topographie des Terrors was an open-air exhibit, fully exposed to the elements. Now, in a stunning new indoor exhibition center at the same location, you can view photos and documents explaining the secret state police and intelligence organizations that planned and executed Nazi crimes against humanity. The fates of both victims and perpatrators are given equal attention here. The cellar remains of the Nazis' Reich Security Main Office (composed of the SS, SD, and Gestapo) where the main exhibit used to be, are still open to the public and now contain other exhibitions, which typically run from April to October as the remains are open air. | Niederkirchnerstr. 8, Mitte | 030/2545\u20130950 | www.topographie.de | Free | Daily 10\u20138.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nBerlinische Galerie.  \nTalk about site-specific art: all the modern art, photography, and architecture models and plans here, created between 1870 and the present, were made in Berlin (or in the case of architecture competition models, intended for the city). Russians, secessionists, Dadaists, and expressionists all had their day in Berlin, and individual works by Otto Dix, George Grosz, and Georg Baselitz, as well as artists' archives such as the Dadaist Hannah H\u00f6ch's, are highlights.There's a set price for the permanent collection, but rates vary for special exhibitions, which are usually well-attended and quite worthwhile. TIP Bus No. M29 to Waldeckpark/Oranienstrasse is the closest transportation stop. | Alte Jakobstr. 124\u2013128, Kreuzberg | 030/7890\u20132600 | www.berlinischegalerie.de | \u20ac8 | Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20136 | Station: Kochstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nDeutsches Technikmuseum (German Museum of Technology).  \nA must if you're traveling with children, this museum will enchant anyone who's interested in technology or fascinated with trains, planes, and automobiles. Set in the remains of Anhalter Bahnhof's industrial yard and enhanced with a newer, glass-enclosed wing, the museum has several floors of machinery, including two airplane rooms on the upper floors crowned with a \"Rosinenbomber,\" one of the beloved airplanes that delivered supplies to Tempelhof Airport during the Berlin Airlift of 1948. Don't miss the train sheds, which are like three-dimensional, walkable timelines of trains throughout history, and the historical brewery, which has a great rooftop view of today's trains, U-bahn line nos. 1 and 2, converging at the neighboring Gleisdreieck station. | Trebbiner Str. 9, Kreuzberg | 030/902\u2013540 | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u20135:30, weekends 10\u20136 | Station: Gleisdreieck (U-bahn), Anhalter Bahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nGolgatha.  \nThis beloved local watering hole has taken up space in Viktoriapark since 1928. Open all day long and late into the night, it's the perfect place to while away the hours with a cup of coffee during the day, or sip a cocktail or beer during the evening, when a DJ is spinning. It's also a reliable lunch spot, with salads, grilled meats, and the \"German pizzas\" known as Flammkuchen on the menu. | Dudenstr. 40\u201364, in Viktoriapark, closest entrance at Katzbachstr., Kreuzberg | 030/785\u20132453 | www.golgatha-berlin.de | Apr.\u2013Oct., 9 am\u2013late | Closed Nov.\u2013Mar. | Station: Yorckstrasse (S-bahn and U-bahn).\n\nJ\u00fcdisches Museum Berlin (Jewish Museum).  \nThe history of Germany's Jews from the Middle Ages through today is chronicled here, from prominent historical figures to the evolution of laws regarding Jews' participation in civil society. A few of the exhibits document the Holocaust itself, but this museum celebrates Jewish life and history far more than it focuses on the atrocities committed during WWII. An attraction in itself is the highly conceptual building, designed by Daniel Libeskind, where various physical \"voids\" in the oddly constructed and intensely personal modern wing of the building represent the idea that some things can and should never be exhibited when it comes to the Holocaust. Libeskind also directed the construction of the recently opened \"Akademie\" of the museum just across the street, which offers a library and temporary exhibitions, as well as space for workshops and lectures.TIP Reserve at least three hours for the museum and devote more time to the second floor if you're already familiar with basic aspects of Judaica, which are the focus of the third floor. | Lindenstr. 9\u201314, Kreuzberg | 030/2599\u20133300 | www.jmberlin.de | \u20ac7 | Mon. 10\u201310, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20138 | Station: Hallesches Tor (U-bahn).\n\nK\u00e4the-Kollwitz-Museum.  \nRight next door to the Literaturhaus, this small but lovingly curated museum in a formerly private home pays homage to one of Berlin's favorite artists, the female sculptor, print-maker, and painter K\u00e4the Kollwitz. Perhaps best known for her harrowing sculpture of a mother mourning a dead child inside the Neue Wache on Unter den Linden, she also lent her name to one of the city's most beautiful squares, the posh, leafy Kollwitzplatz, which contains a sculpture of her. | Fasanenstr. 24, Charlottenburg | 030/882\u20135210 | www.kaethe-kollwitz.de | \u20ac6 | Daily 10\u20136 | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nMartin-Gropius-Bau.  \nThis magnificent palazzo-like exhibition hall first opened in 1881, and once housed Berlin's Arts and Crafts Museum. Its architect, Martin Gropius, was the great-uncle of Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus architect who also worked in Berlin. The international, changing exhibits on art and culture have recently included Aztec sculptures, Henri Cartier-Bresson's photographs, an expansive Frida Kahlo retrospective, and works from Anish Kapoor and Meret Oppenheim. | Niederkirchnerstr. 7, Kreuzberg | 030/254\u2013860 | www.gropiusbau.de | Varies with exhibit | Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20137 | Station: Kochstrasse (U-bahn), Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Prenzlauer Berg\n\nOnce a spot for edgy art spaces, squats, and all manner of alternative lifestyles, Prenzlauer Berg has morphed into an oasis of artisanal bakeries, cute kids clothes stores (where the prices could knock your socks off) and genteel couples with baby strollers. That said, it's a beautiful area, with gorgeous, perfectly renovated buildings shaded by giant plantain and chestnut trees. If you're in the mood for an upscale, locally made snack and a nice stroll, this is the place to be. You'll find a denser concentration of locals and long-settled expats in Prenzlauer Berg than in other parts of the city like the Scheunenviertel.\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nBrecht-Weigel-Gedenkst\u00e4tte (Brecht-Weigel Memorial Site).  \nYou can visit the former working and living quarters of playwright Bertolt Brecht and his wife, actress Helene Weigel, and scholars can browse through the Brecht library (by appointment only). The downstairs restaurant serves Viennese cuisine using Weigel's recipes. Brecht, Weigel, and more than 100 other celebrated Germans are interred in the Dorotheenst\u00e4dtischer Friedhof (Dorotheenstadt Cemetery) next door. TIP The house can only be visited on tours, which take place every half-hour, in German. Call ahead to schedule an English tour. | Chausseestr. 125, Mitte | 030/20057-1844 | Apartment \u20ac3, library free.\n\nJ\u00fcdischer Friedhof Weissensee (Jewish Cemetery).  \nMore than 150,000 graves make up this peaceful retreat in Berlin's Weissensee district, Europe's largest Jewish cemetery. The grounds and tombstones are in excellent condition\u2014a seeming impossibility, given its location in the heart of the Third Reich\u2014and wandering through them is like taking an extremely moving trip back in time through the history of Jewish Berlin. To reach the cemetery, take Tram No. M4 from Hackescher Markt to Albertinenstrasse and head south on Herbert-Baum-Strasse. At the gate you can get a map from the attendant. The guidebook is in German only. | Herbert-Baum-Str. 45, Weissensee | 030/925\u20133330 | Summer, Mon.\u2013Thurs. 7:30\u20135, Fri. 7:30\u20132:30, Sun. 8\u20135; Winter., Mon.\u2013Thurs. 7:30\u20134, Fri. 7:30\u20132:30, Sun 8\u20134.\n\nKollwitzplatz (Kollwitz Square).  \nNamed for the painter, sculptor, and political activist K\u00e4the Kollwitz (1867\u20131945), who lived nearby, the square is the center of the old working-class district of Prenzlauer Berg. Kollwitz, who portrayed the hard times of area residents, is immortalized here in a sculpture based on a self-portrait. Ironically, this image of the artist now has a view of the upwardly mobile young families who have transformed the neighborhood since reunification. Bars and restaurants peal off from the square, and one of the best organic markets in town takes over on weekends. | Prenzlauer Berg.\n\n* * *\n\nJewish Berlin Today\n\nAs Berlin continues to grapple with the past, important steps toward celebrating Jewish history and welcoming a new generation of Jews to Berlin are in the making.\n\nSomber monuments have been built in memory of victims of the Holocaust and National Socialism. An especially poignant but soft-spoken tribute is the collection of Stolpersteine (stumbling blocks) found all over Berlin, imbedded into sidewalks in front of the pre-Holocaust homes of Berlin Jews, commemorating former residents simply with names and dates. German artist Gunter Demnig has personally installed these tiny memorials in big cities and small towns across Germany and Austria, and continues to do so as requests come in from communities across Europe.\n\nThe Ronald S. Lauder Foundation has gone a step further. Along with Lauder Yeshurun, Berlin's Jewish communities have been further strengthened by building housing for Jews in the city center, founding a Yeshiva, a rabbinical school, and offering special services for returning Jews.\n\nIt's difficult to say how many Jews live in Berlin today, but an official estimate puts the number at 22,000\u201327,000. About 12,000 members of the Jewish community are practicing Jews, mostly from the former Soviet Union, who belong to one of several synagogues. Berlin is also gaining in popularity among young Israelis, and today, some estimates say there may be as many as 20,000 Israelis who call Berlin home. These numbers don't include the secular and religious Jews who wish to remain anonymous in the German capital.\n\nThe government supports Jewish businesses and organizations with funding, keeps close ties with important members of the community, and, perhaps most visibly, provides 24-hour police protection in front of any Jewish establishment that requests it. Two recent events proved that Jewish Berlin is thriving once again. On November 4, 2010, three young rabbis were ordained at the Pestalozzi Strasse synagogue, the first ceremony of its kind to occur in Berlin since before the Holocaust. Also in 2010, Charlotte Knobloch, a Holocaust survivor and the president of the German Jewish Council at the time, showed the ultimate faith in Germany's recovery and reparation efforts by declaring the country \"once again a homeland for Jews.\"\n\n* * *\n\nKulturbrauerei (Culture Brewery).  \nThe redbrick buildings of the old Schultheiss brewery are typical of late-19th-century industrial architecture. Parts of the brewery were built in 1842, and at the turn of the 20th century the complex expanded to include the main brewery of Berlin's famous Schultheiss beer, then the world's largest brewery. Today, the multiplex cinema, pubs, clubs, and a concert venue that occupy it make up an arts and entertainment nexus (sadly, without a brewery). Pick up information at the Prenzlauer Berg tourist office here, and come Christmastime, visit the Scandinavian-themed market, which includes children's rides. | Sch\u00f6nhauser Allee 36, entry at Sredzkistr. 1 and Knaackstr. 97, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/4431\u20135152 | www.kulturbrauerei-berlin.de | Station: Eberswalder Strasse (U-bahn).\n\n## Wedding\n\nWhile much of Berlin has gentrified rapidly in recent years, Wedding, north of Mitte, is still an old-fashioned, working-class district. Because rents are still relatively low, it will probably be the next hot spot for artists and other creative types looking for cheap studios and work places. If you want to be on the cutting edge, ferret out an underground show or two in this ethnically-diverse neighborhood.\n\nFor an historical perspective on the years of Berlin's division, head to the excellent Berlin Wall Memorial Site. This illuminating museum (some of which is open-air) is located along one of the few remaining stretches of the wall, and chronicles the sorrows of the era.\n\nGedenkst\u00e4tte Berliner Mauer (Berlin Wall Memorial Site).  \nThis site combines memorials and a museum and research center on the Berlin Wall. The division of Berlin was particularly heart-wrenching on Bernauer Strasse, where neighbors and families on opposite sides of the street were separated overnight. The Reconciliation Chapel, completed in 2000, replaced the community church dynamited by the Communists in 1985. The church had been walled into the \"death strip,\" and was seen as a hindrance to patrolling it. A portion of the Wall remains on Bernauer Strasse, along with an installation meant to serve as a memorial, which can be viewed 24/7. The documentation center will be closed until late 2014 for renovation and the addition of a new permanent exhibition. | Bernauer Str. 111, Wedding | 030/4679\u201386666 | www.berliner-mauer-gedenkstaette.de | Free, tours \u20ac3 | Memorial 24 hrs. Visitor center: Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20137; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20136 | Station: Bernauer Strasse (U-bahn), Nordbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\n## Neuk\u00f6lln\n\nIf you missed Prenzlauer Berg's heyday, you can still get a good feel for its raw charm and creative flair if you head to ultrahip Neuk\u00f6lln. Just southeast of Kreuzberg below the Landwehrkanal, Neuk\u00f6lln was an impoverished, gritty West Berlin neighborhood until the hip crowd discovered it a few years ago. It's since been almost completely transformed. Makeshift bars/galleries brighten up semi-abandoned storefronts, and vintage caf\u00e9 or breakfast spots put a new twist on old concepts. Everything has a salvaged feel, and the crowds are young and savvy. If you're looking for nightlife, there are bars galore.\n\n## Charlottenburg\n\nAn important part of former West Berlin but now a western district of the united city, Charlottenburg has retained its old-world charm. Elegance is the keyword here. Whether you're strolling and shopping around Savignyplatz or pausing for a refreshment at the LiteraturHaus, you'll be impressed with the dignity of both the neighborhood's architecture and its inhabitants. Kurf\u00fcrstendamm (or Ku'damm, as the locals call it) is the central shopping mile, where you'll find an international clientele browsing brand-name designers, or drinking coffee at sidewalk caf\u00e9s.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nKaiser-Wilhelm-Ged\u00e4chtnis-Kirche (Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church).  \nA dramatic reminder of World War II's destruction, the ruined bell tower is all that remains of this once massive church, which was completed in 1895 and dedicated to the emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm I. The Hohenzollern dynasty is depicted inside in a gilded mosaic, whose damage, like that of the building, will not be repaired. The exhibition revisits World War II's devastation throughout Europe. On the hour, the tower chimes out a melody composed by the last emperor's great-grandson, the late Prince Louis Ferdinand von Hohenzollern. In stark contrast to the old bell tower (dubbed the \"Hollow Tooth\"), which is in sore need of restoration now, are the adjoining Memorial Church and Tower, designed by the noted German architect Egon Eiermann and finished in 1961. These ultramodern octagonal structures, with their myriad honeycomb windows, have nicknames as well: the \"Lipstick\" and the \"Powder Box.\" Brilliant, blue stained glass designed by Gabriel Loire of Chartres, France dominates the interiors. Church music and organ concerts are presented in the church regularly, which is slated for restoration in the near future. | Breitscheidpl., Charlottenburg | 030/218\u20135023 | www.gedaechtniskirche-berlin.de | Free | Memorial church daily 9\u20137 | Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm.  \nThis busy thoroughfare began as a riding path in the 16th century. The elector Joachim II of Brandenburg used it to travel between his palace on the Spree River and his hunting lodge in the Grunewald. The Kurf\u00fcrstendamm (Elector's Causeway) was transformed into a major route in the late 19th century, thanks to the initiative of Bismarck, Prussia's Iron Chancellor.\n\nEven in the 1920s, the Ku'damm was still relatively new and by no means elegant; it was fairly far removed from the old heart of the city, Unter den Linden in Mitte. The Ku'damm's prewar fame was due mainly to its rowdy bars and dance halls, as well as the caf\u00e9s where the cultural avant-garde of Europe gathered. Almost half of its 245 late-19th-century buildings were completely destroyed in the 1940s, and the remaining buildings were damaged to varying degrees. As in most of western Berlin, what you see today is either restored or newly constructed. Many of the 1950s buildings have been replaced by high-rises, in particular at the corner of Joachimstaler Strasse. Although Ku'damm is still known as the best shopping street in Berlin, its establishments have declined in elegance and prestige over the years. Nowadays you'll want to visit just to check it off your list, but few of the mostly down-market chain stores will impress you with their luxury.\n\nMuseum Berggruen.  \nThis small modern-art museum just reopened in 2013 after extensive renovations. It holds works by Matisse, Klee, Giacometti, and Picasso, who is particularly well represented with more than 100 works. Heinz Berggruen (1914\u20132007), a businessman who left Berlin in the 1930s, collected the excellent paintings. He narrates portions of the free audio guide, sharing anecdotes about how he came to acquire pieces directly from the artists, as well as his opinions of the women portrayed in Picasso's portraits. | Schlossstr. 1, Charlottenburg | 030/2664-24242 | www.smb.museum | \u20ac10 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 | Station: Sophie-Charlotte-Platz (U-bahn), Richard-Wagner-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Schloss Charlottenburg (Charlottenburg Palace).  \nA grand reminder of imperial days, this showplace served as a city residence for the Prussian rulers. The gorgeous palace started as a modest royal summer residence in 1695, built on the orders of King Friedrich I for his wife, Sophie-Charlotte. In the 18th century Frederick the Great made a number of additions, such as the dome and several wings designed in the rococo style. By 1790 the complex had evolved into a massive royal domain that could take a whole day to explore. Behind heavy iron gates, the Court of Honor\u2014the front courtyard\u2014is dominated by a baroque statue of the Great Elector on horseback.TIP Buildings can be visited separately for different admission prices, or altogether as part of a \u20ac19 Tageskarte.\n\nThe Altes Schloss is the main building of the Schloss Charlottenburg complex, with the ground-floor suites of Friedrich I and Sophie-Charlotte. Paintings include royal portraits by Antoine Pesne, a noted court painter of the 18th century. A guided tour visits the Oak Gallery, the early-18th-century palace chapel, and the suites of Friedrich Wilhelm II and Friedrich Wilhelm III, furnished in the Biedermeier style. Tours leave hourly from 9 to 5. The upper floor has the apartments of Friedrich Wilhelm IV, a silver treasury, and Berlin and Meissen porcelain and can be seen on its own.\n\nThe Neuer Fl\u00fcgel (New Building), where Frederick the Great once lived, was designed by Knobbelsdorff, who also built Sanssouci. It is closed for restoration until 2015. | Spandauer Damm 20\u201324, Charlottenburg | 030/331\u20139694\u2013200 | www.spsg.de | Tageskarte \u20ac19, covers admission for all buildings, excluding tour of Altes Schloss baroque apartments | Station: Richard-Wagner-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nSchlosspark Charlottenburg.  \nThe park behind the Charlottenburg Palace was laid out in the French baroque style beginning in 1697, and was transformed into an English garden in the early 19th century. In it stand the Neuer Pavillon by Karl Friedrich Schinkel and Carl Langhan's Belvedere Pavillon, which overlooks the lake and the Spree River and holds a collection of Berlin porcelain. | www.spsg.de | \u20ac3 | Park daily. Belvedere: Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., weekends 10\u20135.\n\nFAMILY | Zoologischer Garten (Zoological Gardens).  \nEven though Knut, the polar bear cub who captured the heart of the city, is sadly no longer with us, there are 14,000 other animals to see here, many of whom may be happy to have their time in the spotlight once again. There are 1,500 different species (more than any other zoo in Europe), including those rare and endangered, which the zoo has been successful at breeding. New arrivals in the past years include a baby rhinoceros. The animals' enclosures are designed to resemble their natural habitats, though some structures are ornate, such as the 1910 Arabian-style Zebra House. Pythons, frogs, turtles, invertebrates, Komodo dragons, and an amazing array of strange and colorful fish are part of the three-floor aquarium.TIP Check the feeding times posted to watch creatures such as seals, apes, hippos, crocodiles, and pelicans during their favorite time of day. | Hardenbergpl. 8 and Budapester Str. 32, Charlottenburg | 030/254\u2013010 | www.zoo-berlin.de | Zoo or aquarium \u20ac13, combined ticket \u20ac20 | Zoo: Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 9\u20135; mid-Mar.\u2013Aug., daily 9\u20137; Sept.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136:30. Aquarium: daily 9\u20136 | Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n### Worth Noting\n\nK\u00e4the-Kollwitz-Museum.  \nRight next door to the Literaturhaus, this small but lovingly curated museum in a formerly private home pays homage to one of Berlin's favorite artists, the female sculptor, print-maker, and painter K\u00e4the Kollwitz. Perhaps best known for her harrowing sculpture of a mother mourning a dead child inside the Neue Wache on Unter den Linden, she also lent her name to one of the city's most beautiful squares, the posh, leafy Kollwitzplatz, which contains a sculpture of her. | Fasanenstr. 24, Charlottenburg | 030/882\u20135210 | www.kaethe-kollwitz.de | \u20ac6 | Daily 10\u20136 | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nLiteraturhaus Berlin.  \nThis grand, 19th-century villa on one of West Berlin's prettiest streets, is best known for its caf\u00e9, which approximates a Viennese coffeehouse in both food and atmosphere. It also serves as an intellectual meeting place for high-minded and well-to-do Berliners. The house hosts readings, literary symposia, exhibitions and writing workshops year-round, and has a cozy and comprehensive bookstore (one of the city's best) on the lower level. | Fasanenstr. 23, Charlottenburg | 030/887\u20132860 | www.literaturhaus-berlin.de | Bookshop weekdays 10:30\u20137:30, Sat. 10:30\u20136. Caf\u00e9 daily 9\u2013midnight | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Fotografie\u2013Helmut Newton Stiftung.  \nNative son Helmut Newton (1920\u20132004) pledged this collection of 1,000 photographs to Berlin months before his unexpected death. The man who defined fashion photography in the 1960s through the 1980s was an apprentice to Yva, a Jewish fashion photographer in Berlin in the 1930s. Newton fled Berlin with his family in 1938, and his mentor was killed in a concentration camp. The photographs, now part of the state museum collection, are shown on a rotating basis in the huge Wilhelmine building behind the train station Zoologischer Garten. You'll see anything from racy portraits of models to serene landscapes. | Jebensstr. 2, Charlottenburg | 030/2664\u201324242 | www.helmutnewton.com | \u20ac10 | Tues., Wed., Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Thurs. 10\u20138 | Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFAMILY | The Story of Berlin.  \nYou can't miss this multimedia museum for the airplane wing exhibited outside. It was once part of a \"Raisin bomber,\" a U.S. Air Force DC-3 that supplied Berlin during the Berlin Airlift in 1948 and 1949. Eight hundred years of the city's history, from the first settlers casting their fishing lines to Berliners heaving sledgehammers at the Wall, are conveyed through hands-on exhibits, film footage, and multimedia devices in this unusual venue. The sound of footsteps over broken glass follows your path through the exhibit on the Kristallnacht pogrom, and to pass through the section on the Nazis' book-burning on Bebelplatz, you must walk over book bindings. Many original artifacts are on display, such as the stretch Volvo that served as Erich Honnecker's state carriage in East Germany. TIP The eeriest relic is the 1974 nuclear shelter, which you can visit by guided tour on the hour. Museum placards are also in English. | Ku'damm Karree, Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 207\u2013208, Charlottenburg | 030/8872\u20130100 | www.story-of-berlin.de | \u20ac12 | Daily 10\u20138 (last entry at 6) | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn).\n\n## Wannsee\n\nMost tourists come to leafy, upscale Wannsee to see the House of the Wannsee Conference, where the Third Reich's top officials met to plan the \"Final Solution.\" Beyond this dark historical site, however, there are parks, lakes, and islands to explore. Leave a day for a trip here, especially in warm weather: the Wannsee lake is a favorite spot for a summer dip.\n\n### Top Attractions\n\nGedenkst\u00e4tte Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz (Wannsee Conference Memorial Site).  \nThe lovely lakeside setting of this Berlin villa belies the unimaginable Holocaust atrocities planned here. This elegant edifice hosted the fateful conference held on January 20, 1942, at which Nazi leaders and German bureaucrats, under SS leader Reinhard Heydrich, planned the systematic deportation and mass extinction of Europe's Jewish population. Today this so-called Endl\u00f6sung der Judenfrage (\"Final Solution of the Jewish Question\") is illustrated with a chilling exhibition that documents the conference and, more extensively, the escalation of persecution against Jews and the Holocaust itself. A reference library offers source materials in English. | Am Grossen Wannsee 56\u201358, from the Wannsee S-bahn station, take Bus No. 114, Zehlendorf | 030/805\u20130010 | www.ghwk.de | Free, tour \u20ac2 | Daily 10\u20136; library weekdays 10\u20136 | Station: Wannsee (S-bahn).\n\n## Oranienburg\n\nIn this little village a short drive north of Berlin, the Nazis built one of the first concentration camps (neighbors claimed not to notice what was happening there). After the war, the Soviets continued to use it. Only later did the GDR regime turn it into a memorial site. If you feel like you've covered all the main sites in Berlin, this is worth a day trip.\n\n### Exploring\n\nFodor's Choice | Gedenkst\u00e4tte und Museum Sachsenhausen (Sachsenhausen Memorial and Museum).  \nThis concentration camp was established in 1936 and held 200,000 prisoners from every nation in Europe, including British officers and Joseph Stalin's son. It is estimated that tens of thousands died here, among them more than 12,000 Soviet prisoners of war.\n\nBetween 1945 and 1950 the Soviets used the site as a prison, and malnutrition and disease claimed the lives of 20% of the inmates. The East German government made the site a concentration camp memorial in April 1961. Many original facilities remain; the barracks and other buildings now hold exhibits.\n\nTo reach Sachsenhausen, take the S-bahn Line No. 1 to Oranienburg, the last stop. The ride from the Friedrichstrasse Station will take 50 minutes. Alternatively, take the Regional Train No. 5, direction north, from one of Berlin's main stations. From the Oranienburg Station it's a 25-minute walk (follow signs), or you can take a taxi or Bus No. 804 (a 7-minute ride, but with infrequent service) in the direction of Malz. TIP An ABC zone ticket will suffice for any type of train travel and bus transfer. Allow three hours at the memorial, whose exhibits and sites are spread apart. Oranienburg is 35 km (22 miles) north of Berlin's center. | Str. der Nationen 22 | Oranienburg | 03301/200\u2013200 | www.stiftung-bg.de | Free, audio guide \u20ac3 | Visitors center and grounds: Mid-Mar.\u2013mid-Oct., daily 8:30\u20136; mid-Oct.\u2013mid-Mar., daily 8:30\u20134:30; last admission \u00bd hr before closing. Museum closed Mon. | Station: Oranienburg (S-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nMitte | Tiergarten | Kreuzberg | Prenzlauer Berg | Wedding | Neuk\u00f6lln | Charlottenburg | Wilmersdorf | Sch\u00f6neberg\n\nUpdated by Giulia Pines\n\nBerlin has plenty of unassuming neighborhood restaurants serving old-fashioned German food; but happily, the dining scene in this thriving city has expanded to incorporate all sorts of international cuisine. Italian food is abundant, from relatively mundane \"red sauce\" pizza and pasta establishments to restaurants offering specific regional Italian delicacies. Asian food, in particular, has made a big entrance, with Charlottenburg's Kantstrasse leading the way as Berlin's unofficial \"Asiatown.\" Turkish food continues to be popular, too, especially d\u00f6ner kebab shops that sell pressed lamb or chicken in flat-bread pockets with a variety of sauces and salads, which are great for a quick meal. Wurst, especially Currywurst\u2014pork sausage served with a mildly curried ketchup\u2014is also popular if you're looking for a quick meal on the go.\n\nAnd as in other big cities around the world, eating local is more and more the rage in Berlin. Restaurants are beginning to understand that although they could import ingredients from other European countries, fresh farm resources are closer to home. Surrounding the city is the rural state of Brandenburg, whose name often comes before Ente (duck) on a menu. In spring, Spargel, white asparagus from Beelitz, is all the rage, showing up in soups and side dishes.\n\nIt's worth noting that Berlin is known for curt or slow service, except at high-end restaurants. And keep in mind that many of the top restaurants are closed Sunday.\n\nIf you want to experience that old-fashioned German cuisine, Berlin's most traditional four-part meal is Eisbein (pork knuckle), always served with sauerkraut, pureed peas, and boiled potatoes. Other old-fashioned Berlin dishes include Rouladen (rolled stuffed beef), Spanferkel (suckling pig), Berliner Sch\u00fcssels\u00fclze (potted meat in aspic), and Hackepeter (ground beef).\n\n## Mitte\n\nAltes Europa.  \nGERMAN | By day, this is a quiet caf\u00e9 reminiscent of a classic Viennese coffeehouse, shabby but trendy, with fashionable Mitte-ites chatting in while middle-aged intellectuals page through newspapers and magazines. At night, it turns into a comfortable but bustling neighborhood pub, just crowded enough to look like a scene, but never too packed. And throughout it all, Altes Europa (\"Old Europe\") manages to construct a daily menu of six or seven tasty dishes like classic German Kn\u00f6del (dumplings) baked with mushrooms and spinach or Tafelspitz (boiled beef) with potatoes. The food is inventively prepared and served in record time. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Gipsstr. 11, Mitte | 303/2809\u20133840 | No credit cards | Station: Weinmeisterstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nBandol sur Mer.  \nFRENCH | This tiny, 20-seat eatery serves French classics. The foie gras, tartar, and entrec\u00f4te are standouts, and desserts like cr\u00e8me br\u00fbl\u00e9e round out the menu. The wine selection is good and the atmosphere is comfortable, though ever since Brad Pitt paid Bandol a visit, getting a table has gotten much more difficult. Its location, right in the middle of bustling Torstrasse, makes it a magnet for the hip and fashionable. TIP If you can't get a reservation here, try their sister restaurant next door: the larger and slightly more casual 3 Minutes Sur Mer is also open for lunch. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Torstr. 167, Mitte | 030/6730\u20132051 | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Closed Sun. No lunch weekdays | Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn).\n\nBorchardt.  \nBRASSERIE | The menu changes daily at this celebrity meeting place\u2014the location near Gendarmenmarkt makes it a popular power lunch spot for politicians and influential people, though the food and service are not what you'd expect from the high prices. The high ceiling, plush maroon benches, art nouveau mosaic (discovered during renovations), and marble columns make the atmosphere feel like the 1920s. The cuisine is French-German and there are generally several fish dishes and oyster choices on the menu, as well as carnivorous classics like veal schnitzel or beef fillet. The courtyard garden is lively in warm weather, and fills with a rotating cast of wealthy regulars. Beware, though: this restaurant tends to treat customers better when they appear well-heeled and well-connected. | Average main: \u20ac19 | Franz\u00f6sischestr. 47, Mitte | 030/8188\u20136262 | www.borchardt-restaurant.de | Reservations essential | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nCh\u00e9n Ch\u00e8.  \nASIAN | Tucked into a courtyard behind the bflat jazz club, this elegant restaurant benefits from fresh ingredients, expert cooking, and an enticing exotic tea list. It has a lovely location; the outdoor space is adorned with paper lamps and canopies. You'll find the usual suspects, like fresh summer rolls and skewered meats with peanut sauce, but there are also some excellent original dishes, like the pickled Vietnamese eggplant and the rice \"burger\" with smoked tofu and lotus root. Brunch is served on the weekends. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Rosenthalerstr. 13, Mitte | 030/2888\u20134282 | www.chenche-berlin.de | No credit cards | Station: Weinmeisterstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Cookies Cream.  \nVEGETARIAN | With three restaurants, a club, and a bar to his name, Berlin nightlife \"mogul\" Cookie is a fixture on the Mitte scene and Cookies Cream, the vegetarian fine-dining establishment above the club Cookies, is his crowning achievement. The restaurant is accessible only via a dingy alleyway between the Westin Grand Hotel and the Komische Oper next door, and its entrance seems designed to deter would-be visitors but once you're through the door the service is friendly and casual, and the vibe not at all intimidating. Chef Stephan Hentschel makes a point of never serving pasta or rice dishes, saying that would be too easy in a vegetarian restaurant. Instead, he focuses on innovative preparations like kohlrabi turned into ravioli-esque pockets filled with lentils, or celery that's wrapped canneloni-style around potato puree and chanterelle mushrooms. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Behrenstr. 55, Mitte | 030/2749\u20132940 | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nHabel Weinkultur.  \nGERMAN | Under the arches of the S-bahn tracks connecting Friedrichstrasse with Hauptbahnhof, Habel Weinkultur seems unassuming from outside, but inside you'll find a typical old Berlin ambience melding elegance with industrial chic: leather banquettes, crystal chandeliers dangling from the arched brick ceilings, and rumbling trains overhead. The no-nonsense waiters serve local classics, like lamb, Wiener schnitzel, weisser Spargel (white asparagus), and Kn\u00f6del with mushrooms and ham. There's a huge wine selection. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Luisenstr. 19, Mitte | 030/2809\u20138484 | www.wein-habel.de | No dinner Sun. | Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHackescher Hof.  \nGERMAN | This huge-yet-cozy German restaurant is in the middle of the action at bustling Hackesche H\u00f6fe, and one of the best places to munch on internationally flavored German food while doing some excellent people-watching. The Hackescher Hof\u2014which sports the walking green man symbol from East Berlin's stoplights\u2014is a mix of Ostalgie (nostalgia for the East), solid cooking (if available, go for the regional country dishes like Brandenburg wild boar), and an intriguing clientele made up of tourists, intellectuals, artists, and writers, in a beautiful, wood-paneled but always smoky dining hall\u2014there are also some outside tables in the courtyard, too. It's usually packed in the evening, so reservations are strongly recommended. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Rosenthalerstr. 40\u201341, inside Hackesche H\u00f6fe, Mitte | 030/283\u20135293 | www.hackescher-hof.de | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nLutter & Wegner.  \nAUSTRIAN | One of the city's oldest vintners (Sekt, German champagne, was first conceived here in 1811 by actor Ludwig Devrient), Lutter & Wegner has returned to its historic location across from Gendarmenmarkt. The dark-wood-panel walls, parquet floor, and multiple rooms take diners back to 19th-century Vienna, and the food, too, is mostly Austrian, with superb game dishes in winter and, of course, the classic Wiener schnitzel with potato salad. The sauerbraten with red cabbage is a national prizewinner. TIP In the Weinstube, a cozy room lined with wine shelves meat and cheese plates are served until 3 am. There are several other locations around Berlin but this one is widely considered the best. | Average main: \u20ac23 | Charlottenstr. 56, Mitte | 030/2029\u20135417 | www.l-w-berlin.de | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn), Stadtmitte (U-bahn).\n\nM\u00e4dchenitaliener.  \nMODERN ITALIAN | This cozy Mitte spot has two different spaces: the bustling and sometimes drafty front room with high tables where they put walk-ins, and a darker, more romantic back room for those who remember to reserve ahead\u2014so you should, too. The short but well-thought-out menu includes small and large antipasti plates with grilled vegetables, olives, cheeses, and meats, and unusual pastas like tagliatelle with crawfish in a lemon-mint sauce, or with pine nuts and balsamic-roasted figs. Chestnut-filled ravioli with pears is a favorite in winter. The lunch menu, with an appetizer and a pasta dish for only \u20ac8.50, is a great deal, especially for the area. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Alte Sch\u00f6nhauserstr. 12, Mitte | 030/4004\u20131787 | No credit cards | Lunch served Mon.\u2013Sat. | Station: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nMonsieur Vuong.  \nVIETNAMESE | This hip Vietnamese eatery is a convenient place to meet before hitting Mitte's galleries or clubs, or for a light lunch after browsing the area's popular boutiques. The atmosphere is always lively, and the clientele is an entertaining mix of tech geeks on their lunch breaks from the area's many start-ups, fashionistas with multiple shopping bags, tourists lured in by the crowd, or students from the nearby Goethe Institut, Germany's most prestigious language school. There are only five items and two specials to choose from, but the delicious goi bo (spicy beef salad) and pho ga (chicken noodle soup) keep the regulars coming back. The teas and shakes are also excellent. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Alte Sch\u00f6nhauserstr. 46, Mitte | 030/9929\u20136924 | www.monsieurvuong.de | Reservations not accepted | Station: Weinmeister Strasse (U-bahn), Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Pauly Saal.  \nGERMAN | A new meeting point for the hip Mitte set, Pauly Saal is in the newly renovated and converted Ehemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule (Old Jewish Girls' School), a worthy destination in its own right due to its beautifully restored interior and several noteworthy galleries. With indoor seating in what used to be the school gym, and outdoor tables taking over the building's expansive courtyard, the setting alone is a draw, but the food is also some of the most exquisite in this part of Mitte. The focus is on artful presentation and local ingredients, like meat sourced directly from Brandenburg. TIP The lunch prix fixe (\u20ac28) is a great way to sample the restaurant's best dishes. | Average main: \u20ac34 | Auguststr. 11\u201313, Ehemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule, Mitte | 030/3300\u20136070 | www.paulysaal.com | Closed Sun. | Station: Tucholskystrasse (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Restaurant Reinstoff.  \nCONTEMPORARY | One of the top newcomers of the past few years, the Michelin-starred Reinstoff is a delight. The perfectly crafted and creative haute cuisine, prepared by renowned chef Daniel Achilles, focuses on traditional German ingredients but gives them an avant-garde twist and often playful presentations. The competent yet relaxed service and great atmosphere make this one of the most enjoyable dining destinations. Guests choose from five-, six-, or eight-course menus (there is no \u00e0 la carte) that are carefully orchestrated to create an unforgettable dining experience. The wine selection is heavy on German and Spanish wines. | Average main: \u20ac50 | Schlegelstr. 26c, in Edison H\u00f6fe, Mitte | 030/3088\u20131214 | www.reinstoff.eu | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. | Station: Nordbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nMogg & Melzer.  \nCAF\u00c9 | In the renovated Ehemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule (Old Jewish Girls' School), this deli-style caf\u00e9 pays homage to the building's roots in the best way possible: with delectable Jewish delicacies that are hard to find elsewhere in Berlin\u2014think matzoh-ball soup or pastrami on rye. At breakfast there is a delicious shakshuka (tomato stew with eggs) and the classic New York bagel with cream cheese and lox. More standard fare like a beet and goat cheese salad and French onion soup round out the menu. The space is comfortable, too, with a simple interior featuring wooden floors and tables, light blue walls, and low, deep purple banquettes. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Auguststr. 11\u201313, Ehemalige J\u00fcdische M\u00e4dchenschule, Mitte | 030/3300\u201360770 | www.moggandmelzer.com | No credit cards | Station: Tucholskystrasse (S-bahn).\n\nRosenthaler Grill und Schlemmerbuffet.  \nGERMAN | D\u00f6ner kebab aficionados love this restaurant for the delicious food; the fact that it's in the middle of the city and open 24 hours a day is an added bonus. The friendly staff expertly carve paper-thin slices of perfectly cooked meat from the enormous, revolving spit. If you like things spicy, ask for the red sauce. | Average main: \u20ac6 | Torstr. 125, Mitte | 030/283\u20132153 | Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn).\n\nSra Bua.  \nTHAI | There aren't many Thai restaurants in Berlin but even if the competition was fierce, this exciting addition to the city's high-end dining scene would stand out. The service is attentive and the setting is lavish at this fourth Sra Bua location (after Bangkok, Switzerland, and St. Moritz). Spicy, flavorful curries are front and center on the menu, excellently complemented by salads and raw fish starters that play with some of the freshest ingredients around. Save room for the \"deconstructed\" yuzu cheesecake dessert, and make sure to sample the cocktails, which also pay homage to Southeast Asia with ingredients like chili, ginger, mango, and sesame oil. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Adlon Kempinski Hotel, Behrenstr. 72, Mitte | 030/2261\u20131590 | www.srabua-adlon.de | Reservations essential | Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n* * *\n\nTurkish Market and Caf\u00e9s\n\nOn Tuesday and Friday from noon to 6:30 you can find the country's best selection of Arab and Turkish foods on the Maybachufer lining the southern bank of the Landwehrkanal. The quirky student bar and caf\u00e9 on the Kottbusser bridge, Ankerklause, or those on Paul-Lincke-Ufer, the opposite bank, are great places for a late breakfast, coffee break, and local color. The closest U-bahn stations are Kottbusser Tor and Sch\u00f6nleinstrasse. For Turkish fast food (a chicken or lamb kebab, or falafel), walk up to Hasir's, believed by many to have the best falafel in Berlin. Although there are five Berlin outposts, the one on Adalbertstrasse just up from Kottbusser Tor has both a walk-in counter and a more upscale, sit-down dining room (Adalbertstr. 10, 030/6142\u2013373). If it's meat you crave, walk down Kottbusserdamm from the market to Boppstrasse, where Imren Grill serves up tasty lamb D\u00f6ners. (Boppstr. 5, 030/4302\u20137868).\n\n* * *\n\nVAU.  \nGERMAN | Trendsetter VAU defined hip in the Mitte district years ago and remains a favorite even as it ages. The excellent German fish and game dishes prepared by chef Kolja Kleeberg have earned him endless praise and awards. Menu options might include duck with red cabbage, quince, and sweet chestnuts, or turbot with veal sweetbread with shallots in red wine. The six-course dinner menu is \u20ac120, but dishes you can also order \u00e1 la carte. The best bargain is a lunch entr\u00e9e at \u20ac18. The cool interior was designed by Meinhard von Gerkan, one of Germany's leading industrial architects. | Average main: \u20ac40 | J\u00e4gerstr. 54\u201355, Mitte | 030/202\u20139730 | www.vau-berlin.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn), Stadmitte (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Weinbar Rutz.  \nGERMAN | Rutz might be the most unassuming Michelin-starred restaurant in the world. Its narrow facade is tucked away on a sleepy stretch of Chausseestrasse, but the elegant and enjoyable interior matches the quality of the food, with surprising combinations like roe deer with stinging nettle puree, or monkfish with a ginger and radish ragout. The restaurant's \"Inspiration\" tasting menus of 6, 8, or 10 courses (starting at \u20ac115s) offer dual interpretations (labeled \"experiences\") of luxury ingredients like goose liver or Wagyu beef, though there are \u00e0 la carte options as well. For those wishing for just a taste of the magic rather than a multicourse affair, the separate Weinbar (downstairs) has a more reasonably priced \u00e0 la carte menu. Sommelier and owner, Billy Wagner, is usually in-house to recommend wines from a list of more than 1,000 vintages. | Average main: \u20ac60 | Chausseestr. 8, Mitte | 030/2462\u20138760 | www.weinbar-rutz.de | Closed Sun. and Mon. | Station: Oranienburger Tor (S-bahn).\n\nZur Letzten Instanz.  \nGERMAN | Berlin's oldest restaurant (established in 1621) lies half hidden in a nest of medieval streets, though it's welcomed some illustrious diners: Napol\u00e9on is said to have sat alongside the tile stove, Mikhail Gorbachev sipped a beer here in 1989, and Chancellor Gerhard Schr\u00f6der treated French president Jacques Chirac to a meal here in 2003. The small menu focuses on some of Berlin's most traditional specialties, including Eisbein (pork knuckle), and takes its whimsical dish titles from classic legal jargon\u2014the national courthouse is around the corner, and the restaurant's name is a rough equivalent of the term \"at the 11th hour.\" Inside, the restaurant is cozy, and while the service is always friendly it can sometimes feel a bit erratic. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Waisenstr. 14\u201316, Mitte | 030/242\u20135528 | www.zurletzteninstanz.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. | Station: Klosterstrasse (U-bahn).\n\n## Tiergarten\n\nFodor's Choice | Facil.  \nECLECTIC | One of Germany's top restaurants, Facil is also one of the more relaxed of its class. The elegant, minimalist setting\u2014it's in the fifth-floor courtyard of the Mandala Hotel, with exquisite wall panels and a glass roof that opens in summer\u2014and impeccable service give the place an oasislike feel. Diners can count on a careful combination of German classics and Asian inspiration; the options are to choose from the four- to eight-course set meals, or order \u00e0 la carte. Seasonal dishes include goose liver with celery and hazelnuts, char with an elderflower emulsion sauce, or roasted regional squab. The wine list is extensive but the staff can provide helpful advice. | Average main: \u20ac40 | Mandala Hotel, Potsdamerstr. 3, Tiergarten | 030/5900\u201351234 | www.facil.de | Closed weekends | Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Paris-Moskau.  \nECLECTIC | If you're looking for a one-of-a-kind dining experience, head to the rather barren stretch of land between Hauptbahnhof and the government quarter, where a single half-timbered house stands, now dwarfed by a government complex going up around it: The restaurant Paris-Moskau was built more than 100 years ago as a pub and guesthouse along the Paris-Moscow railway. Today, it serves dishes so intricately prepared they look like works of art, with refreshing flavor combinations such as smoked eel with pork belly ray, or guinea hen with beetroots and dates. In addition to the \u00e0 la carte menu, there are a variety of set menus in the evening menu\u2014you can choose four, five, six, or eight courses. The well-edited wine list and attentive service help make this restaurant a standout. | Average main: \u20ac25 | Alt-Moabit 141, Tiergarten | 030/394\u20132081 | www.paris-moskau.de | Reservations essential | Closed Wed., no lunch weekends | Station: Berlin Hof (S-bahn).\n\n## Kreuzberg\n\nCaf\u00e9 Morgenland.  \nMIDDLE EASTERN | Within view (and earshot) of the elevated U-bahn Line No. 1, Caf\u00e9 Morgenland is a relatively unremarkable neighborhood haunt on weekdays but on Sunday it devotes an entire room to its extremely popular brunch buffet, which means table space can be scarce. The Turkish-inspired dishes (an ode to the home country of many a Kreuzberg native) are the perfect alternative to more traditional brunches in town. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Skalitzerstr. 35, Kreuzberg | 030/611\u20133291 | www.morgenland-berlin.de | No credit cards | Station: G\u00f6rlitzer Bahnhof (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Curry 36.  \nGERMAN | This currywurst stand in Kreuzberg has a cult following and anytime of day or night you'll find yourself amid a crowd of cab drivers, students, and lawyers while you have your currywurst mit Darm (with skin) or ohne Darm (without skin). Most people order their sausage with a big pile of crispy fries served rot-weiss (red and white)\u2014with ketchup and mayonnaise. Curry 36 stays open until 5 in the morning. | Average main: \u20ac6 | Mehringdamm 36, Kreuzberg | 030/251\u20137368 | Station: Mehringdamm (U-bahn).\n\nDefne.  \nTURKISH | In a city full of Turkish restaurants, Defne stands out for its exquisitely prepared food, friendly service, and pleasant setting. Beyond simple kebabs, the fresh and healthy menu here includes a great selection of hard-to-find fish dishes from the Bosphorus, such as acili ahtapot (spicy octopus served with mushrooms and olives in a white-wine-and-tomato sauce), as well as a selection of delicious meze (small plates) and typical Turkish dishes like \"the Imam Fainted,\" one of many eggplant preparations. The vegetable dishes are especially popular. Defne is near the Maybachufer, on the bank of the Landwehrkanal that runs through Berlin, and its beloved Turkish market. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Planufer 92c, Kreuzberg | 030/8179\u20137111 | www.defne-restaurant.de | No credit cards | No lunch | Station: Kottbusser Tor (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Die Henne.  \nGERMAN | This 100-year-old Kreuzberg stalwart has survived a lot. After two world wars, it found itself quite literally with its back against the wall: the Berlin Wall was built right next to the front door, forcing it to close its front-yard beer garden. But Die Henne (which means \"the hen\") has managed to stick around thanks in part to its most famous dish, which is still just about all they serve: crispy, buttermilk fried chicken. The rest of the menu is short: coleslaw, potato salad, a few boulette (meat patty) options, and several beers on tap. For \"dessert,\" look to their impressive selection of locally sourced brandies and fruit schnapps. The small front yard beer garden, reopened after 1989, is once again a lovely and lively place to sit in summer. Die Henne is full nearly every night it's open so make reservations a few of days in advance to secure a table. | Average main: \u20ac8 | Leuschnerdamm 25, Kreuzberg | 030/614\u20137730 | No credit cards | Closed Mon. | Station: Moritzplatz (U-bahn).\n\nGugelhof.  \nECLECTIC | Although far from Alsatian France and the Mosel and Saar regions of Germany's southwest that inspire the hearty fare here, a visit to this busy but homey Kollwitzplatz restaurant will leave you pleasantly surprised\u2014and thoroughly stuffed. The raclette for two and the p\u00e2t\u00e9 de canard (Alsatian duck p\u00e2t\u00e9) are the best you're likely to get this side of the Rhine, and classic choucroute comes with Blutwurst (blood sausage) provided by an award-winning Berlin butcher. The vegetarian Tarte Flamb\u00e9e, a crispy crust topped with creamy cheese and grilled vegetables, holds its own on the meat-centric menu. Breakfast and lunch are served only on the weekends; it's dinner only during the week. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Knaackstr. 37, Kreuzberg | 030/442\u20139229 | www.gugelhof.de | Reservations essential | Station: Senefelderplatz (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Hartmanns Restaurant.  \nGERMAN | Named for the acclaimed chef Stefan Hartmann, Hartmanns Restaurant is in the heart of Kreuzberg, on a residential street that manages to be both elegant and jarringly historical (a 19th-century gasometer used as a bunker in WWII sits directly opposite). The restaurant's sublevel interior, however, is all warm lighting and white-painted walls. The changing menu uses market-fresh ingredients to revive classic German dishes, though there are also some Mediterranean influences here and there. You can order \u00e0 la carte, but the real treat is the chef's three- to seven-course tasting menu, which cost between \u20ac65 and \u20ac110, and can be served with or without wine pairings. Each plate is like a work of art, and the service is impeccable and friendly. | Average main: \u20ac30 | Fichtestr. 31, Kreuzberg | 030/6120\u20131003 | www.hartmanns-restaurant.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. | Station: S\u00fcdstern (U-bahn).\n\nJolesch.  \nAUSTRIAN | With a front bar area and a cozy, sage-color dining room, Jolesch is usually filled with chattering locals and the occasional dog peeking out from under the table (pets are allowed in unexpected places in Berlin, including many restaurants). The house specialties include Viennese classics like Wiener schnitzel and apple strudel, but there are surprises on the seasonal daily menu, which is full of inspiring ingredients and unusual combinations like grilled octopus with saffron sorbet in spring, or a trio of duck, including silky foie gras, in fall. TIP Look for a special menu if you're here in late April and May, during \"Spargelzeit,\" the white asparagus season. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Muskauerstr. 1, Kreuzberg | 030/612\u20133581 | www.jolesch.de | Station: G\u00f6rlitzer Bahnhof (U-bahn).\n\nMustafa's.  \nMEDITERRANEAN | For a twist on the traditional d\u00f6ner kebab, head to to Mustafa's for mouthwateringly delicious vegetable kebabs. The specialty is toasted pita bread stuffed full of roasted veggies\u2014carrots, potatoes, zucchini\u2014along with fresh tomato, lettuce, cucumber, and cabbage. The sandwich is topped with sauce, a generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and sprinkling of the creamy feta cheese. You'll lick your fingers and contemplate getting in line for another. | Average main: \u20ac7 | Mehringdamm 32, Kreuzberg | 283/2153 | Station: Mehringdamm (U-bahn).\n\n## Prenzlauer Berg\n\nThe Bird.  \nAMERICAN | Yes it serves burgers, and yes it's run by Americans, but the Bird, overlooking a corner of Mauerpark in Prenzlauer Berg, is more than just an expat burger joint. Burger spots have recenly been popping up everywhere, but the Bird remains one of the best, and is practically the only place in town where the word \"rare\" actually means pink and juicy on the inside. Besides cheekily named burgers like the \"Bronx Jon\" (mushrooms and swiss cheese) and \"Da Woiks\" (everything, including guacamole if you ask for it), the Bird also serves up a mean steak frites suitable for two. Your best bet is to grab a seat at the bar, yell out the order, chow down, and be on your way unless you're with a large group, as the place can get pretty packed. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Am Falkpl. 5, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/5105\u20133283 | www.thebirdinberlin.com | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Lunch on weekends.\n\nFleischerei.  \nGERMAN | In an old butcher shop, Fleischerei (which means \"butcher shop\") is a meat-lover's paradise\u2014and probably not the place to bring your vegetarian friends. The oversize, black-and-white images of pork halves dominating the room give you a hint that the emphasis is on meat, like Berlin-style calves liver (with apple, onion, and potato puree) and the famous beef fillet. Service can be slow and sometimes even unfriendly, but the atmosphere, enhanced by several elaborate chandeliers, wall mirrors, and a projection screen, is unique and stylish. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Sch\u00f6nhauser Allee 8, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/501\u201382117 | www.fleischerei-berlin.com | Reservations essential | No lunch weekends | Station: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nKonnopke's Imbiss.  \nGERMAN | Under the tracks of the elevated U-bahn Line No. 2 is Berlin's most beloved sausage stand. Konnopke's is a family business that's been around for more than 70 years and it's famous for currywurst, which is served on a paper tray with a plastic prong that can be used to spear the sauce-covered sausage slices. The location, in the center of one of Berlin's trendiest neighborhoods, makes it super convenient. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Sch\u00f6nhauser Allee 44b, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/442\u20137765 | Station: Eberswalderstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nMaria Bonita.  \nMEXICAN | This Mexican restaurant is an unassuming space on Prenzlauer Berg's Danziger Strasse. The young owners (hailing from Mexico and Australia) had different ideas of what Mexican food could be, but shared one dream: to bring the authentic cuisine to Berlin. The food is authentic, as fans will attest, and the hot sauce is satisfyingly hot in a country known for sensitive taste buds and blandly spiced dishes. But diners also keep coming back is the sense of camaraderie: the restaurants host frequent parties (Cinco de Mayo is the most raucous, of course) and have done a lot to invite the neighborhood in. TIP If you get a craving for Mexican food in Kreuzberg, visit the sister restaurant Santa Maria at | Oranienstrasse 170. | Average main: \u20ac6 | Danzigerstr. 33, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/2025\u20135338 | www.mariabonitaberlin.wordpress.com | Reservations not accepted | No credit cards | Closed Mon. | Station: Eberswalderstr. (U-bahn).\n\nPasternak.  \nRUSSIAN | Russian-inspired treats such as deviled eggs topped with salmon roe, blini with sour cream and dill, and pierogi, are the draw at Pasternak. Lunch and dinner are popular, but brunch is the major reason to come here, and it gets quite crowded. At \u20ac12 per person, it's not the cheapest brunch in town, but it's far from the most expensive and the food is tasty and inventive. If you nab an outside table, you'll be eating within view of a Berlin oddity: a historic brick water tower that is now an apartment complex. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Knaackstr. 22\u201324, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/441\u20133399 | www.restaurant-pasternak.de | No credit cards | Station: Senefelder Platz (U-bahn).\n\nSasaya.  \nJAPANESE | In a city that still sometimes struggles to get sushi right, Sasaya's concept can seem groundbreaking: simple, authentic Japanese food in an equally comfortable, no-fuss atmosphere. Don't expect sushi rolls to be the center of the menu, though\u2014the focus is on reasonably priced small plates made for sharing. Pickled vegetables, seaweed salad, crispy pork belly, raw octopus, and a number of soups served with the traditional Japanese dashi (fish and seaweed) broth are highlights. Dessert favorites include green tea ice cream and satisfyingly chewy balls of mochi. TIP Reservations are essential; call early enough and you might score one of the low tables by the windows, where long, low couches mean you can recline languidly during your meal. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Lychenerstr. 50, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/4471\u20137721 | www.sasaya-berlin-en.tumblr.com | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Closed Tues.\u2013Wed. | Station: Eberswalder Strasse (U-bahn).\n\n## Wedding\n\nDa Baffi.  \nITALIAN | At the quieter end of bustling Leopoldplatz, Da Baffi is a bright Italian light in Berlin. The interior is charming and casual, with white-painted wood, community tables, fresh wildflowers, and dish-towel placemats\u2014all of which complement the fresh, seasonal menu, which is presented in a notebook and changes weekly. Favorites tend to stick around though, and that means the paper-thin octopus carpaccio and the aromatic tagliatelle with shaved black truffles are almost always available, along with cannelloni with wild boar rag\u00f9, or whole grilled fish stuffed with herbs and lemon. TIP Hungry for Italian in Kreuzberg? Da Baffi's sister caf\u00e9 Salumeria Lamuri ( | K\u00f6penickerstr. 183) is open weekdays for breakfast and lunch. | Average main: \u20ac15 | Nazarethkirchstr. 41, Wedding | 0175/692\u20136545 | www.dabaffi.com | Reservations essential | No credit cards | Closed Sun. and Mon. | Station: Leopoldplatz (U-bahn).\n\n## Neuk\u00f6lln\n\nLavanderia Vecchia.  \nITALIAN | Hidden away in a courtyard off a busy Neuk\u00f6lln street, Lavanderia Vecchia is no longer the secret it was when it opened, in 2010, in a space that used to contain an old laundrette (hence the name, which means \"old laundrette\" in Italian) but it's still very much a destination spot, and one of the best meals in the city. Come hungry, though, as the prix-fixe-only menu includes at least 10 appetizers, a pasta \"primi,\" a meat or fish \"secondi,\" and a dessert, followed by coffee and a digestif. The open kitchen allows diners to watch as the chef makes classics like Insalata di Polpo (octopus and potato salad) or homemade tagliatelle with eggplant, and the contrast of the industrial space strewn with wash lines hung with vintage kerchiefs and aprons is oh-so-Berlin. | Average main: \u20ac45 | Flughafenstr. 46, Neuk\u00f6lln | 030/6272\u20132152 | www.lavanderiavecchia.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. | Station: Boddinstrasse (U-bahn) and Rathaus Neuk\u00f6lln (U-bahn).\n\n## Charlottenburg\n\nEngelbecken.  \nGERMAN | The beer coasters are trading cards of the Wittelsbach dynasty in this relaxed restaurant that focuses on food from Bavaria and the Alps. Excellent renditions of classics like Wiener schnitzel and grilled saddle steak are made of \"bio\" meat and vegetable products, meaning that even the veal, lamb, and beef are the tasty results of organic and humane upbringing. The corner location facing a park on Lake Lietzensee makes this a lovely spot for open-air dining. Lunch is only served on Sunday and holidays. | Average main: \u20ac17 | Witzlebenstr. 31, Charlottenburg | 030/615\u20132810 | www.engelbecken.de | No lunch Mon.\u2013Sat. | Station: Sophie-Charlotte-Platz (U-bahn).\n\nFlorian.  \nGERMAN | The handwritten menu is just one page, but everything on the menu is fresh and delicious at this well-established restaurant in the heart of the buzzing nightlife scene around Savignyplatz. Steinbeisser, a white, flaky fish, might be served with a salsa of rhubarb, chili, coriander, and ginger, or you can opt for some Franconian comfort cuisine such as Kirchweihbraten (marinated pork with baked apples and plums) or their legendary N\u00fcrnberger Rostbratwurst (small pork sausages) served as late-night snacks. TIP The kitchen is open until 1 am, and smaller dishes are available until 2 am. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Grolmanstr. 52, Charlottenburg | 030/313\u20139184 | www.restaurant-florian.de | Reservations essential | No lunch | Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn).\n\nGlass.  \nECLECTIC | One of the only Berlin restaurants tackling the world of molecular gastronomy, Glass is also one of the newest dining establishments in Charlottenburg. Diners choose the six- or eight-course option from the regular or the vegan menu and then enjoy surprises that emerge from the kitchen burning, smoking, enveloped by a whiff of dry ice, or arranged in cubes and dustings on UFO-like dishware. Israeli chef Gal Ben Moshe has worked in top restaurants around the world, including Chicago's Alinea, and his culinary expertise is tempered by playfulness. One dish, with fruits, vegetables, and edible breadcrumb \"earth\" is an homage to Berlin's parks and gardens. A highlight is the wacky dessert made up of childhood sweets including marshmallows, fruit gummies, and exploding chocolate pop rocks, served directly on the tabletop. | Average main: \u20ac50 | Uhlandstr. 195, Charlottenburg | 030/5471\u20130861 | www.glassberlin.de | Reservations essential | Closed Sun. and Mon. | Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn).\n\nHot Spot.  \nCHINESE | In a city that's unfortunately full of mediocre pseudo-Asian restaurants that serve bland, tasteless versions of curries, noodles, and rice dishes, Hot Spot stands out for its daring and authenticity. The menu features recipes from the provinces of Sichuan, Jiangsu, and Shanghai, and the freshest ingredients are guaranteed\u2014with no MSG. Mala (spicy) dishes are a specialty, and the mostly cold appetizers, like the beef in chili sauce, can't be found anywhere else in Berlin. Mr. Wu and his wife, who own the restaurant, have a love for German wines and offer a large selection. In summer, make a reservation for a table on the sidewalk for the added bonus of people-watching. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Eisenzahnstr. 66, Charlottenburg | 030/8900\u20136878 | www.restaurant-hotspot.de | Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn).\n\nLubitsch.  \nGERMAN | One of the few traditional, artsy restaurants left in bohemian Charlottenburg, the Lubitsch\u2014named after the famous Berlin film director Ernst Lubitsch\u2014exudes an air of faded elegance and serves hearty local fare (and lighter international options) that's hard to find these days. Dishes like K\u00f6nigsberger Klopse (cooked dumplings in a creamy caper sauce) and Kassler Nacken mit Sauerkraut (salted, boiled pork knuckle) are examples of home-style German cooking. The local clientele don't mind the dingy seating or good-humored, but sometimes cheeky service. In summer the outdoor tables are perfect for people-watching on one of Berlin's most beautiful streets. The three-course lunch is a great bargain at \u20ac10. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Bleibtreustr. 47, Charlottenburg | 030/882\u20133756 | www.restaurant-lubitsch.de | No lunch Sun. | Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn).\n\nOttenthal.  \nAUSTRIAN | This intimate restaurant with white tablecloths is owned by Austrians from the small village of Ottenthal, and serves as an homage to their hometown\u2014the wines, pumpkinseed oil, and organic ingredients on the menu all come from there. Interesting and delicious combinations might include pike-perch with lobster sauce and pepper-pine-nut risotto, or venison medallions with vegetable-potato strudel, red cabbage, and rowanberry sauce. The huge Wiener schnitzel extends past the plate's rim, and the pastas and strudel are homemade. TIP Ottenthal opens at 5 pm, which makes it a good option for a leisurely meal before catching a show at Theater des Westens around the corner. This is also a good choice on Sunday evening, when many of Berlin's fine restaurants are closed. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Kantstr. 153, Charlottenburg | 030/313\u20133162 | www.ottenthal.com | No lunch | Station: Zoologischer Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Wilmersdorf\n\nFrancucci's.  \nITALIAN | This upscale restaurant on the far western end of Kurf\u00fcrstendamm is one of the best-kept Italian secrets in Berlin. You won't find many tourists here but the posh neighborhood's residents pack the cheerful, rustic dining room. The high-quality, straightforward cooking means incredibly fresh salads and appetizers (the bruschetta is excellent), as well as homemade breads and exquisite pasta dishes. More refined Tuscan and Umbrian creations might include meat options like wild boar but there might also be Mediterranean fish classics such as grilled loup de mer or dorade. In warm weather there are tables on the sidewalk. | Average main: \u20ac24 | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 90, at Lehniner Pl., Charlottenburg | 030/323\u20133318 | www.francucci.de | Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn).\n\n## Sch\u00f6neberg\n\nCaf\u00e9 Aroma.  \nITALIAN | A neighborhood institution, Caf\u00e9 Aroma sits in the curve of a small winding street in an area between Kreuzberg and Sch\u00f6neberg known as Rote Insel or \"red island\" because of its location between two S-bahn tracks and its socialist, working-class history. An early advocate of the Slow Food movement, Aroma serves some of the most eclectic Italian food in town, made from locally sourced ingredients. Brunch here is on the pricier side, but well worth it: pile your plate high with Italian delicacies like stuffed mushrooms, meatballs in homemade tomato sauce, and bean salads, but leave room for the fluffy tiramisu, which, of course, they'll bring out the moment you declare yourself stuffed. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Hochkirchstr. 6, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/782\u20135821 | www.cafe-aroma.de | No credit cards | No lunch weekdays | Station: Yorkstrasse (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Caf\u00e9 Einstein Stammhaus.  \nAUSTRIAN | The Einstein is a Berlin landmark and one of the leading coffeehouses in town. In the historic grand villa of silent movie star Henny Porten, it charmingly recalls the elegant days of the Austrian-Hungarian empire, complete with slightly snobbish waiters gliding across squeaking parquet floors. The Einstein's very own coffee roasting facility produces some of Germany's best java, and the cakes are fabulous, especially the fresh strawberry cake\u2014probably best enjoyed in summer, in the shady garden behind the villa. The caf\u00e9 also excels in preparing solid Austrian fare such as schnitzel or goulash for an artsy, high-brow clientele. TIP Up one flight of stairs is the cocktail bar Lebensstern, which matches the restaurant in sumptuous, old-world feel. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Kurf\u00fcrstenstr. 58, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/2639\u20131918 | www.cafeeinstein.com | Station: Kurf\u00fcrstenstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nHisar.  \nTURKISH | The lines here are often long, but they move fast and the combination of seasoned, salty meat, with crunchy salad and warm bread is unbeatable. If you're just stopping for a quick d\u00f6ner kebab, line up outside on the sidewalk and order from the window. If you prefer a more leisurely sit-down meal, head into the adjoining Turkish restaurant for the D\u00f6nerteller (d\u00f6ner plate), heaped with succulent meat, rice, potatoes, and salad. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Yorckstr. 49, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/216\u20135125 | Station: Yorckstrasse (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nRenger-Patzsch.  \nGERMAN | Black-and-white photographs from German landscape photographer Albert Renger-Patzsch, the restaurant's namesake, decorate the darkwood-paneled dining room at this beloved local gathering place.With a changing daily menu, chef Hannes Behrmann focuses on top-notch ingredients, respecting the classics while also reinventing them. Juicy bits of quail sit atop a bed of celery puree, and lamb is braised in red wine and oranges with crisp polenta dumplings. Lighter bites like selection of Flammk\u00fcchen (Alsatian flatbread pizzas) are great to share. The attentive and good-humored service makes this an excellent place to relax, even on the busiest nights. | Average main: \u20ac16 | Wartburgstr. 54, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/784\u20132059 | Station: Eisenacherstr. (U-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nMitte | Tiergarten | Kreuzberg | Friedrichshain | Prenzlauer Berg | Charlottenburg | Friedenau | Grunewald\n\nUpdated by Katherine Sacks\n\nTourism is on the upswing in Berlin. Though prices in midrange to luxury hotels have increased, Berlin's first-class hotels still tend to be cheaper than their counterparts in Paris, London, or Rome. Many are housed in beautiful historic buildings and, compared to other European cities, most hotel rooms in Berlin are large, though many are part of chains that allow for less individual character.\n\nHotel prices often come down on weekdays or when there is low demand. You often have the option to decline the inclusion of breakfast, which can save you anywhere from \u20ac8 to \u20ac30 per person per day.\n\nTIP The least expensive accommodations are in pensions, which are similar to bed-and-breakfasts. They providing basic lodgings with limited services and amenities, but with breakfast included. These are mostly found in western districts such as Charlottenburg, Sch\u00f6neberg, and Wilmersdorf.\n\nGerman and European travelers often use apartment rental agencies for longer stays, and Americans on a budget should consider this as well (apartments start at \u20ac350 per month). In Berlin, double rooms with shared bathrooms in private apartments begin around \u20ac33 per day.\n\nWohn-Agentur Freiraum.  \nRENTAL | This English-speaking agency has its own guesthouse with rooms and apartments, as well as private room listings all over Berlin. | Rooms from: \u20ac36 | Wiener Str. 14, Kreuzberg | 030/618\u20132008 | www.frei-raum.com | No meals.\n\n## Mitte\n\nFodor's Choice | Arte Luise Kunsthotel.  \nHOTEL | The Luise is one of Berlin's most original boutique hotels, with each fantastically creative room in the 1825 building or 2003 built-on wing\u2014facing the Reichstag\u2014styled by a different artist. The location, at the division between east and west Berlin, and just a short walk from the Reichstag, is great, although rooms can be noisy when the windows are open. Memorable furnishings range from a suspended bed and airplane seats to a gigantic sleigh bed and a freestanding, podlike shower with multiple nozzles. A breakfast buffet in the neighboring restaurant costs \u20ac11. Pros: central location; historic flair; individually designed rooms. Cons: simple rooms with limited amenities and hotel facilities; can be noisy because of the nearby rail station. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Luisenstr. 19, Mitte | 030/284\u2013480 | www.luise-berlin.com | 54 rooms, 36 with bath | No meals | Station: Friedrichstrasse (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Grand Hyatt Berlin.  \nHOTEL | Stylish guests feel at home at Europe's first Grand Hyatt, which has a feng shui\u2013approved design that combines inspirations from tropical decor, thought-provoking modern art, and the city's history with Bauhaus photographs. The large rooms (they start at 409 square feet) have cherrywood furniture and luxurious bathrooms. There are wonderful views of Potsdamer Platz from the top-floor pool. The restaurant and bar, Vox, whets guests' appetites for its international and Asian cuisine with an open kitchen; there are also regular live jazz shows. Pros: large rooms; excellent service; stylish spa; large pool area. Cons: location can be very busy; ongoing construction may be a nuisance for some travelers; in-room Wi-Fi is only free for the first 30 minutes. | Rooms from: \u20ac210 | Marlene-Dietrich-Pl. 2, Mitte | 030/2553\u20131234 | www.berlin.grand.hyatt.de | 326 rooms, 16 suites | Breakfast | Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHonigmond Hotel and Garden Hotel.  \nHOTEL | These two hotels are charming, quaint oases only a few steps away from the buzzing neighborhoods of Mitte. The former tenement houses, typical of late-19th-century Berlin, have been meticulously restored, with wooden floor planks and hand-selected, historic furniture. A small restaurant in the main hotel hearkens back to its proud history as a meeting point for political opponents of the East German regime, serving a variety of German standards to a younger, international clientele. The Garden Hotel (set in a house that dates to 1845) is grouped around a surprisingly green courtyard, and it offers a quiet getaway. Pros: individually designed rooms; warm, welcoming service; quiet courtyard rooms. Cons: front rooms can be noisy due to busy street; restaurant is expensive relative to the area's budget choices. | Rooms from: \u20ac125 | Tieckstr. 12 and Invalidenstr. 122, Mitte | 030/284\u20134550 | www.honigmond.de | 50 rooms | Breakfast | Station: Nordbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Adlon Kempinski Berlin.  \nHOTEL | The first Adlon was considered Europe's ultimate luxury resort until it was destroyed in the war and the new version, built in 1997, has a nostalgic aesthetic, and the elegant rooms are furnished with turn-of-the-century photos of the original hotel, along with cherrywood trim, mahogany furnishings, and brocade silk bedspreads. With its prime setting on Pariser Platz, this is the government's unofficial guesthouse. Book a suite for a Brandenburger Tor view. Sipping coffee in the lobby of creamy marble and limestone makes for good people-watching. The Adlon Spa by Resense made a huge splash in the city, as did fine restaurants like the Michelin-starred Lorenz Adlon and the new Sra Bua by Tim Raue, which features modern Asian-inspired cuisine. Pros: top-notch luxury hotel; surprisingly large rooms; excellent in-house restaurants. Cons: sometimes stiff service with an attitude; rooms off Linden are noisy with the windows open; inviting lobby often crowded. | Rooms from: \u20ac260 | Unter den Linden 77, Mitte | 030/22610 | www.kempinski.com/adlon | 304 rooms, 78 suites | No meals | Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Amano.  \nHOTEL | Built as a \"budget design hotel,\" the basic rooms of the Amano are faily small, and there is no real restaurant or room service, but stay here and you'll be in the center of the action. The excellent downstairs cocktail bar hosts frequent parties for the creative set, and come summer, there are barbecues open to all on its roof deck and in its courtyard garden. Some apartments on the fifth floor have small balconies, and there are also several large, beautifully designed but minimalistic apartments available in their adjoining, renovated \"Altbau\" (old building). Pros: excellent location; happening bar scene; roof deck and garden. Cons: no room service; too trendy for some. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Auguststr. 43, Mitte | 030/809\u20134150 | www.hotel-amano.com | 71 rooms, 46 apartments | No meals | Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel de Rome.  \nHOTEL | Discreet service and a subdued but boutiquey atmosphere make the Hotel de Rome a major draw for the Hollywood jet set. The general feel is traditional, but eccentric design details like oversize furniture and bright-color accents add an undercurrent of excitement. Rooms run the gamut from classic to ultramodern and sleek, though all share fantastic views of Berlin landmarks around Unter den Linden. In a 19th-century former bank, the hotel offers a unique spa experience in the old bank vault, with the relaxation room hidden behind original safe doors. Pros: great location; large rooms. Cons: design may be over the top for some guests; expensive even for five-star hotel; can be dark during the day due to low lighting. | Rooms from: \u20ac270 | Behrenstr. 37, Mitte | 030/460\u20136090 | www.hotelderome.com | 109 rooms, 37 suites | No meals | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Hackescher Markt.  \nHOTEL | Amid the nightlife around Hackescher Markt, this hotel provides discreet and inexpensive top services. Unlike those of many older hotels in eastern Berlin, rooms here are spacious and light and furnished with wicker chairs and floral patterns in an English cottage style. In winter you'll appreciate the under-floor heating in your bathroom, and in summer you can enjoy a coffee or breakfast in the small courtyard. The staff is friendly and attentive. Pros: great location for shops, restaurants, and nightlife; large rooms. Cons: some rooms may be noisy due to tram stop; rooms in need of an update. | Rooms from: \u20ac119 | Grosse Pr\u00e4sidentenstr. 8, Mitte | 030/280\u2013030 | www.hotel-hackescher-markt.com | 27 rooms, 5 suites | No meals | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nLux Eleven.  \nHOTEL | This designer apartment hotel is coveted for its discreet service and great minimalist design. All apartments come with a fully equipped kitchenette, satellite TV with DVD players, and there's even a laundry room with washers and dryers. Rooms seem as if they were designed for a Miami Beach hotel, decorated either in off-white or subdued browns with pops of neon pinks and purples. A restaurant and bar, stylish fashion store, and a coffee bar are also on the premises. Pros: great location in northern Mitte; extremely stylish yet comfortable rooms; friendly, knowledgeable service. Cons: immediate neighborhood may be noisy; not a good choice for families. | Rooms from: \u20ac119 | Rosa-Luxemburg-Str. 9\u201313, Mitte | 030/936\u20132800 | www.lux-eleven.com | 72 rooms, 1 suite | No meals | Station: Weinmeisterstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nRegent Berlin.  \nHOTEL | One of Germany's most esteemed hotels, the Regent pairs the opulence of gilt furniture, thick carpets, marble floors, tasseled settees, and crystal chandeliers with such modern conveniences as flat-screen TVs. First time guests are escorted to the large guest room, where you'll find first-class amenities, such as satellite TV, DVD player, and two phone lines with personal answering machines. Twice-daily housekeeping, overnight dry cleaning, and valet parking are other services. The intimate feel of the property is a sign of its exclusiveness, and the privacy of the often-famous Hollywood guests is well guarded. Pros: Berlin's most hushed five-star hotel; unobtrusive service; very large rooms and top location off Gendarmenmarkt. Cons: some public areas in need of update; the primary hotel restaurant specializes in fish only. | Rooms from: \u20ac225 | Charlottenstr. 49, Mitte | 030/20338 | www.regenthotels.com | 156 rooms, 39 suites | No meals | Station: Franz\u00f6sischestr. (U-bahn).\n\nThe Ritz-Carlton Berlin.  \nHOTEL | Judging from the outside of this gray, high-rise hotel that soars above Potsdamer Platz, you may never guess that inside it's all luxurious, 19th-century grandeur. The lobby has glitzy gold leaf and heavy marble columns, while the \"Curtain Club\" has the subdued look of a gentleman's cigar lounge. Rooms are nicely appointed with exquisite furniture, marble bathrooms, and great views of bustling Potsdamer Platz and the Tiergarten. The hotel's spa is exceptional and the historic French Brassierie Desbrosses (brought here from southern France lock, stock, and barrel) serves great steak frites and seafood. Pros: stylish and luxurious interior design; great views; elegant setting yet informal service. Cons: rooms surprisingly small for a luxury hotel; not family-friendly (business-oriented atmosphere). | Rooms from: \u20ac215 | Potsdamer Pl. 3, Mitte | 030/337\u2013777 | www.ritzcarlton.com | 264 rooms, 39 suites | No meals | Station: Potsdamer Platz (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nSofitel Berlin Gendarmenmarkt.  \nHOTEL | This luxurious place to stay has maximized the minimalist look of East Berlin architecture. In the formerly austere conference room the designers added an illuminated glass floor that made it a masterpiece. The spa tucked under the mansard roof is suffused with light, thanks to the new, angled windows. Rooms feel clean, bright, and airy thanks to the abundant use of white. Request a room facing Gendarmenmarkt, one of the city's most impressive squares. Pros: great location off one of the city's most beautiful squares; sumptuous breakfast buffet; great Austrian restaurant, Aigner. Cons: limited facilities for a luxury hotel; smallish rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac200 | Charlottenstr. 50\u201352, Mitte | 030/203\u2013750 | www.sofitel.com | 70 rooms, 22 suites | No meals | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nThe Westin Grand Hotel Berlin.  \nHOTEL | This large hotel in a renovated East German building has a great location at the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. Rooms have mustard-color floral wallpaper, easy chairs, and the trademark Heavenly Bed found at all Westin hotels. The inner courtyard view is of an attractive garden area with an unusual Dragon House conference pagoda. Soundproof bay windows make for a good night's sleep in any room. The marble-and-brass lobby is light-filled and enlivened with a piano and guests taking a coffee break at the sofas. Pros: impressive lobby; recently updated rooms; perfect location for historic sights and shopping. Cons: service often not on five-star level; no great views; may feel street vibrations in lower rooms off Friedrichstrasse, as well as noise due to street construction. | Rooms from: \u20ac250 | Friedrichstr. 158\u2013164, Mitte | 030/20270 | www.westingrandberlin.com | 350 rooms, 50 suites | No meals | Station: Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (U-bahn).\n\n## Tiergarten\n\nFodor's Choice | Das Stue.  \nHOTEL | History meets contemporary style in the heart of Berlin, in a building that once housed the Royal Danish Embassy and still retains governmental grandeur\u2014from the classical facade to the dramatic entry staircase\u2014now mixed with warming touches like cozy nooks designed by Patricia Uriquola. Public spaces showcase the leafy neighborhood through walls of windows, and the photography of noted shutterbugs like Helmut Newton, Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Diane Arbus. The 80 rooms are spread out over the historic or new wings, and feature views of the courtyard, nearby park, or the Zoo. Some have balconies or terraces, or perks like curved bathtubs, but all feature a decor of streamlined furnishings, high ceilings, dark wood floors, and amenities like free Wi-Fi, premium TV channels, and HD Apple entertainment systems. Michelin-starred Catalonian chef Paco Perez oversees two on-site eateries\u2014one casual, one fine dining\u2014that draw upon the Mediterranean flavors of his homeland, while the zoo-view bar-and-tapas lounge serves everything from cocktails of the 1920s and '30s to a list of 400 German and Spanish wines. A well-equipped gym, swimming pool, Finnish sauna, and holistic-minded spa help relax both the leisure and post-meeting crowds. Pros: central location; popular restaurants and bar; Berlin Zoo views. Cons: small spa can book up fast. | Rooms from: \u20ac153 | Drakestr. 1, Tiergarten | 49/3031\u201317220 | www.das-stue.com/en | 80 rooms and suites | No meals.\n\n## Kreuzberg\n\nEastern Comfort.  \nThe Spree River is one of Berlin's best assets, and at Eastern Comfort you'll wake up on it in this moored, three-level ship with simple cabins. Most cabins have a private bath. Views are either of the river or the stretch of the Berlin Wall called the East Side Gallery. Within sight of the wraparound deck is the turreted Oberbaum bridge, a great setting for watching the sunset and close to plenty of nightlife. The crew minds the reception desk 24 hours. The lounge/bar area hosts a \"world language\" party on Wednesday followed by live music. Recent eco-updates include solar panels and solar-heated water. Pros: unique accommodation on a boat; friendly staff; perfect location for nightclubbing in Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain. Cons: insects may be a bother in summer; smallish rooms not pleasant in rainy or stormy weather; lack of privacy. | Rooms from: \u20ac62 | M\u00fchlenstr. 73\u201377, Kreuzberg | 030/6676\u20133806 | www.eastern-comfort.com | 26 cabins | No meals | Station: Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n\u00cfMA Loft Apartments.  \nRENTAL | A comfortable cross between apartment rental and hotel, \u00cfMA's aim is to throw its guests into the fray of Kreuzberg's hectic, artistic, multicultural scene. The loft apartments take up only one corner of this old brick factory complex; the rest of the buildings in the courtyard are live-work spaces for local and international artists\u2014everyone from dancers and photographers to painters and graphic designers. Rooms are fairly basic in design, but large and light-filled, ranging from the small \"standard lofts,\" with beds up a narrow flight of stairs, to large \"loft suites,\" with full kitchens and separate living and sleeping areas. The caf\u00e9 on the ground floor serves vegetarian dishes like the Middle Eastern tomato stew shakshuka. Pros: maximum privacy (a separate entrance means you never have to interact with hotel staff and other guests unless you want to). Cons: minimal amenities and services. | Rooms from: \u20ac79 | Ritterstr. 12\u201314, Kreuzberg | 030/6162\u20138913 | www.imalofts.com | 20 apartments | No meals | Station: Moritzplatz (U-bahn).\n\nRiehmers Hofgarten.  \nHOTEL | The appeal of this late-19th-century apartment house with a leafy courtyard is its location in a lively neighborhood. The richly decorated facade hints that 100 years ago the aristocratic officers of Germany's imperial army lived here. Rooms have low-lying beds and are spartanly modern and quiet, but with the added touches of tea- and coffee makers as well as iPod docks. Downstairs is a light-filled lounge and restaurant. In less than five minutes you can reach the subway that speeds you to Mitte and the Friedrichstrasse train station. Pros: good location for exploring Kreuzberg; typical Berlin, high-ceiling, historic rooms; great on-site restaurant, E.T.A. Hoffmann. Cons: street-side rooms are noisy; breakfast is nothing special. | Rooms from: \u20ac128 | Yorckstr. 83, Kreuzberg | 030/7809\u20138800 | www.hotel-riehmers-hofgarten.de | 22 rooms, 1 suite | No meals | Station: Mehringdamm (U-bahn).\n\n## Friedrichshain\n\nHotel Klassik.  \nHOTEL | One of the best things about the Hotel Klassik is its central location, walking distance to Friedrichshain's countless eating, drinking, and shopping hot spots. The building may look a bit generic from the outside, but inside, the decor is stylish and modern with its dark wood and white furniture. Rooms are well appointed with comfortable beds, flat-screen TVs, writing desks, Wi-Fi, minibar, and large sliding glass windows. The in-house restaurant serves an impressive full breakfast as well as Mediterranean-inspired fare. Guests may also wine and dine in the charming terrace garden in warm weather. Pros: excellent location for neighborhood vibe and access to transportation; plentiful, fresh breakfast buffet; friendly and helpful staff. Cons: Located on a loud and busy corner. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Revaler Str. 6 | 30/319\u20138860 | www.hotelklassik-berlin.com | 57 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast | Station: Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nMichelberger Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Started by a group of young Berliners who dreamed of a uniquely designed, artsy space, the Michelberger Hotel is part budget hotel, part clubhouse, and part bar and restaurant. The style is eclectic flea market, fitting with its location in an old factory space, and the vibe is casual and fun. Rooms have playful names such as \"Band\" for four to five people and \"Luxus\" for suites. The bright, street-side restaurant space offers breakfast and weekend brunch to hotel guests and anyone dropping by, as well as DJ sets during dinner Friday and Saturday. Pros: located at the epicenter of eastern Berlin nightlife; great design and fun atmosphere; affordable prices. Cons: busy thoroughfare and transit hub, so front rooms can be noisy; casual service without luxury amenities; no phone in rooms. | Rooms from: \u20ac60 | Warschauer Str. 39\u201340, Friedrichshain | 030/2977\u20138590 | www.michelbergerhotel.com | 113 rooms | No meals | Station: Warschauer Strasse (S-bahn).\n\n## Prenzlauer Berg\n\nRadisson Blu Berlin.  \nHOTEL | This hotel has an ideal location in the heart of Berlin near the Berlin Cathedral, Nikolai Church, and Unter den Linden, but you may prefer a view into the courtyard, where the world's largest cylindrical aquarium is located. Despite the aquatic theme, this is a full-service business hotel, with trouser pressers in the comfortable rooms and a shoe-shine machine on each floor. Request plush robes, which are free of charge. The spa area includes a gym, two saunas, and a pool, plus beauty treatments and massages. Pros: central location; discounted entry to the adjacent Sea Life Berlin. Cons: location can be very busy. | Rooms from: \u20ac159 | Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 3, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/238\u2013280 | www.radissonblu.com/hotel-berlin | 403 rooms, 24 suites | No meals | Station: Hackescher Markt (S-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Soho House.  \nHOTEL | The Berlin branch of this luxury hotel\u2013club brings the chic atmosphere of London and New York's Soho to the German capital. Inside the grand, restored Bauhaus building, the rooms are quite large, designed in an eclectic style, with all amenities of a luxury hotel for a moderate price. The main draws, however, are the communal spaces (open only to hotel guests and club members)\u2014the library and lounge, and the city's only hotel rooftop pool, which has a magnificent view of Berlin's skyline. Pros: great staff; perfect location for club- and bar-hopping; rooftop pool. Cons: may seem too clubby. | Rooms from: \u20ac180 | Torstr. 1, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/405\u20130440 | www.sohohouseberlin.com | 65 rooms | No meals | Station: Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (U-bahn).\n\n## Charlottenburg\n\nART Hotel Charlottenburger Hof.  \nHOTEL | No-fuss travelers will find great value in this low-key hotel. The variety of rooms, all brightened by sunlight and primary-color schemes with prints by Kandinsky, Mir\u00f3, and Mondrian. All have computers with free Internet access as well as Wi-Fi if you've brought your own, and amenities include hair dryers; try to avoid the three tiny \"king-size\" rooms, which are rented as doubles or singles. The restaurant, which serves traditional German dishes, draws locals. The Ku'damm is a 10-minute walk, and the bus to and from Tegel Airport stops on the next block. Pros: budget hotel in great location; solid restaurant; quiet setting. Cons: rooms in need of update; few amenities; immediate neighborhood may seem seedy and is not suitable for children. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Stuttgarter Pl. 14, Charlottenburg | 030/329\u2013070 | www.charlottenburger-hof.de | 46 rooms | No meals | Station: Charlottenburg (S-bahn).\n\nBleibtreu Berlin.  \nHOTEL | Opened in 1995, Berlin's first design hotel is relatively unassuming, with simple and serene rooms decorated with untreated oak, polished stone, and neutral shades. The eye candy lies in the terra-cotta-tile courtyard, where you can sip drinks at the 23-foot-long table, which is covered in shiny blue ceramic shards and rests on a bed of glass pebbles. A tall chestnut tree lends shade. To reinvigorate after shopping at the nearby Ku'damm boutiques, help yourself to the free items in your mini-refrigerator or slip into the herbal steam bath inside the wellness center. Pros: warm, welcoming service; top location on one of Ku'damm's most beautiful side streets; international clientele. Cons: design somewhat dated; rooms not overly comfortable for price; few amenities. | Rooms from: \u20ac92 | Bleibtreustr. 31, Charlottenburg | 030/884\u2013740 | www.bleibtreu.com | 60 rooms | No meals | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nBrandenburger Hof.  \nHOTEL | On a quiet residential street this turn-of-the-20th-century mansion feels like a hideaway even though Ku'damm is a short walk away. Luxurious minimalism reigns once you get inside. You can breakfast and sip afternoon tea at the sun-soaked tables in the atrium courtyard or, in the evening, sit and listen to piano music. Between courses of New Nordic cuisine in the restaurant Quadriga, diners lean back in cherrywood chairs by Frank Lloyd Wright. Guest-room furnishings include pieces by Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe. Complementing the timeless Bauhaus style are ikebana floral arrangements. Pros: great mansion; quiet location only steps away from the Ku'damm; large rooms. Cons: stuffy atmosphere; extras are expensive; no pool or fitness club on site. | Rooms from: \u20ac215 | Eislebenerstr. 14, Tiergarten | 030/214\u2013050 | www.brandenburger-hof.com | 58 rooms, 14 suites | No meals | Station: Augsburger Strasse (U-bahn).\n\nFodor's Choice | Ellington Hotel Berlin.  \nHOTEL | Tucked away behind the beautiful, historic facade of a grand Bauhaus-style office building, this sleek, modern hotel has small but stylish rooms, accentuated with modern art. Views are either of the street or of a pretty courtyard. The location is great, too: just around the corner from KaDeWe and Kurf\u00fcrstendamm. The quiet courtyard and the restaurant and bar, with an open kitchen, offer a welcome respite from sightseeing in the area. Pros: stylish interior design with alluring 1920s touches; perfect location off Tauentzienstrasse and great for shopping sprees; nice bar; great, green courtyard. Cons: small rooms; no spa. | Rooms from: \u20ac128 | N\u00fcrnbergerstr. 50\u201355, Tiergarten | 030/683\u2013150 | www.ellington-hotel.com | 285 rooms | No meals | Station: Wittenbergplatz (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Art Nouveau.  \nB&B/INN | The English-speaking owners' discerning taste in antiques, color combinations, and even televisions (a few designed by Philippe Starck) makes this B&B-like pension a great place to stay. Each room has a prize piece, such as a hand-carved 18th-century Chinese dresser or a chandelier from the Komische Oper's set of Don Carlos. Several rooms are hung with a large black-and-white photo by Sabine Kacunko. The apartment building shows its age only in the antique wood elevator, high stucco ceilings, and an occasionally creaky floor. You can serve yourself tea or coffee in the breakfast room throughout the day and mix your own drinks at the honor bar. Pros: stylish ambience; friendly and personal service; great B&B feeling; despite being a hotel. Cons: front rooms can be noisy due to heavy traffic on Leibnizstrasse; few amenities for a hotel of this price category; downtown location, yet longer walks to all major sights in the area. | Rooms from: \u20ac126 | Leibnizstr. 59, Charlottenburg | 030/327\u20137440 | www.hotelartnouveau.de | 16 rooms, 6 suites | Breakfast | Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Astoria at Kurf\u00fcrstendamm.  \nHOTEL | Each simple room in this small building, which dates back to 1898, is different, and the service is standout. When making a reservation, state whether you'd like a bathtub or shower and ask about weekend specials or package deals for longer stays. A few rooms have air-conditioning for an extra charge. Two terraces allow you to sun yourself, and a stroll down the charming street leads to the shops along Ku'damm. Pros: some rooms are individually designed with old-world style; warm and personal service; quiet location on central Ku'damm side street. Cons: furniture and rooms need update; many rooms on the smaller side; many rooms without a/c. | Rooms from: \u20ac94 | Fasanenstr. 2, Tiergarten | 030/312\u20134067 | www.hotelastoria.de | 32 rooms | No meals | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn), Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel Bogota.  \nB&B/INN | Fashion photography and colorful artwork remind guests of the artists and designers who lived in this circa 1900 apartment house on an elegant Ku'damm side street. Each basic room is different, but they all share retro elements such as rotary phones or sherbet-color carpeting and walls, and the overall feel is more B&B than hotel, including the fact that some rooms share bathrooms. lFourth-floor rooms tend to be quieter. Special offers may be available in winter and for additional nights. Pros: historic ambience; on one of Ku'damm's most beautiful side streets; large, comfortable rooms. Cons: thin walls; some rooms with 1950s feeling; breakfast is included, but nothing special. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Schl\u00fcterstr. 45, Charlottenburg | 030/881\u20135001 | www.bogota.de | 114 rooms, 70 with bath | Breakfast | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Palace.  \nHOTEL | This is one of the only privately owned first-class hotels in the heart of western downtown, and although it may not look like much from the outside, inside, the friendly staff and spacious rooms make it a popular choice. The First Floor restaurant, with views over the nearby zoo's greenery, is a destination in its own right. The exercise room has state-of-the-art equipment and natural light, thanks to floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto the city's skyline. The extensive spa includes an ice grotto and Finnish sauna. Pros: large rooms; quiet, central location; impeccable service. Cons: interior design outdated in some areas; nearby area of Europa-Center and Breitscheidplatz not the most interesting. | Rooms from: \u20ac128 | Europa-Center, Budapesterstr. 45, Tiergarten | 030/25020 | www.palace.de | 238 rooms, 40 suites | No meals | Station: Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nHotel-Pension Dittberner.  \nB&B/INN | For traditional Berlin accommodations, this third-floor pension (with wooden elevator) run by Frau Lange since 1958 is the place to go. Close to Olivaer Platz and next to Ku'damm, the turn-of-the-20th-century house shows its age, but the huge rooms are wonderfully furnished with antiques, plush stuffed sofas, and artwork selected by Frau Lange's husband, a gallery owner. The high ceilings have stuccowork, and some rooms have balconies. Pros: personal touch and feel of a B&B; unusually large rooms; good location on quiet Ku'damm side street. Cons: unexciting breakfast; some rooms and furniture in need of update; staff sometimes not up to task. | Rooms from: \u20ac115 | Wielandstr. 26, Charlottenburg | 030/884\u20136950 | www.hotel-dittberner.de | 21 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast | Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn).\n\nHotel Q!.  \nHOTEL | The Q! is the recipient of several international design awards, and it's easy to see how the gently sloping, sweeping interior of the hotel could charm any judge. The rooms feel like larger-than-life artscapes: they're excruciatingly modern, with clean lines and a modular, innovative use of space (some even have a bathtub right next to the bed). In-room distractions include including Ninetendo Wii and iPod docks; the spa has a sauna, steam room, and Japanese wellness area. Pros: beautiful design; affordable rates; great location for exploring western downtown. Cons: not for families; nightlife makes hotel noisy at times. | Rooms from: \u20ac120 | Knesebeckstr. 67, Charlottenburg | 030/810\u20130660 | www.loock-hotels.com | 73 rooms, 4 suites | No meals | Station: Uhlandstrasse (U-bahn), Savignyplatz (S-bahn).\n\nMotel One.  \nHOTEL | The Motel One Berlin-Tiergarten is a stylish budget hotel in a prime location; breakfast is served in the loungelike lobby, where guests also enjoy free Wi-Fi. All rooms have comfortable beds, flat-screen TV sets, air-conditioning, and a rain-forest shower. Other Berlin locations include Alexanderplatz and Hauptbahnhof. Pros: stylish accommodation at budget prices; central location near to Zoologischer Bahnhof and Theater des Westens; good for families. Cons: noise from nearby railway station can be felt and heard; immediate surroundings may appear seedy to some travelers; no real restaurant on-site. | Rooms from: \u20ac79 | Kantstr. 7\u201311a, Tiergarten | 030/3151\u20137360 | www.motel-one.de | 409 rooms | Station: Wittenbergplatz (U-bahn).\n\nPropeller Island City Lodge.  \nB&B/INN | At this wildly eccentric accommodation, you can choose from 27 Wonderlands, each with one-of-a-kind design by multitalented artist Lars Stroschen. Theatrical settings such as the Upside Down and Flying Bed rooms predominate, but there are tamer abodes, like the monastic Orange and Temple rooms. lThis creative getaway serves breakfast (\u20ac7), but is not service-oriented; reception is open 8 am\u2013noon only. The location is near the far western end of Ku'damm, but the subway station is only a short walk away. Pros: individually designed rooms; personal and friendly atmosphere; quiet location on Ku'damm side street. Cons: designer art rooms can be overwhelming; few amenities; slow service. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Albrecht-Achilles-Str. 58, Charlottenburg | 030/891\u20139016 8 am\u2013noon, 0163/256\u20135909 noon\u20138 pm | www.propeller-island.de | 25 rooms, 20 with bath, 2 suites | Station: Adenauerplatz (U-bahn).\n\nSwiss\u00f4tel Berlin.  \nHOTEL | At the bustling corner of Ku'damm and Joachimsthaler Strasse, this hotel excels with its reputable Swiss hospitality\u2014from accompanying guests to their floor after check-in to equipping each room with an iron, an umbrella, and a Nespresso espresso machine that preheats the cups. Beds are specially designed to avoid allergens and provide maximum comfort. You can store and recharge your laptop in the room safe (the safe also charges cell phones). The unusual, rounded building has a sleek interior with original artwork by Marcus L\u00fcpertz and a respected restaurant. Your room's soundproof windows give you a fantastic view of the area. Pros: large rooms; unobtrusive service; great location. Cons: the lobby is on the third floor, with shops on the lowers levels; mostly for business travelers. | Rooms from: \u20ac130 | Augsburger Str. 44, Charlottenburg | 030/220\u2013100 | www.swissotel.com | 296 rooms, 20 suites | No meals | Station: Kurf\u00fcrstendamm (U-bahn).\n\nWaldorf Astoria Berlin.  \nHOTEL | This impressive skyscraper, a nod to the Waldorf's original New York location, has a chic art deco look and unparalleled service. The interior is suitably glamorous, with marble staircases and gold detailing; rooms are spacious, with velour furniture, the Waldorf's signature bed, and Salvatore Ferragamo bath products. Acclaimed French chef Pierre Gagnaire's restaurant, Les Solistes, is on the first floor, and the 15th floor caf\u00e9 offers a small menu, a large, up-to-date selection of books to peruse, and impressive views of West Berlin. Pros: ideal location near Ku'damm; large, luxurious rooms and bathrooms; several eateries and bars. Cons: limited amenities for the price; nearby construction may bother some travelers. | Rooms from: \u20ac230 | Hardenbergst. 28, Charlottenburg | 030/814\u20130000 | www.waldorfastoriaberlin.com | 152 rooms, 50 suites | No meals | Station: Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## Friedenau\n\nHotel Klee.  \nHOTEL | Located on a quiet residential street, this new basic hotel is a great option if you're looking for a reasonable price with some extras. The decor is based on artist Paul Klee, as the name suggests, with a bright palate and modular furniture. Amenities include free Wi-Fi, a free first-round of minibar goodies, and eco bath products. The hotel's Chimney Room hosts readings and jazz performaces, a nod to the building's former life as a caf\u00e9 where prolific writers hung out in the 1960s. For an additional 20\u20ac, upgrade to a spacious superior room, many of which have fantastic balconies. Pros: large rooms and good amenities for the price; pretty, quiet street; near transportation with quick access to city center. Cons: very residential neighborhood is not within walking distance to landmarks; smallish beds; furniture a bit dated. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Bundesallee 75, Friedenau | 030/4050\u20138630 | www.hotelklee.com | 79 rooms, 3 suites | No meals | Station: Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz (U-bahn).\n\n## Grunewald\n\nInterContinental Berlin.  \nHOTEL | From the heavily trafficked street, the huge \"InterConti,\" the epitome of old West Berlin, evokes the Louvre with its glass pyramid entrance. In the rooms, modern gray, black, and beige furnishings are offset by pops of color and a rotating wall unit that allows you to watch TV while soaking in a tub. The Club rooms on the seventh and eighth floors have a private check-in area, and come with their own lounge, meeting rooms, and other extras. The spa's saunas and the 14th-floor restaurant, Hugo's, are incentive to stick around the hotel. Pros: large rooms with great views; friendly and impeccable service; one of Berlin's best spa areas. Cons: street is not inviting; huge hotel lacks atmosphere and can feel businesslike; room design somewhat bland. | Rooms from: \u20ac104 | Budapester Str. 2, Charlottenburg | 030/26020 | www.berlin.intercontinental.com | 498 rooms, 60 suites | Station: Zoologsicher Garten (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nSchlosshotel im Grunewald.  \nHOTEL | In the beautiful, verdant setting of residential Grunewald, the small but palatial hotel is full of classic style and lavish decor. You might be reminded of a late-19th-century ch\u00e2teau. The interior was designed by Chanel's Karl Lagerfeld, whose personal suite is available to guests if the master himself is not in town. Service is amazingly personal but never intrusive. Arrange for a car, as this location is not convenient for seeing the central sights. Pros: quiet and green setting with lovely garden; large rooms in classic style; impeccable service. Cons: far away from any sights; sometimes stiff atmosphere; not for families. | Rooms from: \u20ac239 | Brahmsstr. 10, Grunewald | 030/895\u2013840 | www.schlosshotelberlin.com | 43 rooms, 10 suites | No meals | Station: Grunewald (S-bahn).\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nNightlife | The Arts\n\nUpdated by Giulia Pines\n\n## Nightlife\n\nClubs often switch the music they play from night to night, so crowds and popularity can vary widely. Although club nights are driven by the DJ name, the music genres are written in English in listing magazines.\n\nClubs and bars in Charlottenburg and in Mitte tend to be dressier and more conservative; the scene in Kreuzberg, Prenzlauer Berg, the Scheunenviertel, and Friedrichshain is laid-back and alternative. For the latest information on Berlin's house, electro, and hip-hop club scene, pick up (030), a free weekly. Dance clubs don't get going until about 12:30 am, but parties labeled \"after-work\" start as early as 8 pm for professionals looking to socialize during the week.\n\nNote that Berlin's nightspots are open to the wee hours of the morning, but if you stay out after 12:45 Sunday\u2013Thursday, you'll have to find a night bus (designated by \"N\" before the number, which often corresponds to the subway line it is replacing) or catch the last S-bahn home. On Friday and Saturday nights all subway lines (except U-bahn Line No. 4) run every 15 to 20 minutes throughout the night.\n\n* * *\n\nBerlin's Hot Spots\n\nHere's a quick list of the city's best streets and squares.\n\n\u2022 Savignyplatz in Charlottenburg: great restaurants and shopping.\n\n\u2022 Ludwigkirchplatz in Wilmersdorf: charming caf\u00e9s surrounding a beautiful church.\n\n\u2022 Nollendorfplatz and Winterfeldplatz in Sch\u00f6neberg: the cultural centers of Sch\u00f6neberg; the latter hosts a fabulous weekly market.\n\n\u2022 Oranienstrasse and Wiener Strasse as well as both riverbanks of the Spree in Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain to Treptow: the former is the lively center of Turkish Kreuzberg; the banks of the Spree have a number of large clubs in industrial spaces.\n\n\u2022 Hackescher Markt and Oranienburgerstrasse as well as the surrounding side streets in Mitte-Scheunenviertel: the center of historical and cultural Berlin, with the most mainstream and popular nightlife.\n\n\u2022 Kastanienallee and Helmholzplatz in Prenzlauer Berg: a widely trafficked street and square in Berlin, full of both young expats and local families.\n\n\u2022 Boxhagenerplatz and Boxhagener Strasse in Friedrichshain: home to a weekly flea market, this is a busy area, day and night, with caf\u00e9s, bars, and restaurants.\n\n\u2022 Hermannplatz in Neuk\u00f6lln: the jumping off point for a night out in one of Berlin's hip districts.\n\n* * *\n\n### Bars and Lounges\n\nIn Germany the term Kneipen is used for down-to-earth bars that are comparable to English pubs. These places are pretty simple and laid-back; you probably shouldn't try to order a three-ingredient cocktail at one unless you spot a lengthy drink menu.\n\nElegant bars and lounges can be found in Mitte's Scheunenviertel, in Charlottenburg, and in Berlin's five-star hotels, and new cocktail bars are cropping up in Kreuzberg and Sch\u00f6neberg, too.\n\n#### Mitte\n\nNewton Bar.  \nThis posh bar in Mitte has been around for ages. Helmut Newton's larger-than-life photos of nude women decorate the walls. | Charlottenstr. 57, Mitte | 030/2029\u20135421 | www.newton-bar.de | Station: Stadtmitte U2 (U-bahn).\n\nRedwood.  \nRun by a California native, this simple, solid cocktail bar serves near-perfect concoctions that belie the bare wood surroundings. If loud crowds and smoky rooms aren't your thing, this is the place for you\u2014the cocktails are excellent and you'll be able to carry on a conversation in a normal voice. The menu is helpfully arranged according to \"dry\" or \"sweet and sour\" but if you're still unsure whether to go for a Dark and Stormy or a Blood and Sand, ask the friendly young bartenders\u2014everyone speaks English here. | Bergstr. 25, Mitte | 030/7024\u20138813 | www.redwoodbar.de | Closed Sun.\u2013Mon. | Station: Nordbahhof (S-bahn).\n\n#### Tiergarten\n\n### Casinos\n\nVictoria Bar.  \nThe elegant Victoria Bar is a stylish homage to 1960s and '70s jet-setters, and the cocktails are mixed with care. It usually attracts a middle-age, affluent, and artsy crowd. | Potsdamerstr. 102, Tiergarten | 030/2575\u20139977 | www.victoriabar.de | Station: Kurf\u00fcrstenstr. (U-bahn).\n\n#### Kreuzberg\n\nBellmann Bar.  \nThe candle-lit, rough wood tables, water-stained walls, and frequent appearances by local musicians just dropping by for a few tunes gives this cozy cocktail bar an artsty old-world feel. Lovingly nicknamed \"the gramophone bar\" for the old gramophone that sits in its window, Bellmann is a place to linger and chat over a glass of wine or a whiskey from the outstanding collection. | Reichenbergerstr. 103, Kreuzberg | 030/3117\u20133162 | Station: G\u00f6rlitzer Bahnhof (U-bahn).\n\nFreischwimmer.  \nWhen it's warm out, the canalside deck chairs at Freischwimmer are the perfect place to be, though heat lamps and an enclosed area make this a cozy setting for cool nights, too. To get here, walk five minutes east of the elevated Schlesisches Tor U-bahn station and turn left down a path after the 1920s Aral gas station, the oldest in Berlin. | Vor dem Schlesischen Tor 2a, Kreuzberg | 030/6107\u20134309 | www.freischwimmer-berlin.com | Station: Schlesisches Tor (U-bahn).\n\nW\u00fcrgeengel.  \nNamed after a 1962 surrealist film by Luis Bu\u00f1uel (it's \"The Exterminating Angel\" in English), this classy joint has offered an elaborate cocktail menu in a well-designed space off Kottbusser Tor since 1992\u2014long before this part of Kreuzberg was hip, or even safe. Today, the bar's loyal fans spill out onto the streets on busy nights, and an evening tapas menu comes from the neighboring restaurant Gorgonzola Club. The team behind the restaurant Renger-Patzsch run W\u00fcrgeengel and the Gorgonzola Club. | Dresdenerstr. 122, Kreuzberg | Dresdenerstr. is reachable through passageway under buildings at Kottbusser Tor, next to Adalbertstr. | 030/615\u20135560 | www.wuergeengel.de | Daily 7\u2013late | Station: Moritzplatz (U-bahn).\n\n#### Sch\u00f6neberg\n\nGreen Door.  \nA grown-up crowd focused on conversation and appreciating outstanding cocktails heads to Green Door, a Sch\u00f6neberg classic. The decor is 1960s retro style, with gingham walls and stand-alone lamps. TIP Although the expertly crafted drinks are not cheap by Berlin standards, happy hour (6\u20138) means you can order them at nearly half price. | Winterfeldstr. 50, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/215\u20132515 | www.greendoor.de | Station: Nollendorfplatz (U-bahn).\n\n### Clubs\n\n#### Mitte\n\nFodor's Choice | Cl\u00e4rchen's Ballhaus.  \nA night out at Cl\u00e4rchen's Ballhaus (Little Clara's Ballroom) is like a trip back in time. Opened in 1913, the club is an impressive sight on Mitte's now-upscale Auguststrasse. On summer nights, lines often stretch out the door, while the front courtyard comes alive with patrons dining alfresco on brick-oven pizzas. The main ballroom features a different style of music every night and there are often dance lessons before the party starts. One of the best things about this place, though, is the variety of people of different ages, nationalities, and social backgrounds mix. The upstairs Spiegelsaal (\"mirror hall\") has intimate, salon-type concerts on Sunday. | Auguststr. 24, Mitte | 030/282\u20139295 | www.ballhaus.de | Lunch and dinner daily | Station: Rodenthaler Platz (U-bahn).\n\nFelix.  \nThe over-the-top Felix greatly benefits from its location behind the famous Adlon Kempinski Hotel\u2014Hollywood stars drop by when they're in town, or during the frenzied weeks of the Berlinale. The door policy can be tough, but dress in your finest and hope for the best. | Behrenstr. 72, Mitte | 030/3011\u201317152 | www.felix-clubrestaurant.de | Station: Brandenburger Tor (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\nKaffee Burger.  \nMore of a neighborhood clubhouse than a bar, there's always something going on at Kaffee Burger. The original home of writer Wladimir Kaminer's popular Russendisko (\"Russian disco\") nights, this spot has a cozy dance floor and a separate smoking room. On any given night, you might encounter electro, rock, funk, swing, or Balkan beats; live bands play frequently. | Torstr. 58\u201360, Mitte | 030/2804\u20136495 | www.kaffeeburger.de | Station: Rosa-Luxembourgstr. (U-bahn).\n\nSage Club.  \nHouse and techno music make this a popular venue for a younger crowd. On some nights it can be tough getting past the man with the \"by invitation only\" list. Expect a line out the door, and very different partiers depending on the night of the week (check the program on the website). | K\u00f6penicker Str. 76, Mitte | 030/278\u20139830 | www.sage-club.de | Station: Heinrich-Heimestr. (U-bahn).\n\nWeekend.  \nMore like a lounge and party venue than a club, Weekend has great views of East Berlin's skyline and several different floors of music, including the occasional international DJ act. But beware: the crowd is seriously young, and on weekends you may find yourself caught in a crowd of tourists, or rowdy study-abroad students on their night out. Only open Thurs.\u2013Sun. | Alexanderstr. 5, Mitte | 030/2463\u20131676.\n\n#### Kreuzberg\n\nWatergate.  \nThe elegant Watergate is a club for people who usually don't like clubbing. It sits languidly at the base of the Oberbaumbr\u00fccke, on the Kreuzberg side, and has two dance floors with bars. The terrace extending over the River Spree is one of the city's best chill-out spaces. In addition to hosting internationally renowned DJs, the club is beautiful and intimate setting for infrequent but popular classical music nights. | Falckensteinstr. 49, Kreuzberg | 030/6128\u20130396 | www.water-gate.de | Station: Schlesisches Tor (U-bahn), Warschauer Strasse (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n#### Sch\u00f6neberg\n\nHavanna Club.  \nBerlin's multiculti crowd frequents the Havanna Club, where you can dance to soul, R&B, or hip-hop on four different dance floors. The week's highlights are the wild salsa and merengue nights (Wednesday at 9, Friday and Saturday at 10). If your Latin steps are weak, come an hour early for a lesson. TIP Friday and Saturday are \"ladies free\" nights until 11. | Hauptstr. 30, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/784\u20138565 | www.havanna-berlin.de | Station: Julius-Leber-Br\u00fccke (S-bahn).\n\n#### Treptow\n\nFodor's Choice | Club der Visionaere.  \nIt may not be much more than a series of wooden rafts and a few shoddily constructed shacks, but this club is one of the most beloved outdoor venues in town. The place is packed at all hours, either with clubbers on their last stop of the evening, or with students soaking up the sunshine on a Sunday morning. Since it shares a narrow canal with Freischwimmer, which hosts a massive brunch on Sunday, an easy hop across the water (by bridge, of course) will get you coffee and breakfast at dawn. | Am Flutgraben 1, Treptow | Follow Schlesische Str. east from the U-bahn station until you cross two small canals. After the second bridge, look left. | 030/6951\u20138942 | Weekdays 2 pm\u2013late, weekends noon\u2013late | Station: Schlesisches Tor (U-bahn).\n\nMS Hoppetosse.  \nThursday through Saturday, the docked boat MS Hoppetosse rocks steady to reggae and dance hall, house, techno, or hip-hop. A few steps into Treptow from Kreuzberg (if you pass Freischwimmer you're on the right track), there are fantastic views of the Spree River from both the lower-level dance floor or the top deck. | Eichenstr. 4, Treptow | 030/5332\u2013030 | www.arena-berlin.de.\n\n* * *\n\nGay Berlin\n\nThe area around Nollendorfplatz is the heart and soul of gay Berlin, even though areas like Sch\u00f6nhauser Allee in Prenzlauer Berg, Schlesische Strasse in Kreuzberg, and various clubs in the Mitte-Scheunenviertel area are more popular with the younger crowd. However, in a city that historically has been a center of gay culture and one that has an openly gay mayor, Klaus Wowereit, the gay scene is not limited to these areas. Typical for Berlin is the integration of homosexuals of all walks of life throughout the city\u2014from the politician and manager to the bus driver and waiter. The general attitude of most Berliners toward gays is tolerant and open-minded; however, openly gay couples should avoid outer areas such as Lichtenberg and Marzahn or towns in Brandenburg, the region surrounding Berlin. These areas are exceptions in a city that has an estimated 300,000 gays and lesbians in residence.\n\nLarge festivals such as the annual Christopher Street Day bring together hundreds of thousands of gays and lesbians each summer. Gay travelers are embraced by the city's tourist office: up-to-date information is provided in special brochures, such as \"Out in Berlin\" at tourist info-stores.\n\nMann-o-Meter.  \nDetailed information on gay-friendly hotels and the clubbing and bar scene are provided by the city's largest gay community center, the Mann-o-Meter. Talks are sometimes held in the caf\u00e9, which has a variety of books and magazines. It's open Tues.\u2013Fri. 5\u201310, and Sat.\u2013Sun. 4\u20138. | B\u00fclowstr. 106, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/216\u20138008 | www.mann-o-meter.de.\n\n* * *\n\n### Gay and Lesbian Bars\n\nBerlin is unmistakably Germany's gay capital, and many Europeans come to partake in the diverse scene, which is concentrated in Sch\u00f6neberg (around Nollendorfplatz) and Kreuzberg. Check out the magazines Siegess\u00e4ule, (030), and blu.\n\n#### Kreuzberg\n\nRoses.  \nIf you don't find any eye candy at tiny Roses there are always the furry red walls and kitschy paraphernalia to admire. It opens at 10 pm. | Oranienstr. 187, Kreuzberg | 030/615\u20136570 | Station: Kottbusser Tor (U-bahn).\n\nSchwuZ.  \nThis spot moved to the newly hip Neuk\u00f6lln neighborhood from its original location on Mehringdamm, in Kreuzberg, and the new digs in the old Kindl brewery should serve it well: in addition to 1980s music and house dance nights, expect more varied offerings like exhibitions, as well as a new stage and lounge room. | Rollbergstr. 26, Neuk\u00f6lln | 030/629\u20130880 | www.schwuz.de | Station: Rathaus Neuk\u00f6lln (U-bahn).\n\n#### Friedrichshain\n\nFodor's Choice | Berghain.  \nIn an imposing power station in a barren stretch of land between Kreuzberg and Friedrichshain (the name borrows from both neighborhoods), Berghain has achieved international fame as the hedonistic heart of techno music\u2014it was originally a '90s techno club called Ostgut. Although it's also a well-respected center of gay nightlife in Berlin, the club welcomes both genders. It's only open on weekends (for 48 hours straight, from midnight on Friday to midnight on Sunday), and it has become something of a local tradition to arrive on Sunday morning and dance until closing. Upstairs, the slightly smaller (but by no means intimate) Panorama Bar offers different beats and a place to go on Friday before the main club opens at midnight. | Am Wriezener Bahnhof, Friedrichshain | Exit north from Ostbahnhof and follow Str. der Pariser Kommune, then make a right on badly marked Am Wriezener Bahnhof and look for a line | 030/2936\u20130210 | Station: Ostbahnhof (S-bahn).\n\n#### Sch\u00f6neberg\n\nConnection Club.  \nJust south of Wittenbergplatz, the dance club Connection is known for heavy house music and lots of dark corners. | Fuggerstr. 33, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/218\u20131432 | www.connection-berlin.de | Station: Augsburgerstr. (U-bahn).\n\nHafen.  \nThe decor and the energetic crowd at Hafen make it a popular singles hangout. | Motzstr. 19, Sch\u00f6neberg | 030/211\u20134118 | www.hafen-berlin.de | Station: Nullendorf Platz (U-bahn).\n\n### Jazz Clubs\n\n#### Mitte\n\nb-flat.  \nYoung German artists perform most nights at b-flat. The club has some of the best sight lines in town, as well as a magnificent floor-to-ceiling front window that captures the attention of passersby. The well-known and well-attended Wednesday jam sessions focus on free and experimental jazz, and once a month on Thursday the Berlin Big Band takes over the small stage with up to 17 players. Snacks are available. | Rosenthalerstr. 13, Mitte | 030/283\u20133123 | www.b-flat-berlin.de | Station: Rosenthaler Platz (U-bahn).\n\nKunstfabrik Schlot.  \nSchlot hosts Berlin jazz scenesters, aspiring musicians playing Monday night free jazz sessions, and local heavy-hitters. It's a bit hard to find\u2014it's in the cellar of the Edison H\u00f6fe\u2014but enter the courtyard via Schlegelstrasse and follow the music. | Invalidenstr. 117, entrance at Schlegelstr. 26, Mitte | 030/448\u20132160 | Station: Nordbahnhof (S-bahn), Naturkundemuseum (U-bahn).\n\n#### Charlottenburg\n\nA-Trane.  \nA-Trane in West Berlin has hosted countless greats throughout the years, including Herbie Hancock and Wynton Marsalis. Weekly free jam nights on Saturday and numerous other free events make it a good place to see jazz on a budget. | Bleibtreustr. 1, Charlottenburg | 030/313\u20132550 | www.a-trane.de | Station: Savignyplatz (S-bahn).\n\nQuasimodo.  \nTo get to Quasimodo, the most established and popular jazz venue in the city, you'll need to descend a small staircase to the basement of the Theater des Westens. Despite its college-town pub feel, the club has hosted many Berlin and international greats. Seats are few, but there's plenty of standing room in the front. | Kantstr. 12a, Charlottenburg | 030/312\u20138086 | www.quasimodo.de | Station: Zoologischer Garten Bahnhof (U-bahn and S-bahn).\n\n## The Arts\n\nDetailed information about events is covered in the Berlin Programm, a monthly tourist guide to Berlin arts, museums, and theaters. The magazines Tip and Zitty, which appear every two weeks, provide full arts listings (in German), although the free weekly (030) is the best source for club and music events. For listings in English, consult the monthly Ex-Berliner, or their website (www.exberliner.com), which is updated regularly.\n\nHekticket offices.  \nThe Hekticket offices offers discounted and last-minute tickets, including half-price, same-day tickets daily at 2pm. | Karl-Liebknecht-Str. 13, off Alexanderpl., Mitte | Station: Alexanderplatz Bahnhof (S-bahn).\n\nShowtime Konzert und Theaterkassen.  \nIf your hotel can't book a seat for you or you can't make it to a box office directly, go to a ticket agency. Surcharges are 18%\u201323% of the ticket price. Showtime Konzert und Theaterkassen has offices within the major department stores, including KaDeWe and Karstadt. | KaDeWe, Tauentzienstr. 21, Charlottenburg | 030/8060\u20132929 | www.showtimetickets.de.\n\n### Concerts\n\nKonzerthaus Berlin.  \nThe beautifully restored hall at Konzerthaus Berlin is a prime venue for classical music concerts. The box office is open from noon to curtain time. | Gendarmenmarkt, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/2030\u201392101 | www.konzerthaus.de.\n\nBerliner Philharmonie.  \nThe Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra is one of the world's best and their resident venue is the Philharmonie, comprising the Grosser Saal or large main hall, and the smaller Kammermusiksaal, dedicated to chamber music. Tickets sell out in advance for the nights when Sir Simon Rattle or other star maestros conduct, but other orchestras and artists appear here as well. TIP Tuesday's free Lunchtime Concerts fill the foyer with eager listeners of all ages at 1 pm. Daily guided tours (\u20ac3) also take place at 1 pm. | Herbert-von-Karajan-Str. 1, Tiergarten | 030/254\u2013880 | www.berliner-philharmoniker.de.\n\n### Dance, Musicals, and Opera\n\nBerlin's three opera houses also host guest productions and companies from around the world. Vladimir Malakhov, a principal guest dancer with New York's American Ballet Theatre, is a principal in the Staatsballett Berlin as well as its director. The company performs its classic and modern productions at the Deutsche Oper and the Schiller Theater while the famed Staatsoper on Unter den Linden undergoes renovations.\n\nDeutsche Oper Berlin.  \nOf the 17 composers represented in the repertoire of Deutsche Oper Berlin, Verdi and Wagner are the most frequently presented. | Bismarckstr. 35, Charlottenburg | 030/343\u20138401 | www.deutscheoperberlin.de.\n\nHebbel am Ufer Theater (HAU).  \nThis theater consists of three houses (HAU 1, 2, 3) within a five-minute walk of one another. Fringe theater, international modern dance, and solo performers share the stages. | Stresemannstr. 29, Kreuzberg | 030/2590\u20130427 | www.hebbel-am-ufer.de.\n\nKomische Oper.  \nMost of the operas performed here are sung in German but the lavish and at times over-the-top and kitschy staging and costumes make for a fun night even if you don't speak the language. | Behrenstr. 55\u201357, Mitte | 030/4799\u20137400 | www.komische-oper-berlin.de.\n\nNeuk\u00f6llner Oper.  \nThe small and alternative Neuk\u00f6llner Oper puts on fun, showy performances of long-forgotten operas as well as humorous musical productions. It also is more likely than other Berlin opera houses to stage productions offering modern social commentary and individual takes on the immigrant experience\u2014which is fitting for this international neighborhood. | Karl-Marx-Str. 131\u2013133, Neuk\u00f6lln | 030/6889\u20130777.\n\nSchiller Theater.  \nCurrently serving as interim stage for the Staatsoper, until renovations are finished in 2015, the Schiller Theater is also known for light musical and theater fare. | Bismarckstr. 110, Charlottenburg | 030/2035\u20134555.\n\nTanzfabrik.  \nThe Tanzfabrik is Berlin's best venue to see young dance talent and the latest from Europe's avant-garde. | M\u00f6ckernstr. 68, Kreuzberg | 030/786\u20135861 | www.tanzfabrik-berlin.de.\n\nTempodrom.  \nThe white, tentlike Tempodrom, beyond the ruined facade of Anhalter Bahnhof, showcases international music and rock stars. | M\u00f6ckernstr. 10, behind Askanischer Pl., Kreuzberg | 01806/554\u2013111 | www.tempodrom.de.\n\nTheater des Westens.  \nThe late-19th-century Theater des Westens, one of Germany's oldest musical theaters, features musicals such as Dance of the Vampires; We Will Rock You, the over-the-top musical about the rock band Queen; and recently, the German-language version of the international sensation War Horse. | Kantstr. 12, Western Downtown | 030/01805\u20134444 | www.stage-entertainment.de.\n\n### Festivals\n\nBerliner Festspiele.  \nThis annual Berlin festival, held from late August through September or early October, unites all the major performance halls as well as some smaller venues for concerts, opera, ballet, theater, and art exhibitions. It also sponsors some smaller-scale events throughout the year. | Ticket office, Schaperstr. 24 | 030/2548\u20139100 | www.berlinerfestspiele.de.\n\n### Film\n\nInternational and German movies are shown in the big theaters on Potsdamer Platz and around the Ku'damm. If a film isn't marked \"OF\" or \"OV\" (Originalfassung, or \"original version\") or \"OmU\" (\"original with subtitles\"), it's dubbed. Many Berlin theaters let customers reserve seats in advance when purchasing tickets, so buy them early to nab those coveted center spots. TIP Previews and commercials often run for 25 minutes, so don't worry if you walk in late.\n\nBabylon.  \nPartially hidden behind Kottbusser Tor, Babylon shows English-language films with German subtitles. Ticket prices vary according to the day of the week, with Monday being the cheapest at \u20ac6. | Dresdener Str. 126, Kreuzberg | 030/6160\u20139693 | www.yorck.de.\n\nCineStar im Sony Center.  \nMainstream U.S. and British movies are screened in their original versions at the CineStar im Sony Center. Tuesday is a discount evening. | Potsdamer Str. 4, Tiergarten | 030/2606\u20136400.\n\nFreiluftkinos.  \nWhen warm weather hits the city and Berliners come out of hibernation, they often head to the Freiluftkinos (open-air cinemas). These outdoor viewing areas are in just about every park in town, offer food and drinks, and screen a good balance of German and international films, many of them new releases. Check the website for schedules from three of the city's best, in Volkspark Friedrichshain, Mariannenplatz Kreuzberg, and Volkspark Rehberge in Wedding. | www.freiluftkino-berlin.de | \u20ac6.50.\n\nHackesche H\u00f6fe Kino.  \nDocumentary films, international films in their original language, and German art-house films are shown at the Hackesche H\u00f6fe Kino, or cinema. There's no elevator to this top-floor movie house, but you can recover on the wide banquettes in the lounge. Monday and Tuesday are discount evenings. | Rosenthaler Str. 40\u201341, Mitte | 030/283\u20134603 | www.hoefekino.de.\n\nBerlinale: Internationale Filmfestspiele (Internationale Filmfestspiele).  \nIn February, numerous cinemas band together to host the prestigious Internationale Filmfestspiele, or Berlinale, a 10-day international festival at which the Golden Bear award is bestowed on the best films, directors, and actors. Ticket counters open three days before the party begins, but individual tickets are also sold on each day of the festival, if you're willing to wait in line for what can be hours.TIP Film buffs should purchase the season pass, or act quickly when tickets are sold online. | www.berlinale.de | 10 days in Feb.\n\n### Theater\n\nTheater in Berlin is outstanding, but performances are usually in German. The exceptions are operettas and the (nonliterary) cabarets. Keep in mind that tourist high season is always theater low season: most theaters take a one- to two-month break in July and August.\n\nBerliner Ensemble.  \nThe excellent Berliner Ensemble is dedicated to Brecht and works of other international playwrights. The company might be losing its lease in 2013 so check the website for updates about a new location. | Bertolt Brecht-Pl. 1, off Friedrichstr., Mitte | 030/2840\u20138155 | www.berliner-ensemble.de.\n\nDeutsches Theater.  \nThe theater most renowned for both its modern and classical productions is the Deutsches Theater. | Schumannstr. 13a, Mitte | 030/2844\u20131225 | www.deutschestheater.de.\n\nEnglish Theatre Berlin.  \nThe English Theatre presents dramas and comedies in English. | Fidicinstr. 40, Kreuzberg | 030/691\u20131211 | www.etberlin.de.\n\nGrips Theater.  \nFor children's theater, head to the world-famous Grips Theater, whose musical hit Linie 1, about life in Berlin viewed through the subway, is just as appealing for adults. | Altonaer Str. 22, Tiergarten | 030/3974\u2013740 | www.grips-theater.de.\n\nSchaub\u00fchne am Lehniner Platz.  \nThe rebellious actors at the Schaub\u00fchne am Lehniner Platz, once the city's most experimental stage, have mellowed somewhat but still put on great performances. Their frequent, avant-garde stagings of well-known Shakespeare plays are a wonderful opportunity to enjoy German theater, even if you don't know a word of German. (You can always brush up on the story beforehand and follow along with your own English text.) | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 153, Wilmersdorf | 030/890\u2013023 | www.schaubuehne.de.\n\nVolksb\u00fchne am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz.  \nThe Volksb\u00fchne am Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz is unsurpassed for its aggressively experimental style, and the 750 seats are often sold out. The unusual building was reconstructed in the 1950s using the original 1914 plans. It also houses two smaller performance spaces\u2014the Roter Salon and the Gr\u00fcner Salon\u2014which host everything from retro motown nights and salsa classes for all levels to touring pop and rock acts. | Linienstr. 227, Mitte | 030/2406\u20135777 | www.volksbuehne-berlin.de.\n\n### Variety Shows, Comedy, and Cabaret\n\nBerlin's variety shows can include magicians, circus performers, musicians, and classic cabaret stand-ups. Be aware that in order to understand and enjoy traditional cabaret, which involves a lot of political humor, your German has to be up to snuff.\n\nAdmiralspalast.  \nThe completely restored 1920s entertainment emporium Admiralspalast draws on its glitzy Jazz Age glamour, and houses several stages and a restaurant. The main theater features everything from large-scale shows to theater, comedy, and concerts. | Friedrichstr. 101, Mitte | 030/4799\u20137499 | www.admiralspalast.de.\n\nBar Jeder Vernunft.  \nThe intimate Bar Jeder Vernunft is inside a glamorous tent and usually showcases intriguing solo entertainers. Note that the venue is set back from the street and is hard to find. Just to the left of Haus der Berliner Festspiele, look for a lighted path next to a parking lot and follow it until you reach the tent. | Schaperstr. 24, Wilmersdorf | 030/883\u20131582 | www.bar-jeder-vernunft.de.\n\nBKA\u2013Berliner Kabarett Anstalt.  \nSocial and political satire has a long tradition in cabaret theaters and the BKA\u2013Berliner Kabarett Anstalt is known for performances by Germany's leading young comedy talents as well as chanson vocalists. | Mehringdamm 34, Kreuzberg | 030/202\u20132007 | www.bka-theater.de.\n\nCham\u00e4leon Variet\u00e9.  \nWithin the Hackesche H\u00f6fe, the Cham\u00e4leon Variet\u00e9 is the most affordable and offbeat variety venue in town. German isn't required to enjoy most of the productions. | Rosenthaler Str. 40\u201341, Mitte | 030/4000\u2013590 | www.chamaeleonberlin.com.\n\nGr\u00fcner Salon.  \nThis is one of Berlin's hippest venues for live music, cabaret, dancing, and drinks. The programs change almost daily. | Freie Volksb\u00fchne, Rosa-Luxemburg-Pl., Mitte | 030/2859\u20138936 | www.gruener-salon.de.\n\nTipi am Kanzleramt (Tipi am Kanzleramt).  \nTipi is a tent venue between the Kanzleramt (Chancellor's Office) and Haus der Kulturen der Welt. Artists featured are well suited for an international audience, and you can opt to dine here before the show. Even the back-row seats are good. | Grosse Querallee, Tiergarten | 030/3906\u20136550 | www.tipi-am-kanzleramt.de.\n\nWintergarten Variet\u00e9.  \nThe Wintergarten Variet\u00e9 pays romantic homage to the old days of Berlin's original variety theater in the 1920s. | Potsdamer Str. 96, Tiergarten | 030/588\u2013433 | www.wintergarten-variete.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nWhat's fashionable in Berlin is creative, bohemian style, so designer labels have less appeal here than in Hamburg, D\u00fcsseldorf, or Munich. For the young and trendy, it is bad form to be seen wearing clothes that appear to have cost much more than a Br\u00f6tchen (bread roll), so most step out in vintage and secondhand threads.\n\n### Mitte\n\nThe finest shops in historic Berlin are along Friedrichstrasse, including the French department store Galeries Lafayette and the international luxury department store Departmentstore Quartier 206. Nearby, Unter den Linden offers a few souvenir shops and a Meissen ceramic showroom, while the area surrounding the picturesque Gendarmenmarkt is home to top fashion designers and many international brands.\n\nTthe charming side streets of Mitte's Scheunenviertel area have turned into a true destination for serious fashion aficionados. The area between Hackescher Markt, Weinmeister Strasse, and Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz alternate pricey independent designers with groovy secondhand shops, and a string of ultrahip flagship stores by the big sports and fashion designer brands. Neue Sch\u00f6nhauser Strasse meets up with Rosenthaler Strasse on one end and curves into Alte Sch\u00f6nhauser Strasse on the other. All three streets are full of stylish and original casual wear. Galleries along Gipsstrasse and Sophienstrasse round out the mix.\n\n#### Book Stores\n\nFodor's Choice | Do You Read Me?.  \nWhether you're looking for something to read on the plane or a special present, this charming bookstore is guaranteed to have something to pique your literary interests. The wide selection of magazines and literature\u2014many of the titles are in English\u2014comes from around the world and spans fashion, photography, architecture, interior design, and cultural topics. | Auguststr. 28, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/6954\u20139695 | www.doyoureadme.de | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Clothing\n\n14 oz.  \nInside a beautiful old building in the heart of Mitte's Hackescher Markt shopping district, 14 oz. sells high-end denim (Citizens of Humanity, Dondup, 3x1 Denim), along with sneakers, accessories, knitwear, and outerwear. For true VIP treatment, a private shopping area is available on the second floor. | Neue Sch\u00f6nhauserstr. 13, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | www.14oz-berlin.com/berlin | Closed Sun.\n\nApartment.  \nDon't be deterred when you arrive at this seemingly empty storefront: the real treasure lies at the bottom of the black spiral staircase. On the basement level you'll find one of Berlin's favorite shops for local designs and wardrobe staples for both men and women. Think distressed tops, shoes, leather jackets, and skinny jeans. | Memhardstr. 8, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2804\u20132251 | www.apartmentberlin.de | Closed Sun.\n\nBaerck.  \nThis shop artfully displays its mix of European and Berlin men's and women's wear on wheeled structures, allowing them to be rearranged in the store whenever necessary. Along with designers like Stine Goya, Henrik Vibskov, and Hope, you'll find the store's own labels NIA and llot llov. Lifestyle and interior decor items are on the basement level. | Mulackstr. 12, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2404\u20138994 | www.baerck.net | Closed Sun.\n\nClaudia Skoda.  \nOne of Berlin's top avant-garde designers, Claudia Skoda's creations are mostly for women, but there's also a selection of men's knitwear. | Mulackstr. 8, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/4004\u20131884 | www.claudiaskoda.com | Closed Sun.\n\nThe Corner Berlin.  \nIn the heart of the stunning Gendarmarkt, this luxury concept store sells a contemporary collection of new and vintage clothing from high-end designers like Yves Saint Laurent and Chlo\u00e9, as well as cosmetics, home furnishings, and art books. The shop is also a popular venue for exclusive fashion events and is home to a gallery and caf\u00e9. | Franzoesischestr. 40, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/2067\u20130940 | www.thecornerberlin.de | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Clothing: Men's\n\nFodor's Choice | Atelier Akeef.  \nThis Mitte store combines men's luxury style with a holistic, eco-conscious shopping approach. The upcycled wood-paneled store was constructed using nontoxic colorants, sustainable clay, and energy-saving lightening, and each garment comes with a tag outlining the specifics of its eco-production. | Max-Beer-Str. 31, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2198\u20132645 | www.atelierakeef.com.\n\nFodor's Choice | SOTO.  \nThe name of the hip, fashion-forward area of Mitte stands for 'SOuth of TOrstrasse. The shop is filled with charming side streets and numerous fashion boutiques. At the SOTO boutique you'll find a mix of timeless and trendsetting menswear including the house label, Le Berlinois, along with brands like Band of Outsiders, Norse Projects, and Our Legacy, grooming products, and accessories ranging from cameras to lanyards. | Torstr. 72, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/257\u201362070 | www.sotostore.com | Closed Sun.\n\nMade in Berlin.  \nOne of the more established second hand shops in Berlin, this outpost has popular two locations that crowd with trend-setting locals and discerning visitors looking for hidden gems. The selection is more curated thrift looks than high-end designs, and includes an extensive range of 1980s wear as well broad selection of shoes. TIP Make sure to pop in for the shops' happy hours, where you'll get 20 percent off on purchases (Tues. 12\u20133 at Neue Sch\u00f6nhauser Str.; Wed 10\u20133 at Friedrichstr.). | Neue Sch\u00f6nhauser Str. 19, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2404\u20138900 | www.facebook.com/MadeinBerlinVintage | Mon.\u2013Sat. 12\u20138.\n\n#### Clothing: Women's\n\nAnnette G\u00f6rtz.  \nThis Gendarmenmarkt showroom is German fashion icon Annette G\u00f6rtz's Berlin flagship. Her collection of women's clothing is known for the clean lines, dark colors, and a combination of comfort and refined tailoring and elegance. | Markgrafenstr. 42, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/20074\u2013613 | www.annettegoertz.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | C'est Tout.  \nFormerly the head of style for MTV networks, Katja Will opened this boutique in 2007 to share her love of French style and bring a Parisian look to the German capital. Layering the neutral pieces here with a touch of sparkle creates a defininte ooh-la-la effect. | Mulackstr. 26, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2759\u20135530 | www.cesttout.de | Closed Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Das Neue Schwarz.  \nWhether you want a new little black dress or a cool vintage bag to carry around this season, a peek into the lovely Das Neue Schwarz (The New Black) is guaranteed to result in some special finds. In the midst of Mitte's fashionista neighborhood of avant-garde designers and exclusive boutiques, this shop holds its own with a collection secondhand items, many never worn, from big name designers including Vivienne Westwood, Helmet Lang, and Yves Saint Laurent. | Mulackstr. 38, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2787\u20134467 | www.dasneueschwarz.de | Closed Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Lala Berlin.  \nFormer MTV editor Lelya Piedayesh is one of Berlin's top young design talents and she has a contemporary boutique on Mulackstrasse. It's pricey, but the scarves are to die for; clothes have bold prints on high-quality fabric. | Mulackstr. 7, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2576\u20132924 | www.lalaberlin.com | Closed Sun.\n\nOukan.  \nThis demure boutique originally began as a fundraising project during Berlin's Fashion Week in response to the 2011 Japanese tsunami. Along with two floors of avant garde Japanese designs, lifestyle products, and interior d\u00e9cor, the space is also home to Avan, an in-house tea house serving a variety of Asian-fusion dishes like banh mi sandwiches, dumplings, and curries. | Kronenstr. 71, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/2062\u20136700 | www.oukan.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 12\u20137.\n\n#### Department Stores\n\nFodor's Choice | DepartmentStore Quartier 206.  \nThe smallest, and often considered the most luxurious, department store in town, DepartmentStore Quartier 206 has a wide range of women's and men's international designers from the likes of Prada, Givenchy, and Tom Ford. Much of the store's inventory is handpicked by founder Anne Maria Jagdfeld on travels around the world, and the store also carries a variety of cosmetics, perfumes, home accessories, art, and books. | Friedrichstr. 71, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/2094\u20136500 | www.dsq206.com | Closed Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Galeries Lafayette.  \nAt the corner of Franz\u00f6sische Strasse (it means \"French Street\" and is named for the nearby French Huguenot cathedral) is the French department store Galeries Lafayette. French architect Jean Nouvel included an impressive steel-and-glass funnel at the center of the building, and it's surrounded by four floors of expensive clothing and luxuries as well as an excellent food department with counters offering French cuisine, and a market with some of the best produce in the area. Intimate and elegant, Galeries Lafayette carries almost exclusively French products. | Friedrichstr. 76\u201378, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/209\u2013480 | www.galerieslafayette.de | Closed Sun.\n\nHackesche H\u00f6fe.  \nTucked behind the tourist heavy streets of Hackesche Markt, this labyrinth of small galleries, boutiques, and shops offers a wide range of fashion. The outdoor shopping mall links Rosenthaler- and Sophienstrassen with big brands like H&M and Mac Cosmetics, as well as independent boutiques and small gift shops. | Rosenthalerstr. 40\u201341, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/280\u201398010 | www.hackesche-hoefe.com.\n\n#### Gifts\n\nAmpelmann.  \nThis gallery shop opened in the mall-like Hackesche H\u00f6fe shopping area in 2001, promoting the red and green Ampelm\u00e4nnnchen, the charming symbol used on the former East traffic lights. The brand now operates six shops in Berlin, and you can find the logo on everything from T-shirts and umbrellas to ice cube trays and candy. Perfect for souvenirs. | Hackesche H\u00f6fe, Hof 5, Rosenthalerstr. 40\u201341, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/4472\u20136515 | ampelmann.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9:30\u201310, Sun. 10\u20137.\n\nausberlin.  \nThis small shop near Alexanderplatz provides a wide range of Berlin memories, all designed and manufactured in the city. There is everything from Berlin-themed emergency candy bars and tote bags with city landmark designs to Berlin produced liquors. | Karl-Liebknechtstr. 17, Mitte: Alexanderplatz | 030/4199\u20137896 | www.ausberlin.de | Closed Sun.\n\nBerlin Story.  \nMore than 5,000 different books, maps, and souvenirs about the city of Berlin can be found at this shop, which is, unlike many, open on Sunday. The company also runs a translation and publishing house and a small museum, as well as a webshop for those still looking for souvenirs after the trip is over. | Unter den Linden 40, Mitte: Unter den Linden | 030/2045\u20133842 | www.berlinstory.de.\n\nFodor's Choice | Bonbonmacherei.  \nTucked into a small courtyard near the New Synagogue, this charming candy store has been making and selling handmade sweets for the past 100 years. The brightly colored sugar bonbons are pressed on vintage molds into leaf, raspberry, and diamond shapes, and more than 30 different varieties are available. For a real insider's peek at candy production, join one of the store's daily tours, which walk customers step-by-step through the candy production. Note that the store is only open Wednesday and Thursday. | Oranienburgerstr. 32, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/4405\u20135243 | www.bonbonmacherei.de | Closed Sun.\u2013Tues., and July and Aug.\n\n#### Jewelry\n\nFodor's Choice | Hecking.  \nDesigner Luisa Hecking opened this accessories boutique in 2007 as a showcase for her timeless collection of HeckingHandermann bags and sunglasses. It's one of the best place for scarves in the city, with a wide selection of designs, at a variety of price points. | Gormannstr. 8\u20139, entrance on Mulackstr., Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/2804\u20137528 | www.hecking-shop.com | Closed Tues. and Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Sabrina Dehoff.  \nThe flagship store of German jewelry designer Sabrina Dehoff balances bling and minimalism\u2014bright crystals are paired with chunky metals. | Torstr. 175, Mitte: Scheunenviertel | 030/9362\u20134680 | www.sabrinadehoff.com | Closed Sun.\n\n### Prenzlauer Berg\n\nStretching east of Mitte's Rosenthaler Platz, the fashionable boutiques continue into Prenzlauer Berg. This area is well known for its own collection of designer boutiques, secondhand shops, and original designs. The busy Kastanienallee is packed with shops and boutiques, as is the more quiet area around Hemholzpatz.\n\n#### Clothing\n\nFodor's Choice | Garments.  \nThis chic store offers Prenzlauer Berg's fashion lovers an excellent selection of vintage and secondhand clothing, costume jewelry, and accessories. There is also a branch in Mitte, at Linienstrasse 204\u2013205. | Stargarderstr. 12 A, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/7477\u20139919 | www.garments-vintage.de | Closed Sun.\n\nKauf Dich Gl\u00fccklich.  \nWith an odd assortment of retro furnishings, this ice cream caf\u00e9 and waffle shop takes over the entire corner of a Prenzlauer Berg sidewalk, especially on sunny days. Head to the second story and you'll find a shop the captures young Berliner style, with vintage pieces, bold prints, and skinny fits, as well as shoes and jewelry. The collection focuses on womenswear although there is also a small offering of men's clothing. | Kastanien Allee 54, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/4172\u20135651 | www.kaufdichgluecklich-shop.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20138.\n\nTemporary Showroom.  \nThis small boutique showcases a revolving collection of select European and international designers, spanning high fashions, streetwear, and accessories. The store is rearranged every six months in collaboration with a new designer's collection. | Kastanienallee 36a, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/6220\u20134563 | www.temporaryshowroom.com | Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20137.\n\nWorkaholic Fashion.  \nThis showroom puts Berlin's music culture front and center, with fashion inspired by the DJ and club scene. Along with a collection of shoes, bags, accessories, the store also carries records and CDs and has a separate music room with a DJ stand. | Kastanienallee 60, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/8411\u20138358 | www.workaholicfashion.net | Mon.\u2013Fri. 11\u20138, Sat. 12\u20138.\n\n#### Gift Ideas\n\nFodor's Choice | Dr. Kochan Schapskultur.  \nThis small shop embodies traditional German liquor culture; there are schnapps and fruit brandies from family farms and independent distilleries for sale, among other items to pique a tippler's interest. | Immanuelkirchstr. 4, Prenzlauer Berg | 030/3462\u20134076 | www.schnapskultur.de | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Markets\n\nMarkt am Kollwitzplatz.  \nOne of the city's best farmer's markets sits on the pretty Kollwitplatz Square in Prenzlauer Berg. During its smaller Thursday and bustling Saturday markets, you'll not only find a suburb selection of organic produce, meats, cheeses, and pantry items, but also an array of prepared foods and sellers offering handmade home goods and gifts. | Kollwitzpl., Prenzlauer Berg | Thurs. 12\u20137, Sat. 9\u20134.\n\n### Potsdamer Platz\n\nOn the border between the city's former east and west regions, this touristy area is popular thanks to the towering Sony Center, which offers an English-language movie theater as well as restaurants and bars. The main shopping arcade here, also named Potsdamer Platz, offers a wide selection of chain shops, but you'll find a few original shops tucked on the side streets.\n\n#### Clothing\n\nAndreas Murkudis.  \nAndreas Murkudis moved his successful concept shop from Mitte to the former Taggespiegel newspaper office space near Potsdamer Platz in 2011. Inside the stark white room you'll find hand-picked mens, women's, and children's clothing, including designs by brother Kostas Murkudis, Dries van Noten, and Christian Haas, as well as accessories, and contemporary homeware. | Potsdamer Str. 81e, Potsdamer Platz | 030/6807\u201398306 | www.andreasmurkudis.com | Closed Sun.\n\nF95.  \nThis designer showroom is the permanent space for the biannual international fashion trade fair Premium. The rest of the time, the space showcases established brands like T by Alexander Wang and Diane von Furstenberg, alongside up-and-coming designers. Expect a combination of offbeat looks, trendsetting pieces, and classic wardrobe staples. | Luckenwalderstr. 4\u20136, Potsdamer Platz | 030/4208\u20133358 | www.f95store.com | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Gift Ideas\n\nFodor's Choice | Frau Tonis Parfum.  \nThis elegant perfumery will help you create a completely personal scent; choose from vials filled with perfumes like acacia, linden tree blossoms, cedar wood, or pink peppercorns. All the perfumes are produced locally in Berlin, creating a really one-of-a kind gift. | Zimmerstr. 13, Potsdamer Platz | 030/2021\u20135310 | www.frau-tonis-parfum.com | Closed Sun.\n\n### Friedrichshain\n\nThe cobblestone streets and densely packed neighborhoods of caf\u00e9s, shops, and boutiques make the area between Frankfurter Allee and Warschauer Strasse an ideal shopping stretch. Both Boxhagener Platz and Simon-Dach Strasse are home to fashionable shops, and the neighborhood holds shopping nights on select Saturdays.\n\n#### Clothing\n\nPrachtm\u00e4dchen.  \nNearby Boxhagener Platz, this is great shop to find a piece of Berlin's young, hip style. Prachtm\u00e4dchen specializes in trendy T-shirts, fashion forward coats, sustainable pieces from Scandinavian and Japanese brands, and accessories from their own line. There is also a small inventory of menswear. | W\u00fchlischst. 28, Friedrichshain | 030/97002780 | www.prachtmaedchen.de | Weekdays 11\u20138, Sat. 11\u20134.\n\nLatte Wie Hose.  \nThis shop understands the importance of keeping energized during shopping sprees, and dishes out illy coffee specialties alongside their high ends jeans. Denim labels include Dr. Denim, Patrick Mohr, and Friis & Company, and the store also stocks shoes, bags, and other accessories. | Kopernikusstr. 13, Friedrichshain | 030/61740817 | www.lattewiehose.com | Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20138.\n\n#### Clothing: Women's\n\nSomething Coloured.  \nThis Friedrichshain boutique looks like a trendy concept shop at first glance, but inside you'll find a selection of stylish second hand pieces. Among their advertised \"1,000 pieces paired with rationality,\" expect to find jeans from Paige and J brand, bags from Chanel, and pieces from COS, Comptoir des Cotonniers, and Zoe Karssen. | Gr\u00fcnberger Str. 90, Friedrichshain | 030/29352075 | www.facebook.com/sometimescoloured | Tue.\u2013Fri. 12\u20138, Sat. 11\u20137.\n\n### Kreuzberg\n\nLocals love Kreuzberg for its grittier, gratified landscape, and the fashion style here is more urban as well. The lively Bergmannstrasse is home to several worthy destinations, as is Mehringdamm. This, along with neighboring Neuk\u00f6lln, is the place to score a unique Berlin find.\n\n#### Clothing\n\nFodor's Choice | Voo.  \nThis \"super boutique\" in former locksmith's workship is a Berlin favorite for women's and men's separates, shoes, accessories, and outwear, often from rare collections around the world. It's also home to Companion Coffee, for when you need a shopping pick-me-up. | Oranienstr. 24, Kreuzberg | 030/6165\u20131119 | www.vooberlin.com | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Gift Ideas\n\nHardwax.  \nThis iconic record store is run by music veteran Mark Ernestus, who handpicks all the vinyl and CDs with a heavy focus on techno, electronic, and dubstep. On the third floor of a heavily graffitied building, it's the true essence of Berlin grunge and totally worth a visit for music lovers. | Paul-Lincke-Ufer 44a, Kreuzberg | 030/6113\u20130111 | www.hardwax.com | Closed Sun.\n\nS\u00fcper Store.  \nLocated in the charming neighborhood of Kreuzberg known as the Graefekiez, this cute little shop supplies a variety of lovely odds and ends, sourced from all over the world, including Turkey, Italy, and Switzerland, as well as locally produced items. Inside you'll find items linens, housewares, pantry items, and jewelry. | Dieffenbachstr. 12, Kreuzberg | 030/98327944 | www.sueper-store.de | Tue.\u2013Fri. 11\u20137, Sat. 11\u20134.\n\n### Neuk\u00f6lln\n\nJust over the canal from Kreuzberg, the neighborhood of Neuk\u00f6lln is home to a large Turkish population, and brims with Turkish shops, caf\u00e9s, and restaurants, as well as a lovely weekly market. More and more of the city's young creatives are moving into this area, and it caters to their bohemian lifestyle with a number of second-hand and vintage shops.\n\n#### Clothing\n\nLet Them Eat Cake.  \nA favorite of the vintage shoppers in Nuek\u00f6lln, this delightful shop offers a mixture of handmade pieces and high-quality second-hand. | Weserstr. 164, Neuk\u00f6lln | 030/6096\u20135095 | letthemeatcake-berlin.tumblr.com | Tue.\u2013Sat. 1\u20137.\n\nShio.  \nThis shop not only stocks a variety of redesigned second hand and vintage wear, as well as new-label sustainable lines, but also offers dressmaking and alteration services, and encourages customers to bring in their own pieces for trendy modifications. | Weichselstr. 59, Neuk\u00f6lln | www.shiostore.com | Mon.\u2013Sat. 12\u20138.\n\nSing Blackbird.  \nThis Kreuzk\u00f6lln shop, located on the border between Kreuzberg and Neuk\u00f6lln, has become popular for its carefully edited collection of vintage finds, dating back to the 1960s and 70s. The shop also holds a monthly flea market, as well as occasional movies nights, and is also home to a popular caf\u00e9, where a menu of homemade cakes and weekend vegan brunch is served on mismatched vintage china. | Sanderstr. 11, Neuk\u00f6lln | 030/5484\u20135051 | www.facebook.com/singblackbir | Daily 12\u20137.\n\nVintage Galore.  \nImagine bringing the midcentury European look home with a walk through this shop, which features a collection of Scandinavian furniture and lamps. The shop also has a limited selection of clothing, bags and accessories, as well as small housewares like teapots and ceramics, which should all fit more comfortably inside a suitcase. | Sanderstr. 12, Neuk\u00f6lln | 030/6396\u20133338 | www.vintagegalore.de | Tues.\u2013Fri. 2\u20138, Sat. 12\u20136.\n\n#### Markets\n\nT\u00fcrkischer Markt.  \nOn the edge of the Kreuzberg-Neuk\u00f6lln border, this weekly market is a gathering spot for the local Turkish community, and offers many traditional products, including delicious delicacies (olives, cheese, dried fruits, hummus, and fresh breads) and a bazaar of house goods. | Maybachufer, Kreuzberg | 030/9170\u20130700 | www.tuerkenmarkt.de.\n\n### Charlottenburg\n\nAlthough Ku'damm is still touted as the shopping mile of Berlin, many shops are ho-hum retailers. The best stretch for exclusive fashions, such as Louis Vuitton, Herm\u00e8s, and Jil Sander, are the three blocks between Leibnizstrasse and Bleibtreustrasse. For home furnishings, gift items, and unusual clothing boutiques, follow this route off Ku'damm: Leibnizstrasse to Mommsenstrasse to Bleibtreustrasse, then on to the ring around Savignyplatz. Fasanenstrasse, Knesebeckstrasse, Schl\u00fcterstrasse, and Uhlandstrasse are also fun places to browse.\n\nKu'damm ends at Breitscheidplatz, but the door-to-door shopping continues along Tauentzienstrasse, which, in addition to international retail stores, offers continental Europe's largest department store, the upscale Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe.\n\n#### Bookstores\n\nFodor's Choice | Bucherbogen.  \nPeek under the rails of Charlottenburg's Savignyplatz and you'll find this much-loved bookstore. The large selection of books, many special-edition or out-of-print, include numerous titles on art, design, and architecture, and the international offerings are extensive. | Stadtbahnbogen 593, Charlottenburg | 303/186\u20139511 | www.buecherbogen.com | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Clothing: Men's\n\nFodor's Choice | Chelsea Farmer's Club.  \nThis living-room-like space is the go-to for sophisticated menswear with a British posh edge; you'll find everything from tuxedoes to hunting jackets on their shelves. The owner's manufacture their own line of quality British-style smoking jackets, and the inventory also includes top brands and small fashion accessories. There's a small bar in the back, where you can toast your latest purchase in style. | Schl\u00fcterstr. 50, Charlottenburg | 030/8872\u20137474 | www.chelseafarmersclub.de | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Clothing: Women's\n\nJil Sander.  \nThe flagship store of German designer Jil Sander carries the newest collections from this iconic, understated brand, including fashions for men. | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 185, Charlottenburg | 030/886\u20137020 | www.jilsander.com.\n\n#### Department Stores\n\nFodor's Choice | Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe).  \nThe largest department store in continental Europe, classy Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe) has a grand selection of goods, spread over seven floors, as well as food and deli counters, champagne bars, beer bars, and a beautiful art deco\u2013style atrium caf\u00e9 on the top floor. The wealth of services offered here includes luxury gift basket arrangements, exclusive travel guides, and an international box office. | Tauentzienstr. 21\u201324, Charlottenburg | 030/21210 | www.kadewe.de | Closed Sun.\n\n#### Gifts and Souvenirs\n\nHarry Lehmann.  \nIf you want a taste\u2014or rather, a smell\u2014of old Berlin, head to Harry Lehmann on Kantstrasse in Charlottenburg. The shopkeeper will greet you in a white lab coat, helpfully explaining the origin and inspiration of the expertly mixed perfumes, which fill large apothecary jars along a mirrored wall. This is definitely old school\u2014the shop has been opened in 1926. Scents are fresh, simple, and clean, and a 30-ml bottle (\u20ac15.50) makes for a reasonably priced gift or souvenir. | Kantstr. 106, Charlottenburg | 030/324\u20133582 | www.parfum-individual.de | Closed Sun.\n\nK\u00f6nigliche Porzellan Manufaktur.  \nFine porcelain is still produced by K\u00f6nigliche Porzellan Manufaktur, the former Royal Porcelain Manufactory for the Prussians, also called KPM. You can buy this delicate handmade, hand-painted china at KPM's two stores, but it may be more fun to visit the factory salesroom, which also sells seconds at reduced prices. | Wegelystr. 1, Tiergarten | 030/390\u201309215 | de-de.kpm-berlin.com | Kurf\u00fcrstendamm 27, Charlottenburg | 030/8862\u20137961.\n\nFodor's Choice | Paper & Tea.  \nEnter this serene shop just off Kantstrasse and you'll be stepping into a world of high-quality, looseleaf teas. Rather than bulk up on inventory, the store has a restrained selection of 70 teas, all displayed in museumlike cases, where you can smell the wares. There are two tasting areas, where expert attendants brew and explain the teas. | Bleibtreust. 4, Charlottenburg | 030/9561\u20135468 | www.paperandtea.com | Closed Sun.\n\nFodor's Choice | Wald Konesberg Marzipan.  \nThis third-generation artisan shop offers a taste of the old-world treat marzipan, using a family recipe that dates back to the turn of the 20th century. The vintage-style shop features candy-striped wallpaper, vintage tools, and rows of handmade marzipan, all wrapped in delicate packaging. | Pestalozzistr. 54 a, Charlottenburg | 030/323\u20138254 | www.wald-koenigsberger-marzipan.de | Closed Sun.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nExploring | Where to Eat\n\nUpdated by Katherine Sacks\n\nA trip to Berlin wouldn't be complete without paying a visit to Potsdam and its park, which surrounds the important Prussian palaces Neues Palais and Sanssouci. This separate city, the state capital of Brandenburg (the state surrounding Berlin), can be reached within a half hour from Berlin's Zoo Station and most major Berlin S-bahn stations.\n\nPotsdam still retains the imperial character it earned during the many years it served as a royal residence and garrison quarters. The Alter Markt and Neuer Markt show off stately Prussian architecture, and both are easily reached from the main train station by any tram heading into the town center.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nPotsdam is 20 km (12 miles) southwest of Berlin's center and a half-hour journey by car or bus. From Zoo Station to Potsdam's main train station, the regional train RE-1 takes 17 minutes, and the S-bahn Line No. 7 takes about 30 minutes; use an ABC zone ticket for either service. City traffic is heavy, so a train journey is recommended. Several Berlin tour operators have Potsdam trips.\n\nThere are several tours that include Potsdam (most are two or six hours). They leave from the landing across from Berlin's Wannsee S-bahn station between late March and early October. Depending on the various tours on offer, a round-trip ticket costs \u20ac7.50\u2013\u20ac23.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nPotsdam Tourist Office. Two-hour walking tours (9\u20ac) are led around Potsdam's historical center from this tourist information center. | Touristenzentrum Potsdam, Brandenburgerstr. 3, at Brandenburger Tor, Potsdam | 0331/275\u2013580 | www.potsdamtourismus.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Exploring\n\nAlter Markt.  \nThis \"Old Market\" Square is the hub of Potsdam's historical center and was, for three centuries, home to the city's baroque palace. The area was heavily damaged by Allied bombing in World War II and then destroyed by the East German regime in 1960. After reunification, Potsdam decided to rebuild its palace, and the reconstructed structure will house the state parliament. Thanks to private donors, the first element, a magnificent replica of the Fortunaportal, now stands proudly on the square, while the palace's main sections are currently being built with a combination of modern and historic elements. | Am Alten Markt 1.\n\nHaus der Brandenburg-Preussischen Geschichte (House of Brandenburg-Prussian History).  \nThe region's history museum, the Haus der Brandenburg-Preussischen Geschichte, is in the royal stables in the square opposite the Nikolaikirche. | Am Neuen Markt 9 | 0331/620\u20138550 | www.hbpg.de | \u20ac4.50 | Tues.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20135, Fri.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nHoll\u00e4ndisches Viertel.  \nThe center of the small Holl\u00e4ndisches Viertel\u2014the Dutch Quarter\u2014is an easy walk north along Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse to Mittelstrasse. Friedrich Wilhelm I built the settlement in the 1730s to entice Dutch artisans who could support the city's rapid growth. The 134 gabled, mansard-roof brick houses make up the largest Dutch housing development outside of the Netherlands today. Antique shops, boutiques, and restaurants fill the buildings now, and the area is one of Potsdam's most visited.\n\nNeues Palais (New Palace).  \nThe Neues Palais, a much larger and grander palace than Sanssouci, stands at the end of the long avenue that runs through Sanssouci Park. It was built after the Seven Years' War (1756\u201363), when Frederick loosened the purse strings. It's said he wanted to demonstrate that the state coffers hadn't been depleted too severely by the long conflict. Interiors that impress include the Grotto Hall with walls and columns set with shells, coral, and other aquatic decor. The royals' upper apartments have paintings by 17th-century Italian masters. You can opt to tour the palace yourself only on weekends between late April and mid-May. | Str. am Neuen Palais, Sanssouci | 0331/969\u20134200 | www.spsg.de | \u20ac8 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20135.\n\nNikolaikirche.  \nKarl Friedrich Schinkel designed the Alter Markt's domed Nikolaikirche. In front of it stands an Egyptian obelisk erected by Schloss Sanssouci architect von Knobelsdorff. | Am Alten Markt.\n\nAltes Rathaus.  \nA gilded figure of Atlas tops the tower of the old Rathaus, built in 1755. | Am Alten Markt 9.\n\nQuick Bites: Wiener Restaurant.  \nFine coffee blends and rich cakes are available at the Wiener Restaurant, an old-style European coffeehouse not far from the Gr\u00fcnes Gitter entrance to Sanssouci. | Luisenpl. 4 | 0331/6014\u20139904 | www.wiener-potsdam.de.\n\nSchloss Cecilienhof (Cecilienhof Palace).  \nResembling a rambling, Tudor manor house, Schloss Cecilienhof was built for Crown Prince Wilhelm in 1913, on a newly laid-out stretch of park called the Neuer Garten (New Garden), which borders the Heiliger See. It was in this, the last palace to be built by the Hohenzollerns, that the Allied leaders Stalin, Truman, and Churchill (later Attlee) hammered out the fate of postwar Germany at the 1945 Potsdam Conference.TIP From Potsdam's main train station, take a tram to Reiterweg/Alleestrasse, and then transfer to Bus No. 603 to Schloss Cecilienhof. | 0331/969\u20134200 | www.spsg.de | \u20ac6 with tour (mandatory Nov.\u2013Mar.), \u20ac4 tour of royal couple's private apartments | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135. Tours of royal couple's private apartments at 10, 12, 2, 4.\n\nSchloss Charlottenhof.  \nSchloss Charlottenhof is in the southern part of Sanssouci Park, an expansive, landscaped promenade with fountains, streams, manicured gardens, and wide walkways as well as some hidden paths. After Frederick the Great died in 1786, the ambitious Sanssouci building program ground to a halt, and the park fell into neglect. It was 50 years before another Prussian king, Friedrich Wilhelm IV, restored Sanssouci's earlier glory. He engaged the great Berlin architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel to build this small palace for the crown prince. Schinkel's demure interiors are preserved, and the most fanciful room is the bedroom, decorated like a Roman tent, with its walls and ceiling draped in striped canvas. Between the Sanssouci palaces are later additions to the park. | 0331/969\u20134228 | \u20ac4 with tour | May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nChinesisches Teehaus (Chinese Teahouse).  \nThe Chinesisches Teehaus was erected in 1754 in the Chinese style that was all the rage at the time. It houses porcelain from Meissen and Asia. | \u20ac2 | May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nFriedenskirche (Peace Church).  \nCompleted in 1854, the Italianate Friedenskirche houses a 13th-century Byzantine mosaic taken from an island near Venice. | 0331/974\u2013009 | Free | Apr. 24\u201330, Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20135, Sun. 12\u20135; May\u2013Sept., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 12\u20136; Oct. 2\u201316, Mon.\u2013Sat. 11\u20135, Sun. 12\u20135; Oct. 17\u2013Apr. 23, Sat. 11\u20134, Sun. 11:30\u20134.\n\nOrangerieschloss und Turm.  \nThe Orangerieschloss und Turm was completed in 1864; its two massive towers linked by a colonnade evoke an Italian Renaissance palace. Today it houses more than 50 copies of paintings by Raphael. | Guided tour \u20ac4, tower only \u20ac2 | Apr., weekends and holidays 10\u20136; May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nR\u00f6mische B\u00e4der. (Roman Baths)  \nFriedrich Wilhelm IV built the R\u00f6mische B\u00e4der (Roman Baths), also designed by Schinkel, from 1829 to 1840. Like many of the other structures in Potsdam, this one is more romantic than authentic. Half Italian villa, half Greek temple, the structure is nevertheless a charming addition to the park. | \u20ac3 with exhibit | May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nSchloss Sanssouci.  \nPrussia's most famous king, Frederick the Great, spent more time at his summer residence, Schloss Sanssouci, than in the capital of Berlin. Its name means \"without a care\" in French, the language Frederick cultivated in his own private circle and within the court. Some experts believe that Frederick actually named the palace \"Sans, Souci,\" which they translate as \"with and without a care,\" a more apt name, since its construction caused him a lot of trouble and expense, and sparked furious rows with his master builder, Georg Wenzeslaus von Knobelsdorff. His creation nevertheless became one of Germany's greatest tourist attractions. The palace lies on the edge of Park Sanssouci, which includes various buildings and palaces with separate admissions and hours. TIP Be advised that during peak tourism times, timed tickets for Schloss Sanssouci tours can sell out before noon.\n\nExecuted according to Frederick's impeccable French-influenced taste, the palace, built between 1745 and 1747, is extravagantly rococo, with scarcely a patch of wall left unadorned. Leading up to the building is an unusual formal terrace where wine grapes were once cultivated. | Park Sanssouci | 0331/969\u20134200 | www.spsg.de | \u20ac12 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nBildergalerie (Picture Gallery).  \nJust east of Sanssouci Palace sits the picture gallery, which displays Frederick II's collection of 17th-century Italian and Dutch paintings, including works by Caravaggio, Rubens, and Van Dyck. The main cupola contains expensive marble from Siena. | 0331/969\u20134181 | \u20ac6 | May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nNeue Kammern (New Chambers).  \nTo the west of the palace are the Neue Kammern, which housed guests of the king's family after its beginnings as a greenhouse. | 0331/969\u20134206 | \u20ac4 guided tour only | Apr.\u2013Oct, Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nQuick Bites: Drachenhaus  \n(Dragon House). Halfway up the hill leading to the Belvedere, past the Orangerie, stands the curious Drachenhaus, modeled in 1770 after the Pagoda at London's Kew Gardens and named for the gargoyles ornamenting the roof corners. It now houses a popular restaurant and caf\u00e9. | Maulbeerallee 4 | www.drachenhaus.de.\n\n## Where to Eat\n\nRestaurant Juliette.  \nFRENCH | In a city proud of its past French influences, the highly praised French cuisine here is often delivered to your table by French waiters, no less. The intimate restaurant at the edge of the Dutch Quarter has old-fashioned brick walls and a fireplace. The menu offers small portions of dishes such as rack of lamb, quail with roasted chanterelles, and a starter plate of seasonal foie-gras preparations. Its wine list of 120 French vintages is unique in the Berlin area. TIP Company chief Ralph Junick has really cornered the market in Potsdam, with four other French restaurants, including a tasty cr\u00eaperie and a coffee shop. If you'll be in Potsdam for more than one meal, check Juliette's website to see what else is in town. | Average main: \u20ac20 | J\u00e4gerstr. 39 | 0331/270\u20131791 | www.restaurant-juliette.de.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nWelcome to Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia\n\nSaxony\n\nSaxony-Anhalt\n\nThuringia\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nTop Reasons to Go | Getting Oriented | What's Where | Planning | Following Martin Luther | Luther Quotes | On the Trail of Martin Luther | Reformation Timeline | Bauhaus in Weimar | Bauhaus in Dessau | A Bauhaus Walk in Weimar | Style Elements\n\nUpdated by Lee A. Evans\n\nGermany's traditional charm is most evident in the eastern states of Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia. The area formed the core of the former communist German Democratic Republic (referred to by its German acronym, DDR, or its English equivalent, GDR), but there is hardly any left today. Instead an unspoiled German state of mind predominates.\n\nEastern Germans resolutely cling to their German heritage. They proudly preserve their connections with such national heroes as Luther, Goethe, Schiller, Bach, Handel, Wagner, and the Hungarian-born Liszt. Towns in the regions of the Th\u00fcringer Wald (Thuringian Forest) or the Harz Mountains\u2014long considered the haunt of witches\u2014are drenched in history and medieval legend. The area hides a fantastic collection of rural villages and castles unparalleled in other parts of the country.\n\nMany cities, such as Erfurt, escaped World War II relatively unscathed, and the East Germans extensively rebuilt towns damaged by bombing. Although historical city centers were faithfully restored to their past glory, there are also plenty of eyesores of industrialization and stupendously bland housing projects, which the Germans refer to as Baus\u00fcnden (architectural sins). Famous palaces and cultural wonders\u2014the rebuilt historical center of Dresden, the Wartburg at Eisenach, the Schiller and Goethe houses in Weimar, Luther's Wittenberg, as well as the wonderfully preserved city of G\u00f6rlitz\u2014are waiting for to have their subtle and extravagant charms discovered.\n\n## Top Reasons to Go\n\nFollowing Martin Luther: Trace the path of the ultimate medieval rebel in Wittenberg, Erfurt, Eisenach, and the Wartburg, and gain valuable insight into the mind and culture of a person whose ideas helped change the world.\n\nFrauenkirche in Dresden: Rising like a majestic baroque phoenix, the church is a worthy symbol of a city destroyed and rebuilt from its ashes.\n\nG\u00f6rlitz: Balanced on the border between Germany and Poland, this architectural gem is relatively undiscovered; you'll feel as if you have the whole town to yourself.\n\nWeimar: The history of Germany seems to revolve around this small town, whose past residents are a veritable who's who of the last 400 years, including Goethe, Schiller, Bach, Liszt, and Gropius.\n\nWine tasting in the Salle-Unstrut: The castle-topped, rolling hills covered in terraced vineyards are perfect for biking, hiking, and horseback riding.\n\n## Getting Oriented\n\nThese three states cover the southeastern part of the former East Germany, and the area holds Germany's most historical and beautiful cities. You'll still see old, dirty, and depressing industrial towns that recall the Communist past, but 25 years of reconstruction programs have slowly turned them into things of the past. Dresden revels in its reputation as \"the Florence on the Elbe,\" and just downstream Meissen has undergone an impressive face-lift. Weimar, one of the continent's old cultural centers, and Leipzig, in particular, have washed off their grime and almost completely restored their historic city centers. G\u00f6rlitz, Germany's easternmost city, benefited from an infusion of cash and is consistently lauded as one of the country's 10 most beautiful cities.\n\n## What's Where\n\nSaxony. The pearl of eastern Germany, Saxony's countryside is dotted with beautifully renovated castles and fortresses, and the people are charming and full of energy. (They also speak in an almost incomprehensible local dialect.) Dresden and Leipzig are cosmopolitan centers that combine the energy of the avant-garde with a distinct respect for tradition.\n\nSaxony-Anhalt. Although long ignored by travelers, Saxony-Anhalt has more UNESCO World Heritage sites than any other region in Europe. The city of Naumburg is famed for its cathedral and for the wines produced in the surrounding vineyards.\n\nThuringia. Of all the eastern German states, Thuringia has the best tourist infrastructure. Visitors to the classical jewel of Weimar and those interested in outdoor sports in the lush Thuringian Forest flock to the area, much as they have for centuries. Thuringia offers unparalleled natural sights as well as classical culture at reasonable prices.\n\n## Planning\n\n### When to Go\n\nWinters in this part of Germany can be cold, wet, and dismal, so unless you plan to ski in the Harz Mountains or the Th\u00fcringer Wald, visit in late spring, summer, or early autumn. Avoid Leipzig at trade-fair times, particularly in March and April. In summer every city, town, and village has a festival, with streets blocked and local culture spilling out into every open space.\n\n### Getting Here and Around\n\n#### Air Travel\n\nIt's easiest, and usually cheapest, to fly into Berlin or Frankfurt and rent a car from there. Dresden and Leipzig both have international airports that are primarily operated by budget carriers serving European destinations. Dresden Flughafen is about 10 km (6 miles) north of Dresden, and Leipzig's Flughafen Leipzig-Halle is 12 km (8 miles) northwest of the city.\n\nAirport Contacts  \nDresden Flughafen. | Flughafenstr., | Dresden | 0351/881\u20133360 | www.dresden-airport.de.   \nFlughafen Leipzig-Halle. | Termanalring 11, | Schkeuditz | 0341/224\u20131155 | www.leipzig-halle-airport.de.\n\n#### Bus Travel\n\nLong-distance buses travel to Dresden and Leipzig. Bus service within the area is infrequent and mainly connects with rail lines. Check schedules carefully at central train stations or call the service phone number of Deutsche Bahn (German Railway) at local railway stations.\n\n#### Car Travel\n\nExpressways connect Berlin with Dresden (A-13) and Leipzig (A-9). Both journeys take about two hours. The A-4 stretches east\u2013west across the southern portion of Thuringia and Saxony.\n\nA road-construction program in eastern Germany is ongoing, and you should expect traffic delays on any journey of more than 300 km (186 miles). The Bundesstrassen throughout eastern Germany are narrow, tree-lined country roads, often jammed with traffic. Roads in the western part of the Harz Mountains are better and wider.\n\nCars can be rented at the Dresden and Leipzig airports, at train stations, and through all major hotels. Be aware that you are not allowed to take rentals into Poland or the Czech Republic.\n\n#### Train Travel\n\nThe fastest and least expensive way to explore the region is by train. East Germany's rail infrastructure is exceptional; trains serve even the most remote destinations with astonishing frequency. Slower S, RB, and RE trains link smaller towns, while Leipzig, Dresden, Weimar, Erfurt, Naumburg, and Wittenberg are all on major InterCity Express (ICE) lines. Some cities\u2014Dresden and Meissen, for example\u2014are linked by commuter trains.\n\nFrom Dresden a round-trip ticket to Leipzig costs about \u20ac43 (a 1\u00bd-hour journey one-way); to G\u00f6rlitz it's about \u20ac38 (a 1\u00bd-hour ride). Trains connect Leipzig with Halle (a 30-minute ride, \u20ac10), Erfurt (a 1-hour ride, \u20ac28), and Eisenach (a 1\u00bd-hour journey, \u20ac28). The train ride between Dresden and Eisenach (2\u00bd hours) costs \u20ac56 one-way.\n\nTIP Consider using a L\u00e4nder-Ticket: a \u20ac22 (plus \u20ac3 per person up to five people) regional day ticket from the German Railroad that covers local train travel in the respective state (for example, within Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, or Thuringia).\n\n### Tours\n\nWith two luxury ships, Viking K\u2013D operates a full program of cruises on the Elbe River, from Hamburg as far as Prague. They run up to eight days from mid-April until late October. All the historic cities of Saxony and Thuringia are ports of call\u2014including Dresden, Meissen, Wittenberg, and Dessau.\n\nWeisse Flotte's historic paddle-steam tours depart from and stop in Dresden, Meissen, Pirna, Pillnitz, K\u00f6nigsstein, and Bad Schandau. Besides tours in the Dresden area, boats also go into the Czech Republic. For more information contact the S\u00e4chsische Dampfschiffahrt.\n\nIn Saxony two historic narrow-gauge trains still operate on a regular schedule. Both the L\u00f6ssnitzgrundbahn, which connects Ost-Radebeul-Ost and Radeburg, as well as the Weisseritzelbahn, which operates between Freital-Hainsberg and Kurort Kipsdorf, are perfect for taking in some of Saxony's romantic countryside and the Fichtelberg Mountains. A round-trip ticket is between about \u20ac7 and \u20ac11, depending on the length of the ride. For schedule and information, contact Deutsche Bahn's regional Dresden office.\n\nThe famous steam locomotive Harzquerbahn connects Nordhausen-Nord with Wernigerode and Gernerode in the Harz Mountains. The most popular track of this line is the Brockenbahn, a special narrow-gauge train transporting tourists to the top of northern Germany's highest mountain. For schedule and further information, contact the Harzer Schmalspurbahnen GmbH.\n\nTour Contacts  \nGerman Railroad (Deutsche Bahn). | 0180/599\u20136633 | www.bahn.de.   \nHarzer Schmalspurbahnen GmbH. | Friedrichstr. 151, | Wernigerode | 03943/5580 | www.hsb-wr.de.   \nL\u00f6ssnitzgrundbahn. | Geyersdorfer Str. 32, | Annaberg-Buchholz | 0351/46165\u201363684.   \nS\u00e4chsische Dampfschiffahrt. | Hertha-Lindner-Str. 10, | Dresden | 0351/866\u2013090 | www.saechsische-dampfschiffahrt.de.   \nWeisseritztalbahn. | Dresdner Str. 280, | Freital | 0351/641\u20132701 | www.weisseritztalbahn.de.\n\n### Restaurants\n\nEnterprising young managers and chefs have established themselves in the East, so look for new, usually small, restaurants. People in the region are extremely particular about their traditional food (rumor has it that one can be deported for roasting M\u00fctzbraten over anything other than birch), but some new chefs have successfully blended contemporary German with international influences. Medieval-theme restaurants and \"experience dining,\" complete with entertainment, are all the rage in the East, and warrant at least one try. Brewpubs have sprouted up everywhere, and are a good bet for meeting locals.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the average cost of a main course at dinner, or if dinner is not served, at lunch.\n\n### Hotels\n\nHotels in eastern Germany are up to international standards and, due to economic subsidies in the 1990s, often far outshine their West German counterparts. In the East it's quite normal to have a major international hotel in a 1,000-year-old house or restored mansion. Smaller and family-run hotels are more charming local options, and often include a good restaurant. Most big hotels offer special weekend or activity-oriented packages that aren't found in the western part of the country. All hotels include breakfast, unless indicated otherwise.\n\nDuring the trade fairs and shows of the Leipziger Messe, particularly in March and April, most Leipzig hotels increase their prices.\n\nPrices in the reviews are the lowest cost of a standard double room in high season.\n\n### Planning Your Time\n\nEastern Germany is a small, well-connected region that's well suited for day trips. Dresden and Leipzig are the largest cities with the most facilities, making them good bases from which to explore the surrounding countryside, either by car or train. Both are well connected with Berlin, Munich, and Frankfurt. Leipzig, Dresden, Lutherstadt-Wittenberg, and Dessau can be explored as day trips from Berlin. Any of the smaller towns offer a quieter, possibly more authentic look at the area. A trip into the Salle-Unstrut wine region is well worth the time, using Naumburg as a base.\n\n### Discounts and Deals\n\nMost of the region's larger cities offer special tourist exploring cards, such as the Dresdencard, Hallecard, Leipzigcard, and Weimarcard, which include discounts at museums, concerts, hotels, and restaurants or special sightseeing packages for up to three days. For details, check with the local visitor information office.\n\n## Following Martin Luther\n\nSaxony-Anhalt and Thuringia are currently celebrating the \"Luther decade,\" preparing to mark the Protestant Reformation's 500th anniversary in 2017. A drive between the Lutherst\u00e4dte (Luther Cities) allows for a deeper understanding of Martin Luther and the Reformation.\n\nDissatisfaction was already brewing, but Martin Luther (1483\u20131546) was the first German to speak out against the Catholic Church. He took issue with the sale of indulgences\u2014letters from the Pope purchased by wealthy Christians to absolve them of sins. His 95 Theses, which he brashly nailed to a church door, called for a return to faith in the Bible's teachings over the Pope's decrees, and an end to the sale of indulgences. Despite such so-called heretical beginnings, Luther overcame condemnation by the Pope and several other governing bodies. He continued to preach, building a family with Katharina von Bora, a former nun he married after \"rescuing\" her from a convent. After his death, Lutheranism spread across Europe as an accepted branch of Christianity.\n\n\u2014Giulia Pines\n\n## Luther Quotes\n\n\"I am more afraid of my own heart than of the pope and all his cardinals. I have within me the great pope, Self.\"\n\n\"When the Devil... sees men use violence to propagate the gospel, he... says with malignant looks and frightful grin: 'Ah, how wise these madmen are to play my game! Let them go on; I shall reap the benefit... '\"\n\n## On the Trail of Martin Luther\n\nStart in the town of Wittenberg, the unofficial capital of the Reformation. The comprehensive Lutherhaus museum is in the Augustinian monastery where Luther lived twice, first as a monk and later with his family. This multilevel, bilingual museum will convince the skeptics that Luther is worth remembering. From the museum, it's a short walk down the main thoroughfare Collegienstrasse to two churches that felt the influence of his teachings. The first is Stadtkirche St. Marien (Parish Church of St. Mary), where Luther often preached. The second, Schlosskirche (Castle Church), is where Luther changed history by posting his 95 Theses. The original wooden doors were destroyed in a 1760 fire, now replaced by bronze doors with the Latin text of the 95 Theses. On the way from one church to the other, stop to admire the statues of Luther and his friend and collaborator Philipp Melanchthon\u2014they are buried next to each other in Schlosskirche.\n\nIn the nearby town of Eisleben, the houses where Luther was born, the Luthers Geburtshaus (Lutherstr. 15 | 03475/714\u20137814), and died, Luthers Sterbehaus (Sangerh\u00e4user Str. 46 | 03475/67680) lie 10 minutes from each other. From there, it's easy to spot the steeples of two churches: St. Petri-Pauli-Kirche (Church of Sts. Peter and Paul | Petristr. | 03475/602\u2013229) and St. Andreaskirche (St. Andrew's Church | Andreaskirchpl. | 03475/602\u2013229). The first was Luther's place of baptism, while the second houses the pulpit where Luther gave his last four sermons. His funeral was also held here before his body was taken back to Wittenberg.\n\nContinuing southwest the stunning medieval castle Wartburg is in the hills high above the town of Eisenach. Luther took refuge here after he was excommunicated by the Pope and outlawed by a general assembly called the Diet of Worms, famously translating the New Testament from the original Greek into German.\n\n## Reformation Timeline\n\n1517: Luther nails his 95 Theses to Wittenberg's Schlosskirche.\n\n1521: Refusing to recant, Luther is excommunicated.\n\n1537: Denmark's Christian III declares Lutheranism the state religion, leading to its spread in Scandinavia.\n\n1555: Charles V signs Peace of Augsburg, ending open hostilities between Catholicism and Lutheranism and granting the latter official status. Due to the rise of Calvinism, conflict bubbles under the surface.\n\n1558: Queen Elizabeth I of England supports the establishment of the English Protestant Church.\n\n1577: The Formula of Concord ends disputes between sects, strengthening and preserving Lutheranism.\n\n1618: Religious tensions explode in Bohemia, thrusting Europe into the Thirty Years' War. At war's end, much of Central Europe is in ruins, with 40% of people dead.\n\n1650s and beyond: Lutheran explorers and settlers bring their beliefs to the New World.\n\n## Bauhaus in Weimar\n\nBegun in Weimar, the Bauhaus movement's futuristic design, \"form from function\" mentality, and revolutionary spirit have inspired artists worldwide.\n\nFounded in 1919 by architect Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus movement had roots in the past but was also unabashedly modern. Based on the principles of William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement, Bauhaus promoted the idea of creation as a service to society, holding practical objects such as a chair, teapot, or lamp to the same high standards as true works of art. Its style was art deco but less ornate, machine-age but not industrial, its goal to put both spaces and materials to their most natural and economical uses. Although the Bauhaus school was shut down by the Nazis in the early 1930s, many former Bauhaus students left Germany and went to work in other parts of the world. Today, their influence can even be seen as far away as Tel Aviv, where Jewish architects fleeing Europe came to build their vision of a modern city.\n\n\u2014Giulia Pines\n\n## Bauhaus in Dessau\n\nIf you have an extra day, take the train to Dessau, Bauhaus's second city, to see the iconic Bauhaus Building, adorned on one side with vertical block lettering spelling out \"Bauhaus.\" Still an architecture school, it now houses the Bauhaus Dessau Foundation, and a multilevel Bauhaus Museum. You can even stay in the monastic Bauhaus studio flats here.\n\n## A Bauhaus Walk in Weimar\n\nStart with the Bauhaus Museum in Weimar's central Theaterplatz, which offers a film about the history of Bauhaus and rotating exhibitions covering much of what there is to see in Weimar. Head south along Sch\u00fctzengasse and continue down Amalienstrasse to catch a glimpse of the Henry van de Velde\u2013designed main building of Bauhaus University (Geschwister-Scholl-Str. 8 | 03643/580 | www.uni-weimar.de), formerly the Grand Ducal School of Arts and Crafts. A faithful reconstruction of Gropius's office can be found here as well. The Bauhaus Atelier (Geschwister-Scholl-Str. 6a | 03643/583\u2013000) at the university is a central meeting place for students. It contains a caf\u00e9 and shop offering books about the movement as well as Bauhaus-designed souvenirs, and also marks the starting point for university-run Bauhaus walks. Head just south for the Gropius-designed Monument to the March Dead in Weimar's Historischer Friedhof (Historical Cemetery). This jagged expressionist structure, built in 1921, commemorates those who died in the Kapp Putsch, an attempt to overthrow the Weimar Republic a year earlier. Follow the signs for Goethes Gartenhaus (perhaps the most visited historical structure in Weimar) through the Park on the Ilm, and look just beyond it for the Haus am Horn (Am Horn 61 | 03643/904\u2013056). This modest, cubical structure designed by Georg Muche for the 1923 Bauhaus exhibition was meant to be a model of Bauhaus's functional philosophy. It was fully restored in 1999 to mark the 80 anniversary of the founding of Bauhaus.\n\n## Style Elements\n\nAccording to the standards of Bauhaus, good design should be accompanied by good engineering. That's why so many Bauhaus buildings still look strikingly modern, even industrial, even though they may have been designed as early as the 1920s. Bauhaus's timelessness results from its use of three basic shapes\u2014square, circle, and triangle\u2014and three basic colors\u2014red, blue, and yellow. To spot its influence, look for unadorned, boxlike structures with repeating parallel lines, flat roofs, and rectangular windowpanes. Furniture and household objects feature strong lines, retro-futuristic shapes, and the abundant use of metals. Bauhaus designers also revolutionized typography: the sign on the Bauhaus Building in Dessau is a prime example: look for clear, boxy typefaces, often combined collagelike with photographs and colorful graphics and shapes to create bold messages. The Swedish furniture chain IKEA owes a lot to Bauhaus.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nLeipzig | Dresden | Meissen | Bautzen/Budy\u0161in | G\u00f6rlitz\n\nThe people of Saxony identify themselves more as Saxon than German. Their hardworking and rustic attitudes, their somewhat peripheral location on the border with the Czech Republic and Poland, and their almost incomprehensible dialect are the targets of endless jokes and puns. However, Saxon pride rebuilt three cities magnificently: Dresden and Leipzig\u2014the showcase cities of eastern Germany\u2014and the smaller town of G\u00f6rlitz, on the Neisse River.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Leipzig\n\n184 km (114 miles) southwest of Berlin.\n\nLeipzig is, in a word, cool\u2014but not so cool as to be pretentious. With its world-renowned links to Bach, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Martin Luther, Goethe, Schiller, and the fantastic Neue-Leipziger-Schule art movement, Leipzig is one of the great German cultural centers. It has impressive art-nouveau architecture, an incredibly clean city center, meandering narrow streets, and the temptations of coffee and cake on every corner. In Faust, Goethe describes Leipzig as \"a little Paris\"; in reality it's more reminiscent of Vienna, while remaining a distinctly energetic Saxon town.\n\nLeipzig's musical past includes Johann Sebastian Bach (1685\u20131750), who was organist and choir director at Leipzig's Thomaskirche, and the 19th-century composer Richard Wagner, who was born in the city in 1813. Today's Leipzig continues the cultural focus with extraordinary offerings of music, theater, and opera, not to mention fantastic nightlife.\n\nWartime bombs destroyed much of Leipzig's city center, but reconstruction efforts have uncovered one of Europe's most vibrant cities. Leipzig's art-nouveau flair is best discovered by exploring the countless alleys, covered courtyards, and passageways. Some unattractive buildings from the postwar period remain, but only reinforce Leipzig's position on the line between modernity and antiquity.\n\nWith a population of about 535,000, Leipzig is the third-largest city in eastern Germany (after Berlin and Dresden) and has long been a center of printing and bookselling. Astride major trade routes, it was an important market town in the Middle Ages, and it continues to be a trading center, thanks to the Leipziger Messe (trade and fair shows) throughout the year that bring together buyers from East and West.\n\nUnfortunately, Leipzig has a tendency to underwhelm first-time visitors. If you take Leipzig slow and have some cake, its subtle, hidden charms may surprise you.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nLeipzig is an hour from Berlin by train. Leipzig-Halle airport serves many European destinations, but no North American ones.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nMusic Days.  \nLeipzig's annual music festival is in June. | Augustuspl.\n\n#### Timing\n\nLeipzig can easily be explored in one day; it's possible to walk around the downtown area in just about three hours. The churches can be inspected in less than 20 minutes each. But if you're interested in German history and art, plan for two full days, so you can spend one day just visiting the museums and go to the symphony. The V\u00f6lkerschlachtdenkmal is perfect for a three-hour side trip.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nLeipzig Tourismus und Marketing. | Augustuspl. 9 | 0341/710\u20134260 | www.leipzig.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nGrassimuseum.  \nBritish star architect David Chipperfield restored and modernized this fine example of German art deco in 2003\u201305. The building, dating to 1925\u201329, houses three important museums. | Johannispl. 5\u201311 | www.grassimuseum.de | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Angewandte Kunst (Museum of Applied Art).  \nThis museum showcases 2,000 years of works from Leipzig's and eastern Germany's proud tradition of handicrafts, such as exquisite porcelain, fine tapestry art, and modern Bauhaus design. | Johannispl. 5\u201311 | 0341/222\u20139100 | www.grassimuseum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr V\u00f6lkerkunde (Ethnological Museum).  \nPresenting arts and crafts from all continents and various eras, this museum includes a thrilling collection of Southeast Asian antique art and the world's only Kurile Ainu feather costume, in the Northeast Asia collection. | Johannispl. 5\u201311 | 0341/973\u20131300 | www.grassimuseum.de | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\nMuseum f\u00fcr Musikinstrumente (Musical Instruments Museum).  \nHistorical musical instruments, mostly from the Renaissance, include the world's oldest clavichord, constructed in 1543 in Italy. There are also spinets, flutes, and lutes. Recordings of the instruments can be heard at the exhibits. | Johannispl. 5\u201311 | 0341/973\u20130750 | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\nM\u00e4dlerpassage (M\u00e4dler Mall).  \nThe ghost of Goethe's Faust lurks in every marble corner of Leipzig's finest shopping arcade. One of the scenes in Faust is set in the famous Auerbachs Keller restaurant, at No. 2. A bronze group of characters from the play, sculpted in 1913, beckons you down the stone staircase to the restaurant. TIP Touching the statues' feet is said to bring good luck. A few yards away is a delightful art-nouveau bar called Mephisto. | Grimmaische Str.\n\nMarkt.  \nLeipzig's showpiece is its huge, old market square. One side is completely occupied by the Renaissance town hall, the Altes Rathaus.\n\nStadtgeschichtliches Museum.  \nInside the Altes Rathaus, this museum documents Leipzig's past. The entrance is behind the Rathaus. The museum is expanding its exhibition space behind the Museum for Applied Arts. | B\u00f6ttcherg\u00e4sschen 3 | 0341/965\u2013130 | www.stadtgeschichtliches-museum-leipzig.de | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\nMuseum der Bildenden K\u00fcnste (Museum of Fine Arts).  \nThe city's leading art gallery is minimalism incarnate, set in a huge concrete cube encased in green glass in the middle of Sachsenplatz Square. The museum's collection of more than 2,700 paintings and sculptures represents everything from the German Middle Ages to the modern Neue Leipziger Schule. Especially notable are the collections focusing on Lucas Cranach the Elder and Caspar David Friedrich.TIP Be sure to start at the top and work your way down. Don't miss Max Klinger's Beethoven as Zeus statue. | Katharinenstr. 10 | 0341/216\u2013990 | www.mdbk.de | \u20ac5, \u20ac6\u2013\u20ac8 for special exhibits | Tues. and Thurs.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136, Wed. noon\u20138.\n\nNikolaikirche (St. Nicholas Church).  \nThis church with its undistinguished facade was center stage during the demonstrations that helped bring down the Communist regime. Every Monday for months before the government collapsed, thousands of citizens gathered in front of the church chanting \"Wir sind das Volk\" (\"We are the people\"). Inside are a soaring Gothic choir and nave. Note the unusual patterned ceiling supported by classical pillars that end in palm-tree-like flourishes. Martin Luther is said to have preached from the ornate 16th-century pulpit.TIP The prayers for peace that began the revolution in 1989 are still held on Monday at 5 pm. | Nikolaikirchhof | 0341/960\u20135270 | Free | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136; Sun. services at 9:30, 11:15, and 5.\n\nFodor's Choice | Thomaskirche (St. Thomas's Church).  \nBach was choirmaster at this Gothic church for 27 years, and Martin Luther preached here on Whitsunday 1539, signaling the arrival of Protestantism in Leipzig. Originally the center of a 13th-century monastery, the tall church (rebuilt in the 15th century) now stands by itself. Bach wrote most of his cantatas for the church's famous boys' choir, the Thomanerchor, which was founded in the 13th century; the church continues as the choir's home as well as a center of Bach tradition.\n\nThe great music Bach wrote during his Leipzig years commanded little attention in his lifetime, and when he died he was given a simple grave, without a headstone, in the city's Johannisfriedhof (St. John Cemetery). It wasn't until 1894 that an effort was made to find where the great composer lay buried, and after a thorough, macabre search, his coffin was removed to the Johanniskirche. That church was destroyed by Allied bombs in December 1943, and Bach subsequently found his final resting place in the church he would have selected: the Thomaskirche. You can listen to the famous boys' choir during the Motette, a service with a special emphasis on choral music.\n\nBach's 12 children and the infant Richard Wagner were baptized in the early-17th-century font; Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels also stood before this same font, godfathers to Karl Liebknecht, who grew up to be a revolutionary as well.\n\nIn front of the church is a memorial to Felix Mendelssohn, rebuilt with funds collected by the Leipzig Citizens Initiative. The Nazis destroyed the original in front of the Gewandhaus. | Thomaskirchhof | 0341/222\u2013240 | www.thomaskirche.org | Free, Motette \u20ac2 | Daily 9\u20136; Motette Fri. at 6 pm, Sat. at 3; no Motette during Saxony summer vacation (usually mid-July\u2013Aug.).\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nBach-Museum im Bach-Archiv Leipzig (Bach Museum at the Bach Archives Leipzig).  \nThe Bach family home, the old Bosehaus, stands opposite the Thomaskirche, and is now a museum devoted to the composer's life and work. The newly renovated museum offers several interactive displays; arranging the instrumental parts of Bach's hymns is by far the most entertaining. | Thomaskirchhof 16 | 0341/913\u20137200 | www.bach-leipzig.de (German only)) | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nHauptbahnhof.  \nWith 26 platforms, Leipzig's main train station is Europe's largest railhead. It was built in 1915 and is now a protected monument, but modern commerce rules in its bilevel shopping mall (the Promenaden). The only thing the complex is missing is a pub. Many of the shops and restaurants stay open until 10 pm and are open on Sunday. Thanks to the historic backdrop, this is one of the most beautiful shopping experiences in East Germany. | Willy-Brandt-Pl. | 0341/141\u2013270 for mall, 0341/9968\u20133275 for train station.\n\nLeipziger Universit\u00e4tsturm (Leipzig University Tower).  \nTowering over Leipzig's city center is this 470-foot-high structure, which houses administrative offices and lecture rooms. Dubbed the \"jagged tooth\" or \"wisdom tooth\" by some University of Leipzig students, it supposedly represents an open book. Students were also largely responsible for changing the university's name, replacing its postwar title, Karl Marx University, with the original one. The Augustusplatz spreads out below the university tower like a space-age campus. | Augustuspl. 9.\n\nMendelssohn Haus (Mendelssohn House).  \nThe only surviving residence of the composer Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy is now Germany's only museum dedicated to him. Mendelssohn's last residence and the place of his death has been preserved in its original 19th-century state. Concerts are held every Sunday at 11. | Goldschmidtstr. 12 | 0341/127\u20130294 | www.mendelssohn-haus.de | \u20ac4.50, concert \u20ac15 | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nMuseum in der Runden Ecke (Museum in the Round Corner).  \nThis building once served as the headquarters of the city's detachment of the Communist secret police, the dreaded Staatssicherheitsdienst. The exhibition Stasi\u2014Macht und Banalit\u00e4t (Stasi\u2014Power and Banality) presents not only the Stasi's offices and surveillance work, but also hundreds of documents revealing the magnitude of its interests in citizens' private lives. Though the material is in German, the items and atmosphere convey an impression of what life under the regime might have been like. The exhibit about the death penalty in the GDR is particularly chilling. | Dittrichring 24 | 0341/961\u20132443 | www.runde-ecke-leipzig.de | Free; \u20ac4 with tour in English, by appointment | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nMuseum zum Arabischen Kaffeebaum (Arabic Coffee Tree Museum).  \nThis museum and caf\u00e9-restaurant tells the fascinating history of coffee culture in Europe, particularly in Saxony. The caf\u00e9 is one of the oldest on the continent, and once proudly served coffee to such luminaries as Gotthold Lessing, Schumann, Goethe, and Liszt. The museum features many paintings, Arabian coffee vessels, and coffeehouse games. It also explains the basic principles of roasting coffee. The caf\u00e9 is divided into traditional Viennese, French, and Arabian coffeehouses, but no coffee is served in the Arabian section, which is only a display.TIP The cake is better and the seating more comfortable in the Viennese part. | Kleine Fleischerg. 4 | 0341/960\u20132632 | www.coffe-baum.de | Free | Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135.\n\nNeues Gewandhaus (New Orchestra Hall).  \nIn the shadow of the Leipziger Universit\u00e4tsturm is the glass-and-concrete home of the Leipzig Philharmonic Orchestra. Kurt Masur is a former director, and Michael K\u00f6hler is currently at the helm. Owing to the world-renowned acoustics of the concert hall, a tone resonates here for a full two seconds. | Augustuspl. 8 | 0341/127\u20130280 | www.gewandhaus.de.\n\nOpernhaus (Opera House).  \nLeipzig's stage for operas was the first postwar theater to be built in Communist East Germany. Its solid, boxy style is the subject of ongoing local discussion. | Augustuspl.\n\nV\u00f6lkerschlachtdenkmal (Memorial to the Battle of the Nations).  \nOn the city's outskirts, Prussian, Austrian, Russian, and Swedish forces stood ground against Napol\u00e9on's troops in the Battle of the Nations of 1813, a prelude to the French general's defeat two years later at Waterloo. An enormous, 300-foot-high monument erected on the site in 1913 commemorates the battle. Despite its massiveness, the site is well worth a visit, if only to wonder at the lengths\u2014and heights\u2014to which the Prussians went to celebrate their military victories, and to take in the view from a windy platform (provided you can climb the 500 steps to get there). The Prussians did make one concession to Napol\u00e9on in designing the monument: a stone marks the spot where he stood during the three-day battle. An exhibition hall explains the history of the memorial, which can be reached via Streetcar 15 or 21 (leave the tram at the Probstheida station). | Str. des 18 Oktober 100 | 0341/878\u20130471 | www.stadtgeschichtliches-museum-leipzig.de | \u20ac6 | Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 10\u20134; May\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; tour Tues. at 5.\n\nZeitgeschichtliches Forum Leipzig (Museum of Contemporary History Leipzig).  \nThis excellent history museum focuses on issues surrounding the division and reunification of Germany after World War II. | Grimmaische Str. 6 | 0341/225\u20130500 | www.hdg.de | Free | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nFodor's Choice | Auerbachs Keller.  \nGERMAN | The most famous of Leipzig's restaurants is actually two restaurants: one that's upscale, international, and gourmet (down the stairs to the right), and a rowdy beer cellar (to the left) specializing in hearty Saxon fare, mostly roasted meat dishes. The fine-dining section's five-course menus (\u20ac110) are worth a splurge, and it also has a good wine list. The beer cellar has been around since 1530, making it one of the oldest continually running restaurants on the continent. Goethe immortalized one of the vaulted historic rooms in his Faust, and Bach was a regular here because of the location halfway between the Thomaskirche and the Nikolaikirche. | Average main: \u20ac15 | M\u00e4dlerpassage, Grimmaische Str. 2\u20134 | 0341/216\u2013100 | Reservations essential | Closed Mon.\n\nBarthels Hof.  \nGERMAN | The English-language menu at this restaurant explains not only the cuisine but also the history of Leipzig. Waitresses wear traditional Trachten, but the rooms are quite modern. With a prominent location on the Markt, the restaurant is popular with locals, especially for the incredible breakfast buffet. Barthels has managed to elevate the local Leipziger Allerlei (vegetables and crayfish in beef bouillon) to an art form. Enjoy a meal here with a fresh Bauer Gose. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Hainstr. 1 | 0341/141\u2013310.\n\nGasthaus & Gosebrauerei Bayrischer Bahnhof.  \nGERMAN | Hidden on the far southeast edge of the city center, the Bayrischer Bahnhof was the terminus of the first rail link between Saxony and Bavaria. The brewery here is the heart of a cultural renaissance, and is the only place currently brewing Gose in Leipzig. The restaurant is well worth a visit for its solid Saxon and German cuisine. Brewery accents surface in dishes such as rump steak with black-beer sauce, and the onion rings can't be beat. If the Gose is too sour for your tastes, order it with one of the sweet syrups\u2014raspberry is the best. Groups of four or more can try dinner prepared in a R\u00f6mertopf (a terra-cotta baking dish; the first was brought to Germany by the Romans, centuries ago). TIP In summer the beer garden is a pleasant place to get away from the bustle of the city center. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Bayrischer Pl. 1 | 0341/124\u20135760 | www.bayrischer-bahnhof.de | No credit cards.\n\nKaffeehaus Riquet.  \nCAF\u00c9 | The restored art nouveau house dates from 1908. Riquet is a company that has had dealings in the coffee trade in Africa and East Asia since 1745, as is indicated by the large elephant heads adorning the facade of the building. The upstairs section houses a pleasant Viennese-style coffeehouse\u2014the best views are had from up here\u2014while downstairs is noisier and more active. TIP Afternoon coffee and cake are one of Leipzig's special pleasures (in a country with an obsession for coffee and cake), and Riquet is the best place in the city to satisfy the urge. | Average main: \u20ac4 | Schulmacherg\u00e4sschen 1 | 0341/961\u20130000 | No credit cards | No dinner.\n\nTh\u00fcringer Hof.  \nGERMAN | One of Germany's oldest restaurants and pubs (dating back to 1454) served its hearty Thuringian and Saxon fare to Martin Luther and the like\u2014who certainly had more than a mere pint of the beers on tap. The menu in the reconstructed, cavernous, and always buzzing dining hall doesn't exactly offer gourmet cuisine, but rather an impressively enormous variety of game, fish, and bratwurst dishes. The Thuringian sausages (served with either sauerkraut and boiled potatoes or onions and mashed potatoes) and the famous Thuringian Sauerbraten (beef marinated in a sour essence) are musts. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Burgstr. 19 | 0341/994\u20134999.\n\nZill's Tunnel.  \nGERMAN | The \"tunnel\" refers to the barrel-ceiling ground-floor restaurant, where foaming glasses of excellent local beer are served with a smile. The friendly staff will also help you decipher the Old Saxon descriptions of the menu's traditional dishes. Upstairs there's a larger wine restaurant with an open fireplace. Try the pan-seared Maischolle, a type of flatfish. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Barfussg\u00e4sschen 9 | 0341/960\u20132078.\n\n* * *\n\nWhat to Eat in Saxony\n\nThe cuisine of the region is hearty and seasonal, and almost every town has a unique specialty unavailable outside the immediate area. Look for S\u00e4chsische Sauerbraten (marinated sour beef roast), spicy Th\u00fcringer Bratwurst (sausage), Schlesische Himmelreich (ham and pork roast smothered in baked fruit and white sauce, served with dumplings), Teichlmauke (mashed potato in broth), Blauer Karpfe (blue carp, marinated in vinegar), and Raacher Maad (grated and boiled potatoes fried in butter and served with blueberries). Venison and wild boar are standards in forest and mountainous areas, and lamb from Saxony-Anhalt is particularly good. In Thuringia, Kl\u00f6sse (potato dumplings) are virtually a religion.\n\nEastern Germany is experiencing a renaissance in the art of northern German brewing. The first stop for any beer lover should be the Bayrische Bahnhof in Leipzig, to give Gose a try. Dresden's Brauhaus Watzke, Quedlinburg's L\u00fcddebr\u00e4u, and even the Landskron Brauerei in G\u00f6rlitz are bringing craft brewing back to a region inundated with mass-produced brew.\n\nSaxony has cultivated vineyards for more than 800 years, and is known for its dry red and white wines, among them M\u00fcller-Thurgau, Weissburgunder, Rul\u00e4nder, and the spicy Traminer. The S\u00e4chsische Weinstrasse (Saxon Wine Route) follows the course of the Elbe River from Diesbar-Seusslitz (north of Meissen) to Pirna (southeast of Dresden). Meissen, Radebeul, and Dresden have upscale wine restaurants, and wherever you see a green seal with the letter S and grapes depicted, good local wine is being served. One of the best-kept secrets in German wine making is the Salle-Unstrut region, which produces spicy Silvaner and Rieslings.\n\n* * *\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel F\u00fcrstenhof Leipzig.  \nHOTEL | The city's grandest hotel\u2014part of Starwood's Luxury Collection\u2014is inside the renowned L\u00f6hr-Haus, a revered old mansion 500 meters from the main train station on the ring road surrounding the city center. The stunning banquet section is the epitome of 19th-century grandeur, with red wallpaper and black serpentine stone; the bar is a lofty meeting area under a bright glass cupola. Rooms are spacious and decorated with cherrywood designer furniture. Pros: an elegant full-service hotel with stunning rooms; safes big enough for a laptop are a nice touch. Cons: the ring road can be noisy at night, especially on Friday and Saturday. | Rooms from: \u20ac149 | Tr\u00f6ndlinring 8 | 0341/140\u2013370 | www.luxurycollection.com | 80 rooms, 12 suites.\n\nPark Hotel-Seaside Hotel Leipzig.  \nHOTEL | A few steps from the central train station, this hotel is primarily geared to the business traveler. The modern rooms may lack some character, but the warm service and exceptional bathrooms make for a pleasant stay. The Orient Express restaurant, a reconstruction of the famous 19th-century train, is another plus. Pros: pleasant swimming-pool area. Cons: not the place for romantic weekends. | Rooms from: \u20ac85 | Richard-Wagner-Str. 7 | 0341/98520 | www.parkhotelleipzig.de/ | 281 rooms, 9 suites | Breakfast.\n\nRinghotel Adagio Leipzig.  \nHOTEL | The quiet Adagio, tucked away behind the facade of a 19th-century city mansion, is centrally located between the Grassimuseum and the Neues Gewandhaus. All rooms are individually furnished; when making a reservation, ask for a \"1920s room,\" which features the style of the Roaring '20s and bathtubs almost as large as a whirlpool. Pros: large rooms with luxurious bathrooms; breakfast available all day. Cons: room decor is slightly bland; hotel not built to accommodate disabled guests. | Rooms from: \u20ac75 | Seeburgstr. 96 | 0341/216\u2013690 | www.hotel-adagio.de | 30 rooms, 2 suites, 1 apartment | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\n#### The Arts\n\nKrystallpalast.  \nThis variety theater features a blend of circus, vaudeville, and comedy that is fairly accessible for non-German speakers. | Magazing. 4 | 0341/140\u2013660 | www.krystallpalast.de.\n\nLeipziger Pfefferm\u00fchle.  \nOne of Germany's most famous cabarets has a lively bar off a courtyard opposite the Thomaskirche. On pleasant evenings the courtyard fills with benches and tables, and the scene rivals the indoor performance for entertainment. | Katharinenstr. 17 | 0341/960\u20133196 | www.kabarett-leipziger-pfeffermuehle.de.\n\nNeues Gewandhaus.  \nThis controversial piece of architecture is home to an undeniably splendid orchestra. Tickets to concerts are difficult to obtain unless you reserve well in advance. Sometimes spare tickets are available at the box office a half hour before the evening performance. | Augustuspl. 8 | 0341/127\u20130280 | www.gewandhaus.de.\n\n#### Nightlife\n\nWith a vast assortment of restaurants, caf\u00e9s, and clubs to match the city's exceptional musical and literary offerings, Leipzig is a fun city at night. The Kneipenszene (pub scene) is centered on the Drallewatsch (a Saxon slang word for \"going out\"), the small streets and alleys around Grosse and Kleine Fleischergasse and the Barfussg\u00e4sschen.\n\nMoritzbastei.  \nA magnet for young people, this is reputedly Europe's largest student club, with bars, a disco, a caf\u00e9, a theater, and a cinema. Nonstudents are welcome\u2014if you're cool enough. | Universit\u00e4tsstr. 9 | 0341/702\u2013590.\n\nSchauhaus.  \nA favorite hangout among the city's business elite, this stylish bar serves great cocktails. | Bosestr. 1 | 0341/960\u20130596.\n\nSpizz Keller.  \nThis hip place is one of the city's top dance clubs. | Markt 9 | 0341/960\u20138043.\n\nTanzpalast.  \nIn the august setting of the Schauspielhaus (city theater), the Tanzpalast attracts a thirtysomething crowd. This was the place to be seen in GDR Leipzig. | Bosestr. 1 | 0341/960\u20130596.\n\nWeinstock.  \nThis upscale bar, pub, and restaurant in a Renaissance building offers a huge selection of good wines. | Markt 7 | 0341/1406\u20130606.\n\n### Shopping\n\nSmall streets leading off the Markt attest to Leipzig's rich trading past. Tucked in among them are glass-roof arcades of surprising beauty and elegance, including the wonderfully restored Specks Hof, Barthels Hof, J\u00e4gerhof, and the Passage zum Sachsenplatz. Invent a headache and step into the Apotheke (pharmacy) at Hainstrasse 9\u2014it is spectacularly art nouveau, with finely etched and stained glass and rich mahogany. For more glimpses into the past, check out the antiquarian bookstores of the nearby Neumarkt Passage.\n\nHauptbahnhof.  \nLeipzig's main train station has more than 150 shops, restaurants, and caf\u00e9s, all open Monday through Saturday 9:30 am\u201310 pm; many are also open on Sunday, with the same hours. | Willy-Brandt-Pl.\n\nEn Route: Colditz.  \nThe A\u201314 leads to Dresden, but for a scene out of World War II, head south toward Borna, taking B-176 to Colditz. A pretty river valley holds a pleasant Saxon village whose name still sends a chill through Allied veterans. During the war the Germans converted the town's massive, somber castle into what they believed would be an escape-proof prison for those regarded as security risks. Many managed to flee, however, employing a catalog of ruses that have since been the stuff of films and books. The castle is now a home for the elderly, but the courtyards and some of the installations used during the war can be visited. The town itself is worth a stop and is an interesting day trip from Leipzig. To avoid driving, take the train from Leipzig to Grossbothen and a bus to Colditz. | Colditz.\n\n## Dresden\n\n25 km (16 miles) southeast of Meissen, 140 km (87 miles) southeast of Leipzig, 193 km (120 miles) south of Berlin.\n\nSitting in baroque splendor on a wide sweep of the Elbe River, Dresden has been the capital of Saxony since the 15th century, although most of its architectural masterpieces date from the 18th century and the reigns of Augustus the Strong and his son, Frederick Augustus II. Today the city's yellow and pale-green facades are enormously appealing, and their mere presence is even more overwhelming when you compare what you see with photographs of Dresden from February 1945. That's when Allied bombing destroyed the Altstadt (Old City) overnight. But Dresden has risen from these ashes, regaining its reputation as \"the Florence on the Elbe.\"\n\nAlthough parts of the city center still look stuck between demolition and construction, the city's rebuilding is an enormous tribute to Dresdeners' skill, dedication, and thoroughness. The resemblance of today's riverside to Dresden cityscapes painted by Canaletto in the mid-1700s is remarkable. Unfortunately, war-inflicted gaps in other parts of the city are too big to be closed anytime soon. Main sights are contained within the Altstadt. On the other side of the river, the Neustadt (New City), which escaped wartime destruction, is the place to go out at night.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nDresden is two hours from Berlin on the Hamburg-Berlin-Prague-Vienna train line. The city's international airport serves mostly European destinations with budget airlines. The newly completed Norman Foster train station is a short walk along the Prager Strasse from the city center. Streetcars are cheap and efficient.\n\nDresden bus tours (in German and English, run by the Dresdner Verkehrsbetriebe) leave from Postplatz daily at 10, 11:30, and 3; the Stadtrundfahrt Dresden bus tours (also in German and English) leave from Theaterplatz/Augustusbr\u00fccke (April\u2013October, daily 9:30\u20135, every 30 minutes; November\u2013March, daily 10\u20133, every hour) and stop at most sights.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nFilmn\u00e4chte am Elbufer (Elbe Riverside Film Nights).  \nIn addition to the annual film festival in April, open-air Filmn\u00e4chte am Elbufer take place on the bank of the Elbe from late June to late August. | Am K\u00f6nigsufer, next to State Ministry of Finance | 0351/899\u2013320.\n\nJazz.  \nMay brings an annual international festival of Dixieland jazz, and the Jazz Autumn festival follows in October. | Altmarkt.\n\n#### Timing\n\nA long full day is sufficient for a quick tour of historic Dresden with a brief visit to one of the museums. The focus of your day should be a visit to the Gr\u00fcnes Gew\u00f6lbe. If you plan to explore any of the museums at length, such as the Zwinger, or take a guided tour of the Semperoper, you'll need more time. One of the best ways to see Dresden is as a stop between Berlin and Prague.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nTour Information  \nDresdner Verkehrsbetriebe AG. | Service Center, Postpl. 1 | 0351/857\u20132201.   \nStadtrundfahrt Dresden. | Theaterpl. | 0351/899\u20135650.\n\nVisitor Information   \nDresden Tourist. | Schlossstr. 1, inside the Kulturpalast | 0351/491\u2013920 | www.dresden.de.\n\nPrevious Map | Next Map | Germany Maps\n\n### Exploring\n\n#### Top Attractions\n\nFodor's Choice | Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nThis masterpiece of baroque church architecture was completed in 1743. The huge dome set on a smaller square base, known as the Stone Bell, was the inspiration of George B\u00e4hr, who designed the church to be built \"as if it was a single stone from the base to the top.\" On February 15, 1945, two days after the bombing of Dresden, the burned-out shell of the magnificent Stone Bell collapsed. For the following five decades the remains of the church, a pile of rubble, remained a gripping memorial to the horrors of war. In a move shocking to the East German authorities, who organized all public demonstrations, a group of young people spontaneously met here on February 13, 1982, for a candlelight vigil for peace.\n\nAlthough the will to rebuild the church was strong, the political and economic situation in the GDR prevented it. It wasn't until the reunification of Germany that Dresden began to seriously consider reconstruction. In the early 1990s a citizens' initiative, joined by the Lutheran Church of Saxony and the city of Dresden, decided to rebuild the church using the original stones. The goal of completing the church by 2006, Dresden's 800th anniversary, seemed insurmountable. Money soon started pouring in from around the globe, however, and work began. The rubble was cleared away, and the size and shape of each stone were cataloged. Computer-imaging technology helped place each recovered stone in its original location. On Sunday, October 30, 2005 (almost a year ahead of schedule), Dresden's skyline became a little more complete with the consecration of the Frauenkirche. Leading the service was the Bishop of Coventry. Although the church is usually open to all, it closes frequently for concerts and other events. Check the English-language schedule next to Entrance D. | An der Frauenkirche | 0351/498\u20131131 | www.frauenkirche-dresden.org | Free, cupola and tower \u20ac8, audio guides in English \u20ac2.50 | Weekdays 10\u2013noon and 1\u20136, cupola and tower daily 10\u20136.\n\nResidenzschloss (Royal Palace).  \nRestoration work is still under way behind the Renaissance facade of this former royal palace, much of which was built between 1709 and 1722. Some of the finished rooms in the Georgenbau (Count George Wing) hold historical exhibits, among them an excellent one on the reconstruction of the palace itself. The palace's main gateway, the Georgentor, has an enormous statue of the fully armed Saxon count George. TIP From April through October, the palace's old Hausmannsturm (Hausmann Tower) offers a wonderful view of the city and the Elbe River. The main attraction in the Royal Palace, though, is the world-famous Gr\u00fcnes Gew\u00f6lbe (Green Vault). Named after a green room in the palace of Augustus the Strong, the collection is divided into two sections.\n\nThe palace also houses the M\u00fcnzkabinett (Coin Museum) and the Kupferstichkabinett (Museum of Prints and Drawings), with more than 500,000 pieces of art spanning several centuries. Changing exhibits at the Kupferstichkabinett have presented masterworks by Albrecht D\u00fcrer, Peter Paul Rubens, and Jan van Eyck; 20th-century art by Otto Dix, Edvard Munch, and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner; East European art; and some Southeast Asian prints. The T\u00fcrckische Cammer (Turkish Chamber) comprises a huge number of Ottoman artifacts collected by Saxon dukes over centuries. It's worth going just to see the six carved Arabian horses, bedecked with jeweled armor. | Schlosspl. | 0351/491\u20134619 | www.skd.museum | All museums and collections except Historic Green Vault \u20ac10; Historic Green Vault \u20ac14 | Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20136; Historic Green Vault by appointment.\n\nHistorisches Gr\u00fcnes Gew\u00f6lbe (Historic Green Vault).  \nThis section of the castle most reflects Augustus the Strong's obsession with art as a symbol of power. The intricately restored baroque interior is an integral part of the presentation, highlighting the objects in the collection. The last section of the museum houses the Jewel Room, which displays the ceremonial crown jewels of Augustus the Strong and his son. Access to the Historic Green Vault is limited to 100 visitors per hour and is by appointment only, reserved by phone or online. | Taschenberg 2 | 0351/4919\u20132285 for tours | www.skd.museum | \u20ac14 | By appointment.\n\nNeues Gr\u00fcnes Gew\u00f6lbe (New Green Vault).  \nThe exquisite collection here consists of objets d'art fashioned from gold, silver, ivory, amber, and other precious and semiprecious materials. Among the crown jewels are the world's largest \"green\" diamond, 41 carats in weight, and a dazzling group of tiny gem-studded figures called Hofstaat zu Delhi am Geburtstag des Grossmoguls Aureng-Zeb (the Court at Delhi during the Birthday of the Great Mogul Aureng-Zeb). The unwieldy name gives a false idea of the size of the work, dating from 1708; some parts of the tableau are so small they can be admired only through a magnifying glass. Somewhat larger and less delicate is the drinking bowl of Ivan the Terrible, perhaps the most sensational artifact in this extraordinary museum. | Taschenberg 2 | www.skd.museum.\n\nSemperoper (Semper Opera House).  \nOne of Germany's best-known and most popular theaters, this magnificent opera house saw the premieres of Richard Wagner's Rienzi, Der Fliegende Holl\u00e4nder, and Tannh\u00e4user and Richard Strauss's Salome, Elektra, and Der Rosenkavalier. The Dresden architect Gottfried Semper built the house in 1838\u201341 in Italian Renaissance style, then saw his work destroyed in a fire caused by a careless lamplighter. Semper had to flee Dresden after participating in a democratic uprising, but his son Manfred rebuilt the theater in the neo-Renaissance style you see today, though even Manfred Semper's version had to be rebuilt after the devastating bombing raid of February 1945. On the 40th anniversary of that raid\u2014February 13, 1985\u2014the Semperoper reopened with a performance of Der Freisch\u00fctz, by Carl Maria von Weber, the last opera performed in the building before its destruction. There is a statue of Weber, another artist who did much to make Dresden a leading center of German music and culture, outside the opera house in the shadow of the Zwinger. Even if you're no opera buff, the Semper's lavish interior can't fail to impress. Velvet, brocade, and well-crafted imitation marble create an atmosphere of intimate luxury (it seats 1,323). Guided tours (must be reserved in advance) of the building are offered throughout the day, depending on the opera's rehearsal schedule. Check the website for schedules. Tours begin at the entrance to your right as you face the Elbe River. | Theaterpl. 2 | 0351/491\u20131496 | www.semperoper-erleben.de | Tour \u20ac9.\n\nFodor's Choice | Zwinger (Bailey).  \nDresden's magnificent baroque showpiece is entered by way of the mighty Kronentor (Crown Gate), off Ostra-Allee. Augustus the Strong hired a small army of artists and artisans to create a \"pleasure ground\" worthy of the Saxon court on the site of the former bailey, part of the city fortifications. The artisans worked under the direction of the architect Matth\u00e4us Daniel P\u00f6ppelmann, who came reluctantly out of retirement to design what would be his greatest work, begun in 1707 and completed in 1728. Completely enclosing a central courtyard filled with lawns, pools, and fountains, the complex is made up of six linked pavilions, one of which boasts a carillon of Meissen bells, hence its name: Glockenspielpavillon.\n\nThe Zwinger is quite a scene\u2014a riot of garlands, nymphs, and other baroque ornamentation and sculpture. Wide staircases beckon to galleried walks and to the romantic Nymphenbad, a coyly hidden courtyard where statues of nude women perch in alcoves to protect themselves from a fountain that spits unexpectedly. The Zwinger once had an open view of the riverbank, but the Semper Opera House now occupies that side. Stand in the center of this quiet oasis, where the city's roar is kept at bay by the outer wings of the structure, and imagine the court festivities once held here. | Ostra\u2013Allee | www.skd.museum | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nGem\u00e4ldegalerie Alte Meister (Gallery of Old Masters).  \nThis museum, in the northwestern corner of the complex, was built to house portions of the royal art collections. Among the priceless paintings are works by D\u00fcrer, Holbein, Jan van Eyck, Rembrandt, Rubens, Van Dyck, Hals, Vermeer, Raphael, Titian, Giorgione, Veronese, Vel\u00e1zquez, Murillo, Canaletto, and Watteau. On the wall of the entrance archway you'll see an inscription in Russian, one of the few amusing reminders of World War II in Dresden. It rhymes in Russian: \"Museum checked. No mines. Chanutin did the checking.\" Chanutin, presumably, was the Russian soldier responsible for checking one of Germany's greatest art galleries for anything more explosive than a Rubens nude. The highlight of the collection is Raphael's Sistine Madonna, whose mournful look is slightly less famous than the two cherubs who were added by Raphael after the painting was completed, in order to fill an empty space at the bottom. | 0351/491\u20134679 | \u20ac12 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\nPorzellansammlung (Porcelain Collection).  \nStretching from the curved gallery that adjoins the Glockenspielpavillon to the long gallery on the east side, this collection is considered one of the best of its kind in the world. The focus, naturally, is on Dresden and Meissen china, but there are also outstanding examples of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean porcelain. | 0351/491\u20134619 | \u20ac6 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\nR\u00fcstkammer (Armory).  \nHolding medieval and Renaissance suits of armor and weapons, the R\u00fcstkammer is in two parts: the main exhibit in the Semperbau and the T\u00fcrckische Cammer in the Residenzschloss. | 0351/491\u20134619 | \u20ac10 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136\n\n#### Worth Noting\n\nAlbertinum.  \nNamed after Saxony's King Albert, who between 1884 and 1887 converted a royal arsenal into a suitable setting for the treasures he and his forebears had collected, this massive, imperial-style building houses one of the world's great galleries featuring works from the romantic period to the modern. The Galerie Neue Meister (New Masters Gallery) has an extensive collection ranging from Caspar David Friedrich and Gauguin to Ernst Kirchner and Georg Baselitz. | Am Neumarkt, Br\u00fchlsche Terrasse | 0351/49849\u201314973 | www.skd.museum | \u20ac10 | Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20136.\n\nAltmarkt (Old Market Square).  \nAlthough dominated by the nearby, unappealing, Kulturpalast (Palace of Culture), the Altmarkt is a fascinating concrete leftover from the 1970s (check out the workers and peasants GDR mosaic); the broad square and its surrounding streets are the true center of Dresden. The colonnaded beauty (from the Stalinist-era architecture of the early 1950s) survived the efforts of city planners to turn it into a huge outdoor parking lot. The rebuilt Rathaus (Town Hall) is here (go around the front to see bullet holes in the statuary), as is the yellow-stucco, 18th-century Landhaus, which contains the Stadtmuseum Dresden im Landhaus. TIP Dresdners joke that you should never park your car here because the square is under almost constant construction and you might never find it again.\n\nAugustusbr\u00fccke (Augustus Bridge).  \nThis bridge, which spans the river in front of the Katholische Hofkirche, is the reconstruction of a 17th-century baroque bridge blown up by the SS shortly before the end of World War II. It was restored and renamed for Georgi Dimitroff, one of the Bulgarian Communists accused by the Nazis of instigating the Reichstag fire; after the fall of Communism the original name, honoring Augustus the Strong, was reinstated.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Deutsches Hygiene-Museum Dresden.  \nThis unique (even in a country with a national tendency for excessive cleanliness) and unfortunately named museum relates the history of public health and science. The permanent exhibit offers lots of hands-on activities. The building itself housed the Nazi eugenics program, and the special exhibit on this period is not recommended for children under 12. | Lingnerpl. 1 | 0351/48460 | www.dhmd.de | \u20ac7 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nJohanneum.  \nAt one time the royal stables, this 16th-century building now houses the Verkehrsmuseum (Transportation Museum), a collection of historic conveyances, including vintage automobiles and engines. The former stable exercise yard, behind the Johanneum and enclosed by elegant Renaissance arcades, was used during the 16th century as an open-air festival ground. A ramp leading up from the courtyard made it possible for royalty to reach the upper story to view the jousting below without having to dismount. More popular even than jousting in those days was Ringelstechen, a risky pursuit in which riders at full gallop had to catch small rings on their lances. Horses and riders often came to grief in the narrow confines of the stable yard.\n\nTIP On the outside wall of the Johanneum is a remarkable example of porcelain art: a 336-foot-long Meissen tile mural of a royal procession. More than 100 members of the royal Saxon house of Wettin, half of them on horseback, are represented on the giant mosaic, known as the \"Procession of Princes,\" which is made of 25,000 porcelain tiles, painted in 1904\u201307 after a design by Wilhelm Walther. The representations are in chronological order: at 1694, Augustus the Strong's horse is trampling a rose, the symbol of Martin Luther and the Protestant Reformation. The Johanneum is reached by steps leading down from the Br\u00fchlsche Terrasse. | Am Neumarkt at Augustusstr. 1 | 0351/86440 | www.verkehrsmuseum-dresden.de | \u20ac7 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nKatholische Hofkirche (Catholic Court Church).  \nThe largest Catholic church in Saxony is also known as the Cathedral of St. Trinitatis. Frederick Augustus II (who reigned 1733\u201363) brought architects and builders from Italy to construct a Catholic church in a city that had been the first large center of Lutheran Protestantism (like his father, Frederick Augustus II had to convert to Catholicism to be eligible to wear the Polish crown). Inside, the treasures include a beautiful stone pulpit by the royal sculptor Balthasar Permoser and a painstakingly restored 250-year-old organ, said to be one of the finest ever to come from the mountain workshops of the famous Silbermann family. In the cathedral's crypt are the tombs of 49 Saxon rulers and a reliquary containing the heart of Augustus the Strong, which is rumored to start beating if a beautiful woman comes near. | Schlosspl. | 0351/484\u20134712 | Free | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 9\u20135, Fri. 1\u20135, Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. noon\u20134:30.\n\nKreuzkirche (Cross Church).  \nSoaring high above the Altmarkt, the richly decorated tower of the baroque Kreuzkirche dates back to 1792. The city's main Protestant church is still undergoing postwar restoration, but the tower and church hall are open to the public. A famous boys' choir, the Kreuzchor, performs here regularly (check website or call for times). | Altmarkt | 0351/439\u2013390 | Tower \u20ac1.50 | Nov.\u2013Mar., weekdays 10\u20134, Sun. 11\u20134; Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136.\n\nPfund's Molkerei (Pfund's Dairy Shop).  \nThis decorative 19th-century shop has been a Dresden institution since 1880, and offers a wide assortment of cheese and other goods. The shop is renowned for its intricate tile mosaics on the floor and walls. Pfund's is also famous for introducing pasteurized milk to the industry; it invented milk soap and specially treated milk for infants as early as 1900. | Bautzener Str. 79 | 0351/808\u2013080 | www.pfunds.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 10\u20133.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Panometer Dresden.  \nYou can step back in time and get a sense of how Dresden looked in 1756 by viewing this 360-degree panorama portrait of the city. Artist Yadegar Asisi's monumental 105-by-27-meter painting locates the viewer on the tower of the Stadtschloss, with extremely detailed vistas in all directions. The painting is located in an old natural-gas store. To get here from Dresden Main Station, take S1 or S2 to the station Dresden-Reick/Asisi Panometer (five minutes). From the Altmarkt take Tram No. 1 or 2 to the Liebst\u00e4dterstrasse stop (15 minutes). | Gasanstaltstr. 8b | 0351/860\u20133940 | www.asisi.de | \u20ac10 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 9\u20137, weekends 10\u20138.\n\nStadtmuseum Dresden im Landhaus (Dresden City Museum at the Landhaus).  \nThe city's small but fascinating municipal museum tells the ups and downs of Dresden's turbulent past\u2014from the dark Middle Ages to the bombing of Dresden in February 1945. There are many peculiar exhibits on display, such as an American 250-kilogram bomb and a stove made from an Allied bomb casing. The building has the most interesting fire escape in the city. | Wilsdruffer Str. 2 | 0351/656\u2013480 | www.stmd.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136 (Fri. until 8).\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nAlte Meister.  \nGERMAN | Set in the historic mansion of the architect who rebuilt the Zwinger, and named after the school of medieval painters that includes D\u00fcrer, Holbein, and Rembrandt, the Alte Meister has a sophisticated Old World flair that charms locals and tourists alike. The food is very current, despite the decor, and the light German nouvelle cuisine with careful touches of Asian spices and ingredients has earned chef Dirk Wende critical praise. In summer this is one of the city's premier dining spots, offering a grand view of the Semperoper from a shaded terrace. | Average main: \u20ac18 | Theaterpl. 1a | 0351/481\u20130426.\n\nBall und Brauhaus Watzke.  \nGERMAN | One of the city's oldest microbreweries, the Watzke offers a great reprieve from Dresden's mass-produced Radeberger. Several different homemade beers are on tap\u2014you can even help brew one. Tours of the brewery cost \u20ac5 with a tasting, or \u20ac12.50 with a meal, and you can get your beer to go in a 1- or 2-liter jug called a Siphon. The food is hearty, contemporary Saxon. When the weather is nice, enjoy the fantastic panoramic view of Dresden from the beer garden. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Koetzschenbroderstr. 1 | 0351/852\u2013920.\n\nSophienkeller.  \nGERMAN | One of the liveliest restaurants in town re-creates an 18th-century beer cellar in the basement of the Taschenberg Palace. The furniture and porcelain are as rustic as the food is traditional, including the typically Saxon Gesindeessen (rye bread, panfried with mustard, slices of pork, and mushrooms, baked with cheese). The Sophienkeller is popular with larger groups; you might have to wait if you're a party of three or fewer. During the wait, check out the bread baker near the entrance. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Taschenbergpalais, Taschenberg 3 | 0351/497\u2013260.\n\n* * *\n\nDresden's Experience Dining\n\nOne of the most touristy but fun experiences to be had in Dresden is a meal at Erlebnis Restaurants (Experience Dining). They run two period restaurants that have meals, decor, and costumes of a particular historical era. Yes, it's tacky, perhaps corny, but it's also extremely entertaining, and even Dresdeners get a big kick out of it. Both restaurants have the same basic menu of standard German food, with specialties relevant to their particular themes. The food is good and the prices decent. Be sure to try the Dresdner Trichter (Dresden Funnel), an interesting story of the excesses of Augustus the Strong followed by a sample of a homemade herbal liqueur. Reservations, though not essential, are recommended.\n\nPulverturm.  \nDine with remnants of the Saxon army as they defend Dresden against enemy invaders. Each room is decorated in the style and with the weapons of Dresden's attackers, be they Turkish, Swedish, or Russian. The ambience at this eatery is militarily spartan, with medieval weaponry, the odd cannon, and lots of roast meat. Try the Spanferkel (suckling pig); groups of 10 can enjoy the \"Executioner's Last Meal.\" | Average main: \u20ac12 | An der Frauenkirche 12 | 0351/262\u2013600 | www.pulverturm-dresden.de.\n\n* * *\n\nWatzke Brauereiausschank am Goldenen Reiter.  \nGERMAN | Watzke microbrewery operates this smaller restaurant with the same beer and hearty menu, directly across from the Goldene Reiter statue of Augustus the Strong. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Hauptstr. 11 | 0351/810\u20136820.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nart'otel Dresden.  \nHOTEL | This hotel keeps the promise of its name: it's all modern, designed by Italian interior architect Denis Santachiara, and decorated with more than 600 works of art by Dresden-born painter and sculptor A R. Penck. Some find the heavily styled rooms a bit much, but it's definitely a place for the artsy crowd. Apart from offering art, the hotel's rooms and service have genuine first-class appeal at reasonable prices. Pros: art elements make the hotel fun. Cons: bathrooms have an opaque window into the room; decor is not for everyone. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Ostra-Allee 33 | 0351/49220 | www.artotels.com | 155 rooms, 19 suites | Breakfast.\n\nHotel B\u00fclow-Residenz.  \nHOTEL | One of the most intimate first-class hotels in eastern Germany, the B\u00fclow-Residenz is in a baroque palace built in 1730 by a wealthy Dresden city official. Each spacious room has thick carpets and mostly dark, warm cherrywood furniture as well as individual accents and modern amenities. In summer the verdant courtyard is a romantic setting for dinner. The Caroussel restaurant serves a large variety of sophisticated fish and game dishes. Pros: extremely helpful staff. Cons: a/c can be noisy; hotel is located in Neustadt, a 10-minute walk across the river to the city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac159 | R\u00e4hnitzg. 19 | 0351/80030 | www.buelow-residenz.de | 25 rooms, 5 suites.\n\nHotel Elbflorenz.  \nHOTEL | This centrally located hotel with Dresden's somewhat presumptuous nickname (\"Florence on the Elbe\") contains Italian-designed rooms bathed in red and yellow and arranged alongside a garden courtyard. There's a fine sauna and relaxation area, and the hotel's restaurant, Quattro Cani della Citta, serves delicious Italian seafood and other specialties. Pros: extraordinary breakfast buffet. Cons: in need of renovation; located at edge of city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac86 | Rosenstr. 36 | 0351/86400 | www.hotel-elbflorenz.de | 212 rooms, 15 suites | Breakfast.\n\nKempinski Hotel Taschenbergpalais Dresden.  \nHOTEL | Rebuilt after wartime bombing, the historic Taschenberg Palace\u2014the work of Zwinger architect Matth\u00e4us Daniel P\u00f6ppelmann\u2014is Dresden's premier address and the last word in luxury, as befits the former residence of the Saxon crown princes. Rooms are as big as city apartments, and suites earn the adjective \"palatial\"; they are all furnished with bright elm-wood furniture. Pros: ice-skating in the courtyard in winter; concierge knows absolutely everything about Dresden. Cons: expensive extra charges for breakfast and Internet. | Rooms from: \u20ac199 | Taschenberg 3 | 0351/49120 | www.kempinski-dresden.de | 188 rooms, 25 suites.\n\nRothenburger Hof.  \nHOTEL | One of Dresden's smallest and oldest luxury hotels, the historic Rothenburger Hof opened in 1865, and is only a few steps away from the city's sightseeing spots. A highlight is the dining room, which gives some insight as to how Dresden's wealthy wined and dined 150 years ago. The rooms are not large, but they're comfortable and enticingly decorated with furniture that looks antique but, in fact, is reproduction. Pros: nice garden and indoor pool. Cons: across the river in Neustadt, about 20 minutes from the city center; street can be noisy in summer. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Rothenburger Str. 15\u201317 | 0351/81260 | www.dresden-hotel.de | 26 rooms, 13 apartments | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife and the Arts\n\n#### The Arts\n\nPhilharmonie Dresden (Philharmonic Orchestra Dresden).  \nDresden's fine orchestra takes center stage in the city's annual music festival, from mid-May to early June. | Kulturpalast am Altmarkt | 0351/486\u20136286 | en.dresdnerphilharmonie.de.\n\nSemperoper Dresden (Semper Opera House).  \nThe opera in Dresden holds an international reputation largely due to its opera house. Destroyed during the war, the building has been meticulously rebuilt and renovated. Tickets are reasonably priced but also hard to come by; they're often included in package tours.TIP Try reserving tickets on the website, or stop by the box office about a half hour before the performance. If that doesn't work, take one of the opera-house tours, a nice consolation that gets you into the building. | Theaterpl. | www.semperoper.de | Evening box office (Abendkasse), left of main entrance | 0351/491\u20131705.\n\n#### Nightlife\n\nDresdeners are known for their industriousness and efficient way of doing business, but they also know how to spend a night out. Most of Dresden's pubs and Kneipen (bars) are in the Neustadt district, across the river from most sights, and along the buzzing M\u00fcnzgasse (between the Frauenkirche and the Br\u00fchlsche Terrasse).\n\nAqualounge.  \nThis groovy and hip place is one of the best bars in town. | Louisenstr. 56 | 0351/810\u20136116 | www.aqualounge.de.\n\nB\u00e4renzwinger.  \nFolk and rock music are regularly featured here. | Br\u00fchlscher Garten | 0351/495\u20131409 | www.baerenzwinger.de.\n\nMotown Club.  \nHot African rhythms attract a young and stylish crowd. | St. Petersburger Str. 9 | 0351/487\u20134150.\n\nPlanwirtschaft.  \nThe name ironically refers to the planned socialist economic system; it attracts an alternative crowd. | Louisenstr. 20 | 0351/801\u20133187.\n\nTonne Jazz Club.  \nJazz musicians perform most nights of the week at this friendly, laid-back club. | Waldschl\u00f6sschen, Am Brauhaus 3 | 0351/802\u20136017.\n\n### Shopping\n\nDresden's Striezelmarkt.  \nDating to 1434, this market was named after the city's famous Stollen, a buttery Christmas fruitcake often made with marzipan and sprinkled with powdered sugar. The market hosts a festival in its honor, complete with a 9,000-pound cake, on the Saturday of the second weekend of Advent. Traditional wooden toys produced in the nearby Erzgebirge mountains are the other major draw. | Altmarkt | www.dresden-striezelmarkt.de | Nov. 24\u2013Dec. 23, daily 10\u20139; Dec. 24, 10\u20132.\n\nFreital.  \nDresden is almost as famous as Meissen for its porcelain. The wares are manufactured outside the city in Freital, where there's a showroom and shop.\n\nS\u00e4chsische Porzellan-Manufaktur Dresden.  \nOpen Monday through Saturday 9\u20135. | Carl-Thieme-Str. 16 | Freital | 0351/647\u2013130\n\nKarstadt.  \nExquisite Meissen and Freital porcelain can be found at this department store. | Prager Str. 12 | 0351/490\u20136833.\n\nKunststube am Zwinger.  \nFor sale here are wooden toys and the famous Saxon R\u00e4ucherm\u00e4nnchen (Smoking Men) and Weihnachtspyramiden (Christmas Lights Pyramids) manufactured by hand in the Erzgebirge Mountains. | Hertha-Lindner-Str. 10\u201312 | 0351/490\u20134082.\n\n## Meissen\n\n25 km (15 miles) northwest of Dresden.\n\nThis romantic city with its imposing castle looming over the Elbe River is known the world over for Europe's finest porcelain, emblazoned with its trademarked crossed blue swords. The first European porcelain was made in this area in 1708, and in 1710 the Royal Porcelain Workshop was established in Meissen, close to the local raw materials.\n\nThe story of how porcelain came to be produced here reads like a German fairy tale: the Saxon elector Augustus the Strong, who ruled from 1694 to 1733, urged his court alchemists to find the secret of making gold, something he badly needed to refill a state treasury depleted by his extravagant lifestyle. The alchemists failed to produce gold, but one of them, Johann Friedrich B\u00f6ttger, discovered a method for making something almost as precious: fine hard-paste porcelain. Already a rapacious collector of Oriental porcelains, the prince put B\u00f6ttger and a team of craftsmen up in a hilltop castle\u2014Albrechtsburg\u2014and set them to work.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nMeissen is an easy 45-minute train ride from Dresden. On arrival, exit the station and walk to the left; as you turn the corner there is a beautiful view of Meissen across the river. Trains run about every 30 minutes.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Meissen. | Markt 3 | 03521/41940 | www.touristinfo-meissen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAlbrechtsburg.  \nThe story of Meissen porcelain actually began high above Old Meissen. Towering over the Elbe River, this 15th-century castle is Germany's first truly residential one, a complete break with the earlier style of fortified bastions. In the central Schutzhof, a typical Gothic courtyard protected on three sides by high rough-stone walls, is an exterior spiral staircase, the Wendelstein, a masterpiece of early masonry hewn in 1525 from a single massive stone block. The ceilings of the castle halls are richly decorated, although many date only from a restoration in 1870. Adjacent to the castle is an early Gothic cathedral. It's a bit of a climb up Burgstrasse and Amtsstrasse to the castle, but a bus runs regularly up the hill from the Marktplatz. | 03521/47070 | www.albrechtsburg-meissen.de | \u20ac8 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 10\u20135.\n\nAltes Brauhaus (Old Brewery).  \nNear the Frauenkirche, the Altes Brauhaus dates to 1460 and is graced by a Renaissance gable. It now houses city offices. | An der Frauenkirche 3.\n\nFranziskanerkirche (St. Francis Church).  \nThe city's medieval past is recounted in the museum of this former monastery. | Heinrichspl. 3 | 03521/458\u2013857 | \u20ac3 | Daily 11\u20135.\n\nFrauenkirche (Church of Our Lady).  \nA set of porcelain bells at the late-Gothic Frauenkirche, on the central Marktplatz, was the first of its kind anywhere when installed in 1929. | An der Frauenkirche.\n\nNikolaikirche (St. Nicholas Church).  \nNear the porcelain works, this church holds the largest set of porcelain figures ever crafted (8\u00bc feet tall) as well as the remains of early Gothic frescoes. | Neumarkt 29.\n\nStaatliche Porzellan\u2013Manufaktur Meissen (Meissen Porcelain Works).  \nOutgrowing its castle workshop in the mid-19th century, today's porcelain factory is on the southern outskirts of town. One of its buildings has a demonstration workshop and a museum whose Meissen collection rivals that of Dresden's Porzellansammlung. | Talstr. 9 | 03521/468\u2013208 | www.meissen.de | \u20ac9 including workshop and museum | May\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 9\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nDomkeller.  \nGERMAN | Part of the centuries-old complex of buildings ringing the town castle, this ancient and popular hostelry is a great place to enjoy fine wines and hearty German dishes. It's also worth a visit for the sensational view of the Elbe River valley from the large dining room and tree-shaded terrace. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Dompl. 9 | 03521/457\u2013676.\n\nRestaurant Vincenz Richter.  \nGERMAN | Tucked away in a yellow wooden-beam house, this historic restaurant has been painstakingly maintained by the Richter family since 1873. The dining room is adorned with rare antiques, documents, and medieval weapons, as well as copper and tin tableware. Guests can savor the exquisite dishes on the Saxon-German menu while sampling the restaurant's own personally produced white wines; a bottle of the Riesling is a real pleasure. Try the delicious wild rabbit with bacon-wrapped plums, paired with a glass of Kerner Meissener Kapitelberg. | Average main: \u20ac13 | An der Frauenkirche 12 | 03521/453\u2013285 | Closed Mon. No dinner Sun.\n\nWelcome Parkhotel Meissen.  \nHOTEL | Most of the luxuriously furnished and appointed rooms are in newly built annexes, but for turn-of-the-century charm, opt for a room in the art-nouveau villa, which sits on the bank of the Elbe across from the hilltop castle. For a stunning view book the Hochzeitssuite (wedding suite), on the top floor. The restaurant ($$) serves nouvelle cuisine in a dining room with original stained glass and elegantly framed doors. Pros: gorgeous views; elegant rooms; fine dining. Cons: villa rooms are not as newly furnished; international chain hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Hafenstr. 27\u201331 | 03521/72250 | www.welcome-hotel-meissen.de | 92 rooms, 5 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nConcerts.  \nRegular concerts are held at the Albrechtsburg castle, and in early September the Burgfestspiele\u2014open-air evening performances\u2014are staged in the castle's romantic courtyard. | 03521/47070.\n\nDom.  \nMeissen's cathedral, the Dom, has a yearlong music program, with organ and choral concerts every Saturday in summer. | Dompl. 7 | 03521/452\u2013490.\n\n### Shopping\n\nS\u00e4chsische Winzergenossenschaft Meissen.  \nTo wine connoisseurs, the name \"Meissen\" is associated with vineyards producing top-quality white wines much in demand throughout Germany. M\u00fcller-Thurgau, Weissburgunder, and Goldriesling are worth choices and can be bought directly from the producer, S\u00e4chsische Winzergenossenschaft Meissen. | Bennoweg 9 | 03521/780\u2013970.\n\nStaatliche Porzellan\u2013Manufaktur Meissen.  \nMeissen porcelain is available directly from the porcelain works as well as in every china and gift shop in town. | Talstr. 9 | 03521/468\u2013700.\n\n## Bautzen/Budy\u0161in\n\n53 km (33 miles) east of Dresden.\n\nBautzen has perched high above a deep granite valley formed by the River Spree for more than 1,000 years. Its almost-intact city walls hide a remarkably well-preserved city with wandering back alleyways and fountain-graced squares. Bautzen is definitely a German city, but it is also the administrative center of Germany's only indigenous ethnic minority, the Sorbs.\n\nIn the area, the Sorb language enjoys equal standing with German in government and education, and Sorbs are known for their colorful folk traditions. As in all Slavic cultures, Easter Sunday is the highlight of the calendar, when ornately decorated eggs are hung from trees and when the traditional Osterreiten, a procession of Catholic men on horseback who carry religious symbols and sing Sorbian hymns, takes place.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nBautzen is halfway between Dresden and G\u00f6rlitz. Trains leave both cities once every hour; travel time is about an hour.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Bautzen-Budy\u0161in. | Hauptmarkt 1 | 03591/42016 | www.bautzen.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nAlte Wasserkunst (Old Waterworks).  \nErected in 1558, the Alte Wasserkunst served as part of the town's defensive fortifications, but its true purpose was to pump water from the Spree into 86 cisterns spread throughout the city. It proved so efficient that it provided the city's water supply until 1965. It is now a technical museum. | Wendischer Kirchhof 7 | 03591/41588 | \u20ac3 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nDom St. Petri (St. Peter's Cathedral).  \nBehind the Rathaus is one of Bautzen's most interesting sights: Dom St. Petri is Germany's only Simultankirche, or \"simultaneous\" church. In order to avoid the violence that often occurred during the Reformation, St. Peter's has a Protestant side and a Roman-Catholic side in the same church. A short fence, which once reached a height of 13 feet, separates the two congregations. The church was built in 1213 on the sight of a Milzener (the forerunners of the Sorbs) parish church. | An der Petrikirche 6 | 03591/31180 | www.dompfarrei-bautzen.de | Free | May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20133, Sun. 1\u20134; Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 11\u2013noon.\n\nHexenh\u00e4user (Witches' Houses).  \nBelow the waterworks and outside the walls, these three reddish houses were the only structures to survive all the city's fires\u2014leading Bautzeners to conclude that they could only be occupied by witches. | Fischerg.\n\nRathaus.  \nBautzen's main market square is actually two squares, the Hauptmarkt (Main Market) and the Fleischmarkt (Meat Market), separated by the yellow, baroque Rathaus. The current town hall dates from 1705, but there has been a town hall in this location since 1213. Bautzen's friendly tourist-information center, next door, has a great Bautzen-in-two-hours walking-tour map and an MP3 guide to the city. | Fleischmarkt 1.\n\nReichenturm (Rich Tower).  \nBautzen's city walls have a number of gates and towers. This one, at the end of Reichenstrasse, is the most impressive. Although the tower base dates from 1490, it was damaged in four city fires (in 1620, 1639, 1686, and 1747) and rebuilt, hence its baroque cupola. The reconstruction caused the tower to lean, however, and its foundation was further damaged in 1837. The \"Leaning Tower of Bautzen\" currently sits about 5 feet off center.TIP The view from the top is a spectacular vista of Bautzen and the surrounding countryside. | Reichenstr. 1 | 03591/460\u2013431 | \u20ac1.40 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nWjelbik.  \nEASTERN EUROPEAN | The name of Bautzen's best Sorbian restaurant means \"pantry.\" Very popular on Sorb holidays, Wjelbik uses exclusively regional produce in such offerings as the Sorbisches Hochzeitsmenu (Sorb wedding feast)\u2014a vegetable and meatball soup followed by beef in creamed horseradish. The restaurant is in a 600-year-old building near the cathedral. | Average main: \u20ac14 | Kornstr. 7 | 03591/42060.\n\nHotel Goldener Adler.  \nHOTEL | This pleasant hotel occupies a 450-year-old building on the main market square, and great effort has been made to incorporate traditional building elements into the modern and spacious rooms. The restaurant, Bautzen's oldest, serves regional Saxon cuisine. Fondue by candlelight in the wine cellar is highly recommended but must be booked in advance. Pros: a complete package: comfortable historical hotel, good restaurant, and yummy fondue. Cons: a little too modern for a historical town. | Rooms from: \u20ac90 | Hauptmarkt 4 | 03591/48660 | www.goldeneradler.de | 30 rooms.\n\n## G\u00f6rlitz\n\n48 km (30 miles) east of Bautzen, 60 km (38 miles) northeast of Dresden.\n\nTucked away in the country's easternmost corner (bordering Poland), G\u00f6rlitz's quiet, narrow cobblestone alleys and exquisite architecture make it one of Germany's most beautiful cities. It emerged from the destruction of World War II relatively unscathed. As a result it has more than 4,000 historic houses in styles including Gothic, Renaissance, baroque, rococo, Wilhelminian, and art nouveau. Although the city has impressive museums, theater, and music, it's the ambience created by the casual dignity of these buildings, in their jumble of styles, that makes G\u00f6rlitz so attractive. Notably absent are the typical socialist eyesores and the glass-and-steel modernism found in many eastern German towns.\n\nThe Gothic Dicker Turm (Fat Tower) guards the entrance to the city; it's the oldest tower in G\u00f6rlitz, and its walls are 5 meters thick.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nG\u00f6rlitz can be reached by hourly trains from Dresden (1\u00bd hours) and from Berlin (3 hours, with a change in Cottbus). G\u00f6rlitz's train station (a wonderful neoclassical building with an art nouveau interior) is a short tram ride outside town.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nG\u00f6rlitz-Information und Tourist-Service. | Bruderstr. 1 | 03581/47570 | www.goerlitz.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBiblical House.  \nThis house is interesting for its Renaissance facade decorated with sandstone reliefs depicting biblical stories. The Catholic Church banned religious depictions on secular buildings, but by the time the house was rebuilt after a fire in 1526, the Reformation had G\u00f6rlitz firmly in its grip. | Neissestr. 29.\n\nDreifaltigkeitskirche (Church of the Holy Trinity).  \nOn the southeast side of the market lies this pleasant Romanesque church with a Gothic interior, built in 1245. The interior houses an impressive Gothic triptych altarpiece. The clock on the thin tower is set seven minutes fast in remembrance of a trick played by the city guards on the leaders of a rebellion. In 1527 the city's disenfranchised cloth makers secretly met to plan a rebellion against the city council and the powerful guilds. Their plans were uncovered, and by setting the clock ahead the guards fooled the rebels into thinking it was safe to sneak into the city. As a result they were caught and hanged. | Obermarkt | \u20ac3.\n\nKarstadt.  \nDating from 1912\u201313, Germany's only original art-nouveau department store has a main hall with a colorful glass cupola and several stunning freestanding staircases. The store dominates the Marienplatz, a small square outside the city center that serves as G\u00f6rlitz's transportation hub. It's next to the 15th-century Frauenkirche, the parish church for the nearby hospital and the poor condemned to live outside the city walls. TIP Though the department store is closed (the city is trying to open it to the public), you can peek inside through the perfume shop. | An der Frauenkirche 5\u20137 | 03581/4600.\n\nKirche St. Peter und Paul (St. Peter and Paul Church).  \nPerched high above the river is one of Saxony's largest late-Gothic churches, dating to 1423. The real draw is the church's famous one-of-a-kind organ, built in 1703 by Eugenio Casparini. The Sun Organ gets its name from the circularly arranged pipes and not from the golden sun at the center. Its full and deep sound, as well as its birdcalls, can be heard on Sunday and Wednesday afternoons. | Bei der Peterkirche 5 | 03581/409\u2013590 | Free | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10:30\u20134, Sun. 11:30\u20134; guided tours Thurs. and Sun. at noon.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Landskron Brauerei  \n(Landskron Brewery). Germany's easternmost Brauhaus is one of the few breweries left that gives tours. Founded in 1869, Landskron isn't very old by German standards, but it's unique in that it hasn't been gobbled up by a huge brewing conglomerate. G\u00f6rlitzer are understandably proud of their own Premium Pilsner, but the brewery also produces good dark, Silesian, and winter beers. Landskron Hefeweizen is one of the best in the country. | An der Landskronbrauerei | 03581/465\u2013121 | www.landskron.de | Tours \u20ac7\u2013\u20ac18 | Tours Sun.\u2013Thurs., by appointment.\n\nObermarkt (Upper Market).  \nThe richly decorated Renaissance homes and warehouses on the Obermarkt are a vivid legacy of the city's wealthy past. During the late Middle Ages the most common merchandise here was cloth, which was bought and sold from covered wagons and on the ground floors of many buildings. Napol\u00e9on addressed his troops from the balcony of the house at No. 29.\n\nSchlesisches Museum (Silesian Museum).  \nExploring 900 years of Silesian culture, this is a meeting place for Silesians from Germany, Poland, and the Czech Republic. The museum is housed in the magnificent Sch\u00f6nhof building, one of Germany's oldest Renaissance Patrizierh\u00e4user (grand mansions of the city's ruling business and political elite). | Br\u00fcderstr. 8 | 03581/87910 | www.schlesisches-museum.de | \u20ac5 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nUntermarkt (Lower Market).  \nOne of Europe's most impressive squares, this market is a testament to the prosperity brought by the cloth trade. It's built up in the middle, and the most important building is No. 14, which formerly housed the city scales. The duty of the city scale masters, whose busts adorn the Renaissance facade of the Gothic building, was to weigh every ounce of merchandise entering the city and to determine the taxes due.\n\nThe square's most prominent building is the Rathaus. Its winding staircase is as peculiar as its statue of the goddess of justice, whose eyes\u2014contrary to European tradition\u2014are not covered. The corner house on the square, the Alte Ratsapotheke (Old Council Pharmacy), has two intricate sundials on the facade, painted in 1550.\n\nVerr\u00e4tergasse (Traitors' Alley).  \nOn Verr\u00e4tergasse, across the Obermarkt square from the church, is the Peter-Liebig-Haus, where the initials of the first four words of the rebels' meeting place, Der verr\u00e4terischen Rotte Tor (the treacherous gang's gate), are inscribed above the door. The Obermarkt is dominated by the Reichenbach Turm, a tower built in the 13th century, with additions in 1485 and 1782. Until 1904 the tower housed the city watchmen and their families. The apartments and armory are now a museum. There are great views of the city from the tiny windows at the top. The massive Kaisertrutz (Emperor's Fortress) once protected the western city gates, and now houses late-Gothic and Renaissance art from the area around G\u00f6rlitz, as well as some impressive historical models of the city. Both buildings are part of the Kulturhistorisches Museum. | 03581/671\u2013355 | www.museum-goerlitz.de | \u20ac10, tickets valid on day of purchase and following day | Tues.\u2013Thurs. and weekends 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nDie Destille.  \nGERMAN | This small family-run establishment overlooks the Nikolaiturm, one of the towers from the city's wall. The restaurant offers good solid Silesian fare and absolutely the best Schlesische Himmelreich (ham and pork roast smothered in baked fruit and white sauce, served with dumplings) in town. There are also eight inexpensive, spartan guest rooms where you can spend the night. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Nikolaistr. 6 | 03581/405\u2013302 | No credit cards | Sometimes closed in Sept.\n\nHotel Bon-Apart.  \nHOTEL | The name says it all: this hotel is an homage to Napol\u00e9on, whose troops occupied G\u00f6rlitz, and it's a splendid departure from a \"normal\" hotel. Located slightly behind the Marienplatz, the Bon-Apart's real draw is the antique-meets-modern interior design. Pros: large rooms with kitchens and artistically decorated bathrooms; huge breakfast buffet. Cons: eclectic design may not appeal to everyone; neighboring market can be noisy in the morning; no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac95 | Elisabethstr. 41 | 03581/48080 | www.bon-apart.de | 20 rooms.\n\nRomantik-Hotel Tuchmacher.  \nHOTEL | The city's best hotel is also its most modern accommodation in antique disguise. In a mansion dating to 1528, guest rooms with wooden floors and thick ceiling beams are sparsely furnished with modern, dark cherrywood furniture. The colorful ceilings may remind you of Jackson Pollock paintings, but they are original ornaments from the Renaissance. The Schneider-Stube serves traditional Saxon dishes. Pros: luxury hotel in the heart of G\u00f6rlitz pedestrian zone. Cons: limited parking near the hotel; lovers of church bells will be happy. | Rooms from: \u20ac134 | Peterstr. 8 | 03581/47310 | www.tuchmacher.de | 42 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Zgorzelec.  \nIn 1946 everything on the eastern side on the Neisse River was ceded to Poland and G\u00f6rlitz lost its eastern suburb. A walk across the river is like a trip back in time. Zgorzelec certainly isn't as well off as G\u00f6rlitz, but there are some nice patrician houses and wide parks whose decay resembles the state of G\u00f6rlitz in the 1980s. For a stroll through, cross the Altstadtbr\u00fccke (Old Town Bridge) behind the Peterskirche, turn right, and walk approximately a kilometer (half mile), then cross back into Germany at the former official border crossing.\n\nGreat Polish food is in plentiful supply at the Piwnica Staromiejska at Wroc\u0142awska 1, just across the bridge. | Zgorzelec, Poland.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nLutherstadt-Wittenberg | Dessau | Halle | Naumburg | Freyburg | Quedlinburg | Goslar\n\nThe central state of Saxony-Anhalt is a region rich in history and natural beauty, almost completely untouched by modern visitors. In the Altmark, on the edge of the Harz Mountains, fields of grain and sugar beets stretch to the horizon. In the mountains themselves are the deep gorge of the Bode River and the stalactite-filled caves of Rubeland. The songbirds of the Harz are renowned, and though pollution has taken its toll, both the flora and the fauna of the Harz National Park (which encompasses much of the region) are coming back. Atop the Brocken, the Harz's highest point, legend has it that witches convene on Walpurgis Night (the night between April 30 and May 1).\n\nPrevious Map | Germany Maps\n\n## Lutherstadt-Wittenberg\n\n107 km (62 miles) southwest of Berlin, 67 km (40 miles) north of Leipzig.\n\nProtestantism was born in the little town of Wittenberg (officially called Lutherstadt-Wittenberg). In 1508 the fervently idealistic young Martin Luther, who had become a priest only a year earlier, arrived to study and teach at the new university founded by Elector Frederick the Wise. Nine years later, enraged that the Roman Catholic Church was pardoning sins through the sale of indulgences, Luther attacked the policy by posting his 95 Theses on the door of the Schlosskirche (Castle Church).\n\nMartin Luther is still the center of attention in Wittenberg, and sites associated with him are marked with plaques and signs. You can see virtually all of historic Wittenberg on a 2-km (1-mile) stretch of Collegienstrasse and Schlossstrasse that begins at the railroad tracks and ends at the Schlosskirche.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nLutherstadt-Wittenberg is approximately halfway between Berlin and Leipzig, and is served by regional and ICE trains. The station is slightly outside the city center, a pleasant walking distance away.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Lutherstadt Wittenberg. | Schlosspl. 2 | 03491/498\u2013610 | www.wittenberg.de.   \nWittenberg District Rural Information Office. | Neustr. 13 | 03491/402\u2013610.\n\n#### Festivals\n\nLuthers Hochzeit (Luther's Wedding).  \nThe best time to visit Wittenberg is during this city festival that commemorates (and reenacts) Martin Luther's marriage to Katharina von Bora. On the second weekend in June the city center goes back in time to 1525, with period costumes and entertainment. | www.lutherhochzeit.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nCranachhaus (Cranach House).  \nLucas Cranach the Elder\u2014court painter, printer, mayor, pharmacist, friend of Luther's, and probably the wealthiest man in Wittenberg\u2014lived in two houses during his years in town. This Cranachhaus is believed to have been the first one. His son, the painter Lucas Cranach the Younger, was born here. Some of the interior has been restored to its 17th-century condition. It's now a gallery with exhibits about Cranach's life and work. Check out the goldsmith and potter that are occasionally on hand demonstrating their crafts in the courtyard. | Markt 4 | 03491/420\u2013190 | \u20ac3 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 1\u20135.\n\nCranachhaus (Cranach House).  \nIn the second Wittenberg home of Cranach the Elder, the Renaissance man not only lived and painted but also operated a print shop, which has been restored, and an apothecary. The courtyard, where it's thought he did much of his painting, remains much as it was in his day. Children attend the Malschule (painting school) here. | Schlossstr. 1 | 03491/410\u2013912 | Free | Mon.\u2013Thurs. 8\u20134, Fri. 8\u20133.\n\nHaus der Geschichte (House of History).  \nThis museum makes a valiant attempt to evaluate the history of the GDR. It provides fascinating insight into the day-to-day culture of East Germans through the display of more than 20,000 objects, including detergent packaging and kitchen appliances. A special section deals with Germans and Russians in the Wittenberg region. | Schlossstr. 6 | 03491/409\u2013004 | www.pflug-ev.de | \u20ac6 | Weekdays 10\u20135, weekends 11\u20136.\n\nLuther Melanchthon Gymnasium (Luther Melanchthon High School).  \nIn 1975 the city erected a typical East German prefab building to house the Luther Melanchthon Gymnasium, but in the early 1990s, art students contacted Friedensreich Hundertwasser, the famous Austrian architect and avant-garde artist who designed the Hundertwasserhaus in Vienna. Hundertwasser, who argued that there are no universal straight lines or completely flat surfaces in nature, agreed to transform the school, and renovations were completed in 1998. The school is one of only three Hundertwasser buildings in eastern Germany and an interesting contrast to the medieval architecture in the rest of the city. Although the building is a school, the students operate a small office that distributes information about the school and Hundertwasser's art. | Str. der V\u00f6lkerfreundschaft 130 | 03491/881\u2013131 | www.hundertwasserschule.de | \u20ac2 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 2:30\u20134, weekends 10\u20134.\n\nLuthereiche (Luther Oak).  \nIn a small park, the Luthereiche marks the spot where, in 1520, Luther burned the papal bull excommunicating him for his criticism of the Church. The present oak was planted in the 19th century. | Weserstr. and Collegienstr.\n\nFodor's Choice | Lutherhaus (Luther's House).  \nWithin Lutherhhaus is the Augustinian monastery where Martin Luther lived both as a teacher-monk and later, after the monastery was dissolved, as a married man. Today it's a museum dedicated to Luther and the Reformation. Visitors enter through a garden and an elegant door with a carved stone frame; it was a gift to Luther from his wife, Katharina von Bora. Be sure to visit the monks' refectory, where works by the painter Lucas Cranach the Elder, Luther's contemporary, are displayed. The room that remains closest to the original is the dark, wood-panel Lutherstube. The Luthers and their six children used it as a living room, study, and meeting place for friends and students. Prints, engravings, paintings, manuscripts, coins, and medals relating to the Reformation and Luther's translation of the Bible into the German vernacular are displayed throughout the house. | Collegienstr. 54 | 03491/42030 | www.martinluther.de | \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nMarktplatz (Market Square).  \nTwo statues are the centerpiece here: an 1821 statue of Luther by Johann Gottfried Schadow, designer of the quadriga and Victory atop Berlin's Brandenburg Gate, and an 1866 statue of Melanchthon by Frederick Drake. Gabled Renaissance houses containing shops line part of the square.\n\nRathaus.  \nThe handsome, white High Renaissance town hall forms the backdrop for the Marktplatz's two statues. | Markt 26 | 03491/421\u2013720 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nMelanchthonhaus (Melanchthon House).  \nIn this elegantly gabled Renaissance home, the humanist teacher and scholar Philipp Melanchthon corrected Luther's translation of the New Testament from Greek into German. Luther was hiding in the Wartburg in Eisenach at the time, and as each section of his manuscript was completed it was sent to Melanchthon for approval. (Melanchthon is a Greek translation of the man's real name, Schwarzerdt, which means \"black earth\"; humanists routinely adopted such classical pseudonyms.) The second-floor furnishings have been painstakingly re-created after period etchings. | Collegienstr. 60 | 03491/403\u2013279 | www.martinluther.de | \u20ac4 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nFodor's Choice | Schlosskirche (Castle Church).  \nIn 1517 an indignant Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses, which attacked the Roman Catholic Church's policy of selling indulgences, to this church's doors. Written in Latin, the theses might have gone unnoticed had not someone\u2014without Luther's knowledge\u2014translated them into German and distributed them. In 1521 the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V summoned Luther to Worms when Luther refused to retract his position. On the way home from his confrontation with the emperor, Luther was \"captured\" by his protector, Elector Frederick the Wise, and hidden from papal authorities in Eisenach for the better part of a year. Today the theses hang in bronze on the door, while inside, simple bronze plaques mark the burial places of Luther and his contemporary, Philipp Melanchthon. | Schlosspl. 1 | 03491/402\u2013585 | Free, tower \u20ac2 | May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. 11:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134, Sun. 11:30\u20134.\n\nStadtkirche St. Marien (Parish Church of St. Mary).  \nFrom 1514 until his death in 1546, Martin Luther preached two sermons a week in the twin-tower Stadtkirche St. Marien. He and Katharina von Bora were married here (Luther broke with monasticism in 1525 and married the former nun). The altar triptych by Lucas Cranach the Elder includes a self-portrait, as well as portraits of Luther wearing the knight's disguise he adopted when hidden at the Wartburg; Luther preaching; Luther's wife and one of his sons; Melanchthon; and Lucas Cranach the Younger. Also notable is the 1457 bronze baptismal font by Herman Vischer the Elder. On the church's southeast corner is a discomforting juxtaposition of two Jewish-related monuments: a 1304 mocking caricature called the Jewish Pig, erected at the time of the expulsion of the town's Jews, and, on the cobblestone pavement, a contemporary memorial to the Jews who died at Auschwitz. | Kirchpl. | 03491/404\u2013415 | \u20ac1.50, including tour | May\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Apr., daily 10\u20134.\n\nWittenberg English Ministry.  \nEnglish-speaking visitors can worship in the churches where Martin Luther conducted his ministry thanks to this ministry. During the summer months it brings English-speaking pastors from the United States to provide Lutheran worship services in the Schlosskirche and Stadtkirche St. Marien. Services follow German Protestant tradition (albeit in English) and conclude with singing Luther's \"A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,\" accompanied on the organ. Tours of Wittenberg and other Luther sites are also offered. | Schlosspl. 2 | 03491/498\u2013610 | www.wittenberg-english-ministry.com | May\u2013Oct., Sat. at 5, other times by appointment.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBrauhaus Wittenberg.  \nGERMAN | This historic brewery and restaurant is the perfect stop for a cold beer after a long day of sightseeing. TIP Set in the Old Town's magnificent Beyerhof courtyard, the Brauhaus still produces local beer such as Wittenberger Kuckucksbier. In the medieval restaurant with its huge beer kettles, you can sample local and south German cuisine; a specialty is the smoked fish\u2014such as eel, trout, and halibut\u2014from the Brauhaus smokery. In summer, try to get a table in the courtyard. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Markt 6 | 03491/433\u2013130.\n\nSchlosskeller.  \nGERMAN | At the back of the Schlosskirche, this restaurant's four dining rooms are tucked away in a basement with 16th-century stone walls and barrel-vaulted ceilings. The kitchen specializes in German dishes, such as K\u00fcmmelfleisch mit Senfgurken (caraway beef with mustard-seed pickles). | Average main: \u20ac12 | Schlosspl. 1 | 03491/480\u2013805.\n\n## Dessau\n\n35 km (22 miles) southwest of Wittenberg.\n\nThe name \"Dessau\" is known to students of modern architecture as the epicenter of architect Walter Gropius's highly influential Bauhaus school of design. During the 1920s, Gropius hoped to replace the dark and inhumane tenement architecture of the 1800s with standardized yet spacious and bright apartments. His ideas and methods were used in building 316 villas in the city's T\u00f6rten neighborhood in the 1920s.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nDessau makes an excellent day trip from Berlin. The direct Regional Express train leaves Berlin every hour, and the trip takes 90 minutes.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Dessau. | Zerbster Str. 2c | 0340/204\u20131442 | www.dessau.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBauhaus Building.  \nThe architecture school is still operating in this building, where artists conceived styles that influenced the appearance of such cities as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. Other structures designed by Gropius and the Bauhaus architects, among them the Meisterh\u00e4user, are also open for inspection off Ebertallee and Elballee. | Gropiusallee 38 | 0340/650\u20138251 | www.bauhaus-dessau.de | \u20ac17, includes all Bauhaus sites | Daily 10\u20136; Meisterh\u00e4user: mid-Feb.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013mid-Feb., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nGeorgkirche (St. George's Church).  \nLike other older buildings in downtown Dessau, this Dutch-baroque church, built in 1712, is quite a contrast to the no-nonsense Bauhaus architecture. | Georgenstr. 15.\n\nTechnikmuseum Hugo Junkers (Hugo Junkers Technical Museum).  \nThe Bauhaus isn't the only show in town. Professor Hugo Junkers, one of the most famous engineers-cum-inventors of the 20th century, was at the forefront of innovation in aircraft and industrial design until his inventions were expropriated by the Nazis in 1933. The star of the museum is a completely restored JU-52/3\u2014the ubiquitous German passenger airplane transformed into military transport. The museum also houses a fascinating collection of industrial equipment, machinery, engines, and the original Junkers wind tunnel. | K\u00fchnauerstr. 161a | 0340/661\u20131982 | www.technikmuseum-dessau.de | \u20ac4 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\n## Halle\n\n52 km (32 miles) south of Dessau.\n\nThis city deserves a second look. The first impression of ever-under-construction train station and dismal tram ride into town hides a pretty 1,000-year-old city built on the salt trade. The name Halle comes from the Celtic word for salt, while the Saale, the name of the river the city straddles, is derived from the German word for salt. Halle has suffered from the shortfalls of Communist urban planning, yet the Old Town has an unusual beauty, particularly in its spacious central marketplace, the Markt, with its five distinctive sharp-steeple towers.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFrequent S-bahn trains connect Halle with Leipzig (30 minutes) and with Naumburg (20 minutes).\n\n#### Festivals\n\nHandel Festival.  \nThis annual festival takes place in the first half of June, and two youth-choir festivals occur in May and October. | 0345/5009\u20130222.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nStadtmarketing Halle. | Marktpl. 1360 | 0345/122\u20139984 | www.halle.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDom (Cathedral).  \nHalle's only early-Gothic church, the Dom stands about 200 yards southeast of the Moritzburg. Its nave and side aisles are of equal height, a common characteristic of Gothic church design in this part of Germany. | Dompl. 3 | 0345/202\u20131379 | Free | June\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 2\u20134.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Halloren Schokoladenfabrik.  \nGermany's oldest chocolate factory was founded in 1804 and has changed hands several times (including a brief period when it was used to manufacture airplane wings during the war). Its Schokoladenmuseum explores 200 years of chocolate production and contains a 27-square-meter room made entirely from chocolate. Entrance to the museum also allows entrance to the glass-enclosed production line, where you can watch almost all aspects of chocolate making. TIP The factory is on the other side of the train station from the main town. To get here, take Tram No. 7 to Fiete-Schultze-Strasse and walk back 200 meters. | Delitzscherstr. 70 | 0345/5642\u2013192 | www.halloren.de | \u20ac4, includes samples | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20134.\n\nHalle-Neustadt.  \nA side trip to Halle-Neustadt (nicknamed Hanoi by the locals), is worthwhile for anyone interested in socialist city planning. The huge planned residential community comprises block after block of prefabricated housing units that are commonly associated with Eastern Europe.\n\nThe project resulted from the construction of a large chemical factory complex near Schkopau and Leuna (to the south) and the need to quickly house thousands of workers and their families in the 1960s. Compared to other Plattenbau, as such houses are called in German, Halle-Neustadt is generously proportioned, with wide thoroughfares, large-scale art and beautification projects, and theaters and cinemas. In its heyday, more than 92,000 people lived here. To get here from the Marktplatz, take Tram 2 to Soltauer Strasse or Tram 10 to G\u00f6ttinger Bogen.\n\nH\u00e4ndelhaus (Handel House).  \nHandel's birthplace is now a museum devoted to the composer. The entrance hall displays glass harmonicas and curious musical instruments perfected by Benjamin Franklin in the 1760s. TIP Be sure to look for the small courtyard where Handel played as a child. | Grosse Nikolaistr. 5 | 0345/500\u2013900 | Free | Tues.\u2013Wed. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 9:30\u20135:30, Thurs. 9:30\u20137.\n\nMarienkirche (St. Mary's Church).  \nOf the four towers belonging to the late-Gothic Marienkirche, two are connected by a vertiginous catwalk bridge. Martin Luther preached in the church, and George Friedrich Handel (H\u00e4ndel in German), born in Halle in 1685, was baptized at its font. He went on to learn to play the organ beneath its high, vaulted ceiling. | An der Marienkirche 2.\n\nMarktschl\u00f6sschen (Market Palace).  \nThis late-Renaissance building just off the market square houses an interesting collection of historical musical instruments, some of which could have been played by Handel and his contemporaries. | Marktpl. 13 | 0345/202\u20139141 | Free | Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20137, weekends 10\u20136.\n\nMoritzburg (Moritz Castle).  \nThe Archbishop of Magdeburg built the Moritzburg in the late 15th century, after he claimed the city for his archdiocese. The typical late-Gothic fortress, with a dry moat and a sturdy round tower at each of its four corners, is a testament to Halle's early might, which vanished with the Thirty Years' War. Prior to World War II the castle contained a leading gallery of German expressionist paintings, which were ripped from the walls by the Nazis and condemned as \"degenerate.\" Some of the works are back in place at the Staatliche Galerie Moritzburg, together with some outstanding late-19th- and early-20th-century art. TIP You'll find Rodin's famous sculpture The Kiss here. | Friedemann-Bach-Pl. 5 | 0345/212\u2013590 | stiftung-moritzburg.de | \u20ac7 | Tues. 11\u20138:30, Wed.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\nNeue Residenz (New Residence).  \nThis 16th-century, former archbishop's home houses the Geiseltalmuseum and its world-famous collection of fossils dug from brown coal deposits in the Geisel Valley, near Halle. | Dornstr. 5 | 0345/552\u20136135 | Free | Weekdays 9\u2013noon and 1\u20135; every 2nd and 4th weekend 9\u20131.\n\nRoter Turm (Red Tower).  \nThe Markt's fifth tower is Halle's celebrated Roter Turm, built between 1418 and 1506 as an expression of the city's power and wealth. The carillon inside is played on special occasions. | Markt.\n\nFAMILY | Technisches Halloren- und Salinemuseum (Technical Saline Extraction Museum).  \nThe salt trade on which Halle built its prosperity is documented in this museum. A replica brine mill shows the salt-extraction process, and the exquisite silver-goblet collection of the Salt Workers' Guild (the Halloren) is on display. The old method of evaporating brine from local springs is sometimes demonstrated. The museum is on the south side of the Saale River (across the Schiefer Bridge). | Mansfelderstr. 52 | 0345/202\u20135034 | www.salinemuseum.de | \u20ac5.20 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nHalle's caf\u00e9 scene spreads out along the Kleine Ullrichstrasse. It's a good area for searching out an affordable meal and lively conversation.\n\nHallesches Brauhaus K\u00fchler Brunnen.  \nGERMAN | Halle's first and best brewpub serves traditional brewery fare in huge portions at reasonable prices. The Brauhaus is most famous for its large selection of Flammkuchen, a kind of thin-crust pizza originated in the Alsace region of France. The best beer is the brewery's own Hallsch, an amber top-fermented ale served in funky glasses. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Grosse Nikolaistr. 2 | 0345/212\u2013570 | No credit cards.\n\nFAMILY | Restaurant M\u00f6nchshof.  \nGERMAN | Hearty German fare in heartier portions is served in high-ceiling, dark-wood surroundings. Lamb from Saxony-Anhalt's Wettin region and venison are specialties in season, but there are always fish and crisp roast pork on the menu. The wine list is extensive, with international vintages. The restaurant is popular with locals, and the staff are particularly accommodating with children. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Talamtstr. 6 | 0345/202\u20131726.\n\nAnkerhof Hotel.  \nHOTEL | In an old warehouse, this reflection on Halle's salt-strewn past contains individually decorated rooms, most with wooden ceiling beams, bare stone walls, and heavy furniture made from exquisite wood. The hotel's Saalkahn restaurant ($ - $$) serves both regional and international dishes based on fresh fish and game. The Geschmorte Hirschkeule \"Dubener Heide\" (braised venison shank) is particularly tasty. Pros: casual elegance worked into a traditional setting. Cons: building creaks and groans when it is windy; can be cold in winter. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Ankerstr. 2a | 0345/232\u20133200 | www.ankerhofhotel.de | 49 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\n### The Arts\n\nThe city of Handel's birth is, not surprisingly, an important music center. Halle is famous for its opera productions, its orchestral concerts, and particularly its choirs.\n\nOpernhaus (Opera House).  \nBoth Halle's opera and its venue are renowned. | Universit\u00e4tsring 24 | 0345/5110\u20130355.\n\nPhilharmonisches Staatsorchester Halle (State Philharmonic Orchestra).  \nThe city's main orchestra performs at the Konzerthalle. | Grosse Gosenstr. 12 | 0345/523\u20133141 | www.staatskapelle.halle.de.\n\n### Shopping\n\nHalle is home to Kathi, the GDR's own Betty Crocker. In 1951 Rainer Thiele opened a factory here to produce uncomplicated products that made baking doable for everyone. By 1955 the popular cake and bread mixes were common on supermarket shelves in Scandinavia and Western Europe. The company was taken over by the state in 1980, then reprivatized in 1990, and is riding a wave of success due to the cult status of its products in the East. Pick up a mix for H\u00e4ndel-torte, and top it with Halloren-K\u00fcgel.\n\nEn Route: Eisleben.  \nTo reach Quedlinburg in the Harz, you can take E\u201349 directly, or take a somewhat longer route via E\u201380, stopping in Eisleben first. Martin Luther came into and out of the world here: both the square Franconian house with the high-pitched roof that was his birthplace (Luthers Geburtshaus) and the Gothic patrician house where he died (Luthers Sterbehaus) are open to the public, as are, on request, the St. Petri-Pauli Kirche (Church of Sts. Peter and Paul), where he was baptized, and the St. Andreaskirche (St. Andrew's Church), where his funeral was held. From Eisleben take B\u2013180 north to join with E\u201349 to Quedlinburg. | Eisleben, Germany.\n\n## Naumburg\n\n60 km (65 miles) south of Halle.\n\nOnce a powerful trading and ecclesiastical city, 1,000-year-old Naumburg is the cultural center of the Salle-Unstrut. Although the city is most famous for its Romanesque/Gothic cathedral, it hides a well-preserved collection of patrician houses, winding back alleys, and a marketplace so distinctive that it warrants the appellation \"Naumburger Renaissance.\"\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nFrom the train station the fun way to get into the city is to take the Naumburger Historical Tram, which runs every 30 minutes. A single ride on Europe's smallest tramway, in antique streetcars, costs \u20ac1.50.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist und Tagungsservice Naumburg. | Markt 12 | 03445/273\u2013125 | www.naumburg-tourismus.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nDom St. Peter und Paul (St. Peter and Paul Cathedral).  \nPerched high above the city and dominating the skyline, this cathedral is the symbol of Naumburg. For the most part constructed during the latter half of the 13th century, it's considered one of the masterpieces of the late Romanesque period. What makes the cathedral unique, however, is the addition of a second choir in the Gothic style less than 100 years later. The Gothic choir is decorated with statues of the cathedral's benefactors from the workshop of the Naumburger Meister. The most famous statues are of Uta and Ekkehard, the city's most powerful patrons. Uta's tranquil face is everywhere, from postcards to city maps. | Dompl. 16 | 03445/23010 | \u20ac4 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134, Sun. noon\u20134; guided tours by appointment.\n\nMarientor.  \nNaumburg was once ringed by a defensive city wall with five gates. The only remaining one, the Marientor, is a rare surviving example of a dual-portal gate from the 14th century. The museum inside the gate provides a brief history of the city's defenses. TIP A pleasant walk along the remaining city walls from Marienplatz to the Weingarten is the easiest way to explore the last intact section of Naumburg's wall, moat, and defensive battlements. | Marienpl. | \u20ac0.50 | Daily 10\u20134:30.\n\nMarktplatz.  \nNaumburg's historic market square lies strategically at the intersection of two medieval trade routes. Although the market burned in 1517, it was painstakingly rebuilt in Renaissance and baroque styles.\n\nKaysersches Haus (Imperial House).  \nSupported by seven Gothic gables, the Kaysersches Haus has a carved oak doorway from the Renaissance. | Markt 10.\n\nRathaus.  \nNaumburg's town hall, rebuilt in 1523, incorporates the remnants of the original building destroyed by fire. | Markt 1.\n\nSchl\u00f6sschen (Little Castle).  \nThe Schl\u00f6sschen houses the offices of Naumburg's first and only Protestant bishop, Nikolaus von Amsdorf, who was consecrated by Martin Luther in 1542. | Markt 2.\n\nNaumburger Wein und Sekt Manufaktur (Naumburg Wine and Sparkling Wine).  \nProducing fine still and sparkling wines on the bank of the Salle River, this winery in a 200-year-old monastery is a pleasant 2-km (1-mile) walk or bike ride from Naumburg's city center. Tours of the production rooms and the vaulted cellar, with wine tastings, take place whenever a group forms and last about an hour. The wine garden is a pleasant place to relax on the bank of the river and the restaurant serves small snacks. Larger appetites find relief across the street at the Gasthaus Henne. | Bl\u00fctengrund 35 | 03445/202\u2013042 | www.naumburger.com | Tours \u20ac5 | Daily 11\u20136; tours Apr.\u2013Oct.\n\nNietzsche Haus Museum.  \nThe philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche's family lived in Naumburg from 1858 to 1897, in a small classical house in the Weingarten. The Nietzsche Haus Museum documents the life and times of one of Naumburg's most controversial residents. The exhibition does not delve too deeply into Nietzsche's philosophy, but focuses a great deal on his bizarre relationship with his sister and her manipulation of his manuscripts. | Weingarten 18 | 03445/703\u2013503 | www.mv-naumburg.de | \u20ac3 | Tues.\u2013Fri. 2\u20135, weekends 10\u20134.\n\nSt. Wenceslas.  \nThe parish church of St. Wenceslas dominates the southern end of the Markt. A church has stood on this spot since 1218, but the current incarnation dates from 1426, with interior renovations in 1726. The church is most famous for its huge Hildebrandt Organ, which was tested and tuned by J. S. Bach in 1746. Fans of Lucas Cranach the Elder get their due with two of his paintings, Suffer the Little Children Come Unto Me and the Adoration of the Three Magi. The 73-meter-tall tower belongs to the city, not the church, and was used as a watchtower for the city guards, who lived there until 1994. | Topfmarkt | 03445/208\u2013401 | Free, tower \u20ac2 | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20135; tower daily 10\u20135.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nAlt-Naumburg.  \nGERMAN | Enjoy simple but tasty regional specialties directly in front of the Marientor. The beer garden is a good place to relax away from the action of the city center. The three-room pension is often booked far in advance. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Marienpl. 13 | 03445/234\u2013425 | No credit cards.\n\nHotel Stadt Aachen.  \nHOTEL | Many of the simply decorated rooms overlook the central market at this pleasant hotel in a medieval house. The staff gladly arranges wine tasting in the Ottonenkeller (wine cellar). The restaurant Carolus Magnus serves decent regional cuisine with a good selection of local wine. Pros: comfortable hotel in the middle of the action; helpful staff. Cons: location by the market is sometimes noisy. | Rooms from: \u20ac83 | Markt 11 | 03445/2470 | www.hotel-stadt-aachen.de | 38 rooms.\n\n## Freyburg\n\n10 km (6 miles) north of Naumburg.\n\nStepping off the train in the sleepy town of Freyburg, it is not difficult to see why locals call the area \"the Tuscany of the North.\" With clean, wandering streets, whitewashed buildings, and a huge castle perched on a vine-terraced hill, Freyburg is a little out of place. The town owes its existence to Schloss Neuenburg, which was built by the same Thuringian count who built the Wartburg. Although most visitors head straight for the wine, the historic Old Town and castle certainly warrant a visit.\n\nFreyburg is surrounded by a 1,200-meter-long, almost completely intact city wall. The Ekst\u00e4dter Tor was the most important gate into the city and dates from the 14th century. The gate is dominated by one of the few remaining barbicans in central Germany.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nFreyburger Fremdenverkehrsverein. | Markt 2 | 034464/27260 | wwwfreyburg-info.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nRotk\u00e4ppchen Sektkellerei (Little Red Riding Hood Sparkling Wine).  \nFreyburg is the home of one of Europe's largest producers of sparkling wine, a rare eastern German product with a significant market share in the West. Hour-long tours of the production facility include the world's largest wooden wine barrel. | Sektkellereistr. 5 | 034464/340 | www.rotkaeppchen.de | \u20ac5 | Daily 10\u20136; tours weekdays at 11 and 2, weekends at 11, 12:30, 2, and 3:30.\n\nSt. Marien Kirche (St. Mary's Church).  \nIn 1225 the Thuringian count Ludwig IV erected the St. Marien Kirche as a triple-nave basilica and the only church within the city walls. The coquina limestone building, which resembles the cathedral in Naumburg, was renovated in the 15th century into its current form as a single-hall structure. The great carved altarpiece also dates from the 15th century and the baptistery from 1592. | Markt 2.\n\nSchloss Neuenburg (Neuenburg Castle).  \nSince its foundation was laid in 1090 by the Thuringian Ludwig I, this castle has loomed protectively over Freyburg. The spacious residential area and huge towers date from the 13th century, when Neuenburg was a part of Thuringia's eastern defenses. The spartan, Gothic double-vaulted chapel from 1190 is one of the few rooms that evokes an early medieval past, since most of the castle was renovated in the 15th century. | Schloss 1 | 34464/35530 | \u20ac7 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nWinzervereinigung-Freyburg (Freyburg Vintner's Association).  \nThe best way to try Salle-Unstrut wine is with this trade group. Its 500 members produce some of Germany's finest wines, both white and red, mostly varietals, with some limited blends. (A wonderful light red from a hybrid of the Blauer Zweigelt and St. James grape, called Andre, may change how you think about German red wine.) Tastings and tours must be arranged in advance\u2014with options ranging from a simple tour of one of Germany's largest barrel cellars to the grand tasting (\u20ac15)\u2014or you can simply show up on Fridays at 1 (\u20ac10). The association goes out of its way to cater to the tastes of its guests, and bread, cheese, and water are always in plentiful supply. | Querfurter Str. 10 | 034464/30623 | www.winzervereinigung-freyburg.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u20136, Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nBurgwirtschaft.  \nGERMAN | Where better than a castle serenely overlooking the village of Freyburg for a medieval restaurant? Everything is prepared according to historical recipes with ingredients from the region. Try the roast chicken with honey or any of the grilled meats. Most menu items are available in the spacious beer garden. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Schloss 1 | 034464/66200.\n\n## Quedlinburg\n\n79 km (49 miles) northwest of Halle.\n\nThis medieval Harz town has more half-timber houses than any other town in Germany: more than 1,600 of them line the narrow cobblestone streets and squares. The town escaped destruction during World War II and was treasured in GDR days, though not very well preserved. Today the nicely restored town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.\n\nFor nearly 200 years Quedlinburg was a favorite imperial residence and site of imperial diets, beginning with the election in 919 of Henry the Fowler (Henry I) as the first Saxon king of Germany. It became a major trading city and a member of the Hanseatic League, equal in stature to K\u00f6ln.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nQuedlinburg Tourismus-Marketing GmbH. | Markt 2 | 03946/905\u2013624 | www.quedlinburg.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nLyonel Feininger Gallery.  \nThis sophisticated, modern gallery is placed behind half-timber houses so as not to affect the town's medieval feel. When the art of American-born painter Lyonel Feininger, a Bauhaus teacher in both Weimar and Dessau, was declared \"decadent\" by the Hitler regime in 1938, the artist returned to America. Left behind with a friend were engravings, lithographs, etchings, and paintings. The most comprehensive Feininger print collection in the world is displayed here. | Finkenherd 5a | 03946/2238 | www.feininger-galerie.de | \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135.\n\nMarktplatz.  \nThe Altstadt (Old Town) is full of richly decorated half-timber houses, particularly along M\u00fchlgraben, Schuhof, the H\u00f6lle, Breitestrasse, and Schmalstrasse. Notable on the Marktplatz are the Renaissance Rathaus, with a 14th-century statue of Roland signifying the town's independence, and the baroque 1701 Haus Gr\u00fcnhagen. Street and hiking maps and guidebooks (almost all in German) are available in the information office at the Rathaus. | Markt 2 | 03946/90550 | Free | Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20133.\n\nSchlossmuseum (Castle Museum).  \nQuedlinburg's largely Renaissance castle buildings perch on top of the Schlossberg (Castle Hill), with a terrace overlooking woods and valley. The grounds include the Schlossmuseum, which has exhibits on the history of the town and castle, artifacts of the Bronze Age, and the wooden cage in which a captured 14th-century robber baron was put on public view. Restored 17th- and 18th-century rooms give an impression of castle life at that time. | Schlossberg 1 | 03946/2730 | \u20ac4 | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Feb., Sat.\u2013Thurs. 10\u20134.\n\nSt\u00e4nderbau Fachwerkmuseum (Half-Timber House).  \nThe oldest half-timber house in Quedlinburg, built about 1310, is now a museum. | Wordg. 3 | 03946/3828 | \u20ac3 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Fri.\u2013Wed. 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., Fri.\u2013Wed. 10\u20134.\n\nStiftskirche St. Servatius (Collegiate Church of St. Servatius).  \nThis simple, graceful church is one of the most important and best-preserved 12th-century Romanesque structures in Germany. Henry I and his wife Mathilde are buried in its crypt. The renowned Quedlinburg Treasure of 10th-, 11th-, and 12th-century gold and silver and bejeweled manuscripts is also kept here (what's left of it). Nazi SS leader Heinrich Himmler made the church into a shrine dedicated to the SS, insisting that it was only appropriate, since Henry I was the founder of the First German Reich. | Schlossberg 1 | 03946/709\u2013900 | \u20ac4 | May\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Fri. 10\u20136, Sat. 10\u20135, Sun. noon\u20136; Nov.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sat. 10\u20134, Sun. noon\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat and Stay\n\nL\u00fcdde Br\u00e4u.  \nGERMAN | Brewing Braunbier (a hoppy, top-fermented beer) has been a Quedlinburg tradition for several centuries. The L\u00fcdde brewery traces its history to 1807, when Braunbier breweries dotted the Harz Mountains, and it was the last surviving brewery when it closed its doors in 1966. After German reunification, Georg L\u00fcdde's niece reopened the business, and it remains the only Braunbier brewery in Quedlinburg. Sampling the reemergence of an almost lost German tradition as well as some incredible beer-based game dishes, makes the restaurant well worth a visit\u2014the top-fermented Braunbier is called Pubarschknall. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Carl-Ritter-Str. 1 | 03946/901\u2013481 | www.hotel-brauhaus-luedde.de.\n\nHotel Zum Brauhaus.  \nHOTEL | In a beautifully restored half-timber house, many of the rooms incorporate the bare load-bearing timbers and have pleasant views of the castle. An excellent breakfast is served in a huge dining room. Pros: friendly staff; location next to L\u00fcdde brewery. Cons: a little rough around the edges; upper rooms get hot in summer. | Rooms from: \u20ac77 | Carl-Ritter-Str. 1 | 03946/901\u2013481 | www.hotel-brauhaus-luedde.de | 50 rooms, 1 suite | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Zur Goldenen Sonne.  \nHOTEL | Rooms in this baroque half-timber inn are furnished in a pleasing, rustic fashion. The cozy restaurant ($ - $$) offers such Harz fare as venison stew with plum sauce and potato dumplings, and smoked ham in apricot sauce. Pros: beautiful half-timber house with modern conveniences; reasonable rates. Cons: the clock on the square strikes every 15 minutes; rooms in the renovated section not quite as nice as the ones in the half-timber house. | Rooms from: \u20ac69 | Steinweg 11 | 03946/96250 | www.hotelzurgoldenensonne.de | 27 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nRomantik Hotel Theophano.  \nHOTEL | This 1668 baroque half-timber merchant's house was the seat of the tanners' guild in the 18th century, a restaurant-coffeehouse in the early 20th century, and a domestic linen store until the Communists \"deprivatized\" the business. Now restored with care, its elegant rooms have country antiques. The vaulted-ceiling restaurant ($$) serves such dishes as Harz trout and local wild boar. Pros: location on the main market square. Cons: no elevator. | Rooms from: \u20ac99 | Markt 13\u201314 | 03946/96300 | www.hoteltheophano.de | 22 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n## Goslar\n\n48 km (30 miles) northwest of Quedlinburg.\n\nThe lovely, unofficial capital of the Harz region, Goslar is one of Germany's oldest cities and is known for the medieval glamour expressed in the fine Romanesque architecture of the Kaiserpfalz, an imperial palace of the German Empire. Thanks to the deposits of silver ore close to the town, Goslar was one of the country's wealthiest hubs of trade during the Middle Ages. In this town of 46,000, time seems to have stood still among the hundreds of well-preserved (mostly typical northern German half-timber) houses built over the course of seven centuries. Despite Goslar's rapid decline after the breakup of the Holy Roman Empire, the city\u2014thanks to its ore deposits\u2014maintained all the luxury and worldliness born of economic success.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nHourly trains whisk travelers from Hanover to Goslar in about an hour.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Goslar. | Markt 7 | 05321/78060 | Fax 05321/780\u2013644 | www.goslar.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nErzbergwerk Rammelsberg (Rammelsberg Mine).  \nThe source of the town's riches is outside the city at the world's only silver mine in continuous operation for more than 1,000 years. It stopped operating in 1988, but you can explore the many tunnels and shafts of the old mine. | Bergtal 19 | 05321/7500 | www.rammelsberg.de | \u20ac20, including 3 tours | Daily 9\u20136; tours given as needed 9:30\u20134:30.\n\nKaiserpfalz (Imperial Palace).  \nThe impressive Kaiserpfalz, set high above the historic downtown area, dates to the early Middle Ages. It once was the center of German imperial glory, when emperors held their regular diets here. Among the rulers who frequented Goslar were Heinrich III (1039\u201356) and his successor, Heinrich IV (1056\u20131106), who was also born in Goslar. You can visit an exhibit about the German medieval kaisers who stayed here, inspect the small chapel where the heart of Heinrich III is buried (the body is in Speyer), and view the beautiful ceiling murals in the Reichssaal (Imperial Hall). | Kaiserbleek 6 | 05321/311\u20139693 | \u20ac7.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., daily 10\u20135; Nov.\u2013Mar., daily 10\u20134.\n\nRathaus.  \nWith its magnificent Huldigungssaal (Hall of Honor), this town hall dates to 1450 and testifies to the wealth of Goslar's merchants. | Markt 7 | 05321/78060 | \u20ac3.50 | Daily 11\u20133.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nKaiserworth-Hotel und Restaurant.  \nHOTEL | Hidden behind the reddish-brown walls of a 500-year-old house, the seat of medieval tailors and merchants, this hotel offers small but bright, pleasantly furnished rooms. Front rooms have windows on the medieval city market. The restaurant offers reliable German food. Pros: great central location in a unique historical building Cons: old building with some quirks and unlevel floors | Rooms from: \u20ac122 | Markt 3 | 05321/7090 | www.kaiserworth.de | 66 rooms | Breakfast.\n\n### Sports and the Outdoors\n\n##### Skiing\n\nMany cross-country trails (lighted at night for after-dark skiing) wind their way through the evergreen forests of Goslar and the surrounding towns. Alpine skiers have five ski slopes and a ski jump. The jump was closed until the Wall fell\u2014because the bottom of it was in the GDR. For Alpine skiing, a cable car rises to the top of the 3,237-foot-high Wurmberg. It has three ski lifts. There are also toboggan runs, horse-drawn sleigh rides, ski instruction, and equipment rentals. Contact the tourist office for more information.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nEisenach | Erfurt | Weimar\n\nUnlike other eastern states, unassuming Thuringia was not taken from the Slavs by wandering Germanic tribes but has been German since before the Middle Ages. The hilly countryside is mostly rural and forested, and it preserves a rich cultural past in countless small villages, medieval cities, and country palaces. In the 14th century traders used the 168-km (104-mile) Rennsteig (\"fast trail\") through the dark depths of the Thuringian Forest, and cities such as Erfurt and Eisenach evolved as major commercial hubs. Today the forests and the Erzgebirge Mountains are a remote paradise for hiking and fishing. The city of Weimar is one of Europe's old cultural centers, where Germany attempted its first go at a true democracy in 1918. Thuringia is the land of Goethe and Schiller, but it is also tempered by the ominous presence of one of the Third Reich's most notorious concentration camps: Buchenwald.\n\n## Eisenach\n\n140 km (90 miles) southwest of Quedlinburg, 95 km (59 miles) northeast of Fulda.\n\nWhen you stand in Eisenach's ancient market square it's difficult to imagine this half-timber town as an important center of the East German automobile industry. Yet this is where Wartburgs (very tiny, noisy, and cheaply produced cars, which are now collector's items) were made. The cars were named after the Wartburg, the famous castle that broods over Eisenach from atop one of the foothills of the Thuringian Forest. Today West German automaker Opel continues the tradition by building one of Europe's most modern car-assembly lines on the outskirts of town.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nHourly trains connect Eisenach with Leipzig (two hours) and Dresden (three hours). There are frequent connections to Weimar and Erfurt.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nEisenach-Information. | Markt 24 | 03691/79230 | www.eisenach.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBachhaus.  \nJohann Sebastian Bach was born in Eisenach in 1685. The Bachhaus has exhibits devoted to the entire lineage of the musical Bach family and includes a collection of historical musical instruments. It is the largest collection of Bach memorabilia in the world, and includes a bust of the composer built using forensic science from a cast of his skull. | Frauenplan 21 | 03691/79340 | www.bachhaus.de | \u20ac8.50 | Daily 10\u20136.\n\nLutherhaus.  \nThis downtown house has many fascinating exhibits illustrating the life of Martin Luther, who lived here as a student. | Lutherpl. 8 | 03691/29830 | www.lutherhaus-eisenach.de | \u20ac4.50 | Daily 10\u20135.\n\nNarrowest house.  \nBuilt in 1890, this is said to be the narrowest house in eastern Germany. Its width is just over 6 feet, 8 inches; its height, 24\u00bd feet; and its depth, 34 feet. | Johannespl. 9.\n\nReuter-Wagner-Museum.  \nComposer Richard Wagner gets his due at this museum, which has the most comprehensive exhibition on Wagner's life and work outside Bayreuth. Monthly concerts take place in the old Teezimmer (tearoom), a hall with wonderfully restored French wallpaper. The Erard piano, dating from the late 19th century, is occasionally rolled out. | Reuterweg 2 | 03691/743\u2013293 | \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Wed. and Fri.\u2013Sun. 11\u20135, Thurs. 3\u20138.\n\nFodor's Choice | Wartburg Castle.  \nBegun in 1067 (and expanded through the centuries), this mighty castle has hosted a parade of German celebrities. Hermann I (1156\u20131217), count of Thuringia and count palatine of Saxony, was a patron of the poets Walther von der Vogelweide (1170\u20131230) and Wolfram von Eschenbach (1170\u20131220). Legend has it that this is where Walther von der Vogelweide, the greatest lyric poet of medieval Germany, prevailed in the celebrated Minnes\u00e4ngerstreit (minnesinger contest), which is featured in Richard Wagner's Tannh\u00e4user.\n\nWithin the castle's stout walls, Frederick the Wise (1463\u20131525) shielded Martin Luther from papal proscription from May 1521 until March 1522, even though Frederick did not share the reformer's beliefs. Luther completed the first translation of the New Testament from Greek into German while in hiding, an act that paved the way for the Protestant Reformation. You can peek into the simple study in which Luther worked. TIP Be sure to check out the place where Luther saw the devil and threw an inkwell at him. Pilgrims have picked away at the spot for centuries, forcing the curators to \"reapply\" the ink.\n\nFrederick was also a patron of the arts. Lucas Cranach the Elder's portraits of Luther and his wife are on view in the castle, as is a very moving sculpture, the Leuchterengelpaar (Candlestick Angel Group), by the great 15th-century artist Tilman Riemenschneider. The 13th-century great hall is breathtaking; it's here that the minstrels sang for courtly favors. TIP Don't leave without climbing the belvedere for a panoramic view of the Harz Mountains and the Thuringian Forest. | Auf der Wartburg 1 | 03691/2500 | www.wartburg-eisenach.de | \u20ac9, including guided tour | Mar.\u2013Oct., daily 8:30\u20135; Nov.\u2013Feb., daily 9\u20133:30.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nHotel auf der Wartburg.  \nHOTEL | In this castle hotel, where Martin Luther, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Richard Wagner were guests, you'll get a splendid view over the town and the countryside. The standard of comfort is above average, and antiques and Oriental rugs mix with modern furnishings. The hotel runs a shuttle bus to the rail station and to the parking lot of the Wartburg. Pros: medieval music and fireplaces in the lobby. Cons: it's a hike to and from the city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac235 | Wartburg | 03691/7970 | www.wartburghotel.de | 35 rooms | Breakfast.\n\nHotel Glockenhof.  \nHOTEL | At the base of Wartburg Castle, this former church-run hostel has blossomed into a handsome hotel, cleverly incorporating the original half-timber city mansion into a modern extension. The excellent restaurant ($ - $$) has been joined by a brasserie. The hotel offers many packages that include cultural attractions and city tours. Pros: out of the hustle and bustle of the downtown; plenty of parking; an incredible breakfast buffet. Cons: uphill walk from the station is strenuous; location is a bit far from the city center. | Rooms from: \u20ac89 | Grimmelg. 4 | 03691/2340 | www.glockenhof.de | 38 rooms, 2 suites | Breakfast.\n\n## Erfurt\n\n55 km (34 miles) east of Eisenach.\n\nThe city of Erfurt emerged from World War II relatively unscathed, with most of its innumerable towers intact. Of all the cities in the region, Erfurt is the most evocative of its prewar self, and it's easy to imagine that many of the towns in northern Germany would look like this had they not been destroyed. The city's highly decorative and colorful facades are easy to admire on a walking tour. TIP Downtown Erfurt is a photographer's delight, with narrow, busy, ancient streets dominated by a magnificent 14th-century Gothic cathedral, the Mariendom.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nErfurt Tourist-Information. | Benediktspl. 1 | 0361/66400 | www.erfurt-tourist-info.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nThe Anger.  \nErfurt's main transportation hub and pedestrian zone, the Anger developed as a result of urban expansion due to the growth of the railroad in Thuringia in the early 19th century. With some exceptions, the houses are all architecturally historicized, making them look much older than they really are. The Hauptpostgeb\u00e4ude was erected in 1892 in a mock-Gothic style.\n\nDomplatz (Cathedral Square).  \nThis square is bordered by houses dating from the 16th century.\n\nKlein Venedig (Little Venice).  \nThe area around the bridge, crisscrossed with old streets lined with picturesque and often crumbling homes, is known as Little Venice because of the recurrent flooding it endures.\n\nFodor's Choice | Kr\u00e4merbr\u00fccke (Merchant's Bridge).  \nBehind the predominantly neo-Gothic Rathaus, Erfurt's most outstanding attraction spans the Gera River. This Renaissance bridge, similar to the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, is the longest of its kind in Europe and the only one north of the Alps. Built in 1325 and restored in 1967\u201373, the bridge served for centuries as an important trading center. Today antiques shops fill the majority of the timber-frame houses built into the bridge, some dating from the 16th century. The bridge comes alive on the third weekend of June for the Kr\u00e4merbr\u00fcckenfest.\n\nMariendom (St. Mary's Cathedral).  \nThis catherdral's Romanesque origins (foundations can be seen in the crypt) are best preserved in the choir's glorious stained-glass windows and beautifully carved stalls, and its biggest bell, the Gloriosa, is the largest free-swinging bell in the world. Cast in 1497, it took three years to install in the tallest of the three sharply pointed towers, painstakingly lifted inch by inch with wooden wedges. No chances are taken with this 2-ton treasure; its deep boom resonates only on special occasions, such as Christmas and New Year's. The Mariendom is reached by way of a broad staircase from the expansive Cathedral Square. | Dompl. | 0361/646\u20131265 | Tour \u20ac2.50 | May\u2013Oct., Mon.\u2013Sat. 9\u20135, Sun. 1\u20134; Nov.\u2013Apr., Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u201311:30 and 12:30\u20134, Sun. 1\u20134.\n\nSt. Augustin Kloster (St. Augustine Monastery).  \nThe young Martin Luther studied the liberal arts as well as law and theology at Erfurt University from 1501 to 1505. After a personal revelation, Luther asked to become a monk in the St. Augustin Kloster on July 17, 1505. He became an ordained priest here in 1507, and remained at the Kloster until 1511. Today the Kloster is a seminary and retreat hotel. | Augustinerstr. 10 | 0361/576\u2013600 | www.augustinerkloster.de | Mon.\u2013Sat. 10\u2013noon and 2\u20134, Sun. hrs vary.\n\nSt. Severus.  \nThis Gothic church has an extraordinary font, a masterpiece of intricately carved sandstone that reaches practically to the ceiling. It's linked to the cathedral by a 70-step open staircase. | Dompl.\n\nZum Stockfisch.  \nErfurt's interesting local-history museum is in a late-Renaissance house. | Johannesstr. 169 | 0361/655\u20135644 | Museum \u20ac4 | Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nClara.  \nGERMAN | This restaurant in the historic, elegant Kaisersaal edifice is the jewel in Erfurt's small gourmet crown. Thuringia native chef Maria Gross has worked in top restaurants around Germany and developed her own minimalist style. Here she is pursuing her vision of a gourmet restaurant: a cozy, service-oriented oasis in which to enjoy delicious international dishes with a Thuringian accent. Using local producers, Clara serves delicious four- and five-course menus from a list of 10 dishes. The wine list is one of the best in eastern Germany, offering more than 300 wines from around the world. | Average main: \u20ac59 | Futterstr. 1, 15\u201316 | 0361/568\u20138207 | www.restaurant-clara.de | Closed Sun. and Mon. No lunch.\n\nFaustus Restaurant.  \nGERMAN | In the heart of historic Erfurt the stylish Faustus defines fine Thuringian dining. This restaurant is in an old mansion, with both an inviting summer terrace and a bright, airy dining room. An after-dinner drink at the superb bar is a must. | Average main: \u20ac13 | Wenigermarkt 5 | 0361/540\u20130954 | No credit cards.\n\nLuther Keller.  \nGERMAN | Head down the straw-covered stairs in front of Clara restaurant, and you'll find yourself transported to the Middle Ages. The Luther Keller offers simple but tasty medieval cuisine in a candlelit vaulted cellar. Magicians, minnesingers, jugglers, and other players round out the enjoyable experience. Sure, it's pure kitsch, but it is entertaining, and the roast wild boar is delicious. | Average main: \u20ac12 | Futterstr. 15 | 0361/568\u20138205 | Closed Mon. and Sun. No lunch.\n\nZum Goldenen Schwan.  \nGERMAN | Beer lovers rejoice: in addition to the Braugold brewery, Erfurt has six brewpubs, among which the Golden Swan is by far the best. The house beer is a pleasant unfiltered Kellerbier, and other beers are brewed according to the season. The constantly changing seasonal menu is a step above normal brewpub fare, and the sauerbraten defines how the dish should be made. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Michaelisstr. 9 | 0361/262\u20133742.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nRadisson Blu Hotel Erfurt.  \nHOTEL | Since the SAS group gave the ugly high-rise Kosmos a face-lift, the socialist-realist look of the GDR years no longer intrudes on Hotel Erfurt. The hotel underwent several renovations, and the rooms now have bright, modern colors and fabrics (including leather-upholstered furniture). The Classico restaurant ($ - $$) serves mostly local dishes and is one of Erfurt's best. Pros: a safe, clean option in the city center; good restaurant. Cons: rather characterless business hotel. | Rooms from: \u20ac105 | Juri-Gagarin-Ring 127 | 0361/55100 | www.radissonblu.com | 282 rooms, 3 suites | Breakfast.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Schm\u00f6lln.  \nOn the A\u20134 between Dresden and Erfurt lies the picture-perfect, lost-in-time Thuringian village of Schm\u00f6lln. The town became famous at the end of the 19th century as the center of Europe's button trade. Schm\u00f6lln's industrial ambitions ended with the confiscation of the button industry as war reparations by the Red Army.\n\nSchm\u00f6lln's medieval Marktplatz, which the city rebuilt after a fire destroyed many of the buildings in 1772, is the largest in central Germany and a protected monument.\n\nSchm\u00f6lln is also famous for Schm\u00f6llner Mutzbraten, a fist-size piece of marinated pork-shoulder, spiced with marjoram and spit-roasted over birch.\n\nClimb the 30-meter-high Ernst-Agnes-Turm, the Eiffel Tower of East Thuringia, for incredible views of the rolling hills surrounding the Sprotte Valley. | Schm\u00f6lln.\n\nRegional and Button Museum.  \nThis museum explores Schm\u00f6lln's history and culture, while providing a charming insight into the history of the button. | Sprotter/Ronneburger Str. | Schm\u00f6lln | 034491/7692 | www.schmoelln.de | \u20ac3 | Wed. and Fri. 10\u20135, weekends 12:30\u20136\n\nHotel Reussischer Hof.  \nThe best place to sample Schm\u00f6lln's local delicacy is the beer garden of this hotel, which is also a good place to spend the night. | G\u00f6ssnitzer Str. 14 | Schm\u00f6lln | 034491/23108 | www.hotel-reussischer-hof.de | No credit cards\n\n## Weimar\n\n21 km (13 miles) east of Erfurt.\n\nSitting prettily in the geographical center of Thuringia, Weimar occupies a place in German political and cultural history completely disproportionate to its size (population 63,000). It's not even particularly old by German standards, with a civic history that started as late as 1410. Yet by the early 19th century the city had become one of Europe's most important cultural centers, where poets Goethe and Schiller wrote, Johann Sebastian Bach played the organ for his Saxon patrons, Carl Maria von Weber composed some of his best music, and Franz Liszt was director of music, presenting the first performance of Lohengrin here. In 1919 Walter Gropius founded his Staatliches Bauhaus here, and behind the classical pillars of the National Theater the German National Assembly drew up the constitution of the Weimar Republic, the first German democracy. As the Weimar Republic began to collapse in 1926, Hitler chose the little city as the site for the second national congress of his Nazi party, where he founded the Hitler Youth. On the outskirts of Weimar the Nazis built\u2014or forced prisoners to build for them\u2014the infamous Buchenwald concentration camp.\n\n#### Getting Here and Around\n\nWeimar is on the ICE line between Dresden/Leipzig and Frankfurt. IC trains link the city with Berlin. Weimar has an efficient bus system, but most sights are within walking distance in the compact city center.\n\n#### Essentials\n\nVisitor Information   \nTourist-Information Weimar. | Markt 10 | 03643/7450 | www.weimar.de.\n\n### Exploring\n\nBauhaus Museum.  \nWalter Gropius founded the Staatliches Bauhaus (Bauhaus design school) in Weimar in 1919. It was Germany's most influential and avant-garde design school, and it ushered in the era of modern architecture and design just before the start of World War II. Although the school moved to Dessau in 1925, Weimar's Bauhaus Museum is a modest, yet superb collection of the works of Gropius, Johannes Itten, and Henry van de Velde. | Theaterpl. | 03643/545\u2013961 | www.klassik-stiftung.de | \u20ac5 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nOff the Beaten Path: Gedenkst\u00e4tte Buchenwald  \n(Buchenwald Memorial). Just north of Weimar, amid the natural beauty of the Ettersberg hills that once served as Goethe's inspiration, sits the blight of Buchenwald, one of the most infamous Nazi concentration camps. Sixty-five thousand men, women, and children from 35 countries met their deaths here through forced labor, starvation, disease, and gruesome medical experiments. Each is commemorated by a small stone placed on the outlines of the barracks, which have long since disappeared from the site, and by a massive memorial tower. In an especially cruel twist of fate, many liberated inmates returned to the camp as political prisoners of the Soviet occupation; they are remembered in the exhibit Soviet Special Camp #2. Besides exhibits, tours are available. To reach Buchenwald by public transportation, take Bus No. 6 (in the direction of Buchenwald, not Ettersburg), which leaves every 10 minutes from Goetheplatz in downtown Weimar. The one-way fare is \u20ac1.90. | 03643/4300 | www.buchenwald.de | Free | May\u2013Sept., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20135:30; Oct.\u2013Apr., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20134:30.\n\nFodor's Choice | Goethe Nationalmuseum (Goethe National Museum).  \nGoethe spent 57 years in Weimar, 47 of them in a house two blocks south of Theaterplatz that has since become a shrine attracting millions of visitors. The Goethe Nationalmuseum consists of several houses, including the Goethehaus, where Goethe lived. It shows an exhibit about life in Weimar around 1750 and contains writings that illustrate not only the great man's literary might but also his interest in the sciences, particularly medicine, and his administrative skills (and frustrations) as minister of state and Weimar's exchequer. You'll see the desk at which Goethe stood to write (he liked to work standing up) and the modest bed in which he died. The rooms are dark and often cramped, but an almost palpable intellectual intensity seems to illuminate them. | Frauenplan 1 | 03643/545\u2013320 | www.weimar-klassik.de/english | \u20ac10.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Fri., and Sun. 9\u20134, Sat. 9\u20137.\n\nGoethes Gartenhaus (Garden House).  \nGoethe's beloved Gartenhaus is a modest country cottage where he spent many happy hours, wrote much poetry, and began his masterly classical drama Iphigenie. The house is set amid meadowlike parkland on the bank of the River Ilm. Goethe is said to have felt very close to nature here, and you can soak up the same rural atmosphere on footpaths along the peaceful little river. | Im Park an der Ilm, Hans-Wahl-Str. 4 | 03643/545\u2013375 | www.weimar-klassik.de/english | Cottage \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Wed.\u2013Mon. 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20134.\n\nHerderkirche (Herder Church).  \nThe Marktplatz's late-Gothic church has a large winged altar started by Lucas Cranach the Elder and finished by his son in 1555. The elder Cranach lived in a nearby house (two blocks east of Theaterplatz) during his last years, 1552\u201353. Its wide, imposing facade is richly decorated and bears the coat of arms of the Cranach family. It now houses a modern art gallery. | Herderpl. 8.\n\nHistorischer Friedhof (Historic Cemetery).  \nGoethe and Schiller are buried in this leafy cemetery, where virtually every gravestone commemorates a famous citizen of Weimar. Their tombs are in the vault of the classical-style chapel. The cemetery is a short walk past Goethehaus and Wieland Platz. | Am Poseckschen Garten | 03643/545\u2013400 | Goethe-Schiller vault \u20ac2.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Wed.\u2013Mon. 9\u20131 and 2\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Wed.\u2013Mon. 10\u20131 and 2\u20134.\n\nNeues Museum Weimar (New Museum Weimar).  \nThe city is proud of eastern Germany's first museum exclusively devoted to contemporary art. The building, dating from 1869, was carefully restored and converted to hold collections of American minimalist and conceptual art and works by German installation-artist Anselm Kiefer and American painter Keith Haring. In addition, it regularly presents international modern-art exhibitions. | Weimarpl. 5 | 03643/545\u2013930 | www.kunstsammlungen-weimar.de | \u20ac5.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 11\u20134.\n\nSchillerhaus.  \nThis green-shuttered residence, part of the Goethe National Museum, is on a tree-shaded square not far from Goethe's house. Schiller and his family spent a happy, all-too-brief three years here (he died here in 1805). Schiller's study is tucked underneath the mansard roof, a cozy room dominated by his desk, where he probably completed Wilhelm Tell. Much of the remaining furniture and the collection of books were added later, although they all date from around Schiller's time. | Schillerstr. 17 | 03643/545\u2013350 | www.klassik-stiftung.de | \u20ac7.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20134.\n\nStadtschloss (City Castle).  \nAround the corner from the Herderkirche, this 16th-century castle has a finely restored classical staircase, a festival hall, and a falcon gallery. The tower on the southwest projection dates from the Middle Ages but received its baroque overlay circa 1730. The Kunstsammlung (art collection) here includes several works by Cranach the Elder and many early-20th-century pieces by such artists as B\u00f6cklin, Liebermann, and Beckmann. | Burgpl. 4 | 03643/545\u2013930 | www.klassik-stiftung.de | \u20ac7.50 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\nTheaterplatz.  \nA statue on this square, in front of the National Theater, shows Goethe placing a paternal hand on the shoulder of the younger Schiller.\n\nWittumspalais (Wittum Mansion).  \nMuch of Weimar's greatness is owed to its patron, the widowed countess Anna Amalia, whose home, the Wittumspalais, is surprisingly modest. In the late 18th century the countess went talent hunting for cultural figures to decorate the glittering court her Saxon forebears had established. She discovered Goethe, and he served the countess as a counselor, advising her on financial matters and town design. Schiller followed, and he and Goethe became valued visitors to the countess's home. Within this exquisite baroque house you can see the drawing room in which she held soir\u00e9es, complete with the original cherrywood table at which the company sat. The east wing of the house contains a small museum that's a fascinating memorial to those cultural gatherings. | Am Theaterpl. | 03643/545\u2013377 | \u20ac6 | Apr.\u2013Oct., Tues.\u2013Sun. 9\u20136; Nov.\u2013Mar., Tues.\u2013Sun. 10\u20134.\n\n### Where to Eat\n\nFelsenkeller.  \nGERMAN | When Ludwig Deinhard purchased the Weimar Stadtbrauerei in 1875, Felsenkeller was already 100 years old. Beer has been brewed here in small batches ever since. Although the brewpub is outside the city center, it's worth a trip to sample the brews and the inventive seasonal selections. The pub serves standard fare at reasonable prices. | Average main: \u20ac9 | Humboldtstr. 37 | 03643/414\u2013741 | No credit cards | Closed Mon.\n\nRatskeller.  \nGERMAN | This is one of the region's most authentic town hall\u2013cellar restaurants. Its whitewashed, barrel-vaulted ceiling has witnessed centuries of tradition. At the side is a cozy bar, where you can enjoy a preprandial drink beneath a spectacular art nouveau skylight. The delicious sauerbraten and the famous bratwurst (with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes) are the highlights of the Thuringian menu. If venison is in season, try it\u2014likewise the wild duck or wild boar in red-wine sauce. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Am Markt 10 | 03643/850\u2013573.\n\nFAMILY | Scharfe Ecke.  \nGERMAN | If Kl\u00f6sse (dumplings) are a religion, this restaurant is their cathedral. Thuringia's traditional Kl\u00f6sse are at their best here, but be patient\u2014they're made to order and can take up to 20 minutes. The Kl\u00f6sse come with just about every dish, from roast pork to venison stew, and the wait is well worth it. The ideal accompaniment to anything on the menu is one of the three locally brewed beers on tap or the fine selection of Salle-Unstrut wines. | Average main: \u20ac11 | Eisfeld 2 | 03643/202\u2013430 | No credit cards | Closed Mon.\n\nSommer's Weinstuben und Restaurant.  \nGERMAN | The city's oldest pub and restaurant, a 130-year-old landmark in the center of Weimar, is still going strong. The authentic Thuringian specialties and huge Kartoffelpfannen (potato pans), with fried potatoes and various kinds of meat, are prepared by the fifth generation of the Sommer family, and are as tasty as ever. Add to that a romantic courtyard and a superb wine list with some rare vintages from local vineyards. | Average main: \u20ac10 | Humboldtstr. 2 | 03643/400\u2013691 | No credit cards | Closed Sun. No lunch.\n\n### Where to Stay\n\nAmalienhof VCH Hotel.  \nHOTEL | Book far ahead to secure a room at this friendly little hotel central to Weimar's attractions. It opened in 1826 as a church hostel. Double rooms are furnished with first-rate antique reproductions; public rooms have the real thing. Pros: surprisingly good value; rooms are often upgraded to the highest available category at check-in. Cons: street noise can be bothersome. | Rooms from: \u20ac97 | Amalienstr. 2 | 03643/5490 | www.amalienhof-weimar.de | 23 rooms, 9 apartments | Breakfast.\n\nFodor's Choice | Grand Hotel Russischer Hof.  \nHOTEL | This historic, classical hotel, once the haunt of European nobility and intellectual society, continues to be a luxurious gem in the heart of Weimar\u2014it's one of eastern Germany's finest hotels. Tolstoy, Liszt, Schumann, Turgenev, and others once stayed at this former Russian city palace, whose (partly historic) rooms are decorated today with antique French tapestries, linens, and furniture. The service is impeccable, and the atmosphere is casual yet serene and elegant. The restaurant Anastasia ($$) serves fine Austrian-Thuringian cuisine. Pros: a quiet hotel in the city center. Cons: rooms are on the small side, with thin walls; some overlook an unsightly back courtyard. | Rooms from: \u20ac110 | Goethepl. 2 | 03643/7740 | www.russischerhof.com | 119 rooms, 6 suites.\n\nFodor's Choice | Hotel Elephant.  \nHOTEL | The historic Elephant, dating from 1696, has been famous for its charm\u2014even through the Communist years. Book here (well in advance), and you'll follow the choice of Goethe, Schiller, Herder, Liszt (after whom the hotel bar is named) - and Hitler - all of whom were guests. Behind the sparkling white facade are comfortable modern rooms decorated in beige, white, and yellow in a timeless blend of art deco and Bauhaus styles. A sense of the past is ever-present. Pros: a beautiful historical building right in the city center. Cons: no a/c; rooms in the front are sometimes bothered by the town clock if windows are open. | Rooms from: \u20ac131 | Markt 19 | 03643/8020 | www.hotelelephantweimar.com | 94 rooms, 5 suites | Breakfast.\n\n### Nightlife\n\nShakespeares.  \nWeimar's lively after-dark scene is focused on bars and nightclubs around the Marktplatz, such as this Bauhaus-style bar and restaurant. | Windischenstr. 4\u20136 | 03643/901\u2013285.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Beginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nChronology\n\nTable of Contents\n\nEarly Middle Ages | Middle Ages | Renaissance and Reformation | Thirty Years' War | Absolutism and Enlightenment | Road to Nationhood | Modernism | Weimar Republic | Nazi Germany | The Cold War | Reunification\n\nca. 5000 bc Indo-Germanic tribes settle in the Rhine and Danube valleys.\n\nca. 2000\u2013800 bc Distinctive German Bronze Age culture emerges, with settlements ranging from coastal farms to lakeside villages.\n\nca. 450\u201350 bc Salzkammergut people, whose prosperity is based on abundant salt deposits (in the area of upper Austria), trade with Greeks and Etruscans; Salzkammerguts spread as far as Belgium and have first contact with the Romans.\n\n9 bc\u2013ad 9 Roman attempts to conquer the \"Germans\"\u2014the tribes of the Cibri, the Franks, the Goths, and the Vandals\u2014are only partly successful; the Rhine becomes the northeastern border of the Roman Empire (and remains so for 300 years).\n\n212 Roman citizenship is granted to all free inhabitants of the empire.\n\nca. 400 Pressed forward by Huns from Asia, such German tribes as the Franks, the Vandals, and the Lombards migrate to Gaul (France), Spain, Italy, and North Africa, scattering the empire's populace and eventually leading to the disintegration of central Roman authority.\n\n486 The Frankish kingdom is founded by Clovis; his court is in Paris.\n\n497 The Franks convert to Christianity.\n\n## Early Middle Ages\n\n776 Charlemagne becomes king of the Franks.\n\n800 Charlemagne is declared Holy Roman Emperor; he makes Aachen capital of his realm, which stretches from the Bay of Biscay to the Adriatic and from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. Under his enlightened patronage there is an upsurge in art and architecture\u2014the Carolingian renaissance.\n\n843 The Treaty of Verdun divides Charlemagne's empire among his three sons: West Francia becomes France; Lotharingia becomes Lorraine (territory to be disputed by France and Germany into the 20th century); and East Francia takes on, roughly, the shape of modern Germany.\n\n911 Five powerful German dukes (of Bavaria, Lorraine, Franconia, Saxony, and Swabia) establish the first German monarchy by electing King Conrad I. Henry I (the Fowler) succeeds Conrad in 919.\n\n962 Otto I is crowned Holy Roman Emperor by the pope; he establishes Austria\u2014the East Mark. The Ottonian renaissance is marked especially by the development of Romanesque architecture.\n\n## Middle Ages\n\n1024\u20131125 The Salian dynasty is characterized by a struggle between emperors and the Church that leaves the empire weak and disorganized; the great Romanesque cathedrals of Speyer, Trier, and Mainz are built.\n\n1138\u20131254 Frederick Barbarossa leads the Hohenstaufen dynasty; there is temporary recentralization of power, underpinned by strong trade and Church relations.\n\n1158 Munich, capital of Bavaria, is founded by Duke Henry the Lion. He is deposed by Emperor Barbarossa, and Munich is presented to the House of Wittelsbach, which rules it until 1918.\n\n1241 The Hanseatic League is founded to protect trade; Bremen, Hamburg, K\u00f6ln, and L\u00fcbeck are early members. Agencies are soon established in London, Antwerp, Venice, and along the Baltic and North seas; a complex banking and finance system results.\n\nmid-1200s The Gothic style, exemplified by the grand K\u00f6ln Cathedral, flourishes.\n\n1349 The Black Death plague kills one-quarter of the German population.\n\n## Renaissance and Reformation\n\n1456 Johannes Gutenberg (1400\u201368) prints the first book in Europe.\n\n1471\u20131553 The Renaissance flowers under influence of painter and engraver Albrecht D\u00fcrer (1471\u20131528); Dutch-born philosopher and scholar Erasmus (1466\u20131536); Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472\u20131553), who originates Protestant religious painting; portrait and historical painter Hans Holbein the Younger (1497\u20131543); and landscape-painting pioneer Albrecht Altdorfer (1480\u20131538). Increasing wealth among the merchant classes leads to strong patronage of the revived arts.\n\n1517 The Protestant Reformation begins in Germany when Martin Luther (1483\u20131546) nails his 95 Theses to a church door in Wittenberg, contending that the Roman Church has forfeited divine authority through its corrupt sale of indulgences. Luther is outlawed, and his revolutionary doctrine splits the Church; much of north Germany embraces Protestantism.\n\n1524\u201330 The (Catholic) Habsburgs rise to power; their empire spreads throughout Europe (and as far as North Africa, the Americas, and the Philippines). Erasmus breaks with Luther and supports reform within the Roman Catholic Church. In 1530 Charles V\u2014a Habsburg\u2014is crowned Holy Roman Emperor; he brutally crushes the Peasants' War, one in a series of populist uprisings in Europe.\n\n1545 The Council of Trent marks the beginning of the Counter-Reformation. Through diplomacy and coercion, most Austrians, Bavarians, and Bohemians are won back to Catholicism, but the majority of Germans remain Lutheran; persecution of religious minorities grows.\n\n## Thirty Years' War\n\n1618\u201348 Germany is the main theater for the Thirty Years' War. The powerful Catholic Habsburgs are defeated by Protestant forces, swelled by disgruntled Habsburg subjects and the armies of King Gustav Adolphus of Sweden. The bloody conflict ends with the Peace of Westphalia (1648); Habsburg and papal authority are severely diminished.\n\n## Absolutism and Enlightenment\n\n1689 Louis XIV of France invades the Rhineland Palatinate and sacks Heidelberg. At the end of the 17th century, Germany consolidates its role as a center of scientific thought.\n\n1708 Johann Sebastian Bach (1685\u20131750) becomes court organist at Weimar and launches his career; he and Georg Friederic Handel (1685\u20131759) fortify the great tradition of German music. Baroque and, later, rococo art and architecture flourish.\n\n1740\u201386 Reign of Frederick the Great of Prussia; his rule sees both the expansion of Prussia (it becomes the dominant military force in Germany) and the spread of Enlightenment thought.\n\nca. 1790 The great age of European orchestral music is raised to new heights with the works of Joseph Haydn (1732\u20131809), Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756\u201391), and Ludwig van Beethoven (1770\u20131827).\n\nearly 1800s Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749\u20131832) is part of the Sturm und Drang movement, which leads to Romanticism. Painter Caspar David Friedrich (1774\u20131840) leads early German Romanticism. Other luminary cultural figures include writers Friedrich Schiller (1759\u20131805) and Heinrich von Kleist (1777\u20131811); and composers Robert Schumann (1810\u201356), Hungarian-born Franz Liszt (1811\u201386), Richard Wagner (1813\u201383), and Johannes Brahms (1833\u201397). In architecture, the severe lines of neoclassicism become popular.\n\n## Road to Nationhood\n\n1806 Napol\u00e9on's armies invade Prussia; it briefly becomes part of the French Empire.\n\n1807 The Prussian prime minister Baron vom und zum Stein frees the serfs, creating a new spirit of patriotism; the Prussian army is rebuilt.\n\n1813 The Prussians defeat Napol\u00e9on at Leipzig.\n\n1815 Britain and Prussia defeat Napol\u00e9on at Waterloo. At the Congress of Vienna the German Confederation is created as a loose union of 39 independent states, reduced from more than 300 principalities. The Bundestag (national assembly) is established at Frankfurt. Already powerful Prussia increases its territory, gaining the Rhineland, Westphalia, and most of Saxony.\n\n1848 The \"Year of the Revolutions\" is marked by uprisings across the fragmented German Confederation; Prussia expands. A national parliament is elected, taking the power of the Bundestag to prepare a constitution for a united Germany.\n\n1862 Otto von Bismarck (1815\u201398) becomes prime minister of Prussia; he is determined to wrest German-populated provinces from Austro-Hungarian (Habsburg) control.\n\n1866 Austria-Hungary is defeated by the Prussians at Sadowa; Bismarck sets up the Northern German Confederation in 1867. A key figure in Bismarck's plans is Ludwig II of Bavaria. Ludwig\u2014a political simpleton\u2014lacks successors, making it easy for Prussia to seize his lands.\n\n1867 Karl Marx (1818\u201383) publishes Das Kapital.\n\n1870\u201371 The Franco-Prussian War: Prussia lays siege to Paris. Victorious Prussia seizes Alsace-Lorraine but eventually withdraws from all other occupied French territories.\n\n1871 The four South German states agree to join the Northern Confederation; Wilhelm I is proclaimed first kaiser of the united empire.\n\n## Modernism\n\n1882 The Triple Alliance is forged between Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy. Germany's industrial revolution blossoms, enabling it to catch up with the other great powers of Europe. Germany establishes colonies in Africa and the Pacific.\n\nca. 1885 Daimler and Benz pioneer the automobile.\n\n1890 Kaiser Wilhelm II (rules 1888\u20131918) dismisses Bismarck and begins a new, more aggressive course of foreign policy; he oversees the expansion of the navy.\n\n1890s A new school of writers, including Rainer Maria Rilke (1875\u20131926), emerges. Rilke's Sonnets to Orpheus gives German poetry new lyricism.\n\n1905 Albert Einstein (1879\u20131955) announces his theory of relativity.\n\n1906 Painter Ernst Ludwig Kirchner (1880\u20131938) helps organize Die Br\u00fccke, a group of artists who, along with Der Blaue Reiter, create the avant-garde art movement expressionism.\n\n1907 Great Britain, Russia, and France form the Triple Entente, which, set against the Triple Alliance, divides Europe into two armed camps.\n\n1914\u201318 Austrian archduke Franz-Ferdinand is assassinated in Sarajevo. The attempted German invasion of France sparks World War I; Italy and Russia join the Allies, and four years of pitched battle ensue. By 1918 the Central Powers are encircled and must capitulate.\n\n## Weimar Republic\n\n1918 Germany is compelled by the Versailles Treaty to give up its overseas colonies and much European territory (including Alsace-Lorraine to France) and to pay huge reparations to the Allies; Kaiser Wilhelm II repudiates the throne and goes into exile in Holland. The tough terms leave the new democracy, called the Weimar Republic, shaky.\n\n1919 The Bauhaus school of art and design, the brainchild of Walter Gropius (1883\u20131969), is born. Thomas Mann (1875\u20131955) and Hermann Hesse (1877\u20131962) forge a new style of visionary intellectual writing.\n\n1923 Germany suffers runaway inflation. Adolf Hitler's Beer Hall Putsch, a rightist revolt, fails; leftist revolts are frequent.\n\n1925 Hitler publishes Mein Kampf (My Struggle)\n\n1932 The Nazi party gains the majority in the Reichstag (parliament).\n\n1933 Hitler becomes chancellor; the Nazi \"revolution\" begins. In Berlin, Nazi students stage the burning of more than 25,000 books by Jewish and other politically undesirable authors.\n\n## Nazi Germany\n\n1934 President Paul von Hindenburg dies; Hitler declares himself F\u00fchrer (leader) of the Third Reich. Nazification of all German social institutions begins, spreading a policy that is virulently racist and anticommunist. Germany recovers industrial might and re-arms.\n\n1936 Germany signs anticommunist agreements with Italy and Japan, forming the Axis; Hitler reoccupies the Rhineland.\n\n1938 The Anschluss (annexation): Hitler occupies Austria. Germany occupies the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia. Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass), in November, marks the Nazis' first open and direct terrorism against German Jews. Synagogues and Jewish-owned businesses are burned, looted, and destroyed in a night of violence.\n\n1939\u201340 In August Hitler signs a pact with the Soviet Union; in September he invades Poland. War is declared by the Allies. Over the next three years there are Nazi invasions of Denmark, Norway, the Low Countries, France, Yugoslavia, and Greece. Alliances form between Germany and the Baltic states.\n\n1941\u201345 Hitler launches his anticommunist crusade against the Soviet Union, reaching Leningrad in the north and Stalingrad and the Caucasus in the south. In 1944 the Allies land in France; their combined might brings the Axis to its knees. In addition to the millions killed in the fighting, more than 6 million Jews and other victims die in Hitler's concentration camps. Germany is again in ruins. Hitler kills himself in April 1945. East Berlin and what becomes East Germany are occupied by the Soviet Union.\n\n## The Cold War\n\n1945 At the Yalta Conference, France, the United States, Britain, and the Soviet Union divide Germany into four zones; each country occupies a sector of Berlin. The Potsdam Agreement expresses the determination to rebuild Germany as a democracy.\n\n1946 East Germany's Social Democratic Party merges with the Communist Party, forming the SED, which would rule East Germany for the next 40 years.\n\n1948 The Soviet Union tears up the Potsdam Agreement and attempts, by blockade, to exclude the three other Allies from their agreed zones in Berlin. Stalin is frustrated by a massive airlift of supplies to West Berlin.\n\n1949 The three western zones are combined to form the Federal Republic of Germany; the new West German parliament elects Konrad Adenauer as chancellor (a post he held until his retirement in 1963). Soviet-held East Germany becomes the Communist German Democratic Republic (GDR).\n\n1950s West Germany, aided by the financial impetus provided by the Marshall Plan, rebuilds its devastated cities and economy\u2014the Wirtschaftswunder (economic miracle) gathers speed. The writers Heinrich B\u00f6ll, Wolfgang Koeppen, and G\u00fcnter Grass emerge.\n\n1957 The Treaty of Rome heralds the formation of the European Economic Community (EEC); West Germany is a founding member.\n\n1961 Communists build the Berlin Wall to stem the outward tide of refugees.\n\n1969\u201374 The vigorous chancellorship of Willy Brandt pursues Ostpolitik, improving relations with Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union and acknowledging East Germany's sovereignty.\n\nmid-1980s The powerful German Green Party emerges as the leading environmentalist voice in Europe.\n\n## Reunification\n\n1989 Discontent in East Germany leads to a flood of refugees westward and to mass demonstrations. Communist power collapses across Eastern Europe; the Berlin Wall falls.\n\n1990 In March the first free elections in East Germany bring a center-right government to power. The Communists, faced with corruption scandals, suffer a big defeat but are represented (as Democratic Socialists) in the new, democratic parliament. The World War II victors hold talks with the two German governments, and the Soviet Union gives its support for reunification. Economic union takes place on July 1, with full political unity on October 3. In December, in the first democratic national German elections in 58 years, Chancellor Helmut Kohl's three-party coalition is reelected.\n\n1991 Nine months of emotional debate end on June 20, when parliamentary representatives vote to move the capital from Bonn\u2014seat of the West German government since 1949\u2014to Berlin, the capital of Germany until the end of World War II.\n\n1998 Helmut Kohl's record 16-year-long chancellorship of Germany ends with the election of Gerhard Schr\u00f6der. Schr\u00f6der's Social Democratic Party (SPD) pursues a coalition with the Greens in order to replace the three-party coalition of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU), Christian Social Union (CSU), and Free Democratic Party (FDP).\n\n1999 The Bundestag, the German parliament, returns to the restored Reichstag in Berlin on April 19. The German federal government also leaves Bonn for Berlin, making Berlin capital of Germany again.\n\n1999\u20132003 For the first time since 1945, the German army (the Bundeswehr) is deployed in combat missions in the former Yugoslavia and Afghanistan.\n\n2000 Hannover hosts Germany's first world's exposition, expo 2000, the largest ever staged in the 150-year history of the event.\n\n2005 Chancellor Schr\u00f6der asks for a vote of confidence in parliament and fails. After a new election in September, Angela Merkel (CDU) becomes the new chancellor with a \"grand coalition\" of CDU/CSU and SPD.\n\n2006 Germany hosts the 2006 FIFA World Cup, the world's soccer championship.\n\n2007 Angela Merkel as German chancellor and also in her role as the then President of the Council of the European Union hosts the G-8 summit in Heiligendamm, Germany.\n\n2008 Chancellor Merkel (CDU) together with her minister of Finance Steinbr\u00fcck (SPD) announce at a specially called nationwide TV press conference the safety of all private savings accounts.\n\n2009 In Bundestag elections the alliance of the CDU/CSU and FDP receive an outright majority of seats, ensuring that Angela Merkel continues as chancellor.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n_Main Table of Contents_\n\nGetting Here and Around\n\nEssentials\n\nNext Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAir Travel | Boat Travel | Bus Travel | Car Travel | Cruise Ship Travel | Train Travel\n\nGermany's transportation infrastructure is extremely well developed, so all areas of the country are well connected to each other by road, rail, and air. The autobahns are an efficient system of highways, although they can get crowded during holidays. In winter you may have to contend with closed passes in the Alps or difficult driving on smaller roads in the Black Forest and the Saarland region. High-speed trains are perhaps the most comfortable way of traveling. Munich to Hamburg, for example, a trip of around 966 km (600 miles), takes 5\u00bd hours. Many airlines offer extremely cheap last-minute flights, but you have to be fairly flexible.\n\n## Air Travel\n\nThe least-expensive airfares on major carriers to Germany are often priced for round-trip travel and usually must be purchased in advance. Budget airline tickets are always priced one way. Airlines generally allow you to change your return date for a fee; most low-fare tickets, however, are nonrefundable. Fares between the British Isles and Germany on \"no-frills\" airlines such as Air Berlin and EasyJet can range from \u20ac15 to \u20ac70. TIP Although a budget airfare may not be refundable, new EU regulations require that all other supplemental fees and taxes are. That means that when the \u20ac1 fare from Berlin to Munich turns out to cost \u20ac70 with fuel surcharges and the like, you only lose \u20ac1. Refund procedures vary between airlines.\n\nFlying time to Frankfurt is 1\u00bd hours from London, 7\u00bd hours from New York, 10 hours from Chicago, and 12 hours from Los Angeles.\n\nLufthansa is Germany's leading carrier and has shared mileage plans and flights with Air Canada and United, as well as all members of the Star Alliance.\n\nGermany's internal air network is excellent, with flights linking all major cities in, at most, little more than an hour. Germany's second-largest airline, Air Berlin, is a low-cost, full-service operation flying domestic and international routes from its hubs in Berlin, Stuttgart, Dusseldorf, and Hamburg. It is almost always a cheaper and more comfortable option than a flag carrier. A handful of smaller airlines\u2014Germanwings, EasyJet, and TUIfly\u2014compete with low-fare flights within Germany and to other European cities. These companies are reliable, do business almost exclusively over the Internet, and often beat the German rail fares. The earlier you book, the cheaper the fare.\n\nAirlines Within Germany  \nAir Berlin. | 030/737\u2013800, 866/266\u20135588 in U.S. | www.airberlin.com.   \nEasyJet. | 01805/666\u2013000. | www.easyjet.com.   \nGermanwings. | 0180/191\u20139100 | www.germanwings.com.   \nLufthansa. | 01805/805\u2013805 | www.lufthansa.com.   \nTUIfly. | 0180/1000\u20132000 | www.TUIfly.com.\n\nMajor Airlines  \nAir Canada. | 888/247\u20132262 | www.aircanada.com.   \nLufthansa. | 800/645\u20133880 | www.lufthansa.com.   \nUnited Airlines. | 800/864\u20138331 for U.S. reservations, 800/538\u20132929 for international reservations | www.united.com.\n\n### Airports\n\nFrankfurt is Germany's air hub. The large airport has the convenience of its own long-distance train station, but if you're transferring between flights, don't dawdle or you could miss your connection.\n\nMunich is Germany's second air hub, with many services to North America and Asia. The airport is like a minicity, with plenty of activities to keep you entertained during a long layover. Experience a true German tradition and have a beer from the world's first airport brewery at the Hofbr\u00e4uhaus here. For a more active layover, play miniature golf, beach volleyball, or soccer, or ice skate in winter. There's also a playground. Live concerts and 150 shops with downtown prices draw locals to the airport as well. If you're an airplane aficionado (and German speaker), you can take advantage of a small cinema showing movies on aviation themes or take a bus tour of the airport's facilities, including maintenance hangars and engine-testing facilities. Looking for some R&R? The airport offers massages at the gate, relaxation zones, and napcabs (soundproof minirooms to nap in). Munich's S-bahn railway connects the airport with the city center; trips take about 40 minutes, and trains leave every 10 minutes.\n\nUnited and Air Berlin have nonstop service between New York and Berlin-Tegel. Air Berlin also flies from Berlin-Tegel to Chicago, Miami, and Los Angeles. Major airlines, like Lufthansa, fly in and out of Berlin-Tegel, while most budget airlines use Berlin-Sch\u00f6nefeld. Once the Berlin Brandenburg airport finally opens, both Tegel and Sch\u00f6nefeld will close.\n\nUnited also has nonstop service between New York and Hamburg. There are a few nonstop services from North America to D\u00fcsseldorf. Stuttgart is convenient to the Black Forest. Also convenient to the Black Forest is the EuroAirport Freiburg-Basel-Mulhouse, which is used by many airlines for European destinations and as a stopover.\n\nAirlines and Airports   \nAirline and Airport Links.com. | www.airlineandairportlinks.com.\n\nAirline Security Issues   \nTransportation Security Administration. | www.tsa.gov.\n\n#### Airport Information\n\nBerlin:   \nBerlin Brandenburg (BER). | 030/6091\u20131150 \u20ac0.14 per min | www.berlin-airport.de.   \nSch\u00f6nefeld (SXF). | 030/000\u2013186 \u20ac0.14 per min | www.berlin-airport.de.   \nTegel (TXL). | 030/000\u2013186 \u20ac0.14 per min | www.berlin-airport.de.\n\nD\u00fcsseldorf:   \nFlughafen D\u00fcsseldorf (DUS). | 0211/4210 | www.duesseldorf-international.de.\n\nFrankfurt:   \nFlughafen Frankfurt Main (FRA). | 01805/372\u20134636, 069/6900 from outside Germany | www.frankfurt-airport.de.\n\nFreiburg:   \nEuroAirport Freiburg-Basel-Mulhouse (MLH). | 0033/3899\u201303111 French number\u2014airport is across the border in France] | [www.euroairport.com.\n\nHamburg:   \nHamburg International Airport (HAM). | 040/50750 | www.ham.airport.de.\n\nK\u00f6ln:   \nFlughafen K\u00f6ln/Bonn (CGN). | 02203/404\u2013001 | www.koeln-bonn-airport.de.\n\nMunich:   \nFlughafen M\u00fcnchen (MUC). | 089/97500 | www.munich-airport.de.\n\nStuttgart:   \nFlughafen Stuttgart (STR). | 01805/948\u2013444 \u20ac0.14 per min | www.stuttgart-airport.de.\n\n## Boat Travel\n\nEurailpasses and German Rail Passes are honored by KD Rhine Line on the Rhine River and on the Mosel River between Trier and Koblenz. (If you use the fast hydrofoil, a supplementary fee is required.) The rail lines follow the Rhine and Mosel rivers most of their length, meaning you can go one way by ship and return by train. Cruises generally operate between April and October. If you are planning to visit Denmark or Sweden after Germany, note that Scandlines ferries offer discounts for Eurailpass owners.\n\nThe MS Duchess of Scandinavia carries passengers and cars three times a week for the 19\u00bd-hour run between Cuxhaven, Germany, and Harwich, England.\n\nInformation  \nKD Rhine Line. | 0221/208\u20138318 | www.k-d.com.   \nMS.Duchess of Scandinavia | 08705/333\u2013111 for DFDS Seaways in U.K., 040/389\u20130371 in Germany | www.dfdsseaways.co.uk.   \nScandlines. | 0381/54350 | www.scandlines.de.\n\n## Bus Travel\n\nGermany has good local bus service. Many cities are served by BerlinLinien Bus. Deutsche Touring, a subsidiary of the Deutsche Bahn, has offices and agents countrywide, and travels from Germany to cities elsewhere in Europe. It offers one-day tours along the Castle Road and the Romantic Road. The Romantic Road route is between W\u00fcrzburg (with connections to and from Frankfurt) and F\u00fcssen (with connections to and from Munich, Augsburg, and Garmisch-Partenkirchen). With a Eurailpass or German Rail Pass you get a 10% discount on this route. Buses, with an attendant on board, travel in each direction between April and October.\n\nAll towns of any size have local buses, which often link up with trams (streetcars) and electric railway (S-bahn) and subway (U-bahn) services. Fares sometimes vary according to distance, but a ticket usually allows you to transfer freely between the various forms of transportation.\n\nBus Information  \nBerlinLinien Bus. | 030/861\u20139331 | www.berlinlinienbus.de.   \nDeutsche Touring. | 069/790\u20133501 | www.touring.de.\n\n## Car Travel\n\nEntry formalities for motorists are few: all you need is proof of insurance; an international car-registration document; and a U.S., Canadian, Australian, or New Zealand driver's license. If you or your car is from an EU country, Norway, or Switzerland, all you need is your domestic license and proof of insurance. All foreign cars must have a country sticker. There are no toll roads in Germany, except for a few Alpine mountain passes. Many large German cities require an environmental sticker on the front windshield. If your rental car doesn't have one, it's likely you'll be required to pay the fine.\n\n### Car Rental\n\nIt is easy to rent a car in Germany, but not always cheap. You will need an International Driving Permit (IDP); it's available from the American Automobile Association (AAA) and the National Automobile Club. These international permits are universally recognized, and having one in your wallet may save you problems with the local authorities. In Germany you usually must be 21 to rent a car. Nearly all agencies allow you to drive into Germany's neighboring countries. It's frequently possible to return the car in another West European country, but not in Poland or the Czech Republic, for example.\n\nRates with the major car-rental companies begin at about \u20ac55 per day and \u20ac300 per week for an economy car with a manual transmission and unlimited mileage. It is invariably cheaper to rent a car in advance from home than to do it on the fly in Germany. Most rentals are manual, so if you want an automatic, be sure to request one in advance. If you're traveling with children, don't forget to ask for a car seat when you reserve. Note that in some major cities, even automobile-producing Stuttgart, rental firms are prohibited from placing signs at major pickup and drop-off locations, such as the main train station. If dropping a car off in an unfamiliar city, you might have to guess your way to the station's underground parking garage; once there, look for a generic sign such as Mietwagen (rental cars). The German railway system, Deutsche Bahn, offers discounts on rental cars.\n\nDepending on what you would like to see, you may or may not need a car for all or part of your stay. Most parts of Germany are connected by reliable rail service, so it might be a better plan to take a train to the region you plan to visit and rent a car only for side trips to out-of-the-way destinations.\n\nMajor Rental Agencies  \nAvis. | 800/331\u20131212 | www.avis.com.   \nBudget. | 800/472\u20133325 | www.budget.com.   \nEuropecar. | www.europecar.com.   \nHertz. | 800/654\u20133001 | www.hertz.com.\n\nWholesalers  \nAuto Europe. | 888/223\u20135555 | www.autoeurope.com.   \nEurope by Car. | 212/581\u20133040 in New York, 800/223\u20131516 | www.europebycar.com.   \nEurovacations. | 877/471\u20133876 | www.eurovacations.com.   \nKemwel. | 877/820\u20130668 | www.kemwel.com.\n\n### Gasoline\n\nGasoline costs are around \u20ac1.60 per liter\u2014which is higher than in the United States. Some cars use diesel fuel, which is about \u20ac0.15 cheaper, so if you're renting a car, find out which fuel the car takes. German filling stations are highly competitive, and bargains are often available if you shop around, but not at autobahn filling stations. Self-service, or SB-Tanken, stations are cheapest. Pumps marked Bleifrei contain unleaded gas.\n\n### Parking\n\nDaytime parking in cities and small, historic towns is difficult to find. Restrictions are not always clearly marked and can be hard to understand even when they are. Rental cars come with a \"time wheel,\" which you can leave on your dashboard when parking signs indicate free, limited-time allowances. Larger parking lots have parking meters (Parkautomaten). After depositing enough change in a meter, you will be issued a timed ticket to display on your dashboard. Parking-meter spaces are free at night. In German garages you must pay immediately on returning to retrieve your car, not when driving out. Put the ticket you got on arrival into the machine and pay the amount displayed. Retrieve the ticket, and upon exiting the garage, insert the ticket in a slot to raise the barrier. TIP You must lock your car when it is parked. Failure to do so risks a \u20ac25 fine and liability for anything that happens if the car is stolen.\n\n### Road Conditions\n\nRoads are generally excellent. Bundesstrassen are two-lane state highways, abbreviated \"B,\" as in B-38. Autobahns are high-speed thruways abbreviated with \"A,\" as in A-7. If the autobahn should be blocked for any reason, you can take an exit and follow little signs bearing a \"U\" followed by a number. These are official detours.\n\n### Road Maps\n\nThe best-known road maps of Germany are put out by the automobile club ADAC, by Shell, and by the Falk Verlag. They're available at gas stations and bookstores.\n\n### Roadside Emergencies\n\nThe German automobile clubs ADAC and AvD operate tow trucks on all autobahns. \"Notruf\" signs every 2 km (1 mile) on autobahns (and country roads) indicate emergency telephones. By picking up the phone, you'll be connected to an operator who can determine your exact location and get you the services you need. Help is free (with the exception of materials).\n\nEmergency Services   \nRoadside assistance. | 01802/222\u2013222.\n\n### Rules of the Road\n\nIn Germany, road signs give distances in kilometers. There are posted speed limits on much of the autobahns, and they advise drivers to keep below 130 kph (80 mph) or 110 kph (65 mph). A sign saying Richtgeschwindigkeit and the speed indicates this. Slower traffic should stay in the right lane of the autobahn, but speeds under 80 kph (50 mph) are not permitted. Speed limits on country roads vary from 70 kph to 100 kph (43 mph to 62 mph) and are usually 50 kph (30 mph) through small towns.\n\nDon't enter a street with a signpost bearing a red circle with a white horizontal stripe\u2014it's a one-way street. Blue \"Einbahnstrasse\" signs indicate you're headed the correct way down a one-way street. The blood-alcohol limit for driving in Germany is very low (.05%), and passengers, but not the driver, are allowed to consume alcoholic beverages in the car. Note that seatbelts must be worn at all times by front- and back-seat passengers.\n\nGerman drivers tend to drive fast and aggressively. There is no right turn at a red light in Germany. Though prohibited, tailgating is the national pastime on German roads. Do not react by braking for no reason: this is equally prohibited.\n\nYou may not use a handheld mobile phone while driving.\n\n### Scenic Routes\n\nGermany has many specially designated tourist roads that serve as promotional tools for towns along their routes. The longest is the Deutsche Ferienstrasse, the German Holiday Road, which runs from the Baltic Sea to the Alps, a distance of around 1,720 km (1,070 miles). The most famous, however, is the Romantische Strasse, which runs from W\u00fcrzburg to F\u00fcssen, in the Alps, covering around 355 km (220 miles).\n\nAmong other notable touring routes are the Strasse der Kaiser und K\u00f6nige (Route of Emperors and Kings), running from Frankfurt to Passau (and on to Vienna and Budapest); the Burgenstrasse (Castle Road), running from Mannheim to Bayreuth; the Deutsche Weinstrasse, running through the Palatinate wine country; and the Deutsche Alpenstrasse, running the length of the country's Alpine southern border from near Berchtesgaden to the Bodensee. Less well-known routes are the M\u00e4rchenstrasse, the Weser Renaissance Strasse, and the Deutsche Fachwerkstrasse (German Half-Timber Road).\n\n## Cruise Ship Travel\n\nThe American-owned Viking River Cruises company tours the Rhine, Main, Elbe, and Danube rivers, with four- to eight-day itineraries that include walking tours at ports of call. The longer cruises (up to 18 days) on the Danube (Donau, in German), which go to the Black Sea and back, are in great demand, so reserve six months in advance. The company normally books American passengers on ships that cater exclusively to Americans. If you prefer to travel on a European ship, specify so when booking. K\u00f6ln\u2013D\u00fcsseldorfer Deutsche Rheinschiffahrt (KD Rhine Line) offers trips of one day or less on the Rhine and Mosel. Between Easter and October there's Rhine service between K\u00f6ln and Mainz, and between May and October, Mosel service between Koblenz and Cochem. Check the website for special winter tours. You'll get a free trip on your birthday if you bring a document verifying your date of birth.\n\nCruise Lines  \nKD Rhine Line. | 0221/208\u20138318 | www.k-d.com.   \nViking River Cruises. | 0800/258\u20134666, 800/1887\u201310033 in Germany, 800/319\u20136660 in U.K. | www.vikingrivercruises.com.\n\n## Train Travel\n\nDeutsche Bahn (DB\u2014German Rail) is a very efficient, semi-privatized railway. Its high-speed InterCity Express (ICE), InterCity (IC), and EuroCity (EC) trains make journeys between the centers of many cities\u2014Munich\u2013Frankfurt, for example\u2014faster by rail than by air. All InterCity and InterCity Express trains have restaurant cars and trolley service. RE, RB, and IRE trains are regional trains. It's also possible to sleep on the train and save a day of your trip. CityNightLine (CNL) trains serving domestic destinations and neighboring countries have sleepers, couches, and recliners.\n\nOnce on your platform or Bahnsteig\u2014the area between two tracks\u2014you can check the notice boards that give details of the layout of trains (Wagenstandanzeiger) arriving on that track (Gleis). They show the locations of first- and second-class cars and the restaurant car, as well as where they will stop along the platform. Large railroad stations have English-speaking staff handling information inquiries.\n\nFor fare and schedule information, the Deutsche Bahn information line connects you to a live operator; you may have to wait a few moments before someone can help you in English. The automated number is toll-free and gives schedule information. On the DB website, click on \"English.\" A timetable mask will open up. To calculate the fare, enter your departure and arrival points, any town you wish to pass through, and whether you have a bike.\n\nIf you would like to work out an itinerary beforehand, Deutsche Bahn has an excellent website in English (www.bahn.de). It will even tell you which type of train you'll be riding on\u2014which could be important if you suffer from motion sickness. The ICE, the French TGV, the Swiss ICN, and the Italian Cisalpino all use \"tilt technology\" for a less jerky ride. One side effect, however, is that some passengers might feel queasy, especially if the track is curvy. An over-the-counter drug for motion sickness should help.\n\n### Baggage\n\nMost major train stations have luggage lockers (in four sizes). By inserting exact change into a storage unit, you release the unit's key. Prices range from \u20ac1 for a small locker to \u20ac3 for a \"jumbo\" one. Smaller towns' train stations may not have any storage options.\n\nThroughout Germany, Deutsche Bahn can deliver your baggage from a private residence or hotel to another or even to one of six airports: Berlin, Frankfurt, Leipzig-Halle, Munich, Hamburg, or Hannover. You must have a valid rail ticket. Buy a Kuriergep\u00e4ck ticket at any DB ticket counter, at which time you must schedule a pickup three workdays before your flight. The service costs \u20ac13.80 for each of the first two suitcases and \u20ac15.80 for each suitcase thereafter.\n\n### Discounts\n\nDeutsche Bahn offers many discount options with specific conditions, so do your homework on its website or ask about options at the counter before paying for a full-price ticket. For round-trip travel you can save 25% if you book at least three days in advance, 50% if you stay over a Saturday night and book at least three to seven days in advance. However, there's a limited number of seats sold at any of these discount prices, so book as early as possible, at least a week in advance, to get the savings. A discounted rate is called a Sparpreis. If you change your travel plans after booking, you will have to pay a fee. The surcharge for tickets bought on board is 10% of the ticket cost, or a minimum of \u20ac5. Most local, RE, and RB services do not allow for purchasing tickets on board. Not having a ticket is considered Schwarzfahren (riding black) and is usually subject to a \u20ac40 fine. Tickets booked at a counter always cost more than over the Internet or from an automated ticket machine.\n\nChildren under 15 travel free when accompanied by a parent or relative on normal, discounted, and some, but not all, special-fare tickets. However, you must indicate the number of children traveling with you when you purchase the ticket; to ride free, the child (or children) must be listed on the ticket. If you have a ticket with 25% or 50% off, a Mitfahrer-Rabatt allows a second person to travel with you for a 50% discount (minimum of \u20ac15 for a second-class ticket). The Sch\u00f6nes Wochenend Ticket (Happy Weekend Ticket) provides unlimited travel on regional trains on weekends for up to five persons for \u20ac37 (\u20ac35 if purchased online or at vending machine). Groups of six or more should inquire about Gruppen & Spar (group) savings. Each German state, or Land, has its own L\u00e4nder-Ticket, which lets up to five people travel from 9 am to 3 am for around \u20ac25.\n\nIf you plan to travel by train within a day after your flight arrives, purchase a heavily discounted \"Rail and Fly\" ticket for DB trains at the same time you book your flight. Trains connect with 14 German airports and two airports outside Germany, Basel and Amsterdam.\n\n### Fares\n\nA first-class seat is approximately 55% more than a second-class seat. For this premium you get a bit more legroom and the convenience of having meals (not included) delivered directly to your seat. Most people find second class entirely adequate and first class not worth the cost. Many regional trains offer an upgrade to first class for as little as \u20ac4. This is especially helpful on weekends when local trains are stuffed with cyclists and day-tripping locals. ICs and the later-generation ICE trains are equipped with electrical outlets for laptops and other gadgets.\n\nTickets purchased through Deutsche Bahn's website can be retrieved from station vending machines. Always check that your ticket is valid for the type of train you are planning to take, not just for the destination served. If you have the wrong type of ticket, you will have to pay the difference on the train, in cash or by credit card. If you book an online ticket and print it yourself, you must present the credit card used to pay for the ticket to the conductor for the ticket to be valid.\n\nThe ReisePacket service is for travelers who are inexperienced, elderly, disabled, or just appreciative of extra help. It costs \u20ac11 and provides, among other things, help boarding, disembarking, and transferring on certain trains that serve major cities and vacation areas. It also includes a seat reservation and a voucher for an onboard snack. Purchase the service at least one day before travel.\n\n### Passes\n\nIf Germany is your only destination in Europe, consider purchasing a German Rail Pass, which allows 4 to 10 days of unlimited first- or second-class travel within a one-month period on any DB train, up to and including the ICE. A Twin Pass saves two people traveling together 50% off one person's fare. A Youth Pass, sold to those 12\u201325, is much the same but for second-class travel only. You can also use these passes aboard KD Rhine Line along certain sections of the Rhine and Mosel rivers. Prices begin at $257 per person in second class. Twin Passes begin at $380 for two people in second class, and Youth Passes begin at $205. Additional days may be added to either pass, but only at the time of purchase and not once the pass has been issued. Extensions of the German Rail Pass to Brussels, Venice, Verona, Prague, and Innsbr\u00fcck are also available.\n\nRail 'n' Drive combines train travel and car rental. For instance, two people pay $207 each for two rail-travel days and two car-rental days within a month. You can add up to three more rail days ($66 each), and each additional car-rental day is $63.\n\nGermany is one of 21 countries in which you can use a Eurailpass, which provides unlimited first-class rail travel in all participating countries for the duration of the pass. Two adults traveling together can pay either \u20ac482 each for 15 consecutive days of travel or \u20ac622 each for 21 consecutive days of travel. The youth fare is \u20ac369 for 15 consecutive days and \u20ac435 for 10 days within two months. Eurailpasses are available from most travel agents and directly from www.eurail.com.\n\nEurailpasses and some of the German Rail Passes should be purchased before you leave for Europe. You can purchase a Eurailpass and 5- or 10-day German Rail Passes at the Frankfurt airport and at some major German train stations, but the cost will be higher (a youth ticket for five days of travel is just under \u20ac149). When you buy your pass, consider purchasing rail pass insurance in case you lose it during your travels.\n\nIn order to comply with the strict rules about validating tickets before you begin travel, read the instructions carefully. Some tickets require that a train official validate your pass, while others require you to write in the first date of travel.\n\nMany travelers assume that rail passes guarantee them seats on the trains they wish to ride. Not so. You need to book seats ahead even if you are using a rail pass; seat reservations are required on some European trains, particularly high-speed trains, and are a good idea in summer, on national holidays, and on popular routes. If you board the train without a reserved seat, you risk having to stand. You'll also need a reservation if you purchase sleeping accommodations. Seat reservations on InterCity trains cost \u20ac6, and a reservation is absolutely necessary for the ICE-Sprinter trains (\u20ac12 for second class). There are no reservations on regional trains.\n\n### Travel from Great Britain\n\nThere are several ways to reach Germany from London on British Rail. Travelers coming from the United Kingdom should take the Channel Tunnel to save time, the ferry to save money. Fastest and most expensive is the route via the Channel Tunnel on Eurostar trains. They leave at two-hour intervals from St. Pancras International and require a change of trains in Brussels, from which ICE trains reach K\u00f6ln in 2\u00bd hours and Frankfurt in 3\u00bd hours. Prices for one-way tickets from London to K\u00f6ln begin at \u20ac100\u2013\u20ac129. Cheapest and slowest are the 8 to 10 departures daily from Victoria using the Ramsgate\u2013Ostend ferry, jetfoil, or SeaCat catamaran service.\n\nChannel Tunnel Car Transport  \nEurotunnel. | 0870/535\u20133535 in U.K., 070/223\u2013210 in Belgium, 0810/630\u2013304 in France | www.eurotunnel.com.   \nRail Europe. | 0870/241\u20135415 | www.raileurope.co.uk.\n\nChannel Tunnel Passenger Service  \nEurostar. | 08432/186\u2013186 in the U.K., 1233/617\u2013575 outside the U.K. | www.eurostar.co.uk.   \nRail Europe. | 888/382\u20137245 in U.S., 0870/584\u20138848 in U.K., for inquiries and credit-card bookings | www.raileurope.com.\n\nTrain Information  \nDeutsche Bahn (German Rail). | 0800/150\u20137090 for automated schedule information, 11861 for 24-hr hotline (\u20ac0.39 per min), 491805/996\u2013633 from outside Germany (\u20ac0.12 per min) | www.bahn.de.   \nEurail. | www.eurail.com.   \nEurostar. | 0870/518\u20136186 | www.eurostar.com.\n\nBeginning of Chapter | Next Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\nAccommodations | Communications | Customs and Duties | Eating Out | Electricity | Emergencies | Etiquette | Health | Hours of Operation | Mail | Money | Packing | Passports and Visas | Restrooms | Safety | Taxes | Time | Tipping | Trip Insurance | Visitor Information\n\n## Accommodations\n\nThe standards of German hotels, down to the humblest inn, are very high. You can nearly always expect courteous and polite service and clean and comfortable rooms. In addition to hotels proper, the country has numerous Gasth\u00f6fe or Gasth\u00e4user (country inns that serve food and also have rooms). At the lowest end of the scale are Fremdenzimmer, meaning simply \"rooms,\" normally in private houses. Look for the sign reading \"Zimmer frei\" (room available) or \"zu vermieten\" (to rent) on a green background; a red sign reading \"besetzt\" means there are no vacancies.\n\nIf you are looking for a very down-to-earth experience, try an Urlaub auf dem Bauernhof, a farm that has rooms for travelers. This can be especially exciting for children. You can also opt to stay at a winery's Winzerhof.\n\nRoom rates are by no means inflexible and depend very much on supply and demand. You can save money by inquiring about deals: many resort hotels offer substantial discounts in winter, for example. Likewise, many $$$$ and $$$ hotels in cities cut their prices dramatically on weekends and when business is quiet. Major events like Munich's Oktoberfest and the Frankfurt Book Fair will drive prices through the ceiling.\n\nTourist offices will make bookings for a nominal fee, but they may have difficulty doing so after 4 pm in high season and on weekends, so don't wait until too late in the day to begin looking for your accommodations. If you do get stuck, ask someone\u2014like a mail carrier, police officer, or waiter, for example\u2014for directions to a house renting a Fremdenzimmer or to a Gasthof.\n\nMost hotels and other lodgings require you to give your credit-card details before they will confirm your reservation. If you don't feel comfortable emailing this information, ask if you can fax it (some places even prefer faxes). However you book, get confirmation in writing and have a copy of it handy when you check in.\n\nBe sure you understand the hotel's cancellation policy. Some places allow you to cancel without any kind of penalty\u2014even if you prepaid to secure a discounted rate\u2014if you cancel at least 24 hours in advance. Others require you to cancel a week in advance or penalize you the cost of one night. Small inns and B&Bs are most likely to require you to cancel far in advance. Most hotels allow children under a certain age to stay in their parents' room at no extra charge, but others charge for them as extra adults; find out the cutoff age for discounts.\n\n### Apartment and House Rentals\n\nIf you are staying in one region, renting an apartment is an affordable alternative to a hotel or B&B. Ferienwohnungen, or vacation apartments, are especially popular in more rural areas. They range from simple rooms with just the basics to luxury apartments with all the trimmings. Some even include breakfast. The best way to find an apartment is through the local tourist office or the website of the town or village where you would like to stay.\n\nInternational Agencies   \nAt Home Abroad. | 212/421\u20139165 | www.athomeabroadinc.com.   \nBarclay International Group. | 516/364\u20130064, 800/845\u20136636 | www.barclayweb.com.   \nDrawbridge to Europe. | 541/482\u20137778, 888/268\u20131148 | www.drawbridgetoeurope.com.   \nForgetaway. | www.forgetaway.com.   \nHome Away. | 512/493\u20130382 | www.homeaway.com.   \nInterhome. | 954/791\u20138282, 800/882\u20136864 | www.interhome.us.   \nSuzanne B. Cohen & Associates. | 207/622\u20130743 | www.villaeurope.com.   \nVacation Home Rentals Worldwide. | 201/767\u20139393, 800/633\u20133284 | www.vhrww.com.   \nVillanet. | 206/417\u20133444, 800/964\u20131891 | www.rentavilla.com.   \nVillas & Apartments Abroad. | 212/213\u20136435, 800/433\u20133020 | www.vaanyc.com.   \nVillas International. | 415/499\u20139490, 800/221\u20132260 | www.villasintl.com.   \nVillas of Distinction. | 707/778\u20131800, 800/289\u20130900 | www.villasofdistinction.com.   \nWimco. | 800/449\u20131553 | www.wimco.com.\n\n### Bed-and-Breakfasts\n\nB&Bs remain one of the most popular options for traveling in Germany. They are often inexpensive, although the price depends on the amenities. For breakfast, expect some muesli, cheese, cold cuts, jam, butter, and hard-boiled eggs at the very least. Some B&Bs also supply lunch baskets if you intend to go hiking, or arrange an evening meal for a very affordable price.\n\nReservation Services  \nBed & Breakfast.com. | 512/322\u20132710, 800/462\u20132632 | www.bedandbreakfast.com.   \nBed & Breakfast Inns Online. | 615/868\u20131946, 800/215\u20137365 | www.bbonline.com.   \nBnB Finder.com. | 212/432\u20137693, 888/469\u20136663 | www.bnbfinder.com.\n\n### Castle-Hotels\n\nStaying in a historic castle, or Schloss, is a great experience. The simpler ones may lack character, but most combine four-star luxury with antique furnishings, four-poster beds, and a baronial atmosphere. Some offer all the facilities of a resort. Euro-Connection can advise you on castle-hotel packages, including four- to six-night tours.\n\nContacts   \nEuro-Connection. | 800/645\u20133876 | www.euro-connection.com.\n\n### Farm Vacations\n\nAlmost every regional tourist office has a brochure listing farms that offer bed-and-breakfasts, apartments, and entire farmhouses to rent (Ferienh\u00f6fe). The German Agricultural Association provides an illustrated brochure, Urlaub auf dem Bauernhof (Vacation Down on the Farm), that covers more than 2,000 inspected and graded farms, from the Alps to the North Sea. It costs \u20ac9.90 and is also sold in bookstores.\n\nGerman Agricultural Association   \nDLG Reisedienst, Agratour (German Agricultural Association). | 069/247\u2013880 | www.landtourismus.de.\n\n### Home Exchanges\n\nWith a direct home exchange you stay in someone else's home while they stay in yours. Some outfits also deal with vacation homes, so you're not actually staying in someone's full-time residence, just their vacant weekend place.\n\nExchange Clubs  \nHome Exchange.com. $120 for a one-year online listing. | 800/877\u20138723 | www.homeexchange.com.   \nHomeLink International. $119 yearly for Web membership. | 800/638\u20133841 | www.homelink.org.   \nIntervac U.S. $99 for annual membership. | 800/756\u20134663 | www.intervacus.com.\n\n### Hostels\n\nGermany's more than 600 Jugendherbergen (youth hostels) are among the most efficient and up-to-date in Europe. The DJH Service GmbH provides a complete list of hostels it represents, but remember that there are also scores of independent hostels. Hostels must be reserved well in advance for midsummer, especially in eastern Germany. Note that weekends and holidays can mean full houses and noisy nights. Either bring earplugs or choose more expensive, but quieter, accommodations.\n\nMany hostels are affiliated with Hostelling International (HI), an umbrella group of hostel associations with some 4,500 member properties in more than 70 countries. Membership in any HI association, open to travelers of all ages, allows you to stay in HI-affiliated hostels at member rates. One-year membership is about $28 for adults; hostels charge about $10\u2013$30 per night. Members have priority if the hostel is full; they're also eligible for discounts around the world, even on rail and bus travel in some countries.\n\n###### Information\n\nDJH Service GmbH.| 05231/99360 | www.jugendherberge.de.\n\nHostelling International\u2014USA.| 301/495\u20131240 | www.hiusa.org.\n\n### Hotels\n\nMost hotels in Germany do not have air-conditioning, nor do they need it, given the climate and the German style of building construction that uses thick walls and recessed windows to help keep the heat out. Smaller hotels do not provide much in terms of bathroom amenities. Except in four- and five-star hotels, you won't find a washcloth. Hotels often have nonsmoking rooms or even nonsmoking floors, so it's always worth asking for one when you reserve. Beds in double rooms often consist of two twin mattresses placed side by side within a frame. When you arrive, if you don't like the room you're offered, ask to see another.\n\nAmong the most delightful places to stay\u2014and eat\u2014in Germany are the aptly named Romantik Hotels and Restaurants. The Romantik group has 98 members in Germany. All are in atmospheric and historic buildings\u2014a condition for membership\u2014and are run by the owners with the emphasis on excellent amenities and service. Prices vary considerably, but in general they are a good value.\n\nContacts   \nRomantik Hotels and Restaurants. | 800/650\u20138018, 817/678\u20130038 from the U.S., 069/661\u20132340 in Germany | www.romantikhotels.com.\n\n### Spas\n\nTaking the waters in Germany, whether for curing the body or merely pampering, has been popular since Roman times. More than 300 health resorts, mostly equipped for thermal or mineral-water, mud, or brine treatments, are set within pleasant country areas or historic communities. The word Bad before or within the name of a town means it's a spa destination, where many patients reside in health clinics for two to three weeks of doctor-prescribed treatments.\n\nSaunas, steam baths, and other hot-room facilities are often used \"without textiles\" in Germany\u2014in other words, naked. Wearing a bathing suit is sometimes even prohibited in saunas, but sitting on a towel is always required. (You may need to bring your own towels.) The Deutsche Heilb\u00e4derverband has information in German only.\n\nContacts   \nDeutsche Heilb\u00e4derverband (German Health Resort and Spa Association). | 0228/201\u2013200 | www.deutscher-heilbaederverband.de.\n\n## Communications\n\n### Internet\n\nNearly all hotels have in-room data ports, but you may have to purchase, or borrow from the front desk, a cable with an end that matches German phone jacks. If you're plugging into a phone line, you'll need a local access number for a connection. Wireless Internet (called WLAN in Germany) is more and more common in even the most average hotel. The service is not always free, however. Sometimes you must purchase blocks of time from the front desk or online using a credit card. The cost is fairly high, however, usually around \u20ac4 for 30 minutes.\n\nThere are alternatives. Some hotels have an Internet room for guests needing to check their email. Otherwise, Internet caf\u00e9s are common, and many bars and restaurants let you surf the Web. Cybercafes.com lists more than 4,000 Internet caf\u00e9s worldwide.\n\nContacts   \nCybercafes. | www.cybercafes.com.\n\n### Phones\n\nThe good news is that you can make a direct-dial telephone call from Germany to virtually any point on Earth. The bad news? You can't always do so cheaply. Calling from a hotel is almost always the most expensive option; hotels usually add huge surcharges to all calls, particularly international ones. In some countries you can phone from call centers or even the post office. Calling cards usually keep costs to a minimum, but only if you purchase them locally. Because most Germans own mobile phones, finding a telephone booth is becoming increasingly difficult. As expensive as mobile phone calls can be, they are still usually a much cheaper option than calling from your hotel.\n\nThe country code for Germany is 49. When dialing a German number from abroad, drop the initial \"0\" from the local area code.\n\nMany companies have service lines beginning with 0180. The cost of these calls averages \u20ac0.12 per minute. Numbers that begin with 0190 can cost \u20ac1.85 per minute and more.\n\n#### Calling Within Germany\n\nThe German telephone system is very efficient, so it's unlikely you'll have to use an operator unless you're seeking information. For information in English, dial | 11837 for numbers within Germany and | 11834 for numbers elsewhere. But first look for the number in the phone book or online (www.teleauskunft.de), because directory assistance is costly. Calls to 11837 and 11834 cost at least \u20ac0.50, more if the call lasts more than 30 seconds.\n\nA local call from a telephone booth costs \u20ac0.10 per minute. Dial the \"0\" before the area code when making a long-distance call within Germany. When dialing within a local area code, drop the \"0\" and the area code.\n\nTelephone booths are no longer a common feature on the streets, so be prepared to walk out of your way to find one. Phone booths have instructions in English as well as German. Most telephone booths in Germany are card-operated, so buy a phone card. Coin-operated phones, which take \u20ac0.10, \u20ac0.20, \u20ac0.50, \u20ac1, and \u20ac2 coins, don't make change.\n\n#### Calling Outside Germany\n\nThe country code for the United States is 1.\n\nInternational calls can be made from any telephone booth in Germany. It costs only \u20ac0.13 per minute to call the United States, day or night, no matter how long the call lasts. Use a phone card. If you don't have a good deal with a calling card, there are many stores that offer international calls at rates well below what you will pay from a phone booth. At a hotel, rates will be at least double the regular charge.\n\nAccess Codes  \nAT&T Direct. | 0800/225\u20135288.   \nMCI WorldPhone. | 0800/888\u20138000.   \nSprint International Access. | 0800/888\u20130013.\n\n#### Calling Cards\n\nPost offices, newsstands, and exchange places sell cards with \u20ac5, \u20ac10, or \u20ac20 worth of credit to use at public pay phones. An advantage of a card: it charges only what the call costs. A \u20ac5 card with a good rate for calls to the United States, United Kingdom, and Canada is Go Bananas!\n\n#### Mobile Phones\n\nYou can buy an inexpensive unlocked mobile phone and a SIM card at almost every corner shop and even at the supermarket. Most shops require identification to purchase a SIM card, but you can avoid this by purchasing a card at any number of phone centers or call shops, usually located near train stations. This is the best option if you just want to make local calls. If you bring a phone from abroad, your provider may have to unlock it for you to use a different SIM card and a prepaid service plan in the destination. You'll then have a local number and can make local calls at local rates. If your trip is extensive, you could also simply buy a new cell phone in your destination, as the initial cost will be offset over time.\n\nMany prepaid plans, like Blau World, offer calling plans to the United States and other countries, starting at \u20ac0.03 per minute. Many Germans use these SIM cards to call abroad, as the rates are much cheaper than from land lines.\n\nIf you have a multiband phone (some countries use different frequencies from what's used in the United States) and your service provider uses the world-standard GSM network (as do T-Mobile, AT&T, and Verizon), you can probably use your phone abroad. Roaming fees can be steep, however: 99\u00a2 a minute is considered reasonable. And overseas you normally pay the toll charges for incoming calls. It's almost always cheaper to send a text message than to make a call, because text messages have a very low set fee (often less than 5\u00a2).\n\nCellular Abroad rents and sells GMS phones and sells SIM cards that work in many countries. Mobal rents mobiles and sells GSM phones (starting at $49) that will operate in 140 countries. Planet Fone rents cell phones, but the per-minute rates are expensive.\n\nTIP If you travel internationally frequently, save one of your old mobile phones or buy a cheap one on the Internet; ask your cell phone company to unlock it for you, and take it with you as a travel phone, buying a new SIM card with pay-as-you-go service in each destination.\n\nContacts  \nCellular Abroad. | 800/287\u20135072 | www.cellularabroad.com.   \nMobal. | 888/888\u20139162 | www.mobalrental.com.   \nPlanet Fone. | 888/988\u20134777 | www.planetfone.com.\n\n## Customs and Duties\n\nGerman Customs and Border Control is fairly simple and straightforward. The system works efficiently and professionally, and 99% of all travelers will have no real cause to interact with them.\n\nYou're always allowed to bring goods of a certain value back home without having to pay any duty or import tax. But there's a limit on the amount of tobacco and liquor you can bring back duty-free, and some countries have separate limits for perfumes; for exact figures, check with your customs department. The values of so-called duty-free goods are included in these amounts. When you shop abroad, save all your receipts, as customs inspectors may ask to see them as well as the items you purchased. If the total value of your goods is more than the duty-free limit, you'll have to pay a tax (most often a flat percentage) on the value of everything beyond that limit.\n\nFor anyone entering Germany from outside the EU, the following limitations apply: (1) 200 cigarettes or 100 cigarillos or 50 cigars or 250 grams of tobacco; (2) 2 liters of still table wine; (3) 1 liter of spirits over 22% alcohol by volume (ABV) or 2 liters of spirits under 22% ABV (fortified and sparkling wines) or 2 more liters of table wine; (4) 50 grams of perfume and 250 milliliters of eau de toilette; (5) 500 grams of roasted coffee or 200 grams of instant coffee; (6) other goods to the value of \u20ac175.\n\nIf you have questions regarding customs or bringing a pet into the country, contact the Zoll-Infocenter.\n\nInformation in Germany   \nZoll-Infocenter. | 0351/4483\u20134510 | www.zoll.de.\n\nU.S. Information   \nU.S. Customs and Border Protection. | www.cbp.gov.\n\n## Eating Out\n\nAlmost every street in Germany has its Gastst\u00e4tte, a sort of combination restaurant and pub, and every village its Gasthof, or inn. The emphasis in either is on simple food at reasonable prices. A Bierstube (pub) or Weinstube (wine cellar) may also serve light snacks or meals.\n\nService can be slow, but you'll never be rushed out of your seat. Something else that may seem jarring at first: people can, and do, join other parties at a table in a casual restaurant if seating is tight. It's common courtesy to ask first, though.\n\nSince Germans don't generally drink from the tap, water always costs extra and comes as still or sparkling mineral water.\n\n### Budget Eating Tips\n\nImbiss (snack) stands can be found in almost every busy shopping street, in parking lots, train stations, and near markets. They serve W\u00fcrste (sausages), grilled, roasted, or boiled, and rolls filled with cheese, cold meat, or fish. Many stands sell Turkish-style wraps called d\u00f6ner kebab. Prices range from \u20ac1.50 to \u20ac2.50 per portion. It's acceptable to bring sandwich fixings to a beer garden so long as you order a beer there; just be sure not to sit at a table with a tablecloth.\n\nButcher shops, known as Metzgereien, often serve warm snacks or very good sandwiches. Try warmer Leberk\u00e4s mit Kartoffelsalat, a typical Bavarian specialty, which is a sort of baked meat loaf with mustard and potato salad. In northern Germany try Bouletten, small meatballs, or Currywurst, sausages in a piquant curry sauce. Thuringia has a reputation for its bratwurst, which is usually broken in two and packed into a roll with mustard. Up north, the specialty snack is a herring sandwich with onions.\n\nRestaurants in department stores are especially recommended for appetizing and inexpensive lunches. Kaufhof, Karstadt, Wertheim, and Horton are names to note. Germany's vast numbers of Turkish, Italian, Greek, Chinese, and Balkan restaurants are often inexpensive.\n\n### Meals and Mealtimes\n\nMost hotels serve a buffet-style breakfast (Fr\u00fchst\u00fcck) of rolls, cheese, cold cuts, eggs, cereals, yogurt, and spreads, which is often included in the price of a room. Caf\u00e9s, especially the more trendy ones, offer breakfast menus sometimes including pancakes, omelets, muesli, or even Thai rice soup. By American standards, a cup (Tasse) of coffee in Germany is very petite, and you don't get free refills. Order a Pot or K\u00e4nnchen if you want a larger portion.\n\nFor lunch (Mittagessen), you can get sandwiches from most caf\u00e9s and bakeries, and many fine restaurants have special lunch menus that make the gourmet experience much more affordable. Dinner (Abendessen) is usually accompanied by a potato or sp\u00e4tzle side dish. A salad sometimes comes with the main dish.\n\nGastst\u00e4tten normally serve hot meals from 11:30 am to 9 pm; many places stop serving hot meals between 2 pm and 6 pm, although you can still order cold dishes. If you feel like a hot meal, look for a restaurant advertising durchgehend ge\u00f6ffnet, or look for a pizza parlor.\n\nOnce most restaurants have closed, your options are limited. Take-out pizza parlors and Turkish eateries often stay open later. Failing that, your best option is a train station or a gas station with a convenience store. Many bars serve snacks.\n\nUnless otherwise noted, the restaurants listed in this guide are open daily for lunch and dinner.\n\n### Paying\n\nCredit cards are generally accepted only in moderate to expensive restaurants, so check before sitting down. You will need to ask for the bill (say \"Die Rechnung, bitte.\") in order to get it from the waiter, the idea being that the table is yours for the evening. Round up the bill 5% to 10% and pay the waiter directly rather than leaving any money or tip on the table. The waiter will likely wait at the table for you to pay after he has brought the check. He will also wear a money pouch and make change out of it at the table. If you don't need change, say \"Stimmt so.\" (\"Keep the change.\"), otherwise tell the waiter how much change you want back, adding in the tip. Meals are subject to 19% tax (abbreviated as \"MwSt\" on your bill).\n\n### Reservations and Dress\n\nRegardless of where you are, it's a good idea to make a reservation if you can. In most fine dining establishments it's expected. We only mention them specifically when reservations are essential (there's no other way you'll ever get a table) or when they are not accepted. For popular restaurants, book as far ahead as you can (often 30 days), and reconfirm as soon as you arrive. (Parties of more than four should always call ahead to check the reservations policy.) We mention dress only when men are required to wear a jacket or a jacket and tie.\n\nNote that even when Germans dress casually, their look is generally crisp and neat. Jeans are acceptable for most social occasions, unless you're meeting the president.\n\n### Smoking\n\nFor such an otherwise health-conscious nation, Germans do smoke. A lot. New anti-smoking laws came into effect in 2008, effectively banning smoking in all restaurants and many pubs, but many Germans, particularly in Berlin and Hamburg, tend to ignore them. Many hotels have nonsmoking rooms and even nonsmoking floors. However, a smoker will find it intrusive if you ask him or her to refrain.\n\n### Wines, Beer, and Spirits\n\nWines of Germany promotes the wines of all 13 German wine regions and can supply you with information on wine festivals and visitor-friendly wineries. It also arranges six-day guided winery tours in spring and fall in conjunction with the German Wine Academy.\n\nIt's legal to drink beer from open containers in public (even in the passenger seat of a car), and having a beer at one's midday break is nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Bavaria is not the only place to try beer. While Munich's beers have achieved world fame\u2014L\u00f6wenbr\u00e4u and Paulaner, for example\u2014beer connoisseurs will really want to travel to places farther north like Alpirsbach, Bamberg, Erfurt, Cologne, or G\u00f6rlitz, where smaller breweries produce top-notch brews.\n\nWine Information  \nGerman Wine Academy. | 06131/28290 | www.germanwines.de.   \nWines of Germany. | 212/994\u20137523 | www.germanwineusa.org.\n\n## Electricity\n\nThe electrical current in Germany is 220 volts, 50 cycles alternating current (AC); wall outlets take Continental-type plugs, with two round prongs.\n\nConsider making a small investment in a universal adapter, which has several types of plugs in one lightweight, compact unit. Most laptops and mobile phone chargers are dual voltage (i.e., they operate equally well on 110 and 220 volts) so require only an adapter. These days the same is true of small appliances such as hair dryers. Always check labels and manufacturer instructions to be sure. Don't use 110-volt outlets marked \"for shavers only\" for high-wattage appliances such as hair dryers.\n\nSteve Kropla's Help for World Travelers has information on electrical and telephone plugs around the world. Walkabout Travel Gear has good coverage of electricity under \"adapters.\"\n\nContacts  \nSteve Kropla's Help for World Travelers. | www.kropla.com.   \nWalkabout Travel Gear. | www.walkabouttravelgear.com.\n\n## Emergencies\n\nThroughout Germany call | 110 for police | 112 for an ambulance or the fire department.\n\nForeign Embassies   \nU.S. Embassy. | Pariser Platz 2, | Berlin | 030/83050, 030/8305\u20131200 for American citizens (2 pm\u20134 pm only) | www.usembassy.de.\n\n## Etiquette\n\n### Customs of the Country\n\nBeing on time for appointments, even casual social ones, is very important. There is no \"fashionably late\" in Germany. Germans are more formal in addressing each other than Americans. Always address acquaintances as Herr (Mr.) or Frau (Mrs.) plus their last name; do not call them by their first name unless invited to do so. The German language has informal and formal pronouns for \"you\": formal is Sie, and informal is du. Even if adults are on a first-name basis with one another, they may still keep to the Sie form.\n\nGermans are less formal when it comes to nudity: a sign that reads \"freik\u00f6rper\" or \"fkk\" indicates a park or beach that allows nude sunbathing. At a sauna or steam bath, you will often be asked to remove all clothing.\n\n### Greetings\n\nThe standard \"Guten Tag\" is the way to greet people throughout the country. When you depart, say \"Auf Wiedersehen.\" \"Hallo\" is also used frequently, as is Hi among the younger crowd. A less formal leave-taking is \"Tsch\u00fcss\" or \"ciao.\" You will also hear regional differences in greetings.\n\n### Language\n\nEnglish is spoken in most hotels, restaurants, airports, museums, and other places of interest. However, English is not widely spoken in rural areas or by people over 40; this is especially true of the eastern part of Germany. Learning the basics before going is always a good idea, especially bitte (please) and danke (thank you). Apologizing for your poor German before asking a question in English will make locals feel respected and begins all communication on the right foot.\n\nA phrase book and language-tape set can help get you started.\n\nTIP Under no circumstances use profanity or pejoratives. Germans take these very seriously, and a slip of the tongue can result in expensive criminal and civil penalties. Calling a police officer a \"Nazi\" or using vulgar finger gestures can cost you up to \u20ac10,000 and two years in jail.\n\n## Health\n\nWarm winters have recently caused an explosion in the summertime tick population, which often causes outbreaks of Lyme disease. If you intend to do a lot of hiking, especially in the southern half of the country, be aware of the danger of ticks spreading Lyme disease. There is no vaccination against them, so prevention is important. Wear high shoes or boots, long pants, and light-color clothing. Use a good insect repellent, and check yourself for ticks after outdoor activities, especially if you've walked through high grass.\n\n### Over-the-Counter Remedies\n\nAll over-the-counter medicines, even aspirin, are only available at an Apotheke (pharmacy): the German term Drogerie, or Pharmacie, refers to a shop for sundry items.\n\nApotheken are open during normal business hours, with those in train stations or airports open later and on weekends. Apotheken are plentiful, and there is invariably one within a few blocks. Every district has an emergency pharmacy that is open after hours. These are listed as Apotheken Notdienst or Apotheken-Bereitschaftsdienst on the window of every other pharmacy in town, often with directions for how to get there. Pharmacies will have a bell you must ring to enter. Most pharmacists in larger cities speak enough English to help. Some drugs have different names: acetominophen\u2014or Tylenol\u2014is called paracetomol.\n\n### Shots and Medications\n\nGermany is by and large a healthy place. There are occasional outbreaks of measles\u2014including one in North Rhine\u2013Westfalia\u2014so be sure you have been vaccinated.\n\n## Hours of Operation\n\nBusiness hours are inconsistent throughout the country and vary from state to state and even from city to city. Banks are generally open weekdays from 8:30 or 9 am to 3 or 4 pm (5 or 6 pm on Thursday), sometimes with a lunch break of about an hour at smaller branches. Some banks close by 2:30 on Friday afternoon. Banks at airports and main train stations open as early as 6:30 am and close as late as 10:30 pm.\n\nMost museums are open from Tuesday to Sunday 10\u20136. Some close for an hour or more at lunch. Many stay open until 8 pm or later one day a week, usually Thursday. In smaller towns or in rural areas, museums may be open only on weekends or just a few hours a day.\n\nAll stores are closed Sunday, with the exception of those in or near train stations. Larger stores are generally open from 9:30 or 10 am to 8 or 9 pm on weekdays and close between 6 and 8 pm on Saturday. Smaller shops and some department stores in smaller towns close at 6 or 6:30 on weekdays and as early as 4 on Saturday. German shop owners take their closing times seriously. If you come in five minutes before closing, you may not be treated like royalty. Apologizing profusely and making a speedy purchase will help.\n\nAlong the autobahn and major highways, as well as in larger cities, gas stations and their small convenience shops are often open late, if not around the clock.\n\n### Holidays\n\nThe following national holidays are observed in Germany: January 1; January 6 (Epiphany\u2014Bavaria, Saxony-Anhalt, and Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg only); Good Friday; Easter Monday; May 1 (Workers' Day); Ascension; Pentecost Monday; Corpus Christi (southern Germany only); Assumption Day (Bavaria and Saarland only); October 3 (German Unity Day); November 1 (All Saints' Day\u2014Baden-W\u00fcrttemberg, Bavaria, North Rhine-Westphalia, Rhineland-Pfalz, and Saarland); December 24\u201326 (Christmas).\n\nPre-Lenten celebrations in Cologne and the Rhineland are known as Karneval, and for several days before Ash Wednesday work grinds to a halt as people celebrate with parades, banquets, and general debauchery. Farther south, in the state of Baden-W\u00fcrttenburg, the festivities are called Fasching, and tend to be more traditional. In either area, expect businesses to be closed both before and after \"Fat Tuesday.\"\n\n## Mail\n\nA post office in Germany (Postamt) is recognizable by the postal symbol, a black bugle on a yellow background. In some villages you will find one in the local supermarket. Stamps (Briefmarken) can also be bought at some news agencies and souvenir shops. Post offices are generally open weekdays 8\u20136, Saturday 8\u2013noon.\n\nAirmail letters to the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand cost \u20ac1.70; postcards, \u20ac1. All letters to the United Kingdom and within Europe cost \u20ac0.55; postcards, \u20ac0.45. These rates apply to standard-size envelopes. Letters take approximately 3\u20134 days to reach the United Kingdom, 5\u20137 days to the United States, and 7\u201310 days to Australia and New Zealand.\n\nYou can arrange to have mail (letters only) sent to you in care of any German post office; have the envelope marked \"Postlagernd.\" This service is free, and the mail will be held for seven days. Or you can have mail sent to any American Express office in Germany. There's no charge to cardholders, holders of American Express traveler's checks, or anyone who has booked a vacation with American Express.\n\n### Shipping Packages\n\nMost major stores that cater to tourists will also ship your purchases home. You should check your insurance for coverage of possible damage.\n\nThe Deutsche Post has an express international service that will deliver your letter or package the next day to countries within the EU, within one to two days to the United States, and slightly longer to Australia. A letter or package to the United States weighing less than 200 grams costs \u20ac48.57. You can drop off your mail at any post office, or it can be picked up for an extra fee. Deutsche Post works in cooperation with DHL. International carriers tend to be slightly cheaper (\u20ac35\u2013\u20ac45 for the same letter) and provide more services.\n\nExpress Services  \nDeutsche Post. | 08105/345\u20132255 | www.deutschepost.de.   \nDHL. | 0800/225\u20135345 | www.dhl.de.   \nFedEx. | 0800/123\u20130800 | www.fedex.com.   \nUPS. | 0800/882\u20136630 | www.ups.com.\n\n## Money\n\nCredit cards are welcomed by most businesses, so you probably won't have to use cash for payment in high-end hotels and restaurants. Many businesses on the other end of the spectrum don't accept them, however. It's a good idea to check in advance if you're staying in a budget lodging or eating in a simple country inn.\n\nPrices throughout this guide are given for adults. Substantially reduced fees are almost always available for children, students, and senior citizens.\n\nTIP Banks almost never have every foreign currency on hand, and it may take as long as a week to order. If you're planning to exchange funds before leaving home, don't wait until the last minute.\n\n### ATMs and Banks\n\nTwenty-four-hour ATMs (Geldautomaten) can be accessed with Plus or Cirrus credit and banking cards. Your own bank will probably charge a fee for using ATMs abroad, and some German banks exact \u20ac3\u2013\u20ac5 fees for use of their ATMs. Nevertheless, you'll usually get a better rate of exchange via an ATM than you will at a currency-exchange office or even when changing money in a bank. And extracting funds as you need them is a safer option than carrying around a large amount of cash. Since some ATM keypads show no letters, know the numeric equivalent of your password. Always use ATMs inside the bank.\n\nTIP PINs with more than four digits are not recognized at ATMs in many countries. If yours has five or more, remember to change it before you leave.\n\n### Credit Cards\n\nAll major U.S. credit cards are accepted in Germany. The most frequently used are MasterCard and Visa. American Express is used less frequently, and Diners Club even less. Since the credit-card companies demand fairly substantial fees, some businesses will not accept credit cards for small purchases. Cheaper restaurants and lodgings often do not accept credit cards.\n\nIt's a good idea to inform your credit-card company before you travel, especially if you're going abroad and don't travel internationally very often. Otherwise, the credit-card company might put a hold on your card owing to unusual activity\u2014not a good thing halfway through your trip. Record all your credit-card numbers\u2014as well as the phone numbers to call if your cards are lost or stolen\u2014in a safe place, so you're prepared should something go wrong.\n\nIf you plan to use your credit card for cash advances, you'll need to apply for a PIN at least two weeks before your trip. Although it's usually cheaper (and safer) to use a credit card abroad for large purchases (so you can cancel payments or be reimbursed if there's a problem), note that some credit-card companies and the banks that issue them add substantial percentages to all foreign transactions, whether they're in a foreign currency or not. Check on these fees before leaving home, so there won't be any surprises when you get the bill.\n\nTIP Before you charge something, ask the merchant whether he or she plans to do a dynamic currency conversion (DCC). In such a transaction the credit-card processor (shop, restaurant, or hotel, not Visa or MasterCard) converts the currency and charges you in dollars. In most cases you'll pay the merchant a 3% fee for this service in addition to any credit-card company and issuing-bank foreign-transaction surcharges.\n\nDynamic currency conversion programs are becoming increasingly widespread. Merchants who participate in them are supposed to ask whether you want to be charged in dollars or the local currency, but they don't always do so. And even if they do offer you a choice, they may well avoid mentioning the additional surcharges. The good news is that you do have a choice. And if this practice really gets your goat, you can avoid it entirely thanks to American Express; with its cards, DCC simply isn't an option.\n\nReporting Lost Cards  \nAmerican Express. | 800/333\u20132639 in U.S., 715/343\u20137977 collect from abroad | www.americanexpress.com.   \nDiners Club. | 800/234\u20136377 in U.S., 303/799\u20131504 collect from abroad | www.dinersclub.com.   \nMasterCard. | 800/622\u20137747 in U.S., 636/722\u20137111 collect from abroad | www.mastercard.com.   \nVisa. | 800/847\u20132911 in U.S., 410/581\u20139994 collect from abroad | www.visa.com.\n\n### Currency and Exchange\n\nGermany shares a common currency, the euro (\u20ac), with 16 other countries: Austria, Belgium, Cyprus, Estonia, Finland, France, Greece, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, Malta, the Netherlands, Portugal, Slovakia, Slovenia, and Spain. The euro is divided into 100 cents. There are bills of 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, and 500 euros and coins of \u20ac1 and \u20ac2, and 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 cents. Many businesses and restaurants do not accept \u20ac200 and \u20ac500 notes. It is virtually impossible to pay for anything in U.S. dollars, but you should have no problem exchanging currency. The large number of banks and exchange services means that you can shop around for the best rate, if you're so inclined. But the cheapest and easiest way to go is using your ATM card.\n\nAt this writing time, the exchange rate was \u20ac0.75 for a U.S. dollar. But the exchange rate changes daily.\n\nTIP Even if a currency-exchange booth has a sign promising no commission, rest assured that there's some kind of huge, hidden fee. (Oh... that's right. The sign didn't say no fee.) And as for rates, you're almost always better off getting foreign currency at an ATM or exchanging money at a bank.\n\n#### Exchange Rates\n\nThere are a number of handy websites that can help you find out how much your money is worth. Google does currency conversion; just type in the amount and how you want it converted (e.g., \"100 dollars in euros\"), and voil\u00e0. Onada allows you to print out a handy table with the current day's conversion rates. XE also does currency conversion.\n\nConversion Sites  \nGoogle. | www.google.com.   \nOanda. | www.oanda.com.   \nXE. | www.xe.com.\n\n## Packing\n\nFor visits to German cities, pack as you would for an American city: dressy outfits for formal restaurants and nightclubs, casual clothes elsewhere. Jeans are as popular in Germany as anywhere else, and are perfectly acceptable for sightseeing and informal dining. In the evening, men will probably feel more comfortable wearing a jacket in more expensive restaurants, although it's almost never required. Many German women wear stylish outfits to restaurants and the theater, especially in the larger cities.\n\nWinters can be bitterly cold; summers are warm but with days that suddenly turn cool and rainy. In summer, take a warm jacket or heavy sweater if you are visiting the Bavarian Alps or the Black Forest, where the nights can be chilly even after hot days. In Berlin and on the Baltic, it is windy, which can be quite pleasant in summer but a complete bear in winter. To discourage purse snatchers and pickpockets, carry a handbag with long straps that you can sling across your body bandolier style and with a zippered compartment for money and other valuables.\n\nFor stays in budget hotels, pack your own soap. Many provide no soap at all or only a small bar.\n\n## Passports and Visas\n\nVisitors from the United States and Canada, including children, are required to have a passport to enter the EU for a period of up to 90 days. There are no official passport controls at any of Germany's land borders, although customs checks are becoming more frequent. Most travelers will only show their documents on entering and leaving the EU. Your passport should be valid for up to six months after your trip ends or this will raise questions at the border. EU citizens can enter Germany with a national identity card or passport. Traveling with children can be problematic. Single parents traveling with their own children rarely face any hassle, but overzealous border guards have been known to ask children about their relationship with the other parent. If you are a parent or grandparent traveling with a child, it helps to have a signed and notarized power of attorney in order to dispel any questions.\n\n## Restrooms\n\nPublic restrooms are found in large cities, although you are not guaranteed to find one in an emergency. If you are in need, there are several options. You can enter the next caf\u00e9 or restaurant and ask very politely to use the facilities. You can find a department store and look for the \"WC\" sign. Museums are also a good place to find facilities.\n\nTrain stations are increasingly turning to McClean, a privately run enterprise that demands \u20ac0.60 to \u20ac1.10 for admission to its restrooms. These facilities, staffed by attendants who clean almost constantly, sparkle. You won't find them in smaller stations, however. Their restrooms are usually adequate.\n\nOn the highways, the vast majority of gas stations have public restrooms, though you may have to ask for a key\u2014we won't vouch for their cleanliness. You might want to wait until you see a sign for a restaurant.\n\nRestrooms almost always cost money. It's customary to pay \u20ac0.20\u2013\u20ac0.70 to the bathroom attendant.\n\nTo read up on restrooms in advance of your trip, the Bathroom Diaries is flush with unsanitized info on restrooms the world over\u2014each one located, reviewed, and rated.\n\nFind a Loo   \nThe Bathroom Diaries. | www.thebathroomdiaries.com.\n\n## Safety\n\nGermany has one of the lowest crime rates in Europe. There are some areas, such as the neighborhoods around train stations and the streets surrounding red-light districts, where you should keep an eye out for potential dangers. The best advice is to take the usual precautions. Secure your valuables in the hotel safe. Don't wear flashy jewelry, and keep expensive electronics out of sight when you are not using them. Carry shoulder bags or purses so that they can't be easily snatched, and never leave them hanging on the back of a chair at a caf\u00e9 or restaurant. Avoid walking alone at night, even in relatively safe neighborhoods. Due to increasing incidents of violence in Berlin, Hamburg, and Munich, use caution late at night in the subway.\n\nWhen withdrawing cash, don't use an ATM in a deserted area or one that is outside. It is best to avoid freestanding ATMs in subway stations and other locations away from a bank. Make sure that no one is looking over your shoulder when you enter your PIN. And never use a machine that appears to have been tampered with.\n\nTIP Distribute your cash, credit cards, IDs, and other valuables between a deep front pocket, an inside jacket or vest pocket, and a hidden money pouch. Don't reach for the money pouch once you're in public.\n\nContacts   \nTransportation Security Administration (TSA). | www.tsa.gov.\n\n## Taxes\n\nMost prices you see on items already include Germany's 19% value-added tax (V.A.T.). Some goods, such as food, books, and antiquities, carry a 7% V.A.T. as a percentage of the purchase price. An item must cost at least \u20ac25 to qualify for a V.A.T. refund.\n\nWhen making a purchase, ask for a V.A.T. refund form and find out whether the merchant gives refunds\u2014not all stores do, nor are they required to. Have the form stamped like any customs form by customs officials when you leave the country or, if you're visiting several European Union countries, when you leave the EU. After you're through passport control, take the form to a refund-service counter for an on-the-spot refund (which is usually the quickest and easiest option), or mail it to the address on the form (or the envelope with it) after you arrive home. You receive the total refund stated on the form, but the processing time can be long, especially if you request a credit-card adjustment.\n\nGlobal Refund is a Europe-wide service with 225,000 affiliated stores and more than 700 refund counters at major airports and border crossings. Its refund form, called a Tax Free Check, is the most common across the European continent. The service issues refunds in the form of cash, check, or credit-card adjustment.\n\n### V.A.T. Refunds at the Airport\n\nIf you're departing from Terminal 1 at Frankfurt Airport, where you bring your purchases to claim your tax back depends on how you've packed the goods. If the items are in your checked luggage, check in as normal, but let the ticket counter know you have to claim your tax still. They will give you your luggage back to bring to the customs office in Departure Hall B, Level 2. For goods you are carrying on the plane with you, go to the customs office on the way to your gate. After you pass through passport control, there is a Global Refund office.\n\nIf you're departing from Terminal 2, bring goods in luggage to be checked to the customs office in Hall D, Level 2 (opposite the Delta Airlines check-in counters). For goods you are carrying on the plane with you, see the customs office in Hall E, Level 3 (near security control).\n\nAt Munich's airport, the Terminal 2 customs area is on the same level as check-in. If your V.A.T. refund items are in your luggage, check in first, and then bring your bags to the customs office on Level 04. From here your bags will be sent to your flight, and you can go to the Global Refund counter around the corner. If your refund items are in your carry-on, go to the Global Refund office in the customs area on Level 05 south. Terminal 1 has customs areas in modules C and D, Level 04.\n\nV.A.T. Refunds   \nGlobal Refund. | 800/566\u20139828 | www.globalblue.com.\n\n## Time\n\nAll of Germany is on Central European Time, which is six hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time and nine hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time. Daylight Saving Time begins on the last Sunday in March and ends on the last Sunday in October. Timeanddate.com can help you figure out the correct time anywhere.\n\nGermans use the 24-hour clock, or \"military time\" (1 pm is indicated as 13:00), and write the date before the month, so October 3 will appear as 03.10.\n\nTime Zones   \nTimeanddate.com. | www.timeanddate.com/worldclock.\n\n## Tipping\n\nTipping is done at your own discretion. Theater ushers do not necessarily expect a tip, while waiters, tour guides, bartenders, and taxi drivers do. Rounding off bills to the next highest sum is customary for bills under \u20ac10. Above that sum you should add a little more.\n\nService charges are included in all restaurant checks (listed as Bedienung), as is tax (listed as MwSt). Nonetheless, it is customary to round up the bill to the nearest euro or to leave about 5%\u201310%. Give it to the waitstaff as you pay the bill; don't leave it on the table, as that's considered rude.\n\n## Trip Insurance\n\nComprehensive trip insurance is valuable if you're booking a very expensive or complicated trip (particularly to an isolated region) or if you're booking far in advance. Comprehensive policies typically cover trip-cancellation and interruption, letting you cancel or cut your trip short because of illness, or, in some cases, acts of terrorism in your destination. Such policies might also cover evacuation and medical care. Some cover you for trip delays because of bad weather or mechanical problems as well as for lost or delayed luggage.\n\nAnother type of coverage to consider is financial default\u2014that is, when your trip is disrupted because a tour operator, airline, or cruise line goes out of business. Generally you must buy this when you book your trip or shortly thereafter, and it's available to you only if your operator isn't on a list of excluded companies.\n\nAlways read the fine print of your policy to make sure that you're covered for the risks that most concern you. Compare several policies to be sure you're getting the best price and range of coverage available.\n\nComprehensive Insurers  \nAIG Travel Guard. | 800/826\u20134919 | www.travelguard.com.   \nAllianz Global Assistance. | 866/284\u20138300 | www.allianztravelinsurance.com.   \nCSA Travel Protection. | 800/873\u20139855 | www.csatravelprotection.com.   \nTravelex Insurance. | 888/228\u20139792 | www.travelexinsurance.com.   \nTravel Insured International. | 800/243\u20133174 | www.travelinsured.com.\n\nInsurance Comparison Information  \nInsure My Trip. | 800/487\u20134722 | www.insuremytrip.com.   \nSquare Mouth. | 800/240\u20130369 | www.squaremouth.com.\n\n## Visitor Information\n\nStaff at the smaller offices might not speak English. Many offices keep shorter hours than normal businesses, and you can expect some to close during weekday lunch hours and as early as noon on Friday. Almost all German cities and towns have an Internet presence under www.cityname.de, for example www.naumburg.de. The Internet portal Deutschland.de has lots of information about the country's best-known sights, as well as those that are often overlooked.\n\nContacts   \nDeutschland.de. | www.deutschland.de.   \nGerman National Tourist Office. | 212/661\u20137200 | www.germany.travel.\n\nPrevious Chapter | Table of Contents\n\n# About Our Writers\n\nLeonie Adeane once convinced a German boy visiting her native New Zealand to introduce her to his homeland\u2014and she's been there ever since. Based in Munich, she misses the New Zealand seaside, but consoles herself with the excellent food, beer, and storybook scenery of her new backyard: Upper Bavaria. When she's not editing magazines and websites for international companies, she sometimes blogs about her gustatory German adventures at www.eatdrinkgermany.wordpress.com. After circumnavigating its shores on her bicycle (accompanied by that German boy), Leonie updated the Bodensee chapter for this edition.\n\nDan Allen has spent the last three years as an American expat in his beloved Berlin, fulfilling a lifelong dream and using the city as a home base to explore the rest of Germany's riches. A veteran global travel writer whose compiled work can be seen on www.danalyzed.com, he has covered Germany extensively for numerous North American publications and websites, and is the co-editor of the Berlin-based Spartacus Traveler International magazine. He updated the Rhineland chapter this edition.\n\nA California-born midwestern New Yorker, writer and editor Kimberly Bradley has lived in Berlin since 2003, covering art, design, architecture, art, and travel for publications including the New York Times, Monocle, and ArtReview. She also frequently contributes to monographs and art catalogs as an editor or writer, and teaches contemporary art at NYU Berlin. She's sad to see the art world's epicenter shift out of her neighborhood, Mitte, where she lives with her partner, an artist, and their daughter. She updated the feature on Berlin's Evolving Art Scene.\n\nLee Evans left his secluded eastern Washington home on a Congress-Bundestag youth exchange in 1986 and witnessed firsthand the revolutions that swept the Eastern Block in 1989. Since then, he's had a front-row seat as his favorite city, Berlin, has transformed into one of the cultural epicenters of Europe. He has worked extensively as a travel writer and tour manager, led the German railroad's Eurail Aid Office by helping thousands of travelers discover the secrets of Eastern Germany, and currently serves on the board of the Berlin Historical Association. He lives happily with his wife and daughter in a quiet, bucolic Charlottenburg neighborhood and is a closet currywurst aficionado. Visit his website at www.berlinandbeyond.de. He updated the Franconia, Black Forest, Saxony, and Travel Smart chapters this edition.\n\nLiz Humphreys is a recent transplant to Amsterdam from New York City, where she spent a decade in senior editorial positions for publications including Lucky, iVillage, and Everyday Health and was awarded an advanced certificate in wine studies from the WSET (Wine & Spirit Education Trust). She currently writes and edits for Fodors.com and Forbes Travel Guide on destinations across Europe. To indulge her obsessions with food, wine, and travel, she frequently takes the train down or hops on a short flight to Germany, especially its wine regions, and chronicles her wine-fueled adventures on her blog, | winederlust.com. She updated The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace chapter for this edition.\n\nEvelyn Kanter is a NYC-based travel and automotive journalist who visits Germany often, where she succumbs to what she describes as her \"wurst eating habits,\" prowls car museums, and sees relatives in her parents' hometowns of Munich and Frankfurt. A former on-air consumer reporter for ABC News and CBS News in New York, she now writes for publications including USA Today, airline in-flights and AAA magazines, and online for AOL Autos. Evelyn also writes two websites\u2014NYC on the Cheap, which is also a smartphone app, and ecoXplorer, about green travel and green cars. She updated the Frankfurt and Heidelberg/Neckar Valley chapters this edition, and has contributed in the past to Fodor's New York City, Canada, and Bahamas guidebooks.\n\nJeff Kavanagh is a freelance writer from New Zealand based in Hamburg. Having left his hometown of Dunedin in the South Island of the country in 1997, he lived in Korea, Japan, and England before coming to Germany in 2002. Since moving to the Hanseatic port city he has developed an enhanced appreciation for German food, wine, sports, and culture. His work has appeared in a number of publications and websites including Germany's The Local, and NZ Adventure Magazine, and the Listener in New Zealand. He wrote the Wine Tasting in the Mosel Valley, Outdoors in the Bavarian Alps, Germany's Christmas Markets, and Spas features, and updated The Fairy-Tale Road and Hamburg chapters.\n\nBen Knight lives in Berlin and was born in Manchester, UK. He studied literature in Britain, the United States, and Poland. His journalism has been published in both English and German publications including Deutsche Welle, The Local, Vice and Der Freitag, and he has contributed to several German city guides. Check out his Web site, | www.benknight.de, for more details. He wrote the features on Oktoberfest and German beer.\n\nOriginally from San Francisco, Sally McGrane moved to Berlin ten years ago. As a journalist she has written for the New York Times, TheNewYorker.com, TIME, Wired, Dwell, and others. She updated the Experience chapter and contributed to the Berlin chapter for this edition.\n\nFor Catherine Moser, Munich has always felt like another home. Catherine's German-born mother cherished her traditions while raising her kids in the Arizona desert so much so that even the family business was named after the Alps of Bavaria. After more than a decade first studying, then working in Los Angeles, Catherine seized the opportunity to move to Munich, where she works as a freelance copywriter. She updated the Romantic Road chapter for this edition.\n\nGiulia Pines spent her first 23 years in New York, and is now proud to call Berlin home. She is a writer, photographer, and avid traveler who has contributed to numerous online and print publications in the German capital, including ExBerliner, Electronic Beats, Slow Travel Berlin, and Berlin.Unlike. She contributed to the Berlin chapter for this edition.\n\nKatherine Sacks is a food and travel journalist living in Berlin. She developed a taste for the flavors of German brezel and zitroneneis (pretzels and lemon ice) while living on U.S. Army bases in Manheim, Mainz, and Wiesbaden during childhood. Her writing has been published in Deutsche Welle, Kinfolk magazine, and Food & Wine, among others. She contributed to the Berlin chapter this edition.\n\nMunich-based Paul Wheatley is a British writer with an interest in all things German. He writes on a diverse range of subjects, from travel and sport to art and architecture. History is his passion, and his first book, Munich: From Monks to Modernity, was published in 2010. Paul updated the Munich and Bavarian Alps chapters of this edition. Many of his articles are gathered at www.paul-wheatley.eu, including his articles for The Guardian.\n\n# Fodor's Germany\n\nWriters: Leonie Adeane, Dan Allen, Kimberly Bradley, Lee A. Evans, Liz Humphreys, Evelyn Kanter, Jeff Kavanagh, Ben Knight, Sally McGrane, Catherine C. Moser, Giulia Pines, Katherine Sacks, Paul Wheatley\n\nEditorial Contributors: Alexis Kelly, Andrea Lehman, Penny Phenix\n\nEditors: Salwa Jabado, lead editor; Caroline Trefler, Berlin editor; John Rambow, Amanda Sadlowski\n\nProduction Editor: Jennifer DePrima\n\nEbook Production: Garth Graeper, James Nash\n\nDesign: Jennifer Romains, Tina Malaney, Ann McBride-Alayon\n\nCopyright\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 by Fodor's Travel, a division of Random House LLC\n\nFodor's is a registered trademark of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Fodor's Travel, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. No maps, illustrations, or other portions of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.\n\n27th Edition\n\neBook ISBN 978\u20130\u20138041\u20134198\u20137\n\nExcerpted from Fodor's Germany (978\u20130\u20138041\u20134197\u20130)\n\nAN IMPORTANT TIP & AN INVITATION\n\nAlthough all prices, opening times, and other details in this work are based on information supplied to us at publication, changes occur all the time in the travel world, and Fodor's cannot accept responsibility for facts that become outdated or for inadvertent errors or omissions. So always confirm information when it matters, especially if you're making a detour to visit a specific place. Your experiences\u2014positive and negative\u2014matter to us. 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Sign up for Fodor's weekly newsletter.\n\nPHOTO CREDITS\n\nGermany Cover, Sodapix/F1Online/photolibrary.com   \nAlbum 1, WGXC / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 2, Scirocco340 / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 3, Zanna Karelina / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 4, S.Borisov / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 5, Dan Breckwoldt / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 6, Alexander Chaikin / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 7, EUROPHOTOS / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 8, Kletr / Shutterstock   \nL Album 9, LianeM / Shutterstock   \nAlbum 10, LENS-68 / Shutterstock   \nGermany Contents, \u00a9 Aprescindere | Dreamstime.com   \nGermany Maps, Jan-Dirk Hansen/shutterstock   \nExperience Germany, yozks/iStockphoto   \nGermany Today, Vladimir Wrangel/Shutterstock   \nWhat's Where, \u00a9 Juergen Pollak/Deutsche Zentrale f\u00fcr Tourismus e.V./GNTB   \nGermany Planner, Mapics/Shutterstock   \nQuintessential Germany, Markus Gann/Shutterstock   \nTop Attractions in Germany, anweber/Shutterstock   \nBest Things to Do in Germany, mkrberlin/Shutterstock   \nIf You Like, Oleg Senkov/Shutterstock   \nFlavors of Germany, HLPhoto/Shutterstock   \nBeers of Germany, Nikada/istockphoto   \nWines of Germany, Weingut Karp-Schreiber   \nGreat Itineraries, Munich 2010 100 by Daniel Stockman   \nhttp://www.flickr.com/photos/evocateur/5912169499/Attribution-ShareAlike License   \nLodging Primer, The Leading Hotels of the World   \nDiscovering Your German Ancestors, Neustadt a.d. 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Cover\n  2. Contents\n  3. Images of Germany\n  4. Germany Maps\n  5. Experience Germany\n    1. Germany Today\n    2. What's Where\n    3. Germany Planner\n    4. Quintessential Germany\n    5. Top Attractions in Germany\n    6. Best Things to Do in Germany\n    7. If You Like\n    8. Flavors of Germany\n    9. Beers of Germany\n    10. Wines of Germany\n    11. Great Itineraries\n    12. Lodging Primer\n    13. Discovering Your German Ancestors\n    14. World War II Sites\n  6. Munich\n    1. Welcome to Munich\n    2. Exploring Munich\n    3. Where to Eat\n    4. Where to Stay\n    5. Nightlife and the Arts\n    6. Sports and the Outdoors\n    7. Shopping\n    8. Side Trips from Munich\n  7. The Bavarian Alps\n    1. Welcome to The Bavarian Alps\n    2. Werdenfelser Land and Wetterstein Mountains\n    3. Chiemgau\n    4. Berchtesgadener Land\n  8. The Romantic Road\n    1. Welcome to The Romantic Road\n    2. Toward the Alps\n    3. Central Romantic Road\n    4. Northern Romantic Road\n  9. Franconia and the German Danube\n    1. Welcome to Franconia and the German Danube\n    2. Northern Franconia\n    3. N\u00fcrnberg (Nuremberg)\n    4. The German Danube\n  10. The Bodensee\n    1. Welcome to The Bodensee\n    2. The Northern Shore\n    3. The Upper Swabian Baroque Road\n    4. Around the Bodanr\u00fcck Peninsula\n  11. The Black Forest\n    1. Welcome to The Black Forest\n    2. The Northern Black Forest\n    3. The Central Black Forest\n    4. The Southern Black Forest\n  12. Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley\n    1. Welcome to Heidelberg and the Neckar Valley\n    2. Heidelberg\n    3. The Burgenstrasse (Castle Road)\n    4. Swabian Cities\n  13. Frankfurt\n    1. Welcome to Frankfurt\n    2. Exploring Frankfurt\n    3. Where to Eat\n    4. Where to Stay\n    5. Nightlife and the Arts\n    6. Sports and the Outdoors\n    7. Shopping\n    8. Side Trips from Frankfurt\n  14. The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace\n    1. Welcome to The Pfalz and Rhine Terrace\n    2. The German Wine Road\n    3. The Rhine Terrace\n  15. The Rhineland\n    1. Welcome to The Rhineland\n    2. The Rheingau\n    3. The Mittelrhein\n    4. The Mosel Valley\n    5. Bonn and the K\u00f6ln (Cologne) Lowlands\n  16. The Fairy-Tale Road\n    1. Welcome to The Fairy-Tale Road\n    2. Hesse\n    3. Lower Saxony\n  17. Hamburg\n    1. Welcome to Hamburg\n    2. Exploring Hamburg\n    3. Where to Eat\n    4. Where to Stay\n    5. Nightlife and the Arts\n    6. Sports and the Outdoors\n    7. Shopping\n  18. Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast\n    1. Welcome to Schleswig-Holstein and the Baltic Coast\n    2. Schleswig-Holstein\n    3. Western Mecklenburg\n    4. Vorpommern\n  19. Berlin\n    1. Welcome to Berlin\n    2. Exploring Berlin\n    3. Where to Eat\n    4. Where to Stay\n    5. Nightlife and the Arts\n    6. Shopping\n    7. Side Trip to Potsdam\n  20. Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia\n    1. Welcome to Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Thuringia\n    2. Saxony\n    3. Saxony-Anhalt\n    4. Thuringia\n  21. Understanding Germany\n    1. Chronology\n  22. Travel Smart Germany\n    1. Getting Here and Around\n    2. Essentials\n  23. About Our Writers\n  24. Credits and Copyright\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Cover\n  3. Contents\n  4. Contents\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Uncommon Tongues - Nicholson, Catherine;"}, "text": " \n_Uncommon Tongues_\n_Uncommon Tongues_\n\n_Eloquence and Eccentricity in the English Renaissance_\n\nCatherine Nicholson\n\nUNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS\n\nPHILADELPHIA\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 University of Pennsylvania Press\n\nAll rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher.\n\nPublished by\n\nUniversity of Pennsylvania Press\n\nPhiladelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112\n\nwww.upenn.edu/pennpress\n\nPrinted in the United States of America on acid-free paper\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data  \nISBN 978-0-8122-4558-5\n_Contents_\n\nIntroduction: Antisocial Orpheus\n\nChapter 1. Good Space and Time: Humanist Pedagogy and the Uses of Estrangement\n\nChapter 2. The Commonplace and the Far-Fetched: Mapping Eloquence in the English Art of Rhetoric\n\nChapter 3. \"A World to See\": Euphues's Wayward Style\n\nChapter 4. Pastoral in Exile: Colin Clout and the Poetics of English Alienation\n\nChapter 5. \"Conquering Feet\": Tamburlaine and the Measure of English\n\nCoda: Eccentric Shakespeare 164\n\nNotes\n\nIndex\n\nAcknowledgments\n_Introduction_\n\nAntisocial Orpheus\n\nIn the late sixteenth century, just as England began to assert its integrity as a nation and English its value as a literate tongue, vernacular writing took a turn for the eccentric. John Lyly's _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (1578), Edmund Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ (1579), and Christopher Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ (1587) loudly announced their authors' ambitions for the English language, but in their extravagant ornamentation, obscure archaism, and violent bombast they stood at a seemingly deliberate remove from the tongue whose reputation they helped to secure. Indeed to some early critics, the inaugural achievements of what Richard Foster Jones has termed \"the triumph of the English language\" seemed in their extremity hardly English at all. Edward Blount credited _Euphues_ with inventing a \"new English,\" but Philip Sidney likened its showy effects to the glittering of a bejeweled \"Indian.\" Joseph Hall dismissed _Tamburlaine_ 's blank verse as a \"Turkish\" concoction of \"big-sounding sentences\" and \"termes Italianate.\" Ben Jonson carped that Marlowe had taken the poet's privilege to \"differ from the vulgar somewhat\" as license to \"fly from all humanity,\" and he praised the matter of Spenser's poems but lamented that in them he \"writ no language.\" Indian, Turkish, Italianate, inhuman\u2014in laying claim to eloquence, it appears, English became increasingly strange to itself.\n\nThat estrangement is the subject of this book, which situates eccentricity at the paradoxical heart of sixteenth-century pedagogical, rhetorical, and literary culture. In doing so it departs from, or at least qualifies, a fantasy that has shaped both the English Renaissance and our perception of it. According to the founding myth of the classical rhetorical tradition, eloquence is the essence of sociability: mankind's natural vagrancy yields to the attractive power of language. \"Because there has been implanted in us the power to persuade each other and to make clear to each other what we desire... we have come together and founded cities and made laws and invented arts,\" Isocrates declares in his defense of rhetoric. Before the invention of rhetoric, as Cicero writes in the opening chapter of _De Inventione_ , humankind \"wandered at large... scattered in the fields and hidden in sylvan retreats\"; only when men had learned the art of persuasion could this wayward flock be \"assembled and gathered... in a single place,\" reconciled to domesticity and society. In the _Ars Poetica_ Horace identifies the eloquence of the aboriginal poets Orpheus and Amphion with the power to \"distinguish the public from private weal, things sacred from things profane,\" to \"plan out cities,\" and to \"engrave laws on tables of wood.\" \"I cannot imagine,\" declares Quintilian in his _Institutio Oratoria_ , \"how the founders of cities would have made a homeless multitude come together to form a people, had they not moved them by their skillful speech.\"\n\nSixteenth-century English rhetoricians found in this fantasy a potent justification for their efforts on behalf of the vernacular: if eloquence was the original antidote to errancy, more eloquent English would make for a stronger and more cohesive England. According to Thomas Wilson's 1560 _Arte of Rhetorique_ , the cultivation of the vernacular is thus England's chief safeguard from the perils of what he punningly terms \"roming\"\u2014which is to say, both \"roaming\" speech and \"Rome-ing\" souls, wayward tongues and Papist hearts. In a similar vein, George Puttenham's 1589 _Arte of English Poesie_ names Orpheus and Amphion as \"the first Legislators and polititians in the world,\" cites their verses as \"th'originall cause and occasion\" of civil society, and interprets poetic precepts as guides to social and political acculturation. When Puttenham hails Queen Elizabeth I as England's \"most excellent Poet,\" the compliment redounds to poetry, which is reimagined as a rarefied form of statecraft. \"Nothing can bee more excellently giuen of Nature then Eloquence,\" declares Richard Rainolde in his 1563 _Foundacion of Rhetorike_ , \"by the which the florishyng state of commonweales doe consiste [and] kyngdomes vniuersally are gouerned.\" Even Henry Peacham, whose 1577 _Garden of Eloquence_ is a barely elaborated listing of tropes and figures, claims a patriotic motive for his text: \"My wel meaning,\" he declares, \"is... to profyte this my country.\"\n\nAnd profit it did. Indeed we are now likely to credit the flourishing of the vernacular not simply with enriching England but with inventing it. As a large body of recent scholarship attests, the ascendancy of English as a learned and eloquent tongue in Shakespeare's day fostered a new and durable form of collective identification: an \"imagined community,\" in Benedict Anderson's influential formulation, founded on the \"deep, horizontal comradeship\" of reading and writing in a common tongue. Anderson's account of the origins of modern nationalism updates the mythology of eloquence for the purposes of modern literary and political history: now poets, playwrights, and pamphleteers play the part of Orpheus, as the once atomized inhabitants of premodern England are, beginning in the sixteenth century, \"connected through print, form[ing], in their secular, visible invisibility, the embryo of the nationally imagined community.\"\n\nAlthough critics continue to debate the contours of this emergent nationalism\u2014is it English or British, Elizabethan or more broadly Tudor?\u2014there is widespread agreement about its origins in literary practice. In the sixteenth century, Richard Helgerson argues, vernacular authors in virtually every genre worked \"to articulate a national community whose existence and eminence would then justify their desire to become its literary spokesmen,\" participating in \"what retrospectively looks like a concerted generational project\": the \"writing of England.\" Defining and consolidating \"Englishness,\" by means of what Claire McEachern calls \"the poetics of nationhood,\" is now understood as a central ambition and defining achievement of Renaissance literature; in the age of Shakespeare and Spenser, McEachern argues, imaginative writing worked \"to syncretize and synchronize competing interests in utopian visions of union.\" As Andrew Escobedo argues, literary authors used \"narrative representations of nationhood\" to compensate for an otherwise hopelessly fractured sense of history, knitting together \"the English past, present, and future in a complete and continuous story.\" In the context of \"writing England,\" the work of promoting and improving the mother tongue mattered more than ever, for as Ian Smith claims, \"on both the local and, more strikingly, the national scale, speaking English amount[ed] to a performative act of being English, a performance of the nation.\"\n\nBut such arguments rely on what sixteenth-century writers and rhetoricians would have recognized as a partial version of the classical account of eloquence, which, as Derek Attridge points out in his seminal book on literature as \"peculiar language,\" \"seems to be based on two mutually inconsistent demands\u2014that the language of literature be recognizably different from the language we encounter in other contexts, and that it be recognizably the same.\" Indeed, from its inception within the rhetorical theory of ancient Greece, eloquence has had as much to do with estrangement as with intimacy and familiarity. At the outset of his _Art of Rhetoric_ , Aristotle defines eloquence as the realization of common bonds in and through language: an orator succeeds in both his particular task and his larger social function by establishing \"what seems true to people of a certain sort,\" wooing men to consensus by accommodating his argument to \"instances near their experience.\" But when it comes to style, he acknowledges, the reverse holds true: the skilled speaker should make his \"language unfamiliar, for people are admirers of what is far off, and what is marvelous is sweet.\" In this regard, eloquence belongs not only to the poet-legislator who founds the rhetorical \"commonplace\" but also\u2014even especially\u2014to the outsider whose marginal glamour disturbs and dazzles that community.\n\nFollowing Aristotle, rhetoricians parsed style ever more finely in an effort to adjudicate between the rival virtues of accessibility and wonder: Dionysius of Helicarnassus contrasted Attic simplicity to Asiatic flamboyance; Cicero's triad of high, middle, and low styles assigned plainness to certain subjects and occasions and extravagance to others; Hermogenes's seven-part taxonomy of stylistic \"ideas\" ranged from the fundamental virtues of clarity and distinctness to the more striking effects of dignity, solemnity, and brilliance. Such rubrics did not resolve the tension between likeness and difference within Aristotle's account, however; on the contrary, they codified and elaborated it, enshrining strangeness as both the antithesis and the epitome of style.\n\nIn other words, sixteenth-century English writers inherited a rhetorical culture that was doubly far-fetched: literally far-fetched in that it entailed a deepening investment in remote antiquity; but also far-fetched as a matter of principle in that it had long regarded eloquence as _no one's_ native speech. As Puttenham acknowledges in book 3 of his _Arte_ , \"there is yet requisite to the perfection of this arte, another maner of exornation, which resteth in the fashioning of our makers language and stile, to such purpose as it may delight and allure as well the mynde as the eare of the hearers with a certaine noueltie and strange maner of conueyance, disguising it no litle from the ordinary and accustomed.\" Rhetoric and poetry might thus beautify and enrich English, conferring upon it the allurements of novelty and strangeness, but in doing so they threatened to deprive the vernacular of its most essential and widely acknowledged virtue, its status as the common\u2014\"the ordinary and accustomed\"\u2014tongue. Puttenham hastens to allay this anxiety: the cultivation of an eloquent style should, he insists, make the poet's or orator's words \"nothing the more vnseemely or misbecomming, but rather decenter and more agreable to any ciuill eare and vnderstanding.\" But classical precedent suggested that the effects of eloquence might in fact seem uncivil and misbecoming. Quintilian observes that Cicero's own superlative eloquence led the decorous denizens of the Roman courtroom to applaud wildly, forgetful of their sober surroundings. \"Nor,\" Quintilian explains, \"would his words have been greeted with such extraordinary approbation if his speech had been like the ordinary speeches of every day\":\n\nIn my opinion, the audience did not know what they were doing, their applause sprang neither from their judgment nor their will; they were seized with a kind of frenzy and unconscious of the place in which they stood, burst forth spontaneously into a perfect ecstasy of delight.\n\n(Atque ego illos credo qui aderant nec sensisse quid facerent nec sponte iudicioque plausisse, sed velut mente captos et quo essent in loco ignaros erupisse in hunc voluptatis adfectum.)\n\nWhat Quintilian describes as being \"unconscious of... place\" and Puttenham allegorizes as \"strange conveyance\" is identified by both rhetoricians as the consummation of rhetorical skill\u2014even though it is also an exact inversion of the sensitivity to local circumstance that is the essence of rhetorical wisdom: what the Greeks call _to prepon_ and the Romans _decorum_. The eloquence that anchors men in place thus also transports them, turning the common language into something profoundly and singularly strange. In order to be recognized as such, eloquence must exceed to the point of superseding the very sense of communal identification it is tasked with creating.\n\nAs the myth of Orpheus itself suggested, the pressure of such irreconcilable impulses could prove violently disintegrative. The aboriginal orator presented himself to sixteenth-century readers in two guises: not simply as the voice that summons vagrant and bestial mankind into civilized communion but also as the half-mad, self-exiled singer who reviles marriage, dotes on boys, and plays his lyre to an inhuman audience of trees, stones, and wild animals. In book 11 of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , the latter Orpheus faces a doom that is the antithesis of his earlier achievement: his scorn incites the Ciconian women to turn the instruments of agriculture and religion into blunt objects; they brandish \"mattocks, rakes, and shouels,\" as Arthur Golding writes in his 1567 translation, and batter the poet with \"their thyrses greene... which for another use than that invented been.\" In a gruesome inversion of Cicero's fantasy of the gathering of scattered mankind, Orpheus's bruised limbs are flung \"in sundrie steds,\" and his still-singing head, washed downstream from Thrace to Lesbos, is \"cast aland\" on a \"forreine coast.\"\n\nIt is this antisocial, outcast Orpheus who presides over the most significant stylistic innovations of the late sixteenth century, so much so that outlandishness becomes not simply the point of departure for English authors but the point of arrival as well. Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe achieve renown by subjecting English to extreme elaborations, even deformations, in the name of eloquence. Rather than affirming vernacular literature as the medium of cultural and political synthesis, they foreground its departures from both ordinary speech and the decorums of classical rhetoric and poetry.\n\nFar from mythologizing eloquence as a force that binds vagrant individuals into social communion, they allegorize its effects in narratives of willful unsociability, featuring protagonists whose astonishing powers of persuasion dislodge them from anything resembling stable community: Euphues's witty tongue leads away from a home to which he can never truly return; Colin Clout retreats from pastoral fellowship into sullen isolation; Tamburlaine struts across the civilized world leaving rubble and ashes in his wake. These are paradigmatic figures of English style from the late sixteenth century, but they are hardly representatives of a \"common tongue\" around whom a new national community might form.\n\nNor are they meant to be. Throughout the sixteenth century, in theoretical treatises and literary works alike, tropes of intimacy and sociability, the traditional virtues of artful speech, were made to coexist with unexpectedly compelling fantasies of alienation, errancy, and disunity. The appeal of those fantasies stems from a peculiar confluence of historical and cultural pressures, as English scholars, rhetoricians, and literary authors discovered both practical and theoretical advantages to what had once seemed like linguistic infirmities. Primed by their sensitivity to \"England's classical nowhereness,\" they prove keenly alert to the contradictory stances on familiarity and foreignness that structure classical accounts of eloquence, and the very moments at which they seem most urgently concerned with the particularities of their own Englishness are often the moments at which they come closest to the preoccupations of their Greek and Roman predecessors. The mutually inconsistent demands of classical rhetorical theory mirrored the mutually inconsistent demands exerted upon English writers by the classical tradition as a whole, that enticing yet alienating corpus of speeches, poems, and plays that both invited their efforts at emulation and impugned their status as barbarous outsiders. Relative to classical Greek and Latin, after all, English was _already_ a peculiar language: haphazardly composed, indiscriminately mixed, awkwardly pronounced, and indelibly strange. Capitulation to the alien order of eloquence could thus seem curiously like doubling down on a native eccentricity.\n\nAs Jones documents in his magisterial study of the vernacular in English Renaissance culture, in a brief span of years beginning around 1575 the status of English was revised dramatically upward. Novel achievements in prose, verse, and drama earned for the vernacular the reputation of an \"eloquent tongue,\" and decades of skepticism give way to the assertive experiments of an age that, in Jones's words, \"believed wholeheartedly in the literary value of its language.\" But this belief was not identical to\u2014or even, perhaps, compatible with\u2014faith in the vernacular's power to organize and sustain the body politic, for making English eloquent was also a way of dislocating it from the imagined community of native speakers. As Jones observes, the first fruits of this new faith were often willfully off-putting: \"No longer was the vernacular only a practical instrument, the efficacy of which depended upon simple clarity and humble plainness; it was, instead, a free medium of expression, in which brave new words and elaborate figures could puzzle or displease whom they would.\" Jones does not dwell on this curiously negative formulation of poetic license, nor have subsequent scholars taken it up, but sixteenth-century critics were sensitive to its implications for the mother tongue. Although the authors of rhetorical and poetic handbooks promoted artful English as the expression of a well-fashioned England, others identified eloquence as a more disorienting and disruptive force.\n\nThus William Harrison writes in his _Description and Historie of England_ , printed in 1577 as part of the first volume of Holinshed's _Chronicles_ , that the unprecedented investment of literary writers in their mother tongue seems to have made it both more excellent and less English than ever before. \"Our tongue,\" Harrison allows, \"never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein... sundry learned and excellent writers have fully accomplished the ornature of the same,\" but he cautions that \"not a few other doo greatlie seeke to staine the same, by fond affectation of forren and strange words, presuming that to be the best English, which is most corrupted with externall termes of eloquence.\" Harrison was not alone in identifying the pursuit of eloquence with the affectation of strangeness or externality. Samuel Daniel's 1603 _Defence of Ryme_ deplores the \"affectation\" of poets who show themselves \"to be both unkinde and vnnaturall to our owne natiue languge, in disguising or forging strange or vnusuall words, as if it were to make our verse seeme another kind of speech out of the course of our vsuall practice,\" while the preface to Robert Cawdrey's 1604 dictionary, _A TableAlphabeticall_, adapts a passage from Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_ to its own homogenizing purposes, urging readers that unless they are prepared to \"make a difference of English, and say, some is learned English, and othersome is rude English, or the one is Court talke, the other is Country-speech,\" they \"must of necessitie banish all affected Rhetorique, and vse altogether one manner of language.\" Such admonishments remind us that, notwithstanding the myth of eloquence's attractive power, the promotion of the vernacular as a literary tongue was not easily aligned with the promotion of a unified national identity. If laying claim to \"the best English\" meant disavowing the obligations of familiarity and mutual intelligibility, then the triumph of English begins to look like a more equivocal\u2014even self-defeating\u2014achievement.\n\nThe mingled pride and concern Harrison expresses is in some respects typical of his moment, a moment at which England appeared to its inhabitants as simultaneously provincial and cosmopolitan, isolated and expansive. Both perspectives can be grounded in historical fact. As David Wallace points out, only in 1558, with the loss of Calais, did England lose its foothold on the Continent and \"become... an island.\" At the same time, however, travel and trade brought the rest of Europe, and even Asia, closer: foreigners\u2014and foreign books\u2014swarmed London; the wool trade boomed; Englishmen crossed the channel in pursuit of wealth, learning, and pleasure; and the authors of texts such as Richard Hakluyt's _Principle Navigations of the English Nation_ (1589) took pride in representing England's reach as unprecedentedly large. \"Whoever heard of Englishmen at Goa before now?\" Hakluyt asks. \"What English ships did heretofore... range along the coast of Chile, Peru, and all the backside of Nova Hispania?\"\n\nIt is not surprising that the excitement and anxiety elicited by such changes inflect English authors' perceptions of what Thomas Nashe half-jokingly calls \"our homely Island tongue.\" Nashe tells readers who object to his \"huge words,\" \"I had as lieve have... no clothes rather than wear linsey wolsey\"; the language that Thomas Wilson likens favorably to \"our Countrie cloth\" strikes him as too homespun altogether. So too George Chapman, who in the preface to his translation of Homer refuses to apologize for his \"farre fetcht and, as it were, beyond sea manner of writing\": English would be better off, he insists, if its native authors did not restrict themselves to \"nothing but what mixeth it selfe with ordinarie table talke.\" For Richard Mulcaster, Spenser's grammar-school master and a fierce advocate for the mother tongue, the mobility of England's merchant class was a sign of the vernacular's own potential for expansion and enrichment: \"Will all kindes of trade, and all sorts of traffik, make a tung of account?\" he asks. \"If the spreading sea, and the spacious land could vse anie speche,\" he declares, \"theie would both shew you, where, and in how manie strange places, theie haue sene our peple, and also giue you to wit, that theie deall in as much, and as great varietie of matters, as anie other peple do, whether at home or abrode.\"\n\nBut the success of England's efforts to extend its influence across the globe could intensify as well as assuage concerns about the value of English. Those far-flung merchants and travelers could hardly expect to use English in their dealings with foreigners. Puttenham worries in his _Arte_ that the vernacular would suffer from such encounters, as the English of \"Secretaries and Marchaunts and trauailours\" was inevitably corrupted by the \"straunge termes of other languages.\"\n\nDebates about the vernacular's literary potential thus intersected with, reflected, and informed more widespread debates about England's place in the world\u2014historically marginal, newly insular, increasingly mobile, and uncertainly bounded. Throughout the sixteenth century terms such as insularity and estrangement, homeliness and exoticism, proximity and distance served as analogies for a whole range of (often contradictory) attitudes toward English eloquence, and the immediate experiences of geographic expansion and isolation supplied vernacular writers with a rich fund of metaphors for their linguistic predicament. Like England in the sixteenth century, English seemed poised to embark on a potentially enriching, potentially ruinous venture beyond its native plot. Indeed the ambivalence with which many authors allude to England's geographic circumstances\u2014its long-standing marginality, its burgeoning global reach\u2014turns out to be a useful guide for articulating their ambivalence about eloquence. If geographic insularity was both an asset and an impediment to England's cultural, moral, and intellectual development, so too was confining oneself to the strict limits of common usage both an aid and an obstacle to rhetorical success. If travel, trade, and other foreign engagements were either the key to the nation's growth and enrichment or the fastest route to degradation and decline, so too was the allure of strange terms either the vernacular's greatest hope or its most persistent source of error.\n\nCompounding this ambivalence was the fact that, as Paula Blank has shown, it proved impossible to position oneself as a defender of linguistic commonality without exacerbating the problem of linguistic diversity. Language reformers who appealed to the notion of a common tongue invariably also highlighted divisions within the language: the alternative to banishing rhetoric is, as Cawdrey writes, \"mak[ing] a difference of English,\" dismembering the vernacular in order to distinguish good uses from bad, proper from improper, usual from eccentric. Harrison's account works at just such cross-purposes of consolidation and differentiation, and his repeated invocations of the phrase \"our tongue\" jar with a tendency to characterize the vernacular's virtues in terms of narrowness and exclusivity. English is, he acknowledges, just one of \"the languages spoken in this Iland\"; its \"excellency\" is found only \"in one, and the south part of this Iland,\" and strangers to that part find its sounds and syntax near impossible to master. Instead of producing English as the locus of \"deep, horizontal community,\" then, the promotion of the vernacular depended on discriminatory judgments that threatened to undo the pretense of a common tongue. The terms of that adjudication exerted further stress on the ideal of commonality: even Harrison's mistrust of eloquence's \"externall termes\" does not preclude him from reaching for a neo-Latinate loan-word\u2014\"ornature\"\u2014to characterize the achievements of the vernacular's truly English stylists, the \"learned and excellent\" writers whose style he distinguishes from that of their fondly affected rivals.\n\nWe might point out in Harrison's defense that the identification of eloquence with the classical tongues makes \"externall termes\" nearly impossible to avoid. As Wayne Rebhorn has observed, like the Roman rhetoricians before them, who depended on a theoretical lexicon borrowed from Greece, English rhetoricians and language reformers had \"almost no choice but to use literally outlandish words from foreign languages.\" However firmly he might wish to draw the boundaries of vernacularity, then, Harrison, like any Renaissance critic, had to look elsewhere for a language to describe its literary virtues. That necessity yields a minor dissonance in Harrison's prose, but it resonated in a far more consequential way through the literature and literary theories of his time. That is to say, the tension between insularity and externality in sixteenth-century debates about eloquence is not exclusively, or even primarily, a function of the vernacular's \"real-world\" contexts; it is also the residue of its immersion in the classical tradition. The efforts of pedagogues and rhetoricians to fix rules and examples by which the best English might be recognized and perpetuated had the disorienting effect of embedding norms of vernacularity in the emulation of frankly alien tongues, the \"peculiar languages\" of ancient Athens and Rome. To speak English eloquently was, by definition, to speak it strangely.\n\nIndeed, although modern historians and literary critics have characterized sixteenth-century rhetorical culture as \"unequivocally and resolutely social in outlook,\" its rituals of argument aimed at producing \"a community of individuals sharing a common language,\" the translation of this culture into England and into English pushed Renaissance writers up against the limits of the assumed virtues of community and commonality. To begin with, as Sean Keilen has emphasized, English scholars and writers working to augment their notoriously deficient tongue were repeatedly confronted with reminders of their insularity and marginality; looking for models in the classical past, they discovered a legacy of barbarous exclusion, remedied only through submission to conquest. As Jenny Mann's work on figures of speech reveals, even small-scale transactions between antiquity and the present could trigger a jarring sense of dislocation and devaluation: vernacular rhetoricians may have fantasized the nation as \"an ideally united community of native English speakers,\" but in ferrying schemes and tropes out of classical prose and poetry and into English, they upset that native unity, \"threaten[ing] to overwhelm their vernacular with foreign devices.\" All too often, then, as Carla Mazzio demonstrates, vernacular texts that modeled themselves on classical literature became sites of \"language trouble,\" marred by stammering, mumbling, lexical confusion, and other forms of inarticulacy.\n\nLike these critics, I am interested in the distorting, even disabling pressure that classical antiquity exerts on the theory and practice of vernacular eloquence\u2014in particular in the impossibility of validating modern native practice without resorting to the definitively ancient and nonnative. But this paradoxical conflation of eloquence and alienation, although it speaks in seemingly direct ways to the belated and marginal predicament of English writers, is by no means particular to the sixteenth century; it is a legacy of the classical tradition's unresolved attitude toward linguistic difference. In this sense the very incommensurability of the classical past and the vernacular present could prove enabling for English writers, for even as their study of ancient rhetoric and poetry taught them to recognize their estrangement from antiquity, it also taught them to perceive in that estrangement\u2014or any estrangement of language\u2014the essence of literary value. Thus within any number of sixteenth-century English texts, the expressed desire to domesticate eloquence, reconciling antique precepts to the rhetorical imperatives of the here and now, clashes with an equally pervasive tendency to privilege distance and difference as the ideal attributes of eloquent speech. This willful embrace of strangeness is not, as William Harrison assumes, the purview of the unlearned, those self-alienated \"other[s]\" whose perversity threatens the ideal course of linguistic progress. On the contrary, it is a _learned_ technique, cultivated in deference to the very texts and theories that made English seem so strange.\n\n* * *\n\nThat learning is the first subject of this study. However radically innovative they appeared, the stylistic experiments of the late 1570s and early 1580s are rooted in theoretical ground prepared by an earlier humanism, as two seemingly antagonistic strains of linguistic reform worked to alter the nature and status of the English language. The earlier decades of the sixteenth century bear witness, on the one hand, to the concerted effort to imbue a generation of English schoolboys with perfect Latinity and, on the other hand, to the equally concerted effort to define rhetorical and poetic standards for the vernacular, achieving parity with antiquity by giving English an eloquence of its own. Although they aim at distinct, even rivalrous, visions of linguistic achievement, in practice the two movements shared significant overlap: those who sought to inculcate Latinity necessarily wrote in English and, in consequence, valued the vernacular more highly and altered its course more definitively than is often allowed; meanwhile the authors of vernacular arts of rhetoric and poetics served as conduits for conspicuously foreign terms, concepts, and writerly practices\u2014for an ideal of Englishness that remains in constant, jostling contact with tongues elsewhere. In a more basic sense, both Latin pedagogues and vernacular rhetoricians presented readers with an essentially paradoxical vision of what it might mean for England, as a whole, to lay claim to eloquence. Although each movement addresses itself to a broad audience, invoking a self-justifying rhetoric of intimacy and domesticity\u2014proper instruction will make Latin \"familiar\" and \"easy\" to any learner; the vernacular merits development because it is the \"common\" and \"mother\" tongue\u2014each ends by accepting, and even valorizing, estrangement and exile as the necessary conditions of a properly English eloquence.\n\nConventional narratives of vernacularization and nation-building tend to obscure both the sympathies between these two movements and the tensions within them. To begin with, although the rise of vernacular literature is often yoked to the \"fall\" or \"dethronement\" of the classical tongues, this equation is misleading. For much of the sixteenth century, as I argue in my opening chapter, a stubborn attachment to frankly impracticable fantasies of Latinization was a primary motive for the cultivation of the vernacular by literate authors. The elegant and inventive use of English in Sir Thomas Elyot's _Boke named the Governour_ (1531) and Roger Ascham's _Scholemaster_ (1570) anticipates the outpouring of vernacular literature that marks the end of the sixteenth century, but the two texts manifest as well a seemingly self-abnegating devotion to the cultivation of the classical tongues. Critics have responded by treating their stylistic influence as distinct from, even opposed to, their expressed pedagogical commitments. In fact, however, both Elyot's unself-conscious neologizing and Ascham's artfully balanced syntax arise out of their philosophies of foreign language study: what they bequeath to English is an indelible sense of its own difference from Latin and Greek.\n\nAs architects of ambitious new programs for the study of classical literature, men tasked with managing the transfer of eloquence from one time and place to another, radically unlike it, Elyot and Ascham scrutinize the relationship of learning to intimacy and estrangement. Both their pedagogical theories and their prose work to remedy the seemingly catastrophic fact of England's alienation from classical civilization\u2014what Elyot calls the \"infelicitie of our tyme and countray.\" They arrive, however, at very different conceptions of how that infelicitous gap ought to inform the pursuit of eloquence. For Elyot, both pedagogy and language are sustained by acts of hospitality, inviting strangeness into the home so as to be transformed and enriched by it: classical authors (and foreign loan-words) are akin to the Greek wet nurses who raised Roman infants, foreigners welcomed as intimate familiars. For Ascham, such receptivity to outside influence is morally perilous, pedagogically ineffective, and rhetorically unwise: remoteness and insularity may be obstacles to linguistic sophistication, but they are sure safeguards of virtue. Thus while Elyot's pedagogy and prose work to reduce the distance between English and Latin, Ascham\u2014more pragmatically and more radically\u2014embraces distance as the engine of linguistic refinement. His pedagogical method and his prose style foreground the necessity and virtue of _mediation_ : for him, classical authors are not wet nurses but sea captains, guides on a necessarily prolonged and difficult journey between tongues. This forced detour, enshrined in the artificially arduous practice of double translation, returned a generation of English writers to their mother tongue as, in effect, a second language\u2014what was once the enforced predicament of the exile and the barbarian becomes the deliberately cultivated pose of the would-be eloquent author.\n\nEstrangement\u2014temporal, geographic, cultural, and linguistic\u2014is urgently and obviously a concern for those who would transplant Latin eloquence to England, those who measure their own language and culture by its distance from antiquity. It is less clearly an issue for the authors of the first vernacular arts of rhetoric and poetics: in these texts, it would seem, the goal is to establish eloquence as an essentially homely value. But as I have suggested above, their acquaintance with classical rhetoric brings English rhetoricians and poetic theorists into conversation with a tradition _already_ divided between allegiance to home and attraction to the remote and alien. Chapter 2 explores the outworkings of that internal division within a corpus of texts that stake their own highly contested value on a myth of linguistic sociability that proves inadequate, or even opposed, to their visions of linguistic transport. As Thomas Wilson emphasizes in the first full-fledged English art of rhetoric, the claims that rhetoric makes to truth are essentially local in character; proximity is the guarantor of plausibility, and ordinary or common speech therefore exerts a particularly strong claim on the attention and commitment of an audience. But persuasion, as Wilson also allows, is not simply a matter of plausibility: style, ornament, and figuration have always been acknowledged to play some part in the achievement of eloquence, and in this regard, rhetorical success depends not on the familiarity of one's speech but precisely on its novelty and difference. The sense that eloquence resides elsewhere is endemic to rhetoric, however emphatically \"Englished.\" The archive of rhetorical handbooks and poetic treatises that is often invoked as evidence of literature's nationalizing force is thus equally available as testimony to literature's appeal as _uncommon_ speech: especially in the guise of what William Harrison calls \"ornature,\" eloquence retains persistent associations with foreignness.\n\nLike their predecessors in Athens and Rome, English rhetoricians identify the orator's and the poet's power both with the fashioning of community and with the uncircumscribed pleasures of travel, with familiarity and estrangement. Wilson abjures those who affect \"outlandish English\" in the name of eloquence, but he praises the beauty of \"farre fetcht\" figures of speech. Richard Sherry apologizes that the title of his 1550 _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ will sound \"all straunge unto our English eares,\" but he also imagines that the strangeness of terms such as \"scheme\" and \"trope\" may appeal to readers who are \"moued with the noueltye thereof.\" Puttenham defines \"the best English\" as that used in \"London and the shires lying about London within sixty miles, and not much above,\" but he urges vernacular poets to ornament their language with \"rich Orient colours,\" to embrace the \"forraine and coloured talke\" of figuration, and to risk \"trespasses in speech\" in order to achieve the \"novelty of language evidently (and yet not absurdly) estranged from the ordinary.\" Without the cultivation of a certain degree of alienation\u2014without translation and metaphor\u2014eloquence collapses into mere talk; taken too far, the exoticism of eloquence becomes affectation and absurdity. Of course, the distance between evident estrangement and absurdity proves much more difficult to gauge than the sixty miles between London and its outermost suburbs: far from securing the vernacular as the locus of communal identification, sixteenth-century efforts to define eloquence in (and on) native terms make the province of \"the best English\" increasingly difficult to map.\n\nDecoupling the trajectories of vernacularity and nationhood in this fashion allows us to regain an appreciation of the productive role that affectation\u2014that most maligned of literary strategies\u2014plays in the effort to claim eloquence for the mother tongue. The vernacular rhetorician joins with the Latin schoolmaster in calculating both the hazards and the rewards of linguistic eccentricity; together they fashion the conceptual frame within which Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe enact their self-consciously bold experiments in vernacular style. In other words, the extravagantly strung-on clauses of _Euphues_ , the exaggeratedly \"uncouth\" terms of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , and _Tamburlaine_ 's savage bombast are not incidental to the bids these texts make on behalf on the vernacular; they are, rather, the means by which English asserts itself in an age that places a premium on the alienating force of artful speech. I have called strangeness a learned achievement, and as I will emphasize in my readings, eccentricity is in many ways a calculated effect of Lyly's prose, Spenser's verse, and Marlowe's drama: these writers and the styles they promote are not quite as strange as they strive to appear. Lyly's hyperabundant prose arises from utterly conventional compositional practices; the oddity of Spenser's pseudo-archaic diction is exaggerated by E. K.'s gloss; Marlowe's blank-verse line has closer antecedents in English than we usually recall, or than Marlowe admits. Their efforts earned them outrage as well as admiration, but in either case they succeeded in fixing their individual achievements within a much larger conversation about the nature and purpose of vernacular eloquence. Commonality might be the premise from which that conversation began, but estrangement was where it invariably tended: thus the writers credited with accomplishing the most in and for the mother tongue were those who underscored its freaks, fissures, and indecorums, transferring it \"by a strange maner of conveyance,\" as Puttenham might say, into the mouths of errant cosmopolitans, exiled shepherds, and barbarian warlords.\n\nReading Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe in this light means acknowledging that eccentricity is the ideal that shapes their visions of eloquence. Euphues, Colin Clout, and Tamburlaine articulate new forms of English, and of Englishness, but they also enact the dramas of displacement, alienation, and trespass that make those innovations possible\u2014and, what is perhaps more important, legible as such. The substance of their stylistic eccentricity\u2014Lyly's assiduously balanced clauses, Spenser's quasi-medieval diction, Marlowe's chest-thumping orotundity\u2014is well known, but the motives and mechanisms for announcing that eccentricity to readers are not. For this reason I am less concerned to delineate what is new or distinctive in each style\u2014less, perhaps, than critics have tended to assume\u2014than I am to show how novelty and distinction are promoted, theorized, and critiqued with the texts themselves: how and why familiar words, forms, and literary techniques are burdened or burnished with strangeness.\n\nIn Lyly's case, the romance of estrangement was built into the commonplace tradition. My third chapter highlights the interplay within Erasmus's rhetorical handbooks\u2014the most influential and prestigious source for Lyly's style\u2014of the satisfactions of stylistic amplitude and the pleasures of geographic errancy. The _De Copia_ taught a generation of English schoolboys to define eloquence as the ability to speak as expansively as possible on any subject\u2014and to identify that ability with a more literal freedom of movement, a protocosmopolitan approach to being at home in the world. Erasmus demonstrates _copia_ by generating over a hundred versions of a single sentence\u2014\"your letter greatly pleased me\"\u2014and the link between letter writing and stylistic abundance persists throughout his pedagogical program. In _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ (another staple of the sixteenth-century English schoolroom), Erasmus makes clear that he favors letter writing as an educational exercise because the epistle, like the ideal of _copia_ , defies the usual boundaries governing speech, passing from one rhetorical context to another with the same ease that a well-trained schoolboy might pass from one commonplace to the next. It is no coincidence, then, that vernacular _copia_ finds its limit in a text filled to bursting with both letters and commonplaces. Incorporating similitudes, sententiae, and exempla from an array of classical and contemporary sources, including many from Erasmus, the ornate rhetorical set-pieces of Lyly's _Euphues_ are as wide ranging\u2014and as hard to pin down, logically speaking\u2014as his eponymous hero. Frequently, however, neither Euphues nor Lyly arrives at his projected end, succumbing to an errant superfluity that overrides the more local demands of narrative and rhetorical coherence. Generations of readers have taxed _Euphues_ with this as an oversight, charging Lyly with allowing his enthusiasm for _copia_ to carry him past the boundaries of stylistic decorum. But Lyly is hardly blind to the eccentricities of his style: on the contrary, his failure to inaugurate a sustainable model of vernacular eloquence is prefigured in the pages of his 1580 sequel, _Euphues and His England_ , which exiles Euphues to the margins of his own plot, branding him as a perpetual outsider. Lyly does not succumb to Erasmian excess so much as he deliberately subjects English to its hidden costs.\n\nA similarly self-marginalizing drive fuels Edmund Spenser's efforts to invent a poetic diction that redeems the vernacular's onerous debt to the classical tradition. Chapter 4 argues that _The Shepheardes Calender_ adopts a poetics of deliberate self-estrangement, foregrounding England's remoteness from antiquity and poetry's remoteness from ordinary speech. Despite its conventional associations with poetic and even political ambition, pastoral is a singularly inhospitable genre for an English poet: in Virgil's first eclogue Britain appears as the antithesis of pastoral contentment, a place of exile and colonial abjection. By treating English as a quasi-foreign tongue and adopting the errant and alienated persona of Colin Clout, Spenser repeats this marginalizing gesture, finding in exile a means to reinvigorate vernacular poetry. The pedantic E. K. plays a crucially paradoxical role in this endeavor: positioned as guide to the odd corners and rough edges of Spenser's verse, he often serves as a means of detaining and dislocating our attention, supplying the poem as a whole with an aura of estrangement in excess of its own peculiarities. Ultimately his insistence on the virtues of this kind of deliberate self-alienation allows Spenser to find a place for pastoral\u2014and for Colin Clout\u2014in England's own abject colonial sphere, beyond the Irish pale.\n\nChapter 5 takes up the persistent problem of how to set limits for poetic expression, especially given the lack of a universally accepted system of measuring English verse. Hailed as the source of English verse's \"mighty line\"\u2014the iambic pentameter that gives classical shape to unruly rhyme\u2014Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ nevertheless offers an ominous vision of linguistic trespass, in the person of a barbarous yet eloquent Scythian whose disdain for territorial limits is matched by his tendency to rhetorical excess. The violence that attends persuasion in Marlowe's poetry suggests that abuse is the inevitable counterpart of eloquence\u2014and that cages, bits, and harnesses are the necessary implements of linguistic refinement. However, if we situate Marlowe's play within the context of debates over rhyme and metrical form, we discover a multiplicity of Tamburlaines: in addition to Marlowe's famous overreacher, there are the unexpectedly terse\u2014even measured\u2014Timur Cutzclewe of book 2 of Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ and the Tamburlaine of Daniel's _Defence_ , who emerges as the unwitting progenitor of a cultural movement\u2014Renaissance humanism\u2014that Daniel indicts precisely for its neglect of so-called barbarian culture. Marlowe's Tamburlaine, Puttenham's Timur Cutzclewe, and Daniel's Tamburlaine chart very different courses for English verse, but they stand together as figures for a more expansive definition of linguistic excellence, what Daniel calls eloquence \"in what Scythian sorte soeuer.\"\n\nAs a group, these Scythian warrior-poets remind us that at the end of Elizabeth I's reign and the height of what we now call the Renaissance, English writers were far from agreed on the ideal trajectory of the English literary tradition\u2014a tradition whose contours they refused to equate with those of England (or even Britain). Why, then, do we continue to associate their age with the consolidation of English identity under the banner of language? Clearly the answer has something to do with Shakespeare, the Orpheus around whom the idea of an English literary tradition still coheres. But as I remark in a brief coda, Shakespeare is not an obvious candidate for that role. To seventeenth- and eighteenth-century critics, the extremity of linguistic experimentation in the late sixteenth century cried out for reform, and no one needed disciplining more than Shakespeare. As those early critics recognized, the poet who is largely hailed today for the universal accessibility of his art thrived in his own time by imitating and even exaggerating the excesses of his most outrageous peers and predecessors. It is no coincidence that, in the sequence of plays that for many modern critics exemplify the \"poetics of nationhood,\" Falstaff speaks with the voice of Euphues and Pistol in the tones of Tamburlaine. These disreputable companions, figures for the outlandishness that has always haunted eloquence, both aid and impede the articulation of Hal's (eventually) kingly English; vagabonds and strays can also serve as scouts, marking by their trespasses the boundaries of authorized expression. In the end, of course, they must be banished\u2014but they very nearly take Shakespeare with them. Indeed the poet we continually invoke as a figure for language's unifying power may have more to teach us about the self-alienating gestures on which our vernacular literary tradition is founded.\n_Chapter 1_\n\nGood Space and Time: Humanist Pedagogy and the Uses of Estrangement\n\nA rich body of criticism attests to the imprint left on Renaissance writers by their grammar-school education in classical literature, but a basic feature of this pedagogical program has received little attention: in order to promote their vision of Latinity, sixteenth-century humanist pedagogical theorists first had to reinvent English. As Ardis Butterfield points out, the training bestowed on educated Englishmen from the medieval period through the sixteenth century gave them \"much greater eloquence and indeed fluency in [Latin] than they possessed in the vernacular\"; far from representing a reversion to a more natural voice, writing in English \"was thus a source of strain, a sense that there was a gulf to cross between one form of language and the other.\" And yet such men were, of necessity, some of the first to publish in the vernacular, eager to disseminate their methods of study to an audience that had not yet achieved perfect Latinity. In pedagogical treatises such as Thomas Elyot's _The Boke named the Governour_ (1531) and Roger Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ (1570), the fashioning of English as a literate tongue thus models, in reverse, the fashioning of English schoolboys as literate classicists: the vernacular is advanced, with self-conscious effort, as a means to its own supersession.\n\nFor many critics, this ambivalent stance toward the vernacular constitutes an essential difference between humanist writers of the early and mid-sixteenth century and their late Elizabethan successors. If, as Richard Foster Jones argues, the final decades of the sixteenth century were marked by wholehearted faith in the vernacular's expressive powers, this is a faith that Elyot and Ascham evidently did not share. The fact that such writers \"employed the vernacular is no proof that [they] admired it,\" Jones observes: Elyot, though he \"did not disdain to use the vernacular in _The Governour_ ,\" treats eloquence as \"a quality beyond the abilities of the vernacular,\" while Ascham \"gives [in _The Scholemaster_ ] unmistakable evidence that the language he is using has no claim to eloquence.\" In a broader sense, Latin-promoting humanists such as Elyot and Ascham are understood to have chosen the wrong side in an unfolding rivalry between the vernacular and the classical tongues: English \"triumphs\" at the necessary expense of Latin and Greek. Or, in Richard Helgerson's more neutral phrasing, \"the sufficiency or insufficiency of the English language... came to matter with a special intensity\" only when \"other sources of identity and cultural authority mattered less.\"\n\nBut such formulations cannot account for the pains both Elyot and Ascham took to shape their prose and the cause that justified those pains: these are texts whose innovative and artful English is crafted in the service of Latinity. Indeed, _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_ suggest that for early English humanists\u2014who might otherwise, and with greater ease, have written in Latin\u2014the vernacular came to matter precisely because other sources of cultural authority mattered so much more. For the most part, however, the formal achievements of Elyot's and Ascham's prose have been read against the grain of their pedagogical commitments: for literary critics, _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_ are exemplary of a movement at odds with itself, obtusely blind to the real value of its own investment in the vernacular. Thus C. S. Lewis credits Elyot as a \"convinced and conscious neologizer,\" the composer of \"lucid\" and \"literary\" sentences, and one of the first English writers to be \"aware of prose as art,\" but he insists that, as a work of pedagogical theory, _The Governour_ has \"nothing in it which suggests a mind of the first order.\" Ascham he hails as an \"irresistible\" writer, but only if one pays minimal attention to his educational precepts: \"the literary historian can have no opinion on the mischief of 'making Latines' or the virtues of the 'two paper bokes,' \" he writes, but \"once get [Ascham] out of the schoolroom and he pleases us all.\" In more recent criticism, Lewis's instinctive distaste for humanism's classicizing ambitions has ramified into a consensus about the adversarial relationship between pedagogy (and, above all, foreign language learning) and literature in the sixteenth century. According to this consensus, humanist pedagogy, with its emphasis on rote learning and unthinking submission to authority, threatened to develop in English schoolboys the very qualities least conducive to linguistic experimentation and literary achievement, and the vernacular Renaissance testifies to the happy failure of its methods. Classical education is still acknowledged as a shaping influence on Elizabethan writers, but attention has fixed on \"the slippage between the august ideals of humanist education and its practical shortcomings, between its ambitions and its unintended consequences.\"\n\nIn a similar way, by dint of their prowess as writers and their influence as theorists, Elyot and Ascham continue to find their way into studies of sixteenth-century literature, but the lines of formal influence are traced across a more basic plot of departure: prodigality, opposition, rebellion, and critique. Thomas Greene's admiration for Elyot and (especially) Ascham as prose stylists prompts him to offer the most generous possible version of this plot. The crucial feature of early English humanism, he writes, is that \"it lacked still a sure sense of where it was headed\": what seems like a rigid adherence to antique precepts is simply a not-yet-realized sense of literary and linguistic ambition. But if Jones's description of Elyot and Ascham exaggerates their disdain for English, Greene's account understates their confidence in the classical tongues. To say that early English humanism lacked a clear sense of where it was headed dismisses the one thing Elyot and Ascham thought they knew for sure: \"[A]ll men couet to haue their children speake Latin: and so do I verie earnestlie too,\" Ascham reassures readers of _The Scholemaster_. \"We bothe, haue one purpose: we agree in desire, we wish one end: but we differ somewhat in order and waie, that leadeth rightlie to that end.\" From Ascham's perspective, the end of the journey was its only fixed point: well-intentioned humanists might disagree about how to arrive at fluency in the Latin tongue (and, as we shall see, he and Elyot emphatically do), but it never occurs to him that anyone might question the goal itself.\n\nIt is precisely the firmness, even the stubbornness, with which _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_ cling to this end that draws them closest to the vernacular poets and playwrights of a later generation, with whom they share\u2014to whom they communicate\u2014the notion that eloquence both depends and thrives on estrangement. Indeed it is in the writing of men strenuously committed to a linguistic ideal anchored in classical antiquity, and prone to see England in terms of its remoteness from that ideal, that we find a rationale for the willfully eccentric literary vernaculars of the late sixteenth century: in the context of the humanist schoolroom, English is a language constituted and regenerated by its difference and distance from the classical tongues. We find, moreover, a precedent for the impulse to _narrate_ the experience of linguistic estrangement, projecting one's own rhetorical maneuvers onto characters whose actions allegorize fraught transactions within and between languages. The self-reflexive stories of errancy, alienation, and trespass in _Euphues_ , _The Shepheardes Calender_ , and _Tamburlaine_ riff on fantasies of estrangement and transport original to scenes of foreign language learning in _The Governour_ and _The Scholemaster_. In their eloquence and their indelible strangeness Euphues, Colin Clout, and Tamburlaine are kin to a cluster of imaginary figures who preside over the transmission of eloquence in Elyot's and Ascham's treatises: classical writers reimagined in the guise of foreign-born nursemaids and native archers, expert sea captains and wayward exiles, figures whose skill resides precisely in their negotiation of estrangement. From our own perspective, the linguistic transactions such figures are asked to mediate can appear, as Richard Halpern writes of humanist education as a whole, like \"miracle[s] of impracticality.\" That impracticality is, in fact, a central preoccupation for Elyot and Ascham, manifested most clearly in their self-conscious reflections on their own use of the vernacular\u2014a practical necessity that begets a sense of possibility. For both writers, the strain of moving between tongues is initially legible only as an obstacle to their ambitions for England, a country whose historic marginality and insularity seem to condemn it to rusticity, if not outright barbarity. Each ultimately arrives, however, at a more positive sense of what distance and difficulty might mean for English culture and language: the labor of translating their classical ideals into the vernacular subtly refashions their conceptions of eloquence.\n\nVirgil the Nursemaid\n\nWhen Ascham says that he and his fellow pedagogues \"differ somewhat in [the] order and waie\" of language study, he points to a debate that swirls around a single, fundamental question: how were sixteenth-century English schoolmasters, self-appointed heirs to classical antiquity, to accommodate the fact of living in sixteenth-century England? As he observes in _The Scholemaster_ , \"if ye would speake as the best and wisest do, ye must be conuersant, where the best and wisest are, but if yow be borne or brought vp in a rude contrie, ye shall not chose but speake rudelie: the rudest man of all knoweth this to be trewe.\" For Elyot, this truth is a source of frequent embarrassment, a recurring impediment to his desire to \"devulgate or sette fourth\" the substance of classical learning. The difficulties arise literally from the start. As he acknowledges in the opening pages of _The Governour_ , classical theories of education have little to say about language instruction for infants: most \"olde authors holde oppinion that, before the age of seuen yeres [the moment at which the care of the mother or nursemaid yields to the supervision of the _pedagogue_ ] a chylde shulde nat be instructed in letters.\" But Elyot insists that it is only by distinguishing itself from the classical example in this one particular that the English can hope to equal Greece and Rome in any other: \"[For] those writers were either grekes or latines, amonge whom all doctrine and sciences were in their maternall tonges; by reason wherof they saued all that longe tyme whiche at this dayes is spente in understandyng perfectly the greke or latyne. Wherfore it requireth nowe a longer tyme to the understandynge of bothe. Therfore that infelicitie of our tyme and countray compelleth us to encroche some what upon the yeres of children, and specially of noble men, that they may sooner attayne to wisedome and grauitie\" (18r). This apology reveals the double bind at the heart of Elyot's approach to foreign language study: for sixteenth-century English schoolboys, the infelicitous circumstances of time and place have made it difficult to access learned speech, and that difficulty compounds the burden of temporal and geographic alienation. The \"longer time\" that must be devoted to the acquisition of classical tongues\u2014the years spent in grammar school grasping painfully by rote what was once held by birthright\u2014both exposes and exacerbates England's distance from civilized antiquity.\n\nBut Elyot's perception of the doubling of lost time and wasted space that occurs whenever a seven-year-old English boy opens his Greek or Latin grammar for the first time points him toward a possible solution: a pedagogy that makes the acquisition of foreign learning an experience of immediacy, intimacy, and domesticity\u2014a pedagogy that conceals its own \"encroachment\" on the infant by masking itself as something like maternal care. \"Hit is expedient,\" he therefore urges, \"that a noble mannes sonne, in his infancie, haue with hym continually onely suche as may accustome hym by litle and litle to speake pure and elegant latin,\" and even \"the nourises and other women aboute hym, if it be possible, [are] to do the same\" (19v). In this manner, he insists, \"nothing can be more conuenient than by litle and litle to trayne and exercise [a child] in spekyng of latyne: infourmyng them to knowe first the names in latine of all thynges that cometh in syghte, and to name all the partes of theyr bodies: and gyuynge them some what that they couete or desyre, in most gentyl maner to teache them to aske it agayne in latine\" (18r). Such convenient and gentle exchanges supply the infant with a foreign speech adapted to his own possessions, his own body, his own desires: what the child acquires almost as a matter of course in Elyot's imaginary nursery is a fully domesticated Latinity, an ease and comfort with the alien tongue that mimics the always already intimate knowledge of native speech. If Englishmen cannot possess Latin as a \"maternall tongue,\" they may at least adopt it as a nursemaid tongue: any well-born child might come to \"use the latin tonge as a familiar langage,\" Elyot promises, provided that his familiars, those \"seru[ing] him or kepyng hym company,\" are all \"suche as can speake latine elegantly\" (30r\u2013v).\n\nThere is an obvious flaw in this plan: where, in sixteenth-century England, are such companions to be found? If, as Lynn Enterline urges, it is time to look more skeptically at the promises made by humanist pedagogical theorists, this far-fetched scheme to entrust the basics of classical instruction to nursemaids and playmates (a plan that arouses Lewis's particular scorn) would seem an excellent place to begin. Here Elyot's logic is conspicuously self-defeating: the effort to imagine a way out of the constraints of time and country merely returns the reader to them. After all, as Elyot laments, English parents who shared his enthusiasm for classical learning were hard-pressed to find qualified tutors or schoolmasters, since even men boasting university training often possessed but a \"spone full of latine\" (61r). The idea of a wet nurse who speaks \"pure and elegant latin\" to the child at her breast may provide an appealing imaginary contrast to the scant intellectual nourishment afforded in actual English schoolrooms, but it is hardly an \"expedient\" basis for pedagogical practice.\n\nThe fantasy of the Latin-speaking wet nurse nonetheless proves generative for Elyot, for it supplies him with a conceptual model both for his pedagogical program and for his prose. Both _The Governour_ 's pedagogy and its prose gently enlarge the meaning of supposedly familiar terms, forging increasingly capacious\u2014even far-fetched\u2014boundaries for concepts such as \"home,\" the \"mother tongue,\" and \"eloquence.\" The very absurdity of the idea of a classically fluent wet nurse triggers one such subtle expansion: conscious that no such nurses exist in sixteenth-century England, Elyot quickly amends his suggestion to allow for nurses who, \"at the leste way,... speke none englisshe but that which is cleane, polite, perfectly and articulately pronounced\" (19v). The Latin-speaking wet nurse figures one strategy by which eloquence might be domesticated\u2014through the adoption of Latin as a familiar tongue\u2014but her English replacement figures another: by differentiating the vernacular from itself, creating an incremental critical distance between English speakers and their native speech. The Latin-speaking nurse shows how learning might be permitted to encroach on an ideal of domesticity; the English-speaking nurse shows how the vernacular might be permitted to encroach on an ideal of eloquence. If \"pure\" and \"elegant\" are not exact synonyms for \"clean,\" \"polite,\" and \"perfectly and articulately pronounced,\" the passage from one set of adjectives to another nonetheless begins to effect a transfer of linguistic standards from a purely classical tradition to its no longer homely counterpart.\n\nThe two strategies are not identical\u2014Elyot's \"at the leste way\" marks a significant capitulation\u2014but that too is the point. The fact that the Latin-speaking wet nurse is so quickly supplanted by a more attainable ideal does not undo the logic of the original proposal so much as intensify it: surrogacy is the name of the game. As Robert Matz observes, the efficacy of Elyot's _Boke_ depends on the reader's willingness to assent to a sequence of necessary but potentially unconvincing analogies: virtue is like dancing, reading like eating, study like leisure, and scholarly achievement like aristocratic honor. The same holds true of Elyot's philosophy of linguistic refinement, which even as it is characterized by its investment in immediacy, intimacy, and ease is distinguished as well by a pragmatic willingness to effect the illusion of those qualities through substitution or approximation. \"If not this, then _at least_ that\" is the modest mechanism by which one begins to narrow the gap, \"by little and little,\" as Elyot might say, between eloquence and an infant (which is to say, inarticulate) tongue. Each substitution or similitude repeats the service provided by the imaginary Latin-speaking nursemaid, taking the place of an elusive ideal\u2014approximating but also distancing us from that original fantasy of truly maternal Latinity.\n\nThus the initial attempt to immerse the infant in Latin from birth yields to an effort to populate his world with companions who speak only pure and elegant Latin, or perhaps clean and polite English, and then to descriptions of exercises and games that provide in a more piecemeal and painstaking way the illusion of familiarity with the classical tongue. Finally the companions fall away, and the conversation becomes purely textual: nursemaids are replaced by books. But here too the pedagogical ideal is an experience of intimacy, familiarity, and proximity\u2014by way of analogy, at least. Virgil's poetry, Elyot writes, ought to be the first Latin any English child reads because it \"so nighe approcheth to the commune daliaunce and maners of children\" that nothing \"can be more familiar\" (32v). According to Elyot, the bucolic landscape of Virgil's pastorals evokes the child's own favored haunts, the husbandry of the georgics appeals to his practical instincts, and Aeneas's escapades satisfy his longing for adventure. Indeed, Elyot insists, \"there is nat that affect or desire, wherto any childes fantasie is disposed, but in some of Virgils warkes may be founden matter therto apte and propise.\" Virgil thus presents himself as compensation for the impossible fantasy of the Latin-speaking wet nurse, for he \"like to a good norise, giueth to a childe, if he wyll take it, euery thinge apte for his witte and capacitie\" (34r). This nurselike Virgil is not just a surrogate for the unobtainable actual Latin nursemaid; he is also the stand-in for a more arduous and potentially alienating course of study. Elyot's ideal classical education begins with Homer, \"from whom as a fountaine, proceded all eloquence and learning\"\u2014\"there is no lesson... to be compared with Homer,\" he declares (31v\u201332r). But finding a comparable lesson proves necessary: Greek is more difficult than Latin, and Homer's long epics \"require therefore a great time to be all lerned and kanned,\" so Virgil presents himself as the next best thing, being \"most lyke to Homere, and all moste the same Homere in latine\" (32v).\n\nElyot's term for this miraculous _aptness_ of Virgil's poetry, its dual kinship both to Homer and to the interests and experiences of the English child, is \"eloquence.\" And although he insists on the necessity of learning Latin in order to access eloquence where it is most readily found, he insists that eloquence transcends disciplinary and linguistic boundaries, enfolding all other intellectual and cultural achievements. \"They be moche abused, that suppose eloquence to be only in wordes or coulours of Rhetorike,\" he declares, \"for... in an oratour is required to be a heape of all maner of lernyng: whiche of some is called the worlde of science, of other the circle of doctrine, whiche is in one worde of greke _Encyclopedia_ \" (48v). Such a vast, indeed global, competence necessarily extends far beyond \"the elegant speking of latin\": \"latine,\" Elyot observes, \"is but a naturall speche, and the frute of speche is wyse sentence, whiche is gathered and made of sondry lernynges\" (47v). Precisely because it transcends the boundaries of any particular language, eloquence is\u2014paradoxically\u2014accessible to all, inherent \"in euery tonge... whereof sentences be so aptly compact that they by a vertue inexplicable do drawe unto them the mindes and consent of the herers\" (47v\u201348r). It is this generous perception of linguistic potential and rhetorical efficacy, of the _sameness_ of eloquence whenever and wherever it is heard\u2014as much as any hopefulness about the hitherto untapped linguistic talents of nursemaids\u2014that sustains Elyot's vision of an otherwise impossible intimacy with classical antiquity. To read Virgil is to escape the infelicitous constraints of time and country: to traverse a world of learning but to experience it as inexplicably familiar, aptly compact.\n\nHowever, that is not exactly the lesson one takes away from Virgil's great poem of civilization building and travel, which takes a rather darker view of the satisfactions afforded by nurses. The _Aeneid_ is all about generative displacements\u2014Troy is rubble and must be rebuilt in Rome\u2014but Aeneas's encounter with Dido makes clear that the logic of substitution is not infallible: some forms of intimacy only increase the hunger they are meant to satisfy. Indeed, as J. S. C. Eidinow has suggested, book 4 of Virgil's poem\u2014and in particular Dido's fantasy of fostering Ascanius as a _parvulus Aeneas_ \u2014can be read as a historically topical meditation on the limits of cross-cultural and extrafamilial intimacy. Dido may romanticize herself as the wet nurse of Aeneas's ambitions, but Virgil ironizes the image, recasting the nurse or foster mother as an emblem of mutually unsatisfactory exchanges and unfulfilled yearning, of losses that cannot be made good. _The Boke named the Governour_ remains defensive about the implications of this lesson for its own nursemaidlike endeavors: that is, both the substitution of Virgilian nutriments for easier and more natural bodies of knowledge\u2014the exchanges on which Elyot's pedagogy depends\u2014and the translation of classical learning and culture into English\u2014the exchanges on which Elyot's prose depends. What must be displaced? What will get left behind? For much of book 1, Elyot's anxiety is clearly on behalf of the classics. \"I am (as god iuge me),\" he writes in the opening lines of the dedicatory epistle to King Henry VIII, \"violently stered to devulgate or sette fourth some part of my studie, trustynge therby tacquite me of my dueties to god, your hyghnesse, and this my contray\" (aiir). This declaration, David Baker writes, \"marks one of the first significant attempts by English humanists to make their learning accessible to a vernacular reading public,\" but, as Baker observes, even the violent steering to which Elyot has been subjected persuades him only to publish \"some part\" of his own wide reading. Baker attributes this incompleteness to reticence: wary of the heretical and revolutionary potential of classical learning, Elyot provides only a partial account of his study, insisting on maintaining the boundaries between the learned and the unlearned. But while diplomacy and piety may help to define _The Governour_ 's boundaries, Elyot tends to attribute its defects to the constraints of vernacularity.\n\nRepeatedly throughout book 1 he interrupts the flow of his argument to redirect our attention to his labored, at times frustrated, efforts to put it into English. The very \"name\" of the _Governour_ , he confesses early in book 1, is not quite apt as a descriptor for the sort of educated nobleman his text is designed to produce, as governance properly speaking belongs to the sovereign alone: \"herafter,\" he explains, \"I intende to call them Magistratis, lackynge a more conuenient worde in englisshe\" (14r). But then, reminding himself that his subject in book 1 is not governance but the education and virtue necessary to produce good government, which learning and virtue noblemen \"haue in commune with princes,\" Elyot reconsiders, concluding that he might \"without anoyance of any man, name them gouernours at this tyme,\" trusting readers to maintain the necessary distinction between this general term and the \"higher preeminence\" reserved to kings and princes. Other lexical impasses prove absolute: Elyot recommends Aristotle's _Ethicae_ and Cicero's _De Officiis_ as indispensable sources of moral instruction, revealing the \"propre significations of euery vertue,\" but insists that the former is \"to be lerned in greke; for the translations that we yet haue be but a rude and grosse shadowe of the eloquence and wisedome of Aristotell.\" As for the latter, he confesses, even the title must remain obscure to English readers, since there \"yet is no propre englisshe worde to be gyuen\" for the Latin \"officium\" (41r\u2013v).\n\nHe writes enthusiastically of the learning to be attained by the reading of classical poetry too, boasting that he \"coulde recite a great nombre of semblable good sentences\" out of Ovid and other \"wantone poets\" but then declining to do so, for they \"in the latine do expresse them incomparably with more grace and delectation to the reder than our englisshe tonge may yet comprehende\" (51v). Even when he turns from the study of literature to more practical ethical and political matters, Elyot often finds himself thrown back on the classical tongues in order to describe virtues that have no precise vernacular analogue: \"constrained to usurpe a latine worde\" such as \"maturitie\" for \"the necessary augmentation of our langage\" (85r\u2013v), or to clarify the meaning of a term such as \"modestie,\" \"nat... knowen in the englisshe tonge, ne of al them which under stode latin, except they had radde good authors\" (94r), or to invent words altogether, hoping that they, \"being... before this time unknowen in our tonge, may be by the sufferaunce of wise men nowe receiued by custome... [and] made familiare\" (94v).\n\nElyot's success in expanding the boundaries of the language is rather remarkable, it must be said, and his strategies can be quite subtle. Philologists have long cited Elyot as a devotee of the \"neologistic couplet,\" a syntactical unit that pairs a new or strange term with a more familiar vernacular counterpart. Thus, in the opening lines of the _Governour_ , the phrase \"to devulgate or sette fourth\" facilitates the introduction of the Latinate coinage \"devulgate\" by yoking it to the homely Anglo-Saxon \"sette fourth.\" Elyot was proud of his couplets: in 1533, in the preface to _Of the Knowledge which Maketh a Wise Man_ , he writes that, although in the _Governour_ he \"intended to augment our Englyshe tongue,\" nonetheless \"through out the boke there was no terme newe made by me of a latine or frenche worde, but it is there declared so playnly by one mene or other to a diligent reder that therby no sentence is made derke or harde to be understande.\" From Elyot's perspective, then, the phrase \"to devulgate or sette fourth\" gracefully performs what it promises. But as Stephen Merriam Foley points out, the neologistic couplet also highlights the author's anxiety that he will not be understood: Elyot's compulsive pairings are, Foley argues, \"the traces of a mind insecurely poised between competing discourses of intellectual authority.\"\n\nIn this regard the neologistic couplet is yet another rhetorical counterpart for the Latin-speaking nursemaid; it simultaneously exposes and disguises a cultural defect by drawing together two unlike and perhaps incompatible terms. Like any wet nurse, the neologistic couplet risks the charge of redundancy: if the familiar term is adequate to express the meaning of the borrowed or invented term, why borrow or invent? If it is not, how useful is it as a guide to the unfamiliar word? What is forestalled (but also registered) by such a compound is the vexed question of linguistic and cultural parity. That question\u2014as much or more than any political or religious fears\u2014accounts for the violence and the coercion attendant upon Elyot's admittedly partial devulgation of learning: if the approximations attendant upon the work of translation necessarily entail a loss of meaning or value, how, nonetheless, is meaning or value to be transferred without such fudged equations, such compromised and compromising resemblances? Because he understands eloquence as a quality that speaks across linguistic, cultural, geographic, and temporal divides\u2014as the most mobile of linguistic effects\u2014Elyot can conceive of the study of remote, long-dead tongues as an experience of profound, near-perfect intimacy, and he can write prose that effaces lexical difference even as it testifies to persistent gaps in expressive capability. In addition he can dream of a time when such education and such prose produce an English home, and perhaps even a mother tongue, whose walls enclose the \"encyclopedia\" of eloquence.\n\nBut would such a home, and such a tongue, remain English? In his 1533 preface to _Knowledge_ , Elyot scoffs at the question, berating for their ingratitude those readers who are \"offended (as they say) with my strange terms.\" But in _The Governour_ he seems\u2014briefly and obliquely\u2014to wonder. In the final chapter of book 1, having just urged the _Governour_ 's readers to set themselves vigorously to the work of translating classical wisdom into England, he departs conspicuously from that wisdom. Citing, but then disavowing, Cicero's injunction against sports and games, he proceeds to make a rather plaintive case for the merits of the dying art of English longbow shooting, a skill that \"is, and always hath ben\" England's security \"from outwarde hostilitie\" and the source of its fame throughout the world, \"as ferre as Hierusalem\" (99v\u2013100r). Elyot attributes the decline of longbow shooting to an encroaching cosmopolitanism, as foreign and new-fangled modes of defense\u2014crossbows and handguns\u2014have eroded a skill that \"continuell use\" made \"so perfecte and exacte amonge englisshe men\" (102r). \"O what cause of reproche shall the decaye of archers be to us nowe liuyng?\" he demands. \"Ye what irrecuperable damage either to us or them in whose time nede of semblable defence shall happen?\" (100r).\n\nThis plangent appeal for the preservation of an already (or once) \"perfect\" native art\u2014an art that has shored up England's defenses against outsiders and extended its renown to the far corners of the world\u2014makes for an odd conclusion to the litany of _not yets_ that propels the rest of book 1 and justifies its radical conflations of domesticity and estrangement. Indeed, Elyot rather casually observes at one point, midway through his attack on English legal discourse, that eloquence is no different than embroidery, drawing, or sculpture: if Englishmen are not able or willing to cultivate a particular skill at home\u2014if, that is, they are to face the fact that they inhabit a realm where \"the langage is barberouse\" and \"the steering of affections of the mind,\" rhetoric itself, \"was never used\" (56r)\u2014they must \"be constrained... to abandone [their] owne countraymen and resorte unto straungers\" (55r). That matter-of-fact resorting unto strangers exacts an unexpected toll in the final pages of book 1, as Elyot imagines a future England enervated and demoralized by its blind embrace of things novel and strange, its neglect of what it once knew and practiced best.\n\nCicero the Sea Captain\n\nIt is a bit of an interpretive leap to link this elegiac defense of the longbow to a latent concern for the vernacular, but I am nudged to make that leap by the fact that Elyot's most important sixteenth-century reader\u2014the heir to his zeal both for the English longbow and for foreign-language study\u2014seems to have made it too. In 1545, a year before Elyot's death, Roger Ascham, the young Cambridge lecturer in Greek, made his debut as an author, publishing a pseudo-Socratic dialogue on the merits of longbow shooting, citing Elyot's enthusiasm for the sport as inspiration for his own labors on its behalf. \"[T]o haue written this boke either in latin or Greke... had bene more easier and fit for mi trade in study,\" he confesses in the dedicatory epistle to _Toxophilus: The Schole of Shotyng_ , \"yet neuerthelesse,\" he deems it best to \"haue written this Englishe matter in the Englishe tongue, for Englishe men\" (x). The epistle to readers amplifies this claim by way of a fable borrowed from Herodotus:\n\nBias the wyse man came to Cresus the ryche kyng, on a tyme, when he was makynge newe shyppes, purposyng to haue subdued by water the out yles lying betwixt Grece and Asia minor: What newes now in Grece, saith the king to Bias? None other newes, but these, sayeth Bias: that the yles of Grece haue prepared a wonderful companye of horsemen, to ouerrun Lydia withall. There is nothyng vnder heauen, sayth the kynge, that I woulde so soone wisshe, as that they durst be so bolde, to mete vs on the lande with horse. And thinke you sayeth Bias, that there is anye thyng which they wolde sooner wysshe, then that you shulde be so fonde, to mete them on the water with shyppes? And so Cresus hearyng not the true newes, but perceyuyng the wise mannes mynde and counsell, both gaue then ouer makyng of his shyppes, and left also behynde him a wonderful example for all commune wealthes to folowe: that is euermore to regarde and set most by that thing whervnto nature hath made them moost apt, and vse hath made them moost fitte. (xii)\n\n\"By this matter,\" Ascham explains, \"I mean the shotynge in the long bowe, for English men,\" but the fable\u2014like _Toxophilus_ \u2014serves equally well as defense of the practice of writing in the vernacular: English, after all, is the language that nature and use have conspired to make most apt and fit for his own undertaking; to write in Latin or Greek would be to set sail in unseaworthy vessels. Indeed, as Ryan Stark and Thomas Greene have suggested, Ascham's interest in archery is always also an interest in eloquence: the strengths developed by the former (clarity of vision, precision of aim) are, to his mind, exactly correspondent to the skills requisite for the latter. In his epistle to _Toxophilus_ Ascham elucidates the analogy: \"Yf any man wyll applye these thynges [that is, writing and shooting] togyther, [he] shal nat se the one farre differ from the other,\" he alleges, for \"[i]n our tyme nowe,... very many do write, but after suche a fashion, as very many do shoote... , tak[ing] in hande stronger bowes, than they be able to mayntayne\" (xiii). For Ascham, his defense of the longbow and his advocacy for the vernacular are interchangeable commitments, and he scoffs at \"any man [who] woulde blame me, eyther for takynge such a matter in hande, or els for writing it in the Englyshe tongue\" (xiii).\n\nAscham's attitude toward his mother tongue is hardly uncritical, but neither does it partake of Elyot's faith in the enriching effect of intimacy with foreign tongues. Indeed what Ascham seems to have taken from his reading of Elyot\u2014and especially from his reading of the mournful conclusion to book 1\u2014is a keen awareness of the dangers of false intimacy or overeager identification. Like Elyot, he frames his decision to write in English in terms of a desire to improve the tongue and profit his vernacular readership, but he betrays no optimism that such improvement or profit will come easily or without cost. Where Elyot emphasizes likeness, contiguity, and kinship, Ascham insists on a radical and perhaps insuperable estrangement: \"as for ye Latin or greke tonge, euery thing is so excellently done in them, that none can do better,\" he bluntly declares, but \"in the Englysh tonge contrary, euery thinge in a maner so meanly, bothe for the matter and handelynge, that no man can do worse\" (xiv). Rather than search for terms or syntactical arrangements that might, like Elyot's neologistic couplets, ease the passage between the learned and the vulgar, Ascham advocates for prose that eschews foreign affectations and neologistic borrowings, arguing that \"[h]e that wyll wryte well in any tongue, muste... speake as the common people do\" and lamenting the fact that \"[m]any English writers haue not done so, but vsinge straunge wordes as latin, french and Italian, do make all thinges darke and harde\" (xiv).\n\nAs for the possibility that the vernacular requires such augmentation, he dismisses it summarily: \"Ones I communed with a man whiche reasoned the englyshe tongue to be enryched and encreased therby, sayinge: Who wyll not prayse that feaste, where a man shall drinke at a diner, bothe wyne, ale and beere? Truely quod I, they be all good, euery one taken by hym selfe alone, but if you putte Maluesye and sacke, read wyne and white, ale and beere, and al in one pot, you shall make a drynke, neyther easie to be knowen, nor yet holsom for the bodye\" (xiv). Where Elyot sees nurturing and intimacy\u2014the infant at his nurse's breast\u2014Ascham sees the threat of contamination, an unwholesome and unpalatable brew. This is not to suggest that Ascham believed the vernacular had nothing to learn from the classical tongues, nor English youth from the study of classical literature. His career as a writer and a teacher was founded on the promotion of Greek and Latin literacy, and indeed in the very next lines he hints that not all attempts at linguistic enrichment are doomed to failure, noting that \"Cicero in folowyng Isocrates, Plato and Demosthenes, increased the latine tounge after an other sorte\" (xiv). Of this \"other sorte\" or \"waye\" he will say only that it has fallen into neglect and disrepute\u2014\"bycause dyuers men that write, do not know, they can neyther folowe it, bycause of theyr ignorauncie, nor yet will prayse it, for verye arrogauncie\"\u2014but it is clear that it must bear little resemblance to Elyot's own methods.\n\nFor Ascham, the infelicities of time and country that have consigned England and English to the cultural and intellectual margins are to be remedied not by a pedagogy that simulates proximity, familiarity, and immediacy but rather by a pedagogy that makes distance, strangeness, and the very passage of time into instruments of instruction. Estrangement may be the root cause of barbarism, but it is also the guarantor of purity: this conviction undergirds _The Scholemaster_ 's fierce objection to the practice of sending English youths to study in Catholic Italy, and it governs the treatise's pedagogical philosophy no less. _The Scholemaster_ advertises itself as a method of teaching a young boy Latin \"with ease and pleasure, and in short time\" (1v). But in truth Ascham has little regard for\u2014or confidence in\u2014ease, pleasure, or quickness. He famously prefers \"hard\" to \"quick\" wits on the grounds that the former, however resistant to instruction, are liable to retain what they learn, while the latter \"commonlie, be apte to take\" but \"vnapte to keepe,\" \"more quicke to enter spedelie, than hable to pearse farre,\" and \"delit[ing] them selues in easie and pleasant studies,... neuer passe farre forward in hie and hard sciences\" (4v). That eloquence itself is such a high and hard science follows from Ascham's insistence that, contrary to Elyot's notion of it as a universal inheritance, proper to any \"natural\" tongue, true eloquence is to be found only in the remote and rarefied provinces of antiquity: \"[I]n the rudest contrie, and most barbarous mother language, many be found [that] can speake verie wiselie,\" he observes, \"but in the Greeke and Latin tong, the two onelie learned tonges, we finde always wisdome and eloquence, good matter and good vtterance, neuer or seldom asunder\" (46r).\n\nFor Ascham, as for Elyot, the rudeness of the English vernacular\u2014its grammatical inconsistency, its inability to replicate the rhythms of classical prose and verse, its impoverished vocabulary and patchwork etymologies\u2014is a natural consequence of England's own inescapable rusticity, its alienation from Athens and Rome, the wellsprings of learning and eloquence. But in Ascham's ideal schoolroom the distance between antiquity and modernity, Rome and England, becomes a productive and necessary guard against moral corruption and linguistic vulgarity. To begin with, in direct opposition to Elyot's promotion of the use of Latin as a familiar tongue\u2014indeed, if possible, as a _family_ tongue\u2014Ascham insists that Latin must not be spoken at all, neither at home nor at school, until students have mastered fully the arts of translation and composition. \"In very deede,\" he allows, \"if children were brought vp, in soch a house, or soch a Schole, where the latin tonge were properlie and perfitlie spoken, as Tib[erius] and Ca[ius] Gracci were brought vp, in their mother Cornelias house, surelie, than the dailie vse of speaking, were the best and readiest waie, to learne the latin tong\" (2v). But such homes and such mothers did not exist in sixteenth-century England, as Ascham's notorious anecdote of Lady Jane Grey, born to parents whose crudity is matched only by their cruelty, makes plain. Indeed when he reflects on the kind of language learning that might plausibly occur in an English home, it is only to offer a cautionary tale: \"This last somer,\" he recalls, \"I was in a Ientlemans house: where a yong childe, somewhat past fower years olde, cold in no wise frame his tonge, to saie, a little shorte grace: and yet he could roundly rap out so manie vgle othes, and those of the newest facion, and some good man of fourscore yeare olde hath neuer hard named before.... This Childe vsing moche the companie of servinge men, and geuing good eare to their taulke, did easily learne, whiche he shall hardlie forget, all daies of his life hereafter\" (16v). This recollection exactly inverts Elyot's fantasy of the child nurtured with ease and companionship into pure Latinity, or even clean and polite vernacularity: here easy learning and a good ear are the agents of moral and linguistic corruption. The best parents can hope for, Ascham suggests, is to preserve their children from the \"confounding of companies\" (16v): domestic intimacies are imagined strictly in negative terms.\n\nThe schoolroom presents a similar challenge, for even in \"the best Scholes\" the habitual use of poor Latin by masters and schoolboys alike means that \"barbariousnesse is bred vp so in yong wittes, as afterward they be, not onelie marde for speaking, but also corrupted in iudgement: as with moch adoe, or neuer at all, they be brought to right frame againe\" (2v). Ascham's own pedagogical precepts work to provide this \"right frame\": a space where children's instinct for imitation\u2014so often, for him, a source of danger\u2014can be put to safe and profitable use. The basic method is simple: Ascham requires the student to translate a passage from Latin or Greek to English and then back again, using the original classical text to correct his own. Through its carefully regulated employment of classical models, such \"double translation\" remedies the estrangement of rude English from classical eloquence, facilitating exchanges between the learned and unlearned tongues, but it also guards against the dangers of straying too far from the classical precedent, by imposing a calculated retreat from and return to its bounds.\n\nMuch as Elyot's neologistic couplets modeled for readers the enriching effects of intimacy with foreign tongues, Ascham's distinctive prose mirrors the controlled comparisons on which his pedagogy depends: ideas are worked out by way of \"fit similitude\" (19r), in cautiously elaborated analogies whose resemblances are expressed in neatly balanced parallel clauses. Thus he writes of the distinction between educated and uneducated noblemen:\n\nThe greatest shippe in deede commonlie carieth the greatest burden, but yet alwayes with the greatest ieoperdie, not onelie for the persons and goodes committed vnto it, but euen for the shyppe it selfe, except it be gouerned, with the greater wisedome. But Nobilitie, gouerned by learning and wisedome, is in deede, most like a faire shippe, hauyng tide and winde at will, vnder the reule of a skilfull master: whan contrarie wise, a shippe, caried, yea with the hiest tide & greatest winde, lacking a skilfull master, most commonlie, doth either, sinck it selfe vpon sandes, or breake it selfe vpon rockes. And euen so, how manie haue bene, either drowned in vaine pleasure, or ouerwhelmed by stout wilfulnesse, the histories of England be able to affourde ouer many examples vnto vs. (13v\u201314r)\n\n\"But yet,\" \"not onelie,\" \"but euen,\" \"except,\" \"but... in deede,\" \"whan contrarie wise,\" \"and euen so\": where Elyot might have compressed the comparison into a single suggestive metaphor, Ascham attenuates it over several sentences, parsing the original commonplace formulation\u2014men are like ships\u2014into an ever more precise diagnosis of the difference between virtue and vice, wisdom and folly. Indeed the similitude, a figure of likeness, becomes in Ascham's hands an instrument for the expression of otherwise elusive distinctions, and the ideal figure for a pedagogical philosophy founded on mistrust of what is close at hand. For as he explains via another similitude:\n\n[T]here be manie faire examples in this Court, for yong Ientlemen to follow.... But they be, like faire markes in the feild, out of a mans reach, to far of, to shote at well. The best and worthiest men, in deede, be somtimes seen, but seldom taulked withall: A yong Ientleman, may somtime knele to their person, smallie vse their companie, for their better instruction. But yong Ientlemen ar faine commonlie to do in the Court, as yong Archers do in the feild: that is take soch markes, as be nie them, although they be neuer so foule to shote at. I meene, they be driuen to kepe companie with the worste: and what force ill companie hath, to corrupt good wittes, the wisest men know best. (14r)\n\nHere again the initial comparison between imitation and archery is revised and revised again, yielding a taxonomy of likeness and difference: fair marks versus foul, far off versus nigh, worthy men versus the worst, seeing versus talking, kneeling versus keeping company, instruction versus corruption. In every case virtue is aligned with remoteness: if archery and seamanship are Ascham's favored analogies for the work of moral and rhetorical education, that is surely because each case skill increases with distance.\n\nSo it is with double translation, for the crucial step of the process, what transforms it from a display of rote repetition or memory to an exercise of eloquence in the making, is the _gap_ that Ascham imposes at its center. Once the child has completed his initial translation, from Latin into English, the master is to \"take from him his latin booke, and _pausing an houre, at the least,_ than let the childe translate his owne Englishe into latin againe, in an other paper booke\" (1v, emphasis mine). The hour or more that intervenes between the two Latin versions\u2014Cicero's original and the child's imitation\u2014during which the child is left alone with his own English, recapitulates in miniature the infelicitous gap of time, country, and language that divides sixteenth-century England from ancient Rome. What survives that lapse is an inevitably partial reconstruction, akin to \"the shadow or figure of the ancient Rhetorique\" that Elyot just barely discerns in English legal discourse (56v). Of course the loss of an original perfection is not the only problem: in the schoolroom as in the course of history, errors and barbarisms accumulate in the interval. The child, as Ascham confesses, is likely to \"misse, either in forgetting a worde, or in chaunging a good with a worse, or misordering the sentence\" (1v). As Jeff Dolven suggests, this \"meantime\" between tongues is \"a window of necessary risk\" since learning \"depend[s]... on the hazards of the middle.\"\n\nBut such language is perhaps unduly monitory, for Ascham is surprisingly sanguine about the likelihood of forgetfulness and confusion, urging the teacher not to \"froune, or chide with him, if the childe haue done his diligence, and vsed no trewandship therein\" (1v\u20132r). Indeed such errors are what the pause of an hour or more is designed to produce; they are essential to the cultivation of eloquence. \"For I know by good experience,\" Ascham assures his readers, \"that a childe shall take more profit of two fautes, ientlie warned of, then of foure thinges, rightly hitt.... For than, the master shall haue good occasion to saie vnto him. _Tullie_ would haue vsed such a worde, not this: _Tullie_ would haue placed this word here, not there: would haue vsed this case, this number, this person, this degree, this gender\" (2r). Lynn Enterline describes this friendly colloquy as \"connect[ing] master and student via the student's likeness to Tullie,\" but in fact the emphasis falls on difference: it is only when he lays his own Latin next to that of Cicero that the child learns to measure and value the distance between them, only then that he perceives the countless tiny calculations of diction, syntax, arrangement, and style that distinguish eloquence from mere speech. It is this final act of correction that prevents the student from wandering off course, even as he cultivates his own expressive style, but the errors that will so often precede it are no less necessary or productive. Allow the child \" _good_ space and time\" to complete the exercise, Ascham urges schoolmasters (31v, emphasis added). Because double translation assumes error as the precondition of learning, it redeems both distance and time, and the waywardness they enable, from their roles as the agents of barbaric decline.\n\nIt is not surprising that the \"Tullie\" who presides over these interlingual exchanges bears no resemblance to Elyot's nurselike Virgil, who entices the child with sweetly familiar morsels. Instead, Ascham imagines Cicero as an \"expert Sea man\" who \"set[s] vp his saile of eloquence, in some broad deep Argument, [and] caried with full tyde and winde, of his witte and learnyng,\" outdistances all rivals, who \"may rather stand and looke after him, than hope to ouertake him, what course so euer he hold, either in faire or foule\" (63r). Ascham's method allows the inexpert schoolboy to accompany Cicero on those perilous rhetorical journeys, with the full expectation that he will run off course in the attempt: translation, which Ascham initially champions as an alternative to travel abroad because \"learning teacheth safelie\" while the traveler is \"made cunning by manie shippewrakes\" (18r\u2013v), in fact mimics the perils of foreign travel, recuperating the shipwreck as the point of the voyage. We might recall here the fable that introduces _Toxophilus,_ in which a barbarian landlubber is persuaded to give up shipbuilding in order to confront his Greek antagonists on (literally) familiar ground. _The Scholemaster_ offers a less stark take on the folly of meeting an ancient civilization (or its most eloquent exponent) at sea: imitation by way of double translation allows rude and hard-witted schoolboys to set themselves up in direct competition with Cicero and recuperates their inevitable losses as gain.\n\nUltimately, Ascham allows himself to dream of an England so enriched by such exchanges that even Cicero might prefer it to the nurseries of his own eloquence. Recalling that \"Master _Tully_ \" once declared of England that \"[t] here is not one scruple of siluer in that whole Isle, or any one that knoweth either learning or letter,\" he imagines making a triumphant rejoinder: \"But now master _Cicero_ ,... sixteen hundred yeare after you were dead and gone, it may trewly be sayd, that... your excellent eloquence is as well liked and loued, and as trewlie followed in England at this day, as it is now, or euer was, sence your owne tyme, in any place of _Italie_ , either at _Arpinum_ , where ye were borne, or els at _Rome_ where ye were brought vp\" (62r\u2013v). Such a fantasy would seem to answer Elyot's yearning for perfect intimacy with the past, for an erasure of distance and difference; but, in fact, it is precisely Ascham's consciousness of his remove from that past, and of England's inglorious place within it, that gives his fantasy its savor. The sixteen hundred years (and thousands of miles) that separate Ascham's England from Cicero's Arpinum or his Rome are here not the source of cultural and linguistic shame but rather evidence of a triumph\u2014the triumph of a pedagogy that turns the \"infelicitie of... tyme and countray\" into time and space for learning.\n\nSallust the Exile\n\nIn Ascham's fantasy of an England made eloquent, the natives speak and write in Cicero's Latin, but he insists that a similar transformation may eventually be effected in the mother tongue. Indeed his first allusion to double translation, _Toxophilus_ 's reference to the \"other\" method followed by Cicero, comes in a discussion of how best to enrich \"the englyshe tongue\" (xiv). In addition his gleeful rebuke to Cicero in _The Scholemaster_ is prompted not by the improved Latinity of his countrymen but by their growing skill as _vernacular_ writers. This is as he hopes and expects: the rigorous method of double translation, he writes, is intended \"not onelie to serue in the _Latin_ or _Greke_ tong, but also in our own English language. But yet, bicause the prouidence of God hath left vnto vs in no other tong, saue onelie in the _Greke_ and _Latin_ tong, the trew preceptes, and perfite examples of eloquence, therefore must we seeke in the Authors onelie of those two tonges, the trewe Paterne of Eloquence, if in any other mother tongue we looke to attaine, either to perfit vtterance of it our selues, or skilfull iudgement of it in others\" (56v). But when Ascham describes the results of that patterning in England, he has less to say about what vernacular writers do well than about what they now (rightly) perceive themselves to do badly: like the boys in his imaginary schoolroom, English authors are learning to \"know the difference\" between themselves and antiquity (60r). He applauds, therefore, the sentiments behind recent efforts to replace \"barbarous and rude Ryming\" (60r) with verses modeled on classical quantitative measures, but he is cheered less by results of those experiments than by the knowledge that English writers have, at last and at least, become conscious of their own barbarity: \"I rejoice that euen poore England preuented Italie, first in spying out, than in seekying to amend this fault\" (62r). That those amendments so far have yielded verses that \"rather trotte and hobble, than runne smoothly in our English tong\" (60v) is, to his way of thinking, further proof of the virtue of the undertaking itself: those who dissent are lazy homebodies who, for \"idleness\" or for \"ignorance,\" \"neuer went farder than the schole... of Chaucer at home\" (61v)\u2014home, as ever, being the very worst place to take one's schooling.\n\nHelgerson cites Ascham's misguided faith in English quantitative measures as an instantiation of a larger truth: \"at the historic root of national self-articulation,\" he writes, \"we find... self-alienation.\" It is this self-alienating investment in the authority of classical example, he argues, that later Elizabethan writers must learn to overcome in order to fashion English as a truly national tongue. But alienation and eloquence are more complexly entwined, both in the sixteenth century and in Cicero's Rome, as Ascham is fully aware. On the one hand, as he insists, the greatest classical writers became great because of their willingness to depart from common practice: he cites approvingly Cicero's dictum that by studying at Rhodes, he exchanged the speech he received at home for a better one (though Ascham adds, characteristically, that he doubts that study abroad helped Cicero as much as \"binding himself to translate\" the great Attic orators [44v]). On the other hand, he acknowledges that those who leave home may struggle to find their way back: thus _The Scholemaster_ concludes with an uneasy meditation on the difference between Cicero and Sallust, each living \"whan the Latin tong was full ripe\" (63r), each blessed with wisdom and learning, and only one capable of eloquence.\n\nAs Ascham recalls, his beloved former tutor John Cheke, whom he credits with the invention of double translation, once cautioned him that it \"was not verie fitte for yong men, to learne out of [Sallust], the puritie of the Latin tong,\" for \"he was not the purest in proprietie of wordes, nor choisest in aptnes of phrases, nor the best in framing of sentences,\" and his writing was all too often \"neyther plaine for the matter, nor sensible for mens vnderstanding\" (64v). When Ascham asks how a well-educated Roman of Cicero's time should have succumbed to such awkwardness and bad taste, Cheke confesses that he does not know but adds that he has developed a private \"fansie.\" Sallust's youth was, he observes, marked by \"ryot and lechery,\" and it was only \"by long experience of the hurt and shame that commeth of mischief\" that he was brought to \"the loue of studie and learning.\" His reward for this conversion of mind and habits was a post as \"Pretor in _Numidia_ ,\" a North African outpost of the empire, \"where he [was] absent from his contrie, and not inured with the common talke of Rome, but shut vp in his studie, and bent wholy to reading\" (65r). This geographic and scholarly isolation was productive insofar as it yielded Sallust's great _Historiae_ , Cheke observes, but the voice of the work betrays the stress of its author's alienation: depending on older authors, especially Cato and Thucydides, for his matter, arrangement, and style, Sallust lapses into archaisms and\u2014when he can find no suitable word for his purposes in Cato or Thucydides\u2014invents new terms wholesale. The worst defect of his style, Cheke continues, is \"neyther oldnes nor newnesse of wordes\" but the \"strange phrases\" that result when \"good Latin wordes\" are recast in imitation of Greek, \"placed and framed outlandish like\" (65v). It is this outlandish quality that distinguishes Sallust from Cicero: like his model Thucydides, who \"wrote his storie, not at home in Grece, but abrode in Italie, and therefore smelleth of a certaine outlandish kinde of talke\" (66r), Sallust loses the ease and familiarity of the native speaker, holding his mother tongue at an awkward and unmistakable remove.\n\nCheke offers Sallust as proof of the urgency of choosing one's models wisely: Plato and Isocrates, \"the purest and playnest writers, that euer wrote in any tong,\" are the \"best examples for any man to follow whether he write, Latin, Italian, French, or English\" (66r). But his fanciful vision of Sallust laboring in a North African study with only Cato and Thucydides for company bears a striking resemblance to Ascham's vision of the ideal English schoolroom, in which scripted interchanges with dead Latin authors take the place of conversation, and the familiar contours of the mother tongue are gradually refashioned to fit the impress of a language now found only in books. _The Scholemaster_ ends shortly after these reflections, with Ascham noting simply that \"these... reules, which worthie Master _Cheke_ dyd impart vnto me concernyng _Salust,_ \" are to be taken as guides for the \"right iudgement of the _Latin_ tong\" (67r). His readers are left with the surmise that, as far as the English tongue is concerned, the pedagogy of Cheke and Ascham seems liable to produce not a nation of Ciceros but an island of Sallusts.\n\nAs far as we can tell, few English schoolboys were subjected regularly to the rigors of double translation, and even fewer, if any, must have learned Latin at the breast, but the ideals of English humanist pedagogical theory nonetheless threatened to alter the course of vernacular usage. So argues Richard Mulcaster, master of London's Merchant Taylors' School (where his pupils included a young Edmund Spenser) and outspoken critic of humanist efforts to impose classical standards on the mother tongue. Mulcaster was a humanist by training, steeped in the example of classical authors, but he took from his study of antiquity a very different lesson than Elyot or Ascham did: rhetoric and pedagogy are, he concludes, essentially local arts. As he writes in _Positions_ , his 1581 treatise on the education of children, in seeking to fashion England along the lines of Athens or Rome, a schoolmaster may overlook the fact that \"the circunstance of the countrie, will not admit that, which he would perswade.\" This inattention to local particularities makes the schoolmaster like the biblical parable's foolish builder who erects his house on sand: \"mistaking his ground, [he] misplaceth his building, and hazardeth his credit.\" The same care, he points out, is required of the orator: it is only by \"mastering of the circunstance\"\u2014that is, both the rhetorical circumstances of his case and the actual circumstances of the place in which he speaks\u2014that he may effectively instruct and persuade his fellow citizens. Both travel and an undue regard for alien traditions jeopardize such mastery, since they distance the orator from the ground on which his argument must be built. In the very causes he chooses to espouse, Mulcaster writes, an orator reveals the depth of his loyalty to his native land: \"by it each countrie discouereth the travellour, when he seeketh to enforce his forreigne conclusions, and clingeth to that countryman, which hath bettered her still, by biding still at home\" (9). Excessive devotion to Greek or Latin, he emphasizes, constitutes just such an enforcement of \"forreigne conclusions.\" Even the most revered ancient authorities must bow to the imperative of local circumstance, for in rhetorical matters, \"where circunstance is prescription, it is no proufe, bycause _Plato_ praiseth it, bycause _Aristotle_ alloweth it, bycause _Cicero_ commendes it, bycause _Quintilian_ is acquainted with it... that therfore it is for vs to vse.\" \"What if our countrey honour it in them,\" Mulcaster asks, \"and yet for all that may not vse it her selfe, bycause circunstance is her check\" (11)?\n\nOn this basis Mulcaster makes his radical case for a pedagogy of the mother tongue: an orthography, grammar, rhetoric, and poetics fashioned specifically for English, according to English models and English habits. He challenges fidelity to Latin exemplars as a servile remainder of England's colonial past: as he reminds readers of his 1582 treatise on English spelling, _The First Part of the Elementarie_ , \"[t]he Romane autoritie first planted the Latin among vs here, by force of their conquest,\" and \"the vse thereof for matters of learning, doth cause it continew, tho the conquest be expired.\" He reproaches \"the opinion of som such of our peple, as desire rather to please themselues with a foren tung, wherewith theie ar acquainted, then to profit their cuntrie, in hir naturall language, where their acquaintance should be\" (255); such misplaced allegiance, he argues, grants the classical tongues and the contemporary continental languages an unjust advantage over the English vernacular. \"No one tung is more fine then other naturallie,\" Mulcaster argues, \"but by industrie of the speaker,... [who] endeuoreth himself to garnish it with eloquence, & to enrich it with learning\" (254). To claim that rude countries inevitably breed rude tongues is, he continues, to misunderstand the character of eloquence, which thrives in every place such industry is employed; sounding rather like Elyot, he writes that true eloquence is \"neither limited to language, nor restrained to soil, whose measur the hole world is\" (258). But where Elyot deplores England's provinciality, blaming its rusticity for the roughness of its speech, Mulcaster proclaims his pride in all aspects of English identity: \"I loue Rome, but London better, I fauor Italie, but England more, I honor the Latin, but I worship the English\" (255). Instead of being \"pilgrims to learning by lingring about tungs,\" he argues, English authors may find \"all that gaietie [to] be had at home, which makes vs gase so much at the fine stranger\" (256).\n\nTo the charge that English is \"vncouth,\" Mulcaster responds that it is merely \"vnused\" and must attain praise \"thorough purchace, and planting in our tung, which theie [that is, Greeks and Romans] were so desirous to place in theirs\" (256\u201357). His own treatise, devoted to the establishment of rules for pronunciation and spelling in the vernacular, is meant as a mere pretext to such purchase and planting; ultimately, he writes, the English language must cultivate the whole of the art of rhetoric, becoming \"enriched so in euerie kinde of argument, and honored so with euerie ornament of eloquence, as she maie vy with the foren.\" In pursuit of that enrichment, he cheerfully advocates the adoption of foreign words and phrases, cautioning only that spelling be anglicized: \"For if the word it self be english in dede, then is it best in the natural hew, if it be a stranger, & incorporate among vs, let it wear our colors, sith it wil be one of vs\" (227). In Mulcaster's view, England's relationship to foreign languages ought not to be construed as a choice between alienation and dependence. Instead, he urges, English may partake freely of all other linguistic models while retaining a strong sense of its own local virtues.\n\nMulcaster admits that England's geographic insularity and remoteness have contributed to its lack of rhetorical polish; he acknowledges that the vernacular has been treated as if it were \"of no compas for ground & autoritie\" because \"it is of small reatch\" and \"stretcheth no further then this Iland of ours, naie not there ouer all.\" But concerns about England's isolation and peripherality miss the mark, he argues. The very geography responsible for the vernacular's modest reach is also the guarantee of its rhetorical sufficiency: \"[t]ho it go not beyond sea, it will serue on this side.\" In the same way he admits that England's place in the world is limited\u2014\"our state is no Empire to hope to enlarge it by commanding ouer cuntries,\" and \"no stranger, nor foren nation, bycause of the bounder & shortnesse of our language, wold deal so with vs, as to transport from vs as we do from other\"\u2014but this too he regards as a point in its favor: \"tho it be neither large in possession, nor in present hope of great encrease, yet where it rules, it can make good lawes, and as fit for our state, as the biggest can for theirs, and oftimes better to, bycause of confusion in greatest gouernments, as most vnwildinesse in grossest bodies\" (257).\n\nHe concludes by revising England's history of foreign conquest and colonial subordination, imagining a newly pacific invasion of its borders by strangers who come not to conquer or pillage but to satiate their desire for learning and eloquence. If Latin is the language of England's colonial past, English is the tongue of its mercantile future: \"Why maie not the English wits... in their own tung be in time as well sought to, by foren students for increase of their knowledge,\" he wonders, \"as our soil is sought to at this same time, by foren merchants, for encrease of their welth?\" As yet, he concedes, wisdom and eloquence are not counted among the island's domestic riches, but that may change: as England's \"soil is fertile, bycause it is applyed,\" he remarks, \"so the wits be not barren if theie list to brede\" (257). If those fertile wits are cultivated\u2014in the Merchant Taylors' School and in schoolrooms throughout the nation where Mulcaster's grammatical precepts are applied\u2014then England need no longer choose between exile from the mother tongue or isolation in a rude vernacular: the homely island tongue may play host to a world of learning.\n\nThis vision of an England (and an English) whose relationship to the outside world is one of mutual increase offers those invested in the vernacular\u2014and Mulcaster encourages the mercantile metaphor\u2014an alternative to slavish dependency and close-minded insularity. Destiny, he writes, elects some particular age in the history of each tongue and culture to bless it with perfection: \"Such a period in the Greke tung was that time, when Demosthenes liued, and that learned race of the father philosophers: such a period in the Latin tung, was that time, when Tullie liued, and those of that age: Such a period in the English tung I take this to be in our daies, for both the pen and the speche.\" \"[T]he question,\" he concludes, \"is wherein finenesse standeth.\" When it comes to Latin, he is no different than any other well-read sixteenth-century Englishman, making Cicero his standard and Sallust his cautionary tale: \"So was Salust deceiued among the Romans, liuing with eloquent Tullie, and writing like ancient Cato\" (160). The consequences of that deceived attachment to a past provide the motive for Mulcaster's own career and his passionate advocacy for the embrace of English on its own terms and merits. If eloquence is to be found, he argues, it will be found here and now, and if patterns of that eloquence are required, they too must be local ones: \"it must nedes be, that our English tung hath matter enough in hir own writing, which maie direct her own right, if it be reduced to certain precept, and rule of Art, tho it haue not as yet bene thoroughlie perceaued\" (77).\n\nHowever, in seeking to avoid the fate of Sallust for a generation of English schoolboys, Mulcaster may well help to bring it about. For a native speaker, after all, nothing is more alienating than the effort of relearning one's mother tongue in the form of precepts and rules of art; what was easy and instinctive threatens to become, in Mulcaster's schoolroom, laborious and artificial. As Ascham might point out, this is not necessarily a bad thing. The internalized sense of strangeness for which Mulcaster blames his humanist colleagues is, in some sense, the essential precondition for a full-fledged art of English eloquence. Answering what Mulcaster calls the question of \"finenesse\"\u2014\"thoroughly perceiving\" what one has learned at the breast\u2014demands a certain strategic distance. The late sixteenth century bears witness to a revolution on what can seem, at first, like Mulcaster's terms: in rhetorical handbooks and literary texts alike, the English tongue begins to \"direct her own right.\" But direction comes, as ever, from afar: within the new vernacular rhetorics and poetics, the distance between English and antiquity becomes, if anything, an even more pressing concern. At the same time strangeness emerges as an essential aspect of eloquence in _any_ tongue, the element that distinguishes artful from ordinary speech and gives rhetoric and poetry their power. Shaped by their long detour in the classical tongues, English writers reconstitute their mother tongue as a second language, self-consciously belated and usefully eccentric. Errancy and exoticism, the instruments of Sallust's corruption as a writer, are promoted as the master tropes of rhetorical and poetic fineness.\n_Chapter 2_\n\nThe Commonplace and the Far-Fetched: Mapping Eloquence in the English Art of Rhetoric\n\nAs Thomas Elyot reminds readers of _The Boke named the Governour_ , rhetoric was the foundation of the earliest commonwealths: \"[I]n the firste infancie of the worlde, men, wandring like beastes in woddes and on mountaines, regardinge neither the religion due unto god, nor the office pertaining unto man, ordred all thing by bodily strength: untill Mercurius (as Plato supposeth) or some other man holpen by sapience and eloquence, by some apt or propre oration, assembled them to geder and perswaded to them what commodite was in mutual conuersation and honest maners.\" When Elyot surveys sixteenth-century England, he is therefore dismayed to find in it only \"a maner, a shadowe, or figure of the auncient rhetorike\": the stunted ritual of \"motes,\" or moot courts, observed by students at the law schools. Such mock trials insured that educated men were acquainted with the rudiments of invention and arrangement, but they failed to produce anything like the eloquence of Mercury, Orpheus, or Amphion. On the contrary, Elyot laments, far from fostering \"mutual conversation,\" the speech of most English lawyers verges on unintelligibility: \"voyde of all eloquence,\" it \"serveth no commoditie or necessary purpose, no man understanding it but they whiche haue studied the lawes\" (53v). He attributes this defect to ignorance of eloquence's higher purpose: \"the tonge wherin it is spoken is barberouse, and the sterynge of affections of the mynde in this realme was neuer used,\" he observes, \"and so there lacketh Eloquution and Pronunciation, the two principall partes of rhetorike\" (56r\u2013v). Only if educated Englishmen address themselves to the cultivation of _style_ , marrying \"the sharpe wittes of logicians\" and \"the graue sentences of philosophers\" to \"the elegancie of the poetes,\" will England possess \"perfect orators\" and \"a publike weale equiualent to the grekes or Romanes\" (57v, 59v).\n\nIn 1531, when _The Governour_ first appeared in print, \"elegancie\" was literally absent from the English art of rhetoric. The only existing rhetorical handbook in the vernacular, Leonard Cox's _Art or Crafte of Rhetoryke_ (c. 1524\u201330), sets elocution and pronunciation pointedly to the side. \"[M]any thynges be left out of this treatyse that ought to be spoken of,\" Cox allows in his preface, but not, he insists, in a handbook to be read only by \"suche as haue by negligence or els fals persuacions\" failed to \"attayne any meane knowlege of the Latin tongue.\" For an audience defined by linguistic incompetence, he reasons, the rudiments of invention and arrangement \"shall be sufficyent\"\u2014what Roger Ascham calls \"good utterance\" is no plausible object. Some twenty years later, however, a pioneering English rhetorician cited Elyot as proof of the elegancy of the mother tongue. The title page of Richard Sherry's 1550 _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ advertises it as an aid to \"the better vnderstanding of good authors,\" and those who picked it up probably assumed that the authors in question were classical writers: here, presumably, was a handbook to help schoolboys recognize and reproduce a Ciceronian _paraphrasis_ or a Virgilian _metalepsis_. The _Treatise_ 's preface initially reinforces this assumption, as Sherry apologizes for the conspicuous classicism of his title, which must sound \"all straunge unto our Englyshe eares\" and may cause \"some men at the fyrst syghte to marvayle what the matter of it should meane.\" He urges readers to consider that \"use maketh straunge thinges familier\": with time, alien terms such as \"scheme\" and \"trope\" may become as common \"as if they had bene of oure owne natiue broode.\"\n\nBut as Sherry soon reveals, the strange things his treatise seeks to domesticate are not strictly the property of the classical tongues: on the contrary, what is foreign to English readers is the virtue of their own native speech. \"It is not vnknowen that oure language for the barbarousnes and lacke of eloquence hathe bene complayned of,\" he writes,\n\nand yet not trewely, for anye defaut in the toungue it selfe, but rather for slackenes of our countrimen, whiche haue alwayes set lyght by searchyng out the elegance and proper speaches that be ful many in it: as plainly doth appere not only by the most excellent monumentes of our auncient forewriters, Gower, Chawcer and Lydgate, but also by the famous workes of many other later: inespeciall of ye ryght worshipful knyght syr Thomas Eliot,... [who] as it were generallye searchinge oute the copye of oure language in all kynde of wordes and phrases, [and] after that setting abrode goodlye monumentes of hys wytte, lernynge and industrye, aswell in historycall knowledge, as of eyther the Philosophies, hathe herebi declared the plentyfulnes of our mother tounge. (A2v\u2013[A3]r)\n\nThe \"good authors\" of the title page thus include not simply Cicero and Virgil but also Thomas Elyot and the \"manye other... yet lyuyng\" (sig. [A3]v) whose very familiarity\u2014whose Englishness\u2014has obscured the \"copye\" or riches of their speech.\n\nIn truth, it is hard to imagine any reader consulting the litany of arcane tropes and figures that ensues and finding Elyot's prose easier to read as a consequence, but that perhaps is the point. English schoolboys were accustomed to the notion that understanding a classical text meant retreating from the immediate perception of meaning to a more remote appreciation of artifice: \"surely,\" writes Ascham, \"the minde by dailie marking, first, the cause and matter: than, the words and phrases: next, the order and composition: after the reason and arguments: than the forms and figures... [and] lastelie, the measure and compass of euerie sentence, must nedes, by litle and little, draw vnto it the like shape of eloquence, as the author doth vse, which is red.\" When Sherry promises his readers \"better understanding\" of a writer such as Elyot, he therefore offers them a mode of access to their mother tongue that is also a process of alienation from it\u2014the strange things made familiar are also familiar things made enticingly strange. We\u2014and presumably sixteenth-century readers\u2014do not need Sherry's definition of the figure he calls \"Metaphora\" or \"translacion\"\u2014\"a worde translated from the thynge that it properlye signifieth, vnto another whych may agre with it by a similitude\" (C4v)\u2014to understand what Elyot means when he describes moot-court exercises as the \"shadow or figure\" of an ancient rhetoric, but the label and the definition call our attention to the artfulness of the phrase, its capacity to suggest the way time has attenuated and flattened a once substantive art. In this sense the domestication of classical rhetorical precepts and practices brings with it a deliberate and profitable remove from the mother tongue, whose own shadows and figures come into fresh relief.\n\nIn its foregrounding of the vernacular's capacity for figuration, Sherry's _Treatise_ marks the beginning of a decisive shift in the discipline of English rhetoric. Throughout the second half of the sixteenth century, a rapidly proliferating corpus of vernacular arts redefines eloquence almost exclusively in terms of elocution, and elocution itself in terms of an ever-burgeoning catalog of figures of speech. Historians of rhetoric have tended to look askance at this metastasis of style, naming \"attention to ornament alone\" as the \"chief Renaissance abuse of the classical system\" and dismissing the ubiquitous catalogs of rhetorical figures, with their elaborate taxonomies of scheme and trope, as \"derivative... patchworks\" of more comprehensive classical and continental treatises. More recently, however, critics have recovered a sense of what elocution (or its absence) signified to Thomas Elyot and his successors in sixteenth-century England, recuperating the style-obsessed English art of rhetoric as a crucial instrument in the fashioning of a self-consciously literate mother tongue. Far from signaling the decline of a robust art of public discourse into a scholarly fetish, Wolfgang G. M\u00fcller argues, its investment in elocution constitutes \"the most original part\" of the English rhetorical treatise: a singular space of linguistic and national self-assertion. By making the \"elegancie\" of English speech and writing their concern, the authors of sixteenth-century vernacular arts of rhetoric and poesy display a novel kind of interest and confidence in the vernacular, expecting it to serve not simply their commodity but their pleasure. As the editors of a recent collection of essays on Renaissance figures of speech point out, \"it was in the area of _elocution_ \u2014and specifically the theory and description of the figures\u2014that Renaissance rhetoric managed actually to take classical theory forwards,\" adding to the stock of ancient devices and doing \"something new with them.\" No longer merely ornamental, schemes and tropes become \"flowers\" and \"colours\" whose multiplication in the pages of vernacular treatises proves, as Jenny Mann argues, England's fitness \"as a garden or field where rhetoric can grow and thrive.\"\n\nBut in doing something new with figuration, ensconcing it at the center of rhetorical theory and practice and asking it to shore up their claim to eloquence as a common good, English rhetoricians run up against a very old dilemma. In an almost literal sense, as rhetorical theorists from Aristotle onward discover, style _reorients_ rhetoric, transforming its defining investments in commodity and commonality into a fascination with exoticism and excess. In this sense elocution and pronunciation are not so much ancient rhetoric's \"principal partes\" as its most problematic: even in ancient Athens and Rome, style remains stubbornly unassimilated to accounts of eloquence as civic discourse, retaining dangerous and enticing associations with the uncivilized beyond. Elyot allows that the attractions of eloquence are not necessarily identical to the imperatives of the common good: \"divers men... will say,\" he admits, \"that the swetnesse that is contayned in eloquence... shulde utterly withdrawe the myndes of yonge men from the more necessary studie of the lawes of this realme\" (55v). He dismisses this suspicion rather glibly, first by urging that legal doctrine be made eloquent, recast \"either in englisshe, latine, or good French, written in a more clene and elegant stile,\" and second by insisting that greed and ambition guarantee that the law will always have its devotees (55v\u201356r), but it unsettles the sturdily civic-minded foundation of his pedagogical program, hinting at a potentially prodigal future for English eloquence. And indeed, as they proceed through invention, arrangement, and memory into the alien precincts of style, sixteenth-century rhetoricians find themselves promoting the vernacular in radically altered guise: not as the necessary and commodious instrument of social communion but as a medium of transfiguration and transport\u2014most potently attractive when it is most conspicuously far-fetched.\n\n\"Neither Cesar, nor Brutus, Builded the Same\": England as _Topos_\n\nLeonard Cox and Richard Sherry may have written the first English arts of rhetoric, but Thomas Wilson wrote the first art of _English_ rhetoric: a work that takes for granted its interest and value as an account of the mother tongue and that establishes England as the necessary measure of eloquence in the vernacular. Cox justifies his vulgarization of classical rhetoric on the principle that \"euery goode thynge,... the more commune that it is the better it is,\" but to his mind commonness is all English has to recommend it: he assumes that an educated readership will greet his vernacular rhetoric as \"a thyng that is very rude and skant worthe the lokynge on.\" For Wilson, by contrast, commonness is at the heart of \"the orator's profession,\" which is fulfilled when he \"speake[s] only of all such matters, as may largely be expounded... for all men to heare them\": what is intelligible to all Englishmen is thus neither rude nor scant but the very fullness of rhetorical decorum. He therefore conjures for his 1553 _Arte of Rhetorique_ a readership not of poor Latinists but \" _of all suche as are studious of Eloquence_ \": \"Boldly... may I aduenture, and without feare step forth to offer that... which for the dignitie is so excellent, and for the use so necessarie,\" he announces in his prologue to the revised and expanded edition of 1560 (Aivr). He dedicates both the 1553 and 1560 editions to his patron John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, whose \"earnest... wish\" that he \"might one day see the precepts of Rhetorique set forth... in English\" Wilson attributes not to his defects as a Latinist but to the \"speciall desire and Affection\" he \"beare[s] to Eloquence\" (Aiiv). He anticipates a time when the \"perfect experience, of manifolde and weightie matters of the Commonweale, shall haue encreased the Eloquence, which alreadie doth naturally flowe\" in Dudley to such an extent that his own _Arte_ will be \"set... to Schoole\" in Dudley's home, \"that it may learn Rhetorique of... daylie talke\"\u2014for men learn best, he concludes, by following \"their neyghbours deuice\" (Aiiiv).\n\nThe fancy that eloquence might be schooled by an Englishman's \"daylie talke\" or patterned on one's \"neyghbours deuice\" upends Elyot's fantasy of the English home as a nursery for Latinity and issues a bracing challenge to Ascham's conviction that the \"trewe Paterne of Eloquence\" must be sought not \"in common taulke, but in priuate bookes.\" Indeed, although for Ascham the imitation of foreign eloquence recommends itself as a more profitable, less perilous alternative to actual travel abroad, in Wilson's view the two pursuits are dangerously kin. Having forsaken their mother country and mother tongue, he observes, \"some farre iorneid ientlemen at their returne home, like as thei loue to goe in forraine apparel, so thei will pouder their talke with oversea language,\" but no less foolish are those would-be eloquent speakers who \"seeke so far for outlandish English, that they forget altogether their mothers language.\" Orphaned and alienated by their own affectations, they \"will say, they speake in their mother tongue,\" but \"if some of their mothers were aliue, they were not able to tell what they say.\" The hybrid tongues that result from such excursions, whether literal or rhetorical, are invariably ludicrous and ineffective, \"as if an Oratour that professeth to vtter his mind in plaine Latin, would needes speake Poetrie, and farre fetched colours of straunge antiquitie\" (86r). Actual foreign loan-words, Wilson implies, are merely the most obvious sign of linguistic corruption: the enticements of \"straunge antiquitie\"\u2014excessive ornamentation, pseudo-archaisms, and pretentious classicisms\u2014lure even educated speakers beyond the bounds of rhetorical community. \"But thou saiest, the olde antiquitee doeth like thee best, because it is good, sobre, & modest,\" he jibes. \"Ah, liue man as thei did before thee, and speake thy mynde now, as menne do at this daie.\" Instead of fretting over England's infelicitous isolation or the distinctions between its speech and the language of classical authors, he urges readers to learn from the classics precisely the integrity of their own native speech: \"[R]emember that, whiche Cesar saith, beware as long as thou liuest, of straunge woordes, as thou wouldest take hede and eschewe greate rockes in the Sea\" (2r).\n\nWhen Wilson urges would-be vernacular orators to \"seke... such words as are commonly receiued\" (87v), he represents the cultivation of rhetorical skill as an inquiry into a shared English life, depicted vividly in his anecdotes of Lincolnshire clergymen, Tindale ruffians, and London lawyers. He returns often to the image of bad oratory as a transgression of that secure and bounded existence, an ill-advised journey most often aimed in the direction of a Rome that is no longer Caesar's but the pope's. The folly of those who identify eloquence with circumlocution, \"swaruing from their purpose\" and introducing matters \"farthest\" from it, reminds him, for instance, of the cautionary example of an Anglican preacher who, intending to speak \"of the generall resurrection,\" instead \"hath made a large matter of our blessed Ladie, praysing her to bee so gentle, so curteous, and so kinde, that it were better a thousand fold, to make sute to her alone, then to Christ her sonne.\" He imagines the audience for such a speech responding with indignation\u2014\"Now, whether the deuill wilt thou, come in man againe for very shame\"\u2014for such errant discourse is \"both vngodly, and nothyng at al to the purpose.\" Ultimately, Protestant England is abandoned, as rhetorical laxity makes way for heresy: \"[A]ssuredly,\" he concludes, \"many an vnlearned and witlesse man, hath straied in his talke much farther a great deale, yea truly as farre as hence to Roome gates\" (48r).\n\nSuch jests have led critics to discern \"a decidedly nationalistic spirit\" in Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_. The \"goal that he established for himself,\" Albert Schmidt argues, \"was less to teach Englishmen... rhetoric than to teach citizenship.\" There is indeed little doubt that Wilson's rhetorical precepts reflect his political commitments: the language he uses against foreign loan-words, for instance, is very like the language he uses in a 1571 parliamentary speech against vagabonds, in which he urges Englishmen that it is \"no charity to give to such a one as we know not, being a stranger unto us.\"\n\nBut any vernacular rhetorician who quotes Caesar to persuade English orators not to be seduced by the luster of \"olde antiquitee\" has a rather complicated sense of what belongs to England and what is foreign to it. In reading Wilson's stylistic injunctions as proof of his nationalizing ambitions, critics have disregarded the complexity of \"England\" and \"Englishness\" within his _Rhetorique_ , a text whose nativism is bound to\u2014and shadowed by\u2014its classicism. Insofar as he _theorizes_ his resistance to foreign loan-words, pointless digressions, and ostentatious Latinity, justifying his preference for familiar speech in terms of rhetoric's own bias toward shared understanding, Wilson plants his English _Arte of Rhetorique_ in what he identifies as foreign ground: the classical theory of topical invention. Wilson comes to the topics by way of rhetoric's sister art, dialectic, which he introduces to English readers in a 1551 treatise titled _The Rule of Reason, Conteinyng the Arte of Logique_ (1551). Despite its name, Wilson's _Logique_ draws most directly on theories of invention outlined in Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ and Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_. And yet his _Logique_ appears to readers\u2014and has been treated by critics\u2014as a very different undertaking than his _Rhetorique_ , largely because it displays such a different attitude toward its source material: if Wilson claims eloquence as England's native property, he regards the apparatus of logical reasoning as a distinctly foreign import.\n\nCompared to the preface he wrote for his _Rhetorique_ , the preface to his _Logique_ is modest, even tentative, in tone. He insists that the endeavor was undertaken \"not as though none could dooe it better; but because no Englishman until now, hath gone through with this enterprise.\" He cautions that the result may alienate some readers: \"this fruit being of a straunge kind (soche as no Englishe ground hath before this tyme, and in this sort by any tillage brought forthe) maie perhaps in the firste tastyng, proue somewhat rough and harsh in the mouthe, because of the straungenesse.\" And yet the very strangeness of the art is indicative of its value: Wilson compares his \"strange labour\" and \"earnest trauaile\" as translator to the work of \"some poore meane man, or simple personne, whose charge were to be a lodesman to conuey some noble princesse into a straunge land where she was neuer before.\" Nevertheless he continues, believing that \"the capacitie of my country men the English nacion is... not inferiour to any other,\" hopeful that logic will prove \"apte for the English wittes,\" and convinced that its precepts \"myght with as good grace be sette forth in Thenglishe [tongue], I... enterprised to ioyne an acquaintaunce betwiene Logique, and my countrymen from the whiche they haue bene hetherto barred\" and \"make Logique familiar to Thenglishe man.\"\n\nIronically, given his insistence on its strangeness to England, it is the art of logic\u2014or rather the art of topical invention he draws from classical rhetoric and names logic\u2014that secures Wilson's faith in England's fitness as a home for the arts of \"reason[ing] probably\" ( _Logique_ , A4v\u2013A5r). As he explains to readers, probability is intimately linked to place in the classical tradition. By consulting a familiar repertoire of mental \"commonplaces\"\u2014abstract categories such as cause and effect, possibility or impossibility, virtue or vice\u2014a speaker discovers the content of his argument: each \"place\" is \"the restyng corner of an argumente, or els a marke whiche geveth warning to our memorie\" ( _Logique_ , J5v\u2013[J6r]). This process of invention is localized in a more literal fashion: tailored to fit the contours of a particular subject, audience, time, and place. Wilson illustrates this premise by way of an analogy he adapts from the _Institutio_ _Oratoria_ , in which Quintilian likens the skilled orator's knowledge of the _loci communes_ to an Italian fisherman's knowledge of the Mediterranean coast: \"For just as all kinds of produce are not provided by every country, and as you will not succeed in finding a particular bird or beast, if you are ignorant of the localities where it has its usual haunts or birthplace, as even the various kinds of fish flourish in different surroundings, some preferring a smooth and others a rocky bottom, and are found on different shores and in diverse regions (you will, for instance, never catch a sturgeon or wrasse in our [Italian] seas), so not every kind of argument can be derived from every circumstance, and consequently our search requires discrimination.\" Wilson, however, rewrites the analogy so that the classical _loci communes_ become features of a recognizably English landscape:\n\nThose that bee good harefinders will soone finde the hare by her fourme. For when thei see the ground beaten flatte round about, and faire to the sighte: thei have a narrowe gesse by al likelihode that the hare was there a litle before. Likewise the Huntesman in hunting the foxe, wil soone espie when he seeth a hole, whether it be a foxe borough or not. So he that will take profeicte in this part of Logique [that is, invention], must bee like a hunter, and learn by labour to know the boroughs. For these places bee nothing else but coverts or boroughs, wherein if any one searche diligently, he maie finde game at pleasure. Therfore if any one will do good in this kynde, he must go from place to place, and by serching euery borough, he shall haue his purpose vndoubtedlie in moste part of them, if not in all. ( _Logique_ , J5v\u2013[J6r])\n\nThis transformation of Quintilian's Italian fisherman into the English hare finder or huntsman reflects Wilson's determination that English readers be made to feel at home in places from which they were formerly barred\u2014in this case in the places of invention. It shows as well his understanding of the topics, which demand such local accommodations.\n\nIndeed, homely as it may seem, Wilson's metaphor of the hunt is rigorously classical in its account of the genesis of plausibility or \"likelihode\": it is only when the hare finders thoroughly acquaint themselves with the environs near the hare's burrow and \"see the ground beaten flatte round about\" that they are able to call upon the resources of probability, knowing \"by al likelihode that the hare was there a litle before.\" This notion, that familiarity with one's surroundings (\"know[ing] the boroughs\") yields proximity to the truth (\"a narrowe gesse\"), is the central premise of Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ , which elevates the \"narrowe gesse\" to a valid form of knowledge\u2014valid, that is, within the strictly delineated space of local deliberation. By transforming the topics or \"commonplaces\" of sophistic oratory from mere rhetorical shortcuts to a method of reasoning, Aristotle's _Rhetoric_ attempts to rescue rhetoric from both the stringent criticisms of Plato's Socratic dialogues and the excessive relativism of the sophists, anchoring the art's disciplinary and epistemological legitimacy in a new conception of the relationship between persuasion and place. Aristotle's _topoi_ establish rhetoric as a \"situated competence,\" as Walter Jost and Michael J. Hyde explain: they are \"the places\u2014issues, values, commitments, beliefs, likelihoods\u2014that we hold in common with others, that we dwell in and argue over.\" They are also the \"place\" rhetoric holds in common with its neighbor, dialectic. Finally, they are in an important sense linked to literal experiences of place, to those communal sites of \"public\" or \"social\" discourse that make up the arena of \"practical knowledge in use.\"\n\nIn Plato's _Gorgias,_ Socrates insists that truth must be universally recognizable as such, declaring that even though \"almost everyone in Athens\" would find his opponent's defense of rhetoric plausible, as long as \"there's still a dissenting voice, albeit a single one\u2014mine,\" Gorgias cannot claim to have established his argument as true. In his _Rhetoric_ , Aristotle pointedly sidesteps both the issue of individual conviction and the question of universal or abstract truth by insisting that the orator does not \"theorize about each opinion\u2014what may seem so to Socrates or Hippias\u2014but about what seems true to people of a certain sort.\" From the law courts, the political forum, and the public gathering places of Athens, the orator therefore draws the materials he needs to fashion his arguments. The local specificity of this knowledge is crucial because audiences make judgments \"on the basis of what [particulars] they know and instances near their experience.\" Such advice may sound ominously similar to the kind of appeasement that, according to Socrates, casts rhetoric into \"the same province\" as sophistry, but by focusing on the importance of locating an argument within a particular context, Aristotle defines a valid role for argument by approximation. His definition of rhetorical truth, that is, pertains to arguments \"not... only from what is necessarily valid\"\u2014so-called \"inartificial\" proofs, such as eyewitness testimony\u2014\"but also what is true for the most part,\" what, by virtue of its affinity with received wisdom and commonly held opinions, comes _close_ to the truth. The arguments produced by topical invention are thus intimately shaped by the orator's knowledge of actual locales, for plausibility is contingent upon time, place, and persons. But the _theory_ of the topics is eminently and necessarily portable; otherwise rhetoric would be no teachable art.\n\nIn this sense Wilson's _Logique_ and his _Rhetorique_ collaborate in a sleight-of-hand: as the abstract basis of probable reasoning, the topics constitute the classical tradition's movable goods; as the engines of purely local conviction, the topics remain anchored in\u2014indeed help to produce\u2014a specifically English discursive community. Wilson seems to have taken pleasure in this irony, using his accounts of the individual topics in both treatises as occasions to meditate, playfully, on the idea of England as _topos_ , both the product and the a priori condition of classical invention. To demonstrate reasoning from the topic of \"deeds done,\" he therefore argues that \"[i]f Iulius Cesar came into England, then there was such a man called Iulius Cesar\"; to illustrate the use of the topic of \"contraries,\" he argues that \"King Lud is not the same, that Iulius Cesar, or Brutus was: Kyng Lud buylded London, of whom the citee had his name, beyng called Luddes toune, and afterwarde, by alteracion of letters, called London. Ergo neither Cesar, nor Brutus, builded the same\" ( _Logique_ , sigs. [K8r], [N6r]). Such references to ancient British history and myth skirt delicately around the fact of Wilson's own reliance on classical tradition, as he oscillates between boldly asserting England's independence from antiquity (\"neither Cesar, nor Brutus, builded the same\") and, more boldly still, asserting antiquity's dependence on England (\"[i]f Iulius Cesar came into England, then there was such a man called Iulius Cesar\"). Of course, the reverse is more properly true of England-as- _topos_ : when Wilson cites \"The Realm,\" \"The Shire,\" and \"The Toune\" as primary topics of deliberative oratory in his _Arte of Rhetorique_ (6v), he positions England as the literal ground of rhetorical invention but also offers it as the \"strange fruit\" of his own foray into Greek and Latin learning.\n\nThis is not necessarily a contradiction of his _Rhetorique_ 's stylistic precepts, for even at his strictest moments Wilson is no Anglo-Saxon purist. When Greek or Latin terms are required \"to set forth our meaning in the English tongue, either for lacke of store, or els because we would enrich the language: it is well doen to vse them,\" he explains, provided that \"all other are agreed to followe the same waie.\" Such words, \"being vsed in their place,\" should cause no one to be \"suspected for affectation,\" he writes, as long as they are \"apt and meete... to set out the matter.\" In fact, rhetoric may describe just such a matter, for the examples Wilson cites of apt and meet borrowing are suggestively redolent of his earlier account of the art as a whole: \"There is no man agreued, when he heareth (letters patentes) & yet patentes is latine, and signifieth open to all men. The Communion is a felowship, or a commyng together, rather Latine then Englishe: the Kynges prerogatiue, declareth his power royall aboue all other, and yet I knowe no man greued for these termes, beeyng vsed in their place, nor yet any one suspected for affectacion, when suche generall wordes are spoken. The folie is espied, when either we will vse suche wordes, as fewe men doo vse, or vse theim out of place, when another might serue muche better\" (87v). Wilson's rationale is plain enough and consistent with his reasoning throughout the _Rhetorique_ : as always, his concern is with place, that words be accommodated to the place in which they are written or spoken and that they do not displace more familiar and proper terms. Nonetheless his examples are, in context, provocative: the phrase \"open to all men\" recalls his definition of the province of rhetoric as \"all such matters, as may largely be expounded... for all men to heare them\"; the description of communion as \"a fellowship, or a coming together\" echoes the myth of rhetoric's origins; the description of \"power... aboue all other\" mimics the account of the orator's supreme power in his dedicatory epistle to Dudley. These are, according to Wilson, places where English speakers either must or may turn to the classical tongues for assistance, but they map quite closely onto the central concerns of his own treatise: accessibility, community, and authority. Is rhetoric a native discourse, after all, or a place where Englishmen must agree to follow a foreign way?\n\nThe three samples of deliberative oratory placed at the center of Wilson's _Arte_ introduce further notes of uncertainty. The first is devoted, unexpectedly given his loudly aired prejudices against foreign travel, to persuading young Englishmen of the virtues of travel abroad\u2014in praise of which he cites, especially, \"the swetnesse of the tongue[s]\" spoken elsewhere (16v). The second, urging a young man \"to study the laws of England,\" gives way to a disquisition against the stubborn \"kepyng of Commons for custome sake,\" even though lands fenced for private use \"might gain ten tymes the value\"\u2014an argument that sits uneasily beside Wilson's vision of the vernacular as just such a common space (19r). Third, he translates the entirety of an Erasmian epistle in praise of marriage, returning in the process to the figure of Orpheus, mythical orator and lawgiver. When Orpheus rescued Eurydice from Hades, he demands, \"what other thinge do we thinke that the Poets meant, but only to set forthe vnto vs the loue in wedlocke the whiche euen amonge the Deuilles was compted good and Godlye?\" \"Emonge diuers countries, and diuers menne, there haue bene diuers lawes and customes vsed,\" he allows, \"[y]et was there neuer anye countrey so sauage, none so farre from all humanitie, where the name of wedlocke was not counted holye, and hadde in great reuerence. This the Thracian, this the Sarmate, this the Indian, this the Grecian, this the Latine, yea, this the Britain that dwelleth in the furtheste parte of all the worlde, or if there be anye that dwell beyonde them haue euer counted to be most holy\" (26v). Suddenly, in the midst of the first English art of rhetoric, a treatise that works diligently to establish England's native claim to the strange fruits of classical civilization, Britain finds itself back on the margins, in \"the furthest parte of all the worlde.\" Sixteenth-century English readers may have been accustomed to seeing their home cited by ancient authors as a byword for savage extremity, but the inclusion of such language in Wilson's _Arte_ is particularly jarring\u2014both because it reminds us, rather tactlessly, that Wilson has had to borrow his central example of eloquence from a non-English author and because it produces a rhetorical geography that conflates Thracian and Sarmation, Greek and Latin, Indian and British with no regard for the boundaries that Wilson elsewhere cherishes and defends.\n\nIndeed, for all its emphasis on home, the \"pattern of eloquence\" on which Wilson's _Rhetorique_ relies remains every bit as far-fetched as Roger Ascham's: the England that underwrites his _Arte_ is an imaginary (and occasionally awkward) synthesis of classical ideals and local anecdotes. The terms in which Wilson's contemporaries received his work reflect this ambiguity. Gabriel Harvey hailed the _Rhetorique_ as \"the daily bread of our common pleaders and discoursers,\" and there is little doubt that both the dailiness of the use and the commonness of the users would have pleased Wilson. At the same time, when the poet Barnabe Barnes credited _The Arte of Rhetorique_ with \"redress[ing] our English barbarism,\" he signaled how far Wilson's ideal of English remained from the ordinary speech of his day. As Wilson allows, familiarity may be the basis of persuasive power, but the best orator does not blend into the crowd his eloquence assembles: \"among all other, I thinke him most worthie fame,\" he writes, \"that is among the reasonable of al most reasonable, and among the wittie, of all most wittie, and among the eloquent, of all most eloquent: him thinke I among all men, not onely to be taken for a singuler man, but rather to be coumpted for halfe a God\" ( _Rhetorique_ , A7v). The singularity and near divinity of the eloquent man\u2014his ability to invent the place in which he speaks\u2014derive not from his speaking commonly but his speaking extraordinarily.\n\nWilson's own account of this paradoxical process highlights the mixed genealogy of his supposedly English _Rhetorique_. In the opening pages of his _Arte,_ Wilson, like so many other sixteenth-century humanists, turns to the origins of eloquence, but he gives the familiar narrative of communal gathering a distinctive twist, marrying the classical legend of Orpheus to a quasi-biblical saga of sin and salvation. \"After the fall of our firste father,\" Adam, Wilson writes, the \"eloquence first giuen by God\" was lost, and with it the foundation of human community: \"all things waxed sauage, the earth vntilled, societie neglected.\" Lacking a productive relation to the land, or to each other, men \"grased vpon the ground\" and \"romed\" like wild beasts, \"liu[ing] brutishly in open feeldes, hauing neither house to shroude them in, nor attire to clothe their backes\" (Aiiir). Wilson's allusion to the Fall reminds his readers that linguistic degeneracy and geographic dispersal are the twin plots of the book of Genesis: Adam and Eve lose the divine speech when they are cast out of the garden; Cain becomes, in the words of the 1560 Geneva Bible, \"a vagabond and a runnagate in the earth\" (Gen. 4:12); Noah's sons are \"deuided in their lands, euery one after his tongue; [and] after their families, in their nations\" (Gen. 10:5); and, at last, at Babel, God resolves to \"confound the language of all the earth\" and \"scatter them vpon all the earth\" (Gen. 11:9). At this point in the story, however, Wilson grafts onto his biblical narrative the pagan myth of Orpheus _,_ which contrasts the vagrancy of prerhetorical mankind with the purposeful solidarity of a people \"moved\" by eloquence: alienation and confusion persist, he alleges, until God's \"faithfull and elect... called [men] together by vtteraunce of speech,\" persuading them \"to live together in fellowship of life\" and \"to maintain Cities.\" By no \"other meanes,\" he asserts, echoing Quintilian, could men have been brought to submit to the authority of God and his ministers (Aiiiv).\n\nThe conclusion to this curiously hybrid story is Wilson's own: man's natural vagrancy would lead him to seek to move to a higher station, he writes, \"were [he] not persuaded, that it behoueth [him] to liue in his owne vocation: and not to seeke any higher roume\" (Aiiiir). Eloquence creates community, that is, but also maintains, according to degree, the natural boundaries between peoples, classes, nations, and all other entities otherwise vulnerable to motion, error, and change. It is a stirring claim with which to begin England's first full-fledged vernacular rhetoric but an odd moral to append to a narrative that thrives on an illicit mingling of Christian theology, pagan myth, and Tudor political doctrine, straying heedlessly close to heresy in its conflation of eloquence and election, and assigning to Orphic orators and poets a redemptive role the Bible reserves to Christ. Here, as in his descriptions of the topics, Wilson seems eager to test the boundaries of what may be claimed as English, asserting the virtue of native purity at the very moment he indulges in a more complicated, potentially more generative kind of cross-breeding. His _Rhetorique_ testifies to the changes wrought upon a classical ideal of eloquence when it is identified with England's daily talk, but it testifies as well to the changes wrought upon sixteenth-century ideals of Englishness as they assimilate an alien theory of eloquence.\n\nMarveling at Strangers: Ancient Rhetoric's Foreign Figures\n\nIn its boldest gesture, the preface to Sherry's _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ construes ancient rhetoric's foreign provenance as its chief enticement for the vernacular reader. Although he worries that some readers will scan the title of his book, \"marvayle,\" and cast it aside as \"some newe fangle,\" he imagines \"other[s], whiche moued with the noueltye thereof, wyll thynke it worthye to be looked vpon, and se what is contained therin\" (A2r). In appropriating wonder as a productive response to the foreign terminology of style\u2014schemes and tropes, metaphors, zeugmas, and antistrophes\u2014Sherry does not simply make good on an inevitable feature of his own rhetorical project, the need to reckon with peculiar Greek and Latin terms of art; he also recovers for the vernacular a central, and puzzling, feature of what Elyot calls \"the ancient rhetoric\": for all its emphasis on the importance of familiarity and proximity to the genesis of plausibility, when it comes to style, classical rhetoric places a counterintuitive premium on the orator's ability to impress his audience with the _unlikelihood_ of his expressions. In consequence, a particular, paradoxical glamour attaches to precisely those figures whose speech locates them outside, or on the margins, of the linguistic community. \"Style contrary to the usage of well-bred Greeks,\" cautions Diogenes Laertes in his treatise on grammar, is \"barbarism.\" But when the historian Diodorus Siculus describes the sophist Gorgias's arrival in Athens from his home in Sicily, he attributes the power of his eloquence to its very difference from the usage of well-bred Greeks. \"When [Gorgias] had arrived in Athens and had been brought before the people,\" Diodorus writes, \"he addressed them on the subject of an alliance\" and won them over \"by the novelty of his style,\" which \"amazed\" them with its \"extravagant figures of speech marked by deliberate art: antithesis and clauses of exactly or approximately equal length and rhythm and others of such a sort, which at the time were thought worthy of acceptance because of the strangeness of the method, but now seem tiresome and often appear ridiculous and excessively contrived.\"\n\nThe mingled notes of admiration and of censure in Diodorus's account of Gorgias persist throughout the classical tradition: the subject of style invariably elicits, in almost equal measure, both the impulse to protect ordinary speech and the yearning to depart from it. Aristotle, for instance, reserves any mention of style to the third and final book of his _Art of Rhetoric_ , which begins with the cautious concession that \"the subject of expression [ _lexis_ ]... has some small necessary place in all teaching; for to speak in one way rather than another does make some difference in regard to clarity, though not a great difference; but all these things are forms of outward show and intended to affect the audience.\" In addition to his skepticism about the tendency of \"outward show[s]\" to distract an audience from their real task of evaluating probability, Aristotle worries about the disciplinary propriety of ornamentation. In his view the stylistic excesses of sophistic oratory improperly blur the distinction between rhetoric and poetry: \"[S]ince the poets, while speaking sweet nothings, seemed to acquire their reputation through their _lexis_ , a poetic style came into existence [in prose as well], for example, that of Gorgias. Even now, the majority of the uneducated think such speakers speak most beautifully. This is not the case; but the _lexis_ of prose differs from that of poetry.\" The only valid aims of rhetorical style, Aristotle insists, are \"to be clear\"\u2014for \"speech is a kind of sign, so if it does not make clear it will not perform its function\"\u2014and \"appropriate,\" that is, \"neither flat nor above the dignity of the subject, but appropriate.\" To achieve both clarity and appropriateness, the orator must adhere to the standards of ordinary speech: \"The use of nouns and verbs in their prevailing [ _kyrios_ ] meaning makes for clarity; other kinds of words, as discussed in the _Poetics_ , make the style ornamented rather than flat.\"\n\nThus far Aristotle's theory of style is consistent with his account of topical invention: the limits of both invention and ornamentation reflect the bounds of the place in which the orator speaks. What is familiar or prevalent in that community determines what is persuasive, clear, or appropriate, so that style, like probability, is essentially local. But if ordinary usage sets the standards of clarity and propriety, it is nonetheless true that speech is only _recognizable_ as stylish insofar as it departs from the ordinary and expected. Thus, in a striking inversion of the terms of his discussion of clarity, Aristotle notes, \"To deviate [from prevailing ( _kyrios_ ) usage] makes language seem more elevated; for people feel in the same way in regard to style [ _lexis_ ] as they do in regard to strangers compared with citizens. As a result, one should make the language unfamiliar, for people are admirers of what is far off, and what is marvelous is sweet.\" Here stylized or figurative language is likened to a foreign traveler\u2014and unexpectedly, the presumed response to this strange intruder is not defensiveness but _hospitality_ : his very remoteness from the familiar experiences of those he encounters makes him \"marvelous\" and \"sweet\" to them.\n\nAs Aristotle admits, this effect of language, the appeal of the unfamiliar, is more often associated with poetic fictions than with arguments. \"Many [kinds of words] accomplish this in verse,\" he observes, \"for what is said [in poetry] about subjects and characters is more out of the ordinary, but in prose much less so.\" Nevertheless and in spite of his own earlier cautions against the poeticizing of rhetoric, he directs readers interested in these \"other kinds of words, [which] make the style ornamented rather than flat\" to his discussion of figurative language in the _Poetics_. The relevant passages further elaborate the relationship between ornamentation and strangeness. Indeed cultural and geographic distinctions form the basis of Aristotle's theory of figurative language: \"By a current [ _kyrion_ ] noun,\" Aristotle explains, \"I mean one which is in use among a given people; by a non-standard [ _glotta_ ] noun I mean one which is in use among other people.\" Standard and nonstandard, strange and familiar, figurative and proper are not therefore fixed categories for Aristotle. Instead language is strange or familiar only in relation to one's place in the world: \"Obviously the same noun may be both current and non-standard, but not for the same people,\" Aristotle notes. \" _Sigunon_ is current among the Cypriots, but non-standard to us; 'spear' is current among us, but non-standard to them.\" The crucial point to be made here is that\u2014while the terms \"standard\" and \"non-standard\" appear to make strangeness the mark of improper, and hence ineffective, usages\u2014both the _Poetics_ and the _Rhetoric_ assign strange language a valuable and even necessary function in the work of persuasion. A poet or orator alters his language to achieve the effect of strangeness not primarily through the borrowing of foreign terms but through metaphor, which Aristotle defines as \"the application of a noun which properly applies to something else\" or \"a movement [ _epiphora_ ] of an alien [ _allotrios_ ] name.\" This movement from the \"proper\" to the \"alien\" transforms language from what is _kyrion_ , or common, to what is _glotta_ , or strange. As the term \"metaphor,\" which literally means \"carrying something from one place to another,\" suggests, it enacts a kind of travel within language: the stranger is brought among citizens.\n\nBoth the general requirements of _lexis_ , or style, and the particular operations of metaphor require Aristotle to grant foreignness a role in the work of rhetorical persuasion that is seemingly at odds with his insistence that rhetorical style not violate the norms of clarity and common usage. Discussions of style after Aristotle run into the same apparent contradiction: the excesses and transgressions that mark barbarous speech as improper are the same gestures by which figurative speech achieves its distinction from ordinary prose. For instance, when he turns to the subject of metaphor, Quintilian admits that \"in dealing with ornament, I shall occasionally speak of faults which have to be avoided, but which are hard to distinguish from virtues.\" The difficulty of the distinction, he observes, derives from the fact that the figuration that provides rhetoric with its supreme ornament \"originates from the same sources as errors of language\": that is, from deviations from the common idiom and from \"proper\" relationships of meaning. He is reduced to the relativistic conclusion that \"propriety... must be tested by the touchstone of the understanding, not the ear,\" and turns at last to intention as the only distinction between flaws and figures of speech: \"every figure would be an error, if it were accidental and not deliberate.\"\n\nThe near identity between rhetorical ornamentation and rhetorical abuse (indeed, as Quintilian notes, there is a rhetorical figure, _catachresis_ , whose name literally means \"abuse\") produces a constant anxiety over the desirable and dangerous effects of language that departs from ordinary usage. As in Diodorus Siculus's anecdote of Gorgias, this anxiety about strange language often merges with an anxiety about the strange origins of the orator himself: geographic or cultural distance, that is, became a sign of the innate foreignness of figuration. As the debate over proper rhetorical language evolved, style was literally mapped onto the globe: rhetoric that eschewed ornate gestures and artificial phrasing, hewing closely to supposedly natural patterns of speech, was dubbed \"Attic,\" while rhetoric adorned with elaborate figures and carefully wrought periods was dubbed \"Asiatic.\" Initially, at least, there was some descriptive accuracy to such geographic distinctions. As the once powerful Greek Empire fragmented, cultural and political power shifted to the outlying cities of Alexandria and Pergamon, in which a more rarefied and literary mode of eloquence developed. The first orator to be dubbed \"Asiatic,\" Hegesias of Magnesia, lived in the third century and developed a neatly epigrammatic form of address. This \"Asiatic\" style was perpetuated in the second century by the brothers Menecles and Hierocles of Alabanda in Asia Minor and made more ornate by Aeschines of Miletus and Aeschylus of Cnidus. But what originated as a descriptive taxonomy\u2014a way of distinguishing the new rhetoric from that which had flourished in Athens\u2014quickly acquired a more value-laden set of connotations and a more polemical intent. As Jeffrey Walker points out, the accounts of Asiatic rhetoric written in the Hellenistic period vastly overstate the real link between eastern oratory and the emergence of a more \"florid\" style: \"If there is a 'literaturizing' or belletristic turn in Hellenistic rhetoric,\" he observes, \"it would seem to make its clearest appearance not in the sophistic or even 'Asianist' tradition... but in the Peripatetic, Aristotelian-Theophrastian tradition embodied in Demetrius' _On Style_.\" The association between Asiaticism and an ornate style owes less to real rhetorical history, he suggests, than it does to a desire to disavow tendencies within the Greek tradition that seemed to threaten rhetoric's practical and ethical functions.\n\nIndeed an array of later texts written after the summit of Athenian rhetorical accomplishment sought to maintain the vitality of that tradition by asserting the inherent aesthetic and moral superiority of Attic style and blaming the decline of \"pure,\" philosophically based rhetoric on the influence of Asiatic oratory. Caecilius of Calacte, the author of a Hellenistic treatise on figuration that defined figuration pejoratively as \"a turning to a form of thought and diction which is not in accordance with nature\" and argued for the possibility of a purely literal mode of expression, also wrote two polemics of which only the titles survive: \"How the Attic Style Differs from the Asian\" and \"Against the Phrygians.\" In a similar vein, at the end of the first century B.C., Dionysius of Halicarnassus illustrated his critique of rhetorical excess, _Peri ton Archaion Rhetoron_ (\"On the Ancient Orators\"), with an analogy likening true eloquence to an Attic wife who has been displaced by a lewdly flamboyant Asiatic mistress:\n\nIn the time before our own, the old and philosophic rhetoric was so abused and endured such terrible mistreatment that it fell into decline; after Alexander of Macedon's final breath it gradually withered away, and by our generation had come to seem almost extinct. Another stole past the guards and took its place, intolerably shameless and theatrical, and comprehending nothing either of philosophy or of any other liberal training [ _eleutherios paideuma_ ], escaping notice and misleading the ignorance of the masses, it came to enjoy not only greater wealth, luxury and splendor than the other, but also the honors and high offices of cities, which rightfully belong to the philosophic, and it was wholly vulgar and importunate, and finally made Greece resemble the households of the profligate and evil-starred. For just as in these there sits the freeborn, sensible wife with no authority over her domain, while a senseless harlot brings ruin upon her life and claims control of the whole estate, casting filth upon her and putting her in terror, so too in every city and even among the well-educated (for this was the utmost evil of them all) the ancient and indigenous Attic muse was dishonored and deprived of her possessions, while the new arrival, some Mysian or Phrygian or Carian trash just recently come from some Asian pit, claimed the right to rule over Greek cities and drove her rival from the commons, the unlearned driving out the philosophic and the crazed the sensible.\n\nDionysius's account of rhetorical excess is clearly itself excessive, even, as Walker comments, \"histrionic,\" but it mobilizes a series of associations between eloquence and place that become conventions of rhetorical history and theory, conventions that sixteenth-century English writers absorb and transform. On the one side we have the old, properly \"philosophic\" rhetoric\u2014legitimate, ancient, indigenous, honest, restrained, chaste, sensible, self-effacing, and decorous\u2014whose rightful (and painstakingly earned) place within the local community is usurped by enthusiasm for a \"theatrical\" rhetoric of stylistic ornamentation\u2014alien, Eastern, novel, luxurious, vulgar, sexually profligate, morally degenerate, deceitful, crazed, and power-hungry. The stereotype of Asiatic eloquence thus establishes a link between metaphor's effect on plain language and the foreign interloper's effect on the Greek _oikos_ or the English commons. The geographic, cultural, and racial prejudices that structure the history of rhetoric bespeak discomfort with the alien allure of figuration: foreignness, distance, and travel come to represent tensions internal to eloquence.\n\n\"Faire and Orient\": The Asiatic English Poet\n\nWithin the sixteenth-century English art of rhetoric these ancient tensions produce a conspicuous metaphorical volatility: the imagery of estrangement so often invoked to stigmatize awkward or affected speech proves equally available for positive representations of a vernacular enriched and transformed by style. In the final section of his _Arte of Rhetorique_ , Thomas Wilson hails elocution as \"that part of _Rhetorique_ , the which aboue all other is most beautifull,\" and without which reason \"walk[s]... both bare and naked\" or, worse, clad \"in apparel... so homely\" that its virtue goes unrecognized (85v). Wilson represents ornamentation as the logical addendum to invention and arrangement\u2014\"when wee haue learned apte wordes, and vsuall phrases to set foorth our meaning, and can orderly place them,\" he writes, then \"wee may boldely commende and beautifie our talke\" (89v\u201390r)\u2014but it adheres to a very different set of values: boldness and beauty are the marks at which the truly expert speaker aims, even if their attainment means violating the standards of apt, usual, and orderly speech. That such violations will be necessary is apparent from Wilson's account of \"exornation,\" which he defines as \"a gorgeous beautifying of the tongue with borrowed wordes, and change of sentence or speech with much varietie,\" so that \"our speech may seeme as bright and precious, as a rich stone is faire and orient\" (90r). The contrast with his earlier prohibitions on strange words grows more marked as Wilson's discussion of exornation proceeds: ornament, he writes, is most often achieved by figures of speech, which are \"vsed after some newe or straunge wise, much vnlike to that which men commonly vse to speake.\" Without such new and strange figures, Wilson claims, \"not one can attaine to be coumpted an Oratour, though his learning otherwise be neuer so great\" (90v). Among the most skilled speakers, he observes, \"[m]en coumpt it a point of witte, to passe ouer such words as are at hand, and to vse such as are farre fetcht and translated\"\u2014by such diversions from common use, he concludes, \"[a]n Oration is wonderfullye enriched\" (91v\u201392r).\n\nMost English rhetorical manuals of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries are more interested in the new and strange effects of figuration than they are in the invention of topics or the elaboration of commonplaces for arguments. By means of figures and tropes, as Abraham Fraunce writes in his _Arcadian Rhetorike_ (1588), language is transformed: \"turned\" or \"drawen away from his first proper signification, to another,\" but \"so conuenientlie, as that it seem rather willingly ledd, than driuen by force.\" The effect of such \"turning\" or \"drawing away\" is not, as with the commonplaces, an articulation or confirmation of shared experience or belief but rather the introduction of something different: \"A Figure,\" writes Henry Peacham in _The Garden of Eloquence_ (1577), \"is a forme of words, oration, or sentence, made new by art, differing from the vulgar maner and custome of writing or speaking.\" The virtues of figurative speech are thus difficult to distinguish from the vices of Wilson's far-journeyed gentleman. Indeed in sixteenth-century England as in ancient Athens and Rome, the subject of style entails a striking reversal of the relationship presumed to exist between place and eloquence: now rhetoric leads away to the alien and exotic rather than sustaining the common and usual.\n\nGeorge Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ (1589) famously provides precise geographic coordinates for proper English usage, which he locates \"in London and the shires lying about London within lx. myles, and not much aboue.\" The best speech in any language, Puttenham writes, is not that which is spoken \"in the marches or frontiers, or in port townes, where straungers haunt for traffike sake, or yet in Vniuersities where Schollers vse much peeuish affectation of wordes out of the primatiue languages, or finally, in any vplandish village or corner of a Realme, where there is no resort but of poore rusticall or vnciuill people\"; rather it is strictly that dialect that is used \"in the kings Court, or in the good townes and Cities within the land\"\u2014a dictum that, in sixteenth-century England, disallows \"any speech vsed beyond the riuer of Trent.\" But Puttenham also urges his readers to cultivate \"a maner of utterance more eloquent and rethoricall than the ordinarie prose... because it is decked and set out with all maner of fresh colours and figures.\" This kind of speech, he claims, is eminently fit not only for the delight of one's audience but also for the task of persuasion: figurative speech \"sooner inuegleth the iudgement of man, and carieth his opinion this way and that\" (24). Like Aristotle's _lexis_ and Wilson's \"exornation,\" Puttenham's figuration owes its persuasive force not to familiarity or likelihood but to the luster of its \"rich Orient coulours,\" which \"delight and allure as well the mynde as the eare of the hearers with a certain noueltie and strange maner of conueyance, disguising it no little from the ordinary and accustomed\" (149\u201350).\n\nAs figuration, rhetoric recapitulates the pleasurable effects of travel, transporting listeners from \"the ordinary and accustomed\" to things novel and strange. Metaphor, as all of these writers well knew, means \"to carry across\"\u2014as Puttenham says, it might be dubbed \"the figure of _transport_ ,\" since it entails \"a kinde of wresting of a single word from his own right signification, to another not so naturall\" (148). That less \"naturall\" signification might imply a transgression of decorum\u2014Ben Jonson notes in his commonplace book that \" _Metaphors_ farfet hinder to be understood\" and that a speaker should take care not to \"fetcheth his translations from a wrong place\"\u2014but it also opens language up to exotic delights and strange riches. \"There is a greater Reverence had of things remote, or strange to us, then of much better, if they be nearer, and fall under our sense,\" Jonson allows, and although he pauses to wonder \"why... men depart at all from the right, and naturall wayes of speaking,\" he promptly answers his own question: they do so \"sometimes for necessity, [and] sometimes for pleasure, and variety, as Travailers turne out of the high way, drawne, either by the commodity of a footpath, or the delicacy or freshnesse of the fields.\" Jonson's fields and footpaths are plausibly English, but in treatises such as Wilson's and Puttenham's, the transports of metaphor invariably lead East, to an exotic and gem-rich Orient. In part this association may reflect the persistence of the belief that the vernacular as it was commonly spoken was inadequate\u2014too narrowly provincial\u2014to serve as a staging ground for eloquence, but it reflects as well the conviction that eloquence demands liberal bounds. If English were to become eloquent, Englishness would need to be more expansively construed.\n\nThis, according to Puttenham, was the function of all figurative language: \"As figures be the instruments of ornament in euery language, so be they also in a sorte abuses or rather trespasses in speech, because they passe the ordinarie limits of common vtterance,\" becoming a \"manner of forraine and coloured talke\" (128). Ultimately, Puttenham suggests, the effect of rhetoric on an audience is not to confirm their sense of place in the world but to provide the illusion of leaving it: figures of speech, he writes, \"carieth [the listener's] opinion this way and that, whither soeuer the heart by impression of the eare shalbe most affectionately bent and directed,\" \"drawing [the minde] from plainnesse and simplicitie to a certain doublenesse\" (6, 128). This \"doublenesse,\" the \"inuersion of sense by transport\" (128), serves as yet another response to the relationship understood to exist between English language and England's place. Here neither the vernacular nor the foreign is shunned, since figuration allows for the coexistence of the two in a single discourse: \"euery language\" has the capacity to become a \"manner of forraine... talke.\"\n\nIn other words, every language is capable of poetry. Puttenham's treatise begins with the assertion that eloquence is bred only by the influence of poets upon a language. \"The vtterance in prose is not of so great efficacie,\" he writes, \"because... it is dayly vsed, and by that occasion the eare is ouerglutted with it\" (5). Whereas Wilson cautioned orators against adopting the extravagant style of the poet, Puttenham offers poetry as the ideal model for rhetorical excellence: \"the Poets were... from the beginning the best perswaders, and their eloquence the first Rhethoricke of the world\" (6). The division between poetry and \"ordinarie prose\" thus becomes another boundary to be trespassed in the pursuit of eloquence. How is it that poetic language accomplishes this internal estrangement of the vernacular? George Gascoigne offers one explanation in \"Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making of Verse,\" an essay appended to his 1575 anthology _The Posies_. Gascoigne begins the essay by urging his fellow vernacular poets _not_ to regard poetic diction as alienated from ordinary speech and encouraging them rather to hew to \"playne Englishe\" in the composition of their verses. Take care, he writes, that \"you wreste no woorde from his natural and vsuall sounde\" and, when possible, choose short and simple words, for \"the more monosyllables that you vse, the truer Englishman you shall seeme\" (50\u201351). Gascoigne particularly urges vernacular poets to \"eschew straunge words, or _obsoleta et inusitata_ ,\" and to \"use your verse after theenglishe phrase, and not after the maner of other languages\" (52\u201353).\n\nNevertheless it is by no means obvious to Gascoigne that poetic language always can or should adhere to the boundaries of \"playne Englishe.\" Indeed he quickly qualifies his own ruling, allowing that archaisms and other \"unnatural\" words are sometimes permitted to verse by \"poetic license\": \"Therefore even as I have advised you to place all wordes in their naturall or most common and usuall pronunciation, so would I wishe you to frame all sentences in their mother phrase and proper Idioma, and yet sometimes (as I have sayd before) the contraries may be borne, but that is rather where rime enforceth, or _per licentiam Poeticam_ , than it is otherwise lawfull or commendable\" (53). Gascoigne's own language at this moment ironically and playfully enacts the permeability of that supposedly lawful and commendable boundary between \"theenglishe phrase\" and \"the maner of other languages,\" even in prose: \"straunge words\" is glossed with the Latin \" _obsoleta et inusitata_ \"; the \"mother phrase\" is elaborated\u2014gratuitously\u2014by the Greek \"Idioma\"; and \" _per licentiam Poeticam_ \" substitutes for the perfectly serviceable vernacular equivalent. Recourse to language outside of the common usage, it seems, is not simply a freedom allowed to English verse: prose stylists too may find themselves straying into foreign tongues, either where the paucity of the vernacular \"enforceth\" such transgressions or simply where the whim of the author makes them desirable.\n\nAs Gascoigne unfolds his theory of \" _licentiam poeticam_ ,\" he further multiplies the qualifications to his own rule against \"straunge words.\" \"This poeticall license,\" he writes, is \"a shrewde fellow,\" which \"covereth many faults in a verse.\" Poetic license, he observes, has the procrustean ability to \"maketh words longer, shorter, of mo syllables, of fewer, newer, older, truer, falser, and to conclude it turkeneth all things at pleasure\" (53\u201354). Here again Gascoigne's own language partakes of the license he describes: \"turkeneth,\" according to the _Oxford English Dictionary_ , is emphatically a \"newer\" word in 1575, perhaps even Gascoigne's own coinage. The twofold connotation of the word preserves a sense of Gascoigne's ambivalence about poetic license: on the one hand, \"to turken\" (or, to use an earlier, related form of the word, \"to turkesse\") means either \"to transform or alter for the worse; to wrest, twist, distort, pervert\" or\u2014much less negatively\u2014\"to alter the form or appearance of; to change, modify, refashion (not necessarily for the worse).\" Which definition applies to the \"turkening\" of that shrewd fellow, poetic license, is uncertain in Gascoigne's account. Are the alterations wrought in the common language by poetic usage \"perversions\" of that language, or are they simply acts of \"refashioning\" and \"modification\"? Is poetic license an invitation to poetic licentiousness? Insofar as it signifies a potentially illicit \"turning\" of language, \"turken\" is also a synonym for \"trope,\" the operation by which words, as Puttenham says, \"haue their sense and understanding altered and figured... by transport, abuse, crosse-naming, new-naming, change of name\" (189). Such conversions force both language and listeners from their common uses: when speech is ornamented with \"figures rhethoricall,\" Puttenham writes, it possesses, in addition to the \"ordinarie vertues\" of \"sententiousnes, and copious amplification,\" an \"instrument of conueyance for... carrying or transporting [meaning] farther off or nearer\" and for making the mind of the listener \"yielding and flexible,\" susceptible to persuasion in any direction (207). Figuration invests language with the power to transport listeners, both within and beyond the confines of the mother tongue.\n\nThere is, of course, another ambiguity nested in Gascoigne's uncommon turn of phrase, with its etymological relation to early modern England's preeminent figure for _global_ difference and licentious excess: the Turk. According to the _OED_ , while \"turken\" and \"turkesse\" are understood by some as versions of the French \"torquer\" or the Latin \"torquere,\" meaning \"to twist,\" this etymology presents \"difficulties both of form and sense.\" An alternative derivation, \"from Turk and Turkeys, [or] Turkish,\" is suggested since, as the _OED_ observes, \"they were often associated with these words.\" A survey of the citations provided in the _OED_ suggests that these two etymologies converged in the early seventeenth century, when \"turken,\" \"turkesse,\" and \"turkize\" were used to describe the transformation or conversion of sacred language or objects or individuals from Christian truth to Islamic error. In _Purchas His Pilgrimage_ (1613), for instance, Samuel Purchas describes how \"the Turkes, when they turkeised it [St. Sophia], threw downe the Altars, [and] turned the Bells into great Ordinance,\" while a citation from 1648 deplores \"those... which are so audacious as to turcase the revealed, and sealed Standard of our salvation... to the misshapen models of their intoxicated phansies.\" Gascoigne's use of \"turkeneth\" does not explicitly invoke the presence of Islam, but his witty phrasing invites readers to locate his discussion of poetic license within a larger conversation about the boundary between the native and the foreign, the natural and the unnatural, the lawful and the unlawful. The link between the foreign and the poetic, Gascoigne suggests, inheres in the (dangerously) transformative power of each.\n\nIn texts such as Sherry's _Treatise_ , Puttenham's _Arte_ , Gascoigne's _Notes_ , and even Wilson's concertedly domesticated _Rhetorique_ , eloquence thus finds a place within the vernacular that is as extravagant as it is English. Critics are not wrong to claim these texts as important contributions to the formulation of cultural and linguistic identity, but the versions of English and Englishness they produce resist assimilation to England itself: depending on where one looks in the corpus of vernacular rhetoric, language becomes eloquent either by reinscribing the boundaries of intimacy and familiarity or by transgressing those bounds in the pursuit of the exotic and the new. That indeterminacy is, as suggested throughout this chapter, a mark of English rhetoric's persistent classicism, its grounding in a tradition that simultaneously denigrated and romanticized the speech of strangers, positing foreignness as both the antithesis and the epitome of linguistic refinement. Because it so insistently foregrounded the distinction between native and foreign, the discourse of racial, cultural, and geographic identity internal to the classical conception of eloquence both impeded and abetted its translation into England: on the one hand, sixteenth-century England's distance and difference from classical antiquity were all too easily read as markers of barbarity; on the other hand, the ancient geography of eloquence proved surprisingly amenable to the incursions of outsiders.\n\nInsofar as their attempts to translate classical terms and precepts into English met with resistance, then, this was not necessarily (or at least not only) cause for alarm on the part of the first vernacular rhetoricians and poetic theorists, for they could claim alienation as the signal feature of style and imagine an English language enriched and enlarged by its estrangement from both the classical past and itself. For vernacular literary writers too, the discovery that their own prose or verse would have to depart from the models of Greek and Roman eloquence engendered both self-consciousness and daring\u2014daring to assert native custom against antique precept and daring to discard native custom in favor of eccentric alternatives. The chapters that follow assess formal strategies that arise from frustrating, even humiliating, linguistic confrontations: English sentences' inability to mimic the periodic structure of classical prose; English poets' exclusion from the breeding ground of classical poetry; English meter's failure to adhere to the rules of Greek and Roman versification. In each case linguistic necessity proves the mother of stylistic innovation, and stylistic innovation unmoors seemingly fixed categories of identity and difference.\n_Chapter 3_\n\n\"A World to See\": Euphues's Wayward Style\n\nReprinted in some twenty editions in the decades following its initial publication, _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (1578) made John Lyly the most influential prose writer of the late sixteenth century. The richly ornamented, densely patterned style of Lyly's romance produced a popular sensation, a host of imitators, and a distinctly mixed set of critical responses: for every Francis Meres, whose litany of English authors in his 1598 _Palladis Tamia_ named \"eloquent and wittie Iohn Lilly\" as one of \"the best... amongst vs,\" there was a Gabriel Harvey, who bluntly declared, \"I cannot stand... Euphuing.\" The vehemence with which those early readers responded to _Euphues_ 's distinctive style has guaranteed its place in literary history, but the text has persisted in seeming marginal\u2014too \"peculiarly mannered,\" as a recent editor notes, to fit in any larger narrative of vernacular literature and culture. But _Euphues_ , both as a cultural phenomenon and as a literary work, has much to teach us about the encounter between ideals of eloquence and of Englishness in the late sixteenth century\u2014and, precisely because it is so ostentatiously \"peculiar,\" about the rivalrous impulses toward familiarity and estrangement that structure that encounter. At the heart of the heated debate over \"euphuing\" or euphuism, as Lyly's style came to be known, was an implicit question about the English language's own natural limits: to some readers, _Euphues_ 's hyperornate expressivity proved that the boundaries of English had been too narrowly fixed; to others, it fostered a perilous conflation of eloquence with excess. Lyly does not simply provide the fodder for that debate; he also helps to set its terms, crafting a narrative of errancy and promiscuity that reflects cannily on its own departure from the usual precincts of vernacular style. Anticipating and even prescribing responses to the extremity of its rhetoric, _Euphues_ transforms the conventional romance plot into an ironic and insightful critique of the English pursuit of eloquence.\n\nOne Step Further\n\nThe story of _Euphues_ 's reception by late sixteenth-century readers is a familiar one, but the precise texture of that response bears closer examination. Acclaim for _Euphues_ tended to focus on how directly its style seemed to answer anxieties about the adequacy of English as a literary language. As Graham Tulloch observes, Lyly was no inkhornist: \"For all the elaboration of his style Lyly shows very little fondness for aureate diction; his vocabulary is basically that of the vernacular.\" Thus William Webbe's 1586 _Discourse of English Poetrie_ could hail _Euphues_ as a \"manifest example\" of \"the great good grace and sweete vayne, which Eloquence hath attained in oure speech.\" What made _Euphues_ remarkable in Webbe's eyes was its reconciliation of vernacular diction to classical rhetorical forms: here, at last, was an \"English worke answerable, in respect of the glorious ornaments of gallant handling,\" to the greatest achievements of Greek and Latin oratory. \"[S]urely,\" Webbe enthuses, \"in respecte of his singuler eloquence and braue composition of apt words and sentences, let the learned examine and make tryall thereof thorough all the partes of Rethoricke, in fitte phrases, in pithy sentences, in gallant tropes, in flowing speeche, in plaine sence, and surely in my iudgment, I thinke he wyll yeelde him that verdict, which Quintilian giueth of bothe the best Orators Demosthenes and Tully, that from the one nothing may be taken away, to the other nothing may be added.\" Lyly, he concludes, \"hath deserved most high commendations as hee which hath stept one steppe further then any either before or since he first began the wyttie discourse of his Euphues.\"\n\nBut that \"steppe further\" could equally be perceived as a step out of bounds: Thomas Nashe, Lyly's sometime friend, accused him of having \"surfetted vnawares with the sweete sacietie of eloquence, which the lavish of our copious language maie procure,\" surely the first time that an English author was charged with such an error. More pointedly critical is Philip Sidney's assault on euphuism in his _Apologie for Poetrie_ (1595), which charged Lyly and his imitators with having \"appareled, or rather disguised\" that \"hony-flowing Matron Eloquence... in a Curtisan-like painted affectation,\" adorning her \"with so farre fetched words, that many seeme Monsters, but must seeme strangers to any poore English man.\" In love with \"figures and phrases\" gathered from arcane sources, Sidney jibed, the euphuists \"cast sugar and spice upon every dish that is served to the table\"; like barbarous \"Indians, not content to weare eare-rings at the fit and naturall place of the eares,\" they \"thrust jewels through their nose and lippes, because they will be sure to be fine.\" _Astrophil and Stella_ (1591), composed at the height of _Euphues_ 's initial fame, glances slightingly at Lyly in its mockery of those \"dainty wittes\" who \"flaunt in their phrases fine\" and \"with straunge similes inrich each line, / Of hearbes and beasts, which _Inde_ or _Affricke_ hold\"\u2014readers should not look for such curiosities in his own verse, Sidney cautions, for \"straunge things cost too deere for my poore sprites.\"\n\nLike Webbe's image of the \"step further,\" Sidney's painted courtesan, the spiced and sugared dish, and the jewel-laden Indian implicate euphuism in a larger debate about the insular linguistic identity of the \"poor English man\"\u2014and, especially, about the vernacular's capacity for _copia_ , or rhetorical abundance. In Webbe's view euphuism extends the reach of a tongue whose constraints otherwise betray \"the rudenesse [and] vnaptenesse of our Countrey\" (20); in Sidney's view it nurtures a taste for strangeness more likely to bankrupt the vernacular than to enrich it. As it happens, this very tension between constraint and excess, poverty and prodigality structures Lyly's own perspective on _Euphues_. In the dedicatory epistle to the text's first edition, he announces that certain kinds of eloquence lie beyond his reach: comparing himself to a humble \"butcher,\" \"horse-leech,\" \"shoemaker,\" or \"hedger,\" he begs pardon for the \"rudeness\" of his \"discourse\" and consoles himself with the thought that \"[t]hough the style nothing delight the dainty ear of the curious sifter, yet will the matter recreate the mind of the courteous reader.\" And yet, anticipating Sidney's equation of stylistic ornament with the costliness of \"strange things,\" he adds, \"Things of greatest profit are set forth with least price.\"\n\nHaving made the case for rhetorical simplicity, however, Lyly promptly\u2014and paradoxically\u2014proceeds to enrich it:\n\nWhen the wine is neat there needeth no ivy bush. The right coral needeth no colouring. Where the matter itself bringeth credit, the man with his gloss winneth small commendation. It is, therefore, me thinketh, a greater show of a pregnant wit than perfect wisdom in a thing of sufficient excellency to use superfluous eloquence. We commonly see that a black ground doth best beseem a white countenance. And Venus, according to the judgment of Mars, was then most amiable when she sat close by Vulcanus. If these things be true which experience trieth\u2014that a naked tale doth most truly set forth the naked truth, that where the countenance is fair there need no colours, that painting is meeter for ragged walls than fine marble, that verity then shineth most bright when she is in least bravery\u2014I shall satisfy mine own mind, though I cannot feed their humours which greatly seek after those that sift the finest meal and bear the whitest mouths. It is a world to see how Englishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language will allow, to eat finer bread than is made of wheat, to wear finer cloth than is made of wool. (5\u20136)\n\nThis is euphuism in a (necessarily somewhat roomy) nutshell\u2014the relentless use of parataxis, the heaping of example upon example, the mingling of homespun proverbial wisdom and references to classical lore\u2014but it is also a maddeningly difficult passage to interpret. Obviously, Lyly chooses a needlessly elaborate way of making a case against needless elaboration, and it is hard to take his reproof of \"superfluous eloquence\" or his indignation at the immoderate desires of English readers at face value when those statements are couched in prose whose only stylistic rule would seem to be that more is more. Indeed threaded through the homily on sufficiency is a pattern of rhymes and near-rhymes\u2014read/need/feed/eat/see/seek\u2014that tell a rather different story about the self-perpetuating nature of both desire and language. If, as Lyly charges, the English reader's desire for fine speech exceeds the reach of his homely mother tongue, his own fondness for what Sidney calls \"sugar and spices\"\u2014for curious analogies, ear-catching patterns of alliteration, and rhythmically stylized phrasing\u2014belies his professed attachment to the language of wheat and wool.\n\nFor C. S. Lewis, this disjuncture was evidence of hypocrisy: inverting Lyly's injunction to mind his matter and not his style, Lewis declared that _Euphues_ could \"only be read... for the style,\" for \"the more seriously we take [its content] the more odious [it] will appear.\" Judith Rice Henderson more generously assumes that the passage\u2014in fact, the whole of _Euphues_ \u2014is a kind of joke, Lyly's way of poking fun at the moral pretensions of his age: in Lyly, she argues, we find the rare \"humanist capable of laughing at himself.\" And surely some allowance must be made for wit\u2014the object of the \"anatomy,\" after all\u2014but Lyly may be in earnest when he suggests that the desire for fine speech strains the resources of the vernacular just as the desire for other foreign commodities strains the limits of the native economy, for this very tension between the virtues of home and the appeal of the far-fetched is central to the story he proposes to tell. Euphues's near-dissolution in a seductive foreign landscape provides an apt reflection of Lyly's self-consciously daring effort to extend the reach of vernacular prose, and his errant progress from Athens to Naples mimics the dilatory drift of Lyly's sentences.\n\nIndeed, as a number of more recent critics have argued, it is impossible to read Lyly for the style without noticing its entanglement in his subject: \"[I]t is not merely the extravagance but the entirety of Lyly's audacious examination of humanism that now so fixes us,\" writes Arthur Kinney; \"humanist ideas as well as humanist rhetoric are seen from multiple view [within _Euphues_ ] and become the _total_ matter and manner of his fiction.\" Neither is it possible to separate his reflections on the vernacular from his concern for his wayward protagonist. For the insatiable English reader of Lyly's epistle bears an unmistakable resemblance to the figure introduced in the opening passage of the narrative: \"Euphues, whose wit being like wax apt to receive any impression, and having the bridle in his own hands either to use the rein or the spur, disdaining counsel, leaving his country, loathing his old acquaintance, thought either by wit to obtain some conquest or by shame to abide some conflict and leaving the rule of reason, rashly ran into destruction; who preferring fancy before friends and his present humour before honour to come, laid reason in water, being too salt for his taste, and followed unbridled affection most pleasant for his tooth\" (11). Like Lyly's superfluous sermonizing on superfluity, the strung-on clauses and convoluted conjunctions of this sentence seem designed in ironic counterpoint to its moralizing against its subject's undisciplined careering.\n\nIndeed it is worth pausing to notice how closely Euphues's impulsive and greedy disposition corresponds to euphuism's compulsively additive syntax. As Janel Mueller observes, Lyly draws heavily on the parallel structure of biblical rhetoric, but his intricately wrought equivocations tend not to resolve into straightforward declarations; rather they \"thwart closure... by a surplusage of contrastive elements\"\u2014\"one step further\" is exactly the impulse that drives his style. Here the surplus of syntactical units unbalances Lyly's sentences in ways that mimic the unbalancing of Euphues's own mind: the seeming parallelism of \"being,\" \"having,\" \"disdaining,\" \"leaving,\" \"loathing,\" \"leaving,\" \"preferring,\" and \"being\" occludes an oscillation between subjects\u2014\"Euphues,\" his waxen \"wit,\" and \"reason\"\u2014that Lyly eventually pinpoints as the essence of his protagonist's folly. For the reader, the indeterminacy of reference creates a niggling sense of uncertainty as to the moral of his story: does Euphues leave the rule of reason before or after he leaves his home in Athens? Is travel abroad the cause or merely a symptom of his degradation? At a later point in the narrative, Euphues will debate these very questions with a would-be counselor; should we refer back to the narrator's own original account of things to settle the matter, we discover that the sonorous but shifty quality of Lyly's prose resists any conclusive judgment.\n\nIn its propensity to mislead the unwary reader, the euphuistic sentence foregrounds\u2014even exaggerates\u2014a basic distinction between English and the classical tongues; far from approximating antique oratorical style, as William Webbe alleges, the hyperextensibility of many of Lyly's sentences is the clearest mark of their vulgarity. Classical and neo-Latin prose stylists relied on the _periodos_ , or \"period,\" to reconcile the demands of rhetorical expansiveness with those of logical and syntactical coherence. The recursive structure of the periodic sentence\u2014which, as Demetrius observes in his treatise _On Style_ , takes its name from \"paths traversed in a circle\"\u2014enabled orators to digress and amplify without sacrificing what Sidney identifies as the \"chiefe marke of Oratory,\" the impression of \"playne sensibleness\" that is \"the nearest step to perswasion.\" \"I call a period an expression having a beginning and end in itself and a magnitude easily taken in at a glance,\" writes Aristotle in book 3 of the _Art of Rhetoric_. \"This is pleasant and easily understood, pleasant because opposed to the unlimited, and because the hearer always thinks he has a hold of something, in that it is always limited by itself.\" If, as Aristotle insists, eloquence ought to generate a sense of communal belonging, founded on the invocation of shared assumptions and ideals, the period builds this sensation into each individual utterance, so that every sentence, however amplified or digressive, resembles a collective journey home.\n\nBut the self-limiting power of the classical period depends on the syntactical flexibility of an inflected language: the artful deferral of completion of the main subject-verb clause until the sentence's end allows the orator to circumscribe his thoughts so that they arrive at what feels like a logically necessary end. Because it depends on word order to convey the relation between terms, the English sentence lacks this homeward thrust; its meaning is yoked much more closely to conventional arrangements of its component parts, and sentences that stray from those conventions flirt with unintelligibility. Sixteenth-century English writers understood this constraint as a major obstacle to the attainment of eloquence in the vernacular; paradoxically it is a constraint that betrays itself as superfluity. In the preface to his 1570 translation of three orations by Demosthenes, Thomas Wilson confesses that the chief beauty of the Greek orator's style, \"his short knitting vp of his matters together\" in periodic form, is absent from his own prose, being \"hard and vnable to be translated, according to the excellencie of his tongue\"; at times, he admits, he has been forced to resort to \"addicions in the margine\" or an italicized \"sentence or half a sentence... not in the Greeke, but added onely, for the more playne vnderstanding of the matter.\" Sounding a good deal like John Lyly, Wilson protests in defense of his translation that \"all can not weare Veluet, or feede with the best, and therefore such are contented for necessities sake to weare our Countrie cloth, and to take themselues to harde fare, that can haue no better.\"\n\nWilson's embarrassment that he has been forced to supplement Demosthenes's neat periods mirrors the embarrassment Lyly expresses at the immoderate desires of English readers, or that Sidney embodies in the figure of the barbarously bejeweled Indian: in each case excess is an outward sign of a fundamental impoverishment. But the reverse is no less true: the loosely conjunctive structure of the English sentence also aids the proliferation of illustrations, examples, similitudes, and other ornaments, and such figurative abundance\u2014or _copia_\u2014is what sixteenth-century writers were taught to identify as the essence of rhetorical skill. It is no wonder, then, that _Euphues_ aroused such conflicted responses in early readers, or that even Lyly seems ambivalent about his style: euphuism thrives on the conjunction of one of the vernacular's most glaring defects with one of its most alluring prospects for enrichment. The sweet-toothed, straying youth introduced in _Euphues_ 's opening pages does not simply resemble the narrative's readers; he is also a figure for its author, whose endlessly digressive style flaunts his own capacious appetite for the wealth to be gotten from alien texts.\n\nWords on the Move\n\n_Euphues_ is a story about the perils and pleasures of foreign travel, but it is also a story about the perils and pleasures of a rhetorical technique\u2014commonplacing, or the harvesting of proverbs, sententiae, similitudes, and exempla from classical texts for reuse in one's own writing\u2014whose kinship to travel made it at once seductive and suspect to an English audience. This latter claim requires some explication, for commonplacing is typically understood as an attempt to anchor texts in the firmest possible ground, that of ancient authority. Indeed, on the face of it, commonplacing is the least likely of all early modern rhetorical practices to arouse the fear and fascination associated with foreign travel: if travel means leaving behind the familiar and courting the unknown, commonplacing, as Walter Ong has shown, entails \"an organized trafficking in what in one way or another is already known.\" It is this recycling of knowledge, Henderson argues, that \"prescribes the plot\" of Lyly's romance, which \"illustrates a series of 'olde sayed sawes' \": \"witte is the better is it bee the deerer bought\"; \"wit... deemeth no pennye good silver but his own\"; \"amitie grounded upon a little affection... shall be dissolved upon a light occasion\"; the fool \"thinketh all to bee golde that glistered.\" It is not simply that such phrases, and the ideas they express, lack originality; rather, as Jeff Dolven has argued, commonplaces are \"a kind of teaching antithetical to the career of accident\" that romance is meant to describe, and the formulaic and familiar wit they display \"is a kind of enemy of narrative.\" Dolven's thoughtful effort to read _Euphues_ 's plot alongside its style leads him to conclude that the two are at cross-purposes: Lyly's substitution of the atemporal, fixed discourse of commonplacing for the fictive progress typical of his genre constitutes, in Dolven's view, a perverse and self-defeating experiment, as the prospect of discovery held out by Euphues's foreign travels is repeatedly frustrated by the fundamentally conservative impulses of \"purely bookish, schoolmasterly authority.\"\n\nBut _Euphues_ and the excited (even alarmed) responses it aroused in its first readers point us to a rather different understanding of commonplacing, especially as it relates to the aspirations of vernacular writers. For all its modern associations with the most conservative impulses of Renaissance rhetoric and pedagogy, in the early modern imagination commonplacing was a mode of exploration and discovery, feeding as much on desires for novelty and variety as it did on admiration for the ancient and unchanging. For as Ong also points out, it was the strangeness and novelty of the classical tradition\u2014the fact that \"Latin... was a foreign language to all its users\" and its wisdom \"much newer than the products of more recent centuries\"\u2014that made commonplacing so necessary to early modern readers: the \"common knowledge\" presumed by classical authors required self-conscious cultivation on the part of a Renaissance schoolboy. Thus Thomas Wilson, even as he obsesses over the incompatibility of Greek with English, urges his readers of his translation to appropriate Demosthenes's style for themselves by copying passages from his orations in their own hands:\n\nFor... who can euer come to any such excellencye that doth not acquaynte himselfe first wyth the best, yea and seeketh to followe the chiefest that haue traueyled in those thinges, the perfection whereof hee wysheth to gette? So did Plato traueyle from Greece into Aegypt: Aristotell from Stagira in Macedonie, to Athens in Greece, to heare his maister Plato: and Cicero from Rome to Athens, and Anacharsis that barbarous Scithian to talke with Solon that wyse law maker of Athens, seeking euerye one of them the best abrode, when they coulde not haue them at home. (\"A Preface to the Reader,\" _Three Orations_ , sig. [a3v])\n\nLyly's exclamation in his dedicatory epistle that \"It is a world to see how Englishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language will allow\" draws on this same association of travel and travail, reading and seeking. \"It is a world to see\" is a conventional expression of incredulity, but in this context it also signals the expansive ambition of the humanist reader, trained (by schoolmasters and rhetoricians alike) to regard classical literature as foreign material awaiting conversion to his personal use.\n\nThe habit of dissecting what one read and entering it into a notebook for reuse in one's own writing was, as Wilson suggests, a way of domesticating this vast and alien tradition. But the condensed form of the typical commonplace-book entry\u2014often as brief as a sentence or phrase\u2014also made the diversity of the classical tradition a source of intellectual stimulation and pleasure: skipping from one entry to the next, juxtaposing citations from disparate sources, and extracting passages at will for use elsewhere, the owner of a commonplace book was in possession of an endlessly mobile form of eloquence. \"The transformation of the text into notebooks,\" writes Rebecca Bushnell, \"converted... pieces of writing into counters of currency, spatially distinct, usable and distinguishable\"\u2014commonplacing allowed readers to take possession of texts by transporting them, bit by bit, into new places of their own. In this regard, Bushnell points out, commonplacing plays a double role: as a means of generating new writing, of saying more about any given topic, the commonplace book was an instrument in service of the multiplication of words and texts; as a method of \"cutting books into pieces and compressing the pieces in a 'small compass,' \" commonplacing rendered an unmanageably diverse\u2014and rapidly proliferating\u2014world of books traversable. Traversable and profitable: as one early modern schoolboy observed in his commonplace book, the goal was not to collect everything but only those things likely to prove useful to the collector, to \"note some Rhetoricall expressions, Description, or some very apt Simile, or a very applicative story, and the most choise morrall sentences, and here a mans sense must direct him, when he considers how aptly such a thing would fitt with an exercise of his.\"\n\nThe literal portability of the commonplace book was, as Peter Beal has noted, crucial to its value; its suitability for \"use as a _vade mecum_ \" guaranteed its owner's readiness for any rhetorical occasion. This portability is the focus of a letter written in 1521 by the man chiefly responsible for English schoolboys' indoctrination in commonplacing, the Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus. Erasmus's letter congratulates its recipient, Adrianus Barlandus, on the completion of a pocket-sized version or epitome of the _Adagia_ , Erasmus's massive compilation of \"brilliant aphorisms, apt metaphors, proverbs, and similar figures of speech... from approved authors of every sort.\" If the personal or manuscript commonplace book was a way of distilling one's own reading to more manageable proportions, the _Adagia_ represented an even more useful tool: a predigested compendium of the whole classical tradition. And yet, Erasmus confesses, his constant additions to the collection had made it \"too large a volume to be within reach of those in modest circumstances, or to be read in grammar schools, or to be carried round with them by those who like strolling players are always on the move.\" However, thanks to Barlandus's \"admirable undertaking,\" he writes, the _Adagia_ \"can be bought by anyone however ill endowed, and thumbed by schoolboys, and will add little weight to a traveler's baggage.\"\n\nErasmus's concern for those readers who \"are always on the move\" may stem from his own ample experience of the rigors of early modern travel: as Kathy Eden recalls, the _Adagia_ was born out of a spectacularly bad trip, a journey Erasmus made to England at the end of the fifteenth century. The aim of the journey was to secure the patronage of a young nobleman, Lord Mount-joy, but the money Mountjoy gave to Erasmus never made it out of England: when the Dutch humanist attempted to leave the country, he was informed by customs officials that it was illegal to export English coins and that his purse would therefore have to remain with them. Erasmus's loss was England's gain: needing cash and eager to assure his patron that he bore him no ill will, Erasmus hastily assembled his collection of commonplaces, dedicated the text to Mountjoy, and published it in 1500 as the _Adagiorum collectanea_ , or _Collection of Adages_. Eden's reading of this anecdote (which Erasmus recounts in a letter he then includes as part of his 1522 treatise on letter writing, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ ) highlights Erasmus's concern with the transmission and sharing of property across time, space, and cultural distance, especially between ancient and modern writers. Eden places particular emphasis on the word Erasmus uses to describe his ongoing additions to the _Adages_ , the \"curious compound _locupletare_ from _locus-plenus_ [full of places],\" a term she identifies with his anxiety about the confiscation of his property and his desire to redress that loss with rhetorical abundance.\n\n\"Full of places\" is also, of course, an apt description of the universalizing intent of the commonplace book, which in its Latin form, as Ann Moss argues, served as \"the common ground for a European culture increasingly divided by language.\" This perception of the commonplace book as an easily traversable, shared space conforms, moreover, to Erasmus's understanding of the adage, which is, as he emphasizes in his introduction to the edition of 1508, a rhetorical form whose value rests entirely in its portability. The Greek word for \"adage,\" _paroemia_ , means \"a road... well polished in use,\" while the Latin _adagium_ refers to \"something passed around.\" Thus, he explains, the adage derives its persuasive force from the fact that it \"travels everywhere on the lips of men\" and may be transferred from one context to another without losing its value. In this sense the adage is emblematic of Erasmus's whole approach to rhetoric, which depends on the writer's ability to treat words and phrases as movable goods, appropriating language from one textual locale and transplanting it to another, all the while enlarging and enriching his private store, organized under topical headings that could themselves be conceived as \"places\" for visiting and inhabiting.\n\nAccording to the _Adagia_ 's theoretical counterpart, Erasmus's 1512 treatise _De duplici copia verborum ac rerum comentarii duo_ , the transfer of phrases from source text to commonplace book serves as an engine for eloquence, the travel between rhetorical places yielding a correspondingly vigorous and mobile style. \"The speech of man is a magnificent and impressive thing when it surges along like a golden river, with thoughts and words pouring out in rich abundance,\" _De Copia_ begins. But if Erasmus promoted commonplacing as a way of evening the distribution of rhetorical wealth\u2014securing from abroad what could not be had at home, as Wilson puts it\u2014he also burnishes its allure by representing it as a potentially dangerous and costly adventure. \"Yet the pursuit of speech like this involves considerable risk,\" _De Copia_ continues: \"As the proverb says, 'Not every man has the means to visit the city of Corinth.' \" Erasmus glosses the saying, which appears in the earliest edition of the _Adagia_ , as an illustration of the skill and perseverance needed to master the rhetoric of abundance or _copia_ : like the merchants who sought access to the ancient city of Corinth, whose position on a narrow isthmus between Europe and Asia made it both uncommonly wealthy and uncommonly difficult to approach, he explains, the student who wishes to cultivate his own abundant style faces an arduous but richly rewarding journey. The commonplace book's topical headings set the itinerary for this journey: \"Anyone training with a view to acquire eloquence,\" Erasmus instructs, \"will have to look at all the possible places\u2014that is, topics\u2014in turn, go knocking from door to door so to speak, to see if anything can be induced to emerge.\" Each individual topic then becomes its own point of departure, as the student is urged to generate a variety of perspectives on his theme. It is only by entertaining all possible means of expression, Erasmus emphasizes, that an orator can adapt his speech perfectly to the demands of a given situation, choosing to perform Attic brevity, or \"the exuberance of Asianism,\" or \"the intermediate style of Rhodes.\"\n\nCommonplacing was not only a means of mastering the vast topical resources\u2014\"all the possible places\"\u2014of classical eloquence and its richly various stylistic geography; it was also an instrument for appropriating to the arts of eloquence all that the classical world did _not_ know, precisely because its own geography was so limited. Those eager for wealth of expression, Erasmus reminds readers of _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , would do well not to restrict themselves to Homer and Cicero but to draw on what is \"readily available and close to hand\" and what is exotically far-fetched: \"For each race,\" he reminds his readers, \"has its own marvels, ceremonies, and institutions,\" and \"Africans, Jews, Spaniards, French, English, or Germans\" are as likely sources for an apt simile or a striking expression as the Greeks and Romans. \"One should therefore apply as many different illustrations as possible at each point, derived not only from the whole range of Greek and Latin literature, but also from the sayings of other nations\": true _copia_ , he emphasizes, derives not simply from \"antiquity\" but from \"recent history, and things in our own lives,\" for \"[e]ven today, sailors and traders, who rush across land and sea in their eagerness to acquire wealth,\" report \"wonders no less extraordinary than those antiquity is thought to have invented.\" The model of those eager sailors and traders inspired quite a few early modern commonplacers\u2014indeed the analogy between global exploration and the labor of reading and writing functions as a kind of meta-commonplace of sixteenth-century humanism. Thus, Theodor Zwinger, compiler of the immense _Theatrum humanae vitae_ (1565), repeatedly compares his work as a collector and organizer of classical quotations to that of geographers and cartographers, likening his \"ranging of _exempla_ under titles ( _tituli_ )... to the plotting of travels such as those of Alexander the Great and of Ulysses.\" Another sixteenth-century collector of commonplaces, Ravisius Textor, made actual geography the foundation of his popular compendia: the _Specimen Epithetorum_ (1518) contains long lists of epithets fit for various parts of the globe (Africa is \"glowing, fertile, full of fords, bristling, teeming with wild beasts\"; the inhabitants of Arabia are \"rich in odours, palm-bearing, incense-collecting, tender, Oriental, wealthy, ardent, opulent, and so on\"), while the _Cornucopia_ section of Textor's _Officina_ (1520) charts the natural abundance of various goods in countries around the world.\n\nFor Erasmus and his contemporaries, then, commonplacing figures as the ideal and essential rhetorical strategy of a cosmopolitan age, a practice that allows writers to enfold geographic and historical diversity into a unified whole, \"passing,\" as Erasmus says in _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , \"from Egyptian and Phrygian to Persian, from Persian and Syrian to Greek, from Greek to Hebrew and thence to Roman, from Roman to barbarian, from Gentile to Christian, from foreign to those of our own country, until we reach the events of our own nation and finally our own home.\" Stylistic abundance, like material wealth, is the function of an extraordinarily wide-ranging, even global ambition: the student desirous of this kind of eloquence must, Erasmus famously claims, \"ma[ke] up [his] mind to cover the whole field of literature\": \"no discipline,\" he insists, \"is so remote from rhetoric that you cannot use it to enrich your collection.\" As evidence of \"how far one can go\" in this pursuit, Erasmus offers a \"practical demonstration\" of _copia_ , concluding the introductory section of _De Copia_ with a list of more than a hundred variations of a single sentence, _Tuae litterae me magnopere delectarunt_ , or \"Your letter greatly pleased me.\" His modifications range from the blandly local\u2014inserting a proper name in place of \"your,\" using \"delighted\" instead of \"pleased\"\u2014to the sumptuously far-fetched: \"The pages of my dear Faustus were more splendid to me than Sicilian feasts\"; \"The lotus tastes not as sweet to any mortal man as your letters do to me\"; \"Your letter was to me a positive 'choice morsel' for a Persian, as the Greeks say.\" Some of these variants may, he confesses, seem implausible\u2014\"hardly... tolerable in prose\"\u2014but that is the beauty of the rhetoric of _copia_ : its expansiveness permits experimentation and even errancy in pursuit of the perfect expression. \"It is foolish to bind utterance to fixed laws,\" Erasmus scolds in _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , and to expect all eloquence \"to conform to a single type, or to teach that [it] should,... is in my view at least to impose a narrow and inflexible definition on what is by nature diverse and capable of almost infinite variation.\"\n\n_Almost_ infinite: although he dedicated the _Adagia_ to an English patron and wrote _De Copia_ for John Colet's pupils at St. Paul's School, Erasmus nowhere suggests that the promise of _copia_ extends so far as English itself\u2014his energies are directed solely to the cultivation of Latin eloquence. And yet to his sixteenth-century English readers, the method propounded in _De Copia_ and exemplified by the _Adagia_ offered an irresistible prospect, that of commonplacing as a means of transcending geographic and temporal alienation and transporting eloquence across textual and linguistic boundaries: \"seeking... the best abrode, when they coulde not haue them at home,\" as Wilson writes. The breadth and heterogeneity of the commonplace book compensated for the narrowness and sameness of private experience: Erasmus, Gabriel Harvey wrote in the margins of his copy of the _Similia_ , \"will teach a man to Temporize and Localize at occasion\"\u2014to find a manner of expression fit for any circumstance. Erasmus's friend William Warham, the archbishop of Canterbury, claimed to carry his copy of the _Adagia_ \"with him wherever he went,\" so as never to be without an apt means of expressing himself. Thomas Elyot confessed that although a rigorous course of study in Greek and Latin authors was the ideal prerequisite for anyone seeking to write well, _De Copia_ alone made a fair substitute: \"in good faythe to speake boldly that I think: for him that nedeth nat, or doth nat desire to be an exquisite oratour, the litle boke made by the famous Erasmus (whom all gentill wittis are bounden to thanke and supporte) which he calleth _Copiam verborum et rerum_ , that is to say, plenty of wordes and maters, shall be sufficient.\"\n\nIndeed, although Erasmus defines _copia_ in terms of the rich potential of Latin, his methods had a particular appeal to those who wished to promote the rhetorical and poetic fortunes of a vernacular typically characterized in terms of its rudeness and rusticity. To English authors accustomed to thinking of their native tongue as homespun and coarse grained, commonplacing offered the opportunity to introduce into the language a new world of ideas and expressions: the habit of scouring texts for bits and pieces of quotable material, as Steven Zwicker notes, \"focused the mind... on what was translatable and transportable.\" Not surprisingly, then, the sixteenth century witnessed more than one attempt to import the wealth of Erasmian eloquence into the vernacular, beginning with Richard Taverner's 1539 _Proverbes or Adagies_ , an English version of the _Adagia_ dedicated \"to the furtheraunce... of my natiue country.\" And yet Erasmian commonplaces did not necessarily or easily accommodate the aims of the English translator: the preface to Thomas Chaloner's 1549 translation of Erasmus's _Moriae encomium_ notes that Erasmus's fondness for proverbial expressions made him\u2014like Demosthenes\u2014an especially _difficult_ subject for translation, since the ideas that commonplaces express may have universal appeal, but their phrasing is often explicitly local. \"[I]n my translacion I haue not peined my selfe to render worde for woorde,\" Chaloner confesses, \"nor prouerbe for prouerbe, werof many be... such as haue no grace in our tounge: but rather markyng the sense, I applied it to the phrase of our englishe. And where the prouerbes would take no englishe, I aduentured to put englisshe prouerbes of like waight in their places, whiche maie be thought by some cunnyng translatours a deadly sinne.\" Gabriel Harvey certainly thought so, accusing Taverner, Chaloner, and their ilk of having \"turkissed\" Erasmus's Latin eloquence\u2014a charge that equates vernacularization with sacrilege and English translators with the specter of encroaching Islam. Some, such as Sir Henry Wotton, regarded the dissemination of printed commonplace books, whether English or Latin, as a dubious endeavor, however well done: Wotton complains that such collections, by relieving readers not only of the effort of reading classical texts in their original form but even of learning Latin at all, \"show a short course to those who are contented to know a little, and a sure way to such whose care is not to understand much.\"\n\nIt is in this context that we might best understand both the appeal and the danger of _Euphues_ , for no English author made more diligent use of the many versions of Erasmus available to the early modern English reader than John Lyly. _Euphues_ is written in what Ann Moss calls \"the language of the commonplace book\" and is organized, as Arthur Kinney observes, as \"a series of exercises in copia.\" Both the moralizing frame and the hyperstylized diction are, Judith Rice Henderson argues, \"most easily explained as Elizabethan schoolboy rhetoric\"\u2014as a carefully wrought tribute to the principles and the pattern of Erasmus's own eloquence. The hundreds of proverbs, illustrations, similitudes, and sententiae with which Lyly fleshes out the skeleton of his plot are nearly all derived not from primary sources but from the pages of the _Adagia_ and its companion texts, the _Similia_ and the _Apophthegmata_ , while the epistles collected at the end of the narrative are structured according to the instructions provided in _De Conscribendis Epistolis_. \"Reading through the _De Copia_ ,\" Joel Altman observes, \"one can recapture momentarily the excitement that a man like John Lyly must have experienced\"\u2014excitement at the prospect of an eloquence limited only by its author's willingness to amass textual fragments and compound them into something new.\n\nWandering in Study\n\nIt was the spectacle of those glittering fragments that distinguished Lyly from his predecessors and peers, earning him his place in Thomas Lodge's canon of England's \"divine wits, in many things as sufficient as all Antiquity\": \" _Lilly_ , the famous for facility in discourse,\" is the first vernacular author to achieve something like Erasmian abundance. But _Euphues_ also deliberately confronts readers with the ethical and rhetorical hazards of commonplacing, with the allure of the short cut and the risk of the false turn: \"Lyly,\" Andrew Hadfield observes, \"appears to... enjoy the copiousness of his style and simultaneously to be suspicious of it.\" For if commonplacing encourages writers to regard language as eminently portable, transferable across temporal, linguistic, and textual boundaries, it is this portability of language that Lyly's prose both exploits and critiques, turning a story of geographic errancy, in which travel functions as an impetus to morally wayward behavior, into a far more complicated meditation on the waywardness of rhetoric itself. Euphues's copious expressivity permits him a kind of cosmopolitan ease, but it threatens to leave him morally and socially unmoored.\n\nHere we would do well to recall the influence of the text from which Lyly derived not only his title but also the geographic lineaments of his plot\u2014the course of Euphues's ill-fated journey from virtuous Athens to decadent Naples and (not quite) back\u2014and his suspicion of rhetorical errancy: Roger Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ , in which _euphues_ appears as the first of seven qualities requisite in the ideal pupil, describing \"he that is apte by goodnes of witte, and appliable by readines of will, to learning.\" The kind of learning that interests Ascham, of course, is the learning of Latin, and one of _The Scholemaster_ 's primary aims is to propose a course of study that would allow English youths to master that tongue without being exposed to \"the inchantmentes of Circes, the vanitie of licencious pleasure, [and] the inticements of all sinne\" (24v)\u2014in other words, to Italy. Ascham identifies Italian decadence with the devaluation of eloquence, falsely claimed by those who are \"common discourser[s] of all matters\" and \"faire speaker[s]\" with \"talkatiue tonge[s]\" but are not, emphatically, the kind of orators England so desperately needs (30r). But when it comes to the devaluation of eloquence, Ascham, it is worth noting, is equally suspicious of the commonplace book. Compiling one's own collection of wise and witty sayings is, he allows, a potentially worthwhile pursuit: \"In deede bookes of common places be verie necessarie, to induce a man, into an orderlie generall knowledge,\" that he might \"not wander in studie.\" But to rely exclusively on the collections of others\u2014on Erasmus, for instance, or on the truncated versions of Erasmus produced by Barlandus, Taverner, and others\u2014promotes the opposite fault, a kind of intellectual and textual tourism: \"to dwell in _Epitomes_ and in bookes of common places, and not to binde himselfe dailie by orderlie studie,\" Ascham warns, \"maketh so many seeming, and sonburnt ministers as we haue, whose learning is gotten in a sommer heat, and washed away, with a Christmas snow againe\" (43r).\n\nThis sounds very much like the language that John Lyly uses, rather less seriously, to characterize the fruits of his own learning, _Euphues_ itself, which, he writes in his preface, \"I am content this winter to have read... for a toy that in summer [it] may be ready for trash\" (8). In fact, the whole of Lyly's plot may be read as, in R. W. Maslen's words, \"an impudent response\" to _The Scholemaster_ : _Euphues_ takes Ascham's ideal pupil, furnishes him with an endless supply of commonplaces, and then exposes him to the very Circean enchantments, vanities, and enticements against which Ascham inveighs. Lyly's Naples is certainly faithful to the anti-Italian prejudices of Ascham's treatise: \"a place of more pleasure than profit, and yet of more profit than piety,\" it is replete with \"all things necessary and in readiness that might either allure the mind to lust or entice the heart to folly\" (11\u201312). And Euphues's reaction to those enticements more than confirms Ascham's suspicions about the nefarious effects of travel on youthful minds and morals: he promptly falls in with a fast crowd, squanders his wealth, neglects his studies, and becomes the sort of \"common discourser\" and \"faire speaker\" whose glibness Ascham deplores. If Erasmus taught Gabriel Harvey to \"localize at occasion,\" his methods seem to have taught Euphues to mimic the worst in any locale: \"Being demanded of one what countryman he was,\" Euphues blithely responds, \" 'What countryman am I not? If I be in Crete I can lie, if in Greece I can shift, if in Italy I can court it' \" (13).\n\nWitnessing his folly, Eubulus, an elderly resident of the city, confronts Euphues and attempts to persuade him of the error of his ways. Eubulus echoes Ascham in wondering at the folly of Euphues's parents in permitting their young son to embark on a life of travel: did they fail to remember, he asks Euphues, \"that which no man ought to forget, that the tender youth of a child is like the tempering of new wax apt to receive any form,\" that \"the potter fashioneth his clay when it is soft,\" and that \"the iron being hot receiveth any form with the stroke of the hammer\" (14)? Such commonplaces, he argues, bespeak a general truth about the dangerous malleability of youth, which is most vulnerable to the allurements of novelty and change. Likening Euphues's moral danger to the perils of Odysseus, he cautions, \"Thou art here amidst the pikes between Scylla and Charybdis.... If thou do but hearken to the Sirens thou wilt be enamoured, if thou haunt their houses and places thou wilt be enchanted\" (16\u201317).\n\nBut Euphues, in his turn, contends that Eubulus's argument is of no force, since his own rhetorical artillery is as well stocked as his adversary's\u2014\"as you have ensamples to confirm your pretence, so I have most evident and infallible arguments to serve for my purpose\" (19)\u2014and he proceeds to mount a case that the places one haunts are in no way determinative of moral character. \"[S]uppose that, which I will never believe,\" he states, \"that Naples is a cankered store-house of all strife, a common stews for all strumpets, the sink of shame, and the very nurse of sin. Shall it therefore follow of necessity that... whosoever arriveth here shall be enticed to folly and, being enticed, of force shall be entangled\" (22)? In a fine display of rhetorical virtuosity, Euphues demonstrates that the raw materials of Eubulus's own commonplaces\u2014the new wax, the soft clay, the hot iron\u2014are themselves subject to sudden transmutations: \"The similitude you rehearse of the wax argueth your waxing and melting brain, and your example of the hot and hard iron showeth in you but cold and weak disposition,\" he retorts, for although \"the sun doth... melt the wax,\" making it \"apt to receive any impression,\" it also \"harden[s] the dirt.\" \"Do you not know that which every man doth affirm and know,\" he rudely demands, that \"there is framed of the self-same clay as well the tile to keep out water as the pot to contain liquor,\" and \"though iron be made soft with fire it returneth to its hardness\" (20)?\n\nEuphues's argument is not a refutation of Eubulus's premises; rather it is a devastatingly effective manipulation of the forms those premises take, of the endless iterability of the commonplace. It is because the similitude of the wax is, like all similitudes, waxen\u2014apt to receive any impression\u2014that it may be pressed as easily into service on one side of an argument as to another; conversely it is because the proverb of the iron is, like all proverbs, ironlike in its formal durability, that it may be used and reused without losing its force. Of course, Elizabethan schoolboys were trained to value such adaptability and durability as the chief signs of aptitude, not only in a rhetorical figure but also in the orator: arguing on both sides of a question, _sic et non_ , was the essence of early modern rhetorical pedagogy, the foundation of what Joel Altman calls \"the Tudor play of mind.\" According to Erasmus, commonplaces are uniquely useful tools in this enterprise, precisely because of their lack of contextual grounding. In _De Copia_ he urges his readers, when distributing proverbs, similitudes, and sententiae into the topics of their commonplace books, to remember that \"[s]ome material can serve diverse uses, and for that reason must be recorded in different places,\" that \"[i]t is easy to modify related ideas and adapt them to neighbouring concepts,\" and that \"[o]ne can even twist material to serve the opposite purpose.\"\n\nThis conceit of the \"neighbouring concept\" raises the possibility of an argument founded not on a strict progression of logical claims but on similitude and adjacency: on the sort of witty but spurious associations Euphues uses to craft his response to Eubulus. And yet, as Euphues perceives, the very copiousness such wit engenders makes similitudes and proverbs and all the other sayings a clever and diligent schoolboy might amass in his book curiously self-defeating, indeed static. As he points out to Eubulus, they might remain at the same literal and rhetorical crossroads for the rest of their lives, should the twisting, turning, and trading of commonplaces be their only means of moving one another: \"Infinite and innumerable were the examples I could allege and declare... were not the repetition of them needless, having showed sufficient, or bootless, seeing those alleged will not persuade you,\" he observes (20). \"Seeing therefore it is labour lost for me to persuade you, and wind vainly wasted for you to exhort me,\" he concludes, \"here I found you and here I leave you, having neither bought nor sold with you but exchanged ware for ware\" (24).\n\nEuphues's departure from the scene of the debate prompts a pained interjection from the narrator, who blames \"too much study,\" by which he seems to mean too much commonplacing, for his protagonist's intractability. More than travel itself, it is the sophistical inhabitation of _rhetorical_ places\u2014what Ascham calls \"dwell[ing] in commonplace books\"\u2014that \"doth intoxicate the brains\" of witty young men, according to Lyly's narrator: \" 'For,' say they, 'although iron the more it is used the brighter it is, yet silver with much wearing doth waste to nothing; though the cammock' \"\u2014or crooked stick\u2014\" 'the more it is bowed, the better it serveth, yet the bow the more it is bent the weker it waxeth; though the camomile the more it is trodden and pressed down the more it spreadeth, yet the violet the oftener it is handled and touched the sooner it withereth and decayeth. For neither is there anything but that hath his contraries' \" (26\u201327). Once again the figures can be read reflexively; the oppositions they embody\u2014between currency and devaluation, flexibility and laxity, commonness and corruption\u2014are tensions built into the practice of commonplacing. This passage is perhaps the most famous in all of _Euphues,_ for it is the one that Falstaff mocks in his parody of euphuism in _Henry IV, Part 1_ , when pretending to be the king, he playfully chides Hal for his youthful errancy. What Falstaff fails to remark, however, is that the passage is already parodic in tone\u2014even critiques of Lyly's style end up sounding redundant. For _Euphues_ , here and elsewhere, is a peculiarly and powerfully self-critical text: Lyly seems bent on eviscerating the rhetoric on which his own style depends, exposing commonplacing as a kind of anti- _copia_ , the profitless changing of \"ware for ware,\" and _copia_ itself not as a golden torrent but as an aimless overflow of speech, capable of setting men and morals adrift.\n\nIt is this peculiar rhetorical drift that structures Lyly's plot, which is, as Dolven remarks, devoid of the \"pointless narrative wandering\" typical of its genre. Instead what _Euphues_ indulges in is a series of pointless arguments: \"It hath been a question often disputed, but never determined...\" begins a typical episode (35). Nor is it Euphues's ambition to put periods to such questions: for all his reputation for eloquence\u2014traditionally understood as the power to produce conviction\u2014undecidability is the essence of his appeal. The opening line of _Euphues_ introduces the title character as \"a young man of great patrimony and of so comely a personage that it was doubted whether he was more bound to Nature for the lineaments of his person or to Fortune for the increase of his possessions\" (10). It is such doubt\u2014the potentially ceaseless oscillation between equally plausible contraries\u2014that Lyly's narrative increasingly identifies, paradoxically, as the real mechanism of persuasion: discourse moves its audience not by leading them to a conclusion but rather by refusing to settle on any single point of view, putting them, as Lyly often says, in \"a quandary\" or \"a maze.\" The setting of the romance itself is a kind of quandary or maze: Euphues \"determine[s] to make his abode in Naples\" not because that is where he intends to go when he leaves Athens, but rather because \"for weariness he could not or wantonness would not go any further\" (12). That indecisive \"or\"\u2014and its syntactical cousins \"but\" and \"but yet\"\u2014is the engine driving his progress: as long as another alternative can be imagined, no journey or argument can reach any definitive end. Erasmus warns of this possibility in _De Copia_ when, several pages into his variations on the theme of receiving a letter, he abruptly breaks off, saying, \"But let us make an end, as it is not our purpose to demonstrate how far we can go in inventing alternatives,\" since \"pursuing every possible [variant of thought and expression] would involve endless work\" and \"an attempt to pursue the infinite would be madness.\" It is to the lure of such infinite alternation that Euphues falls prey, when \"disdaining counsel, leaving his country, [and] loathing his old acquaintance,\" he \"follows unbridled affection\" and makes his commonplace book his guide.\n\nVisiting Corinth\n\nWhere, then, does commonplacing lead Euphues, and where does it lead the English language? In one sense, Euphues's mastery of the abundant style takes him exactly where Erasmus promises it will, to a remote city stocked with pleasures and the promise of wealth. \"[N]ot every man has the means to visit the city of Corinth,\" observes the opening paragraph of _De Copia_ , but the journey to Corinth is one for which Euphues, to borrow Ascham's phrase, is both apt and appliable. Erasmus, as noted earlier, uses this proverb to establish at the outset of his treatise the value of commonplacing, the riches of invention and expression it makes accessible to those willing to conduct the arduous journey through the whole field of literature. But this is not the only way to read the proverb\u2014in fact, it is not the only way Erasmus reads it. Although the 1500 edition of the _Adagia_ , in which the proverb first appears, notes simply that it applies to \"things which are not to be attempted by all and sundry,\" subsequent editions add a less innocuous interpretation, glossing the expression as a reference \"to the luxury of Corinth and its courtesans.\" \"In this city,\" Erasmus writes, \"there was a temple dedicated to Venus, so rich that it had over a thousand girls whom the Corinthians had consecrated to Venus as prostitutes in her honour. And so for their sake a large multitude crowded into the city, with the result that the public funds became enriched on a vast scale; but the traders, visitors and sailors were drained of resources by the extravagance to which the city's luxury and voluptuousness led them.\" In other words, Erasmus's commonplace, when pressed to yield its own copious significations, offers not a promise of wealth and abundance but a warning against the depletion of meaning and abandonment of sense that haunt the orator's quest for stylistic abundance: this Corinth is populated not by that \"hony-flowing Matron Eloquence\" but by her monstrous twin, the painted courtesan who, according to Philip Sidney, is the true source of euphuism.\n\nBut if Sidney finds a painted courtesan in the pages of Lyly's narrative, that is surely because Lyly puts her there. For as Euphues's journey proceeds, both the pleasures and the perils of _copia_ are increasing aligned not with Lyly's hero but with the woman he briefly takes as his lover, his best friend's fianc\u00e9e, Lucilla. Lucilla first appears as the rare Neapolitan unimpressed by the agility of Euphues's mind or the fluency of his speech: indeed in her presence he is uncharacteristically tongue-tied, breaking off a lengthy discourse in praise of women's love with the apology that \"I feel in myself such alteration that I can scarcely utter one word\" (39). Ironically, Euphues's abrupt silence accomplishes what his \"filed speech\" does not: \"struck into... a quandary with this sudden change,\" Lucilla, we are told, \"began to fry in the flames of love\" (39). Alone in her chamber, she compulsively picks up the dropped threads of his argument, \"enter[ing] into... terms and contrarieties\" whose dizzying rhetorical heights and hairpin logical turns sway her more effectively than any of Euphues's own words (39). She moves rapidly from the moral dilemma of which man she ought to love (\"Why Euphues perhaps doth desire my love, but Philautus hath deserved it.... Aye, but the latter love is most fervent; aye, but the first ought to be most faithful\" [40]) to the more immediate uncertainty of whether or not Euphues will return her love (\"Dost thou think Euphues will deem thee constant to him, when thou hast been unconstant to his friend?... But can Euphues convince me of fleeting, seeing for his sake I break my fidelity?\"[40]) and finally to the baldly pragmatic question of how to dissemble her infidelity (\"I hope so to behave myself, as Euphues shall think me his own and Philautus persuade himself I am none but his\" [42]).\n\nIn keeping with this resolution, when Lucilla finds herself alone at last with Euphues, she pretends to doubt his sincerity, protesting, \"But alas, Euphues, what truth can there be found in a traveler, what stay in a stranger; whose words and bodies both watch but for a wind, whose feet are ever fleeting, whose faith plighted on the shore is turned to perjury when they hoist sail\" (61)? Drawing on the same rich array of classical allusions as Euphues typically does, she summons a host of examples to confirm her suspicions: \"Who more traitorous to Phyllis than Demophon?\" she asks, \"Yet he a traveler. Who more perjured to Dido than Aeneas? And he a stranger.... Who more fals than Ariadne to Theseus? Yet he a sailor. Who more fickle than Medea to Jason? Yet he a starter.\" \"Is it then likely,\" she demands, \"that Euphues will be faithful to Lucilla being in Naples but a sojourner\" (62)? She does not, of course, pause to give Euphues time to answer these questions; instead she moves quickly to her next point: Euphues has met his match. But the love that begins in discourse never actually proceeds any further: aside from several minutes spent \"pleasantly conferring one with the other\" (67), the time Lucilla and Euphues waste in debating whether or not to pursue one another occupies the whole of their affair. Hardly does Euphues have time to boast of his success to the jilted Philautus\u2014\"Dost thou not know that far fet and dear bought is good for ladies?\" he mockingly asks (79)\u2014before his own commonplace justification rebounds on him. Lucilla, he learns, has deserted him for a man whose name, Curio, suggests that he is the embodiment of all strangeness and novelty, and yet whose utter unlikelihood as a candidate for Lucilla's affections\u2014he is poor, stupid, and lame to boot\u2014seems to be his chief attraction. Curio is the far-fetched demystified and devalued, the trash only a savage would mistake for treasure.\n\nThe reader is given to understand that Curio is simply a placeholder for the next man, and the next: what Lucilla ultimately falls in love with is change\u2014rhetorically speaking, with the freedom she discovers in the endless succession of positions that commonplacing allows her to inhabit. Progressing from one plausible point to another, equally plausible, from \"but\" to \"but yet\" and back again, she learns to regard no conclusion as conclusive: \"I am not to be led by their persuasions,\" she announces; \"I will follow my own lust\" (42). In support of this aim, she even rewrites what Roger Chartier and Peter Stallybrass have dubbed \"the commonplace of commonplacing,\" Seneca's image of the industrious bee who flits through the garden of literature sucking nectar from each text and compounding it into the honey of his own inventions: for Lucilla, however, the bee's search for nectar is an image of the careening and self-serving course of desire, which will \"gathereth honey out of the weed, [but] when she espieth the fairest flower flieth to the sweetest.\" Lucilla uses proverbs and similitudes as she does men, changing one for the next as her needs demand, and it falls to her to point out the unsettling resemblance between the rhetoric of commonplacing and the exercise of sexual promiscuity. When her father urges her to accept Philautus as her husband, just as she welcomed him as a friend, she retorts, \"I fear I shall be challenged of as many as I have used to company with, and be a common wife to all those that have commonly resorted hither\" (70). As Kathy Eden has shown, Erasmus promoted commonplacing as a mode of intimacy with antiquity and with other readers\u2014\"Friends hold all things in common\" is the watchword of the _Adagia_\u2014and Lucilla follows this premise to its least savory conclusion.\n\nShe is guided throughout by the \"infinite and innumerable... ensamples\" that she, like Euphues, can marshal in support of whatever argument or man most pleases her at the moment: \"Myrrha was enamoured of her natural father, Biblis of her brother, Phaedra of her son-in-law,\" she recalls when her affection for Euphues is challenged (73); \"Venus was content to take the blacksmith with his polt-foot,\" she notes in defense of Curio's lameness (82). And when Euphues reproaches her for her infidelity, she is ready with a litany of fickle women from the pages of history and literature, from Venus to Helen of Troy, and concludes that she is determined to join their ranks, becoming \"an ensample to all women of lightness\" (82). Euphues belatedly\u2014and rather hypocritically\u2014protests that this is not the purpose to which exempla are meant to be put: \"These are set down that we should fly the like impudency, not follow the like excess,\" he exclaims. \"Shall the lewdness of others animate thee in thy lightness? Why then dost thou not haunt the stews because Lais frequented them\" (83)? Euphues's own example is inadvertently revealing, for Lais is the most famous of the Corinthian prostitutes: it is her rapacity that inspires Erasmus's adage, and her insatiable appetites that impinge most closely on the history of eloquence. \"It was notorious,\" Erasmus writes in the _Adagia_ , that \"the great [orator] Demosthenes went to her in private and asked for her bounty. But Lais demanded ten thousand drachmas. Demosthenes, much struck and alarmed by the woman's impudence and the amount of money, withdrew, and said as he departed, 'I'm not spending ten thousand drachmas on something I should be sorry for.' \" Of course, Demosthenes is not only famous as the man canny enough to resist Lais's charms; more important, he is the classical orator whose brevity becomes a byword for the virtues of rhetorical restraint\u2014it is Demosthenes whose compact periods defy Thomas Wilson's efforts at translation, Demosthenes from whose eloquence, as William Webbe recalls, \"nothing may be taken away\" (sig. C1v). Webbe is surely the only critic ever to contend that such praise could reasonably be applied to _Euphues_ , for if Euphues fails to follow Demosthenes's course in avoiding the enticements of Lais, he certainly fails to follow him in avoiding the enticements of _copia_.\n\nSuperfluous Ends\n\nIn this regard he is not so different from Lyly, who dispenses\u2014or tries to dispense\u2014with Lucilla by informing the reader that her \"end, seeing as it is nothing incident to the history of Euphues, it were superfluous to insert it, and being so strange, I should be in a maze in telling what it was\" (89). But superfluity and strangeness are the hallmarks of Lyly's style, and Lucilla's very impertinence makes her all the more irresistible: although the \"history\" ostensibly concludes with Euphues's return to Athens and his abjuration of idle women and idle words, the text is further drawn out\u2014in a maze, as it were\u2014by a series of letters Euphues sends back to Naples, many of which concern Lucilla's strange end: after losing her inheritance to Curio, she takes up harlotry, gains \"great credit\" with the local gentlemen, is stricken by a sudden illness, and dies \"in great beggary in the streets\" (170). Although Lucilla is gone\u2014consumed by her lust\u2014her immoderate discourse lives on, for no one, it seems, can stop talking about her: \"It is a world to see how commonly we are blinded with the collusions of women, and more enticed by their ornaments being artificial than their proportions being natural,\" complains Euphues. \"[T]he nature of women is grounded only upon extremities\" (102\u20133). He seems utterly blind to the degree to which his own attachment to extremities and opposition has led him astray, enticed by the ornaments of rhetorical artifice to depart from the natural proportions of truth. Of course, Lyly's readers are likely to hear in Euphues's protest an echo of Lyly's own, in his dedicatory epistle, that \"It is a world to see how Englishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language will allow.\" Ultimately, Lucilla's \"superfluous end\" and the \"superfluous eloquence\" with which she is identified are integral to Lyly's narrative because they are emblems of an England and an English tired of wheat and wool but wary of sugar and spice, addicted to the far-fetched and dear-bought but unnerved by its implications for what Sidney calls \"the poor Englishman.\"\n\nFor all Euphues's misogynist ranting, Lucilla does not bear the burden of superfluity and strangeness on her own. The final sentences of _Euphues_ leave its hero \"ready to cross the seas to England,\" and a 1580 sequel entitled _Euphues and His England_ describes his adventures in what is presented\u2014in a witty reversal of the usual relationship between English readers and the Italianate settings of romance\u2014as an exotic foreign land: Euphues presents his account of England as one might show off \"little dogs from Malta or strange stones from India or fine carpets from Turkey\" (415). Indeed, England first appears, like Naples in the _Anatomy_ , as a dangerously exotic foreign land: hardly has his ship set sail before Euphues is declaiming against the folly of his journey, recalling (in a peculiar conflation of his own narrative with Erasmus's _Adagia_ ) the story of \"the young scholar in Athens\" who \"went to hear Demosthenes' eloquence at Corinth and was entangled with Lais' beauty,\" and inveighing (like Roger Ascham) against \"our travellers which pretend to get a smack of strange language to sharpen their wits\" but \"are infected with vanity by following their wills\" (206). For Lyly's English readers, who are imagined as foreigners in their own land, the joke resides in the identification of provincial England with cosmopolitan Corinth and of homely English with \"strange language.\" But stock associations between strange tongues and moral disorder are not the true concern of _Euphues and His England_ \u2014unlike his time in Naples, Euphues's visit to England never threatens to corrupt him with foreign influence. On the contrary, Lyly's melancholy sequel is more preoccupied by a vision of its protagonist as somehow existentially strange, insular, and peripheral wherever he goes. For in a cruel trick, Euphues is summoned out of Athens only to be forced, repeatedly, to the margins of his own story, the odd man out in a narrative overflowing with more or less happy couples.\n\nAlthough he proclaims that being in England fills him with delight in society\u2014\"In sooth... if I should tarry a year in England, I could not abide an hour in my chamber\" (299)\u2014that proclamation accords ill with Euphues's actual behavior. Having quarreled with Philautus soon after his arrival, he spends much of his visit huddled in his chamber, \"determined... to lie aloof\" (369). \"You have been so great a stranger,\" his English host rebukes him when he does emerge (383), and even Philautus treats him with \"much strange courtesy,... being almost for the time but strangers because of [his] long absence\" (375). Eventually, we are told, Euphues \"with all became so familiar that he was of all earnestly beloved\" (410), but before we can see him in this comfortable position, he is called back to Athens, alone, on unspecified urgent business: \"England,\" he says sadly, is \"not for Euphues to dwell in\" (412). Once home, however, he is more isolated than ever before, for his yearning for England unfits him for life anywhere else: \"I know not how it fareth me,\" he writes pitifully to a friend in Naples, \"for I cannot as yet brook mine own country, I am so delighted with another\" (414). Finally, the narrator reports, he \"gave himself to solitariness, determining to sojourn in some uncouth place.\" \"And so I leave him,\" Lyly concludes, \"neither in Athens nor elsewhere that I know\" (462).\n\nAs Leah Scragg observes, this ending is largely inscrutable: \"the precise cause of [Euphues's] 'cruelly martyred condition' remains... uncertain.\" But like Lucilla's superfluous end, Euphues's sad end hints at Lyly's suspicion of the claims made on behalf of rhetoric by its most eager humanist advocates\u2014promises not simply of ever-increasing abundance but also of intimacy and community. It is no coincidence that the sentence Erasmus chose for his first \"practical demonstration\" of _copia_ is a profession of delight at a letter from a friend, or that _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ promotes the exercise of letter writing as the ideal path to rhetorical mastery: the genre of the friendly epistle epitomizes the Erasmian faith in the power of eloquence to overcome the distance between men, turning strangers into friends and friends into \"other selves.\" For Erasmus, both the letter and the commonplace are emblems of eloquence's social function: a letter is \"a mutual conversation between absent friends,\" while the commonplace facilitates such conversation across centuries and cultures. The abundant style testifies to the pleasures of human companionship: the object of the other \"practical demonstration\" of _copia_ is a sentence professing Erasmus's undying affection for his friend Thomas More. And yet for Euphues, the rhetoric of _copia_ yields only solitude and strangeness\u2014and so it proves for euphuism as well. If commonplacing confers upon the vernacular what at first seems like a Corinthian abundance, that very abundance tends toward extravagance, prodigality, and impoverishment: to a language so alienated from its natural proportions that it must be cast off.\n\nBy the turn of the seventeenth century, John Hoskins's _Directions for Speech and Style_ (c. 1600) interpreted euphuism's success not as evidence of how far English eloquence had come, but of how narrow its limits remained: referring to Lyly's copious similitudes, he mocks, \"See to what preferment a figure may aspire if it once get credit in a world that hath not much true rhetoric!\" Twenty years after Lyly's death, his publisher Edward Blount offered a more generous but in its own way equally damning assessment of _Euphues_ 's legacy. In the preface to his 1632 edition of six of Lyly's dramatic works, Blount reminds readers that the now obscure author was once hailed as England's chief literary talent, the savior of the vernacular, the \"onely rare poet of that time\": \"Our nation are in his debt for a new English which hee taught them,\" he urges; \"Euphues began first that language, and that Beautie in Courte, who could not Parley euphuism was as little regarded as shee there now who speaks not French.\" Blount means to revive Lyly's literary fortunes, but in the very act of praising Lyly, he may well bury him: euphuism, Blount makes clear, is no longer new, and its closest analogue is not even English but an affected foreign tongue. Whatever euphuism did bring to the vernacular in the way of eloquence has already come to seem the relic of a distant time and place, a world without much rhetoric.\n\nIt remained to another writer, Edmund Spenser, to show how exile might be productive of eloquence: published just a year after _Euphues_ 's debut, _The Shepheardes Calender_ turns the identification of England as \"a world without much rhetoric\" into the ground of its stylistic and generic innovation. As for Lyly, his real legacy may reside not in the way English was spoken or written but in the way it was read. \"Before the final years of the sixteenth century,\" Ann Moss has observed, \"there is little evidence that vernacular literature (as distinct from vernacular translations, proverbs, and the sayings of important historical figures) had acquired sufficient status to be excerpted for commonplace-books, at least in print.\" In England, as Roger Chartier and Peter Stallybrass have shown, that changed with the publication of Nicholas Ling's _Politeuphuia: Wit's Commonwealth_ (1597) and Francis Meres's _Palladis Tamia: Wit's Treasury_ (1598), both of which mingle quotations from classical sources with those from contemporary vernacular texts. The prominence of _Euphues_ in each collection\u2014Ling's title nods in the direction of Lyly's protagonist, while Meres relies extensively on quotations from the text\u2014bespeaks the ease with which it was disassembled and returned to its component parts. This fragmentary quality may to us seem symptomatic of _Euphues_ 's defects: its scanty and inconsistent characterization, the cursory development of its plot, the awkward joinery of its many segments. To its early modern audience, however, dispersal into commonplaces was the lot of even the most distinguished texts\u2014 _especially_ the most distinguished texts\u2014and the generous contribution _Euphues_ made to the common stock of tropes and figures, sentences and similitudes may well have seemed its great and enduring achievement. Not long exemplary in its own right, _Euphues_ nevertheless made exemplarity something to which English prose might aspire.\n_Chapter 4_\n\nPastoral in Exile: Colin Clout and the Poetics of English Alienation\n\nNo writer labors more conspicuously to claim the mantle of exemplarity than the \"new poete\" of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , who presents himself to readers as the latest to walk a hallowed and well-trod path to literary glory. As E. K.'s introduction to the 1579 poem reminds us, pastoral is the time-honored birthplace of poetic excellence, the \"nest\" of literary ambition: \"So flew Theocritus, as you may percieue he was all ready full fledged. So flew Virgile, as not yet well feeling his winges. So flew Mantuane, as being not full somd. So Petrarque. So Boccace; So Marot, Sanazarus, and also diuers other excellent both Italian and French Poetes, whose foting this Author euery where followeth, yet so as few, but they be well sented can trace him out.\" Because the _Calender_ was quickly recognized as a signal achievement not only for the then-anonymous \"new poete\" Edmund Spenser but also for the hitherto undistinguished canon of English poetry, E. K.'s analysis of its generic orientation has remained persuasive. It has become, as Anne Lake Prescott observes, \"a scholarly commonplace\" that by \"mask[ing] in lowly shepherds' weeds... Spenser was gesturing at a laureate Virgilian career.\" Pastoral is the \"inaugural phase\" in what Patrick Cheney dubs \"the New Poet's flight pattern\"; it serves, in Louis Montrose's words, as \"a vehicle for the highest personal aspirations and public significance a poet can claim\" and \"demonstrate[s] the capacity of the vernacular to produce a poetry 'well grounded, finely framed, and strongly trussed up together.' \" But if pastoral is a logical generic locus for the expression of literary ambition, it is a rather more vexed starting point for an _English_ poet\u2014or for an English poetic renaissance\u2014than E. K. and most subsequent critics acknowledge. After all, the most influential poems in the tradition, Virgil's eclogues, establish their vision of the genre on the assumption that Britain is no place for pastoral. Indeed, as the first English translation of the eclogues makes clear, only a few years before _The Shepheardes Calender_ , England may have been no place for poetry at all.\n\nCertainly such a dismal conclusion is not the intended message of Abraham Fleming's _The Bucoliks of Publius Virgil_ (1575). Rather, Fleming undertook his translation in order to remove the barriers between English readers and what he regarded as an unnecessarily remote poetic tradition. By rendering Virgil's elegant Latin into \"ye vulgar and common phrase of speache,\" amplified by an abundance of marginal notes and glosses, Fleming hoped to foster a new sense of \"familiaritie and acquaintance with Virgils verse\": to guarantee \"readie and speedie passage\" across the distances imposed by geographic, historical, and linguistic difference. This desire to domesticate Virgilian pastoral takes its most literal form in the compilation of marginal glosses defining all place names and geographical features cited in the poems. Like a map of a foreign country, Fleming writes, his glosses will prevent \"the ignorant\" from \"wander[ing] wyde\" by erroneously \"applying... the name of a mountaine to a man, the name of a fountaine to a towne, the name of a village to a floud, the name of a citie to a riuer\" (sig. A3v). Thus freed from all \"stoppes and impediments\" to understanding, the reader may use Fleming's translation as a stile or bridge \"to passe ouer into the plaine fields of the Poets meaning\" (sig. A2v).\n\nBut if Fleming's translation, and especially his glossary, is meant to help readers traverse an unfamiliar poetic landscape, it also exposes England's own place in\u2014or displacement from\u2014that landscape. It is not only that the glosses highlight precisely those aspects of Virgil's diction\u2014namely the \"proper names of gods, goddesses, men, women, hilles, flouddes, cities, townes, and villages &c.\" (sig. A1r)\u2014least amenable to vernacular translation, since by definition proper names cannot be rendered \"plaine and familiar Englishe\" (sig. A1r). More important, the focus on strange place names and geographic features foregrounds the fact that Virgilian pastoral is emphatically\u2014and literally\u2014 _topical_ , rooted in the particular place and time of its composition. Critics of the genre rarely identify pastoral with a language of geographic and historical specificity; indeed, its landscape is associated with an allegorical conventionality that would seem to exclude proper names. As one critic asserts, contingencies of time and place are precisely what the pastoral poet must eschew in his pursuit of \"a world of his own, a cleared space counterfeited from tradition and his own inventive wit,\" a \"green world\" crucially and definitively \"distant from our own.\" But Fleming's readers do not have the luxury of subsuming Virgil's landscape into such amorphous generalities: the challenges of translation, and the compensatory labor of Fleming's assiduous glosses, force attention to the fact that pastoral abounds in local particularity.\n\nThe problem is more pointed\u2014and painful\u2014than this. Virgil's eclogues locate pastoral existence firmly within the world of Augustan Rome in order to make a claim about the interdependence of poetry and place. The eclogues begin by contrasting the circumstances of two pastoral poets: Tityrus, a figure, Fleming informs us, \"represent[ing] _Virgilles_ person\" (C1r); and his neighbor, Meliboeus. Tityrus attributes his poetic success to his happy proximity to \"the Citye... call'd Rome,\" whose \"God... hath graunted these my beastes to grase, and eake my selfe with glee / To playe vpon my homelye pipe such songes as liked mee\" (C1v). He laments the fate of less fortunate foreigners\u2014the \"Parthian banisht man\" and the \"German stranger\"\u2014who, if they would seek Rome, are condemned to \"wandring others ground\" (C2r). Meliboeus concurs in praising Rome: although \"in fieldes abroade such troubles bee,\" in Roman pastures a shepherd \"lying at [his] ease, vnder the broad beeche shade, / A countrye song does tune right well\" (C1r\u2013v).\n\nBut Meliboeus's associations with the city and its ruler have proved less fortunate: his land has just been confiscated to pay one of Caesar's mercenaries, and he therefore faces an imminent departure from Rome: \"Our countrey borders wee doe leaue, and Medowes swete forsake\" (C1r). Anticipating an end to his pastoral contentment, Meliboeus bids his sheep \"[d]epart... a[nd] Cattell once full happye goe and flytt, / I shall not see you after this, in greene caue where I sytt\" (C2r). He and his fellow exiles must seek refuge on the outskirts of the Roman Empire, whose territories he enumerates in a grim litany: \"[S]ome of vs to droughte Affrike land hence wyll go, / To Scythia and to Candy, where Oaxis scarce doth flowe\" (C2r). But he saves the worst for last: some, perhaps he himself, will be sent \"[a]s farre as Britan Ile, cut of from the wide world\" (C2r). Just in case any of his English readers should have missed the point, Fleming drives it mercilessly home: \"Britan,\" he notes, \"is an Ilande, compassed about with the sea,... called also Anglia because it standeth in a corner of the world alone\" (C2r\u2013v, note n). In such a place, Meliboeus glumly concludes, \"no sonnets will I syng\" (C2r).\n\nThis assumption\u2014that to go to Britain is to abandon poetry\u2014poses serious difficulties for Fleming and his readers. After all, what kind of \"familiaritie\" or \"speedie passage\" can be fashioned in relation to a poem that locates England\u2014and English readers\u2014on the far side of an apparently unbridgeable divide? Tityrus's response to Meliboeus in the eclogue's final lines, the offer of a final night's rest in his cottage, tacks on a consolatory ending and temporarily forestalls the threat of exile. But for the English reader, there is no reprieve: in the poem that inaugurates the career of Rome's greatest poet, Britain remains the sign of all that is antithetical to poetry. The somewhat fanciful claim Fleming makes on behalf of his translation, that it carries Virgilian pastoral out of Rome and into England, turns out, on the poem's own terms, to be impossible.\n\nI have dwelled at some length on Fleming's translation\u2014admittedly a very minor entry in the canons of late sixteenth-century classical scholarship and vernacular poetry\u2014because it provides an especially concrete demonstration of the challenges facing all those who sought to use classical texts and forms as vehicles for importing poetic excellence into England. \"[I]n the process of retrieving from Antiquity the terms and concepts that introduced new distinctions to the field of English writing,\" Sean Keilen has argued, \"vernacular writers were obliged to confront the radical alterity of England to the ancient world, and of English to the languages and aesthetic canons they wanted to assimilate.\" Of course, the challenge of bridging the gap created by this \"radical alterity\" was not unique to English poets: vernacular authors on the Continent struggled under similar burdens of belatedness and distance from the classical world, and as E. K. points out, Spenser's efforts are inspired by the successes of such poets as Marot and Sannazaro. And yet, as my reading of Fleming's translation suggests, would-be authors of English pastoral encounter the difficulties\u2014and perhaps the opportunities\u2014of alienation from antiquity in their most stringent guise, for no other form insists so strongly on the interdependence of poet and place, song and setting. It is therefore crucial that we not forget what E. K.'s survey of pastoral poets and poetry conveniently overlooks: that in the form's preeminent incarnation, the Virgilian eclogue, English readers find their own native place located beyond poetry's pale. This inescapable fact invites us to reconsider Spenser's choice of pastoral as the generic locus of his own ambitious foray into vernacular poetics: \"the best and most Auncient Poetes\" may, as E. K. claims, have valued pastoral for its \"homely\" qualities, but for Spenser, the pastoral tradition has more to say about the \"unhomely\"\u2014about alienation, exclusion, and the paradoxical virtues of exile.\n\nThe ironies and incongruities of Fleming's English Virgil may therefore help us to appreciate in a new way how and why Spenser's vernacular pastoral embraces linguistic estrangement and geographic dislocation as the emblems, and engines, of English poetry. For if alienation is the defining characteristic of Colin Clout, with his neglected flocks and his shattered pipe, it is also the central strategy of Spenser's poetry, which forces his readers to reencounter their native tongue through a process of occlusion and defamiliarization. In the world of Virgilian pastoral, exile to Britain marks the limits of geographic and poetic possibility; in the world of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , distance and disability become the necessary conditions of writing and reading English verse. \"Cut off from the wide world\"\u2014by virtue of its Englishness but also by virtue of its willfully difficult language\u2014Spenser's _Calender_ finds in the rudeness and rusticity of the mother tongue the materials of its own peculiar eloquence.\n\nA Familiar Acquaintance Far Estranged\n\nThe reader's experience of estrangement begins on the _Calender_ 's title page, which, although it names the poem, offers a brief description of its contents, and announces its dedication to Philip Sidney, makes no mention of an author. Turning the page, one learns that this omission is deliberate: a verse _envoi_ instructs the poem to present itself \"[a]s child whose parent is vnkent\" and cautions, \"if that any aske thy name, / Say thou wert base begot with blame, / For thy thereof thou takest shame.\" The poem is famously signed \" _Immerit\u00f4_ \" (24), which translates as \"the unworthy one.\" The following page introduces a new character, the equally mysterious E. K., whose introductory epistle claims as its goal to \"commendeth the good lyking... and the patronage of the new Poete\" (25) but who proves a rather jealous guard of the privileges of his own \"familiar acquaintance\" (29) with both poet and poem. He boasts, for instance, of having been \"made priuie to [ _Immerit\u00f4_ 's] counsel and secret meaning\" in writing the _Calender_ but unhelpfully adds that, \"[t]ouching the generall dryft and purpose of his Aeglogues, I mind not to say much, him selfe labouring to conceale it\" (29). As Lynn Staley Johnson observes, E. K.'s remarks frequently afford _Immerit\u00f4_ an \"opaque cover\" not unlike the pseudonym itself, as the commentator \"interposes himself between _Immerit\u00f4_ \" and his public. In his epistle's final paragraph, therefore, when E. K. addresses the mystery of _Immerit\u00f4_ 's identity, he does so simply to declare himself an accessory to the poet's desire to keep himself, for the time being, \"furre estraunged\": \"worthy of many, yet... knowen to few\" (30).\n\nThe peculiarities of E. K.'s relation to the poem sharpen when he turns to the issue of _Immerit\u00f4_ 's language. As he acknowledges, his own \"maner of glosing and commenting\" must \"seeme straunge and rare\" (29) when applied to a poem ostensibly written in the reader's \"own country and natural speech,\" his very \"mother tongue\" (27). In fact, these glosses and commentary seem more suited to an edition of classical verse\u2014such as Fleming's translation of Virgil\u2014or the work of a celebrated modern poet such as Petrarch or Sannazaro. Both Fleming and E. K. offer prefatory essays on the history of pastoral and the etymology of the word \"eclogue,\" provide prose \"arguments\" summarizing each eclogue, and surround the poems with an abundance of editorial notes and glosses. Fleming can justify such an elaborate apparatus by appealing to the distance separating his English readers from the language and landscape of Virgil's poetry. As E. K. confesses, his own interventions are less easily accounted for: why should an English reader require a gloss or commentary to assist his comprehension of a work set in his own time, place, and native tongue? Rather, such commentary as E. K. does provide seems calculated to _intensify_ the reader's sense of remove from the poem he is about to read\u2014to function, that is, as the very sort of \"stoppes and impediments\" (sig. A2) Fleming is so eager to remove from his own reader's path.\n\nCertainly a scholarly apparatus would have seemed out of place in earlier English pastorals, whose authors tend to apologize for the straightforward and uncomplicated nature of their verses rather than offer any aid in understanding them. Indeed poets such as Alexander Barclay and George Turbervile worry that the language of their pastorals will seem all too familiar to the average reader. Urging readers of his _Egloges_ (c. 1530) \"not to be grieved with any playne sentence / Rudely conuayed for lacke of eloquence,\" Barclay reminds them that \"[i]t were not fitting a heard or man rurall / To speak in termes gay and rhetoricall.\" Turbervile, whose _Eglogs_ (1567) mimic those of Mantuan, apologizes for \"forcing\" that poet's Latin-speaking shepherds \"to speake with an English mouthe\" and cautions that \"as ye conference betwixt Shepherds is familiar stuffe and homely: so haue I shapt my stile and tempred it with suche common and ordinarie phrase of speech as Countrymen do vse in their affaires.\"\n\nE. K. mentions the homely style of pastoral verse, but he also declares that _Immerit\u00f4_ 's \"words\" are \"the straungest\" of \"many thinges which in him be straunge\" (25). When he insists on the need for a gloss for those words or feels constrained to point out that they are \"both English, and also vsed of most excellent Authors and most famous Poetes\" (25\u201326), he redefines the limits of both pastoral and the vernacular: neither will be confined to the familiar or homely. Although he begins by asserting an equivalence, or at least a dependence, between familiarity and admiration, he ultimately advances a more complicated understanding of that relationship. Just as his avowed longing to make _Immerit\u00f4_ familiar to all conflicts with his wish to protect his own \"familiar acquaintance\" with the poet's \"secret meanings,\" his observations on Spenser's language seem poised between the impulse to demystify and a desire to highlight its peculiarities. His glosses, for instance, serve a double purpose: added \"for thexposition of old wordes and harder phrases,\" they are necessary lest the \"excellent and proper devises\" of Spenser's verse \"passe in the speedy course of reading, _either as vnknowen, or as not marked_ \" (29, emphasis added). The gloss is a corrective, that is, against two equal and opposite dangers: that Spenser's language will strike readers as so remote as to be incomprehensible, or that it will fail to strike them at all. Where Fleming sought a \"readie and speedie passage\" into Virgil's poem, E. K. aimed to slow his readers down\u2014to function, in Fleming's terms, as both pathway _and_ impediment, both stop _and_ stile, champion of the poem's \"seemely simplicity\" _and_ gatekeeper of its \"graue... straungenesse\" (25).\n\nThe seemingly paradoxical claims that E. K. makes on behalf of Spenser's poetic diction\u2014that it is a function of both \"custome\" and \"choyse\" (26), that its archaisms are both a source of \"great grace and... auctoritie\" and a \"rough and harsh\" foil to more \"glorious words\" (26\u201327), and that it generates a style both \"straunge\" (25) and \"homely\" (29)\u2014are hard to reconcile with the straightforward equation of pastoral and plainness found in the prefaces to so many other vernacular poems, but they do reflect the complicated and at times contradictory interpretive practices of another important literary genre of sixteenth-century England: biblical translation. That Spenser's _Calender_ is a profoundly Protestant text is a familiar claim, but most accounts of the poem's religious affiliations restrict themselves to questions of content, to analyses of the eclogues' satirical and allegorical engagements with doctrinal and ecclesiastical controversies. I suggest that Protestantism also provides a matrix for understanding the poem's language and the way that language is represented and mediated by E. K. Among the translators of scripture, we find an approach to the vernacular that is, like that of E. K., precariously poised between the values of simplicity and strangeness\u2014and here, as in _The Shepheardes Calender_ , the practice most likely to disturb this equilibrium is glossing.\n\nAs Lynne Long has established, glossing was the original point of contact between the vernacular and sacred writing, an essential and often controversial precursor to full-fledged biblical translation. The vernacular notes that appeared, as early as the eighth century, in the margins and between the lines of English biblical texts served as important aids to readers whose Latin was weak or nonexistent, but they also forced translators and editors to think carefully about the relative values of accessibility and difficulty. Of his vernacular edition of the _Lives of the Saints_ , the Anglo-Saxon translator Aelfric writes that his desire to render his text \"into the usual English speech [ad usitatem Anglicam sermocinationem]\" conflicted at times with his wish to preserve the challenges and mysteries of his source-text as guards against an unfit readership: \"I do not promise however to write very many in this tongue,... lest peradventure the pearls of Christ be had in disrespect.\"\n\nThe sixteenth century, and especially the decades preceding the publication of _The Shepherd's Calender_ , witnessed an explosion of English translations of the Bible and a corresponding rise in both the estimation of the vernacular and the anxiety about its adequacy as a vehicle for divine wisdom and eloquence. Like Aelfric, the translators and editors of these texts often seem to have been torn between a desire to promote the plain and homely virtues of their vernacular scriptures and to insist upon the salutary challenges posed by correct interpretation. Thus, although the title page to the 1560 Geneva Bible promises readers \"the holy Scriptures faithfully and playnely translated\" into their own native tongue, the translators later note that \"we moste reuerently kept the proprietie of the [original Greek and Hebrew] wordes\" and \"in many places reserued the Ebrewe phrases, notwithstanding that thei may seme somewhat hard in their eares that are not well practiced\" because the preservation of such interpretive challenges accords with the practice of the Apostles, \"who spake and wrote to the Gentiles in the Greke tongue, [but] rather constrained them to the liuely phrase of the Ebrewe, then enterprised farre by mollifying their langage to speake as the Gentils did.\" The English of the Bible, it appears, must seem both familiar and strange in order to elicit the proper readerly response\u2014like E. K., these commentators are eager both to assist and to impede the \"speedy course\" of their readers' understanding, to engender a sense of connection and proximity to the text even as they retain a sense of its distance and difficulty.\n\nThe English Bible translators also anticipate E. K. in that they must justify the deployment of often elaborate explanatory apparatuses alongside texts ostensibly written in plain English. Indeed the desire to eliminate obtrusive and potentially misleading glosses was a primary impetus for translating scripture into the vernacular in the first place: in the preface to his 1534 _New Testament_ , William Tyndale assails the obscurantism and elitism of the Catholic Church, whose mystique depends on the labor of those \"false prophets and malicious hypocrites, whose perpetual study is to leaven the scripture with glosses.\" But Tyndale's concern for the proper reception of his own translation prompts him \"in many places\" to \"set light in the margin to understand the text by\": as he admits, due to allegorical figuration or theological complexity, \"the scripture and word of God, may be so locked up, that he which readeth or heareth it, cannot understand it\" unless it is \"dress[ed]\" and \"season[ed]\" for \"weak stomachs.\" So too the Geneva translators, who chastise those (Catholic) scholars who \"pretend\" that ordinary readers \"can not atteine to the true and simple meaning\" of the scriptures even as they admit \"how hard a thing it is to vnderstand the holy Scriptures.\" Indeed it is precisely because such understanding is so elusive that their translation comes equipped with a complex apparatus of \"brief annotations,\" \"figures and notes,\" and even \"mappes of Cosmographie\" to guide the reader through scriptures' \"hard\" and \"darke... places\" and their \"diuers... countries.\"\n\nIs the vernacular Bible easy or difficult to read? Are its \"places,\" whether textual or geographic, accessible to or remote from the understanding and experiences of the English reader? The translators of the English Bible leave such questions largely unresolved, and they resonate with E. K.'s contradictory descriptions of the \"new Poet's\" simple yet strange verses. Indeed the similarities between the presentation of the Geneva Bible and that of _The Shepheardes Calender_ \u2014the prefatory essays, prose arguments, marginal annotations and glosses, and woodcut illustrations\u2014suggest that Spenser's pastoral is designed to elicit a reading practice like that promoted by the authors of the English Bibles, in which the value of accessibility is in constant, productive tension with the value of alienation. We might further note that the _Calender_ 's affinity with England's vernacular Bibles affords the poem and its readers a very different view of Rome, and of classical antiquity, than that associated with the pastoral tradition. If, for Virgil's shepherds and their English heirs, eloquence must be anchored in Rome and Britain remain forever beyond the pale, within the context of the Protestant Reformation, this geography could be wholly reversed.\n\nWhen the Geneva Bible translators proclaim in their dedication to Queen Elizabeth I that \"the eyes of all that feare God in all places beholde your countreyes as an example to all that beleue,\" they are, of course, making a calculated appeal to the vanity of a monarch whose support was crucial to the success, indeed the survival, of their text. But they also invoke England's historic importance to the Protestant cause in general and Bible translation in particular. In this one area, thanks to a long tradition of vernacular homiletics and scriptural translation\u2014from Aelfric through Wycliffe\u2014England could position itself in the vanguard of linguistic progress and cultural achievement, even as it anchored itself to a past more authentically antique than that of Rome: as the title page to the Geneva Bible states, it was \"[t]ranslated according to the Ebrue and Greke,\" \"the languages wherein [the scriptures] were first written by the holy Gost,\" and not, pointedly, according to the Latin Vulgate edition used by the Church of Rome. Far from being the sign of a privileged antiquity, as it is in Virgil's pastorals and in the rest of the secular literary tradition, for the translators of English scriptures Latin is the language of a belated and debased tradition, itself remote from the true origins of divine wisdom and Christian eloquence. The distance between the vernacular and Latin is thus touted as an advantage by Tyndale, who defends his own early sixteenth-century scriptural translations on the grounds that English is closer to the truly biblical languages: \"For the Greek tongue agreeth more with the English than with the Latin. And the properties of the Hebrew tongu agreeth a thousand times more with the English than with the Latin.\" Tyndale's rationale upends the linguistic hierarchy assumed by secular translators such as Abraham Fleming and brings the vernacular into desirable proximity with a religious history and geography in which Rome (and Latin) is more peripheral than privileged.\n\nThe complex, even contradictory, attitudes toward the vernacular evinced by E. K.'s epistle to _The Shepheardes Calender_ produce a similarly radical reworking of linguistic and literary values. E. K.'s epistle does more than simply characterize _Immerit\u00f4_ 's peculiar poetic voice; like the prefaces to English Bibles, it also reflects upon the peculiar position of the English language at the end of the sixteenth century. That is, if E. K. seeks to characterize _Immerit\u00f4_ 's voice as simultaneously rare and unremarkable, he also seeks to characterize English as a paradoxical blend of the foreign and the familiar\u2014a language that may appear most alien and inaccessible precisely when it hits closest to home. As the epistle draws to a close, E. K.'s argument thus shifts from the particular case of _The Shepheardes Calender_ to that of the vernacular as a whole. Those who \"will rashly blame [ _Immerit\u00f4_ 's] purpose in choyce of old and vnwonted words,\" he writes, are themselves to be \"more iustly blame[d] and condemne[d]\" for failing to appreciate one of the chief beauties of his poetry, which aims \"to restore, as to theyr rightfull heritage, such good and naturall English words as haue ben long time out of vse and almost cleane disherited\" (27). This disregard for the origins of the language has deprived the vernacular of its own best resources and \"is the onely cause, that our Mother tonge, truely of it self is both ful enough for prose and stately enough for verse, hath long time ben counted most bare and barrein of both\" (27). Even worse than those who neglect English's roots are those who, \"endeuour[ing] to salue and recure\" the language's perceived deficits, have \"patched vp the holes with peces and rags of other languages, borrowing here of the French, there of the Italian, euery where of the Latine, not weighing how il those tongues accord with themselues, but much worse with ours\" (27). Over time, E. K. argues, the very concepts of foreign and familiar have been so confused that, while the adoption of alien terms has \"made our English tongue, a gallimaufray or hodgepodge of al other speeches,\" the \"very naturall and significant\" words on which the tongue was founded are rejected as \"no English, but gibberish\" (27). Thanks to such linguistic promiscuity, England has become estranged from itself, a nation \"whose first shame is, that [its inhabitants] are not ashamed, in their owne mother tonge strangers to be counted and alienes\" (27). If it is \"straunge and rare\" for a vernacular author to require the mediation of an editor in order to be understood by a native readership, that very peculiarity is, in E. K.'s view, what marks _Immerit\u00f4_ 's work as truly and properly English.\n\nIn Virgil's first eclogue, and in Fleming's translation, distance is inimical to poetry: Meliboeus's exile threatens to end his song, and the unguided reader, \"wander[ing] wyde\" of Virgil's meaning, loses both the pleasure and the profit of his labor. Familiarity\u2014whether it appears in the guise of a fellow shepherd's hospitality or a helpful translator's marginal glosses\u2014becomes the only defense against an alienation that threatens to dissolve the pastoral landscape into a foreign wasteland, to turn eloquent Rome into mute and barren Britain. In pre-Spenserian English pastorals, by contrast, familiarity and proximity\u2014\"homeliness\"\u2014are qualities that threatened to deny the vernacular poet his bid to participate in a more elevated literary tradition\u2014without the sponsorship of remote authorities, English verse has no value. E. K.'s epistle reformulates these dilemmas\u2014and offers _Immerit\u00f4_ a way out of the impasse\u2014by refusing to admit an opposition between familiarity and strangeness. Instead he makes familiarity (such as that he claims between himself and Spenser) an excuse for secrecy and identifies the strangeness of Spenser's language with its most native and homely virtues.\n\nThe Unrestful Shepherd\n\nSpenser's pastoral narrative performs a similarly complex rereading of the literary significance of exile. For most sixteenth-century English rhetorical and poetic theorists, exile functions as a metaphor for the exclusion of the vernacular from the company of learned and eloquent tongues, and for the hardships vernacular speakers endure as a result of this exclusion. In _The Pastime of Pleasure_ , Stephen Hawes identifies \"elocucyon\" with a process of purification that consigns the homely vernacular \"to exyle\": separating \"the dulcet speech / from the langage rude,\" \"the barbary tongue / it doth ferre exclude.\" In _The Boke named the Governour_ , Thomas Elyot makes the more literal point that if they wish to master the most rarefied arts, eloquence included, Englishmen must often endure exile, being \"constrained... to leave our owne countraymen and resorte vs vnto strangers.\"\n\nBut for England's Bible translators, who endured unpredictable and often violent reversals of fortune under the Tudors, exile bore a more complicated relation to eloquence, as it was often the necessary condition of writerly survival. William Tyndale concluded as a young man that \"there was no place... in all England\" for someone who believed as strongly as he did in the virtues of an English Bible, and the very name of the Geneva Bible betrays the fact that well into the sixteenth century this continued to be the case. Striking too is that Bible's curious gloss of Psalm 137, whose well-known opening lines recall the Israelites' refusal to sing during their exile from the promised land: \"By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. / We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. / For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us [required of us] mirth, [saying], Sing us [one] of the songs of Zion.\" The Israelites' insistence that \"the songs of Zion\" belong to Zion alone would seem to make Psalm 137 a kind of sacred precursor to the lament of Meliboeus in Virgil's first eclogue, with the same melancholy alignment of poetry and place, exile and silence; but the Geneva translators interpret it rather differently, as a mournful comment on the necessity of self-imposed exile from a people who have lost their way. Its opening plaint is glossed as a response not to the insults of foreign captivity but to the disappointments of home: \"Even though the country [of Babylon] was pleasant,\" the translators remark, \"yet it could not stay [the Israelites'] tears\" when they recalled \"[t]he decay of God's religion in their country,\" which \"was so grievous that no joy could make them glad, unless it was restored.\" In other words, the roots of the Israelites' silence lie not in Babylon but in Zion; exile is simply the literal expression of\u2014or even a consolation for\u2014a more profound and painful internal alienation. There is little in the psalm to support such a reading\u2014on the contrary, the psalmist emphatically identifies his own ability to sing with his attachment to his native land, vowing, \"let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy\"\u2014but much, perhaps, in the translators' own experiences, as writers whose preference for English meant leaving England behind.\n\nSpenser's poem both invokes and recasts these associations: while acknowledging the loneliness of the poet severed from his native land, it also embraces alienation as the paradoxically enabling condition of a truly native eloquence. Like Tyndale and the Geneva translators, Spenser follows the \"barbary tongue\" and \"langage rude\" into exile, finding there the materials for renovating and replenishing an impoverished tradition. _The Shepheardes Calender_ thus transforms Meliboeus, Virgil's unwilling victim of exile, into Colin Clout, a poet whose exile from the pastoral community is both self-imposed and strangely productive. Like Meliboeus, Colin enters the pastoral world on the verge of departing from it, breaking his pipes at the end of the \"Januarye\" eclogue and quitting himself of the \"rurall musick\" to which his \"vnlucky Muse\" has called him (ll. 64, 69). His break with pastoral poetry, we learn, is the consequence of infidelity to the pastoral landscape, a fatal \"long[ing]\" to see \"the neighbour towne\" (l. 50). This wanderlust leads to an unrequited passion for Rosalind, a town-dwelling lady who loathes \"shepheards devise\" (l. 65), \"laughes\" (l. 66) at shepherds' songs, and infects Colin with a similar disdain. Although he returns to his flocks and farm, he remains alienated from the pleasures they once provided: neither his own verses nor the \"clownish giftes and curtsies,\" \"kiddes,\" \"cracknelles,\" and \"early fruits\" of his rustic companion Hobbinol please Colin any longer.\n\nIn his gloss of this passage, E. K. observes that \"[n]eighbour town... express[es] the Latine Vicina\" (38n50), a clarification many critics have cited as characteristically egregious\u2014why bother to translate a perfectly clear English phrase into its Latin equivalent? But if the note violates the usual function of a gloss, its estranging effect captures perfectly the paradox inherent in both E. K.'s apparatus and Spenser's diction. Indeed the very word _vicina_ is suggestively apt, as it denotes a locale that is at once elsewhere and close at hand, remote and proximate. And when Hobbinol appears in the \"Aprill\" eclogue, he characterizes Colin's defection in similar terms: \"now his frend is changed for a frenne\" (l. 28). The latter word, E. K. informs us, is a term \"first poetically put, and afterward vsed in commen custome of speech for forenne\" (66\u201367n28). Colin's rejection of his familiar friend in favor of Rosalind\u2014who, like the \"neighbour towne\" or _vicina_ in which she dwells, is both \"forenne\" and familiar\u2014casts him into a state of self-division that, as Hobbinol reports, alienates him from the sources of his poetic inspiration:\n\nShepheards delights he doth them all forsweare,\n\nHys pleasaunt Pipe, which made vs merriment,\n\nHy wylfully hath broke, and doth forbear\n\nHis wonted songs, wherein he all outwent. (ll. 13\u201316)\n\nThe measure of this loss to the pastoral community becomes clear when, at his companion's request, Hobbinol recites one of the songs Colin composed in happier days, when \"by a spring he laye\" and \"tuned\" his music to the rhythm of \"the Waters fall\" (ll. 35\u201336). The reader is invited to compare such domestic harmony to the frigid sympathy between poet and place that Colin expresses in \"Januarye,\" when the frozen barrenness of the wintry fields merely encourages the poet to forsake his pipes and regard his own youth as similarly wasted. The song presents Colin as master of both a local and a classical poetics\u2014he invokes the \"dayntye Nymphes\" of his own \"blessed Brooke\" (l. 37) to join the Muses \"that on Parnasse dwell\" (l. 41) and help in the fashioning of his praise for Elisa, whose glory is likened to that of \" _Phoebus_ \" (l. 73) and \" _Cynthia_ \" (l. 82). The two-part Latin tag with which the eclogue concludes\u2014Aeneas's \" _O quam te memorem virgo,_ \" \" _O dea certe_ \"\u2014casts Spenser as a second Virgil, even as it presents Elisa, England's queen, as \"no whit inferiour to the Maiestie\" of the goddess Venus and England, perhaps, as the fertile ground of a new poetic and political imperium.\n\nSuch sympathetic affinities\u2014between poet and place, local and classical, vernacular and Latin, England and Rome\u2014are, however, the stuff of the past, as Hobbinol regretfully notes: \"But nowe from me hys madding minde is starte\" (l. 25). The breach between Colin and his \"clownish\" friend signals a more pervasive state of alienation. A disinclination to sing, in fact, is the inauspicious starting point of nearly all of the _Calender_ 's eclogues\u2014whether it be the consequence of cold or age (\"Februarie\"), the afflictions of love (\"March,\" \"August\"), the disapproval of one's fellow shepherds (\"Maye,\" \"Julye\"), or the lack of a patron to support the poet's efforts (\"October\"). This last circumstance leads the shepherd Cuddie to despair of the future of English pastoral: Virgil, \"the Romish _Tityrus_ \" (\"October,\" l. 55), had both matter and means for his art, but now \"Tom Piper\" (l. 78) with his \"rymes of rybaudrye\" (l. 78) is the only poet who thrives. Once inspiration, like the Roman Empire itself, seemed boundless; the muse \"stretch[ed] her selfe at large from East to West\" (l. 44). Now, with neither empire nor Caesar to sustain it, it lies \"pend in shamefull coupe\" (l. 72). \"O pierlesse Poesye,\" Piers exclaims, \"where then is thy place?\" (l. 79). Its place, Cuddie replies, is with Colin Clout\u2014with his departure, poetry too has been \"expell[ed]\" (l. 99).\n\nThe apparent solution, then, is to woo Colin back to the place (and time) in which his poetry flourished, to the domesticity and community represented and advocated by homely, humble Hobbinol, who becomes the voice of what Harry Berger has dubbed the poem's \"paradisal\" imperative: the call to a kind of \"literary withdrawal\" that is also \"characteristically a 'return to'... a set of _topoi_ , of 'places' as well as conventions, authenticated by their durability.\" Reunited with Colin in the \"June\" eclogue, Hobbinol does his best to woo his friend from his errant existence:\n\nLo _Colin_ , here the place, whose pleasaunt syte\n\nFrom other shades hath weand my wandring mynde.\n\nTell me, what wants me here, to worke delyte?\n\nThe simple ayre, the gentle warbling wynde,\n\nSo calme, so coole, as no where else I fynde. (ll. 1\u20135)\n\nColin concurs with Hobbinol's evaluation of his own happy lot but insists that such domestic bliss is not for him:\n\nO happy _Hobbinoll_ , I blesse thy state,\n\nThat Paradise hast found, whych _Adam_ lost...\n\nBut I unhappy man, whom cruell fate,\n\nAnd angry Gods pursue from coste to coste,\n\nCan nowhere fynd, to shroude my lucklesse pate. (ll. 9\u201310, 14\u201316)\n\nHobbinol responds with an obvious solution\u2014Colin must come home:\n\nForsake the soyle, that so doth the bewitch:\n\nLeaue me those hilles, where harbrough nis to see,\n\nNor holybush, nor brere, nor winding witche:\n\nAnd to the dales resort, where shepheards ritch,\n\nAnd fuictfull flocks bene every where to see.\n\n. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .\n\nSuch pierlesse pleasures haue we in these places. (ll. 18\u201322, 32)\n\nColin counters that his dilemma is not situational but existential: \"since I am not, as I wish I were\" (l. 105)\u2014that is, since he is exiled from Rosalind's affections\u2014no place, \"[w]hether on hylls, or dales, or other where\" (l. 107), can do more than \"[b]eare witnesse\" (l. 108) to his suffering.\n\nThe aptness of Hobbinol's advice is cast into further doubt by his encounter with Diggon Davie in the \"September\" eclogue. In many ways Diggon is a clear surrogate for Colin, another wayward prodigal, \"a shepheard,\" as E. K. describes him, \"that in hope of more gayne, droue his sheepe into a farre countrye\" (116). Like Colin, who \"curse[s]\" the \"carefull hower\" of his departure from his pastoral home (\"Januarye,\" l. 49), Diggon comes to regret his waywardness, \"curs[ing] the stounde / That euer I caste to haue lorne this grounde\" (ll. 56\u201357). He eventually makes his way back home, but errancy has marked his speech, which Hobbinol professes not to understand: \"speake not so dirke\" (l. 102), he urges. Diggon acknowledges that \"this English is flatt\" (l. 105), and E. K. comments that the peculiar \"Dialecte and phrase of speache in this Dialogue,\" which \"seemeth somewhat to differ from the comen,\" reflects Diggon's travels: having \"bene long in foraine countries, and there seene many disorders,\" his very speech has become alien and disordered (125).\n\nDiggon would appear to represent an extreme case of the dangers facing Colin Clout, whose defection from the pastoral world also threatens to divorce him from its poetry. But the \"September\" eclogue takes on a more ambiguous meaning in light of the _Calender_ 's own departures from linguistic and pastoral convention. After all, one of the expressions that E. K. singles out as foreign and disorderly is the word \"uncouthe\" (l. 60), which Diggon uses to disparage his decision to leave home\u2014but which E. K. himself used in his epistle to describe the poem's author and which he attributed to England's own \"olde\" and \"famous\" poet Chaucer (25). The moral of the \"September\" eclogue is further complicated by Diggon's choice of a Latin tag, _Inopem me copia fecit_ (l. 261), a phrase drawn, as E. K. observes, from Ovid's version of the tale of Narcissus. Diggon uses it, he hypothesizes, to show that \"by tryall of many wayes, [he] founde the worst,\" but this is, he admits, \"to other purpose\" than \"fyrste Narcissus spake it\" (127). And indeed Narcissus is an odd figure for Diggon: while Diggon's desire for \"chaunge\" (l. 69) displaces him, leading him to abandon the \"grounde\" (l. 57) he knows best, Narcissus's self-love engrafts him in one place\u2014if anyone could be said to be \"[c]ontent [to] liue with tried state\" (l. 70), as Hobbinol urges Diggon to be, it is Narcissus. If both Narcissus and Diggon ultimately find cause to mourn that \"plenty has made me poor,\" they seek for plenty in very different places: one in the too-close circuit formed by his own person and its reflection; and the other by \"measur[ing] much grownd,... wandr[ing] the world rounde\" (ll. 21\u201322). They are linked, perhaps, by their inability to judge distances rightly: for Narcissus, distance from the object of his desire is both unattainable and inescapable; for Diggon, whose very name proclaims his homely, earth-bound calling, distance is a false lure, an invitation to riches that vanish when seen up close.\n\nUltimately, Narcissus is perhaps a less apt figure for Diggon (of whom he is, at best, an inverted or mirror image) than he is for Colin Clout\u2014not as he is, but as Hobbinol wishes him to be. The self-love and stasis that waste Narcissus are not so different from the paradisal pleasures Hobbinol urges upon Colin in the \"June\" eclogue, pleasures of proximity, familiarity, and sameness. And indeed when the reader first encounters Colin, in \"Januarye,\" his condition is perilously Narcissus-like. The icy sheen of the frozen ground, he claims, had been \"made a myrrhour, to behold my plight\" (l. 20), and his own self-absorbed reflection threatens to consume him. The very syntax of his verse seems governed by a logic of reflexivity, replete with chiastic echoes, parallel structures, and insistent repetitions. When he falls to the ground after breaking his pipe, it seems possible that he, like Narcissus, will never get up again.\n\nIt is only by rousing himself to abandon the pastoral place, rejecting home and its comforts, that Colin rediscovers his poetic voice\u2014although it is no longer the same voice that once delighted his fellow shepherds with its sweetness. Thus when Hobbinol pleads \"to heare thy rymes and roundelays, / Which thou were wont on wastfull hylls to singe\" (ll. 49\u201351), Colin announces that \"such delights... amongst my peeres\" no longer entice him (l. 35). His exile has taught him \"newe delightes\" (l. 40), \"play[ing] to please my selfe, all be it ill\" (l. 72). These new songs, he says, do not imitate or emulate the songs of others, \"to winne renowne, or passe the rest\" (l. 74); instead they are fitted to the peculiar demands of his situation: \"I wote my rhymes bene rough, and rudely drest,\" but \"[t]he fitter they, my carefull case to frame, / Enough is me to paint out my vnrest\" (ll. 77\u201379).\n\nIn making the case for his songs of \"vnrest,\" Colin does not claim to have abandoned his roots altogether. Instead, he argues, he follows the example of his master, \"[t]he God of shepheards _Tityrus_... / Who taught me homely, as I can to make\" (ll. 81\u201382). This \"homely\" art is, nevertheless, as remote and inaccessible as any of the prospects Hobbinol has described: \" _Tityrus_... is dead\" (l. 81), and \"all hys passing skil with him is fledde\" (l. 91). Colin's own song is thus defined by relationships of proximity and likeness\u2014to Chaucer, to Virgil\u2014that perpetually fall away into distance and alienation, just as his \"place in [Rosalind's] heart\" (\"Argvment\" to \"June,\" 87) turns out to be no place at all\u2014indeed turns out to spoil and evacuate all places.\n\nChaucer and Virgil share the role of Tityrus, Colin's poetic mentor, with an unacknowledged third poet: Ovid, the \"poet... of exile and complaint,\" who, as Syrithe Pugh argues, through \"an accumulation of mostly covert allusions\" becomes the _Calender_ 's silent \"presiding genius.\" One such allusion may be found in the song Colin sings in the \"Nouember\" eclogue, a dirge in honor of Dido, \"dead alas and drent\" (l. 37)\u2014a passage which long puzzled Spenser's readers since the Virgilian Dido dies a famously fiery death. Donald Cheney solves the conundrum by pointing to the \"March\" section of the _Fasti_ , Ovid's never-completed calendrical poem celebrating Rome's mythic and imperial history, which recounts the fate of Dido's lesser-known sister, Anna. Exiled from Carthage after her sister's death, Anna is driven across the sea to Italy, where she seeks help from Aeneas and then, fearing his wife's jealousy, casts herself into the river Numicius. In fact, the parallels between this sister of Dido and the figure mourned by Colin are even more striking than Cheney suggests: like Ovid's Anna, Colin's Dido is remembered for her generosity to the rustic poor ( _Fasti_ 3.670\u201371; \"Nouember,\" ll. 95\u201396), memorialized in the bawdy songs of young girls ( _Fasti_ 3.675\u20136; \"Nouember,\" ll. 77\u201379), and transcends her watery death to achieve immortality ( _Fasti_ 3.653\u201354; \"Nouember,\" l. 175). Ultimately, however, Colin's Dido surpasses her Ovidian model; \"raign[ing] a goddesse now emong the saintes\" (l. 175), she achieves a glory inaccessible to the pagan Anna.\n\nThe Spenserian Dido's supersession of her classical predecessor reflects her creator's supersession of his own classical predecessor, for Ovid's calendrical poem has no \"November\" section\u2014indeed nothing at all past \"June.\" _The Shepheardes Calender_ may follow \"the ensample of... Ovid,\" as E. K.'s final note observes (156), but it also succeeds where Ovid failed, simply in arriving at an end. The significance of this implicit contest with Ovid deepens if we recall the reason Ovid's calendar lacks an ending: his banishment from Rome. The fate of the _Fasti_ 's author recalls that of Virgil's Meliboeus: Ovid abandoned the poem when Auguistus ordered him to abandon Rome and take up residence in Tomis, on the Black Sea\u2014like Britain, a desolate colonial outpost on the frontier of the Roman Empire. Instead of completing his calendar\u2014a project he now regarded with bitterness\u2014Ovid began the series of poems known as the _Tristia_ , in which he bemoans the cultural and linguistic impoverishment of his new home \"at the world's end.\" The _Tristia_ are haunted by Ovid's fear that, cut off from other native speakers of Latin, he will lose his poetic voice, descending to the barbarous accents of those around him. He obsessively charts the decline of his once-eloquent tongue, complaining that, surrounded by \"Thracian and Scythian voices, I've unlearned the art of speech\" (3.14.46). \"If some phrases sound un-Latin,\" he apologizes, \"remember / They were penned on barbarian soil\" (3.1.17\u201318). His poetry has become a mass of \"barbarous solecisms,\" for which, he insists, \"you must blame the place, not the author\" (5.7.60\u201361).\n\nOvid's mournful insistence that it is \"the place,\" the non-Roman North, which stops his once eloquent tongue resonates with many sixteenth-century accounts of the English language: for instance, Thomas Elyot's argument that the \"infelicitie of our time and countray... compelleth\" the English to labor in the study of classical tongues; and Gabriel Harvey's claim that a \"revolution of the heavens\" was needed to bring eloquence \"to these remote parts of the world.\" By completing the poetic project left unfinished by Ovid in his _Fasti_ , and by rooting it in the seemingly unpromising locale of the rude vernacular, Spenser challenges, yet again, the classical tradition's equation of exile, especially exile to the barbarous North, with poetic impotence. The rocks on which Ovid's calendar founders become the ground in which Spenser's _Calender_ thrives. Thus, when begged by Hobbinol to \"forsake the soyle\" that stifles his once fluent song\u2014soil identified by E. K. as \"the Northparts\" (\"Glosse\" to \"June,\" 91)\u2014Colin Clout refuses to do so, embracing alienation and distance as inspirations for his \"rough, and rudely drest\" verses (\"June,\" l. 77): he is, as Colin Burrow has noted, the \"poet of loss, exile, and solitude.\"\n\nIn the epilogue to the _Calender_ , Spenser embraces the distance between himself and other poets, claiming that his poem has earned \"a free passeporte\" to \"followe\" from \"farre off\" the works of earlier authors (\"Epilogue,\" ll. 7, 11). The claim sustains a conventional gesture of modesty\u2014he \"dare[s] not match [his] pipe\" (l. 9) with those greater\u2014but it also identifies distance, whether linguistic, temporal, cultural, or geographic, with an expansion of literary possibility and with a challenge to the hierarchies that had kept vernacular poets in their place. The strangeness that, for E. K., makes _Immerit\u00f4_ 's English truly and virtuously homely works its way through the narrative of Colin Clout's poetic development, which emerges out of the same paradoxical play of distance and proximity, foreignness and familiarity, exile and return.\n\nPoetry Beyond the Pale\n\nFor all the admiration that _The Shepheardes Calender_ garnered from contemporary readers, not all of Spenser's peers appreciated the poem's embrace of strangeness. William Webbe, author of _A Discourse of English Poetrie_ (1586), proclaims Spenser \"the rightest English Poet, that euer I read,\" but his praise of _The Shepheardes Calender_ betrays a certain unease. Spenser's \"trauell in that peece of English Poetrie,\" he writes, \"I think verily is so commendable, as none of equall iudgement can yeelde him lesse prayse for hys excellent skyll, and skyllful excellency shewed foorth in the same, then they would to eyther _Theocritus_ or _Virgill_ , whom in mine opinion, if the coursenes of our speeche (I meane the course of custome which he woulde not infringe) had beene no more let vnto him, then theyr pure natiue tongues were vnto them, he would haue (if it might be) surpassed them.\" High praise, undoubtedly\u2014the highest, for a critic who longs to see English poetry converted to quantitative measures \"in imitation of the Greekes and Latines\"\u2014but Webbe's punning admission that \"the coursenes of our speeche\" or \"the course of custome which he woulde not infringe\" has prevented Spenser from surpassing his classical models introduces a rather serious qualification, especially since, earlier in the treatise, he identifies \"the canckred enmitie of curious custome\" as the single most pernicious influence on modern vernacular poets, the chief cause of England's persistent linguistic and poetic backwardness. Moreover, as readers of _The Shepheardes Calender_ know, far from being unwilling to \"infringe\" upon the \"course of custome,\" according to E. K., Spenser's diction is the result of a _deliberately_ \"curious\" poetic practice, his \"choyce of old and vnwonted words\" (27).\n\nSidney, the poem's dedicatee, expresses distaste for this choice in his _Apologie for Poetrie_ (1595), granting that Spenser \"hath much _Poetrie_ in his Egloges, indeed worthie the reading,\" but insisting that he \"dare not allow\" the \"framing of his style to an olde rusticke language.\" It is difficult to understand how one might commend the pastoral conceit of Spenser's _Calender_ \u2014what Sidney calls its \" _Poetrie_ \"\u2014while disapproving of the rustic language that seems so central to that conceit, and the strain the _Calender_ placed on its early modern readers is plain: in Sidney's treatise, as in Webbe's, admiration for the _Calender_ 's unmistakable genius wars with the perception that there is something flawed, even self-defeating, at work in the poem. Such ambivalent responses reproduce, almost uncannily, the tensions within the poem between the admiration expressed for Colin Clout and the irritation at his refusal to occupy a place commensurate with his talents: like Colin, Spenser is hailed by peers such as Sidney and Webbe as an exemplary genius even as he is reproached for what seems to be a posture of willful self-estrangement. Certainly Ben Jonson sounds rather Hobbinol-like when he warns readers of medieval poetry against \"falling too much in love with antiquity\" lest \"they grow rough and barren in language only\" and holds up Spenser as an example of one overcome with an unwise and immoderate affection for things remote from his experience. If antiquity\u2014specifically, England's antiquity\u2014is Spenser's Rosalind in this allegory of misplaced affection, his archaic diction is an instrument as fractured and self-indulgent as Colin's shattered pipe: \"Spenser, in affecting the ancients,\" Jonson famously concludes, \"writ no language.\"\n\nThe judgments of Webbe, Sidney, and Jonson have shaped many later accounts of the poem, but it is possible that they exaggerate the strangeness and difficulty of Spenser's diction. The eighteenth-century critic Thomas Warton sounded an early note of skepticism: \"The censure of Jonson, upon our author's style, is perhaps unreasonable.... The groundwork and substance of his style is the language of his age. This indeed is seasoned with various expressions, adopted from the elder poets; but... the affectation of Spenser in this point, is by no means so striking and visible, as Jonson has insinuated; nor is his phraseology so difficult and obsolete, as it is generally supposed to be.\" Warton's argument has encouraged a few twentieth-century critics to reconsider the prevailing view of the language of _The Shepheardes Calender_ , especially when it is placed alongside lesser-known works of the mid-sixteenth century. Certainly Spenser embraces an array of archaic and dialect terms to ornament his shepherds' speech, but so too, as Roscoe Parker points out, did most earlier writers of English pastoral, and Spenser's antiquated, rustic-sounding shepherds are not so different from those found in the eclogues of Barclay, Turbervile, and Barnabe Googe. Ver\u00e9 Rubel adds that \"it is interesting to note how many of the archaisms, poetic borrowings, and poetic constructions which distinguish the language of _The Shepheardes Calender_ are to be found in _Tottel's Miscellany_ as well.\"\n\nTo argue, as W. L. Renwick does, that \"[t]he solemn Introduction and Notes contributed by E. K. are evidence that the [linguistic] innovation was acutely felt and required explanation; further, that it claimed serious consideration; and again, that it was deliberate,\" may be to acquiesce too much to E. K.'s own commentary, which, as I have argued, is at least as invested in emphasizing the innovative strangeness of Spenser's language as it is in dispelling that strangeness. Perhaps most intriguing in this regard is Megan Cook's observation that sixteenth-century editions of Chaucer were not glossed for \"hard words\" until _after_ the publication of _The Shepheardes Calender_ ; until Thomas Speght's 1598 edition of Chaucer's poems, readers apparently were not expected to require assistance in decoding Chaucer's English or to experience that English as substantially different from their own. Speght's claim that his edition has \"restored [Chaucer] to his owne Antiquitie\" makes plain the double impulse behind his gloss\u2014at once to facilitate the reader's encounter with poetry deemed too remote for easy comprehension and to guarantee that this remoteness is recognized and appreciated. It is a mode of annotation Speght might well have learned from E. K.\n\nSuch observations help to contextualize Spenser's language and encourage us to adopt a more skeptical view of E. K.'s claims on its behalf. They also allow us to conceive of Spenser's collaboration with E. K. as an attempt\u2014bolstered by the mystery surrounding _Immerit\u00f4_ 's identity and by the archaizing effect of the blackletter type in which the poem was printed\u2014to generate a kind of \"alienation effect\" for _The Shepheardes Calender_ , to cultivate remoteness as a deliberate mode of relation to readers. Readers of _The Shepheardes Calender_ have observed that Colin Clout's gestures of alienation and abandonment\u2014his broken pipes, his exile to the North, his refusal to sing\u2014are rarely permanent or wholehearted. Colin and his songs are, in fact, everywhere in the world of the _Calender_ , if often at a remove, present only through the mediating influence of his fellow shepherds. The same might be said of Spenser's language, which, if it is \"the straungest\" of \"many thinges which in him be straunge,\" is also the aspect of the poem most insistently present to its readers, thanks to the mediating influence of E. K.\n\nThis chapter began by noting that the pastoral tradition, especially Virgil's eclogues, posed difficulties for English authors and readers who wished to assert a greater affinity between their own language and culture and that of Rome. Because Virgilian pastoral acknowledges Britain only as an emblem of distance, deprivation, and barbarism, it frustrated, or at least complicated, the efforts of English translators and imitators to use pastoral as a vehicle for overcoming their geographic, temporal, and linguistic remoteness from classical Latinity. _The Shepheardes Calender_ seems to have frustrated readers such as Webbe, Sidney, and Jonson\u2014all equally, although differently, invested in the project of classicizing English poetry\u2014for a similar reason, by both appealing to and resisting their desire for proximity to the classical world. The very aspects of the _Calender_ that most clearly advertise its affiliation to the classical tradition\u2014its genre and its scholarly apparatus\u2014are also precisely the elements that most challenge that affiliation. E. K.'s epistle and notes habitually conflate foreignness with familiarity and estrangement with identification, insisting on such paradoxes as the necessary attributes of a truly English poetics; likewise Spenser's pastoral plot fashions itself around a figure whose perpetual departures and returns challenge any effort to fix the place of pastoral and so lay claim to it for England. To write (or read) vernacular poetry may mean estrangement from one's native tongue; to locate pastoral in Britain, \"cut of[f] from the wide world,\" may mean leaving the community of shepherd-poets behind.\n\nFrom 1580 on, of course, Spenser spent virtually his entire life in a state of literal proximity to and alienation from his native land and fellow English poets: as a functionary of Ireland's colonial administration, he watched from afar the dissolution of his hopes for a reform-minded Protestant court, a court that would nurture the kind of poetic community the language deserved. Ireland is thus a crucial figure for Spenser's ambivalent engagement with English vernacular poetry; it is the site of his own unwilling but productive displacement, the barren and rude prospect from which he, like Meliboeus or Ovid, must reenvision his native land. It is also, as Willy Maley and Andrew Had-field have argued, the place where Spenser encountered a version of the vernacular, that spoken by members of the \"Old English\" colonial community, purified of modern corruptions by virtue of having been \"preserved in the colonial margins rather than the cosmopolitan center.\" Finally, Ireland is where Colin Clout reappears in Spenser's poetry, in a 1595 pastoral whose title, _Colin Clouts Come Home Againe,_ invokes a \"home\" that turns out to be preserved in these same colonial margins.\n\nThis late work both intensifies and seeks to resolve the dynamics of displacement and estrangement that Spenser and E. K. negotiate in _The Shepheardes Calender_. It begins in what is for readers of the _Calender_ a familiar vein, with Hobbinol hailing Colin's return from recent wanderings and begging him not to leave again: \" _Colin_ my liefe, my life, How great a losse / Had all the shepheards nation by the lacke?\" For the moment it appears that we are right back in the \"June\" eclogue and that the intervening years have been occupied with more unhappy departures from and fretful returns to the place of pastoral. The discourse of departure and return is given an unexpected twist, however, when Colin's \"late voyage\" (l. 34) abroad turns out to have taken him, of all places, to England: the shepherd's nation has been transplanted, like Spenser himself, beyond the Irish pale.\n\nThe rest of the poem elaborates this ironic inversion of home and abroad, what Julia Reinhardt Lupton refers to as \"the _unheimlich_ contradictions and displacements implicit in the pastoral foundations of the Spenserian home.\" When his fellow shepherds ask him to describe his exotic journey, ascribing their interest to a love of \"forreine thing[s]\" (l. 162), Colin obliges by describing a country \"farre away, / so farre that land our mother vs did leaue, / and nought but sea and heauen to vs appeare\" (ll. 225\u201327). At first this England appears as an ideal home for poets, where \"shepheards abroad... may safely lie\" (l. 316), where \"learned arts do florish in great honor, / And Poets wits are had in peerlesse price\" (ll. 320\u201321), and where a gracious queen \"enclin[es] her eare\" to \"take delight\" in the \"rude and roughly dight\" music of Colin's pipe (ll. 360\u201363). As Colin enumerates the fortunate poets who enjoy this happy place, however, his descriptions betray a darker view: Harpalus is \"woxen aged / In faithfull service\" (ll. 380\u201381); Corydon is \"meanly waged\" (l. 382); \"sad _Alcyon_ \" is \"bent to mourne\" (l. 384); Palin is \"worthie of great praise\" but consumed by \"envie\" (ll. 392\u201393); Alcon requires \"matter of more skill\" (l. 395); Palemon \"himself may be rewed, / That sung so long vntill quite hoarse he grew\" (ll. 398\u201399); Alabaster is \"throughly taught\" but \"knowen yet to few\" and not \"knowne... as he ought\" (ll. 400\u2013402); Amyntas \"quite is gone and lies full low\" (l. 435); and the best of them all, Astrofell, \"is dead and gone\" (l. 449). By the time the litany ends, Colin's remark that \"[a]ll these do florish in their sundry kind\" (l. 452) can be read only as bitter irony, and when Thestylis asks, \"Why didst thou euer leaue that happie place?\" (l. 654), the answer seems self-evident: \"[S]ooth to say, it is no sort of life, / For shepheard fit to lead in that same place\" (ll. 688\u201389).\n\nThere is more at stake here than the usual pastoral satire of courtly life. Colin redefines the terms of his own apparent alienation so that exile becomes the necessary condition of poetic excellence and the paradoxical guarantee of a higher home. He and his fellow Irish swains may live on \"barrein soyle / Where cold and care and penury do dwell\" (ll. 656\u201357), but he anticipates a final reckoning at which the poets whose cunning has earned them proximity to power will suffer a worse fate: \"Ne mongst true louers will they place inherit / But as exuls out of [Love's] court be thrust\" (ll. 893\u201394). For Colin\u2014and perhaps for Spenser\u2014the very extremity of Irish colonial existence becomes an ideal, and bracingly material, figure for the displacement and alienation that have always characterized, indeed made possible, his peculiar inhabitation of the pastoral world.\n_Chapter 5_\n\n\"Conquering Feet\": Tamburlaine and the Measure of English\n\nThe Plain Show of a Manifest Maim\n\nPart 1 of _Tamburlaine the Great_ (1587\u201388) forcefully inverts Spenser's vision of the English poet as exile, recasting him as a violent intruder. Christopher Marlowe, a recent arrival to the professional London theater, invited audiences to see in the audacious progress of his barbarian hero the image of his own poetic daring, claiming Tamburlaine's legendary conquest of the East as a vehicle for his campaign to enlarge the boundaries of English verse: \"From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits, / And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, / We'll lead you to the stately tent of War,\" promises his prologue, \"Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine / Threat'ning the world with high astounding terms / And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.\" This announcement of a newly elevated voice and kingly measure for the English stage now seems as prophetic as any of Tamburlaine's boasts: \"will\" and \"shall\" befit the mighty Marlovian line as well as they do its Scythian champion. Londoners swarmed to see the outrageous and eloquent Tamburlaine make his bloody way across the vast imaginary terrain of Marlowe's play, and an inevitable host of lesser playwrights sought to capitalize on _Tamburlaine_ 's success with their own spectacles of exotic savagery and their own blank verse tragedies. Together with its sequel, _Tamburlaine_ launched Marlowe's theatrical career and altered the course of English literary history, establishing blank verse as the keynote of vernacular heroics.\n\nMarlowe dramatizes this conquest at the climax of part 1, when his ruthlessly ambitious hero mounts his imperial throne by stepping on the kneeling form of Bajazeth, \"treading him,\" as the Turkish sultan's wife laments, \"beneath [his] loathsome feet\" (4.2.64). Critics promptly seized upon the punning analogy between Tamburlaine's martial feet and Marlowe's insistent iambs, and they have not let it go. In the sixteenth century the satirist Joseph Hall lampooned the \"Turkish _Tamberlaine,_ \" whose \"huf-cap termes and thundring threats\" echo \"the stalking steps of his great personage\"; in a less mocking vein, the twentieth-century scholar Alvin Kernan identifies \"the steady, heavy beat of 'Marlowe's mighty line,' carrying authority, determination, and steady onward movement\" as the most novel and distinctive feature of the poet's verse. The spectacle of Bajazeth's humiliation also reminds us that, like Tamburlaine's military conquest, Marlowe's literary historical triumph is a drama of usurpation: the deposed Turk whom Tamburlaine makes his \"footstool\" has a double in the person of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, a sixteenth-century poet whose blank-verse translation of books 2 and 4 of Virgil's _Aeneid_ , published several decades before _Tamburlaine_ , is now regularly cast as a footnote to the arrival and ascent of Marlowe's mighty line.\n\nBut the analogy is not quite apt: strangely there is no particular arrogance\u2014or \"tamberlaine contempt,\" to borrow Gabriel Harvey's phrase\u2014in Marlowe's identification of blank verse as a bold and self-authorized departure from established usage. For by the 1580s English poets and critics had largely concurred in writing off the unrhymed, accented line of Surrey's translation as an interesting but misbegotten experiment in vernacular prosody. Roger Ascham, for instance\u2014one of the most vocal and eager proponents of unrhymed English verse in the mid-sixteenth century\u2014treats Surrey's _Aeneid_ with condescension: although he praises its author as the \"first of all English men\" to \"haue... by good iudgement, auoyded the fault of Ryming,\" he dismisses the poem as a well-intentioned failure, saying that it does not \"fullie hite perfite and trew versifying.\" Contrasted to Virgil's quantitative measures, he declares, Surrey's iambic feet are \"feete without ioyntes, that is to say, not distinct by trew quantitie of sillables: And... soch feete, be but numme feete: and be, euen as vnfitte for a verse to turne and runne roundly withall, as feete of brasse or wood be vnweeldie to go well withall. And as a foote of wood, is a plaine shew of a manifest maime, euen so feete, in our English versifiing, without quantitie and ioyntes, be sure signes, that the verse is either, borne deformed, vnnaturall and lame, and so verie vnseemlie to looke vpon, except to men that be gogle eyed them selues.\" This damning assessment of blank verse was enough to obscure Surrey's achievement from view for decades to come: in _Palladis Tamia_ (1598) Francis Meres praises Surrey as a love poet but repeats Ascham's criticism of his _Aeneid_ verbatim, while William Webbe, despite the fact that his _Discourse of English Poetry_ (1586) works hard to revive the cause of metrical versification, classes the \"olde Earl of Surrey\" among those native poets whose praise, for all their modest talents, would make his \"discourse much more tedious.\" So total is the neglect of Surrey's poem that O. B. Hardison concludes that \"there is no reason to doubt Milton's sincerity\" when, in his prefatory note to _Paradise Lost_ , he claimed his own epic poem to be \"the first [example] in English\" of heroic verse freed from the fetters of rhyme.\n\n_Tamburlaine_ thus presents us with a peculiar literary historical phenomenon: the triumph of a formal choice that had proved an utter failure just decades earlier, when it appeared in a guise far more likely to appeal to the prejudices and preconceptions of its readers. Derek Attridge has written extensively on the question of why sixteenth-century English poets and critics found it so difficult to recognize, much less appreciate, the accentual patterns of their own verse; here, he suggests, in an especially direct and pervasive way, their formation in the classics estranged those writers from their mother tongue, whose native accents were muffled by antique precepts. Confounded by the differences between classical \"quantities\" and English \"accents,\" they were liable to conclude, as Paula Blank writes, \"that English poetry had no meter, no 'true' numbers at all, and moreover that the English language itself was intrinsically unfit for true measure.\" Even so, the tepid reception of Surrey's achievement by his contemporaries and successors remains \"one of the curiosities of the history of English poetry.\" For if we attend to the metaphorical terms of the debate over rhyme and quantitative measure in the sixteenth century, Surrey's _Aeneid_ seems perfectly positioned to satisfy anxieties about the legitimacy of English as a literary language.\n\nMore than any other attribute of the language, the vernacular's supposed lack of measure was perceived as the tell-tale sign of England's barbarous, nonimperial past. Thus Ascham calls upon readers of _The Scholemaster_ to \"acknowledge and vnderstand rightfully our rude beggerly ryming\" as the legacy of barbarian conquest, \"brought first into Italie by _Gothes_ and _Hunnes,_ whan all good verses and all good learning... were destroyd by them: and after caryed into France and Germanie: and at last, receyued into England\" (60r). Ascham's \"at last\" ruefully acknowledges England's perpetual belatedness: isolated on the periphery of ancient civilization, it is the last to hear even the unwelcome news of barbaric overthrow. But it also stakes out a place for England as the last standing outpost of that civilization, a lone preserve of once-widespread values and practices of eloquence, and in the efforts of his own generation of humanist scholars and pedagogues to overthrow barbaric rhyme and reinstate classical versification, Ascham sees signs that the trajectory of gothic decline might be reversed: \"I rejoyce,\" he writes, \"that euen poore England preuented _Italie,_ first in spying out, than in seekyng to amend this fault in learning\" (62r).\n\nWere it not for his dismissive treatment of the blank-verse _Aeneid_ , we might reasonably suppose that Ascham's joy had something to do with the Earl of Surrey: given the Virgilian ambitions that inspired the quest for vernacular metrics, the arrival of an English Aeneas who speaks in unrhymed iambic pentameter seems like an occasion for celebration\u2014or at least for something more urgent than the general shrug that Surrey's poem receives. As Margaret Tudeau-Clayton observes, translating Virgil was a \"high stakes\" literary enterprise in sixteenth-century England, offering an occasion both for authorial self-promotion and \"for the promotion of cultural forms,... national equivalents to the unifying model furnished for the Roman people\" by Virgil himself, \"the 'columen linguae latinae' ('the pillar of the Latin language').\" By anchoring blank verse in the great classical poem of the founding of civilization and the translation of empire, Surrey's _Aeneid_ speaks directly to the twin desires for poetic measure and imperial stature. Indeed rarely has a literary text been better positioned for success: Surrey's translation appears in print (in Richard Tottel's widely read \"Miscellany\" of 1557) just as the quest for an alternative to rhyme becomes the centerpiece of English humanist efforts to achieve parity with ancient Greece and Rome. To perpetuate rhyme \"now, when men know the difference, and haue the examples, both of the best and the worst,\" Ascham famously declares, would be to embrace marginality and exclusion, to affirm one's own place outside the boundaries of civilization: \"to follow rather the _Gothes_ in rhyming than the _Greekes_ in trew versifying were euen to eate ackornes with swine, when we may freely eate wheate bread emonges men\" (60r). Ascham's metaphor echoes the opening lines of Virgil's _Georgics_ , the great classical poem of civilization and culture, which hymns the dawn of human society as the moment when \"earth... exchanged wild acorns for plump grains of wheat.\" The allusion invites English readers to imagine themselves as potential heirs to the empire envisioned in the _Georgics_ , which hails Octavian as lord of \"the great circling world,\" \"god of the great sea,\" and master of \"more than a fair share of heaven,\" while effacing\u2014or at least downplaying\u2014the labor and toil that are the poem's unceasing theme. \"I am sure,\" Ascham reassures his audience, \"our English tong will receiue _carmen Iambicum_ as naturallie, as either _Greke_ or _Latin._ \" If no English iambic verse has yet succeeded, he concludes, only \"ignorance\" is to blame (60v).\n\nWhat Ascham calls \"ignorance\"\u2014a culpable but passive defect of knowledge and education\u2014may seem to us like a more active failure of recognition, but it is possible that Surrey's affiliation of his formal innovation with Virgil's great epic did English blank verse no favors. Ascham, for one, seems to feel that he has been subjected to a shoddy sleight-of-foot: where Virgil's dactylic hexameters obey the classical laws of quantity\u2014which measure syllables according to duration in time\u2014Surrey accommodates his iambic pentameter to the vernacular's own patterns of accentual stress. To a classicist's ear, the substitution of accent for quantity makes the English feet seem to stumble haltingly behind Virgil's own: blank verse exposes the language's native defects, making a \"plaine shew of a manifest maime.\" English poets who tried, as Ascham urges them, to subject the vernacular to the principles of quantitative measure fared still worse: Surrey's blank verse may seem to have been \"borne deformed,\" but according to Edmund Spenser, the imposition of classical quantities crippled even the strongest English feet. Subjected to the alien rule of duration in time, Spenser confesses in a 1580 letter to Gabriel Harvey that \"the Accente\" of his English hexameters \"sometime gapeth, and as it were yawneth ilfauouredly, comming shorte of that it should, and sometime exceeding the measure of the Number,... seemeth like a lame Gosling, that draweth one legge after hir... [or] like a lame Dogge that holds vp one legge.\" Ascham may present the quest for English measure as a wholly natural turn from humiliation, deprivation, and hardship to abundance and ease\u2014trading in wild acorns for plump grains of wheat, the company of pigs for the company of men\u2014but Spenser's experience suggests that escaping the barnyard was not so simple: quantitative versification entailed hardships, deprivations, and humiliations of its own. Harvey, who initially responded with encouragement to Spenser's efforts at quantitative verse, wrote back urging him to leave off. Spenser's insistence that \"rough words must be subdued with Vse,\" so that English poets \"might... as else the Greekes, haue the kingdome of our owne Language,\" arouses his particular indignation: what Spenser dubs a \"kingdome of... language\" Harvey regards as closer to a military occupation. Objecting to his friend's heavy-handed manipulation of a familiar English noun, he warns, \"[Y]ou shall never have my subscription or consent to make your _Carp\u0113nter_ our _Carp\u00eanter_ an inche longer or bigger than God and his Englishe people have made him.\" \"Is there no other pollicie to pull downe Ryming and set vppe Versifying,\" he demands, \"but you must needes... forcibly vsurpe and tyrannize vppon a quiet companie of wordes?\"\n\nAs Richard Helgerson has shown, the debate between Spenser and Harvey over the future of vernacular versification turns not on the question of whether English accents are compatible with classical numbers\u2014Harvey hears the same strain and stress in Spenser's hexameters that Spenser does\u2014but on the question of how to interpret that mismatch metaphorically. The contest between rhyme and quantitative meter in late sixteenth-century vernacular criticism serves as a surrogate for arguments about the kind of rule fit for England, about the ideal balance between centralized authority and the rule of custom. But it also precipitates anxieties about the terms of Britain's relationship with the empires of antiquity. Poems written in English approximations of quantitative meter might be claimed as emblems of cultural parity, poetic fulfillment of the longing\u2014encoded in the myth of Brutus\u2014for a genealogical bond with antiquity. But they were also vulnerable to charges of ongoing cultural subjection, extensions of an ancient dependency. Was the application of classical prosody to English akin to the domestication of a savage and bestial herd, or was it an instance of tyrannical violence inflicted on innocent humanity?\n\nThat question, which accounts for the urgency with which English humanists treated the arcana of classical prosody, points the way toward a deeper understanding of Marlowe's otherwise astonishing success with _Tamburlaine_. For the two rival narratives of the debate about metrical versification\u2014civilizing order versus intolerable tyranny\u2014coexist within sixteenth-century accounts of the career of the fourteenth-century Scythian warlord known variously as Timur Khan, Timur Cutlu, and Timur-i-Lenk. Timur was a popular subject for European and English moralists, who offered his life both as an exemplary instance of spectacular self-improvement\u2014the rude shepherd becomes master of an empire\u2014and as a cautionary tale about violent excess and unbridled ambition\u2014the savage conqueror who is himself cut down by death, leaving his hard-won throne prey to a series of squabbling successors. As most of these narratives also note, the historical Timur walked with a limp: hence the title _Tamburlaine_ \u2014Timur-i-Lenk, or Timur the Lame. Calling upon Tamburlaine as the champion of his blank verse, Christopher Marlowe thus foregrounds the very anxieties\u2014barbarity and cultural degeneracy, tyranny and lameness\u2014that plagued figures such as Ascham, Spenser, and Harvey in their efforts to rehabilitate English quantitative measure.\n\nBy doing so he eludes the unfortunate comparisons that condemned Surrey's _Aeneid_ to the margins of literary history. When Ascham read Surrey's _Aeneid_ , its hero's imperial progress seems to have contrasted unfavorably with the effortful pacing of the poet's own feet; Tamburlaine, by contrast, was already \"the plaine shewe of a manifest maime\": English poetry could only look more refined, more humane by comparison. Mary Floyd-Wilson calls Marlowe's adoption of Tamburlaine \"a clever joke,\" the reverse of type-casting,\" but it is possible that Tamburlaine's Scythian rudeness made him a better advocate for a novel-seeming poetic form than the Trojan Aeneas. After all, as Attridge makes plain, what sixteenth-century poetic theorists needed (and often failed) to reckon with were the fundamental differences between the classical tongues and English, differences that Timur, with his strangeness and his striving, cast in a fresh light. Not everyone welcomed the sound of _Tamburlaine_ 's voice, to be sure, but even the criticisms leveled at Marlowe's verse by rivals such as Joseph Hall testify to its imperious effect, its \"big-sounding sentences, and words of state.\" Indeed critics such as Hall seem to take their cues from Marlowe himself, who crafts an overtly self-serving analogy between his own poetic ambitions and Tamburlaine's triumphs: Marlowe's \"base-born hero,\" observes David Riggs, \"is an extemporaneous oral poet whose verses... are his passport to wealth and dominion,\" a \"fable [that] transforms the cycle of poverty, poetry, and social mobility that had cast Marlowe on the margins of Elizabethan society into an unexampled success story.\"\n\nIn a more complicated fashion, I suggest, the Scythian Timur also serves the needs of sixteenth-century English rhetorical and poetic theorists, not as \"an unexampled success story\" but as a figure for the contradictory values ascribed to prosodic form as an index of cultural achievement. Ascham, for instance, presents quantitative measure as the antithesis of native brutality, a necessary submission to civilizing order, but he also covets classical meter as an emblem of England's capacity to resist invasion and conquest. As the exchanges between Spenser and Harvey demonstrate, efforts to adapt quantitative measures into English tend to get caught between the twin perils of barbaric marginality and tyrannical coercion: either way subjection lies. By yoking the future of the unrhymed iambic line to the rise of a notoriously violent barbarian, confounding eloquent measure with vulgar excess and outlandish extremity, Marlowe points an unlikely way out of the doomed contest between vernacular and classical prosody, suggesting that English poetry stake its legitimacy precisely on its disregard for the decorums of more civilized tongues.\n\nHe is not the only one to do so: at least two of Marlowe's contemporaries found in the legend of the lawless Timur Khan a possible solution to the question of vernacular prosody. For Marlowe, Tamburlaine serves as the avatar of English poetry freed from the petty constraints of rhyme, but for the rhetorician George Puttenham, a figure dubbed Temir Cutzclewe\u2014Timur Cutlu, or Timur the Lucky\u2014models a form of poetic measure that excels the classical quantities in its rigor. Meanwhile for the poet and critic Samuel Daniel, a staunch proponent of vulgar rhyme, Tamburlaine is the figure for a literary tradition that exceeds the narrow worldview of antiquity and an eloquence that is its own law. Marlowe, Puttenham, and Daniel take very different stances when it comes to defining what English measure ought to look and sound like, but they each recognize in the debate over versification an opportunity to reexamine the most basic terms of rhetorical and poetic judgment, exposing the violence within eloquence, the transgressions on which the rules of restraint depend, and the willfulness with which lines of verse and the boundaries of linguistic community are drawn.\n\nSuch internal contradictions expose the inadequacy of Ascham's binary of Greeks and Goths, humans and beasts: both Englishness and eloquence are found to inhabit a terrain where brutality is the handmaid of _humanitas_ , and Scythians are the progenitors of civilization. Noticing Tamburlaine's odd prominence within the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century history of prosody means noticing as well that the paradoxes he comes to embody\u2014violence married to sweetness, measure to excess, barbarity to civility, and license to restraint\u2014are embedded in the foundation of vernacular literary theory and practice. But foundation may be the wrong term altogether, for the strikingly diverse solutions offered by Marlowe, Puttenham, and Daniel (not to mention Ascham, Spenser, and Harvey) to the nagging problem of measure suggest how very unstable and contested that theory and practice remained. More forcefully than even Euphues or Colin Clout, the Scythian Timur resists domestication as a figure of Orphic communion\u2014which seems to have made him the ideal figure for English poetry.\n\nTemir Cutzclewe's Arte of Poesie\n\n\"[W]hat is unrhythmical is unlimited,\" Aristotle writes of metrical prose and verse in book 3 of the _Art of Rhetoric_ , \"and there should be a limit,... for the unlimited is unpleasant and unknowable.\" In the opening lines of book 2 of his 1589 _Arte of English Poesie_ , Puttenham echoes Aristotle, observing that \"all things stand by proportion, and that without it nothing could stand to be good or beautiful\"(53). What was at stake, then, in the seemingly picayune debate over rhyme, quantities, and other forms of measure was the viability both of English eloquence and of English theories of English eloquence: without fixed formal standards, English poetry risked condemnation as unpleasant and unknowable, artless in every sense of the word. Marlowe's Tamburlaine understands the problem precisely; his quest for global dominion is propelled by his desire to know the outermost limits of his power: \"Since they measure our deserts so mean... / They shall be kept our forc\u00e8d followers / Till with their eyes they view us emperors,\" he informs an early set of captives ( _One_ 1.2.63, 66\u201367), and on the point of death he will beg for a map to \"see how much / Is left for me to conquer all the world\" ( _Two_ 5.3.123\u201324). More pointedly than any other literary critical issue, prosody forced vernacular authors to recognize the interdependence of theory and practice: the question of whether or not the vernacular was eloquent could not, finally, be distinguished from the question of whether and how its eloquence could be measured.\n\nMarlowe's Tamburlaine dies before he reaches that outermost bound, leaving a pair of inept sons \"to finish all [his] wants\" ( _Two_ 5.3.125), but in book 2 of Puttenham's _Arte,_ the Scythian Timur helps to rescue the author from his own unbounded\u2014perhaps unhinged\u2014attempt to measure English verse. Puttenham dedicates his second book, \"Of Proportion Poeticall,\" to fulfilling the bold pronouncement he makes in the _Arte_ 's opening pages, which claim that the vernacular's lack of quantitative feet is not a defect but a sign of superabundance. Even if English poetry does not obey the strict laws of classical versification, \"the nature of our language and wordes not permitting it,\" he declares, it possesses \"in stead thereof twentie other curious points in that skill more then they euer had, by reason of our rime and tunable concords or simphonie, which they neuer obserued\" (4). Puttenham is assisted in making good on his boast because of his willingness to play fast and loose with the etymologies of terms such as _rithmos_ , _arithmos_ and rhyme, \"arithmeticall\" and _ars metrica_ : as the first ten chapters of book 2 demonstrate, a motivated rhetorician can invent meaningful ratios for every possible dimension of a poem, from the arrangement of accents within a line of verse to the number of syllables in each line, the number of lines in a stanza, the ratio of internal rhyme to end-rhyme, the distances between end-rhymes, and the degree of latitude to be granted poets in orthographical and accentual variation.\n\nAnd yet for all its pretensions to mathematical precision, Puttenhamian proportion (like Puttenhamian ornament) is a contingent, not an absolute value: a function not simply of a poem's internal workings\u2014of the length of a line relative to its fellows or to the length of the poem as a whole\u2014but also of its relation to an unpredictable outside world. As Lawrence Manley has written, this paradox of rigidity and flexibility defines all literary\u2014indeed, all human\u2014conventions, which \"behave as both timeless forms of objective order and temporal expressions of changing values.\" Book 2 encounters this paradox in terms of place as well as time: Puttenham aims to fix proportion and measure on English terms, but he retains a sense of skepticism about any overly rigid boundary. \"[S]hort distaunces [between end-rhymes] and short measures pleas[e] onely the popular eare,\" Puttenham declares at one point: \"we banish them vtterly\" (69). Nonetheless, he adds, it \"can be obiected against this wide distance... that the eare by loosing his concord is not satisfied,\" and \"therefore the Poet must know to whose eare he maketh his rime, and accommodate himselfe thereto, and not giue such musicke to the rude and barbarous, as he would to the learned and delicate eare\" (71\u201372). This willingness to accommodate oneself, to be obedient to both the laws of proportion and the tastes of one's audience, is the paradoxical precondition of poetic supremacy. The \"rhymer that will be tied to no rules at all, but range as he list, may easily utter what he will,\" Puttenham allows (62), but the true poet thrives on limitation: what makes verse proportionate is not the absence or presence of rhyme or quantitative feet but responsiveness to the demands and desires of a locally specific set of listeners.\n\nBut this locally specific audience is not easily defined or limited: indeed Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ establishes a conspicuously broad range of reference for courtly English poets, a geography of eloquence extending well past Ascham's world of Greeks and Goths. According to Puttenham, in fact, rhyme was not the compensatory innovation of barbarous, late-antique poets unable to master quantitative verse but rather an ancient poetic device literally beyond the ken of Homer and Virgil. Citing the testimony of sixteenth-century England's \"marchants and trauellers, [whose] late nauigations haue surueyed the whole world, and discouered large countries and strange peoples wild and sauage,\" he \"affirm[s] that the American, the Perusine, and the very Canniball do sing and also say their highest and holiest matters in certaine riming versicles, and not in prose.\" The correspondence between New World verses and English poetry \"proues also that our maner of vulgar Poesie is _more ancient_ than the artificiall of the Greeks and Latines, ours coming by instinct of nature, which was before Art or obseruation, and vsed with the sauage and vnciuill, who were before all science and ciuilitie.\" The values enshrined in classical poetic theory are, Puttenham implies, the product of an overly narrow frame of cultural reference. The global perspective afforded by England's new commercial and colonial ventures allows him to upend the ancient hierarchy of poetic virtues, as the wildness, savagery, and strangeness of rhyme\u2014the very qualities that alienate it from the classical models of poetic excellence\u2014become points of proud commonality with all other tongues. \"[I]t appeareth that our vulgar running Poesie was common to all the nations of the world besides, whom the Latines and greekes in speciall called barbarous,\" he concludes. Rhyme is not only \"the first and most ancient poesie\"; it is also \"the most vniuersall\" (7).\n\nThis investment in poetry as an art whose values are at once local and universal produces a noticeably wayward treatise on measure. \"I could not forbeare to adde this forraine example,\" Puttenham apologizes after a digression into the uniforms worn by members of the Chinese court ([89]). \"One other pretie conceit we will impart vnto you and then trouble you with no more,\" begins a section on anagrams devised from the titles of various foreign monarchs ([90]). \"Thus farre... we will aduenture and not beyond,\" he promises in a section exploring possible adaptation of classical feet into English\u2014an approach he earlier dismissed as far-fetched (86); then, a bit further on, \"I intend not to proceed any further in this curiositie\" (91); and again, a number of pages later, still on the same subject, announcing that it \"nothing at all furthers the pleasant melody of our English meeter,\" \"I leaue to speake any more of them\" (107). Indeed the whole of book 2, with its haphazard juxtaposition of diagrams, digressions, anecdotes, and pseudo-learned disquisitions on the habits of exotic cultures, seems to constitute a metadiscourse on the difficulty of assessing and maintaining the proportions of its own argument.\n\nBut book 2's willingness to entertain diverse and even contradictory conceptions of measure also transforms the virtue of measure from an attribute of language to an attribute of poets. Thus, at the close of the tenth chapter of book 2, Puttenham condenses all of his rules and precepts into a single exercise, which discerns whether or not a poet is \"of a plentiful discourse,\" \"copious in his language,\" and \"his crafts maister\" by subjecting him to a stringently limited and wholly arbitrary system of measure:\n\nMake me... so many strokes or lines with your pen as ye would haue your song containe verses: and let euery line beare his seuerall length, euen as ye would haue your verse of measure.... Then where you will haue your time or concord to fall, marke it with a compast stroke or semicircle passing ouer those lines, be they farre or neare in distance.... [Finally,] bycause ye shall not thinke the maker hath premeditated beforehand any such fashioned ditty, do ye your selfe make one verse whether it be of perfect or imperfect sense, and giue it him for a theame to make all the rest vpon: if ye shall perceiue the maker do keepe the measures and rime as ye haue appointed him, and besides do make his dittie sensible and ensuant to the first verse in good reason, then may ye say he is his crafts maister. (74)\n\nIn this test poetic mastery is recognized through obedience to conditions that are at once contingent and inflexible, subject to change but nonetheless binding at any given moment. The extraordinary influence and power Puttenham bestows on his poet in book 1\u2014his ability to \"mollify... hard and stonie hearts by his sweete and eloquent perswasion,\" to bring \"rude and sauage people to a more ciuill and orderly life,\" to \"redresse and edifie the cruell and sturdie courage of man\" (4)\u2014is the consequence of his own willingness to \"keep the measures and rime as ye haue appointed him,\" \"follow[ing] the rule of... restraint.\"\n\nPuttenham's exercise shifts the burden of measure off the English language and onto English poets, but it also cannily redefines measure so as to put it within reach of the vernacular. The measure set by \"you\" is not a fixed pattern of long and short syllables but an actual line drawn on the page: a line might be a meter, or a foot, in length, but it need not contain any metrical feet. In the following chapter Puttenham sets aside the entire question of how a poem ought to sound, proposing instead that English poets try to achieve what he calls \"proportion in figure\"\u2014poems set \"in forme of a _Lozange_ or square, or such other figure.\" He claims to have learned the technique from \"a certaine gentleman, who had long trauailed the Orientall parts of the world, and seene the courts of the great Princes of China and Tartarie\": chief among them the court of the \"great Emperor in Tartary whom they call _Can_ ,\" and who \"for his good fortune in the wars & many notable conquests he had made, was surnamed _Temir Cutzclewe_ \" (77). This Temir's oriental pattern-poem, he argues, both epitomizes and transcends the virtue of classical metrical proportion: even more than the strict laws of quantitative measure, \"the restraint of the figure\" fixes a limit \"from which ye may not digresse.\" Because \"the maker is restrained to keep him within [the shape's] bounds,\" Temir's pattern-poem \"sheweth not onely more art, but serueth also much better for briefenesse and subtilitie of deuice\" than either English accentual rhymes or classical meters.\n\nWhy Temir Cutzclewe, famed for his fortune in war and his notable conquests? In part Puttenham is once again drawn to a position outside the arena in which English faces off against the classical tongues. Proportion in figure is, he emphasizes, \"not... vsed by any of the Greeke or Latine Poets\" nor found \"in any vulgar writer.\" As A. L. Korn points out, this insistence on the alien origin of \"proportion in figure\" is either an uncharacteristic error or a patent falsehood: Greek, Latin, continental, and even English poets had experimented amply with shape- or pattern-poems well before the late sixteenth century. It is, Korn notes,\n\na curiositie of Puttenham's discourse that this otherwise erudite author gives the impression of having known almost nothing at all of the earlier pattern-poems composed by his numerous European predecessors. Puttenham's role as the na\u00efve discoverer of an Oriental type of pattern-poetry, a literary genre he believed to be alien to the European tradition, has therefore a certain historic interest. In _The Arte of English Poesie_ we find perhaps for the first time an English critic drawing upon Eastern materials, or what he conceives to be such, in the routine practice of his profession.\n\nOr maybe not so naive: after all, the far-fetched pedigree of his shape-poems constitutes much of their appeal for Puttenham, and perhaps for his readers as well. The English critic had no need of yet one more classical or continental form for the vernacular poet to emulate, but to claim the shape-poem as an exotic import from the Far East invokes a much more appealing cultural narrative: not the Englishman as laggard but the Englishman as adventurer, scouring the globe in search of foreign treasures. And indeed Puttenham's admiration for the pattern-poem's obvious formal restraint is coupled with fascination with its conspicuous material extravagance. Typically \"engraven in gold, silver or ivory, and sometimes with letters of amethyst, ruby, emerald, or topaz curiously cemented and pieced together,\" the Tartarian or Chinese shape-poem becomes a sign of fabulous wealth and power. For Puttenham, moreover, the visuality of the pattern-poem is of a piece with its supposed exoticism: both elements make the pattern-poem a useful addition to a debate stuck on the aural incompatibilities of English accents and classical quantities. Read aloud, Temir's pattern-poems would not register as poetry at all: the rhymes fall at the ends of unevenly matched lines, and accentual stresses are distributed at random. Puttenham cautions that \"[a]t the beginning they wil seeme nothing pleasant to an English eare\" (76), but his intent may be to bypass the troublesome English ear altogether.\n\nBy choosing Temir Cutzclewe as the patron and master of this most excellent form of proportion, Puttenham also underlines the central claim of his treatise on measure: namely that proportion is in the eye of the beholder. Like cannibal rhyme, the \"great Emperor in Tartary\" and his poems may be barbarous from the perspective of Homer or Virgil, but that judgment is a mark of antiquity's own provinciality, contrasted implicitly and unfavorably to the more expansive awareness of the sixteenth-century English reader: Temir is \"known\" to the reader both by virtue of his vast empire and thanks to Puttenham's own cosmopolitan adventures. The poems Puttenham offers as examples of Temir's art testify vividly to the splendors of global conquest but also to the tyrannical excesses by which it proceeds. The first, composed by Temir's lover, was set as a brooch \"in letters of rubies and diamonds\" and describes Temir's \"sharp / Trenching blade of bright steel... cleaving hard down unto the eyes / the raw skulls of his enemies.\" The reply, written by Temir and fashioned \"with letters of emeralds and amethysts artificially cut and intermingled,\" heralds \"Five / Sore battles / Manfully fought / In bloody field,\" whereby Temir has \"forced... many a king his crown to vail, / Conquering large countries and land\" (77).\n\nAs a figure for Puttenham's own rhetorical project, Temir Cutzclewe embodies the simultaneity of ambition and insecurity within sixteenth-century vernacular poetic theory. He offers Puttenham a way out of the prolonged, perhaps irresolvable, contest between rhyme and classical quantities, but his poems present a conspicuously brutal model of poetic self-assertion. The analogy is not merely metaphorical: the violent deeds celebrated within the poems have a formal analog in the typographical devices used to achieve the desired shape. The outer edges of each poem may manifest the virtues of restraint, but the field within is marked by forcings and cleavings within words, as each line is stretched or compressed to fit the boundaries of the imposed shape. In chapter 8 of book 2, Puttenham sternly reprimands the \"licentious maker\" who twists a word's natural spelling of pronunciation \"to serue his cadence\" (67), but in these poems he grants the Scythian Temir license not simply to alter the spelling of words but to sever them into fragments and force them together, leaving gaping holes in some lines and scant room in others, syllables as \"artificially cut and entermingled\" (78) as the gemstones with which they are set.\n\nThose internal gaps and forcings work to Puttenham's advantage, however, insofar as they provide a foil for the English pattern-poems that follow\u2014two obelisk-shaped verses, two pillars, and two \"roundels,\" composed by Puttenham and dedicated to Elizabeth I. Contrasted with Temir's bloody and spangled verses, Puttenham's poems adopt a more measured tone and less ostentatious visual effects. This formal conservatism mirrors a shift in thematic content: unlike the bloodthirsty, land-hungry Temir Cutzclewe, the English queen is celebrated as a monarch wise enough to be content with the limits of her domain. Her tireless quest \"to mount on high,\" mimicked by the obelisk-poem's upward climb, aims at a heavenly reward: hers is \"an higher / Crown and empire / Much greater, / And richer, / And better\" than any merely earthly conquest (79). The Temir Cutzclewe of the first poem may have won \"honor... all the / World / Round\" (77), but Elizabeth's honor is \"assured / In the / Azured / Sky\" (79): at its pinnacle the English pattern-poem reverts to assonance, to the unostentatious pleasures of the ear. In fact the two \"roundels\" are not even round\u2014whatever hint they contain of a desire for global mastery is sublimated into praise for Elizabeth's chaste self-containment and her preservation of \"the dominion great and large / Which God hath given to her charge\": England's own \"most spacious bound\" (83).\n\nFigure 1. \"Orientall\" pattern-poems from the court of Temir Cutzclewe, in George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (1589). Image courtesy of the Beinecke Library, Yale University.\n\nThis decorous sublimation contrasts, in the following chapter, with the too-obvious ambition of Elizabeth's rival Philip of Spain, who adopts as his emblem the copper figure of \"a king sitting on horsebacke vpon a _monde_ or world, the horse prauncing forward with his forelegges as if he would leape of, with this inscription, _Non sufficit orbis_ , meaning, as it is to be conceaued, that one whole world could not content him\" (118). The motto's boast has come to naught, Puttenham observes, since \"[t]his immeasurable ambition of the Spaniards\" was, by \"her Maiestie [and] by God's prouidence,... prouidently stayed and retranched,\" to the gratification of \"all the Princes and common wealthes in Christendome, who haue found themselues long annoyed with his excessiue greatnesse.\" Within the roundels Puttenham fashions for his queen, greatness is the antidote to excess and measure the key to perfection. Puttenham's pattern-poems present English insularity\u2014its lack of vast territories and dazzling sources of wealth\u2014as the product of a sophisticated aesthetic and political sensibility: like the maker of the pattern-poem, who displays his genius by severely restricting its expression, Elizabeth's imperial might is best manifested by the modest proportions of her empire. Elizabeth is the protagonist of the _Arte of English Poesie_ , then, precisely because she is not the ruler of a vast empire; rather in her power resides her talent for keeping measure in all things.\n\nFigure 2. \"A special and particular resemblance of her Maiestie to the Roundell,\" in George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (1589). Image courtesy of the Beinecke Library, Yale University.\n\nMarlowe's Violent Measures\n\nOf course vast empires, whether poetic or real, have an undeniable appeal, and despite Puttenham's stated commitment to the virtues of modesty and measure, his discussion of proportion is repeatedly pulled off course by his fascination with disproportion, excess, prodigality, extremity, and even loss of control. In this he resembles Marlowe: both _Tamburlaine the Great_ and Puttenham's _Arte_ invite comparisons between the state of English verse and the state of the English polity. That the playwright and the rhetorician should independently and virtually simultaneously turn to Timur, reimagining the fourteenth-century Scythian warlord as a late sixteenth-century English poet-conqueror, is more than an interesting coincidence. It accentuates the proximity of politics and prosody in the early modern English imagination, and the interplay of boundaries and transgression on which both national and poetic identities depended. When Puttenham, in the opening section of his _Arte_ , names Elizabeth as England's \"most excellent poet\" (95), he is not only deploying flattery; he is also suggesting that the contours of English verse correspond to the contours of English empire. Book 2 complicates this equation, however, with its far-flung quest for poetic models: the task of defining the vernacular's limits gives way to the pursuit of extravagant curiosities.\n\nAs Emily Bartels, Richmond Barbour, Stephen Greenblatt, John Gillies, and others have argued, _Tamburlaine the Great_ speaks to a similarly complex sense of English identity, as Marlowe's expansive approach to vernacular drama captured the enthusiasms and ideals of an increasingly mobile and outward-looking society. Tamburlaine, especially, with his habit of cataloging his conquests in rich detail, has been claimed as a figure for the \"emergence of imperialist ideologies and propaganda,\" for \"England's desire to encompass and enjoy the world,\" and for \"the acquisitive energies of English merchants, entrepreneurs, and adventurers.\" As it happens, Marlowe scholars are indebted to Puttenham's _Arte_ for this reading of the Marlovian aesthetic: Puttenham's Englishing of _hyperbole_ as \"the overreacher\" in book 3's catalog of tropes and figures supplied Harry Levin with both a title and a guiding conceit for his seminal study of Marlowe's dramatic career. Puttenham's epithet, Levin argues, \"could not have been more happily inspired to throw its illumination upon Marlowe\u2014upon his style, which is so emphatically himself, and on his protagonists, overreachers all.\" It is not simply that Marlowe's protagonists are prone to hyperbolic utterances; rather, for Levin and his successors, it is Puttenham's notion of _hyperbole_ as a figure that flirts with infinity, threatening to pass \"beyond all measure\" (276), as Puttenham cautions his readers, that so perfectly captures both the material and the rhetorical excesses of the Marlovian hero. And it is the empire-hungry hero of _Tamburlaine_ who, with his imperial conquests and soaring rhetoric, provides the \"barbaric prototype\" for a newly extravagant and frankly imperial vernacular poetics.\n\nThere is, however, an implicit irony to Levin's conception of Tamburlaine as the paradigmatic Marlovian \"overreacher\": the Scythian's \"conquering feet\" ( _One_ 3.3.230), as Marlowe punningly calls them, do not merely trample down his foes and march across vast expanses of territory; they also regulate and sustain the precisely measured and neatly contained blank verse that the play's prologue identifies as its foremost achievement. Whatever one might say about its hero, _Tamburlaine_ does not pass beyond all measure so much as it _defines_ English measure. Thus although _Tamburlaine_ has been read as the expression of explicitly far-fetched ambitions, \"the Renaissance wish-dream of global empire,\" it also makes a compelling case for the pleasure and discipline of confinement. The power of \"Marlowe's dramatic poetry,\" writes Russ McDonald, \"proceeds from his unique combination of the transgressive and the conventional\": \"The 'mighty line'... is marked by irrepressible energy, thrilling sonorities, and dazzling verbal pictures, but it is still a _line_ , an ordering system, an invariable and comforting rhythmic standard that organizes words and ideas.\" Levin acknowledges this tension, noting that \"[m]ore than a third\" of the exotic place names that litter Tamburlaine's speech and signal his imperial ambitions \"gain peculiar stress by coming at the end of a line,\" so that the very geographic sweep of the plot helps to cement the impression of metrical containment.\n\nIt is tempting, therefore, to read Marlowe's play as reconciling the rivalrous demands that eloquence has imposed on its practitioners from the beginning: to confine and regulate wayward impulses, while satisfying the longing for estrangement. But what McDonald identifies as _Tamburlaine_ 's distinctive contribution to the history of English eloquence\u2014its novel juxtaposition of high astounding terms and distant locales with rhythmic regularity and metrical restraint\u2014seems to have been lost on Marlowe's earliest auditors, who are as often critical of the immoderation of Marlowe's verse as they are outraged by his protagonists' rhetorical and moral trespasses. Absent the audible boundary inscribed by end-rhyme, the measure of Marlowe's line proved disconcertingly elusive to the English ear: Thomas Nashe heard in Marlowe's verse both ill-disguised insufficiency\u2014\"the swelling bombast of a bragging blanke verse\"\u2014and blatant excess\u2014the \"ingrafted ouerflow\" and \"spacious volubility of a drumming decasillabon\"; while Joseph Hall dismissed Marlowe's \"pure Iambick verse\" as a far-fetched concoction \"patch[ed]... up\" with \"termes Italianate.\" What Harvey called Marlowe's \"tamberlaine contempt\" was not countered but exemplified by his formal innovation: the \"English blancke verse\" of \"that Atheist Tamburlan\" might be rich and sonorous, wrote Robert Greene in 1588, \"euerie word filling the mouth like the faburden of Bo-Bell,\" but it is \"intolerable poetrie.\" Even Ben Jonson, admiring heir to what he christens \"Marlowe's mighty line,\" betrays in his commonplace book a more skeptical view of his predecessor's influence on English theater and English ears: \"The True Artificer will not run away from nature, as hee were afraid of her, or depart from life and the likenesse of Truth, but speake to the capacity of his hearers. And though his language differ from the vulgar somewhat, it shall not fly from all humanity, with the _Tamerlanes_ and _Tamer-Chams_ of the late Age, which had nothing in them but the _scenicall_ strutting, and furious vociferation to warrant them to the ignorant gapers.\" Like Levin, Jonson credits Marlowe with the invention of a \"barbaric prototype,\" but that prototype is here imagined as an agent of degeneracy, the begetter of a Scythian horde whose language is neither vulgar nor humane, neither common nor classical.\n\nVested as they are in their own notions of English eloquence, Nashe, Harvey, Greene, and Jonson are hardly disinterested auditors of Marlowe's verse, but their skeptical, even scathing, commentary provides a useful corrective to the appreciative responses of many modern scholars. For although the critical tradition has long identified blank verse as Marlowe's \"most meaningful contribution\" to English drama, the meaning of that contribution, as McDonald also notes, resides in its unlikelihood: however much unrhymed iambic pentameter now sounds like the natural voice of English drama, making it so entailed the \"renovation and development of a hitherto undistinguished poetic form,\" a \"strange tongue\" fit for the strange figures with which his plays are peopled. Marlowe himself suggests that comfort, order, and regularity were not the governing principles of his new poetic form; in fact Jonson's accusation of reckless departure is more in keeping with the playwright's own claims for blank verse. According to the prologue to part 1 of _Tamburlaine_ , vernacular verse suffered from needless constraint, from the limited talents and provincial tastes of \"rhyming mother wits\"; what English poetry requires above all, Marlowe declares, is freedom from end-rhyme's petty bounds and access to the rhetorical terrain of \"high astounding terms.\" The prologue thus \"invites English auditors away,\" \"throwing off [the] domestic confinements [of] comedy, rhyme, location\" in pursuit of what Richmond Barbour calls \"an eloquence of nomadism.\"\n\nTo put it in Jonson's terms, if this Scythian struts, it is because we are meant to notice his feet. According to most early modern histories, the real Tamerlane walked with a limp\u2014hence his name, Timur the Lame\u2014but George Whetstone's _English Myrrour_ (1586) rejects this bit of the legend, claiming that \"the strength and comeliness of [Tamburlaine's] body, aunswered the haughtiness of his hart.\" Marlowe takes full advantage of his source, imagining a Tamburlaine whose gait is as steady as the stressed and unstressed beats of an iambic pentameter line. In case we should miss the pun, Marlowe's play is full of references to feet: \"A thousand horsemen! We, five hundred foot! / An odds too great for us to stand against!\" Tamburlaine exclaims on the verge of an encounter with the Persian monarch's host ( _One_ 1.2.121\u201322). But stand they do: Tamburlaine's forceful eloquence persuades the Persian general to join forces with him against the rest of the Persian army. Later, when he seizes the Turkish sultan's crown and the title of emperor of the East, Tamburlaine exults that \"[t]he pillars that have bolstered up those terms / Are fall'n in clusters at my conquering feet,\" and to drive the point home, he uses the former sultan, Bajazeth, as his footstool, \"treading him beneath [his] loathsome feet\"( _One_ 3.3.229\u201330, 4.2.64). Such self-conscious jokes invite us to see Tamburlaine's imperial progress as the perfect and perhaps necessary analog to his creator's literary innovation: \"repeatedly in the play,\" observes J. S. Cunningham, \"metre and syntax... become analogues of other kinds of capability.\" But Zabina's revulsion at Tamburlaine's \"loathsome feet\" anticipates the resentment Marlowe's supposedly orderly and comforting standard occasioned in some auditors. It is not simply that Marlowe's verse sounded strange in the ears of early modern English audiences; it also seemed to manifest a particularly willful, even violent disregard for the proper limits of poetic expression. If we take those reactions seriously, what can appear as distinct, even opposed qualities of the play\u2014on the one hand, its disregard for geographic and moral boundaries and, on the other, its investment in the apparent regularity and order of the blank-verse line\u2014may better be read as complimentary dimensions of its interest in the often problematic relationship between eloquence and abuse, measure and trespass.\n\nIndeed Marlowe makes it difficult for us to distinguish his protagonist's extreme strategies for global dominion from his own poetic tactics. Initially, to be sure, the contrast between eloquence and abuse is externalized in the contrast between the smooth-spoken Tamburlaine and his ham-fisted, spluttering rivals. Having promised audiences an outsize spectacle, the prologue to part 1 gives way to a startling anticlimax: instead of the Scythian Tamburlaine with his high astounding terms and conquering sword, the audience is confronted with the Persian Mycetes, feeble and tongue-tied master of a \"maimed empery\" ( _One_ 1.1.126). \"Brother Cosroe, I find myself aggrieved, / Yet insufficient to express the same, / For it requires a great and thund'ring speech,\" he whines (1\u20133). Cosroe's withering response establishes Mycetes's rhetorical ineptitude as the sign of a more profound unfitness for the task of empire: \"Unhappy Persia, that in former age / hast been the seat of mighty conquerors/ that in their prowess and their policies / Have triumphed over Afric, and the bounds / Of Europe,\" he laments, while \"Now Turks and Tartars shake their swords at thee, / meaning to mangle all thy provinces\" (6\u201310, 16\u201317). Mycetes protests at the insubordination\u2014\"I might command you to be slain for this!\"\u2014but the pretense of imperiousness is undercut by his childish appeal for confirmation: \"Meander, might I not?\" \"Not for so small a fault, my sovereign lord,\" comes the humiliating reply. \"I mean it not, but yet I know I might,\" the embarrassed king insists, and then, in a last-ditch effort to save face, \"Yet live, yea, live, Mycetes wills it so\" (23\u201324, 25, 26\u201327). The inability to maintain order within his own throne room is tied to the impoverishment of Mycetes's speech. Cosroe has at least a rudimentary grasp of rhetorical effect, evident in the aggressive alliteration of \"Turks and Tartars... meaning to mangle,\" but his brother's retort degenerates into a mumble, while his sole attempt at wordplay sounds more like a stutter: \"I refer me to my noblemen, / That know my wit and can be witnesses\" (21\u201322).\n\nSuch incompetence effectively sets the stage for Tamburlaine's vastly more eloquent and effective sovereignty. The Tamburlaine who appears onstage in the first act of part 1 not only satisfies the expectations aroused by Marlowe's prologue but also fulfills the fantasy on which the English rhetorical tradition is founded: that eloquence offers a bloodless path to imperial might. \"[W]hat worthier thing can there bee, then with a word to winne Cities and whole Countries?\" Thomas Wilson asks in the dedicatory epistle to his _Arte of Rhetorique_ (1560). \"[W]hat greater gaine can we haue, then without bloudshed achiue to a Conquest? [And] what greater delite doe wee knowe, then to see a whole multitude, with the onely talke of man, rauished and drawne which way he liketh best to haue them?\" Rhetoric, Wilson urges, is the key to such profit and pleasure, for \"such force hath the tongue, and such is the power of Eloquence and reason, that most men are forced, euen to yeeld in that which most standeth against their will.\" Wilson substantiates his claim by invoking the figure of the Gallic Hercules, described by the Greek sophist Lucian as having \"all men lincked together by the eares in a chaine\" attached to his tongue, \"to drawe them and leade them euen as he lusted.\" For, Wilson explains, \"his witte was so great, his tongue so eloquent, and his experience such, that no man was able to withstande his reason, but eueryone was rather driven to doe that which he would, and to will that which he did, agreeing to his aduise both in word and worke in all that euer they were able.\" But as Sean Keilen observes, the Gallic Hercules is an ambivalent figure for the civilizing power of eloquence, \"a half-divine, half-bestial man,\" towering over his captives but swathed in animal skins. In the numerous sixteenth-century editions of Andrea Alciato's popular _Emblematum Liber_ , the figure of the Gallic Hercules appears under the motto _Eloquentia fortitudine praestantior_ but rests his weight on a stout club (or, in the image reproduced here, from a 1584 Paris edition, lofts it menacingly in the air): physical force is eloquence's silent partner. \"The addressees of [Hercules's] eloquence,\" observes Wolfgang G. M\u00fcller, \"appear as a kind of rhetorical chain gang, with no choice but to listen and accept the wisdom which the orator instills into them.\"\n\nIn the first act of _Tamburlaine_ , Marlowe provides his audience with a similarly equivocal spectacle of bloodless conquest, in which the eloquence of the Scythian warlord triumphs over the far greater military might of the Persian army. Faced with \"a thousand horsemen\" against his own \"five hundred foot,\" Tamburlaine \"play[s] the orator\": \"Forsake thy king and do but join with me,\" he invites his opponent, the Persian captain Theridamas, \"And we will triumph over all the world\" ( _One_ 1.2.121, 129, 171\u201372). It is a patently ludicrous claim\u2014as Tamburlaine admits, the \"odds\" of a battle between his own force and the Persian army are \"too great for us to stand against\" (122)\u2014but one Tamburlaine buttresses with impressive argumentative skill. Improvising as he goes, he builds credibility from hints and shreds of evidence\u2014a hastily assembled display of booty becomes proof that Jove favors Tamburlaine's prospects, \"rain[ing] down heaps of gold in showers, / As if he meant to give my soldiers pay,\" while a recent captive, the daughter of the Egyptian sultan, is trotted out \"as a sure and grounded argument / That I shall be the monarch of the East\" (181\u201384). Tamburlaine's bravado succeeds; almost in spite of himself, Theridamas is convinced. \"Not Hermes, prolocutor to the gods, / Could use persuasions more pathetical,\" he marvels (209\u201310). In a touch that would have been especially gratifying to an English audience, Theridamas claims that Tamburlaine's rude origins only make his eloquence the more potent: \"What strong enchantments 'tice my yielding soul? / Are these resolved, noble, _Scythians_ \" (223\u201324)? In an ironic reversal, the praise Mycetes conferred upon the Persian captain in scene 1\u2014\"thy words are swords, / And with thy looks thou conquerest all thy foes\" ( _One_ 1.1.74\u201375)\u2014comes to rest on his opponent, as Theridamas concedes to Tamburlaine without a fight: \"Won with thy words, and conquered with thy looks, / I yield myself, my men and horse to thee\" ( _One_ 1.2.227\u201328).\n\nFigure 3. \" _Eloquentia fortitudine praestantior_ ,\" in Andrea Alciato, _Emblematum Liber_ (Paris, 1584). Image courtesy of Glasgow University Library.\n\nThus far Marlowe's Tamburlaine makes good on the promise of bloodless conquest that underwrites Wilson's bid for vernacular eloquence. \"[W]hat working words he hath!\" the dazzled Theridamas exclaims ( _One_ 2.3.25). But the spectacle of Tamburlaine's rhetorical triumph over the Persian army is embedded in a scene that offers a more troubling account of the relationship between persuasion and conquest. For it is not until the middle of scene 2 that Tamburlaine encounters Theridamas; when the audience first sees him, his \"working words\"\u2014and, more to the point, his weapons\u2014are leveled not against the awesome forces of the Persian army but against the weak capacity of \"a silly maid\" ( _One_ 1.2.10): Zenocrate, the sultan's daughter ambushed by Tamburlaine's men and paraded before the Persions as proof of his imperial destiny. To be sure, the Tamburlaine who appears in scene 2 cuts a very different figure from \"that sturdy Scythian thief\" of the Persians' imaginings, who \"with his lawless train / Daily commits incivil outrages\" ( _One_ 1.1.36, 39\u201340). This Tamburlaine is courtly, even gentle, in his dealings with the Egyptian princess, addressing her as \"lady\" and \"fair madam\" ( _One_ 1.2.1, 252), assuring her that her \"jewels and treasure... shall be reserved\" (2) and she herself kept \"in better state / Than... in the circle of your father's arms\" (3, 5). But the dazzling oration that crowns the scene bears a queasy formal resemblance to the violence it seeks to conceal. Beginning with a series of short, measured questions, the speech opens out into a litany of declarations, each literally and figuratively more expansive than the one before:\n\nDisdains Zenocrate to live with me?\n\nOr you, my lords, to be my followers?\n\nThink you I weigh this treasure more than you?\n\nNot all the gold in India's wealthy arms\n\nShall buy the meanest solder in my train.\n\nZenocrate, lovelier than the love of Jove,\n\nBrighter than is the silver Rhodope,\n\nFairer than the whitest snow on Scythian hills,\n\nThy person is more worth to Tamburlaine,\n\nThan the possession of the Persian crown,\n\nWhich gracious stars have promised at my birth.\n\nA hundred Tartars shall attend on thee\n\nMounted on steeds swifter than Pegasus;\n\nThy garments shall be made of Median silk,\n\nEnchased with precious jewels of mine own\n\nMore rich and valurous than Zenocrate's;\n\nWith milk-white harts upon an ivory sled\n\nThou shalt be drawn amidst the frozen pools\n\nAnd scale the icy mountains' lofty tops,\n\nWhich with thy beauty will soon be resolved;\n\nMy martial prizes with five hundred men\n\nWon on the fifty-headed Volga's waves\n\nShall all we offer to Zenocrate,\n\nAnd then myself to fair Zenocrate. (82\u2013105)\n\nThe dilatory power of Tamburlaine's rhetoric cannot be extricated from the scene of sexual violence that it both anticipates and seeks to assuage: the speech begins and ends with the invocation of Zenocrate's name, and her body is, ultimately, the territory it claims (and promises to enlarge). Indeed listening from the perspective of Zenocrate, we can begin to understand the resentment expressed toward Marlowe's verse by so many of his early auditors. Like George Gascoigne, who penned his 1576 satire, _The Steel Glass_ , \"In rymeless verse, which thundreth mighty threats,\" Marlowe identifies the open-ended capaciousness of blank verse with aggression, although in Marlowe's case that aggression masquerades as generosity. The association is by no means strictly metaphorical: in a literal sense, the absence of end-rhyme creates a potentially limitless space for rhetorical amplification or _auxesis_ , the steady accumulation of pentameter lines into the free-standing verse paragraph that James Shapiro identifies as the paradigmatic expressive unit of Marlovian poetry. As Tamburlaine's address to Zenocrate makes plain, _auxesis_ enacts a double display of dominance, as both syntax and audience are held hostage to the speaker's whim.\n\nThe reality of Zenocrate's situation, her position as one of Tamburlaine's \"forced followers\" (66), makes a mockery of the conventional association between rhetorical suasion and erotic seduction. \"[W]omen must be flattered,\" Tamburlaine explains to his companions (107), but prisoners, of course, need not be, and once the threat of a Persian attack has been dispelled\u2014thanks in part to the mute, unwilling testimony afforded by Zenocrate herself\u2014Tamburlaine abandons his courtly pose: \"If you will willingly remain with me / You shall have honours as your merits be\u2014 / Or else you shall be forced with slavery\" (252\u201355). Neatly anticipating Milton's judgment against rhyme as a form of \"bondage,\" the chiming end sounds of this triplet emphasize the truth of Zenocrate's predicament: whatever choice she makes, the result will be the same. But Marlowe is far more cynical than Milton when it comes to the asymmetric liberty afforded by unrhymed verse. Zenocrate's attendant Agydas replies promptly and politely on her behalf in terms that maintain the fiction of mutuality\u2014\"We yield unto thee, happy Tamburlaine\" (256)\u2014but the princess's own response is bitterer and more true: \"I must be pleased perforce. Wretched Zenocrate!\" (257). To be \"pleased perforce\" is a nasty paradox, a grim euphemism for the rape that has actually occurred, and an unsettling inversion of the idea that eloquence makes subjection pleasurable. By giving the Egyptian princess the last word\u2014the scene concludes on this unhappy note\u2014Marlowe makes Zenocrate the authority on all that has transpired, hinting at a much darker reading of the fantasy of rhetorical conquest. \"Linking persuasion to coercion, Wilson minimizes the terror of that equation,\" as Barbour writes, but \"Marlowe maximizes it... mak[ing] terms and swords not alternative but synergistic.\" Blank verse is the crucial instrument of that synergy: it is what English poetry sounds like in the mouth of a tyrant who fancies himself a lover.\n\nOf course Zenocrate does eventually fall in love with her captor, so that his once threatening words grow welcome to her ears, \"his talk much sweeter than the Muses' song\" ( _One_ 3.2.50). But even this development takes a nightmarish turn: when Zenocrate confesses her growing attraction to Agydas, he protests, not realizing that Tamburlaine is nearby, urging his mistress, \"Let not a man so vile and barbarous... be honoured with your love, but for necessity\" (26, 30). When Tamburlaine reveals himself, he pointedly says nothing, leaving Agydas \"aghast\" and \"most astonied to see his choler shut in secret thoughts, / And wrapped in silence of his angry soul.\" As the unhappy Agydas prophesies, this uncharacteristic reticence bespeaks his doom, and when Tamburlaine's deputy enters bearing a dagger, he requires no further instruction: \"It says, Agydas, thou shalt surely die\" (95). \"He needed not with words confirm my fear,\" the Egyptian lord mournfully observes, \"For words are vain where working tools present / The naked action\" (92\u201394). The observation is prescient. Although there is no diminution of his rhetoric, as Tamburlaine proceeds on his march toward global domination, eloquence plays less and less of a role in his successes. His crucial first victory, over the Persian army, may be attributable to the power of his \"working words,\" but subsequent triumphs are openly reliant on the \"naked action\" of an increasingly baroque display of \"working tools\": \"his sword, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes, / And jetty feathers menace death and hell\" ( _One_ 4.1.60\u201361), but so do his curtle axes and cannons, his cages and guns, even his bridles and harnesses. When Tamburlaine encounters the Turkish sultan Bajazeth, he delegates the task of rhetorical conquest to Zenocrate, urging her to abuse the Turkish queen Zabina, \"vaunt of my worth, / And manage words with her as we will arms\" ( _One_ 3.3.130\u201331). Zenocrate's insults infuriate Zabina, but it is Tamburlaine's military victory that stops her mouth: when she reproves him for his insolence to an empress, he bluntly informs her that \"the pillars that have bolstered up those terms / Are fall'n in clusters at my conquering feet\" (229\u201330).\n\nIt is precisely this shattering of linguistic distinction that Marlowe makes the paradoxical achievement of his distinctive poetic style. \"There is no greater difference betwixt a ciuill and brutish vtteraunce then cleare distinction of voices,\" writes Puttenham in book 2 of his _Arte_ : \"the most laudable languages are always most plaine and distinct, and the barbarous the most confuse and indistinct\" (61). Puttenham has in mind the civilized pauses\u2014the commas and colons\u2014built into Greek and Latin periods, and especially early on, Marlowe uses line breaks to achieve a similarly measured effect in Tamburlaine's sententious speeches. But the distinctions effected by meter are gradually effaced as Tamburlaine's charismatic style is aped by his followers: in this sense the more successful Marlowe's hero, the more brutish his play. For it is not only Zenocrate who adopts Tamburlaine's vaunting speech; as Tamburlaine's imperial might spreads across Asia and into Africa, so too does the influence of his \"high astounding terms,\" and what was once a distinctive, indeed singular voice dissipates into a cacophony of competing tongues, each more outrageously boastful than the next. Mark Thornton Burnett reads this as a sign of the waning of Tamburlaine's powers, as the rhetorical precedence he wields early on gives way in a world \"inhabited by a number of rival speakers,\" but in fact Tamburlaine is the chief agent of that leveling of rhetorical distinction. For one thing, as Emily Bartels observes, many of his own best lines are stolen: \"Even when Tamburlaine marks out his own distinctive rhetorical territory, claiming that ' _will_ and _shall_ best fitteth Tamburlaine,' he does so after hearing Theridamas 'speak in that mood' ( _One_ 3.3.40\u201341) and applauding him for it. And... he first terms himself the scourge of god after noting that he has been 'term'd the Scourge and Wrath of God' ( _One_ 3.3.44) by others.\" Tamburlaine's rhetorical thievery\u2014what Burnett calls his \"magpie-like\" appropriation of glittering words and well-turned phrases\u2014provides the template, even the impetus, for his thefts of land and titles. Thus when the Persian lord Menaphon congratulates the newly crowned Cosroe with the thought that they shall soon \"ride in triumph through Persepolis\" ( _One_ 2.5.49), Tamburlaine seizes on the phrase and makes it the theme of his own desires. So potent is the force of recitation that simply by repeating the phrase to himself, Tamburlaine is \"strongly moved, / that if I should desire the Persian crown, / I could attain it with a wondrous ease\" ( _One_ 2.5.75\u201377)\u2014and so he does.\n\nThe inverse of this acquisitive talent is Tamburlaine's compulsion to see his own image and hear his own name wherever he goes. Thus when two of his sons wrangle over who, after their father's death, deserves to be called \"the scourge and terror of the world,\" Tamburlaine insists that all three boys bear the epithet: \"Be all a scourge and terror of the world / Or else you are not sons of Tamburlaine\" ( _Two_ 1.3.62\u201364). It is because his third son, Calyphas, resists the impress of his father's character that Tamburlaine despises him. \"Let me accompany my gracious mother,\" Calyphas requests, for two sons \"are enough to conquer all the world, / and you have won enough for me to keep\" ( _Two_ 1.3.67\u201368). In a world filled with the hyperbole of would-be Tamburlaines, Calyphas stands out as a proponent of witty understatement\u2014\"What a coil they keep!\" he observes of the climactic encounter between Tamburlaine's army and the assembled forces of his rival kings; \"I believe there will be some hurt done anon amongst them\" ( _Two_ 4.1.74\u201375)\u2014and it is this singularity that dooms him. \"Thou shalt not have a foot\" of empire, Tamburlaine rebukes him, and when he discovers that Calyphas has avoided the battle, he stabs him. Immediately after, Tamburlaine turns to his (literally) captive audience of fallen kings and boasts, \"Now you shall feel the strength of Tamburlaine, / And by the state of his supremacy / Approve the difference twixt himself and you\" ( _Two_ 4.1.135\u201337). But as Calyphas's corpse attests, difference is in fact precisely what Tamburlaine seeks to eradicate: his vision of empire entails the imposition of a radical sameness, a sameness achieved through total war and the passionate self-assertion that becomes its rhetorical equivalent.\n\nIt is a critical commonplace that \"Marlowe takes particular delight in geographical nouns,\" and as we have seen, the recitation of those names possesses an incantatory power for Tamburlaine, as it must also have done for Marlowe's audience. But Tamburlaine's true gift, the real expression of his genius, is in unnaming and renaming. When he first meets the Turkish sultan, he asserts his authority over him by calling him \"that Bajazeth\" ( _One_ 3.3.65). The sultan, understandably outraged, exclaims to his followers, \"Kings of Fez, Moroccus, and Argier, / He calls me Bajazeth, whom you call lord! / Note the presumption of this Scythian slave\" ( _One_ 3.3.66\u201368). But when the battle is won, so are the titles: Tamburlaine distributes the titles of Fez, Moroccus, and Argier to his own loyal deputies, and as for the sultan, \"Bring out my footstool,\" Tamburlaine commands ( _One_ 4.2.1). Zenocrate's own Damascus is leveled as well, and the victor urges the conquered Egyptian king to regard his new role as Tamburlaine's father-in-law, \"a title higher than thy Sultan's name\" ( _One_ 5.1.435). Zenocrate begs that her homeland be spared, but Tamburlaine is adamant that nothing mar the uniform perfection of his empire, a world \"reduce[d]... to a map\" on which all \"the provinces, cities, and towns\" are \"call[ed]... after thy name and mine\" ( _One_ 4.4.82\u201384). So total is the scope of Tamburlaine's ambition to \"see [his] name and honour... spread\" ( _One_ 1.2.204) that even the alterity of the past becomes an affront to his self-regard: it is only because antiquity knew not Zenocrate, he claims, that Helen, Lesbia, and Corinna are named. \"And had she lived before the siege of Troy,\" he insists, \"Her name had been in every line\" that Homer, Catullus, or Ovid wrote, herself \"the argument / Of every epigram or elegy\" ( _Two_ 2.4.90, 94\u201395).\n\nThe ceaseless echo of \"Tamburlaine\" and \"Zenocrate\" throughout the two plays is not simply evidence of the Scythian's boundless egotism; it is also a sheerly pragmatic feature of Marlowe's prosody, which depends on Tamburlaine's appetite for conquest to satisfy the demands of metrical form. Indeed there is an unmistakable kinship between the playwright's metrical strategies and his hero's ruthless course to empire. \"[T]here can not be in a maker a foweler fault, then to falsifie his accent to serue his cadence, or by vntrue orthographie to wrench his words,\" Puttenham declares (67). Puttenham calls upon Temir Cutzclewe as the master of a poetic form\u2014the shape-poem or the pattern-poem\u2014that prevents this foul fault by making cadence and other aural effects secondary to visual appeal. As noted, the pattern-poem appealed to Puttenham partly because it depends on a formal rigor that has nothing to do with the way words sound: the wrenching on which Temir Cutzclewe's poems depend is entirely visual. But in other kinds of poetry, Puttenham cautions, the temptation to \"falsify accents\" and \"wrench words\" is strong for the vernacular poet, since \"our naturall and primitiue language of the Saxon English, beares not any wordes (at least very few) of moe sillables then one (for whatsoeuer we see exceede, commeth to vs by the alterations of our language growen vpon many conquests and otherwise)\" (56\u201357).\n\nAccording to Puttenham, then, to the extent that English poets do possess the linguistic resources necessary to conform to the classical laws of prosody, it is only thanks to their own miserable history of invasion and subjugation. Here, yet again, the distinction between violence and generosity is uncomfortably blurred: the enrichment of monosyllabic England with the polysyllables of Latin and French cannot be extricated from its humiliation and defeat. _Tamburlaine_ 's far-flung plot returns repeatedly to this conundrum, but it also affords Marlowe the opportunity to reverse the unhappy association of poetic mastery and imperial conquest: to enrich his line with an enormous quantity of three- and four-syllable words drawn not only, or even primarily, from the Latin and French terms of England's colonial past but also from the new and strange fruits of Tamburlaine's own conquests. The names that most enchant Tamburlaine\u2014\"Zenocrate,\" \"Persepolis\"\u2014are seductive not only because of what they describe but also because of how they sound, the regular iambs into which they fall; thus the march of Tamburlaine's conquering feet across the territories of Asia and Africa sustains the rhythm of Marlowe's own feet.\n\nBut not without violence: the wrenching and falsifying against which Puttenham inveighs is evident in many of Marlowe's lines, and it tends to mirror the protagonist's own outrageous impositions of will. Thus Bajazeth's humiliating turn as Tamburlaine's footstool is accompanied by what Cunningham calls \"the play's most deviant metrical line,\" a spondaic command whose piling on of stressed monosyllables mimics the physical abuse it describes: \"Stoop, villain, stoop, stoop, for so he bids\" ( _Two_ 4.2.22). If, as Marjorie Garber says, the \"dramatic tension\" in _Tamburlaine_ \"derives from the dialectic between aspiration and limitation,\" ambition and enclosure, a similar tension is at work in the play's verse. At the ends of his lines, Marlowe imposes strong syntactical breaks\u2014as Russ McDonald writes, \"For all Marlowe's reputation as an overreacher, only rarely did he overreach the poetic line\"\u2014but what happens _within_ those end-stopped lines is, as in Puttenham's pattern-poems, often rather irregular. Cunningham notes that \"reading Marlovian blank verse\" is a delicate operation: \"the ear seeks an appropriate tact of pace, breath-interval, and emphasis,\" for \" 'Cosroe' sometimes, it seems, asks for two syllables, sometimes three; 'Fesse' two or one\" (91). What Cunningham views as occasions for readerly tact might just as well be seen as the imprints of Tamburlaine's own extraordinarily tactless pace. For as Cunningham's examples help us notice, the disregard Tamburlaine shows for the boundaries of foreign kingdoms and the property of foreign kings has its counterpart in Marlowe's high-handed treatment of the names of those kings and their kingdoms. \"Asia\" and \"Scythia,\" \"Media\" and \"India,\" \"Syria,\" \"Parthia,\" and all the rest may have two syllables or three; \"Egypt\" has two, but \"Egyptia\" three or four; \"Greece\" possesses merely one, but \"Graecia\" a lordly four: the willful compressions and elongations of visual space with Puttenham's pattern-poems find an aural counterpart in Marlowe's manipulation of foreign polysyllables. When the deposed Turk protests that Tamburlaine's \"Ambitious pride shall make thee fall as low / For treading of the back of Bajazeth,\" for instance, Tamburlaine responds, \"Thy names and titles and thy dignities, / Are fled from Baj'zeth and remain with me,\" and he marks his entitlement by shearing a syllable from the Turk's once-proper name ( _One_ 4.2.76\u201377, 79\u201380).\n\nSo skeptical is Puttenham of such manipulations\u2014or \"metaplasms\"\u2014that he dubs the \"joining or unjoining of syllables and letters, suppressing or confounding their several sounds\" as \"figures of the smallest importance\" and \"forbears] to give them any vulgar name\" (246). In his view they verge on mere mispronunciation, the tell-tale sign of the barbarous outsider. In his _Notes on the Making of English Verse_ , however, George Gascoigne dubs this Procrustean stretching and lopping of syllables \"turkening\"\u2014a phrase whose etymological roots identify it with twisting or troping but whose contemporary associations, as observed in [Chapter 2, inevitably summon the specter of Islam and of other violent conversions. In _The Garden of Eloquence_ , Henry Peacham allows fourteen distinct varieties of metaplasm to the English poet, permitting not simply \"the cleauing a dipthong in sunder... as Aethiopia, for \u00e6thiopia,\" but even the alteration of emphasis in Greek or Latin words, \"necessity of meter so compelling, as... Orph\u00eaus, for Orph\u0113us\": \"our carp\u00eanter\" may, according to Gabriel Harvey, be off-limits to the wrenching, lopping, and cleaving of the vernacular poet, but the father of classical eloquence receives no such consideration.\n\nMarlowe's imperious turkening of the geography of the East and his carelessness for the propriety of the proper noun, receive spectacular embodiment in Tamburlaine's most striking and barbarous display of power. Close to the end of part 2, on the road to Babylon, with his empire at what will prove to be its utmost bound, Tamburlaine celebrates his recent triumphs in Asia Minor by harnessing the former kings of Natolia, Jerusalem, Trebizond, and Soria and forcing them to draw his chariot. He represents the degrading treatment as apt repayment for the insults they have hurled at him, \"bridl[ing] their contemptuous cursing tongues / That like unruly never-broken jades / Break through the hedges of their fateful mouths / And pass their fixed bounds exceedingly\" ( _Two_ 4.3.44\u201347). This is hardly the outcome Wilson imagined for English eloquence, when, in the dedicatory epistle to his _Arte of Rhetorique_ , he described that \"greater delite\" of \"see[ing] a whole multitude, with the onely talke of man, rauished and drawne which way he liketh best to haue them.\" Wilson's delightful spectacle is a fantasy of eloquence that Marlowe permits his audience\u2014with qualifications\u2014at the beginning of Tamburlaine's career, when he wins over the Persian general, but as Marlowe's hero enlarges his empire, the operations of eloquence and the mechanics of brute force are increasingly indistinguishable. In the notorious staging of the human chariot, tongues are not instruments of moral suasion but silent stubs of flesh. Here men are not \"drawne\" but made to draw, like beasts; here is not \"onely talke\" but its blunt objects\u2014harnesses, whips, and \"bits of burnished steel\" ( _Two_ 4.1.183).\n\nThe mute lurching of those captive kings across the English stage is the antithesis of the sweet traction Wilson describes, the eloquence that drew beasts and bestial men to Orpheus, but it is an apt image for the violent methods on which Marlowe's verse often depends for its singularly potent effects. Tamburlaine comes to seem both the agent and the thrall of what George Gascoigne terms \"poeticall license,\" that \"shrewde fellow\" who \"maketh words longer, shorter, of mo syllables, of fewer, newer, older, truer, falser, and... turkeneth all things at pleasure.\" \"I love to live at liberty,\" he boasts in his first appearance onstage ( _One_ 1.2.26), but as he later confesses, \"since I exercise a greater name,... I must apply myself to fit those terms\" ( _Two_ 4.1.153\u201355). Applying oneself to fit the terms, applying the terms to fit oneself: such is the license that Marlowe claims for his play, whose exotic and elastic phrasing both defines and defies the limits of his native tongue.\n\n\"What Scythian Sorte Soeuer\"\n\nThe most radical and unexpected articulation of this idea\u2014the idea that eloquence is the exercise of an idiosyncratic and autocratic poetic will\u2014appears in the work of a poet who did his utmost to confine _Tamburlaine_ 's feet to the stage, a poet whose own verse struck many of his contemporaries as too restrained altogether. A decade and a half after Marlowe announced his departure from rhyme, Samuel Daniel bowed to _Tamburlaine_ 's influence, \"confess[ing]\" in his 1603 _Defence of Ryme_ that his adversaries in the war over English measure had \"wrought this much vpon me, that I thinke a Tragedie would indeede best comporte with a blank Verse, and dispence with Ryme.\" But Daniel had his own uses for Tamburlaine, whom he invokes in the _Defence_ as a counterweight to the humanist tendency to revile native poetic forms as signs of cultural and intellectual barbarism. In a lengthy digression Daniel argues that the notoriously immoderate battle tactics of the Scythian Tamburlaine ought to be recognized as the point of origin for what we now call the Renaissance: the revival of learning in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Italy begins, he claims, at the margins of so-called civilization with a series of rather brutal acts of conquest (sig. H[1]r\u2013v). By tallying European humanism's debts to the inhumane achievements of a barbarian warlord, Daniel lays the ground for his critique of humanist rhetoric's own coercive tendencies, but he also advances his case for a more expansive and elastic version of literary history. His crude yet effective Tamburlaine stands as a rebuke to those who would make the boundaries of eloquence coextensive with those of ancient Athens and Rome, those who fail to recognize in homely rhyme a power that \"swais th'affection of the Barbarian\" as well as \"the harts of Ciuill nations\" (sig. G4r).\n\nDaniel may allow blank verse its dominion over English tragedy, but he insists on retaining the rest of the poetic landscape for rhyme, accusing partisans of quantitative meter of cultural and linguistic tyranny. The _Defence_ begins by dismissing the familiar anxieties over numbers, accents, and feet as inconsequential. Where Puttenham and others\u2014chiefly Thomas Campion, whose 1602 _Apologie of Poetrie_ prompts Daniel's response\u2014fretted over the difficulty of making English conform to cadences of classical measure, Daniel argues that English poets have no need for such artificial constraints, possessing already a much pleasanter and more natural method of giving shape to their lines. \"[W]e are told,\" he writes, \"that our measures go wrong, all Ryming is grosse, vulgare, barbarous,\" but this is mere chauvinism, for \"[e]uery language hath her proper number or measure fitted to vse and delight,\" and in England rhyme \"performes those offices\" best, \"delighting the eare, stirring the hart, and satisfying the iudgment in such sort as I doubt whether euer single numbers will doe in our Climate\" (sigs. G3r, G4v\u2013[G5r]). But not only \"our climate\": rhyme, according to Daniel, has \"so naturall a melodie\" and \"so vniuersall,\" that \"it seemes to be generally borne with al the nations of the world.\" Thus the barbarism that is imputed to rhyme as its great defect in fact \"argues the generall power of it:... it hath a power in nature on all\" (sig. G4r).\n\nDaniel goes on to invent a genealogy for this universal melody, imagining the spread of rhyme across the globe as an unforced, triumphal march. It is an itinerary that uncannily replicates the course of Tamburlaine's own progress to world domination: \"borne no doubt in Scythia,\" rhyming verse is \"brought ouer Caucasus and Mount Taurus\" to Turkey, carried to \"a great part of Asia and Affrique,\" adopted by \"the Muscouite, Polack, Hungarian, German, Italian, French, and Spaniard,\" and finally either brought thence or possessed already by \"[t]he Irish, Briton, Scot, Dane, Saxon, English, and all the Inhabitours of this Iland\" (sig. G4v). As for the \"single numbers\" of Greece and Rome, \"notwithstanding their excellencie,\" they \"seemed not sufficient to satisfie the eare of the world\" (sig. [G5]r), and the veneration they are accorded is, according to Daniel, the fruit of tyranny. The Greeks and Romans, he argues, \"may thanke their sword that made their tongues so famous and vniuersall as they are\"\u2014and their verses bear the impress of this history, being composed of the \"scattered limbs\" of severed clauses and \"examples... of strange crueltie, in torturing and dismembering of words\" (sig. [G5]v): according to Daniel, classical poets are the original turkeners of language. \"We should not,\" he therefore urges, \"so soone yield our consents captiue to the authoritie of Antiquitie\"; although English poets may be accustomed to thinking of themselves as inhabitants of a remote corner of the world, \"we are not so placed out of the way of iudgement, but that the same Sun of Discretion shineth vpon vs\" (sig. [G6]v). To exchange rhyme for \"single numbers\" would be a bad bargain indeed, an exchange of native discretion for strange cruelty, and the loss of \"an hereditary eloquence proper to all mankind\" (sig. G4r).\n\nBut in order to claim this status for rhyme, Daniel must confront the foundational myth of Renaissance humanism, whereby eloquence is always already defined in relation to the classical literary tradition and Goths are the natural antagonists of Greeks. According to Daniel's mocking summary of this myth, \"all things lay pitifully deformed in those lacke-learning times from the declining of the Roman Empire, till the light of the latine tongue was revived by Rewcline, Erasmus and Moore.\" This, Daniel says, is \"a most apparent ignorance,\" for \"three hundred yeeres before them about the coming downe of Tamburlaine into Europe,\" the \"best notions of learning\" in the same \"degree of excellencie\" were already at work, and \"our nation... concurrent with the best of all this lettered world\" (sig. H[1]r). Indeed, Daniel claims, it is thanks to Tamburlaine that the Renaissance happened at all. By taking \"Bajazeth... prisoner,\" he argues, Tamburlaine inadvertently triggered an intellectual and literary revival: for upon learning of the Turk's defeat, the learned inhabitants of Constantinople, who had traveled to Italy in hopes of forging political alliances against Bajazeth, were now free to remain in Italy as scholars and teachers, \"transport[ing] Philosophie beaten by the Turke out of Greece into Christendome.\" \"Heereuppon,\" Daniel concludes, \"came that mighty confluence of learning in these parts,\" which \"meeting with the new inuented stampe of Printing, spread itself indeede in a more vniuersall sort then the world euer heretofore had it\" (sig. H[1]v). Instead of being the achievement of dedicated scholars, intent on redeeming ancient beauty and truth, Daniel's Renaissance is the accidental by-product of war and new technologies. Eloquence, meanwhile, is not the instrument of imperial conquest but the sole surviving property of a transient community of refugees: a Gothic barbarian rescues Greek civilization, and poetic measure survives thanks to barbarous excess.\n\nDaniel derives this account of Tamburlaine's role in the preservation of classical learning and literature from a French historian, Louis Le Roy, whose treatise _De la vicissitude ou vari\u00e9t\u00e9 des choses en l'univers_ (1576; English translation, 1594) takes \"the great and inuincible tamberlan\" as the emblem of \"the power, learning, and other excellence of this age.\" For Le Roy, the Scythian Timur appeals as a counterweight to humanism's obligatory sense of indebtedness to the classical past: as Mary Floyd-Wilson argues, his Tamberlan \"embodies the paradoxically barbaric origins of early modern cultural advancement\" and \"refute[s] the geographic truisms of the conventional civilizing narrative\u2014that barbarousness flows from the north and civilization emerges in the south.\" But Le Roy also dwells on Tamberlan as the embodiment of a historiographic injustice: having created the circumstances for \"the restitution of the tongues; and of all sciences,\" the Scythian warlord has been written out of the record by the beneficiaries of that restitution, men whose study of antiquity taught them to disdain his achievements as those of an unlettered barbarian. \"Yet fortune hauing allwaies fauoured him, without euer hauing bin contrary vnto him,\" Le Roy laments, \"seemeth among so many admirable euents, which exceed the ordinary course of Conquerours, to haue denyed him an Historyographer of excellent learning, and eloquence; agreeable to his vertues: to celebrate them worthily\" (fol. 108v).\n\nLe Roy's account of Tamberlan as the victim of his own radically transformative power\u2014a figure who made history happen and was promptly shut out of it\u2014authorizes Daniel's own revisionary project, in which Tamburlaine stands at the head of a long list of those whose contributions to learning and eloquence have been unfairly neglected: \"witnesse,\" he commands his readers, \"the venerable _Bede_ , that flourished about a thousand yeeres since: _Aldelmus Durotelmus_ that lived in the yere 739,... _Walterus Mape_ , _Gulielmus Nigellus_ , _Geruasius Tilburiensis_ , _Bracton_ , _Bacon_ , _Ockam_ , and an infinite Catalogue of excellent men\" (sigs. H[1]v\u2013H2r). To claim the authors of medieval Latin texts, even the scholastics\u2014the most barbarous of barbarians, according to humanist orthodoxy\u2014as \"excellent men\" in the cause of learning is to deny that the so-called revival of learning and letters was any such thing. The very idea that such institutions should need reviving is founded, Daniel insists, on a misguided assumption about the identification of eloquence with particular times and places: in truth, he writes, \"[t]he distribution of giftes are vniuersall, and all seasons hath them in some sort\" (sig. H2r).\n\nThe theory of eloquence Daniel formulates in concert with this leveling of cultural history is at once homely and expansive, firm in its commitment to English forms but catholic in its appreciation of local variation. Daniel may be an apologist for rhyme, but he does not pretend that it possesses any merits beyond that of satisfying the ear and swaying the judgment; that satisfaction, vulgar as it may be, is sufficient guarantee of its value. \"Suffer then the world to injoy that which it knows, and what it likes,\" he pleads. \"Seeing that whatsoeuer forme of words doth mooue, delight and sway the affections of men, in what Scythian sorte soeuer it be disposed or vttered, that is true number, measure, eloquence, and the perfection of speech: which I said, hath as many shapes as there be tongues or nations in the world\" (sig. [G5]r). \"In what Scythian sorte soeuer\": the example of Le Roy's Tamberlan authorizes Daniel in bestowing an unprecedented degree of latitude upon the English author, and in granting an unprecedented weight to the enjoyment of the English tongue and ear. Of course, the \"suffering\" that Daniel commends to his readers somewhat collapses the distinction between ease and difficulty: like the appalled delight English audiences took in the spectacular barbarity and forceful rhythms of Marlowe's _Tamburlaine_ , or the rigorous fascination George Puttenham finds in the unforgiving boundaries of the Tartarian shape-poem, Daniel's idea of \"the perfection of speech\" marries seemingly intuitive pleasure to the shock of alienation.\n\nBut we should not gloss over the differences between\u2014indeed the outright incommensurability of\u2014the forms that perfection assumes for each writer. Although they find inspiration in the same unlikely figure of eloquence, Puttenham, Marlowe, and Daniel arrive at radically disparate versions of vernacularity: oriental pattern-poems, blank verse, and rhyming couplets resist incorporation into any unified account of linguistic progress. Nor should we be too quick to assume that sixteenth-century readers would have found the choice between them an obvious one: Marlowe's spectacularly successful stage play offers one extremely influential account of where English poetry was headed at the end of the sixteenth century, but it is not the only story, then or now. By charting the unexpected range of associations between the Scythian warlord and the problem of measure, it is thus possible to defamiliarize ourselves with the trajectory of vernacular literature, recovering the confusion and excitement of a moment when the shape of England's literary history and its literary future were, as Daniel argues, no more distinct or fixed than \"a superficiall figure of a region in a Mappe\" (sig. H2r)\n\nThe Scythian Timur may prove useful to the modern literary critic as well, insofar as his curious position within Renaissance culture\u2014where he is at once ubiquitous and marginal, a catalyst of widespread change and the begetter of a degenerate line\u2014forecasts the roles assumed by writers such as Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe, whose self-consciously strange versions of vernacularity inaugurate a literary culture from which they are rather quickly exiled, marked as eccentric, idiosyncratic, and unfitting of imitation. What G. K. Hunter says of euphuism, that \"though it contributed to the clarification of vernacular style... it had no real heirs,\" is equally true of Spenser's pseudo-archaism: even the tolerant (and otherwise admiring) Daniel politely declined to imitate his \"aged accents and untimely words.\" Marlowe's blank-verse line may seem the exception to this rule, for it has come to sound like the natural and inevitable voice of English eloquence, certainly so far as Renaissance drama is concerned. But blank verse survived the close of the sixteenth century only by being severed from the person of the strutting Scythian, who within a little more than a decade had come to seem, once again, rather lame. \"[B]y the turn of the century,\" observes Alexander Legatt, \"[n]o one was writing plays like _Tamburlaine_ any more, and you could raise a laugh by quoting it.\" There was worse to come. In 1681 a playwright by the name of Charles Saunders published a play titled _Tamerlane the Great_ , with an epilogue by John Dryden and a preface in which Saunders defends himself from charges of plagiarism. Addressing those malefactors who have \"give[n] out, that this was only an Old-Play Transcrib'd,\" Saunders writes:\n\nI hope I may easily unload my self of that Calumny, when I shall testifie that I never heard of any Play on the same Subject, untill my own was Acted, neither have I since seen it, though it hath been told me, there is a Cock-Pit Play, going under the name of the _Scythian Shepherd,_ or _Tamberlain the Great,_ which how good it is, any one may Iudge by its obscurity, being a thing, not a Bookseller in _London,_ or scarce the Players themselves, who Acted it formerly, cou'd call to Remembrance, so far, that I believe that whoever was the Author, he might e'en keep it to himself secure from invasion, or Plagiary.\n\nJonson's caution to playwrights against following in Marlowe's footsteps seems to have succeeded better than he could have hoped: like Milton, who disregards Surrey's _Aeneid_ in claiming to originate the blank-verse English epic, Saunders appears sincere in his belief that he was the first English writer to take up the life of Tamburlaine. In an irony the Earl of Surrey might well have savored, the great stage poet of imperial ambition is himself relegated to the margins, the anonymous proprietor of a plot so obscure that no one would bother to usurp his place in it.\n_Coda_\n\nEccentric Shakespeare\n\nThe period of theoretical and formal innovation that we now claim as a point of origin for modern literary history appeared to its immediate successors as a dead end. Neither the ministrations of Latin-speaking nursemaids nor the rigors of double translation succeeded in naturalizing classical eloquence in Renaissance England. No English compiler of tropes and figures achieved the authority of an Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Quintilian, nor did rhetoric long maintain its reign as the queen of the liberal arts: as early as 1605, Francis Bacon looked back with disdain at the sixteenth century's \"affectionate study of eloquence\"; by the mid-seventeenth century the tide of rhetorical handbooks had receded; and in 1691 John Locke dismissed \"all the Art of Rhetoric, besides Order and Clearness, all the artificial and figurative application of Words Eloquence hath invented, are for nothing,\" as a \"perfect cheat.\" To a seventeenth-century eye\u2014Ben Jonson's, for instance\u2014Lyly's ornate prose, Spenser's odd diction, and Marlowe's thundering verse looked like failed experiments, useful only insofar as they marked the outer limits of vernacular decorum. A century later Samuel Johnson would describe the age of Elizabeth I as a period of violent and self-inflicted upheaval, in which \"above all others experiments were made upon our language which distorted its combinations, and disturbed its uniformity.\"\n\nJohnson articulates that view in his 1756 \"Proposals for Printing... the Dramatick Works of Shakespeare,\" and if we are now likely to regard the late sixteenth century in a rather different light\u2014as a period in which English received the refinements that ushered it into a graceful and uniform maturity\u2014that perspective has much to do with Shakespeare. Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe may rapidly assume the status of linguistic outsiders and, to varying degrees, still hover at the margins of literary culture, but Shakespeare is the ultimate insider: \"the exemplary author of the English canon,\" as Margreta de Grazia puts it. And yet, as she points out, for a century and a half after his death\u2014until Edmond Malone's pioneering 1790 edition of the complete works fashioned for him a legitimating carapace of scholarly respectability\u2014the circumstances of Shakespeare's renown were decidedly otherwise: both his life and his art were judged wayward by early critics, as his famously extravagant fancy was matched by equally extravagant lapses in judgment. Thus Johnson offers his judgment of the Elizabethan period not in order to rescue Shakespeare from it but to place him firmly within it: the reader of Shakespeare's text, he confesses, is \"embarrassed at once with dead and with foreign languages, with obsoleteness and with innovation,\" the disorienting stylistic impress of a \"desultory and vagrant\" wit.\n\nEmbarrassment\u2014in both the eighteenth-century sense of perplexity or difficulty and our own sense of cringing awkwardness\u2014seems indeed to have been a primary effect of reading Shakespeare throughout the seventeenth and much of the eighteenth centuries. For such readers Shakespeare did not transcend the eccentricities of his contemporaries; he epitomized them. Although Jonson's elegy for Shakespeare in the opening pages of the 1623 Folio hails the playwright as far greater than the \"disproportion'd Muses\" of Lyly, Spenser, and Marlowe, his commonplace book lumps all four writers together in its disparaging account of the stylistic extremity of what he calls \"the late age.\" In the same pages that record his judgments against Lyly's unrestrained _copia_ , Spenser's queer pseudo-archaisms, and Marlowe's strutting bombast, Jonson laments the judgment of \"the multitude,\" who \"commend Writers, as they doe Fencers or Wrastlers; who if they come robustiously, and put for it, with a deale of violence, are received for the braver-fellows,\" and implies that Shakespeare was just such a robustious and violent sort: \"His Wit was in his own Power, would Rule of it had been so too.\"\n\nSubsequent critics tended to agree in finding Shakespeare unruly: his genius, as Walter Harte wrote in 1730 with both admiration and dismay, \"soar'd beyond the reach of Art\"; his plots were deficient (or nonexistent); his style was passionately irregular; and his diction, as Francis Atterbury complained to Alexander Pope, less intelligible than \"the hardest part of Chaucer.\" In 1693 Thomas Rymer notoriously judged Shakespeare so eccentric as to be downright un-English, calling _Othello_ a play whose absurdities and excesses \"can only be calculated for the latitude of Gotham,\" the proverbial home of fools and simpletons. John Dryden rebuked Rymer for his want of generosity but allowed that Shakespeare's \"whole stile is so pester'd with Figurative expressions, that it is as affected as it is obscure.\" Lewis Theobold diagnosed Shakespeare's obscure style as the outworking of a wondering, wandering mind, whose \"Acquaintance [with the world] was rather That of a Traveller, than a Native,\" addicted \"to the Effect of Admiration begot by Novelty\"; while Oliver Goldsmith found him prone to \"far-fetch't conceit, and unnatural hyperbole.\" \"To judge... of _Shakespear_ by _Aristotle's_ rules,\" Pope cautioned, \"is like trying a man by the Laws of one Country, who acted under those of another\"\u2014but if Shakespeare's country was not Aristotle's, nor was it obviously the English reader's own. Rather, Pope advised readers of his 1725 edition of the plays to approach the text as they would \"an ancient majestick piece of _Gothick_ Architecture,\" admiring its \"nobler apartments; tho' we are often conducted to them by dark, odd, and uncouth passages.\"\n\nAs de Grazia suggests, it was because he remained stubbornly outside the norms of vernacular decorum that Shakespeare became so central to the concerns of critics eager, in Pope's words, \"to form the Judgment and Taste of our nation\": \"It was precisely because Shakespeare had traditionally been associated with irregular and artless Nature that he served this purpose so well.\" As Michael Dobson has shown, it took the strenuous labor of scholars, politicians, and theatrical entrepreneurs in the late eighteenth century to groom this outlandish Shakespeare into the poet of English empire: ruled by their judgment, Shakespeare could proceed to rule Britannia. Of course, certain parts of Shakespeare's corpus resisted this chastening. The most striking example is the eloquence of Othello, that \"extravagant and wheeling stranger / Of here and everywhere\": Coleridge sought refuge in the \"pleasing possibility\" that Shakespeare intended Othello as a light-skinned Moor, not a black African, but in 1920 it was still possible for T. S. Eliot to claim that he had \"never seen a cogent refutation of Rymer's objections to _Othello._ \" The character of Falstaff too was persistently associated with Shakespeare's immoderate and licentious pen and became the focus of a (still ongoing) argument about his creator's tolerance or promotion of subversion. For Dryden, writing in 1668, Falstaff was proof of Shakespeare's \"largest and most comprehensive Soul,\" a marvel of \"ridiculous extravagance,\" but for the straight-laced Jeremy Collier, writing in 1698, Falstaff's banishment by Henry V was crucial evidence of Shakespeare's capacity for moral and aesthetic judgment: the poet, like the newly crowned king, \"was not so partial as to let his humour compound for his lewdness.\"\n\nModern critics continue to debate the implications of Hal's transformation from libertine prince to authoritarian king and to highlight the banishing of Falstaff as a turning point, if not in Shakespeare's personal psychology, at least in the ideological orientation of the English history play: a critical step toward Henry's apotheosis as \"England\" and Shakespeare's as England's \"national poet.\" Indeed for all the disagreement over the ethics and politics of the second tetralogy, critics concur in identifying the ideal that emerges by way of Henry's famous eloquence: \"the model of an English community\"; \"an emerging English nationalism\"; \"a fantasy of national (male) bondedness\"; \"an acceptable national self\"; a \"unitary state\"; \"a secure English polity\"; \"a nation conceived in strikingly modern terms.\" If one wishes to make a case for the sixteenth-century origins of the English national community, it is Shakespeare's Henry V who, as one critic puts it, \"springs to mind.\" Within the second tetralogy, however, eloquence is not so easily domesticated. Although the banishment of Falstaff consigns one particular embodiment of linguistic extravagance to the margins of Shakespeare's plot, it signals the ascendancy of another. For it is not simply the case that, as a number of critics have pointed out, the second tetralogy permits a number of rival voices to threaten the dominance of the king's \"good English.\" That \"good English\" is itself the product of studied eccentricity: indeed of an apprenticeship to the strange literary vernaculars this book highlights.\n\nHal foregrounds the link between willfully outlandish speech and his own royal authority early in his career, when he claims his aptitude for tavern slang as a sign of his fitness to rule: \"When I am King of England I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap,\" he boasts to Poins. \"I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life\" ( _1 Henry IV_ 2.5.12\u201317). Of course this \"proficiency\" can also be read as a defect, the sign of a loose tongue and an unstable realm. The prince's worried father, for instance, hears in his son's indiscriminate talk a dangerously inverted form of Orphic eloquence: \"For the fifth Harry from curbed licence plucks the muzzle of restraint,\" he laments on his deathbed, \"O my poor kingdom!... O thou wilt be a wilderness again, / Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!\" ( _2 Henry IV_ 4.3.258\u201359, 261\u201365). The Earl of Warwick reconciles these opposed views by urging the king to regard Hal's waywardness as a mode of progress toward political mastery\u2014which he too likens to the cultivation of a strange tongue:\n\nThe prince but studies his companions\n\nLike a strange tongue wherein, to gain the language,\n\n'Tis needful that the most immodest word\n\nBe look'd upon and learn'd; which once attain'd,\n\nYour highness knows, comes to no further use\n\nBut to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,\n\nThe prince will in the perfectness of time\n\nCast off his followers.... ( _2 Henry IV_ 4.3.67\u201375)\n\nWarwick's analogy points up the fact that throughout the two parts of _Henry IV_ , linguistic eccentricity is both an index of political insubordination and a repeated strategy of self-promotion. Most famously there is Falstaff, who adopts the sing-song rhythm, showy similitudes, and moralizing sententiousness of _Euphues_ when impersonating the king in the tavern at Eastcheap. In the scene that immediately follows, Spenser's self-consciously obscure style is parodied in the faux-mystical raving of Owen Glendower, the Welsh magician, who claims to have \"framed to the harp / many an English ditty lovely well, / And gave the tongue a helpful ornament\" (3.1.120\u201322) and who annoys Hotspur with his fanciful tales of Arthur and Merlin, occult prophecies and mythical beasts. Finally, in _Henry IV, Part Two_ , Marlowe's \"high astounding terms\" are lampooned in the bluster of ensign Pistol, who speaks exclusively in the ranting voice of a stage Scythian. Like the vagabonds and rebels with whom they are aligned, Lyly's, Spenser's, and Marlowe's styles are forced to the margins of Shakespeare's plot\u2014first indulged and then indicted\u2014becoming, as Stephen Greenblatt writes of the play's Welsh and French speakers, \"voices that... dwell outside the realms ruled by the potentates of the land.\"\n\nAs each of these potentially disruptive figures is, as Warwick predicts, finally cast off, Shakespeare clears the way for Hal to assert his own distinctive style: the blend of sonorous formality and folksy directness in which so many critics have heard the voice of an emergent English national community, a refined yet homely vernacular whose Orphic appeal transforms strangers into brothers. But those onstage perceive Henry, and his eloquence, rather differently: from the moment he ascends his father's throne, the magic of his presence and the charisma of his speech reside not in intimacy or familiarity but in the residue of his earlier estrangement. Early on, Henry IV warns Hal that his indiscriminate mixing with the likes of Falstaff and Pistol has made him \"almost an alien to the hearts / Of all the court and princes of my blood\" ( _1 Henry IV_ 3.2.34\u201335), and when Hal greets his father's courtiers for the first time as Henry V, we see that this is so: noting their anxious faces, he teases, \"This is the English, not the Turkish court; / Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, / But Harry Harry\" ( _2 Henry IV_ 5.2.47\u201349).\n\nAs Benedict Robinson observes, the unexpected invocation of Elizabeth I's Ottoman counterpart, Sultan Murad, may be meant as an assertion of Henry's fundamental kinship both to his father and to his countrymen, but it also raises the specter of his permanent alienation from them. Indeed no sooner has Henry moved to allay the sense of distance, assuring the court, \"I'll be your father and your brother, too,\" then he returns to it, saying with some satisfaction, \"You all look strangely on me\" (5.2.57, 63). Robinson notes that Henry's thoughts \"turn to the Turks\" with some regularity once he is king\u2014in his proposal to Katherine that they \"compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard\" ( _Henry V_ 5.2.204\u20137) and in his vision of failure as burial in an unmarked urn, \"like a Turkish mute\" with \"a tongueless mouth\" (1.2.232)\u2014and reads in such asides the haunting traces of Henry's own bloody and illegitimate origins. Henry's eloquence is, Robinson suggests, the antidote to this haunting, for it \"tactically displaces attention from the vexed question of dynastic inheritance\" by \"turning Englishness into... common property.\"\n\nBut that vision of intimacy through vernacularity was dispelled long before, banished from the second tetralogy along with Thomas Mowbray in the opening act of _Richard II_. The \"heavy sentence\" of his exile prompts Mowbray to protest the infliction of \"so deep a maim\" (1.3.148, 150):\n\nThe language I have learn'd these forty years,\n\nMy native English, now I must forego:\n\nAnd now my tongue's use is to me no more\n\nThan an unstringed viol or a harp,\n\nOr like a cunning instrument cased up,\n\nOr, being open, put into his hands\n\nThat knows no touch to tune the harmony. (153\u201359)\n\nAs Mowbray makes clear, language is not a \"common property\"; rather it is what he loses by being \"cast forth in the common air\" (1.3.151). Nor is his \"native English\" a purely natural inheritance: it is the tongue he has \"learn'd these forty years,\" a \"cunning instrument\" requiring a knowing touch. In this regard his lament charts a kind of progress for the mother tongue, but it is progress away from the ideals of commonness and accessibility, toward the incommensurable values of intricacy and art. Speaking _this_ English is no durable means of cultural identification but a rare privilege, bestowed and rescinded at the whim of a fickle king.\n\nHenry's own eloquence does not redress the \"maim\" done to English by Richard's \"heavy sentence\"\u2014its severing from the fantasy of a shared and inalienable identity\u2014so much as transform that injury into an enticement. In the opening scene of _Henry V_ , the Archbishop of Canterbury marvels at the strange power of his tongue, which seems to solicit the very transgressive desires it also reproves:\n\n... when he speaks,\n\nThe air, a chartered libertine, is still,\n\nAnd the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears\n\nTo steal his sweet and honeyed sentences:\n\nSo that the art and practic part of life\n\nMust be the mistress of his theoric. (1.1.48\u201353)\n\nLike the imperious sultan who trims the tongues of his harem attendants (and their other parts as well), Henry's masterful speech makes mistresses and mutes of all who hear. It indicts and indulges, threatens and seduces, penning up the chartered libertine even as it turns the wondering listener to a lurker and a thief. Although \"speechless death\"\u2014the fate of Thomas Mowbray\u2014is what Henry particularly hopes to avoid for himself, his desire that \"history shall with full mouth / Speak freely of our acts\" ( _Henry V_ 1.2.230\u201331) depends on his ability to induce speechlessness in those around him: his sweet and honeyed sentences are precisely what they are not invited to share. While Robinson traces \"the fragility of Henry's fraternal rhetoric\" to the uneasy political kinship of Englishman and Saracen, we might therefore trace it as well to the uneasy rhetorical kinship of enticement and alienation, to the honeyed sentences and turkened phrases that made English both eloquent and strange\u2014eloquent _because_ strange, just as Henry's \"happy few\" (4.3.60) are happy _because_ few. Indeed where modern critics see fragility\u2014fissures and flaws in Henry's attempt to fashion a perfect rhetorical union\u2014their sixteenth-century counterparts might rather have seen strength: the persistent if paradoxical appeal of language that refuses identification with the common tongue.\n\nThis appeal is at the core of Henry's famous speech at Agincourt, which, although it has so often been read as a transcendent (if transitory) evocation of national unity, fashions its \"band of brothers\" both outside of and in opposition to England. To the extent that, as many critics have suggested, Henry relies on xenophobia to secure the boundaries of his imagined community, that xenophobia is here directed most forcefully at the supposed home front, at \"gentlemen in England now abed\" who \"shall think themselves accursed they were not here\" (4.3.64\u201365). The speech is prompted by Warwick's wish for the company of his countrymen\u2014\"O that we now had here / But one ten thousand of those men in England / That do no work today\" (17\u201319)\u2014to which Henry sternly replies, \"No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.... O do not wish one more\" (30, 33). From the beginning, then, the rhetoric of kinship and belonging\u2014\"my coz,\" Henry calls Warwick\u2014is predicated on the exclusion of those at home. The remainder of the speech develops this opposition into a prolonged fantasy of privileged isolation from a broad and undifferentiated English community. Although we tend to interpret it as if it were addressed to the whole of Henry's host, \"inscribing these men together in a shared and all but hagiographic history and a glorious future,\" as one critic writes, it is addressed primarily to Warwick, who proves its success when he responds by wishing away not only the ten thousand Englishmen of his earlier imagining but also the five thousand actual Englishmen waiting close at hand: \"God's will, my liege, would you and I alone, / without more help, could fight this royal battle\" (74\u201375). His reaction reminds us that the only element of the speech extended to its general audience is an invitation to leave with passport in hand:\n\nRather proclaim it presently throughout my host\n\nThat he which hath no stomach to this fight\n\nLet him depart. His passport shall be made\n\nAnd crowns for convoy put into his purse.\n\nWe would not die in that man's company\n\nThat fears his fellowship to die with us. (34\u201339)\n\nFrom a practical perspective, of course, the widespread defection of Henry's troops would mean disaster, but the appeal of his rhetoric is concentrated in the image of \"you and I alone\": a vision of belonging so exclusive as to verge on exile. \"Perish the man whose mind is backward now,\" Warwick declares (72): this is no time to think of England.\n\nIndeed even as Henry imagines his army returned \"safe home\" again, feasting their neighbors and teaching their sons, he insists that they will remain men apart, a select community oriented around a language that\u2014while it resembles ordinary speech\u2014belongs singularly and strangely to them:\n\nHe that shall see this day and live to old age\n\nWill yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours\n\nAnd say, \"Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.\"\n\nThen will he strip his sleeve and show his scars\n\nAnd say, \"These wounds I had on Crispin's day.\"\n\nOld men forget: yet all shall be forgot,\n\nBut he'll remember with advantages\n\nWhat feats he did that day: then shall our names,\n\nFamiliar in his mouth as household words\u2014\n\nHarry the king, Bedford and Exeter,\n\nWarwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester\u2014\n\nBe in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. (44\u201355)\n\nFamiliar in _his_ mouth as household words: the point is not that proper aristocratic names will be familiar to everyone, as the value of participation in Henry's royal condition is distributed down the social scale; on the contrary, other Englishmen will \"hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks / That fought with us\" (66\u201367). Once again the familiarity Henry invokes is ultimately a mode of estrangement: his rhetoric carves out of the common tongue\u2014the tongue of actual families and households\u2014a peculiar language belonging exclusively to those whose bodies bear the foreign tracery of his war. The soldier who strips his sleeve and shows his scars and says, \"These wounds I had on Crispin's day\" speaks the plainest English, but his speech inscribes a boundary between himself and his neighbors; no less than Lyly's ornate periphrases, Spenser's archaic diction, or Marlowe's mighty line, what such language is meant to produce is the alluring and alienating effect of _style_.\n\nTo the extent that Henry's famous speech conjures a national community, then, it does so only in order to assert the desirability of distance from it. \"You know your places,\" Henry concludes (78), dismissing Warwick and the rest to battle. His eloquence teaches them their places, positioning them at the privileged and perilous extremity of linguistic community. That margin is not where we are now accustomed to locate Shakespeare, but it is where his eloquent English king finds it useful to reside: Henry may banish Euphues, Colin Clout, and Tamburlaine, but he also seems determined to join them. They hold their strangeness in common.\n_Notes_\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n. In Richard Foster Jones, _The Triumph of the English Language_ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1953), the author argues that the publication and reception of _Euphues_ , _The Shepheardes Calender_ , and _Tamburlaine_ mark the culmination of a decades-long process of linguistic self-assertion: \"eloquence in English compositions becomes an accomplished fact, and the rhetorical potentialities of the mother tongue are revealed once and for all. The rude, gross, base, and barbarous mother tongue recedes into the past, and its place is taken by an eloquent language, confidence in which mounts higher and higher until it yields nothing even to Latin and Greek\" (169\u201370).\n\n. Edward Blount, \"To the Reader,\" _Sixe Court Comedies... by Iohn Lilly_ (London: Edward Blount, 1632), sig. [A5v]; Philip Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetrie_ (London: Henry Olney, 1595), sigs. [K4]r\u2013v.\n\n. Joseph Hall, \"Virgidimarium,\" in _Christopher Marlowe: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Millar MacLure (New York: Routledge, 1995), 42.\n\n. Ben Jonson, _Discoveries: A Critical Edition_ , ed. Maurice Castelain (Paris: Librairie Hachette, 1906), 41, 90.\n\n. For a thorough account of the extension of this myth into twentieth-century theories of civic discourse and the public sphere, see Walter Jost and Michael J. Hyde, \"Introduction,\" in _Rhetoric and Hermeneutics in Our Time: A Reader_ , ed. Walter Jost and Michael J. Hyde (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 1\u201331. Wayne Rebhorn, _The Emperor of Men's Minds: Literature and the Renaissance Discourse of Rhetoric_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 23\u201329, provides a lengthy consideration of classical and Renaissance accounts of the origins of rhetoric, paying particular attention to the distinctive political ideologies that inflect versions of the foundational myth offered in republican and monarchic societies. Neil Rhodes, _The Power of Eloquence and English Renaissance Literature_ (New York: St. Martin's, 1999), chap. 1, likewise reflects on Renaissance ideas of eloquence. See also Heinrich F. Plett, _Rhetoric and Renaissance Culture_ (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 396\u2013410.\n\n. Isocrates, _Antidosis_ , trans. G. Norlin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 253\u201356, qtd. in Jost and Hyde, 2.\n\n. Marcus Tullius Cicero, _De Inventione_ , trans. H. M. Hubbell (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1949), 5\u20137.\n\n. Horace, _Ars Poetica_ , in _The Works of Horace_ , trans. C. Smart (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1896), 322.\n\n. Quintilian, _Institutio Oratoria_ , 4 vols., trans. Donald Russell (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 1:373.\n\n. Thomas Wilson, _The Arte of Rhetorique_ (London: Richard Grafton, 1560), sig. Aiiir, fol. 48r.\n\n. George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (London: Richard Field, 1589), sigs. Cr\u2013Ciiv.\n\n. Richard Rainolde, _A Book called the Foundacion of Rhetorike_ (London: John Kingston, 1563), sig. Air.\n\n. Henry Peacham, \"The Epistle,\" in Henry Peacham, _The Garden of Eloquence_ (London: H. Jackson, 1577), sig. Aiiir\u2013v.\n\n. Benedict Anderson, _Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism_ , rev. ed. (New York: Verso, 2006), 7, 44.\n\n. David J. Baker, _Between Nations: Shakespeare, Spenser, Marvell, and the Question of Britain_ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997), argues that the collective identity produced by sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century literature is \"only ambiguously\" English and that Britishness is an equally important site of literary and cultural identification (16). Andrew Hadfield, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Matter of Britain_ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), argues as well that it is \"the notion of Britain\" that \"loomed so large in the horizons and imaginations of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century writers\" (4). See also Adrian Hastings, _The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion, and Nationalism_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), which credits the English Bible with fostering a sense of linguistic commonality; and Joan Fitzpatrick, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Contours of Britain: Reshaping the Atlantic Archipelago_ (Hertfordshire: University of Hertfordshire Press, 2004). Other authors have traced the stirrings of national imagining, both English and British, to earlier Tudor literature: see Cathy Shrank, _Writing the Nation in Reformation England, 1530\u20131580_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); Philip Schwyzer, _Literature, Nationalism, and Memory in Early Modern England and Wales_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004)\u2014although Schwyzer cautions that \"[w]hat we discern in some early modern texts is not the nation _per se_ so much as the nation _in potential_ \" (9); Herbert Grabes, \"England or the Queen?: Public Conflict of Opinion and National Identity under Mary Tudor,\" in _Writing the Early Modern English Nation: The Transformation of National Identity in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century England_ , ed. Herbert Grabes (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 47\u201387; and Stewart Mottram, _Empire and Nation in Early English Renaissance Literature_ (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2008).\n\n. Richard Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood: The Elizabethan Writing of England_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 1\u20132.\n\n. Claire McEachern, _The Poetics of English Nationhood, 1590\u20131612_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 4.\n\n. Andrew Escobedo, _Nationalism and Historical Loss in Renaissance England_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004), 3.\n\n. Ian Smith, \"Barbarian Errors: Performing Race in Early Modern England,\" _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 49:2 (Summer 1998): 172\u201373.\n\n. Derek Attridge, _Peculiar Language: Literature as Difference from the Renaissance to James Joyce_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 3.\n\n. Aristotle, _Art of Rhetoric_ 1.1356, 2.1395; translated and edited by George A. Kennedy as _On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 41, 187.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.1404; trans. Kennedy, 221.\n\n. On the value-laden (and often specious) distinction between Attic and Asiatic styles, see Chapter 2, below, and Jeffrey Walker, _Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). For a more thorough account of the afterlives of specific classical theories of style in Renaissance rhetorical handbooks and literary texts, see George A. Kennedy, _Classical Rhetoric and Its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times_ , 2nd ed. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999); Kenneth Graham, _The Performance of Conviction: Plainness and Rhetoric in the Early English Renaissance_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994); Debora Shuger, _Sacred Rhetoric: The Christian Grand Style in the English Renaissance_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988); and Annabel Patterson, _Hermogenes and the Renaissance: Seven Ideas of Style_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1970).\n\n. Puttenham, 147.\n\n. Puttenham, 147.\n\n. Marcus Fabius Quintilian, _Institutio Oratoria_ , 4 vols., trans. H. E. Butler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 3:212\u201313.\n\n. As Kathy Eden, _Hermeneutics and the Rhetorical Tradition: Chapters in the Ancient Legacy and Its Humanist Reception_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), observes, in his _Rhetoric_ Aristotle makes very little distinction between _to prepon_ and _to oikeon_ , between \"appropriateness\" and \"homeliness\"; Cicero follows him in defining decorum \"as the ability to accommodate the occasion, taking account of times, places, and persons\" and identifying this capacity as the key to success as an orator, a poet, and more broadly speaking, a moral being (25\u201326). See also Kathy Eden, \"Petrarchan Hermeneutics and the Rediscovery of Intimacy,\" in _Petrarch and the Textual Origins of Interpretation_ , ed. Teodolinda Barolini and H. Wayne Storey (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 233\u201334.\n\n. Arthur Golding, _The xv. bookes of P. Ouidius Naso, entytuled Metamorphosis_ (London: William Seres, 1567), fols. 135v\u2013136r. As Sean Keilen, _Vulgar Eloquence: On the Renaissance Invention of English Literature_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), notes, Renaissance emblem books sometimes conflate these two aspects of the classical myth, depicting the civilizing poet as himself half-wild\u2014disheveled, barefoot, and perpetually on the verge of retreat to the untamed woods from which he emerged. Keilen argues that such hybrid images provided a particularly nourishing form of sustenance to vernacular authors, encouraging \"the idea that Orpheus' eloquence was inseparable from his barbarism\" and fostering the hope that their own unseemly origins might prove similarly generative (84\u201388).\n\n. Jeffrey Knapp, _An Empire Nowhere: England, America, and Literature from_ Utopia _to_ The Tempest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 21.\n\n. Jones, 212.\n\n. Jones, 169.\n\n. William Harrison, \"The Description and Historie of England,\" in Raphael Holinshed, _The first and second volume of Chronicles_ (London, 1577), 14.\n\n. Samuel Daniel, _The Defence of Ryme_ (London: Edward Blount, 1603), sig. H7r; Robert Cawdrey, \"To the Reader,\" in Robert Cawdrey, _A Table Alphabeticall_ (London: Edmund Weaver, 1604), sig. [A3]v. Cawdrey lifts his epistle wholesale from the pages of Wilson's _Arte_ , but the passage has a very different import when used as a justification for the first vernacular dictionary: Cawdrey clearly believes that \"making a difference of English\" is an absurdity; Wilson, as we shall see, and somewhat in spite of himself, does not.\n\n. David Wallace, _Premodern Places: Calais to Surinam, Chaucer to Aphra Behn_ (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004), 53.\n\n. Richard Hakluyt, _Principle Navigations of the English Nation_ (London, 1589), 33.\n\n. Thomas Nashe, \"Have With You to Saffron Walden,\" in _The Unfortunate Traveller and Other Works_ , ed. J. B. Steane (New York: Penguin Books, 1973), 490.\n\n. Thomas Nashe, \"Nashe's Lenten Stuff,\" in _The Unfortunate Traveller and Other Works_ , ed. J. B. Steane (New York: Penguin Books, 1973), 377.\n\n. Thomas Wilson, _The three orations of Demosthenes_ (London: Henrie Denham, 1570), \"To the right Honorable Sir William Cecill,\" sigs. A1r\u2013v.\n\n. Cloth is a particularly suggestive metaphor for the virtues and limitations of the mother tongue. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, wool and unfinished cloth constituted England's most valuable exports and the foundation of its economic stature abroad, but English clothiers \"remained incapable of producing the sophisticated dyeing and finishing processes that were established in the Low Countries, Italy, Persia, India, and China,\" and attempts to redress the imbalance by mandating the sale of finished cloth ended in \"catastrophic failure\": Flemish merchants imposed an embargo, and as it turned out, \"no one wanted to buy finished cloth of such poor quality anyway\" (Peter Stallybrass, \"Marginal England: The View from Aleppo,\" in _Center or Margin: Revisions of the English Renaissance in Honor of Leeds Barroll_ , ed. Lena Cowen Orlin [Selinsgrove: Susquehanna University Press, 2006], 31).\n\n. George Chapman, \"A Defence of Homer,\" in _Elizabethan Critical Essays_ , ed. Gregory Smith (London: Oxford University Press, 1904), 304.\n\n. Richard Mulcaster, _The First Parte of the Elementarie_ (London: T. Vautroullier, 1582), 257.\n\n. As Gabriele Stein has shown in her work on European polyglot dictionaries, English was a late and lesser object of study abroad, playing a \"subordinate role,\" if any, in the most popular dictionaries and phrase books on the Continent; not until 1580, for instance, was English added to the eleven-language edition of Calepinus's _Dictionarium_ , in which it \"constituted a final group together with Polish and Hungarian and within that group... occupied the final position\" (\"The Emerging Role of English in the Dictionaries of Renaissance Europe,\" _Folia Linguistica Historica_ 9:1 [1989], 30, 58). Barbara Strang estimates that in 1570 English was \"spoken by a population of about four and a half million and lacking all overseas branches\" ( _A History of English_ [London: Methuen, 1970], 104).\n\n. Puttenham, 158.\n\n. Paula Blank, _Broken English: Dialects and the Politics of Language in Renaissance Writings_ (London: Routledge, 1996), 16\u201323.\n\n. Harrison, 14.\n\n. Although the _Oxford English Dictionary_ (hereafter _OED_ ) attests its use in the late fifteenth century (s.v. \"ornature\"), \"ornature\" still merits inclusion in Edward Phillips's 1658 dictionary of neologisms and hard words, the _New World of English Words_ ; more tellingly, it is a favored term of Ben Jonson's \"poetaster\" Crispinus\u2014precisely the sort of would-be Orpheus whose corrupt phrasing Harrison decries. \"Ornature\" particularly offends Jonson's Horace, the voice of poetic reason: \"Is't not possible to make an escape from him?\" he pleads upon hearing Crispinus use the word (Ben Jonson, _Poetaster, or The Arraignment_ [London: M. L., 1602], sig. D3r).\n\n. Wayne Rebhorn, \"Outlandish Fears: Defining Decorum in Renaissance Rhetoric,\" _Intertexts_ 4:1 (Spring 2000): 22.\n\n. Graham, 16. Graham's account jibes with the emphasis placed on the social and political contexts of rhetoric within a number of foundational studies of Renaissance humanism: see especially Joel B. Altman, _The Tudor Play of Mind: Rhetorical Inquiry and the Development of Elizabethan Drama_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978); Lisa Jardine, _Francis Bacon: Discovery and the Art of Discourse_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974); Victoria Kahn, _Rhetoric, Prudence, and Skepticism_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985); and Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine, _From Humanism to the Humanities: Education and the Liberal Arts in Fifteenth and Sixteenth Century Europe_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986).\n\n. Citing the demise of the myth of Brutus and the discovery, by English antiquarians, of physical remnants of Britain's colonial past, Keilen argues that in the late sixteenth century, \"England's broader relationship to Rome was suffering an unprecedented strain.... H]istory obliged English poets to regard themselves as the victims of the Roman Conquest, rather than the rightful heirs of classical Latin culture\"; what is more, as the assiduous study of that culture revealed, \"derogatory passages about ancient Britain were scattered throughout the corpus of Latin literature. The most infamous of these occurred in texts whose authority and value were unimpeachable, like Virgil's _Eclogues_ and Cicero's _Letters_ \" (15\u201316). In [Chapters 1 and  I consider how two particular English writers, Roger Ascham and Edmund Spenser, respond to the sting of those insults.\n\n. Jenny Mann, _Outlaw Rhetoric: Figuring Vernacular Eloquence in Shakespeare's England_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012), 13, 14.\n\n. See Carla Mazzio, _The Inarticulate Renaissance: Language Trouble in an Age of Eloquence_ (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). \"Speech located at the nexus of classical and vernacular organization,\" whether grammatical or rhetorical, often \"prove[d] vividly inarticulate,\" Mazzio observes (6). Mazzio's reading of _The Spanish Tragedy_ offers a useful critique too of the assumption that cultivating the vernacular promoted national unity: Kyd's play and, especially, its play-within-a-play expose \"the ambivalence about forms of cultural fusion and confusion inherent in the establishment of a national tongue\" (103).\n\n. Anderson, 19.\n\n. Wilson, _Rhetorique_ 162, 171\u201372.\n\n. Richard Sherry, _A Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ (London, 1550), sigs. A1v\u2013A2r.\n\n. Puttenham, 157, 143, 159\u201360.\n\n. Daniel, _Defence_ , sig. [G5]r.\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\n. See, for example, T. W. Baldwin, _Shakespere's Small Latine & Lesse Greeke_ (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1944); Joel B. Altman, _The Tudor Play of Mind: Rhetorical Inquiry and the Development of Elizabethan Drama_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978); Jonathan Bate, _Shakespeare and Ovid_ (Oxford: Clarendon Paperbacks, 1994); Rebecca Bushnell, _A Culture of Teaching: Early Modern Humanism in Theory and Practice_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996); Leonard Barkan, \"What Did Shakespeare Read?,\" in _The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare_ , ed. Margreta de Grazia and Stanley Wells (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 31\u201347; and Colin Burrow, \"Shakespeare and Humanistic Culture,\" in _Shakespeare and the Classics_ , ed. Charles Martindale and A. B. Taylor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 9\u201327.\n\n. Ardis Butterfield, _The Familiar Enemy: Chaucer, Language, and Nation in the Hundred Years War_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), describes the written English of such writers, for whom either French or Latin would have been the usual language of composition, as a \"neo-language\" (342).\n\n. Jones, 13\u201315.\n\n. The rivalry is implicit throughout Jones's book but is made explicit in its final paragraph, which identifies the pursuit of vernacular eloquence by late Elizabethan writers as the generative spirit of a world in which \"English reigns supreme\" and \"Latin, Greek, and the classical spirit have all but disappeared\" (323). A similar premise undergirds Benedict Anderson's narrative in _Imagined Communities_ , whereby the rise of national vernaculars coincides with and is contingent upon \"the fall of Latin\" (18).\n\n. Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 3.\n\n. C. S. Lewis, _English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1944), 274\u201375, 279\u201381.\n\n. Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine offer the strongest and most influential version of this argument in _From Humanism to the Humanities._\n\n. Burrow, \"Shakespeare and Humanistic Culture,\" 15.\n\n. Richard Helgerson credits the flourishing of romance in the late sixteenth century to the rebellious efforts of \"Elizabethan prodigals,\" whose literary ambitions for the vernacular simultaneously refuse and reframe the devoutly classicized, civic-minded precepts of their fathers' generation ( _The Elizabethan Prodigals_ [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976]; Helgerson recapitulates this argument in the introduction and first chapter of _Forms of Nationhood_ ). Arthur Kinney offers a similar account of late sixteenth-century poetic practice, discerning in it a pointed critique of its authors' humanist training in rhetoric ( _Humanist Poetics: Thought, Rhetoric, and Fiction in Sixteenth-Century England_ [Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1986]). More recently Georgia Brown has identified in the 1590s novel \"forms of authorship defined by their opposition to... the principles of humanist morality\" ( _Redefining Elizabethan Literature_ [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004], 24), while Jeff Dolven reads the self-undermining tendencies of Elizabethan romance as \"artifacts... of an unresolved opposition between story and school\" ( _Scenes of Instruction in Renaissance Romance_ [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007], 59), and Lynn Enterline finds that \"Shakespeare creates convincing effects of character and emotion... precisely when undercutting the socially normative categories schoolmasters invoked as the goal of their new form of pedagogy\" ( _Shakespeare's Schoolroom: Rhetoric, Discipline, Emotion_ [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012], 10).\n\n. Thomas M. Greene, \"Roger Ascham: The Perfect End of Shooting,\" _English Literary History_ 36:4 (December 1969): 623.\n\n. Roger Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ (1570; reprinted, Menston, UK: Scolar Press, 1967), [2]\u20133. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Richard Halpern, _The Poetics of Primitive Accumulation: English Renaissance Culture and the Genealogy of Capital_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 24.\n\n. Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , 46r.\n\n. Thomas Elyot, _The Proheme,_ in Elyot, _The Boke named the Governour_ (1531; reprinted, Menston, UK: Scolar Press, 1970), sig. aiir. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. \"Of education in its nursery stage Elyot has nothing of value to say,\" Lewis sniffs. \"Like all his kind he issues rigid instructions which would be scattered to the winds by ten minutes' experience of any real child or any real nurse\" (Lewis, 274\u201375).\n\n. \"We have long accepted the word of humanist teachers and theorists about the effects of their pedagogy,\" Enterline writes. \"It is time to listen to the testimony of grammar school students\" (Enterline, 10). This chapter may seem to flout that sensible advice: Elyot's pronouncements about wet nurses, like Ascham's prescriptions for double translation, interest me precisely because they are so self-consciously unrealistic. It is my belief, however, that such impracticable fantasies are, in large part, how English writers trained in humanist schoolrooms learned to think of eloquence.\n\n. The example of the young Michel de Montaigne, born the year after Elyot published _The Governour_ , is the exception that proves the rule. As Montaigne recalls in his essay \"Of the Institution and Education of Children,\" his father, Pierre, went to extraordinary lengths to establish Latin as his son's first language, insisting that all household staff communicate with the child exclusively in Latin and supplying the boy with a tutor who spoke no French. Thanks to his father's \"exquisite toile,\" Montaigne writes, by the age of six he spoke fluent Latin but knew \"no more French... then Arabike\" ( _Essays written in French by Michael Lord of Montaigne_ , trans. John Florio [London, 1613], 84\u201385).\n\n. On the afterlife of the English nurse as a locus of cultural anxieties about class, language, and national identity, see Katie Trumpener, _Bardic Nationalism: The Romantic Novel and the British Empire_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 196\u2013241.\n\n. Robert Matz, _Defending Literature in Early Modern England_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 36\u201348.\n\n. J. S. C. Eidinow, \"Dido, Aeneas, and Iulus: Heirship and Obligation in _Aeneid_ 4,\" _Classical Quarterly_ , n.s., 53:1 (May 2003): 260\u201367.\n\n. As Eidinow points out, Virgil fixes attention of the empty space of Dido's \"lap\" or \"womb\" ( _gremio_ ), and on her various and unsuccessful efforts to fill it. As book 4 draws to its embittered conclusion, Dido abandons these efforts, recasting nursing as the primal scene of abandonment and neglect: \"No goddess was your mother,\" she rails at Aeneas. \"Hyrcanian tigresses suckled you\" (nec tibi diva parens... Hyrcanaeque admorunt ubera tigres). The narrator undercuts the potential pathos of the scene by noting, as an aside, that Dido's own nurse, who might have comforted her, is now just ashes in the land she left behind when she married (namque suam [nutricem] patria antique cinis ater habebat). The aside has a clear bearing on the Carthaginian queen's present predicament: \"We, too, have the right to seek a foreign realm\" (et nos fas extera quaerere regna), Aeneas says pointedly, reminding Dido of all that she herself has abandoned in pursuit of empire ( _Aeneid_ , trans. H. R. Fairclough [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1916), 445\u201347).\n\n. David Baker, \" 'To Divulgate or Set Forth': Humanism and Heresy in Sir Thomas Elyot's _The Book named the Governor_ ,\" _Studies in Philology_ 90:1 (Winter 1993): 46.\n\n. And was said, as I mention in the following chapter: in the dedicatory epistle to his 1550 _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ , Richard Sherry hails \"ye right worshipfull knight syr Thomas Eliot,\" who \"as it were generally searching out the copye of oure language in all kynde of wordes and phrases,... hath hereby declared the plentyfulnes of our mother tounge, loue toward hys country, hys tyme not spent in vanitye and trifles\" (sig. [A3]r\u2013v).\n\n. Stephen Merriam Foley, \"Coming to Terms: Thomas Elyot's Definitions and the Particularity of Human Letters,\" _English Literary History_ 61:2 (Summer 1994): 221.\n\n. Thomas Elyot, _Of the knowledge whiche maketh a wise man_ (London: Thomas Berthelet, 1533), sig. A3r\u2013v.\n\n. For a reading of the phrase's possible associations with a more dangerous sense of vulgarization, verging on threats of sedition and popular revolt, see Baker, \"To Divulgate or Set Forth.\"\n\n. Foley, 221.\n\n. Elyot, _Of the knowledge_ , sig. A2v.\n\n. Ascham claims to have had a conversation with Elyot about the origins of longbow shooting, during which Elyot claimed to be writing a much longer work treating that subject and other \"olde monuments of England\"; Ascham's anecdote is the only surviving record of this (lost? never completed?) treatise, _De rebus memorabilibus Angliae_. See Roger Ascham, _Toxophilus: The Schole of Shoting_ , in _English Works_ , ed. William Aldis Wright (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1904), 53. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Ryan J. Stark, \"Protestant Theology and Apocalyptic Rhetoric in Roger Ascham's The Schoolmaster,\" _Journal of the History of Ideas_ 69:4 (October 2008): 517\u201332. Greene points out that archery is Ascham's favorite metaphor for the arts of language, \"recur[ring] so often in _The Scholemaster_ as to almost seem obsessive.\" Of the goose, Greene notes, Ascham writes in _Toxophilus_ , \"How fit, even as her fethers be onlye for shootynge, so be her quylls fytte onlye for wrytyng\" (qtd. in Greene, 619).\n\n. Dolven, 55\u201356.\n\n. Enterline, 12.\n\n. Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 22.\n\n. He charts both Lyly's and Spenser's careers in terms of their progress away from \"Aschamite\" values (Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 25\u201359).\n\n. So concludes William E. Miller, judging from the preponderance of \"vulgars,\" or English crib sheets for Latin phrases, in surviving documents; see Miller, \"Double Translation in English Humanist Education,\" _Studies in the Renaissance_ 10 (1963): 163\u201374. We have as well the testimony of William Kempe, whose treatise _The Education of Children in Learning_ (London: Thomas Orwin, 1588) offers an account of his experience as schoolmaster at the Plymouth School. Kempe says that Ascham's method is \"good\" but is to be used only \"when opportunitie and leisure will serve\" (sig. G1v).\n\n. Precisely this fear motivated Stephen Gardiner when, as chancellor of Cambridge University in the 1540s, he forbade Cheke and his colleague Thomas Smith from promulgating their new method of pronouncing ancient Greek; see Bror Danielsson's introduction to _Sir Thomas Smith, Literary and Linguistic Works_ , part 1, _Stockholm Studies in English_ 50 (Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 1978), 13\u201320. In a 1542 letter Gardiner objects that, in their eagerness to bridge \"the distance in time and space that separates us from them,\" the pair have \"treat[ed] our English tongue as though it were a Lesbian measuring stick in accordance with which you take the measure of the Greek diphthongs.\" He goes on, \"For just as Lesbian craftsmen adapt their measuring-stick to the marble, so you from time to time adapt English to Greek and, employing a new method of spelling, write our word _pay_ with an _I_ instead of a _y_... so that if we were to follow your example we should to that extent transform English orthography.... It was in order that this might not happen that I issued my edict\" (qtd. in Danielsson, 213). Cheke made a politic retreat, but Smith persisted. In 1568 he published a fresh edition of _De Recta et Emendata Linguae Graecae Pronuntiatione_ , bound together\u2014just as Gardiner feared\u2014with a new dialogue, _De Recta et Emendata Linguae Anglicae Scriptione_ , proposing a reformed orthography for the English language: \"vagabond\" _C_ and \"beggarly, intruding\" _Q_ are to be \"exile[d] far away\"; while other English sounds, \"so far vagrant\"\u2014the \"th\" in \"father,\" for instance, which has been forced to share a grapheme with \"th\" in \"thief\"\u2014are to be given \"place[s] of eternal habitation\" through the revival of the Anglo-Saxon letters \u00fe and \u00f0 (Danielsson, 140). For more on spelling controversies, see Blank, _Broken English_ , 24\u201329.\n\n. Richard Mulcaster, _Positions... for the training vp of children_ (London: Thomas Vautroullier, 1581), 8, 11. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Richard Mulcaster, _The First Part of the Elementarie Which Entreateth Chieflie of the Right Writing of Our English Tongue_ (London: Thomas Vautroullier, 1582), 254. Mulcaster's was one of the first English grammars; for an account of subsequent approaches to analyzing and standardizing vernacular usage, see Blank, _Broken English_ ; and Emma Vorlat, _The Development of English Grammatical Theory, 1586\u20131737_ (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1975).\n\n. Mulcaster, _First Part of the Elementarie,_ 75.\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\n. Elyot, _The Boke named the Governour_ (1970), fol. 49v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Leonard Cox, _The Arte or Crafte of Rhetoryke_ (London, 1532), sigs. [Fvi]r\u2013[Fvii]r; Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , fol. 46r.\n\n. Sherry, (1550), sigs. A1v\u2013A2r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , fol. 35r\u2013v.\n\n. Jenny Mann identifies only one sixteenth-century vernacular rhetoric, Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique,_ that addresses the full classical complement of rhetorical techniques, from invention through pronunciation; the majority of the rest deal exclusively with style, although a few address only invention and arrangement, most often under the auspices of logic or dialectic (17\u201318 and appendix, 219\u201320). As style consumed rhetoric, it grew proportionately: as Sylvia Adamson, Gavin Alexander, and Katrin Ettenhuber note, the pseudo-Ciceronian _Ad Herennium_ \"gave its students sixty-five figures to learn,\" while \"the second edition of Peacham's _Garden of Eloquence_ (1593) raised the number to two hundred\" (\"Introduction,\" in _Renaissance Figures of Speech_ , ed. Sylvia Adamson, Gavin Alexander, and Katrin Ettenhuber [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007], 3).\n\n. Lee Sonnino, _A Handbook to Sixteenth-Century Rhetoric_ (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1968), 7; Thomas Conley, _Rhetoric in the European Tradition_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 134.\n\n. Wolfgang G. M\u00fcller, \"Directions for English: Thomas Wilson's _Art of Rhetoric_ , George Puttenham's _Art of English Poesy_ , and the Search for Vernacular Eloquence,\" in _The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature, 1485\u20131603_ , ed. Mike Pincombe and Cathy Shrank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 317, 320\u201321.\n\n. Adamson et al., 3.\n\n. Mann, 41.\n\n. The program he proposes is in fact rather lavish in its expense of time and money: ideally, he believes, the reading of classical poetry, oratory, and philosophy would occupy young men until the age of twenty-one\u2014a full seven years after most Tudor youths began their professional training (see Elyot, _The Governour_ , fol. 46v\u201355v).\n\n. Cox, sig. Fviv.\n\n. Thomas Wilson, _The Arte of Rhetorique,_ rev. and exp. 2nd ed. (London: Richard Grafton, 1560), fol. 1r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , 146.\n\n. Peter E. Medine, \"Introduction,\" in Thomas Wilson, _The Art of Rhetoric (1560)_ , ed. Peter E. Medine (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994), 5. \"Wilson seems to have deliberately made his book look as English as may be,\" M\u00fcller notes, citing his _Arte_ as \"a significant contribution to the growth of national identity\" (311, 321). \"More than any other early guide, Wilson's _Arte of Rhetoric_ reminds the reader that _England_ is the site\" of the eloquence it imagines, Mann argues: \"Wilson repeatedly cites the topic of the nation as the most fitting subject of vernacular discourse\" and offers \"examples of rhetorical speech... ever more particularized to the geography of England\" (44). His lexical and syntactical precepts reflect what Cathy Shrank describes as the \"ideal of a self-regulating island nation\": a \"vision of a unified, obedient nation rest[ing] on the reformation of English speech\" and the exclusion of \"the polluting effect of foreign words\" ( _Writing the Nation in Reformation England 1530\u20131580_ [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004], 188, 189\u201390). Shrank's account highlights the authoritarian political cast of Wilson's writings, situating the publication of the two editions of his _Rhetorique_ in the context of his suffering under the Marian regime. For more on this context, see Peter E. Medine, _Thomas Wilson_ (Boston: Twayne, 1986); and Martin Elsky, _Authorizing Words: Speech, Writing, and Print in the English Renaissance_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989).\n\n. Albert J. Schmidt, \"Thomas Wilson and the Tudor Commonwealth: An Essay in Civic Humanism,\" _Huntington Library Quarterly_ 23:1 (1959): 50.\n\n. B. M. Cotton MSS, Titus, F. i., fol. 163 (qtd. in Schmidt, 59).\n\n. Thomas Wilson, _The Rule of Reason, Conteinyng the Arte of Logique, Set Forth in Englishe_ ([London], 1551), sigs. A2v\u2013A4r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Especially as concerns the importance of invention and its \"places,\" Wilson makes no strong distinction between logic and rhetoric, regarding \"both these Artes as much like\" in their concern with probable argumentation, differing only in that the former \"doeth playnly and nakedly set furthe with apt wordes the summe of thinges,\" while the latter \"vseth gay paincted Sentences, and setteth furth those matters with fresh colours and goodly ornamentes\" ( _Logique_ , sigs. B3r\u2013v). Thus, although he calls his treatise an art of logic, he includes in it discussions of enthymemes, commonplaces, arguments from literature, and even sophistical tricks, all of which might more properly be considered elements of rhetoric.\n\n. Quintilian, _Institutio Oratoria_ , 4 vols., trans. H. E. Butler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 5.10.21, 2:213.\n\n. The _topoi_ appear in Isocrates's _Encomium of Helen_ and other sophistic texts in reference to tried-and-true strategies of argumentation and their material counterparts, the \"places\" in rhetorical handbooks where lists of such strategies could be found by an orator in need of guidance or inspiration. These topics, however, differ from Aristotle's in that they serve a primarily conservative function: they are textual repositories of \"key ideas\" or particular \"forms of expression\" available for imitation or replication, especially by novice orators. Aristotle, by contrast, seeks to endow rhetoric with the capacity for innovative rational thought; his topics redress the perceived imbalance between rhetorical and logical argument by serving as the engine of a uniquely rhetorical strategy of invention and persuasion. See William M. A. Grimaldi, _Studies in the Philosophy of Aristotle's Rhetoric_ (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag GMBH, 1972), 121; and George Kennedy, _A New History of Classical Rhetoric_ (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 28.\n\n. Jost and Hyde, \"Introduction,\" 2, 12.\n\n. Dilip Parmeshwar Gaonkar, \"Introduction: Contingency and Probability,\" in _A Companion to Rhetoric and Rhetorical Criticism_ , ed. Walter Jost and Wendy Olmsted (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 7.\n\n. Plato, _Gorgias,_ trans. Robin Waterfield (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 45. In the _Gorgias_ Socrates challenges the chief of the sophists to identify the actual knowledge on which the attainment of rhetorical success depends. His critique amounts to the charge that, as Gaonkar puts it, eloquence is untrustworthy \"precisely because it is rootless\": because it is grounded in no particular realm of expertise, its claims are malleable to the expectations and desires of a given audience (5). Asked by Socrates to identify \"the particular province\" of his art, Gorgias finally claims that rhetorical expertise excludes no form of knowledge as alien to its purposes\u2014a claim that Socrates argues amounts to saying that rhetoric has no knowledge of its own to impart. In the _Phaedrus_ , by contrast, Plato's other major antirhetorical dialogue, Socrates alleges that rhetoric is inferior to dialectic because its arguments are too deeply rooted in circumstances (geographic, cultural, historical, political, and personal) irrelevant to the determination of universal truths; the _Gorgias_ suggests that this local particularity is the symptom of a misguided aspiration to generality\u2014rhetoric is both too narrow and too expansive in its claims.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 1.2.11, trans. Kennedy (1991), 41. For more on the relationship between consensus and topical argument, see John D. Schaeffer, \"Commonplaces: _Sensus Communis_ ,\" in _A Companion to Rhetoric and Rhetorical Criticism_ , ed. Walter Jost and Wendy Olmsted (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 278\u201393; and Carolyn R. Miller, \"The Aristotelian _Topos_ : Hunting for Novelty,\" in _Re-Reading Aristotle's Rhetoric_ , ed. Alan G. Gross and Arthur E. Walzer (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2000), 130\u201346.\n\n. As Barbara Warnick points out, much recent rhetorical criticism has obscured Aristotle's emphasis on the contextual, local character of the rhetorical topics precisely because it has failed to take seriously the relationship between topics and the actual, physical places that define a community: \"The topics are often referred to in spatial terms\u2014as 'seats' of argument, 'regions' in which argument resides, containers, receptacles, and places where one can 'find' an argument, [but] few authors have speculated as to where these 'places' might be.\" Warnick observes that Aristotle's theory of topics goes beyond the strategies and formulas of the sophists' handbooks in this emphasis on locale: \"[T]he rhetor must also know the values, presumptions, predispositions, and expectations of the audience, and he must locate both his starting points (special topics) _and_ forms of inference (common topics) with these in mind. Thus, in addition to the cognitive processes of the individual [orator], one must look to another 'space' to locate the reservoir of common topics available to a speaker. One must look to the habits of thought, value hierarchies, forms of knowledge, and cultural conventions of the host society.\" See Barbara Warnick, \"Two Systems of Invention: The Topics in the _Rhetoric_ and _The New Rhetoric_ ,\" in _Re-Reading Aristotle's Rhetoric_ , ed. Alan G. Gross and Arthur E. Walzer (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2000), 107\u20138.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 2.22.1, trans. Kennedy (1991), 187.\n\n. Plato, _Gorgias_ 465c, trans. Waterfield, 33.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 2.22.1, trans. Kennedy (1991), 187.\n\n. Mann elaborates on the significance of these, especially the conspicuously English _Shire_ (44\u201345).\n\n. The observation is penciled on the final page of Harvey's copy of Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ (qtd. in Medine, _Thomas Wilson_ , 55).\n\n. Barnes's remark dates to 1593 (qtd. in Schmidt, 55).\n\n. Qtd. in Kennedy (1994), 91.\n\n. Qtd. in Kennedy (1994), 18.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.1.6, trans. Kennedy (1991), 219.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.1.9, trans. Kennedy (1991), 219.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.1\u20132, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.2\u20133, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.3, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221\u201322.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ 3.2.2, trans. Kennedy (1991), 221.\n\n. Aristotle, _Poetics_ , trans. Malcolm Heath (London: Penguin Books, 1996), 34 (section 9.3).\n\n. Aristotle, _Poetics_ 9.3, trans. Heath, 34.\n\n. Aristotle, _Poetics_ 9.3; the first translation is Heath's (34), and the second is Kennedy's (1991, 222n25).\n\n. Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 8.3.58, trans. Butler (1966), 3:243.\n\n. Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 8.2.6, trans. Butler (1966), 3:199.\n\n. Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 9.3.2\u20135, trans. Butler (1966), 3:444\u201345.\n\n. Quintilian, _Institutia Oratoriae_ 8.2.6, trans. Butler (1966), 3:199.\n\n. Kennedy (1994), 96.\n\n. Jeffrey Walker, _Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 55.\n\n. Kennedy (1994), 160\u201361.\n\n. Qtd. in Walker, 68\u201369.\n\n. Walker, 69.\n\n. Abraham Fraunce, _The Arcadian Rhetorike,_ (London: Thomas Orwin, 1588), sig. D1v.\n\n. Peacham, sig. B1r.\n\n. Puttenham, 120\u201321. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 95.\n\n. Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 75, 103\u20134.\n\n. Indeed, as Paula Blank, _Broken English_ , argues, \"words usually characterized as examples of Renaissance 'poetic diction' \" may be \"better understood as dialects of early modern English\" (3). Blank cites Alexander Gill's Latin history of the English language, _Logonomia Anglica_ (1619), which places the \"Poetic\" alongside \"the general, the Northern, the Southern, the Eastern, [and] the Western\" as one of the \"major dialects.\" \"Along with regional languages implicitly defined, geographically and socially, by their relation to the 'general' language (i.e., an elite variety of London English),\" Blank writes, we might consider \" 'Poetic' language as a province of the vernacular.\" For a discussion of the \"generic intertextuality\" enacted by Puttenham's conflation of poetry and eloquence, see Heinrich F. Plett, _Rhetoric and Renaissance Culture_ (New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004), 151\u201352, 162\u201373.\n\n. George Gascoigne. \"Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making of Verse or Ryme in English,\" in _Ancient Critical Essays upon English Poets and Poesy_ , vol. 2, ed. Joseph Haslewood (London: Robert Triphook, 1815), 53. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. _OED_ , s.v. \"turkesse.\"\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\n. For a record of surviving editions from 1578 through 1902, see the table of editions in John Lyly, _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit; Euphues and His England_ , ed. Morris William Croll and Harry Clemens (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1916), x. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. Leah Guenther cites a spate of imitations, including John Dickenson's _Arisbas, Euphues amidst His Slumbers_ (1594); Robert Greene's _Euphues, His Censure to Philatus_ (1597) and _Menaphon, Camilla's Alarum to Slumbering Euphues_ (1589); and Thomas Lodge's _Rosalynde, Euphues Golden Legacy_ and _Euphues Shadow, the Battaile of the Sences_ (1592), which as she says, \"effectively saturated the market\" for euphuism \"during the last two decades of the sixteenth century\" (\" 'To Parley Euphuism': Fashioning English as a Linguistic Fad,\" _Renaissance Studies_ 16:1 [2002]: 25n5).\n\n. Francis Meres, _Palladis Tamia Wits Treasury being the second part of Wits Commonwealth_ (London: P. Short, 1598), 627.\n\n. Qtd. in R. Warwick Bond, \"Life of John Lyly,\" in _The Complete Works of John Lyly_ , vol. 1, ed. R. Warwick Bond (Oxford: Clarendon, 1902), 80n2. This, Bond says, is \"the absolutely earliest instance of direct disapproval of Euphuism\": it appears in a pamphlet written in 1589, _Advertisement to Papp-Hatchett_ (1593), Harvey's retort to _Pappe with a Hatchett_ , Lyly's contribution to the virulent Martin Marprelate controversy.\n\n. Leah Scragg, \"Introduction,\" in John Lyly, _\"Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit\" and \"Euphues and His England,\"_ ed. Leah Scragg (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003), 1.\n\n. Graham Tulloch, \"Sir Walter Scott's Excursion into Euphuism,\" _Neuphilologische Mitteilungen_ 78 (1977): 70.\n\n. William Webbe, _A Discourse of English Poetry_ (London: Robert Walley, 1586), sig. C1v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Philip Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetry_ (London: Robert Olney, 1595), sigs. [K4]r\u2013v.\n\n. Philip Sidney, _Syr P. S. His Astrophel and Stella_ (London: Thomas Newman, 1591), 2.\n\n. Lyly, 5.\n\n. C. S. Lewis, _English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1954), 314\u201315. Lewis loathes _Euphues_ \u2014Lyly's \"fatal success,\" as he terms it, and the work that prevents him from classing Lyly among the \"golden\" authors of his period. Lewis's criticisms of the text are, to a certain extent, just\u2014Euphues _is_ least interesting once he reforms his ways and takes up the mantle of moral exemplarity\u2014but Lyly's narrative, as I will show, is less indulgent of its protagonist's \"confident fatuity\" than Lewis allows (315).\n\n. Judith Rice Henderson, \"Euphues and His Erasmus,\" _English Literary Renaissance_ 12:2 (1982): 161.\n\n. Arthur Kinney, _Humanist Poetics: Thought, Rhetoric, and Fiction in Sixteenth-Century England_ (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1986), 136.\n\n. Janel Mueller, _The Native Tongue and the Word: Developments in English Prose Style, 1380\u20131580_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 390.\n\n. Demetrius, _Demetrius On Style: The Greek Text of Demetrius' De Elocutione_ , trans. W. Rhys Roberts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1902), 75.\n\n. Philip Sidney, _Apologie_ , sig. L[1]r.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ , trans. Kennedy (1991), 240.\n\n. Wilson, _The three orations of Demosthenes_ , \"To the right Honorable Sir William Cecill,\" sigs. A1r\u2013v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition. It is no surprise to find Wilson sounding so much like Lyly: his _Arte of Rhetorique_ is, as Mueller shows, the most useful guide to the nuts and bolts of euphuistic style (see Mueller, 387\u2013423). I do not believe she or others have considered the relevance of Wilson's efforts as a translator, however, and although it is not my intent to revive here the once lively debate over the source(s) of Lyly's style, which have been traced from Gorgias and Isocrates through the Middle Ages and to the Oxford lecture hall of John Rainolds (see Eduard Norden, _Die Antike Kunstprosa,_ vol. 2 [Leipzig, 1898], 773\u2013809; Albert Feuillerat, _John Lyly: Contribution \u00e0 l'histoire de la Renaissance en Angleterre_ [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1910]; George Williamson, _The Senecan Amble: A Study of Prose Form from Bacon to Collier_ [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951], 11\u2013120; G. K. Hunter, _John Lyly: The Humanist as Courtier_ [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962], 280\u201389; Morris W. Croll, \"Introduction,\" in Lyly, _\"Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit\" and \"Euphues and His England,\"_ ed. Croll and Clemens, xxiv\u2013lxiv; William A. Ringler Jr., \"The Immediate Source of Euphuism,\" _PMLA_ 53 [1938]: 678\u201386), it is worth adding Wilson's Demosthenes to the list.\n\n. \"The etymologies of _copia_ ,\" writes Terrence Cave, \"originate in a spectacularly successful outgrowth... from the parent form _ops_ , which already embraces the domains of material riches, natural plenty (personified as the goddess Ops), and figurative abundance,... [and] draws into its semantic net connotations of military strength (pl. _copiae_ , 'forces') and above all of eloquent speech ( _copia dicendi_ ), while retaining its connection with riches and a broad range of more general notions\u2014abundance, plenty, variety, satiety, resources\" ( _The Cornucopian Text: Problems of Writing in the French Renaissance_ [Oxford: Clarendon, 1979], 3). Most, if not all, of these senses are relevant to the debate over euphuism, which, as Sidney's criticism suggests, can be framed as an argument over the virtues of English's native resources and those ornaments it might attain by force or artifice.\n\n. Walter J. Ong, \"Commonplace Rhapsody: _Ravisius Textor_ , Zwinger and Shakespeare,\" in _Classical Influences on European Culture, 1500\u20131700_ , ed. R. R. Bolgar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 94.\n\n. Henderson, 151.\n\n. Dolven, 78, 83, 95.\n\n. Ong, 102.\n\n. Rebecca Bushnell, _A Culture of Teaching: Early Modern Humanism in Theory and Practice_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), 133.\n\n. Qtd. in William Sherman, _John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance_ (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1995), 61\u201362.\n\n. Peter Beal, \"Notions in Garrison: The Seventeenth-Century Commonplace Book,\" in _New Ways of Looking at Old Texts: Papers of the Renaissance English Text Society_ , _1985\u20131991_ , ed. W. Speed Hill (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1993), 132, 134.\n\n. Desiderius Erasmus, Epistle 1204:12\u201319, trans. R. A. B. Mynors, in _Collected Works of Erasmus_ (hereafter _CWE_ ), vol. 8, ed. R. A. B. Mynors (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988), 212\u201313. See also William Barker, \"Introduction,\" in _The Adages of Erasmus,_ ed. William Barker (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), xxiiii.\n\n. Kathy Eden, _Friends Hold All Things in Common_ : _Tradition, Intellectual Property, and the_ Adages _of Erasmus_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), 1, 4.\n\n. Ann Moss, _Printed Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 207.\n\n. _The Adages of Erasmus_ , ed. Barker, 5. For a modern reader, Barker notes, the _Adagia_ , or indeed any Renaissance commonplace book, may yet retain this force, as the encounter with a still current expression \"gives us an uncanny realization that what seems to us to be of homely, local, and oral origin is in fact sophisticated, widely traveled, and literary\" (xxxvi).\n\n. Desiderius Erasmus, _De duplici copia verborum ac rerum commentarii duo (De Copia)_ (1512; revised and expanded, 1514, 1526, 1534), trans. Betty I. Knott, in _CWE_ , vol. 24, ed. Craig R. Thompson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978), 295.\n\n. _CWE,_ 24:606.\n\n. _CWE,_ 24:301.\n\n. Desiderius Erasmus, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ (1522), trans. Charles Fantazzi, in _CWE_ , vol. 25, ed. Craig R. Thompson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978), 87.\n\n. _CWE,_ 24:607\u20138.\n\n. Ong, 114. Travel and commonplacing are, for Zwinger, more than metaphorically related; they are mutually illuminating activities. Zwinger's interest in the geographic dimensions of commonplacing\u2014what Ong calls his \"concern for a topography of the mind\"\u2014leads him to the _Methodus apodemica_ , a treatise on \"how to travel and to describe what one encounters\" (115).\n\n. Ong, 100.\n\n. Erasmus, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , in _CWE,_ 25:87.\n\n. Erasmus, _De Copia_ , in _CWE,_ 24:636, 638.\n\n. _CWE,_ 24:348.\n\n. See _CWE,_ 24:348\u201354.\n\n. _CWE,_ 24:354.\n\n. Erasmus, _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ , in _CWE,_ 25:19, 12.\n\n. Noted in the margins of Harvey's copy of the _Similia_ , the text on which John Lyly relies most heavily; qtd. in David Norbrook, \"Rhetoric, Ideology, and the Elizabethan World Picture,\" in _Renaissance Rhetoric_ , ed. Peter Mack (London: Macmillan, 1994), 144.\n\n. DeWitt T. Starnes, \"Introduction,\" in Richard Taverner, _Proverbs or Adages_ (Gainesville, FL: Scholars' Facsimiles and Reprints, 1956), vi.\n\n. Elyot, _Governour_ , fol. 48.\n\n. Steven N. Zwicker, \"Habits of Reading and Early Modern Literary Culture,\" in _The Cambridge History of Early Modern English Literature_ , ed. David Loewenstein and Janel Mueller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 186.\n\n. Richard Taverner, _Proverbs or Adages_ (Gainesville, FL: Scholars' Facsimiles and Reprints, 1956), sig. A2r.\n\n. Qtd. in Clarence H. Miller, \"The Logic and Rhetoric of Proverbs in Erasmus's _Praise of Folly_ ,\" in _Essays on the Works of Erasmus_ , ed. Richard L. DeMolen (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 83.\n\n. Qtd. in Barker, xxxvii. This is a version of the same peculiar coinage that George Gascoigne uses to describe the operations of \"poetic license\" upon language (see Chapter 2). In both cases the term suggests an illegitimate and perhaps violent wrenching of words; in Harvey's usage, the hint of barbarous or \"turk\"-like degeneracy is even more strongly implied.\n\n. Qtd. in Beal, 139.\n\n. Moss, 211.\n\n. Kinney, 149.\n\n. Henderson, 151.\n\n. Morris Croll and Harry Clemens's edition builds on that of R. W. Bond in tracing the sources of almost all of _Euphues_ 's commonplace material; in the vast majority of cases, Erasmus is the \"likely source\" (Lyly, _Euphues_ , ed. Croll and Clemens, 24n2).\n\n. Joel Altman, _The Tudor Play of Mind_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 205.\n\n. Qtd. in Edward Arbor, \"Introduction,\" in _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit; Euphues and His England_ , English Reprints, vol. 2 (New York: AMS Press, 1966), 16. Lodge records his views of contemporary vernacular authors in a 1596 epistle; Lyly's fellow laureates are Spenser, Daniel, Drayton, and Nashe. For a modern assessment of _Euphues_ 's contribution to the store of English commonplaces, see Morris Palmer Tilley, _Elizabethan Proverb Lore in Lyly's_ Euphues _and in Petties's_ Petite Pallace (New York: Macmillan, 1926), which credits Lyly with unprecedented skill in the incorporation of foreign\u2014often Erasmian\u2014proverbs into the vernacular.\n\n. Andrew Hadfield, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Matter of Britain_ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 113.\n\n. Ascham, _Scholemaster_ , 7. All subsequent citations to this work in this chapter refer to this edition. The many and complicated ways in which _Euphues_ reflects and refashions _The Scholemaster_ make Ascham's treatise, in Arthur Kinney's phrase, \"a Senecan model\" for Lyly's fiction: a pretext that is so thoroughly digested and transmuted that its precise influence on the work it inspires can be hard to gauge (see Kinney, 164). For more on the interrelation of Lyly's romance and Ascham's pedagogical precepts, see Dolven, 65\u201379.\n\n. R. W. Maslen, _Elizabethan Fictions: Espionage, Counter-Espionage, and the Duplicity of Fiction in Early Elizabethan Prose Narratives_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 5. Maslen links Lyly's impudence to his embrace of the novella form: \"Where [Ascham] sought to stem [the] threatening tide [of Italianate fictions],\" Lyly is one of a cluster of late sixteenth-century English authors who \"reveled in the rich abundance of exotic objects it carried to their shore, and chose to make the problems and perils of writing fiction the subject of their fictions\" (2).\n\n. Indeed the figure of wax is _especially_ waxen: when Erasmus advises readers of _De Copia_ to \"take a group of sentences and deliberately set out to express each of them in as many versions as possible, as Quintilian advises, using the analogy of a piece of wax which can be molded into one shape after another\" ( _CWE,_ 24:302\u20133), his analogy draws upon a long history of poetic and philosophical figuration. Behind the overt allusion to Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ lurk implicit allusions to Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , where wax represents for Pythagoras the constancy of the soul and the mutability of form, while it supplies Pygmalian and Daedalus with the substance of artistic creation; to Aristotle's theory of sensory impressions in _De Anima_ ; and to Plato's philosophy of memory in the _Theaetetas_.\n\n. See especially Altman, 204\u20136, on Lyly's indebtedness to Erasmus in fashioning his rhetoric of ambivalence.\n\n. _CWE,_ 24:647.\n\n. Sidney mounts a nearly identical critique of argument-by-similitude in his comments on euphuism in the _Apologie_ \u2014the amassing of similitudes in defense of an argument is, he writes, \"as absurd a surfet to the eares as is possible: for the force of a similitude not being to prove anything to a contrary disputer but onely to explain to a willing hearer, when that is done the rest is a most tedious prattling\" (sig. [K4]v)\u2014but he seems to give Lyly no credit for self-awareness.\n\n. Dolven, 83.\n\n. _CWE_ 24, 364.\n\n. Erasmus, _Adagia_ 1.4.1, in _CWE_ , vol. 31, trans. Margaret Mann Phillips, annotated by R. A. B. Mynors (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), 317\u201319.\n\n. Roger Chartier and Peter Stallybrass, \"Reading and Authorship: The Circulation of Shakespeare 1590\u20131619,\" in _A Concise Companion to Shakespeare and the Text_ , ed. Andrew Murphy (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 12.\n\n. Eden, 4\u20135 and throughout.\n\n. Erasmus, _Adagia_ 1.4.1, in _CWE,_ 31:318.\n\n. Scragg, 10.\n\n. _CWE,_ 25:20.\n\n. John Hoskins, _Directions for Speech and Style_ , ed. Hoyt H. Hudson (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1935), 16.\n\n. Edward Blount, \"To the Reader,\" in John Lyly, _Sixe Court Comedies... by Iohn Lilly_ , ed. Edward Blount (London: Edward Blount, 1632), sig. [A5v].\n\n. Moss, 209.\n\n. \"[T]o use popular, contemporary writers as suitable materials for commonplacing\" is, as Chartier and Stallybrass argue, \"radical\": it confers upon English texts an authority equal to that of the classical tradition (9\u201310).\n\n. See especially, and unsurprisingly, the sections devoted to \"wit.\"\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\n. E. K., \"Epistle\" to _The Shepheardes Calender_ , in Edmund Spenser, _The Shorter Poems_ , ed. Richard A. McCabe (New York: Penguin, 1999), 23. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Anne Lake Prescott, \"The Laurel and the Myrtle: Spenser and Ronsard,\" in _World-making Spenser: Explorations in the Early Modern Age_ , ed. Patrick Cheney and Lauren Silberman (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2000), 63.\n\n. Patrick Cheney, _Spenser's Famous Flight_ (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993), 19.\n\n. Louis Adrian Montrose, \" 'The Perfecte Paterne of a Poete': The Poetics of Courtship in _The Shepheardes Calender_ ,\" in _Critical Essays on Edmund Spenser_ , ed. Mihoko Suzuki (New York: G. K. Hall, 1996), 8.\n\n. My interest here is in the generic problems encountered if we take pastoral, especially Virgilian pastoral, as the normative locus of poetic birth or rebirth. For a related consideration of _The Shepheardes Calender_ 's appropriation of and negotiations with Virgilian poetics, specifically the trope of \"ruin,\" see Rebeca Helfer, \"The Death of the 'New Poete': Virgilian Ruin and Ciceronian Recollection in Spenser's _The Shepheardes Calender_ ,\" _Renaissance Quarterly_ 56:3 (Autumn 2003): 723\u201356.\n\n. Abraham Fleming, _The Bucoliks of Pvblivs Virgilius Maro, with Alphabeticall annotations vpon proper names of Gods, Goddesses, men, women, hilles, flouddes, cities, townes, and villages orderly placed in the margent_ (London: John Charlewood, 1575), sigs. A2r\u2013A3r. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Fleming's second translation of Virgil's eclogues, published in 1589 along with his version of the _Georgics_ , dispenses with the glosses of proper nouns and place names, substituting fewer and more general marginal notes. Indeed, although the preface to this later edition reiterates Fleming's desire to provide \"weake Grammarians\" with Virgil \"in a familiar phrase,\" the new translation is less obviously positioned to orient and assist the unlearned vernacular reader\u2014it repudiates, for instance, the \"foolish\" rhymed couplets of the 1575 translation in favor of an English line approximating the \"due proportion and measure\" of classical verse ( _The Bucoliks of Publius Virgilus Maro... Together with his Geogiks or Ruralls_ [London: Thomas Orwin, 1589], sigs. A2r, A4v).\n\n. Richard Mallette, _Spenser, Milton, and Renaissance Pastoral_ (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1981), 21. In his work on English pastoral, Patrick Cullen offers a similar interpretation of the genre's geography, arguing that while the urban spaces from which pastoral figures flee\u2014Virgil's Rome, Dante's Florence, or Sannazaro's Naples\u2014may differ, the place to which they retreat\u2014Arcadia\u2014is eternally the same ( _Spenser, Marvell, and Renaissance Pastoral_ [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970], 99).\n\n. As Julia Reinhardt Lupton observes, \"the pastoral genre, in this brilliant commencement of the Latin tradition, is instituted as performing the necessary yet often violent cultural work of finding a home,\" and this home, \"the paradigmatic object of nostalgia, is a category of experience only fashioned in the alienated desiring distance from it\" (\"Home-Making in Ireland: Virgil's Eclogue I and Book VI of _The Faerie Queene_ ,\" _Spenser Studies_ 8 [1987]: 120\u201321). Lupton's remark reminds us that in the early modern period nostalgia retained its etymological significance as an essentially _geographic_ affliction: to feel nostalgia is to be, literally, homesick. Her argument, which anticipates this essay's interest in the paradoxical interdependence of home and exile in the pastoral mode, identifies the Meliboee episode in book 6 of _The Faerie Queene_ as a \"revision\" of eclogue 1 that allows Spenser to \"accommodate the positions of both exile and home-maker\" (119).\n\n. The Latin reads: \"At nos hinc alii sitientis ibimus Afros, / pars Scythiam et rapidum cretae veniemus Oaxen / et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos.\"\n\n. In Virgil's equally blunt phrase, \"carmina nulla canam.\"\n\n. And, in fact, Meliboeus reappears in eclogue 7, no longer in any apparent danger of losing his land, his flocks, or his poetic identity.\n\n. Keilen, 78.\n\n. Although this chapter seeks to articulate why, given Britain's pointed exclusion from the world of Virgil's _Eclogues_ , pastoral might have posed a particular challenge\u2014and opportunity\u2014to an English poet, one might profitably pursue a similar line of argument with regard to either Marot or Sannazaro, each of whom suffered exile from his homeland. For more on the impact of political exile on Sannazaro's poetic career, see William Kennedy, _Jacopo Sannazaro and the Uses of Pastoral_ (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1983), 21\u201327. For a discussion of Marot's experiences as a religious exile, as well as an account of his influence on Spenser and other sixteenth-century English poets, see Anne Lake Prescott, _French Poets and the English Renaissance_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 3\u201315.\n\n. Contra Nancy Jo Hoffman's assertion that Spenser \"frees pastoral... from attachment to real geographic place\" and \"is the first to sense that pastoral can become an integral, inclusive landscape\" ( _Spenser's Pastorals:_ The Shepheardes Calender _and Colin Clout_ [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977], 11), I would argue that Spenser forces pastoral to reckon with its attachment with real geographic place, and in particular with the limitations and exclusions incumbent upon England (and English) itself. In this regard, my reading of the poem is akin to that offered by Paula Blank in _Broken English_ , which highlights Spenser's use of English rural dialects to construct a fragmented and alienated pastoral landscape.\n\n. Spenser, \"To His Booke,\" ll. 2, 13\u201315.\n\n. Among many theories propounded as to the identity of the mysterious E. K., Louis Waldman has proposed a deliberately veiled and estranged version of Spenser himself: Edmundus Kedemon, with the Greek _khdemwn_ , meaning \"procurator\" or \"spencer,\" substituting for the poet's English surname (\"Spenser's Pseudonym 'E. K.' and Humanist Self-Naming,\" _Spenser Studies_ 9 [1988]: 21\u201331). Louise Schleiner has similarly proposed that the initials be deciphered \"Edmund Kent,\" a double pun signaling \"of Kent\" and \"kenned\" (\"Spenser's 'E. K.' as Edmund Kent (Kenned / of Kent): Kyth (Couth), Kissed, and Kunning-Conning,\" _English Literary Renaissance_ 20:3 [1990]: 374\u2013407). Such conjectures jibe nicely with my own understanding of E. K.'s obfuscatory relation to the _Calender_ and of Spenser's alienated and alienating mode of authorship, but for the purposes of this essay, I am content to take E. K. at face value\u2014as the poem's first reader and critic.\n\n. Lynn Staley Johnson, _The Shepheardes Calender: An Introduction_ (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990), 31.\n\n. Alexander Barclay, _The Egloges of Alexander Barclay_ (Southwark: P. Traveris, c. 1530), sig. [A3]r.\n\n. George Turbervile, _The Eglogs of the Poet B. Mantuan Carmelitas_ (London: Henrie Bynneman, 1567), sigs. A2r, A3v.\n\n. The word \"gloss\" distills this tension between familiarization and estrangement, since it comes from a Greek word meaning \"strange\" or \"foreign\" but is used in English to describe practices whereby a word or passage is clarified or made more plain.\n\n. Robert Lane's _Shepheards Devises: Edmund Spenser's_ Shepheardes Calender _and the Institutions of Elizabethan Society_ (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1993) is an exception: Lane considers both how Spenser's rustic diction might signal opposition to the elitism of contemporary homiletic practice and how E. K.'s often unhelpful glosses reflect the self-protective strategies of reformist authors in response to an increasingly centralized state religion (see esp. 28\u201335, 56\u201373).\n\n. For a history of vernacular glosses of scripture, see Lynne Long, _Translating the Bible: From the 7th to the 17th Century_ (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2001).\n\n. Qtd. in Long, 47.\n\n. _The Geneva Bible_ : _A Facsimile of the 1560 Edition_ , with an introduction by Lloyd E. Berry (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969), sigs. ***ir and ***iiiir.\n\n. William Tyndale, _Tyndale's New Testament_ , ed. David Daniell (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), 3\u20134.\n\n. _Geneva Bible_ , sig. ***iiiiv.\n\n. _Geneva Bible_ , sig. ***iiiiv.\n\n. Not just geography, of course, but temporality as well: however innovative their approach to biblical translation might seem from the perspective of Catholic tradition, Protestant translators (and Protestants more generally) insisted that their labors were in fact more consistent with the practices of the early church, and that their version of Christian revelation simply returned the faith to its true origins. Such a claim obviously also resonates with E. K.'s insistence that Spenser's apparently newfangled diction restores to English poetry a long-lost dignity and richness of expression.\n\n. _Geneva Bible_ , sig. ***ir.\n\n. From the preface to Tyndale's _Obedience of a Christian Man,_ qtd. in Long, 148.\n\n. Indeed in the _Geneva Bible_ , Paul's Epistle to the Romans is preceded by a map illustrating just how belated and marginal Rome's place was in the world of biblical antiquity: purporting to represent the spread of the gospel outward from Jerusalem, the map includes Rome barely at all, relegating it to the far northwest corner of the world\u2014precisely where English readers would have been accustomed to finding their own remote island. Such a map literalizes the ambitions of England's sixteenth-century Bible translators, whose insistence on the more-than-adequate character of the English vernacular was simply one aspect of their effort to displace Rome from the center of Christianity, restoring a more antique and authentic Church whose home was, properly, everywhere\u2014and perhaps especially in England.\n\n. A promiscuity enacted in E. K.'s own words, since both \"gallimaufray\" and \"hodgepodge\" are borrowings from French: see _OED,_ s.v. \"gallimaufry\" and \"hotchpot.\"\n\n. Qtd. in Ver\u00e9 L. Rubel, _Poetic Diction in the English Renaissance from Skelton through Spenser_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1941), 6.\n\n. Elyot, _The Governour_ , fol. 55r.\n\n. \"W. T. to the Reader,\" in William Tyndale, _Tyndale's Old Testament_ , ed. David Daniell (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), 5.\n\n. _Geneva Bible_ , Psalm 137, notes a and e.\n\n. _Geneva Bible_ , Psalm 137:6.\n\n. Harry Berger, _Revisionary Play: Studies in the Spenserian Dynamics_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 288. Roland Greene's reading of the poem also focuses on the shepherds' desire to restore Colin to a dialogic model of poetic creativity: the \"hypothetical discourse... associated since 'Januarye' with Colin's lost expression and defined by its absence... lies just beyond the circumscription of the poem\" and is \"hypostasize[d] as a kind of _place_.... It is invoked, one might say, as a pastoral within the general pastoral landscape of the _Calender_ , a particularly ideal 'here'.... [T]o entice Colin 'here' would be to reinstall the common voice of those shepherds and so to cancel the curse of isolation and divergence\" (\" _The Shepheardes Calender_ , Dialogue, and Periphrasis,\" _Spenser Studies_ 8 [1990]: 16\u201317, emphasis added).\n\n. These lines, which cast Colin as Aeneas, suggest that Spenserian pastoral already incorporates the geographic restlessness usually identified with epic.\n\n. For more on the narcissistic pleasures and perils of \"Januarye,\" see Berger's essay on \"The Mirror Stage of Colin Clout\" in _Revisionary Play_ , 325\u201346.\n\n. Syrithe Pugh, _Spenser and Ovid_ (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2005), 12. Pugh does not discuss the \"Nouember\" eclogue, which is my focus here, but her chapter on _The Shepheardes Calender_ as a \"New _Fasti_ \" shares many of this chapter's preoccupations, especially with regard to Spenser's emphasis on exile and alienation as the defining experiences of the English pastoral poet.\n\n. Colin's song is a translation of Cl\u00e9ment Marot's \"Eclogue sur le Trespas de ma Dame Loyse de Savoye, Mere du Roy Francoys,\" the first French eclogue, written in 1531, and also framed within a dialogue between two shepherds named Colin and Thenot, but the name \"Dido\" is Spenser's innovation.\n\n. Donald Cheney, \"Spenser's Currencies,\" in _Edmund Spenser: Essays on Culture and Allegory_ , ed. Jennifer Klein Morrison and Matthew Greenfield (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2000), 42. See also Donald Cheney, \"The Circular Argument of _The Shepheardes Calender_ ,\" in _Unfolded Tales: Studies in Renaissance Romance_ , ed. G. M. Logan and Gordon Teskey (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989), 137\u201361.\n\n. This message is driven home by the eclogue's emblem, \" _La mort ny mord_ \" (l. 210), which, as E. K. explains, serves as a reminder that \"death biteth not\" since \"being ouercome by the death of one, that dyed for all, it is now made (as Chaucer sayth) the grene path way to life\" (147). For more on the \"Nouember\" eclogue's reworking of classical narratives of female suffering, see John Watkins, _The Specter of Dido: Spenser and Virgilian Epic_ (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 79\u201382, although Watkins does not cite the Ovidian parallel.\n\n. The _Calender_ 's verse coda seems to advertise this triumph by beginning in words that echo\u2014and overgo\u2014the famous boast at the end of the _Metamorphoses_ : where Ovid brags of a poem that will last as long as Rome, Spenser declares, \"I haue made a Calender for euery yeare, / That steele in strength, and time in durance shall outweare,\" a poem made to endure not to the end of an empire but to the very limits of the Christian eschaton, \"to the worlds dissolution\" (156).\n\n. For more on the murky circumstances surrounding Ovid's exile to Tomis, see the foreword and introduction to Peter Green's translation of Ovid's _Poems of Exile_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), vii\u2013xii, xxiv\u2013xxxv.\n\n. Ovid., _Tristia_ , 1.1.128. This and all subsequent citations from the _Tristia_ are from Green's translation.\n\n. Elyot, _The Governour_ , fol. 18r.\n\n. Gabriel Harvey, _Pierce's Supererogation, or A New Praise of the Old Asse_ (London: John Wolfe, 1593), sig. B4v.\n\n. Colin Burrow, _Edmund Spenser_ (Plymouth: Northcote House, 1996), 9.\n\n. For the full range of responses to _The Shepheardes Calender_ , see R. M. Cummings, _Spenser: The Critical Heritage_ (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1971), which contains a section devoted to comments on Spenser's language.\n\n. Webbe, 35, 53, 20, 19.\n\n. Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetrie_ , sig. [I4]v.\n\n. Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 90.\n\n. Thomas Warton, _Observations on the Fairy Queen of Spenser_ , 2nd ed., enlarged and corrected, vol. 1 (London, 1762), 133.\n\n. Roscoe E. Parker, \"Spenser's Language and the Pastoral Tradition,\" _Language_ 1:3 (1925): 80\u201387.\n\n. Rubel, 145.\n\n. Qtd. in Rubel, 136n11.\n\n. Lynn Staley Johnson notes, furthermore, that E. K. encourages a kind of linguistic disorientation in his own readers, when, for instance, he categorizes the _Calender_ 's eclogues as \"moral,\" \"plaintive,\" and \"recreative\": \"His tone implies that he speaks of what everyone knows, that the terms he uses are standard critical usage.... But 'moral,' 'plaintive,' and 'recreative' are in no dictionary of rhetorical terms, no handbook of poetic forms.... [T]hey exist only within the closed world and language of _The Shepheardes Calender_ \" and \"are defined [only] in terms of what they define,\" so that the reader \"seems to have stumbled into a particularly zany world [of] unknown but familiar-sounding words\" (38).\n\n. See Megan L. Cook, \"Making and Managing the Past: Lexical Commentary in Spenser's _Shepheardes Calendar_ (1579) and Chaucer's _Works_ (1598/1602),\" _Spenser Studies_ 26 (2011): 179\u2013222. Cook identifies a number of suggestive parallels between Speght's editorial practice and that of E. K., including the identification of Chaucer with an exemplary and purified form of the vernacular and the application of classical rhetorical theory to the use of vernacular archaisms. She points out that E. K.'s gloss has been marshaled as a key piece of evidence in tracing the evolution of attitudes toward Chaucer's language, but that critics have failed to consider that the gloss might affect that trajectory as much or even more than it reflects it. And, in fact, most of the sixteenth-century comments on Chaucer's English that emphasize its difference from contemporary usage postdate _The Shepheardes Calender_.\n\n. Qtd. in Cook, 183.\n\n. Such type \"would have looked decidedly old fashioned in 1579,\" notes Colin Burrow ( _Edmund Spenser_ , 12). For a broader discussion of typographical archaism in the sixteenth century, see Zachary Lesser, \"Typographic Nostalgia: Play-Reading, Popularity, and the Meanings of Black Letter,\" in _The Book at the Play: Playwrights, Stationers, and Readers in Early Modern England_ , ed. Marta Straznicky (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006), 99\u2013126.\n\n. Willy Maley, \"Spenser's Languages: Writing in the Ruins of English,\" in _The Cambridge Companion to Spenser_ , ed. Andrew Hadfield (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 169. See also Andrew Hadfield, _Shakespeare, Spenser, and the Matter of Britain_ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), esp. 32\u201333.\n\n. Edmund Spenser, _Colin Clout's Come Home Againe_ (1595), ll. 16\u201317, in Spenser, _The Shorter Poems_ , ed. Richard A. McCabe (New York: Penguin Books, 1999), 343\u201371. All subsequent citations to this poem refer to this edition.\n\n. Lupton, 141.\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\n. Christopher Marlowe, _Tamburlaine the Great_ , ed. J. S. Cunningham and Eithne Henson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), _One_ prologue.1\u20136. All subsequent citations to this play refer to this edition.\n\n. The earliest evidence of _Tamburlaine_ 's popularity comes in the prologue to part 2, which claims, \"[t]he general welcomes Tamburlaine received / When he arrived last upon our stage\" as justification for a sequel ( _Two_ prologue.1\u20132). See also Richmond Barbour, _Before Orientalism: London's Theatre of the East, 1576\u20131626_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 39\u201341; and Russ McDonald, \"Marlowe and Style,\" in _The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Patrick Cheney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 56.\n\n. Hall, \"Virgidimarium\" (1597\u201398), in _Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. MacLure, 42; Alvin Kernan, \"The Play and Playwrights,\" in J. Leeds Barroll, Alexander Leggatt, Richard Hosley, and Alvin Kernan, eds., _The Revels History of Drama in English_ , 8 vols., gen. ed. Clifford Leech and T. W. Craik (London: Methuen, 1975), 3:255.\n\n. Gabriel Harvey, \"A New Letter of Notable Contents\" (1593), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe: The Critical Heritage,_ ed. Millar MacLure (New York: Routledge, 2005), 41.\n\n. Ascham, _The Scholemaster_ , fol. 61v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Francis Meres, _Palladis Tamia: Wit's Treasury, being the second part of Wit's Commonwealth_ (London: Cuthbert Barbie, 1598), 618.\n\n. Webbe, sig. Ciiiv\n\n. O. B. Hardison, \"Tudor Humanism and Surrey's Translation of the _Aeneid_ ,\" _Studies in Philology_ 83:3 (Summer 1986): 243.\n\n. Derek Attridge, _Well-Weighed Syllables: Elizabethan Verse in Classical Metres_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), esp. 89\u201392.\n\n. Paula Blank, _Shakespeare and the Mismeasure of Renaissance Man_ (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006), 54.\n\n. Hardison, 259.\n\n. Margaret Tudeau-Clayton, \"What Is My Nation?: Language, Verse, and Politics in Tudor Translations of Virgil's _Aeneid_ ,\" in _The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature, 1485\u20131603_ , ed. Mike Pincombe and Cathy Shrank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 389\u2013403, 390. See also Colin Burrow, \"Virgil in English Translation,\" in _The Cambridge Companion to Virgil_ , ed. C. Martindale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 21\u201337.\n\n. Tudeau-Clayton discusses Surrey in relation to a number of rival translations: Gavin Douglas's 1513 rhyming translation appeared in 1553, a year before John Day printed Surrey's translation of book 4; in 1558, a year after Tottel published both books of Surrey's translation, John Kingston published Thomas Phaer's rhyming translation of books 1\u20137, Rowland Hall printed a nine-book translation by Phaer in 1562, and Thomas Twyne completed Phaer's translation in a 1573 edition of the poem, written in pseudo-quantitative meter; in 1582 the Catholic exile Richard Stanyhurst's translation of books 1\u20134, also \"quantitative,\" was published in Leiden by John Pates (Tudeau-Clayton, 389\u201391).\n\n. Virgil, _Georgics_ , trans. Janet Lembke (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 3.\n\n. Edmund Spenser, _Three proper, and wittie, familiar letters: Lately passed betvveene tvvo vniuersitie men; touching the earthquake in Aprill last, and our English refourmed versifying_ (London: H. Bynnemen, 1580), 6.\n\n. Spenser, _Three... letters_ , 6; Gabriel Harvey, _The Works of Gabriel Harvey, D.C.L._ , 3 vols., ed. Alexander Balloch Grosart (London: Camden Society, 1884), 1:100.\n\n. Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 27\u201330.\n\n. A similar question runs through the _Georgics_ , verses composed during the bloody civil wars that marked the end of the Roman Republic and presented to the man whose victories made him the first Roman emperor: the _Georgics_ are poems celebrating man's civilizing influence on unruly nature, but they are also poems that note the violence that sustains and shadows the course of progress. Sixteenth-century English readers would have found \"Britain's sons\" ranked among \"the victims felled,\" whose humiliation testifies to the triumph of imperial Rome, and the debate between Spenser and Harvey over how to interpret the stress imposed on English by quantitative versification resonates uneasily with that earlier narrative of colonial subjection.\n\n. Mary Floyd-Wilson, _English Ethnicity and Race in Early Modern Drama_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 99, 103. Floyd-Wilson emphasizes Tamburlaine's supposed racial affinities with his English admirers, citing \"England's intimate though fraught relationship with the Scythians,\" believed to be \"among the earliest settlers of the British Isles,\" and the etymological conflation of \"Scythian\" with \"Scots\" as factors in Tamburlaine's cultural appeal. She notes that the Scythian warlord spoke to the insecurities and aspirations of \"a culture that fears not only its native barbarism but also the subjugation and implicit softness inherent in adopting a classical model of civility\" (89\u201390).\n\n. Hall, \"Virgidemiarum\" (1597\u201398), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe,_ ed. MacLure, 42.\n\n. David Riggs, \"Marlowe's Life,\" in _The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Patrick Cheney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 30.\n\n. Aristotle, _Rhetoric_ , trans. Kennedy (1991), 237.\n\n. See Blank, _Shakespeare_ , 42. As Blank notes, the confusion of these terms was common in sixteenth-century England\u2014see _OED_ , s.v. \"rhyme,\" \"rhythm,\" \"arithmetic,\" and \"arsmetry\"\u2014but Puttenham's conflations are more deliberate than most, for he is well aware of the spuriousness of the etymological link between rhyme and rhythm. Meter, he writes, \"was in Greek called [rithmus]: whence we have deriued this word _ryme_ but improperly & not wel because we haue no such feet or times or stirres in our meeters.... This _rithmus_ of theirs, is not therfore our rime, but a certaine musicall numerositie in vtterance, and not a bare number as that of the Arithmetical computation is, which therfore is not called _rithmus_ but _arithmus_ \" (Puttenham, 57).\n\n. Lawrence Manley, _Convention, 1500\u20131700_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), 2.\n\n. This identification of rhyme with the New World resonates with Sidney's appeal to Native American poets as \"a sufficient probability\" for the necessary and virtuous role of poetry in civilizing savage wits ( _Apologie for Poetrie_ , sig. B3v). It contrasts interestingly, however, with the rhetorical use to which Montaigne puts Native American poetry in his essay \"Of the Caniballes,\" where as part of his argument that \"there is nothing in that nation, that is either barbarous or savage,\" he cites two examples of supposed cannibal verse and concludes, \"I am so conversant with Poesie, that I may judge, this invention hath no barbarisme at all in it, but is altogether Anacreontike. Their language is a kinde of pleasant speech, and hath a pleasing sound, and some affinitie with the Greeke terminations\" ( _Essays written in French by Michael Lord of Montaigne_ , trans. John Florio [London, 1602], 101, 106). More broadly, we might observe that the tendency of Renaissance writers to look far East and West for confirmation of their poetic precepts bespeaks the contradictory status of eloquence as civilized discourse and exotic speech: that Indians and cannibals use verses like European or classical poets implies both that Indians and cannibals may be civilized and that poetry is itself, as Puttenham says, \"a maner of foreign talk.\"\n\n. The actual page is unnumbered, as a gathering of eight pages appears to have been dropped from some printings of the _Arte_ following page 84 and then re-added in subsequent printings. The pages remain unnumbered, and what would have been page 93 is labeled 85. When I refer to the unnumbered pages, I will provide what would have been the correct number in brackets.\n\n. In fact eight\u2014not sixteen\u2014pages later, since the pagination of the 1589 edition jumps from 92 to 101.\n\n. A. L. Korn, \"Puttenham and the Orientall Pattern-Poem,\" _Comparative Literature_ 6:4 (Autumn 1964): 290. Korn's article draws on the work of several earlier scholars who assess the poems as part of comparatist studies of Asian and European poetry. See, for instance, Chung-Su Chi'en, \"China in the Literature of the Seventeenth Century,\" _Quarterly Bulletin of Chinese Bibliography_ 1:4 (December 1940): 355\u201356; Margaret Church, \"The First English Pattern Poems,\" _PMLA_ 61 (1946): 648; William W. Appleton, _A Cycle of Cathay_ (New York, 1951); and E. G. Browne, _A Literary History of Persia: From Firdawsi to Sa'di_ (London, 1906), 60.\n\n. As Attridge argues, this debate was troubled by fundamental confusions of eye and ear: sixteenth-century poetic theorists might insist that they heard the \"numbers\" of classical verse, but in fact\u2014because their mother tongue had no such numbers and because even the Latin they learned to speak retained little trace of the classical quantities\u2014they reckoned syllabic quantities by rote, according to position, spelling, and other visual cues. The accentual patterns of English verse were, by contrast, invisible; neither syntax nor orthography determined the stress on a syllable. To early modern poetic theorists, Attridge suggests, those patterns were consequently\u2014and curiously\u2014inaudible: the jingling of rhyme was English poetry's only tonal quality ( _Well-Weighed Syllables_ , 108\u201311).\n\n. Emily C. Bartels, _Spectacles of Strangeness: Imperialism, Alienation, and Marlowe_ (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), xiii\u2013xiv.\n\n. Barbour, 41.\n\n. Stephen Greenblatt, _Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 194.\n\n. Harry Levin, _The Overreacher: A Study of Christopher Marlowe_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), 23, 31.\n\n. John Gillies, \"Marlowe, the _Timur_ Myth, and the Motives of Geography,\" in _Playing the Globe: Genre and Geography in English Renaissance Drama_ (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1998), 209.\n\n. McDonald, 56.\n\n. Thomas Nashe, \"To the Gentlemen Students of Both Universities,\" in Robert Greene, _Menaphon_ (London: Thomas Orwin, 1589), sig. **; Hall, \"Virgidimarium\" (1597\u201398), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. MacLure, 42.\n\n. Robert Greene, \"Perimedes the Blacksmith\" (1588), qtd. in _Christopher Marlowe: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Millar MacLure (New York: Routledge, 1995), 27.\n\n. Ben Jonson, \"To the memory of my beloued, the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare: And what he hath left vs\" in William Shakespeare, _Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies_ (London: Isaac Iaggard and Ed. Blount, 1623), sig. [A4]r, l. 30.\n\n. Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 41.\n\n. McDonald, 56. See also Steven Mullaney, _The Place of the Stage: License, Play, and Power in Renaissance England_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 76\u201385. Before Marlowe, as Paula Blank observes, blank verse was a \"means of translating or simulating the exotic grace of Latin quantitative verse,\" as in Surrey's Virgil, which advertises its use of \"straunge metre\" ( _Shakespeare_ , 60). In Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton's _Gorboduc_ (1561), Tucker Brooke notes, the same is true: blank verse is used to give English verse \"an elevated, foreign character\" (\"Marlowe's Versification and Style,\" _Studies in Philology_ 19:2 [1922]: 187\u201388).\n\n. Barbour, 41.\n\n. Whetstone's treatise is a gathering of historical anecdotes based on Claude Gruget's _Diverse Lecons_ (1552) and Pedro Mexia's _Silva de varia lecon_ (1540); Marlowe's other main source seems to have been Petrus Perondinus, _Magni Tamerlanis Scytharum Imperatoris_ (Florence, 1553). See Ethel Seaton, \"Fresh Sources for Marlowe,\" _Review of English Studies_ 5:20 (1929): 385\u2013401.\n\n. J. S. Cunningham, \"Introduction,\" in Christopher Marlowe, _Tamburlaine_ , ed. J. S. Cunningham (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1981), 57.\n\n. Bartels, for instance, hears in Tamburlaine's blank verse the sound of internal division, a self \"torn between two extremes\": the barbarous and violent and the majestic and potent (60).\n\n. Wilson, _Arte of Rhetorique_ , sigs. A2v, [A7r].\n\n. Keilen, 21\u201322.\n\n. See also the title page of Aulus Gellius's _Noctium Atticarum libri_ (1519), which represents an exceptionally aggressive Gallic Hercules as the figure of eloquence: here Hercules actually points his loaded bow directly in the faces of his chained followers, making the threat of force rather explicit (reprinted in M\u00fcller, 314).\n\n. M\u00fcller, 313.\n\n. All this is contra the reading of Jonathan Burton, who argues that \"the seduction of Zenocrate\" is \"carefully distinguished from coercion\" ( _Traffic and Turning: Islam and English Drama, 1579\u20131624_ [Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2005], 86).\n\n. Qtd. in Levin, 11.\n\n. James Shapiro, \" 'Metre Meete to Furnish Lucans Style': Reconsidering Marlowe's _Lucan_ ,\" in _\"A Poet and a Filthy Play-maker\": New Essays on Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Kenneth Friedenreich, Roma Gill, and Constance B. Kuriyama (New York: AMS Press, 1988), 319.\n\n. Barbour, 53.\n\n. Jill Levenson catalogs the criticisms that have been leveled at this aspect of the play, beginning with Swinburne's dismissal of Marlowe's style as the \"stormy monotony of Titanic truculence\" (qtd. in Levenson, \" 'Working Words': The Verbal Dynamic of _Tamburlaine_ ,\" in _\"A Poet and a Filthy Play-maker\": New Essays on Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Friedenreich, Gill, and Kuriyama, 99\u2013115, 99). T. B. Tomlinson observes, \"The lines move with a firm deliberation which Marlowe applies equally to _any_ situation, any imagery,\" while Donald Peet attributes the effect of sameness to Tamburlaine's favorite rhetorical strategy: \"the techniques of amplification... are quite impersonal; they may be effectively employed by any speaker without being significantly modified to reflect his individual nature. Relying almost exclusively upon these techniques, Marlowe thus was unable to distinguish his characters from one another by varying the tone, structure, or style, of their individual speeches. Every one of his characters must amplify all the time; and every one of them must amplify in very much the same manner. As a result, they all tend to talk alike\" (qtd. in Levenson, 99\u2013100). Levenson discovers uniformity at a more basic level, finding \"the ultimate source of the plays' continuity\" in \"the most basic units of the dramas' composition: the words and the patterns of their distribution.... From Mycetes to Zenocrate, the personae employ the same lexicon, a collection of words both idiosyncratic and relatively large\" (100). But she also notices more subtle rhetorical modulations, patterns of assonance and alliteration that give to particular speakers and dramatic occasions a distinct musicality.\n\n. Mark Thornton Burnett, \" _Tamburlaine the Great, Parts One_ and _Two_ ,\" in _The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe_ , ed. Patrick Cheney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 129.\n\n. Bartels, 67.\n\n. Burnett, 129. Patrick Cheney links Tamburlaine's copy-catting to Marlowe's own rivalry with Edmund Spenser: \"[T]he _Tamburlaine_ plays, which often hint at Tamburlaine's poetic powers, function as Marlowe's critically charged, metadiscursive project\u2014his public attempt to overgo Spenser as England's new national poet.... The many documented borrowings from Spenser in the two plays insist that much of what we say about Tamburlaine we see as Marlowe's competitive rewriting of Spenser\" ( _Marlowe's Counterfeit Profession: Ovid, Spenser, Counternationhood_ [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997], 121). On patterns of repetition and citation and their relation to the problems of literary and genealogical succession, see Claire Harraway, _Re-citing Marlowe: Approaches to the Drama_ (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000).\n\n. McDonald, 61.\n\n. Marjorie Garber, \" 'Infinite Riches in a Little Room': Closure and Enclosure in Marlowe,\" in _Two Renaissance Mythmakers: Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson_ , ed. Alvin Kernan (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), 3, 8.\n\n. McDonald, 56.\n\n. M. R. Ridley ascribes this irregularity to the playwright's metrical sophistication: \"Marlowe had an ear acute enough to perceive that though the base, the 'norm,' of English blank verse was to be the five-stress 'iambic' line, and though the hearer's awareness of that norm must not be lost, yet few lines should strictly conform to the norm, and that five is, so far from being the desirable, almost the forbidden, number\" ( _Marlowe's Poems and Plays_ , ed. M. R. Ridley [London, 1955], 14).\n\n. Gascoigne, \"Certayne Notes of Instruction,\" 53. _OED_ , s.v. \"turken\" records the evolution in the word's connotations over the span of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries: see Chapter 2 above.\n\n. Peacham, _Garden of Eloquence_ (1577), sig. Ciiir.\n\n. Wilson, _Arte of Rhetorique_ , sig. Aiv.\n\n. Gascoigne, _Certayne Notes_ , 53\u201354.\n\n. Spenser's reaction is typical of the general view: he grants Daniel a prime position in the litany of English poets in _Colin Clouts Come Home Againe_ (1595) but has Colin add, \"Yet doth his trembling _Muse_ but lowly flie, / As daring not too rashly mount on hight\" (sig. C2r). Daniel writes \"a very pure, and copious English, and words as warrantable as any Mans,\" grants Edmund Bolton, but \"somewhat... flat\" and \"fitter perhaps for Prose than Measure\" ( _Hypercritica_ [1622], in Joseph Haslewood, _English Poets and Poesy_ , vol. 2 [London: Robert Triphook, 1815], 250). For more on the early reception of Daniel's work, see Raymond Himelick, \"Introduction,\" in Samuel Daniel, _Samuel Daniel's_ Musophilus, ed. Raymond Himelick (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Studies, 1965), 10.\n\n. Samuel Daniel, _Defence of Ryme_ , sig. [H6]v. All subsequent citations to this work refer to this edition.\n\n. Louis, Leroy. _Of the Interchangeable Course, or variety of things in the whole world_ , trans. R. A. (London: Charles Yetsweirt, 1594), fol. 107 r\u20134.\n\n. This upending of geographical hierarchies is clearly a large part of what appeals to Daniel about Le Roy's historiography: \"Le Roy's thesis,\" writes Floyd-Wilson, \"allow[s] us to see how Tamburlaine's destruction of the order of things could potentially be interpreted by the English as a radically revisionist bid for the northerner's role in the progress of civilization (94).\n\n. Hunter, 280.\n\n. Samuel Daniel, _Delia: Contayning certayne Sonnets; with the Complaint of Rosamond_ (London, 1592), sig. G3v.\n\n. Alexander Leggatt, \"The Companies and Actors,\" in _The Revels History_ , ed. Barroll et al., 3:101.\n\n. C. Saunders, \"The Preface,\" in Saunders, _Tamerlane the Great, a Tragedy_ (London: Richard Bentley, 1681), sig. av.\n\nCODA\n\n. Francis Bacon, _The Advancement of Learning,_ in _The Major Works_ , ed. Brian Vickers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 139; John Locke, _An Essay Concerning Human Understanding_ , ed. Peter H. Nidditch (Oxford: Clarendon, 1975), 508. On the decline of rhetoric after the early seventeenth century, see Brian Vickers, _In Defense of Rhetoric_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1988); John Bender and David E. Wellbery, eds., _The Ends of Rhetoric_ (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990); and Mann, 201\u201318.\n\n. Samuel Johnson, \"Proposals for Printing... the Dramatick Works of Shakespeare\" (1756), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage,_ 6 vols., ed. Brian Vickers (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1974), 4:270. For a thorough consideration of how Johnson and his contemporaries relied on characterizations of sixteenth-century English literature to consolidate their own sense of literary identity and authority, see Jack Lynch, _The Age of Elizabeth in the Age of Johnson_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).\n\n. Margreta de Grazia, _Shakespeare Verbatim: The Reproduction of Authenticity and the 1790 Apparatus_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 1.\n\n. See, for instance, de Grazia's account of early anecdotal versions of Shakespeare's biography: \"The repeated focus [in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century biographies] on Shakespeare in various indecorous and transgressive acts... may have reflected a certain unease about his particular bent of genius: its unruliness, or, in the terms repeated in commentary of this period, its 'extravagance' and 'licentiousness' \" (76).\n\n. Samuel Johnson, \"Preface\" to _The Plays of William Shakespeare_ (1765), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 5:92.\n\n. Ben Jonson, \"To the memory of my beloved,\" in Shakespeare, _Comedies, Histories and Tragedies_ , sig. [A4]r, l. 26.\n\n. Jonson, _Discoveries_ , 22\u201323.\n\n. Vickers offers an excellent overview of neoclassicist objections to Shakespeare's art in his introduction to _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage,_ 2:1\u201312. Harte is quoted on 10, Atterbury on 7.\n\n. Thomas Rymer, _A Short View of Tragedy_ (1693), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 2:28.\n\n. John Dryden, \"The Preface,\" in Dryden **,** _Troilus and Cressida, or Truth Found Too Late_ (London, 1717), 15.\n\n. Lewis Theobold, \"The Preface\" to _The Works of Shakespeare_ (1733), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 2:489.\n\n. Oliver Goldsmith, \"Of the Stage\" (1759), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 4:373.\n\n. Alexander Pope, Preface to _The Works of Shakespeare_ (1725), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 2:406, 415.\n\n. De Grazia, 196\u201397; Pope qtd. on 197. De Grazia also quotes Johnson's claim that \"shakespeare stands in more need of critical assistance than any other of the English writers\" (199).\n\n. See Michael Dobson, _The Making of the National Poet: Shakespeare, Adaptation, and Authorship, 1660\u20131769_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1992); and Michael Dobson, \"Bowdler and Britannia: Shakespeare and the National Libido,\" _Shakespeare Survey_ 46 (1994): 137\u201344.\n\n. _Othello_ 1.1.137\u201338; S. T. Coleridge, _Notes and Lectures on Shakespeare_ (Liverpool: Edward Howell, 1881), 248\u201349. Eliot's comment appears, unelaborated, as a note to his essay on \" _Hamlet_ and Its Problems,\" in T. S. Eliot, _The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism_ (London: Methuen, 1920), reprinted as _The Sacred Wood and Major Early Essays_ (Mineola, NY: Dover, 1998), 55n1. On the tenacity of Rymer's critique and its implications for contemporary arguments about rhetoric and race, see Catherine Nicholson, \" _Othello_ and the Geography of Persuasion,\" _English Literary Renaissance_ 40:1 (Winter 2010): 56\u201387.\n\n. John Dryden, \"An Essay of Dramatick Poesie\" (1668), in _Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage_ , ed. Vickers, 1:138\u201339.\n\n. Jeremy Collier, \"A Short View of the Immorality and Prophaneness of the English Stage\" (1698), qtd. in Dobson, \"Bowdler and Britannia,\" 138.\n\n. See especially Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 215\u201345.\n\n. On Shakespeare's courting of contrary views of Hal's authority, see Norman Rabkin, \"Rabbits, Ducks, and _Henry V_ ,\" _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 28:3 (1977): 279\u201396. On state power and its mystification or subversion in the Henriad, see Stephen Greenblatt, _Shakespearean Negotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 21\u201365; Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield, \"History and Ideology: The Instance of _Henry V_ ,\" in _Alternative Shakespeares_ , ed. John Drakakis (New York: Routledge, 1985), 206\u201327; Jean Howard and Phyllis Rackin, _Engendering a Nation: A Feminist Account of Shakespeare's English Histories_ (New York: Routledge, 1997), 137\u2013215; and David Scott Kastan, _Shakespeare After Theory_ (New York: Routledge, 1999), 99\u2013133.\n\n. Benedict Robinson, \"Harry and Amurath,\" _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 60:4 (Winter 2009): 405.\n\n. Christopher Dowd, \"Polysemic Brotherhoods in _Henry V,_ \" _Studies in English Literature 1500\u20131900_ 50:2 (Spring 2010): 377.\n\n. McEachern, _The Poetics of English Nationhood_ , 107.\n\n. Helgerson, _Forms of Nationhood_ , 243.\n\n. Kastan, _Shakespeare After Theory_ , 118.\n\n. Allison Outland, \" 'Eat a Leek': Welsh Corrections, English Conditions, and British Cultural Communion,\" in _This England, That Shakespeare: New Perspectives on Englishness and the Bard_ , ed. Willy Maley and Margaret Tudeau-Clayton (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010), 88, 91.\n\n. Howard and Rackin, 187.\n\n. So writes Johann V. Sommerville in \"Literature and National Identity [The Earlier Stuart Era],\" in _The Cambridge History of Early Modern English Literature_ , ed. David Loewenstein and Janel Mueller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 461. Sommerville's observation is borne out by the fact that of the four essays on \"Literature and National Identity\" in the _Cambridge History_ \u2014one each for the Tudor period before Elizabeth I, the era of Elizabeth and James VI, the earlier Stuart era, and the Civil War period\u2014all but the last cite the second tetralogy in their accounts of literary nationalism.\n\n. See, for instance, Michael Neill, \"Broken English and Broken Irish: Nation, Language, and the Optic of Power in Shakespeare's Histories,\" _Shakespeare Quarterly_ 45:1 (Spring 1994): 1\u201332; and Karen Newman, _Fashioning Femininity and English Renaissance Drama_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 95\u2013108. Paula Blank highlights the unsettling function of both French and Welsh voices and accents in _Henry V_ ( _Broken English_ , 136\u201339, 165\u201367), as does Patricia Parker in \"Uncertain Unions: Welsh Leeks in _Henry V_ ,\" in _British Identities and English Renaissance Literature_ , ed. David J. Baker and Willy Maley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 81\u2013100. Matthew Greenfield's essay in the same volume traces that linguistic unrest back to the generic and tonal diversity of _Henry IV, Part One_ , whose unruly parts manifest a \"distinct centrifugal tendency\" that threatens to undo the \"plot-magic\" of the whole (\" _I Henry IV_ : Metatheatrical Britain,\" in _British Identities and English Renaissance Literature_ , ed. Baker and Maley,74).\n\n. All Shakespeare citations are from William Shakespeare, _The Norton Shakespeare_ , ed. Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard, and Katherine Eisaman Maus (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997)..\n\n. Bid by Hal to \"stand for my father and examine me on the particulars of my life,\" Falstaff intones, \"Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied. For though the chamomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, so youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.... I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not on words only, but in woes also\" (2.5.342\u201343, 364\u201367, 378\u201380).\n\n. Hotspur scoffs, \"I think there's no man speaketh better Welsh,\" and dismisses Glendower's \"mincing poetry\" as \"such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff\" ( _1 Henry IV_ 3.1.48, 130, 150). David Kastan hears in their heated exchange parodic echoes of the debate between Spenser and Harvey over metrical versification (William Shakespeare, _King Henry IV, Part One_ , ed. David Scott Kastan [London: Arden Shakespeare, 2002], 248).\n\n. \"Shall pack-horses / And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, / Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day, / Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals, / And Trojan Greeks?\" he demands when Mistress Quickly begs him to moderate his tone; \"Nay, rather damn them with / King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar\" ( _2 Henry IV_ 2.4.140\u201346).\n\n. Greenblatt, _Shakespearean Negotiations_ , 43.\n\n. \"Dost thou speak like a king?\" ( _1 Henry IV_ 2.5.394), Hal retorts to Falstaff and proceeds to bombard him with a fusillade of insults, culminating in a devastatingly terse promise of banishment, fulfilled at the end of _Henry IV, Part Two_ , when he is ordered not to come within ten miles of the new-crowned king. Glendower simply vanishes from the plays following the defeat of his forces at the end of _Henry IV, Part One_. As for Pistol, the would-be Tamburlaine is exposed as a cowardly pretender on the battlefield of _Henry V_ , his bombast much worse than his bite: \"For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword, by means whereof 'a breaks words and keeps whole weapons,\" jokes an onlooker ( _Henry V_ 3.3.32\u201334).\n\n. Robinson, 399.\n\n. Robinson, 415.\n\n. Robinson, 417.\n\n. Outland, 93. See also Dowd, who claims that Warwick's wish that he alone could fight with Harry expresses \"the sentiments of all the soldiers at Agincourt after Henry's speech\" and that the speech \"unifies everyone who hears him into one proud force\" (\"Polysemic Brotherhood in _Henry V_ ,\" 344)\u2014even though the two modes of feeling are hardly compatible.\n_Index_\n\n_The index that appeared in the print version of this title was intentionally removed from the eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below._\n\nadages\n\nAdam and the Fall, biblical narrative of\n\nAdamson, Sylvia\n\nAelfric's _Lives of the Saints_\n\nAeschines of Miletus\n\nAeschylus of Cnidus\n\nAlciato, Andrea, _Emblematum Liber_\n\nAlexander, Gavin\n\nAltman, Joel\n\nAmphion\n\nAnderson, Benedict\n\nAristotle: _Art of Rhetoric_ ; Elyot on; _Ethicae_ ; on metrical prose and verse; on the periodic sentence; _Poetics_ ; theories of topical invention; theory of rhetorical style and figuration; _topoi_ and conception of rhetoric and place; Wilson's _Logique_ and\n\n_Arte of English Poesie_ (Puttenham). _See also_ Puttenham, George\n\n_Arte of Rhetorique_ (Wilson); and Cawdrey's _A Table Alphabeticall_ ; contemporary reception; and euphuistic style; readership; on rhetoric and eloquence; use of Greek or Latin terms. _See also_ Wilson, Thomas\n\nAscham, Roger; and Cicero; and commonplace books; defense of the writing in the vernacular; on difference between Cicero and Sallust; distinctive prose style; double translation method; and Elyot's pedagogical methods; on England's barbarous past; on English longbow shooting (archery); and English quantitative measure; and _euphues_ ; and \"fit similitudes\"; humanist pedagogy and language teaching; and Lyly's _Euphues_ ; pedagogical emphasis on estrangement; _The Scholemaster_ ; and Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ ; _Toxophilus: The Schole of Shotyng_\n\nAsiatic rhetorical style\n\nAtterbury, Francis\n\nAttic rhetorical style\n\nAttridge, Derek\n\n_auxesis_\n\nBacon, Francis\n\nBaker, David J.\n\nBarbour, Richmond\n\nBarclay, Alexander, _Egloges_\n\nBarker, William\n\nBarlandus, Adrianus\n\nBarnes, Barnabe\n\nBartels, Emily\n\nBeal, Peter\n\nBerger, Harry\n\nBible translation, sixteenth-century: exile and eloquence; glossing and interpretive practices\n\nBlank, Paula\n\nblank verse: and aggression; and _auxesis_ ; debate between Spenser and Harvey; and England's barbarous past; Marlowe's ambitions for; Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; Surrey's translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_. _See also_ English metrical form and poetic expression\n\nBlount, Edward\n\nBolton, Edmund\n\nBrooke, Tucker\n\nBrown, Georgia\n\nBurnett, Mark Thornton\n\nBushnell, Rebecca\n\nButterfield, Ardis\n\nCaecilius of Calacte\n\nCalepinus's _Dictionarium_\n\nCampion, Thomas, _Apologie of Poetrie_\n\nCato\n\nCave, Terrence\n\nCawdrey, Robert; preface to 1604 dictionary, _A Table Alphabeticall_\n\nChaloner, Thomas\n\nChapman, George\n\nChartier, Roger\n\nChaucer, Geoffrey: glosses; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_\n\nCheke, John\n\nCheney, Donald\n\nCheney, Patrick\n\nCicero: _De Inventione_ ; _De Officiis_ ; on eloquence and rhetoric; Quintilian on eloquence and style of; style and decorum; triad of high, middle, and low styles\n\nColeridge, Samuel Taylor\n\ncollective identity, English. _See_ nationalism and English collective identity\n\nCollier, Jeremy\n\ncommonplacing; Ascham's warning against; contemporary vernacular texts as material for; Erasmus and; Erasmus's demonstrations of _copia_ ; ethical and rhetorical hazards; and foreign travel; and sexual promiscuity ( _Euphues_ ); Lyly's _Euphues_ ; Lyly's _Euphues and His England_ ; Ong on; similitude and adjacency; as traversable and portable; and Wilson\n\nCook, Megan\n\n_copia_ : Erasmus's _De copia_ ; Erasmus's demonstrations; etymology; and the vernacular's capacity for rhetorical abundance\n\nCox, Leonard, _Art or Crafte of Rhetoryke_\n\nCullen, Patrick\n\nCunningham, J. S.\n\nDaniel, Samuel: critique of Renaissance humanism; _Defence of Ryme_ ; genealogy of rhyme; and Louis Le Roy; and Tamburlaine; theory of eloquence\n\nde Grazia, Margreta\n\n_Defence of Ryme_ (Daniel)\n\nDemetrius, _On Style_\n\nDemosthenes: and Lais; Wilson on orations of\n\nDido: Ovid's/Spenser's; Virgil's _Aeneid_\n\nDiodorus Siculus\n\nDiogenes Laertes\n\nDionysius of Helicarnassus; _Peri ton Archaion Rhetoron_\n\nDobson, Michael\n\nDolven, Jeff\n\ndouble translation\n\nDowd, Christopher\n\nDryden, John\n\nDudley, John, Earl of Warwick\n\nEden, Kathy\n\nEidinow, J. S. C.\n\nEliot, T. S.\n\nElizabeth I, Queen: as England's poet; and Geneva Bible translators; Puttenham's pattern-poems (roundels) dedicated to\n\nelocution: English rhetoric and the shift toward style; and figuration; redefinition of eloquence in terms of\n\neloquence. _See_ rhetorical style and eloquence\n\nElyot, Thomas; analogies, substitutions, and surrogates; and Ascham; _The Boke named the Governour_ ; classical language instruction for children; on English longbow shooting; and Erasmus's _De Copia_ ; on exile and eloquence; and Homer's epics; humanist pedagogical program and Latin language teaching; _Of the Knowledge which Maketh a Wise Man_ ; and the \"neologistic couplet\"; Sherry's dedicatory epistle; understanding of eloquence; on Virgil's poetry\n\nEnglish Bible (Tyndale's)\n\nEnglish metrical form and poetic expression; anxieties about England's relationship with antiquity; Ascham's faith in quantitative measures; the classic periodic sentence/English sentence structure; Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_ ; debate of Harvey and Spenser; debate over English accents and classical quantities; Marlowe's blank verse; and \"metaplasms\"; and New World poetry and rhyme; pattern-poems; Puttenham on proportion and measure; Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ ; Puttenham's conflation of rhyme and rhythm; Puttenham's \"proportion in figure\"; Puttenham's shifted burden of measure onto poets; Puttenham's skepticism about manipulation of foreign syllables; Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_ ; and Timur/Tamburlaine legend. _See also_ Tamburlaine/Timur legend\n\nEnterline, Lynn\n\nErasmus, Desiderius: and the adage; _Adagia_ ; and commonplacing; _De Conscribendis Epistolis_ ; _De copia_ ; demonstrations of _copia_ ; on Lais; _Moriae encomium_ ; and practice of letter writing; on travel and commonplacing\n\nEscobedo, Andrew\n\nestrangement and eccentricity in English vernacular writing; Ascham's pedagogical emphasis on estrangement; eloquence and linguistic estrangement; humanist linguistic pedagogical theory; and Marlowe's rhetorical excesses; pastoral genre and linguistic estrangement; Shakespeare's stylistic eccentricity; Sherry's _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_ ; Spenser's pseudo-archaic rustic diction; Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ and deliberate estrangement\n\nEttenhuber, Katrin\n\n_Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (Lyly); and commonplacing; conclusion; critical reception; dedicatory epistle to first edition; Euphues and Lucilla's promiscuity; Euphues's introduction and resemblance to euphuism; Euphues's journey; Euphues's yearning for England; and humanism; legacy of; and Shakespeare's parody of euphuism\n\neuphuism; and adequacy of English as literary language; critics' debate over; Euphues's resemblance to; Lewis's criticism of; Shakespeare's parody; Sidney's assault on; Webbe on; and Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_. See also _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (Lyly)\n\nexile: and Bible translation; and Ovid's calendrical poem, _Fasti_ ; Psalm 137 and; Spenser's; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_\n\nfiguration; Aristotle's theory of; and classical rhetorical style; and elocution; Gascoigne on; and metaphor; Puttenham on\n\nFitzpatrick, Joan\n\nFleming, Abraham: _The Bucoliks of Publius Virgil_ ; glosses; translations of Virgil's pastorals; Virgil's _Georgics_\n\nFloyd-Wilson, Mary\n\nFoley, Stephen Merriam\n\nforeign loan-words: Ascham and; Elyot and; and Elyot's \"neologistic couplets\"; Gascoigne's theory of poetic license; language reformers; Marlowe's polysyllabics; Mulcaster's advocacy for; \"ornature\"; Puttenham on; \"turkeneth\"; Wilson and\n\nforeign travel. _See_ travel, foreign\n\nFraunce, Abraham, _Arcadian Rhetorike_\n\nGallic Hercules\n\nGaonkar, Dilip Parmeshwar\n\nGarber, Marjorie\n\nGardiner, Stephen\n\nGascoigne, George: on figuration; _Notes on the Making of English Verse_ (\"Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making of Verse\"); _The Steel Glass_ ; theory of poetic license ( _\"licentiam poeticam\"_ ); word \"turkeneth\"\n\nGeneva Bible (1560)\n\nGillies, John\n\nglossing: and Aelfric's _Lives of the Saints_ ; and Chaucer; and English biblical translation; Fleming's translation of Virgil's eclogues; pastoral genre; Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ (E. K.'s glosses)\n\nGolding, Arthur\n\nGoldsmith, Oliver\n\n_The Governour_ (Elyot). _See also_ Elyot, Thomas; humanist linguistic pedagogy\n\nGreenblatt, Stephen\n\nGreene, Robert\n\nGreene, Roland\n\nGreene, Thomas\n\nGreenfield, Matthew\n\nHadfield, Andrew\n\nHakluyt, Richard, _Principle Navigations of the English Nation_\n\nHall, Joseph\n\nHalpern, Richard\n\nHardison, O. B.\n\nHarrison, William; _Description and Historie of England_\n\nHarte, Walter\n\nHarvey, Gabriel; and blank verse; debate with Spenser over vernacular verse; on Erasmus and commonplacing; on Lyly and \"euphuing\"; on Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; on Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_\n\nHastings, Adrian\n\nHawes, Stephen, _The Pastime of Pleasure_\n\nHegesius of Magnesia\n\nHelgerson, Richard\n\nHenderson, Judith Rice\n\n_Henry IV, Part I_. _See also_ Shakespeare, William\n\n_Henry IV, Part II_. _See also_ Shakespeare, William\n\n_Henry V_. _See also_ Shakespeare, William\n\nHermogenes\n\nHierocles of Alabanda\n\nHoffman, Nancy Jo\n\nHolinshed's _Chronicles_\n\nHomer\n\nHorace, _Ars Poetica_\n\nHoskins, John, _Directions for Speech and Style_\n\nhumanism, Renaissance: Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_ and critique of; and linguistic pedagogy; Lyly's examination of\n\nhumanist linguistic pedagogy; ambivalence toward the vernacular; Ascham on authority of classical examples; Ascham on language study; Ascham's advocacy of vernacular writing; Ascham's double translation method; Ascham's \"fit similitudes\"; Ascham's pedagogical emphasis on estrangement; Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ ; and Cicero; and early English humanism; Elyot's analogies, substitutions, and surrogates; Elyot's fantasy of the Latin-speaking wet nurse; Elyot's \"neologistic couplets\"; Elyot's _The Governour_ ; Elyot's understanding of eloquence; and English longbow shooting; and Homer; influences on vernacular usage; Lewis's scorn for; and linguistic estrangement from classical languages; Mulcaster's case for pedagogy of the vernacular; Mulcaster's criticisms; overlap of the two reform movements; and Sallust; and Virgil's pastoral poetry\n\nHunter, G. K.\n\nHyde, Michael J.\n\n_hyperbole_ , Puttenham's notion of\n\nIsocrates; _Encomium of Helen_\n\nJohnson, Lynn Staley\n\nJohnson, Samuel; \"Proposals for Printing... the Dramatick Works of Shakespeare\"\n\nJones, Richard Foster\n\nJonson, Ben; and Crispinus's use of word \"ornature\"; on Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; on Shakespeare; on Spenser; on transports of metaphor\n\nJost, Walter\n\nKastan, David\n\nKeilen, Sean\n\nKempe, William\n\nKernan, Alvin\n\nKinney, Arthur\n\nKorn, A. L.\n\nLane, Robert\n\nLatin language pedagogy. _See_ humanist linguistic pedagogy Latin Vulgate\n\nLe Roy, Louis: _De la vicissitude ou vari\u00e9t\u00e9 des choses en l'univers_ ; Tamburlaine thesis\n\nLegatt, Alexander\n\nLevenson, Jill\n\nLevin, Harry\n\nLewis, C. S.: on Ascham's _Scholemaster_ ; on Elyot's _The Governour_ ; and humanist pedagogy\n\nLing, Nicholas, _Politeuphuia: Wit's Commonwealth_\n\nLocke, John\n\nLodge, Thomas\n\n_Logique_ (Wilson); and Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ ; and classical theory of topical invention; metaphor of the hunt; preface; and Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ ; as treatise on rhetoric. _See also_ Wilson, Thomas\n\nLong, Lynne\n\nLucian\n\nLupton, Julia Reinhardt\n\nLyly, John: and Ascham's _The Scholemaster_ ; and commonplacing; and the debate over euphism; _Euphues and His England_ ; _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ ; and humanism; and Shakespeare's parody of euphuism; stylistic excess. See also _Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit_ (Lyly)\n\nMaley, Willy\n\nMalone, Edmond\n\nManley, Lawrence\n\nMann, Jenny\n\nMarlowe, Christopher: blank verse; contemporary critics of; eloquence and abuse; geographical place-names and polysyllabic foreign words; rhetorical excesses and eccentric style; Shakespeare's parody of. See also _Tamburlaine the Great_ (Marlowe)\n\nMarot, Cl\u00e9ment\n\nMaslen, R. W.\n\nMatz, Robert\n\nMazzio, Carla\n\nMcDonald, Russ\n\nMcEachern, Claire\n\nMenecles of Alabanda\n\nMerchant Taylors' School (London)\n\nMeres, Francis: on Lyly; _Palladis Tamia_\n\nmeter. _See_ English metrical form and poetic expression\n\nMiller, William E.\n\nMilton, John; _Paradise Lost_\n\nMontaigne, Michel de\n\nMontrose, Louis\n\nMore, Thomas\n\nMoss, Ann\n\nMueller, Janel\n\nMulcaster, Richard; on eloquence in English; on England's relationship to outside world; _The First Part of the Elementarie_ ; on foreign loan-words and phrases; on humanist pedagogical theory's effect on vernacular usage; _Positions_ (treatise on education)\n\nM\u00fcller, Wolfgang G.\n\nNarcissus\n\nNashe, Thomas\n\nnationalism and English collective identity; Anderson's \"imagined community\"; and cultivation of the vernacular; and eloquence of Henry V; geographic expansion and isolation; Mulcaster's vision of England's relationship to outside world; the use of English language abroad; Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_\n\nneologistic couplets\n\nNew World (Native American) poetry\n\nNorton, Thomas, _Gorboduc_\n\nOng, Walter\n\n\"ornature\"\n\nOrpheus myth: and eloquence; Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ (book II); Puttenham's _Arte of English Poesie_ ; Wilson's _Arte of Rhetorique_\n\nOvid: Dido and Anna; Elyot on reading of; exile of; _Fasti_ ; _Metamorphoses_ ; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ ; tale of Narcissus; _Tristia_\n\nParker, Roscoe\n\npastoral poetry: England's displacement from, Fleming's translations of Virgil's eclogues; glossing; and literary ambition; and nostalgia; and Spenser's embrace of linguistic estrangement; Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_ ; strangeness and familiarity; Virgil's eclogues\n\npattern-poems: \"oriental\"; Puttenham's roundels dedicated to Elizabeth I\n\nPeacham, Henry, _Garden of Eloquence_\n\npedagogy, linguistic. _See_ humanist linguistic pedagogy\n\nPeet, Donald\n\nperiodic sentence, classical\n\nPhillips, Edward, _New World of English Words_\n\nPlato; _Gorgias_ ; _Phaedrus_ ; Socrates on rhetoric\n\npoetry: and eloquence; Gascoigne's theory of poetic license. _See also_ blank verse; English metrical form and poetic expression; pastoral poetry\n\npolyglot dictionaries\n\nPope, Alexander\n\nPrescott, Anne Lake\n\nproportion: pattern-poems; Puttenham on measure; Puttenham's \"proportion in figure\"\n\nProtestantism and English biblical translation\n\nPugh, Syrithe\n\nPurchas, Samuel, _Purchas His Pilgrimage_\n\nPuttenham, George: _Arte of English Poesie_ ; conflation of rhyme/rhythm; and Elizabeth I; on English metrical form and rhyme; on enrichment of English with foreign words; on figuration and cultivation of eloquent style; global perspective (the New World and rhyme); literary nationalism; and Marlowe's rhetorical excesses; notion of _hyperbole_ ; pattern-poems; proportion and measure; \"proportion in figure\"; and Temir Cutzclewe\n\nquantitative measure. _See_ English metrical form and poetic expression\n\nQuintilian: on Cicero's eloquence and style; on eloquence and rhetoric; _Institutio Oratoria_ ; on metaphor and figuration; theories of topical invention\n\nRainholde, Richard, _Foundacion of Rhetorike_\n\nRebhorn, Wayne\n\nRenwick, W. L.\n\nrhetorical style and eloquence; Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ ; Aristotle's _topoi_ and conception of rhetoric and place; classical rhetorical style and figuration; Cox's vernacular rhetorical handbook; dilemma of style and eloquence (style reorients rhetoric); Elyot's _The Governour_ on; figuration and figurative speech; poetry and eloquence; Sherry's vernacular rhetorical handbook; shift to elocution; Wilson and topical invention; Wilson on cultivation of rhetorical skill and shared English life; Wilson on logic and rhetoric; Wilson on ornamentation and exornation; Wilson on the origins of eloquence\n\nrhyme: Ascham on quantitative measure and; Daniel's genealogy of; Daniel's defense of; Milton's argument against; and New World (Native American) poetry; Puttenham's conflation of rhyme/rhythm. _See also_ blank verse; English measure/metrical form and poetic expression\n\nRidley, M. R.\n\nRiggs, David\n\nRobinson, Benedict\n\nRubel, Ver\u00e9\n\nRymer, Thomas\n\nSackville, Thomas, _Gorboduc_\n\nSallust\n\nSannazaro, Jacopo\n\nSaunders, Charles\n\nSchleiner, Louise\n\nSchmidt, Albert\n\n_The Scholemaster_ (Ascham). _See also_ Ascham, Roger; humanist linguistic pedagogy\n\nSchwyzer, Philip\n\nScragg, Leah\n\nShakespeare, William; early critics on stylistic eccentricity of; Falstaff's banishment by Henry V; Falstaff's chiding Hal for youthful errancy; Falstaff's linguistic immoderation; _Henry IV, Part I_ ; _Henry IV, Part II_ ; _Henry V_ ; Henry's eloquence and alienation; Henry's speech at Agincourt; _Othello_ ;\n\nOthello's eloquence; parody of Lyly; parody of Marlowe; parody of Spenser; _Richard II_ and Mowbray's English language\n\nShapiro, James\n\n_The Shepheardes Calender_ (Spenser); Colin Clout's exile from the pastoral community; Colin's Dido/Ovid's Anna; Colin's embrace of distance and exile; Colin's rediscovery of his poetic voice; deliberate estrangement; E. K.'s introductory epistle and glosses; E. K.'s relation to the poem; and England's linguistic estrangement; and exile; Hobbinol; \" _Immerit\u00f4_ \"; and Ovid; Ovid's calendrical poem, _Fasti_ ; and pastoral genre; Spenser's characterization of English; Spenser's diction\n\nSherry, Richard, _Treatise of Schemes and Tropes_\n\nShrank, Cathy\n\nSidney, Philip: _Apologie for Poetrie_ ; _Astrophil and Stella_ ; on Lyly and euphuism; and Native American/New World poets; on the periodic sentence; on Spenser's archaic diction and rustic language; and Spenser's _Shepheardes Calender_\n\nsimilitude: Ascham's pedagogical method and \"fit similitude\"; and commonplacing\n\nSmith, Ian\n\nSmith, Thomas\n\nSommerville, Johann V.\n\nSpeght, Thomas\n\nSpenser, Edmund: _Colin Clouts Comes Home Again_ ; and Daniel's poetry; debate with Harvey over vernacular verse; Irish exile; Jonson on; pseudo-archaic rustic diction; rivalry with Marlowe; Shakespeare parody of; Sidney on; Webbe on. See also _The Shepheardes Calender_ (Spenser)\n\nStallybrass, Peter\n\nStark, Ryan\n\nStein, Gabriele\n\nStrang, Barbaran\n\nSultan Murad\n\nSurrey, Earl of (Henry Howard), blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_\n\nSwinburne, Algernon Charles\n\n_Tamburlaine the Great_ (Marlowe); blank verse; geographical place-names; Mycetes's rhetorical ineptitude; popularity of the play; Tamburlaine and sexual violence; Tamburlaine and Zenocrate; Tamburlaine as \"barbaric prototype\"; Tamburlaine's \"conquering feet\"; Tamburlaine's eloquence; Tamburlaine's humiliation of Bajazeth; Tamburlaine's imperial conquest; Tamburlaine's naming and unnaming; Tamburlaine's rhetorical thievery; Tamburlaine's son, Calyphas\n\nTamburlaine/Timur legend; Daniel's _Defence of Ryme_ ; Daniel's Tamburlaine and critique of Renaissance humanism; Le Roy's Tamburlaine; Marlowe's _Tamburlaine the Great_ ; as popular subject; Puttenham's Temir Cutzclewe; and sexual violence. _See also_ English metrical form and poetic expression\n\nTaverner, Richard, _Proverbes or Adagies_\n\nTextor, Ravisius: _Officina_ ; _Specimen Epithethorum_\n\nTheobold, Lewis\n\nThucydides\n\nTomlinson, T. B.\n\ntopical invention: Aristotle's _Art of Rhetoric_ ; Aristotle's _topoi_ and conception of rhetoric and place; Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_ ; Wilson's _Loqique_\n\nTottel, Richard, \"Miscellany\"\n\ntranslation: Ascham's double translation method; Bible translation and glossing; Fleming's translations of Virgil's pastorals; Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_. _See also_ foreign loan-words\n\ntravel, foreign: and Aristotle's theory of stylized or figurative language; Ascham on; and commonplacing; Lyly's Euphues's journey; Wilson on; Zwinger on\n\nTudeau-Clayton, Margaret\n\nTulloch, Graham\n\nTurbervile, George, _Eglogs_\n\n\"turkeneth\"/\"turkesse\": Gascoigne's use of; Harvey's term for translations of Erasmus\n\nTyndale, William\n\nVirgil: _Aeneid_ ; Elyot on reading of; Fleming's English translations and glosses; _Georgics_ ; pastoral genre and _Eclogues_ ; Surrey's blank-verse translation of _Aeneid_\n\nWaldman, Louis\n\nWalker, Jeffrey\n\nWallace, David\n\nWarham, William\n\nWarnick, Barbara\n\nWarton, Thomas\n\nWebbe, William: and Demosthenes; _Discourse of English Poetrie_ ; on Lyly's _Euphues_ ; on Spenser's archaic diction; on Surrey's blank-verse translation of Virgil's _Aeneid_\n\nWhetstone, George, _English Myrror_\n\nWilson, Thomas: _Arte of Rhetorique_ ; and classical theory of topical invention; and commonplacing; on England as literal place of rhetorical invention; on foreign loan-words; on foreign travel; _Logique_ ( _The Rule of Reason, Conteinyng the Arte of Logique_ ); on orations of Demosthenes; on the origins of eloquence; on ornamentation and \"exornation\"; and Orpheus myth; on rhetoric and eloquence\n\nWotton, Sir Henry\n\nZwicker, Steven\n\nZwinger, Theodor; _Theatrum humanae vitae_\n_Acknowledgments_\n\nI am an avid and grateful reader of acknowledgments. Poring over others' books taught me what I wanted my book to be; poring over their acknowledgments taught me that I couldn't\u2014and didn't have to\u2014get there on my own. No doubt there are people for whom writing is an ideally solitary pursuit, but for me it's a necessarily communal endeavor (so much so that there's a long list of Philadelphia and New Haven coffee shops whose proprietors ought to get a mention here for their forbearance), and I've been incredibly fortunate in the company I keep.\n\nThat good fortune begins with two extraordinary teachers and mentors. Margreta de Grazia is my most generous, most rigorous, and most constant reader, whose good opinion is worth any number of revisions. I hope she likes this book because I wrote it for her. David Kastan is a bottomless well of enthusiasm, insight, and plain good sense; for the sake of its junior members, the profession should seriously consider cloning him.\n\nNot far behind Margreta and David stand a host of advisers, colleagues, and friends who have been pressed into service (or offered themselves) as readers of this book in its many earlier forms: Sean Keilen and Ania Loomba, who got me started; David Quint, who helped me to the finish; Larry Manley and John Rogers, who give the role of senior colleague a good name; Barbara Fuchs, who invited me to California when I really needed the sunshine; J. K. Barret, who tells me what I want _and_ what I need to hear (in that order); and Ian Cornelius, Wendy Lee, and Aaron Ritzenberg, partners in the struggle against the blank screen. Thanks are also due to Stephanie Elsky, John Guillory, Jenny Mann, Joe Roach, Caleb Smith, Peter Stallybrass, Brian Walsh, and John Williams for offering advice, encouragement, inspiration, and camaraderie and for sustaining my conviction that academia is a remarkably friendly place.\n\nBriallen Hopper deserves a paragraph of her own: she's the best prose stylist, close reader, and godmother I know, and the most loyal friend I've got.\n\nI owe an enormous debt to Jerry Singerman at the University of Pennsylvania Press, who has offered warm encouragement and savvy advice at every step of the publication process\u2014I'm lucky to have had him as a reader and champion. The two anonymous readers for the press treated the manuscript with exceptional care, searching out its merits and its defects with unerring keenness and helping me to see, at last, what sort of book I wanted to write. I am most grateful to them both.\n\nI've benefited as well from the opportunity to share portions of this project with smart and responsive audiences at the Yale Medieval-Renaissance Colloquium, the Center for Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Studies at UCLA, the Medieval-Renaissance Colloquium at the University of Pennsylvania, and the Massachusetts Center for Interdisciplinary Renaissance Studies. Yale University provided essential and generous support in the form of a Morse Junior Faculty Fellowship for 2011\u201312. I'm grateful to _Spenser Studies_ and Oxford University Press for permission to reuse previously published material: a portion of Chapter 2 appears as \"Englishing Eloquence: Vernacular Rhetorics and Poetics,\" in _The Oxford Handbook of Renaissance Prose_ , ed. Andrew Hadfield (Oxford University Press, forthcoming in 2013); an earlier version of Chapter 3 appeared as \"Pastoral in Exile: Spenser and the Poetics of English Alienation,\" _Spenser Studies_ 23 (2008).\n\nFinally, there are those who don't read a word I write, and whose support is all the more precious for it. Diarmuid and Donna Nicholson are the best parents an early-career academic could ask for: serenely oblivious to the minutia of the profession, firmly convinced of my capacity to surmount all obstacles, undaunted by my setbacks, and delighted (but unsurprised) by my successes. Marc, Miriam, and Ruth Levenson are the source of my deepest and most durable joys. Marc makes writing possible, through endless gifts of time and reassurance; Miriam and Ruthie make it nearly impossible, but that can be a gift too. This book is also for them, with all my heart.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Embellished Crochet - Cari Clement"}, "text": "\n\n# Embellished Crochet\n\n# Bead, Embroider, Fringe, and More\n\n# 28 STUNNING DESIGNS TO MAKE  \nUSING CARON INTERNATIONAL YARN\n\n# Cari Clement\n\nThe author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. **Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:http://us.macmillan.com/content.aspx?publisher=macmillansite&id=25699.**\nTHIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE YOUNG CROCHETERS AT THE IMBABAZI ORPHANAGE IN GISENYI, WHERE I VISIT WHEN I GO TO RWANDA.\n\n# contents\n\n**FOREWORD**\n\n**INTRODUCTION**\n\n**BASIC TECHNIQUES**\n\n**FOCUS ON COLOR**\n\nBeaded Ruffled Shrug\n\nMini-Squares Wrap\n\nTulips Shawl\n\nGypsy Skirt\n\nFlower Wrap\n\n**THE DOMINO EFFECT**\n\nMidnight Duster\n\nFly Away Purse\n\nElegant Squares Wrap\n\nCropped Vest\n\n**OUT OF AFRICA**\n\nSahara Shawl\n\nDesert Trader's Tote\n\nCircular Yoke Blouse\n\nHoop Earrings\n\nKente Cloth Scarf\n\n**GOT THE BLUES**\n\nMedallions Belt\n\nDenim Skirt\n\nEasy Beaded Camisole\n\nColor-Me-Blue Jacket\n\n**ORIENT EXPRESS**\n\nKimono Shrug\n\nHobo Boho Bag\n\nWrap Jacket\n\nBoho Bangles\n\nIndia Tunic\n\n**EVENING ELEGANCE**\n\nOpera Shrug\n\nDrama Necklace\n\nEvening Capelet\n\nOpera Purse\n\nElegant Bolero Jacket\n\n**RESOURCES**\n\n**GLOSSARY**\n\n**METRIC CONVERSION**\n\n**INDEX**\n\n# foreword\n\n**BY NICKY EPSTEIN**\n\nWhen my longtime friend, Cari Clement, asked if I would consider writing the foreword to her book, _Embellished Crochet,_ I said, \"Of course!\" Whether it's embellishing on, over, or beyond edges, embellishing for me is what makes a garment truly special, a signature the creator gives to her garment that makes it uniquely hers. While many crocheters can use the same basic stitch pattern to make a garment, adding a touch of embellishing can change a garment's look dramatically and beautifully. It's the addition of just a few beads, some embroidery touches, a tassel, beaded fringe\u2014simple and easy techniques\u2014that make the garment special.\n\nThe projects in this book are just right\u2014not too much embellishing, not too few added accents. They range from the super-easy to the more challenging, encouraging you to learn as you create. What's so wonderful about them is their simplicity of silhouette\u2014allowing the embellishing to make them stand-out pieces. These designs also inspire you to incorporate the techniques learned from making them into other projects down the road.\n\nI am honored to have been asked to write this foreword, and I feel the designers featured in _Embellished Crochet_ should really be complimented for their amazing creativity, attention to detail, and willingness to dive into the expanding world of embellishing, headfirst.\n\n# introduction\n\nThe word _\"_ embellished _\"_ denotes a certain unique and very special individual type of creativity given to a garment. Nothing could be truer of the embellishing incorporated into the designs in this book: there are as many takes on the word as there are designers, and their talent and exacting attention to every detail is apparent in the amazing works of art they've created.\n\nI initially planned to create a pattern book, but as the designs began to arrive, I realized that technique descriptions, photographs, and charts would be necessary to enable readers to better understand the techniques used, and often created, by each designer. So this book has evolved into a combination of pattern _and_ technique\u2014two books in one!\n\nThe techniques used by a number of patterns throughout are described in Basic Techniques. All the other embellishing techniques that are unique to the individual patterns are shown in photographs and have detailed step-by-step instructions with the appropriate patterns.\n\nThe yarns in this book are as versatile as the techniques. Simply Soft is an exceptionally great yarn for bead crochet due to its size (light 4-ply), its smoothness (beads slide on well), and its ability to be easily split into two 2-plies for use in traditional and bead embroidery. And the colors are ideal for so many of the projects. Other Caron yarns, such as Bliss and Glimmer, also lend themselves especially well to the techniques employed by the designers.\n\nBut one of the things I like most about the designs in this book is how versatile the embellishing applications are. You can take a medallion, an embroidery stitch, a bead motif, or a stitch/embroidery combination and apply them to just about any project, making it a truly couturelike creation.\n\nSo have fun, enjoy the adventure, and crochet away!\n\n# Basic Techniques\n\nThese are techniques that are used throughout this book. Check the instructions for the project you are doing to determine if it incorporates any of these and, if so, take a few minutes to learn the steps.\n\nINTEGRAL EMBELLISHING: BEAD CROCHET\n\nWhile embellishing is usually reserved for the \"finishing\" section of a pattern, crocheting beads _into_ a garment is really a separate technique from embellishing that often uses beads as applied accents.\n\nThere are many types of bead crochet stitches, ranging from at what point a bead is placed into the stitch to the type of stitch into which a bead is placed, and how frequently the beads are added. Bead crochet is usually worked on a wrong-side row, so that the bead will be on the right side of the fabric when the row is completed.\n\nThere are five different types of bead crochet used throughout this book:\n\n  * **bead chain**\n  * **bead single crochet**\n  * **bead half-double crochet**\n  * **bead double crochet**\n  * **bead slip stitch**\n\nEach of these techniques is described below, and will be referred to in the pattern instructions. While there are several different ways to execute each of these techniques, usually at what point in executing the stitch the bead is slid down to the hook, we wanted to keep this book as easy-to-follow as possible, so only those techniques used in the pattern instructions are described here.\n\nBEAD CHAIN (BC)\n\n**Note:** There may be a bead on every chain or every other chain or whatever spacing the designer calls for in the pattern instructions.\n\n  1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads.\n  2. Begin by making a slip knot on hook; yarn over hook and pull up a loop (first chain).\n  3. Slide down a bead as close to the hook as it can go.\n  4. Yarn over and pull through a loop one; chain worked after the bead.\n  5. Continue in this manner, working the number of chains indicated in the instructions between each bead.\n\nBEAD SINGLE CROCHET (BSC)\n\n**Note:** There may be a beaded stitch for every stitch, every other stitch or however many beads the designer calls for on a single row. This is also true for bead double crochet and bead slip st.\n\n  1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads.\n  2. Work the foundation chain as indicated.\n  3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads.\n  4. Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop.\n  5. Slide a bead down as close to the hook as it can go.\n  6. Yarn over and draw through both loops on hook (bsc) or all 3 loops on hook (bhdc); one stitch has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch.\n  7. Continue in this manner, working the number of stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead.\n\nBEAD HALF-DOUBLE CROCHET (BHDC)\n\n  1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads.\n  2. Work the foundation chain as indicated.\n  3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads.\n  4. Yarn over hook.\n  5. Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop.\n  6. Slide a bead down as close to the hook as it can go.\n  7. Yarn over and draw through both loops on hook all 3 loops on hook; one stitch has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch.\n  8. Continue in this manner, working the number of stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead.\n\nBEAD DOUBLE CROCHET (BDC)\n\n  1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads.\n  2. Work the foundation chain as indicated.\n  3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads.\n  4. Yarn over hook.\n  5. Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop.\n  6. Slide a bead down, as close to the hook as it can go.\n  7. (Yarn over and draw through two loops) twice; one bdc has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch.\n  8. Continue in this manner, working the number of stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead.\n\nBEAD SLIP STITCH (BSS)\n\n  1. Thread the yarn with the appropriate number of beads.\n  2. Work the foundation chain as indicated.\n  3. Work in stitch pattern until you reach the first row using beads.\n  4. Insert hook into next stitch.\n  5. Slide a bead down, as close to the hook as it can go.\n  6. Yarn over and draw through the stitch and the loop on hook; one slip stitch has been worked, with the bead enclosed in the stitch.\n  7. Continue in this manner, working the number of slip stitches indicated in the instructions between each bead.\n\nBEADS AND BEADING TOOLS\n\nBeads come in an almost mind-numbing variety of shapes and sizes, but what, to me, seems to be more important for both bead crochet and bead embellishing is the size of the bead's hole. This determines whether or not you can thread yarn or sewing thread through the bead and what tool you will need to do so. Since beads come in such a variety, I felt it best not to display any here but to focus on the tools you'll need for various projects in this book.\n\nBeads' outer dimensions are sized in millimeters (mm), but the holes are _not_ sized, so it's important to know if the bead you'd like to use can be worked using the technique the pattern calls for. Mostly, it's just a matter of \"eyeballing\" the bead's hole, but if you're ordering beads by mail, be sure the catalog company shows a side view of the bead's hole before you order. In cases where there are lots of the same bead used or where I felt the bead may be hard to find, I've listed the name and item number of the bead and the bead manufacturer and listed its Web site (see \"Resources\" at the back of this book). With the increasing popularity of using beads in knitting and crochet, there are more and more beads with ample-sized holes that are quite suitable for bead crochet.\n\nObviously you'll need a crochet hook for the basic construction of the garment. But when it comes to beads, the only size hook suggested in this book (other than for bead crochet) is a size 11 steel hook.\n\nFROM LEFT TO RIGHT IN THE ABOVE PHOTO ARE:\n\n  1. Three sizes of tapestry needles, from size 16\u201322 (the higher the number, the smaller the needle). These are also used for the embroidery found in this book.\n  2. A traditional small-eye beading needle.\n  3. A large-eye beading needle made from two small wires twisted together (not good for sewing through crocheted fabric, but helpful for making beaded fringes, etc.).\n  4. A \"large eye\" beading needle (made from two pieces of wire soldered together, leaving a very long \"eye.\" ) This needle can be used to sew through crocheted fabric as long as it's not too densely crocheted.\n  5. A dental floss threader. This is one of my favorite tools to use\u2014not only is it widely available and very cheap, but it threads beads onto yarn quite well.\n  6. Steel crochet hooks used to insert into beads and hook a loop of sewing thread that is pulled through a small-holed bead.\n\nSPLITTING HAIRS\u2014ER, YARN\n\nA number of patterns in this book call for splitting 4-ply yarn into two 2-plies\u2014even four single plies, primarily used for embroidery and beading.\n\nThis is quite simple, as you can see in the photo above.\n\n  1. Wind off the length of 4-ply yarn called for in the pattern.\n  2. Leaving approximately 1 yard free, wind the remaining yarn into a loose ball.\n  3. Secure the ball with a yarn needle to hold the ball intact, or attach a clip to the ball for weight, as shown above.\n  4. Separate the unsecured yarn end into two 2-ply strands, allowing the ball to spin freely.\n  5. Wind each 2-ply strand onto an embroidery floss bobbin.\n  6. Release another yard of yarn from the ball, secure it again with the yarn needle or clip.\n  7. Repeat Steps 4\u20136 until the entire length of yarn has been separated into 2-ply strands.\n  8. If the pattern calls for a single ply, you can repeat the above process with a 2-ply strand to get two single-ply strands, but be aware that these are fragile and can pull apart easily, so treat them gently.\n\nIMPORTANT NOTES TO PATTERNS\n\n  * Patterns are written with _suggested_ crochet hook sizes. _Be sure_ to check your gauge before beginning a project, using the hook size that achieves the gauge.\n  * Difficulty ratings are for the difficulty level of crochet, not for embellishing. Some projects will be easy to crochet and easy to embellish, others easy to crochet but more challenging to embellish. Be sure to read through the pattern ahead of time to note the embellishing required.\n  * Schematics given are for the actual size of the crocheted pieces _before_ they are assembled. They are _not_ finished measurements, which will differ from schematics measurements.\n  * While all of our readers have heard this many times, I cannot emphasize the importance of testing for gauge. It may not matter for wraps, purses, scarves and shawls, but to achieve not only a good fit but the right look for your project, be sure to check the gauge.\n  * Also, if you are using yarns with a dye lot printed on the label, be sure to purchase enough yarn of the same dye lot to complete your garment.\n\nIMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT THE CARE OF YOUR EMBELLISHED PROJECT\n\nMost, but not all, of the yarns used in _Embellished Crochet_ are machine washable and dryable. Be sure to check the label on the yarn before you wash or dry your garment. However, if you have used glass beads that could break or get scratched in a washing machine and dryer, consider hand washing the garment and rolling it in a towel to get out most of the moisture, then laying flat to dry. Some beads can also snag yarn, so also take care when washing these garments\u2014and try to choose beads without uneven or irregular edges.\n\nSo now you're well-armed to begin your journey through _Embellished Crochet_! Have fun!\n\n# Focus on Color\n\nThink deep, saturated colors...  \nbright, sparkling colors...  \nintense, eye-popping colors...\n\n# Beaded Ruffled Shrug\n\nDESIGNED BY KIM RUTLEDGE\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nBliss is the perfect yarn for this embellishing technique using beads. The super-soft, slightly fuzzy nature of Bliss totally disguises the thread and the dangle-bead technique easily shows off the beads. The technique is easy, takes little time, and results in a young, unique look.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium/Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nTo fit Bust 32 \u2013 35 (36 \u2013 39)\"\u204481 \u2013 89 (91.5 \u2013 99) cm  \nBack Length 17 (18)\"\u204443 (45.5) cm, including ruffle\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Bliss (60% acrylic, 40% nylon; 1.76 oz/50 g, 82 yds/75 m ball):  \n\u2022 #0008 Sour Apple, 10 (11) balls\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US K-10.5 (6.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\n502 (570) \u2013 6 mm Lime Glass Miracle Beads  \nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through bead)\n\nBeading nylon or beading thread to match Yarn needle\n\nRow counter (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn stitch pattern, 12 sts and 8 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTE**\n\nShrug is worked in one piece; beads are added before assembly, allowing the option of adding as many or as few beads as preferred.\n\n**SHRUG**\n\nChain 155 (171).\n\nRow 1 (RS): Hdc in third ch from hook, hdc in next ch, * ch 1, skip 1 ch, hdc in next ch; repeat from * across to last 3 ch, ch 1, skip 1 ch, hdc in each of last 2 ch, turn\u201478 (86) hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 3 (counts as hdc, ch-1), skip first 2 hdc, * hdc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next hdc; repeat from * to last hdc, hdc in last hdc, turn.\n\nRow 3: Ch 2 (counts as hdc), * hdc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next hdc; repeat from * across, end hdc in last ch-1 space and in last hdc, turn.\n\nRows 4 \u2013 27: Repeat Rows 2 and 3.\n\nSize Small: Fasten off.\n\nSize Medium/Large, work 3 more rows, ending with Row 2. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nEMBELLISHING\n\n**Note:** Add beads to body of Shrug before assembling.\n\nThread the tapestry needle with the beading thread.\n\n  1. With RS facing, beginning Row 2 (see Bead Placement Chart, here), secure beading yarn to WS of piece.\n\n  2. Thread needle through the first hdc on the WS of piece.\n  3. Bring needle to RS at Point A (see Attach Bead Illustration).\n\n  4. Thread one bead onto thread.\n  5. Holding bead down, insert needle through Point B to the WS of the piece, leaving the bead on a loop of beading thread long enough so that the bead hangs down to the ch-1 space on the row below.\n\n  6. Bring needle to the RS at Point C, then to WS at Point D, which secures the loop in place.\n  7. Thread needle through the next hdc, to hide the thread.\n  8. Repeat Steps 4\u20138, referring to Row 2 of Bead Placement Chart.\n\n**Tip:** Give a lengthwise tug on the shrug to be sure you're not pulling the beading nylon or thread too tightly and gathering the stitches.\n\n  9. Thread needle through the backs of two rows, using the same method as for Step 8.\n  10. Repeat Steps 3\u20138 for the next and every third row.\n\n**ASSEMBLY**\n\nSLEEVE SEAMS\n\nFold shrug in half lengthwise with WS tog.\n\nMeasure and mark 17 (17 \u00bd)\" / 43(44) cm from each end (see diagram here).\n\nSew seams, leaving 18 (21 \u00be)\" / 46(55) cm open in center.\n\nRUFFLE \u2013 CUFFS\n\nWork around each Cuff.\n\n**Round 1:** With RS facing, join yarn with slip st at seam; ch 1, sc an odd number of sts evenly around, join with slip st in first sc.\n\n**Round 2:** Ch 1, sc in each sc around, join with slip st in first sc.\n\n**Round 3:** Ch 3 (counts as hdc, ch 1), * skip 1 sc, hdc in next sc, ch 1; repeat from * around, end skip last sc, join with slip st in first hdc.\n\n**Round 4:** Slip st in first ch-1 space, ch 3, hdc in same ch-1 space, * ch 1, skip next hdc, [hdc, ch 1, hdc] in next ch-1 space; repeat from * around, end ch 1, skip next hdc, join with slip st in first st.\n\n**Round 5:** Repeat Round 4.\n\n**Round 6:** Slip st in first ch-1 space, ch 3, hdc in same ch-1 space, * ch 1, skip next hdc, hdc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next hdc, [hdc, ch 1, hdc] in next ch-1 space; repeat from * around, end ch 1, join with slip st to first hdc. Fasten off Cuffs.\n\n**RUFFLE \u2014 COLLAR**\n\nWork around center opening for Collar.\n\n**Rounds 1\u20136:** As above. Repeat Round 3 once. Fasten off Collar. Weave in all ends.\n\nBEADING \u2014 CUFFS AND COLLAR\n\nWork bead loops as for Shrug, working on every third hdc (skipping two hdc between each bead loop), across the last round only of the Cuffs and Collar.\n\n# Mini-Squares Wrap\n\nDESIGNED BY KIM BIDDEX WITH MARILYN LOSEE\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis colorful wrap is the perfect way to top off a summer dress or liven up a winter coat. The beautiful embroidery embellishing is easy to do and makes this Simply Soft wrap a real eye-catcher!\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth 15\"\u204438 cm\n\nLength 61\"\u2044155 cm, excluding fringe\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9742 Grey Heather (MC), 1 skein\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9604 Watermelon (A), 1 skein\n  * #9608 Blue Mint (B), 1 skein\n  * #9610 Grape (C), 1 skein\n  * #9607 Limelight (D), 1 skein\n  * #9606 Lemonade (E), 1 skein\n  * #9605 Mango (F), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn/tapestry needle size 13 or 16\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn single crochet, 16 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm; each square = 2 \u00bd\"\u20446.25 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTE**\n\nMake 108 squares, 18 each using colors A, B, C, D, E, and F.\n\n**SQUARES**\n\nUsing appropriate color, chain 3.\n\n**Round 1:** Work 2 dc in third ch from hook (counts as first cluster), ch 1; in same ch, work [3 dc, ch 1] 3 times, join with slip st to top of beginning ch-3\u20144 dc clusters.\n\n**Round 2:** Ch 3, * work [3 dc, ch 1, 3 dc] in next ch-1 space, ch 1; repeat from * 2 times, end by working [3 dc, ch 1, 2 dc] in last ch-1 space, join with slip st to second ch of beginning ch-3. Fasten off.\n\n**ASSEMBLY**\n\nUsing yarn needle and appropriate color(s), join Squares in rows of 6, then join rows to form a rectangle as shown (see Assembly Diagram).\n\n**BORDERS**\n\n(work on both ends of rectangle)\n\nWith RS facing, using MC, join yarn with a slip st to corner on one short end of piece.\n\n**Row 1:** Ch 1, sc evenly across, working 9 sc across each Square; turn\u201454 sc.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 1, sc in each sc across; turn.\n\nRepeat Row 2 until Border measures 8\"\u204420.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing yarn/tapestry needle, weave in all ends.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n**Note:** Embellishing is worked on both sides, making the Borders reversible. References to WS and RS are for clarity of instructions only. Use photo and illustrations as guides for placement of Vine, Flowers, and Leaves.\n\nFLOWERS\n\n(make 20: 4 each using A, B, C, E, and F)\n\n  1. Leaving a 6\"\u204415 cm tail for attaching Flower to Wrap, chain 3.\n  2. Work 2 dc in third ch from hook, ch 2, slip st in third ch (first petal made); in the same ch, work [ch 2, 2 dc, ch 2, slip st] four times\u20145 petals. Fasten off.\n  3. Sew 10 Flowers randomly to each border, 5 on RS, 5 on WS opposite those on RS.\n\nVINE\n\nWork on both borders of Wrap.\n\n  1. Thread tapestry needle with one strand of D.\n\n  2. Referring to Border Embroidery/Flowers illustration for stitch placement, work 1\u20444\"\u2044.6 cm Running stitches between the flowers (stitches show alternately on both sides of the work).\n\n  3. Work Whip stitch through the Running stitches on both sides of the Border. (Note: The arrows in the Assembly Diagram show the path of the Whip stitch through the Running stitches.)\n\nLEAVES\n\n  1. Thread tapestry needle with a double strand of D.\n  2. * Insert needle at Point A (see Leaf Illustration) through the border to the WS, then bring needle to the RS at Point B, 1\" to 1 \u00bd\"\u2044 2.5 to 3.5 cm from the entry point. Work loosely to allow leaf shape to form on both RS and WS of piece.\n  3. Repeat from * 3 or 4 times, until the leaf is the desired shape and thickness. Fasten off securely and weave ends into Leaf.\n\n**FRINGE**\n\n  1. Cut 16\"\u204441 cm -long strands of A, B, C, D, E, and F.\n  2. Holding 2 strands of one color together, fold the strands in half lengthwise.\n  3. Using crochet hook, * insert hook from WS to RS into corner st of Border, pull through fold of strands (loop), insert ends into loop, and pull tight against edge of Border.\n  4. Repeat from * in color sequence of A, B, C, D, E, F, or as desired, working into every sc along last row of Border.\n  5. Trim Fringe ends even.\n\n# **Tulips Shawl**\n\nDESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nCrochet provides the perfect background for embellishments of all kinds. Cross stitch with beads makes a bold statement on this truly elegant shawl. Simply Soft provides the drape and intense color that creates an impressive piece.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth 68\"\u2044 172.5 cm\n\nLength 44\"\u2044112 cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black (MC), 4 skeins\n  * #9610 Grape (A), 1 skein\n  * #9608 Blue Mint (B), 1 skein\n  * #9609 Berry Blue (C), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\n30 g tube #3 seed rocaille beads in mixed shades of blue and purple, 2 tubes\n\nBeading needle thin enough to fit through beads\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical in this project.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nsc2tog: single crochet 2 together\u2014insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up loop (two loops on hook), insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all three loops on hook.\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nMesh Stitch (multiple of 2 sts + 1)\n\n  * NOTE: Each mesh (st) is made up of one dc and a ch-1; the last dc completes the final mesh (st).\n  * ROW 1: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), dc in next st (first mesh) [ch1, dc], repeat from [to] across, working final dc in last st, turn.\n  * Repeat Row 1 for Mesh st.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  * Tulip Square is worked first, then embroidered in beaded Cross stitch, using the Chart; mesh side panels are worked separately and attached to upper two sides of the Square. An additional mesh panel is worked at the upper edge to complete Shawl.\n  * Each square on the Chart represents one beaded Cross stitch on the Tulip Square.\n\n**HELPFUL**\n\nUsing a strand of contrast-color thread or yarn, work a Basting st from corner to corner in both directions on the Tulip Square; these lines correspond to the red lines on the Chart, and indicate where to center the Tulip Motif.\n\n**TULIP SQUARE**\n\nUsing MC, chain 2.\n\n**Row 1:** Work 3 sc in second ch from hook, turn\u20143 sc.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 1, work 2 sc in first sc (increase), sc in next sc, work 2 sc in last sc (increase), turn\u20145 sc.\n\n**Row 3:** Ch 1, work 2 sc in first sc, sc in each sc across to last sc, work 2 sc in last sc, turn\u20147 sc.\n\n**Rows 4 \u2013 40:** Repeat Row 3\u201481 sc.\n\n**Row 41:** Sc2tog, sc in each space across to last 2 sc, sc2tog, turn\u201479 sc remain.\n\n**Rows 42 \u2013 79:** Repeat Row 41\u20143 sc remain.\n\n**Row 80:** Sc3tog\u20141 sc remains; do NOT fasten off.\n\nBORDER\n\nWith RS facing, working into last sc worked (corner), ch 1, * work 3 sc in corner sc, sc in each row end to next corner; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nTULIP MOTIF\n\n  1. Working in Cross st from Chart and photos above, cross-stitch the Tulip Motif.\n  2. For the cross-stitched areas with beads, separate a length of desired yarn into a 2-ply strand (see here), thread beading needle, and secure yarn to WS, bringing up needle to begin the first stitch.\n\n  3. Slide 2 beads onto needle and slide down next to square when making the first leg of your Cross stitch ( / ).\n\n  4. Slide 3 beads onto needle and slide down next to square when finishing second leg of Cross stitch ( \\ ).\n\nMESH PANELS (MAKE 2)\n\nUsing MC, chain 5.\n\n**Row 1:** Dc in the fifth ch from hook \u2014 this is the first ch worked (counts as dc, ch 1, dc)\u20141 mesh.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), dc in first dc (second ch of beginning ch-5), ch 1, skip next ch, [dc, ch 1, dc] in 4th ch of beginning ch-5, turn\u20143 meshes.\n\n**Row 3:** Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), dc in first dc (increase), ch 1, skip ch-1 space, work [dc, ch 1] in each dc across to last dc (third ch of beginning ch-4), [dc, ch 1, dc] in last dc (increase), turn\u20145 meshes.\n\n**Rows 4 \u2013 20:** Repeat Row 3, increasing 1 mesh st each side every row\u201439 meshes.\n\nFasten off, leaving a 20\"\u204451 cm tail. Using yarn needle and tail, sew one Mesh Panel to each upper side edge of Tulip Square. Weave in ends.\n\nUPPER EDGE\n\nWith RS facing, attach yarn to first dc (corner) of right-hand side Mesh Panel, ready to work across the upper edge.\n\n**Row 1:** Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch-1), dc in same space as joining (increase), ch 1, skip ch-1 space, work [dc, ch 1] in each dc across to last st, work [dc, ch 1, dc] in last st (increase), turn\u201480 meshes.\n\n**Rows 2 \u2013 18:** Repeat Row 3 of Mesh Panels, increasing 1 mesh st each side every row\u2014114 meshes.\n\nBORDER\n\n**Round 1 (RS):** Working across the upper edge, ch 3 (counts as first dc), work 2 dc in first dc (upper right-hand corner); dc in each dc and ch-1 space across to last dc; work 5 dc in last dc (upper left-hand corner); work 3 dc in each row end along side of Mesh Panel; dc in each sc along side of Tulip Square to lower edge (point of Tulip Square); work 3 dc in center st at point; dc in each sc along side of Tulip Square; work 3 dc in each row end along side of Mesh Panel to upper right-hand corner; work 2 dc in same st as first st, join with a slip st in beginning ch-3, turn.\n\n**Round 2:** Ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in same space as joining (upper right-hand corner), dc in each dc around, working 3 dc in the center dc at lower edge point, and 5 dc in center st at upper left-hand corner; end by working 2 dc in same st as first st, join with a slip st in beginning ch-3, turn.\n\n**Rounds 3 \u2013 5:** Repeat Round 2.\n\n**Round 6:** Ch 1, work 3 sc in same space as joining, sc in each dc around, working 3 sc in the center dc at lower point, and 5 sc in center dc at upper corner; end by working 2 sc in same st as first st, join with a slip st in beginning ch-1, turn.\n\n**Round 7:** Ch 1, sc in same space as joining, ch 1, [sc, ch 1] in each sc across upper edge to center st of sc-5 (corner); * ch 5, skip 4 sc, work 2 sc in next st; repeat from * around, working [sc, ch 5, sc] in center st at lower edge point, join with a slip st to beginning sc at upper edge corner. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nFRINGE\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\nCut strands 16\"\u204441 cm long; holding 6 strands together, fold Fringe in half. Using crochet hook, * insert hook from WS to RS into first ch-5 space, pull through fold of stands (loop), insert ends into loop and pull tight against edge, repeat from *, working into each ch-5 space around.\n\n* Separate each 12-strand Fringe into two 6-strand groups; combine one 6-strand group with the adjacent group from the next Fringe (see illustration). Tie an overhand knot in new 12-strand group, approximately 2\"\u20445 cm down from the edge of Shawl; repeat from * across, leaving one 6-strand group free at each side.\n\n# **Gypsy Skirt**\n\nDESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nThis versatile skirt can be worn year-round and is the ideal design for experimenting with color. The bands separating the tiers make great \"canvases\" for different types of embroidery and embellishing. Simply Soft gives the skirt the perfect drape.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWaist 25 (31, 37)\"\u204463.5 (78.5, 94) cm\n\nLength 32\"\u204481 cm, all sizes\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9707 Dark Sage (MC), 3 (3, 4) skeins\n  * #9705 Sage (A), 1 skein\n  * #9723 Raspberry (B), 1 skein\n  * #9721 Victorian Rose (C), 1 skein\n  * #9710 Country Blue (D), 1 skein\n  * #9709 Lt. Country Blue (E), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\n30 g tube frosted green #3 seed beads, 1 tube\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Shell pattern, 4 shell-and-dc groups = 5\"\u204412.5 cm; 10 rows = 5\"\u204412.5 cm\n\n**SPECIAL TERMS**\n\nShell: Work (2 dc, ch 1, 2 dc) in stitch indicated.\n\nPicot: Ch 5, sc in fifth ch from hook.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\npicot\u2014ch 5, sc in fifth ch from hook.\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nshell\u2014work (2 dc, ch 1, 2 dc) in stitch indicated.\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**SKIRT**\n\nUsing MC, beginning at waist, chain 120 (150, 180); join with a slip st to form a ring, being careful not to twist chain.\n\n**Round 1:** Ch 1, sc in same space as joining and in each ch around; join with a slip st to beginning sc\u2014120 (150, 180) sc.\n\n**Round 2:** Ch 4 (counts as first dc, ch 1), * skip 1 st, dc in next st, ch 1; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-4\u201460 (75, 90) dc.\n\n**Round 3:** Ch 1, sc in same space and in each dc and ch-1 space around, join with a slip st to beginning sc\u2014120 (150, 180) sc.\n\n**Round 4:** Begin Shell pattern\u2014Ch 3 (counts as first dc here and throughout), skip 2 st, shell in next st, skip 2 sts, * dc in next st, skip 2 sts, shell in next st, skip 2 sts; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-3\u201420 (25, 30) shells, 20 (25, 30) dc.\n\n**Round 5:** Ch 3; skip 2 dc, shell in ch-1 space, skip 2 dc, * dc in next dc, skip 2 dc, shell in ch-1 space, skip 2 dc; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-3.\n\n**Rounds 6 \u2013 13:** Repeat Round 5.\n\n**Round 14:** Ch 1, sc in same space and in each dc and ch-1 space around, join with a slip st to beginning sc\u2014120 (150, 180) sc.\n\n**Round 15:** Ch 1, sc in same space and in each sc around, join with a slip st to beginning sc.\n\n**Rounds 16 \u2013 21:** Repeat Round 15.\n\n**Round 22:** Increase Round \u2014 Ch 1, sc in same space and in each of the next 3 sc, * work 2 sc in next sc, sc in each of the next 4 sc; repeat from * to around, end work 2 sc in last sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc\u2014144 (180, 216) sc.\n\n**Round 23:** Repeat Round 4\u201424 (30, 36) shells, 24 (30, 36) dc.\n\n**Rounds 24 \u2013 34:** Repeat Round 5.\n\n**Round 35:** Repeat Round 14\u2014144 (180, 216) sc.\n\n**Rounds 36 \u2013 42:** Repeat Round 15.\n\n**Round 43:** Increase Round \u2014 Ch 1, sc in same space and in each of the next 4 sc, * work 2 sc in next sc, sc in each of the next 5 sc; repeat from * around, end work 2 sc in last sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc\u2014168 (210, 252) sc.\n\n**Round 44:** Repeat Round 4\u201428 (35, 42) shells; 28 (35, 42) dc.\n\n**Rounds 45 \u2013 55:** Repeat Round 5.\n\n**Round 56:** Repeat Round 14\u2014168 (210, 252) sc.\n\n**Rounds 57 \u2013 63:** Repeat Round 15.\n\n**Round 64:** Increase Round \u2014 Ch 1, sc in same space and in each of the next 5 sc, * work 2 sc in next sc; sc in each of the next 6 sc; repeat from * around, end work 2 sc in last sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc\u2014192 (240, 288) sc.\n\n**Round 65:** Repeat Round 4\u201432 (40, 48) shells, 32 (40, 48) dc.\n\n**Rounds 66 \u2013 76:** Repeat Round 5.\n\n**EDGING**\n\nCh 1, sc in same space, skip 2 dc, work [3 dc, picot, 3 dc] in ch-1 space, skip 2 dc, * sc in next dc, skip 2 dc, work [3 dc, picot, 3 dc] in next ch-1 space, skip 2 dc; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Fasten off.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nEMBROIDERY\n\n  1. **Flowers:** Using B, C, D, and E, referring to photo as a guide for color placement, embroider 12 to 14 evenly spaced 3-petal flowers on each sc band of Skirt, using Lazy Daisy stitch (see Illustration and photo).\n\n  2. **Vine:** Separate a 36\" to 42\"\u204492 to 107 cm length of A into 2-ply strands (see here). Using a 2-ply strand of A, embroider vine (see Embroidery Diagram and photo), adding beads as shown.\n\n# **Flower Wrap**\n\nDESIGNED BY KIM RUTLEDGE\n\n**EXPERIENCED**\n\nThe flowers really \"pop\" against the black base of this spectacular design. The base is crocheted first, then the flowers and beads are attached to create this dramatic but playful look.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth 84\"\u2044213 cm\n\nLength 32\"\u204481 cm (upper edge to point)\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/ 170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black (MC), 3 skeins\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9604 Watermelon (A), 1 skein\n  * #9605 Mango (B), 1 skein\n  * #9606 Lemonade (C), 1 skein\n  * #9607 Limelight (D), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US I-9 (5.5 mm) and US G-6 (4 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\nPony beads 4 \u00d7 7 mm: 53 green, 152 pink, 105 yellow, 116 orange\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nOne triple-picot cluster (tp-cluster) = 3\"\u20447.5 cm; 6 rows = 3 \u00bd\"\u20448.75 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbead-picot (Wrap edging) \u2014 chain 1, pull up a bead, yarn over, pull up a loop, chi 1, slip st in back loop of first ch.\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\ntp-cluster: triple picot cluster\u2014work [sc, ch 7] 3 times, sc all in same stitch.\n\ntr: treble crochet\n\ntr4tog: treble crochet 4 together\u2014leaving last loop of each tr on hook, work 2 tr in next sc and 2 tr in the following sc, yarn over, draw through all 5 loops on hook.\n\n**WRAP**\n\nUsing larger hook and MC, chain 288.\n\n**Row 1 (RS):** Work tp-cluster in twelfth ch from hook, * ch 4, skip 4 ch, dc into next ch **+** , ch 4, skip 4 ch, work tp-cluster in next ch; repeat from * across, ending last repeat at **+** , working final dc in last ch, turn\u201428 tp-clusters.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 1, sc in first st, * ch 1, sc into first arch of next tp-cluster, [ch 3, sc in next arch of same tp-cluster] twice, ch 1, skip 4 ch **+** , sc in next dc; repeat from * across, ending last repeat at +, sc in next ch (top of turning-ch), turn.\n\n**Row 3:** Slip st (in each of next sc, ch-1, sc, ch-3, sc) to middle of first tp-cluster; ch 7 (counts as dc, ch 4), * skip [ch-3, sc, ch-1], work tp-cluster in next sc, ch 4, skip [ch-1, sc, ch-3], dc in next sc +, ch 4; repeat from * across, ending last repeat at +; leave remaining [ch-3, sc, ch-1, sc] unworked, turn\u201427 tp-clusters remain.\n\n**NOTE**\n\nWrap is worked from upper edge to point at lower edge. Bead-picot stitch is worked along edges of Wrap, then Flowers are attached while working Picot Bead edging around each Flower.\n\n**HELPFUL**\n\nWhen threading a large number of beads onto a length of yarn, wax the tip of the yarn with a little candle wax; shape to a point before wax has fully cooled.\n\nRows 4 \u2013 56: Repeat Rows 2 and 3, ending with Row 2\u20141 tp-cluster remains; do NOT turn after Row 56.\n\n**EDGING**\n\n**Row 1:** Working along row edges, ch 5, sc in final sc at end of last repeat of Row 2 (below); * ch 5,sc in final sc of next repeat of Row 2; repeat from * to corner; working across upper edge (in remaining loops of beginning chain), sc in each of next 2 ch, work 3 sc in next ch (upper corner), ** sc in each of next 4 ch, sc in ch beneath next tp-cluster, sc in next 4 ch, sc in chain beneath next dc; repeat from ** to ch beneath last dc of row, work 2 more sc in same dc (opposite upper corner); working along row edges, work 3 sc over post of same dc, sc in beginning sc of first repeat of Row 2 (above), *** ch 5, sc in beginning sc of next repeat of Row 2; repeat from *** to beginning of Row 56 (lower point). Fasten off. Using MC, thread 57 beads onto yarn, alternating colors (yellow, orange, green, and pink), ending with yellow; join yarn with a slip st to upper left-hand corner.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 1, sc in same st, sc in each of the next 4 sc, * work bead-picot, sc in next ch-5 space, ch 4, sc in next sc *; repeat between *s along side edge to lower corner, work bead-picot, ch 4, skip [ch-1, sc, ch-3], sc in next sc, work bead-picot, sc in same sc, ch 4, skip [ch-3, sc, ch-1], sc in next sc; repeat between *s across to last 6 sts before next corner, work bead-picot, sc in each of next 5 sc, slip st in next sc. Fasten off.\n\n**FLOWERS**\n\nMake 41 in the following colorways: 6 using A as Color 1, C as Color 2 (A/C), 5 C/B, 6 B/A, 5 A/D, 4 C/A, 6 B/C, 5 A/B, and 4 D/A.\n\nUsing smaller hook and Color 1, leaving a 6\"\u204415 cm tail for sewing, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring.\n\n**Round 1:** Ch 1, work 9 sc in ring, join with a slip st in first sc\u20149 sc.\n\n**Round 2:** Ch 1, work 2 sc in each sc around, join with a slip st in first sc\u201418 sc. Fasten off Color 1; join Color 2 with a sc in any sc.\n\n**Round 3:** Ch 4, work [tr4tog (petal made), ch 4, sc in next sc, ch 4] 6 times, join with a slip st in first sc\u20146 petals. Fasten off.\n\nUsing Flower Placement Diagram as a guide, pin Flowers in place on Wrap.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nATTACH FLOWERS\n\n  1. Pull 6\"\u204415 cm tail from center of flower to right side. Thread 3 beads, matching petal color of Flower.\n\n  2. Thread yarn back through center hole of Flower to WS, being careful not to pull the beads through to the hole to the WS.\n  3. Sew Flower to the base of tp-cluster (see Diagram 2). Hint: Use a French knot to secure the yarn; pass the needle under the loop attaching the Flower to Wrap, pass needle through the loop just made, pull tight. Weave in end. Add beads to centers of remaining Flowers, attaching Flowers to Wrap as you go.\n\nPICOT BEAD EDGING\n\nThis round adds a beaded edging to the Flowers and attaches the petals to the Wrap.\n\n  1. Thread Color 1 (center of Flower) with 6 beads, matching petal color of Flower.\n\n  2. Using smaller hook and Color 1 of Flower, working from the RS of Round 2, join yarn with a sc in the same sc of Round 2 as any sc on Round 3.\n\n  3. Working in front of Round 3, * ch 4, sc into top of petal, ch 1, slide down bead, yarn over, draw through loop on hook.\n\n  4. Remove loop from hook and pick up a stitch on the Wrap (below the bead), by inserting hook under the stitch.\n\n  5. Return the dropped loop to hook and pull the loop through the stitch on the Wrap.\n\n  6. Ch 1, insert hook in last sc made, yarn over, pull up a loop; push bead through the stitch to the RS; yarn over and draw through both loops on hook. Note: Working the sc in this manner will place the bead on the RS of the piece.\n  7. Ch 4, sc in same sc on Round 2 as next sc of Round 3 of flower; repeat from * of Step 3 around, end ch 4, join with a slip st to joining sc. Fasten off and weave in ends.   \nRepeat Picot Bead Edging on each Flower.\n\n# The Domino Effect\n\n**Think high contrasts...**\n\n**yin yang...**\n\n**domino games...**\n\n**North Pole and the Black Sea...**\n\n# **Midnight Duster**\n\nDESIGNED BY LISA GONZALES\n\nINTERMEDIATE\n\nThis easy-to-crochet duster is a modern take on a granny square theme. The center of each square is highlighted with a bead, making the duster simple but elegant. Dress it down for work or wear it over a frilly top for the evening.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall/Medium (Medium/Large, 1X/2X)\n\nTo Fit Bust 32\u201336 (38\u201342, 44\u201348)\"\u204480\u201390 (95\u2013105,   \n110\u2013120) cm\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 40 (50, 55)\"\u2044100 (125, 138) cm\n\nLength 40\"/101.5 cm, all sizes\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft   \n(100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black, 9 (10, 12) skeins\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\n  * #16 tapestry needle\n  * 70 (86, 94) beads of choice (with a hole large for tapestry needle to fit through)\n  * Yarn needle\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nOne Motif = 5\"/12.5 cm square\n\nIn Mesh pattern (on sleeves), 5 sts and 5 rows = 4\"/10 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbeginning cluster\u2014ch 2 [ yarn over, insert hook in same space, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] twice, yarn over and pull through all 3 loops on hook.\n\nch: chain\n\ncluster\u2014[ yarn over, insert hook in space indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] 3 times, yarn over and pull through all 4 loops on hook.\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Duster is designed to be loose fitting; fabric is very flexible, sizes are approximate.\n  2. Wear Duster overlapped in front, or open as shown in photo.\n  3. Motifs are worked, then joined into Strips and assembled for Back and Fronts.\n  4. Instructions given are for one length for all sizes; to shorten, work 1 or 2 fewer Motifs for each Strip.\n  5. Sleeves are worked upward from a 3-Motif strip, in Mesh pattern.\n\n**MOTIF [MAKE 70 (86, 94)]**\n\nUsing larger hook, leaving a 6\"/15 cm tail for attaching bead, chain 6; join with a slip st to form a ring, being careful not to twist chain.\n\n**Round 1:** Ch 4 (counts as dc and ch 1), in the ring work [dc, ch 1] eleven times, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-4\u201412 ch-1 spaces.\n\n**Round 2:** Work a slip st and beginning cluster in next ch-1 space, ch 3 (counts as dc), work * cluster in next ch-1 space, ch 3; repeat from *around, join with a slip st in second ch of beginning cluster\u201412 clusters, 12 ch-3 spaces.\n\n**Round 3:** Sc in next ch-3 space, ch 5, * sc in next ch-3 space, ch 5; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in first sc.\n\n**Round 4:** Slip st in next ch-5 space, ch 3 (counts as dc), in same ch-5 space, work [dc, ch 1, 2 dc, ch 3, (2 dc, ch 1) twice] for first corner, sc in next ch-5 space, ch 5 (center space), sc in next ch-5 space, * in next ch-5 space, work [(ch 1, 2 dc) twice, ch 3, (2 dc, ch 1) twice] for corner, sc in next ch-5 space, ch 5 (center space), sc in next ch-5 space; repeat from * twice, ch 1, join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-3. Fasten off.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n_Note that photos do not show Round 4._\n\nATTACH BEADS\n\n  1. After completing the motif, thread the tapestry needle with the 6\"/15 cm tail.\n  2. Thread bead onto yarn.\n\n  3. Push the bead so it is close to the center ring of the Motif.\n  4. Use the yarn needle to attach the yarn end to the WS of the center ring. Knot securely and weave in end.\n\n**Tip:** Put a very small drop of fabric glue on the knot to secure.\n\nSTRIPS [USING 8 MOTIFS PER STRIP, MAKE 8 (10, 11) STRIPS]\n\nJOIN MOTIFS\n\n**Note:** Edging is worked along one side of first Motif, then edging is worked along one side of second Motif, and AT THE SAME TIME, the 2 Motifs are joined together at each corner and in the center of the Motifs.\n\nFIRST MOTIF\n\nWith RS facing, join yarn with a slip st in ch-3 corner space, * [ (ch 2, slip st in next ch-1 space) twice, ch 5, slip st in center ch-5 space ], ch 5; (slip st in ch-1 space, ch 2) twice, slip st in corner ch-3 space, ch 2, turn (WS of first Motif is now facing). Do NOT fasten off.\n\nSECOND MOTIF\n\nPlace second Motif in front of first Motif, with WSs of the Motifs facing each other; slip st in the ch-3 corner space of second Motif, repeat from first bracket ([) under \"First Motif\" above through second bracket (]). Ch 1, slip st in the slip st worked in the center ch-5 space of First Motif, joining Motifs at center, ch 5; work to end as for First Motif, join last ch-2 worked with a slip st in ch-3 corner space of First Motif. Fasten off\u20142 Motifs joined.\n\nWork 3 more sets of 2 Motifs\u20144 sets of 2 Motifs.\n\nJoin 2 sets together to make two 4-Motif strips; join 4-Motif strips to make 8-Motif Strip.\n\nContinue in this manner until all 8-Motif Strips are completed.\n\nJOIN 8-MOTIF STRIPS\n\nJoin 4 (4, 5) Strips for Back and 2 (3, 3) Strips for each Front as follows:\n\nHold 2 Strips together, with WS facing each other; join yarn with a sc in corner ch-3 space, working through both Strips; working along long edge through both Strips, * ch 3, slip st in next ch-space; repeat from * to end. Fasten off.\n\nContinue in this manner until all Strips are joined for Back and Fronts.\n\nJoin side seams in the same manner, leaving 6 (6 3\u20444, 7 1\u20442)\"\u204415 (17, 19.5) cm open at upper edge for armhole.\n\nJoin shoulders, leaving 6 (6, 6 1\u20442)\"\u204415 (15, 16.5) cm free for Back neck; remainder of Fronts will fold forward.\n\n**SLEEVES (MAKE 2)**\n\nJoin 3 Motifs to make a Strip.\n\nWith RS facing, join yarn with a slip st to corner ch-3 space of right-hand Motif.\n\n**Row 1:** * Ch 3, sc in next ch-space; repeat from * twenty-two times evenly across, end by working last sc in corner ch-3 space, turn\u201423 ch-3 spaces (Mesh pattern).\n\n**Row 2:** Decrease Row \u2014 Ch 3, skip first ch-3 space, sc in next ch-3 space, * ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * across, end sc in last ch-3 space, turn\u201422 ch-3 spaces remain.\n\nRepeat Row 2 until 13 (15, 17) ch-3 spaces remain.\n\n**Next Row:** * Ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * across; turn\u201413 (15, 17) ch-3 spaces.\n\nWork 3 rows even.\n\n**Next Row:** Increase Row \u2014 Ch 3, sc in first ch-3 space, ch 3, sc in same ch-3 space, * ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * across, turn\u201414 (16, 18) ch-3 spaces.\n\nWork 4 rows even.\n\nRepeat Increase Row\u201415 (17, 19) ch-3 spaces.\n\nWork even until piece measures 19 (19 1\u20442, 20)\"\u204449 (50, 51) cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nJoin sleeves to armholes in the same manner as side seams, working evenly around armhole. Join Sleeve seams. Using yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\n# **Fly Away Purse**\n\nDESIGNED BY CARI CLEMENT\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis chic purse is the perfect accessory for a night on the town. The feather fringe is a beautiful embellishment that makes the piece stand out.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth (lower edge) 10 1\u20442\"/26.5 cm; (upper edge) 7\"/18 cm\n\nHeight 10 1\u20442\"/26.5 cm, excluding handles\n\nDepth 2\"/5 cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black, 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US G-6 (4 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nHandles: One pair black plastic purse handles, with hooks at lower ends\n\nLining: Two sheets black plastic canvas, 10\" \u00d7 12\"/25 \u00d7 30.5 cm\n\nTrim: 1\u20442 yard/45.5 cm each of the following:\n\n  * 4\" \u2013 5\"/10 \u2013 12.5 cm -wide feather trim;\n  * black and gray beaded trim;\n  * \u00bd\"/1.3 cm -wide black braid\n\nYarn needle\n\nChalk marker\n\nFabric glue\n\nScissors\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical for this project.\n\nIn half double crochet (hdc), 15 sts and 8 rows = 4\"/10 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTE**\n\nPurse is worked in 5 pieces; Back, Front, Bottom, and 2 Gussets. Back and Front of Purse are lined with plastic canvas to maintain its shape. Trim is applied after Purse is assembled.\n\n**BACK AND FRONT (BOTH ALIKE)**\n\nChain 45.\n\n**Row 1:** Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201443 hdc.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn\u201443 hdc.\n\nSHAPE SIDES\n\n**Row 3:** Ch 2, skip first hdc, hdc in each st across\u201442 hdc remain.\n\nRepeat Row 3, decreasing 1 stitch every row until 25 hdc remain.\n\nWork even, if necessary, until piece measures 10 1\u20442\"/26.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**GUSSETS (MAKE 2)**\n\nChain 11.\n\n**Row 1:** Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u20149 hdc.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn.\n\nWork even, repeating Row 2, until piece measures 3 1\u20442\"/9 cm from beginning.\n\nSHAPE GUSSET\n\nIncrease Row: Ch 2, work 2 hdc in first st, hdc in each st across to last st, work 2 hdc in last st, turn\u201411 hdc.\n\nWork even, repeating Row 2 until piece measures 7\"/18 cm from beginning.\n\nRepeat Increase Row\u201413 hdc.\n\nWork even, repeating Row 2, until piece mea-sures 10 1\u20442\"/26.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**BOTTOM**\n\nChain 11.\n\n**Row 1:** Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u20149 hdc.\n\n**Row 2:** Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn.\n\nWork even, repeating Row 2, until piece mea-sures 10 1\u20442\"/26.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\nLINING\n\nUsing Front, Back, and Bottom pieces as patterns, trace shapes onto plastic canvas, using a marker. Using scissors, cut out plastic canvas lining pieces. Using yarn needle threaded with a strand of yarn, whipstitch the lower edges of Front and Back lining pieces to the Bottom lining piece.\n\nASSEMBLE PURSE\n\nWith WS held together, join Front and Back pieces to Gussets by working 1 row of sc evenly along side edges through both pieces; join Bottom to Front, Back, and Gussets in the same manner.\n\nHANDLE LOOPS  \n(MAKE 2 EACH ON BACK AND FRONT)\n\n**Right-hand side:** With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, one st in from right-hand seam on upper edge.\n\n**Row 1:** Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sts, turn\u20143 sc.\n\nContinuing on these 3 sts, repeat Row 1 until piece measures 1 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm from beginning, end with a WS row, turn.\n\nFold loop to WS; working through last row of Handle Loop and upper edge of Purse, slip st across, joining loop to WS of piece in the same sts worked on Row 1.\n\n**Left-hand side:** With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, 4 sts in from left-hand seam on upper edge. Work as for right-hand side.\n\n**Insert Lining into Purse:** Whipstitch in place along upper edges of Back and Front. Insert the hook ends of the Purse Handles into the Handle Loops.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n**Attach trims:** Note above photo shows each layer of trim in the order it is applied.\n\n  1. Cut feather trim to width of top edge of Purse.\n  2. Apply thin line of glue to back side of trim; adhere along top edge.\n  3. Cut beaded trim to width of top edge of Purse plus 1\"/2.5 cm. Turn in 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm on each end; glue wrong sides of each trim end together to secure.\n  4. Apply glue along top edge of feather trim; press beaded trim in place.\n  5. Cut braid trim to width of top edge of Purse plus 1\"/2.5 cm. Turn in 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm on each end; glue ends as for beaded trim.\n  6. Apply glue along top of beaded trim; press braid trim in place.\n\n# **Elegant Squares Wrap**\n\nDESIGNED BY MARILYN LOSEE\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nThis comfortable wrap is another take on granny squares, but this version is completely updated. It's sophisticated, sparkly, and so easy to make!\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nSmall Squares measures 14\"/35.5 cm; Large Square measures 20\"/51 cm\n\nWrap measures 48\"/122 cm along one side, after assembly, excluding fringe\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Glimmer (85% acrylic, 15% polyester; 1.76 oz/50 g, 49 yds/45 m ball):\n\n  * #0019 Charcoal (A), 4 balls\n  * #0020 Black (B), 5 balls\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9701 White (C), 1 skein, use double strand throughout\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US K-10 1\u20442 (6.5 mm) and L-11 (8 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\n3 yards/2.75 m beaded fringe\n\n1 skein black embroidery floss\n\nSewing needle and black thread\n\n6\"/15 cm -wide piece of cardboard\n\nSafety pin\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical for this project.\n\n**NOTE**\n\nWrap is worked in 5 Squares, then joined (see Diagram); purchased beaded fringe is sewn to 2 long sides, Tassel is added to the neck edge of large Square and end folded down.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nch-loop: chain loop\u2014ch 10, slip st in top of dc just made.\n\ndc: double crochet\n\njoining-dc: joining double crochet\u2014yarn over, insert hook in next dc, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook, insert hook in ch-loop, yarn over and draw through ch-loop and both loops on hook.\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**SMALL SQUARE (MAKE 4)**\n\n**Note:** RS is facing for all rounds.\n\nUsing larger hook and A, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring.\n\n**Round 1:** Using A, ch 5 (counts as dc, ch 2), in the ring work 2 dc, work ch-loop, * dc, ch 2, 2 dc, work ch-loop; repeat from * twice, join with a slip st to third ch of beginning ch-5\u20144 ch-loops.\n\n**Round 2:** Slip st in first ch-2 space, ch 7 (counts as first dc plus ch 4, now and throughout), work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 2 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, dc in next 2 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc (beginning ch-7), join with a slip st to first dc (third ch of beginning ch-7)\u201428 dc, 4 ch-4 spaces.\n\nFasten off A; join double strand of C with a slip st in first ch-4 space.\n\n**Round 3:** Using 2 strands of C held together, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 4 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next 3 dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc in next ch-4 space] for corner, dc in next 4 dc, work ch-loop, dc in next 3 dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st in first dc\u201444 dc.\n\nFasten off C; join A with a slip st in first ch-4 space.\n\n**Round 4:** Using A, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 6 dc, work ch-loop, dc in each dc to corner, * work corner in next ch-4 space, dc in next 6 dc, work ch-loop, dc in each dc to corner; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st to first dc\u201460 dc.\n\nFasten off A; join B with a slip st in first ch-4 space.\n\n**Round 5:** Using B, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 15 dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc] in next ch-4 space (corner), dc in next 15 dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st to first dc\u201476 dc.\n\nDo NOT fasten off.\n\nTransfer loop from hook to safety pin, to keep piece from unraveling while braiding ch-loops.\n\nBRAID CHAIN-LOOPS\n\nWorking from center to outside edge, insert hook from front to back in first ch-loop (Round 1), * pull ch-loop on next round through ch-loop on hook; repeat from * twice, leaving last ch-loop free (to be joined on next round). Repeat braiding on remaining 3 sides.\n\n**Round 6:** Continuing with B, return loop on safety pin to hook; slip st in first ch-4 space, ch 7, work 2 dc in same space, dc in next 9 dc, work joining-dc, dc in next 9 dc, * work [2 dc, ch 4, 2 dc] in next ch-4 space (corner), dc in |next 9 dc, work joining-dc, dc in next 9 dc; repeat from * twice, dc in same space as first dc, join with a slip st to first dc. Fasten off.\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\n**LARGE SQUARE (MAKE 1)**\n\nWork Rounds 1\u20134 of Small Square\u201460 dc.\n\n**Round 5:** Using B, work as for Round 4 of Small Square, working ch-loop above ch-loop of previous round\u201476 dc.\n\n**Round 6:** Using A, repeat Round 5 of Large Square\u201492 dc.\n\n**Round 7:** Using C, repeat Round 5 of Large Square\u2014108 dc.\n\n**Round 8:** Using A, work as Round 5 of Small Square, working dc in each dc between corners, work corners as established\u2014124 dc.\n\nPlace last loop on safety pin. Braid ch-loops.\n\n**Round 9:** Using B, work as Round 6 of Small Square, joining ch-loops with joining-dc.\n\n**Round 10:** Using B, work as Round 5 of Small Square, working dc in each dc between corners, work corners as established. Fasten off. Weave in ends.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nASSEMBLY (SEE SCHEMATIC)\n\nUsing yarn needle and B, [join 2 Small Squares together] twice\u20142 strips of 2 Squares each.\n\nJoin one strip to each side of Large Square, as shown.\n\nEDGING\n\nUsing smaller hook and B, join yarn with a slip st in any corner ch-space on outer edge; ch 1, work 2 sc in same space, work sc in each dc around, working 2 sc in corner loops where squares are joined and 4 sc in next 3 corners; in last corner (at beginning of round), work 2 sc in same space as beginning sc, join with a slip st to first st. Fasten off. Weave in end.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nATTACH BEADED FRINGE\n\n  1. Pin beaded fringe to WS of lower edge of Wrap, turning in ends.\n  2. Sew to lower edge of Wrap using sewing thread.\n\nMAKE TASSEL:\n\n  1. Wrap B around 6\"\u204415 cm piece of cardboard to desired thickness.\n  2. Tie top of Tassel with length of embroidery floss.\n  3. Cut a 1-yard/92 cm length of B and thread through top of Tassel.\n\n  4. Trim bottom of Tassel evenly.\n  5. Wrap neck of Tassel with embroidery floss, leaving a 10\"\u204425.5 cm length at one end, and secure. Pull long end of floss through top of Tassel. Tie securely at top of Tassel.\n  6. Thread short end through neck to skirt of Tassel.\n  7. With smaller hook and using floss end at top of Tassel, make a 2\"\u2044 5 cm -long ch.\n  8. Fasten off, but do not cut yarn end.\n  9. Cut enough beaded fringe to encircle neck of Tassel and sew in place.\n  10. Using end of floss, sew Tassel securely to the point of large square, using Schematic as guide.\n\n# **Cropped Vest**\n\nDESIGNED BY CARI CLEMENT\n\n**EASY**\n\nTie an outfit together with this simple cropped vest. The beading and detail around the trim is sure to spice up any look.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nX-Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52)\"\u204481 (91.5, 101.5, 112, 122, 132) cm\n\nBack Length (from shoulder) 13 (13, 13, 13 1\u20442, 13 1\u20442, 14)\"\u204433 (33, 33, 34, 34, 35.5) cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Tweed (98% Acrylic, 2% Rayon; 3 oz/85 g, 150 yds, 137 m ball):\n\n  * #0002 Off White (MC), 2 (3, 3, 4) balls\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black (CC), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Pebble st, 16 sts and 15 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn Needle\n\n#16 tapestry needle\n\n294 (312, 330, 362, 384, 406) large-hole 5/0 E seed beads, Matte Black (Miyuki)\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nBead Pebble Stitch (Edging)\n\nWork as for Pebble st (below), sliding a bead down after dc and before sc; to turn corners, in corner work [3 sts in pattern in same st, adding 2 beads].\n\nDecrease (dec)\n\nWork 2 sts together in pattern to decrease 1 st, as follows:\n\n  * In pattern: [begin the next st in pattern, but to not complete it (leave 1 loop from the stitch on hook)] twice, yarn over, draw through all 3 loops on hook.\n  * For sc: insert hook into next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, leaving loop on hook.\n  * For dc: yarn over, insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops, leaving remaining loop on hook.\n\nPebble Stitch (multiple of 2 sts)\n\n  * **ROW 1:** Dc in third ch from hook, * sc in next st, dc in next st; repeat from * across, end dc in last ch, turn.\n  * **ROW 2:** Ch 2, * dc in next sc, sc in next dc, repeat from * across, end dc in top of beginning ch.\n  * Repeat Row 2 for Pebble st.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Vest is worked in one piece to underarms, then Back and Fronts are worked separately to shoulders.\n  2. Beaded trim is worked after garment is assembled.\n\n**HELPFUL**\n\nPlace a marker at the beginning of first row to indicate RS. Pebble stitch looks the same on both sides, therefore indications of RS and WS in instructions are to clarify instructions only.\n\n**VEST**\n\nUsing MC, chain 130 (146, 162, 178, 194, 210).\n\nBegin Pebble st, Row 1\u2014128 (144, 160, 176, 192, 208) sts, counting beginning ch.\n\nWork even in pattern, repeating Row 2, until piece measures 4 1\u20442\"/ 11.5 cm from beginning (all sizes), end with a WS row; count in 33 (37, 41, 45, 49, 53) sts from each side, place a marker (pm) on these sts (center of underarm)\u201432 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52) sts each side for Fronts; 64 (72, 80, 88, 96, 104) sts for Back, including marked sts.\n\nDIVIDING ROW\n\n(RS) Work across 26 (30, 32, 34, 36, 38) sts in pattern for right Front, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked.\n\n**RIGHT FRONT**\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLE\n\nWS) Beginning this row, at armhole edge (beginning of WS rows, end of RS rows), dec 1 st every row 12 (12, 12, 14, 14, 14) times\u201414 (18, 20, 20, 22, 24) sts remain.\n\nSHAPE NECK AND SHOULDER\n\nWS) Work across to last 3 (5, 7, 5, 7, 7) sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201412 (14, 14, 16, 16, 18) sts remain.\n\nRS) Beginning this row, at neck edge (end of WS rows, beginning of RS rows), dec 1 st every row 10 times\u20142 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder.\n\nWork even until armhole measures 8 1\u20442 (8 1\u20442, 8 1\u20442, 9, 9, 9 1\u20442)\"\u204421.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm (from dividing row. Fasten off.\n\n**BACK**\n\nWith RS facing, beginning with marked st, skip 6 (6, 8, 8, 10, 12) sts to the left, counting underarm marked st; join yarn with a slip st in next st.\n\nCh 2, work in pattern across to 5 (5, 7, 7, 9, 11) sts before second marked st, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201452 (60, 64, 72, 76, 80) sts for Back.\n\n**SHAPE ARMHOLES**\n\nWS) Beginning this row, dec 1 st each side every row 12 (12, 12, 14, 14, 14) times\u201428 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52) sts remain.\n\nWork even until armhole measures 6 (6, 6, 6 1\u20442, 6 1\u20442, 7)\"\u2044 15 (15, 15, 16.5, 16.5, 18) cm from dividing row, end with a WS row.\n\n**SHAPE RIGHT SHOULDER**\n\nRS) Continuing in pattern, work across 8 (10, 10, 12, 12, 14) sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked for neck and left shoulder.\n\nWS) Beginning this row, at neck edge dec 1 st every row 6 times\u20142 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder.\n\nWork even until armhole measures 8 1\u20442 (8 1\u20442, 8 1\u20442, 9, 9, 9 1\u20442)\"\u204421.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm from dividing row. Fasten off.\n\nWith RS facing, skip center 12 (16, 20, 20, 24, 24) sts; join yarn with a slip st 8 (10, 10, 12, 12, 14) sts from left armhole edge, work to end.\n\nWS) Beginning this row, at neck edge dec 1 st every row 6 times\u20142 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder.\n\nWork even until armhole measures 8 1\u20442 (8 1\u20442, 8 1\u20442, 9, 9, 9 1\u20442)\"\u204421.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm from dividing row. Fasten off.\n\n**LEFT FRONT**\n\nWith RS facing, skip 6 sts after marked st, join yarn with a slip st in next st; ch 2, work in pattern to end.\n\n**SHAPE ARMHOLE**\n\n(WS) Beginning this row, at armhole edge (end of WS rows, beginning of RS rows), dec 1 st every row 12 (12, 12, 14, 14, 14) times\u201414 (18, 20, 20, 22, 24) sts remain.\n\n**SHAPE NECK AND SHOULDER**\n\n(RS) Work across to last 3 (5, 7, 5, 7, 7) sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201412 (14, 14, 16, 16, 18) sts remain.\n\n(WS) Beginning this row, at neck edge (end of RS rows, beginning of WS rows), dec 1 st every row ten times\u20142 (4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts remain for shoulder.\n\nWork even until armhole measures 8 1\u20442 (8 1\u20442, 8 1\u20442, 9, 9, 9 1\u20442)\"\u2044 21.5 (21.5, 21.5, 23, 23, 24) cm from dividing row. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nSew shoulders seams.\n\nBead counts are what were used on sample garment, plus 10 to 12 extra; it's easier to have a few beads left on the yarn after finishing than to have to string additional beads to complete the edging; sample garment used approximately 14 beads per 6\"\u204415 cm.\n\n**BEADED EDGING**\n\n  1. Vest: Using tapestry needle, thread 164 (182, 196, 220, 238, 252) beads onto MC.\n  2. With WS facing, join yarn with a slip st to right Back neck edge at left shoulder seam.\n  3. Begin Bead Pebble st; work 1 row evenly across Back neck, along right Front neck shaping, down Front edge, across lower edge, up left Front and neck shaping (be sure to work the same number of beads on left Front as on right Front) to shoulder.\n  4. Armholes: Thread 70 (70, 72, 76, 78, 82) beads onto MC.\n  5. With WS facing, join yarn with a slip st to underarm at marker.\n  6. Begin Bead Pebble st; work 1 row evenly around armhole. Fasten off.\n  7. Count the number of beads used for armhole and thread an equal number for remaining armhole. Repeat Step 6 for remaining armhole.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n**CROCHETED LOOP STITCH TRIM**\n\n  1. Join CC to the WS of the center Back neck edge on the last row of the vest.\n  2. Insert the hook between the last row of the Vest and the beaded trim row from RS to WS; yarn over and pull loop through to RS and through loop on hook.\n\n  3. Skip 2 sts (1 bead); repeat Step 2.\n  4. Continue in this manner around Vest, taking care not to pull the loops too tightly.\n\n  5. Make three Lazy Daisy stitches on each corner of the lower Front and upper Front (see illustration here), using photos as a guide.\n\n# Out of Africa\n\n**Think desert shades...**\n\n**colorful African fabrics...**\n\n**equatorial jungles...**\n\n**deep shadows and intense sunlight...**\n\n# **Sahara Shawl**\n\nDESIGNED BY MARGARET WILLSON\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nThis amazing work of art is a definite show-stopper\u2014you're bound to get noticed wherever you wear it. A variety of techniques (crochet stitches, embroidery stitches, and bead embellishments) are all showcased in this sophisticated shawl.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth 60\"\u2044152 cm, lower edge\n\nLength 35\"\u204489 cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black (MC), 2 skeins\n  * #9703 Bone (A), 2 skeins\n  * #9742 Grey Heather (B), 1 skein\n  * #9702 Off White (C), 1 skein\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Shadows (100% acrylic; 3 oz/85 g, 150 yds/137 m ball):\n\n  * #0001 Pearl Frost (D), 2 balls\n  * #0008 Opal Twist (E), 1 ball\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\nTapestry needle\n\nBlack beading thread\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\n3 yards/2.75 m black flat braid or twill tape, 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm wide\n\nStraight pins\n\n190 round wood bead, 6 mm, earthtone (Darice\u2014Jewelry Designer #1905-08) \u2014 Bead-A\n\n19 grams assorted bone beads, natural (The Beadery \u2014 elements #1433H) \u2014 Bead-B\n\n23 grams assorted antiqued bone beads, black with white (The Beadery \u2014 elements #1438H) \u2014 Bead-C\n\n75 wood beads, 8 mm \u2014 Bead-D\n\n66 split cowrie shells \u2014 Bead-E\n\nSplit-ring stitch markers (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn stitch pattern, Rows 1 \u2013 12 form a triangle that measures 9\" \u00d7 5\"\u2044 23 cm \u00d7 12.5 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbsc: bead single crochet (see here)\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\ndc2-cluster: double crochet 2 together cluster\u2014[ yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook (one cluster made).\n\ndc3-cluster: double crochet 3 together cluster\u2014[ yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times, yarn over and draw through 4 loops on hook (one cluster made).\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Shawl is shaped by working increases both in the center st and at the beginning and end of rows, or at each of the 3 corners when rows are worked in the round (indicated as rounds).\n  2. Pay special attention to whether a row or round is indicated in the instructions, and whether it is right-side (RS) or wrong-side (WS) facing; do NOT turn unless indicated.\n  3. Beads are added on WS rows so that they will show on the RS.\n  4. It may be helpful to place a marker in center st when working increases, and move it up each row/round.\n\n**SHAWL**\n\nNote: All odd-numbered rows and rounds are RS until indicated otherwise.\n\nUsing tapestry needle and A, string 5 Bead-A on yarn, chain 6.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook, hdc in next ch, work 3 dc in next ch (2-sts increased \u2014 center), hdc in next ch, sc in last ch, turn\u20147 sts.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, [sc, bsc] in first st (increase), sc in next st, bsc in next st, work [sc, bsc, sc] in next st (center), bsc in next st, sc in next st, [bsc, sc] in last st (increase), turn\u201411 sts. Fasten off A; join C.\n\nRow 3: Using C, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st (increase), sc in each st to center, work 3 sc in center st, sc in each st across to last st, work 2 sc in last st (increase), turn\u201415 sts.\n\nRow 4: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st to center, work 3 sc in center st, sc in each st across to last st, work 2 sc in last st, turn\u201419 sts. Fasten off C. Using E, string 13 Bead-B on yarn; join E.\n\nRow 5: Using E, ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first sc, dc in next 8 sts, work 5 dc in center st, dc in next 8 sts, work 2 dc in last st, turn\u2014 25 sts.\n\nRow 6 (WS): Ch 1, work [sc, bsc] in first st, * sc, bsc; repeat from * across next 10 sts, sc in next st ** [sc, bsc, sc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across next 11 sts, in last st work [bsc, sc], turn\u201429 sts. Fasten off E; join C.\n\nRows 7 and 8: Repeat Rows 3 and 4\u2014 37 sts.\n\nFasten off C. Using A, string 23 Bead-A on yarn; join A.\n\nRow 9 (RS): Using A, ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first sc, dc in each of next 17 sts, work 5 dc in center st, dc in next 17 sts, work 2 dc in last st, turn\u201443 sts.\n\nRow 10: Ch 1, work [sc, bsc] in first st, * sc, bsc; repeat from * across next 20 sts **, [sc, bsc, sc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across next 20 sts, in last st work bsc, sc, turn\u201447 sts. Fasten off A; join C.\n\nRows 11 and 12: Repeat Rows 3 and 4\u201455 sts. Fasten off C; join MC, begin working in-the-round.\n\nRound 13 (RS): Using MC, work 3 sc in first st (corner), sc in each st across to center, work 3 sc in center st; sc in each st across to last st (corner), work 3 sc in corner; working across top edge, work [1 sc in end of each sc row, 2 sc in end of each dc row and 1 sc in the remaining loop of each ch of beginning-ch (30 sc across top edge)], join with a slip st in beginning-sc, turn.\n\nRound 14 (WS): Ch 1, * sc in each st around, working 3 sc in each corner and in center st, join with a slip st in beginning-sc, turn. Fasten off MC; join B.\n\nRow 15 (RS): Using B, ch 3, dc in same st, dc in each of next 30 st, work 3 dc in center st, dc in each of next 30 st, work 2 dc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 16: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first dc, sc in each st to center st, work 3 sc in center st, sc in each st across to last st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Fasten off B. Using C, string 19 Bead-C on yarn; join C.\n\nRow 17 (RS): Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 18: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, work [sc (bsc, sc in next 3 sts) 8 times, bsc, sc in next 2 sc] across to center st, work [sc, bsc, sc] in center st, sc in next 2 sts; repeat from [ to ] once, sc in next st, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 19: Ch 1, sc in each st across, working 3 sc in center st, turn. Fasten off C; join B.\n\nRow 20 (WS): Using B, ch 1, sc in each st across, working 3 sc in center st, turn.\n\nRow 21: Ch 3, dc in first sc, dc in each sc across to last sc, working 3 dc in center st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off B; join MC.\n\nRow 22 (WS): Ch 3, dc in next 2 st, work [ch 3, skip 1 st, work dc3-cluster over next 3 sts] 10 times, ch 3, skip next st, work 3 dc in center st, ch 3, skip next st, work [dc3-cluster, ch 3, skip next st] 10 times, dc in next st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off MC; join A.\n\nRow 23 (RS): Using A, ch 1, sc in first 3 sts, [(working in front of ch-3 loop, work 3 dc in skipped st 1 row below, sc in top of next cluster) 10 times, work 3 dc in skipped st 1 row below] sc in next st, work 3 sc in center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, sc in each of last 3 sts, turn.\n\nRow 24: Ch 3, dc in first sc [(work 3dc-cluster, ch 3, skip next st) 11 times, work dc3 cluster] ch 7, skip center st; repeat from [ to ] once, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off A. Using MC, string 24 Bead-D on yarn; join MC.\n\nRow 25 (RS): Using MC, ch 1, sc in next 2 st, sc in top of next cluster, [(working in front of ch-3 A-loop and around MC ch-3 loop (into the space) from 3 rows below, work 3 dc in skipped st 1 row below, sc in top of next cluster) 11 times], work 7 dc in skipped center st 1 row below, sc in top of next cluster; repeat from [ to ] once, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 26: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in next st, work [bsc, sc in next 3 sts] 12 times, work 3 sc in center st, [sc in next 3 sc, bsc] 12 times, sc in next st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Fasten off MC; join C.\n\nRow 27 (RS): Using C, ch 3, work 2 dc in same st, skip next st, sc in next st, [(skip next st, work 5 dc in next st working around ch-3 loop (into the space) that is at back of piece, skip next st, sc in next st) 12 times], work 5 dc in center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, skip next st, work 3 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off C; join E.\n\nRound 28 (WS): Using E, ch 1, sc in next 2 st, [(work dc3-cluster, sc in next 3 sts] 12 times, work dc3-cluster], sc in next st, work 3 sc in center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, work dc3-cluster, sc in next st, work 3 sc in corner st, sc evenly across top edge as for Round 13, working 1 sc in each sc of Round 13, work 2 sc in corner, join, turn.\n\nRound 29 (RS): Ch 1, then sc in each st around, working 3 sc in each corner and in center st, join. Fasten off E. Do NOT turn. Using C, string 64 Bead-A on yarn; join C.\n\nNote: Even numbered rows and rounds are now RS until otherwise indicated.\n\nRow 30 (RS): Using C, ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in same st, [(skip next st, work 2 dc in next st) 27 times, skip next st], work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat [ to ] once, work 3 dc in last st (upper right corner), turn.\n\nRow 31: Ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in space between first and second dc, * work 2 dc in each space ** to center st, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last 3-dc group, work 3 dc between second and third dc of last group, turn.\n\nRow 32: Repeat Row 31.\n\nRow 33: Ch 1, [sc, bsc] in first st, * work ch 2, skip 2, bsc in next space ** across to center st, [bsc, ch 3, bsc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last st, sc in last st, turn. Fasten off C; join A.\n\nRow 34 (RS): Using A, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, [work (3 sc in next ch-2 loop, 2 sc in next ch-2 loop) 15 times, 3 sc in next loop], work 5 sc in center st; repeat from [ to ] once, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRows 35 \u2013 38: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working, 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 39 (WS): Ch 1, sc in first st, ch 2, sc in next st, [(ch 2, skip 3 sts, sc in next st, ch 2, skip 2 st, sc in next st) 12 times, ch 2, skip 3 st, sc in next st], ch 3, skip center st, sc in next st; repeat from [ to ] once, sc in next st, ch 2, sc in last st, turn. Fasten off A; join E.\n\nRow 40 (RS): Using E, ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in first space, * work 3 dc in each ch-2 space ** across to center st, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last ch-2 space, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 41: Ch 3 (counts as dc), work 2 dc between first and second dc, * work 3 dc in each space ** across to center st, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st, repeat from * to ** across to last 3-dc group, work 2 dc between second and third dc of last group, dc in last dc, turn.\n\nRow 42: Repeat Row 41, turn. Fasten off E; join A.\n\nRow 43 (WS): Using A, [sc, ch 1, sc] in first st, * ch 3, sc in next space **; repeat from * to center st, work [sc, ch 3, sc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last st, work sc, ch 1, sc] in last st, turn.\n\nRow 44: Ch 1, sc in first st, work 2 sc in ch-1 space, * work 3 sc in each space** across to center st, work 5 sc in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last ch-1 space, work 2 sc in last space, sc in last st, turn.\n\nRows 45 \u2013 47: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 48 (RS): Work as Row 45, do NOT turn. Fasten off A; join MC, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRow 49 (RS): Using MC, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, * ch 2, sk 2, sc in next st; repeat from * across ** to center st, ch 3, skip corner st, sc in next st; repeat * to ** to last st, work 2 sc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join C, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRow 50 (RS): Using C, ch 3, * work 3 dc in next st [skip ch-2 space, work 3 dc in next sc across] ** to center ch-3 space, work 3 dc in center ch-3 space; repeat from * to ** to last st, dc in last st, turn. Fasten off C; join MC.\n\nRow 51 (WS): Using MC, ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, work [ch 2, sc in center dc of next 3-dc group across] to center st, ch 2, work [sc, ch 3, sc] in center st; repeat from [ to ] to last st, ch 2, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 52 (RS): Ch 3, dc in first st, * skip next ch-2 space, work 3 dc in each sc across ** to center ch-3 space, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center ch-3 space; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 2 dc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join C, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRows 53 and 54: Using C; work as Rows 51 and 52. Fasten off C; join MC, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRow 55 (RS): Using MC, work as Row 51, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join B, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRow 56 (RS): Using B, ch 3, dc in same st, * work 3 dc in each ch-2 space across ** to center st, work [3 dc, ch 1, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last st, 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off B; join A.\n\nRow 57 (WS): Using A, ch 1, work 2 sc in same st, sc in each st across to last st, working 3 sc in center ch-1 space, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 58: Ch 3, dc in first sc, dc in each st across to last st, working 5 dc in center st, work 2 dc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 59: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across, working 3 sc in center st, work 2 sc in last st, turn. Fasten off A; join D in first sc.\n\nRow 60 (RS): Using D, ch 3, work 2 dc in same st, * (skip 2 sc, work 3 dc in next st) across ** to center st, skip 2 sc, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last 3 sts, skip 2 sc, work 3 dc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 61: Ch 1, work 2 sc in first st, sc in each st across to last st, working 5 sc in center ch-3 space, work 2 sc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 62: Ch 3, dc in first st, skip next st, work 3 dc in next st, * skip 2 sts, work [3 dc in next st, skip 2 sts] across ** to center st, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** across to last 2 sts, work 3 dc in next st, skip next st, work 2 dc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 63: Repeat Row 61, turn.\n\nRow 64: Ch 3, work 2 dc in first st, * skip 2 sts, work [3 dc in next st, skip 2 sts across ** to center st, work [3 dc, ch 3, 3 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 3 dc in last st, turn.\n\nRow 65: Repeat Row 61, turn. Fasten off D; join MC.\n\nRow 66 (RS): Using MC, ch 3, work 2 dc in same st, * skip next st, work [2 dc in next st, skip next st] across ** to center st, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center st; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 3 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off MC; join A.\n\nRow 67 (WS): Using A, ch 3, dc in same st * work 2 dc between the sts of each 2-dc group across ** to center ch-3 space, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in space; repeat from * to ** across to last st, work 2 dc in last st, turn. Fasten off A; join MC in first st.\n\nRow 68 (RS): Using MC, ch 3, dc between first and second st, ch 1, work dc2-cluster over next 2 spaces, ch 1, * work [dc2-cluster over previous and next space, ch 1] across ** to center space, working last dc in center ch-3 space, work [ch 1,dc] 3 times in center space, ch 1, work dc2-cluster over center space and next space, ch 1; repeat from * to ** to last 3 sts, work 2 dc between 2 sts, dc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off MC; join C, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRow 69 (RS): Using C, sc in first st, work 2 sc between next 2 sts, * work 2 sc in each ch-1 space across ** to center st, work 3 sc in center dc; repeat from * to ** to last 3 sts, work 2 sc between next 2 sts, sc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off C; join B, ready to work a RS row.\n\nRow 70 (RS): Using B, ch 3, work 2 dc between first and second sc, skip 2 sc, * work 2 dc in each space between 2-dc groups across ** to center st, skip 3 sc, work [2 dc, ch 3, 2 dc] in center sc, skip 3 sc; repeat from * to ** to last st, work 2 dc in last st, do NOT turn. Fasten off B; join MC, ready to work a RS row.\n\n**EDGING**\n\nNote: Work in rounds, join with a slip st in beginning sc at the end of each round.\n\nRound 1 (RS): Using MC, work 3 sc in first st, * work 2 sc between sts of each 2-dc group across ** to center ch-3 space, work 5 sc in center space; repeat from * to ** to last st (corner), work 3 sc in corner, sc evenly across top edge as for Round 13, working 1 sc in each sc across sc of Round 28, join.\n\nRounds 2 \u2013 4 (RS): Ch 1, then sc in each sc around, working 3 sc in center st and in each corner, join. Fasten off after Round 4.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n**EMBROIDERY**\n\n  1. Using tapestry needle and 2 strands B, work Cross stitch across Rows 17\u201319 between beads.\n\n  2. Using tapestry needle and 2 strands MC, work Fly stitch on Rows 35\u201337, working from each side toward center.\n  3. Using tapestry needle and 2 strands D, work Fly stitch on Rows 45\u201347, working from each side toward center.\n\n  4. Using tapestry needle and 1 strand MC, work Herringbone stitch on Rows 57\u201359, working from left to right to center, end at center; begin again, work to end.\n\n**BEADED FRINGE**\n\n**PREPARE BRAID OR TWILL TAPE**\n\n  1. Lay braid on flat surface.\n  2. Measure 1\"\u20442.5 cm from end of braid, place marker.\n  3. Measure 1 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm from previous marker, place marker.\n  4. Repeat Step 3 for a total of 57 markers.\n  5. Leave 1\"\u20442.5 cm of braid after last marker and cut away any excess braid.\n\n**MAKE BEADED FRINGE ON BRAID**\n\n  1. Thread beading needle.\n  2. Working from right to left, on WS of braid, backstitch to first marker.\n  3. Needle up at marker, thread 3 Bead-A (cream, tan, dark brown), thread cowrie shell from back to front, then thread needle up through first 3 beads.\n  4. Needle down at same marker, remove marker.\n  5. Backstitch on WS of braid to next marker.\n  6. Repeat Steps 3\u20135 across braid\u201457 Beaded Fringes.\n\n**ATTACH BEADED FRINGE TO SHAWL**\n\n  1. With beaded edge of fringe against outside edge of Shawl, pin fringe to WS of edging, matching center dangle to center point and working toward each upper corner.\n  2. With WS facing, using tapestry needle and MC, baste fringe in place.\n\n  3. With RS facing, using tapestry needle and one strand of E, work Cross and brick stitch border over last 3 rows of edging, encasing Beaded Fringe (as follows):\n\nRight-hand side: With RS facing, and straight edge of piece nearest, begin in corner with 3 straight stitches fanning out from same point. Work from right to left to upper corner.\n\nLeft-hand side: With RS facing, turn piece so that point of triangle is nearest and work from right to left to upper corner.\n\n# **Desert Trader's Tote**\n\nDESIGNED BY CANDI JENSEN\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis tote is a wonderful blend of sophistication and creativity, but is versatile enough to be paired with almost any outfit\u2014whether you're out shopping or at the theater. This one-of-a-kind tote is not only functional, but a hip eye-catcher, too!\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\n14\"\u204435 cm square\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9703 Bone (MC), 1 skein\n  * #9727 Black (A), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\n  * Yarn needle\n  * 1 package Foiled Oval Cheetah beads (The Beadery \u2014 Elements #1366H560)\n  * 2 packages cowrie shell beads, Natural (The Beadery \u2014 Elements #2050H)\n  * 1 42-oz package small oval gold beads\n  * 6 shell buttons\n  * 1\u20442 yard beaded fringe trim\n  * Blunt-end sewing needle\n  * Black sewing thread\n  * Beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn half double crochet, 14 sts and 12 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**SPECIAL TECHNIQUE**\n\nChange color in last hdc: Work across to last st in current color; yo, insert hook in last st to be worked in current color and pull up a loop, drop current color, pick up next color, yo and draw through 3 loops on hook. Continue with new color.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nfpdc: front-post double crochet\u2014(RS) yarn over, insert hook from right-hand side of stitch to WS of piece, return to RS of piece at left-hand side of stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, complete as dc.\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**BACK AND FRONT (BOTH ALIKE)**\n\nUsing A, chain 11; join MC and chain 28; join another strand of A and chain 12.\n\nRow 1: Using A, hdc in second ch from hook and in each of the next 10 ch, changing to MC in last st; using MC, hdc in next 28 ch, changing to A in last st; using A, hdc in last 11 ch, turn\u201450 hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, changing colors as established, turn.\n\nWork even, repeating Row 2, until piece measures 12\"\u204430.5 cm from the beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**MEDALLIONS (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing A, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring.\n\nRound 1: Ch 1, in center of ring work 12 sc, join with a slip st to first sc, turn\u201412 sc.\n\nRound 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first st, * dc in next st, work 2 dc in next st, repeat from * around, end dc in last st, turn.\n\nRound 3: Ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in first st, * work [2 dc in next st, dc in next st] 5 times, work 2 dc in each of next 2 sts; repeat from * around. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n  1. Using sewing needle and black thread, sew gold beads and shell beads in place on Medallions (see photo here).\n  2. Sew a shell button to each Medallion center.\n  3. Sew Medallions to Front (see photo here).\n\n**EMBROIDERY**\n\nString 16 Foiled Oval beads onto a strand of A (8 for each side of MC panel).\n\n  1. With WS of Front facing, beginning at lower edge, approximately 1 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm in from edge of MC panel, hold yarn to RS of piece; pull a loop from RS to WS through the Front and the loop on hook; * insert hook 1 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm above previous loop, slide a bead down, pull a loop through as for Step 1; repeat from * in a straight line to upper edge of Front (see photo).\n  2. Repeat 1 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm from opposite side edge of MC panel. Weave in ends.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nWith wrong sides facing, join Front to Back with a row of slip st, using A, along sides and lower edge.\n\n**EDGING**\n\nWork in rows; join at the end of each row before turning.\n\nRow 1: With RS facing, using A, join yarn with a slip st to upper edge of Tote at side seam; ch 2, hdc in each hdc around, join with a slip st to first st, turn\u2014100 hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc around, changing to MC in last st, join with a slip st to first st, turn.\n\nRow 3: Using MC, ch 2, * hdc in next 4 hdc, fpdc in next hdc of Round 1, repeat from * around, changing to A in last st, join with a slip st to first st, turn.\n\nRows 4 and 5: Using A, hdc in each st around, join with a slip to first st, turn. Fasten off. Weave in ends.\n\nCut 4 pieces of beaded fringe the width of side panels (A), plus 1\"\u20442.5 cm. Fold under 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm at each end; using sewing needle and thread, tack ends to WS, then sew fringe in place (see photo).\n\n**STRAPS (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing A, chain 80.\n\nRow 1: Hdc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201479 hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across.\n\nFasten off. Sew Straps to WS at upper edge of Tote (see photo). Sew a shell button on RS through both thicknesses to secure Handles to Tote.\n\n# **Circular Yoke Blouse**\n\nDESIGNED BY GAYLE BUNN\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nSimply Soft yarn paired with the easy bead crochet stitch makes this project feel more like a knitted blouse than a sweater. This young and beautiful design is something you can wear to work, school, or play.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, Extra-Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 36 (40, 44, 48)\"\u204491.5 (101.5, 112, 122) cm\n\nLength 24 1\u20442 (25, 25 1\u20442, 26)\"\u204462 (63.5, 64.5, 66) cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9703 Bone, 4 (4, 5, 5) skeins\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size needed to obtain gauge.\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nStitch marker\n\nTapestry needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\n54 (54, 62, 62) approximate 8 mm \u00d7 12 mm oval painted wood beads\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Cluster pattern, 6 clusters and 11 rounds = 4\"\u204410 cm.\n\n**SPECIAL TERM**\n\nCluster: Work 2 hdc in same space/st.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbsc: bead single crochet (see here)\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\ndc2tog: double crochet 2 together\u2014[ yarn over, insert hook in next dc and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook.\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nsc2 tog: single crochet 2 together\u2014insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and pull through 3 loops on hook.\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**BODY**\n\nCh 126 (138, 150, 162) loosely; join with a slip st to first ch to form round, being careful not to twist chain.\n\nCLUSTER PATTERN\n\nRound 1: Ch 2 (counts as hdc), hdc in same ch as join (beginning cluster made), * skip next ch, work 2 hdc in next ch (cluster made); repeat from * around to last ch, skip last ch, join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2\u201463 (69, 75, 81) clusters.\n\nRound 2: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2.\n\nRepeat Round 2 for Cluster pattern until piece measures 5\"\u204412.5 cm from beginning.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Body and Sleeves are worked in joined rounds to underarm, then armhole and neck shaping are worked in rows before working yoke in rounds.\n  2. Rounds are joined at the Back of garment; this will appear as a diagonal line across the piece.\n  3. Embellishing (bead sc) is worked with WS facing as you crochet the yoke. When working in rounds, turn at the end of the round prior to the Bead round, work Bead round with WS facing; turn. Continue working with RS facing.\n\nFirst Decrease Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 18 (20, 22, 24) times, * [hdc in next space between 2 clusters] twice (cluster-dec made\u2014counts as cluster) **, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 19 (21, 23, 25) times; repeat from * once; then from * to ** once; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2\u201460 (66, 72, 78) clusters remain.\n\nWork even in Cluster pattern until piece measures 9\"\u204423 cm from beginning.\n\nSecond Decrease Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 17 (19, 21, 23) times, * [hdc in next space between 2 clusters] twice **, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 18 (20, 22, 24) times; repeat from * once; then from * to ** once; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2\u201457 (63, 69, 75) clusters remain.\n\nWork even in Cluster pattern until piece measures 13\"\u204433 cm from beginning.\n\nThird Decrease Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 16 (18, 20, 22) times, * [hdc in next space between 2 clusters] twice **, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 17 (19, 21, 23) times; repeat from * once; then from * to ** once; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2\u201454 (60, 66, 72) clusters remain.\n\nWork even in Cluster pattern until piece measures 15 (15, 15 1\u20442, 15 1\u20442)\"\u204438 (38, 39.5, 39.5) cm from beginning.\n\n**LEFT FRONT**\n\nRow 1: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times; leave remaining sts unworked; turn\u20146 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Left Front.\n\nDecrease Row: Slip st in each of first 2 hdc, slip st in space between first 2 clusters, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * to last cluster, leave last cluster unworked; turn\u20145 (6, 7, 8) clusters remain.\n\nRepeat Decrease Row 3 (4, 5, 6) times\u20142 clusters remain. Fasten off.\n\n**RIGHT FRONT**\n\nRow 1: With RS facing, skip next 12 (13, 14, 15) spaces between clusters; join yarn with slip st in next space, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times, leave remaining sts unworked; turn\u20146 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Right Front. Complete as for Left Front.\n\n**RIGHT BACK**\n\nRow 1: With RS facing, skip next 3 spaces between clusters (underarm); join yarn with slip st in next space, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times, leave remaining sts unworked; turn\u20146 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Right Back. Complete as for Left Front.\n\n**LEFT BACK**\n\nRow 1: With RS facing, skip next 12 (13, 14, 15) space between clusters; join yarn with slip st to next space, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 5 (6, 7, 8) times, leave remaining sts unworked; turn\u20146 (7, 8, 9) clusters for Left Back. Complete as for Left Front.\n\n**SLEEVES (MAKE 2)**\n\nCh 34 (34, 36, 36) loosely; join with a slip st to first ch to form round, being careful not to twist chain.\n\nRound 1: Work as for Body\u201417 (17, 18, 18) clusters.\n\nContinue in Cluster pattern until piece measures 2 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm from beginning.\n\nFirst Increase Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around to last cluster, hdc in each hdc of last cluster (cluster-inc made \u2014 counts as cluster); join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2\u201418 (18, 19, 19) clusters. Place a marker (pm) on cluster-inc (underarm seam).\n\nWork 9 rounds even in Cluster pattern.\n\nSecond Increase Round: Slip st in next hdc, slip st in space between beginning cluster and next cluster, ch 2, hdc in same space, * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around to cluster above marked cluster-inc, hdc in each hdc of next cluster (cluster-inc made), ** work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from ** around; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2\u201419 (19, 20, 20) clusters. Move marker to cluster-inc.\n\nRepeat last 10 rounds twice\u201421 (21, 22, 22) clusters.\n\nWork even in Cluster pattern until sleeve measures 18\"\u204446 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**SHAPE SLEEVE CAP**\n\nRow 1: Place marker on final row of sleeve at underarm seam. Leaving 3 spaces between clusters unworked at underarm, join yarn with slip st in next space between 2 clusters, ch 2, hdc in same space (beginning cluster made), work [cluster in next space between 2 clusters] 17 (17, 18, 18) times; leave remaining sts unworked, turn\u201418 (18, 19, 19) clusters remain.\n\nDecrease Row: Slip st in each of first 2 hdc, slip st in space between first 2 clusters, ch 2, hdc in same space, * work cluster in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * to last cluster, leave remaining cluster unworked; turn\u201417 (17, 18, 18) clusters remain.\n\nRepeat Decrease Row 3 (4, 5, 6) times more\u201414 (13, 13, 12) clusters remain. Fasten off.\n\n**YOKE**\n\nSew Sleeves to Body at underarms.\n\nUsing tapestry needle, thread 28 (28, 32, 32) beads onto yarn.\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, join yarn with slip st in right Back underarm seam; work 168 (168, 192, 192) sc evenly around yoke edge; join with a slip st to first sc.\n\nRound 2: Ch 1, sc in same st as join, * ch 3, skip next 2 sc, sc in next sc; repeat from * around, end ch 3, skip last 2 sc; join with a slip st to first sc; turn\u201456 (56, 64, 64) ch-3 spaces.\n\nRound 3 (WS): Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, *ch 3, bsc in next ch-3 space, ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around, ending with ch 3, bsc in next ch-3 space, ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc; turn\u201428 (28, 32, 32) bsc.\n\nRound 4 (RS): Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, *ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space, skip next sc and next ch-3 space, work 5 dc in next sc (fan made), skip next ch-3 space and next sc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc\u201414 (14, 16, 16) 5-dc fans.\n\nRound 5: Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * [dc in next dc, ch 1] 4 times, dc in next dc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc.\n\nRound 6: Slip st in next dc, ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), [dc in next dc, ch 1] 3 times, * dc2tog (last dc of fan and first dc of next fan) [ch 1, dc in next dc] 3 times, ch 1; repeat from * around, end dc in last dc; join with a slip st to third ch of ch 4 (counts as dc2tog)\u201456 (56, 64, 64) ch-1 spaces.\n\nRound 7: Ch 1, sc in same st as join, *ch 3, skip next ch-1 space, sc in next ch-1 space, ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space, ch 3, skip next ch-1 space, sc in top of next dc2tog; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc\u201442 (42, 48, 48) ch-3 spaces.\n\nRound 8: Slip st in next ch-3 space, ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in same ch-3 space, * work 2 dc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around; join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-3\u201484 (84, 96, 96) dc. Fasten off.\n\nUsing tapestry needle, thread 24 (24, 28, 28) beads onto yarn.\n\nRound 9 (WS): With WS facing, join yarn with slip st in first dc, ch 1, sc in each of first 3 dc, * bsc in next dc, sc in each of next 6 dc; repeat from * around to last 4 (4, 2, 2) dc, bsc in next dc, sc in last 3 (3, 1, 1) dc; join with a slip st to first sc; turn\u201412 (12, 14, 14) bsc.\n\nRound 10 (RS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * ch 3, skip next 2 sc, sc in next sc; repeat from * around, end ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc\u201428 (28, 32, 32) ch-3 spaces.\n\nRound 11: Work as Round 8\u201456 (56, 64, 64) dc. Do NOT fasten off.\n\nRound 12: Slip st in next dc, slip st in space before next dc, ch 1, sc in same space, * ch 3, skip 2 dc, sc in space before next dc; repeat from * around, end ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc; turn\u201428 (28, 32, 32) ch-3 spaces.\n\nRound 13 (WS): Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * ch 3, bsc in next ch-3 space, [ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space] 4 times; repeat from * 4 (4, 5, 5) times, end [ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space] 2 (2, 1, 1) time(s), ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc; turn\u20146 (6, 7, 7) bsc.\n\nRound 14 (RS): Work as Round 8; turn\u201456 (56, 64, 64) dc. Do NOT fasten off.\n\nRound 15 (WS): Slip st in next dc, slip st in space before next dc, ch 1, sc in same space, ch 3, skip 2 dc, bsc in space before next dc, * [ch 3, skip 2 dc, sc in space before next dc] 4 times, ch 3, skip 2 dc, bsc in space before next dc; repeat from * 4 times, end [ch 3, skip 2 dc, sc in space before next dc] 1 (1, 0, 0) time(s), ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc\u20146 (6, 7, 7) bsc. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\n**TIE**\n\nWork a chain 58 (58, 60, 60)\"\u2044147 (147, 152, 152) cm long. Fasten off. Thread Tie through Round 13 of Yoke, beginning and ending at center Front. Attach one bead to each end of Tie.\n\n**CUFF EDGING**\n\nWith RS facing, join yarn with slip st at under-arm of cuff edge in space between 2 clusters; ch 1, sc in same space, * ch 3, sc in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around ending with ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off.\n\n**BODY EDGING**\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, join yarn with slip st at center back of lower edge in space between 2 clusters, ch 1, sc in same space, * ch 3, sc in next space between 2 clusters; repeat from * around to last 1 (2, 1, 2) clusters, ch 3, skip 0 (1, 0, 1) cluster, sc between 2 hdc of next cluster, ch 3, skip remaining st(s); join with a slip st to first sc\u201464 (68, 76, 80) ch-3 spaces.\n\nRound 2: Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * ch 3, sc in next ch-3 space, skip next sc and next ch-3 space, work 5 dc in next sc (fan made), skip next ch-3 space and next sc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc\u201416 (17, 19, 20) 5-dc fans.\n\nRound 3: Slip st in each of next 2 ch, ch 1, sc in same ch-3 space, * [dc in next dc, ch 1] 4 times, dc in next dc, sc in next ch-3 space; repeat from * around omitting sc at end of last repeat; join with a slip st to first sc.\n\nRound 4: Slip st in next [dc, ch 1 and next dc], ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), [dc in next dc, ch 1] twice, * sc2tog (last dc of fan and first dc of next fan), [ch 1, dc in next dc] 3 times, ch 1; repeat from * around, end sc2tog, ch 1; join with slip st to third ch of beginning ch-4.\n\nRound 5: Slip st in next ch-1 space, ch 1, sc in same ch-1 space, [ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space] twice, ch 3, * sc in next sc2tog, [ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space] 4 times, ch 3; repeat from * around, end sc in last sc2tog, ch 3, sc in next ch-1 space, ch 3; join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off.\n\n# **Hoop Earrings**\n\nDESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY\n\n**BEGINNER**\n\nThere's no better way to learn bead crochet than by making these accessories. By splitting the four strands of Simply Soft Shadows into two strands, you can choose from a range of shadowed yarns to create your own unique earrings.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\n2 1\u20442\"/6.5 cm in diameter\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Shadows (100% acrylic; 3 oz/85 g, 150 yds/137 m ball):\n\n  * #0004 Autumn, 1 ball\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US C-2 (2.75 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\n1 pair hoop earrings, 2 1\u20444\"/ 5.5 cm in diameter\n\n46 gold glass E beads, 4 mm\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\n2 embroidery floss bobbins\n\nYarn needle\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical to this project.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbss: bead slip stitch (see here)\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTES**\n\nEarrings are worked using a 2-ply strand of yarn. Here is how to divide the strands.\n\n  1. Cut a 7-yard length of yarn and wind into a ball, leaving approximately 1 yard/92 cm free; secure ball with a yarn needle to hold the ball intact.\n  2. Separate the unsecured yarn end into two 2-ply strands, making sure there is one striped ply and one solid ply to each new pairing. Allow the ball to spin freely as it unwinds.\n  3. Wind 2-ply strand onto an embroidery floss bobbin.\n  4. Release another yard of yarn from the ball, secure it again with the yarn needle.\n  5. Repeat Steps 2\u20134 until the entire length of 4-ply yarn has been separated into two 2-ply strands.\n\n**EARRINGS (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing beading needle and 2-ply strand of yarn, thread 23 beads onto yarn; tie yarn end to earring hoop. Wrap yarn end around earring hoop and work over it while working Row 1.\n\nRow 1: Insert hook into loop on earring and pull up a loop. Insert hook into center of earring hoop, yarn over and pull up a loop, take hook over earring hoop, yarn over and draw through both loops on hook (first chain made); ch 2, (counts as first dc), work 46 dc enclosing earring hoop.\n\nRow 2: Flip the stitches through the earring hoop so they are standing vertically; working from back to front, bss 23 times.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing beading needle threaded with tail, weave tail inside dc along outer edge of hoop. Trim ends.\n\nRepeat for second earring, beginning at the opposite end of the earring hoop.\n\n# **Kente Cloth Scarf**\n\nDESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nThis Tunisian crochet (a.k.a. Afghan stitch) scarf was inspired by traditional Kente cloth fabric. The colors in the scarf are mirrored by the delicate beaded fringe. Simply Soft makes this scarf super soft, and Noreen's experimentation with color makes this a bright, fun accessory to spice up any look.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth 6 1\u20442\"/16.5 cm\n\nLength 65\"\u2044165 cm, excluding fringe\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black (A), 1 skein\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9607 Limelight (B), 1 skein\n  * #9609 Berry Blue (C), 1 skein\n  * #9604 Watermelon (D), 1 skein\n  * #9605 Mango (E), 1 skein\n  * #9606 Lemonade (F), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne Tunisian hook size US L-11 (8 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\nTapestry needle\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to go through beads)\n\nBeading thread\n\n4 large glass beads, 5\u20448\"/1.5 cm, orange\n\n24 glass beads, 5\u20448\"/1.5 cm long, assorted greens\n\n35 grams beads, 1\u20442\"/1 cm, yellow mixed\n\n35 grams beads, 1\u20442\"/1 cm, blue mixed\n\n2 packages beads (70 beads each) 6 mm, transparent blue\n\n35-gram tube E seed beads, orange\n\n35-gram tube E seed beads, assorted blues\n\n35-gram tube E seed beads, assorted greens\n\n35-gram tube E seed beads, black\n\nRow counter (optional)\n\nRuler (for reading chart) (optional)\n\nBeading tray (or muffin pan) for arranging beads (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Tunisian crochet, 15 sts and 9 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**STITCH USED**\n\nch: chain\n\n**SPECIAL TECHNIQUE**\n\nTunisian Crochet (Afghan stitch)  \nEach row of Tunisian crochet is worked in two steps after the Foundation Row.\n\nFoundation Row  \nChain the number of sts indicated in the instructions; skip first ch, * insert hook in next ch, yarn over and draw up a loop (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each ch. Complete Foundation Row by working Step 2. Repeat Steps 1 and 2 for remainder of piece.\n\nSTEP 1. With RS facing, working from right to left, pick up stitches for the row: Beginning in the second vertical bar of the previous row, * insert hook into the vertical bar of the previous row, yarn over and draw loop through the vertical bar (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each vertical bar.\n\nSTEP 2. Working from left to right, work off the stitches: yarn over and draw through first loop on hook, * yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook; repeat from * across.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Front of Scarf is worked first, from the Chart; the lining is picked up from the sts on the left-hand side of the scarf and worked across the width, then seamed. This means that it's not necessary to weave in yarn ends while working the Front.\n  2. Each square on the Chart represents one stitch.\n  3. When changing colors, always bring the new color under the working color to avoid holes from forming.\n  4. Bobbins are not recommended (see Helpful, below).\n\n**HELPFUL**\n\n  1. When working from Chart, place a ruler on the Chart, covering the rows above the row that is being worked.\n  2. Due to the many color changes, it is recommended to cut yarn into 5-yard/4.5 m lengths; let them hang freely at the WS of the piece. The yarns will still tend to tangle, but the short lengths are easy to untangle.\n\n**FRONT**\n\nFoundation Row: Using A, chain 25. Follow instructions under Special Technique\u201424 sts. Work one row even. Begin Chart; work Rows 1\u201348 of Chart 3 times\u2014145 rows total. Using A, work 1 row. Work 1 slip st in each st across, ending at upper left-hand corner of scarf.\n\n**LINING (REVERSE SIDE)**\n\nContinuing with A, ch 1; pick up 146 sts along side edge of Scarf; work sts off as Step 2\u2014146 sts.\n\nStripe Sequence: Continuing to work in Tunisian crochet, work 2 rows using A, 2 rows F, 2 rows B, 2 rows D, 2 rows C, 2 rows E, 2 rows C, 2 rows D, 2 rows B, 2 rows F, 2 rows A.\n\nBegin Stripe Sequence, counting pickup row as first row of A. Work even for 22 rows. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nFold Scarf in half lengthwise and stitch Lining to right-hand side of Front; stitch ends closed. If desired, steam Scarf, pressing flat with fingers; do not allow iron to touch Scarf. Using yarn needle, weave in ends from seaming.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nBEADED FRINGE\n\n  1. Sort beads into 24 groups, one for each 5\"\u204412.5 cm fringe; begin by dividing larger beads, then filling in with the assorted colors of E beads.\n  2. Join the beading thread at one corner of the Scarf, anchoring securely.\n  3. Working across width of Scarf, using one group of beads at a time, thread the beads, ending with a large green bead and an E bead; working around the E bead, thread the needle up through the remaining beads to the edge of the Scarf.\n  4. Stitch through end of Scarf to anchor Fringe strand; stitch over one edge stitch of Scarf.\n  5. Working as for Steps 3 and 4, attach 12 Fringe strands across Scarf end. Fasten off securely.\n  6. Attach 12 Fringe strands to opposite end.\n\n# **Got the Blues**\n\n**Think denims...**\n\n**basics blues accented with intense hues...**\n\n**applied embellishments...**\n\n**embroidered and trimmed jeans...**\n\n# **Medallions Belt**\n\nDESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN\n\n**EASY**\n\nDenim is a wonderful color to which you can add bright shades and sparkly trimmings, and the premade discs of plastic canvas act as a great armature or base to use in your embellishing projects. Play with the yarn, tassels, and beads to create your own signature belt.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nLength 33 (38, 43)\", excluding Tassels\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9711 Dk. Country Blue (A), 1 skein\n  * #9710 Country Blue (B), 1 skein\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9605 Mango (C), 1 skein\n  * #9604 Watermelon (D), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\n6\u20143\" plastic canvas circles\n\n30 g tube #3 seed rocaille glass beads, colors of mixed orange and hot pink, 1 tube\n\nLarger blue beads for Tassels\n\nBeading needle\n\n2\u20142\" D-rings\n\nLarge safety pin or sewing needle and thread (optional)\n\nT-pins or straight pins (optional)\n\nCork board (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical for this project.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\ndc3tog (cluster): double crochet 3 together\u2014[ yarn over, insert hook in next ch-2 space and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times, yarn over and draw through 4 loops on hook.\n\nfpsc: front-post single crochet\u2014(RS) insert hook from left-hand side of stitch to WS of piece, return to RS at right-hand side of next dc from previous round (Note: This is the opposite direction from the normal working method for fpsc), yarn over and pull up loop, complete as sc.\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**SPECIAL TECHNIQUE**\n\nFIVE-STRAND BRAID\n\nNote: The illustration here shows the path of each strand as it is braided; when repeating Steps 2 and 3, for each repeat the strand at the far left will be worked as for Strand 1 (Step 2), the strand at the far right will be worked as Strand 5 (Step 3).\n\n  1. Stitch or pin the ends of five strands together to secure, then pin strands to ironing board or cork board with T-pins.\n  2. Referring to the diagram, bring the left-hand strand (1) over the strand to its immediate right (2).\n  3. Weave the right-hand strand (5) over the strand to its immediate left (4), under the next strand (3) and over the next strand (1). Strand 2 is now at the far left, and Strand 4 at the far right.\n  4. Repeat Steps 2 and 3, always using the outer left-hand and right-hand strands.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Depending on the hole size of the beads, it may be necessary to separate the yarn into 2-ply strands to be able to string on the beads. ( See here.)\n  2. Make Belt longer or shorter by adjusting the number of beginning chains.\n  3. Flower Motifs are worked separately, applied to medallion bases, then attached to Braided Belt as desired.\n\n**BELT**\n\nMake 3 strands using A and 2 strands using B as follows:\n\nChain 276 (301, 326).\n\nRow 1: Sc in the second ch from the hook and in each ch across, turn\u2014275 (300, 325) sc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, sc in each sc across. Fasten off.\n\nAlternating colors (A, B, A, B, A), pin or baste strands together, then secure them to ironing board or a piece of cork board. Following instructions for 5-strand Braid technique, beginning at pinned end, braid cords until 18\"\u204446 cm of cord remains at opposite end. Wrap a strand of A or B securely around strands to form a Tassel.\n\nATTACH D-RINGS\n\nUsing yarn needle and A, join the strands together close to the beginning of the Braid. Fold the ends through both D-rings; sew ends securely to WS. Using yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\n**FLOWERS**\n\nFLOWER MOTIF 1 (MAKE 2)\n\nUsing D, chain 4; join with a slip st to form a ring.\n\nRound 1: Ch 5 (counts as dc, ch 2), working in the center of the ring, [dc, ch 2] 5 times; changing to C, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-5\u20146 dc; 6 ch-2 spaces.\n\nRound 2: Continuing with C, ch 4, * work cluster in ch-2 space of beginning ch of previous round, ch 4, work fpsc around next dc, ch 4; repeat from * 4 times, end cluster in next ch-2 space, ch 4, sc around first ch 2 of Round 1, join with a slip st in first ch of Rnd 2. Fasten off.\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in ends. Using beading needle and yarn, attach 2 beads to each dc post of Round 1 (see photo above).\n\nUsing C, chain 4, join with a slip st to form a ring.\n\nRound 1: Ch 1, work 12 sc into ring; do NOT cut C, changing to D, join with a slip st in first sc\u201412 sc.\n\nRound 2: Using D, ch 1, [sc, ch 4, sc] in the front loop only of each sc of Round 1, join with a slip st in first sc of Round 2\u201412 small petals; cut D.\n\nRound 3: Using C, working in back loops only of each sc of Round 1, ch 1, [sc, ch 7, sc] in back loop of each sc around, join with slip st in first sc of Round 3\u201412 large petals. Fasten off.\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in ends. Using beading needle and yarn, attach 12 to 14 beads to the sc sts of Round 1 (see photo above).\n\nFLOWER MOTIF 3 (MAKE 2)\n\nUsing C, chain 4, join with a slip st to form a ring.\n\nRound 1: Ch 1, work 12 sc into ring; join with slip st to beginning sc\u201412 sc.\n\nRound 2: Ch 5 (counts as dc, ch 2), dc in same space, skip 1 sc, [(dc, ch 2, dc) in next sc, skip 1 sc] 5 times; changing to D, join with a slip st in third ch of beginning ch-5\u201412 dc; 6 ch-2 spaces.\n\nRound 3: Slip st in ch-2 space of beginning ch of Round 2, ch 3 (counts as dc), work 6 dc in same space, skip 1 dc, sc in space between skipped dc and next dc, skip 1 dc, * work 7 dc in next ch-2 space, skip 1 dc, sc in space between skipped dc and next dc, skip 1 dc; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to top of beg ch-3. Fasten off.\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in ends. Using beading needle and yarn, attach beads in an \u00d7 shape over the sc on Round 1; use 4 beads crossing from upper right to lower left, 5 beads crossing from upper left to lower right (see photo above).\n\nMEDALLION BASES\n\n  1. Using plastic canvas circles and sharp, pointed scissors, remove 1 outer section and 3 inner sections from 4 circles.\n  2. Remove 2 outer sections and 3 inner sections from 2 circles.\n\n  3. Using yarn needle and a double strand of A, cover circles with yarn, leaving last row at outer edge free (see photo above).\n\nATTACH FLOWERS TO MEDALLION BASES\n\n  1. Place Flower Motif on Medallion. Using yarn needle and a double strand of A, cover last row of canvas circle while attaching Flower to Medallion.\n  2. Attach Flower Motifs 2 and 3 to larger Medallions, Flower Motif 1 to smaller Medallions; when attaching Flower Motif 2, use 3 beads when securing outer petals to Medallion.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nASSEMBLY\n\nUsing yarn needle and A, attach assembled Medallions securely to the Braided Belt, evenly spaced. Note: Photo shows the smaller Medallions at each end.\n\nTASSEL\n\nUsing beading needle and A or B, attach 3 larger beads to the end of each strand of Tassel (at opposite end from D-rings). If desired, attach 3 smaller beads, randomly spaced, up the length of each Tassel. Be creative!\n\n# **Denim Skirt**\n\nDESIGNED BY GAYLE BUNN\n\n**EASY**\n\nThe classic, straight denim skirt was the inspiration for this more embellished version. Using different types of fringes and beads or, by changing the colors, you can create a whole wardrobe of Simply Soft skirts!\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, Extra-Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nHips 37 (39, 42, 45)\"\u2044 94 (99, 106.5, 114) cm\n\nLength 24 (24, 25, 25)\"\u2044 61 (61, 63.5, 63.5) cm (including edging)\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9710 Country Blue, 3 (3, 4, 4) skeins\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nSizes US B-1 (2.25 mm) and US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn half double crochet, using larger hook, 12 sts and 8 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nStitch markers\n\nYarn needle\n\n2 (2, 3, 4) spools metallic thread (5 yards/meters each)\n\nBead threader\n\n33 (35, 38, 42) barrel beads\n\n1 1\u20444 (1 3\u20448, 1 3\u20448, 1 1\u20442) yards fringe, 2 1\u20442\" wide\n\nSewing needle and thread to match fringe trim and to match skirt\n\n70 (74, 79, 84) square beads, 6 mm\n\nZipper, 7\"\u204418 cm long\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbsc: bead single crochet (see here)\n\nch: chain\n\ncl: cluster\u2014work [2 dc, ch 1, 2 dc] in next stitch (or chain).\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nhdc2tog: half double crochet 2 together\u2014yarn over, insert hook in next st, pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and pull through 5 loops on hook (1 st decreased).\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTE**\n\nTurning chain (ch-2) does not count as a stitch.\n\n**BACK AND FRONT (BOTH ALIKE)**\n\nBeginning at lower edge, using larger hook, chain 65 (68, 73, 77).\n\nRow 1 (RS): Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201463 (66, 71, 75) hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across, turn.\n\nRepeat Row 2 until piece measures 3\"\u20447.5 cm from beginning.\n\nDecrease Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each hdc across to last 2 hdc, hdc2tog, turn\u201461, (64, 69, 73) hdc remain.\n\nWork even for 3 rows.\n\nRepeat last 4 rows 3 more times\u201455 (58, 63, 67) hdc remain.\n\nWork even until piece measures 11 (11, 12, 12)\"\u204427.5 (27.5, 30.5, 30.5) cm from beginning; place a marker (pm) each end of last row.\n\nNext Row: Repeat Decrease Row, every other row until 41 (44, 49, 53) hdc remain for waist.\n\nWork even until piece measures 7\"\u204418 cm from markers. Fasten off.\n\n**BOTTOM EDGING**\n\nUsing larger hook, chain 21.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Dc in fourth ch from hook (counts as 2 dc), * skip next 3 ch, work cluster in next ch; repeat from * twice, skip next 3 ch, dc in each of last 2 ch, turn\u20142 dc at each end, 3 clusters.\n\nRow 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc), dc in next dc, work [cluster in ch-1 space of next cluster] 3 times, dc in each of last 2 dc, turn.\n\nRepeat Row 2 until piece, slightly stretched, measures 42 (44, 47, 50)\"\u2044107 (112, 118, 126) cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nBEADED ACCENT\n\n  1. Thread 17 (18, 19, 21) barrel beads onto 1 spool of metallic thread; thread 16 (17, 19, 20) barrel beads onto next spool(s) of metallic thread.\n  2. Using smaller hook, join metallic thread with a slip st in top corner of Bottom Edging.\n\n  3. Ch 1, sc in same space, work 3 sc across side of next row, * bsc in corner of next dc, work 6 sc across side of next 2 rows; repeat from * across, joining new spool(s) of thread as needed. Fasten off.\n\n**FRINGE**\n\n  1. Using sewing needle and matching thread, sew square beads to top edge of fringe trim at 5\u20448\"/1.6 cm intervals (see photo above).\n  2. Sew fringe trim across lower edge of Bottom Edging.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nWith RS facing, sew side seams of Back and Front, leave opening above markers on left side for zipper.\n\nUsing sewing needle and matching thread, sew zipper in place.\n\nSew seam of Bottom Edging; sew Bottom Edging to lower edge of Skirt, with seam at left side seam.\n\nWAIST EDGING\n\nWith RS facing, using larger hook, join yarn with a slip st at upper edge beside zipper opening; slip st in each sc around waistline. Fasten off.\n\n# **Easy Beaded Camisole**\n\nDESIGNED BY GAYLE BUNN\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis elegant camisole is a great design for your first embellishing project. It's versatile enough to wear by itself in the evening or over a shirt for a sophisticated look for day.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, Extra-Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 34 1\u20442 (36 3\u20444, 40, 45 1\u20444)\"\u204487.5 (93.5, 101.5, 115) cm\n\nLength 18 1\u20442 (18 1\u20442, 19 1\u20442, 20 1\u20444)\"\u204446.5 (46.5, 49, 51) cm, including Straps\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * # 9709 Lt. Country Blue, 2 (2, 2, 2) balls\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US I-9 (5.5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn half double crochet, 15 sts and 9 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\n90 (92, 104, 110) beads, 8 mm, crystal\n\n26 (26, 32, 34) beads, 8 mm, silver\n\nYarn needle\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbhdc: bead half double crochet\u2014work as bsc, working hdc instead of sc.\n\nbsc: bead single crochet (see here)\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nhdc2tog: half double crochet 2 together\u2014yarn over, insert hook in next st, pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and pull through 5 loops on hook (1 st decreased).\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Chain-2 does not count as a hdc.\n  2. The beads are added in bead single crochet as the piece worked.\n\n**BACK**\n\nThread 16 (16, 18, 20) crystal beads onto yarn. Chain 64 (68, 74, 84).\n\nLOWER EDGING\n\nRow 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201463 (67, 73, 83) sc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, sc in first 1 (3, 2, 3) sc, * bsc in next st, sc in each of the next 3 sc; repeat from * until last 2 (0, 3, 0) sc, bsc 1 (0, 1, 0) time, sc in each of last 1 (0, 2, 0) sc, turn.\n\nRow 3: Ch 2, hdc in each of the first 2 (2, 1, 2) sts, * ch 1, skip next sc, hdc in next st; repeat from * to last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, hdc in last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, turn.\n\nRow 4: Ch 2, hdc in each of the first 2 (2, 1, 2) sts, * hdc in next ch-1 space, hdc in next hdc; repeat from * to last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, hdc in last 1 (1, 0, 1) st, turn.\n\nSHAPE SIDES\n\n(Note: Side shaping is written out below; it is also shown on Front Bead Placement Chart; work armhole and neck shaping as given for Back.)\n\nRows 1\u20134: Ch 2, hdc in each st across, turn.\n\nRow 5: Decrease Row \u2014 Ch 2, hdc2tog (decrease), hdc in each hdc across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn\u201461 (65, 71, 81) sts remain.\n\nRows 6\u20138: Work even in hdc, (ch 2, hdc in each st across, turn).\n\nRow 9: Repeat Decrease Row\u201459 (63, 69, 79) sts remain.\n\nRows 10\u201312: Work even in hdc.\n\nRow 13: Increase Row \u2014 Ch 2, work 2 hdc in first st (increase), hdc in each hdc across to last st, work 2 hdc in last st, turn\u201461 (65, 71, 81) sts.\n\nRows 14\u201321: Repeat Rows 10 \u2013 13 twice\u201465 (69, 75, 85) sts.\n\nRows 22\u201324: Work even in hdc.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nRow 25: Slip st in each of the first 7 (8, 9, 11) sts; ch 2, hdc in same space as last slip st, hdc in each hdc across to last 6 (7, 8, 10) sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201453 (55, 59, 65) sts remain.\n\nRow 26: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each st across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn\u201451 (53, 57, 63) sts remain.\n\nRepeat last row 3 (3, 4, 6) times more\u201445 (47, 49, 51) sts remain.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nNext Row: Ch 2 [hdc2tog] twice, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u20142 sts remain.\n\nNext Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog. Fasten off. With RS facing, skip center 37 (39, 41, 43) sts, join yarn with a slip st to next st; ch 2, hdc2tog over this st and next st, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn.\n\nNext Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog. Fasten off.\n\n**FRONT**\n\nThread beads onto yarn in the following sequence: 1 (1, 1, 2) silver beads, 7 (9, 9, 9) crystal beads, 8 (8, 8, 10) silver beads, [7 (7, 9, 9) crystal beads, 8 (8, 8, 10) silver beads] twice, and 16 (16, 18, 20) crystal beads.\n\nEDGING\n\nWork Rows 1\u20134 as for Back. Begin working from Front Bead Placement Chart, placing beads as indicated and working side shaping as for Back. Work Rows 1\u201324 of Chart.\n\nSHAPE LEFT ARMHOLE AND NECK\n\nNext Row: Slip st in each of the first 6 (7, 8, 10) sts; ch 2, hdc in same space as last slip st, hdc in each of the next 13 (13, 15, 19) hdc, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201414 (14, 16, 20) sts.\n\nSIZES SMALL, MEDIUM, AND LARGE ONLY\n\nNext Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each of the next 4 (3, 3) hdc, bhdc, hdc in each st across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn\u201412 (12, 14) sts remain.\n\nSIZE EXTRA-LARGE ONLY\n\nNext Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each of the next 3 hdc, bhdc, hdc in each of the next 7 hdc, bead hdc, hdc in each hdc across to last 2 hdc, hdc2tog over last 2 hdc, turn\u201418 sts.\n\nALL SIZES\n\nNext Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog, hdc in each st across to last 2 sts, hdc2tog over last 2 sts, turn\u201410 (10, 12, 16) sts remain. Repeat last row until 2 sts remain.\n\nNext Row: Ch 2, hdc2tog. Fasten off.\n\nSHAPE RIGHT ARMHOLE AND NECK\n\nThread 1 (1, 1, 2) silver beads onto yarn. With RS facing, skip center 25 (27, 27, 25) sts, join yarn with a slip st to next st; ch 2, hdc in same space as the slip st, hdc in each hdc across until last 6 (7, 8, 10) sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201414 (14, 16, 20) sts.\n\nWork as for left Armhole and Neck, reversing shaping.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nNECK EDGING AND STRAPS\n\nThread 35 (36, 38, 40) crystal beads onto yarn. With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at top corner of right Back neck edge. Ch 1, work 40 (42, 44, 48) sc evenly across Back neck edge to left side; ch 25 (25, 27, 27) for Strap, join with a slip st at top of left Front side; work 50 (52, 54, 58) sc evenly across Front neck edge to right side; ch 25 (25, 27, 27) for Strap, join with a slip st to first sc\u2014140 sts, counting Strap chains.\n\nRound 1: Ch 1, sc in each sc and ch around, join with a slip st to first sc.\n\nRound 2: Ch 2, hdc in same space as joining; * ch 1, skip next sc, hdc in next sc; repeat from * around to last st, ch 1, skip last st, join with a slip st to first hdc, turn.\n\nRound 3: Ch 1, sc in first hdc, sc in next ch-1 space, * bsc in next hdc, sc in next ch-1 space, sc in next hdc, sc in next ch-1 space; repeat from * around to last 2 sts, bsc in next hdc, sc in last ch-1 space, join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off. Sew side seams.\n\nARMHOLE EDGING\n\nWith RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at side seam; work 1 round of sc evenly around armhole edge and sc in each remaining loop of chain along Strap, join with a slip st to first sc. Fasten off. Using yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\n# **Color-Me-Blue Jacket**\n\nDESIGNED BY SUSAN SHILDMYER\n\n**EXPERIENCED**\n\nCrochet this lacy and delicate jacket to make a beautifully feminine garment. The floral embellishments and detailed trims make this jacket truly one of a kind.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 36 (40, 44, 48, 52)\"\u2044 91.5 (101.5, 112, 122, 132) cm\n\nLength 24 (25, 25 1\u20442, 26 1\u20444, 27)\"\u2044 61 (63.5, 64.5, 66.5, 68.5) cm, including edging\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9710 Country Blue (MC), 3 (3, 4, 4, 4) skeins\n  * #9709 Lt. Country Blue (A), 2 (3, 3, 3, 4) skeins\n  * #9712 Soft Blue (B) 1 (1, 1, 1, 1) skeins\n\nCaron International's Fabulous (100% nylon; 1.76 oz/50 g, 160 yds/146 m ball):\n\n  * #0010 Blue Lagoon (C), 1 (1, 1, 1, 1) ball, for embroidery\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US 7 (4.5 mm) and US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\nTwo stitch markers\n\nEmbroidery needle and floss\n\nEmbellish Knit\u00ae ****Automatic Spool Knitter, (optional) OR 2 double-pointed knitting needles, for cording\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Stitch pattern, 17 sts and 13 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm, using smaller hook and MC\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\ndc2tog: double crochet 2 together\u2014[yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook.\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nStitch Pattern (any number of sts) using MC\n\n  * ROW 1 (RS): Dc across all sts.\n  * ROW 2 (WS): Sc across all sts.\n  * Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for St pattern.\n\nLace Pattern (multiple of 8 + 1)\n\nNOTE: Count sts on WS rows only; stitch count varies on RS rows.\n\n  * ROW 1 (RS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * ch 1, skip 3 sts, work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in next st, skip 3 sts, ch 1, sc in next sc; repeat from * across, turn.\n  * ROW 2: Ch 4 (counts as dc, ch 1), skip [ch-1 space and dc], dc in next 2-ch space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc, * ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in next ch-2 space, ch 1, skip next [dc, sc, dc], dc in next ch-2 space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc; repeat from * across, end, ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in ch-2 space, ch 1, dc in beginning sc, turn.\n  * ROW 3: Ch 5 (count as dc, ch 2), skip first dc, work [dc, ch 2, dc] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next sc, * ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in sc; repeat from * across, end ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc, ch 2] twice in turning-ch, dc in third ch of turning-ch, turn.\n\nDESIGNER'S NOTE: **_[dc, ch 2] twice in turning ch, dc in third ch of turning ch_** at end of this and subsequent rows means: **_Work the sts from [ to ] into the loop of the turning-ch, then work the dc in the actual third ch of the turning-ch_** ; this maintains a consistently straight edge to work from when finishing the Jacket.\n\n  * ROW 4: Ch 1, sc in first st, * ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in next ch-space, ch 1, skip [dc, sc, dc], dc in next ch-2 space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc; repeat from * across, working final sc in third ch of turning-ch, turn.\n  * ROW 5: Ch 1, * sc in first sc, ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2]; repeat from * across, end sc in last sc, turn.\n\n  * Repeat Rows 2 \u2013 5 for Lace pattern.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Garment is worked in one piece from lower edge to armhole; then Fronts and Back are worked separately to shoulders.\n  2. While working Intarsia section, use larger hook for Lace pattern with A; smaller hook for Stitch pattern with MC.\n\n**JACKET**\n\nUsing larger hook and A, chain 155 (171,187, 202, 219).\n\nSetup Row: Sc in third ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u2014153 (169, 185, 201, 217) sts. Begin Lace pattern; work Rows 1 \u2013 5 once, Rows 2 \u2013 5 once, then Row 2 once\u2014155 (171, 187, 202, 219) sts after Row 2; 153 (169, 185, 201, 217) sts after Row 4.\n\nBEGIN INTARSIA\n\nRow 11: Work in Lace pattern, repeating from * 8 (9, 10, 11, 12) times, dc in next sc; change to smaller hook and MC; work [2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc] twice, dc in next sc; change to larger hook and join a second ball of A; ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, dc) 4 times] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next sc; continuing in Lace pattern, work to end.\n\nRow 12: Work in Lace pattern, repeating from * 8 (9, 10, 11, 12) times, ch 2, skip [ch-2, dc], dc in ch-2 space, ch 1; with MC; sc in each of next 17 dc; with A; ch 1, dc in next ch-2 space, ch 2, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in next dc; continuing in Lace pattern, repeat from * of Row 5 across, end as Row 5\u2014155 (171, 187, 203, 219) sts.\n\nRows 13\u201322: Continue working Lace pattern as est, each side of MC section; work for your size as follows:\n\nSmall: Work Rows 13\u201316 twice, then Rows 19\u201322 twice.\n\nMedium: Work Row 13\u201316 once, Rows 15\u201318 three times, then Rows 19\u201322 once.\n\nLarge: Work Rows 13\u201316 once, Rows 15\u201318 three times, then Rows 19\u201322 once.\n\n1X: Work Rows 13\u201316 twice, Rows 15\u201318 twice, then Rows 19\u201322 once.\n\n2X: Work Rows 13\u201316 three times, Rows 15\u201318 once, then Rows 19\u201322 once.\n\nRow 13: Work in Lace pattern across to 20 sts before previous color change, end sc in next sc, ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space; with MC, work [dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space] twice, dc in each of the next 17 sc, work [dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc] twice; with A, work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space, ch 1; continue in Lace pattern to end.\n\nRows 14, 16, 18, and 20: Work in Lace pattern across to color change; with MC, sc in each dc across MC section; with A, work in Lace pattern to end\u2014155 (171, 189, 203, 219) sts.\n\nRow 15: Work in Lace pattern across to 8 sts before color change, end dc in next sc; with MC, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, dc in each sc across MC section, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, 2 dc in ch-2 space; with A, dc in next sc, work in Lace pattern to end.\n\nRow 17: Work in Lace pattern work across to 13 sts before color change, end sc in next sc, ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [(dc, ch2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space; with MC, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in each st across MC section, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc; with A work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space, ch 1, work in Lace pattern to end.\n\nRow 19: Work in Lace pattern across to 4 sts before color change, end ch 1, skip [ch-2, dc], work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space; with MC, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, dc in each st across MC section, dc in next sc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc; with A, work [(dc, ch 2) twice, dc] in ch-1 space, work in Lace pattern to end.\n\nRow 21: Ch 1, sc in first sc, skip [ch-2, dc], work [dc (ch 2, 2 dc) twice] in ch-1 space; with MC, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next sc, dc in each st across MC section, dc in next sc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc; with A, work [dc (ch 2, dc) twice] in ch-1 space, ch 1, skip [dc, ch-2], sc in last sc, turn.\n\nRow 22: Repeat Row 14.\n\nALL SIZES\n\nRow 23: Change to MC on all sts; ch 2, skip next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in each st across MC section, dc in next sc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in turning-ch, turn.\n\nRow 24: Ch 1, work even in St pattern (sc in each st across), turn\u2014155 (171, 189, 203, 219) sts.\n\nSHAPE FRONT NECK\n\nRow 1 (RS): Ch 2 (count as dc), at right Front neck edge, skip first sc, dc2tog across next 2 sts (decrease), dc in each sc across to last 3 sts, dc2tog across next 2 sts, dc in turning ch, turn\u2014153 (169, 185, 201, 217) sts remain.\n\nRow 2 (WS): Ch 1 (count as first st), skip first dc, sc in each dc across, turn.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 once, then work even, if necessary, until piece measures 13 1\u20442 (14, 14, 14 1\u20442, 14 1\u20442)\"\u204434.5 (36.5, 36.5, 37, 37) cm from beginning, end with a WS row\u2014151 (167, 183, 199, 215) sts remain.\n\nDIVIDING ROW\n\nRow 1 (RS): At right Front neck edge, ch 2, skip first sc, dc2tog, dc across next 26 (30, 35, 37, 39) sts; at armhole edge, dc2tog, place marker (pm), turn, leave remaining sts unworked\u201429 (33, 38, 40, 42) sts for right Front.\n\nRow 2 (WS): Ch 1, skip first dc, work even in sc, turn.\n\nRows 3\u20134 (4, 6, 6, 6): Repeat Rows 1 and 2\u201427 (31, 34, 36, 38) sts remain.\n\nNext Row (RS): Ch 2, skip first sc, dc2tog, dc to end\u201426 (30, 33, 35, 37) sts remain.\n\nContinue in pattern; at neck edge, dec 1 st every other row 10 (11, 11, 10, 10) times\u201416 (19, 22, 25, 27) sts remain for shoulder.\n\nWork even until armhole measures 7 1\u20442 (8, 8 1\u20442, 8 3\u20444, 9)\"\u204419.5 (20.5, 21.5, 22, 23) cm from marker, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDER\n\nRow 1 (RS): Ch 2, skip first sc, dc in next 7 (10, 12, 14, 16) sc, hdc in next st, sc in next st, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201410 (13, 15, 17, 19) sts.\n\nRow 2 (WS): Slip st in first st, sc in each st across to last st, slip st in last st, turn\u20149 (12, 14, 16, 18) sts remain.\n\nRow 3: Ch 2 (counts as dc), skip first sc, dc in next 2 (4, 5, 5, 6) sts, hdc in next st, sc in next st, leave remaining sts unworked. Fasten off.\n\n**BACK**\n\nWith RS facing, beginning at underarm marker, skip 14 (16, 16, 18, 20) sts; join MC with a slip st in next st.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Ch 2, dc2tog (1 st decrease), dc in each of the next 51 (57, 63, 71, 79) sts, dc2tog, dc in next st; pm, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201455 (61, 67, 75, 83) sts.\n\nRow 2 (WS): Ch 1, skip first dc, work even in sc, turn.\n\nRows 3\u20134 (4, 6, 6, 6): Repeat Rows 1 and 2\u201353 (59, 63, 71, 77) sts.\n\nWork even in established pattern until Back measures the same as right Front to shoulder shaping, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS AND NECK\n\n(RS): Slip st in next 5 (6, 6, 8, 8) sts, [sc, hdc] across next 2 sts, dc in each sc across to last 7 (8, 8, 10, 10) sts, hdc, sc, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201443 (47, 51, 55, 61) sts remain.\n\n(WS): Slip st in first st, sc in each st across to last st, slip st in last st, turn \u2014 41(45, 49, 53, 59) sts remain.\n\n(RS): Slip st in next 5 (5, 6, 8, 9) sts, [sc, hdc] across next 2 sts, dc in next 2 (5, 6, 6, 7) sts. Fasten off. Skip center 27 (28, 29, 29, 32) sts for Back neck. Join MC with a slip st in next st; ch 2, dc in the next 2 (4, 5, 5, 6) sts, [hdc, sc] across next 2 sts, leave remaining sts unworked. Fasten off.\n\n**LEFT FRONT**\n\nWith RS facing, beginning at marker, skip 14 (16, 16, 18, 20) sts; join MC with a slip st in next st. Work as for right Front, reversing all shaping\n\n**SLEEVES**\n\nUsing A and larger hook, ch 50 (50, 58, 58, 58), turn.\n\nRow 1: Sc in second ch from hook and in each sc across, turn\u201449 (49, 57, 57, 57) sts.\n\n(RS): Begin Lace pattern; work even until piece measures 6 1\u20442 (7, 7, 7 1\u20442, 7 1\u20442)\"\u204416.5 (18, 18, 19.5, 19.5) cm from beginning, end with a WS row. Change to MC and smaller hook.\n\nNote: Work next row as Row 1a or Row 1b, depending on last Row of Lace pattern worked, then continue as indicated.\n\nIF LAST ROW WAS ROW 2 OF LACE PATTERN:\n\nRow 1a (RS): Ch 2, dc in ch-1 space,* dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next st, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next 2 sts; repeat from * to end, working last dc in the fourth ch of the turning ch, turn\u201449 (49, 57, 57, 57) sts.\n\nIF LAST ROW WAS ROW 4 OF LACE PATTERN:\n\nRow 1b (RS): Ch 2, * work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next dc, dc in ch-1 space, dc in next dc, work 2 dc in ch-2 space, dc in next st; repeat from * to end, turn\u201449 (49, 57, 57, 57) sts.\n\nRow 2 (WS): Ch 1, work even in sc, turn.\n\nSHAPE SLEEVE\n\nRow 3 (RS): Work 2 dc in first sc (increase), dc in each sc across to last sc, work 2 dc in last sc (increase), turn. Continuing in pattern, work 1 row even.\n\nRepeat last 2 rows 7 (9, 7, 8, 9) times, increasing 1 st each side every other row\u201465 (69, 73, 75, 77) sts.\n\nWork even in pattern until MC section of piece measures 14 (14, 14 1\u20442, 14 1\u20442)\"\u204436.5 (36.5, 37, 37, 38) cm from beginning, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\n(RS): Dec 1 st each side every other row 2 (2, 3, 3, 4) times\u201461 (65, 67, 69, 69) sts remain. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nSew shoulder seams.\n\nLOWER EDGING\n\nNote: Row 1 is worked in the remaining loops of beginning-ch.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Join A with a slip st in first ch; ch 1, sc in next 3 ch, * ch 2, skip next ch, work [2 dc, ch 2] twice in next ch, skip 1 ch, sc in next 5 ch; repeat from * across, turn.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, sc in next 4 sc, skip next st, * ch 3, skip ch-2 space, work [2 dc, ch 2, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, ch 3, skip [next ch-2 space and sc], sc in next 3 sc, skip 1; repeat from * across, end last repeat skip [next ch-2 space and sc], sc in next 2 sc, sc in turning ch, turn.\n\nRow 3: Ch 1, first 2 sc, skip next sc, * ch 5, skip ch-3 space, work [2 dc, ch 2, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, ch 5, skip [next ch-3 space and sc], sc in next sc; repeat from * across to last 2 sts, sc in last 2 sc.\n\nSizes Small, Medium, Large, and 1X \u2014 Fasten off.\n\nSIZE 2X ONLY:\n\nRow 4: Ch 1, sc in first st, skip next sc * ch 7, skip ch-5 space, work [2 dc, ch 2, 2 dc] in next ch-2 space, ch 7, skip ch-5 space, sc in next sc; repeat from * across to last 2 sts, skip next sc, sc in last sc. Fasten off.\n\nNECK EDGING\n\nWith RS facing, beginning at right Front at beginning of neck shaping, using smaller hook and MC, join yarn with a slip to first st; ch 1, work 1 row sc evenly around neck shaping, ending at left Front.\n\nLOWER FRONT EDGING\n\nWith RS facing, working along lace sections of each Front, using larger hook and A, join yarn and work as for neck edging, working 1 row sc evenly along Front edges. Fasten off.\n\nSLEEVE EDGING\n\nWork same as for Lower Edging along each Sleeve.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nMAKE CORDING\n\nNote: Make each length of cord slightly longer than actual garment measurement, bind off loosely; do not weave in ends. Length will be adjusted after couching. Ends will be used to secure Cording.\n\nUsing method of choice listed below, work two cords, each 12\"\u204430.5 cm long for Sleeves; one cord 33\"\u204484 cm long for neck, one cord 66\"\u2044167 cm long for lower edge between MC and Lace sections and ties.\n\n  1. Using Embellish Knit Automatic Spool Knitter, work cord, following instructions included with Knitter.\n  2. Using crochet hook, ch 5, join with a slip st to form a ring. Working around in a spiral, slip st in each st until cord is desired length. Fasten off.\n  3. Using 2 double pointed needles, work I-cord to desired lengths.\n\nCOUCH (ATTACH) CORDING\n\nNeck Edge\n\n  1. Beginning with the cast on end of cording at right center Front, lay cording along neckline just inside sc edging.\n\n  2. Using yarn needle and C, work Cross stitch over cording, stretching cording slightly.\n\n  3. Slowly unravel cording at bind-off end to meet garment exactly, bind off.\n  4. Use ends of cording to secure cord to Jacket edge.\n\nLower Edge of MC Section\n\n  1. Beginning at right center Front, leaving approximately 12\" to 14\"\u204430.5 to 36 cm for tie, couch cording to lower edge between MC and lace sections as for neckline.\n  2. Leave 12\" to 14\"\u204430.5 to 36 cm for tie at left Front.\n  3. Unravel as for neckline. Secure loose ends inside ties and tie knot at end.\n\nSleeves\n\nAttach cording to each Sleeve between MC and CC sections.\n\n**EMBROIDERY**\n\n  1. Trace embroidery pattern onto tracing paper, reversing patterns for left side and left sleeve. Pin paper to Jacket and Sleeves.\n  2. Using embroidery needle and any color embroidery floss, work Running stitch along all pattern lines to mark. Carefully tear away tracing paper.\n\nHelpful: Use different color of floss for leaves. Embroider patterns as shown using Stem st and C for all line work and Satin st and B for leaves.\n\n**ASSEMBLY**\n\nSew in Sleeves; sew sleeve seams. Using yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\n# Orient Express\n\n**Think Indonesia and India...  \nsparkly, vibrant eolors...  \naccents and embroidery...  \ncurry, coriander, and cumin...**\n\n# **Kimono Shrug**\n\nDESIGNED BY TAMMY HILDEBRAND WITH CARI CLEMENT\n\n**EASY**\n\nIn this easy project the embellishing is done along the fronts where the colors meet. By using different color trims and beads, you can create shrugs to go with as many outfits as you like.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, Extra-Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 36 (40, 44, 48)\"\u204491.5 (101.5, 112, 122) cm\n\nLength 18 1\u20442\"/46.5 cm, all sizes\n\nNOTE: Shrug is loose fitting and designed to be worn as shown in photo. Bust measurements are suggested sizes for a standard fitting garment; choose accordingly. Due to shaping, garment is wider than measurements indicate on schematic.\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft   \n(100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9730 Autumn Red (MC), 3 (3, 4, 4) skeins\n  * #9711 Dk. Country Blue (CC), 2 (2, 2, 2) skeins\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US G-6 and J-10 (4 and 6 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\n1 1\u20444 yards/118 cm flat braid trim, 3\u20444\"/1.9 cm wide, in color desired (shown in red, with gold metallic threads)\n\n28 textured brass beads, 4 mm \u00d7 6 mm\n\n14 bugle beads, 11 mm long, dark red\n\n14 glass beads, in various sizes, no smaller than 6 mm, no larger than 11 mm, dark red\n\nTapestry or beading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\nBeading or quilting thread to match braid\n\nSewing needle and thread to match garment\n\nStraight pins or small safety pins\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Stitch Pattern, 12 sc and 12 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm, using larger hook and MC; in single crochet, 13 sc and 16 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm, using smaller hook and CC\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nStitch Pattern (Multiple of 2 sc + 1)\n\n  * ROW 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and each ch across, turn.\n  * ROW 2: Ch 1, sc in first st, * ch 1, skip next st, sc in next st; repeat from * across, turn.\n  * ROW 3: Ch 1, sc in first st and in each ch-1 space and sc across, turn.\n  * Repeat Rows 2 and 3 for Stitch pattern.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Shrug is worked from lower edge of Front, across shoulders to lower edge of Back.\n  2. Side Front/Sleeve is worked to shoulder; CC panels are then worked on each Front.\n  3. Back/Sleeves are joined at shoulders to Side Front/Sleeve and CC Panels, then worked down.\n  4. Cuffs are worked down from lower edge of Sleeves.\n\n**LEFT SIDE FRONT/SLEEVE**\n\nUsing larger hook and MC, chain 14 (18, 22, 26).\n\nRow 1 (RS): Work Row 1 of Stitch pattern\u201413   \n(17, 21, 25) sc.\n\nRow 2: Work Row 2 of Stitch pattern\u20147 (9, 11, 13) sc; 6 (8, 10, 12) ch-1 spaces.\n\nRow 3: Work Row 3 of Stitch pattern\u201413 (17, 21, 25) sc.\n\nRows 4\u201316: Work even in pattern, repeating Rows 2 and 3, end with (WS) Row 2.\n\nSHAPE SIDE AND UNDERARM\n\nRow 17 (RS): At side edge, ch 1, work [2 sc in first st (increase)], beginning at *, work in pattern to end, turn\u201414 (18, 22, 26) sc.\n\nRow 18: Work in pattern across to last st, [ch 1, sc in last st, (increase)], turn\u20148 (10, 12, 14) sc;   \n7 (9, 11, 13) ch-1 spaces.\n\nRows 19\u201325: Work in pattern, increasing 1 st at side edge every row, turn\u201422 (26, 30, 34) sc.\n\nRow 26: Work in pattern across to last st, ch 1,   \nsc in last st; do NOT turn\u201412 (14, 16, 18) sc; 11 (13, 15, 17) ch-1 spaces.\n\nSLEEVE\n\nChain 31, turn.\n\nRow 27 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and in next 29 ch; sc in next st and in each sc and ch-1 space to end\u201453 (57, 61, 65) sc.\n\nRows 28\u201342: Work even in pattern, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nRow 43: Work in pattern across to last st, turn, [leaving last st at neck edge unworked (decrease)]\u201452 (56, 60, 64) sc.\n\nRow 44: Slip st in next st (decrease), ch 1, sc in same st, work in pattern to end, turn\u201426 (28, 30, 32) sc; 25 (27, 29, 31) ch-1 spaces remain.\n\nRows 45\u201356: Work in pattern, decreasing 1 st at neck edge every row\u201420 (22, 24, 26) sc; 19 (21, 23, 25) ch-1 spaces remain at shoulder edge. Fasten off.\n\nFRONT PANEL\n\nWith RS facing, using smaller hook and CC, join yarn with a sc in first row end of neck (at shoulder edge).\n\nRow 1: Sc in each row end along Front edge to lower edge, turn\u201456 sc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, sc in each st across, turn.\n\nRows 3\u201318: Work even in sc, repeating Row 2. Fasten off.\n\n**RIGHT SIDE FRONT/SLEEVE**\n\nUsing larger hook and MC, chain 14 (18, 22, 26).\n\nWork as for left Front for 16 rows, end with (WS) Row 2.\n\nSHAPE SIDE AND UNDERARM\n\nRow 17 (RS): Work in pattern across to last st, work [2 sc in last st (increase)], turn\u201414 (18, 22, 26) sc.\n\nRow 18: Ch 1, sc in first st, [ch 1, sc in next st (increase)], work in pattern to end\u20148 (10, 12,   \n14) sc; 7 (9, 11, 13) ch-1 spaces.\n\nRows 19\u201326: Work in pattern, increasing 1 st at side edge every row\u201412 (14, 16, 18) sc; 11 (13, 15, 17) ch-1 spaces. At front edge, drop yarn, do NOT fasten off.\n\nWith RS facing, join another strand of MC with a slip st in first st of Row 26 (side edge), chain 30. Fasten off; return to front edge, pick up dropped strand of yarn.\n\nSLEEV\n\nRow 27 (RS): Work in pattern across to chain, sc in each ch to end, turn\u201453 (57, 61, 65) sc.\n\nRows 28\u201342: Work even in pattern, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nRow 43: Slip st in next ch-1 space (decrease), ch 1, sc in same space, work in pattern to end, turn\u201452 (56, 60, 64) sc.\n\nRow 44: Work in pattern across to last st, turn, leaving last st unworked (decrease)\u201426 (28, 30, 32) sc; 25 (27, 29, 31) ch-1 spaces.\n\nRows 45\u201356: Work in pattern, decreasing 1 st every row\u201420 (22, 24, 26) sc; 19 (21, 23, 25) ch-1 spaces at shoulder edge. Fasten off.\n\nFRONT PANEL\n\nWith RS facing, using smaller hook and CC,   \njoin yarn with a sc in first row end at lower edge. Work as for left Front.\n\n**BACK**\n\nJoining Row\u2014With RS facing, using larger hook and MC, join yarn with a slip st in first sc of left Sleeve; ch 1, work in pattern (sc in each sc and ch-1 space) across to left Front Panel; working in row ends, sc in each row end across; chain 17 for Back neck; working in row ends, sc in each row end across right Front Panel; work in pattern to end, turn\u201457 (61, 65, 69) sc each side of chain.\n\nRow 2: Work in pattern across to chain; sc in each ch across Back neck; work in pattern to end, turn\u201429 (31, 33, 35) sc; 28 (30, 32, 34) ch-1 spaces each side, 17 sc at center Back.\n\nRow 3: Work in pattern (sc in each sc and ch-1 space) across, turn\u2014131 (139, 147, 155) sc.\n\nRow 4: Work in pattern across all sts\u201466 (70, 74, 78) sc; 65 (69, 73, 77) ch-1 spaces.\n\nRows 5\u201329: Work even in pattern. Fasten off.\n\nSLEEVES\n\nRow 30 (WS): Skip first 30 sts (Sleeve); join MC with a sc in next st; work in pattern across to last 30 sts, turn, leaving last 30 sts unworked for Sleeve\u201436 (40, 44, 48) sc, 35 (39, 43, 47)   \nch-1 spaces remain.\n\nSHAPE SIDE AND UNDERARM\n\nRow 31: Slip st in next ch-1 space, slip st in next st (2 sts decreased); ch 1, sc in same st, work in pattern across to last 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked (2 sts decreased)\u2014  \n67 (75, 83, 91) sc remain.\n\nRow 32: Slip st in next 2 sts (2 sts decreased),   \nch 1, sc in same st, work in pattern across to   \nlast 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked (2 sts decreased\u201432 (36, 40, 44) sc, 31 (35, 39, 43) ch-1 spaces remain.\n\nRows 33\u201338: Continuing in pattern, decrease   \n2 sts each side every row 6 times, working as for Rows 31 and 32\u201420 (24, 28, 32) sc, 19 (23, 27, 31) ch-1 spaces remain.\n\nRows 39: Work even in pattern\u201439 (47, 55,   \n63) sc.\n\nRows 40\u201356: Work even in pattern. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\nASSEMBLY\n\nWith WS facing each other, sew side and Sleeve seams, matching shaping.\n\nCUFFS\n\nNote: Work in joined rows, turning at the end of each row.\n\nRow 1: Using smaller hook and CC, join yarn with a sc in row end at seam; sc in each row around, join with a slip st in beginning sc, turn.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, sc in each sc around, join with a slip st in beginning sc, turn.\n\nRows 3\u201322: Work even in sc, repeating Row 2. Fasten off.\n\nLOWER EDGE\n\nWith WS facing, using smaller hook and CC, working in row ends of lower edge of Front Panel, join yarn with a sc in corner row of right Front Panel; sc in each row end across to Side-Front; change to MC, working in remaining loops of foundation ch, sc in each st across Front; sc in each st across Back; working as for Right Side-Front, work across Left Side-Front; change to CC, work across row ends of Left Front Panel to end. Fasten off.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n  1. Separate the beads into 3 groups: bugle beads, red glass beads, and brass beads.\n  2. Measure distance of contrast band from shoulder to lower edge and cut trim accordingly, adding 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm for turn-under.\n  3. Fold in 1\u20444\"/.6 cm hem at lower edge of trim and stitch.\n  4. Mark the trim with pins for bead placement.\n\n  5. Thread sewing needle with matching thread and bring to RS. Sew on beads as follows: brass bead, bugle bead, glass bead. Repeat in that order for the length of the trim.\n\n  6. Pin trim to Kimono over the seam and stitch in place with sewing thread.\n\n# **Hobo Boho Bag**\n\nDESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nInspired by paisley motifs from India, this Hobo Bag is a great splash of color! The Tunisian crochet (Afghan stitch) creates a bag that is fun to make and a true palette for embellishments.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth 12 1\u20442\"/32 cm\n\nLength (at center of Bag) 7\"\u204418 cm\n\nStrap Length 22\"\u204456 cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9723 Raspberry (A), 1 skein\n  * #9727 Black (B), 1 skein\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9605 Mango (C), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne Tunisian hook size US N-15 (10 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nCrochet hook size US H-8 (5 mm), for embellishment\n\n2 packages (1 yard/.92 cm each) beaded trim (2\"\u20445 cm wide shown on model)\n\n3 skeins gold metallic embroidery floss\n\n30 gram tube mixed E beads\n\n30 gram tube rocaille E beads, hot pink\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\nPins\n\nRow counter (optional)\n\nRuler (for reading chart) (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Tunisian crochet, 10 sts and 8 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm, using 2 strands of yarn held together\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Use a double strand of each color throughout.\n  2. Each square on the Chart represents one stitch.\n  3. When changing colors, always bring the new color under the working color to avoid holes from forming.\n\n**HELPFUL**\n\nREADING CHART: When working from Chart, place a ruler on the Chart, covering the rows above the row that is being worked.\n\n**SPECIAL TECHNIQUES**\n\nTunisian Crochet (Afghan stitch)  \nEach row of Tunisian crochet is worked in two steps after the Foundation Row.\n\nFoundation Row (counts as Step 1)  \nChain the number of sts indicated in the instructions; skip first ch, * insert hook in next ch, yarn over and draw up a loop (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each ch. Complete Foundation Row by working Step 2. Repeat Steps 1 and 2 for remainder of piece.\n\nSTEP 1. With RS facing, working from right to left, pick up stitches for the row: Beginning in the second vertical bar of the previous row, * insert hook into the vertical bar of the previous row, yarn over and draw loop through the vertical bar (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each vertical bar.\n\nSTEP 2. Working from left to right, work off the stitches: Yarn over and draw through first loop on hook, * yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook; repeat from * across.\n\nINCREASE IN TUNISIAN CROCHET: At the beginning of Step 1, insert hook into first vertical bar; at end of Step 1, pick up 2 sts in last vertical bar.\n\nDECREASE IN TUNISIAN CROCHET: Insert hook into 2 vertical bars, yarn over and draw loop through both vertical bars.\n\n**BAG AND STRAPS (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing Tunisian hook and 2 strands of C, working in Tunisian Crochet throughout, chain 8; join 2 strands A, chain 9. Begin working from Chart; work Rows 1\u201352, working each strap separately. Fasten off.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n  1. Cut an 18\"\u204446 cm length of A and split it into 4 single strands (see here).\n\n  2. Fold one strand in half, thread ends through beading needle, and pick up 10 beads.\n\n  3. Take the needle through the loop, pull up to form a ring of beads.\n\n  4. Pull one of the strands of yarn out of the needle; thread 7 beads onto the remaining strand and push them snugly against the bead ring.\n\n  5. Skip 1 bead in bead ring, and stitch through next bead in ring (see Diagram); repeat 4 more times to create 5 petals.\n  6. Stitch one flower to the center of the contrasting color motifs on both sides; scatter and stitch the other flowers randomly.\n\nSLIP STITCH OUTLINES (CENTER OF BAG, MOTIF OUTLINES, BOTTOM EDGE OF STRAPS)\n\nWork along lines of color changes.\n\n  1. With 2 strands of metallic embroidery floss, make a slip knot.\n  2. Hold slip knot and embroidery floss to WS of piece; insert hook through bag, pull up the slip knot.\n  3. Insert hook into Bag again, moving along the line that you want to outline, pull up a loop of yarn, pulling it through to the RS and through the loop on the hook; repeat until outline is complete. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nASSEMBLY\n\nLay one piece on the other, WS together.\n\nOUTER EDGE\n\n  1. Using smaller hook and 1 strand of B, beginning at tip of one strap, work 2 sc in the row ends of the strap inner edge; working through both layers to join, continue to Chart Row 18.\n  2. Work 1 hdc in each st, through one layer only, to form opening of Bag.\n  3. At bottom of other strap (Row 18), work through both layers from Chart Row 18 to Row 52.\n  4. At tip of second strap, turn, ch 1, work slip st in each sc down to opening of Bag (Row 18).\n  5. Work 1 hdc in each st across through one layer only to form opening of bag, then slip st up to tip of first strap. Do NOT cut yarn.\n\nEDGING\n\nBeginning at the tip of strap, ch 2, sc evenly around outside edge of Bag, working through both layers to join front of bag to back.\n\nATTACHING BEADED FRINGE TRIM\n\n  1. Lay one strand of beaded trim on top of the other; join B to the outside edge of Chart Row 18.\n  2. Fold over 4\"\u204410 cm of trim and pin in place at bottom edge of Strap; using B, sc over the trim to secure it, working into the sc at lower edge of Bag.  \nNote: The hook will come up between the bead fringes to allow beads to hang freely.\n  3. Work 2 sc in corner sc to ease curves.\n  4. After the first side and lower edge have been worked, pin the remaining trim, folding trim end over at Chart Row 18.\n  5. Work over the doubled trim, finishing at the fold.\n  6. Cut yarn, leaving an 8\"\u204420.5 cm tail to weave in; take tail to WS and weave in securely.\n  7. Join B with a slip st to opening edge of Bag; work a slip st in each hdc to stabilize opening. Cut yarn, weave in ends.\n  8. Tie strap tips into a knot.\n\n# **Wrap Jacket**\n\nDESIGNED BY MARGARET WILLSON\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis Asian-inspired design is chic and quite easy to crochet, but it's the detailed embellishing that really makes this a work of art.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, Extra-Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 37 (41, 45, 49)\"\u204494 (104, 114, 124.5) cm\n\nLength 22 1\u20442 (23, 24, 24 1\u20442)\"\u2044 57 (58.5, 61, 62) cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g; 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9748 Rubine Red (MC) 5 (6, 7, 7) skeins\n  * #9727 Black (A), 1 skein\n  * #9742 Grey Heather (B), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US H-8 (5 mm), US 1-9 (5.5 mm), US J-10 (6 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\nBeading thread or black quilting thread\n\nTwo 7\u20448\"/2.2 cm plastic rings\n\nStraight pins\n\nSafety pin\n\n73 grams E-beads, opaque black \u2014 Bead-A\n\n30 grams rocailles, red \u2014 Bead-B\n\n24 grams glass spacer beads, ruby \u2014 Bead-C\n\n30 grams E-beads, black opal \u2014 Bead-D\n\n40 spacers, leaves, silver \u2014 Bead-E\n\n12 metal oval barrel beads, silver \u2014 Bead-F\n\n7 grams 11/0 round silver-lined beads, It. gray \u2014 Bead-G\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Stitch pattern, using largest hook (J-10), 17 sts and 17 rows 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nsc2tog: single crochet 2 together\u2014insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook), insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up loop, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook.\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nStitch Pattern (multiple of 2 sts + 1)\n\n  * ROW 1 (WS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * sc in next ch-1 space, ch 1, skip next sc; repeat from * across until last ch-1 space, sc in next ch-1 space, sc in last sc, turn.\n  * ROW 2 (RS): Ch 1, sc in first sc, * ch 1, skip next sc, sc in next ch-1 space; repeat from * across to last 2 sc, ch 1, skip next sc, sc in last sc, turn.\n  * Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for St patt.\n  * NOTE:Ch-1 space counts as 1 st for counting stitches or measuring gauge.\n\n**BACK**\n\n(RS) Using medium hook (I-9) and MC, chain 82 (90, 100, 108).\n\nRow 1: Sc in second ch from hook, * ch 1, skip next ch, sc in next ch; repeat from * across, turn\u201481 (89, 99, 107) sts.\n\n(WS) Change to largest hook ( J-10) and St patt; work even until piece measures 21 1\u20442 (22, 23, 23 1\u20442)\"\u204454.5 (56, 58.5, 60) cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**LEFT FRONT**\n\n(RS) Using medium hook and MC, ch 76 (84, 92, 102).\n\nRow 1: Work as for Back\u201475 (83, 91, 101) sts. Continuing as for Back, work even until piece measures 8 1\u20442 (8, 8, 7)\"\u204421.5 (20.5, 20.5, 18) cm from beginning, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\n(RS) Beginning this row, at neck edge (end of RS rows, beginning of WS rows) dec 1 st (sc2 tog) every row 50 (54, 58, 64) times\u201425 (29, 33, 37) sts remain for shoulder. Work even until piece measures same as Back to shoulders. Fasten off.\n\n**RIGHT FRONT**\n\nWork as for Left Front, reversing all shaping by working neck shaping at beginning of RS rows, end of WS rows.\n\n**SLEEVE (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing medium hook and MC, ch 48 (50, 52, 54).\n\nRow 1: Work as for Back\u201447 (49, 51, 53) sts. (WS) Change to largest hook and St patt; work even for 1 row.\n\n**SHAPE SLEEVE**\n\nInc 1 st each side (work 2 sc in first st and last st of row) every 2 rows 0 (8, 14, 20) times, then every 4 rows 16 (12, 9, 6) times\u201479 (89, 97, 105) sts. Work even until piece measures 15 1\u20442\"/39.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nNote: It will be easier to work Part I of the embellishing before assembling garment.\n\nEMBELLISHING\u2014PART I\n\nFollowing Sleeve Chart and Illustrations, work Beaded Lazy Daisy stitch and Upright Cross stitch over center 27 sts of sleeve.\n\n  1. Beaded Lazy Daisy: Thread beading needle with beading thread, make Back stitch on WS to secure, * needle up at 1 (center-point), thread [Bead-A, Bead-B] six times, Bead-A, 2 Bead-B, Bead-A, [Bead-B, Bead-A] 6 times, needle down at 1 and up at 2 inside the thread, then between the 2 B-beads and down at 3; needle up at 2, thread one Bead-C, 7 Bead-G, then go back through same C-bead, needle down at 3 once more.\n  2. Couch (see photo) one side of petal to return to center-point 1. Repeat from * 3 more times to complete 4 petals, couch remaining strands, make Back stitch on WS to secure and cut thread.\n\nUPRIGHT CROSS STITCH:\n\nUsing yarn needle and single strand of A, begin at bottom of Chart.\n\n  1. Secure with Back stitch on WS, * needle up at 1, down at 2, up at 3, down at 4, repeat from * for each Cross stitch, working clockwise around diamond shape.\n  2. Make Back stitch and secure end on WS.\n\nASSEMBLY\n\nSew shoulder seams. Measure down 9 (10, 11, 12)\"\u204423 (25.5, 27.5, 30) cm from shoulder on Back and Fronts; place a marker for underarm. Sew Sleeves between markers; sew Sleeve and side seams.\n\nEDGING\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, using medium hook and A, join yarn at right-hand side seam at lower edge; ch 1, sc in same st, work [skip next st, 2 sc in next space] across to Front corner; work 3 sc in corner st; work [skip next row, 2 sc in next row] along right Front edge to beginning of neck shaping; work 2 sc in corner; work [skip next row, 2 sc in next row] along right Front neck shaping, across Back neck, and down left Front neck shaping to beginning of shaping; work 2 sc in corner; work [skip next row, 2 sc in next row] along left Front edge to lower corner; work 3 sc in corner; work [skip next st, 2 sc in next space] across to beginning of round, join with a slip st to first st; do NOT turn.\n\nRounds 2\u20135: Ch 1, sc in each sc to corner, work 3 sc in corner st, work [sc in each st to beginning of neck shaping, 2 sc in corner] twice, sc in each st to lower corner, work 3 sc in corner st, sc in each remaining st, join with a slip st to first st. Fasten off.\n\nSLEEVE EDGING\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, using medium hook and A, join yarn with a slip st at Sleeve seam; ch 1, sc in same st, work [skip next st, 2 sc in next space] around, join with a slip st in first st; do NOT turn.\n\nRounds 2\u20135: Ch 1, sc in each st around, join with a slip st in first st. Fasten off.\n\nEMBELLISHING\u2014PART II\n\nTWISTED CORD (BODY)\n\n  1. Cut two 10-yard/9.15 m lengths of B.\n  2. Fold in half.\n  3. Knot free ends together, leaving 2\"\u20445 cm free after knot.\n\n  4. Pin knotted end to fixed surface with safety pin.\n  5. Holding folded end, stand far enough away that the cord is taut, and with pencil inserted in loop formed at fold, twist until the length is evenly twisted.\n  6. Bring folded end and tied ends together, knot ends together.\n  7. Allow the strands to twirl around each other.\n  8. Remove safety pin.\n\nCOUCH TWISTED CORD TO BODY\n\n  1. Using crochet hook, draw one end of Cord through to WS of center Back neck, below Round 1 of edging.\n  2. Thread beading needle with beading thread.\n  3. Attach with Back stitch at WS of Back neck.\n  4. Needle up below twist in Cord.\n  5. String 1 Bead-A, 2 Bead-B, 1 Bead-D, 2 Bead-B, 1 Bead-A.\n  6. Needle down above twist, encasing cord.\n  7. Make Back stitch on WS.\n  8. Repeat Steps 4\u20137 for each twist in Cord, around entire outer edge. Fasten off.\n  9. Using crochet hook, draw opposite end of Cord through to WS of Back neck, beside beginning end of Cord.\n  10. Tie knot in Cord. Cut any excess Cord, leaving 2\"\u20445 cm after knot.\n  11. With yarn needle, weave each separate strand of Cord into edging on WS of Back neck.\n\nTWISTED CORD (SLEEVES)\n\n  1. For each Sleeve, cut two 1-yard/.9 cm lengths of B.\n  2. Repeat Steps 2\u20138 of Twisted Cord (Body).\n\nCOUCH TWISTED CORD TO SLEEVES\n\n  1. Beginning at Sleeve seam, using crochet hook, draw one end of Cord to WS at Sleeve seam.\n  2. Couch cord to both Sleeves as for Body.\n\nCORDED TIES WITH RING TASSELS\n\n**Right Front Tie and Tassel**\n\nUsing smallest hook (H-8) and A, leave 6\"\u204415 cm yarn tail before making slip knot.\n\n  1. Chain 35.\n  2. Leaving 6\"\u204415 cm yarn tail after chain, cut A. Fasten off.\n\nATTACH CORDED TIE TO RING\n\n  1. Fold chain in half.\n  2. Insert folded end through plastic ring, forming a loop.\n  3. Draw both cut ends through loop.\n  4. Holding the ring in one hand and cut ends in the other, pull to form a half-hitch knot.\n\nMAKE TASSEL ON RING\n\nNote: Bead-C includes a variety of ruby shades; refer to photo, or use your choice from mixture when directed to use Bead-C.\n\n  1. Using small hook and A, insert hook through right edge of half-hitch knot on ring and draw up loop.\n\n  2. Work 18 sc over ring, join with a slip st at left side of knot.\n\n  3. Cut A, fasten off ends securely.\n  4. Thread beading needle with beading thread and make Back stitch on WS of knot.\n\n  5. Thread 3 beads, 1 Bead-C, 1 Bead-A, 1 Bead-C.\n  6. Working counterclockwise, bring needle from WS around outer edge and down through next sc.\n  7. Work Back stitch on WS of same sc.\n  8. Repeat Steps 5\u20137 five more times.\n\n  9. Beaded Fringe: Back stitch on WS, needle up in next sc, thread Bead-C, Bead-F, Bead-C, Bead-A, Bead-C, Bead-A, 2 Bead-C, Bead-D, Bead-C, Bead-E; after Bead-E, thread needle up through beads to beginning, needle down in same sc.\n  10. Repeat Step 9 five more times.\n  11. Repeat Steps 5\u20137 six times, returning to half-hitch knot. Fasten off.\n\nTip: Use a small dot of fabric glue where beading thread begins and ends; knots made using nylon or silk thread have a tendency to loosen over time.\n\nUsing yarn needle, sew ends of Corded Tie to corner at beginning of neck shaping on right Front, weaving 6\"\u204415 cm ends through edging to secure.\n\n  1. Using small hook and A, leave 6\"\u204415 cm yarn tail before making slip knot.\n  2. Ch 195 (215, 235, 250).\n  3. Leaving 6\"\u204415 cm yarn tail after chain, cut A.\n\nLEFT FRONT TIE AND TASSEL\n\nComplete as for right Front Tassel. Using yarn needle, run end of Tassel Cord through right side seam and sew securely to corner of Left Front. Weave in ends.\n\n**TO WEAR**\n\nWrap long Hanging Cord across Back and around to Front; meeting short Hanging Cord to cinch Jacket.\n\n# **Boho Bangles**\n\nDESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY\n\n**BEGINNER**\n\nDon't you love looking around hardware stores for something you can use in your projects? Plumbers' clear plastic tubing is ideal for these bangles, and the softness of Simply Soft makes them so comfy to wear. You can coordinate your whole wardrobe by making bangles with any color beads.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nCustomize to fit wrist while fitting over hand.\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft Brites (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9608 Blue Mint and #9605 Mango: 1 skein each\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm)\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\n10 1\u20442\"/26.5 cm length of 1\u20444\"/.6 cm diameter clear plastic tubing for each bangle (available in aquarium section of pet store or in plumbing department of hardware store)\n\n1 tube (30 grams) assorted glass E beads, colors to coordinate with yarn (420 beads needed)\n\nBeading needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\nYarn needle\n\nFabric glue\n\nSharp scissors or a craft knife\n\nClear tape (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical to this project.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\nsc: single crochet\n\n**NOTE**\n\nThe length of tubing will determine the size of the Bangle; be sure that the length chosen will slide over hand easily. For a larger bracelet, cut a longer piece of tubing; for a smaller bracelet, cut the length shorter.\n\n**BANGLE BASE**\n\n  1. Measure the circumference of a bracelet you have that fits over your wrist well plus 1\u20444\"/.6 cm.\n  2. Cut plastic tubing to length, allowing 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm for overlap.\n  3. Cut a 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm long, V-shaped notch at one end of the tubing.\n\n  4. Push the end of scissors or a pencil into the other end to stretch the tubing slightly.\n\n  5. Push the notched end into the stretched end.\n  6. If desired, secure the overlap with clear tape.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n  1. To reduce bulk approximately 2\"\u20445 cm from end of yarn strand, separate 4-ply yarn into two 2-ply strands and cut off one 2-ply strand so that the yarn will fit through the eye of the beading needle; thread the remaining 2-ply strand through beading needle.\n  2. Fold the yarn over and glue so the threaded 2-ply ends touch the cut 4-ply ends. When the glue is thoroughly dry, thread all 420 beads onto the yarn.\n  3. Tie yarn to Bangle (tubing) leaving a 3\"\u20447.5 cm tail; hold the yarn tail against the tubing and work over it so that it does not have to be woven in later.\n\n**BANGLE**\n\n  1. Holding the yarn at the outer edge of tubing, [insert the hook into the center of the Bangle from front to back; yarn over and pull up a loop, pulling the hook and loop from back to front, wrapping loop around the tubing; bring the hook up to the outer edge of the hoop (where the yarn is attached)], yarn over and draw through loop on hook (first ch made).\n  2. Repeat from [to] (2 loops on hook), yarn over and draw through both loops on hook (sc made).\n\n  3. Slide 7 beads snugly against the hook.\n  4. Working over the tied-on end, repeat Steps 2 and 3 around, spiraling the stitches, until tubing is completely covered.\n  5. Fasten off, leaving a 6\"\u204415 cm tail.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing beading needle threaded with tail, weave tail in and out along edge of crochet to secure. Put a dot of glue on woven end; trim end. Turn the stitches so the chain is on the inside of the Bangle.\n\n# **India Tunic**\n\nDESIGNED BY HEIDI STEPP\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nThis comfy, unique tunic will surely garner admiration from friends and family. The beading and embellishment pattern is absolutely gorgeous and worthy of praise.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 36 (40, 44, 48, 52)\"\u204491.5 (101.5, 112, 122, 132) cm\n\nLength 31\"\u204478.5 cm, all sizes\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9750 Chocolate (MC), 6 (7, 8, 8, 9) skeins\n  * #9608 Blue Mint (A), 1 skein\n  * #9703 Bone (B), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US 1-9 (5.5 mm), US J-10 (6 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nYarn needle\n\nSewing needle\n\nSewing thread to match A, B, or beads\n\nTapestry or sewing needle (thin enough to fit through beads)\n\nLarge-eye beading needle\n\nStitch markers\n\nStraight pins\n\nMarking pen or chalk pen in contrasting color from B\n\n165 round beads, 6 mm, aqua semitransparent\n\n165 seed beads, 4 mm, brown\n\n238 seed beads, 4 mm, gold\n\n4 wood beads, 8 mm, blue\n\n10 wood beads, 5 mm, blue\n\n80 shell beads, 10 mm long\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn single crochet, 17 sts and 20 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm, using smaller hook and B\n\nIn Stitch pattern (1 row sc, 1 row dc), 12 sts and 9.6 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm, using larger hook and MC\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Beaded Yoke and Sleeve bands are worked separately, then attached to Back and Front and Sleeves.\n  2. Bead Embellishment will be easier to work on individual pieces, before assembly; final embroidery Embellishment is worked after Yoke and Sleeve bands have been attached.\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\ndc2tog: double crochet 2 together\u2014[yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] twice, yarn over and draw through 3 loops on hook.\n\ndc3tog: double crochet 3 together\u2014[yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times, yarn over and draw through 4 loops on hook.\n\ndec: decrease 1 st\u2014work next 2 sts together in pattern (sc2tog or dc2tog).\n\ndec 2: decrease 2 sts\u2014work next 3 sts together in pattern (sc3tog or dc2 tog)\n\ninc: increase 1 st\u2014work 2 sts in next st in pattern.\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nsc2tog: single crochet 2 together\u2014insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook), insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook.\n\nsc3tog: single crochet 3 together\u2014[insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop] 3 times, yarn over and pull through all 4 loops on hook.\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nStitch Pattern (Body and Sleeves)\n\n  * ROW 1: Ch 1, sc in each st across.\n  * ROW 2: Ch 2, dc in each st across.\n  * Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for St patt.\n\n**BACK AND FRONT YOKE (INSERT)**\n\nNote: First 13 rows are the neckband.\n\nBeginning at neck edge, using smaller hook and B, chain 67.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from the hook and in each ch across, turn\u201466 sc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, work [sc in next 3 sts, inc in next st] twice, sc in next 10 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 10 sc, work [inc in next st, sc in next 3 sts] twice, turn\u201472 sc.\n\nRow 3: Ch 1, sc in next 15 sc, work [inc in next st, sc in next 2 sts] twice, inc in next st, sc in next st, inc in next st, sc in next 24 sc, inc in next st, sc in next st, work [inc in next st, sc in next 2 sts] 3 times, turn\u201480 sc.\n\nRow 4: Ch 1, inc in first st, sc in next 8 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 54 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 8 sc, inc in last st, turn\u201486 sts.\n\nRow 5: Ch 1, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 5 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 2 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 5 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 27 sc, turn\u201492 sts.\n\nRow 6: Ch 1, sc in next 5 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 5 sc, turn\u201496 sc.\n\nRow 7: Ch 1, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 11 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 4 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 36 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 4 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 11 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, turn\u2014102 sc.\n\nRow 8: Ch 1, sc in next st, inc in next st, sc in next 19 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 58 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 19 sc, inc in next st, sc in last sc, turn\u2014106 sc.\n\nRow 9: Ch 1, sc in next 18 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 36 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 18 sc, turn\u2014110 sc.\n\nRow 10: Ch 1, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 6 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 25 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 6 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 7 sc, turn\u2014116 sc.\n\nRow 11: Ch 1, sc in next 38 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 38 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 38 sc, turn\u2014118 sc.\n\nRow 12: Ch 1, inc in first st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 14 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st; sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 12 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 7 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 14 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 15 sc, inc in last st, turn\u2014128 sc.\n\nRow 13: Ch 1, sc in next 28 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 70 sc, inc in next st, sc in next 28 sc, turn\u2014130 sc.\n\nRIGHT FRONT SHAPING\n\nRow 14 (WS): Ch 1, work across 13 sc, turn.\n\nRow 15: Ch 1, dec across first 2 sts, sc in next 11 sc, turn\u201412 sc remain.\n\nRow 16: Ch 1, sc in next 10 sc, dec across last 2 sts, turn\u201411 sc remain.\n\nRows 17\u201327: Work even in sc. Fasten off.\n\nLEFT FRONT SHAPING\n\nWith WS facing, join yarn 13 sts in from opposite edge.\n\nRow 14: Ch 1, sc in same st and in next 12 sc, turn\u201413 sc.\n\nRow 15: Ch 1, sc in next 11 sc, dec across last 2 sts, turn\u201412 sc remain.\n\nRow 16: Ch 1, dec across first 2 sts, sc in next 10 sc, turn\u201411 sc remain.\n\nRows 17\u201327: Work even in sc.\n\nJOINING ROW\n\nRow 28 (WS): Continuing on Left Front, ch 1, sc in next 10 sc, inc in last st; with WS of Right Front facing, sc across (11 sts), turn\u201423 sc.\n\nRows 29\u201344: Work even in sc.\n\nDec 1 st each side every row 10 times\u20143 sc.\n\nLast Row: Ch 1, sc3tog. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing smaller hook and A, work 1 row of sc evenly around outer and inner edges of Insert, working 3 sc in corner stitches and skipping a stitch as needed to keep work flat (see photo). Fasten off.\n\n**FRONT**\n\nUsing MC and larger hook, chain 64 (70, 76, 82, 88).\n\nRow 1 (RS): Sc in second ch from hook and each ch across, turn\u201463 (69, 75, 81, 87) sc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, dc in first st and in each st across, turn\u201463 (69, 75, 81, 87) dc.\n\nRow 3: Ch 1, sc in first st and in each st across, turn.\n\nWork even in St patt until piece measures 5 1\u20442\"/14 cm from beginning.\n\nSHAPE SIDES\n\nDec 1 st each side every 6 rows 4 times\u201455 (61, 67, 73, 79) sts.\n\nWork even until piece measures approximately 16\"\u204441 cm from beginning\u201439 rows, end with a RS row.\n\nBegin working Side Shaping from Chart and instructions below.\n\nNote: Shaping is mirror image on each side; Chart shows left-hand side of Front, with RS facing. Beginning Row 45 (right Front), read WS rows from right to left, RS rows from left to right.\n\nRow 42 (WS): Inc 1 st each side\u201457 (63, 69, 75, 81) sts.\n\nWork 1 row even, placing a marker on center st.\n\n**RIGHT FRONT**\n\nDivide for Neck and Insert Opening.\n\nRow 44 (WS): Work across to 3 sts before center st, dc3tog, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201426 (29, 32, 35, 39) sts.\n\nRow 45: At neck edge, ch 1, dec across first 2 sts, sc in each st across, turn\u20141 st decreased.\n\nRow 46: Ch 2, inc 0 (0, 0, 0, 1) st, dc across to last 3 sts, dc3tog at neck edge, turn\u20142 sts decreased.\n\nContinue Neck and Side Shaping as established from Chart, and AT THE SAME TIME,\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBeginning Row 55 (53, 53, 51, 49), dec 1 (0, 1, 0, 1) st each side once, then 2 sts each side every row 3 (4, 4, 5, 5) times, working dc2tog or dc3tog as appropriate\u201414 (16, 18, 20, 22) sts remain when armhole shaping is complete. Work armhole edge even while completing neck shaping.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nRow 74: Slip st across 2 (3, 4, 5, 6) sts, sc to end.Fasten off.\n\n**LEFT FRONT**\n\nRow 44: With WS facing, skip center st, join yarn with a slip st in next st; ch 2, dc3tog in this and next 2 sts, dc in each st across, turn\u201426 (29, 32, 35, 39) sts.\n\nWork as for right Front, reversing all shaping.Fasten off.\n\n**BACK**\n\nWork as for Front, for 42 rows, ending with a WS row. Continue working side and armhole shaping from Chart and written instructions; do NOT divide for neck shaping. Work even until Row 66 is completed, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nRight Back Neck and Shoulder\n\nRow 67 (RS): Ch 1, sc in next 11 (13, 15, 17, 19) sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201412 (14, 16, 18, 20) sts.\n\nRow 68: At neck edge, slip st in first two sts, ch 2, dec, work to end, turn\u20149 (11, 13, 15, 17) sts remain.\n\nRow 69: Ch 1, work across to last 4 sts, dec, turn, leaving remaining 2 sts unworked\u20146 (8, 10, 12, 14) sts remain.\n\nRow 70: Ch 2, dec, work to end, turn\u20145 (7, 9, 11, 13) sts remain.\n\nRow 71: Ch 1, sc across to last 2 sts, dec, turn\u20144 (6, 8, 10, 12) sts remain.\n\nWork even for 2 rows.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork as for Front. Fasten off.\n\nLEFT NECK AND SHOULDER\n\nWith RS facing, join yarn 13 (15, 17, 19, 21) sts from left armhole edge; ch 1, dec in same and next st, sc in each st across, turn\u201412 (14, 16, 18, 20) sts.\n\nRow 68: Ch 2, dc in each st across to last 4 sts, dec across next 2 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u20149 (11, 13, 15, 17) sts remain.\n\nRow 69: Slip st in first two sts, dec, sc in each st across, turn\u20146 (8, 10, 12, 14) sts remain sts.\n\nRow 70: Ch 2, dc across to last 2 sts, dec, turn\u20145 (7, 9, 11, 13) sts remain.\n\nRow 71: Ch 1, dec, sc across, turn\u20144 (6, 8, 10, 12) sts remain.\n\nWork even for 2 rows.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork as for Front. Fasten off.\n\n**SLEEVE (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing MC and larger hook, chain 44.\n\nRow 1: Sc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201443 sc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, dc in each st across, turn.\n\nRow 3: Work even in pattern.\n\nRow 4: Continuing in pattern, dec 1 st at each side this row, then every 5 (7, 7, 7, 7) rows 2 (1, 1, 1, 1) times\u201437 (39, 39, 39, 39) sts remain.\n\nWork even for 4 (4, 4, 2, 2) rows. Inc 1 st at each side this row then every 5 (4, 4, 3, 3) rows 4 (6, 6, 9, 10) times\u201447 (53, 53, 57, 61) sts. Work even until sleeve measures 16 1\u20442 (17 1\u20442, 17 1\u20442, 18, 18)\"\u204442 (44, 44, 46, 46) cm from beginning, end with a WS row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nDec 1 st at each side every row 6 (6, 6, 6, 7) times\u201435 (41, 41, 45, 47) sts remain. Fasten off.\n\n**SLEEVE BAND (MAKE 2)**\n\nBeginning at lower edge of Sleeve band, using smaller hook and B, chain 66.\n\nRow 1: Sc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201465 sts.\n\nRow 2: Ch 1, sc in each st across, turn.\n\nRows 3\u20137: Work even in sc.\n\nRow 8: Dec 1 st each side, turn\u201463 sts remain.\n\nRows 9\u201313: Work even in sc. Fasten off.\n\nBAND EDGING\n\nWith right sides together, sew seam; turn right side out. With RS facing, using smaller hook and A, join yarn with a slip st at seam; ch 1, work 1 row of sc around both edges of each band. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nASSEMBLY\n\nSew shoulder seams.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nYOKE INSERT\n\n  1. Measure 4\"\u204410 cm from center Fronts around inside neck edge and place markers for shoulder seams.\n  2. Measure 15 1\u20442\"/39.5 cm around outer edges of Yoke beginning at lowest center front point and place markers at shoulder seams.\n  3. Fold Yoke in half and place marker at upper and lower center Back.\n\nEMBELLISH YOKE AND SLEEVE BANDS\n\n  1. Using Yoke and Sleeve Band illustrations as a guide, with a marking pen or chalk, mark the blue curved lines and circles on all pieces.\n\n  2. Thread tapestry needle with A and work Stem stitch (see illustrations here) along marked curved lines and circles.\n\nRANDOM BEADS ALONG STEM STITCH\n\nUsing sewing thread that matches the color of the bead, sew on beads along the edges of the Stem stitch, using photo above as guide.\n\nBEAD FLOWER\n\n  1. Thread 6 seed beads onto sewing needle threaded with sewing thread matching color B, leaving a 6\"\u204415 cm end of thread.\n  2. Tie threads together to form a circle. Cut thread, leaving a 6\"\u204415 cm end.\n\n  3. Thread sewing needle with one end of the thread and attach beads to inside of stem-stitched circle. Make a stitch across the top and bottom of the circle of seed beads. Sew a seventh seed bead to the center of the beaded circle. Secure ring of beads with 1 or 2 more stitches as needed.\n\n**INNER CIRCLE AROUND BEAD FLOWER**\n\nThread tapestry needle with MC and work Stem stitch circle between Bead Flower and outer circle in A.\n\nSHELL FLOWER\n\n  1. Cut two 10\"\u204425.5 cm long lengths of sewing thread and thread through beading needle. Thread through shell bead.\n  2. Repeat above for each shell bead.\n\n  3. Using thread that matches the bead, sew a turquoise bead into position in center.\n  4. Then sew the shell beads into position using the sewing thread following illustrations and photo here.\n\n  5. Thread tapestry needle with MC and work Lazy Daisy stitch around shell bead to complete Shell Flowers.\n\nATTACH YOKE TO FRONT\n\n  1. Match shoulder seam markers of Yoke to shoulder seams, and lower point of Yoke to center Front.\n  2. Pin Yoke, RS facing, onto RS of Front, overlapping Edging over Front; turn to WS.\n  3. Divide MC into a 2-ply strand and rethread tapestry needle. Overcast Yoke to Front, inserting needle in sts of first sc row of Yoke.\n\nATTACH YOKE TO BACK\n\nPin Insert, RS facing, onto RS of Back, matching centers and overlapping Edging over Back; turn to WS. Attach as for Front.\n\nYOKE EDGING EMBROIDERY\n\nWith RS facing, using A and tapestry needle, with Short and Long sts all around outer edges of Yoke, spaced groups 1\"\u20442.5 cm apart (see photo above and Illustrations).\n\nSet in sleeves, matching shaping; sew Sleeve and side seams.\n\nSLEEVE BANDS\n\n  1. Embellish bands as for Yoke, following the chart for Sleeve Bands.\n  2. With RS facing, pin top of Sleeve Band to lower edge of Sleeve, overlapping Band Edging over lower Sleeve edge.\n  3. Attach as for Front and Back Yoke.\n  4. With RS facing, using A and a tapestry needle, work Short and Long sts all around upper edge of Bands, spaced 1\"\u20442.5 cm apart (see photo here and Illustrations). Weave in all ends.\n\n# Evening Elegance\n\n**Think understated opulence...**\n\n**dinner at eight...**\n\n**country concerts...**\n\n**evenings at the symphony...**\n\n# **Opera Shrug**\n\nDESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nUsing an easy filet crochet stitch, you can use this shrug as either a hip fashion accessory or a casual layering piece, all depending on the color of Simply Soft you choose. The band is ideal for highlighting the beaded flowers and adding that extra flair to this versatile top.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nBust 36 (40, 44)\"\u204491.5 (101.5, 112) cm\n\nLength 18\"\u204445.5 cm, all sizes\n\nNOTE: Filet crochet produces a very flexible fabric\u2014sizes are approximate.\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n\u2022 #9727 Black, 2 (3, 3) balls\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H/8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nOne steel crochet hook, size 10 (1 mm), for edging\n\nTwo 30-gram tubes E beads, black opal\n\nOne 30-gram tube E beads, black\n\nOne spool black thread\n\nBeading needle\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn filet crochet, 6 mesh sts and 6 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\ndt: double treble crochet\u2014yarn over hook 3 times, insert hook into st indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 4 times.\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nmesh st: mesh stitch\u2014dc, ch 2; next dc completes one mesh.\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\ntr: treble crochet\u2014yarn over hook twice, insert hook into st indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [yarn over and draw through 2 loops] 3 times.\n\n**SPECIAL TECHNIQUES**\n\nDecrease in Filet Crochet\n\n  * At the beginning of a row, slip st in the back bar of the [ch-2 and dc] of the first space\n  * At the end of a row, do not work the last space.\n\nIncrease in Filet Crochet\n\n  * At the beginning of a row, ch 7, then dc in the top of the last dc.\n  * At the end of a row, ch 2, then work a dtr into the base of the last dc.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. The Shrug is worked in one piece in filet crochet, following Shrug Chart; Cuffs are worked following Cuff Chart.\n  2. The edging is worked after side edges are joined.\n\nWORKING FILET CROCHET FROM CHARTS\n\n  1. Each square represents one mesh space (mesh stitch) in filet crochet.\n  2. When working from Charts, place a ruler on the Chart covering the rows above the row that you are working on. When you finish Row 1, slide the ruler up to reveal Row 2, and so on.\n  3. Odd-numbered rows are read from the right to left; even-numbered rows from the left to right.\n\n**BACK**\n\nChain 7.\n\nFoundation Row: Dc in seventh ch from hook, ch 5, dc in base of dc, * turn, ch 5, skip 2 ch, dc in next ch; repeat from * until there are 14 (20, 26) mesh sts, turn.\n\nBegin working from Shrug Chart; work Rows 1\u201313, shaping as indicated and turning at the end of each row.\n\n**SLEEVES**\n\nRows 14 and 15: Continuing from Shrug Chart, ch 25 for foundation of Sleeve; dc in eighth ch from the hook, * ch 2, skip 2 ch, dc in next ch; repeat from * five times, ch 2, dc in last dc of previous row; continue in pattern as established across.\n\n**FRONTS**\n\nFollowing Chart, work to beginning of neck shaping. Work across to neck edge, turn. Work each Front separately, following Chart, shaping neck, Sleeves and Front as indicated. Fasten off.Using yarn needle, weave in ends.\n\n**CUFFS (MAKE 2)**\n\nChain 7.\n\nWork Foundation Row as for Back until there are 8 mesh sts.\n\nBegin working from Cuff Chart; work Rows 1\u20136, shaping as indicated and turning at the end of every row.\n\nRows 7\u201314: Work each side of Cuff separately.\n\nRow 15: Work across to center; rejoin into one piece and complete Chart.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nSIDE SEAMS\n\nWith RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at side on last row of one Front (Row 58 of Chart); ch 3, slip st in side edge mesh st of Back (Row 1 of Chart), * ch 3, slip st in next mesh st of Front, ch 3, slip st in next mesh st of Back; repeat from *, working back and forth between the edge pieces to end of Sleeves. Fasten off. Repeat for remaining seam.\n\nFRONT BAND\ufffdSHRUG\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st at one side seam on lower edge; ch 2, work 3 hdc in each ch-2 space around lower edge, center Fronts and neck edge, join with a slip st to first st.\n\nRounds 2 and 3: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc around, join with a slip st in first st. Fasten off.\n\nEDGING\ufffdCUFFS\n\nJoin yarn with a slip st in any ch-2 space on outer edge; ch 2, work 3 hdc into each ch-2 space around edge of cuff, join with a slip st to top of beginning ch-2. Fasten off. Weave in ends.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nBEAD EDGING\ufffdCUFFS\n\n  1. Mix one-half of the black E-beads and one-half of the black opal E-beads in a container, then randomly thread onto a strand of black sewing machine thread; using steel hook, join the thread to the outside edge of the cuff.\n  2. With WS facing (so beads with be on the RS when edging is completed), ch 2, * in next hdc, work [2 sc, slip bead, 2 sc] all in same st; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in first st.\n  3. Fasten off. Weave end securely into band.\n\nJOIN CUFFS TO SLEEVES\n\nAfter completing bead edging on Cuffs, join to Sleeves in the same manner as side seams. Join yarn with a slip st at Sleeve seam; * ch 3, slip st to mesh st on Cuff, ch 3, slip st to mesh st on Sleeve; repeat from * around.\n\nBEAD EDGING\ufffdSHRUG\n\n  1. Thread remaining E-beads onto black sewing machine thread; using steel hook, join the thread to the outside edge of the front band.\n  2. With WS facing, ch 2, * in next hdc, work [2 sc, slip bead, 2 sc] all in same st; repeat from * around, join with a slip st in first st.\n  3. Fasten off. Weave end securely into band.\n\nBEAD FLOWERS\n\n  1. Using remaining beads, make Bead Flowers; see instructions and Illustrations for Hobo Boho bag, here.\n  2. Make as many Bead Flowers as desired.\n  3. Stitch the Bead Flowers to the Front bands, and 1 on each Cuff.\n\n# **Drama Necklace**\n\nDESIGNED BY NOREEN CRONE-FINDLAY\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis easy-to-make necklace made from chained chains is embellished with multiple types of beads, and is sure to add a gorgeous and elegant touch to any outfit.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nNecklace shown measures approximately 20\"\u204451 cm to the end of the longest strand.\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Fabulous (100% nylon; 1.76 oz/50 g, 160 yds/146 m ball):\n\n  * #0013 Country Cottage, 1 ball\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm)\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nTwo safety pins or small stitch holders\n\nBeading or quilting thread\n\nSewing or beading needle (small enough to fit through beads), with a sharp point\n\n6, 8 \u00d7 10 mm rectangular silver beads\n\nApprox. 100 large (10 mm to 20 mm) glass beads in assorted shapes in shades of gray, black, silver, tan, and brown\n\nApprox. 200 small (#3 seed to 6 mm) glass beads in assorted neutral colors\n\nSteel crochet hook size US 11 (.75mm) (optional)\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical for this project.\n\n**CROCHET STITCH USED**\n\nch: chain\n\n**NOTE**\n\nThe necklace is created from 4 Cords (chained chains), which are made by working a chain with one strand of yarn, and then chaining the chain (using it as if it were a strand of yarn) to form the Cord. When the Cords are completed, they're embellished with beads of your choice, using either or both of the Beading Techniques that follow.\n\n**NECKLACE**\n\nCORDS (CHAINED CHAINS)\n\nMake 4, each between 35\" and 40\"\u204488 and 102 cm in length.\n\nUsing larger hook and 1 strand of yarn, chain 100. Do NOT fasten off. Remove hook from last chain; place the last chain on a holder or safety pin.\n\n  1. Return to the beginning of the chain just worked (the opposite end from the holder); using larger hook, insert hook into the center of the first ch stitch.\n  2. Using the length of chain as if it were a strand of yarn, yarn over and pull up a loop; continue to _chain the chain_ until the stitch holder is reached; do NOT fasten off.\n  3. Measure the Cord (chained chain); if it's not the desired length, place the last chain worked on a holder.\n  4. Remove the first holder (on the original chain); using larger hook and strand of yarn attached to the original chain, work additional chains.\n  5. Place last ch on holder as before; remove the holder from the last chain of the Cord, and  _chain the chain_ to the desired length.\n  6. When the desired length is reached, unravel any excess chain, cut yarn, leaving a tail long enough to weave into cord and secure.Fasten off.\n\n**BEADING TECHNIQUES**\n\n  1. To attach beads with small holes to the Cords, use Beading Technique One.\n  2. To attach beads with slightly larger holes, use Beading Technique Two, if desired.\n  3. To add large-hole beads, slide them onto the Cords.\n\n**BEADING TECHNIQUE ONE**\n\n  1. Place the beads in a shallow bowl or jar lid.\n  2. Thread the beading needle; work a couple of stitches into the Cord to secure the thread.\n  3. Pick up a bead with the tip of the needle, slide down against the Cord.\n  4. Stitch through the Cord to secure the bead; work small sts into the Cord for approximately 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm from the bead.\n  5. Repeat Steps 3 and 4, adding beads every 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm along the length of the Cord.\n  6. Fasten off thread and weave end into Cord.\n\nBEADING TECHNIQUE TWO (OPTIONAL)\n\n  1. Place the beads in a shallow bowl or jar lid.\n  2. Tie the thread to the Cord securely, leaving an end long enough to weave in.\n  3. Using the steel hook and attached strand of thread, work 7\u20139 chains; attach thread chain to Cord with a sc; remove hook from loop, enlarging the loop slightly; insert hook into the hole of a bead, slide the bead onto the hook, pick up the loop of thread with the hook and pull it through the hole in the bead; attach thread and bead to Cord with a sc.\n  4. Repeat Step 3, adding beads every 1\u20442\"/1.3 cm along the length of the Cord.\n  5. Fasten off thread and weave end into Cord.\n\n**EMBELLISH NECKLACE**\n\n  1. Working each Cord separately, attach beads to the Cords, using Beading Method of choice.\n\n  2. Stitch large beads to both ends of each Cord, one at a time.\n\n  3. Fold each Cord in half, gathering the center of the Cords together with a temporary tie to hold them in place while making the Tassel on the ends; ends will not all be exactly the same length.\n\n  4. Using beading thread, tie the ends together, 4\" or 5\" (10\u201312 cm) up from the ends, to form a Tassel; wrap yarn around Tassel, 1 1\u20442\"\u20132\"\u20443.5\u20135 cm below where they are tied together, forming the neck of the Tassel.\n  5. Using needle and thread, attach beads around the wraps; fasten off securely.\n  6. Weave any remaining loose ends inside the Cords, stitching in place to secure.\n  7. Remove temporary tie around the center of the Cords.\n\n# **Evening Capelet**\n\nDESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nThis lacy, beautiful capelet is sure to grab attention and admirers. The beaded yoke adds a feminine and delicate touch to this outstanding garment.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nChest/around upper arms 41 (44, 47)\"\u2044 103 (110, 118) cm\n\nLength 16\"\u204440 cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9721 Victorian Rose, 2 skeins\n\n**CROCHET HOOK**\n\nOne size US H-8 (5 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nFloss threader\n\n182 (196, 210) beads with hole large enough to accommodate yarn\n\nYarn needle\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn half double crochet, 18 sts and 11 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbc: bead chain (see here)\n\nbhdc: bead half double crochet\u2014work as bsc, working hdc instead of sc.\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nLace Pattern (multiple of 14 sts)\n\n  * ROW 1: Dc in third ch from hook (counts as first 2 dc), dc in next ch, * skip 3 ch, ch 3, sc in the next 5 ch, skip 3 ch, ch 3, dc in next 3 ch; repeat from * across to last 3 ch, dc in last 3 ch, turn.\n  * ROW 2: Ch 3 (counts as dc, ch 1), * skip 3 dc, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip sc, ch 3, sc in next 3 sc, skip next sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space; repeat from * across, end skip 2 dc, ch 1, dc in turning ch, turn.\n  * ROW 3: Ch 2 (counts as dc), * dc in ch-1 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next sc, ch 3, dc in next sc, skip next sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3; repeat from * across, end dc in ch-1 space (turning ch), dc in second ch of turning ch-3, turn.\n  * ROW 4: Ch 1, sc in next 2 dc, * sc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next dc, ch 1, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, sc in ch-3 space, sc in dc; repeat from * across, end with sc in ch-3 space, sc in dc, sc in turning ch, turn.\n  * ROW 5: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sc, sc in ch-3 space, ch 3, skip 3 dc, work 3 dc in ch-1 space, ch 3, skip 3 dc, sc in ch-3 space; repeat from * across, end sc in ch-3 space, sc in next 3 sc, skip turning ch, turn.\n  * ROW 6: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sc, skip next sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 1, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next sc, ch 3; repeat from * across, end sc in next 3 sc, skip turning ch, turn.\n  * ROW 7: Ch 2 (counts as dc), dc in second sc, * skip sc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, dc in ch-1 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip sc, ch 3, dc in sc; repeat from * across, end skip next sc, dc in next 2 sc, skip turning ch, turn.\n  * ROW 8: Ch 2, skip 2 dc, * ch 1, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, sc in ch-3 space, sc in dc, sc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-3 space, skip next dc; repeat from * across, end ch 1, dc in turning ch, turn.\n  * ROW 9: Ch 2 (counts as dc), work 2 dc in ch-1 space, * skip 3 dc, ch 3, sc in ch-3 space, sc in next 3 sc, sc in ch-3 space, skip 3 dc, ch 3, work 3 dc in ch-1 space; repeat from * across, end work 3 dc in ch-1 space, skip turning ch-2, turn.\n  * Repeat Rows 2\u20139 for pattern.\n\n**NOTE**\n\nThread 26 (28, 30) beads at the beginning of each bead row to complete beading for that entire row.\n\n**YOKE**\n\nThread beads for first row; chain 81 (87, 93).\n\nRow 1 (WS): Hdc in third ch from hook (counts as first 2 hdc), * bhdc in next ch, hdc in next 2 ch; repeat from * across, turn\u201480 (86, 92) hdc, 26 (28, 30) beads.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next st, * work 3 hdc in next st, hdc in next 2 sts; repeat from * across, turn\u2014132 (142, 152) hdc.\n\nRow 3: Thread beads; ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next 2 sts, bhdc in next st, * hdc in next 4 sts, bhdc in next st; repeat from * across to last 3 sts, hdc in last 3 sts, turn.\n\nRow 4: Ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in each st across, turn.\n\nRow 5: Repeat Row 3.\n\nRow 6: Ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next 2 sts, work 3 hdc in next st, * hdc in next 4 sts, work 3 hdc in next st; repeat from * across to last 3 sts, hdc in last 3 sts, turn\u2014184 (198, 212) hdc.\n\nRow 7: Thread beads; ch 2 (counts as first hdc), hdc in next 3 sts, bhdc in next st, * hdc in next 6 sts, bhdc in next st; repeat from * across to last 4 sts, hdc in last 4 sts, turn.\n\nRow 8: Repeat Row 4.\n\nRows 9\u201313: Repeat Rows 7 and 8 twice, then Row 7 once.\n\nRow 14: Repeat Row 4, increasing 12 stitches, evenly spaced across\u2014196 (210, 224) hdc.\n\n**BODY**\n\nBegin Lace pattern; work even for 21 rows as follows: Work Rows 1\u20139 once, Rows 2\u20139 once, then Rows 2\u20135 once.\n\n**EDGING**\n\nRound 1 (RS): Ch 1, * sc in each sc across to ch-3, ch 3, skip [ch-3 and next dc], work 5 dc in next dc, ch 3, skip [next dc and ch-3]; repeat from * across to the last 4 sc, sc in each of the next 3 sc, work 3 sc in last sc (corner); work 34 evenly spaced sc along Front edge, work 3 sc in first ch of beginning ch (corner); working in remaining loops of beginning ch, sc in each ch across to last ch, work 3 sc in last ch (corner), work 34 evenly spaced sc along Front edge, work 2 sc in same sc as beginning sc, join with a slip st to beginning sc.\n\nRound 2: Ch 2 (counts as sc, ch 1), * sc in next st, ch 1; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to second ch of beginning ch-2. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\nTIE (MAKE 2)\n\nCut a strand of yarn 72\"\u2044183 cm long. Thread one end of yarn through upper Front corner of Capelet; pull through until ends of yarn are even. Thread 12 beads onto strands; working with both strands of yarn, ch 2, * bc, ch 2; repeat from * eleven times, ch 2. Fasten off. Repeat for opposite side.\n\n# **Opera Purse**\n\nDESIGNED BY CARI CLEMENT\n\n**INTERMEDIATE**\n\nWhether it's for the opera or the office, this purse is made in sections and is a great way to try your hand at bead crochet. The plastic canvas works perfectly as a purse liner by giving the purse dimension that allows you to carry your wallet, cell phone (oops, not at the opera... ), and makeup kit without sagging.\n\n**ONE SIZE**\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nWidth (lower edge) 13 1\u20442\"/34 cm; (upper edge) 6 3\u20444\"/17 cm\n\nHeight 7 1\u20442\"/19 cm\n\nDepth 2 1\u20442\"/6 cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9727 Black, 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US F-5 (3.75 mm) and US G-6 (4 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nSplit-ring stitch marker\n\nOne pair black plastic purse handles, with slots in lower ends\n\nTwo sheets black plastic canvas, 10\" \u00d7 14\"\u204425.5 \u00d7 35.5 cm (for lining)\n\nOne vial (30 grams) glass E beads, Iris Iridescent\n\nOne 3\"\u20447.5 cm black rayon tassel\n\nYarn needle\n\n#16 tapestry needle\n\nScissors\n\nBeading needle or floss threader\n\nStraight pins\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nGauge is not critical for this project.\n\nIn half double crochet (hdc), using larger hook, 15 sts and 8 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nbc: bead chain (see here )\n\nbsc: bead single crochet (see here )\n\nbss: bead slip stitch (see here )\n\nch: chain\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\n**FRONT AND BACK (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing larger hook, chain 54.\n\nRow 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across\u201452 hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across.\n\nRow 3: Ch 2, skip first hdc, hdc in each st across to last st, turn, leaving remaining st unworked\u201450 hdc.\n\nRepeat Row 3 twelve times, dec 1 st each side every row until 26 hdc remain.\n\nWork even, if necessary, until piece measures 7 1\u20442\"/19.5 cm from beginning. Fasten off.\n\nBOTTOM AND SIDE GUSSETS\n\nUsing larger hook, ch 12.\n\nRow 1: Hdc in third ch from hook and in each ch across\u201410 hdc.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc across.\n\nRepeat Row 2 until piece measures 28 1\u20442\"/72 cm or matches measurement along sides and lower edge of Purse Front. Fasten off.\n\n**FLAP**\n\nUsing beading needle or floss threader, thread yarn with 124 beads; slide beads along yarn until needed. Beginning at upper edge, using smaller hook, chain 14.\n\nRow 1 (WS): Work bsc in second ch from hook and in each ch across, turn\u201413 sc.\n\nRow 2 and all even-numbered rows: Ch 1, slip st in each sc across, turn.\n\nRow 3: Ch 1, work 2 bsc in first st, work bsc in each st across to last st, work 2 bsc in last st\u201415 sc.\n\nRow 5: Repeat Row 3\u201317 sc; place a marker (pm) for lower corner of Flap.\n\nRow 7: Ch 1, skip first st, work bsc in each st across to last st, turn leaving last st unworked\u201415 sc.\n\nEDGING\n\nRows 9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 19, and 21: Repeat Row 7 \u20141 st remains. Fasten off.\n\nWith RS facing, using smaller hook, join yarn with a slip st to lower corner of Flap, ready to work along the shaped side edge.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Ch 2, work 13 hdc along side edge to point; work 3 hdc in point, place a marker (pm) in center st; work 13 hdc along remaining side to opposite corner, turn.\n\nRow 2: Ch 2, hdc in each hdc to marked st; work 3 hdc in marked st, move marker to center st; hdc to end, turn.\n\nRepeat Row 2 until Edging measures 1 1\u20442\"/3.5 cm from the beginning, end with a RS row.Fasten off.\n\nBEAD EDGING\n\nThread 57 beads onto yarn. With RS facing; join yarn with a slip st at upper edge of Flap (beginning chain), ready to work along side edge.Ch 1, work 33 bsc along side edge to point, work bsc at center point, work 33 bsc along remaining side to upper edge. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nLINING\n\nUsing yarn needle, weave in all ends.\n\nUsing the Front as a pattern, cut 2 pieces of plastic canvas (Front and Back); cut a strip of plastic canvas the width and length of the Bottom and Side Gussets, piecing as necessary. Join the Back and Front plastic canvas pieces to the Bottom and Side Gussets piece, using an Overcast stitch. Set Lining aside.\n\nASSEMBLY\n\nWith wrong sides facing, pin Bottom and Side Gussets to Front, matching upper edges and easing to fit at lower corners. With RS facing, beginning at upper edge, join yarn with a slip st; working through both pieces, sc evenly down one side, across lower edge, and up opposite side to the upper edge. Fasten off. Repeat to join Bottom and Side Gussets to Back.\n\nPlace a marker at center of upper edge on Back; place a marker at center of straight edge of Flap (see Schematic). With RS facing, match center markers and pin Flap in place. Using smaller hook, join yarn at one edge of Flap and work a row slip st evenly across.\n\nHANDLE CARRIERS  \n(MAKE 4; 2 EACH ON BACK AND FRONT)\n\nRight-hand side: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, one st in from seam on upper edge.\n\nRow 1: Ch 1, * sc in next 3 sts, turn\u20143 sc.\n\nContinuing on these 3 sts, repeat Row 1 until piece measures 1 1\u20444\"/3 cm from beginning.Fasten off, leaving a 12\"\u204430.5 cm tail for sewing.\n\nThread carrier through opening at lower edge of Purse handle; fold carrier to WS; using yarn needle threaded with tail, stitch end of carrier securely in place along upper edge of Purse.\n\nLeft-hand side: With RS facing, join yarn with a slip st, 4 sts in from left-hand seam on upper edge. Work as for right-hand side.\n\nInsert Lining into Purse: whipstitch in place along upper edges of Back and Front.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\n  1. Cut a 12\"\u204430.5 cm length of yarn and thread with 40 beads.\n\n  2. Tie end of yarn around Tassel neck, slide down the beads and wrap beaded yarn around neck of Tassel.\n  3. Secure yarn and thread through center of Tassel skirt. Fasten off.\n  4. Make Tassel loop: Cut a 1-yard/92 cm length of yarn and attach yarn to point of Flap; thread with 10 beads.\n  5. Work bc for 10 ch, thread chain through hanging cord of Tassel; join chain where it was attached. Weave in all ends.\n\n# **Elegant Bolero Jacket**\n\nDESIGNED BY TREVA G. MCCAIN\n\n**EASY**\n\nThis super-soft jacket is ideal for evening or day wear. The unique embellishing technique on this project creates a challenge for everyone to figure out how you added the beads and leaves them admiring the results.\n\n**SIZES**\n\nSmall (Medium, Large)\n\n**FINISHED MEASUREMENTS**\n\nChest 36 (38 1\u20442, 40)\"\u204491.5 (97.5, 101.5) cm\n\nLength 20 3\u20444 (20 3\u20444, 22 1\u20444)\"53 (53, 56.5) cm\n\n**YARN**\n\nCaron International's Simply Soft (100% acrylic; 6 oz/170 g, 315 yds/288 m skein):\n\n  * #9703 Bone (MC), 2 (3, 3) skeins\n  * #9702 Off White (A), 1 skein\n\n**CROCHET HOOKS**\n\nOne each size US I-9 (5.5 mm) and US J-10 (6 mm), or size to obtain gauge\n\n**ADDITIONAL MATERIALS**\n\nStitch markers\n\nYarn needle\n\nLong-eye beading needle\n\n100 Rectangle Mop Shell Component-Style Pure Allure Beads (#370045)\n\nStraight pins or small safety pins to use as markers\n\n**GAUGE**\n\nIn Cluster-stitch pattern, 12 hdc clusters and 10 rows = 4\"\u204410 cm\n\n**CROCHET STITCHES USED**\n\nch: chain\n\ndc: double crochet\n\nhdc: half double crochet\n\nhdc3tog: half double crochet 3 together\u2014[ yarn over, insert hook in st indicated and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through 5 loops on hook.\n\nsc: single crochet\n\nsc2tog: single crochet 2 together\u2014insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook), insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook.\n\nslip st: slip stitch\n\nCluster-stitch Pattern\n\n  * ROW 1: Inserting hook in third and fourth ch from hook, hdc2tog (cluster made), * inserting hook in same ch as last st, then in next ch, hdc2tog (cluster made); repeat from * to end, turn.\n  * ROW 2: Ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook into first and second cluster, * work cluster by inserting hook in same place as last st, then in next cluster; repeat from *, working last insertion in top of ch 2, turn.\n  * Repeat Row 2 for Cluster-st.\n\n**NOTES**\n\n  1. Cluster-st pattern looks the same on both sides, therefore both Fronts are worked alike.\n  2. Bolero is meant to be worn open; there are no buttons or closures.\n\n**BACK**\n\nUsing smaller hook and MC, chain 56 (60, 62).\n\nRow 1: Work Row 1 of Cluster-st\u201454, (58, 60) clusters.\n\nRows 2\u201330: Work even in Cluster-st, repeating Row 2.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLE\n\nRow 1: Slip st in first 3 sts; ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook in same space as last slip st and in next st, continue in pattern across to last 3 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201448 (52, 54) clusters remain.\n\nRow 2: Decrease Row\u2014ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern across to last 3 st; hdc3tog over last 3 clusters, turn\u201446 (50, 52) clusters remain.\n\nRows 3 and 5: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.)\n\nRow 4: Repeat Decrease Row\u201444 (48, 50) clusters remain.\n\nRow 6: Repeat Decrease Row\u201442 (46, 48) clusters remain.\n\nRows 7\u201322 (22, 26): Work even in pattern.Fasten off.\n\n**FRONT (MAKE 2, BOTH ALIKE)**\n\nUsing smaller hook and MC, chain 26 (28, 29).\n\nRow 1: Work Row 1 of Cluster-st\u201424, (26, 27) clusters.\n\nRows 2\u201330: Work even in Cluster-st, repeating Row 2.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLE\n\nRow 1: Continue in pattern across to last 3 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked for underarm\u201421 (23, 24) clusters remain.\n\nRow 2: Decrease Row\u2014ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern to end\u201420 (22, 23) clusters remain.\n\nRows 3 and 5: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.)\n\nRow 4: Repeat Decrease Row\u201419 (21, 22) clusters remain.\n\nRow 6: Repeat Decrease Row\u201418 (20, 21) clusters remain.\n\nRows 7\u201311 (11, 15): Work even in pattern.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nRow 1: Work in pattern across to last 3 sts, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked for neck\u201415 (17, 18) clusters.\n\nRow 2: Decrease Row\u2014ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern to end, turn\u201414 (16, 17) clusters.\n\nRows 3, 5, and 7: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.)\n\nRow 4: Repeat Decrease Row\u201413 (15, 16) clusters remain.\n\nRow 6: Repeat Decrease Row\u201412 (14, 15) clusters remain.\n\nRow 8: Repeat Decrease Row\u201411 (13, 14) clusters remain.\n\nRows 9\u201311: Work even in pattern. Fasten off.\n\n**SLEEVES (MAKE 2)**\n\nUsing smaller hook and MC, chain 30 (30, 32).\n\nRow 1: Work Row 1 of Cluster-st\u201428, (30, 30) clusters.\n\nRows 2 and 3: Work even in Cluster-st, repeating Row 2.\n\nRow 4: Increase Row\u2014ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook in ch-2 space and first cluster; continue in pattern across to last st, work 2 clusters in last st\u201430 (30, 32) clusters.\n\nRows 5\u20137, 9\u201311 and 13\u201315: Work even in pattern.\n\nRow 8: Repeat Increase Row\u201432 (32, 34) clusters.\n\nRow 12: Repeat Increase Row\u201434, (34, 36) clusters.\n\nRow 16: Repeat Increase Row\u201436 (36, 38) clusters.\n\nRows 17\u201332: Work even in pattern.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nRow 1: Slip st in first 4 sts; ch 2, work cluster by inserting hook in same space as last slip st and in next st, work in pattern across to last 3 clusters, turn, leaving remaining sts unworked\u201430 (30, 32) clusters remain.\n\nRow 2: Decrease Row\u2014ch 2, hdc3tog over first 3 clusters, work in pattern across to last 3 st; hdc3tog over last 3 clusters, turn\u201428 (28, 30) clusters remain.\n\nRow 3: Work even in pattern (as Row 2 of Cluster-st.)\n\nRows 4\u201318: Repeat Decrease Row every other row eight times more, ending with a Decrease Row\u201412 (12, 14) clusters remain. Fasten off.\n\n**FINISHING**\n\nBOLERO EDGING\n\nUsing yarn needle and MC, sew shoulder seams, set in Sleeves, sew side and underarm seams.\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, using larger hook and MC, join yarn with a slip st at right Front side seam; ch 1, working in remaining loops of beginning ch, sc in same space, sc evenly across to lower right Front corner; work 3 sc in next st (corner), place a marker in the center of these 3 sc; [work 2 sc in each row-rnd] to neck edge; work corner, pm; sc in each of next 2 sc; repeat from [to] to right shoulder seam; sc in each st across to left shoulder seam; repeat from [to] to beginning of neck shaping; sc in each of next 2 sc; work corner, pm; repeat from [to] to lower left Front corner; work corner, pm; working in remaining loops of beginning ch, work across to right Front seam, join with a slip st to beginning sc, changing to CC in last st before joining.\n\nSHAPE NECK EDGING\n\nRounds 2 and 3: Using CC, ch 1, sc in same space and in each st across to marked corner st, work 3 sc in marked st, moving marker to the center of these 3 sc (corner); sc in each st to next marker; work corner; sc in each of the next 2 sts, sc2tog over next 2 st (decrease), sc in each st across to 4 sts before next marker; sc2tog over next 2 st, sc in each of the next 2 sts; work corner; sc in each st to next marked st, work corner; sc in each st around to beginning, join with a slip st to beginning sc, changing to MC in last st of Round 3 before joining.\n\nRounds 4 and 5: Using MC, ch 1, sc in same space and in each st around, working 3 sc in each marked corner st.\n\nRound 6: Using MC, ch 1, sc in same space, ch 1, * sc in next sc, ch 1; repeat from * around; join with a slip st to beginning sc.\n\nSLEEVE EDGING\n\nRound 1: With RS facing, using larger hook and MC, join yarn with a slip st at sleeve seam; ch 1, working in the remaining loops of beginning ch, sc in same space and in each ch around; join with a slip st to beginning sc.\n\nRound 2: Ch 1, sc in same space and in each sc around, join with a slip st to beginning sc, changing to A in last st before joining.\n\nRounds 3 and 4: Using A, work even in sc (as for Round 2), changing to MC in last st of Round 4.\n\nRounds 5 and 6: Using MC, work even in sc.\n\nRound 7: Using MC, ch 1, sc in same space, ch 1, * sc in next sc, ch 1; repeat from * around, join with a slip st to beginning sc. Weave in all ends.\n\n**EMBELLISHING**\n\nBEADING\n\n  1. Separate 4-ply yarn into 2-ply strand (See here).\n  2. Place pins as markers approx 1\"\u20442.5 cm apart for bead placement.\n  3. Attach yarn on WS of jacket where first bead is to be attached.\n\n  4. Bring yarn through to RS, draw yarn through bead, sliding bead down to jacket.\n  5. Leaving enough space for the bead to lie flat, insert needle through jacket border to WS as shown in photo above.\n  6. On the WS, slide the needle through the inside of the stitches of the jacket border up to where the next bead should be placed.\n  7. Repeat Steps 5 and 6 until all beads have been attached.\n\n# **resources**\n\n_Please note that some of the links referenced in this work are no longer active_.\n\nCaron International\n\nPO Box 222  \nWashington, NC 27889  \n800 868 9194\n\nwww.caron.com  \nwww.shopcaron.com\n\nBead Crazy (for Myuki beads in Cropped Vest)\n\n21 Taft Corners Shopping Center  \nWilliston, VT 05495  \n802 228 9666  \nwww.beadcrazyvt.com\n\nThe Beadery (for African-motif beads used in Sahara Shawl, pony beads used in Flower Wrap, and others)\n\nPO Box 178  \nHope Valley, RI 02832  \n401 539 2432\n\nwww.thebeadery.com\n\nCousin Corp (for miracle beads used in Beaded Ruffled Shrug and others)\n\nPO Box 2939  \nLargo, FL 22779  \n727 536 3568\n\nwww.cousin.com\n\nDarice, Inc (for rocaille and seed beads used in Boho Bangles and others)\n\n13000 Darice Parkway, Park 82  \nStrongsville, OH 44149  \n866 432 7423\n\nwww.darice.com\n\nFire Mountain Gems (for beads used in Midnight Duster, Evening Capelet, and others)\n\nOne Fire Mountain Way  \nGrants Pass, OR 97526-2373  \n800 355 2137\n\nwww.firemountaingems.com\n\nPure Allure (for shell and crystal beads used in Elegant Bolero Jacket and others)\n\n4005 Avenida De La Plata  \nOceanside, CA 92056  \n800 536 6312\n\nwww.pureallure.com\n\n# **glossary**\n\n# **CROCHET STITCHES**\n\nChain (ch): Begin by making a slip knot on your hook. * Wrap the yarn around the hook (yarn over) and pull up a loop [draw the yarn through the loop on the hook to form the first chain]. Repeat from * for number of chains required. Note: The loop on the hook is not included when counting the number of chains.\n\nCluster: A group of stitches worked together for decorative purposes, instead of to decrease; work as instructions indicate.\n\nDouble Crochet (dc): Yarn over hook, insert hook into stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through two loops on hook] twice.\n\nDouble Treble Crochet (dtr): Yarn over hook three times, insert hook into stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through two loops] four times.\n\nHalf Double Crochet (hdc): Yarn over hook, insert hook into stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through all three loops on hook.\n\nPicot: A decorative edge pattern stitch used for edgings; work as instructions indicate.\n\nShell: A number of stitches worked into one stitch for decorative purposes instead of to increase; work as instructions indicate.\n\nSingle Crochet (sc): Insert hook in stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through both loops on hook.\n\nSlip Stitch (slip st): Insert hook in the stitch indicated, yarn over and draw through both the stitch and the loop on the hook.\n\nTreble Crochet (tr): Yarn over hook two times, insert hook in stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up a loop, [ yarn over and draw through two loops] three times.\n\n# **SPECIAL TERMS AND ABBREVIATIONS**\n\ndc2tog (single decrease): Double crochet 2 together\u2014[ Yarn over, insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] twice, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook.\n\ndc3tog (double decrease): Double crochet 3 together\u2014[ Yarn over, insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop, yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook] 3 times, yarn over and draw through all 4 loops on hook.\n\ndec: Decrease\u2014work 2 (or the number indicated in the instructions) stitches together **_in pattern_** unless instructed otherwise.\n\nFPdc: Front-post double crochet: (RS) Yarn over, insert hook from right-hand side of stitch to WS of piece, return to RS at left-hand side of stitch indicated, yarn over and pull up loop, returning to starting point, complete as dc.\n\nhdc2tog (single decrease): Half double crochet 2 together\u2014[ Yarn over, insert hook in next st and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through 5 loops on hook.\n\ninc: Increase\u2014work 2 (or the number indicated in the instructions) stitches into the next stitch.\n\nsc2tog (single decrease): Single crochet 2 together\u2014[Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop] twice, yarn over and draw through all 3 loops on hook.\n\nsc3tog (double decrease): Single crochet 3 together\u2014[Insert hook in next stitch, yarn over and pull up a loop] 3 times, yarn over and draw through all 4 loops on hook.\n\nslip st 2tog (single decrease): Slip stitch 2 together\u2014Insert hook in next st, yarn over and pull up a loop, insert hook in next st, yarn over and draw through st and loops on hook.\n\n# **SPECIAL TECHNIQUES**\n\nBase Chain/Single Crochet (Base ch/sc) NOTE: ****This technique creates a foundation chain and a row of sc at the same time.\n\n  * FIRST STITCH Begin with a slip knot; ch 2, insert hook into second ch from hook, * yarn over and pull up a loop, yo and draw through one loop (this is the chain), yo and draw through 2 loops (this is the sc).\n  * NEXT STITCH: **__**NOTE: The next st is worked under the forward 2 loops of the stem of the previous st (the chain) made when working the st. Insert hook into the bottom of the previous st, under 2 loops, repeat from * of first st. Repeat this step for number of sts indicated in instructions.\n\nBead Crochet: See Basic Techniques (here).\n\nTunisian Crochet/Afghan Stitch (any number of stitches) NOTE: ****Each row of Tunisian Crochet is worked in two steps.\n\n  * FOUNDATION ROW (counts as Step 1 for first Row only)  \nChain the number of sts indicated in the instructions.  \nSkip the first chain, * insert hook in second chain from hook, yarn over and pull up a loop (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, pulling up a loop in each chain. Complete Foundation Row by working Step 2 (below).\n  * STEP 1: With RS facing, working from right to left, pick up the stitches:  \nBeginning in the second vertical bar of the previous row, * insert hook into the vertical bar, yarn over and draw a loop through the vertical bar (2 loops on hook); repeat from * across, drawing up a loop in each vertical bar.\n  * STEP 2: ****With RS facing, working from left to right, work off the stitches:  \nYarn over and draw through first loop on hook, * yarn over and draw through 2 loops on hook; repeat from * across.\n  * Repeat Steps 1 and 2 for Tunisian Crochet.\n\n# Metric Conversion\n\nInches to cm = 2.54\n\nYards to Meters = .92\n\nMeters to Yards = 1.08\n\nOz to Grams = 28.6\n\n40g = 1.4 oz 25g = .88 oz\n\n# Index\n\nThe index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages in your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest.\n\nFor your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below.\n\n**A**\n\nabbreviations and terms special\n\nAfghan stitch (Tunisian Crochet)\n\n**B**\n\nbags and purses\n\n_Desert Trader's Tote_\n\n_Fly Away Purse_\n\n_Hobo Boho Bag_\n\n_Opera Purse_\n\nbangles\n\n_Boho Bangles_\n\n_See also_ jewelry\n\nbase ch/sc (base chain/single crochet)\n\nbasic techniques\n\nbc (bead chain)\n\nbdc (bead double crochet)\n\nbead chain (bc)\n\nBead Crazy\n\nbead crochet\n\nbasic techniques\n\nyarn for\n\nbead double crochet (bdc)\n\nbead half-double crochet (bhdc)\n\nbead single crochet (bsc)\n\nbead slip stitch (bss)\n\n_Beaded Ruffled Shrug_\n\nBeadery\n\nbeads and beading tools\n\ndental floss threader\n\nlarge-eye beading needle\n\n\"large-eye\" beading needle (for sewing)\n\nsmall-eye beading needle\n\nsteel crochet hooks\n\ntapestry needles\n\nbelts\n\n_Medallions Belt,_\n\nbhdc (bead half-double crochet)\n\nBiddex, Kim\n\nBliss (Caron International yarn)\n\n_Boho Bangles,_\n\nblouses\n\n_Circular Yoke Blouse,_\n\n_Easy Beaded Camisole,_\n\n_India Tunic,_\n\nbracelets\n\n_Boho Bangles,_\n\n_See also_ jewelry\n\nbsc (bead single crochet)\n\nbss (bead slip stitch)\n\nBunn, Gayle\n\n**C**\n\ncamisoles\n\n_Easy Beaded Camisole,_\n\ncapelets\n\nEvening Capelet\n\n_See also_ shawls and wraps\n\nCaron International\n\nch (chain)\n\n_Circular Yoke Blouse,_\n\nClement, Cari\n\ncluster\n\ncoats and jackets\n\n_Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_\n\n_Cropped Vest,_\n\n_Elegant Bolero Jacket,_\n\n_Midnight Duster,_\n\n_Wrap Jacket,_\n\n_Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_\n\ncouched cording\n\nCousin Corp\n\nCrone-Findlay, Noreen\n\n_Cropped Vest,_\n\n**D**\n\nDarice, Inc.\n\ndc (double crochet)\n\ndc2tog (single decrease)\n\ndc3tog (double decrease)\n\ndec (decrease)\n\n_Denim Skirt,_\n\ndental floss threader\n\n_Desert Trader's Tote,_\n\ndouble crochet (dc)\n\ndouble decrease (dc3tog)\n\n_Drama Necklace,_\n\n**E**\n\nearrings\n\n_Hoop Earrings,_\n\n_See also_ jewelry\n\n_Easy Beaded Camisole,_\n\n_Elegant Bolero Jacket,_\n\n_Elegant Squares Wrap,_\n\nembellished projects care of\n\nEpstein, Nicky\n\n_Evening Capelet,_\n\n**F**\n\nFire Mountain Gems\n\nfive-strand braid\n\n_Flower Wrap,_\n\n_Fly Away Purse,_\n\nFpdc (front-post double crochet)\n\n**G**\n\nGlimmer (Caron International yarn)\n\nglossary\n\nGonzales, Lisa\n\n_Gypsy Skirt,_\n\n**H**\n\nhalf double crochet (hdc)\n\nhdc (half double crochet)\n\nhdc2tog (single decrease)\n\nHildebrand, Tammy\n\n_Hobo Boho Bag,_\n\n_Hoop Earrings,_\n\n**I**\n\ninc (increase)\n\n_India Tunic,_\n\n**J**\n\njackets and coats\n\n_Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_\n\n_Cropped Vest,_\n\n_Elegant Bolero Jacket,_\n\n_Midnight Duster,_\n\n_Wrap Jacket,_\n\nJensen, Candi\n\njewelry\n\n_Boho Bangles,_\n\n_Drama Necklace,_\n\n_Hoop Earrings,_\n\n**K**\n\n_Kente Cloth Scarf_\n\n_Kimono Shrug,_\n\n**L**\n\nlarge-eye beading needle\n\n\"large-eye\" beading needle (for sewing)\n\nLosee, Marilyn\n\n**M**\n\nMcCain, Treva G.\n\n_Medallions Belt,_\n\nmetric conversion\n\n_Midnight Duster,_\n\n_Mini-Squares Wrap,_\n\n**N**\n\nnecklaces\n\n_Drama Necklace_\n\n_See also_ jewelry\n\n**O**\n\n_Opera Purse,_\n\n_Opera Shrug,_\n\n**P**\n\npatterns, notes on\n\npicot\n\nPure Allure\n\npurses and bags\n\n_Desert Trader's Tote_\n\n_Fly Away Purse,_\n\n_Hobo Boho Bag,_\n\n_Opera Purse,_\n\n**R**\n\nresources\n\nRutledge, Kim\n\n**S**\n\n_Sahara Shawl,_\n\nsc (single crochet)\n\nsc2tog (single decrease)\n\nsc3tog (double decrease)\n\nscarfs\n\n_Kente Cloth Scarf,_\n\n_See also_ shawls and wraps\n\nshawls and wraps\n\n_Beaded Ruffled Shrug,_\n\n_Elegant Squares Wrap,_\n\n_Evening Capelet,_\n\n_Flower Wrap,_\n\n_Kimono Shrug,_\n\n_Mini-Squares Wrap,_\n\n_Opera Shrug,_\n\n_Sahara Shawl,_\n\n_Tulips Shawl,_\n\nshell\n\nShildmyer, Susan\n\nshrugs\n\n_Beaded Ruffled Shrug,_\n\n_Kimono Shrug,_\n\n_Opera Shrug,_\n\n_See also_ shawls and wraps\n\nSimply Soft (Caron International yarn)\n\nsingle crochet (sc)\n\nsingle decrease (dc2tog)\n\nskirts\n\n_Denim Skirt,_\n\n_Gypsy Skirt,_\n\nslip st (slip stitch)\n\nslip st 2tog (single decrease)\n\nsmall-eye beading needle\n\nspecial techniques\n\nspecial terms and abbreviations\n\nsplitting yarn\n\nsteel crochet hooks\n\nStepp, Heidi\n\n**T**\n\ntapestry needles\n\ntechniques, special\n\nterms and abbreviations\n\nspecial\n\ntops\n\n_Circular Yoke Blouse,_\n\n_Color-Me-Blue Jacket,_\n\n_Cropped Vest,_\n\n_Easy Beaded Camisole,_\n\n_Elegant Bolero Jacket,_\n\n_India Tunic,_\n\n_Midnight Duster,_\n\n_Wrap Jacket,_\n\ntotes\n\n_Desert Trader's Tote,_\n\ntr (treble crochet)\n\nTulips Shawl\n\ntunics\n\n_India Tunic,_\n\nTunisian Crochet (Afghan stitch)\n\n**V**\n\nvests\n\n_Cropped Vest_\n\n**W**\n\nWillson, Margaret\n\n_Wrap Jacket,_\n\nwraps and shawls\n\n_Beaded Ruffled Shrug,_\n\n_Elegant Squares Wrap,  \n_\n\n_Evening Capelet,_\n\n_Flower Wrap,_\n\n_Kimono Shrug,_\n\n_Mini-Squares Wrap,_\n\n_Opera Shrug,_\n\n_Sahara Shawl,_\n\n_Tulips Shawl,_\n\n**Y**\n\nyarn\n\nfor bead crochet\n\nsplitting\n\nEMBELLISHED CROCHET. Copyright \u00a9 2007 by Cari Clement. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.\n\nPHOTOGRAPHY BY Jack Deutsch\n\nTECHNICAL EDITORS: Barb Sunderlage, Karen J. Hay, and Dee Neer\n\nBOOK DESIGN BY Georgia Rucker Design\n\nHAIR AND MAKEUP BY Laly Zambrana\n\nCHARTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY Dee Neer\n\nCONTRIBUTORS INCLUDE: Kim Biddex, Gayle Bunn, Cari Clement,   \nNoreen Crone-Findlay, Lisa Gonzales, Tammy Hildebrand, Candi Jensen, Marilyn Losee, Treva McCain, Kim Rutledge, Susan Shildmyer, Heidi Stepp, and Margaret Willson.\n\nwww.stmartins.com\n\neBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.\n\nLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA  \nClement, Cari.\n\nEmbellished crochet: bead, embroider, fringe, and more: 28 stunning designs to make using Caron International Yarn / Cari Clement. \u2014 1st ed.\n\np.cm.\n\nISBN-13: 978-0-312-36439-7\n\nISBN-10: 0-312-36439-3\n\neISBN: 978-1-466-87204-2\n\n1. Crocheting--Patterns. 2. Fancy work. I. Title.\n\nTT825.C63255 2007\n\n746.43'4041--dc22 2007021177\n\nFirst Edition: November 2007\n\n# Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title Page\n  3. Copyright Notice\n  4. Dedication\n  5. Contents\n  6. Foreword\n  7. Introduction\n  8. Basic Techniques\n  9. Focus on Color\n    1. Beaded Ruffled Shrug\n    2. Mini-Squares Wrap\n    3. Tulips Shawl\n    4. Gypsy Skirt\n    5. Flower Wrap\n  10. The Domino Effect\n    1. Midnight Duster\n    2. Fly Away Purse\n    3. Elegant Squares Wrap\n    4. Cropped Vest\n  11. Out of Africa\n    1. Sahara Shawl\n    2. Desert Trader's Tote\n    3. Circular Yoke Blouse\n    4. Hoop Earrings\n    5. Kente Cloth Scarf\n  12. Got the Blues\n    1. Medallions Belt\n    2. Denim Skirt\n    3. Easy Beaded Camisole\n    4. Color-Me-Blue Jacket\n  13. Orient Express\n    1. Kimono Shrug\n    2. Hobo Boho Bag\n    3. Wrap Jacket\n    4. Boho Bangles\n    5. India Tunic\n  14. Evening Elegance\n    1. Opera Shrug\n    2. Drama Necklace\n    3. Evening Capelet\n    4. Opera Purse\n    5. Elegant Bolero Jacket\n  15. Resources\n  16. Glossary\n  17. Metric Conversion\n  18. Index\n  19. Copyright\n\n## Guide\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Copyright\n  3. Table of Contents\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Dagon - Fred Chappell"}, "text": " \nOther Boson Books by Fred Chappell\n\nMoments of Light\n\nThe Inkling\n\nIt Is Time, Lord\n\nThe Gaudy Place\nDAGON\n\nby\n\nFred Chappell\n\nBOSON BOOKS\n\nRaleigh\n\nPublished by Boson Books\n\n3905 Meadow Field Lane\n\nRaleigh, NC 27606\n\nISBN (print) 978-0-917990-94-6\n\nISBN (ebook) 978-1-886420-29-8\n\nAn imprint of C&M Online Media, Inc.\n\nCopyright 2009 Fred Chappell\n\nAll rights reserved\n\nFor information contact\n\nC&M Online Media, Inc.\n\n3905 Meadow Field Lane\n\nRaleigh, NC 27606\n\nTel: (919) 233-8164\n\nFax: (919) 233-8578\n\ne-mail:boson@cmonline.com\n\nURL: <http://www.bosonbooks.com>\n\nCover art by Joel Barr\n>Contents\n\nOther Boson Books by Fred Chappell\n\nI\n\nONE\n\nTWO\n\nTHREE\n\nFOUR\n\nFIVE\n\nSIX\n\nII\n\nONE\n\nTWO\n\nTHREE\n\nFOUR\n\nFIVE\n\nSIX\nDedicated to\n\nThose Who Cast Their Shadows Out of Time upon our days\n\nPh'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.\nI\nONE\n\nAbout 9:30 the next morning he entered the downstairs room which faced the almost pain\u00adfully blue west and the tall ridge across the little valley, the room which his grandparents had used to call the \"sun parlor.\" He advanced into the room a way and halted, seeming to feel the whole fabric of the house tremulous with his footsteps. And he had paused to consider, well, to think about how much there actually was to consider. The onus of inheritance was already beginning to rub a bit.\u2014The room was famil\u00adiarly musty and the two windows, eyed and wavy, were decent in their gray gauzy curtains. Over the bisected window in the door which opened to the outside, the glass curtain was stretched tight with rods at top and bottom so that the cloth was pulled into stiff ribs, stiff as fingers of the dead. He took another step and again hesitated, hearing the quiet wary rattle of glassware somewhere. Meditating, he shifted his weight forward and back, rocking on the balls of his feet. Had all the floor timbers melted away with dry rot? He couldn't quite bring himself to doubt, staring down frowning at the regular lines of dark oak flooring, board laid solid by board. Even the layer of dust which was spread like cheesecloth about his feet didn't entirely dull the hard polish of the wood. He disliked thinking of these careful rows ripped up, expos\u00ading the broad rough subflooring; and then that too taken away to get at the flaking bones of the house. But there was probably no preventing it. He sighed, and as he inhaled, agitated atoms of dust pierced his nostrils brightly. Twice he sneezed, and rubbed his nose roundly with his wrist, squeezed his eyebrows in his palm. Had he really heard an echo to his sneeze? The room hardly seemed large enough to give up echoes\u2014it was about twenty feet square with a high ceiling\u2014but it was a room truly made for secondary presences, for reverberations. This wasn't the whole room. Opposite him, double doors, divided into small glass rectangles, closed off what was actually the remainder of this room. In the left door his image stood, hand still over his face, and he was all cut into pieces in the panes. He dropped his pale hand to his side, and in the glass the movement coruscated.\n\nHe moved toward the west wall and once again his image, larger now and darker, ac\u00adcosted him. His head and torso stood before him, sliced now into the pattern of an oval enclosed in roundish triangles and seemingly stacked in the shelves of the dark old writing cabinet. He shrugged, turned away. The low sofa, piled with fancy pillows and cushions, sat stolid against the opposite wall. The obese horror was draped over with a picture rug, but it was easy enough to guess how it was: covered with a vinous prickly nap and with three huge cushions laid on the springs. The wool picture rug had two fringes of red tassel and displayed a Levantine scene: in the market place the wine seller sits comfortably beneath his awning while the dark and turbaned stranger looms above him on his camel, and behind in the dusty street the woman returns from the well, her water jug shouldered. This tableau splotched with a profusion of pillows and cushions, green, red, yellow, gaudy flowers, knowing birds, birds darkly wise. In the center of the sofa were two oblong companion pillows, shouldered so closely together that they looked like the Decalogue tablets. They were white, or had been white, and painfully stitched upon them with blue thread were companion mottoes, companion pictures. In the left pillow lies a girl, her long blue hair asprawl about her face, her eyes innocently shut, asleep. The motto: I SLEPT AND DREAMED THAT LIFE WAS BEAUTY. But the story continued, and on the next pillow her innocence is all torn away: there she stands, gripping a round broom; her hair now is pinned up severely and behind her sits a disheartening barrel churn. I WOKE AND FOUND THAT LIFE WAS DUTY. The pillows sat, stuffed and stiff as disapproving bishops; they could, he thought, serve as twin tombstones for whole gray generations. It was in no way difficult to imagine the fingers of his grandmother, tough and knobbly, wearily working upon these wearying legends, these most speaking epitaphs. It was more discouraging still to wonder if perhaps this task hadn't been performed by his grandmother's mother. Even without thinking he doubted that there was anything in his blood which could now fight back to that bitter use of mind; he just wasn't so tough....No; no, that wasn't true, either. Slow, wet, easy living hadn't got to his Puritan core, not really. He could hump logs together to make a house; he could plow the long furrow as straight as a killing arrow. It was simply that he didn't have to: the world had got easier, even the sky. All that temper was still in him and not really very hidden, and it was no strange matter that these two pillows could cause to rise in his mind narrow visions of those stringent decades. He could see his male ancestry as grainy and rough as if they had all been hacked from stone. They didn't drink, didn't smoke; they didn't read, and all books other than the great black one were efficient instruments of Sathanas. The only fun they had was what he was living evidence of.\u2014And very probably not.\u2014He could imagine them, his whiskery forefathers, stalking wifeward to beget, stolid, unmoved as men readying them\u00adselves to slaughter hogs. And some hint of that too. The women were no better. Their hands were pained knots, like blighted unopenable buds. Their eyes were stuffed with the opaque ice which had clenched over the fear of their hearts....And yet, and yet there was always something faintly comforting in thinking upon the gelid principles with which his grandfathers had shored up themselves for duty, military or familial, or for the rich farming business.\n\nHe was vaguely bothered, nettled, and he turned away from contemplating the pillows. Across from him was the wide entry to a dark formal dining room, and in the near corner a complacent fat club chair. He turned round and round, feeling the windows slide over his sight and the serrated glitter of the glass doors, and found himself, in a momentary accident, face to face with the wall. It was plaster, and he could discern in its grain the sweep of the maker's trowel and swirled signs of the hair. In the morning silence the wall seemed as vocal as ev\u00aderything else in the room. Illumination, a gilt tin contraption which sported naked light bulbs, hung suspended from the ceiling by a gilt chain, and a thick webby electric cord sidled through the links. Before the piled sofa sat a low table, the wood mahogany-stained, with a glass top which displayed photographs that could dim, but not curl, with age: four rows of gray-and-black squares, instants of frozen miming that he would not examine. More gilt, on the wall above the sofa: a rectangular frame which enclosed a photograph in anemic\u2014\"tinted\"\u2014colors, the faces of his grandfather and grandmother. Both the progenitors seemed masked for the picture, as severe as if they had plotted beforehand to judge the photographer, to sentence him to a life of hard labor. The eyes of the grandfather were frigid blue, the color of the windwashed March sky reflected in the ice of a puddle. Some\u00adhow the tinting process, whatever it was, had made those eyes inviting targets for wishful darts. Set jaws, assured noses, ears which would admit only acquiescent sounds. The eyes of the grandmother were gray and, though doubtless resolute, the gaze was not so personally sta\u00adtioned. In her clear forehead and in the rather distant aiming of her eyes there was not so much of her husband's belligerent certainty; there was a hint of troubled\u2014but still (he had to admit it)\u2014unshaken humanity. But it was an unyielding countenance, and he found himself brushing his hand over his face as if he had just walked through a cobweb. Awkwardly he stepped back, as though he could retreat from his unrealized action or, rather, from whatever vague thought had inspired it. Nor was he delighted to see his mind so often turning upon himself.\n\nHe pawed a mass of pillows heavily aside and sat down on the sofa; fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The odor of the sofa submerged him; it wasn't sour exactly, but rather sweet-and-sour, palpable; musty, of course, but with an aura of times past so striking as almost to give an impression of freshness. The smell betokened what? Voluminous clothes kept with a sachet too old, so that its power had disappeared into the cloth. Or long dutiful Sunday afternoons spent with the Methodist preacher over a box of stale chocolate candies. Or dripping afternoon funerals set up in this room and garnished with flowers which had very recently given up their sickly ghosts. His spirit seemed drowning in the smell of the sofa, in the swift flood of pastness it poured out. He lit the cigarette and sucked the smoke deep, as if protecting himseff, almost in fact as if smoking was an act of defiance toward the past. The smoke rose slowly, the lax strands of it parting and hanging almost motionless in the air, seemingly very solid. It was himself, in fact, who seemed flimsy; even his body, whose weight the hard sofa barely accepted, felt vapor\u00adous, tenuous: there was not enough real event attached to it to force it to existence. The room was so silent that he could hear his chest rasp against the cloth of his shirt as he breathed, and for one scary moment he imagined that this sound became increasingly faint, was dying away. He dropped the blackened paper match into a silly little ashtray, a tiny china circle with\u2014again\u2014gilt lines and in the center an ugly pink rose. The dead match lay across the face of the rose like a disastrous scar, and he noted it with a twinge of guilty triumph; so that almost reflexively he mashed the new cigarette into the flower, leaving there a raw streak of black ash. The small coals died immediately.\n\nHe rose and crossed the room. As he had sus\u00adpected, the desk section of the dark secretary was locked, but through the glass cabinet doors he saw the small brass key lying on the middle shelf. The lock was reluctant, but the section did at last let down, exposing an interior less musty than he had imagined. There were half a dozen tight-ranked drawers and a number of bulging pigeonholes. Letters, photographs, books of check stubs, a bottle in which the ink had dried to a circular black scab, a Waterman pen with a discolored yellow nib. He pulled from one of the pigeonholes a resisting envelope and shook the letter from it. The cheap paper had darkened with dust and the recalcitrant words had been formed with blunt pencil strokes, gray on gray. He held the sheet above his head and turned his back to the window. The words came dimly to his eyes:...guess Jasper's note will be alright anyway for this year and can renew with confi\u00addance, I guess in the neighborhood of 1500. It would of course be concerned with money. He let it drop unfluttering and wiped his fingers on his trousers leg. From a closed drawer peeped the shiny corner of a snapshot, which he slipped out without opening the drawer. At first he couldn't comprehend what object was pictured, but it was, after all, merely an automobile, a Dodge or a Plymouth of the late '30's, black, hardily at repose before the immaculately vertical lines of a walnut tree. Why this photograph? He stared at it as if it were an urgent but indeci\u00adpherable message, intently personal. The car was not new, had not been photographed on that account. It was perhaps no more than the thoughtless effort to finish up a roll of film so that a brother with his arm about the shoulders of an aunt or a wide-eyed distressed baby cousin might sooner see the light of day in their own white-edged squares. Yet here it was, the car, as bluntly and totally itself as if it had been in\u00advented for the purpose of perplexing. He tried to slide the snapshot back through the crack in the top of the drawer, but it encountered a hid\u00adden tightness and folded up, the brittle surface suddenly webbed with fine lines like a cracked china plate. He desisted, and let the picture loll out of the front of the desk like an idiot untasting tongue. When he once more glimpsed his darkly reflected face in the cabinet doors, his eyes looked fearful.\n\nHe turned again to the panes of glass in the double doors, this time erasing his features by bringing his face directly against one of the panes. He cupped his hands, extending them from his temples as if he were trying to see for a long distance through blinding sunlight. The interior of this room swam forward to meet him. Although there was a row of windows in the opposite wall, they were darkened by a shaggy row of fir bushes growing by the outside wall, so that this room was even dimmer than the one in which he was standing.\n\nWhen he tried the knob the lock uttered an unnerving scrape, but the right-hand door swung inward easily enough. Here was real mustiness, an odor so stuffed with unmoving time that it seemed strange the pressure of it hadn't burst' the doors and windows. Entering, he left unclear tracks in the dust behind him, and the dust muted his footsteps, seemed to ad\u00adhere like cobweb to his shoes. The dust seemed a huge powdery cobweb. A long low comfort\u00adless-looking lounge was pushed against the wall, and the tough ornate wood of the back of it jammed into the window sill. This sofa was un\u00addraped, but the upholstery was decorated with looping broad arabesques which suggested a badly stylized jungle. There were four identical knickknack tables on thin legs; they were clut\u00adtered with more of the tiny uninviting ashtrays and with a number of small pale wooden boxes. Against the east wall sat a black upright piano which somehow seemed sagging. He crossed to it and opened it. The keys were discolored, yel\u00adlowish, cracked, and in some cases the ivory was missing almost completely. He punched gin\u00adgerly at middle A, then experimented with a simple triad. Middle C sounded merely a dull thump; the E and A keys produced a dissonance. No doubt the strings had rusted, the whole guts of the instrument diseased and disordered. Again he wiped his fingers on his trousers, trying to wipe away that dust which seemed to seep into the pores of his skin. With his cold hand he brushed his face too, and the back of his neck. Over the top of the piano drooped a big elabo\u00adrately embroidered doily; it looked like a fishnet, a fantastic net to catch\u2014what? Oh, whatever inhabited the surcharged air of this room. Even after he backed away from the in\u00adstrument, that acrid chord seemed to hang still in his hearing; it was as if he had written indeli\u00adble curse words upon something which was sup\u00adposed to remain sacredly blank. He raised and dropped his shoulders in a sigh; he felt almost as if he had been working away in hard physical labor; he had never before felt his will be so ringed about, so much at bay. Never before had he realized so acutely the invalidity of his desires, how they could be so easily canceled, simply marked out, by the impersonal presence of something, a place, an object, anything vehe\u00admently and uncaringly itself....But the past\u00adness which these two rooms (really, one room divided) enclosed was not simply the imper\u00adsonal weight of dead personality but a willful belligerence, active hostility. Standing still in the center of the first room, he felt the floor stirring faintly beneath his feet, and he was con\u00advinced that the house was gathering its muscles to do him harm; it was going to spring. But then he heard the sharp-heeled foot-steps which caused the quivering, and then Sheila, his blond pale pretty wife, stuck her head through the hall door.\n\n\"Come on outside, Peter,\" she said. \"Come away.\"\nTWO\n\nI didn't have the faintest idea it was even near lunchtime,\" he said. Standing out here under the shiny June sky, he felt perfectly at ease to stretch his arms and shoulder muscles, as if he had just awakened from a dreary, unrefreshing sleep. He opened his mouth, tasting the bright air. It was warm; he hadn't realized how cold he had become in the house. Not far away he could hear a bird singing unstintingly, pure filigree of sound. \"Here,\" he said. \"Let me take that.\" He lifted the big wicker basket from his wife's strained hand. \"Where are we going?\"\n\nHer voice was clear and easy as water. \"It's your farm; you tell me. Where is the best place on this magnificent estate to have a picnic?\"\n\n\"I don't know any more about the place than you do. But maybe we'd better not go too far. They're liable to deliver our stuff today.\"\n\nSheila looked at Peter with a secret eye: her tall gangly husband, all bones and corners his body was, had already begun worrying himself. The \"stuff\" which was to come was mostly books and notebooks and cryptic files of index cards. Already he was concerned about finishing his book\u2014he called it his \"study\"\u2014in time. They still had about twenty-five hundred dollars left of the amount they had allowed themselves and now this nice quiet place to work, this farm willed to him by his grandparents, had dropped into their laps, and still he was worrying himself. In this warmly glowing landscape his eyes were turned inward. As they went through the sparse front lawn of the house she broke a tall stalk of plaintain off at the top and put the oozy stem end into her mouth.\n\nHe swung the basket unrhythmically as he walked. His height and boniness made him seem loping. When they came to the reddish-yellow dirt road which ran northward past the house, he hesitated. \"Now which way?\" he said. \"We can go either way here and still be in our own domain.\"\n\nIt was true. The big ugly house sat almost in the center of the wide farm, the four hundred acres shaped vaguely like an open hand. It sat among smooth hills, so that if they went very far in any direction they would have to climb.\n\n\"Your wish is my command,\" she said.\n\n\"Well...\" He gave her a look. Lightness and irony more or less sweet, that was Sheila. He shrugged a shoulder and started toward their car, the old blue Buick parked in the sloping driveway behind the house.\n\n\"But let's do walk,\" she said. \"It's a warm lovely day, and walking won't take so terribly much time. It'll be soon enough you're back to your nasty old books and note cards. Surely we're not here just for you to work.\"\n\n\"Still, that's mostly why we're here. At least, I hope it is.\" But he gave over anyway, and turn\u00ading suddenly to her took her hand.\n\nAs quickly, involuntarily, she almost drew away. His hand on hers was dry and cool, actually cold, and startling in the warm sunlight. \"You'll have to get used to walking,\" she said. \"Now that you're in the country, you'll have to do all sorts of rustic things. You'll have to drink fresh milk and rob the honeybees and eat wild flowers. You're going to become a happy child of nature. I'm sure you'll make a great success of it.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's me. A happy child of nature.\"\n\nIn a hundred yards or so the road had climbed, cutting along the side of the hill. A slow dark stream ran in the narrow bottom field below; serpentine, sluggish, it reflected no light through the tall weeds and bushes that crowded to its edges. Sheila pointed toward it. \"Maybe we could spread our blanket by the creek down there,\" she said. \"It looks so nice and cool.\"\n\n\"Do you really want to go crawling through those weeds? I bet the whole field is full of snakes and spiders. And the ground down there'll be wet, so close to the stream.\"\n\n\"Weeds won't hurt you,\" she said. She patted the smooth leg of her pink cotton slacks. \"Come on, chicken heart, it'll be very nice, bet you a pretty.\" She tugged at his hand, drew him to the side of the road.\n\n\"Hold on a minute.\" He shifted the basket to his other hand, and his body tilted perceptibly with the weight. \"What in the world did you put in here, anyway? Heavy as lead.\"\n\n\"All kinds of surprises,\" she said. \"Lead ham\u00adburgers, lead rolls, lead mustard...\"\n\nThey got through the field without much diffi\u00adculty and she was right, here by the stream it was cool. They found a circle of long cool grass, almost free of weeds, and shadowed by a stand of scrubby willow bushes. Sheila wafted a blue tablecloth over the ground and crawled over it on hands and knees to smooth it out. Then she stood and fingered her fine blond hair back from her temples. \"Oh, this is lovely.\" She looked at him, an anxious inquiry. \"Isn't it lovely?\" The stream lapped intermittently at the banks, the dark water moved slow and dreamy through the shadows; now and again it splashed up a wink of reflected sunlight. Her face gleamed momentarily in a pure reflection of the sun. \"We ought to take all our meals down here.\"\n\n\"Not me,\" he said. \"I m not getting out of bed and wallow through weeds and mud for break\u00adfast.\"\n\n\"No, not breakfast. You don't have to be silly about it.\" She laughed. She began taking paper plates from the basket: held one up and flour\u00adished it ruefully. \"These really ought to be very fine china,\" she said. \"I've decided that we're celebrating.\"\n\n\"If those had been china, I'd never have got here with the basket.\"\n\nShe produced a large brown paper bag and drew a pretty baked hen from it. \"Volla!\" And there was wine too, a California white wine in a green bottle with a red foil wrapping over the top. And a mixed salad tied up in a little plastic bag. \"The plates are just for the salad, anyway. You'll have to be a child of nature and eat the chicken with your own crude hands. And look: I bought some ready-made dressing.\" She held up a small bottle and began shaking it furiously.\n\nHe had been staring at her, awestruck. \"Where did you get all this stuff? The chicken and everything....What is it we're supposed to be celebrating?\"\n\n\"There's a little old restaurant in the town. They were just delighted to sell me a nice baked chicken. See\u2014while you were mooning around the house all morning I kept myself busy, plan\u00adning and preparing these nice things for us. Ev\u00aderything just to make you happy.\"\n\nHe sighed. \"And what is it we're celebrat\u00ading?\"\n\n\"Our vacation....Or just being here in this good cool spot by the water. Or anything. Why not?\"\n\n\"Mmnh.\" Descending tone of regret. He felt that he had so much yet to do that even to be happy for the opportunity would be in some way to harm it, to jinx the chance for finishing.\n\n\"Anything, we're celebrating anything you like. Remnant Pagan Forces in American Puri\u00adtanism.\"\n\n\"A bit prematurely, perhaps.\" He cut his words short, isolated each of them with brief pauses. He couldn't help it.\n\nShe pouted. \"Now please don't be a grouch. If you begin now, you'll just be a grouch all sum\u00admer and neither of us will have a good time, and you won't get any more work done than if you'd been cheerful.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" he said. But still the word was clipped.\n\n\"Look now...\" She leaned carefully from her kneeling position, carefully across the spread ta\u00adblecloth and pulled his ear lobe. \"Eat. Drink. Enjoy. Relax. Nothing bad has happened, and nothing bad is going to happen....And look what I got for you for after lunch.\" She fumbled in the basket for a moment and took out a fat masculine cigar. \"If you don't like it, I'll strangle you,\" she said. \"It was the most expensive one they had.\"\n\nFinally he relented, or at least his body did; he threw himself back on the grass and laughed. Sunlight spotted his chest and face, spots like shiny yellow eyes.\n\nShe was laughing too, a liquid twittering, but suddenly stopped. \"I hope you're not laughing at me,\" she said. She blinked her eyes wide.\n\nHe only laughed the harder, laughing at both of them, laughing most of all at the hard core of stodginess in himself that he was afraid of. Unresting shadows poured down his throat, leaf shadows twinkled on his face.\n\n\"Oh, you are.\" She was going to become angry. She looked about for something to throw at his convulsed thin chest.\n\n\"I'm not laughing at you.\" He lifted his hand, smiled at her. \"No, really, I'm not....But you're too much for me. You're simply too much.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's right. You're a happy child of na\u00adture. Simple. Pure. You can't understand my sophisticated complexity.\" She dumped salad from the moist plastic bag onto a paper plate. \"Here, nature boy, eat....You're an animal.\"\n\n\"In a lot of ways, that's true,\" he said, his voice taking an unconsciously serious edge. \"I am sim\u00adple, and you are pretty sophisticated. Anyway, you understand both of us better than I under\u00adstand myself.\"\n\nShe took the wine bottle, peeled away the foil, unscrewed the top and poured. \"Here,\" she said. \"Drink this down and shut up. You'll give me a headache with all that psychological talk.\"\n\nHe hushed and they ate in silence. He kept looking at her, at her cool blond hair so spattered with light and shadow, at the way she moved her hands so freely, at the whiteness of her throat. So pretty she was, small and wom\u00adanly, clear-eyed; it was a catch in his breathing. Her emotions were so mobile\u2014she felt and re\u00adsponded to the slightest movement of things about her immediately and without hindrance \u2014that he often forgot the chromium-bright hard mind which shone in the center. She was, after all, possessed of a nice intellect, superior perhaps to his own. In the core of his throat he breathed a wistful sigh, still looking. She colored slightly under his fixed gaze; she had misinter\u00adpreted it. Ho-ho-ho: so that was the drift of the breeze, was it? Her careful picnic was really a praeludium to the unaccustomed joy of making love in the open air. \"In sight of God and everybody.\" He leaned back and got out his handker\u00adchief and wiped at his fingers all runny with the juices of the bird. He smiled a slight dark smile.\n\nShe moved again, looked away; grew fretful under his stare. \"Well, what is it then?\" she said. \"Do you see something you haven't seen be\u00adfore?\"\n\nHe grinned, picked up the waxed paper cup and held it toward her, \"Let's have another drink.\"\n\nShe mimed drawing away. \"I don't know,\" she said. \"Maybe you've had enough already. Maybe too much. You've already got staring drunk.\" She poured the cup full.\n\n\"That's the way, baby,\" he said. \"Lay it on me.\"\n\nShe put down the bottle and flung a chicken bone at him. He sprang at her\u2014the motion ex\u00adaggerated, sudden\u2014caught her shoulder and tumbled her over. She almost wiggled loose, but he caught her forearm and held her. She tugged as hard as she could; her face was hot and scar\u00adlet. They rolled wildly over and over in the grasses and tablecloth. Finally she got his shoul\u00adder under a pink-clad knee and held him pinned fast on one side. Her voice took a hoarse false edge. \"You idiot.\"\n\n\"Who, me?\" He lay still. He touched her breast gently with his forefinger; held it cupped. \"Yes, yes indeed,\" he said.\n\n\"You idiot,\" she said. The hard edge had melted off her voice.\n\nHe felt soft and lazy, murmuring, \"Yes, yes indeed.\"\n\nHer hair had come undone; a twig and a few blades of grass were caught in the bright net of it. She loomed above him, as eminent as if she leaned out of the sky. She seemed yielding and fiercely happy. Caught in the top limbs of the undergrowth behind her was a red round flicker he had first took to be a balloon. It bobbed, dis\u00adappeared.\n\n\"Stop a minute,\" he said. He clasped the back of her hand, squeezed it firmly. \"Wait...Let me up.\"\n\nShe got off and sat, clasping her knees with her forearms. He rose and the little fat man stepped out of the alder thicket. His face was like a balloon, red as catsup from wind and sun, and his grimy grin was so fixed it might have been painted. Yellowish whisker stubble was smeared on his chin and neck. He came forward in a sort of rolling slouch, his hands balled, stuffed into the pockets of his overalls. Under the overalls he wore no shirt and the fat on his chest moved with a greasy undulation as he breathed; one nipple was not covered by the bib of the overalls and it shone, obese; it was like the breast of a girl just come to puberty. Though he wore no shirt he wore a hat, a misshapen black felt object which looked as if it had been kicked a countless number of times. He must have been in his late fifties.\n\n\"Who are you?\" Peter asked. Thin and ragged query.\n\n\"Well,\" he said. \"I'm Ed Morgan. I live a little ways back over yonder.\" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder pointing north. \"I was just kind of follerin' along the creek here. I've got me some muskrat traps strung out along the creek, and I was just checking up on them. Course it's a little late in the day, but I been busy all morning.\"\n\nHe didn't ask the question he wanted to, but the first one that came to his mind. \"Why is it late in the day?\"\n\nThe fat man gave him a wide ingenuous stare. \"Why,\" he said, \"a man ought to get down to his traps first thing in the morning. A mushrat'll just chew off his foot and get away. Or even if he is good and drownded might be an old mongrel dog'll come along and carry him off. I ought to got down here real early, but like I said I been busy this morning.\"\n\n\"Who gave you permission to trap along here?\" In the fat man's manner there was a careless oily geniality, an attitude of unmovable self-possession, which irked Peter, made the muscles along his shoulder blades feel as if they might begin to twitch. He gave his question a flat tone.\n\n\"Well now, I guess nobody did,\" he said. \"I never have thought about that. I just always have set out my traps here. My daddy did, and I reckon his daddy before him. Tell the truth, I was just getting ready to ask you folks what you was doing here. And then I thought maybe I better not.\" The dingy grin never left his face, not even when he jerked his head aside to loose a spate of tobacco.\n\nWithout moving his body he drew himself up stiffly. \"I'm Peter Leland,\" he said. \"I own this farm.\"\n\nFor what seemed a long time the old man just looked at him. \"Well, I declare,\" he said finally. \"You must be Miz Annie's grandbaby. I don't know how many times I've heard her tell all about you. She set a lot of store by you, you being a preacher and all. Law, she was just as proud of you as a peacock. I don't believe there was ever what you'd call a whole lot of preachers in the Leland family.\"\n\nHe felt the fat man's eyes gauging him, mea\u00adsuring his weight, his probable worth. He would probably look at his caught muskrats in the same way. Peter felt nettled to the point of exaspera\u00adtion. \"Am I to understand that you live on this farm?\"\n\n\"Well, honey, I reckon so. Unless you was to take a notion to put me off. As far as I ever heard tell of, us Morgans has always lived right here on the Leland farm, and even before that, back when it was the old Jimson place. And no telling how long before that, no telling how long we might've been here.\"\n\nHis grin broadened slightly, and Peter had the impression that in the measuring of himself he had been found lacking. Not a pleasant impres\u00adsion. He let the muscles of his forearms relax and found, surprised, that since the little man had come he had been stifling the impulse to strike him in the face. This fat old man's assurance bordered upon, without trespassing into, cockiness. Peter sharply resented being called honey.\n\n\"No one told me there was a tenant family on the farm. Mr. Phelps didn't say a word about it.\" Mr. Phelps was the lawyer who had made the title arrangements, had done all the legal work.\n\nMorgan lifted his hat, scratched the back of his head. Atop his head was a perfectly circular bald spot, the size and color of the crown of a large toadstool. \"Well I declare I don't know,\" he said. \"I guess maybe we been here so long now that folks just takes us for granted. All I know's we been here a long time.\" His gaze shifted momentarily. \"Is that your pretty little wife?\"\n\nSheila still sat on the grass, her knees caught to her chest. Again her face reddened slightly. She gave Morgan a short jerky nod.\n\n\"Yes, this is Mrs. Leland,\" Peter said. He was unwilling to say it; he felt somehow as if he were giving away an advantage.\n\n\"She sure is a pretty little thing,\" he said. \"I reckon she's about the prettiest Leland woman I ever seen.\"\n\nShe pulled a weed, flung it down again, a ges\u00adture of overt annoyance.\n\nHe sharpened his tone, cut through the thread of this subject. \"Where do you live then? I suppose you have a house on the farm.\" He felt that the brunt of her annoyance fell upon him rather than upon Morgan, and this exasperated him; it was unfair.\n\nAgain the old man jerked his thumb over his flaccid shoulder. \"Just right up yonder, across the creek. You could see it from here if it wasn't for this here thicket. You want to come on over, I'll take you around. It ain't much, but it's what we're used to, what we've always had.\"\n\n\"I think maybe I'd better,\" Peter said. \"I'd better see what I've got into.\" He turned to her. \"Do you want to come along, sweetheart?\"\n\nShe let drop another weed stem from her fingers. \"Not this time,\" she said. She rose and brushed off her slacks with ostentatious care. \"I'll go back to the house. There's so much work I have to do.\"\n\n\"I'll be along shortly,\" he said, turning from her regretfully. Morgan had already started through the underbrush, parting the branches carelessly before him, letting them slap back.\n\nSheila began to gather the debris of the meal, piling everything into the basket. There was still a quarter bottle of wine. She screwed the cap more tightly, looking at the bottle with ran al\u00admost sorrowful expression.\n\nHe followed along clumsily in Morgan's wake. The grass was strident with insects and an occa\u00adsional saw brier clawed at his trousers legs. Once he almost tripped because the earth around the mouth of a muskrat hole crumbled under his foot. A very narrow footlog lay across the stream; the top of it was chipped flat, bore the marks of the hatchet, but worn smooth. Morgan crossed before him, his hands nonchalantly in his pockets, but Peter had to go gingerly, hold\u00ading out his arms to balance himself. Once through the thicket on the other side of the creek, they could see Morgan's house. It was a low weather-stained cabin, nudged into the side of the hill so that while the east end of the house sat on the ground, the wall and the little porch on the west side were stilted up by six long crooked locust logs. There was a tin roof which didn't shine but seemed to waver, to metamor\u00adphose slightly, in the sunny heat. Few windows and dark, and a stringy wisp of smoke from the squat chimney. In a corner of the yard of hard\u00ad-packed dirt below the house sat a darkened out\u00adhouse.\n\n\"There it is yonder,\" Morgan said. \"I reckon you can tell it ain't much, but it's what we're used to. It'll do for us, I guess.\"\n\nBefore them lay what must once have been a fairly rich field of alfalfa; now it was spotted with big patches of Queen Anne's lace and ragweed, and the alfalfa looked yellow and sickly, its life eaten away at by the dodder parasite. Morgan waded through it cheerfully, obviously compla\u00adcent about the condition of the crop, and Peter kept as much as possible in the fat man's footsteps. He felt that he didn't know what he might step into in that diseased field.\n\nThey went over the slack rusty barbed wire that enclosed the yard and went around the house to the low back stoop. There was a famil\u00adiar kitchen clatter inside, but when Morgan stepped up on the wide slick boards all noise from inside ceased suddenly. He turned around, grinning still and even more broadly than be\u00adfore. \"Come on in,\" he said. \"We're just folks here.\"\n\nHe entered. At first he couldn't breathe. The air was hot and viscous; it seemed to cling to his hair and his skin. The black wood range was fired and three or four kettles and pans sat on it, steaming away industriously. The ceiling was low, spotted with grease, and all the heat lay like a blanket about his head. The floor was bare, laid with cracked boards, and through the spaces between them he could see the ground beneath the house. There was a small uncertain-looking table before the window on his right, and from the oilcloth which covered it large patches of the red-and-white pattern were rubbed away, showing a dull clay color. From the ceiling hung two streamers of brown flypaper which seemed to be perfectly useless; the snot-sized creatures crawled about everywhere; in an instant his hands and arms were covered with them. And through the steamy smell of whatever unimag\u00adinable sort of meal was cooking, the real odor of the house came: not sharp but heavy, a heated odor, oily, distinctly bearing in it something fishlike, sweetly bad-smelling; he had the quick impression of dark vegetation of immense luxuriance blooming up and momentarily rotting away; it was the smell of rank incredibly rich semen.\n\nBy the black range stood a woman who looked older than Morgan, her hair yellowish white, raddled here and there with gray streaks. She was huge, fatter even than Morgan, her breadth was at least half the length of the stove. She bulged impossibly in her old printed cotton dress and he shuddered inwardly at the thought of her finally bulging out of it, standing before him naked. In proportion to her great torso her arms and legs were very short and in tending her cooking she made slow short motions; she used her limbs no more than she had to, as if these were more or less irrelevant appendages. What was obviously important was the great fat\u00adness of her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She gave Peter a slow but only cursory look, turned her unmoved, unmoving gaze to Morgan. When Morgan introduced Peter she didn't acknowl\u00adedge him by so much as a nod.\n\n\"This here's my wife Ina,\" Morgan said. \"And this here's my daughter Mina. She's the only one of our young'uns that's left with us now. The rest has all gone off different places, they couldn't find nothing to stay around here for, I guess. But Mina's stayed on with the old folks.\"\n\nShe sat at the weak-looking table. He couldn't guess her age, maybe fourteen or fifteen or six\u00adteen. She sat playing with a couple of sticky strands of hair as black as onyx. She leaned back in a little creaky wooden chair and gave him a bald stark gaze. He felt enveloped in the stare, which was not a stare but simply an act of the eyes remaining still, those eyes which seemed as large as eggs, so gray they were almost white, reflecting, almost absolutely still. His skin had prickled at first, he had thought she had no nose, it was so small and flat, stretched on her face as smooth as wax. Leaned back in the chair that way, her body, flat and square, seemed as com\u00adplacent as stone, all filled with calm waiting; this was her whole attitude. She played listlessly with her hair, looking at him. It was impossible. That body so stubby and that face so flatly ugly\u2014something undeniably fishlike about it\u2014and still, still it exercised upon him immediately an attraction, the fascination he might have in watching a snake uncoil itself lazily and curl along the ground. He couldn't believe it; maybe it was the crazy musky odor of the house, confus\u00ading all his impressions, his senses. He had to use his whole will to take his eyes off her.\n\n\"This here's Pete Leland,\" Morgan said. \"He's the one that owns the place now, the whole farm. He's Miz Annie's grandson, and he's a preacher. He's the only Leland I ever heard of that was a preacher.\"\n\nMina gave a soft slow nod, still looking at him, and it was directly to him that she spoke. \"You're awful good-looking,\" she said. \"You're so good-looking I could just eat you up. I bet I could just eat you up.\" Her voice was soft and thick as cotton.\n\nMorgan sniggered. \"Don't pay her no mind,\" he said. \"If you pay her any mind she'll drive you crazy, I swear she will.\"\n\nBut it had started and the whole while he walked back to the big brick house\u2014going not the way he came, but following the winding red dirt road along the hillside\u2014her flat dark face hung like a warning lantern in his mind. He couldn't unthink her image.\nTHREE\n\nPeter Leland would have admitted himself that his choice of the ministry as profession had risen hazy from his soiled smoky imagination. He would have admitted that he saw the Christian religion as a singularly uncheerful endeavor, and this he would have admitted as a fault in himself, one he felt powerless to remedy. It was simply that his black imagination forced him to take everything all too seriously, and exercised a partially debilitating influence on his work. He had, for instance, no very consoling bedside manner, and his hospital visits with members of his congregation turned out invariably to be ex\u00adtremely awkward affairs. And a few of his ser\u00admons might vie with some of Jonathan Edwards' for gloominess, though Peter lacked that zealous fire. One symptom of his racked fancy showed itself in his fantasies about his father, who had died when Peter was so young that he could not at all remember him. His father had died when the family lived here on the farm, and Peter's mother had taken him away then to live with her and her parents in the eastern part of the state. Her family was pretty well off financially\u2014her father owned an important electrical-appliance distributorship\u2014and they were able to send Peter to the single large privately en\u00addowed university in the state. During his fresh\u00adman year there his mother had died. Peter was shocked, grieved deeply, but he was not sur\u00adprised. His mother had been long waning; she had always been a pale silent little woman, and this white quietude he had only half-consciously attributed to her grieving for his dead father. This was the one subject, at any rate, upon which she was completely reticent. The re\u00admarks of her family, that before her marriage she had been very gay and lively, he hardly credited; his observation wouldn't bear them out. When he had asked her how his father had died she had absolutely refused to speak of it, had only hinted that there was a terrifying dis\u00adease of some sort. So that in his dark mid-adoles\u00adcence he had begun to imagine that this disease was probably hereditary, had begun to wonder when it might overtake him also. He would imagine it as sudden and painlessly fatal, a black stifling area of wool dropped over him abruptly; or he would think of it as gradual and excruciat\u00ading, a blob of soft metal dissolving in acid. And even when his adolescence was gratefully behind him he had never lost completely a secret vague conviction that his days were limited, that a deep bitter end awaited him at some random juncture of his life. This notion accounted in part for his mordant turn of mind, but still it was mainly a symptom: his whole nature was self-\u00adminatory.\n\nAnd it was mostly because of this that he had become an active minister, for he would have enjoyed much more, and would have been more at ease in, a purely scholarly life. He would have much preferred the examination of Greek manuscripts and of his own looming conscience to the responsibility\u2014he felt it a heavy responsi\u00adbility\u2014for the welfare of the souls of his little congregation of the First Methodist Church of Afton, North Carolina. His mind wouldn't let him rest in the leather-bound study. When he considered this inviting possibility a voice warn\u00ading him that he was choosing a career of self-indulgence spoke in his head, and this voice he heeded without too regretful a delay. In his sen\u00adior year and then during his years in the seminary he had armed himself the best he knew how to meet the world as an active, even a mili\u00adtant, Christian minister. That he had strange ideas about how to prepare himself to encounter the world was a consequence of his sheltered life. His mother had been understandably pro\u00adtective of him, and her family, curiously, had maintained her attitude. It was as if they shared some of his own premonition about his fate. They had been content somehow\u2014they had seemed relieved\u2014with his choice of profession and had willingly seen him through the semi\u00adnary.\n\nAnd despite the unworldliness of his younger life he had made a competent though hardly a thunderously successful minister. Perhaps it was the continued awareness of his own frailty which made him tolerant of the frailties of oth\u00aders, but his admonishment of the peccadilloes of his congregation\u2014and in the town of Afton they were only peccadilloes\u2014was couched in gentle terms gravely humorous. But the scholar in him would come out. A lecture concerning a histori\u00adcal problem of theology was sometimes offered them for a sermon; and they on their side were tolerant also. Perhaps they were pleased finally at having a preacher with brains, for their toler\u00adance actually came to something more than that. Perhaps they even interpreted the intent of these scholarly discourses correctly, as ges\u00adtures he wanted to make to indicate that even on the other side, out of the competitive fight which comprised the world they knew, it wasn't easy; that a faith doesn't drop as the gentle rain from heaven but is formed in continual intellec\u00adtual and spiritual agony. Also it was simple enough to give a conventional sermonizing point to such discourse, for every genuine moral problem does ultimately impinge on a man's daily life.\n\nIt was from one of his sermons, in fact, that his present project had emerged. Although the problem had at first been no more than a pre\u00adtext for a sermon, when he had later pondered his own words the subject had seized him, and as much time as he could in conscience squeeze from his duties he devoted to a sketchy re\u00adsearch. In time he decided to write a mono\u00adgraph, perhaps a book. He allowed himself a couple of months' vacation\u2014the sudden inheriting of the farm was an almost unbelievable slice of luck\u2014and from their inconsiderable savings account he had allowed himself three thousand dollars, even though he wasn't quite certain how all that money was to be utilized. \"Three thousand is an outside figure,\" he told Sheila. For the sermon he had taken his texts from the First Book of Samuel, \"And when they arose early on the morrow morning, behold, Dagon was fallen upon his face to the ground before the ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stump of Dagon was left to him. Therefore neither the priests of Dagon, nor any that come into Dagon's house, tread on the threshold of Dagon in Ashdod unto this day.\" Then he reminded them of Samson, delivered into the hands of the Philistines by the bitch Delilah. \"Then the lords of the Philistines gath\u00adered them together for to offer a great sacrifice unto Dagon their god, and to rejoice: for they said, Our god hath delivered Samson our enemy into our hand.\" It was that temple of Dagon, he said, which Samson had destroyed with his hands, pulling it down with its pillars. Peter, seeming even taller in his perpendicular robe, pale and angular leaning forward in the pulpit, had informed his not very attentive audience that Dagon was simply one more of the pagan fertility deities; in Phoenicia his name was con\u00adnected with the word dagan, meaning \"corn,\" though this name finally derived from a Semitic root meaning \"fish.\" He recalled the description by Milton in the catalogue of fallen angels:\n\nNext came one\n\nWho mourn'd in earnest, when the Captive Ark\n\nMaim'd his brute Image, head and hands lopt off\n\nIn his own Temple, on the grunsel edge,\n\nWhere he fell flat, and sham'd his Worshipers:\n\nDagon his Name, Sea Monster, upward Man\n\nAnd downward Fish.\n\nHe had noted how the figure of Dagon had at\u00adtached to the sensibilities of Renaissance histo\u00adrians, his story being told by Selden, Sandys, Purchas, Ross, and by Sir Walter Raleigh in his history of the world. The congregation shifted from ham to ham, resentfully itchy under this barrage of verse and unfamiliar names. But Peter had continued to read from his notes, say\u00ading that the human imagination had been hard put to it to let go this crippled fertility figure. The worship of Dagon had even traveled to America. He read to them from William Brad\u00adford's history of the Plymouth colony the story of Mount Wollaston:\n\nAfter this they fell to great licentiousness and led a dissolute life, pouring out themselves into all profaneness. And Morton became Lord of Misrule, and maintained (as it were) a School of Atheism. And after they had got some goods into their hands, and got much by trading with the Indians, they spent it as vainly in quaffing and drinking, both wine and strong waters in great excess.... They also set up a maypole, drinking and dancing about it many days together, inviting the Indian women for their consorts, dancing and frisking together like so many fairies, or furies, rather; and worse prac\u00adtices. As if they had anew revived and cele\u00adbrated the feasts of the Roman goddess Flora, or the beastly practices of the mad Bacchanalians. Morton likewise, to show his poetry composed sundry rhymes and verses, some tending to lasciviousness, and others to the detraction and scandal of some persons, which he affixed to this idle or idol maypole. They changed also the name of their place, and instead of calling it Mount Wollaston they call it Merry-mount, as if this jollity would have lasted ever. But this con\u00adtinued not long, for after Morton was sent for England... shortly after came over that worthy gentleman Mr. John Endecott, who brought over a patent under the broad seal for the govern\u00adment of Massachusetts. Who, visiting those parts, caused that maypole to be cut down and rebuked them for their profaneness and admonished them to look there should be better walk\u00ading. So they or others now changed the name of their place again and called it Mount Dagon.\n\nHere he had closed his notes and in the few minutes remaining he preached in earnest. The worship of Dagon, he said, still persisted in America. The characteristics which had made this god attractive to men were clearly evident in the society that encircled them. Didn't the Dagon notion of fertility dominate? Frenzied, incessant, unreasoning sexual activity was in\u00advited on all sides; every entertainment, even the serious entertainment, the arts, seemed to suppose this activity as basis. This blind sexual Bac\u00adchanalia was inevitably linked to money\u2014one had only to think of the omnipresent advertise\u00adments, with all those girls who alarmed the eye. A mere single example. And wasn't the power of money finally dependent upon the continued proliferation of product after product, dead ob\u00adjects produced without any thought given to their uses? Weren't these mostly objects without any truly justifiable need? Didn't the whole of American commercial culture exhibit this end\u00adless irrational productivity, clear analogue to sexual orgy? And yet productivity without re\u00adgard to eventual need was, Peter maintained, actually unproductivity, it was really a kind of impotence. This was the paradox which the figure of Dagon contained. To worship Dagon was to worship a maimed, a mutilated god, a god to whom \"only the stump\" remained. Dagon had lost both head and hands, only his loins re\u00admained; and below the waist he was fish, most unthinking of animals. Dagon was symbol both of fertility and infertility; he represented the fault in mankind to act without reflecting, to do without knowing why, to go, without knowing where. Was it simply coincidence that Merry-mount had changed its name to Mount Dagon after Endicott had chopped down the maypole? Or might it not be a continuation of the worship of crippled sexuality? The ruined Dagon and the chopped maypole mirrored each other too clearly, didn't they? It couldn't be coincidence. But even if these manifestations were inde\u00adpendent they still emerged from that human sickness, the worship of uncaring physical discharge, onanism, impotence, nihilism hurtling at a superspeed. It was this unconscious regard that he wished them to root from their hearts. He insisted that a Christian life was of necessity a reflective life, that useless movement, unrest\u00ading expenditure of substance and spirit, was alien to it. He exhorted them to continual vigi\u00adlance. He admitted that it wasn't an easy thing he asked.\n\nHere he ended, and was aware for the first time of the weighty boredom his words had created.\n\nHis congregation sat before him listless as sun-bleached stones. He looked at them tiredly, then looked at Sheila sitting before him in her encouraging front pew. Her yellow hair shone bright, falling over the shoulders of her dark blue dress. She grinned. Her torso rose and fell with the burden of a heavy mock sigh. With the back of her hand she wiped away imaginary sweat from her forehead....Anger flooded him momentarily. If it was a dull sermon for her, tough luck. It had been for him an earnest try, he had said something that he honestly cared about. His wife, for God's sake, ought to stand with him....But the effort was too much after the long sermon and his anger evaporated. He was merely annoyed and tired. He answered her with a resigned shrug and announced the final hymn. \"Let us sing number 124. 'Thou hid\u00adden love of God,\" he said. \"Let us please sing only the first and last verses.\" He reckoned on a long afternoon of relentless teasing\u2014half\u00ad-serious\u2014from his bright pretty wife.\n\nAnd in some ways he dreaded it. As an intellectual opponent she was formidable, and once she had caught him in an awkward position she wouldn't let up. This was an attitude of hers he couldn't help resenting at times, even though he recognized that it was an attitude which his own nature needed for any kind of wholesome bal\u00adance. If he had been deliberately shopping for temperaments, he couldn't have got better than Sheila's\u2014wry, tough, at times baldly sarcastic\u2014as an antidote for his own pessimistic nature, which was too often unwillingly pompous. Mar\u00adriage with a gloomier, less sceptical nature would surely have been consummated in a sui\u00adcide pact. Sheila simply refused to take him as seriously as he took himself. \"All that nonsense...\" He couldn't help, in a way, envying her her full generosity of movement and feel\u00ading; but he was simply not like that, he was too knotted, ponderous. She would twit him then, he took it as one takes a too-acid medicine: it tastes so bitter, it must do some good. He would like to have the barrier broken, that wall be\u00adtween him and the ordinariness of life. This he genuinely wanted, to prank and disport in the tepid waters of dailiness, of pettiness, of the trivia which comprise existences. He would like to spend hours dawdling over his morning coffee, or choosing which socks to buy or which greeting card to send. But he was as he was, not even Sheila could break that down. An ener\u00advating sense of guilt drove him to study, to learn, to preach, to visit, to harass, to perform good works. He could not answer the question whether works properly good could proceed from an exaggerated feeling of guilt; neither could he suppress the question.\n\nBut there was Sheila. She had married him as soon as he was out of seminary, though their contact in those four years had been through letters almost entirely. The courtship and actual wooing had gone on before, when he was at the university where she was a student. She had lasted out the four-year wait easily enough, rather gaily; and he couldn't help wondering if her nature didn't demand his as much as his demanded hers. His faults were the faults of so\u00adlidity, and perhaps the solidity was what she needed to attach to. It might be all too easy for her free humor to fog away into frivolity. A comforting thought, her need for him; made him feel less parasitic....She was a fine girl, would be a fine mother, but though they had been married four years\u2014he was now thirty-two\u2014there were no children. The childlessness both\u00adered Peter; he felt it almost as a debt he owed and which he might be called upon to pay at any time, any moment when he would be unpre\u00adpared. Simply one more instance of the way his impending fate would catch him up helpless.\n\n\"Why didn't you just read us the whole ency\u00adclopedia?\" she asked. She dished out pertly the cool Sunday luncheon salad. \"That really would have been entertaining.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure you ought to come to church to be entertained,\" he said.\n\n\"Wow. You can say that again.\"\n\n\"Maybe you should come with a reasonable hope for edification.\"\n\nShe peeped at him tartly. \"Do you know what hell is? It's edification without entertainment. Big mountains of boredom.\"\n\nHis anger wouldn't come back, he felt empty. \"Oh, come on. It wasn't that bad, was it?\"\n\n\"I don't know. How bad did you want it to be?\"\n\n\"I didn't want it to be bad at all. Matter of fact, I thought it was pretty interesting myself. Sort of sexy.\"\n\n\"That's because it's an idea you found. That's the reason you like it. I doubt if any of it applies much to people now. It all seemed so...histori\u00adcal. So distant.\"\n\n\"But that's the point. I don't think it is. Didn't you listen to the last part? I was trying to show the pertinence...\"\n\n\"Yes, yes. I heard. But I don't like it.\"\n\nShe got up abruptly and left the table. He felt morose and dissatisfied. But she came back in a few minutes and poured the coffee.\n\n\"Hurry up and drink that down. I want to find out firsthand all this crazy wild endless Ameri\u00adcan sex you keep talking about.\"\nFOUR\n\nThe work wasn't coming along so easily. The idea still held him, it still seemed a valid and terrifying notion, but so far he hadn't un\u00adpacked his notes and books and papers. He would sleep late in the mornings, a habit alien to him, would lie tossing in the tall dark bed in the upstairs bedroom they had chosen. Dreams tortured him, jerking him awake sweating and with a dusty acrid taste in his mouth, but he was unable to remember these dreams; he could recall only dark queer impressions, odors. Then when he rose and had eaten\u2014for some reason his appetite had increased; he who had never really cared for food seemed now always hungry\u2014he wandered about the house, not speaking much; and in the after\u00adnoons he would take long walks over the farm, usually alone. Now and then, with nothing he could perceive to trigger it, the queer face of Mina would pop into his mind, and always at her image his stomach felt queasy, his skin prickly. He complained a great deal.\n\n\"Sure enough,\" Sheila said, \"I've never seen you so restless.\"\n\n\"I just can't get started.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't worry about it so much. I've al\u00adways heard that people who write things have to go a long time sometimes when they can't write. Professional writers and people, I mean.\"\n\n\"This isn't like that.\" He wished that he didn't sound so abrupt.\n\nShe shrugged. \"I wouldn't worry about it too much. You deserve a nice vacation, anyway.\"\n\n\"Not till I've really done something.\"\n\nThe house managed to occupy much of his attention. It was large enough to explore: six\u00adteen rooms in all, not counting the many closets and areaways and the tall attic. Standing in a room on another floor and at the opposite end of the building he could sense Sheila's move\u00adments; that was how alive the house was for him. The pleasure he took in poking about was rather a morose pleasure\u2014like so many of his pleas\u00adures. He opened trunks and drawers and stood contemplating the masses of stiff gauzy dresses and dark woolen shirts and trousers. Uncomfort\u00adable as the clothing looked he had sometimes to suppress the impulse to dress himself in it, to try to find out, like a child, exactly how his grand\u00adparents had felt in it. Now it seemed to him, as he became more closely acquainted with the house, that all his surmises about his grandpar\u00adents had been only partially correct, that he had missed something central, something essential about them that he could discover in himself if only he looked hard enough. It was not all just soured Puritanism, it was something even darker, if that were possible. One trunk was al\u00admost filled with correspondence and receive Christmas cards and beneath these, lying loose, about three dozen shotgun shells of varying gauges; but there was no gun in the house. In one drawer was a small tin box half filled with dynamite caps. The correspondence was impos\u00adsible. Very few of the letters were signed and the writing was always illegible, always border\u00ading upon illiteracy. \"Our if i ca'nt pay that much Why then i will exspect just what You had oferd the 1st time...my legel rites ech time...the religiun you clame to profess.\" There were words so entirely illegible they looked almost like transliterations from some exotic tongue, ancient Pnakotic perhaps: \"Nephreu,\" \"Yogg Sothoth,\" \"Ka nai Hadoth,\" \"Cthulhu.\" The effort he spent in trying to decipher these letters tired him, and he sometimes got headaches star\u00ading at the dimmed writing in bad light. He felt that the letters were obscurely responsible for the bad dreams that came on him late in the mornings. The letters coated his hands with a dust that he had almost to scrape off.\n\nSheila regarded his explorations with her usual amused tolerance, but this attitude of hers which he had always so needed now rankled him. He felt childish enough on his own without her rubbing it in. She found things enough to do. She kept herself busy with the house; keeping clean just the four or five rooms that they used was almost a day-long task. And she was making a dress, using the old foot-treadle sewing machine which sat in a downstairs hall. The awk\u00adward intermittent clacking of it sang through the house with a sound like a hive of bees. When Peter passed by her as she worked, just wander\u00ading through, she looked up and grinned at him in what she had to begin to hope was a friendly manner, but he didn't grin back. He laid a tact\u00adless absent-minded hand on her shoulder and wandered away, just passing by.\n\nThe attic was the worst. It was narrow but tall, and admitted light through a single small round window, like a porthole, high, just under the arch of the roof. But the light that entered, acrid yellow light, filled the whole space. The light locked with the dust\u2014tons of dust up here\u2014and the atmosphere of the place stuffed his head like a fever. The yellow light was blinding and hot; he breathed slowly and deliberately. It seemed that he perceived this light with every nerve in his body. The attic was mostly empty. On the left side the naked rafters ran down, and here and there nails had been driven into them to hold up a couple of wool coats, which looked almost steamy in the heat, and a couple of long plaited tobacco bed canvases. Piled on the floor were thick sheaves of newspapers, brittle and yellow like the light, and in the light the printed words were withering into unintelligibility. When he nudged a thick folded paper with his toe, it slid forward silently in the thick dust.\n\nIn his head the sight of Mina's face bobbed backward and forward like an empty floating bottle.\n\nAgainst the right wall\u2014which was simply ranked joists and nude lathes through which hardened plaster seemed to be oozing\u2014sat a broken sausage grinder and a small empty keg over the mouth of which generations of spiders had stretched webs. Toward the south, the wall where the light entered, there was a queer ar\u00adrangement of chains. At the angle where the attic floor and two joists met, two thick spikes were driven through two chain links, pinching each chain tightly into the wood. The chains, large chains, ran up each joist to a height of about eight feet, secured at intervals by big hasps, and then from this height they dangled down about a foot. Attached to the ends of the chains were broad iron bands which looked something like colters for plow tongues except that they were hinged on one side so that they could open and shut. Snap. The lock for each chain was some sort of internal affair\u2014the bands were at least a half-inch thick. There was a fairly flexible tongue, notched on one side only, which slipped into the band itself, and on the top of the band was a tiny lever which could be wiggled back and forth. Obviously this lever released the ratchet inside the band so that it could be opened. The chains looked red in the yellow light; he had spent a long time looking at them. He held one of the bands with his index finger and swung it gently. A soft unnerving creak as the chain rubbed against the top hasp. He es\u00adtimated that the empty oval the band enclosed was about four inches in diameter the long way. He stroked his finger along the inside of the band and it came away reddish. Rust, he thought; but it didn't flake, it wasn't gritty like rust. He stood on tiptoe and examined the opening where the band was hinged, where it would pinch. Small hairs gleamed yellow on the red iron, hairs like the down on arms, or eyelashes. His eyes were wide. He sucked his lips. He put the band about his wrist and snapped it shut. It fit exactly; he nodded. And if his other wrist was in the other cuff he wouldn't be able to reach the little lever to free himself. Standing flat he had a sensation of lightness, of dizzy buoyancy, his arm dangling upward like that. The iron was at first cool, then warm; his wrist began to sweat a little in it. Immediately he felt thirsty.\n\nI could just eat you all up, she had said. I could just throw you down and jerk all your clothes off, she said.\n\nHe swung his arm idly; it wasn't so uncomfort\u00adable after all. Iron rasped on iron. He turned his wrist round in the cuff and, yes, it did pinch and pull at the hinge opening. He thumbed the re\u00adlease lever and it went over quite easily, too easily, and the cuff didn't open. He flipped the lever back and forth and jerked his wrist hard again and again. Then he stood quite still. Plumes of dust rose and settled reluctantly, the yellow motes spiraling down. It was clear that he wasn't going to get himself loose. He tried to remember where in the house he had run across the large old file. Could he signal Sheila? She was on the first floor, busy at something. He shouted twice, and his voice seemed muffled even to himself. The sound locked with the dust and lay silent on the floor. His feet were shuffl\u00ading, and he sneezed twice, three times. Up here it was simply lifeless; the house which was so alive everywhere else was dead at the top. Or perhaps Sheila was insensitive to the liveliness of the house. He reached to the other cuff and grasped the margin of chain above it and swung the cuff against the joist. He banged it again and again and he could see that the joist was throb\u00adbing quite soundly, he could feel the floor rever\u00adberating beneath his feet, but when he stopped banging he heard no footsteps. She wasn't com\u00ading; she hadn't heard. And then he did hear footsteps, but they didn't come closer, didn't go anywhere at all. It was just his imagination; no one was walking.\n\nShe had no nose, Mina, any more than a fish. She deeped in oceans of semen.\n\nThe dust rose to his waist, not so violently yellow now. Time was passing, the light was growing less virulent. He leaned against the wall, trying not to breathe too deeply, but it was no good; he kept sneezing and sneezing, and his eyes filled with water, which made the light go all bright again. How could she not feel the house quiver when he hammered? It shuddered all over, the whole fabric of it was shaken. He banged with the chain for a while and then stopped again. His legs ached, it was unbear\u00adable. The guts had rusted in the cuff lock, he must have known. Not rust but blood his finger had searched out on the iron cuff; it was old caked blood, it didn't flake like rust. It had got later and later. His mind and his eyes had got full of fear and the house was full of sounds, all the wrong kind, scraping and slithering. It was as though iron were freezing on his legs. He was trying to take shallow breaths, for when he breathed deeply he had to choke and sneeze; but thinking about it made it impossible and he would finally have to take a long deep breath, and the coughing would turn into retching.\n\nThe thought came to him, as immediate as the binding iron, that this was where his father had died. There wasn't evidence, his mind didn't need evidence, the whole house was full of the fact. His mind was full of the house. The cuff fitted exactly. The image in his head was an event he had already experienced; had stood here with both arms chained, fallen against the hot wall and sweating furiously in the clothes he had fouled all over. He didn't think he could manage to live through it again. But then he realized that the man he knew, both arms locked in the chains, was too short and he car\u00adried too much flesh....They had told him his father had died when he was four. He was a shorter man than his son, the chains wouldn't reach down so far for him; his arms he must have wrenched from their sockets almost. And why had they brought him, Peter, up here to see? His father, not mad, but furiously raging in inhuman anger, with the sweat all over him like yellow paint. His shattered eyes. What was it they had wanted him to see?\n\nHe could not see. There was only a round whitish glow in the top of the wall, noseless, unreadable as Mina. In the darkness objects, the broken sausage mill, the hanging coats, had seeped over their edges, occupied space where they had no mass. Now it was night; the house multiplied its imagined noises which would ad\u00advance and advance certainly and never arrive. But under the narrow door a soft thick pane of light appeared, arced and disappeared; ap\u00adpeared again.\n\nHe heard her. \"Peter? Peter? Are you up here?\"\n\n\"Here,\" he said. He didn't say it. His throat was clogged. He croaked, his mouth was thick and helpless.\n\nWhen she opened the door the draught blew up the dust, invisible now in the darkness. And he coughed and then gagged; wiped his caked mouth on his hanging arm. He imagined how he would look to her, he would frighten her to death; he turned his head to face the light and made his black lips smile. She was holding a kerosene lamp she had found somewhere in the house. He tried to hold his breath again, but drew it in hard and shuddering. It was Mina, it was not Sheila. He was almost weeping and he turned his face away, then turned to look again....No. It was Sheila, with the darkness gathered on her blond hair, and with the lamp held be\u00adfore her and low like that so that her nose had no outlines, looked gone.\n\n\"A fuse must have blown, I think,\" she said. \"This is all the light I could find. What are you doing up here, anyway?\" She held the light close; she could just make him out as yet.\n\nHe got the smile back, tried to fix it.\n\n\"My God.\" She saw him.\n\nHe kept hoping she wouldn't drop the lamp. The attic would burn, go up like a box of matches.\n\n\"My God, Peter...\"\n\nHis speech was like bitter black syrup. \"There's a big file in the top drawer of the chest in the downstairs hall, if you could...\"\n\nShe came to him. The warmth of the lamp spread on his face and neck. \"What is...\"\n\n\"If you could get the file. Sheila.\" He couldn't be franker in begging.\n\nShe stared at his face and then stared away, looking into the glow of the lamp. She had turned the wick too high; sooty threads of smoke rose from the lamp and the bulbous chimney was still blackening. \"Yes,\" she said. When she turned from him her shadow was huge, fell like thick musty cloth on the whole room, on him. Gathered around the light her shape was bunched and dark and it was licked up softly by the dust and fear of the room. He felt relieved when she went out the door, but then she would have to come back again. He feared for her. It was as bad, the way she found him, as he had imagined. He felt a terrifying pity for her.\n\nHis legs felt as if they would topple any mo\u00adment; trembled, trembled. He heard her going down the stairs, and then after that a complete unexpected silence. There were no noises now to imagine. He hawked up sticky spittle, rolled his tongue in it, licked his lips. They tasted acrid, felt puffy.\n\nWhen she came back she seemed to have re\u00adgained herself. She came quickly and confi\u00addently toward him, holding the file in her left hand. \"I declare,\" she said, \"just like a child. I don't see how you could get yourself into such a predicament. Just like a child, can't stay out of trouble.\"\n\nHe took the file she held out. \"I need water,\" he said. \"I don't think I can do it without water.\" He began rubbing immediately at the bottom of a chain link.\n\n\"I declare,\" she said. She went away again.\n\nIn the darkness he rubbed hastily at the chain and then his arm would tire and he would have to stop. He had begun sweating again, and as he worked he was panting. He thought about how silly he must look and he felt very clearly that someone was watching him, noted amusedly his every motion, even his thoughts: Mina.\n\nShe came back with the water. \"I brought a whole bunch of water,\" she said. \"You seemed to want it pretty badly.\" She set down a galvan\u00adized pail half-filled. Inside, a metal cup rolled about slowly. \"Here,\" she said, giving him the cup.\n\nThe first gulps turned the thickness in his mouth into a slick coagulant film and he spat the water out. It dropped in the dust with a sound like rope dropping. He began to swallow hard; he wanted it so much he felt he could almost bite it. He squatted dizzily and dipped his hand into the water and smeared it on his face. Im\u00admediately the dust was in it, his face darkening. He went back to his filing.\n\nSheila was all right, better than he had ex\u00adpected. \"Do you know how they catch monkeys for zoos, monkeys out in the jungle? They make a hole in the coconut shell\u2014they have the shell tied tight first, of course\u2014and inside they put some kind of small nuts a monkey likes. The hole is just large enough for him to get his hand in, but when he clenches his hand to hold the nuts, then the hole is too small and he can't get loose. He's too stingy or too stupid to let go the nuts. That's how they do it. But you know, I never really believed that they could capture monkeys that way until I saw you standing here with your hand caught like that. And not even having the excuse of nuts or whatever to get you to stick your hand in. Did you ever stick your hand in the fire because it looked so nice and hot? I don't mean now, I know you're too smart to do some\u00adthing like that now; but when you were younger, maybe. Maybe when you were in col\u00adlege?\"\n\nHe shook his head, keeping the grimness of his face away from her. He had got the link through in one place now and had begun to make a new cut. He thought that she was talking in order to quell her nervousness. He sweated heavily, wishing that he hadn't dirtied the water in the pail; the thirst was on him again.\n\n\"But you know, when I couldn't find you, I honestly just knew it was something like this, I honestly did. The way you've been poking about into every nook and cranny in this house a per\u00adson would think you were expecting to find a fortune, a pot of gold. Behind a secret panel or something like that. Really. I've never seen any\u00adone so dopey about something before. Of course, that's your way\u2014I know it\u2014if there's anything at all around you can take as seriously as cancer, you'll do it. Know what? Watching you wander around all mopey like that, I've just wanted to tell you that if the house bothered you all that much we could get a tent and set up in the fields. Or if you were really bothered we could go home. But you wouldn't let loose of the house, not for anything. Just like those monkeys they catch.\"\n\nHe was almost free now, but he had to stop. The muscles in his forearm were jerking from the fiery exertion. She went on talking and now he wished she would be quiet, just hush up. He stroked his forearm against his thigh and wiped the sweat from his face on his left shoulder where his shirt was already wet and filthy from the reflex. He went back to work.\n\n\"...And if you think I'm giving you a hard time, you're right,\" she said. \"And don't think you don't deserve it, every bit.\"\n\nThe longer length of chain slapped against the wall, rebounded. His arm plummeted, the cuff banged against his thigh; there would be a bruise there. He was free. He sat down, hugging his knees, pain rushing to them. He put his head on his knees. His seeing was contracting and expanding in circles. He was almost weeping.\n\nAt last he stood up, Sheila helping him. \"Let's go down,\" he said. He took the lamp from her, turned down the wick, and they went down to\u00adgether. He had retained the file; the four links dangled from the cuff, touched his leg. Stranger than ever, the house in the moving lamplight; shadows deeper and alive, shifting upon them\u00adselves. The varnished furniture reflected the dull glow in spots like dull eyes. They were en\u00adclosed in the lamp's burning, he leaning slightly against her, dirty, tired, musing, the chain flop\u00adping; she took his weight on her shoulder, her arm thrown over his shoulders, her hand gripping his shirt.\n\nIn the kitchen they let go. He set the lamp on the drainboard of the sink, ran cold water on his face and hair, shaking his head. When he straightened the water streaked his shirt. \"Okay,\" he said. \"I'll take a look at the fuse box.\" Now she took the lamp and followed him to the short hallway by the kitchen. He didn't open the box. \"The switch is thrown,\" he said. His foot encountered something soft and warm, and he bent and picked up a heavy woolen overcoat; blue this one was. The house was cluttered with them. \"This coat,\" he said, \"it must have got hung on the switch here. The weight of it pulled the power off.\"\n\nShe put her fingers on her open mouth, all embarrassed. \"I was just straightening up,\" she said. \"I didn't know that it...I'm sorry.\" She brushed her chin lightly, a gesture of disbelief. \"I'm sorry.\"\n\nHe threw the switch. All the lights went on. Everything looked naked now, the walls, the furniture; and they seemed naked too and turned away from each other as if in shame. Only for a moment. He took the lamp from her and screwed the wick down almost out of sight; a fragile bloom of black smoke rose from the chimney where the flame went out. \"Here.\" He handed her the heavy coat and she took it, not quite meeting his gaze yet, and hugged it to her. The tail of it fell, hiding her body. She stared at him. \"I really am sorry,\" she said. \"Really.\"\n\nHe tapped the cuff on his wrist with the big file. \"I'm going to get this off,\" he said, \"and then I'm going to take a bath. Hot water and six bars of soap.\"\n\n\"All right,\" she said. \"Good enough. And I'll fix us some supper. It must be nine o'clock.\"\n\nHe considered. \"None for me, though. I really don't feel like eating.\"\n\n\"Well...How about coffee then?\"\n\n\"Coffee, fine.\"\nFIVE\n\nHe had found a little straight chair with a sag\u00adging cane bottom and he sat there in the short hallway slowly and steadily rasping at the cuff. The grainy powder dripped on his shoes. He figured he could cut through on one edge where the cuff snapped shut and then cut through the tongue. Then he would be free. There was no hurry now, but fear wouldn't leave him. He had seen his father like that, a short man with huge terrifying eyes. Inheriting the farm he had inherited Mina, inheriting the house he had inherited chains. There was more to come, something was catching up with him. He had never considered that fright could have such dimensions as when Sheila had brought in the lamp, he taking her for Mina. He ought to see the girl again; of course, she was only poor and ordinary. It was the house and the isolation working in his head. Incon\u00adgruous images falling together all silly. But he could not convince himself; all his thoughts, and even his body, lacked conviction.\n\nHow well, really, was he remembering?\n\nHe has lost the way, his grandmother said. But her voice couldn't have sounded the way it did in his mind, like metal creaking on metal; no one had ever sounded like that\u2014it was the way her image in the tinted photograph in the sun parlor would speak. He has lost the way, now see what he has come to. You will too if you ever get lost like your father. He was squirming to get away from her, struggling not to see, but her fingers, complacently strong as iron, held his wrists. He would not look at the attic wall, but he could not help looking. Now he felt that he had been called upon to judge his father, but now he did not know the standards by which judgment was to be made. He stopped the filing and rubbed his nose. Perhaps in his first encoun\u00adter with the house he had been correct: those standards had disappeared from the earth forever....No....\n\nWhat was certain was that he couldn't quench the image of Mina; it came to his mind ever more insistently. The confusion between Mina and his wife seemed incredible, even with the crouched darkness and the bad light. It could be explained only by expectancy; he had been con\u00advinced that it was Mina who would come through that door. And her face remembered was intractable entirely; it wouldn't respond to any maneuver of his imagination, it offered no similes, as totally itself as the taste of garlic. But what did it mean? Why did it drift in his thought unattached, coming and going like a light wink\u00ading an indecipherable code?\n\nThe cuff dropped to the cool tile floor and he let the file drop too, his right hand hot from the pressure of it. The weight of the iron he still felt on his wrist. He leaned forward to rest, his el\u00adbows on his knees. Then he straightened in his chair and kicked the gaping iron ring as hard as he could. It slid across the floor, struck the wall and rebounded, came slithering back and touched against his foot. He rose and went down the hall to the bathroom, rubbing his wrist.\n\nHe leaned over the ugly yellowing tub which sat high on four legs with claw feet, and pushed in the plug. He breathed gratefully the steam that rose when he drew the hot water; he had been afraid that the power had been off so long the water would be cold in the tank. When he saw his face in the little streaked cabinet mirror he wasn't shocked, but regretfully assured in\u00adstead. His eyes and mouth seemed holes poked in stiff gray paper. His eyes were pink-edged, his hair stiff and spiky with the clotted dust. While the water was drawing he washed his face at the little chipped lavatory. The water made his wrist itch and burn and he saw there the broad raw ichorous streak the iron had put on him. Then he stripped; his shirt and undershirt came off reluctantly, plastered to his skin with sweat and grime. He held them at arm's length, they were almost unrecognizable. He let them drop, he had decided to burn them. He climbed into the tub and lolled back, just letting the water lap into the dust. After a while he began to scrub earnestly and the water became almost inky. He had to let it out and draw a new tub.\n\nHe lay there, eyes closed, resting in the new water. He heard the door open and looked to see Sheila entering, her full arms cradled. He watched her face, pink and oval but with the sharp chin, a face like a brightly buffed fingernail. \"Well,\" she said, you seem well out of danger now.\"\n\n\"I think I'll live.\" He spoke very slowly, his throat still feeling dense. \"I hope to God.\"\n\n\"I brought you some clean clothes and things. You think maybe that will help?\"\n\n\"It'll be fine. How about the coffee?\"\n\n\"You want it now\u2014in the bathtub?\" Then, seeing his expression: \"Oh. Okay. I'll go get it. It ought to be about ready now.\"\n\nIn a while she came back, carrying cup and saucer, balancing them with exaggerated care in her left hand. He sat up and reached for it, but she stepped back sharply. The coffee slopped into the saucer. \"My God,\" she said. \"Look at your wrist. It looks horrible. Just look at your poor wrist.\"\n\nHe was totally ashamed; dropped his injured hand into the water, hid it behind his naked left thigh. \"It's nothing,\" he said.\n\n\"It's not nothing. It's all torn up. Here, let me see it. We're going to have to do something about that. It looks just awful.\"\n\n\"It's all right, it's nothing.\"\n\nShe searched his face with the cool gray gaze. It felt like a spray of cold water on him. He discovered that he wanted to cower away from her stare; now she had the goods on him, now she knew his whole guilt. She stepped carefully away from him and around and set the cup and saucer atop the cistern of the toilet. Then she came back, sat on the tub edge. \"It's not all right. How can you say that? It's raw and bleeding....Here.\" She reached for the wrist, but he jerked it away, behind his back.\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nShe straightened herself, shook water from her gleaming plump hand. She began to talk slowly, in a quiet voice. \"Peter, what is it? What's been wrong with you lately? What hap\u00adpened up there in that attic?\"\n\nHe shook his head. \"Nothing; nothing hap\u00adpened. I was just being silly, messing around with those chains.\"\n\n\"That's not right.\" She too shook her head, setting the blond strands atwitch. \"I've never seen you like that. I've never seen anyone like that.\" She rubbed her eyes with her forearm. \"I hope I never see anybody in such a state again.\"\n\nShe was merciless. He waited, but finally had to speak. \"There's nothing wrong. I just got too curious about the chains. Like the monkeys you were talking about. There's not much that can happen to a fellow alone in an attic, after all.\" And now he felt that he was betraying her, be\u00adtraying both of them. But, really, wasn't it merely a harmless lie designed to shelter her feelings?\n\n\"Oh, that's not right, that's not right at all.\" Verge of exasperation. \"You know it's not like that....Because it's been going on too long. There's been something wrong with you ever since we got to the farm.\"\n\n\"What's that? What are you talking about?\" A question meant to embarrass her, to force her to describe behavior for which there was no good description; thus, to draw from her an accusation because of the lack of concrete\u00adness. Perhaps an accusation was what he most wanted....\n\nShe skirted the trap as easily as a plump dowa\u00adger, lifting her hem demurely, would avoid a puddle. She looked at his dampening forehead. \"I don't think this place is healthy for you, I know it's not. I don't think we ever should have come here.\"\n\nNow he knew he was on safer ground, but he didn't feel any more confident. \"That's pretty silly, don't you think? I mean, really; it sounds like something out of a horror story or a Bela Lugosi movie or something....It doesn't really mean anything, does it?\"\n\nShe rose slowly (but she was angry) and began walking up and down, taking precise military strides like a man. How often it had seemed to Peter that she was a man, maybe more male in the way it counted than he....\"Don't you do that,\" she said. Baldly warning tone. \"Don't you patronize me. Don't say to me, 1 mean, really. You're not the kind to patronize, you don't have the weight. And you know me too well. You know I don't talk just to be talking.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean it that way. Of course I didn't. But you'll have to admit, the way you, put it, it does seem sort of silly and made-up.\"\n\n\"No, it doesn't.\" She was behind him now, standing still. Her voice was tight and even. \"But you've made up your mind not to talk to me about it. You don't even know whether you ever will talk to me again. You're as transparent as a child. Fuck you, just fuck you, Peter Le\u00adland.\"\n\nHe turned amazed, his torso jerked around, and she flung at him the cup of coffee. Her face was hot and white, pale as her eyes. She threw it at him with the awkward grace of a ten-year-old boy. \u2014The fierce coffee splashed on his shoulder and side. The cup smashed on one of the tub faucets. Coffee, the dark stain, spread in the water like a storm filling the sky. He could not speak, could not think; could never have guessed her violence. She did not relent. She marched out, again tightly military, not glanc\u00ading at him. Going away, she held her back and shoulders stiff. She didn't slam the door, didn't close it. The cold air of the hall poured in on him.\n\nHe could not speak, he could not smile at her rage. He had never felt less humorous. He got up very slowly and carefully. It was hard to see the chips of the broken cup in the darkened water. He sat poised on the edge of the tub, searching the floor. There lay the slim curved handle of the cup, retaining its identity in a sur\u00adprising manner. He picked his way tiptoe over the floor and put on his underwear and his socks and shoes. Then he felt safer, but no better. He picked up the shards from the floor and dropped them into the toilet; he drained the tub, but let the broken china remain.\n\nThen he felt that he had nothing to do, he was at a loss. Had it really been so bad, trapped in the chains? He went through, sensing the whole presence of the house about him, and in the kitchen took down cup and saucer and poured coffee. A package of Sheila's menthol-flavored cigarettes lay on the table and he got one out and lit it. He hadn't smoked one of this sort since he was twenty years old. The sensation was sur\u00adprising, but not unpleasant. He puffed assidu\u00adously and felt gratified. He drank the coffee slowly. Then he rose; he felt, rather than heard, Sheila's movements in the upstairs bedroom. She was readying for bed.\n\nHe went back through the house again, turn\u00ading out the lights, and he mounted the stairs in the dark, sliding his hand along the solid cool banister. As he went up, it came to him how the things in the house, the furniture, even the stairs and the walls, seemed important to him, seemed to mean intelligible puzzling comments, while things not connected with the house, with his new knowledge\u2014whatever sort it was\u2014did not touch and were unimportant. Even alien, per\u00adhaps. What real connection did Sheila have with the house, with his past? With him? The thought felt true, that she was an intruder, nettlesome.\n\nShe lay in the bed with her face turned away from him toward the wall. The bed had a high solid headboard, about six feet tall, and was dark, like almost all the furniture in the house. Her pale head looked small, settled at the bot\u00adtom of the headboard, not larger than a thumb\u00adnail. It would be best not to speak to her. She had left only the lamp on the big dark vanity burning, and by this light he undressed. His body was reflected in the three mirrors. He looked extremely pallid\u2014the lamp was very small and had a clear white shade\u2014but he looked dark too somehow. It was as if his body gathered some of the darkness of the furnish\u00adings, or as if it had been tinged by the thick obscurity of the attic. Especially about his eyes the shadows stayed, and the eyes too looked dark and liquescent, reflecting only in pinpoints the light of the lamp. He was extremely thin and ribby, as if there were just barely enough skin to cover him. But it all seemed natural.\n\nHe turned off the lamp, went cautiously through the dark to the bed and clambered awkwardly in. The sheets were of coarse cotton, but they felt soothing. He stretched his thin legs and then let them relax, and it seemed he could feel strength draining into them again. He hadn't quite realized how exhausted he had be\u00adcome. He spoke softly, \"Sheila.\" But she wouldn't answer; her body didn't respond to his voice even by a movement of aversion. It was no good trying to talk to her now. Wearily he began to wonder exactly what there was between them that he had to patch up; he honestly couldn't say what the quarrel was about. And he abruptly put it out of his mind, just shrugged it away, and fell asleep.\n\nA bitter sleep, immediately shot through with yellow sick dreaming. He was still himself, but somehow impersonally so, huge, monolithic. There was no one else, but there were momen\u00adtary impressions of great deserted cities which flashed through his consciousness, gleaming white cities with geometrics so queer and dizzy\u00ading as to cause nausea. And when the cities remained stationary they were immediately en\u00adgulfed by a milky-white odorous ocean. This same smelly chalky sea water was attacking him also and he began to dissolve away; he was becoming transparent, he was a mere thread\u00adlike wraith, merely a long nerve, excruciatingly alive. Somehow he perceived a voice in the milky substance, talking clearly and with im\u00admense resonance. \"I\u00e4, i\u00e4. Yogg Sothoth. Neph\u00adreu. Cthulhu.\"\n\n...And all that, flashing away. Still dreaming, but now the next dream came to him lucid and so immediate he could taste its pattern. Sheila lay by him, still, absolute, still as rock. His limbs had gathered a terrible energy, felt too light, moved too easily and quickly under his great dry hunger for her. He murdered her. He was confused, the whole time he was killing her he imagined he was making love. And she never spoke, never uttered a sound.... The night had increased, it was much later; a shred of moon had driven into the gabled window. The moon looked thin and cheap, like something made of plastic. He was talking, kept murmuring monotonously, his voice thick and deep and full of words he could not distinguish, could not hear. Light poured into the room webby and grimy. It clung to all objects like a gritty gray ash. He kept speaking to her and she would not answer, but in the bed lay a tangle of blood, dark, bluish, in the cheap moonlight. It was streaked, blue, on his forearm and shoulder and chest. It lay tangled with his sperm in the bed; and his body was trembling, evanescent as steam from coffee. He wanted to rise but he kept floundering back; it was like bathing or drowning. The tall headboard stood over him, a black threshold. Every fiber of him was sinuous, but frenzied and impotent. His body suffered agony in the detestable light.\n\nHe opened his eyes. Cold with sweat, he stared above him at the black threshold of the headboard. Sheila lay by him unmoving but breathing easily and deeply; sighed once in her warm sleep. He lay for a while thinking, then turned on his side and went back to sleep, to dream even more bitterly and heavily.\nSIX\n\nThe succeeding days widened the strangeness between them. Sheila would hardly speak to him, even averting her eyes as he passed. And he merely passed, going by thoughtlessly, caught up in himself once more, preoccupied with the house. His books and the notes for the monograph on Puritanism lay unused, asprawl after a halfhearted opening of boxes. The house had claimed him, he examined the corners and the walls, finding or seeming to find that the geometry was awry, windows and doors slightly misplaced. He went back to the letters. Peering intently at faint markings under their coatings of dust.\n\n...that pece of Land wch boarders on the Mack\u00adintosh prop. and probable worth about 500 dols. more or less...shamefull incidents talked...all the time they talk, one would not think so many idel tonges...and even if his religiun is as you clame, no resoun to believe that he wo'nt break down and come under...Sothoth, Nephreu, maybe...all in whispers...This day I walked the seven miles to Madison switchback and made good going of it and found myself in good health, much better than the dr. had in\u00adtimated to me. Of course took pains to keep well away from Ransom's grove where body of xxxxxx was found dead, and torn in the most awful fashion. Weather delightful even for May, already some of the summer heat is into it. Observed no interesting birds: crows mostly, cardinals, a barn swallow wch I hope will take up residence among us.\n\nCthulhu [?J. Nyarlath\u2014[?]...and will have my SATISFACTION as i have before this told you...will make no difference, he can craul and beg, he can lick my shoes...SATISFACTION\u2014\n\n...what rites best employed to bring this about, I do'nt know & must consult. It may be that Stoddard [?] is better informed, certainly the Morgans hold the key to any endeavour of this sort, but are close-mouthed, being the most high adepts. Anyway, it ought to be performed, and although I find myself truly unsuitable, I can only say that, at the least, I am willing and that no one else has come forward. Recognize that it demands a discipline almost intolerable for anyone with a sign of weakness and that consid\u00aderable bodily pain is involved. I hope mightily that I am equal to the task and that I may live to see it accomplished. If not, there is, of course, no great loss when one weighs what is lost against what may be gained.\n\n...this night evermore the darkness Cthu\u2014\n\nHe rubbed the dust between his lingers, like a film of oil or sweat, and sneezed. He let the brittle papers fall to the open leaf of the secre\u00adtary and regarded the loose pile with absent-minded distaste. Not a line of them did he un\u00adderstand, hardly a word; and yet he could not stop himself from whittling away hours and days looking at them. \"All that nonsense,\" Sheila would say, had indeed said. He pushed himself away regretfully and went outside.\n\nA clear day, early afternoon. Sheila sat in a kitchen chair at the untended edge of the yard, reading a novel. For a moment he was tempted to go to her, to try to make up to her and tram\u00adple this silly barrier between them. But pride was still in him, stiff and gloomy, and he would not move. He turned instead to the hill behind the house, going between the house and the woodshed, seeking the open fields.\n\nBut he came running back quickly when he heard her shout, shriek.\n\n\"Peter! Peter!\"\n\nHer book lay tumbled open on the ground. She was standing behind her chair, gripping the back of it, and staring at the ground before her. There a snake was poised, not coiled, not menacing to strike, simply waiting, with round head alift and trembling tongue. It was a dull brown color, about three feet long. Peter found a broken rake handle in the litter at the front of the woodshed and walked, not hurrying, to the edge of the yard. The snake oozed smoothly round\u2014not a ripple in that movement\u2014to meet him. It was harmless, just an errant ground snake.\n\n\"It won't hurt you,\" he said. \"Perfectly harm\u00adless.\" He felt unaccountably cheerful.\n\n\"Kill it,\" she said. \"I don't care about that. Kill it.\"\n\nHe poked the rake handle at it and it recoiled suddenly. Sheila squealed and gave a little jump backward. \"I m not going to kill it,\" he said. \"There's no reason to. It can't hurt you, and anyway they're good to have around. They eat mice and things.\" He was unsure of this last notion.\n\n\"Will you hush up and kill that thing? I can't stand it. I can't bear to look at it.\"\n\n\"No. I won't. Let me get another stick and I'll carry it...\"\n\nShe tried to lift the chair to strike the snake, but it was too heavy. She pushed it aside and strode forward and snatched the rake handle from his hand. He stepped back automatically, bewildered. She was awkward and frightened; beat the snake behind the head and down the length of it, hitting blindly. It writhed, hissed, twisted, trying to get away but injured now. She dropped the handle and ran away, out to the middle of the yard. Tears rolled on her cheeks, and she was sobbing. \"Peter, damn you...\"\n\nEnraged, he picked up the handle. He was burning angry, regretting that now he had to kill the snake. Two sharp blows precisely on its head he gave it, and it rolled over and over. He got the end of the handle under the twisting body and pitched it down into the weeds. As he came back through the yard toward Sheila he could hear it thrashing about in a drift of dead leaves.\n\n\"Why wouldn't... You wouldn't kill it be\u00adcause you hate me. You really do. And I hate you too. I hate the sight of you.\"\n\n\"You bitch.\" His anger had congealed, and was a hot weight in him. His feelings were blunted. He threw the handle spinning into the depths of the woodshed, getting a slight satisfac\u00adtion from the clatter it made. Slowly he turned his back on his wife and walked deliberately away, going into the house.\n\nInside he breathed more easily. Confused and dully angry, he walked from room to room, a certainty growing within him. Again in the sun parlor, near the littered secretary, he stopped; stood rigid and still. He recognized the thought that was in him and nodded gravely once, gravely agreeing with himself. And then he put the thought aside and turned almost automati\u00adcally to the papers which lay there.\n\n\u2014ulhu I\u00e4! I\u00e4! Yogg\u2014\n\n...the moon draws wrong has the wrong horn draws wrong has the wrong horn draws wrong has the wrong horn this night evermore this very night this night evermore this very night evermore this night evermore darkness Cthu\u2014\n\nHad feared that the cows, being alarmed by the Occasion and the pasture already sere in this deathly September, wd. go dry, but have so far maintained their milk, giving 3 or 4 quarters per diem. Some will freshen soon. The sky con\u00adtinues very red at eve (tho' sometimes with green or purplish streaks intermixt) so that the dry weather will probably hold. Mister Peter much concerned with his Chemical researches, very abstracted, the indifferent success of his at\u00adtempts making palpable effect on his disposi\u00adtion. Gloomy at times, oftimes mistrustful. The weather presently having fretful effect on everyone.\n\nAnd for a number of nights Peter had kept watch alone, sitting at the kitchen table, smok\u00ading his wife's cigarettes one after another\u2014not tasting them\u2014and drinking ugly black coffee that he brewed himself until two in the morn\u00ading. Sheila had gone to bed long before and slept stubbornly. Then he went up and to bed, but did not sleep; lay wide-eyed in the darkness in the bed apart from his wife, careful not to touch her. He was filled with disgust....And now this night he sat alone again, silently smoking and gulping down the acrid coffee until four in the morning. Occasionally he nodded deliberately, still assenting to himself. Finally he rose and turned off the bare overhead light\u2014there was already a dim light outside\u2014and left the kitchen. He was going to murder her. As he went through the smaller downstairs sitting room, he took the long poker that leaned by the blackened empty fireplace. It was cool and weighty; he was vaguely gratified by the heft of it. He held it forward away from his body, as if he were guiding his way with it like a flashlight. Then through the sitting room and through the long dark hall and, one by one, silently up the stairs.\n\nHe paused a moment before the bedroom door, then eased the latch over and let himself in. The air was cool but smelled warm. He found the fuzzy outlines of the furniture, instantly aware of Sheila's muffled form in the bed. She was breathing deeply, sighed now and again in her sleep. He drew near the bed. She was on the other side, scrupulously away from his place, her back turned toward him. She slept, but her body was tense. Her hair gleamed and he stared at it, trying to find the base of her skull. He would like to snap the nape-nerve, to be finished at once.\n\nHe struck. She rose from the waist instantly, her eyes wide and unseeing, staring, silent, terri\u00adble. She flopped back, roiling, still silent. He struck, he struck.\n\n***\n\nHe had murdered her. The poker dropped. He stood by the bed, regarding it uncom\u00adprehendingly, the confused pool, sheet and cold thigh and litter of stain. It had got colder; he clasped his arms around his chest, trying to re\u00adstrain the trembling of his body. He could not see what lay in the bed, the arc of shoulder and the hair not bright now and the huddle of fouled sheet, but he could not stop staring. He turned, stumbled, going to find his clothes in the dark, and he got them on somehow. He would not turn on the lamp. In the mirrors, even with the light behind him, he seemed hardly there, his body as gauzy as the light, something made to poke holes through. There was a bad smell, rich and chalky. He kept swallowing, but a rancid film stayed in his mouth and throat. He was very cold; now his body seemed capable of feeling only terrifying extremes.\n\nHe went out, down the hall, down the stairs, through all the house without feeling his way, his footsteps numb and certain, now his own. The clotted dingy light was everywhere, a grimy dawn was yawning up. He coughed, and spat on one of the curd-colored walls, but his mouth was still adhesive with a clumsy film. He reached the side door and even put his hand on the cold knob, but did not turn it; turned himself instead and went marching back through the downstairs rooms, through room after room, avoiding only the narrow darkened hallway which led to the stairs. In mirrors, glassed doors, cabinet windows his figure appeared, disap\u00adpeared; and he kept rubbing himself with his palms, as if his body was all a various itch. He did not observe but perceived all the furniture, which perceived him silently, knowing, darkly wise. In the sun parlor he found that he had halted, had turned round and round, stood fac\u00ading the two whited oblong sister pillows. I SLEPT AND DREAMED THAT LIFE...He uttered un\u00adresonant laughter, the sound coming flat out of his mouth, inexpressive, hard. Through the glassed door to his left he could make out the heavy squat form of the diseased piano. Again he turned round and round. Then he went through the house once more to the side door and entered to the outside.\n\nNothing lifted, there was no sense of release, relief. The light seemed no brighter out here, and still hung to him like dank cloth. The sun was not yet up; over the eastern hills was only a lighter grayish smear. The two vertical walnut trees in the lower side yard looked massive and glassy, and the full branches let fall on the lower trunks a dimness\u2014not a real shadow\u2014vaguely shaped like an automobile. He averted his gaze. He went under the dark side of the house out to the dirt road and walked along it for about twenty yards. The prospect was larger, the mountains colorless on the north sky, the nation-shaped fields below him cut through with the smoke-shaped stream, but it seemed no less nar\u00adrow; it seemed all miniature, enclosing, fun\u00adneled. In the gray light perched a single gleam of orange-yellow light, steady; it seemed round, but it streaked from the kitchen window of the tenant house. Without hesitation he began to walk the winding descending road, drawn to the single patch of flame on the landscape. He had not thought Morgan would be awake.\n\nHe didn't know the time. The hour whitened slowly, but the landscape remained iron-col\u00adored, the bad light pervading the dew. Twice he had to stop; he struggled in the wet weeds at the roadside and leaned forward against the bank of the road, clenching the orange clay tightly. He fought to keep the support of his legs. Then he pushed himself into the road again and went along, one numb foot before the other. He got there, paused on the edge of the road above, then let himself down into the yard with a loose ugly shamble. The house looked small now, heavy, squat, diseased. On the tin roof the dew had begun to coagulate, to run off in thin streams. As he went into the shaky eaveless little porch a splash of dew fell on the back of his neck, ran icy under his shirt.\n\nHe opened the door, didn't knock, and stood limned there. Morgan was absent. The air was still almost unbreathable, the rancid wood range already cooking, and the flies already industri\u00adous, swarming on him immediately. The shaky kitchen table covered by the rubbed dull oil\u00adcloth, and on the table the kerosene lamp shed\u00adding a glow so yellow and small that it seemed unlikely now he had seen it from the road. Even as he wondered about it, Mina leaned to the screw and turned the wick down, out of sight. The glow was gone. A thread of black smoke rose heavily out of the lamp chimney. They were alone in the gritty sullen dawn light.\n\nGray in the gray light, her face seemed as impenetrable, as noseless, as he had again and again remembered. Now it was luminous al\u00admost, and looked somehow as if it were floating forward. And again her figure, flat and square, without dimension, was all filled with calm wait\u00ading, complacent as stone. And again her eyes rested on him, simply remaining still, and he felt enveloped in the gaze; those eyes seemed large as eggs. Her raddled hair hung loose, black as onyx, aggravated the luminescence of the smooth face.\u2014Now in the steaming kitchen he felt hot.\n\nHer voice was soft and thick as cotton. \"You're about the worst-looking mess I ever saw,\" she said. \"I never seen such a mess as you are.\"\n\nHe didn't answer, had begun to shudder again. The oily fishy odor stuffed his head.\n\n\"You better come here and set down,\" she said. \"You've got a bad case of something, I guess. You sure do look like a mess.\"\n\nHe sat across from her in a creaky little chair, the cane bottom drooping. He slid his hands aimlessly about on the oilcloth.\n\n\"You just set there and I'll get you some coffee. It looks to me like you sure could use it. I don't reckon I ever seen anybody in worse shape.\"\n\nInvoluntarily he cowered away. He was sit\u00adting by the range. She would have to cross by him to get the coffee. He didn't want her to come near him.\n\nShe rose and started toward the stove, but stopped. A slow smile seeped into her inexpres\u00adsive face. \"But it looks like to me you could use something that'd do you more good than coffee. They's a jug back here I'll get. That's what'd do you more good, I bet anything.\" She turned and went through the door behind her. He heard her displacing a box, rummaging among things which must have been cloth. She returned, holding a gallon jug by its stubby neck, swinging it easily by her side, brushing the black cotton skirt. Her calves were full and muscular, olive-colored. She set the jug on the table, not letting it thump, and went by him to the stove. He twisted away from her, his buttocks clenched tight in the sagging chair. She brought a thick chipped coffee mug back to the table and poured it about half full from the jug. She laughed humorlessly. \"I don't reckon a Leland would want to be drinking out of a jug,\" she said. She put the cup gently before him and turned the handle round toward him. \"There you go.\"\n\nIt smelled and tasted oily, of rotting corn. He swallowed it eagerly; and immediately droplets of sweat were on his forehead. He knew abso\u00adlutely that he was going to be ill, sick to death. He drank again. He had never been more grate\u00adful for something to drink.\n\nIt was going to be a hot day. Now it was full dawn, and the kitchen was filled with the warm dank religious light, yellow. She stood across the room by the open bedroom door. He felt he saw her with fine clarity, totally, every inch. He wiped his forehead with his blood-smeared wrist. He felt sticky.\nII\nONE\n\nThe little house, so humid and rickety\u2014every\u00adwhere you stepped the floor gave a little and creaked\u2014was always full of movement. The old man came and went incessantly, God only knew what his errands were. The mother was almost motionless, she moved her great bulk but sel\u00addom, and even standing still she occupied much space; sometimes it seemed to Peter that the air of the house and the movements of body and mind of all the others were loaded by her pres\u00adence, that somehow she affected even his blood. Mina was always coming and going too, she came to Peter and went away. \"I got to look after you,\" she said. \"Somebody's got to take care of you.\"\n\nHe lay in the shabby shaggy bed in the little room that seemed mostly a storeroom. Or he would wander from room to room, keeping away from the windows and open doors; and then he would return to Mina's bed and sit straight, holding his knees with his hands, watching with fixed gaze the unchanging splotched opposite wall. He kept drinking; he had not halted in the three weeks\u2014was it three weeks now?\u2014he had been here. Mina kept bringing moonshine to him, wearing on her face an impassive but still wearily sardonic expres\u00adsion. He loathed the oily raw taste of the stuff; he gulped it quickly and breathed with his mouth open. At night she bore him down in the torn greasy quilts and made love: silent as stand\u00ading water. It was he who might cry out, her fingernails in him and her cold teeth on his shoulder and neck and face. He struggled des\u00adperately not to make a sound; when he did groan, his throat hoarse and tight, he was able later to persuade himself that he had made no sound. Mina was relentless as cold wind, she had no feelings, no passion; she seemed to perform with a detached curiosity.\n\nHe was continually in a clear acid delirium. Things leaped forward and would get brighter, so clearly he saw them. The unsteady table, the chipped dull blue porcelain coffee pot, the barred iron bedhead, all had outlines strong and burning. Now he lay in the wadded quilts and thought of her father, his face round and red. If you suddenly jabbed him with a pin behind his ear, wouldn't his face pop and go to shreds like a balloon? He drank, and speculated that if you grasped a man's mouth by its corner, you could rip away his meaningless little grin and expose to daylight the real expression on his face. And what would it be? Disgust? A terrible pitiless joy? Anything at all? But it couldn't be done, the grin was too greasy to get a grip on. He drank quickly and regretfully. Or at times he would suddenly find himself on his knees, holding the bars of the bed's footboard as tightly as he could. \"Our Father who art,\" he would say. \"Our Fa\u00adther, Our Father, Our Father, Our Father.\" He could get no further. He would bang his head against the bars until broad red welts appeared on his forehead. And then he would sweat and roll like a pig on the floor. Now tenderly he felt his cheeks; his face must be all ravaged with his own beatings and with Mina's cold teeth. He didn't need a shave. He couldn't remember shaving. Had Mina shaved him? Nausea rose in him to think of her standing with a razor at his face.\n\nOr he would talk, feverishly but clearly; he would actually hold forth with true brilliance, he thought. He spoke about the tragic inevitable division between the cultural aims of a civiliza\u00adtion, any society whatever, and the aims of the religion which that culture included. He told how he had at last come to recognize the neces\u00adsity for a diseased temperament in the under\u00adstanding of any religious code. He slapped the table softly with open palm. \"It's only through suffering that one comes to realize this,\" he said. \"Only through the purest, most intense sort of suffering.\" He wagged his head gravely. \"That's how I have come to know the things I know.\" At these times he felt he was sixty-five or seventy years old, and a benevolent paternal feeling washed through him; he felt oddly protective of people. They would watch him with slow eyes and stolid expressions. He would expound elabo\u00adrate theological justifications for suicide, for ex\u00adtreme poverty, for every emotional and physical excess. Sometimes he merely sat in the broken stained stuffed chair in the living room and stared into the tiny fireplace, where lay yet the powdery ashes of the last fire of the winter. He would mutter continuously to himself then, but he wasn't certain what he was saying. It seemed to be a long disquisition on the nature of fault, whether it was ever entirely personal. But he would suddenly break off and shout for help, for it seemed to him that he had become very small and that he lay smothering in the pinkish-gray ash. Mina would come in and press his shoulders into the chair with her cold dark hands. \"Hold on there,\" she said. \"You're all right. You just hold on there.\" She kept her face steady above his so long that he couldn't avoid looking up into it. And then he couldn't look away, and he was awed into silence. Into this unending mono\u00adlogue would creep nonsensical words, words he did not know, an unknown language of despair. \"Yogg Sothoth...Cthulhu...Nephreu...\" Then his mouth tasted bad, and he would drink again.\n\nIt was early July; it was scorching. In the fields the weeds\u2014there didn't seem to be any crops growing\u2014drooped lank and fat in the sun, and there was the continual sawing of insects. Sun\u00adlight was hot and heavy in the air, and the tin roof banged like firecrackers sometimes, ex\u00adpanding in the heat. For a while there was no rain and the road was muffled with pinkish-yel\u00adlow dust, which would rise in long tall plumes as cars passed and then settle, coating the leaves of the weeds and bushes. At night it was cooler and quieter; the crickets sang, but the darkness made the sound seem distant. Then he heard the stream running below and the infrequent splash of something small and dark entering the stream. He hoped it was one of Morgan's musk\u00adrats.\n\nVisitors were incessant, and Peter kept out of their sight as much as possible, where he could collect himself. They were mostly farmers, large taciturn men with large weathered rancid faces. He was startled to think how long it had taken him to realize how Morgan made his real living: he was a bootlegger. Somewhere on the farm his still was smoking away, digesting and distilling corn. He was even rather amused to think that Morgan must have to buy the grain from some of his customers; he certainly didn't grow the stuff himself. Was it a profitable business, was Morgan\u2014for all his outward poverty\u2014actually a wealthy man? This thought too was amusing. And now he could account for the endless supply of the alcohol that Mina was fetching him.\n\nBut he didn't like it when on some evenings there would be six or seven of Morgan's custom\u00aders gathered in the hot kitchen. Then he didn't move, but lay stockstill in the raddled quilts, frozen like an animal trying to camouflage itself. He had to guess the number of them from the guttural muttering he heard and the occasional solemn clomp of a heavy shoe. Often enough there were furtive wheezy giggles uttered, and sometimes, there was a single voice shouting, not words, but merely a sound of...of...of fearful surprise, of quick pain, of pained delight. None of these kinds of sounds, and maybe all of them together. What? He struggled to imagine what Mina was doing in there among them. It would be Morgan's idea, that Mina would encourage the men to drink. But he would not find out, he would not move to look. She would come in now and then to check on him, to bring him liquor if he needed it. She would toss a quilt over him and tuck it tightly and contemptuously under his chin. Her blouse would be unbuttoned at the top and when she bent over the bed he observed her small thick inexpressive breasts. Her skin would be warmer than usual from the heat of the kitchen, but it was still cool.\n\nThe next day there was a long massive July storm. It was the first time the light hadn't seemed unbearable to him and he had gone out onto the narrow back porch which ran the length of the house. A cool wind, and the yearn\u00ading stirring of the wild cherry tree below the house, the limbs asway; flies swarmed out of the wide air and gathered on his face and arms, and he didn't brush them away. He sat in a slouched slat-bottomed rocking chair and moved nothing but the forefinger of his right hand, with which he tapped his knee slowly and steadily, in time to a rhythm by which he felt the storm was gathering. Very gradually he accelerated his tapping. Dark gray on gray: the sky was bunch\u00ading its muscle; it was slow and broad as dream\u00adless sleep. There seemed miles of air between the big first drops of rain. Then it was all loosened at once, noisily drenching the tin roof. The first stroke of lightning was blinding; it seemed that the nearest western hill cleft open, the lightning ascended the skies like something scurrying up a crooked ladder. There was no warning rumble, the thunder issued immedi\u00adately all in a bang. He dropped to the worn boards of the porch on his hands and knees, heaving and shuddering like a shot dog. Mo\u00admentarily he imagined the air full of electric particles; if he breathed, his lungs would be elec\u00adtrocuted. Then he was up and ran stumbling into the darkened living room and stood by the fireplace, clutching the daubed stream rock with both hands. He turned round and round. Then he put his hands in his pockets and walked quite casually to the corner of the room and pressed his shoulders against the walls, pressed his face hard into the corner. He kept quivering, but he felt that now it was all right to breathe. When Mina passed her damp fingers along the back of his neck he didn't move at first, but then turned around suddenly, his eyes unseeing and his face blanched. She grasped his shoulders and steered him into the stuffed chair before the fireplace, and he sat there watching it, turned away from the murderous storm. An inky ooze spread on the walls of the fireplace, the rain running down the chimney sides, and an occa\u00adsional drop fell straight down the chimney, fell into the powdery ashes with a sound like some\u00adone letting out his breath suddenly. He gave no sign that he observed anything.\n\nLater he had calmed a great deal, but was very voluble and seemed joyfully excited. The storm had gone away, but trees and the roof were letting down the final drops. The land\u00adscape burned with the reflected sunlight. \"Look,\" he said, \"look, it's true what they said, that God does speak to you out of the storm cloud. I was sitting there, and my ears had never been more closed. It came to me when I was sitting there that I was dead, as dead as anyone buried in the ground. It seemed to me that I would like to struggle to come alive again, to make myself alive somehow, but I didn't know how. Even if I knew how I wouldn't have dared, I didn't have courage, I didn't have the strength to find courage. God spoke through the sky to me, and then I was dead, but I came back to life. I had to be killed first, you see, truly killed. The trouble was, you know, not that I didn't have courage to come to life, but that I didn't have courage to be truly dead. I had to accept that I was dead before anything good could happen like that for me. And then when it thundered I knew I was dead, and I remained dead for a long time. Whole ages passed while I was dead\u2014I just vaguely knew they were passing. I was in a void, you know, I was where it was all dark\u00adness and empty space. Then at last I felt the breath of God, I actually felt it.\" He ran his fingertips gently, reverently, across the back of his neck. \"Here, right here. I literally felt the breath of God pass over my neck.\"\n\nMina held him folded in her slow gaze. \"That was just me,\" she said. \"I was just trying to get you to pay some mind.\"\n\nHe appeared not to have heard her. He smiled in painful bewilderment. \"But I can't re\u00admember the words,\" he said. \"Not exactly, any\u00adway. Not the exact words....Isn't it strange that I should forget the words? I can remember all sorts of other things, and none of that is impor\u00adtant now. It's very strange, don't you think?\"\n\n\"Anyhow, you're okay now,\" she said. \"I guess I better get you something to drink.\"\n\nHe shook his head, absently impatient. \"I want to think,\" he said. He felt he was on the verge of remembering, if not the words he so badly needed, then something equally impor\u00adtant, a revelation.\n\nMina went off; she smiled carelessly. He sat where he was and slowly, helplessly, watched the bright event flicker in his mind and go out. For a panic moment he couldn't remember even the flavor of what had happened to him; but something at least seemed to come back, and he felt happy again. Now he was sure that an important event had occurred, something happy and eminent. That was enough. You had to be happy with what you got, he thought. No use expecting too much, it wouldn't be handed to you on a platter.\n\nHe rose and went to find Mina in the kitchen. \"I think that was a good idea you had about having a drink.\"\n\nShe stood with her legs apart, her hands on her hips. \"You reckon?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He chewed his upper lip.\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" she said. \"I don't see why I always got to be hauling liquor to you, just whenever you want. I don't hardly see no good I get out of it.\"\n\nHe looked at her uncertainly. \"Well...\"\n\n\"If I was to expect you to look after me hand and foot, you wouldn't be doing it, I don't reckon. I don't see the good I get out of it at all.\" She gazed steadily on his face.\n\n\"Well...\" A slight perspiration came on his forehead.\n\nShe put her fingertips against his chest and shoved him backward lightly. \"You better go and sit down,\" she said. \"I'll bring it to you, I guess, when I get a chance.\"\n\nHe went back and sat waiting, sadly puzzled. What made her act like that, anyway? What had he done? He rubbed his left side slowly and thoughtfully with a vague circular movement. Lately he had a recurrent pain, sharp at times but mostly a blunt heavy ache, and now it seemed to have settled there. The room was much too bright; there was too much light outside, as there always is after a storm has cleared.\n\nIn a while she came, bearing a quart Mason jar of the slightly yellow alcohol. No glass or cup this time, he would have to drink it from the jar. \"There you are then,\" she said. \"Is there any\u00adthing else I got to do to keep you satisfied?\" When he looked up at her his face was unknow\u00adingly appealing. But she had no mercy.\n\nHe wiped his mouth and drank. It was too warm, almost hot, and his stomach surged in an effort to reject the stuff, but he made it stay down. He clenched the jar tightly with both hands and a few drops sloshed on his soiled shirt, a shirt stiff and filthy. The ridges of the edge of the jar rattled against his teeth. He felt better now, but had cleanly forgot the whole day, ev\u00aderything that had happened. It was gone from him immediately and silently, so that he sat drinking blankly for a time with no sense of loss. He was very tired. And then the feeling of hav\u00ading forgot something important began to gnaw in his mind and he became uneasy. He set the jar on the floor and began to rub his face with his hot palms. His chest and legs began to itch too and he scratched energetically. He shifted his feet about and tipped over the jar. He looked at it stupidly for a moment and then jerked down to set it upright. The oily liquid oozed slowly over the worn floor, and the odor of it rose all about the chair, surrounding him entirely, a heavy invisible curtain. There was only about an inch of it left in the jar and he swallowed it down quickly, as if it too might be lost to him. Then he held the jar languidly, and empty tears came into his eyes and rolled down his face. He was motionless, not sobbing, but hopelessly weeping and weeping, without sign of surcease. He was so stupid, so stupid. She wouldn't bring him more after he had wasted it; she was implacable. Maybe he could keep her from knowing about it. And as soon as he thought, he was getting his shirt off. He was on his knees, trying to soak up the liquor with his shirt, which became black and smelly instantly. He turned to wring it out in the fireplace.\n\n\"Now what is it? What do you think you're doing now?\"\n\nHe jumped to his feet, dropped the wet shirt on the chair. He shook his head mutely.\n\n\"Get that goddam thing off the chair,\" she said.\n\n\"What kind of a mess have you made now?\" She was calm as ice, her voice expressionless.\n\n\"Nothing,\" he said.\n\n\"You ain't been getting sick, have you? Is that the kind of a mess you're trying to clean up?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"It's nothing.\"\n\nShe came closer. \"Oh. You've went and spilled that shine I brought you. What did you want to do that for? You was the one wanted it yourself. I got no call to go hauling liquor around for you.\"\n\n\"It was an accident.\"\n\n\"You don't make no sense to me, did you know it? I can't hardly get no sense out of you at all.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry about it. I didn't mean to spill it.\"\n\n\"It ain't hardly the craziest thing you ever done, now is it? You ain't been doing nothing but crazy things around here. It's enough to drive ever' one of us crazy. And look how you was mopping it up. What are you going to wear for a shirt now? Or didn't you think about that?\"\n\nHe was still holding the soaked smelly shirt. He looked at it mournfully. \"I don't know.\"\n\n\"I don't think you got anything to know with,\" she said. \"You ain't got no brains, that's all.\"\n\nHe grew sadder; it was clear she wouldn't let him have any more to drink.\n\n\"Let me tell you what I want you to do with that shirt. You take it in there in the kitchen and put it in the stove. I don't want to see no such of a mess as that around here. You go on and do it.\" When he got to the kitchen door she said, \"I guess we'll just have to put you on a water ra\u00adtion.\"\n\nHe went on in. He couldn't find the handle to insert into the stove eye to lift it. He opened the high shelf on the range and took out a table fork; reversed it so he could lift with it.\n\n\"Now what do you think you're doing?\" She had come to the doorway.\n\n\"I couldn't find the handle for it.\"\n\n\"What? I can't hear for you mumbling like that.\"\n\n\"I couldn't find the handle,\" he said.\n\n\"It's right there on top,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh.\" He put the table fork back and got down the handle and lifted off the eye. A few coals were live in the bottom of the firebox. He stuffed the shirt in\u2014it didn't seem likely that it would burn\u2014and set the eye back. He got the handle out and held it, a curious warm cast-iron thing, the tip of it shaped like a square-toed shoe. He imagined hitting Mina with it; he would put blue and red streaks on her face, he would make blood come.\n\n\"You just better not, buddy boy,\" she said. \"You better not even think about it. You just put that goddam thing down and come on back here. I sure would like to know what's got into you. You're the craziest damn thing I ever seen. Go on, I said, and put it down.\"\n\nHe hesitated no longer, put the handle on top of the shelf and came to the door.\n\nShe was back in the living room, regarded him with cold amusement. \"There ain't nobody in the world would be afraid of you no more. You couldn't hurt a cat, and you can just go on pretending all you want but all you can do is just make trouble, make a little mess here and there. That's all. Nobody is going to take you serious.\" Again she came to him and put her fingertips on his bare thin chest and pushed him lightly back\u00adward. \"I guess the best way I can think of to keep you from making trouble is just to put you in bed and let you drink. I don't guess you can bother anything there but yourself.\" She pushed him again. \"You go on and get in the bed. I'll be there in a minute and baby you.\"\n\nHe went. He sat on the bed and stripped off his shoes and socks and pants, and then lay back wearily, wearing only his soiled underpants. He lay on his side and tried to go to sleep, but his nerves were acrawl with tiredness and un\u00adreleased anger, and he didn't want to close his eyes. He breathed hoarsely. Then she came in, carrying another of the endless jars of corn whiskey. \"Here,\" she said, \"and if you spill this or make a mess it's the last of it you'll get to drink in this house, I can tell you. I got more things to do than keep putting up with you.\" She set the jar on the floor by the side of the bed, and as she straightened she looked flat into his eyes. \"I mean it,\" she said. Then she left, closing the door firmly behind her.\n\nHe waited a few moments, until his breathing had slowed. He tried not to think how much Mina had begun to frighten him. Why was she like that? He had done nothing to her, not re\u00adally. He leaned and took up the fruit jar. Gray and white, but slightly tinged with yellow, Sheila's pert face looked at him through the whiskey. She was smiling: a fixed stiff smile. His hand shook; her face wavered. He was doing well, only a few large drops splashed on his belly. She was smiling. He turned the jar around and peeled the wet photograph off the side, where Mina had stuck it. She had taken it from his wallet. Now he wished he had hit her, that he had made the blood come. Sheila's face was draped between his fingers, the paper all limp, wet. He felt that no one had ever been so ab\u00adjectly miserable as he; and he let his head roll on his chest from side to side. The photograph wouldn't come loose from his fingers; he shook his hand hard again and again. But he was still extremely careful. He didn't spill any more of the liquor, he had to preserve himself somehow. Finally he wiped the photograph off on the quilts, as if it were a sort of filth which soiled his fingers. Then he leaned and set the jar down carefully, and then lay back, still, his arms along his sides. He began to moan, and it got louder and louder. It got louder, and it didn't sound like a moan any more. He was moaning like a cow gone dry; moo upon moo, and he couldn't stop it. He might have gone on for hours.\n\nBut Mina came back in, came straight to him. \"Hush up,\" she said. \"Hush up that goddam noise.\" She slapped his face hard. \"Just hush up now.\" She slapped him again, harder this time, and he heard mixed with his own hollow fear a tinny ringing sound. He began to breathe more steadily, and the noise subsided to a moan. She slapped him once more, not so hard now, and turned away. \"I'm goddam if you just wouldn't drive anybody plumb wild with all of your crazi\u00adness.\" She went out.\n\nHe lay moaning for a while, and then managed to collect himself. The photograph was in wet bits, tangled in the quilt. He began to console himself with the jar.\n\nOr there were times he would be gently mel\u00adancholy, even rather humorous; would smile sadly but not bitterly and speak in a calm even voice. \"The lachrimae rerum,\" he would say. \"There's something in the part of a landscape you can see from a window that gives you the clearest idea of what Virgil's phrase really means. The way the window limits the land\u00adscape, you know; it intensifies the feeling of being able to see the universe in miniature. Which is what you do when you think of those two words, though I don't think you do it con\u00adsciously at all. But in the back of your mind somewhere there's a real picture of the small\u00adness of physical existence, of its real boundaries; and there's a corresponding sense of the immen\u00adsities of the void, of nothingness, which encloses physical existence and to which it really belongs. And then to include the human personality, oneself, in this small universe is to see oneself really minuscule.\" He chuckled softly. \"It's all a question of proportion, you know.\"\n\n\"You're as full of shit as a Christmas turkey,\" Mina said.\n\nHe nodded and smiled gently. He felt very old. \"I don't mean to bore you, he said, \"but I know I am. But you can see\u2014can't you?\u2014how hard it is for me to keep my mind alive, to keep it going. With the weight of the circumstances, well, with the way I am now, I feel I've got to keep my wits about me somehow. I know these are nothing but foolish empty speculations, but it begins to seem more and more that my mind won't operate on the material that's given it. The things that happen more and more don't mean anything, and I can't make them mean anything. And as limited as my life has been\u2014and it's always been severely limited\u2014I was al\u00adways able to make something useful out of a few events. By 'useful' I guess I mean intellectually edifying or...or morally instructive. That's what I mean, in fact: every event that happened to me was a moral event. I could interpret it. And now I can't. It seems to me that a morality just won't attach any more; events won't even attach to each other, no one thing seems to pro\u00adduce another. Things are what they are them\u00adselves, and that's all they are. Or maybe I'm just troubling myself to no end. One of my troubles always, too many useless scruples.\"\n\n\"Scrooples,\" she said.\n\nShe had got his checkbook from somewhere, and she got him to sign all the checks, blank. He didn't hesitate; it couldn't have mattered less. He felt a detached mild curiosity about the pur\u00adposes to which she would put the money, but he didn't question her. He knew she wouldn't have told him, and anyway he had no use for it. What could he buy? He himself had been sold, sold out.\n\nThe days got hotter. The weedy field below was noisy with grasshoppers. The sun was white as sugar and looked large in the sky.\n\nSometimes he was very depressed, kept a strict silence. He thought of suicide, thought of slashing his wrists. He pictured his long body lying all white and drained. Perhaps there would be a funeral for him in the brick house, in the dark disused sun parlor there, his body lying in a soft casket beside the disordered piano. But he knew that that was all wrong. There was no doubt he would be cast just as he lay into an open field and left to ferment in the sun. Muskrat food. Yet this seemed appropriate; it was, after all, a proper burial, wasn't it? He wouldn't expect any more than this for himself. In fact, he would stop expecting. \u2014It would take him en\u00adtire hours to think through a daydream like this, and then he would be mollified but sullen. His body would feel too heavy.\n\nAnd in the bed too she was relentless. He came away nerveless and exhausted, his face and neck and shoulders aching with the cold bitter hurt. Why, why? Whatever she wanted there finally, it was nothing his body could give, poor dispirited body. She was not satisfied; even blood, he discovered, would not satisfy her. What was it she wanted? How could such stolidness be so demanding? He burrowed against her, spent his last, came fighting for breath. His heart would feel ready to burst; convulsed, con\u00advulsed. And it was unhealthy, the whole busi\u00adness.\u2014Or afterwards he would fall into a deep sleep and dream bad dreams which once again he could not remember; but felt in his sleep still the fishy breath of her and the oily taste of her skin.\u2014Or he would have one of the blinding headaches, his mind riven like a stone with the pain. What was it she wanted? There was noth\u00ading left.\u2014He would not admit that he cried out in her grip.\n\nAfter dark the visitors would come again, every night of the week. This time he was drink\u00ading in the living room, and Mina let him stay there, didn't lead him through to the bedroom. She closed the kitchen door. He sat in a stupor in the soiled chair and heard without listening the shuffle and thump of the big shoes, the mut\u00adtering. Finally he rose and went out on the back porch. It was cooler than he'd thought and stars of the deep summer were spread all over the sky; no moon. The night smelled good, snug odor of weeds and flowers and field earth and the cool smell of the running stream. It was the first night he had been outside, and going down the bowed wooden steps he felt slightly elated. He stretched out his arms; he felt he had forgot\u00adten until now the feeling of bodily freedom; it was as if a woolen musty coat had been snatched from him. He wandered about in the sparse lower yard, swinging his arms, and looked up at the stars, held still as if tangled in a net, among the small leaves of the wild cherry tree. A faint breeze moved the branches and the stars moved too, seemed to jiggle quietly.\n\nHe went round the right corner of the house, going up toward the roadbed. The light from the single small lamp in the living room\u2014it sat on a small table next to the stuffed chair\u2014fell on him as he passed the living-room window and caused him to appear pink and insubstantial. It was a queer sensation to stand here outside and look into the room he had just come out of. He could almost see himself sitting there in the chair, drawn and sullenly silent. Such a pitiable figure he made, or so contemptible a figure. The quart jar sat by the lamp; he had drunk half of it. He went up into the road, not walking stead\u00adily, but sliding his feet before him as if he moved on snowshoes. In the gravel of the road he found two small rounded stones and he held one in each hand, squeezing them slightly, reassuring himself of their solidity, their reality. Then he threw them high away into the field below. The kitchen window framed an irregular rectangle of orange light on the sloping ground, and once more he heard that unfathomable intense cry and was attracted by it to the bare kitchen win\u00addow.\n\nHe stood angled away from view. The room was choked with large forms of men. Along the edge of the table next the window a hand lay asplay in the lamplight. It looked huge. The freckles on the hand seemed large as dimes, the distent veins thick as cord. It didn't look like a hand, but, oversized, like a parody of a hand, an incomprehensible hoax. Against the far wall, by the door to the bedroom where Peter slept, a tall farmer leaned. He was dressed in blue jeans and wore a cotton plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled to his biceps, exposing long bony forearms and sharp elbows. His face was narrow and small for his body, seemed as disproportionately small as the near hand seemed large. His nose was prom\u00adinent and sharp, but his eyes under the shaggy eyebrows looked shrunken, aglitter with con\u00adcentration. He gazed fascinated at something out of Peter's view, and he licked his thin mouth with a sudden flicker of his tongue. He rubbed his chin with the back of his wrist. Then he moved forward to the table and took up a jelly glass half filled with corn whiskey and drank it suddenly. It spilled a little from the side of his mouth and darkened his shirt, and as he stood by the table close to the lamp his shadow loomed big and fell dark on the bedroom door. Then he stepped back and leaned against the wall once more; and he had not once moved his fierce gaze from what he stared upon.\n\nPeter wanted to see, but he was afraid Mina would see him. Then what? It would be bad. He had to go all the way back up to the road and skirt round the patch of light. Again he picked up a stone and kept rolling it in his hands. His hands were damp with mounting excitement. What was it that everyone in the world knew but he? There was something grave and black being kept from him, and he could feel how important it was, how imminent, and he was desperate to know. There were two other men aligned against the west wall, by the door to the living room. Both wore bibbed overalls. One, a blondish thickset man, wore a faded red sweat\u00adshirt, looked yellow in the yellow light. He too stared\u2014as did his companion. His face twitched and he was almost smiling, but not happily; in anticipation, perhaps, as one smiles involun\u00adtarily the moment before a vaccination. The other wore a rough blue workshirt, the collar open below the high bib of the overalls. He was taller and looked older than the other man. Spriggy gray hair lay on his chest. He wore an expression almost as unmoving as Mina's, but his stare was as intensely fixed as the others'. Mor\u00adgan himself stood by the outside door, his hands in his pockets. His face was red as always, his eyes filled with lazy mischief.\n\nMina had her back toward him. At first he could not make it out: her dark tangled hair on her shoulders; the blouse loose, obviously open all down the front; her thigh olive and bare be\u00adneath the edge of the table. He could not see her waist. She was reversed, sitting backward in the chair, straddled on the short fat man who sat round the other way. Her bare leg swung rhyth\u00admically and not idly, and it seemed to Peter that she was singing, singing softly music he could not hear. Astraddle, her leg moving to and fro. She gripped the farmer's shoulders and stared intently into his face; it was the way she treated Peter when she was calming him from one of his bad hours. The red fat face was thrown against the chairback, the mouth was open, and the lips tightened and relaxed like a pulse around the dark cavity; lips were frothy and saliva trickled gleaming from one side of the mouth. And now the mouth began to open wider and then almost to close: a fish drowning in air. Mina's naked leg swung easily but more quickly now. And now the muscles under his eyes twitched, this tic rhythmic also, and the man's breath was a hoarse clatter in his throat. Still gripping his shoulder with her right hand, Mina reached be\u00adhind to the table without looking. She drew forth a snake which was limp at first and then grew taut. She held it just below its head and it wrapped about her forearm. It was brown and splotched with a darker brown; he didn't know what kind it was. She held it apart from her for a moment and then began slowly to bring it toward the man's face. Below the edge of the table her leg swung ever more quickly. The farmer breathed a big bubble of spit; his breath\u00ading was louder now. Mina knew when. In time she brought the snake to his face, rubbed it slowly on his cheek. The mottled body writhed carefully, a slow cold movement of the skin without a catch. The man cried out, but the sound seemed not to come from him, but to fall from everywhere out of the hollow air of the kitchen; the sound totally itself, pure unintelligi\u00adble feeling. \"I\u00e4! I\u00e4!\" he cried.\n\nMina spoke gravely and quietly. \"I\u00e4!\" She spoke in affirmation.\n\nIt was over. Again she held the snake apart from them, and then leaned her head forward and put her mouth to the man's neck. When she straightened, the white oval impress of her teeth was plain to Peter. Her leg had stopped swinging. She unbound the snake from her forearm, just as she might take off a spiral bracelet, and dropped the thing carelessly on the table. There it crawled a moment and then lay still; Peter thought that it might be dead now. She got off the lap of her victim easily\u2014it was like crossing a low stone wall\u2014and stood on the other side of the table straightening her black skirt. She brushed her thighs slowly with her fingers. The drab blouse still hung open all down the front and one small solemn breast peered blindly through the window at Peter.\n\nHe stepped back quickly out of the light. He turned his back to the window. They had begun talking again. He went again, avoiding the ob\u00adlong of yellow light, to the road and came back down into the yard. It felt much cooler now than when he had first come outside. Passing the dimly lit living-room window he glanced inside and then stopped. At first he couldn't understand, but looking more carefully, he saw that it was he himself who sat in the ugly stuffed chair. His gangly body was all angles and still. There he sat, uncomfortably asleep, the quart jar still half filled beside him. He stood looking for a few minutes until it all came clear; then he went on, round the house and up the steps; entered the living room and went to sit in the chair. He arranged his body carefully in an angular repose. It was all going to be a bad dream, one of the terrible dreams which caused the sweat to stand on him unmoving and cold. He arranged himself carefully, according to plan, and almost immediately he fell asleep, breathing easily and regularly, not stirring. He stirred once, only slightly, when that hard inexpressive cry sounded again; a different voice, and this time followed by an outbreak of hoarse laughter.\nTWO\n\nIn early August Mina found what she wanted. Now the heat was tortuous. The sky pressed more closely than before, the landscape seemed flatter, rolled out before the eye, baked, seam\u00adless; in the metal heat the different kinds of plants were not to be distinguished. The great white sun was cluttered with yellow and black specks.\n\n\"I got somebody who can drive us,\" Mina said. \"I'm sick of this place. I don't want to hang around here forever.\"\n\nThe short blond boy leaned against the doorframe, relaxed and indifferent. He always had about him a liquid uncaring gracefulness. His arms hung at his sides and smoke rose along his body from the cigarette he held in his fingers with a cool exquisite droop. His name was Coke Rymer. Peter, sitting in the stuffed chair, looked at him. He detested Coke Rymer thoroughly; he hated him. He couldn't remember when the fel\u00adlow had shown up, yawning, glancing about with watery blue eyes which seemed to take in nothing and yet seemed always observing, ob\u00adserving without curiosity. The dark-streaked blond hair was gathered upward in a stiff greased pompadour and was bunched behind in a shabby d.a.\n\n\"Coke here can drive,\" Mina said. \"He can take us anywhere we want to go.\"\n\nPeter nodded. Why was she telling him? She didn't care what he thought about it; she had given him up, for a while at least. He sat in his chair all day, slept in it at night; had denied himself Mina's bed, or had been denied it. \"What good are you if you can't fuck?\" she had asked, and the question had no answer, of course. He couldn't care, either; for the moment at least that was one ordeal he was spared. Many things in him were damaged; one thing in him was broken, but he didn't know what exactly, was hardly interested. He had gone stale in the ability to suffer, but was certain that Mina knew it; she would find some way to rouse him again. He could contemplate without rancor long in\u00adtense days of pain, thought of it dispassionately, as if it were a solid library of books that he had to read through.\n\n\"I can drive anything with wheels on it,\" Coke Rymer said. \"Take you anywhere you want to go, honey.\" He had a thin watery tenor voice which wavered on the verge of a grating falsetto. \"Just point me on the road and we're gone.\"\n\nPeter nodded again. What difference did it make?\n\n\"They's some things I got to look after first,\" she said. \"But it won't be long now.\" She sidled through the door by Coke and went through the kitchen into the back bedroom. She'd grazed him with her thigh.\n\nThe blond boy stood where he was, watching Peter with nonchalant eyes, not moving except to puff slowly at his cigarette, which was burned almost down now. Peter was thirsty again; these last few days that he hadn't been drinking the corn whiskey he couldn't seem to get enough water, made innumerable trips to the bucketed dipper in the kitchen. He rose and went toward the door, and Coke Rymer shifted his stance slightly, setting his right foot in the opposite cor\u00adner of the doorsill. Peter stopped immediately before him, looking carelessly into the pasty blond face with its fixed smile, a meanly dissem\u00adbling expression. He was indifferent; it wasn't worth it. He turned about and went out the other door onto the porch, down the steps into the yard.\n\nThe heat was impossible; stuffed the air like metal wool, would abrade the skin. The copper clangor of the sun filled his ears. There was no breeze, not a hint of it, not even a current in the air. It was so still and hot he felt a match flame would be invisible here in the open. The roaring heat quite overpowered the sound of insects. Under the rough cotton shirt\u2014it was one of Morgan's which Mina had brought him\u2014his ribs trickled with sweat. He walked into the unmov\u00ading shade of the wild cherry and stood looking across the glaring fields to the tall glaring hill beyond.\n\nHe heard footsteps on the sagging porch steps and turned. Coke Rymer came toward him through the brassy light. In the heat the blond body seemed to waver like steam, to have less weight than a normal human body. He stopped before Peter once again, still wearing the creepy unmeaning smile. \"Was there something you was looking for out here, baby?\" He in\u00adclined his head gently to one side.\n\nHe shrugged heavily. The only thing he no\u00adticed was how silly this boy was. How old was he, anyway? He couldn't be over nineteen or twenty, was probably seventeen or eighteen. Merely a beer-joint hood, cheap as a plastic toy; something you could wind up and let scoot across the floor, its movements predictable and dull: before long the stretched rubber that made it go would snap and you'd throw it out. What use was he to Mina? He couldn't see what she saw in him. He began to turn away to go back into the house.\n\nCoke Rymer put a wet hand on his shoulder. \"Wait a minute, feller. It ain't polite to go walk\u00ading off while somebody's talking to you. I don't much like it when people don't treat me polite.\"\n\nHe turned again. \"Get your hand off,\" he said. His voice was drowsy.\n\n\"I don't much like people giving me orders, neither. Especially when it's some chicken bas\u00adtard like you. I don't know what you're doing, hanging around here anyhow. Why don't you just cut out while you got the chance? There ain't nothing to hold you here. If I was you I'd just point myself on the road and get gone.\"\n\nWithout hesitating, almost without thinking, he aimed a kick at the blond boy's knee; missed. His foot caught him on the lower thigh.\n\nCoke Rymer blundered backward a couple of steps. \"You're right mean, ain't you? By God, we'll see about that.\" But in the middle of his speech his voice cracked into a hoarse falsetto, and this as much as the kick seemed to anger him finally. He clenched his fists and held them apart close to his body and lowered his head and charged at Peter like a clumsy yearling.\n\nHe was calm as wood, unthinking. Again he didn't hesitate, but stepped forward and brought his elbow up fair into Coke Rymer's face. It jolted through his arm like an electric shock, but he disregarded it. This sort of pain was meaningless; the whole struggle was mean\u00adingless. It was simply one more task he hadn't asked for but which he had to get through.\n\nAgain Coke Rymer staggered back. Peter had clubbed him on the forehead. The yellowish skin reddened, but Peter guessed that it wouldn't bruise or cut easily. \"You...son of a bitch.\" He was gasping. Peter could almost feel in his own lungs the weight of the heat of the boy sucked in. He came at Peter again in exactly the same way, but then stopped short and threw an awkward punch with his left hand, catching him on the biceps.\n\nHe was surprised at the lack of force in the punch and, without bothering to guard himself, stepped backward. Coke Rymer came on unsteadily, and they began circling. In the intense heat it was like fighting under water. Coke made innumerable foolish feints with his fist and kept gulping the hot air. Peter backed slowly, keeping his eyes dreamily over the boy's left shoulder. Somehow that seemed a very clever strategy. He could draw the kid off guard and step in when he pleased. He was momentarily delighted. The mechanics of this struggle, inept and silly as it was, had begun to interest him. He felt a paternal pity for the boy, for his stupidity and awkwardness; it was too bad how he was floundering himself to fatigue out here in the heat. Surely this boy ought to be smarter about fighting than he was. He was still backing, and now he made a feint himself; stepped forward and flicked a short left jab.\n\nHe had surprised him. Coke Rymer hadn't been touched, but stumbled over his own feet and fell backward, rolling in the dust. He came up breathing hard, his tee shirt caked with the reddish grit. Lips apart, he breathed through dark crooked teeth. He looked warily about him and again assumed his ludicrous boxing pose.\n\nIt was too much. Peter giggled, then laughed hard. He smiled at the boy, fondly amused for the moment. He turned abruptly and walked toward the porch steps, and would have gone back into the house if he hadn't heard Coke Rymer come stamping after him. He looked and ducked; began backing again slowly and care\u00adfully. The knife was shining in Coke's hand; the boy held it loosely but confidently. This was dif\u00adferent, he could kill him with that knife, he was that silly. Peter felt completely at a loss, kept his balance gingerly and made himself stop looking at the weapon. Where had he read that you mustn't look at the knife but at the man's eyes instead? Some stupid crime novel probably. He wasn't at all certain that it was a wise policy. Out here, even in the broad light, Coke Rymer's eyes were all iris; the pupils had diminished to mere dots. Now he was frightened. He remem\u00adbered the boy's queer clumsiness and thought of it as his only advantage; he was backing slowly and weaving, careful to keep his balance. He tried his former tactic, stepping forward sud\u00addenly and feinting a jab, but it was a mistake. Coke Rymer leaned out casually and pinked him in the left shoulder. He jumped away and began circling again. The cut itself hadn't hurt much, but in a few moments it began to sting; he hadn't realized he'd been sweating so hard. He took a quick peep over his shoulder and then broke and ran, ducking under the floor beams of the porch.\n\nThe space under the house was wedge-shaped, the building resting almost on the ground in the ascent of the hill, stilted up on crooked log lengths down toward the west. It was dim and silent under here but not cool. The air was no easier to breathe, stuffed with dust, stagnant. His body remembered it as the air that had stuffed the black attic room before. He ran up a little way under the house and stopped and turned. He couldn't see about him yet; he watched the open space beneath the porch where Coke Rymer would come through. Ca\u00adsual appearance of legs in the blue jeans with the broad glass-studded leather belt, the soiled tee shirt. He heard the boy giggling furiously.\n\n\"Why don't you run one time, you bastard?\" Coke Rymer said, \"I'd just like to see how good you can run.\" He broke down into giggles. He held the knife at his side, then began carelessly whittling at one of the porch steps. \"If you think I'm going to go crawling around in there after you, you're crazy as hell,\" he said. \"That ain't my way, to go crawling around under a house for some chicken bastard. No sir, baby, I just don't cotton to it. Me, I'm just going to wait right here till you come out.\" He jabbed the knife into one of the log supports and let it remain, near at hand. The sound of his high voice under the house was hollow, had an unearthly whistle in it. \"I'll wait right here, me, if I have to for five years. And when you take a notion to come out I'll cut your ass good.\" More giggling. Slowly the boy took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and lit one.\n\nExcept for the open end of the porch the space beneath the house was sided with raw boards which let streaks of light between them. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim\u00adness. He was half bent now and to get comfort\u00adable he would have to squat; he didn't want to do that, he didn't want to see that yellow fixed face. The dust was thick, came almost to his shoe tops. He maneuvered about a bit, trying to find a measure of comfort, and glass snapped under his foot. Looking, he saw bits of a broken Mason jar.\n\n\"I'd sure like to know what the hell you think you're doing under there,\" Coke Rymer said. \"There ain't no way out for you, sweetheart, except just by me. Why don't you just face it?\"\n\nHe moved to his left and squatted. Now the boy's face was hidden by the porch steps; visible were a blue knee, a hand laxly holding a burning cigarette, the knife protruding from the log support. He waited to grow calm again, to steady his breathing. He thought of trying to get out, going quietly and keeping the steps between them, but he knew it was no good. The boy, standing, would see him; he wouldn't get halfway down into the yard. But if he waited here long enough Mina would stop them. Surely she wouldn't let the blond boy kill him....But why not? What did he know about her, anyway? She was unfath\u00adomable. The simple fact that she countenanced Coke Rymer at all was unfathomable. All her motives were buried under the ocean. He sighed.\n\nMoving to the left still, still trying to get out of his sight every part of Coke Rymer and the knife, he struck with his foot something solid and metal. At first he couldn't find it; buried in the deep dust. He dug in and dredged it out: a handle for a water pump: It was lovely, it was about two and a half feet long, dull iron. It had a very slight S curve and the end of the handle was smooth, his hand fitted it perfectly. The op\u00adposite end of the handle tapered to a flat iron plate which contained three quarter-inch holes evenly spaced. He imagined how the holes would whisper when he swung the weapon. It fitted his hand perfectly, it was proper. He held it before him, admiring the heft and the subtle curve of it. Suddenly in love, he wagged it be\u00adfore him.\n\nNow he could go out. He could keep the steps between him and Coke Rymer\u2014if he could just move silently under the house (the dust would muffle the noise)\u2014and he could come out stand\u00ading and ready to fight. He went forward on his knees and crawled toward the light. He pushed the pump handle gently along before him, breathed shallowly and quickly, not wanting to sneeze with the dust. When he reached the edge of the house, he took a ready grip on the handle, then rose slowly to a crouch.\n\nThe boy was talking again; he talked a great deal, Coke Rymer. \"I'm telling you, sweetheart, I don't mind waiting five years for you to come out if I have to. I got all the time in the world.\" He stooped and flicked the live cigarette butt under the house, into the dust.\n\nPeter came out immediately; his eyes had got used to the light. The boy heard and turned, plucking the knife from the log with the quick careless movement one would use in striking a match. They stared at each other over the de\u00adscent of the sagging steps; it was a moment or two before Coke Rymer glimpsed the pump handle. \"What's that thing you've got?\" he said.\n\nHe began to edge round the steps.\n\n\"That won't do you no good, just a ole pump handle. I got something here can cut your ass good.\"\n\nBut he didn't come forward; kept still, watch\u00ading the swing of the handle. Was he going to duck under the house now? That would be too much; Peter thought he would laugh himself sick if he drove the boy to ground like a rat, as he had been driven. No, now Coke began to sidle away from the porch, going back down into the yard.\n\n\"It won't do you no good. I can throw this here knife.\" Almost without looking, and with the one hand, he reversed the knife, holding it lax between thumb and forefinger about half\u00adway down the blade. But there was no conviction in his eyes, and his voice was again teeter\u00ading on the edge of a falsetto. Peter jumped for\u00adward and poked him in the stomach with the handle, holding it like a broadsword. Not a hard blow, but telling, assertive of his advantage. The watery blue eyes bulged; the yellow face splotched with red.\n\n\"Throw down the knife,\" Peter said. He was surprised; his own voice was whispering and rough. \"If you throw the knife down I won't have to knock your brains out.\"\n\n\"Hell you say. I ain't putting this knife down for no son of a bitch. I throw it anywhere, it'll be in your belly.\"\n\nBut surely it was obvious, even to the boy, the superiority...\n\n\"Go on, go at it. I want to see you kill each other off.\" Mina, of course. She stood on the porch watching and now began to let herself gently down into the broken rocking chair. She rocked complacently, enfolding the whole scene with her still gaze. \"Go on,\" she said. \"Kill each other off, why don't you? Ain't neither one of you worth what it takes to keep you alive. It's been a long time since I seen a good fight. Let's see you do it.\"\n\nThey looked at one another helplessly. Their animosity was smothered completely.\n\nShe saw it too and laughed, a hard flat faceless laugh. \"And I guess it'll be a good long time before I ever see another good fight, if it's up to you two. You ain't hardly got no fight in you, have you?\" Again, the flat hard laugh.\n\n\"Aw shit,\" Coke Rymer said. He stuck the knife listlessly into the porch steps. \"I can take care of honeybunch here any time I want to. He don't bother me none, him and his goddam pump handle. I can take care of him without batting a eye.\"\n\nPeter knew better; he was silent, vowing not to let the handle out of his sight. His life was bound to it now; he could see the connection as simply as if it were a glittering chain, a handcuff which held him to the junked iron. For a while now his life had been bound to iron, and the necessity of the handle didn't surprise him; it was inevitable.\n\n\"I don't know whether you can or not,\" Mina said. \"Mr. Leland might be some tougher than you think. What I do know is, you ain't going to try it no time soon. It ain't something I'd just let go on and on. Work to get done around here. We got to get packed up to leave and you got to help get it done.\"\n\n\"That's all right with me,\" Coke Rymer said. \"I'm ready to go any time, anywhere you want to.\"\n\nPeter was ascending the steps, clutching the iron tight. It was the only thing solid in him now. His legs trembled, and his empty right hand. The delayed fear in the struggle with the blond boy had settled on him now and his heart stag\u00adgered in him. His seeing was blurred with fear. He stopped at the porch edge, Mina watching him amused.\n\n\"And what do you think you're up to?\" she said.\n\nHe licked his caked lips. He was careful to look away from her face, over her head into the shadowed sullen air. \"I'd like to have a drink,\" he said.\n\n\"I guess you don't mean water then,\" she said. \"I guess you mean you want liquor.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" He was still not looking at her.\n\n\"What makes you think you'd get any? What have you done to get any? Have you done any\u00adthing for me lately?\"\n\n\"No.\" He spoke slowly. \"No, but...\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\nHis mind was empty. He let his shoulders rise and drop. Helpless.\n\nCoke Rymer spoke, his voice at once belliger\u00adent and whining. \"I don't see why you want to put up with him. What do you want with some crazy old drunk anyhow?\"\n\n\"Hush,\" she said. \"Me and Mr. Leland's still got lots of things to do together. Don't we, Mr. Leland?\"\n\nHe nodded numbly.\n\n\"Even if you can't fuck no more.\"\n\nHe nodded again.\n\nShe rose easily and came toward him and he sank back in himself, though his body didn't move. Her silvery eyes held the whole range of his knowledge; she placed her hand casually on his penis, withdrew it without haste. \"No. Not any more. But there's always something else, ain't there? Why don't you just go and set down in the rocking chair and I'll see if I can't find what you're looking for. Something'll put hair on your chest.\" She grinned. \"Make a man out of you.\" She stepped lightly away and went to the door and turned. She spoke to Coke Rymer; her voice was sharp and peremptory. \"Quit that fiddling around and come on in here. They's work got to be done if we're ever going to get going.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said. \"I done told you I'm ready to go.\" He stopped his scraping of the notched edge of the porch step and folded the knife and put it into his pocket. He came up the steps with his buoyant grace and followed Mina into the house, pausing only to give Peter a single swift foul-natured glance.\n\nPeter giggled. That one last glance had so much about it of the impulse of the hindered child who sticks out his tongue. That was Coke Rymer, all right: a spoiled child. Spoiled, soiled; but also despoiling, assoiling. He darkened the heavy brightness of the air, and even in his total blind paleness there was a dimness, as of a furry rot-inducing mold. He tipped the rocking chair forward and back, but the motion augmented the queasiness that his belated fear had brought on and he stopped quickly, sat in the shadowed porch gazing out. The settled heat had not moved. The limbs of the wild cherry tree dropped, the sharp leaves looked buttery in the sunlight. He was simply waiting, and in a while Mina did appear, holding one of the too-familiar jars loosely at the ridged top.\n\n\"Here now,\" she said. \"Here it is, you can drink it. But I don't want to see that you've poured none of it out or spilled it or wasted it, or you'll never see another drop from me as long as you live.\"\n\nShe went back into the house. He looked through it at the landscape, which was streaked and crazed and looked even hotter through the yellowish liquid. He began to drink, drank steadily, and within the hour he was delirious and lying on the porch in foetal position, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He was prophesying in a loud voice, heedless. And then he began to whisper. \"Mina's right,\" he said, and the sibilance of his whisper was echoed in the sibilance of his clothing as it rasped on the boards of the porch. He squirmed on the floor but made no progress. \"Mina's right about the snake. We live as serpents, sucking in the dust, sucking it up. The stuff we were formed of, and we ought to inhabit it. We ought to struggle to make ourselves secret and detestable, we should cultivate our sicknesses and bruise our own heads with our own heels. Where's the profit in claiming to walk upright? There's no poisonous animal that walks upright, a desecration. It's better to show your true shape, always. It's bet\u00adter to s\u2014...\" But now he had squirmed forward, to the edge of the porch, and his forehead knocked against a supporting post. He raised his head and began to gnaw feverishly at the base of the post. The wood tasted of bitter salty dust. He closed his eyes and kept gnawing until the fit had passed off him and then he lay weak throughout his whole body. He was sweating, the bitterness of the post streamed out his pores; and a fine-edged clarity possessed him. He felt unutterably ashamed, and he turned his eyes toward the door, knowing already what he would see, his face and mouth and ears burning with fearful shame.\n\n\"Ain't you something?\" Mina said. \"Ain't you a sight?\" She didn't laugh, but turned away and disappeared again.\n\nGrasping the post, he pulled himself shakily upright and shook his head hard, trying to clear it. He staggered to the rocking chair and folded into it and began to drink again. That was Mina's way, that was always her way: she simply ap\u00adpeared and disappeared when she liked, every\u00adthing was always under her control. He remem\u00adbered that only a few weeks ago he had day-dreamed that when she had finished the life of his body she would have it discarded\u2014dumped\u2014in the fields under the brutal sun. Naked to the corrupting heat...Now he realized that he wouldn't be so lucky. That fate had been reserved for his wife's white body; Sheila, whom he had murdered, lay out there somewhere, going to pulp in the southern weather. Trying to turn the thought away, he turned his head, shook it hard again. He didn't have to guess about Sheila; Mina had told him what she had had done, repeated it again and again. Of course....Mina would always do exactly as she pleased. Coming and going, her movements ad\u00admitted of no prediction, except that she would continually find him in the moments of his worst shame. Now he had guessed that this was her motive in keeping him, to observe how far downward he had gone. He had become a queer experimental animal; Mina used him purposely to try to gauge through him the fiber of the whole species. And he too felt a chilly detached curiosity. How far into this rushing darkness could a man go? When he had devoured his heart, what was there to push the machine along? At what point was this machine no longer recognizable as himself? He glimpsed a blurred moment of illumination: at that bodiless point\u2014whenever, wherever it was\u2014that the humanity in him melted, disappeared, the universe rested. At least one universe, the humane one. In this momentary half-vision (which he could hardly believe he had been granted) he felt ob\u00adscurely the presence of other systems, other uni\u00adverses, to which humanity\u2014his humanity\u2014was irrelevant. Mocking crowded points of corrusca\u00adtion. Infinite coldness. He shook his head for the third time and drank again, feeling gratefully the flush of the liquor leap upward in his body from his belly.\nTHREE\n\nThey were traveling. They had loaded Peter into the back seat with the same uncaring gesture they had loaded whatever it was Mina was carry\u00ading into the trunk of the car. He sat numb while they made the final preparations, overwhelmed by the all-too-familiar look and odor of the ma\u00adchine. It was his car, of course; Mina had taken possession of everything that had once belonged to him and Sheila. No question about her pur\u00adposes with his possessions; she would waste them totally and carefully. He observed the scratchy ribbed felt overhead, the frayed latticework of the seat covers. Wouldn't it be funny if the dome light worked, now that Mina had the car? It had never once worked when the car was his. He wondered if the little leather-bound copy of the Gospel of St. John was still in the glove compart\u00adment; surely Mina would have no use for that. He was still slightly drunk; he sat carefully steady and kept his hands clasped between his knees.\n\nThey were simply leaving, no goodbyes. Nei\u00adther Morgan nor his wife\u2014who was almost never seen in the house\u2014came out to speak or to wave. She and Coke Rymer finished what business they had inside the house (without doubt she bore Coke Rymer, too, desperate down into the rancid quilts) and got into the car. He drove and she sat listlessly, her bare arm stretched along the top of the front seat. She glanced about with a placid curiosity. Peter had none; sat stolid, feeling the pour of warm air on him, heaviness of the moving landscape. Behind the car the reddish-yellow dust rose solid as wood and then dispersed to separate particles. Peter looked behind once to see the tenant cabin tossing, as if swimming away in the yellow haze.\n\nThey passed the big brick house, the house of the murder, and Peter turned his head. There, it had loomed before him suddenly round a sharp curve of the road and stood shocking in the glacis of the hill. He turned his head. Even the single glimpse of it disturbed, served to force into his gullet the sour taste of the guilt he had been so long now trying to swallow and to keep down. No specific memory\u2014nothing so acutely defined\u2014but a shapeless huge nausea overwhelmed his nerves, and he kept his head turned. He simply would not remember, he de\u00adnied it all.\n\nOn this road it was farmland all the way. On a board fence bordering the roadway, a large gaudy metallic-looking rooster flapped wings and crowed, too late in the day. The racking crow sounded mechanical. Through the bottom fields the creek wandered, not appearing very different from where it ran by Morgan's cabin. Sunlight burning in ovules on the glassy leaves of poison oak. Two white butterflies involved in hectic acrobatics. The passing in and out of the shadows dropped by massy oaks. Splotched cat\u00adtle on the splotched hills. Barbed-wire fences, the weathered posts leaning awry, sagging rusty wire. Hot gray roofs of squat chicken houses. Barns red and gray, looking fat and hollow at the same time. The neat white houses and the battered tenant cabins, each garnished on one side with lines of hung washing, spectacular in the breeze. Noise of flung gravel, of wind.\n\nAnd then they hit pavement and Coke Rymer drove faster. The wind that poured in on Peter cooled and increased in volume. Coke was in\u00adtent on his driving; he drove savagely but with a flashy accuracy, carefully watching the road before him, though he never seemed to look into his rear-view mirror. Nor did Mina glance into the back seat at Peter. Now and again she would draw her fingers slowly along the top of the front seat; she was caught up in her own listless thoughts, and even the slight curiosity she had at first shown in the passing scenery had vanished. Peter let himself relax; the first mo\u00adtion of the car had made him feel faintly ill, but now he let himself drift with it, tried to enclose the oblique movements of the machine in his body and, lax now, felt that he had partially suc\u00adceeded. It was not a good car, an old one\u2014it was what he had been able to afford\u2014and it quiv\u00adered mercilessly and, after a full stop, shuddered alarmingly climbing into the gears. He ought to have got a new car long ago, but there hadn't seemed a real need and, of course, there was the question of money. Even now, he didn't know what the need for the car was. He had no notion where they were headed, except that the direc\u00adtion was easterly, out of the mountains. He didn't even know whether Mina had planned a definite destination. She was perfectly capable of truly aimless movement, he thought, but then he knew the thought was false. Even if there was no destination, her moving would never be purposeless; all her energies were bent to a sin\u00adgle purpose, she never swerved. This he had observed again and again\u2014and a lot of good his observation was. What this purpose was he had never fathomed, so that all her actions were mysterious and sometimes seemed almost crazy; but he didn't doubt that there was a single principle which would bring it all to him clear if he once could grasp it. These thoughts made him restless and he shifted his feet on the floorboard, feeling for the solid presence of the pump handle. He touched it with his toe and was grateful and comforted. He glanced down at it, permitted himself a faint smile in the roar\u00ading windstream. He planned to take care of the weapon, to polish it till it gleamed, and then\u2014and then a light oil bath to prevent its rusting again. He pondered. And perhaps too, a rubber grip for it; he would need only a few inches from a rubber garden hose....\n\nHe felt that he really ought to know Mina's purpose: it seemed so closely dependent on Peter himself. There was a reason, yes, why he had been subjected to what he had. The idea of punishment formed in his mind, but the idea of the crime for which he was being punished would not come. It was not murder\u2014ah, that was a mere word to him now; the memory of Sheila herself had disappeared, to leave only an impression of bright sheeny light, no person at all\u2014no, not murder, but something more ter\u00adrifying, something previous to anything he could ever remember, previous, he sometimes thought, maybe to his whole life, previous to his birth.\n\nRegular monotony of the passing telephone poles, dark, spearlike. The shadows slipped through the interior of the car like spears. Now racing the candescent threads of railway track which lay along the road. He could follow the progress of the stretched shape of the sun as it zipped on the iron. Impression of heatless light. And then they caught up with the train, passed the red caboose, went exhilaratingly by the rol\u00adlicking freight cars. He heard them bounding along the track. Rocker unrocker rocker unrocker. Passed the diesel engine which let go with its ugly sour horn. Shot through narrow concrete bridges. Up and breathtakingly down dark wooded hills. Coke Rymer was taking the secondary highways; Mina must have asked him to keep off the broad fast interstate system. Again Peter couldn't guess her reasoning; it was no less public the way they were going. Cars came toward them and slipped by, momentary as a wink. Trucks loaded with heavy paper bags of fertilizer lumbered along before them, and Coke Rymer cursed, slowing suddenly; Peter was always certain they would bang into the trucks. He cowered inside himself; imagined smothering under a flood of smelly fertilizer.\n\nThey rode on and on. Occasionally they would pull into a nondescript service station for gas, or Coke Rymer would say, \"I got to go to the little boy's room,\" or \"I got to powder my nose.\" His coy silliness, something always grim about it. Mina would go into the station and return, bringing Peter a soft drink and cheese crackers with peanut butter. The cellophane packages were always dusty, he wiped his fingers on his trousers. But he ate and drank dutifully. Four empty soft-drink bottles rolled clinking to\u00adgether on the floor. In one station Peter went to the restroom, and there, in the acrid odor of the disinfectant, looked out the window before him, a narrow slot in the white concrete block wall, and thought absurdly of escape. But there was nothing to escape from. He was not a prisoner, not held by force. He was simply bound to Mina wholly; he was his own prisoner, he could escape by dying, by no other way. He uttered an invol\u00aduntary sob, zipped his fly, lurched out. The sun\u00adlight struck his eyes like a slap.\n\nIt got later, the sun was behind them. The eastern sky was orange, wild with queer cloud shapes. Still they went on. The land got flatter, and towns were glimpsed before they were ar\u00adrived at, the lights making ghostly white au\u00adreoles on the horizon. The young men were out, dolled up, restlessly courting the girls. Gay con\u00advertibles; shaggy fox tails pendent from radio aerials. One little town like the others, all flat on the landscape like stamps pasted in an album. Sharp brick buildings in the evening light; they looked like biscuits set out of the oven to cool. And yet it all fitted. The landscape was perfectly integral. Across the slim horizontal rows of cot\u00adton or cane, the weathered vertical form of the farmhouse seemed truly correct: its gabled porches, its uprightness, its bony angularity. On the whole land a somnolent watchfulness, a waiting for the night, for coolness, for the justice of stars. They passed drive-in movies, and the great flat faces of strangers fluttered away in the darkness; they were quickly oppressive, these visions of bright love and violence, a tipsy staggered glimpse of the secret heart of the land. Peter felt conspicuous and embarrassed at seeing the great screens; it was like peeking into bathroom windows.\n\nIt had begun to cool, but he still felt hot. His body was gritty with dust, filmed over with evaporated sweat. The oncoming headlights burned his eyes, scraped on his exacerbated nerves. They kept driving on and on, and he wanted to cry out for them to stop it, to stop it: they were going nowhere, there was nowhere to go. Why couldn't they let up? Why was it so necessary to squash oneself to a handy ball and keep torturing it along over the flimsy land\u00adscape? He leaned and picked up the comforting pump handle and held it tightly across his lap. He gripped it hard, not to let go, and the tight\u00adness began to seep out of his chest. He ran his finger along the clear curve of the metal; it was he, this weapon; he could punch holes in the world, he possessed heroism kept carefully in check. He settled his head back against the seat. His eyelids flickered. He dozed resistlessly, still gently fingering the pump handle.\n\nIn the sharp restive dream he was a spider; no, a daddy longlegs. He scoured in jagged lines over the fields, searching out water with an unerring hunger. His size was protean; grew monstrously; diminished. On the skin of the great water, when he found it, he would drift in coolness, the big overhanging leaves of the weeping willow would keep away the sunlight. The soft fields were singing softly. In the harsh embittering dream was a peaceful dream, of wa\u00adters shot with healthy shadows, of the rounded spaces under trees enclosing as with cool arms. But in the heated fields his six-legged unstable body was painful, crazy. All his eyes had no\u00adwhere to look; a glazed glare held his vision with unbreakable force. He moved crookedly; he did not want to move. There was no reason for it, there was no purpose in it. The six-legged ma\u00adchine was its own volition, and he a prisoner trapped. It came to him that this at last was the true image of his sickness, and in his sleep he was somewhat mollified. The sweat ceased to trickle down his sides from his armpits and his grip on the pump handle gentled.\n\n\"All right, honey, you can climb out of there. You've got the place we're looking for.\"\n\nHe was awake immediately. They had stopped. Coke Rymer tugged at his shoulder through the open window. He didn't know where they were. It was full dark and cool. All round the car were trees, sibilant in the night breeze. He clambered out, stiff and dizzy, and raised his head to look at the sky. Random stars pierced the foliage, and the tree limbs moved now to sweep them from sight. He flexed his arms, held them out straight, rotated his neck on his shoulders. He breathed deep, grateful, but when he walked forward he staggered, the stiff\u00adness still in his legs.\n\nMina was leaning against the front fender, resting easily. Nothing bothered her; she knew where they were, why they were here. \"I hope you had a good nap,\" she said. \"That might be what you're good for, you know it? Just to sleep. You might could get to be a real expert.\"\n\nHe turned away from her, scratched the small of his back with both hands.\n\n\"Or you could drink liquor,\" she said. \"I for\u00adgot about that. There's two things you can do, right there.\"\n\nHe wandered away from the car, heading ig\u00adnorantly into the darkness.\n\n\"Where do you think you're going?\" Mina said.\n\n\"I'll be back in just a few seconds,\" he said.\n\n\"He's going off to take a leak,\" Coke Rymer said. \"Do you want me to go with you, honey? To hold your hand?\"\n\nIt was dark and cool, and he began to feel better, not so heavy. His body was still sticky with travel, and as he stood to urinate he lis\u00adtened hopefully for the sound of a stream nearby, water to slice away some of the road dust. No sound of water, but a sound, the night breeze hazing the foliage, like water; and even this seemed to help, to refresh. There...Now he did feel refreshed, and as he walked back toward the car he permitted himself a vague half-smile, thinking, 1 woke and found that life was duty.\n\nThey were waiting, still standing by the car. \"We're going to sleep in the back. You can sleep up in the front, if you want to,\" Coke Rymer said. \"The steering wheel gets in the way, that's why.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"Or if you want to, you can sleep out here on the cold ground. I don't give a damn what you do.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said.\n\nHis acquiescence robbed Coke Rymer of any\u00adthing to say. He stood uncertainly. \"Well...\"\n\n\"Oh goddammit, come on,\" Mina said. She caught the blank boy by the arm and opened the car door and propelled him into the back. \"If it was up to you-all, I guess you'd just stand around talking all night. There's better things to do than that.\" She turned. \"Why don't you just take an\u00adother nice little walk? I don't reckon they's any\u00adthing around here to eat you up. So all you have to do is just not to get lost. You can take a little walk and watch out where you're going.\" She got in and closed the door.\n\nHe didn't feel that a nice little walk was what he needed, he was tired. But he'd better go. He put his hands in his pockets and started away, heavily desiring alcohol. How much easier the trip would be if there were something to drink. Mina would know that, and yet she had allowed him nothing....He tried to put it out of his mind, but his resolve simply made it all the worse; his very neurons seemed to cry out for the stuff. The breeze had not abated and now it was cooler than he wanted. He hunched his shoulders forward. He walked aimlessly, notic\u00ading nothing about him. Now and again he looked up, walking on, and the stars seemed to float backward over the various shapes of the trees. He kept wondering if he had come far enough, if he had been gone from the car long enough to satisfy Mina. Finally he turned back and began to retrace his path. It wasn't difficult here; the undergrowth was sparse, the trees were mostly large and well spaced. Two or three times he wandered off the track and had to ex\u00adtricate himself from patches of bush and briar.\n\nBut there was no real trouble, and he got back too soon. He came to the edge of the little clear\u00ading where the car sat and there he stopped, hearing Coke Rymer's choked muttering from the back seat. He let himself clumsily to the ground and sat with his legs crossed, listening. Again he let himself smile, irony without joy; and he waited. The low whistling intake of breath he heard, the unnerving muttering: all the cruel mechanics of the lovelessness of the deed. He waited knowingly, certain of what would come. And he heard it: Coke Rymer's anguished last outcry, uttered twice and en\u00adveloped in the breezy darkness. Coke too was under the pain of it. Snap. O, her cold cold teeth, the fishy breath of her. It was unremitting and continual; she was relentless. He smiled with solid satisfaction for the first time in a long while. She had no mercy, none. Now it wouldn't be very long before Coke Rymer was like Peter, not male; he wouldn't be able to fuck any more. He would be broken, a figure paper thin.... Abruptly he hankered after his pump handle. He should have brought it with him, he felt frightened without it. It was his weapon, and if anyone ever needed a weapon, it was he, for surely there had never been anyone so utterly defenseless, so helpless and so caught in incomprehensible dangerous toils. The land and sky looked upon his helplessness.\n\nWhat was ever going to satisfy her?\n\nHe lingered; waited until what he hoped was a decent time had elapsed\u2014smiled, a third time, because the word \"decent\" had come into his mind\u2014and then rose, brushed absently at the moist earth that clung to his trousers. He went to the car, walked round the front and opened the door at the driver's seat as quietly as he could. It remained dark in the car, the dome light didn't work, not even for Mina. He looked into the back. Coke Rymer lay squashed against the seat, already asleep and breathing heavily, wearily, through his gaped mouth. Mina lay on the outside, propped on her elbow, taking up most of the room. She wasn't even disheveled. She regarded Peter with her pale, almost lumi\u00adnous eyes; spoke in a level, quiet\u2014but not hushed\u2014voice. \"Well, did you have a nice walk?\"\n\n\"It was all right,\" he said. There was a glitter of petty triumph in his voice that he couldn't keep out, and he hoped she wouldn't notice it.\n\n\"Good for you,\" she said. \"Get some exercise, that's the best way to get your strength back.\"\n\nHe leaned in and began to crawl across the seat on his hands and knees. He wanted to have the steering wheel at his feet.\n\n\"You know,\" she said, \"it wouldn't bother me none to turn old Coke out of the back seat here. He's just going to sleep like a dead man. If you was to want to come back here and try your luck for a while, I'd roust him out.\" Her voice was lazy and impassive, her eyes two gray patches. \"You reckon you feel up to a little more exer\u00adcise?\"\n\nAll his little happiness melted away. \"I'm afraid not,\" he said.\n\nShe sniffed; sheer disdain. \"I didn't reckon you would.\"\n\nHe lay down, then squirmed around to close the door; got his position back and lay there, sour and painful. He needed fiercely the pump handle, but he was determined he would not ask her for it. He lay awake, holding his genitals in his left hand. But sleep at last caught him, held him silent and dreamless and he woke into the daylight without rancor, feeling rested. But thirsted harshly for Mina's dispensed alcohol.\n\nIn the early afternoon they came to Gordon, a town not different, so far as Peter could tell, from the scores of towns they had passed through. The surrounding countryside was flat, and on the easterly breeze was a whiff of brack\u00adishness; it couldn't be many miles from the ocean side. Grass struggled to grow here, and the earth was often bare, a pinkish-white dust blanketed over packed burning clay. Here clay land was changing over into sandy land; the two soils melted together. The sunlight too seemed powdery, thick on the leaves of magnolia trees, collected in drifts like burning snow in the upper crevices of boxwood shrubs.\n\n\"Well, this here's the town you wanted to get to,\" Coke Rymer said. \"Where do you want me to go from here?\"\n\n\"Just drive us around a little and let me look,\" Mina said. \"I'll let you know where I want you to stop.\"\n\n\"Well, you're the doctor.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" she said.\n\nThe streets of Gordon were quiet. Cars were parked along each side of the main street, pock\u00adeted when it was possible in the shade of tall oak or magnolia trees. Grave-eyed negro children passed on the sidewalks, swinging wet bathing suits by their sides. The houses here were mostly white wooden houses of two storeys, but here and there were small brick duplexes with the silvered boxed air conditioners protruding from the less sunny windows. Through the main square of the town ran two railroad tracks, side by side, and the town was truly divided by them. On the east side of the tracks the moneyed houses began to grade finely down into grudg\u00ading respectability and then at last into frank pov\u00aderty. The asphalt pavement narrowed and was broken along the edges. Here were the one-\u00adstorey white frame houses, held off the naked dusty yards by unpainted concrete blocks.\n\n\"You can turn here,\" Mina said, and Coke Rymer obediently turned left into a red jolting dirt road. The sloping ditches were filled with black cinders, and the houses were no longer white, but stained brown or weathered gray. They were in a negro section, and there were no longer signs at the corners telling the names of the streets. Here the streets were nameless. There was an occasional shabby grocery store, its false brick siding plastered over with adver\u00adtisements for soft drinks and headache powders.\n\n\"Right here, now,\" she said, and he braked the car, let the motor idle. They had come out of the negro section into a beaten-down poor-white area. On the right was a squat white house, but Mina was observing the house on the left. It was small, looked as if it would contain four rooms or so; the rough oak siding was stained a dark brown, as dark almost as creosote, and the white trim was mostly battered away. The unfenced front yard was as bare and dusty as the others. The roof was gray galvanized tin, no different from the roof of Morgan's house back in the mountains. Peter saw nothing interesting about the place. There were a hundred, a million others which would mirror it without a scrap of difference.... But it was what Mina wanted, what she must have been looking for.\n\n\"You can turn off the car,\" she said. \"This here's the place we been looking for.\"\n\nHe turned off the motor and they climbed out, leaned resting against the heated metal of the car.\n\n\"I don't see what's so wonderful about this place,\" Coke Rymer said. \"Who is it lives here, anyhow?\"\n\n\"They don't nobody live here,\" she said. \"This is where we're going to live.\"\n\nThe blond boy shrugged, sucked his front teeth. Peter was at first bewildered\u2014it made no sense, none\u2014but then he was grateful. They could move the stuff in the trunk of the car into the house, he would help move it, and then Mina would give him something to drink.\nFOUR\n\nWhen Peter woke, his gangly frame was shud\u00addering all over, not just from the morning cool, but because this was the condition of his awaking body. He struggled with his limbs. The chains clashed and thumped on the splintery kitchen floor. He didn't want to open his eyes. The early sunlight would strike like a bullet into his brain. The smell of slopped liquor, of chewed rancid scraps of food, hung in the room, only slightly freshened by the raw air that poured in. A win\u00addow was broken or maybe somebody had left the door open. The light was on his eyelids, forming behind them a coarse abrasive red curtain which made his temples ache. An uncontrollable belch brought up the whole fetor of his gut and while he struggled to breathe, keeping his mouth open to dissipate the deathly taste, droplets of sweat popped out over his whole length, dampening his shirt and pants which were already salty and sour from the weeks before. He gasped.\n\nThen he lay still, trying to listen, but all he could hear was his own thick choked breathing. When he held his breath he could hear only the blood swarming in his ears. But no one seemed to be awake but himself; he had to lie still. If he woke them, moving his chains loud enough to wake them, they would kick him to bits. He tried to place his head, without moving his arms and legs, so that the sun couldn't get at his eyes. It was no good. The day had already begun its dreadful course, the sun was poisoning the sky. He felt the baleful rays sink into his pores. His spine felt as if metallic cold hands squeezed it intermittently. He couldn't get his face out of the sunlight.\n\nHe lapsed into a fitful red doze, but was jarred awake by the fear of rattling the chains in his sleep. With her big mouth Mina would tear his Adam's apple out of his throat. She would spit it on the floor and crush it with her big mean heel, like killing a cockroach. He could almost see her unmoving face hovering over his, feel the cold fishy breath of her; her teeth would be like hun\u00addreds of relentless needles. He whimpered helplessly, but stopped it off, constricting his throat like a ball of iron inside. If he began whimpering hard he couldn't stop and it would get louder and louder until the moos came on him, and then they would beat him until he stopped. He stopped the whimper. His chest already felt jagged inside where they had kicked him. He fought to make all his muscles relax from the quivering, and stream on stream of tears rolled down his face. If he opened his eyes the tears would shoot sharp spears through them.\n\nBut he was so tired he was almost inanimate. He fell into a yellow sleep, bitter with a drilling electric sound and the smell of black mud and fish. He dreamed that he had no face at all and that his eyes were unseeing dark splotches on his gray stony back and that he swam forever through this world of solid objects which were to his body liquid. In the dream there was nothing he could touch, his body was mere extension without knowable presence.\n\nAgain he came awake, now with the black thirst upon him. The sunlight no longer filled his face, and yet he did not think that he had slept long. He felt a warm presence. At first his eyes wouldn't open, and he thought that they had clicked them shut forever with locks and he thrashed around, beginning to whimper again, not caring about the chains now. He got his eyes open, though they were still unseeing, but it was hard to breathe. He blew his breath out hard and an inexplicable chicken feather blew up and stuck on his cheek. He gagged. Then when he could look it was all dim, but behind the dimness was a bright white ball with the hurt strained out of it.\n\nHe could not think any more. Everything in his head was gone. At last he realized he was looking at the sun. It shone through the dark gray cloth, reddening faintly the stretched muscles of the legs which arched over his face. He knew them already, Mina's plump steady legs, taut curve at calf and thigh, arrogant, careless. He looked up the pink-tinged insides of her legs. He knew he had always been right. There at the X of here where her woman-thing ought to be was a spider as big as a hand, furred over with stiff belligerent hairs straight as spikes. He couldn't stop looking. His gullet closed and his chest began to strain for air; he could hear it begin to crackle. His throat opened again, but it was hard to breathe because the whimpering had started. It started loud and he knew there was no hope stopping. The moos had got to come now; and then they would kick him to bits.\n\n\"Hush up, just hush up,\" she said. \"Can't you never take a joke?\" With the hand which wasn't holding up the front of her skirt she reached down there and plucked the spider away. She held it free above him and though he could see it was only a toy, only wire and fuzz and springy legs, he couldn't keep the whimpering back. It got louder; the moos had got to come.\n\nShe dropped her skirt and leaned her face over him, rolling it a little so that he could see she was disgusted. \"Well there then,\" she said. She shook the toy spider in her hand and then dropped it on his face.\n\nHe tried not to, he clenched his teeth and tried to keep it back, but the noiseless loud fear poured out of his mouth, moo after moo of it, pure craziness. He was so frightened he couldn't hear himself, and he heard Mina calling:\n\n\"Coke! Coke! Come in here right now. Come in here.\"\n\nBefore she had stopped shouting the watery blond boy came in. He didn't even look at Mina but simply put the heel of his boot on Peter's chest and ground his foot round and round, pushing down hard. The blond boy pushed harder until Peter couldn't breathe any more, and he had to stop mooing. Then the boy squatted and sat on his chest, bouncing his weight up and down so that he couldn't get out his fear. He drummed his arms and legs, banging the chain links, rubbing them across the floor.\n\nThe blond boy began to slap his face first with one hand and then with the other. \"What's my name?\" he said.\n\n\"Coke.\"\n\nHe slapped him again and again. \"What's the rest of it? What's my full name?\"\n\nPeter was cold with unknowing. He formed sounds but no name emerged from them.\n\n\"Come on, baby. Stick with it. What's my full name, now?\" The slapping had got progres\u00adsively harder.\n\n\"Coke Rymer,\" he said.\n\n\"That's my baby,\" the blond boy said in a soothing tone of voice. \"That's a way to go.\" He stood up with the meaningless nonchalance he always had about him. \"We'll get you a drink now, okay?\" Without pausing for an answer he kicked Peter hard on the side of his neck. \"That's a baby,\" he said.\n\nHe groaned at the kick, but after the first uttering of pain was out he subsided into the whimpering which finally became only a strained silent heaving of his chest. He kept looking up at Coke's liquescent blue gaze; his own eyes were charged with pain and fear but not with hate. He would never have any more hate.\n\nApparently satisfied, Coke Rymer knelt and began to unlock the chained cuffs at his wrists and ankles. He was still murmuring soothingly. \"All right now, you're coming right along. You're going to do all right, honey, you're going to do all right.\" When he finished with the locks he handed the bunch of keys on the long chain to Mina. She dropped the chain loop over her head, tucked the keys into her cotton blouse and buttoned it up. She stood away from the two of them, her arms folded. Coke Rymer hoisted him to his feet and held him up until he seemed steady enough to stand by himself. He stood wavering, his head dropped almost to his chest and lolling back and forth; floundered across the room and leaned backward against the flimsy dinette table. He stroked carefully at his wrists; there were scarlet ichorous bands on them where the broad iron cuffs had rubbed the skin away. It made him feel very pitying to see his poor wrists like this.\n\n\"Huh,\" Mina said. \"You ain't hurt. That's nothing.\"\n\n\"We'll get him a drink of liquor,\" Coke Rymer said. \"That'll fix our little honeybunch up before you know it. Make a new man out of him.\" He swung open one of the rickety wall cupboard doors. Inside, it was full of empty bottles and broken glass. He brought down a pint bottle of murky stuff and shook it, looked at it against the broad light that streamed through the open door. \"What'll you give me for this?\" he said. He showed his dim little teeth in a stretched smile.\n\nHe could barely grunt. It sounded like gravel rattling in a box.\n\n\"Oh, go on and give it to him,\" Mina said. She watched him patiently, as if she was curious. Of course curiosity would never show in that locked face.\n\nThe boy held it out to him and he waited a wary moment to see if it would be jerked away. He got hold of it in both hands and then momen\u00adtarily just stood clutching it out of fear of dropping or spilling it. He drank in short convulsive swallows. It tasted thick and mushy and warm, but it had a burning around the edges. As he lowered the bottle he lowered his head too and then again he stood clenching the bottle and, with the muscles of his chest, clenching his in\u00adsides too. He had to keep it down, couldn't let it get away from him; he stood taut from his heels to his chin. After a long time the writhing spasms stopped. Again sweat came out on him all over.\n\nMina was still watching him. She spoke in an observing even tone: \"They's chicken blood in that liquor.\"\n\nHe was still stuporous; her face was as blank to him as paper.\n\n\"You was the one done it yourself,\" she said. \"You was the one pulled that chicken's head off and crammed that neck down in the bottle. I guess you didn't know it, but that's what you done. It was just last night.\" In the morning sunlight her eyes seemed paler than ever.\n\nCoke Rymer sniggered.\n\nHe looked clumsily at the bottle in his hands, then put it carefully on the table. He was a long way past caring now. He stood still, waiting and dazed.\n\nShe stirred her feet and began talking to the blond boy. She had the full relaxed air of some\u00adone who has just seen a difficult juggling trick performed successfully. \"Me and the girls has got to go off,\" she said. \"I got to get me some\u00adthing to wear for tonight. You better keep your eye on him good while we're gone and see he gets this place cleaned up some. Don't let him drink too much of that liquor so he can't do nothing. You better get him something to eat at dinnertime too. We got to make him eat some\u00adthing.\"\n\nHis mind was clearing some. The narrow ave\u00adnues of what he knew of his labors and his fear had emerged a little from the wet smoke. He understood that she was talking about him but that he didn't have to listen. And then he had to. She was telling him something. \"Go on in there and wake them girls up,\" she said. \"We got to get going.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" Coke Rymer said. He turned to her. \"I want to show him something.\" He came across to where Peter stood and spread his hand flat on the table, his fingers wide apart. \"Look here,\" he said, \"I want to show you something.\" He fetched a big folded knife from his pocket and let it roll in his hand. When he moved his thumb a sharp crying blade jumped from his fist, circled in the air. Peter moved back a little, trembling. The knife was Coke Rymer's man-thing, he didn't want it to hurt him; he didn't want to see it. Coke Rymer laid it on the table and twirled it around with his index finger. He was giggling. He picked the knife up at the end of the blade, pinching it with his thumb and forefinger. \"Look at this,\" he said. He hesitated and then flipped the knife quickly upward. It spun round and round, a flashing pinwheel. When it came down the blade chucked into the tabletop in the space between the third and fourth fingers of Coke Rymer's left hand. He giggled. The knife quivered to stillness.\n\n\"That's enough of that stuff now,\" Mina said. \"I want him to get some things done today. I don't want you messing around and playing with him all the time. He's got to get some things done.\"\n\nCoke Rymer folded the knife and put it away. He turned toward her. \"You want me to take away that old pump handle?\"\n\n\"I reckon not. You just quit deviling him and leave him alone. He's enough trouble the way he is already, without you picking at him.\"\n\n\"I wasn't hurting him none.\"\n\n\"Just leave him alone, I said.\" She spoke to Peter. \"I thought I told you already to get them girls out of bed. I ain't got all day to fool around with you.\"\n\nHe slouched forward, going reluctantly to\u00adward the bedroom. He wanted her to make sure the yellow-haired boy wouldn't disturb the pump handle. She ought to stop him. The pump handle solaced him with its length and its fine heaviness in his hand; he loved to stroke along the long subtle curve of it; he liked just to have it near him, to hold it out before himself, admir\u00ading its blazing shininess and its heft. Hours and hours he had spent scrubbing and shining and oiling it. He knew that Mina derived a clear satisfaction from knowing that it was his man\u00ad-thing, and he thought she ought not let Coke Rymer dally with it.\u2014He couldn't understand the blond boy. There was nothing in him, noth\u00ading at all; he didn't understand why Mina tolerated him.\n\nHe lumbered through the narrow doorway into the living room. In here the light was dim\u00admer and didn't bulge in his head so much. The torn shade was pulled almost down in the north window; little chinks and blocks of light shone in the holes. Through the west window he could see the squat cheap white frame house across the street, all yellow in the sunlight. One pillow lay staggered on the floor, dropped from the springs of the stained greasy wine-colored sofa across the room; along the top of the sofa back all the prickly nap had worn away. On the black little end table was the radio, which was on\u2014the radio was always on\u2014but now nobody had both\u00adered to tune it to a station and it uttered only staccato driblets of static. There were a couple of broken cardboard boxes in one corner of the room, and a few sheets of newspaper were scat\u00adtered on the floor. On the east wall beside the door were dime-store photographs of Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield and Elvis Presley, all dotted with flyshit. At the edge of the sofa and in two corners of the room were blurred rem\u00adnants of the pattern which had once covered the dull rubbed linoleum.\n\nThe bedroom was to the south of the living room and he entered without knocking. A dark green shade covered the single bedroom win\u00addow and in here it was much dimmer than in the living room. He had to wait until his eyes ad\u00adjusted to the darkness. Heaped together in the small bed in the corner\u2014the big double bed on the left was Mina's\u2014the girls stirred restlessly, sensing in their sleep Peter's presence in the room. He went to the bed, grasped a protruding pale shoulder and shook it as gently as he could. The startled flesh moved under his nerveless hand. \"Whah.\" He shook her again and she mumbled some more and sat up. Because of the bad light her sharp face looked detached, a soft lantern. It was Bella. Her black hair came forward, hiding her face; she shook her head, raised her arms and stroked her hair back over her shoulders. Only her face and her breasts stood visible. Her breasts were like featureless faces; they bobbed softly as she fixed her hair. Enid shifted in her sleep, turning toward them, and flung her thin arm over Bella's gentle belly. She stopped manipulating her hair and for a mo\u00adment stroked carefully the arm which lay on her.\u2014He knew that this too was one of Mina's satisfactions, that Bella and Enid were after the woman in each other.\u2014Then she tapped Enid's arm. \"Sweetheart,\" she said, her voice thick and throaty from sleep, \"wake up. Mina must want us to get up. Come on.\" Enid dug deeper into the bed.\n\nBella looked up at him, her gaze abstracted, visionless. Momentarily it seemed to him that there was something she wanted from him, and the thought frightened him. He stumbled back from the bedside.\n\n\"What do you think you're doing?\" she said. Her voice was regaining its natural sharpness. \"Go on away. Go get where you belong.\"\n\nAs he went out the door he saw Bella resume her loving ministering to Enid.\n\nMina was talking to Coke Rymer in the living room, and Peter went straight through and on through the kitchen out to the back porch. He wanted to check his pump handle, to see if it was still where he had hidden it\u2014that was the one thing he could remember from the day before. The porch cracked and swayed under his foot\u00adsteps, the boards weakening with rot or ter\u00admites. A double handful of big blue-and-green flies was flocked on the carcass of the headless chicken that lay there. They skipped about on the queasy body, making a noise like muttered swearing. Already the air was hot, viscid, and the singing of the flies seemed to increase the oppressiveness of the heat. He nudged the chicken with his bare toe and the flies swirled up in a funnel-shaped pattern and then settled again immediately. With his forearm he wiped his mouth; he couldn't understand how he could do something like that. All the glare of the sun seemed focused on the murdered bird.\n\nHe stepped down into the fluffy dust of the back yard. The yard was small, and underneath the dust was burning packed clay. A ruptured hog-wire fence unevenly straggled the rectan\u00adgular borders, and here and there long shoots of blackberry vine poked through. In the north corner of the yard was the little low weather-\u00adstained shed from which he averted his eyes without even thinking about it, with the strength of a habit enforced by sheer instinct. He went around the edge of the little porch, which was laid out at the back of the house like a perfunctory throw rug, and peeked under\u00adneath, where the pile of daubed stones sup\u00adported it. There, crosswise in a space between two joists, lay the pump handle. He hadn't real\u00adized until he found the handle that he'd been holding his breath and it came in a swoop out his mouth and nose, all too heavily redolent of what had happened to his insides. He wiped his mouth. He got the pump handle and stood and held it before him, hefting it warm and solid in his hand, beholding it in the sunlight. He exam\u00adined it all over for a speck of rust or dirt, but it was clean and shiny as quicksilver.\n\n\"Well, so that's where you keep it then? Well, that's all I wanted to know.\"\n\nHe looked up. Coke Rymer was standing at the edge of the porch, leaning against the post support and whittling slowly at the edge of it. Dismayed, Peter stepped back.\n\nCoke Rymer showed his meaningless grin; his teeth were little and yellow. \"That's all in the world I needed to know, where you keep hiding that ole pump handle.\"\n\nHe stepped farther back, gingerly swinging the bright handle like a pendulum in front of his legs. He decided that if the watery blond boy got down into the yard after him he would hit him, he would make blood come. Already now he was whimpering.\n\nThe other folded his knife and returned it to his pocket. \"Aw, hush up. I ain't going to hurt you.\" He grinned again. \"You better come on in here now and get started on this stuff Mina wants you to get done. She's liable to get mad if you don't, and I guess you don't want her to get mad at you. You'd be a even more pitiful sight than you are if she was to get mad and get ahold of you.\"\n\nStill he hung back, but he had stopped swing\u00ading the pump handle. He clasped it fondly across his belly.\n\nCoke Rymer looked at him. \"Aw, you can bring that old thing with you. What's it matter to me?\" He turned and briskly went inside.\n\nHe shuffled unsteadily up the two creaky steps onto the porch. He didn't mind the work so much. He was just hoping they wouldn't make him eat the gooey soft-fried eggs and toast for lunch.\nFIVE\n\nIt wasn't long until September. In another one of his moments of clarity he sat inspecting his body. A good view of it; they dressed him now in only these tattered blue swimming trunks, no matter the weather. The boards of the hated floor were sharp with cold in the mornings, and sweated dirt streaked his body like paint. On his lower shoulder were still pieces of the silvery quarter-moon scars that Mina's teeth had left on him, but now these were beginning to be lapped over by the tattooing. Where he wasn't filthy dirty he was gaudy as a comic book. They had begun at the base of his spine. He had lain stretched on Mina's bed, grasping the iron bars hard and weeping without control, while Coke Rymer, nervous and sweating and cursing him, held the nervous hot electric needle and Mina stood calmly watching. \"No, not there, you're not doing it right,\" she had said. \"No, you're not doing it right.\" And then she would lean over and touch softly the spot she wanted decorated and Peter's body would jerk, as shocked as if her cold finger were the burning needle again. \"Yeah, yeah, I see,\" Coke Rymer would say, his voice querulous, whining asperity. \"If I could just get this son of a bitch to hold still.\" The sweat dripped oily from his face onto Peter's back and then ran itching down his side. It was maddening. At the end of the first session they had got a couple of mirrors so that he could see the handiwork. He rose weakly from the bed, where the imprint of his body was wet and ve\u00adhement. He looked where they directed and he couldn't help crying out, \"Is that all? Is that all?\" in anguish and impotent rage. In the mirrored mirror was his skin and on it only a small mis\u00adshapen yellow circle, about the size of a quarter, with an indistinguishable dark head in it and letters\u2014he supposed these marks were letters\u2014in a tongue he had never seen. It was a coin on his spine, or the sun, sardonically injured. Was that all? The intolerable waiting and the ner\u00advous pain, just for that?\u2014But now he had got used to it, it was no more than being swarmed over by a troop of red ants. They all took turns, Coke and Bella and Enid, but he wept no more under the needle, the artwork had come to seem necessary to him, and he was coolly curi\u00adous as to how it would turn out. The little gold coin\u2014or maybe it was a sun\u2014had been ob\u00adscured almost; in his mirrored skin he had to search hard to find this starting point in the crawly fantastic turf his back had become. On his back nothing was what it was, there were no demarcations, no outlines; nothing was formed, it was all in the process of becoming. Except here a large eye, marbled and fluid; there a crippled hand, the fingers webbed together with sperm. Scattered purple lumps which might be grapes, but pendent from nothing, not attached; knives which looked melting but still cruel; blue fernlike hair; smeared yellowish-white spots, which might be stars dripping down the sound\u00adless void, spots of startling silence on this rau\u00adcous grating jungle, the polychrome verdure suggesting an impossible pointless fecundity and even the odor of this, but the whole impres\u00adsion transitory as dew. Here, was this an inky bird struggling into shape? Really, were these great fish? Or bared unjoined tendons? Was this a clot of spiny seaweed?...A worm?...And now lapping over his shoulder onto his chest, covering over the scars of Mina's bites, these looked like green licks of flame, upside-down.\n\nIn a muffled flimsy way Peter could share their clear pleasure in the work. It was Bella's turn now, and now that they laid him on his back to perform he observed the intense con\u00adcentration in her bladelike face. She used the needle as carefully as if she were making a pain\u00adful embroidery, and he felt obscurely flattered. When she worked on him she had about her none of the contemptuous stupor she used with the men that she and Enid brought to the house. But of course she had no interest in the men except for their money: a dark manner she had, and her body smelled always of earth, of the sandy dirt outside, beaten clangorous by the sun. Mina too was intent on the tattooing, though her face, forever closed, wouldn't show her interest. But Peter knew it was there, and felt a crazy gladness. Clearly he was being pre\u00adpared, clearly he was being readied, although he didn't know for what. But that finally was unim\u00adportant to him. He guessed that his evening per\u00adformances, which he could not remember, were growing in intensity and in absurdity, and that he was gradually fixing for some simple horrify\u00ading climax to it all; but he didn't care. The care\u00adful progress of the tattooing gave him the feel\u00ading of being new-made; his old self\u2014perhaps his only self (that was all right too)\u2014was being obliterated; it was almost as if he were being reborn, inch by inch, and this feeling was ef\u00adfervescent in him, sometimes buoyed him over his hard depressions and the moments when he let go and felt himself falling, falling, fall\u00ading through the void shaft between all the atoms.\n\nHe was sitting on the tiny back porch, the pump handle near, and the early afternoon sun\u00adlight was on his chest like thick cotton. The air seemed sugary and the scores of heavy flies fum\u00adbled about in it. Enid came out of the house to sit beside him; hitched her skirt over her white thighs and let her legs dangle in the sunlight. He didn't squirm away. He wasn't afraid of Enid, felt even a sort of melting pity for her: she was nothing, she was airy, empty as air, and herself fearful. She was blond very much as Coke Rymer was blond, but she was thin and grace\u00adless, had no cruelty in her. But still, he had fur\u00adtively to move his hand and touch the pump handle. There; he felt better.\n\nHer voice was a singsong whisper. \"I always have to do like you do,\" she said. \"I have to do whatever Bella tells me to, just like you have to do whatever Coke tells you to do. It's funny, the way it is.\"\n\nPeter didn't answer. It hurt to talk; his throat had been stripped raw by the drinking.\n\nHer legs flashed when she moved them in the light. \"And Bella and Coke have to do what Mina wants them to. It's funny.\" She shrugged; her shoulders were thin as dry leaves. \"But I don't care what they do, they can't do anything that would really bother me.\"\n\nHe almost spoke. He wanted to tell her that she just didn't know, that they could do things to her she couldn't imagine, she would have pain and humiliation she could never under\u00adstand. And worse, she would be deprived the solace of her outrage, she would have none.\n\n\"I guess I'm next too,\" she said, \"I know it. When you're all gone, I mean, when they're finished with you, they'll start on me. But I really don't care, because I've put up with just about everything already.\"\n\nHe dropped his head sadly. It was all too clear that she referred to his death. He wondered for an instant why she had been told, and why they had kept it from him, for surely his foreknowl\u00adedge would be the most closely observed part of their treatment of him. But he discarded the thought: she had not been told, no; she knew about his death in the same way that he did, for he had known long ago, even before the death of Sheila. He corrected himself. Before he had murdered her....But Enid was still mistaken; there were things in store which would pain her impossibly. She was made for a victim too: empty and pliant as air, she had neither will nor way to strike back. Even so, he must admire her courage. She could guess something of what was coming, at least, and still she kept a resigned composure. Of course, any kind of courage was of no use without some allegiance to, some te\u00adnacity for, one's life, and Enid was void of these. To the end she would simply be what she was already, a ready-made victim. And perhaps it would be easier for her. He had sometimes thought that it would be much less painful for him if he could just resign himself, could just accept without struggle whatever black loom\u00ading entry they'd shove him through next....And a darker thought rose to the surface: he wondered if Enid was being set as an example to him by Mina. Was her acquiescence, for all its show of courage, one of the final temptations for him? Were they trying finally to rupture in him a last thin shard of integrity, an integrity which must disturb Mina but which he could not himself discover? Or was this thought a single piece of self-flattery? The doubt in his mind was like a hard iron ring and, as ever, he hefted up his shiny pump handle for some kind of affirmation. And now it was not enough. Self-pity welled in his heart like empty tears to the eye. The pump handle too, like every other object, like every\u00adthing but his tough chains and the boards of the floor and the quivery tattooing needle, was los\u00ading its presence. It lacked its former heft, its authority. It was going away from him; now he was going to be entirely alone.\n\nEnid pushed lightly off the edge of the porch and went round in front of him up the steps into the house. He listened to the whisper of her bare feet on the wood, over the linoleum. And he heard Bella's sharp voice accost the blond girl as she entered the living room. \"Here's Enid now, and she's a pretty thing, isn't she?\" A pierc\u00ading voice, a throaty male tenor, Bella's. \"You ought to put some meat on your bones, honey,\" she said. \"You're just a bag of bones. I still love you, though, because you're so blond. I always was crazy about blonds. You'd be just about per\u00adfect, I think, if you'd just put some meat on those bones.\" She was silent for a moment, and Peter could picture the scene: Bella was sitting in the balding sofa in her long brown dress, her legs crossed like a man's, ankle laid across knee, ex\u00adposing her long stale dusty thighs; and now she stubbed out her cigarette with a single jab of her wrist, sharp. \"Come here,\" he heard her say. \"Come here to mama.\"\n\nHe sighed. The afternoon was blazing away; the sun had dipped lower, but the light was still white, still hot. It didn't seem the sun had moved, but that the landscape had ached up\u00adward after it, as if the heat that had soaked through the dust into the pressed earth was not enough, would never be enough. In the center of the world was a fast deep iciness, pure recalci\u00adtrant cold, which could absorb the whole heat of the sun and every point of light; yearned after it. This coldness impinged upon him; he had felt its approach and now he felt it so imposing that his body shivered, anticipated.\u2014The hand of every natural thing was turned against him, he knew it. The pump handle felt light as balsa wood, bodiless. There was no point at which his body was in contact with the world; his body garish, he floated a garish emptiness.\n\nBut something with a weight was dipping into his shoulder. He looked. Coke Rymer's hand upon him, and he rose as steadily as he could, not wanting the boy cruelly to help him to his feet. But he lurched into him\u2014it was almost impossible for him to keep his feet any more\u2014and Coke Rymer shoved him sharply backward and smacked his left jaw with a sharp elbow. \"Goddam you,\" the boy said. \"By God, I'll learn you.\" He slapped him across the eyes and then took his hand and led him inside.\n\nHis vision was dazed with tears. Something in his head bored like a big auger.\n\nCoke Rymer leaned him against the spotted kitchen wall, the way one might prop a board up while he turned to something else. The blond boy stepped back to look at him, but even in his mean eyes most of the cruel interest was gone. This handling of him was routine, and the per\u00adformance was much too far along for the routine to carry interest. Now all was bent toward accel\u00aderation, toward the meaty ending.\n\n\"Well, honeybunch, can I give you a drink?\"\n\nCoke Rymer's figure swam blurry before him; he tried to fix it tight, but couldn't. He shook his head. He couldn't drink any more. His body would no longer accept the stuff; he couldn't keep it down and there was no comfort in it.\n\n\"You sure now, sweetheart? Used to be, you 'd hanker after a drink some.\"\n\nHe kept mute and still.\n\n\"Well, okay then, whatever you say. Come on in here.\"\n\nHe led\u2014half carried-Peter into the dark\u00adened bedroom, and Peter fell almost gratefully into Mina's wide bed. Voluntarily he grasped the bars of the bedhead, readying himself for the tattooing session. It was Coke's turn once more; Mina stood away, slightly behind him, ready to supervise. Bella turned on the naked overhead bulb, and the room went stark and shadowless. Peter gazed down at his long body with clinical interest. He hadn't imagined that his thin being could grow so much thinner; he was all angles and knobs. His ribs were distress\u00adingly evident, stiff, stiff as fingers of the dead. When he breathed his skin seemed to move re\u00adluctantly over his ribs, he could almost hear a susurration. Ah, poor body, with its single desti\u00adnation, powerless and expectant. Coke Rymer reached to a cord at Peter's navel, snapped it loose, began to maneuver the tattered bathing trunks from his waist.\n\nHe squirmed and croaked.\n\n\"Now don't start that goddam meowling,\" Mina said. \"You just hush up. Because they ain't nothing you can do about it anyhow.\"\n\nOnly disjointed croaks he could muster from his throat.\n\n\"Hush. They ain't nothing there that could hardly get hurt, is there? You ain't got nothing down there to be touchous about. Just you keep quiet.\"\n\nThe bare bedroom was filling with men. They jostled together, unreal, tough-looking; they wore sport shirts or white shirts open at the col\u00adlar. He couldn't count them, the light from the big bulb jabbed his eyes. He thought that he recognized some of them; they were customers, the men the whores brought in. They had red faces, baked, hoodlums from the town of Gor\u00addon, scoured, God knew how, out of the beer joints and hamburger joints, and brought here for the spectacle. They didn't speak; they were silent except for an occasional single whisper and an accompanying titter.\n\nCoke Rymer gave a final tug and the swim trunks came off his feet. \"There, by God,\" the blond boy said. Peter watched him; he was trembling and sweating. He was more fearful than Peter, and somehow it made sense. Coke still had to fear Mina, but Peter didn't any longer. No matter what happened to him, he was well out of that. It was a strange funny thought, but when he laughed he uttered only a scraping gurgling sound.\n\n\"Hush up,\" Mina said. \"I ain't going to tell you no more.\"\n\nHe clenched his teeth, he could hear the un\u00adnerving rub of them together; he was going to keep silent, not from fear of Mina but in the hope of frustrating Coke Rymer. He knew that Coke hoped for his pained reactions, that they were a great part of what he had now to subsist upon. He too was losing grip. After she was finished with Peter and with Enid, it would be Coke's turn. Peter began to wish that he could see it, he would like to know how Coke would bear up under what Mina had planned for him. Whatever it was, it would be different from Peter's treatment; and he guessed that it would be worse. Abruptly he felt a queer sympathy for the boy, who was pushing forward now through the ring of strangers, bearing the black-handled needle with its black cord dangling; abruptly he was glad that he wouldn't have to watch the spectacle of Coke Rymer's going. As the blond boy squatted by the bedhead, grunting, to plug in the electric needle Peter glanced at the top of his sticky hair. He felt that he almost smelled the bad nerves in him. It was a performance for Coke as well as for Peter.\n\nHe held the bars of the bedhead as tightly as he could, as Coke Rymer stood above him, lean\u00ading forward in a sort of triumphant uncertainty. But those bars seemed to go away from his grip; like the pump handle they had lost substance. In all the world there was nothing in which he could touch, find his maleness; all drifted.\n\nMina came closer. She was ready to begin. She put the tip of her index finger on her cold tongue and leaned and touched Peter's chest just below the right nipple. \"There,\" she said. \"You can start right there.\"\n\nCoke turned about and sat on the edge of the bed, pressing it so that Peter slid slightly against him. \"Scoot your ass over,\" Coke said. His voice had become the uncertain liquid falsetto once more. Peter shifted. Coke leaned sidewise over him; he was already sweating heavily and the oily drops fell from his forehead onto Peter's belly, trickled into his navel.\n\nHe held on as tight as he could and kept silent as long as he could. From the circle of the stran\u00adgers came an occasional restless unsurprised mutter....Perhaps they had expected more from him; he was being too quiet to please them, and he didn't want to please them. But in a while he was muttering hoarsely; they all peered at him more closely. He couldn't see very well what Coke was up to with the needle; it hurt his neck to look because of the way he had to crane. There was a murky green-and-purple band filling in from right to left across his chest, joining the place where the tattooing had already lapped over his shoulder. Around the tattooing the bare skin was flushed, heated, swollen; the design, if it could be called a design, appeared on him like a great lurid continent thrusting itself out of the sea. The upper part of his chest was numb, but it afforded him no real relief. He had ceased muttering, though. The only sounds now were the intense breathing of the five or six men gathered about and the warm steady hum of the electric needle, like the flight of a hornet near away in summer air. Not enough was happening; he felt Mina's boredom, and he wasn't surprised when she wet her finger and placed it high on his left cheek, not far below his eye.\n\n\"There,\" she said. \"Start there again.\"\n\nCoke Rymer held the needle above Peter's neck and turned to look at her. \"How come you want me to start up there now?\" he said. \"Ain't I done enough work for one day?\" His voice, the watery feminine whine.\n\n\"Work; you don't know what it means, work. You don't know what the word is. You go ahead now, like I showed you.\"\n\nHe turned back to Peter. His hand was shak\u00ading savagely. For the first time Peter felt that he saw in those wet blue eyes an attitude toward himself that was not indifferent, nor fearful, nor contemptuous, but almost fellowly, almost sym\u00adpathetic. And this discovery was more frighten\u00ading than any other. If this sort of feeling could be roused in Coke Rymer, it meant that the edge really was close, was nearing steadily.\n\n\"Here we go then, sweetheart,\" Coke said. \"Hold on to your hat.\"\n\nAt the first prick of the needle he jerked his head aside, sputtered with stifling pain. Enid was standing at the foot of the bed, and through his pinched eyes he saw that her mouth was working, rounding and widening on breaths of air, though she made no sound. She had in her eyes a full wasted pity. He thought that she had better keep it for herself, Mina was killing two birds with one stone.\n\nCoke grasped him harshly with his left hand under his chin; his fingers were tight on the spit glands under his ears. \"Goddam your eyes,\" he said. \"Hold your head still.\"\n\nHe acquiesced in his mind; he wanted as little trouble as possible, he wanted it to be over soon.\n\nBut when the needle was at his cheek again, his head recoiled. He couldn't help it. Now his body was taut with apprehension, and warm liq\u00aduid streamed down his face, across his mouth. Taste of salt. When his head moved, the needle must have ripped his cheek. He looked at Coke in despair. He had made him angry, he hadn't wanted to. It would be easy for the boy enraged to plunge the vibrant needle into his eye.\n\nBut Coke turned away, turned toward Mina.\n\n\"I ain't going to do it no more,\" he said. \"I'm tired of it. You can do it your goddam self.\"\n\nShe didn't smile, but her voice was levelly humorous. \"All right. That's fine. I guess you've had a hard day and I feel real sorry for you. You give Bella that needle and then you can go and lie down and take a little rest.\" In the blazing room she was the only cool thing. \"I'll be around and tend to you in just a little while.\"\n\nBella poked her way through the waiting un\u00adreal circle of men. \"Give me the needle,\" she said. \"I never have believed that you had the guts of a weasel....Isn't it true that he shamed him in a fight once?\" She asked the question of Mina. \"Isn't that true? That Coke was afraid of something like him?\" She gestured toward Peter with the needle she had taken from the blond boy. It was still running, humming.\n\nCoke rose from the bed and pushed his way clumsily through the group. He rubbed his streaming face. Mina took his place on the edge of the bed, a neat aggressive motion.\n\n\"I won't be able to do it, I can't hold it still,\" Peter said. But the words became mere grating gasps, formed from pain and fear.\n\nMina surveyed him from the foot of the bed. There seemed clear in her steady eyes the knowledge of what he was saying. \"That's all right, honey,\" she said to Peter. \"Don't you worry about a thing. We'll take care of you fine.\" She touched two of the near men in the circle and they looked at her, waiting, shamefully scared. \"Take hold of his feet,\" she said. \"Hold him down good and tight.\"\n\nThey grasped Peter's ankles, unhesitating; pressed them so hard into the lumpy mattress that he had to let go the bars of the bedhead. His forearms were prickly with exhaustion, his wrists felt all injured tendon, his palms were bruised scarlet.\n\n\"You-all grab his hands too. We got to stop him from jumping all over the place.\"\n\nOne of the men, fantastic and red-faced as the others, took Peter's right hand, bent his elbow hard, bringing his forearm under his neck, and then took both wrists together, one atop the other; held them crossed hard with his knee. His face was unreadable. He steadied his stance by holding to the bedhead.\n\nBella took Coke's place at the bed edge. She took Peter's chin with thumb and finger and turned the torn cheek toward her. \"Look at that,\" she said. \"Coke's made a mess of this, it's just a mess.\"\n\n\"You can let that part go then,\" Mina said. \"You'll have to start lower down.\" She wet her finger, leaned over the foot of the bed, touched him where it would be most sexually excruciat\u00ading; but there was no longer sexuality in him. She straightened, her eyes still plainly bored; and from the strangers a murmur of...Was it satisfaction? They were expectant.\n\nHe nodded. It was as he had thought; there was no way out of Mina's thinking. He came at last to anticipate her every maneuver, horrified because she had so usurped his mind. It was his own head that labored so to produce his own humiliation.\n\nBella rose and moved lower on the bed.\n\nThe moos were on him, implacable, but now they didn't care; they let him sound away, ab\u00adsorbed in their work. He kept passing out and rousing again to consciousness. The world was flaring brightly before him; gasping and flicker\u00ading down again. It was the most fragile tendril that held him tied to it all.\n\nAt last they brought him back again for the final time. Coke Rymer had returned, and he helped one of the strangers hoist Peter to his feet. They almost dropped him; he had no con\u00adtrol.\n\n\"That's all, sweetie,\" Coke said. \"That's all there is.\"\n\nMina came forward and looked him over. They held him pinioned by arms and shoulders. He couldn't see her well, he didn't look at her face, but felt the cold wash of her gaze on all his body. \"Wouldn't you like to see how it turned out?\" she said. \"I believe you've improved a whole lot.\" She spoke to Coke and the other. \"Bring him over here in front of the mirror.\"\n\nThey dragged him standing before the ward\u00adrobe. He saw the image; nodded wisely. His legs were still naked, untouched by the needle, but they were no longer his, no longer even sup\u00adported his body. They looked irrelevant and alien, detachable. The remainder of his body was obliterated; it had been absorbed entirely into another manner of existence, a lurid placeless universe where all order was enlarged bit\u00adter parody. Even his bare skin where the needle had not tracked was a part of it all, and the bloodstain over his face was integral, was as\u00adsuredly important. His body now was a river, was flowing away. He nodded again.\n\n\"Well now,\" Mina said, \"I'm glad to see that you like it. I think it does you a lot of good myself.\" She spoke to Coke Rymer and the other man. \"Well, take him out there where I told you to.\"\n\nImmediately they began dragging him toward the door. The line of strangers fell away and they went through into the living room, turned, went through the kitchen. It was dark and no cooler. The stars looked close and hot, and in the darkness were clumps of darker shadow. He breathed deep, convulsively; he felt almost as if he had been holding his breath for hours. No, but in the air he had been breathing had been no sustenance for his lungs. The porch floor creaked as they shuffled across it; the board steps cried out. He was not resisting, but he couldn't aid them, either. There was nothing left in his body. He had no body.\n\nShuffling in the thick dust they took him across the barren ground. He gazed upward and the sky looked narrow and vile, hurrying against him. They were taking him, he knew it, to the low weather-stained shed. There the god per\u00admitted his being at times to obtrude into per\u00adception. He had feared the obscure shed and the altar with all his deep and fearful hate, but now he was hopeful for it. He wished that he could move toward it under his own volition. Coke Rymer unlatched the shabby raspy door and they flung him in. He fell on his back, and for a few minutes lay still. He knew that they wouldn't come in to help him sit up; they wouldn't enter at all. Coke Rymer gazed at him through the door only for a moment; threw him\u2014it was like throwing a foul scrap of meat to a dog\u2014a limp mock salute. \"Well, bye-bye sweetheart,\" he said. \"I guess I won't be seeing you for a while. Might be a good long time.\" He turned and followed the other man, both forms dissol\u00adving into shadowed night. They left the door open, dark gray rectangle scratched with the wiry lines of blackberry vines. He heard Mina coming; and he pushed himself backward through the dirt floor littered with wads of paper and corncobs.\n\nShe leaned forward in the low door, putting her hands at the top to hold herself. \"Well, there you are now,\" she said. \"You look like you're comfortable. You look like you're going to be all right. You're all right, ain't you?\"\n\nHe couldn't answer.\n\n\"Well, you look all right to me. I'll just leave you here and I'll be back in a little while.\"\n\nAll he could make out of her was her luminous gray eyes, spots in the darkness. He nodded, he was sure she could see him.\n\n\"Yeah, I knew you knew I'd be back.\" She laughed, a slight dry sound, humorless. She stepped back; shut the door lightly; shot the solid latch forward.\n\nHe waited. He heard her going away, and then he heard nothing for a long while. Then, a faint rustling in a far corner: a rat, perhaps. And then again silence, disturbed by his own un\u00adsteady breathing. Inside his chest it was as pain\u00adful as outside. In here it was inky dark and his eyes did not grow accustomed to it. He could barely make out the shape of the silly altar, loose boards of uneven lengths laid over two rickety sawhorses. Very gradually his breathing grew in volume, stertorous, bladed in the throat. It grew and grew; he could feel the passage of it on his skin. It was not his breathing. He understood. He opened his mouth to breathe. The galaxies poured down his throat, thick tasteless dust he could not spit out, could not vomit. The breathing was icy on his skin; impression of swift wind continually on him, but the dust of the floor not stirring. Slowly he raised his hands to rub his face. It was cold and dry and felt not like flesh, but like wood or leather. It was himself no longer....Point of vague light somewhere in the air, but then not light: a circle of blackness, a funnel that sucked all the light away, even the light of his body which was glowing with a faint phosphorescent pulse. He looked into his body, looked through it: wide clots of dust, a thin winking membrane where the nebulae were being born....Something solid out there. An angleless wall without protuberance; no, not solid; a bending wall, breathing upon him.\n\nEye.\n\nTooth.\n\nGlimpsed and then erased, wiped coolly from vision.\n\nThe god Dagon assumed the altar.\n\nReptilian. Legless. Truncated scaly wings, flightless, useless. The god Dagon was less than three feet long. Fat and rounded, like the belly of a crocodile. He couldn't see the mouth hidden away under the body, but he knew it: a wirelike grin like a rattlesnake's; double rows of venomous needles in the maw. On this side a nictitating eye, but he thought that on the other side there would be no eye, but merely a filmy blind spot, an instrument to peer into the mar\u00adrow of things. The visible eye gray, almost white. A body grayish-pink like powdery ashes. Chipped and broken scales covered it, tightly overlapped. It breathed and this took a long time. The froglike belly distended, contracted.\u2014The reptilian shape was immobile; there was no way for it to move upon the earth.\n\nHe recognized the god Dagon.\n\nAn idiot. The god was omnipotent but did not possess intelligence. Dagon embodied a naked will uncontrollable. The omnipotent god was merely stupid.\n\nPeter laughed, his teeth shone in the dark.\n\nHe confronted the god. The presence of Dagon displaced time, as a stone displaces water in a dish. Surely hours elapsed in the stare that was between them.\n\nMerely a ruptured idiot stubby reptile.\n\nThe god Dagon went away. Suddenly winked out; whisked.\n\nAt last Peter relaxed. He smiled in the dark. He had faced the incomprehensible manifesta\u00adtion and he still maintained himself; he was still Peter Leland. He blinked his eyes gratefully, casually turned his head from the altar. He heard Mina coming and turned to face the door, still smiling in the dark, uncaring and relaxed. She opened the flimsy door and entered without hesitation. In her right hand she bore Coke Rymer's man-thing, faintly gleaming. She took a handful of his hair in her left hand and Peter knelt forward on his knees and raised his head. Happily he bared his throat for the knife.\nSIX\n\nPeter Leland died and came through death to a new mode of existence. He did not forget his former life, and now he understood it. The new vantage point of his psyche was an undefined bright space from which he could look back upon this little spot of earth and there see the shape of his life in terms not bitterly limited by misery and fear. At his death he did not relin\u00adquish the triumphant grasp of his identity he had acquired in encountering Dagon face to face. He had come through. In this surrounding brightness there was no time, and he watched his career unfold itself again and again beneath him and he laughed, without rancor and with\u00adout regret. Now his whole personality was a be\u00adnevolent clinical detachment.\n\nHe understood suffering now and the purpose of suffering. In an almost totally insentient cos\u00admos only human feeling is interesting or rel\u00adevant to what the soul searches for. There is nothing else salient in the whole tract of limit\u00adless time, and suffering is simply one means of carving a design upon an area of time, of charg\u00ading with human meaning each separate mo\u00adment of time. Suffering is the most expensive of human feelings, but it is the most intense and most precious of them, because suffering most efficiently humanizes the unfeeling universe. Not merely the shape of his own life taught him this, but the history of all lives, for from here he perceived with a dispassionate humor the whole of human destiny.\n\nMetaphor amused him\u2014and this was neces\u00adsary, for in this place metaphor was a part of substance. Here he had no properly physical form apart from metaphor. And now it seemed his task to find and take his likeness in every possible form in the universe; he was to become a kind of catalogue of physical existence and of the gods. There were metaphors for everything: sometimes all his past life appeared to him in the image of a gleaming snail track over a damp garden walk; or a black iron cube, two inches square; or a shred of discolored cuticle; or a frayed shoelace.\n\nNo regret and no anger in him, no nostalgia for the painful limits he had metamorphosed out of. He was filled with an unrepressed motiveless benevolence. He contemplated with joy the unity of himself and what surrounded him. He deliberated what form his self should take now, thinking in a tuneless dreaming fashion of every possible guise. Galactic ages must have passed before he finally gave over and took the form of Leviathan. Peter took the form of the great fish, a glowing shape some scores of light-years in length. He was filled with calm; and joyfully bel\u00adlowing, he wallowed and sported upon the rich darkness that flows between the stars.\n\nEND\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Big Green Egg Cookbook - Big Green Egg"}, "text": " \nBig Green Egg Cookbook\n\nExpecting recipes for omelets and scrambles? Not in this EGG book (although both could be done). Instead, the _Big Green Egg Cookbook_ celebrates the EGG as cooker, or more accurately, the world's best smoker, grill, and oven.\n\nFor more than thirty years, company president Ed Fisher has lovingly and painstakingly nurtured this ancient kamado-style cooker, taking it from an obscure, quirky, fragile, clay cooking vessel to an updated, hip, and still quirky barbecue made of durable state-of-the-art ceramics. Along the way, Big Green Egg has amassed legions of fans, some of whom are so devoted and passionate they refer to themselves as \"EGGheads.\" If you consider yourself part of this enthusiastic group, you well know the charcoal-fueled EGG is unrivaled in its versatility, and creates moister and more flavorful food than any other outdoor cooker. Even if you're not an EGGhead\u2122 (yet) but just love great food and cooking outdoors, by the time you finish this book, you'll understand what all the fuss is about.\n\nThis comprehensive guide to the EGG explores the history of the kamado-style grill and pays tribute to the EGGhead culture that has sprung up around it. It offers tips, techniques, and how-tos to satisfy every skill level. And best of all, the book provides over 160 newly developed, carefully tested recipes for appetizers, meats, fish, vegetables\u2014including vegetarian dishes, breads, desserts, and rubs and sauces\u2014some contributed by well-known professional chefs, pitmasters, and EGGheads who love cooking in the ceramic EGG. The recipes, which range from classic barbecue favorites to fresh and innovative new ideas for the grill, are artistically photographed and sure to inspire you to get out and get cooking.\n\nYou'll soon discover that whether it's grilled, smoked, baked, or roasted, everything tastes better year round when cooked in the EGG.\n\n_Big Green Egg Cookbook: Celebrating the World's Best Smoker & Grill_ Recipes \u00a9 2009 Big Green Egg, Inc. Photographs \u00a9 2009 Mark O'Tyson. All rights reserved Printed in China No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. For information, write Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, an Andrews McMeel Universal company, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106.\n\nE-ISBN: 978-1-4494-0220-4\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number: 200993-1318  \nwww.andrewsmcmeel.com\n\nFor additional information about Big Green Egg products and the company, or to find Big Green Egg dealers near you, visit www.biggreenegg.com.\n\nBIG GREEN EGG and EGG are registered trademarks of The Big Green Egg, Inc. EGGhead, EGGheads, EGGfest, and EGGcessories are trademarks of The Big Green Egg, Inc. The particular green color and overall configuration of the cooker in this color are also trademarks of The Big Green Egg, Inc.\n\nwww.andrewsmcmeel.com\n\nProduced by Donna Myers, DHM Group, Inc.  \nPackaged and designed by Jennifer Barry Design, Fairfax, California  \nRecipe development and food styling: Sara Levy  \nFood styling and recipe testing assistance: Bree Williams and Bryan Hartness  \nDesign and art direction assistance: Leslie Barry  \nLayout production: Kristen Hall  \nCopyediting: Leslie Evans  \nPhotography by Mark O'Tyson and Text by Lisa Mayer\n\nAttention: Schools and Businesses  \nAndrews McMeel books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchase for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please write to: Special Sales Department, Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106.  \nspecialsales@amuniversal.com\n\n# contents\n\nForeword\n\nIntroduction\n\nAppetizers\n\nBeef & Lamb\n\nPork\n\nPoultry\n\nSeafood\n\nVegetarian Meals\n\nSide Dishes\n\nSauces & Rubs\n\nBaked Goods\n\nBreakfasts\n\nDesserts\n\nEGGhead Recipes\n\nChefs & Pitmasters\n\nChef & Pitmaster Biographies\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nMetric Conversions & Equivalents\n\n\" _If you are new to the world of  \nceramic cookers, welcome and congratulations!  \nYou have some great meals in your future._\" \u2014Ed Fisher\n\n# Foreword\n\n#\n\nWe might as well break it to you right now: your kitchen oven is about to become a high-priced storage cabinet. So versatile is the Big Green Egg ceramic cooker that you may never use your indoor appliances again.\n\nIf you are new to the world of ceramic cookers, welcome and congratulations! You have some great meals in your future. We hope this book will help you master the basics and quickly join the legions of enthusiasts for whom cooking in their EGG is not just their favorite way to prepare a meal but a way of life.\n\nThis dedicated band of followers, affectionately known as EGGheads, considers the EGG more than just a grill. To them it is The Ultimate Smoker and Grill, much like a Harley is more than just a motorcycle\u2014it's the ultimate motorcycle. And as many Harley owners live, sleep, and breathe the Harley lifestyle, so too do many of these passionate EGG owners.\n\nEd Fisher, president and founder, Big Green Egg\n\nIf you already are one of these seasoned EGGheads, you know what we mean. We thank you for your support and loyalty to our ceramic cooker. Your fervent passion for the EGG is among the reasons for its growing success over the past three decades. We recognize your tremendous contributions to the evolution of our product, including ideas for new products and features, and we are profoundly grateful. After all, no one knows the EGG better than those passionate enough to use it day in and day out.\n\nLike most of us, you probably have grilled, smoked, roasted, and baked your way to culinary bliss in the Big Green Egg. But what you'll find new here are fabulous recipes, nearly 170 of them, that take cooking in a ceramic cooker to a whole new level. From modern twists on tried-and-true barbecue favorites to exotic, gourmet dishes with sophisticated flavors, you'll find inventive menus to scramble up your repertoire (pardon the pun!) and challenge you with new techniques.\n\nCould there be anything better than cooking good food in the great outdoors? We don't think so. The mix of sweet fresh air, spicy wood smoke, and the zesty aroma of food cooking over the coals is an intoxicating elixir that will not only get your mouth watering but also light the desire to cook every meal in the EGG all year long.\n\nSo stoke up the fire, don the apron, and take up the tongs. A very tasty adventure awaits.\n\nHappy cooking,\n\nEd Fisher, president and founder, Big Green Egg\n_The Big Green Egg creates food that is moister, more flavorful, and far superior to food cooked on an ordinary barbecue grill._\n\n# Introduction\n\n#\n\n## The Ceramic Cooker:  \nA Newfangled Grill with a Long History\n\nWhat exactly is a ceramic cooker? It is a type of thick-walled, elliptically shaped barbecue sometimes called a \"kamado.\" While it may be an unusual appliance by today's standards, evidence of enclosed, rounded earthen cooking vessels has been found by archaeologists in the ruins of practically every ancient civilization since cavemen (or, more likely, cavewomen) figured out that meat tasted a whole lot better when it was cooked over a fire.\n\nThe ceramic cookers found in the United States today are most closely related to clay cookers first used in China during the Qin Dynasty (221 B.C.-207 B.C.). The Japanese adopted these domed cooking vessels in the third century C.E. and called them \"kamados,\" which has been translated to mean oven, stove, heater, or fireplace. Initially, pots were hung over the fire inside the kamado, and eventually a slatted cooking grid was fitted inside for grilling and roasting meats. Versatile even then, the base of the unit also provided heat to the house.\n\nThroughout the centuries there were a number of variations on the theme, including stationary indoor kamados, portable outdoor kamados (could this be the first-ever barbecue grill?), and even \"mushi-kamados\" used exclusively for cooking rice. Not able to get enough of a good thing, wealthy Japanese often had two or more kamados lined up inside the home to prepare meals.\n\nNow, skip ahead to World War II. U.S. servicemen first encountered kamados in Japan, loved cooking in them, and brought them home when they returned to America after the war. They discovered that the rounded shape and thick walls of the ceramic cooker retained both heat and moisture extremely well. The kamados were an unusual but exciting alternative to the barbecue grills of the day, and early fans were soon sold on the added flavor and juiciness the \"new\" cooker gave to foods.\n\n## How the Modern Ceramic Cooker Was Hatched\n\nEd Fisher was one of the first people in the United States to catch on to the fun and flavor of kamado cooking. After eating a meal prepared in a kamado grill in the early 1970s, Fisher declared it the \"best food he had ever eaten\" and made it his mission to perfect these ancient ceramic cookers and get them into backyards everywhere. In fact, so convinced was he of the benefits of this quirky barbecue that he began importing kamados from Asia and selling them out of an Atlanta storefront in 1974.\n\nThese kamados, made of the same fireclay and design that had been used for thousands of years, produced great results and began to attract a following. However, the material of these original ceramic cookers became brittle and cracked if they got too hot or after a few years of use and exposure to the elements.\n\nFisher sought out skilled ceramic artisans closer to home and found a state-of-the-art tile factory in Mexico to manufacture his ceramic cookers. Company engineers incorporated a new type of ceramics originally developed by NASA for the space program. This sophisticated material is impervious to the elements, has excellent insulating properties, and is incredibly durable, able to withstand extreme heat, cold, heavy use, and all kinds of weather conditions without cracking or incurring other damage.\n\n_The Big Green Egg is foolproof and fuel efficient and can cook anything from fish and steak to pizza and pie. It really does it all._\n\n#\n\n**How to Speak EGGlish:**\n\nEGGstraordinary: The way food tastes cooked in the EGG.\n\nEGGceptional: The quality of EGG products.\n\nEGGcessories: All the fabulous cooking gear for the EGG.\n\nEGGheads: People who love this cooker.\n\nEGGfests: Cooking festivals for all who love the EGG.\n\nEGGstravaganza: A meal cooked entirely in the EGG.\n\nWhile working on a marketing strategy to generate awareness of this next-generation ceramic cooker, Fisher realized how much the product resembled an oversized egg. And perhaps subconsciously inspired by Dr. Seuss's whimsical story, he decided to make the egg-shaped cooker fun and distinctive by coloring it green. Thus, the Big Green Egg was born and named, with a look and moniker he hoped would be very memorable for prospective customers. Right he was. Once someone sees the Big Green Egg, or hears the name, he or she might chuckle, but is not likely to forget it.\n\nWith no money for sales staff or advertising in the early days of the company, Fisher relied on dedicated fans of the EGG to be his de facto sales force. These enthusiasts wanted everyone to experience food preparation in the ceramic cooker and convinced untold numbers of neighbors and friends to buy them.\n\nFaithful owners were also Fisher's first research and development team, regularly returning to his store to suggest ideas for new product features and complementary accessories. Thanks to them, the Big Green Egg has benefited from dozens of additional tweaks over the years to improve performance and durability. For instance, a proprietary, permanent nontoxic glaze ensures the signature green color will not fade or discolor under any outdoor conditions. The improved ceramics and draft system offer better insulation and wider, more easily regulated temperature ranges. Other updates include a convenient spring-band hinge system that makes the lid easier to open and close and heavy-duty porcelain coated or cast-iron cooking grids.\n\nPractically unheard-of in barbecue grills, the EGG is backed by a lifetime warranty on the ceramics.\n\nToday, the Big Green Egg is the largest manufacturer and distributor of ceramic kamado cookers in the world, with dealers in twenty-four countries. Its world headquarters in Tucker, Georgia, is not far from the Atlanta store where the company was founded.\n\n## Versatile Ceramic Cookers: Better Than a Barbecue\n\nCeramic cookers create food that is moister, more flavorful, and far superior to anything cooked on an ordinary metal barbecue. A bold statement, we know, but it's true. While metal grills may be perfectly satisfactory to grill a quick-cooking burger or boneless chicken breast directly over high heat, their design and materials are limiting when it comes to smoking, roasting, or baking a variety of foods.\n\nWhat makes a ceramic cooker different? For one, amazing heat retention thanks to thick ceramic walls that insulate and hold heat inside the grill while it remains cool to the touch on the exterior. A proven, centuries-old draft design, updated with modern engineering, circulates the heat within the cooker and controls temperatures with precision. The dome-shaped lid remains closed during all cooking and allows heat to radiate from the top as well as from the coals below the cooking grid. And finally, the properties of the ceramic material, together with the tight seal of the lid, hold moisture in food, lock in natural flavors and juices for better taste, and prevent or minimize food shrinkage.\n\nAnother key difference between ceramic cookers and other grills is the all-natural, lump charcoal fuel that gives food cooked in the EGG its distinctive flavor and texture. Entirely different from briquettes, lump charcoal contains no additives, chemicals, or petroleum by-products; it is purely, simply charred wood. As a result, it burns clean with less ash and adds a delicate wood smoke flavor to food.\n\nThe EGG is a multitasker, too, eliminating the need for several outdoor appliances that each perform a specific type of outdoor cooking. It can sear at 750\u00b0F temperatures like an infrared grill, slow-smoke over a 200\u00b0F charcoal and wood fire like an old-fashioned smoker, and roast and bake to crusty perfection like a brick oven. And, because the heat is retained, circulated, and radiated so evenly, a cumbersome rotisserie is never needed to achieve evenly browned, rotisserie-like results. To learn more about mastering these specific cooking techniques, see pages 24\u201325.\n\nOne more benefit: Not only does it light quickly, but it also cooks faster than other barbecue grills, conserving both fuel and time. And who doesn't need more of that?\n\n## This Cooker Has Actually Spawned a Culture\n\nIt's unusual, dare we say unheard-of, that a cooking appliance would inspire a whole culture and way of life. Can you imagine an organized and extremely passionate band of followers for the microwave called The Micromaniacs or electric cooktop enthusiasts called The Electric Rangers? We can't either. But that's exactly what the EGG has inspired.\n\nSo unique and so exceptional is this ceramic cooker that, one by one, like-minded EGG enthusiasts began to find one another via the Internet. They were eager to share recipes, new techniques, and praise for the EGG with others who, like themselves, considered the Big Green Egg the secret to culinary success.\n\nUnited in their desire to promote and celebrate cooking in the EGG, the group evolved and expanded. They communicated online more frequently and began calling themselves \"EGGheads.\" Before long they were asking, \"Wouldn't it be fun to get together in person to meet one another and celebrate the EGG?\" It proved such a good idea that they came away feeling they had just attended a big family reunion. The annual gathering continues even today, only on a much larger scale than the original, relatively intimate get-together.\n\n## EGGheads\n\nEven if you have heard the term EGGhead in relation to the Big Green Egg, you may still be wondering, what the heck is that? Think Trekkies to _Star Trek,_ Deadheads to the Grateful Dead, Cheeseheads to the Green Bay Packers, and HOGs to Harley motorcyclists. EGGhead is the affectionate term for a passionate devotee of the EGG.\n\nTo call them enthusiastic would be an understatement. Zealous, fervent, dedicated, obsessive, and anything else along those lines much more accurately describes the level of interest and enthusiasm these folks have for this distinctive method of cooking. Most would rather cook in their EGG, brag about cooking in it, chat online about what they are cooking in it, or plan the next thing they will cook in this ceramic wonder than do practically anything else.\n\nBut it's not a private club with limited membership; those who are already members take every opportunity to \"EGGvangelize\" barbecuers everywhere and welcome them into the extended family.\n\n## The EGGhead Forum\n\nMany EGGheads maintain a close friendship and communicate regularly online via the EGGhead Forum. This lively web spot attracts postings from potential EGG buyers doing research, from EGG newbies who request assistance and advice on elementary topics, and from veterans who have owned EGGs for decades and wish to share their latest EGG triumph with other like-minded compatriots. Even retailers of the EGG refer prospective buyers to the Forum for information and feedback on the product.\n\nMany Forum regulars consider each other extended family members. The Forum's homepage says, \"Everyone is welcome,\" and it's true.\n\nHow do I smoke cheese? What's the best wood chip to use with lamb? Have you ever made elk jerky? These are just a few of the topics bantered about by the online chat group. The Forum is a great place to learn insiders' secrets to success and to adopt great techniques and new recipes to try on your own. EGGheads love to share, whether it is opinions, advice, or their favorite recipes.\n\nThe EGGhead Forum has been very influential in the development, popularity, and success of the EGG. A testament to the power of word-of-mouth recommendations, many a tire-kicker has been inspired to buy an EGG after visiting the Forum. In addition, ideas for enhancements to the EGG and even EGGcessory products have their roots in the threads of online discussions over the years.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nYou can access the EGGhead Forum at www.eggheadforum.com or by visiting the Big Green Egg website at www.biggreenegg.com and clicking on the link to the EGGhead Forum.\n\n## EGGtoberfest and EGGfests\n\nMore than a decade ago, this band of EGGhead Forum friends was looking for a way to meet in person to show off their cooking skills and signature dishes and to finally put faces with names that had become familiar. Over a series of online chats, the idea for EGGtoberfest was born. When Ed Fisher heard about the plans, he decided to host the event and provide EGGs for cooking in recognition of the early EGGheads' importance to the company. No one dreamed this would grow into an annual event.\n\nBut the weekend was so successful that since 1998 people have gathered from all over the globe on the third weekend in October to cook, taste, share recipes, and soak up the camaraderie of other Big Green Egg enthusiasts at EGGtoberfest. Held in Tucker, Georgia, on the grounds of the Big Green Egg headquarters, it is an unbridled, unabashed celebration of the \"world's best smoker and grill.\"\n\nOne hundred people attended the first EGGtoberfest and fired up 15 EGGs to cook all kinds of delicacies. The following year, the event doubled in size, and 50 EGGs were used to cook for 200 attendees. On the tenth anniversary of this event, 1,600 people from thirty states and as far away as England, Mexico, and Canada tasted their way through dishes prepared by more than 375 cooks who fired up 220 EGGs. The weekend-long \"EGGstravaganza\" gets bigger, better, and more fun every year.\n\nThe festival's agenda also includes a series of demonstrations, prize giveaways, and lots of family fun. But, unquestionably, food is the highlight of EGGtoberfest weekend. EGGheads take the opportunity to strut their stuff and show off a little (okay, sometimes a lot). These volunteer cooks provide all the food they serve to attendees at their own expense.\n\nAll food for the event is prepared exclusively in EGGs, and while the menu changes from year to year, it always includes traditional favorites interspersed with imaginative offerings not typically thought of as barbecue fare. You'll find classic barbecued ribs, brisket, and pulled pork sharing the spotlight with such inventive dishes as Jerked Grouper with Papaya Jam, Twice EGGed Potatoes, Spicy Grilled Chicken Soup, and Apple Crostatas. Sometimes the food represents the geographic region of the chef who is cooking it, like a fresh-caught whole Alaskan salmon or Tex-Mex stuffed jalape\u00f1o peppers. Other dishes have a little one-upmanship in mind. Moose satays, ostrich steaks, barbecued turkey necks, and turducken\u2014a boneless chicken stuffed into a duck, which in turn is stuffed into a turkey\u2014are clearly made to impress.\n\nThe success and popularity of the annual EGGtoberfest has inspired nearly two dozen local EGGfests, including one in the Netherlands. Regional events are held in California, Illinois, Minnesota, Missouri, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Oklahoma, Texas, Florida, Maryland, Washington, Colorado, and Nebraska, among other locations, with more added every year. Like the original, these local EGGfests are fun-filled gatherings of EGG fans doing what they love best\u2014cooking in an EGG and sharing stories, techniques, and delicious food with each other and the hundreds of people who attend.\n\nSome local EGGfests are family friendly, low-key, and laid-back, with little formality or fanfare. Others feature a more structured schedule of activities throughout the weekend, complete with events like Iron Chef-style cook-offs, vendor displays, guest celebrity chefs, and a roster of educational seminars such as Cooking the Thanksgiving Turkey Outdoors or Plank Cooking for Added Flavor. You won't leave one of these festivals without learning something new and tasting something you've never tried before!\n\n## This Recipe Collection\n\nGenerally speaking, EGGheads are not a very by-the-book lot. As kids, they might have been the ones least likely to color between the lines. Likewise with the art of cooking in the EGG, devotees are inclined to stretch the boundaries, often developing dishes that are way beyond what most people consider barbecue fare.\n\nThese creative types are the inspiration behind the recipes in this book. The innovative flavor combinations, ingredients, and techniques showcased here define new parameters for EGG cooking. We believe the most seasoned EGGheads will get ideas for gourmet fare they've never before tried in the EGG, yet the recipes are not so complicated or highbrow that they won't appeal to budding EGG artists. For every meal and every occasion, you'll find recipes to inspire you and make your mouth water.\n\nTo start the day, how about a Spicy Spanish Frittata with Chorizo, Apple Pancake, or Tropical Breakfast Muffins for breakfast? All are prepared in the EGG.\n\nIn the Baked Goods chapter, there is a United Nations-style collection of bread recipes, including lavash, naan, pita, and pizza dough, along with such all-American favorites as buttermilk biscuits and two differently flavored cornbreads, as well as Prosciutto, Fontina & Arugula Stromboli with Spicy San Marzano Sauce, which defies classification.\n\nHaving a dinner party? You might want to start your meal off with appetizers like Chilled White Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp Relish; Mission Figs with Mascarpone, Honey & Chopped Walnuts; or Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nEGGtoberfest and many regional EGGfests provide a great way to get a feel for EGG culture. To find out more about EGGtoberfest or any of the regional EGGfests across the country, visit www.biggreenegg.com and click on Events Calendar.\n\nFor the main course, how about Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce, Beer-Brined Chicken, or Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri? There are extensive chapters on pork, beef, and poultry, each with numerous recipes to choose from.\n\nHungry for pizza? Skip the basic Margherita style and try Greek Pizza with Yogurt-Mint Sauce or Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula. In the mood for seafood? How about Thai Sea Bass in Banana Leaves or Cedar-Wrapped Scallops with Orange Beurre Blanc? Vegetarians will enjoy the Vegetable Reuben Sandwich, Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice, and Root Vegetable Pot Pie.\n\nHope you saved room for dessert! You'll definitely want to try the Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing, Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies, and Apple-Walnut Crostata with Caramel Sauce, among other temptations.\n\nYou'll also find favorite EGG recipes from members of the Big Green Egg extended family as well as celebrity chefs and restaurateurs.\n\nHungry yet?\n\n## Getting Acquainted with EGGs and EGGcessories\n\nWhat started with a single-size EGG has now grown into a family of five models and an extensive complementary line of accessory products, each specially designed for the EGG. Used in tandem, EGGs and EGGcessories make an incredibly versatile and convenient cooking experience.\n\nThe Big Green Egg comes in five sizes with a model to suit the needs of every backyard chef, even ones who like to take their cookout on the road.\n\n**Extra-Large**  \n205 pounds  \n24-inch cooking grid  \n452-square-inch cooking surface  \nHolds 2 (20-pound) turkeys, 24 burgers, 11 whole chickens, 12 steaks, or 14 racks of ribs vertically  \nBig enough to cook an entire meal for a crowd\n\n**Large**  \n140 pounds  \n18-inch cooking grid  \n255-square-inch cooking surface  \nHolds 1 (20-pound) turkey, 12 burgers, 6 whole chickens, 8 steaks, or 7 racks of ribs  \nMost popular size, suits the needs of most families\n\n**Medium**  \n95 pounds  \n15-inch cooking grid  \n177-square-inch cooking surface  \nHolds 1 (18-pound) turkey, 6 burgers, 3 whole chickens, 4 steaks, or 4 racks of ribs  \nGood for smaller families of two to four\n\n**Small**  \n65 pounds  \n13-inch cooking grid  \n133-square-inch cooking surface  \nHolds 1 (12-pound) turkey, 4 burgers, 1 whole chicken, 2 steaks, or 1 rack of ribs  \nPerfect for individuals or couples and even tailgating\n\n**Mini**  \n30 pounds  \n9-inch cooking grid  \n64-square-inch cooking surface  \nHolds 2 chicken breasts, 2 pork chops, or 1 steak  \nJust right for picnics, tailgates for two, camping, or RVing\n\n## EGGcessories\n\nSimply put: EGGcessory products help you create endless possibilities for your dinner plate. Roasting a turkey to golden brown, succulent perfection? Cooking authentic trattoria-style pizza with a crispy crust and a hint of wood smoke? Baking a moist and delicious cake? All are easily accomplished in the EGG with the right gear.\n\nOther EGGcessories help increase the amount of cooking space, make cleanup a snap, and allow you to monitor whatever you're cooking from a remote location. Here is a rundown of some essential EGGcessories, a number of which you'll find used in the recipes in this book.\n\n## The Basics: For the Sake of Convenience\n\n**Charcoal Tools:** How do we spell convenience? With gadgets like an Ash Tool to stoke, sift, rearrange coals, and pull ashes into the Ash Pan, a Grill Gripper to raise the cooking grid to add more fuel, and an Ash Pan to help remove ashes after the fun is over.\n\n**Nest:** The easiest way to raise the EGG to a good work height and be able to move it about the patio is by placing it in a wheeled metal base called an EGG Nest.\n\n**Side Shelves:** Need a spot to rest tongs, platters, or a bowl of sauce? Fold-down side shelves fit on the EGG and provide a handy work surface beside the grill. Two options are available: Wooden EGG Mates come in pairs and fit on either side of the EGG. Solid Composite Side Shelves are weather resistant and easily wiped clean. They are available in pairs or with the option of a third shelf for the front of the cooker.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nBecause the natural lump charcoal produces very little ash, there is minimal cleanup for an EGG. Periodically, use the Ash Tool to draw out ashes through the draft door into an Ash Pan or other noncombustible container. This is also a good time to clear the air holes in the Fire Box of ash or small bits of charcoal, which could impede airflow.\n\nThe Plate Setter in the \"legs down\" and \"legs up\" positions.\n\n**Surround Tables:** For an upscale, built-in look, attractive wooden surround tables for the EGG are the way to go. Made of durable cypress wood from responsibly managed forests, the workstations bring the cooker up to a standard counter height and provide plenty of prep and serving surface.\n\n**Vinyl Covers:** The durable EGG is tough enough to withstand the harshest weather, but you'll want to keep your baby clean anyway. Heavy-duty vinyl covers shield the cooker from the elements while vents let it breathe. Covers come in sizes to fit all EGGs, including versions to completely cover Surround Table workstations.\n\n## Cooking Tools of the Trade\n\n**Plate Setters:** What jelly is to a peanut butter sandwich and frosting is to a cupcake, the Plate Setter is to the Big Green Egg; without it, the EGG is only half as versatile. In fact, the Plate Setter is practically essential to helping the EGG achieve its full potential.\n\nPerhaps the most versatile EGGcessory ever, a Plate Setter is a flat, ceramic disk with three legs that acts as a heat shield. It is the best way to accomplish any type of cooking in the EGG where you don't want direct exposure to the flame and heat. The Plate Setter can be used to turn your EGG into a brick oven for baking bread, pizza, and desserts, a convection oven for roasting meats and vegetables, or a smoker for making down-home barbecue. Use it in conjunction with other EGGcessories, such as a Drip Pan, V-Rack, Grill Extender, or Vertical Roaster, and you have the tools to accomplish anything in your EGG that you can do in your indoor oven. For more information on cooking with a Plate Setter, see page 26.\n\n**Baking Stones:** To make pizza, bread, and other baked goods, heavy-duty, ceramic Baking Stones will help you achieve authentic brick-oven results. The thick round disks come in three sizes, as well as half-moon configurations for combining indirect brick-oven baking and direct grilling over the coals at the same time.\n\n**Cast Iron Grids:** What's the secret to world-class grill marks? A Cast Iron Grid. Heavyweight Cast Iron Grids get very hot and retain heat for an awesome steakhouse-style sear. A Cast Iron Grid can be used as an alternative to the porcelain coated grid that comes with the EGG.\n\n**Dutch Oven:** Great for simmering stews, soups, and chili, preparing baked beans, or even baking cobblers, this five-quart, heavy-duty Dutch Oven is a valuable tool to have in your accessory arsenal. It truly enables you to cook an entire meal on the grill at once.\n\n**Grill Extenders:** Cooking for a crowd? Grill Extenders are the perfect way to double or triple the size of your cooking surface by creating a second or even third cooking tier above the main cooking grid. Thanks to heat circulation within the EGG, food cooks to perfection whether it's on the main cooking grid or a higher level.\n\n**Half Moon Raised Grids:** If you are cooking the whole meal in the EGG, you may find not only that you need more space but also that you need to cook some foods over direct heat while simultaneously cooking other foods over indirect heat. Half Moon Raised Grids make this possible by dividing the cooking area into separate direct- and indirect-cooking zones. There are many combinations and configurations for a versatile Half Moon Raised Grid. Used as is, it provides a second level for direct cooking over half the surface of the EGG, so you can grill pork chops over the flame on the lower cooking grid and vegetables on the Half Moon Raised Grid above them. Or use half the porcelain coated grid for direct grilling, and on the other side, with a Half Moon Baking Stone, and a Half Moon Drip Pan in place, you can take advantage of a double layer of indirect heat to bake biscuits in a pan on one tier and sweet potatoes on the second tier.\n\n**Thermometers:** Thermometers are an important part of every Big Green Egg cooking experience. Indispensable meat thermometers should be used whenever possible, not only to achieve rare, medium-rare, medium, or well-done meat as desired but also to determine internal temperatures for food safety too. An external thermometer, which comes built in as a standard feature on the Big Green Egg lid, measures the cooking temperature inside the EGG.\n\nFood should always be cooked to temperatures high enough to destroy any food-borne bacteria. A programmable Remote Smoker Thermometer lets you monitor both meat and cooking chamber temperatures from your poolside or garden or the comfort of your easy chair. It conveniently signals when food is done, so you don't have to lift the lid to peek and let heat escape unnecessarily. A Digital Pocket Thermometer inserted in the thickest part of the meat gives a quick read on its internal temperature. Other thermometer options include the Instant Read Thermometer, the Instant Read Digital Thermometer, a Digital Probe Thermometer, and a Stick and Stay Thermometer.\n\n**Vertical Roasters:** More convenient than a rotisserie, the Vertical Roaster, available in two sizes, fits inside the cavity of a chicken or turkey and suspends it vertically to produce even browning. The Vertical Roaster can be used in tandem with a Drip Pan to catch drippings or hold juice, beer, wine, or other liquids to infuse the bird with flavor and juiciness from the inside out. It also makes carving the bird much easier.\n\n**V-Racks:** Depending on your menu, this double-duty gadget will turn out perfectly roasted meats or enough ribs to feed a small army. Use it right side up to hold beef or pork roasts, or two chickens, and combine with a Drip Pan beneath to catch drippings for gravy. Or invert, and it holds racks of ribs vertically between the slats. The ceramic cooker's design ensures heat circulates perfectly throughout the grill, providing a convection effect and cooking multiple racks of ribs to pit-barbecue tenderness.\n\n## Fuel: What to Use and How to Light It\n\nCeramic cookers are fueled by charcoal, but not all charcoal is created equal. Natural lump charcoal is the recommended fuel for the Big Green Egg. An understanding of what makes this type of fuel so superior requires knowledge of what makes natural lump charcoal different from traditional charcoal briquettes.\n\nNatural lump charcoal is made from a variety of 100 percent hardwoods that are turned into charcoal the old-fashioned way: by charring the wood in a closed oxygen-free kiln or pit. What emerges is lumpy, irregularly shaped pieces (hence the name _lump)_ of pure carbon, called charcoal.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nTake advantage of the extra cooking surface gained with Grill Extenders and Half Moon Raised Grids and cook two meals at once. Enjoy one dinner tonight and refrigerate the other to reheat tomorrow night for a fast home-cooked meal with a cooked-over-the-coals taste that's much better than fast food. Saves time, money, and fuel.\n\nUnlike most standard briquettes, natural lump charcoal is 100 percent natural, so only the authentic wood smoke flavor comes through to enhance the taste of food. Natural lump charcoal burns hotter than traditional briquettes, and because there are no by-products, it burns clean.\n\nAnother benefit of natural lump charcoal is that it is very fuel efficient. It requires less charcoal than briquettes, lasts longer, and produces very little ash to clean up. After you have finished cooking, the fire can be extinguished by closing the dampers and cutting off the air supply. Any remaining charcoal can be relit for the next cookout.\n\nMost traditional charcoal briquettes are made from scrap lumber that has been charred, ground to a powder, and combined with ground coal, limestone, starch binders, fillers, and petroleum-based additives to make them easier to light. The mixture is then compressed into the familiar pillow-shaped briquettes we all know. The large pile of ash remaining after a cookout fueled by traditional briquettes is composed mainly of these leftover additives. All-natural briquettes are available in some organic stores and are acceptable to use if you can find them.\n\n_Self-lighting charcoal briquettes should never be used in a ceramic cooker. The petroleum additives can penetrate the ceramic surface and permanently impart an off flavor to foods._\n\n_Cooking temperatures can be precisely controlled to within a few degrees, even for long cooking periods._\n\n#\n\n## Lighting Your Fire\n\nMost people find the ritual of lighting the fire a satisfying process that adds to the enjoyment and naturalness of cooking in a ceramic cooker. But whether you consider it a necessary chore or part of the fun, the good news is\u2014it's fast, easy, and virtually hassle-free.\n\nThe Golden Rule to remember: Never use lighter fluid. The petroleum-based liquid can permanently penetrate the porous ceramic interior of the EGG and thereafter impart a chemical off taste to food. Rather, there are two equally fast and all-natural options for lighting the fire.\n\n**Option 1: Solid Fire-Lighting Cubes**\n\nThese little blocks of compressed sawdust are coated with a natural paraffin wax. To use, fill the Fire Box of the EGG with natural lump charcoal to at least one inch above the air holes. With the lid open, slide the draft door completely open. Nestle one or two Natural Fire Starters into the charcoal and light with a match or long-handled lighter. After eight to ten minutes, or when the coals are burning, close the lid and adjust the top and bottom dampers to regulate the temperature; when the desired temperature is reached, you are ready to cook.\n\n**Option 2: Electric Fire Starter**\n\nIf you have access to an electrical outlet, an Electric Charcoal Lighter is a simple and surefire way to light the charcoal. Arrange charcoal on the Fire Grate in the Fire Box to at least one inch above the air holes, burying the Electric Charcoal Lighter's coil into the charcoal. As the coil turns red hot, it will ignite the coals in approximately seven minutes. Then remove the Electric Charcoal Lighter, and set it in a noncombustible place until it cools. Close the lid of the EGG and adjust the dampers to reach the desired temperature.\n\n**Adjusting the Temperature**\n\nPrecise cooking temperatures can be achieved easily by monitoring the exterior temperature gauge and adjusting the draft openings accordingly. For lower temperatures, reduce the airflow by minimizing the openings of both the Dual Function Metal Top and the Draft Door in the base. To boost temperatures, open the dampers wider. Keep in mind that the greater the Draft Door openings, the higher the temperature. With a little practice, cooking temperatures can be controlled to within a few degrees, even for long cooking periods.\n\nRegulating temperature is easy by monitoring the external gauge and adjusting the air flow in the Dual Function Metal Top and the Draft Door in the base of the EGG.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nThe secret to the extraordinary food cooked on the Big Green Egg centers on heat retention, air circulation, and temperature control. The lid should be left down while cooking to allow heat to radiate off the top as well as off the coals. Leaving the lid open reduces the Big Green Egg to an ordinary, inefficient barbecue grill that allows foods to dry out.\n\n**Adding More Fuel During Cooking:** You can cook for many hours when the Fire Box in the EGG is fully loaded with natural lump charcoal\u2014more time if your cooking temperatures are lower, less time if temperatures are higher. Because the EGG is so fuel efficient, it is rare that you would roast or smoke something that would take more than one load of charcoal. If necessary, however, you may add charcoal during the cooking process.\n\nThe best way to do this is to remove the food and lift the cooking grid with a Grill Gripper. Then you can add more natural lump charcoal around the outside edges of the burning coals, which will be lit by the existing fire. Readjust the dampers to recover the desired cooking temperature.\n\n**Extinguishing the Fire:** To put out the fire, simply close both dampers completely to shut off airflow. This will extinguish the fire and preserve any unused charcoal for the next cookout. Remember, because of the thick ceramic walls, which retain heat inside the cooker, it may take a while to cool down and for coals to be fully extinguished. Never use water to put out coals inside your EGG. Wait at least twenty-four hours or longer until all the ash is completely cooled before removing it from the EGG.\n\n**Restarting the Fire:** You will notice that some of the natural lump charcoal from your previous cookout was not burned and remains in the Fire Box. This charcoal can be reused next time you fire up your EGG. Before relighting the fire, stir or rake the coals across the Fire Grate using the Ash Tool, allowing any ash to fall through the holes in the Grate and into the bottom of the EGG. Then add more charcoal to the leftovers to bring the height to just above the air holes, and light as described on page 20.\n\n_If you have been cooking at temperatures above 300\u00b0F, be very careful when opening the lid of your EGG. First raise the lid an inch or two and pause to \"burp\" it before raising the lid completely. This will allow the sudden rush of oxygen to burn safely inside the cooker without causing a \"flashback\" that could startle or injure you._\n\n## Cooking with Wood Flavor Enhancers\n\nCooking with wood chips, chunks, pellets, and planks adds a whole new dimension of flavor to foods without adding a single calorie or gram of fat. Think of cooking woods as seasonings. Just as each herb or spice in your spice rack imparts a different flavor to foods, each variety of wood, from apple to mesquite to hickory and beyond, seasons food with its unique flavor.\n\nAs you experiment with aromatic woods, you will master the art of mixing and matching them with certain foods to suit your preferences. You may even want to combine two or more varieties of wood to create a distinctive blend of smoke flavors. And remember that any given wood will react differently with one food than another. There are no rules here, so have fun trying new combinations. Just remember to stick with hardwoods such as apple, alder, cherry, maple, pecan, oak, hickory, and mesquite and stay away from softwoods like pine and cedar (with the exception of western red cedar), which release tar and resins that can impart a bitter taste to foods.\n\n_Think of cooking woods as seasonings\u2014each variety of wood, from apple to mesquite to hickory and beyond, seasons food with its unique flavor._\n\n**Variety** | **Flavor** | **Best with**  \n---|---|---  \nHickory | Pungent, smoky, bold, hearty | Southern-style barbecue, pork, beef, poultry  \nMesquite | Rich, tangy, strong; can turn bitter with too much smoke | Southwestern-style dishes, beef, duck, lamb, pork  \nPecan | Light, nutty, mellow | Pork, poultry, game birds  \nAlder | Mild, delicate | Salmon, shellfish, poultry  \nApple | Subtle sweetness | Poultry, pork, sausages, ham, bacon  \nCherry | Mild, fruity; adds a rosy color to foods | Duck, game birds, beef, pork, lamb, poultry  \nMaple | Mild, sweet, subtle, all-purpose | Chops, steaks, ribs, pork, beef, poultry, seafood, vegetables, fruits  \nWine Barrel Oak Chips | Rich, wine-infused flavor | Pork, poultry, beef, hearty fish like tuna  \nWhiskey Barrel Oak Chips | Distinctive whiskey flavor | Pork, beef (especially steaks), poultry\n\nSoak wood chips (for at least 30 minutes) and wood chunks (for at least 2 hours) before adding them to the fire.\n\nA handful of wood chips, shown scattered in a spiral pattern on top of the coals, adds a distinctive smoky aroma and flavor to foods.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nThe type of aromatic wood you choose to provide the smoke flavor is a matter of preference. Although experienced barbecue chefs do not all agree on whether to soak wood in water before adding it to the fire, soaking helps wood to smolder rather than burn quickly, releasing a swirl of smoke that envelops and permeates the food.\n\n**Wood Chips and Chunks:** Made especially for the EGG, our alder chips, pecan chips, hickory chips, or mesquite chips should be soaked in water for at least thirty minutes and wood chunks for two hours before adding to the charcoal fire. This will allow the wood to smolder rather than incinerate quickly, so it will release the smoky aromas and flavors to permeate food. Instead of water, use wine, beer, or fruit juice to soak the wood to add another flavor dimension. Because of the efficient design of the EGG, a little smoke enhancement goes a long way; a handful of chips should be enough to boost the flavor of most meals. Experienced outdoor chefs sometimes wrap long-cooking meats in foil after a few hours of smoking if they prefer a milder smoke flavor.\n\n**Wood Pellets:** Wood pellets, tiny compressed pellets of hardwood sawdust, may be substituted for wood chips to achieve the same delicious smoky results. They are convenient to use, especially since they do not require advance soaking. Simply place about one-third cup of wood pellets inside a pouch made from heavy-duty aluminum foil. Poke one small hole in the foil to allow the smoke to escape and place the packet directly into the fire. It will begin to smolder and release the smoke. If cooking longer than an hour, replace the pellet pouch with a second one to ensure sufficient smoke flavor.\n\n**Wood Planks:** The technique of cooking on wood planks originated with Native Americans. They discovered that fish and meats turned out not only incredibly moist but also imbued with smokiness from the smoldering plank. Today, plank grilling is a popular restaurant technique that is easy to re-create at home in your ceramic cooker. Wood planks are increasingly used for cooking everything from steaks, chops, and fish to vegetables and desserts.\n\nTo use, submerge the plank in water to soak for at least one hour. Then, place it on the hot cooking grid for a few minutes, flip the plank, and position the food directly on the heated side, cooking without turning until the food is done. Serving directly from the plank at the table makes a dramatic presentation.\n\n**_Grilling planks may be reused if they are not overly charred and blackened. Scrub the used plank with a brush and hot water and allow it to dry. When reusing, soak and preheat it again according to the above directions, using the same side as before for food. After two uses, break up the charred plank (it is now natural hardwood charcoal) into smaller pieces and add them to your next charcoal fire. If using the plank for indirect cooking, you may get more than two uses out of it._**\n\n## Now You're Cooking\n\nMore than just a grill\u2014although it grills exceptionally well\u2014the Big Green Egg offers versatility unrivaled in the world of barbecues or even indoor cooking appliances, for that matter. Smoke? Superbly. Bake? Beautifully. Roast? Outrageously. An EGG offers cooking flexibility, flavor, and juiciness second to none.\n\nHere is a sampling of what you can accomplish in the EGG.\n\n**Direct Grilling:** Think hot and fast. For direct grilling, food is placed over the fire and cooked by direct exposure to the flame and heat. Generally, foods that are tender, less than two inches thick, and boneless are good candidates for direct grilling. It is the ideal way to cook steaks, chops, burgers, boneless chicken breasts, kabobs, fish fillets, many vegetables, and other quick-cooking foods. And with a Wok Topper, a specially designed wok pan, in place directly over the hot fire, you can even make a tasty stir-fry\n\nDirect grilling over intense heat from 600\u00b0 to 750\u00b0F is hot enough to sear the exterior surface of the meat to form a delicious crust, much like cooking on a restaurant-style infrared grill. Juices are locked inside and any drippings sizzle on the coals, evaporating into flavor-filled smoke that is redeposited back onto the meat, adding more taste.\n\nBecause of the ingenious design of the EGG and the fact that grilling is always done with the lid closed, flare-ups and hot spots are virtually eliminated.\n\nFor some foods, you will want to start out searing over high temperatures and then reduce the heat by adjusting the dampers to finish cooking.\n\n**Indirect Grilling and Roasting:** In indirect grilling and roasting, the food is not directly exposed to the flames and heat of the fire. Rather, a shield such as a Drip Pan or Plate Setter is placed beneath the food to deflect the heat. Food is cooked by convection heat\u2014actually the heated air\u2014and radiant heat, which reflects off the coals, side walls, and lid of the cooker.\n\nUsing a Drip Pan is ideal for indirect cooking of pork or beef roasts or whole chickens. Place the Drip Pan directly beneath food to catch drippings and deflect heat. To use the Plate Setter for indirect cooking, refer to \"The Plate Setter: The Most Versatile Accessory\" on page 26.\n\nIndirect grilling or roasting is best for larger cuts of meat such as turkeys, chickens, roasts, and hams, which take longer to cook. In general, use this method to cook anything thicker than two inches or with a bone, such as chicken pieces; otherwise the exterior will be charred before the interior is cooked through. One exception to this would be bone-in steaks, such as T-bone or porterhouse, which are best grilled directly over the fire.\n\nWhile indirect grilling and roasting are possible on other types of barbecue grills, because of the insulating properties of the ceramics and the elliptical design of the EGG, food cooks much faster, with even browning and moister results. In addition, once the dampers are adjusted to the desired temperature, the charcoal fire will burn steadily for hours without requiring frequent tending or replenishing.\n\n_Having a grill, smoker, and oven in one cooker is having the best of all worlds at your fingertip._ \u2014Larry, Georgia\n\n#\n\n**Baking:** With the addition of a Plate Setter and a Baking Stone, your ceramic cooker becomes a classic brick oven that bakes fantastic breads, biscuits, pies, pizzas, cobblers, cookies, and cakes. The combination of precise temperature control and heat retention, with the properties of the ceramics in the EGG itself and the Baking Stone, create the perfect environment for baking. As pizza cooks, moisture is drawn to the Baking Stone for an authentic, crispy, brick-oven-style crust that is impossible to re-create in an indoor oven or on an ordinary barbecue grill.\n\n**_A variety of ovenproof bakeware may be used to bake in the EGG. Depending on the type of baking dish used, you may need to adjust the cooking time and temperature. It is important to note that paper muffin cups and parchment paper should not be used when baking in the EGG, as they may burn._**\n\n**Smoking:** Cooking slowly over low heat infused with wood smoke is what smoking\u2014and what some call \"real barbecue\"\u2014 is all about. Cooking \"low and slow\" is the only way to break down connective tissue and tenderize tough (and typically less expensive) cuts of meat like beef brisket, pork shoulder, pork butts, and spare ribs. For smoking these kinds of foods, cooking times are measured in hours rather than minutes. But boy, is it worth it! The result is succulent, fall-off-the-bone tenderness with the tangy, complex combination of spices, smoke, and natural meat flavors\u2014exactly like pit barbecue. Of course, you can also smoke other types of foods that do not fit the standard profile. Fish, turkey, nuts, vegetables, and even cheeses do not need to be tenderized with slow cooking, but they taste even better when kissed with the essence of wood smoke.\n\nTrue smoking temperatures generally range from 225\u00b0 to 275\u00b0F. Once you get the hang of it, it's a piece of cake to adjust the draft openings to set the proper temperature. But unlike a true pitmaster, who must work hard to maintain those low temperatures steadily throughout the extended smoking period, an EGG can retain heat at precise temperatures for many hours of cooking with little attention required.\n\nResist the urge to peek under the lid to check the progress while you are smoking. Every time you raise the cover, you release precious heat and smoke and extend your cooking time. Simply check the reading on the external thermometer and follow the timing in the recipe. As long as the temperature stays within the desired range, your results will be predictable every time\u2014and usually faster than in a traditional metal smoker, which is affected by external weather conditions such as wind and temperature.\n\nUnlike some metal smokers that require a water pan to create steam to keep foods from drying out, food smoked in an EGG retains its moisture. There is no need for a water pan or the hassle of continually refilling one.\n\nA Plate Setter is particularly useful when smoking because it acts as a barrier between the food and the direct heat of the fire but allows the hot air and smoke to flow around the food. In addition, it eliminates the need to turn food during the smoking process.\n\nIf you are preparing your EGG for a very long, slow smoke, you can alternately layer the lump charcoal with wood chips to ensure sufficient smoke flavor throughout the extended process. First, pour a layer of charcoal into the Fire Box, then sprinkle a small handful of wood chips over the top. Add another layer of charcoal and another handful of chips, alternating until the layers reach the top of the Fire Box. This should provide enough heat and wood smoke to last for a long period of smoking at 200\u00b0 to 250\u00b0F.\n\n_There is no other way to achieve the fantastic flavor, moistness, and juiciness of food cooked in a Big Green Egg._\n\n#\n\n## The Plate Setter: The Most Versatile Accessory\n\nIf you could own only one accessory product for your Big Green Egg, this would be the one. A Plate Setter is probably the most practical and versatile multipurpose tool around, allowing you to make the most of your EGG by being able to do indirect cooking, smoking, roasting, and baking.\n\nA Plate Setter looks like a ceramic pizza stone with three legs. To use it as a brick-oven baker, place it with the legs facing down, positioning the legs directly on the fire ring. Place a Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter, and you can bake pizza, bread, biscuits, and cookies or other desserts on the stone. Although the direct heat from the fire is blocked, the hot air is able to circulate under and around the Plate Setter and about the interior of the EGG in a convection pattern.\n\nTo roast, smoke, or grill indirectly in your ceramic cooker, place the Plate Setter on the fire ring with the legs facing up. This acts as a barrier between the food and the direct heat of the charcoal fire, cooking food as if it were in a convection oven. You may place your cooking grid on the three upturned ceramic legs and place food directly on the cooking grid. Or you may put food in a V-Rack, Vertical Roaster, or other type of cooking rack placed on the cooking grid. A Drip Pan can even be positioned beneath food directly on the Plate Setter to catch drippings or hold juice, wine, beer, stock, or other liquids to infuse foods with another layer of flavor.\n\nThe Plate Setter can also be used in conjunction with one of several Grill Extender options to gain a second and even a third tier of cooking surface. Because of the unique design of the EGG, the convection effect ensures that food browns as perfectly on the upper rack as it does on the main cooking grid.\n\n**hot tip:**\n\nCleaning the Plate Setter is easy. Simply wash it in water only; do not use soap or detergents. Use a plastic scouring pad to remove burned-on bits, or make a paste of baking soda and water and scrub with a toothbrush. Even after cleaning, the Plate Setter may appear stained from the food and drippings. This is perfectly normal and will not affect the performance in any way.\n\n## Ready to Roll\n\nIn a world of high-tech gadgets and electronic bells and whistles, a ceramic cooker is a low-tech throwback that is relatively simple compared with other barbecues. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, this type of cooker has withstood the test of time and is more popular today than ever before. Even people who surround themselves with the latest high-tech gadgets are reconnecting with the old-fashioned ritual of building and lighting the fire and taming the temperature, now made even easier thanks to modern design improvements. They are embracing the organic connection to the way people have cooked for centuries: real food over a real fire in a cooker made from the earth. They understand that there is no other way to achieve the fantastic flavor, moistness, and juiciness of food cooked in a heavy-duty Big Green Egg ceramic cooker.\n\nWe hope that you find these recipes as satisfying for the soul as for the stomach\u2014and that you have a whole lot of fun and good eating in the process.\n\n_enjoy!_\n\n# _eggceptional!_  \nappetizers\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Eggplant Fries with Spicy Romesco Sauce\n\n  * Bruschetta with White Bean Salad\n\n  * Asparagus with Truffle Aioli & Parmigiano-Reggiano\n\n  * Mission Figs with Mascarpone, Honey & Chopped Walnuts\n\n  * Roasted Fingerling Potatoes with Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche & Caviar\n\n  * Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes\n\n  * Mesquite Lemon-Pepper Wings with Creamy Feta Dressing\n\n  * Grilled Moroccan Lamp Pops with Spicy Tzatziki Sauce\n\n  * Red Chile Scallops with Cool Mango-Mint Salsa\n\n  * Alder-Smoked Mushrooms with Bacon, Arugula & Walnut Oil\n\n  * Greek Pizza with Yogurt-Mint Sauce\n\n  * Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula\n\n  * Shrimp, Artichoke & Pesto Pizza\n\n  * Chilled White Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp Relish\n\n  * Barbecue Chicken Soup\n\n### Eggplant Fries with Spicy Romesco Sauce\n\n**_When you think of cooking or grilling in the EGG, frying might not be the first thing that comes to mind. These eggplant fries will change that! They are crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. Be prepared, however, for these are so good they may not make it to the table!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 6 cups all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup cornstarch\n\n  * 2 tablespoons garlic powder\n\n  * 2 tablespoons table salt\n\n  * 2 cups buttermilk\n\n  * 2 cups whole milk\n\n  * 1 (2-pound) eggplant, peeled\n\n  * 8 cups vegetable oil\n\n  * Kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 1 cup Romesco Sauce (page 201)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 375\u00b0F.**\n\nMix the flour, sugar, cornstarch, garlic powder, and table salt in a medium bowl and blend well. Using a whisk, combine the buttermilk and milk in a medium bowl. Cut the eggplant into finger-size wedges.\n\nPour the oil into the Dutch Oven and set on top of the grid to preheat. Have ready a rimmed sheet pan lined with paper towels. Heat the oil until it reaches 350\u00b0 to 400\u00b0F, or test to see if the oil is ready by adding one eggplant wedge to the oil\u2014if it starts to boil, the oil is ready.\n\nToss the eggplant in the flour mixture, dip in the buttermilk mixture, then return the fries to the flour mixture to coat well. Working in small batches, carefully add the eggplant to the oil. Close the lid of the EGG and fry for about 5 minutes, or until light golden brown. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the eggplant to the prepared sheet pan. Repeat the process until all of the fries are cooked.\n\nSprinkle the fries with kosher salt. Transfer the fries to a platter and dust with the cheese and parsley. Serve immediately with the sauce. **Serves 4**\n\n### Bruschetta with White Bean Salad\n\n**_You will find that this salad plays heavily on earthy flavors. Cannellini beans, which are Italian white beans known for their nutty flavor, are tossed with grilled mushrooms and asparagus, then drizzled with white truffle oil. White truffle oil is an olive oil that has been infused with white truffles, which are often called \"white diamonds,\" as they are one of the most costly and exotic foods in the world. Truffle oil can be found at most specialty markets or gourmet stores. If you can't find truffle oil, substitute extra-virgin olive oil. Serve this salad with Cioppino (page 124) or Shrimp Fra Diavolo (page 278) at a dinner under the stars, and you will feel as if you have been transported to the Italian countryside._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 ounces asparagus, cut into bite-size pieces\n\n  * 1\u00bc cups quartered white mushrooms\n\n  * \u00bd cup shiitake mushrooms, halved\n\n  * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (15-ounce can) cannellini beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * **Dressing**\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 fresh baguette, sliced 1 inch thick diagonally\n\n  * Extra-virgin olive oil for brushing\n\n  * White truffle oil\n\n  * \u00bd cup shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan or Wok Topper**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid and perforated grill pan or Wok Topper.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nToss the asparagus and mushrooms in the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and place in the grill pan or wok. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 4 to 5 minutes, until tender.\n\nUsing barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan or wok from the grid, and transfer the vegetables to a medium bowl. Add the cannellini beans and mix well. Set aside.\n\nTo make the dressing, mix the garlic, rosemary, lemon juice, mustard, water, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Using a whisk, slowly add the olive oil, whisking constantly until emulsified. Pour the dressing over the bean salad, toss, and refrigerate.\n\nBrush both sides of the bread with olive oil, place on the grid, and grill the bread for 20 seconds per side, or until golden brown. Using a long-handled spatula, remove the bread and transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Place each slice of bread on a small plate and top with \u00bd cup of the bean salad. Drizzle with truffle oil and sprinkle with cheese. Serve immediately. **Serves 8**\n\n### Asparagus with Truffle Aioli & Parmigiano-Reggiano\n\n**_Asparagus become white in color when they are deprived of sunlight during the growing period and cannot produce chlorophyll, which is necessary to give them their green color. They tend to be slightly milder in flavor than the green asparagus. Fresh white asparagus are seasonal and sometimes hard to find. If they are not available, you can substitute green asparagus._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 10 ounces white asparagus, peeled\n\n  * 8 ounces green asparagus\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus \u00bd cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n  * 1 large egg yolk\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1 teaspoon white truffle oil\n\n  * \u00bd cup shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nDrizzle the asparagus with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the white asparagus on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and cook over high heat for 4 minutes. Add the green asparagus and continue cooking for 4 more minutes, turning occasionally. When the asparagus are tender, transfer to a plate and refrigerate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.\n\nMix the water, egg yolk, and lemon juice in a small bowl. Slowly drizzle the \u00bd cup of olive oil into the bowl, whisking constantly. Whisk the truffle oil into the sauce and season with salt and pepper.\n\nDivide the asparagus onto plates and drizzle with the truffle aioli. Top each serving with cheese and serve.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Mission Figs with Mascarpone, Honey & Chopped Walnuts\n\n**_Figs are seasonal and are available in many varieties. Though this recipe calls for Mission figs, which are a teardrop shape and purple with a crimson interior, you can substitute any type of fresh fig that is available in your local market. These can be served either as an hors d'oeuvre or as a light dessert._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 12 fresh Mission figs\n\n  * 1 cup mascarpone cheese, at room temperature (8 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped walnuts\n\n  * \u00bc cup honey\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, 12 bamboo or metal skewers**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nIf using bamboo skewers, soak the skewers in water for 30 minutes.\n\nRemove the stems from the figs and cut the figs in half lengthwise. Insert a bamboo or metal skewer in the end of each fig half until the skewer runs through the length of the fig and the fig is secure on the skewer. Place the figs on the Grid, bottom side down. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 1 to 2 minutes. Carefully turn the figs over, close the lid again, and grill for another 1 to 2 minutes. Do not overcook. Transfer the figs to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Remove the skewers.\n\nUsing a melon baller or teaspoon, remove a small amount from the center of each fig. Fill the figs with cheese and top with chopped walnuts. Place the figs on a dish and drizzle with honey. Refrigerate until ready to serve.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Roasted Fingerling Potatoes with Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche & Caviar\n\n**_Fingerling potatoes are naturally small, usually elongated, and a little bumpy. They come in a variety of colors, from gold to red to purple. Because of their size, they are superb for hors d'oeuvres, and by topping them with caviar, they become a wonderful beginning to an elegant dinner. If you are unable to find cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, you can use sour cream in its place or make your own._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds white fingerling potatoes (about 16)\n\n  * \u00bc cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, purchased or homemade (see below)\n\n  * 1 ounce sturgeon caviar\n\n  * Fresh chives for garnish\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nToss the potatoes in \u00bc cup of the olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and roast for 20 minutes, turning occasionally.\n\nCut each potato in half and, using a melon baller or teaspoon, scoop out the flesh from the potato, leaving a little around the edges. Discard the flesh or save it for another use. Brush the potatoes inside and out with the 2 tablespoons of olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the potatoes, cut side down, on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and grill for 3 to 4 minutes, until brown and crisp. Using tongs or a long-handled spatula, transfer the potatoes to a rimmed sheet pan. Let the potatoes cool for 5 minutes.\n\nPlace 1 teaspoon of the cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche inside each potato, top with \u00bd teaspoon of the caviar, and garnish with chives. Serve immediately. **Serves 8**\n\n**Homemade Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche**\n\nIn a small saucepan on the stovetop, add 1 tablespoon buttermilk, sour cream, or yogurt to 1 cup heavy cream and whisk with a spoon. Heat almost to the boiling point and then let the mixture stand, covered, in a warm place for 24 hours, or until it thickens. The cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche can then be refrigerated for 4 to 5 days.\n\n### Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes\n\n**_The nutty flavor of wild rainbow trout is preferred over farm raised, but for this dip, either type will work well. Make sure that you remove all of the bones before adding the trout to the dip. Pita Bread (page 215) would be perfect for dipping._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound rainbow trout, butterflied and bones removed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon plus 1 tablespoon olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u2153 cup minced shallots\n\n  * 16 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bd cup sour cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese\n\n  * 1 (10-ounce) package chopped frozen spinach, thawed and drained well\n\n  * 1 cup canned artichoke hearts packed in water, drained and chopped\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped capers\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1 cup dried bread crumbs\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, hickory chips, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F without the porcelain coated grid.**\n\nPlace 1 cup of hickory chips in a large bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour.\n\nBrush the trout with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Scatter the presoaked hickory chips over the preheated charcoal, and place the grid on the EGG. When the chips begin to smoke (about 2 minutes), place the trout on the grid, skin side down, and close the lid of the EGG. Smoke for 7 to 8 minutes, until completely cooked. To check if the trout is done, slide a spatula along one of the back (dorsal) fins to see if the flesh is no longer shiny. Using a long-handled spatula, remove the trout from the heat and place on a rimmed sheet pan. Carefully remove the skin and crumble the trout into bite-size pieces, picking out all the bones. Place in a small bowl and set aside.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nHeat the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in a small saucepan on the stovetop, add the garlic and shallots, and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until translucent but not brown. Transfer the garlic-shallot mixture to the bowl of an electric mixer. Add the cream cheese, mayonnaise, sour cream, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, spinach, artichokes, garlic-shallot mixture, capers, lemon juice, 1 \u00bd teaspoons salt, and \u00bc teaspoon pepper to the mixer bowl and combine the ingredients on low speed until just mixed. Add the smoked trout and combine briefly; do not overmix.\n\nPour the mixture into the baking dish and cover tightly with foil. Place the dish on the Plate Setter and bake for 30 minutes. Uncover and top with the bread crumbs. Cook for 10 to 15 minutes more, until brown and bubbly. Remove the trout dip from the Plate Setter. Let the dip rest for 10 to 15 minutes before serving. **Serves 8**\n\n### Mesquite Lemon-Pepper Wings with Creamy Feta Dressing\n\n**_If you are looking for the perfect food for game day, this is it! These wings have just the right amount of lemon, pepper, and spices to please all of your friends. For an irresistible combo, serve them with Mac & Cheese (page 165) and Kahl\u00faa Coffee Brownies (page 251) for dessert._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Creamy Feta Dressing**\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bd cup sour cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup feta cheese\n\n  * 2 teaspoons red wine vinegar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup lemon zest, lemons reserved (about 6 medium lemons)\n\n  * \u00bd cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 2 tablespoons granulated garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 pounds chicken wings\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nMix the mayonnaise, sour cream, cheese, vinegar, and Worcestershire sauce in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper, blend well, and refrigerate.\n\nMix the lemon zest and olive oil in a small bowl and set aside. Mix the garlic, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Reserve 1 tablespoon of the garlic seasoning for later use. Toss the chicken with the remaining 3 tablespoons of seasoning.\n\nPlace the chicken on the Grid and baste with the olive oil mixture. Close the lid of the EGG. Turn the chicken wings every few minutes, basting often, closing the lid each time. Grill for 15 minutes, or until golden brown and slightly crisp. Season with the reserved garlic mixture and cook for another minute.\n\nTransfer the chicken wings to a platter, squeeze the reserved lemons over the wings, and serve immediately with the dressing. **Serves 4**\n\n### Grilled Moroccan Lamb Pops with Spicy Tzatziki Sauce\n\n**_These zesty lamb pops will be a big hit! But since they are small, you'll want to double or triple the recipe for a larger crowd. They require no utensils; just pick them up, dip them in the yogurt sauce, and enjoy!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Marinade**\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 teaspoons lemon zest\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground coriander\n\n  * 1 teaspoon smoked paprika\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cardamom\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (1\u00bd-pound) rack of lamb, cut into individual chops\n\n  * **Spicy Tzatziki Sauce**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons hot water\n\n  * 1 teaspoon saffron threads\n\n  * \u00bd cup plain Greek yogurt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh mint\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * Lemon wedges\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, combine the garlic, lemon zest, lemon juice, cumin, coriander, paprika, cardamom, cinnamon, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and mix well.\n\nLay the lamb chops flat in a large shallow pan, pour the marinade over, and toss well to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 6 hours or overnight.\n\nTo make the sauce, pour the water into a small cup, add the saffron, and let sit for 10 minutes, then strain, reserving the water. Put the yogurt in a small bowl, add the saffron water, mint, lemon juice, and salt and stir well. Transfer to a small serving bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to use.\n\nRemove the lamb from the marinade, discarding the remaining marinade, and place the lamb on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 to 3 minutes on each side, until the instant read thermometer inserted in the center of one of the lamb chops registers 125\u00b0F for medium-rare.\n\nUsing tongs, transfer the lamb to a platter and garnish with lemon wedges. Serve immediately with the sauce on the side. **Serves 4**\n\n### Red Chile Scallops with Cool Mango-Mint Salsa\n\n**_First rubbed with Red Chile Rub, then topped with a sweet mango salsa, these scallops are like yin and yang, a perfect balance between cool and spicy. When served, the scallops should look like they have been dusted with confetti, so when making the salsa, be sure to finely dice all of the vegetables._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Mango-Mint Salsa**\n\n  * \u00be cup diced fresh mango\n\n  * \u00bc cup diced red bell pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup diced red onion\n\n  * \u00bc cup thinly sliced scallions\n\n  * 2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh mint\n\n  * 1 clove garlic, crushed\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice\n\n  * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 2 teaspoons honey\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 pound large sea scallops (12)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons Red Chile Rub (page 197)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a wooden spoon, combine the mango, bell pepper, red onion, scallions, mint, garlic, lime juice, olive oil, honey, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and stir well. Set aside.\n\nSeason the scallops generously with the chile rub and place on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the scallops for about 2 minutes on each side, or until golden and lightly cooked. Transfer the scallops to a platter.\n\nTo assemble the dish, place 3 scallops on each plate and top with \u00bc cup of the salsa. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n\" _Food cooked on the Big Green Egg is more than just grilled food\u2014it's a culinary experience!_ \" \u2014Terry, Nevada\n\n### Alder-Smoked Mushrooms with Bacon, Arugula & Walnut Oil\n\n**_Because of their ability to impart a sweet yet smoky flavor, alder chips are a great choice for smoking these rich and flavorful mushrooms. Alder chips come from the red alder tree, a member of the birch family found in the Pacific Northwest, where Native Americans frequently used them for smoking fish. They are widely used today in the smoked-salmon industry. For this recipe, if large white mushrooms are not available, use your favorite mushrooms and adjust the cooking time._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 12 large white mushrooms, gills removed (about 1 pound)\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Filling**\n\n  * 8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature\n\n  * 2 tablespoons finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese\n\n  * 1 cup finely chopped arugula\n\n  * \u00bc cup plus \u00bc cup panko or bread crumbs\n\n  * Freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 12 ounces bacon, finely chopped (about 14 slices)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced shallots\n\n  * **Sauce**\n\n  * 1 cup white wine\n\n  * \u00bc cup sliced shallots\n\n  * 5 peppercorns\n\n  * 1 bay leaf\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter, cut into cubes\n\n  * Freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * Kosher salt\n\n  * Freshly cracked black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup walnut oil or olive oil\n\n  * Chopped fresh chives or flat-leaf parsley for garnish\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, alder chips**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F without the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\nPlace 1 cup of alder chips in a large bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour. Put the mushrooms in a large bowl, add the olive oil, toss the mushrooms in the oil until completely coated, season with salt and pepper, and set aside.\n\nTo make the filling, using a wooden spoon, mix the cream cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, arugula, and \u00bc cup of the panko in a small bowl. Season with pepper and set aside. Cook the bacon in a saut\u00e9 pan on the stovetop over medium heat, stirring occasionally until almost crisp. Add the garlic and shallots and cook for about 2 minutes, or until the shallots are translucent. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon mixture to the bowl of cream cheese and, using a wooden spoon, stir until completely blended.\n\nFill each mushroom with 1 to 1\u00bd tablespoons of the cream cheese filling, sprinkle the tops with 1 teaspoon of panko, place on a rimmed sheet pan, and set aside.\n\nTo make the sauce, mix the white wine, shallots, peppercorns, and bay leaf in a small saucepan on the stovetop, cook over medium-high heat, and reduce to about 2 tablespoons. Add the cream and reduce for 4 to 5 minutes, until the cream has thickened. Remove from the heat, add the butter a little at a time, and season with lemon juice and salt. Strain and set aside.\n\nScatter the presoaked alder chips over the preheated charcoal and place the Grid on the EGG. When the chips begin to smoke (about 2 minutes), place the mushrooms on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 minutes, or until the mushrooms are tender.\n\nTransfer the mushrooms to a rimmed sheet pan. Spoon the butter sauce onto individual plates, set two mushrooms on each plate on top of the sauce, season with pepper, and drizzle with the walnut oil. Garnish with fresh chives and serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Greek Pizza with Yogurt-Mint Sauce\n\n**_The Greek-themed topping for this pizza is made with deliciously seasoned ground lamb, feta cheese, kalamata olives, and a touch of mint. The Yogurt-Mint Sauce, added just before serving, provides an unexpected burst of flavor. Ground beef can be substituted for the lamb. If you make the Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto for this recipe, you will have about 1 cup left, which can be frozen for later use._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Yogurt-Mint Sauce**\n\n  * 1 cup sour cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup plain Greek yogurt\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Lamb**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 pound lean ground lamb\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon dried oregano\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 pizza dough disks (page 216)\n\n  * Cornmeal for dusting\n\n  * \u00bd cup Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto (page 200)\n\n  * 1 cup crumbled feta cheese\n\n  * 1 cup quartered marinated artichokes, drained\n\n  * 1 cup pitted and chopped kalamata olives\n\n  * 1 cup thinly sliced red onions\n\n  * Olive oil for drizzling\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 600\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the sauce, using a spatula, combine the sour cream, yogurt, mint, cumin, lemon juice, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and stir to blend. Transfer the sauce to a squeeze bottle and refrigerate until ready to use.\n\nTo cook the lamb, heat the olive oil in a medium saut\u00e9 pan on the stovetop, add the lamb and garlic, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the meat is browned. Add the oregano, cumin, cinnamon, salt, and pepper and continue to cook for another 2 to 3 minutes, until the meat is thoroughly cooked. Remove the pan from the heat and let cool. Set aside.\n\nTo assemble the pizzas, place a pizza dough disk on a lightly floured surface and, using a rolling pin, roll the disk into a 10-inch circle \u00bc inch thick. Dust the pizza peel with cornmeal and place the dough disk on the peel. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick. Top the disk with 2 tablespoons of the pesto, \u00bd cup of the lamb, and \u00bc cup each of the cheese, artichokes, olives, and onions. Drizzle with olive oil.\n\nUsing the pizza peel, gently slide the pizza onto the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 minutes. Remove the pizza from the EGG using the pizza peel. Drizzle the sauce over the pizza before serving. Cut the pizza with a knife or pizza wheel into desired portions and serve immediately. Repeat this process with the remaining dough disks. **Serves 4**\n\n### Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula\n\n**_You might balk at the idea of using eggs on top of a pizza, but give this a try. Eggs add incredible flavor and texture to the pizza. If you can't find quail eggs, break one large hen egg into the center of the pizza once you have transferred it to the Baking Stone._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 pizza dough disks (page 216)\n\n  * Cornmeal for dusting\n\n  * 1 cup Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce (page 199)\n\n  * 1 pound thinly sliced mozzarella _di bufala_\n\n  * 2 cups chopped baby arugula\n\n  * 11/3 cups chopped prosciutto\n\n  * 16 quail eggs, or 4 large hen eggs\n\n  * 1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 4 teaspoons white truffle oil\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 600\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace a pizza dough disk on a lightly floured surface and, using a rolling pin, roll the disk into a 10-inch circle \u00bc inch thick. Dust the pizza peel with cornmeal and place the dough disk on the peel. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick.\n\nTop the pizza with \u00bc cup of the sauce, \u00bc pound of the mozzarella, \u00bd cup of the arugula, and 1/3 cup of the prosciutto. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick.\n\nSlide the pizza onto the hot Baking Stone, crack 4 quail eggs in a circle on top of the pizza, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 minutes, or until the edges are lightly browned and crisp. Using the pizza peel, remove the pizza from the grill, sprinkle with \u00bc cup of the cheese, and drizzle with 1 teaspoon of truffle oil. With a knife or pizza wheel, cut the pizza into desired portions and serve immediately.\n\nRepeat this process with the remaining dough disks.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Shrimp, Artichoke & Pesto Pizza\n\n**_If this is your first try at making pizza in the EGG, this is an easy recipe to prepare, and the combination of shrimp and pesto is unbeatable. Make sure you have the ingredients to make the pesto on hand. This pizza requires only \u00bd cup of the pesto, so freeze the rest in ice trays and take the cubes out as needed to season other dishes._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 pizza dough disks (page 216)\n\n  * Cornmeal for dusting\n\n  * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined\n\n  * \u00bd cup Fresh Basil Pesto (page 201)\n\n  * 2 cups marinated artichokes, drained\n\n  * 2 cups thinly sliced red onions\n\n  * 16 ounces goat cheese\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 600\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace a pizza dough disk on a lightly floured surface and, using a rolling pin, roll the disk into a 10-inch circle \u00bc inch thick. Dust the pizza peel with cornmeal and place the dough disk on the peel. Gently shake the peel back and forth to make sure the dough does not stick.\n\nUsing a paring knife, butterfly the shrimp by cutting them open along the bottom side and opening them up, but leave the two sides connected so that the shrimp will lie flat on the pizza. Top the pizza with 2 tablespoons of the pesto, \u00bc pound of the shrimp, \u00bd cup of the artichokes, \u00bd cup of the onion, and 4 ounces of the cheese. Season with salt and pepper.\n\nGently slide the pizza onto the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 minutes, or until light brown and crisp around the edges. Using the pizza peel, remove the pizza from the heat and let it sit for 2 minutes before cutting. Using a knife or pizza wheel, cut the pizza into desired portions and serve immediately.\n\nRepeat this process with the remaining dough disks.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Chilled White Gazpacho with Grilled Shrimp Relish\n\n**_Gazpacho originated in Andalusia, a region in the southern part of Spain. The gazpacho most people are familiar with is a cold, tomato-based, raw-vegetable soup. White gazpacho, better known as garlic soup or_ ajo bianco, _is from the same region. One common thread is that both of these soups use bread as a thickening agent. Unlike the Spanish version, which is made with white grapes, this version is made with white grape juice and topped with a delicious grilled shrimp relish. Serve this with Seafood Paella (page 277) for a festive Spanish meal._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 cups chopped English cucumbers\n\n  * 1 cup grilled and cubed French bread (about three \u00bd-inch slices)\n\n  * 1 cup white grape juice\n\n  * 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 4 ounces large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and tails removed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for brushing\n\n  * 1 avocado, halved, peeled, pitted, and diced\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bc cup finely crumbled feta cheese\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh mint\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, bamboo or metal skewers**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nIf using bamboo skewers, soak the skewers in water for 30 minutes.\n\nCombine the cucumbers, bread, grape juice, horseradish, garlic, and 1\u00bd teaspoons salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Process for 2 to 3 minutes, until the ingredients are completely pureed and the liquid is smooth and creamy. Transfer the soup to a large bowl and chill for 30 minutes.\n\nIn a large bowl using an electric mixer, whip the cream for 1 to 2 minutes, until soft peaks form. Chill the whipped cream for 30 minutes.\n\nThread the shrimp on skewers, brush with olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Place the skewers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2\u00bd minutes on each side. Remove the skewers from the grid and place on a rimmed sheet pan to cool.\n\nRemove the shrimp from the skewers, chop into bite-size pieces, and place in a small bowl. Add the avocado, lemon juice, cheese, mint, and the 1 tablespoon olive oil to the bowl and mix well. Season with salt and pepper.\n\nTo assemble, using a rubber spatula, gently fold the whipped cream into the cucumber mixture until combined. Pour the soup into chilled bowls, place a large spoonful of the shrimp relish in the middle of each bowl, and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Barbecue Chicken Soup\n\n**_This version of barbecue soup is a cross between Brunswick stew and a traditional soup. It is a meal on its own but can also be served in small portions as a first course. Though the recipe calls for leftover Beer-Brined Chicken, Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket (page 284) or shredded pork (page 90) would work just as well. For a real treat, serve this with Southwestern Cornbread (page 217)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon, diced (about 14 slices)\n\n  * 4 tablespoons Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * 1\u00bd pounds tomatoes, chopped (about 4 cups)\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups chopped yellow onions\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced garlic\n\n  * 1 chipotle pepper in adobo\n\n  * 12 ounces lite lager beer\n\n  * 4 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 2 cups ketchup\n\n  * \u00bc cup yellow mustard\n\n  * \u00bd cup apple cider vinegar\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * 2 cups yellow corn kernels (about 2 ears)\n\n  * 1 pound tomatoes, grilled and chopped (about 3 cups; page 170)\n\n  * 3 cups fresh or frozen lima beans, cooked and drained\n\n  * 4 cups chopped Beer-Brined Chicken (page 98)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\n**Preheat the Dutch Oven on the grid for 10 minutes.**\n\nPlace the bacon in the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a small bowl lined with paper towels and set aside. Reserve the bacon fat in the Dutch Oven.\n\nAdd the barbecue rub to the bacon fat and cook for 1 minute. Add the tomatoes, onions, garlic, and chipotle and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the onions are translucent. Slowly add the beer to the Dutch Oven, stirring with a wooden spoon to deglaze. Add the chicken stock, ketchup, mustard, vinegar, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce. Leave the Dutch Oven uncovered, but close the lid of the EGG. Simmer for 30 minutes, or until the soup has thickened slightly.\n\nRemove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Puree the soup using an immersion blender, or carefully spoon it into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade, process until smooth, and return to the Dutch Oven. Add the corn, grilled tomatoes, lima beans, chicken, and pepper and stir until completely combined. Serve topped with the reserved bacon pieces. **Serves 8**\n\n# _eggxemplary!_  \nbeef & lamb\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Barbecued Beef Ribs\n\n  * Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri\n\n  * Beef Tenderloin with B\u00e9arnaise Sauce\n\n  * Rib-Eye Steaks with Shallot & Garlic Butter\n\n  * Burgers with Avocado BLT Salsa\n\n  * Italian Meat Loaf with Smoked-Tomato Chutney\n\n  * Skirt Steak Fajitas\n\n  * Belgian Beef Stew\n\n  * Standing Rib Roast\n\n  * Veal Chops with Bercy Butter\n\n  * Napa Cabbage Beef Wraps\n\n  * Herb-Crusted Rack of Lamb\n\n  * Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb\n\n### Barbecued Beef Ribs\n\n**_Ribs really benefit from long, slow cooking. After coating the ribs with Basic Barbecue Rub, place them in the V-Rack and let them cook, low and slow. Once they are pull-away-from-the-bone tender, place them on the grid, douse them with Basic Barbecue Sauce, and cook until they are thoroughly browned. What you will end up with are juicy, rich, flavorful ribs._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 (2\u00bd to 3-pound) racks beef ribs\n\n  * \u00bd cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * 1 cup Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, V-Rack set inside 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, porcelain coated grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nSeason the ribs on all sides with the rub. Place the ribs in the V-Rack and set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Set the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2\u00bd to 3 hours, until tender or the instant read thermometer registers 190\u00b0F. Remove the ribs.\n\nAdd the grid to the EGG, and raise the temperature to 500\u00b0F.\n\nPlace the ribs directly on the grid and baste with the sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the ribs, turning and basting the ribs every few minutes, for 5 to 7 minutes, until the ribs are well covered with the sauce.\n\nTransfer the ribs to a platter and serve immediately\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri\n\n**Chimichurri _is a piquant herbed sauce that is often served in Argentina and other Latin American countries as an accompaniment to grilled meats. In this recipe, the tenderloin is marinated in half of the sauce prior to grilling. The other half of the sauce is reserved to use as a dipping sauce._ Chimichurri _is also terrific served with chicken, lamb, and fish._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds beef tenderloin\n\n  * 2 cups extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes)\n\n  * 4 jalape\u00f1os, seeded and chopped\n\n  * 8 cloves garlic\n\n  * 2 cups firmly packed fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh oregano leaves\n\n  * 2 teaspoons red chile flakes\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, bamboo or metal skewers**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nTrim the beef and cut into 1\u00bd-inch cubes. Place in a shallow pan and set aside.\n\nAdd the olive oil, vinegar, lime juice, jalape\u00f1os, garlic, parsley, oregano, and red chile flakes to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Blend for 30 seconds, season with salt and pepper, then process for another 10 seconds. Pour half of the sauce over the beef, reserving the remainder. Toss the meat in the marinade until completely coated and refrigerate for 4 to 8 hours.\n\nIf using bamboo skewers, place the skewers in a pan and cover with water. Soak for 1 hour.\n\nRemove the beef from the marinade and divide it into 4 (8-ounce) portions. Discard the used marinade. Thread the meat on the skewers and then place the skewers on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG. Turn the skewers every 2 minutes for a total of 8 minutes for medium-rare to medium, making sure to grill the meat on all sides. Transfer the skewers to a platter and let the meat rest for 5 minutes before serving. Serve with the remaining sauce. **Serves 4**\n\n### Beef Tenderloin with B\u00e9arnaise Sauce\n\n**_It doesn't get any better than a beef tenderloin covered in classic b\u00e9arnaise sauce, except when that roast is cooked in the EGG. This is food fit for a king or your favored guests._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (5 to 6-pound) beef tenderloin, trimmed and tied\n\n  * 1 tablespoon olive oil\n\n  * 2 teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **B\u00e9arnaise Sauce**\n\n  * 1 \u00bd ounces tarragon sprigs\n\n  * 1 large egg yolk\n\n  * \u00bd cup white wine vinegar\n\n  * 1 shallot, thinly sliced\n\n  * 5 black peppercorns\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * Pinch of cayenne pepper\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the beef with olive oil and season with the salt and pepper. Sear the meat on the grid, turning occasionally until browned on all sides. Transfer the meat to the V-Rack, set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan, and put the Drip Pan on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 to 40 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 130\u00b0F for medium-rare. Let the meat rest for 15 minutes before slicing.\n\nTo make the b\u00e9arnaise sauce, separate the tarragon leaves from the stems, reserving the stems. Finely chop the tarragon leaves and set aside. Beat the egg yolk in a small bowl and set aside. Place the vinegar, shallot, peppercorns, and reserved tarragon stems in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer over medium heat until the liquid is reduced to 2 tablespoons.\n\nStrain the liquid into the bowl with the egg yolk. Place the bowl over a pot of simmering water on the stovetop and slowly add the butter in a thin stream, whisking constantly until thickened. Add the chopped tarragon leaves and stir well. Remove the bowl from the heat and season with the lemon juice, cayenne pepper, salt, and black pepper.\n\nSlice the beef and serve with the sauce. **Serves 8 to 10**\n\n### Rib-Eye Steaks with Shallot & Garlic Butter\n\n**_The rib-eye is one of the most tender, juicy steaks on the market because it is so heavily marbled. Grilling it fast, over high heat, sears in all of the juices. Whether you are new to ceramic cooking or an old hand, you will not taste a better rib-eye steak than one cooked in the EGG._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 (1-inch-thick) rib-eye steaks\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Shallot & Garlic Butter**\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 tablespoon finely minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced shallots\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 550\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a basting brush, lightly coat each of the rib-eye steaks with the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and set aside.\n\nTo make the garlic butter, melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. When the butter begins to foam, add the garlic and cook for 2 minutes, being careful not to let the garlic brown. Remove the pan from the heat, add the shallots, and stir. Let the butter cool for 30 minutes. Add the parsley, season with salt and pepper, and mix well. Pour equal amounts of the mixture into 2 small bowls, reserving one for basting and one for serving.\n\nPlace the steaks on the Grid, baste with some of the garlic butter, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 3 minutes. Turn the steaks over and baste with more garlic butter. Close the lid and continue cooking for 3 more minutes for medium-rare. Discard the remaining basting butter.\n\nTransfer the steaks to a platter and baste them with some of the garlic butter reserved for serving. Let the steaks rest for 5 minutes. Slice across the grain and serve with the remaining garlic butter. **Serves 4**\n\n### Burgers with Avocado BLT Salsa\n\n**_Combine ground round and ground chuck, then place the burgers in the EGG and grill them to the desired doneness. Top them off with an avocado and applewood-smoked bacon salsa and melted Havarti cheese for the best burger you've ever tasted._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound ground chuck\n\n  * 1 pound ground round\n\n  * 2 tablespoons granulated garlic\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Avocado BLT Salsa**\n\n  * 1 cup diced vine-ripened tomatoes\n\n  * 2 cups chopped applewood-smoked bacon, cooked until crisp (12 to 14 slices)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped scallions\n\n  * 1 cup diced avocado\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 poppy seed buns\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 4 slices Havarti cheese\n\n  * 4 leaves butter lettuce (Boston or Bibb)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 600\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the ground chuck and ground round in a large bowl. Form the meat into 4 (8-ounce) patties about 1 inch thick. Season with the granulated garlic, salt, and pepper and set aside.\n\nTo make the salsa, mix the tomatoes, bacon, scallions, avocado, mayonnaise, lemon juice, salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Cover and refrigerate.\n\nCut the buns in half horizontally and brush the inside of each half with butter. Place the hamburgers on the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 3 minutes per side, for medium-rare. Top each burger with a slice of cheese, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 seconds longer, until the cheese is melted. Transfer the burgers to a plate and let them rest while you grill the buns, buttered side down, until lightly toasted.\n\nTo assemble, place each burger inside a bun and top with a lettuce leaf. Place 2 tablespoons of the salsa on top of each burger and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Italian Meat Loaf with Smoked-Tomato Chutney\n\n**_This recipe is not complicated to make. Grilling the tomatoes before turning them into chutney adds a gentle smokiness and intensifies the tomato flavor. It is the perfect accompaniment to this well-seasoned meat loaf._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Smoked-Tomato Chutney**\n\n  * 1 pound Roma tomatoes, cored and cut in half\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * \u00bd cup minced yellow onion\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bc cup balsamic vinegar\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh basil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Meat Loaf**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * 1 cup minced yellow onions\n\n  * 1/3 cup minced red bell pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 8 ounces ground chuck\n\n  * 8 ounces ground round\n\n  * 8 ounces ground veal\n\n  * 8 ounces ground pork\n\n  * 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon red chile flakes\n\n  * \u00be cup fresh or dried bread crumbs\n\n  * \u00bc cup whole milk\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano\n\n  * 1 cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup tomato paste\n\n  * 2 large eggs\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, hickory chips, 9-inch loaf pan, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F without the Plate Setter.**\n\nSoak 1 cup of hickory chips in a pan of water for 1 hour. Scatter the hickory chips over the preheated charcoal and, using barbecue mitts, place the Plate Setter, legs down, in the EGG.\n\nTo make the chutney, smoke the tomatoes for 10 minutes on the Plate Setter, with the lid of the EGG closed. Transfer the tomatoes to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Remove and discard the tomato skins, chop the tomatoes, and reserve. Add the olive oil to a medium saucepan on the stovetop. Saut\u00e9 the onion and garlic for 2 minutes, cover, then cook for 5 minutes. Add the reserved tomatoes, sugar, and vinegar and simmer uncovered for 15 minutes. Transfer the tomato mixture to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Puree the sauce, add the basil, and season with salt and pepper. Set aside.\n\nTo make the meat loaf, heat the olive oil in a medium saucepan on the stovetop. Saut\u00e9 the onions, bell pepper, and garlic for 3 to 5 minutes, until softened. Transfer to a large bowl. Crumble the meat into the bowl, add the vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, red chile flakes, bread crumbs, milk, oregano, cheese, tomato paste, eggs, salt, and pepper. Using a wooden spoon, mix all the ingredients until completely blended.\n\nScrape the meat mixture into the loaf pan and cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil. Place on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1 hour and 15 minutes, or until the thermometer reaches 140\u00b0F.\n\nRemove the foil and baste the meat loaf with one-half of the tomato chutney. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 15 minutes more, or until the internal temperature is 160\u00b0F. Remove the meat loaf from the EGG and let it rest for 10 minutes.\n\nSlice the meat loaf and serve with the remaining chutney.\n\n**Serves 6**\n\n\" _We do not order steak at steakhouses anymore because they do not compare with a steak cooked on the Big Green Egg._ \" \u2014Kevin, Alabama\n\n### Skirt Steak Fajitas\n\n**_Skirt steak is the most traditional and popular cut of meat used to make fajitas. To boost the flavor, marinate the meat for at least eight hours or as long as twenty-four hours if possible._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Marinade**\n\n  * \u00bd cup pineapple juice\n\n  * \u00bc cup soy sauce\n\n  * \u00bc cup canola oil\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced garlic\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * 2 pounds skirt steak\n\n  * \u00bc cup canola oil\n\n  * 1 green bell pepper, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 1 red bell pepper, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 1 medium yellow onion, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 8 to 10 flour tortillas\n\n  * **Toppings (optional)**\n\n  * Shredded semisoft cheese (queso blanco), such as Monterey Jack, farmer's cheese, or queso asadero\n\n  * Sour cream\n\n  * Salsa\n\n  * Cilantro\n\n  * Guacamole\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Half Moon Griddle**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and the Half Moon Griddle on one side of the Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, use a whisk to combine the pineapple juice, soy sauce, canola oil, garlic, and cumin in a small bowl. Place the steak in a shallow pan and pour the marinade over the steak. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 8 hours or overnight.\n\nCarefully pour the canola oil on the Griddle, and add the peppers and onion. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 until tender. While the peppers and onion are still cooking, remove the steak from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the steak on the exposed Grid, close the lid, and grill for 3 to 4 minutes on each side for medium-rare.\n\nTransfer the steak, peppers, and onions to a rimmed sheet pan. Let the steak rest for 10 minutes. While the steak is resting, place the tortillas on the Grid and grill for 15 seconds on each side. Transfer the tortillas to a sheet of aluminum foil and wrap tightly to keep warm.\n\nTo assemble, slice the steak across the grain into thin strips, place in a large bowl, add the peppers and onions, and toss together. Transfer to a platter and serve with the warm tortillas and your choice of toppings. **Serves 4**\n\n### Belgian Beef Stew\n\n**_In some European countries, wheat beers, pale in color, are traditionally called \"white beer.\" The addition of Belgian white beer gives this stew rich, robust flavor. Be sure to add water to the pot periodically to keep the meat from drying out._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (2-pound) chuck or sirloin tip roast\n\n  * 6 sprigs thyme\n\n  * 2 bay leaves\n\n  * Zest of 1 lemon\n\n  * Zest of 1 orange\n\n  * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon, cut into small strips (about 14 slices)\n\n  * 2 cups diced carrots\n\n  * 2 cups diced celery\n\n  * 2 cups diced onions\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n  * 4 (12-ounce) bottles Belgian white beer\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground coriander\n\n  * 9 cups water\n\n  * 3 cups diced russet potatoes\n\n  * 2 cups diced Roma tomatoes\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed orange juice\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00bd cup frozen peas\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced fresh chives\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nTrim the beef, cut into 1\u00bd-inch cubes, and set aside. To make a seasoning sachet, put the thyme, bay leaves, lemon zest, and orange zest on a small piece of cheesecloth, pull up the sides all around, and tie with string. Set aside. Add the bacon to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 6 minutes, or until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a plate lined with paper towels and set aside. Reserve the bacon fat in the Dutch Oven.\n\nAdd the carrots, celery, and onions to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook until caramelized and golden brown in color. Remove the vegetables with a slotted spoon and place them in a small bowl.\n\nAllow the Dutch Oven to reheat for about 2 minutes. Season the beef with salt and pepper, and add to the hot Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG, and sear on all sides for about 10 minutes, or until brown. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, then add the flour and stir. Slowly add 1 bottle of beer, stirring constantly. Add the rest of the beer, one bottle at a time. Add the reserved sachet and bacon and the coriander and stir well. Cover the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer for 30 minutes.\n\nReduce the heat to 300\u00b0F. After 30 minutes, add 3 cups of water, cover the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer for 30 minutes. Add 3 more cups of water, cover, close, and simmer for 15 more minutes. Add 1 more cup of water, cover, close, and simmer for another 15 minutes. Add the potatoes, tomatoes, and reserved carrots, celery, and onions. Add the remaining 2 cups of water, cover, close, and simmer for another 30 minutes. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Discard the sachet and add the lemon juice, orange juice, butter, peas, and chives. Season with salt and pepper. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Standing Rib Roast\n\n**_Before cooking the rib roast, it is best if the bones are cut away and reattached tightly to the body of the roast with butcher's twine. Once it is cooked, you can cut the butcher's twine, and the bones will easily fall away, making it much easier to carve. Most butchers will gladly prep the roast for you. Try serving the roast with Twice-Baked Potatoes (page 159) and Grilled Caesar Salad (page 171)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced fresh rosemary\n\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (5-pound) bone-in rib roast\n\n**Equipment: V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, porcelain coated grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 425\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a fork, combine the garlic, rosemary, garlic salt, kosher salt, and pepper. Stir to blend well. Stand the roast up on a cutting board with the bones facing upward. Using a very sharp knife, cut the bones away from the meat by following the line of the bones. Remove the bones completely, then tie them back on with butcher's twine. Season the roast all over with the herb mixture.\n\nPlace the roast, bone side down, in the V-Rack and set the V-Rack inside the Drip Pan. Put the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Roast for 20 minutes at 425\u00b0F to sear the meat. Reduce the heat to 350\u00b0F, and continue cooking for 1 hour and 20 minutes, or until the instant read thermometer registers 135\u00b0F for medium-rare. Remove the pan from the EGG and let the roast rest for 15 minutes.\n\nRemove the butcher's twine and discard. Remove the bones and slice the roast to the desired thickness. Serve immediately. **Serves 6 to 8**\n\n### Veal Chops with Bercy Butter\n\n**_Easy-to-prepare veal chops make a superb special-occasion dinner. Hot off the grill, these chops are topped with a dollop of Bercy butter, an effortless-to-prepare reduction sauce that is named after a neighborhood in Paris. For a truly French-inspired dinner, serve these with Braised Leeks (page 185)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 (1\u00bd to 2-inch) veal loin chops\n\n  * 1 tablespoon olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Bercy Butter**\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bd cup dry white wine\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced shallots\n\n  * 2 tablespoons veal demi-glace, or\n\n  * \u00bd cup beef broth\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush each veal chop with olive oil and season with salt and pepper.\n\nTo make the Bercy butter, blend the butter, parsley, and lemon juice in a small bowl and set aside. Simmer the white wine, shallots, and demi-glace in a small saucepan on the stovetop until the liquid is reduced to about 1 teaspoon. Allow the liquid to cool completely. Place a small strainer over the bowl of butter and pour the reduced liquid through the strainer. Using a fork, mix the liquid and butter until completely blended, then season with salt and pepper.\n\nPlace the veal chops on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 8 minutes per side. Transfer the veal chops to a platter and brush generously with Bercy butter. Let the veal rest for 5 minutes, then top with more Bercy butter before serving. **Serves 4**\n\n### Napa Cabbage Beef Wraps\n\n**_This Asian-influenced beef wrap makes a tasty and fun entr\u00e9e. Try it with a side of the Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice (page 148) or make a mini version and serve as an hors d'oeuvre at a cocktail party._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Marinade**\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh basil\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh mint\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced fresh ginger\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped garlic\n\n  * 1 cup canola oil\n\n  * 1 lime, cut into eighths\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 2 pounds flank steak\n\n  * **Sauce**\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes)\n\n  * \u00bd cup water\n\n  * \u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 2 teaspoons fish sauce\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon chili garlic sauce\n\n  * Kosher salt\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 head napa cabbage, separated into leaves\n\n  * 1 cup julienned carrots\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced radishes\n\n  * 1/3 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * 1/3 cup chopped fresh mint\n\n  * 1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced shallots\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, combine the basil, mint, cilantro, ginger, garlic, canola oil, lime, and salt in a medium bowl and mix well. Place the flank steak in a large resealable plastic bag, pour in the marinade, seal the bag, and let the steak marinate overnight in the refrigerator. Turn occasionally.\n\nTo make the sauce, mix the lime juice, water, sugar, fish sauce, and chili garlic sauce in a small bowl. Season with salt and refrigerate.\n\nRemove the steak from the plastic bag and discard the marinade. Season the steak with salt and pepper on both sides and place on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 5 minutes per side for medium-rare. Transfer to a platter and let rest for 10 minutes.\n\nTo assemble, slice the steak across the grain. Place a few slices inside a cabbage leaf and top with carrots, radishes, basil, mint, cilantro, and shallots. Wrap the cabbage leaf around the beef and toppings. Repeat with the rest of the ingredients. Serve with the sauce for dipping. **Serves 4 to 6**\n\n### Herb-Crusted Rack of Lamb\n\n**_Rack of lamb is very easy to prepare and makes a great special-occasion dinner. Sear the lamb on the grid before applying Dijon mustard and any spices, to help seal in the flavor and give the lamb an appealing golden brown color._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 (1-pound) racks of lamb\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup packed fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced shallots\n\n  * \u00bc cup Dijon mustard\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the lamb with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the racks on the grid, fat side down, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer the lamb to a rimmed sheet pan and set aside.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Lower the temperature to 400\u00b0F.\n\nCombine the parsley, garlic, shallots, and the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in the bowl of a food processor. Blend for 15 seconds, then season with salt and pepper. Coat all sides of the lamb with the mustard. Press one-half of the herb mixture firmly onto the seared side of each rack of lamb.\n\nPlace the racks of lamb together on the Plate Setter, leaning the ribs into each other so that the bones are intertwined and the meat is standing up on end. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, or until the instant read thermometer registers 125\u00b0F for medium-rare.\n\nTransfer the lamb to a rimmed sheet pan and let the meat rest for 10 minutes before carving and serving. **Serves 4**\n\n### Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb\n\n**_Sometimes simple is just better. Thin slices of garlic and sprigs of rosemary are inserted into small slits that have been made all over the outside of the lamb. This infuses the rosemary and garlic flavors into the meat as it slow-roasts. Serve with the Grilled Vegetable Ratatouille (page 187) or slice the lamb thinly and use it to make sandwiches with the Pita Bread (page 215)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (5 to 6-pound) leg of lamb\n\n  * 5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced\n\n  * 20 (1-inch) pieces fresh rosemary\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a small paring knife, make 20 (1-inch) cuts evenly all over the lamb.\n\nStuff each hole with a slice of garlic and a piece of rosemary. Brush the lamb with the olive oil and season with salt and pepper.\n\nTransfer the lamb to the V-Rack and set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Put the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Roast for 2 to 2\u00bd hours, until the instant read thermometer registers 140\u00b0F. Remove the pan from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes.\n\nCarve the lamb, transfer to a platter, and serve immediately.\n\n**Serves 6 to 8**\n\n# _eggxtraordinary!_  \npork\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Chili-Spiced Pork Tenderloin with Caramelized Blackberry Sauce\n\n  * Asian Pork Loin\n\n  * Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Yam Puree\n\n  * Ham Steaks with Jalape\u00f1o & Cherry Cola Glaze\n\n  * Mojo Pork Ribs with Mango-Habanero Glaze\n\n  * Asian Pork Ribs\n\n  * Shredded Pork Sandwich with Fennel Slaw\n\n  * Carnitas\n\n  * Italian Sweet Sausage Subs\n\n  * Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce\n\n### Chili-Spiced Pork Tenderloin with Caramelized Blackberry Sauce\n\n**_The addition of a rich blackberry sauce makes this pork tenderloin sufficiently elegant to serve at a dinner party. Your family will no doubt lobby to have it served as a weeknight dinner so they can enjoy it more often. If you are not a fan of blackberries, or if they are not readily available, substitute peach or apricot preserves in the sauce._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 (1-pound) pork tenderloins, trimmed Olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chili powder\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup balsamic vinegar\n\n  * 1\u00bc cups blackberry preserves\n\n  * \u00bd cup chicken stock\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush each tenderloin with olive oil and season with the chili powder, salt, and pepper. Set aside.\n\nAdd the sugar to a small saucepan on the stovetop and cook over medium heat until the sugar is melted and caramelized. Add the vinegar, preserves, and chicken stock and whisk together. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes, or until the sauce is heated through and the flavors have combined. Remove the saucepan from the heat, add the butter, and stir well. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.\n\nPlace the pork on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 minutes on each side. Turning the meat occasionally, cook until the instant read thermometer registers 145\u00b0F or the desired doneness. Transfer the pork to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 5 minutes.\n\nSlice the pork and serve with the blackberry sauce.\n\n**Serves 6**\n\n### Asian Pork Loin\n\n**_Allspice, the berry of the evergreen pimento tree, and slices of garlic are inserted in slits in this pork loin to give it a piquant flavor, which is then complemented by a rich, creamy sauce that melds peanut butter, orange juice, and honey. It's a unique combination destined to have diners asking for a second helping\u2014and the recipe._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup honey\n\n  * \u00bd cup creamy peanut butter\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed orange juice\n\n  * 2 teaspoons chili garlic sauce\n\n  * 1 (3\u00bd to 4-pound) boneless pork loin\n\n  * 7 cloves garlic, sliced into thirds\n\n  * 20 allspice berries\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nWhisk the honey, peanut butter, orange juice, and chili garlic sauce in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Simmer over medium heat for 5 minutes, or until incorporated. Remove \u00be cup of the sauce for basting. Reserve the remaining sauce.\n\nPlace the pork loin on a cutting board and, using a small knife, make 10 (1-inch) slits down the length of the roast. Alternate putting a sliver of garlic and an allspice berry in each slit. Turn the roast over and repeat the process. Brush the loin with the olive oil and the peanut sauce. Place the roast on the V-Rack and put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Place the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Basting the pork every 15 minutes, cook for 1 hour, or until the instant read thermometer registers 140\u00b0 to 145\u00b0F for medium. Let the roast rest for 15 minutes.\n\nReheat the reserved sauce. Slice the roast and serve with the sauce. **Serves 6**\n\n### Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Yam Puree\n\n**_Pork tenderloin gets an added boost of flavor when sliced into thick medallions and rubbed with coffee and spices before grilling. Yams are baked in the EGG to bring out their wonderful caramelized flavor before being pureed with aged Gouda, heavy cream, and butter. A bed of yam puree topped with the pork medallions contrasts the sweet and savory, and a coffee sauce pulls all of the flavors together. The yam puree also makes a perfect side for Smoked Turkey (page 108)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 (1-pound) pork tenderloins\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 1 tablespoon ground coffee\n\n  * 1 tablespoon ancho chile powder\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n  * 1 cup peeled and chopped carrots\n\n  * 1 cup chopped yellow onions\n\n  * 1 tablespoon tomato paste\n\n  * 4 cups water\n\n  * 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, chopped\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 3 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 pounds yams\n\n  * 1 cup shredded aged Gouda cheese\n\n  * 2 tablespoons heavy cream\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCut 8 (4-ounce) slices from the center portion of the pork tenderloins, and reserve the ends and trimmings for another meal. To make the coffee rub, mix 2 tablespoons of the ground coffee, the chile powder, 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 teaspoon pepper in a small bowl and set aside.\n\nHeat the canola oil in a small saucepan on the stovetop and add the carrots, onions, and pork trimmings. Cook over medium-high heat for 8 to 10 minutes, until brown and caramelized. Add the tomato paste and cook for 2 more minutes. Deglaze the saucepan by adding the water, and use a wooden spoon to scrape all of the vegetables from the bottom of the pan. Add the remaining tablespoon of ground coffee and the thyme and simmer over low heat for 1 hour, or until reduced by half. Pour the sauce through a fine-mesh strainer into a small bowl. Using a whisk, add 2 tablespoons butter into the strained broth, stirring until blended. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.\n\nWrap the yams with aluminum foil and place on the outside edge of the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes.\n\nSeason the pork medallions with the coffee rub. After the yams have been cooking for 30 minutes, put the pork slices on the middle of the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the pork for 5 to 6 minutes on each side, until the instant read thermometer registers 145\u00b0F. Remove the yams and pork. Let the pork rest while you prepare the yams.\n\nPeel the yams and place in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Add the cheese, cream, and the remaining 3 tablespoons butter and season with salt. Puree until smooth.\n\nPlace \u00bd cup of the yams in the center of each plate and top with 2 medallions of pork. Top with the sauce and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Ham Steaks with Jalape\u00f1o & Cherry Cola Glaze\n\n**_Don't balk at the idea of using cherry cola in this sauce\u2014when combined with jalape\u00f1o peppers, it makes an incredible glaze. The cola's sweetness balances perfectly with the heat of the peppers. The seeds and veins of the jalape\u00f1o are what give food heat, so remove the seeds and the veins and use just the pepper if you want a more subtle taste. When handling hot peppers, it's a good idea to wear gloves and avoid touching your eyes until your hands are clean._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup cherry cola\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * 4 red jalape\u00f1os, seeded and chopped\n\n  * 1 green jalape\u00f1o, chopped with seeds\n\n  * 4 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n  * 4 tablespoons grenadine\n\n  * 4 (4-ounce) ham steaks\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * Freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the cherry cola, brown sugar, and jalape\u00f1os in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer for 10 minutes. Using a fork, mix the cornstarch with the grenadine and add to the saucepan. Whisk together and cook for 1 minute, or until thickened. Carefully pour the hot glaze into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and process for 30 seconds. Pour the glaze into a small bowl and set aside.\n\nBrush the ham steaks with the oil and season with pepper. Place the ham steaks on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 minutes, turn the steaks over, baste with the glaze, and continue cooking for 5 more minutes.\n\nTransfer the steaks to a platter and baste them with the glaze. Pour the rest of the glaze into a dish. Serve the ham steaks immediately with the glaze on the side. **Serves 4**\n\n### Mojo Pork Ribs with Mango-Habanero Glaze\n\n**_Ribs really benefit from long, slow cooking. However, for easier entertaining, these can be roasted a day ahead, then refrigerated. When ready to serve, simply brush with sauce and grill. These ribs are paired with a cool cucumber dipping sauce made by pureeing cucumbers and using the reserved strained liquid to make the sauce. Though the sauce contrasts nicely with the spicy ribs, the ribs are also delicious without the sauce._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups mango nectar\n\n  * 1 cup rice wine vinegar\n\n  * 1 habanero pepper\n\n  * 2 full racks baby back ribs\n\n  * \u00bd cup dry mojo seasoning\n\n  * **Dipping Sauce (optional)**\n\n  * 2 to 3 whole English cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and chopped\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes)\n\n  * 1/3 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 cup Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh cilantro\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan, porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nPour the mango nectar and vinegar into the Drip Pan and add the habanero pepper. Cut each rack of ribs in half between the bones and season liberally with the mojo seasoning. Add the ribs to the Drip Pan and cover tightly with aluminum foil. Place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2 hours, or until tender. Remove the Drip Pan from the EGG and set aside.\n\nTo make the dipping sauce, place the cucumber in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Process for about 2 minutes, or until the cucumbers have been completely pureed. Place a strainer over a small bowl and pour the pureed cucumbers into the strainer, reserving the liquid until you have 1\u00bd cups of cucumber liquid. Place the liquid in a small bowl and add the lime juice, sugar, and salt. Mix until the sugar has completely dissolved. Refrigerate until needed.\n\nAdd the grid to the EGG, and raise the temperature to 450\u00b0F. Remove the ribs from the Drip Pan and strain the juices from the pan into a bowl. Skim the fat from the top of the juices, add the barbecue sauce, and mix well.\n\nPlace the ribs on the grid. Brush the ribs with the barbecue sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 5 minutes. Turn the ribs, baste with more sauce, and cook with the lid closed for another 5 minutes, or until the sauce has caramelized. Remove and let cool for 5 minutes.\n\nRemove the cucumber sauce from the refrigerator, add the cilantro, and blend well. Pour the sauce into a small bowl. Place the ribs on a platter and serve with the cucumber sauce. **Serves 4**\n\n### Asian Pork Ribs\n\n**_These ribs are amazing! The Asian flair results from the use of distinctive five-spice powder with Asian Mop and Asian Barbecue Sauce. To ensure pit-barbecue tenderness, the ribs are cooked low and slow like traditional ribs. A dusting of toasted sesame seeds adds a finishing touch. Serve these with Veggie Noodle Stir-Fry (page 147) or Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice (page 148)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 full racks baby back pork ribs (8 pounds total)\n\n  * \u00bc cup five-spice powder\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup Asian Mop (page 195)\n\n  * 2 cups Asian Barbecue Sauce (page 195)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon white sesame seeds, toasted\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nSeason the ribs on all sides with the five-spice powder, salt, and pepper.\n\nPlace the ribs in the V-Rack and set the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 3 hours, basting with the mop every 30 minutes. At the end of 3 hours, brush with the sauce, and discard any remaining mop. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, brushing with sauce every 10 minutes. Remove the ribs from the EGG.\n\nCut the racks of ribs in half, baste the ribs with more sauce, sprinkle with the sesame seeds, and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Shredded Pork Sandwich with Fennel Slaw\n\n**_Despite its name, pork butt is cut from the upper shoulder of the front leg of the pig. Slow-roasted pork butt makes an incredible sandwich, but this sandwich goes one step further, enhanced by a topping of crisp fennel slaw. The slaw is so delicious that you may even want to make it as a side dish. It would be equally good with any grilled meat or even served on top of a hot dog!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Fennel Slaw**\n\n  * 1 cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bd cup sour cream\n\n  * \u00bc cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * \u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon celery seed\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 6 cups finely shredded green cabbage\n\n  * 1 cup finely shredded purple cabbage\n\n  * \u00be cup finely shredded carrots\n\n  * 2 cups shaved fennel\n\n  * 2 tablespoons fennel fronds\n\n  * 1 (4-pound) Boston pork butt\n\n  * \u00bd cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * 1 cup freshly squeezed orange juice (1 medium navel orange; reserve the peel)\n\n  * 1 cup Pernod\n\n  * 1 cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 8 kaiser rolls\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect heat with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the slaw, whisk the mayonnaise, sour cream, vinegar, sugar, and celery seed together in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Mix the cabbages, carrots, fennel, and fennel fronds in a large bowl. Pour the dressing over the slaw and toss until completely blended. Refrigerate until ready to use.\n\nSeason the pork all over with the rub and place in the baking dish. Put the orange juice, Pernod, vinegar, and orange peel in a small bowl and stir well. Pour the Pernod mixture over the pork.\n\nCover the baking dish tightly with aluminum foil. Place the dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 3 hours, or until the meat is tender.\n\nRemove the baking dish from the Plate Setter and let the pork cool slightly. Reserve the juices.\n\nTransfer the pork roast to a cutting board. Using two forks, shred the pork roast and place the meat in the baking dish with the reserved juices. Season with salt and pepper.\n\nTo assemble, place shredded pork on each bun and top with \u00bc cup of the slaw. Serve immediately. **Serves 8**\n\n\" _All the food that comes off the Big Green Egg is phenomenal. Whenever I'm cooking, the neighbors start coming over, and soon we end up with a party._ \" \u2014Paul, Michigan\n\n### Carnitas\n\n**_Carnitas are small bits of well-seasoned pork that are tenderized by simmering them in water before browning them until they are caramelized. This adds deep, bold flavor to the meat. You can use carnitas to make burritos or tacos or wrap them in flour tortillas and top them with cotija, a semisoft cheese often used in Mexican cooking._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (4-pound) pork butt (shoulder)\n\n  * \u00bd cup Tricolor Pepper Rub (page 197)\n\n  * 4 cups water\n\n  * 3 cloves garlic\n\n  * 3 cinnamon sticks\n\n  * 3 bay leaves\n\n  * **Accompaniments (optional)**\n\n  * Flour tortillas\n\n  * Salsa\n\n  * 1 cup diced yellow onions\n\n  * 1 cup crumbled cotija cheese\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nSeason the pork all over with the rub. Place the meat inside the Dutch Oven, and add the water, garlic, cinnamon sticks, and bay leaves.\n\nPlace the lid on the Dutch Oven, put the Dutch Oven on the grid, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1\u00bd hours. Remove the lid of the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for an additional 30 minutes, or until most of the liquid has evaporated and the meat is brown and caramelized. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes.\n\nCut the pork into large bite-size pieces. Add any remaining liquids to the pork and mix well. Serve with warm tortillas, salsa, onions, cheese, and cilantro.\n\n**Serves 6**\n\n### Italian Sweet Sausage Subs\n\n**_Traditional Italian sausages with peppers and onions are enhanced with a smoky flavor imparted by grilling over charcoal before topping with provolone cheese on a hoagie roll. But don't confine this tasty combination to sandwiches. Try tossing the grilled mixture with your favorite pasta and sprinkling liberally with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. For variety, experiment with different types of sausage._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 red bell pepper\n\n  * 1 green bell pepper\n\n  * 1 red onion\n\n  * 4 (6 to 7-ounce) sweet or hot Italian sausages\n\n  * 3 cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200)\n\n  * 4 sausage rolls (hoagies)\n\n  * 8 slices provolone cheese\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nCut off the ends of the bell peppers and remove the seeds. Using a small paring knife, cut from the top of one of the peppers to the bottom, on one side only, so that you are able to flatten the pepper into one long piece. Repeat for the other pepper. Slice the onion into \u00bd-inch-thick rounds.\n\nPlace the peppers, onion, and sausages on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 8 minutes, or until tender and brown. Transfer the peppers, onion, and sausages to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the peppers and onion on a cutting board and, with a knife, cut them into \u00bd-inch strips. Put the peppers, onion, and sausages in the Dutch Oven, add the sauce, and stir. Lower the temperature of the EGG to 350\u00b0F.\n\nPut the Dutch Oven on the Grid, uncovered, and close the lid of the EGG. Simmer for 20 to 30 minutes, until the mixture is heated through and the flavors are combined.\n\nRemove the Dutch Oven from the EGG and place 1 sausage in each roll. Top with peppers, onion, and sauce. Place 2 slices of provolone cheese on top of each sausage roll and transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the sheet pan on the Grid with the lid of the EGG closed for 1 minute, or until the cheese is melted.\n\nServe immediately with the remaining sauce on the side. **Serves 4**\n\n### Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce\n\n**_Poblano peppers, used in the sauce for these pork chops, are a mild chile pepper that originates in Mexico. These peppers impart subtle heat rather than make a bold statement. The dried version of poblano pepper, ancho chile pepper, is often ground and used as a spice. The stuffing is made from cornbread and sausage. This recipe could also be made using boneless, skinless chicken breasts in place of the pork chops._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Poblano Cream Sauce**\n\n  * 2 poblano peppers\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bd cup ham or chicken stock\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bc cup yellow cornmeal\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lime juice\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * 4 double-cut pork chops\n\n  * 1 tablespoon olive oil\n\n  * 4 tablespoons Red Chile Rub (page 197)\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed Southwestern Cornbread (page 217), or store-bought\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped smoked chorizo sausage\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * \u00bd cup ham or chicken stock\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Half Moon Baking Stone, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct and indirect cooking with the porcelain coated grid and Half Moon Baking Stone.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the poblano peppers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook, turning occasionally, for 3 to 5 minutes, until the peppers are black on all sides. Transfer the peppers to a resealable plastic bag. Seal the bag and let the peppers steam for 5 minutes. Remove the peppers from the bag and place on a cutting board. Using a paring knife, cut the peppers open lengthwise and remove and discard the seeds. Dice the peppers into small pieces. Combine the peppers, garlic, stock, and cream in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer for 15 minutes. Using a whisk, add the cornmeal and continue to cook for 7 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove the saucepan from the heat and add the lime juice and cilantro. Keep warm.\n\nUsing a paring knife, cut a 1\u00bd to 2-inch-long pocket along the meat side of each pork chop. Season each pork chop with olive oil and 1 tablespoon of the rub. Crumble the cornbread into a small bowl, add the chorizo, cilantro, and stock, and mix well. Divide the stuffing into quarters and place one-quarter of the stuffing inside the pocket of each pork chop.\n\nPlace the pork chops on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 minutes on each side. Transfer the pork chops to the Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 145\u00b0F or the desired doneness.\n\nTransfer the pork chops to a platter, top with the sauce, and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n# _eggxalted!_  \npoultry\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Beer-Brined Chicken\n\n  * Tandoori Chicken\n\n  * Lemon-Infused Cornish Game Hens\n\n  * Chicken & Spinach Salad\n\n  * Linguini with Grilled Chicken Breast & Asparagus\n\n  * Chicken & Vegetable Stir-Fry\n\n  * Smoked Turkey\n\n  * Turkey & Spinach Burgers with Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto\n\n  * Turkey & Wild Mushroom Pot Pie\n\n  * Roasted Turkey Breast with White Wine, Soy Sauce & Mushrooms\n\n### Beer-Brined Chicken\n\n**_Meats low in fat, such as poultry and pork, may be soaked in a salt solution, which seasons the meat all the way through and adds moisture so that the meat does not become dry during cooking. When brining, make sure that the meat is totally covered with the liquid and that you leave ample time for the process. Brining a whole chicken takes a minimum of twelve hours. This method produces a fall-off-the-bone moist, well-seasoned chicken. Water is the usual liquid in a brine, but in this recipe, lager beer is used instead to impart added flavor. Since the chicken is seasoned from the salt solution, you may omit the salt from the barbecue rub if you like._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 cups water\n\n  * 1 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup kosher salt\n\n  * 24 ounces lite lager beer\n\n  * 1 (5-pound) chicken\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n\n  * \u00bc cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, hickory chips, Vertical Roaster, 8-inch Drip Pan, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F with the Plate Setter removed.**\n\nCombine the water, sugar, salt, and beer in a large stock-pot. Stir to dissolve the sugar and salt. Add the chicken to the brine, place the lid on the pot, and refrigerate for 12 hours or overnight.\n\nPlace 1 cup of hickory chips in a medium bowl, cover with water, and soak for 1 hour. Spread the hickory chips over the coals, and place the Plate Setter in the EGG.\n\nRemove the chicken from the brine, rinse thoroughly, and pat dry with a paper towel. Discard the brining liquid. Brush the chicken with the olive oil and season with the rub. Place the chicken upright on the Vertical Roaster. Place the Drip Pan on top of the Plate Setter, then place the chicken, on the Vertical Roaster, in the Drip Pan, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1 to 1\u00bd hours, until the instant read thermometer registers 165\u00b0F.\n\nRemove the chicken from the EGG and let the chicken rest for 10 to 15 minutes. Carve and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n\" _The Big Green Egg is the stand-alone champion of smokers. Metal smoker users just don't realize what they're missing!_ \" \u2014Michael, Kansas\n\n### Tandoori Chicken\n\n**_A tandoor is the traditional oven used to cook this typical Indian dish. The tandoor can be charcoal burning or wood burning and can reach almost 500\u00b0F. This is where the EGG really shines; with its ability to reach high temperatures, it can reproduce any tandoori dish. Garam masala, a traditional Indian spice blend, is combined with yogurt to marinate the tandoori chicken. Pair it with Naan Bread (page 217) for a perfect Indian meal._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup plain yogurt\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lime juice (4 to 5 limes)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * 3 cloves garlic, crushed\n\n  * 2 teaspoons garam masala\n\n  * 2 teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon red curry paste\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * 1 red chile pepper (such as cayenne chile pepper, also known as finger chile)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons peanut oil\n\n  * 1 (4 to 5-pound) chicken, quartered\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, porcelain coated grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up, and the porcelain coated grid on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, combine the yogurt, lime juice, cilantro, garlic, garam masala, salt, curry paste, cumin, chile pepper, and peanut oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and process for 30 seconds. Place the chicken in a sealable plastic bag, add the marinade, and toss to coat. Close the bag tightly and refrigerate for 24 hours.\n\nRemove the chicken from the plastic bag and discard the marinade. Place the chicken, skin side up, on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 30 minutes, or until the instant read thermometer reaches 165\u00b0F.\n\nTransfer the chicken to a platter and serve immediately.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Lemon-Infused Cornish Game Hens\n\n**_Cornish game hens are full-grown small chickens. They tend to have less meat than a chicken, so if you are serving big eaters, count on using a whole Cornish game hen per person. Try Honey-Roasted Acorn Squash (page 162) as a side._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 large lemons\n\n  * 1/3 cup chopped fresh rosemary\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped garlic\n\n  * 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 (1\u00bc-pound) Cornish game hens\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nZest the lemons and measure 1/3 cup. Juice the lemons and measure 6 tablespoons. Reserve the lemons. Combine the lemon zest, lemon juice, rosemary, garlic, olive oil, 1 tablespoon salt, and 1 teaspoon pepper in a medium bowl and mix well. Cut the Cornish game hens in half lengthwise. Place the hens in a resealable plastic bag and add the marinade, reserving \u00bd cup of the marinade for basting. Marinate in the refrigerator for 12 hours.\n\nRemove the Cornish game hens from the plastic bag, discard the marinade, and season with salt and pepper. Place the hens on the preheated Grid, skin side down. Close the lid of the EGG and cook over low heat for 10 to 12 minutes, until the skin is golden brown. Turn the hens over and baste the skin with the reserved marinade. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for an additional 15 minutes, basting often with the marinade. Remove the hens from the EGG when the instant read thermometer registers 165\u00b0F.\n\nTransfer the Cornish game hens to a platter. Squeeze the remaining juice from the reserved lemons over the chicken and let the chicken rest for 5 minutes before serving. **Serves 4**\n\n_(See recipe photograph on page 96.)_\n\n### Chicken & Spinach Salad\n\n**_Warm bacon drippings do double duty in this classic spinach salad. Crunchy applewood-smoked bacon is crumbled in the salad, and the warm drippings are reserved and used to make the dressing. Not only does this add flavor, but it also slightly wilts the spinach! If you aren't a bacon fan, omit the bacon dressing and use your favorite salad dressing in its place._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 ounces baby spinach, rinsed and dried\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced red onion\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced small white mushrooms\n\n  * 2 cups 1-inch cubes French bread\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 4 to 5 slices applewood-smoked bacon\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced shallots\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 (6-ounce) boneless, skinless chicken breasts\n\n  * 4 large eggs, hard-boiled and peeled\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, perforated grill pan, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and perforated grill pan.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the spinach, onion, and mushrooms in a large bowl and set aside.\n\nTo make the croutons, in a medium bowl, toss the bread cubes with the melted butter to coat. Place the croutons on the grill pan and cook, turning constantly, until the bread is toasted on all sides. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan from the Grid, and transfer the croutons to a plate and let cool. Add the croutons to the salad.\n\nTo make the vinaigrette, cook the bacon in a small frying pan on the stovetop until crisp, then transfer the bacon to a plate lined with paper towels. Reserve the bacon fat in the frying pan. Dice the bacon and add to the salad. Reheat the bacon fat if necessary, then add the shallots and garlic and cook for 2 minutes. Add the vinegar, mustard, and sugar and stir well. Using a whisk, slowly add \u00bd cup of the olive oil and whisk to blend until emulsified. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.\n\nTo grill the chicken, lightly brush the chicken breasts with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the chicken on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 8 minutes per side or until the instant read thermometer registers 165\u00b0F. Allow the chicken to cool to warm or room temperature.\n\nTo assemble, pour the vinaigrette over the spinach salad, season with salt and pepper, and toss well. Divide the salad between individual plates.\n\nSlice the chicken breasts and arrange 1 breast on top of each salad. Quarter the eggs, and arrange 4 quarters on each plate. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Linguini with Grilled Chicken Breast & Asparagus\n\n**_This delicious pasta dish has it all: fresh vegetables, lots of flavor, and a delicious sauce. It would be equally good with Maple-Smoked Salmon (page 280) or grilled shrimp in place of chicken. You can also replace the linguini with any pasta you choose. For a complete meal, all you need is a salad and dessert. Try the Grilled Caesar Salad (page 171) and the Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing (page 259). Note that this recipe calls for artichoke hearts rather than bottoms._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 (6-ounce) boneless, skinless chicken breasts\n\n  * 1 pound asparagus\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1 (15-ounce) can artichoke hearts, drained and quartered\n\n  * 1 cup dry white wine\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 pound linguini, cooked al dente\n\n  * 1 cup dry-packed sun-dried tomatoes\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * 3 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, rolled and thinly sliced\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the chicken and asparagus with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and set the asparagus aside. Place the chicken on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 7 to 8 minutes, turn, and continue cooking for 8 minutes, or until the juices run clear. Transfer to a plate and keep warm. Place the asparagus on the Grid and cook for 2 minutes, turning to cook on all sides. Remove from the Grid and chop into \u00bd-inch pieces. Set aside.\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the Grid and allow to preheat for 10 minutes. Add the remaining \u00bc cup olive oil, the garlic, and artichokes and saut\u00e9 for 1 minute. Carefully pour the wine into the Dutch Oven while scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Cook for 3 minutes, or until the wine is reduced by half. Add the chicken stock. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 10 minutes, or until the sauce is reduced by half. Add the cream. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 4 minutes, or until the sauce is slightly thickened. Add the pasta and cook for 1 minute while gently tossing.\n\nRemove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Add the tomatoes, cheese, butter, asparagus, lemon juice, and basil. Season with salt and pepper. Slice the chicken breasts. Transfer the pasta to individual bowls and top each serving with a sliced chicken breast. **Serves 4**\n\n### Chicken & Vegetable Stir-Fry\n\n**_Stir-frying is a fast, easy, and healthful way to cook and shows just how versatile the EGG can be. Though chicken is used here, you can easily make this dish with just about any meat or vegetable that you have on hand. Just remember that to ensure even cooking, try to cut all of your vegetables about the same size. The Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice (page 148) is a great side to serve with this dish._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons plus 1\u00bd teaspoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons plus 1\u00bd teaspoons minced fresh ginger\n\n  * 2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed\n\n  * \u00bd cup rice wine\n\n  * \u00bd cup light soy sauce\n\n  * \u00bd cup chicken stock\n\n  * \u00bc cup hoisin sauce\n\n  * 2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons cornstarch\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chili garlic sauce (optional)\n\n  * \u00bd cup canola oil\n\n  * 4 cups broccoli florets\n\n  * 1 cup broccoli stems, trimmed and julienned\n\n  * 1 cup julienned carrots\n\n  * 1 cup drained water chestnuts, diced\n\n  * 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven or a wok**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the sesame oil, 1\u00bd teaspoons of the garlic, and 1\u00bd teaspoons of the ginger in a small bowl, add the chicken, and toss to coat. Let the chicken marinate for 30 minutes.\n\nTo make the sauce, mix the remaining 1\u00bd teaspoons garlic, 1\u00bd teaspoons ginger, rice wine, soy sauce, chicken stock, hoisin sauce, rice wine vinegar, sugar, cornstarch, and chili garlic sauce in a small bowl. Set aside.\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nPlace the canola oil and chicken in the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 to 6 minutes, until seared on all sides. Add the broccoli florets and stems, carrots, and water chestnuts and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring well. Add the sauce and continue to cook until the sauce has thickened. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG.\n\nTransfer the stir-fry to a bowl and garnish with the sesame seeds. **Serves 6**\n\n### Smoked Turkey\n\n**_Once you try this brined turkey, you'll agree that nothing does a better job of smoking meats than the EGG. The turkey has a subtle smoky flavor and is moist and succulent, but if you prefer a bolder smoky flavor, add more chips in increments during cooking. This turkey would be great for holidays, and you can use the leftovers to make wonderful sandwiches or Turkey & Wild Mushroom Pot Pie (page 111)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 16 cups (1 gallon) water\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * Rind of 1 navel orange\n\n  * 3 sprigs rosemary\n\n  * 1 cup kosher salt\n\n  * 3 yellow onions, quartered\n\n  * 2 heads garlic, halved\n\n  * 1 (12-pound) turkey\n\n  * 2 lemons, quartered\n\n  * 10 sprigs thyme\n\n  * 10 sprigs sage\n\n  * 1 cup chopped potatoes\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n\n  * Freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * Garlic powder\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, hickory chips, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F without the Plate Setter.**\n\nPour the water into a large bowl. Add the brown sugar, orange rind, rosemary, salt, two-thirds of the quartered onions, and 1 halved garlic head. Mix until the sugar and salt dissolve. Remove the giblets from inside the turkey and reserve for another use. Rinse the turkey well. Place the turkey in a 2\u00bd-gallon resealable plastic bag or any container that is large enough to hold the turkey and the liquid. Pour the brine over the turkey, making sure it's completely covered. Refrigerate for 12 hours, turning occasionally.\n\nSoak 4 cups of hickory chips in water in a medium bowl for 1 hour.\n\nRemove the turkey from the brine, rinse well to remove the brining liquid, and pat dry with paper towels. Discard the brining liquid and solids. Stuff the turkey with the lemon quarters, the remaining halved garlic head and onion, thyme, sage, and potatoes. Brush the turkey with olive oil and season with pepper and garlic powder.\n\nScatter 1 cup of the hickory chips over the hot coals and, using barbecue mitts, place the Plate Setter, legs up, in the EGG. Place the turkey on the V-Rack and put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2\u00bd hours, adding more chips every 30 minutes. If the turkey starts to brown too quickly, carefully tent the turkey with aluminum foil. Continue cooking until the instant read thermometer registers 165\u00b0F.\n\nRemove the turkey from the EGG and let rest for 15 to 20 minutes. Carve and serve immediately. **Serves 8**\n\n### Turkey & Spinach Burgers with Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto\n\n**_This might be one of the best turkey burgers you will ever eat! This is a bold statement, but if you usually eat beef burgers, this good-for-you burger just might change your mind. Though it might take a little more effort, be sure to make the Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto, as it adds a huge amount of flavor._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 10 ounces spinach\n\n  * 1\u00bd pounds white and dark ground turkey\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * 2 tablespoons whole-grain mustard\n\n  * 4 slices Swiss cheese\n\n  * 4 whole wheat hamburger buns\n\n  * 1 cup Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto (page 200)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nRinse the spinach in a large bowl of water, then lift it from the water and place in a saucepan with some of the water still clinging to the leaves. Cook the spinach in the saucepan on the stovetop until wilted. Mix the turkey, spinach, garlic, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Form the turkey into 4 (6-ounce) patties and set aside. Blend the mayonnaise and mustard in a small bowl. Set aside.\n\nPlace the turkey burgers on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 5 minutes, turn the burgers over, close the lid, and cook for 4 minutes more. Add 1 slice of the cheese to each burger. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 1 more minute, or until the cheese is melted.\n\nTransfer the burgers to a platter and let them rest. Spread the cut sides of the buns with 1 tablespoon of pesto and place them on the Grid, pesto side down. Grill until the buns are toasted, about 20 seconds.\n\nTo assemble, brush 1\u00bd teaspoons of pesto and 1 teaspoon of the mayonnaise mixture on the toasted sides of all the buns and place the burgers on the buns. Serve immediately, with the remaining pesto and mayonnaise mixture on the side. **Serves 4**\n\n### Turkey & Wild Mushroom Pot Pie\n\n**_There is nothing better than a pot pie on a cold winter's night. Loaded with juicy, tender pieces of roasted turkey breast and wild mushrooms, this pie is the ultimate comfort food. You could also use meat from the smoked turkey recipe (page 108) to make this pie._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 \u00bd cups mixed dried wild mushrooms\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * 1 cup diced onions\n\n  * 1 cup diced carrots\n\n  * 1 cup diced celery\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1/3 cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u00bc cup white wine\n\n  * 3 cups low-sodium chicken stock\n\n  * 1 cup diced potatoes\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme\n\n  * 1 cup frozen green peas\n\n  * 2 cups chopped roasted turkey breast (page 112)\n\n  * 1 (9-inch) deep-dish pie shell and 1 pie dough disk (page 223)\n\n  * 1 large egg\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9-inch pie plate**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 375\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nCover the mushrooms with hot water and let rehydrate until needed. Heat the butter and olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions, carrots, and celery. Close the lid of the EGG and cook uncovered for 5 to 6 minutes, until the vegetables are light brown and softened. Add the garlic and stir for 1 minute, then add the flour and stir. Add the wine and cook for 3 minutes. Drain the mushrooms, reserving the liquid. Add the chicken stock and the reserved mushroom liquid to the Dutch Oven and stir well. Add the potatoes. Close the lid of the EGG and continue cooking, covered, for 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are cooked through. Add the reserved mushrooms, thyme, peas, and turkey, stir, and cook for 2 to 3 more minutes. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat and let cool for 15 minutes.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Replace the grid and preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.\n\nSpoon the filling into the pie shell. Roll out the pie dough disk on a lightly floured surface until it is large enough to cover the top of the pie. Unroll the pie dough onto the pie. Press the top and bottom edges of the dough together and crimp. Using a knife, cut four small slits on the top of the crust. Beat the egg with the water and brush the top with the egg wash.\n\nPlace the pie on top of the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 30 to 40 minutes, until the dough is light brown and the filling is hot and bubbling. Let rest for 5 minutes before serving. **Serves 4 to 6**\n\n### Roasted Turkey Breast with White Wine, Soy Sauce & Mushrooms\n\n**_Turkey breast is ideal for a small Thanksgiving gathering. This turkey is easy to prepare, and by adding the mushrooms to the Drip Pan, a rich, dark gravy is created as the turkey roasts. All you need is the Grilled Squash Casserole (page 163) and Chocolate Pecan Bourbon Pie (page 252), and you are set for Thanksgiving! You could also prepare this recipe using a whole turkey; just remember to baste the turkey often, as it helps make the meat juicier._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 ounces mixed dried mushrooms\n\n  * 1 (8-pound) turkey breast\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 8 tablespoons plus 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 teaspoons sweet paprika\n\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup dry white wine\n\n  * \u00bd cup soy sauce\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary\n\n  * 4 cups water\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan lined with aluminum foil, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with Plate Setter, legs up.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nIn a small bowl, cover the mushrooms with hot water and let rehydrate until needed.\n\nCoat the turkey breast with the olive oil. Carefully lift the skin of the breast and separate it from the meat. Thinly slice 8 tablespoons of the butter. Gently lift the skin and place the butter slices under the skin, making sure to place the butter evenly over the whole breast. Mix the paprika, garlic powder, thyme, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Sprinkle the seasoning evenly over the turkey breast. Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Add the wine, soy sauce, and rosemary and mix well.\n\nPlace the turkey breast on the V-Rack, put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan, and place the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter. Add the water, mushrooms, and mushroom liquid to the Drip Pan. Using a basting brush, coat the turkey with the butter mixture and close the lid of the EGG. Basting every 10 to 15 minutes, roast the turkey for 2\u00bd to 3 hours, until the instant read thermometer registers 165\u00b0F. Remove the turkey from the EGG and transfer to a carving board. Reserve the pan gravy.\n\nLet the turkey rest for 15 minutes. Reheat the pan gravy. Slice the turkey and serve immediately with the gravy.\n\n**Serves 8**\n\n# _eggsquisite!_  \nseafood\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Cedar-Planked Salmon with Honey Glaze\n\n  * Grilled Salmon on Toasted Croissant with Havarti & Avocado Relish\n\n  * Grilled Tuna with Salsa Verde\n\n  * Smoked Halibut with Sake Sauce\n\n  * Thai Sea Bass in Banana Leaves\n\n  * Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary\n\n  * Cioppino\n\n  * Cedar-Wrapped Scallops with Orange Beurre Blanc\n\n  * Glazed Lobster Salad with Hearts of Palm & Grapefruit\n\n  * Grilled Whole Lobster\n\n  * Greek Shrimp & Orzo Salad\n\n  * Grilled Oysters with Pink Peppercorn Mignonette\n\n### Cedar-Planked Salmon with Honey Glaze\n\n**_Grilling on a cedar plank infuses the salmon with a woodsy, smoky flavor while keeping the fish moist. The flavor is boosted by basting the fish with a honey glaze enlivened with citrus. Serve this right on the plank for a rustic presentation._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup Dijon mustard\n\n  * \u00bc cup honey\n\n  * 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar\n\n  * 2 teaspoons grated orange zest\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme plus extra for garnish\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 4 (7-ounce) salmon fillets, skin on\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 2 cedar planks**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the cedar planks in a pan, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour.\n\nWhisk the mustard, honey, balsamic vinegar, orange zest, and 1 teaspoon thyme together in a small bowl.\n\nPlace the cedar planks on the grid, close the lid of the EGG, and preheat for 3 minutes. Open the lid and turn the planks over, brush them with the olive oil, and place 2 salmon fillets on each plank. Season the salmon with salt and pepper and brush generously with the honey glaze. Close the lid of the EGG. Cook the salmon for 12 to 15 minutes for medium.\n\nRemove from the heat, garnish with thyme, and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Grilled Salmon on Toasted Croissant with Havarti & Avocado Relish\n\n**_Grilled salmon sandwiches are perfect for breakfast, brunch, or lunch. Though it may seem that these have a lot of flavors going on, when combined they meld into one perfect, tasty sandwich!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 large Hass avocado, halved, peeled, pitted, and chopped\n\n  * \u00bd cup diced Roma tomatoes\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped dill\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 large croissants\n\n  * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 4 (3-ounce) salmon fillets\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon Old Bay seasoning\n\n  * 4 large eggs\n\n  * 4 slices Havarti cheese\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Half Moon Griddle**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and the Half Moon Griddle.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the avocado relish, use a fork to lightly mash the avocado in a small bowl. Add the tomatoes, dill, lemon juice, \u00bc teaspoon salt, and 1/3 teaspoon pepper and toss. Set aside.\n\nCut the croissants in half lengthwise, brush with 2 tablespoons of the butter, and place, cut side down, on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and toast lightly. Transfer the croissants to a platter and set aside.\n\nBrush the salmon fillets with 2 tablespoons of the butter. Season each fillet with Old Bay seasoning, salt, and pepper. Place the salmon on the exposed Grid. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons butter to the Griddle and crack the eggs into the butter. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the salmon and eggs for 3 minutes, turn both the salmon and the eggs over, and continue cooking for 2 more minutes. The interior of the fish should be opaque. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan.\n\nTo assemble, place a piece of salmon on the bottom half of a toasted croissant and top the salmon with an egg and a slice of cheese. Repeat this process for the remaining croissants. Return the croissants to the Grid, close the lid of the EGG, and let the cheese melt for 30 seconds. Spread 2 tablespoons of relish on top of each sandwich. Place the top of the croissant on the sandwich and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Grilled Tuna with Salsa Verde\n\n**_Grilled tuna, salsa verde, and pureed navy beans are combined in this wonderful rustic dish. Salsa verde, also known as green sauce, is a provincial Italian condiment made with green herbs\u2014parsley, basil, and oregano\u2014which give the sauce its bright green color. The dish is bumped up a notch by setting the tuna on a bed of navy bean puree. Navy beans are small white beans that are often used to make commercial baked beans. If you can't find navy beans, use Great Northern beans as a substitute._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Salsa Verde**\n\n  * 2 cloves garlic\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed fresh oregano leaves\n\n  * 2 tablespoons capers\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 (8-ounce) tuna steaks\n\n  * 2 (15-ounce) cans navy beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * 2 cloves garlic, minced\n\n  * \u00bd cup cream\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the salsa, place the garlic, basil, parsley, oregano, capers, mustard, and olive oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 30 seconds. Season with salt and black pepper and set aside.\n\nPlace the tuna in a resealable plastic bag. Pour one-half of the salsa over the tuna, seal the bag, and marinate for 30 minutes. Reserve the remaining salsa. Place the beans, garlic, and cream in a small saucepan on the stovetop and simmer over low heat for 15 minutes. Pour the beans into the bowl of a food processor, add the butter, and pulse until the beans are pureed and smooth. Season with salt and white pepper and set aside.\n\nRemove the tuna from the plastic bag and discard the marinade. Season the tuna with salt and white pepper and place on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes per side for medium-rare. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the tuna to a rimmed sheet pan.\n\nPlace a large spoonful of puree in the center of each plate, place a tuna steak on top, and serve with a drizzle of the reserved salsa. Pass the remaining salsa at the table. **Serves 4**\n\n### Smoked Halibut with Sake Sauce\n\n**_Alder planks are used to give this halibut its unique smoky flavor. The fish is topped with a shiitake mushroom and sake sauce. Sake is a Japanese alcoholic beverage made from rice. Often referred to as rice wine, it is actually a beer, since it is made from grain rather than fruit. This recipe can also be prepared using grilled halibut rather than smoked. Just place the halibut right on the cooking grid to grill and, when done, serve with the sake sauce._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 teaspoon toasted or cold-pressed sesame oil\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon white sesame seeds\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon black sesame seeds\n\n  * **Sake Sauce**\n\n  * 3 cups thinly sliced shiitake mushrooms\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 cup sake\n\n  * \u00bd cup soy sauce\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 jalape\u00f1o, seeded and chopped\n\n  * 2 tablespoons honey\n\n  * 1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar\n\n  * 1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 4 (7-ounce) halibut fillets\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup thinly sliced scallions\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 2 alder planks**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the alder planks in a pan, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour.\n\nMix the sesame oil and white and black sesame seeds in a small bowl and set aside.\n\nTo make the sake sauce, mix the mushrooms, chicken stock, sake, soy sauce, ginger, garlic, and jalape\u00f1o in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Cover and simmer over low heat for 15 minutes, or until the sauce is hot and the flavors have combined. Add the honey and rice wine vinegar, stir, cover, and simmer over low heat for 15 minutes more. Place the cornstarch in a small bowl, add the water, and stir to dissolve. Using a whisk, add the cornstarch to the sauce, stirring constantly until the sauce has thickened. Remove the sauce from the heat and set aside.\n\nBrush 1 side of the alder planks with olive oil and place 2 halibut fillets on the oiled side of each plank. Brush the halibut with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the planks on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 7 to 8 minutes, until the interior of the fish is opaque. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the halibut to a plate.\n\nSpoon the sake sauce over the halibut and sprinkle with the sesame seed mixture. Top with the scallions and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Thai Sea Bass in Banana Leaves\n\n**_Banana leaves are often used in Thai cooking to wrap around fish, much as Americans use aluminum foil. The leaves add subtle flavor to whatever food they surround. Banana leaves are not only useful for cooking; they also make a unique presentation. If you cannot find these leaves fresh in your local grocery or specialty food store, they are often sold frozen, or you can order them online. If you find yourself with extra leaves, just wrap them with plastic wrap, place them in a tightly sealed plastic freezer bag, and store them in the freezer._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (15-ounce) can coconut milk\n\n  * 1 teaspoon red curry paste\n\n  * \u00bd cup chicken stock\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed chopped fresh mint\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated fresh ginger\n\n  * \u00bc cup crushed garlic\n\n  * 1 thinly sliced red jalape\u00f1o or serrano pepper\n\n  * 4 banana leaves (about 12 inches square)\n\n  * 4 (6 to 7-ounce) sea bass fillets\n\n  * 1 lime, cut into 8 thin slices\n\n  * 2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the sauce, combine the coconut milk, curry paste, and chicken stock in a small saucepan. Simmer on the stovetop over medium heat for 10 minutes, then keep warm.\n\nCombine the basil, mint, cilantro, ginger, garlic, and jalape\u00f1o in a medium bowl and mix well. Lay the banana leaves out flat. Place 3 to 4 tablespoons of the herb mixture on the center of each leaf. Put a piece of fish on top of each mound of herbs, and top with 2 lime slices and \u00bd teaspoon of canola oil. Season with salt and pepper. For each packet, fold the sides of the leaf inward, fold the top and bottom over, tuck the ends under, and secure the leaf with butcher's twine.\n\nBrush the leaves with the remaining canola oil and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 7 to 8 minutes per side, until the interior of the fish is opaque (unwrap a package and insert a knife into the fish). Transfer the fish to individual plates, remove the twine, open the top, and spoon the sauce over the fish. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary\n\n**_Here is an uncomplicated recipe that is very healthful, looks beautiful, and tastes terrific. The fish you purchase should be fresh, as indicated by eyes that are crystal clear rather than milky. If your local fish market does not carry whole snapper, you can ask to order it. For extra flavor and an unusual presentation, after grilling the fish on the first side, turn the fish over and place thin slices of lemon over the entire body of the fish, much like scales, then place the whole fish on the grill pan and continue cooking._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (4 to 5-pound) whole snapper, cleaned and scales removed\n\n  * 10 cloves garlic, thinly sliced\n\n  * 1 lemon, thinly sliced\n\n  * 10 sprigs rosemary, leaves only\n\n  * \u00bc cup plus \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons water\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nRinse the fish under cold water and pat dry with paper towels.\n\nMake 3 to 4 slits vertically down to the bone on both sides of the fish. Place garlic slices, lemon slices, and a pinch of rosemary inside each slit. Drizzle the fish with \u00bc cup of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place any remaining garlic slices, lemon slices, and rosemary leaves inside the cavity of the fish.\n\nPlace the fish on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 10 minutes per side. Transfer the fish to the grill pan. Close the lid and continue cooking for 30 minutes, or until the fish is opaque. Transfer the fish to a platter.\n\nUsing a whisk, mix the remaining \u00bc cup olive oil, the lemon juice, and water in a small bowl. Pour the sauce over the grilled fish and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Cioppino\n\n**_Cioppino is an Italian-inspired fish stew usually made from leftover chopped fish. It was thought to have originated in San Francisco, where it was prepared on fishing boats by Italian immigrants. This very forgiving stew will work well with any fresh fish or seafood that you want to include._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 8 ounces red snapper, cut into 2-inch cubes\n\n  * 6 ounces halibut, cut into 2-inch cubes\n\n  * 12 sea scallops\n\n  * 1 cup diced yellow onions\n\n  * 1 thinly sliced fennel bulb, fronds reserved\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 cups white wine\n\n  * 1 cup water\n\n  * 1 cup Pernod\n\n  * 1 cup clam juice\n\n  * 1 (28-ounce) can crushed San Marzano tomatoes\n\n  * 1 pinch saffron\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed fresh tarragon leaves\n\n  * 12 clams, scrubbed\n\n  * 12 mussels, scrubbed and beards removed\n\n  * 12 large shrimp, peeled and deveined\n\n  * 4 ounces calamari, cut into rings\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed torn fresh basil leaves\n\n  * 6 (1-inch-thick) slices ciabatta bread, grilled\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nPour the olive oil into the Dutch Oven. Add the snapper and halibut. Close the lid of the EGG and sear for 2 minutes. Turn the fish over, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for 2 more minutes. Transfer the fish to a plate and set aside. Add the scallops to the Dutch Oven and sear for 30 seconds. Turn the scallops over and cook for another 30 seconds. Transfer the scallops to the plate with the fish and cover with plastic wrap. Refrigerate until needed.\n\nAdd the onions, fennel, and garlic to the Dutch Oven and saut\u00e9 for 1 minute. Carefully add the wine, water, Pernod, clam juice, tomatoes, saffron, and tarragon and mix well. Close the lid of the EGG and simmer uncovered for 20 minutes. Add the clams, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 3 minutes. Add the mussels and shrimp, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 3 minutes. Add the reserved fish and scallops and the calamari and basil. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 2 minutes. Place the bread slices on the Grid, around the Dutch Oven, and toast for 30 seconds per side. Remove the Dutch Oven and transfer the bread to a rimmed sheet pan.\n\nTo assemble, place a piece of the toasted bread in the bottom of each bowl, spoon the stew over the bread, sprinkle with the fennel fronds, and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Cedar-Wrapped Scallops with Orange Beurre Blanc\n\n**_The slightly sweet and creamy sea scallop is the largest of all the scallops. These are wrapped in cedar grilling papers, then placed on the grid. The papers not only impart a woodsy taste but also make for a beautiful presentation. These scallops are served with an orange beurre blanc sauce, a classic white butter sauce infused with orange zest. They could be served as an appetizer or for a main course._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Orange Beurre Blanc**\n\n  * 1 to 1\u00bd teaspoons orange zest\n\n  * 1/3 cup sliced shallots\n\n  * 5 sprigs thyme\n\n  * 1 bay leaf\n\n  * 5 black peppercorns\n\n  * 1 cup white wine\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 pounds jumbo sea scallops (about 20)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, cedar grilling papers**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the cedar papers in a bowl, cover with water, and soak for 10 minutes.\n\nTo make the sauce, place the orange zest, shallots, thyme, bay leaf, peppercorns, and wine in a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Simmer for 10 minutes, or until most of the wine has evaporated. Add the cream and simmer for 5 to 7 minutes, until thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk the butter into the sauce a little at a time. Add the sugar, season with salt and pepper, and mix well. Strain the sauce into a small bowl and keep in a warm place until ready to serve.\n\nBrush the scallops with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper on both sides. Place 3 scallops in the center of each cedar paper. Wrap the paper around the scallops and secure the paper in place using butcher's twine. Brush the outside of the cedar wraps with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil.\n\nPlace the scallop wraps on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 minutes on each side, then open a wrap and slide a small knife into a scallop to check the interior.\n\nTransfer the wraps to individual plates. Serve immediately with the sauce on the side. **Serves 4**\n\n### Glazed Lobster Salad with Hearts of Palm & Grapefruit\n\n**_This lobster salad makes a great luncheon salad. It can also be made using Grilled Whole Lobster (page 129) instead of just tails. For a complete meal, serve this with an Apple-Walnut Crostata (page 255) for dessert._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Pink Brandy Sauce**\n\n  * \u00bd cup sour cream\n\n  * \u00bc cup mayonnaise\n\n  * 3 tablespoons ketchup\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons brandy\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon dry mustard\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Vinaigrette**\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed or bottled grapefruit juice\n\n  * 2 tablespoons champagne vinegar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup canola oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (14-ounce) can hearts of palm\n\n  * \u00bd cup julienned red bell pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup julienned orange bell pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup julienned yellow bell pepper\n\n  * 1 cup julienned English cucumber\n\n  * 2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced\n\n  * 2 ruby red grapefruit, peeled and segmented\n\n  * 4 (4-ounce) lobster tails\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Old Bay seasoning\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon\n\n  * 4 butter lettuce leaves\n\n  * 1 tablespoon thinly sliced fresh chives\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the sauce, mix the sour cream, mayonnaise, ketchup, lemon juice, brandy, and mustard in a small bowl and season with salt and pepper. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to serve.\n\nTo make the vinaigrette, combine the grapefruit juice, vinegar, sugar, and oil in a small bowl, mix well, and season with salt and pepper. Refrigerate until ready to serve.\n\nPlace the hearts of palm on the grid and grill, turning constantly, for 1 to 2 minutes. Using tongs, transfer them to a cutting board and slice diagonally. In a bowl, mix the hearts of palm, peppers, cucumber, shallots, and grapefruit.\n\nBrush the lobster with the olive oil and season with Old Bay seasoning and salt and pepper. Place the lobster tails on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for about 4 minutes on each side.\n\nUsing kitchen scissors, cut along the underside of the tail from end to end, removing the underside of the shell but leaving the back of the shell and the bottom tail fan intact.\n\nTo assemble, whisk the tarragon into the vinaigrette, pour over the salad, and toss to coat. Place 2 tablespoons of the sauce in the center of each plate. Put a lettuce leaf on the sauce and \u00be cup of the salad inside the lettuce leaf. Top each salad with a lobster tail, garnish with chives, and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n_(See recipe photograph on page 114.)_\n\n### Grilled Whole Lobster\n\n**_Fresh lobster does not need a lot of ingredients to enhance its flavor. The meat is firm and sweet and is usually served with melted butter. Whole lobsters must be purchased live. It is difficult to find a more elegant dish than grilled lobster for a special-occasion luncheon or dinner._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter\n\n  * 4 (1 \u00bd-pound) live lobsters\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 lemon, cut into 8 wedges\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo clarify the butter, melt it in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Skim the foam from the top with a spoon. Pour the melted butter into a glass measuring cup and refrigerate until it becomes solid. Poke a hole through the butter to the bottom of the cup with a knife; this will release the milk solids underneath. Pour the milk solids out and discard; the remaining butter is clarified. Melt the clarified butter.\n\nWearing heavy gloves, place one of the lobsters on a cutting board and hold the lobster firmly with the head toward you. Insert the tip of a sharp knife into the center of the head and quickly bring the knife down to the board. Split the front of the lobster in half, then split the tail of the lobster in half, lengthwise, leaving some of the shell unsplit in the center of the body. Repeat for the other lobsters.\n\nBrush the inside of the lobsters with the clarified butter and season with salt and pepper. Place the lobster on the grid, meat side up, and pour \u00bc cup of the cream into the cavities and over the meat. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 8 to 10 minutes, brushing the lobster with the remaining cream every 2 minutes.\n\nTransfer the lobsters to a platter and serve with the remaining clarified butter and lemon wedges. **Serves 4**\n\n### Greek Shrimp & Orzo Salad\n\n**_Orzo is a type of pasta the size and shape of a grain of rice. It is used throughout the Middle East and the Mediterranean and is particularly popular in Greece. This orzo salad is loaded with other ingredients that are commonly used throughout Mediterranean countries\u2014artichokes, garbanzo beans, mint, dill, and kalamata olives. Removing the pits from kalamata olives is easy. Just set the olive on a cutting board and hit it with the flat side of a large knife. The pit can then be easily separated. The salad will be most delicious if the shrimp are cooked just before needed: Chilling shrimp permanently hardens them._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined\n\n  * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups whole wheat orzo, cooked according to package directions\n\n  * 1 cup peeled and diced English cucumber\n\n  * 1 cup halved grape tomatoes\n\n  * 1 cup drained canned garbanzo beans\n\n  * 1 cup drained, chopped canned artichoke hearts\n\n  * 1 cup pitted and chopped kalamata olives\n\n  * 1 cup crumbled feta cheese\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced red onion\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * \u00bc cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * \u00bd cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 6 bamboo or metal skewers**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nIf using bamboo skewers, place the skewers in a pan, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour.\n\nPlace the shrimp on the skewers. Brush them with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the skewers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes on each side. Transfer the skewers to a rimmed sheet pan. Remove the shrimp from the skewers and place them in a large bowl. Add the orzo, cucumber, tomatoes, garbanzo beans, artichoke hearts, olives, cheese, onion, dill, and mint to the bowl and toss to blend.\n\nCombine the lemon juice, vinegar, mustard, olive oil, and garlic in a small bowl and whisk to combine. Pour the dressing over the orzo salad and toss well. Season with salt and pepper and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n\" _The Big Green Egg is the most versatile cooker I have ever used. In very little time you will be enjoying food prepared on it more than restaurant food._ \" \u2014Wess, Maryland\n\n### Grilled Oysters with Pink Peppercorn Mignonette\n\n**_This is an easy and delicious way to cook oysters, but make sure that the oysters you purchase are fresh and still alive. To ensure freshness, tap the top of the shell with your fingers. If the oyster is still alive, it will shut its shell tightly; if it does not, discard it. Prior to grilling, keep the oysters in the refrigerator. Store them with the cupped-shell side down so that the liquid does not leak out, or they will become dry. After grilling, discard any unopened oysters, as this is an indication that the oyster is not safe to eat. This dish can be served as an appetizer or main course. Just remember that the cooking time will vary depending on the size of your oysters._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup champagne vinegar\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced shallots\n\n  * 1 tablespoon pink peppercorns, crushed\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced fresh chervil or fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 48 fresh oysters\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the sauce, combine the vinegar, shallots, peppercorns, and chervil in a small bowl and refrigerate.\n\nPlace the oysters on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 to 4 minutes, until the shells open and release steam. Transfer to a platter. If you have any oysters that do not open, try cooking for a minute or two longer. If they still do not open, discard, as they are not edible. For each oyster, remove the top lid of the shell and separate the oyster from the bottom shell, but do not remove it.\n\nSpoon 1 teaspoon of the sauce over each oyster. Serve the oysters immediately in their shells. **Serves 4**\n\n# _eggxotic!_  \nvegetarian meals\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Grilled Vegetable Lasagna\n\n  * Spinach & Mushroom Quesadillas\n\n  * Caramelized Onion Tart\n\n  * Grilled Polenta with Puttanesca Sauce\n\n  * Eggplant Rollatini\n\n  * Root Vegetable Pot Pie\n\n  * Veggie Noodle Stir-Fry\n\n  * Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice\n\n  * Portobello Mushroom Burgers\n\n  * Veggie Burgers\n\n  * Vegetable Reuben Sandwich\n\n### Grilled Vegetable Lasagna\n\n**_Layers of lasagna noodles are interspersed with grilled vegetables, cheese, and tomato sauce, then blanketed with Mornay sauce, for this vegetarian version of lasagna. Although lasagna noodles are used in this recipe, wonton skins, prepared according to package instructions, make a perfect and lighter substitute for traditional lasagna noodles. This dish can be made ahead of time and reheated for a quick weeknight dinner._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon plus \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 10 ounces fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried\n\n  * 2 zucchini, quartered lengthwise\n\n  * 2 yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise\n\n  * 2 Japanese eggplants, quartered lengthwise\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups portobello mushrooms, gills removed (6 ounces)\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons garlic powder\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 roasted red bell peppers, chopped (page 170)\n\n  * 2 cups ricotta cheese (1 pound)\n\n  * \u00bd cup goat cheese (2 ounces), at room temperature\n\n  * 1 large egg\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, chopped\n\n  * 1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves, chopped\n\n  * **Mornay Sauce**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1\u00bc cups whole milk\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground white pepper\n\n  * 5 cups Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce (page 199)\n\n  * 1 pound lasagna noodles, cooked according to package directions\n\n  * 1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese (4 ounces)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nHeat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a large saut\u00e9 pan on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the spinach and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until wilted. Set aside.\n\nBrush the zucchini, squash, eggplant, and mushrooms with the remaining \u00bc cup olive oil and season with the garlic powder and salt and pepper. Place the vegetables on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes per side. Transfer the vegetables to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool slightly.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Lower the temperature to 350\u00b0F.\n\nDice the zucchini, squash, eggplant, and mushrooms into \u00bd-inch cubes and place in a large bowl. Add the bell peppers and spinach and stir to incorporate. Combine the ricotta cheese, goat cheese, egg, basil, and thyme in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper and mix well. Set aside.\n\nTo make the Mornay sauce, melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Add the flour and cook on low heat for 3 minutes, or until the roux is bubbly and the flour is no longer raw. Using a whisk, add the milk. Simmer for 5 minutes, or until thick. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheese, nutmeg, and pepper. Stir well to combine.\n\nReserve 2 cups of tomato sauce and keep warm in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. To assemble the lasagna, spread 1 cup of the tomato sauce over the bottom of the baking dish. Add layers, starting with one-third of the noodles, then adding one-half of the grilled vegetables and 1 cup of the tomato sauce. Make 1 more layer and top the layer of tomato sauce with the remaining noodles.\n\nPour the Mornay sauce evenly over the lasagna ingredients and sprinkle with the mozzarella cheese. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 45 minutes, or until the cheese is melted and the lasagna is thoroughly heated. Remove the baking dish and allow the lasagna to rest for 10 minutes.\n\nCut into 3 by 4-inch pieces and serve with the remaining heated tomato sauce. **Serves 8**\n\n\" _The beauty of the Big Green Egg is that it holds heat so well, much better than a metal grill._ \" \u2014Paul, Michigan\n\n### Spinach & Mushroom Quesadillas\n\n**_This recipe takes a traditional quesadilla and adds saut\u00e9ed spinach, wild mushrooms, and goat cheese to the mix. The filling is placed in a flour tortilla and grilled until the cheese is melted and yummy. Serve this with a side of homemade spicy tomato salsa._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Tomato Salsa (optional)**\n\n  * 1 jalape\u00f1o, seeded and chopped\n\n  * 2 cups chopped tomatoes\n\n  * 3 cloves garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped yellow onion\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes)\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for brushing\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped red onion\n\n  * 4 cups mixed mushrooms (such as cremini, oyster, and shiitake), wild or cultivated\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 pound fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried\n\n  * 4 (10-inch) flour tortillas\n\n  * 1 pound white American cheese, shredded\n\n  * 2 cups crumbled goat cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * Lime wedges\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Half Moon Griddle**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nTo make the salsa, place the pepper, tomatoes, and garlic in a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Simmer for 15 minutes, or until the peppers are tender and the skin begins to peel off the tomatoes. Strain the ingredients and remove the skins from the tomatoes. Place the tomato mixture, onion, lime juice, and cilantro in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 30 seconds. Season with salt and pepper.\n\nHeat the \u00bc cup of the olive oil in the Dutch Oven and add the onion and mushrooms. Close the lid of the EGG and cook slowly for 10 minutes, or until the onion is browned. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Add the spinach and cook until it is wilted. Remove the Dutch Oven from the grid. Using a strainer, drain the mushroom mixture well and transfer it to a medium bowl to cool.\n\nTo assemble, spoon 1 cup of the American cheese in the center of each tortilla, place one-quarter of the mushroom mixture in each center, add the goat cheese, and fold the tortillas in half. Brush each outside surface with olive oil.\n\nPlace the Griddle on the grid to preheat for 10 minutes. Place two stuffed tortillas on the Griddle. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes per side, until the tortillas are golden brown and the cheese is melted. Transfer the quesadillas to a platter, and cook the other two tortillas.\n\nTransfer the quesadillas to the same platter and cut each one into 4 wedges. Serve with salsa and lime wedges.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Caramelized Onion Tart\n\n**_Caramelized onions are the star of this show. Though caramelizing onions takes time and patience, the result is well worth the wait. These sweet and creamy onions are added to a custard base, placed in a buttery tart shell, and baked in the EGG until golden brown. Add a mixed green salad and dinner is ready!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 2 pounds thinly sliced Vidalia or other sweet onions\n\n  * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n  * 2 teaspoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1 (11-inch) tart shell (page 223)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded Gruy\u00e8re cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1/3 cup ricotta cheese\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 6 large egg yolks\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced fresh chives\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, 11-inch round tart pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nHeat the olive oil in a large saut\u00e9 pan on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the onions, sugar, and garlic and mix well using a wooden spoon. Turn the heat to low and cook for 2 hours, or until the onions are soft and caramel in color. Strain the onions, discarding any liquid. Transfer the caramelized onions to the tart shell and spread evenly.\n\nSprinkle the Gruy\u00e8re cheese over the onions, and distribute the ricotta cheese over the onion mixture by teaspoonfuls. In a small bowl, mix the cream, egg yolks, chives, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Pour the cream mixture over the tart. Place the tart on the Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 10 minutes. Sprinkle the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese over the tart and bake for an additional 10 minutes, or until the tart is set.\n\nRemove the tart and place on a cooling rack. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. **Serves 6**\n\n### Grilled Polenta with Puttanesca Sauce\n\n**_Polenta is a northern Italian dish made by boiling cornmeal in milk, cream, or chicken stock. Use high-quality, stone-ground yellow cornmeal for this polenta, which is first boiled and then baked. Serve this dish with the robust red sauce enhanced with capers and olives. Carefully follow the instructions for adding the eggs to the polenta to keep the eggs from curdling._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Puttanesca Sauce**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced red onion\n\n  * \u00bd cup white wine\n\n  * 1 (12-ounce) can crushed tomatoes\n\n  * 1 roasted red bell pepper, chopped (page 170)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped assorted olives\n\n  * 2 tablespoons capers\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, rolled and thinly sliced\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Polenta**\n\n  * 2 cups whole milk\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 cup polenta (not quick-cooking)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded fontina cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup mascarpone cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 large eggs, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00bc cup shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce)\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, for garnish\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the sauce, place the olive oil, garlic, and onion in a medium saucepan on the stovetop and saut\u00e9 over medium heat for 3 to 4 minutes. Add the wine, tomatoes, bell pepper, olives, and capers and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice and basil. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.\n\nTo make the polenta, simmer the milk and chicken stock in a large saucepan on the stovetop over medium-low heat. Slowly add the polenta and cook, stirring, for 20 minutes, or until thick and creamy. Add the fontina, grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, and mascarpone cheeses and the olive oil to the pan. Season with salt and pepper and stir well. Using a whisk, beat the eggs in a small bowl and slowly add 1 cup of the polenta to the eggs, whisking constantly. Once incorporated, add the egg mixture back into the saucepan of polenta and stir until blended.\n\nPour the polenta into the prepared baking dish and spread evenly, using a spatula. Place the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until the polenta is firm. Remove the polenta and let cool for 10 minutes before serving.\n\nTo assemble, spoon \u00bd half cup polenta onto individual plates. Top with the sauce and shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and garnish with basil leaves. **Serves 6**\n\n### Eggplant Rollatini\n\n**_Rollatini is an Italian dish made of thin slices of eggplant that have been covered with cheese and then rolled and baked. For this dish, there is no need to salt the eggplant to reduce any bitterness. The EGG does a superb job of grilling eggplant\u2014it turns out tender with a wonderful subtle smokiness. The peel of the eggplant is edible, so it is not necessary to peel it before cooking._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (2-pound) eggplant, cut lengthwise into \u215b-inch-thick slices (16 slices)\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 large egg, beaten\n\n  * 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup whole milk ricotta cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc cup plus \u00bc cup grated Romano cheese (2 ounces total)\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves, rolled and thinly sliced\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the eggplant slices on both sides with the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the eggplant on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes per side, or until tender. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Raise the temperature to 600\u00b0F.\n\nMix the egg, mozzarella cheese, ricotta cheese, \u00bc cup of the Romano cheese, and the basil in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper and mix well. Place \u00bd cup of the Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce in the bottom of the baking dish. Place 2 tablespoons of the cheese mixture on one end of each slice of eggplant and roll the eggplant toward the other end. Repeat the process until all the eggplant is rolled. Place the eggplant, seam side down, in the pan, forming 2 rows. Ladle the remaining 1 cup tomato sauce over the top of the eggplant and sprinkle with the remaining \u00bc cup of Romano cheese.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 15 minutes, or until the eggplant is thoroughly heated and the cheese is melted. Remove the baking dish and let the eggplant rest for 10 minutes before serving. Serve 4 rolls per person. **Serves 4**\n\n### Root Vegetable Pot Pie\n\n**_Root vegetables are used to great effect in this rustic pot pie. Celery root, also known as celeriac, is combined in a creamy sauce with turnips, parsnips, and carrots, all of which impart a subtle sweet taste to an otherwise very savory pie. A glass of red wine and a roaring fire are all you will need to accompany this cool-weather dish._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 cup diced red onions\n\n  * 1 cup diced celery\n\n  * 1 cup diced carrots\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 3 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 cup diced parsnips\n\n  * 1 cup diced turnips\n\n  * 1 cup diced celery root\n\n  * 1 cup diced russet potatoes\n\n  * 1 cup diced yams\n\n  * 1/3 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced chives\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (9-inch) pie shell and 1 pie dough disk (page 223)\n\n  * 1 large egg\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 9-inch glass or ceramic deep-dish pie plate**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nHeat the olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions, celery, and carrots. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 for 3 to 4 minutes, until the vegetables begin to brown. Add the garlic and continue to cook for 1 minute. Add the flour and stir until blended. Slowly add the chicken stock and simmer until the sauce has thickened. Add the parsnips, turnips, celery root, potatoes, and yams, cover the Dutch Oven, and close the lid of the EGG. Simmer, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes, or until the vegetables can easily be pierced with a fork.\n\nRemove the Dutch Oven from the heat and add the cream, butter, and chives, and season with salt and pepper. Let cool slightly.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nSpoon the vegetables into the pie shell. Roll out the pie dough disk on a lightly floured surface until it is large enough to cover the top of the pie. Press the top and bottom edges of the dough together and crimp. Using a paring knife, add small vent holes to the top of the pie crust or prick with the tines of a fork. Mix the egg and water in a small bowl and brush the top of the crust with the egg wash.\n\nPlace the pie on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown. Remove the pie and let rest for 15 minutes before serving. **Serves 4 to 6**\n\n### Veggie Noodle Stir-Fry\n\n**_Use a vegetable peeler to slice the carrots, zucchini, and squash into wide, thin ribbons, then cut the ribbons lengthwise into thin julienned slices with a knife. You will have a medley of brightly colored vegetables all intertwined like long, thin, beautiful noodles. This is a dish that cooks in a matter of minutes and would go well as a side dish with roasted chicken or pork._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Sauce**\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (3 lemons)\n\n  * \u00bd cup freshly squeezed orange juice (1 orange)\n\n  * \u00bd cup rice wine vinegar\n\n  * \u00bd cup soy sauce\n\n  * 4 teaspoons red curry paste\n\n  * \u00bd cup peanut oil\n\n  * 1 cup sliced shallots\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger\n\n  * 2 teaspoons minced garlic\n\n  * 2 cups julienned red bell pepper\n\n  * 2 cups snow peas\n\n  * 4 cups julienned napa cabbage\n\n  * 2 cups julienned carrots\n\n  * 2 cups julienned zucchini\n\n  * 2 cups julienned yellow crookneck squash\n\n  * 4 cups bean sprouts\n\n  * 18 to 20 scallions, green parts only, cut in half lengthwise\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh mint leaves\n\n  * 1 cup thinly sliced red radishes\n\n  * 1 cup chopped peanuts\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nSet the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nTo make the sauce, use a whisk to stir the lemon juice, orange juice, vinegar, soy sauce, and red curry paste together in a small bowl.\n\nPour the peanut oil into the preheated Dutch Oven. Add the shallots, ginger, garlic, bell pepper, and snow peas. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 for 30 seconds. Add the cabbage, carrots, zucchini, squash, bean sprouts, and scallions and cook for 1 minute. Add the sauce and cook for 30 seconds. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat, then add the basil, cilantro, and mint and stir.\n\nPlace the mixture in individual bowls and garnish with the radishes and peanuts. Serve immediately. **Serves 4 as a main course, or 8 as a side dish**\n\n### Dutch Oven Vegetable Fried Rice\n\n**_The Dutch Oven is the ideal vessel to use when stir-frying in the EGG. Place it right on the grid to preheat it before adding the ingredients, and it's ready to go. A traditional wok with all-metal handles can also be used in lieu of the Dutch Oven. The fried rice is a great main course, but it also makes a great side dish to serve with Napa Cabbage Beef Wraps (page 73)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup peanut oil\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups diced yellow onions\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups diced carrots\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 4 large eggs\n\n  * 1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil\n\n  * 2 \u00be cups uncooked long grain rice, cooked according to package directions and cooled\n\n  * \u00bd cup rice wine\n\n  * 1/3 cup soy sauce\n\n  * 1 cup English peas\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced scallions\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven or all-metal wok**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPreheat the Dutch Oven on the grid for 10 minutes.\n\nHeat the peanut oil in the Dutch Oven and add the onions and carrots. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 for 3 to 4 minutes, until the carrots are tender. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, stirring occasionally. Using a wooden spoon, move the vegetables to the outer edges of the Dutch Oven, leaving the center exposed.\n\nUsing a whisk, beat the eggs and sesame oil in a small bowl. Pour the beaten eggs into the center of the Dutch Oven. Using a wooden spoon, stir until the eggs are scrambled.\n\nAdd the rice and rice wine. Close the lid of the EGG and and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring often, until all the ingredients are combined. Add the soy sauce, peas, and scallions. Stir to combine and cook for 1 minute.\n\nTransfer the rice to a bowl and serve immediately.\n\n**Serves 6 as a main course, or 8 as a side dish**\n\n### Portobello Mushroom Burgers\n\n**_Portobello mushrooms are large, meaty mushrooms that are substantial enough to substitute for meat in a burger. They are best marinated before grilling, so be sure to allow a little extra time for this process. These burgers are dressed with Muenster cheese, lettuce, and tomato, but you also could add Roasted Red Bell Peppers (page 170) and fresh spinach leaves._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced fresh thyme\n\n  * \u00bc cup soy sauce\n\n  * \u00bc cup balsamic vinegar\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for brushing\n\n  * 4 large portobello mushrooms, gills and stems removed\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh basil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 4 kaiser rolls\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 thick slices red onion\n\n  * 4 slices Muenster cheese\n\n  * 1 beefsteak tomato, cut into 4 slices\n\n  * 4 green leaf lettuce leaves\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nWhisk the garlic, thyme, soy sauce, vinegar, and olive oil in a small bowl. Place the mushrooms in a resealable plastic bag and pour the marinade over the mushrooms. Seal the bag and marinate for a minimum of 30 minutes or up to 1 hour.\n\nCombine the mayonnaise, basil, and mustard in a small bowl. Set aside. Brush the insides of the rolls with olive oil and set aside. Remove the mushrooms from the marinade and season with salt and pepper. Place the mushrooms and onion slices on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes on each side, until the mushrooms are tender. Place a slice of cheese on top of each mushroom and close the lid of the EGG for 1 minute. Open the lid and place the rolls on the Grid, cut sides down. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 30 seconds, or until the rolls are lightly toasted. Transfer the mushrooms, onions, and rolls to a platter.\n\nTo assemble, spread the inside of the rolls with the basil mayonnaise. Place a mushroom on the bottom of each roll, top with a tomato slice, a lettuce leaf, and an onion slice. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Veggie Burgers\n\n**_Packed with wholesome goodness, this is the perfect veggie burger! These burgers begin with brown rice and black beans and take off from there. The burger is finished with a hoisin glaze, placed on a toasted bun, and dressed like a traditional burger. Healthy never tasted so good! Do not be daunted by the ingredients list. It is mostly measure-and-stir!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup brown rice, cooked and chilled\n\n  * 1 (15-ounce) can black beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * \u00bc cup Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192)\n\n  * \u00bc cup diced mixed mushrooms (such as white and cremini)\n\n  * \u00bc cup quick-cooking oats\n\n  * \u00bc cup plain dried bread crumbs, purchased or homemade\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced roasted beets (page 175)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons finely chopped golden raisins\n\n  * 1 tablespoon grated yellow onion\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chili powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 tablespoons soy sauce\n\n  * 2 tablespoons hoisin sauce\n\n  * 1 tablespoon molasses\n\n  * 4 whole wheat buns\n\n  * 4 lettuce leaves\n\n  * 4 tomato slices\n\n  * 4 slices red onion\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nMix the brown rice, black beans, barbecue sauce, mushrooms, oats, bread crumbs, beets, raisins, onion, garlic, chili powder, salt, cumin, and pepper in a medium bowl. Let rest for 10 minutes. Using a whisk, combine the soy sauce, hoisin sauce, and molasses in a small bowl and set aside.\n\nDivide the rice mixture into 4 equal parts and form patties. Place the burgers on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 minutes. Turn the burgers over and brush with the hoisin glaze. Close the lid of the EGG and continue cooking for 3 more minutes, or until heated through.\n\nTo assemble, place the cut sides of the buns on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 30 seconds, or until lightly toasted. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the burgers to a rimmed sheet pan and brush each burger with more glaze. Transfer the toasted buns to a platter and place a burger on the bottom half of each bun. Top each burger with a lettuce leaf, a tomato slice, and an onion slice, and the top half of the bun. Serve immediately.\n\n**Serves 4**\n\n### Vegetable Reuben Sandwich\n\n**_You won't miss the corned beef in this vegetarian version of a classic Reuben sandwich. Marbled rye bread is the landing pad for saut\u00e9ed mushrooms, peppers, spinach, and onions that are topped with Swiss cheese and sauerkraut, then grilled until warm and toasty._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Dressing**\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bc cup ketchup\n\n  * \u00bc cup sweet relish\n\n  * 1 teaspoon prepared horseradish\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon chili garlic sauce\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 4 cups thinly sliced white mushrooms\n\n  * 1 cup sliced red onions\n\n  * 2 teaspoons minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bd roasted red bell pepper, chopped (page 170)\n\n  * 10 ounces fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 8 slices marbled rye bread\n\n  * 8 slices Swiss cheese\n\n  * 1 cup fresh sauerkraut\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Half Moon Griddle**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nTo make the dressing, combine the mayonnaise, ketchup, relish, horseradish, chili garlic sauce, and Worcestershire sauce in a small bowl and mix well.\n\nPlace the olive oil in the Dutch Oven and add the mushrooms, onions, and garlic. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 for 3 to 4 minutes, until caramelized. Add the bell pepper and spinach, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.\n\nRemove the Dutch Oven and put the Griddle on the grid.\n\nTo assemble, spread 4 slices of bread on one side with 2 teaspoons of the dressing each. Place a slice of cheese on top of each slice of bread, followed by one-quarter of the spinach mixture and \u00bc cup of the sauerkraut. Place another slice of cheese over the sauerkraut and top with a slice of bread.\n\nMelt 2 tablespoons of butter on the Griddle. Place two sandwiches on the Griddle, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 1 minute on each side. Transfer the sandwiches to a platter. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter on the Griddle and cook the other two sandwiches. Remove and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n# _eggstensive!_  \nside dishes\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Barbecued Baked Beans\n\n  * Twice-Baked Potatoes with Smoked Gouda & Grilled Scallions\n\n  * Candied Sweet Potatoes\n\n  * Honey-Roasted Acorn Squash\n\n  * Grilled Squash Casserole\n\n  * Mac & Cheese\n\n  * Warm Southwestern Potato Salad\n\n  * Panzanella Salad\n\n  * Roasted Red Bell Peppers\n\n  * Grill-Roasted Tomatoes\n\n  * Grilled Caesar Salad\n\n  * Prosciutto-Wrapped Haricots Verts\n\n  * Roasted Beets with Goat Cheese & Truffle Oil\n\n  * Cauliflower au Gratin\n\n  * Roasted Fennel with Parmigiano-Reggiano\n\n  * Roasted Corn with Cotija Cheese & Chipotle Butter\n\n  * Creamed Corn\n\n  * Dutch Oven Succotash\n\n  * Grilled Corn with Roasted Garlic Butter\n\n  * Roasted Corn with Blue Cheese & Ancho Chile\n\n  * Brussels Sprouts & Pancetta Carbonara\n\n  * Braised Leeks\n\n  * Grilled Vegetable Ratatouille\n\n  * Cremini Mushroom & Cheese Turnovers\n\n### Barbecued Baked Beans\n\n**_Once you make homemade baked beans in the EGG, you will never again settle for just opening a can of beans off the shelf. Cannellini beans (Italian white beans) are blended with applewood-smoked bacon in a rich, smoky sauce that's near perfection. Serve these with Barbecued Beef Ribs (page 56) or Shredded Pork Sandwich with Fennel Slaw (page 90)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (12 to 14 slices), diced\n\n  * 2 cups finely diced yellow onions\n\n  * 3 cups Basic Barbecue Sauce (page 192)\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup maple syrup\n\n  * \u00bd cup yellow mustard\n\n  * 4 (15-ounce) cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed, 1 cup bean liquid reserved\n\n  * 1 cup water\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nAdd the bacon to the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook until crisp. Transfer the bacon with a slotted spoon to a paper towel to drain and set aside, reserving the fat in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions to the bacon fat. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 8 minutes, or until caramelized.\n\nAdd the reserved bacon, barbecue sauce, brown sugar, maple syrup, mustard, reserved cannellini bean liquid, and water to the Dutch Oven, and mix well. Add the cannellini beans and stir. Cover the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid of the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer, continuing to stir, for 15 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Season with salt and pepper when the beans are nearly done. Let the beans rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 8**\n\n### Twice-Baked Potatoes with Smoked Gouda & Grilled Scallions\n\n**_Smoked Gouda is the secret ingredient in these twice-baked potatoes. Loaded with butter, heavy cream, and cheese, these might be the most decadent potatoes you have ever tasted. They would be perfect served with Standing Rib Roast (page 70) at a dinner party or with a simple grilled steak._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 large russet potatoes (about 1 pound each)\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 cup plus \u00bd cup grated smoked Gouda cheese (6 ounces total)\n\n  * \u00be cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped scallions\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush each potato with olive oil, pierce holes in it with the tines of a fork, and season with salt. Wrap each potato with aluminum foil and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes. Turn the potatoes over, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 minutes more, or until the potatoes are soft and easily pierced with a fork. Transfer the potatoes to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 15 minutes.\n\nUnwrap the potatoes, cut them in half lengthwise, and scoop out the flesh of each potato, leaving a little of the potato around the edges of the shells. Place the flesh in a large bowl. Add the butter and 1 cup of the cheese.\n\nHeat the cream in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat for 1 to 2 minutes, then add the barbecue rub and the scallions. Add the cream to the potato-cheese mixture, and using an electric mixer, beat on medium speed until combined. Season with salt and pepper. Spoon the mixture into the shells and top with the remaining \u00bd cup of cheese.\n\nPut the potatoes in a baking dish and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and heat for 3 to 5 minutes, or until the cheese is melted. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Candied Sweet Potatoes\n\n**_Sweet potatoes are an edible root and are a member of the morning glory family. They have dark orange skin with a rich, vivid orange interior; they are often confused with yams, which have pale yellow skin and a light yellow interior. These sweet potatoes are baked in the EGG, then peeled, sliced, and layered in a baking dish. Enhanced with orange juice, brown sugar, and corn syrup, they're topped with thin orange slices, then returned to the EGG and baked until wonderfully caramelized. They are sure to get rave reviews!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds sweet potatoes\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups plus 2 tablespoons firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed orange juice\n\n  * 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons light corn syrup\n\n  * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into cubes\n\n  * 1 navel orange, peeled and thinly sliced\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the sweet potatoes on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 7 to 8 minutes. Turn the potatoes, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking for 7 to 8 minutes, until easily pierced with a fork. Remove the potatoes from the Plate Setter and let cool completely.\n\nPeel the sweet potatoes and cut them into \u00bc-inch-thick rounds. Lay the potatoes in the baking dish. Sprinkle 1\u00bd cups of the brown sugar evenly over the sweet potatoes. Drizzle with the orange juice and 1 cup of the corn syrup and dot with the butter. Place the orange slices on the sweet potatoes, drizzle the remaining 2 tablespoons corn syrup on the orange slices, and sprinkle with the remaining 2 tablespoons brown sugar. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 1 hour, or until the sweet potatoes are tender. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Honey-Roasted Acorn Squash\n\n**_Acorn squash is a dark green winter squash that has a vivid orange interior. The squash is cut in half and a healthy blend of oats, raisins, and nuts is added in the center before drizzling with honey and baking. Try this with Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb (page 76) for a perfect dinner on a cold winter night!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 large egg, beaten\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc cup dark raisins\n\n  * \u00bc cup golden raisins\n\n  * \u00bc cup rolled quick-cooking oats\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped pecans\n\n  * 2 acorn squashes\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bc cup honey\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish lined with aluminum foil**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the egg, sugar, butter, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt in a large bowl. Add the dark and golden raisins, the oats, and pecans and gently fold together.\n\nCut each squash in half crosswise. Using a tablespoon, remove the seeds from the center of each squash. With a sharp knife, cut a thin slice off the bottom of each squash half so that it will rest flat in the pan. Place the squash in the prepared baking dish and fill the center of each half with the oatmeal-raisin mixture. Combine the oil and honey in a small bowl and stir well. Drizzle the mixture over the squash.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the squash is easily pierced with a fork. Remove the baking dish from the EGG and allow to cool for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 4**\n\n### Grilled Squash Casserole\n\n**_Yellow crookneck squash and zucchini are both referred to as summer squash. The yellow crookneck has a long, slender neck and a wider body and is mild and creamy when cooked. Zucchini is green, long, and slender and has a light-colored interior and a delicate flavor. When mixed in a casserole, they create a comforting dish that can be served on weeknights as well as with your Thanksgiving meal._**\n\n**_When purchasing squash, try to pick the smaller, younger ones; they will be more tender, and the skin will not be as tough._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise\n\n  * 1 pound zucchini, sliced\n\n  * 2 (\u00bd-inch) slices yellow onion\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 cup mayonnaise\n\n  * 3 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * 1 cup shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup plus 1 cup Ritz cracker crumbs\n\n  * 1 cup thinly sliced scallions\n\n  * 2 teaspoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1 cup panko\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the squash, zucchini, and onion with olive oil and season with salt and pepper.\n\nPlace the squash, zucchini, and onion on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 8 to 10 minutes, turning frequently until tender. Transfer the squash, zucchini, and onion to a rimmed sheet pan and allow to cool completely Place the vegetables on a cutting board and chop into medium pieces.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nCombine the cream, mayonnaise, eggs, cheeses, 1 cup of the cracker crumbs, scallions, and garlic in a large bowl. Add the grilled vegetables and, using a wooden spoon, stir until combined. Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish and spread evenly, using a spatula. Toss the remaining 1 cup cracker crumbs and the panko with the melted butter. Sprinkle the crumbs evenly over the top of the squash.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until set. Remove the baking dish from the EGG and let rest for 15 minutes before serving. **Serves 10**\n\n_\"After many years of buying metal cookers that only lasted a few years here in cold, wet Michigan, I bought a Big Green Egg. The ability to cook year-round now is a major plus!\"\u2014Ron, Michigan_\n\n### Mac & Cheese\n\n**_The following version of this ultimate comfort food has a combination of five cheeses that come together to form a rich, creamy sauce that clings to the macaroni. Though macaroni and cheese is thought of as a typical American dish, it is believed to be of Italian origin. Elbow macaroni is generally used in this dish, but shells, twists, or ribbons will also work just fine._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 4 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 teaspoon dry mustard\n\n  * 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * 2 teaspoons Tabasco sauce\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 3 cups heavy cream\n\n  * 2 cups whole milk\n\n  * 2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded Gruy\u00e8re cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded fontina cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * 1 pound medium pasta shells or macaroni, cooked al dente\n\n  * **Topping**\n\n  * 2 cups panko\n\n  * 2 teaspoons paprika\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nMelt the butter in a large pot on the stovetop. Add the flour and, using a whisk and stirring constantly, cook for 2 minutes. Continue stirring as you add the dry mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Slowly add the cream and milk and continue cooking, stirring constantly, for 7 to 8 minutes, until the sauce bubbles slightly. Do not let the sauce boil.\n\nRemove the pan from the heat and add the cheeses to the sauce. Using a wooden spoon, stir until the cheese is melted. Add the pasta and fold it into the sauce. Pour the pasta into the Dutch Oven.\n\nTo make the topping, use a fork to mix the panko, paprika, and butter in a small bowl, blending well. Sprinkle the mixture over the top of the pasta and place the uncovered Dutch Oven on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Warm Southwestern Potato Salad\n\n**_If ever there were a macho potato salad, this is it! Grilled cactus and chopped jicama add an unexpected twist to this warm, spicy red potato salad. To complete the Southwestern theme, these ingredients are tossed in a dressing of freshly squeezed lime juice and adobo sauce mixed with a heavy dose of chopped cilantro. Though the cactus adds a unique flavor to this salad, if it is not available at your local grocery store, it can be omitted._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds red potatoes, halved\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Red Chile Rub (page 197)\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 large cactus leaf\n\n  * 1 medium red onion, thickly sliced\n\n  * 1 medium jicama, peeled and diced\n\n  * 1 teaspoon sliced pickled red jalape\u00f1o, seeded and chopped\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lime juice (2 to 3 limes)\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon adobo sauce (from a can of chipotles in adobo sauce)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh cilantro\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nToss the potatoes with the olive oil in a medium bowl and add the rub. Season with salt and pepper and blend well. Place the potatoes on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 20 minutes, or until tender when pierced with a fork. Transfer the potatoes to a rimmed sheet pan.\n\nUsing a paring knife, remove the thorns from the cactus. Place the cactus leaf and the onion slices on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 2 minutes on each side. Transfer the cactus and onion to another rimmed sheet pan.\n\nCut the potatoes, cactus, and onion into bite-size pieces and place in a large bowl. Add the jicama and jalape\u00f1o and mix well.\n\nTo make the dressing, mix the lime juice, olive oil, and adobo sauce in a small bowl. Pour the dressing over the potato mixture and add the cilantro and \u00bd teaspoon salt. Toss to combine. Serve immediately, while the salad is still slightly warm. **Serves 6 to 8**\n\n_(See recipe photograph on page 154.)_\n\n### Panzanella Salad\n\n**_Panzanella is an Italian salad that contains tomatoes, onions, basil, and large chunks of bread. You can use any type of crusty bread, but you'll love the way ciabatta grills in the EGG. Ciabatta (Italian for \"slipper\") is a long, wide loaf that is soft on the inside, with a thin, crisp crust. Do not substitute a soft-crusted bread, because the bread is what this salad is all about._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 3 cups 1-inch cubes ciabatta bread\n\n  * 2 cups diced heirloom tomatoes\n\n  * 1 cup halved grape tomatoes\n\n  * 1 cup canned garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * 1 cup peeled and diced English cucumber\n\n  * 1 cup small fresh mozzarella _di bufala_ balls (bocconcini)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh basil leaves\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and perforated grill pan.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nIn a medium bowl, mix 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and the bread cubes, turning to coat. Place the bread on the grill pan and grill, turning constantly, for 2 to 3 minutes, until toasted light brown. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan.\n\nCombine the heirloom tomatoes, grape tomatoes, garbanzo beans, cucumber, mozzarella balls, and basil in a large bowl and mix well. Add the toasted bread, toss, and set aside.\n\nWhisk the remaining 1/3 cup olive oil, the mustard, garlic, and vinegar together in a small bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Drizzle the dressing over the tomato mixture and toss gently. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Roasted Red Bell Peppers\n\n**_Bell peppers come in five vibrant colors\u2014green, red, purple, yellow, and orange. They add not only flavor but also appealing color to many dishes. Of all the colors, the red pepper has the sweetest and most subtle flavor, which is why it is used throughout this book. This method for roasting peppers is easy and they can be used for cooking or in salads and sandwiches._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 red bell peppers\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the peppers on the Grid. Cook on all sides, turning constantly with long-handled tongs. Grill for 8 to 10 minutes, until blackened all over.\n\nTransfer the peppers to a large resealable plastic bag. Seal tightly and allow the peppers to steam in the bag for about 10 minutes. Remove the peppers from the bag and peel away the skin. Slice the peppers open and remove the stem, seeds, and ribs. **Makes approximately 2 cups**\n\n### Grill-Roasted Tomatoes\n\n**_Grilling or slow-roasting a tomato intensifies the tomato's flavor. Roma tomatoes are used in this recipe, but you can grill any variety of tomato in this manner\u2014just adjust your grilling time according to the size of the tomato. Grilled tomatoes can be served as a side or used in sandwiches, sauces, or salads._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds Roma tomatoes\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCut the tomatoes in half lengthwise, through the stem end. Place the tomatoes, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl and toss to coat.\n\nUsing tongs, place the tomatoes on the Grid, cut side down. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes. Turn the tomatoes over, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking for 2 to 3 minutes, until the skin starts to peel away from the flesh of the tomato.\n\nRemove the tomatoes from the EGG, transfer to a plate, and allow to cool. **Serves 6**\n\n### Grilled Caesar Salad\n\n**_Lightly grilled romaine is used in a Caesar salad made with traditional dressing. This recipe is purported to have been created in Mexico by a chef named Caesar Cardini. Anchovies are included, though they are not thought to have been part of the original recipe. Even though this recipe is a departure from the original, there is no doubt Caesar would have loved this version!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Dressing**\n\n  * 2 egg yolks\n\n  * 2 cloves garlic\n\n  * 3 anchovy fillets\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon Tabasco sauce\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Croutons**\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 4 cloves garlic, crushed\n\n  * 2 cups \u00bd-inch cubes ciabatta bread\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 heads romaine lettuce, cut in half lengthwise\n\n  * 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bc cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and perforated grill pan.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the dressing, place the egg yolks, garlic, anchovies, and mustard in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse for 10 seconds. Slowly add the olive oil in a steady stream. Add the cheese, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco sauce. Season with salt and pepper and pulse until combined. Refrigerate.\n\nTo make the croutons, melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop, add the garlic, and cook over low heat for 10 minutes, making sure not to let the butter brown. Strain the butter into a small bowl. Add the bread cubes, season with salt and pepper, and toss together. Place the bread on the perforated grill pan and grill for 2 to 3 minutes, turning constantly, until toasted light brown on all sides. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan from the Grid and allow the croutons to cool.\n\nBrush the inside of each lettuce half with olive oil. Place the lettuce on the Grid, cut side down. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 1 minute, or until lightly browned. Remove and let cool.\n\nTo assemble, place a lettuce half on each plate, grilled side up. Pour the desired amount of dressing over the lettuce and top with croutons and cheese. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Prosciutto-Wrapped Haricots Verts\n\n**Haricot _is the French word for \"bean,\" and vert is the word for \"green.\" Haricots verts are smaller and thinner than most American green beans, and they also tend to be a little more tender. These delicate beans can be served at an elegant dinner, either as an appetizer or as a side. If you can't find haricots verts, American-size green beans are an acceptable substitute. Try this dish with Beef Wellington (page 287)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 ounces haricots verts, trimmed\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil plus extra for drizzling\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 ounces prosciutto, thinly sliced\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 ounce Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, shaved\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid and perforated grill pan.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nIn a medium bowl, toss the haricots verts with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place the haricots verts on the perforated grill pan, close the lid of the EGG, and grill for 2 to 3 minutes, until slightly soft. Using barbecue mitts, remove the grill pan from the grid and transfer the beans to a work surface.\n\nDivide the cooked beans into 6 bundles and wrap each bundle with prosciutto slices.\n\nWhisk together the lemon juice, the 1 tablespoon olive oil, and the mustard in a small bowl until emulsified.\n\nPlace the bundles of haricots verts directly on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 1 minute. Transfer the bundles to a platter. Drizzle with a little olive oil and sprinkle with cheese. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Roasted Beets with Goat Cheese & Truffle Oil\n\n**_Beets have a wonderful, earthy flavor and can be found in deep red or gold. Pairing them with goat cheese and truffle oil turns them into an elegant side salad. If you are unable to find truffle oil, you can substitute a high-quality olive oil._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 6 red or golden beets, or a combination, trimmed and washed\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 8 ounces goat cheese, sliced into \u00bc-inch-thick rounds, chilled\n\n  * White truffle oil or extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling\n\n  * 1 head fris\u00e9e, washed and patted dry (optional)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nToss the beets with the olive oil and 1 tablespoon of salt in a medium bowl. Wrap each beet in aluminum foil and place on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until a fork easily pierces the beets. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool. Using a paring knife, peel the beets and slice them into \u00bc-inch rounds.\n\nTo serve, alternate slices of beets with slices of cheese on individual plates. Drizzle the beets and cheese with truffle oil and season with salt and pepper. Garnish with fris\u00e9e leaves, if desired, and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Cauliflower au Gratin\n\n**_Here, cauliflower\u2014a member of the lowly cabbage family\u2014is given the royal treatment. First the cauliflower is grilled, then it is mixed with a creamy cheese sauce, topped with panko (Japanese bread crumbs), and baked in the EGG. This elegant dish can be served at any holiday meal or dinner party with Standing Rib Roast (page 70). Though this is a side dish, it can also serve as a main course for vegetarians if you double the recipe._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Mornay Sauce**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 cup whole milk\n\n  * 1 cup shredded white Cheddar cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 head cauliflower (about 1 pound), cored and cut into large pieces\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup shredded white Cheddar cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup panko\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 7 by 11-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the Mornay sauce, melt the butter in a heavy-bottomed medium saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Using a whisk, add the flour, salt, and pepper, stirring constantly for 2 minutes. Slowly add the cream to the flour mixture, stirring constantly to avoid lumps. Add the milk, stir well, and let simmer for 5 minutes, or until thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheese, stirring constantly, until it is completely melted. Keep the sauce warm over low heat.\n\nPut the cauliflower in a medium bowl. Pour the olive oil over the cauliflower, add the salt and pepper, and toss. Place the cauliflower on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook, turning occasionally, for 6 minutes, or until the cauliflower can easily be pierced with a fork. Place the cauliflower in the baking dish.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the Grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.\n\nPour the sauce evenly over the cauliflower. Toss the cheese and panko together in a small bowl and sprinkle this mixture evenly over the cauliflower. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 25 minutes, or until light golden brown. Remove the baking dish and let the cauliflower rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Roasted Fennel with Parmigiano-Reggiano\n\n**_The bulb, fronds, and seeds of the anise-flavored fennel plant are used often in the culinary world. Grilled fennel bulbs can be used in soups, salads, and even risotto. Roast it, then toss with orange segments and braise in the EGG with chicken stock. The roasted fennel is delicious with Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary (page 123)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 fennel bulbs, trimmed and quartered, fronds reserved\n\n  * 2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup navel orange segments (from 1 orange)\n\n  * \u00bc cup chicken stock\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed orange juice\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus 2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a basting brush, coat the fennel with the olive oil, then season with salt and pepper. Place the fennel on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 5 minutes, or until the fennel is browned on all sides. Transfer the fennel to a medium bowl.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the Grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Lower the temperature to 400\u00b0F.\n\nAdd the orange segments to the fennel, and toss well. Place the fennel and oranges in the baking dish. Pour the chicken stock and the orange juice over the fennel, dot with the butter, and sprinkle with \u00bd cup of the cheese. Set aside.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until the cheese is melted and the fennel is tender. Remove the pan from the EGG.\n\nSprinkle with the remaining 2 tablespoons cheese. Chop 1 tablespoon of the reserved fennel fronds and sprinkle over the top. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Roasted Corn with Cotija Cheese & Chipotle Butter\n\n**_Butter is laced with chipotle chiles\u2014dried smoked jalape\u00f1o peppers\u2014then used to baste this corn on the cob as it roasts right on the Grid. Peeling back the husks and tying them with butcher's twine makes for easy basting and a playful presentation._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 ears corn\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped dried chipotle chiles\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd cup crumbled cotija cheese or feta cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc cup finely chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * 1 fresh lime, cut into quarters\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the corn into a large pan and cover with cold water. Let soak for 1 hour.\n\nPull the husks back from each ear of corn and tie them into a bundle with butcher's twine. Completely remove the silk from each ear. Combine the butter, chiles, and salt in a small bowl and mix well. Using a knife or small spatula, spread 1 tablespoon of the butter evenly over each ear.\n\nPlace the corn on the Grid with a piece of aluminum foil under each husk to prevent the husks from burning. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 6 minutes, basting the corn with the chipotle butter and turning every 2 minutes. Continue grilling for 6 more minutes, or until the corn is tender.\n\nTransfer the corn to a platter and coat with more chipotle butter. Sprinkle with the cheese and cilantro. Serve immediately with lime wedges. **Serves 4**\n\n### Creamed Corn\n\n**_When mounds of fresh-from-the-field sweet corn appear in your local market, you can be sure that summer is in full swing. In this recipe, whole ears of corn packed with plump, sweet kernels are placed right on the grid to roast. The crisp kernels are then removed from the cob and blended with chicken stock and heavy cream to make this delicious side dish. Pair this with All-American Burgers (page 283) for a meal that's sure to be a winner with children and adults alike._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 ears yellow corn, husks and silk removed\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 6 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 8 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (about 6 slices), chopped\n\n  * 1 cup minced onions\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 sprig rosemary\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bc cup cornmeal\n\n  * \u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the corn on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning often, for 10 minutes, or until the corn is tender. Let cool.\n\nUsing a sharp knife, remove the corn kernels from the cobs; you should have about 8 cups. Place half of the corn kernels in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse until the corn is pureed. Reserve the remaining corn kernels. Set aside.\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nAdd 2 tablespoons of the butter and the bacon to the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook until the bacon is lightly crisp. Add the onions and garlic and continue cooking for 1 minute. Add the whole corn kernels and the pureed corn kernels, the chicken stock, rosemary sprig, and cream. Close the lid of the EGG and simmer for 30 minutes, or until the liquid has reduced. Add the cornmeal and continue cooking for 5 to 7 minutes more, stirring occasionally, until thickened. Remove the Dutch Oven from the heat. Add the sugar and the remaining 6 tablespoons butter. Season with salt and pepper. Remove the rosemary sprig and serve. **Serves 6**\n\n### Dutch Oven Succotash\n\n**Succotash _translates from the Narragansett Indian word as \"boiled whole kernels of corn.\" This traditional Southern dish is best made in the summer, when corn is fresh and sweet, tomatoes are reaching peak flavor, and fresh lima beans can be purchased from your local market. Succotash goes well with just about any grilled meat and adds a burst of color to any plate._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 cup chopped yellow onions\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 8 cups yellow corn kernels (about 8 ears)\n\n  * 2 red bell peppers, seeded and diced\n\n  * 4 cups fresh or frozen lima beans, cooked\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme\n\n  * 1 cup chopped Roma tomatoes\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nHeat the olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the onions and garlic. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 for 2 to 3 minutes, using a wooden spoon to stir, until the onions are translucent. Add the corn, bell peppers, lima beans, chicken stock, rosemary, and thyme and stir until combined. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and simmer for 5 minutes.\n\nOpen the EGG, remove the lid of the Dutch Oven, and add the tomatoes. Replace the lid of the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 5 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG, add the butter and parsley, season with salt and pepper, and stir. Serve immediately. **Serves 6 to 8**\n\n### Grilled Corn with Roasted Garlic Butter\n\n**_A summer barbecue isn't complete without grilled corn on the cob. Mix a dollop of creamy butter with fresh roasted garlic and add to the corn when it is hot off the grill. The only other thing you'll need is a napkin!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 ears corn\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * 12 cloves roasted garlic (page 202)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the corn in a large pan and cover with water. Let soak for 1 hour. Using a wooden spoon, combine the butter, garlic, salt, and pepper in a small bowl until thoroughly blended.\n\nRemove the corn from the water and place on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 45 minutes, or until the corn is tender. Transfer the corn to a rimmed sheet pan. Husk the corn and transfer to a platter. Serve with the roasted garlic butter. **Serves 4**\n\n### Roasted Corn with Blue Cheese & Ancho Chile\n\n**_Gorgonzola, Roquefort, and Stilton are all varieties of cheese that have been treated with mold to form either blue or green veins. These cheeses tend to be sharp and pungent. Sprinkling a little blue cheese and ancho chile powder on top of roasted corn gives it a bit of zip and spice. Serve this with Beer-Brined Chicken (page 98)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 ears corn\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * Kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ancho chile powder\n\n  * \u00bd cup crumbled blue cheese (2 ounces)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 425\u00b0F.**\n\nRemove the husks and silks from each ear of corn, rinse well, and pat dry. Brush each ear of corn with butter and sprinkle with salt. Wrap each ear separately in aluminum foil, twisting the ends to seal tightly.\n\nPlace the ears on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 45 minutes, or until the corn is tender.\n\nRemove the corn from the grid and remove the foil. Sprinkle each ear with \u00bc teaspoon ancho chile powder and 2 tablespoons cheese. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Brussels Sprouts & Pancetta Carbonara\n\n**_Grilled brussels sprouts give this carbonara a rich, smoky flavor. If you don't have pancetta on hand, you can substitute high-quality bacon or, if you want a vegetarian dish, omit the meat altogether. This dish makes a great dinner on its own, but can also be served as a side with grilled chicken or fish._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound brussels sprouts, halved\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 10 ounces pancetta, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 4 large eggs\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 pound spaghetti\n\n  * Shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nToss the brussels sprouts and olive oil together in a small bowl and season with salt and pepper. Place the brussels sprouts on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning occasionally, for 8 to 10 minutes, until tender. Set aside. Place the pancetta on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 to 4 minutes, until slightly crisp. Transfer the pancetta to a cutting board and dice, then move to a rimmed sheet pan and set aside. In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, and grated cheese.\n\nCook the spaghetti in a large pot of water on the stovetop until al dente. Drain over a bowl, reserving 1 cup of the cooking liquid. Return the pasta to the pot and set on the stovetop over low heat. Add the egg mixture, brussels sprouts, pancetta, and the reserved pasta liquid. Season with salt and pepper and mix well. Transfer to a dish and top with shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. **Serves 6**\n\n### Braised Leeks\n\n**_Leeks belong to the same family as garlic and onions and are often used to flavor soups and sauces. They are long and sleek with white stalks and tough, dark green tops. For this recipe, the dark green tops are removed and only the white stalks are used. They are braised in chicken stock and heavy cream, making them tender, mild, and delicious. These go well with Whole Snapper with Lemon & Rosemary (page 123)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 leeks\n\n  * 1 cup chicken stock\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 teaspoon cornstarch\n\n  * 1 teaspoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 7 by 11-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nRemove the dark green tops and root end of the leeks. Using the white part only, cut the leeks in half lengthwise and rinse well. Place the leeks, cut side up, in the baking dish.\n\nUsing a whisk, combine the chicken stock, cream, cornstarch, garlic, salt, and pepper in a small bowl and mix well. Pour the liquid evenly over the leeks.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until the leeks are tender. Remove the baking dish from the EGG and let the leeks rest for 10 minutes. Garnish with parsley and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Grilled Vegetable Ratatouille\n\n**_Ratatouille comes from the French region of Provence. This dish is a medley of vegetables that can be either cooked separately and tossed together or cooked in one pot. The vegetables are grilled first and then tossed in Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce. This dish can be served either hot or cold._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * 1 pound yellow crookneck squash, quartered lengthwise\n\n  * 1 pound zucchini, quartered lengthwise\n\n  * 1 pound eggplant, cut into \u00bd-inch-thick rounds\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 6 ounces portobello mushrooms, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 1 red onion, cut into 6 (\u00bc-inch) slices\n\n  * 6 Roma tomatoes, halved lengthwise\n\n  * 6 cloves roasted garlic, crushed (page 202)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar\n\n  * \u00bd cup Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200) or your favorite tomato sauce\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil leaves\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPour 1/3 cup of the olive oil into a large bowl, toss in the squash, zucchini, and eggplant, and season with salt and pepper. Brush the mushrooms and red onion with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil.\n\nPlace the squash, zucchini, eggplant, red onion, and tomatoes on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 4 to 5 minutes on each side, until light brown and tender. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan. Place the mushrooms on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes per side. Transfer to the rimmed sheet pan.\n\nRemove the skin from the tomatoes and cut into bite-size pieces. Cut the red onions, zucchini, squash, eggplant, and mushrooms into bite-size pieces. Place all the vegetables into a large bowl and toss with the garlic, vinegar, tomato sauce, and basil. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Cremini Mushroom & Cheese Turnovers\n\n**_Because cremini mushrooms are a baby version of the portobello, they are often referred to as Baby Bellas. In this dish, mushrooms, spinach, and two kinds of cheese are blended into a filling that is encased in a triangle of puff pastry and baked until golden. Great for lunch, these can also be served as an appetizer or hors d'oeuvre._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bd cup diced shallots\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 cups quartered white mushrooms\n\n  * 4 cups quartered cremini mushrooms\n\n  * 10 ounces fresh spinach leaves, washed and dried\n\n  * 6 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature\n\n  * 1 cup shredded provolone cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 2 sheets puff pastry (1-pound box), thawed\n\n  * 1 egg white, beaten\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nHeat the butter and olive oil in the Dutch Oven. Add the garlic and shallots. Close the lid of the EGG and saut\u00e9 for 2 to 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add the white and cremini mushrooms and saut\u00e9 for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the spinach and saut\u00e9 for 5 to 6 minutes, until the spinach wilts. Remove the Dutch Oven from the EGG. Using a spoon, remove any excess liquid from the spinach mixture. Add the cream cheese and provolone cheese and stir until all the cheese is melted.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.\n\nUnroll the puff pastry onto a lightly floured surface. Cut each puff pastry sheet in half lengthwise and then cut in half crosswise, making four equal squares from each sheet. Place \u00bc cup of the spinach mixture in the middle of each square, fold the pastry from corner to corner to form a triangle, and pinch the edges closed. Repeat this process until you have used all of the spinach mixture.\n\nLightly beat the egg white and water in a small bowl. Brush the top of the pastry with the egg wash. Place the pastry on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 15 to 18 minutes, until golden brown. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the turnovers to a platter and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 4**\n\n\" _The versatility of the Big Green Egg as a smoker, grill, and oven is unmatched. And just watch how it can start the conversation among family, friends, and neighbors!_ \" \u2014Ron, Michigan\n\n# _eggspressive!_  \nsauces & rubs\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Basic Barbecue Sauce\n\n  * KC Barbecue Sauce\n\n  * Asian Barbecue Sauce\n\n  * Asian Mop\n\n  * Beer Mop\n\n  * Basic Barbecue Rub\n\n  * Red Chile Rub\n\n  * Tricolor Pepper Rub\n\n  * Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce\n\n  * Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce\n\n  * Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto\n\n  * Fresh Basil Pesto\n\n  * Romesco Sauce\n\n  * Roasted Garlic & Garlic Butter\n\n  * Smoked Almonds & Almond Butter\n\n  * Peach-Amaretto Butter\n\n  * Coriander Butter\n\n### Basic Barbecue Sauce\n\n**_Barbecue sauces vary from region to region, with every area claiming to have the best. This version is rich and thick and has just the right proportion of sweet and sour. A chipotle pepper is thrown in for a bit of heat; add a few more if you dare!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 (15-ounce) cans tomato sauce\n\n  * 2 cups apple cider vinegar\n\n  * \u00bd cup Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon celery seed\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 2 teaspoon smoked paprika\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cloves\n\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon onion powder\n\n  * 1 chipotle pepper in adobo\n\nPlace the tomato sauce, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, and brown sugar in a medium saucepan and mix well.\n\nWhisk the salt, pepper, celery seed, cinnamon, paprika, cloves, garlic powder, onion powder, and chipotle together in a small bowl until completely blended. Add to the saucepan and mix well. On the stovetop, simmer the sauce over low heat for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove the chipotle with a slotted spoon and serve. You may refrigerate the sauce in a sealed container for up to 2 weeks. **Makes 8 cups**\n\n### KC Barbecue Sauce\n\n**_Kansas City barbecue sauce is traditionally a sweet, tomato-based sauce with molasses added. The version given here is thick, rich, and finger-licking good! You'll love using it on Spatchcocked Chicken (page 274), but you will find many creative ways to use this delectable sauce._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups ketchup\n\n  * \u00bd cup apple cider vinegar\n\n  * \u00bc cup molasses\n\n  * \u00bd cup honey\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bc cup yellow mustard\n\n  * 2 tablespoons Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\nCombine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan and, using a wooden spoon, stir until blended. Simmer on the stovetop over low heat, stirring occasionally, for 10 minutes, or until the sauce is hot and the ingredients are combined. Refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. **Makes 3\u00bd cups**\n\n_Note: To keep a portion of the sauce for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._\n\n### Asian Barbecue Sauce\n\n**_Hoisin sauce, a Chinese dipping sauce that is traditionally made from soybeans, is the primary component in this Asian barbecue sauce. Fresh ginger and chili garlic sauce are added to give this blend a bit of a kick. In this cookbook, the sauce is paired with Asian Pork Ribs (page 89), but it would be equally appealing on chicken wings._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup hoisin sauce\n\n  * \u00bd cup rice wine vinegar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 2 teaspoons chili garlic sauce\n\nCombine all the ingredients in a small saucepan and, using a whisk, mix well. Simmer on the stovetop over medium heat for 20 minutes, until the flavors are combined and the sauce is hot. Let cool. Store in an airtight container and refrigerate until ready to use. **Makes 2 cups**\n\n_Note: To keep a portion of the sauce for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._\n\n### Asian Mop\n\n**_Chinese five-spice powder is touted to be the perfect balance of sweet, sour, bitter, savory, and salty. Every recipe for five-spice powder consists of a different combination of cinnamon, anise, cloves, fennel, and ginger. This fragrant spice blend is used in the mop that helps make Asian Pork Ribs (page 89) so flavorful._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup rice wine vinegar\n\n  * 2 teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * 2 teaspoons five-spice powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\nUsing a whisk, combine all the ingredients in a small bowl. If not using immediately, store in an airtight container in the refrigerator. **Makes 1 cup**\n\n_Note: To keep a portion of the mop for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._\n\n### Beer Mop\n\n**_You can really get creative with this mop recipe. Lager (light beer) is used here, but for a more pronounced flavor try using a more robust beer. You can also change the flavor by substituting a more exotic, flavored vinegar for the white vinegar. This mop does great things for Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket (page 284)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup white vinegar\n\n  * 1 cup beer\n\n  * \u00bd cup sliced red onion\n\n  * 2 cloves garlic, minced\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\nUsing a whisk, combine all the ingredients in a small bowl. If not using immediately, store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 1 week. **Makes 2 cups**\n\n_Note: To keep a portion of the mop for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._\n\n### Basic Barbecue Rub\n\n**_Bursting with flavor, Basic Barbecue Rub can be used on everything from Spatchcocked Chicken (page 274) to Barbecued Beef Ribs (page 56). It even adds a spicy kick to Barbecue Chicken Soup (page 53). When you are not sure what spice to use on your meat, this is it! If you would like to add a little more heat, increase the amount of cayenne pepper._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 tablespoons sweet paprika\n\n  * 1 \u00bd teaspoons celery seed\n\n  * 2 teaspoons garlic powder\n\n  * 2 teaspoons cayenne pepper\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground cloves\n\n  * 2 tablespoons kosher salt\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\nCombine all the ingredients in a small bowl and mix well. Store in an airtight container for up to 3 months. **Makes \u00be cup**\n\n### Red Chile Rub\n\n**_Ancho chiles are the dried version of the poblano pepper. They are also the sweetest of the dried chiles. Here ground ancho chile is mixed with toasted spices to produce a favorite rub. It has even found its way into Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies (page 261)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon cumin seed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon coriander seed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon red chile flakes\n\n  * 1 tablespoon ancho chile powder\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika\n\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic powder\n\nToast the cumin seed, coriander seed, and chile flakes in a small skillet on the stovetop for about 5 minutes, or until fragrant. Remove from the heat and allow to cool.\n\nTransfer the toasted spices to a spice grinder along with the chile powder, salt, paprika, and garlic powder. Grind for 15 to 20 seconds, until the spices are completely ground. Transfer to an airtight container until ready to use. **Makes \u00bd cup**\n\n### Tricolor Pepper Rub\n\n**_Peppercorns come from berries that grow in clusters on vines. The berries are dried and sold either whole or ground. The most common and recognized peppercorns are black; however, tricolored peppercorns, which can be found in the spice section of most grocery stores, are used in this rub. If these are not available, substitute black peppercorns._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly ground tricolored peppercorns (black, white, and pink)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons sweet paprika\n\n  * 2 tablespoons garlic powder\n\n  * 2 tablespoons onion powder\n\n  * 2 tablespoons kosher salt\n\n  * 2 tablespoons dried oregano\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chili powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon celery seed\n\n  * 2 tablespoons light brown sugar\n\nPlace all the ingredients in a small bowl. Using a wooden spoon, stir to blend well. Store in an airtight container. **Makes \u00be cup**\n\n_Note: To keep a portion of the rub for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._\n\n### Garden-Fresh Tomato Sauce\n\n**_Grilling tomatoes before adding them to this sauce gives the tomato flavor a big boost. This sauce can be used for topping Quail Egg Pizza with Prosciutto & Arugula (page 49), but it's also delicious on pastas or grilled meats. Since the sauce freezes well, you can make it in large quantities and freeze it in small batches for later use._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds Roma tomatoes, roasted and cooled (page 170)\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup dry white wine\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\nPeel the tomatoes. Place a mesh strainer over a small bowl and gently squeeze each tomato half over the strainer to remove any seeds. Reserve the liquid from the tomatoes and discard any seeds or pulp that remain in the strainer. Coarsely chop the tomatoes and place them in a small bowl.\n\nHeat the oil in a medium saucepan on the stovetop over medium-low heat. Add the garlic and saut\u00e9 for 1 minute, or until the garlic is golden in color. Add the tomatoes along with the remaining liquid, and the wine, sugar, and salt, stirring to blend. Gently simmer the sauce for 15 to 18 minutes, until the sauce has reduced and thickened.\n\nRemove the tomato mixture from the heat and allow to cool completely in the pan. Add the basil and pepper and mix well. Place the sauce in the bowl of a blender or food processor and pulse for 1 to 2 minutes, until the sauce is smooth. **Makes 2\u00bd cups**\n\n### Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce\n\n**_The San Marzano tomato gets its name from a small town in Italy just outside Naples in the Campania region. The San Marzano is a plum tomato that is sweeter, has thinner skin, and has fewer seeds than the Roma tomato, making it ideal for this spicy sauce. If you want a hotter sauce, increase the amount of red chile flakes._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped yellow onion\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1 (28-ounce) can whole San Marzano tomatoes, chopped\n\n  * \u00bd to 1 teaspoon red chile flakes\n\n  * 1 teaspoon dried oregano\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\nHeat the olive oil in a 3-quart saucepan on the stovetop. Add the onion and saut\u00e9 for 3 to 4 minutes, uncovered, until translucent. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, then add the tomatoes and chile flakes and simmer for 15 to 18 minutes, until the flavors are combined.\n\nRemove the sauce from the heat and add the oregano, basil, salt, and pepper. Carefully spoon the sauce into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade or into a blender, or use an immersion blender. Puree the sauce until it is completely smooth.\n\nRefrigerate for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 1 month in an airtight container or a resealable plastic bag. **Makes 3 cups**\n\n### Sun-Dried Tomato Pesto\n\n**_Sun-dried tomatoes are made by cutting tomatoes in half, removing the seeds, and letting them dry in the sun for several days. A much quicker method is to place the tomatoes on a tray, drizzle them with a little olive oil, and let them bake on very low heat for several hours. Drying the tomatoes intensifies their taste. You will find many uses for this pesto, from sandwich spreads to pizza toppings. You can readily find sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil at your local grocery store._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 \u00bc cups oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes (10 ounces)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup pine nuts\n\n  * \u00bc cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce)\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\nDrain the tomatoes, reserving \u00bc cup of the oil. Add the tomatoes to the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 1\u00bd minutes, or until finely chopped. Add the garlic, pine nuts, cheese, olive oil, and the reserved tomato oil. Turn the food processor on high and blend for 2 minutes, or until the pesto is completely smooth. **Makes 1\u00bd cups**\n\n### Fresh Basil Pesto\n\n**_Pesto is traditionally made by using a mortar and pestle to crush basil, garlic, and pine nuts, then adding olive oil to create a thin paste. This pesto is made in the food processor, but a blender will work, too. Although pesto is traditionally made using basil, today pestos are also made with such ingredients as sun-dried tomatoes, mint, and cilantro. Pesto can be refrigerated for up to 1 month or frozen in ice trays so the cubes can be removed one at a time and added to a variety of recipes._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * \u00bd cup fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * \u00bc cup pine nuts\n\n  * \u00bc cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 to 2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\nPlace the basil, parsley, garlic, pine nuts, and cheese in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Puree the ingredients for 2 to 3 minutes, until almost smooth. With the machine running, drizzle the olive oil through the feed tube and continue mixing until all the ingredients combine to form a thin paste. Season with the salt and pepper and blend for another 30 seconds.\n\nUsing a spatula, transfer the pesto to an airtight container and refrigerate for up to 1 month or in the freezer until ready to use. **Makes 1 cup**\n\n### Romesco Sauce\n\n**_This version of the classic sauce, which originated in the Catalonia region of Spain, uses roasted garlic (page 202) and smoked almonds (page 204). Try it as a dipping sauce for Eggplant Fries (page 30)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups boiling water\n\n  * 2 ancho chiles\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups Roma tomatoes, skins removed\n\n  * 1 roasted red bell pepper (page 170)\n\n  * 5 cloves roasted garlic (page 202)\n\n  * \u00bc cup smoked almonds (page 204)\n\n  * \u00bc cup red wine vinegar\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon honey\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\nPour the water over the chiles in a small bowl. Cover the bowl with plastic and let the chiles soak for 15 minutes. Drain the chiles and remove the stems and seeds.\n\nPlace the ancho chiles, tomatoes, bell pepper, garlic, almonds, vinegar, olive oil, honey, salt, and pepper in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Blend for 1 minute. Refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. **Makes 1\u00bd cups**\n\n### Roasted Garlic & Garlic Butter\n\n**_Fresh garlic is a member of the onion family. It has a strong and pungent taste, but when roasted, it turns mild and sweet and has a creamy consistency. Mixed with butter, it can be used as a spread on bread or for cooking meats and vegetables._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 heads garlic\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo roast the garlic, use a paring knife to remove the top one-third of the garlic heads. Place each garlic head in the center of a small piece of aluminum foil. Add 1 tablespoon olive oil to each garlic head, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and wrap the garlic tightly in the foil. Place the garlic on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 30 to 35 minutes, turning occasionally, until the garlic cloves are soft. Using tongs, remove the garlic from the heat and allow to cool.\n\nTo make the garlic butter, place the butter in a small bowl. Separate the cloves from the garlic heads and squeeze each clove into the butter. Using a fork, mash the garlic into the butter, add salt and pepper, and mix well. Store the butter in an airtight container for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 1 month. **Makes \u00bd cup**\n\n_Note: To keep a portion of the butter for more than one use when you intend to brush it on raw meat or seafood, be sure to transfer what you need to another container so you don't risk contaminating your entire supply._\n\n### Smoked Almonds & Almond Butter\n\n**_Almonds make a healthful snack and can also be used in cooking. Mesquite wood chips impart a wonderful, smoky flavor to these almonds, making them unbelievably flavorful. Since they freeze well, you can double or triple the recipe so you will always have a supply on hand. For variety, try using alder chips or Jack Daniel's wood-smoking chips in place of the mesquite chips. You can use this same method to smoke pecans or walnuts._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup whole almonds\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, mesquite chips**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 375\u00b0F without the Plate Setter.**\n\nTo smoke the almonds, soak 2 cups of mesquite chips in water for 1 hour. Scatter the chips over the coals to smoke and, using barbecue mitts, place the Plate Setter, legs down, in the EGG. Once the chips begin to smoke, place the almonds in a small roasting pan on top of the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Let the almonds smoke for 8 minutes, or until they have a smoky flavor. Remove the pan from heat and let cool.\n\nTo make the smoked almond butter, place the almonds in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse for 1 minute, add the butter and salt, and blend for 1 minute, or until the butter is almost smooth. Using a spatula, transfer the butter to an airtight container. Refrigerate for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 1 month. **Makes 1\u00bd cups**\n\n### Peach-Amaretto Butter\n\n**_Amaretto is an almond-flavored liqueur that originated in Italy. Here, it's combined with cream cheese and peach preserves to produce a yummy spread for hot Buttermilk Biscuits (page 220)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * 1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00be cup (6-ounce jar) peach preserves\n\n  * 1/3 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons amaretto\n\nCombine all the ingredients in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade and pulse for 30 seconds, or until blended. Scrape the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula and pulse for another 5 seconds. Put the butter in a small bowl and serve immediately or refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks. **Makes 2 cups**\n\n### Coriander Butter\n\n**_A tangy green herb with a pungent flavor, coriander is widely used in Asian and Mexican cooking. To make this savory butter, use coriander seeds along with lemon and orange zest. The butter enhances Apricot Bread with Rosemary & Coriander Butter (page 208), and it is also great on grilled vegetables. For an elegant appetizer, simply spread it on hot Naan Bread (page 217) or Pita Bread (215)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00bc cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 2 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 tablespoon orange zest\n\n  * 1 teaspoon lemon zest\n\n  * 2 teaspoons ground coriander\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground ginger\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\nCombine all the ingredients in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Turn the processor on and let it run until all the ingredients are completely combined. Carefully remove the blade. Using a spatula, scrape the butter into a small bowl and refrigerate until ready to use, or freeze for up to 1 month. **Makes \u00be cup**\n\n# _eggcellent!_  \nbaked goods\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Apricot Bread with Rosemary & Coriander Butter\n\n  * Prosciutto, Fontina & Arugula Stromboli with Spicy San Marzano Sauce\n\n  * Mediterranean Bread\n\n  * Lavash with Sea Salt & Toasted Sesame Seeds\n\n  * Pita Bread\n\n  * Pizza Dough\n\n  * Naan Bread\n\n  * Southwestern Cornbread\n\n  * Skillet Cornbread with Fresh Roasted Corn\n\n  * Buttermilk Biscuits\n\n  * Pie Dough\n\n### Apricot Bread with Rosemary & Coriander Butter\n\n**_This recipe produces two loaves of bread made with a hint of condensed milk, giving the dough a slightly sweet taste. After the dough is rolled out, it is dotted with coriander butter and topped with dried fruits and pistachios. Then the dough is rolled up, creating a pinwheel of flavors and colors. This bread is perfect for breakfast, or as an accompaniment to a dinner of Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb (page 76) or Tandoori Chicken (page 100)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus 2 cups evaporated milk\n\n  * 6 tablespoons condensed milk\n\n  * 2\u00bd teaspoons active dry yeast\n\n  * 5\u00bd cups bread flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 1 tablespoon salt\n\n  * Olive oil for brushing\n\n  * 1 cup chopped pistachios\n\n  * 1 cup chopped dried apricots\n\n  * \u00be cup chopped dried dates\n\n  * \u00bd cup golden raisins\n\n  * 2 tablespoons chopped crystallized ginger\n\n  * 2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh rosemary\n\n  * 8 tablespoons Coriander Butter (page 205) or unsalted butter, cut into small pieces\n\n  * 1 large egg\n\n  * 2 tablespoons water\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace \u00bd cup of the evaporated milk in a small saucepan on the stovetop and heat until warm. Pour the milk into a small bowl, then add the condensed milk and yeast. Set aside and allow the yeast to proof for 5 minutes, or until frothy.\n\nCombine the flour, the remaining 2 cups evaporated milk, the butter, salt, and proofed yeast in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. Mix the ingredients on low speed until the dough forms a ball. If the dough is still sticky, add more flour a little at a time, until the dough is smooth and elastic. Place the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place. Let the dough rise for 2\u00bd hours, or until doubled in size.\n\nOnce the dough has doubled, push it down with the heel of your palms and place it on a lightly floured work surface. Knead briefly until the dough is smooth and elastic, then divide it in half and dust with flour. Using a rolling pin, roll each half into a 12 by 15-inch loaf, dusting with flour as necessary, to prevent the dough from sticking to the rolling pin. Brush each loaf with olive oil.\n\nMix the pistachios, apricots, dates, raisins, ginger, and rosemary in a small bowl. Sprinkle half the mixture over each loaf, leaving one end exposed. Dot each loaf with half of the Coriander Butter. Starting with the filled short end of a loaf, carefully roll up the dough into a log, then stretch the ends of the dough and fold under, pressing to create a seal. Turn the dough seam side down. Repeat with the other loaf. Allow the loaves to rise for 45 minutes, or until doubled in size.\n\nCover 1 loaf with plastic wrap and set aside. Mix the egg with the water to make an egg wash. Brush the remaining loaf with the egg wash and place on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. With a large spatula, transfer the bread to a rimmed sheet pan. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. Repeat for the second loaf. **Serves 6**\n\n### Prosciutto, Fontina & Arugula Stromboli with Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce\n\n**_Stromboli consists of dough that is filled with meats and cheeses and then rolled into a loaf. Vary this recipe by changing the type of filling and cheese. No matter which ingredients you decide to try, the stromboli is even better served with Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce on the side._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup warm water (105\u00b0 to 115\u00b0F)\n\n  * 2 teaspoons honey\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons active dry yeast\n\n  * 2 cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * 1 cup whole wheat flour\n\n  * 1 tablespoon plus 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 large egg, beaten\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n  * 6 ounces prosciutto, thinly sliced\n\n  * 2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * 1 \u00bd cups shredded fontina cheese (6 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd pound Roma tomatoes, thinly sliced\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed baby arugula leaves\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPour the water into a liquid measuring cup, add the honey, and gently stir until the honey is dissolved. Sprinkle the yeast over the water and set aside for 5 to 10 minutes, until the liquid becomes frothy.\n\nPlace the all-purpose flour and whole wheat flour in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. With the mixer on the lowest speed, add the yeast mixture and 1 tablespoon of the olive oil and continue mixing until the liquid is completely incorporated. Increase the speed to medium and continue kneading the dough for 5 minutes, or until smooth and elastic.\n\nPlace the dough on a lightly floured surface and knead by hand for 2 minutes. Form the dough into a ball, place in a lightly oiled bowl, and turn to coat lightly. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place for hours, or until doubled in size.\n\nMix the egg and water in a small bowl to create an egg wash. Set aside.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and, using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll it into a 15-inch square about \u00bc inch thick. Brush three-quarters of the square with the remaining 3 tablespoons olive oil and arrange the prosciutto over the oiled portion. Layer the mozzarella cheese, fontina cheese, Roma tomatoes, and arugula on top of the prosciutto, leaving the last quarter of the dough exposed. Sprinkle with the salt and pepper.\n\nStarting with the filled end of the dough, carefully roll the dough into a log, then stretch the ends of the dough and fold under, pressing to create a seal. Place the dough in the baking dish seam side down. Using a sharp knife, cut about six slits across the top of the stromboli and brush with the egg wash.\n\nPlace the stromboli on the preheated Baking Stone, seam side down, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. Transfer to a platter and allow to rest for 10 minutes. Slice and serve with the sauce. **Serves 6**\n\n### Mediterranean Bread\n\n**_This slightly sweet bread dough is filled with the flavors of the Mediterranean: black olive tapenade, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and freshly roasted peppers all rolled into one. You will be glad that this recipe makes two loaves\u2014one to eat straight off the grill and the other to share with your friends!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus 2 cups evaporated milk\n\n  * 6 tablespoons condensed milk\n\n  * 2\u00bd teaspoons active dry yeast\n\n  * 6 cups bread flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 1 tablespoon table salt\n\n  * 1 large egg\n\n  * 2 tablespoons water\n\n  * Olive oil for brushing\n\n  * \u00bc cup plus \u00bc cup black olive tapenade\n\n  * 4 roasted red bell peppers, chopped (page 170)\n\n  * 2 cups grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (8 ounces)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace \u00bd cup of the evaporated milk in a small saucepan on the stovetop and cook over low heat until just warm. Pour the milk into a small bowl and add the condensed milk and active dry yeast. Allow the yeast to proof for 5 minutes, or until frothy.\n\nCombine the flour, the remaining 2 cups of evaporated milk, the butter, salt, and proofed yeast to the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. Mix the ingredients on low speed until the dough forms a ball. If the dough is still sticky, add more flour a little at a time.\n\nPlace the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place for 2\u00bd hours, or until doubled in size.\n\nMix the egg and water in a small bowl to create an egg wash. Set aside.\n\nOnce the dough has doubled, push down the dough with the heels of your palms and turn onto a lightly floured work surface. Knead briefly until the dough is smooth and elastic. Divide the dough in half. Using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll one-half of the dough into a 12 by 15-inch rectangle, dusting with flour as necessary to prevent sticking. Brush with olive oil.\n\nStarting from the short end of the dough, spread \u00bc cup tapenade over the rectangle, leaving about 4 to 5 inches of one end exposed. Add \u00bd cup peppers and sprinkle with 1 cup cheese. Starting with the filled short end of the dough, carefully roll up the dough into a log. Stretch the ends of the dough and fold under, pressing to create a seal. Turn the dough seam side down and allow it to rise for 45 minutes, or until doubled in size.\n\nBrush the loaf with the egg wash and place it on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. Transfer the bread to a rimmed sheet pan. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing. While the first loaf is baking, repeat the process for the second loaf. **Serves 6**\n\n### Lavash with Sea Salt & Toasted Sesame Seeds\n\n**_Lavash is a crisp flatbread of Middle Eastern origin. It will go with just about any cheese or dip. To change its flavor, you can use other toppings, such as poppy seeds, cumin seeds, or freshly cracked black pepper. Try it with Smoked Trout Dip with Spinach & Artichokes (page 38)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup plus 1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * 1 cup plus \u00bd cup whole wheat flour\n\n  * 2 teaspoons active dry yeast\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 cup hot water (120\u00b0 to 125\u00b0F)\n\n  * 1 cup dry white wine, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00bc cup whole milk\n\n  * 1/3 cup black sesame seeds\n\n  * 1/3 cup white sesame seeds\n\n  * Sea salt\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 10 by 15-inch cookie sheet**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nAdd 1 cup of the all-purpose flour and 1 cup of the whole wheat flour to the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. On the lowest speed, add the yeast, kosher salt, water, and wine. Mix the ingredients on low speed for 2 minutes. Slowly add the remaining \u00bd cup whole wheat flour and continue to knead the dough for 5 to 7 minutes, until smooth and elastic. Add the remaining 1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour, \u00bc cup at a time. If the dough is still sticky, add a little more all-purpose flour until the dough forms a ball.\n\nPlace the dough on a lightly floured surface and, using your hands, form the dough into a ball. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside in a warm place to rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size.\n\nPress the dough down with the heels of your palms, cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and let the dough rise for 30 minutes, or until about one-third larger.\n\nPlace the dough on a lightly floured surface and form into a log. Cut the log into 8 equal pieces and form each piece into a rectangle about 8 by 10 inches. Dust the dough with flour and use a rolling pin to roll it about 1/16 inch thick.\n\nPlace 1 piece of dough on the cookie sheet. Using your hands, stretch the dough until it is as thin as possible without breaking. Brush the dough with milk and sprinkle with the black and white sesame seeds and sea salt.\n\nPlace the cookie sheet on the Plate Setter, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for 10 minutes, or until the cracker is light brown around the edges. Transfer the cracker from the pan onto a rack and allow to cool. Repeat the process with the remaining dough. Store in an airtight container. **Serves 6**\n\n### Pita Bread\n\n**_Pita bread, also known as pocket bread, is eaten throughout the Middle East and Mediterranean countries. Stuff it with grilled meat or roasted vegetables for a satisfying sandwich or cut it into small pieces and serve it with your favorite dip._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 \u00bd cups warm water (105\u00b0 to 115\u00b0F)\n\n  * 2 teaspoons honey\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons active dry yeast\n\n  * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 2 teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * 1 \u00bd cups whole wheat flour\n\n  * 2 cups plus \u00bd cup all-purpose flour plus extra as needed\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPour the water into a liquid measuring cup, add the honey, and gently stir until the honey is dissolved. Sprinkle the yeast over the water and set aside for 5 to 10 minutes, until the mixture becomes frothy.\n\nAdd the olive oil, salt, whole wheat flour, and 2 cups of the all-purpose flour to the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. With the mixer on low, add the yeast mixture and combine the ingredients for 2 to 3 minutes, until the dough forms a ball. Slowly add the remaining \u00bd cup all-purpose flour until the dough is no longer sticky. Continue kneading on medium speed for 7 to 8 minutes, until smooth and elastic, adding a little all-purpose flour at a time as necessary so the dough will not stick to the rolling pin.\n\nPlace the dough on a lightly floured surface and form it into a ball. Put the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to coat lightly. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set it in a warm place to let the dough rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and form it into an 18-inch log. Using a sharp knife, cut the dough into 12 equal pieces. Form each piece into a ball and set the balls on a rimmed sheet pan. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside for 10 to 12 minutes.\n\nPlace 1 ball at a time on the lightly floured surface and, using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll the ball into a 5 to 6-inch disk. Place the dough disk on the preheated Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 4 minutes, then turn the bread over. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for another 2 minutes, or until the pita has puffed up and is golden brown. Repeat this process until all the dough has been baked. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Pizza Dough\n\n**_If you have never cooked a pizza over the coals, you are missing a real treat! The EGG produces the same results as cooking pizza in a brick oven. This particular dough recipe cooks thin and crisp and is the perfect base for your favorite toppings. You will get the best results if the EGG and the Baking Stone are very hot before you begin cooking._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup warm water (105\u00b0 to 115\u00b0F)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon active dry yeast\n\n  * 3 cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * 1 teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon olive oil\n\n  * Cornmeal for dusting\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel or flat baking sheet**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 600\u00b0F.**\n\nPour the water into a liquid measuring cup, add the sugar, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water, and let sit for 5 to 10 minutes, or until the liquid becomes frothy.\n\nPour the flour and salt into the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook, add the yeast mixture, and mix on low speed until combined. Add the olive oil and continue to mix on low. Once blended, knead the dough on low speed for 5 to 6 minutes, until the dough becomes smooth and elastic.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and form into a ball. Place the dough in a well-oiled bowl and turn to coat with oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let sit for 1\u00bd hours, or until doubled in size.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead briefly. Form the dough into a ball and, using a sharp knife, cut the dough into 4 equal parts. Shape each part into a disk and dust with flour.\n\nTo roll and bake, using a rolling pin, roll a dough disk into a 10 to 12-inch circle. Lightly dust the pizza peel with cornmeal. Place the rolled-out dough onto the pizza peel, top with the desired toppings, and gently slide the dough directly onto the preheated Baking Stone. Cook for 5 minutes or until the dough is lightly brown and crisp. Repeat for the remaining dough disks. **Makes 4 pizzas**\n\n### Naan Bread\n\n**_Naan bread is Asian in origin and resembles pita bread, but it is much softer in texture. The EGG's ability to reach high temperatures makes it the perfect environment in which to make this bread._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 cups bread flour\n\n  * 1 teaspoon active dry yeast\n\n  * 1 teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 2 tablespoons sunflower oil\n\n  * 1 teaspoon honey\n\n  * \u00be cup warm water (105\u00b0 to 115\u00b0F)\n\n  * 4 tablespoons plain low-fat yogurt\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 425\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the flour, yeast, and salt in a medium bowl. Using a wooden spoon, blend well, until combined. Add the sunflower oil, honey, water, and yogurt, stirring gently until a dough forms. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and, using your hands, form the dough into a ball. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and let it rise for 2 hours, or until doubled in size.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and cut into 8 equal pieces. Using your hands, roll each piece of dough into a ball. Using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll each ball into a \u00bd-inch-thick disk.\n\nPlace the disks on the preheated Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 4 minutes per side, or until golden brown. Serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Southwestern Cornbread\n\n**_Jalape\u00f1o chiles add a little heat to this cornbread, making it ideal to serve as a side dish or to turn into a spicy stuffing. It also can be used for Stuffed Pork Chops with Poblano Cream Sauce (page 95)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups cornmeal\n\n  * 1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 2 teaspoons baking powder\n\n  * 2 teaspoons table salt\n\n  * 2 cups buttermilk\n\n  * 2 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bd cup sour cream\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 1 cup roasted yellow corn kernels (about 1 ear; page 180)\n\n  * \u00be cup diced red bell pepper\n\n  * 2 jalape\u00f1os, seeded and chopped\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 425\u00b0F.**\n\nIn a medium bowl, combine the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and salt. Add the buttermilk, eggs, sour cream, butter, corn, bell pepper, and jalape\u00f1os. Using a large spatula, stir all the ingredients until combined.\n\nPour the batter into the baking dish and, using a spatula, spread evenly. Place the dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 25 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove from the grill and let rest for 10 minutes. Cut into 3-inch squares and serve immediately. **Serves 12**\n\n### Skillet Cornbread with Fresh Roasted Corn\n\n**_Take the old-fashioned Southern route by baking this cornbread in a well-seasoned iron skillet. You can also use a baking dish or muffin pan (without paper liners); just be sure to adjust the cooking time. This recipe includes fresh roasted yellow corn and heavy cream producing a very rich and moist cornbread. Though it could be served with any of the grilled meats, it's the consummate accompaniment for Barbecue Chicken Soup (page 53) or EGGfest Chili (page 286)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 cup stone-ground yellow cornmeal \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 3 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 2 cups heavy cream\n\n  * 1\u00bc cups roasted yellow corn kernels (about 2 ears; page 180)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 425\u00b0F.**\n\nSift the flour, baking powder, and salt together in a medium bowl. Using a wooden spoon, mix the cornmeal, sugar, and eggs in another medium bowl and stir well. Add the flour mixture to the cornmeal and continue stirring until completely blended. Add the butter, cream, and corn kernels and continue to mix until smooth.\n\nPour the batter into the skillet and, using a spatula, spread the batter evenly in the dish. Place on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 35 minutes, or until golden brown and an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove the pan from the EGG and let cool for 10 minutes before cutting into 3-inch squares. **Serves 12**\n\n### Buttermilk Biscuits\n\n**_You will find many uses for these light and flaky biscuits. Serve with a dollop of Peach-Amaretto Butter (page 205) or split them and fill with thin slices of juicy beef tenderloin and a bit of horseradish cream (page 230) for a heartier breakfast._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups cake flour\n\n  * 1 cup all-purpose flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * 4 teaspoons baking powder\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon baking soda\n\n  * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * \u00bd cup solid vegetable shortening, cold\n\n  * 1\u00bc cups buttermilk, cold\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nSift the cake flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl. Add the butter and shortening. Using a pastry cutter or fork, work the butter and shortening into the flour until the butter is pea size. Using a fork, slowly stir the buttermilk into the flour until the dough forms a ball. Do not overwork the dough. The ingredients should be just incorporated, because overmixing will produce a tougher biscuit.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll the dough into a 1-inch-thick rectangle, dusting with flour as needed to prevent sticking. Fold the dough into thirds, then roll it again into a 1-inch-thick rectangle. Using a 3-inch diameter cookie cutter, cut the dough into 10 biscuits. Place the biscuits side by side in the baking dish. Place the dish on the Plate Setter, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for 20 to 22 minutes, until the biscuits are light golden brown. **Serves 4 to 6**\n\n### Pie Dough\n\n**_The combination of butter and vegetable shortening makes a crust light without sacrificing the buttery flavor. If you are making a pie that requires a top and bottom crust, double this recipe._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups all-purpose flour plus extra as needed\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening\n\n  * 4 to 5 tablespoons cold water\n\nTo make the dough by hand, put the flour and salt in a medium bowl and stir to blend. Add the butter and shortening and, using a pastry cutter or fork, work the butter into the flour until the pieces of butter are pea size. Add the water 1 tablespoon at a time and mix just until you can form a ball. Do not overwork the dough. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and form the dough into a ball.\n\nTo make the dough with a food processor, put the flour and salt in the work bowl fitted with the steel blade. Add the butter and shortening. Pulse the machine to work the butter and shortening into the flour until the mixture resembles cornmeal. With the machine running, add the water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until the dough forms a ball. Do not overwork the dough.\n\nUsing the palm of your hand, flatten the ball into a disk, wrap with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. Remove from the refrigerator about 15 minutes before rolling the dough.\n\nIf you need a pie shell or a tart shell for your recipe, use a rolling pin to roll the dough into a circle to fit your pan, allowing for the sides of the pan plus some overhang. Roll the dough on a lightly floured surface, using a lightly floured rolling pin. Roll the dough straight out and once or twice to the sides. Put the rolling pin down, pick up the dough with both hands, give the dough a quarter turn, then roll again. Repeat until the pie dough is the size you need. This technique helps keep the dough in an even circle.\n\nTo line the pie plate or tart pan, fold the dough in half, fold in half again, place in the pie plate or tart pan, then unfold. Alternatively, roll up the dough on a rolling pin and unroll it into the pan. Lightly press the dough into the bottom edge of the pie plate or tart pan. If you're making a pie, trim the edge of the dough to a \u00bd-inch overhang and fold the dough under so it's even with the edge of the pie plate. If you're making a single-crust pie, you can crimp the edge. If you're making a tart, roll the rolling pin across the top of the tart pan to cut off any excess. Refrigerate the pie shell or tart shell until ready to use. **Makes 1 (8 to 12-inch) pie shell or 1 pie dough disk**\n\n# _eggciting!_  \nbreakfasts\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Italian Frittata with Prosciutto & Buffalo Mozzarella\n\n  * Grilled Salmon Frittata with Cream Cheese, Capers & Dill\n\n  * Spicy Spanish Frittata with Chorizo\n\n  * Beef Tenderloin Sandwich with Horseradish Cream\n\n  * Applewood-Smoked Bacon & Grilled Vegetable Strata\n\n  * Stone-Ground Grits & Sausage Casserole\n\n  * Apple Pancake\n\n  * Baked French Toast with Pears & Cherries\n\n  * Tropical Breakfast Muffins\n\n  * Lemon & Lavender Scones\n\n### Italian Frittata with Prosciutto & Buffalo Mozzarella\n\n**_Buffalo mozzarella (mozzarella_** di bufala) _is made from a combination of whole cow's milk and the milk of the water buffalo. It is so highly regarded in Italy that it enjoys protected geographic status. This means that the producers, under Italian law, are responsible for protecting the quality and marketing of this cheese. Here, creamy buffalo mozzarella combines with fresh basil, fresh tomatoes, and prosciutto to make this version of frittata. If you have trouble finding buffalo mozzarella, use a good-quality mozzarella made solely from whole cow's milk in its place._\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 10 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 3 ounces thinly sliced prosciutto, cut into small pieces\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped fresh basil\n\n  * 1 cup chopped grilled Roma tomatoes (page 170)\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups diced mozzarella _di bufala_ (6 ounces)\n\n  * 16 cloves roasted garlic (page 202)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the eggs, cream, salt, and pepper in a large bowl and mix well. Pour the egg mixture into the oiled baking dish. Add layers of prosciutto, basil, and tomatoes. Top with the cheese and roasted garlic, distributing them evenly over the egg mixture.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the eggs are set.\n\nLet the frittata rest for 5 minutes. Cut it into 6 equal wedges and serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Grilled Salmon Frittata with Cream Cheese, Capers & Dill\n\n**_Perfect for a brunch or luncheon, grilled salmon, tomato, and onion are combined with heavy cream, cream cheese, capers, and dill, giving this dish an elegant air. Fresh salmon should be available at most supermarkets all year long._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 large red onion, sliced \u00bd inch thick\n\n  * 1 Roma tomato, cored and halved lengthwise\n\n  * 1 tablespoon plus 1 tablespoon canola oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 (8-ounce) salmon fillets\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon Old Bay seasoning\n\n  * 1 large lemon, halved\n\n  * 10 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 4 ounces cream cheese, cut into small pieces\n\n  * 1 tablespoon capers\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chopped fresh dill\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 650\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the onion and tomato slices with 1 tablespoon of the canola oil, season with salt and pepper, and set aside. Rinse the salmon in cold water and pat dry. Brush each salmon fillet with the remaining 1 tablespoon canola oil. Season with the Old Bay and salt and pepper.\n\nPlace the onion, tomato, and salmon on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 minutes, or until browned on one side. Using a long-handled metal spatula, turn the onion, tomato, and salmon over. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 more minutes, or until the salmon is browned on the exterior and opaque in the center. Using the spatula, transfer the onion, tomato, and salmon to a rimmed sheet pan. Squeeze a lemon half on each salmon fillet. Let cool.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Reduce the temperature of the EGG to 400\u00b0F.\n\nUsing a fork, break the salmon into bite-size pieces and put in a small bowl. Chop the onion and tomato and add to the small bowl. Set aside. Mix the eggs, cream, butter, \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt, and \u00bc teaspoon pepper in a medium bowl until completely combined.\n\nPour the egg mixture into the oiled baking dish. Add the ingredients, one at a time, to the egg mixture, beginning with the salmon mixture and continuing with the cheese and capers. Sprinkle with the dill and place on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 35 minutes, or until the eggs have set. Remove the pan and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Spicy Spanish Frittata with Chorizo\n\n**_This spicy frittata is all about bold flavors. Smoky Spanish chorizo sausage is combined with manchego cheese, a sheep's milk cheese that comes from La Mancha, Spain. The chorizo and cheese are blended with eggs, grilled scallions, peas, and cream. The frittata is then baked to intensify the smoky flavors._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 10 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup diced, grilled Spanish chorizo\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped grilled scallions\n\n  * \u00be cup shredded manchego cheese (3 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped pimientos\n\n  * \u00bc cup fresh green peas\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon smoked Spanish paprika\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 8-inch square glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nMix the eggs, cream, salt, and pepper in a medium bowl. Pour the egg mixture into the oiled baking dish. Add the following ingredients, one at a time, to the egg mixture: chorizo, scallions, cheese, pimientos, and peas. Sprinkle with the paprika.\n\nPlace the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 35 minutes, or until the eggs are set. Remove the pan from the grill.\n\nLet the frittata rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Beef Tenderloin Sandwich with Horseradish Cream\n\n**_It doesn't get any better than this succulent steak-and-egg combo! It is the ultimate breakfast sandwich and is sure to become an EGGhead favorite. Don't try to eat this one on the run, though, because you're apt to need several napkins._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Horseradish Cream**\n\n  * \u00bc cup sour cream\n\n  * 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 4 English muffins, cut in half\n\n  * 4 slices beefsteak tomato, \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 4 (4-ounce) beef tenderloin steaks\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 large eggs\n\n  * 4 slices white Cheddar cheese\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Half Moon Griddle**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid and the Half Moon Griddle, set flat side up on one-half of the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the horseradish cream, whisk the sour cream, horseradish, chives, salt, and pepper in a small bowl until blended. Set aside.\n\nMelt 4 tablespoons of the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Using a pastry brush, spread the muffin halves with butter. Place the muffin halves on the Griddle, cut side down, until toasted and lightly browned. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the muffins to a platter. Spread each of 4 muffin halves with 2 teaspoons of the horseradish cream. Set aside.\n\nBrush all the tomato slices first and then the steaks with butter, and season with salt and pepper. Place the steaks on the Grid and, while they are cooking, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter on the Griddle. Crack the eggs onto the hot Griddle. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 minutes, or until the whites of the eggs are set. Using a long-handled spatula, turn the steaks and eggs over and top each egg with a slice of cheese. Close the lid of the EGG and continue to cook for 2 minutes, or until the cheese is melted. Using a long-handled spatula, remove each steak and place it on the bottom half of an English muffin. Top each steak with 1 egg, a slice of tomato, and the top of the English muffin. Place the assembled sandwiches on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and heat for 1 minute, until the sandwiches are hot.\n\nTransfer the sandwiches to a platter and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Applewood-Smoked Bacon & Grilled Vegetable Strata\n\n**_You can make a strata and bake it immediately. Or you can let it sit uncooked in the refrigerator overnight and bake it the next morning. Because it can be prepared in advance, it is a great dish to serve when you have houseguests._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 10 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 red bell pepper\n\n  * 1 green bell pepper\n\n  * 1 pound red potatoes, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 1 small red onion, sliced \u00bd inch thick\n\n  * 8 scallions\n\n  * 1 pound applewood-smoked bacon\n\n  * 5 to 6 medium croissants (12 ounces)\n\n  * 2 cups plus 2 cups shredded sharp Cheddar cheese (1 pound total)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Half Moon Griddle, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a whisk, mix the eggs, \u00bd cup of the cream, kosher salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Refrigerate.\n\nPlace the bell peppers on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill, turning often, for 10 minutes, or until tender.\n\nTransfer the peppers to a sealable plastic bag. Seal the bag and let the peppers steam for 5 minutes. Remove the peppers from the bag and, using your hands, peel off the skin. Cut the ends off the peppers and remove and discard the seeds. Place them on a rimmed sheet pan and set aside. Place the potatoes and red onion on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill for 3 to 4 minutes per side, until the potatoes and red onions are tender. Add the scallions and grill for 30 seconds on each side, until just wilted. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the potatoes, red onions, and scallions to the rimmed sheet pan. Set aside.\n\nPlace the Griddle, smooth side up, on the grid to preheat for 5 minutes. Place the bacon on the Griddle. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 5 to 6 minutes, turning occasionally, until crisp. Using tongs, transfer the bacon to the rimmed sheet pan.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the Griddle and the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Reduce the heat of the EGG to 400\u00b0F.\n\nTransfer the bell peppers, potatoes, red onion, scallions, and bacon to a cutting board. Using a knife, coarsely chop the vegetables and bacon into bite-size pieces. Cut the croissants into 1-inch cubes. Add the vegetables, bacon, and croissant cubes to the egg mixture. Stir well. Pour one-half of the mixture into the oiled baking dish and sprinkle with 2 cups of the shredded cheese. Pour the rest of the egg mixture into the dish and sprinkle with the remaining 2 cups cheese. Drizzle with the remaining \u00bd cup cream and sprinkle with the minced chives.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 minutes, or until the eggs are set. Remove the pan and let the strata rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Stone-Ground Grits & Sausage Casserole\n\n**_Long associated with the Southern part of the United States, grits are no longer confined to the South. They can be found throughout the country served in a variety of ways\u2014as a side dish, a pudding, a souffl\u00e9, or most commonly as breakfast food. This casserole is great for breakfast or brunch, especially because it can be prepared the night before, refrigerated, and baked the next morning._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 5 cups water\n\n  * 2\u00bd cups white stone-ground grits\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 2 cups plus 2 cups shredded white Cheddar cheese (1 pound)\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * 1 pound pork sausage links, grilled and chopped\n\n  * \u00bd cup sliced fresh chives\n\n  * 2 teaspoons kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 cup panko (Japanese bread crumbs)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nBring the water to a boil in a large stock pot. Slowly add the grits and simmer on low for 30 to 35 minutes, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon to prevent sticking, until the water has been absorbed. Remove the grits from the heat, whisk in the cream, and add 2 cups of the cheese, the butter, sausage, chives, salt, and pepper. Continue mixing until the cheese is melted. Pour the grits into the oiled baking dish and, using a spatula, spread evenly. Top with the remaining 2 cups cheese. Sprinkle the panko on top of the cheese.\n\nPlace the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 minutes, or until firm. Remove the pan and let the casserole rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n\" _The temperature control of the Big Green Egg is second to none in its ease of use. I haven't had one bad experience with this cooker yet\u2014it keeps getting better!_ \" \u2014Mike, Pennsylvania\n\n### Apple Pancake\n\n**_Apple pancake can be served with maple syrup or cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, but this recipe is so yummy that all it really needs is a dusting of confectioners' sugar, a knife, and a fork! This can be served as a sweet accompaniment to a savory breakfast, or as a dessert with your favorite ice cream or homemade caramel sauce (page 255)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 2 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 2 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n  * 2 Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and sliced\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 1 tablespoon lemon zest (1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * Confectioners' sugar for dusting\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, 8-inch glass or ceramic pie plate**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the pie plate on the Plate Setter to preheat for 30 minutes. Combine the flour, sugar, table salt, eggs, cream, and vanilla in a medium bowl and mix well. Set aside. Place the apple slices in a medium bowl. Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon zest, and kosher salt. Toss to combine. Place the butter in the hot pie plate and let the butter melt. Pour the apple mixture into the butter and saut\u00e9 for 8 to 10 minutes, until the apples are tender. Add the lemon juice and sprinkle with the brown sugar. Pour the batter evenly over the top of the apple mixture.\n\nCarefully remove the pie plate from the heat and place the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter. Place the pie plate on top of the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 12 minutes, or until the batter is set and firm.\n\nTransfer to a baking dish and allow the pancake to cool slightly. Carefully invert the pancake onto a large platter. Dust with confectioners' sugar and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Baked French Toast with Pears & Cherries\n\n**_Challah bread is used for this French toast, but you can make the recipe your own. Try substituting brioche or French bread, and add your favorite nuts, fruits, or flavoring._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 Bartlett pears, peeled, cored, and diced\n\n  * \u00be cup dried cherries\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped walnuts\n\n  * \u00bc cup butter, melted\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon plus \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon plus \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * 6 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bc cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n  * 3 tablespoons granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd (8-ounce) loaf challah bread or brioche, sliced \u00be inch thick\n\n  * Confectioners' sugar (optional)\n\n  * Warm maple syrup (optional)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, buttered 7 by 11-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the pears, cherries, walnuts, butter, \u00bd teaspoon of the cinnamon, the nutmeg, and \u00bc teaspoon of the salt in a medium bowl until well blended. Pour the fruit mixture into the buttered baking dish, sprinkle with the brown sugar, and spread evenly in the bottom of the dish. Combine the eggs, cream, vanilla, the remaining \u00bd teaspoon cinnamon, sugar, and the remaining \u00bd teaspoon salt in a large bowl and mix well. Dredge each bread slice in the egg mixture, and layer the bread, one slice slightly overlapping the other, until the fruit mixture is completely covered. Pour the remaining egg mixture over the bread and cover the dish with aluminum foil.\n\nPlace the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 15 minutes. Remove the foil, close the lid of the EGG, and continue baking for 10 minutes, or until the eggs are completely cooked. Remove the dish and let rest for 5 minutes.\n\nRun a knife along the edges of the dish and carefully invert the French toast onto a platter. Dust with confectioners' sugar and serve with maple syrup. **Serves 6**\n\n### Tropical Breakfast Muffins\n\n**_Laced with fresh pineapple, white chocolate, and macadamia nuts, these muffins are so good that you could even top them with your favorite cream cheese frosting and serve them for dessert. Do not line the muffin pan cups with paper liners when baking in the EGG, because the papers will burn. Just butter and flour the cups, and then add the batter. Once the muffins are baked and cooled, they should come out of the cups easily._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 teaspoon baking powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * \u00bd cup half-and-half\n\n  * 3 large eggs\n\n  * 1 tablespoon coconut extract\n\n  * 2 cups diced fresh pineapple\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups shredded, sweetened coconut (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup crushed macadamia nuts\n\n  * 8 ounces white chocolate chunks\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, buttered and floured muffin pans (do not use paper liners)**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a wooden spoon, stir the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and sugar in a small bowl and mix well. Add the butter, half-and-half, eggs, and coconut extract. Continue stirring until completely combined. Using a spatula, fold the pineapple, coconut, macadamia nuts, and white chocolate into the batter. This batter will be very thick. Using a spoon, fill the prepared muffin pan cups three-quarters full. Do not overfill. Place the muffin pans on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into a muffin comes out clean. Remove from the EGG and let the muffins cool in the pans.\n\nRemove the muffins from the pan and serve. **Makes 18 muffins**\n\n### Lemon & Lavender Scones\n\n**_Lavender is a member of the mint family, and its flowers are widely used in the culinary world. Dried lavender buds are steeped in milk and cream to give these scones their slightly sweet floral flavor. If you cannot find lavender in your local supermarket or specialty food market, it can be ordered from a specialty spice company. If you are unable to find lavender, substitute 1 cup of dried cranberries or cherries for a distinctive flavor._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup whole milk\n\n  * \u00bc cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 tablespoon dried lavender\n\n  * 2\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 cup cake flour\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon lemon zest (1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * 2 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * **Glaze**\n\n  * 1 cup confectioners' sugar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nIn a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium-low heat, combine the milk, cream, and lavender. Let the milk steep for 3 to 4 minutes, until the lavender flavor has blended into the liquids. Do not boil. Remove the pan from the heat and strain the milk mixture into a small bowl, discarding the lavender. Set aside and let the milk cool completely.\n\nCombine the all-purpose flour, cake flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Mix until well blended. Using a pastry cutter or fork, work the butter into the flour until the butter is pea size. Add the lemon zest and mix well. Add the beaten eggs to the milk mixture and stir well. Using a fork, slowly add the milk mixture to the dry ingredients, stirring until a dough forms.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Form the dough into a ball and, using a sharp knife, divide the dough into 3 equal parts. Using a rolling pin, flatten each section into a 5-inch circle. Cut each circle into 4 equal wedges.\n\nPlace the scones on the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 18 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Using a spatula, transfer the scones to a platter. Let cool for 10 minutes.\n\nTo make the glaze, whisk the confectioners' sugar, lemon juice, and butter in a small bowl until smooth. Drizzle 1 tablespoon of the glaze over each scone. Serve immediately. **Makes 12 scones; serves 6**\n\n# _eggxhilarating!_  \ndesserts\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Grilled Pineapple Upside-Down Cake\n\n  * Bananas Foster\n\n  * Pound Cake with Strawberries & Berry Coulis\n\n  * Black & White Cupcakes\n\n  * Kahl\u00faa Coffee Brownies\n\n  * Chocolate Pecan Bourbon Pie\n\n  * Apple-Walnut Crostata with Caramel Sauce\n\n  * Apple Crumble\n\n  * Blackberry, Peach & Amaretto Cobbler\n\n  * Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing\n\n  * EGGstraordinary Doughnuts\n\n  * Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies\n\n### Grilled Pineapple Upside-Down Cake\n\n**_For this delicious cake, fresh pineapple rings are grilled and then placed on the bottom of the cake pan before the cake batter is added. Once the cake is baked and inverted onto a plate, the caramelized pineapple rings will be sitting on top of the cake like a crown. This would be a great dessert to serve after grilled Beef Kabobs with Chimichurri (page 59)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus \u00bd cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * 1 (14-ounce can) sweetened condensed milk\n\n  * 7 fresh pineapple slices, \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons baking powder\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter\n\n  * 3 large eggs\n\n  * 5 large egg yolks\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n  * 1 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 7 maraschino cherries\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, oiled 9-inch round cake pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 325\u00b0F.**\n\nMix \u00bd cup brown sugar and the condensed milk in a small bowl, blending well. Cut a hole, the same diameter as the cherries, in the center of each pineapple slice. Dredge the pineapple slices in the milk mixture and place them on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 minutes on each side. Transfer the pineapple to a plate and let cool.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nSift the flour, baking powder, and salt together in a medium bowl. Set aside. Melt the butter in a saucepan on the stovetop and let cool. Set aside. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolks together. Add the vanilla, remaining \u00bd cup brown sugar, and granulated sugar and stir until all the ingredients are incorporated. Slowly add the flour mixture to the egg mixture. Add the melted butter and mix well.\n\nArrange the pineapple slices on the bottom of the cake pan. Place a cherry in the center of each pineapple ring, then pour the batter over the top of the pineapple. Use a spatula to smooth the batter until it is evenly distributed.\n\nPlace the cake pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove the pan and let cool for 10 minutes.\n\nGently run a knife around the outside edge of the pan. Cover the top of the cake pan with a platter and, holding the cake pan and the platter firmly together, gently turn the platter right side up with the pan upside down. Remove the pan and serve. **Serves 6**\n\n_(See recipe photograph on page 242.)_\n\n### Bananas Foster\n\n**_This classic banana dessert, first prepared by Paul Belange at Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans, is traditionally served over vanilla ice cream. It is usually prepared at the tableside. At the end of the preparation, the banana liqueur and rum are ignited, making for a dramatic presentation._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 4 bananas, peeled and sliced lengthwise\n\n  * \u00bc cup banana liqueur\n\n  * \u00bd cup dark rum\n\n  * 1 pint vanilla ice cream\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid.\n\nStir the butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and cinnamon together in the Dutch Oven. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, whisking constantly until smooth. Add the bananas, cut side down. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the bananas are completely coated in the sugar mixture. Add the banana liqueur and the rum. Using a long match, carefully light the liqueur and rum, and cook until the flame burns off. Remove the Dutch Oven from the grid.\n\nPortion the ice cream into bowls, spoon the bananas and sauce over the top, and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Pound Cake with Strawberries & Berry Coulis\n\n**_Strawberries mean summer has arrived! This is the perfect dessert to make when strawberries and raspberries are fresh and plentiful. This pound cake is particularly moist because of the addition of yogurt to the recipe. The coulis is a thick strained fruit sauce and joins the macerated berries on top of the cake. The coulis is also delightful served over ice cream with fresh berries._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Pound Cake**\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * 3 cups granulated sugar\n\n  * 6 large eggs\n\n  * 3 cups cake flour\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon table salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon baking soda\n\n  * 1 cup plain yogurt\n\n  * 2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n  * **Strawberry-Raspberry Coulis**\n\n  * 1 pound fresh strawberries, hulled and quartered\n\n  * 1 cup raspberries, fresh or frozen\n\n  * 1 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * **Whipped Cream**\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled and floured loaf pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 325\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the pound cake, in a large bowl using an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar for 3 to 5 minutes. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, with the mixer on low. Blend until the eggs are completely incorporated. Mix the flour, salt, and baking soda in a separate bowl. With the mixer on low, add the yogurt and the flour mixture, alternately, until both are completely incorporated. Add the vanilla and continue mixing for 15 seconds.\n\nPour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and place the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 1 hour, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.\n\nTo make the coulis, using a small paring knife, quarter the strawberries and place them in a small bowl with the raspberries. Add the sugar and lemon juice. Using a spoon, toss the strawberries and raspberries in the sugar. Place half of the strawberries and raspberries in the bowl of a blender or food processor fitted with the steel blade and refrigerate the other half. Puree the berries in the blender for 3 minutes on high. Strain the coulis into a small bowl.\n\nTo make the whipped cream, using a whisk or electric mixer, beat the cream, confectioners' sugar, and vanilla for 5 minutes, or until light and fluffy.\n\nTo assemble, place a slice of cake on each plate. Top with the macerated strawberries and raspberries, spoon the coulis over the berries, and top with the whipped cream. **Serves 6 to 8**\n\n### Black & White Cupcakes\n\n**_Serving cupcakes at a barbecue is very traditional, but you probably wouldn't think of baking the cupcakes on the barbecue grill. For these cupcakes, chocolate cake is married with a Cointreau-laced icing. Cointreau is an orange-flavored liqueur produced in France using a combination of sweet and bitter oranges. Buy the best-quality chocolate to make these exceptionally rich cupcakes. When baking these in the EGG, do not use paper liners inside the muffin pans, as the papers will burn._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups cake flour\n\n  * \u00bd cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon baking soda\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon baking powder\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 1 cup warm water\n\n  * 1 tablespoon instant coffee\n\n  * \u00bd cup unsweetened cocoa powder\n\n  * 2 large eggs\n\n  * \u00bd cup canola oil\n\n  * 1 teaspoon orange extract\n\n  * 2 cups semisweet chocolate chips\n\n  * **Icing**\n\n  * 10 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature\n\n  * 2\u00bc cups confectioners' sugar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice\n\n  * 3 tablespoons Cointreau\n\n  * 1 teaspoon orange zest\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled and floured 12-cup muffin pan (do not use paper liners)**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nCombine the cake flour, all-purpose flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Stir until blended. Pour the water into another medium bowl. Add the instant coffee and cocoa powder. Using a whisk, stir until the coffee and cocoa are completely dissolved. Add the eggs, canola oil, and orange extract to the bowl and mix until completely combined. Add the flour mixture to the liquid, a little at a time, stirring constantly. Fold the chocolate chips into the batter. Pour the batter into a 4-cup liquid measuring cup. Pour 1/3 cup of the batter into each muffin cup.\n\nPlace the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 25 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove the pan. Allow the cupcakes to cool completely before removing them from the cups.\n\nTo make the icing, in a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the butter until it is light and creamy. Add the confectioners' sugar and continue beating until the sugar is completely incorporated. Slowly add the orange juice, Cointreau, and orange zest and beat until the icing is light and fluffy. Spread the icing on top of the cupcakes and serve. **Makes 12 cupcakes**\n\n### Kahl\u00faa Coffee Brownies\n\n**_Three types of chocolate are blended in these rich, fudgelike brownies, resulting in the most decadent brownies you will ever taste. Once baked, top them with a cream cheese frosting flavored with Kahl\u00faa, a coffee liqueur from Mexico. If you love coffee and chocolate, these are a real treat!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 tablespoon instant coffee\n\n  * 4 ounces unsweetened chocolate\n\n  * 4 large eggs\n\n  * 2 cups granulated sugar\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u215b teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 1 cup bittersweet chocolate chips\n\n  * 1 cup white chocolate chips\n\n  * **Kahl\u00faa Icing**\n\n  * 1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese, at room temperature\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 2 tablespoons Kahl\u00faa\n\n  * 2\u00bd cups confectioners' sugar\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nMelt the butter in a medium saucepan on the stovetop over low heat. Add the coffee and stir until dissolved. Remove the saucepan from the heat, add the unsweetened chocolate, and stir until smooth. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, and continue mixing. Add the sugar and mix well. Add the flour and salt and gently combine. Using a spatula, fold the bittersweet chocolate and white chocolate chips into the batter. Spread the batter evenly into the prepared baking dish.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Remove and let the brownies cool before icing them.\n\nTo make the icing, in a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the cheese and butter for 3 to 4 minutes, until creamy. Add the Kahl\u00faa and confectioners' sugar and mix for 1 to 2 minutes, until completely blended. Using a spatula, spread the icing on the brownies.\n\nCut the brownies into 3-inch squares and serve. **Makes 12 brownies**\n\n### Chocolate Pecan Bourbon Pie\n\n**_Pecan pie is a typical Southern dish made from corn syrup, brown sugar, and pecans and is often served on holidays. This traditional pie filling has a touch of bourbon and combines with dark chocolate morsels. It is perfect for a fall dinner or winter holiday dessert and would be especially good served after a smoked turkey dinner (page 108)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 cup dark corn syrup\n\n  * 3 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bc cup bourbon\n\n  * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips\n\n  * 1 cup chopped pecans\n\n  * 1 (9-inch) pie shell (page 223)\n\n  * **Whipped Cream**\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup confectioners' sugar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a wooden spoon, mix the corn syrup, eggs, butter, brown sugar, bourbon, and flour in a medium bowl until combined. Add the chocolate and pecans and blend well. Pour the filling into the pie shell.\n\nPlace the pie plate on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until the filling is set and the pie is golden brown. Remove the pie and let cool completely, then refrigerate.\n\nTo make the whipped cream, using a whisk or an electric mixer, beat the cream, confectioners' sugar, and vanilla for 5 minutes, or until light and fluffy. Serve slices of pie garnished with the whipped cream or pass separately. **Serves 6 to 8**\n\n### Apple-Walnut Crostata with Caramel Sauce\n\n**_A crostata is nothing more than a fruit tart that is meant to be rustic, so do not be too concerned if this is your first time working with pie dough. Three different types of apple are used in this crostata: the tart, green Granny Smith; the sweet, crisp, red Fuji; and the very sweet Golden Delicious. By blending these three different varieties, the flavor of the crostata becomes more complex and balanced. Fresh berries, pears, or peaches work equally well._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pie dough disk (page 223)\n\n  * \u00bc cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed orange juice\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 3 cups apple slices, 1/3 inch thick (1 cup each Granny Smith, Fuji, and Golden Delicious)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped walnuts\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * 1 large egg white, beaten\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n  * 1 tablespoon granulated sugar\n\n  * **Caramel Sauce**\n\n  * 1 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bc cup water\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, pizza peel**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down, and the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nDust the pizza peel with flour. Roll the pie dough into a 12-inch circle on a lightly floured surface and place the dough on the peel.\n\nMix the brown sugar, orange juice, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a large bowl. Add the apples and walnuts and toss until well coated with the brown sugar mixture. Spread the apple mixture in the center of the pastry, leaving a 2-inch border of dough exposed. Fold over the pastry edge toward the center, leaving the edges and folds of the dough very rustic. Dot the exposed apples with the butter. Mix the egg white and water in a small bowl and brush the outside of the dough with the egg wash. Sprinkle the top of the crostata with the granulated sugar.\n\nCarefully transfer the crostata to the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 40 minutes, or until golden brown. Using the pizza peel, transfer the crostata to a platter.\n\nTo make the sauce, using a whisk, stir the sugar and water together in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan on the stovetop. Cook over medium heat for 15 minutes, occasionally brushing the sides of the pan with a wet brush. Do not stir. When the sugar is amber in color, slowly add the cream, whisking constantly for 3 to 5 minutes, until the sugar is dissolved. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk the butter into the caramel, 1 tablespoon at a time, until smooth and creamy. Let the caramel sauce cool for 10 to 15 minutes. Pour into a pitcher and serve with the crostata. **Serves 6**\n\n### Apple Crumble\n\n**_Slightly tart Granny Smith apples, which originated in Australia, are ideal for baking. They are crisp, hold their color longer than most apples, and do not break down as quickly as most apples when cooked. The tart flavor of this apple is a nice contrast with the sweet topping. Though wonderful on its own, try serving the crumble with whipped cream or a scoop of your favorite ice cream._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups sour cream\n\n  * 2 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * \u00bd cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u00be cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 2 teaspoons vanilla extract\n\n  * 3 tablespoons Grand Marnier\n\n  * 4 pounds Granny Smith apples\n\n  * **Topping**\n\n  * \u00be cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 3\u00bd teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into cubes\n\n  * 1 \u00bc cups walnut pieces\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect heat with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a whisk, mix the sour cream and eggs in a large bowl. Add the flour, sugar, salt, vanilla, and Grand Marnier. Stir until completely combined. Core and peel the apples, cut them in half lengthwise, and cut each half into thin slices. The apples may also be sliced in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the slicing blade. Add the sliced apples to the sour cream mixture and blend gently until the apples are completely coated. Pour the apple mixture into the pan and, using a rubber spatula, spread evenly.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until the custard is set. Remove the pan from the EGG and let cool for 5 minutes.\n\nTo make the topping, place the flour, brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse until the ingredients are thoroughly blended. Add the butter and walnuts and pulse briefly until the butter is roughly pea size. Sprinkle the topping evenly over the apples.\n\nPlace the pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake another 15 minutes, or until golden brown. Serve hot or cold. **Serves 6**\n\n### Blackberry, Peach & Amaretto Cobbler\n\n**_There's something magical about the way the batter reacts in this very Southern dish. It's poured into the pan before anything else is added and then topped with the fruit filling. While baking in the EGG, the batter slowly rises to the top, creating a beautiful golden crust. Underneath lies a luscious combination of blackberries and peaches in a thick amaretto syrup. If you can't find fresh blackberries or peaches, use any fresh berry that is available at your local market or substitute thawed frozen fruit._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus 1 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 2 teaspoons lemon zest\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bc cup amaretto\n\n  * 1 tablespoon cornstarch\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon plus \u00bc teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 5 cups peach slices, \u00bd inch thick\n\n  * 2\u00bd cups fresh blackberries\n\n  * 10 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n  * \u00be cup whole milk\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n  * Vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, or powdered confectioners' sugar (optional)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nMix \u00bd cup sugar, cinnamon, lemon zest, lemon juice, amaretto, cornstarch, and \u00bd teaspoon of the salt in a large bowl. Add the peaches and blackberries. Toss to coat. Set aside.\n\nMelt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over low heat and pour into the baking dish. Whisk the flour, remaining 1 cup granulated sugar, baking powder, milk, vanilla, and \u00bc teaspoon salt together in a small bowl. Pour the batter into the baking dish over the melted butter. Top with the fruit mixture.\n\nPlace the dish on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 45 minutes, or until the crust is light golden brown. Remove and let cool for 15 minutes.\n\nServe with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, or confectioners' sugar, if desired. **Serves 6**\n\n### Roasted Peaches with Pecan Praline Stuffing\n\n**_Peaches are a member of the rose family. There are many varieties, and they are usually classified by their pit or stone. In a clingstone peach, the flesh clings most tightly to the pit. These are the sweetest and juiciest of the peaches. However, the freestone is the peach usually found in your local grocery. The pit of the freestone is easily removed, making it ideal for eating or baking. For this simple dessert, use ripe and juicy freestone peaches, fill them with pecan praline stuffing, and bake in the EGG. Dessert doesn't get any better or easier than this!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 4 ripe peaches, unpeeled\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00be cup firmly packed light brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bc cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground ginger\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 3 tablespoons plus 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cubed\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped pecans\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCut the peaches in half and remove the pits. Using a teaspoon, core the red centers from each of the peach halves. Dip the cut side of each peach into the lemon juice. Place the peaches in the baking dish, cut side up.\n\nIn a medium bowl, stir the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt, ginger, and nutmeg until completely blended. Add 3 tablespoons of the butter to the flour mixture. Using a fork or pastry cutter, cut the butter into the dry ingredients until the pieces of butter are pea size. Using a spatula, fold the chopped pecans into the flour mixture until the pecans and the flour mixture are completely combined. Place 2 tablespoons of the filling into the center of each peach half. Put the peaches inside the baking dish and put the remaining 3 tablespoons butter in the pan.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 20 minutes, or until the stuffing has set and the peaches begin to soften. Remove the dish and let the peaches rest for 10 minutes before serving.\n\n**Serves 8**\n\n### EGGstraordinary Doughnuts\n\n**_These doughnuts take a bit of time to make, but they are melt-in-your-mouth delicious and well worth the effort. After cooking, they are tossed in cinnamon and granulated sugar, but any topping can be used, from confectioners' sugar or melted chocolate to a lemon glaze. Doughnuts are fun to make for a crowd\u2014just be aware that they will disappear fast, so you might want to double the recipe._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup warm water (105\u00b0 to 110\u00b0F)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon active dry yeast\n\n  * \u00bc cup whole milk\n\n  * \u00bc cup buttermilk\n\n  * 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening, melted\n\n  * \u00bc cup plus 1 cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups plus \u00bd cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon\n\n  * 4 cups peanut oil\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPour the warm water into a medium bowl, add the yeast, and let sit for 5 minutes, or until frothy. Add the milk, buttermilk, shortening, \u00bc cup of the sugar, 1\u00bd cups of the flour, the baking powder, and salt. Mix well. Continue to add the remaining \u00bd cup flour until a soft dough forms.\n\nTurn the dough onto a lightly floured surface. Knead briefly, about 5 times. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough \u00bd inch thick. Use a 2\u00bd-inch round biscuit cutter or a small drinking glass to cut the dough into rounds. Place the dough onto a lightly floured cookie sheet and cover with plastic wrap. Let the dough rise for 1 hour, or until doubled in size.\n\nMix the cinnamon and the remaining 1 cup sugar in a small bowl until blended. Set aside.\n\nFill the Dutch Oven with 2 inches of peanut oil. Place the Dutch Oven on the grid and heat the oil to 375\u00b0F. Carefully place 3 or 4 of the doughnuts into the hot oil. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, until a light golden brown. Using tongs, turn each doughnut over. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer the doughnuts to a plate lined with paper towels to drain. Repeat the process until you have fried all the dough.\n\nToss the cooked doughnuts, a few at a time, in the cinnamon-sugar mixture until coated. Serve. **Makes 12 doughnuts**\n\n### Red Chile & Lime Shortbread Cookies\n\n**_This traditional butter shortbread has a bit of Red Chile Rub added, giving these cookies a subtle hint of heat. Scoring the dough into wedges before it is baked makes it very easy to break into individual cookies. Once cooled, gently break the cookies along the lines. This dough may also be rolled out and cut with a cookie cutter, if you prefer._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00bc cup granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon table salt\n\n  * 2 teaspoons lime zest (1 to 2 limes)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Red Chile Rub (page 197)\n\n  * 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9-inch round cake pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F.**\n\nIn a large bowl using an electric mixer, beat the butter, sugar, salt, lime zest, and Red Chile Rub on low speed until the butter is creamed but not completely smooth. Scrape the butter off the sides of the bowl. With the mixer on low, gradually add the flour until the dough forms a ball.\n\nTransfer the dough to a lightly floured surface. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough \u00bc inch thick. Place the dough in the cake pan. Spread the dough evenly with your fingers, pressing the dough into the edges of the pan. Using a paring knife, score the dough into 8 to 12 equal wedges. Do not cut all the way through the dough.\n\nPlace the cake pan on the Plate Setter. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 7 to 8 minutes, or until light brown. Let the shortbread cool.\n\nBreak the shortbread into wedges and serve. **Makes 8 to 12 cookies**\n\n# _eggsperimental!_  \negghead recipes\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Caribbean Stuffed Peppers\n\n  * ABTs\n\n  * Tomatoes with Cornbread Stuffing\n\n  * Tomato Pie\n\n  * Crab-Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms\n\n  * Baked Brie\n\n  * Moussaka\n\n  * Sausage & Mushroom Quiche\n\n  * Spatchcocked Chicken\n\n  * Seafood Paella\n\n  * Shrimp Fra Diavolo\n\n  * Maple-Smoked Salmon\n\n  * Triple-Treat Tacos\n\n  * Asian Marinated Flank Steak\n\n  * All-American Burgers\n\n  * Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket\n\n  * EGGfest Chili\n\n  * Beef Wellington\n\n  * Pork Crown Roast\n\n  * Caribbean-Style Pork Tenderloin\n\n  * Mediterranean Pork Tenderloins\n\n  * Bread Pudding with Figs & Pine Nuts\n\n### Caribbean Stuffed Peppers\n\n**_Jerk seasoning, which comes from Jamaica, is often used to impart flavor to grilled meats. The ingredients in jerk seasoning vary but generally include chiles, thyme, garlic, and onions, and so-called sweet spices, such as cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and cloves. In this version, the blend of chiles and spices is added directly to the ground meat, and the highly spiced meat is used to stuff bell peppers._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 6 bell peppers (red, yellow, green, or a combination)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * 1 pound ground chuck or ground round\n\n  * 1 cup diced red onion\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 3 tablespoons jerk seasoning\n\n  * 1 cup white rice\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 (28-ounce) can diced tomatoes, drained\n\n  * 1 Scotch bonnet chile pepper\n\n  * 4 sprigs thyme\n\n  * 2 bay leaves\n\n  * 1 (1\u00bd-inch) piece peeled fresh ginger\n\n  * 1 (15-ounce) can black beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed chopped fresh cilantro\n\n  * \u00bd cup thinly sliced scallions\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes)\n\n  * \u00bd cup crumbled cotija cheese (2 ounces)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nCut off the tops of the bell peppers and remove the seeds and ribs. If the peppers will not sit upright, cut a thin slice of flesh off the base to level the bottom. Set aside.\n\nPour the olive oil into the Dutch Oven to heat briefly. Add the ground chuck, onion, and garlic. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until the meat is browned. Add the jerk seasoning and stir. Close the lid of the EGG and continue to cook for 3 to 4 minutes, until the ground beef is completely cooked. Add the rice, chicken stock, tomatoes, chile pepper, thyme sprigs, bay leaves, and ginger to the Dutch Oven and stir gently. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Simmer for 15 minutes, or until the rice is cooked and the liquid is absorbed.\n\nRemove the Dutch Oven from the heat and let it sit, covered, for 10 minutes. Remove the lid and, using a fork, gently fluff the rice mixture. Remove and discard the chile pepper and thyme sprigs. Gently stir in the black beans, cilantro, scallion, and lime juice. Fill each of the bell peppers with 1 to 1\u00bd cups of the filling.\n\nPlace the peppers on the perforated grill pan and place the pan on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes, or until the ingredients are thoroughly cooked. Transfer the peppers from the EGG to a platter and sprinkle each pepper with cheese. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### ABTs\n\n**_You will find ABTs wherever EGGheads gather. This classic EGG dish is taken to the next level by adding Red Chile Rub, a red pepper glaze, and applewood-smoked bacon. These are great for a big gathering, especially on game day._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 12 whole jalape\u00f1o peppers or red Fresno peppers\n\n  * \u00bd cup red pepper jelly\n\n  * 2 tablespoons water\n\n  * 24 Little Smokies sausages\n\n  * 8 ounces cream cheese, cubed, at room temperature\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh cilantro leaves\n\n  * 12 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (12 to 14 slices), cut in half\n\n  * 2 tablespoons Red Chile Rub (page 197)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs up, and the porcelain coated grid on top of the Plate Setter.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nRemove the stems from the peppers, cut in half lengthwise, and remove the seeds and membranes. Set aside.\n\nTo make the glaze, heat the red pepper jelly and water in a small saucepan on the stovetop, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon. Set aside.\n\nPlace the Little Smokies in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse briefly, until coarsely chopped. Add the cheese and cilantro and continue pulsing until combined. Place 1 tablespoon of the cheese mixture into the cavity of each pepper half. Wrap each half with a half-slice of the applewood-smoked bacon, and secure the bacon with a toothpick. Sprinkle each pepper with the Red Chile Rub. Place the peppers on the perforated grill pan and place the pan on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG. Cook, brushing often with a generous portion of the red pepper glaze, for 30 minutes, or until the bacon is crisp.\n\nTransfer the ABTs to a platter and serve immediately.\n\n**Serves 6**\n\n### Tomatoes with Cornbread Stuffing\n\n**_Nothing tastes better than the first plump, ripe, juicy tomatoes of the season. Whether they are homegrown or from a roadside market, they signal that summer is near. For this dish, you can use any type of fresh tomatoes that are available, as long as they are round tomatoes rather than Roma. Only the round ones will sit upright on the grid once they are stuffed._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 cups crumbled Southwestern Cornbread (page 217)\n\n  * 1 cup julienned prosciutto\n\n  * \u00bd cup diced mozzarella cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup plus \u00bc cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (3 ounces total)\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh basil\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 8 vine-ripened tomatoes, tops removed and cored\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, perforated grill pan**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a wooden spoon, combine the cornbread, prosciutto, mozzarella cheese, \u00bd cup of the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, the sun-dried tomatoes, basil, and 2 tablespoons of the olive oil in a medium bowl. Season the stuffing with salt and pepper and mix well. Cut the tops off the tomatoes and, using a teaspoon or melon baller, remove some of the flesh from inside the tomatoes and discard it. Using a spoon, fill each tomato with some of the cornbread mixture, drizzle the tomatoes with the remaining \u00bc cup olive oil, and sprinkle the tops of the tomatoes with the remaining \u00bc cup Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Place the tomatoes on the perforated grill pan.\n\nPlace the grill pan with the tomatoes on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 20 minutes, or until browned and heated thoroughly. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the tomatoes to a platter. Let the tomatoes rest for 5 minutes before serving. **Serves 4**\n\n### Tomato Pie\n\n**_This is the perfect savory pie to make when tomatoes are at their peak, using beefsteak, Roma, or other vine-ripened tomatoes. It is perfect for lunch with Grilled Caesar Salad (page 171) or can be served as a side dish with Slow-Roasted Leg of Lamb (page 76) or Spatchcocked Chicken (page 274)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 or 4 tomatoes\n\n  * \u00bc cup olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (9-inch) pie shell (page 223)\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup grated white Cheddar cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup mayonnaise\n\n  * 1 cup cooked and crumbled applewood-smoked bacon (about 6 slices)\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped scallions\n\n  * \u00bd cup julienned fresh basil leaves\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nCut the tomatoes in half and place them in a small bowl, toss with the olive oil, and season with salt and pepper. Place the tomatoes on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2 minutes per side, or until the tomatoes are roasted and the skin pulls away from the tomato. Using a long-handled spatula, transfer the tomatoes from the grid to a platter and let cool completely. Peel and slice thinly.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nTo blind bake the pie shell, cover with aluminum foil and place pie weights on top of the foil. Place the pie plate on the Plate Setter, close the lid of the EGG, and bake for about 12 minutes. Set aside and let cool.\n\nUsing a wooden spoon, mix the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, Cheddar cheese, and mayonnaise in a medium bowl and stir well. Cover the bottom of the pie shell with the bacon, and layer with the scallions, basil, and sliced tomatoes. Season the tomatoes with pepper. Spread the cheese mixture evenly in the pie shell.\n\nPlace the pie plate on the Plate Setter again and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 20 minutes, or until the top is lightly browned. Remove the pie plate and let stand for 10 minutes before slicing. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Crab-Stuffed Portobello Mushrooms\n\n**_Portobello mushrooms are large, meaty brown mushrooms. When the mushrooms are ready to stuff, be sure to handle the crabmeat gently so that it does not break into small pieces. Served with a piquant r\u00e9moulade sauce, this dish can be served as an appetizer or main course._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **R\u00e9moulade**\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped dill gherkin pickles\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped pimientos\n\n  * 1 tablespoon capers\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon Tabasco sauce\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced shallot\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 cup whole milk\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning\n\n  * \u00bc cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (1 ounce)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon Tabasco sauce\n\n  * 1 pound lump crabmeat\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh chives\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 to 6 large portobello mushrooms, stems and gills removed\n\n  * \u00bc cup panko (Japanese bread crumbs)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the r\u00e9moulade, place all the ingredients into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Turn the food processor on and let it run for 30 seconds only. Refrigerate until ready to serve.\n\nMelt 2 tablespoons of the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat. Add the shallot and garlic and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the shallot is translucent. Add the flour and cook for 1 minute, until the flour is incorporated. Using a whisk, add the milk and Old Bay seasoning. Stir for 5 minutes, or until the sauce thickens. Remove the pan from the heat and add the cheese, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco sauce. Stir until completely blended. Let cool completely.\n\nPlace the crabmeat in a medium bowl. Add the chives and season with salt and pepper. Using a rubber spatula, mix gently. Pour the sauce over the crab and gently fold the mixture together until combined.\n\nMelt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Brush some butter on both sides of the portobello mushrooms, and place the mushrooms in the baking dish. Spoon the crab filling into the prepared mushrooms. Brush the filling with the remaining melted butter, top with panko, and sprinkle with paprika.\n\nPlace the baking dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until golden brown. Place the mushrooms on a platter or plates, and serve with the r\u00e9moulade. **Serves 4 to 6**\n\n### Baked Brie\n\n**_This is a great party dish, and it's easy to make. Just be sure that you seal the puff pastry tightly around the edges so that the Brie cheese does not escape during baking. Feel free to experiment with other jellies, fruits, and nuts._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 sheets puff pastry (1-pound box), thawed\n\n  * 1 (2-pound) wheel Brie cheese\n\n  * \u00bd cup raspberry preserves\n\n  * \u00bd cup dried cherries\n\n  * \u00bd cup golden raisins\n\n  * \u00bd cup smoked pecans (page 204)\n\n  * 1 large egg, beaten\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nUnroll a sheet of puff pastry. Using a sharp knife, remove the rind from the top of the cheese. Discard the rind and place the whole cheese in the center of the unrolled sheet of puff pastry. Spread the top of the exposed cheese with the raspberry preserves and set aside.\n\nPlace the cherries, raisins, and pecans in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse on and off, until the fruit is coarsely chopped into small pieces.\n\nSpread the fruit mixture evenly over the top of the preserves. Unroll the remaining sheet of puff pastry and place it on top of the cheese. Tuck the edges of the puff pastry under and press to seal, trimming any excess.\n\nMix the egg and water in a small bowl. Use a pastry brush to brush the egg wash over the top and sides of the puff pastry. Transfer the cheese, wrapped in its puff pastry, to a cold Baking Stone. Using barbecue mitts, place the Baking Stone on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 25 minutes, or until golden brown.\n\nUsing a large spatula, transfer the baked Brie to a platter and let cool for 5 minutes before serving. **Serves 8**\n\n### Moussaka\n\n**_Although this eggplant and meat dish is served throughout the Middle East, it is the Greek version that is most familiar._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 pounds eggplant, unpeeled, sliced \u00bc inch thick\n\n  * \u00bd cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Filling**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 pound ground beef or lamb\n\n  * 1 cup chopped yellow onions\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon dried oregano\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 1 teaspoon granulated sugar\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 2 tablespoons tomato paste\n\n  * \u00bd cup tomato sauce\n\n  * \u00bc cup red wine\n\n  * 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Mornay Sauce**\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1/3 cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 2 cups whole milk\n\n  * 1 cup heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup shredded Gruy\u00e8re cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup shredded Gruy\u00e8re cheese (2 ounces)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Baking Stone, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 375\u00b0F.**\n\nTo prepare the eggplant, brush the eggplant with olive oil and season lightly with pepper. Place the eggplant slices on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 2 minutes on each side, or until softened and brown. Transfer the eggplant onto a rimmed sheet pan. Set aside.\n\nTo make the filling, melt the butter in a large saut\u00e9 pan on the stovetop and cook the meat, onions, garlic, oregano, cinnamon, sugar, and nutmeg over medium heat, until the meat is thoroughly cooked. Add the tomato paste, tomato sauce, wine, vinegar, salt, and pepper. Stir well and cook for 1 minute. Set aside.\n\nTo make the Mornay sauce, melt the butter in a medium saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat, add the flour, and cook for 1 minute. Add the milk and cream. Simmer on medium heat for 5 minutes, or until thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and add the Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, the Gruy\u00e8re cheese, and the nutmeg. Season the sauce with salt and white pepper. Set aside.\n\nTo assemble, arrange half of the eggplant over the bottom of the oiled baking dish. Spread the meat mixture evenly over the eggplant, pour the sauce evenly over the top, and sprinkle with the remaining cheeses.\n\nPlace the Baking Stone on top of the Plate Setter and set the baking dish on top of the Baking Stone. Close the lid of the EGG and bake for 35 minutes, or until light golden brown in color. Remove the baking dish and let the moussaka rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Sausage & Mushroom Quiche\n\n**_Quiche is a classic French custard-based tart made from eggs and cream. There are many different types of quiche, with the bacon-laden quiche Lorraine being the most popular. This version is heartier, with the addition of sausage, mushrooms, and three kinds of cheese that bake to perfection in the EGG. This dish freezes well, so make an extra quiche or two for later use._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n  * 8 ounces sausage, crumbled\n\n  * 4 cups sliced white mushrooms (8 ounces)\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1/3 cup cream cheese, at room temperature (2 to 3 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup ricotta cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 1 tablespoon baking powder\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 7 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * 2 cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese (8 ounces)\n\n  * 1 cup shredded extra-sharp Cheddar cheese (4 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 cup thinly sliced scallions (about 6)\n\n  * 1 (9-inch) pie shell (page 223)\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nMelt the butter in a large skillet on the stovetop over medium heat, add the sausage, and saut\u00e9 for 4 to 6 minutes, until the sausage is browned. Add the mushrooms and saut\u00e9 for 3 to 4 minutes, until the mushrooms are tender. Season with the black pepper and stir well. Remove the pan from the heat to cool.\n\nIn a large bowl, using an electric mixer, combine the cream cheese, ricotta cheese, flour, baking powder, and salt on low speed. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, and continue mixing until they are completely incorporated. Using a wooden spoon or spatula, stir in the sausage mixture, Monterey Jack cheese, Cheddar cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, cream, and scallions. Pour the mixture into the pie shell.\n\nSet the pie plate on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 35 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove the quiche from the EGG and let rest for 10 minutes before serving. **Serves 6**\n\n### Spatchcocked Chicken\n\n**_This is an easy method and a great way to prepare a whole chicken without cutting it into pieces. To spatchcock a chicken, remove the backbone. The chicken then opens like a book, so that it lies perfectly flat when grilled. This recipe would be terrific served with Barbecued Baked Beans (page 156) and grilled corn on the cob (page 182)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (4 to 5-pound) chicken\n\n  * 6 cups water\n\n  * \u00bd cup kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 5 cloves garlic, crushed\n\n  * 10 whole cloves\n\n  * 3 tablespoons canola oil\n\n  * \u00bc cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * \u00bd cup KC Barbecue Sauce (page 192)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, hickory chips, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 300\u00b0F without the Grid.**\n\nCut the chicken, from the neck down, along both sides of the backbone. Then remove the backbone, so that the chicken lies flat. Combine the water, salt, sugar, garlic, and cloves in a large bowl. Whisk until the salt and sugar are dissolved. Place the chicken in a large resealable plastic bag and pour the brine over the chicken. Place the bag inside a bowl or pan and refrigerate overnight.\n\nRemove the chicken from the brine and discard the brine. Rinse well and pat dry. Brush the chicken with the canola oil and season with the barbecue rub.\n\nPlace 1 cup of hickory chips in a large bowl. Cover with water and soak for 1 hour. Scatter the hickory chips over the preheated charcoal and let the chips smoke for a few minutes. Spray the Grid with cooking spray and, using barbecue mitts, place it on the EGG.\n\nPlace the chicken, skin side down, on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 20 minutes, checking occasionally. Turn the chicken over and brush it liberally with one-third of the barbecue sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 10 minutes. Turn the chicken over and brush it with the barbecue sauce. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for another 20 minutes. Then continue basting every 5 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 165\u00b0F.\n\nTransfer the chicken to a platter, baste with barbecue sauce, and let the chicken rest for 10 minutes. Carve and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Seafood Paella\n\n**_There are many variations of this Spanish saffron rice dish, some including pork, chicken, or chorizo. This version is made exclusively with seafood, but this is a great dish to experiment with, as the combinations of meat and shellfish are endless. You can also try adding artichokes or diced tomatoes. There are special pans for making paella, but the Dutch Oven does an amazing job._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * \u00bd pound large sea scallops\n\n  * 1 cup diced yellow onions\n\n  * \u00bd cup diced red bell pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n  * 2 cups Arborio rice\n\n  * 1 cup white wine\n\n  * 1 cup clam juice\n\n  * 3 \u00bd cups chicken stock\n\n  * 1 teaspoon saffron\n\n  * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika\n\n  * 1 pound littleneck clams, scrubbed\n\n  * 1 pound mussels, scrubbed and beards removed\n\n  * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, tails left on\n\n  * 1 cup fresh or frozen peas\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 lemons, cut into wedges\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nPour the oil into the Dutch Oven, add the scallops, and saut\u00e9 for 1 minute. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the scallops to a small bowl and set aside. Add the onions, bell pepper, and garlic to the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Saut\u00e9 for 1 minute, until the onions are translucent and the peppers are tender. Add the rice, wine, clam juice, chicken stock, saffron, and paprika, and stir well. Place the lid on the Dutch Oven and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 12 minutes, or until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is cooked.\n\nAdd the clams, place the lid on the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 5 minutes. Add the mussels and shrimp. Cook until the mussels are open and the shrimp are opaque. Remove the Dutch Oven.\n\nStir in the reserved scallops, peas, parsley, and lemon juice. Discard any unopened clams or mussels. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with lemon wedges and serve. **Serves 6**\n\n### Shrimp Fra Diavolo\n\n**_You and your guests are sure to love this dish! It is made with Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce, but if you want it even hotter, turn up the heat by adding extra red chile flakes._ Diavolo _is Italian for \"devil,\" referring to the heat and color of this red sauce._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound spaghetti\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and tails removed\n\n  * 1 cup diced tomatoes \u00bd cup dry white wine\n\n  * 3 cups Spicy San Marzano Tomato Sauce (page 200)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nCook the spaghetti according to the package directions, reserving \u00bd cup of the cooking water. Let the pasta cool completely and set aside. Pour the olive oil into the Dutch Oven, add the shrimp, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for 1 minute. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the cooked shrimp to a small bowl and let cool. Add the tomatoes to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and saut\u00e9 for 1 minute. Add the white wine, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking until the wine is reduced by half. Add the tomato sauce and the reserved pasta water, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 minutes, or until the sauce begins to simmer. Add the spaghetti and the reserved shrimp, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 more minutes, or until the pasta is thoroughly heated. Remove the Dutch Oven.\n\nAdd the lemon juice and chopped basil to the pasta and sauce. Stir gently. Season with salt and pepper and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n_\"This is the best outdoor cooker I have ever used. Nothing else even comes close. Everything turns out perfect!\" \u2013_ Larry, Georgia\n\n### Maple-Smoked Salmon\n\n**_This salmon gets the royal treatment. Marinated overnight and then cooked on cedar planks for a smoky flavor, it turns out moist and delicious. Horseradish is added to this marinade to give the salmon some zing. Make sure that the prepared horseradish is fresh and that you use real maple syrup to maximize the flavors._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Marinade**\n\n  * 1 cup maple syrup\n\n  * \u00bc cup prepared horseradish\n\n  * \u00bc cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 to 2 lemons)\n\n  * 4 (5-ounce) salmon fillets\n\n  * 2 tablespoons canola oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 2 cedar planks**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, use a whisk to combine the maple syrup, horseradish, and lemon juice in a small bowl. Place the fillets in a resealable plastic bag, pour the marinade over the fillets, and seal the bag tightly. Refrigerate for 24 hours, turning occasionally.\n\nPlace the cedar planks in a large pan, cover with water, and soak for 1 hour.\n\nRemove the cedar planks from the water and place them on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and allow the cedar planks to heat for 3 minutes. Turn the cedar planks over, close the lid of the EGG, and continue heating. Brush each cedar plank with canola oil. Remove the salmon fillets from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place 2 salmon fillets on each cedar plank and season the fillets with salt and pepper. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the desired doneness is reached.\n\nTransfer the salmon fillets to a platter and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Triple-Treat Tacos\n\n**_This recipe takes tacos to a whole new level. There is something for everyone\u2014steak, chicken, and shrimp\u2014all served in corn tortillas. These have just the right amount of heat and smokiness. All you need is guacamole and margaritas!_**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 3 ancho chile peppers\n\n  * 1 cup hot water\n\n  * 2 chipotle peppers in adobo\n\n  * \u00bd cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 teaspoon dried oregano\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cumin\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground cloves\n\n  * 2 bay leaves\n\n  * 5 cloves garlic\n\n  * 1 teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 pound boneless sirloin steak, cut in half lengthwise\n\n  * 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts\n\n  * 1 pound large shrimp, peeled, deveined, and tails removed\n\n  * 12 corn tortillas\n\n  * \u00bd cup corn oil\n\n  * Crumbled queso fresco, minced yellow onions, cilantro leaves, Mexican green sauce (optional)\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the ancho chiles in a small bowl, pour the water over the chiles, cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and let steam for 10 minutes. Strain the chiles over a bowl, reserving \u00bd cup of the water for the marinade. Place the rehydrated ancho chiles, the chipotle peppers, olive oil, reserved water from the ancho chiles, the oregano, cumin, cinnamon, cloves, bay leaves, garlic, and salt into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Process the ingredients until they are pureed.\n\nPlace the steak, chicken, and shrimp in 3 separate resealable plastic bags. Divide the marinade into thirds and pour one-third into each bag. Seal all of the bags tightly and refrigerate for 8 to 12 hours.\n\nRemove the steak, chicken, and shrimp from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the chicken on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill the chicken for 8 minutes per side, or until the juices run clear. Transfer the chicken to a rimmed sheet pan, place the steak on the Grid, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 4 minutes per side, or until medium-rare. Transfer the steak to the sheet pan, place the shrimp on the Grid, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1 minute per side. Transfer the shrimp to the rimmed sheet pan.\n\nCut the steak and chicken into bite-size pieces. Cut each shrimp into small pieces (in half or in thirds, depending on the size of the shrimp). Cover the steak, chicken, and shrimp with aluminum foil until ready to serve.\n\nBrush the corn tortillas on both sides with the corn oil. Place the tortillas on the Grid and grill for 10 seconds per side, until heated. Transfer the tortillas to a sheet of aluminum foil and keep the tortillas tightly wrapped until ready to serve.\n\nPlace the steak, chicken, and shrimp on a platter with the warm tortillas. Serve with the cheese, onions, cilantro, and sauce. **Serves 4 to 6**\n\n### Asian Marinated Flank Steak\n\n**_You can easily find chili garlic sauce, one of the ingredients in this recipe, in the ethnic foods section of your local grocery store. If you like your sauce good and hot, just bump up the amount of chili garlic sauce._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * \u00bd cup soy sauce\n\n  * \u00bd cup pineapple juice\n\n  * \u00bd cup canola oil\n\n  * \u00bd cup sliced scallions\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped fresh ginger\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon five-spice powder\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chili garlic sauce\n\n  * 1 (2-pound) flank steak\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 600\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a whisk, mix the soy sauce, pineapple juice, canola oil, scallions, ginger, garlic, five-spice powder, and chili garlic sauce in a small bowl. Place the flank steak in a large resealable plastic bag, pour the marinade over the steak, and seal the bag tightly. Refrigerate for 24 hours, turning occasionally.\n\nRemove the flank steak from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the steak on the Grid. Close the lid of the EGG and grill the steak for 3 to 4 minutes on each side for medium-rare.\n\nTransfer the flank steak to a platter and let it rest for 5 minutes. Slice and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### All-American Burgers\n\n**_This is your good old classic American hamburger. Barbecue spice is added for more flavor, but the real star is the meat, so be sure to buy the best quality available. Serve these burgers with Warm Southwestern Potato Salad (page 166) and fresh Grilled Corn with Roasted Garlic Butter (page 182)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 pound ground chuck\n\n  * 1 pound ground round\n\n  * \u00bc cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 4 hamburger buns\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 650\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the ground chuck, ground round, barbecue rub, salt, and pepper into a large bowl and combine. Form the beef mixture into 4 equal patties 1 inch thick. Place the patties on a rimmed sheet pan. Let the patties sit at room temperature for 30 minutes before grilling. Place the patties on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Sear for 3 minutes. Turn the burgers over, close the lid of the EGG, and sear for another 3 minutes for medium-rare. Transfer the hamburgers to a plate. Let the hamburgers rest for 5 minutes.\n\nPlace the hamburger buns on the Grid, cut side down, for 30 seconds. Transfer the hamburger buns to a platter. Place a hamburger in each bun and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Chutney-Glazed Beef Brisket\n\n**_If not cooked properly, brisket tends to be a tough cut of meat. Topped with sweet and spicy mango chutney, this brisket is best cooked low and slow to ensure tenderness. When slicing the brisket, always be sure to slice against the grain; otherwise, the meat will be stringy. Leftover brisket is great shredded and turned into barbecue beef sandwiches. Try it with Fennel Slaw (page 90)._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1\u00bd cups mango chutney\n\n  * 1 cup apple cider vinegar\n\n  * 1 cup tomato sauce\n\n  * \u00bd cup ketchup\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed brown sugar\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce\n\n  * 1 (6-pound) beef brisket\n\n  * 2 cups white vinegar\n\n  * \u00be cup Tricolor Pepper Rub (page 197)\n\n  * 2 cups Beer Mop (page 196)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 200\u00b0F.**\n\nMix the chutney, apple cider vinegar, tomato sauce, ketchup, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce in a medium bowl, until all the ingredients are combined, and set aside. Place the brisket in a large bowl, pour the white vinegar over the brisket, and let the brisket sit for 5 minutes. Transfer the brisket to a rimmed sheet pan and season all over with the pepper rub.\n\nPlace the brisket on the preheated grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 30 minutes, mopping with the beer mop every 15 minutes. Turn the brisket over and close the lid of the EGG. Mopping every 15 minutes, cook for another 30 minutes, or until the brisket is brown. Transfer the brisket to a rimmed sheet pan lined with aluminum foil.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nPour the chutney mixture over the brisket, wrap with the foil, and seal tightly. Place the brisket on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Continue to cook for 4 hours, or until the brisket is very tender. Transfer the brisket to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 10 minutes, still in the foil.\n\nRemove the foil, slice the brisket against the grain, and place on a platter. Serve immediately. **Serves 8**\n\n### EGGfest Chili\n\n**_This recipe was inspired by one of the original EGGheads, who was very instrumental in organizing the first EGGtoberfest. This version of the recipe is slightly elaborated. All you need is a bowl of this satisfying chili, some buttery cornbread (page 219), and a few good friends to share it with to understand what the EGG is all about._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 6 ounces applewood-smoked bacon (about 7 slices)\n\n  * 2 cups diced yellow onions\n\n  * 2 cups diced celery\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 2 pounds ground chuck\n\n  * \u00bc cup Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * \u00bc cup chili powder\n\n  * 2 tablespoons ground cumin\n\n  * 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder\n\n  * 2 teaspoons dried oregano\n\n  * 1 \u00bd cups beef stock\n\n  * 2 (28-ounce) cans diced tomatoes\n\n  * 2 (14-ounce) cans pinto beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * 1 (14-ounce) can kidney beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * 1 (14-ounce) can cannellini beans, drained and rinsed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar\n\n  * Tabasco sauce\n\n  * 2 chipotle peppers in adobo\n\n  * Grated Cheddar cheese, thinly sliced scallions, and sour cream (optional)\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, pecan chips**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace 2 cups of pecan chips in a large bowl, cover with water, and let soak for 1 hour.\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the grid and preheat for 10 minutes.\n\nAdd the bacon to the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a small bowl lined with paper towels. Set aside. Place the onions, celery, and garlic in the Dutch Oven, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until soft. Add the ground chuck, barbecue rub, chili powder, cumin, cinnamon, cocoa powder, and oregano and stir well. Close the lid of the EGG and cook until the meat is cooked through and lightly browned. Add the beef stock, tomatoes, all the beans, and the vinegar, mixing until thoroughly combined. Season with Tabasco sauce. Add the chipotle peppers and stir gently. Remove the Dutch Oven from the grill.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid. Scatter the pecan chips over the coals and add the Plate Setter, legs down.\n\nPlace the uncovered Dutch Oven on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Reduce the heat of the EGG to 300\u00b0F. Cook for 1\u00bd to 2 hours, until the meat is thoroughly cooked and the chili has a smoky flavor. Using a slotted spoon, carefully remove the chipotles and discard. Close the lid of the EGG and continue to cook the chili uncovered for 30 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened. Remove the Dutch Oven.\n\nServe the chili with the cheese, scallions, and sour cream. **Serves 8 to 10**\n\n### Beef Wellington\n\n**_A traditional beef Wellington is a tenderloin that is coated in p\u00e2t\u00e9 de foie gras and duxelles, surrounded in puff pastry, and baked, but here, the p\u00e2t\u00e9 is omitted. Having the butcher trim the meat for you will make this dish easier to prepare. Duxelles is made by cooking mushrooms in butter with shallots and garlic until the water from the mushrooms has completely evaporated. The duxelles is then spread on the puff pastry before it is wrapped around the tenderloin and baked. Duxelles can be made with any type of mushroom._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (4 to 5-pound) beef tenderloin, trimmed and tied\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * **Duxelles**\n\n  * 4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n  * 1 pound baby bella (cremini) or small white mushrooms, finely chopped\n\n  * \u00bc cup minced shallots\n\n  * 2 tablespoons minced garlic\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n  * 2 large eggs\n\n  * 8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature\n\n  * 1 tablespoon water\n\n  * 2 sheets puff pastry (1-pound box), thawed\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Plate Setter, Baking Stone, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 500\u00b0F.**\n\nBrush the tenderloin with the olive oil and season all over with the salt and pepper. Place the tenderloin on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Sear for 2 to 3 minutes per side, until the whole tenderloin has been seared. Transfer the tenderloin to a rimmed sheet pan and let cool.\n\nUsing the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, carefully remove the grid and add the Plate Setter, legs down. Reduce the heat of the EGG to 425\u00b0F.\n\nTo make the duxelles, place the butter, mushrooms, shallots, garlic, and thyme in a large saut\u00e9 pan on the stovetop over medium heat. Cook for 10 to 15 minutes, until all the excess liquid from the mushrooms has evaporated. Remove the pan from the heat, add the parsley, and stir well. Let cool completely. Using a wooden spoon, beat 1 of the eggs in a large bowl, then add the cheese and the cooled mushroom mixture and stir well. Set aside.\n\nTo assemble, use a whisk or fork to beat the remaining egg with the water in a small bowl, until frothy. Set aside. Unroll the 2 sheets of puff pastry onto a lightly floured surface. Overlap the 2 short ends of the pastry and, using a rolling pin, roll the 2 pastry sheets together into a 12 by 20-inch rectangle. Spread the duxelles evenly over one of the joined pastry sheets, leaving a 2-inch border on the edges. Place the whole tenderloin on the duxelles, parallel to the short end of the pastry sheet. Starting at the duxellecoated end of the pastry, roll the pastry with the tenderloin halfway and then brush all the exposed borders with the egg wash. Continue to roll the tenderloin, using all of the puff pastry. Seal both ends by tucking the ends of the pastry under. Brush the entire pastry with the egg wash.\n\nTransfer the tenderloin to the cold Baking Stone and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until the instant read thermometer registers 135\u00b0F. Transfer the tenderloin to a rimmed sheet pan. Let cool for 15 minutes. Slice and serve. **Serves 8**\n\n### Pork Crown Roast\n\n**_The crown roast is formed using the rib section of the loin. The reason for its name is apparent because once tied in a circle, it resembles a crown. The center is usually filled with a stuffing before the roast is baked. Because of the elaborate presentation, a crown roast makes a perfect holiday or special-occasion dinner._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 1 (8 to 9-pound) pork crown roast\n\n  * \u00bd cup Dijon mustard\n\n  * 1 pound ground pork-sage sausage\n\n  * 8 cups quartered small white mushrooms\n\n  * 2 cups diced yellow onions\n\n  * 1 cup diced celery\n\n  * 1 cup peeled and diced Granny Smith apple\n\n  * 1 cup chicken stock\n\n  * 1 large egg, beaten\n\n  * 4 cups plain croutons\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Dutch Oven, V-Rack, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nUsing a basting brush, cover the crown roast, both inside and outside, with the mustard and set aside. Brown the sausage, mushrooms, onions, celery, and apple in the Dutch Oven on the stovetop over medium-high heat, until caramelized. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the mixture to a medium bowl and let cool. Using a wooden spoon, stir the chicken stock and the beaten egg together in a large bowl, add the croutons, and continue to mix. Add the sausage mixture to the croutons and combine until all the ingredients are thoroughly blended.\n\nPut the stuffing in the center of the crown roast and cover the top of the roast with aluminum foil. Place the roast in the V-Rack and put the V-Rack in the Drip Pan. Set the Drip Pan on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 1\u00bd hours. Remove the foil, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 to 45 minutes longer, until the instant read thermometer registers 145\u00b0F. Remove the roast from the heat and let rest for 15 minutes. Slice and serve. **Serves 8**\n\n### Caribbean-Style Pork Tenderloin\n\n**_A dry sherry is used in the marinade of this highly spiced dish. Sherry is a fortified wine that originated in the Andalusia region of Spain but is now made in other parts of the world. Mango nectar and hot peppers complement the sherry, giving this meat a sweet yet hot and spicy flavor._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Marinade**\n\n  * 1 ancho chile pepper\n\n  * 1 cup hot water\n\n  * 1 chipotle pepper in adobo\n\n  * 1 teaspoon jerk seasoning\n\n  * 1 cup mango nectar\n\n  * \u00bd cup dry sherry\n\n  * \u00bc cup canola oil\n\n  * 2 (1\u00bd to 2-pound) pork tenderloins\n\n  * **Sauce**\n\n  * 1 red bell pepper\n\n  * 1 large vine-ripened tomato\n\n  * 1 teaspoon saffron\n\n  * 1 teaspoon honey\n\n  * 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar\n\n  * 5 cloves roasted garlic (page 202)\n\n  * \u00bd cup mayonnaise\n\n  * \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, place the ancho chile in a small bowl and cover with the water. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let the chile sit for 10 minutes. Drain and place the ancho chile, chipotle pepper, jerk seasoning, mango nectar, sherry, and canola oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse for 30 seconds to blend. Place the pork tenderloins in a resealable plastic bag and pour the marinade over the pork. Seal the bag tightly and refrigerate for 8 to 12 hours, turning occasionally.\n\nTo make the sauce, place the bell pepper on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill, turning occasionally, until the pepper is roasted on all sides. Place the pepper in a resealable plastic bag and allow to steam. Place the tomato on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 2 to 3 minutes, until roasted and the skin begins to pull away. Place the roasted red pepper, grilled tomato, saffron, honey, vinegar, garlic, mayonnaise, and olive oil in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Let the food processor run until all of the ingredients are completely blended. Refrigerate until ready to serve.\n\nRemove the tenderloins from the marinade and discard the marinade. Season the tenderloins with salt and pepper. Place the tenderloins on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 5 to 6 minutes per side, until the instant read thermometer registers 145\u00b0F. Transfer the pork to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 10 minutes.\n\nSlice the pork. Place 2 tablespoons of sauce in the middle of each plate and top with the sliced pork. Serve immediately. **Serves 6**\n\n### Mediterranean Pork Tenderloins\n\n**_This dish requires that you butterfly the pork in order to stuff it. Don't be too intimidated to try this technique. Once you have mastered it, you will find it very easy. After it is butterflied, the pork is lined with grape leaves and stuffed with a blend of rice, olives, and Mediterranean spices. Grape leaves are often used in Greece and the Middle East to wrap around food before cooking. You may not be able to find these fresh, but your local grocery store will most likely sell brined grape leaves in jars._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 2 (1 to 1\u00bd-pound) pork tenderloins\n\n  * 8 to 10 grape leaves\n\n  * 1/3cup white rice, cooked\n\n  * \u00bd cup julienned oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes\n\n  * \u00bd cup crumbled feta cheese (2 ounces)\n\n  * \u00bc cup pitted kalamata olives\n\n  * \u00bc cup pitted manzanilla olives\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh basil leaves\n\n  * \u00bd cup firmly packed fresh oregano leaves\n\n  * 4 anchovy fillets\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n  * 1 tablespoon sweet paprika\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace each pork tenderloin on a cutting board and cut lengthwise three-quarters of the way through the pork. Open the tenderloins so that they lie flat. Place 4 or 5 grape leaves to cover the inside of each tenderloin.\n\nPlace the white rice, tomatoes, cheese, all the olives, the basil, oregano, anchovy fillets, lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons of the olive oil into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse briefly about 10 times, or until the ingredients are coarsely chopped. Carefully remove the steel blade. Using a spatula, spread half of the filling on each of the tenderloins. Close the tenderloins and tie them in place with butcher's twine. Brush each tenderloin with the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Rub with the paprika and season with salt and pepper.\n\nPlace each tenderloin on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 7 to 8 minutes per side, until the instant read thermometer registers 145\u00b0F. Transfer the tenderloins to a rimmed sheet pan and let rest for 10 minutes. Slice and serve. **Serves 6**\n\n### Bread Pudding with Figs & Pine Nuts\n\n**_Pine nuts, the seeds harvested from pine cones, and dried figs combine to make this hearty bread pudding. To top it off, it's served with a side of caramel sauce flavored with sambuca, an Italian anise-flavored liqueur. Bread pudding can be made with any variety of dried fruits and nuts, and any leftover bread can be used in place of the challah._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * 8 slices challah bread, 1 inch thick\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus 8 tablespoons butter, melted\n\n  * 2 cups whole milk\n\n  * 2 cups heavy cream\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 8 large eggs, beaten\n\n  * 1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon ground nutmeg\n\n  * 2 cups dried figs, quartered\n\n  * \u00bd cup pine nuts\n\n  * **Caramel Sauce**\n\n  * \u00bd cup granulated sugar\n\n  * 1 tablespoon light corn syrup\n\n  * \u00bc cup water\n\n  * \u00bd cup heavy cream\n\n  * 1 tablespoon sambuca\n\n  * 2 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, oiled 10 by 15-inch cookie sheet, oiled 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nPreheat a kitchen oven to 350\u00b0F. Spread one side of each slice of bread with the 2 tablespoons of room temperature butter. Place the bread buttered side up on the oiled cookie sheet and put the cookie sheet in the oven for 3 to 4 minutes, until the bread is lightly toasted. Let the bread cool, then cut into 1-inch cubes.\n\nUsing a wooden spoon, mix the milk, cream, sugar, the 8 tablespoons of melted butter, the eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, figs, and pine nuts in a large bowl and stir until completely combined. Add the bread and mix well until the bread is thoroughly coated. Cover and refrigerate for 6 to 8 hours or overnight.\n\nSpread the bread mixture evenly in the oiled baking dish. Place the baking dish on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Bake for 45 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove the bread pudding and let rest for 10 minutes.\n\nTo make the sauce, while the bread pudding is baking, heat the sugar, corn syrup, and water in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat for 6 to 8 minutes, until it is caramel in color. Add the cream, sambuca, and butter and whisk until smooth and creamy. Remove the pan from the heat and let cool for 15 minutes, then keep warm. Serve with the bread pudding. **Serves 6**\n\n_I cannot tell you how happy my family is with the Big Green Egg! Rain or snow, I enjoy getting it going in the middle of winter and just letting the aroma drift to my neighbors' yards.\"\u2014Doug, New York_\n\n# _eggsclusive!_  \nchefs & pitmasters\n\nrecipes\n\n  * Grilled Island Chicken with Tropical Salsa by Lee Ann Whippen\n\n  * Beer-Butt Chicken by Rick Browne\n\n  * Bourbon-Brined Barbecue Turkey by Steven Raichlen\n\n  * Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Peach Barbecue Drizzle by Ray Lampe\n\n  * Smoked Beef Short Ribs by Kevin Rathbun\n\n  * Brisket with Kale by Chef S. Dean Corbett\n\n  * Pepper-Crusted Rib-Eye with Morel Cognac Cream Sauce by Ken Hess\n\n  * Molten Chocolate Cake by Andy Husbands\n\n### Grilled Island Chicken with Tropical Salsa by Lee Ann Whippen\n\n**_Whippen's grilled chicken breasts are bathed for several hours in a coconut milk marinade before grilling, then topped with Tropical Salsa, turning chicken into a dish that family and guests will ask for repeatedly._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Marinade**\n\n  * 1 (14-ounce) can unsweetened coconut milk\n\n  * 3 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro\n\n  * \u215b teaspoon ground cinnamon\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes)\n\n  * 1 large jalape\u00f1o, seeded and minced\n\n  * 6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts\n\n  * **Tropical Salsa**\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped red onion\n\n  * \u00bd cup seeded and chopped tomato\n\n  * \u00bd cup chopped mango\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped green bell pepper\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped yellow bell pepper\n\n  * 1 tablespoon minced jalape\u00f1o\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon kosher salt\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon chili powder\n\n  * 2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice (1 to 2 limes) 1 tablespoon honey\n\n  * Lime wedges for garnish\n\n  * Cilantro sprigs for garnish\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the marinade, using a whisk, mix the coconut milk, cilantro, cinnamon, lime juice, and jalape\u00f1o in a small bowl. Place the chicken breasts in a large shallow dish and pour the marinade over the chicken to cover. Cover the dish with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours.\n\nTo make the salsa, toss the onion, tomato, mango, green bell pepper, yellow bell pepper, jalape\u00f1o, salt, chili powder, lime juice, and honey in a medium bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.\n\nRemove the chicken breasts from the marinade and discard the marinade. Place the chicken on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for 10 to 12 minutes per side, until the instant read thermometer reads 160\u00b0F. Transfer the chicken to a rimmed sheet pan.\n\nPlace the chicken breasts on plates and top with the salsa. Garnish each plate with lime wedges and a sprig of cilantro. **Serves 6**\n\n### Beer-Butt Chicken by Rick Browne\n\n**People _magazine dubbed Browne \"The Godfather of Beer-Butt Chicken,\" but he humbly admits that he borrowed the technique from a barbecue contest competitor. However, Rick was the first in the country to publish the recipe and to prepare it on national television. When you try this fascinating, fun, and delicious way to cook a chicken, you'll want to serve it again and again._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Rub**\n\n  * 1 teaspoon brown sugar\n\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon onion powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon dried summer savory\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon cayenne pepper\n\n  * 1 teaspoon chili powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon sweet paprika\n\n  * 1 teaspoon dry mustard\n\n  * 1 tablespoon sea salt or kosher salt\n\n  * 1 (4 to 5-pound) chicken\n\n  * 1 (12-ounce) can beer\n\n  * 1 cup apple cider\n\n  * 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, 1 (12-ounce) beer can or \"Sittin' Chicken\" Ceramic Roaster, 9 by 13-inch Drip Pan, spray bottle,**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 375\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the rub, combine the brown sugar, garlic powder, onion powder, summer savory, cayenne pepper, chili powder, paprika, mustard, and salt in a small bowl. Stir until incorporated. Apply the rub all over the chicken, even inside the cavity. Work the mixture gently into the skin and under the skin wherever possible. Cover the chicken and set aside at room temperature for 30 minutes.\n\nPour half of the beer into the spray bottle. Add the apple cider, olive oil, and vinegar and set aside. If using the Ceramic Roaster, pour the remaining beer into the cavity of the Roaster and slide the chicken onto the Roaster, through the tail end. If using the beer can, slide the chicken down over the can.\n\nPlace the chicken, still on the Roaster, on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook, using the spray bottle to baste the chicken once or twice, for 20 minutes, or until the chicken is just beginning to brown all over. Carefully lift the chicken (still on the Roaster) into the Drip Pan and close the lid of the EGG. Cook, spraying the chicken with the basting spray several times, for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until the internal temperature of the thigh reaches 170\u00b0F and the chicken is a mahogany brown color. Using barbecue mitts, remove the chicken and present it on the Roaster to your guests. After they have reacted appropriately, remove the chicken from the Roaster. Be careful: The can and the liquid inside are very hot.\n\nSpray the chicken once more with the basting spray, cover with foil, and let rest for 10 minutes. Carve and serve. **Serves 4**\n\n### Bourbon-Brined Barbecue Turkey by Steven Raichlen\n\n**_Raichlen's Bourbon-Brined Barbecue Turkey owes its superb taste and wonderfully moist meat to a generous marinade injection of chicken stock, bourbon, and butter, and a zippy spice mixture. Apple chips and natural lump charcoal add another flavor dimension. You'll be proud to bring this burnished bird to the table._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Injector Sauce**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * 2 tablespoons salted butter\n\n  * 1/3 cup chicken stock, preferably homemade, or low-sodium store-bought, at room temperature\n\n  * 2 tablespoons bourbon\n\n  * 1 (8 to 10-pound) turkey\n\n  * 2 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons Basic Barbecue Rub (page 196)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, Drip Pan, porcelain coated grid, apple chips, marinade injector, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 350\u00b0F without the Plate Setter.**\n\nPlace the apple chips in a large bowl and cover with water. Soak for at least 1 hour. Drain and scatter over the preheated charcoal. Place the Plate Setter, legs up, in the EGG, set the Drip Pan on the Plate Setter, and set the grid on top.\n\nTo make the injector sauce, if the rub has any coarse bits or spices, finely grind it in a spice mill or coffee grinder so it doesn't clog the injector. Melt the butter in a small saucepan on the stovetop. Using a whisk, add the chicken stock, bourbon, and the rub and mix well. Let cool to room temperature.\n\nRemove the neck and giblets from the turkey and reserve for another use. Remove and discard the fat just inside the cavities of the turkey. Rinse the turkey inside and out under cold running water, then blot dry inside and out with paper towels. Season the inside of the cavities with 2 tablespoons of the rub. Fill the injector with the injector sauce. To do this, push the plunger all the way down, place the tip of the needle in the sauce, and slowly draw the plunger up. The syringe will fill with sauce. Inject the sauce directly into the turkey breast, thighs, and drumsticks. Don't be surprised if a little sauce squirts out; this is okay. Discard the remainder of the injector sauce. Trussing the turkey is optional, but it will give the bird a more dignified appearance. Brush the outside of the turkey with the melted butter and sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons rub all over the turkey, patting it on the skin with your fingertips.\n\nPlace the turkey, breast side up, in the center of the grid, over the Drip Pan, and close the lid of the EGG. Cook the turkey until the skin is nicely browned and the meat is cooked through, about 2 to 2\u00bd hours. To check for doneness, the instant read thermometer should be inserted in the thickest part of a thigh, not touching bone, and should register 165\u00b0F. If the wing tips start to burn, cover them loosely with aluminum foil; if the skin starts to darken too fast, cover the bird loosely with foil.\n\nTransfer the grilled turkey to a platter, cover loosely with foil, and let the turkey rest for 10 minutes. Remove any trussing from the turkey. Carve and serve. **Serves 10**\n\n### Coffee-Rubbed Pork Tenderloin with Peach Barbecue Drizzle by Ray Lampe\n\n**_If you've never used coffee in a rub, you're in for a real treat with this coffee-rubbed pork tenderloin. Quick and easy to prepare, it's served with Peach Barbecue Drizzle, which relies on peach preserves. Add grilled peaches on the side for a colorful and tasty presentation if desired. This is sure to be added to your list of favorite recipes._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Coffee Rub**\n\n  * 2 tablespoons ground coffee\n\n  * 1 tablespoon turbinado sugar (coarse, raw sugar)\n\n  * 1 tablespoon chili powder\n\n  * 1\u00bd teaspoons table salt\n\n  * 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 2 (1-pound) pork tenderloins\n\n  * 1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n  * **Peach Barbecue Drizzle**\n\n  * 1 \u00bd cups peach preserves\n\n  * \u00bd cup ketchup\n\n  * 2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar\n\n  * 2 tablespoons light brown sugar\n\n  * \u00bc teaspoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 400\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the rub, combine the coffee, sugar, chili powder, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Mix well and set aside. Trim the fat and silver skin from the tenderloins. Brush the tenderloins with the olive oil and season liberally with the rub. Let the meat rest for 10 minutes before cooking.\n\nTo make the drizzle sauce, mix the preserves, ketchup, vinegar, brown sugar, and pepper in a small saucepan. Place the pan on the stovetop over medium heat and cook for 3 minutes. Transfer the sauce to a bowl and let cool.\n\nPlace the tenderloins on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 5 to 6 minutes, until browned. Turn the meat, close the lid of the EGG, and continue cooking for another 5 to 6 minutes, until the meat is brown on all sides. Cook until the instant read thermometer reads 140\u00b0F. Transfer the meat to a platter and tent loosely with aluminum foil. Let the tenderloins rest for 5 minutes.\n\nSlice the meat thinly and serve drizzled with the sauce. **Serves 6**\n\n### Smoked Beef Short Ribs by Kevin Rathbun\n\n**_These smoked short ribs are a tribute to Rathbun's appetite for beef. He takes a once-lowly cut of meat and with innovative seasoning, hickory chips, and slow cooking turns it into tender, tasty fare, sure to please even the most discriminating palate. Ask the butcher to cut the short ribs 2 to 2\u00bd inches thick, because they shrink during cooking. And be prepared for everyone to ask for second helpings._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Rub**\n\n  * 1 teaspoon garlic powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon onion powder\n\n  * 1 teaspoon smoked Spanish paprika\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon cayenne pepper\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon dried thyme\n\n  * \u00bd teaspoon ground coriander\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\n  * 4 pounds bone-in beef short ribs, cut 2 to 2\u00bd inches thick\n\n  * 16 ounces lager beer\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * 2 cups white balsamic vinegar\n\n  * 4 tablespoons salted butter, cubed\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, hickory chips, 9 by 13-inch glass or ceramic baking dish**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 180\u00b0 to 200\u00b0F without the grid.**\n\nPlace the hickory chips in a small bowl, cover with water, and let soak for at least 1 hour. Drain and scatter over the preheated charcoal. Using barbecue mitts, place the grid in the EGG.\n\nTo make the rub, mix the garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, cayenne pepper, thyme, coriander, and salt in a small bowl. Generously rub the short ribs with the spices.\n\nPlace the ribs on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Let the ribs smoke for 1\u00bd to 2 hours.\n\nMix the beer and the chicken stock in a large bowl and set aside. Place the vinegar in a heavy-bottomed saucepan on the stovetop over medium heat for about 15 minutes, or until the liquid has reduced by half. Set aside.\n\nPreheat a kitchen oven to 375\u00b0F.\n\nOnce the short ribs have finished smoking, transfer the ribs to the baking dish and pour the beer and chicken stock mixture over the ribs. Cover the dish tightly with aluminum foil. Place in the preheated oven for 2\u00bd hours, or until the ribs are fork tender.\n\nWarm the reduced vinegar over low heat. Using a whisk, add the butter a little at a time, stirring constantly, until the butter is emulsified. Do not boil. Transfer the ribs to plates, top with the sauce, and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Brisket with Kale by Chef S. Dean Corbett\n\n**_Chef Corbett's brisket is coated with a spicy dry rub and refrigerated for twenty-four hours. It is then slow cooked to \"pit-barbecue tender\" and served with a kale side dish that gets its delicious, sweet flavor from applewood-smoked bacon, sweet onions, and brown sugar. This is upscale comfort food._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Rub**\n\n  * \u00bc cup Cavender's Greek Seasoning\n\n  * 1 tablespoon anise seed\n\n  * 1 teaspoon cumin seed\n\n  * 1 teaspoon coriander seed\n\n  * 1 teaspoon fennel seed\n\n  * 1 teaspoon mustard seed\n\n  * 1 tablespoon kosher salt\n\n  * 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * 1 (5-pound) beef brisket\n\n  * **Kale**\n\n  * 2 to 3 pounds kale, washed and dried\n\n  * 1 pound applewood-smoked bacon, minced\n\n  * 1 large sweet onion, chopped\n\n  * 1 cup rice wine vinegar\n\n  * 1\u215b cup (\u00bd pound) light brown sugar\n\n  * 2 cups chicken stock\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Porcelain coated grid, Grill Gripper, Plate Setter, Dutch Oven, instant read thermometer**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the porcelain coated grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 275\u00b0F.**\n\nTo make the rub, place the seasoning, anise seed, cumin seed, coriander seed, fennel seed, mustard seed, salt, and pepper in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse on and off until the spices are ground. Rub the spices generously over the entire brisket. Store any extra spice mixture for another use. Put the brisket on a tray, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 24 hours.\n\nPlace the brisket on the grid. Close the lid of the EGG and cook for 30 minutes. Turn the brisket over, close the lid of the EGG, and cook for 30 minutes longer. Remove the brisket and, using the Grill Gripper and barbecue mitts, remove the grid.\n\nSet the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter legs up and put the grid on top. Reduce the temperature to 225\u00b0F.\n\nPlace the brisket on the grid and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for about 6 hours, or until the instant read thermometer registers 190\u00b0F. Transfer to a rimmed sheet pan, cover with foil, and allow to rest briefly.\n\nTo prepare the kale, while the brisket is cooking, remove the center stalks from the kale leaves and discard. Coarsely chop the leaves. Place the bacon in the Dutch Oven on the stovetop and cook over medium heat to render the fat. Drain all but 2 tablespoons fat from the pan. Add the onion and saut\u00e9, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes, or until the onion is tender. Add the kale and cook briefly. Add the vinegar to deglaze the pan, then add the brown sugar and chicken stock. Season with salt and pepper and stir well. Continue cooking for 1\u00bd hours, or until the kale is wilted and flavorful.\n\nSlice the brisket against the grain and serve hot with the kale. **Serves 8 to 10**\n\n### Pepper-Crusted Rib-Eye with Morel Cognac Cream Sauce by Ken Hess\n\n**_If you're a steak lover, this tender, tasty rib-eye topped with a rich, creamy mushroom and Cognac sauce will surpass all of your expectations. When morels are not in season, substitute any available variety of mushrooms. Chopped shallots add a lovely, subtle flavor, but try ramps instead if you can find them; these wild green onions, abundant throughout the Appalachian Mountains in spring, are more readily found in produce sections today. If you don't think of yourself as a steak enthusiast, this mouthwatering combination will convert you._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * **Morel Cognac Cream Sauce**\n\n  * 1 tablespoon unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00bc cup morel mushrooms, quartered\n\n  * \u00bc cup chopped shallots or ramps\n\n  * 1 clove garlic, minced\n\n  * \u00bd cup cognac or brandy\n\n  * 2 cups heavy cream\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n  * Pinch of cayenne pepper\n\n  * 2 (1\u00bd-pound) bone-in rib-eye steaks\n\n  * Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper\n\n**Equipment: Cast Iron Grid, Dutch Oven or 12-inch cast iron skillet**\n\n**Set the EGG for direct cooking with the Cast Iron Grid.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 650\u00b0F.**\n\nPlace the Dutch Oven on the Grid and allow to preheat.\n\nPlace the butter in the Dutch Oven and cook until slightly brown. Once the butter is brown, add the mushrooms and saut\u00e9 until tender. Add the shallots and garlic and stir briefly. Carefully add the cognac\u2014it will ignite, so add it slowly, then step away from the EGG. Allow the cognac to burn off, then stir, and close the lid of the EGG. Continue cooking until the cognac reduces by two-thirds. Add the cream, stirring constantly for 3 to 4 minutes, until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon. Season the sauce with salt and pepper (if you add the salt too early, the sauce will become too salty as it reduces). Add a pinch of cayenne or more if desired. Cayenne will cut some of the richness of the cream. Keep the sauce warm on the stovetop over low heat.\n\nCoat both sides of the steaks with salt and pepper. Place the steaks on the Grid and close the lid of the EGG. Grill for about 6 minutes for medium-rare. When the steak is ready, transfer to a rimmed sheet pan and allow to rest.\n\nSlice the steaks against the grain \u00bc inch thick and place the slices on a platter or plates. Pour the sauce over the steaks and serve immediately. **Serves 4**\n\n### Molten Chocolate Cake by Andy Husbands\n\n**_Andy Husbands's exquisite molten chocolate cake with its rich, saucy center is one of the most spectacular desserts you'll ever taste and certainly not something you would expect to cook in a grill. Fortunately, it is also one of the easiest to prepare. Serve it hot before the liquid center congeals._**\n\n  * **Ingredients**\n\n  * Granulated sugar for dusting (about 1 cup)\n\n  * 1 cup unsalted butter\n\n  * \u00be cup plus 2 tablespoons bittersweet chocolate chips\n\n  * 4 large eggs\n\n  * 4 large egg yolks\n\n  * 1 teaspoon vanilla extract\n\n  * 2 cups confectioners' sugar\n\n  * \u00be cup all-purpose flour\n\n  * 2 cups heavy cream, whipped\n\n**Equipment: Plate Setter, 10 (8-ounce) glass or metal baking cups**\n\n**Set the EGG for indirect cooking with the Plate Setter, legs down.**\n\n**Preheat the EGG to 450\u00b0F.**\n\nSpray the baking cups with cooking spray and dust the entire inside with the granulated sugar. Set aside. Place the butter and chocolate in a saucepan on the stovetop over low heat, stirring frequently, until the chocolate is melted. Set aside and let cool for 10 minutes.\n\nPlace the eggs and egg yolks in the bowl of an electric mixer. Using the whisk attachment, beat on medium speed for 3 to 4 minutes, until light and ribbony. Add the vanilla and confectioners' sugar and beat for 1 minute more. Slowly add the melted chocolate and beat for 1 minute, then add the flour and beat for 1 more minute, or until just incorporated. Fill each baking cup three-quarters full. Refrigerate for a minimum of 30 minutes and up to 24 hours.\n\nPlace the cups on the Plate Setter and close the lid of the EGG. Cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until slightly firm to the touch. The cakes should be firm but not cooked all the way through.\n\nImmediately turn out onto individual plates and serve with whipped cream (see page 248). **Serves 10**\n\n# Chef & Pitmaster Biographies\n\n**Rick Browne** is the creator, host, and executive producer of public television's _Barbecue America_ and the author of a number of books, including _Grilling America_ and _The Frequent Fryer,_ and coauthor of _The Barbecue America Cookbook._ A writer, photographer, pitmaster, restaurant critic, and consultant, he is also a Doctor of Barbecue, holding an honorary Ph.B. (Doctor of Barbecue Philosophy) bestowed on him by the prestigious Kansas City Barbeque Society for his expertise and commitment to barbecue.\n\nBrowne serves as a spokesman for numerous corporations that have barbecue-related products and has spent many years researching barbecue across the United States and Canada by visiting festivals and barbecue restaurants and interviewing dozens of pitmasters. His work has been published in many magazines, including _Time, Newsweek, People,_ and _Reader's Digest,_ and he has appeared on _FOX & Friends,_ the _Today_ show, _Live with Regis & Kelly,_ and CNN. www.barbecueamerica.com\n\n**S. Dean Corbett** has polished his reputation of culinary excellence as a chef in Louisville, Kentucky's fine dining scene for more than twenty years. After turning his first restaurant, Equus, into one of the city's best restaurants, he launched Corbett's An American Place, which serves American cuisine in a beautifully restored farmhouse in northeast Louisville. Corbett's features a chef's interactive tasting room and a unique 150-year-old \"wineskeller.\"\n\nChef Corbett hosts _The Secrets of Louisville Chefs Live,_ a popular weekly television cooking show, as well as producing a line of gourmet products including seven sauces and three soups. He is recognized locally, giving back to the community via Equus's participation in many charity fund-raising events. Corbett is also heavily involved in efforts to support all local and regional farmers and purveyors. www.corbettsrestaurant.com\n\n**Ken Hess** earned a degree in hotel restaurant management before starting his training at the Culinary Institute of America. He began his career at the renowned Greenbrier Hotel and Resort in West Virginia as a culinary apprentice and ultimately became the catering and barbecue chef in charge of all on-property catering facilities. He was responsible for preparing repasts ranging from eight-course meals to a barbecue buffet for fourteen hundred guests. He was proud to perform several private cooking demonstrations for distinguished patron Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and her colleagues.\n\nOne of the Greenbrier's butchers nicknamed Hess \"Hoss\" after TV character Hoss Cartwright, whom he resembles, so when Hess formed his competition barbecue team it was an easy decision to name it Hoss's BBQ & Catering Company. His team has earned many coveted awards, including first place in the rib competition and Reserve Grand Champion. He credits his eclectic style to having lived in many areas of the country, picking up food traditions from each region. Chef Hess believes in keeping food simple in terms of seasonings, so that the natural taste of the food prevails. He loves smoking pizzas on his EGG, and while working at Greenbrier he often held parties at his house where chefs would gather, bringing their own ingredients and taking turns making pizzas throughout the night. www.theonlyhossbbq.com\n\n**Andy Husbands** is a chef and the proud owner of four very popular restaurants: Tremont 647, Sister Sorrel, and Rouge in Boston, and Kestral in Providence. He is known for his commitment to locally grown fresh ingredients, as well as his inventive approach to food. Teaming up with the writer Joe Yonan, Husbands's first cookbook, _The Fearless Chef: Innovative Recipes from the Edge of American Cuisine,_ became wildly successful. His honors and awards are too extensive to recount, but include being named Chef/Restaurateur of the Year in 2004 by the nation's leading hunger relief organization, Share Our Strength. In 2005 the National Pork Board recognized him as one of only five \"Celebrated Chefs\" in the country.\n\nHusbands, together with some good ole friends, participates in barbecue competitions under the team name iQue BBQ. They have won numerous championships including the Yahoo Cup for \"Team of the Year,\" a title they earned three times from the New England Barbecue Society. They were New Hampshire State Champions and Vermont State Champions, and took home the New England Regional BBQ Championship for two consecutive years. www.tremont647.com\n\n**Ray Lampe,** better known as Dr. BBQ, grew up in Chicago and spent twenty-five years in his family's trucking business. He participated in barbecue competition cook-offs as a hobby for many years, and when the time came for a career change, he jumped right into barbecue cooking and never looked back. Since then he has written five barbecue cookbooks, including _The NFL GameDay Cookbook,_ with others in the works. He is the executive chef at Southern Hospitality, a New York City barbecue restaurant, and he's the featured barbecue chef at the Greenbrier Resort in West Virginia.\n\nLampe travels the country as the \"spokeschef\" for the Big Green Egg, and frequently appears as a guest chef at food-related events. He has been featured in many newspapers and magazines and has appeared on more than a dozen TV shows on the Food Network, HGTV, CNN, and the Discovery Channel. www.drbbq.com\n\n**Steven Raichlen** is a multi-award-winning author, journalist, teacher, and television host. His best-selling books and public television shows\u2014 _Primal Grill_ and _Barbecue University_ \u2014have redefined American barbecue. Raichlen's twenty-eight books include _The Barbecue Bible, How to Grill,_ and _BBQ USA,_ and they have been translated into fifteen languages. His work has appeared in major food and travel magazines, including _National Geographic Traveler, Food & Wine,_ and _Bon Appetit._\n\nRaichlen founded Barbecue University, which now takes place at the Broadmoor resort in Colorado Springs. He has lectured on the history of barbecue at the Smithsonian Institution, the Library of Congress, and the National Press Club, and hosts a French TV show called _Le Maitre du Grill._ www.barbecuebible.com\n\n**Kevin Rathbun** is a widely acclaimed chef and restaurateur with a history of fine dining and entertainment that runs in his family. His mother spent thirty-five years operating fine restaurants in and around Kansas City, and his father, a jazz musician, entertained patrons at night. At the Rathbun home, steak was nightly fare and dinner was always a formal production with china, crystal, silver, and friends, followed by jam sessions that continued into the wee hours of the morning.\n\nAfter gaining years of experience working with many famous chefs in top restaurants and serving as Corporate Chef of the renowned Buckhead Life Restaurant Group in Atlanta, Rathbun opened Rathbun's in Atlanta in 2004. _Esquire_ magazine soon named it one of the Top New Restaurants in the Country. He has since added a second restaurant, Krog Bar, and, most recently, Kevin Rathbun Steak, which pays homage to the big-league steakhouses and continues his Kansas City heritage. Rathbun's awards, honors, TV appearances, and print feature stories are legendary, and include the _Today_ show, Food Network's _Iron Chef America, USA TODAY,_ and the _Wall Street Journal._ He admits that in his next life he would pursue his passion for designing restaurants. www.kevinrathbunsteak.com\n\n**Lee Ann Whippen** is a food expert extraordinaire who has been involved in every aspect of food preparation. President, owner, and pitmaster of Wood Chick's BBQ Restaurants & Catering Company in Chesapeake, Virginia, she is a former newspaper food columnist who spent fifteen years in hotel catering and management. She is a longtime barbecue competitor who has won multiple state grand championships, and as a Kansas City Barbeque Society-certified judge, she has tasted untold amounts of barbecued ribs, brisket, and other entries from the country's top-notch competitors. A popular guest with radio and TV hosts, as well as newspaper editors, Whippen was named the 2008 \"Food Network Throwdown Champ\" over Bobby Flay for Best Barbecue Pork. She has appeared on the _Today_ show and VERSUS Network and has been featured in _People_ magazine. www.woodchicksbbq.com\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\n**_This book is dedicated to a very special couple, Jack and Edie Fischer, without whose love and support the Big Green Egg business might not have existed, and hence this book would not have been written._**\n\nIt's been said it takes a village to raise a child; the same is true for publishing a cookbook. Many, many people lent their talents to this project, nurturing and incubating the newest \"EGG\" until it was ready to hatch into this beautiful book. Throughout the nearly two-year undertaking, the team has been immersed in everything EGG, the best part of which was tasting, and tasting again, some of the best food to ever grace a plate.\n\nThe Big Green Egg Company wishes to thank and gratefully acknowledge all of the following who have been instrumental in developing of the _Big Green Egg Cookbook._\n\nFirst and foremost, we recognize Ed Fisher, president and founder of the Big Green Egg Company, whose thirty-five years of dedication provided the reason for writing and producing this cookbook. His vision, passion, and unbridled enthusiasm for the EGG have helped it become the best and fastest-growing outdoor cooking appliance in the United States and beyond. It might be said that he is, at least indirectly, responsible for putting some pretty awesome meals on dinner tables across the country.\n\nJodi Burson, marketing manager for the company, assumed overall responsibility for the creation and production of this book, guiding its direction and implementation. Understanding the vital role this comprehensive work would play in providing assistance to existing and future EGG owners, Jodi enthusiastically supported and was involved in every aspect of bringing it to fruition. Regina Matthews, marketing resources coordinator, had the enviable task of chief recipe taster, and ably assisted the recipe development team and photographer.\n\nThe Big Green Egg staff is a close-knit family whose members make invaluable contributions to the company's success on a daily basis. Of course, they are all experienced EGGheads, so it is not surprising that since the book's inception they have been involved in and excited about the project. Under the leadership and watchful eye of Jim Nufer, vice president and general manager, employees have eagerly contributed their favorite recipes and ideas, managed to do a bit of tasting, offered encouragement, and prodded the team to deliver the finished book more quickly because they couldn't wait for it to be finished. Senior staff members Lou West, John Creel, Dave Furbish, and Bobby Cresap deserve special accolades.\n\nDonna Myers, after assisting the Big Green Egg Company for years with marketing as president of DHM Group, Inc., developed the idea and concept for the cookbook. Her vision was to share the exciting history of the EGG and the company with both new and experienced EGG owners and provide them a wealth of recipes designed specifically for the ceramic cooker. Donna pulled together the team that ultimately made the book a reality and supervised it from beginning to end. Patty Ross, DHM Group office manager, kept all the details in order. She spent countless hours distributing copies of many versions of the manuscript, tracking down information, attending to the many scheduling requirements, and ensuring that everything went smoothly.\n\nMany thanks go to our publisher at Andrews McMeel Publishing, Kirsty Melville. Her extensive experience in the cookbook field guided the entire team as the book took shape. Andrews McMeel cookbook editor Jean Lucas maintained a strong liaison with the recipe development team and packager throughout the many months of book development.\n\nBook packager Jennifer Barry creatively designed and produced the book, which was a considerable undertaking. Jennifer was responsible for turning the extensive information, recipes, and photographs into book format, as well as overseeing production, photography, and editing, with the ultimate goal of making the book attractive and user-friendly for readers. Assisting her were production artist Kristen Hall, designer Leslie Barry, copyeditor Leslie Evans, and Editcetera editorial services, all of whom helped in innumerable ways to bring the work to completion.\n\nSara Levy, recipe author, with tremendous creativity, energy, and culinary talent, developed the incredible array of innovative recipes, from appetizers to entr\u00e9es to desserts, which showcased every aspect of cooking in the Big Green Egg and used EGGcessories\u2122 that are available to enhance EGG cooking. Sara, with her accomplished assistants, Bree Williams and Bryan Hartness, was responsible for recipe testing to ensure each dish turned out perfectly every time and was also the food stylist who produced the picture-perfect food for photography. The hard work and dedication over many months by Sara and her assistants contributed enormously to the quality of the _Big Green Egg Cookbook._\n\nLisa Mayer skillfully wrote the entire front end of the book, a labor of love considering her twenty-year knowledge of the barbecue industry, her familiarity with Big Green Egg as a company, and her fondness for cooking in the EGG. She helped explain the uniqueness of the EGG as a cooker and the phenomenon of the Big Green Egg Company, and translated the enthusiasm of its users and fans into text!\n\nMark O'Tyson, our talented food photographer, created photographs of more than one hundred of the recipes, which are sure to make readers want to fire up the coals and start cooking in their EGGs. Each dish is showcased with mouthwatering appeal thanks to his creative eye. Mark was aided by his assistant Scott Moore, who was truly a jack-of-all-trades. He did a great job scouring for last-minute props and maneuvering EGGs, backdrops, and other equipment in and out of the set. He kept the entire crew \"fed and watered\" and was ready to lend a helping hand wherever needed.\n\nA number of highly recognized chefs and barbecue celebrities generously shared some of their favorite EGG recipes for the book. Their recipes, in our special Chefs & Pitmasters chapter, are ones that they serve to their restaurant patrons, highlight in their own cookbooks and newsletters, or feature on their national television shows.\n\nKaren Adler, president of Pig Out Publications, author of numerous books on outdoor cooking, and one of the two BBQ Queens, gave us her invaluable counsel in the early stages of planning the book. She guided us regarding efficiencies, encouraged us when we were uncertain about a direction, and cautioned us when we veered off course.\n\nSpecial thanks go to the EGGheads\u2122, who have been such a major factor in the success of the Big Green Egg. Their ideas, recipes, enthusiasm, camaraderie, and total dedication to \"the World's Best Smoker, Grill, and Oven\" constantly inspire us, and we are truly grateful for their support over the past three decades. The wonderful recipes that many of our EGGhead\u2122 friends have shared with us were the inspiration for the classic recipes found in the EGGhead Recipes chapter. We owe them tremendous thanks for their contributions, which planted the seed for this book long ago.\n\nVery special recognition and appreciation goes to Brenda Miller and her late husband, Bill. They were two of the earliest EGGheads and most vocal and involved supporters of the EGG and the company. Bill developed the original Big Green Egg Forum, Brenda played an important role in launching the first EGGtoberfest celebration, and together they initiated the idea of using the distinctive EGG words such as EGGstraordinary and EGGcessories. Today Brenda continues on as a legendary Big Green Egg employee.\n\nThe Big Green Egg staff at company headquarters in Tucker, Georgia.\n\n# Metric Conversions & Equivalents\n\n**Metric Conversion Formulas**\n\n**To Convert** | **Multiply**  \n---|---  \nOunces to grams | Ounces by 28.35  \nPounds to kilograms | Pounds by .454  \nTeaspoons to milliliters | Teaspoons by 4.93  \nTablespoons to milliliters | Tablespoons by 14.79  \nFluid ounces to milliliters | Fluid ounces by 29.57  \nCups to milliliters | Cups by 236.59  \nCups to liters | Cups by .236  \nPints to liters | Pints by .473  \nQuarts to liters | Quarts by .946  \nGallons to liters | Gallons by 3.785  \nInches to centimeters | Inches by 2.54\n\n**Approximate Metric Equivalents**\n\n**Volume** |   \n---|---  \n\u00bc teaspoon | 1 milliliter  \n\u00bd teaspoon | 2.5 milliliters  \n\u00be teaspoon | 4 milliliters  \n1 teaspoon | 5 milliliters  \n1 \u00bc teaspoons | 6 milliliters  \n1\u00bd teaspoons | 7.5 milliliters  \n1 \u00be teaspoons | 8.5 milliliters  \n2 teaspoons | 10 milliliters  \n1 tablespoon (\u00bd fluid ounce) | 15 milliliters  \n2 tablespoons (1 fluid ounce) | 30 milliliters  \n\u00bc cup | 60 milliliters  \n1/3 cup | 80 milliliters  \n\u00bd cup (4 fluid ounces) | 120 milliliters  \n2/3 cup | 160 milliliters  \n\u00be cup | 180 milliliters  \n1 cup (8 fluid ounces) | 240 milliliters  \n1 \u00bc cups | 300 milliliters  \n1\u00bd cups (12 fluid ounces) | 360 milliliters  \n12/3 cups | 400 milliliters  \n2 cups (1 pint) | 460 milliliters  \n3 cups | 700 milliliters  \n4 cups (1 quart) | .95 liter  \n1 quart plus \u00bc cup | 1 liter  \n4 quarts (1 gallon) | 3.8 liters\n\nInformation compiled from a variety of sources, including _Recipes into Type_ by Joan Whitman and Dolores Simon (Newton, MA: Biscuit Books, 2000); _The New Food Lover's Companion_ by Sharon Tyler Herbst (Hauppauge, NY: Barron's, 1995); and _Rosemary Brown's Big Kitchen Instruction Book_ (Kansas City, MO: Andrews McMeel, 1998).\n\n**Approximate Metric Equivalents**\n\n**Weight** |   \n---|---  \n\u00bc ounce | 7 grams  \n\u00bd ounce | 14 grams  \n1\u00be ounce | 21 grams  \n1ounce | 28 grams  \n1\u00bc ounce | 35 grams  \n1\u00bd ounces | 42.5 grams  \n12/3 ounces | 45 grams  \n3 ounces | 57 grams  \n3 ounces | 85 grams  \n4 ouncess (\u00bc pound) | 113 grams  \n5 ounces | 142 grams  \n6 ounces | 170 grams  \n7 ounces | 198 grams  \n8 ounces(\u00bd pound) | 227 grams  \n16 ounces (1 pound) | 454 grams  \n35.25 ounces (2.2 pounds) | 1 kilogram  \n**Length** |   \n---|---  \n\u215b inch | 3 millimeters  \n\u00bc inch | 6 millimeters  \n\u00bd inch | 1\u00bc centimeters  \n1 inch | 2\u00bd centimeters  \n2 inches | 5 centimeters  \n2\u00bd inches | 6 centimeters  \n4 inches | 10 centimeters  \n5 inches | 13 centimeters  \n6 inches | 15\u00bc centimeters  \n12 inches (1 foot) | 30 centimeters\n\n**Oven Temperatures**\n\n**Description** | **\u00b0F** | **\u00b0C** | **British  \nGas Mark**  \n---|---|---|---  \nVery cool | 200\u00b0 | 95\u00b0 | O  \nVery cool | 225\u00b0 | 110\u00b0 | \u00be  \nVery cool | 250\u00b0 | 120\u00b0 | \u00bd  \nCool | 275\u00b0 | 135\u00b0 | 1  \nCool | 300\u00b0 | 150\u00b0 | 2  \nWarm | 325\u00b0 | 165\u00b0 | 3  \nModerate | 350\u00b0 | 175\u00b0 | 4  \nModerately hot | 375\u00b0 | 190\u00b0 | 5  \nFairly hot | 400\u00b0 | 200\u00b0 | 6  \nHot | 425\u00b0 | 220\u00b0 | 7  \nVery hot | 450\u00b0 | 230\u00b0 | 8  \nVery hot | 475\u00b0 | 245\u00b0 | 9\n\nTo convert Fahrenheit to Celsius, subtract 32 from Fahrenheit, multiply the result by 5, then divide by 9.\n\n**Common Ingredients & Their Approximate Equivalents**\n\n  * 1 cup uncooked white rice = 185 grams\n\n  * 1 cup all-purpose flour = 140 grams\n\n  * 1 stick butter (4 ounces \u2022\u00bd cup \u2022 8 tablespoons) = 110 grams\n\n  * 1 cup butter (8 ounces \u2022 2 sticks \u2022 16 tablespoons) = 220 grams\n\n  * 1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed = 225 grams\n\n  * 1 cup granulated sugar = 200 grams\n\n**Sara Levy** is a food stylist, recipe developer, and food writer, whose work has appeared in the _Atlanta Journal-Constitution_ , local and national magazines, television, cookbooks, and advertising. She has worked with many top food TV personalities and shared her expertise by teaching food styling at the International Culinary School at the Art Institute of Atlanta. She resides in Atlanta with her husband, Pierre, their two Weimaraners, Sophie and Winston, and her three Big Green Eggs, which are often used to barbecue for her visiting adult children, Darren and Kailey.\n\n**Mark O'Tyson** has spent the last twenty-five years photographing everything from one of the first cell phones to CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. In 2001, he turned his focus to food photography and hasn't looked back. He enjoys the challenge of bringing out the best that each dish has to offer, whether it's a savory steak or a simple sorbet. When he's not busy shooting, he enjoys spending time with his wife, Cathi, in their Atlanta home, although he confesses to letting her do most of the cooking.\n\n**Lisa Readie Mayer** has been writing about grilling, barbecuing, and outdoor living topics for over twenty years. An avid cook, Lisa has grilled, smoked, roasted, rotissed, and planked her way to barbecue bliss. Her favorite meal is a variety of vegetables grilled straight from her garden or the local farmers' market. But the most frequent 'que request of her husband, David, and daughters, Emily and Hannah, is pulled pork\u2014prepared in the EGG of course.\n\nwww.biggreenegg.com\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Against Nature"}, "text": "\n\nAGAINST NATURE\n\nJORIS-KARL HUYSMANS was born in Paris in 1848, the only son of a French mother and a Dutch father. After a childhood saddened by his father's death and his mother's speedy remarriage, he became a junior clerk in the Ministry of the Interior, where he remained for thirty-two years. He spent the first half of the Franco-Prussian War in hospital, suffering from dysentery, and the second half under fire in the besieged capital. When peace returned he went back to the Ministry, and three years later published his first book, _Le Drageoir \u00e0 \u00e9pices_ (1874), a collection of prose-poems after Baudelaire. He then turned to novel-writing and published _Marthe_ (1876), _Les S\u00e6urs Vatard_ (1879), _En M\u00e9nage_ (1881) and _A Vau-l'Eau_ (1882). _A Rebours_ , published in 1884 and hailed by Arthur Symons as 'the breviary of the Decadence', marked his break with Zola's Medan Group and the beginning of an attempt to widen the scope of the novel. His other novels were _En Rade_ (1887), _L\u00e0-Bas_ (1891), _En Route_ (1895), _La Catb\u00e9drale_ (1898) and _L'Oblat_ (1903). He died in 1907.\n\nROBERT BALDICK, the late co-editor of the Penguin Classics, received his MA and D. Phil. from Oxford University, where he was a Fellow of Pembroke College. A Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, he wrote biographies of J.-K. Huysmans, Fr\u00e9d\u00e9rick Lama\u00eetre and Henry Murger, a study of the Goncourts, _The Siege of Paris_ and _The Duel_. Authors whose work he translated from the French include the Goncourts, Montherlant, Radiguet, Restif de la Bretonne, Sartre, Simenon and Jules Verne. For the Penguin Classics he translated Flaubert's _Three Tales_ and _Sentimental Education_ , Chateaubriand's _Memoirs_ and Huysmans' _Against Nature_. He died in 1972.\n\nPATRICK MCGUINNESS was born in 1968 in Tunisia. He is a fellow of St Anne's College, University of Oxford, where he lectures in French. He is the author of _Maurice Maeterlinck and the Making of Modern Theatre_ (2000), and has edited T. E. Hulme's _Selected Writings_ (1998), _Symbolism, Decadence and the Fin de si\u00e8cle_ (2000), _Anthologie de la po\u00e9sie Symboliste et d\u00e9cadente_ (Paris, 2001) and Laura Riding and Robert Graves's _A Survey of Modernist Poetry_ (2002). His translation of St\u00e9phane Mallarm\u00e9's _For Anatole's Tomb_ was published in 2003. In 1998 he won an Eric Gregory Award for poetry from the Society of Authors, and his poems and translations have appeared in a variety of books and reviews. He lives in Cardiff.\n\nJORIS \u2013 KARL HUYSMANS\n\n# Against Nature\n\n_Translated by_ ROBERT BALDICK\n\n_With an Introduction and Notes by_\n\nPATRICK MCGUINNESS\n\nPENGUIN BOOKS\n\nPENGUIN BOOKS\n\nPublished by the Penguin Group  \nPenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England  \nPenguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA  \nPenguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia  \nPenguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2  \nPenguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11, Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi \u2013 110 017, India  \nPenguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand  \nPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa\n\nPenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nwww.penguin.com\n\nThis edition first published, 2003\n\n1\n\nTranslation copyright \u00a9 Robert Baldick, 1956  \nIntroduction, Notes and translation of Appendices copyright \u00a9 Patrick McGuinness, 2003  \nChronology copyright \u00a9 Terry Hale, 2001\n\nAll rights reserved\n\nThe moral right of the editors have been asserted\n\nExcept in the United States of America, this book is sold subject  \nto the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,  \nre-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's  \nprior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in  \nwhich it is published and without a similar condition including this  \ncondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser\n\nEISBN: 978\u20130\u2013141\u201390660\u20137\n\n## Contents\n\nChronology\n\nIntroduction\n\nFurther Reading\n\nNote on this Translation\n\nAgainst Nature\n\nAppendix I: Preface, Written Twenty Years After the Novel\n\nAppendix II: Reviews of and Responses to _Against Nature_\n\nNotes\n\n## Chronology\n\n**1815** Birth of Godfried Huysmans, father of the novelist, in the Dutch town of Breda. A lithographer and miniaturist by profession, he settles in Paris as a young man.\n\n**1845** June Godfried Huysmans proposes to a young French schoolmistress, Malvina Badin.\n\n**1848** 5 Feb. Birth of Charles Marie Georges Huysmans at no. 11 (now no. 9) rue Suger in the 6th Arrondissement.\n\n**1848** Ordination of Joseph Antoine Boullan.\n\n**1856** 24 June Death of Godfried Huysmans.\n\n**1857** Mother re-marries, to a M. Jules Og.\n\n**1858** May Mother and stepfather purchase a small bookbindery at no. 11 rue de S\u00e8vres in the 7th Arrondissement.\n\n**1862** Huysmans enrols at the Lyc\u00e9e Saint-Louis.\n\n**1864** First sexual experiences with prostitutes.\n\n**1866** 7 Mar. Huysmans passes _baccalaur\u00e9at_.\n\n**1866** 1 Apr. Following in the footsteps of other members of the family on his mother's side, Huysmans enters the Ministry of the Interior as an _employ\u00e9 de sixi\u00e8me classe_ (employee: sixth grade) on a salary of 1,500 francs p.a.\n\n**1866** Autumn Enrols in the Faculties of Law and Letters of the University of Paris.\n\n**1867** 8 Sept. Death of stepfather.\n\n**1868** 15 Aug. Salary increases to 1,800 francs p.a.\n\n**1870** 30 July Mobilized in the 6th Battalion of the Garde Mobile during the Franco-Prussian War. Dysentery prevents him from seeing action.\n\n**1870** 15 Aug. Salary increases to 2,100 francs p.a.\n\n**1871** Feb. The Government and its staff relocate to Versailles.\n\n**1871** Summer Huysmans rents rooms in Paris.\n\n**1872** First draft of his war memoirs which will become _Sac au dos_.\n\n**1873** 1 Feb. Salary increases to 2,400 francs p.a.\n\n**1874** 10 Oct. _Le Drageoir \u00e0 \u00e9pices_ (tr. _Dish of Spices_ , 1927), a collection of prose-poems, is published at the author's own expense.\n\n**1876** 4 May His mother dies, leaving Huysmans responsible for his two half-sisters and the management of the bookbindery. He transfers to a post at the S\u00fbret\u00e9 G\u00e9n\u00e9rale in Paris.\n\n**1876** 12 Sept. _Marthe, histoire d'une fille_ (tr. _Marthe_ , 1927 (US) and 1958 (UK)), a short novel dealing with the life of a prostitute in a licensed brothel, is published in Brussels.\n\n**1877** Early Enters into contact with Zola, Flaubert and Edmond de Goncourt.\n\n**1877** Aug. _L'Artiste_ serializes _Sac au dos_.\n\n**1878** 1 Jan. Salary increases to 2,700 francs p.a.\n\n**1879** 26 Feb. _Les Soeurs Vatard_ (tr. _The Vatard Sisters_ , 1983), a study of the lives of women working as bookbinders, is published. The work is dedicated to Zola.\n\n**1879** 17 May _Le Voltaire_ , on Zola's recommendation, publishes Huysmans' first article on the Salon, the main artistic event in the Parisian calendar.\n\n**1880** 1 Jan. Salary increases to 3,000 francs p.a.\n\n**1880** April _Sac au dos_ (tr. _Knapsack_ , 1907) appears in _Les Soir\u00e9es de Medan_ , a collection of war stories, together with tales by Zola and Maupassant.\n\n**1881** Feb. _En M\u00e9nage_ (tr. _Living Together_ , 1969), a pessimistic study of everyday life, is published.\n\n**1881** 22 May _Croquis Parisiens_ (tr. _Parisian Sketches_ , 1962) is published.\n\n**1882** 1 Jan. Salary increases to 3,300 francs p.a.\n\n**1882** 26 Jan. _A Vau-l'Eau_ (tr. _Downstream_ , 1927 (US) and 1952 (UK)), the study of the wretched existence of a minor _fonctionnaire_ (civil servant), is published in Brussels.\n\n**1883** May _L'Art Moderne_ , a collection of critical essays championing progressive artists (Odilon Redon, Gustave Moreau, the Impressionists), is published.\n\n**1884** 1 Jan Salary increases to 3,600 francs p.a.\n\n**1884** May _A Rebours_ (tr. _Against the Grain_ , 1922; _Against Nature_ , 1959) is published to enormous acclaim.\n\nFriendship commences with L\u00e9on Bloy.\n\n**1886** Jan. Only a loan from the poet Fran\u00e7ois Copp\u00e9e prevents Huysmans from becoming bankrupt due to losses incurred by the bookbindery.\n\n**1887** 1 Jan. Salary increases to 4,500 francs p.a.\n\n**1887** 16 April Salary increases to 4,800 francs p.a.\n\n**1887** 26 April _En Rade_ (tr. _Becalmed!_ , 1992 (UK) and _A Haven_ , 1998 (US)) is published but fails to find favour with the public.\n\n**1887** 31 Oct. Letter to Zola first mentioning _L\u00e0-Bas_.\n\n**1888** Spring _The Universal Review_ commissions a novella from Huysmans but subsequently declines _La Retraite de M. Bougran_ ( _M. Bougran's Retirement_ ).\n\n**1888** Summer Huysmans encounters the work of the Primitives during a visit to Germany.\n\n**1889** 21 Aug. Funeral of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. Mallarm\u00e9 and Huysmans are named his literary executors.\n\n**1889** Sept. Huysmans visits Tiffauges, the stronghold of Gilles de Rais. Huysmans meets Berthe de Courri\u00e8re.\n\n**1889** Nov. Publication of _Certains_ , the author's second volume of critical essays.\n\n**1890** 5 Feb. Huysmans writes to introduce himself to the former Abb\u00e9 Boullan.\n\n**1890** July _La Bi\u00e8vre_ (tr. _The Bi\u00e8vre River_ , 1986), an evocation of the river and its surroundings, is published.\n\n**1890** Sept. Huysmans visits Boullan in Lyons.\n\nBerthe de Courri\u00e8re is interned in Bruges.\n\n**1891** 15 Feb. _L'Echo de Paris_ begins serialization of _L\u00e0-Bas_ ( _The Damned_ ).\n\n**1891** March Henriette Maillat attempts to blackmail Huysmans over the author's use of her correspondence in _L\u00e0-Bas_.\n\n**1891** April _L\u00e0-Bas_ published in book form.\n\n**1891** 28 May Berthe de Courri\u00e8re introduces Huysmans to the Abb\u00e9 Mugnier, who will become his spiritual director.\n\n**1891** July Pilgrimage to La Salette, followed by a visit to Boullan in Lyons.\n\n**1891** 25 Sept. Paul Val\u00e9ry visits Huysmans in his office.\n\n**1892** Jan Huysmans holds a seance in his flat.\n\n**1892** 1 Feb. Salary increases to 5,000 francs p.a.\n\n**1892** July Huysmans' first retreat at Notre-Dame d'Igny.\n\n**1893** 3 Jan. Boullan dies at Lyons.\n\n**1893** 3 Sept. Huysmans appointed Chevalier de la L\u00e9gion d'Honneur.\n\n**1894** Spring Huysmans meets Dom Besse, who is seeking to develop the small Benedictine community at Saint Wandrille in Normandy.\n\n**1895** 1 Jan. Salary increases to 6,000 francs p.a.\n\n**1895** 12 Feb. Death of Anna Meunier, his mistress, in Sainte-Anne.\n\n**1895** 25 Feb. Publication of _En Route_ (tr. 1896), which describes Durtal's conversion and subsequent retreat at Notre-Dame d'Igny.\n\n**1896** Oct. Sojourn at the Benedictine Abbey of Solesmes.\n\n**1898** Jan. _La Cath\u00e9drale_ (tr. _The Cathedral_ , 1898), the third volume in the Durtal cycle, is published.\n\n**1898** 16 Feb. Huysmans retires from the Civil Service after thirty-two years' service.\n\n**1899** June Leaves Paris to take up residence in his purpose-built house at Ligug\u00e9.\n\nPublication of _La Magie en Poitou_ ( _Magic in Poitou_ ).\n\n**1900** 18 Mar. Huysmans undergoes the ceremony of taking the robes of an oblate novice.\n\n**1900** April First meeting of the Acad\u00e9mie Goncourt, of which Huysmans is president.\n\n**1901** Jan. Three studies by Huysmans of the old quarters of Paris \u2013 _La Bi\u00e8vre; Les Gobelins, St-S\u00e9verin_ \u2013 are reissued in a de luxe edition.\n\n**1901** 21 March Huysmans takes his final vows as an oblate.\n\n**1901** 8 June Publication of _Sainte Lydwine de Schiedam_ (tr. 1923), the harrowing story of the Dutch martyr.\n\n**1901** Nov. Publication of _De Tout_ ( _This and That_ ), a collection of articles.\n\n**1901** Oct. Government laws on religious communities oblige Huysmans to leave the abbey at Ligug\u00e9.\n\n**1903** April Publication of _L'Oblat_ (tr. _The Oblate_ , 1924), the last volume in the Durtal cycle, recounting his stay at Ligug\u00e9.\n\n**1906** Sept. _Les Foules de Lourdes_ (tr. _The Crowds of Lourdes_ , 1926) published.\n\n**1906** 8 Nov. Huysmans, realizing the gravity of his condition, drafts his will.\n\n**1907** Jan. Promoted to Officier de la L\u00e9gion d'Honneur.\n\n**1907** 12 May Death of Huysmans half an hour after the departure of Lucien Descaves, his literary executor.\n\n**1907** 15 May Huysmans is buried at the Montparnasse Cemetery in the family grave.\n\n**1908** Posthumous publication of _Trois Eglises et Trois Primitifs_ ( _Three Churches and Three Primitives_ ).\n\n## Introduction\n\nThus when the universal sun has set does the moth seek the lamplight of privacy.\n\nKarl Marx\n\n' _Against Nature_ fell like a meteorite into the literary fairground,' Joris-Karl Huysmans remembered in the preface to the 1903 de luxe edition of this notorious book. The image of the meteorite \u2013 spectacular, explosive, otherworldly \u2013 to convey literary strangeness had been used by the poet St\u00e9phane Mallarm\u00e9 in his enigmatic poem 'Le Tombeau d'Edgar Poe' ('The Tomb of Edgar Poe', 1877). 'Calm block fallen here below from an obscure disaster', Mallarm\u00e9 had written, and it is perhaps this line that Huysmans had in mind when he recalled the bemusement, the outrage and the marvel _Against Nature_ provoked when it appeared in May 1884. In France and across Europe the book was read as the most flamboyant expression of what came to be known as 'the Decadence'. It was held up by some as a cautionary tale and by others as a manual of modern living; it was read as a moral fable and as a chilling case study of crisis and debauchery. Many felt that it marked the end of the novel, while a few saw it as the beginning of a new way of writing. For many critics, including Huysmans' former mentor and friend Emile Zola, _Against Nature_ was an eccentric and unhealthy book, passionless, introspective, and above all glorying in its removal from the world. For others, like the critic and novelist Remy de Gourmont, it was formally and thematically liberating. It was a novel that seemed not to want to _be_ a novel; nothing happened, and yet the writing was dense, crowded and allusive. It was obscene, garish, depraved; but it was also a curiously ascetic and inward book. It dwelt fascinatedly on bodily functions, messy ailments and lurid sexual adventures, but it appeared also to strive for serenity and peace. In at least one respect _Against Nature_ can be called a classic: it portrayed its time but also intervened in it. There are poems and stories inspired by or indebted to _Against Nature_ in almost every European language, and Huysmans' creation even found its way into fiction as every wit, dandy or _femme fatale_ had a copy ready to hand. The novel's hero, Duke Jean Floressas Des Esseintes \u2013 hoarder of literary treasures, lover of artifice and liver of the artistically mediated life \u2013 had joined Edgar Allan Poe, Schopenhauer and Baudelaire on the _fin de si\u00e8cle_ bookshelf.\n\n_Against Nature_ is a brazen enough title in English, but in fact _Against the Grain_ would better have captured the suggestive range of its French original, _A Rebours_ , a far more open-ended title. To do something _\u00e0 rebours_ is to run countercurrent, to go against the flow, to do things the wrong way around; but it also suggests stubbornness, perversity, wilful difficulty \u2013 qualities and tendencies which Huysmans' hero, Des Esseintes, shares with the novel that tells his story. By contrast, _Against Nature_ is too reductive and unsubtle a title, and reflects the climate of its English reception rather than the range and complexity of the novel Huysmans wrote. By comparison with some of the more outlandish titles that appeared in 1884 \u2013 such as P\u00e9ladan's _Le Vice supr\u00eame_ ( _The Supreme Vice_ ), Rachilde's _Monsieur V\u00e9nus_ or El\u00e9mir Bourges' _Cr\u00e9puscule des Dieux (Twilight of the Gods) \u2013 A Rebours_ seemed mysterious and understated. The novel has proved critically inexhaustible, but it is also exhaustively written and perhaps exhausting to read. It is also _about_ exhaustion: racial, social, moral, historical and aesthetic. It is a book of endings; yet for its author in his 'Preface Written Twenty Years after the Novel' (Appendix I), it is also a compendium of beginnings. Arthur Symons, the poet and critic who interpreted European Symbolism for modernists such as Yeats and Eliot, called it the 'breviary of the Decadence', while its most famous fictional reader, Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray, found it 'poisonous' and 'the strangest book that he had ever read'. The novel has retained its cultish hold, as Marianne Faithfull recalls in her autobiography: 'You would ask your date, \"Do you know Genet? Have you read _A Rebours_?'' and if he said yes you'd fuck.' It is a fine irony that a novel about an impotent, reclusive and prematurely aged reactionary should become a must-read in the vigorous counter-culture of the 1960s. Today's readers may or may not feel the same as Dorian Gray or Marianne Faithfull; what is certain is that they will find it unlike any work of fiction they have encountered.\n\n### HUYSMANS, 'DECADENCE' AND _AGAINST NATURE_\n\n[I]t is the difference between the raw, white and direct light of a midday sun beating down on all things equally, and the horizontal light of evening, firing the strange clouds with reflections... Does the setting sun of decadence deserve our contempt and anathema for being less simple in tone than the rising sun of morning?\n\nTh\u00e9ophile Gautier, _Histoire du romantisme (History of Romanticism_ )\n\nFor Gautier, discussing his friend Charles Baudelaire, 'Decadence' is the dying sun as it projects its intricate and complex fires across the sky. It is twilight; not the Yeatsian 'Celtic Twilight' prior to daybreak and revival, but the twilight of a sun setting for the last time on a tired globe and its tired inhabitants. For the artists and writers who proclaimed themselves 'Decadent', it was a compelling metaphor: 'we are dying of civilization', wrote Edmond de Goncourt, a writer Huysmans admired and learned from. Many artists of the period invoked the decline and fall of the hyper-civilized Roman Empire as the most resonant 'culture rhyme' for modern France. Certainly there were grounds for such views: a sense of historical decline symbolized by a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Prussians, who marched on the French capital in 1870, followed by the Commune and the siege of Paris in 1871, a bloody and divisive episode in French history whose memory endured until the Second World War. This they called 'the d\u00e9b\u00e2cle', and the symbolism was powerful: invaded and humiliated by the 'barbarian' Germans, then ruinously tearing itself apart, French civilization, guardian of 'Latin' values, appeared to have peaked and begun a slow collapse. Huysmans, a (non-combatant) soldier during the Franco-Prussian war and a civil servant during the siege of Paris, witnessed the French defeat, the Commune and its brutal repression, and the national soul-searching that came in their aftermath.\n\nBut there was also a _malaise_ more difficult to pin down: a sense that everything had been done, said, written, felt. As Des Esseintes muses reading Baudelaire, the late nineteenth century's was a 'mind that ha[d] reached the October of its sensations'. Yet there was something wilfully self-dramatizing about all these decadent attitudes \u2013 after all, the nineteenth century had known extraordinary technological, political and scientific advances, and all of these had happened at breathtaking pace. While many embraced these changes, others saw them in unambiguously negative terms: 'we have spent the nineteenth century splitting hairs; how shall we spend the twentieth? Splitting them into four?' asked one of Huysmans' contemporaries. _Against Nature_ is full of references to the century's end, the end of art, the end of creativity, and it was to what Mallarm\u00e9 called the 'modern muse of Impotence' that the new generation looked: all writing seemed a rewriting, every reading a rereading. But there was another story, equally compelling: in art, literature, social and political theory and in science, the second half of the nineteenth century was a time of unprecedented innovation. With poets such as Mallarm\u00e9, Verlaine and the Symbolists, novelists such as Zola and Maupassant, artists such as Manet and Rodin, composers such as Debussy or Erik Satie, we might object that, on the contrary, this was no decadence but a period of astonishing artistic richness and diversity. Perhaps the belief that there was nothing new was itself a necessary prelude to creating the new. This is one of the great paradoxes of the late nineteenth century: that these contradictory views \u2013 of decadence and renewal, beginnings and ends, exhaustion and innovation \u2013 could be held simultaneously and often by the same people.\n\nOne of the great formative novels of French Romanticism, Chateaubriand's _Ren\u00e9_ (1802), had helped define what came to be called the 'sickness of the century' ( _mal du si\u00e8cle_ ) felt by the rootless, aimless, self-indulgent aristocrats in a world which seemed not to need them. 'Alone in the great desert of men' was how Ren\u00e9, 'last of his race', put it: it was a historical, sexual and cultural dispossession, but it gave the Romantic writer opportunity to explore the mysteries of the infinitely desiring but finite self. As late as 1878 Robert Louis Stevenson mocked the persistence of 'Ren\u00e9's malady' among the young of his own period: 'Young gentlemen with three or four hundred a year... look down from their pinnacle of doleful experience on all the grown and hearty men who have dared to say a good word for life.' When Huysmans loosed Des Esseintes upon the reading public, people interpreted his character, for all his disturbing newness, as part of an unfolding tradition: an orphan perhaps, but an orphan with a pedigree.\n\nThe end of the nineteenth century seemed to mirror its beginning, but whereas the Romantics had their illusions shattered, the Decadents merely had their disillusionment reinforced. Osip Mandelstam uses a 1913 review of a Russian translation of Huysmans' _Croquis Parisiens (Parisian Sketches_ , 1881) to distinguish between the Romantics and their Decadent successors, between the beginning and the end of the nineteenth century:\n\nThis book is almost intentionally physiological. Its primary theme is the clash between the defenceless but refined external organs of perception and insulted reality. Paris is hell... Huysmans's boldness and innovation stem from the fact that he managed to remain a confirmed hedonist under the worst possible conditions... The decadents did not like reality, but they did know reality, and that is what distinguishes them from the romantics.\n\n'Live? Our servants will do that for us': the defiant words of the heroic and princely recluse of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam's _Ax\u00ebl_ (1890) became a supreme idealist battle-cry, uttered in heroic defiance of materialist society and its stultifying cult of bourgeois 'common sense'. This was the epoch of the superman and of the individualist, but it was also the epoch of his less fortunate twin: the sickly, the consumptive, the neurotic. In Huysmans' novels, the self is not a goal but a refuge, no longer an aspiration but a point of final fallback; the heritage of individualism remained, but wounded, humiliated and in retreat.\n\nThe Romantic heroes had travelled to exotic places in search of themselves, only to discover that it was themselves they were trying to escape. They had, like Ren\u00e9, posed on seashores, mountain tops and volcanoes. Their Decadent successors were mired in the filth of the crawling cityscape, compulsively drawn to its alternating tedium and exhilaration; but they were drawn also to interiors, the ornate, meticulously furnished, airless rooms that symbolize their retreat. Huysmans' characters, as Mandelstam notes, are among the most physiologically sensitive in literature, and their quest for peace or fulfilment takes its toll not just on their spirits but on their bodies. In Des Esseintes's case, the quest terminates indoors, the final bastion of the privacy that feeds on itself until there is nothing left. Des Esseintes thus became the exemplary Decadent figure: the last, sickly scion of a once great family, his mind addled by fantastical luxury and his body wracked by abuse, he retires from the nineteenth century \u2013 the 'American century' as both Des Esseintes and Huysmans call it \u2013 to build his own dream fortress. _Against Nature_ is the tale of this obsession.\n\n### HUYSMANS AND _AGAINST NATURE_\n\nIt was as if everything that was disgusting and horrible in every sphere of life forced itself on his attention, and that all manner of abomination had produced an artist uniquely made to paint them and a man created expressly to suffer from them.\n\nPaul Val\u00e9ry, 'Souvenirs de J.-K. Huysmans' ('Memories of J.-K. Huysmans')\n\nJoris-Karl Huysmans was born in 1848, the revolutionary year in which Flaubert set part of _L'Education sentimentale (Sentimental Education_ ), the novel Huysmans claimed in his 1903 preface had most influenced him. His father, who died in 1856, was an artist of Dutch origins, and the son would later refer to himself as a mystical Fleming beneath the skin of a neurotic Parisian. J.-K. Huysmans would produce some of the finest art criticism of his generation, and his attention was particularly drawn to nordic artists, the Flemish and Dutch, with whose cultures he retained a lifelong sympathy.\n\nIn 1866, Huysmans joined the Ministry of the Interior, where he remained until 1898. The drudgery of bureaucratic routine was minutely detailed in a number of works, notably _A Vau-l'Eau (Downstream_ , 1882), the novella that gave rise to _Against Nature_ , and the strange story, _La Retraite de M. Bougran (Mr. Bougran's Retirement_ ), written in 1888 but first published in 1964), of a retired bureaucrat addicted to the banality of his job. In 1870 Huysmans was conscripted into the army and later worked for the Versailles War Ministry during the Paris Commune. He describes some of his army experiences in _Sac au dos (Knapsack_ , 1880), the story he contributed to the volume _Les Soir\u00e9es de Medan (Medan Evenings_ ), a collective book by Zola and his disciples intended to showcase the work of the Naturalist writers. However, Huysmans' first published work, _Le Drageoir \u00e0 \u00e9pices (Dish of Spices_ , 1874), was far from being a Naturalist specimen. It was a collection of lurid, flashy and precocious prose-poems which one Parisian publisher, refusing the manuscript, accused of launching a 'revolutionary Paris Commune in the French language'. Two years later, when Huysmans became associated with the Naturalists, he was a vocal defender of Zola and his principles, publishing a passionate defence of Zola's _L'Assommoir_ and of Naturalist writing. Huysmans soon became acquainted with the most innovative writers and artists of the period. Among his friends and correspondents were Flaubert, the Goncourt brothers, Maupassant, Villiers de l'Isle-Adam and Mallarm\u00e9 \u2013 a representative cross-section of the many literary tendencies of the time.\n\nHuysmans' first novel, _Marthe, histoire d'une fille (Marthe: Story of a Prostitute_ ), was published in 1876. According to his biographer (and the translator of this edition of _Against Nature_ ), Robert Baldick, it was the first novel to deal with prostitution in licensed brothels, memorably described as 'slaughterhouses of love'. His next book, _Les Soeurs Vatard (The Vatard Sisters_ ), which appeared in 1879, contains a character, the artist Cyprien Tibaille, who is eccentric and inward, an idealist caught in a disappointing world. Flaubert, to whom Huysmans sent his novel, admired it but criticized it on two counts. First, he claimed that, like his own _L'Education sentimentale_ , there was no 'false perspective' in the novel and thus no 'progression of effect': 'art is not reality', Flaubert told him, 'like it or not, we must choose carefully among the elements [reality] provides' (undated letter of February\u2013March, 1879). Flaubert's second criticism concerned Huysmans' passion for rare, difficult or specialized vocabulary: whether refined or coarse, arcane or streetwise, Huysmans' love of words attracted notice from his earliest work. After _Les Soeurs Vatard_ , there followed _En M\u00e9nage (Living Together_ , 1881), about a failing and claustrophobic marriage, which Zola describedas'a page of human life, banalyet poignant'. Interestingly, several of Huysmans' early 'Naturalist' novels were important to Andr\u00e9 Breton, the self-styled leader of the Surrealists, who was fascinated by Huysmans' apparently subversivelife: a penpusher and bureaucrat writing his disturbing novels at his ministry desk, often on ministry headed paper. This is how Breton, in his _Anthologie de l'humour noir (Anthology of Black Humour_ , 1939), imagined Huysmans at work:\n\nWith a derision whose secret pleasure he has discovered, the life of this great imaginative writer ebbed away between ministerial filing boxes (reports from his superiors depict him as a model employee). It fits perfectly with this writer's style, at once crushing and elevating, that in breaks from work, with a few technical manuals within reach and a cookery book always open before him, Huysmans should \u2013 with unique foresight \u2013 have pieced together most of the laws which would govern modern feeling.\n\nHuysmans was attached to the bureaucratic life. It gave him time to write as well as subjects to write about; but above all it kept the world at bay. When in 1893 he retired from his ministry he kept the headed notepaper, doctoring it so that it read 'Ministry of the Interior [ _Life_ ]'.\n\nSome critics have suggested that there was little in Huysmans' previous work to prepare for _Against Nature_ , but this is misleading. Readers of his early novels had already noticed his fixation with the demeaning mundanities of life, with daily existence as a pleasureless assault course of disappointment and minor degradation. Huysmans was interested in the stuff of lives that would never amount to tragedy, but this did not mean that his prose needed to be flat and factual. Besides the descriptive detail, documentary precision and social observation associated with Naturalism, Huysmans' style \u2013 as Goncourt, Flaubert and Zola noticed \u2013 was colourful and nervy, full of rare words and startling adjectives. Edmond de Goncourt had found even in _Marthe_ that Huysmans was too easily tempted by 'the fine expression, the brilliant, startling or oddly archaic word', and that this threatened to 'kill the reality of [his] well-conceived realistic scenes' (letter of October 1879). Reviewing _Sac au dos_ , the novelist Jean Richepin had called Huysmans' writing 'the debauchery of style: rare substantives, strange epithets, unexpected fusions of words, archaisms and neologisms' ( _Gil Blas_ , 21 April 1880). It is curious to see how responses to Huysmans' 'Naturalist' work resemble responses to _Against Nature_ , in which, as L\u00e9on Bloy puts it, Huysmans is 'continually dragging Mother Image by the hair or the feet down the worm-eaten staircase of terrified Syntax'. Huysmans' contemporaries had noticed also his attentiveness to the intimate emotional and intellectual processes of characters who were often sensitive creatures, men (very occasionally women) designed for pain and disappointment, battered by the casual brutality of modern life. These characters were often isolated; lost and bruised and ill-fitted to their lives, they were not 'types' but exceptions. Where Zola excelled at painting the crowd, Huysmans excelled at portraying the individual; where Zola plotted the progress of a family, Huysmans fixed his eye on the bachelor, the unpartnered or the isolated. The Naturalists are often simplistically read, with critics crying foul whenever they spot a metaphor or an imaginative reflex in a 'Naturalist' book. We do not need to worry about classifying Huysmans, but to remember that there was plenty of room in Naturalist theory and practice to exercise the imagination and to perfect the art of illusion. A valuable insight into Huysmans' style and his contexts (those in which he was read as well as those in which he wrote) comes from James Joyce. 'The very intensity and refinement of French realism betrays its spiritual origins', wrote Joyce, before noting, in a beautiful and precise formulation, 'the angry fervour of corruption... that illuminates Huysmans's sad pages with a blighted phosphorescence'.\n\nThe nearest analogy to Huysmans' manner, this sense of 'blighted phosphorescence', was what was known as _'\u00e9criture artiste'_ , the rarefied, hypersensitive style of the Goncourt brothers, the aristocrats of Naturalist writing. In one of _Against Nature_ 's most memorable images, Des Esseintes describes the Goncourts' style as 'gamey', and calls Edmond de Goncourt's writing 'penetrating and sickly, tense and subtle'. For Des Esseintes, language, like meat, is at its tastiest as it is turning \u2013 as, on the cusp of rotting, the flavours are released. It is one of _Against Nature_ 's recurrent analogies: between food and language, and if the reader finds Huysmans' style 'hard to swallow' or 'hard to keep down' this is as it should be. After all, this was an author who regularly wrote to his friends asking for information on technical language, bureaucratic lingo, street slang, and who relished the strange words he dredged up from glossaries and manuals.\n\nIt was the short novel _A Vau-l'Eau_ that opened the way for _Against Nature_. Its hero Folantin searches without success for good food, decent furnishings, good male and female company. The story ends with him crying out, echoing Schopenhauer, the German philosopher whose pessimism shaped a generation of French writers: 'only the worst happens'. In the 1903 preface Huysmans recalled that in starting _Against Nature_ , he had\n\npictured another Mr Folantin, better-read, more refined and richer, who had discovered in artifice a diversion from the disgust of life's petty torments and the Americanized manners of his day. I envisaged him soaring upwards into dream, seeking refuge in illusions of extravagant fantasy, living alone, far from his century, among memories of more congenial times, of less base surroundings.\n\nAlthough _Against Nature_ is unique, it forms part of a series of novels of retreat that occupied Huysmans up to and including his extraordinary tale of satanism and sadism _L\u00e0-Bas (The Damned_ ) of 1891. Three years after _Against Nature_ Huysmans published _En Rade (Becalmed_ ), the story of a young couple who move to the countryside to escape the expense and stress of Paris. Their rural idyll becomes a hell, as they are swindled by rapacious peasants and tormented by sickness and pests; their food is disgusting, the countryside too hot, too wet, too cold. In _La Retraite de M. Bougran_ a retired ministry clerk misses his job so much that he has his flat decorated exactly like his former office and pays a retired office boy to bring him the letters he has posted to himself the previous day. He drafts tedious reports in his most bureaucratic French and is eventually found dead at his desk having scribbled a few last words of ministerial jargon.\n\nHuysmans' books are full of retreats: to the office, the bedroom, the library, the past, the monastery. The working title of _Against Nature_ had been 'Seul' ('Alone'), but in a sense all of his novels and stories had explored solitude, the aspirations of the yearning individual in a valueless world. It now remained for Huysmans to attempt a book that banished that world.\n\n### WRITING _AGAINST NATURE_\n\nThis book will at least have curiosity value among your works.\n\nZola to Huysmans, May 1884\n\nIn spring 1883 Huysmans told his friend, the Belgian poet Th\u00e9odore Hannon, that he was 'immersed in a very strange novel, vaguely clerical, a bit homosexual... A novel with only one character!', adding that the book would contain 'the ultimate refinement of everything: literature, Art, flowers, perfumes, furnishings, gemstones, etc.' A few months earlier Huysmans had requested help from Mallarm\u00e9 for the literary dimension of this 'ultimate refinement', asking him to send a few uncollected poems for use in depicting Des Esseintes's tastes in modern literature. Huysmans addresses Mallarm\u00e9 as 'Dear Colleague', praising the 'troubling sublimity' of his poetry, but his correspondence reveals that he was playing literary double agent. In May 1884 he told Zola that in _Against Nature_ , 'I expressed ideas diametrically opposed to my own... this complete dichotomy with my own preferences allowed me to enunciate really sick ideas and celebrate the glory of Mallarm\u00e9, which I thought was quite a joke.' In the same letter he insists on the book's methodological Naturalism, assuring Zola that he had followed the medical treatises on breakdown and nervous disorder, and emphasizing his extensive use of documents. But the following year (in September 1885), he was telling Jules Laforgue:\n\nWhen I wrote that chapter on modern profane literature in _Against Nature_ and I praised Corbi\u00e8re, Verlaine and Mallarm\u00e9, I thought I was writing for myself, and did not suspect that the whole movement was getting under way in that direction... As yet no one has penetrated the intimate depths of that chapter, despite the fact that I explained Mallarm\u00e9, that most abstruse of poets, so as to make him almost clear.\n\nCompositionally, _Against Nature_ has much in common with the 'classic' Naturalist novel. Andr\u00e9 Breton's image of the scribe at his desk surrounded by manuals and guidebooks, treatises on nervous illness, precious stones or horticulture is also the image of the Naturalist writer at work. What Breton goes on to mention \u2013 the cookery book \u2013 is no frivolous afterthought either, since it refers not just to the fact that food is never far away in a Huysmans novel (though gastronomic satisfaction is unattainable), but to the importance of 'composition', the measuring out of ingredients to make the right novelistic mix. This mix has confused critics, and _Against Nature_ 's relationship with the literary tendencies of the period still poses difficulties. It is an unclassifiable book in that it seems to invite a number of classifications only to play them off \u2013 inconclusively \u2013 against each other. Is it Naturalist or Decadent or Symbolist? Need it be any of these? Is it perhaps a book in which Naturalist writing practice (document and description, analysis of symptoms) converges on 'Symbolist' subjects (solitude, refinement, fantasy) with a guiding thread of Decadent philosophy (pessimism, perversion, cultural \u00e9litism)?\n\nAll of these literary tendencies are reflected in _Against Nature_ , but all are ambiguously and at times parodically treated too. Mallarm\u00e9 felt that the book contained 'not one atom of fantasy', and that Huysmans had proved himself 'more strictly documentary' than any other writer; but Zola condemned its incoherence and 'confusion'. What may partly have disturbed Zola was not that Naturalism had been abandoned in _Against Nature_ , but rather that it had been followed perversely. The relationship between _Against Nature_ and Naturalism resembles the relationship between the negative and the photograph. Huysmans produced an inverted version of the Naturalist ' _race, moment, milieu_ ': Des Esseintes is the last of his race attempting to flee his historical moment by creating an artificial _milieu_. It was not that _Against Nature_ was anti-Naturalist, but that it was Naturalist _enough_ to have disturbing implications for Zola and his methods. The discussion in chapter III of Petronius' _Satyricon_ is tellingly framed in this respect: Des Esseintes reads it as a 'realist novel', a 'slice cut from Roman life' (echoing the famous Naturalist dictum that a novel must be a 'slice of life'), but also emphasizes the fact that it is a 'story with no plot'. This genre-defying satirical feat of documentary imagination might be a clue to what _Against Nature_ is attempting.\n\nAs for _Against Nature_ 's celebrated espousal of the 'Symbolist' poets, who in 1884 were neither a movement nor a school (the Symbolist 'manifesto' appeared in 1886), this too is complicated. Many of Huysmans' contemporaries would have seen Des Esseintes as a caricature of the Decadent reader-consumer, a misanthropic drop-out in a fetishistic relationship with his books and artworks. Although his tastes are new-fangled, quirky and rare, and although the 'exquisite' poetry of Mallarm\u00e9 and 'pidgin' verse of Corbi\u00e8re were little known at the time, the fact that these are the tastes of a burned-out and spiteful elitist makes the compliment Huysmans pays to these writers ambiguous \u2013 it was certainly ambiguously interpreted by reviewers, as our appendix of critical responses to the novel shows. Des Esseintes _predicts_ rather than _reflects_ artistic tastes: we know the influence of Mallarm\u00e9 on twentieth-century thought, we know too of Corbi\u00e8re's impact on Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Edgar Allan Poe and Baudelaire are classics while Gustave Moreau and Odilon Redon are among the most widely recognized image-makers of their time. In 1884, however, his favourite artists and writers seemed obscure, irrelevant, and \u2013 with a few exceptions \u2013 destined for oblivion. One reviewer wrote that Des Esseintes's selection of authors would, once their flashing fame had died, 'date the book and limit its future value'. What promised to 'date' Huysmans' novel in 1884 is one of the elements that keeps it modern.\n\nHuysmans' 1903 preface is misleading, seeking as it does to rewrite the history of the book's composition and interpretation to suit a different cultural moment and a different \u2013 Catholic \u2013 Huysmans. The Huysmans of 1903 sees _Against Nature_ as evidence of the 'underground workings' of the soul groping for salvation. For him each chapter of _Against Nature_ contains the 'seed' of the novels that followed: _L\u00e0-Bas, En Route, La Cath\u00e9drale (The Cathedral_ ) and _L'Oblat (The Oblate_ ). He also retrospectively interprets Des Esseintes's final words of the book as a prelude to conversion. There are problems with this, not least the fact that Huysmans did not convert until 1892 and that his writing meanwhile showed little evidence of these 'underground workings'. The 1903 preface also takes the opportunity to settle a few scores and rewrites a few premises. By claiming Flaubert's ( _L'\u00c9ducation Sentimentale_ as the key book, the novel after which nothing can be written, Huysmans downplays the value of Naturalism and the aesthetic and sociopolitical project of Zola, who had died the previous year. He also caricatures the principles of Naturalist writing and overplays his break with Zola and the Naturalists when in fact he maintained good relations with his former colleagues for several years. The rejection of Naturalism is to be found less in _Against Nature_ than in the 1903 preface, an ambiguous text which is published here in an appendix because it should be treated with caution.\n\n### THEMES AND STRUCTURES\n\n_Against Nature_ was not the starting point but the consecration of a new literature... the novel is free at last.\n\nRemy de Gourmont, _Le Livre des masques (The Book of Masks_ )\n\nDes Esseintes is a fictional character, but he is not pure invention. Huysmans was a shrewd observer of the dandies and eccentrics who frequented the literary haunts of Paris. Many of the people he knew seemed themselves larger than life: Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, the great playwright and novelist reduced to sparring partner in a boxing gym; Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly, dandy, ultramontane Catholic and sadist; Francis Poictevin, dandified young novelist and aesthete. Among the specific models for Des Esseintes was the eccentric King Ludwig II of Bavaria, who designed an artificial forest with mechanical animals, but there were also Baudelaire himself, Edmond de Goncourt and a variety of fictional characters such as Samuel Cramer in Baudelaire's _Fanfarlo_ and Charles Demailly in the Goncourts' eponymous 1868 novel. The most obvious model, however, was Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac, an aesthete and eccentric who provided the model for Proust's Baron Charlus in _A la_ _recherche du temps perdu_ (Montesquiou was a relatively capable poet and critic and not wholly ridiculous or mad). Many of the elements of Des Esseintes's interior are based on details of Montesquiou's lodgings as described by Mallarm\u00e9 in letters to Huysmans, but it gives some indication of the strange times Huysmans lived through to recall that one of the book's most implausible episodes \u2013 the jewel-encrusted tortoise \u2013 is based on fact. Montesquiou had the poor creature customized to his tastes, and when it died wrote a poem in its memory in his collection _Les Hortensias bleus (The Blue Hortensias_ ), 1896). Zola (revealing his preoccupation with dirt, hygiene and tidiness of plot) was particularly exercised by the tortoise, telling Huysmans: 'a rather bourgeois preoccupation niggled me: it's lucky [the tortoise] died because it would have crapped on the carpet' (letter of May 1884).\n\nDes Esseintes is a kind of Decadent everyman, but he is also a prototype. He has the classic Decadent childhood: a mother who inhabits dark rooms with some unspecified nervous disorder, dying for no clear reason. There is an absent father, a boarding school and loveless family existence. We are told that the Des Esseintes have used up their strength through generations of inbreeding, and that the present Duke is the last in the line, the culmination of a long process of 'degeneration'. _Against Nature_ opens, on the one hand, with a model of linearity and of the cyclic nature of Decadence; on the other, with crisis and dislocation. The Prologue notes not just the gradual decline of the family, but also the gaps suggested by the missing paintings. In the chapter on Latin Decadent poets we read that parts of the literary history are followed in immense detail, others are lost; Des Esseintes's editions 'tailed away to nothing' and his collection makes a 'prodigious jump of several centuries' to the modern period. These two ways of organizing and narrating time are projected across the book's treatment of genealogy and biology, in its use of political and cultural history, and its assessments of literature and art. This in turn is reflected in _Against Nature_ 's structure: a narrative that progresses in a linear manner but is driven by ruptures, flashbacks and recollections that erupt unpredictably and often destructively into a near\u00adstatic present. Des Esseintes attempts to recall certain memories by means of various stimuli, but he is also victim of memories he cannot control or does not want to revisit. This aspect of Huysmans' novel has led to comparisons with Proust, though for Huysmans it remains purely at the level of narrative expedient. In _Against Nature_ , the traditional novelistic plot has 'degenerated' and come to a near standstill; even Des Esseintes is often 'squeezed out' from entire swathes of his story by the renegade memories and the lists and inventories he has amassed.\n\nDes Esseintes, like the book that tells his story, is prodigiously but selectively learned. Not for him the rounded education, the balanced mind and healthy body. His tastes are for the quirky, the difficult, the outrageous. He savours the Latin Decadents, he enjoys the sense of the language losing its clarity, becoming complex and strange, 'a pagan tongue as it decomposed like venison, dropping to pieces'. Des Esseintes is also impotent, and, like his creator, a misogynist. We should not refine this fact away: in _Against Nature_ , as in so many 'Decadent' works, the misogyny is not incidental but in built.\n\nDes Esseintes has sought ever richer, more dazzling and dangerous pleasures; ever more eccentric, artificial or stage-managed sexual encounters \u2013 his literary and artistic tastes are exclusive and his sexual tastes eclectic. There is something of the theatrical director in him, a thwarted creativity that expresses itself in a need to stage and direct his fantasy scenarios. Most importantly, he has the money to indulge these tastes and play out these scenarios. We notice how, despite his tirades against the 'American century', modern consumerism and ownership, he takes advantage of all of these. He _owns_ , and money is rarely far from the surface of this book ostensibly about the ascetic and cultured life, the search for the uncontaminated pleasure of pure art. Indeed, his passion for reproducing, commissioning copies, having finely bound books and made-to-measure interiors is uncannily like that of the early twentieth-century (American) millionaire: buying, transporting, transplanting. He is also a book fetishist, in whom the bibliophile \u2013 the lover of the book as object \u2013 overcomes the reader. Des Esseintes does not read, preferring instead to wax lyrical about paper quality and bindings. Reading in _Against Nature_ is only ever remembered or replayed, and all the evocative passages about Baudelaire or Mallarm\u00e9 are memories of readings that finished before the novel began. _Against Nature_ is about consumption in all its forms: financial, material, gastronomic, literary and artistic. With consumption there is also, inevitably (and in keeping with the Naturalist logic displayed by Zola's concern for the defecating tortoise), expulsion. Des Esseintes takes enemas, has problems with his digestion, diets and then gorges himself. He takes strong literary medicine, and the artistic equivalent of the beef-tea he drinks may be found in the prose poetry he favours, what he calls the 'osmazome' or concentrated juice of literature. Des Esseintes does not simply wish to abandon the world, but to poison it (as his dealings with August Langlois reveal). We see him exercise his authority over servants and tradesmen, in a relationship which replicates the social order of the world he tries to escape. The more _Against Nature_ banishes the world, the more it returns to haunt Des Esseintes, just as he himself is the mirror image of the materialism he hates.\n\nAnother sense of the term 'Decadence' was provided for Huysmans' generation by the classical scholar D\u00e9sir\u00e9e Nisard in his 1834 _Etude de m\u00e6urs et de critique sur les po\u00e8tes latins de la d\u00e9cadence (Critical and Cultural Study of the Latin Poets of the Decadence_ ). Nisard defined Decadence in literary terms as the period of description, where verbal ingenuity replaced moral vision, ornament replaced substance and false complexity replaced clarity of thought and language. _Against Nature_ certainly fulfils Nisard's definition, though Des Esseintes's ambition is not so much to collect as to select: he tries to distil, to anthologize, to sift. Edmond de Goncourt's _La Maison d'un artiste (An Artist's House_ , 1881) had stretched the boundary between the novel and the inventory, and Goncourt's influence can be detected in _Against Nature_ , weighed down by detail, buckling and coming to a standstill under the weight of description, as the poor tortoise dies beneath the burden of its finery. We may detect also Poe's 'Philosophy of Furniture' and Baudelaire's 'The Double Chamber' in Des Esseintes's interiors. In _Against Nature_ , objects, like knowledge and memories, are collected and stored as the reader toils through thickets of descriptive prose. The language that had once described the world has edged out the world. In this respect, _Against Nature_ is a Decadent book, but it would be mistaken to see it as a book that _advocated_ Decadence.\n\nEarly on in _Against Nature_ Des Esseintes expresses his preference for the artificial over the natural, one of the defining attitudes of Decadence. 'Nature... has had her day', he muses, seeking the copy or the mechanically produced, not as a substitute for the natural but in preference to it. His is an artificial world: abstracted and decontextualized, full of gadgets and refined objects, custom-built and chemical. In the marvellous chapter on tropical flowers we see his logic reach an extreme point of Decadent perversion. Not content with artificial flowers, Des Esseintes goes further, choosing real flowers that seem to imitate artificial ones, thereby reversing the relationship between natural and artificial, copy and original. The dominant influence here is Baudelaire, who in his art writings argued a philosophically impressive as well as morally extreme case against _la Nature_. For Baudelaire, nature was what pushed human beings to kill and brutalize each other; the authority and civilization that maintained humane values were themselves artificial: laws, religions, moral codes. Baudelaire's was a reaction against the given towards the made ('who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?' he demanded in _Peintre de la vie moderne_ [ _The Painter of Modern Life_ ]), seeking to free art from the tyranny of representation. Des Esseintes's view is subtly different: like Baudelaire he prefers the artificial, but unlike Baudelaire he still relies on reference to the model; he seeks the copy but needs to know what it has been copied _from_. As with his dependence on the tradesmen and suppliers who furnish his house, Des Esseintes constantly refers to what he claims to have abandoned. He is more outrageous in tone but less daring in intellectual substance than Baudelaire; we might even suggest that his views are a kind of crude copy of his mentor's \u2013 that with Des Esseintes Baudelaire's ideas have in fact 'degenerated'. Thanks principally to Oscar Wilde, who repeated or paraphrased its contents not just in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and _The Decay of Lying_ but in an array of on-and off-stage witticisms, this is the book's most famous chapter. _Against Nature_ has suffered from this, because Wilde focused attention on only one \u2013 highly ambiguous \u2013 thread in Huysmans' novel; it is possible that Dorian Gray misinterprets his mentor Des Esseintes much as Des Esseintes misinterprets his mentor Baudelaire.\n\nOne of Huysmans' achievements in _Against Nature_ , regardless of the double-dealing evident in his letters to Mallarm\u00e9 and Zola, is to have imagined \u2013 or predicted \u2013 an alternative literary canon. The chapters on modern literature are subtle and forward-looking, and Des Esseintes's tastes are more than simply indicated: they are justified and often compellingly analysed, while his dislikes are expressed in trenchant criticism. Des Esseintes's thoughts on Mallarm\u00e9 and Villiers, Verlaine and Corbi\u00e8re, Edmond de Goncourt and Flaubert are precise and analytical as well as perversely sophisticated. Huysmans was proud of his reading of Mallarm\u00e9, and his pages on Edgar Allan Poe are among the finest accounts of the French debt to the American poet who cast his spell over several generations of poets and prose writers. Des Esseintes is fascinated that this Decadent literary field exists in a spectacular contraction of time: all of these modes of writing, all of these stages of French and all of these artistic tendencies coexist in Des Esseintes's Paris, a modernist living museum of artists and artworks. In order to establish his literary tastes, Huysmans must also set out his distastes, and the great names of French writing, both living and dead, are paraded before us: Victor Hugo (still alive at the time Huysmans was writing), Rousseau, Voltaire, Moli\u00e8re are among the 'classics' Des Esseintes finds unoriginal, overblown or bourgeois. In painting, he admires Gustave Moreau for the luxury of his conceptions and the mythological dimension of his paintings, and for his removal from the 'hateful period' in which he lived. Moreau belongs nowhere, and it is revealing that in plans for _Against Nature_ Huysmans had intended to use Degas as his exemplary artist, thus giving a very different slant to Des Esseintes's artistic tastes. He admires the contortions of El Greco, and the Dutch engraver Jan Luyken for his depictions of suffering and torment, for images that 'reek[ed] of burnt flesh'. There are also the 'bad dreams and fevered visions' of another contemporary, Odilon Redon, whose spare and mysterious paintings contrast with Moreau's detail and incrustation.\n\nIt was not just the content of _Against Nature_ but its structure that was felt to be unusual. Dorian Gray noted that 'It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character', but Ezra Pound decades later put it more bluntly: 'Huysmans escaped by putting an exceptionally dull young decadent in the midst of no milieu whatsoever.' For Remy de Gourmont _Against Nature_ 'freed' the novel, but Zola condemned its lack of progress, its circularity and its 'painful transitions'.\n\nHow could a novel so ending-obsessed, plotless and grid-locked by description be seen as liberating? In certain respects, it was a version of Flaubert's dream of a book 'about nothing'. Huysmans took pride in his novel's lack of plot, telling Zola that he had 'emasculated dialogue'. In his 1903 preface Huysmans claimed to have sought to break the limits of the novel in order to allow in 'more serious work'. _Against Nature_ is a hybrid, composed of different modes of writing: catalogue, inventory, case study, encyclopedia and scholarly treatise, while the chapters are arranged as compartments or glass cases.\n\nIn Flaubert's _Bouvard et P\u00e9cuchet_ (posthumously published in 1881), Bouvard and P\u00e9cuchet retire to a country house to become great scientists and scholars. They read books, perform experiments and discuss big subjects, but the problem is that they understand nothing. New knowledge and new ways of knowing simply lead to new ways of being stupid. Ahead of our era of artificial intelligence, Flaubert exposed the era of artificial stupidity, and there is an element of Bouvard and P\u00e9cuchet in Des Esseintes. It is legitimate to find some of his antics farcical: his world of knowledge without context, reference without points of reference, discovery without application is in part related to theirs. The scene where Des Esseintes plays his 'mouth organ' of liqueurs or orchestrates scents with his vaporizer, his imaginary trip to Britain based on reading of Dickens and Poe and port bottle labels in the restaurant, or his extraordinary sexual relationship with a ventriloquist who recites Flaubert \u2013 all these are eccentric adventures, but with a strain of comical pedantry too.\n\nDes Esseintes searches for essences, but lives amid clutter. The most poignant moments occur when he tries to impose order on his world, or to uncover the hidden order of the world outside. He constantly tries to classify: people, plants, ideas, information, objects, sounds, scents, tastes. He dreams of the 'syntax' of precious stones, the 'grammar' of scents; he tries to compose symphonies of tastes and reads the entire social order into the different varieties of exotic plants. The Baudelairean world, alive with 'correspondences' becomes, in _Against Nature_ , a dead world where the metaphor and the model run rife, where the classificatory structure dominates, and where mediated knowledge wins out over experience. His black feast to mourn his virility signals also the death of a creative urge, buried under heaps of books and paintings. Just as the house in Fontenay becomes a kind of living tomb, so _Against Nature_ becomes a catacomb of reference and allusion, full of dead learning. Des Esseintes is a cross between a jailer and a curator; he can neither invent nor create, only absorb, consume and occasionally _re_ order what already exists. He is no more exemplary than Chateaubriand's Ren\u00e9, Camus' Meursault or Goethe's Werther. Though he became one of literature's most famous and most imitated characters, for Huysmans and many of his more alert contemporaries Des Esseintes was a ridiculous figure, a caricature trapped in his own claustrophobic farce.\n\n_Against Nature_ was a self-exhausting genre, a one-off. It has more in common with the seemingly plotless and non-linear narratives of modernism than with most of the French _fin de si\u00e8cle_ fiction it inspired and pre-emptively surpassed. Perhaps only Remy de Gourmont's _Sixtine_ (subtitled _Novel of the Cerebral Life,_ 1890) and Georges Rodenbach's Symbolist masterpiece _Bruges-la-Morte_ (1892) measured up to the novel that made them possible. _Against Nature_ sits more comfortably alongside the works of Proust, Musil, Joyce and Woolf than those of Jean Lorrain or Rachilde or Octave Mirbeau. It is a literature of retreat, of reaction and of revolt, but it is also a penetrating and innovative study of individualism and aliena\u00adtion. _Against Nature_ is a novel of surfeit: surfeit of knowledge, sensation, culture; and it culminates in a surfeit of self. It is a kind of Symbolist or Decadent _Heart of Darkness_ in its thwarted dreams of isolation, power and discovery. Like _Heart of Darkness_ it analyses the deadly game of self-fulfilment and self-escape; like Conrad's great novel it ends with a snarl of pessimism both at the world and at the counter-world forged in its stead \u2013 _forged_ in the sense of _faked_ as well as _newly created_. It is a mysterious, difficult and absurd book. Des Esseintes is the last of his race but perhaps the first of his kind: the modernist anthologist, caught between a desire for cultural preservation and a drive for apocalypse. He too might have surveyed his dying century and foreseen the one to come; and he too, like the voice in T. S. Eliot's _The Waste Land_ , might have murmured: 'These fragments I have shored against my ruins'.\n\n### NOTES\n\n. See Appendix I, for the preface.\n\n. Writers such as Oscar Wilde in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and 'The Decay of Lying', Arthur Symons in _The Symbolist Movement in Literature_ (1899) and Havelock Ellis in _Affirmations_ made Huysmans' work appear as an example \u2013 rather than a diagnosis \u2013 of decadence and aestheticism.\n\n. Symons, _The Decadent Movement in Literature_ (London: Constable, 1899), p. 39.\n\n. Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , ed. by Robert Mighall (London: Penguin Classics, 2000), pp. 121\u20132. See Appendix II.\n\n. Marianne Faithfull, _Faithfull_ (London: Penguin, 1995), p. 100.\n\n. Robert Louis Stevenson, 'Walt Whitman' (1878), _Essays and Poems_ , ed. Claire Harman (London: Everyman, 1992), p. 138.\n\n. Osip Mandelstam, _The Collected Critical Prose and Letters_ , ed. Jane Gary Harris, tr. Jane Gary Harris and Constance Link (London: Harvill, 1991), p. 100.\n\n. Quoted in Robert Baldick, _The Life of J.-K. Huysmans_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), p. 27. Baldick's biography is still a key reference work for modern Huysmans _amateurs_ and scholars.\n\n. Andr\u00e9 Breton, _Anthologie de l'humour noire_ , _Oeuvres compl\u00e8tes_ , vol. II, ed. Bonnet et al. (Paris: Pl\u00e9iade, 1992), p. 997.\n\n. L\u00e9on Bloy, 'Les Repr\u00e9sailles du Sphinx', _Le Chat Noir_ , 14 June 1884.\n\n. James Joyce, 'Realism and Idealism in English Literature', _Occasional, Critical and Political Writings_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 173.\n\n. _The Damned (L\u00e0-Bas_ ), tr. Terry Hale (London: Penguin, 2001).\n\n. _The Road from Decadence: From Brothel to Cloister. Selected Letters of J. K. Huysmans_ , tr. and ed. Barbara Beaumont (London: Athlone, 1989), p. 48.\n\n. Ibid., p. 46.\n\n. Ibid., p. 55.\n\n. Ibid., p. 72.\n\n. The following year (1885) saw the publication of a parodic volume, _The Deliquescences_ , by one 'Ador\u00e9 Floupette', written by two poets \u2013 Vicaire and Beauclair \u2013 as a send-up of their 'Decadent' contemporaries. As Appendix II of contemporary reviews and responses shows, some of Huysmans' readers thought of _Against Nature_ as at least in part parodic.\n\n. For an account of images and representations of women in this period, see Shearer West, _Fin de Si\u00e8cle: Art and Society in an Age of Uncertainty_ (London: Bloomsbury, 1993).\n\n. Ezra Pound, 'The Approach to Paris', New Age, 9 October 1913.\n\n## Further Reading\n\n### EDITIONS OF _AGAINST NATURE_\n\n_A Rebours_ (Paris: Charpentier, 1884). First edition.\n\n_A Rebours_ (Paris: A. Lep\u00e8re, 1903). Limited edition (130 copies) with 'Preface written twenty years after the novel'.\n\n_A Rebours_ appears in volume VII of the _Oeuvres compl\u00e8tes_ of Huysmans (Paris: Cr\u00e8s, 1929; reprinted Geneva: Slatkine, 1972). There are two outstanding modern editions: Marc Fumaroli's (Paris: Folio/Gallimard, 1977), and Rose Fortassier's (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1981).\n\n### ON HUYSMANS\n\nBaldick, Robert, _The Life of J. K. Huysmans_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955).\n\nBanks, Brian R., _The Image of Huysmans_ (New York: AMS Press, 1990).\n\nBeaumont, Barbara, (trans.), _The Road from Decadence: From Brothel to Cloister. Selected Letters of J. K. Huysmans_ (London: Athlone, 1989).\n\nBorie, Jean, _Huysmans: Le Diable, le c\u00e9libataire et Dieu_ (Paris: Grasset, 1991).\n\nCogny, Pierre, _J.-K. Huysmans \u00e0 la recherche de l'unit\u00e9_ (Paris: Nizet, 1953).\n\nGrojnowski, Daniel, _\u00c0 Rebours de J.-K. Huysmans_ (Paris: Gallimard/Folioth\u00e8que, 1996).\n\nHuneker, James Gibbons, 'The Pessimist's Progress', in _Egoists: A Book of Supermen_ (New York: Scribner, 1909).\n\nLloyd, Christopher, _J.-K. Huysmans and the 'Fin-de-si\u00e8cle' Novel_ (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, _c_.1990).\n\n### BACKGROUND AND CONTEXTS\n\nBirkett, Jennifer, _The Sins of the Fathers: Decadence in France, 1870\u20131914_ (London: Quartet, 1986).\n\nGriffiths, Richard, _The Reactionary Revolution: The Catholic Revival in French Literature 1870\u20131914_ (London: Constable, 1966).\n\nHustvedt, Asti (ed.), _The Decadent Reader: Fiction, Fantasy and Perversion from 'Fin de Si\u00e8cle' France_ (New York: Zone Books, 1998).\n\nMcGuinness, Patrick (ed.), _Symbolism, Decadence and the 'Fin de Si\u00e8cle': French and European Perspectives_ (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2000).\n\nPierrot, Jean, _The Decadent Imagination 1880\u20131900_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981).\n\nPraz, Mario, _The Romantic Agony_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951).\n\nSpackman, Barbara, _Decadent Genealogies: The Rhetoric of Sickness from Baudelaire to D'Annunzio_ , (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989).\n\nSymons, Arthur, _The Symbolist Movement in Literature_ (London: Constable, 1911).\n\nWest, Shearer, _Fin de Si\u00e8cle: Art and Society in an Age of Uncertainty_ (London: Bloomsbury, 1993).\n\n## Note on this Translation\n\nI have used Volume VII of Huysmans' _\u0152 uvres compl\u00e8tes_ (Paris: Cr\u00e8s, 1929), in which certain errors contained in the first edition and in the standard Fasquelle edition have been corrected.\n\nHuysmans' style, which Bloy described as 'continually dragging Mother Image by the hair or the feet down the worm-eaten staircase of terrified Syntax', is one of the strangest literary idioms in existence, packed with purple passages, intricate sentences, weird metaphors, unexpected tense changes and a vocabulary rich in slang and technical terms. I have tried to achieve the same effect, using the same constituents, in this English translation; and it is only fair to warn the reader that he may find that the resultant mixture, like the French original, is best taken in small doses.\n\nI should like to thank the Delegates of the Clarendon Press for permission to reproduce passages I had already translated in my _Life of J.-K. Huysmans_ (Oxford, 1955); my long-suffering friends and colleagues for help with the terminology of a wide range of subjects\n\nRobert Baldick  \nMay 1957\n\nI would like to thank Margaret Bartley, Robert Mighall and Jonathan Patrick for their help and advice at various stages of this edition.\n\nPatrick McGuinness  \n2003\n\n## AGAINST NATURE\n\nI must rejoice beyond the bounds of time... though the world may shudder at my joy, and in its coarseness know not what I mean.\n\nJan Van Ruysbroeck\n\n## PROLOGUE\n\nJudging by the few portraits preserved in the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps the Floressas Des Esseintes family had been composed in olden times of sturdy campaigners with forbidding faces. Imprisoned in old picture-frames which were scarcely wide enough for their broad shoulders, they were an alarming sight with their piercing eyes, their sweeping mustachios and their bulging chests filling the enormous cuirasses which they wore.\n\nThese were the founders of the family; the portraits of their descendants were missing. There was, in fact, a gap in the pictorial pedigree, with only one canvas to bridge it, only one face to join past and present. It was a strange, sly face, with pale, drawn features; the cheekbones were punctuated with cosmetic commas of rouge, the hair was plastered down and bound with a string of pearls and the thin, painted neck emerged from the starched pleats of a ruff.\n\nIn this picture of one of the closest friends of the Duc d'Epernon and the Marquis d'O, the defects of an impoverished stock and the excess of lymph in the blood were already apparent.\n\nSince then, the degeneration of this ancient house had clearly followed a regular course, with the men becoming progressively less manly; and over the last two hundred years, as if to complete the ruinous process, the Des Esseintes had taken to intermarrying among themselves, thus using up what little vigour they had left.\n\nNow, of this family which had once been so large that it occupied nearly every domain in the Ile de France and La Brie, only one descendant was still living: the Duc Jean des Esseintes, a frail young man of thirty who was anaemic and highly strung, with hollow cheeks, cold eyes of steely blue, a nose which was turned up but straight and thin, papery hands.\n\nBy some freak of heredity, this last scion of the family bore a striking resemblance to his distant ancestor the court favourite, for he had the same exceptionally fair pointed beard, and the same ambiguous expression, at once weary and wily.\n\nHis childhood had been overshadowed by sickness. However, despite the threat of scrofula and recurrent bouts of fever, he had succeeded in clearing the hurdle of adolescence with the aid of good nursing and fresh air; and after this his nerves had rallied, had overcome the languor and lethargy of chlorosis and had brought his body to its full physical development.\n\nHis mother, a tall, pale, silent woman, died of nervous exhaustion. Then it was his father's turn to succumb to some obscure illness when Des Esseintes was nearly seventeen.\n\nThere was no gratitude or affection associated with the memories he retained of his parents: only fear. His father, who normally resided in Paris, was almost a complete stranger; and he remembered his mother chiefly as a still, supine figure in a darkened bedroom in the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps. It was only rarely that husband and wife met, and all that he could recall of these occasions was a drab impression of his parents sitting facing each other over a table that was lighted only by a deeply shaded lamp, for the Duchess had a nervous attack whenever she was subjected to light or noise. In the semi-darkness they would exchange one or two words at the most, and then the Duke would unconcernedly slip away to catch the first available train.\n\nAt the Jesuit school to which Jean was sent to be educated, life was easier and pleasanter. The good Fathers made a point of cosseting the boy, whose intelligence amazed them; but in spite of all their efforts, they could not get him to pursue a regular course of study. He took readily to certain subjects and acquired a precocious proficiency in the Latin tongue; but on the other hand he was absolutely incapable of construing the simplest sentence in Greek, revealed no aptitude whatever for modern languages and displayed blank incomprehension when anyone tried to teach him the first principles of science.\n\nHis family showed little interest in his doings. Occasionally his father would come to see him at school, but all he had to say was: 'Good day, goodbye, be good and work hard.' The summer holidays he spent at Lourps, but his presence in the Ch\u00e2teau failed to awaken his mother from her reveries; she scarcely noticed him, or if she did, gazed at him for a few moments with a sad smile and then sank back again into the artificial night which the heavy curtains drawn across the windows created in her bedroom.\n\nThe servants were old and tired, and the boy was left to his own devices. On rainy days he used to browse through the books in the library, and when it was fine he would spend the afternoon exploring the local countryside.\n\nHis chief delight was to go down into the valley to Jutigny, a village lying at the foot of the hills, a little cluster of cottages wearing thatch bonnets decorated with sprigs of stonecrop and patches of moss. He used to lie down in the meadows, in the shadow of the tall hayricks, listening to the dull rumble of the water-mills and breathing in the fresh breezes coming from the Voulzie. Sometimes he would go as far as the peateries and the hamlet of Longueville with its green and black houses, or else he would scramble up the windswept hillsides from which he could survey an immense prospect. On the one hand he could look down on the Seine valley, winding away into the distance where it merged into the blue sky, and on the other he could see, far away on the horizon, the churches and the great tower of Provins, which seemed to tremble under the sun's rays in a dusty golden haze.\n\nHe would spend hours reading or daydreaming, enjoying his fill of solitude until night fell; and by dint of pondering the same thoughts his intelligence grew sharper and his ideas gained in maturity and precision. At the end of every vacation he went back to his masters a more serious and a more stubborn boy. These changes did not escape their notice: shrewd and clearsighted men, accustomed by their profession to probing the inmost recesses of the human soul, they treated this lively but intractable mind with caution and reserve. They realized that this particular pupil of theirs would never do anything to add to the glory of their house; and as his family was rich and apparently uninterested in his future, they soon gave up any idea of turning his thoughts towards the profitable careers open to their successful scholars. Similarly, although he was fond of engaging with them in argument about theological doctrines whose niceties and subtleties intrigued him, they never even thought of inducing him to enter a religious order, for in spite of all their efforts his faith remained infirm. Finally, out of prudence and fear of the unknown, they let him pursue whatever studies pleased him and neglect the rest, not wishing to turn this independent spirit against them by subjecting him to the sort of irksome discipline imposed by lay tutors.\n\nHe therefore lived a perfectly contented life at school, scarcely aware of the priests' fatherly control. He worked at his Latin and French books in his own way and in his own time; and although theology was not one of the subjects in the school syllabus, he finished the apprenticeship to this science which he had begun at the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps, in the library left by his great-great-uncle Dom Prosper, a former Prior of the Canons Regular of Saint-Ruf.\n\nThe time came, however, to leave the Jesuit establishment, for he was nearly of age and would soon have to take possession of his fortune. When at last he reached his majority, his cousin and guardian, the Comte de Montchevrel, gave him an account of his stewardship. Relations between the two men did not last long, for there could be no point of contact between one so old and one so young. But while they lasted, out of curiosity, as a matter of courtesy, and for want of something to do, Des Esseintes saw a good deal of his cousin's family; and he spent several desperately dull evenings at their town-house in he Rue de la Chaise, listening to female relatives old as the hills conversing about noble quarterings, heraldic moons and antiquated ceremonial.\n\nEven more than these dowagers, the men gathered round their whist-tables revealed an unalterable emptiness of mind. These descendants of medieval warriors, these last scions of feudal families, appeared to Des Esseintes in the guise of crotchety, catarrhal old men, endlessly repeating insipid monologues and immemorial phrases. The fleur-de-lis, which you find if you cut the stalk of a fern, was apparently also the only thing that remained impressed on the softening pulp inside these ancient skulls.\n\nThe young man felt a surge of ineffable pity for these mummies entombed in their Pompadour catafalques behind rococo panelling; these crusty dotards who lived with their eyes for ever fixed upon a nebulous Canaan, an imaginary land of promise.\n\nAfter a few experiences of this kind, he resolved, in spite of all the invitations and reproaches he might receive, never to set foot in this society again.\n\nInstead, he took to mixing with young men of his own age and station.\n\nSome of them, who like himself had been brought up in religious institutions, had been distinctively marked for life by the education they had received. They went to church regularly, took communion at Easter, frequented Catholic societies and shamefacedly concealed their sexual activities from each other as if they were heinous crimes. For the most part they were docile, good-looking ninnies, congenital dunces who had worn their masters' patience thin, but had nonetheless satisfied their desire to send pious, obedient creatures out into the world.\n\nThe others, who had been educated in state schools or in _lyc\u00e8es_ , were less hypocritical and more adventurous, but they were no more interesting and no less narrow-minded than their fellows. These gay young men were mad on races and operettas, lansquenet and baccarat, and squandered fortunes on horses, cards, and all the other pleasures dear to empty minds. After a year's trial, Des Esseintes was overcome by an immense distaste for the company of these men, whose debauchery struck him as being base and facile, entered into without discrimination or desire, indeed without any real stirring of the blood or stimulation of the nerves.\n\nLittle by little, he dropped these people and sought the society of men of letters, imagining that theirs must surely be kindred spirits with which his own mind would feel more at case. A fresh disappointment lay in store for him: he was revolted by their mean, spiteful judgements, their conversation that was as commonplace as a church-door, and the nauseating discussions in which they gauged the merit of a book by the number of editions it went through and the profits from its sale. At the same time, he discovered the free-thinkers, those bourgeois doctrinaires who clamoured for absolute liberty in order to stifle the opinions of other people, to be nothing but a set of greedy, shameless hypocrites whose intelligence he rated lower than the village cobbler's.\n\nHis contempt for humanity grew fiercer, and at last he came to realize that the world is made up mostly of fools and scoundrels. It became perfectly clear to him that he could entertain no hope of finding in someone else the same aspirations and antipathies; no hope of linking up with a mind which, like his own, took pleasure in a life of studious decrepitude; no hope of associating an intelligence as sharp and wayward as his own with that of any author or scholar.\n\nHe felt irritable and ill at ease; exasperated by the triviality of the ideas normally bandied about, he came to resemble those people mentioned by Nicole who are sensitive to anything and everything. He was constantly coming across some new source of offence, wincing at the patriotic or political twaddle served up in the papers every morning, and exaggerating the importance of the triumphs which an omnipotent public reserves at all times and in all circumstances for works written without thought or style.\n\nAlready he had begun dreaming of a refined Thebaid, a desert hermitage equipped with all modern conveniences, a snugly heated ark on dry land in which he might take refuge from the incessant deluge of human stupidity.\n\nOne passion and one only \u2013 woman \u2013 might have arrested the universal contempt that was taking hold of him, but that passion like the rest had been exhausted. He had tasted the sweets of the flesh like a crotchety invalid with a craving for food but a palate which soon becomes jaded. In the days when he had belonged to a set of young men-about-town, he had gone to those unconventional supper-parties where drunken women loosen their dresses at dessert and beat the table with their heads; he had hung around stage-doors, had bedded with singers and actresses, had endured, over and above the innate stupidity of the sex, the hysterical vanity common to women of the theatre. Then he had kept mistresses already famed for their depravity, and helped to swell the funds of those agencies which supply dubious pleasures for a consideration. And finally, weary to the point of satiety of these hackneyed luxuries, these commonplace caresses, he had sought satisfaction in the gutter, hoping that the contrast would revive his exhausted desires and imagining that the fascinating filthiness of the poor would stimulate his flagging senses.\n\nTry what he might, however, he could not shake off the overpowering tedium which weighed upon him. In desperation he had recourse to the perilous caresses of the professional virtuosos, but the only effect was to impair his health and exacerbate his nerves. Already he was getting pains at the back of his neck, and his hands were shaky: he could keep them steady enough when he was gripping a heavy object, but they trembled uncontrollably when holding something light such as a wineglass.\n\nThe doctors he consulted terrified him with warnings that it was time he changed his way of life and gave up these practices which were sapping his vitality. For a little while he led a quiet life, but soon his brain took fire again and sent out a fresh call to arms. Like girls who at the onset of puberty hanker after weird or disgusting dishes, he began to imagine and then to indulge in unnatural love-affairs and perverse pleasures. But this was too much for him. His overfatigued senses, as if satisfied that they had tasted every imaginable experience, sank into a state of lethargy; and impotence was not far off.\n\nWhen he came to his senses again, he found that he was utterly alone, completely disillusioned, abominably tired; and he longed to make an end of it all, prevented only by the cowardice of his flesh.\n\nThe idea of hiding away far from human society, of shutting himself up in some snug retreat, of deadening the thunderous din of life's inexorable activity, just as people deadened the noise of traffic by laying down straw outside a sick person's house \u2013 this idea tempted him more than ever.\n\nBesides, there was another reason why he should lose no time in coming to a decision: taking stock of his fortune, he discovered to his horror that in extravagant follies and riotous living he had squandered the greater part of his patrimony, and that what remained was invested in land and brought in only a paltry revenue.\n\nHe decided to sell the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps, which he no longer visited and where he would leave behind him no pleasant memories or fond regrets. He also realized his other assets and with the money he obtained bought sufficient government stocks to assure him of an annual income of fifty thousand francs, keeping back a tidy sum to buy and furnish the little house where he proposed to steep himself in peace and quiet for the rest of his life.\n\nHe scoured the suburbs of Paris and eventually discovered a villa for sale on the hillside above Fontenay-aux-Roses, standing in a lonely spot close to the Fort and far from all neighbours. This was the answer to his dreams, for in this district which had so far remained unspoilt by rampaging Parisians, he would be safe from molestation: the wretched state of communications, barely maintained by a comical railway at the far end of the town and a few little trams which came and went as they pleased, reassured him on this point. Thinking of the new existence he was going to fashion for himself, he felt a glow of pleasure at the idea that here he would be too far out for the tidal wave of Parisian life to reach him, and yet near enough for the proximity of the capital to strengthen him in his solitude. For, since a man has only to know he cannot get to a certain spot to be seized with a desire to go there, by not entirely barring the way back he was guarding against any hankering after human society, any nostalgic regrets.\n\nHe set the local mason to work on the house he had bought; then suddenly, one day, without telling anyone of his plans, he got rid of his furniture, dismissed his servants and disappeared without leaving any address with the concierge.\n\n## CHAPTER 1\n\nOver two months elapsed before Des Esseintes could immerse himself in the peaceful silence of his house at Fontenay, for purchases of all sorts still kept him perambulating the streets and ransacking the shops from one end of Paris to the other. And this was in spite of the fact that he had already made endless inquiries and given considerable thought to the matter before entrusting his new home to the decorators.\n\nHe had long been a connoisseur of colours both simple and subtle. In former years, when he had been in the habit of inviting women to his house, he had fitted out a boudoir with delicate carved furniture in pale Japanese camphor-wood under a sort of canopy of pink Indian satin, so that their flesh borrowed soft warm tints from the light which hidden lamps filtered through the awning.\n\nThis room, where mirror echoed mirror, and every wall reflected an endless succession of pink boudoirs, had been the talk of all his mistresses, who loved steeping their nakedness in this warm bath of rosy light and breathing in the aromatic odours given off by the camphor-wood. But quite apart from the beneficial effect which this tinted atmosphere had in bringing a ruddy flush to complexions worn and discoloured by the habitual use of cosmetics and the habitual abuse of the night hours, he himself enjoyed, in this voluptuous setting, peculiar satisfactions \u2013 pleasures which were in a way heightened and intensified by the recollection of past afflictions and bygone troubles.\n\nThus, in hateful and contemptuous memory of his childhood, he had suspended from the ceiling of this room a little silver cage containing a cricket which chirped as other crickets had once chirped among the embers in the fireplaces at the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps. Whenever he heard this familiar sound, all the silent evenings of constraint he had spent in his mother's company and all the misery he had endured in the course of a lonely, unhappy childhood came back to haunt him. And when the movements of the woman he was mechanically caressing suddenly dispelled these memories and her words or laughter brought him back to the present reality of the boudoir, then his soul was swept by tumultuous emotions: a longing to take vengeance for the boredom inflicted on him in the past, a craving to sully what memories he retained of his family with acts of sensual depravity, a furious desire to expend his lustful frenzy on cushions of soft flesh and to drain the cup of sensuality to its last and bitterest dregs.\n\nAt other times, when he was weighed down by splenetic boredom, and the rainy autumn weather brought on an aversion for the streets, for his house, for the dirty yellow sky and the tar-macadam clouds, then he took refuge in this room, set the cage swinging gently to and fro and watched its movements reflected _ad infinitum_ in the mirrors on the walls, until it seemed to his dazed eyes that the cage itself was not moving but that the boudoir was tossing and turning, waltzing round the house in a dizzy whirl of pink.\n\nThen, in the days when he had thought it necessary to advertise his individuality, he had decorated and furnished the public rooms of his house with ostentatious oddity. The drawing-room, for example, had been partitioned off into a series of niches, which were styled to harmonize vaguely, by means of subtly analogous colours that were gay or sombre, delicate or barbarous, with the character of his favourite works in Latin and French. He would then settle down to read in whichever of these niches seemed to correspond most exactly to the peculiar essence of the book which had taken his fancy.\n\nHis final caprice had been to fit up a lofty hall in which to receive his tradesmen. They used to troop in and take their places side by side in a row of church stalls; then he would ascend an imposing pulpit and preach them a sermon on dandyism, adjuring his bootmakers and tailors to conform strictly to his encyclicals on matters of cut, and threatening them with pecuniary excommunication if they did not follow to the letter the instructions contained in his monitories and bulls.\n\nBy these means he won a considerable reputation as an eccentric \u2013 a reputation which he crowned by wearing suits of white velvet with gold-laced waistcoats, by sticking a bunch of Parma violets in his shirt-front in lieu of a cravat and by entertaining men of letters to dinners which were greatly talked about. One of these meals, modelled on an eighteenth-century original, had been a funeral feast to mark the most ludicrous of personal misfortunes. The dining-room, draped in black, opened out on to a garden metamorphosed for the occasion, the paths being strewn with charcoal, the ornamental pond edged with black basalt and filled with ink, and the shrubberies replanted with cypresses and pines. The dinner itself was served on a black cloth adorned with baskets of violets and scabious; candelabra shed an eerie green light over the table and tapers flickered in the chandeliers.\n\nWhile a hidden orchestra played funeral marches, the guests were waited on by naked negresses wearing only slippers and stockings in cloth of silver embroidered with tears.\n\nDining off black-bordered plates, the company had enjoyed turtle soup, Russian rye bread, ripe olives from Turkey, caviare, mullet botargo, black puddings from Frankfurt, game served in sauces the colour of liquorice and boot-polish, truffle jellies, chocolate creams, plum-puddings, nectarines, pears in grape-juice syrup, mulberries and black heart-cherries. From dark-tinted glasses they had drunk the wines of Limagne and Roussillon, of Tenedos, Valdepe\u00f1 as and Oporto. And after coffee and walnut cordial, they had rounded off the evening with kvass, porter and stout.\n\nOn the invitations, which were similar to those sent out before more solemn obsequies, this dinner was described as a funeral banquet in memory of the host's virility, lately but only temporarily deceased.\n\nIn time, however, his taste for these extravagant caprices, of which he had once been so proud, died a natural death; and nowadays he shrugged his shoulders in contempt whenever he recalled the puerile displays of eccentricity he had given, the extraordinary clothes he had worn and the bizarre furnishing schemes he had devised. The new home he was now planning, this time for his own personal pleasure and not to astonish other people, was going to be comfortably though curiously appointed: a peaceful and unique abode specially designed to meet the needs of the solitary life he intended to lead.\n\nWhen the architect had fitted up the house at Fontenay in accordance with his wishes, and when all that remained was to settle the question of furniture and decoration, Des Esseintes once again gave long and careful consideration to the entire series of available colours.\n\nWhat he wanted was colours which would appear stronger and clearer in artificial light. He did not particularly care if they looked crude or insipid in daylight, for he lived most of his life at night, holding that night afforded greater intimacy and isolation and that the mind was truly roused and stimulated only by awareness of the dark; moreover he derived a peculiar pleasure from being in a well-lighted room when all the surrounding houses were wrapped in sleep and darkness, a sort of enjoyment in which vanity may have played some small part, a very special feeling of satisfaction familiar to those who sometimes work late at night and draw aside the curtains to find that all around them the world is dark, silent and dead.\n\nSlowly, one by one, he went through the various colours.\n\nBlue, he remembered, takes on an artificial green tint by candlelight; if a dark blue like indigo or cobalt, it becomes black; if pale, it turns to grey; and if soft and true like turquoise, it goes dull and cold. There could, therefore, be no question of making it the keynote of a room, though it might be used to help out another colour.\n\nOn the other hand, under the same conditions the iron greys grow sullen and heavy; the pearl greys lose their blue sheen and are metamorphosed into a dirty white; the browns become cold and sleepy; and as for the dark greens such as emperor green and myrtle green, they react like the dark blues and turn quite black. Only the pale greens remained \u2013 peacock green, for instance, or the cinnabar and lacquer greens \u2013 but then artificial light kills the blue in them and leaves only the yellow, which for its part lacks clarity and consistency.\n\nNor was there any point in thinking of such delicate tints as salmon pink, maize and rose; for their very effeminacy would run counter to his ideas of complete isolation. Nor again was it any use considering the various shades of purple, which with one exception lose their lustre in candlelight. That exception is plum, which somehow survives intact, but then what a muddy reddish hue it is, unpleasantly like lees of wine! Besides, it struck him as utterly futile to resort to this range of tints, in so far as it is possible to see purple by ingesting a specified amount of santonin, and thus it becomes a simple matter for anyone to change the colour of his walls without laying a finger on them.\n\nHaving rejected all these colours, he was left with only three: red, orange and yellow.\n\nOf the three, he preferred orange, so confirming by his own example the truth of a theory to which he attributed almost mathematical validity: to wit, that there exists a close correspondence between the sensual make-up of a person with a truly artistic temperament and whatever colour that person reacts to most strongly and sympathetically.\n\nIn fact, leaving out of account the majority of men, whose coarse retinas perceive neither the cadences peculiar to different colours nor the mysterious charm of their gradation; leaving out also those bourgeois optics that are insensible to the pomp and glory of the clear, bright colours; and considering only those people with delicate eyes that have undergone the education of libraries and art-galleries, it seemed to him an undeniable fact that anyone who dreams of the ideal, prefers illusion to reality and calls for veils to clothe the naked truth, is almost certain to appreciate the soothing caress of blue and its cognates, such as mauve, lilac and pearl grey, always provided they retain their delicacy and do not pass the point where they change their personalities and turn into pure violets and stark greys.\n\nThe hearty, blustering type on the other hand, the handsome, full-blooded sort, the strapping he-men who scorn the formalities of life and rush straight for their goal, losing their heads completely, these generally delight in the vivid glare of the reds and yellows, in the percussion effect of the vermilions and chromes, which blind their eyes and intoxicate their senses.\n\nAs for those gaunt, febrile creatures of feeble constitution and nervous disposition whose sensual appetite craves dishes that are smoked and seasoned, their eyes almost always prefer that most morbid and irritating of colours, with its acid glow and unnatural splendour \u2013 orange.\n\nThere could therefore be no doubt whatever as to Des Esseintes's final choice; but indubitable difficulties still remained to be solved. If red and yellow become more pronounced in artificial light, the same is not true of their compound, orange, which often flares up into a fiery nasturtium red.\n\nHe carefully studied all its different shades by candlelight and finally discovered one which he considered likely to keep its balance and answer his requirements.\n\nOnce these preliminaries were over, he made every effort to avoid, in his study at any rate, the use of Oriental rugs and fabrics, which had become so commonplace and vulgar now that upstart tradesmen could buy them in the bargain basement of any department-store.\n\nThe walls he eventually decided to bind like books in large-grained crushed morocco: skins from the Cape glazed by means of strong steel plates under a powerful press.\n\nWhen the lining of the walls had been completed, he had the mouldings and the tall plinths lacquered a deep indigo, similar to the colour coachbuilders use for the panels of carriage bodies. The ceiling, which was slightly coved, was also covered in morocco; and set in the middle of the orange leather, like a huge circular window open to the sky, there was a piece of royal-blue silk from an ancient cope on which silver seraphim had been depicted in angelic flight by the weavers' guild of Cologne.\n\nAfter everything had been arranged according to plan, these various colours came to a quiet understanding with each other at nightfall: the blue of the woodwork was stabilized and, so to speak, warmed up by the surrounding orange tints, which for their part glowed with undiminished brilliance, maintained and in a way intensified by the close proximity of the blue.\n\nAs to furniture, Des Esseintes did not have to undertake any laborious treasure-hunts, in so far as the only luxuries he intended to have in this room were rare books and flowers. Leaving himself free to adorn any bare walls later on with a few drawings and paintings, he confined himself for the present to fitting up ebony bookshelves and bookcases round the greater part of the room, strewing tiger skins and blue fox furs about the floor, and installing beside a massive money-changer's table of the fifteenth century, several deep-seated wing-armchairs and an old church lectern of wrought iron, one of those antique singing-desks on which deacons of old used to place the antiphonary and which now supported one of the weighty folios of Du Cange's _Glossarium mediae et infimae Latinatis_.\n\nThe windows, with panes of bluish crackle-glass or gilded bottle-punts which shut out the view and admitted only a very dim light, were dressed with curtains cut out of old ecclesiastical stoles, whose faded gold threads were almost invisible against the dull red material.\n\nAs a finishing touch, in the centre of the chimney-piece, which was likewise dressed in sumptuous silk from a Florentine dalmatic, and flanked by two Byzantine monstrances of gilded copper which had originally come from the Abbaye-au-Bois at Bi\u00e8vre, there stood a magnificent triptych whose separate panels had been fashioned to resemble lace-work. This now contained, framed under glass, copied on real vellum in exquisite missal lettering and marvellously illuminated, three pieces by Baudelaire: on the right and left, the sonnets _La Mort des amants_ and _L'Ennemi_ , and in the middle, the prose poem bearing the English title _Anywhere out of the World_.\n\n## CHAPTER 2\n\nAfter the sale of his goods, Des Esseintes kept on the two old servants who had looked after his mother and who between them had acted as steward and concierge at the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps while it waited, empty and untenanted, for a buyer.\n\nHe took with him to Fontenay this faithful pair who had been accustomed to a methodical sickroom routine, trained to administer spoonfuls of physic and medicinal brews at regular intervals and inured to the absolute silence of cloistered monks, barred from all communication with the outside world and confined to rooms where the doors and windows were always shut.\n\nThe husband's duty was to clean the rooms and go marketing; the wife's to do all the cooking. Des Esseintes gave up the first floor of the house to them; but he made them wear thick felt slippers, had the doors fitted with tambours and their hinges well oiled, and covered the floors with long-pile carpeting, to make sure that he never heard the sound of their footsteps overhead.\n\nHe also arranged a code of signals with them so that they should know what he needed by the number of long or short peals he rang on his bell; and he appointed a particular spot on his desk where the household account-book was to be left once a month while he was asleep. In short, he did everything he could to avoid seeing them or speaking to them more often than was absolutely necessary.\n\nHowever, since the woman would have to pass alongside the house occasionally to get to the woodshed, and he had no desire to see her commonplace silhouette through the window, he had a costume made for her of Flemish faille, with a white cap and a great black hood let down on the shoulders, such as the beguines still wear to this day at Ghent. The shadow of this coif gliding past in the twilight produced an impression of convent life, and reminded him of those peaceful, pious communities, those sleepy villages shut away in some hidden corner of the busy, wide-awake city.\n\nHe went on to fix his mealtimes according to an unvarying schedule; the meals themselves were necessarily plain and simple, for the feebleness of his stomach no longer allowed him to enjoy heavy or elaborate dishes.\n\nAt five o'clock in winter, after dusk had fallen, he ate a light breakfast of two boiled eggs, toast and tea; then he had lunch about eleven, drank coffee or sometimes tea and wine during the night and finally toyed with a little supper about five in the morning, before going to bed.\n\nThese meals, the details and menu of which were decided once for all at the beginning of each season of the year, he ate at a table in the middle of a small room linked to his study by a corridor which was padded and hermetically sealed, to allow neither sound nor smell to pass from one to the other of the two rooms it connected.\n\nThis dining-room resembled a ship's cabin, with its ceiling of arched beams, its bulkheads and floorboards of pitch-pine, and the little window-opening let into the wainscoting like a porthole.\n\nLike those Japanese boxes that fit one inside the other, this room had been inserted into a larger one, which was the real dining-room planned by the architect.\n\nThis latter room was provided with two windows. One of these was now invisible, being hidden behind the bulkhead; but this partition could be lowered by releasing a spring, so that when fresh air was admitted it not only circulated around the pitch-pine cabin but entered it. The other was visible enough, as it was directly opposite the porthole cut into the wainscoting, but it had been rendered useless by a large aquarium occupying the entire space between the porthole and this real window in the real house-wall. Thus what daylight penetrated into the cabin had first to pass through the outer window, the panes of which had been replaced by a sheet of plate-glass, then through the water and finally through the fixed bull's-eye in the porthole.\n\nOn autumn evenings, when the samovar stood steaming on the table and the sun had almost set, the water in the aquarium, which had been dull and turbid all morning, would turn red like glowing embers and shed a fiery, glimmering light upon the pale walls.\n\nSometimes of an afternoon, when Des Esseintes happened to be already up and about, he would set in action the system of pipes and conduits which emptied the aquarium and refilled it with fresh water, and then pour in a few drops of coloured essences, thus producing at will the various tints, green or grey, opaline or silvery, which real rivers take on according to the colour of the sky, the greater or less brilliance of the sun's rays, the more or less imminent threat of rain \u2013 in a word, according to the season and the weather.\n\nHe could then imagine himself between-decks in a brig, and gazed inquisitively at some ingenious mechanical fishes driven by clockwork, which moved backwards and forwards behind the port-hole window and got entangled in artificial seaweed. At other times, while he was inhaling the smell of tar which had been introduced into the room before he entered it, he would examine a series of colour-prints on the walls, such as you see in packet-boat offices and Lloyd's agencies, representing steamers bound for Valparaiso and the River Plate, alongside framed notices giving the itineraries of the Royal Mail Steam Packet Line and the Lopez and Val\u00e9ry Companies, as well as the freight charges and ports of call of the transatlantic mail-boats.\n\nThen, when he was tired of consulting these timetables, he would rest his eyes by looking at the chronometers and compasses, the sextants and dividers, the binoculars and charts scattered about on a side-table which was dominated by a single book, bound in sea-calf leather: the _Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym_ , specially printed for him on laid paper of pure linen, hand picked and bearing a seagull water-mark.\n\nFinally he could take stock of the fishing-rods, the brown-tanned nets, the rolls of russet-coloured sails and the miniature anchor made of cork painted black, all piled higgledy-piggledy beside the door that led to the kitchen by way of a corridor padded, like the passage between dining-room and study, in such a way as to absorb any noises and smells.\n\nBy these means he was able to enjoy quickly, almost simultaneously, all the sensations of a long sea-voyage, without ever leaving home; the pleasure of moving from place to place, a pleasure which in fact exists only in recollection of the past and hardly ever in experience of the present, this pleasure he could savour in full and in comfort, without fatigue or worry, in this cabin whose deliberate disorder, impermanent appearance and makeshift appointments corresponded fairly closely to the flying visits he paid it and the limited time he gave his meals, while it offered a complete contrast to his study, a permanent, orderly, well-established room, admirably equipped to maintain and uphold a stay-at-home existence.\n\nTravel, indeed, struck him as being a waste of time, since he believed that the imagination could provide a more-than-adequate substitute for the vulgar reality of actual experience. In his opinion it was perfectly possible to fulfil those desires commonly supposed to be the most difficult to satisfy under normal conditions, and this by the trifling subterfuge of producing a fair imitation of the object of those desires. Thus it is well known that nowadays, in restaurants famed for the excellence of their cellars, the gourmets go into raptures over rare vintages manufactured out of cheap wines treated according to Monsieur Pasteur's method. Now, whether they are genuine or faked, these wines have the same aroma, the same colour, the same bouquet; and consequently the pleasure experienced in tasting these factitious, sophisticated beverages is absolutely identical with that which would be afforded by the pure, unadulterated wine, now unobtainable at any price.\n\nThere can be no doubt that by transferring this ingenious trickery, this clever simulation to the intellectual plane, one can enjoy, just as easily as on the material plane, imaginary pleasures similar in all respects to the pleasures of reality; no doubt, for instance, that anyone can go on long voyages of exploration sitting by the fire, helping out his sluggish or refractory mind, if the need arises, by dipping into some book describing travels in distant lands; no doubt, either, that without stirring out of Paris it is possible to obtain the health-giving impression of sea-bathing \u2013 for all that this involves is a visit to the Bain Vigier, an establishment to be found on a pontoon moored in the middle of the Seine.\n\nThere, by salting your bath-water and adding sulphate of soda with hydrochlorate of magnesium and lime in the proportions recommended by the Pharmacopoeia; by opening a box with a tight-fitting screw-top and taking out a ball of twine or a twist of rope, bought for the occasion from one of those enormous roperies whose warehouses and cellars reek with the smell of the sea and sea-ports; by breathing in the odours which the twine or the twist of rope is sure to have retained; by consulting a life-like photograph of the casino and zealously reading the _Guide Joanne_ describing the beauties of the seaside resort where you would like to be; by letting yourself be lulled by the waves created in your bath by the backwash of the paddle-steamers passing close to the pontoon; by listening to the moaning of the wind as it blows under the arches of the Pont Royal and the dull rumble of the buses crossing the bridge just a few feet over your head; by employing these simple devices, you can produce an illusion of sea-bathing which will be undeniable, convincing and complete.\n\nThe main thing is to know how to set about it, to be able to concentrate your attention on a single detail, to forget yourself sufficiently to bring about the desired hallucination and so substitute the vision of a reality for the reality itself.\n\nAs a matter of fact, artifice was considered by Des Esseintes to be the distinctive mark of human genius.\n\nNature, he used to say, has had her day; she has finally and utterly exhausted the patience of sensitive observers by the revolting uniformity of her landscapes and skyscapes. After all, what platitudinous limitations she imposes, like a tradesman specializing in a single line of business; what petty-minded restrictions, like a shopkeeper stocking one article to the exclusion of all others; what a monotonous store of meadows and trees, what a commonplace display of mountains and seas!\n\nIn fact, there is not a single one of her inventions, deemed so subtle and sublime, that human ingenuity cannot manufacture; no moonlit Forest of Fontainebleau that cannot be reproduced by stage scenery under floodlighting; no cascade that cannot be imitated to perfection by hydraulic engineering; no rock that papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 cannot counterfeit; no flower that carefully chosen taffeta and delicately coloured paper cannot match!\n\nThere can be no shadow of doubt that with her never-ending platitudes the old crone has by now exhausted the good-humoured admiration of all true artists, and the time has surely come for artifice to take her place whenever possible.\n\nAfter all, to take what among all her works is considered to be the most exquisite, what among all her creations is deemed to possess the most perfect and original beauty \u2013 to wit, woman \u2013 has not man for his part, by his own efforts, produced an animate yet artificial creature that is every bit as good from the point of view of plastic beauty? Does there exist, anywhere on this earth, a being conceived in the joys of fornication and born in the throes of motherhood who is more dazzlingly, more outstandingly beautiful than the two locomotives recently put into service on the Northern Railway?\n\nOne of these, bearing the name of Crampton, is an adorable blonde with a shrill voice, a long slender body imprisoned in a shiny brass corset, and supple catlike movements; a smart golden blonde whose extraordinary grace can be quite terrifying when she stiffens her muscles of steel, sends the sweat pouring down her steaming flanks, sets her elegant wheels spinning in their wide circles and hurtles away, full of life, at the head of an express or a boat-train.\n\nThe other, Engerth by name, is a strapping saturnine brunette given to uttering raucous, guttural cries, with a thick-set figure encased in armour-plating of cast iron; a monstrous creature with her dishevelled mane of black smoke and her six wheels coupled together low down, she gives an indication of her fantastic strength when, with an effort that shakes the very earth, she slowly and deliberately drags along her heavy train of goods-wagons.\n\nIt is beyond question that, among all the fair, delicate beauties and all the dark, majestic charmers of the human race, no such superb examples of comely grace and terrifying force are to be found; and it can be stated without fear of contradiction that in his chosen province man has done as well as the God in whom he believes.\n\nThese thoughts occurred to Des Esseintes whenever the breeze carried to his ears the faint whistle of the toy trains that shuttle backwards and forwards between Paris and Sceaux. His house was only about a twenty minutes' walk from the station at Fontenay, but the height at which it stood and its isolated position insulated it from the hullabaloo of the vile hordes that are inevitably attracted on Sundays to the purlieus of a railway station.\n\nAs for the village itself, he had scarcely seen it. Only once, looking out of his window one night, had he examined the silent landscape stretching down to the foot of a hill which is surmounted by the batteries of the Bois de Verri\u00e8res.\n\nIn the darkness, on both right and left, rows of dim shapes could be seen lining the hillsides, dominated by other far-off batteries and fortifications whose high retaining-walls looked in the moonlight like silver-painted brows over dark eyes.\n\nThe plain, lying partly in the shadow of the hills, appeared to have shrunk in size; and in the middle it seemed as if it were sprinkled with face-powder and smeared with coldcream. In the warm breeze that fanned the colourless grass and scented the air with cheap spicy perfumes, the moon-bleached trees rustled their pale foliage and with their trunks drew a shadow-pattern of black stripes on the white-washed earth, littered with pebbles that glinted like fragments of broken crockery.\n\nOn account of its artificial, made-up appearance, Des Esseintes found this landscape not unattractive; but since that first afternoon he had spent house-hunting in the village of Fontenay, he had never once set foot in its streets by day. The greenery of this part of the country had no appeal whatever for him, lacking as it did even that languid, melancholy charm possessed by the pitiful, sickly vegetation clinging pathetically to life on the suburban rubbish-heaps near the ramparts. And then, on that same day, in the village itself, he had caught sight of bewhiskered bourgeois with protuberant paunches and mustachioed individuals in fancy dress, whom he took to be magistrates and army officers, carrying their heads as proudly as a priest would carry a monstrance; and after that experience his detestation of the human face had grown even fiercer than before.\n\nDuring the last months of his residence in Paris, at a time when, sapped by disillusionment, depressed by hypochondria and weighed down by spleen, he had been reduced to such a state of nervous sensitivity that the sight of a disagreeable person or thing was deeply impressed upon his mind and it took several days even to begin removing the imprint, the human face as glimpsed in the street had been one of the keenest torments he had been forced to endure.\n\nIt was a fact that he suffered actual pain at the sight of certain physiognomies, that he almost regarded the benign or crabbed expressions on some faces as personal insults, and that he felt sorely tempted to box the ears of, say, one worthy he saw strolling along with his eyes shut in donnish affectation, another who smiled at his reflection as he minced past the shop-windows and yet another who appeared to be pondering a thousand-and-one weighty thoughts as he knit his brows over the rambling articles and sketchy news-items in his paper.\n\nHe could detect such inveterate stupidity, such hatred of his own ideas, such contempt for literature and art and everything he held dear, implanted and rooted in these mean mercenary minds, exclusively preoccupied with thoughts of swindling and money-grubbing and accessible only to that ignoble distraction of mediocre intellects, politics, that he would go home in a fury and shut himself up with his books.\n\nLast but not least, he hated with all the hatred that was in him the rising generation, the appalling boors who find it necessary to talk and laugh at the top of their voices in restaurants and caf\u00e9s, who jostle you in the street without a word of apology and who, without expressing or even indicating regret, drive the wheels of a baby-carriage into your legs.\n\n## CHAPTER 3\n\nOne section of the bookshelves lining the walls of Des Esseintes's blue and orange study was filled with nothing but Latin works \u2013 works which minds drilled into conformity by repetitious university lectures lump together under the generic name of 'the Decadence'.\n\nThe truth was that the Latin language, as it was written during the period which the academics still persist in calling the Golden Age, held scarcely any attraction for him. That restricted idiom with its limited stock of almost invariable constructions; without suppleness of syntax, without colour, without even light and shade; pressed flat along all its seams and stripped of the crude but often picturesque expressions of earlier epochs \u2013 that idiom could, at a pinch, enunciate the pompous platitudes and vague commonplaces endlessly repeated by the rhetoricians and poets of the time, but it was so tedious and unoriginal that in the study of linguistics you had to come down to the French style current in the age of Louis XIV to find another idiom so wilfully debilitated, so solemnly tiresome and dull.\n\nAmong other authors, the gentle Virgil, he whom the school-mastering fraternity call the Swan of Mantua, presumably because that was not his native city, impressed him as being one of the most appalling pedants and one of the most deadly bores that Antiquity ever produced; his well-washed, beribboned shepherds taking it in turns to empty over each other's heads jugs of icy-cold sententious verse, his Orpheus whom he compares to a weeping nightingale, his Aristaeus who blubbers about bees and his Aeneas, that irresolute, garrulous individual who strides up and down like a puppet in a shadow-theatre, making wooden gestures behind the ill-fitting, badly oiled screen of the poem, combined to irritate Des Esseintes. He might possibly have tolerated the dreary nonsense these marionettes spout into the wings; he might even have excused the impudent plagiarizing of Homer, Theocritus, Ennius and Lucretius, as well as the outright theft Macrobius has revealed to us of the whole of the Second Book of the _Aeneid_ , copied almost word for word from a poem of Pisander's; he might in fact have put up with all the indescribable fatuity of this rag-bag of vapid verses; but what utterly exasperated him was the shoddy workmanship of the tinny hexameters, with their statutory allotment of words weighed and measured according to the unalterable laws of a dry, pedantic prosody; it was the structure of the stiff and starchy lines in their formal attire and their abject subservience to the rule of grammar; it was the way in which each and every line was mechanically bisected by the inevitable caesura and finished off with the invariable shock of dactyl striking spondee.\n\nBorrowed as it was from the system perfected by Catullus, that unchanging prosody, unimaginative, inexorable, stuffed full of useless words and phrases, dotted with pegs that fitted only too foreseeably into corresponding holes, that pitiful device of the Homeric epithet, used time and again without ever indicating or describing anything, and that poverty-stricken vocabulary with its dull, dreary colours, all caused him unspeakable torment.\n\nIt is only fair to add that, if his admiration for Virgil was anything but excessive and his enthusiasm for Ovid's limpid effusions exceptionally discreet, the disgust he felt for the elephantine Horace's vulgar twaddle, for the stupid patter he keeps up as he simpers at his audience like a painted old clown, was absolutely limitless.\n\nIn prose, he was no more enamoured of the long-winded style, the redundant metaphors and the rambling digressions of old Chick-Pea, the bombast of his apostrophes, the wordiness of his patriotic perorations, the pomposity of his harangues, the heaviness of his style, well fed and well covered, but weak-boned and running to fat, the intolerable insignificance of his long introductory adverbs, the monotonous uniformity of his adipose periods clumsily tied together with conjunctions, and finally his wearisome predilection for tautology, all signally failed to endear him to Des Esseintes. Nor was Caesar, with his reputation for laconism, any more to his taste than Cicero; for he went to the other extreme, and offended by his pop-gun pithiness, his jotting-pad brevity, his unforgivable, unbelievable constipation.\n\nThe fact of the matter was that he could find mental pabulum neither among these writers nor among those who for some reason are the delight of dilettante scholars: Sallust who is at least no more insipid than the rest, Livy who is pompous and sentimental, Seneca who is turgid and colourless, Suetonius who is larval and lymphatic and Tacitus, who with his studied concision is the most virile, the most biting, the most sinewy of them all. In poetry, Juvenal, despite a few vigorous lines, and Persius, for all his mysterious innuendoes, both left him cold. Leaving aside Tibullus and Propertius, Quintilian and the two Plinys, Statius, Martial of Bilbilis, Terence even and Plautus, whose jargon with its plentiful neologisms, compounds, and diminutives attracted him, but whose low wit and salty humour repelled him, Des Esseintes only began to take an interest in the Latin language when he came to Lucan, in whose hands it took on new breadth, and became brighter and more expressive. The fine craftsmanship of Lucan's enamelled and jewelled verse won his admiration; but the poet's exclusive preoccupation with form, bell-like stridency and metallic brilliance did not entirely hide from his eyes the bombastic blisters disfiguring the _Pharsalia_ , or the poverty of its intellectual content.\n\nThe author he really loved, and who made him abandon Lucan's resounding tirades for good, was Petronius.\n\nPetronius was a shrewd observer, a delicate analyst, a marvellous painter; dispassionately, with an entire lack of prejudice or animosity, he described the everyday life of Rome, recording the manners and morals of his time in the lively little chapters of the _Satyricon_.\n\nNoting what he saw as he saw it, he set forth the day-to-day existence of the common people, with all its minor events, its bestial incidents, its obscene antics.\n\nHere we have the Inspector of Lodgings coming to ask for the names of any travellers who have recently arrived; there, a brothel where men circle round naked women standing beside placards giving their price, while through half-open doors couples can be seen disporting themselves in the bedrooms. Elsewhere, in villas full of insolent luxury where wealth and ostentation run riot, as also in the mean inns described throughout the book, with their unmade trestle beds swarming with fleas, the society of the day has its fling \u2013 depraved ruffians like Ascyltus and Eumolpus, out for what they can get; unnatural old men with their gowns tucked up and their cheeks plastered with white lead and acacia rouge; catamites of sixteen, plump and curly-headed; women having hysterics; legacy-hunters offering their boys and girls to gratify the lusts of rich testators, all these and more scurry across the pages of the _Satyricon_ , squabbling in the streets, fingering one another in the baths, beating one another up like characters in a pantomime.\n\nAll this is told with extraordinary vigour and precise colouring, in a style that makes free of every dialect, that borrows expressions from all the languages imported into Rome, that extends the frontiers and breaks the fetters of the so-called Golden Age, that makes every man talk in his own idiom \u2013 uneducated freedmen in vulgar Latin, the language of the streets; foreigners in their barbaric lingo, shot with words and phrases from African, Syrian and Greek; and stupid pedants, like the Agamemnon of the book, in a rhetorical jargon of invented words. There are lightning sketches of all these people, sprawled round a table, exchanging the vapid pleasantries of drunken revellers, trotting out mawkish maxims and stupid saws, their heads turned towards Trimalchio, who sits picking his teeth, offers the company chamber-pots, discourses on the state of his bowels, farts to prove his point and begs his guests to make themselves at home.\n\nThis realistic novel, this slice cut from Roman life in the raw, with no thought, whatever people may say, of reforming or satirizing society, and no need to fake a conclusion or point a moral; this story with no plot or action in it, simply relating the erotic adventures of certain sons of Sodom, analysing with smooth finesse the joys and sorrows of these loving couples, depicting in a splendidly wrought style, without affording a single glimpse of the author, without any comment whatever, without a word of approval or condemnation of his characters' thoughts and actions, the vices of a decrepit civilization, a crumbling Empire \u2013 this story fascinated Des Esseintes; and in its subtle style, acute observation and solid construction he could see a curious similarity, a strange analogy with the few modern French novels he could stomach.\n\nNaturally enough he bitterly regretted the loss of the _Eustion_ and the _Albutia_ , those two works by Petronius mentioned by Planciades Fulgentius which have vanished for ever; but the bibliophile in him consoled the scholar, as he reverently handled the superb copy he possessed of the _Satyricon_ , in the octavo edition of 1585 printed by J. Dousa at Leyden.\n\nAfter Petronius, his collection of Latin authors came to the second century of the Christian era, skipped tub-thumping Fronto with his old-fashioned expressions, clumsily restored and unsuccessfully renovated, passed over the _Noctes Atticae_ of his friend and disciple Aulus Gellius, a sagacious and inquisitive mind, but a writer bogged down in a glutinous style, and stopped only for Apuleius, whose works he had in the editio princeps, in folio, printed at Rome in 1469.\n\nThis African author gave him enormous pleasure. The Latin language reached the top of the tide in his _Metamorphoses_ , sweeping along in a dense flood fed by tributary waters from every province, and combining them all in a bizarre, exotic, almost incredible torrent of words; new mannerisms and new details of Latin society found expression in neologisms called into being to meet conversational requirements in an obscure corner of Roman Africa. What was more, Des Esseintes was amused by Apuleius' exuberance and joviality \u2013 the exuberance of a southerner and the joviality of a man who was beyond all question fat. He had the air of a lecherous boon companion compared with the Christian apologists living in the same century \u2013 the soporific Minucius Felix for instance, a pseudo-classic in whose _Octavius_ Cicero's oily phrases have grown thicker and heavier, and even Tertullian, whom he kept more perhaps for the sake of the Aldine edition of his works than for the works themselves.\n\nAlthough he was perfectly at home with theological problems, the Montanist wrangles with the Catholic Church and the polemics against Gnosticism left him cold; so, despite the interest of Tertullian's style, a compact style full of amphibologies, built on participles, shaken by antitheses, strewn with puns and speckled with words borrowed from the language of jurisprudence or the Fathers of the Greek Church, he now scarcely ever opened the _Apologeticus_ or the _De Patientia_ ; at the very most he sometimes read a page or two of the _De Cultu Feminarum_ where Tertullian exhorts women not to adorn their persons with jewels and precious stuffs, and forbids them to use cosmetics because these attempt to correct and improve on Nature.\n\nThese ideas, diametrically opposed to his own, brought a smile to his lips, and he recalled the part played by Tertullian as Bishop of Carthage, a role which he considered pregnant with pleasant day-dreams. It was, in fact, the man more than his works that attracted him.\n\nLiving in times of appalling storm and stress, under Caracalla, under Macrinus, under the astonishing high-priest of Emesa, Elagabalus, he had gone on calmly writing his sermons, his dogmatic treatises, his apologies and homilies, while the Roman Empire tottered, and while the follies of Asia and the vices of paganism swept all before them. With perfect composure he had gone on preaching carnal abstinence, frugality of diet, sobriety of dress, at the same time as Elagabalus was treading in silver dust and sand of gold, his head crowned with a tiara and his clothes studded with jewels, working at women's tasks in the midst of his eunuchs, calling himself Empress and bedding every night with a new Emperor, picked for choice from among his barbers, scullions and charioteers.\n\nThis contrast delighted Des Esseintes. He knew that this was the point at which the Latin language, which had attained supreme maturity in Petronius, began to break up; the literature of Christianity was asserting itself, matching its novel ideas with new words, unfamiliar constructions, unknown verbs, adjectives of super-subtle meaning and finally abstract nouns, which had hitherto been rare in the Roman tongue and which Tertullian had been one of the first to use.\n\nHowever, this deliquescence, which was carried on after Tertullian's death by his pupil St Cyprian, by Arnobius, by the obscure Lactantius, was an unattractive process. It was a slow and partial decay, retarded by awkward attempts to return to the emphasis of Cicero's periods; as yet it had not acquired that special gamey flavour which in the fourth century \u2013 and even more in the following centuries \u2013 the odour of Christianity was to give to the pagan tongue as it decomposed like venison, dropping to pieces at the same time as the civilization of the Ancient World, falling apart while the Empires succumbed to the barbarian onslaught and the accumulated pus of ages.\n\nThe art of the third century was represented in his library by a single Christian poet, Commodian of Gaza. His _Carmen Apologeticum_ , written in the year 259, is a collection of moral maxims twisted into acrostics, composed in rude hexameters, divided by a caesura after the fashion of heroic verse, written without any respect for quantity or hiatus and often provided with the sort of rhymes of which church Latin could later offer numerous examples.\n\nThis strained, sombre verse, this mild, uncivilized poetry, full of everyday expressions and words robbed of their original meaning, appealed to him; it interested him even more than the already over-ripe, delightfully decadent style of the historians Ammianus Marcellinus and Aurelius Victor, the letter-writer Symmachus and the compilator and grammarian Macrobius, and he even preferred it to the properly scanned verse and the superbly variegated language of Claudian, Rutilius and Ausonius.\n\nThese last were in their day the masters of their art; they filled the dying Empire with their cries \u2013 the Christian Ausonius with his _Cento Nuptialis_ and his long, elaborate poem on the Moselle; Rutilius with his hymns to the glory of Rome, his anathemas against the Jews and the monks and his account of a journey across the Alps into Gaul, in which he sometimes manages to convey certain visual impressions, the landscapes hazily reflected in water, the mirage effect of the vapours, the mists swirling round the mountain tops.\n\nAs for Claudian, he appears as a sort of avatar of Lucan, dominating the entire fourth century with the tremendous trumpeting of his verse; a poet hammering out a brilliant, sonorous hexameter on his anvil, beating out each epithet with a single blow amid showers of sparks, attaining a certain grandeur, filling his work with a powerful breath of life. With the Western Empire crumbling to its ruin all about him, amid the horror of the repeated massacres occurring on every side, and under the threat of invasion by the barbarians now pressing in their hordes against the creaking gates of the Empire, he calls Antiquity back to life, sings of the Rape of Proserpine, daubs his canvas with glowing colours and goes by with all his lights blazing through the darkness closing in upon the world.\n\nPaganism lives again in him, sounding its last proud fanfare, lifting its last great poet high above the floodwaters of Christianity which are henceforth going to submerge the language completely and hold absolute and eternal sway over literature \u2013 with Paulinus, the pupil of Ausonius; with the Spanish priest Juvencus, who paraphrases the Gospels in verse; with Victorinus, author of the _Machabaei_ ; with Sanctus Burdigalensis, who in an eclogue imitated from Virgil makes the herdsmen Egon and Buculus bewail the maladies afflicting their flocks. Then there are the saints, a whole series of saints \u2013 Hilary of Poitiers, who championed the faith of Nicaea and was called the Athanasius of the West; Ambrosius, the author of indigestible homilies, the tiresome Christian Cicero; Damasus, the manufacturer of lapidary epigrams; Jerome, the translator of the Vulgate; and his adversary Vigilantius of Comminges, who attacks the cult of the saints, the abuse of miracles, the practice of fasting, and already preaches against monastic vows and the celibacy of the priesthood, using arguments that will be repeated down the ages.\n\nFinally, in the fifth century, there comes Augustine, Bishop of Hippo. Him Des Esseintes knew only too well, for he was the most revered of all ecclesiastical writers, the founder of Christian orthodoxy, the man whom pious Catholics regard as an oracle, a sovereign authority. The natural consequence was that he never opened his books any more, even though he had proclaimed his loathing for this world in his _Confessions_ , and, in his _De Civitate Dei_ , to the accompaniment of pious groans, had tried to assuage the appalling distress of his time with sedative promises of better things to come in the afterlife. Even in his younger days, when he was studying theology, Des Esseintes had become sick and tired of Augustine's sermons and jeremiads, his theories on grace and predestination, his fights against the schismatic sects.\n\nHe was much happier dipping into the _Psychomachia_ of Prudentius, the inventor of the allegorical poem, a genre destined to enjoy uninterrupted favour in the Middle Ages, or the works of Sidonius Apollinaris, whose correspondence, sprinkled with quips and sallies, archaisms and enigmas, captivated him. He always enjoyed rereading the panegyrics in which the good Bishop invokes the pagan deities in support of his pompous praises; and in spite of himself, he had to admit to a weakness for the conceits and innuendoes in these poems, turned out by an ingenious mechanic who takes good care of his machine, keeps its component parts well oiled and if need be can invent new parts which are both intricate and useless.\n\nAfter Sidonius, he kept up his acquaintance with the panegyrist Merobaudes; with Sedulius, the author of rhymed poems and alphabetical hymns of which the Church has appropriated certain parts for use in her offices; with Marius Victor, whose gloomy treatise _De Perversis Moribus_ is lit up here and there by lines that shine like phosphorus; with Paulinus of Pella, who composed that icy poem the _Eucharisticon_ ; and with Orientius, Bishop of Auch, who in the distichs of his _Monitoria_ inveighs against the licentiousness of women, whose faces, he declares, bring down disaster upon the peoples of the world.\n\nDes Esseintes lost nothing of his interest in the Latin language now that it was rotten through and through and hung like a decaying carcase, losing its limbs, oozing pus, barely keeping, in the general corruption of its body, a few sound parts, which the Christians removed in order to preserve them in the pickling brine of their new idiom.\n\nThe second half of the fifth century had arrived, the awful period when appalling shocks convulsed the world. The barbarians were ravaging Gaul while Rome, sacked by the Visigoths, felt the chill of death invade her paralysed body and saw her extremities, the East and the West, thrashing about in pools of blood and growing weaker day by day.\n\nAmid the universal dissolution, amid the assassinations of Caesars occurring in rapid succession, amid the uproar and carnage covering Europe from end to end, a terrifying hurrah was suddenly heard which stilled every other noise, silenced every other voice. On the banks of the Danube, thousands of men wrapped in ratskin cloaks and mounted on little horses, hideous Tartars with enormous heads, flat noses, hairless, jaundiced faces and chins furrowed with gashes and scars, rode hell-for-leather into the territories of the Lower Empire, sweeping all before them in their whirlwind advance.\n\nCivilization disappeared in the dust of their horses' hooves, in the smoke of the fires they kindled. Darkness fell upon the world and the peoples trembled in consternation as they listened to the dreadful tornado pass by with a sound like thunder. The horde of Huns swept over Europe, threw itself on Gaul and was only halted on the plains of Ch\u00e2lons, where Aetius smashed it in a fearful encounter. The earth, gorged with blood, looked like a sea of crimson froth; two hundred thousand corpses barred the way and broke the impetus of the invading avalanche which, turned from its path, fell like a thunderbolt on Italy, whose ruined cities burned like blazing hay-ricks.\n\nThe Western Empire crumbled under the shock; the doomed life it had been dragging out in imbecility and corruption was extinguished. It even looked as if the end of the universe were also at hand, for the cities Attila had overlooked were decimated by famine and plague. And the Latin language, like everything else, seemed to vanish from sight beneath the ruins of the old world.\n\nYears went by, and eventually the barbarian idioms began to acquire a definite shape, to emerge from their rude gangues, to grow into true languages. Meanwhile Latin, saved by the monasteries from death in the universal debacle, was confined to the cloister and the presbytery. Even so, a few poets appeared here and there to keep the flame burning, albeit slowly and dully \u2013 the African Dracontius with his _Hexameron_ , Claudius Mamert with his liturgical poems and Avitus of Vienne. Then there were biographers such as Ennodius, who recounts the miracles of St Epiphanius, that shrewd and revered diplomatist, that upright and vigilant pastor, or Eugippius, who has recorded for us the incomparable life of St Severinus, that mysterious anchorite and humble ascetic who appeared like an angel of mercy to the peoples of his time, frantic with fear and suffering; writers such as Veranius of the G\u00e9vaudan, who composed a little treatise on the subject of continence, or Aurelian and Ferreolus, who compiled ecclesiastical canons; and finally historians such as Rotherius of Agde, famed for a history of the Huns which is now lost.\n\nThere were far fewer works from the following centuries in Des Esseintes's library. Still, the sixth century was represented by Fortunatus, Bishop of Poitiers, whose hymns and _Vexilla Regis_ , carved out of the ancient carcase of the Latin language and spiced with the aromatics of the Church, haunted his thoughts on certain days; also by Boethius, Gregory of Tours and Jornandes. As for the seventh and eighth centuries, apart from the Low Latin of such chroniclers as Fredegarius and Paul the Deacon, or of the poems contained in the Bangor Antiphonary, one of which \u2013 an alphabetical, monorhymed hymn in honour of St Comgall \u2013 he sometimes glanced at, literary output was restricted almost exclusively to Lives of the Saints, notably the legend of St Columban by the cenobite Jonas and that of Blessed Cuthbert compiled by the Venerable Bede from the notes of an anonymous monk of Lindisfarne. The result was that he confined himself to dipping at odd moments into the works of these hagiographers and rereading passages from the Lives of St Rusticula and St Radegonde, the former related by Defensorius, a Ligug\u00e9 synodist, the latter by the naive and modest Baudonivia, a Poitiers nun.\n\nHowever, he found certain remarkable Latin works of Anglo-Saxon origin more to his taste: to wit, the whole series of enigmas by Aldhelm, Tatwin and Eusebius, those literary descendants of Symphosius, and above all the enigmas composed by St Boniface in acrostics where the answer was provided by the initial letters of each stanza.\n\nHis predilection for Latin literature grew feebler as he neared the end of these two centuries, and he could summon up little enthusiasm for the turgid prose of the Carolingian Latinists, the Alcuins and the Eginhards. As specimens of the language of the ninth century, he contented himself with the chronicles by Freculf, Reginon and the anonymous writer of Saint-Gall; with the poem on the Siege of Paris contrived by Abbo le Courb\u00e9; and with the _Hortulus_ , the didactic poem by the Benedictine Walafrid Strabo, whose canto devoted to the glorification of the pumpkin as a symbol of fecundity tickled his sense of humour. Another work he appreciated was the poem by Ermold le Noir celebrating the exploits of Louis le D\u00e9bonnaire, a poem written in regular hexameters, in an austere, even sombre style, an iron idiom chilled in monastic waters but with flaws in the hard metal where feeling showed through; and another, a poem by Macer Floridus, _De Viribus Herbarum_ , which he particularly enjoyed for its poetic recipes and the remarkable virtues it attributed to certain plants and flowers \u2013 to the aristolochia, for instance, which mixed with beef and laid on a pregnant woman's abdomen invariably results in the birth of a male child, or borage, which served as a cordial makes the gloomiest guest merry, or the peony, whose powdered root is a lasting cure for epilepsy, or fennel, which applied to a woman's bosom clears her urine and stimulates her sluggish periods.\n\nExcept for a few special books which had not been classified; certain undated or modern texts; some cabbalistic, medical or botanical works; sundry odd volumes of Migne's patrology, containing Christian poems to be found nowhere else, and of Wernsdorff's anthology of the minor Latin poets; except for Meursius, Forberg's manual of classical erotology, the moechialogy and the diaconals intended for the use of father-confessors, which he took down and dusted off at long intervals, his collection of Latin works stopped at the beginning of the tenth century.\n\nBy that time, after all, the peculiar originality and elaborate simplicity of Christian Latinity had likewise come to an end. Henceforth the gibble-gabble of the philosophers and the scholiasts, the logomachy of the Middle Ages, would reign supreme. The sooty heaps of chronicles and history books, the leaden masses of cartularies, would steadily pile up, while the stammering grace, the often exquisite clumsiness of the monks, stirring the poetical left-overs of Antiquity into a pious stew, were already things of the past; the workshop turning out verbs of refined sweetness, substantives smelling of incense, and strange adjectives crudely fashioned out of gold in the delightfully barbaric style of Gothic jewellery, had already closed down. The old editions so beloved of Des Esseintes tailed away to nothing \u2013 and making a prodigious jump of several centuries, he stacked the rest of his shelves with modern books which, without regard to the intermediate ages, brought him right down to the French language of the present day.\n\n## CHAPTER 4\n\nA carriage drew up late one afternoon outside the house at Fontenay. As Des Esseintes never had any visitors and the postman did not so much as approach this uninhabited region, since there were no newspapers, reviews or letters to be delivered, the servants hesitated, wondering whether they should answer the door or not. But when the bell was sent jangling violently against the wall, they ventured so far as to uncover the spy-hole let into the door, and beheld a gentleman whose entire breast was covered, from neck to waist, by a huge buckler of gold.\n\nThey informed their master, who was at breakfast.\n\n'Yes indeed,' he said; 'show the gentleman in' \u2013 for he remembered having once given his address to a lapidary so that the man might deliver an article he had ordered.\n\nThe gentleman bowed his way in, and on the pitch-pine floor of the dining-room he deposited his golden buckler, which rocked backwards and forwards, rising a little from the ground and stretching out at the end of a snake-like neck a tortoise's head which, in a sudden panic, it drew back under its carapace.\n\nThis tortoise was the result of a fancy which had occurred to him shortly before leaving Paris. Looking one day at an Oriental carpet aglow with iridescent colours, and following with his eyes the silvery glints running across the weft of the wool, which was a combination of yellow and plum, he had thought what a good idea it would be to place on this carpet something that would move about and be dark enough to set off these gleaming tints.\n\nPossessed by this idea, he had wandered at random through the streets as far as the Palais-Royal, where he glanced at Chevet's display and suddenly struck his forehead \u2013 for there in the window was a huge tortoise in a tank. He had bought the creature; and once it had been left to itself on the carpet, he had sat down and subjected it to a long scrutiny, screwing up his eyes in concentration.\n\nAlas, there could be no doubt about it: the negro-brown tint, the raw Sienna hue of the shell, dimmed the sheen of the carpet instead of bringing out its colours; the predominating gleams of silver had now lost nearly all their sparkle and matched the cold tones of scraped zinc along the edges of this hard, lustreless carapace.\n\nHe bit his nails, trying to discover a way of resolving the marital discord between these tints and preventing an absolute divorce. At last he came to the conclusion that his original idea of using a dark object moving to and fro to stir up the fires within the woollen pile was mistaken. The fact of the matter was that the carpet was still too bright, too garish, too new-looking; its colours had not yet been sufficiently toned down and subdued. The thing was to reverse his first plan and to deaden those colours, to dim them by the contrast of a brilliant object that would kill everything around it, drowning the gleams of silver in a golden radiance. Stated in these terms, the problem was easier to solve; and Des Esseintes accordingly decided to have his tortoise's buckler glazed with gold.\n\nBack from the workshop where the gilder had given it board and lodging, the reptile blazed as brightly as any sun, throwing out its rays over the carpet, whose tints turned pale and weak, and looking like a Visigothic shield tegulated with shining scales by a barbaric artist.\n\nAt first, Des Esseintes was delighted with the effect he had achieved; but soon it struck him that this gigantic jewel was only half-finished and that it would not be really complete until it had been encrusted with precious stones.\n\nFrom a collection of Japanese art he selected a drawing representing a huge bunch of flowers springing from a single slender stalk, took it to a jeweller's, sketched out a border to enclose this bouquet in an oval frame and informed the astonished lapidary that the leaves and petals of each and every flower were to be executed in precious stones and mounted on the actual shell of the tortoise.\n\nChoosing the stones gave him pause. The diamond, he told himself, has become terribly vulgar now that every businessman wears one on his little finger; Oriental emeralds and rubies are not so degraded and they dart bright tongues of fire, but they are too reminiscent of the green and red eyes of certain Paris buses fitted with headlamps in the selfsame colours; as for topazes, whether pink or yellow, they are cheap stones, dear to people of the small shopkeeper class who long to have a few jewel-cases to lock up in their mirror wardrobes. Similarly, although the Church has helped the amethyst to retain something of a sacerdotal character, at once unctuous and solemn, this stone too has been debased by use in the red ears and on the tubulous fingers of butchers' wives whose ambition it is to deck themselves out at little cost with genuine, heavy jewels. Alone among these stones, the sapphire has kept its fires inviolate, unsullied by contact with commercial and financial stupidity. The glittering sparks playing over its cold, limpid water have as it were protected its discreet and haughty nobility against any defilement. But unfortunately in artificial light its bright flames lose their brilliance; the blue water sinks low and seems to go to sleep, to wake and sparkle again only at daybreak.\n\nIt was clear that none of these stones satisfied Des Esseintes's requirements; besides, they were all too civilized, too familiar. Instead he turned his attention to more startling and unusual gems; and after letting them trickle through his fingers, he finally made a selection of real and artificial stones which in combination would result in a fascinating and disconcerting harmony.\n\nHe made up his bouquet in this way: the leaves were set with gems of a strong and definite green \u2013 asparagus-green chrysoberyls, leek-green peridots, olive-green olivines \u2013 and these sprang from twigs of almandine and uvarovite of a purplish red, which threw out flashes of harsh, brilliant light like the scales of tartar that glitter on the insides of wine-casks.\n\nFor the flowers which stood out from the stem a long way from the foot of the spray, he decided on a phosphate blue; but he absolutely refused to consider the Oriental turquoise which is used for brooches and rings, and which, together with the banal pearl and the odious coral, forms the delight of the common herd.\n\nHe chose only turquoises from the West \u2013 stones which, strictly speaking, are simply a fossil ivory impregnated with coppery substances and whose celadon blue looks thick, opaque and sulphurous, as if jaundiced with bile.\n\nThis done, he could now go on to encrust the petals of such flowers as were in full bloom in the middle of his spray, those closest to the stem, with translucent minerals that gleamed with a glassy, sickly light and glinted with fierce, sharp bursts of fire.\n\nFor this purpose he used only Ceylon cat's-eyes, cymophanes and sapphirines \u2013 three stones which all sparkled with mysterious, deceptive flashes, painfully drawn from the icy depths of their turbid water: the cat's-eye of a greenish grey streaked with concentric veins which seem to shift and change position according to the way the light falls; the cymophane with blue waterings rippling across the floating, milky-coloured centre; the sapphirine which kindles bluish, phosphorescent fires against a dull, chocolate-brown background.\n\nThe lapidary took careful notes as it was explained to him exactly where each stone was to be let in.\n\n'What about the edging of the shell?' he then asked Des Esseintes.\n\nThe latter had originally thought of a border of opals and hydrophanes. But these stones, interesting though they may be on account of their varying colour and vacillating fire, are too unstable and unreliable to be given serious consideration; the opal, in fact, has a positively rheumatic sensitivity, the play of its rays changing in accordance with changes in moisture or temperature, while the hydrophane will burn only in water and refuses to light up its grey fires unless it is wetted.\n\nHe finally decided on a series of stones with contrasting colours \u2013 the mahogany-red hyacinth of Compostella followed by the sea-green aquamarine, the vinegar-pink balas ruby by the pale slate-coloured Sudermania ruby. Their feeble lustre would be sufficient to set off the dark shell but not enough to detract from the bunch of jewelled flowers which they were to frame in a slender garland of subdued brilliance.\n\nNow Des Esseintes sat gazing at the tortoise where it lay huddled in a corner of the dining-room, glittering brightly in the half-light.\n\nHe felt perfectly happy, his eyes feasting on the splendour of these jewelled corollas, ablaze with colour against a golden background. Suddenly he had a craving for food, unusual for him, and soon he was dipping slices of toast spread with superlative butter in a cup of tea, an impeccable blend of Si-a-Fayoun, Mo-you-Tann and Khansky \u2013 yellow teas brought from China into Russia by special caravans.\n\nHe drank this liquid perfume from cups of that Oriental porcelain known as egg-shell china, it is so delicate and diaphanous; and just as he would never use any but these adorably dainty cups, so he insisted on plates and dishes of genuine silver-gilt, slightly worn so that the silver showed a little where the thin film of gold had been rubbed off, giving it a charming old-world look, a fatigued appearance, a moribund air.\n\nAfter swallowing his last mouthful he went back to his study, instructing his man-servant to bring along the tortoise, which was still obstinately refusing to budge.\n\nOutside the snow was falling. In the lamplight icy leaf-patterns could be seen glittering on the blue-black windows, and hoar-frost sparkled like melted sugar in the hollows of the bottle-glass panes, all spattered with gold.\n\nThe little house, lying snug and sleepy in the darkness, was wrapped in a deep silence.\n\nDes Esseintes sat dreaming of one thing and another. The burning logs piled high in the fire-basket filled the room with hot air, and eventually he got up and opened the window a little way.\n\nLike a great canopy of counter-ermine, the sky hung before him, a black curtain spattered with white.\n\nSuddenly an icy wind blew up which drove the dancing snowflakes before it and reversed this arrangement of colours. The sky's heraldic trappings were turned round to reveal a true ermine, white dotted with black where pinpricks of darkness showed through the curtain of falling snow.\n\nHe shut the window again. This quick change, straight from the torrid heat of the room to the biting cold of mid-winter had taken his breath away; and curling up beside the fire again, it occurred to him that a drop of spirits would be the best thing to warm him up.\n\nHe made his way to the dining-room, where there was a cupboard built into one of the walls containing a row of little barrels, resting side-by-side on tiny sandalwood stands and each broached at the bottom with a silver spigot.\n\nThis collection of liqueur casks he called his mouth organ.\n\nA rod could be connected to all the spigots, enabling them to be turned by one and the same movement, so that once the apparatus was in position it was only necessary to press a button concealed in the wainscoting to open all the conduits simultaneously and so fill with liqueur the minute cups underneath the taps.\n\nThe organ was then open. The stops labelled 'flute', 'horn' and 'vox angelica' were pulled out, ready for use. Des Esseintes would drink a drop here, another there, playing internal symphonies to himself, and providing his palate with sensations analogous to those which music dispenses to the ear.\n\nIndeed, each and every liqueur, in his opinion, corresponded in taste with the sound of a particular instrument. Dry cura\u00e7ao, for instance, was like the clarinet with its piercing, velvety note; k\u00fcmmel like the oboe with its sonorous, nasal timbre; cr\u00e8me de men the and anisette like the flute, at once sweet and tart, soft and shrill. Then to complete the orchestra there was kirsch, blowing a wild trumpet blast; gin and whisky raising the roof of the mouth with the blareof their cornets and trombones; marc-brandy matching the tubas with its deafening din; while peals of thunder came from the cymbal and the bass drum, which arak and mastic were banging and beating with all their might.\n\nHe considered that this analogy could be pushed still further and that string quartets might play under the palatal arch, with the violin represented by an old brandy, choice and heady, biting and delicate; with the viola simulated by rum, which was stronger, heavier and quieter; with vespetro as poignant, drawn-out, sad and tender as a violoncello; and with the double-bass a fine old bitter, full-bodied, solid and dark. One might even form a quintet, if this were thought desirable, by adding a fifth instrument, the harp, imitated to near perfection by the vibrant savour, the clear, sharp, silvery note of dry cumin.\n\nThe similarity did not end there, for the music of liqueurs had its own scheme of interrelated tones; thus, to quote only one example, Benedictine represents, so to speak, the minor key corresponding to the major key of those alcohols which wine-merchants' scores indicate by the name of green Chartreuse.\n\nOnce these principles had been established, and thanks to a series of erudite experiments, he had been able to perform upon his tongue silent melodies and mute funeral marches; to hear inside his mouth cr\u00e8me-de-menthe solos and rum-and-vespetro duets.\n\nHe even succeeded in transferring specific pieces of music to his palate, following the composer step by step, rendering his intentions, his effects, his shades of expression, by mixing or contrasting related liqueurs, by subtle approximations and cunning combinations.\n\nAt other times he would compose melodies of his own, executing pastorals with the sweet blackcurrant liqueur that filled his throat with the warbling song of a nightingale; or with the delicious cacaochouva that hummed sugary bergerets like the _Romances of Estelle_ and the ' _Ah! vous dirai-je, maman_ ' of olden days.\n\nBut tonight Des Esseintes had no wish to listen to the taste of music; he confined himself to removing one note from the keyboard of his organ, carrying off a tiny cup which he had filled with genuine Irish whiskey.\n\nHe settled down in his armchair again and slowly sipped this fermented spirit of oats and barley, a pungent odour of creosote spreading through his mouth.\n\nLittle by little, as he drank, his thoughts followed the renewed reactions of his palate, caught up with the savour of the whiskey, and were reminded by a striking similarity of smell of memories which had lain dormant for years.\n\nThe acrid, carbolic bouquet forcibly recalled the identical scent of which he had been all too conscious whenever a dentist had been at work on his gums.\n\nOnce started on this track, his recollections, ranging at first over all the different practitioners he had known, finally gathered together and converged on one of these men whose distinctive method had been graven with particular force upon his memory.\n\nThis had happened three years ago: afflicted in the middle of the night with an abominable toothache, he had plugged his cheek with cotton-wool and paced up and down his room like a madman, blundering into the furniture in his pain.\n\nIt was a molar that had already been filled and was now past cure; the only possible remedy lay in the dentist's forceps. In a fever of agony he waited for daylight, resolved to bear the most atrocious operation if only it would put an end to his sufferings.\n\nNursing his jawbone, he asked himself exactly what he should do when morning came. The dentists he usually consulted were well-to-do businessmen who could not be seen at short notice; appointments had to be made in advance and times agreed.\n\n'That's out of the question,' he told himself. 'I can't wait any longer.'\n\nHe made up his mind to go and see the first dentist he could find, to resort to a common, lower-class tooth-doctor, one of those iron-fisted fellows who, ignorant though they may be of the useless art of treating decay and filling cavities, know how to extirpate the most stubborn of stumps with unparalleled speed. Their doors are always open at daybreak, and their customers are never kept waiting.\n\nSeven o'clock struck at last. He rushed out of doors, and remembering the name of a mechanic who called himself a dentist and lived in a corner house by the river, he hurried in that direction, biting on a handkerchief and choking back his tears.\n\nSoon he arrived at the house, which was distinguished by an enormous wooden placard bearing the name 'Gatonax' spread out in huge yellow letters on a black ground, and by two little glass-fronted cases displaying neat rows of false teeth set in pink wax gums joined together with brass springs. He stood there panting for breath, with sweat pouring down his forehead; a horrid fear gripped him, a cold shiver ran over his body \u2013 and then came sudden relief, the pain vanished, the tooth stopped aching.\n\nAfter staying for a while in the street, wondering what to do, he finally mastered his fears and climbed the dark staircase, taking four steps at a time as far as the third floor. There he came up against a door with an enamel plaque repeating the name he had seen on the placard outside. He rang the bell; then, terrified by the sight of great splashes of blood and spittle on the steps, he suddenly turned tail, resolved to go on suffering from toothache for the rest of his life, when a piercing scream came from behind the partition, filling the well of the staircase and nailing him to the spot with sheer horror. At that very moment a door opened and an old woman asked him to come in.\n\nShame overcame fear, and he let her show him into what appeared to be a dining-room. Another door banged open, admitting a great, strapping fellow dressed in a frock-coat and trousers that seemed carved in wood. Des Esseintes followed him into an inner sanctum.\n\nHis recollections of what happened after that were somewhat confused. He vaguely remembered dropping into an armchair facing a window, putting a finger on the offending tooth and stammering out:\n\n'It has been filled before. I'm afraid there's nothing can be done this time.'\n\nThe man promptly put a stop to this explanation by inserting an enormous forefinger into his mouth; then, muttering to himself behind his curly waxed mustaches, he picked up an instrument from a table.\n\nAt this point the drama really began. Clutching the arms of the chair, Des Esseintes felt the cold touch of metal inside his cheek, then saw a whole galaxy of stars and in unspeakable agony started stamping his feet and squealing like a stuck pig.\n\nThere was a loud crack as the molar broke on its way out. By now it seemed as if his head were being pulled off and his skull smashed in; he lost all control of himself and screamed at the top of his voice, fighting desperately against the man, who bore down on him again as if he wanted to plunge his arm into the depths of his belly. Suddenly the fellow took a step backwards, lifted his patient bodily by the refractory tooth and let him fall back into the chair, while he stood there blocking the window, puffing and blowing as he brandished at the end of his forceps a blue tooth tipped with red.\n\nUtterly exhausted, Des Esseintes had spat out a basinful of blood, waved away the old woman who came in to offer him his tooth, which she was prepared to wrap up in a piece of newspaper, and after paying two francs had fled, adding his contribution to the bloody spittle on the stairs. But out in the street he had recovered his spirits, feeling ten years younger and taking an interest in the most insignificant things.\n\n'Ugh!' he said to himself, shuddering over these gruesome recollections. He got to his feet to break the horrid fascination of his nightmare vision, and coming back to present-day preoccupations he felt suddenly uneasy about the tortoise.\n\nIt was still lying absolutely motionless. He touched it; it was dead. Accustomed no doubt to a sedentary life, a modest existence spent in the shelter of its humble carapace, it had not been able to bear the dazzling luxury imposed upon it, the glittering cape in which it had been clad, the precious stones which had been used to decorate its shell like a jewelled ciborium.\n\n## CHAPTER 5\n\nTogether with the desire to escape from a hateful period of sordid degradation, the longing to see no more pictures of the human form toiling in Paris between four walls or roaming the streets in search of money had taken an increasing hold on him.\n\nOnce he had cut himself off from contemporary life, he had resolved to allow nothing to enter his hermitage which might breed repugnance or regret; and so he had set his heart on finding a few pictures of subtle, exquisite refinement, steeped in an atmosphere of ancient fantasy, wrapped in an aura of antique corruption, divorced from modern times and modern society.\n\nFor the delectation of his mind and the delight of his eyes, he had decided to seek out evocative works which would transport him to some unfamiliar world, point the way to new possibilities, and shake up his nervous system by means of erudite fancies, complicated nightmares, suave and sinister visions.\n\nAmong all the artists he considered, there was one who sent him into raptures of delight, and that was Gustave Moreau. He had bought Moreau's two masterpieces, and night after night he would stand dreaming in front of one of them, the picture of Salome.\n\nThis painting showed a throne like the high altar of a cathedral standing beneath a vaulted ceiling \u2013 a ceiling crossed by countless arches springing from thick-set, almost Romanesque columns, encased in polychromic brickwork, encrusted with mosaics, set with lapis lazuli and sardonyx \u2013 in a palace which resembled a basilica built in both the Moslem and the Byzantine styles.\n\nIn the centre of the tabernacle set on the altar, which was approached by a flight of recessed steps in the shape of a semicircle, the Tetrarch Herod was seated, with a tiara on his head, his legs close together and his hands on his knees.\n\nHis face was yellow and parchment-like, furrowed with wrinkles, lined with years; his long beard floated like a white cloud over the jewelled stars that studded the gold-laced robe moulding his breast.\n\nRound about this immobile, statuesque figure, frozen like some Hindu god in a hieratic pose, incense was burning, sending up clouds of vapour through which the fiery gems set in the sides of the throne gleamed like the phosphorescent eyes of wild animals. The clouds rose higher and higher, swirling under the arches of the roof, where the blue smoke mingled with the gold dust of the great beams of sunlight slanting down from the domes.\n\nAmid the heady odour of these perfumes, in the overheated atmosphere of the basilica, Salome slowly glides forward on the points of her toes, her left arm stretched out in a commanding gesture, her right bent back and holding a great lotus-blossom beside her face, while a woman squatting on the floor strums the strings of a guitar.\n\nWith a withdrawn, solemn, almost august expression on her face, she begins the lascivious dance which is to rouse the aged Herod's dormant senses; her breasts rise and fall, the nipples hardening at the touch of her whirling necklaces; the strings of diamonds glitter against her moist flesh; her bracelets, her belts, her rings all spit out fiery sparks; and across her triumphal robe, sewn with pearls, patterned with silver, spangled with gold, the jewelled cuirass, of which every chain is a precious stone, seems to be ablaze with little snakes of fire, swarming over the mat flesh, over the tea-rose skin, like gorgeous insects with dazzling shards, mottled with carmine, spotted with pale yellow, speckled with steel blue, striped with peacock green.\n\nHer eyes fixed in the concentrated gaze of a sleepwalker, she sees neither the Tetrarch, who sits there quivering, nor her mother, the ferocious Herodias, who watches her every movement, nor the hermaphrodite or eunuch who stands sabre in hand at the foot of the throne, a terrifying creature, veiled as far as the eyes and with its sexless dugs hanging like gourds under its orange-striped tunic.\n\nThe character of Salome, a figure with a haunting fascination for artists and poets, had been an obsession with him for years. Time and again he had opened the old Bible of Pierre Variquet, translated by the Doctors of Theology of the University of Louvain, and read the Gospel of St Matthew which recounts in brief, naive phrases the beheading of the Precursor; time and again he had mused over these lines:\n\n'But when Herod's birthday was kept, the daughter of Herodias danced before them, and pleased Herod.\n\n'Whereupon, he promised with an oath to give her whatsoever she would ask.\n\n'And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, ''Give me here John Baptist's head in a charger.''\n\n'And here the king was sorry: nevertheless, for the oath's sake, and them which sat with him at meat, he commanded it to be given her.\n\n'And he sent, and beheaded John in the prison.\n\n'And his head was brought in a charger, and given to the damsel: and she brought it to her mother.'\n\nBut neither St Matthew, nor St Mark, nor St Luke, nor any of the other sacred writers had enlarged on the maddening charm and potent depravity of the dancer. She had always remained a dim and distant figure, lost in a mysterious ecstasy far off in the mists of time, beyond the reach of punctilious, pedestrian minds, and accessible only to brains shaken and sharpened and rendered almost clairvoyant by neurosis; she had always repelled the artistic advances of fleshly painters, such as Reubens who travestied her as a Flemish butcher's wife; she had always passed the comprehension of the writing fraternity, who never succeeded in rendering the disquieting delirium of the dancer, the subtle grandeur of the murderess.\n\nIn Gustave Moreau's work, which in conception went far beyond the data supplied by the New Testament, Des Esseintes saw realized at long last the weird and superhuman Salome of his dreams. Here she was no longer just the dancing-girl who extorts a cry of lust and lechery from an old man by the lascivious movements of her loins; who saps the morale and breaks the will of a king with the heaving of her breasts, the twitching of her belly, the quivering of her thighs. She had become, as it were, the symbolic incarnation of undying Lust, the Goddess of immortal Hysteria, the accursed Beauty exalted above all other beauties by the catalepsy that hardens her flesh and steels her muscles, the monstrous Beast, indifferent, irresponsible, insensible, poisoning, like the Helen of ancient myth, everything that approaches her, everything that sees her, everything that she touches.\n\nViewed in this light, she belonged to the theogonies of the Far East; she no longer had her origin in biblical tradition; she could not even be likened to the living image of Babylon, the royal harlot of Revelations, bedecked like herself with precious stones and purple robes, with paint and perfume, for the whore of Babylon was not thrust by a fateful power, by an irresistible force, into the alluring iniquities of debauch.\n\nMoreover, the painter seemed to have wished to assert his intention of remaining outside the bounds of time, of giving no precise indication of race or country or period, setting as he did his Salome inside this extraordinary palace with its grandiose, heterogeneous architecture, clothing her in sumptuous, fanciful robes, crowning her with a nondescript diadem like Salammb\u00f4's, in the shape of a Phoenician tower, and finally putting in her hand the sceptre of Isis, the sacred flower of both Egypt and India, the great lotus-blossom.\n\nDes Esseintes puzzled his brains to find the meaning of this emblem. Had it the phallic significance which the primordial religions of India attributed to it? Did it suggest to the old Tetrarch a sacrifice of virginity, an exchange of blood, an impure embrace asked for and offered on the express condition of a murder? Or did it represent the allegory of fertility, the Hindu myth of life, an existence held between the fingers of woman and clumsily snatched away by the fumbling hands of man, who is maddened by desire, crazed by a fever of the flesh?\n\nPerhaps, too, in arming his enigmatic goddess with the revered lotus-blossom, the painter had been thinking of the dancer, the mortal woman, the soiled vessel, ultimate cause of every sin and every crime; perhaps he had remembered the sepulchral rites of ancient Egypt, the solemn ceremonies of embalmment, when practitioners and priests lay out the dead woman's body on a slab of jasper, then with curved needles extract her brains through the nostrils, her entrails through an opening made in the left side, and finally, before gilding her nails and her teeth, before anointing the corpse with oils and spices, insert into her sexual parts, to purify them, the chaste petals of the divine flower.\n\nBe that as it may, there was some irresistible fascination exerted by this painting; but the water-colour entitled _The Apparition_ created perhaps an even more disturbing impression.\n\nIn this picture, Herod's palace rose up like some Alhambra on slender columns iridescent with Moresque tiles, which appeared to be bedded in silver mortar and gold cement; arabesques started from lozenges of lapis lazuli to wind their way right across the cupolas, whose mother-of-pearl marquetry gleamed with rainbow lights and flashed with prismatic fires.\n\nThe murder had been done; now the executioner stood impassive, his hands resting on the pommel of his long, bloodstained sword.\n\nThe Saint's decapitated head had left the charger where it lay on the flagstones and risen into the air, the eyes staring out from the livid face, the colourless lips parted, the crimson neck dripping tears of blood. A mosaic encircled the face, and also a halo of light whose rays darted out under the porticoes, emphasized the awful elevation of the head, and kindled a fire in the glassy eyeballs, which were fixed in what happened to be agonized concentration on the dancer.\n\nWith a gesture of horror, Salome tries to thrust away the terrifying vision which holds her nailed to the spot, balanced on the tips of her toes, her eyes dilated, her right hand clawing convulsively at her throat.\n\nShe is almost naked; in the heat of the dance her veils have fallen away and her brocade robes slipped to the floor, so that now she is clad only in wrought metals and translucent gems. A gorgerin grips her waist like a corselet, and like an outsize clasp a wondrous jewel sparkles and flashes in the cleft between her breasts; lower down, a girdle encircles her hips, hiding the upper part of her thighs, against which dangles a gigantic pendant glistening with rubies and emeralds; finally, where the body shows bare between gorgerin and girdle, the belly bulges out, dimpled by a navel which resembles a graven seal of onyx with its milky hues and its rosy finger-nail tints.\n\nUnder the brilliant rays emanating from the Precursor's head, every facet of every jewel catches fire; the stones burn brightly, outlining the woman's figure in flaming colours, indicating neck, legs and arms with points of light, red as burning coals, violet as jets of gas, blue as flaming alcohol, white as moonbeams.\n\nThe dreadful head glows eerily, bleeding all the while, so that clots of dark red form at the ends of hair and beard. Visible to Salome alone, it embraces in its sinister gaze neither Herodias, musing over the ultimate satisfaction of her hatred, nor the Tetrarch, who, bending forward a little with his hands on his knees, is still panting with emotion, maddened by the sight and smell of the woman's naked body, steeped in musky scents, anointed with aromatic balms, impregnated with incense and myrrh.\n\nLike the old King, Des Esseintes invariably felt overwhelmed, subjugated, stunned when he looked at this dancing-girl, who was less majestic, less haughty, but more seductive than the Salome of the oil-painting.\n\nIn the unfeeling and unpitying statue, in the innocent and deadly idol, the lusts and fears of common humanity had been awakened; the great lotus-blossom had disappeared, the goddess vanished; a hideous nightmare now held in its choking grip an entertainer, intoxicated by the whirling movement of the dance, a courtesan, petrified and hypnotized by terror.\n\nHere she was a true harlot, obedient to her passionate and cruel female temperament; here she came to life, more refined yet more savage, more hateful yet more exquisite than before; here she roused the sleeping senses of the male more powerfully, subjugated his will more surely with her charms \u2013 the charms of a great venereal flower, grown in a bed of sacrilege, reared in a hot-house of impiety.\n\nIt was Des Esseintes's opinion that never before, in any period, had the art of water-colour produced such brilliant hues; never before had an aquarellist's wretched chemical pigments been able to make paper sparkle so brightly with precious stones, shine so colourfully with sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, glitter so splendidly with sumptuous garments, glow so warmly with exquisite fleshtints.\n\nDeep in contemplation, he would try to puzzle out the antecedents of this great artist, this mystical pagan, this illuminee who could shut out the modern world so completely as to behold, in the heart of present-day Paris, the awful visions and magical apotheoses of other ages.\n\nDes Esseintes found it hard to say who had served as his models; here and there, he could detect vague recollections of Mantegna and Jacopo de Barbari; here and there, confused memories of Da Vinci and feverish colouring reminiscent of Delacroix. But on the whole the influence of these masters on his work was imperceptible, the truth being that Gustave Moreau was nobody's pupil. With no real ancestors and no possible descendants, he remained a unique figure in contemporary art. Going back to the beginning of racial tradition, to the sources of mythologies whose bloody enigmas he compared and unravelled; joining and fusing in one those legends which had originated in the Middle East only to be metamorphosed by the beliefs of other peoples, he could cite these researches to justify his architectonic mixtures, his sumptuous and unexpected combinations of dress materials and his hieratic allegories whose sinister quality was heightened by the morbid perspicuity of an entirely modern sensibility. He himself remained downcast and sorrowful, haunted by the symbols of superhuman passions and superhuman perversities, of divine debauches perpetrated without enthusiasm and without hope.\n\nHis sad and scholarly works breathed a strange magic, an incantatory charm which stirred you to the depths of your being like the sorcery of certain of Baudelaire's poems, so that you were left amazed and pensive, disconcerted by this art which crossed the frontiers of painting to borrow from the writer's art its most subtly evocative suggestions, from the enameller's art its most wonderfully brilliant effects, from the lapidary's and etcher's art its most exquisitely delicate touches. These two pictures of Salome, for which Des Esseintes' admiration knew no bounds, lived constantly before his eyes, hung as they were on the walls of his study, on panels reserved for them between the bookcases.\n\nBut these were by no means the only pictures he had bought in order to adorn his retreat. True, none were needed for the first and only upper storey of his house, since he had given it over to his servants and did not use any of its rooms; but the ground floor by itself demanded a good many to cover its bare walls.\n\nThis ground floor was divided as follows: a dressing-room, communicating with the bedroom, occupied one corner of the building; from the bedroom you went into the library, and from the library into the dining-room, which occupied another corner.\n\nThese rooms, making up one side of the house, were set in a straight line, with their windows overlooking the valley of Aunay.\n\nThe other side of the building consisted of four rooms corresponding exactly to the first four in their lay-out. Thus the corner kitchen matched the dining-room, a big entrance-hall the library, a sort of boudoir the bedroom and the closets the dressing-room.\n\nAll these latter rooms looked out on the opposite side to the valley of Aunay, towards the Tour du Croy and Ch\u00e2tillon.\n\nAs for the staircase, it was built against one end of the house, on the outside, so that the noise the servants made as they pounded up and down the steps was deadened and barely reached Des Esseintes' ears.\n\nHe had had the boudoir walls covered with bright red tapestry and all round the room he had hung ebony-framed prints by Jan Luyken, an old Dutch engraver who was almost unknown in France.\n\nHe possessed a whole series of studies by this artist in lugubrious fantasy and ferocious cruelty: his _Religious Persecutions_ , a collection of appalling plates displaying all the tortures which religious fanaticism has invented, revealing all the agonizing varieties of human suffering \u2013 bodies roasted over braziers, heads scalped with swords, trepanned with nails, lacerated with saws, bowels taken out of the belly and wound on to bobbins, finger-nails slowly removed with pincers, eyes put out, eyelids pinned back, limbs dislocated and carefully broken, bones laid bare and scraped for hours with knives.\n\nThese pictures, full of abominable fancies, reeking of burnt flesh, dripping with blood, echoing with screams and curses, made Des Esseintes's flesh creep whenever he went into the red boudoir, and he remained rooted to the spot, choking with horror.\n\nBut over and above the shudders they provoked, over and above the frightening genius of the man and the extraordinary life he put into his figures, there were to be found in his astonishing crowd-scenes, in the hosts of people he sketched with a dexterity reminiscent of Callot but with a vigour that amusing scribbler never attained, remarkable reconstructions of other places and periods: buildings, costumes and manners in the days of the Maccabees, in Rome during the persecutions of the Christians, in Spain under the Inquisition, in France during the Middle Ages and at the time of the St Bartholomew massacres and the Dragonnades, were all observed with meticulous care and depicted with wonderful skill.\n\nThese prints were mines of interesting information and could be studied for hours on end without a moment's boredom; extremely thought-provoking as well, they often helped Des Esseintes to kill time on days when he did not feel in the mood for reading.\n\nThe story of Luyken's life also attracted him and incidentally explained the hallucinatory character of his work. A fervent Calvinist, a fanatical sectary, a zealot for hymns and prayers, he composed and illustrated religious poems, paraphrased the Psalms in verse, and immersed himself in Biblical study, from which he would emerge haggard and enraptured, his mind haunted by bloody visions, his mouth twisted by the maledictions of the Reformation, by its songs of terror and anger.\n\nWhat is more, he despised the world, and this led him to give all he possessed to the poor, living on a crust of bread himself. In the end he had put to sea with an old maid-servant who was fanatically devoted to him, landing wherever his boat came ashore, preaching the Gospel to all and sundry, trying to live without eating \u2013 a man with little or nothing to distinguish him from a lunatic or a savage.\n\nIn the larger adjoining room, the vestibule, which was panelled in cedar-wood the colour of a cigar-box, other prints, other weird drawings hung in rows along the walls.\n\nOne of these was Bresdin's _Comedy of Death_. This depicts an improbable landscape which bristles with trees, coppices and thickets in the shape of demons or phantoms and full of birds with rats' heads and vegetable tails. From the ground, which is littered with vertebrae, ribs and skulls, there spring gnarled and shaky willow-trees, in which skeletons are perched, waving bouquets and chanting songs of victory, while a Christ flies away into a mackerel sky; a hermit meditates, with his head in his hands, at the back of a grotto; and a beggar dies of privation and hunger, stretched out on his back, his feet pointing to a stagnant pool.\n\nAnother was _The Good Samaritan_ by the same artist, a lithograph of a huge pen-and-ink drawing. Here the scene is a fantastic tangle of palms, service-trees and oaks, growing all together in defiance of season and climate; a patch of virgin forest packed with monkeys, owls and screech-owls, and cumbered with old tree-stumps as unshapely as mandrake roots; a magic wood with a clearing in the centre affording a distant glimpse, first of the Samaritan and the wounded man, then of a river and finally of a fairytale city climbing up to the horizon to meet a strange sky dotted with birds, flecked with foaming billows, swelling, as it were, with cloudy waves.\n\nIt looked rather like the work of a primitive or an Albert D\u00fcrer of sorts, composed under the influence of opium; but much as Des Esseintes admired the delicacy of detail and the impressive power of this plate, he paused more often in front of the other pictures that decorated the room. These were all signed Odilon Redon.\n\nIn their narrow gold-rimmed frames of unpainted pear-wood, they contained the most fantastic of visions: a Merovingian head balanced on a cup; a bearded man with something of the bonze about him and something of the typical speaker at public meetings, touching a colossal cannon-ball with one finger; a horrible spider with a human face lodged in the middle of its body. There were other drawings which plunged even deeper into the horrific realms of bad dreams and fevered visions. Here there was an enormous dice blinking a mournful eye; there, studies of bleak and arid landscapes, of burnt-up plains, of earth heaving and erupting into fiery clouds, into livid and stagnant skies. Sometimes Redon's subjects actually seemed to be borrowed from the nightmares of science, to go back to prehistoric times: a monstrous flora spread over the rocks, and among the ubiquitous boulders and glacier mud-streams wandered bipeds whose apish features \u2013 the heavy jaws, the protruding brows, the receding forehead, the flattened top of the skull \u2013 recalled the head of our ancestors early in the Quaternary Period, when man was still fructivorous and speechless, a contemporary of the mammoth, the woolly rhinoceros and the cave-bear. These drawings defied classification, most of them exceeding the bounds of pictorial art and creating a new type of fantasy, born of sickness and delirium.\n\nIn fact, there were some of these faces, dominated by great wild eyes, and some of these bodies, magnified beyond measure or distorted as if seen through a carafe of water, that evoked in Des Esseintes's mind recollections of typhoid fever, memories which had somehow stayed with him of the feverish nights and frightful nightmares of his childhood.\n\nOvercome by an indefinable malaise at the sight of these drawings \u2013 the same sort of malaise he experienced when he looked at certain rather similar _Proverbs_ by Goya, or read some of Edgar Allan Poe's stories, whose terrifying or hallucinating effects Odilon Redon seemed to have transposed into a different art \u2013 he would rub his eyes and turn to gaze at a radiant figure which, in the midst of all these frenzied pictures, stood out calm and serene: the figure of Melancholy, seated on some rocks before a disk-like sun, in a mournful and despondent attitude.\n\nHis gloom would then be dissipated, as if by magic; a sweet sadness, an almost languorous sorrow would gently take pos\u00adsession of his thoughts, and he would meditate for hours in front of this work, which, with its splashes of gouache amid the heavy pencil-lines, introduced a refreshing note of liquid green and pale gold into the unbroken black of all these charcoal drawings and etchings.\n\nBesides this collection of Redon's works, covering nearly every panel in the vestibule, he had hung in his bedroom an extravagant sketch by Theotocopuli, a study of Christ in which the drawing was exaggerated, the colouring crude and bizarre, the general effect one of frenzied energy, an example of the painter's second manner, when he was obsessed by the idea of avoiding any further resemblance to Titian.\n\nThis sinister picture, with its boot-polish blacks and cadaverous greens, fitted in with certain ideas Des Esseintes held on the subject of bedroom furniture and decoration.\n\nThere were, in his opinion, only two ways of arranging a bedroom: you could either make it a place for sensual pleasure, for nocturnal delectation, or else you could fit it out as a place for sleep and solitude, a setting for quiet meditation, a sort of oratory.\n\nIn the first case, the Louis-Quinze style was the obvious choice for people of delicate sensibility, exhausted by mental stimulation above all else. The eighteenth century is, in fact, the only age which has known how to develop woman in a wholly depraved atmosphere, shaping its furniture on the model of her charms, imitating her passionate contortions and spasmodic convulsions in the curves and convolutions of wood and copper, spicing the sugary languor of the blonde with its bright, light furnishings, and mitigating the salty savour of the brunette with tapestries of delicate, watery, almost insipid hues.\n\nIn his Paris house he had had a bedroom decorated in just this style, and furnished with the great white lacquered bed which provides that added titillation, that final touch of depravity so precious to the experienced voluptuary, excited by the spurious chastity and hypocritical modesty of the Greuze figures, by the pretended purity of a bed of vice apparently designed for innocent children and young virgins.\n\nIn the other case \u2013 and now that he meant to break with the irritating memories of his past life, this was the only one for him \u2013 the bedroom had to be turned into a facsimile of a monastery cell. But here difficulties piled up before him, for as far as he was concerned, he categorically refused to put up with the austere ugliness that characterizes all penitential prayer-houses.\n\nAfter turning the question over in his mind, he eventually came to the conclusion that what he should try to do was this: to employ cheerful means to attain a drab end, or rather, to impress on the room as a whole, treated in this way, a certain elegance and distinction, while yet preserving its essential ugliness. He decided, in fact, to reverse the optical illusion of the stage, where cheap finery plays the part of rich and costly fabrics; to achieve precisely the opposite effect, by using magnificent materials to give the impression of old rags; in short, to fit up a Trappist's cell that would look like the genuine article, but would of course be nothing of the sort.\n\nHe set about it in the following way: to imitate the yellow distemper beloved by church and state alike, he had the walls hung with saffron silk; and to represent the chocolate-brown dado normally found in this sort of room, he covered the lower part of the walls with strips of kingwood, a dark-brown wood with a purple sheen. The effect was delightful, recalling \u2013 though not too clearly \u2013 the unattractive crudity of the model he was copying and adapting. The ceiling was similarly covered with white holland, which had the appearance of plaster without its bright, shiny look; as for the cold tiles of the floor, he managed to hit them off quite well, thanks to a carpet patterned in red squares, with the wood dyed white in places where sandals and boots could be supposed to have left their mark.\n\nHe furnished this room with a little iron bedstead, a mock hermit's bed, made of old wrought iron, but highly polished and set off at head and foot with an intricate design of tulips and vine-branches intertwined, a design taken from the balustrade of the great staircase of an old mansion.\n\nBy way of a bedside table, he installed an antique priedieu, the inside of which could hold a chamber-pot while the top supported a euchologion; against the opposite wall he set a churchwardens' pew, with a great openwork canopy and misericords carved in the solid wood; and to provide illumination, he had some altar candlesticks fitted with real wax tapers which he bought from a firm specializing in ecclesiastical requirements, for he professed a genuine antipathy to all modern forms of lighting, whether paraffin, shale-oil, stearin candles or gas, finding them all too crude and garish for his liking.\n\nBefore falling asleep in the morning, as he lay in bed with his head on the pillow, he would gaze at his Theotocopuli, whose harsh colouring did something to dampen the gaiety of the yellow silk hangings and put them in a graver mood; and at these times he found it easy to imagine that he was living hundreds of miles from Paris, far removed from the world of men, in the depths of some secluded monastery.\n\nAfter all, it was easy enough to sustain this particular illusion, in that the life he was leading was very similar to the life of a monk. He thus enjoyed all the benefits of cloistered confinement while avoiding the disadvantages \u2013 the army-style discipline, the lack of comfort, the dirt, the promiscuity, the monotonous idleness. Just as he had made his cell into a warm, luxurious bedroom, so he had ensured that his everyday existence should be pleasant and comfortable, sufficiently occupied and in no way restricted.\n\nLike an eremite, he was ripe for solitude, exhausted by life and expecting nothing more of it; like a monk again, he was overwhelmed by an immense weariness, by a longing for peace and quiet, by a desire to have no further contact with the heathen, who in his eyes comprised all utilitarians and fools.\n\nIn short, although he had no vocation for the state of grace, he was conscious of a genuine fellow-feeling for those who were shut up in religious houses, persecuted by a vindictive society that cannot forgive either the proper contempt they feel for it or their averred intention of redeeming and expiating by years of silence the ever-increasing licentiousness of its silly, senseless conversations.\n\n## CHAPTER 6\n\nBuried deep in a vast wing-chair, his feet resting on the pear-shaped, silver-gilt supports of the andirons, his slippers toasting in front of the crackling logs that shot out bright tongues of flame as if they felt the furious blast of a bellows, Des Esseintes put the old quarto he had been reading down on a table, stretched himself, lit a cigarette and gave himself up to a delicious reverie. His mind was soon going full tilt in a pursuit of certain recollections which had lain low for months, but which had suddenly been started by a name recurring, for no apparent reason, to his memory.\n\nOnce again he could see, with surprising clearness, his friend D'Aigurande's embarrassment when he had been forced to confess to a gathering of confirmed bachelors that he had just completed the final arrangements for his wedding. There was a general outcry, and his friends tried to dissuade him with a frightening description of the horrors of sharing a bed. But it was all in vain: he had taken leave of his senses, believed that his future wife was a woman of intelligence and maintained that he had discovered in her quite exceptional qualities of tenderness and devotion.\n\nDes Esseintes had been the only one among all these young men to encourage him in his resolve, and this he did as soon as he learnt that his friend's fianc\u00e9e wanted to live on the corner of a newly constructed boulevard, in one of those modern flats built on a circular plan.\n\nPersuaded of the merciless power of petty vexations, which can have a more baneful effect on sanguine souls than the great tragedies of life, and taking account of the fact that D'Aigurande had no private means, while his wife's dowry was practically non-existent, he saw in this innocent whim an endless source of ridiculous misfortunes.\n\nAs he had foreseen, D'Aigurande proceeded to buy rounded pieces of furniture \u2013 console-tables sawn away at the back to form a semi-circle, curtain-poles curved like bows, carpets cut on a crescent pattern \u2013 until he had furnished the whole flat with things made to order. He spent twice as much as anybody else; and then, when his wife, finding herself short of money for new dresses, got tired of living in this rotunda, and took herself off to a flat with ordinary square rooms at a lower rent, not a single piece of furniture would fit in or stand up properly. Soon the bothersome things were giving rise to endless annoyances; the bond between husband and wife, already worn thin by the inevitable irritations of a shared life, grew more tenuous week by week; and there were angry scenes and mutual recriminations as they came to realize the impossibility of living in a sitting-room where sofas and console-tables would not go against the walls and wobbled at the slightest touch, however many blocks and wedges were used to steady them. There was not enough money to pay for alterations, and even if there had been, these would have been almost impossible to carry out. Everything became a ground for high words and squabbles, from the drawers that had stuck in the rickety furniture to the petty thefts of the maid-servant, who took advantage of the constant quarrels between her master and mistress to raid the cash-box. In short, their life became unbearable; he went out in search of amusement, while she looked to adultery to provide compensation for the drizzly dreariness of her life. Finally, by mutual consent, they cancelled their lease and petitioned for a legal separation.\n\n'My plan of campaign was right in every particular,' Des Esseintes had told himself on hearing the news, with the satisfaction of a strategist whose manoeuvres, worked out long beforehand, have resulted in victory.\n\nNow, sitting by his fireside and thinking about the break-up of this couple whose union he had encouraged with his good advice, he threw a fresh armful of wood into the hearth and promptly started dreaming again.\n\nMore memories, belonging to the same order of ideas, now came crowding in on him.\n\nSome years ago, he remembered he had been walking along the Rue de Rivoli one evening, when he had come across a young scamp of sixteen or so, a peaky-faced, sharp-eyed child, as attractive in his way as any girl. He was sucking hard at a cigarette, the paper of which had burst where bits of the coarse tobacco were poking through. Cursing away, the boy was striking kitchen matches on his thigh; not one of them would light and soon he had used them all up. Catching sight of Des Esseintes, who was standing watching him, he came up, touched his cap and politely asked for a light. Des Esseintes offered him some of his own scented Dub\u00e8ques, got into conversation with the boy and persuaded him to tell the story of his life.\n\nNothing could have been more banal: his name was Auguste Langlois, he worked for a cardboard-manufacturer, he had lost his mother and his father beat him black and blue.\n\nDes Esseintes listened thoughtfully.\n\n'Come and have a drink,' he said, and took him to a caf\u00e9 where he regaled him with a few glasses of heady punch. These the boy drank without a word.\n\n'Look here,' said Des Esseintes suddenly; 'how would you like a bit of fun tonight? I'll foot the bill, of course.' And he had taken the youngster off to an establishment on the third floor of a house in the Rue Mosnier, where a certain Madame Laure kept an assortment of pretty girls in a series of crimson cubicles furnished with circular mirrors, couches and wash-basins.\n\nThere a wonderstruck Auguste, twisting his cap in his hands, had stood gaping at a battalion of women whose painted mouths opened all together to exclaim:\n\n'What a duck! Isn't he sweet!'\n\n'But dearie, you're not old enough,' said a big brunette, a girl with prominent eyes and a hook nose who occupied at Madame Laure's the indispensable position of the handsome Jewess.\n\nMeanwhile Des Esseintes, who was obviously quite at home in this place, had made himself comfortable and was quietly chatting with the mistress of the house. But he broke off for a moment to speak to the boy.\n\n'Don't be so scared, stupid,' he said. 'Go on, take your pick \u2013 remember this is on me.'\n\nHe gave a gentle push to the lad, who flopped on to a divan between two of the women. At a sign from Madame Laure, they drew a little closer together, covering Auguste's knees with their peignoirs and cuddling up to him so that he breathed in the warm, heady scent of their powdered shoulders. He was sitting quite still now, flushed and dry-mouthed, his downcast eyes darting from under their lashes inquisitive glances that were all directed at the upper part of the girls' thighs.\n\nVanda, the handsome Jewess, suddenly gave him a kiss and a little good advice, telling him to do whatever his parents told him, while all the time her hands were wandering over the boy's body; his expression changed and he lay back in a kind of swoon, with his head on her breast.\n\n'So it's not on your own account that you've come here tonight,' said Madame Laure to Des Esseintes. 'But where the devil did you get hold of that baby?' she added, as Auguste disappeared with the handsome Jewess.\n\n'Why, in the street, my dear.'\n\n'But you're not tight,' muttered the old lady. Then, after a moment's thought, she gave an understanding, motherly smile.\n\n'Ah, now I see! You rascal, so you like'em young, do you?'\n\nDes Esseintes shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'No, you're wide of the mark there,' he said; 'very wide of the mark. The truth is that I'm simply trying to make a murderer of the boy. See if you can follow my line of argument. The lad's a virgin and he's reached the age where the blood starts coming to the boil. He could, of course, just run after the little girls of his neighbourhood, stay decent and still have his bit of fun, enjoy his little share of the tedious happiness open to the poor. But by bringing him here, by plunging him into luxury such as he's never known and will never forget, and by giving him the same treat every fortnight, I hope to get him into the habit of these pleasures which he can't afford. Assuming that it will take three months for them to become absolutely indispensable to him \u2013 and by spacing them out as I do, I avoid the risk of jading his appetite \u2013 well, at the end of those three months, I stop the little allowance I'm going to pay you in advance for being nice to the boy. And to get the money to pay for his visits here, he'll turn burglar, he'll do anything if it helps him on to one of your divans in one of your gaslit rooms.\n\n'Looking on the bright side of things, I hope that, one fine day, he'll kill the gentleman who turns up unexpectedly just as he's breaking open his desk. On that day my object will be achieved: I shall have contributed, to the best of my ability, to the making of a scoundrel, one enemy the more for the hideous society which is bleeding us white.'\n\nThe woman gazed at him with open-eyed amazement.\n\n'Ah, there you are!' he exclaimed, as he caught sight of Auguste sneaking back into the room, all red and sheepish, and hiding behind his Jewess. 'Come on, my boy, it's getting late. Say good night to the ladies.'\n\nGoing downstairs, he explained to him that once a fortnight he could pay a visit to Madame Laure's without spending a sou. And then as they stood outside on the pavement, he looked the bewildered child in the face and said:\n\n'We shan't see each other again. Hurry off home to your father, whose hand must be itching for work to do, and remember this almost evangelic dictum: Do unto others as you would not have them do unto you.'\n\n'Good night, sir.'\n\n'One other thing. Whatever you do, show a little gratitude for what I've done for you, and let me know as soon as you can how you're getting on \u2013 preferably through the columns of the Police Gazette.'\n\nNow, sitting by the fire and stirring the glowing embers, he muttered to himself:\n\n'The little Judas! To think that I've never once seen his name in the papers! It's true, of course, that I haven't been able to play a close game, in that I couldn't guard against certain obvious contingencies \u2013 the danger of old mother Laure swindling me, pocketing the money and not delivering the goods; the chance of one of the women taking a fancy to Auguste, so that when his three months were up she let him have his fun on the nod; and even the possibility that the handsome Jewess's exotic vices had already scared the boy, who may have been too young and impatient to bear her slow preliminaries or enjoy her savage climaxes. So unless he's been up against the law since I came to Fontenay and stopped reading the papers, I've been diddled.'\n\nHe got to his feet and took a few turns round the room.\n\n'That would be a pity, all the same,' he went on, 'because all I was doing was parabolizing secular instruction, allegorizing universal education, which is well on the way to turning everybody into a Langlois: instead of permanently and mercifully putting out the eyes of the poor, it does its best to force them wide open, so that they may see all around them lives of less merit and greater comfort, pleasures that are keener and more voluptuous, and therefore sweeter and more desirable.\n\n'And the fact is,' he added, following this line of thought still further, 'the fact is that, pain being one of the consequences of education, in that it grows greater and sharper with the growth of ideas, it follows that the more we try to polish the minds and refine the nervous systems of the under-privileged, the more we shall be developing in their hearts the atrociously active germs of hatred and moral suffering.'\n\nThe lamps were smoking. He turned them up and looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning. He lit a cigarette and gave himself up again to the perusal, interrupted by his dreaming, of the old Latin poem, _De Laude Castitatis_ , written in the reign of Gondebald by Avitus, Metropolitan Bishop of Vienne.\n\n## CHAPTER 7\n\nBeginning on the night when, for no apparent reason, he had conjured up the melancholy memory of Auguste Langlois, Des Esseintes lived his whole life over again.\n\nHe found he was now incapable of understanding a single word of the volumes he consulted; his very eyes stopped reading, and it seemed as if his mind, gorged with literature and art, refused to absorb any more.\n\nHe had to live on himself, to feed on his own substance, like those animals that lie torpid in a hole all winter. Solitude had acted on his brain like a narcotic, first exciting and stimulating him, then inducing a languor haunted by vague reveries, vitiating his plans, nullifying his intentions, leading a whole cavalcade of dreams to which he passively submitted, without even trying to get away.\n\nThe confused mass of reading and meditation on artistic themes that he had accumulated since he had been on his own like a barrage to hold back the current of old memories, had suddenly been carried away, and the flood was let loose, sweeping away the present and the future, submerging everything under the waters of the past, covering his mind with a great expanse of melancholy, on the surface of which there drifted, like ridiculous bits of flotsam, trivial episodes of his existence, absurdly insignificant incidents.\n\nThe book he happened to be holding would fall into his lap, and he would give himself up to a fearful and disgusted review of his dead life, the years pivoting round the memory of Auguste and Madame Laure as around a solid fact, a stake planted in the midst of swirling waters. What a time that had been! \u2013 a time of elegant parties, of race-meetings and card-games, of love-potions ordered in advance and served punctually on the stroke of midnight in his pink boudoir! Faces, looks, meaningless words came back to him with the haunting persistence of those popular tunes you suddenly find yourself humming and just as suddenly and unconsciously you forget.\n\nThis phase lasted only a little while and then his memory took a siesta. He took advantage of this respite to immerse himself once more in his Latin studies, in the hope of effacing every sign, every trace of these recollections. But it was too late to call a halt; a second phase followed almost immediately on the first, a phase dominated by memories of his youth, and particularly the years he had spent with the Jesuit Fathers.\n\nThese memories were of a more distant period, yet they were clearer than the others, engraved more deeply and enduringly in his mind; the thickly wooded park, the long paths, the flower-beds, the benches \u2013 all the material details were conjured up before him.\n\nThen the gardens filled up, and he heard the shouting of the boys at play, and the laughter of their masters as they joined in, playing tennis with their cassocks hitched up in front, or else chatting with their pupils under the trees without the slightest affectation or pomposity, just as if they were talking to friends of their own age.\n\nHe recalled that paternal discipline which deprecated any form of punishment, declined to inflict impositions of five hundred or a thousand lines, was content with having unsatisfactory work done over again while the others were at recreation, resorted more often than not to a mere reprimand and kept the child under active but affectionate surveillance, forever trying to please him, agreeing to whatever walks he suggested on Wednesday afternoons, seizing the opportunity afforded by all the minor feast-days of the Church to add cakes and wine to the ordinary bill of fare or to organize a picnic in the country \u2013 a discipline which consisted of reasoning with the pupil instead of brutalizing him, already treating him like a grown man yet still coddling him like a spoilt child.\n\nIn this way the Fathers managed to gain a real hold upon their pupils, to mould to some extent the minds they cultivated, to guide them in certain specific directions, to inculcate particular notions and to ensure the desired development of their ideas by means of an insinuating, ingratiating technique which they continued to apply in after-years, doing their best to keep track of their charges in adult life, backing them up in their careers and writing them affectionate letters such as the Dominican Lacordaire wrote to his former pupils at Sorr\u00e8ze.\n\nDes Esseintes was well aware of the sort of conditioning to which he had been subjected, but he felt sure that in his case it had been without effect. In the first place, his captious and inquisitive character, his refractory and disputatious nature had saved him from being moulded by the good Fathers' discipline or indoctrinated by their lessons. Then, once he had left school, his scepticism had grown more acute; his experience of the narrow-minded intolerance of Legitimist society, and his conversations with unintelligent churchwardens and uncouth priests whose blunders tore away the veil the Jesuits had so cunningly woven, had still further fortified his spirit of independence and increased his distrust of any and every form of religious belief.\n\nHe considered, in fact, that he had shaken off all his old ties and fetters, and that he differed from the products of _lyc\u00e9es_ and lay boarding-schools in only one respect, namely that he retained pleasant memories of his school and his schoolmasters. And yet, now that he examined his conscience, he began to wonder whether the seed which had fallen on apparently barren ground was not showing signs of germinating.\n\nAs a matter of fact, for some days he had been in an indescribably peculiar state of mind. For a brief instant he would believe, and turn instinctively to religion; then, after a moment's thought, his longing for faith would vanish, though he remained perplexed and uneasy.\n\nYet he was well aware, on looking into his heart, that he could never feel the humility and contrition of a true Christian; he knew beyond all doubt that the moment of which Lacordaire speaks, that moment of grace 'when the last ray of light enters the soul and draws together to a common centre all the truths that lie scattered therein', would never come for him. He felt nothing of that hunger for mortification and prayer without which, if we are to believe the majority of priests, no conversion is possible; nor did he feel any desire to invoke a God whose mercy struck him as extremely problematical. At the same time the affection he still had for his old masters led him to take an interest in their works and doctrines; and the recollection of those inimitable accents of conviction, the passionate voices of those highly intelligent men, made him doubt the quality and strength of his own intellect. The lonely existence he was leading, with no fresh food for thought, no novel experiences, no replenishment of ideas, no exchange of impressions received from the outside world, from mixing with other people and sharing in their life, this unnatural isolation which he stubbornly maintained, encouraged the re-emergence in the form of irritating problems of all manner of questions he had disregarded when he was living in Paris.\n\nReading the Latin works he loved, works almost all written by bishops and monks, had doubtless done something to bring on this crisis. Steeped in a monastic atmosphere and intoxicated by the fumes of incense, he had become over-excited, and by a natural association of ideas, these books had ended up by driving back the recollections of his life as a young man and bringing out his memories of the years he had spent as a boy with the Jesuit Fathers.\n\n'There's no doubt about it,' Des Esseintes said to himself, after a searching attempt to discover how the Jesuit element had worked its way to the surface at Fontenay; 'ever since boyhood, and without my knowing it, I've had this leaven inside me, ready to ferment; the taste I've always had for religious objects may be proof of this.'\n\nHowever, he tried his hardest to persuade himself of the contrary, annoyed at finding that he was no longer master in his own house. Hunting for more acceptable explanations of his ecclesiastical predilections, he told himself he had been obliged to turn to the Church, in that the Church was the only body to have preserved the art of past centuries, the lost beauty of the ages. She had kept unchanged, even in shoddy modern reproductions, the goldsmiths' traditional forms; preserved the charm of chalices as slender as petunias, of pyxes simply and exquisitely styled; retained, even in aluminium, in fake enamel, in coloured glass, the grace of the patterns of olden days. Indeed, most of the precious objects which were kept in the Cluny Museum, and which by some miracle had escaped the bestial savagery of the sansculottes, came from the old abbeys of France. Just as in the Middle Ages the Church saved philosophy, history and literature from barbarism, so she had safeguarded the plastic arts and brought down to modern times those marvellous examples of costume and jewellery which present-day ecclesiastical furnishers did their best to spoil, though they could never quite succeed in destroying the original qualities of form and style. There was therefore no cause for surprise in the fact that he had hunted eagerly for these antique curios, and that like many another collector he had bought relics of this sort from Paris antiquaries and country dealers.\n\nBut however much he dwelt on these motives, he could not quite manage to convince himself. It was true that, after careful thought, he still regarded the Christian religion as a superb legend; a magnificent imposture; and yet, in spite of all his excuses and explanations, his scepticism was beginning to crack.\n\nOdd as it might seem, the fact remained that he was not as self-confident now as in his youth, when the Jesuits' supervision had been direct and their teaching inescapable, when he had been entirely in their hands, belonging to them body and soul, without any family ties or outside influences to counteract their ascendancy. What is more, they had implanted in him a certain taste for things supernatural which had slowly and imperceptibly taken root in his soul, was now blossoming out in these secluded conditions, and was inevitably having an effect on his silent mind, tied to the treadmill of certain fixed ideas.\n\nBy dint of examining his thought-processes, of trying to join together the threads of his ideas and trace them back to their sources, he came to the conclusion that his activities in the course of his social life had all originated in the education he had received. Thus his penchant for artificiality and his love of eccentricity could surely be explained as the results of sophistical studies, super-terrestrial subtleties, semi-theological speculations; fundamentally, they were ardent aspirations towards an ideal, towards an unknown universe, towards a distant beatitude, as utterly desirable as that promised by the Scriptures.\n\nHe pulled himself up short, and broke this chain of reflections.\n\n'Come, now,' he told himself angrily. 'I've got it worse than I thought: here I am arguing with myself like a casuist.'\n\nHe remained pensive, troubled by a nagging fear. Obviously, if Lacordaire's theory was correct, he had nothing to worry about, seeing that the magic of conversion was not worked at a single stroke; to produce the explosion the ground had to be patiently and thoroughly mined. But if the novelists talked about love at first sight, there were also a number of theologians who spoke of conversion as of something equally sudden and overwhelming. Supposing that they were right, it followed that nobody could be sure he would never succumb. There was no longer any point in practising self-analysis, paying attention to presentiments or taking preventive measures: the psychology of mysticism was non-existent. Things happened because they happened, and that was the end of it.\n\n'Dammit, I'm going crazy,' Des Esseintes said to himself. 'My dread of the disease will bring on the disease itself if I keep this up.'\n\nHe managed to shake off this fear to some extent, and his memories of boyhood faded away; but other morbid symptoms supervened. Now it was the subjects of theological disputations that haunted him to the exclusion of everything else. The school garden, the lessons, the Jesuits might never have been, his mind was so completely dominated by abstractions; in spite of himself, he began pondering over some of the contradictory interpretations of dogma and the long-forgotten apostasies recorded in Father Labbe's work on the Councils of the Church. Odd scraps of these schisms and heresies, which for centuries had divided the Western and Eastern Churches, came back to mind. Here, for instance, was Nestorius denying Mary's right to the title of Mother of God because, in the mystery of the Incarnation, it was not the God but the man she had carried in her womb; and there was Eutyches maintaining that Christ could not have looked like other men, since the Godhead had elected domicile in his body and had thereby changed his nature utterly and completely. Then there were some other quibblers asserting that the Redeemer had had no body at all and that references to his body in the Holy Books should be understood figuratively; Tertullian could be heard positing his famous quasi-materialistic axiom: 'Anything which lacks a body does not exist; everything which exists has a body of its own'; and finally that hoary old question debated year after year came up again: 'Was Christ alone nailed to the cross, or did the Trinity, one in three persons, suffer in its triple hypostasis on the gibbet of Calvary?' All these problems teased and tormented him; and automatically, as if he were repeating a lesson he had learnt by heart, he kept asking himself the questions and responding with the answers.\n\nFor several days in succession, his brain was a seething mass of paradoxes and sophisms, a tangle of split hairs, a maze of rules as complicated as the clauses of a law, open to every conceivable interpretation and every kind of quibble, and leading up to a system of celestial jurisprudence of positively baroque subtlety. Then these abstract obsessions left him, and a whole series of plastic impressions took their place, under the influence of the Gustave Moreau pictures hanging on the walls.\n\nHe saw a procession of prelates passing before his eyes, a line of archimandrites and patriarchs lifting their golden arms to bless the kneeling multitudes, or wagging their white beards as they read or prayed aloud; he saw silent penitents filing into crypts; he saw great cathedrals rising up with white-robed monks thundering from their pulpits. Just as De Quincey, after a dose of opium, had only to hear the words 'Consul Romanus' to conjure up whole pages of Livy, to see the consuls coming forward in solemn procession or witness the Roman legions moving off in pompous array, so Des Esseintes would be left gasping with amazement as some theological expression evoked visions of surging multitudes and episcopal figures silhouetted against the fiery windows of their basilicas. Apparitions like these kept him entranced, hurrying in imagination from age to age, and coming down at last to the religious ceremonies of modern times, to the accompaniment of endless waves of music, mournful and tender.\n\nHere there was no longer any room for argument or discussion; there was no denying that he had an indefinable feeling of veneration and fear, that his artistic sense was subjugated by the nicely calculated scenes of Catholic ceremonial. His nerves shuddered at these memories, and then, in a sudden mood of revolt, a swift volte-face, ideas of monstrous depravity came to him \u2013 thoughts of the profanities foreseen in the Confessors' Manual, of the impure and ignominious ways in which holy water and consecrated oil could be abused. An omnipotent God was now confronted by the upright figure of a powerful adversary, the Devil; and it seemed to Des Esseintes that a frightful glory must result from any crime committed in open church by a believer filled with dreadful merriment and sadistic joy, bent on blasphemy, resolved to desecrate and befoul the objects of veneration. The mad rites of magical ceremonies, black masses and witches' sabbaths, together with the horrors of demonic possession and exorcism, were enacted before his mind's eye; and he began to wonder if he were not guilty of sacrilege in possessing articles which had once been solemnly consecrated, such as altar cards, chasubles and custodials. This idea, that he was possibly living in a state of sin, filled him with a certain pride and satisfaction, not unmixed with delight in these sacrilegious acts \u2013 which might not be sacrilegious at all, and in any case were not very serious offences, seeing that he really loved these articles and did not put them to any depraved uses. He beguiled himself in this way with prudent, cowardly thoughts, the uncertainty of his soul preventing him from perpetrating overt crimes, robbing him of the necessary courage to commit real sins of real iniquity with real intent.\n\nEventually, little by little, this casuistic spirit left him. He then looked out, as it were, from the summit of his mind, over the panorama of the Church and her hereditary influence on humanity down the ages; he pictured her to himself in all her melancholy grandeur, proclaiming to mankind the horror of life, the inclemency of fate; preaching patience, contrition, the spirit of self-sacrifice; endeavouring to salve the sores of men by pointing to the bleeding wounds of Christ; guaranteeing divine privileges and promising the better part of paradise to the afflicted; exhorting the human creature to suffer, to offer to God as a holocaust his tribulations and his offences, his vicissitudes and his sorrows. He saw her become truly eloquent, speaking words full of sympathy for the poor, full of pity for the oppressed, full of menace for tyrants and oppressors.\n\nAt this point, Des Esseintes found his footing again. It is true that this admission of social corruption had his entire approval, but on the other hand, his mind revolted against the vague remedy of hope in a future life. Schopenhauer, in his opinion, came nearer to the truth. His doctrine and the Church's started from a common point of view; he too took his stand on the iniquity and rottenness of the world; he too cried out in anguish with the _Imitation of Christ_ : 'Verily it is a pitiful thing to live on earth!' He too preached the nullity of existence, the advantages of solitude, and warned humanity that whatever it did, whichever way it turned, it would always remain unhappy \u2013 the poor because of the sufferings born of privation, the rich because of the unconquerable boredom engendered by abundance. The difference between them was that he offered you no panacea, beguiled you with no promises of a cure for your inevitable ills.\n\nHe did not drum into your ears the revolting dogma of original sin; he did not try to convince you of the superlative goodness of a God who protects the wicked, helps the foolish, crushes the young, brutalizes the old and chastises the innocent; he did not extol the benefits of a Providence which has invented the useless, unjust, incomprehensible and inept abomination that is physical pain. Indeed, far from endeavouring, like the Church, to justify the necessity of trials and torments, he exclaimed in his compassionate indignation: 'If a God has made this world, I should hate to be that God, for the misery of the world would break my heart.'\n\nYes, it was undoubtedly Schopenhauer who was in the right. What, in fact, were all the evangelical pharmacopoeias compared with his treatises on spiritual hygiene? He claimed no cures, offered the sick no compensation, no hope; but when all was said and done, his theory of Pessimism was the great comforter of superior minds and lofty souls; it revealed society as it was, insisted on the innate stupidity of women, pointed out the pitfalls of life, saved you from disillusionment by teaching you to expect as little as possible, to expect nothing at all if you were sufficiently strong-willed, indeed, to consider yourself lucky if you were not constantly visited by some unforeseen calamity.\n\nSetting off from the same starting-point as the _Imitation_ , but without losing itself in mysterious mazes and unlikely by-paths, this theory reached the same conclusion, an attitude of resignation and drift.\n\nHowever, if this resignation, frankly based on the recognition of a deplorable state of affairs and the impossibility of effecting any change, was accessible to the rich in intellect, that made it all the more difficult of attainment for the poor, whose clamorous wrath was more easily appeased by the kindly voice of religion.\n\nThese reflections took a load off Des Esseintes's mind; the great German's aphorisms calmed the tumult of his thoughts, while at the same time the points of contact between the two doctrines helped each to remind him of the other. Nor could he forget the poetic and poignant atmosphere of Catholicism in which he had been steeped as a boy, and whose essence he had absorbed through every pore.\n\nThese recurrences of belief, these fearful intimations of faith had been troubling him more particularly since his health had begun to deteriorate; they coincided with certain nervous disorders that had recently arisen.\n\nEver since his earliest childhood, he had been tormented by inexplicable revulsions, by shuddering fits which chilled him to the marrow and set his teeth on edge whenever, for instance, he saw a maid wringing out some wet linen. These instinctive reactions had continued down the years, and to this day it still caused him real suffering to hear a piece of stuff being torn in two, to rub his finger over a bit of chalk, to feel the surface of watered silk.\n\nThe excesses of his bachelor days and the abnormal strains put on his brain had aggravated his neurosis to an astonishing degree and still further diluted the impoverished blood of his race. In Paris he had been obliged to have hydropathic treatment for trembling of the hands and for atrocious neuralgic pains that seemed to cut his face in two, hammered away at his temples, stabbed at his eyelids and brought on fits of nausea he could only overcome by lying flat on his back in the dark.\n\nThese troubles had gradually disappeared, thanks to the steadier, quieter life he was leading; but now they were coming back in a different form and affecting every part of his body. The pains left his head to attack his stomach, which was hard and swollen, searing his innards with a red-hot iron and stimulating his bowels to no effect. Then a nervous cough, a dry, racking cough, always beginning at the same time and lasting precisely the same number of minutes, woke him as he lay in his bed, seizing him by the throat and nearly choking him. Finally he lost his appetite completely; the hot, gassy fires of heartburn flared up inside his body; he felt swollen and stifled, and could not bear the constriction of trouser-buttons or waistcoat-buckles after a meal.\n\nHe gave up drinking spirits, coffee and tea, put himself on a milk diet, tried applying cold water to his body, stuffed himself with asafoetida, valerian and quinine. He even went so far as to leave the house and go for strolls in the country, where the rainy weather had established peace and quiet, forcing himself to keep walking and take exercise. As a last resort, he laid aside his books for the time being; and the result was such surpassing boredom that he decided to occupy the idle hours with carrying out a project he had put off time and again since coming to Fontenay, partly out of laziness and partly out of dislike of the trouble involved.\n\nNo longer able to intoxicate himself afresh with the magical charms of style, to thrill to the delicious sorcery of the unusual epithet which, while retaining all its precision, opens up infinite perspectives to the imagination of the initiate, he made up his mind to complete the interior decoration of his thebaid by filling it with costly hothouse flowers, and so provide himself with a material occupation that would distract his thoughts, soothe his nerves and rest his brain. He also hoped that the sight of their strange and splendid colours would compensate him to some extent for the loss of those real or fancied nuances of style which, on account of his literary dieting, he would now have to forget for a little while or for ever.\n\n## CHAPTER 8\n\nDes Esseintes had always been excessively fond of flowers, but this passion of his, which at Jutigny had originally embraced all flowers without distinction of species or genus, had finally become more discriminating, limiting itself to a single caste.\n\nFor a long time now he had despised the common, everyday varieties that blossom on the Paris market-stalls, in wet flower-pots, under green awnings or red umbrellas.\n\nAt the same time that his literary tastes and artistic preferences had become more refined, recognizing only such works as had been sifted and distilled by subtle and tormented minds, and at the same time that his distaste for accepted ideas had hardened into disgust, his love of flowers had rid itself of its residuum, its lees, had been clarified, so to speak, and purified.\n\nIt amused him to liken a horticulturist's shop to a microcosm in which every social category and class was represented \u2013 poor, vulgar slum-flowers, the gilliflower for instance, that are really at home only on the window-sill of a garret, with their roots squeezed into milk-cans or old earthenware pots; then pretentious, conventional, stupid flowers such as the rose, whose proper place is in pots concealed inside porcelain vases painted by nice young ladies; and lastly, flowers of charm and tremulous delicacy, exotic flowers exiled to Paris and kept warm in palaces of glass, princesses of the vegetable kingdom, living aloof and apart, having nothing whatever in common with the popular plants or the bourgeois blooms.\n\nNow, he could not help feeling a certain interest, a certain pity for the lower-class flowers, wilting in the slums under the foul breath of sewers and sinks; on the other hand, he loathed those that go with the cream-and-gold drawing-rooms in new houses; he kept his admiration, in fact, for the rare and aristocratic plants from distant lands, kept alive with cunning attention in artificial tropics created by carefully regulated stoves.\n\nBut this deliberate choice he had made of hothouse flowers had itself been modified under the influence of his general ideas, of the definite conclusions he had now arrived at on all matters. In former days, in Paris, his inborn taste for the artificial had led him to neglect the real flower for its copy, faithfully and almost miraculously executed in indiarubber and wire, calico and taffeta, paper and velvet.\n\nAs a result, he possessed a wonderful collection of tropical plants, fashioned by the hands of true artists, following Nature step by step, repeating her processes, taking the flower from its birth, leading it to maturity, imitating it even to its death, noting the most indefinable nuances, the most fleeting aspects of its awakening or its sleep, observing the pose of its petals, blown back by the wind or crumpled up by the rain, sprinkling its unfolding corolla with dewdrops of gum and adapting its appearance to the time of year \u2013 in full bloom when branches are bent under the weight of sap, or with a shrivelled cupula and a withered stem when petals are dropping off and leaves are falling.\n\nThis admirable artistry had long enthralled him, but now he dreamt of collecting another kind of flora: tired of artificial flowers aping real ones, he wanted some natural flowers that would look like fakes.\n\nHe applied his mind to this problem, but did not have to search for long or go far afield, seeing that his house was in the very heart of the district which had attracted all the great flower-growers. He went straight off to visit the hothouses of Ch\u00e2tillon and the valley of Aunay, coming home tired out and cleaned out, wonder-struck at the floral follies he had seen, thinking of nothing but the varieties he had bought, haunted all the while by memories of bizarre and magnificient blooms.\n\nTwo days later the wagons arrived. List in hand, Des Esseintes called the roll, checking his purchases one by one.\n\nFirst of all the gardeners unloaded from their carts a collection of Caladiums, whose swollen, hairy stems supported huge heart-shaped leaves; though they kept a general air of kinship, no two of them were alike.\n\nThere were some remarkable specimens \u2013 some a pinkish colour like the Virginale, which seemed to have been cut out of oilskin or sticking-plaster; some all white like the Albane, which looked as if it had been fashioned out of the pleura of an ox or the diaphanous bladder of a pig. Others, especially the one called Madame Mame, seemed to be simulating zinc, parodying bits of punched metal coloured emperor green and spattered with drops of oil-paint, streaks of red lead and white. Here, there were plants like the Bosphorus giving the illusion of starched calico spotted with crimson and myrtle green; there, others such as the Aurora Borealis flaunted leaves the colour of raw meat, with dark-red ribs and purplish fibrils, puffy leaves that seemed to be sweating blood and wine.\n\nBetween them, the Albane and Aurora Borealis represented the two temperamental extremes, apoplexy and chlorosis, in this particular family of plants.\n\nThe gardeners brought in still more varieties, this time affecting the appearance of a factitious skin covered with a network of counterfeit veins. Most of them, as if ravaged by syphilis or leprosy, displayed livid patches of flesh mottled with roseola, damasked with dartre; others had the bright pink colour of a scar that is healing or the brown tint of a scab that is forming; others seemed to have been puffed up by cauteries, blistered by burns; others again revealed hairy surfaces pitted with ulcers and embossed with chancres; and last of all there were some which appeared to be covered with dressings of various sorts, coated with black mercurial lard, plastered with green belladonna ointment, dusted over with the yellow flakes of iodoform powder.\n\nGathered together, these sickly blooms struck Des Esseintes as even more monstrous than when he had first come upon them, mixed up with others like hospital patients inside the glass walls of their conservatory wards.\n\n'Sapristi!' he exclaimed, in an access of enthusiasm.\n\nAnother plant, of a type similar to the Caladiums, the _Alocasia_ _Metallica_ , roused him to still greater admiration. Covered with a coat of greenish bronze shot with glints of silver, it was the supreme masterpiece of artifice; anyone would have taken it for a bit of stove-pipe cut into a pike-head pattern by the makers.\n\nNext the men unloaded several bunches of lozenge-shaped leaves, bottle-green in colour; from the midst of each bunch rose a stiff stem on top of which trembled a great ace of hearts, as glossy as a pepper; and then, as if in defiance of all the familiar aspects of plant life, there sprang from the middle of this bright vermilion heart a fleshy, downy tail, all white and yellow, straight in some cases, corkscrewing above the heart like a pig's tail in others.\n\nThis was the Anthurium, an aroid recently imported from Colombia; it belonged to a section of the same family as a certain Amorphophallus, a plant from Cochin-China with leaves the shape of fish-slices and long black stalks crisscrossed with scars like the limbs of a negro slave.\n\nDes Esseintes could scarcely contain himself for joy.\n\nNow they were getting a fresh batch of monstrosities down from the carts \u2013 the Echinopsis, thrusting its ghastly pink blossoms out of cotton-wool compresses, like the stumps of amputated limbs; the Nidularium, opening its sword-shaped petals to reveal gaping flesh-wounds; the _Tillandsia Lindeni_ , trailing its jagged plough-shares the colour of wine-must; and the Cypripedium, with its complex, incoherent contours devised by some demented draughtsman. It looked rather like a clog or a tidy, and on top was a human tongue bent back with the string stretched tight, just as you may see it depicted in the plates of medical works dealing with diseases of the throat and mouth; two little wings, of a jujube red, which might almost have been borrowed from a child's toy windmill, completed this baroque combination of the underside of a tongue, the colour of wine lees and slate, and a glossy pocket-case with a lining that oozed drops of viscous paste.\n\nHe could not take his eyes off this unlikely-looking orchid from India, and the gardeners, irritated by all these delays, began reading out themselves the labels stuck in the pots they were bringing in.\n\nDes Esseintes watched them open-mouthed, listening in amazement to the forbidding names of the various herbaceous plants \u2013 the _Encephalartos horridus_ , a gigantic artichoke, an iron spike painted a rust colour, like the ones they put on park gates to keep trespassers from climbing over; the _Cocos Micania_ , a sort of palm-tree, with a slim, indented stem, surrounded on all sides with tall leaves like paddles and oars; the _Zamia Lehmanni_ , a huge pineapple, a monumental Cheshire cheese stuck in heath-mould and bristling on top with barbed javelins and native arrows; and the _Cibotium Spectabile_ , challenging comparison with the weirdest nightmare and out-doing even its congeners in the craziness of its formation, with an enormous orang-outang's tail poking out of a cluster of palm-leaves \u2013 a brown, hairy tail twisted at the tip into the shape of a bishop's crozier.\n\nBut he did not linger over these plants, as he was waiting impatiently for the series which particularly fascinated him, those vegetable ghouls the carnivorous plants \u2013 the downy-rimmed Fly-trap of the Antilles, with its digestive secretions and its curved spikes that interlock to form a grille over any insect it imprisons; the Drosera of the peat-bogs, flaunting a set of glandulous hairs; the Sarracena and the Cephalothus, opening voracious gullets capable of consuming and digesting whole chunks of meat; and finally the Nepenthes, which in shape and form passes all the bounds of eccentricity.\n\nWith unwearying delight he turned in his hands the pot in which this floral extravaganza was quivering. It resembled the gum-tree in its long leaves of a dark, metallic green; but from the end of each leaf there hung a green string, an umbilical cord carrying a greenish-coloured pitcher dappled with purple markings, a sort of German pipe in porcelain, a peculiar kind of bird's nest that swayed gently to and fro, displaying an interior carpeted with hairs.\n\n'That really is a beauty,' murmured Des Esseintes.\n\nBut he had to cut short his display of pleasure, for now the gardeners, in a hurry to get away, were rapidly unloading the last of their plants, jumbling up tuberous Begonias and black Crotons flecked with spots of red lead like old iron.\n\nThen he noticed that there was still one name left on his list, the Cattleya of New Granada. They pointed out to him a little winged bell-flower of a pale lilac, an almost imperceptible mauve; he went up, put his nose to it and started back \u2013 for it gave out a smell of varnished deal, a toy-box smell that brought back horrid memories of New Year's Day when he was a child. He decided he had better be wary of it, and almost regretted having admitted among all the scentless plants he possessed this orchid with its unpleasantly reminiscent odour.\n\nOnce he was alone again, he surveyed the great tide of vegetation that had flooded into his entrance-hall, the various species all intermingling, crossing swords, creeses or spears with one another, forming a mass of green weapons, over which floated, like barbarian battle-flags, flowers of crude and dazzling colours.\n\nThe air in the room was getting purer, and soon, in a dark corner, down by the floor, a soft white light appeared. He went up to it and discovered that it came from a clump of Rhizomorphs which, as they breathed, shone like tiny night-lights.\n\n'These plants are really astounding,' he said to himself, stepping back to appraise the entire collection. Yes, his object had been achieved: not one of them looked real; it was as if cloth, paper, porcelain and metal had been lent by man to Nature to enable her to create these monstrosities. Where she had not found it possible to imitate the work of human hands, she had been reduced to copying the membranes of animals' organs, to borrowing the vivid tints of their rotting flesh, the hideous splendours of their gangrened skin.\n\n'It all comes down to syphilis in the end,' Des Esseintes reflected, as his gaze was drawn and held by the horrible markings of the Caladiums, over which a shaft of daylight was playing. And he had a sudden vision of the unceasing torments inflicted on humanity by the virus of distant ages. Ever since the beginning of the world, from generation to generation, all living creatures had handed down the inexhaustible heritage, the everlasting disease that ravaged the ancestors of man and even ate into the bones of the old fossils that were being dug up at the present time.\n\nWithout ever abating, it had travelled down the ages, still raging to this day in the form of surreptitious pains, in the disguise of headaches or bronchitis, hysteria or gout. From time to time it came to the surface, generally singling out for attack ill-to-do, ill-fed people, breaking out in spots like pieces of gold, ironically crowning the poor devils with an almeh's diadem of sequins, adding insult to injury by stamping their skin with the very symbol of wealth and well-being.\n\nAnd now here it was again, reappearing in all its pristine splendour on the brightly coloured leaves of these plants!\n\n'It is true,' continued Des Esseintes, going back to the starting point of his argument, 'it is true that most of the time Nature is incapable of producing such depraved, unhealthy species alone and unaided; she supplies the raw materials, the seed and the soil, the nourishing womb and the elements of the plant, which man rears, shapes, paints and carves afterwards to suit his fancy.\n\n'Stubborn, muddle-headed and narrow-minded though she is, she has at last submitted, and her master has succeeded in changing the soil components by means of chemical reactions, in utilizing slowly matured combinations, carefully elaborated crossings, in employing cuttings and graftings skilfully and methodically, so that now he can make her put forth blossoms of different colours on the same branch, invents new hues for her, and modifies at will the age-old shapes of her plants. In short, he rough-hews her blocks of stone, finishes off her sketches, signs them with his stamp, impresses on them his artistic hall-mark.\n\n'There's no denying it,' he concluded; 'in the course of a few years man can operate a selection which easy-going Nature could not conceivably make in less than a few centuries; without the shadow of a doubt, the horticulturists are the only true artists left to us nowadays.'\n\nHe was a little tired and felt stifled in this hothouse atmosphere; all the outings he had had in the last few days had exhausted him; the transition between the immobility of a sequestered life and the activity of an outdoor existence had been too sudden. He left the hall and went to lie down on his bed; but, engrossed in a single subject, as if wound up by a spring, his mind went on paying out its chain even in sleep, and he soon fell victim to the sombre fantasies of a nightmare.\n\nHe was walking along the middle of a path through a forest at dusk, beside a woman he had never met, never even seen before. She was tall and thin, with tow-like hair, a bulldog face, freckled cheeks, irregular teeth projecting under a snub nose; she was wearing a maid's white apron, a long scarlet kerchief draped across her breast, a Prussian soldier's half-boots, a black bonnet trimmed with ruches and a cabbage-bow.\n\nShe looked rather like a booth-keeper at a fair, or a member of some travelling circus.\n\nHe asked himself who this woman was whom he felt to have been deeply and intimately associated with his life for a long time, and he tried to remember her origins, her name, her occupation, her significance \u2013 but all in vain, for no recollection came to him of this inexplicable yet undeniable liaison.\n\nHe was still searching his memory when suddenly a strange figure appeared before them on horseback, went ahead for a minute at a gentle trot, then turned round in the saddle.\n\nHis blood froze and he stood rooted to the spot in utter horror. The rider was an equivocal, sexless creature with a green skin and terrifying eyes of a cold, clear blue shining out from under purple lids; there were pustules all round its mouth; two amazingly thin arms, like the arms of a skeleton, bare to the elbows and shaking with fever, projected from its ragged sleeves, and its fleshless thighs twitched and shuddered in jack-boots that were far too wide for them.\n\nIts awful gaze was fixed on Des Esseintes, piercing him, freezing him to the marrow, while the bulldog woman, even more terrified than he was, clung to him and howled blue murder, her head thrown back and her neck rigid.\n\nAt once he understood the meaning of the dreadful vision. He had before his eyes the image of the Pox.\n\nUtterly panic-stricken, beside himself with fear, he dashed down a side path and ran for dear life until he got to a summerhouse standing on the left among some laburnums. Safely inside, he dropped into a chair in the passage.\n\nA few moments later, just as he was beginning to get his breath back, the sound of sobbing made him look up. The bulldog woman stood before him, a grotesque and pitiful sight. She was weeping bitterly, complaining that she had lost her teeth in her flight and, taking a number of clay pipes out of her apron pocket, she proceeded to smash them up and stuff bits of the white stems into the holes in her gums.\n\n'But she's mad!' Des Esseintes said to himself; 'those bits of stem will never hold' \u2013 and, true enough, they all came dropping out of her jaws, one after the other.\n\nAt that moment a galloping horse was heard approaching. Terror seized Des Esseintes and his legs went limp under him. But as the sound of hoofs came nearer, despair stung him to action like the crack of a whip; he flung himself upon the woman, who was now stamping on the pipe bowls, begging her to be quiet and not to betray them both by the noise of her boots. She struggled furiously, and he had to drag her to the end of the passage, throttling her to stop her crying out. Then, all of a sudden, he noticed a tap-room door with green-painted shutters and saw that it was unlatched; he pushed it open, dashed through \u2013 and stopped dead.\n\nIn front of him, in the middle of a vast clearing, enormous white pierrots were jumping about like rabbits in the moonlight.\n\nTears of disappointment welled up in his eyes; he would never, no, never be able to cross the threshold of that door.\n\n'I'd be trampled to death if I tried,' he told himself \u2013 and as if to confirm his fears, the number of giant pierrots kept increasing; their bounds now filled the whole horizon and the whole sky, so that they bumped alternately against heaven and earth with their heads and their heels.\n\nJust then the sound of the horse's hoofs stopped. It was there in the passage, behind a little round window; more dead than alive, Des Esseintes turned round and saw through the circular opening two pricked ears, a set of yellow teeth, a pair of nostrils breathing twin jets of vapour that stank of phenol.\n\nHe sank to the ground, giving up all thought of resistance or flight; and he shut his eyes so as not to meet the dreadful gaze of the Pox, glaring at him from behind the wall, though even so he felt it forcing its way under his closed eyelids, gliding down his clammy back and travelling over the whole of his body, the hairs of which stood on end in pools of cold sweat. He was prepared for almost anything to happen and even hoped for the _coup de gr\u00e2ce_ to make an end of it all. What seemed like a century, and was probably a minute, went by; then he opened his eyes again with a shudder of apprehension.\n\nEverything had vanished without warning; and like some transformation scene, some theatrical illusion, a hideous mineral landscape now lay before him, a wan, gullied landscape stretching away into the distance without a sign of life or movement. This desolate scene was bathed in light: a calm, white light, reminiscent of the glow of phosphorus dissolved in oil.\n\nSuddenly, down on the ground, something stirred \u2013 something which took the form of an ashen-faced woman, naked but for a pair of green silk stockings.\n\nHe gazed at her inquisitively. Like horsehair crimped by over-hot irons, her hair was frizzy, with broken ends; two Nepenthes pitchers hung from her ears; tints of boiled veal showed in her half-opened nostrils. Her eyes gleaming ecstatically, she called to him in a low voice.\n\nHe had no time to answer, for already the woman was changing; glowing colours lit up her eyes; her lips took on the fierce red of the Anthuriums; the nipples of her bosom shone as brightly as two red peppers.\n\nA sudden intuition came to him, and he told himself that this must be the Flower. His reasoning mania persisted even in this nightmare; and as in the daytime, it switched from vegetation to the Virus.\n\nHe now noticed the frightening irritation of the mouth and breasts, discovered on the skin of the body spots of bistre and copper and recoiled in horror; but the woman's eyes fascinated him, and he went slowly towards her, trying to dig his heels into the ground to hold himself back, and falling over deliberately, only to pick himself up again and go on. He was almost touching her when black Amorphophalli sprang up on every side and stabbed at her belly, which was rising and falling like a sea. He thrust them aside and pushed them back, utterly nauseated by the sight of these hot, firm stems twisting and turning between his fingers. Then, all of a sudden, the odious plants had disappeared and two arms were trying to enfold him. An agony of fear set his heart pounding madly, for the eyes, the woman's awful eyes, had turned a clear, cold blue, quite terrible to see. He made a superhuman effort to free himself from her embrace, but with an irresistible movement she clutched him and held him, and pale with horror, he saw the savage Nidularium blossoming between her uplifted thighs, with its swordblades gaping open to expose the bloody depths.\n\nHis body almost touching the hideous flesh-wound of this plant, he felt life ebbing away from him \u2013 and awoke with a start, choking, frozen, crazy with fear.\n\n'Thank God,' he sobbed, 'it was only a dream.'\n\n## CHAPTER 9\n\nThese nightmares recurred again and again, until he was afraid to go to sleep. He spent hours lying on his bed, sometimes the victim of persistent insomnia and feverish restlessness, at other times a prey to abominable dreams that were interrupted only when the dreamer was shocked into wakefulness by losing his footing, falling all the way downstairs or plunging helplessly into the depths of an abyss.\n\nHis neurosis, which had been lulled to sleep for a few days, gained the upper hand again, showing itself more violent and more stubborn than ever, and taking on new forms.\n\nNow it was the bedclothes that bothered him; he felt stifled under the sheets, his whole body tingled unpleasantly, his blood boiled and his legs itched. To these symptoms were soon added a dull aching of the jaws and a feeling as if his temples were being squeezed in a vice.\n\nHis anxiety and depression grew worse, and unfortunately the means of mastering this inexorable illness were lacking. He had tried to install a set of hydropathic appliances in his dressing-room, but without success: the impossibility of bringing water as high up the hill as his house, not to mention the difficulty of getting water in sufficient quantity in a village where the public fountains only produced a feeble trickle at fixed hours, thwarted this particular plan. Cheated of the jets of water which, shot at close range at the disks of his vertebral column, formed the only treatment capable of overcoming his insomnia and bringing back his peace of mind, he was reduced to brief aspersions in his bath or in his tub, mere cold affusions followed by an energetic rub-down that his valet gave him with a horsehair glove.\n\nBut these substitute douches were far from checking the progress of his neurosis; at the very most they gave him a few hours' relief, and dear-bought relief at that, considering that his nervous troubles soon returned to the attack with renewed vigour and violence.\n\nHis boredom grew to infinite proportions. The pleasure he had felt in the possession of astonishing flowers was exhausted; their shapes and colours had already lost the power to excite him. Besides, in spite of all the care he lavished on them, most of his plants died; he had them removed from his rooms, but his irritability had reached such a pitch that he was exasperated by their absence and his eye continually offended by the empty spaces they had left.\n\nTo amuse himself and while away the interminable hours, he turned to his portfolios of prints and began sorting out his Goyas. The first states of certain plates of the _Caprices_ , proof engravings recognizable by their reddish tone, which he had bought long ago in the sale-room at ransom prices, put him in a good humour again; and he forgot everything else as he followed the strange fancies of the artist, delighting in his breathtaking pictures of bandits and succubi, devils and dwarfs, witches riding on cats and women trying to pull out the dead man's teeth after a hanging.\n\nNext, he went through all the other series of Goya's etchings and aquatints, his macabre _Proverbs_ , his ferocious war-scenes, and finally his _Garrotting_ , a plate of which he possessed a magnificent trial proof printed on thick, unsized paper, with the wire-marks clearly visible.\n\nGoya's savage verve, his harsh, brutal genius, captivated Des Esseintes. On the other hand, the universal admiration his works had won rather put him off, and for years he had refrained from framing them, for fear that if he hung them up, the first idiot who saw them might feel obliged to dishonour them with a few inanities and go into stereotyped ecstasies over them.\n\nHe felt the same about his Rembrandts, which he examined now and then on the quiet; and it is of course true that, just as the loveliest melody in the world becomes unbearably vulgar once the public start humming it and the barrel-organs playing it, so the work of art that appeals to charlatans, endears itself to fools, and is not content to arouse the enthusiasm of a few connoisseurs, is thereby polluted in the eyes of the initiate and becomes commonplace, almost repulsive.\n\nThis sort of promiscuous admiration was in fact one of the most painful thorns in his flesh, for unaccountable vogues had utterly spoilt certain books and pictures for him that he had once held dear; confronted with the approbation of the mob, healways ended up by discovering some hitherto imperceptible blemish, and promptly rejected them, at the same time wondering whether his flair was not deserting him, his taste getting blunted.\n\nHe shut his portfolios and once more fell into a mood of splenetic indecision. To change the trend of his thoughts, he began a course of emollient reading; tried to cool his brain with some of the solanaceae of literature; read those books that are so charmingly adapted for convalescents and invalids, whom more tetanic or phosphatic works would only fatigue: the novels of Charles Dickens.\n\nBut the Englishman's works produced the opposite effect from what he had expected: his chaste lovers and his puritanical heroines in their all-concealing draperies, sharing ethereal passions and just fluttering their eyelashes, blushing coyly, weeping for joy and holding hands, drove him to distraction. This exaggerated virtue made him react in the contrary direction; by virtue of the law of contrasts, he jumped from one extreme to the other, recalled scenes of full-blooded, earthy passion, and thought of common amorous practices such as the hybrid kiss, or the columbine kiss as ecclesiastical modesty calls it, where the tongue is brought into play.\n\nHe put aside the book he was reading, put from him all thoughts of strait-laced Albion and let his mind dwell on the salacious seasoning, the prurient peccadilloes of which the Church disapproves. Suddenly he felt an emotional disturbance; his sexual insensibility of brain and body, which he had supposed to be complete and absolute, was shattered. Solitude was again affecting his tortured nerves, but this time it was not religion that obsessed him but the naughty sins religion condemns. The habitual subject of its threats and obsecrations was now the only thing that tempted him; the carnal side of his nature, which had lain dormant for months, had first been disturbed by his reading of pious works, then roused to wakefulness in an attack of nerves brought on by the English writer's cant and was now all attention. With his stimulated senses carrying him back down the years, he had soon begun wallowing in the memory of his old dissipations.\n\nHe got up, and with a certain sadness he opened a little silver-gilt box with a lid studded with aventurines.\n\nThis box was full of purple bonbons. He took one out and idly fingered it, thinking about the strange properties of these sweets with their frosty coating of sugar. In former days, when his impotency had been established beyond doubt and he could think of woman without bitterness, regret or desire, he would place one of these bonbons on his tongue and let it melt; then, all of a sudden, and with infinite tenderness, he would be visited by dim, faded recollections of old debauches.\n\nThese bonbons, invented by Siraudin and known by the ridiculous name of 'Pearls of the Pyrenees', consisted of a drop of schoenanthus scent or female essence crystallized in pieces of sugar; they stimulated the papillae of the mouth, evoking memories of water opalescent with rare vinegars and lingering kisses fragrant with perfume.\n\nOrdinarily he would smilingly drink in this amorous aroma, this shadow of former caresses which installed a little female nudity in a corner of his brain and revived for a second the savour of some woman, a savour he had once adored. But today the bonbons were no longer gentle in their effect and no longer confined themselves to evoking memories of distant, half-forgotten dissipations; on the contrary, they tore the veils down and thrust before his eyes the bodily reality in all its crudity and urgency.\n\nHeading the procession of mistresses that the taste of the bonbon helped to define in detail was a woman who paused in front of him, a woman with long white teeth, a sharp nose, mouse-coloured eyes and short-cropped yellow hair.\n\nThis was Miss Urania, an American girl with a supple figure, sinewy legs, muscles of steel, and arms of iron.\n\nShe had been one of the most famous acrobats at the Circus, where Des Esseintes had followed her performance night after night. The first few times, she had struck him as being just what she was, a strapping, handsome woman, but he had felt no desire to approach her; she had nothing to recommend her to the tastes of a jaded sophisticate, and yet he found himself returning to the Circus, drawn by some mysterious attraction, impelled by some indefinable urge.\n\nLittle by little, as he watched her, curious fancies took shape in his mind. The more he admired her suppleness and strength, the more he thought he saw an artificial change of sex operating in her; her mincing movements and feminine affectations became ever less obtrusive, and in their place there developed the agile, vigorous charms of a male. In short, after being a woman to begin with, then hesitating in a condition verging on the androgynous, she seemed to have made up her mind and become an integral, unmistakable man.\n\n'In that case,' Des Esseintes said to himself, 'just as a great strapping fellow often falls for a slip of a girl, this hefty young woman should be instinctively attracted to a feeble, broken-down, short-winded creature like myself.'\n\nBy dint of considering his own physique and arguing from analogy, he got to the point of imagining that he for his part was turning female; and at this point he was seized with a definite desire to possess the woman, yearning for her just as a chlorotic girl will hanker after a clumsy brute whose embrace could squeeze the life out of her.\n\nThis exchange of sex between Miss Urania and himself had excited him tremendously. The two of them, so he said, were made for each other; and added to this sudden admiration for brute strength, a thing he had hitherto detested, there was also that extravagant delight in self-abasement which a common prostitute shows in paying dearly for the loutish caresses of a pimp.\n\nMeanwhile, before deciding to seduce the acrobat and see if his dreams could be made reality, he sought confirmation of these dreams in the facial expressions she unconsciously assumed, reading his own desires into the fixed, unchanging smile she wore on her lips as she swung on the trapeze.\n\nAt last, one fine evening, he sent her a message by one of the circus attendants. Miss Urania deemed it necessary not to surrender without a little preliminary courting; however, she was careful not to appear over-shy, having heard that Des Esseintes was rich and that his name could help a woman in her career.\n\nBut when at last his wishes were granted, he suffered immediate and immeasurable disappointment. He had imagined the American girl would be as blunt-witted and brutish as a fairground wrestler, but he found to his dismay that her stupidity was of a purely feminine order. It is true that she lacked education and refinement, possessed neither wit nor common sense, and behaved with bestial greed at table, but at the same time she still displayed all the childish foibles of a woman; she loved tittle-tattle and gewgaws as much as any petty-minded trollop, and it was clear that no transmutation of masculine ideas into her feminine person had occurred.\n\nWhat is more, she was positively puritanical in bed and treated Des Esseintes to none of those rough, athletic caresses he at once desired and dreaded; she was not subject, as he had for a moment hoped she might be, to sexual fluctuations. Perhaps, if he had probed deep into her unfeeling nature, he might yet have discovered a penchant for some delicate, slightly built bedfellow with a temperament diametrically opposed to her own; but in that case it would have been a preference, not for a young girl, but for a merry little shrimp of a man, a spindle-shanked, funny-faced clown.\n\nThere was nothing Des Esseintes could do but resume the man's part he had momentarily forgotten; his feelings of femininity, of frailty, of dependence, of fear even, all disappeared. He could no longer shut his eyes to the truth, that Miss Urania was a mistress like any other, offering no justification for the cerebral curiosity she had aroused.\n\nAlthough, at first, her firm flesh and magnificent beauty had surprised Des Esseintes and held him spellbound, he was soon impatient to end their liaison and broke it off in a hurry, for his premature impotence was getting worse as a result of the woman's icy caresses and prudish passivity.\n\nNevertheless, of all the women in this unending procession of lascivious memories, she was the first to halt in front of him; but the fact was that if she had made a deeper impression on his memory than a host of others whose charms had been less fallacious and whose endearments had been less limited, that was because of the healthy, wholesome animal smell she exuded; her superabundant health was the very antipode of the anaemic, scented savour he could detect in the dainty Siraudin sweet.\n\nWith her antithetical fragrance, Miss Urania was bound to take first place in his recollections, but almost immediately Des Esseintes, shaken for a moment by the impact of a natural, unsophisticated aroma, returned to more civilized scents and inevitably started thinking about his other mistresses. These now came crowding in on his memory, but with one woman standing out above the rest: the woman whose monstrous speciality had given him months of wonderful satisfaction.\n\nShe was a skinny little thing, a dark-eyed brunette with greasy hair parted on one side near the temple like a boy's, and plastered down so firmly that it looked as if it had been painted on to her head. He had come across her at a caf\u00e9 where she entertained the customers with demonstrations of ventriloquism.\n\nTo the amazement of a packed audience that was half-frightened by what it heard, she took a set of cardboard puppets perched on chairs like a row of Pandean pipes and gave a voice to each in turn; she conversed with dummies that seemed almost alive, while in the auditorium itself flies could be heard buzzing around and the silent spectators noisily whispering among themselves; finally, she had a line of non-existent carriages rolling up the room from the door to the stage, and passing so close to the audience that they instinctively started back and were momentarily surprised to find themselves sitting indoors.\n\nDes Esseintes had been fascinated, and a whole crop of new ideas sprouted in his brain. First of all he lost no time in firing off a broadside of banknotes to subjugate the ventriloquist, who attracted him by the very fact of the contrast she presented to the American girl. The brunette reeked of skilfully contrived scents, heady and unhealthy perfumes, and she burned like the crater of a volcano. In spite of all his subterfuges, Des Esseintes had worn himself out in a few hours; yet he none the less allowed her to go on fleecing him, for it was not so much the woman as the artiste that appealed to him. Besides, the plans he had in view were ripe for execution, and he decided it was time to carry out a hitherto impracticable project.\n\nOne night he had a miniature sphinx brought in, carved in black marble and couched in the classic pose, its paws stretched out and its head held rigidly upright, together with a chimera in coloured terra-cotta, flaunting a bristling mane, darting ferocious glances from its eyes and lashing flanks as swollen as a blacksmith's bellows with its tail. He placed one of these mythical beasts at either end of the bedroom and put out the lamps, leaving only the red embers glowing in the hearth, to shed a dim light that would exaggerate the size of objects almost submerged in the semi-darkness. This done, he lay down on the bed beside the ventriloquist, whose set face was lit up by the glow of a half-burned log, and waited.\n\nWith strange intonations that he had made her rehearse beforehand for hours, she gave life and voice to the monsters, without so much as moving her lips, without even looking in their direction.\n\nThere and then, in the silence of the night, began the marvellous dialogue of the Chimera and the Sphinx, spoken in deep, guttural voices, now raucous, now piercingly clear, like voices from another world.\n\n'Here, Chimera, stop!'\n\n'No, that I will never do.'\n\nSpellbound by Flaubert's wonderful prose, he listened in breathless awe to the terrifying duet, shuddering from head to foot when the Chimera pronounced the solemn and magical sentence:\n\n'I seek new perfumes, larger blossoms, pleasures still untasted.'\n\nAh! it was to him that this voice, as mysterious as an incantation, was addressed; it was to him that it spoke of the feverish desire for the unknown, the unsatisfied longing for an ideal, the craving to escape from the horrible realities of life, to cross the frontiers of thought, to grope after a certainty, albeit without finding one, in the misty upper regions of art! The paltriness of his own efforts was borne in upon him and cut him to the heart. He clasped the woman beside him in a gentle embrace, clinging to her like a child wanting to be comforted, never even noticing the sullen expression of the actress forced to play a scene, to practise her profession, at home, in her leisure moments, far from the footlights.\n\nTheir liaison continued, but before long Des Esseintes's sexual fiascos became more frequent; the effervescence of his mind could no longer melt the ice in his body, his nerves would no longer heed the commands of his will, and he was obsessed by the lecherous vagaries common in old men. Feeling more and more doubtful of his sexual powers when he was with this mistress of his, he had recourse to the most effective adjuvant known to old and undependable voluptuaries \u2013 fear.\n\nAs he lay holding the woman in his arms, a husky, drunken voice would roar from behind the door:\n\n'Open up, damn you! I know you've got a cully in there with you! But just you wait a minute, you slut, and you'll get what's coming to you!'\n\nStraight away, like those lechers who are stimulated by the fear of being caught _flagrante delicto_ in the open air, on the river bank, in the Tuileries Gardens, in a public lavatory or on a park bench, he would temporarily recover his powers and hurl himself upon the ventriloquist, whose voice went blustering on outside the room. He derived extraordinary pleasure from this panic-stricken hurry of a man running a risk, interrupted and hustled in his fornication.\n\nUnfortunately these special performances soon came to an end; in spite of the fantastic fees he paid her, the ventriloquist sent him packing, and the very same night gave herself to a fellow with less complicated whims and more reliable loins.\n\nDes Esseintes had been sorry to lose her, and the memory of her artifices made other women seem insipid; even the corrupt graces of depraved children appeared tame in comparison, and he came to feel such contempt for their monotonous grimaces that he could not bring himself to tolerate them any longer.\n\nBrooding over these disappointments one day as he was walking by himself along the Avenue de Latour-Maubourg, he was accosted near the Invalides by a youth who asked him which was the quickest way to get to the Rue de Babylone. Des Esseintes showed him which road to take, and as he was crossing the esplanades too, they set off together.\n\nThe young fellow's voice, as with unreasonable persistence he asked for fuller instructions \u2013 'So you think if I went to the left it would take longer; but I was told that if I cut across the Avenue I'd get there sooner' \u2013 was both timid and appealing, very low and very gentle.\n\nDes Esseintes ran his eyes over him. He looked as though he had just left school, and was poorly clad in a little cheviot jacket too tight round the hips and barely reaching below the small of the back, a pair of close-fitting black breeches, a turn-down collar and a flowing cravat, dark-blue with thin white stripes, tied in a loose bow. In his hand he was carrying a stiff-backed school-book, and on his head was perched a brown, flat-brimmed bowler.\n\nThe face was somewhat disconcerting; pale and drawn, with fairly regular features topped by long black hair, it was lit up by two great liquid eyes, ringed with blue and set close to the nose, which was dotted with a few golden freckles; the mouth was small, but spoilt by fleshy lips with a line dividing them in the middle like a cherry.\n\nThey gazed at each other for a moment; then the young man dropped his eyes and came closer, brushing his companion's arm with his own. Des Esseintes slackened his pace, taking thoughtful note of the youth's mincing walk.\n\nFrom this chance encounter there had sprung a mistrustful friendship that somehow lasted several months. Des Esseintes could not think of it now without a shudder; never had he submitted to more delightful or more stringent exploitation, never had he run such risks, yet never had he known such satisfaction mingled with distress.\n\nAmong the memories that visited him in his solitude, the recollection of this mutual attachment dominated all the rest. All the leaven of insanity that a brain over-stimulated by neurosis can contain was fermenting within him; and in his pleasurable contemplation of these memories, in his morose delectation, as the theologians call this recurrence of past iniquities, he added to the physical visions spiritual lusts kindled by his former readings of what such casuists as Busenbaum and Diana, Liguori and Sanchez had to say about sins against the sixth and ninth commandments.\n\nWhile implanting an extra-human ideal in this soul of his, which it had thoroughly impregnated and which a hereditary tendency dating from the reign of Henri III had possibly preconditioned, the Christian religion had also instilled an unlawful ideal of voluptuous pleasure; licentious and mystical obsessions merged together to haunt his brain, which was affected with a stubborn longing to escape the vulgarities of life and, ignoring the dictates of consecrated custom, to plunge into new and original ecstasies, into paroxysms celestial or accursed, but equally exhausting in the waste of phosphorus they involved.\n\nAt present, when he came out of one of these reveries, he felt worn out, completely shattered, half dead; and he promptly lit all the candles and lamps, flooding the room with light, imagining that like this he would hear less distinctly than in the dark the dull, persistent, unbearable drum-beat of his arteries, pounding away under the skin of his neck.\n\n## CHAPTER 10\n\nIn the course of that peculiar malady which ravages effete, enfeebled races, the crises are succeeded by sudden intervals of calm. Though he could not understand why, Des Esseintes awoke one fine morning feeling quite fit and well; no hacking cough, no wedges being hammered into the back of his neck, but instead an ineffable sensation of well-being; his head had cleared and his thoughts too, which had been dull and opaque but were now turning bright and iridescent, like delicately coloured soap-bubbles.\n\nThis state of affairs lasted some days; then all of a sudden, one afternoon, hallucinations of the sense of smell began to affect him.\n\nNoticing a strong scent of frangipane in the room, he looked to see if a bottle of the perfume was lying about unstoppered, but there was nothing of the sort to be seen. He went into his study, then into the dining-room; the smell went with him.\n\nHe rang for his servant.\n\n'Can't you smell something?' he asked.\n\nThe man sniffed and said that he smelt nothing unusual. There was no doubt about it: his nervous trouble had returned in the form of a new sort of sensual illusion.\n\nIrritated by the persistence of this imaginary aroma, he decided to steep himself in some real perfumes, hoping that this nasal homoeopathy might cure him or at least reduce the strength of the importunate frangipane.\n\nHe went into his dressing-room. There, beside an ancient font that he used as a wash-basin, and under a long looking-glass in a wrought-iron frame that held the mirror imprisoned like still green water inside the moon-silvered curb-stone of a well, bottles of all shapes and sizes were ranged in rows on ivory shelves.\n\nHe placed them on a table and divided them into two categories: first, the simple perfumes, in other words the pure spirits and extracts; and secondly, the compound scents known by the generic name of _bouquets_.\n\nSinking into an armchair, he gave himself up to his thoughts.\n\nFor years now he had been an expert in the science of perfumes; he maintained that the sense of smell could procure pleasures equal to those obtained through sight or hearing, each of the senses being capable, by virtue of a natural aptitude supplemented by an erudite education, of perceiving new impressions, magnifying these tenfold and co-ordinating them to compose the whole that constitutes a work of art. After all, he argued, it was no more abnormal to have an art that consisted of picking out odorous fluids than it was to have other arts based on a selection of sound waves or the impact of variously coloured rays on the retina of the eye; only, just as no one, without a special intuitive faculty developed by study, could distinguish a painting by a great master from a paltry daub, or a Beethoven theme from a tune by Clapisson, so no one, without a preliminary initiation, could help confusing at first a _bouquet_ created by a true artist with a potpourri concocted by a manufacturer for sale in grocers' shops and cheap bazaars.\n\nOne aspect of this art of perfumery had fascinated him more than any other, and that was the degree of accuracy it was possible to reach in imitating the real thing.\n\nHardly ever, in fact, are perfumes produced from the flowers whose names they bear; and any artist foolish enough to take his raw materials from Nature alone would get only a hybrid result, lacking both conviction and distinction, for the very good reason that the essence obtained by distillation from the flower itself cannot possibly offer more than a very distant, very vulgar analogy with the real aroma of the living flower, rooted in the ground and spreading its effluvia through the open air.\n\nConsequently, with the solitary exception of the inimitable jasmine, which admits of no counterfeit, no likeness, no approximation even, all the flowers in existence are represented to perfection by combinations of alcoholates and essences, extracting from the model its distinctive personality and adding that little something, that extra tang, that heady savour, that rare touch which makes a work of art.\n\nIn short, the artist in perfumery completes the original natural odour, which, so to speak, he cuts and mounts as a jeweller improves and brings out the water of a precious stone.\n\nLittle by little the arcana of this art, the most neglected of them all, had been revealed to Des Esseintes, who could now decipher its complex language that was as subtle as any human tongue, yet wonderfully concise under its apparent vagueness and ambiguity.\n\nTo do this he had first had to master the grammar, to understand the syntax of smells, to get a firm grasp on the rules that govern them, and, once he was familiar with this dialect, to compare the works of the great masters, the Atkinsons and Lubins, the Chardins and Violets, the Legrands and Piesses, to analyse the construction of their sentences, to weigh the proportion of their words, to measure the arrangement of their periods.\n\nThe next stage in his study of this idiom of essences had been to let experience come to the aid of theories that were too often incomplete and commonplace.\n\nClassical perfumery was indeed little diversified, practically colourless, invariably cast in a mould fashioned by chemists of olden times; it was still drivelling away, still clinging to its old alembics, when the Romantic epoch dawned and, no less than the other arts, modified it, rejuvenated it, made it more malleable and more supple.\n\nIts history followed that of the French language step by step. The Louis XIII style in perfumery, composed of the elements dear to that period \u2013 orris-powder, musk, civet and myrtle-water, already known by the name of angel-water \u2013 was scarcely adequate to express the cavalierish graces, the rather crude colours of the time which certain sonnets by Saint-Amand have preserved for us. Later on, with the aid of myrrh and frankincense, the potent and austere scents of religion, it became almost possible to render the stately pomp of the age of Louis XIV, the pleonastic artifices of classical oratory, the ample, sustained, wordy style of Bossuet and the other masters of the pulpit. Later still, the blas\u00e9, sophisticated graces of French society under Louis XV found their interpreters more easily in frangipane and _mar\u00e9chale_ , which offered in a way the very synthesis of the period. And then, after the indifference and incuriosity of the First Empire, which used eau-de-Cologne and rosemary to excess, perfumery followed Victor Hugo and Gautier and went for inspiration to the lands of the sun; it composed its own Oriental verses, its own highly spiced salaams, discovered new intonations and audacious antitheses, sorted out and revived forgotten nuances which it complicated, subtilized and paired off, and in short resolutely repudiated the voluntary decrepitude to which it had been reduced by its Malesherbes, its Boileaus, its Andrieux, its Baour-Lormians, the vulgar distillers of its poems.\n\nBut the language of scents had not remained stationary since the 1830 epoch. It had continued to develop, had followed the march of the century, had advanced side-by-side with the other arts. Like them, it had adapted itself to the whims of artists and connoisseurs, joining in the cult of things Chinese and Japanese, inventing scented albums, imitating the flower-posies of Takeoka, mingling lavender and clove to produce the perfume of the Rondeletia, marrying patchouli and camphor to obtain the singular aroma of China ink, combining citron, clove and neroli to arrive at the odour of the Japanese Hovenia.\n\nDes Esseintes studied and analysed the spirit of these compounds and worked on an interpretation of these texts; for his own personal pleasure and satisfaction he took to playing the psychologist, to dismantling the mechanism of a work and reassembling it, to unscrewing the separate pieces forming the structure of a composite odour, and as a result of these operations his sense of smell had acquired an almost infallible flair.\n\nJust as a wine-merchant can recognize a vintage from the taste of a single drop; just as a hop-dealer, the moment he sniffs at a sack, can fix the precise value of the contents; just as a Chinese trader can tell at once the place of origin of the teas he has to examine, can say on what estate in the Bohea hills or in what Buddhist monastery each sample was grown and when the leaves were picked, can state precisely the degree of torrefaction involved and the effect produced on the tea by contact with plum blossom, with the Aglaia, with the Olea fragrans, indeed with any of the perfumes used to modify its flavour, to give it an unexpected piquancy, to improve its somewhat dry smell with a whiff of fresh and foreign flowers; so Des Esseintes, after one brief sniff at a scent, could promptly detail the amounts of its constituents, explain the psychology of its composition, perhaps even give the name of the artist who created it and marked it with the personal stamp of his style.\n\nIt goes without saying that he possessed a collection of all the products used by perfumers; he even had some of the genuine Balsam of Mecca, a balm so rare that it can be obtained only in certain regions of Arabia Petraea and remains a monopoly of the Grand Turk.\n\nSitting now at his dressing-room table, he was toying with the idea of creating a new _bouquet_ when he was afflicted with that sudden hesitation so familiar to writers who, after months of idleness, make ready to embark on a new work.\n\nLike Balzac, who was haunted by an absolute compulsion to blacken reams of paper in order to get his hand in, Des Esseintes felt that he ought to get back into practice with a few elementary exercises. He thought of making some heliotrope and picked up two bottles of almond and vanilla; then he changed his mind and decided to try sweet pea instead.\n\nThe relevant formula and working method escaped his memory, so that he had to proceed by trial and error. He knew, of course, that in the fragrance of this particular flower, orange-blossom was the dominant element; and after trying various combinations he finally hit on the right tone by mixing the orange-blossom with tuberose and rose, binding the three together with a drop of vanilla.\n\nAll his uncertainty vanished; a little fever of excitement took hold of him and he felt ready to set to work again. First he made some tea with a compound of cassia and iris; then, completely sure of himself, he resolved to go ahead, to strike a reverberating chord whose majestic thunder would drown the whisper of that artful frangipane which was still stealing stealthily into the room.\n\nHe handled, one after the other, amber, Tonquin musk, with its overpowering smell, and patchouli, the most pungent of all vegetable perfumes, whose flower, in its natural state, gives off an odour of mildew and mould. Do what he would, however, visions of the eighteenth century haunted him: gowns with panniers and flounces danced before his eyes; Boucher Venuses, all flesh and no bone, stuffed with pink cotton-wool, looked down at him from every wall; memories of the novel _Th\u00e9midore_ , and especially of the exquisite Rosette with her skirts hoisted up in blushing despair, pursued him. He sprang to his feet in a fury, and to rid himself of these obsessions he filled his lungs with that unadulterated essence of spikenard which is so dear to Orientals and so abhorrent to Europeans on account of its excessive valerian content. He was stunned by the violence of the shock this gave him. The filigree of the delicate scent which had been troubling him vanished as if it had been pounded with a hammer; and he took advantage of this respite to escape from past epochs and antiquated odours in order to engage, as he had been used to do in other days, in less restricted and more up-to-date operations.\n\nAt one time he had enjoyed soothing his spirit with scented harmonies. He would use effects similar to those employed by the poets, following as closely as possible the admirable arrangement of certain poems by Baudelaire such as _L'Irr\u00e9parable_ and _Le Balcon_ , in which the last of the five lines in each verse echoes the first, returning like a refrain to drown the soul in infinite depths of melancholy and languor. He used to roam haphazardly through the dreams conjured up for him by these aromatic stanzas, until he was suddenly brought back to his starting point, to the motif of his meditation, by the recurrence of the initial theme, reappearing at fixed intervals in the fragrant orchestration of the poem.\n\nAt present his ambition was to wander at will across a landscape full of changes and surprises, and he began with a simple phrase that was ample and sonorous, suddenly opening up an immense vista of countryside.\n\nWith his vaporizers he injected into the room an essence composed of ambrosia, Mitcham lavender, sweet pea and other flowers \u2013 an extract which, when it is distilled by a true artist, well merits the name it has been given of 'extract of meadow blossoms'. Then into this meadow he introduced a carefully measured amalgam of tuberose, orange and almond blossom; and immediately artificial lilacs came into being, while linden-trees swayed in the wind, shedding on the ground about them their pale emanations, counterfeited by the London extract of tilia.\n\nOnce he had roughed out this background in its main outlines, so that it stretched away into the distance behind his closed eyelids, he sprayed the room with a light rain of essences that were half-human, half-feline, smacking of the petticoat, indicating the presence of woman in her paint and powder \u2013 stephanotis, ayapana, opopanax, chypre, champaka and schoenanthus \u2013 on which he superimposed a dash of syringa, to give the factitious, cosmetic, indoor life they evoked the natural appearance of laughing, sweating, rollicking pleasures out in the sun.\n\nNext he let these fragrant odours escape through a ventilator, keeping only the country scent, which he renewed, increasing the dose so as to force it to return like a ritornel at the end of each stanza.\n\nThe women he had conjured up had gradually disappeared, and the countryside was once more uninhabited. Then, as if by magic, the horizon was filled with factories, whose fearsome chimneys belched fire and flame like so many bowls of punch.\n\nA breath of industry, a whiff of chemical products now floated on the breeze he raised by fanning the air, though Nature still poured her sweet effluvia into this foul-smelling atmosphere.\n\nDes Esseintes was rubbing a pellet of styrax between his fingers, warming it so that it filled the room with a most peculiar smell, an odour at once repugnant and delightful, blending the delicious scent of the jonquil with the filthy stench of guttapercha and coal tar. He disinfected his hands, shut away his resin in a hermetically sealed box, and the factories disappeared in their turn.\n\nNow, in the midst of the revivified effluvia of linden-trees and meadow flowers, he sprinkled a few drops of the perfume 'New-mown Hay', and on the magic spot momentarily stripped of its lilacs there rose piles of hay, bringing a new season with them, spreading summer about them in these delicate emanations.\n\nFinally, when he had sufficiently savoured this spectacle, he frantically scattered exotic perfumes around him, emptied his vaporizers, quickened all his concentrated essences and gave free rein to all his balms, with the result that the suffocating room was suddenly filled with an insanely sublimated vegetation, emitting powerful exhalations, impregnating an artificial breeze with raging alcoholates \u2013 an unnatural yet charming vegetation, paradoxically uniting tropical spices such as the pungent odours of Chinese sandalwood and Jamaican hediosmia with French scents such as jasmine, hawthorn and vervain; defying climate and season to put forth trees of different smells and flowers of the most divergent colours and fragrances; creating out of the union or collision of all these tones one common perfume, unnamed, unexpected, unusual, in which there reappeared, like a persistent refrain, the decorative phrase he had started with, the smell of the great meadow and the swaying lilacs and linden-trees.\n\nAll of a sudden he felt a sharp stab of pain, as if a drill were boring into his temples. He opened his eyes, to find himself back in the middle of his dressing-room, sitting at his table; he got up and, still in a daze, stumbled across to the window, which he pushed ajar. A gust of air blew in and freshened up the stifling atmosphere that enveloped him. He walked up and down to steady his legs, and as he went to and fro he looked up at the ceiling, on which crabs and salt-encrusted seaweed stood out in relief against a grained background as yellow as the sand on a beach. A similar design adorned the plinths bordering the wall panels, which in their turn were covered with Japanese crape, a watery green in colour and slightly crumpled to imitate the surface of a river rippling in the wind, while down the gentle current floated a rose petal round which there twisted and turned a swarm of little fishes sketched in with a couple of strokes of the pen.\n\nBut his eyes were still heavy, and so he stopped pacing the short distance between font and bath and leaned his elbows on the window-sill. Soon his head cleared, and after carefully putting the stoppers back in all his scent-bottles, he took the opportunity to tidy up his cosmetic preparations. He had not touched these things since his arrival at Fontenay, and he was almost surprised to see once again this collection to which so many women had had recourse. Phials and jars were piled on top of each other in utter confusion. Here was a box of green porcelain containing schnouda, that marvellous white cream which, once it is spread on the cheeks, changes under the influence of the air to a delicate pink, then to a flesh colour so natural that it produces an entirely convincing illusion of a flushed complexion; there, lacquered jars inlaid with mother-of-pearl held Japanese gold and Athens green the colour of a blisterfly's wing, golds and greens that turn dark crimson as soon as they are moistened. And beside pots of filbert paste, of harem serkis, of Kashmir-lily emulsions, of strawberry and elderberry lotions for the skin, next to little bottles full of China-ink and rose-water solutions for the eyes, lay an assortment of instruments fashioned out of ivory and mother-of-pearl, silver and steel, mixed up with lucern brushes for the gums \u2013 pincers, scissors, strigils, stumps, hair-pads, powder-puffs, back-scratchers, beauty-spots and files.\n\nHe poked around among all this apparatus, bought long ago to please a mistress of his who used to go into raptures over certain aromatics and certain balms \u2013 an unbalanced, neurotic woman who loved to have her nipples macerated in scent, but who only really experienced complete and utter ecstasy when her scalp was scraped with a comb or when a lover's caresses were mingled with the smell of soot, of wet plaster from houses being built in rainy weather, or of dust thrown up by heavy rain-drops in a summer thunderstorm.\n\nAs he mused over these recollections, one memory in particular haunted him, stirring up a forgotten world of old thoughts and ancient perfumes \u2013 the memory of an afternoon he had spent with this woman at Pantin, partly for want of anything better to do and partly out of curiosity, at the house of one of her sisters. While the two women were chattering away and showing each other their frocks, he had gone to the window and, through the dusty panes, had seen the muddy street stretching into the distance and heard it echo with the incessant beat of galoshes tramping through the puddles.\n\nThis scene, though it belonged to a remote past, suddenly presented itself to him in astonishing detail. Pantin was there before him, bustling and alive in the dead green water of the moon-rimmed mirror into which his unthinking gaze was directed. An hallucination carried him away far from Fontenay; the looking-glass conjured up for him not only the Pantin street but also the thoughts that street had once evoked; and lost in a dream, he said over to himself the ingenious, melancholy, yet consoling anthem he had composed that day on getting back to Paris:\n\n'Yes, the season of the great rains is upon us; hearken to the song of the gutter-pipes retching under the pavements; behold the horse-dung floating in the bowls of coffee hollowed out of the macadam; everywhere the foot-baths of the poor are overflowing.\n\n'Under the lowering sky, in the humid atmosphere, the houses ooze black sweat and their ventilators breathe foul odours; the horror of life becomes more apparent and the grip of spleen more oppressive; the seeds of iniquity that lie in every man's heart begin to germinate; a craving for filthy pleasures takes hold of the puritanical, and the minds of respected citizens are visited by criminal desires.\n\n'And yet here I am, warming myself in front of a blazing fire, while a basket of full-blown flowers on the table fills the room with the scent of benzoin, geranium and vetiver. In mid-November it is still springtime at Pantin in the Rue de Paris, and I can enjoy a quiet laugh at the expense of those timorous families who, in order to avoid the approach of winter, scuttle away at full speed to Antibes or to Cannes.\n\n'Inclement Nature has nothing to do with this extraordinary phenomenon; let it be said at once that it is to industry, and industry alone, that Pantin owes this factitious spring.\n\n'The truth is that these flowers are made of taffeta and mounted on binding wire, while this vernal fragrance has come filtering in through cracks in the window-frame from the neighbouring factories where the Pinaud and St James perfumes are made.\n\n'For the artisan worn out by the hard labour of the workshops, for the little clerk blessed with too many offspring, the illusion of enjoying a little fresh air is a practical possibility \u2013 thanks to these manufacturers.\n\n'Indeed, out of this fabulous counterfeit of the countryside a sensible form of medical treatment could be developed. At present, gay dogs suffering from consumption who are carted away to the south generally die down there, finished off by the change in their habits, by their nostalgic longing for the Parisian pleasures that have laid them low. Here, in an artificial climate maintained by open stoves, their lecherous memories would come back to them in a mild and harmless form, as they breathed in the languid feminine emanations given off by the scent factories. By means of this innocent deception, the physician could supply his patient platonically with the atmosphere of the boudoirs and brothels of Paris, in place of the deadly boredom of provincial life. More often than not, all that would be needed to complete the cure would be for the sick man to show a little imagination.\n\n'Seeing that nowadays there is nothing wholesome left in this world of ours; seeing that the wine we drink and the freedom we enjoy are equally adulterate and derisory; and finally, seeing that it takes a considerable degree of goodwill to believe that the governing classes are worthy of respect and that the lower classes are worthy of help or pity, it seems to me,' concluded Des Esseintes, 'no more absurd or insane to ask of my fellow men a sum total of illusion barely equivalent to that which they expend every day on idiotic objects, to persuade themselves that the town of Pantin is an artificial Nice, a factitious Menton.'\n\n'All that,' he muttered, interrupted in his reflections by a sudden feeling of faintness, 'doesn't alter the fact that I shall have to beware of these delicious, atrocious experiments, which are just wearing me out.'\n\nHe heaved a sigh.\n\n'Ah, well, that means more pleasures to cut down on, more precautions to take!' \u2013 and he shut himself up in his study, hoping that there he would find it easier to escape from the obsessive influence of all these perfumes.\n\nHe threw the window wide open, delighted to take a bath of fresh air; but suddenly it struck him that the breeze was bringing with it a whiff of bergamot oil, mingled with a smell of jasmine, cassia and rose-water. He gave a gasp of horror, and began to wonder whether he might not be in the grip of one of those evil spirits they used to exorcize in the Middle Ages. Meanwhile the odour, though just as persistent, underwent a change. A vague scent of tincture of Tolu, Peruvian balsam and saffron, blended with a few drops of musk and amber, now floated up from the sleeping village at the foot of the hill; then all at once the metamorphosis took place, these scattered whiffs of perfume came together, and the familiar scent of frangipane, the elements of which his sense of smell had detected and recognized, spread from the valley of Fontenay all the way to the Fort, assailing his jaded nostrils, shaking anew his shattered nerves and throwing him into such a state of prostration that he fell fainting, almost dying, across the window-sill.\n\n## CHAPTER 11\n\nThe frightened servants immediately sent for the Fontenay doctor, who was completely baffled by Des Esseintes's condition. He muttered a few medical terms, felt the patient's pulse, examined his tongue, tried in vain to get him to talk, ordered sedatives and rest and promised to come back the next day. But at this Des Esseintes summoned up enough strength to reprove his servants for their excessive zeal and to dismiss the intruder, who went off to tell the whole village about the house, the eccentric furnishings of which had left him dumbfounded and flabbergasted.\n\nTo the amazement of the two domestics, who now no longer dared to budge from the pantry, their master recovered in a day or two; and they came upon him drumming on the windowpanes and casting anxious glances at the sky. And then, one afternoon, he rang for them and gave orders that his bags were to be packed for a long journey.\n\nWhile the old man and his wife hunted out the things he said he would need, he paced feverishly up and down the cabin-style dining-room, consulted the timetables of the Channel steamers and scrutinized the clouds from his study window with an impatient yet satisfied air.\n\nFor the past week, the weather had been atrocious. Sooty rivers flowing across the grey plains of the sky carried along an endless succession of clouds, like so many boulders torn out of the earth. Every now and then there would be a sudden downpour, and the valley would disappear under torrents of rain.\n\nBut that particular day, the sky had changed in appearance: the floods of ink had dried up, the clouds had lost their rugged outlines and the heavens were now covered with a flat, opaque film. This film seemed to be falling ever lower, and at the same time the countryside was enveloped in a watery mist; the rain no longer cascaded down as it had done the day before, but fell in a fine, cold, unrelenting spray, swamping the lanes, submerging the roads, joining heaven and earth with its countless threads. Daylight in the village dimmed to a ghastly twilight, while the village itself looked like a lake of mud, speckled by the quicksilver needles of rain pricking the surface of the slimy puddles. From this desolate scene all colour had faded away, leaving only the roofs to glisten brightly above the supporting walls.\n\n'What terrible weather!' sighed the old man-servant, as he laid on a chair the clothes his master had asked for, a suit ordered some time before from London.\n\nDes Esseintes made no reply except to rub his hands and sit down before a glass-fronted bookcase in which a collection of silk socks was displayed in the form of a fan. For a few moments he hesitated between the various shades; then, taking into account the cheerless day, his cheerless clothes and his cheerless destination, he picked out a pair in a drab silk and quickly pulled them on. They were followed by the suit, a mottled check in mouse grey and lava grey, a pair of laced ankle-boots, a little bowler hat and a flax-blue Inverness cape. In this attire, and accompanied by his man-servant, who was bent under the burden of a trunk, an expanding valise, a carpet-bag, a hat-box, and a bundle of sticks and umbrellas rolled up in a travelling-rug, he made his way to the station. There, he told his man that he could not say definitely when he would be back \u2013 in a year perhaps, or a month, or a week, or even sooner; gave instructions that during his absence nothing in the house should be moved or changed; handed over enough money to cover household expenses; and got into the train, leaving the bewildered old man standing awkward and agape behind the barrier.\n\nHe was alone in his compartment. Through the rain-swept windows the countryside flashing past looked blurred and dingy, as if he were seeing it through an aquarium full of murky water. Closing his eyes, Des Esseintes gave himself up to his thoughts.\n\nOnce again, he told himself, the solitude he had longed for so ardently and finally obtained had resulted in appalling unhappiness, while the silence which he had once regarded as well-merited compensation for the nonsense he had listened to for years now weighed unbearably upon him. One morning, he had woken up feeling as desperate as a man who finds himself locked in a prison cell; his lips trembled when he tried to speak, his eyes filled with tears and he choked and spluttered like someone who has been weeping for hours. Possessed by a sudden desire to move about, to look upon a human face, to talk to some other living creature, and to share a little in the life of ordinary folk, he actually summoned his servants on some pretext or other and asked them to stay with him. But conversation was impossible, for apart from the fact that years of silence and sick-room routine had practically deprived the two old people of the power of speech, their master's habit of keeping them at a distance was scarcely calculated to loosen their tongues. In any event, they were a dull-witted pair, and quite incapable of answering a question in anything but monosyllables.\n\nScarcely had Des Esseintes realized that they could offer him no solace or relief than he was disturbed by a new phenomenon. The works of Dickens, which he had recently read in the hope of soothing his nerves, but which had produced the opposite effect, slowly began to act upon him in an unexpected way, evoking visions of English life which he contemplated for hours on end. Then, little by little, an idea insinuated itself into his mind \u2013 the idea of turning dream into reality, of travelling to England in the flesh as well as in the spirit, of checking the accuracy of his visions; and this idea was allied with a longing to experience new sensations and thus afford some relief to a mind dizzy with hunger and drunk with fantasy.\n\nThe abominably foggy and rainy weather fostered these thoughts by reinforcing the memories of what he had read, by keeping before his eyes the picture of a land of mist and mud, and by preventing any deviation from the direction his desires had taken.\n\nFinally he could stand it no longer, and he had suddenly decided to go. Indeed, he was in such a hurry to be off that he fled from home with hours to spare, eager to escape into the future and to plunge into the hurly-burly of the streets, the hubbub of crowded stations.\n\n'Now at last I can breathe,' he said to himself, as the train waltzed to a stop under the dome of the Paris terminus, dancing its final pirouettes to the staccato accompaniment of the turn-tables.\n\nOnce out in the street, on the Boulevard d'Enfer, he hailed a cab, rather enjoying the sensation of being cluttered up with trunks and travelling-rugs. The cabby, resplendent in nut-brown trousers and scarlet waistcoat, was promised a generous tip, and this helped the two men to reach a speedy understanding.\n\n'You'll be paid by the hour,' said Des Esseintes; and then, remembering that he wanted to buy a copy of Baedeker's or Murray's Guide to London, he added: 'When you get to the Rue de Rivoli, stop outside _Galignani's Messenger_.'\n\nThe cab lumbered off, its wheels throwing up showers of slush. The roadway was nothing but a swamp; the clouds hung so low that the sky seemed to be resting on the rooftops; the walls were streaming with water from top to bottom; the gutters were full to overflowing; and the pavements were coated with a slippery layer of mud the colour of gingerbread. As the omnibuses swept by, groups of people on the pavement stood still, and women holding their umbrellas low and their skirts high flattened themselves against the shopwindows to avoid being splashed.\n\nThe rain was slanting in at the windows, so that Des Esseintes had to pull up the glass; this was quickly streaked with trickles of water, while clots of mud spurted up from all sides of the cab like sparks from a firework. Lulled by the monotonous sound of the rain beating down on his trunks and on the carriage roof, like sacks of peas being emptied out over his head, Des Esseintes began dreaming of his coming journey. The appalling weather struck him as an instalment of English life paid to him on account in Paris; and his mind conjured up a picture of London as an immense, sprawling, rain-drenched metropolis, stinking of soot and hot iron, and wrapped in a perpetual mantle of smoke and fog. He could see in imagination a line of dockyards stretching away into the distance, full of cranes, capstans and bales of merchandise, and swarming with men \u2013 some perched on the masts and sitting astride the yards, while hundreds of others, their heads down and bottoms up, were trundling casks along the quays and into the cellars.\n\nAll this activity was going on in warehouses and on wharves washed by the dark, slimy waters of an imaginary Thames, in the midst of a forest of masts, a tangle of beams and girders piercing the pale, lowering clouds. Up above, trains raced by at full speed; and down in the underground sewers, others rumbled along, occasionally emitting ghastly screams or vomiting floods of smoke through the gaping mouths of air-shafts. And meanwhile, along every street, big or small, in an eternal twilight relieved only by the glaring infamies of modern advertising, there flowed an endless stream of traffic between two columns of earnest, silent Londoners, marching along with eyes fixed ahead and elbows glued to their sides.\n\nDes Esseintes shuddered with delight at feeling himself lost in this terrifying world of commerce, immersed in this isolating fog, involved in this incessant activity, and caught up in this ruthless machine which ground to powder millions of poor wretches \u2013 outcasts of fortune whom philanthropists urged, by way of consolation, to sing psalms and recite verses of the Bible.\n\nBut then the vision vanished as the cab suddenly jolted him up and down on the seat. He looked out of the windows and saw that night had fallen; the gas lamps were flickering in the fog, each surrounded by its dirty yellow halo, while strings of lights seemed to be swimming in the puddles and circling the wheels of the carriages that jogged along through a sea of filthy liquid fire. Des Esseintes tried to see where he was and caught sight of the Arc du Carrousel; and at that very moment, for no reason except perhaps as a reaction from his recent imaginative flights, his mind fixed on the memory of an utterly trivial incident. He suddenly remembered that, when the servant had packed his bags under his supervision, the man had forgotten to put a toothbrush with his other toilet necessaries. He mentally reviewed the list of belongings which had been packed and found that everything else had been duly fitted into his portman\u00adteau; but his annoyance at having left his toothbrush behind persisted until the cabby drew up and so broke the chain of his reminiscences and regrets.\n\nHe was now in the Rue de Rivoli, outside _Galignani's Messenger_. There, on either side of a frosted-glass door whose panels were covered with lettering and with newspaper-cuttings and blue telegram-forms framed in passe-partout, were two huge windows crammed with books and picture-albums. He went up to them, attracted by the sight of books bound in paper boards coloured butcher's-blue or cabbage-green and decorated along the seams with gold and silver flowers, as well as others covered in cloth dyed nut-brown, leek-green, lemon-yellow or currant-red, and stamped with black lines on the back and sides. All this had an un-Parisian air about it, a mercantile flavour, coarser yet less contemptible than the impression produced by cheap French bindings. Here and there, among open albums showing comic scenes by Du Maurier or John Leech and chromos of wild cross-country gallops by Caldecott, a few French novels were in fact to be seen, tempering this riot of brilliant colours with the safe, stolid vulgarity of their covers.\n\nEventually, tearing himself away from this display, Des Esseintes pushed open the door and found himself in a vast bookshop crowded with people, where women sat unfolding maps and jabbering to each other in strange tongues. An assistant brought him an entire collection of guidebooks, and he in turn sat down to examine these volumes, whose flexible covers bent between his fingers. Glancing through them, he was suddenly struck by a page of Baedeker describing the London art-galleries. The precise, laconic details given by the guide aroused his interest, but before long his attention wandered from the older English paintings to the modern works, which appealed to him more strongly. He remembered certain examples he had seen at international exhibitions and thought that he might well come across them in London \u2013 pictures by Millais such as _The Eve of St Agnes_ , with its moonlight effect of silvery-green tones; and weirdly coloured pictures by Watts, speckled with gamboge and indigo, and looking as if they had been sketched by an ailing Gustave Moreau, painted in by an anaemic Michael Angelo and retouched by a romantic Raphael. Among other canvases he remembered a _Curse of Cain_ , an _Ida_ and more than one _Eve_ , in which the strange and mysterious amalgam of these three masters was informed by the personality, at once coarse and refined, of a dreamy, scholarly Englishman afflicted with a predilection for hideous hues.\n\nAll these paintings were crowding into his memory when the shop-assistant, surprised to see a customer sitting daydreaming at a table, asked him which of the guidebooks he had chosen. For a moment Des Esseintes could not remember where he was, but then, with a word of apology for his absentmindedness, he bought a Baedeker and left the shop.\n\nOutside, he found it bitterly cold and wet, for the wind was blowing across the street and lashing the arcades with rain.\n\n'Drive over there,' he told the cabby, pointing to a shop at the very end of the gallery, on the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue Castiglione, which with its brightly lit windows looked like a gigantic night-light burning cheerfully in the pestilential fog.\n\nThis was the Bodega. The sight which greeted Des Esseintes as he went in was of a long, narrow hall, its roof supported by cast-iron pillars and its walls lined with great casks standing upright on barrel-horses. Hooped with iron, girdled with a sort of pipe-rack in which tulip-shaped glasses hung upside-down and fitted at the bottom with an earthenware spigot, these barrels bore, besides a royal coat of arms, a coloured card giving details of the vintage they contained, the amount of wine they held and the price of that wine by the hogshead, by the bottle and by the glass.\n\nIn the passage which was left free between these rows of barrels, under the hissing gas-jets of an atrocious iron-grey chandelier, there stood a line of tables loaded with baskets of Palmer's biscuits and stale, salty cakes, and plates heaped with mince-pies and sandwiches whose tasteless exteriors concealed burning mustard-plasters. These tables, with chairs arranged on both sides, stretched to the far end of this cellar-like room, where still more hogsheads could be seen stacked against the walls, with smaller branded casks lying on top of them.\n\nThe smell of alcohol assailed Des Esseintes' nostrils as he took a seat in this dormitory for strong wines. Looking around him, he saw on one side a row of great casks with labels listing the entire range of ports, light or heavy in body, mahogany or amaranthine in colour, and distinguished by laudatory titles such as 'Old Port', 'Light Delicate', 'Cockburn's Very Fine' and 'Magnificent Old Regina'; and on the other side, standing shoulder to shoulder and rounding their formidable bellies, enormous barrels containing the martial wine of Spain in all its various forms, topaz-coloured sherries light and dark, sweet and dry \u2013 San Lucar, Vino de Pasto, Pale Dry, Oloroso and Amontillado.\n\nThe cellar was packed to the doors. Leaning his elbow on the corner of a table, Des Esseintes sat waiting for the glass of port he had ordered of a barman busy opening explosive, eggshaped soda-bottles that looked like giant-sized capsules of gelatine or gluten such as chemists use to mask the taste of their more obnoxious medicines.\n\nAll around him were swarms of English people. There were pale, gangling clergymen with clean-shaven chins, round spectacles and greasy hair, dressed in black from head to foot \u2013 soft hats at one extremity, laced shoes at the other and in between, incredibly long coats with little buttons running down the front. There were laymen with bloated pork-butcher faces or bulldog muzzles, apoplectic necks, ears like tomatoes, winy cheeks, stupid bloodshot eyes and whiskery collars as worn by some of the great apes. Further away, at the far end of the wine-shop, a tow-haired stick of a man with a chin sprouting white hairs like an artichoke, was using a microscope to decipher the minute print of an English newspaper. And facing him was a sort of American naval officer, stout and stocky, swarthy and bottle-nosed, a cigar stuck in the hairy orifice of his mouth, and his eyes sleepily contemplating the framed champagne advertisements on the walls \u2013 the trademarks of Perrier and Roederer, Heidsieck and Mumm, and the hooded head of a monk identified in Gothic lettering as Dom P\u00e9rignon of Reims.\n\nDes Esseintes began to feel somewhat stupefied in this heavy guard-room atmosphere. His senses dulled by the monotonous chatter of these English people talking to one another, he drifted into a daydream, calling to mind some of Dickens's characters, who were so partial to the rich red port he saw in glasses all about him, and peopling the cellar in fancy with a new set of customers \u2013 imagining here Mr Wickfield's white hair and ruddy complexion, there the sharp, expressionless features and unfeeling eyes of Mr Tulkinghorn, the grim lawyer of _Bleak House_. These characters stepped right out of his memory to take their places in the Bodega, complete with all their mannerisms and gestures, for his recollections, revived by a recent reading of the novels, were astonishingly precise and detailed. The Londoner's home as described by the novelist \u2013 well lighted, well heated and well appointed, with bottles being slowly emptied by Little Dorrit, Dora Copperfield or Tom Pinch's sister Ruth \u2013 appeared to him in the guise of a cosy ark sailing snugly through a deluge of soot and mire. He settled down comfortably in this London of the imagination, happy to be indoors, and believing for a moment that the dismal hootings of the tugs by the bridge behind the Tuileries were coming from boats on the Thames. But his glass was empty now; and despite the warm fug in the cellar and the added heat from the smoke of pipes and cigars, he shivered slightly as he came back to reality and the foul, dank weather.\n\nHe asked for a glass of Amontillado, but at the sight of this pale dry wine, the English author's soothing stories and gentle lenitives gave place to the harsh revulsives and painful irritants provided by Edgar Allan Poe. The spine-chilling nightmare of the cask of Amontillado, the story of the man walled up in an underground chamber, took hold of his imagination; and behind the kind, ordinary faces of the American and English customers in the Bodega he fancied he could detect foul, uncontrollable desires, dark and odious schemes. But then he suddenly noticed that the place was emptying and that it was almost time for dinner; he paid his bill, got slowly to his feet and in a slight daze made for the door.\n\nThe moment he set foot outside, he got a wet slap in the face from the weather. Swamped by the driving rain, the street lamps flickered feebly instead of shedding a steady light, while the sky seemed to have been taken down a few pegs, so that the clouds now hung below roof level. Des Esseintes looked along the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, bathed in shadow and moisture, and imagined that he was standing in the dismal tunnel beneath the Thames. But sharp pangs of hunger recalled him to reality, and going back to the cab, he gave the driver the address of the tavern in the Rue d'Amsterdam, by the Gare Saint-Lazare.\n\nIt was now seven o'clock by his watch: he had just time enough to dine before catching his train, which was due to leave at eight-fifty. He worked out how long the crossing from Dieppe to Newhaven would take, added up the hours on his fingers and finally told himself: 'If the times given in the guide are correct, I shall arrive in London dead on twelve-thirty tomorrow afternoon.'\n\nThe cab came to a stop in front of the tavern. Once again Des Esseintes got out, and made his way into a long hall, decorated with brown paint instead of the usual gilt mouldings, and divided by means of breast-high partitions into a number of compartments, rather like the loose-boxes in a stable. In this narrow room, which broadened out near the door, a line of beer-pulls stood at attention along a counter spread with hams as brown as old violins, lobsters the colour of red lead, and salted mackerel, as well as slices of onion, raw carrot and lemon, bunches of bay-leaves and thyme, juniper berries and peppercorns swimming in a thick sauce.\n\nOne of the boxes was empty. He took possession of it and hailed a young man in a black coat, who treated him to a ceremonious bow and a flow of incomprehensible words. While the table was being laid, Des Esseintes inspected his neighbours. As at the Bodega, he saw a crowd of islanders with china-blue eyes, crimson complexions and earnest or arrogant expressions, skimming through foreign newspapers; but here there were a few women dining in pairs without male escorts, robust Englishwomen with boyish faces, teeth as big as palette-knives, cheeks as red as apples, long hands and long feet. They were enthusiastically attacking helpings of rump-steak pie \u2013 meat served hot in mushroom sauce and covered with a crust like a fruit tart.\n\nThe voracity of these hearty trencherwomen brought back with a rush the appetite he had lost so long ago. First, he ordered and enjoyed some thick, greasy oxtail soup; next, he examined the list of fish and asked for a smoked haddock, which also came up to his expectations; and then, goaded on by the sight of other people guzzling, he ate a huge helping of roast beef and potatoes and downed a couple of pints of ale, savouring the musky cowshed flavour of this fine pale beer.\n\nHis hunger was now almost satisfied. He nibbled a bittersweet chunk of blue Stilton, pecked at a rhubarb tart and then, to make a change, quenched his thirst with porter, that black beer which tastes of liquorice with the sugar extracted.\n\nHe drew a deep breath: not for years had he stuffed and swilled with such abandon. It was, he decided, the change in his habits together with the choice of strange and satisfying dishes which had roused his stomach from its stupor. He settled contentedly in his chair, lit a cigarette and prepared to enjoy a cup of coffee laced with gin.\n\nOutside, the rain was still falling steadily; he could hear it pattering on the glass skylight at the far end of the room and cascading into the water-spouts. Inside, no one stirred; all were dozing like himself over their liqueur glasses, pleasantly conscious that they were in the dry.\n\nAfter a while, their tongues were loosened; and as most of them looked up in the air as they spoke, Des Esseintes concluded that these Englishmen were nearly all discussing the weather. Nobody laughed or smiled, and their suits matched their expressions: all of them were sombrely dressed in grey cheviot with nankin-yellow or blotting-paper-pink stripes. He cast a pleased look at his own clothes, which in colour and cut did not differ appreciably from those worn by the people around him, delighted to find that he was not out of keeping with these surroundings and that superficially at least he could claim to be a naturalized citizen of London. Then he gave a start: what of the time? He consulted his watch; it was ten minutes to eight. He still had nearly half-an-hour to stay where he was, he told himself; and once again he fell to thinking over his plans.\n\nIn the course of his sedentary life, only two countries had exerted any attraction upon him \u2013 Holland and England. He had surrendered to the first of these two temptations; unable to resist any longer, he had left Paris one fine day and visited the cities of the Low Countries, one by one. On the whole, this tour had proved a bitter disappointment to him. He had pictured to himself a Holland such as Teniers and Jan Steen, Rembrandt and Ostade had painted, imagining for his own private pleasure ghettoes swarming with splendid figures as suntanned as cordovan leather, looking forward to stupendous village fairs with never-ending junketings in the country, and expecting to find the patriarchal simplicity and riotous joviality which the old masters had depicted in their works.\n\nThere was no denying that Haarlem and Amsterdam had fascinated him; the common people, seen in their natural unpolished state and their normal rustic surroundings, were very much like Van Ostade's subjects, with their rowdy, untamed brats and their elephantine old gossips, big-bosomed and potbellied. But there was no sign of wild revelry or domestic drunkenness, and he had to admit that the paintings of the Dutch School exhibited in the Louvre had led him astray. They had in fact served as a spring-board from which he had soared into a dream world of false trails and impossible ambitions, for nowhere in this world had he found the fairyland of which he had dreamt; nowhere had he seen rustic youths and maidens dancing on a village green littered with wine casks, weeping with sheer happiness, jumping for joy and laughing so uproariously that they wet their petticoats and breeches.\n\nNo, there was certainly nothing of the sort to be seen at present. Holland was just a country like any other, and what was more, a country entirely lacking in simplicity and geniality, for the Protestant faith was rampant there with all its stern hypocrisy and unbending solemnity.\n\nStill thinking of this past disappointment, he once more consulted his watch: there were only ten minutes now before his train left.\n\n'It's high time to ask for my bill and go,' he told himself. But the food he had eaten was lying heavy on his stomach, and his whole body felt incapable of movement.\n\n'Come now,' he muttered, trying to screw up his courage. 'Drink the stirrup-cup, and then you must be off.'\n\nHe poured himself a brandy, and at the same time called for his bill. This was the signal for a black-coated individual to come up with a napkin over one arm and a pencil behind his ear \u2013 a sort of majordomo with a bald, eggshaped head, a rough beard shot with grey and a clean-shaven upper lip. He took up a concert-singer's pose, one leg thrown forward, drew a note-book from his pocket, and fixing his gaze on a spot close to one of the hanging chandeliers, he made out the bill without even looking at what he was writing.\n\n'There you are, sir,' he said, tearing a leaf from his pad and handing it to Des Esseintes, who was examining him with unconcealed curiosity, as if he were some rare animal. What an extraordinary creature, he thought, as he surveyed this phlegmatic Englishman, whose hairless lips reminded him, oddly enough, of an American sailor.\n\nAt that moment the street door opened and some people came in, bringing with them a wet doggy smell. The wind blew clouds of steam back into the kitchen and rattled the unlatched door. Des Esseintes felt incapable of stirring a finger; a soothing feeling of warmth and lassitude was seeping into every limb, so that he could not even lift his hand to light a cigar.\n\n'Get up, man, and go,' he kept telling himself, but these orders were no sooner given than countermanded. After all, what was the good of moving, when a fellow could travel so magnificently sitting in a chair? Wasn't he already in London, whose smells, weather, citizens, food and even cutlery, were all about him? What could he expect to find over there, save fresh disappointments such as he had suffered in Holland?\n\nNow he had only just time enough to run across to the station, but an immense aversion for the journey, an urgent longing to remain where he was, came over him with growing force and intensity. Lost in thought, he sat there letting the minutes slip by, thus cutting off his retreat.\n\n'If I went now,' he said to himself, 'I should have to dash up to the barriers and hustle the porters along with my luggage. What a tiresome business it would be!'\n\nAnd once again he told himself:\n\n'When you come to think of it, I've seen and felt all that I wanted to see and feel. I've been steeped in English life ever since I left home, and it would be madness to risk spoiling such unforgettable experiences by a clumsy change of locality. As it is, I must have been suffering from some mental aberration to have thought of repudiating my old convictions, to have rejected the visions of my obedient imagination and to have believed like any ninny that it was necessary, interesting and useful to travel abroad.'\n\nHe looked at his watch.\n\n'Time to go home,' he said. And this time he managed to get to his feet, left the tavern and told the cabby to drive him back to the Gare de Sceaux. Thence he returned to Fontenay with his trunks, his packages, his portmanteaux, his rugs, his umbrellas and his sticks, feeling all the physical weariness and moral fatigue of a man who has come home after a long and perilous journey.\n\n## CHAPTER 12\n\nDuring the days that followed his return home, Des Esseintes browsed through the books in his library, and at the thought that he might have been parted from them for a long time he was filled with the same heart-felt satisfaction he would have enjoyed if he had come back to them after a genuine separation. Under the impulse of this feeling, he saw them in a new light, discovering beauties in them he had forgotten ever since he had bought and read them for the first time.\n\nEverything indeed \u2013 books, bric-\u00e0-brac and furniture \u2013 acquired a peculiar charm in his eyes. His bed seemed softer in comparison with the pallet he would have occupied in London; the discreet and silent service he got at home delighted him, exhausted as he was by the very thought of the noisy garrulity of hotel waiters; the methodical organization of his daily life appeared more admirable than ever, now that the hazard of travelling was a possibility.\n\nHe steeped himself once more in this refreshing bath of settled habits, to which artificial regrets added a more bracing and more tonic quality.\n\nBut it was his books that chiefly engaged his attention. He took them all down from their shelves and examined them before putting them back, to see whether, since his coming to Fontenay, the heat and damp had not damaged their bindings or spotted their precious papers.\n\nHe began by going through the whole of his Latin library; then he rearranged the specialist works by Archelaus, Albertus Magnus, Raymond Lully and Arnaud de Villanova dealing with the cabbala and the occult sciences; and lastly he checked all his modern books one by one. To his delight he discovered that they had one and all kept dry and were in good condition.\n\nThis collection had cost him considerable sums of money, for the truth was that he could not bear to have his favourite authors printed on rag-paper, as they were in other people's libraries, with characters like hobnails in a peasant's boots.\n\nIn Paris in former days, he had had certain volumes set up just for himself and printed on hand-presses by specially hired workmen. Sometimes he would commission Perrin of Lyons, whose slim, clear types were well adapted for archaic reimpressions of old texts; sometimes he would send to England or America for new characters to print works of the present century; sometimes he would apply to a house at Lille which for hundreds of years had possessed a complete fount of Gothic letters; sometimes again he would commandeer the fine old Ensched\u00e9 printing-works at Haarlem, whose foundry has preserved the stamps and matrices of the so-called _lettres de civilit\u00e9_.\n\nHe had done the same with the paper for his books. Deciding one fine day that he was tired of the ordinary expensive papers \u2013 silver from China, pearly gold from Japan, white from Whatman's, greyish brown from Holland, buff from Turkey and the Seychal mills \u2013 and disgusted with the machine-made varieties, he had ordered special hand-made papers from the old mills at Vire where they still use pestles once employed to crush hemp-seed. To introduce a little variety into his collection, he had at various times imported certain dressed fabrics from London \u2013 flock papers and rep papers \u2013 while to help mark his contempt for other bibliophiles, a L\u00fcbeck manufacturer supplied him with a glorified candle-paper, bluish in colour, noisy and brittle to the touch, in which the straw fibres were replaced by flakes of gold such as you find floating in Danzig brandy.\n\nIn this way he had got together some unique volumes, always choosing unusual formats and having them clothed by Lortic, by Trautz-Bauzonnet, by Chambolle, by Cap\u00e9's successors, in irreproachable bindings of old silk, of embossed ox-hide, of Cape goat-skin \u2013 all full bindings, patterned and inlaid, lined with tabby or watered silk, adorned in ecclesiastic fashion with metal clasps and corners, sometimes even decorated by Gruel-Engelmann in oxidized silver and shining enamel.\n\nThus he had had Baudelaire's works printed with the admirable episcopal type of the old house of Le Clere, in a large format similar to that of a mass-book, on a very light Japanese felt, a bibulous paper as soft as elder-pith, its milky whiteness faintly tinged with pink. This edition, limited to a single copy and printed in a velvety China-ink black, had been dressed outside and lined inside with a mirific and authentic flesh-coloured pigskin, one in a thousand, dotted all over where the bristles had been and blind-tooled in black with designs of marvellous aptness chosen by a great artist.\n\nOn this particular day, Des Esseintes took this incomparable volume down from his shelves and fondled it reverently, rereading certain pieces which in this simple but priceless setting seemed to him deeper and subtler than ever.\n\nHis admiration for this author knew no bounds. In his opinion, writers had hitherto confined themselves to exploring the surface of the soul, or such underground passages as were easily accessible and well lit, measuring here and there the deposits of the seven deadly sins, studying the lie of the lodes and their development, recording for instance, as Balzac did, the stratification of a soul possessed by some monomaniacal passion \u2013 ambition or avarice, paternal love or senile lust.\n\nLiterature, in fact, had been concerned with virtues and vices of a perfectly healthy sort, the regular functioning of brains of a normal conformation, the practical reality of current ideas, with never a thought for morbid depravities and other-worldly aspirations; in short, the discoveries of these analysts of human nature stopped short at the speculations, good or bad, classified by the Church; their efforts amounted to no more than the humdrum researches of a botanist who watches closely the expected development of ordinary flora planted in common or garden soil.\n\nBaudelaire had gone further; he had descended to the bottom of the inexhaustible mine, had picked his way along abandoned or unexplored galleries and had finally reached those districts of the soul where the monstrous vegetations of the sick mind flourish.\n\nThere, near the breeding-ground of intellectual aberrations and diseases of the mind \u2013 the mystical tetanus, the burning fever of lust, the typhoids and yellow fevers of crime \u2013 he had found, hatching in the dismal forcing-house of _ennui_ , the frightening climacteric of thoughts and emotions.\n\nHe had laid bare the morbid psychology of the mind that has reached the October of its sensations, and had listed the symptoms of souls visited by sorrow, singled out by spleen; he had shown how blight affects the emotions at a time when the enthusiasms and beliefs of youth have drained away, and nothing remains but the barren memory of hardships, tyrannies and slights, suffered at the behest of a despotic and freakish fate.\n\nHe had followed every phase of this lamentable autumn, watching the human creature, skilled in self-torment and adept in self-deception, forcing its thoughts to cheat one another in order to suffer more acutely, and ruining in advance, thanks to its powers of analysis and observation, any chance of happiness it might have.\n\nThen, out of this irritable sensitivity of soul, out of this bitterness of mind that savagely repulses the embarrassing attentions of friendship, the benevolent insults of charity, he witnessed the gradual and horrifying development of those middle-aged passions, those mature love-affairs where one partner goes on blowing hot when the other has already started blowing cold, where lassitude forces the amorous pair to indulge in filial caresses whose apparent juvenility seems something new, and in motherly embraces whose tenderness is not only restful but also gives rise, so to speak, to interesting feelings of remorse about a vague sort of incest.\n\nIn a succession of magnificent pages he had exposed these hybrid passions, exacerbated by the impossibility of obtaining complete satisfaction, as well as the dangerous subterfuges of narcotic and toxic drugs, taken in the hope of deadening pain and conquering boredom. In a period when literature attributed man's unhappiness almost exclusively to the misfortunes of unrequited love or the jealousies engendered by adulterous love, he had ignored these childish ailments and sounded instead those deeper, deadlier, longer-lasting wounds that are inflicted by satiety, disillusion and contempt upon souls tortured by the present, disgusted by the past, terrified and dismayed by the future.\n\nThe more Des Esseintes reread his Baudelaire, the more he appreciated the indescribable charm of this writer who, at a time when verse no longer served any purpose except to depict the external appearance of creatures and things, had succeeded in expressing the inexpressible \u2013 thanks to a solid, sinewy style which, more than any other, possessed that remarkable quality, the power to define in curiously healthy terms the most fugitive and ephemeral of the unhealthy conditions of weary spirits and melancholy souls.\n\nAfter Baudelaire, the number of French books that had found their way on to his shelves was very limited. Without a doubt he was utterly insensible to the merits of those works it is good form to enthuse over. The 'side-splitting mirth' of Rabelais and the 'common-sense humour' of Moli\u00e8re had never brought so much as a smile to his lips; and the antipathy he felt to these buffooneries was so great that he did not hesitate to liken them, from the artistic point of view, to the knockabout turns given by the clowns at any country fair.\n\nAs regards the poetry of past ages, he read very little apart from Villon, whose melancholy ballades he found rather touching, and a few odd bits of D'Aubign\u00e9 that stirred his blood by the incredible virulence of their apostrophes and their anathemas.\n\nAs for prose, he had little respect for Voltaire and Rousseau, or even Diderot, whose vaunted 'Salons' struck him as remarkable for the number of moralizing inanities and stupid aspirations they contained. Out of hatred of all this twaddle, he confined his reading almost entirely to the exponents of Christian oratory, to Bourdaloue and Bossuet, whose sonorous and ornate periods greatly impressed him; but he was even fonder of tasting the pith and marrow of stern, strong phrases such as Nicole fashioned in his meditations, and still more Pascal, whose austere pessimism and agonized attrition went straight to his heart.\n\nApart from these few books, French literature, so far as his library was concerned, started at the beginning of the nineteenth century.\n\nIt fell into two distinct categories, one comprising ordinary profane literature, the other the works of Catholic writers \u2013 a very special literature, almost unknown to the general reader, and yet disseminated by enormous, long-established firms to the far corners of the earth.\n\nHe had summoned up enough courage to explore these literary crypts, and as in the realm of secular literature, he had discovered, underneath a gigantic pile of insipidities, a few works written by true masters.\n\nThe distinctive characteristic of this literature was the absolute immutability of its ideas and its idiom; just as the Church had perpetuated the primordial form of its sacred objects, so also it had kept intact the relics of its dogmas and piously preserved the reliquary that contained them \u2013 the oratorical style of the seventeenth century. As one of its own writers \u2013 Ozanam \u2013 declared, the Christian idiom had nothing to learn from the language of Rousseau, and should employ exclusively the style used by Bourdaloue and Bossuet.\n\nIn spite of this declaration, the Church, showing a more tolerant spirit, winked at certain expressions, certain turns of phrase borrowed from the lay language of the same century; and as a result the Catholic idiom had to some extent purged itself of its massive periods, weighed down, especially in Bossuet's case, by the inordinate length of its parentheses, the painful redundancy of its pronouns. But there the concessions had stopped, and indeed any more would doubtless have been superfluous, for with its ballast gone, this prose was quite adequate for the narrow range of subjects to which the Church restricted itself.\n\nIncapable of dealing with contemporary life, of making visible and palpable the simplest aspect of creatures and things, and ill fitted to explain the complicated ruses of a brain unconcerned about states of grace, this idiom was none the less excellent in the treatment of abstract subjects. Useful in the discussion of a controversy, in the qualification of a commentary, it also possessed more than any other the necessary authority to state dogmatically the value of a doctrine.\n\nUnfortunately, here as everywhere else, an immense army of pedants had invaded the sanctuary and by their ignorance and lack of talent debased its noble and uncompromising dignity. As a crowning disaster, several pious females had decided to try their hands at writing, and maladroit sacristies had joined with silly salons in extolling as works of genius the wretched prattlings of these women.\n\nDes Esseintes had been curious enough to read a number of these works, among them those of Madame Swetchine, the Russian general's wife whose house in Paris attracted the most fervent of Catholics. Her writings had filled him with an infinite and overwhelming sense of boredom; they were worse than bad, they were banal; the abiding impression was of a lingering echo from a private chapel in which a clique of sanctimonious snobs could be heard muttering their prayers, asking in whispers for each other's news and repeating with a portentous air a string of commonplaces on politics, the predictions of the barometer and the present state of the weather.\n\nBut there was worse to come: there was Mrs Augustus Craven, an accredited laureate of the Institut, author of the _R\u00e9cit d'une Soeur_ as well as of an _\u00c9liane_ and a _Fleurange_ , books which were all greeted with blaring trumpets and rolling organ by the entire apostolic press. Never, no never, had Des Esseintes imagined that it was possible to write such trivial trash. These books were based on such stupid concepts and were written in such a nauseating style that they almost acquired a rare and distinctive personality of their own.\n\nIn any case, it was not among the female writers that Des Esseintes, who was neither pure in mind nor sentimental by nature, could expect to find a literary niche adapted to his particular tastes. However, he persevered and, with a diligence unaffected by any feeling of impatience, tried his hardest to appreciate the work of the child of genius, the blue-stocking virgin of this group, Eug\u00e9nie de Gu\u00e9rin. His efforts were in vain: he found it impossible to take to the famous _Journal_ and _Letters_ in which she extols, without any sense of discretion or discrimination, the prodigious talent of a brother who rhymed with such marvellous ingenuity and grace that one must surely go back to the works of Monsieur de Jouy and Monsieur Ecouchard Lebrun to find anything so bold or so original.\n\nTry as he might, he could not see what attraction lay in books distinguished by remarks such as these: 'This morning I hung up by papa's bed a cross a little girl gave him yesterday', and 'We are invited tomorrow, Mimi and I, to attend the blessing of a bell at Monsieur Roquier's \u2013 a welcome diversion'; or by mention of such momentous events as this: 'I have just hung about my neck a chain bearing a medal of Our Lady which Louise sent me as a safeguard against cholera'; or by poetry of this calibre: 'Oh, what a lovely moonbeam has just fallen on the Gospel I was reading!' \u2013 or finally, by observations as subtle and perspicacious as this: 'Whenever I see a man cross himself or take his hat off on passing a crucifix, I say to myself: There goes a Christian.'\n\nAnd so it went on for page after page, without pause, without respite, until Maurice de Gu\u00e9rin died and his sister could launch out into her lamentations, written in a wishy-washy prose dotted here and there with scraps of verse of such pathetic insipidity that Des Esseintes was finally moved to pity.\n\nNo, in all fairness there was no denying the fact that the Catholic party was not very particular in its choice of prot\u00e9g\u00e9es, and not very perceptive either. These lymphs it had made so much of and for whom it had exhausted the goodwill of its press, all wrote like convent schoolgirls in a milk-and-water style, all suffered from a verbal diarrhoea no astringent could conceivably check.\n\nAs a result, Des Esseintes turned his back in horror on these books. Nor did he think it likely that the priestly writers of modern times could offer him sufficient compensation for all his disappointments. These preachers and polemists wrote impeccable French, but in their sermons and books the Christian idiom had ended up by becoming impersonal and stereotyped, a rhetoric in which every movement and pause was predetermined, a succession of periods copied from a single model. All these ecclesiastics, in fact, wrote alike, with a little more or a little less energy or emphasis, so that there was virtually no difference between the grisailles they turned out, whether they were signed by their Lordships Dupanloup or Landriot, La Bouillerie or Gaume, by Dom Gu\u00e9ranger or Father Ratisbonne, by Bishop Freppel or Bishop Perraud, by Father Ravignan or Father Gratry, by the Jesuit Olivain, the Carmelite Dosith\u00e9e, the Dominican Didon, or the sometime Prior of Saint-Maximin, the Reverend Father Chocarne.\n\nTime and again Des Esseintes had told himself that it would need a very genuine talent, a very profound originality, a very firm conviction to thaw this frozen idiom, to animate this communal style that stifled every unconventional idea, that suffocated every audacious opinion.\n\nYet there were one or two authors whose burning eloquence somehow succeeded in melting and moulding this petrified language, and the foremost of these was Lacordaire, one of the few genuine writers the Church had produced in a great many years.\n\nConfined, like all his colleagues, within the narrow circle of orthodox speculation; obliged, as they were, to mark time and to consider only such ideas as had been conceived and consecrated by the Fathers of the Church and developed by the great preachers, he none the less managed to pull a bluff, to rejuvenate and almost modify these same ideas, simply by giving them a more personal and lively form. Here and there in his _Conf\u00e9rences de Notre-Dame_ , happy phrases, startling expressions, accents of love, bursts of passion, cries of joy and demonstrations of delight occurred that made the time-honoured style sizzle and smoke under his pen. And then, over and above his oratorical gifts, this brilliant, gentle-hearted monk who had used up all his skill and all his energy in a hopeless attempt to reconcile the liberal doctrines of a modern society with the authoritarian dogmas of the Church, was also endowed with a capacity for fervent affection, for discreet tenderness. Accordingly, the letters he wrote to young men used to contain fond paternal exhortations, smiling reprimands, kindly words of advice, indulgent words of forgiveness. Some of these letters were charming, as when he admitted his greed for love, and others were quite impressive, as when he sustained his correspondents' courage and dissipated their doubts by stating the unshakeable certitude of his own beliefs. In short, this feeling of fatherhood, which under his pen acquired a dainty feminine quality, lent his prose an accent unique in clerical literature.\n\nAfter him, few indeed were the ecclesiastics and monks who showed any signs of individuality. At the very most, there were half-a-dozen pages by his pupil the Abb\u00e9 Peyreyve that were readable. This priest had left some touching biographical studies of his master, written one or two delightful letters, produced a few articles in a sonorous oratorical style and pronounced a few panegyrics in which the declamatory note was sounded too often. Obviously the Abb\u00e9 Peyreyve had neither the sensibility nor the fire of Lacordaire; there was too much of the priest in him and too little of the man; and yet now and then his pulpit rhetoric was lit up by striking analogies, by ample, weighty phrases, by well-nigh sublime flights of oratory.\n\nBut it was only among writers who had not been ordained, among secular authors who were devoted to the Catholic cause and had its interests at heart, that prosaists worthy of attention were to be found.\n\nThe episcopal style, so feebly handled by the prelates, had acquired new strength and regained some of its old masculine vigour in the hands of the Comte de Falloux. Despite his gentle appearance, this Academician positively oozed venom; the speeches he made in Parliament in 1848 were dull and diffuse, but the articles he contributed to the _Correspondant_ and later published in book form were cruel and biting under their exaggerated surface politeness. Conceived as polemic tirades, they displayed a certain caustic wit and expressed opinions of surprising intolerance.\n\nA dangerous controversialist by reason of the traps he laid for his adversaries, and a crafty logician forever outflanking the enemy and taking him by surprise, the Comte de Falloux had also written some penetrating pages on the death of Madame Swetchine, whose correspondence he had edited and whom he revered as a saint. But where the man's temperament really showed itself was in two pamphlets which appeared in 1846 and 1880, the later work bearing the title _L'Unit\u00e9 nationale_.\n\nHere, filled with a cold fury, the implacable Legitimist delivered a frontal assault for once, contrary to his usual custom, and by way of peroration fired off this round of abuse at the sceptics:\n\n'As for you, you doctrinaire Utopians who shut your eyes to human nature, you ardent atheists who feed on hatred and delusion, you emancipators of woman, you destroyers of family life, you genealogists of the simian race, you whose name was once an insult in itself, be well content: you will have been the prophets and your disciples will be the pontiffs of an abominable future!'\n\nThe other pamphlet was entitled _Le Parti catholique_ and was directed against the despotism of the _Univers_ and its editor Veuillot, whom it took care not to mention by name. Here the flank attacks were resumed, with poison concealed in every line of this brochure in which the bruised and battered gentleman answered the kicks of the professional wrestler with scornful sneers.\n\nBetween them they represented to perfection the two parties in the Church whose differences have always turned to uncompromising hatred. Falloux, the more arrogant and cunning of the two, belonged to that liberal sect which already included both Montalembert and Cochin, both Lacordaire and Broglie; he subscribed wholeheartedly to the principles upheld by the _Correspondant_ , a review which did its best to cover the imperious doctrines of the Church with a varnish of tolerance. Veuillot, a more honest, outspoken man, spurned these subterfuges, unhesitatingly admitted the tyranny of ultramontane dictates, openly acknowledged and invoked the merciless discipline of ecclesiastical dogma.\n\nThe latter writer had fashioned for the fight a special language which owed something to La Bruy\u00e8re and something to the working-man living out in the Gros-Caillou. This style, half solemn, half vulgar, and wielded by such a brutal character, had the crushing weight of a life-preserver. An extraordinarily brave and stubborn fighter, Veuillot had used this dreadful weapon to fell free-thinkers and bishops alike, laying about him with all his might, lashing out savagely at his foes whether they belonged to one party or the other. Held in suspicion by the Church, which disapproved of both his contraband idiom and his cut-throat conduct, this religious blackguard had none the less compelled recognition by sheer force of talent, goading the Press on till he had the whole pack at his heels, pummelling them till he drew blood in his _Odeurs de Paris_ , standing up to every attack, kicking himself free of the vile pen-pushers that came snapping and snarling after him.\n\nUnfortunately, his undeniable brilliance showed only in a fight; in cold blood, he was just a run-of-the-mill writer. His poems and novels were pitiful; his pungent language lost all its flavour in a peaceful atmosphere; between bouts, the Catholic wrestler was transformed into a dyspeptic old man, wheezing out banal litanies and stammering childish canticles.\n\nStiffer, starchier and statelier was the Church's favourite apologist, the Grand Inquisitor of the Christian idiom, Ozanam. Though he was not easily surprised, Des Esseintes never failed to wonder at the aplomb with which this author spoke of the inscrutable purposes of the Almighty, when he should have been producing evidence for the impossible assertions he was making; with marvellous sangfroid the man would twist events about, contradict, with even greater impudence than the panegyrists of the other parties, the acknowledged facts of history, declare that the Church had never made any secret of the great regard it had for science, describe heresies as foul miasmas and treat Buddhism and all other religions with such contempt that he apologized for sullying Catholic prose by so much as attacking their doctrines.\n\nFrom time to time religious enthusiasm breathed a certain ardour into his oratorical style, under whose icy surface there seethed a current of suppressed violence; in his copious writings on Dante, on St Francis, on the author of the _Stabat_ , on the Franciscan poets, on Socialism, on commercial law, on everything under the sun, he invariably undertook the defence of the Vatican, which he considered incapable of doing wrong, judging every case alike according to the greater or lesser distance separating it from his own.\n\nThis practice of looking at every question from a single point of view was also followed by that paltry scribbler some people held up as his rival \u2013 Netternent. The latter was not quite so strait-laced, and what pretensions he had were social rather than spiritual. Now and again he had actually ventured outside the literary cloister in which Ozanam had shut himself up, and had dipped into various profane works with a view to passing judgement on them. He had groped his way into this unfamiliar realm like a child in a cellar, seeing nothing around him but darkness, perceiving nothing in the gloom but the flame of the taper lighting his way ahead for a little distance.\n\nIn this total ignorance of the locality, in this absolute obscurity, he had tripped up time and time again. Thus he had spoken of Murger's style as 'carefully chiselled and meticulously polished'; he had said that Hugo sought after what was foul and filthy, and had dared to make comparisons between him and Monsieur de Laprade; he had criticized Delacroix because he broke the rules, and praised Paul Delaroche and the poet Reboul because they seemed to him to have the faith. Des Esseintes could not help shrugging his shoulders over these unfortunate opinions, wrapped up in a dowdy prose-style, the well-worn material of which caught and tore on the corner of every sentence.\n\nIn another domain, the works of Poujoulat and Genoude, of Montalembert, Nicolas, and Carn\u00e9 failed to awaken any livelier feelings of interest in him; nor was he conscious of any pronounced predilection for the historical problems treated with painstaking scholarship and in a worthy style by the Duc de Broglie, or for the social and religious questions tackled by Henry Cochin \u2013 who had, however, given his measure in a letter describing a moving ceremony at the Sacr\u00e9-C\u0153ur, a taking of the veil. It was years since he had opened any of these books, and even longer since he had thrown away the puerile lucubrations of the sepulchral Pontmartin and the pitiable F\u00e9val, and had handed over to the servants for some sordid purpose the little tales of such as Aubineau and Lasserre, those contemptible hagiographers of the miracles performed by Monsieur Dupont of Tours and the Blessed Virgin.\n\nIn a word, Des Esseintes failed to find in this literature even a passing distraction from his boredom; and so he tucked away in the darkest corners of his library all these books that he had read long ago after leaving the Jesuit college.\n\n'I'd have done better to leave these behind in Paris,' he muttered, as he pulled out from behind the rest two sets of books he found particularly insufferable: the works of the Abb\u00e9 Lamennais and those of that fanatical bigot, that pompous bore, that conceited ass, Comte Joseph de Maistre.\n\nOn one shelf, a solitary volume was left standing within his reach, and that was _L'Homme_ , by Ernest Hello.\n\nThis man was the absolute antithesis of his colleagues in religion. Virtually isolated in the group of devotional writers, who were shocked by the attitudes he adopted, he had ended up by leaving the main road that leads from earth to heaven. Sickened no doubt by the banality of this highway, and by the mob of literary pilgrims who for centuries had been filing along the same road, following in each other's footsteps, stopping in the same spots to exchange the same commonplaces about religion and the Fathers of the Church, about the same beliefs and the same masters, he had turned off into the by-paths, had come out in the bleak forest clearing of Pascal, where he had stopped for quite a time to get his second wind; then he had gone on his way, penetrating deeper than the Jansenist, whom he happened to despise, into the regions of human thought.\n\nFull of subtle complexity and pompous affectation, Hello with his brilliant, hair-splitting analyses reminded Des Esseintes of the exhaustive and meticulous studies of some of the atheistic psychologists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There was something of a Catholic Duranty in him, but more dogmatic and perceptive, a practised master of the magnifying-glass, an able engineer of the soul, a skilful watchmaker of the brain, who liked nothing better than to examine the mechanism of a passion and show just how the wheels went round.\n\nIn this oddly constituted mind of his were to be found the most unexpected associations of thought, the most surprising analogies and contrasts; there was also a curious trick he had of using etymological definitions as a springboard from which to leap in pursuit of fresh ideas, joined together by links that were sometimes rather tenuous but almost invariably original and ingenious.\n\nIn this way, and in spite of the faulty balance of his constructions, he had taken to pieces, so to speak, with remarkable perspicacity, the miser and the common man, had analysed the liking for company and the passion for suffering, and had revealed the interesting comparisons that can be established between the processes of photography and memory.\n\nBut this skill in the use of the delicate analytical instrument he had stolen from the Church's enemies represented only one aspect of the man's temperament. There was another person in him, another side to his dual nature \u2013 and this was the religious fanatic, the biblical prophet.\n\nLike Hugo, whom he recalled at times by the twist he gave to an idea or a phrase, Ernest Hello had loved posing as a little St John on Patmos, only in his case he pontificated and vaticinated from the top of a rock manufactured in the ecclesiastical knick-knack shops of the Rue Saint-Sulpice, haranguing the reader in an apocalyptic style salted here and there with the bitter gall of an Isaiah.\n\nOn these occasions he displayed exaggerated pretensions to profundity, and there were a few flatterers who hailed him as a genius, pretending to regard him as the great man of his day, the fount of knowledge of his time. And a fount of knowledge he may have been \u2013 but one whose waters were often far from clear.\n\nIn his volume _Paroles de Dieu_ , in which he paraphrased the Scriptures and did his best to complicate their fairly simple message, in his other book _L'Homme_ , and in his pamphlet _Le Jour du Seigneur_ , which was written in an obscure, uneven biblical style, he appeared in the guise of a vindictive apostle, full of pride and bitterness, a mad deacon suffering from mystical epilepsy, a Joseph de Maistre blessed with talent, a cantankerous and ferocious bigot.\n\nOn the other hand, reflected Des Esseintes, these morbid excesses frequently obstructed ingenious flights of casuistry, for with even greater intolerance than Ozanam, Hello resolutely rejected everything that lay outside his little world, propounded the most astonishing axioms, maintained with disconcerting dogmatism that 'geology had gone back to Moses', that natural history, chemistry, indeed all modern science furnished proof of the scientific accuracy of the Bible; every page spoke of the Church as the sole repository of truth and the source of superhuman wisdom, all this enlivened with startling aphorisms and with furious imprecations spewed out in torrents over the art and literature of the eighteenth century.\n\nTo this strange mixture was added a love of sugary piety revealed in translations of the _Visions_ of Angela da Foligno, a book of unparalleled stupidity and fluidity, and selections from Jan van Ruysbroeck, a thirteenth-century mystic whose prose presented an incomprehensible but attractive amalgam of gloomy ecstasies, tender raptures and violent rages.\n\nAll the affectation there was in Hello the bumptious pontiff had come out in a preface he wrote for this book. As he said himself, 'extraordinary things can only be stammered out' \u2013 and stammer he did, declaring that 'the sacred obscurity in which Ruysbroeck spreads his eagle's wings is his ocean, his prey, his glory, and for him the four horizons would be too close-fitting a garment'.\n\nBe that as it may, Des Esseintes felt drawn to this unbalanced but subtle mind; the fusion of the skilled psychologist with the pious pedant had proved impossible, and these jolts, these incoherences even, constituted the personality of the man.\n\nThe recruits who joined his standard made up the little group of writers who operated on the colour-line of the clerical camp. They did not belong to the main body of the army; strictly speaking, they were rather the scouts of a religion that distrusted men of talent like Veuillot and Hello, for the simple reason that they were neither servile enough nor insipid enough. What it really wanted was soldiers who never reasoned why, regiments of those purblind mediocrities Hello used to attack with all the ferocity of one who had suffered their tyranny. Accordingly Catholicism had made haste to close the columns of its papers to one of its partisans, L\u00e9on Bloy, a savage pamphleteer who wrote in a style at once precious and furious, tender and terrifying, and to expel from its bookshops, as one plague-stricken and unclean, another author who had bawled himself hoarse singing its praises: Barbey d'Aurevilly.\n\nAdmittedly this latter writer was far too compromising, far too independent a son of the Church. In the long run, the others would always eat humble pie and fall back into line, but he was the _enfant terrible_ the party refused to own, who went whoring through literature and brought his women half-naked into the sanctuary. It was only because of the boundless contempt Catholicism has for all creative talent that an excommunication in due and proper form had not outlawed this strange servant who, under the pretext of doing honour to his masters, broke the chapel windows, juggled with the sacred vessels and performed step-dances round the tabernacle.\n\nTwo of Barbey d'Aurevilly's works Des Esseintes found particularly enthralling: _Un Pr\u00eatre mari\u00e9_ and _Les Diaboliques_. Others, such as _L'Ensorcel\u00e9e_ , _Le Chevalier des Touches_ and _Une Vieille Ma\u00eetresse_ , were doubtless better balanced and more complete works, but they did not appeal so strongly to Des Esseintes who was really interested only in sickly books, undermined and inflamed by fever.\n\nIn these comparatively healthy volumes Barbey d'Aurevilly was constantly tacking to and fro between those two channels of Catholic belief which eventually run into one: mysticism and sadism. But in the two books which Des Esseintes was now glancing through, Barbey had thrown caution to the winds, had given rein to his steed, and had ridden full tilt down one road after another, as far as he could go.\n\nAll the horrific mystery of the Middle Ages brooded over that improbable book _Un Pr\u00eatre mari\u00e9_ ; magic was mixed up with religion, sorcery with prayer; while the God of original sin, more pitiless, more cruel than the Devil, submitted his innocent victim Calixte to uninterrupted torments, branding her with a red cross on the forehead, just as in olden times he had one of his angels mark the houses of the unbelievers he meant to kill.\n\nThese scenes, like the fantasies of a fasting monk affected with delirium, were unfolded in the disjointed language of a fever patient. But unfortunately, among all the characters galvanized into an unbalanced life like so many Hoffmann Coppelias, there were some, the N\u00e9el de N\u00e9hou for instance, who seemed to have been imagined in one of those periods of prostration that always follow crises; and they were out of keeping in this atmosphere of melancholy madness, into which they introduced the same note of unintentional humour as is sounded by the little zinc lordling in hunting-boots who stands blowing his horn on the pedestal of so many mantelpiece clocks.\n\nAfter these mystical divagations, Barbey had enjoyed a period of comparative calm, but then a frightening relapse had occurred.\n\nThe belief that man is an irresolute creature pulled this way and that by two forces of equal strength, alternately winning and losing the battle for his soul; the conviction that human life is nothing more than an uncertain struggle between heaven and hell; the faith in two opposed entities, Satan and Christ \u2013 all this was bound to engender those internal discords in which the soul, excited by the incessant fighting, stimulated as it were by the constant promises and threats, ends up by giving in and prostitutes itself to whichever of the two combatants has been the more obstinate in its pursuit.\n\nIn _Un Pr\u00eatre mari\u00e9_ , it was Christ whose temptations had been successful and whose praises were sung by Barbey d'Aurevilly; but in _Les Diaboliques_ , the author had surrendered to the Devil, and it was Satan he extolled. At this point there appeared on the scene that bastard child of Catholicism which for centuries the Church has pursued with its exorcisms and its _autos-da-f\u00e9_ \u2013 sadism.\n\nThis strange and ill-defined condition cannot in fact arise in the mind of an unbeliever. It does not consist simply in riotous indulgence of the flesh, stimulated by bloody acts of cruelty, for in that case it would be nothing more than a deviation of the genetic instincts, a case of satyriasis developed to its fullest extent; it consists first and foremost in a sacrilegious manifestation, in a moral rebellion, in a spiritual debauch, in a wholly idealistic, wholly Christian aberration. There is also something in it of joy tempered by fear, a joy analogous to the wicked delight of disobedient children playing with forbidden things for no other reason than that their parents have expressly forbidden them to go near them.\n\nThe truth of the matter is that if it did not involve sacrilege, sadism would have no _raison d'\u00eatre_ ; on the other hand, since sacrilege depends on the existence of a religion, it cannot be deliberately and effectively committed except by a believer, for a man would derive no satisfaction whatever from profaning a faith that was unimportant or unknown to him.\n\nThe strength of sadism then, the attraction it offers, lies entirely in the forbidden pleasure of transferring to Satan the homage and the prayers that should go to God; it lies in the flouting of the precepts of Catholicism, which the sadist actually observes in topsy-turvy fashion when, in order to offend Christ the more grievously, he commits the sins Christ most expressly proscribed \u2013 profanation of holy things and carnal debauch.\n\nIn point of fact, this vice to which the Marquis de Sade had given his name was as old as the Church itself; the eighteenth century, when it was particularly rife, had simply revived, by an ordinary atavistic process, the impious practices of the witches' sabbath of medieval times \u2013 to go no further back in history.\n\nDes Esseintes had done no more than dip into the _Malleus Maleficorum_ , that terrible code of procedure of Jacob Sprenger's which permitted the Church to send thousands of necromancers and sorcerers to the stake; but that was enough to enable him to recognize in the witches' sabbath all the obscenities and blasphemies of sadism. Besides the filthy orgies dear to the Evil One \u2013 nights devoted alternately to lawful and unnatural copulation, nights befouled by the bestialities of bloody debauch \u2013 he found the same parodies of religious processions, the same ritual threats and insults hurled at God, the same devotion to his Rival \u2013 as when the Black Mass was celebrated over a woman on all fours whose naked rump, repeatedly soiled, served as the altar, with the priest cursing the bread and wine, and the congregation derisively taking communion in the shape of a black host stamped with a picture of a he-goat.\n\nThis same outpouring of foul-mouthed jests and degrading insults was to be seen in the works of the Marquis de Sade, who spiced his frightful sensualities with sacrilegious profanities. He would rail at Heaven, invoke Lucifer, call God an abject scoundrel, a crazy idiot, spit on the sacrament of communion, do his best in fact to besmirch with vile obscenities a Divinity he hoped would damn him, at the same time declaring, as a further act of defiance, that that Divinity did not exist.\n\nThis psychic condition Barbey d'Aurevilly came close to sharing. If he did not go as far as Sade in shouting atrocious curses at the Saviour; if, out of greater caution or greater fear, he always professed to honour the Church, he nonetheless addressed his prayers to the Devil in true medieval fashion, and in his desire to defy the Deity, likewise slipped into demonic erotomania, coining new sensual monstrosities, or even borrowing from _La Philosophie dans le boudoir_ a certain episode which he seasoned with fresh condiments to make the story _Le D\u00eener d'un ath\u00e9e_.\n\nThe extraordinary book that contained this tale was Des Esseintes's delight; he had therefore had printed for him in bishop's-purple ink, within a border of cardinal red, on a genuine parchment blessed by the Auditors of the Rota, a copy of _Les Diaboliques_ set up in those _lettres de civilit\u00e9_ whose peculiar hooks and flourishes, curling up or down, assume a satanic appearance.\n\nNot counting certain poems of Baudelaire's which, in imitation of the prayers chanted on the nights of the witches' sabbath, took the form of infernal litanies, this book, among all the works of contemporary apostolic literature, was the only one to reveal that state of mind, at once devout and impious, towards which nostalgic memories of Catholicism, stimulated by fits of neurosis, had often impelled Des Esseintes.\n\nWith Barbey d'Aurevilly, the series of religious writers came to an end. To tell the truth, this pariah belonged more, from every point of view, to secular literature than to that other literature in which he claimed a place that was denied him. His wild romantic style, for instance, full of twisted expressions, outlandish turns of phrase and far-fetched similes, whipped up his sentences as they galloped across the page, farting and jangling their bells. In short, Barbey looked like a stallion among the geldings that filled the ultramontane stables.\n\nSuch were Des Esseintes's reflections as he dipped into the book, rereading a passage here and there; and then, comparing the author's vigorous and varied style with the lymphatic, stereotyped style of his fellow writers, he was led to consider that evolution of language so accurately described by Darwin.\n\nClosely associated with the secular writers of his time, brought up in the Romantic school, familiar with the latest books and accustomed to reading modern publications, Barbey inevitably found himself in possession of an idiom which had undergone many profound modifications, and which had been largely renovated since the seventeenth century.\n\nThe very opposite had been the case with the ecclesiastical writers; confined to their own territory, imprisoned within an identical, traditional range of reading, knowing nothing of the literary evolution of more recent times and absolutely determined, if need be, to pluck their eyes out rather than recognize it, they necessarily employed an unaltered and unalterable language, like that eighteenth-century language which the descendants of the French settlers in Canada normally speak and write to this day, no variation in vocabulary or phraseology having ever been possible in their idiom, cut off as it is from the old country and surrounded on all sides by the English tongue.\n\nDes Esseintes's musings had reached this point when the silvery sound of a bell tinkling a little angelus told him that breakfast was ready. He left his books where they were, wiped his forehead and made for the dining-room, telling himself that of all the volumes he had been rearranging, the works of Barbey d'Aurevilly were still the only ones whose thought and style offered those gamey flavours and unhealthy spots, that bruised skin and sleepy taste which he so loved to savour in the decadent writers, both Latin and monastic, of olden times.\n\n## CHAPTER 13\n\nThe weather had begun behaving in the most peculiar fashion. That year the seasons all overlapped, so that after a period of squalls and mists, blazing skies, like sheets of white-hot metal, suddenly appeared from over the horizon. In a couple of days, without any transition whatever, the cold, dank fogs and pouring rain were followed by a wave of torrid heat, an appallingly sultry atmosphere. As if it were being energetically poked with gigantic fire-irons, the sun glowed like an open furnace, sending out an almost white light that burnt the eyes; fiery particles of dust rose from the scorched roads, grilling the parched trees, browning the dry grass. The glare reflected by whitewashed walls and the flames kindled in window-panes and zinc roofs were absolutely blinding; the temperature of a foundry in full blast weighed down on Des Esseintes's house.\n\nWearing next to nothing, he threw open a window, to be hit full in the face by a fiery blast from outside; the dining-room, where he next sought refuge, was like an oven, and the rarefied air seemed to have reached boiling-point. He sat down feeling utter despair, for the excitement that had kept his mind busy with daydreams while he was sorting out his books had died away. Like every other victim of neurosis, he found heat overpowering; his anaemia, held in check by the cold weather, got the better of him again, taking the strength out of a body already debilitated by copious perspiration.\n\nWith his shirt clinging to his moist back, his perineum sodden, his arms and legs wet and his forehead streaming with sweat that ran down his cheeks like salty tears, Des Esseintes lay back exhausted in his chair. Just then he became aware of the meat on the table before him and the sight of it sickened him; he ordered it to be taken away and boiled eggs brought instead. When these arrived, he tried to swallow some sippets dipped in the yolk, but they stuck in his throat. Waves of nausea rose to his lips, and when he drank a few drops of wine they pricked his stomach like arrows of fire. He mopped his face, where the sweat, which had been warm a few minutes before, was now running down his temples in cold trickles; and he tried sucking bits of ice to stave off the feeling of nausea \u2013 but all in vain.\n\nOvercome with infinite fatigue, he slumped helplessly against the table. After a while he got to his feet, gasping for breath, but the sippets had swollen and were slowly rising in his throat, choking him. Never had he felt so upset, so weak, so ill at ease; on top of it all, his eyes were affected and he started seeing double, with things spinning round in pairs; soon he lost his sense of distance, so that his glass seemed miles away. He told himself he was the victim of optical illusions, but even so he was unable to shake them off. Finally he went and lay down on the sofa in the sitting-room; but it promptly began pitching and rolling like a ship at sea, and his nausea grew worse. He got up again, this time deciding to take a digestive to help down the eggs, which were still troubling him.\n\nReturning to the dining-room, he wryly likened himself, there in his ship's cabin, to a traveller suffering from seasickness. He staggered over to the cupboard and looked at the mouth organ, but refrained from opening it; instead, he reached up to the shelf above for a bottle of Benedictine \u2013 a bottle he kept in the house on account of its shape, which he considered suggestive of ideas at once pleasantly wanton and vaguely mystical.\n\nBut for the moment he remained unmoved, and just stared dully at the squat, dark-green bottle, which normally conjured up visions of medieval priories for him, with its antique monkish paunch, its head and neck wrapped in a parchment cowl, its red seal quartered with three silver mitres on a field azure and fastened to the neck with lead like a Papal bull, its label inscribed in sonorous Latin, on paper apparently yellowed and faded with age: _Liquor Monachorum Benedictinorum Abbatiae Fiscanensis_.\n\nUnder this truly monastic habit, certified by a cross and the ecclesiastical initials D. O. M., and enclosed in parchment and ligatures like an authentic charter, there slumbered a saffron-coloured liqueur of exquisite delicacy. It gave off a subtle aroma of angelica and hyssop mixed with seaweed whose iodine and bromine content was masked with sugar; it stimulated the palate with a spirituous fire hidden under an altogether virginal sweetness; and it flattered the nostrils with a hint of corruption wrapped up in a caress that was at once childlike and devout.\n\nThis hypocrisy resulting from the extraordinary discrepancy between container and contents, between the liturgical form of the bottle and the utterly feminine, utterly modern soul inside it, had set him dreaming before now. Sitting with the bottle in front of him, he had spent hours thinking about the monks who sold it, the Benedictines of the Abbey of F\u00e9camp who, belonging as they did to the congregation of Saint-Maur, famous for its historical researches, were subject to the Rule of St Benedict, yet did not follow the observances of either the white monks of C\u00eeteaux or the black monks of Cluny. They forced themselves upon his imagination, looking just as if they had come straight out of the Middle Ages, growing medicinal herbs, heating retorts, distilling in alembics sovereign cordials, infallible panaceas.\n\nHe took a sip of the liqueur and felt a little better for a minute or two; but soon the fire a drop of wine had kindled in his innards blazed up again. He threw down his napkin and went back into his study, where he began pacing up and down; he felt as if he were under the receiver of an air-pump in which a vacuum was being gradually created, and a dangerously pleasant lethargy spread from his brain into every limb. Unable to stand any more of this, he pulled himself together and, for perhaps the first time since his coming to Fontenay, sought refuge in the garden, where he took shelter in the patch of shadow cast by a tree. Sitting on the grass, he gazed vacantly at the rows of vegetables the servants had planted. But it was only after an hour's gazing that he realized what they were, for a greenish mist floated before his eyes, preventing him from seeing anything more than blurred, watery images which kept changing colour and appearance.\n\nIn the end, however, he recovered his balance and was able to distinguish clearly onions and cabbages in front, further off a huge patch of lettuce and at the back, all along the hedge, a row of white lilies standing motionless in the sultry air.\n\nA smile puckered his lips, for he suddenly remembered the quaint comparison old Nicander once made, from the point of view of shape, between the pistil of a lily and the genitals of an ass, and also the passage in Albertus Magnus where that miracle-worker expounds a most peculiar method of discovering, with the aid of a lettuce, whether a girl is still a virgin.\n\nThese recollections cheered him up somewhat, and he began looking round the garden, examining the plants that had been withered by the heat and noticing how the baked earth was smoking under the scorching, dusty rays of the sun. Then, over the hedge separating the low-lying garden from the raised roadway going up to the Fort, he caught sight of a bunch of boys rolling about on the ground in the blazing sunshine.\n\nHe was fixing his attention on them when another lad appeared on the scene. He was smaller than the rest, and a really squalid specimen; his hair looked like sandy seaweed, two green bubbles hung from his nose and his lips were coated with the disgusting white mess he was eating \u2013 skim-milk cheese spread on a hunk of bread and sprinkled with chopped garlic.\n\nDes Esseintes sniffed the air, and a depraved longing, a perverse craving took hold of him; the nauseating snack positively made his mouth water. He felt sure that his stomach, which rebelled against all normal food, would digest this frightful titbit and his palate enjoy it as much as a banquet.\n\nHe sprang to his feet, ran to the kitchen and ordered his servants to send to the village for a round loaf, some white cheese, and a little garlic, explaining that he wanted a snack exactly like the one the child was having. This done, he went back to where he had been sitting under the tree.\n\nThe lads were fighting now, snatching bits of bread from each other's hands, ramming them into their mouths and licking their fingers afterwards. Kicks and blows fell thick and fast, and the weaker boys were knocked to the ground, where they lay thrashing about and crying as the broken stones dug into their bottoms.\n\nThe sight put new life into Des Esseintes; the interest this fight aroused in him took his mind off his own sickly condition. Faced with the savage fury of these vicious brats, he reflected on the cruel and abominable law of the struggle for life, and contemptible though these children were, he could not help feeling sorry for them and thinking it would have been better for them if their mothers had never borne them.\n\nAfter all, what did their lives amount to but impetigo, colic, fevers, measles, smacks and slaps in childhood; degrading jobs with plenty of kicks and curses at thirteen or so; deceiving mistresses, foul diseases and unfaithful wives in manhood; and then, in old age, infirmities and death-agonies in workhouses or hospitals?\n\nAnd the future, when you came to think of it, was the same for all, and nobody with any sense would dream of envying anybody else. For the rich, though the setting was different, it was a case of the same passions, the same worries, the same sorrows, the same diseases \u2013 and also the same paltry pleasures, whether these were alcoholic, literary or carnal. There was even a vague compensation for every sort of suffering, a kind of rough justice that restored the balance of unhappiness between the classes, granting the poor greater resistance to physical ills that wreaked worse havoc on the feebler and thinner bodies of the rich.\n\nWhat madness it was to beget children, reflected Des Esseintes. And to think that the priestery, who had taken a vow of sterility, had carried inconsistency to the point of canonizing St Vincent de Paul because he saved innocent babes for useless torments!\n\nThanks to his odious precautions, the man had postponed for years to come the deaths of creatures devoid of thought or feeling, so that later, having acquired a little understanding and a far greater capacity for suffering, they could look into the future, could expect and dread that death whose very name had hitherto been unknown to them, could even, in some cases, call upon it to release them from the hateful life-sentence to which he had condemned them in virtue of an absurd theological code.\n\nAnd since the old man's death, his ideas had won universal acceptance; for instance, children abandoned by their mothers were given homes instead of being left to die quietly without knowing what was happening; and yet the life that was kept for them would grow harder and bleaker day by day. Similarly, under the pretext of encouraging liberty and progress, society had discovered yet another means of aggravating man's wretched lot, by dragging him from his home, rigging him out in a ridiculous costume, putting specially designed weapons into his hands and reducing him to the same degrading slavery from which the negroes were released out of pity \u2013 and all this to put him in a position to kill his neighbour without risking the scaffold, as ordinary murderers do who operate single-handed, without uniforms and with quieter, poorer weapons.\n\nWhat a peculiar age this was, Des Esseintes thought to himself, which, ostensibly in the interests of humanity, strove to perfect anaesthetics in order to do away with physical suffering, and at the same time concocted stimulants such as this to aggravate moral suffering!\n\nAh! if in the name of pity the futile business of procreation was ever to be abolished, the time had surely come to do it. But here again, the laws enacted by men like Portalis and Homais stood in the way, ferocious and unreasonable.\n\nJustice regarded as perfectly legitimate the tricks that were used to prevent conception; it was a recognized, acknowledged fact; there was never a couple in the land, no matter how well-to-do, that did not send its children to the wash or use devices that could be bought openly in the shops \u2013 devices nobody would ever dream of condemning. And yet, if these natural or mechanical subterfuges proved ineffectual, if the trickery failed and if to make good the failure recourse was had to more reliable methods, why then there were not prisons, jails or penitentiaries enough to accommodate the people convicted out of hand, and in all good faith, by other individuals who the same night, in the conjugal bed, used every trick they knew to avoid begetting brats of their own.\n\nIt followed that the fraud itself was not a crime, but that the attempt to make good its failure was.\n\nIn short, society regarded as a crime the act of killing a creature endowed with life; and yet expelling a foetus simply meant destroying an animal that was less developed, less alive, certainly less intelligent and less prepossessing, than a dog or a cat, which could be strangled at birth with impunity.\n\nIt should also be remarked, thought Des Esseintes, that to add to the justice of it all, it was not the unskilful operator \u2013 who generally beat a speedy retreat \u2013 but the woman in the case, the victim of his clumsiness, who paid the penalty for saving an innocent creature from the misery of life.\n\nAll the same, it was a fantastically prejudiced world that tried to outlaw operations so natural that the most primitive of men, the South Sea islander, was led to perform them by instinct alone.\n\nJust then Des Esseintes's man-servant interrupted these charitable reflections of his by bringing him the snack he had asked for on a silver-gilt salver. His gorge rose at the sight; he had not the courage to take even a bite at the bread, for his morbid appetite had deserted him. A dreadful feeling of debility came over him again, but he was forced to get to his feet; the sun was moving round and gradually encroaching on his patch of shadow, the heat becoming fiercer and more oppressive.\n\n'You see those children fighting in the road?' he said to the man. 'Well, throw the thing to them. And let's hope that the weaklings are badly mauled about, that they don't get so much as a crumb of bread, and that on top of it all they're soundly thrashed when they get home with their breeches torn and a couple of black eyes to boot. That'll give them a fore-taste of the sort of life they can expect!' And he went back into the house, where he sank limply into an armchair.\n\n'Still, I really must see if there isn't something I can eat,' he muttered \u2013 and he tried soaking a biscuit in a glass of old J. P. Cloete Constantia, of which he still had a few bottles in his cellar.\n\nThis wine, the colour of singed onion skins, and tasting of old malaga and port, but with a sugary bouquet all its own and an after-taste of grapes whose juices have been condensed and sublimated by burning suns, had often braced him up and even given new vigour to a stomach weakened by the fasting he was forced to practise; but this time the cordial, usually so helpful, failed to have any effect.\n\nNext, in the hope that an emollient might cool the hot irons that were burning his innards, he resorted to Nalifka, a Russian liqueur contained in a bottle covered with a dull gold glaze; but this unctuous, raspberry-flavoured syrup was just as ineffective. Alas, the time was long past when Des Esseintes, then enjoying comparatively good health, would get into a sledge he kept at home \u2013 this in the hottest period of the year \u2013 and sit there wrapped in furs that he pulled tightly round him, shivering to the best of his ability and saying through deliberately chattering teeth: 'What an icy wind! Why, it's freezing here, it's freezing!' \u2013 until he almost convinced himself that it really was cold.\n\nUnfortunately, now that his sufferings were real, these remedies were no longer of any avail.\n\nNor was it any use his having recourse to laudanum; instead of acting as a sedative, it irritated his nerves and thus robbed him of his sleep. At one time he had also resorted to opium and hashish in the hope of seeing visions, but these two drugs had only brought on vomiting and violent nervous disorders; he had been obliged to stop using them at once and, without the help of these crude stimulants, to ask his brain, alone and unaided, to carry him far away from everyday life into the land of dreams.\n\n'What a day!' he groaned as he mopped his neck, feeling what little strength was left in him melting away in fresh floods of perspiration. A feverish restlessness again prevented him from sitting still, so that once more he wandered from room to room, trying one chair after another. Finally, tired of walking round the house, he sank into his desk-chair, and resting his elbows on the desk, started idly and unconsciously playing with an astrolabe that was being used as a paper-weight on top of a pile of books and notes.\n\nHe had bought this instrument, which was made of engraved and gilded copper, of German workmanship and dating from the seventeenth century, in a second-hand dealer's in Paris, after a visit he had paid to the Cluny Museum, where he had stood for hours enraptured by a wonderful astrolabe of carved ivory, whose cabbalistic appearance had captivated him.\n\nThe paper-weight stirred up in him a whole swarm of memories. Set in motion by the sight of this little curio, his thoughts went from Fontenay to Paris, to the old curiosity shop where he had bought it, then back to the Thermes Museum; and he conjured up a mental picture of the ivory astrolabe while his eyes continued to dwell, though now unseeingly, on the copper astrolabe on his desk.\n\nThen, still in memory, he left the Museum and went for a stroll through the city streets, wandering along the Rue de Sommerard and the Boulevard Saint-Michel, turning off into the adjoining streets and stopping outside certain establishments whose multiplicity and peculiar appearance had often struck him.\n\nBeginning with an astrolabe, this mental excursion ended up in the low taverns of the Latin Quarter.\n\nHe remembered what a tremendous number of these places there were all along the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince and down the Od\u00e9on end of the Rue de Vaugirard; sometimes they stood cheek by jowl like the old _riddecks_ of the Rue du Canal-aux-Harengs at Antwerp, lined up along the pavement one after the other, all looking very much alike.\n\nThrough half-open doors and windows only partially obscured by coloured panes or curtains, he could recall catching glimpses of women walking up and down, dragging their feet and sticking their necks out like so many geese; others sitting dejectedly on benches were wearing their elbows out on marble-topped tables, lost in their thoughts and singing softly to themselves, with their heads in their hands; yet others would be swaying about in front of looking-glasses, patting with their fingertips the switches of hair they had just dressed; others again would be emptying purses with broken clasps of piles of silver and copper, and methodically arranging the money in little heaps.\n\nMost of them had heavy features, hoarse voices, pendulous breasts, and painted eyes, and all of them, like automata wound up at the same time with the same key, threw out the same invitations in the same tone of voice, flashed the same smiles, made the same odd remarks, the same peculiar comments.\n\nIdeas began to link up in Des Esseintes's mind, and he found himself coming to a definite conclusion, now that his memory had provided him, so to speak, with a bird's-eye view of these crowded taverns and streets.\n\nHe grasped the true significance of all these caf\u00e9s, realized that they corresponded to the state of mind of an entire generation and saw that they offered him a synthesis of the age.\n\nThe symptoms were indeed plain and undeniable; the licensed brothels were disappearing, and every time one of them closed its doors, a tavern opened in its place.\n\nThis diminution of official prostitution in favour of unofficial promiscuity was obviously to be accounted for by the incomprehensible illusions to which men are subject in affairs of the flesh.\n\nMonstrous as this might appear, the tavern satisfied an ideal.\n\nThe fact was that although the utilitarian tendencies handed down by heredity, and encouraged by the precocious discourtesies and constant incivilities of school life, had made the younger generation singularly boorish and also singularly cold and materialistic, it had nonetheless kept, deep down in its heart, a little old-fashioned sentimentality, a vague, stale, old-fashioned ideal of love.\n\nThe result was that nowadays, when its blood caught fire, it could not stomach just walking in, taking its pleasure, paying the bill and walking out again. This, in its eyes, was sheer bestiality, like a dog covering a bitch without any preamble; besides, a man's vanity obtained no sort of satisfaction in these houses of ill fame where there was no show of resistance, no semblance of victory, no hope of preferential treatment, no possibility even of obtaining liberal favours from a tradeswoman who measured out her caresses in proportion to the price paid. On the other hand, to court a girl in a tavern was to avoid wounding all these amorous susceptibilities, all these sentimental feelings. There were always several men after a girl like that, and those to whom she agreed, at a price, to grant a rendezvous, honestly imagined that they were the object of an honorary distinction, a rare favour.\n\nYet the staff of a tavern were every bit as stupid and mercenary, as base and depraved, as the staff of a brothel. Like the latter, they drank without being thirsty, laughed without being amused, drooled over the caresses of the filthiest workman and went for each other hammer and tongs at the slightest provocation. But in spite of everything, the young men of Paris had still not learnt that from the point of view of looks, dress and technique, the waitresses in these taverns were vastly inferior to the women cooped up in the luxurious sitting-rooms of licensed houses.\n\nLord, what fools they must be, Des Esseintes used to think to himself, these young chaps who hang around the beer-houses, because quite apart from their ridiculous illusions, they actually come to forget the risks involved in sampling shop-soiled goods of dubious quality, and to take no account of the money spent on a fixed number of drinks priced beforehand by the landlady, the time wasted in waiting for delivery of the goods, which are held back to raise the price, and the perpetual shillyshallying intended to start the money flowing and keep it flowing.\n\nThis idiotic sentimentality combined with ruthless commercialism clearly represented the dominant spirit of the age; these same men who would have gouged anybody's eyes out to make a few coppers, lost all their flair and shrewdness when it came to dealing with the shifty tavern girls who harried them without pity and fleeced them without mercy. The wheels of industry turned, and families cheated one another in the name of trade, only to let themselves be robbed of money by their sons, who in turn allowed themselves to be swindled by these women, who in the last resort were bled white by their own fancy men.\n\nOver the whole of Paris, from east to west and north to south, there stretched an unbroken network of confidence tricks, a chain of organized thefts acting one upon the other \u2013 and all because, instead of being served straight away, customers were kept waiting and left to cool their heels.\n\nThe fact was that human wisdom was essentially a matter of spinning things out, of saying no first and yes later; for the best way of handling men has always been to keep putting them off.\n\n'Ah, if only the same were true of my stomach!' sighed Des Esseintes, as he was suddenly doubled up with a spasm of pain that jolted his thoughts back to Fontenay from the distant regions they had been roaming.\n\n## CHAPTER 14\n\nThe next few days went by without too much trouble, thanks to various devices that were used to trick the stomach into acquiescence; but one morning the sauces which disguised the smell of fat and the aroma of blood rising from Des Esseintes's meat proved unacceptable in themselves, and he anxiously asked himself whether his already alarming weakness was not going to get worse and force him to keep to his bed. Then, all of a sudden, a gleam of light shone through his distress: he remembered that one of his friends who had been very ill some time before had succeeded, by using a patent digester, in checking his anaemia, halting the wasting process and keeping what little strength remained in him.\n\nHe sent his man-servant off to Paris to buy one of these precious instruments, and with the help of the manufacturer's directions, he was able to instruct his cook how to chop some roast beef up into little pieces, put it dry into the digester, add a slice of leek and one of carrot, then screw down the lid and leave the whole thing to boil in a double saucepan for four hours.\n\nAt the end of that time you pressed the juice out of the threads of meat, and you drank a spoonful of this muddy, salty liquid that was left at the bottom of the digester. Then you felt something slipping down like warm marrow-fat, with a soothing, velvety caress.\n\nThis meat extract put a stop to the pains and nausea caused by hunger, and even stimulated the stomach so that it no longer refused to take in a few spoonfuls of soup.\n\nThanks to the digester, Des Esseintes's nervous trouble got no worse, and he told himself:\n\n'At any rate, that's so much gained; now perhaps the temperature will drop and the heavens scatter a little ash over that abominably enervating sun. If that happens I'll be able to hang on till the first fogs and frosts without too much difficulty.'\n\nIn his present state of apathy and bored inactivity, his library, which he had been unable to finish rearranging, got on his nerves. Tied as he was to his chair, he was confronted all the time with his profane books, stacked higgledy-piggledy on their shelves, leaning against each other, propping each other up or lying flat on their sides like a pack of cards. This disorder shocked him all the more in that it formed such a contrast to the perfect order of his religious works, carefully lined up on parade along the walls.\n\nHe tried to remedy this confusion, but after ten minutes' work he was bathed in sweat. The effort was obviously too much for him; utterly exhausted, he lay down on a couch and rang for his servant.\n\nFollowing his instructions, the old man set to work, bringing him the books one by one so that he could examine each and say where it was to go.\n\nThis job did not take long, for Des Esseintes's library contained only a very limited number of contemporary lay works.\n\nBy dint of passing them through the critical apparatus of his mind, just as a metal worker passes strips of metal through a steel drawing-machine, from which they emerge thin and light, reduced to almost invisible threads, he had found in the end that none of his books could stand up to this sort of treatment, that none was sufficiently hardened to go through the next process, the reading-mill. Trying to eliminate the inferior works, he had in fact curtailed and practically sterilized his pleasure in reading, emphasizing more than ever the irremediable conflict between his ideas and those of the world into which chance had ordained that he should be born. Things had now got to the point where he found it impossible to discover a book that satisfied his secret longings; indeed, he even began to lose his admiration for the very works that had undoubtedly helped to sharpen his mind and make it so subtle and critical.\n\nYet his literary opinions had started from a very simple point of view. For him, there were no such things as schools; the only thing that mattered to him was the writer's personality, and the only thing that interested him was the working of the writer's brain, no matter what subject he was tackling. Unfortunately this criterion of appreciation, so obviously just, was practically impossible to apply, for the simple reason that, however much a reader wants to rid himself of prejudice and refrain from passion, he naturally prefers those works which correspond most intimately with his own personality, and ends by relegating all the rest to limbo.\n\nThis process of selection had taken place slowly in his case. At one time he had worshipped the great Balzac, but as his constitution had become unbalanced and his nerves had gained the upper hand, so his tastes had been modified and his preferences changed.\n\nSoon indeed, and this although he realized how unjust he was being to the prodigious author of the _Com\u00e9die humaine_ , he had given up so much as opening his books, put off by their robust health; other aspirations stirred him now, that were in a way almost indefinable.\n\nBy diligent self-examination, however, he realized first of all that to attract him a book had to have that quality of strangeness that Edgar Allan Poe called for; but he was inclined to venture further along this road, and to insist on Byzantine flowers of thought and deliquescent complexities of style; he demanded a disquieting vagueness that would give him scope for dreaming until he decided to make it still vaguer or more definite, according to the way he felt at the time. He wanted, in short, a work of art both for what it was in itself and for what it allowed him to bestow on it; he wanted to go along with it and on it, as if supported by a friend or carried by a vehicle, into a sphere where sublimated sensations would arouse within him an unexpected commotion, the causes of which he would strive patiently and even vainly to analyse.\n\nLastly, since leaving Paris, he had withdrawn further and further from reality and above all from the society of his day, which he regarded with ever-growing horror; this hatred he felt had inevitably affected his literary and artistic tastes, so that he shunned as far as possible pictures and books whose subjects were confined to modern life.\n\nThe result was that, losing the faculty of admiring beauty in whatever guise it appeared, he now preferred, among Flaubert's works, _La Tentation de Saint Antoine_ to _L'Education sentimentale_ ; among Goncourt's works, _La Faustin_ to _Germinie Lacerteux_ ; among Zola's works, _La Faute de l'Abb\u00e9 Mouret_ to _L'Assommoir_.\n\nThis seemed to him a logical point of view; these books, not as topical of course but just as stirring and human as the others, let him penetrate further and deeper into the personalities of their authors, who revealed with greater frankness their most mysterious impulses, while they lifted him, too, higher than the rest, out of the trivial existence of which he was so heartily sick.\n\nAnd then, reading these works, he could enter into complete intellectual fellowship with the writers who had conceived them, because at the moment of conception those writers had been in a state of mind analogous to his own.\n\nThe fact is that when the period in which a man of talent is condemned to live is dull and stupid, the artist is haunted, perhaps unknown to himself, by a nostalgic yearning for another age.\n\nUnable to attune himself, except at rare intervals, to his environment, and no longer finding in the examination of that environment and the creatures who endure it sufficient pleasures of observation and analysis to divert him, he is aware of the birth and development in himself of unusual phenomena. Vague migratory longings spring up which find fulfilment in reflection and study. Instincts, sensations, inclinations bequeathed to him by heredity awake, take shape and assert themselves with imperious authority. He recalls memories of people and things he has never known personally, and there comes a time when he bursts out of the prison of his century and roams about at liberty in another period, with which, as a crowning illusion, he imagines he would have been more in accord.\n\nIn some cases there is a return to past ages, to vanished civilizations, to dead centuries; in others there is a pursuit of dream and fantasy, a more or less vivid vision of a future whose image reproduces, unconsciously and as a result of atavism, that of past epochs.\n\nIn Flaubert's case, there was a series of vast, imposing scenes, grandiose pageantries of barbaric splendour in which there participated creatures delicate and sensitive, mysterious and proud, women cursed, in all the perfection of their beauty, with suffering souls, in the depths of which he discerned atrocious delusions, insane aspirations, born of the disgust they already felt for the dreadful mediocrity of the pleasures awaiting them.\n\nThe personality of the great writer was revealed in all its splendour in those incomparable pages of _La Tentation de Saint Antoine_ and _Salammb\u00f4_ in which, leaving our petty modern civilization far behind, he conjured up the Asiatic glories of distant epochs, their mystic ardours and doldrums, the aberrations resulting from their idleness, the brutalities arising from their boredom \u2013 that oppressive boredom which emanates from opulence and prayer even before their pleasures have been fully enjoyed.\n\nWith Goncourt it was a case of nostalgia for the eighteenth century, a longing to return to the elegant graces of a society that had vanished for ever. The gigantic backcloth of seas dashing against great backwaters, of deserts stretching away to infinity under blazing skies, found no place in his nostalgic masterpiece, which confined itself, within the precincts of an aristocratic park, to a boudoir warm with the voluptuous effluvia of a woman with a weary smile, a pouting expression and pensive, brooding eyes. Nor was the spirit with which he animated his characters the same spirit Flaubert breathed into his creations, a spirit revolted in advance by the inexorable certainty that no new happiness was possible; it was rather a spirit revolted after the event, by bitter experience, at the thought of all the fruitless efforts it had made to invent new spiritual relationships and to introduce a little variety into the immemorial pleasure that is repeated down the ages in the satisfaction, more or less ingeniously obtained, of lusting couples.\n\nAlthough she lived in the late nineteenth century and was physically and effectively a modern, by virtue of ancestral influences La Faustin was a creature of the eighteenth century, sharing to the full its spiritual perversity, its cerebral lassitude, its sensual satiety.\n\nThis book of Edmond de Goncourt's was one of Des Esseintes's favourites, for the dream-inducing suggestiveness he wanted abounded in this work, where beneath the printed line lurked another line visible only to the soul, indicated by an epithet that opened up vast vistas of passion, by a reticence that hinted at spiritual infinities no ordinary idiom could compass. The idiom used in this book was quite different from the language of Flaubert, inimitable in its magnificence; this style was penetrating and sickly, tense and subtle, careful to record the intangible impression that affects the senses and produces feeling, and skilled in modulating the complicated nuances of an epoch that was itself extraordinarily complex. It was, in fact, the sort of style that is indispensable to decrepit civilizations which, in order to express their needs, and to whatever age they may belong, require new acceptations, new uses, new forms both of word and phrase.\n\nIn Rome, expiring paganism had modified its prosody and transmuted its language through Ausonius, through Claudian, above all through Rutilius, whose style, careful and scrupulous, sensuous and sonorous, presented an obvious analogy with the Goncourt brothers' style, especially when describing light and shade and colour.\n\nIn Paris, a phenomenon unique in literary history had come about; the moribund society of the eighteenth century, though it had been well provided with painters, sculptors, musicians and architects, all familiar with its tastes and imbued with its beliefs, had failed to produce a genuine writer capable of rendering its dying graces or manifesting the essence of its feverish pleasures, that were soon to be so cruelly expiated. It had had to wait for Goncourt, whose personality was made up of memories and regrets made still more poignant by the distressing spectacle of the intellectual poverty and base aspirations of his time, to resuscitate, not only in his historical studies but also in a nostalgic work like _La Faustin_ , the very soul of the period, and to embody its neurotic charms in this actress, so painfully eager to torment her heart and torture her brain in order to savour to the point of exhaustion the cruel revulsives of love and art.\n\nIn Zola the longing for some other existence took a different form. In him there was no desire to migrate to vanished civilizations, to worlds lost in the darkness of time; his sturdy, powerful temperament, enamoured of the luxuriance of life, of full-blooded vigour, of moral stamina, alienated him from the artificial graces and the painted pallors of the eighteenth century, as also from the hieratic pomp, the brutal ferocity and the effeminate, ambiguous dreams of the ancient East. On the day when he too had been afflicted with this longing, this craving which in fact is poetry itself, to fly far away from the contemporary society he was studying, he had fled to an idyllic region where the sap boiled in the sunshine; he had dreamt of fantastic heavenly copulations, of long earthly ecstasies, of fertilizing showers of pollen falling into the palpitating genitals of flowers; he had arrived at a gigantic pantheism, and with the Garden of Eden in which he placed his Adam and Eve he had created, perhaps unconsciously, a prodigious Hindu poem, singing the glories of the flesh, extolling, in a style whose broad patches of crude colour had something of the weird brilliance of Indian paintings, living animate matter, which by its own frenzied procreation revealed to man and woman the forbidden fruit of love, its suffocating spasms, its instinctive caresses, its natural postures.\n\nWith Baudelaire, these three masters had captured and moulded Des Esseintes's imagination more than any others; but through rereading them until he was saturated with their works and knew them completely by heart, he had eventually been obliged, to make it possible to absorb them again, to try and forget them, to leave them for a while undisturbed on his shelves.\n\nAccordingly, he scarcely looked at them when his man handed them to him. He confined himself to pointing out where they should go, taking care to see that they were arranged in an orderly fashion and given plenty of elbow-room.\n\nNext the man brought him another series of books which caused him rather more trouble. These were works of which he had gradually grown fonder, works which by their very defects provided a welcome change from the perfect productions of greater writers. Here again, the process of elimination had led Des Esseintes to search through pages of uninspiring matter for odd sentences which would give him a shock as they discharged their electricity in a medium that seemed at first to be non-conducting.\n\nImperfection itself pleased him, provided it was neither base nor parasitic, and it may be that there was a certain amount of truth in his theory that the minor writer of the decadence, the writer who is incomplete but nonetheless individual, distils a balm more irritant, more sudorific, more acid than the author of the same period who is truly great and truly perfect. In his opinion, it was in their confused efforts that you could find the most exalted flights of sensibility, the most morbid caprices of psychology, the most extravagant aberrations of language called upon in vain to control and repress the effervescent salts of ideas and feelings.\n\nIt was therefore inevitable that, after the masters, he should turn to certain minor writers whom he found all the more attractive and endearing by reason of the contempt in which they were held by a public incapable of understanding them.\n\nOne of these writers, Paul Verlaine, had made his d\u00e9but a good many years before with a volume of verse, _Po\u00e8mes saturniens_ , a work which might almost be described as feeble, in which pastiches of Leconte de Lisle rubbed shoulders with exercises in romantic rhetoric, but which already revealed in certain pieces, such as the sonnet _Mon R\u00eave familier_ , the real personality of the poet.\n\nLooking for his antecedents, Des Esseintes discovered underlying the unsureness of these early efforts a talent already profoundly marked by Baudelaire, whose influence had since become more obvious, though the borrowings Verlaine had made from his generous master had never amounted to flagrant thefts.\n\nMoreover, some of his later books, _La Bonne Chanson, F\u00eates galantes, Romances sans paroles_ and finally his last volume, _Sagesse_ , contained poems in which a writer of originality was revealed, standing out against the mass of his fellow authors.\n\nFurnished with rhymes provided by the tenses of verbs, and sometimes even by lengthy adverbs preceded by a monosyllable, from which they fell like a heavy cascade of water dropping from a stone ledge, his lines, divided by unlikely caesuras, were often singularly obscure, with their daring ellipses and curious solecisms that were yet not without a certain grace.\n\nHandling metre better than anyone, he had tried to rejuvenate the stereotyped forms of poetry, the sonnet for example, which he turned upside down, like those Japanese fish in coloured earthenware that are stood gills down on their pedestals, or which he perverted by coupling only masculine rhymes, for which he seemed to have a special affection. Similarly and not infrequently he had adopted a weird form such as a stanza of three lines with the middle one left unrhymed, or a mono-rhyme tercet followed by a single line serving as a refrain and echoing itself, like the line 'Dansons la gigue' in the poem _Streets_. He had used other rhythms too whose faint beat could be only half-heard behind the stanzas, like the muffled sound of a bell.\n\nBut his originality lay above all in his ability to communicate deliciously vague confidences in a whisper in the twilight. He alone had possessed the secret of hinting at certain strange spiritual aspirations, of whispering certain thoughts, of murmuring certain confessions, so softly, so quietly, so haltingly that the ear that caught them was left hesitating, and passed on to the soul a languor made more pronounced by the vagueness of these words that were guessed at rather than heard. The essence of Verlaine's poetry could be found in those wonderful lines from his _F\u00eates galantes_ :\n\n_Le soir tombait, un soir \u00e9quivoque d'automne:  \nLes belles se pendant r\u00eaveuses \u00e0 nos bras,  \nDirent alors des mots si sp\u00e9cieux, tout bas,  \nQue notre \u00e2me depuis ce temps tremble et s'\u00e9tonne._\n\nThis was not the vast horizon revealed through the portals of Baudelaire's unforgettable poetry, but rather a glimpse of a moonlit scene, a more limited, intimate view peculiar to the author who, incidentally, had formulated his poetic method in a few lines of which Des Esseintes was particularly fond:\n\n_Car nous voulons la nuance encore,  \nPas la couleur, rien que la nuance  \n...  \nEt tout le reste est litt\u00e9rature_.\n\nDes Esseintes had gladly followed him through all his varied works. After the publication of his _Romances sans paroles_ , distributed by the printing-office of a newspaper at Sens, Verlaine had written nothing for quite a time; then, in charming verses that echoed the gentle, naive accents of Villon, he had reappeared, singing the Virgin's praises, 'far from our days of carnal spirit and weary flesh'. Often Des Esseintes would reread this book, _Sagesse_ , allowing the poems it contained to inspire in him secret reveries, impossible dreams of an occult passion for a Byzantine Madonna able to change at a given moment into a Cydalisa who had strayed by accident into the nineteenth century; she was so mysterious and so alluring that it was impossible to tell whether she was longing to indulge in depravities so monstrous that, once accomplished they would become irresistible, or whether she herself was soaring heavenwards in an immaculate dream, in which the adoration of the soul would float about her in a love for ever unconfessed, for ever pure.\n\nThere were other poets, too, who could still excite his interest and admiration. One of these was Tristan Corbi\u00e8re, who in 1873, amid general indifference, had published a fantastically eccentric book of verse entitled _Les Amours jaunes_. Des Esseintes, who, in his hatred of all that was trite and vulgar, would have welcomed the most outrageous follies, the most bizarre extravagances, spent many happy hours with this book in which droll humour was combined with turbulent energy, and in which lines of disconcerting brilliance occurred in poems of wonderful obscurity. There were the litanies in his _Sommeil_ , for instance, where he described sleep at one point as the\n\n_Obsc\u00e8ne confesseur des d\u00e9votes mort-n\u00e9es_.\n\nIt was scarcely French; the poet was talking 'pidgin', using a telegram idiom, suppressing far too many verbs, trying to be waggish and indulging in cheap commercial-traveller jokes; but then, out of this jungle of comical conceits and smirking witticisms there would suddenly rise a sharp cry of pain, like the sound of a violoncello string breaking. What is more, in this rugged, arid, utterly fleshless style, bristling with unusual terms and unexpected neologisms, there sparkled and flashed many a felicitous expression, many a stray line that had lost its rhyme but was none the less superb. Finally, to say nothing of his _Po\u00e8mes parisiens_ , from which Des Esseintes used to quote this profound definition of woman:\n\n_\u00c9ternel f\u00e9minin de l'\u00e9ternel jocrisse,_\n\nTristan Corbi\u00e8re had, in a style of almost incredible concision, sung of the seas of Brittany, the sailors' seraglios, the Pardon of St Anne, and had even attained the eloquence of passionate hatred in the insults he heaped, when speaking of the camp at Conlie, on the individuals whom he described as 'mountebanks of the Fourth of September'.\n\nThe gamey flavour which Des Esseintes loved, and which was offered him by this poet of the condensed epithet and the perpetually suspect charm, he found also in another poet, Th\u00e9odore Hannon, a disciple of Baudelaire and Gautier who was actuated by a very special understanding of studied elegances and factitious pleasures.\n\nUnlike Verlaine, who was directly descended from Baudelaire, without any cross-breeding, especially in his psychology, in the sophistical slant of his thought, in the skilled distillation of his feeling, Th\u00e9odore Hannon's kinship with the master could be seen chiefly in the plastic side of his poetry, in his external view of people and things.\n\nHis delightful corruptness corresponded with Des Esseintes's tastes, and when it was foggy or raining the latter would often shut himself up in the retreat imagined by this poet and intoxicate his eyes with the shimmer of his fabrics, with the sparkle of his jewels, with all his exclusively material luxuries, which helped to excite his brain and rose like cantharides in a cloud of warm incense towards a Brussels idol with a painted face and a belly tanned with perfumes.\n\nWith the exception of these authors and of St\u00e9phane Mallarm\u00e9, whom he instructed his man to put on one side, to be set in a class apart, Des Esseintes was only very moderately drawn to the poets.\n\nIn spite of his magnificent formal qualities, in spite of the imposing majesty of his verse, which had such a splendid air that even Hugo's hexameters seemed dull and drab in comparison, Leconte de Lisle could now no longer satisfy him. The ancient world which Flaubert had resuscitated with such marvellous success remained cold and lifeless in his hands. Nothing stirred in his poetry; it was all a fa\u00e7ade with, most of the time, not a single idea to prop it up. There was no life in these empty poems, and their frigid mythologies ended up by repelling him.\n\nSimilarly, after cherishing him for many years, Des Esseintes was beginning to lose interest in Gautier's work; his admiration for the incomparable painter of word-pictures that Gautier was had recently been diminishing day by day, so that now he was more astonished than delighted by his almost apathetic descriptions. Outside objects had made a lasting impression on his remarkably perceptive eye, but that impression had become localized, had failed to penetrate any further into brain or body; like a marvellous reflector, he had always confined himself to sending back the image of his surroundings with impersonal precision.\n\nOf course, Des Esseintes still appreciated the works of these two poets, in the same way that he appreciated rare jewels or precious substances; but none of the variations of these brilliant instrumentalists could now enrapture any more, for none possessed the makings of a dream, none opened up, at least for him, one of those lively vistas that enabled him to speed the weary flight of the hours.\n\nHe used to put their books down feeling hungry and unsatisfied, and the same was true of Hugo's. The Oriental, patriarchal aspect was too trite and hollow to retain his interest, while the nursery-maidish, grandfatherly pose annoyed him intensely. It was not until he came to the _Chansons de srues et des bois_ that he could unreservedly enjoy the impeccable jugglery of Hugo's prosody; and even then, he would gladly have given all these _tours de force_ for a new work of Baudelaire's of the same quality as the old, for the latter was without a doubt almost the only author whose verses, underneath their splendid shell, contained a balsamic and nutritious kernel.\n\nJumping from one extreme to the other, from form bereft of ideas to ideas bereft of form, left Des Esseintes just as circumspect and critical. The psychological labyrinths of Stendhal and the analytical amplifications of Duranty aroused his interest, but their arid, colourless, bureaucratic style, their utterly commonplace prose, fit for nothing better than the ignoble industry of the stage, repelled him. Besides, the most interesting of their delicate analytical operations were performed, when all was said and done, on brains fired by passions that no longer moved him. Little he cared about ordinary emotions or common associations of ideas, now that his mind had grown so overstocked and had no room for anything but superfine sensations, religious doubts and sensual anxieties.\n\nIn order to enjoy a literature that united, just as he wished, an incisive style and a subtle, feline skill in analysis, he had to wait till he reached that master of induction, the wise and wonderful Edgar Allan Poe, for whom his admiration had not suffered in the least from rereading his work.\n\nBetter perhaps than anyone else, Poe possessed those intimate affinities that could satisfy the requirements of Des Esseintes's mind.\n\nIf Baudelaire had made out among the hieroglyphics of the soul the critical age of thought and feeling, it was Poe who, in the sphere of morbid psychology, had carried out the closest scrutiny of the will.\n\nIn literature he had been the first, under the emblematic title _The Imp of the Perverse_ , to study those irresistible impulses which the will submits to without fully understanding them, and which cerebral pathology can now explain with a fair degree of certainty; he had been the first again, if not to point out, at least to make known the depressing influence fear has on the will, which it affects in the same way as anaesthetics which paralyse the senses and curare which cripples the motory nerves. It was on this last subject, this lethargy of the will, that he had concentrated his studies, analysing the effects of this moral poison and indicating the symptoms of its progress \u2013 mental disturbances beginning with anxiety, developing into anguish and finally culminating in a terror that stupefies the faculties of volition, yet without the intellect, however badly shaken it may be, giving way.\n\nAs for death, which the dramatists had so grossly abused, he had in a way given it a sharper edge, a new look, by introducing into it an algebraic and superhuman element; though to tell the truth, it was not so much the physical agony of the dying he described as the moral agony of the survivor, haunted beside the death-bed by the monstrous hallucinations engendered by grief and fatigue. With awful fascination he dwelt on the effects of terror, on the failures of will-power, and discussed them with clinical objectivity, making the reader's flesh creep, his throat contract, his mouth go dry at the recital of these mechanically devised nightmares of a fevered brain.\n\nConvulsed by hereditary neuroses, maddened by moral choreas, his characters lived on their nerves; his women, his Morellas and Ligeias, possessed vast learning steeped in the mists of German philosophy and in the cabbalistic mysteries of the ancient East, and all of them had the inert, boyish breasts of angels, all were, so to speak, unsexed.\n\nBaudelaire and Poe, whose two minds had often been compared on account of their common poetic inspiration and the penchant they shared for the examination of mental diseases, differed radically in the emotional concepts which played a large part in their works \u2013 Baudelaire with his thirsty, ruthless passion, whose disgusted cruelty recalled the tortures of the Inquisition, and Poe with his chaste, ethereal amours, in which the senses had no share and only the brain was roused, followed by none of the lower organs, which, if they existed at all, remained for ever frozen and virgin.\n\nThis cerebral clinic where, vivisecting in a stifling atmosphere, this spiritual surgeon became, as soon as his attention wandered, the prey of his imagination, which sprayed about him, like delicious miasmas, angelic, dream-like apparitions, was for Des Esseintes a source of indefatigable conjectures; but now that his neurosis had grown worse, there were days when reading these works exhausted him, when it left him with his hands trembling and his ears cocked, overcome, like the unfortunate Usher, by an unreasoning fear, an unspoken terror.\n\nHe therefore had to hold himself in check and only rarely indulge in these formidable elixirs, just as he could no longer visit with impunity his red entrance-hall and feast his eyes on the horrors of Odilon Redon and the tortures of Jan Luyken.\n\nAnd yet, when he was in this frame of mind, almost anything he read seemed insipid after these terrible philtres imported from America. He would therefore turn to Villiers de I'Isle-Adam, in whose scattered writings he discovered observations just as unorthodox, vibrations just as spasmodic, but which, except perhaps in _Claire Lenoir_ , did not convey such an overwhelming sense of horror.\n\nPublished in 1867 in the _Revue des lettres et des arts_ , this _Claire Lenoir_ was the first of a series of stories linked together by the generic title of _Histoires moroses_. Against a background of abstruse speculations borrowed from old Hegel, there moved two deranged individuals, a Doctor Tribulat Bonhomet who was pompous and puerile, and a Claire Lenoir who was droll and sinister, with blue spectacles as big and round as five-franc pieces covering her almost lifeless eyes.\n\nThis story concerned a commonplace case of adultery, but ended on a note of indescribable terror when Bonhomet, uncovering the pupils of Claire's eyes as she lay on her death-bed, and probing them with monstrous instruments, saw clearly reflected on the retina a picture of the husband brandishing at arm's length the severed head of the lover and, like a Kanaka, howling a triumphant war-chant.\n\nBased on the more or less valid observation that, until decomposition sets in, the eyes of certain animals, oxen for instance, preserve like photographic plates the image of the people and things lying at the moment of death within the range of their last look, the tale obviously owed a great deal to those of Edgar Allan Poe, from which it derived its wealth of punctilious detail and its horrific atmosphere.\n\nThe same was true of _L'Intersigne_ , which had later been incorporated in the _Contes cruels_ , a collection of stories of indisputable talent which also included _V\u00e9ra_ , a tale Des Esseintes regarded as a little masterpiece.\n\nHere the hallucination was endowed with an exquisite tenderness; there was nothing here of the American author's gloomy mirages, but a well-nigh heavenly vision of sweetness and warmth, which in an identical style formed the antithesis of Poe's Beatrices and Ligeias, those pale, unhappy phantoms engendered by the inexorable nightmare of black opium.\n\nThis story too brought into play the operations of the will, but it no longer showed it undermined and brought low by fear; on the contrary, it studied its intoxication under the influence of a conviction which had become an obsession, and it also demonstrated its power, which was so great that it could saturate the atmosphere and impose its beliefs on surrounding objects.\n\nAnother book of Villiers', _Isis_ , he considered remarkable for different reasons. The philosophical lumber that littered _Claire Lenoir_ also cluttered up this book, which contained an incredible hotch-potch of vague, verbose observations on the one hand and reminiscences of hoary melodramas on the other \u2013 oubliettes, daggers, rope-ladders, in fact all the romantic bric-\u00e0brac that would reappear, looking just as old-fashioned, in Villiers' _El\u0113n_ and _Morgane_ , long-forgotten works published by a Monsieur Francisque Guyon, an obscure little printer in Saint-Brieuc.\n\nThe heroine of this book, a Marquise Tullia Fabriana, who was supposed to have assimilated the Chaldean learning of Poe's women and the diplomatic sagacity of Stendhal's Sanseverina-Taxis, not content with all this, had also assumed the enigmatic expression of a Bradamante crossed with an antique Circe. These incompatible mixtures gave rise to a smoky vapour in which philosophical and literary influences jostled each other around, without managing to sort themselves out in the author's mind by the time he began writing the prolegomena to this work, which was intended to fill no less than seven volumes.\n\nBut there was another side to Villiers' personality, altogether clearer and sharper, marked by grim humour and ferocious banter; when this side was uppermost, the result was not one of Poe's paradoxical mystifications, but a lugubriously comic jeering similar to Swift's bitter raillery. A whole series of tales, _Les Demoiselles de Bienfil\u00e2tre, L'Affichage c\u00e9leste, La Machine \u00e0 gloire_ and _Le plus beau d\u00eener du monde_ , revealed a singularly inventive and satirical sense of humour. All the filthiness of contemporary utilitarian ideas, all the money-grubbing ignominy of the age were glorified in stories whose pungent irony sent Des Esseintes into raptures of delight.\n\nIn this realm of biting, poker-faced satire, no other book existed in France. The next best thing was a story by Charles Cros, _La Science de l'amour_ , originally published in the _Revue du Monde Nouveau_ , which was calculated to astonish the reader with its chemical extravagances, its tight-lipped humour, its icily comic observations; but the pleasure it gave was only relative, for in execution it was fatally defective. Villiers' style, solid, colourful, often original, had disappeared, to be supplanted by a sort of sausage-meat scraped from the table of some literary pork-butcher.\n\n'Lord, how few books there are that are worth reading again!' sighed Des Esseintes, watching his man as he climbed down the step-ladder he had been perched on and stood to one side to let his master have a clear view of all the bookshelves.\n\nDes Esseintes gave a nod of approval. There were now only two thin booklets left on the table. Dismissing the old man with a wave of his hand, he began looking through one of these, comprised of a few pages bound in onager-skin that had been glazed under a hydraulic press, dappled in water-colour with silver clouds and provided with end-papers of old lampas, the floral pattern of which, now rather dim with age, had that faded charm which Mallarm\u00e9 extolled in a truly delightful poem.\n\nThese pages, nine in all, had been taken out of unique copies of the first two _Parnasses_ , printed on parchment, and preceded by a title-page bearing the words: _Quelques vers de Mallarm\u00e9_ , executed by a remarkable calligrapher in uncial letters, coloured and picked out, like those in ancient manuscripts, with specks of gold.\n\nAmong the eleven pieces brought together between these covers, a few _Les Fen\u00eatres, L'\u00c9 pilogue_ and _Azur_ , he found extremely attractive, but there was one in particular, a fragment of _H\u00e9rodiade_ , that seemed to lay a magic spell on him at certain times.\n\nOften of an evening, sitting in the dim light his lamp shed over the silent room, he had imagined he felt her brush past him \u2013 that same Herodias who in Gustave Moreau's picture had withdrawn into the advancing shadows, so that nothing could be seen but the vague shape of a white statue in the midst of a feebly glowing brazier of jewels.\n\nThe darkness hid the blood, dimmed the bright colours and gleaming gold, enveloped the far corners of the temple in gloom, concealed the minor actors in the criminal drama where they stood wrapped in their dark garments and, sparing only the white patches in the water-colour, drew the woman from the scabbard of her jewels and emphasized her nakedness.\n\nHis eyes were irresistibly drawn towards her, following the familiar outlines of her body until she came to life again before him, bringing to his lips those sweet, strange words that Mallarm\u00e9 puts into her mouth:\n\n_...O miroir!  \nEau froide par l'ennui dans ton cadre gel\u00e9e  \nQue de fois et pendant les heures, d\u00e9sol\u00e9e  \nDes songes et cherchant mes souvenirs qui sont  \nComme des feuilles sous ta glace au trou profond,  \nJe m'apparus en toi comme une ombre lointaine,  \nMais, horreur! des soirs, dans ta s\u00e9v\u00e8re fontain\u00e9,  \nJ'ai de mon r\u00eave \u00e9pars connu la nudit\u00e9!_\n\nHe loved these verses as he loved all the works of this poet who, in an age of universal suffrage and a time of commercial greed, lived outside the world of letters, sheltered from the raging folly all around him by his lofty scorn; taking pleasure, far from society, in the caprices of the mind and the visions of his brain; refining upon thoughts that were already subtle enough, grafting Byzantine niceties on them, perpetuating them in deductions that were barely hinted at and loosely linked by an imperceptible thread.\n\nThese precious, interwoven ideas he knotted together with an adhesive style, a unique, hermetic language, full of contracted phrases, elliptical constructions, audacious tropes.\n\nSensitive to the remotest affinities, he would often use a term that by analogy suggested at once form, scent, colour, quality and brilliance, to indicate a creature or thing to which he would have had to attach a host of different epithets in order to bring out all its various aspects and qualities, if it had merely been referred to by its technical name. By this means he managed to do away with the formal statement of a comparison that the reader's mind made by itself as soon as it had understood the symbol, and he avoided dispersing the reader's attention over all the several qualities that a row of adjectives would have presented one by one, concentrating it instead on a single word, a single entity, producing, as in the case of a picture, a unique and comprehensive impression, an overall view.\n\nThe result was a wonderfully condensed style, an essence of literature, a sublimate of art. It was a style that Mallarm\u00e9 had first employed only sparingly in his earliest works, and then used openly and audaciously in a piece he wrote on Th\u00e9ophile Gautier and in _L'Apr\u00e8s-midi d'un faune_ , an eclogue in which the subtleties of sensual pleasure were unfolded in mysterious, tender verse, suddenly interrupted by this bestial, frenzied cry of the faun:\n\n_Alors m'\u00e9veillerai-je \u00e0 la ferveur premi\u00e8re,  \nDroit et seul sous un flot antique de lumi\u00e8re,  \nLys! et l'un de vous tous pour l'ing\u00e9nuit\u00e9._\n\nThis last line, which with the monosyllable _Lys!_ carried over from the previous line, conjured up a picture of something tall, white and rigid, and the meaning of which was made even clearer by the choice of the noun _ing\u00e9nuit\u00e9_ to provide the rhyme, expressed in an allegorical manner and in a single word the passion, the effervescence, the momentary excitement of the virgin faun, maddened with desire by the sight of the nymphs.\n\nIn this extraordinary poem, new and surprising images occurred in almost every line when the poet came to describe the longings and regrets of the goat-footed god, standing on the edge of the swamp and looking at the clumps of rushes that still retained an ephemeral impression of the rounded forms of the naiads who had rested there.\n\nDes Esseintes also derived a certain perverse pleasure from handling this minute volume, whose covers, made of Japanese felt as white as curdled milk, were fastened with two silk cords, one China pink, the other black.\n\nConcealed behind the covers, the black ribbon met the pink ribbon, which was busy adding a note of silken luxury, a suggestion of modern Japanese rouge, a hint of eroticism, to the antique whiteness, the virginal pallor of the book, and embraced it, joining together in a dainty bow its own sombre hue and the other's lighter colour, and thereby giving a discreet intimation, a vague warning, of the melancholy regrets that follow the appeasement of sexual desire, the abatement of sensual frenzy.\n\nDes Esseintes put _L'Apr\u00e8s-midi d'un faune_ back on the table and began glancing through another slim volume which he had had printed for his personal pleasure \u2013 an anthology of prose poetry, a little chapel dedicated to Baudelaire and opening on to the cathedral square of his poems.\n\nThis anthology included selected passages from the _Gaspard de la nuit_ of that whimsical author Aloysius Bertrand, who applied Leonardo da Vinci's methods to prose and painted with his metal oxides a series of little pictures whose brilliant colours shine like bright enamels. To these Des Esseintes had added Villiers' _Vox populi_ , a superb piece struck in a style of gold with the effigies of Flaubert and Leconte de Lisle, and a few extracts from that dainty _Livre de jade_ whose exotic perfume of ginseng and tea is mingled with the fresh fragrance of the moonlit waters that ripple through the book from cover to cover.\n\nBut this was not all. The collection also contained sundry pieces rescued from extinct reviews: _Le D\u00e9mon de l'analogie, La Pipe, Le Pauvre Enfant p\u00e2le, Le Spectacle interrompu, Le Ph\u00e9nom\u00e8ne futur_ and _above all Plainte d'automne_ and _Frisson d'hiver._ These were Mallarm\u00e9's masterpieces and also ranked among the masterpieces of prose poetry, for they combined a style so magnificently contrived than in itself it was as soothing as a melancholy incantation, an intoxicating melody, with irresistibly suggestive thoughts, the soul-throbs of a sensitive artist whose quivering nerves vibrate with an intensity that fills you with painful ecstasy.\n\nOf all forms of literature, the prose poem was Des Esseintes's favourite. Handled by an alchemist of genius it should, he maintained, contain within its small compass and in concentrated form the substance of a novel, while dispensing with the latter's long-winded analyses and superfluous descriptions. Many were the times that Des Esseintes had pondered over the fascinating problem of writing a novel concentrated in a few sentences and yet comprising the cohobated juice of the hundreds of pages always taken up in describing the setting, drawing the characters and piling up useful observations and incidental details. The words chosen for a work of this sort would be so unalterable that they would take the place of all the others; every adjective would be sited with such ingenuity and finality that it could never be legally evicted, and would open up such wide vistas that the reader could muse on its meaning, at once precise and multiple, for weeks on end, and also ascertain the present, reconstruct the past and divine the future of the characters in the light of this one epithet.\n\nThe novel, thus conceived, thus condensed in a page or two, would become an intellectual communion between a hieratic writer and an ideal reader, a spiritual collaboration between a dozen persons of superior intelligence scattered across the world, an aesthetic treat available to none but the most discerning.\n\nIn short, the prose poem represented in Des Esseintes's eyes the dry juice, the osmazome of literature, the essential oil of art.\n\nThis succulent extract concentrated in a single drop could already be found in Baudelaire, and also in those poems of Mallarm\u00e9's that he savoured with such rare delight.\n\nWhen he had closed his anthology, the last book in his library, Des Esseintes told himself that in all probability he would never add another to his collection.\n\nThe truth of the matter was that the decadence of French literature, a literature attacked by organic diseases, weakened by intellectual senility, exhausted by syntactical excesses, sensitive only to the curious whims that excite the sick, and yet eager to express itself completely in its last hours, determined to make up for all the pleasures it had missed, afflicted on its death-bed with a desire to leave behind the subtlest memories of suffering, had been embodied in Mallarm\u00e9 in the most consummate and exquisite fashion.\n\nHere, carried to the further limits of expression, was the quintessence of Baudelaire and Poe; here their refined and potent substances had been distilled yet again to give off new savours, new intoxications.\n\nThis was the death-agony of the old tongue which, after going a little greener every century, had now reached the point of dissolution, the same stage of deliquescence as the Latin language when it breathed its last in the mysterious concepts and enigmatic phrases of St Boniface and St Adhelm.\n\nThe only difference was that the decomposition of the French language had occurred suddenly and speedily. In Latin, there had been a lengthy period of transition, a gap of four hundred years, between the superbly variegated idiom of Claudian and Rutilius and the gamey idiom of the eighth century. In French, on the contrary, there had been no lapse of time, no intervening sequence of centuries; the superbly variegated style of the Goncourts and the gamey style of Verlaine and Mallarm\u00e9 rubbed shoulders in Paris, where they existed at the same time, in the same period, in the same century.\n\nAnd Des Esseintes smiled to himself as he glanced at one of the folios lying open on his church lectern, thinking that the time would come when a learned professor would compile for the decadence of the French language a glossary like the one in which the erudite Du Cange had recorded the last stammerings, the last paroxysms, the last brilliant sallies of the Latin language as it perished of old age in the depths of the medieval monasteries.\n\n## CHAPTER 15\n\nAfter blazing up like a flash in the pan, Des Esseintes's enthusiasm for his digester died down just as suddenly. His dyspepsia, banished for a little while, began plaguing him again, while all this concentrated food was so binding and brought on such an irritation of the bowels that he had to stop using the apparatus straight away.\n\nHis illness promptly resumed its course, accompanied by hitherto unknown symptoms. The nightmares, the eye troubles, the hacking cough that came on at fixed intervals as regular as clockwork, the throbbing of the arteries and heart and the cold sweats were now followed by aural illusions, the sort of derangement that occurs only when the complaint has entered its final phase.\n\nConsumed with a burning fever, Des Esseintes suddenly heard the sounds of running water, of buzzing wasps; then these noises merged into one which resembled the humming of a lathe, and this humming grew shriller and clearer until it eventually changed into the silvery note of a bell.\n\nAt this point he felt his disordered brain being carried away on waves of music and plunged into the religious atmosphere of his adolescence. The chants he had learnt from the Jesuit Fathers came back to him, recalling the college chapel where they had been sung, and passing the hallucinations on to the senses of sight and smell, which they enveloped in clouds of incense and the gloomy light filtering through stained-glass windows under lofty vaults.\n\nWith the Fathers, the rites of religion were performed with great pomp; an excellent organist and a remarkable choir made sure that these pious exercises provided both spiritual edification and aesthetic pleasure. The organist loved the old masters, and on feast-days he would make his choice from Palestrina's or Orlando Lasso's masses, Marcello's psalms, Handel's oratorios, and Bach's motets, rejecting the sensuous, facile compilations of Father Lambillotte, so popular with the clergy, in favour of certain _Laudi spirituali_ of the sixteenth century whose hieratic beauty had many a time captivated Des Esseintes.\n\nBut above all else he had derived ineffable pleasure from listening to plainsong, to which the organist had remained faithful in defiance of current fashion.\n\nThis type of music, at present considered an effete and barbarous form of the Christian liturgy, as an archaeological curiosity, as a relic of the distant past, was the idiom of the ancient Church, the very soul of the Middle Ages; it was the sempiternal prayer, sung and modulated to accord with the movements of the soul, the diuturnal hymn which had risen for centuries past towards the Most High.\n\nThis traditional melody was the only one which, with its powerful unison, its harmonies as massive and imposing as blocks of freestone, could tone in with the old basilicas and fill their Romanesque vaults, of which it seemed to be the emanation, the very voice.\n\nTime and again an awe-struck Des Esseintes had bowed his head in response to an irresistible impulse when the _Christus factus est_ of the Gregorian chant had soared up in the nave, whose pillars trembled amid the floating clouds of incense, or when the faux-bourdon of the _De Profundis_ groaned forth, mournful as a stifled sob, poignant as a despairing appeal by mankind bewailing its mortal destiny and imploring the tender mercy of its Saviour.\n\nCompared with this magnificent chant, created by the genius of the Church, as impersonal and anonymous as the organ itself, whose inventor is unknown, all other religious music struck him as profane. At bottom, in all the works of Jomelli and Porpora, of Carissimi and Durante, in the finest compositions of Handel and Bach, there was no real renunciation of popular success, no real sacrifice of artistic effect, no real abdication of human pride listening to itself at prayer; only in the imposing masses by Lesueur he had heard at Saint-Roch did the true religious style come into its own again, solemn and august, approaching the austere majesty of plainsong in its stark nudity.\n\nSince then, utterly revolted by the pretexts a Rossini and a Pergolese had thought up for composing a _Stabat Mater_ , by the general invasion of liturgical art by fashionable artists, Des Esseintes had held aloof from all these equivocal compositions tolerated by the over-indulgent Church.\n\nThe fact was that this indulgent attitude, ostensibly intended to attract the faithful and really intended to attract their money, had promptly resulted in a crop of arias borrowed from Italian operas, contemptible cavatinas and objectionable quadrilles, sung with full orchestra accompaniment, in churches converted into boudoirs, by barnstormers bellowing away up in the roof, while down below the ladies waged a war of fashions and went into raptures over the shrieks of the mountebanks whose impure voices were defiling the sacred notes of the organ.\n\nFor years now he had steadfastly refused to take part in these pious entertainments, preferring to recall his memories of childhood, even regretting having heard certain of the great masters' _Te Deums_ when he remembered that admirable _Te Deum_ of plainsong, that simple, awe-inspiring hymn composed by some saint or other, a St Ambrose or a St Hilary, who, without the complicated resources of an orchestra, without the musical contrivances of modern science, displayed a burning faith, a delirious joy, the faith and joy of all humanity, expressed in ardent, confident, well-nigh celestial accents.\n\nThe odd thing was that Des Esseintes's ideas on music were in flagrant contradiction with the theories he professed about the other arts. The only religious music he really approved of was the monastic music of the Middle Ages, that emaciated music which provoked an instinctive nervous reaction in him, like certain pages of the old Christian Latinists; besides, as he himself admitted, he was incapable of understanding whatever new devices the present-day masters might have introduced into Catholic art.\n\nIn the first place, he had not studied music with the same passionate enthusiasm that had drawn him to painting and literature. He could play the piano as well as the next man, and after long practice had learnt how to read a score more or less inefficiently; but he knew nothing of the harmony and the technique that were necessary to be able really to appreciate every nuance, to understand every subtlety, to derive the maximum pleasure from every refinement.\n\nThen again, secular music is a promiscuous art in that you cannot enjoy it at home, by yourself, as you can a book; to savour it he would have had to join the mob of inveterate theatre-goers that fills the Cirque d'Hiver, where under a broiling sun and in a stifling atmosphere you can see a hulking brute of a man waving his arms about and massacring disconnected snatches of Wagner to the huge delight of an ignorant crowd.\n\nHe had never had the courage to plunge into this mob-bath to listen to Berlioz, even though he admired some fragments of his work for their passionate ardour and fiery spirit; and he was well aware that there was not a single scene, not even a single phrase, in any of the mighty Wagner's operas that could be divorced from its context with impunity.\n\nSlices cut off and served up at a concert lost all sense and meaning, for like chapters in a book that are complementary to one another and combine to reach the same goal, the same conclusion, Wagner's melodies were used to define the characters of his dramatis personae, to represent their thoughts, to express their visible or secret motives, and their ingenious and persistent repetitions could only be understood by an audience that followed the subject from the start and watched the characters gradually taking shape and developing in a setting from which they could not be removed without dying like branches cut from a tree.\n\nDes Esseintes was therefore convinced that of the mob of melomaniacs who went into ecstasies every Sunday on the benches of the Cirque d'Hiver, barely twenty could tell what the orchestra was murdering, even when the attendants were kind enough to stop chattering and give it a chance of being heard.\n\nConsidering also that the intelligent patriotism of the French made it impossible for any theatre in the country to put on a Wagner opera, there was nothing left for the keen amateur who was ignorant of the arcana of music and could not or would not travel to Bayreuth but to stay at home, and this was the reasonable course Des Esseintes had adopted.\n\nOn a different level, cheaper, more popular music and isolated extracts from the old operas scarcely appealed to him; the trivial little tunes of Auber and Bo\u00efeldieu, of Adam and Flotow, and the rhetorical commonplaces turned out by such men as Ambroise Thomas and Bazin were just as repugnant to him as the antiquated sentimentalities and vulgar graces of the Italians. He had therefore resolutely abstained from all musical indulgence, and the only pleasant memories he retained from these years of abstinence were of certain chamber concerts at which he had heard some Beethoven and above all some Schumann and Schubert which had stimulated his nerves in the same way as Poe's most intimate and anguished poems.\n\nCertain settings for the violoncello by Schumann had left him positively panting with emotion, choking with hysteria; but it was chiefly Schubert's _Lieder_ that had excited him, carried him away, then prostrated him as if he had been squandering his nervous energy, indulging in a mystical debauch.\n\nThis music thrilled him to the very marrow, reawakening a host of forgotten sorrows, of old grievances, in a heart surprised at containing so many confused regrets and vague mortifications. This desolate music, surging up from the uttermost depths of the soul, terrified and fascinated him at the same time. He had never been able to hum _Des M\u00e4dchens Klage_ without nervous tears rising to his eyes, for in this _lamento_ there was something more than sadness, a note of despair that tore at his heartstrings, something reminiscent of a dying love-affair in a melancholy landscape.\n\nEvery time they came back to his lips, these exquisite, funereal laments called to mind a suburban scene, a shabby, silent piece of waste land and in the distance, lines of men and women, harassed by the cares of life, shuffling away, bent double, into the twilight, while he himself, steeped in bitterness and filled with disgust, felt alone in the midst of tearful Nature, all alone, overcome by an unspeakable melancholy, by an obstinate distress, the mysterious intensity of which precluded any prospect of consolation, of pity, of repose. Like the sound of a passing-bell, these mournful melodies haunted him now that he lay in bed, exhausted by fever and tormented by an anxiety that was all the more irresistible in that he could no longer discover its cause. He finally abandoned himself to the current of his emotions, swept away by the torrent of anguish let loose by this music \u2013 a torrent that was suddenly stemmed for a moment by the sound of the psalms echoing slowly and softly in his head, whose aching temples felt as though they were being beaten by the clappers of tolling bells.\n\nOne morning, however, these noises died away; he felt in fuller possession of his faculties and asked his man to hand him a mirror. After a single glance it slipped from his hands. He scarcely knew himself; his face was an earthen colour, the lips dry and swollen, the tongue all furrowed, the skin wrinkled; his untidy hair and beard, which his servant had not trimmed since the beginning of his illness, added to the horrific impression created by the hollow cheeks and the big, watery eyes burning with a feverish brightness in this hairy death's-head.\n\nThis change in his facial appearance alarmed him more than his weakness, more than the uncontrollable fits of vomiting that thwarted his every attempt at taking food, more than the depression into which he was gradually sinking. He thought he was done for; but then, in spite of his overwhelming despondency, the energy of a man in desperate straits brought him to a sitting position in bed and gave him the strength to write a letter to his Paris doctor and order his servant to go to him immediately and bring him back with him, whatever the cost, the same day.\n\nHis mood promptly changed from the darkest despair to the brightest hope. This doctor he had sent for was a famous specialist, a physician renowned for his successes in treating nervous disorders, and Des Esseintes told himself:\n\n'He must have cured plenty of cases that were more difficult and dangerous than mine. No, there's no doubt about it \u2013 I shall be on my feet again in a few days' time.'\n\nBut soon this spirit of confidence was followed by a feeling of blank pessimism. He was convinced that no matter how learned or perspicacious they might be, doctors really knew nothing about nervous diseases, not even their causes. Like all the rest, this man would prescribe the inevitable zinc oxide and quinine, potassium bromide and valerian.\n\n'Who knows?' he went on, clinging to a last, slender hope. 'If these remedies have done me no good so far, it's probably because I haven't taken the proper doses.'\n\nIn spite of everything, the prospect of obtaining some relief put new heart into him, but then fresh anxieties assailed him: perhaps the doctor was not in Paris, perhaps he would refuse to come and see him, perhaps his servant had not even succeeded in finding him. He began to lose heart again, jumping, from one minute to the next, from the most unreasonable hopefulness to the most illogical apprehension, exaggerating both his chances of sudden recovery and his fears of immediate danger. The hours slipped by and eventually, exhausted and in despair, convinced that the doctor would never come, he angrily told himself over and over again that if only he had been seen to in time he would undoubtedly have been saved. Then his anger at his servant's inefficiency and his doctor's callousness in apparently letting him die abated, and he finally took to blaming himself for having waited so long before sending for help, persuading himself that by now he would have been completely fit if, even the day before, he had insisted on having potent medicines and skilled attention.\n\nLittle by little these alternating hopes and fears jostling around in his otherwise empty mind subsided, though not before the succession of swift changes had worn him out. He fell into a sleep of exhaustion broken by incoherent dreams, a sort of swoon interrupted by periods of barely conscious wakefulness. He had finally forgotten what he wanted and what he feared so completely that he was simply bewildered, and felt neither surprise nor pleasure, when the doctor suddenly came into the room.\n\nThe man-servant had doubtless told him what kind of life Des Esseintes had been leading, and described the various symptoms he himself had been in a position to observe since the day he had found his master lying by the window, overcome by the potency of his perfumes, for he put hardly any questions to his patient, whose medical history over the past few years was in any case well known to him. But he examined him, sounded him and carefully scrutinized his urine, in which certain white streaks told him what one of the chief determining causes of his nervous trouble was. He wrote out a prescription, and after saying he would come again soon, took his leave without another word.\n\nHis visit revived Des Esseintes's spirits, but he was somewhat alarmed at the doctor's silence and told his servant not to keep the truth from him any longer. The man assured him that the doctor had shown no signs of anxiety, and, suspicious as he was, Des Esseintes could detect no trace of prevarication in the old man's expressionless face.\n\nHis thoughts now became more cheerful; besides, his pains had gone and the weakness he felt in every limb had taken on a certain sweet languorous quality, at once vague and insinuating. What is more, he was both astounded and delighted at not being encumbered with drugs and medicine bottles, and a faint smile hovered over his lips when his servant eventually brought him a nourishing peptone enema and informed him that he was to repeat this injection three times every twenty-four hours.\n\nThe operation was successfully carried out, and Des Esseintes could not help secretly congratulating himself on this experience which was, so to speak, the crowning achievement of the life he had planned for himself; his taste for the artificial had now, without even the slightest effort on his part, attained its supreme fulfilment. No one, he thought, would ever go any further; taking nourishment in this way was undoubtedly the ultimate deviation from the norm.\n\n'How delightful it would be,' he said to himself, 'to go on with this simple diet after getting well again. What a saving of time, what a radical deliverance from the repugnance meat inspires in people without any appetite. What an absolute release from the boredom that invariably results from the necessarily limited choice of dishes! What a vigorous protest against the vile sin of gluttony! And last but not least, what a slap in the face for old Mother Nature, whose monotonous demands would be permanently silenced!'\n\nAnd talking to himself under his breath, he went on: 'It would be easy enough to get up an appetite by swallowing a strong aperient. Then, when you felt you might reasonably say: ''Isn't it time for dinner? \u2013 I'm as hungry as a hunter,'' all you'd have to do to lay the table would be to deposit the noble instrument on the cloth. And before you had time to say grace you'd have finished the meal \u2013 without any of the vulgar, bothersome business of eating.'\n\nA few days later, the servant brought him an enema altogether different in colour and smell from the peptone preparations.\n\n'But it's not the same!' exclaimed Des Esseintes, anxiously inspecting the liquid that had been poured into the apparatus. He asked for the menu as he might have done in a restaurant, and unfolding the doctor's prescription, he read out:\n\nCod-liver oil | 29 grammes\n\n---|---\n\nBeef-tea | 200 grammes\n\nBurgundy | 200 grammes\n\nYolk of one egg\n\n|\n\nThis set him thinking. On account of the ruinous condition of his stomach, he had never been able to take a serious interest in the art of cooking, but now he found himself working out recipes of a perverse epicurism. Then an intriguing idea crossed his mind. Perhaps the doctor had supposed that his patient's unusual palate was already tired of the taste of peptone; perhaps, like a skilled chef, he had decided to vary the flavour of his concoctions, to prevent the monotony of the dishes leading to a complete loss of appetite. Once started on this line of thought, Des Esseintes began composing novel recipes and even planning meatless dinners for Fridays, increasing the doses of cod-liver oil and wine and crossing out the beef-tea because being meat it was expressly forbidden by the Church. But soon he had no need to deliberate any longer over these nourishing liquids, for the doctor gradually managed to stop his vomiting and to make him swallow through the ordinary channels a punch syrup containing powdered meat and giving off a vague aroma of cocoa that lingered pleasantly in his real mouth.\n\nWeeks went by and at last the stomach decided to function properly; from time to time fits of nausea would still recur, but these were effectively overcome with potions of ginger-beer and Rivi\u00e8re's antemetic.\n\nEventually, little by little, the organs recovered, and with the help of pepsins ordinary food was digested. Des Esseintes's strength returned and he was able to get up and hobble around his bedroom, leaning on a stick and holding on to the furniture. But instead of being pleased with his progress, he forgot all his past sufferings, fretted over the time his convalescence was taking and accused the doctor of spinning it out. It was true that a few unsuccessful experiments had slowed things down; iron proved no more acceptable than quinquina, even when it was mixed with laudanum, and these drugs had to be replaced by arseniates \u2013 this after a fortnight had been wasted in useless efforts, as Des Esseintes angrily pointed out.\n\nAt last the time came when he could stay up all afternoon and walk about the house unaided. Now his study began to get on his nerves; faults he had overlooked by force of habit struck him at once on coming back to the room after a long absence. The colours he had chosen to be seen by lamplight seemed at variance with one another in daylight; wondering how best to change them, he spent hours planning heterogeneous harmonies of hues, hybrid combinations of cloths and leathers.\n\n'I'm on the road to recovery, and no mistake,' he told himself, noting the return of his former preoccupations, his old predilections.\n\nOne morning, as he was looking at his blue and orange walls, dreaming of ideal hangings made of stoles designed for the Greek Church, of gold-fringed Russian dalmatics, of brocaded copes inscribed with Slavonic lettering in pearls or in precious stones from the Urals, the doctor came in and, following the direction of his patient's gaze, asked him what he was thinking.\n\nDes Esseintes told him of his unrealizable ideals and was beginning to outline new experiments in colour, to talk about new combinations and contrasts that he meant to organize, when the doctor threw cold water on his enthusiasm by declaring in peremptory fashion that wherever he put his ideas into effect it would certainly not be in that house.\n\nThen, without giving him time to breathe, he stated that he had attended to the most urgent problem first by putting right the digestive functions, and that now he must tackle the general nervous trouble, which had not cleared up at all and to do so would require years of strict dieting and careful nursing. He concluded by saying that before trying any particular remedy, before embarking on any sort of hydropathic treatment \u2013 which in any case was impracticable at Fontenay \u2013 he would have to abandon this solitary existence, to go back to Paris, to lead a normal life again, above all to try and enjoy the same pleasures as other people.\n\n'But I just don't enjoy the pleasures other people enjoy!' retorted Des Esseintes indignantly.\n\nIgnoring this objection, the doctor simply assured him that this radical change of life he prescribed was in his opinion a matter of life and death \u2013 that it meant the difference between a good recovery on the one hand and insanity speedily followed by tuberculosis on the other.\n\n'So I have to choose between death and deportation!' cried Des Esseintes in exasperation.\n\nThe doctor, who was imbued with all the prejudices of a man of the world, smiled and made for the door without answering.\n\n## CHAPTER 16\n\nDes Esseintes shut himself up in his bedroom and stopped his ears against the sound of hammering outside, where the removal men were nailing up the packing-cases his servants had got ready; every blow seemed to strike at his heart and send a stab of pain deep into his flesh. The sentence pronounced by the doctor was being executed; the dread of enduring all over again the sufferings he had recently undergone, together with the fear of an agonizing death, had had a more powerful effect on him than his hatred of the detestable existence to which medical jurisdiction condemned him.\n\n'And yet,' he kept telling himself, 'there are people who live on their own with no one to talk to, who spend their lives in quiet contemplation apart from human society, people like Trappists and prisoners in solitary confinement, and there's nothing to show that those wise men and those poor wretches go either mad or consumptive.'\n\nThese examples he had quoted to the doctor, but in vain; the latter had simply repeated, in a curt manner that excluded any further argument, that his verdict, which incidentally was in line with the opinions of every specialist in nervous disorders, was that only relaxation, amusement and enjoyment could have any effect on this complaint, which on the mental side remained entirely unaffected by chemical remedies. Finally, infuriated by his patient's recriminations, he had stated once for all that he refused to go on treating him unless he agreed to a change of air and a move to more hygienic conditions.\n\nDes Esseintes had promptly gone to Paris to consult other specialists, to whom he had submitted his case with scrupulous impartiality; they had all unhesitatingly approved their colleague's advice. Thereupon he had taken a flat that was still vacant in a new apartment-house, had come back to Fontenay and, white with rage, had ordered his servants to start packing.\n\nBuried deep in his armchair, he was now brooding over this unambiguous prescription which upset all his plans, broke all the ties binding him to his present life and buried all his future projects in oblivion. So his beatific happiness was over! So he must leave the shelter of this haven of his and put out to sea again in the teeth of that gale of human folly that had battered and buffeted him of old!\n\nThe doctors spoke of amusement and relaxation, but with whom, with what, did they expect him to have fun and enjoy himself?\n\nHad he not outlawed himself from society? Had he heard of anybody else who was trying to organize a life like this, a life of dreamy contemplation? Did he know a single individual who was capable of appreciating the delicacy of a phrase, the subtlety of a painting, the quintessence of an idea, or whose soul was sensitive enough to understand Mallarm\u00e9 and love Verlaine?\n\nWhere and when should he look, into what social waters should he heave the lead, to discover a twin soul, a mind free of commonplace ideas, welcoming silence as a boon, ingratitude as a relief, suspicion as a haven and a harbour?\n\nIn the society he had frequented before his departure for Fontenay? \u2013 But most of the squireens he had known in those days must since have reached new depths of boredom in the drawing-room, of stupidity at the gaming table and of depravity in the brothel. Most of them, too, must have got married; after treating themselves all their lives to the leavings of street-arabs, they now treated their wives to the leavings of street-walkers, for like a master of the first-fruits, the working class was the only one that did not feed on left-overs!\n\n'What a pretty change of partners, what a glorious game of general post this prudish society of ours is enjoying!' muttered Des Esseintes.\n\nBut then, the decayed nobility was done for; the aristocracy had sunk into imbecility or depravity. It was dying from the degeneracy of its scions, whose faculties had deteriorated with each succeeding generation till they now consisted of the instincts of gorillas at work in the skulls of grooms and jockeys; or else, like the Choiseul-Praslins, the Polignacs and the Chevreuses, it was wallowing in the mud of law-suits that brought it down to the same level of ignominy as the other classes.\n\nThe very mansions, age-old escutcheons, heraldic pomp and stately ceremonial of this ancient caste had disappeared. As its estates had stopped yielding revenue, they and the great country houses had been put up for auction, for there was never enough money to pay for all the dark venereal pleasures of the besotted descendants of the old families.\n\nThe least scrupulous and the least obtuse among them threw all shame to the winds; they joined in shady deals, splashed about in the financial gutter and finished up like common criminals in the Assize Court, serving at least to add a little lustre to human justice, which, finding it impossible to maintain absolute impartiality, solved the problem by making them prison librarians.\n\nThis passion for profits, this love of lucre, had also taken hold of another class, a class that had always leant upon the nobility \u2013 the clergy. At present, on the back page of every newspaper, you could see a corn-cure advertisement inserted by a priest. The monasteries had been turned into factories or distilleries, with every order manufacturing its specialities or selling the recipes. Thus the Cistercians derived their income from chocolate, Trappistine, semolina and tincture of arnica; the Marists from biphosphate of chalk for medicinal purposes and arquebus water; the Dominicans from antapoplectic elixir; the disciples of St Benedict from Benedictine; the monks of St Bruno from Chartreuse.\n\nCommercialism had invaded the cloisters, where, in lieu of antiphonaries, fat account-books lay on the lecterns. Like a foul leprosy, the present-day greed for gain was playing havoc with the Church, making the monks pore over inventories and invoices, turning the Superiors into confectioners and medicasters, the lay-brothers into common packers and base bottle-washers.\n\nAnd yet, in spite of everything, it was still only among the ecclesiastics that Des Esseintes could hope to enjoy relations in some degree of accordance with his tastes. In the company of canons, who were generally men of learning and good breeding, he might have spent some affable and agreeable evenings; but then he would have had to share their beliefs and not oscillate between sceptical ideas and sudden fits of faith which recurred from time to time under the impulse of his childhood memories.\n\nHe would have had to hold identical views and refuse to acknowledge, as he readily did in his moments of enthusiasm, a Catholicism that was seasoned with a touch of magic, as in the reign of Henri III, and a touch of sadism, as in the closing years of the eighteenth century. This special brand of clericalism, this subtly depraved and perverse type of mysticism, to which he occasionally felt drawn, could not so much as be discussed with a priest, who would either have failed to understand him or would have instantly ordered him out of his sight in sheer horror.\n\nFor the twentieth time this insoluble problem tormented him. He would have dearly loved to escape from the state of doubt and suspicion against which he had struggled in vain at Fontenay; now that he was forced to turn over a new leaf, he would have liked to force himself to possess the faith, to glue it down as soon as he had it, to fasten it with clamps to his soul, in short to protect it against all those reflections that tend to shake and dislodge it. But the more he longed for it, the less the void in his mind was filled and the longer the visitation of Christ was delayed. Indeed, in proportion as his hunger of religion increased and he passionately craved, as a ransom for the future and a help in his new life, this faith that now showed itself to him, though the distance separating him from it appalled him, doubts crowded into his fevered mind, upsetting his unsteady will, rejecting on grounds of common sense and by mathematical demonstration the mysteries and dogmas of the Church.\n\n'It ought to be possible to stop arguing with yourself,' he told himself miserably; 'it ought to be possible to shut your eyes, let yourself drift along with the stream and forget all those damnable discoveries that have blasted religion from top to bottom in the last two hundred years.\n\n'And yet,' he sighed, 'it isn't really the physiologists or the sceptics who are demolishing Catholicism; it's the priests themselves, whose clumsy writings would shake the firmest convictions.'\n\nAmong the Dominicans, for instance, there was a Doctor of Theology, the Reverend Father Rouard de Card, a preaching friar who, in a booklet entitled _The Adulteration of the Sacramental Substances_ , had proved beyond all doubt that the majority of Masses were null and void, simply because the materials used by the priest were sophisticated by certain dealers.\n\nFor years now, the holy oil had been adulterated with poultry-fat; the taper wax with burnt bones; the incense with common resin and old benzoin. But what was worse was that the two substances that were indispensable for the holy sacrifice, the two substances without which no oblation was possible, had also been adulterated: the wine by repeated diluting and the illicit addition of Pernambuco bark, elderberries, alcohol, alum, salicylate and litharge; the bread, that bread of the Eucharist which should be made from the finest of wheats, with bean-flour, potash and pipe-clay!\n\nAnd now they had gone even further; they had had the effrontery to leave out the wheat altogether, and most hosts were made by shameless dealers out of potato-flour!\n\nNow God refused to come down to earth in the form of potato-flour; that was an undeniable, indisputable fact. In the second volume of his Moral Theology, His Eminence Cardinal Gousset had also dealt at length with this question of fraud from the divine point of view; according to this unimpeachable authority it was quite impossible to consecrate bread made of oatmeal, buckwheat or barley, and if there was at least some doubt in the case of rye bread, there could be no doubt or argument about potato-flour, which, to use the ecclesiastic phrase, was in no sense a competent substance for the Blessed Sacrament.\n\nBecause of the easy manipulation of this flour and the attractive appearance of the wafers made with it, this outrageous swindle had become so common that the mystery of transubstantiation scarcely existed any longer and both priests and faithful communicated, all unwittingly, with neutral species.\n\nAh, the days were far distant when Radegonde, Queen of France, used to make the altar-bread with her own hands; the days when, according to the custom at Cluny, three fasting priests or deacons, clad in alb and amice, after washing face and fingers, sorted out the wheat grain by grain, crushed it under a millstone, kneaded the dough with pure, cold water and baked it themselves over a bright fire, singing psalms all the while.\n\n'Still, there's no denying,' Des Esseintes told himself, 'that the prospect of being constantly hoodwinked at the communion table itself isn't calculated to consolidate beliefs that are already far from steady. Besides, how can you accept the idea of an omnipotent deity balked by a pinch of potato-flour and a drop of alcohol?'\n\nThese thoughts made his future look gloomier than ever, his horizon darker and more threatening.\n\nIt was clear that no haven of refuge or sheltering shore was left to him. What was to become of him in this city of Paris where he had neither relatives nor friends? He no longer had any connexion with the Faubourg Saint-Germain, which was now quavering with old age, crumbling away into the dust of desuetude, lying in the midst of a new society like a rotten, empty husk. And what point of contact could there possibly be between him and that bourgeois class which had gradually climbed to the top, taking advantage of every disaster to fill its pockets, stirring up every sort of trouble to command respect for its countless crimes and thefts?\n\nAfter the aristocracy of birth, it was now the turn of the aristocracy of wealth, the caliphate of the counting-house, the despotism of the Rue du Sentier, the tyranny of commerce with its narrow-minded, venal ideas, its selfish, rascally instincts.\n\nMore cunning and contemptible than the impoverished aristocracy and the discredited clergy, the bourgeoisie borrowed their frivolous love of show and their old-world arrogance, which it cheapened through its own lack of taste, and stole their natural defects, which it turned into hypocritical vices. Overbearing and underhand in behaviour, base and cowardly in character, it ruthlessly shot down its perennial and essential dupe, the mob, which it had previously unmuzzled and sent flying at the throats of the old castes.\n\nNow it was all over. Once it had done its job, the plebs had been bled white in the interests of public hygiene, while the jovial bourgeois lorded it over the country, putting his trust in the power of his money and the contagiousness of his stupidity. The result of his rise to power had been the suppression of all intelligence, the negation of all honesty, the destruction of all art; in fact, artists and writers in their degradation had fallen on their knees and were covering with ardent kisses the stinking feet of the high-placed jobbers and low-bred satraps on whose charity they depended for a living.\n\nIn painting, the result was a deluge of lifeless inanities; in literature, a torrent of hackneyed phrases and conventional ideas \u2013 honesty to flatter the shady speculator, integrity to please the swindler who hunted for a dowry for his son while refusing to pay his daughter's, and chastity to satisfy the anti-clerical who accused the clergy of rape and lechery when he himself was forever haunting the local brothel, a stupid hypocrite without even the excuse of deliberate depravity, sniffing at the greasy water in the wash-basins and the hot, spicy smell of dirty petticoats.\n\nThis was the vast bagnio of America transported to the continent of Europe; this was the limitless, unfathomable, immeasurable scurviness of the financier and the self-made man, beaming down like a shameful sun on the idolatrous city, which grovelled on its belly, chanting vile songs of praise before the impious tabernacle of the Bank.\n\n'Well, crumble then, society! perish, old world!' cried Des Esseintes, roused to indignation by the ignominious spectacle he had conjured up \u2013 and the sound of his voice broke the oppressive spell the nightmare had laid on him.\n\n'Ah!' he groaned, 'To think that all this isn't just a bad dream! To think that I'm about to rejoin the base and servile riff-raff of the age!'\n\nTo soothe his wounded spirit he called upon the consoling maxims of Schopenhauer, and repeated to himself Pascal's sorrowful maxim: 'The soul sees nothing that does not distress it on reflection'; but the words echoed in his mind like meaningless noises, his weariness of spirit breaking them up, stripping them of all significance, all sedative virtue, all effective and soothing force.\n\nHe realized at last that the arguments of pessimism were powerless to comfort him, that only the impossible belief in a future life could bring him peace of mind.\n\nA fit of rage swept away like a hurricane all his would-be resignation, all his attempted indifference. He could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that there was nothing to be done, nothing whatever, that it was all over; the bourgeois were guzzling like picnickers from paper bags among the imposing ruins of the Church \u2013 ruins which had become a place of assignation, a pile of debris defiled by unspeakable jokes and scandalous jests. Could it be that the terrible God of Genesis and the pale martyr of Golgotha would not prove their existence once for all by renewing the cataclysms of old, by rekindling the rain of fire that once consumed those accursed towns, the cities of the plain? Could it be that this slime would go on spreading until it covered with its pestilential filth this old world where now only seeds of iniquity sprang up and only harvests of shame were gathered?\n\nThe door suddenly flew open. In the distance, framed in the opening, some men in cocked hats appeared with clean-shaven cheeks and tufts of hair on their chins, trundling packing-cases along and moving furniture; then the door closed again behind the man-servant, who disappeared carrying a bundle of books.\n\nDes Esseintes collapsed into a chair.\n\n'In two days' time I shall be in Paris,' he told himself.\n\n'Well, it is all over now. Like a tide-race, the waves of human mediocrity are rising to the heavens and will engulf this refuge, for I am opening the flood-gates myself, against my will. Ah! but my courage fails me, and my heart is sick within me! \u2013 Lord, take pity on the Christian who doubts, on the unbeliever who would fain believe, on the galley-slave of life who puts out to sea alone, in the night, beneath a firmament no longer lit by the consoling beacon-fires of the ancient hope!'\n\n## Appendix I\n\nPreface, Written Twenty Years After the Novel\n\n_Huysmans' preface was written for the 1903 publication of Against Nature, a luxury limited edition of the novel with engravings by Auguste Lep\u00e8re. It is usually reprinted at the head of the standard French editions. Here translated by Patrick McGuinness_.\n\nI believe that all literary people are like me, that they never reread their works once they have been published. Indeed, there is nothing more disillusioning or more painful than to look over one's sentences after so many years. They have, as it were, been decanted, and settled to the bottom of the book; and generally books are not like wines, improving with age; once discoloured by time the chapters have gone flat and their bouquet faded.\n\nI had this feeling about certain of the bottles stored in the bin marked _Against Nature_ when the time came for me to uncork them.\n\nAnd, with a certain melancholy, I am trying to recall, as I leaf through these pages, my possible state of mind when I wrote them.\n\nIn those days Naturalism was at its height; but this school of writers, which was to fulfil the invaluable service of placing real characters in precise settings, was condemned to repeat itself over and over, and endlessly to go over the same ground.\n\nNaturalism had no room \u2013 in theory at least \u2013 for exceptions; it thus confined itself to the portrayal of ordinary experience, striving, under the pretext of being true to life, to create characters who came as close as possible to the average person. This ideal had been achieved, in its way, in a masterpiece which \u2013 far more than _L'Assommoir_ \u2013 was the embodiment of Naturalism: Gustave Flaubert's, _L'Education sentimentale_. For those of us who met at the 'Soir\u00e9es de Medan', this novel was a bible; but little came of it. It was perfectly achieved, and even Flaubert himself could not write another book like it, so in those days we were all reduced to roaming around it and exploring more or less beaten tracks.\n\nIt must be admitted that Virtue is an exception here on earth, and so it was excluded from the Naturalist framework. Not having the Catholic conception of the fall from grace and of temptation, we were unaware of the struggles and sufferings from which Virtue springs; the heroism of the soul, triumphing over life's pitfalls, escaped us. It would not have occurred to us to describe this struggle, with its highs and lows, its wily attacks and feints, or the able allies standing at the ready deep in their cloisters and often far from those the Devil is assailing. Virtue seemed to us the attribute of individuals without curiosity or bereft of sense, and in any case of too little emotional interest to treat from an artistic point of view.\n\nThis left the vices; but there was little left uncultivated in that field. It was limited to the terrain of the Seven Deadly Sins, and even then only one of these \u2013 the one that set itself against God's sixth commandment \u2013 was more or less available to us.\n\nThe others had been dreadfully over-harvested, and there were barely any grapes left to pick. Avarice, for example, had been pressed to its last drop by Balzac and Hello. Pride, Anger and Envy had been dragged through every Romantic publication, and these dramatic subjects had been so unrecognizably distorted by theatrical overuse that it would have taken real genius to reinvigorate them in a book. As for Gluttony and Sloth, they seemed more suited to being embodied in minor characters and to fit supporting roles rather than lead roles and prima donnas in novels of manners.\n\nThe truth is that Pride would have been the most magnificent of sins to study, with its infernal ramifications of cruelty to others and false humility, or that Gluttony, dragging in its wake Luxury and Sloth and Covetousness, would have provided the material for surprising investigations, if these sins had been scrutinized by a Believer with the lamps and the torch of the Church; but none of us was ready for this task; so we had no alternative but to chew over the easiest offence of all to dissect, the sin of Luxury in all its forms. And God knows how we chewed over it, but this kind of roundabout ride was short-lived. Whatever we thought up, the novel could be summed up in these brief lines: knowing why Mr so-and-so committed or did not commit adultery with Mrs so-and-so. If one wanted to be distinguished and make one's mark as an author of the most fashionable sort, one made this sexual transaction occur between a marquise and a count; if on the contrary one wanted to be a popular novelist, a writer with all the tricks of the trade, one set it up between a low-class suitor and a common working girl; only the setting was different. The distinguished tone seems to have prevailed with today's reader, for I see that at present he favours not plebeian or bourgeois love-affairs but continues to relish the waverings of the _marquise_ as she goes to join her seducer in some small apartment whose appearance changes according to the decorative fashions of the day. Will she? Won't she? This is called a psychological study. Personally I have nothing against that.\n\nHowever, I admit that when I happen to open a book and find the inevitable seduction and the no less inevitable adultery, I hasten to close it, having absolutely no interest in finding out how the promised idyll will end. Books with no documentary value, books which teach me nothing, no longer interest me.\n\nWhen _Against Nature_ appeared, that is, in 1884, this then was the situation: Naturalism was wearing itself out going over the same ground. The reservoir of insights that each writer had built up, drawing on himself and on others, was beginning to run out. Zola, who was a great designer of theatrical scenery, got along by painting bold and more or less accurate canvases. He was very good at suggesting the illusion of movement and life; his protagonists were bereft of soul, quite simply impelled by impulses and instincts, and this simplified the task of analysis. They moved about, accomplished a few summary acts, and their bold silhouettes peopled the settings that became the main characters of his dramas. In this way he celebrated the markets, department stores, railways, mines, and the human beings caught up in these settings played only secondary or walk-on roles. But Zola was Zola, that is to say a somewhat unwieldy artist, but with powerful lungs and heavy fists.\n\nThe rest of us, less broad-shouldered and seeking a more subtle and more truthful art, must have wondered whether Naturalism was not coming to a dead end, and whether we might soon be running into a brick wall.\n\nTo tell the truth, these reflections only came to me much later. I was vaguely searching for ways out of a dead end in which I was suffocating, but I had no fixed plan and _Against Nature_ , which liberated me from a dead-end literature by letting me breathe again, is a perfectly unconscious work, put together without preconceived ideas, without plans for the future, without anything at all.\n\nIt came to me first as a brief fantasy, in the form of a bizarre short story; I imagined it partly as a counterpart to _A Vau-l'Eau_ transferred to another world; I had pictured another Mr Folantin, better-read, more refined and richer, who had discovered in artifice a diversion from the disgust of life's petty torments and the Americanized manners of his day. I envisaged him soaring upwards into dream, seeking refuge in illusions of extravagant fantasy, living alone, far from his century, among memories of more congenial times, of less base surroundings.\n\nAnd, as I thought about it, the subject grew, requiring patient research: each chapter became the sublimate of a specialism, the refinement of a different art; it became condensed into an essence of jewellery, perfumes, flowers, religious and secular literature, of profane music and plain-chant.\n\nThe strange thing was that, without my realizing it at first, I was drawn by the nature of my work itself to study the Church from a number of angles. It was in fact impossible to trace one's way back to the only unblemished times humanity has ever known, to the Middle Ages, without realizing that the Church was at the centre of everything, that art existed through her and by her. Not being a believer, I looked at her, a little defiant, taken aback by her greatness and her glory, wondering why a religion which seemed to me to have been created for children could have inspired such marvellous works of art.\n\nI prowled around her, groping my way, guessing more than I could see, piecing together a whole for myself from the odds and ends I found in museums and in books. Today, after surer and more extensive investigations, as I look over the pages of _Against Nature_ which deal with Catholicism and religious art, I am aware that this minute panorama, painted on the pages of notepads, is accurate. What I was painting then was succinct; it lacked development but it was truthful. Since then I have simply expanded and elaborated my sketches.\n\nI could certainly sign my name at the bottom of the pages of _Against Nature_ about the Church, for they seem indeed to have been written by a Catholic.\n\nYet I thought myself so far from religion! I did not imagine that it was only a short step from Schopenhauer, whom I admired beyond reason, to _Ecclesiastes_ and the _Book of Job_. The premises about Pessimism are the same, only when the time comes to reach a conclusion, the philosopher disappears. I liked his ideas about the horror of life, the stupidity of the world, the mercilessness of destiny; I like them also in the Holy Scriptures; but Schopenhauer's observations lead nowhere; he leaves you, so to speak, in the lurch; in the end, his aphorisms are only a herbarium of dry plaints; whereas the Church explains the origins and the causes, indicates the conclusions, offers remedies. She does not limit herself to giving you a spiritual consultation, but treats and cures you, whereas the German quack, once he has proved the incurability of your condition, simply sneers and turns his back on you.\n\nHis Pessimism is nothing other than that of Scriptures from which he has borrowed it. He has said no more than Solomon, no more than Job, no more even than the _Imitation_ , which long before him summed up his philosophy in a single sentence: 'In truth it is a wretched thing to live on this earth.'\n\nFrom a distance these similarities and differences are clearly pronounced, but in those days if I noticed them I hardly lingered over them; the urge to conclude did not tempt me; the route marked out by Schopenhauer was smooth and scenic, I drove calmly along it with no desire to learn where it led. In those days I had no clear grasp of when debts would need to be repaid, no apprehension of when the end would come; the mysteries of the catechism seemed to me childish; besides, like all Catholics, I was completely ignorant about my religion; I did not grasp that all is mystery, that we live only in mystery, that if such a thing as chance existed it would be even more mysterious than Providence. I did not accept the idea of suffering inflicted by a God, I imagined that Pessimism could console elevated souls. What stupidity! It was precisely this that lacked evidence, that, to use a term beloved of Naturalism, had no 'human document' to support it. Never has Pessimism been of any comfort to those sick in body or in soul!\n\nAfter all these years, when I reread these pages where such resolutely false theories are presented as true, I smile.\n\nBut what strikes most as I read is this: all the novels I have written since _Against Nature_ are there in embryo in this book. The chapters are, in fact, only the starting-points for the volumes that followed them.\n\nThe chapter on the Latin literature of the Decadent period was, if not developed, at least more searchingly explored when I wrote about liturgy in _En Route_ and _L'Oblat_. I would republish it today without any changes, except in the case of Saint Ambrose, whose thin prose and turgid rhetoric I still dislike. He still seems to me as I described him then \u2013 a 'tedious Christian Cicero' \u2013 but, by contrast, as a poet he is charming; and his hymns and those of his followers contained in the Breviary are among the most beautiful that the Church has preserved. I should add that the admittedly rather unusual literature of the hymnal could have found a place in the reserved compartment of this chapter.\n\nI have no more taste for the classical Latin of Maro [Virgil] and of Chick-Pea [Cicero] now than I did in 1884; as in the days of _Against Nature,_ I prefer the language of the Vulgate to the language of the Augustan age, even to that of the Decadent period, stranger though it may be, with its gamey stink and its marbled streaks of mould. After disinfecting and rejuvenating the language, in order to address a category of so far unexpressed ideas, the Church created a range of high-sounding expressions and exquisitely tender diminutives, and seems to me to have fashioned for herself a language far superior to that of Paganism, and Durtal still has the same views as Des Esseintes on this subject.\n\nThe chapter on precious stones I took up again in _La Cath\u00e9drale_ , but from the perspective of the symbolism of gems. I gave life to the lifeless stones of _Against Nature_. I do not for a moment deny that a beautiful emerald may be admired for the sparks that glitter in the fire of its green water, but if one is unaware of the language of symbols, is it not a silent stranger with whom one cannot converse and who is herself silent because we cannot understand her speech? But she is more and better than that.\n\nWithout going so far as to say, like the old sixteenth-century writer Estienne de Clave, that precious stones, like human beings, propagate by means of a scattering of seeds in the womb of the earth, one can certainly say that they are meaningful minerals, substances that speak; that they are, in a word, symbols. They have been seen in this way since earliest antiquity, and the figurative language of gems is one of the branches of a Christian symbolism completely forgotten by priests and laymen of our own day and which I have tried to reconstitute in outline in my books on the basilica of Chartres.\n\nThe chapter in _Against Nature_ is thus only superficial and skimming the surface. It is not what it should be, an array of jewels from another world. It is made up of gems more less well described and more or less well displayed. That is all, and it is not enough.\n\nThe paintings of Gustave Moreau, the engravings by Luyken, the lithographs by Bresdin and Redon are as I still see them. I have no modifications to make to the arrangement of that little museum.\n\nAs for the terrible chapter VI, whose number corresponds, without any preconceived plan, to that of the commandment it transgresses, and for certain parts of chapter IX which may be classed with it, I would obviously not write them again in the same way. It would at least have been necessary to explain them more thoroughly in terms of that diabolical perversity that, in the shape of sexual depravity, takes over people's exhausted minds. It seems indeed as if nervous disorders opened fissures in the soul through which the spirit of Evil enters. There is an enigma in this that remains unexplained; the word 'hysteria' resolves nothing; it may be enough to define a physical condition, to denote the uncontrollable turbulence of the senses, but it does not get at the spiritual consequences that fasten upon it, or especially, the sins of duplicity and falsehood which nearly always take root in it. What are the ins and outs of sin-laden malady? The sick one, his soul as it were possessed by a sort of domination entrenched in the disorder of his wretched body \u2013 how much is his responsibility lessened? Nobody knows: on this subject, medicine talks nonsense and theology remains silent.\n\nIn the absence of a solution which he could obviously not offer, Des Esseintes should have considered the question from the point of view of transgression and at least expressed some regret; he refrained from self-blame, and he was wrong. But although he was brought up by Jesuits whose praises \u2013 more than Durtal \u2013 he sings, he later grew so defiant of divine constraints, so brutishly determined to wallow in the mud of his carnality!\n\nIn any case, these chapters seem like staging-posts unconsciously planted to show the way to _L\u00e0-Bas_. It should also be noted that des Esseintes' library contained a certain number of books of magic and that the ideas on sacrilege put forward in chapter VII of _Against Nature_ are a hook on which to hang a future volume which will treat the subject in a more sustained way.\n\nAs for _L\u00e0-Bas_ , which terrified so many people, I would not write the book in the same way now that I have returned to the Church. Certainly the wicked and sensual side of the book is reprehensible, yet I affirm that I skipped a great deal. I hardly said anything; the evidence found in that book is, by comparison with what I omitted and what I still have in my files, insipid and flavourless confections!\n\nBut I believe that despite its cerebral dementia and its alvine madness, this book, by virtue of its very subject, rendered a service. It refocused attention on the machinations of the Evil One who had succeeded in making people disbelieve his existence; it was the starting-point for all the renewed studies of the eternal advance of Satanism. By revealing the hateful practices of necromancy it has helped to annihilate them; in short, the book took the side of the Church and fought against the Devil.\n\nTo return to _Against Nature_ , for which _L\u00e0-Bas_ is a substitute, I can only say about the chapter on flowers what I have already said about the chapter on precious stones.\n\n_Against Nature_ considers them only from the point of view of their shapes and shades, not from the meanings they might divulge; Des Esseintes only chose bizarre orchids, but silent ones. I should add that in this book it would have been difficult to make voiceless flora speak, for the symbolic language of flowers died with the Middle Ages, and the vigorous pidgins cherished by Des Esseintes were unknown to the allegorists of that period.\n\nThe companion-piece to this botanical chapter I have since written in _La Cath\u00e9drale_ on the subject of the horticultural liturgy which is the source of such strange pages by Saint Hildegaard, Saint Meliton and Saint Eucher.\n\nQuite different is the question of scents, whose mystical symbols I revealed in the same book.\n\nDes Esseintes was interested only in secular perfumes, essences or extracts, and worldly perfumes, composites or bouquets.\n\nHe might also have tried out the aromas of the Church, incense, myrrh, and that strange Thymiama cited in the Bible which is still required in ritual to be burned with incense beneath the mouths of church bells when they are baptized, after the Bishop has washed them with holy water and made the sign of the cross over them with the Holy Chrism and the oil of extreme unction; but this fragrance seems to have been forgotten by the Church itself and I suspect that it would astonish a priest if he were asked for Thymiama.\n\nThe recipe is none the less recorded in _Exodus_. Thymiama was made of storax, galbanum, incense and onycha, and this last substance is nothing other than the operculum of a certain kind of shell which is dredged up from the marshes of the Indies and yields purple dye.\n\nGiven how little is known about this shellfish and where it comes from, it is difficult, not to say impossible, to prepare authentic Thymiama. This is a pity, for had it been otherwise this lost perfume would surely have aroused in Des Esseintes lavish imaginings of ceremonial festivals and liturgical rites of the Orient.\n\nAs for the chapters on contemporary secular and religious literature, these have, to my mind, like those on Latin literature, remained true. The chapter devoted to secular writing helped throw into relief poets who were then not widely known among the public: Corbi\u00e8re, Mallarm\u00e9, Verlaine. I retract nothing of what I wrote nineteen years ago: my admiration for these writers remains; indeed the admiration I professed for Verlaine has even grown. Arthur Rimbaud and Jules Laforgue would have deserved a place in Des Esseintes' anthology, but they had at the time published nothing and it was only much later that their works appeared.\n\nI do not imagine, on the other hand, that I shall ever come to enjoy the modern religious authors that _Against Nature_ laid waste to. No one will change my opinion that the critical works of the late Nettement are imbecilic and that Mrs Augustus Craven and Miss Eug\u00e8nie de Gu\u00e8rin are flabby bluestockings and sterile bigots. To me their concoctions are flavourless; Des Esseintes passed on his taste for spices to Durtal, and I believe that they would still understand one another well enough to create, in place of these insipid emulsions a spicey essence of art.\n\nI have not changed my mind about the literature produced by the Poujoulat and Genoude fraternity either, but I would be less harsh today on Father Chocarne, mentioned among a bunch of pious cacographers, who at least composed a few pithy pages on mysticism in his introduction to the works of Saint John of the Cross, and I would likewise be gentler on de Montalbert who, though lacking in talent, provided us with an incoherent and incomplete but in the end moving work on monks. Above all, I would no longer write that the visions of Angela de Foligno are silly and shapeless; it is the opposite that is true, but I must say in my defence that I had only read Hello's translation. And the latter was possessed by a mania for pruning, sweetening and tidying up the mystics, for fear of offending the pretended modesty of the Catholics. He squeezed dry a work of passion, full of sap, and extracted from it only a cold and colourless juice, tepid in the feeble flame of his style.\n\nThat said, if as a translator Hello revealed himself to be a pious old fuss-pot, it is only fair to declare that he was, when he wrote for himself, a wielder of original ideas, a perspicacious exegete and a most impressive analyst. He was even, among the writers of his ilk, the only thinker. I came to d'Aurevilly's aid in promoting the work of such an uneven but fascinating man, and _Against Nature_ has I believe contributed towards the success that his best book, _L'Homme_ , has had since his death.\n\nThe conclusion of this chapter on modern Church literature was that among the geldings of religious art there was only one stallion, Barbey d'Aurevilly; and this estimation remains unshakeably correct. This man was the only artist, in the pure sense of the word, produced by the Catholicism of the period; he was a great prose writer, an admirable novelist whose audacity made all the prudes bray in exasperation at the explosive vehemence of his expressions.\n\nFinally, if ever a chapter may be considered the starting-point of other books, it is the chapter on plain-song on which I have subsequently elaborated in all of my books, in _En Route_ and especially in _L'Oblat_.\n\nAfter this brief examination of each of the specialities displayed in the windows of _Against Nature_ , the only conclusion is this: the book was the beginning of all of my Catholic work, which may be found there entire in its embryonic form.\n\nAnd the incomprehension and stupidity of a few dumb-witted and over-excited priests yet again appears unfathomable to me. For years they called for the destruction of this work which, incidentally, is not my property, without even realizing that the mystical books which followed it are incomprehensible without it, because it is, I repeat, the source from which they spring. Besides, how can one appreciate the work of a writer as a whole if one does not take it from its beginning and trace it step by step; most importantly, how can one follow the progress of Grace in a soul if one suppresses the traces of its passage, if one wipes out its first prints?\n\nWhat is in any case true is that _Against Nature_ broke with what preceded it, with _Les Soeurs Vatard_ , _En M\u00e9nage_ , _A Vau-l'Eau_ , and that the book put me on a road whose destination I had no idea of.\n\nZola, shrewder than the Catholics, sensed this. I remember going to spend a few days in M\u00e8dan after the publication of _Against Nature_. One afternoon as the two of us were walking in the countryside he suddenly stopped, his brow darkened and he reproached me for having written the book, saying that I had dealt a terrible blow to Naturalism, that I was leading the school astray, that I was in fact burning my boats with such a novel, for no literature could come from a genre exhausted in a single volume, and he urged me \u2013 in a friendly way, for he was a very kind man \u2013 to return to the beaten track, to harness myself to a study of manners.\n\nI listened, thinking that he was both right and wrong, \u2013 right to accuse me of undermining Naturalism and barring any future path, \u2013 wrong in the sense that the novel as he conceived it seemed to me moribund, worn out with repetition, and, whether he liked it or not, of no interest to me.\n\nThere were many things that Zola could not understand; first of all, my need to open windows, to escape from an atmosphere which was stifling; then, the urge which possessed me to shake prejudices, break the limits of the novel, to bring art, science, history into it; in short, no longer to use the novel form except as a frame in which to set more serious work. For me, that was what struck me most at the time, the need to suppress the traditional plot, to abolish even love, womankind, to concentrate the spotlight on a single character \u2013 at all costs to do something new.\n\nZola did not reply to these arguments with which I was trying to persuade him, but went on repeating the same declaration: 'I cannot accept that people cast aside their style and their beliefs; I cannot accept that people reject what they once adored.'\n\nBut see here! Did he himself not once play the part of the good Sicambrian? If he did not indeed modify his technique of composition and writing, he at least varied his way of conceiving humanity and explaining life. After the dark pessimism of his first books, have we not been given, under the guise of Socialism, the smug optimism of his last works?\n\nIt has to be admitted that no one understood the human soul less than the Naturalists who took it upon themselves to observe it. They saw existence only as a single entity; they only accepted it as conditioned by what is believable, and I have since learned by experience that the unbelievable is not always the exception in this world, that the adventures of Rocambole are sometimes as truthful as those of Gervaise and Coupeau.\n\nBut the idea that Des Esseintes could be as true to life as one of his own characters threw Zola off balance, it almost angered him.\n\nIn these few pages I have so far discussed _Against Nature_ mostly from the point of view of literature and art. I must now discuss it from the point of view of Grace, and show how much of the unknown, what projections of a soul which does not know itself, can often be found in this book.\n\nI must admit that the clear and obvious Catholic direction _Against Nature_ takes remains a mystery to me.\n\nI did not go to a religious school but to a _lyc\u00e9e_ ; I was never pious in my youth, and the element of childhood memory, of first communion, of religious education, which so often plays a prominent part in religious conversion, played none in mine. And what further complicates the problem and confuses my analysis is that, while I was writing _Against Nature_ , I did not set foot in a church, I knew no practising Catholics, and no priests; I sensed no Divine influence guiding me towards the Church, I lived quietly in my trough; it seemed perfectly natural to satisfy the whims of my senses, and the thought that such self-indulgence were prohibited never occurred to me.\n\n_Against Nature_ appeared in 1884 and I entered a Trappist monastery to be converted in 1892; nearly eight years passed before the seeds sown in this book germinated; let us say two years, three even, for the muffled, obstinate, sometimes palpable work of Grace to go forward. That would still leave five years during which I cannot remember having the slightest inclination towards Catholicism, any remorse for the life I was leading or any desire to change it. Why and how was I switched on to a track that was at the time lost to me in the night? I absolutely cannot say: apart from the influence of the convent and the cloister and the prayers of a Dutch family of fervent believers, which I hardly knew anyway, nothing will explain the complete unconsciousness of that last cry, the religious call, on the last page of _Against Nature_.\n\nYes, I am aware that there are determined characters who draw up plans, who plot in advance the course of their existence and who follow it; it is even accepted, if I am not mistaken, that with will power one can achieve anything. I am prepared to believe it, but I must confess that for my part I have never been a determined man or a crafty writer. My life and my writing have a strong element of passivity, of unawareness, and of forces outside myself.\n\nProvidence showed me pity and the Virgin Mary was kind. I limited myself to not thwarting them when they revealed their intentions; I simply obeyed; I was led by what are known as 'mysterious ways'; if there is anyone who can be certain of the emptiness he would be without God's help, then it is I.\n\nThose without Faith will object that with ideas like these one is not far from fatalism and the denial of all psychology.\n\nNot so, for Faith in our Lord is not fatalism. Free will remains unaffected. If I so wished I could continue to yield to lustful excitements and remain in Paris and not go and suffer in a Trappist monastery. I am sure God would not have insisted; but despite insisting that free will remains intact, it has to be admitted that the Lord is heavily involved, that he harasses you, tracks you down, that he 'grills' you, to use a colourful term from rough policemen; but the fact remains that one can, if one wishes and at one's own risk, tell Him to mind his own business.\n\nAs for psychology, that is another matter. If we see it, as I do, from the perspective of conversion, then in its initial stages it is impossible to disentangle; certain areas of it might be clear, but others not; the subterranean workings of the soul remain out of our sight. There was undoubtedly, as I was writing _Against Nature_ , a land-shift, the earth was being mined to lay foundations of which I was unaware. God was digging to set his fuses and he worked only in the darkness of the soul, in the night. Nothing could be seen; it was only years later that the sparks began to run along the wires. I felt my soul moving to these shocks; it was at the time neither especially painful nor especially clear: the liturgy, mysticism, art were its vehicles or its means; this generally happened in churches, in Saint-S\u00e9verin especially, which I would visit out of curiosity, out of boredom, when I had nothing to do. During the ceremonies I felt nothing more than an inner trepidation, a trembling that one feels when one sees or hears or reads a beautiful work of art, but there was no precise warning to get me ready to make up my mind.\n\nI was simply emerging, little by little, from the shell of my moral impurity; I was beginning to be disgusted with myself, but still I balked at the articles of faith. The objections I placed in my path seemed irresistible to me; and one morning, when I awoke, they were resolved, how I have never known. I prayed for the first time and the explosion happened.\n\nTo people who do not believe in God, all this seems mad. For those who have felt his work, no surprise is possible; and, if there were surprise, it would only be during the incubation period, when one sees and perceives nothing, the time of clearing the way for the foundations which we had no idea of were being laid.\n\nTo sum up, I can understand up to a point what happened in the years 1891 \u2013 5, between _L\u00e0-Bas_ and _En Route_ , but I understand nothing about the years 1884 \u2013 91, between _Against Nature_ and _L\u00e0-Bas_.\n\nIf I myself did not understand, it was no wonder that others could not understand what drove Des Esseintes. Thus, _Against Nature_ fell like a meteorite into the literary fairground and there was astonishment and fury; the press was thrown into confusion; never had it raved and roared in so many articles; after having called me an impressionistic misanthrope and called Des Esseintes a complicated imbecile and maniac products of the Ecole normale sup\u00e9rieure like M. Lema\u00eetre were indignant that I had not eulogized Virgil, and declared in a peremptory tone that the Latin writers of the Decadence were no more than 'drivellers and cretins'. Other critical entrepreneurs took it upon themselves to advise me to take cold showers in a thermal prison; then it was the turn of the academics to get involved. In the Salle des Capucines, that arbiter of taste Sarcey, stunned, cried out: 'I'll be hanged if I can understand a single word of this novel.' Eventually, to cap it all, serious reviews such as in the _Revue des deux mondes_ dispatched their leader M. Bruneti\u00e8re to compare the book with the vaudeville farces of Waflard and Fulgence.\n\nIn all this hubbub, only one writer saw clearly, Barbey d'Aurevilly, who moreover did not know me. In an article in the _Constitutionnel_ dated 28 July 1884, which has since been published in his book, _Le Roman contemporain_ , he wrote: 'After such a book, the only choice left open to the author is between the muzzle of a pistol and the foot of the cross.'\n\nThe choice is made.\n\nJ.-K. Huysmans\n\n(1903)\n\n### NOTE\n\n. In _En Route_ , a similar metaphor is used for the mystery of conversion of Durtal: 'Yes, but this operation is like what happens to a mine which explodes only after having been dug...; I could have followed it, followed the movement of the spark as it burned along the fuse, but in this case I could not. I exploded without warning' ( _En Route_ , Paris: Gallimard/Folio, 1996), p. 76.\n\n## Appendix II\n\nReviews of and Responses to _Against Nature_\n\nA. Meunier (J.-K. Huysmans), _Les Hommes d'aujourd'hui_ , no. 263 (1885)\n\n...I watched the man as he talked to me. He was like a courteous cat, very polite, almost likeable, but edgy, ready to show his claws at the least word. Dry, thin, greying, with an expressive face and a look of boredom \u2013 this was my first impression.\n\n\u2013 So, I said, getting to the heart of the matter, you must be pleased with the literary success of _Against Nature_?\n\n\u2013 Yes, the book exploded into the midst of literary youth like a grenade. I thought I had been writing for ten people, crafting a kind of hermetic book, locked to idiots. To my great surprise, it happened that a few thousand people scattered around the globe were in a state of mind analogous to mine, sickened by the ignominious roguishness of this century, hungry also for works of art that had been more or less well executed, but which had at least been honestly put together, and without that despicable rush to get into print that runs so rife in France at present...\n\n\u2013 And if I asked you about Naturalism, since after all you are taken to be one of its most out-and-out adherents?\n\n\u2013 I would simply answer that I write what I see, what I live, what I feel, and that I write the least badly I can. If that is Naturalism, so much the better. When it comes down to it, there are writers with talent and writers without talent, regardless of whether they are Naturalists, Romantics, Decadents, take your pick, I don't care! To my mind, it's a matter of having talent, and that's all there is to it!...\n\nAll in all, my first impression was borne out: Huysmans is definitely the sour misanthrope, the anaemic nerve-bundle of his books, which I shall briefly consider here.\n\n*\n\nHe began with a mediocre collection of prose poems entitled _Le Drageoir \u00e0 \u00e9pices_ ; then he wrote a novel, his first, about prostitutes, _Marthe_ , which was published in Brussels in 1876, and which, despite its chaste approach, was banned in France as an affront to morality. _L'Assommoir_ had not yet made the remarkable impact we all now know. _Marthe_ has since been republished in Paris and has met with a degree of success. The book contains, here and there, valuable insights, already betraying a certain feverishness of style, but for me its language is too redolent of the Goncourt brothers. It is the work of a beginner, curious and vibrant but too short and without enough personality.\n\nIt is not until _Les Soeurs Vatard_ that we discover the bizarre temperament of this writer, a puzzling mix of refined Parisian and Dutch painter. It is from this fusion, to which one could add a pinch of black humour and rough English comedy, that gives these books their distinctive imprint.\n\n_Les Soeurs Vatard_ has some fine pages; it appeared in 1879, and introduces for the first time into modern literature remarkably painstaking descriptions of railways and locomotives. It is a slice of life, of the lives of the women who bind books, earthy and lewd and true to life, straight from the brush of old Steen, but wielded by an alert and supple Parisian hand, but I personally prefer _En M\u00e9nage_ , which remains my favourite among the books we owe to this author.\n\nThis is because the book gives insights into melancholy and explores particular stricken and feeble souls. It is the anthem of Nihilism! An anthem made even darker by outbursts of ominous light-heartedness and the language of a ferocious mind... But in _Against Nature_ furious rage emerges, the apathetic mask cracks, denunciations of life blaze in every line; we are far from the quiescent and disappointed philosophy of the two books that precede it. It is madness, foaming at the mouth; I do not think that hatred and contempt for a century has ever been so passionately expressed as in this strange novel, which falls so far outside all contemporary literature.\n\nOne of the great faults of M. Huysmans' books is, in my opinion, that it is the _same character_ who pulls the strings in each of his works. _Cyprien Tibaille_ and _Andr\u00e9 Folantin_ are, after all, no more than one and the same person, transported into different settings. And this person is quite obviously M. Huysmans, one can feel it; we are a long way from the flawless artistry of Flaubert, who concealed himself behind his work and created such marvellously diverse characters. M. Huysmans is quite incapable of such self-restraint. His sardonic face appears, lying in wait, on every page, and the constant intrusion of a personality, however interesting it may be, in my opinion diminishes the quality of a work, and eventually wearies with its predictability.\n\nI will not deal here with his style. It has all been said in a judicious article by M. Hennequin. Certain of his pages are of unequalled splendour, especially in _Against Nature_ , in which a chapter on _Gustave Moreau_ , to mention but one, is and will rightly remain famous. But there is another element which critics have generally pretended not to notice. I mean the psychological analysis of his characters \u2013 or rather his character, for as I have said, there is only one: a weak-willed character, troubled, self-tormenting, rational, and far-sighted enough to explain himself the direction in which his illness was taking him and to describe it in fluent and precise language. One of the original features of this author lies in his analysis of character, an originality equal, in my view, to that of his style. Read _La Crise juponni\u00e8re_ , in _En M\u00e9nage_ , and reflect that none of this tiny corner of the soul had ever been glimpsed before him. How authentic is this examination of the crisis, and with what skilful clarity the author reveals it to us! Or read the splendid chapter in _Against Nature_ , the chapter devoted to childhood memories and to artfully narrated theological convolutions, and decide if these explorations of the deep vaults of the spirit are not wholly profound and wholly new!\n\nOver and above his works, M. Huysmans has published a volume of _Croquis parisiens_ , where, following Aloysius Bertrand and Baudelaire, he tried to fashion prose poetry. To some extent he renewed and reinvigorated the genre, using strange conceits, blank verse as refrains, and beginning and ending his poems with strange, repeated rhythmic lines, even adding a kind of separate ritournelle or _'envoi'_ , as in the ballads of Villon and Deschamps. There are also writings on art, collected in his book _L'Art moderne_ , the first book seriously to explain the work of the Impressionists and to give Degas the high position he will occupy in the future. M. Huysmans was also the first to champion Raffa\u00eblli, at the time when no one paid any attention to the painter; and he was the first to interpret and launch the work of Odilon Redon. What modern art critic has such gifts of unerring taste and understanding of art in all its most diverse forms?\n\nIn short, if there is any justice, M. Huysmans, once so despised by vulgar folk, will receive his share of acclaim. At the moment I must admit that, as far as I am concerned, I share very few of his beliefs. Personally, I believe in a healthier literature, in a less showy style perhaps, but also less complicated. I also believe in a more expansive and general and less rarefied psychological analysis. From this point of view, Balzac seems to me the master \u2013 he so carefully dissected the great and universal passions of human beings, fatherly love, greed. However high I place M. Huysmans among the true writers of a century that has so few of them, I cannot help considering him an exception, a bizarre and morbid writer, jerky and showy, an artist to his fingertips. In the words of another strange writer of contorted and luxuriant epithets, with disconcerting and remote ideas, L\u00e9on Bloy, 'dragging the image by the hair or by the feet down the worm-eaten staircase of terrified syntax'. But all that, however much we may admire him, does not seem to me to add up to the beautiful healthiness of conception and style of which undoubted and absolute masterpieces are made.\n\nPaul Ginisty, _Gil Blas_ (21 May 1884)\n\nM. Huysmans, a strange character with a bizarre and alembicated talent, is the type of man to have pulled off this immense mystification, a prodigious artistic hoax... The task, if task there was, was not an easy one. It required an exceptional breadth of reading, for M. Huysmans's neurotic, like some new kind of Bouvard and P\u00e9cuchet, goes through the repertoire of human knowledge. Above all, it required, so as to stay bearable throughout its three hundred pages, the surprise value of a violent, intense, irritating style, but a style where brilliance might flash amid the shocks...\n\nL\u00e9o Tr\u00e9zenik, _Lut\u00e9ce_ (1 \u2013 8 June 1884)\n\nDecadence of what?\n\nThis is pure and simple collapse.\n\nMoral society, like the intellectual world, is founded on a framework of prejudices, conventions and reciprocal back-scratching, etc., which only stays upright by some miracle of balance. The social wheels only keep turning because of the speed and because no one has, until now, dared put a stick into the spokes and blow up the whole machine. Some, like M. Huysmans, sap the foundations, attack the base directly, show you that these great blocks, seemingly so solid, are just pale cardboard boxes, perfect imitations of stone but in reality full of wind.\n\nThat is why a book like _Against Nature_ is a book to put in a corner of one's library, within reach, because it is a formidable pickaxe-blow to the pale cardboard of social and literary conventions, and comes from a wholehearted atheist, a robust pessimist \u2013 complete, absolute, and at peace with himself.\n\nIt's as if we barely hear the blow of the pickaxe as it demolishes the edifice, so seduced are we by the stunning erudition that overflows from these pages, so blinded by the silkiness of this precious language, so refined and yet so nervous and muscular and full-blooded.\n\nEmile Goudeau, _L'Echo de Paris_ (10 June 1884)\n\n[...] M. Huysmans, with a remarkable talent and stupefying erudition, has put together in his book _Against Nature_ all the elements of human despair. He has solidly spat on every pleasure, and kept for himself the terrible joy of abolishing human joy. An unhealthy book, but artistically very beautiful, perfectly crafted and skilfully wrought.\n\nHis despairing conclusion nonetheless leaves a faint hope, since his hero Des Esseintes, instead of taking refuge in suicide, agrees on doctor's orders to return to the world he so despised...\n\nRead this majestically hopeless book, then bury your impossible illusions, drink fresh water, and start loving \u2013 anything, even a dog.\n\nBarbey d'Aurevilly, _Le Pays_ (29 July 1884)\n\n...Des Esseintes is not a human being created like _Obermann, Ren\u00e8_ or _Adolphe_ , these passionate and guilty heroes from human novels. He is a machine that has gone haywire. Nothing more.\n\n...When [Des Esseintes] is not a scoundrel he is a coward... He has ridiculous and idiotic inventions. Remember the story of the tortoise whose shell he has gold-plated and in which he has jewels incrusted! Remember the books in his library whose spirit the bindings are meant to translate! Remember those flowers which are supposed to kill natural flowers! remember the alchemy of his scents, madly sought in combinations of well-known perfumes! and tell me if these fantasies are not absurd! I can quite understand that the vulgarities of life offend a proud and elevated spirit, but in order to escape and to replace them one must not stoop to these piffling trifles... And M. Huysmans' Des Esseintes, who plays the Titan face to face with life, shows himself to be a stupid Tom Thumb when it comes to changing it.\n\n...This is the punishment of such a book, one of the most decadent we can number among the decadent books of this century of decadence... Undertaken in despair, the book ends with a despair that is greater than that with which it began. At the end of all the unbelievable follies he has dared, this author has felt the shattering sorrow of disappointment. A mortal anguish pervades his book. The miserable little castle of cards \u2013 his little cardboard Babel \u2013 built against God and the world, collapses on top of him [...] The Revolutionary has felt his own nothingness...\n\n'After _Les Fleurs du mal'_ , I once told Baudelaire, 'you have only to choose between the muzzle of a pistol and the foot of the cross.' Baudelaire chose the foot of the cross.\n\nWill the author of _Against Nature_ choose it also?\n\nOscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1891), chapter 10\n\nHis eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it? he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-coloured octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicatesound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.\n\nIt was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows.\n\nMax Nordau, _Degeneration_ (1892; English translation, 1895)\n\nWe will now examine the ideal 'decadent' that Huysmans draws so complacently and in such detail for us, in _Against Nature_. First, a word on the author of this instructive book. Huysmans, the classical type of the hysterical mind without originality, who is the predestined victim of every suggestion, began his literary career as a fanatical imitator of Zola, and produced in his first period of development, romances and novels which... greatly surpassed his model in obscenity. Then he swerved from naturalism... and began to ape the Diabolists, particularly Baudelaire. A red thread unites both of these otherwise abruptly contrasted methods, viz., his lubricity... He is, as a languishing 'Decadent', quite as vulgarly obscene as when he was a bestial 'Naturalist'.\n\n_Against Nature_ can hardly be called a novel, and Huysmans, in fact, does not call it so... We have seen how slavishly M. Huysmans, in his drivel about tea, liqueurs and perfumes, follows to the letter the fundamental principle of the Parnassians \u2013 of ransacking technical dictionaries. He has evidently been forced to copy the catalogues of commercial travellers dealing in perfumes and soaps, teas and liqueurs, to scrape together his erudition in current prices...\n\nWe have him now, then, the 'super-man' ( _surhomme_ ) of whom Baudelaire and his disciples dream, and whom they wish to resemble: physically, ill and feeble; morally, an arrant scoundrel; intellectually, an unspeakable idiot who passes his whole time choosing the colours and stuffs which are to drape his room artistically, in observing the movements of mechanical fishes, in sniffing perfumes and sipping liqueurs... A parasite of the lowest grade of atavism, a sort of human sacculus, he would be condemned, if he were poor, to die miserably of hunger in so far as society, in misdirected charity, did not assure to him the necessities of life in an idiot asylum.\n\nEmile Zola, Letter to Huysmans, 20 May 1884\n\n...Now shall I tell you frankly what bothers me in the book? First, I repeat, confusion. Maybe this is the builder in me protesting, but I am not happy that Des Esseintes is as mad at the start as he is at the end, that there is no form of progression, that the different parts come about through painful authorial transitions, and that you show us a kind of magic lantern, changing arbitrarily. Is it the character's neurosis that makes him lead such a life, or is it the life that makes him neurotic? There is a reciprocity is there not? But none of this is clearly set out. I think the work would have had a more shocking effect, especially in its dealings with ineffable things, if you had based it on something more logical, however crazy it might have been. Another thing: why is Des Esseintes so afraid of illness? He's obviously not a Schopen-hauerean if he's afraid of death? It would have been best for him to get carried off by his stomach illness, since the world doesn't seem habitable to him. Your ending, his resignation to the stupidity of living, grates with me. It would have been good to see him mull death over more if you didn't want to finish with the crude closure of his death.\n\nThere you are my friend, those are all my reservations... All in all, I have spent three very happy evenings. This book will at least count as a curiosity among your works; be proud to have written it.\n\nSt\u00e9phane Mallarm\u00e9, Letter to Huysmans, 18 May 1884\n\nHere it is, this unique book, which had to be written \u2013 and it has, by you \u2013 and at no other moment in literature than now!\n\n...The great thing in all of this, and the strength of your work (which will be attacked as a work of demented imagination, etc.) is that there is not one atom of fantasy: you have managed, in your refined enjoyment of essences, to reveal yourself more documentary than any contemporary...\n\n...I cannot wait, not to thank you (for you have not spoken to please me), but to say how simply and deeply glad I am that my name circulates, quite at home, in this beautiful book (the back room of your mind), a guest dressed in proud clothes designed by the most exquisite artistic sympathy! I believe in only two kinds of glory, each almost as illusory as the other; one is to be found in the delirium of a people for whom one could artistically fashion a new idol; the other in seeing oneself, reading a much-loved book, appearing from the depths of its pages where one had been, without knowing it, all along and by the author's will. You have made this latter glory known to me, truly, delightfully!\n\nArthur Symons, 'The Decadent Movement in Literature',  \n _Dramatis Personae_ (1923)\n\n[Huysmans'] work, like that of the Goncourts, is largely determined by the _maladie fin de si\u00e8cle_ \u2013 the diseased nerves that, in his case, have given a curious personal quality of pessimism to his outlook on the world, his view of life. Part of his work \u2013 Marthe, _Les Soeurs Vatard, En M\u00e8nage, A Vau l'Eau_ \u2013 is a minute and searching study of the minor discomforts, the commonplace miseries of life, as seen by a peevishly disordered vision, delighting, for its own self-torture, in the insistent contemplation of human stupidity, of the sordid in existence. Yet these books do but lead to the unique masterpiece, the astonishing caprice of _A Rebours_ , in which he has concentrated all that is delicately depraved, all that is beautifully, curiously poisonous, in modern art. _A Rebours_ is the history of a typical Decadent \u2013 a study, indeed, after a real man, but a study which seizes upon the type rather than the personality...\n\n[H]e has expressed not merely himself, but an epoch. And he has done so in a style which carries the modern experiments upon language to their furthest development. Formed upon Goncourt and Flaubert, it has sought for novelty, _l'image peinte_ , the exactitude of colour, the forcible precision of epithet, wherever words, images or epithets are to be found. Barbaric in its profusion, violent in its emphasis, wearying in its splendour, it is \u2013 especially in regard to things seen \u2013 extraordinarily expressive, with all the shades of a painter's palette. Elaborately and deliberately perverse, it is in its very perversity that Huysmans's work \u2013 so fascinating, so repellent, so instinctively artificial \u2013 comes to represent, as the work of no other writer can be said to do, the main tendencies, the chief results, of the Decadent movement in literature.\n\nTranslations by Patrick McGuinness\n\n## Notes\n\nThese notes are designed to aid a reading of the novel rather than to furnish copious context and apparatus. Huysmans generally gives enough bio-bibliographical or historical information in _Against Nature_ for the reader to follow and to get the gist of the references. For more detailed and specialized information, the reader is referred to the editions prepared by Marc Fumaroli and Rose Fortassier noted in Further Reading.\n\n### EPIGRAPH\n\n. _I must rejoice... Jan Van Ruysbroeck_ : The epigraph is from Jan Van Ruysbroeck, or Ruysbroeck the Admirable, the fourteenth-century Flemish mystic, as translated by Ernest Hello in 1869. Both Ruysbroeck and Hello are discussed in chapter 12 (see also note  to chapter 12)\n\n### PROLOGUE\n\n. _Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps_ : Huysmans visited the Ch\u00e2teau de Lourps, near the village of Jutigny in Seine-et-Marne, in 1881, and subsequently returned there to spend parts of the summer with his companion Anna Meunier and her family in 1884 and in 1885. They were joined there in 1885 by L\u00e9on Bloy, a novelist and polemicist described as 'a savage pamphleteer' in chapter 12. Bloy, an early enthusiast of Huysmans' work, was later to become one of his most vituperative detractors.\n\n. _The Duc d'Epernon and the Marquis d'O_ : Jean-Louis de Nogaret, Duke of Epernon (1554\u20131642) and the Marquis d'O (1535\u201394) were favourites of King Henri III.\n\n. _degeneration_ : Huysmans uses the word _d\u00e9cadence_ for 'degeneration' here, but the two are not synonymous. Contemporary readers would have recognized the language of heredity and degeneration theory that _Against Nature_ shares with Naturalism.\n\n. _Nicole_ : The hero of the novel _Port-Royal_ , by the novelist and critic Sainte-Beuve (1804\u201369).\n\n. _Already he was getting pains... wineglass_ : Huysmans takes pride in the exactness and documentary truth of his descriptions. In a May 1884 letter to Zola, he claims to have followed 'step by step' Axenfeld's _Trait\u00e9 des n\u00e9vroses (Treatise on the Neuroses_ , 1883) and Bouchut's _Du n\u00e9vrosisme aigu et chronique et des maladies nerveuses (On Acute and Chronic Neurosis and Nervous Illness_ , 1860).\n\n. _Fontenay-aux-Roses... far from all neighbours_ : Huysmans was sent to Fontenay-aux-Roses to recuperate from illness in 1881. The description of a district just far enough from Paris to be isolated and just near enough for Paris not to seem alluringly distant echoes Huysmans' description to Zola of Fontenay-aux-Roses as 'pseudo-countryside' (letter of June 1881).\n\n### CHAPTER 1\n\n. _he had decorated and furnished... taken his fancy_ : Among the sources for Des Esseintes' interior decoration are Mallarm\u00e9's descriptions, in a letter to Huysmans, of the home of Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac. Other possible sources for the preoccupation with interior decoration and furnishing is Edmond de Goncourt's aesthetic inventory _La Maison d'un artiste (House of an Artist_ , 1881) and Edgar Allan Poe's 'Philosophy of Furniture' (1840).\n\n. _dandyism_ : The notion of the Dandy was popularized by Barbey d'Aurevilly's _Du dandysme (On Dandyism_ , 1844), and taken up by Baudelaire in _Peintre de la vie moderne (Painter of Modern Life_ , 1863). For Baudelaire the Dandy was 'half-priest, half-victim', and represented 'a hero in decadent times'. It should be noted that Barbey's and Baudelaire's notion of the Dandy is very different from the camper version taken up by Wilde and the writers and artists of the English 1890s. For Baudelaire it denoted a kind of spirituality and asceticism, rather than a luxuriously diplayed social persona.\n\n. _One of these meals... temporarily deceased_ : Huysmans' idea for the wake for Des Esseintes' virility is based on a description by Grimod de la Reyni\u00e8re (1758\u20131838), who at the age of twenty-five hosted a dinner in 1783 to help launch his book _R\u00e9flexions philosophiques sur le plaisir par un c\u00e9libataire (Philosophical Reflections on Pleasure by a Bachelor_ ).\n\n. _What he wanted was colours... artificial light_ : The following section takes as its starting-point Baudelaire's art criticism essay, the 'Salon of 1846'. As Huysmans says in his 1903 preface to _Against Nature_ , these ideas about colour symbolism culminate in the research done for his 1898 novel _La Cath\u00e9drale (The Cathedral_ ).\n\n. _Du Cange's Glossarium mediae et infimae Latinatis_ : Charles du Fresne Du Cange (1610\u201388) was a historian and philologist, whose _Glossarium ad scriptores mediae et infimae latinatis_ (1878) is mentioned again in chapter 14, as Des Esseintes muses on the need for a glossary to capture 'the last paroxysms' of a decaying French language.\n\n. _three pieces by Baudelaire... World_ : The two poems by Baudelaire 'The Death of the Lovers' and 'The Enemy' are from _Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil_ , 1857), while 'Anywhere out of the world' (a title taken from Thomas Hood) is from Baudelaire's _Petits po\u00e8mes en prose (Short Poems in Prose_ , 1869).\n\n### CHAPTER 2\n\n. _such as the beguines still wear to this day at Ghent_ : The B\u00e9guinage convent in Ghent was founded in the seventeenth century, and like many Flanders cityscapes it provided suggestive images for Symbolist writers and painters. Georges Rodenbach's _Bruges-la-Morte_ (1892), a Symbolist novel indebted to _Against Nature_ , takes the cityscape of Bruges as both a location and an active force.\n\n. _a large aquarium... porthole_ : The image of the aquarium evoked in this and other episodes in the novel is \u2013 like the hothouse \u2013 a key decadent theme, reflected in Symbolist writers such as Laforgue, Rodenbach and Maeterlinck.\n\n. _the Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym_ : _The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket_ , by Edgar Allan Poe (1838), is a tale of seafaring mystery, mutiny and horror. It was translated by Baudelaire.\n\n. _Monsieur Pasteur's method_ : Louis Pasteur (1822\u201395), the famous chemist and author of _\u00c9tudes sur le vin (Studies on Wine_ , 1866) and _\u00c9tudes sur la bi\u00e8re (Studies on Beer_ , 1876). Huysmans is alluding here to Pasteur's discovery of a means of preserving wine and beer.\n\n. _artifice... human genius_ : This and the rest of the passages in this chapter are reminiscent of Baudelaire's _Peintre de la vie moderne_. For contemporary readers, many of Des Esseintes' ideas here would have seemed like an absurd over-literalization of Baudelaire's influential principles.\n\n### CHAPTER 3\n\n. _'the Decadence'_ : For D\u00e9sir\u00e9 Nisard, on whose _Etude de moeurs et de critique sur les po\u00e8tes latin de la d\u00e9cadence (Moral and Critical Study of the Latin Poets of the Decadence_ , 1834) Huysmans based some of this chapter, the term 'Decadence' was pejorative, denoting a literary period where ornament and description ran rife. For Des Esseintes, as for many of Huysmans' contempor-aries, it was a positive term. Much of the debate around Decadence was conducted through discussions of language: against the refining, complicating and neologizing tendencies of so-called 'Decadent' writing, traditional French critics posited what was known as the 'genius' of the Latin (and by extension, French) language: clear, precise and economical. Des Esseintes is anti-classical in his tastes, dismissing Virgil, Cicero, Horace, etc. in often trenchant criticism, and preferring the 'refined sweetness' and 'barbaric style' of the writers Nisard had condemned.\n\n. _old Chick-Pea_ : Cicero, whose name in Latin means chick-pea.\n\n. _Petronius... Satyricon_ : Des Esseintes uses Petronius, author of _The Satyricon_ , to upbraid Naturalist writing.\n\n. _Although he was perfectly at home with theological problems_ : From here onwards, Remy de Gourmont notes, Huysmans borrowed freely (or as Gourmont put it, 'stole') from Adolphe Ebert's _Histoire g\u00e9n\u00e9rale de la litt\u00e9rature du Moyen Age en Occident (General History of Medieval Literature in the West_ , published in French translation in 1883). Marc Fumaroli's Gallimard edition copiously annotates the chapter, and makes use of a definitive article on Huysmans and Latin literature: Jean C\u00e9ard, 'Des Esseintes et la d\u00e9cadence latine', _Studi Francesi_ , 65\u20136 (May\u2013December 1978), pp. 297\u2013310.\n\n. _he stacked the rest of his shelves... the present day_ : After the seemingly exhaustive account in this chapter, we are brought abruptly to the present day. Des Esseintes leaves out swathes of historical development, all the while insisting on the continuity of the Decadence and making an implicit link between the Latin 'Decadence' and his own period. This chapter, with its critical values and polemical statements, forms a counterpart to the chapters on modern sacred and profane literature that occur later in the novel.\n\n### CHAPTER 4\n\n. _and Des Esseintes accordingly decided... gold_ : This episode is based on Montesquiou's gold-plated and jewel-encrusted tortoise. Edmond de Goncourt in a diary entry for 14 June 1882 calls it a 'walking _bibelot_ ', and one of the poems in Montesquiou's collection _Les Hortensias bleus (Blue Hydrangeas_ ) mentions the unhappy creature.\n\n. _This collection... he called his mouth organ_ : Des Esseintes' 'mouth organ', an early version of a cocktail mixer, seems to have been based on a reading of Polycarpe Poncelet's _Chimie du go\u00fbtet del'odorat (Chemistry of Taste and Smell, 1755_ ). The following passage is also permeated with Baudelaire's ideas about correspondence and the harmonious joining of different orders of sensation.\n\n### CHAPTER 5\n\n. _He had bought Moreau's two masterpieces... Salome_ : The two works by Gustave Moreau (1826\u201398) that Des Esseintes possesses \u2013 _Salome Dancing Before Herod_ and _The Apparition_ \u2013 had been exhibited at the 1876 Salon and the 1878 Exposition universelle in Paris. Huysmans wrote an essay on Moreau in his book of art criticism _Certains_ , and Moreau, despite being one of the most celebrated painters of the period, remained outside the various literary groupings that laid claim to his images. For Des Esseintes Moreau transcends history but also, significantly, genealogy: he has 'no real ancestors and no possible descendants'.\n\n. _like Salammb\u00f4's_ : The priestess in Flaubert's exotic novel _Salammb\u00f4_ (1862), set in Carthage after the first Punic war and describing the revolt of Carthage's mercenary army.\n\n. _Jan Luyken_ : Dutch engraver (1649\u20131712), on whom Huysmans wrote an essay in _Certains_. Huysmans, like Des Esseintes, was attracted to the sensuality of the broken or suffering body.\n\n. _Bresdin's Comedy of Death_ : Rodolphe Bresdin (1822\u201385) was a hallucinatory artist and engraver, and a friend of Gautier and Baudelaire. Montesquiou had written two pamphlets on Bresdin's life and work. His _Comedy of Death_ appeared in 1854.\n\n. _These were all signed Odilon Redon_ : Odilon Redon (1840\u20131916) illustrated the works of, among others, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Mallarm\u00e9 and Poe (his illustrations have appeared on the covers of Penguin Classics Poe editions). Redon's _Homage to Goya_ , a series of lithographs, appeared in 1885. Huysmans reviewed them in the _Revue ind\u00e9pendante_ and wrote an essay on Redon entitled 'Le Monstre' ('The Monster') in _Certains_ , his 1887 book of art criticism.\n\n. _Proverbs by Goya_ : This painting by Goya (1746\u20131828) was a favourite of Baudelaire, who wrote enthusiastically on Goya's ability to wring the beautiful from the ugly.\n\n. _Theotocopuli_ : Domenikos Theotokopoulos (1541\u20131614), better known as El Greco.\n\n### CHAPTER 6\n\n. _De Laude Castitatis... Bishop of Vienne_ : _De consolatoria laude Castitis ad Fuscinam sororem (In Praise of Chastity_ ), by Avitus, Bishop of Vienne, has already been mentioned in Des Esseintes' library inventory of chapter III.\n\n### CHAPTER 7\n\n. _the Dominican Lacordaire... Sorr\u00e8ze_ : Jean-Baptiste-Henri Lacordaire (1802\u201361) was a politically active preacher whose best-known work is his _Conf\u00e9rences_. He merged a belief that faith was compatible with reason with an emphasis on the mysticism of Christianity. The college of Sorr\u00e8ze was a famous educational establishment in Tarn.\n\n. _De Quincey_ : The work of Thomas De Quincey had been translated by the Romantic poet Alfred de Musset in 1818, and had profoundly affected Baudelaire (who adapted parts of _Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_ in his _Paradis artificiels_ ).\n\n. _ideas of monstrous depravity... abused_ : Huysmans studied and took long documentary notes on black masses, and satanism was partly the subject of his book, _L\u00e0-Bas (The Damned_ , 1891).\n\n. _Schopenhauer... came nearer to the truth_ : Arthur Schopenhauer (1788\u20131860), the German philosopher and contemporary of Hegel, was extraordinarily influential in France at the time. His _World as Will and Idea_ and _Aphorisms_ had massive impact. A key book in Schopenhauer reception is Elme-Marie Caro's _Le Pessimisme au XIXe si\u00e8cle: L\u00e9opardi, Schopenhauer, Hartmann (Pessimism in the Nineteenth Century_ , 1878), and Th\u00e9odule Ribot's _La Philosophie de Schopenhauer_ (1874). In his preface of 1903, Huysmans reassesses his attraction to Schopenhauer as a poor substitute for Christian faith.\n\n. _Imitation of Christ_ : _The Imitation of Christ_ was written by Thomas \u00e0 Kempis (1380\u20131471). As he later does in his 1903 preface, Huysmans makes the connection between Schopenhaurean resignation and the resigned sorrow of Thomas \u00e0 Kempis.\n\n. _hydropathic treatment_ : Hydrotherapy was at the time a treatment for neurosis. Fumaroli notes the autobiographical dimension to this section, referring to Huysmans' description in a letter to Zola (April 1882) of gruelling hydrotherapeutic treatment.\n\n### CHAPTER 8\n\n. _It amused him... bourgeois blooms_ : The Baudelairean strain in this is clear. Baudelaire's poems had been described as 'flowers of evil sprung in the hothouses of decadence', and the hothouse became the symbol of the rare, etiolated, unnatural growths of which the Decadents were fond. The ultimate expression of hothouse imagery is Maeterlinck's poems _Serres chaudes (Hothouses_ , 1889), but the image can be found in authors as different as Zola and Laforgue. We may note that even here, with the sensuality of the plants, Des Esseintes reads the labels: even these plants are textually interpreted.\n\n. _tired of artificial flowers... fakes_ : In this about-turn the logic of artifice comes to a sinister but slightly comical halt, like the tortoise.\n\n. _It all comes down to syphilis in the end_ : Syphilitic heredity is another means for the theme of heredity to wind its way into the book. Continuity in _Against Nature_ is often figured as a decline or an undermining virus, and this dream of syphilis rampaging through the ages is one memorable instance, as the disease links epochs, generations and social classes.\n\n### CHAPTER 9\n\n. _the solanaceae of literature_ : Solanaceous refers mainly to narcotic (and occasionally poisonous) plants, and Huysmans here evokes a kind of narcotic writing.\n\n. _Siraudin_ : A famous confectioner, frequented also by the heroine of Edmond de Goncourt's _La Faustin_ (1882).\n\n. _the Circus_ : The fascination with circus performers (such as Miss Urania) is characteristic of the late nineteenth century: Banville, Villiers and the Goncourt brothers in _Les Fr\u00e8res Zemganno (The Zemganno Brothers_ , 1879) had explored the life and art of acrobats and circus performers.\n\n. _dialogue of the Chimera and the Sphinx_ : The dialogue occurs in Flaubert's _La tentation de St Antoine (The Temptation of Saint Antony_ ).\n\n. _Des Esseintes ran his eyes over him_ : Marc Fumaroli notes that this episode was what attracted the young decadent poet and novelist Jean Lorrain to Huysmans. Lorrain, author of _Monsieur Phocas_ , was Huysmans' guide to underground Paris.\n\n### CHAPTER 10\n\n. _For years now he had been an expert in the science of perfumes_ : Huysmans researched his perfumes, like his Latin poets, exhaustively. Among the sources for this chapter are S. Piesse, _Des Odeurs, des parfums, et des cosm\u00e9tiques (Smells, Perfumes and Cosmetics_ , 1877) and the catalogue _Produits sp\u00e9ciaux recommand\u00e9s de Violet, parfumeur br\u00e8vet\u00e9 fournisseur de toutes les cours \u00e9trang\u00e8res (Special Products Recommended by Violet, Certified Perfumier, Supplier of All Foreign Courts_ , 1874). Des Esseintes is saturated with Baudelairean ideas: exegete of scents, interpreter of olfactory symphonies, he is also, thanks to his books and treatises, a technician of perfume. Scents and perfumes represent both essences (thereby endorsing Des Esseintes' search for the distillation and concentration) and fakes (thereby satisfying his need for artifice). In this chapter, as throughout _Against Nature_ , there is an unresolvable tension between the two.\n\n. _Victor Hugo and Gautier_ : Victor Hugo (1802\u201385) and Th\u00e9ophile Gautier (1811\u201372) were among the greatest poets of the nineteenth century, pioneering Romantics and literary radicals. Gautier was the dedicatee of Baudelaire's _Les Fleurs du mal_ and author of _Emaux et Cam\u00e9es (Enamels and Gemstones_ , 1852) and the novel _Mademoiselle de Maupin_ as well as volumes of fantastical tales and innumerable critical and journalistic essays. He became an exponent of ' _l'art pour l'art_ ' and was prized by the Symbolists (and later by Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot) for his collection _Emaux et cam\u00e9es_. Hugo was the great figure of French literature, massively popular and active in every genre, author of, among much else, _Notre-Dame de Paris_ and _Les Mis\u00e9rables_ , the poetry collection _Les Orientales_ and the play _Hernani_.\n\n. _its Malesherbes, its Boileaus, its Andrieux, its Baour-Lormians_ : Fran\u00e7ois Malherbe (1555\u20131628) was an influential French poet who prized clarity and economy in verse. Nicolas Boileau (1636\u20131711), author of _Art po\u00e9tique_ , was one of the great neo-classical poets. Fran\u00e7ois Guillaume Andrieux (1759\u20131833) and Pierre Fran\u00e7ois Marie Baour-Lormian (1770\u20131854) were reactionary classicists who were against the early Romantics. Baour-Lormian wrote the influential _Le Classique et le Romantique (Classicism and Romanticism_ ) in 1825.\n\n. _Th\u00e9midore_ : Novel (1745) by Claude Godard d'Aucour.\n\n. _Pantin was there... gaze was directed_ : From the artificial tropics of the hothouse and the scents of hay and flowers, Des Esseintes moves to the reality of Pantin, on the industrial margins of Paris.\n\n### CHAPTER 11\n\n. _Galignani's Messenger_ : An English-language daily in Paris. The paper carried a review of _Against Nature_ , describing it as 'a work of an entirely new but by no means healthy tendency', leaving 'a decidedly bitter taste' (23 May 1884).\n\n. _comic scenes by Du Maurier or John Leech... Raphael_ : George Du Maurier (1834\u201396), John Leech (1817\u201364) and Randolph Caldecott (1846\u201386), were English artists and caricaturists. John Everett Millais (1829\u201396) and George Frederick Watts were Pre-Raphaelite painters. Some of them Huysmans had seen exhibited at the Salon of 1881 and discusses in his 1883 volume of art criticism, _L'Art moderne_.\n\n. _Little Dorrit, Dora Copperfield or Tom Pinch's sister Ruth_ : The references are to characters from Dickens.\n\n. _The spine-chilling nightmare of the cask of Amontillado_ : Des Esseintes is thinking of Poe's 'The Cask of Amontillado' (1846).\n\n. _I've been steeped in English life... change of locality_ : Des Esseintes' London, the perfect literary image, is an amalgam of the Pre-Raphaelites, De Quincey and Dickens, but also of commodities and labels. With Des Esseintes' 'journey' to England we may compare Oscar Wilde's _The Decay of Lying_ : 'if you desire to see a Japanese effect, you will not behave like a tourist and go to Tokio. On the contrary, you will stay at home and steep yourself in the work of certain Japanese artists...'\n\n### CHAPTER 12\n\n. _Archelaus... Arnaud de Villanova_ : Archelaus was a fifth-century BC Greek poet and alchemist. Albertus Magnus was a medieval German philosopher. Raymond Lully (1233\u20131315) was a Catalan poet and philosopher. Villanova was a Spanish alchemist and astrologer of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.\n\n. _This collection had cost him... peasant's boots_ : In the following passage Huysmans names past and contemporary bookbinders, and we note that Des Esseintes spends more time touching these books than reading them.\n\n. _The 'side-splitting mirth' of Rabelais... anathemas_ : Fran\u00e7ois Rabelais (d. 1553), author of _Gargantua et Pantagruel_ , was known for his humour and linguistic inventiveness. Moli\u00e8re (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, 1622\u201373), was the author of some of French theatre's finest comedies. Des Esseintes dislikes his emphasis on 'good sense'. Fran\u00e7ois Villon, the medieval poet and author of _Testament_ , was one of the prototypes of the _po\u00e8te maudit_. Agrippa D'Aubign\u00e9 (1552\u20131630), author of _Les Tragiques (The Tragic Ones_ ).\n\n. _As for prose... straight to his heart_ : Voltaire (Fran\u00e7ois-Marie Arouet, 1694\u20131778), one of the most prolific writers in all genres in French literary history. A politically-engaged humanist philosopher, he fought against religious bigotry and political oppression. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712\u201378), massively influential Swiss writer, author of autobiographical, critical, novelistic and political texts. Denis Diderot (1713\u201384), novelist, playwright and free-thinking critic, he was also politically active and editor of the _Encyclop\u00e9die_. Louis Bourdaloue (1623\u20131704) was a Jesuit priest known for his sermons that emphasized personal morality. Jacques-B\u00e9nigne Bossuet (1627\u20131704), was a poet, historian, churchman and orator, and was a member of Louis XIV's court. Blaise Pascal (1623\u201362) was a philosopher, mathematician, scientist and Christian apologist. His _Pens\u00e9es_ were published in 1670.\n\n. _Ozanam_ : Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric Ozanam (1813\u201353) was an influential liberal Catholic.\n\n. _All these ecclesiastics... the Reverend Father Chocarne_ : This chapter is a r\u00e9sum\u00e9 of key figures in nineteenth-century liberal Catholicism. Marc Fumaroli's and Rose Fortassier's editions give the dates, bio-bibliographies and precise significance of these writers.\n\n. _Ernest Hello_ :(1828\u201385), a profound influence on the Symbolist generation, Hello translated and wrote a study of Jan Van Ruysbroeck's _Noces spirituelles (Spiritual Wedding_ ) in 1869, from which the epigraph to _Against Nature_ is taken. When the poet and playwright Maurice Maeterlinck published a translation of Ruysbroeck's book in 1891, Huysmans declared: 'There is more knowledge and understanding of the human heart in one page of [Ruysbroeck's] than in all the Stendhals, Bourgets and Barr\u00e8ses in the world!' Hello was the author of a number of philosophical and aesthetic works, notably _Le Style_ (1861).\n\n. _a Catholic Duranty_ : Edmond Duranty (1833\u201380) was the editor of the review _R\u00e9alisme_. Also a novelist, he was an influential spokesman for realist literary doctrine.\n\n. _L\u00e9on Bloy_ :(1847\u20131917), novelist, journalist and polemicist, was a friend and supporter of Huysmans, before becoming one of Huysmans' most vicious critics.\n\n. _Barbey d'Aurevilly_ : Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly (1808\u201389), novelist and right-wing journalist, dandy and friend of Baudelaire. His stories and novels are characterized by melodrama, blasphemy and sadism. _Un Pr\u00eatre mari\u00e9 (A Married Priest_ ) appeared in 1865. _Les Diaboliques (The Devils_ , 1874) was prosecuted for obscenity.\n\n### CHAPTER 13\n\n. _Portalis and Homais_ : Auguste Portalis (1801\u201355) was a statesman and politician of the July Monarchy. Homais is the name of the pharmacist in _Madame Bovary_ , one of Flaubert's great images of the pernicious stupidity of 'common sense'.\n\n. _riddecks_ : Bars (Flemish).\n\n### CHAPTER 14\n\n. _for him, there were no such things as schools_ : Perhaps Huysmans was preparing the way for reception of his novel, but some of these ideas are reflected in his letters of the period, where he begins to doubt the validity of distinguishing between literary schools.\n\n. _He now preferred... L'Assommoir_ : Each of these books is somehow considered an atypical, exotic, even overwritten example of its author's work. Des Esseintes prefers the seemingly marginal, exotic or nostalgic novels to the more established realist 'classics' of Flaubert, the Goncourts and Zola.\n\n. _Goncourt_ : Edmond de Goncourt (1822\u201396) and his brother Jules (1830\u201370) were novelists, historians and diarists. Their _Journal_ is a fascinating and judgemental view of the period 1850\u201396, full of anecdotes and portaits of extraordinary people and tumultuous events. Their _Germinie Lacerteux_ (1864) is a masterpiece of Naturalist writing, while _Charles Demailly_ (1868), a story of an artistic young man brought low by a scheming wife and a malicious literary world, may have influenced Huysmans' conception of Des Esseintes. After Jules' death, Edmond continued to write. His novels include _Les Fr\u00e8res Zemganno_ (1879) and _La Faustin_ (1882).\n\n. _In Zola... its natural postures_ : The reference is to Zola's _La Faute de l'abb\u00e9 Mouret (The Sin of Father Mouret_ , 1875), the story of a young priest and his lover Albine set in an Edenic garden called Paradou.\n\n. _Paul Verlaine_ : (1844\u201396), one of the main influences on the Symbolist movement and author of the influential _Les Po\u00e8tes maudits (The Cursed Poets_ , 1884). Verlaine lived the life of the ' _po\u00e8te maudit_ ', but his poetry is known for its musicality, deliberate imprecision of effect and precision of craft.\n\n. _Le soir tombait... s'\u00e9tonne_ : Night was falling, an equivocal autumn night: the fair ones hanging dreamily on to our arms whispered words so specious that ever since our soul has been trembling and amazed. (Translation by Robert Baldick.)\n\n. _Car nous voulons... litt\u00e9rature_ : For we still want light and shade, not colour, nothing but light and shade... and all the rest is _literature_. (Translation by Robert Baldick.)\n\n. _Tristan Corbi\u00e8re_ : (1845\u201375), author of _Les Amours jaunes_ (1873). Corbi\u00e8re was more or less unknown until Huysmans and Verlaine (in _Les Po\u00e8tes maudits_ ) brought him to public attention. He was one of the French poets admired by Pound and Eliot.\n\n. _Obsc\u00e8ne confesseur des d\u00e9votes mort-n\u00e9es_ : Obscene confessor of fair bigots still-born. (Translation by Robert Baldick.)\n\n. _\u00c9ternel f\u00e9minin de l'\u00e9ternel jocrisse_ : Eternal feminine of the eternal fool. (Translation by Robert Baldick.)\n\n. _Th\u00e9odore Hannon_ : Belgian poet and author of _Rimes de joie (Rhymes of Joy_ ), which Huysman prefaced in 1881, and which contains a poem called 'Cyprien Tibaille', after one of Huysmans' characters. By the time of _Against Nature_ , the two were no longer friends.\n\n. _St\u00e9phane Mallarm\u00e9_ : (1842\u201398), the pre-eminent poet of the Symbolist movement, though his work in poetry and prose surpassed even Symbolism's grand ambitions. Mallarm\u00e9 responded to _Against Nature_ with his own poem 'Prose (pour Des Esseintes)', one of his most linguistically and conceptually taxing poems.\n\n. _Leconte de Lisle_ : (1818\u201394), leading member of the Parnassian movement, whose poetry prized impersonality, sculpted verse and stately rhythms.\n\n. _Villiers de l'Isle-Adam_ : (1838\u201389), one of the most eccentric and brilliant French writers of the second half of the nineteenth century. Originally a poet, Villiers moved to prose and theatre. His novel _L'Eve future (The Future Eve_ , 1886) and his play _Ax\u00ebl_ (1890) are masterpieces of the 'idealist reaction' in French literature. His _Contes cruels (Cruel Tales_ , 1883) contain the story 'V\u00e9ra', a tale of a woman brought back to life by her husband's idealism and will power. 'Claire Lenoir' is a supernatural novella. Tullia Fabriana is a character in Villiers' _Isis_.\n\n. _Charles Cros_ : (1842\u201388), eccentric poet and polymath (inventor of the gramophone, pioneer of colour photography and astronomer), was, like Corbi\u00e8re and Villiers, a literary outsider even to literary outsiders such as the Symbolists.\n\n. _of the first two Parnasses_ : The 'Parnassian' poets prized impersonality, craft and formal perfection against Romanticism's lyrical inspiration and belief in the social value of art. The _Parnasses_ were anthologies of poetry in which a variety of the greatest poets of the nineteenth century \u2013 Verlaine, Mallarm\u00e9, Banville, Leconte de Lisle \u2013 appeared.\n\n. _O miroir... nudit\u00e9_ : Oh mirror! cold water frozen by boredom within your frame, how many times, for hours on end, saddened by dreams and searching for my memories, which are like dead leaves in the deep hole beneath your glassy surface, have I seen myself in you as a distant ghost! But, oh horror! on certain evenings, in your cruel pool, I have recognized the bareness of my disordered dream! (Translation by Robert Baldick.)\n\n. _Alors m'\u00e9veillerai-je... l'ing\u00e9nuit\u00e9_ : Then shall I awake to the original fervour, upright and alone in an ancient flood of light, lilies! and one of you for innocence. (Translation by Robert Baldick.)\n\n. _Aloysius Bertrand_ : (1807\u201341), author of _Gaspard de la nuit (Gaspard and the Night_ , 1842), hallucinatory Romantic prose poems.\n\n. _Livre de jade_ : (1867), a prose poem by Judith Gautier (1846\u20131917), daughter of Th\u00e9ophile Gautier.\n\n. _a glossary... medieval monasteries_ : In 1888, a _Petit Glossaire des auteurs d\u00e9cadents et symbolistes (Short Glossary of Decadent and Symbolist Authors_ ) was produced by the young Symbolist and Decadent writers, principally Paul Adam and F\u00e9lix F\u00e9n\u00e9on. It included extracts from Verlaine, Mallarm\u00e9 and several lesser-known writers, but surprisingly nothing from Huysmans himself.\n\n### CHAPTER 15\n\n. _and he was well aware... with impunity_ : Huysmans was writing at a time of high Wagnerism. Baudelaire and Mallarm\u00e9 had written powerful meditations on Wagner's music and its implications for poetry, and the French _Revue wagn\u00e9rienne_ published a number of Symbolist texts inspired by or in response to Wagner's music. Huysmans was also a contributor to the review. It should be noted that at the time Wagner's music was heard in extracts at concerts rather than performed integrally. It is interesting in this respect that Des Esseintes, always ready to extract and anthologize and decontextualize, does not approve of these practices for music.\n\n. _of Auber and Bo\u00efeldieu, of Adam and Flotow_ : All represent the French comic opera tradition.\n\n. _Des M\u00e4dchens Klage_ : ('The Young Girl's Lament'), a poem by Schiller set to music by Schubert.\n\n### CHAPTER 16\n\n. _But then, the decayed nobility was done for... classes_ : Huysmans here refers to the scandals that preceded the 1848 revolution.\n\n. _Among the Dominicans... certain dealers_ : Rouard de Card's book was published in 1856. This preoccupation of Des Esseintes takes up the theme explored in the chapter on scents of real or 'essential' substances and fake, industrially produced versions.\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Pulitzer-Morris"}, "text": "\n## Pulitzer\n\nA Life in Politics, Print, and Power\n\n## James McGrath Morris\n\nTo Dean M. Sagar\nDon't tell stories about me.\n\nKeep them until I am dead.\n\nJOSEPH PULITZER (1847\u20131911)\n\n## Contents\n\nEpigraph\n\nAuthor's Note\n\nPrologue: Havana 1909\n\nPart I: 1847\u20131878\n\n1. Hungary\n\n2. Boots and Saddles\n\n3. The Promised Land\n\n4. Politics and Journalism\n\n5. Politics and Gunpowder\n\n6. Left Behind\n\n7. Politics and Rebellion\n\n8. Politics and Principle\n\n9. Founding Father\n\n10. Fraud and His Fraudulency\n\n11. Nannie and Kate\n\nPart II: 1878\u20131888\n\n12. A Paper of His Own\n\n13. Success\n\n14. Dark Lantern\n\n15. St. Louis Grows Small\n\n16. The Great Theater\n\n17. Kingmaker\n\n18. Raising Liberty\n\n19. A Blind Croesus\n\nPart III: 1888\u20131911\n\n20. Samson Agonistes\n\nPhotographic Insert\n\n21. Darkness\n\n22. Caged Eagle\n\n23. Trouble from the West\n\n24. Yellow\n\n25. The Great God Success\n\n26. Fleeing His Shadow\n\n27. Captured for the Ages\n\n28. Forever Unsatisfied\n\n29. Clash of Titans\n\n30. A Short Remaining Span\n\n31. Softly, Very Softly\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nNotes\n\nBibliography\n\nSearchable Terms\n\nAbout the Author\n\nCredits\n\nCopyright\n\nAbout the Publisher\n\nFrontispiece illustration by William A. Rogers was originally published in Harper's Weekly, December 29, 1901.\n\n## Author's Note\n\nLike Alfred Nobel, Joseph Pulitzer is better known today for the prize that bears his name than for his contribution to history. This is a shame. In the nineteenth century, when America became an industrial nation and Carnegie provided the steel, Rockefeller the oil, Morgan the money, and Vanderbilt the railroads, Joseph Pulitzer was the midwife to the birth of the modern mass media. What he accomplished was as significant in his time as the creation of television would be in the twentieth century, and it remains deeply relevant in today's information age.\n\nPulitzer's lasting achievement was to transform American journalism into a medium of mass consumption and immense influence. He accomplished this by being the first media lord to recognize the vast social changes that the industrial revolution triggered, and by harnessing all the converging elements of entertainment, technology, business, and demographics. This accomplishment alone would make him worthy of a biography.\n\nHis fascinating life, however, makes him an irresistible subject. Ted Turner-like in his innovative abilities, Teddy Roosevelt-like in his power to transform history, and Howard Hughes-like in the reclusive second half of his life as a blind man tormented by sound, Pulitzer's tale provides all the elements of a life story that is important, timely, and compelling.\n\nThis book benefits from several fortunate and remarkable discoveries of items previously unavailable to other biographers.\n\nNearly a century ago, it was reported in newspapers that Pulitzer's only living brother had written a memoir shortly before committing suicide in 1909. In 2005, I located the manuscript in the custody of his granddaughter in Paris. An extraordinarily talented sculptor of religious figures, the late Muriel Pulitzer had guarded the work all her life after her father failed to get it published as he had hoped. The memoir sheds new light on the Pulitzers' childhood in Hungary, their separate journeys to the United States, their rise as American newspaper publishers, and the prickly relationship between them.\n\nAnother important source of material was rescued from a trash bin in St. Louis. More than twenty years ago, the contractor Pat Fogarty spotted some wooden cigar boxes in a Dumpster near a building undergoing renovation. He thought they were too nice to be thrown out, so he took them home. When he opened them he discovered they were filled with documents from the 1800s that had once belonged to Joseph Pulitzer's St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He put the boxes in his basement for safekeeping, thinking someday he might be able to sell the items.\n\nIn 2008, Pat and Leslie Fogarty generously shared the contents with me. The papers turned out to be historically significant. They included the original receipts for Pulitzer's purchase of the Dispatch at auction in 1878, the original merger agreement several days later between the Dispatch and the Post, hundreds of canceled checks signed by Pulitzer, and a loan agreement revealing who provided Pulitzer with the money to operate his first newspaper.\n\nTwo other noteworthy sets of documents surfaced in St. Louis during my research. Eric P. Newman provided a copy of a financial note signed by Pulitzer that was instrumental in piecing together his partial ownership of the Westliche Post. The St. Louis Police Department Library gave me access to the 1872 Minutes of the St. Louis Police Commission contained in books that had been found abandoned in a closet.\n\nIn Washington, D.C., I pursued at length a large cache of documents relating to President Theodore Roosevelt's attempt to imprison Pulitzer for criminal libel. After years of claims by archivists that there were no such files, a threat of a lawsuit under the Freedom of Information Act from a prominent Washington law firm sped their discovery. The files provide for the first time an inside look at this important episode in abuse of presidential power.\n\nLast, a small file folder at the Lake County Historical Society in Ohio contained a set of intriguing love letters to Kate Pulitzer while she was married to Joseph. They were signed only with an initial. But another set of documents, donated to Syracuse University in 2001, helped me identify her lover.\n\nThese were just several of the sources that had not been available to previous researchers and have greatly enhanced the story of Pulitzer's life. At the same time, these findings and others also contradict a number of frequently repeated tales about him. These range from the claim that his mother was Catholic to the myth that he purchased the New York World while on his way to a vacation in Europe with his family. Rather than bog down the narrative of this book, I have placed any disagreements with previous accounts in my endnotes.\n\nJAMES MCGRATH MORRIS  \nTESUQUE, NEW MEXICO\n\n## Prologue\n\n## HAVANA 1909\n\nOn the afternoon of February 17, 1909, a small boat pushed off from a dock in Havana's harbor, cut through the pearl-green waters hugging the shoreline, and slid into the ultramarine-blue bay. Out ahead of it, one of the most luxurious private yachts in the world lay at anchor.\n\nThe length of a football field, the Liberty was rivaled in size and extravagance only by J. P. Morgan's Corsair, which had set the standard of seagoing opulence for a decade. With two raked masts front and aft of a large smokestack, the white-hulled Liberty was like the beautiful schooners that had plied the oceans years earlier. \"I have never seen a vessel of more beautiful lines,\" said one man on board, who had served on a yacht belonging to the second white raja of Sarawak. Inside, the spacious vessel contained a gymnasium, a library, drawing and smoking rooms, an oak-paneled dining room that could easily seat a dozen people, quarters for its forty-five-man crew, and twelve staterooms fitted by a decorator who had designed furnishings for London's Victoria and Albert Museum.\n\nAt this hour, on board all was still. The engines were silent, the bulkhead doors remained closed, and the upper deck gangways were roped off. The Liberty's owner, Joseph Pulitzer, had just gone down for his after-lunch nap, and severe consequences would befall anyone who disturbed the repose of America's most powerful newspaper publisher.\n\nSince becoming blind at the apex of his rise to the top, the sixty-one-year-old Pulitzer suffered from insomnia as well as numerous other real and imagined ailments, and was tormented by even the smallest sound. Every consideration possible was made to eliminate noise on board. Engraved brass plaques in the forward part of the ship warned, \"This door shall not be opened until Mr. Pulitzer is awake.\" At sea, the ship's twin steam engines drove propellers set at different pitches and running at varying speeds in order to minimize vibrations carried through the hull. The Liberty was a temple of silence.\n\nIt was also Pulitzer's cocoon. The demons that beset him never rested. For two decades, he had roamed the globe. At any moment, he might be found consulting doctors in Germany, taking baths in southern France, resting on the Riviera, walking in a private garden in London, riding on Jekyll Island, hiding in his tower of silence in Maine, or at sea. Since his yacht was launched the year before, water had become his constant habitat. In fact, the Liberty carried sufficient coal to cross and re-cross the Atlantic without refueling.\n\nWherever he went, it was in the company of an all-male retinue of secretaries, readers, pianists, and valets. In every practical sense, they had replaced his wife and children. From morning to night, these men tended to his every whim and kept the world at bay. By long practice, they had mastered handling his correspondence, discerned the most soothing manner by which to read books aloud from his well-stocked traveling library, and found ways to entertain at meals.\n\nHowever, during his long exile Pulitzer never relaxed his grip on the World, his influential New York newspaper that had ushered in the modern era of mass communications. An almost unbroken stream of telegrams, all written in code, flowed from ports and distant destinations to New York, directing every part of the paper's operation. The messages even included such details as the typeface used in an advertisement and the vacation schedule of editors. Managers shipped back reams of financial data, editorial reports, and espionage-style accounts of one another's work. Although he had set foot in his skyscraper headquarters on Park Row only three times, whenever anyone talked about the newspaper it was always \"Pulitzer's World.\"\n\nAnd it was talked about. Since Pulitzer took over the moribund newspaper in 1883 and introduced his brand of journalism to New York, the World had grown at meteoric speed, becoming, at one point, the largest circulating newspaper on the globe. Six acres of spruce trees were felled a day to keep up with its demand for paper, and almost every day enough lead was melted into type to set an entire Bible into print.\n\nVariously credited with having elected presidents, governors, and mayors; sending politicians to jail; and dictating the public agenda, the World was a potent instrument of change. As a young man in a hurry, Pulitzer had unabashedly used the paper as a handmaiden of reform, to raise social consciousness and promote a progressive\u2014almost radical\u2014political agenda. The changes he had called for, like the outlandish ideas of taxing inheritances, income, and corporations, had become widely accepted.\n\n\"The World should be more powerful than the President,\" Pulitzer once said. \"He is fettered by partisanship and politicians and has only a four-year term. The paper goes on year after year and is absolutely free to tell the truth and perform every service that should be performed in the public interest.\"\n\nLike Pulitzer himself, however, the World was aging. Its politics had grown conservative, its novelty had spawned dozens of imitators, and its great achievements lay in the past. Most readers couldn't remember a time before newspapers, thick as magazines, circulated in the millions, sold for as little as a penny, and were filled with dramatically written news, riveting sports coverage, comics, marital advice, recipes, fiction, and even sheet music.\n\nOn this day, a reminder of the paper's fabled past stood nearby. Rising from the waters of Havana Bay like a cadaver's finger was the top portion of a mast. It was the only visible remains of the USS Maine, which blew up a decade before, killing most of its crew. The disaster, coming at a time of rising tension between Spain and America, became incendiary kindling in the hands of battling newspaper editors in New York.\n\nWilliam Randolph Hearst, a young upstart imitator from California armed with an immense family fortune, had done the unthinkable. In 1898 his paper, the New York Journal, was closing in on the World's dominance of Park Row. Fighting down to the last possible reader, each seeking to outdo the other in its eagerness to lead the nation into war, the two journalistic behemoths fueled an outburst of jingoistic fever. And when the war came, they continued their cutthroat competition by marshaling armies of reporters, illustrators, and photographers to cover every detail of its promised glory.\n\nThe no-holds-barred attitude of the World and Journal put the newspapers into a spiraling descent of sensationalism, outright fabrications, and profligate spending. If left unchecked, it threatened to bankrupt both their credibility and their businesses. Like Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty, they fought it out at the edge of a precipice that could mean death to both combatants.\n\nIn the end, the two survived this short but intense circulation war. But their rivalry became almost as famous as the Spanish-American War itself. Pulitzer was indissolubly linked with Hearst as a purveyor of vile Yellow Journalism. In fact, some critics suspected that Pulitzer's current plans to endow a journalism school at Columbia University and create a national prize for journalists were thinly veiled attempts to cleanse his legacy before his approaching death.\n\nIn addition to forever sullying his name, remembrance of the war pained the publisher for another reason. Pulitzer's most formidable political foe had come home a hero. Worse, Pulitzer had contributed to this enemy's glory. When Theodore Roosevelt led his famous Rough Riders to victory on Cuba's San Juan Hill, he had brought the press along. After unleashing and glorifying the power of the press, Pulitzer watched his nemisis Roosevelt harness it as the most potent tool of political leadership in the modern age.\n\nFor a quarter of a century, the Republican Roosevelt and the Democratic Pulitzer had battled for the soul of America's reform movement. It had been an epic clash. On one side was an egotistical, hard-boiled politician, convinced that Pulitzer was an impediment to the resplendent future his own leadership offered the nation. On the other side was a sanctimonious publisher who believed he was saving the republic from a demagogue. \"I think God Almighty made it for the benefit of the World when he made me blind,\" Pulitzer had confided to one of his editorial writers a few months before. \"Because I don't meet anybody, I am a recluse. Like a Blind Goddess of Justice, I sit aloof and uninfluenced. I have no friends; the World is therefore absolutely free.\"\n\nNow, as twilight descended on his presidency, Roosevelt hoped to take revenge for all the years of abuse. The immigrant son of Hungarian Jews\u2014blind, tempestuous, and neurotic\u2014had become the b\u00eate noir of the brawny, bellicose scion of the American aristocracy. Triggering the president's wrath was the temerity of Pulitzer's World in raising the possibility that the Panama Canal, Roosevelt's most sacred accomplishment, had been tainted by corruption. Under presidential orders the Justice Department was madly combing through dusty century-old law books hoping to find some means to punish Pulitzer for his most recent affront. Grand juries were convened in Washington and New York. If Roosevelt had his way, Pulitzer would spend his last years alive locked up in prison.\n\nAt last the small boat from the harbor reached the Liberty. It pulled alongside and a handwritten copy of a cable from New York was passed up to Pulitzer's loyal valet and confidant, Jabez Dunningham. When he read it, Dunningham rushed to the ship's bridge and gave orders to the captain to put out to sea.\n\nRoosevelt's grand jury in Washington had announced its decision.\n\n## Part I\n\n## 1847\u20131878\n\n## Chapter One\n\n## HUNGARY\n\nOn a Sabbath in the spring of 1847, F\u00fcl\u00f6p and Elize Pulitzer anxiously awaited the birth of their fourth child. Their trepidation was well founded. Two of the last three children born to them in their nine years of marriage had died. Infant mortality was then common, but the siege of death surrounding the Pulitzers was not. By sundown, the news was promising. Elize's labor ended safely with the birth of a son. This one would live. Yet before he reached his teenage years, he would lose a parent and all but one of his eight siblings. For the newborn Joseph Pulitzer, death would be the most constant element of family life.\n\nThe prospect of mortality attending the birth of F\u00fcl\u00f6p and Elize's children robbed them of the pleasures they should have enjoyed as the last in a line of successful Jewish merchants in the small farming town of Mak\u00f3 on the fringes of the Habsburg Empire. Nestled in a crook of the tranquil Maros River, the agrarian outpost was a lonely spot in the midst of the Great Alf\u00f6ld, a flat expanse the size of Holland running east and west across the country. Mak\u00f3 was like an island, surrounded in the winter by a sea of furrowed black soil stretching outward as far as the eye could see, and in the spring and summer by an undulating tapestry of green.\n\nBy the time of Joseph's birth, the Pulitzers had been in Mak\u00f3 for three generations. Their ancestors were among a migration of Jews from Moravia in the 1700s, drawn by the promise of greater tolerance and a better economic life in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Like many other Moravians, they fit easily into a Germanic culture. Hungarian landowners, eager for the services of merchants and tradesmen, enlisted the newcomers to market the products of their estates, creating a symbiotic relationship that enriched both the Jews and the nobility. Over the years, the only connection the Pulitzers retained to their Moravian roots was their name. Since Ashkenazi Jews had no tradition of using surnames, the family adopted \"Pulitzer\" after the village of Pullitz they had left behind, in order to meet the legal requirement for a hereditary family name.\n\nIn Mak\u00f3, the Pulitzers prospered, benefiting from the town's growth into an important provincial market center. Joseph's great-grandfather Baruch Simon Pulitzer, the earliest known ancestor in Mak\u00f3, sold rawhide and later grain. Unusually for Jews at that time, he owned his own house, and he was one of the leaders of the Hevrah Kadisha, which helped arrange burials in Jewish congregations. His son Mih\u00e1ly, Joseph's grandfather, met with even greater commercial success. He took wool and grain from Mak\u00f3 to market in Pest, the rapidly growing city in the north adjacent to Buda, and returned with an array of consumer goods such as spices, sugar, grapes, cloth, candles, and playing cards. Mih\u00e1ly was soon paying some of the highest taxes among Mak\u00f3's Jews and even lent money to members of the city council.\n\nWhen Joseph's father, F\u00fcl\u00f6p, was old enough, he joined the flourishing family business, eventually establishing his own store. Tall, bearded, with chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a pronounced hooked nose, all traits he would pass on to Joseph, F\u00fcl\u00f6p cast about for a wife. As the third in line of wealthy tradesmen, F\u00fcl\u00f6p could have easily found one among his town's women. Instead he broke with tradition and proposed to Elize Berger, whom he had met on his frequent business trips to Pest. A sophisticated city woman, Berger complemented F\u00fcl\u00f6p's social and financial position in Mak\u00f3. The tall, dark-haired young Berger was soon \"regarded an enviable woman in the society of our little town,\" according to one of the Pulitzer children.\n\nThe couple made their home across the street from Mak\u00f3's marketplace in a two-story L-shaped house, considerably larger than many in town. A carriage entrance graced the front of the house, and stables extended perpendicularly from the rear. It was in this house that Joseph was born on April 10, 1847.\n\nFollowing Jewish custom, Joseph received his Brit Milah, or circumcision, eight days later. The Hungarian Jewish community, into which Joseph was welcomed, was no longer that of his forebearers. Support for Orthodox Judaism was waning in Mak\u00f3 and in other towns that fell into the cultural orbit of Pest. In these places, Jews such as the Pulitzers were joining a reformist wing of Judaism known as Neolog. It sought to abandon many of the strictures of Orthodoxy that clashed with the growing desire among Hungarian Jews to assimilate. Neologs, for instance, removed the mehitza\u2014the lattice barriers hiding women congregants\u2014though women remained seated apart from the men; and these reformists also brought the bimah (somewhat akin to a Christian altar) from its traditional place in the center of the synagogue to the front. Joseph's Judaic life would be less isolated from Christian life than that of young Jews growing up elsewhere in Europe.\n\nNonetheless, as Jews the Pulitzers remained decidedly in the minority in Mak\u00f3. Only 6 percent of the population was Jewish. Catholics, Greek Orthodox, and Calvinists dominated the city. Members of each faith lived in distinct neighborhoods that divided the town like wedges of a pie, each piece anchored by a place of worship. The tall steeples of the Calvinist and Catholic churches soared high above the flat landscape, and the pealing of their bells carried for miles. It took only a glance to know if one had wandered from the Christian neighborhoods. They were well laid out, with large houses erected by prosperous farmers who could afford to live away from their fields. The Jewish neighborhood, on the other hand, had evolved more haphazardly, with crooked streets and dead-end alleys. The synagogues were small and humble. Joseph would not be more than a few years old before he would have learned his place in the social order of the town.\n\nIn 1848, the year following Joseph's birth, a political tsunami of revolutionary fervor swept across Europe, disturbing the order of life even in isolated Mak\u00f3. Its epicenter was Paris, where a mob chased King Louis-Philippe from his throne and established the fragile but democratic Second Republic. From France the revolution spread to Italy, Germany, and all corners of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Hungarians saw this moment as a chance to establish their own state. A new government led by the nationalist Lajos Kossuth took power in Pest and established a free press, taxed the nobility, and unshackled peasants from centuries-old feudalistic practices. Jews supported the revolution in large numbers. In return, the government granted them legal emancipation. But it was a Pyrrhic victory. By the summer of 1849, what little was left of the rebellion was in retreat. Kossuth himself spent a night in Mak\u00f3, just a few days before Austrian troops entered the city, and then he fled to the United States.\n\nDespite the revolution's ignoble end, the Pulitzers clung to their ideals. Two of Joseph's uncles had served in the revolution's national guard, and his father's store had supplied the troops. (Wisely, his father also supplied the Austrian occupiers, avoiding retribution.) The uprising cemented the Pulitzers' identification with nationalism. Although they were Jewish in religion, they regarded themselves as Hungarians in nationality and sentiment. Like most Jews, they came to view their social and economic fate as inextricably linked to that of the nation. In his diary, Joseph's younger brother Albert neatly inscribed a poem by S\u00e1ndor Pet\u00f6fi, the revolution's poet laureate, who perished in one of its battles. \"Rise Magyar, your country calls!\" it began. \"The time for now or never falls! Are we to live as slaves or free? Choose one! This is our destiny.\"\n\nThe end of the revolution had personal consequences for the Pulitzer children. \"The Hungarian language, Hungarian manners, Hungarian traditions, were all under a ban. People would hardly dare to speak Hungarian in the lowest whispers,\" recalled Albert. \"And thus it came that the native babble of my childhood was soon a stranger to me.\" School life was also altered. The new government-funded Jewish grammar school in Mak\u00f3 that Joseph briefly attended was tinged with secularism and less Orthodox than older schools, diminishing even farther the importance of Judaic traditions.\n\nThere was nothing modern, however, about discipline in the Pulitzer household. The children learned early that \"the Hungarian child never answers his father back,\" Albert said. When disciplining his three boys, their father terrified them by recounting the Roman historian Livy's tale of Titus Manlius who decapitated his own son for defending the family's honor in battle because he had not first sought his father's permission. For serious infractions, F\u00fcl\u00f6p banished the offender to the stables for the night, without dinner. Elize, however, frequently smuggled out food from the kitchen.\n\nIn the spring of 1855, F\u00fcl\u00f6p decided to follow his father's and brother's footsteps and move his family to Pest. Thousands were making a similar trek, leaving Hungary's small towns for the economic opportunity and political freedom of the big city. Officials granted the Pulitzers' application to move, and F\u00fcl\u00f6p and Elize sold their house to one of the city's judges, closed the store, and set off to the north by wagon.\n\nFor eight-year-old Joseph, the city of Pest at the end of the two-day journey was an astonishing sight. A cityscape as imperial and as majestic as that of Paris or Vienna unfolded before him as his family joined the procession of wagons navigating the cobblestone boulevards. Instead of the monochromatic Alf\u00f6ld of his youth, Joseph was surrounded by stone or brick buildings reaching four, five, and sometimes six stories high, many stuccoed in pastels with intricate, curlicue plaster cornices.\n\nUnlike Buda, which had developed around the royal court's massive palace on a hilly perch across the Danube, low-lying Pest was the creation of merchants and artisans. As a result it was maturing into one of the most strikingly beautiful cities in Europe. Large boulevards, lined with majestic examples of Italian architecture, flowed across Pest like paved rivers from each huge square to the next, dividing the city into well-defined neighborhoods.\n\nThe Pulitzers' wagon made its way to the Golden Stern Inn, two blocks from Joseph's grandparents' house at the center of the city, where Jews had been permitted to live for eighty years. At first, only a few \"tolerated Jews\" had been able to rent apartments and maintain shops whose doors had to remain closed and which were barren of signs or window displays. But in subsequent years the laws were liberalized. By the time the Pulitzers arrived, approximately one-fifth of the city's population was Jewish. Not only had Pest become the center of the nation's economy, music, literature, art, and politics; it was now the center of Hungary's Judaism as well.\n\nThe move to Pest proved to be an economic boon for the family. Within a year, F\u00fcl\u00f6p's business made enough money to be considered for incorporation and he was invited to become a member of the Commercial and Industrial Chamber of Pest. Increasingly wealthy, the family moved into a flat closer to the Danube, in the portion of the quarter regarded as the neighborhood of the Jewish bourgeoisie. The buildings there reached deep into the interior of each block and contained inner courtyards ringed with balconies that led to one- and two-bedroom apartments.\n\nBecause of the family's elevated social position, the parents sought to educate their children for a city trade. The eldest boy was consigned to a school of economics in Vienna, Joseph was sent to a nearby trade school, and Albert was dispatched to a boarding school. After a while, the family turned to tutors. Joseph mastered German and learned to speak French. He was a difficult pupil, however, and displayed a volcanic temper. According to Albert, Joseph once chased a tutor out the window (one assumes on the ground floor) when the tutor made the mistake of insisting on teaching mathematics rather than entertaining the youth with war stories from history.\n\nIf Joseph didn't take well to formal instruction, he succumbed to the pleasures of reading. The Pulitzer flat was filled with books, as the parents used their increased wealth to indulge their literary passion. Elize's favorite novelist was the English writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton, whose works had been translated into German. In particular, she loved his novel The Pilgrims of the Rhine. (He later became notorious for having penned the line \"It was a dark and stormy night.\") Both Joseph and Albert adopted their parents' habit. \"As a child I used to devour books which were far beyond my age,\" recalled Albert, who had the more romantic mind of the two brothers. Among his favorite authors was the Jewish philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, known as the \"German Plato.\" Joseph considered philosophy of little use and instead favored works of history and biography.\n\nFor Joseph, Pest was an education equal to books. Whenever he crossed the city's largest market to visit his grandparents, he saw and learned about life from all parts of Europe. It was a Babel of tongues and a panoply of apparel colors, a striking contrast to the drab peasant costume of his birthplace. Here, merchants and buyers from Turkey, Serbia, Bosnia, Austria, and Germany plied their trades on a city square of covered stalls acres larger than anything Joseph would have seen in Mak\u00f3.\n\nLeaving the market, and nearing his grandparents' home, Joseph entered a tranquil street with neoclassical buildings whose inner courtyards housed gold- and silversmiths, jewelers, and spice, fruit, and textile dealers. There was no mistaking that those who lived in this portion of the Jewish quarter had done well. Grandfather Mih\u00e1ly's success as a merchant earned him the description \"the rich Mr. Pulitzer\" among his neighbors. \"He lived in a house of his own,\" said Albert, \"a rare distinction in large Austrian towns where often twenty to one hundred families occupied flats or apartments in the same 'rent palaces.'\"\n\nA short stroll in the other direction from Joseph's home led to the banks of the Danube River, an irresistible draw for any young boy. For upwards of a mile, riverboats from distant European cities tied up to the embankment on the Pest side of the river, where the current was less swift. There they unloaded goods from distant lands. Like the market, the Danube River revealed a tantalizing promise of a world beyond.\n\nAny exploration of the city that Joseph undertook was unfettered by his being Jewish. There were few other major European cities of the era where Jews were freer or more integrated into society. The cosmopolitan pageant of Pest's wealthy paraded by Joseph's home as carriages ferrying nobles, wealthy merchants, priests, and city officials came down the boulevard abutting his street. In the evenings, the city's elite dashed to balls, where the well-to-do displayed their equality with the ruling classes of other nations. And when not at balls, the elegant crowds gathered outside at the theater, opera, and casinos only a few blocks away. At first, only the wealthiest of Jews who had converted to Christianity were able to enter this world. But by the time the Pulitzers came to Pest the imperative to give up one's faith had greatly diminished. In fact, the Jews of Pest had their own thriving social, economic, and cultural institutions.\n\nThe wealth, success, and prominence of the burgeoning Jewish quarter was symbolized by the construction of the Neolog Doh\u00e1ny synagogue, about five blocks south of Joseph's neighborhood. Almost a block in area, it rose to become the largest synagogue in the world, seating 3,000 congregants. The sanctuary was divided by arches from the nave, like the apse of a Christian church, and the bimah was located in the front. An organ and two pulpits were installed, both unheard of in synagogues until then. It required religious finesse to get around the Jewish prohibition against playing musical instruments on the Sabbath: a Christian was hired to play the organ. The synagogue was soon called the \"Israelite cathedral\" and became an architectural display of assimilation.\n\nLike the synagogue's architecture, Joseph's religious instruction in Pest renounced the strict observance of what were deemed antiquated religious laws; also, this instruction was less concerned with the careful study of the Torah. By the time Joseph reached his teenage years, being Jewish remained a part of his life, but no longer the center of it.\n\nDespite having secured a place in the upper echelons of Pest Jewish society, the succession of deaths continued to haunt the Pulitzers. Before leaving Mak\u00f3, they had lost two of their children. In Pest, five more died. Because they were living in a prosperous urban setting where infant death had become rarer, the loss of these children was harder to bear than before. The deaths in Pest included their eldest son, who succumbed to tuberculosis, ending their plans for him to take over the family business. Death's grip on the family did not end here. On July 16, 1858, F\u00fcl\u00f6p died. Only forty-seven years old and at the peak of his business success, he also had contracted tuberculosis.\n\nFour years older than Albert, Joseph understood more fully the extent of the calamity. He had been nine when his older brother died, ten when his younger brothers and sister died, eleven when his father died, and thirteen at the death of his last sister. Albert, in contrast, was not yet nine when the last sibling died. Under the best of circumstances, Joseph would have felt guilty for having survived. But in his case, he responded in other ways as well. The deaths led to an obsession with his health that would remain with him until the end of his life. Every ailment, no matter how small, was accompanied by an underlying fear that he was dying. Further, he developed a phobia of funerals. Even when his closest friends died, Joseph would refuse to attend their burials, and, pointedly, he would not attend the funeral of either his mother or his only surviving brother.\n\nAs an additional cruelty, his father's death created a financial nightmare. In his will, F\u00fcl\u00f6p instructed that his estate be divided among his surviving children, with his wife as ward of the shares. But F\u00fcl\u00f6p's prolonged illness had depleted his savings. By the time the executor sent ten florins to the Jewish hospital and to a poorhouse, about the price of an eimer (pail) of wine, there was almost nothing left.\n\n\"Thus was my mother,\" said Albert, \"left to provide for her boys and one daughter, alone and unfriended.\" Since she had no business experience, it was only a matter of time before the enterprise went bankrupt. Within six months their property was seized by authorities for failure to pay taxes. The family limped along. Elize did her best to earn an income and to keep paying for the education of her children. \"What efforts she put forth to give us a thorough education,\" said Albert. \"How she deprived herself of all that she held most dear to her comfort and well being!\"\n\nFinancial relief appeared in the form of a marriage proposal. Max Frey, a merchant from the southeastern Hungarian town of Detta, won Elize's consent but not that of Joseph or Albert. It's common that a child's longing for a dead father triggers a rejection of a substitute, even a well-intentioned one. In Joseph's case Frey's entrance into the family, or what little was left of the family, increased his sense of loss and solitariness. Years later, writing an intimate, confessional letter, he conveyed the toll from the deaths and the remarriage. He described himself as \"a poor orphan who never even enjoyed as much of a luxury as a father.\"\n\nFrey's romantic interest in Elize may have also threatened Joseph's intense devotion to his mother, the one remaining vestige of childhood. Pulitzer transformed his love for his mother into a more abstract reverence, so that photographs of her took on an iconic quality. Those who became Pulitzer's friends during his young adulthood were continually shown a locket-sized illustration of his mother that he kept with him at all times. The illustration remained so important to Joseph that late in his life, when his eyes were failing, his wife commissioned an enlargement of the portrait so he could see it.\n\nThe deaths and the remarriage of their mother severed the ties that bound Joseph and Albert to home and family. Early in 1864, Albert, not yet fourteen, became the first to leave. He moved into his grandfather's house and obtained work as a clerk at a life insurance company. Joseph, on the other hand, had grander plans. He was anxious to leave Hungary entirely.\n\nWalking across the square near his house one day, Joseph encountered a childhood playmate from Mak\u00f3. Joseph filled his friend in on the death of his father and the financial misfortunes that had befallen his family. He then asked if he would like to go to America.\n\n\"Well,\" replied his friend, \"are you going to America?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Pulitzer. \"I must go because my mother cannot support us and here there is no work.\"\n\nGoing to the United States was not an outlandish plan for an ambitious Hungarian youth. Since the end of the revolution of 1848, a Jewish Emigration Society in Pest had popularized the notion, and the massive migration from Europe to the United States had begun. But Pulitzer had no money, so his options were limited. He decided his salvation lay in the path taken by his maternal uncle Wilhelm Berger, with whom he had been close. Berger had joined the Austro-Hungarian army, which was open to Jews. That spring Berger had left Hungary for Mexico to serve under Prince Maximilian, who believed he was destined to become that nation's emperor. It was not military life that Pulitzer sought, but the escape it offered.\n\nPulitzer had grown tall\u2014six feet one inch\u2014and had a head of thick wavy chestnut hair, like his late father. A Roman nose, supporting thick glasses, and an angular chin protruded from his pale, smooth-skinned, boyish face. Although he was very thin, with long arms, his body had matured into a manly figure. But his poor eyesight barred his entry into to the Austrian army.\n\nEvents in the United States presented him with another opportunity. The American Civil War was in its third year, soldiers were dying at a rate of 13,000 a month, and the government had instituted a draft to meet the insatiable demand for more men. To meet the quota imposed on their city, a group of wealthy Bostonians looked eastward for able bodies. They wagered that there were thousands of young men in Europe who would join the American military provided their passage could be paid. The Bostonians commissioned Julian Allen, a member of a new entrepreneurial class of men finding profit in the draft law's loopholes, to sail to Europe and launch a recruiting drive. For the plan's backers, the venture, if successful, could be politically profitable; for Allen, it could be financially profitable.\n\nAllen set up shop in Hamburg, Germany. He printed recruitment circulars and placed advertisements in European newspapers that reached Pest. He promised that those who joined would be paid travel expenses, a bounty of $100 when they reached the United States, and $12 a month while in the service in the military. As each man could fetch $900 or more as a substitute soldier, Allen hoped to make at least $650 on each transaction. The scheme became Pulitzer's escape route.\n\nIn early summer of 1864, Pulitzer began making his way to Hamburg, nearly 600 miles northwest. He stopped in Vienna and met up with a cousin and two friends. They all dined at the famous Zum Lothringer inn, known for its selection of Bavarian beers and favored by many Viennese notables. After dinner, Pulitzer and one of his companions sat on a park bench and talked until dawn until he caught a train from the Nordbahnhof for Hamburg.\n\nThere Pulitzer located Allen. He was still recruiting men, but by now his methods were attracting unwanted scrutiny. Complaints were made that the men who accepted Allen's offer of free passage were being misled into thinking they were headed for laboring jobs in the United States. Still, if Pulitzer heard of the complaints, he wasn't deterred. Following Allen's instructions, he traveled to the seaport of Antwerp, 285 miles west of Hamburg, from where the next ship of emigrants was scheduled to depart.\n\nFor this voyage, Allen chartered the Garland, a German 548-ton, square-rigged sailing vessel. On July 18, 1864, Pulitzer and 253 other men walked up the gangway. In comparison with any other ship taking on passengers in Antwerp that day, the Garland was an unusual sight. Every passenger was male and of military age. No other ship in the harbor sailing to the New World left without families with children.\n\nPulitzer was among the last to board. As was customary, he was quizzed by an officer filling out the ship's manifest. Pulitzer said he was a twenty-year-old laborer. His actual age was seventeen; that he lied about this suggests he knew the purpose of the voyage\u2014being underage would have disqualified him for military service. But there were some men who did not know and found out only after the ship cleared the harbor. They probably learned of their fate from a New York recruiter who had sneaked on board in hopes of luring some of the men to his city. The men became riled and protested so vigorously that the captain was compelled to offer to let them off on the coast of England. The group held a meeting and after considering that they were penniless and spoke no English, they decided to go on with the voyage; in the words of the captain, \"stand their lot.\"\n\nAnd so the Garland sailed westward.\n\n## Chapter Two\n\n## BOOTS AND SADDLES\n\nAfter nearly six weeks at sea, Pulitzer saw the craggy coastline of northeastern America on the horizon. It had been an uneventful passage until the Garland reached the calm waters of Boston harbor on August 29, 1864. There the ship and its unusual cargo were met with a forceful reception.\n\nBoats bearing federal soldiers intercepted the Garland as it neared the first of the islands that separated the harbor from Massachusetts Bay. The soldiers ordered the men on board to take their belongings and lower themselves over the side of the ship onto the smaller vessels. Clueless as to what was happening, Pulitzer and the others found themselves being ferried to Deer Island, which Allen and his partners had selected as a secure place to conduct the final bit of their business after having lost their first batch of European mercenaries to bounty hunters. Under the watchful guard of the soldiers, the men were handed military enlistment documents to sign. Those who complied were given food, a chance to rest, and $100 in greenbacks.\n\nPulitzer knew the $100 payment was a small fraction of the money earned by the organizers of the voyage for each recruit. The New York bounty hunter, traveling incognito with the men, had promised that larger bonuses could be had in his city. Weighing his options, Pulitzer decided he didn't like the economics of Allen's contract and pursued an escape clause. Along with perhaps one or two dozen others, he sneaked away from Deer Island by wading across the narrow and shallow channel of water separating the landmass from the mainland and headed south.\n\nReaching New York City, Pulitzer joined the hundreds of men milling about the military recruiting tents at City Hall Park, across the street from Park Row, where Horace Greeley and other giants of American newspapers plied their trade. A new recruit could get cash bounties totaling $675, a tempting offer for many, considering that the total annual earnings for a soldier were less than $150 a year. The city had just finished erecting a 216-foot-long narrow wooden recruitment building featuring the latest in technology to ward off bounty brokers. Inside, each recruit was seated on a special armchair against a wall with a movable panel. When the recruit signed the documents and was handed his cash bounty, a switch was depressed releasing a spring that swiveled the chair and the wall leaving the recruit isolated in a back room until his transfer to a training camp.\n\nDespite such efforts, bounty brokers remained busy, and the city's walls and lampposts were plastered with recruiting posters, including some in German that Pulitzer could read. One town eager for recruits was Kingston, New York, whose draft board made the eighty-mile trip down the Hudson River Valley to set up a tent in City Hall Park. The board members had completed a round of the draft a few days earlier, but the district's quota had not been met. Furthermore, many among those who were drafted wanted to take advantage of the law's provision that allowed one to pay another to take one's place. Among those seeking a substitute was twenty-two-year-old Henry Vosburgh, a member of a family of farmers in Coxsackie, in Greene County.\n\nPulitzer became Vosburgh's salvation. At the Kingston tent, on September 20, 1864, Pulitzer agreed to serve as a soldier in his place for one year in return for approximately $200. To do so, Pulitzer swore two separate times that he was twenty years old, though he was still only seventeen. The district's provost marshal, a commissioner of the board as well as the surgeon of the board, certified that the gangly teenager before them was \"free from all bodily defects and mental infirmity...sober...of lawful age\" and signed Pulitzer's papers.\n\nWith money in his pocket, Pulitzer entered a New York jewelry store. He had a tiny hole drilled into an 1864 gold dollar, a small coin about a half an inch in diameter. A delicate chain fastened the coin to a gold ring, thereby making a device by which a woman could hold her handkerchief, then a fashion accessory in Hungary. On the reverse side of the coin, the jeweler engraved Elize's maiden initials, \"E.B.\" Pulitzer mailed the resulting creation to his mother, better proof than any letter of his success in the New World.\n\nA few days after enlisting, Pulitzer walked south past City Hall Park to the tip of Manhattan and boarded the steamer John Romer with other recruits. It took them rapidly up the East River, past Throgs Neck and into the western end of the Long Island Sound to the skinny, 100-acre Hart Island. The army used this isolated spot to train its recruits, but the ragtag, multilingual collection of misfits now arriving posed a considerable challenge. The brigadier general in charge was reaching the end of his patience. Draft boards were meeting recruitment quotas, he said, \"with men whom they can obtain by any means of bargain, deception or fraud, with which to liquidate upon paper their old obligations to the Government, regardless alike as to whether the men so obtained are fit for soldiers.\" By his count only about half the recruits made decent soldiers. In the coming months, he would discharge forty-five recruits upon their examination at Hart Island, seventeen of them for being underage. Pulitzer, however, escaped his detection.\n\nPulitzer also avoided joining the less desirable and more deadly infantry. Good timing and his childhood knowledge of horseback riding landed him a place in a cavalry company. \"I wanted to ride a horse, to be a horse-soldier,\" Pulitzer said. \"I did not like to walk.\" He knew that in European armies regiments were often named after famous people, such as royalty. \"So I inquired for the names of some of the regiments of horsemen, and was told of one called Lincoln. I knew who he was and so went to that regiment.\"\n\nThe First New York \"Lincoln\" Cavalry, as it was called, was organized at the beginning of hostilities by Carl Schurz, one of the best-known German \"forty-eighters\" who had come to the United States following the suppression of the revolutionary movement. By the time Pulitzer joined the First Lincoln regiment, its original luster had worn off. Three long years of chasing Confederates in Virginia, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland had taken their toll; and the men, at the end of their tours of duty, were mustering out in large numbers.\n\nOn November 12, 1864, Pulitzer joined his regiment at Remount Camp near Harpers Ferry. The reinforcements were a welcome sight throughout the camps. \"For a time, their arrival, appearance, equipment, created an excitement,\" an Ohio soldier wrote in his diary. \"Many were the surmises that many of them would be minus some of their fancy equipment before another week.\"\n\nPulitzer was assigned to Company L, one of four German-speaking companies under the command of German-speaking officers. The men in his company were brewers, locksmiths, mechanics, painters, tailors, and bakers from Switzerland, Austria, Hungary, Germany, and Prussia and were older than both Pulitzer's real age and his false age, which by now he gave as eighteen when asked. In completing the paperwork upon arrival, he also told his superiors that if something were to happen to him they were to contact his grandfather Mih\u00e1ly Pulitzer; he made no mention of his mother or stepfather.\n\nAlthough it was a relief to be among German speakers, Pulitzer did not get along well with the men. He may not have been at fault. Veterans who had been fighting for years resented recruits who had joined solely for the bounty. They felt, as one soldier wrote, \"those money soldiers are not worth as much as they cost for when you hear firing ahead you may see them hid in the woods.\"\n\nWhen Pulitzer joined his regiment, the presidential election had just concluded and the news of Lincoln's reelection was reaching the soldiers. Pulitzer witnessed the jubilant celebration, especially among German-Americans, who overwhelmingly supported Lincoln. The moment was a remarkable contrast to the world Pulitzer had left behind. Here were troops in the midst of war voting and even permitted\u2014though certainly not encouraged\u2014to vote against their commander in chief. It was Pulitzer's first taste of American electoral politics.\n\nA less significant introduction to another American custom followed a few weeks later. On November 28, the men took a pause from their military duties to celebrate Thanksgiving, which Lincoln had recently proclaimed a national holiday. Turkeys and other food sent to battlefields by families, friends, and citizens in New York were distributed around the camps. \"With one eye on the lookout for hungry rebels prowling around the camp, we eat our Thanksgiving feast without further molestation, and are thankful,\" wrote a lieutenant in Pulitzer's regiment.\n\nFor the remainder of November and December 1864, Pulitzer rode about the Shenandoah Valley as General Sheridan moved his forces like chess pieces, threatening but rarely engaging the enemy. Typical of Pulitzer's rare encounters with Confederate forces was one on November 22, when his company crossed the Shenandoah River and rode in a double line toward a long hill. A line of Confederate infantrymen rose to the crest from the other side. Shots were exchanged, but no bullets found their mark, and the two forces then went their own ways.\n\nLong rides were the center of Pulitzer's life as a cavalryman. At times, engagements between Union and Confederate forces in the Shenandoah Valley that winter caused serious losses on each side; but Pulitzer spent his time traveling up and down the valley, confronting snowy, sleety weather but hardly any rebels. Nonetheless, it was arduous work. For a tall city lad like Pulitzer, the days spent in the hard wood-and-leather saddle produced chafed legs, cramps, and a sore back. At night, exhausted, he tended his horse and cleaned his weaponry during the little time that remained before bedding down.\n\nPulitzer's pain and exhaustion were soon replaced by tedium and boredom when, at the end of December, the men set up camp for the winter near Winchester, Virginia. Pulitzer's winter home consisted of a hut made of log walls, three to five feet high, with a canvas roof and a brick or stone fireplace. Now, instead of endless miles of riding, he settled into a routine regulated by a bugle. Its call signaled each day's activities, including endless drill formations at the sound of \"Boots and Saddles.\"\n\nWarfare resumed with the advent of spring but Pulitzer remained far from harm's way. Instead of following his company to the battle lines, he was assigned to a detachment protecting a general who remained encamped far behind the lines of engagement. The only combat Pulitzer saw was on a chessboard at which he and another recruit had, in the words of his opponent, \"the pleasure of whiling away many weary hours.\" In this manner Pulitzer served out the end of the war only seventy-five miles from where he first joined his company.\n\nApril 1865 brought elation and sadness to the troops. On April 9, Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, signaling an end to the war. Five days later, President Lincoln was assassinated. \"The effect of the news of the death of the President cannot be described,\" wrote one member of Pulitzer's regimental. \"All through the camps there was unwonted silence.... It was the saddest day in camp that the soldiers had ever known. It was as if a pall had been let down upon them.\"\n\nThe war at an end, Pulitzer rejoined his company in Alexandria, Virginia. The victorious Union commanders planned a massive review of the forces in Washington. In the early morning of May 22, 1865, Pulitzer rode with the gathered cavalrymen west across the Long Bridge, a narrow wooden bridge that traversed the Potomac and emptied near Fourteenth Street. They continued on to Bladensburg, a few miles northeast of Washington in Maryland, where they camped for the night and groomed their horses and themselves for the grand review in the morning.\n\nMay 23 dawned bright, cool, and breezy. Rain had fallen earlier in the week, subduing the dust\u2014perfect conditions for a parade. Pulitzer woke at four o'clock when reveille was sounded. After downing breakfast, he and the men rode into Washington, halting three blocks east of the Capitol. Like the nation, the Capitol had been greatly transformed during the war years. New wings extending on each side had more than doubled its size and a cast-iron dome weighing 8.9 million pounds, topped by a statue called Freedom Triumphant in War and Peace, rose 287 feet 5.5 inches above the soldiers. In his homeland, the imperial government buildings were built for rulers whose power stemmed from their heritage; Pulitzer now stood before an equally impressive edifice that celebrated democracy.\n\nPromptly at nine, the review began. Pulitzer's company fell in behind General Custer, whose men wore a \"Custer tie\": a red scarf thrown dramatically over the shoulder. The regiment marched in such tight formation, with horses lined from curb to curb, that the only things in Pulitzer's line of vision were the man and horse on each side and ahead of him. Years later, he would recall little \"but how sore my knees became riding in close formation and pressed against the others in line.\"\n\nThe procession moved past the north side of the Capitol and down the hill into Pennsylvania Avenue. On the hillside, hundreds of school-children were gathered, the girls wearing colorful ribbons and the boys sashes; they sang \"The Battle Cry of Freedom.\" Ahead of the soldiers, for as far as they could see, men and women lined the avenue leading to the Executive Mansion. The crowds were orderly\u2014liquor sales having been banned for two days\u2014and cheered lustily. In front of the White House, a reviewing stand was festooned with flags and floral arrangements. There the new president, Andrew Johnson; generals Grant and Sherman; and cabinet members sat, rising to their feet as the various division commanders passed. It was not until three in the afternoon that the last battery of artillery rumbled past.\n\nThe reviews over, Pulitzer's military career was at an end. The government wanted to quickly disband the hundreds of thousands of armed, uniformed men. While awaiting their turn to muster out, the members of Pulitzer's Lincoln Cavalry were kept on the move. At first they camped in the hills of Annandale, roughly ten miles south of Washington; then they were relocated to a busy encampment closer to the Potomac River. Rumors swept through the camp that they might be deployed south, this time to Mexico, to enforce the Monroe Doctrine against French troops fighting against Maximilian. The news was disconcerting to the soldiers, and particularly troubling for Pulitzer. His uncle Wilhelm Berger was serving under Maximilian. The rumor died, but the troop movements didn't. For several days they moved back and forth from one encampment to another, until at last they were instructed to begin surrendering their gear and horses.\n\nWhen Pulitzer's turn came, he had the horse but not all of the government-issued equipment. He was missing two saddle straps; one carbine socket, sling, cartridge box, and swivel; one currycomb; one saddle blanket; one bridle; a pair of spurs and straps; and his horse's feed bag. The items were part of the standard gear given to cavalrymen. The carbine socket, for example, was a small leather thimble-like device through which one slipped the barrel of a rifle so that the weapon would be held in place when worn on one's back while riding. The clerk described Pulitzer's loss of equipment as \"by his own carelessness.\" It may have been. But it was very likely that Pulitzer, like other men, had found it profitable to sell his equipment or, in some cases, even use it in a wager. Pulitzer was docked $13.25. On June 5, 1865, he received his honorable discharge after completing about 270 days in uniform, less than three-quarters of his promised term of enrollment. For his service to the Union cause, Pulitzer pocketed $135.35.\n\nWith money to spend, the troops celebrated at night, under a full moon, with bonfires, civilian food, and illicit alcohol. The soldiers knew that they were returning to a civilian workforce already suffering considerable unemployment. The men in Pulitzer's company, all with homes overseas, had to decide where to go in the United States. The choice was soon made for them.\n\nOn June 26, the regiment marched to the railroad station to begin the trip back to New York. After a journey filled with delays, the troops reached New York two days later. Because of the tardy arrival the reception committee had dismissed a musical band of thirty pieces, as well as a cavalry escort. So the men marched up Broadway unaccompanied and unnoticed except by the odd pedestrian who recognized the regimental colors, battered and torn on the battlefield. At the Eighth Regiment Armory, on Twenty-Third Street, the men were seated at tables, which had been loaded with fruit and flowers the day before, and were served the dinner that had sat waiting for them. After they finished their meal, and the dignitaries concluded their welcoming speeches\u2014not a word of which was understandable to Pulitzer\u2014the men marched back down Broadway to the Battery and rode the John Romer out to Hart Island, where they had begun their military service.\n\nPeace had its risks. On July 7, Pulitzer joined legions of unemployed soldiers on the streets of New York. The economy could not accommodate all the veterans looking for work. Although many returned to their farms or prewar jobs as craftsmen or professionals, others, in particular foreign-born recruits, were looking for new situations. With few employable skills and still unable to speak English, Pulitzer had no luck in finding work. His money soon ran out.\n\nBewildered, alone, and desperate, he turned homeward for help and wrote to his family for money. In the interim he continued to look\u2014in vain\u2014for work, wandering the streets of New York at day, and at night sleeping in doorways and any other place he could find. Frequently his bed was a bench in City Hall Park in front of French's Hotel and the newspaper buildings that lined Park Row. \"Every pleasant night until I found employment,\" Pulitzer said, \"I slept upon the bench, and my summons to breakfast was frequently the rap of a policeman's club.\"\n\nOne day, as he sat on his bench, Pulitzer was approached by a man who asked if he wanted a job. What kind of job? asked Pulitzer. Three years' work, replied the stranger. Food and lodging were included. Pulitzer agreed to follow him. They went down a side street to a small, unkempt office whose reception room was crowded with men, most of whom were drunk. The office belonged to a shipping agency recruiting men to ship out on a whaling vessel. Unwilling to enter a maritime purgatory, Pulitzer declined and after some effort escaped the clutches of the recruiter, whom he called a \"land shark.\"\n\nAt last, the long-awaited money arrived from Pest. Pulitzer decided to leave New York and try his luck in St. Louis. The city's large German population was like a safe harbor, and its promise of jobs was drawing German-speaking immigrants like a beacon. Passage on an immigrant railcar, with its plain bench seats and communal cooking stoves, could be had for only a few dollars. Pulitzer paid the fare for what he hoped would be a fresh start at finding a place for himself in postwar America.\n\nOnce again, he headed west.\n\n## Chapter Three\n\n## THE PROMISED LAND\n\nWhen Pulitzer got off from the train at the end of its journey, he found that too much water and too little money kept him from his destination. Though railroad construction had resumed with a vengeance since the end of the war, there was still no bridge spanning the Mississippi River when Pulitzer reached its eastern bank in the fall of 1865. The only way across to St. Louis was to pay the Wiggins Ferry Company, which held a monopoly on the busy cross-river traffic. But Pulitzer had not a cent left. \"I was hungry, and I was shivering with cold,\" he said. \"I had no dinner, no overcoat. The lights of St. Louis looked like a promised land to me.\"\n\nThrough the darkness, Pulitzer spotted a ferry pulling into a slip on his side of the river. He edged his way to the gate and, as he neared it, he overheard a pair of deck hands conversing. Surprisingly, they were speaking in German. He called out to them. One walked over and struck up a conversation with him. Finally, Pulitzer asked if there was a way he could get across. The deck hand told him that a fireman had quit and offered to go and find out if the ferry company needed to hire a replacement.\n\nThe deck hand returned in the company of the engineer, who asked Pulitzer if he could fire a boiler. \"I said I could,\" Pulitzer recalled. \"In my condition I was willing to say anything and do anything.\" They opened the gate and led Pulitzer to the boiler, which sat exposed on an open deck, gave him a shovel, and told him to start feeding coal to the fire. \"I opened the fire box door and a blast of fiery hot air struck me in the face. At the same time a blast of cold driven rain struck me in the back. I was roasting in the front and freezing in the back.\" Long into the night, Pulitzer fed coal to the boiler. \"I don't remember how many trips back and forth across the river I made that night, but the next day I went ashore and walked the streets of St. Louis.\"\n\nIt was like coming home. The boats along the riverbank were tied up in the same fashion as the barges that clung to the Danube's shore a few blocks from his boyhood home. Walking past the throngs of steamboat hands, stevedores, levee rats, and river men in gaiters, Pulitzer reached Second Street, where signs directed traffic to eateries and inns such as the Brod- und Kuchenb\u00e4cker, the Eichenkranz, the Basel, and the Pf\u00e4lzer Hof. Men and women greeted each other with \"Guten Tag,\" and boys hawked newspapers published in German. \"One who passed through this street could imagine himself transplanted to Germany,\" recalled one immigrant.\n\nSt. Louis was already one of the most important and most rapidly growing cities of the West. Despite recurring floods, visitations of cholera, and a fire that destroyed much of the downtown, the fourteen-square-mile city had risen to become the eighth most populated city in the United States. The war was over; local leaders predicted a golden age for their river city. But rather than the promise of St. Louis, it was the pollution from the soft Illinois coal burned in homes and businesses that visitors first noticed.\n\n\"The smoke,\" wrote Mark Twain, \"used to bank itself in a dense billowy black canopy over the town, and hide the sky from view.\" Nor did visitors forget their first sip of St. Louis water. Drawn from the Mississippi River, the water served in restaurants and homes was thick and muddy. \"My first impression at the table d'h\u00f4te was that everyone was drinking coffee in tumblers, and from its rich color I concluded that it must be very good,\" said one British traveler. \"How great was my dismay, therefore, when I touched the glass, and found it icy cold. 'Iced coffee,' I thought; then I sipped a little, and in great disgust set it down. It was simply muddy water!\"\n\nDespite its foul air and dirty water, St. Louis was a vibrant place, drawing hundreds of newcomers every week. Its streets teamed with a multitude of nationalities and races. The original French-flavored atmosphere had become a distant memory. Germans were in the ascendant. For Pulitzer, who spoke no English, the city was a utopia.\n\nHe found work and accommodations on the south side of downtown in a ward that was two-thirds German. One could wander from one end to the other without hearing any language but German. Not only were the words familiar and comfortable to Pulitzer, but so were the street noises, smells, and tastes. During the day, when the sound of a beer keg being tapped at Tony Niederwiester's Valhalla or George Wolbrecht's Tivoli rang out, work would stop so that the workers could get a fresh glass. Between ten and noon, tavern keepers would offer workers lunches of rye bread, blood or summer sausage, salted dried herring, dill pickles, and gallons of lager beer, a new, lighter style of beer. Lager had grown so popular that commercial brewers had just achieved a national production record of 1 million barrels in a year.\n\nFor the first several months after reaching St. Louis, Pulitzer worked at a variety of jobs. He tended mules for a short time at the Benton military barracks, which had served as an encampment for Union troops during the war. \"Never in my life did I have a more trying task,\" said Pulitzer. \"The man who has not cared for sixteen mules does not know what work and trouble are.\" Next, he landed work as a coachman for a well-to-do family. The family members were apparently impressed by their French- and German-speaking driver and referred to Pulitzer as their \"educated coachy.\"\n\nIn 1866 Pulitzer labored as a deck hand on a riverboat. During his evening breaks, he would sit behind a stove on board and read one of the city's many German newspapers. The boat's captain spoke to his wife in French, hoping to keep his communications from the ears of his deck hand. Pulitzer let him know he would have to use a language other than French or German if he did not want to be understood. Ironically, that could still include English.\n\nDespite Pulitzer's inability to speak much English, he continued to pick up jobs. He worked as a stevedore unloading bales and barrels from river steamers and as a day laborer in construction. He even tried working as a waiter at Tony Faust's Oyster House on Carlonet Avenue close to his rooms. \"The trial period for proprietor, guests, and, last but not least, the novice waiter was very brief,\" one close friend remembered. \"It came to a conclusion at the end of the second meal when a beefsteak, having been rejected in a rather impolite manner, found itself, after an exchange of words that quickly developed into personal affronts, dropped onto the head of the guest rather than onto his plate, thereby bringing an end as abrupt as it was drastic to the serving glory of the presenter.\"\n\nOne time Pulitzer, along with about forty other men, responded to an advertisement promising high-paid jobs on a sugar plantation in Louisiana. The employment agent informed the men they would need to pay $5 each as a fee for transportation down the river. That night they boarded a steamer and headed downstream. At three in the morning, they were rousted and disembarked at a deserted spot some forty miles south of the city. Realizing they had been had, the men marched back to St. Louis together, with murderous intentions. Fortunately for the agent, he was nowhere to be found.\n\nThe various jobs allowed Pulitzer to improve his English and get a toehold in St. Louis. As soon as he had set aside a little money, he paid his room and board for weeks ahead. \"Thus I was secure,\" he said. \"I did not have to worry and could look about for something better.\" Late in 1866, Pulitzer did find something better. The Deutsche Gesellschaft, the German Immigrant Aid Society in St. Louis, recommended him for an opening as a clerk. Many immigrants owed their first employment to this aid society. It had been created seven years earlier to provide job placement and other assistance to new German-speaking residents and was funded by established members of the German community who had not forgotten their own early struggles.\n\nIn Pulitzer's case the German aid society had located an assistant clerk's job at Theo Strauss's lumberyard on Franklin Street, not far from where Pulitzer roomed. Upon meeting Pulitzer, Strauss and his family were impressed. \"We found him to be bright and highly educated, speaking German and French without an accent and very good English,\" said Theo's son Adalbert Strauss. The younger Strauss and Pulitzer were about the same age. \"I was drawn to him,\" said Strauss, \"by his uniformly kind manner and great courtesy.\" When meeting Strauss's mother, Pulitzer would exclaim, \"Ich k\u00fcss die Hand gn\u00e4dige Frau,\" a characteristically Viennese expression from courtly etiquette. Visiting Pulitzer in his room, Strauss also learned about his new friend's devotion to his own mother when Pulitzer showed the miniature portrait of his mother he had brought with him from Hungary.\n\nStrauss was also a witness to Pulitzer's strong will. One day, Pulitzer showed up at work late, explaining that he had hardly slept, on account of an aching molar. \"When I asked him how he obtained relief,\" said Strauss, \"he informed me that he had heated an eightpenny nail red hot in the flame of a gas burner and inserted it into the cavity.\"\n\nWith the steady pay from his job at the lumberyard, Pulitzer began to explore his new home. He discovered the Mercantile Library, one of the city's gems. A vastly successful civic project, the library was created in 1846 as a stock corporation by a group of merchants who were inspired by the example of New York City's Mercantile Library. Young single men, these merchants reasoned, lived primarily in boardinghouses with no parlors in which to entertain themselves when they were not working. A library could offer lectures, concerts, and classes for \"mutual improvement,\" then considered the path of social and economic elevation, a much better alternative to bars and other less virtuous haunts.\n\nPulitzer paid the $2 initiation fee and $3 annual dues and signed his name in the members' ledger on July 18, 1866. He was one of 275 clerks who joined the library that year, many enticed by a discounted membership aimed at recruiting them. Housed in a three-story building at Fifth and Locust streets, the library held a large collection of books, carried newspapers from all over the country and abroad, and was open each day of the week from morning until late at night. Pulitzer spent every free moment he had at the Mercantile, often bringing a pair of apples for sustenance so as not to waste a moment leaving the library for a meal. In the elegant library's main room, he had his choice of 27,000 books stored behind glass on shelving extending to the ceiling, with a small catwalk to reach the higher shelves. Sitting at one of the eight-sided desks, above which rested busts of important writers from the past, Pulitzer applied himself to polishing his rudimentary English.\n\nHe approached the task with marked diligence and persistence. For instance, to expand his vocabulary he studied synonyms for all the words he was learning\u2014a habit he recalled later as \"the wisest weakness I had as a youth in acquiring some deeper knowledge of the English language.\" The librarian, who lived in a chamber off the reading room, did not entirely approve of Pulitzer's quest to use the library to learn English, because he didn't confine himself solely to books. In fact, Pulitzer badgered members in hopes of persuading, or in some cases provoking, them into conversation. To the librarian Pulitzer seemed \"just a noisy and unruly young man who ignored the posted signs commanding silence.\"\n\nHis hours in the library paid off. Not only did he polish his English, but Pulitzer came into contact with lawyers, newspapermen, politicians, and other leading figures. One group of men, in particular, exerted considerable influence on the atmosphere of the library. A few months before Pulitzer joined, a dozen or so men had created the St. Louis Philosophical Society under the leadership of Henry C. Brockmeyer, a Prussian Jew who was said to be a \"midwestern Thoreau.\"\n\nHis moniker stemmed from an episode during the previous decade, when he had spent two years in a backwoods Missouri cabin studying the work of the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel with such intensity that he might have succumbed to fever and other sicknesses had he not been found by a schoolteacher who nursed him back to health at civilization's closest outpost, St. Louis. In no time this small clutch of would-be philosophers made its mark on the city's cultural landscape, and Hegel was the rage. At the library, spirited members frequently blocked traffic at the checkout desk while arguing a philosophical point. No young member of the city's German community with intellectual leanings remained free of its influence.\n\nWhen he wasn't studying, Pulitzer loved to spend time in a popular chess room off the reading room. Since childhood, he had loved chess, and in the Civil War he had sharpened his skill during his monotonous winter encampment. His play attracted attention. \"When he played, everyone in the room hovered about his game and watched it closely,\" recalled one young boy. \"The attraction, of course, was his superlative playing.\"\n\nAmong the men who took an interest in the young, studious chess player were Emil Preetorius, one of the owners of the Westliche Post; and non-German professionals such as the lawyer William Patrick, who had an office in a building on Market Street, four blocks south of the library. Patrick soon gave Pulitzer some occasional work serving legal papers and running errands.\n\nPulitzer quit his post at the Strauss lumberyard when he was passed over for the job of head bookkeeper. \"The only thing that stood in his way,\" recalled Adalbert Strauss, \"was his handwriting which was almost vertical, very large and heavy and at a distance looking a little like Chinese.\" After giving up his desk at the lumberyard, Pulitzer became a regular fixture in the Market Street office building, picking up whatever work he could find. \"We inferred that he was not making much of a go as his exchequer was concerned and it was a struggle with him,\" said a teenager who worked in Jones & Sibley's drugstore, on the first floor of the building.\n\nBy the spring of 1867, Pulitzer felt confident that his future lay in the United States. On March 6, he entered a St. Louis courtroom as a subject of the emperor of Austria and left as an American citizen. Once again, Pulitzer displayed no aversion to deceiving the government. As he had done when he inflated his age to join the Union military, Pulitzer lied about how long he had been in the United States now that he sought to become a citizen. Naturalization law required, among other things, that an applicant reside in the United States for a period of five years before being eligible for citizenship. Pulitzer had been in the country for less than three years. Eight days later, he returned to court and went before the clerk to complete the necessary paperwork, as well as take an oath, to become a notary public. This time, however, there was no need for any deception; the requirements were few.\n\nPulitzer continued working at his mix of jobs connected with the law offices on Market Street. At one point he accepted the task of recording land deeds for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad in a dozen counties to the southwest of St. Louis where the railroad planned to build a line to Springfield, Missouri. Following his railroad work, Pulitzer accepted a position as secretary of the Deutsche Gesellschaft, which had provided him with his job at the lumberyard the previous year. Now it was his turn to locate work for new immigrants. His work at the library paid off. The new post required that he write letters in English.\n\nAfter a few months at the immigrant society, Pulitzer learned about a job opening at the Westliche Post. Many of the highly educated and literate German refugees from the 1848 revolution found work in the bourgeoning German press that served the 5 million to 6 million German immigrants with a cultural fondness for reading newspapers. The Westliche Post was owned by two of the city's most eminent Germans: Carl Schurz, the former Civil War general in whose cavalry Pulitzer had served, and Emil Preetorius, with whom Pulitzer had made friends in the Mercantile chess room. Under their management, the paper was one of the most widely circulated German-language publications in the United States.\n\nProsperous and growing, the Westliche Post was casting about for a new reporter. For Pulitzer the timing was fortunate. Not only did Pulitzer know Preetorius, but in recent months the elder man, as president of the German Immigration Aid Society, had observed his diligence. Louis Willich, the paper's city editor, also knew Pulitzer. As secretary of the society, Pulitzer had frequently passed on information and stories from the most recent German immigrants arriving in St. Louis. Willich had been impressed with Pulitzer's news sense. He was offered the job.\n\n\"I could not believe it,\" Pulitzer recalled. \"I, the unknown, the luckless, almost a boy of the streets, selected for such a responsibility. It all seemed like a dream.\"\n\nPreetorius and Willich were not disappointed. It took Pulitzer no time to confirm they had made the right decision in taking a chance on the twenty-year-old. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for with raw, resolute effort. \"His time for work seemed to be all the time,\" said Preetorius. \"I never called on him at any hour that he did not immediately respond.\"\n\nIt wasn't long, either, before Pulitzer caught the attention of his new colleagues. On a muggy, hot summer day a pack of reporters gathered behind the city's post office to badger an official for a story. \"Suddenly,\" said one of the men, \"there appeared among us the new reporter, of whom we had heard but not yet seen.\" He was hard to miss. Having rushed from the office, Pulitzer was without his collar and jacket but he did have his pad of paper in one hand and his pencil in the other. Within an instant, he informed the crowd of reporters that he was with the Westliche Post, as if this might impress them, and began to ask questions. \"For a beginner he was exasperatingly inquisitive,\" said the reporter who recorded the moment. \"He was so industrious, indeed, that he became a positive annoyance to others who felt less inclined to work.\"\n\nIf Pulitzer believed his new job would be glamorous, or at least easier than the numerous jobs he had held so far, the delusion was quickly shattered. The working day never ended. There was only one other reporter on the paper, so the duty of finding and reporting all the local news rested on the two men. Also, Pulitzer was unwilling to put forward anything but his best effort. \"We would get one of his stories into type,\" said the compositor who handset all the type, \"and when Pulitzer got the proof read there would hardly be a word left as he wrote it in the first place.\"\n\nWhile Pulitzer honed his new craft that summer, his sixteen-year-old brother in Pest was preparing to join him in the United States. Albert's motivation was political, not pecuniary. His family-bred republican ardor, combined with a fanciful imagination, had led him to believe he could divest Europe of its emperors, kings, and other potentates. \"Obviously, I said to myself, if I could do so wonderful a thing I should attain the very summit of human glory. But how could I accomplish so difficult, so gigantic, apparently almost so impossible a task?\" He devised a plan to cross the Atlantic, rouse the American people, and return with an army to dethrone the sovereigns of Europe.\n\nReaching the United States was an expensive undertaking. The Civil War was over, so there were no American benefactors willing to pay for the passage. Not surprisingly, Grandfather Mih\u00e1ly called Albert's idea a \"ridiculous project\" and refused to provide any financial support. \"My poor mother, seeing that a refusal would not stop me, as I was too unalterably bent upon the realization of my scheme, cried a good deal, but finally yielded a reluctant consent,\" Albert said. Elize accompanied her son to Hamburg and purchased him a ticket on the Allemannia. Hanging a $20 gold piece around his neck, hidden in a tiny cotton bag under his shirt, she consigned the last of her two living children to America.\n\nAlbert was ill prepared for the journey. He failed to bring any necessary items such as toiletries, towels, or bedding, and without a bowl, plate, or pan he had no way to eat the ship's meals. So he remained in his hammock deep in the ship, among the 600 others in steerage. \"There I lay stupefied, benumbed, absolutely paralyzed from breathing this polluted, nauseating atmosphere,\" Albert said. Fortunately, several Italian women took pity on him and made sure he got sustenance. On July 20, 1867, Albert reached New York, but he was soon stranded by youth and inexperience. To ward off the July heat, he impetuously consumed flavored ices. \"My $20.00 capital was melting away nearly as fast as the ice-cream which I enjoyed so hugely,\" he said. \"Thus I was fain to obey the call of my elder and only surviving brother, Joseph.\"\n\nAfter a separation of three years, the two were reunited in St. Louis. Now, Albert stood as tall as Joseph, at more than six feet, and was very slender, but without his older brother's awkward angularity. That they were brothers was undeniable. They had the same thick curly hair, high forehead, and blue eyes, but Albert's face was more balanced, with a less pronounced nose. He was the handsomer of the pair.\n\nAlthough the reunion was warm, the practicalities of life rapidly took center stage. Albert needed a job and his own place to live. Joseph's small room was not intended for two. Each day Albert went out and tried to find work, even going from house to house. \"My inquiries always resulted either in a negative reply or, what was still more hopeless, in no reply whatsoever,\" he said. Albert was not alone in his bad luck. The city was filled with job seekers. Joseph showed no sympathy. After all, he had found work when he came to St. Louis two years earlier. Each morning he asked if his brother had obtained a job yet. \"This query being repeated daily, irritated, upset me,\" said Albert. \"I became restless, peevish, fretful.\" One evening the pair got into a heated argument over Albert's inability to secure work. Joseph, as was his habit, vented his anger with an outburst of sarcasm. He flippantly said that if things were to go on as they were, Albert might as well make an end of it by shooting himself.\n\n\"Excellent advice,\" replied Albert grabbing the revolver his brother kept in the room and putting the barrel to his mouth.\n\n\"Not here!\" yelled Joseph.\n\nNo, thought Albert. \"It would not do to have a coroner's inquest in this very room. I desisted.\"\n\nAlbert redoubled his efforts but still had no luck. The two brothers continued to share Joseph's cramped room, and life was glum. Again, the issue came to a head.\n\n\"If you do not desire me to stay here any longer, just say the word 'go' and I shall go,\" said Albert.\n\n\"Go,\" replied Joseph, in a tone that sounded to Albert as \"though he really did not mean for me to go but was curious to know whether I was plucky enough to carry out my own menace.\" So, in the dead of the night, Albert left. It was a gesture characteristic of the impulsive nature the two brothers shared, especially in decision making. Albert wandered aimlessly until he came to a park and a bench on which to sleep. \"But my slumber did not last long.\" A policeman woke him and told him he could be arrested for sleeping on a bench. Albert spent the rest of the night dozing on and off, keeping watch for any approaching police officers.\n\nAfter spending yet another futile day searching for work, Albert returned for the night to his bench. At last, the next day he obtained a position as a door-to-door salesman for Die Gartenlaube, an immensely popular illustrated family newspaper featuring articles about culture, art, history, and science, as well as short stories, serialized novels, poetry, and puzzles. With his earnings, he secured a small room in a boardinghouse.\n\nSettled at last, Albert made learning English a priority. Before leaving Hungary he had engaged an inexpensive English tutor, one so inept that Albert remained clueless as to how the language was pronounced. In St. Louis, Albert took his brother's path and turned to the Mercantile Library. \"My great delight used to be to haunt its precincts from morn till night,\" said Albert. \"I was able to see all the English and American reviews, and familiarize myself with current English and American literature, even though I could not make much progress learning the pronunciation and idiomatic use of the language.\"\n\nFor Joseph the Westliche Post became a gateway to the German community's leading politicians, lawyers, merchants, and writers. They came to the Chestnut Street newspaper building each day to discuss the news of the day or to plot election strategy with Preetorius and Schurz. The likelihood that Schurz would become a U.S. senator made the Westliche Post a mandatory stop for anyone of significance traveling through St. Louis. Often the daytime gatherings continued into the night at Preetorius's house, which Pulitzer also frequented. Preetorius's wife, Anna, took a liking to the young reporter and doted on him, especially as he often entertained her infant son. The world into which Pulitzer peeked seemed to be one with limitless possibilities. To be a newspaper editor was to do more than report on the world; it was to shape it.\n\nPulitzer was comfortable in the cultured and political atmosphere of the paper, and during the evenings at Preetorius's house. He was unschooled, but not uneducated. Like his younger brother, he had been inculcated with a love of literature, music, and the arts; and his strong drive to learn made up for any lack of formal instruction. It was not long before the visitors took an interest in Pulitzer. \"That young fellow clinches the future,\" said Brockmeyer, the principal mover behind the Hegelian St. Louis Philosophical Society. \"They think because he trundles about with himself a big cob-nose, a whopper jaw, and bull-frog eyes that he has no sense; but I tell you, he possesses greater dialectical ability than all of them put together\u2014I know it for I have felt it.\"\n\nPulitzer attended a few of the study groups spawned by Brockmeyer's Philosophical Society. For many of the participants, it was as though they had found the key to the universe in Hegel. Their study created a kind of secret fraternity of understanding for every field of activity from music and art to history and politics. They saw the Civil War as an inevitable conflict of the Hegelian dialectic, playing out the inherent conflict of Southern rights and the Northern morality. Most significant of all, their belief that their city would emerge as the new center of postwar America helped spark a broader \"St. Louis movement\" that spread among citizens, giving rise to pamphlets, books, and even legislation calling for relocating the nation's capital to St. Louis. The philosophical society \"took the character of a subtle pervasive influence, rather than an organized propaganda,\" said one member. \"Its life pulsed in the small coteries which met usually in parlors or private rooms for the study of some special book or subject.\"\n\nBut for Pulitzer, it was not the society's philosophical insights that changed his life. Rather, the society brought him Thomas Davidson, into whose orbit he would be drawn, first as a pupil, then as something more.\n\nA nomadic philosopher from Scotland, Davidson arrived in St. Louis in the fall of 1867, shortly after alighting in Boston where he had been welcomed by the transcendentalists. The superintendent of the St. Louis school system offered the twenty-seven-year-old Davidson a position teaching Latin and Greek, in hopes of making him part of the coterie of Hegelians. It worked. Shortly after arriving, Davidson was elected an associate of the St. Louis Philosophical Society.\n\nIn contrast to the serious Hegelians, the broad-framed itinerant philosopher stood out from the crowd. Davidson's rural Scottish origins, red hair, bright blue eyes, and mellifluent voice with its almost musical cadence gave him a personal charm that caught the attention of many. He was ebullient, and his laugh was infectious. \"Davidson's native mood was happy,\" said one close friend. \"He took optimistic views of life and his own share in it. A sort of personal satisfaction radiated on his face.\" Even when posing formally for a photograph, Davidson looked as though concealing a smile was nearly impossible.\n\nThe Scot's charms engendered idolatrous feelings among young men. \"His capacity for friendship was seemingly boundless, drawing to him extremes of the most startling sort among men,\" according to one description published shortly after his death. Women were also attracted to Davidson because he was one of the few teachers who treated them as equal to males. But Davidson was unable to sustain a romantic relationship with a woman. He broke off an eight-year engagement to the only woman he found sexually appealing. \"I am cursed with a nature that makes all real marriage impossible. When I am physically attracted to a woman I always despise her,\" he wrote. \"When I love a woman spiritually, I am always repelled from her with fearful force, that is, physically.\"\n\nIf Davidson was attracted sexually to men, he was not about to proclaim it. With almost no exception, men in his time did not reveal their homosexuality. On the other hand, wherever he went, Davidson left a trail of young men with broken hearts. In 1867, for instance, one young Englishman wrote to Davidson, now in the United States, \"I will never forget how queer I felt about my heart when once at 'Jacques Lorgues' both seated on the same sofa, you put your arms round my neck and gazing fondly in my face, you pressed me into your loving arms and said: 'Oh! If I were a woman!!'...then you rested your head on my bosom. I felt as if you had been yourself my sweet-loving bride.\"\n\nFive years earlier, another young man had been even more direct about the loss of Davidson's companionship. \"You were pure, beautiful, intelligent and good and around you the tendrils of adoration and love\u2014the holiest and tenderest feelings of my heart became hopefully entwined,\" he wrote. \"The thought that you might be my wife completely filled the measure of my hopes in this world.\"\n\nDavidson himself confessed considerable emotional turmoil over his attraction to men. \"I am not loose or wicked in my behavior, but I am naturally endowed with fearfully strong passions so much so that I am often driven by them to the verge of committing suicide.\"\n\nPulitzer fell under Davidson's spell. Over time, the two came to spend nights together in each other's quarters where, as Pulitzer lay on a bed, Davidson would expound upon the classics, literature, and philosophy. These nights filled an emotional void in Pulitzer, a youth stranded in a foreign land, his father dead and his mother married to another man. Sharing a bed was a rare gesture for Pulitzer. Intimacy\u2014especially physical intimacy\u2014was not easy for him. He was very ill at ease when he was around others and not fully clothed. \"From his earliest days he slept alone,\" a longtime associate would later say, \"save when he shared a bed with Professor Davidson, remarking after that this unwonted intimacy showed how much he thought of his learned friend.\"\n\nAs when Davidson abandoned other young men, Pulitzer's deep passionate bond with him came to the surface in pained letters. \"If Faust had been such a cold-blooded heartless chap as you are, Goethe and Mephisto would have had a much harder time indeed,\" a crestfallen Pulitzer wrote when Davidson left for Boston. \"But I'll have my revenge even if I have to go all the way to Massachusetts to get it.\" Pulitzer promised to pardon Davidson if he wrote at least once a week while they were apart.\n\nDavidson ignored this request. Calling him a \"villain,\" Pulitzer again unburdened himself. \"What a fool your friend must be to cling to you still,\" he wrote. \"But never fear, it is my mission as it is the mission of great men to reform and perseverance like your wisdom knows no limit. Whether you go to Massachusetts, or still further north as far even the north-pole I shall stick to you\u2014stick to you until grim death.\n\n\"Do you know what I have been guilty of? I have thought! Terrible isn't it? But worse still\u2014I have thought of you! And worse and worse\u2014I never had that familiar Grecian countenance framed in Scottish red in my mind's eye without another face close to it\u2014softer still, prettier still, and fully as intelligent and gentle. I have that strange face before me now.\" Pulitzer vowed that in two weeks time he would come to Gloucester, and he closed the letter with \"Yours forever.\"\n\nTen days later, Pulitzer received a reply from Davidson. It was less than he hoped. \"Tom!!!\" Pulitzer wrote back. \"The battles of Salamis, Sadaina or Ledars were nothing compared with the struggle that just closed in my breast.\" Pulitzer was looking for a signal to join Davidson in the East. There was none. Instead he chose to take a business trip to Denver. Had Davidson been more forthcoming, Pulitzer said, his decision might have been different. \"Well, there is hope yet. I'll be back in less than fourteen days and, if upon my return, I find a less mysterious and more detailed epistle I'll go right on to Boston.\"\n\nIn the end, however, Davidson remained in the East and Pulitzer in St. Louis. The philosopher had abandoned Pulitzer, as he had abandoned other young men everywhere he went. But in this case, Davidson left behind a pupil whose unschooled intelligence had been polished into a studied intellect. It had been an emotionally wrenching passage for Pulitzer. Except for the letters he would write to women he later courted, there is no other existing Pulitzer correspondence so wrought with feelings. His friendship with Davidson was the deepest that he would have with anyone else except his wife. For unlike Davidson, Pulitzer would marry and father children.\n\n## Chapter Four\n\n## POLITICS AND JOURNALISM\n\nPolitics and journalism were two sides of the same coin when Pulitzer joined the staff of the Westliche Post. Out-of-work politicians became newspaper editors, and successful editors became elected politicians. Most newspapers remained financially tied to political patrons, and often their political origins were reflected in their names, such as the Missouri Republican and Missouri Democrat.* Even the few new independent newspapers made it an all-consuming task to cover politics. Politics was the lifeblood of journalism. \"Every newspaper man, if not a politician, took an interest therein,\" said Pulitzer's friend Charles Johnson. By coming to work for the city's most widely circulated German newspaper, Pulitzer stepped into the world of Republican politics.\n\nGermans in St. Louis were ardent Republicans, a loyalty that grew from their devotion to abolition. Radical Republicans\u2014those members of the party who favored more punitive Reconstruction measures, the destruction of Confederate sympathies, and protection of freed slaves\u2014were in control of Missouri. They conducted politics as they had the war, with a kind of scorched earth approach. Opposing Radical rule was futile.\n\nThe keystone of Republican dominance of Missouri was a punitive constitution adopted at the end of the war. During the early years of Reconstruction, Missouri Radicals went farther than those in any other state in creating a system of registration, tests, and oaths to keep former rebels and their sympathizers from the ballot box and civic life. Missourians could not vote, become teachers, lawyers, or even ministers without stating in writing that they had never favored or supported the Confederacy. Thousands were disenfranchised on the basis of a definition of disloyalty so vague as to include men whose distant cousins might have fought on the wrong side of the war.\n\nRepublicans feared that they would lose their grip on power without the constitution's loyalty provisions. But though these provisions squelched Democratic opposition, a threat was growing from within the party. The more moderate members wanted to restore suffrage to all white voters and feared that the long-run interest of the party was in danger if the restrictions weren't lifted. Among the Germans, this wing was led by Preetorius and Schurz, who was settling in as copublisher of the paper. In the English-speaking community the movement was led by politicians such as Pulitzer's friend Johnson.\n\nPulitzer fell in line like a foot soldier. Taking orders from Schurz provided him with an apprenticeship in American immigrant politics. In the three years he had been in St. Louis, Pulitzer had worked hard to develop friendships with men whom he perceived to be on a path to power or success. Now he was with one who had both. Remarkably, Schurz was also among the very first American political figures Pulitzer had learned about when he arrived in the United States. It was Schurz, after all, who had created the First Lincoln Cavalry, in which Pulitzer served.\n\nSchurz placed the Westliche Post and himself in the service of the 1868 Republican presidential campaign, using the newspaper to persuade Germans in St. Louis that General Ulysses Grant was their man\u2014and using his oratorical skills to persuade Germans in other states. For Schurz, journalism was one weapon on the political battlefield. His speeches were another. None of this was lost on Pulitzer, who had now spent two years working at the paper. \"He was my chief,\" said Pulitzer. \"We often traveled together, yet in all that time I never saw him pass an idle moment, either in the office or on the road, or anywhere else.\"\n\nPulitzer not only assumed the Republican faith of his boss but followed Schurz's model. \"Pulitzer,\" said Johnson, \"as soon as he was fairly in harness as a reporter, became active in politics.\" He joined his neighborhood's Republican organization; and by August 1868 he was rewarded for his efforts by being selected as the secretary of the Radical club of the Fifth Ward. Pulitzer's ambition did not go unnoticed. \"There never seemed to be any doubt in his mind,\" said Preetorius, \"that he would succeed in something.\"\n\nIn November, with the election won, Missouri Republicans turned their attention to selecting their next U.S. senator. Even though Schurz had barely arrived in the state, he set his sights on winning the seat. Republicans in St. Louis, heavily German, were intent on regaining control of the party from Senator Charles Drake, whom they despised.\n\nThe contest gave Pulitzer a front-row seat at a battle of Reconstruction politics. One of his friends, William M. Grosvenor, editor of the Missouri Democrat, was among a group of three leaders backing Schurz who also included Gratz Brown (a former U.S. senator) and Preetorius. They considered Schurz an ideal candidate for the Senate. He had no political battle scars from Missouri, and thus few enemies; he was a Republican whose support of the party went back to Lincoln's first presidential campaign; and he had the support of the considerable German population.\n\nA New Englander of uncommon talent, Grosvenor was a big, fleshy man with olive skin and a mane of hair, a bushy beard, and heavy eyebrows that gave him the fierce look of a lion. Although one worked for a German paper and the other for an English paper, Pulitzer and Grosvenor found they shared a reformist agenda. They both wanted to restore the vote to disenfranchised Democrats and compete openly in elections. They thought it was their job as journalists to bring this about.\n\nIn early January 1869, Pulitzer accompanied Preetorius and Schurz to Jefferson City, the state capital, as the legislature met and prepared to select Missouri's next senator. Schurz told the Republican caucus what it wanted to hear, that he supported President Grant and the Fifteenth Amendment, giving black citizens the right to vote. But he added that the time had also come to lift voting restrictions on disenfranchised white citizens. The appeal triggered an attack from Drake, the architect of the plan to keep Democrats from the voting booth. Drake could hardly contain his temper, and he became especially provoked when Schurz continually interrupted his speech to take issue with his various accusations. Then Drake made a fatal mistake. He broadened his assault on Schurz to include all German immigrants and questioned their loyalty.\n\nHis maneuver gave Schurz the opportunity he sought. He was merciless in his rebuttal. Declaring his pride in being German-born, he reminded the audience that he and other Germans had fought to save the Union and damned Drake for having wavered on the issue of slavery. It worked. The caucus voted for Schurz. \"I had one of the greatest triumphs of my life last night,\" he told Preetorius. \"Drake was completely crushed.\"\n\nPreetorius and Pulitzer rushed their own accounts of the triumph into print. Preetorius's was in the refined classical German most commonly found in the paper. Pulitzer's was sprinkled with rollicking humor, biting sarcasm, and double entendres, including one that alluded to menstruation with regard to Schurz's opponent. He invoked his favorite theme as a reporter: the press illuminates the dark recesses of government to which politicians retreat at decision-making time. \"A great step forward was taken with yesterday's open caucus in the Hall of Representatives,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"The battle for the Senate has been lifted from the basement of secret intrigues to the public forum. Initially revealed to the people by the press, now it will be sorted out verbally in front of everyone in the halls of the Capitol.\" It was sorted out. A few days later the legislature followed the caucus's lead and gave Schurz the job.\n\nSchurz's election altered life at the Westliche Post. Soon he had gone to Washington and was overwhelmed with political work. \"I have hardly time to read the newspaper, let alone to write for it,\" Schurz wrote back from the capital. Normally Preetorius would have picked up more of the editorial responsibilities, but he was ill. So the management of the paper fell on the shoulders of its ill-equipped city editor, Louis Willich, a twenty-seven-year-old who had been in St. Louis for less time than Pulitzer and was hardly an expert on the city or its political topology.\n\nThe vacuum at the top of the staff became an opportunity at the bottom for Pulitzer. His work soon became the mainstay of the paper. He wandered around St. Louis at all hours, visiting schools and public institutions, attending public meetings and ward meetings, knocking on doors of lawyers and politicians, and opening those doors that didn't yield to a knock. \"His thirst for news was unquenchable,\" recalled a stenographer at the St. Louis Police Commission. The commissioners often met behind closed doors. \"Not infrequently on those occasions the door would softly open, and a pale, spectacled face would intrude itself on the privacy of the session, with the inquiry 'any news?' followed by the roughest but good natured cry 'Get out of here!' and a hearty laugh at the persistency of the inquisitor.\"\n\nPulitzer even took his door-opening to the state capital. One night a group of Democratic legislators were caucusing, and only reporters from Democratic newspapers had been permitted in the room. Suddenly the doors were thrown open, recalled another reporter, and \"through the open casement calmly walked the correspondent of the Westliche Post. He stepped to the reporters' table without a word, placed a pad of paper before him, and took his seat without question or objection from the members.\"\n\nIt wasn't long before just about every politician and reporter had caught a glimpse of this peripatetic member of the press. Pulitzer's appearance alone was conversation-worthy and was a source of much merriment among reporters. He wore buff-colored pants too short for his long legs, a coarse hickory shirt without a tie, and a soiled jacket. To complete his singular apparel with the required head covering, he made do with a chip hat of plaited split palm leaves, probably bought for 15 cents and held together with an ordinary piece of grocer's string.\n\nReporters poked fun at him. \"They laughed at his ungainly form, his primitive attire; they made sport of his nose, coupling it with his peculiar cognomen 'pull-it-sir' in a way that was calculated to drive a supersensitive person to distraction,\" recalled the police stenographer. Some called him \"Joey the Jew.\" The more charitable ones gave him the moniker \"Shakespeare\" for his resemblance to the bard's profile. But Pull-it-sir ignored the taunting. \"He pursued his course heedless of the rebuffs and coarse witticisms and they soon began to recognize his worth,\" recalled the stenographer. \"It was then that he won their confidence and esteem.\"\n\nFor good reason. Although Pulitzer cut a strange figure among the reporters, there was nothing lacking in the stories he churned out for the Westliche Post. In addition to writing an endless stream of local news, the bread and butter of the business, Pulitzer wrote pithy, cogent stories on St. Louis politics in an inimitable style that stood out from the more classical, restrained German used by Preetorius and others. \"We all soon learned to appreciate and make the most of his extraordinary capacity for news gathering,\" admitted a reporter for the competing Republican. \"He was an able reporter\u2014trenchant with the pen,\" Johnson said, \"fearless in attacking wrong or corruption, and at times bitter and acrimonious in his assaults.\"\n\nAs Pulitzer mastered English, though he still spoke it with a heavy accent, he widened his social circle, and Johnson became one of his best friends outside the German community. The thirty-year-old Johnson, nine years Pulitzer's senior, liked reporters, having worked in the printing trade and published a small newspaper as a teenager. After serving a term as city attorney, he had been appointed state attorney for St. Louis in 1866.\n\nAlthough Johnson admired his young friend's aggressive reporting, others were less enthusiastic. It worried the city councilor Anthony Ittner, another man with whom Pulitzer made friends in the course of covering politics. Like Johnson, Ittner was about a decade older than Pulitzer. He had been in St. Louis since he was seven, had built up his bricklaying trade, and was now running his own brickyard. Ittner believed Pulitzer went too far in the tone of his articles and in his arguments with others, and that he was devoid of fear. \"It was not an uncommon thing for him to use language in a heated controversy or dispute that went beyond the limit,\" Ittner said. \"In fact, I cautioned him that he must become more conservative and forbearing for fear that he might someday meet a person like himself and then there would be trouble.\"\n\nIn Pulitzer's eyes, the villain of his new world was the notoriously corrupt county government. St. Louis County was probably no worse a den of political iniquity than most burgeoning urban areas in the years following the Civil War. Here, as in other cities, businessmen, party leaders, politicians, and, in many cases, newspaper publishers developed a web of financially beneficial relationships. Businessmen obtained lucrative contracts, party leaders gained favors for their troops of loyal followers, and politicians won elected office and enhanced their earnings. Newspapers weren't exempt from wrongdoing, either. Publishers who favored those in power were awarded legal advertisements, printing contracts, and sometimes even cash payments.\n\nIn the summer of 1869 the county government's excesses were all too visible during the construction of a new insane asylum. It was an irresistible topic for Pulitzer's caustic pen. Five stories tall, with a cupola, the asylum had been built at a cost of $700,000, nearly twice the original estimate. Everything about the project had the odor of corruption. For instance, when the construction firm that had been engaged to drill a well failed to strike water at a reasonable depth, it just continued merrily drilling down. The resulting hole, 3,850 feet deep, still without water, became the second-deepest shaft in the world and an object of local ridicule when Pulitzer dubbed it the \"well of fools.\"\n\nPulitzer tenaciously reported on each step of the county's handling of the project. One day he discovered that county politicians were going to erase a financial mistake made by some lawyers. During the construction of the asylum, these attorneys had acted as guarantors to a brick supplier. The supplier failed to deliver all the promised materials when he realized that he had bid too low for the job and would lose money. The lawyers, in their capacity as guarantors, were thus required to pay for the undelivered bricks. Pulitzer learned that the lawyers were seeking to have the county pay them for their loss. In a session where only four of the seven county judges were in attendance, the county court agreed.\n\nFrom the pages of the Westliche Post, Pulitzer lashed out at the judges. Using what had become one of his favorite reportorial techniques, he filled his copy with questions for his readers: \"Do the citizens want to let this infamous County Court pull the wool over their eyes? Do they want to concede, with quiet acceptance of what transpired and indifferent behavior, that the County Court can do what it wants with public money? Has the Insane Asylum not cost them enough already?\" Then Pulitzer changed from questioner to instructor. \"We want the citizens to answer these questions for themselves, and we want those answers in the form of energetic action. It is high time that they make their position clear to the County Court and explain to them that they were not elected to squander communal money, still damp with the people's sweat, but rather to guard this with utmost providence!\"\n\nUnder this withering attack, the full court voted to revoke the payment. It was a triumph for Pulitzer. He magnanimously shared the credit for the victory with Preetorius, Ittner, and several others who had promised to file suit to stop the payment if the court had not reversed itself. Pulitzer warned that the victory was limited to this one issue. There was more to be gained. \"The eternal waffling on important issues, the revoltingly frivolous handling of public money, the revocation thereof only hours prior: All of this leads to only one conclusion, that the current county judges are either totally incapable of representing the interest of their constituents and the county, or that something is very rotten here.\" Pulitzer demanded that the judges resign. It would be a miracle if this happened, he conceded. \"How can the current situation best be changed? Hereupon we answer with the words that have appeared at the head of our local column numerous times in the past weeks: Down with the County Court!\"\n\nIn battling the county court, Pulitzer elevated his own reputation. Even though newspapers carried no bylines, most readers and politicians knew who was the author of the attacks. He had earlier earned the respect of his colleagues in the press for his persistence and perspicacity, and now he was being noticed by people outside the ranks of the fourth estate. \"Pulitzer was fighting the most powerful and corrupt ring in St. Louis with money and patronage to back it,\" the lime merchant Theodore Welge said, \"and could have had any amount of money in the shape of gifts or otherwise. He was without funds except for the small salary he drew as a reporter for the Westliche Post.\"\n\nIn October 1869, Pulitzer became city editor when Willich left the paper. With control of the Westliche Post's news pages, Pulitzer intensified his assault on the county government. During the fall, he reported on other exorbitant payments to contractors, on the county's insistence on paying men to light the gas streetlights rather than using the new electric ignition systems, and on the shoddy brickwork at the jail.\n\nThe county court faced a new and effective enemy.\n\nDespite the interminable hours at the paper and his work with the Republican organization in his ward, Pulitzer still found time to socialize and widen his circle of friends. \"When first meeting JP one would find him to be rather distant and serious, bent only on his work,\" recalled a friend at the police department. \"But when one got to know him one found he was genial and social.\" At the end of the day, Pulitzer could often be found at Fritz Roeslein's bookstore, a popular gathering place for bookish Germans. The books, however, were beyond Pulitzer's reach, with the little he earned. An errand boy who worked at Roeslein's remembered Pulitzer taking an interest in a dinner of homemade sausage and bread the boy's mother had packed. \"Mr. J.P. saw me go after it, he asked me what it was, I then offered some and he helped me finish up.\"\n\nAt night, Pulitzer retreated to 307 South Third Street, only a few short blocks from the newspaper. There he rented a small room in a boardinghouse run by an aging widow and her two daughters. It was a gloomy two-story building across the street from a bathhouse that gave the block a stench of sulfur. He was, however, in good company. His friend the poet Udo Brachvogel and an editor from the Anzeiger des Westens also took rooms there. The three of them often sat together, talking, late into the night.\n\nJoseph's brother Albert, however, was still a wandering soul. After his stint selling magazines door to door, Albert had taken a tutoring job on a German farm and had taught German in the St. Louis schools. In late spring of 1868, he walked into a wealthy neighborhood south of his brother's home and came across a group of boys sitting on the steps of one of the more handsome houses on the block. Albert asked a passerby whose house it was and learned that it belonged to Thomas Allen, president of the Iron Mountain Railway and a figure of considerable political influence in St. Louis.\n\n\"In my desperate lonely position,\" Albert said, \"I cast to the winds all timidity, boldly walked up to the doorstep.\" He asked if Allen was home. To his amazement he was led into the house. \"I stammered out that I knew German and might teach the German language to those bright boys I had seen on the doorstep.\" Allen said the idea appealed to him but he and his family were leaving to spend the summer in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. \"Though I did not have the faintest idea where Pittsfield might be, I, nothing daunted, intimated as well as I could in broken English that I would be delighted to wend my way Pittsfield-ward.\"\n\nIt turned into an idyllic summer. Each day after concluding his tutoring lessons, Albert, armed with an English-German dictionary, worked his way through Charles Dickens's Pickwick Papers. When the group returned to St. Louis, he spoke a passable form of English. Back at the Mercantile Library, he had a fortunate encounter with a member of the Hegelians who had become superintendent of the public schools. The man had received an inquiry from a school in Leavenworth, Kansas, that was looking for a German teacher. The $100 monthly salary was a princely sum for an eighteen-year-old. But Albert was not successful at the job and was soon returned to St. Louis. Deciding he was not cut out for teaching, he set his sights on entering his brother's field.\n\nThis new plan did not sit well with his older brother. Pointing out that Albert was never without a copy of Dickens or Shakespeare in his hands, Joseph instead suggested that a literary career would be more suitable. \"Think, Albert, how proud our mother would be,\" he said. \"You are too much of a dreamer ever to make any money for the family. Leave the commercial grind to me.\"\n\nIgnoring Joseph's advice, Albert headed to Chicago, where, he heard, the Illinois Staats-Zeitung was hiring. Astonishingly, without any newspaper training, he duplicated Joseph's luck at getting a job on the Westliche Post and landed a reporter's position at $10 a week. \"The Staats-Zeitung, however, although printed in German, was an excellent school for me, since four-fifths of its new matter was drawn from English-speaking sources. I had perforce to know English first.\" The paper shared a building with the Chicago Evening Post, whose reporters gave him yet more opportunity to work on his English. \"His object,\" recalled one reporter, \"was to master the language so that he could take a writing position on an English paper, and he told me that when he felt sure of himself in this respect he should go to New York and begin there.\"\n\nIn November 1869, advertisements appeared in the Westliche Post, and other newspapers, announcing a special election in the Fifth and Sixth districts of the General Assembly to fill seats emptied by resignations. Since one of the elections would take place in the ward where Pulitzer served as a Republican Party officer, he went to work hurriedly organizing the nominating meeting necessary to select a candidate. The Democrats held their gathering first, meeting in Uncle Joe Locke's Hall on the night of December 13, 1869. Pulitzer attended in his capacity as a reporter. It was a boisterous affair and several fights almost broke out before the Democrats settled on a candidate.\n\nThe Republicans held their meeting the following evening in Turner's Hall. They had little hope of victory in the election. The ward had been solidly Democratic for the past twenty-five years. Nonetheless Pulitzer urged that Republicans turn out for the meeting. \"No one,\" he wrote in the Westliche Post, \"should be nominated who does not possess the absolute trust of a majority of the citizenry and can be considered their representative.\"\n\nDespite bad weather, a sufficient number of Republicans turned out that night to hold the nominating meeting. It quickly became clear, however, that the man they had hoped would run was not interested in the nomination. In the disarray one man moved that the ward secretary, Pulitzer, who was then out of the room, be declared the candidate. This motion was followed by one to close the nominations, and Pulitzer was selected unanimously. The hall reacted with applause, according to Republican press accounts\u2014or with laughter if the Democratic reporters were to be believed. More commotion arose when Pulitzer reentered the hall, unaware of what had just occurred.\n\nThe next morning, Pulitzer the reporter gave a third-person account of the reaction of Pulitzer the politician. \"In a few, apparently heart-felt words that he spoke to the meeting, he explained that he in no way had sought out this office, that he did not believe himself worthy of the trust that his fellow citizens had placed in him with this nomination, but that if elected, it would be always his highest and only goal to reward this trust.\" The Democrat, doing its best to hold up the Republican Party banner, described Pulitzer as \"well-known...a gentleman of character, considerable attainment, and decided and energetic\" and one \"who stands high in the estimation of the Germans in the ward\" with \"many friends among the Americans.\" The paper predicted an election victory.\n\nThe wishful thinking suddenly became a possibility when the Democrats ran into candidate trouble. Their first choice declined the nomination. The party turned next to Stilson Hutchins, a Democratic friend of Pulitzer who was a newspaper editor, but he too turned it down. So with only four days left before the election, the Democrats settled on a tobacco dealer with no political experience. The stand-in candidate received a rapid political baptism when Pulitzer tarred him in the Westliche Post. \"Who is this new candidate exactly?\" wrote Pulitzer. \"Few know, but they say that he is a bankrupt merchant, who had strong Rebel sympathies during the war.\" A day later Pulitzer charged that the Democrat was ineligible to be a candidate. \"He is neither registered in the ward that he wishes to represent in the legislature, nor has he ever voted in that ward.\" In this attack, Pulitzer was playing with fire. He himself was constitutionally ineligible for the office. The minimum age to serve in the General Assembly was twenty-four. Pulitzer was not yet twenty-three.\n\nWith three days remaining before the election, Pulitzer went to the registrar's office to sign a loyalty oath, as required by the Reconstruction constitution. In signing the oath, Pulitzer fulfilled a requirement for election, but he also engaged once again in dishonesty about his age. The same day, the Westliche Post published a letter of support for Pulitzer's candidacy signed by a \"Soldier and Worker.\" It defended Pulitzer against what it called the \"arrogant nose-turning and diplomatic shoulder-shrugging about the young age of the Radical candidate.\" His youth, it argued, was no fault of his own and would \"dissipate with each passing day.\" The letter sounded suspiciously like the work of the candidate himself.\n\nNot a day had passed when Pulitzer did not use the pages of the paper to tout his candidacy. In humble prose, sounding rather like Dickens's Uriah Heep, Pulitzer wrote\u2014in the third person\u2014that he would have surrendered the nomination to a more seasoned candidate had one emerged. \"It is therefore the unforbearable duty of Mr. Pulitzer to accept this unanimously imposed candidacy and see it through.\" He contrasted his attributes of watchfulness, tirelessness, and fearlessness with his opponent's supposed Confederate sympathies, rumored bankruptcy, and alleged ineligibility. The Radical ticket is \"pure gold compared to the candidates of the Irish Democrats.... They say that they would vote for the Devil himself in order to defeat the candidates of the Germans,\" Pulitzer wrote on election eve. \"What do our German friends have to say about that?\"\n\nOn election day snow and freezing rain poured down. Only a little more than 300 voters, less than one-fourth the usual turnout, managed to make their way to the two polling stations: the German Emigration Society, on the river side of the ward; and R. Eitman's Grocery Store, on the western side. The eastern portion of the ward, more densely German, cast 156 votes for Pulitzer and 66 for the Democrat. The margin for Pulitzer allowed him to overcome the Democrat's anemic victory in the more Irish side of the ward, which the Democratic Party took by a vote of 81 to 53. The final count of 209 to 147 gave Pulitzer the seat in the legislature.\n\n\"We doubt that an election has ever taken place in our city under such unfavorable conditions and turned out as relatively satisfying,\" wrote journalist and legislator-elect Pulitzer in the next day's Westliche Post. The Radical victory in the Fifth Ward was important because the ward, though not a \"fortress of local Democrats\" and \"Rebel elements\" like the neighboring Sixth Ward, might still be considered a Democratic enclave, Pulitzer said. \"Regardless the ward elected a Radical representative yesterday in place of its previous Democratic one. The majority of 62 that elected Mr. Pulitzer may seem small, but not when one takes into account that the total votes for both candidates in both precincts did not top 356.\"\n\nAs if he were giving a victory night speech, Pulitzer continued his postelection analysis by thanking his colleagues. \"The local press exhibited, with one single exception, such an honorable and collegial spirit with regard to Mr. Pulitzer's campaign, that it is a true pleasure to give voice to our grateful recognition.\" The one miscreant was the rival German newspaper Neue Anzeiger, which, according to Pulitzer, \"deviated spitefully from the generous stance of the entire rest of the press.\" His sensitivity to the one sour note of public criticism revealed that it had not yet dawned on Pulitzer that he had crossed the Rubicon. In only five years he had grown from a bounty-hunting Hungarian teenager to an American lawmaker.\n\nHe was now an elected politician.\n\n## Chapter Five\n\n## POLITICS AND GUNPOWDER\n\nShortly after New Year's Day 1870, Pulitzer left St. Louis for the state capital, Jefferson City, and his new life as a legislator. It was a short, bucolic train ride along the meandering Missouri River, whose banks alternated between rich farmland and high overhanging cliffs. For those having political business in the capital, the trip was often gratis, as the Missouri Pacific Railroad gladly offered free passage to those who were in a position to return favors. In fact, it was a common practice for newspapermen, public officials, judges, politicians, and lawmakers to ride \"deadhead,\" as it was called. Pulitzer, who was among the poorest lawmakers that year, opted instead to obtain a travel per diem from the state.\n\nThe state capital, though not necessarily a backwater, was not a destination of choice for politicians from St. Louis and Kansas City. Many legislators remained unconvinced that this isolated former river trading post was a suitable spot for their deliberations; and when Pulitzer arrived, they were still introducing resolutions to move the state capital. The annual descent of lawmakers was about the only thing that disturbed the calm of Jefferson City.\n\nBringing with them a carnival atmosphere, the legislators packed Schmidt's Hotel and caused its bartenders to stock extra supplies. Although Pulitzer would take his meals there, he avoided Schmidt's pricey rooms. Instead, he chose to room with his friend Anthony Ittner, who had also been elected as a state legislator. The pair obtained lodgings in a boardinghouse, nicknamed the \"German Diet\" because of the preponderance of German legislators who favored the place.\n\nOn January 5, 1870, as the legislature opened for business, Pulitzer took his oath of office, swearing, for the second time in a month, to uphold the state's constitution but meanwhile violating its minimum age for service in the legislature. For one born in Europe, state legislatures were a marvel of American democracy beyond compare. Each state had its own semi-sovereign government with a legislature in session, on average, eighty-seven days a year. Almost every law of significance\u2014criminal, social, or economic\u2014was made by state legislatures. It would be another half century before the federal government would begin to assume its modern dominant role in governance.\n\nIn Jefferson City, and in fourteen other state capitals that month, lawyers, doctors, farmers, merchants, businessmen, and even newspapermen gathered to make the laws of the land. It was exhilarating, and Pulitzer was eager to join in. On his first day, he offered two resolutions, one dealing with printing the governor's annual message in German, the other a routine measure for printing copies of the House rules for use by members.\n\nPulitzer's fellow Radical Republicans controlled the legislature and had one of their own in the governor's seat. Having disenfranchised some 60,000 citizens with the loyalty oath, the Radicals were at the apex of their power. But political fissures were growing among the ranks of the party. Republican rule was an unnatural state of affairs in a state with strong and deep Democratic Party roots. As in other border states, Republicans had neither a popular base nor public support.\n\nSuffrage was the dominant and most divisive issue before the lawmakers. The governor urged them to ratify the Fifteenth Amendment, giving black American men the right to vote, and to similarly amend the state constitution. But he startled many in his own party by suggesting it was time to lift voting restrictions on Democrats. Although it was only a vague promise, it gave voice to a central issue facing Republicans. How much longer could they deny taxpaying, law-abiding white voters the franchise?\n\nPulitzer, like a growing number of Republicans, felt that the party had to respond to constituents' demands if it wanted to take permanent root in the state. Five years after the end of the war, a considerable amount of reconciliation had already taken place in Missouri, and the hatred engendered by the conflict was greatly diminished. The animus toward former rebels seemed particularly hard to justify if former slaves were to be given the vote.\n\nThe state's constitution, passed during the first years of Reconstruction, specified that the legislature would be constitutionally free to begin tampering with its onerous voting restrictions in 1871. But many Republicans were unwilling to wait. They feared entering the fall campaign with only a promise to do something about lifting the restrictions later. The growing consensus among the moderates was to submit to voters that fall a constitutional amendment which would enfranchise all adult males.\n\nFrom the start, Pulitzer was in the moderates' camp. On his first full day, he proposed a roll-call vote to help defeat a measure aimed at stemming a slight expansion of suffrage. There was no question in his mind that the right to vote must be given to all men, regardless of their participation in the war or the color of their skin. His faith in the expansion of suffrage was sustained by his sense of wonder at American politics, his absolute faith in democracy, and his youthful idealism. Unlike the veteran legislators, he had not considered the electoral math should the vote be restored to thousands of Democrats. He \"is with us,\" a Democratic Party leader happily told his mostly disenfranchised colleagues in Pulitzer's Fifth Ward.\n\nOn a Sunday evening in late January, Pulitzer boarded a train for Jefferson City after spending the weekend in St. Louis. As the train neared Hermann, a German river town about halfway to the capital, the track, probably weakened by the winter cold, broke in three places. The locomotive remained on the railway, but the express car and the sleeping car in the rear came uncoupled and rolled down the steep embankment leading to the river. The remaining cars, including the one in which Pulitzer rode, left the track but remained upright, although teetering and appearing as if they would follow the others down the hill.\n\nPulitzer scrambled out with the other uninjured travelers and surveyed the scene. \"Picture a large sleeping-car, in which at that moment was occupied by over 50 people (and for the most part undressed and sleeping),\" Pulitzer said. \"One must imagine this car, imagine it rolling down a 20-foot high railroad embankment with increasing momentum until a mighty tree obstructs its passage, the car's interior smashed into a thousand pieces, and the car rests on the ground, but not in its typical position, but rather vice versa, i.e. on its head, and one will have a rough idea of how the scene of the catastrophe looked.\"\n\nThe immediate danger was fire. Pulitzer explored the overturned wagons and found their stoves, filled with glowing ambers, hanging from what was now the ceiling. As rescuers removed the more seriously injured passengers through the windows, several small fires broke out but were quickly extinguished. Most of the injuries were lacerations and broken bones, but one woman had a broken spine and later died.\n\nThe passengers stayed the night at the scene of the accident while the wounded were tended to and the serviceable wagons were put back on the track. With the break of day, what remained of the train made its way to Jefferson City, arriving late Monday morning. The legislators who were on the train along with Pulitzer were all uninjured and joined their colleagues on the floor, where their ordeal soon become the topic of conversation.\n\nThe new week marked the opening of the lobbying season. Railroad men, lawyers, county politicians, and businessmen flocked to the capital. These lobbyists were so numerous and so powerful they were called the \"third house.\" One reporter from Kansas City, sitting at his desk on the floor, looked over the men who took the seats in the rear of the chamber. \"These are the strange commingling,\" he wrote, \"the Augean stables of legislation\u2014the seething cesspool of legislative faith; men, good, bad, corrupt and designing schemers\u2014dupes, plotters, diminutive Richelieus and Mazarins, and petty Woolseys, all after self.\"\n\nPulitzer still regarded corruption in St. Louis County as the paramount issue. His tenure as a city and county reporter had made him a legislator on a mission. In assuming his new post, Pulitzer did not give up his old one as a reporter. In his singular position as both a legislator and a journalist, he used his reporting to advance his political work. In Pulitzer's eyes the lobbyists descending on the capital were an army of darkness. Calling them \"courthouse corruption aristocrats,\" he wrote, \"The train that arrived yesterday evening seems to have transported half of St. Louis here. One encounters faces everywhere that usually lurk about the Courthouse and Fourth Street.\"\n\nAmong the arriving men, Pulitzer singled out Edward Augustine, a notorious contractor from St. Louis County. Pulitzer had first encountered Augustine, at least by reputation, during his first summer in St. Louis. The city was preparing for a predicted return of cholera, which had killed nearly one in ten of its residents seventeen years earlier. Most of the city's ponds had been drained as a precaution, but in Pulitzer's neighborhood many residents were concerned about a quarry filled with dirty, stagnant water. It was owned by Augustine and situated on the path Pulitzer took each day to work. City officials were at first unwilling to confront Augustine, who had deep political connections, but a public demonstration changed their minds. In the years since, Augustine had risen to become an important contractor in St. Louis, participating in building the county's scandalously expensive insane asylum. In fact, it was he who held the contract to dig the unproductive well that Pulitzer had named the \"well of fools.\"\n\nBefore boarding the train for Jefferson City, Augustine had stopped in at the office of the lime merchant Theodore Welge, who rented kilns from him. Augustine asked if Welge would accompany him to take a glass of beer at Lemps, one of the largest of thirty breweries in St. Louis. Augustine was fuming. As they downed their beers, he deplored Pulitzer's activities. He told his drinking companion that he was heading for Jefferson City \"to insult and publicly spit in the face of Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, to force him to stop advocating a bill that takes away from him his valuable contract with the county.\"\n\nOn the morning of January 26, as the courthouse crowd from St. Louis settled in at Schmidt's Hotel, Pulitzer dropped a legislative bombshell. He introduced a bill to abolish the existing St. Louis county court government. In the past, county pols had considered it a nuisance when the Westliche Post advocated the abolition of the county court, but now that its representative in Jefferson City was moving to convert editorial policy into public policy, it became a threat.\n\nThe city-county relationship had long been contentious. As seven-eighths of the county's population resided in the city, its residents chafed at being under the rule of county politicians. After the Civil War, the struggle between the city and county was acerbated by a new revelation of corruption in the county government. Only two months before the legislature met, it had become public knowledge that six county officers were making $120,000 a year each from fee collections while, in comparison, the mayor of St. Louis was paid only $4,000.\n\nSpecifically, Pulitzer's bill would require the county court to draw up new election districts and increase the number of judges elected from within the city. This would effectively put the city in charge of all county business. The new judges would be elected in early April, less than three months away; would be paid $1,000 a year; and would be barred from participating in any county contracts or selling anything to the county. All proceedings of the new county court as well as all its expenses and revenues would be published in the largest-circulation English and German newspapers. This last provision raised criticism that Pulitzer was seeking only to enrich his own paper with government advertising.\n\nAlthough Pulitzer's bill was offered as a program to \"reorganize the County Court of St. Louis County,\" its true intent\u2014killing the court's power\u2014was clear to all observers. Pulitzer admitted as much. The bill, he said, \"does not propose to allow the present court to exercise their functions up to the general election in November next, but will decapitate them beyond a remedy on the first Tuesday of April.\" His actions were front-page news in St. Louis. An hour after introducing his bill, Pulitzer was accosted by Augustine and a companion. They were furious. \"They spoke of the bill in a highly agitated manner and began making highly insulting comments,\" said Pulitzer, who excused himself and took refuge in a closed-door meeting.\n\nThe next morning, Pulitzer resumed his print warfare on the lobbyists by publishing their names. For some, like his friend Johnson, who was then district attorney and had official business in the capital, this was not a problem. But for those who were mounting a stealth campaign to preserve the county court and its privileges, the mere listing of their names was an accusation. Pulitzer's list also suggested guilt by association. For instance, he sandwiched Augustine's name between those of two notorious lobbyists. At the end of his list, Pulitzer displayed his characteristic cheekiness. \"I would like to pose the question,\" he wrote, changing from German to English, \"who pays the expenses? But since this could be misinterpreted by some of these gentlemen, who are genteel types, I prefer to leave this be and turn to a more interesting topic\"\u2014and here he abruptly ended his sentence, prompting the readers to look down to the title of the next section of his dispatch from the state capital: \"Abolition of the County Court.\"\n\nThat evening the St. Louis delegation met in the parlor of Schmidt's Hotel, a large room, about sixty by fifty feet. Around seven, a dozen or so men gathered, and then their ranks swelled as others came in from supper. Several German legislators were talking with Augustine about Pulitzer's article when the author himself arrived. Pulitzer asked what they were discussing. \"You,\" they replied. Augustine then asked Pulitzer why he had published such charges, especially as he didn't know the facts. Not so, replied Pulitzer, claiming that he knew the \"facts\" very well.\n\n\"Nothing but a pup could make such a statement, not knowing them to be facts,\" Augustine said. That phrase crossed the line. In the nineteenth-century code of honor, a reference to a \"liar\" or a \"pup\" could provoke a duel. In 1817, Senator Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri used the term \"puppy\" in reference to the attorney Charles Lucas, and the latter died in the ensuing duel. Pulitzer warned Augustine to be more cautious with his language, and Augustine responded by calling him a \"damned liar.\"\n\nPulitzer moved away and joined several friends. \"Pulitzer, why didn't you knock that man down when he called you a damned liar?\" asked one of them, who had overheard the exchange. \"You must keep up the esprit du corps, man.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all about the County Court,\" replied Pulitzer, who then left.\n\nBack at the boardinghouse, Pulitzer flung open the door to his room and stormed in, startling Anthony Ittner, who had just returned from some late-afternoon bowling. Making straight for the lounge chair, Pulitzer removed his pistol from his suitcase and pocketed it, hiding his actions from his roommate. Ittner said he was heading back to the bowling lanes to retrieve a coat he had forgotten. \"Hold on, Tony,\" Pulitzer said, \"and I'll go with you.\"\n\n\"That damned Augustine insulted me,\" Pulitzer told Ittner when they reached the street. \"I am going back there to call him every bad name there is in the dictionary, I am going to call him a 'son-of-a-bitch.'\" Ittner admonished him not to, reminding Pulitzer that he revered his own mother by carrying her likeness in his pocket watch.\n\n\"Well, Tony,\" Pulitzer replied, \"I think you are right and I will be governed by your advice, but I assure you I will call him every other bad name I can think of.\" The two then walked east. At the corner, Ittner took a right turn toward the bowling alley and Pulitzer went left toward the hotel.\n\nHeading down the hill to the hotel, Pulitzer encountered two newspapermen on their way to the telegraph office. Pulitzer told them that if they headed back to the hotel they would get a good item. \"Thinking he was alluding to the meeting of the delegation,\" one of them said, \"I told him we would be back in a few minutes.\"\n\nWhen Pulitzer reached the parlor of Schmidt's Hotel, Augustine was still there, talking with a county judge and another man. Pulitzer walked directly across the room, and angry words once again passed between the two men. \"Mr. Augustine, just one word, and I hope that it will be the last word that I speak to you,\" Pulitzer said. \"I would like to explain to you that I am no longer inclined to associate with you, and I also do not wish that you speak to me again. Should you, however, persist in insulting me, you will, despite your great physical advantage, find that you have come to the wrong man.\"\n\n\"I want to tell you in clear and understandable English that you are a damned liar and a puppy,\" replied Augustine in a loud booming voice that all could hear.\n\n\"You are a God-damned liar,\" Pulitzer snapped back.\n\nWords ceased. Augustine moved toward Pulitzer. Bulky and strong, with fists twice the size of an ordinary man's, Augustine had the edge in combat with his beanpole, bespectacled opponent. Pulitzer retreated. \"Everyone who knows Augustine knows that one would be hard-pressed to find one man in 100,000 who is built like him,\" Pulitzer said. \"As far as his physical strength is considered, he was ten times my better.\"\n\nWhen Pulitzer had completed about ten to twelve paces of his retreat, Augustine raised his fist. In his assailant's hands, Pulitzer thought he saw \"a heavy, gleaming yellow instrument,\" that he presumed to be brass knuckles. Pulitzer withdrew his pistol and fired. Incredibly, the veteran cavalryman missed his massive target. As they struggled across the parlor, Pulitzer pulled the trigger again, but the barrel of the gun was deflected downward and the bullet only grazed Augustine in the right calf.\n\nNevertheless, the wound in his leg enraged Augustine, who, like a speared bull, charged and pinned Pulitzer in the corner of the room. There he flung Pulitzer down. \"I mashed his head against the case-board of the room, and tried to get the pistol out of his hand,\" Augustine said. Two men rushed over to separate them. When one tried to take the pistol away from Pulitzer, he would not loosen his grip. But when the other friend asked, Pulitzer surrendered the weapon.\n\nHaving retrieved his coat from the bowling alley, Ittner was strolling slowly back to his room when he heard a small boy running and yelling that a man had shot another at the hotel. \"The thought instantly struck me that this was the result of Pulitzer's controversy with Edward Augustine and that it was a pistol he had taken from his valise on entering our room so abruptly a short while ago,\" Ittner said. He rushed to the hotel, where he found his roommate surrounded by a crowd, nursing his head wound.\n\nAs he drew near, Pulitzer looked up at him with a broad grin on his face and said, \"Hello, Tony.\"\n\n\"You've been playing the 'Devil,' Joe, haven't you?\" Ittner asked.\n\nIttner, who was also a friend of Augustine's, left Pulitzer's side and went to see the wounded man in his room upstairs. Augustine was surrounded by many friends and was being tended by a doctor, who was also a fellow legislator. \"I found him sitting on the edge of his bed with his wounded leg resting on same, complacently smoking a cigar; the wound being in the calf of leg and not at all dangerous,\" Ittner said. The crowd in the hotel room was agitated. One legislator \"went so far as to suggest taking the law in their own hands,\" he said, \"as it seems that the officers of the law in this town are not disposed to protect citizens of the State from deadly assault with intent to kill.\"\n\nBy the time Ittner returned to the parlor, Pulitzer had left and gone back to the boardinghouse. Ittner rushed to their room. When he arrived, a police officer was knocking on the door. The man asked Pulitzer to accompany him to the station. Ittner followed and posted a bail bond for his roommate. In the morning, Pulitzer appeared in city court, where he acted as his own attorney. He was fined for \"breach of peace,\" a violation of the city's ordinances. Though Pulitzer was only a student of law, he knew he could later face more serious criminal charges, not to mention political consequences.\n\nWhen the House convened, an angry representative from St. Louis waited impatiently for the conclusion of the chaplain's prayer before rising and asking the Speaker to be recognized. \"The disgraceful scenes which transpired at one of the principal hotels of this city last night,\" he said, \"demand an impartial investigation into the causes and circumstances attending that lamentable occurrence.\" To accomplish this, he offered a resolution to create a three-member committee to investigate the shooting and report back to the House with a recommendation of action \"to maintain the dignity of the House.\" As soon as he concluded reading his resolution, the floor of House erupted in yelling as defenders of Pulitzer and supporters of the county court demanded to be recognized.\n\nAnother representative from St. Louis protested that an investigation was unnecessary. If members didn't think that existing criminal laws were sufficient for the safety of citizens, they should amend the laws, he said. An inquiry like the one proposed \"was beneath the dignity of the House, and ought not be entertained for a moment.\" But if Pulitzer was guilty, argued another member, it would affect the dignity of the House. \"I do not want to sit with a man who would go to his room and get his pistol and put it to my breast for a trivial offense.\"\n\nLuckily for Pulitzer, a sympathetic representative stemmed the pressure for an inquiry by raising the specter of the precedent such a step would set. \"Should members by their actions here do this it would lead to the investigation of every member's behavior that takes place outside of the House,\" he said. \"If it undertook such a course as this, the next thing would be that when a member goes to a wine party and does something that displeases somebody, the House will investigate that. Some member might happen to kiss a pretty girl, must the House investigate that?\"\n\nSeizing the moment, Pulitzer's defenders immediately moved to table the resolution. A sufficient number agreed to forestall the creation of the committee and thus killed the plan. The subject of the debate, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen. Pulitzer was off settling the $11.50 fine for disturbing the peace. The St. Louis Times called it the \"Cost of Prince Pulitzer's Pugnacity.\"\n\nThe House probe may have been thwarted, but the interest of Pulitzer's colleagues in the press was undiminished. The correspondent for the Missouri Democrat called Pulitzer's act an \"insane folly\" and reported that \"the feeling against Pulitzer was intense, and I remarked a universal indignation at the outrage from every German fellow-citizen, both in and out of the Legislature.\" The Kansas City Journal said, \"The town has been all afire with a shooting affair\" and \"the St. Louis Delegation ran around and condemned Pulitzer in strong terms, except for Ittner and [William] Phelan.\" Accounts of the shooting even appeared in papers in major cities such as Chicago and New York.\n\nThe clamor impelled Pulitzer, who was lying low, to use the Westliche Post to rebut his opponents, who were hoping this would end his nascent political career. \"To the people!\" he wrote. \"It is with the same reluctance that I felt during the events of the very nearly tragic scene in the state capital, that I now reach for the quill, not to defend the role that I was forced to play in this affair, but only to offer a faithful description of the affair.\"\n\nHe called Augustine \"a man of honor,\" but added that he \"had a tendency toward violence, knew that he often carried a revolver, but always carried so-called 'dumb knuckles' on him, which are at least an equally dangerous weapon.\" Pulitzer then offered an account of the fight that matched that of other witnesses except for his claim that he saw what he believed to be brass knuckles in Augustine's raised hand. Pulitzer offered \"the holes that it left in my head\" as his proof.\n\n\"Thus, the people are presented with the facts of a case that is surely regretted by no one more than myself,\" Pulitzer concluded. \"All I ask is that before a judgment is pronounced in this matter, that the opposing view be examined and considered. I call for each man to imagine himself for a moment thrust into a similar situation, and then ask himself if he will not cast the first stone.\"*\n\nThe Cole County grand jury was not impressed by Pulitzer's public defense. \"The grand jury of this town who are a very 'rambunctious' set at the best, are determined to find a bill against Mr. Pulitzer, charging him with assault with intent to kill,\" reported one newspaper. Indeed, after listening to testimony from Augustine and others, the grand jury returned an indictment against Pulitzer on a charge of felonious assault. He was arrested, and once again Ittner rescued him by pledging a $1,000 bail bond. His friends rallied, and Charles Johnson agreed to represent Pulitzer and immediately won a postponement of the trial.\n\nPulitzer sheepishly returned to the floor of the House on February 4, a little more than a week after being the object of a potential expulsion vote. He cast a vote and left. But several days later, he was back in speaking form. Instead of addressing his colleagues' many questions about the shooting, Pulitzer chose to introduce a fairly routine bill to strengthen the qualifications necessary to be a director of the St. Louis public schools.\n\nThis was not entirely out of character and reflected his growing understanding of the workings of the legislature. Pulitzer knew he had little to gain by mentioning the shooting, since that would give his critics another opportunity to comment on it. He was better prepared for being a lawmaker than other newcomers to the legislature after having spent time covering the previous session as a reporter.\n\nHe showed parliamentary savvy unusual for a freshman legislator when a bill came up to erect a statue of General Nathan Lyon, who is credited with preventing St. Louis from falling into Confederate hands. The funding measure, which Pulitzer supported, was going down to defeat, but there was hope that it might win approval when more members were present. As the bill headed for defeat, Pulitzer changed his vote at the last minute. By being among those who voted \"no,\" he retained the right under parliamentary procedure to call for the bill's reconsideration. He immediately exercised the right and persuaded the House to send the bill back to committee, where it could live for another chance at passage.\n\nPulitzer's choice of an education measure on his first full day back was good politics. Although he himself had hardly ever seen the inside of a classroom, he knew from his contacts with the Hegelian philosophers and his friendship with Davidson that the public schools were highly valued by Germans in St. Louis. Any assault on schools was seen by Germans as an attack on their community. In early March a bill reached the floor that would require the city's school board to give $10 to each pupil attending a private school. If it was enacted, the school system would effectively be bankrupt. In battling the bill, Pulitzer found himself up against his old foes, including the doctor-legislator who had attended Augustine after the shooting. Pulitzer won, warding off what the press called \"a death blow aimed at their public school system\" and frustrating the county court crowd, who thought they had seen the last of him.\n\nA reinvigorated Pulitzer returned to ferreting out corruption. On March 8, he seized another chance to pursue his efforts. A Democrat from St. Francois rose on the floor to give public voice to a rumor that bribes were being used widely to gain passage of legislation. Though he did not specify the source or purposes of the payments, it was widely understood that he was speaking of railroad interests. The House opted to create a five-member committee with the power to issue subpoenas to investigate these claims.\n\nPulitzer immediately moved that the committee's charge be expanded to include determining \"whether any members of the House had been employed as an attorney in any case that was pending in this body, and, as such, received any compensation whatever.\" His alteration was accepted. The House voted to establish the committee, and Pulitzer was given one of five seats on it. The assignment was a plum for a freshman seeking publicity, but also a minefield because it would look at the behavior of more senior and more powerful legislators. Two days later, the committee reported its recommendation that a member be expelled from the House for accepting bribes.\n\nThe legislative session ground onward, and Pulitzer knew that time was running out for his main objective\u2014throwing out the county court in St. Louis. Since introducing his measure, Pulitzer had expanded on his original efforts to restructure the county government by writing a bill that would provide for the election, rather than the appointment, of the collector, assessor, and engineer in St. Louis County.\n\nOn March 10, members of the St. Louis delegation met with Pulitzer in the Senate chambers to consider his proposal languishing in legislative limbo. For two hours, the men argued. Finally, the group put the plan to a vote. Pulitzer's bill survived by a one-vote margin. Next, opponents tried to water down the bill. Again, he survived the attack by one vote. Seeking to broaden support, Pulitzer's supporters persuaded him to amend the proposal slightly by delaying the election for the new county court to the fall. Next they decided to rush the new version of the bill through the Senate and prepare for a fight in the House, where the county's strongest defenders lay in waiting.\n\nThe plan almost worked. A week later, Ittner brought the moderated version up for consideration in the House. Together, he and Pulitzer argued strenuously for the bill, claiming that it would eliminate the scandalous fee-based salaries and clean up the corrupt county government, even once again bringing up the court's extravagance on Augustine's \"well of fools.\" But it was to no avail. Though the final tally was 56 to 36 in favor of the bill, the rules required a majority of the entire House, not just those present. Pulitzer's measure fell 23 votes short.\n\nAs the first day of spring approached, the session's end neared. The weather hardly seemed springlike. Late winter snow and deep cold gripped Jefferson City, and, to his misfortune, Pulitzer, along with his roommate, fell prey to a gang of coat thieves who swept through the capital, raiding the rooms of legislators careless enough to leave their doors unlocked. Pulitzer and Ittner were thus among three legislators who \"made their appearance shivering\" on March 12, \"one of the coldest and dreariest of the session.\"\n\nOn March 24 the session drew to a close. The train to St. Louis carried back to the city a very different man from the one who had arrived in the state capital that winter. Although none of his bills had become law, and although the county court retained the upper hand, Pulitzer's legislative efforts had turned him into a well-known figure, made him new political allies, and placed him in an emerging Liberal Republican movement poised to take center stage.\n\n## Chapter Six\n\n## LEFT BEHIND\n\nIn March 1870, when the lawmakers went back to their farms, law offices, or places of business, Pulitzer returned to the Westliche Post. But instead of being merely a reporter covering political ward meetings, he was now a player in Missouri politics. No longer was the Westliche Post identified solely as the paper belonging to Schurz and Preetorius; it was now also the newspaper where Pulitzer worked.\n\nThe shooting of Augustine had given Pulitzer considerable notoriety, which in his quixotic struggle against the county court was not necessarily a bad thing. But it also created a serious legal problem. After all, he had shot someone, perhaps with the intent to kill. So far, thanks to the legal skills of his friend Johnson, the day of reckoning had been postponed. But at some point, Pulitzer would have to face a trial.\n\nThe prospect of mounting a decent legal defense improved. Theodore Welge, the lime merchant who did business with Augustine, decided to come forward. Although he considered himself a friend of Augustine's, Welge admired Pulitzer for his efforts against political corruption. \"I made up my mind, come what will, that I would call on Mr. Pulitzer and tell him what Augustine told me he was going up to Jefferson City for,\" Welge said. So he made his way to Pulitzer's boardinghouse on Third Street.\n\nAt first, the landlady informed Welge that Pulitzer could not be disturbed. \"I told her to go back and say to him, that a party wanted to tell him important news probably greatly affecting his future.\" A few moments later, Welge was admitted to Pulitzer's room. \"When I told him about the talk I had with Augustine, he stood up in a white night shirt looking like a ghost,\" said Welge. \"I told him I was ready at any time to go to Jefferson City to testify without any summons.\" Pulitzer hugged his surprise visitor and repeatedly thanked him for coming.\n\nThe trial was still months away, and so was the fall political season. In the interim, Pulitzer returned to Hungary for the first time since he had left six years earlier. To obtain a U.S. passport, he once again lied about his age, moving his birth back two years to conform to his previous deceptions. With the $410 that he had earned for his service in the legislative session, he booked passage out of New York on the Allemannia, the same ship that had brought Albert to the United States, and sailed to Europe on May 24. Pulitzer's return to his native land was a heady experience. The penniless teenager who had left in 1864 came back to his family and friends as a twenty-three-year-old American lawmaker with money in his pocket. He used his status to open new doors\u2014calling, for instance, on the mayor of Buda, Ferenc H\u00e1zm\u00e1n, who, after years of work, was nearing his goal of uniting Buda and Pest into one city.\n\nBy mid-July, Pulitzer was back in Missouri and deep in electoral politics. On August 25, 1870, he ran the Fifth Ward Republican meeting at Wolbrecht's Tivoli Concert Hall and was selected as one of the delegates for the coming state convention. There was trouble brewing for the Republican governor, Joseph McClurg. At Pulitzer's meeting, the delegates decided not to support McClurg's renomination as governor. In fact, it was a bad night throughout St. Louis for the incumbent governor. When all the ward meetings had concluded their business, McClurg won no support whatsoever. Instead, all of St. Louis's delegates lined up behind the reformist B. Gratz Brown.\n\nA former U.S. senator and Free Soil Democrat who had worked to end his party's pro-slavery position, Brown was winning favor with Republicans who wanted to restore the vote to former rebels. Pulitzer and his friend William Grosvenor, who edited the Missouri Democrat, threw their lot in with Brown. Pulitzer's German readers were already on board, but Grosvenor's editorials in favor of Brown emboldened moderate English-speaking Republicans who were growing weary of their party's extremism, which for many appeared to be sustained by hate. In addition, the clamor for reforming the civil service and the tariff was gaining strength among moderate Republicans, who had an economic interest in a growing economy as well as efficient, honest urban governments.\n\nRadicals were quick to perceive the danger posed by these \"Liberal Republicans.\" They were called heretics, and party operatives warned President Grant that he would have to put down this Missouri rebellion politically, just as he had ended the Southern rebellion militarily.\n\nFive days following the city ward meetings, Pulitzer, Senator Schurz, and Grosvenor went to Jefferson City for the Republican state convention. At the capitol, more than 700 delegates crowded into the House chamber, which was regularly used by other groups when the legislature was not in session, and even for religious services on Sundays. This, however, was no church meeting. Within twenty-four hours the Liberals mounted their attack and turned McClurg's hoped-for political coronation into chaos.\n\nThe initial confrontations developed when a resolution came to the floor supporting the suffrage amendments on the fall ballot that would immediately remove all voting disqualifications. Seeking to avoid an immediate, divisive vote, the resolutions were referred to the resolutions committee chaired by Schurz. The committee, by a slim majority, returned to the hall with an endorsement of the proposal.\n\n\"Upon this question,\" proclaimed Schurz, \"we cannot yield.\" The delegates, however, yielded and defeated the motion on a vote of 439 to 342. One of the Liberal delegates, yelling as loudly as he could over the noise of agitated delegates, called for those who had voted for the majority report to withdraw to the Senate chambers. Schurz, Grosvenor, and Pulitzer led the exodus.\n\nOnce resettled on the other side of the capitol, the rebellious Republicans made Schurz chairman and proceeded immediately to nominate a ticket, with Gratz Brown at its head, and draft a platform. Written by Grosvenor, it contained the text of the defeated majority resolution and other planks of the Liberal cause. Before adjourning, the renegade assembly appointed Pulitzer secretary to the state executive committee. The rebellion had made a team of the beefy Grosvenor and the ectomorphic Pulitzer.\n\nMeanwhile, in the House chamber, the Radicals renominated McClurg and adjourned. The news of the bolt reached all parts of the country. \"The Republican Party of Missouri has split in twain on the question of enfranchising the ex-rebels,\" reported the Chicago Tribune. \"The Missouri Radicals are in trouble,\" proclaimed the Mountain Democrat in Placerville, California.\n\nThe split between Liberal and Radical Republicans was far more than a debate over who should be able to vote and when. It was the beginning of a fight over the soul of the Republican Party. Liberals believed that the Radicals' opposition to restoring the vote and the corruption surrounding Grant were a betrayal of the party's ideals. For Pulitzer, Grant was Pope Leo X and the corruption scandals were the church indulgences that drove Martin Luther to pin his ninety-five theses on the church door in Wittenberg. It was a matter of political faith, not politics.\n\nWith the conventions done, Pulitzer and Grosvenor returned to St. Louis to prepare for the fall electoral battle. Pulitzer threw himself into the fray. He bore all the grunt work of the Liberals' executive committee while continuing his work at the Westliche Post. On September 20, he single-handedly ran the Republican First Congressional District meeting in Turner Hall, which was filled almost entirely with Liberal Republicans. He chaired the resolutions committee, read aloud the Liberal Republican platform, obtained approval for it, and shepherded the congressional nomination to his friend Johnson, who was home ill.\n\nAs exciting as it was to be at the center of a political rebellion, Pulitzer had his own reelection ahead. On October 18, he was renominated without opposition. But Radical Republicans were intent on punishing Liberal Republicans and mounted behind-the-scenes efforts to enlist new black voters, who were not eager to enfranchise former slave masters. \"On the McClurg ticket,\" wrote Pulitzer, \"the Germans are distinguished by\u2014their absence. Of course! McClurg and Co. are depending on Negroes to carry their cause, and obviously do not expect to receive a single German vote.\"\n\nOn their side, the Liberals counted on Democrats, many more of whom could come to the polls in 1870 because the state had eased its strict enforcement of the loyalty oath. Brown was a former Democrat, and the Democrats had no one of their party on the top of the ticket to support. But in other races, such as those for the legislature, the Democrats were fielding candidates. A high turnout among Democrats might elect Pulitzer's gubernatorial candidate but would be bad news for his own reelection.\n\nGrosvenor did his best at the Missouri Democrat to push Pulitzer's candidacy. \"He makes mistakes at times, and is sometimes misinformed,\" he told the readers, \"but the people appreciate a man who never fears to say what he thinks, and never yields to compromise of principle, and so, while he makes some enemies, he makes more friends.\" But Grosvenor knew that Pulitzer was in trouble.\n\nOn November 3, Liberal Republicans of St. Louis gathered for a torchlight procession and rally in a large public market. Pulitzer, Anthony Ittner, and Preetorius, of the Westliche Post, were among the speakers. Later, Pulitzer went to the courthouse and signed another loyalty oath to ensure his legality as a candidate. In doing so, he once again betrayed the oath he took. Constitutionally he still remained too young to serve in the legislature.\n\nAll the rhetoric, charges, countercharges, campaigning, and torchlight parades came to an end on November 8, 1870, Election Day. Brown's victory was expected, but for Pulitzer the picture looked gloomy. \"In the Fifth district Mr. Pulitzer, the Liberal Republican candidate, has the opposition of the county court and court-house ring against him, on account of his opposition to their schemes in the last legislature,\" reported the morning's edition of the Missouri Republican. \"Mr. Bell is confident of being elected by a two hundred majority.\"\n\nIn the morning, the extent of Brown's victory astonished everyone. He carried the state by a huge margin. Liberal Republicans were ecstatic. The election of their man as governor and the 88 percent vote they garnered for the amendments were a rebuke to Radicalism and, in particular, to the Grant administration. It was \"the most remarkable political revolution of the age,\" said the New York Journal of Commerce. \"Let men look to Missouri if they would learn how the political revolution of the future is to be brought about.\"\n\nIn Pulitzer's ward, for instance, Brown swamped McClurg by a three-to-one margin. But in Pulitzer's camp, the mood was somber. The high turnout among Democrats that propelled Brown to victory spelled trouble. Pulitzer's Democratic opponent won 991 votes to Pulitzer's 673. The vote was a complete reversal of Pulitzer's victory the prior year. Writing in the Westliche Post the following day, Pulitzer blamed his loss on 250 Negroes and 60 Frenchmen: \"In general, the Negroes and the white McClurgites voted according to the maxim, better to see Democrats elected than the Liberals.\"\n\nThe electoral truth of the matter was simple. Pulitzer had won in 1869 because the unusual political configurations had favored him. The continued legal suppression of Democratic voters, the party's ineptitude in selecting a candidate, and the traditional low voter turnout for a special election hampered by bad weather had produced Pulitzer's winning margin. A year later, with Democrats returning to the polls in large numbers, Pulitzer as a Republican\u2014even a Liberal Republican\u2014was doomed.\n\nPulitzer's friend Joseph Keppler, the cartoonist, rendered a graphic interpretation of the loss. In a cartoon captioned \"Too heavy a load,\" Keppler drew Pulitzer and two other losing politicians on a wooden platform supported by Brown, Schurz, and Grosvenor. Brown is bending down, unable to bear the weight, and Pulitzer is falling off. The revolution in which Pulitzer had played an important role had been won, but it had left him behind.\n\nOut of office but not out of work, Pulitzer returned to Jefferson City in the second week of January 1871 to cover Gratz Brown's inauguration for the Westliche Post. Instead of taking a seat as a lawmaker, he watched as a reporter when Brown was escorted to the Speaker's dais in the house chamber. \"We have arrived at the close of a revolution,\" Brown told the hundreds who crowded the hall. \"The lingering animosities of Civil War have been supplanted by an accepted reconciliation on all sides.\"\n\nNot quite. Schurz and Grosvenor were complaining that Democrats were gaining the upper hand and that the governor, a onetime Democrat, was being excessively friendly to his former party. As far as they could see, too many jobs in the state government were going to Democrats.\n\nPulitzer did not share his partners' intense hostility toward Democrats. While it was certainly true that he had lost his reelection bid to a Democrat, Pulitzer recognized that the seat he had briefly held traditionally belonged to Democrats. As a newcomer to politics, he was relatively free of the war-related party animosity, unlike Grosvenor and Schurz, who were twelve and eighteen years his senior, respectively. Democrats were among his closest friends. For instance, both Charles Johnson, who was defending him in court, and Stilson Hutchins, a newspaperman, were supporting the Liberal Republican movement. To Pulitzer, it made little sense to think of Democrats as the enemy.\n\nAny concern about looming political fratricide was soon forgotten because Brown, Schurz, and Grosvenor all had a common enemy\u2014Grant. Besides, a more serious blow to Liberal Republicans' harmony now came from the owners of the Missouri Democrat. For mysterious and suspicious reasons, they had fallen back into the ranks of Grant Republicans and fired Grosvenor. \"Much as I had been warned that they would go back and throw me overboard as a journalist,\" Grosvenor wrote to Schurz, \"I did not believe they would dare to do either, or be mean enough to do the latter.\"\n\nIn 1870, the loss of the Missouri Democrat would have been fatal to the cause. But in 1871, editors such as Horace White at the Chicago Tribune, Samuel Bowles at the Springfield Republican, Murat Halstead at the Cincinnati Commercial, and Henry Watterson at the Louisville Courier-Journal were spreading the gospel.\n\nThe growing movement thrilled Pulitzer, but he had a more mundane concern. The previous year, he had boosted his income considerably with his service in the state legislature. The election opened a fountain-head of patronage posts and Pulitzer sought one in the legislature. State Senator Louis Benecke, a Democrat who had worked with Pulitzer in the fall campaign, hired Pulitzer as a clerk for the committee on banks and corporations, which he chaired. For a second year in a row, Pulitzer spent the winter months in the capital.\n\nWhen the legislative session ended in March 1871, Pulitzer returned full-time to St. Louis and his work at the Westliche Post. The presidential election was still more than a year away, yet the excitement generated by Missouri's Republican rebellion infected Pulitzer's friends, most of whom were working for the cause. Optimism ran high. \"And why may not the campaign of 1870 in Missouri, be reenacted in the nation?\" asked Brown.\n\nSince being fired from the Missouri Democrat, Grosvenor was spending all his time directing the affairs of the ad hoc Liberal Republican organization. Schurz, though still holding out hope of taking back the party from Grant stalwarts, was increasingly identified in the national press as the movement's leader. And Preetorius was overseeing a barrage of editorials intended to rally Germans to the cause. Working at the Westliche Post put Pulitzer at the center of this growing political movement, though in the shadows of its better-known leaders.\n\nBut that too was changing. A few months later, when the magazine Every Saturday commissioned the artist Alfred Waudran to produce a full page of engravings featuring the faces of about four dozen \"of the foremost St. Louisans,\" he included, along with his depictions of Schurz, Hutchins, and Grosvenor, one of Pulitzer. A profile view accenting Pulitzer's protruding chin and nose, the drawing shows a clean-shaven Pulitzer sporting small wire-rim glasses.\n\nAs the summer and fall of 1871 passed, Pulitzer divided his days between working for the Westliche Post and promoting the Liberal Republican cause with Grosvenor. The Radicals, eager to extinguish the Liberal Republican committee, set a trap. They invited all Republican leaders to an October meeting in St. Louis in order to issue a joint call for a state convention in January.\n\nMembers of the State Republican Committee voted to accept the call, but Pulitzer and Grosvenor worked to organize a \"no\" vote by the Liberals. Accusations immediately flew that the two were violating party rules by using proxies wrongly. \"Under the ill-famed leadership of Joe Pulitzer and Bill Grosvenor, Liberals bolted from that resolution, and filled up its deficit by proxies of very dubious authority,\" reported the Missouri Staats-Zeitung.\n\nPulitzer's patron, State Senator Benecke, offered advice on countering the charge. \"I desire to inform you,\" Benecke wrote to Pulitzer on October 26, \"that the various lies reported in the Missouri Democrat in reference to yourself and the action of the Committee should be 'nailed' which could easily be done by publishing the whole proceedings of our Committee.\" Pulitzer, as well as Grosvenor, left the complaints unanswered. It was becoming increasingly clear that the Liberal Republicans now had the upper hand.\n\nIf Pulitzer wanted to serve the cause in the presidential battle of 1872, he would need another, more substantial, patronage job. But to earn a gubernatorial political appointment he would have to overcome a major hurdle. Still hanging over him was an indictment in Cole County for felonious assault, stemming from his having grazed Augustine's leg with a bullet. The lobbyist had recovered from his wounds, but the political damage to Pulitzer lingered.\n\nCharles Johnson came to Pulitzer's rescue. Since the shooting, he had acted as Pulitzer's pro bono counsel. So far, each time a court date neared, Johnson had obtained a delay, often so close to the appointed time that Augustine and other witnesses had already made the trek to Jefferson City in anticipation of their day in court. By fall of 1871, delay was no longer an option. On November 20, Pulitzer stood before a Cole County judge. By his side stood Johnson, who as circuit attorney for St. Louis prosecuted criminals in his city for the state. Also appearing for Pulitzer was Britton A. Hill, a 300-pound St. Louis attorney with a reputation for coarseness and bluntness. One suspects that the prosecutor of bucolic Cole County didn't stand a chance against these big-city heavy hitters and might have been glad to be rid of the case.\n\nThe charge was rapidly settled with a modest fine. In all, aside from the embarrassment, the Augustine affair cost Pulitzer approximately $400 in court costs, travel, and other expenses. It was money that he did not have. Johnson borrowed it from Pulitzer's friends. When Pulitzer became wealthy years later, he wrote to Johnson and settled his debts with the lenders who had come to his aid.\n\nFreed from this legal encumbrance, Pulitzer was now eligible for a patronage post if Governor Brown was willing to grant one. There was good reason to believe he was. Brown was increasingly convinced that he could be the Liberal Republican candidate for president in 1872, and Pulitzer had been a good foot soldier since 1870. Again, Johnson took on Pulitzer's cause.\n\nA seat on the St. Louis Police Commission was about to open up as the result of a resignation. It required very few hours of work and paid $1,000 a year, at a time when the average skilled worker earned less than $600 a year working six days a week. On January 12, 1872, Johnson met with the governor and was assured that he would appoint Pulitzer to serve out the unexpired term. Returning to St. Louis, Johnson told Pulitzer the news. But when, several days later, the nomination was sent to the state senate, Pulitzer developed cold feet. Johnson went to see him and was surprised by his reaction. \"He is one of the most unreasonable men I ever knew withal,\" Johnson wrote in his diary. \"He is really foolish.\"\n\nAll day, Pulitzer remained obstinate. After meeting with Johnson one last time, he left the distinct impression that he would not take the job. Apparently Pulitzer feared that he would be trading one job for another, that by accepting Brown's nomination he would lose his job with the paper. If so, his fear was not without merit. Earlier that week, when Johnson stopped in at the Westliche Post, Preetorius had suggested that Pulitzer might have to leave the paper if he became a police commissioner. In the end, Pulitzer's reluctance disappeared as quickly as it had developed. He accepted the nomination and kept his job at the paper.\n\nThe conservative Anzeiger des Westens railed against the appointment: the job of police commissioner required tact, dignity, and other qualities of a virtuous character, \"and you will not find any of them in Pulitzer. He is undoubtedly a clever political runner. Maybe the governor fancies that in the next nomination for President the new Police Commissioner will be of good service. All of this is possible; but as Police Commissioner, Mr. Pulitzer will remain a caricature\u2014a most ridiculous farce.\" The Irish newspaper The Western Celt also damned the selection: \"A more infamous prostitution of the gubernatorial power it would be difficult to imagine.\"\n\nThe grumbling by the press mattered little. The nomination moved to a vote. During the debate it was asked if Pulitzer was not the member of the House who \"did a little shooting up here two years ago?\" It was confirmed that he was, indeed, the man, but the senate was in a forgiving mood and approved the nomination.\n\n## Chapter Seven\n\n## POLITICS AND REBELLION\n\nIn late January 1872, Pulitzer and Grosvenor headed to Jefferson City to light the spark of a national political rebellion. The Liberal Republican state executive committee was convening to issue a national call to disaffected Republicans to gather and select a ticket to run against President Grant. \"The time is ripe for an uprising of the people, in kind not unlike that which swept this state in 1870,\" Grosvenor said.\n\nAs these reform-minded activists traveled by train to Jefferson City for an act of popular sovereignty, the capital's station was a scene of celebration that morning for a symbol of the undemocratic Old World. A huge crowd stood in the damp cold to await Russia's Grand Duke Alexis, who was coming in his $3,500-a-day private train, to lunch with Governor Brown at the new executive mansion. The completion of the mansion was also going to be celebrated with a ball, preparation for which had required many ladies to sleep upright lest they ruin their new coiffures.\n\nAs Liberal Republican activists descended amid this hallabaloo, they grabbed the last remaining hotel rooms, to the immense pleasure of the innkeepers. \"There is a big crowd here\u2014make no mistake about that,\" reported Joseph McCullagh. \"That is to say, the hotels are what the landlords will call very comfortably, and what the guests will consider very uncomfortably, full.\"\n\nMcCullagh was among the throngs in Jefferson City on assignment to cover the meeting for the Missouri Democrat. He had recently rejoined the paper, where he had worked as a young reporter before the war. Since his modest start, McCullagh had served as a Civil War correspondent and then won national fame as a Washington correspondent who published a series of interviews with the embattled president, Andrew Johnson. McCullagh made a memorable impression on most who met him. Born in Dublin, Ireland, the short, thick, and pugnacious reporter was known to all simply as \"Mack.\" According to the novelist Theodore Dreiser, \"He was so short, so sturdy, so napoleonic, so ursine rather than leonine, that he pleased and yet frightened me.\"\n\nOn his first night in Jefferson City, McCullagh noticed that Senator Schurz had remained in Washington and left his less-known lieutenants Pulitzer and Grosvenor in charge. \"If I had to select from the large crowds that throng the halls and doorways the most prominent managers of the Liberal movement,\" McCullagh wrote, \"I should, at a guess, point to Joe and Bill, as they are familiarly called by each other and by all their acquaintances.\" From Schurz's perspective this was a worrisome state of affairs. If the convention were a henhouse, Grosvenor would be the farmhand in charge, Brown a fox, and Pulitzer an unreliable watchdog.\n\nThat night Pulitzer and Grosvenor conferred with Brown, who left the festivities at the mansion to come to Schmidt's Hotel. The prospects were good. About 130 had showed for the meeting. An equally promising sign was the diversity of the delegates. \"In fact, while Liberal Republicans of all classes were more fully represented than ever before,\" Grosvenor observed. \"It was remarked with pleasure and surprise by German Liberals, that, for the first time, they were outnumbered by American Liberals.\"\n\nThe following day, a few minutes before noon, Grosvenor and Pulitzer were caught in the sea of delegates and spectators jamming the floor of the House chambers.\n\n\"Joe,\" Grosvenor yelled.\n\n\"All right, Bill,\" replied Pulitzer from deep in the crowd on the floor as he made his way over to Grosvenor.\n\n\"Let's organize the damned thing,\" Grosvenor said when Pulitzer reached him.\n\n\"All right, Bill. You get into the chair and call them to order,\" Pulitzer instructed.\n\nGrosvenor ascended the dais and welcomed the \"vanguard in the army of reform,\" eliciting a wave of enthusiastic applause. \"The time has come, gentlemen,\" he said. \"We are here because we can be nowhere else. The Republican party still clings to abuses which no true Republican can excuse.\" Charles Johnson followed Grosvenor, and stirred the crowd even further with a harangue about the Grant administration. \"The word 'carpet-baggers' figured around hundreds of times in his speech,\" McCullagh, a defender of Grant, said.\n\nThe like-minded delegates took no time to issue the call for a convention to be held in Cincinnati on May 1 and ratify the draft of a platform calling for universal suffrage and amnesty, civil service and tariff reform, and control of big business. \"The times demand an uprising of honest citizens to sweep from power the men who prostitute the name of an honored party for selfish interests,\" proclaimed the document that was finally adopted.\n\nTheir work complete, the delegates called on Governor Brown to address the convention. He promised that if Missouri led the fight against executive despotism and corruption, others would rally to the cause. It was a bit much for McCullagh, who simply couldn't resist pointing out Brown's hypocrisy to his readers. The governor, he said, had failed to give one single \"instance in which Grant had made such an unfit appointment as that which has recently disgraced his own administration. I mean, of course, Pulitzer as Police Commissioner, which stands out single and alone, and challenges comparison with history or tradition.\"\n\nGrosvenor and Pulitzer were keenly aware that the fortunes of the Missouri declaration depended on successfully conveying to the nation's press an impression of a political groundswell. To that end, they enlisted William Hyde, the managing editor and part owner of the Missouri Republican. He persuaded the Associated Press to transmit his sympathetic coverage of the meeting. The plan succeeded to a great extent, and countless newspapers described the meeting as a political prairie fire. The success of the propaganda left the anti-movement New York Times fuming: \"The Missouri Democrat, through its well-known correspondent 'Mack,' instantly exposed the fraud, but the exaggeration had got twenty-four hours start in the head-lines of thousands of newspapers all over the land, and the truth never overtook it.\" The \"truth,\" according to the New York Times, \"was that the Convention was contemptible in numbers and more than contemptible in the political standing of its members.\"\n\nIn the short span of a few days, both the good and the bad press coming from the convention closely identified Pulitzer with the movement. \"Among the by-no-means unimportant factors in the great multiple of Liberalism, was and is the brilliant Pulitzer, Senator Schurz's whimsical lieutenant on the Westliche Post, of St. Louis,\" noted one newspaper. The Jefferson City convention was a triumph for the political partnership between Pulitzer and Grosvenor, one that even McCullagh was forced to concede. \"Writing now a day after the whole matter has gone into history,\" he said, \"I cannot see a better title for it than the Bill-and-Joe Convention. What there was of it that didn't belong to Bill was purely Joe-ical, and vice versa.\"\n\nWhen he got back to St. Louis, Pulitzer took his seat on the four-member police commission. One of the other members was William Patrick, the lawyer who had given Pulitzer some work during his first years in St. Louis. Providing police protection was a serious affair. The city was the fourth-largest in the United States and quite spread out. The geographic area patrolled was larger than that of any American city except for Philadelphia. As a result, St. Louis maintained a good-sized police department with a force of 432, including detectives, sergeants, and captains, and a large budget.\n\nThe police commission was charged with overseeing its operation, approving all expenses, reviewing citizens' complaints, and enforcing discipline. The last of these was a not infrequent occupation of the board. For instance, in the summer of 1872, a patrolman, Patrick Conway, was found intoxicated in a house of prostitution. That he was a police officer was evident, because he was in uniform. Drunk, he had nevertheless remained true at least to one of the police department requirements: that one remain in uniform at all times.\n\nFor the first few months, Pulitzer diligently attended the biweekly meetings of the commission. He was asked to look into the police force's effectiveness at coping with gambling\u2014a rising problem in the city. But the duties of police commissioner were not high in his mind. Rather, politics took first place. Grosvenor put Pulitzer on the road and he spent most of February and March in the East, drumming up support for the national convention.\n\nAs the Cincinnati convention neared, Pulitzer continued promoting the governor's presidential candidacy. \"Brown has...given Joseph an office to reward his service for an anti-patronage candidate, and the rewarded one is faithful,\" the Missouri Democrat snidely reported. But Pulitzer's partners were acting coy about whom they supported, particularly Schurz, who still harbored resentment at Brown's postelection behavior.\n\nThere were four viable candidates for the Liberal Republican nomination aside from Brown: Charles Francis Adams, a former congressman and diplomat who was the son of President John Quincy Adams; Supreme Court Justice David Davis, appointed by Lincoln and known for having written the opinion in a landmark civil liberties case; Senator Lyman Trumbull of Illinois, who alternately was a Democrat and a Republican but while a Republican broke with his party and voted against the conviction of President Johnson during the impeachment; and Horace Greeley, the aging, famous editor of the New York Tribune. This last candidate had the virtue of unquestioned integrity, especially in contrast to Grant, but he was seen as somewhat of a screwball who supported temperance and women's rights and dabbled in a decidedly un-American European import, socialism.\n\nOn an April evening, Pulitzer and Stilson Hutchins went to Johnson's house to work on plans to secure the nomination for Brown. When Hutchins went home, Johnson and Pulitzer moved to Brown's house, where they worked until two in the morning. \"He is very confident of getting the nomination at Cincinnati,\" Johnson wrote of Brown that night in his diary. \"He fears Adams of Massachusetts. Schurz is playing shy. Nobody knows how he stands.\"\n\nPulitzer and Grosvenor left town by train on April 24 to arrive in advance of most delegates. Reporters from around the country were heading the same way. On the leg from Chicago, Pulitzer sat with William A. Croffut, the managing editor of the Chicago Tribune. \"This tall, rawboned youth was twenty-four years old,\" Croffut recalled, \"had a nose like Julius Caesar, had already acquired a picturesque history.\"\n\nReaching Cincinnati in the early morning of April 25, Pulitzer and Grosvenor immediately repaired to the St. James Hotel, where they set up their political headquarters. \"They kept their camp fires burning from dawn until after midnight,\" said one Chicago reporter. The St. James was the center of press attention. In particular, reporters sought out the Missourians, who had one of the largest state delegations and were considered the progenitors of the rebellion. \"Considering themselves the parents of the Liberal movement,\" noted the Chicago reporter, \"the delegation labored under the delusion that their points could be easily carried.\"\n\nThe press was intensely interested in the convention. Only once before had Cincinnati been the host of a national political convention: in 1856, contentious Democrats had taken seventeen ballots to nominate James Buchanan for president. There was similar potential for drama at the Liberal Republicans' convention, as no candidate had enough votes to win the nomination.\n\nNot only did the convention put Pulitzer at the center of an exciting political battle, but he also met journalists from around the country. In particular, he was drawn to a local press figure, John A. Cockerill, the managing editor of the Cincinnati Enquirer. The two had a lot in common. Both were over six feet tall\u2014six inches taller than the average American\u2014and they were only two years apart in age. Most important, their passion for politics, reform, and journalism created an instant bond between them, which years later would bring them together in a legendary journalistic partnership.\n\nThe convention was a striking example of the confluence of independent journalism and politics. Like a fly on the wall, Pulitzer witnessed a few of the nation's most powerful publishers try to impose their will on the convention. They met secretly in a room adjacent to Schurz's that Pulitzer frequented. There were five men: Schurz; Henry Watterson, of the Louisville Courier-Journal; Samuel Bowles, of the Springfield Republican; Murat Halstead, of the Cincinnati Commercial; and Horace White, of the Chicago Tribune. Though they numbered five, they named themselves the Quadrilateral, after four northern Italian fortresses that had been prominent in the Milanese insurgency of 1848. As they saw it, the task before them was not solely to report the news of the convention but to shape it.\n\nThe group agreed that the convention should choose either Adams or Trumbull. \"The first serious business that engaged us was the killing of the boom for Judge David Davis,\" said Watterson. \"The power of the press must be invoked. It was our chief if not our only weapon.\"\n\nSitting at the same table, the editors wrote editorials for their respective papers, saying that there was no support among the delegates for Davis, despite the arrival of 700 of his supporters in Cincinnati, and that he was allied with Democrats to steal the convention away from the movement. After the editorials had been wired to the newspapers, they were reprinted in the Cincinnati Commercial, impressing on the arriving delegates the futility of supporting Davis. The editors failed, however, to shroud their machinations. It wasn't long before the New York Times traced the \"demoralization\" of Davis's followers to \"a newspaper caucus of independent journalists late at night, in which it was determined to kill off Davis instantly by an editorial blast in four quarters of the country.\"\n\nOn May 1, the convention got down to business. Delegates and spectators, on foot and in carriages, streamed from hotels toward the wood-framed Exposition Hall. They were a motley group. \"A livelier and more variegated omnium-gatherum was never assembled,\" said Watterson. \"They were long-haired and spectacled doctrinaires from New England, spliced by short-haired and stumpy emissaries from New York.... The full contingent of Washington correspondents was there, of course, with sharpened eyes and pens to make the most of what they had already begun to christen a conclave of cranks.\"\n\nThe S\u00e4ngerhalle, as it was known to the large German population of the city, was ready. The three stages, typically used by musical choruses, were decorated with flags and emblems; and a larger single stage was set at the center with 300 to 400 chairs for the conventiongoers to watch each state's delegation parade in. A last-minute crisis was averted when someone discovered that the ladies' gallery\u2014the only place in the hall where the fair sex would be permitted\u2014had been inadvertently closed but was able to get it opened in time.\n\nAt noon, Grosvenor called the convention to order. To Pulitzer and Grosvenor, who had run the Jefferson City enclave that created this gathering, the sight was an impressive achievement. Seven hundred delegates from every state in the union except Delaware sat expectantly in rows on the floor below, surrounded by stands filled with 6,000 or 7,000 spectators, many of whom had come long distances. At that time, political conventions made for good theater. \"This convention originated in a single state and has now embraced representatives of the Republican Party from every state of the union,\" Grosvenor said, to thunderous applause. As their first order of business, the delegates accepted the nomination of officers, including Pulitzer, who was rewarded for his work by being selected as one of the secretaries.\n\nOpening business concluded, the delegates began to clamor for Schurz to speak. He declined, despite noisy cries of \"Now! Now!\"\u2014but he said there would be time later. It was an intoxicating moment for Pulitzer, standing on the floor sporting a new mustache and a little tuft of a beard on his chin. Grosvenor, his political partner, held the convention's gavel, and the man for whom the audience clamored was his mentor. The Bill and Joe Show had launched a national movement.\n\nThe next day the main order of business was the long-awaited speech by Schurz. He began with a litany of criticisms of the Grant administration, ranging from its alleged disrespect for law to its tyrannical tendencies. But Schurz knew that a music hall filled with idealistic Republicans would not be enough to prevail in the fall. \"I earnestly deprecate the cry we have heard so frequently, 'Anybody to beat Grant,'\" said Schurz. \"We don't want a mere change of persons in the administration of government. We want the overthrow of a pernicious system.\"\n\nSchurz's speech concluded, the delegates went to work on adopting a platform. Most of the planks were polished versions of the well-known Liberal calls for reform. With the exception of a tortured compromise on the tariff plank, the platform looked pretty much like the one adopted in Jefferson City four months ago when Grosvenor and Pulitzer ran the show. In fact, one newspaper called the convention's final platform \"a literal transcript from the platform of Bill and Joe.\"\n\nThe delegates went back to their hotels for a night's rest before the anticipated long struggle to select the man who would lead the party into the fall elections. The coming battle caused the first split between Pulitzer and his mentor. Schurz had grown increasingly hostile toward Brown since the 1870 election and now favored Adams for the nomination. Pulitzer remained loyal to Brown. He was not planning to desert his political patron even if his mentor did.\n\nDuring the day, one of Brown's delegates had wired the governor to say that Schurz and Grosvenor were working to deny him the nomination. Brown immediately boarded a train for Cincinnati\u2014a dramatic action in an era when candidates were expected to stay away from a nominating convention. In the company of Senator Francis Blair, Brown reached the city late that evening and went directly to the St. James Hotel. Running up and down corridors and knocking on doors, Grosvenor yelled, \"Get up! Get up! Blair and Brown are here from St. Louis!\"\n\nWhen the bleary-eyed delegates came down to the lobby, Grosvenor told them that Brown had come to Cincinnati to withdraw from the race and throw his support to Greeley. The startled delegates\u2014especially those who supported Adams or Trumbull\u2014stayed up into the morning hours reworking their strategies for the coming day of balloting. Members of the Quadrilateral also milled about, but they were mostly powerless because time was too short to write editorials, wire them, and publish them back home.\n\nAt long last, the moment arrived to select the convention's candidate. Nominating speeches were not permitted, and the first roll call got under way. Brown, who was seated with the Missouri delegation, sent a note up to Schurz asking to be permitted to address the convention. Remarkably, Schurz consented.\n\nOn the floor Pulitzer watched his candidate ascend the steps of the platform. With the light from a window far above beaming down on him, Brown thanked the delegates for voting for him. Even though the first tally had not yet been announced, most delegates kept their own count and knew he had close to 100 votes. Then Brown made public what those who had been up most of the night anticipated. He would no longer be a candidate. Instead he asked that his delegates support Greeley. Applause and hisses filled the hall, the former coming from the ladies' gallery because Greeley supported women's rights.\n\nBrown returned to his seat, and the results from the first round of balloting were announced. Adams led with 205 votes, Greeley had 147, and the other five candidates divided the remainder. The math was ominous for Adams and Trumbull. If Brown's votes went to Greeley, the New York publisher would equal or outdistance Adams.\n\nWatterson, who had been absent during the morning, arrived in the hall and found Pulitzer, who filled him in on what had just occurred. He struggled to explain why Schurz had stuck to his pledge of neutrality when he assumed the convention chair. Like many delegates, Pulitzer was convinced that Schurz had the power to direct the convention. \"A word from him at that crisis would have completely routed Blair and squelched Brown,\" Pulitzer told Watterson. \"It was simply not in him to speak it.\"\n\nThe contest narrowed to Adams and Greeley. On the second ballot, to the relief of Adams's supporters, Brown's endorsement of Greeley was not as strong as they had feared. Their man still had the lead, though only slightly. As the balloting continued, Adams inched toward the nomination. On the fifth ballot, delegate-rich Illinois decided to throw its lot in with Adams. As the sixth ballot began, everyone assumed it would be the last. But Illinois made a tactical mistake. It decided to pass. Instead Indiana, which had swung to Greeley, announced its change of heart, setting off chaos in the hall. It looked as if Greeley might win, after all. The chair could hardly restore order.\n\nWhen Illinois finally reported its vote, Adams was back in the lead, but the tide had turned in Greeley's favor, washing away any chance Adams had of winning. In many conventions, a candidate whose fortune rises quickly becomes unstoppable. States changed their votes, and the convention surged in Greeley's favor. He became the nominee. Pulitzer's man, Brown, was immediately rewarded with the vice presidential nomination, and then it was over.\n\nDespite all of Schurz's work in bringing the rebellion to this point, the delegates he inspired had selected an aging editor with no electoral experience and a running mate whom Schurz regarded as his opponent. For Pulitzer, his first national convention taught him that outcomes were hard to control and even hard to predict. Schurz and Pulitzer retreated to the house of Judge John Stallo, who was an Ohioan and a Hegelian and, like Schurz, had raised a regiment of Germans during the Civil War. There the men drank and ate until evening. The convention had turned into a wake. \"Reformers hoist by their own petard,\" said Watterson.\n\nThis was a disconcerting moment for Pulitzer. Schurz was distraught by the convention's outcome. Brown, to whom Pulitzer owed his patronage post, was elated by his selection for the national ticket. But in winning his prize, Brown had wrecked Schurz's plans for the convention. This left Pulitzer at a crossroads. He couldn't oppose Brown, but to actively support him would be a blow against the man who had given him his start in politics.\n\nBack in St. Louis, Pulitzer made his choice. He, along with Grosvenor, joined the Greeley-Brown campaign while Schurz retreated to Washington to nurse his political wounds. Schurz said he didn't care if his reputation was hurt by his silence; such damage paled in comparison with \"the disappointment caused by the loss of so great an opportunity as we had.\"\n\nMuch of the German community was dismayed by the selection of Greeley, but Pulitzer gave his support unhesitatingly. He took on the job of secretary of the Liberal state executive committee in addition to continuing his work as city editor of the Westliche Post. Conveniently, the committee's offices shared the same Chestnut Street building that housed the paper.\n\nGreeley's favorable attitude toward temperance was both an economic and a cultural affront to Germans. Pulitzer urged Whitelaw Reid at the New York Tribune to persuade his boss to make some sort of personal statement distinguishing his personal views on alcohol from those he held as a candidate. Though Reid was ten years older than Pulitzer, and more experienced, the two journalists found they had much in common serving as assistants to famous politicians and were soon carrying on a backstairs correspondence about their bosses.\n\nOf concern to Reid was a meeting in New York at which leading Liberal Republicans, including Schurz, plotted to dump the convention's choice. \"I knew of the danger of that conference in New York but have no fears,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"I really think that the conference will result in strengthening Mr. Greeley though the very opposite was its original object. Our element will have the majority in it and our views will prevail.\"\n\nA sense of optimism prevailed in the St. Louis Liberal Republican office. Perhaps matters were not as bleak at they seemed. On June 14, Grosvenor and Pulitzer convened a meeting of the executive committee and told the press that a \"larger number of Liberal Republicans in Missouri now support the ticket nominated by the Cincinnati National Convention than supported the Liberal State Ticket in 1870.\"\n\nBut Pulitzer's work for the Greeley campaign was a nonstop effort at damage control. Not only was the candidate prone to gaffes; Pulitzer's colleagues in the press were unimpressed by having one of their own as a candidate. Riding a train to New York in midsummer, Pulitzer read in the Philadelphia papers that only one German newspaper supported Greeley, the inconsequential Davenport, Iowa, Demokrat. The Westliche Post, the article added, was also maintaining \"an ominous silence.\" Pulitzer was incensed. It was bad enough for the item to appear in the Philadelphia Republican press; an appearance in other newspapers around the country would damage the ticket. \"Each reprint,\" Pulitzer said, is \"the theft of a falsehood.\"\n\nUpon reaching New York, Pulitzer immediately published an irate correction in the New York Tribune, Greeley's paper. \"Instead of 'but a single German Republican daily still clinging to Greeley,'\" he wrote, \"every single German Republican daily (except one) that supported the principles of the Liberal movement previous to the Cincinnati Convention, now supports Horace Greeley.\"\n\nAs for the \"ominous silence of the Westliche Post,\" he continued, \"I simply say that the paper was never more earnest and outspoken in the good cause than now. I do not hesitate to predict that when the vote shall have been counted in November it will appear even to the blindest or wildest Grant criers that Mr. Greeley has received a much larger proportion of the German vote than has ever before been united upon any Presidential candidate.\"\n\nIn New York, Pulitzer was cheered by some good news. The Democrats, meeting in Baltimore, decided to support the Liberal Republican ticket and, for first time in party history, chose not to nominate a candidate of their own. But Pulitzer's growing skill at electoral math left little doubt that even the Democrats' support would not change the uphill nature of the election. Greeley, one of the most eccentric men ever nominated for president, was not inspiring voters. It did not take much in the way of political tea leaf reading to sense that the election was shaping up as a disaster for Liberal Republicans.\n\nAfter New York, Pulitzer returned briefly to St. Louis. The campaign had ended Pulitzer's diligent attendance to his duties with the St. Louis police commission. He missed all the meetings in July and almost every meeting until December. If Pulitzer worried about his attendance, his qualms did not restrain him from collecting his salary. He did make a stab, of sorts, at resigning. He confirmed to a reporter in St. Louis that he had sent a letter of resignation to Governor Brown.\n\n\"Has he accepted the resignation?\" asked the reporter.\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied Pulitzer, smiling.\n\n\"As far as you know, has he accepted the resignation?\"\n\n\"I don't know\u2014no; the governor wrote me that he wasn't prepared...\" said Pulitzer without finishing the thought.\n\n\"Then he hasn't accepted it yet?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nPolice commission work felt inconsequential to Pulitzer. He was giving his entire effort to sustaining the Westliche Post and supporting the Greeley campaign. Working every day from eight in the morning to midnight, he seamlessly switched from editor to campaigner, sometimes making no distinction between the roles.\n\nAs fall approached, Pulitzer began traveling for the ticket. In an era when speeches were considered beneath the candidates' dignity, others made passionate campaign speeches on their behalf. In September Pulitzer was on the stump almost full-time. By one count, he delivered sixty speeches to German audiences in Indiana and Ohio. His campaign trail crossed the path of Simon Wolf, a prominent Jewish lawyer from Washington, D.C., who was campaigning for Grant's reelection. Wolf sat in a hotel reading the newspaper after completing a campaign speech in the same town where Pulitzer was speaking on behalf of Greeley. Two men came into the hotel, sat down near Wolf, and ordered drinks. \"Did you ever hear such German as that man Pulitzer got off? Nobody could understand him,\" said one man to the other.\n\n\"Naturally,\" said Wolf. \"Pulitzer had spoken over their heads and they were disgusted with his culture. When I met Pulitzer that same evening, I told him, and we had a laugh at his expense.\"\n\nThe campaign produced a surprising dividend for Pulitzer. \"Some of the proprietors of the Westliche Post,\" he said, \"became nervous, wanted to retire, thought the paper was ruined by the Greeley campaign.\" They approached him to see if he would like to buy into the paper. Pulitzer was the most valuable member of their staff and had toiled for them for five years. Before newspapers became big businesses, journalists dreamed of owning at least part of a newspaper. There was no money to be made in writing for a paper, only in owning one.\n\nThe potential changes in the ownership of the Westliche Post were soon a subject of gossip among St. Louis Republicans. The rumors reached the Missouri Democrat, whose editors dispatched a reporter to follow up on them. \"Schurz was said to be disgusted with the course of the paper, and Plate, the senior member of the firm, anxious to buy the other proprietors out,\" reported the Democrat.\n\n\"What's the news?\" asked Pulitzer when the reporter climbed the last flights of stairs leading into the Westliche Post editorial rooms.\n\n\"I don't know; I hear there is trouble in the Post office.\"\n\n\"How?\" replied Pulitzer, smiling at the visitor from a desk stacked high with paper.\n\n\"Well, there are rumors on the street that there is trouble in the office between Mr. Plate and Mr. Schurz and Preetorius; that he wants to buy them out, or have them buy him out.\"\n\n\"Whoever heard of such a damned thing?\" said Pulitzer, laughing and leaning back in his chair.\n\n\"Then it's not true?\"\n\n\"No. It's a lie, it's a damned lie. Why, it's so absurd.\"\n\nAt best, Pulitzer was being disingenuous. As in his previous dealings with reporters, Pulitzer was willing to misinform if it was to his advantage. He was not ready to make public that twenty-four hours earlier he had signed a note payable to Preetorius. It provided Pulitzer with $4,500 in credit at an interest rate of 8 percent, 2 percent lower than the rate common at the time for such loans. Pulitzer was in the process of signing other, similar notes. With these funds he bought a stake in the paper on, in his words, \"very liberal terms.\"\n\n\"They thought I was necessary to the paper,\" he said. \"They probably would have done the same thing to any other man who worked sixteen hours a day, as I did through that campaign.\"\n\nWithin a week, he was an owner. By late September 1872, Pulitzer was referring to the Westliche Post as \"our newspaper\" in a letter to Schurz. Thus seven years after reading his first copy of the Westliche Post in hopes of finding employment in St. Louis, Pulitzer was an American newspaper publisher.\n\nWhile Pulitzer's stock rose, Greeley's and Brown's sank. The prospect of victory was becoming increasingly dim. \"Everything depends on the result of the October elections,\" Pulitzer wrote to Schurz in Washington in late September, referring to the states that held a first round of voting a month before others. \"Here in St. Louis and Missouri it is looking miserable. The area crazies are ruining much, and it seems advisable to me that you temporarily make no arrangements for speeches but rather return as soon as possible.\"\n\nPulitzer's forecast and Schurz's nightmare turned out to be true. On Election Day, Greeley and Brown carried only six states: Georgia, Kentucky, Maryland, Tennessee, Texas, and Missouri. The ticket could manage only a slim victory in the state where the movement began. Democrats carried the day in other states' races. Even St. Louis, city and county, returned to the Democratic fold.\n\nFor two years Pulitzer had dutifully served the Liberal Republican cause, renouncing the Republican Party, where he had begun his political life. His break had been a principled one over fundamental political differences. Pulitzer believed in the Liberal Republican Party's precepts and had tied his political fortunes to the party's success. Greeley's ignominious defeat not only killed the party, but politically stranded Pulitzer as a man without a party in the partisan world of nineteenth-century America.\n\n## Chapter Eight\n\n## POLITICS AND PRINCIPLE\n\nThe crushing defeat of the Liberal Republican movement imperiled Pulitzer's tenuous hold on his patronage post. His one-year term on the St. Louis police commission was set to expire in February, leaving his reappointment in the hands of the newly elected governor, the first Democrat in Missouri's executive mansion since before the Civil War. Although Governor Silas Woodson knew that he partially owed his election to Liberal Republicans, he had little interest in retaining any Republicans\u2014Liberal or other\u2014in state offices.\n\nPulitzer mounted a campaign to remain on the commission. Keeping the job would allow him to retain a small foothold in politics and continue earning easy money. Governor Woodson hadn't even been sworn in before Pulitzer's loyalists took action. His friend James Broadhead, an unwavering Democrat who had been both a Unionist and a defender of slavery, was among the first to tell Woodson that Pulitzer had high standing in St. Louis, had done a good job, and represented the important German interests in the city. Others joined in. Newspaper editors, such as those at the St. Louis Dispatch and St. Louis Times, and city officeholders, including the city council president and city registrar, also wrote in support of Pulitzer.\n\nPulitzer turned for help to Hutchins and Johnson, who now had considerable political influence. For them, the election of 1872 had been munificent. Hutchins won a seat in the House and Johnson was elected as Woodson's lieutenant governor. With friends like these, Pulitzer's case for reappointment looked strong. The governor, however, didn't show his hand. Pulitzer may have had allies in high places, but he still had strong enemies, particularly among politicians in St. Louis County who had not forgotten his efforts to depose them and deny them the pecuniary rewards of their work.\n\nWord leaked from the governor's office that Woodson was preparing to send his selections to the state senate on Monday afternoon, January 20, 1873. Hutchins feared that Pulitzer's name would not appear on the list and pleaded on behalf of his man. \"If undecided to make the appointment requested by Lt. Governor Johnson and myself,\" Hutchins wrote Woodson, \"do me the favor to hold it in abeyance until I can see you.\"\n\nMonday came and went without any appointments coming down from the governor's office. A silence worthy of the Vatican descended. For several weeks Pulitzer's supporters continued their campaign, framing the issue around complex ethnic politics. \"The Germans of this city ought to be represented on the Police Board not for nativistical reasons but so as to make sure that not only Irish Policemen are sent into German districts,\" wrote one man. But this approach was undercut by the reluctance of the city's best-known representative of German interests to join the bandwagon. The Westliche Post remained mum.\n\nPreetorius was opposed to a second term for Pulitzer. In a private letter to Grosvenor, he explained his reasoning. \"It was that, not in spite, but rather in consequences of my good wishes for Mr. Pulitzer, I could not recommend his reappointment,\" he wrote. His opposition stemmed from Pulitzer's confessions to him during his first year on the commission in which he \"earnestly declared by himself, as wholly at variance with his qualifications as well as his own taste and liking.\"\n\nOn March 4, a month after Pulitzer's term legally expired, the governor finally broke his silence. Pulitzer, he announced, would be replaced with a former Confederate and loyal Democrat. Woodson's selection left the police commission devoid of any Germans. It took only a few hours for the news to reach St. Louis. Pulitzer was infuriated. He put pencil to paper and angrily scrawled out a letter to Senator Benecke, his old ally in the state senate.\n\nWoodson's appointments were so unthinkable that Pulitzer said he couldn't find anyone who believed the report. Hurriedly he continued, impetuously scratching out unsatisfactory words as he wrote, \"Nobody held it possible that the highest officer of our state evinced such a lack of all feelings of justice and propriety because it was supposed Mr. Woodson knew what everybody else knew, namely that since the existence of the Police Commission the German element always had one and for the greatest part of the time even two representatives in said Commission.\n\n\"If Mr. Woodson should insist upon these appointments and put himself on the record as an 'ignoramus' and 'knownothing,'\" concluded Pulitzer, \"then we hope that at least the Senate will prove that it knows its duty. We have a right to expect from the Senate the prompt rejection of such ridiculous appointments.\" The senate did not share Pulitzer's sentiments, and the nominees were promptly approved. With this loss, it seemed as if Pulitzer's political career was at an end. He had been voted out of his House seat; the promising Liberal Republican movement had ingloriously died; and now, even with one of his best friends serving as lieutenant governor, he could not win reappointment to the police board. Pulitzer the politician was out in the cold.\n\nPulitzer's career in journalism was also imperiled. Schurz's and Preetorius's ardor for their young prot\u00e9g\u00e9 had cooled. The editorial office had grown too small for all three men. Preetorius's opposition to Pulitzer's reappointment to the police commission strained their relationship. Schurz, who was now a pariah in his party and knew that his reelection to the U.S. Senate was doomed, resented having to share the last bit of the public stage he held. To readers, the Westliche Post had become almost as closely identified with Pulitzer as with the mostly absent Schurz. Schurz and Preetorius offered to buy Pulitzer out. The price they proposed was commensurate with their desire to be free of him. On March 19, 1873, the men concluded a deal. After paying off his notes to Preetorius and others, Pulitzer walked away from the Westliche Post with about $30,000, three to six times his original investment.\n\nPulitzer immediately sought out Theodore Welge, who had assisted him in his defense after he shot Augustine. He was at a loss as to what to do with his vast sum of money. \"This money he wanted me to deposit for him, which I declined to do,\" Welge said. Instead, he introduced Pulitzer to an entrepreneur who had created a shipping empire of riverboats operating out of St. Louis. The man persuaded Pulitzer to entrust the money to the nineteen-year-old State Savings Institution, which paid 3 percent interest.\n\nFreed from the necessity of work for a while, Pulitzer left Missouri's journalism and politics behind and headed for Europe. That he would return to St. Louis, however, was certain. Before leaving, he paid a year's rent on a room adjoining Johnson's law offices. He had the room carpeted and purchased a writing desk for it.\n\nOn his way to Europe, Pulitzer visited his brother, who now lived in New York. Albert had become captivated by journalism. His choice of vocation did little to lessen the competition between the brothers. After landing a job on the Illinois Staats-Zeitung in 1869, Albert had become fluent in English by obsessively studying Dickens and Shakespeare and engaging anyone he could in conversation. Later, he set his sights on New York and on breaking out of German-language journalism. \"Chicago has treated your dear Baruch very well indeed,\" he wrote to their mother, using the Jewish name meaning \"blessed,\" \"but he is going to try his fortune once more in New York. Don't be alarmed. It is destiny.\"\n\nAlbert arrived in New York in 1871 with no prospect of work. He rented a dark room on Bleecker Street for $1 a week and sustained himself with apples that cost a penny apiece. He began his quest for a job by knocking on doors along Park Row, home to the nation's leading newspapers. James Gordon Bennett's New York Herald, Greeley's New York Tribune, and Charles Dana's New York Sun, along with less-known papers such as the New York Times and the World, all plied their trade within earshot of one another. It was America's Fleet Street.\n\nOnly twenty years old and with only brief experience at a German paper in Chicago, Albert audaciously applied to the Sun, the most successful newspaper in the nation. Established by Benjamin Henry Day in 1833, the Sun had launched a new style of journalism in antebellum America. Instead of reporting on international and national events of limited interest to the masses, it focused on city news, violence being its favorite topic, and presented this news in a highly readable, though sometimes flippant, style. In comparison with the stodgy journals favored by city's elite, the Sun was a blast of fresh air. It was compact, always four pages long, and, as the nation's first penny newspaper, it was cheap.\n\nAt the time Albert approached the Sun's six-story building at Nassau and Frankfort streets, the paper was at the height of its fame and selling more than 100,000 copies a day. It had been bought three years earlier by Dana, who had been Greeley's managing editor at the Tribune and was considered a genius among editors. Building on the paper's original mission, Dana inspired and enforced a regime of tight, coherent, bright, lively writing intended to provide \"a daily photograph of the whole world's doings in the most luminous and lively manner,\" as he put it in his first editorial. The paper was a pastiche or quilt of urban tales. It was an irresistible feast of information that won wide attention in an era of generally dull journalism.\n\nUnder Dana's regime, the paper prospered even more, and its circulation rose to new, unheard-of heights. Whereas Joseph could only dream of working for Dana, Albert was not intimidated. He walked up the flight of stairs to the Sun's newsroom and spoke to the night editor. The editor asked Albert how long he had worked for a city newspaper.\n\n\"Only a short time, sir,\" Albert replied.\n\n\"That's rather vague,\" the editor said, adding, \"You have a slight accent.\"\n\n\"I shall not have the accent long, sir. And I write better than I speak.\"\n\nThe editor decided to give Albert a test assignment, a rather difficult one intended to discourage the youth. Albert \"made a Parisian bow and disappeared,\" said the editor. But to his surprise, Albert returned with the story and won himself a trial period on the staff of what many considered the best-written paper in town. In fact, soon after Albert landed this job, a letter appeared in the Sun from one reader in St. Louis. \"I read The Sun regularly,\" Joseph Pulitzer wrote. \"In my opinion it is the most piquant, entertaining, and, without exception, the best newspaper in the world.\"\n\nAlbert rose rapidly in the ranks of city reporters. His big break came when he was assigned to cover the Halstead murder in Newark, the city's first murder in four years. General O. S. \"Pet\" Halstead had been shot dead in the rooms of Mary S. Wilson, described by the New York Times as \"a woman of the worst character.\" Apparently George \"Charcoal\" Botts, a charcoal peddler who paid for her lodgings and company, did not take kindly to the presence of Halstead in Wilson's bedroom. Albert wrote colorful accounts of the courtroom scenes and even obtained an interview with the condemned man a few days before his execution. \"It was a kind of reporting that was new in those days, especially in Newark, and made a decided hit in this city,\" a writer for the Newark Advertiser recalled.\n\nIn February 1873, Albert moved to the New York Herald. Started by James Gordon Bennett in 1835, the Herald was in a different class from the Sun. It had pioneered the use of many modern reporting methods, such as telegraphing news and dispatching an army of correspondents to the far-flung reaches of the globe. Its in-depth reporting on finances, politics, and society, mixed with a healthy dose of crime and scandal, gave the Herald a huge circulation. Its large circulation was accompanied by heft. Unlike the Sun, the Herald was taken seriously.\n\nThe fit was a good one for the tall, rosy-cheeked, twenty-one-year-old Albert, although his writing style was considerably different from that of his colleagues. \"Everybody on the Herald admitted that Albert Pulitzer's style was rather florid,\" said an editor. \"He was saturated with Dumas, Balzac, and other French writers and could 'pile on agony' in a court scene to an extent to which not another man about the place would have ventured.\"\n\nAfter the brotherly reunion, Joseph sailed for Europe. It was the second time he had gone abroad since arriving in the United States in 1864. In Paris, he met up with Henry Watterson, one of the Quadrilateral editors who had worked behind the scenes of the Liberal Republican convention. The two spent a day wandering through Montmartre, a popular drinking and entertainment quartier. They arrived at a theater (a \"hole-in-the-wall\" said Watterson) where Les Brigands was playing. The three-act opera by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Hal\u00e9vy, set to music by Jacques Offenbach, provided a theatrical revenge for the French, who had lost the Franco-Prussian war two years earlier. Parisians erupted in wild applause when the heroine, Joan the Maid, sent the beer-guzzling Teuton chieftain sprawling onto the sawdust-covered floor.\n\nAs Pulitzer and Watterson walked away from the entertainment, Pulitzer said, \"We are brigands, differing according to individual character, to race and pursuit. If I were writing that play, I should represent the villain as a tyrannous city editor, meanly executing the orders of a niggardly proprietor.\"\n\n\"And the heroine?\" asked Watterson.\n\n\"She should be a beautiful and rich young lady who buys the newspaper and marries the cub\u2014rescuing genius from poverty and persecution,\" Pulitzer replied.\n\nIn the fall, Pulitzer drifted back to St. Louis. On November 13, 1873, his friends there put on a grand celebration to mark his return. The event, held at the Southern Hotel, was so elaborate that it included a printed menu \"in Commemoration of his Evacuation of Europe and Re-Invasion of St. Louis\" featuring a cartoon showing a towering, skinny Pulitzer holding a top hat and looking over a crowd that included recognizable caricatures of Grosvenor, Hutchins, Johnson, and other friends.\n\nWith plates filled with salmon, lobster, venison (with jelly sauce), croquettes of chicken \u00e0 l'anglaise, beef, turkey, duck, and quail, the group toasted Pulitzer with Ike Cook's Imperial Champagne, bottled locally by the American Wine Company. Johnson led off the tributes and was followed by Hutchins and Grosvenor. Though he may have been without a defined place in the St. Louis establishment, this night Pulitzer was surrounded by the many successful friends he had made since he was a cub reporter on the Westliche Post six years earlier. Tellingly, neither Schurz nor Preetorius attended.\n\nPulitzer resumed his on-again, off-again study of law in the building where he had rented a room before his trip. He spent his time studying Johnson's law books and books lent to him by another lawyer friend, William Patrick, with whom he had served on the police board. The erstwhile philosopher Brockmeyer and another attorney took turns tutoring Pulitzer. \"He was charmed with the excitement and horrors of the courtroom and determined to quit journalism and become a lawyer,\" recalled one friend. Johnson, however, was unconvinced of the value of Pulitzer's legal studies. \"To tell the truth,\" he said, \"I never thought him cut out for a lawyer. He was too easily agitated, too restless, of too nervous a temperament.\"\n\nPulitzer had not been long at the law books before he spotted a journalistic business opportunity. Although he had been enjoying a genteel life of travel, secure with a healthy bank balance, millions of others in 1873 faced a far different fate. On September 18, the collapse of the banking firm Jay Cooke and Company, which acted as the chief financing agent for the nation's railroads, started a severe national depression. Among the victims of the economic downturn was the Staats-Zeitung, a small German-language newspaper in St. Louis.\n\nThe paper was put on the auction block on January 6, 1874. No newspaper had changed hands in the city since 1872, and considering the economic conditions it was unlikely that there would be many, if any, bidders for this one. But Pulitzer saw value where others didn't. He won the auction, paying a modest sum, and announced that it was his intention to start a German evening paper. This was a smoke screen.\n\nThe Staats-Zeitung had too few subscribers to make it viable as a newspaper. But what the corporation owned caught Pulitzer's attention. Aside from presses and typefaces, the Staats-Zeitung was a member of the Associated Press (AP). The AP had been created as a news cooperative in 1849 by leading New York newspapers to share the high costs of news dispatches rapidly distributed by the recently invented telegraph. Because it restricted its news items to its members, a membership in AP was a valuable asset. Those that were not members were excluded from a vast source of national and international news.\n\nMembership in AP gave a newspaper a tremendous competitive advantage, and midwestern publishers had quickly grasped the importance of this cooperative monopoly. In St. Louis, all the major German and English newspapers were members of the Western Associated Press except the St. Louis Globe, which had been started by Pulitzer's friends William McKee and Daniel Houser after they lost their share of ownership in the Missouri Democrat in a contentious court case. Their St. Louis Globe was hamstrung without membership in AP. But when they tried to buy a membership, the surviving owner of the Democrat vetoed their application.\n\nNeither McKee nor Houser had thought to bid for the Staats-Zeitung. The mistake cost them. With the German newspaper's corporate papers in his hands, Pulitzer went to them with a proposal. If they bought the entire corporation, they would gain membership in AP. Pulitzer would then buy back the presses, type, and office equipment that they didn't need. The following morning, the St. Louis Globe was carrying AP stories. Its masthead explained how: McKee and Houser had purchased the Staats-Zeitung corporation and its AP membership. Then they had changed the language of the German paper to English and its name to the St. Louis Globe.\n\nThe owner of the Democrat was enraged by the legal chicanery. He called for an immediate meeting of the St. Louis board of the Western Associated Press. Gathering in the library of the Missouri Republican, the owners of the eight major newspapers listened as Houser and McKee explained the transaction and examined the documents showing their purchase of the Staats-Zeitung corporation and its assets. Hutchins then offered a resolution recognizing the legitimacy of Pulitzer's sale. It prevailed.\n\nThe legal maneuvering over and the last of the insults lobbed, Pulitzer disposed of the Staats-Zeitung presses, typefaces, and office furniture. These were bought by a group of investors who made a short-lived attempt to publish a German newspaper. In his forty-eight-hour tenure as a newspaper publisher Pulitzer netted between $11,000 and $20,000. For the second time in a year, he had parlayed a newspaper investment into a considerable cash return. He now had between $30,000 and $40,000 in capital. This time, instead of looking for a safe place to stash his earnings, Pulitzer was ready to gamble.\n\nIn the spring of 1874, James B. Eads, one of the nation's best-known engineers, was putting the final touches on his massive stone-and-steel bridge across the Mississippi. When completed, it would be the longest arch bridge in the world and would connect St. Louis to eastern train traffic for the first time\u2014to the horror of the Wiggins family, whose ferry had brought Pulitzer across the river nine years earlier.\n\nEads was now looking south to an even riskier engineering challenge. He had proposed to the federal government to deepen the key channel that led from the Mississippi River into the Gulf of Mexico. If he succeeded, the government would pay him between $1 million and $2 million. But under the terms, if Eads failed the entire cost of the attempt would rest with him.\n\nPulitzer confessed that he knew little about \"jetties\" but had great faith in Eads, whom he had known for five years. He took $20,000 of his capital and invested it in Eads's scheme, knowing, as Eads warned, that the \"payments by the government depended wholly upon our securing deep water, and that if the jetties failed to secure the specified depths you would lose your investment.\"\n\nAfter turning the money over to Eads, Pulitzer returned to his study of law and took on the air of a gentleman of leisure. He purchased a horse and every morning rode in the company of friends; he also took rooms on the elegant street where Schurz lived. Charles Balmer, a composer of some note who had conducted the music at President Lincoln's funeral in Springfield, Illinois, also lived on this street. He had five unmarried daughters, whom Pulitzer called the \"five nightingales.\" The Balmer house held a musical salon that Pulitzer, often in the company of the poet Eugene Field, would attend.\n\n\"The front door would open and in one of them would stride, like it or not orating from some Shakespeare play,\" recalled Lillian Balmer, one of the five nightingales. A feast of potato herring salad, sauerbraten, beer, and wine would be set out, and soon the room would be full of music and singing, with the father on the piano and one of the daughters on the violin. Pulitzer was intrigued by Bertha Balmer, who was the more stately and intellectual of the daughters and had a fine soprano voice. But even though they were frequently left alone, nothing came of his advances.\n\nFinancial freedom also permitted Pulitzer to indulge his passion for music, \"the denial of which from mere poverty and the necessity of earning my livelihood was for many years the greatest of my regrets,\" Pulitzer said. For those with money, St. Louis offered concerts, operas, theater, and social galas. At a charity ball, the French artist Edward Jump captured Pulitzer dancing. Taller than all the other tailcoat-clad men, Pulitzer is dapper, with a new mustache and goatee, wearing pince-nez, and dancing with an unidentified woman only as tall as his shoulders. Pulitzer even joined a theater production at the Germania Club. He took the part of Mephistopheles, with a St. Louis belle, widely noted for her beauty, playing Faust's love Gretchen.\n\nFinally feeling prepared, Pulitzer stood successfully for the bar in late June. With the coming of fall, Pulitzer's interest, as always, turned to the oncoming elections. By 1874, Liberal Republicans had begun a slow drift back into the ranks of the Republican Party after their ignominious defeat in 1872. For Democrats, such as Johnson, there was no shame in returning to the fold of the party, because the Liberal Republican movement had helped restore its health. But for Pulitzer, Schurz, Preetorius, and Grosvenor, no one was welcoming them back.\n\nThe treatment the bolters received from the Republican Party had been harsh. The Grant administration and party leaders did everything they could to drive the rebels out like an infestation. \"Here at home,\" wrote an out-of-state reporter from St. Louis, \"the Liberals have received no better treatment. They have been constantly insulted, vilified and persecuted by the Republican leaders during the past four years and will never be forgiven.\"\n\nA decision by the Missouri Grange to enter politics created an opportunity for Liberals to forestall their day of reckoning. Originally a social and educational organization for farmers, the National Grange jumped into electoral politics to fight exorbitant railroad freight rates. In July 1874, the Missouri Grange issued a call for a convention to meet in Jefferson City to create a People's Party that would be above partisan bickering. Newspapers, particularly Republican ones, applauded the idea, believing it might reunite the party under a new umbrella and provide the strength to beat the Democrats.\n\nThe idea was quickly embraced by party leaders, who announced that there would be no Republican convention that year. Schurz and Grosvenor jumped at the prospect of repeating their success of 1870 and restarting the reform movement under a new banner. Pulitzer followed along. After all, Schurz was his former mentor and Grosvenor his political partner, the other half of the \"political firm of Bill and Joe.\"\n\nOn September 2, 1874, the new party met in Jefferson City to select its candidates. For governor, the party members settled on William Gentry, a prosperous, affable farmer who had no political experience and was entirely clueless regarding the major reform issues. The choice was an echo of the Cincinnati convention of 1872. The ebullient gathering, clamoring for reform, selected a candidate who pleased few of the ardent reformers. Schurz and Grosvenor supported the convention's choice. Pulitzer couldn't. He renounced the selection and abandoned the movement. In an interview in the St. Louis Globe, Pulitzer proclaimed his conversion. He repudiated his mentor and ended the political partnership on which he had risen to the top of a national movement. \"The firm of Bill and Joe did not last long,\" said the Globe, \"but it was a grand firm while it lasted.\"\n\nPulitzer charged that the newspaper's interview with him was fraudulent yet he did not dispute its contents. The next day he explained his conversion in a long article in the Missouri Republican. Pulitzer said he did not question the honesty of \"Farmer Gentry\" nor did he impugn his friends' participation in the convention. But neither Gentry's honesty nor the good intentions of his fellow reformists could \"reconcile me to so palpable a result of politics without principle.\"\n\nThe concept of politics with principle might seem oxymoronic, given the nature of politics at the time, but Pulitzer was sincere. Unlike those who had risen through ward politics in the chaos of competing parties, interests, and causes, Pulitzer had entered politics with an inordinate amount of idealism. As a young newcomer he had been exhilarated by Schurz's rebellion against corruption. Whereas his compatriots now sought the spoils of electoral victory, Pulitzer sought principle; where they saw compromise, he saw a betrayal of promise.\n\nFor Pulitzer, the convention created not a party of reform, but rather a Trojan horse carrying Grant's Republicans into power. \"To men of thought and principle, both platform and ticket are deaf and dumb,\" Pulitzer said. \"Selecting candidates upon the whole very much inferior to those of the Democracy, the convention remained still further behind by failing to protest against the real causes of the prostrate condition of the country\u2014the corruption, the lawlessness, the usurpation and profligacy of the national administration.\"\n\nDrawn into civic life for idealistic reasons, Pulitzer believed that such compromises were like lying down with the devil. His belief in democracy was a civic religion, and reform was its holiest tenet. For Schurz and Grosvenor, the good fight had been waged and lost, as often happened in politics. Rejoining the party ranks was coming home for these two, who had spent all their political lives as Republicans. \"I am a Liberal Republican, and nothing else,\" said Grosvenor in 1873. \"Because that is true, I am a Republican whenever the old issues are brought up, and the choice is between the Republican and the Democratic parties. 'Do the duty that lies nearest thee,' says Goethe.\"\n\nBut Pulitzer had none of those allegiances and was unwilling to beg forgiveness from leaders whom he perceived as having defiled democracy's temple. He was now a Democrat.\n\nThe Missouri Democratic Party embraced its new member. In October, Pulitzer was dispatched on a statewide canvass for the Democratic ticket, beginning in Sedalia, a new but rapidly growing town on the Missouri Pacific rail line in the western part of the state. The town's paper, stalwartly Democratic, hailed his conversion and promoted him as a new star in the party. \"Wherever Mr. Pulitzer speaks,\" it reported, \"the people crowd to hear him, and those who hear him become convinced of the truth he so eloquently utters.\"\n\nIn his speech, which lasted close to an hour, Pulitzer explained his conversion. \"The war with bullets was over. But it left us a legacy, a war with ballots,\" Pulitzer began. \"The enemies of the country are no longer in the South. They are in Washington.\" In this struggle, Pulitzer said, he was volunteering to fight \"as the same humble private as which in the last war I stood on the side of the Union,\" thereby answering the obligatory question of whose side one had favored, still a hurdle for many aspiring Democratic politicians.\n\nThe enemy in this new conflict is \"the great army of office-holders, carpet-baggers, monopolists, protectionists and all those selfish people interested naturally in alliance with the 'powers that be,'\" Pulitzer told the crowd at Sedalia. Across the nation they are easy to identify because they run under the Republican banner, but not so in Missouri, where reform has had the upper hand and the Republicans have gone into hiding, he said. \"And so in this State alone do we enjoy the spectacle of seeing the Grant party turn with band and baggage, postmaster, gaugers, assessors, disfranchisers, colored brothers and all, into 'people,' and hear how lustily they cry for reform! Reform!\"\n\nLike the James boys, highway robbers who wore masks, the People's Party was the Republican Party in disguise, Pulitzer said. To prove his point, he exhaustively compared the new party's platform with that of previous Republican Party platforms. \"They say it is a party of reform, and we see as the most officious reformers, the most notorious postmasters, Federal office holders and corrupt demagogues in the state.\" Pulitzer lumped both Schurz and Grosvenor, mentioning them by name, in with the forces of Grant and corruption, though he studiously avoided accusing either one directly of wrongdoing.\n\nAs at a revival, Pulitzer washed himself of the sin of having been a Republican. \"I confess that coming fresh from the army not much more than a boy, for a very short time, I have myself belonged to the party of proscription.\" But his sin, he insisted, was not as great as that of the party, because when he served in the legislature he had campaigned for elimination of the disenfranchisement provisions. Opponents claimed that this action would drive out Union men and re-enslave the Negroes or, worse, massacre them. \"Well, these rebels have now voted for four years, and show me the first Union man who has been disturbed, show me one Negro who has been molested on account of his Union sentiments! The only Negro who has been molested that I know of in the whole state was a fellow in St. Louis County who ravished a poor girl. And he was only lynched. Not by rebels, however, but by honest Germans and strong Union men.\"\n\nNot an eyebrow would have been raised at Pulitzer's approbation of a lynching. Between 50 and 100 lynchings took place each year, and almost always the victims were blacks charged with some alleged sexual crime for which there was little or no evidence. Only a few Americans, such as Ida B. Wells, spoke out against the horror. The government's effort to stop this domestic terrorism consisted solely of President Grant's Civil Rights Act of 1871, which strengthened the federal government's hand against the Ku Klux Klan. Pulitzer's animosity to Grant, fueled by his experiences with Schurz, Grosvenor, and Brown, blinded him to the virtues of that law.\n\nLike many whites, Pulitzer was indifferent to the plight of black Americans. There was little in his own experience to relate to their oppression. As a Jew in Hungary, he had experienced hardly any discrimination. He had joined the Civil War late, had remained cocooned in a platoon of non-English-speaking recruits, and was not exposed to the abolitionists' antebellum propaganda or to their triumphant rhetoric at the conclusion of the war. The worst injustice he had endured as a civilian was being the butt of anti-Semitic humor, but it had not thwarted his efforts at landing a job, finding housing, or making friends.\n\nAfter Sedalia, it was on to Versailles, Warrensburg, and Knob Noster. A Republican newspaper reporter was on hand to chronicle Pulitzer's visit to the small town of Knob Noster. Casting Pulitzer as a pretentious Bourbon Democrat aghast at the provincialism of rural Missouri, the reporter spun a humorous, sarcastic tale. Like his cartoonist brethren, the reporter highlighted Pulitzer's nose from the start, describing Pulitzer's arrival at the train station and his discovery that the town had no hotels. \"The look of surprise and indignation that overspread his nasal protuberance was fearful to contemplate,\" wrote the reporter.\n\nThe highlighting of Pulitzer's nose\u2014three times in the article\u2014was more than a humorous jab to score partisan points. Like the caricatures by Pulitzer's friend Keppler, these depictions were a minimally disguised way to let readers know that the subject was Jewish. Just as readers of Tom Sawyer knew when Jim said, \"She tole me to go an' git dis water,\" that the speaker was black, newspaper readers knew that a person with a \"nasal protuberance\" was a Hebrew.\n\nThe nose became a common symbol because many of the traditional markers that societies favored to distinguish Jews had fallen into disuse by the late nineteenth century. For instance, the notion that Jews could be distinguished by their \"swarthy skin\" had gone by the wayside when it had become widely accepted that color\u2014with the obvious exception of \"coloreds\"\u2014could be modified over time by migration and other factors. Instead, an emerging generation of social scientists obsessed with racial classification turned to the \"Jew nose.\" They studied the \"nostrility\" of the Jew and connected the characteristics of the \"Jewish, or Hawknose\" with their view of Jews as shrewd and capable of turning an insight into profit. They determined that the \"Jew nose\" became even more evident in the children of mixed marriages. Thus even a Jew who gave up his or her cultural accouterments retained a marker still visible a generation later.\n\nFrom Knob Noster, Pulitzer turned back toward St. Louis. One of the last stops of the speech-a-day statewide tour was in Boonville. The visit offered a wonderful window into the era's partisan press. The Boonville Advertiser, the Democratic paper, referred to Pulitzer as \"the eloquent German orator\" and told readers he had \"delivered an able and logical speech [and] was listened to with marked attention.\" The Republican Boonville Weekly Eagle saw things differently: \"The general impression was that he had more nose than eloquence. The fact was at once palpable, but we did not like to seize it,\" said the paper, adding italics for its readers insufficiently witty to pick up on the editor's humor.\n\nPulitzer's speeches were coherent, well organized, carefully composed, and weighty. It had been only a decade since his arrival in the United States as a teenager unable to speak more than a word or two of English. Now twenty-seven years old and a U.S. citizen, Pulitzer was using his newly acquired tongue with enough skill to earn praise from his supporters and to draw derision from his detractors. He still had an accent, but he was no longer simply a German orator.\n\nA few weeks after the tour, Pulitzer's gubernatorial candidate was swept into office. Had Pulitzer stood for office as a Democrat, he might have also returned to the state legislature. As it was, the election offered him a chance to relaunch his political career. By a very narrow margin (283 votes out of 222,315), voters called for a constitutional convention. Pulitzer threw his hat into the ring and joined the campaign for the sixty-eight delegate seats. On January 26, 1875, his friends James Broadhead the lawyer and Henry Brockmeyer the philosopher were among those selected by the voters. And, to Pulitzer's joy, the voters had picked him as well. His old paper, the Westliche Post, angry at his conversion to the Democracy, greeted his election with derision. It said Pulitzer was as ill-suited to draft a constitution as a hedgehog was to shave one's face.\n\n## Chapter Nine\n\n## FOUNDING FATHER\n\nOn the evening of February 21, 1875, Pulitzer and Joseph McCullagh, of the St. Louis Globe, caught up with A. C. Hesing, the publisher of Illinois Staats-Zeitung in a hall of the elegant Southern Hotel of St. Louis, where Pulitzer now lodged. The publisher, a Republican leader of such power in Chicago that he was called \"Boss Hesing,\" was the most sought-after man that night, according to McCullagh. \"As he stood, sat or walked in the corridors of the Southern, last night, there was no minute when he was not either talking or listening to some party or other, anxious to look at him, stand by his side and hear him talk.\"\n\nMcCullagh wanted to interview Hesing for an article. Pulitzer had a more pressing personal need. Although they were members of opposing parties, Pulitzer wanted Hesing's take on the changing political landscape. It had been only a few months since Pulitzer had converted to the Democratic Party, and he was still seeking confirmation that he had made the right decision. He got it from Hesing.\n\n\"Everything is getting more and more Democratic day by day,\" Hesing said.\n\nWhat will happen to those Republicans who supported Greeley and Brown in 1872? McCullagh asked.\n\n\"Probably fuse with the true Democratic Party,\" Hesing said. \"I know they will in my state, and in many others. There's no doubt but that they are thoroughly and eternally disgusted with the present Radical Administration.\"\n\n\"And Carl Schurz?\"\n\n\"Well, I tell you what I think,\" said Hesing, who was not only a fellow Republican but a German like Schurz. \"I don't think so very much of Schurz either as a journalist or politician.\"\n\nHesing's words were comforting. Pulitzer had been wise to throw his lot in with Democrats and had also made a timely end to his allegiance with his mentor Schurz. For their part, Democrats were thrilled to have Pulitzer. He had toiled in their successful effort to retain the governor's mansion, and they worked to make him feel welcome.\n\nWith his political fortunes on the rise, Pulitzer's fiscal affairs also took a turn upward. James Eads's scheme for dredging the Mississippi delta, in which Pulitzer had invested $20,000, was a triumph. The payoff gave Pulitzer enough money to live for a number of years. He could concentrate on politics without any concern for finding work. Pulitzer expressed his gratitude to Eads by joining dozens of other prominent St. Louisans in the parlor (No. 5) of the Southern Hotel to plan a banquet in Eads's honor. The first to speak was Pulitzer himself. \"Twenty years from now,\" he said, \"we will have Eads Places, Eads Avenues, and, I hope, Eads monuments.\"\n\nLeaving the committee of citizens to do its work, Pulitzer headed east a few days later on the first of what would be half a dozen trips to New York that year. He had in mind breaking into journalism in New York. But, unlike his brother Albert, he didn't want to work for someone else's paper; he wanted to use his capital to acquire his own. He set his eyes on the Belletristisches Journal, a German weekly run by Rudolph Lexow, but the two men could not come to terms.\n\nOn this trip, as well as on subsequent visits to New York in the 1870s, Pulitzer favored the Fifth Avenue Hotel between West Twenty-Third and West Twenty-Fourth streets. Completed in 1858, the six-story, marble-fronted hotel was the first to have a \"vertical railroad\"\u2014or what would later be called an elevator. It became very popular after the Civil War for its luxurious rooms, each with fireplaces and private bathrooms. Deep-pile carpets with the sultry smells of anthracite and coffee in its immense public rooms, the hotel was favored for party conferences by Republicans, including Liberal Republicans when their stock was rising.\n\nBy the 1870s, however, newer hotels eclipsed the Fifth Avenue. \"The hotel, for all its sober state, was no longer fashionable,\" lamented Edith Wharton in her novella New Year's Day. \"No one, in my memory, had ever known anyone who went there; it was frequented by 'politicians' and 'Westerners,' two classes of citizens whom my mother's intonation always seemed to deprive of their vote by ranking them with illiterates and criminals.\"\n\nAt the Fifth Avenue Hotel one day in March, Pulitzer came across a newspaper from St. Louis. Eager to catch up on news from his city, he dived into the issue. Suddenly he spotted his name, in connection with a prominent trial. Several years before, in 1872, a group of businessmen in St. Louis had invested money to rejuvenate the aging Varieties Theater. Pulitzer's friend Hutchins had sunk a considerable sum into the project. It soon failed, but during the ensuing fiscal and legal chaos, Hutchins expanded his investment by buying out other members' shares, at a steep discount. His plan was to force a bankruptcy sale of the theater and its fixtures and then make a claim to the proceeds as a creditor. But other creditors and investors had outmaneuvered Hutchins. As a last resort, he sued.\n\nPulitzer had not been involved in any part of the business and was not accused of any wrongdoing. Yet he was swept up into the scandal because of his friendship with Hutchins. The defendants wanted to put Pulitzer on the stand because they believed he would contradict Hutchins's claims and corroborate testimony helpful to them.\n\nTwo of the city's most notorious and colorful attorneys, Frank J. Bowman and Britton A. Hill, who had helped Pulitzer's defense in the shooting case four years earlier, represented the defense. The legal duo made a most unlikely pairing. Bowman was a tiny man, said to weigh only 125 pounds. He looked even more minuscule next to the 300-pound Hill. But what he lacked in size, Bowman, nicknamed the \"Machiavelli of the St. Louis Bar,\" made up for in bulldog-like tenacity. He was widely feared by attorneys and businessmen because he had little patience for legal ethics and took his legal battles outside the court, on more than one occasion, by challenging his opponent to a duel.\n\nThe legal machinations of the case were so complicated that only the most sophisticated lawyers could understand the particulars. But that didn't matter. With so many prominent St. Louisans ensnared, the trial had become the city's most popular soap opera in the spring of 1875.\n\nThe press suggested that Pulitzer was absent\u2014hiding, in fact\u2014in order to help his friend Hutchins.\n\nAfter setting down the newspaper at his New York hotel, Pulitzer telegraphed the judge in the case. \"Never heard anything of the case until just now, and stand ready to take the next train and leave for home and testify,\" Pulitzer wired. \"Please telegraph immediately whether there will be time enough.\" No reply came, but Pulitzer decided to return anyway. He boarded a train bound for St. Louis the next night, reaching the city on March 20, 1875.\n\nAn enterprising reporter for the Missouri Republican got word that Pulitzer was back in town and sought him out. He first asked for Pulitzer at the Southern Hotel. \"No, sah, not in,\" said the clerk. Next he tried the Westliche Post. A young reporter assured him not only that was Pulitzer not there but that he rarely set foot in the building. Deterred, the reporter retreated to his office. A few minutes before midnight, a messenger delivered a letter from Pulitzer. It was addressed to the \"Press of St. Louis.\"\n\n\"Just returning from New York,\" wrote Pulitzer, \"I am both amused and amazed by the animadversions on the part of the generous and unbiased press of St. Louis to connect my purely accidental absence from the city with a pending suit of a scandalous nature.\" The Missouri Republican, which was used to Pulitzer's lack of honesty with the press, published his comments but added that they \"must be taken as 'sarkasm'\" and deemed unbelievable \"the calm and lofty manner in which he remarks that the opera-house suit was too infinitesimal in proportions to have been heard of by him.\"\n\nThe paper was correct. In both his telegram to the judge and his letter to the press, Pulitzer was playing fast and loose with the facts. He had been in St. Louis on March 9, and as an avid newspaper reader, he knew that Hutchins's widely publicized trial was opening on March 8.\n\nWhen the trial convened for its final day on March 23, visitors to the courthouse might have thought they had taken a wrong turn and entered the city's playhouse. That was certainly the image on the mind of the reporter from the Missouri Republican. \"A good play of any kind is sure to draw, and Mr. Bowman has put on the stage the best play of the season,\" he wrote. \"The plot of the piece is intricate, the positions startling, and the players all stars. It is no wonder therefore that the play has drawn full houses for over two weeks.\"\n\nThe seats in the courtroom were all filled an hour before the curtain was to rise on the last act, and still spectators streamed in. Former mayors, legislators, businessmen, and even judges from other courts had come to watch. Pulitzer knew most of the audience. Among others, there were James Broadhead and Lewis Gottschalk, fellow delegates to the coming constitutional convention; and Colonel Alonzo Slayback, a prominent Democratic attorney with whom Pulitzer had worked in the campaign the previous year.\n\nA few minutes before ten o'clock, Bowman made his appearance, and at ten sharp the judge entered. Pulitzer immediately pressed to the front of the courtroom and announced his presence. He said he had learned through the papers that he had been subpoenaed and was prepared to give his testimony.\n\n\"Not subpoenaed, Mr. Pulitzer,\" replied the judge. \"Subpoenas were issued for you, but returned 'not found.'\"\n\n\"It has been intimated that I went away to avoid being summoned,\" Pulitzer continued, undeterred. \"Now, your honor, I am perfectly willing to tell anything I know about the matter.\"\n\nThe judge was unmoved. He told Pulitzer the time for testimony had passed and the case was closed. \"You are a member of the bar, and, of course, understand that no further testimony can be introduced after the case is closed.\"\n\nPulitzer, however, would not desist. \"May it please the court,\" he said, \"I have seen in the papers, flings and innuendoes, and insinuations calculated to throw discredit upon me, and I would like the opportunity to make a statement in my own defense.\"\n\n\"You are not upon trial,\" interrupted the judge.\n\n\"All I ask is simple justice, and this is a court of justice.\"\n\n\"Not for everybody,\" quipped the judge, causing laughter and Pulitzer's retreat. Bowman then rose and began his two-hour summation. That afternoon the jury rewarded the loquacious attorney and returned a verdict in favor of the defense. Bowman had triumphed and Hutchins was out of his money.\n\nHard feelings put aside, many of the same men who had battled in the courtroom gathered the following night for the planned celebration of James Eads at the Southern Hotel. Dining on Solid Rock Oysters, Mock Turtle Soup, Boiled California Salmon with Anchovy Sauce, mutton, beef, turkey, chicken, venison, and sweetbreads, and washing them down with Ch\u00e2teau Margaux and Krug champagne, the men praised the past and future achievements of their city's famous bridge builder, and Pulitzer celebrated his financial windfall from his association with Eads.\n\nIn early May 1875, Pulitzer was riding the train to Jefferson City. As he had done five years earlier, he was traveling to the capital as an elected official. This time he was on his way to join sixty-seven other delegates to the constitutional convention in the chambers of the Missouri house of representatives at the capitol. The lobby was filled with spectators eager to see the men who had the task of coming up with a new constitution. The delegates were a fairly homogeneous group; all male, as women did not yet have the right to vote; wealthy, since only a few could afford to spend several weeks away from work; and mostly lawyers. Politically, they represented a backlash against Radical rule. Democrats had complete control of the proceedings. In fact, the convention was almost a Confederate reunion, with more than half of the delegates having served in the Confederacy or having been sympathetic to the cause.\n\nAt age twenty-eight, Pulitzer was by far the youngest of the delegates\u2014in fact, about twenty years younger than the average. He certainly stood out. He was the only one to have his photograph taken with a hat on, cocked ever so slightly to his right. It was a slouch hat, a style introduced to the United States by the revolutionary leader Lajos Kossuth when he fled Hungary. Along with this hat Pulitzer wore a pince-nez, a mustache, a narrow pointed goatee trimmed in a style known as a Napoleon III, and a royale (a tuft of hair under the lower lip)\u2014if he was seeking to be noticed, he succeeded.\n\nPulitzer had done his research, and he exuded confidence. His tenure as a reporter and a lawmaker had provided him with considerable parliamentary skills, which he was not reluctant to wield. But his sharp tongue, which had aroused Augustine's anger in 1870, was also soon heard. This time he took aim at Lewis Gottschalk, a fellow delegate from St. Louis. As the convention got under way, Gottschalk asked that the secretary of state be directed to report to the convention on rumors appearing in the press about supplementary election returns, which, if counted, would reverse the election results calling for the convention. \"I believe,\" Pulitzer said, \"it will be self-evident that the resolution is an insult to the intelligence of this Convention, which is offered by my very learned and honored colleague; and it is certainly an insult to his own intelligence.\"\n\nThe war of words rapidly escalated. Gottschalk wanted the new constitution to include an acknowledgment that the state of Missouri and its people were part of the American nation. By themselves the words were innocuous, but coming a decade after the end of the Civil War, they were an attack on the delegates' loyalty to the Union, and they struck a nerve with Pulitzer.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Chairman, I stand here as an American representative, and as an American,\" said Pulitzer as he took the floor. \"You might as well ask a child to state in writing that he or she is the off-spring of the parent,\" he continued. \"I ask further, Mr. Chairman, I ask the Convention upon what ground, upon what logic other than that of fear, than that of catering to an extravagant and extreme partisan spirit which for a selfish and cowardly purpose...\"\n\n\"Mr. Chairman,\" interrupted Gottschalk. \"I call the gentleman to order.\"\n\n\"I expected it,\" said Pulitzer, to the laughter of the delegates.\n\n\"I undertake to say that this language is unparliamentary,\" said Gottschalk, at which point the chairman joined in. \"Mr. Pulitzer will come to order,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, the truth is never unparliamentary,\" rejoined Pulitzer, again eliciting a wave of laughter.\n\n\"The Gentleman will confine himself to the proposition before the Committee,\" ordered the chairman, trying to bring an end to the dispute, which was threatening to disrupt the work of the delegates. Pulitzer prevailed and the amendment died. Despite the impression of acrimony between Gottschalk and his impertinent young sparring partner, the two men remained good friends.\n\nAs the summer heat settled down on Jefferson City, the delegates worked day in and day out on crafting a new, acceptable constitution. They began their day at eight in the morning and sat until six-thirty in the evening. After a break for dinner, they met in committees, often until ten or eleven at night. \"Really it is the hardest working body I ever saw,\" one of Pulitzer's friends wrote home.\n\nPulitzer's style as a delegate was unchanged from when he had been a legislator. He was uninterested in the structure and form of the proposed state government. Instead he stuck to his far more parochial aim of freeing St. Louis, the city, from county rule and from state interference. The rural delegates resented St. Louis's insistence on unique consideration in the constitution. But Pulitzer and his old friend Brockmeyer argued that the city deserved preferential treatment because it held a quarter of the state's population and provided half of the state's revenue. A special committee was created to consider St. Louis's demands.\n\nBehind closed doors, the committee struggled to produce a consensus that could win the delegates' support. Pulitzer was excluded from its work. Instead, he resorted to being a gadfly on the floor, never letting the issue rest. For instance, when other delegates worried about setting an unusual and difficult precedent by caving in to the city's demands, Pulitzer applied his rhetorical weapon of choice\u2014sarcasm. Precedent, he said, is \"the feeble expression of a feeble mind, lacking the inherent ability to express original views that is compelled to seek refuge in a still feebler vestige of ancient, decayed precedents.\"\n\nIn the end the committee produced a compromise that would allow St. Louis to separate from county jurisdiction, permanently delineate its city limits, and create its own autonomous governing institutions. The following year, the \"great divorce\" was mediated by the city and county governments. The city, as Pulitzer and other reformers had hoped, gained independence. St. Louis became the first American city to enact a home rule charter, and the achievement was widely hailed as the nation began to look for innovative ways to govern its burgeoning metropolises. But Pulitzer and other advocates did not foresee that their well-intentioned remedy would eventually cripple St. Louis. Barred from annexing land and facing severe constitutional restrictions on raising taxes, the city would, over time, become impoverished, deserted by its wealthier citizens, and transformed into a destitute urban core surrounded by a wealthy county.\n\nAs the convention neared its end, a short-lived debate arose on freedom of the press. A delegate wanted to expand the legal safeguards for newspapers against libel suits. He modeled his amendment on an existing clause in Pennsylvania's recently adopted constitution. Under its provisions, both public and private individuals would have to convince a jury that the offending article had been maliciously or negligently published.\n\nPulitzer was only one of three delegates to speak about the proposal. Years before he would become a publisher besieged with libel suits, he delivered his earliest public view on freedom of the press. Pulitzer said that he, like the author of the amendment, had worked in newspapers. \"I, sir, stand with a guilty conscience ready to admit that the law under which I contributed some little activity perhaps in that branch of the profession should in my opinion be rather strengthened than weakened. I am sorry to say it, ready to confess that perhaps I have been myself guilty of slandering and libeling persons, not maliciously, certainly not.\"\n\nUnder the proposed plan, he said, it would be impossible to convict any proprietor of a newspaper, because proprietors so rarely have anything to do with the content of newspapers. Rather, a newspaper is assembled by editors and reporters. \"In other words those who own newspapers scarcely ever make them.\" For evidence he pointed to the newspapers of St. Louis. \"The leading papers in that city today are run and conducted by persons who do not own them and...the persons who do own them are scarcely fit to write the smallest and most unimportant part of the paper.\"\n\nThe law, Pulitzer claimed, needed no alteration, and newspapers required no additional constitutional protections. \"The power of the press, Mr. President, is sufficiently large,\" Pulitzer said. \"They have prospered and grown powerful under the very laws which the gentleman from Boone now charges with being dangerous and working great injustice.\"\n\nThen, in a singular moment, Pulitzer turned to confession. He told his fellow delegates that he had been part of three or four libel suits while at the Westliche Post. \"I do not know of a single instance where injustice was done to the press and I could mention several instances to the contrary. Perhaps, if I have at this moment impressed any of my friends who have no occasion to become familiar with the practical workings of the newspaper fraternity, I shall consider it in the nature of an atonement for many acts heretofore committed for which I am sorry.\" Years later, when his enemies sought to rein in Pulitzer's power as a newspaper publisher, no one thought to consult the convention transcript.\n\nIn July the convention ended, its work complete. Pulitzer returned to a St. Louis that seemed increasingly empty. He was unwelcome at the Westliche Post and in the homes of Schurz and Preetorius. Equally discouraging, many of his best friends were moving east to Washington and New York. Pulitzer was once again at a crossroads. Professionally, it was a stretch for him to consider himself a lawyer, as he had no established practice. Nor could he call himself a journalist, as he had no permanent affiliation to any newspaper. His small political revival as a member of the constitutional convention was at an end and there were no other such opportunities on the horizon. Financially, he had a comfortable place in his adopted country, but he remained socially adrift and professionally rudderless.\n\nIn the fall of 1875, Pulitzer retreated to a quiet life in St. Louis. He handled a few minor legal chores and took on some occasional newspaper work for Hutchins at the St. Louis Times. After years that had promised success in journalism and politics, Pulitzer entered a barren stretch, compounding his aimlessness. He was twenty-eight years old. He had no definite profession, and not even a home other than a room at the Southern Hotel.\n\nA sense of failure hung over him. Even his characteristic combativeness was subdued. He declined, for instance, to enter a squabble involving Schurz, instead writing to his friend Hermann Raster, editor of the Illinois Staats-Zeitung in Chicago, \"I naturally would prefer not to be pulled into the controversy, since I do not have a newspaper at my disposal.\"\n\nThe only good news on the horizon was that Pulitzer and his Liberal Republican friends had been the cause of the newest scandal facing the Grant administration. It was sweet revenge. The public was learning that during the Missouri Republican insurgency, Grant had dispatched his supervisor general of internal revenue to St. Louis to fight the rebellion. To fund his counterinsurgency efforts, the supervisor and others recruited distillers, storekeepers, and revenue agents and others into a conspiracy to sell more whiskey than was reported, thereby defrauding the government of thousands of dollars of taxes. The money of the \"Whiskey Ring\" then was redirected to newspapers that favored their cause and also served to create financial incentives for those newspapers that still remained on the fence.\n\nIn May, when Pulitzer had been in Jefferson City working on the new constitution, federal agents apprehended the swindlers. The five ringleaders included William McKee, formerly of the Democrat but now the proprietor of the St. Louis Globe. Suddenly, it became clear to Pulitzer and others why McKee had fired Grosvenor during the 1872 election and returned to the ranks of Grant's supporters.\n\nIn December a grand jury in St. Louis indicted General Orville E. Babcock, Grant's private secretary, on a charge of conspiracy to defraud the U.S. Treasury. Babcock's trial was set for February 7, 1876, and wags in the local press promised that the event would be as important as the trial of Aaron Burr or the impeachment of President Johnson. Reporters came from all parts of the nation. Among them was Albert Pulitzer.\n\nNo longer a teenage waif camping in Joseph's room at the boardinghouse, Albert returned to St. Louis for the trial as a tall, slender, dapper, twenty-five-year-old correspondent for the New York Herald. His softly spoken English betrayed only the slightest accent. His ascendency to the New York Herald had completed Albert's professional metamorphosis and also brought a dramatic change in his personal life.\n\nDuring his first year at the paper he was sent to the Grand Central Hotel, then the largest hotel in the country, to follow up on a story of an Englishwoman who, even in the company of a chaperone, had been defrauded of all her money upon arriving in New York. Albert located the victim and discovered that she was young, attractive, and unattached. His interview for the paper turned into a courtship and on June 15, 1873, Fanny Barnard and Albert Pulitzer were married.\n\nAt the Herald, Albert won a reputation for his interviews. \"Cool, genial, winning, indefatigable, incapable of being rebuffed, he was the champion interviewer of his paper,\" said one noted British journalist and politician. \"No one could hold a candle to him.\" He was certainly persistent in pursuit of his quarries. Once he obtained an interview with the embattled Mayor Oakey Hall, caught up in the Tweed scandal, by shouting questions through the keyhole of a bathroom where the mayor was hiding.\n\nJoseph joined Albert at Babcock's trial. Hutchins had assigned Joseph to cover the event for his St. Louis Times, a minor paper in comparison with Albert's. A small journalistic triumph, though, helped Joseph overcome the discomfort of being overshadowed by his younger brother. About a week before the trial got under way, the attorney general sent a letter to prosecutors prohibiting any plea bargaining. The letter ostensibly reflected the \"no deal\" policy that the president had proclaimed in an effort to seem supportive of a vigorous criminal investigation. However, the real effect of the letter, as any lawyer knew, would be to scare off witnesses and curtail a prosecutor's best means of persuading guilty parties to testify against higher-ups.\n\nWhen he received his letter, U.S. District Attorney David P. Dyer in St. Louis immediately understood what its publication could do to his case. He sealed it up in another envelope and put it away. \"I did not think it prudent at the time to publish the letter or let any one have it; there was no man in my office, not even my assistants, that saw it,\" Dyer said.\n\nA few days later, Joseph came to the U.S. attorney's office and handed Dyer a clipping from the Illinois Staats-Zeitung. Laughing, Pulitzer said, \"I wish you would read this slip.\" Dyer took the sheet from Pulitzer, gazed at it for a moment, and replied that, as he could not read German, the only word he recognized was the name of the attorney general.\n\n\"Now,\" Pulitzer said, \"I want to read you the translation I have made of that letter and I want to know whether you have such a letter in your possession.\" Pulitzer then read his English translation. Dyer confirmed that, indeed, he had a letter that sounded very much like the one Pulitzer had just read.\n\n\"Won't you permit me to examine your letter and compare it with my translation, to see whether the translation is correct?\" asked Pulitzer.\n\n\"No,\" Dyer said, \"you cannot see any official letter in my office.\"\n\n\"I will publish the letter anyhow tomorrow morning, whether you give it to me or not, and if not correct, you will have to take it to be correct.\"\n\n\"You can publish what you please from other papers, but you cannot get my letters.\"\n\nPulitzer returned to the St. Louis Times office. The next morning the paper published the letter. A furious Dyer, in the company of James Broadhead, who after serving in the convention with Pulitzer was now working as an assistant U.S. attorney, arrived at the office. They went immediately to see Hutchins and Pulitzer. Dyer told Hutchins he had made a mistake in publishing the letter if he really wanted to help convict the ring's members. Its publication was crippling the prosecution. His remarks were greeted by laughter by Hutchins and Pulitzer, but as a small concession, the Times ran an item the next day stating that Dyer was not the source of the leaked letter.\n\nIn April, Pulitzer's restlessness prevailed. Even with the 1876 nominating season approaching, Pulitzer left for New York and took a ship bound for Europe. He went first to Paris, armed with a letter of introduction from former senator John Henderson of Missouri to Elihu Washburne, the American minister to France. Henderson detailed the political service of \"my young friend\" and asked that he be extended official courtesies. Washburne complied and even offered to supply Pulitzer with theater or opera tickets. Pulitzer, however, cut short his stay in Paris without availing himself of Washburne's cultural amenities.\n\nIn Germany, Pulitzer took in a political meeting. Unlike the boisterous affairs he had become used to in the United States, the German gathering was orderly and businesslike. Its conclusion was also a shock for an American. \"Suddenly a hitherto silent and quiet man arose upon the platform and walked up to the chairman,\" Pulitzer said. The chairman then interrupted the speaker and the unknown man replaced him at the podium. He revealed that he was an officer of the law and declared that the meeting was over because the speaker had violated the law by criticizing the cabinet. \"The chairman muttered some words of protest,\" Pulitzer said, there \"were some indignant expressions in the audience, but the interrupted speaker spoke no more, and in a very few moments the meeting was actually dissolved.\"\n\nAs much as Europe captivated Pulitzer, the calendar inexorably drew him back to the United States. It was an election year\u2014a presidential one. Ever since witnessing Lincoln's reelection while in the Union army, Pulitzer regarded elections as the high holy days of democracy. They couldn't be missed.\n\n## Chapter Ten\n\n## FRAUD AND HIS FRAUDULENCY\n\nThe presidential campaign was under way by the time Pulitzer boarded the Cunard steamship Bothnia in Liverpool on July 15, 1876. Disembarking in New York eleven days later, he repaired to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where, in possession of New York newspapers, he caught up on the political news, having survived for three months on the incomplete and dated dispatches that reached Europe.\n\nBy his absence, Pulitzer had passed up a chance to attend the Democratic national convention, which had concluded the previous month in St. Louis. His friends and political partners hadn't missed it. Hutchins and Slayback were delegates from Missouri, and Watterson was a delegate from Kentucky. In fact, Watterson had brought the hall to its feet when he urged delegates\u2014descendants of Jackson, as he called them\u2014\"to wrest the government...from the clutches of rings and robbers.\" The Democrats were convinced they had, at long last, picked a winner in selecting as their candidate Governor Samuel J. Tilden of New York, who prosecuted Boss Tweed. If corruption was the issue, no better white knight could be found.\n\nPulitzer was elated with the choice and immediately put himself at the service of the party. While his friends were asked to work solely in their own political backyards, Pulitzer was invited to engage the enemy on the important battleground of Ohio and Indiana. Because they held their state government elections in October, the two states were considered bellwethers, exercising extraordinary influence on November's federal elections. Pulitzer's status as a former Republican, widely known among German voters, made him useful in reaching voters in the two states, each of which had a large German population.\n\nIn early September, Pulitzer made a jubilant return to Indianapolis, where he had campaigned in vain for Greeley four years earlier. This time he was convinced that he was traveling on behalf of a winning ticket. The Republican convention's nomination of Rutherford Hayes, whose main attribute was his inoffensiveness, only increased Democratic optimism. \"The hosts of reform are marching to victory all over the state, and the days of Grantism and Mortonism are doomed,\" prophesied the Democratic Indianapolis Sentinel. The euphoric sense of an approaching Democratic triumph infected thousands of party stalwarts. On Saturday night, September 2, they marched to the Grand Hotel to escort Pulitzer to the hall where he was to give his address. The main thoroughfare teemed with Democrats bearing torches. \"As far as the eye could reach out Delaware Street, the lights were seen until they blended in one almost on the horizon,\" reported the Sentinel.\n\nWhen Pulitzer and his entourage reached the hall, only a few seats remained empty. As the rambunctious audience quieted, Pulitzer began by describing the suppression of the political meeting in Germany he had witnessed a few months earlier. \"Such is liberty in Europe!\" exclaimed Pulitzer, \"I, too, though but a stranger there, felt the outrage; but greater than my indignation at that moment was my pride in knowing that I, too, was an American, a free man in whose country no peaceable meeting could be dispersed at the bidding of the police.\"\n\nHowever, he continued, his pride in his American freedoms had been damaged by the actions of Republicans. In the decade since he had become an American, he had seen a president impeached in an act of \"reckless partisanship\" the South given up to \"public plunder like so much conquered booty\" a reconstruction act turn masters into \"political slaves\" and slaves into \"masters\" the election of a president who had never \"read the Constitution,\" with a \"servile Senate at his feet\" a \"self-confessed thief\" in the cabinet; and political appointees consorting with \"notorious thieves.\" At the heart of his complaint was that the Republican Party\u2014the party founded on a belief in equality\u2014\"gave up principles for power,\" said Pulitzer. \"I saw laws and Constitution trampled upon, and crime and corruption flourish.\"\n\nFor more than an hour, Pulitzer's attacks on his former political party enthralled his decidedly partisan audience. Although he was still called a \"German orator\" and his command of English had been long in coming, he now displayed the erudition inspired by Davidson and acquired at the Mercantile Library. The speech was well organized, with broad themes supported by clever use of examples, possessed an effective cadence, built on alliterative lines, and marshaled such linguistic force that it both inspired converts and won grudging respect from the opposition. The Indianapolis Sentinel reproduced his speech in full, and it was quoted in newspapers as far away as Texas.\n\nFresh from his triumph in Indianapolis, Pulitzer dashed around the state, speaking at a dozen smaller venues. He took time to stop in Cincinnati and visit with John Cockerill, whom he had met at the Liberal Republican Convention. As in 1872, Pulitzer and Cockerill were on the same side politically, but now only one of them commanded a newspaper. It wasn't Pulitzer. Cockerill had risen to become managing editor of the Cincinnati Enquirer, a Democratic paper, and was using every part of his seven-column editorial page to boost Tilden's candidacy, accusing the Republicans of illicit use of money and power.\n\nIn mid-September, Pulitzer dropped off the campaign trail for two days of rest in St. Louis. From his room at the Southern Hotel, he sent an exultant letter to the famous journalist George Alfred Townsend, another veteran of Greeley's campaign. \"My success was probably as astonishing to myself as it was to others. If you looked at the Western papers you probably saw how undeservedly well I was treated.\" The false humility of the letter was betrayed by his real objective in writing. Pulitzer wanted Townsend to publish a sketch about his life. To that end, he enclosed an entry about him from a new book. \"You certainly have sufficient data now,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"If possible try to get it into the Philadelphia Times.\" Campaigning for Tilden served the party's cause, but it also benefited Pulitzer's cause. \"Whether Tilden or Hayes be elected,\" Pulitzer said, \"I shall strive to bring some reputation out of this campaign.\"\n\nThe next day Pulitzer returned to the railroad and a grueling campaign schedule that took him to Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, Boston, and New York. On the road, he continued to hammer away at Hayes, and at Levi Morton, financial chairman of the Republican National Committee. But he added a new target. With growing regularity, Pulitzer took aim at Carl Schurz, who had come in from the cold and was now supporting the Republican ticket. \"If the great Schurz tells the truth, the great Morton is a liar,\" Pulitzer said in one speech, highlighting the inconsistencies of the two men and drawing cheers. \"If the great Morton tells the truth, the great Schurz is a liar,\" he continued, to increasing cheers. And then, bringing down the house, he concluded, \"If they both speak the truth they must both be liars!\"\n\nTo the delight of the press, Pulitzer challenged Schurz to debate him. Schurz's spokesman gave a dismissive response wrapped in courteous language. \"In arranging for a joint discussion between gentlemen,\" said the spokesman, \"certainly some regard should be had to their character, services, and reputation. Having this in view, of course the proposition is declined.\" Pulitzer's friend Hutchins couldn't resist joining the fray with a jab or two of his own in the St. Louis Times. \"Of course, Mr. Schurz will not consent to a discussion of the issues of the campaign with Mr. Pulitzer, because he would be the last man to acknowledge the intellectual equality of his former lieutenant and associate.\"\n\nAlthough Schurz remained above the fray, his paper did not let the attack pass unchallenged. The Westliche Post published a long, scathing article on its former star reporter, editor, and part owner. \"The advantage and gain, should such a debate have taken place, would all be on the side of Pulitzer,\" said the paper, taking Pulitzer's favorite tack: sarcasm. \"The contest would have been like one between a louse and an elephant\u2014the former could climb upon the latter, but the elephant would crush the louse with his left toe.\" Even the New York Times, which had excoriated Schurz during the Liberal Republican revolt, now took his side. Pulitzer \"belongs to the large class of unappreciated fools who mistake themselves for great men. Who is there to mourn for Pulitzer? No one.\"\n\nPulitzer sought to portray his feud with Schurz as political, not personal. But his actions wounded their friendship, and Pulitzer confessed as much in late September. \"I followed myself in the course of this counterfeit reformer with enthusiasm and admiration only possible to the warm impulses of youth that blind cold judgment,\" he said. \"But however much I should have preferred in ordinary times to remain silent at the grave of departed friendship, the present crisis in our history must dwarf all personal considerations.\"\n\nThe drudgery of stump speeches, the tedium of railway travel, and battered friendships faded as October brought encouraging news. Democrats won the state elections in both Indiana and Ohio. The result was the very outcome that Tilden's opponent, Hayes, feared. It seemed as if a victory for Tilden was now only a matter of time. With a favorable political wind at his back, Pulitzer appeared at the biggest venue yet\u2014Detroit's opera house\u2014on October 18. He was introduced to the capacity audience as the man Schurz wouldn't face. \"And,\" said the speaker introducing him, \"Mr. Pulitzer, I promise you, will first analyze Mr. Schurz and then pulverize him.\"\n\nAs in his other speeches, Pulitzer tore into Schurz. But this time he also offered his most direct explanation yet of his political migration during the past decade. \"I am glad to say I am no partisan,\" he said. \"I cordially cooperated with the Republican Party so long as it pursued the right path, and as cordially oppose it now, convinced that it is a mass of corruption. I do battle willingly for Tilden and Reform and will as freely oppose misrule by the Democratic Party.\"\n\nAt the end of October, Pulitzer reached New York City. By this time he had given more than seventy speeches, but he remained willing to deliver a few more in Brooklyn, in Queens, and across the river in Hoboken, New Jersey. New York Democrats rewarded him with an honor, including him among the guests at a reception at the Manhattan Club for the party's presidential candidate. About 300 politicians attended, including members of the Democratic National Committee; August Belmont, the banker and American minister; and Oakey Hall, the former mayor, whom Albert had famously trapped in a bathroom for an interview.\n\nPulitzer's role in the campaign came to an end the following evening with a speech at Cooper Union, the great hall where, in 1860, a relatively unknown Abraham Lincoln had given a famous address that set him on the path to the White House. To cheers and the accompaniment of a band, Pulitzer once again took up Schurz as his theme. \"I came here to answer Carl Schurz,\" he said. \"And in speaking of him you will pardon me for saying that I do so more in a spirit of sorrow than of anger. I have no ill feeling against him.\n\n\"In earlier days I followed the leadership of that man, but I am free to say that if I ever did think he was a great light which any patriotic citizen could follow, I think now that he is but a great Will 'o the wisp,\" he continued, to the laughter of the mostly German crowd. Then, casting doubt on his claim that he had no ill feeling toward Schurz, Pulitzer continued his attack, like a dog unwilling to loosen its grip on a bone. He highlighted all of Schurz's inconsistencies, changes of heart, and electoral vacillations. \"He is perfectly consistent in advocating the election of every popular candidate whose nomination he had previously denounced and damned, and also damning and denouncing the nomination of every popular candidate whose election he afterward supported and favored.\"\n\nBringing his assault on Schurz to a close, Pulitzer then made his pitch to elect a Democrat for the first time since before the Civil War. \"I stand here to say the war is over, and it is time that it should be,\" Pulitzer said. Ringing out one applause line after another, he told the audience that the Union had not been saved for robbers, thieves, and carpetbaggers. \"The Southern people belong to us and we belong to them. Their interests are our interests; their rights should be our rights; their wrongs should be our wrongs. Their prosperity is our prosperity; their poverty is our poverty,\" he said, to waves of applause and cheers. \"We are one people, one country, and one government; and whoever endeavors to make the union of all the people impossible, is a traitor to his country.\"\n\nThe New York Sun gave front-page coverage to Pulitzer's address at Cooper Union. As an unabashed admirer of the Sun and of its editor, Pulitzer went to call on Charles Dana. The Sun was on the same block of Park Row as the New York Tribune's new building, which rose ten stories and towered over everything else in New York except the spire of Trinity Church. As newspapers sought new ways to find readers, the circulation wars of Park Row expanded into architecture. Dana had abstained from this new battle. The structure that housed his enterprise, which had once served as headquarters to Tammany Hall, was aging and run-down. To reach Dana's office, Pulitzer ascended a narrow iron spiral staircase and passed through a cavernous loft filled with reporters and editors dashing about, shouting, in an atmosphere of controlled bedlam.\n\nThe famous editor's office was a quiet refuge. From its door, its occupant and his long, white flowing beard and gleaming, bespectacled eyes gave him almost a look of Santa Claus. (Years later, after Dana's time, the Sun published the famous editorial \"Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus.\") But Dana's personality was hardly charitable. Not only were his editorials direct, pointed, often caustic, and at times abusive; he also ran a very efficient, no-nonsense, parsimonious business.\n\nAlthough he was much Dana's junior, Pulitzer had a lot in common with him politically. The Grant administration had caused them both to abandon the Republican camp. But, unlike Schurz, Dana was willing to support a Democrat. Tilden had been a favorite of Dana's since his fight against the Tweed Ring, and the Sun had contributed heavily to his election as governor of New York. Now Dana hoped his paper would help put his man in the White House.\n\nAfter a while, Dana brought Pulitzer out of his office and introduced him to his editor and heir apparent, Edward P. Mitchell. The paper was in a frenzy over the election, but the topic foremost on Pulitzer's mind was his own desire to get a perch in New York journalism. He had tried and failed to buy the New York Belletristisches Journal. Only months before, while walking with a friend in Washington, he had confessed that he still couldn't shake off his ambition to run a New York paper. Now he shared his idea with Mitchell and Dana.\n\nPulitzer told the men he wanted to launch a German edition of the Sun to compete with the New York Staats-Zeitung, a prominent German paper. The plan he put forward was that the Sun would own and publish the new paper but that he would edit it, translate for it, and add his own material. Dana, however, was uninterested, and Pulitzer left, no closer to breaking into Park Row.\n\nOn election night, the nation's telegraph lines transmitted the results to New York, where the parties had their headquarters. As predicted, Hayes carried most of New England, but his margins were weaker than those of Grant four years earlier. Tilden carried New York and New Jersey, both states that Grant had won. In the Midwest, Tilden won Indiana, Missouri, and a solid swatch of states to the south. It looked as though the electoral count, though close, would be in the Democrats' favor for the first time since before the Civil War. The popular vote was unquestionably for the Democrat: Tilden had 51 percent of it, and Hayes 48 percent.\n\nBut as the night went on, Oregon and three states in the South refused to fall into the Democratic column. The southern states were South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana\u2014coincidentally, the last remaining Confederate states in which Grant still kept federal troops. As officials squabbled over the results, the electoral votes from the four disputed states were not tallied. In the morning, Tilden had 184 electoral votes, one short of the majority needed to win. Hayes had 165.\n\nThe nation's partisan press roared to life, each newspaper declaring its man the winner and refusing to concede. Pulitzer quickly joined the fray. Writing in the St. Louis Times, he bravely proclaimed that the \"hopes of Republicans about the result of the election are as groundless as the fears of the Democrats. Mr. Tilden is elected.\" Whether he was putting on a brave face, believing that this was tactically smart, or was unable to concede that his side might have lost, Pulitzer continued to claim Tilden had won.\n\n\"I do not share the grave apprehensions of nearly all my Democratic friends,\" he said a week later. In every scenario that he could dream up, such as the election's being thrown into the House or the Senate's certifying the contested states, the result would still give the presidency to the Democrats. \"For these reasons I don't think there's much ground for serious alarm about the final results,\" he said. If it were to come out differently, Grant and the Republicans \"would be the rebels fighting against their country.\"\n\nIn New York, Dana refused to doubt that the election was anything but a victory for Tilden. But it became clear that the outcome would be resolved by Congress. For the second time in a decade, Dana hired Pulitzer to write for the paper. He asked him to go to Washington and cover the disputed election. It was a choice assignment. When Pulitzer arrived in Washington in late December, the unresolved election had stirred the city into a frenzy. Armed conflict did not seem out of the question, especially after President Grant stationed additional soldiers near the city. \"It is not impossible that such a condition of affairs might have led to bloodshed,\" wrote one politically savvy observer.\n\nAs a member of the Washington press corps, Pulitzer watched the comings and goings at the Capitol, interviewed members of the Senate, and kept an ear open to the conversations of the city's politicos. His first dispatches to the Sun appeared just after Christmas. They were a marvel of optimism. \"There will be no war,\" he began. \"The woman that hesitates is lost. The Republican confederates hesitated. They will lose.\"\n\nBy this point, both the House and the Senate had appointed special committees to devise a means of resolving the election. Pulitzer believed that the outcome rested in the hands of nine Republican senators. \"My answer, based upon close observation, direct information, and personal conversation with the members of the Senate, is that these nine will be found on the right side when they are really needed,\" Pulitzer reported.\n\nDana permitted Pulitzer a byline, a rare privilege in that era; and, considering that the Sun was only a four-page paper, the space devoted to his dispatches gave Pulitzer considerable prominence. For the first two weeks of January 1877, Pulitzer continued to predict a victory for Tilden. Pulitzer's reasoning was not without foundation. By the end of January, the House and Senate had passed, with strong Democratic support, a bill creating the Electoral Commission, whose job it would be to resolve the election, presumably in Tilden's favor.\n\nPulitzer did not limit his advocacy of Tilden to the pages of the Sun. On January 8, 1877, he joined his friend Watterson at a mass meeting at Ford's Theater under the auspices of the Tilden-Hendricks Reform Club. Though the flyers had promised that prominent members of Congress would attend, the two most recognizable speakers turned out to be Watterson and Pulitzer. Watterson offered a fiery denunciation of the Republicans' efforts to thwart Tilden's election. He declared that 100,000 unarmed citizens would descend on the capital on February 14. The announcement startled many Democrats, who had heard of no plans for any demonstration. Pulitzer followed Watterson's lead and delivered a harangue that even a sympathetic newspaper called \"incendiary and revolutionary.\" Pulitzer said he was \"ready to bare his breast to the bullets of the tyrant, and rush headlong upon his glittering steel.\"\n\nPulitzer's intemperate speech troubled Dana. Pulitzer's dispatches disappeared from the pages of the Sun for the remainder of the month. It was not until February 10 that Pulitzer resumed his articles. By then, it was becoming clear Tilden's cause was lost. The Electoral Commission was going to side with the Republicans because a tactical mistake had resulted in giving the deciding vote on the fifteen-member panel to a Republican. \"When the work of the returning boards of South Carolina, Louisiana, and Florida was finally completed,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"and these states given to Mr. Hayes, wresting the fruits of success from the party to whom they have seemed to belong, by a bare majority of one, the chagrin of the Democratic Party was deep seated and bitter to the last degree.\"\n\nOn March 2, the wrangling came to an end. Congress awarded the presidency to Hayes. Democrats accepted the result because a tacit deal had been made whereby their acquiescence would be rewarded with a withdrawal of federal troops from the South. In fact, after assuming office, Hayes removed the remaining federal forces from southern state capitals, and Reconstruction came to an effective end. The Democrats lost the White House, but for southern Democrats, their second rebellion against the national government\u2014this one nonviolent\u2014was a success. Dana could not accept the defeat. For the next four years, his paper referred to Hayes as the \"Fraudulent President.\"\n\nDisgusted, Pulitzer left Washington for St. Louis. A week after the inauguration, he admitted the fight was over. \"We may have lost much as American citizens, but we have lost little as partisans,\" he wrote. \"It is only four years. We have not been defeated, but defrauded.\"\n\nThe loss stung. Pulitzer understood that politics, though exhilarating, could include defeats, but each path he took came to the same conclusion. As a Republican, he had lost his office. As an insurgent reformer, he had joined a movement that went nowhere. And, now after crossing a political Rubicon by changing his affiliation to a party whose victory seemed inevitable, the result was unchanged. It was not hard to conclude that politics, like journalism, seemed to be a dead end.\n\nIn St. Louis Pulitzer took up residence again at the Southern Hotel. This time he took two rooms on the fifth floor. When the six-story Ohio sandstone hotel opened in 1865, to great fanfare, the local press had invoked the image of the Egyptian pyramids. The Southern Hotel was still among the nation's largest, occupying most of a block and capable of accommodating 700 guests.\n\nOn April 10, Pulitzer celebrated his thirtieth birthday at a friend's house with Hutchins and others. At midnight, he returned to the Southern, walked through the office past the night clerk, and rode the elevator to his rooms, where he promptly went to bed. A little over an hour later, muffled noises awoke him. He thought he heard the word \"fire\" but concluded that the voices were coming from the street and that the fire was elsewhere, so he turned over to go back to sleep again. \"Suddenly I heard women's shrieks, seemingly in the hotel,\" Pulitzer said. He jumped from his bed, lit the gas lamp, and looked at his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning.\n\nIn his nightshirt, Pulitzer dashed into the hall. It was filled with smoke. He took the stairs down to the fourth floor, where he found two frantic women. \"I tried to pacify them and took them to the parlor floor,\" he said. \"The ladies were en neglig\u00e9e and I took them to a room of a lady on that floor who gave them apparel.\" Then, foolishly, Pulitzer ran back upstairs to his own room. There he donned his pants, which contained his wallet, and put on a vest. When he exited his room, the smoke had become so dense that the gaslights no longer illuminated the halls. Yet Pulitzer turned back one more time, to retrieve his eyeglasses, thinking they might help. As he at last descended the stairs, he saw that almost every floor was engulfed in flames.\n\nThe fire engines arrived at the hotel a few minutes after Pulitzer reached the street. Red flames burst from first- and second-story windows, and smoke poured from every opening in the building. Guests continued to spill onto the street, but it became obvious to rescuers that many remained inside. \"First one window and another in rapid succession were violently raised, heads of men, women, and children were seen everywhere, and a wild cry for help filled the air,\" said a reporter who arrived on the scene.\n\nAs the firemen raised ladders into position, they urged the trapped guests to remain calm. But it soon became apparent that the ladders could not reach above the fourth floor. Panicked guests began climbing down on knotted sheets. One man slid from the sixth floor on tied sheets, only to realize when he got to the end of his makeshift rope that he was still 120 feet above the ground. With flames leaping about him, he jumped. \"He was immediately picked up and carried into an adjoining saloon, and lived long enough to say that his name was J. F. Stevens, when he expired,\" the reporter said. \"Two other faces soon appeared at the window from which he had jumped, but the flame and smoke closed them from view almost instantly, and left no doubt of the awful fate that befell them.\"\n\nBy dawn nothing remained of the hotel. Firemen hosed down the embers as the search for bodies began. In all, twenty-one people died in the fire. On April 16, a coroner's inquest was begun. A jury was sworn in over the body of Kate Nolan, one of the servants who had perished in the fire; her body had been kept in the morgue for this purpose.\n\nPulitzer was the first witness called. He recounted how he had been awakened, had helped the two women, had returned to his room, and then had fled the hotel. One of the jurors asked Pulitzer if he was certain about the time when he awoke. Pulitzer said he didn't know how close his watch was to \"telegraph\" time, but he felt confident it was between half-past one and quarter to two when he made his escape. \"I will say that no alarm was given in the house, so far as I heard,\" he told the jurors. \"I think the shrieks of the women were very fortunate, for had it not been for that, fully one hundred persons would have perished. I know I would have been one, for I am a very sound sleeper.\"\n\nOn April 27, the jury concluded that the fire had originated in the basement of the hotel, possibly in the wine cellar, and that it had spread quickly to the upper floors through the elevator shaft. The building was deemed to have been safe, but the hotel management was faulted for doing an inadequate job of fire prevention.\n\nWhen the coroner's jury issued its report, Pulitzer was back in New York, again staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He and Albert had received word that their mother was ill and might be dying. They decided that only Albert would go to Hungary. Joseph had no work obligations, but his phobia of funerals overwhelmed his filial devotion. In order to make the trip, Albert persuaded the New York Herald to send him to cover the war between Russia and Turkey, which had just erupted. Before leaving he compiled in a small notebook a list of items to buy in Europe. These included lingerie, gloves, a fan, and a brooch for his wife and alpaca for his son's nurse. For Joseph, he promised to buy a frock coat and an overcoat. On April 26, Albert left New York on the Hammonia, bound for Hamburg.\n\nA month later, Albert reached Detta, the Hungarian city where their mother had moved after remarrying. The day he arrived, Elize died. Upon receiving the news, Albert's wife wrote a consoling letter from their house on Washington Square, where she had remained with their newborn son, Walter. \"Oh, why can I not fly to you, my poor, bereaved darling, and mingle my heart-felt tears with thine,\" Fannie Pulitzer wrote. \"I wish you had gone sooner. I suppose the thread of life was so fragile within her that whenever you had gone the shock would have killed her.\"\n\nTheir mother's death left Joseph and Albert the only living members of the large, original family. For Joseph, Elize had been the single most important element of his youth in Hungary. When he reached the United States in 1864, he had sent her the gold coin handkerchief ring, bought with his first earnings. In St. Louis, he had shown his miniature portrait of her to all his new friends. At least twice in the intervening years, he had made the arduous trip home to Hungary to see her. In the best of circumstances, the loss of one's only surviving parent inspires self-reflection. For Joseph\u2014now thirty, and with no specific profession or even a home\u2014such introspection was demoralizing.\n\nWhenever Pulitzer was in turmoil, he would become restless and pick up and go elsewhere, as if he were searching for a geographical solution to his woes. Now he left New York and traveled to Saratoga and then to Springfield, Massachusetts. There he visited Samuel Bowles, another newspaper editor with whom he had been friends during the Liberal Republican crusade. Although Bowles edited the modest Springfield Republican, started by his father in 1824, he was one of a few editors outside New York who were nationally famous, such as Halstead in Cincinnati and Watterson in Louisville.\n\nPulitzer found the aging editor living in a beautiful ivy-covered cottage surrounded by acres of flowers, shrubbery, fountains, and walks amid maple, oak, and magnolia trees. They spent several hours together, talking politics. To his dismay, Pulitzer discovered that Bowles supported the Hayes administration. \"He may be wearied by his long fight against both parties; he may be softened by growing years and the growing sweetness of home,\" said Pulitzer. Because of Bowles's stature, Pulitzer's visit had the flavor of a pilgrimage. He shared the experience in a reverential account published in the New York Sun.\n\nThe 800-word article, filled with praise for Bowles's journalism, revealed Pulitzer's own literary growth. It was not that Pulitzer had become a polished writer. In fact, many of his allusions seemed forced, his sentences wordy even for an era of breath-challenging sentences, and his choice of vocabulary highly self-conscious. But the piece was the work of a well-read thirty-year-old immigrant comfortable in his new tongue.\n\nHe began by introducing his readers to Bowles's hometown. \"Trees remarkable for size and beauty; streets picturesquely winding over promontories; every house a garden; the silver stream of the shallow Connecticut obsequiously washing the feet of precipitous bluffs; steeped in the softest green; streets well made and rarely tidy; school houses and churches numerous and of good architecture; Swiss cottages for dwellings; wherever you look, green and air and room\u2014this is the town of Springfield, Mass.\"\n\nWith a flourish, typical of the slow-paced style of the set pieces of the era, Pulitzer laboriously\u2014as if confessing\u2014revealed that the purpose of his journey was to see Samuel Bowles. \"I am glad it is out,\" he wrote. \"With all regard for delicacy, one might as well see 'Hamlet' without the part of the Prince of Denmark as write about Springfield with Sam Bowles omitted.\"\n\nIn August, Charles Johnson came east to spend time with Pulitzer, but when he reached the Fifth Avenue Hotel he found that Pulitzer had gone to take the baths at White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. Johnson wrote and persuaded Pulitzer to meet him at Long Branch, New Jersey, a coastal resort that had become glamorous when President Grant chose to summer there. Other friends, including Alfred Townsend, joined them. They spent their days bathing in the ocean and riding horseback. \"In the evening,\" Johnson said, \"we discussed almost everything.\"\n\nPulitzer sprained his ankle and was confined to his room. Albert, who had returned from Europe, came down to stay with him. A few days later, the group left Long Branch for New York, where they took in shows, including one in an old railroad depot that had been converted by P. T. Barnum into a hippodrome named Gilmore's Garden in honor of Patrick S. Gilmore, a bandmaster whose best-known composition was \"When Johnny Comes Marching Home.\" (Two years later, the hippodrome was renamed Madison Square Garden.) Pulitzer and Hutchins tried to talk Johnson into accompanying them to the White Mountains in New Hampshire, but he declined.\n\nIn early October, Pulitzer returned to St. Louis. He saw a performance of Hamlet by Edwin Booth, the nineteenth century's most famous American Shakespearean actor (and brother of the assassin). Just as Hamlet is concerned with his famous question of being, Pulitzer still had no answer for the one that confronted him. At the end of 1877 he was no closer than four years prior, when he had left the Westliche Post, to finding a place for himself in his adopted land. Politics had let him down. After experiencing New York, St. Louis confined him. And, aside from a brief attraction to a neighbor's daughter and to one of Schurz's daughters, Pulitzer had thus far remained free of love. By the end of the month, he was on the move again, this time back to Washington.\n\n## Chapter Eleven\n\n## NANNIE AND KATE\n\nAs 1877 ended and 1878 began, Pulitzer was caught between two places, two professions, and two women. The confluence of all three problems pressed the thirty-year-old Pulitzer for decisions. \"I am almost tired of this life\u2014aimless, homeless, loveless,\" he wrote.\n\nSt. Louis grew less attractive and Pulitzer spent more time in Washington, which he had come to know while covering the 1876 election debacle for the New York Sun. His friend Hutchins had also moved to the capital and was starting a new Democratic newspaper. On December 6, 1877, the first issue of Hutchins's Washington Post hit the streets. Four pages long, it looked a lot like the St. Louis Times. Although it had no graphics, the Post was a lively contrast to the dull papers of Washington. \"The newspapers of that city were dreary mockeries of the profession,\" said the poet and journalist Eugene Field, who used to accompany Pulitzer to musical soirees with the \"five nightingales\" in St. Louis and had come to work at the Post.\n\nField was not the only one on the Post staff that Pulitzer knew. John Cockerill, whom Pulitzer befriended at the convention of 1872, had signed on as Hutchins's managing editor. Under Cockerill's rule, the Post packed in more news per square inch than any other paper in town, wrapping it around punchy editorials. The paper was an immediate hit. \"It was the marvel of Washington journalism,\" Field said. \"The newspaper world of the continent, who had no idea any good could come out of Nazareth, gaped in astonishment when this bright, saucy, vigorous bantling pranced blithely into the ring.\"\n\nJournalism, however, was not on Pulitzer's mind. He had come to Washington not as a reporter but as a lawyer for an election dispute. In Missouri's Third Congressional district, the Democrat, Richard Graham Frost, had been designated the winner, with one vote more than his Republican opponent, Lyne Metcalfe. But Metcalfe persuaded the courts to award him the seat, successfully claiming that Frost's supporters had changed a \"7\" to a \"9\" in one of the poll books to supply the winning margin. Now Frost's only remaining recourse was an appeal to the House Committee on Elections. To pursue this, Frost hired Pulitzer, whom he knew as a colleague in the St. Louis bar.\n\nThe Committee on Elections began its work in late January. Pulitzer asked the members to order that ballot boxes, roll books, election returns, and other documents be brought from Missouri to Washington. They turned him down and told him that the place for any recounting should be Missouri. The decision was a signal that he faced an uphill fight. He would have only one chance to make his client's case. The committee set February 20 as the last day it would hear any remaining arguments for why Metcalfe should not be seated.\n\nWhile awaiting judgment day, Pulitzer turned to the Washington Post. Already, the paper had given front-page coverage to the dispute and was pushing Pulitzer's argument that the race could not be decided without a recount conducted in Washington. Now Pulitzer gained access to the paper's editorial page. The resulting article was vintage Pulitzer.\n\nIf the Committee on Elections should deny Frost the seat in the House, the Post editorial began, it would simultaneously decide that he was \"a perjurer in several divers and sundry particulars.\" A decision favoring Metcalfe would mean that Frost had lied under oath. \"We do not know how the Committee will act, but we do know that there is not even a political antagonist in the Third Missouri District who would dare to question R. Graham Frost's statement under oath. In fact, those who know him prefer the simple word of R. Graham Frost to the oath of many, if not most, men. Nor do we, in the least, doubt that Mr. Frost was swindled out of his seat by a series of extraordinary frauds.\"\n\nThe editorial had little influence on the members of Congress. On the appointed day the committee listened patiently as Pulitzer read from several affidavits and begged for additional time to build his case. The following day, it unanimously turned down Pulitzer's motions for more time. The seat was Metcalfe's.\n\nDespite this loss, Washington suited Pulitzer. In the time he had spent there since the fall of 1876, he had developed a busy social life. In the first month of 1878, he was among the guests at a glamorous reception given by the Spanish legation at Wormley's Hotel in honor of their king's wedding. A week later, he was dancing to Jacques Offenbach's music at the Willard Hotel. Pulitzer also helped support the Penny Lunch Room, which opened in January to feed the many citizens who had become destitute as a result of four years of steady wage cuts caused by the economic panic of 1873. He joined a committee to raise money for this lunchroom, participated in a fund-raising ball at the Riggs House, and even ate lunch at the facility to draw attention to its work.\n\nPulitzer did not lack for friends in the capital. Anthony Ittner, who had been his roommate in Jefferson City, had been elected to the House. Hutchins hosted a popular salon in his parlors that attracted a colorful cast of characters, such as Senator Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar, who drafted the Mississippi Ordinance of Secession and served in the Confederate diplomatic corps in Russia and other places; Representative James Proctor Knott, whose humor was known to laugh a bill off the floor; and Representative Samuel Sullivan \"Sunset\" Cox, a former foot soldier with Pulitzer in the 1872 Liberal Republican campaign. The men ate and drank late into the night while the colorful Freemason Albert Pike held the floor with folktales or black singers from a nearby church performed.\n\nOn January 12, 1878, Pulitzer attended the wedding of Udo Brachvogel (who had been his housemate in St. Louis) at the First Trinity Lutheran Church, known as the German church of Washington. In his company was a twenty-five-year-old woman, tall and slim with large dark eyes set in a pale face framed with coils of dark brown hair. \"One of the belles of Washington,\" proclaimed the Post. \"One of the reigning belles of that city,\" if an out-of-town newspaper was to be believed.\n\nHer name was Kate Davis, and she was the youngest daughter of a family with both a Confederate and a social pedigree. Representative John B. Clark of Missouri, an old Confederate himself, had introduced her and Pulitzer to each other. Davis's father, William Worthington Davis, came from a Virginian family distantly related to Jefferson Davis, the president of the late Confederacy. Her mother, Catherine Worthington Davis, was a distant cousin of her father's from Baltimore, Maryland. Financially, however, the family was on a decline. William and his three brothers worked a small family farm in Tenleytown, within the city limits, with three servants who were former slaves. But to make ends meet, two of the brothers also held jobs outside the farm, and William served as a justice of the peace.\n\nThough attractive, Davis was passing the age by which most women of her time were married. Her older sister, Clara, was about to turn thirty and no closer to the altar. For his part, Pulitzer's charm, mesmerizing blue eyes, and simmering intensity made up for his awkward, gangly appearance. His intelligence, wit, evident ambition, and appearance of financial means worked to his advantage.\n\nBut to Davis's parents, a match between their daughter and Pulitzer was a mixed blessing. Pulitzer had no dependable career. He did have means, having carefully husbanded the money he made from his newspaper deals, his investment with Eads, and land he owned along the south side of the newly created Forest Park in St. Louis. On the other hand, his bloodline was not likely to impress the southern landed gentry. His remaining accent betrayed his eastern European origins, and for churchgoing Episcopalians like the Davises, the issue of his religion was a concern.\n\nTrying to hide his Jewish heritage would have been futile. Although he had stayed clear of synagogues and Jewish life in the United States, he was always immediately identified as a Jew by his friends and publicly in the press. And any illusion that he was something other would have been shattered on the wedding night, as at that time virtually only Jewish males were circumcised. Pulitzer promulgated a tale that his mother had not been Jewish but rather was Catholic. Because Judaism is a maternal religion, this claim explained his Jewish appearance but freed him from its detrimental status, particularly for a family such as the Davises.\n\nDavis was not the only woman in Pulitzer's life that spring. Nannie Tunstall, a beguiling, intense, literary twenty-four-year-old Virginian who was visiting Washington, swept him off his feet. They met while moving in similar Washington social circles. In fact, Tunstall was a friend of Brachvogel's bride and went to the wedding that Pulitzer attended in the company of Davis.\n\nBorn in a small town in Virginia, Tunstall was the daughter of a wealthy attorney who had been a state legislator and a railroad executive. The last of six children, all born on a plantation that had been in the family since the 1790s and was farmed by slaves, Tunstall was, like Pulitzer, a child of loss. Four of her siblings and her father had died when she was young, and she had been raised by her mother.\n\nWilliam Corcoran, one of the city's wealthiest men, was a friend of Tunstall's mother, and he invited Nannie to stay with him in Washington. Widowed since he was young, he liked to have company with him at all times. \"No one,\" noted the Washington Post, \"was more delighted with the society of intelligent and agreeable women than Mr. Corcoran.\" Tunstall accepted his invitation and soon became a fixture in what she called his \"enchanted castle of indolence.\"\n\nTunstall certainly filled the bill. Men were drawn to her. \"She excites admiration from all,\" said Corcoran's arts curator, who was among those smitten by Tunstall. She had melancholy eyes, set in a soft, roundish face; a slightly Roman nose; and thick, long, wavy hair. The sculptor Moses Ezekiel was so taken with her that he used her profile for a bas-relief, a bronze copy of which Corcoran purchased.\n\nTunstall was well-educated, though, like Pulitzer, she had spent little time in school. She read widely and was sufficiently fluent in German to translate poetry; she could also quote French aphorisms in her correspondence, and write poetry and fiction, eventually publishing a novel. She displayed a dramatic excitement over life, literature, and art that seemed daring among the more demure members of Washington's high society. \"I have lived fast\u2014emotionally, I have burned the candle at both ends,\" she confessed late in life.\n\nIn February, while he was courting Davis, Pulitzer also pursued Tunstall. \"Of course, I have thought of you and would like to see you,\" he wrote to her when she was visiting relatives in Baltimore. \"Of course, you want me to come over to Baltimore. Of course, you are consumed by that tender passion which I return with such powerful profundity and earnestness.\"\n\nTunstall demurely left his notes unanswered. An anxious Pulitzer wrote again. \"What day, pray? Whenever I receive the signal, Baltimore shall be invaded.\" Like a nervous suitor, he felt compelled to say more. \"Here I should stop. But I cannot,\" he continued. \"Brevity may be the soul of wit and it cannot be the wit of sympathetic souls. So I must go on and at least fill this sheet. And say\u2014what? Well, I scarcely know myself. That I have thought of you much? I see the shake of your classic head? That I have, in cold blood, determined to admire you? I see another shake of incredulity that I hope there will be a due appreciation of that admiration by your ladyship? I hope you now change your gentle shake from the skeptical to the assenting.\"\n\nAs if at the edge of a precipice, Pulitzer showed tentativeness, almost like second thoughts, referring to previous loves. \"Is it well that we should fan the embers of congeniality into lurid flames of attachment?\" he asked in one letter. \"I really do not like the glare, fear the fire. I have been burned and too often before both actually and metaphorically speaking, both internally and externally.\" Another closed with similar reluctance. \"What! This is going a little too fast, is it not?\"\n\nIn May, Tunstall put an end to Pulitzer's pursuit. Pulitzer called her letter cruel. \"It has not only unnerved my soul but blasted my hopes,\" he wrote. \"Your terrible revelation has put an awful chasm between us.\n\n\"Is there no hope? Will you not mend? Will you not begin to appreciate the rare qualities of the humble subscriber\u2014in admiring you? Cold beauty, thy lines are colder yet. The season is rapidly advancing, all nature laughs and blooms, the very air has sentiment, and poetry grains are free and sail. In your letters alone there is no spring, in your words alone still lingers cold winter. How is this for a man who is not in love?\" Pulitzer's ardor suffocated Tunstall, who planned to travel unescorted in Europe\u2014a shocking idea in her era. He was hardly the match for such a soul.\n\nOn a spring day, Samuel Bowles, the son of the late publisher of the Springfield Republican, paused for lunch while visiting Washington. As he looked around the restaurant, he saw Pulitzer lunching with the prominent suffragist Isabella Beecher Hooker. She was in the capital in hopes of advancing the passage of a constitutional amendment. Sitting at a table near the door of the restaurant, Pulitzer and Hooker attracted attention. \"The two,\" said Bowles, \"were engaged in animated conversation, no doubt discussing the merits of the Sixteenth Amendment, and the intellectual sparks were pretty surely flying, for they do not agree.\"\n\nIndeed, Pulitzer was not a supporter of women's suffrage. When he first confronted the issue as a state legislator in 1870, he seemed somewhat sympathetic. The lawmakers were considering putting a women's suffrage amendment on a statewide ballot. Before the measure failed, Pulitzer urged that women of all races over twenty-one years old be permitted to cast ballots that would be tallied separately and would not affect the outcome of the vote. But four years later, at the constitutional convention, Pulitzer lined up with opponents of women's suffrage. In fact, he was quite dismissive, suggesting that those who supported it did so only \"out of sheer gallantry and courtesy.\" He even opposed permitting widows and unmarried women over twenty-one who paid school taxes to vote in school elections.\n\nTunstall's Dear John letter left Pulitzer with only one option, which he pursued with vigor. \"If you knew,\" Pulitzer wrote to Kate Davis, \"how much I thought of you these last days and how the thought of you creeps in and connects with every contemplation and plan about the present and future, you would believe it.\n\n\"I cannot help saying that I am not worthy of such love, I am too cold and selfish, I know,\" he continued describing himself truthfully in words that might eventually haunt Davis. By his own admission, Pulitzer was driven by speculative impulses. Until now, his life had unfolded as an undirected but singular pursuit of his own goals, with no care for others. \"Still I am not without honor, and that alone would compel me to strive to become worthy of you, worthy of your faith and love, worthy of a better and finer future.\n\n\"There now,\" he wrote, \"you have my first love letter.\"\n\nPulitzer longed not just for stability, professionally and otherwise, but also for affection and companionship. The deaths in his family led him to think of himself as an orphan, and his competitive relationship with Albert, his only surviving sibling, kept the two apart. Pulitzer frankly described his life to Davis in melancholy terms, a life void of purpose, love, and a home. \"I am impatient to turn over a new leaf and start a new life\u2014one of which home must be the foundation, affection, ambition and occupation the corner stones, and you, my dear, my inseparable companion.\"\n\nThey planned a June wedding in Washington. As the date neared, Pulitzer gave Davis many reasons to reconsider. He vacillated on their plans for a honeymoon in Europe. One moment he wanted to rearrange the departure date so as to travel with his actor friend John McCullough, who was appearing at the National Theater. Next, when Pulitzer heard of a newspaper for sale, he broached the idea that they shouldn't go overseas after all.\n\n\"You can now see yourself what an utterly inconsistent, uncertain and inconsistent chap I am,\" he wrote to Davis. He said he could not make up his mind even as to where they would settle. \"Funny situation, isn't it? As if to give you a foretaste of the future, you are met by difficulties even before you start on that lifelong journey which philosophers call so perilous; whatever may be thought of your indiscretion, my child, your pluck is really splendid.\"\n\nA week before the wedding Pulitzer dashed off to New York, again in pursuit of a newspaper. \"Prospects look quite favorable for a consummation of a bargain,\" he wrote, without identifying the prospect\u2014probably the New York Mail, which was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. He admitted that he knew his fianc\u00e9e was upset by his absence on the eve of their wedding. \"It is an important opportunity, perhaps a fortune, and you ought not to expect me to neglect it.\n\n\"I must have business to occupy my mind and heart,\" Pulitzer continued, \"you do the latter. Occupation will do the former,\" in an accurate forecast of the years that lay ahead. \"Make all arrangements, complete every preparation upon the assumption that I will be with you on Monday for that important ceremony, thereafter to stay with you forever.\"\n\nThe ceremony actually didn't take place until Wednesday, June 19, 1878. At eight o'clock in the evening, Pulitzer and Davis stood at an altar before a congregation of 100 in the Church of the Epiphany, on G Street in Washington, the church to which the Davis family had belonged almost since its inception in 1842. Theirs was a parish of the powerful and wealthy. In the 1870s, the capital's elite had a choice of four Episcopal churches. The Church of the Epiphany and St. John's were the only two in the mostly residential portions of downtown surrounding the White House. But while the latter served as a house of worship for presidents, the former was larger, more elegant, and more desirable.\n\nPrior to the Civil War, the congregants of the Church of the Epiphany had strong sympathies toward the South. Among their ranks was Kate Davis's distant cousin Jefferson Davis. Those members of the lost cause who had returned to Washington since the war also came back to the church. Sitting on the bride's side of the aisle were Senator Lamar of Mississippi, who knew Pulitzer from Hutchins's salon; Senator John Brown Gordon of Georgia, a lieutenant general in the Confederate army; and Representative John Ezekiel Ellis of Louisiana, a Confederate veteran who had been a prisoner of war.\n\nThere were former Confederates on the groom's side also: two Missouri Democrats now in Congress. They were joined by other politicians with whom Pulitzer had become friends in a decade of electoral work. In all, one-third of Missouri's congressional delegation was in attendance, along with friends such as Hutchins and the bridge builder James Eads.\n\nThe newlyweds, whose union the politicians, publishers, judges, and notables had come to celebrate, were a study in contrast. The bride was refined, delicate, and graceful. \"A more gentle or lovely bride was never led to the altar than she,\" wrote Hutchins for the front page of the Washington Post the next morning. Her betrothed towered over her with angular awkwardness. When they knelt before the altar, Pulitzer was gripped with anxiety about his shoes. His feet were larger than normal, and the soles of his shoes had been chalked with his room number by the hotel staff, who polished them overnight. \"I thought with dismay that the people in the back of me would think that I wore No. 17 shoes.\"\n\nThe Reverend John H. Chew pronounced the couple man and wife, and the Hungarian Jew entered the ranks of one of Washington's most established Episcopal congregations. A union with Davis, unlike one with Tunstall, offered considerable benefits. Her family, her pedigree, and her religion completed Pulitzer's metamorphosis. Success, power, and wealth in the United States had only one place of worship, the Episcopal church. Appropriately, the three-paneled stained-glass window above the altar depicted Epiphany, the moment when Jews and Gentiles came together before Christ.\n\nIn the fourteen years since his arrival on the shores of the United States, Pulitzer had been a carriage driver, waiter, steamador, journalist, politician, and lawyer. He had shed most traces of his immigrant origins. He had money and a beautiful bride. Still, for all that, Pulitzer remained rudderless. As he walked down the aisle with Kate, he saw the pews filled with his closest friends, each with a successful career, the one thing he still lacked.\n\n## Part II\n\n## 1878\u20131888\n\n## Chapter Twelve\n\n## A PAPER OF HIS OWN\n\nIn the early morning of July 6, 1878, a carriage ferrying Joseph and Kate Pulitzer made its way across Manhattan and joined a procession of others heading for Pier 52, between West Twelfth and West Fourteenth streets, where the Britannic awaited the last of its Liverpool-bound passengers. The newlyweds were among a select group of 175 persons who paid between $160 and $200 in gold for first-class cabins on the White Star Line steamship. The fare was four times what the 1,500 men, women, and children jammed below in steerage paid. The Pulitzers were given staterooms in the middle of the ship, insulated from engine noise and less susceptible to the motion of the waves. By ten o'clock that morning, the Britannic set sail and soon cleared Sandy Hook, reaching open water and refreshing ocean breezes.\n\nOstensibly, Kate and Joseph were off on a two-month honeymoon. But Kate soon learned, or may already have deduced from Joseph's frenetic business pursuits on the eve of their wedding, that her husband's attention would never be hers alone, even on a honeymoon. His mind constantly churned with political and business schemes. As soon as they reached England, Joseph dived into the newspapers, making careful note of everything he read, and buttonholed all he met to ask endless questions.\n\nHaving spent all his adult life in the United States, Pulitzer now looked at European life from an American perspective. Landing in England, he was struck by the rigidity of class. The British, he concluded, deluded themselves into thinking that their democracy and court system were open and fair. \"A people with such inequalities, such artificial and unnatural arrangements and laws, are like a woman who uses French heels, tight lacing, and paints,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"While they look well, they are like the red decayed apple. As the continuous tight lacing will ruin the woman's lungs and vital organs, and retard the free pulsation of the blood, so will the artificial and unjust arrangements of government eventually ruin the body politic.\"\n\nWhen Joseph and Kate reached Germany, he was outraged by the destruction of political freedom caused by Chancellor Otto von Bismarck's drive to suppress an emerging socialist movement. \"There was not a single day,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"in which I did not hear, either through the press, or conversation, of cases so arbitrary and unjust, so cruel and despotic, that they would be appalling to any American.\" What he witnessed fueled his nascent fear of leaders who traded on the passions and prejudices of the masses. \"People without liberty have despots. People with too much liberty have demagogues. Both agree in abusing liberty,\" wrote Pulitzer. \"The despot thinks there is too much of it. The demagogue thinks there is not enough. The despot rules from fear of demagogues; the demagogue from fear of despots.\" This fear of demagoguery remained with Pulitzer all his life. Years later, it would cause him to be one of the only progressive-minded leaders to be on the outs when William Jennings Bryan and Teddy Roosevelt took hold of the American imagination.\n\nTo Kate's relief, politics did not consume the entire honeymoon. In Paris the Pulitzers toured the dazzling Exposition Universelle. The exhibits came from all across the globe and included such American technological marvels as Alexander Graham Bell's telephone and Thomas Edison's phonograph. Also on display was the completed head of Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric-Auguste Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty. Several years earlier, the French sculptor had begun designing and casting the 150-foot statue, to be presented to the United States on its centenary in 1876. The plan called for French citizens to pay for the statue and for American citizens to pay for the pedestal and foundation. The French were meeting their end of the deal, but the Americans were not.\n\nIn Paris, Kate visited the city's fabled couturiers and Joseph indulged her expensive tastes. She also experienced, perhaps for the first time, Joseph's quick anger. As a joke she told him she had purchased a cook-stove. He believed her and erupted in anger at her presumed foolishness. But his temper was also short-lived. Kate left Paris pregnant.\n\nThe two-month honeymoon came to a close on September 4, when the Pulitzers returned to New York on board the Russia, a modest, aging ship of the Cunard Line. The passage presented one of those singular moments in history when two figures whose names will become closely linked pass by each other unknowingly. In New York, among the passengers preparing to board the ship for its return to Europe was fifteen-year-old William Randolph Hearst, accompanied by his mother.\n\nThe Pulitzers' European sojourn became a little more costly when customs officials peered into Kate's two trunks. Her Paris dresses caught their attention. One appeared not to have been worn. In the past, clothing bought overseas that had \"actual use\" was exempt from import duties. But stricter instructions now required that agents assess duty on almost any garment bought overseas unless the passenger was actually wearing it when disembarking. The agents were just about to let Kate's dress pass when one of them spotted a Treasury inspector looking their way. They stopped the Pulitzers and told Joseph he would have to pay a duty on the dress. He protested, and a superior was summoned who, in turn, called an appraiser over to join the debate. After an hour of listening to Pulitzer's pleas, the officials who had gathered around the trunks remained unmoved. Unless he paid the $60 duty in gold coins, they said, his luggage would be confiscated. Pulitzer paid.\n\nBecause Pulitzer hated President Hayes, he viewed the episode as a personal affront and an example of the administration's corruption. He dispatched a tempestuous letter to Charles Dana's New York Sun, which had already reported the incident (though misidentifying Pulitzer as a former lieutenant governor). \"Immediately next to me were two parties, each with probably five times the number of trunks and boxes,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"Not one of those was opened at all\u2014everything was passed smoothly and quickly. Why? Perhaps because at least one of the parties slipped a piece of paper into the hand of his inspector, which probably partook the character of legal tender.\"\n\nAt the Sun, Pulitzer met with Dana. The aging editor still held Pulitzer in high regard and agreed to publish his reflections on politics in England, France, and Germany. The resulting six pieces, which ran in the Sun's September and October editions, not only contained astute observations but also displayed the thinking of a writer who had now developed a mature political philosophy. In comparison with the rush-to-judgment style of Pulitzer's articles in the Westliche Post, or even his recent dispatches for the Sun during the Hayes-Tilden electoral dispute, the articles\u2014essays, really\u2014were dispassionate analyses.\n\nAfter dissecting German, French, and British society and politics, Pulitzer reserved his last essay for an ode to his adopted land. He constructed an imaginary conversation between an American and a European in which the latter pointed out the many imperfections of democracy in the United States. Was not the selection of Hayes as president a violation of the nation's constitutional practices? the European asked. True, replied the American, but Hayes, unlike a European monarch, will hold office for only four years. Not one to give up easily, the European continued his faultfinding and pointed to American women who sought to marry noblemen. Surely, he said, this proves that Americans look to Europe as a model. No, replied the American, it shows only the mercenary qualities of our women.\n\nThe most singular moment in Pulitzer's imaginary dialogue occurred when the European challenged the premise of universal male suffrage, one of Pulitzer's most sacred beliefs since his entry into politics. Citing Alexis de Tocqueville, Pulitzer conceded that the extension of voting rights did indeed have a tendency to elevate mediocrity, perhaps a lesson taught by the sting of the elections of 1872 and 1876. But it was a fallacy to conclude that universal suffrage was the linchpin of democracy, said Pulitzer's alter ego in the article. \"The great advantages of our system certainly do not consist in giving every man a vote but in giving every man a better chance for life than other governments allow.\"\n\nAlthough long-winded, a bit showy, and at times wandering off the track, the articles were the equal of any in this genre published in New York newspapers. Dana even granted Pulitzer a byline, reinforcing his success in English-language journalism. In fact, the articles marked Pulitzer's complete transformation into an American. Never once mentioning his foreign birth, Pulitzer had opened his series of articles proclaiming, \"The more I see of Europe, the more American I become.\" He confessed his love for the opera houses, museums, castles, and new palaces of Europe. But he also wrote, \"However great the treasures of art, I prefer the treasures of liberty.\" Expressing a sentiment similar to that which brought his brother Albert to the United States, Joseph added, \"I like still more our plain land without the glare of royalty or nobility.\"\n\nThe articles in the New York Sun, though glamorous, brought Pulitzer no closer to finding suitable employment, a more pressing problem now that he was married. But while languishing in New York, Pulitzer heard that the Dispatch, a struggling evening paper in St. Louis, was going to be auctioned off at a bankruptcy sale. He knew the paper well. Stilson Hutchins and Charles Johnson had taken turns owning the Dispatch, but neither had made a go of it. Pulitzer telegraphed Johnson as well as John Marmaduke, a former Confederate general who edited an agricultural magazine and had discovered a new lost cause as an agitator against the increasing power of railroads. Pulitzer told them that he and his bride were leaving for St. Louis and that they were to meet him at the Lindell Hotel.\n\nThe St. Louis at the end of the train ride was greatly changed from the one that had greeted Pulitzer thirteen years earlier. It was now a thriving industrial and commercial city whose air was so thick with smoke that only a dome or two could be seen through the haze from the train as it crossed the Eads Bridge. When Johnson and Marmaduke met Pulitzer at the hotel, he revealed his plans. He told them he had returned to take a shot at buying the Dispatch. The men were enthusiastic\u2014especially Johnson, who had long pressed Pulitzer to abandon his off-and-on legal career. \"I zealously urged him to embark on the newspaper business,\" said Johnson.\n\nEncouraged, Pulitzer next went to see Daniel Houser, the part owner of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, to whom he had sold the AP membership four years earlier. For several evenings Houser and Pulitzer worked on the financial numbers. Houser guessed that Pulitzer might win the auction with a bid of $1,500 to $1,700. Pulitzer had $5,000 in savings, so at that price the paper would be within his reach. Operating the paper, however, was an unresolved question. If Pulitzer could not eliminate its daily deficit, his cash would last only seventeen weeks.\n\nIn the early morning of December 9, 1878, the day of the auction, Pulitzer strolled from the Lindell Hotel to the nearby courthouse\u2014a Greek Revival building with a cast-iron dome modeled after St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. By the time he reached the courthouse, a small crowd was already milling around the east side; its members were doing their best to stay warm in the frigid air\u2014this December was one of the coldest months since the city had begun keeping records. Pulitzer knew just about everyone among the thirty or so men, and they, him. \"The tall, graceful figure and pale Mephistophelean face of Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, with its expression of keen irony, was the object of marked attention,\" wrote a reporter.\n\nThere were actually two newspapers on the auction block that day. An eight-year-old failed newspaper, the St. Louis Journal, was expected to sell for less than the value of its presses, type, and furniture. The Dispatch, however, had greater potential. It had been founded as the St. Louis Union in 1862 by the late U.S. senator Frank P. Blair, to counter the Missouri Democrat's support of John Fr\u00e9mont, who was running against President Lincoln. Two years later, Johnson and a group of investors had bought the failing St. Louis Union and converted it to an evening publication called the Dispatch. During the following years, the Dispatch continued to change hands as different publishers took turns failing to make it financially viable. By 1878, its most recent set of owners could find no one else on whom to unload it, and the sheriff ordered a bankruptcy sale.\n\nDespite its miserable track record, the Dispatch still appealed to newspapermen. Among those who came to watch the auction were Houser; the former governor Gratz Brown, now working as an attorney representing the party who held a $15,000 mortgage on the Dispatch; John and George Knapp, owners of the Missouri Republican, and their editor William Hyde; and John A. Dillon of the Evening Post. The assembled newspapermen, lawyers, bankers, and judges tried to guess what the Dispatch might fetch. Some thought it might sell for as much as $40,000. The auctioneer suggested that the AP membership alone would be worth at least $20,000, an estimate inspired by Pulitzer's well-rememberd profit in buying and selling the Staats-Zeitung in 1874. This time, however, there was no paper in town so badly in need of the AP. The more reasonable men who were present had only modest expectations for the sale, and some had none. Asked what he would pay the paper, William Hyde replied, \"I would not give a damn for it.\"\n\nWithin a few minutes of Pulitzer's arrival at the courthouse, the auctioneer climbed onto a chair. \"I propose to sell for cash two newspapers\u2014two live papers,\" he said, drawing laughter. Reviewing the lamentable histories of the two papers, he said that they had sometimes made money, but at other times they had not. Again, the audience guffawed. Those who held unpaid financial notes did not share in the merriment. Brown grabbed the auctioneer's chair and warned potential buyers that anyone who purchased one of the two newspapers would be liable for the $15,000 mortgage.\n\nIt took only a moment to dispense with the Journal. It fetched $600. \"Gentlemen,\" the auctioneer said, \"I now propose to sell you the Evening Dispatch, a paper that will live when all the other evening papers are dead.\" After more laughter, the bidding began. Simon J. Arnold, who worked for the city collector, Meyer Rosenblatt, went first, offering $1,000. Rosenblatt was an important figure in the city's Republican politics, and it was presumed that Arnold was doing his bidding. He wasn't. He was Pulitzer's Trojan horse. Pulitzer knew if he were to openly join the bidding, others would assume that he had seen in the paper something of value that had escaped their attention, and the price would soar. Arnold's opening move was countered with a bid for $1,500. The gathered men were baffled. The other bidder, standing behind the crowd in a hallway, was a complete stranger. A reporter asked his name. \"I'll tell you after a while,\" he replied.\n\nArnold raised his bid to $2,000. The mysterious man topped it with a bid for $2,100. Pulitzer remained silent. His well-made plan seemed to be unraveling. At $3,000, Arnold gave up and walked away. The unidentified man had topped Pulitzer's man by $100. The auctioneer declared the auction over. Pulitzer's game was up. He would not be the new owner of the Dispatch. But a commotion arose when the anonymous figure did not come to the front to claim his prize. In fact, he had vanished. Arnold rushed back and announced that he would still be willing to pay $2,500. His offer was accepted, and Arnold and the auctioneer retired to offices across the street to complete the transaction. The identity of the other bidder never emerged.\n\nDuring the confusion at the end of the auction, Pulitzer slipped away unnoticed. But a reporter caught up with him as he stepped into the elevator at his hotel and pressed him for an interview. \"I would grant your rather sudden request with the greatest of pleasure,\" Pulitzer said, \"if it were not for the unfortunate fact that I have been engaged all day, and now am going to see my wife for the first time since breakfast this morning, and I know you wouldn't detain even a humble individual like myself from the bosom of his family for so long a period. Even if the imperious necessities of metropolitan journalism...\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Pulitzer, only a question,\" broke in the reporter. \"You have bought the Dispatch, I understand, and I would like you...\"\n\nNow it was Pulitzer's turn to interrupt. \"My dear fellow, without presuming to criticize your intelligence or acumen, which I would hardly dare to question, are you not assuming too much? I own the Dispatch\u2014I?\"\n\nThe cat-and-mouse game continued as Pulitzer feigned ignorance, pretended to be unacquainted with Arnold, and conceded only that it was \"possible\" though not \"probable\" that he had bought the Dispatch. The reporter gave up. \"No one better understands the use of language for the purpose for which Talleyrand said it was given\u2014to conceal one's thoughts\u2014than Mr. Pulitzer,\" wrote the frustrated reporter. \"He parries the question like a skillful fencer, and it is as hard to pin him to a point as it is an eel.\"\n\nThe following day, all the newspapers reported that Pulitzer was the new owner, but he had yet to confirm his purchase publicly. \"The all-absorbing question this morning in newspaper circles was, had Mr. Joseph Pulitzer really bought the Evening Dispatch?\" asked Dillon at the Evening Post. Gossip had it that Pulitzer intended to merge the Dispatch with another paper. \"There are so many rumors afloat about evening journalism in St. Louis that we should not be surprised, as the result of all of them, to hear the newsboys crying out 'the Dispatch-Journal-Post-Star,'\" wrote Mack at the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. The rumor of a merger worried Dillon. A combination of the Dispatch and Star could destroy his Evening Post. He wanted to know Pulitzer's plans without disclosing his own fears. He sent one of his reporters off to find Pulitzer and see what could be learned.\n\nLocating Pulitzer was not easy. At the Dispatch's office, the reporter found two or three employees sitting around, idly passing the time with the paper's attorney. Pulitzer was expected, they said. By nine-thirty he had not arrived. Impatient, the reporter left. He spotted his quarry on the street, across from the offices of the Westliche Post. That was, however, the extent of his good luck. Pulitzer was still uncooperative. \"I do not know that I am the owner of the Dispatch,\" he said. \"I do not know that I have authorized anybody to say that I bought it or that I intend to buy it.\"\n\nFrustrated, the reporter walked to the city collector's office, where Arnold, who had placed the winning bid, was employed. He spoke with Rosenblatt, Arnold's boss.\n\n\"Did you buy the paper for Mr. Pulitzer?\"\n\n\"The Dispatch was purchased for Mr. Joseph Pulitzer,\" replied Rosenblatt.\n\n\"This, of course,\" the reporter said, \"looked like a positive thing, but why on earth was Mr. Pulitzer playing the sphinx?\"\n\nThe answer was not hard to fathom. His dodges were designed to fan public interest. He had been similarly dishonest with the St. Louis press corps when the sale of the Westliche Post was rumored, and he had also done this when he bought the Staats-Zeitung. In this present instance, his evasions served to increase the mystery surrounding his actions. The more he could get the St. Louis press to talk about the sale of the paper, the more papers he would sell.\n\nFinally, at noon, Pulitzer walked into the Dispatch's office in the company of the lawyer William Patrick, who had once used Pulitzer as an errand boy. The auctioneer, who had been cooling his heels in the office, rose from his seat. \"Mr. Pulitzer comes to take formal possession of the Evening Dispatch, and will henceforth be considered its proprietor,\" he announced. \"I only take possession temporarily and subject to future possibilities,\" said Pulitzer, quickly retiring to an editorial room upstairs. The two reporters on duty, though bewildered by Pulitzer's cryptic remark, went to work rushing out an edition of the Dispatch with what little they could gather in the way of news after having spent the day in idleness.\n\nPulitzer's antics gained him a second day of front-page coverage in the morning papers. At the Globe-Democrat, McCullagh greeted Pulitzer's return to journalism in St. Louis with a warmhearted editorial. As a statesman, Pulitzer had not been very successful, he said. \"What he failed to accomplish with an eloquent tongue, he may yet achieve with a brilliant pen. If the world was made no better by Mr. Pulitzer as an orator, it will, we trust, be made wiser by Mr. Pulitzer as an editor.\"\n\nBuying the St. Louis Dispatch was easy compared with the next hurdle Pulitzer faced. His cash would last only a few weeks; and unlike the Staats-Zeitung, the Dispatch had no salable assets with which he could turn a quick profit. Rather, Pulitzer's only option was to find new readers and do it quickly.\n\nSt. Louisans already had two other English-language afternoon newspapers: the Evening Star and the Evening Post. Unlike the morning newspapers, neither of these was well established. The Star had started publishing only a few days earlier, but it had strong financial backing. It counted prominently among its investors Thomas Allen, a railroad magnate and aspiring politician, whose children Albert had tutored one summer. He was sinking money in it, in the hope of having a paper to support his planned bid for the U.S. Senate.\n\nThe Evening Post, which had been launched eleven months earlier, had the lion's share of readers. Its publisher, Dillon, who looked like a patrician and wore a handlebar mustache, was about Pulitzer's age, was also an experienced journalist, and had similar political leanings. Otherwise the two men were very different. Dillon had been born into one of the leading families of St. Louis. His father was an Irish immigrant merchant who made a considerable sum in real estate. In 1861, the younger Dillon went to Harvard, rather than to war, and returned home an urbane and well-read gentleman. He won the hand of a daughter of one of the French families who founded St. Louis, and the couple spent a two-year honeymoon in Rome\u2014the same years when Pulitzer was struggling to get a foothold in St. Louis.\n\nTheir honeymoon ended when Dillon's father died. The engineer James Eads had been appointed executor of the estate, and Dillon discovered that much of his inheritance was tied up in Eads's chancy bridge project. To protect his investment, he became secretary-treasurer of the Illinois\u2013St. Louis Bridge Company. Five years later, when the family's financial affairs were secure, Dillon sought an escape from the dull work. McCullagh offered him a job on the Globe-Democrat. Under the guidance of the venerable editor, Dillon developed into an editorial writer of some distinction. His thoughtful writing was graceful and refined. He was soon a well-known figure in St. Louis journalism. In 1878, Dillon decided the time had come to establish his own newspaper. His wife, Blanche, supplied the necessary funds.\n\nDillon's Evening Post was an odd amalgam of his own refined, lofty writing style and McCullagh's muscular journalism. Its coverage of society news appealed to the city's elite but did not lure the potentially large audience for an afternoon paper. This was of some comfort to Pulitzer as he took the helm of the dead-in-the-water Dispatch. On one flank he faced a new, untested afternoon paper, the Star; and on the other the more established paper, the Post, stalled in its search for readers. There was bound to be an opportunity for the Dispatch.\n\nAlthough the flagging fortunes of the three evening papers discouraged others from venturing into the business, Pulitzer was undeterred. He was convinced that evening papers had a great future. He was right. The advent of the telegraph and faster printing presses made it possible to publish an afternoon newspaper with news as fresh as that day, making morning papers look as if they were publishing yesterday's news, which, in fact, they were. Urbanites, particularly workers and professionals heading home, had a voracious appetite for news and were primed to buy an evening paper. Gaslight, and then electric light, also made the newspaper an important evening pastime. In a few years, evening newspapers would outnumber morning ones.\n\nPulitzer openly professed his faith in the evening press within days of buying the Dispatch. \"Whether it be a collision in the Sea of Marmosa, a battle in the Peiwar Pass, a revolution in the Sultan's palace, or a row in the British Cabinet, the evening paper is invariably the first to give the news,\" Pulitzer told his readers. \"Moreover, it reaches the subscriber when he has time to read a paper. In a city, as least, there are about three times as many people who have leisure for an evening paper as there are for a morning paper. It is merely a question whether the evening paper can occupy the field, and we propose to occupy it.\"\n\nPulitzer's timing was perfect. Not only were evening papers on the rise, but production and newsprint costs were decreasing. Publishers could offer readers more for their money or drop the price. Either strategy provided a stable financial footing, permitting newspapers to wean themselves from subsidies, direct or indirect, from political parties. With this prosperity, an increasing number of newspapers began to call themselves \"independent.\" The more independent a newspaper became, the more it drew readers seeking objective news, entertainment, and advertising to guide their growing purchases. In other words, becoming an independent newspaper was as much an economic as a political decision. \"Business prosperity,\" noted the Chicago Tribune, \"has increased with all papers in the proportion that they have maintained their independence and their freedom.\"\n\nPulitzer gambled he could ride these trends to journalistic and financial success. His business acumen drove him. Although he was at times an innovator in journalism, this was not his strength. Rather, he possessed remarkable foresight and had an uncanny ability to recognize value where others didn't. He was willing to take risks based on his insights when others remained timid.\n\nBut none of Pulitzer's ambitious plans would bear fruit on the minuscule subscription rolls of the Dispatch. So, like a bridge player, Pulitzer relied on his strong suit. He owned an AP membership, whereas Dillon's Post made do with a weaker alternative, the National Associated Press. Dillon could survive without an authentic AP membership, but he feared doing battle with the well-equipped Pulitzer, and he still worried that the Dispatch might combine forces with the Star.\n\nPulitzer's ploy worked. Within twenty-four hours, Dillon agreed to merge his paper with Pulitzer's. A merger made good sense. Pulitzer and Dillon shared essentially the same reformist political views. For Dillon, the merger would prevent a potentially disastrous circulation fight. For Pulitzer, it would bring readers and, most important, time.\n\nThe two men decided that their respective enterprises were worth $15,000 each. They created a new corporation that issued 300 shares, valued at $100 each. Blanche Dillon, who had funded the Post, retained 149 shares; Pulitzer had 149; and two shares were assigned to William Patrick, Pulitzer's attorney, who drew up the papers. Dillon took the posts of president and managing editor, and Pulitzer became vice president and political editor. But the agreement made it clear that Pulitzer renounced no editorial power by accepting the post of second in command. At the last minute, a clause was added to the final text, specifying that he \"should write upon any subject political or otherwise without reservation.\"\n\nDillon agreed to give Pulitzer free rein because financially he was bringing the most to the table. Although his Dispatch had fewer readers and was encumbered by a $15,000 lien from an unpaid mortgage, Pulitzer agreed to fund an expansion of the combined newspapers. Under the terms of the deal, he promised to lend up to $10,000 at 5 percent interest. No mention was made of where Pulitzer, who was down to his last reserves, would obtain such a sum.\n\nThe next day, Pulitzer abandoned the Dispatch's headquarters and its staff. Only one employee was invited to come with Pulitzer, and he refused. Wearing a soft hat and a blue chinchilla overcoat, Pulitzer moved what little was worth keeping to the offices of the Evening Post on Pine Street, just blocks from where he had lived when he was a reporter for the Westliche Post. The following day, the new Post and Dispatch appeared.\n\nThe new paper was physically unchanged by the merger. It remained four pages long, except on Saturdays, when it promised that it might be as long as ten pages. The details of the merger were to be kept secret but were described as \"decreed by immutable destiny\" in an editorial that bore all the marks of Pulitzer's hand. The editorial promised that the combination of an almost dead newspaper with another less than a year old would create a publication that would be \"one of the best established among the newspapers of the country.\"\n\nPulitzer's dominance of the combined papers was in evidence all across the editorial page. He declared the paper's political independence. \"The Post and Dispatch will serve no party but the people; will be no organ of 'Republicanism,' but the organ of truth; will follow no caucuses but its own convictions; will not support the 'Administration,' but criticize it; will oppose all frauds and shams wherever and whatever they are; will advocate principles and ideas rather than prejudices and partisanship.\"\n\nThe declaration was disingenuous. The merger agreement specified that the Post and Dispatch \"would be independent with a Democratic leaning.\" A careful reading of Pulitzer's announcement made the preference clear. The Democrats remained the chosen tribe. But the declaration was the first pronouncement of what would become a tenet of Pulitzerian journalism. In his hands, independent journalism was a political tool. By building journalistic credibility with readers, a newspaper could build independent political power. For Pulitzer, journalism was another route to power.\n\nAnyone who knew Pulitzer knew that power was something he did not readily share. McCullagh, at the Globe-Democrat, foresaw trouble for his prot\u00e9g\u00e9. To succeed, Dillon would have to tone down \"the crude products of Pulitzer's fiery and untamed brain,\" said McCullagh. This was such a tall order that should he succeed, McCullagh added, Dillon could retire to harness zebras in the wild.\n\n## Chapter Thirteen\n\n## SUCCESS\n\nBefore the Post and Dispatch was a month old, Pulitzer announced that larger quarters and faster presses were needed to meet the surging demand for it. This was sheer chutzpah. St. Louisans weren't exactly rushing into the streets to buy the paper. True, circulation neared 4,000. But Dillon and Pulitzer had merged their subscription lists. The actual number of new subscribers was low\u2014hardly a groundswell straining the capacity of the Globe-Democrat's presses, which printed the Post and Dispatch. In fact, Pulitzer's plan seemed economically suicidal.\n\nIn the following weeks, money slipped rapidly from Dillon and Pulitzer's hands. They leased a building at 111 North Fifth Street that had once been the home of the Evening Dispatch. Crews moved in to make needed repairs and alterations. Pulitzer and Dillon ordered one of Richard M. Hoe & Company's newest and speediest four-cylinder presses, capable of printing the paper's entire press run in less than an hour. To old hands in the St. Louis press corps, the expense was unjustified. So far, except for Pulitzer's friends in politics and journalism, few people were paying any attention to the Post and Dispatch. Although it led the Star, the other afternoon paper, its circulation was one-tenth that of the leading morning newspapers. The essential problem remained. New readers were needed. And for that to happen, the paper had to be noticed.\n\nYears before, when he worked at the Westliche Post, Pulitzer had gained attention with his crusading reporting, exposing corruption in the county government and exhorting readers to action. Now, with an entire newspaper at his disposal, he went at it again, but this time he selected a larger target. He took aim at the oligarchs who controlled the city's economic life. \"The trouble in St. Louis is not with either our masses or merchants or middle classes,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"but those whose wealth would seem to make it their own interest to lead in every measure of enterprise, but who do not lead, nor even sometimes follow.\"\n\nHe was on to something. Like many other cities of the era, St. Louis had long been under the control of a wealthy, privileged elite. This was not really a matter of corruption and graft, although those, too, certainly existed. Rather, a cabal, comprising many of the descendants of early settlers, ruthlessly safeguarded its own economic interests. City laws ensured that only a select group obtained lucrative business monopolies or provided such public services as streetcar lines and gaslights. By the middle of the 1870s, a growing number of merchants, professionals, and small businessmen chafed under the economic restrictions and monopolistic behavior of this elite. A newspaper that espoused their cause would find a ready audience.\n\nIn January 1879 the St. Louis Gas-Light Company quietly sought to regain its financial stranglehold on its customers. For years, this monopoly had forced St. Louisans to pay the highest rates in the nation for heat and light, making a staggering 73 percent profit. But this profitable arrangement was shattered when a court sided with a plan to cancel the gas company's exclusive franchise. Under the pretense of offering a compromise plan, the company promised to pay all the city's legal fees from the lengthy court fight if the city council restored the monopoly. If not for Pulitzer, the plan might have worked.\n\nLike an editorial Paul Revere, Pulitzer sounded the alarm. \"This is no compromise,\" he roared from the pages of his paper. \"Hands Off! No surrender to the monopoly.\" The proposal, he said, reminded him of an old tale about a white man and an Indian dividing a buzzard and a turkey. \"Whichever way the proposition is turned, it is the same\u2014the city gets the buzzard, the Gas Company all the turkey.\" This first volley was followed by another the next day. \"The most objectionable feature of this business is that its only possibility of success depends upon bribery,\" Pulitzer said. \"Yes, we write it deliberately, bribery.\" Lawyers who had previously sold the city's residents into monopolistic bondage were willing to do it again, he continued. \"This is an open and unblushing bid to bribe the lawyers of the city by the payment of large fees.\"\n\nEvery day for the next two weeks, Pulitzer shoehorned into the paper articles that detailed the monopolistic practices of the gas company and featured poignant interviews with victimized customers. The flurry of articles, as well as the continuous stream of editorials\u2014appearing, as they usually did, under the banner headline NO COMPROMISE! NO COMPROMISE! NO COMPROMISE!\u2014caught the city's attention. None of the other English-speaking newspapers joined the campaign, and certainly not The Republican, whose editor, William Hyde, was a mouthpiece for the oligarchs.\n\nAs the campaign ground on, the paper began to sound like a one-note composition. Pulitzer needed another campaign that would goad the oligarchs and attract readers. His staff obliged him by obtaining copies of the tax returns of the city's richest residents. Kept in the assessor's office, the returns were public documents, but they cast an embarrassing hue when published in a newspaper for all to see. Under the headline TAX DODGING: WHOLESALE PERJURY AS A FINE ART, Pulitzer published the financial declarations\u2014especially the dishonest ones\u2014of the city's wealthiest men. The declarations were damning. For example, despite being reputed to be the city's wealthiest resident, one man reported having no money in the bank or on hand and listed the value of his personal property at less than $3,000. No one escaped exposure. Judges, lawyers, politicians, and even members of the St. Louis press, such as Hyde, McCullagh, and Preetorius, found their incomplete tax returns in the paper.\n\nWhen citizens file incomplete returns, Pulitzer told readers, \"they commit\u2014to use the mildest term possible\u2014a falsehood, both ridiculous and monstrous. And a much stronger term could be used without the danger of libel suits.\" To prove its point, the Post and Dispatch reprinted the text of the taxpayers' oath each day, with the headline WHAT TAX-DODGERS SWEAR AND SWALLOW. Pulitzer, who had lied in official oaths himself, told his readers that his paper's reporting revealed \"that honor and honesty, law and oath even, are palpably violated by some of our 'eminently respectable' and 'most prominent' citizens.\"\n\nThe gas campaign yielded a victory. The city rejected the plan in late February. The tax expos\u00e9, however, failed. A grand jury was convened but decided that there was nothing to probe, because the state law was so full of loopholes.\n\nPulitzer concluded that reporting alone wouldn't build circulation no matter how great the story, unless one trumpeted it. To that end, he sent his reporters out to interview citizens about the tax abuses and then published reports on what they thought. This ploy paid a double dividend. It permitted the newspaper to publicize its own gallant work\u2014THE POST AND DISPATCH MEETS WITH GENERAL APPROVAL, read one headline\u2014and it ensured that even people who didn't read the paper learned of its contents. Pulitzer was convinced that news reporting could be combined with promotion, and he pushed his staff to do both. A typical headline would invariably include a subhead such as \"Another Exposure by the Post and Dispatch.\" By March, his efforts had secured 540 new readers, an outstanding growth rate that, if maintained, promised profits by the end of the year.\n\nTreating every aspect of city life as unexplored territory, Pulitzer commissioned articles on who lived in the alleys and byways. \"Tramps, Darkeys, Goats and Garbage\" were what the reporter found. Pulitzer sent his staff to learn who owned the houses that were used as brothels: well-heeled citizens, it turned out. And he had the courage to shatter the myth, steadfastly believed by its citizens, that St. Louis was on its way to becoming the nation's next great city. Instead Pulitzer revealed that it was being outstripped in population and economic growth by its rival, Chicago.\n\nThere was hardly anything Pulitzer would not try; he even picked fights with his competitors. He never missed a chance to criticize, embarrass, or simply poke fun at other newspapers, especially Hyde's Republican, with which he competed for Democratic readers. Once, he laid a trap for the Star. The Post and Dispatch published a fake article, said to be a cable dispatch from Lahore, Pakistan, reporting a massacre of an English garrison at the hands of rebellious Afghan war prisoners. The Star copied this and published the story prominently in its second edition, with the credit \"special cable to the Star.\" The next day, the Post and Dispatch revealed on its front page how it had fooled the Star.\n\nPulitzer's goal was to publish every day at least one article so intriguing, so unusual, so provocative that it would cause people to talk about it at the dinner table. Sensationalism was the most common way newspapers tried to attract attention. But for readers in St. Louis that was old hat. Even the staid Republican, for example, regularly ran stories likely to ruin breakfast for anyone with a sensitive stomach. On December 9, 1878, the day Pulitzer was buying the Dispatch, the Republican put on page one a report of a child's beheading by a train in Nevada. The head had rolled down a bank and had come to rest on the stump of its neck, facing the trainload of passengers. When it was lifted, the eyes opened and the mouth twitched. The mother soon reached the scene and collected her son's head, severed arm, and body, placed them in her apron, and led a procession back to her home.\n\nThe Post and Dispatch ran its share of these stories. Readers learned about heinous killings by a man in Kentucky in A CRIME UNPARALLELED IN WILD AND REVENGEFUL BRUTALITY and got the details of how the rope broke in an executioner's attempt to hang another murderer in THE HORRIBLE CRIME FOR WHICH THE BLACK RASCAL DIED.\n\nPulitzer had a more ambitious and less imitative scheme for building circulation. He wanted to make news from his own news coverage. A perfect opportunity presented itself in February. Two members of the police commission, on which Pulitzer had once served, were said to have ties to city gambling operations. The state senate dispatched a committee to look quietly into the matter. On Monday morning, February 17, the committee members gathered in one of the parlors of the Laclede Hotel, dismissed everyone else from the room except their secretary, and stationed two policemen at the door. Witnesses were admitted one at a time and were sworn not to reveal anything about the conduct of the hearing. Certain that they had outfoxed the press, the senators began their work.\n\nPulitzer was not easily put off when he wanted a story. He conferred with his city editor, and they decided to approach a doctor whose offices in the hotel included a waiting room that had a sealed door connecting with the parlor in which the senators were to meet. By holding an ear to the door, a reporter might be able to hear the proceedings. The doctor consented to the plan. When the secret hearings began, a reporter for the Post and Dispatch who was familiar with the senators' voices was stationed at the door, while the remainder of the press wandered through the hotel's hallways, clueless about the proceedings. All day Pulitzer's reporter listened, using his hands to cup his ear against the door. Unable to take notes in this awkward, cramped position, he memorized important portions and later dictated them to the city editor.\n\nOn Tuesday, the committee resumed its secret work. As its day's work drew to an end, the early edition of the Post and Dispatch appeared on the street. \"The Veil Is Rent and the Doors of the Star Chamber Fall from Their Fastening,\" cried the newsboys, reading from the article headlined: A POST AND DISPATCH REPORTER DEFIES LOCKS AND BARS, BRICKS AND MORTAR. When one of the newsboys entered the lobby of the Laclede Hotel, a witness at the hearing grabbed a copy of the paper and incredulously read the first few lines. In seconds, the boy was cleaned out of his supply of papers. A note was sent up to the committee. One of the senators came from the closed chamber, got a copy of the newspaper, and retreated back into the room. Reading the account, the senator soon learned\u2014as the paper proudly reported later\u2014\"that the cat was really out of the bag, that the dog was really dead, and that the jig was really up.\"\n\nThe incensed senators summoned Pulitzer's city editor, but he refused to divulge how the paper had obtained its scoop. A policeman was dispatched to examine the doctor's office adjoining the hearing room. Completing his investigation, he told the committee that the door between the rooms, although blocked to traffic, was not necessarily closed to sound. Next, a man was stationed behind the door with sheets of paper to see if one could record what was being said from the other room. When he returned with notes, the senators glumly learned that indeed it was possible and actually quite easy.\n\nFor days, the Post and Dispatch crowed about its scoop. It reprinted commentary from other papers, published articles about how its coverage had stunned the senators, and made sure no one forgot. \"The piece of work,\" Pulitzer said, \"was complete on\u2014so complete, so surprising, so overwhelming, that it commanded recognition and acknowledgment.\"\n\nAfter weeks of delay, workers finally completed the renovations to the paper's new offices on North Fifth Street. A good-size crowd was on hand the afternoon of March 10, 1879, when Pulitzer, Dillon, and their staff moved in. For a paper with a modest, though growing, circulation, the plant was impressive. The first floor contained the counting room for the business side of the paper. An open stairway led to the newsroom on the second floor, where Pulitzer had a curtained alcove overlooking the street. The new press, and a boiler to produce the steam to run it, was in a two-story wing off the back, with the composing room on the floor above. Soon after two-thirty that afternoon, the press was started. Slowly, it began printing and folding an eight-page edition of 20,000 copies, carrying the name the paper would use from then on, the Post-Dispatch. Pulitzer boasted that this was the largest run of an evening paper in St. Louis's history. Printing the edition, however, turned into an embarrassing challenge. After only a few minutes at full speed, the roar of the press was silenced as the paper tore and jammed the rollers. It was nightfall before copies reached subscribers.\n\nDespite the paper's progress toward financial stability, Pulitzer did not relax or let up. He practically lived in the North Fifth Street office, staying late into the night working by the light of a single gas jet. \"I would pass by on my way home between eleven and twelve o'clock and he was always there,\" recalled one nocturnal St. Louisan. No matter how late he worked, Pulitzer always arrived at the office in the early morning to examine the paper's vital signs. He demanded precise information. Exactly how many copies were printed the day before? Sold? Returned? How were street sales of the paper? How many lines of advertising had run in the last issue? During the last week? Since the beginning of the year? How much money was spent on the staff? For paper? For telegraphs? How much money was taken in? His thirst for details was insatiable.\n\nIn these first days of running the Post-Dispatch, feeling the sharp anxiety of potential failure, Pulitzer learned to ask questions that provided him with the most realistic take on the financial health of his paper. He measured the number of column inches of classified advertisements, scrutinized sales figures to see if a particular news scoop increased street sales, and analyzed every aspect of the competition. He honed his questioning down to a precise mix of queries yielding a statistical portrait that revealed in a single glance where things stood. Until the end of his life, and no matter how far he wandered from the office or how much he delegated to others, he would never give up this habit. He feigned to be interested only in politics and in writing editorials, but the truth was that Pulitzer knew any power he could accumulate from an Olympian perch could not be kept by Olympian detachment. His success, after all, rested on the pennies readers spent for his paper.\n\nAfter concluding his business duties, which usually took an hour, Pulitzer would turn to the editorial work. He worked side by side with the reporters and editors, \"just as if he was one of them,\" recalled a reporter. \"If he wrote something he particularly fancied, he would read it aloud for the benefit of his staff. If a new reporter wrote a good story, Pulitzer, in his intensely enthusiastic way, would compliment the young fellow.\" Pulitzer didn't consider it beneath his position to contribute news copy. One day, on his way to work, he witnessed a runaway carriage. Upon reaching the paper, he burst into the newsroom with the enthusiasm of a cub reporter and filed his own account of the accident.\n\nPulitzer thrived on the hubbub of the newsroom. He simultaneously wrote, edited, and conferred with his staff. \"He seemed equally at ease when writing and talking at the same time,\" said the reporter. Interruptions were continuous. Pulitzer would get started on an editorial, and then the politicos would begin to arrive. He greeted each one with \"My dear fellow,\" followed by an inquiry as to the person's well-being, recalled a reporter. \"He would continue to dash off editorials and pungent paragraphs while discussing politics with his visitors. He seemed to be as much immersed in politics as he was in building up his newspaper.\" To Pulitzer, of course, these were one and the same thing.\n\nAfter lunch at eateries such as Faust's, where he had once made an inglorious attempt at being a waiter, Pulitzer would return to the office to review the final page proofs, often bringing them to the composition room to explain his changes. At three o'clock, when the first edition of the paper came off the press, Pulitzer would leave his desk and go to the counting room. There he would join other men in distributing bundles of the paper to the boys who would walk the delivery routes or hawk the paper on the street.\n\nThe street urchins were critical to a paper's success. They could also be its Achilles' heel. Several times during his early months of managing the paper, Pulitzer clashed with them. In May, for instance, the newsboys went on strike, demanding a 50 percent share of the paper's selling price. The arrangement had been that they purchased copies of the paper at three cents and sold the copies for five cents. \"It is hard to fight women, but still harder to argue with boys, especially newsboys,\" wrote Pulitzer. \"However kindly we are disposed toward the little brigades who sell our paper, it is an absurdity which we are fully determined and able to stop\u2014no matter how long the strike may last.\"\n\nHe won.\n\nOn April 21, 1879, the St. Louis contractor Edward Augustine returned to his house at dinnertime looking haggard. In the nine years since Pulitzer had shot him at the hotel in Jefferson City, Augustine had fallen from political power, and without county government contracts, his business ventures had failed. When he entered his house, Augustine found his family at the dinner table. His wife asked him to join them. He refused and instead asked her to come into the front parlor. She demurred\u2014understandably. Only a few days earlier, Augustine had brought home a rifle after telling friends it was for the purpose of murdering his family. He turned and went into the parlor alone. \"Then, I'll finish it,\" he said. A few minutes later, a shot rang out.\n\nPulitzer resisted the temptation to use his new position to even the score with his old antagonist. In fact, the Post-Dispatch's coverage of Augustine's suicide was muted in comparison with that of the other newspapers, though it included the required graphic description of Augustine's brain \"scattered all about the room.\" Pulitzer may have possessed a volcanic temper and held grudges for long periods, but he could be magnanimous.\n\nPulitzer didn't have time to worry about old history. The paper needed constant tending. Although it was becoming profitable, the financial foundation of the enterprise was a house of cards. As a precaution, Pulitzer took $300 from his reserve funds and put them in a trunk at home to make sure he could cover the coming expenses of the birth of his first child.\n\nNeither Dillon nor Pulitzer had the capital necessary to continue the paper's growth. The promise of profits would not pay for the new presses or the paper's rising expenses. Pulitzer turned to Louis Gottschalk, a prominent lawyer and Democrat in St. Louis whom he had known since Gratz Brown's election as governor in 1870. In 1875, Pulitzer and Gottschalk had both served as delegates from St. Louis to the state's constitutional convention. Gottschalk, like a number of other Democrats, believed the Post-Dispatch under Pulitzer's editorship could benefit the party. He agreed to lend $13,000 so that Pulitzer, in turn, could lend money to the Post-Dispatch as promised in the merger agreement.\n\nIn addition to the infusion of capital, Pulitzer had a lucky break with the $15,000 mortgage taken out by the Dispatch's former owners and thought to have been conveyed when Pulitzer bought the paper at auction. In fact, Pulitzer had been making interest payments on the mortgage. He had also taken the unusual step of making weekly payments to the Associated Press in the name of the mortgage holder. He worried that the Post-Dispatch could lose access to AP because the original embossed membership certificate had been used as collateral and was still in the hands of the mortgage holder.\n\nLawyers who researched the mortgage discovered that the debt had been contracted personally by one of the former owners, and they reported to Pulitzer that it \"was a debt never incurred by him and for which he is not in any respect responsible.\" As far as he was concerned, the debt was off the books, but he still fretted about the missing official AP membership document.\n\nWith his new Hoe presses, Pulitzer was able to increase the space in the Post-Dispatch for both news and advertising. To persuade a hesitant readership that an afternoon paper could also carry classifieds, like the established morning papers, Pulitzer gave out classifieds free of charge for several months. The idea was to increase circulation as well as to boost advertising revenue. Pulitzer recognized that many people read the advertisements the way others read the articles. \"It is our object to make the advertising columns of the Post-Dispatch not less varied and interesting than the news columns,\" he wrote.\n\nIndeed, the news columns were filled with the kind of stories Pulitzer craved, the kind that made people talk. The Post-Dispatch continued its relentless assault on the municipal monopolies, exposed questionable banking practices, detailed shady insurance schemes, and revealed anything else that victimized the middle class. It was scathing in its treatment of the city's upper-class families, many of whom were Pulitzer's neighbors. Editorials dripping with sarcasm poked fun at upper-class rituals and social events. These customs also served as topics for some of the paper's best stories.\n\nNothing was too private for the circulation-hungry Pulitzer. There was a rumor that Dolly Liggett, the daughter of one of the city's wealthiest tobacco merchants, had defied her parents and married a livery stable's bookkeeper. The family refused the entreaties of two Post-Dispatch reporters seeking confirmation. Pulitzer sent off a third reporter, Florence D. White, whose unusual first name had given him the nickname \"Flory.\" White was, at age sixteen, the youngest member of Pulitzer's staff. His passion for journalism had lured him away from Christian Brothers College, an opulent high school whose graduates often pursued more education. Pulitzer saw in White a drive that mirrored his own, and he rewarded his young reporter with increasing trust. His instinct did not let him down. White persuaded the Liggetts' maid to admit him. He returned with an exclusive interview with the mother, a mix of outburst and tears.\n\nWatching with dismay as the Post-Dispatch's circulation rose each week, the owners of the Star decided to throw in the towel. It was now their turn on the auction block. On May 14, 1879, the usual crowd gathered on the courthouse steps. Pulitzer joined in the bidding, which started at only $100 but rapidly devolved into a three-way match. When the bids reached the $700 range, Pulitzer dropped out, and one of the remaining two men prevailed with a bid of $790. As when he had bought the Dispatch at auction, Pulitzer had fooled the crowd. The man who placed the winning bid was working for him. The afternoon field now belonged solely to the Post-Dispatch.\n\n\"We have passed the point,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"where the Post-Dispatch was an experiment.\"\n\nJoseph settled the pregnant Kate into a house at 2920 Washington Avenue. It was of brick and had three stories, a mansard roof, a bay window in the front, and stables in the rear. The neighborhood was one of gracious dwellings, crisscrossed by private streets. By choosing this spot, Joseph placed Kate in an enclave of the city's aristocrats, who were objects of his paper's continual attacks. That mattered little to Joseph, for whom confrontation was almost a pleasure. But for Kate it was the beginning of what would be many uncomfortable experiences of being ostracized because of her husband's public conduct.\n\nOn June 11, 1879, Kate gave birth to their first son. They named him Ralph. With a child at home and with the paper becoming more successful, Pulitzer carved out more time for his family. He spent Sundays with Kate and baby. All summer he came home early enough to sit on the front stoop with Kate and visit with neighbors, at least those who did not hold the conduct of his paper against him. Those who did referred to the couple as \"beauty and the beast.\"\n\nUsually Kate, with Ralph in her arms, fetched her husband from work by carriage. Joseph would greet her and Ralph with joyous enthusiasm, as if they had been separated by a long journey. \"In such an atmosphere, those were happy days for everyone,\" one of Joseph's reporters recalled. Indeed, even his old friend Johnson noted Joseph's happiness in his diary. Joseph had resumed horseback riding, often taking rides in Forest Park with a friend. On evenings when he did not return to the paper for late work, Joseph gathered friends for cards in his home.\n\nAs the summer of 1879 drew to a close, Joseph had found all the things that he had been lacking when he confessed to Kate, on the eve of their wedding a year earlier, his need for a new life. He was now married to an enviably attractive woman, he was the father of a son, and he was no longer fretting about an impending return to poverty. The only thing that was not yet fully in his domain was the paper, which he still had to share with a partner.\n\nIn the fall, it became increasingly clear to Dillon and Pulitzer that their partnership would not work. McCullagh, who predicted that the partnership would not last, attributed the breakup to \"incompatibility of temper, superinduced, perhaps, by an excess of talent.\" The truth of the matter was that one did not work with Pulitzer. For him, surely. Against him, often. But not with him. Carl Schurz and Preetorius had learned this in 1872. Now, it was Dillon's turn.\n\nDillon agreed to sell Pulitzer his half of the enterprise. It had been only a year since Pulitzer had sat late into the night with his friend Houser, counting how many months of operating expenses his few thousand dollars in savings would buy him. Now he could meet Dillon's asking price solely from his share of the paper's first-year profits. On November 29, 1879, the Post-Dispatch announced Dillon's departure. Pulitzer was the paper's sole proprietor.\n\nJoseph reorganized the paper's corporate structure. He made Kate vice president, putting one share in her name, and filled the rest of the board with loyal friends such as William Patrick. Next, with his hands unfettered, Pulitzer made wholesale changes to the editorial staff. He didn't want another partner, but he needed someone who could act as one. Within days of Dillon's departure, Pulitzer sent a wire to John Cockerill, whom he had first met at the Liberal Republican convention, offering him the post of managing editor.\n\nThat night, Cockerill found the telegram waiting for him when he picked up his room key at Barnum's Hotel in Baltimore. Since his successful run with Hutchins at the Washington Post, he had moved on to become editor of the Baltimore Gazette. Hutchins still sang his praises. \"The really notable newspaper men in the United States can be numbered upon the fingers of one's hands, and Mr. Cockerill's name would be called before the second hand was reached,\" he wrote. Pulitzer's offer was irresistible. The two men had similar political views, and their enthusiasm for the new journalism of the era was so great that they were like apostles of a faith.\n\nThe challenge that came with the job was daunting. Although Cockerill knew of Pulitzer's early successes, the Post-Dispatch was still more a promise than an accomplishment. It was nowhere close to challenging the behemoth of St. Louis edited by Cockerill's early boss and friend McCullagh. The city belonged to the Globe Democrat. Only the Boston Herald, the New York Herald, and the Philadelphia Ledger had higher circulations. But Cockerill had confidence in Pulitzer. He took the job.\n\n## Chapter Fourteen\n\n## DARK LANTERN\n\nIn January 1880, St. Louisans were astonished to read that the Post-Dispatch would soon be on the auction block. Advertisements in the St. Louis Times proclaimed that the rival newspaper, its machinery, type, press, furniture, and all components of business would be sold to the highest bidder at the east front of the courthouse. The advertisements were the devious work of Times publisher B. M. Chambers, an avowed enemy of Pulitzer who was frequently ill treated in the Post-Dispatch.\n\nChambers was convinced he had found a means to put Pulitzer out of business or, at the least, make his life miserable. Before Pulitzer had bought the Dispatch, its former owners kept the paper alive using a loan from the ill-famed attorney Frank Bowman. In return for this last-ditch loan, the owners surrendered to Bowman the original, embossed certificate of the Dispatch's membership in the Associated Press. Chambers had since acquired the note and certificate. With the AP document in his hands, Chambers demanded that Pulitzer pay off the loan to get it back. But Pulitzer's lawyers had rightly concluded that he was not liable for the loan, so Pulitzer refused.\n\nChambers put his plan for an auction into action. Pulitzer was not worried about the stunt. It would be impossible to sell the paper without a legal determination that it was liable for the old loan. \"IS THIS MAN INSANE?\" Pulitzer asked in a headline in the Post-Dispatch. But the Post-Dispatch's AP membership certificate was another matter, one far more serious. If Chambers somehow caused Pulitzer to lose access to the AP, it might ruin the paper.\n\nPulitzer sought help from AP president Murat Halstead, whom he had known since the Liberal Republican days, and other members of the news service. But Pulitzer knew that in the high-stakes game of a news monopoly, business interests could trump friendship. So, as insurance, he filed suit to compel the association to issue him a new certificate to replace the one Chambers held and proposed to sell at the auction.\n\nAfter a week's delay, which gave Pulitzer a chance to continue his frantic work behind the scenes, a crowd assembled at the courthouse believing the sale would finally take place. Several properties were auctioned, but to the audience's disappointment Chambers, the star of the event, never showed up. Instead, he sent his attorney to announce that the sale had been postponed indefinitely. He knew what the crowd was about to learn. He had been beaten.\n\nRather than a funeral for the Post-Dispatch, the moment was a triumph for Pulitzer. He mounted the steps in front of the crowd. With the flourish of a stump speaker, Pulitzer declared that Chambers's allegations were false and that his access to AP dispatches was secure. \"Look at this,\" he cried out and held aloft, for all to see, a new certificate of membership in the AP.\n\nHis exuberance stemmed from more than this one victory. For the first time since he had bought the Dispatch, Pulitzer felt free. Circulation was increasing at such a rate that it would almost triple by the end of the year. His books showed that if the trend held steady the paper would earn $88,000 that year. \"It owes nothing beyond a few accounts which will be adjusted on presentation,\" wrote Pulitzer, keeping his loan from the wealthy Democrat a secret. \"It has no unhappy stockholders, no unpleasant litigation, and its circulation and its patronage show each month a gratifying increase. And that's how the Post-Dispatch plunges into the New Year.\" With Cockerill in place as his trusted lieutenant and the staffing changes complete, Pulitzer no longer needed to give the enterprise his undivided attention.\n\nAt home, his growing income allowed him to provide Kate with three servants to run the house and care for the baby. Kate also had an easier entry into St. Louis society. She and Joseph attended the exclusive Home Circle ball at the Lindell Hotel. Described as \"a very brilliant brunette,\" she wore a costume of pale blue and delicate pink satin, with ribbon bows. \"The lady's ornaments,\" noted the press, \"were diamonds.\"\n\nUnencumbered by financial and managerial demands, Pulitzer turned his attention to his most important passion. Since his return to St. Louis, the silence regarding his political plans had been like waiting for the other shoe to drop. All his friends, as well as his detractors, knew that Pulitzer still wanted to hold office. His success as a newspaper publisher had strengthened his chances and his resolve. The day following his speech at the courthouse, word leaked out that he would run for the U.S. House of Representatives from the second congressional district of St. Louis.\n\nPulitzer made plans to devote time to his own election, and to the entire Democratic ticket. But they almost all unraveled while he was out of town on his first political trip a couple of weeks later. At quarter past midnight on January 23, 1880, a Post-Dispatch employee smelled smoke. He ran into the deserted street yelling \"Fire!\" A nearby watchman tried to ring an alarm, but his key was so plugged with dirt he couldn't open the box. Luckily, a police officer spotted flames bursting through the windows of the paper's back building and set off an alarm, summoning two corps of firemen.\n\nBy one o'clock in the morning, when the business manager arrived on the scene, the facility was a wreck: half burned, half soaked in water. Later, the foreman of the pressroom was found standing disconsolately in the midst of the steaming wreckage. The new Hoe press had been warped by the heat, and the stockpile of paper was rendered useless by the water. Telegrams were dispatched to Pulitzer, who was staying at his favorite New York hotel, the Fifth Avenue. Early estimates put the loss at more than $6,000, probably closer to $8,000. But although he had risked his savings in the enterprise and had operated for many months with little or no cash, Pulitzer had not risked going uninsured. Seven paid-up insurance policies covered his losses.\n\nAwakened with the news of the fire, McCullagh sent word that the paper could be printed at the Globe-Democrat, as it had been before the Post-Dispatch obtained its own presses. In the morning Cockerill wrote an editorial headlined OUR BLACK FRIDAY, predicting that the paper would take two weeks to get back on its feet. The paper, concluded Cockerill, \"is a thoroughly established institution and is able to survive the ordinary vicissitudes of life.\"\n\nIn New York, the fire put Pulitzer in a foul mood. A reporter for the New York Tribune approached him about the election prospects for Democrats. A Republican will be in the White House for another four years, Pulitzer curtly replied (leading Hutchins at the Post to quip that \"Pulitzer should always be interviewed just after dinner and a cursory examination of rent-rolls\").\n\nReports from Cockerill calmed Joseph and he left New York to meet Kate in Washington. There, he and Kate returned to the Church of the Epiphany, this time to baptize Ralph. Kate's unmarried older sister Clara Davis and Joseph's friend U.S. Representative John Bullock Clark Jr. served as witnesses. The priest did not ask Joseph for a profession of faith; only the godparents were required to give that. Yet standing by the baptismal font and agreeing to have his child raised as an Episcopalian, Joseph sealed his departure from Judaism.\n\nBy early February, with his family in St. Louis, the paper back in its office, and circulation holding steady, Pulitzer once again turned eagerly to the oncoming election. Despite his dour pronouncement to the Tribune's reporter, all signs pointed to a Democratic victory. In 1878, the party had taken back both houses of Congress for the first time since 1858. The Democrats' political fortunes were such that the presidency, which they had not won since 1856, should at last be theirs.\n\nWith a heightened sense of power as one of the new breed of independent newspaper publishers, Pulitzer intended to both direct the Missouri Democratic Party and help the national party find a suitable standard-bearer. He and his friend Henry Watterson, of the Louisville Courier-Journal, were determined to anoint a man who could win.\n\nPulitzer's vision of himself as the party's leader in Missouri did not sit well with William Hyde, editor of the Missouri Republican. That paper, managed from an elegant five-story building with Renaissance-style ornamentation, had long been the acknowledged party sheet. Over time, however, its support of the city's oligarchs had left many Democrats out in the cold, especially those in the middle class. They were gravitating to the Post-Dispatch, creating a political and economic competition between Pulitzer and Hyde.\n\nDespite the enmity between the two men, both Hyde and Pulitzer sat on a committee assigned to lure the 1880 Democratic national convention back to St. Louis, where it had been held four years earlier. Pulitzer conveniently missed the committee's trip to the Washington meeting where it lost out to Cincinnati. Upon returning to St. Louis, Hyde discovered that Pulitzer had published a telegram suggesting that the committee failed because its members spent their time drinking in Washington's bars. If Hyde's anger was not sufficiently stoked by this, a cheeky poem continuing the paper's abuse of him appeared in the five o'clock edition of the March 1 Post-Dispatch.\n\nAt six that evening, with\u2014as one reporter described it\u2014anger coursing though his veins \"like a mountain-fed stream in the early spring,\" Hyde left a friend's office and headed down Olive Street to his newspaper. Meanwhile, Pulitzer exited Maranesi's candy store, where he had bought a supply of caramel, and was strolling to Willie Gray's bookstore for a copy of Harper's Weekly. At the corner of Olive and Fourth streets, the editors came face-to-face.\n\n\"Now damn you, I've got you at last,\" said Hyde. He swung his fist at Pulitzer, but managed only a glancing blow to the right eye, knocking Pulitzer's glasses off. Blinded, Pulitzer returned the punch with equal ineffectiveness. He then grabbed Hyde by his tie and shirt and wrestled him to the ground. The two scuffled until bystanders pulled them apart in the nick of time. Pulitzer had managed to reach under his heavy overcoat and had withdrawn a pistol from his hip pocket. Before he could get a shot off, one of the men knocked the gun away. A decade after the shooting in Jefferson City, Pulitzer was still taking aim at St. Louis's pols.\n\nPulitzer was shaken. He couldn't see without his spectacles. In the darkness and cold, he let himself be led to a nearby cigar store. As he stepped away, he yelled in Hyde's direction, \"You cow! Anybody could do that.\" Hyde imperiously dusted himself off, and with an escort of two men retreated to a doorway next to Ettling's barbershop, where he received the congratulations of friends.\n\nThe election of 1880 lacked any major issues. The economy had recovered from the doldrums of the 1870s, Reconstruction was a dead issue, and the clamor for civil service reform had faded. The partisans of the time were glad to concoct disputes, but the supposed issues were little more than proxies for regional and factional differences. When it came to the ballot, the nation was still divided by the Mason-Dixon Line.\n\nEarly in the race for the Democratic nomination, Tilden was the leading contender. Pulitzer was adamantly against Tilden because he was still angry about the New Yorker's acquiescence in the 1877 bargain that gave the presidency to Hayes. As early as February 1879, Pulitzer argued against the rising tide for Tilden. \"It seems absurd that Mr. Tilden should ask a vindication in the shape of the Presidency, when his own inexcusable conduct alone made the success of the electoral crime possible.\" Pulitzer flirted briefly with other potential candidates, but soon lost interest in them.\n\nWith only a month remaining before the selection process began, Pulitzer was still without a man. He feared that if he couldn't find a strong candidate, the party would go back to Tilden. Pulitzer decided to try luring another former New York governor, Horatio Seymour, who had run against Grant in 1868, out of retirement.\n\nIf Pulitzer could talk Seymour into running, he would not only save the party but score a journalistic coup. On April 24, 1880, Pulitzer traveled to Utica, New York. He rode a carriage across the Mohawk River and up the Deerfield hills to the Seymour home, a small house framed by tall hemlocks and a century-old black cherry tree in front, perched so high in the hills that it had a twenty-mile view of the valley below. Seymour greeted Pulitzer at the door. Although Seymour would turn seventy years old the following month, Pulitzer thought he hardly looked sixty. He stood tall and erect, his hair had little gray, and his hazel eyes remained clear. His only infirmity was a slight loss of hearing.\n\nThey entered the house, which was filled with colonial and revolutionary era antiques. As they sat, Pulitzer displayed rare diffidence and held off raising the question of who should be the Democratic Party's nominee. Instead the two conversed about politics, the \"Negro problem\" (as it was then called), and the coming election. Finally the all-important topic came up as the two prepared to part. At the door to the house, Seymour said the party had a wide choice of excellent candidates and listed several of the leading ones. \"I am too old,\" said Seymour. \"You had better leave me to die gracefully by myself. That is an act few men understand, and perhaps I had best begin to try it now.\"\n\n\"But Governor,\" Pulitzer replied, \"if the people think you are the strongest candidate for your state as well as the country, and if their delegates at Cincinnati fix upon you as the man of all others to lead them in this campaign against centralization and imperialism, I have always said that you were too good a patriot and too good a Democrat to decline the leadership. Have I said wrong?\"\n\nSeymour stood at the doorway for a while looking at his guest and made motions as if he were going to say something. Instead, he grasped Pulitzer's hand and shook it. Pulitzer told him he was satisfied with this silent reply. Seymour laughed. \"You had better lay me on the shelf and get a younger man.\" Despite this final pronouncement Pulitzer rode away \"with exultation in my heart,\" believing that Seymour might still be a candidate.\n\nThe harsh light of reality struck Pulitzer upon his return to Missouri. Seymour had been sincere in declining the honor Pulitzer had proffered. There was no realistic way that the aging Seymour could undertake a national campaign. Without a candidate, Pulitzer could only try to deny Tilden the nomination. This goal took on a personal element because the leader of Tilden's crowd in Missouri was none other than William Hyde.\n\nMissouri Democrats gathered in late May for their state convention in Moberly, a railroad town in the middle of the state. Both Hyde and Pulitzer were delegates. When Pulitzer's turn came to address the convention, Hyde's supporters packed the galleries and tried to shout him down. But no matter what Hyde's men tried, Tilden's day had come and gone. There was nothing Hyde could do. The convention selected twenty-one of its thirty national delegates from the ranks of anti-Tilden men. Pulitzer returned to St. Louis triumphant. \"A cloud of gloom rests over the Tilden cause,\" noted the Washington Post in reporting the results at Moberly. Hyde avoided complete defeat by securing a spot as a delegate at-large. Pulitzer was selected as one of two delegates from the Second Congressional District, which he hoped to represent after the election.\n\nAt the end of June, Pulitzer traveled to Cincinnati for the Democratic national convention. Years earlier, he had come as a dewy-eyed organizer of the insurgent Liberal Republican movement. Then he had been a twenty-five-year-old dissatisfied Republican newspaper editor. Now he was one of the most talked-about newspaper publishers, and comfortable in his new political home among the Democrats.\n\nThe convention, which opened on June 22, 1880, looked almost as wild as the renegade gathering of 1872. Nineteen hopefuls sought the presidential nomination. Pulitzer gained a seat on the resolutions committee, chaired by Watterson. Together they crafted a platform of fifteen planks that included opposition to centralization and to protective tariffs, support for the gold standard, and an end to Chinese immigration. The platform also stated the election of 1876 had been fraudulently stolen and that Tilden should be thanked for his selfless service to the party.\n\nWith the preliminaries out of the way, the convention turned to its main business on the morning of June 24. Though stifling heat made the convention hall almost unbearable for the delegates, they began to sift through the many candidates. Tilden gracefully bowed out, and on the first ballot the new leading candidate, General Winfield Hancock, took 23 percent of the vote. It looked as though it could be a long day. But when the second ballot began, delegates abandoned their first choices and formed a bandwagon for Hancock.\n\nPulitzer faced a quandary. He had promised to speak on behalf of the candidacy of William English, a former Indiana congressman who was now a dark horse. The changing developments on the floor made this impossible, however. \"I saw before Missouri was called that the nomination would sweep through the convention like wildfire,\" Pulitzer later told English. \"I did not think it wise to interrupt the room, and sacrificed my own inclination and pleasure rather than do what seemed needless.\"\n\nPulitzer's judgment was sound. His own state, which had split its votes among five men on the first ballot, now gave Hancock all but two of those votes. The counting of the ballots would be only a formality. \"The mob howled and shrieked, so that for some time no business could be done,\" said a reporter on the floor. \"But while the disorder prevailed there were hurried consultations among the delegates and unmistakable signs of a stampede.\" It would be for General Hancock.\n\nWith that decision made, the convention chair asked for a recess until later in the day. But Pulitzer instead moved that the convention immediately select the \"next vice president,\" with an assurance that caused some laughter. At this moment, Pulitzer's friend English was more fortunate. His status as a former congressman from the important battleground state of Indiana made him an easy choice for the convention, and he was given the second spot on the ticket.\n\nThe Republicans, meeting in Chicago, had a harder time making their selection. It took them thirty-six ballots before they settled on U.S. Representative James Garfield, from Ohio, and on the New Yorker Chester Arthur as his running mate.\n\nThe Democrats' choice of Hancock meant that Pulitzer had to do some rapid editorial backpedaling. On the eve of the convention, he had warned that selecting a general as a candidate would be a \"stupendous mistake\" because putting a military man in the White House would be inherently dangerous to liberty. Now he did an about-face. Of all the soldier-politicians, he assured his readers, Hancock was the one most devoted to civilian rule, habeas corpus, and strict interpretation of the Constitution.\n\nOn his return to St. Louis, Pulitzer spoke to a large, enthusiastic Democratic rally at the courthouse. Most men would have been physically exhausted by the travel and the long hours of the convention, but Pulitzer displayed dazzling energy, sustained by the adrenaline surge elections gave him. He had not been home for even a day before he wrote to a political operative in Indiana, \"Is there anything I can do in your state on the stump? I shall be glad to serve as in 76, of course, at my expense.\"\n\nBack at his desk, Pulitzer found that his paper had recovered from the fire and had prevailed in a dozen libel suits, including one brought by the famous Italian soprano Carlotta Patti\u2014the Post-Dispatch had insinuated that she was very well, perhaps too well, acquainted with liquor. But now a different danger arose. On the streets in late July, newsboys were hawking a new paper, the Evening Chronicle. It sold for two cents\u2014three cents less than the Post-Dispatch\u2014and the street urchins were excited because they received the paper free of charge and could pocket the entire revenue.\n\nThe publisher challenging Pulitzer's dominance of the afternoon field was Edward W. Scripps. Pulitzer was not the only one who had discovered a way to succeed in the new era of independent journalism. Scripps, who had been an Illinois farmboy, launched his first newspaper at age twenty-four in Cleveland. His formula was to produce an inexpensive, tightly edited, but sprightly written paper aimed at the growing working classes of the nation's new industrial centers. His editorial policy matched the goals of the audience he sought. His papers were fierce advocates for labor unions and collective bargaining.\n\nThe Evening Chronicle's fresh tone and low price attracted readers, and its pricing policy stirred up the newsboys to demand that Pulitzer sell them three, instead of two, copies of his paper for five cents. When he refused, the boys once again staged a strike of sorts. Some of them stood outside the Post-Dispatch offices and taunted others who tried to deliver papers. Pulitzer was unfazed. Unembarrassed to be waging an industrial war against children, Pulitzer knew that, as in his previous skirmish with the boys, he could withstand their assaults. He defended himself to his readers, pointing out he made only as much on each newspaper sold as the newsboys did, \"and we furnish the white paper, ink, presswork, type-setting, and just enough brains to keep the thing going.\"\n\nPulitzer was comforted also by the Post-Dispatch's continued growth. The paper had already surpassed the circulation of Hyde's Republican by 25 percent. Only McCullagh's morning Globe-Democrat outsold the Post-Dispatch, and Pulitzer anticipated that he would overtake it within months. With the growth in circulation came continued prosperity. Pulitzer's cashier predicted that the paper should net more than $85,000 by the end of 1880.\n\nOn August 8, Charles Johnson stopped in at Pulitzer's house and found Pulitzer huddled with Irish ward bosses, discussing his plan to run for Congress. Johnson, who had earlier tried to persuade Pulitzer not to pursue a career in law or politics, told him the project was an act of folly. But Pulitzer wasn't in a mood to listen. His hunger for political office was so overpowering that he ignored both his old friend and his own ethics.\n\nTo get the nomination, Pulitzer was willing to dance with the devil. In this case his name was Ed Butler, also known as \"de boss of St. Louis\" or more unassumingly as \"the village blacksmith.\" Butler, who had been born in Ireland in 1838, ran a smithing business in the Fifth Ward, which Pulitzer had represented in the state legislature. Early on, Butler found it profitable to get involved in city politics. After helping one mayoral candidate in 1872, he earned the contract to shoe the city government's horses and, later, the horses that pulled the city's trolleys. By 1880, Butler's power extended over the entire city. His powerful organization was known to its detractors as the \"Dark Lantern.\"\n\nButler had a simple system. For the payment of a fee to the Dark Lantern, a candidate would receive the Democratic nomination. Although this was the kind of corrupt practice the Post-Dispatch denounced, Pulitzer himself paid between $6,000 and $10,000. It was worth it. Being nominated was tantamount to winning the election, as the Second District was overwhelmingly Democratic.\n\nBelieving that his nomination was secure and that he would be in Congress when the Democrats regained the White House, Pulitzer refocused his energy on the national campaign. As he had in 1872 and 1876, he turned to Indiana. It was widely believed that its 15 electoral votes, perhaps with New York state's 30, would decide the election. Indiana was also one of the states that had additional political importance, because it held its elections for state office in October, helping build momentum for the winning party in the national vote a month later. \"We all regard Indiana as the battle ground,\" Pulitzer wrote to the vice presidential candidate, English.\n\nPulitzer crafted a speech to give in Indianapolis, where Schurz had delivered a long and widely noted address for the Republicans. In a sense, this would be a reprise of the 1876 election, when Pulitzer indirectly debated his former mentor. But in the four years that had passed since then, Pulitzer had become a newspaper publisher whose fame was equal to, if not greater than, Schurz's. The Democratic press now described Pulitzer as the editor of \"one of the most influential papers\" Republicans called him \"notorious.\" In either case, he was no longer simply the \"German orator.\"\n\nPulitzer was pleased with this transformation. He told organizers in Indianapolis that he would make his speech in English. If they insisted, he could deliver a second address in German. \"There is no difference to me whatever between the two languages,\" he said. \"I prefer to deliver the principal speech in English solely because I know that will make it more effective\u2014even among Germans.\"\n\nOn the evening of August 14, Pulitzer stood before a large crowd in the Indianapolis Wigwam, an auditorium often used for political functions. For almost an hour, he accused the Republicans of demagoguery and centralization. In an unusually personal moment, Pulitzer said he was better equipped than native-born men to recognize the danger, describing how he came to the United States \"friendless, homeless, tongueless, guideless\" and how he renounced his allegiance to an emperor to become a citizen. \"I joyfully complied with that condition,\" he said. \"I have kept faith; I am only keeping faith now.\"\n\nLaunching his most direct attack yet as a politician, publisher, or orator, Pulitzer challenged America's upper class and the elected officials who did its bidding. In a succession of sentences that left both speaker and audience breathless, Pulitzer said, \"Show me a land where one person controls 8,000 miles of railroad, mostly built by government subsidies; where another has forty-seven million of government bonds registered in his name, and where still another can appear at a White House reception with diamonds on her body worth over a million dollars; show me a land where the money power, the organized capital, privileges and monopolies of the country, the railroads, telegraphs, banks, protected manufacturers, etc. are favored and fostered by the government...and you have shown me imperialism. It is the issue of the hour and the duty of the Democracy is to meet it, battle it, overthrow it, and restore and re-establish the sane principle of true, popular, self-government.\"\n\nPulitzer did not frame the election in terms of commonplace issues such as tariffs or civil service reform. Rather, he argued that the growing prosperity of the nation endangered its political freedoms. The wealthy, who benefited most from industrialization, were seeking to protect their interests by controlling the government. \"Let us have prosperity, but never at the expense of liberty, never at the expense of real self-government, and let us never have a government in Washington owing its retention to the power of the millionaires rather than the will of the millions.\"\n\nIn September, Pulitzer set aside his work for the national ticket in order to tend to his own race for Congress. Anyone else might have been simply content to enjoy success as a publisher. But Pulitzer was not yet ready to give up his pursuit of elective office. His ambition had taken root when, at a formative age, he had watched Carl Schurz win office, respect, success, and adulation through journalism. For one who had Pulitzer's ego and need for control, politics was a siren\u2014even more so when, after he had been rejected by voters, it offered redemption in the form of a comeback.\n\nAs the primary neared, the acrimony between Pulitzer and Hyde increased. Still stinging from his defeat in Moberly, Hyde was not going to let Pulitzer seize his mantle without a fight. He and his paper's publisher, Charles Knapp, set to work to derail Pulitzer's nomination. They persuaded Thomas Allen, president of Iron Mountain Railroad, to give up his aspirations for the Senate and run for the House seat. Even though he had once charitably given Pulitzer's brother a job, Allen despised the Post-Dispatch and the older Pulitzer. There was no doubt how Pulitzer felt about him. When Allen ran for the Senate in 1879, Pulitzer had fired off an editorial barrage, attacking him as a tool of capital, and insisting that if he was elected the railroads would rule the state. \"No one outside of the lunatic asylum,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"believes that Tom Allen's name would be even mentioned if, instead of having riches and railroads, he were poor and penniless.\"\n\nWith Allen's entry into the race, the other candidates withdrew, leaving the field to the newspaper publisher and railroad magnate. \"His candidacy simply represents the spite, the hatred, the jealousy and business rivalry of the Knapp cabal,\" wrote Pulitzer in an editorial \"There never was a better time to put a quietus on the dictatorial gang of political pirates who infest the Republican office.\"\n\nCalling Pulitzer a demagogue who prostituted his paper by turning it into a mudslinging machine, Hyde said that the Post-Dispatch would not thwart Allen's candidacy. \"If anybody is to be hurt by the dirt-throwing, which the Post-Dispatch began as soon as Mr. Allen consented to run for Congress, it is Pulitzer. His mud will all fall back on himself, and it will stick there.\"\n\nHyde enlisted the wealthiest and most influential residents of each ward to serve as delegates, election judges, and clerks in the primary. Together they brought economic pressure to bear on Butler and his Dark Lantern organization by threatening Butler's control of the streetcar shoeing business. The plan worked. The night before the primary, Butler's men were ordered to change their votes to Allen.\n\nThe Republican greeted Election Day with confidence. The campaign had taken such a turn that it was almost like a chapter from Alice in Wonderland. Everything was now upside down. Allen, the railroad magnate representing St. Louis's oligarchy, was running as the candidate of reform. Pulitzer, the real enemy of entrenched interests, was tainted by his brief fling with corrupt machine politics. The paper urged voters \"to bury Pulitzer out of sight at the Democratic primary election today.\" That's what they did. Pulitzer received only 721 votes to Allen's 4,274. In Butler's ward, Pulitzer did not receive a single vote. \"The machine, as I expected, sold Pulitzer out,\" Johnson wrote that night in his diary.\n\nWhen Pulitzer lost his seat in the legislature in 1870, it had been at the hands of the opposing political party. Now his own party rejected him. Despite his ego and his mounting sense of importance, Pulitzer accepted this shellacking. Johnson was impressed. \"Pulitzer takes his defeat more philosophically than I should,\" he said. The day following the election, Pulitzer told his readers, \"The past is past. We have nothing to take back. We look and think forward, not backward.\" The nomination had been settled with the selection of Allen. \"The next question is, Shall he be elected? We say, emphatically, Yes!\"\n\nPulitzer wasted no time before returning to the stump for the national ticket, leaving behind a pregnant Kate, nearing her due date. Only a few days after his departure, on October 3, 1880, she gave birth to their second child, Lucille Irma. Father would not meet his new baby for several weeks because in Pulitzer's world little if anything was more important than an election. In this case, he had an executive committee meeting in New York and was to give speeches along the way in Ohio. He arrived at the national Democratic headquarters full of enthusiasm. \"I have not the slightest doubt of carrying Indiana,\" he told a reporter. \"Why should I?\"\n\nBut, the reporter persisted, \"the story is here that the Republicans are preparing to send a great deal of money into Indiana.\"\n\n\"I see that this story is circulated,\" said Pulitzer. \"With the shadow of the Presidential contest projected over the State battle, I do not believe money will change enough votes to affect the results in any appreciable manner.\"\n\nFollowing the party leaders' meeting, Pulitzer took to the road again. He first went to Boston and then quickly headed back to Indiana and Ohio, predicting victory to all he met. \"If Ohio were to elect tomorrow it would go Democratic,\" Pulitzer told one reporter. But the election would turn on Indiana, he predicted. \"It is agreed on all sides that as Indiana goes this year, so goes the Union.\"\n\nPulitzer had one major speech scheduled before the Buckeyes and Hoosiers voted. On October 7, he was the main event at a large Democratic, and very German, rally at Memorial Park in Cleveland, Ohio. Pulitzer dug right into his class-based attack on the Republicans. He asked the Germans in the audience if they had not left their native land to escape a government controlled by one class. The ruling class would turn the United States into the same system they had escaped unless their participation in the election turned the tide. Allied against them, he warned, were an army of patronage and a coalition of corporations, banks, and railroads. \"The Blaines, Conklings, Shermans and others traveling on special trains, unlike common people; hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars raised by Wall Street and capitalists in Boston, New England, and Philadelphia. Raised for what? To corrupt the elections and prevent a change.\"\n\nDespite the size and enthusiasm of the crowd, Pulitzer sensed that the tide in these two crucial state elections was not in the Democrats' favor. He was right. Several days later, the Republicans scored an easy victory in Ohio and squeaked by in Indiana. The prospects for the White House looked dim once again. Nonetheless Pulitzer continued his campaign, making speeches in the crucial state of New York. Speaking in Chickering Hall on Fifth Avenue, he clung tenaciously to his populist themes. \"The country is in danger, not from below, but from above; not from segregation, but from centralization and imperialism\u2014from organized corporations, organized privileges, and from the army of 100,000 office holders.\"\n\nPulitzer the journalist dropped any pretense of confidence. He telegraphed a signed article back to the Post-Dispatch with a gloomy estimation of Hancock's chances in the election. In fact, Pulitzer went as far as to forecast a victory for Garfield, earning the wrath of other partisan papers. Such a prediction was the political equivalent of violating baseball's prohibition against using the term \"no-hitter\" before the last batter is out.\n\nWhen Election Day came, it looked for a brief time as if Pulitzer would be proved wrong. The popular vote turned out to be a virtual tie: each major candidate had 48.3 percent of the vote, with the remainder going to third-party candidates. But the electoral votes gave Garfield the election. With Indiana and Ohio voting Republican, New York turned out to be the key state. A shift of a few thousand votes in the Empire State\u20145,517, to be precise\u2014would have made Hancock president. The lesson was not lost on Pulitzer, who studied election maps with a mania. If the Democrats were to end their drought, those votes would need to be found in New York.\n\nHis dream of owning a New York paper took on new urgency.\n\n## Chapter Fifteen\n\n## ST. LOUIS GROWS SMALL\n\nOn many nights in early 1881, Pulitzer lay awake in his bed listening to the bells of the St. Louis Pilgrim Congressional Church peal out the passing hours. The third- or fourth-largest set of bells in the United States, they could be easily heard across the city. Pulitzer liked the ringing because it let him know how much time remained until dawn. The long, taxing days and the never-ending demands at the paper had taken a toll. Even though success was near, Pulitzer found it harder to sleep. But his insomnia did not stem from business worries. It was as if he could not shut down.\n\nNeither the Post-Dispatch nor Pulitzer had financial woes. The paper's net income was growing every month, and Pulitzer himself brought home more than $4,000 a month\u2014more than what many of his elite neighbors earned. The only business challenge facing Pulitzer that spring was a modest one. The local typographical union wanted the Post-Dispatch to recognize it as the bargaining agent for the paper's compositors and printers, as the Globe-Democrat had done. Intellectually, Pulitzer was sympathetic to the aims of the labor movement. But this was different from writing an editorial dictating the behavior of others. Pulitzer would not abide anything that challenged his rule within the paper.\n\nA few printers sought to meet with Pulitzer and threatened to stop work if their demands were not met. Pulitzer was absent, so no meeting occurred. Nor would the meeting occur upon his return, because these printers were summarily fired by his managers. The Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer declared, \"declines to be told who it shall and shall not employ. It refuses to be instructed as to how to measure its type, feed its press and to be limited to the number of apprentices it shall take into office training.\" He conceded that workers had the right to organize \"but the right to manage the internal affairs of this office, employ and discharge and to direct when and how labor shall be performed, is one that the proprietor reserves to himself.\" Simply put, Pulitzer was a democrat in politics, but a paternalistic despot in the office.\n\nPulitzer, however, did not treat his workers badly. In fact, the 1881 campaign by the typographical union came to an end because an overwhelming majority of Pulitzer's compositors had signed a statement proclaiming their happiness with their working conditions and their loyalty to their boss. Pulitzer paid better than other publishers, granted vacation time, frequently rewarded good work with bonuses, and remained intensely loyal to those who served him. He even gave his employees wedding and birthday gifts. At Christmas, he made it a tradition to send turkeys to his staff, and newsboys were invited to yuletide dinners where the tables groaned under the weight of food.\n\nPulitzer claimed that his benevolence was self-serving. \"Without good men you cannot get good work, and without good work no paper can prosper largely,\" he said. Yet he was deeply charitable. Once he became wealthy, he rarely declined any financial appeal, and he was particularly receptive to appeals from people he had met on his way up. For the remainder of his life, he quietly made arrangements to send monthly checks to widows of men who had toiled for him. He remembered how his mother had faced poverty when her husband died.\n\nThat Pulitzer was absent when the printers came to see him was not surprising. As during the 1880 campaign, he used his increasing freedom from managerial responsibilities to spend time in the East. No matter how successful he was in St. Louis, New York remained the center of American journalism and politics. Pulitzer wanted in.\n\nWith its theaters, concert halls, museums, banks, corporations, and millionaires, New York was the capital of everything important in the United States. Swampy, uncivilized Washington, D.C., may have been the seat of government, but New York remained the capital of politics. In journalism, Park Row was the dream destination of every reporter and editor. In the few short blocks, more newspapers were clustered than in any other spot of the world. Their offices were so substantial, their circulation was so large, and their news gathering was so extensive that the rest of nation's papers seemed like small-town sheets.\n\nBut in the last few years, New York's Park Row had changed greatly. Many of the giants who created its best-known newspapers had died. Gone were the New York Tribune's Horace Greeley, the New York Herald's James Gordon Bennett, Sr., and the New York Times's Henry J. Raymond. The new leaders were men such as Charles Dana at the New York Sun and Edwin Lawrence Godkin at the New York Evening Post. This group, however, seemed only to be caretakers. A new order of journalism\u2014lively, independent, and crusading\u2014was growing in other cities. It was like theatrical plays previewing out of town, working out their kinks while awaiting their chance on Broadway.\n\nPulitzer talked Daniel Houser into accompanying him to New York to look for a newspaper to buy. Houser, who co-owned the Globe-Democrat, had helped Pulitzer plan his purchase of the Dispatch four years earlier. They took rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel on June 19, 1881.\n\nAfter scouting around Park Row, they failed to discover any major newspaper for sale. There was one paper, a daily called Truth, which might be bought. It had started in 1879, had been an instant hit, and had quickly attained a circulation of more than 100,000 with its irreverent, light tone, bordering on the vulgar. Recently, it had run into financial difficulties, and Pulitzer made a halfhearted bid of $50,000 for it, but he was turned down. Thinking maybe he would do better to launch his own newspaper, Pulitzer asked Houser to go in with him. \"I told him I was tied up with the Globe-Democrat and that the only field in New York would be for a Democratic paper, that I could not print a Republican paper in St. Louis and a Democratic paper in New York,\" Houser recalled. \"I advised him not to start a new paper but buy one with a location\u2014an office, a name, a franchise.\"\n\nAlmost as if he did not want to return to St. Louis, Pulitzer found excuses to stay in the East through the summer of 1881. He dashed up to Albany to report for the Post-Dispatch on Roscoe Conkling's fruitless bid to win back the Senate seat he had resigned over a patronage dispute with President James Garfield. The political drama culminated on July 2 when Charles Guiteau, an obscure follower of Conkling's stalwart faction who was also a disappointed office seeker himself, pumped two bullets into the president. Doctors spent the summer battling to save Garfield's life.\n\nIn September, the president was moved to Elberon, part of the coastal town of Long Branch, New Jersey, where fresh sea air might speed his recovery. Pulitzer joined the pack of reporters at the West End Hotel covering the president's convalescence. It didn't take long for him to become skeptical about the doctors' optimistic bulletins. Probably, most of the reporters were also doubtful about the official pronouncements. But lacking the freedom of writing for a paper they owned, most of them dutifully transmitted to their editors the morsels of upbeat news provided to them by the president's staff. GREATLY IMPROVED reported the Chicago Tribune, and the Washington Post predicted, THE PRESIDENT SURELY ON THE ROAD TO RECOVERY.\n\nWhen his turn came at the telegraph office, Pulitzer handed the operator a far gloomier assessment. \"There are not many in the inner circle who do not well know that the bulletins are reliable only in this, that they exaggerate and embellish to the uttermost every favorable and utterly ignore every unfavorable sign of the case,\" he wired to the Post-Dispatch. The operator, one of eight brought in by Western Union to handle the volume of traffic, was impressed by what he transmitted. \"Mr. Pulitzer always filed what we termed 'good stuff,'\" he recalled. \"From the first line of his first story, Mr. Pulitzer predicted the death of Garfield and pilloried several of the attending physicians for their false bulletins on the President's condition.\"\n\nAt the beginning of Garfield's second week in Long Branch, ominous reports about his health began circulating. Most reporters, however, continued to report otherwise. They stuck to the story that the president was improving and that any news to the contrary was a product of the sensational press. A few nervous reporters covered their tracks by mentioning the rumors. Pulitzer, on the other hand, pressed on with his baleful version of Garfield's condition. \"As I said last week, the President is growing worse,\" he wrote. \"He is wasting away. It is only a question of time. All of his troubles, all his weakness come from the blood. It is poisoned.\" The doctors, he said, were lying. Pulitzer was convinced that septicemia, which before antibiotics invariably resulted in death, had set in.\n\nOn September 15, the president's medical team conceded that Garfield had pyemia, or septicemia. Incredibly, reporters for the Washington Post, the New York Times, and other papers downplayed this news. Pulitzer marched to the telegraph office with a blunt dispatch. \"Unless his blood can be cured he cannot be saved. I said this over a week ago and I repeat it,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"The physicians and bulletins and reporters have lied for days and weeks and months in denying this fact.\"\n\nThe tide of bad news now overwhelmed the Pollyannas of the press. The New York Times had the most backpedaling to do. It claimed that newspapermen were astonished by the new disclosures. The Post-Dispatch bragged that the new official bulletins proved its reporting\u2014done by its owner\u2014had been true all along. \"Even Dr. Bliss has at last been forced to confess the lamentable truth,\" Pulitzer said. \"He now admits everything he so positively denied every day and almost every hour of the last week.\"\n\nOn Monday morning, September 19, Pulitzer filed his final dispatch. \"All hope is dead. The President is dying.\" That night, with his wife and daughter at his side, Garfield ceased to breathe. In New York, a messenger boy brought the news to Vice President Chester Alan Arthur as church bells began to toll. Pulitzer returned to the city and denounced Garfield's doctors. \"If they had been blind-folded they could hardly have shown much less sense.\"\n\nThe day after the president's death, the Post-Dispatch defended itself against the censorious complaints it had received during Pulitzer's coverage of Garfield's decline. \"We have been charged with 'sensationalism' and with a desire to prematurely dispose of the sufferer,\" Cockerill wrote. \"We were not blinded by the bulletins of the physicians who felt it a part of their duty to keep up the spirit of the country in the face of plain facts. We went behind the bulletins.... Our predictions, we are sorry to say, have nearly all been verified.\"\n\nThe success of Pulitzer's Post-Dispatch ceased being a novelty. By any measure, the newspaper and its publisher had become as important in St. Louis as the established morning papers\u2014The Republican and the Globe-Democrat\u2014and the men at their helms. During Pulitzer's reporting from Long Branch, his paper's circulation rose to 28,475 copies, more than three times the average circulation it had at the beginning of the year.\n\nTo accommodate his growing staff and new presses, Pulitzer built a four-story building. He installed Richard Hoe's latest press, which could cut and fold the paper at a high rate of speed and included the first counting devices. Since getting his first order from the upstart publisher in 1878, Hoe and his headquarters staff in New York had become very familiar with the Pulitzer name.\n\nPulitzer trumpeted the link between the newspaper's financial independence and its political independence. \"From the very commencement the cardinal principle of the paper and the chief ambition of its owner and conductor has been to achieve and maintain an absolute independence, financially, politically, personally and morally,\" Pulitzer wrote, celebrating the installation of the latest Hoe press. \"We have absolutely no master, and no friend but the great public.\"\n\nIndeed, the Post-Dispatch's crusading zeal found a loyal middle-class readership. Success, however, came with costs. The paper's campaigns of civic reform left the city's landscape strewn with bruised and injured parties; its drive to clean up the city's illicit pastimes of gambling and prostitution shut down popular forms of entertainment; its continual attacks on the oligarchy embittered the powerful; and the moral haughtiness of its editorials ensured that many, including its supporters, would relish a humbling misstep.\n\nAs a consequence, Pulitzer and his family faced growing social ostracism. St. Louis may have projected cosmopolitan airs to visitors, but those who lived there learned quickly that it had the pettiness of a small town. \"It is encrusted,\" said Pulitzer's friend Stilson Hutchins, \"with prejudices, which are steadily strengthened by such contemptible creatures as the Knapps\u2014who prat high morality in the columns of their newspapers\u2014traduce and slander everybody whom they can't use or who does not belong to their set.\"\n\nThe hostility grew to the point where Pulitzer was assaulted on the street. In late March, as he was leaving Ecker's restaurant, where he had lunched, a burly man armed with a small whip tried to strike him. Pulitzer seized his assailant by the throat and threw him against a store window, breaking it. The man, who left no clue as to the cause of his anger, ran off, escaping through a nearby saloon.\n\nFor Kate, her husband's notoriety was painful. Despite her pedigree, she found herself increasingly snubbed by the social elite whose company she coveted. The Pulitzers moved from their house on Washington Avenue, but there was little they could do to decrease their sense of isolation. Compounding Kate's unhappiness was the uncertain health of the children. Both Ralph and Lucille were delicate. Ralph, in particular, was small and weak for his age and suffered from asthma and other ailments. As 1882 began, Kate was pregnant again. She remained alone a great deal of time, especially as Joseph increasingly spent time away from St. Louis.\n\nIn March, on one of half a dozen long trips to the East that year, Pulitzer joined up with Hutchins in Washington to interview Garfield's assassin in the jail where he awaited execution. Charles Guiteau had used as a legal defense the technically correct claim that the president had died not from the bullets but rather from the incompetence of the doctors who, as Pulitzer had reported, had misdiagnosed and mistreated their patient. Despite their shared low regard for Garfield's doctors, Pulitzer was filled with an intense hatred of Guiteau. When he reached the cell, his enmity grew. The prisoner jumped up and greeted Pulitzer in perhaps the most wounding manner possible. \"Why, how do you do, Mr. Schurz,\" said Guiteau. \"I know your brother very well\u2014have spoken from the same platform with him. How much you look like him.\"\n\nPulitzer turned to Hutchins with a look of disgust and they both shook their heads. \"I did not care, however, to lose time by explanations as to his mistake of my identity,\" said Pulitzer, who decided to let the insulting misidentification go unchallenged. \"My business was to study.\" Perhaps, but Guiteau's business was to make money. He earned about $50 a day selling photographs and autographs to visitors. Before the interview progressed, the required business was transacted, and Pulitzer and Hutchins soon owned their own Guiteau memorabilia.\n\n\"He handles his greenbacks,\" Pulitzer said, \"like a bank teller and talks about the different points and features of his different photographs precisely as if he were standing behind the counter selling ribbons or lace.\" Pulitzer found Guiteau unrepentant. Nor did Guiteau show any signs of lunacy. In fact, Pulitzer thought the man, whose actions had changed the leadership of the nation and the fortunes of thousands of ambitious men, seemed no different from a typical businessman or clerk. \"He could have been taken precisely as he stood and transferred behind the counter of some dry-goods store as a perfectly fit figure.\"\n\nBy the end of the visit, Pulitzer was even more repelled by the assassin than he had been at its beginning, almost as if Guiteau's apparent normality made the crime more heinous. As the two newspapermen rode away from the jail, Hutchins noticed that his companion \"was constantly engaged in washing his hands with invisible soap in imperceptible water.\"\n\nPerhaps inspired by his brother's success with the Post-Dispatch, Albert Pulitzer was bitten by a similar ambition. He had been working as a $45-a-week reporter on Bennett's New York Herald that spring when he shared his plan with a friend who worked at the New York Times. Pausing in front of the Equitable Building on Broadway, Albert told his companion that he intended to raise $20,000 to launch a paper in the already crowded New York market. His fellow reporter questioned the wisdom of embarking on such a risky enterprise with so little money. Albert laughed. \"If I once get started, I shall not stop,\" he said. \"I can then get more capital.\"\n\nAlbert wanted to create a newspaper that would stand in contrast to the spiritless gray sheets of the time. The idea had come to him while he rode on streetcars and ferryboats. He noticed that newspaper readers gravitated to articles written in a lighter vein. \"How would it do, I often asked myself when I thus watched newspaper readers, as they read their different papers, to create a new kind of paper, bright instead of dull, light instead of heavy, gay instead of wearisome?\"\n\nDuring his years at the Herald, Albert had become convinced that newspapers were ignoring half of their potential readership. \"It is, after all, women who enrich newspaper proprietors, it is the shops who cater to them who make the great newspaper fortunes in this country by the advertising which they pour out like a shower of gold into the columns of the papers.\" He recalled how, when he sold subscriptions to a German newspaper door-to-door in St. Louis, women remained loyal to a publication that won their affection. Albert's ideal newspaper would be full of material interesting to women.\n\nAlbert asked his now wealthy brother for money. Even though Joseph had earlier been so eager to get a foothold into New York newspaper-dom that he had been prepared to buy a gossipy rag, he said he wouldn't invest a cent in Albert's scheme. \"He kindly proposed that I should come out to St. Louis for a year, go to work on the Post-Dispatch and thus learn at least the rudiments of the business side of journalism.\" The idea of his younger brother seeking to succeed in New York before him raised Joseph's hackles.\n\nUndeterred by either the pessimism of his friends of the parsimony of his brother, Albert began a search for capital. Failing to find anyone in New York willing to invest, in the summer of 1882 Albert sailed for London, where his wit and charm had won over many people in high social circles during his previous reporting trips for the Herald. Unlike Joseph, Albert was a bon vivant. \"His delightful anecdotes and reminiscences of celebrities he had met at home and abroad, his gift for seizing upon the distinctive qualities of a personality and turning them to the best account, together with his sharp and pungent wit and sparkling repartee,\" recalled one smitten marquise, \"rendered him an exceptionally entertaining companion.\"\n\nIn August, Albert returned triumphantly to New York with $25,000 in capital. He put together a bare-bones staff of editors and reporters and rented space on the sixth floor of the New York Tribune's building on Spruce Street, overlooking the Sun and French's Hotel. The Tribune agreed to print his newspaper on one of its unused presses, but only after Albert had promised that none of his staff would enter the composing room, where valuable AP dispatches might be purloined.\n\nNew York would soon have its first Pulitzer newspaper.\n\nIn the fall of 1882, continued concern about Ralph's asthma led the Pulitzers to spend time away from St. Louis. Now with a third child\u2014Katherine Ethel, who had been born on June 30\u2014the family took up residence for the winter in Aiken, South Carolina, which was becoming a popular health resort. Even though this was an election year, Pulitzer left the management of the Post-Dispatch in Cockerill's hands. When it came to political coverage, readers were unlikely to notice the difference. Cockerill, if such a thing was possible, became even more excited by elections than his boss\u2014perhaps, as it would turn out, too animated.\n\nThe most important contest in St. Louis was an election to fill the congressional seat that had become vacant when Thomas Allen, Pulitzer's former opponent, died in office. The party bosses, specifically the Knapps and Hyde at the Republican, favored James Broadhead, an old friend and political ally of Pulitzer's. But under Cockerill's direction, the Post-Dispatch vigorously opposed Broadhead on the grounds that he was in the pocket of the gas monopoly and acted as Jay Gould's man in St. Louis. Broadhead's participation in the court cases involving the gas monopoly might have been excused as a mistake, but his affiliation with Gould tainted him indelibly.\n\nIf the railroad was the corporate evil of the era, the railroad and industrial magnate Jay Gould was its personification. Easily one of the most hated men of the era, he served as a ready target for the editorial pen of the reformist-minded Pulitzer. Two years earlier, for instance, Pulitzer heard a rumor in New York that Gould had purchased the Democratic New York World. \"The Democratic party, despite its great vitality, cannot afford to have its press contaminated by such a vampire,\" wrote Pulitzer on his return to St. Louis. The rumor was true. Gould had unintentionally acquired the paper when he purchased the assets of another corporation.\n\nGould became Pulitzer's particular devil. Pulitzer began a campaign to warn Missourians of the financier's Mephistophelian intentions. From New York, in March 1882, Pulitzer filed an article claiming that Gould intended to make Missouri \"his 'pocket borough,' controlling the Missouri legislature, running all the railroads, steamships, iron mills, and everything else he can gobble up, including one or two of the newspapers.\" The Post-Dispatch took to calling Gould \"Missouri's boss.\"\n\nBroadhead aroused the enmity of the Post-Dispatch for two reasons. Not only was he the hand-chosen candidate of Pulitzer's archenemies in St. Louis, but he was also Gould's representative. Still, when Broadhead won the party's nomination, most people assumed the Post-Dispatch would support him, as it had done when Allen beat Pulitzer two years earlier. But Cockerill relished a fight. He did not back down. On the contrary, he went after Broadhead with a vengeance, laying out an array of charges of corruption. When the candidate remained silent, Cockerill wrote, \"Perhaps the charges are unanswerable.\"\n\nThe attacks greatly upset Broadhead's law partner Alonzo W. Slayback, not a man one would want to anger. Slayback had been a friend of Cockerill's boss since they met during Pulitzer's first political campaign as a Democrat. Slayback had tolerated the Post-Dispatch's excited political pronouncements, and in return Pulitzer had kept Slayback out of the paper's crosshairs. For example, about a year earlier an opponent of Slayback's had published a card* in the Post-Dispatch accusing the lawyer of being a coward; at great expense, Pulitzer had the card removed in the middle of a press run.\n\nNow, with Pulitzer out of town and Cockerill in charge, Slayback began to berate the paper to anyone who would listen. One night at the end of September, Slayback went on a verbal rampage against Cockerill and the paper in the reception room of the Elks club, of which Cockerill was the president. Slayback accused Cockerill of being a blackmailer, a term then considered provocation for a duel. Cockerill gently persuaded Slayback to retire to the library, where the two held an extended conversation. When it was concluded, they headed off to drink in the bar, apparently having put their differences aside.\n\nBut a dozen days later, Slayback resumed sniping at Cockerill and referred to the paper as a \"blackmailing sheet.\" The renewed attack prompted Cockerill to dig out and print the old insulting card, whose publication Pulitzer had prevented. Only an hour after the edition hit the street, the Post-Dispatch's city editor looked up from his desk to see Slayback charging through the newsroom toward Cockerill's office in the company of William Clopton, another lawyer.\n\nIn his office, Cockerill was meeting with the business manager and the composing room foreman. His pistol lay on the desk, where he had placed it in anticipation of putting it into his coat when he left for home in a few minutes. Slayback threw open the door and stepped in, leaving Clopton in the hall. Then, as the men watched, Slayback took out a revolver.\n\n\"Well, I'm here, sir,\" Slayback said. Then, spotting Cockerill's weapon on the desk, he asked, \"Is that for me?\"\n\n\"No, it's for me to use only to defend myself,\" replied Cockerill.\n\n\"You are prepared to draw, then draw,\" Slayback said.\n\nBy this time Clopton had managed to gain entrance to the room and found that the confrontation had developed into a physical struggle between the men. Cockerill pulled the trigger of his gun as Clopton rushed to disarm him. The single shot met its target, traversing both of Slayback's lungs. He slumped to the floor with blood frothing at his mouth. In a moment, Slayback was dead.\n\nWhen word spread through town that Cockerill had killed Slayback, a mob of detractors of the Post-Dispatch gathered in front of its building. The crowd grew angry and might have stormed the building had the police not held the people back. Meanwhile, Cockerill stole away to the Lindell Hotel. Pulitzer's old friend Charles Johnson, who had defended Pulitzer when he shot Augustine, was summoned. In Johnson's company, Cockerill surrendered to the police that night.\n\nNews of the shooting was reported across the country. Reporters found Pulitzer in New York. He strongly defended Cockerill, calling him \"one of the quietest persons you ever knew.\" Even though he admitted he did not know that his editor packed a pistol, Pulitzer said Cockerill must have done so solely for self-defense. He immediately caught a train back to St. Louis.\n\nUpon arriving in St. Louis, Pulitzer went directly to Cockerill's cell and assured his editor that he would stand by him. In the paper's office, Pulitzer scrawled a short editorial, in his large, loopy handwriting, asking readers to withhold judgment until the police and the courts had completed their work. It was doubtful that any official report would please both sides. The only witnesses to the shooting each had a motive to lie. Nor was the prosecutor likely to be considered objective, since the Post-Dispatch had supported his election.\n\nSlayback's friend Clopton told the police the victim had been unarmed. The Post-Dispatch employees in the room stood by their claim that he had been armed. The gun found on Slayback seemed to corroborate Cockerill's claim of self-defense, but some people believed the gun had been planted. In fact, years later a Post-Dispatch employee confessed that he had planted it, to help Cockerill's plea of self-defense. But whether St. Louisans believed the killing was self-defense or murder depended less on evidence and more on their attitude toward the paper. Few sat on the fence, and those who were vindictive were vocal. \"If this closes the career of that scandalous sheet it will be a life well spent,\" one woman wrote to her son.\n\nOn October 18, Pulitzer and McCullagh, the Globe-Democrat editor who had once been Cockerill's boss, persuaded a judge to release Cockerill on $10,000 bail. A grand jury was convened to determine if Cockerill would be indicted for murder. Pulitzer knew that more than Cockerill's fate hung in the balance. His enemies, particularly those at the Missouri Republican, struck at him and the Post-Dispatch, claiming that Slayback's death was a direct result of his sensational journalism. For once, it seemed, Hyde had the upper hand. The Post-Dispatch's average daily circulation fell by 2,015, and several national publications joined the chorus of critics. Harper's Weekly, for instance, said the killing was \"a direct result of personal journalism.\"\n\nPulitzer brushed off the Republican's daily attacks and offered a spirited defense of Cockerill in the Post-Dispatch. He accepted responsibility for the content of the paper leading up to the shooting and wrote that Cockerill's conduct\u2014in print, not with the gun\u2014had been justified by Slayback's provocation.\n\nBut, watching the circulation plummet, Pulitzer knew he had to disassociate the paper from Cockerill. He turned to John Dillon for help. In the three years since they had parted company, Dillon had spent some time writing for the Globe-Democrat, had gone to work in Mexico, and had recently returned to St. Louis to take a job with the weekly Spectator. Pulitzer now asked him to take over Cockerill's job. Dillon immediately accepted the offer, and within days his restrained, refined prose calmed the editorial page. Any mention of Broadhead's candidacy disappeared from the page.\n\nAs part of this restoration, Pulitzer invited his actor friend John McCullough to put on a benefit performance of Julius Caesar at the Mercantile Library for the Slayback family. Boxes for the show were auctioned off. Kate bought one for $1,000, although most sold for less than $100. Notably absent were Pulitzer's critics at the Republican, who had so ferociously attacked him. In their anger, none of Pulitzer's enemies recognized that the victim had been a friend of his also. Years later, long after Pulitzer was no longer in St. Louis, he provided a job on the paper for Slayback's daughter.\n\nIn the end, the grand jury declined to indict Cokerill, convinced that Slayback had provoked the shooting by entering the office with a weapon. Pulitzer and the Post-Dispatch had survived the crisis but St. Louis had become even less hospitable to him and his family. Once again, Pulitzer left for New York.\n\nIn the early morning hours of November 16, 1882, a few days after Joseph reached New York City, Albert and his newly assembled staff left their offices to get the first copies of The Morning Journal as it came off the New York Tribune's presses. The men all returned to their desks to study their first effort and, as all journalists do, mark typos.\n\nOne of the men suggested \"something wet\" to mark the occasion, and Albert sent the office boy out to procure some bottles. Upon his return, the editors and reporters quaffed beer and toasted the paper's birth. Albert, however, chose Apollinaris water instead. There was no food, not even \"beef an,\" the famous ten-cent plate of corned beef and beans from nearby Hitchcock's. \"So,\" noted one of the editors, \"the Journal was baptized with Apollinaris and beer.\"\n\nA few hours later, New Yorkers sampled The Morning Journal. Readers who couldn't find the time to wade through the daily papers, oversize canvases of dull unbroken type, found the Journal a relief. For only a penny\u2014a third or a fourth of the cost of other papers\u2014readers could have their fill of short news items written in a light, breezy style. Women in particular were offered, at last, a newspaper that clearly had their interests in mind. The paper had detailed reports of weddings and balls, romantic news such as the first loves of famous men, and lots of gossipy notices. Albert, one Park Row veteran recalled, \"was the first New York editor to realize the fact that shop-girls and poor clerks are interested in the daily lives of the millionaire class. He turned to their 'doings' and paved the way for the new journalism that followed.\" The paper was soon nicknamed the \"chambermaid's delight.\" From the very first appearance of the Journal, Albert found readers. It was the talk of the town.\n\nFrom his Manhattan hotel room Joseph enviously witnessed his brother's success.\n\n## Chapter Sixteen\n\n## THE GREAT THEATER\n\nOn April 7, 1883, Jay Gould took his family and friends by private railcar to Philadelphia for the launching of his new yacht, Atalanta, named after the huntress of Greek mythology. Built at a cost of $140,000, the yacht was a floating palace with gold-edged curtains, oriental rugs, and a built-in piano. But as Gould participated in the festivities of the day, he was beset with worries. The country was in the midst of a business downturn, his nerves were frayed, and the constant public attacks on him had begun to hit home. For the first time, he was considering retirement. At the very least, it was time to lighten his load.\n\nHe decided to rid himself of the burdensome New York World. It was a Democratic paper and he was a Republican. But perhaps an even greater sin in the eyes of a railroad and industrial baron was that it had never made a dime since he acquired it four years earlier. \"I never cared anything about the World,\" Gould said. The World had an anemic circulation of 15,000 and was losing money every week.\n\nIn January, Gould had come close to disposing of the paper to John McLean, the publisher of the Cincinnati Enquirer, but McLean had been unwilling to meet the $385,000 price. There was only one man trolling for a New York paper for whom price did not seem to be a consideration. \"As Joseph has more stamps than the rest of us, I might say the only one with stamps,\" said McLean when his bid failed, \"I suspect he will get it ultimately.\"\n\nOn the day Gould watched his new yacht slip into the water, Pulitzer was riding a train to New York. The Pulitzer family had just concluded the stay of several months in the South, undertaken out of concern for Ralph's asthma. Joseph and Kate had given up on St. Louis and were looking for a place to buy or rent in New York City. The Post-Dispatch practically ran itself. But to be sure that it remained on track, Pulitzer received daily preprinted one-page reports that showed him at a glance all the essential information, such as circulation, advertising, expenses, and the times when the presses started and ended their runs. He was forever asking the men who managed the business side of his operations to be brief in responding to his ceaseless queries. In his words, he wanted the information in \"a nutshell.\"\n\nOn the way north, Joseph dropped Kate and the children off in Washington for a stay with her family. He pushed on to New York. If the intelligence he had learned from his friend William H. Smith, director of the Associated Press, was sound and if he played his hand deftly, the World could be his. The press was reporting that Gould would leave any day for the West in the company of tycoon Russell Sage. Pulitzer would have to work fast.\n\nHe obtained a meeting with Gould at his Western Union office, a few blocks from Park Row. As the two sat facing each other, it was clear there wasn't much to negotiate. For Gould, who had once stacked $53 million in stock certificates on his desk and who lived in a forty-room Gothic mansion, selling the World was a Lilliputian deal. True, owning the paper had become an irritation, and Pulitzer was a willing purchaser. But Gould could have easily closed the World without making a dent in his petty cash. He wasn't going to grant any favors to a man who made a sport of pillorying him. From a negotiating perspective, Gould's uninterest trumped Pulitzer's desire.\n\nThis purchase, unlike that of the Staats-Zeitung or the Dispatch, was no fire sale. The negotiations dragged on for a couple of weeks over two issues. Gould wanted to retain a small ownership share for his son and wanted the current editor to keep his job. In the end, Gould conceded on both points and Pulitzer met his price of $346,000. The sum, according to Gould, represented the amount he had paid for the paper and the losses incurred during his four years of ownership.\n\nPulitzer did not have that much cash. If he sold the Post-Dispatch, he would be trading a moneymaker for, in his own words, a \"mummified corpse of the once bright and lively New York World.\" His craving for the World was so intense that he would take a loan from Gould, a man whom he deemed \"one of the most sinister figures that have ever flitted bat-like across the vision of the American people.\"\n\nOn April 28, Pulitzer drew up the sales contract in his own hand, with the advice and counsel of the former U.S. senator Roscoe Conkling, whom Pulitzer had befriended since Conkling had fallen out of favor with the Republican Party and opened a law practice. To take possession of the World, Pulitzer would give Gould a down payment of $34,600, and Gould would finance the remainder at a 5 percent interest rate. Under the terms of the loan, Pulitzer would pay $79,200 in 1884; $121,100 in 1885; and $121,100 in 1886, as well as the interest on the outstanding balance, which could amount to $33,730. In addition, Pulitzer promised to rent for a decade the Park Row building housing the World, for $13,560 a year. Signing the contract put Pulitzer nearly $500,000 in debt. Less than five years after spending his last few thousand dollars to buy the bankrupt Dispatch, he was betting he could repeat his success on a far grander scale.\n\nThe stakes were high. The Post-Dispatch, which had recovered from its slump after Slayback's murder, looked as though it would generate profits of $120,000 to $150,000 in 1883. But the World was losing thousands of dollars each month. If New York didn't take to his so-called western journalism, Pulitzer would be ruined.\n\nHe confessed his anxiety to Kate, who had installed herself and the children in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Five years with Joseph had convinced her that it was no use trying to restrain his ambition. He was, as he had promised in his wedding-eve letters, driven by an insatiable need to be occupied, to have meaningful work, to keep moving. On the other hand, Kate had witnessed his talent. She had, after all, accompanied him to St. Louis to spend their last dime on a bankrupt paper. She believed in him and urged him on, even if it meant risking everything they had.\n\nWord of the pending sale began to leak out. It was hard to keep it a secret, with Cockerill shuttling between New York and St. Louis and the Post-Dispatch business manager joining Pulitzer in New York. On May 6, the rival Globe-Democrat confirmed that Pulitzer had concluded the deal.\n\nOn May 9, the day before Gould transferred the World to him, Pulitzer proposed to his brother that they consolidate their papers into a new one, to be called the World-Journal. Albert's seven-month-old Journal had three times the circulation of the World and was acquiring thousands of new subscribers each month. If Albert agreed to the merger, Joseph promised him a profit of no less than $100,000 a year.\n\n\"That is a good deal of money,\" Albert said. \"I shall be perfectly satisfied if I can even make a fifth of that out of the Journal.\"\n\n\"You needn't come to the office at all, if you like you can stay at home in bed all day long,\" continued Joseph, who could never brook an equal in the office.\n\nIn hoping to combine the papers, Joseph was following the game plan he had used in St. Louis when he had merged his new paper there with Dillon's Post. But this situation was different: Albert was making money on his own, lots of it, and his paper was not threatened by Joseph. He declined the invitation.\n\n\"Don't be so cock-sure of your success,\" Joseph snapped. \"It is the men you have got and who get the paper out every night for you that are making it what it is. When they are gone what will you do?\"\n\nThat night, Albert confronted this question. He discovered that his managing editor, E. C. Hancock, had resigned, his lead columnist had vanished, and his editorial writer had called in sick. \"I did not lose a moment, jumped into a car as I was determined to get at the truth, rode to his house, obtained admission after some difficulty and soon learned that my surmise was true\u2014my whole staff, my three most valuable men whom I had trained with such pains since the first issue of the Morning Journal, had gone over in the dead of night to a rival newspaper! This blow was intended to kill me.\"\n\nOf course, the rival paper was the World. In a city teeming with editorial talent, Joseph had chosen to raid his brother's shop. He was seeking more than editors. Driven by jealousy, he wanted to put his kid brother in his place.\n\nAt the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a reporter caught up with Pulitzer, eager to learn his plans for the World. \"I intend to make it a thorough American newspaper\u2014to un-Anglicize it, so to speak,\" Pulitzer said. He promised that no immediate personnel changes were in the works. \"I have no intention to bring any new men to the city for the purpose of placing them on the editorial staff of the paper,\" he said. Once again Pulitzer was resorting to his old habit of lying when talking to a reporter. He preferred to keep it quiet that Cockerill, with a reputation as an editor who shot complaining readers, was on his way to New York to run the World. \"In the news sense and in other ways,\" Pulitzer promised, \"I shall, of course, in time make considerable changes in the paper.\"\n\nIn the company of his newly purloined editor from Albert's paper, Pulitzer went to inspect his new property on the evening of May 10. The paper was housed in a fire-damaged building at the lower end of Park Row. The fabled block housed a dozen or more daily papers. This was the newspapers' golden age, and Park Row was the richest vein. But in New York, unlike St. Louis, Pulitzer faced competition from sophisticated, well-funded, worldly publications. Aside from Albert's Morning Journal, there were the immensely profitable New York Herald, run by James Gordon Bennett Jr.; Charles Dana's Sun, still attracting more than 100,000 readers each day with its compact four-page format; the late Horace Greeley's New York Tribune, now ruled by Whitelaw Reid, a conservative Republican sheet serving the prosperous. If there was a turtle among these hares, it was the sober New York Times, slowly winning a loyal following.\n\nPulitzer and Hancock entered the World newsroom just as the staff was putting the finishing touches on the next day's edition. Although Pulitzer's arrival had been preceded by a memo telling the employees that the new owner wished to retain them in their positions at their current salaries, the nearly 100 reporters, editors, compositors, and printers were anxious to catch a glimpse of this thirty-six-year-old outsider who held their future in his hands. The departure of the existing senior management, fleeing like ship rats, forecast great changes.\n\nEscorting Pulitzer around the newsroom, Hancock urged him to write some sort of pronouncement for the next day's edition. Taking a pen, Pulitzer hurriedly began. While a newspaper must be independent, he wrote for his first editorial in the paper, \"it must not be indifferent or neutral on any question involving public interest.\" Then, collating phrases from his stump speeches and from five years of editorial struggles against entrenched interests in St. Louis, Pulitzer pledged that the World would fight against monopolies, organized privilege, corrupt officials, and other threats to democracy. \"Its rock of faith must be true Democracy,\" he wrote. \"Not the Democracy of a political machine. Not the Democracy which seeks to win the spoils of office from a political rival, but the Democracy which guards with jealous care the rights of all alike, and perpetuates the free institutions it first established.\n\n\"Performance is better than promises. Exuberant assurances are cheap,\" Pulitzer continued, adding a signed announcement of the change of ownership that he had drafted to accompany his editorial. Simply watch the paper and see for yourself, he said. \"There is room in this great and growing city for a journal that is not only cheap but bright, not only bright but large, not only large but truly Democratic\u2014dedicated to the cause of the people rather than that of purse-potentates\u2014devoted more to the news of the New than the Old World\u2014that will expose all fraud and sham, fight all public evils and abuses\u2014that will serve and battle for the people with earnest sincerity.\" Done, Pulitzer handed the sheets to an eighteen-year-old compositor, who would later become one of his editors, and his words were rapidly set into type in time for the press run.\n\nBefore leaving for the night, Pulitzer made one alteration to the look of the paper that hinted at his ambitions. He dropped \"New York\" from the name and restored the nameplate that had been used when the World began in 1860. At its center, framed by the words \"The World,\" was a printing press with rays of light emanating from it like the sun flanked by the two hemispheres of the globe.\n\nWhile Joseph made plans for his newspaper, Albert made repairs to his. He had managed to locate a new editor. In fact, the replacement turned out to be an improvement, and the stolen Hancock lasted only a few days under Joseph. Still fuming over the raid, Albert ran into Joseph at Madison Square Garden.\n\n\"I congratulate you on your new recruits,\" Albert said. \"Perhaps you would now like to offer me a stated sum annually for the sole purpose of looking up and supplying your paper with bright writers?\"\n\nJoseph dismissed the sarcastic remark with a wave. \"I'll admit that you have a wonderful nose for ferreting out talent,\" he said. \"I have read your paper today and it is really not half bad.\"\n\nThere may have been enough room for two Pulitzer papers in New York, but not enough for two Pulitzers. Although Albert was willing to share the stage, Joseph wasn't. Stung by the malevolent actions of his only living sibling, Albert took an angry swipe at Joseph's handiwork. He told the Herald that the success of the Journal showed that for a newspaper to find readers \"it is not necessary to make it slanderous, vituperative, or nasty.\"\n\nA few weeks after their encounter, Joseph made an attempt to be civil. He stopped in at Albert's office for fifteen minutes. \"He made a closer study of us and took in more during that time than another less observing man would have done in a whole day,\" Albert wrote, describing the visit to a friend. \"After Joe left someone asked, 'I wonder what he dropped in for?' My officious office-boy quickly replied, 'I guess he dropped in to see if there was anyone else he could coax away!'\"\n\nAfter the visit, the two brothers would forever remain estranged. The only two remaining members of F\u00fcl\u00f6p and Elize Pulitzer's children left in the world found they could not get along.\n\nFor those who had watched Pulitzer climb from being a lawyer's errand boy to being a newspaper publisher, his purchase of the World held great promise. \"You have entered upon the stage of a great theater and stand as if it were before the footlights in presence of the nation,\" one of his oldest friends from St. Louis wrote. Another compared him to a previous newspaper giant: \"The present situation is not unlike that which the elder Bennett found when he moved to attack the established dailies. You are in a magnificent field and you ought to move all of America.\"\n\nBut unless Pulitzer could spark a spectacular increase in circulation he would not ascend a pinnacle of political power. Instead, he would be crushed under an avalanche of debt. Every tactic, device, scheme, plan, and method that he employed in St. Louis would have to work in New York, and he also needed to think up new ones. But before introducing his ideas, he decided to create the appearance of change.\n\nTaking from his bag a trick he had used in St. Louis, Pulitzer sent reporters out to interview leading Democrats about the \"new World,\" even though it still looked like the old one. Flattered by the attention and the promise of free publicity, the party figures immediately studied the paper. Typical was the response of one party official. \"I guess we are going to have a real Democratic paper at last,\" he said. \"The paper in its new dress is an immense improvement and the short distinct paragraphs, instead of running everything together, make the paper very readable.\"\n\nThen\u2014also as he had done in St. Louis\u2014Pulitzer took to reprinting all the press comments on the World's change in ownership. He sought to project a sense of dramatic change. \"He took every occasion to blow his horn and tell the public what a good newspaper he was making,\" remarked the owner of a stationery and newspaper store on the West Side. \"This was unusual in New York and by many people it was considered very bad taste on his part to be continually boasting and bragging about the merits of his publication.\" However distasteful it might have seemed to some, it worked. Within the first few days, circulation had a modest increase. New Yorkers were curious about the World.\n\nWhat they found when they picked up a copy was not all that different from before. Except for Pulitzer's tinkering with the masthead, the layout of the paper remained unchanged. He filled in the empty spaces on each side of the top of the front page with a circle or square containing promotional copy such as \"Only 8-Page Newspaper in the United States Sold for 2 Cents.\" (This little innovation, which he may have stolen from Albert, became known in the business as \"ears\" and eventually was adopted by most papers.) The front page was divided into six or seven narrow columns, just as in other newspapers. The headlines remained small because convention bound them to the limits of the column width.\n\nBut if the new World looked like the old, life inside its building certainly didn't. James B. Townsend, a reporter who had been absent at a funeral in Vermont when Pulitzer took over, was startled by what he found upon his return. \"It seemed as if a cyclone had entered the building, completely disarranged everything, and had passed away leaving confusion.\" Avoiding collisions with messenger boys exiting with urgent deliveries, Townsend made his way to the city room and found his colleagues running around excitedly. He asked the general manager what was the cause of all the commotion.\n\n\"You will know soon enough, young man,\" the manager replied. \"The new boss will see you in five minutes.\" He then glanced up at Townsend and added. \"After us the deluge\u2014prepare to meet your fate.\"\n\nIndeed, Townsend was soon summoned to Pulitzer's office. As he entered, Townsend made his first examination of his new boss, and Pulitzer of him. Dressed in a frock coat and gray trousers, Pulitzer stared back through his glasses. \"So, this is Mr. T,\" he said. \"Well, Sir, you've heard that I am the new chief of this newspaper. I have already introduced new methods\u2014new ways I proposed to galvanize this force: are you willing to aid me?\"\n\nAlmost as if the breath had been sucked from him by Pulitzer's vigor, Townsend stammered that he would like to remain on the staff. \"Good, I like you,\" replied Pulitzer. \"Get to work.\"\n\nDuring the following days, editors and reporters arriving in the early morning found Pulitzer already in his office, often toiling in his shirtsleeves. When the door was open and he was dictating an editorial, recalled one man, \"his speech was so interlarded with sulphurous and searing phrases that the whole staff shuddered. He was the first man I ever heard who split a word to insert an oath. He did it often. His favorite was 'indegoddampendent.'\"\n\nAs the staff settled in for the day's work, they couldn't escape Pulitzer. One moment he would be in the city room arguing with a reporter about some aspect of a story. No detail was too small. In one case, he was overheard discussing the estimated number of cattle that an editor had expected to arrive in New York from the West the previous day. He loved debating with his staff, usually provoking the arguments himself. \"It is by argument,\" he told Townsend, \"that I measure a man, his shortcomings, his possession or lack of logic, and, above all, whether he has the courage of his convictions, for no man can long work for me with satisfaction to himself or myself unless he has this courage.\"\n\nFinished with the city room, Pulitzer would bark out orders in the composing room or dash into the counting room to get a report on revenues. It wasn't long before the old-timers couldn't take it anymore, and new faces, often younger, appeared in the editorial quarters. The men in the composing and printing rooms were content with their new manager, though Pulitzer had one dustup with them. On May 24, he and Cockerill returned from the dedication of the Brooklyn Bridge brimming with ideas about how to cover the momentous occasion, only to discover that forty-three of the fifty-one men had walked off the job in a wage dispute. It took Pulitzer only three hours to capitulate and agree to recognize the men's union. \"The whole difficulty has been amicably settled, and the men have returned happy,\" Pulitzer said as he headed out with the union president and others for a glass of beer at a neighboring bar.\n\nThere was a sense that Pulitzer was pushing the World forward. \"We in the office felt from the first that this remarkable personality, which has so impressed us upon its arrival inside the building, would soon make its impress felt on the great cosmopolitan public of New York,\" Townsend said, \"and in time the country.\"\n\nPulitzer launched his journalistic revolution modestly. The dramatic changes for which he would eventually become known were still years away. At this point, he sought solely to condition his editorial staff to his principles of how a paper should be written and edited. This effort, however modest it may seem, is how the World began on its path to becoming the most widely read newspaper in American history. In an era when the printed word ruled supreme and 1,028 newspapers competed for readers, content was the means of competition. The medium was not the message; the message was. This was where Pulitzer started.\n\nThe paper abandoned its old, dull headlines. In place of BENCH SHOW OF DOGS: PRIZES AWARDED ON THE SECOND DAY OF THE MEETING IN MADISON SQUARE GARDEN on May 10 came SCREAMING FOR MERCY: HOW THE CRAVEN CORNETTI MOUNTED THE SCAFFOLD on May 12. Two weeks later the World's readers were greeted with BAPTIZED IN BLOOD, on top of a story, complete with a diagram, on how eleven people were crushed to death in a human stampede when panic broke out in a large crowd enjoying a Sunday stroll on the newly opened Brooklyn Bridge. In a city where half a dozen newspapers offered dull, similar fare to readers each morning, Pulitzer's dramatic headlines made the World stand out like a racehorse among draft horses.\n\nIf the headline was the lure, the copy was the hook. Pulitzer could write all the catchy headlines he wanted, but it was up to the reporters to win over readers. He pushed his staff to give him simplicity and color. He admonished them to write in a buoyant, colloquial style comprising simple nouns, bright verbs, and short, punchy sentences. If there was a \"Pulitzer formula,\" it was a story written so simply that anyone could read it and so colorfully that no one would forget it. The question \"Did you see that in the World?\" Pulitzer instructed his staff, \"should be asked every day and something should be designed to cause this.\"\n\nPulitzer had an uncanny ability to recognize news in what others ignored. He sent out his reporters to mine the urban dramas that other papers confined to their back pages. They returned with stories that could leave no reader unmoved. Typical, for instance, was the World's front-page tale, which ran soon after Pulitzer took over, of the destitute and widowed Margaret Graham. She had been seen by dockworkers as she walked on the edge of a pier in the East River with an infant in her arms and a two-year-old girl clutching her skirt. \"All at once the famished mother clasped the feeble little girl round her waist and, tottering to the brink of the wharf, hurled both her starving young into the river as it whirled by. She stood for a moment on the edge of the stream. The children were too weak and spent to struggle or to cry. Their little helpless heads dotted the brown tide for an instant, then they sank out of sight. The men who looked on stood spellbound.\" Graham followed her children into the river but was saved by the onlookers and was taken to jail to face murder charges.\n\nFor Pulitzer a news story was always a story. He pushed his writers to think like Dickens, who wove fiction from the sad tales of urban Victorian London, to create compelling entertainment from the drama of the modern city. To the upper classes, it was sensationalism. To the lower and working classes, it was their life. When they looked at the World, they found stories about their world.\n\nIn the Lower East Side's notorious bars, known as black and tans, or at dinner in their cramped tenements, men and women did not discuss society news, cultural events, or happenings in the investment houses. Rather, the talk was about the baby who fell to his death from a rooftop, the brutal beating that police officers dispensed to an unfortunate waif, or the rising cost of streetcar fares to the upper reaches of Fifth Avenue and the mansions needing servants. The clear, simple prose of the World drew in these readers, many of whom were immigrants struggling to master their first words of English. Writing about the events that mattered in their lives in a way they could understand, Pulitzer's World gave these New Yorkers a sense of belonging and a sense of value. In one stroke, he simultaneously elevated the common man and took his spare change to fuel the World's profits.\n\nThe moneyed class learned to pick up the World with trepidation. Each day brought a fresh assault on privilege and another revelation of the squalor and oppression under which the new members of the laboring class toiled. Pulitzer found readers where other newspaper publishers saw a threat. Immigrants were pouring into New York at a rate never before seen. By the end of the decade, 80 percent of the city's population was either foreign-born or of foreign parentage. Only the World seemed to consider the stories of this human tide as deserving news coverage. The other papers wrote about it; the World wrote for it.\n\nThe World's stories were animated not just by the facts the reporters dug up but by the voices of the city they recorded. Pulitzer drove his staff to aggressively seek out interviews, a relatively new technique in journalism pioneered by his brother, among others. Leading figures of the day were used to a considerable wall of privacy and were affronted by what Pulitzer proudly called \"the insolence and impertinence of the reporters for the World.\"\n\nNot only did he have the temerity to dispatch his men to pester politicians, manufacturers, bankers, society figures and others for answers to endless questions, but he instructed them to return with specific personal details that would illustrate the resulting articles. Pulitzer was obsessed with details. A tall man was six feet two inches tall. A beautiful woman had auburn hair, hazel eyes, and demure lips that occasionally turned upward in a coy smile. Vagueness was a sin.\n\nAs was inaccuracy. A disciple of the independent press movement, Pulitzer was convinced that accuracy built circulation, credibility, and editorial power. Words could paint brides as blushing, murderers as heinous, politicians as venal, but the facts had to be right. \"When you go to New York, ask any of the men in the dome to show you my instructions to them, my letters written from day to day, my cables,\" Pulitzer told an associate late in life. \"You will see that accuracy, accuracy, accuracy, is the first and the most urgent, the most constant demand I have made on them.\"\n\nPulitzer practically lived at his cramped headquarters on Park Row. Kate and the children hardly ever saw him. His day began with editorial conferences\u2014an editor who came unprepared never repeated the mistake\u2014and ended under the harsh white gaslight as he read and reread proofs for the next morning's edition. When not writing or editing, Pulitzer studied all the New York papers as well as more than a dozen British, German, and French ones. He demanded a great deal from his staff but even more from himself. When he had been in St. Louis, if the paper was dull he would steal home feeling sick. If it met his standard, he would be elated. As spring turned into summer in New York, Pulitzer was feeling elated.\n\nIn his first weeks at the World, the paper's circulation soared by 35 percent. \"Increasing in circulation? You can just bet it is,\" said a newsstand operator on the corner of Cortland and Greenwich streets. \"I used to sell fourteen Worlds a day. I now sell thirty-four. If that ain't an increase I don't know what is.\"\n\nThe Pulitzers moved from their hotel rooms into a house they rented at 17 Gramercy Park, an elegant neighborhood surrounding a private park on the East Side, off Park Avenue. The aging Samuel Tilden, for whom Pulitzer had toiled in the disputed presidential election of 1876, lived at number 15. Once again there was talk of Tilden's running for president, but Pulitzer would have nothing to do with it. \"He belongs to the past and represents an idea,\" Pulitzer said a few weeks after moving in next door to his famous neighbor. \"Now, ideas are stronger than men, but you can't elect an idea.\"\n\nEven though work consumed most of Pulitzer's waking hours, he found time for socializing, particularly with political New Yorkers. One evening, shortly after taking over the World, he reminisced about the campaign of 1876 with the wealthy Democrat William C. Whitney at a dinner of Democrats. Despite their shared political convictions, Pulitzer stood out as an odd duck among the well-heeled dinner guests. \"Sharp-faced with bushy hair and scraggy whiskers, an ill-fitting dress suit too large for him, antagonizing people at dinner,\" Whitney wrote, describing Pulitzer to his wife, who was away. Another night, Pulitzer joined Watterson at Delmonico's for a dinner promoting the Louisville Exposition. By June, Pulitzer was a member of the Manhattan Club, an almost exclusively Democratic society.\n\nPulitzer even found time and, more remarkably, had enough interest, to take a lunchtime river cruise in Jay Gould's new yacht, along with the Sun's editor Dana and William Dorsheimer, a Democrat starting his term in Congress. That Pulitzer sought the company of these two guests was understandable. He had known both for almost a decade and shared their political beliefs. But his willingness to enjoy Gould's yacht, food, drink, and company betrayed a dichotomy in Pulitzer that widened as he accumulated wealth. He wanted to be accepted by the elite while making a living trashing them in his paper.\n\nPulitzer may have taunted the wealthy, attacked their political power, and criticized their sense of entitlement, but he planned to be among them. A few weeks after his lunch with Gould, the World printed a list of New York's millionaires. \"We find the names of only three or four newspaper publishers in the magnificent array,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"By this time next year, as things are going, the list will be beautified with the names of at least a half-dozen journalists. We could name them now, but modesty forbids.\"\n\nIn August, Pulitzer dashed out to Ohio in support of a Democrat, Judge Hoadly, who was a candidate for governor. The campaign had already deteriorated into a raucous, dirty, knockdown fight after a convention that one newspaper reporter said was more akin to a bullfight than a political meeting. Sitting in the smoking car from Urbana to Columbus, Pulitzer struck up a conversation with a reporter for McLean's Cincinnati Enquirer, which strongly opposed Hoadly.\n\n\"This is a perfect hell you've been raising,\" Pulitzer said.\n\n\"Just a trifle that I couldn't well help,\" replied the reporter.\n\nPulitzer was unconvinced and said he thought the Enquirer's publisher was seeking revenge against Hoadly, who was involved with a competing paper.\n\n\"Well, that's only natural,\" the reporter said. \"You don't publish a newspaper as a matter of sentiment; you publish it to make money.\"\n\n\"Now, I do publish a newspaper as a matter of sentiment\u2014two of them,\" replied Pulitzer. \"My paper in New York City is straight-out Democratic, because in that city I am possessed of the backing of strong Democratic sentiment. My paper in St. Louis is independent, because in that city I have a strong independent sentiment.\"\n\nThe two then shared a number of confidences about the campaign, including Hoadly's belief that his election to governor would make him a leading contender for president the following year. \"Bah,\" said Pulitzer, \"the Democratic party will not go to Ohio to find its next candidate, and if it should, nobody need fear that it would select Hoadly.\"\n\nWhen the train reached its destination, Pulitzer was met by one of the state's leading Democrats. Pulitzer told him of the conversation on the train. The politician assured Pulitzer that the reporter could be trusted to keep it to himself. None of them, however, took account of the fact that the man in the seat behind them worked for the New York Times, which eagerly published a transcript, giving Pulitzer a taste of public embarrassment of the kind he usually dished out.\n\nBy the end of August 1883, with the World's circulation twice what it had been before he bought the paper, Pulitzer felt sufficiently comfortable to leave New York for almost a month. Henry Villard, one of the nation's most prominent railroad men, had just completed the first northern transcontinental railroad. To do so, he had overstretched his financial resources, and he was deep in debt. Desperate to drum up business for his new line, Villard contrived a huge international celebration. He invited government officials, politicians, foreign dignitaries, and editors from leading newspapers on a cross-country train ride to witness the driving of the last spike. The antirailroad, antimonopolist, and anticorporate Pulitzer accepted the invitation.\n\nOn August 28, Villard's private trains began leaving New York. The engines pulled Wagner sleeping cars, beautifully appointed with curtains, leather seats, carpeting, and china spittoons, and configured like long drawing rooms with tables. By the time the two trains reached Chicago, the excursion party had grown to four trains with more than 300 guests including the former president Ulysses Grant. The caravan made stops for parades and banquets. In Bismarck, the delegation laid the cornerstone of the state capitol and listened to a speech by Sitting Bull, who had been released from captivity for the event. On September 8, the trains joined up with ones coming from the West in the valley of Little Blackfoot Creek, about sixty miles from Helena, Montana.\n\nPulitzer was surprised to find that Villard had built a pavilion, a bandstand, and promenades in this abandoned stretch. Finding a seat, Pulitzer watched as the men rapidly laid the last 1,000 feet of track. The man who had driven in the first spike on the opening of the road came forward to nail the last as the sun began to set behind the mountains. Villard spent $300,000 for the affair but he couldn't have bought better press coverage. Newspapers across the country and in Europe played up the event\u2014that was, all except the World, which churlishly said the event was \"a comparatively unimportant incident in railroad history.\"\n\nDuring Pulitzer's absence from New York, his detractors took the opportunity to spread a rumor that the World was still owned by Gould, even though Pulitzer had run a front-page two-column interview with Gould to publicize the change of ownership. The rumor had sufficient credibility, supported by Pulitzer's willingness to float around New York waters with Gould in the latter's yacht, that Cockerill was forced to issue a public statement. Neither Gould nor his son, said Cockerill, \"nor any other human being connected with any monopoly or corporation own directly or indirectly one dollar's worth of interest in the World or have any more to do with its management than the Emperor of China.\" Despite his best efforts the rumors persisted. The Brooklyn Eagle, for instance, remarked, Pulitzer \"claims that Mr. Gould has nothing to do with the paper, but the claim is simply the rankest sort of nonsense, Mr. Gould still owns the paper.\"\n\nThe rumors were only a nuisance. When he returned from the West, Pulitzer was greeted by proof positive of his success. His competitors had flinched and were cutting their price. The Tribune went from four to three cents, the Times from four to two, and the Herald from three to two. Gloating, Pulitzer proclaimed, \"Another victory for the World.\"\n\nAs the World's circulation rose each week, Pulitzer sought to use his newfound political leverage to help bring Democrats back to power. From the start he made no pretenses about his plans. \"I want to talk to a nation, not to a select committee,\" he said. Within days of buying the paper, Pulitzer had made his political aims clear and so specific that they formed a ten-point list consisting of only thirty-five words. The first five goals were to tax luxuries, inheritances, large incomes, monopolies, and corporations. The remaining goals were to eliminate protective tariffs, reform the civil service, and punish corrupt government officials and those who bought votes, as well as employers who coerced their employees during elections.\n\nWhen he returned from his western junket, Pulitzer worked to unite New York's Democrats. In 1880, the party had failed to win the White House when it lost the state by a few thousand votes. Then, Pulitzer had been a bystander. Now that he was in a position of influence in the state, he was determined that 1884 would be different. On September 24, he joined Dana at a rally of Democrats at Cooper Union. With a display of fireworks and a brass band, the Democrats pledged themselves to unity in hopes of ending their quarter-century exile from the White House. Dana, age sixty-four, who was the dean of New York editors, did not object to sharing a stage with his young rival. In May, he had been one of the few publishers in New York to comment favorably on the sale of the World, reminding readers that Pulitzer had once been his prot\u00e9g\u00e9.\n\nWeeks later, as the Democrats began their usual intra-party bickering, Pulitzer met with the leaders. It seemed to him as if all Democrats in New York were intent on losing the election: he was astonished by the fractious debate on the eve of the voting. One of the veteran party members asked Pulitzer if he knew anything about New York politics.\n\nPulitzer conceded that his experience was limited to Missouri and other midwestern states but added sarcastically that the longer he lived in New York the less able he was to divine the objectives of the city's politicians.\n\nPulitzer had shed none of his animus toward the Republican Party, which he was convinced was completely under the thumb of robber barons, monopolies, and corporate interests. \"These people seem to have an idea that they are superior people\u2014a sort of upper ruling class, and have a right through the power of their money to rule in this country as the upper classes rule in Europe,\" he said. \"But the millions are more powerful than the millionaires.\"\n\nIn November, Pulitzer was so confident of his paper's success that he taunted his rivals by publishing notarized statements of its circulation. The World's average circulation was now 45,000 copies a day. In six months, he had tripled the circulation and forced his rivals to cut their prices. If he continued at this rate, the previously moribund World would be the equal of any newspaper on Park Row within the next six months. If not stopped, it would eclipse them all.\n\nAt Albert's Morning Journal, there was also cause to celebrate. The circulation of his paper had hit 80,000. One year earlier, most New Yorkers had never heard the name Pulitzer. Now the two most talked-about newspapers belonged to the brothers. For Albert, every upward tick in circulation meant more money. For Joseph, it brought money and political power.\n\n## Chapter Seventeen\n\n## KINGMAKER\n\nDespite his triumphant seven months at the helm of the World, Pulitzer approached the end of 1883 on a depressing note. Kate became sick. The family immediately left New York for warm weather and rest in Cuba. With his health phobias, Joseph was not going to take any chances. But his worst fears materialized, though not with Kate. She recovered. Rather, a few months later, it was his daughter, Katherine Ethel, who fell ill with pneumonia. Katherine died at six in the morning on Friday, May 9, 1884, the eve of Pulitzer's one-year anniversary with the World.\n\nIn composing the death notice, her parents calculated her age. She was two years, eight months, and ten days old. For Joseph, who had lost all but one of his siblings, the death was what he expected of childhood. Kate, on the other hand, was unprepared. She had never experienced the grief of watching a child in the family die. On Sunday, friends gathered at the Pulitzers' Gramercy Park residence for a quiet funeral service.\n\nCharacteristically, Pulitzer made immediate plans to travel, reserving a cabin on a ship to Europe. But he soon rejected any foreign destination. It was an election year, the most promising for Democrats in a generation. Instead, Pulitzer booked rooms at the Curtis Hotel in Lenox, Massachusetts, a small New England town a few hours north of New York that had recently been discovered by the city's wealthy seeking relief from the summer heat. By the time he installed Ralph, now five years old, Lucille, three, and their maid in Lenox, Kate was pregnant with their fourth child.\n\nAlong with the summer's heat came the political conventions. The Republicans selected as their nominee James Blaine, a former House Speaker, U.S. senator from Maine, and secretary of state. It was a poor choice because Blaine had an odor of corruption dating back to suspicious relationships with several major railroads in the 1870s. Many Republicans, particularly the reform-minded ones, were uncomfortable with their party's choice.\n\nAs the convention broke up, a reporter for the World caught up with one of the disgruntled delegates. At age twenty-five, delegate Theodore Roosevelt was a rising political figure in New York. \"I am going cattle-ranching in Dakota for the remainder of the summer and part of the fall,\" he snapped. The reporter persisted: would he support Blaine? \"That question I decline to answer. It is a subject that I do not care to talk about.\" But, after some reflection at his ranch, a calmer Roosevelt announced that, yes, he would vote for Blaine.\n\nA Republican who portrayed himself as a reformer but was supporting Blaine was too tempting a target for Pulitzer to ignore. When Roosevelt first attracted notice as a municipal reformer in the legislature, Pulitzer had been favorably impressed, even though the man was a Republican. But he concluded that Roosevelt had gone soft in his pursuit of corruption in return for advancement in his party's ranks. \"It is not surprising that young Mr. Roosevelt should prefer to offend honesty rather than to displease the machine. He is of the finical dancing-master school of reform, whose disciples are the most useful tools of the political managers,\" wrote Pulitzer. \"We denounced young Mr. Roosevelt as a reform fraud and a Jack-in-the-box politician who disappears whenever his boss applies a gentle pressure to his aspiring head,\" he said. \"In short, we have discovered that young Mr. Roosevelt is a humbug who only masquerades as a reformer while in reality is one of the most subservient of machine politicians.\"\n\nRoosevelt was a victim of Pulitzer's stubborn, unbending insistence on principle over compromise or expediency. This was an easy stance for the nation's newest and most prominent newspaper publisher to take. His measure of accomplishment was a blistering editorial that excited partisans and attracted readers. But for an ambitious politician like Roosevelt, success demanded results, and these required both political compromise and electoral success.\n\nHad Pulitzer understood the necessity of compromise, he might have forged an alliance with Roosevelt that would have accelerated the political change they both sought. Instead, the editorial shot across Roosevelt's bow became the first of many. None of Pulitzer's attacks would be ignored by Roosevelt, who never forgave or forgot an affront. The two men were so pigheaded that they failed to see their common interest.\n\nAlthough Blaine had the crucial support of young Theodore Roosevelt in New York, he lacked that of Roscoe Conkling, who still commanded a considerable following. But the former U.S. senator was working as Pulitzer's attorney, fighting the many libel suits brought against the audacious World; also he was in no mood to forgive Blaine for their decades-long feud in Congress. \"I have given up criminal law,\" Conkling said when asked if he would endorse Blaine. Instead, he worked secretly with Pulitzer to undermine Blaine by writing a series of critical columns for the World, under the pen name \"Stalwart.\"\n\nPulitzer could hardly restrain his optimism about his party's prospects. He told his readers that Blaine was \"the embodiment of corruption in legislation, demagogism in politics and cupidity in affairs.\" In 1884, unlike 1880, Pulitzer had no trouble backing a candidate. Two years earlier he had cast his lot with Grover Cleveland, the rotund governor of New York, who had a well-deserved reputation for integrity. Then, however, Pulitzer was speaking only to a modest midwestern audience from his editorial pulpit at the Post-Dispatch. Now he had the World and stood in the center of the most important electoral field of battle. \"New York,\" he said, \"again becomes the battleground for the presidency.\" In 1880, Republicans had staved off defeat in the presidential election by only 5,517 votes in New York. Pulitzer now commanded at least that many votes, if not more.\n\nWith each passing day the World's circulation rose. One morning, an observer took an informal census of newspaper preferences on the Fourth Avenue streetcar. Three passengers were reading the Herald, four the Sun, and five the World. Only the Times and Albert's Journal had more readers. Veterans of the business were astonished by the World's growth. \"It cannot be expected to go on forever gaining at the gait which it has been following during the past few months,\" claimed the trade publication The Journalist. But it did.\n\nBy midsummer 1884, the World was selling 60,000 copies on weekdays and 100,000 on Sundays, closing in on all the leading newspapers. Advertising was booming also. \"A year ago the World could hardly get advertising at any price,\" reported The Journalist. \"It now charges from twenty-five to thirty-five cents a line, and has as much advertising as it can conveniently handle on Sunday.\"\n\nNothing his competitors tried seemed to slow his paper's growth. The Herald even resorted to taking out full-page advertisements in the World. When it cut its price to that of the World, the Herald compounded its woes by also trimming the commission it paid to wholesalers. One wholesaler decided to order 3,000 copies of the World instead of the Herald for his customers. \"There was no complaint, and the World gained 3,000 copies, and the Herald lost them,\" recalled the president of the news dealers association. \"I daresay the World kept many of them.\"\n\nIn July, sitting with the press in Chicago's Exposition Building, Pulitzer watched the Democrats pick their candidate. Pulitzer did all he could to sway the convention to Cleveland. \"When a blathering ward politician objects to Cleveland because he is 'more of a Reformer than a Democrat' he furnishes the best argument in favor of Cleveland's nomination and election,\" Pulitzer wrote in a long stream of editorials. After a bruising fight, Cleveland won the nomination. If Pulitzer's editorials were little noticed by the delegates, the efforts convinced Cleveland that in the coming election he had an ally upon whom he could depend.\n\nMost of the New York City press\u2014the Herald, Post, and Times\u2014joined in supporting Cleveland. But not Charles Dana at the Sun. A couple of years earlier, Cleveland had offended Dana by not granting a patronage job to a friend. Despite having worked hard for Democratic unity with Pulitzer, Dana broke ranks and supported a third-party candidate in hopes of denying Cleveland a victory in the crucial New York returns. Once again, as with Schurz years earlier, Pulitzer found himself at political odds with a man whom he had greatly admired and who had once been his mentor.\n\nOn July 29, Pulitzer joined other leading Democrats in Albany to officially convey the nomination to Cleveland and to mark the formal opening of the campaign. Pulitzer was the lone newspaper publisher among the judges, elected officials, and party leaders who rode to the governor's mansion in a parade of twenty-five carriages led by the Albany city band. The deputation made its presentation, and the governor mingled with its members until the doors were opened to the dining room, where a feast had been set out. Later, full of food and optimism, the party broke up to tend to the work ahead. In the drizzling rain and dark, the delegation paraded back into the city along a route lit by torches and fireworks, to large crowds of Democrats awaiting them in the music hall and opera house. Among the few chosen by the party to speak that night was Pulitzer.\n\nRather than boost Cleveland's candidacy, Pulitzer decided to sink Blaine's. If he could defeat Blaine in New York, the election would be won. As when he tore into Grant in 1872, Hayes in 1876, and Garfield in 1880, Pulitzer filled the pages of the World with hyperbolic attacks on Blaine. Readers learned that Blaine favored prohibition, belonged to the Know-Nothing movement that opposed Irish Catholic immigration, and took money from railroads; that his marriage was on the rocks; and that he was depressed. The charges were, at best, based on Blaine's earliest days in politics or in many cases were nothing more than a recycling of well-worn unflattering tales.\n\nCleveland also carried some unseemly baggage. He was a bachelor, and during the campaign it was revealed that he had fathered an illegitimate child. Cleveland decided to deal with the matter by issuing a simple directive to party officials desperate for instructions on what to say. \"Tell the truth,\" he said. Pulitzer was less circumspect. Calling the accusation slander spread by the Republicans, he publicly blackmailed Blaine by threatening to release salacious information about him.\n\nPulitzer was only warming up. His stump-speaking style, seasoned by years of campaigning, filled the editorial pages of the World. \"Is such an offense unpardonable?\" Pulitzer asked. \"If Grover Cleveland had a whole family of illegitimate children...he would be more worthy of the office than Blaine, the beggar at the feet of railroad jobbers, the prostitute in the Speaker's chair, the lawmaking broker in land grabs, the representative and agent of the corruptionists, monopolists, and enemies of the Republic.\"\n\nA candidate who was the devil's companion and a challenger with clay feet made for great copy. The growing interest in the election increased readership for all newspapers, and particularly for the World. The World's office was like a campaign headquarters. Electing Cleveland and boosting circulation were completely intertwined, the latter increasing the chance of the former. Pulitzer and Cockerill were open to any ideas that would push the World forward. One fell into their lap.\n\nThe artist Walt McDougall of Newark had been peddling comic sketches, with some success, to Puck, Harper's Weekly, and other magazines. In June, he came into the city to see a baseball game. On his way he stopped by Puck's office, where he learned that the editors had turned down his cartoon of Blaine. He didn't want to trudge off to the game carrying a large rolled-up drawing, so he impetuously decided to see if he could sell it to Dana. Cartoons were, at best, a novelty in daily newspapers. It was difficult to reproduce illustrations on the high-speed presses required by newspapers, because the engraving plates regularly became clogged with ink. The presses would then have to be stopped to clean the plates, wasting precious time in a business where every lost minute could diminish circulation.\n\nAs McDougall walked toward the Sun, he came to the World and decided to try his luck there first. When he entered the dim front office he lost his courage and hurriedly handed the cardboard tube to the elevator boy. \"Give that to the editor and tell him he can have it if he wants it,\" said McDougall, who then beat a retreat and headed off to the baseball game.\n\nThe next day brought a telegram from Pulitzer asking McDougall to come quickly to the World. On his way, McDougall spotted a copy of the World at a newsstand. His cartoon ran across five columns of the front page of the paper. After McDougall was ushered into Pulitzer's office, the publisher immediately took him to Cockerill's office across the hall. The editor was as excited as Pulitzer about McDougall's drawing; its style averted the ink-clogging problem, and the sample had survived an entire press run. \"We have found the fellow who can make pictures for newspapers!\" Pulitzer excitedly told Cockerill. McDougall was hired, given a studio, and paid $50 a week, more than twice the salary of most reporters.\n\nPulitzer had wanted illustrations in the World since he bought the paper. On newsstands and in the arms of newsboys, the gray, unbroken front pages of the city's newspapers were indistinguishable from each other. Both he and Albert, at the Morning Journal, found every excuse possible to add illustrations to make their papers stand out. Within his first two weeks with the World, Joseph had begun printing drawings of criminals to aid in their apprehension and, of course, to bring credit to the World. Just before McDougall dropped off his drawing at the World, the newspaper had been celebrating the capture of a fugitive stockbroker by Canadian authorities who recognized him from the sketch that had appeared in the World. \"This is a decided triumph for our artist,\" Pulitzer crowed. \"Some of our jealous contemporaries have affected great contempt for our efforts in the line of cut-work. The Montreal incident attests to the value of our illustrations, and demonstrates that while we are educating the masses with our pictures we are at the same time lending a helping hand to Justice.\"\n\nNot all the reading public was ready for illustrations. Complaints were numerous when the World included drawings in an article on ladies of Brooklyn. \"The World made an error of no small magnitude when it published its series of Brooklyn Belles in last Sunday's issue,\" commented The Journalist. \"Brooklyn is not used to these wild western methods of journalism.\" The fuss pleased Pulitzer. None of the ladies who had been portrayed complained, and circulation in Brooklyn soared. \"A great many people in the world require to be educated through the eyes, as it were,\" Pulitzer said, mindful that many of the readers he pursued were struggling to learn English.\n\nPulitzer enlisted McDougall's talent in going after Blaine. Now a barrage of cartoons accompanied the reams of unflattering news copy and acidic editorials that the World published about Blaine. Between August and November's Election Day, McDougall's cartoons appeared twice a week on the front page. All but one of them attacked Blaine or Ben Butler, the third-party candidate supported by Dana. Readers in New York had seen nothing like this before. It was as if a rabid dog had gotten loose at a society dog show.\n\nPulitzer had no interest in muzzling the sharp bite of the World. \"It should make enemies constantly, the more the better, for only by making enemies can it expose roguery and serve the public,\" he said. \"The most valuable and most successful paper will generally be that which has the most enemies.\" The style also continued to win over readers. By the end of September, the World's daily circulation passed the 100,000 mark. \"This,\" Pulitzer exclaimed, \"we hold to be our first 100,000.\"\n\nThe maliciousness of the World perplexed some of Pulitzer's friends. \"I have always believed, and do believe, that you are a generous-hearted man,\" wrote AP's William Henry Smith, complaining that the paper was mercilessly pursuing one official who had already lost his job. \"This is not like the Joseph Pulitzer I once knew; and if he is to be forever lost, I shall never cease to regret the share I had in bringing him into this wicked New York World.\"\n\nPulitzer beat on, pushing his staff like a coxswain who was never satisfied with his shell's lead.\n\nPulitzer interrupted his frenetic editorial and campaign work on the afternoon of September 3 to take a leisurely cruise on the Hudson. The idea of owning a yacht was beginning to appeal to him, and he had begun looking into buying one. But, as with everything else this year, this cruise was a political rather than a pleasure trip. Samuel Tilden had sent his vessel, the Viking, to the Twenty-Third Street pier to bring a delegation of Democrats upstream to his riverfront mansion in Yonkers. The journey was a well-timed public reminder of Republican dastardliness. The men were delivering an official resolution from the Democratic convention thanking Tilden for his service in the disputed 1876 election. Pulitzer was the only member of the press on board. Sitting at the lunch table near his friend William Whitney, he offered to make himself useful by distributing copies of the prepared remarks to newspapermen when they disembarked.\n\nAs the campaign approached its final month, New York Democrats enlisted Pulitzer to speak at a rally aimed at winning the German vote. The resplendent Academy of Music, on Irving Place between Fourteenth and Fifteenth streets, was decorated with German and American flags. A dozen bands as well as fireworks and explosives greeted the huge crowd that entered the hall on the night of September 29. Inside, the publisher of the New York Staats-Zeitung, well-known German leaders, and Pulitzer gathered on the stage between two imposing portraits of Cleveland and his running mate, Thomas Hendricks.\n\nWhen his turn came to speak, Pulitzer continued the evening's portrayal of Blaine as the representative of a bankrupt and corrupt party that had overstayed its turn in power. \"He stands for the unholy alliance between prohibition and corruption,\" Pulitzer said, \"while Cleveland is the representative of honesty and honor in politics, and with clean hands will bring us back to purity in official life, which Mr. Blaine could not possibly do.\"\n\nAs he spoke, some of the organizers spied Carl Schurz sitting in one of the boxes. One of them approached Pulitzer and whispered into his ear that the eminent German-American politician was present. Eight years earlier, on a similar New York stage, Pulitzer had attacked and lampooned Schurz. Now that they were once again on the same side, Pulitzer put aside his prepared remarks. \"I have a brilliant finale with which I intended to close my remarks, but what can I say that would be more brilliant than to introduce the man whom you must and will hear\u2014Carl Schurz?\"\n\nThe crowd roared. A decade of bad blood between the two men came to an end as Pulitzer and Schurz stood before the cheering people. Their old friend from the 1872 rebellion, Murat Halstead, said a photographer could have earned a fortune capturing the moment. \"It was a spectacle to see Pulitzer and Schurz meet at last as reformers on the Democratic platform,\" Halstead said, \"and pouring forth their libations of eloquence for Cleveland, each telling of his goodness, and rising to the sublime height of telling us that beloved Europe itself, should be very much exercised about Blaine.\"\n\nThe fall campaign held yet another surprise for Pulitzer. In early October, Tammany Hall nominated him for the Ninth District's congressional seat without even consulting him. It took some coaxing to persuade him to accept the nomination. The district leaders finally succeeded after making a pilgrimage to Pulitzer's office and flattering him by saying that his candidacy would help the ticket. Tammany's designation was bound to be ratified by a later convention and, as the district was overwhelmingly Democratic, it was tantamount to giving Pulitzer a seat in Congress. What he had sought and had been denied in St. Louis was brought to him on a platter in New York.\n\nThe nomination was met by cheers at the Journal. Despite how Joseph had treated his younger brother, Albert applauded the news. With his special inside knowledge, Albert recounted Joseph's work in Missouri politics and said he would \"make a faithful and devoted representative of the people.\" An editor at The Journalist couldn't resist adding, \"This is very nice and brotherly, but I very much doubt that Mr. J. Pulitzer would have done as much for Mr. A. Pulitzer under the same circumstances.\" The editor was right. Joseph viewed his brother's newspaper no differently from any other competitor. When the Morning Journal broke the news of Lillie Langtry's pending divorce, Joseph waited until the story was printed in the Chicago Tribune so as to be able to use it in the World without crediting the Journal.\n\nOn October 16, Pulitzer was among half a dozen men selected to greet Cleveland at Grand Central Terminal. Then, with a crowd of almost 1,000 in tow, the party made its way to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where the governor met with selected well-wishers. Once their hands were shaken and their concerns and advice listened to, Cleveland retired to a private lunch with Pulitzer, William Whitney, and a dozen leading Democrats. As always in the campaign, Pulitzer was the only newspaper publisher among the politicians and fund-raisers. Money was becoming an issue. The campaign's coffers were emptying fast, and it looked to Whitney for help. He contributed $20,000 and pressed others to do the same. Pulitzer, however, remained a small player when it came to political money, contributing only $1,000. His real value lay in his work at the World.\n\nPulitzer soon proved his worth. Blaine, exhausted from a speaking tour\u2014something candidates rarely undertook at that time\u2014arrived in New York hoping to hold the state in the closing days of the campaign. On October 29, he committed two mistakes. In Pulitzer's hands, they became politically fatal.\n\nBlaine began his day with a speech before a group of Protestant clergymen at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The pastor who introduced Blaine called the Democrats the party of \"Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion.\" Too tired or too distracted to notice the dangers posed by this comment, which could turn Irish voters against him, Blaine said nothing. The Democrats, who had a stenographer following Blaine, rushed a copy of the remark to newspapers. Meanwhile, Blaine moved on to a fund-raising dinner at Delmonico's, where he was toasted by nearly 200 of the richest and most powerful men in America.\n\nPulitzer was the only editor who understood the significance of Blaine's two gaffes. The other pro-Cleveland papers in New York ran their campaign stories on the inside pages. The Tribune, which favored Blaine, reported only on the dinner, calling it a triumph. That night, Pulitzer sought out Walt McDougall and Valerian Gribayedoff, the World's other staff artist. He said he needed a large cartoon by morning.\n\nThe two retreated to the studio and sketched an unusually wide cartoon. Across it were caricatures of nineteen of the most notorious and hated financial lords who had attended the dinner, seated as in a depiction of the Last Supper. Blaine sat beatifically at the center, with Jay Gould at this right and William H. Vanderbilt at his left. On the table before the men were dishes of food with such labels as \"Gould Pie,\" \"Monopoly Soup,\" and \"Lobby Pudding.\" As a final touch, the artists added an impoverished, bedraggled couple, with a child, approaching the feast in hopes of a handout.\n\nPulitzer broke open the design of the front page, eliminating the traditional seven columns to accommodate the damning art. Nothing like this had appeared in a New York publication since Thomas Nast dethroned Boss Tweed. Pulitzer topped the dramatic cartoon with the headline THE ROYAL FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR BLAINE AND THE MONEY KINGS.\n\nPulitzer was not done yet. The World revealed every aspect of the dinner, even though the organizers had done their best to bar the press. From the Timbales \u00e0 la Reine and Souffl\u00e9s aux Marrons upon which the men feasted to the thousands of dollars pledged to buy votes, no detail was left out. Even more damning, the main story began with a one-paragraph account of men who had been thrown out of work at a mill in Blaine's home state and were now applying for assistance or emigrating to Canada. Other stories highlighted Blaine's silence at the slur against the Irish and his friendship with Jay Gould, and led the way to the editorial page, where Pulitzer let loose. \"Read the list of Blaine's banqueters who are to fill his pockets with money to corrupt the ballot box,\" he wrote; railroad kings, greedy monopolists, lobbyists, all of them. They had grown rich on public money and special privilege. \"Shall Jay Gould rule this country? Shall he own the President?\"\n\nThe \"Royal Feast of Belshazzar\" was reprinted by the thousands. Democrats gleefully replaced their election propaganda with copies of the World. Republicans gnashed their teeth. In a reversal of politics as usual, Pulitzer's words became more important than those of the Democratic candidate in the closing days of the campaign. It was almost as if the World were on the ballot. Only once before, in 1876, had a newspaper played such a prominent role in a presidential election, and in that case its publisher, Horace Greeley, had been a candidate. Here Pulitzer was using the power of the new independent press, whose reporting had far more credibility than that of the old partisan journals, to mobilize voters. \"There has been,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"a revolution in journalism in New York.\"\n\nNovember 4, 1884, Election Day, brought a deluge of voters in New York City and rain upstate, cheering Democrats who believed the inclement weather would dampen Republican turnout in rural areas. The day, however, ended with no clear decision. The electoral votes were evenly divided between Blaine and Cleveland\u2014except in New York, which held the balance. Whoever won the state would win the White House. Pulitzer ordered press runs of nearly 250,000 copies, 45,000 more than the Sun and 40,000 more than the Herald. No matter who won the battle for the White House, Pulitzer had won the newspaper war.\n\nThe World began reporting a Democratic triumph with its first edition at two o'clock in the morning, but the race was still too close to call. Nor could victory be firmly declared the following day as the voting tabulations continued. \"Watch the count,\" Pulitzer warned his readers. \"Guard carefully against any frauds on the part of the Republican inspectors and supervisors.\"\n\nIn the evening, tens of thousands of people crowded into Park Row. The newspapers affixed bulletin boards to the front of their buildings and displayed the latest election bulletins. Fights broke out between rival groups, but mostly the crowds sang songs and parodies and yelled insults. All sorts of rumors began circulating. On hearing one that Jay Gould was tampering with the votes, a crowd surged up Fifth Avenue chanting, \"We'll hang Jay Gould to a sour apple tree.\" Fortunately for the financier, the police hid him in a hotel under guard.\n\nFinally, at week's end, the results became clear. By a margin of 1,149 votes, out of 1,167,169 votes cast, New York fell to the Democrats, and the White House was theirs. A mere 575 voters had thrown the Republicans out of power. By a far more comfortable two-to-one margin, Pulitzer had defeated his Republican congressional opponent without lifting a finger for himself.\n\nPulitzer basked in the glow of the election results. His chosen candidate was on the way to the White House. He himself had been redeemed from the ignominious election defeats he had suffered in St. Louis. But most important, Pulitzer's gamble on the World had paid off. It was now the largest-circulating newspaper in the nation and widely credited with Cleveland's election. \"I should say, the election of Cleveland the first time was the most important achievement of the World,\" Pulitzer wrote years later. \"Blaine, Conkling and other politicians with whom I was personally acquainted all said the World elected Cleveland.\"\n\nPulitzer capped off his success with one final act before the year ended. He sat down and made out a check for $252,039 to Jay Gould. The amount represented the balance and interest remaining on the loan to purchase the World. Pulitzer paid off the loan two years before it was due. The World now belonged entirely to him.\n\n## Chapter Eighteen\n\n## RAISING LIBERTY\n\nPiled on Pulitzer's desk each day was proof of his success beyond New York. Letters poured in from all parts of the country, filled with ideas on how to boost circulation in places such as Vermont and Nebraska and hopes that he would launch a newspaper in Washington or Chicago. Priests submitted sermons for republication, and ambitious writers begged Pulitzer to open the columns of his newspaper to articles on New Guinea, archaeology, and, in one case, a \"light readable history of the Fenian movement [an Irish independence movement] for the last twenty years.\" One pair of new parents told him they were christening their child \"Joseph Pulitzer Conner,\" and a steamboat builder asked permission to name his newest and fastest craft after Pulitzer.\n\nIt was all too much. Pulitzer could not keep up with the deluge of mail and run the World at the same time, not to mention overseeing the Post-Dispatch in St. Louis. He flirted briefly with the idea of selling the St. Louis paper but decided its income was worth the headaches. Pulitzer knew he needed lieutenants. Finding the right ones was the problem. There was no lack of applicants. \"It is approaching somewhat of a craze now in the newspaper circles of the metropolis to get on the World,\" reported The Journalist. But Pulitzer had a string of bad luck. He hired one business manager away from the Herald, but the manager proceeded to discount advertising sold to big retailers, against Pulitzer's wishes. The next hire turned out to have pocketed some of the advertising revenue at his previous job. Frustrated, Pulitzer telegraphed to James Scott, publisher of the Chicago Herald, for help. \"I have always found it easier to get good writers than good reliable men for the business office,\" Scott wrote back. \"The business end of the World is an immense responsibility and no man of ordinary newspaper experience would be the equal to its management.\"\n\nThe news management of the paper was safely in Cockerill's hands. But he was an exception\u2014Pulitzer had such immense trust in Cockerill that he considered him his equal. For other positions of importance, even if Pulitzer managed to find a suitable man, he was ill suited to delegating work. He never really surrendered the responsibility, and he spent enormous amounts of time instructing, informing, and interfering with the person assigned to handle the work.\n\nHis election to Congress and the public's perception that Cleveland owed the presidency to Pulitzer compounded his misery by bringing an onslaught of demands for patronage jobs. Friends and strangers plied him with requests to become postmaster in Colorado, territorial governor of New Mexico, consul to Hawaii, or American minister to Berlin. The parade of supplicants thwarted the civil service commissioner's attempts to meet with Pulitzer on legitimate government business. \"I called at your office yesterday,\" wrote the frustrated official, \"but there was such a queue of persons at the desk that I could not wait my turn to send up my card without which formality access to you was denied me.\" The new Congress would not convene until the end of the year, but already Pulitzer regretted accepting the nomination. After years of wanting to be an elected politician, he found that the appeal of office was fading.\n\nIn early February 1885 Pulitzer traveled to Washington to see what awaited him when he assumed office. The Missouri delegation welcomed him and took him to the floor of the House of Representatives, where a debate droned on. After sitting for about an hour, Pulitzer went up to Representative James Burnes of Missouri and asked, \"Have I got to stay in this place two years?\"\n\nPolitics seemed even less attractive when Pulitzer returned to New York. Cleveland was staying on the tenth floor of the Victoria Hotel. Job seekers, well-wishers, party officials, and cranks swarmed into the hotel. The police kept them in line while Cleveland's secretary screened calling cards. Pulitzer arrived at the hotel around noon. He scampered up a private staircase to the tenth floor and gave his card to the secretary, who disappeared into the presidential chambers. When he returned, he said that Pulitzer would have to wait a minute. \"I am not accustomed to waiting,\" Pulitzer snapped, and then bounded down the staircase before the secretary could recover from the angry outburst. Later that evening, Pulitzer was persuaded to return to the hotel to meet Cleveland, and his bruised feelings were further assuaged when he was invited to dine with the president-elect and a small group a couple of nights later.\n\nPulitzer expected a revolution from Cleveland. In the World, he argued that the president should accept no gifts, tolerate no nepotism, tax luxuries, and impose a tariff to protect labor. More important, Pulitzer wanted a political quail hunt. Cleveland needed to flush out all the Republicans in appointed offices, gain access to their supposedly secret records, and expose the skullduggery of past years. Democrats should be the ones to staff the government, Pulitzer said. \"A President who is nominated and elected by a party also owes something to that party.\"\n\nCleveland didn't share Pulitzer's fervor, and was uninterested in satisfying the party's hunger for patronage jobs after twenty-four years of exile. Even worse, the president ignored Pulitzer's choices. In particular, Pulitzer wanted his friend Charles Gibson of St. Louis appointed to the minister's post in Berlin and met with Cleveland to urge this selection. Gibson himself came to Washington, armed with an endorsement from the Post-Dispatch and a privately printed pamphlet. It was all for naught. In late March, Cleveland appointed someone else to the Berlin post.\n\nPulitzer the reformer turned into a rejected spoils seeker. Cleveland had hardly finished taking the oath of office when it became clear that a fight was brewing between the two men.\n\nFrustrated with President Cleveland, Pulitzer turned his attention to a struggling effort to erect a prominent symbol of American immigration in New York. The French sculptor Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric-Auguste Bartholdi's statue of Liberty Enlightening the World was collecting dust in crates in France because Americans had not yet raised the money necessary to build its pedestal on Bedloe Island in the middle of New York's harbor.\n\nSeven years earlier, in 1878, Pulitzer had been among those who had seen the head of the statue at the Paris Exposition. Since moving to New York in 1883, he had provided editorial support to the undertaking. His own experience of immigration and his devotion to American liberty made the project immensely appealing to Pulitzer. In fact, within two weeks of taking over the World, he had replaced the printing press at the center of the two globes on the masthead with a figure of Liberty, her hand holding the torch aloft.\n\nAll that remained to complete the project was to build an 89-foot granite pedestal to support the 151-foot, 225-ton sculpture. But the American fund-raising efforts had been anemic, especially in comparison with the French effort, which had raised more than $750,000. After years of solicitation, the American committee remained $100,000 short of the $250,000 needed for the work. Congress refused to help, other cities complained about New York's being chosen for the statue, and most newspaper editors considered the project too costly. It seemed destined for failure.\n\nBut Pulitzer was not going to give up on Lady Liberty. Even in the midst of the tumultuous 1884 election, he had taken time to support the work of the American committee. \"Unless the statue goes to the bottom of the ocean,\" wrote Pulitzer, \"it is safe to predict that it will eventually stand upon an American pedestal, and then be referred to for a very long time with more sentiment than we can now dream of.\"\n\nThe scattered editorials in the World had little effect. By spring of 1885, as the French prepared to ship the statue, only the concrete base had been poured. Pulitzer was indignant. \"What a burning disgrace it will be to the United States,\" he wrote, \"if the statue of the goddess is brought to our shores on a French government vessel and is met by the intelligence that our people, with all their wealth, have not enough public spirit, liberality and pride to provide a fitting pedestal on which it can be placed!\" But his chastisement, published on a Saturday, stirred no one. The other newspapers, especially the Herald, continued to treat the project with puzzlement and disdain.\n\nThe following Monday, however, few could any longer feign ignorance of the Statue of Liberty's plight: Pulitzer made it the front-page story in his paper, now selling 150,000 or more copies a day. Under the banner headline WHAT SHALL BE DONE WITH THE GREAT BARTHOLDI STATUE? the World put America's failure to raise the needed funds on display, complete with illustrations of the stalled pedestal construction.\n\n\"There is but one thing that can be done,\" Pulitzer railed from his editorial page. \"We must raise the money!\" He backed his call with a specific plan. \"The World is the people paper, and it now appeals to the people to come forward and raise this money,\" he wrote. \"Let us not wait for the millionaires to give this money. It is not a gift from the millionaires of France to the millionaires of America, but a gift of the whole population of France to the whole people of America.\"\n\nHe called on readers to send money to the paper and promised he would deliver it to the project. \"Give something, however little,\" Pulitzer asked. In return, he pledged that every donor's name would be published in the World. For as little as a penny, the poorest New Yorker could have his name in print in the same newspaper whose columns were populated with the names of the Vanderbilts, Whitneys, Rhinelanders, Roosevelts, and Astors.\n\nIt was an audacious move. Pulitzer was, after all, asking people to send cash and checks to a corporation just like those which ran the railroads or operated the steel mills. It was only Pulitzer's word that stood as a guarantee that every dime of the money would be accounted for and would be used for the statue. If no one responded, Pulitzer would look like a fool.\n\nBy the next morning, contributions began to pour in. \"I am a poor man,\" wrote one reader, \"but I will give something and I'll try to get everybody else to give something.\" Another wrote, \"We have read what you say about the Bartholdi statue this morning and send you at once a small collection ($3.31) taken up in our office and expect to send you more very shortly.\"\n\nRather than start a fund-raising campaign, Pulitzer could have expediently used his own checkbook to make up the deficit. Instead, he chose to finish the project as it had been intended, by turning to the public for support. In one stroke, Pulitzer set into motion a mammoth public effort and demonstrated the growing power and civic role of the independent press. In the past, only churches and governments had been able to marshal such financial support. Now the fourth estate held an equal power to excite and direct mass public support.\n\nThe public service also turned out to be good for business. The World's circulation soared. By June, it would boast that its Sunday edition was the largest in size and in circulation of any newspaper published in the United States. It was consuming 834 miles of newsprint per edition. \"No newspaper on the habitable globe consumed so much paper as the World yesterday.\"\n\nThe long hours of work and the sleepless nights finally prompted Pulitzer to seek rest. On May 9, he and Kate left New York on the Etruria, bound for Europe. Ralph, Lucille, and the baby\u2014Joseph Jr., born on March 21, 1885\u2014were sent off to New Hampshire with nannies and a doctor under the watch of William H. Davis, Kate's younger brother, whom Joseph Sr. had recently hired as a much-needed personal assistant.\n\nWhile Kate shopped in London and Paris, Joseph talked shop with newspaper publishers who were curious about this American sensation. Not one to be outmatched, Joseph also did his fair share of consuming, with visits to wine merchants and art galleries. He engaged the help of a Parisian art dealer to search for paintings while he and Kate went off to Aix-les-Bains. \"I don't think I told you that Vanderbilt has a Pahnaroli in his fine collection and although I do not know it, it will not be a better one than yours,\" the dealer wrote, deftly mentioning the other art collector.\n\nThe Pulitzers took baths at Aix-les-Bains and at Bad Kissingen, in Germany, but they had little effect on Joseph. Instead of finding rest in his isolation and distance from New York, Pulitzer continued to meddle in every part of the World's operation. He paid to have his editors come to Europe to meet with him, he read and criticized each issue of the paper sent to him by mail, and he kept telegraph operators busy transmitting instructions back to New York.\n\nUsually Pulitzer's transatlantic chatter consisted of complaints, but he also found cause to praise the work of his staff. By July, readers had sent $75,000 to the World for the Statue of Liberty. On August 11, the paper exceeded its goal of $100,000. In less than four months, more than 120,000 readers had responded to the World's campaign. \"From every single condition in life\u2014save only the very richest of the rich and their tainted fortunes\u2014did contributions flow,\" Pulitzer said. \"From the honorable rich as well as the poorest of poor\u2014from all parties, all sections, all ages, all sexes, all classes\u2014from the cabinet member and the Union League member\u2014from the poor news boys who sent their pennies, until the unprecedented number of 120,000 widely different contributors had joined in a common spirit for a common cause.\"\n\nThe European sojourn was a failure. Joseph returned home no better rested than when he had left. (Kate, however, was pregnant with their fifth child in seven years of marriage.) Insomnia still gripped him, and he was in a state of nervous exhaustion. His editors suffered. He found fault in everything they did and escalated his demands for time-consuming reports on all aspects of the operation. Men were assigned to tediously count the want-ad lineage in competing papers in order to calculate the World's share of the market. To keep Pulitzer happy the results had to be broken down into categories and boiled down to their essence. \"Put the thing in the nutshell,\" he would say over and over again. \"He was the damnedest best man in the world to have in a newspaper office for one hour in the morning,\" said Cockerill. \"For the remainder of the day he was a damned nuisance.\"\n\nAt home it was no better. His family lived in fear. Joseph exploded over even the smallest things and Kate took the brunt of his attacks. \"He said that he was uncomfortable, that I did not understand the proper relations between husband and wife,\" she wrote in her diary that fall. The particulars of his indictment were that she failed in what he called \"the duties of a wife\" and neglected to make him comfortable at home. \"There was not a servant in this house who had worked harder than I had,\" Kate snapped back at him, losing her temper. \"I had made a slave of myself,\" she continued, telling him that \"he was entirely spoilt, that with his disposition he must have something to criticize.\" Her uncharacteristic outburst caused Joseph to order her from the room, telling her that he would never forgive her. \"When will these scenes end or when will I be at rest?\" Kate asked that night in her diary.\n\nOne friend understood the depth of Joseph's troubles. Writing from St. Louis, his former partner John Dillon spoke lovingly of his admiration for Pulitzer but included a warning. \"Overwork in business or in routine work will break a man down but in your case the injury is greater because you have been overworking those powers and faculty which in the main is the type of higher or divine creative power,\" Dillon wrote. \"Not one man in ten thousand has it at all.\n\n\"You have overstretched it,\" he continued. \"You have called on it to do more than it should have done, you have put it under the services of your will, you have made it work when it should have rested, you have compelled it to furnish ideas\u2014and you have overworked it.\" Dillon urged Pulitzer to leave work for six months of rest. In the end, Dillon said, his friend faced a decision. \"If you wish you can do the work of a lifetime and break down; or you can do the work of a century in a lifetime, and live while you do it, which is much better.\" It was the frankest Dillon had ever been with Pulitzer and he asked that the letter be burned.\n\nOn the morning of December 3, 1885, a New York City judge was startled to see the names of the mayor and the city's most prominent newspaper publisher in a bundle of documents handed to him. Before him was \"William R. Grace, plaintiff, v. Joseph Pulitzer, defendant,\" prepared by one of the best law firms in the city. The lawsuit alleged that the World's editorial page had damaged Mayor Grace's good name by wrongly linking him to a financial scandal surrounding the demise of the investment firm Grant & Ward and the wreck of the Marine Bank. The collapse had wiped out most of former president Grant's fortune, sent a few men to prison, and set off a minor financial panic. The city lost $1 million in deposits it had in the firm, and the World had laid the blame on the mayor.\n\nGrace sought $50,000 in damages. Seeing that the documents were in order, the judge dispatched a deputy sheriff to arrest Pulitzer, as was then the custom in lawsuits. The deputy reached the World building and after some delay was admitted into Pulitzer's office. He explained the charges and said bail would be set at $5,000.\n\n\"Do you want the money?\" asked Pulitzer\n\n\"I prefer two bondsmen,\" replied the deputy.\n\n\"All right, but it would be much more convenient to pay the money,\" Pulitzer said wearily, well used to this legal dance. Since taking over the World, Pulitzer's lawyer Roscoe Conkling had been called on to litigate twenty-one libel cases, more than one a month. He was able to successfully defend the paper on ten of them and, with his legal skills, put the eleven others into judicial limbo. Conkling would eventually manage to make Grace's lawsuit disappear as well. But the battle cost tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees and incalculable frayed nerves. Pulitzer, recalled one staff member, \"was so obsessed by the fear of libel suits that he nightly read almost every paragraph in the paper.\" A few days later Pulitzer escaped New York and its legal harassments, though not the crush of work. The Congress elected in 1884 was finally convening, and he headed to Washington.\n\nPulitzer and the House of Representatives were a bad match from the start. In New York he had power and could make his own decisions. Here he was one of 325 men and nothing happened without collaboration. Even worse, as a freshman he was on the bottom rung. He drew a lot that gave him an unwanted seat in the back of the House chamber, and his assignments to the civil service and commerce committees had so little seniority that they were of little value. He would be a committee chair, he quipped, if six Democrats on one committee and seven on the other didn't show up.\n\nPulitzer had no time for endless committee meetings, long floor debates, and late-night political socializing. As it was, his pace was already frenetic. He would hold a morning editorial meeting on Park Row, attend a Democratic caucus meeting in the evening in Washington, then breakfast with a Congressional leader the next morning before returning north for dinner with, say, the New York socialite Ward McAllister.\n\nTo maintain this schedule was arduous. The tunnel under the Hudson River was still not complete, so Pulitzer had to take a ferry from Fourteenth or Twenty-Third Street to the New Jersey shore and then board a train south. Making this travel even more distasteful to Pulitzer was that he had no interest in the work of a congressman. Once, when he was supposed to be preparing a committee report, Pulitzer was instead attending an art auction in New York. \"Day was turned into night and night into day,\" observed a reporter. \"He flew from Washington to New York and from New York to Washington like a cock pigeon with a mate and nest in both places.\"\n\nPulitzer found Washington politics clubby and its politicians unappreciative of his brand of journalism. One morning, he and his personal secretary were met at the Washington train station by the World's Washington correspondent. To Pulitzer's great pleasure, the reporter had discovered that the attorney general and several members of the House held stock in the Pan-Electric Telegraph Company, which stood to benefit from some forthcoming legal rulings. \"The talk was all about the investigation, which was creating something of a sensation,\" recalled Pulitzer's personal secretary. The World trumpeted the charges, and Pulitzer used his new position as a member of the House to call for an investigation.\n\nMany of Pulitzer's colleagues, who had deep and long-standing political alliances, were unhappy about his attacks on a member of the administration. Unlike his readers, they were not limited to writing angry letters to the editor. A fellow Democrat, Representative Eustace Gibson of West Virginia, rose on the floor and accused the publisher of cowardice. Pulitzer, he said, \"did not see fit in his official capacity to attack these gentlemen in an open, honest, and manly way, which a Representative should have done, but undertook to retreat behind the irresponsible columns of his newspapers for the purpose of creating a scandal for what motives I am not here to state.\"\n\nAnother member rose quickly to point out that Pulitzer was not present to defend himself. \"I cannot help that. He ought to be here,\" Gibson said.\n\nWhen a committee was finally convened in March 1886 to examine the charges, Pulitzer was almost as much a target of the investigation as the accused. The committee members suspected that the World had published the allegations in order to profit from manipulating the stock prices of Pan-Electric. Who had made the decision to publish the story, they asked.\n\n\"I, and I alone, solely am responsible and no one else is,\" Pulitzer said. \"No human being has tried to influence me in any manner whatever.\" He explained that he had held the story in one of the pigeonholes of his desk. \"I had waited three months in the hopes that a certain gentleman\u2014particularly one gentleman\u2014might rid himself of the possession of Pan-Electric stock.\"\n\nThe gentleman in question was Grover Cleveland's attorney general, Augustus Garland. Several months earlier, Garland had secretly offered to dispose of his stock by turning it over to the World. Pulitzer declined the offer, wiring to his Washington correspondent, \"Garland's offer to transfer the stock to the World is against my inflexible rule never to touch any speculative stock whatever. I must adhere to that principle but if he positively wants to transfer the unclean thing to you not as a representative of the World but as a trustee for the sole purpose of getting rid of the embarrassment and publicly disposing of the stock for some charity that might be considered.\" Nothing came of the idea.\n\nThe committee members continued with their questioning, but as they couldn't obtain any useful information from Pulitzer, he was dismissed to catch his train back to New York. Even excluding the experience of being grilled by his colleagues, Pulitzer found Capitol Hill a disappointment and reneged on his responsibilities. He was absent most of the time, never gave a speech on the floor, introduced just two bills, and completed his overdue committee work only after being reprimanded.\n\nWhen Pulitzer was nominated for Congress two years earlier, he and Conkling had made ambitious political plans during leisurely carriage rides through Central Park. Only his St. Louisan friend Gibson had pointedly asked him, \"How can one man attend to two great newspapers and act a great part on the national stage?\" Pulitzer had learned the answer the hard way. On April 10, his thirty-ninth birthday, he sat at his desk and pulled out a sheet of stationery. \"Unwilling to hold the honors of a seat in Congress without fully observing all the expectations attached to it,\" he wrote in a letter to his constituents, \"I hereby return to you the trust which you so generously confided to me.\"\n\nThe World's Washington correspondent promised to clean out Pulitzer's desk in the Capitol. \"I'm glad you have resigned your seat in Congress,\" he wrote. \"I am sure you have a much better position as editor of the World than any official in Washington.\"\n\nPulitzer's congressional career lasted a mere four months, unless one counts the eleven months he spent waiting for the opening of Congress. He donated his salary to help endow a bed in a New York hospital for use by a newspaperman; he donated his stationery allowance to an industrial school for newsboys; and, after much work, he found a recipient for the several quarts of wheat given to members of Congress by the Department of Agriculture to distribute to their constituents. The only thing he had not thought through was the consequences of his resignation. The vacancy he created could not be filled until the next election. In his hurry to dump the job, he left his district with no vote in the House and no procurer of patronage, and young military academy candidates without a sponsor. His departure was as ill-considered as his candidacy had been in the first place.\n\nIn late June 1886, when Kate neared her due date, Joseph made plans to travel. As when Lucille and Katherine were about to be born, Joseph did not let Kate's pregnancy restrict his movements, though childbirth carried a considerable risk of mortality until it took place in hospitals, later in the century. Rather, Joseph remained single-mindedly focused on his own health, which continued to bedevil him. He became convinced, for reasons unknown, that the water in the house they rented at 616 Fifth Avenue was unhealthy, even though the house was in one of the toniest sections of Manhattan. Pulitzer hired plumbers to cut off the water to several of the bathrooms.\n\nSince Kate could not travel, Pulitzer enlisted his old friend Thomas Davidson of St. Louis as a companion. In the midst of the election of the previous year, Pulitzer had paused for a reunion with Davidson. It was the first time in a decade the two had seen each other. In the intervening years, Davidson had wandered through Europe, living for a while as a hermit, and had founded a utopian fellowship that included George Bernard Shaw among its members. Pulitzer insisted that Davidson stay at the house and devised a dinner to which he invited Conkling and other well-known politicians in hopes of impressing his old teacher. It didn't work. After the dinner, the skeptical philosopher wrote to a friend that he found the dinner guests lacking in character. But he was charmed by Kate, whom he had not met before, and found her to be entirely devoted to Joseph.\n\nDavidson and Pulitzer traveled through Europe for a month. Pulitzer kept the European telegraph operators busy and, as usual, was no more rested when he returned than when he had departed. At home, he met his new daughter, who was born on June 19, 1886, and was named Edith. Once again, Joseph did not want to remain in New York during the heat of the summer, so he left with the family for Lenox. But even in the relaxing Berkshires, with daily horse rides, the demands of his newspapers pressed on him. He refused to let his managers manage or his editors edit. Despite the continued success of the papers, he found fault in all they did.\n\nPulitzer was most frustrated with the quality of the World's editorial page. In his conception, this was the most important component of a newspaper. For him, reporting the news served primarily to build a readership that would turn to the editorial page for his own sage counsel on affairs of state and politics. So far, none of the editors he had hired could write an editorial to his liking. He hoped William H. Merrill, who worked at the Boston Herald, would solve his problem. At first Merrill agreed to come to the World, which he considered \"the greatest opportunity now offered in the press of America,\" but then he got cold feet. Pulitzer left Lenox and went to Boston to persuade Merrill in person. After some hesitation, Merrill was finally won over. The incredible $7,500 salary sufficiently assuaged his fears of working for a publisher with a demanding reputation.\n\nNext Pulitzer dashed out to St. Louis to look over plans for a new Post-Dispatch building. It was the first time he had been back since he left the city in 1883. Then he returned to New York in time to celebrate the dedication of the Statue of Liberty. Pulitzer did not want anyone to forget who had made the completion of the statue possible. In front of the World offices, he built a triumphal arch sixty feet tall spanning Park Row and festooned with French and American flags. On October 28, a great parade passed under the arch and the World's employees and their families, as well as its advertisers, boarded two steamers. The two ships, led by another with Pulitzer and his family on board, joined a flotilla that made its way to Bedloe's Island. There, President Cleveland and a huge retinue of dignitaries\u2014few of whom had contributed to the pedestal\u2014marked the moment with a long succession of speeches.\n\nNot being among the speakers, Pulitzer reserved his thoughts for the World's editorial page. In his inimitable style, decorated with Old World flourishes, he wrote, \"The statue represents, upon a standpoint at last firmly held, the results of centuries of struggle against oppression, ignorance, bigotry and might unsupported by right. It breathes a sense of relief that so much has been won.\"\n\nAmong those who did speak at the ceremonies was Chauncey Depew. He and Pulitzer had recently become friends, and theirs was the first of several friendships Pulitzer made among New York's elite that could challenge his ability to run a newspaper championing the common man. Not only was Depew a Republican; he was president of the New York Central, the rail line controlled by Vanderbilt and the World's most frequent target in its war against monopolies. But Depew had more savvy than most of the World's targets. He recognized that the new medium Pulitzer commanded was, at its core, a business. He and Pulitzer were both captains of industry. The difference was just that Pulitzer made his money tearing apart the other.\n\nAs one of the figures in the famous \"Belshazzar\" cartoon that had irreparably damaged Blaine's presidential campaign, Depew had felt the World's sting. But he believed more was to be gained by being friends with Pulitzer than by being his enemy. A year earlier, Depew had disarmed Pulitzer with a dinner toast in which he recounted their first meeting. Depew said that Pulitzer warned him that the paper would include him in its attacks on New York Central, monopolies, and Vanderbilt. But, Depew said, Pulitzer then added, \"'When Mr. Vanderbilt finds that you are attacked, he is a gentleman and broad-minded enough to compensate you and will grant to you both significant promotion and a large increase in salary.'\n\n\"Well, gentlemen,\" Depew told the dinner crowd, \"I have only to say that Mr. Pulitzer's experiment has been eminently successful. He has made his newspaper a recognized power and a notable organ of public opinion; its fortunes are made and so are his, and in regard to myself, all he predicted has come true, both in promotion and in enlargement of income.\"\n\nWith the Statue of Liberty now part of New York's landscape, as he had promised, Pulitzer turned his attention to the mayoral election. Although he apparently had three choices\u2014the Democrats' Abram Hewitt, the United Labor Party's Henry George, and the Republicans' Theodore Roosevelt\u2014in fact he had only two. He still considered the twenty-eight-year-old Roosevelt a traitor to the cause of reform. The World would have to choose between Hewitt and George.\n\nHewitt was a competent, honest, experienced politician; George was only famous as the author of Progress and Poverty, a wildly popular book that advocated the abolition of most taxes, the abolition of monopolies, and the creation of numerous social programs. If it were up to Pulitzer's working-class readers, the endorsement would have gone to George. But the World did not belong to them. Davidson pleaded with Pulitzer to support George. \"He will be treated fairly,\" Pulitzer replied, saying he would meet George. \"But I can't promise anything until all the candidates are known. Then I shall do whatever I think is best for the City.\"\n\nIn the end, Hewitt won the World's editorial support, but in this election, unlike that of 1884, Pulitzer consented to restrain the news side from attacking Hewitt's opponents. Though the World criticized George in its editorials, it gave him a fair break. \"You are doing excellently well by George, better than if you openly supported him,\" wrote Davidson. \"His candidacy will, in any case, do much good in making people think and forcing the parties to put forward reputable candidates.\"\n\nOn Election Day, Pulitzer's candidate carried the day. Roosevelt came in a distant third. It was a stinging defeat. \"I do not disguise from myself that this is the end of my political career,\" he told a close friend. Although Pulitzer was not to blame for the loss, he had again etched his name on Roosevelt's enemies list.\n\nThe double triumphs of 1886\u2014the statue stood in the harbor, and Roosevelt had fallen in defeat\u2014did not diminish the pressures on Pulitzer. The management of the World continued to consume his time and sap his energy. He had hired a personal secretary to cope with the flow of mail, but that put hardly a dent in the problem. \"Hundreds of letters come into this office every day that I never see,\" Pulitzer told one correspondent who complained of not getting a reply.\n\nMost vexing was Pulitzer's spreading fame as a financial success. Masy le Doll, a widow in Martinsburg, West Virginia, read that Pulitzer \"was up to his neck in money, had so much he did not know what to do with it.\" She hoped for some to buy a bucket of coal, some flour, and maybe a turkey for Christmas. The New Yorker Walter Hammond appealed for a donation from Pulitzer because the organized charities denied him relief, believing him to be promiscuous. During a medical exam it was determined that one of Hammond's testicles was larger than the other, and the charity workers took this as proof that he had been sexually active. Hammond denied the charge, giving his word to Pulitzer that he had had sex only with his wife, who had burned to death in a fire six years earlier, and had been celibate since. Such was welfare in 1886.\n\nWork and tension continued to wear Pulitzer down. He began to turn down social invitations, preferring to steal what rest he could at home in the evenings. When he did get out, it was now more often to visit an out-of-town friend such as the newspaper publisher George Childs of Philadelphia, who had a country house. Sitting by a blazing wood fire, Childs (who was older than Pulitzer) often counseled Pulitzer to ease up on his workload. In fact, Childs took it upon himself to deliver the same message to Pulitzer's wife. He wrote anxiously to Kate that Joseph was endangering his health. \"He must be careful and remember that he has a wife and children who have a claim on him,\" Childs wrote. \"He must try to learn to take things more rationally, he is under too great a pressure, and is doing more than anyone can do and retain his health. We all think too much of him to let him go on without a word of caution.\"\n\nWhen Kate shared Childs's message with Joseph, he was in no mood to listen.\n\n## Chapter Nineteen\n\n## A BLIND CROESUS\n\nJoe Howard, one of the World's leading reporters, was preparing to depart for Montreal on the evening of February 9, 1887, to cover the city's famous winter carnival. The idea had been Pulitzer's, and it was a plum assignment. Howard would spend several days visiting a monolithic illuminated ice palace and attending the carnival's many festivities. As he talked over his plans with editors in the newsroom, Pulitzer came out from his office and walked over to him.\n\n\"What have you been doing today, Joe?\" asked Pulitzer.\n\n\"Nothing. I'm preparing, you know, to go to Montreal,\" replied Howard.\n\nUpon hearing this, Pulitzer remembered he had also given permission and $100 to Walt McDougall to go to Montreal. Pulitzer had no interest in having\u2014in his words\u2014\"two high-priced men off on one job.\"\n\n\"I don't want you to go,\" Pulitzer brusquely told Howard.\n\n\"But,\" said Howard, \"I've bought my tickets and engaged berths for the people who are going with me. One must do that early. There are crowds going to Canada right now.\"\n\nPulitzer's face reddened. He raised his right hand and, waving his index finger close to Howard's face, said, \"I tell you I don't want you to go.\"\n\n\"Don't you point that at me,\" Howard snapped back, hurling an insult, later reported as one that described Pulitzer as \"a sordid, grasping, covetous Israelite.\"\n\nHoward's revilement kindled Pulitzer's notorious temper. The publisher, who at six feet two inches towered over the squat reporter, struck Howard on the neck with his fist, sending him to the floor. As Howard fumbled for his eyeglasses, knocked off by the blow, Pulitzer told him he was fired. Rising from the floor, Howard tried to return the assault. But Cockerill and others restrained him and escorted him from the office.\n\n\"Joe got so abusive that I got at him and knocked him down, and then discharged him on the spot,\" Pulitzer admitted to reporters from rival newspapers who chased him down later that day. But, he added, \"I wouldn't for the world hurt Joe, so don't say anything about it, please.\" Naturally, however, the fisticuffs made the front pages of the city's papers, except for the restrained New York Times. The New York Herald, where Howard had once worked, wrote the incident up like a prizefight, complete with diagrams and sporting-style commentary.\n\nHoward was not the only talent Pulitzer had plucked from Bennett's staff at the Herald. While Bennett was in Paris, Pulitzer had persuaded the Herald's managing editor, Ballard Smith, to move over to the World. When Bennett returned, he was so angry that he abolished the job, though others ended up doing the work under a different title.\n\nBennett's wrath was understandable. In the competitive atmosphere of Park Row, staffing remained a constant worry. Reporters were not hard to come by and most jumped at the chance to work for the World. But editors were another matter. \"It is the man,\" Pulitzer said, \"who decides what is to go into the paper and what is to be left out, and in what shape it is to go in, who has more to do with making the newspaper than the man who simply writes for it.\" The problem of finding the right editors was even more vexing for Pulitzer than for most publishers because the success of the World rested on an approach to news for which most editors were not trained. Pulitzer was betting that Ballard Smith would take to it.\n\nSmith was a Kentuckian who had once worked for Pulitzer's friend Henry Watterson at the Louisville Courier-Journal. After coming to New York, Smith served briefly as an editor on the old World before going to the Herald. Debonair, with an aura of erudition from his education at Dartmouth, he married the only daughter of a wealthy merchant and gained an entr\u00e9e rare for a journalist into the city's close-knit social life\u2014from which the Pulitzers were excluded.\n\nAlthough Smith cut an unusual figure in the crass, tumultuous world of a newspaper's city room, Pulitzer recognized in him news instincts similar to his own. Smith was daring, a master of headlines, and, most important, willing to be trained. \"I have tried faithfully to reflect exactly your views,\" Smith wrote to Pulitzer not long after joining the paper. \"I confess they often conflicted much with what I thought I knew well before.\"\n\nSmith, however, did not hit it off with Cockerill, who felt threatened. Like two feral dogs, they circled each other. This was not displeasing to Pulitzer. He had no interest in building a team. Rather, he preferred having managers who competed with one another and for his approbation. Without making himself superfluous, he was taking the first steps toward assembling a structure of management that could run the paper without him.\n\nWith Cockerill overseeing the entire operation, Smith enforcing Pulitzer's approach to news gathering, and Merrill writing editorials, Pulitzer was freed from the day-to-day operation of the paper. The change was a necessity. He had become irascible and moody, and his health woes grew more and more apparent to those around him. \"Won't you have enough confidence to let us run the place?\" asked George Turner, a Bostonian, whom Pulitzer had hired as a business manager. \"I am writing this to beg you to cease worrying about the paper and, if a sea voyage is possible, to take a long one where it will be impossible to get reports or issue directions.\"\n\nPulitzer booked tickets to Liverpool for April 16.\n\nWhile Pulitzer waited to depart for Europe, the needs of the paper weighed heavily on him. The libel suits continued to swarm like gnats, despite Pulitzer's interminable precautions, including reading almost every word that went into the paper. The World Almanac also required his attention. He had revived the encyclopedic work, which was originally published by the old World but had died. Pulitzer saw both promotional and moneymaking opportunities in resurrecting it. He also loved reference works. When he got into arguments\u2014not an infrequent occurrence\u2014he would rush to his collection of such books to find ammunition. But like all his ideas, this one created more work for which he could not find time, and he had been disappointed by the first new editions. \"That it has not received the measure of my own concept,\" he told an editor, \"is perhaps because I had not time enough at my disposal to do all I had planned.\"\n\nIn the meantime, Pulitzer had to tend to the opening of a printing plant in Brooklyn, because the World's main presses couldn't keep up with demand. The paper now circulated more than a quarter of a million copies each day. To celebrate this achievement, Pulitzer sent commemorative coins set in plush-lined leather cases to advertisers and leading political figures. Slightly larger than a silver dollar, the coins were 100 percent silver, 17 percent more than the amount of silver the government used in its coins. On one side was a relief of the Statue of Liberty; the other side boasted that the World's circulation was the largest ever attained by an American newspaper.\n\nThe paper's average daily circulation was now three times what it had been three years earlier, when Pulitzer had already been considered a stunning success. The new high-water mark astonished newspapermen because 1887 was not an election year, when partisan fever stoked the circulation of newspapers. The World's numerical claims were also credible even in an era when circulation figures were often unsubstantiated bragging. Pulitzer dared anyone to prove him wrong. He offered to open his books to public inspection and promised to donate $10,000 to the press club if someone found he had misstated the figures. \"It is a common query in the literary clubs and among the journalistic fraternity,\" said one commentator. \"What in the World will Pulitzer do next?\"\n\nEven if Pulitzer ceased his constant self-promotion, the success of the World was now so widely known that it was spawning imitators in other cities. His formula worked, even for a young dropout from Harvard.\n\nIn the spring of 1887, after years of entreaties, twenty-four-year-old William Randolph Hearst persuaded his father to turn over control of the family's money-losing San Francisco Examiner to him. He had found Harvard boring in comparison with life's possibilities for someone with money who was eager to prove himself. Commuting to work in a fifty-foot speedboat, the tall, slender, handsome Hearst set about transforming the Examiner into a West Coast version of the World.\n\nFor years Hearst had read, studied, and cut out articles from the World. He told his father that he would make the family's newspaper like the \"New York World which is undoubtedly the best paper of the class to which the Examiner belongs\u2014that class which appeals to the people and which depends for its success upon enterprise, energy and a certain startling originality.\"\n\n\"To accomplish this,\" he continued, \"we must have\u2014as the World has\u2014active, intelligent, and energetic young men.\"\n\nHearst needed first to break his paper's association with its past incarnation, as Pulitzer had done when he took over the World. Almost as if he were Pulitzer in New York in 1883, Hearst resorted to every trick from Pulitzer's playbook. He sent his reporters out to scour the poorest neighborhoods in San Francisco for tales that would make readers weep, to look in police stations and courts for crime stories that thrilled, and to search through public records to uncover corruption. The front page not only displayed the reporters' work with headlines bold as neon lights but also trumpeted the paper's successes as if the Examiner itself were running for office. Imitation has its rewards. The Examiner's circulation began a steady climb.\n\nHearst's approach to management also mirrored Pulitzer's. He left no part of the operation alone, and his indefatigable presence drove his staff to work even harder. He spent almost every waking hour working on the paper. \"I don't suppose I will live more than two or three weeks if this strain keeps up,\" Hearst wrote his mother, voicing woes similar to those of Pulitzer, though he was almost twenty years Pulitzer's junior.\n\nAlthough he greatly admired the World and imitated it, Hearst disdained its owner. He felt he had more in common with Pulitzer's adversary Bennett, who like Hearst was heir to a family fortune and who had been given his New York Herald without spending a cent. \"It is an honest and brave paper one can respect,\" Hearst said. \"It is the kind of paper I should like the Examiner to be, while the World is, because of the Jew that owns it, a nasty, unscrupulous damned sheet that I despise but which is too powerful to insult.\" But as a copycat, his spite was like that of a man who enjoyed the company of a mistress, which Hearst did, and felt sullied by the experience the morning after.\n\nDespite the imitation there was a vast difference between the men. Pulitzer had started with nothing, and his newspapers were sustained and expanded by their financial success. Hearst, on the other hand, was backed by an endless reserve of family money. For any competitor, this made Hearst dangerous. He was soon boasting of the Examiner's success in full-page advertisements calling it \"The Monarch of dailies. The largest, brightest and best newspaper on the Pacific Coast.\"\n\nBut conquering the Atlantic coast would have to wait for another day.\n\nIn late March 1887 the kind of criminal case Pulitzer loved to feature in the World opened in a New York City courtroom. Assistant District Attorney De Lancey Nicoll, whom Pulitzer admired, was prosecuting several aldermen on charges of corruption. One of the boodlers was defended by Ira Shafer, a colorful lawyer who made for good copy. The World illustrated its front-page coverage of the trial with comic drawings of Shafer, and the reporter had fun referring to Shafer's shoes as toboggans and to his mouth as a cave of winds. All this got to be too much for the lawyer. \"That dirty, filthy sheet yesterday reviled and insulted me by the publication of a lot of vile caricatures,\" Shafer informed the jury, whose members were quite surprised, as they had not been permitted to read any newspapers. \"A friend said to me this morning: 'Shafer, why don't you shoot that Hungarian Jew? Why don't you horsewhip him?'\"\n\nDespite the judge's attempts to rein him in, Shafer continued. \"Gentlemen, wait. The day will come when I will meet that Jew face to face, and when I do meet him let him beware,\" he told the jury, which included three Jewish members. When court adjourned, Shafer went on a similar rampage before reporters in the courthouse hall. \"The first time I shall meet Mr. Pulitzer after this trial is over,\" he said, \"I shall kill him.\"\n\nLawyers who knew Shafer doubted that his threat was serious, and rather attributed it to his quick-to-anger disposition. The fiery-tempered Pulitzer figured as much. He continued to ride the elevated train to work unescorted, and he dismissed any talk of danger. \"If I could have been killed by threats I should have been buried long ago,\" he said. \"If I could be influenced by the hostility of rascals I should have conducted a very different newspaper from the World and I should have adopted a different policy when I entered journalism years ago\u2014which was to expose fraud and crime and pursue rascals.\"\n\nPulitzer was soon out of Shafer's reach anyway. Leaving Smith, Cockerill, and Merrill to run the shop, he departed with Kate on the most extensive trip they had taken since he bought the paper four years earlier. There had been scarlet fever in their house and they were eager to leave. The children were left in the care of Kate's brother, who greatly pleased seven-year-old Lucille with the purchase of a pony. Pulitzer's friend Childs came up from Philadelphia to see them off. \"I have been very anxious about you all,\" Childs told him. \"What with the illness at home and the immense pressure of your great business you had too much to bear.\"\n\nAfter a stopover in Scotland, the Pulitzers reached London, where Joseph was immediately confined to his hotel room by doctors worried that his cold was creating congestion in his lungs. Finally, in early May, the Pulitzers began their European trip in earnest\u2014in Paris, a favorite of Kate's. There they dined with J. P. Morgan's partner Joseph Drexel, were feted by the American ambassador Robert McLane, attended balls, and purchased art and jewels.\n\nThe Pulitzers took up quarters at the Hotel Bristol. Joseph's brother Albert was only a few blocks away in Le Grand Hotel, but they remained estranged. The success of Albert's Morning Journal, though now eclipsed by the World, provided him with financial freedom. His fortune made, he spent less and less time in New York and instead resided regally for long stretches in Paris and London. His marriage to Fanny was at an end. In fact, he had been romantically linked with the four-times-married Miriam Leslie, a publishing widow who was a descendant of Huguenots and sometimes went by the title Baroness de Bazus.\n\nAn enterprising American reporter could not resist playing the two brothers against each other by seeking their opinions of French newspapers. \"I think it is simply disgraceful the kind of thing which they produce here,\" said Joseph. \"They are newspapers in name, but newspapers with the news left out. They print neither home news nor foreign news, in fact they print nothing but stories and essays.\" Au contraire, said Albert. \"People in France have not got that terrible thirst for 'news' which consumes us at home; they are not at all in a hurry to know about accidents and crimes before it is necessary, and even then they don't want a great mass of sickening details. In many ways their tastes are more elevated than ours.\"\n\nJoseph and Kate went south for a rest in Aix-les-Bains and then recrossed the Channel to be among the dignitaries and royalty from around the globe who gathered in Westminster Abbey for Queen Victoria's celebration of her silver jubilee. Afterward they watched the royal procession from the World's London offices. While they were in London, Pulitzer flirted with the idea of buying a newspaper. Before his arrival, the World's correspondent there had inquired which newspaper could be had and made into a British version of the New York sensation. It was a tempting proposition. Pulitzer loved London and its museums, theaters, and politics. Kate and his friends who fretted about his health were in a panic.\n\nNothing came of the idea and Pulitzer resumed his statesmanlike role. The financier Junius Morgan invited the Pulitzers to his country house; \"I am but a plain farmer living on my farm,\" he wrote. Liberal members of Parliament feted Pulitzer in London, and he made a pilgrimage to visit their party leader, William Gladstone, at Dollis Hill Estate. Thrown out of office after his third term, as a consequence of advocating home rule for Ireland, Gladstone was living in political exile about a forty-five-minute carriage ride from Charing Cross. Pulitzer arrived with a delegation of American politicians to present him with an ornamental silver urn, a tribute paid for by contributions from thousands of readers of the World for Gladstone's failed efforts on behalf of Ireland.\n\nGladstone, dressed in a light gray frock coat with a loosely tied blue-and-white polka-dot scarf, greeted the Americans and led them to the wooden box in which the gift had been shipped. Keys were procured and Gladstone lifted the three-foot silver urn from its container. On its top was mounted a small bust of him, and the trophy-like object was engraved with a bas-relief of Homer and Demosthenes and embossed with a rose, thistle, and shamrock.\n\n\"Well, let us get the business formality of this out of the way so that everyone can come and look at it,\" Gladstone said. Then he leaned against the box and turned to Pulitzer, who addressed the crowd. \"Mr. Gladstone,\" he began, \"10,689 people of the first city of America ask the first citizen of England to accept this gift.\" As if he were giving an American stump speech, Pulitzer droned on with praises for Gladstone, with his usual references to liberty, freedom, political equality, and democracy.\n\nWhile the ceremony continued, an American con man took advantage of the moment. He hid behind a tree and emerged to stand behind Gladstone and Pulitzer when all the dignitaries gathered for a photograph. Later he would imply to others that he was an intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, who he claimed had once taken his picture. When the mark expressed doubts, the American operator would say he thought he might even have the picture with him and would produce a photo, trimmed to show him standing with Gladstone and Pulitzer.\n\nUnaware of the shady operator, Pulitzer relished the moment. He sent instructions to the World to play up the ceremony. Smith gave it two columns on the front page. British newspapers were less thrilled and questioned the delegation's claim of speaking for the American people. \"In point of fact,\" said the Evening Standard, \"they had no more right to such a position than the three tailors of Tooley Street, who addressed the Emperor of Russia, had to represent the people of Great Britain.\" The last word, however, belonged to Gladstone's daughter Mary. That night she penned a few short lines in her diary about the ceremony. \"Sat. A garden party the American presentation to [father], an object of surprising hideousness.\"\n\nBy August the Pulitzers were back in New York. They stayed only briefly, though long enough for Pulitzer to consider yet another proposal to buy a paper. He had given up on acquiring a London newspaper, but he listened attentively to a pitch from William Henry Smith, the AP's director, to acquire the Chicago Times. After all, Smith had been one of the men who had guided him to buy the World. But reason again prevailed, and Pulitzer declined the opportunity.\n\nAbandoning business and the heat, the Pulitzers spent the remainder of the summer in Lenox, where they rented one of the town's many mansions, referred to by the wealthy as \"cottages.\" Despite the fresh country air, their daughter Lucille fell gravely ill. Three years after losing one daughter, Joseph and Kate faced the horrible possibility again. Joseph was convinced that the plumbing was the culprit, as he had been at their Fifth Avenue house. This time, he may not have been wrong. After Lucille recovered, two doctors discovered that the pipes leading to the cesspool were not properly installed and permitted gases to work their way into the bathroom Lucille had used.\n\nThe Pulitzers returned to New York, in time for Joseph to witness, from the officiating yacht, the final race of the 1887 defense of America's Cup. The race had become immensely popular. In fact, during the prior year's race, the World had mounted movable miniature yachts on a track across the first floor of its building. As dispatches arrived by telegram every ten minutes, the yachts were drawn across the painted scene by hidden strings. The display attracted crowds so immense that all traffic was blocked from Park Row from morning until night.\n\nPulitzer finally ended his family's migration from rented house to rented house. He purchased a mansion at 10 East Fifty-Fifth Street, just off Fifth Avenue, from the banker Charles Barney, brother-in-law of Pulitzer's friend Whitney. The house was almost new and had been designed by McKim, Mead, and White, architects to the rich and famous such as the Astors, the Vanderbilts, and other plutocrats who were madly building ch\u00e2teaus on Fifth Avenue. The targets of the World's editorial venom would now be Pulitzer's neighbors.\n\nIt was, indeed, quite a neighborhood. A few blocks to the south, William Henry Vanderbilt had bought an entire block and built enormous brownstone houses for his family and two married daughters. His sons soon built their own mansions nearby. Henry Villard, who had taken Pulitzer across the country four years earlier to witness the completion of his cross-country railroad, erected an even more enormous palace comprising six linked brownstones with a courtyard in the center. Also designed by McKim, Mead, and White, the palazzo-like structure consumed a ton of coal a day for heating.\n\nOnly in comparison with his neighbors' houses did Pulitzer's $200,000 manor seem modest. Broad stairs led up from the street to a carved stone entrance that opened into a large hall with a winding staircase. Four stories tall, constructed of stone and brick, the house had large, high-ceilinged rooms for entertainment on the first floor, including a magnificent oak-paneled dining room; bedrooms on the second and third floors; and servants' quarters on the fourth floor. In the rear was an attached conservatory.\n\nWhile negotiating for the house, Pulitzer asked his lawyers to persuade the mortgage holders to let him own it outright. Money was no longer an issue. In addition to the political power and the prominence the World gave him, the paper was making Pulitzer very rich. His annual income alone now dwarfed the entire fortune he had gambled on acquiring the World four years earlier.\n\nHe invested in stocks, paid $185,000 in cash for additional buildings for the paper, and indulged in any luxury he fancied. He toyed with the idea of acquiring a $75,000 yacht, purchased paintings from Parisian and New York art dealers, and ordered 2,000 bottles of French claret from a wine merchant for $25,000. Pulitzer's taste in cigars and wine grew with his income. He stocked his house with Havana cigars and his wine cellar with Ch\u00e2teau d'Yquem and Ch\u00e2teau le Crock, among other vintages. His willingness to spend encouraged Tiffany's to put him on a list that offered buyers an early peek at its new line of jewels; and Goupil's Picture Gallery brought paintings to his house for his consideration.\n\nPulitzer developed a preference for working at home. He had a telephone with a direct line to the office installed so that he could summon editors and business managers for meetings. He rarely left for the office before noon. Reaching the World, he would make his way through each department before settling in at his editorial offices. By six, he would be on his way home. On nights when there was a performance at the Metropolitan Opera House, Joseph and Kate could be found in their box, one of the best in the house. Going to the opera, particularly to hear German works, ranked as Joseph's favorite pastime. He rarely missed a performance, and he would whistle operatic airs after hearing them but once. The evening invariably closed with a protracted telephone consultation with the night editors at the paper.\n\nMoney bought the Pulitzers more than acquisitions and leisure pursuits. It gave them access to New York's elite society. By day, Joseph may have sparred with the city's rich, but by night he dined with them. New York society began to see a lot of the Pulitzers. Sometimes they were accompanied by the socially well-connected editor Ballard Smith and his wife. The Pulitzers even received an invitation to the prestigious Patriarch Ball in December 1885. This dance was organized by Ward McAllister, a social arbiter who was famous for his list of New York's 400 most elite families. He had also initiated the Patriarchs, a group of heads of prominent families who made a vain attempt to create a social designation that could not be bought. They saw themselves as the last stand of manners and breeding.\n\nThe ball was held at Delmonico's on Fifth Avenue. The ballroom was splendidly decorated with flowers and greenery from Charles Klunder, whose plants decked the tables of society. Hidden by banks of flowers, electric lights, still considered a novelty, illuminated the room. The Pulitzers arrived at eleven that evening. Mrs. Astor, the queen of New York society, presided over the soiree, and J. Pierpont Morgan was installed as a Patriarch. Punctually at midnight, two Patriarchs led the couples in the german (a cotillion) before the group retired downstairs for terrapin, canvasback duck, and p\u00e2t\u00e9 de foie gras.\n\nThe Pulitzers' rising status gave Kate a chance to charm the Fifth Avenue crowd with her graciousness. She served as a social tour guide when her distant cousin Winnie Davis\u2014the youngest daughter of Jefferson Davis, known as the \"daughter of the Confederacy\"\u2014came to New York. Dressed in a satin gown trimmed with ostrich feathers and crystal pendants, Kate caught the eye of one society columnist. \"Her manner is cordial and fascinating,\" the journalist wrote. \"She has large black eyes fringed with long lashes, a brilliant color, perfect teeth, lovely white sloping shoulders, a head well poised and coils of dark brown hair.\"\n\nWhen the Hungarian painter Mih\u00e1ly Munk\u00e1csy came to New York the winter before, Pulitzer had given one dinner party in the artist's honor at Delmonico's and a second at home. The guests at both included financial luminaries such as sugar trust attorney John E. Parsons, the businessman Cyrus W. Field, and assorted wealthy politicians and statesmen such as Chauncey Depew, William Evarts, and Levi P. Morton\u2014the same three who were among the figures in the cartoon \"Belshazzar's Feast\" that Pulitzer published during Blaine's campaign.\n\nIn particular, Joseph enjoyed the company of August Belmont and Leonard Jerome, who dined with the Pulitzers on both evenings. Belmont and Jerome were doyens of the city's new rich, and they loved to compete ostentatiously with each other. After the ladies at one of Jerome's dinner parties found gold bracelets in their napkins, Belmont folded platinum bracelets in the napkins at his dinner party. Friendship with such men was seemingly incongruous for the publisher of the nation's leading democratic sheet, which daily proselytized for the virtues of egalitarianism. But Pulitzer did not object to wealth. In fact, he coveted it. However, the kind of wealth mattered. Inherited fortunes were a social evil for Pulitzer; but earned wealth was not, even if it was tinged by illicit gains or exploitive profits.\n\n\"J.P. always cherished in his heart a sincere if unacknowledged veneration for rank and family,\" said the cartoonist McDougall, who spent many long hours with Pulitzer. \"This was probably atavistic, coming as he did from a land where rank meant all that is desirable but, to a peasant, unattainable. He showed this feeling by an exaggerated contempt for persons of wealth and standing, yet the truth is that he was moved by quite different feelings, a strong hunger for wealth, luxury, power, predominating over all other emotions.\"\n\nPulitzer did not simply socialize with those he pilloried in the pages of the World; he also became their financial partner. He joined William Rockefeller, William Vanderbilt, J. P. Morgan, and others in creating a club on Jekyll Island* off the Georgia coast as a private preserve where the nation's richest and most powerful men could hunt, fish, ride, and socialize in complete privacy.\n\nDespite distaste for his brand of journalism in many quarters of polite society, the gatekeepers could no more close the doors to Pulitzer than they could to other nouveaux riches. The time had passed when Wall Street speculators, industrial titans, and even Democratic politicians could be excluded. In New York\u2014unlike Boston, where the Brahmins had deep roots\u2014money was in the ascendant. But though his wealth gained him a passport to the domain of New York's plutocracy, it did not gain him genuine acceptance. In the eyes of many he remained, as he was born, a Jew.\n\nUp until now, most of the anti-Semitism Pulitzer had faced from gentiles in New York had been coated with a veneer of politeness. German Jews, among whom Pulitzer would have been placed, incurred only mild ostracism. Pulitzer's friend Belmont, a Jew who had converted and changed his name from Sch\u00f6nberg, traveled in all but the most exclusive of New York's circles. But when a tidal wave of Russian Jews flooded New York, the accepting spirit among the elite faded. The Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga Springs barred the Jewish banker Joseph Seligman; the Union Club closed its doors to Jews (even though many were among its founders); and Anna Morton began to insist that her husband, Levi, be referred to as L. P. Morton. A dormant anti-Semitism among New Yorkers awoke.\n\n\"To decide a bet between two parties will you kindly answer the following,\" one reader wrote to the World. \"Was the Editor of the New York World born in the country and is he of Jewish extraction.\" Pulitzer declined to answer the letter. Despite his Episcopalian wife, his baptized children, and his family's membership in St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue, Pulitzer could not shed his Jewish identity in the eyes of others any more than he could deny his foreign birth. In the public mind there was little doubt about Pulitzer's ethnicity.\n\n\"In all the multiplicity of Nature's freaks, running from Albino Negroes to seven-legged calves, there is one curiosity that will always cause the observer to turn and stare. This freak is a red-headed Jew,\" began a profile of Pulitzer in the trade publication The Journalist. It described \"Jewseph Pulitzer\" as \"combing his hair with talons,\" \"rubbing the sores around his eyes,\" and remaining in the shadows \"in order to escape turning rancid in the hot sun.\"\n\nThe author of this barbarous piece was Leander Richardson, an aspiring actor with a beard and a wavy chevron mustache untrimmed at the ends so as to extend wider than his face. Richardson had worked as a gossip columnist for the World under Pulitzer until he was fired for undisclosed reasons in May 1884. He and a partner launched The Journalist, and Richardson used his new post on the widely read trade magazine to seek revenge on Pulitzer.\n\n\"Any man can make money by publishing a newspaper which will defile its columns with dirty advertisements as those of Jewseph Pulitzer's World are defiled,\" wrote Richardson, referring to personal notices that some people believed were illicit coded messages for rendezvous with prostitutes. \"A directory of assignation houses and worse, the recognized organ of prostitutes, pimps and janders,\" claimed Anthony Comstock, of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. When the fuss over the advertisements faded, Richardson didn't relax his attacks. \"There was never a greater pretender in American journalism,\" he said, \"than this same Jewseph Pulitzer.\"\n\nPulitzer banned The Journalist from the office, but the anti-Semitic broadsides against him were not limited to Richardson's personal vendetta in the trade press. In \"New Jerusalem,\" as the Los Angeles Times referred to New York City, others among Pulitzer's competitors adopted Richardson's methods. Their anger toward the upstart who was winning the circulation war found expression in attacks on Pulitzer for his Jewish origins. Even a man who had once been his mentor joined in.\n\nThe rivalry between Charles Dana and Pulitzer, harsh and vitriolic as it had been during the 1884 election, became bitterly personal in 1887. Since Pulitzer had come to New York, the Sun's circulation had shrunk at almost the same rate that the World's had soared. In October, Pulitzer launched the Evening World to compete with the Evening Sun, which Dana had begun publishing in the spring. In his typical fashion, Pulitzer stole one of Dana's editors, Solomon S. Carvalho, to run the new paper. Carvalho, who had a goatee and was always impeccably dressed, had made a reputation as a reporter with a flair for covering murders and suicides when he had first joined the Sun nine years earlier. He instantly made the one-cent Evening World into an audacious purveyor of titillating and sensational news. Within a few weeks it surpassed the Evening Sun's circulation.\n\nThe economic insult to Dana was compounded by a political dispute between him and Pulitzer. In the election for district attorney, Pulitzer was backing De Lancey Nicoll, who had prosecuted the corrupt alderman in the trial that produced the death threat against Pulitzer. Tammany Hall, however, would have nothing to do with a man seemingly hell-bent on putting corrupt politicians in jail. So Nicoll deserted the Democratic Party and won the Republican nomination. In the offing was the kind of political fight Pulitzer relished. By not abandoning Nicoll, he could prove his paper's independence. On the other hand, Dana, who had backed Nicoll, withheld his support now that Nicoll was running as a Republican. Pulitzer, in bellicose prose, demanded an explanation from Dana. He got one.\n\n\"We have withdrawn from our support of Mr. Nicoll because we distrust the World and its motives,\" wrote Dana, \"and because more than suspicions exist to indicate what these motives are.\" The Sun then rehashed the tale of Cockerill's shooting of Slayback and claimed that Cockerill had avoided a murder charge because the district attorney in St. Louis had been in Pulitzer's pocket.\n\nBy bringing up this embarrassment, Dana initiated a verbal brawl between the two publishers that rapidly descended into the gutter. Pulitzer called the Sun's editor \"Charles Ananias Dana\" and Dana retorted with \"Boss Judas Pulitzer\" and \"Dunghill Cock.\" As Nicoll campaigned, probably bewildered by the conduct of the two publishers, the editorial volleys worsened. Pulitzer called Dana a \"mendacious blackguard\" and Dana said Pulitzer was a \"renegade Jew who has denied his breed\" and \"exudes the venom of a snake and wields the bludgeon of a bully.\n\n\"The Jews of New York have no reason to be ashamed of Judas Pulitzer if he has denied his race and religion,\" said Dana. \"The insuperable obstacle in the way of his social progress is not the fact that he is a Jew, but in certain offensive personal qualities.\" So that no reader was left uncertain, Dana listed them. \"His face is repulsive, not because the physiography is Hebraic, but because it is Pulitzeresque.... Cunning, malice, falsehood, treachery, dishonesty, greed, and venal self-abasement have stamped their unmistakable traits.\"\n\nDana's words hit their mark, tormenting Pulitzer. \"The stings of that human wasp, Dana of the Sun, drove him frantic,\" the cartoonist McDougall recalled. Depressed and feeling harassed, Pulitzer would sometimes come to McDougall's office and lie on an old sofa. In the room was a desk that had been used by Manton Marable when he was editor of the World; it contained bundles of old letters hidden in a cavity. \"I used to amuse J.P. by reading some of them to him, and he would in return tell me his troubles and narrate his adventures. I early gathered that he hadn't the courage of Cockerill, but as a writer he was as rashly bold as a rhinoceros. He once told me that the fact that Cockerill had killed Slayback had the effect of kindling his sincere admiration and respect at one time and filling him with a chilled repulsion at another.\"\n\nThe voters soon had their say. Dana and Pulitzer acted as if their names had been on the ballot. Both of them had also spoken at rallies on behalf of their candidates. Nicoll lost, by a large margin. \"And now, Pulitzer, a word with you!\" wrote a triumphant Dana. Like a judge reading from a defendant's criminal record before imposing a sentence, Dana listed scandal, blackmail, and murder among Pulitzer deeds prior to coming to New York. \"We wish, Pulitzer, that you had never come.\"\n\nAn unpleasant future awaited, Dana promised. \"Perhaps your lot will be like that of the mythical unfortunate of the same race you belong to and deny, that weird creation of medieval legend, a creation, by the way, far more prepossessing than you are\u2014we mean, The Wandering Jew!\n\n\"Move on, Pulitzer,\" said Dana, \"move on!\"\n\nA few days after this bitter defeat at the polls, Pulitzer went to the office to look over the next morning's editorials. Unlike Dana, he had little to gloat about. In addition to the painful brawl with Dana, the election results had subjected him to personal ridicule. After taking credit for electing a president, a governor, and a mayor, he had failed to get his man elected to the minor post of district attorney.\n\nPulitzer had reached the limits of his physical and psychological endurance. \"It was a period of terrible strain for me,\" he said years later. His friend Childs in Philadelphia was worried. \"I told a leading newspaper man today,\" Childs wrote to Pulitzer, \"that if your health holds out, you were bound to make the best success of the age, and you can do it, I mean that you can hold it.\" But despite his persistent insomnia and disregarding pleas from his friends and family, Pulitzer insisted on going to the office. Reading every line of copy before it was published remained a mania with him, even though Merrill and others were among the best editorialists one could hire.\n\n\"When I picked up the sheets,\" said Pulitzer, \"I was astonished to find that I could hardly see the writing, let alone read it.\" It was if a dark curtain had been pulled entirely across his right eye and partially across the left. Having long suffered from bad eyesight, frequently aggravated by reading late into the night under harsh gaslight, Pulitzer decided that this was simply a temporary affliction. He left the building without saying a word about it. The next morning, his vision still not improved, Pulitzer stopped in to consult a doctor on his way to work.\n\nIn 1887, optometrists, a term then only a year old, had the use of an ophthalmoscope, which permitted a clear view of the retina and the vitreous body separating it from the lens. When the doctor peered into Pulitzer's eyes it was clear in an instant what had gone wrong. The retina in the right eye had become detached, and the left retina was in danger of detaching. The prognosis was grim. \"In a great majority of cases the natural course of the disease is slowly but surely progressive, leading finally to total blindness,\" wrote one expert at the time. The chief remedies at the time were the application of artificial leeches, a tool that drew blood or other fluids from the patient; mercury drops; or extended bed rest. Pulitzer was ordered home to remain in a darkened room for six weeks.\n\nPulitzer's doctors were summoned. His primary physician, James W. McLane, was worried that the vision failure was only one manifestation of Pulitzer's health problems, which he listed as insomnia, asthmatic lungs, and almost continuous indigestion. It was as if Pulitzer was having a breakdown.\n\n\"I am absolutely and totally unable to read or write, or have any use of my sight,\" Pulitzer said plaintively, dictating a letter. \"I am in the hands of the oculist, who has put me to bed, stripped me of all occupation, and enforces a course of treatment which he says, with care on my part, may give me back my sight in about six weeks. If I am not careful, he also says, I am quite apt to lose my sight altogether.\"\n\nFor six weeks, Cockerill, Merrill, and Smith ran the World, coming occasionally to the dark confines of Pulitzer's room for advice. The children were kept at bay, and when Kate's father died, she attended the funeral in Washington alone. Almost as if he were engaged in mortal combat, Dana did not even have the good manners to lessen his attacks. Instead, he continuously reprinted the editorial about the \"Jew who does want to be a Jew\" under the headline, MOVE ON, PULITZER!\u2014REPUDIATED BY HIS RACE.\n\nAt the end of the bed rest, Pulitzer's sight was no better. McLane prescribed a new course of treatment: Pulitzer was to cease all work and go to California for a six-month rest. On January 14, 1888, Joseph, Kate, and Ralph, along with a personal staff, boarded a private railcar in Jersey City. Lucille, Joseph Jr., and Edith were left in the care of nannies.\n\nCongressman Walter Phelps came to see them off. Pulitzer was pessimistic about the plan and prophesied that the climate of California and the fresh air would do him no good. While he was becoming a Croesus, he told Phelps, he would eventually be a blind one.\n\n\"That,\" said Pulitzer, \"was the beginning of the end.\"\n\n## Part III\n\n## 1888\u20131911\n\n## Chapter Twenty\n\n## SAMSON AGONISTES\n\nOn a moonlit evening in late February 1888, Pulitzer stood on the veranda of San Diego's legendary Hotel del Coronado. Puffing on a cigar, he gazed out at the beach. In the pale soft light, he could discern the contours of the beach and the crashing waves tipped with white foam. \"That is beautiful,\" Pulitzer said to a young reporter who had accompanied him out into the night air.\n\n\"I am not blind by any means,\" he continued, as they went inside. \"I can see well enough to enjoy the beauties of the country. Your harbor is wonderfully beautiful, as we saw it in the moonlight this evening.\"\n\nThe rest of the world, however, was fading from his sight. Under the harsh electric lights of the hotel's interior, he could scarcely make out the headlines on display at the newsstand, announcing that St. Louis would be the site of the next Democratic convention. \"I am half blind, and have lost the use of one eye,\" he conceded. \"The other eye is of partial use, but I have not read a newspaper for three months.\"\n\nPulitzer's doctors in New York had prescribed repose in California. It was like being sent into exile. When the Pulitzers had boarded the train in New York, Kate was handed a note from a onetime World editor and Democratic stalwart. \"May I beg you to read the next page of this note to Samson Agonistes,\" it said. \"My God, what a calamity for the party that you are ill now.\"\n\nThe journey drained Joseph, even though they crossed the country in the comfort of a private railcar, the nineteenth-century counterpart of the corporate jet. Contributing to his exhaustion was a detour they took to Beauvoir, a crumbling mansion not far from New Orleans in Biloxi, Mississippi. There Kate's distant cousins Jefferson and Varina Davis, the former president and first lady of the Confederacy, lived in quiet solitude.\n\nThe Pulitzers had come to know the Davises during the past eight years and had grown attached to their twenty-two-year-old daughter, whom they asked to be a godmother to one of their children. Winnie, called the \"daughter of the Confederacy,\" was almost as symbolic of the lost cause as were her parents. During the visit to Beauvoir, the Pulitzers tried to talk Winnie into accompanying them on their trip. \"A private car offers the two-fold temptation of comfort and economy in seeing a new and interesting country,\" Jefferson Davis wrote to a family member. \"She says, no.\"\n\nThe Pulitzers pushed on, stopping in Texas, where Joseph told reporters that the Confederacy's former leader, though aging, had a mind as clear as that of a thirty-year-old. A few days later, the party reached Los Angeles, where their arrival was front-page news. Joseph declined an interview, saying he had been fatigued by the journey. The group soon repaired to the Raymond Hotel in Pasadena, a popular winter residence for wealthy easterners.\n\nFor the next several weeks, Pulitzer and his entourage wandered from one coastal resort to another. In Santa Barbara, the doctors he consulted had only discouraging words and suggested that he consider a sea voyage to the Sandwich Islands (later known as Hawaii), Japan, and China. It was hardly advice he wanted or was willing to follow. He was anxious about not being in charge of the World back in New York. Though he trusted Cockerill, circulation had fallen for the first time since Pulitzer bought the paper. Even worse, Pulitzer could play no part in orchestrating the paper's coverage of a terrible snowstorm hammering New York: food and medicine were in short supply, trains stood still, and few telegrams got through.\n\nDuring the blizzard, Pulitzer's lawyer and crony Roscoe Conkling developed an ear infection after walking from his office on Wall Street to his club at Madison Square. Though it was persistent and nagging, Conkling regarded the infection as only a nuisance. \"Would gladly face greater storms to make your eyes strong enough to be squandered reading newspapers,\" he wired back after receiving Pulitzer's worried inquiries. But the infection created a dangerous abscess that pressed on Conkling's brain. For weeks he lay close to death, finally succumbing on April 17, 1888. All Pulitzer could do was send flowers and a telegram of condolence, and order the World to give Conkling a statesmanlike send-off.\n\nBalmy California seemed like a purgatory to him.\n\nPulitzer nixed the idea of a Pacific voyage. By May he and his family were on a train heading back east. They stopped in St. Louis for two days so that Joseph could confer with his editors at the Post-Dispatch and again consider offers to buy his paper. He had been back to St. Louis only twice in the ten years since he had left. The place no longer had any hold on him. This would be his last visit ever. He decided, however, to hold on to the Post-Dispatch.\n\nThe family reached New York as the World celebrated its fifth anniversary under Pulitzer's regime. On the front page, editors reprinted his original statement of principles, published in the first issue; they also listed the newspaper's achievements in its war on monopolists and conspirators, in its efforts to protect immigrants, and in its work on behalf of the poor. \"The keystone of The World's arch of triumph is public service,\" they said. Daily circulation now hovered around 300,000 copies.\n\nHome again, Pulitzer confronted an unchanged prognosis by his doctors. They still insisted on prescribing rest. Stubbornly, he tried to read the World and further strained his eyes. At best, all he could now see out his good left eye was a confusion of black spots and occasional flashes of light. His primary physician, Dr. McLane, persuaded him to sail for Europe, where they could together consult renowned medical authorities. On June 9, they boarded the Etruria, bound for England. Kate and the children, joined by Winnie Davis, stayed behind and headed north to a rented house in Maine's increasingly fashionable Mount Desert Island.\n\nOnce across the ocean, Pulitzer shuttled from one examining room to another in London and Paris. After a summer spent consulting the world's most celebrated physicians, Pulitzer learned nothing he had not already heard from the less famous specialists in New York. He was entirely blind in one eye, and the other was threatened with the same fate. There was no cure, procedure, or therapy. Rest might extend what vision he had left. He ceased to ride horses and take walks. Confined to dim rooms, he grew weaker.\n\nThe doctors forbade travel. The order couldn't have come at a worse time. It was September of an election year. For Pulitzer, being confined to Europe was like being a captain watching his ship set sail without him. The presidential contest was in full swing, but for Pulitzer there were no editorial meetings, no strategy sessions with party operatives, no election maps to study, no supplicants seeking the World's editorial benediction. Unnatural silence surrounded him.\n\nIn the election, President Cleveland's plan to cut import tariffs became the central issue. He believed that the tariff was an indirect subsidy to businesses, and that it raised prices and hurt labor and farmers. In turn, the Republicans, who nominated Benjamin Harrison, claimed that the high tariff protected American industry and workers from foreign competition.\n\nStill smarting from the president's ungracious attitude toward the World and its owner following his election to the White House, Pulitzer cared little if Cleveland went down in defeat. The paper acted as if the only elections of significance that year were those for New York State's governor and New York City's mayor. The World's silence on the presidential race was a frigid rejection of Cleveland, whom it had championed as a political messiah four years earlier. \"Temperamentally, no two men could have been farther apart than the President and his foremost supporter,\" observed one insider at the World. \"That sturdy statesman was steady and persistent; Mr. Pulitzer fiery and insistent.\"\n\nResigned to his exile, Pulitzer telegraphed Kate and asked her to come to Europe with the children. He left London, engaged rooms at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, then traveled to Le Havre on the northwest coast of France to await her ship. For Joseph, this was a rare gesture that reflected his anguish. Kate and the children arrived on September 16, 1888. Kate was now visibly pregnant with their sixth child, conceived during their wanderings in California. Reunited as a family, they settled into a rented house near Paris's graceful Parc Monceau for the fall and winter.\n\nConstance Helen Pulitzer was born on December 13, 1888, and her birth was recorded by the U.S. consul in Paris, who had been appointed by Cleveland. Although Pulitzer could sign the birth certificate, he was incapable of reading or other writing. To cope with his increasing infirmity, he hired thirty-year-old Claude Ponsonby, an Englishman who had some noble relatives. Ponsonby would be the first in a long succession of young men who would handle Pulitzer's correspondence, read aloud to him, play the piano, and provide companionship as the world darkened around him.\n\n## Photographic Insert\n\nMigrating Jewish families found economic opportunity in Mak\u00f3, the Hungarian farming village where Joseph Pulitzer was born in 1847. Landowners, eager for the services of merchants and tradesmen, enlisted the newcomers to market the products of their estates. Members of the Paskesz family, whose business may be seen on the right-hand side of this nineteenth-century photo, later migrated to the United States and opened a Kosher confectionery in Brooklyn.\n\nPulitzer was devoted to his mother, Elize, seen here with his sister Anna, who died not long after the photograph was taken. In fact, all but one of his eight siblings died before Pulitzer reached his teenage years.\n\nMerchant shops of Mak\u00f3. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Pulitzer's mother and sister. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.)\n\nJoseph Pulitzer's four-year-younger brother, Albert, was a consummate reader, idealistic, and ambitious. In 1867, with a twenty-dollar coin tucked under his shirt in a tiny cotton bag hung around his neck, Albert sailed for the United States and joined his brother in St. Louis.\n\nThis rare moment of brotherly togetherness was probably captured by a New York photographer in the spring of 1873. Joseph visited Albert on his way to Europe after selling his shares in the Westliche Post. Albert had just started working at the New York Herald.\n\nAlbert Pulitzer standing with books. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph and Albert in 1873. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\nGerman immigrant and American politician Carl Schurz was a role model for Pulitzer in St. Louis.\n\nPulitzer followed Schurz into the Liberal Republican movement. When the rebellion was defeated, Schurz returned to the Republican Party, but Pulitzer became a Democrat.\n\nCarl Schurz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Pulitzer Liberal Republican cartoon. (Author's collection.)\n\nWith his success as a reporter and the additional income he earned as a state legislator, Pulitzer improved his dress by 1869 when this photograph was taken.\n\nDuring his term as a state legislator, Pulitzer's notorious temper got the best of him and he tried to shoot a lobbyist. The scene was captured by well-known cartoonist Joseph Keppler.\n\nPulitzer profile 1869. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Cartoon of Pulitzer in fight with lobbyist that appeared in the February 5, 1870 edition of Die Vehme. (Courtesy of the Missouri History Museum.)\n\n(Above 1st)By the mid-1870s, Pulitzer added facial hair to his look. In 1878, he courted two women while living in Washington, D.C. Kate Davis(above 2nd) and Nannie Tunstall(above). In the end, Tunstall spurned Pulitzer's affections, and he married Davis. The drawing of Tunstall was done by sculptor Moses J. Ezekiel.\n\nJoseph Pulitzer and Kate Davis. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Nannie Tunstall. (Courtesy of the Virginia Military Institute Archives.)\n\nIn December 1878, Pulitzer purchased the St. Louis Dispatch at a bankruptcy sale on the steps of the courthouse. In this cartoon Pulitzer is seen packing up his new paper a few days later to merge it with the St. Louis Post, a move alluded to in the comment \"set the whole up on a sound Post,\" at the center of the drawing. The cartoon appeared in the German-language Die Laterne.\n\nWithin a year of creating the Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer persuaded John Cockerill to come to St. Louis to take charge of the news operation of the paper. The two men met at the 1872 Liberal Republican convention. In the years since, Cockerill had worked as an editor at several newspapers, including the newly launched Washington Post. With their innovative style and aggressive reporting, Pulitzer and Cockerill changed the face of journalism.\n\nCartoon of Pulitzer purchasing the Dispatch. (Author's collection.) Illustration of John Cockerill. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.)\n\nWhen Pulitzer purchased the New York World from Jay Gould in 1883, he also agreed to lease for a decade Gould's Park Row building that housed the paper. But within six years, Pulitzer had made such a success of the World that he built the tallest building on the globe(above), without incurring a cent of debt. The thirteen-story building, topped with a gilded dome that reflected light forty miles out to sea, became an important symbol of Pulitzer's financial success and how he changed the landscape of journalism. The first sight of the New World for immigrants entering New York's harbor was not a building of commerce, banking, or industry. Rather, it was a temple of America's new mass media.\n\nNew York World building owned by Jay Gould. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Pulitzer building (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.)\n\nDon Carlos Seitz was Pulitzer's longest-serving business manager. He was one of the few working for Pulitzer who found a way to survive under his management style. Thirteen years after Pulitzer's death, Seitz became his first biographer.\n\nArthur Brisbane, one of Joseph Pulitzer's most brilliant news editors, was Kate Pulitzer's lover for several years. In 1897, after Kate called off the relationship, he left the World to work for Hearst, where he remained for thirty-nine years and became the nation's highest-paid editor and one of its best-read columnists.\n\nJoseph Pulitzer hoped that David Graham Phillips might be trained to lead the World after his death. Unfortunately, Phillips had literary aspirations and left the paper to write novels and muckraking articles for leading magazines. Pulitzer was wounded when he discovered that the corrupt publisher portrayed in Phillips's first novel was based, in great part, on himself.\n\nDon Carlos Seitz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Arthur Brisbane. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) David Graham Phillips. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.)\n\nTwo publishers and two politicians challenged Pulitzer's power. Charles Dana(above 1st), who twice hired Pulitzer to write for his New York Sun, grew bitter when the World stole his circulation, and he wrote a series of anti-Semitic editorials attacking Pulitzer. William Randolph Hearst(above 2nd) bought the paper that Albert Pulitzer had started and engaged in a crippling circulation war with Joseph Pulitzer's World that almost bankrupted both newspapers. Theodore Roosevelt(above 3rd) feuded with Pulitzer for almost a quarter of century and sought to use the power of the presidency to put Pulitzer in prison. William Jennings Bryan(above) turned bitter when Pulitzer refused to support his early presidential bids and told the publisher \"that the trouble with him is that he has too much money.\"\n\nCharles Dana, William Randolph Hearst, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Jennings Bryant. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.)\n\nWhen the Pulitzer building was torn down in 1955, the cornerstone was recovered. It contained copies of the World and other newspapers, a wax-cylinder voice recording, and photographs of Pulitzer and his family, several of which are reproduced here for the first time since they were encased in the building.\n\nOne of the last photographs taken of Joseph Pulitzer before he began to lose his vision. His increasing blindness and tormenting mental and health problems would test Kate Pulitzer's patience and love.\n\nOpening the cornerstone. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Joseph and Kate Pulitzer. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.)\n\nRalph(above 1st), the oldest, poses with a rifle at age ten. Joe and his sister Edith(above 2nd) wear clothes often favored by wealthy parents. Constance(above 3rd) was the only child of the Pulitzers born outside the country; she was born in Paris. Lucille(above), Joseph Pulitzer's favorite, died of typhoid in 1897, eight years after this photograph was taken. Kate Pulitzer had two other children. Katherine, born in 1882, who died at age two, and Herbert, who would be born in 1895, six years after these photographs were taken.\n\nPulitzer children. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.)\n\n(Above 1st)After becoming almost completely blind, Joseph Pulitzer avoided public appearances and became a recluse. It often fell to his oldest son Ralph to fill in for his ailing father or to accompany him on the rare times he was in New York. Usually Pulitzer(above 2nd) wore goggles to protect his eyes from light and to hide the deterioration visible to others. He increasingly became obsessed with his health and traveled to visit Europe's best doctors and spas accompanied by a large retinue of personal aides.\n\nJoseph Pulitzer walking with son Ralph, Pulitzer wearing goggles, and Pulitzer seated outside with blanket. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\nJoseph Pulitzer's brother Albert sold his New York Journal in 1895 for nearly $1 million and spent the remainder of his life mostly in Europe. He committed suicide in 1909, only a few years after this photograph was taken. Although Joseph was only a short train ride away, he chose not to come to the funeral. Albert is buried in the Jewish section of Vienna's Zentralfriedhof cemetery.\n\nIn 1911, Pulitzer spent part of his last spring alive in Southern France. This photograph of Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo with his daughter Edith and his aide Harold Pollard was taken less than seven months from his death. He complained extensively about his health and began that June to take Veronal, a new sedative with dangerous side effects that were not yet known; its use may have lead to Pulitzer's death in October.\n\nAlbert Pulitzer walking by canal. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\nPulitzer used his wealth to build expensive houses in hopes of finding within their walls an escape from business pressures and a shelter from noise. With the decline of his vision, Pulitzer became tormented by sounds of all sorts. For his New York mansion on East Seventy-third Street(above 1st), he hired a Harvard acoustical expert to help create a bedroom insulated from all outside sound. At his palatial estate, Chatwold, on Mt. Desert Island, Maine(above), Pulitzer constructed a special wing of stone that aides nicknamed the \"Tower of Silence.\" Pulitzer was never satisfied by the measures taken to guard him from noise.\n\nPulitzer's East Seventy-Third Street house and Chatwold. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\n(Above 1st)Ultimately, Pulitzer came closest to finding a refuge on his yacht, The Liberty. The length of a football field, it contained a gymnasium, a library, drawing and smoking rooms, an oak-paneled dining room quarters for its forty-five-man crew, and twelve elegant staterooms. The ship carried sufficient coal to cross and recross the Atlantic Ocean without refueling. Pulitzer also favored wintering in his house on Jekyll Island(above), a private island off the coast of Georgia where the Gilded Age's wealthiest industrialists and financiers vacationed.\n\nLiberty. (Courtesy of the St. Louis-Post Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) The Jekyll Island House. (Courtesy of the Jekyll Island Museum Archives.)\n\nWhen he died, Pulitzer used his wealth to create two institutions that have ensured his name would live on. A century later, his Pulitzer Prizes for journalism, the literary arts, and music are announced each spring at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, which he endowed. Many felt the creation of the school and the prizes were late-in-life attempts to improve his legacy after years of reckless so-called \"Yellow Journalism.\" For his part, Pulitzer said his goal was to help professionalize his trade. His last will and testament offered his personal motivation, words that remain engraved in the front hall of his school.\n\nColumbia Journalism School. (Courtesy of Columbia University Archive.) Floor engraving. (Courtesy of the author.)\n\nInfirm but not incapacitated, Pulitzer sought to remain in command of his journalism empire. The World alone now had more than 600 editors, reporters, compositors, pressmen, salesmen, and business managers on its payroll. As his absence from New York became prolonged, he appointed three men to run the paper: Cockerill would manage editorial matters, George Turner would manage the business side, and Kate's brother William Davis would act as Pulitzer's personal representative when the triumvirate met. To communicate with their absent boss, Turner devised a simple cipher scheme so that telegrams could be coded to save words and keep others from understanding them.\n\nOf his newspapers, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch held the least interest for Pulitzer. It ran itself, produced a handsome income, and gave him no headaches. His heart was in New York, specifically with the affairs of the morning World, referred to as \"Senior\" in the coded messages of the heavy transatlantic cable traffic. Pulitzer regarded \"Junior,\" the Evening World, with a mix of disdain and acceptance. With its base, coarse style, it thrived in the hurly-burly domain of sidewalk sales, where a good headline could sell its entire run of 100,000 copies. Pulitzer knew there was a large and growing appetite for afternoon newspapers, with their fresh news, punchy headlines, and scandalous tales. After all, he had started out as a publisher of an evening paper. Still, although it churned out profits, the Evening World was not a maker of presidents. If this were only a matter of money, Pulitzer could have disposed of the whole lot and spent the remainder of his life a wealthy man. Instead, he wanted to keep the reins of the World in his hands because it gave him what he coveted most\u2014power.\n\nAside from creating his triumvirate, Pulitzer embarked on a scheme of retaining control over the hiring of editors and managers. No matter how sick or how far away he might be, he would be the one to fill the key posts. Editors and managers who performed well would be rewarded by bonuses, conveyed by telegraphed instructions to the cashier. Those who didn't would face a Pulitzerian wrath in telegraphic form. Sometimes the telegram or letter would even be read aloud to the recipient by one of the members of the triumvirate. An editor knew he worked for Pulitzer, not for the World. Misdirecting his loyalty could mean the end of his employment.\n\nFor years, Pulitzer had sought to lure Julius Chambers, whom he had known since 1872, away from the New York Herald. That winter Chambers was chafing under the idiosyncratic rule of his publisher, James Bennett\u2014who, coincidently, was running the Herald from Paris, giving Pulitzer hope that he might do the same. One day Chambers joined Cockerill for lunch in the famous Room 1 of New York's Astor House. Comparing their experiences in working for absent publishers, Cockerill quickly fathomed Chambers's unhappiness and handed him a telegram he had received from Pulitzer. \"See Chambers again,\" it read, \"renew offer of $250 per week and three year contract.\" Chambers took the job.\n\nBy similar means, Pulitzer gained a new editorial writer, hiring George Eggleston from the New York Commercial Advertiser. The new hires quickly learned that Pulitzer intended to manage them as if he were in the office rather than simply the source of telegrams piled thick on their desks. \"Never fear of troubling me with any suggestion concerning either the welfare of the paper or your own,\" Pulitzer told Chambers. \"Nothing, looking to the elevation and improvement of the paper, is too small to mention.\"\n\nAlthough Pulitzer's editors and staff could run the World satisfactorily in his absence, they could hardly find room to do their work in the cramped Park Row building he continued to rent from Jay Gould. The World needed a new building. Pulitzer owned a lot on Park Row, but it was too small for an edifice like the one he had in mind. He wanted a symbol of his power and success, something that would loom physically over the other Park Row newspapers as his paper had towered over them in circulation.\n\nWhile Pulitzer was in California the previous year, French's Hotel, which sat on a Park Row block at the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge, had been put up for sale. Twenty-three years earlier, as an unemployed Civil War veteran, Pulitzer had been thrown out of the hotel's lobby because its guests objected to seeing tattered former soldiers milling about. Since then the hotel had fallen into financial trouble. Pulitzer seized the opportunity and with a $100,000 deposit agreed to pay $630,000 in cash for the site. The former derelict in the lobby now owned the place.\n\nThe architect George Brown Post, a student of Richard Morris Hunt, heard about Pulitzer's purchase and wrote to a friend at the World asking to be recommended to his boss. Post had just completed a design for a new Park Row building for the New York Times. \"It would be an interesting problem to construct two buildings in sight of each other for rival papers, and to make the buildings as different as the politics of the papers,\" he wrote to his friend. Pulitzer decided to hold a design competition. Post entered and won.\n\nFrom Paris, Pulitzer laid down his conditions. The building had to rise a full fourteen stories, making it the tallest on the globe. The cost could not exceed $950,000, and it had to be completed by October 1, 1890. If he succeeded, Post would receive a $50,000 commission and a $10,000 bonus. If he failed, he would repay $20,000 of the commission. Finally, all design elements had to be approved by Pulitzer before any contracts for the work were awarded. And, added Pulitzer, the final building had to be \"at least as good at the Times building which is now in the process of construction.\"\n\nOver the winter Post worked on the design. As the months passed, Pulitzer grew increasingly frustrated. It had been his intention to hire an architect as one hires a portraitist, for his artistry, his vision, and his interpretation. That is not what he got from Post. In March, the architect came to Paris to go over the plans with Pulitzer. The meeting was not a great success. \"In confidence of the strictest nature, I am bound to say that I am not encouraged to greater faith in our architect by this visit,\" Pulitzer wrote to Turner, his business manager in New York. \"He may be a great architect in carrying out other people's ideas, but he certainly is not, in this case, carrying out many of his own.\"\n\nMoney, of course, was also a point of contention between the two. Post was unable to remain within the budget. He persuaded Pulitzer to spend another $60,000, raising the maximum allowed above $1 million. \"I will not allow another cent,\" Pulitzer immediately informed Turner in New York. But since Pulitzer continued to insist that he be shown final drawings before any work was started at the site, the mandatory transatlantic consultations were bound to imperil the construction schedule and drive up the costs.\n\nPost returned to New York, and the two continued their struggle by mail.\n\nPulitzer still considered his exile from New York a temporary affair. \"I am glad to say that I am better in point of health, able to walk again,\" he wrote to Turner, his business manager. \"I don't know what's the matter with me generally except that my physical machinery is decidedly out of order and in need of repairs; but it is more a question of annoyance than serious danger I suppose\u2014Anyway, the doctors tell me (and, I have enough of them the Lord knows!) that the big vital parts of the machinery are all right except the eyes, and that I really think is improving though awfully slowly.\"\n\nAfter Post's visit, Pulitzer headed south to the Riviera and, feeling stronger, embarked on a planned trip to New York in late April with Ponsonby, leaving Kate and the children in Paris. Arriving in New York, he reviewed Post's plans, and the two were soon at loggerheads again. Although it was true that cheaper materials might not meet the requirements for a \"first class\" building, Post complained that Pulitzer's refusal to approve less expensive choices made it impossible to cut costs. When Post, in frustration, began to demand arbitration, Pulitzer backed down. The World's need for more space was desperate, and Pulitzer was finally willing to compromise.\n\nPulitzer took time to see his politically-minded friends. Cleveland had lost the election, though he had won the popular vote. President Benjamin Harrison had been in office for a couple of months, and Pulitzer, whose lukewarm support for Cleveland was partially responsible for this state of affairs, suffered graciously by accepting a dinner invitation from his good Republican friend the railroad lawyer Chauncey Depew. At Depew's mansion on Fifty-Fourth Street, Pulitzer sat for a meal with a group of enemies and friends including Theodore Roosevelt, angling for a post in the new administration; the Tribune's editor Whitelaw Reid, who had just been appointed ambassador to France; Pulitzer's own rival Charles Dana; the U.S. senator William Evarts, who had led the fund-raising efforts for the Statue of Liberty; and Ward McAllister.\n\nAn editor from a rival newspaper ran into Pulitzer during his stay in New York and was surprised at how well he looked. \"Physically, he seems to be in perfect health, and the only thing that mars his condition at all is the loss of one eye. I never saw him in better spirits, and his remaining eye seems to be strong, clear and exceedingly alert,\" he said.\n\nOn May 15, 1889, Pulitzer and Ponsonby departed from New York on the Eider for Bremen, Germany. Rather than rejoin Kate in Paris, Pulitzer went to Wiesbaden, also in Germany. This city had been attracting the sick and infirm since its thermal baths were first mentioned by Pliny the Elder. In the late nineteenth century it had become one of the leading destinations for those with ample means, including the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Pulitzer's favorite composer, Richard Wagner.\n\nPulitzer did his resolute best to ignore work. In a complete break with his usual practice, he instructed that no newspapers be sent to him. \"I want to experiment being without them for a fortnight,\" he wrote. He diligently undertook a regimen of drinking and bathing in the famous mineral and thermal waters in the mornings and taking long carriage rides in the afternoons. He stayed in the elegant Hotel DuRose and dined there in the open air near the city's main imperial building, listening to snatches of music drifting into the night air from the concerts indoors.\n\nAfter several days Pulitzer asked Ponsonby to send word to Kate in Paris that he was feeling better. His spirits were on the rise and he was hopeful that Wiesbaden's curative powers were having an effect. \"But remember again,\" Pulitzer dictated to his assistant, \"all my statements of improvement are comparative.\"\n\nPulitzer's better mood restrained his trigger-finger temper when he submitted to a well-known doctor's care. \"I have to wait sometimes in the hot anteroom with ten other people before I am received for my massage, which never takes more than one or two minutes and never gives me an opportunity to have a real talk, to which he seems opposed,\" Pulitzer told Kate.\n\n\"Well,\" he added, \"he is the first majesty who has made me bow down and dance attendance in the anteroom.\" The dictation concluded, Pulitzer took the letter from Ponsonby. Then in his own hand, he addressed it \"My Dearest\" and signed it \"sincere love, ever your devoted husband, JP in haste.\" There would be only a few remaining letters to which he could sign his name. But Pulitzer was optimistic. \"My spirit,\" Joseph told Kate, \"is beginning to improve and is again hopeful.\" Joseph and Kate spent the summer of 1889 together in St. Moritz, the Swiss alpine resort whose 300 days of sunshine each year made it a favorite among the wealthy.\n\nIn a decade, Pulitzer had gone from hiding his last savings of $300 in a trunk to earning more than that amount every hour. With money, the Pulitzers had slipped easily into the society of wealthy American expatriates in Europe. They moved about, from Paris to London to St. Moritz, with an entourage of personal servants and nannies. Kate attended weddings with royalty and wore diamonds said to have once belonged to Marie Antoinette. \"And Mrs. Pulitzer has the right to wear them,\" said one newspaper. \"Thirty years ago her husband was shoveling coal and driving drays, but his indomitable energy and active brain have placed him where he can afford to buy out half a dozen royal families.\"\n\nPulitzer also increased his philanthropy. In May, he anonymously established a scholarship to send twelve New York City high school students, particularly immigrant children, to college. \"My special object is to help the poor\u2014the rich can help themselves,\" he told the city's school superintendent. But Pulitzer did not want the money to simply increase the earning power of its recipients. \"College education is not needed for that,\" he said. \"There are nobler purposes in life, and my hope is not that these scholarships will make better butchers, bakers, brokers, and bank cashiers, but that they will help to make teachers, scholars, physicians, authors, journalists, judges, lawyers, and statesmen.\" On the other hand, his friend Chauncey Depew predicted that the recipients would end up still being paupers.\n\nIn the fall, the Pulitzers returned to Paris, where Joe and Edith, who had spent the summer in the care of Kate's mother and sister in New London, Connecticut, arrived for a short visit. The children found their father preoccupied with the new building for the World. Work had been under way for four months, and in October the cornerstone was scheduled to be laid in an elaborate ceremony. Pulitzer had already spent $630,000 for the land and was now paying out another $1 million for the construction. Not a dime was borrowed.\n\nNothing about the project escaped his attention. He examined sketches and descriptions of the sculptures being made for the exterior and lists of all interior furnishings. With his poor eyesight he could discern only the larger drawings, but details were described verbally by Ponsonby. \"I want to be sure that no false economy or niggardliness will mar the building inside,\" he wrote to Kate's brother William Davis, who increasingly acted as his emissary. Pulitzer wanted to know if anyone had seen the inside of the new Times building. \"You remember the Post contract requires it to be at least as good as that of the Times.\"\n\nOn October 10, 1889, onlookers jammed the north end of Park Row as crews prepared to lay the cornerstone of the new Pulitzer building. A platform for the ceremony stood at one corner of the construction site. The intersection in front was covered by a large canopy, under which invited dignitaries gathered, including many admiring colleagues such as George Childes of the Philadelphia Ledger and Charles Taylor of the Boston Globe. Noticeably absent was the publisher himself. Pulitzer remained at the baths in Wiesbaden.\n\nThe first to emerge from the canopy was Thomas Edison, whose electric dynamo, capable of lighting 8,500 incandescent bulbs, was being installed thirty-five feet under the sidewalk. Next, Governor David Hill made his way through the crowd, pausing to shake the hands of workers, some of whom he called by name. Soon the platform was filled with well-known politicians, businessmen, religious leaders, and publishers.\n\nAfter a blessing from the Missouri Episcopalian bishop, John Cockerill rose. \"I am authorized to pledge a faithful adherence to the principles which have won public confidence for this journal,\" he began, listing many of Pulitzer's principles. \"This shall be indeed a temple where the right shall always secure an advocate: where liberty abides, and where justice may find all seasons summer.\"\n\nChauncey Depew took the stage next, followed by Governor Hill and the aging Samuel Tilden, for whom Pulitzer had campaigned in 1876. They all heaped praise on the World and on Pulitzer's accomplishments. With the speeches at an end, Cockerill returned to the podium. He told the audience he had a cable from Pulitzer. The crowd quieted and Cockerill began to read from it. \"God grant that this structure be the enduring home of a newspaper forever unsatisfied with merely printing news, forever fighting forms of wrong, forever independent\u2014forever advancing in enlightenment and progress, forever wedded to truly democratic ideas, forever aspiring to be a moral force, forever rising to a higher plan of perfection as a public institution.\"\n\nFor several minutes Cockerill's voice carried the words of the absent Pulitzer over the construction site and the audience. When done, the crowd exploded into applause and redoubled its clapping when Cockerill announced that the text had been transcribed onto a parchment and would be placed in the cornerstone.\n\nThen the crowd's attention turned to a set of stairs leading up to a platform along a brick wall. In place of Pulitzer, four-year-old Joe, dressed in a sailor suit, began to scale the stairs. His legs were almost too short to reach the steps, but holding his uncle William Davis's hand, he made his way to the top. Once there, he grasped a silver trowel and, using both hands, smoothed the bed of cement that workers had spread on the wall. He backed away, and the cornerstone was moved into place. Little Joe came forward again, tapped the stone twice with his trowel, and declared, \"It is well done.\"\n\nInside the cornerstone was a copper box made especially for the event. In it, along with the parchment containing Pulitzer's remarks, the men had placed photographs, copies of newspapers, a directory of the World's employees, and a recording made on Edison's newest invention, the wax-cylinder voice recorder. It held the voices of three of the World's newspapermen discussing the news events of the year, such as the Johnstown flood and the successes of New York City's baseball club.\n\nMany of the nation's newspapers put news of the cornerstone-laying ceremony on their front pages. The New York Times did not\u2014it gave a short write-up on page two\u2014but it was one of the few papers that noticed Pulitzer's architectural revenge. \"The room of Mr. Charles A. Dana in the Sun building overlooks the foundations of the Pulitzer building,\" said the Times. \"This will not be the case, however, in a few months. Then, like a certain other eminent gentleman, he, too, will sit in the shade.\"\n\nBack again in Paris in November, at the house near Parc Monceau, Pulitzer may have regretted his decision to leave Wiesbaden. The house was in turmoil. Ralph and Lucille were being packed off to St. Moritz with tutors and nannies. Little Joseph, back from his trip to New York, Edith, and Constance were noisily playing. The Confederacy's daughter, Winnie Davis, had just arrived, and her ill health added to the convalescent atmosphere. Like Pulitzer, she suffered from vision problems and other hard-to-diagnose ailments. Doctors hoped a six months' stay on the Riviera and in German health resorts would help her. Further complicating matters was Winnie's secret engagement, after a five-year romance, to a Yankee, the disclosure of which was bound to set off a political storm.\n\nEvery day the sad group would sit down punctually for lunch at one o'clock and for dinner at seven-thirty. On some days, the World's new editorial writer George Eggleston, whom Joseph had brought over to Paris on an all-expenses-paid trip, would join them. Kate did her best to function under the circumstances. She took Winnie and ten-year-old Ralph to the Paris Opera. \"You should have seen the grandeur of that little fellow in his miniature beaver and dress suit!\" Winnie wrote to her father. \"He opened the box with an air, and altogether behaved like the fine little gentleman he is.\" But a few hours after she wrote the letter, her father died. Unable to withstand a sea voyage, Winnie remained with the Pulitzers.\n\nIt looked increasingly likely that Paris might become a long-term home for the family. Already, the two other publishers of major American newspapers were living there. Whitelaw Reid had arrived to begin his service as ambassador, and James Bennett was established in his home on the Champs-\u00c9lys\u00e9es. Kate began looking for a suitable house but had little luck. \"She has climbed up stairs, gone poking around stables to no purpose, however, as just as she thinks she has a house tight and fast away, it goes again,\" Winnie said.\n\nJoseph decided to get as far away as possible from the bedlam by planning a trip around the globe. Before losing his vision, he had never remained still. The thought of traveling now, however, made him aware of his growing infirmity and his dependence on others. He needed help to travel by train, stay in hotels, and simply get about. A ship, however, offered him a completely self-contained world on the move.\n\nHe sent detailed and complicated instructions to Davis in New York about which steamers would most effectively carry mail to him on his journey through India, China, and Japan. He also made it clear what he wanted to receive. \"You may judge from this simple rule. As many pleasant and agreeable reports as possible. No unnecessary questions for my decisions. Nothing disagreeable or annoying unless of REAL IMPORTANCE.\"\n\nHe complained that the \"regency\" he left in charge of the paper had failed and explained that \"you three gentlemen have ample power and discretion to settle any of the ordinary questions that may arise during my absence, and I do not want to have my trip spoilt by ordinary bothers, nor to pay a dollar or two per word for such things.\"\n\nIn her role as Florence Nightingale, Kate took Joseph and Winnie to Naples. They were soon joined by Winnie's American suitor, who arrived in the hope of convincing her that, with her father dead, the time had come to make their engagement public. Ponsonby and others busied themselves with the final arrangements for Joseph's world tour.\n\nThe planned journey would be a slow-paced imitation of another global circumnavigation under way at the time. The World's intrepid reporter Nellie Bly had left New York the month before, in an attempt to better the achievement of Jules Verne's fictional Phileas Fogg of Around the World in Eighty Days. Her undertaking, which would soon succeed, was generating immense publicity for the paper.\n\nIn early December, Pulitzer and Ponsonby, along with servants, boarded the Peninsular. In a short time, it crossed the Mediterranean, called at Port Said, then descended the Suez Canal and entered the Red Sea. The protected waters were immensely peaceful. In the hot climate, the men ate their meals often in the company of the financier Charles Fearing under punkahs, swaying ceiling fans of palm fronds or cloth pulled back and forth by a servant.\n\nJust before Christmas, the ship came into the Gulf of Aden. Under a bright electric light, Pulitzer undertook to write a letter to Kate in his own hand. \"Fearing and Ponsonby have written to you all about me,\" he said in the letter, which he wrote hurriedly so it could be posted from the port of Aden. \"As it suits their fancy to think I am much better or at least to say so be it so. I am certainly no worse than when I came on ship.\"\n\n\"He is certainly better,\" said Ponsonby in an accompanying letter, \"but he is inclined to take a despondent view of his health and pitches to Charles and myself when we try to cheer him up by making light of his complaints and that he has already improved.\"\n\nCrossing the Arabian Sea, the ship encountered even more intense heat. It was New Year's Day, and Pulitzer was miserable. He couldn't sleep or shake off the cough he had when he boarded the ship, and he was bothered by what he called his rheumatism. After several more sleepless nights he decided to give up the idea of traveling across India by land and remained aboard the ship, bound for Calcutta. \"Of course Fearing is terribly broken up but I am sure that the long RR journey and miserably noisy hotels throughout India would not have been good for me,\" he dictated in a letter to Kate. \"It was the dream of my boyhood to see India and now when I am actually here, I must give up my dream no matter how great the temptation.\"\n\nHis misery was intense. \"The year closed, with the one before, represent more suffering than all the rest of my life brought me\u2014ten times as much\u2014I honestly think fifty times as much. And the year which opens with this day\u2014I cannot finish the sentence.\" Alone, at sea, he poured out his fear that he would never again regain his health. \"Travel will not cure me\u2014no more than Metzger [his German doctor]. I am miserable, I cannot trust myself to write more whatever I feel, however, you are still the only being in this world who fills my heart and mind and hope and receives my love and tenderness and affections.\"\n\nUnder the new plan, the men would remain on the ship until Calcutta. There they would change to a series of other vessels that would eventually bring them to Hong Kong, Singapore, Shanghai, and Japan, and then across the Pacific to San Francisco. But it was not to be. Shortly after mailing his despondent letter to Kate, Pulitzer stood on the deck of the ship with Ponsonby. The bright Indian sun beat down on the two men as they looked out over the water. \"How dark it is getting,\" remarked Pulitzer.\n\nHis remaining functioning retina had become detached. The darkness had set in.\n\n## Chapter Twenty-One\n\n## DARKNESS\n\nAlthough he had plenty of newspaper experience, fifty-nine-year-old George W. Hosmer had never gotten an assignment quite like the one he drew in the summer of 1890. A doctor who never practiced medicine and an attorney who never practiced law, Hosmer had put in almost thirty years with Bennett's New York Herald before joining the World. None of this, however, prepared him for the task he faced. He was to accompany Kate Pulitzer to Europe and return with her nearly blind, bedridden husband.\n\nThat spring, the stacks of telegrams from Pulitzer that usually greeted editors at their desks ceased. For months the paper had drifted along, cautiously guided by Cockerill, Davis, and Turner. The few telegrams that did come provided little or no direction. \"Silence gives consent and when you do not hear from me assume that I am satisfied,\" Pulitzer wrote.\n\nEarlier in the year, when the retina in Pulitzer's remaining good eye detached while he was on board a ship bound for India, he and Ponsonby had returned to Europe, where doctors recommended more time in dark rooms. The two men drifted to Paris and eventually to St. Moritz. Pulitzer was entirely in Ponsonby's care, since Kate was no longer in Europe. She and the children had left for the United States shortly after the men had embarked on the ill-fated cruise. She did not rush back across the Atlantic. Kate had learned that the consequences of showing up uninvited could be severe.\n\nBut over the succeeding weeks discouraging reports reached Kate. Ponsonby telegraphed that Joseph had contracted acute bronchitis, a dangerous problem in the era before antibiotics, and was growing weak. Kate decided to launch a rescue mission, and departed with Hosmer in late July. By the time the two reached Joseph, he had been moved to a sanatorium in the Swiss city of Lucerne. They found him so weak that he was spending entire days on the sofa. \"He was very ill\u2014in a state so feeble that he could scarcely get around on foot,\" Hosmer said. \"Physical collapse had assumed the form of nervous prostration.\"\n\nFor two weeks, Hosmer and Kate tended him until he was well enough to travel. They went to Paris; after a few more weeks the group moved to a vacation house in Trouville, a summer resort in Normandy. \"In the pleasant atmosphere of the seaside,\" Hosmer said, \"a place which was very quiet\u2014for the gay world was already gone\u2014he recovered from bronchitis and to some degree from his great physical debility.\" Joseph regained sufficient strength to listen again to Ponsonby reading telegrams from New York. His new building neared completion, the fall elections loomed, and the Democrats seemed poised for a rebound.\n\nOn October 2, 1890, Kate, Hosmer, and Ponsonby escorted the recovering Joseph onto the Teutonic in Queenstown, England, and headed home. Wearing goggle-like dark-blue glasses, Joseph walked on American soil for the first time in eighteen months.\n\nJoseph settled into the familiar surroundings of the Fifty-Fifth Street house, which grew more luxurious with each passing month. The architect Stanford White was busily spending thousands of Pulitzer's dollars employing painters and wall paperers. Silk was hung on the walls in Kate's room, and a wine cellar was being planned. Joseph also acquainted himself with the unfamiliar. He had not spent any time with his daughter Constance since she was a few months old. Kate resumed her place in New York society, attending the opera and putting on dinners such as one for Varina Davis, who was in New York revising her late husband's memoirs.\n\nSoon Pulitzer's days were filled with meetings, with a steady stream of executives and editors making their way uptown. The men's appraisal of the coming congressional elections offered encouraging news. The electorate's faith in President Harrison had been shaken by another economic panic. Support for his Republican Party was also damaged by the profligate spending of the aptly nicknamed \"billion-dollar Congress,\" and by the passage of the McKinley Tariff Act, which increased the cost of goods but kept workers' wages stagnant.\n\nIn such circumstances the World would have normally opened a floodgate of editorial abuse of Republicans and praise for Democrats. But for the first time, Pulitzer sought to restrain his paper's partisan ardor. Its ferocity was not weakened, but the frequency of its attacks was diminished. \"Remember every day in the year that though politicians read the editorial page they are probably only 5 percent of our readers,\" Pulitzer told his main editorial writer. \"A larger portion of the remaining 95 percent not being interested in politics at all.\"\n\nAfter seven years of unequaled journalistic success and immense financial reward, the political fires burned less strongly in Pulitzer. Like its master, the World was also no longer a startling new phenomenon overturning the rule of establishment newspapers and shaking up the political order. Rather, it was now the undisputed monarch of Park Row, and its reign was made even clearer when the scaffolding was peeled away and New Yorkers had their first complete view of Pulitzer's new building. Like the newspaper itself, the scale, audacity, and ornamentation of George Post's creation were impossible to ignore. A monument to Pulitzer's brand of journalism, the edifice transformed the landscape of Park Row.\n\nTowering 345 feet above the sidewalk, the building had two miles of wrought-iron columns, sixteen miles of steel beams, enough iron and steel to lay twenty-nine miles of railway, and sufficient bricks to build 250 ordinary houses. It stood on a foundation thirty feet below street level, supported by twelve-foot brick footings. The cavernous basement held Hoe's newest and fastest presses, which when running at full tilt made their rhythmic beat felt throughout the building.\n\nThe gigantic high-speed presses were not mere workhorses. They were one of the technological marvels of the age, capable of churning out enough newspapers in a few hours to supply every New Yorker with a copy, and inspiring awe among the hundreds of visitors who came to watch each day. For members of the fourth estate the smell of ink was intoxicating. Few thrills compared with hearing the sound of the bell announcing the first turns of a press and the ensuing locomotive-like thumping cadence building to a deafening roar as the procession of cut, folded, and gathered pages poured forth with increasing speed. In the minds of reporters, the power of the press was both a figurative and a literal idea.\n\nTo enter the Pulitzer Building, one walked through a churchlike three-story vault made of Corsehill stone from Scotland, above which stood a quartet of bronze female torchbearers, representing art, literature, science, and invention. Fast-moving elevators ferried passengers up and down fifteen stories. The first ten floors, coupled vertically with tall, Palladian windows, and banded horizontally by a stone ledge, contained offices leased to insurance salesmen, stockbrokers, and lawyers. The remaining floors, stacked above this hive of commerce, were distinguished by concave corners and four sculptured black copper figures representing the four races\u2014Caucasian, Indian, Mongolian, Negro\u2014and standing as if supporting a large pediment.\n\nThe World itself began here, on the twelfth floor. A room with a ceiling eighteen feet high housed 210 compositors, who set the morning and evening editions entirely by hand. It was the largest operation of its kind anywhere and required thirty-two tons of lead. The men stood at forty long, raised tables with bins with lead type. Moving with lightning speed, the compositors pulled and dropped each letter of each word into composing sticks that were locked into a form the size of a newspaper page. On a raised platform at the center of the hall, thirty proofreaders worked reviewing printed samples of the composed stories and advertisements.\n\nAbove it all, positioned like a throne room, Pulitzer's editorial command post occupied a tower. The largest office, facing east on the second floor of the domed structure, was reserved for Pulitzer. With frescoed ceilings, walls wainscoted with leather, and three floor-to-ceiling windows, the room looked out over the city, the Statue of Liberty in the harbor, and the Watchung Mountains in New Jersey\u2014a privileged view lost on an almost blind publisher. Next door to Pulitzer's office three interconnected offices housed his staff of editorial writers.\n\nCapped with an 850,000-pound gilded dome, the four-story editorial enclave perched on top of the Pulitzer Building reached higher into the sky than even the Statue of Liberty's raised torch. When the sun struck the dome, it reflected a shimmering light that could be seen forty miles out at sea. The first sight of the New World for immigrants entering New York was not a building of commerce, banking, or industry. Rather, it was a temple of America's new mass media.\n\nKate and Hosmer persuaded Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, the nation's leading neurologist, to see Joseph. Mitchell's medical reputation stemmed from his work with soldiers in the Civil War who suffered injuries to their nerves. His book Injuries of Nerves and Their Consequence, based on his experiences, was the most widely used reference for physicians in the United States and Europe. He had also pioneered research examining the relationship between eyestrain and headaches. He seemed the perfect physician for Joseph.\n\nUnfortunately, Mitchell turned out to be yet another in a long series of disappointments. The \"Weir Mitchell treatment\" consisting of prolonged bed rest with optimum feeding and massages had been prescribed for Pulitzer so often that he was let down when the inventor himself prescribed it. On the other hand, hearing this advice from Mitchell was like reaching the end of a long road. If Mitchell could offer no other solution, there was no recourse.\n\nAs he struggled with his near-blindness, Pulitzer entered a kind of netherworld. He did not fit into the sighted world, but neither was he blind\u2014at least not yet. Although he clung to a hope that he could regain his vision, there was little doubt of his fate. To become blind during his era was like being sentenced to a dark internal exile. There were no blind politicians, business leaders, or generals. Helen Keller was still only eight years old. It was assumed that the loss of vision meant the end of a productive life. In fact, newspapers were filled with stories of men who could not face the prospect: \"DEATH PREFERRED TO TOTAL BLINDNESS\" \"PREFERRING DEATH TO BLINDNESS\" \"SHOOTS HIMSELF WHEN EYES FAIL.\" The Talmud, which Pulitzer had studied as a child, offered a somber interpretation: the blind were thought of as the living dead; and when encountering a blind person, believers were to offer the same benediction as was customary upon the death of a close relative.\n\nOn October 16, 1890, a startling announcement greeted readers of the World. \"Yielding to the advice of his physicians, Mr. Joseph Pulitzer has withdrawn entirely from the editorship of the World.\" Control of the newspaper would be turned over to an executive board comprised of editors who had long been in his service.\n\nNews of Pulitzer's abdication spread rapidly. From Bangor, Maine, to Chillicothe, Missouri, and Galveston, Texas, small-town editors who aspired to be the Pulitzers of their communities marked the moment. But it was a neighboring newspaper on Park Row that gave Pulitzer his most gratifying acknowledgment. As if a champion boxer had withdrawn from the ring, the competing New York Herald found words of praise. \"We droop our colors to him,\" said Bennett's editorial. \"We have not always agreed with the spirit which had made his ideas a journalistic success, and we cannot refrain from regretting that he did not encourage us in the new departure which he made, instead of merely astonishing us, frightening us, and, we may add\u2014now that it is past\u2014perhaps a little bit disgusting us.\"\n\n\"But,\" Bennett concluded, \"le Roi est mort, vive the Roi! The New York World is dead, long live the World!\"\n\nBarely two months later, on December 10, the tallest building on earth was ready for its grand opening. Its owner, however, was not. Pulitzer could not bring himself to attend a public event at which he would be led around like the invalid he was getting to be. It would be too humiliating. Instead, he and Kate, along with Hosmer and Ponsonby, reboarded the Teutonic, which sailed out of sight of the gold-domed Pulitzer Building only hours before thousands congregated for the ceremonies.\n\nOn Park Row, the power and prestige of the World were on display. Nine governors and three governors-elect, as well as countless mayors, congressmen, judges, editors, and publishers vied for a chance to have their words mark the occasion. The huge crowd pressed up against the entrance of the building. The sea of visitors inside was so thick that movement from room to room or floor to floor was almost impossible. Even the dignitaries could not get a ride in the F.T. Ellithorpe Improved Air-Cushion with Self-Closing Elevator Door lift.\n\nThe final price tag of the building topped $2 million, and not a cent had been borrowed. A PEOPLE'S PALACE WITHOUT A CENT OF DEBT OR MORTGAGE, proclaimed the World, which printed a copy of a certificate from the county recorder showing Pulitzer's unencumbered ownership. As a tribute to their publisher, the employees of the World commissioned and paid for a twenty-one-inch bas-relief of the building, made of silver melted from the coins of customers who bought copies of the paper.\n\nAfter reaching England on December 16, Pulitzer and his party made their way to Paris, where they remained until arrangements to charter a British yacht with crew for a Mediterranean cruise were concluded. In early January 1891, the group went south to Menton and boarded the 200-foot, two-year-old steamship Semiramis. At the last minute, Kate decided that she could not endure a long sea voyage and begged off.\n\nFor almost four months, Pulitzer and his companions lazily circled the Mediterranean. He adhered rigidly to Dr. Mitchell's instructions and avoided all irritation, even remaining out of touch with his editors. \"All those days on the yacht, conversation was an abundant resource to lighten the steps of time,\" said Hosmer. So were books. Ponsonby and Hosmer took turns reading aloud from George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss and William Thackeray's Vanity Fair, as well as works by the Victorian novelist Hall Caine.\n\nWhen the men left the yacht at Nice and returned to Paris, Pulitzer felt better but still suffered from anxiety and insomnia. Consulting with Dr. Mitchell, who was in Rome, Pulitzer complained that being separated from his staff and work was creating as much anxiety in him as any work-related woes had done in the past. The doctor was unconvinced and refused to alter his prescription of isolation and rest.\n\nPulitzer defied Mitchell. He began to catch up on the conduct of the paper in his absence. He was horrified by what he found. Cockerill had taken a twelve-week vacation. He and Turner were acting like owners, and worse, they had let the paper's circulation fall by 16 percent. Pulitzer fired off cables giving Turner, his loyal business manager, a pink slip and punishing Cockerill by ordering his return to St. Louis, an impossible mission considering the fatal episode that had driven him from that city. Turner immediately landed a job as editor of a rival paper. Cockerill went to his watering hole at the Astor House and in three hours rounded up enough investors to start his own newspaper.\n\nPulitzer's cure for the World was worse than the disease. Now his paper was devoid of leadership. He had no option but to return to New York.\n\nLeaving Kate in Paris, Joseph, Ponsonby, and Hosmer rushed to England and booked passage on the Majestic. J. P. Morgan was also on board. Despite their membership in the exclusive Jekyll Island club, as a frequent target of the World's acerbic editorials Morgan avoided socializing with Pulitzer. Arriving in New York ahead of schedule on the morning of June 10, the group went straight to Park Row, startling editors and reporters who had not expected Pulitzer this soon. The shock of Pulitzer's presence in the building accentuated the seriousness of the situation. His first visit to the building constructed to the glory of the paper was a rescue mission.\n\nBallard Smith, the paper's highest-ranking editor now that Cockerill was gone, had not yet come in for the day. Luckily, Davis, Pulitzer's brother-in-law and the only remaining member of the triumvirate that had ruled the paper, was on hand\u2014as was John Dillon, Pulitzer's former partner in St. Louis, who had been running the Post-Dispatch. He had rushed to New York after receiving a telegraphed plea from Pulitzer. While Hosmer tended to his boss's luggage, the men conferred, summoning other editors and managers.\n\nPulitzer's solution to the disarray at the top was to have Smith, who had come into the office at last, officially assume most of Cockerill's duties as editor in chief. Dillon would take over for Turner. For new blood, Pulitzer turned to George B. M. Harvey. Though only twenty-seven years old, Harvey had distinguished himself as a reporter for the World and then as editor of the New Jersey and Connecticut editions. Pulitzer made Harvey the managing editor, with a salary higher than he had ever earned, and promised Harvey that he would report only to him and would be exempt from most night work.\n\nWith the new structure established, Pulitzer left the World and took some time to look over his newest purchase, a $100,000 yacht that had once belonged to the duke of Sutherland. The vessel, rechristened Romola, after one of Pulitzer's favorite novels by George Eliot, was ready for his inspection at a Hudson River pier. The test cruise and dinner on board were a disaster.\n\nA heat wave blanketed New York City (the thermometer reached 97 degrees at Hudnut's Pharmacy downtown) and the inside of the yacht was like an oven. Frustrated, Pulitzer ordered the captain to sail to Europe without him. Instead, he secured rooms for the return voyage of the Majestic and, along with Hosmer and Ponsonby, said good-bye to New York after only seven days.\n\nA few weeks after Pulitzer's departure, William Randolph Hearst arrived in New York. In the four years since he had taken over his father's bankrupt daily, the San Francisco Examiner, Hearst had made a success of it, using all the techniques he had learned by carefully studying Pulitzer. But, just as his role model had felt running the Post-Dispatch in St. Louis, Hearst wanted a New York newspaper. \"Between you and me,\" he wrote to his mother during one of many stays in the east, \"I am getting so I do hate San Francisco.\"\n\nBecause of his father's death earlier in the year, Hearst anticipated having the capital to pursue his dream. To his shock, however, he discovered that he had inherited none of his father's vast fortune. Instead, it went entirely to his mother. If he wanted to buy another paper, he would need to persuade his mother to write the check. It would have to be a large one. In the seven years since Pulitzer had bought the World, buying a New York newspaper had grown costly.\n\nWhen Hearst reached New York in July, he sought out Cockerill, Pulitzer's former editor. Cockerill offered Hearst a chance to buy into his new Morning Advertiser, which sold for a penny on the streets. But Hearst didn't want to acquire a one-cent paper like Cockerill's, or even Albert Pulitzer's Morning Journal, which had continued to prosper in the shadow of the World. \"I think there is another way to get into New York perhaps even better than through Mr. Cockerill,\" Hearst wrote his mother, with whom he was now campaigning to buy a newspaper.\n\n\"I dined with Ballard Smith the other night and we talked newspapers till we were black in the face,\" he explained. Smith\u2014Pulitzer's managing editor\u2014told Hearst that he believed his boss was going to give him a share of ownership in the World. It was an unrealistic expectation. Although Pulitzer paid high salaries, gave huge bonuses, and lavished presents on his editors, he had yet to relinquish any portion of ownership in either newspaper. Nonetheless, Smith's story raised Hearst's hopes. Maybe, given Pulitzer's ill health, the World itself could be bought.\n\nPulitzer's emergency trip to New York had exacted a toll. The heat and his fretting over the paper's management had been toxic for everything that ailed him. \"There was a partial loss of even the little eyesight that he possessed,\" noted an anxious Hosmer. Kate met the returning party in England and they retreated to Paris together. Suffering from what doctors decided was asthma and still unable to sleep through the night, Joseph was packed off to Wiesbaden for another cure. Kate, once again, remained in Paris, attending social events and displaying, as at the British embassy ball, her famous necklace of seven rows of closely set diamonds.\n\nPonsonby and Hosmer stayed in Wiesbaden with their boss while he underwent a monotonous regimen of baths, massages, walks, and carriage rides. \"Many of these days were lightened by literature\u2014reading was the main resource to exclude the devil of worry,\" Hosmer said. In the company of Trollope and Scott, the three men whiled away the summer.\n\nIn the fall, when Pulitzer finally returned to New York, no unpleasant surprises awaited him. During this exile, he had kept up with the affairs of the World. The paper was healthy, and the council had proved itself capable of replacing Cockerill and Turner\u2014at least temporarily. When Pulitzer gathered his editors, the 1892 presidential election was on his mind. Governor David Hill of New York, elected and reelected in great part thanks to the World, was being touted as a candidate. But he was overshadowed by Grover Cleveland, who had decided to try to regain the White House and was currying favor with Pulitzer. The former president knew firsthand, having experienced Pulitzer's rejection in 1888, that it was better to run for office with the World on your side.\n\nPulitzer feared that the Democrats were growing weak in their resolve to support the gold standard, under which paper money could be redeemed for gold. Along with the Republicans, they had long held that giving paper money real value helped keep the economy stable. But in the House elections of 1890, the Democrats had watched members of the Populist Party win nine Congressional seats at their expense on a \"free silver\" platform, essentially proposing that the U.S. mint produce an unlimited amount of silver coins.\n\nAt first glance, monetary policy would seem to be an arcane subject unlikely to stir up the political cauldron. But monetary policy was widely and contentiously debated because the nation's economic life was regularly punctuated by severe depressions. Many citizens believed that the federal government controlled the value of money and that bad times were largely due to poor exercise of this power. A growing number of Americans became persuaded that the government ought to decrease the value of money to combat a deflation that was wreaking havoc in farm states. Falling prices struck farmers with a one-two punch by simultaneously reducing their income and driving up the costs of their mortgages.\n\nThe debate over free silver and the gold standard grew to be more than an economic argument. The banner of free silver united the nation's disaffected citizens, farmers, and some elements of labor. They saw silver as the salvation for all the ills they faced and considered the gold standard to be an exploitive tool of banks. It was a prairie fire that soon alarmed the eastern establishment.\n\nPulitzer shared most goals of the populists and progressives, but he could not bring himself to advocate abandoning the gold standard. Earlier in his life, he had run the Post-Dispatch on a shoestring, and as the owner of the World had been in debt to one of the most notorious barons of the Gilded Age; but now he was among the fifty richest Americans. In the last couple of years, the annual profit from the World alone had exceeded $1 million. To oversee his money, Pulitzer had engaged Dumont Clarke, a fifty-year-old investment manager who descended from a line of six bank presidents. Unlike the ever-changing guard at the paper, Clarke won Pulitzer's lasting trust by protecting his growing wealth with railroad stocks, one of the few investment options available then aside from bonds. If industrialists and financiers considered the gold standard as the bulwark protecting their fortunes, Pulitzer now had a fortune of his own to safeguard.\n\nUnlike many of the elite, however, Pulitzer was not merely defending wealth. His dread of free silver was entwined with his long-held fear of demagoguery. Even before he was operating his first newspaper or writing his first editorials, Pulitzer had worried that democracy was a breeding ground for ambitious politicians willing to tap popular desires and prejudices to gain power. This was the lesson of Germany under Chancellor Otto van Bismarck\u2014a lesson that Pulitzer had shared in a series of articles on European politics he wrote for Dana's Sun a decade before. Nothing in the ensuing years, including his time in elected office, had diminished this fear. \"I am a radical myself, progressive, liberal to the core,\" he told one of his editorial writers years later. \"But I do not want to be thrown over by a lot of demagogues, nincompoops, and shallow shouters.\"\n\nAs 1891 closed, Pulitzer's near-blindness, compounded by insomnia, asthma, indigestion, and various vague bodily aches, increased his sense that his working life was at an end. \"It seemed as if he might be compelled, as he feared, to give up altogether,\" noted Hosmer. \"He wanted to devote a few months to putting things in good shape out of regard to those that were to follow.\"\n\nAgain, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell was brought in. Since Pulitzer had disobeyed most of his instructions, Mitchell was not in a charitable mood. \"I want to say to you for the hundredth time what I think in regard to your present condition,\" Mitchell told Pulitzer. \"I want to say that your present course must inevitably result in the total destruction of what remains of your eyesight; also that it is quite impossible for you to carry on your paper under present condition without total sacrifice of your general health.\" Mitchell even enlisted Pulitzer's friend George Childs, the Philadelphia publisher. \"He agrees with me,\" Mitchell said, \"in thinking that the course in which you are engaged is one of physical and moral disaster.\"\n\nPulitzer selected a middle course. He would monitor the World, but at a distance. He spent Christmas with his family in New York, and then he, Kate, the children, and their bevy of maids, governesses, as well as valets, headed south to Jekyll Island, stopping in Washington to stay with Kate's mother. While they were in the capital, Joseph continued to mull over his choice for president. Governor Hill had been elected to the Senate, and Pulitzer was still torn between supporting his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 or resuming his off-and-on alliance with Cleveland.\n\nOne of the men in the World's Washington bureau acted as a go-between. Pulitzer offered Hill the World's support if Hill would appoint him American minister to France, a post that Pulitzer's friend the newspaper publisher Whitelaw Reid was soon to vacate. Pulitzer had watched Reid up close during his own extended stays in Paris, and this seemed like the ideal arrangement for his plan of running the World by long distance.\n\nHill declined the deal. Unbeknownst to Pulitzer, Hill had already decided to throw in his lot with Dana's Sun. He knew he would have to choose one paper over the other, and he felt the Sun was closer to his wing of the party. By default, Cleveland was once again in the World's good graces.\n\nIn February, the Pulitzers reached Brunswick, Georgia, their last stop before taking a steamer across a narrow strait to the Jekyll Island club. The townspeople of Brunswick were still not used to the parade of millionaires descending from private railcars in their hamlet to reach this new private island enclave. But the city did have a new hotel, where the Pulitzers stayed while awaiting transit to the island and to which they sometimes returned for dinner. When Kate made her appearance one evening, several weeks later, she caught everyone's attention. \"Mrs. Pulitzer is a very handsome brunette, medium height and beautifully formed,\" wrote a smitten observer. \"On her hand she wore two large magnificent diamond rings, while her neck was adorned with a lovely pearl necklace. Her beauty and jewels were the cause of much favorable comment among the guests.\"\n\nIt was Pulitzer's first visit to Jekyll since he had invested in the retreat six years earlier. Unwanted livestock had been chased from the island and replaced with game for hunting. Roads for carriage rides had been built, bridle paths cleared, and docks built. An elegant clubhouse stood ready to receive members. \"From a distance,\" wrote one reporter, \"it looks like some English castle with its square-shaped windows and its lofty tower.\" For Pulitzer it was an ideal refuge. He spent his days in repose, taking walks, being read to, dictating memos to his staff of editorial writers, and adjusting to his sightless life.\n\nBy June 1892, Pulitzer had alighted in Paris. Like that of a migratory bird, his path was developing regularity. But while he enjoyed his luxurious Parisian summer, workers at the Homestead Mill in western Pennsylvania were locked in battle with Henry Clay Frick, who managed Andrew Carnegie's steelworks. Frick decided to cease recognizing the union, give up bargaining, and lock the workers out of the plant. The men blocked access to the mills, with the help of the nearly 12,000 residents of Homestead. Frick vowed to reopen the plant with nonunion workers.\n\nTo get his way, Frick sent for 300 guards from the Pinkerton company, a famous detective agency that had become a source of mercenaries to fight organized labor. The standoff grew into an electrifying news story. At the World, Ballard Smith dispatched his best men to Pennsylvania to report on what the paper called \"the iron king's war.\" At length, the World exposed how despite the increasing profitability of the mills, protected by the McKinley Tariff Act, falling wages had driven workers into destitution.\n\nMerrill used the editorial page to support the strikers and linked their suffering to the McKinley Act. \"The only beneficiary of the tariff is the capitalist, Carnegie, who lives in a baronial castle in Scotland, his native land.\" After six years of writing editorials for Pulitzer, Merrill undoubtedly felt that his words would have been those of his absent boss. So did Walt McDougall, who lampooned Carnegie in his cartoons.\n\nTheir assumption made sense. Since coming to New York, Pulitzer had expanded his advocacy of labor from the modest support he had offered in St. Louis, where he catered to a more middle-class professional readership. Under Pulitzer, the World had exposed sweatshops and supported efforts to limit working hours, protect women and children from abuse in the workplace, and increase the number of schools for laborers' children. In one pro-labor campaign, Pulitzer had come to verbal blows with his antagonist Theodore Roosevelt, who was then a state legislator. Roosevelt had described a bill reducing the working hours for car drivers as communistic. \"If it be Communism, nice, dainty, cultured Mr. Roosevelt to say to these favored corporations, 'Twelve hours shall be a legal day's work,'\" Pulitzer wrote, \"pray what is when the corporations say to their employees, 'You shall slave for sixteen hours a day or starve.'\"\n\nIn St. Louis, his own workers remained mostly nonunion, but Pulitzer recognized the unions in his New York shop and supported workers in several major strikes, even raising money from his readers for a strike fund. He had also rallied to the side of striking workers at the Missouri Pacific Railroad. \"This is the case in a nutshell,\" he wrote. \"Dividends paid on watered stock which was done to add to the hoards of millionaires who are sailing in their floating palaces among the soft breezes of the Antilles. Wages cut down to a miserable pittance of $1 to $1.18 a day, out of which the workman on the Western roads, if a married man, must feed and clothe a family.\"\n\nIt was no wonder that Merrill felt comfortable bringing the World to the side of the striking Homestead workers as the conflict continued to escalate. The Pinkerton guards arrived by boat, and they and the strikers engaged in a pitched battle that resulted in deaths on both sides. But the strikers prevailed, and they paraded the captured guards through town like prisoners of war. Frick called on the governor, who sent in 8,000 state militiamen, placed the town under martial law, and reclaimed the mill for the company. The message to labor was clear. When and if workers gained the upper hand, American industry could call upon the power of the state. Merrill was outraged, calling the use of the troops \"obnoxious\" and \"inexcusable.\"\n\nPulitzer\u2014who now traveled in floating palaces himself, vacationed with the barons of capitalism at Jekyll Island, and lived like royalty in Paris\u2014learned about the battle of Homestead from French newspapers. He immediately told Ponsonby to cable to New York and obtain a full report on the conduct of the World. When he learned that the paper had sided with the workers, he was furious. He cabled Merrill, rebuking him and accusing him of sensationalism and of having disregarded law and order. \"There is but one thing for the locked-out men to do. They must submit to the law,\" Pulitzer said. \"They must not resist the authority of the State. They must not make war upon the community.\"\n\nThe Pulitzer who had built up the Post-Dispatch and the World as voices for the disinherited was gone. The bitter darkness into which he had fallen and the cocoon of wealth that surrounded him had destroyed Pulitzer's empathy. When it came to supporting reform and political and social change, property was now the trump card in Pulitzer's deck.\n\nAngry about his paper's conduct, complaining about all his ailments, and dispirited, Pulitzer found no solace in Paris. He returned to Wiesbaden to see Dr. Hermann Pagenstecher, one of the many doctors with whom he had consulted when the decline in his vision began. Pagenstecher ran the largest eye hospital in Germany and treated famous patients from all over the world. He examined Pulitzer in his private clinic, a large white house with purple-blossomed creepers clinging to its columns and running along its windowsills. Peering into Pulitzer's eyes, he dictated his observations to his assistant, who dutifully recorded them. The doctor offered encouraging words to his patient even though he knew that the prognosis was bleak.\n\nPagenstecher was more honest with Kate. \"As regards to Mr. Pulitzer,\" he wrote to her, \"I should not advise to tell him the real character of the disease of the left eye because it would take away every hope from him and would have a great and unfavorable impression on his total nervous system.\"\n\nPulitzer rejoined his family in Baden-Baden, another town known for its baths, located in the western foothills of the Black Forest. The reunion was grim. The daughter of an old friend who joined them wrote to her parents that Joseph was \"so melancholy of late that they did not know what to do.\"\n\nWith the coming of fall, Pulitzer returned to Paris. Dissatisfied with the conduct of the World, he set off, by telegram, yet another round of editorial and management changes back in New York. Ballard Smith figured he had been given his walking papers when he learned of a farewell dinner at Delmonico's. \"Grateful memories for loyal services,\" wired Pulitzer, \"sorry for parting and confident hopes for happy career.\"\n\nAs Pulitzer, from a distance, played musical chairs with his editors, the World lumbered on. It survived the managerial gyrations because it held an unchallenged position in New York. That luxury, however, would not last any more than calm waters on the ocean that Pulitzer continually crossed.\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Two\n\n## CAGED EAGLE\n\nIt took the tenth-anniversary celebration of his ownership of the World to bring Pulitzer back to New York from Europe in May 1893, after an absence of more than a year. This was a sea change from the man who years before\u2014when attacking the rich was his stock in trade\u2014had asked his readers, \"Why do Millionaires go to Europe to spend so much money? What has Europe to offer that America has not?\"\n\nThe Majestic, one of White Star's luxurious steamships, took Pulitzer across the Atlantic in a stateroom that had been specially altered for him so as to diminish sounds from the hallways and decks. Sailing on his yacht, Romola, was out of the question. He had put it up for sale after spending one sleepless night aboard it, off the coast of Italy.\n\nAnother publisher in exile, the New York Herald's James Gordon Bennett, was also on board. Bennett admired Pulitzer but also he begrudged him the World's success, which had reduced the Herald's circulation to below 100,000. Almost as if Bennett didn't want his employees to be reminded of Pulitzer's dominance of Park Row, he was on his way to New York to supervise the building of new headquarters far uptown, on a triangular block at Thirty-Fifth Street, where Broadway and Sixth Avenue intersected.\n\nThe building made no attempt to rival Pulitzer's stab at the sky. Rather, it was only two stories high. But in keeping with Bennett's European tastes, it was an opulent design conceived by Stanford White to look like a Veronese palazzo. Unlike Pulitzer, Bennett had leased the land on which he was building. \"I could not sleep nights if I thought another owned the ground upon which my building stood,\" Pulitzer told Bennett in Paris. \"I shall not be here to worry about it,\" the fifty-two-year-old Bennett replied.\n\nThe publishers disembarked in New York early in the morning of May 10 and went their separate ways. Awaiting Pulitzer was a 100-page tenth-anniversary edition of the World that had been published on Sunday and had sold 400,000 copies. That evening, Pulitzer took twenty of his top editors and managers to dinner at Delmonico's. Bradford Merrill, his editorialist, was seated to his right and Solomon Carvalho, who managed the money, to his left. His old partner John Dillon and his young managing editor George Harvey raised a continual series of toasts late into the night.\n\nDespite the good cheer, Harvey was having second thoughts about working for Pulitzer. A promise from Pulitzer that he would be relieved of night work had not been kept. Harvey had slept most nights at the Pulitzer Building, in the bedroom off the city room. He had little choice. He worked for a boss who insisted that he spend six hours a day reading the papers and two hours a day reading books, while at the same time overseeing the work of the largest newspaper staff on earth.\n\nPulitzer, for his part, had lost interest in Harvey. He had marked another member of his staff for personal grooming. That spring, David Graham Phillips, a six-foot-three Hoosier-born graduate of Princeton University who turned the heads of the women in the stenographers' pool, had joined the World after three years with Dana's Sun. He was as ambitious in character as he was striking in physique. Upon arriving in New York, in search of a reporting job, he had written to his father, \"Here I am in this great city, and no man, woman or child cares whether I am dead or alive, but I will make them care before I am done with them.\"\n\nPhillips received an invitation to dine at Pulitzer's house\u2014a considerable honor since the publisher was in New York for only seventy-two hours, and many of the World's staffers wanted time with him. After the meal, the two men retired to the drawing room to discuss politics, poetry, and philosophy. The sartorially splendid Phillips lived up to his advance billing as a charming conversationalist. Pulitzer invited him on the spot to return to Europe with him and become the World's correspondent in London.\n\nWithin forty-eight hours, Phillips had packed, put his affairs in order, and caught up with Hosmer, Ponsonby, and Pulitzer on a ship bound for England. His presence greatly enlivened Pulitzer's traveling party. While Ponsonby and Hosmer tended to the publisher's many needs, Phillips provided the kind of lively intellectual conversation that Pulitzer cherished. More important, Pulitzer saw in Phillips a potential journalistic heir apparent. It seemed unlikely to him that his asthmatic eldest son would ever be able to take over the reins of the paper. Convinced that any one of his maladies could end his own life, Pulitzer worried that the World would die with him.\n\nPulitzer was so completely taken with Phillips that, in a moment of weakness, he consented to give his young traveling companion something he had thus far denied to all his correspondents at the World. He would permit Phillips to publish the London dispatches with a byline.\n\nBy June, Pulitzer was already back again. He now had two U.S. homes that provided privacy away from New York. He was eager to spend time at his newest one, a beautiful estate that he had leased. It was named Chatwold, and it overlooked the ocean in Bar Harbor, Maine. Despite the distance from New York, this small community was drawing the likes of the Vanderbilts, eclipsing Lenox, Massachusetts, and rivaling Newport, Rhode Island, as a summer haven for the wealthy.\n\nGeographically nearer to the World and closer to its day-to-day operations than he had been in more than a year, Pulitzer couldn't resist meddling with its management. Whereas he left the Post-Dispatch entirely to itself, he could not keep his hands off the World. Actually, at this moment, the paper needed help. Its affairs were in disarray and two of its top managers weren't speaking to each other, communicating only by memo. Pulitzer slashed the salary and powers of one of the two; but, unsurprisingly, that did little to restore harmony.\n\nThe problem was larger than an office squabble. Since Pulitzer had sent Cockerill packing, he had never found an editor who was Cockerill's equal. George Harvey worked himself into exhaustion and pneumonia trying to be the next Cockerill, to no avail. The only person who ever met Pulitzer's expectations was Pulitzer himself.\n\nHe believed the solution to his troubles was a brash editor working for a competitor in St. Louis. Pulitzer knew that Colonel Charles H. Jones, who had replaced William Hyde at the Missouri Republican, had boosted the paper's circulation with an aggressive style of journalism not seen in St. Louis since Pulitzer had left a decade ago. Aside from his undesirable sympathy for the populist free-silver movement, Jones seemed to possess the determination and drive Pulitzer wanted at the helm of the World. He sent Jones an invitation to Chatwold, and the editor came and stayed for a week.\n\nNo one on the staff in New York knew anything about Pulitzer's intentions until one day in July when Jones walked into the Pulitzer Building and presented himself to Carvalho and Don Carlos Seitz, a rising business manager. The well-dressed man with oversize sideburns and a portentous manner handed them a blue envelope of the kind that usually held Pulitzer's correspondence. When Carvalho and Seitz opened it, they were incredulous. Jones was to have complete dominion over the paper.\n\n\"The astonishment of the shop was not at the colonel,\" Seitz said, \"but at the wide scope seemingly given a man with no knowledge of the field, and Mr. Pulitzer's disregard of those who had done much to hold the paper together successfully.\" Carvalho, in particular, was bewildered. Until this moment he had considered himself Pulitzer's top lieutenant. He learned, as Cockerill and Turner had before him, that while Pulitzer's personal loyalty ran deep, it counted for little in his business affairs.\n\n\"It was soon manifest that the new man would not do,\" Seitz said. The disempowered Carvalho wanted to leave but did not want to go to a lesser paper than the World, which still had no equal in New York. Harvey, who had recovered from his pneumonia, went to Bar Harbor and submitted his resignation. Pulitzer was puzzled. He could not understand why anyone would want to leave the World. \"It seems to me strange, indeed, considering all that I have tried to do, that you should not be on the paper; and most strange that you should have no feelings of regret at the termination of relations, which to me at least, were extremely sympathetic and interesting,\" he wrote to Harvey.\n\nAmid the managerial confusion under the dome in New York, Pulitzer's promise that Phillips's articles would carry a byline had not been kept. The London correspondent was annoyed that his hard work, including a major scoop in which he had beaten British newspapers, was unnoticed. Without a byline, he complained to Pulitzer, a correspondent's work is lost in the pages of varied and confusing foreign items. \"He may have had an excellent reputation as a newspaper man before he left New York but he is soon forgotten.\"\n\nPulitzer was unconvinced. He sent Phillips a polite note suggesting that his work might not yet be up to a standard that merited a byline. \"The management of the Sun and the Herald have formed a rather more favorable opinion,\" Phillips snapped back. \"And you will permit me the hope that perhaps you would have shared that better opinion had you had the time to spare to read it.\" Phillips then grabbed another sheet of paper, wrote out his resignation, and posted it to Jones in New York.\n\nPhillips consented to remain in London until his replacement arrived. Ballard Smith, who thought he was no longer working for the World and was idly vacationing, suddenly received orders from Pulitzer to head for London as the World's new correspondent. \"Well, I suppose it's the same old story,\" said Smith to Phillips upon disembarking.\n\n\"What story?\" asked Phillips\n\n\"Bad faith and broken promises.\"\n\nBut when he returned to the United States, Phillips accepted Pulitzer's offer to stay on the World. This proved a wise decision on his part. In New York, he won his long-sought byline and gained considerable attention for his work, as well as praise from Pulitzer. He also gathered material for a novel that he was writing at night. The World, and especially Pulitzer, provided an abundance of raw material.\n\nLeaving the paper under Jones's shaky rule, Pulitzer returned to Europe. His travels had become a permanent feature of his life. He could easily afford the best accommodations. He was now listed as the twenty-fourth-richest American alive. But hotels, even the best, no longer sufficed. His sensitivity to noise had grown so severe that his wrath would descend on any staffer who made the mistake of taking lodging on a cobblestone street. \"The entourage came at times to be skeptical about Mr. Pulitzer's sensitiveness to noise but rarely dared to experiment,\" Seitz said. \"This desire for silence became almost a mania.\"\n\nBecause blind people depend more on their other senses, they tend to listen with greater discrimination. But, contrary to common belief, they do not necessarily develop more acute hearing to compensate for their infirmity, with the possible exception of those who go blind at a very young age. The source of Pulitzer's acousticophobia, and his later sensitivity to odors, was a symptom of a much larger problem. He was so beset with anxiety that it was taking a physical toll.\n\nPulitzer suffered from what later experts would call hyperesthesia, which in his case, was brought on by generalized anxiety disorder, a psychological condition in which a person is haunted by long-lasting anxieties that are not focused on any particular thing. This was a genuine distress for Pulitzer, not hypochondriacal. No one knows the cause. Some people believe it relates to naturally occurring chemicals in the brain; others think it may stem from life situations; and yet others subscribe to a theory that an event in combination with certain natural and environmental conditions may trigger the disorder. In Pulitzer's case it was likely that the trauma of becoming blind brought on the extreme anxieties and accompanying phobias. In fact, his symptoms manifested themselves only after he began to lose his vision. His condition, in any case, complicated the search for suitable accommodations when he was traveling. \"Three or four rooms will never do,\" Pulitzer said. \"I must have all the rooms above me or below me vacant, and as I usually have three to four gentlemen with me, a house with a dozen rooms would be more desirable.\" He needed a full-time advance man.\n\n\"It is all very well to think about paying a salary to a man who will find a quiet hotel or rooms,\" one Pulitzer man wrote to another, \"but no-one who is not intimately acquainted personally with Mr. Pulitzer's wants could not possibly set out on such an expedition with the slightest hope of success.\" In the end, the man best suited for the job was close by. John Dillon's personal assistant turned out to be perfect. About thirty, and educated at Phillips Exeter and Harvard, George H. Ledlie possessed all the skills, social training, and taste to be the scent hound for the wandering Pulitzer party. He began what would be a decades-long search for the Holy Grail\u2014a place where his boss could find rest and repose.\n\nAs if his own health weren't enough of a distraction, Pulitzer also fretted about that of his children. In particular, Ralph remained a constant worry. Ever since he was a baby, his asthma had been a source of concern. Like father, like son\u2014Ralph also developed other woes. Pulitzer sent the boy off to Birmingham General Hospital in England for a complete examination. The British doctors reported that Ralph, who was then fourteen, had a weak lung and was prone to tuberculosis. They prescribed rest at high altitude, and Ralph was promptly sent off to St. Moritz.\n\nThe older Pulitzer children, accustomed to long stretches of separation, began corresponding with each other, creating a family among themselves in the absence of their parents. Ralph, alone in St. Moritz, wrote to Lucille, who was a year younger. He described one of the rare joys in his solitary life in the Swiss Alps. He had been allowed to begin studying Greek and abandon his pursuit of Latin, which he hated. \"I never imagined a language capable of such filthy, beastly rules and contradictions,\" he told Lucille. \"If it is really a dead language, it must be baking freely in purgatory for its sins in the way of murder of youths.\"\n\nAll winter Joseph drifted around Europe. He visited Ralph in St. Moritz and told Kate that he had found the boy much improved. \"The outdoor and sporting life of St. Moritz had done that.\" But he kept from Kate that he was sending Hosmer all the way to Colorado to look for another place for Ralph. Joseph's mood was turning sour again. It corresponded \"with the dark cloudy raining dismal weather outside,\" he wrote to Kate from Pf\u00e4fers-Bad in Ragatz.\n\nIn New York, the World continued to suffer under Jones's incompetent rule. Not only were long-serving editors chafing under him, but he was sacrilegiously seeking to use the paper to support free silver, in contradiction to Pulitzer's well-established opposition. Distracted by his own problems, Pulitzer did nothing. Only when his friend Chauncey Depew was ill-treated in the paper did he interfere. \"I have knocked the perpetrators down with a little cable club,\" Pulitzer wrote to Depew, \"and hope there will be no further lunacies in this line.\"\n\nBut there were to be others.\n\nJones's ineptitude at the World had consequences beyond the bruised feelings of some staffers. He had begun ruining the editorial page, Pulitzer's prized domain, with incoherent and, worse, populist screeds on the financial panic of 1893. Pulitzer's mistake in selecting Jones grew into a public embarrassment noted as far away as Atlanta. \"The World was published before Mr. Pulitzer lifted Jones out of the hole into which the St. Louis Republic dropped him,\" said the Atlanta Constitution. \"It was not only published, but had an editorial page\u2014and a much better one than Jones has been able to give it.... Soon there will be nothing left of the World's editorial page but an effulgent circulation statement and Jones's whiskers.\"\n\nWith the problem of Jones weighing heavily on his mind, Pulitzer returned to New York at the beginning of the summer in 1894 in the company of Arthur Brisbane, the son of a wealthy, noted reformer, socialist, and advocate of communal living. The younger Brisbane had turned to newspaper work when he was eighteen, landing a job on Dana's Sun. In 1890, at the age of twenty-six, he came to work at the World. Erudite and accomplished\u2014he had already been a London correspondent\u2014Brisbane possessed maturity and sophistication beyond his years. As he had done with other men of promise, Pulitzer sought to personally groom Brisbane and had brought him to Europe for the past winter.\n\nUnlike the coterie of pliant secretaries who surrounded Pulitzer, Brisbane stood up to him and even teased him. Staying with Pulitzer in Paris, Brisbane had persuaded him to remove the mattresses that blocked the bedroom window, to take longer drives, to resume horseback riding, and to alter some of his eating habits. The two rode horses, read, and played chess and\u2014sometimes for money\u2014cards. Pulitzer had little interest in gambling, but he enjoyed cards and the accompanying conversation. Because of his almost complete lack of sight, the men played with specially designed cards twice the size of those in an ordinary deck. One time, this gave Brisbane an opportunity to get a leg up on his boss. Pulitzer required that many lamps be placed behind him so that he could make out the cards, and Brisbane found that he could see through the cards in Pulitzer's hand. He then pretended that he had discerned the strength of Pulitzer's hand through the tone of his voice, completely confounding him.\n\nUpon arriving in New York, Brisbane returned to the paper, and Pulitzer immediately repaired to Chatwold, which he had recently purchased after renting it for two years. Kate and the children arrived soon afterward. The family remained in Bar Harbor until early fall. It was an election year, so a continuous stream of editors came to confer with Pulitzer, and politicians arrived in hopes of having his blessings conferred upon them.\n\nSenator David Hill of New York, who had been nominated to run for governor again, wanted the World's backing despite having allied himself with Dana's Sun in the presidential contest two years earlier. He summoned George McClellan, who was the son of the controversial General Brinton McClellan and who would later become mayor of New York. \"George, I want you to take the first train to Bar Harbor,\" said Hill. \"When you get there, see Pulitzer and tell him that if he will agree to support me, I will agree to remove Brockway as soon as I am inaugurated.\" The prize Hill was offering, Zebulon Reed Brockway, managed the state reformatory in Elmira and was the target of an investigation by the World for alleged abuse of the inmates.\n\nThe following morning McClellan presented himself at Chatwold. He told Ponsonby he had come with a message from Senator Hill. A few minutes elapsed and Pulitzer entered the room, leaning on Ponsonby's arm. Though McClellan had once worked at the World, this was the first time he had ever seen Pulitzer. \"In appearance he was very like the newspaper caricatures of him,\" he thought.\n\nPulitzer asked Ponsonby to get some cigars and cursed him when he returned with the wrong ones\u2014a treatment which Ponsonby had become used to. At last, McClellan was given a chance to deliver Hill's message as instructed. Even if he lost the election, McClellan continued, Hill would make sure the new governor would carry out his pledge to fire Brockway.\n\n\"I am surprised that Hill should make me such a proposition,\" said Pulitzer. \"He knows that I am not for sale, nor is the World for sale.\" McClellan protested that Hill had nothing like that in mind. Rather, it was only suggested as a \"friendly little arrangement.\" Pulitzer admitted he was eager to be rid of Brockway and conceded that he had always liked Hill. \"You can tell him that I never make a political bargain. At the same time, if he agrees that Brockway shall go, I agree to support the Democratic ticket,\" said Pulitzer, adding with a grin, \"Understand this is not a bargain, just a friendly little arrangement.\"\n\nAuspiciously, that summer, a horse named Pulitzer was paying off handsomely at racetracks in New York. But in the 1894 political races, the publisher Pulitzer was not as fortunate. Another financial downturn spurring foreclosures, the embarrassment of begging New York bankers for loans to maintain the government's gold reserves, and the growing free-silver movement sapped the Democrats' strength. In November, the Democratic Party went down to defeat nationally as well as in New York, despite the World's efforts. Brockway kept his job.\n\nAs the weather turned cold in Maine, the Pulitzers decamped and moved into a mansion on Bellevue Avenue in Newport, Rhode Island, for a month, before returning to New York City.\n\nThe election over, Pulitzer finally turned to the problem of Jones at the paper. It would not be easy to fix. Normally, Pulitzer moved his editors around like pieces on a chessboard and considered them as expendable as pawns. But in his desperate quest for managerial peace, he had foolishly given Jones an ironclad contract specifying both his remuneration and his powers. The cure had proved worse than the ailment.\n\nOn his return, Pulitzer met with Jones at the house on Fifty-Fifth Street. Jones may have been ill-suited to run the World, but he was no fool. He knew he had the upper hand. He told Pulitzer he would quit the paper on two conditions: he must be given absolute control of the Post-Dispatch, and must be allowed to purchase a majority stake in it. Seeing no other way to be rid of Jones in New York, Pulitzer agreed and ordered that a contract be drawn up and sent to Jekyll Island, where he was heading. Fourteen servants worked feverishly to ready a two-story stone \"cottage\" on Jekyll Island. In an act of kindness, Kate consented to accompany him despite her dislike of the island's isolation, heat, and sand flies. By New Year's Day 1895, the couple, several of their children, and a carload of guns, fishing rods, and traps reached the island.\n\nJones's contract followed Pulitzer to Jekyll Island. The first draft was absurd. Under its terms, Pulitzer would pay for Jones's shares of the Post-Dispatch. Pulitzer was desperate but not mad. For several weeks, the contract traveled back and forth between Jekyll Island and New York until it was finally agreed that Jones would be president, editor, and manager and could own as much stock as he could afford. With a signed contract in his pocket, Jones headed to St. Louis, and Pulitzer, as well as the World's staff, thought he was rid of a nightmare.\n\nFor Pulitzer, Jekyll Island's main attraction was complete privacy. When a reporter from Atlanta asked at the clubhouse if he could see Pulitzer, the manager replied, \"That is impossible. Mr. Pulitzer has left instructions that no one save the members of his newspaper family is to be allowed near him.\" Just as the reporter prepared to beat a retreat, Pulitzer entered the room on the arm of one of his secretaries, heading out for a walk. \"Oh yes, I am always glad to see newspaper men,\" Pulitzer said. \"That brotherhood which is formed between those who have had to run an item down is as strong as any formed in any other calling.\"\n\nThe three men went out to the steps of the clubhouse, where Pulitzer submitted to a short interview, enjoying a chance to express his frustration with President Cleveland. \"Men of all political views voted for him, believing that above all issues would stand the one great and overpowering fact of good government,\" said Pulitzer. \"He has disappointed their expectations and failed in every hope.\"\n\nGood government, Pulitzer predicted, would be the decisive issue in the 1896 election. \"The great issue before the people at all times is not silver, or gold, or the tariff, though they are all important relatively.\" He was wrong. As he talked with the reporter, William Jennings Bryan, an unknown U.S. representative leaving office and barely old enough to run for president, was beginning a national speaking tour on behalf of free silver. In sixteen months, Bryan would remake the American political landscape.\n\nEven when he was at his best, Joseph made their marriage an ordeal for Kate. If he was not consumed by work, he was haunted by sickness, real and imagined. As his worries about work and his fears for his health mounted, so did his notorious temper and impatience. From a practical point of view, the connubial disharmony had been resolved by an almost continuous separation since the onset of his blindness. Joseph wandered the globe in the company of secretaries, doctors, and valets, while Kate led a busy social life in Paris, London, and New York.\n\nOne of the few witnesses to their turbulent domestic life was Felix Webber, a Briton who had a short, unhappy tenure as Pulitzer's secretary. He found Pulitzer an insufferable boss. \"He is such an ill-mannered surly brute and keeps throwing in one's teeth that he is paying one for all one does for him\u2014and he is evidently quite determined to get his money's worth out of one,\" Webber wrote to his sister after taking the post. Bitter and angry, he became the only secretary willing to break the code of silence adhered to by the other men who served as personal aides to Pulitzer.\n\nIn December 1894, the Pulitzers' eldest daughter, Lucille, who was then fourteen, required a small, modest operation on her throat. Unfortunately, the wound did not heal properly, and more work had to be done. Kate was distraught and remained by Lucille's side throughout the ordeal. Although he was in New York, Joseph did not even consent to visit Lucille while she was recuperating in her room. One night at dinner, Kate asked why he was shunning his daughter. Did he not pity her?\n\n\"Pity Lucille!\" Joseph shouted back, according to Webber, who recorded the moment. \"No! I'm the one to pity\u2014has no one any pity for me! Does no one realize what I suffer! My own house turned into a hospital! Doctors coming at all hours! You rushing upstairs in the middle of meals, without a word of conversation for me\u2014no one pities me, and you ask me to pity Lucille!\"\n\nKate could not bring herself to speak. She was well used to silences, especially at the beginning of the month, when she and Joseph fought over money. This time, however, she gave Webber orders that Joseph not be allowed upstairs. Contrite the following day, Joseph visited Lucille and sent Webber out to buy flowers for his daughter.\n\nWhen Joseph had left for Jekyll Island a few weeks later, the household breathed a sigh of relief. \"Especially Mrs. P. who got up out of bed as soon as he was gone and received lying in a chaise longue in her boudoir in a vieux rose peignoir and a chinchilla fur rug also lined with vieux rose over her legs and plenty of white frou frou all about her,\" Webber said. \"She was sighing over a a portrait of J.P. which has just come from Paris painted by [L\u00e9on] Bonnat two years ago.\"\n\n\"I suppose I ought to hang it in my boudoir, but I won't,\" she told Webber. \"Don't you think that a large photograph is enough for me to have in my boudoir?\"\n\nKate had certainly tried her best to tolerate Joseph's outbursts, to tend to his health, and to be with him when he permitted it, aside from the one time when she declined the Mediterranean cruise. But it was a Sisyphean task to please him. Only the year before, Kate, preoccupied with managing the house and children, had let a stretch of time go by without writing to her absent Joseph. \"For two weeks you did not write me one word even inquiring whether I was dead or alive,\" Joseph wrote to her. \"Do you think that was right? You know you have the power to keep me awake, that I chafe and worry and brood over the conduct of yours.\n\n\"Again,\" he continued, \"after all it is supposed to be the first business of a wife to be interested in the comfort and condition of her husband who is absolutely without family and as helpless as I am.\" Then, resurrecting his old complaint, he told Kate she never did what he asked. \"You like to emphasize the word 'order,' my order, or your order, when you refer to my wishes or when I refer to them, especially a wish that is habitually trampled upon and disregarded. I wish you would not do that because it reminds me how utterly ignored my wishes are.\"\n\nBy March, Kate had enough of Jekyll Island\u2014and Joseph\u2014and returned to New York. She may also have had an ulterior motive for leaving. She was having an affair. Pulitzer's new man, Arthur Brisbane, offered Kate the adoration she could not get from her husband, who was embroiled in his battles with real and doubtful demons of ill health. Only just in her forties, Kate remained an immensely attractive, outgoing, and gregarious woman. She loved parties, culture, and life, while her husband was becoming a recluse.\n\nHer separation from Joseph made it easier for Kate to take a lover, but discretion remained a necessity. \"I do not discuss my actual work, much as I should like to, in these letters, because such discussion would give too clear a key to the authorship of these writings should one of them go wrong,\" Brisbane wrote to Kate in 1895, in a letter that he signed only with the initial \"H.\" Brisbane's ardor was unmistakable. When they planned a rendezvous between Boston and Bar Harbor, he wrote, \"That will be one of the most eagerly anticipated journeys I have ever made.\"\n\n\"I could go on writing you for hours, for you are in my mind, and I like even the imitation of talking to you,\" he wrote in another letter. \"The longer you are away from me, the more I want to see you, and the more real and necessary you seem.\n\n\"What a shame it is that we have not the power of telegraphing ourselves from place to place. We shall have that power sometime. If we had it now, I should send myself by wire instead of sending this letter by mail, et alors, tu sais ce qui t'arriverait.\"\n\nIn April or early May, Kate discovered that she was pregnant. But whose child was it? It had been seven years since her last pregnancy and the birth of her sixth child since marrying Joseph. It seemed possible that Joseph was the father now, as Kate might have been on Jekyll Island at the time of conception. However, considering Joseph's condition and mood, it was unlikely.\n\nBrisbane allegedly told David Graham Phillips that the child was his. In his clandestine correspondence with Kate, he expressed worries about her health. \"Had you taken care of yourself, you would be in good condition now,\" he wrote. \"You are not good to yourself. I wish you would care as much about your own health and future as you do about mine. It would be a good thing for you and for me.\n\n\"Do be a good sensible girl and take care of yourself. Some of these days we shall have some fun. Keep your health for that.\"\n\nJoseph never doubted that the child was his.\n\nIn May, Pulitzer went for a brief stay in a luxurious manor at Kensington, near London's Hyde Park. But peacocks summering in the adjacent park made such a racket with their nighttime mating screeches that Pulitzer was soon on his way back to the United States. It was as if everything conspired to wreck his life just as he reached his zenith. On board the Teutonic, Pulitzer wrote to Thomas Davidson, with whom he had fallen out of touch since 1887. \"I did suffer more during those eight years by loss of sight, sleep, health and activity than in all my previous existence.\"\n\nThat summer the remodeled Chatwold stood ready to receive Pulitzer and his guests. More than 100 men had worked through the winter rebuilding the country mansion to Pulitzer's specifications. The most difficult task had been an excavation down through fifty feet of rock to sea level, where a steam-heated underground room had been carved out for a plunge bath. Aboveground, the house had been extensively rebuilt, with the addition of a granite tower specially constructed to prevent sound from entering. Inside it, according to one reporter, \"the great chief can hide away from the sordid cares of the world and be at peace with his soul\u2014or at war with it\u2014and no one will be the wiser.\"\n\nThe \"tower of silence,\" as his secretaries called it, also revealed that Pulitzer's retreat from the paper was no longer a search for a cure but rather a permanent condition. \"So Mr. Pulitzer,\" noted one of his men, \"dictated the destinies of his manifold interests at long distances in intervals between seizures when his infirmities utterly incapacitated him\u2014a giant intelligence eternally condemned to the darkest of dungeons, a caged eagle furiously belaboring the bars.\"\n\nPulitzer's talons, however, remained sharp, especially with regard to Theodore Roosevelt. The politician had recently become New York City's police commissioner and was cleaning up its notoriously corrupt police force. This cheered New Yorkers until he also decided to enforce blue laws that forbade saloons\u2014but not private clubs\u2014to serve alcohol on the Sabbath. Roosevelt agreed that the law was pigheaded and led to corruption, but said that he had no choice except to enforce it. Pulitzer, who had long opposed any form of temperance, directed Bradford Merrill to bring up the World's editorial guns.\n\nRoosevelt's claim that his enforcement might actually inspire a lifting of the ban was disingenuous, said the World. \"You know that those who have such power are in no way annoyed by your nagging and exasperating activity in preventing the hard-working laborer from getting a pitcher of beer for his Sunday dinner,\" the editorial continued, addressing Roosevelt directly, as the World always did when he was the subject of Pulitzer's condemnation. \"Does it commend 'reform' to have the innocent annoyed in its name while crime runs riot and criminals go free?\"\n\nReading the editorial, Roosevelt told his friend Senator Henry Cabot Lodge that the World was among the New York papers \"shrieking with rage.\" He told another friend that the World and Herald \"are doing everything in their power to make me swerve from my course; but they will fail signally; I shall not flinch one handbreadth.\" But being despised by drinkers and the New York press had no ill effect on Roosevelt's national popularity. In fact, it increased. One paper asked, \"Will he succeed Col. Strong as Mayor; or Levi P. Morton as Governor; or Grover Cleveland as President?\"\n\nIndeed, Roosevelt's ambitions far exceeded cleaning up a city's police department. He was certain that his combativeness and manliness were appealing. He was convinced that the entire nation, not just Manhattan, lacked virility. \"There is an unhappy tendency among certain of our cultivated people to lose the great manly virtues, the power to strive and fight and conquer, not only in a time of peace, but on the field of battle,\" he told one audience. He thought the time had come for the United States to flex its military muscle outside its borders, and he saw an opportunity in a crisis brewing in Venezuela.\n\nRoosevelt, who had never seen a battlefield, wanted war. Pulitzer, who had, wanted nothing of it.\n\nFor years Venezuela had been bickering with Great Britain about its border with British Guiana. After the discovery of gold, the quarrel intensified. The United States took Venezuela's side, broke off diplomatic relations with England in late 1895, and demanded arbitration. The British, who ruled the seas, considered this an insult and refused.\n\nThe rebuff drew an angry message from the president to Congress. Invoking the Monroe Doctrine, Cleveland promised that if England dared to take any land the United States deemed as belonging to Venezuela, the United States would \"resist by every means in its power.\" Congress rushed to the president's side, and the saber rattling put the little-noticed dispute on the front pages. WAR ON EVERY LIP was the Chicago Tribune's headline. WAR CLOUDS proclaimed the Atlanta Constitution. The editorial pages clamored for a fight. \"Any American citizen who hesitates to uphold the President of the United States is either an alien or a traitor,\" said the Sun.\n\nPulitzer refused to let the World join in. He thought Cleveland had gone too far. Put the headline A GRAVE BLUNDER on the lead editorial, Pulitzer told one of his writers over the telephone from his rented house in Lakewood, New Jersey. Weighing each word carefully, he composed a four-paragraph assault on the president's logic. Great Britain's actions in Venezuela posed no danger to the United States, he said. \"It is a grave blunder to put this government in its attitude of threatening war unless we mean it and are prepared for it and can hopefully appeal to the sympathizers of the civilized world in making it.\"\n\nPulitzer had long feared militarism. Seventeen years earlier, he had seen firsthand how Bismarck used the threat of French territorial claims to maintain a large standing army and impose oppressive taxes to pay for it. The ruler's actions created a warlike state, though without battle, much as Thomas Hobbes famously described it in Leviathan. \"This they call peace!\" the young Pulitzer had written. \"Next to war itself I cannot imagine anything more terrible to a great nation than such a peace.\"\n\nPulitzer now expanded his efforts to douse the war fever. Over his signature, his staff sent telegrams to leading statesmen, clergymen, politicians, editors, leaders of Parliament, and the royal family in Great Britain, urging them to publicly express their opposition to war. Within days, the World published replies from the prince of Wales, Gladstone (out of office again), the bishop of London, the archbishop of Westminster, and dozens of other leaders. Each telegram professed England's peaceful intentions and strove to lower the transatlantic rhetoric. \"They earnestly trust and cannot but believe the present crisis will be arranged in a manner satisfactory to both countries,\" read the message from the British throne. \"No feelings here but peaceful and brotherly,\" wired the bishop of Liverpool. \"God Speed you in your patriotic endeavor,\" added the bishop of Chester.\n\nThe World's issue for Christmas Day 1895 reproduced the telegrams from the prince of Wales and one from the duke of York under the headline PEACE AND GOOD WILL. Soon, said another of Pulitzer's editorials, the holly and mistletoe would be gone, as would the voices of children singing carols. \"But we shall retain our hopes. The white doves, unseen, will be fluttering somewhere.\"\n\nIn England, the telegrams sent by the prince and the duke generated considerable support and were on the front page of most newspapers, reported an excited Ballard Smith. The reaction in the United States was quite different. Roosevelt, who had already written a letter of congratulation to Cleveland for his belligerent threats, told Lodge that Americans were weakening in their resolve for war. \"Personally, I rather hope the fight will come soon. The clamor of the peace faction has convinced me that this country needs a war.\" He was furious at Pulitzer and Edwin Godkin at the New York Post, who had joined in urging restraint. \"As for the editors of the Evening Post and World,\" Roosevelt said, \"it would give me great pleasure to have them put in prison the minute hostilities began.\"\n\nPulitzer's intervention could not have come at a worse moment for the Cleveland administration. Its gold reserves had fallen to critically low levels again. Since the panic of 1893, the government had dealt with close calls by borrowing and buying gold in Europe. Now that Cleveland faced a new borrowing crisis, Pulitzer's peace campaign had made matters worse by eliciting a proclamation from the Rothschild banking family that Europeans should not buy American bonds.\n\nWith the free-silver forces gaining strength, the economy still in the doldrums, and Pulitzer causing trouble, Cleveland met secretly with J. P. Morgan. A year earlier, when two U.S. public bond offerings had failed, Morgan had persuaded the president to permit his private syndicate to handle a bond sale like the one the president again had in mind. The first one had saved the government from defaulting on its obligations, but Morgan's alleged profits had further fueled the free-silver movement. Pulitzer had bitterly denounced the deal. He wanted to protect the gold standard, but not at the cost of enriching Morgan. He was also convinced that Morgan's plan could give the \"silverites\" the White House in 1896. He was dead set on preventing another such deal.\n\nUnder such headlines as SMASH THE RING, the World claimed that the administration was once again entering into a secret compact with financiers. As Pulitzer had done in the ongoing crisis over Venezuela, he ordered his staff to use the telegraph wires. More than 10,000 telegrams were sent to banks and investment houses asking if they would support a public bond offering, and more than half replied, setting a one-day record for Western Union. Pulitzer then called several of his editors to Lakewood. They took the last New Jersey\u2013bound train out of the city.\n\n\"When I got there night had already fallen, and as I was without even so much as a handbag, I anticipated a night of makeshift at the hotel,\" said George Eggleston, one of the summoned editors.\n\n\"Come in quickly. We must talk rapidly and to the point. You think you're to stay here all night, but you're mistaken,\" Pulitzer told the men as they entered his house. \"I've ordered a special train to take you back. It will start at eight o'clock and run through in eighty minutes. Meanwhile, we have much to arrange, so we must get to work.\n\n\"What we demand is that these bonds shall be sold to the public at something like their actual value and not to a Wall Street syndicate for many millions less,\" he said. \"You are to write a double-leaded article to occupy the whole editorial page tomorrow morning. You are not to print a line of editorial on any other subject.\"\n\nEggleston was to assail the idea of using Morgan as a middleman and argue that the government should sell the bonds directly to the people. \"Then,\" Pulitzer added, \"as a guarantee of the sincerity of our convictions you are to say that the World offers in advance to take one million dollars of the new bonds at the highest market price, if they are offered to the public in open markets.\"\n\nPulitzer dismissed his men. The following morning, the World reported that hundreds of banks and bankers had replied to its telegraphed inquiries with pledges to buy the bonds. \"To you, Mr. Cleveland, the World appeals,\" read Eggleston's editorial. It pleaded with the president to turn Morgan down and to turn instead to the people. \"If you make your appeal to the people they will quickly respond. So sure are we of this that the World now offers to head the list with a subscription of one million dollars on its own account.\"\n\nPulitzer won. Both Morgan and Cleveland realized that another private sale was now out of the question. On January 6, 1896, the administration announced a public sale of bonds. Cleveland, facing the end of his second term, had grown tired of Pulitzer's outbursts. His secretary of state dug up an old federal statute that made it a crime punishable by imprisonment to communicate with foreign leaders to influence American policy. Roosevelt's friend Senator Lodge brought the matter up in the Senate. He asked his colleagues if they did not think that Pulitzer's telegrams to the prince of Wales and others did not constitute an offense under the law. A Republican senator rose to say he thought they did. \"If the President and the Attorney General do their duty,\" said the senator, \"Mr. Pulitzer, if he ever sets foot upon the soil of America as I understand he occasionally does, ought to be prosecuted according to law.\"\n\nPulitzer mounted his own defense. The World urged that the government use the \"aged, obsolete, moldy, moth-eaten, dust-covered\" law to prosecute the paper. \"It is really time to make an example of the presumptuous editors who dare to interfere to break the force and repair the damage of an imitation jingo policy with its disturbing threat of war.\"\n\nTempers cooled. The dispute between England and Venezuela moved to the back pages as the two nations agreed to arbitration. The public bond sale proceeded and was a success. Pulitzer's banker Dumont Clarke placed a bid for $1 million of bonds, as the World had promised. When the bid was received at the auction, the secretary of the treasury moved uncomfortably in his seat, and a shadow fell over Morgan's face, reported the World, which devoted an entire page to the opening of the bids. \"The name of the World was not a pleasant sound and it was a bitter thing to be reminded of the past.\"\n\nA few days later, Clarke reported that the purchase of the bonds would bring a profit of $50,000. After having attacked Morgan for making money from bond transactions, Pulitzer panicked at this potentially embarrassing gain. The World's managers and editors were all called together for a meeting. After two hours of debate, the paper's business manager asked, \"Why not keep it?\" Pulitzer accepted the advice.\n\nRoosevelt, who had gotten neither war nor a criminal prosecution of Pulitzer, sought his own revenge for the paper's ill-treatment of his police commissionership. He found a vehicle when the World compiled a catalog of crimes under his watch, implying that time spent on the saloon issue had left citizens less protected. Roosevelt persuaded the New York Times, which was losing $2,500 a week and facing bankruptcy, to publish the city's official report showing the World's list to be a gross exaggeration.\n\nRoosevelt, in this small triumph, summed up a decision that all of Pulitzer's political enemies had to make. \"It is always a question how far it is necessary to go in answering a man who is a convicted liar,\" Roosevelt said. \"For the same reason it is a little difficult to decide whether it is necessary to take notice of any statement whatever appearing in Mr. Pulitzer's paper, the New York World.\"\n\nPulitzer, tucked away in his cottage at Jekyll once again, chose to ignore Roosevelt. A new and more dangerous opponent than a carping politician faced him. A young upstart newspaper publisher was preparing to do to him what Pulitzer had done to the giants of Park Row in 1883.\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Three\n\n## TROUBLE FROM THE WEST\n\nIn February 1895 an office boy at the Morning Journal spotted a corpulent man, probably nearing 300 pounds, trying to unlock the door to Albert Pulitzer's office.\n\n\"Hey, there!\" said the boy, \"You can't go in there. That's a private room.\"\n\n\"I want to get in there, right away,\" replied the man, smiling.\n\nThe boy rushed to the newsroom to tell the city editor that someone was trying to get into the publisher's office. As he tried to give his report, the desk bell from Pulitzer's office began to ring. The boy ran back to see who was ringing it and found the mysterious intruder in the office seated behind the desk. Only then did he realize that it was Albert Pulitzer, who had not been at the paper in a year or two.\n\n\"I fooled you, didn't I,\" said Pulitzer.\n\n\"I-I-I, er, beg your pardon, sir, but I didn't know you,\" replied the boy.\n\n\"Oh, that's all right, you are not the only one. I passed the Sunday editor as I was coming through the hall and he actually gave me a stony, British stare.\"\n\nAlbert's immense weight gain made him hard to recognize, but in any case his mere presence in the office was a shock. In the years since the Morning Journal had become established, Albert had become an absentee publisher like his brother Joseph at the World. He had no health concerns to drive him from New York. Rather, he was more like James Bennett of the New York Herald. He simply preferred life in the elegant social circles of London, Paris, and other European capitals. The Morning Journal's purpose had been to make money and it had done that.\n\nAt the beginning, Albert had brought the same dedication to running the Morning Journal that Joseph had lavished on the World. Every morning between three and four o'clock, a messenger brought a copy of the Morning Journal, other papers, reports on daily circulation, and the daily ledger. If the man was late, he would find the publisher pacing impatiently on the sidewalk. During breakfast, Pulitzer scrutinized his paper. \"When he finished with it,\" recalled his son, \"the thing would look like a pyrotechnical display, for he used both blue and red pencils without stint, and frequently the comments were punctuated with several exclamation points.\" With remarks such as \"Awful!! Don't let this occur again\" or \"Too Evening-Postish!\" plastered over the pages, the paper was sent back to the editors for their review.\n\nFrom its origin as a scandal sheet, the Morning Journal had grown into an immensely successful one-cent paper. It took no interest in politics. \"I think one politician in the family is enough,\" said Albert. \"My brother Joseph is welcome to that part of fame which time may allot to the name Pulitzer. Two Worlds would be more than New York could hold.\"\n\nThe Journal's circulation hovered between 175,000 and 200,000. Its success rested on a daily array of human interest stories, spiced with risqu\u00e9 items, humor, and, above all, a slavish devotion to society news. \"If the Vanderbilts and Astors were absent from its columns,\" a rewrite man said, \"proprietor Albert, in Vienna or Paris, would want to know the reasons why.\" Although the profit paled in comparison with that of Joseph's World, the $100,000 a year Albert drew supported his leisurely life in Europe. Having divorced Fannie in 1882, after nine years of marriage, he left her to raise their son Walter on her own with a small stipend.\n\nBut his years in European capitals, with their more refined journals, had lessened Albert's appetite for prurient news. Upon his return in 1895 he informed his staff that the Morning Journal would now become \"the least sensational paper published\" and would move into the arena of the two-cent papers such as the World. He shared the news with his readers in a front-page editorial. \"As it once brought New York the gospel of brightness, so the Journal will now strive to set an example of a higher, better tone in the treatment of news,\" he said. \"To please, to amuse, to instruct in a fascinating way, to brighten the home circle, and never to offend with an objectionable word, will be our unceasing endeavor.\"\n\nThe readers weren't impressed, and circulation dropped precipitously. Fortunately, John McLean, the successful publisher of the Cincinnati Enquirer, rescued Albert from the consequences of his folly. McLean paid close to $1 million for the Morning Journal and its companion German edition, the Morgen Journal. He was convinced that he could make money in New York as he had done in Cincinnati. It didn't happen. Rather, the Morning Journal continued its decline. McLean dropped the price to a penny again, but to no avail. By the fall of 1895, he had to sell. He found a willing customer in William Randolph Hearst.\n\nAfter making a success of the San Francisco Examiner, Hearst had hungered for a newspaper in New York. His mother, who now held the family fortune, consented to back him. In September 1895, Hearst took the dying Journal off of McLean's hands for $150,000, less than 20 percent of what McLean had paid for it the year before.\n\nAt long last Hearst had a toehold in New York, and he had gotten it for far less than his model, Joseph Pulitzer, had paid. But in the twelve years since Pulitzer arrived on Park Row, the fabled block had vastly changed. The city had eight other morning newspapers including the dominant World; the venerable Herald, Sun, and Tribune; and the struggling New York Times. The once gossipy, now declining sheet that Hearst bought held little promise of competing. \"He may come but he can't get a reputable newspaperman in New York to work on his paper,\" said one editor.\n\nHearst imported his best talent from San Francisco and, with his checkbook, persuaded several well-known journalists such as Julius Chambers and Julian Ralph to join his staff. He even lured Richard Harding Davis into covering the Harvard-Yale football game for a then unheard-of fee: $500. In November the first issue of the new, redesigned New York Journal was out. Advertisements for the paper appeared everywhere in the city and hired bands played on street corners.\n\nThe Journal displayed many of the same traits that had made the World a success. The front page bristled with large bold headlines atop engrossing urban tales. Most striking were the spectacular illustrations of criminals and beautiful girls. Except for the frequency of females in the illustrations\u2014a Hearst touch\u2014the challenger was simply improving on Pulitzer's recipe by using splashier headlines, larger drawings, and more dramatic and compelling copy.\n\nThe new kid on the block made the World look middle-aged and stodgy. In fact, in Pulitzer's absence, his paper had grown fat on its success, and stale. But no one had dared challenge its supremacy until now. Most threatening to the World was that Hearst had the luxury of being able to sacrifice revenue for circulation. He could afford to put out the most expensive newspaper in town and sell it as the cheapest for as long as he wished. Readers didn't care if Hearst was making money. What appealed to them was a newspaper that offered twice the excitement for half the price.\n\nPulitzer's men at the World remained unconcerned. \"The new venture at once began to grow, not at the expense of the high-priced but of the low-cost papers,\" said Don Seitz, who was now one of Pulitzer's top men. Their cockiness did not last long. From the San Francisco Examiner's New York office, on the eleventh floor of the Pulitzer Building, Hearst secretly negotiated with the editor of the Sunday World, whose circulation of nearly 500,000 copies made it the most profitable part of the paper. By January 1896, Hearst had persuaded not only the Sunday editor but the entire Sunday staff to join the Journal.\n\nPulitzer found out about this theft when he alighted on Jekyll Island. He telegraphed Solomon Carvalho to get the staff back at any cost. Then, ordering his aides to pack, Pulitzer left the island for New York. When the club tender carrying him reached the mainland, the party ran into James Creelman, a noted World reporter, who was waiting for a launch to take him to a promised meeting with the publisher. The weary Creelman had no choice but to reboard the train that had brought him south and have his meeting in Pulitzer's private coach.\n\nAfter two years as one of the World's most widely traveled and colorful foreign correspondents, Creelman wanted out. He told his boss that he cared little about the World but a lot for their friendship. Pulitzer accepted the news with unusual calmness, considering the personnel problems awaiting him in New York. But he recognized traits in Creelman, similar to his own, that made it hard to work in a subordinate position.\n\nWhile the party traveled northward, Carvalho, in New York, managed to lure the Sunday staff back. But this reprieve lasted only twenty-four hours. Hearst's checkbook was too appealing. \"The most extraordinary dollar-matching contest in the history of American journalism had begun,\" said Seitz, whose own pay would begin a long ascent in return for his loyalty to Pulitzer.\n\nPulitzer's first action on reaching New York was to terminate the Examiner's lease in his building. He put Arthur Brisbane in charge of the Sunday edition and convened a war council at his residence in Lakewood. The news was grim. The Journal, in less than three months, had come within 35,000 of the World's daily circulation. Something had to be done. The business manager, John Norris, who had worked for a penny newspaper, recommended that Pulitzer cut the price of the two-cent morning World in half; the Evening World already sold for a penny. Carvalho agreed. Only Seitz held out.\n\nPulitzer couldn't decide. A dozen years earlier he had been the one to force other publishers to cut their prices. Not being able to call the shots was a new and uncomfortable position for him. As Pulitzer prepared to head back to Jekyll Island, he had still not made up his mind, so Carvalho and Norris boarded the train with him. By the time they reached Philadelphia, Pulitzer told them his decision. He would cut the price. The pair left the train and returned to New York.\n\n\"The news of the World's reduction came like a thunder clap to the great newspaper offices in Park Row,\" reported the Chicago Tribune. An editorial in the World announced the change.\n\n\"The reason for this reduction is a secret that we are ready to share with all the people. We prefer power to profits.\"\n\n\"The immediate effect was electric, but not as its owner had anticipated,\" Seitz said. Circulation did go up, by 88,000, but only the smaller competing papers suffered circulation losses. The Journal continued to gain. By stooping to compete with Hearst, Pulitzer had brought more attention to the Journal and had actually encouraged his rival. \"The World in reducing to one cent must have recognized the fact that the Journal has come to stay,\" Adolph Ochs, a publisher in Chattanooga, Tennessee, with hopes of someday joining the Park Row fraternity, told Pulitzer.\n\nBoth newspapers gained in circulation, but lost money with every copy. \"Mr. Hearst felt that he had his antagonist staggering and began a furious assault,\" said Seitz. \"He spent money as it had never been spent before on newspapers in any field.\" Pulitzer had the resources to match Hearst, but he no longer had the daring of a young man, especially one with inherited wealth.\n\nHearst's entry into New York gave editors and reporters who could no longer tolerate Pulitzer's eccentric management style a practical exit, even a lucrative one. To Carvalho, who had acted as the publisher of the World in all but name, the option looked attractive. He felt as if he were at the end of a yo-yo jerked by Pulitzer's constant changing of orders and reshuffling of authority. In late March 1896, he telephoned Pulitzer on Jekyll Island, a daring act in and of itself, and said that unless his powers were restored by the end of the day\u2014five o'clock in the afternoon, to be precise\u2014he would quit. At five-thirty, Carvalho called Seitz into his office and said he was done, after nine years of managing the World. A few days later, he was on the Journal's payroll, where he would remain as Hearst's right-hand man for thirty years. Pulitzer's detractors watched the desertions with glee. The anti-Semitic gossip sheet Town Topics asked, \"How is Mr. Pulitzer going to get unleavened bread when the young Egyptian from San Francisco is getting all the dough?\"\n\nWith his newspaper's supremacy threatened and managerial trouble afoot, Pulitzer found Jekyll Island insufferable. To make matters worse, a government-contracted dredge entered the waters near his cottage, its steam engine clanging as it hoisted buckets of muck to the surface. Pulitzer sent his secretary out to pay the foreman $100 a day to hold off on the work until his stay on the island was over.\n\nOn Jekyll Island, word reached Pulitzer that John Cockerill, the editor who served him loyally during his rise at the Post-Dispatch and followed him to the World, had died in Cairo, Egypt. Since the two had parted company in 1891, Cockerill had run his own newspaper and then become a foreign correspondent for the New York Herald. He was on assignment for the Herald in Egypt when he succumbed to a brain hemorrhage while in a hotel barber's chair. The World made only modest note of his passing. Pulitzer was heading north and could have attended the funeral service when Cockerill's body reached New York in May, but he chose not to. Instead he left it to Chauncey Depew, who had presided with Cockerill at the laying of the cornerstone for the Pulitzer Building, to represent the missing half of the partnership that had transformed New York journalism. A few days later, Cockerill's will was probated. \"I name as my executor Joseph Pulitzer,\" Cockerill had written, \"who has been a faithful and sincere friend to me, and to whom I am indebted for much that I enjoy.\"\n\nPulitzer found tranquillity at Moray Lodge, the princely manor in Kensington, England. The peacocks were done with their mating and the place was quiet. \"No discordant echoes of the city's ceaseless human hum disturb the restful quiet of the place,\" noted one caller who found Pulitzer in the elegant study, which was lined with the landlord's books. He was in better health than he had been in several years. His worries in New York rested in an untended pile of telegrams and letters strewn over a desk. London was like a tonic.\n\nIts pleasures were made all the greater when, in June 1896, a delegation of British peace societies came to pay homage to Pulitzer and the World for helping defuse the Venezuelan crisis. They brought a proclamation, engrossed on vellum, deeming the effort a \"beneficent exemplification of the marvelous facilities of modern journalism in the dark days of last December.\" A decade after Pulitzer had brought an American tribute to Gladstone, his own statesmanship was the subject of British praise.\n\n\"I'm deeply touched,\" Pulitzer told the gathered religious, social, and political leaders, \"but am unfortunately an invalid and under a doctor's orders and I ask permission that my response be read by a young American friend\u2014my son.\"\n\nIt thus fell to sixteen-year-old Ralph to read his father's long speech on the value of international arbitration. Pulitzer earnestly believed that war could almost always be avoided. He hated the saber rattling endemic in American political culture and had little taste for the bellicose rhetoric exemplified by men like Theodore Roosevelt. \"Civilization is no more possible without peace than permanent peace is possible without arbitration,\" Ralph said, as he made his way through the thousands of words.\n\nYet an American war loomed as Ralph read his father's speech. In Cuba, an independence movement had gained such strength that the Spanish government dispatched 150,000 troops to put it down. The Cubans who resisted were being turned into heroes by the World, the Journal, and other newspapers.\n\nBefore returning to the United States, Pulitzer detoured to Wiesbaden, Germany, for a short stay at the Hotel Kaiserhof, adjacent to the Augusta Victoria baths. There, between Turkish baths and mud and hot sand treatments, Pulitzer gave more thought to his problems back in New York. \"We must recognize the extraordinary competition, no doubt, but we must also recognize extraordinary foolishness, not imitate it,\" he wrote to Norris. Publishing a penny newspaper constrained the size of the paper but not its quality. \"I regard it as more important to have the best paper than the biggest in size.\"\n\nUnable to let his staff do their jobs without his constant interference, Pulitzer sent a stream of telegrams through the underwater Atlantic cable bearing instructions on topics ranging from the rate for help-wanted classifieds to changing the grade of paper used in certain editions. He instructed Brisbane to make the Sunday edition of interest to intelligent readers (\"Make real popular magazine not a magazine of horrors\"); reviewed the World's printing capacity (\"Shall we order six new color presses in order that we may meet the Journal?\"); and pushed him to compete with the Journal for out-of-town readers (\"if you are sure of your grounds and more particularly of the ground the Journal occupies\").\n\nBy midsummer, Pulitzer was at Chatwold, readying himself for the fall's political battles. The Democrats were preparing for their convention in Chicago and the Republicans for theirs in St. Louis. Pulitzer faced a daunting political problem. Choosing whom to support in a national election remained both a political and an economic decision. Readers still regarded their selection of a newspaper as a political act. The wrong presidential choice could seriously damage the World, especially with Hearst's Journal nipping at its heels. When Pulitzer had made his bid for supremacy in New York in 1884, he had triumphed over Dana in great part because the Sun had abandoned the Democratic Party. The choice he made in the 1896 election posed similar risks for Pulitzer.\n\nThe strength of the silver movement caught the old guard of the Democratic Party, including Pulitzer, by surprise. \"There is not the remotest shadow of a chance that free silver can ever become a reality in the United States,\" Pulitzer told a reporter in June. But when William Jennings Bryan spoke to the convention he lit a political prairie fire. Bellowing to the cheering delegates whose excitement rose with each phrase of inspired rhetoric, Bryan proclaimed the movement's answer to the defenders of the gold standard. \"You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.\" Then, he stepped back, held his arms out and stood Christ-like before the hall. \"The floor of the convention seemed to heave up,\" reported the World. \"Everybody seemed to go mad at once.\"\n\nPulitzer summoned the World's editorial writer George Eggleston to Bar Harbor. He had correctly predicted Bryan's nomination, unlike the other men covering the convention for the World. While Pulitzer and Eggleston conferred, an emissary from Bryan's campaign arrived. Since only one Democrat had been elected to the White House in forty years, and then with the support of the World, such a political pilgrimage was mandatory.\n\nPulitzer instructed Eggleston to meet the representative. The man informed Eggleston that Bryan would win by a large majority with or without the support of the World. \"For the sake of the press, and especially of so great a newspaper as the World, therefore, Mr. Bryan asked Mr. Pulitzer's attention to this danger to prestige.\" Nothing that could have been said was more likely to have a worse effect on Pulitzer.\n\nWhen Eggleston delivered the message, Pulitzer laughed. As the two men sat on the small porch, Pulitzer asked him to jot down figures. The publisher rapidly named the states and the number of electoral votes that would go to Bryan. \"I don't often predict\u2014never unless I know,\" he said. His calculations predicted defeat. \"Let that be our answer to Mr. Bryan's audacious message.\" Pulitzer's electoral math was uncannily correct. \"Mr. Pulitzer correctly named every state that would give its electoral vote to each candidate, and the returns of the election\u2014four months later\u2014varies from his prediction by only two electoral votes out of four hundred and forty-seven.\"\n\nBut, in a larger sense, Pulitzer had misread the political tea leaves, for the first time in his life. He failed to grasp that free silver was not a public policy debate but a cry for help from the very people for whom he had built his paper.\n\nEggleston and Pulitzer crafted an unusually long editorial as the campaign season opened. The World, it said, sympathized with any candidate who stood against Wall Street's domination and for the creation of an income tax. But before the paper could throw its support to Bryan, it raised twenty ponderous objections to the more extreme elements in the party's platform\u2014primarily those dealing with free silver. These policies, Pulitzer claimed, could destroy the economy. If Bryan disowned these planks, then he could win over the undecided voters.\n\n\"You can, if you will, decide a majority of them to vote their party's ticket,\" the editorial promised, \"as they would very much prefer to do if they can be satisfied that it will be right and safe to do so. Will you not try to convince them?\" But it was really Pulitzer who needed convincing. He strongly opposed McKinley's candidacy but could not bring himself to support Bryan. In hopes of resolving this quandary, he lured Creelman back to the paper to take on a special assignment. Creelman was to follow Bryan's campaign tour. But he was to write for two audiences: the World's readers and its publisher. Each day he sent long reports to Bar Harbor, where they were read to Pulitzer, who immediately dictated questions that were wired back. At the end of the campaign, although it had been Creelman who logged thousands of miles as Pulitzer's political eyes and ears, it was the boss who complained of exhaustion.\n\nFor his part, Hearst had no reservations in supporting Bryan. He published a free weekly campaign edition and covered the nominee's every move, speech, and utterance. His support was so unquestionable that the candidate himself sent a telegram on election eve to Hearst, thanking him for it.\n\nBryan went down to defeat but the Journal did not. Hearst had beaten Pulitzer at his own game. On the basis of his battle with the Sun in 1884, Pulitzer had anticipated that Bryan's defeat would be a crippling blow to the Journal, which had been the only major Park Row newspaper to support the insurgent Democrat in the decidedly anti-silver New York. But Pulitzer was wrong. Hearst's alliance with the Bryan campaign gave the Journal exactly what it needed. Its vigorous support for a champion of the underdog established the Journal as the city's brash newspaper for the masses and an entertaining jester of established politics while the World equivocated. In thirteen years, Pulitzer's World had gone from being the bad boy of Park Row to being a stodgy defender of the political establishment.\n\nAs he had done after other setbacks, Pulitzer reacted to this one by leaving New York. Taking his old friend and editor John Dillon with him, he sailed for the Riviera, leaving his family to celebrate Christmas without him. His first stop, Monte Carlo, proved to be a nightmare. The bells of ships in the harbor rang incessantly. Two decades earlier, he had defended a church in St. Louis that rang its bells at night. Now such tolling tormented him. Scrambling, his assistants located a more suitable refuge at Hotel Cap Martin on a peninsula to the east, bathed in sea air perfumed by tangerines, lemons, and orange groves.\n\nThe beauty of the setting did little to lighten Pulitzer's mood. \"I have never seen him so steadily and persistently gloomy or in so deep a gloom,\" Alfred Butes, an English secretary who had joined Pulitzer's retinue, wrote to Kate back in New York. \"His health is worse than at any time in years,\" Butes said. Pulitzer moped behind closed shutters, bored, and fretting about the children. \"He needs more gaiety around him. And, unfortunately, that must always be accompanied by noise. Dear! Oh Dear! It's a big problem. And we haven't solved it yet.\"\n\nEfforts to relieve Pulitzer's ills continued, though with a touch of the comic. Dr. Ernst Schweninger, famous for helping the hefty German chancellor Bismarck lose weight, was brought to the hotel for two days of treatments. To Pulitzer, the bearded, beady-eyed doctor looked like a wild anarchist and also seemed to act like one. \"He says Mr. P. can be practically cured,\" Butes told Kate. \"Probably could, I think, if he could survive the remedies which seem too almost drastic. I hear he laid Mr. P. down on the floor and knelt on his stomach! This is the latest, most scientific way of forcing a man to take a deep breath\u2014and it is humorous too!\"\n\nPulitzer gave up claret and cigars, but these New Year's resolutions were soon broken. \"I am, in fact, kept busy from morning to night with massages and exercises,\" he reported to Kate. \"But I have been so miserable yet in spite of, or perhaps, on account of this, I am more miserable in some respects (physical) than I have been in years.\" As soon as the Atlantic weather reports became encouraging, the party headed back to New York.\n\nAfter years of wandering the globe, Pulitzer had become expendable. In fact, his original newspaper, the Post-Dispatch, functioned smoothly and successfully in the hands of seasoned editors and managers, with only the occasional counsel from its owner. But ceding control of his beloved World to others would be an admission of surrender to his blindness and infirmities. The World was his public identity. When other newspapers or politicians cited it, they always referred to it as \"Pulitzer's World.\" He could not give that up. It had been what he had worked to achieve, and the paper remained his greatest love.\n\nInstead, Pulitzer continued to delegate broad, but overlapping, powers to an executive council of his top three or four men. No one man had dominion over the paper or even his own portion of the operation. A single telegram sent by Pulitzer from some distant city could reduce anyone's power in an instant. Every move his men made was second-guessed. The only certainty was that each man knew that the others were watching and reporting his every move to Pulitzer in an endless series of diaries read aloud by his secretaries. This gave the council an atmosphere of intrigue reminiscent of the Roman senate.\n\nCompounding the council's woes was Pulitzer's constant vacillating over how much power to cede to his managers. One moment he would tell them to act on their own; the next minute he would micromanage even the smallest decision. For instance, Pulitzer became annoyed when he learned that one of his lieutenants had a sign saying \"Editorial Manager\" on his door. He sent detailed instruction to Seitz to inform the painting department that no such sign should be made without his explicit approval and to arrange for the offending sign to be removed. \"But,\" he added quickly, \"really do it early in the morning so that nobody will notice it.\"\n\nAs the day neared in January 1897 for Pulitzer's ship from Europe to reach New York, the World's staff was put to work preparing written reports that could be read to him by those secretaries whose voices he preferred. Butes bluntly instructed Seitz on the boss's preferences. \"He asks for this as conversation\u2014especially conversations with you\u2014has a headachy tendency and really does not furnish him with the same large number of facts which you can produce on paper.\" (Pulitzer also refused to eat with Seitz, because Seitz crunched his toast, smacked his lips, and talked with food in the mouth.)\n\nPulitzer stayed in New York only long enough to receive his many reports. He discovered that his lieutenants, especially Brisbane, whom he had put in charge of the Sunday flagship edition and all news coverage, had boosted the World's circulation by descending into a sensationalist word-to-word combat with the Journal. Hearst had not only succeeded in gaining circulation but had also lured the World down into what many people in the city regarded as gutter journalism. The World had always had a sensationalistic streak, and the libel lawsuits to prove it. But in its desperate competition with Hearst the paper's baser tendencies were unrestrained.\n\nWhat had been called \"new journalism\" was soon disparagingly renamed \"Yellow,\" after Richard F. Outcault's comic strip. His \"Hogan's Alley,\" published in the World, was one of the first Sunday color comics. It featured the immensely popular tenement adventures of the \"Yellow Kid,\" an odd-looking child in a long yellow nightshirt. Hearst coveted it, as he did all the World's other successes; and he lured Outcault away from Pulitzer. Since the World retained the rights to it, \"Hogan's Alley\" continued to appear, and both papers published Sunday comics featuring a yellow kid. These gave rise to the term \"Yellow Journalism\" to describe the antics of the World and the Journal.\n\nClubs and libraries around the city began to have doubts about permitting these newspapers in their reading rooms. The General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen ordered that the World and Journal be removed from its reading rooms. \"There can be no doubt that these two papers exercise a most demoralizing influence upon adults, and that they tend to corrupt the minds of the coming generation,\" a trustee of the society told a reporter from the New York Times, which gleefully printed his remarks. The Young Men's Christian Association Library in Brooklyn had avoided the Journal; now it dumped the World. \"The paper brought into our rooms a very undesirable class of readers,\" said the librarian.\n\nPulitzer knew nothing of the boycott. \"It has been carefully kept from his knowledge by his family and secretaries,\" recalled an employee at the World, \"and upon his arrival in the golden dome he made many discoveries which should have revealed to him the weakness of his system of espionage and divided responsibilities, but it made him only more strenuous in keeping tabs on each one of his aides and stricter in requiring daily accounts of everything published in his paper.\"\n\nPulitzer now realized to his horror that Hearst's Journal threatened not only his financial success but the World's reputation and political power, which he valued above all. He directed his editors to focus their energy less on competing with the Journal and more on improving the character of the World. Recovering the respect and confidence of the public, he told them, would destroy \"the notion that we are in the same class with the Journal, in recklessness and unreliability.\" He also instructed Seitz to dig deeper into Hearst's operation. \"Please find somebody in Journal office with whom you can connect to discover who furnished their ideas, who is dissatisfied and obtainable or available even in the second class of executive ranks. We are getting shorter and shorter and need recruiting.\"\n\nIn a state of depression and panic, Pulitzer fled to Jekyll Island. His private Pullman train beat the one bearing J. P. Morgan to Brunswick, Georgia, by fifteen minutes. The Jekyll Club's management, sensitive to the animosity between the two tycoons, sent separate steamships to ferry them from Brunswick to the island. On Jekyll Island, Pulitzer inspected his newest purchase, a magnificent three-story wood-shingled cottage with rounded corners and large second-story porch.\n\nAfter a month's rest, Pulitzer went to Washington, where he rented a mansion\u2014Kate called it a mausoleum\u2014from the widow of a Civil War general, who had preserved and kept on display all of her late husband's swords, uniforms, and other relics. Joseph sent for Seitz and began to hold court for Democrats, now once again as far removed from power as they had been before Cleveland's election in 1884.\n\nAmong those who came to see Pulitzer was the Democratic Party's standard-bearer. Despite his defeat, Bryan remained the most important figure in the party. Pulitzer had given orders to his staff to treat him kindly. But together in the same room, the two argued vigorously. When Bryan prepared to leave, Pulitzer asked to run his hands over Bryan's face. Bryan took Pulitzer's hands, with their long delicate fingers, into his and passed them over his jaw. \"You see, Mr. Pulitzer, I am a fighter,\" said Bryan. In turn, Pulitzer took Bryan's hands and ran them over his bearded jaw and chin. \"You see I am one, too,\" he said.\n\nWhen Pulitzer reached Bar Harbor in early summer, he received good news. His long fight against Jones was over. In the two years since he had given Jones dominion over the Post-Dispatch in order to get him out of New York, the paper had became an embarrassing thorn in Pulitzer's side. Here he was waging an editorial war in the World against the Bryan tide and Jones had turned the Post-Dispatch into a proponent of free silver. As a result, Pulitzer looked like an opportunist who supported free silver where it was strong and opposed it where it was weak.\n\nAlmost as soon as Jones had arrived in St. Louis, Pulitzer had launched an internecine corporate war to rectify his blunder of giving Jones control of the Post-Dispatch. It spilled over into the courts and went all the way to the Missouri supreme court, which ruled that Jones's contract was ironclad. Pulitzer won a small victory, though, by paying for the lawsuit with profits Jones had generated at the Post-Dispatch.\n\nJones grew tired of his struggles with the obstinate publisher and sought terms of surrender. In June, Pulitzer agreed to pay Jones $100,000 to resign and return the stock he held. The agreement stipulated that no announcement of the change would be made. The paper, Pulitzer instructed, would make Jones's departure known only by its return to Pulitzer's editorial positions. \"Don't want a word of national politics except against tariff, trusts, monopoly, plutocracy, corruption...not one word about Chicago platform and free silver this year.\"\n\nWith the Jones episode at an end and no elections of importance in sight, Pulitzer turned to his own personal wants. Even though he already owned a palace in Maine, with its \"tower of silence\" a house on Fifty-Fifth Street in New York; and a hideaway on Jekyll Island, Pulitzer suddenly had a hankering to acquire William Rockefeller's Rockwood Hall, on the Hudson River. Rockefeller's public complaint about the taxes on this estate gave the impression he might sell it. Pulitzer sent Dillon and Seitz, who were well used to running personal errands for their boss, to investigate\u2014under strict instructions of secrecy, especially about whom they represented. The men telegraphed Pulitzer a full report on the house, furniture, riding trails, and cost of maintaining the grounds, and even on whether trains could be heard from inside the house. In the end, though, the secret mission was a waste of time. As a phone call might have determined, Rockefeller had no interest in selling Rockwood.\n\nInvesting in the Rockefeller mansion would have been fiscal folly that wiser heads would have counseled Pulitzer to abandon anyway. Aside from Dumont Clarke, who managed his personal fortune, Pulitzer trusted J. Angus Shaw, who watched over the finances of the World. The news from Shaw was terrifying. The nearly $1 million income that Pulitzer had drawn from the World each year had fallen to less than $350,000. Pulitzer ordered budget cuts and payroll reductions. But he knew that he could not economize his way out of the financial free fall the World had taken since Hearst's arrival in New York. Unless he, or his editors, came up with a solution, Pulitzer's fate would be like that of Dana and the Sun in 1884. The World would recede into history as an interesting episode in American journalism.\n\nNo one was exempt from the reductions\u2014not even Kate, who did not take kindly to the idea. Several years before, she and Joseph had worked out an agreement that she was to receive $6,000 a month to run the household and to cover her personal expenses and those of the children. But Kate continued to accumulate debts in Europe and New York. She told Butes the bills had to be paid. \"I count, as I always do, upon you,\" she wrote, \"to make things as little disagreeable as possible.\n\n\"Money is such a contemptible thing to so constantly fight about,\" Kate told Butes, whom she had come to treat as a confidant. \"I do not ask it for myself for I can do without money, the things I should love to do\u2014the charities, the enumerable helpful things I could do for the openly poor and for the poor too proud and too well born to make their wants known. This is one of my crosses.\"\n\nIn August 1897, Kate and Joseph were with their children at Chatwold in Maine. It was a rare moment of togetherness for the family, which had spread itself across two continents. Though Joseph and Kate often bickered about money, Kate had reconciled herself to her marriage. She had terminated her amorous relationship with Brisbane the previous year. \"Separate you from me, if you think you must for your own peace of mind,\" Brisbane wrote upon receiving Kate's Dear John letter. \"I am what I am, and I think you have seen and known the best of me.\n\n\"You know that I admire you, and you know my other feelings. I do not write freely about such things, even on an anonymous machine,\" Brisbane typed. Yet, he offered a frank assessment of their differences. \"I know first of all that no living man could ever satisfy you\u2014and no dead one for that matter,\" he wrote. \"As regards my feeling\u2014change in my regard for you, etc.\u2014you are entirely wrong. When you have urged me to make promises as to what I would or would not do, I have always told you that I could not make promises, and I think I have been more frank and truthful than many men would be\u2014if they felt the anxiety I feel to have your good opinion.\"\n\nIn the fall of 1897, Brisbane and Joseph broke up also. Brisbane yearned to write a column, with a byline, in the Evening World, over which Pulitzer had given him dominion. However, Pulitzer was unbending in his prohibition of signed editorial columns. Brisbane went ahead with his plan anyway. An angry Pulitzer suspended him. It was hardly a punishing move, now that the Journal's doors were open to any disgruntled editor from the World.\n\nHearst offered to put Brisbane in charge of the Evening Journal and to give him a high enough salary to repay the $8,000 in advances he had taken from Pulitzer, with the promise of a bonus for a circulation increase. Brisbane would remain with Hearst for thirty-nine years and would become the nation's highest-paid editor and one of its best-read columnists.\n\nThe social season at Bar Harbor was in full swing. \"August follows in the wake of July with an array of brilliant events that must almost turn the summer girl's head,\" said one giddy society columnist. The Pulitzers joined in by giving Lucille a lavish coming-out party. Joseph, who continually complained about Kate's extravagances, agreed to spend $10,000 on the event. Chatwold \"was transformed into a fairyland,\" according to one newspaper in Maine. More than 120 guests attended, most leaving with party favors\u2014canaries in cages.\n\nLucille made a classic debutante. She had Kate's abundant brown hair, sought-after porcelain skin, and her father's deep-set eyes, which conveyed an air of melancholy. \"She was a most beautiful young girl, spiritual of face and distinguished in manner and with talents seldom equaled by a society girl of the Bar Harbor colony,\" said one observer. Of all his children, Lucille was the one who had not disappointed Joseph. She was most like him and the most willing to follow his social proscriptions and educational prescriptions. In comparison with her sisters, she took little interest in society and instead applied herself to her studies, learning to speak half a dozen languages, play musical instruments, and draw.\n\nNot long after the lavish soiree, Lucille developed a fever and complained of other ailments. Doctors diagnosed typhoid fever, which she had probably contracted from contaminated food or water. Cables summoned more doctors, including many of the physicians who had attended Pulitzer in New York and Europe. Nurses were assigned to Lucille's care twenty-four hours a day. Using steam and electricity, the house was heated and moistened like a tropical greenhouse. Despite everyone's best efforts, the disease took its brutal course.\n\nIn October there was some improvement in the girl's health. \"Thank God,\" Pulitzer wrote to his friend Tom Davidson, \"Lucille is better and we are again hopeful of her convalescence.\" Merrill told Brisbane the good news. \"I am sure you know that I am very glad of that,\" Brisbane wrote to Kate, \"very glad for Lucille's own sake and very glad to think that you are free from worry.\" It was a false hope. The patient's condition worsened again, and by December there was little optimism in the house. \"Poor Lucille is still very ill and I need not tell you that I have been worried almost to death,\" Pulitzer wrote to Davidson. \"I have a frightful headache and am sick at heart and all broken up by Lucille's grave condition.\"\n\nAs the winter holidays neared, Lucille rallied. She had made sure that each family member had a present. The Pulitzers spent Christmas Day together in her bedroom, joined by some of the household help to whom she was attached. Joseph, feeling more confident about Lucille's condition, made plans to move on to Jekyll Island after New Year's and sent his horse and a dozen servants ahead. Lucille's improvement, however, was a final, cruel deception. With both parents, and her brothers and sisters, by her side, Lucille died six days later, at four o'clock on New Year's Eve.\n\nIt was left to Butes to inform the World. \"Grieved to tell you poor Lucille just died,\" he telegraphed Norris. \"Chief much broken. Send him no business.\"\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Four\n\n## YELLOW\n\nIn the early morning of January 2, 1898, a private train lumbered from the railyard in Bangor, Maine, and headed south to pick up the Pulitzers at the Mount Desert ferry. The family had already held Lucille's funeral service at Chatwold, and all that remained now was to accompany her body home to New York. Two days later, on a cold morning, they gathered before a plot at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx that had been purchased fourteen years earlier for Lucille's baby sister Katherine. Reverend William Stephen Rainsford, the rector of the tony St. George's Church, read from the Book of Common Prayer as fine snow swirled in the breezes and thousands celebrated the early opening of the skating season in the adjacent Van Cortlandt Park.\n\nThis was the second time the Pulitzers had buried a child. For Joseph, the ritual was a sorrowful return to his own childhood, when he saw all but one of his eight siblings go to the grave. Now, he was staggered by the loss of Lucille. For years afterward, Pulitzer looked for ways to commemorate her life. At first, he settled on establishing a perpetual Lucille Pulitzer Scholarship at Barnard College. In the end, he quietly dedicated one of his two most famous legacies to her. Only the inscription in the floor of the marble foyer of the Columbia University Journalism College reveals that the famous school was built in the \"memory of my daughter Lucille.\"\n\nIn death as in sickness, Lucille had brought Joseph, Kate, and the children together in a single place at a single time.\n\nThe moment didn't last long. Joseph left immediately for Jekyll Island with two of the children. Kate returned to the house on Fifty-Fifth Street and to the care of her physician. She remained indoors for a month until her doctor convinced her that a trip would be beneficial. She enlisted her much-favored cousin Winnie Davis, who, never having married her Yankee beau, had come to spend increasing time in Kate's company. Together, with Ralph, on leave from Harvard, they departed for a sightseeing journey in Egypt.\n\nMeanwhile, Joseph remained in deep seclusion on Jekyll Island, with his faithful Dr. Hosmer, Butes, and a few aides for company. In a tender moment, he sent Kate an unusually warm message that included no reproaches. \"Darling,\" she wrote back, \"your telegram gave me great pleasure as any word of tenderness from you always does.\" Knowing that her communication would be read aloud, she continued, \"Dr. Hosmer must hide his blushes now\u2014I slept with it under my pillow. I think I forget I am an old married woman with five great children.\"\n\nThe warmth between the two dissipated as Joseph's mood once again turned dark and frantic. He wanted Ralph to be working at the paper in New York rather than traipsing through Egypt with Kate. He became obsessed with this idea and didn't trust his secretaries to forward his orders. \"He took the cable to the office himself as he evidently suspected Butes might not send it,\" Hosmer wrote to Kate. \"The sudden change followed an attack of indigestion after two hours of work in his usual overwhelming style.\"\n\nFive hundred miles due south from Jekyll Island, on the moonless night of February 15, 1898, Lieutenant John Hood took a seat on the port side of the battleship Maine, anchored in Havana Bay. As chief watch officer, Hood had the duty of keeping vigil. His charge, the largest ship in the harbor, was the white-hulled Maine.* President McKinley had directed it to Havana two weeks earlier in a high-wire act of diplomatic and symbolic gestures aimed at placating the growing ranks of American supporters of Cuban independence while at the same time averting war with Spain.\n\nHood hoisted his feet onto the rail and looked across the harbor at the lights of the city twinkling on the calm water's surface. In a flash, his reverie was shattered by an explosion coming from the front of the vessel. The massive ship lurched upward and was engulfed in flames. The harbor was illuminated by a brilliant white light. The repercussion burst windows and caused late-night strollers to dash for cover. Two of the World's correspondents ran to the harbor. Gazing across the water, they saw the Maine burning, its sinking hull lit by an exploding shell from the battleship's magazine. As it went off in the sky above, two ships circled below in search of survivors. There were fewer than ninety. Two-hundred-sixty-six men had died.\n\nLater that night, the Associated Press bulletin of the disaster broke the predawn calm in the World's city room in New York, where editors had just put the early editions to bed. The AP dispatch was soon followed by that of the paper's correspondents on the scene in Havana. Among those who got the news from the early edition of the World as it hit the streets was Arthur Brisbane, who by then had joined Carvalho and other World refugees at the Journal.\n\nHis boss already knew. An early-morning telephone call from the office had awakened Hearst.\n\n\"Have you put anything else on the front page?\" Hearst asked the editor who called.\n\n\"Only the other big news,\" he replied.\n\n\"There is not any other big news. Please spread the story all over the page. This means war.\"\n\nWithin twenty-four hours, the Journal was blaming the Spaniards for the destruction of the Maine and the loss of life. DESTRUCTION OF THE WAR SHIP MAINE WAS THE WORK OF AN ENEMY...NAVAL OFFICIALS THINK MAINE WAS DESTROYED BY A SPANISH MINE, screamed its front page, above a drawing showing a Spanish mine. The World began its coverage in a more circumspect fashion. MAINE EXPLOSION CAUSED BY BOMB OR TORPEDO? asked its headline, above its illustration of the ship exploding. But soon, its editors sounded as shrill as Hearst's: WORLD'S LATEST DISCOVERIES INDICATE MAINE WAS BLOWN UP BY SUBMARINE MINE.\n\nPresident McKinley begged the public to be patient while experts worked to determine the cause of the explosion. In the din, no one heard his pleas, especially on Park Row where the disaster released a pent-up war fever. The Cuban struggle, a dramatic and poignant fight for liberty so close to the American coast, was a story made for the newspapers. During the past two years, the World and the Journal had exploited every angle of the rebellion. It made for great reading, especially as the papers enlisted such writers as Stephen Crane and Richard Harding Davis. At times, the newspapers made their own news. The Journal, for instance, helped engineer the escape of an eighteen-year-old Spanish prisoner, described as Cuba's Joan of Arc, and brought her to New York.\n\nAll journalistic conventions were thrown aside. It was almost as if the pages were not wide enough to accommodate either the headlines or the incendiary drawings. From the start, Hearst rode at the head of the pack clamoring for war. He led his reporters like troops into battle, dispatching artists and reporters by the dozen to Cuba, engaging yachts to ferry politicians to the island, offering rewards to anyone who could prove how the Spanish had blown up the Maine, and hammering the president for resisting the call to war. Every day the Journal outdid the World in size, scope, and drama, and often in readers. The Journal became the first American newspaper to circulate more than 1 million copies of its morning and evening editions, a goal Pulitzer had long sought for the World.\n\nThere was an atmosphere of desperation under the gold dome of the Pulitzer Building as the publisher remained secluded on Jekyll Island, grieving over Lucille's death. The staff, from the editors at the top to the reporters on the beat, consisted of men and women whose loyalty ran so deep they had chosen to cast their lot with Pulitzer rather than Hearst. They were willing to do anything for their absent general, and not out of loyalty alone. Everyone knew that Pulitzer was pouring his own money into the paper to make up for the losses induced by Hearst. For those who remained at the World, losing to Hearst could mean the end to their careers.\n\nThe staff struggled to match the Journal, but lacked the resources to compete effectively with Hearst. Unhappy at the prospect of subsidizing his money-losing papers, Pulitzer had ordered widespread budget cuts before the excitement over the Maine. To pay for the World's new Hoe color presses, Pulitzer had to sell stock. He even ordered an audit of Kate's spending. It found only a $20 discrepancy among the 2,472 checks written the prior year to cover her $77,000 in expenses.\n\nThe epic battle did not pit Hearst against Pulitzer. Rather, it was Hearst against Pulitzer's leaderless troops in a helter-skelter twenty-four-hour-a-day competition. \"An epoch of delirious journalism began the like of which newspaper readers had never known,\" said Charles Chapin, who was beginning his tenure as one of Pulitzer's most famous city editors. Unable to match Hearst's corps of correspondents in Cuba, the World took to pilfering stories from the Journal to fill out its coverage, a sin with which the Journal was not entirely unacquainted.\n\nNo more stinging trap could have been laid than the one the Journal concocted for its rival. It was the same ruse Pulitzer had used to trick the Star when he was in St. Louis. The Journal printed a phony report about the heroics of a \"Colonel Reflipe W. Thenuz,\" who was fatally wounded. After the World published its account of the good colonel's deeds, lifted entirely from the Journal, Hearst's headquarters gleefully announced that the colonel's name was an anagram that spelled \"We pilfer the news.\"\n\nIn April, when Pulitzer returned to New York, he surveyed a wreck. The World was losing its battle with Hearst, and losing badly. The newspaper that had once set the news agenda for the city, and sometimes for the nation, was engaged in a futile game of catch-up. \"It has been beaten on its own dunghill by the Journal, which has bigger type, bigger pictures, bigger war scares, and a bigger bluff,\" Town Topics gleefully reported. \"If Mr. Pulitzer had his eyesight he would not be content to play second fiddle to the Journal and allow Mr. Hearst to set the tone.\"\n\nFrom the command post of his house, Joseph again tried to fix what ailed the World. Ralph was also back in the city, having jumped on the first available ship in Cairo after receiving his father's recall order. He was bewildered and filled with anxiety about his father's command, but Joseph hardly noticed his arrival. \"Mr. P. is solidly absorbed in the paper and the war times just now,\" Pulitzer's man George Ledlie reported to Kate, \"and though I am forbidden to say so\u2014looks and seems very well.\"\n\nTrying once more to rearrange the hierarchy in his paper, Pulitzer decided that the triumvirate, which he called \"the sacred college,\" was a failure. The World needed a captain, one among the men who would have more power than the others. He turned to Bradford Merrill, whom he had recruited from the New York Press two years earlier. Merrill was summoned to the house.\n\n\"You are to have general supervision over all editions of the World, subject only to my own instructions and that of the board of managers, of which you are a member,\" Pulitzer told him. \"I want things done, and I don't want time wasted on consultations. I want men in charge to act, not wait for someone else.\"\n\nPulitzer was eager to put the brakes on the paper's outlandish journalistic practices. Under Merrill, each edition was to have one editor in charge. \"But,\" said Pulitzer firmly, \"this does not relieve you of your duty of reading the papers every day, criticizing, complaining, stopping bad tendencies, killing bad schemes, vetoing sensationalism, suggesting, proposing, curbing, stimulating.\"\n\nConfident that Merrill would keep the staff in check, Pulitzer turned to the question of the day: should the United States go to war? There was no doubt that the Journal was champing at the bit for war. The Sun said war could not come soon enough. Almost every major metropolitan newspaper favored either war or the threat of one if Spain did not comply with American demands.\n\nPulitzer joined the chorus. But to do so he had to support war only as a last resort, in order not to contradict his support of international arbitration three years earlier during the Venezuelan crisis. He had not renounced the idea. Only the year before, he had instructed Seitz to publish a pamphlet on arbitration and send it to every member of the Senate \"with compliments of the World.\"\n\n\"If we are on the brink of a conflict it is due to the deliberate policy of Spain\u2014not to a desire for war by our people, by our President, or by our Congress. If Spain were to yield, even now, peace would be assured,\" Pulitzer began his signed editorial that appeared on his fifty-first birthday. \"God forbid that the World should ever advocate an unnecessary war!\" But, listing instigations ranging from the years of Spanish oppression in Cuba to the destruction of the Maine, he said the time had come for military intervention. \"No lover of peace, no lover of justice, no lover of his country ought to hesitate in urging the government to strike one swift and decisive blow, now that the conflict is made inevitable by the mad folly of Spain.\"\n\nThe war would be short and thus merciful, Pulitzer concluded. The government ought to send the fleet to Cuba and Puerto Rico, where it would easily overcome the Spanish. \"With these islands captured the affair will be over\u2014and Cuba free. It would hardly be a war, but it would be magnificent.\"\n\nOn April 19, 1898, Congress gave President McKinley authority to use force against Spain. Three weeks later, Commodore George Dewey sailed his squadron into Manila Bay in the Philippines and in six hours overwhelmed the Spanish ships in the harbor. By then, Pulitzer was already miles from New York.\n\nUpon completing his pro-war editorial, he left for England on the Majestic. Ledlie raised Kate's hopes that Joseph had overcome the grief he had felt on Jekyll Island and \"that you will be greeted on the other side by a reasonable gentleman who I think begins to be anxious to get over where you are.\" It was a wishful prognosis. Joseph remained unsettled by Lucille's death and distracted by the mortal combat facing his cherished World. He wandered aimlessly in England and France for several weeks. His somber mood was not even lightened when he saw Kate and his youngest daughter in Aix-les-Bains. \"When are we going to see you again?\" Constance wrote plaintively after her father departed without leaving a word.\n\nOn his return to the United States, Pulitzer could not bring himself to open Chatwold for the summer so soon after Lucille's slow death there. Compounding his anguish were an Atlantic crossing marred by asthma attacks and a discouraging consultation with his eye doctor upon reaching New York. Instead, Pulitzer engaged a mansion at Narragansett Pier, Rhode Island, on a sea bluff overlooking a beach where he walked each day in the company of one of his men.\n\nThe \"Journal's war,\" as Hearst called it, or the \"splendid little war,\" as a friend writing to Theodore Roosevelt described it, was a romp. Hundreds of thousands had volunteered for duty. Roosevelt gave up his post as assistant secretary of the navy to become a colonel of the U.S First Volunteer Cavalry, bound for Cuba. He sent a telegram to Brooks Brothers in New York to make him a uniform of blue cravenette. On the island, he led a regiment of Rough Riders in his famous charge up San Juan Hill. One of the most media-savvy politicians of the era, Roosevelt had made sure the press was along for the ride.\n\nBy the war's end in August, both the Journal and the World had achieved record heights of circulation but were drowning in an ocean of red ink. Pulitzer had no mother with profitable copper mines to pay for his deficits. The World's executives were summoned to Narragansett. The pressure was on to cut expenses. Pulitzer punishingly lectured the business manager, John Norris, for excessive spending, at one point pinning him against a railing on the boardwalk.\n\nAlso coming to Narragansett were Winnie Davis, now thirty-three years old, and her mother, Varina, who took up quarters in its fashionable resort hotel. Since returning from her trip to Egypt with Kate, Winnie had basked in her new fame as a writer. Her new novel, set in a summer house at Bar Harbor, was earning praise, and she remained the darling of the South. Only a few days before arriving in Rhode Island, Confederate veterans attending their annual reunion in Atlanta had thrown their hats into the air when she entered the hall to a general's proclamation of \"Comrades, behold our daughter!\"\n\nThe trip through the South, however, was too taxing for Winnie, whose health was fragile. After riding in an open carriage through a heavy summertime Atlanta rain, she fell ill. Upon reaching Narragansett, she was confined to her hotel room. At first the gastritis from which the doctors concluded she suffered seemed like a surmountable problem, but as the days wore on she continued to decline. In early September, the Rockingham Hotel closed for the season but permitted her to remain in her room. A short time later, the Pulitzer home once again was in turmoil as a young woman died.\n\nOn September 21, 1898, dressed in white muslin with white satin trim, Davis lay in a casket in the hotel lobby. The following day an escort of Union veterans escorted the coffin carrying the \"daughter of the confederacy\" to the train station, where Kate Pulitzer and others joined it for the journey to Richmond. Thousands waited there for the funeral. Pulitzer, who still avoided funerals whenever he could, left for Europe, taking with him David Graham Phillips, his favorite at the paper, who was now working as an editorial writer and whom he continued to groom for bigger things. Their stay in London and Paris was short, and by the end of the month they were back in New York.\n\nThe World was desperate for Pulitzer's attention. It clung to a tenuous lead over the Journal. Before the war, the average combined daily and Sunday circulation of the World had been 419,000, to the Journal's 270,000. Since then, the World had lost more than 78,000 readers while the Journal had gained 46,000. \"The circulation comparisons are menacing,\" Norris wrote to Pulitzer in a lengthy appraisal of the competitors' positions. On the advertising side, the situation was equally dire.\n\nNorris, along with Seitz, worked assiduously to deduce Hearst's income. They estimated that Hearst had spent $4 million in his first three years and that he had access to another $5 million. The Journal's circulation revenue was easy to compute. But it took rulers to measure the advertising space and rate cards to calculate the revenue from advertising. They determined that the Journal was earning less than half of what the World took in. But the Journal was coming on strong. A buoyant Hearst predicted that his paper would be profitable in 1899. More ominous for Pulitzer was that Hearst's success could not entirely account for the decline of his own paper. The World's decreases in circulation and advertising revenue exceeded the Journal's gains. As Seitz succinctly put it to Pulitzer, \"The World has lost more than the Journal has taken from it.\"\n\nFighting the Journal for readers on its terms had proved financially disastrous. The World was outmatched in every attempt to be more yellow than Hearst's editors and reporters. In the end, the effort left Pulitzer's reputation in tatters and his name inextricably linked to Hearst's. With the war\u2014the main excuse for the excesses\u2014at an end, Pulitzer decided that the time had come to try to restore some sanity to the World.\n\nAt eleven in the morning on November 28, 1898, the World's reporters from all shifts and beats gathered in the city room under the gold dome. From the windows, they could look beyond the East River, across to Brooklyn, and out to sea. All of Manhattan was at their feet, giving reporters who watched over the city day and night a cocky sense of power. On this day, one could hardly see across the room. Though it stretched out 100 feet or more, there was not much space for this large a group. The place was already crammed with typewriter-topped desks of antique ash, standing back to back, side to side, creating a maze of aisles. Pasted on the walls and columns were large printed cards that read: \"Accuracy, Accuracy!\" \"Who? What? When? How?\" and \"The Facts\u2014the Color\u2014the Facts.\"\n\nThe typewriters were still and the copy boys quiet as the men and women turned toward a platform at the end of the room, normally the city editor's perch, where Seitz; Merrill; William Van Benthuysen, the Sunday editor; and other managers stood. Never before had the reporters seen a meeting like this one. Each man took a turn speaking about the excesses of the past two years, confessing his own failings as if at an addiction meeting. \"The great mistakes which have been made\u2014I speak with modesty, because I have made a number of them myself\u2014have been caused by an excess of zeal,\" said Merrill.\n\n\"There is and has been for two years, as you know, a fierce competition,\" Seitz told the group. \"This has developed a tendency to rush things. It has not been to the advantage of any newspaper so doing. The World feels that it is time for the staff to learn definitely and finally that it must be a normal newspaper.\"\n\n\"Sensational? Yes, when the news is sensational,\" added Van Benthuysen. \"But the demand is this, that every story which is sensational in itself must also be truthful.\"\n\nIn St. Louis, Pulitzer's old competitor Charles Knapp, who published the Missouri Republican, now renamed the Republic, decided to make a bid to dominate the city's newspaper market. Ever since Pulitzer had left the city, Knapp had longed for a chance to merge with the Post-Dispatch as his competitor, the Missouri Democrat, had done with the Globe. At first, Pulitzer had been uninterested in selling his paper. But Knapp figured that the well-known headaches arising from Jones's tenure at the Post-Dispatch and the losses incurred by the World might have changed Pulitzer's mind. His initial contact confirmed his hunch, and Knapp left for the East.\n\nPulitzer assigned the business manager, Norris, to meet with Knapp in Washington. After days of discussion, with some sessions lasting eleven hours, they had made little headway. Pulitzer was no help. He sent Norris new demands each time the two negotiators made any progress. Pulitzer was of two minds. He said he was not averse to disposing of the Post-Dispatch, but he couldn't go through with it when he was faced with the reality of such a proposition. Pulitzer sent Norris bewildering instructions. \"You should drop it and not waste your time but concentrate on the World which needs you badly enough. But if Knapp should come back with something reasonable, you will communicate it. In fact, you will communicate to me anyhow what he says.\"\n\nWith Pulitzer blowing hot and cold, Knapp made a final effort. He went to Jekyll Island to meet Pulitzer directly. His timing was poor. Pulitzer was in a testy mood from frayed nerves and sleeplessness. A morning together and a lunch brought the two men no closer to an agreement than before. Knapp gave up and left.\n\nKate was also buffeted by Joseph's stormy temper. She made the mistake of writing him about a problem in New York involving a household servant. \"Mr. P. wishes not to be bothered on this matter any further,\" Butes wrote back. \"He read eight letters on the subject yesterday besides your own\u2014which is an outrageous waste of time.\n\n\"He is sorry you have not been able to come down here,\" Butes continued. \"And he asked you will not telegraph him as the expectation of telegrams keeps him in a very nervous condition. It is especially desirable that he should not get messages about sickness in the family unless really serious. They depress him and, of course, are unnecessary as he can be of no possible help.\"\n\nBy May 1899, when Pulitzer left for England in the company of his old partner Dillon and his son Ralph, he was in better spirits. A greater sense of calm had been restored at the World, and fiscally its house was being put in order. Although its circulation had dropped to prewar levels, so had its expenditures. It remained the best place in New York to advertise and the revenue now produced a profit rather than paying for far-flung war coverage, excessive press runs, and outlandish circulation campaigns.\n\nPulitzer told his staff to send no cables for a month, unless they were \"supremely important.\" In Kensington he leased a different manor from the last one, and was sorely disappointed. \"The barracks next door are just about as bad as they could possibly be, bugles at night, in the morning at six, there are four clocks or chimes, and peacocks in the neighborhood, all conspiring to spoil my much-needed repose.\"\n\nIn Britain, Pulitzer tested out several new secretarial candidates. The search for suitable companions remained an unsolvable problem for his aides. Pulitzer was impossible to please. Guests found being with him hard enough\u2014they had to put up with his strictures against slurping soup or crunching on toast\u2014but those who worked directly for him endured intolerable demands. One candidate, who quit after two weeks, told Pulitzer that one result of his having spent so many years bossing people was that he no longer knew how to relate to others. \"You have therefore become so used to command that any other position with regard to those always with you became impossible to you.\n\n\"You must forgive me a further observation. Like all very successful men you have a degree of contempt for those whose lives have been to some extent failures,\" continued the very frank candidate. \"You cannot help letting them feel that you regard them, through being in the necessity of taking such a position, an inferiority in life.\"\n\nPulitzer headed back to the United States without the hoped-for addition to his private staff. With the World past its crisis, he was eager to indulge his passion for presidential elections. Before sailing, Pulitzer told the British press that Bryan was likely to be the Democratic nominee in 1900 and hinted that the World might support his candidacy this time around. \"That all depends upon his good sense or folly,\" said Pulitzer. If Bryan was willing to drop his support of free silver, he would have a united party behind him, Pulitzer predicted. If he refused, he would lose.\n\nThat summer Pulitzer reopened Chatwold, which had been unoccupied for more than a year and a half. His return to his hideaway in Maine was marred by his dissatisfaction with the remodeling of the \"tower of silence.\" When he inspected his study he found that it was still not soundproof, and the lighting proved inadequate. The builder wanted $108,000, 250 percent more than the initial estimate. Pulitzer refused to pay the bill.\n\nHis house in New York also created unexpected expenses. The city's fire marshal warned Pulitzer that unless he made some alterations, the house's current condition might prove disastrous. He reminded Pulitzer that two fires had already occurred because of defective flues. Pulitzer, who had survived the deadly fire at the Southern Hotel in St. Louis, was not one to argue. He fixed the flues, constructed an enclosed fire escape in the rear of the building, repaired the electric lights, and installed a fire alarm in his valet's room.\n\nKate joined Joseph in Maine only briefly, preferring instead to divide her time between New York and Hot Springs, Virginia. Joseph's intolerant behavior had not abated since his grief-filled stay on Jekyll Island, and her patience with him was at a low point. It didn't help, either, that Joseph had instructed his cashier to cut $160 from her $6,000 monthly allowance, for customs duty he had paid on her behalf. Angus Shaw, the World's cashier, who was used to being in the financial crossfire between the couple, warned her, \"I suppose you will understand it, but I thought it best to let you know in case of any misunderstanding.\"\n\nThe relationship was getting back to normal.\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Five\n\n## THE GREAT GOD SUCCESS\n\nOne icy night in February 1891, firefighters responding to a call from the New York post office were told that cries could be heard coming from one of the ventilation shafts on the sidewalk. The tin vents led from an underground engine room where the fire was raging, and flames were coming up through them. When the firefighters toppled the vent, a thirteen-year-old boy scrambled out, mostly unhurt. Told that his friend was still inside, the rescuers saw what appeared to be a bundle of burning rags. They reached in and pulled out a seventeen-year-old newsboy, John Gardarino, his clothes on fire.\n\nGardarino was one of thousands of children on whose work the fortunes of Pulitzer and other newspaper barons rested. In cold or heat, in rain or shine, these boys stood on street corners; in front of theaters, restaurants, and clubs; in train stations; and on the docks hawking Park Row's newspapers. In the end, for all their high-speed color presses, telegraph lines connecting all points on the globe, and other technological marvels, the newspapers needed this army of street urchins to reach their readers.\n\nThe injured teenager had made the fatal mistake of curling up in the ventilation shaft for the night. He could not face his family, in a Crosby Street tenement, because he had failed to sell all his newspapers that day\u2014or perhaps had gambled away his earnings in a crap game. Because of his shame, he lay dying in a New York hospital.\n\nNewsies, as boys like Gardarino were called, played a particularly prominent role in the cutthroat competition between Pulitzer's Evening World and Hearst's Evening Journal. Despite their names, these editions began publishing in the morning and continued all day. When the news merited \"extras,\" they might be on the streets every hour of the day and late into the night, numbered in bewildering fashion, and even printed on paper of different colors in order to gain a competitive edge. On any street corner, a New Yorker with a penny could buy a newspaper with news as fresh as the ink.\n\nSince most copies of the evening papers were sold on the street, rather than delivered to homes like the morning paper, their sales depended greatly on a partnership between the headline writers and the newsies\u2014almost like that of a playwright and an actor. The editors would craft an oversize attention-grabbing headline, and the newsies would work the street by calling it out. The right kind of headline\u2014TINY TOT WITH PENNY CLUTCHED IN CHUBBY HAND DIES UNDER TRAM BEFORE MOTHER'S EYES\u2014could clean out an entire run of the paper.\n\nThe Spanish-American War had been a boon for newsboys. They sold every copy of the World or Journal they could carry, even when the papers increased their press runs. Inside the Pulitzer building, however, the World's managers desperately sought ways to comply with the publisher's order to stem its deficit. Raising its price was out of the question, because that would be a signal of defeat in the struggle against Hearst. Cutting salaries was also out of the question. Reporters would jump to the Journal, and the unionized compositors and printers were untouchable.\n\nThe newsies became the target of choice. The World raised the wholesale price of the paper from 50 cents per 100 to 60 cents. The Journal also raised its wholesale price, but all the other newspapers did not. Trimming a dime from a newsboy's take might not seem like much. But when this amount was spread over the paper's vast circulation, it could make up an entire annual deficit of nearly $1 million. Pulitzer's managers bet that the ragtag collection of immigrant children, who often didn't even speak the same language, could hardly put up much resistance.\n\nThey were wrong.\n\nAt first, the newsies tolerated the price increase. Selling sixty papers was easy during the wartime excitement. But in 1899, when newspaper sales decreased at the end of hostilities, the newsies grew anxious. Each day as they lined up on Park Row to get their bundles, the decision of how many papers to purchase weighed on their minds. Buy too few and miss out on profitable sales; buy too many and lose money.\n\nThe newsies demanded that the World and the Journal return to their prewar wholesale price, the same as other newspapers charged. Pulitzer and Hearst refused. On July 18, 1899, a delivery driver for the World in Long Island City stuffed his bundles with free sample copies of the paper and sold them to unsuspecting newsboys. When they figured out what had happened, they demanded their money back. He refused, and the boys tipped his wagon over and ran him off. Word of their action spread and soon all the newsies were on strike. Within a day, customers looking for their afternoon paper found newsboys without newspapers and signs pinned to their jackets such as \"Please don't buy the Evening Journal and World, because the newboys has striked\" or \"I ain't a scab.\"\n\nThe strike exacted an immediate toll on the evening papers. \"You could walk a mile without seeing one,\" one correspondent wrote home. Pulitzer got word of the strike just as he arrived in Bar Harbor after months in Europe. \"Practically all the boys in New York and in many of the adjacent towns have quit selling,\" Seitz told his boss. \"A call is out for a mass meeting of the boys in front of the Pulitzer Building and we have just been compelled to ask the police for assistance in the matter.\" The other newspapers were of no help. Except for the Journal, they were not targets of the boys' strike and were jubilantly running editorials in support of it.\n\nBut enemies with a common foe can find ground for cooperation. Two days after the newsboys began their action, Hearst's business manager Solomon Carvalho and Seitz got together. \"I have just been over to see Carvalho in a long conference in the matter,\" Seitz told Pulitzer. \"We have determined to hire as many men as possible Monday to man selling points in sufficient force to overwhelm any assault that could be made upon them and to force a representation of the paper on the streets.\"\n\nAdvertisers abandoned the papers in droves and demanded refunds as the circulation of the Evening Journal and the Evening World collapsed. \"It is really a very extraordinary demonstration,\" Seitz told Pulitzer. \"The people seem to be against us; they are encouraging the boys and tipping them and where they are not doing this, they are refraining from buying the papers for fear of having them snatched from their hands.\"\n\nUsing homeless men whom Seitz had recruited, many under protection of the police, the evening editions of the Journal and World returned to the streets on Monday and managed to remain for several days, but with far reduced sales. \"Our policy of putting men out was not helpful,\" Seitz admitted to Pulitzer, \"yet it was the only thing that could be done. We had to have representation and the absolute disappearance of the paper was appalling.\"\n\nAs the strike continued, Seitz kept Pulitzer informed at all times of the paper's hard-line policy, including the use of police to break up gatherings of the children. When they could, the boys attacked scabs, although, in a chivalrous gesture, they stayed clear of a few newsstands run by women. They did their best to continue their strike. \"Ain't that ten cents worth as much as it is to Hearst and Pulitzer who are millionaires,\" Kid Blink, one of their leaders, told the thousands of newsies who came to a rally. But problems soon emerged. Blink was chased by strikers who thought he had been bought off when they spotted him near Park Row wearing new clothes and carrying a roll of bills. Other leaders were similarly accused of accepting bribes, and an increasing number of boys were seen selling the boycotted papers again.\n\nA clever ruse brought an end to the strike. The World and the Journal told their agents and drivers to start permitting the newsboys to return unsold copies for credit. This modest improvement was enough to bring the boys back to work. However, 60 percent of the income would continue to remain with the newspapers. Absorbing the modest cost of some unsold papers was a small price for this victory. Furthermore, the credit scheme would create an incentive for the newsies to remain on the street longer, selling fresher editions of the newspaper.\n\nFacing the resolute partnership of the Journal and the World, and weakened by the collapse of their leadership and by desertions among their ranks, the newsboys surrendered on the afternoon of July 26. \"The leaders came in to me and threw up their hands,\" Seitz said. He immediately wired Pulitzer. \"Strike broken. Much work required to restore circulation and rehabilitate the paper with the public.\" He then announced the strike's end to the newspapers.\n\nIt had taken the two powerful newspapers only a week to dispense with this publicly awkward and economically powerless challenge. All through it, Pulitzer had remained silent. Twenty years earlier, during his first months of running the Post-Dispatch, he had been similarly confronted by newsboys who wanted a higher share of the paper's sale price. He stood his ground then, without resorting to strike breakers or the police, and even expressing sympathy with the newsboys' demands. At that time, however, as a struggling publisher trying to resurrect a bankrupt newspaper, he had limited financial options.\n\nThis was no longer an excuse. The World was the richest and most successful newspaper enterprise in the nation. At any time Pulitzer could have put an end to the strike by giving the boys a chance to sell the World at the same rate as they sold other papers. But he chose not to. Although he himself had once been a teenager living on the streets of New York, Pulitzer showed no mercy over a dime.\n\nWhen David Graham Phillips completed his brief tour as the World's London correspondent, Pulitzer brought him back. First, Phillips worked on the news side of the paper. Then, at the suggestion of Brisbane (before he left to join Hearst), Pulitzer moved his prot\u00e9g\u00e9 to the editorial page. This was the rarest of benedictions. The editorial page was the most important part of the World for Pulitzer. \"As Mary Stuart said about her heart being left in France as she sailed for Scotland,\" he later confessed to Hosmer, my \"heart was and still is in the editorial page and will be in spirit.\"\n\nPhillips was one of four men assigned to William Merrill in charge of \"the Page,\" as it was reverently called. The quartet included John Dillon, Pulitzer's original partner on the Post-Dispatch; George Eggleston, who had worked with Pulitzer on fighting Bryan in 1896; and James W. Clarke, known for his interviews. Housed in the dome, they worked in small cubbyholes. Phillips turned his into such a mess that the cleaning woman complained about the crumbled balls of paper\u2014from false starts on editorials\u2014strewn over the floor.\n\nThe pressure was immense. Not only were the opinions of the World read in the seats of government and widely reproduced by other newspapers, but they never escaped the attention of the boss. Every editorial of importance was read aloud twice to Pulitzer. He pushed the men to produce their best possible work, often admonishing them to write less but better. He wanted the paper to speak with one voice. \"Indeed, you might talk to Dillon and Phillips and request them 'for the 400th time' to write in a similar vein,\" Pulitzer instructed Merrill.\n\nOne could never please Pulitzer. One moment he would ban comments on political subjects, only to complain later that the page was devoid of politics. In the summer of 1899, in the midst of the newsboys' strike, he unloaded his complaints. He telegraphed Merrill and instructed that his words be read aloud to Phillips and Eggleston. \"It is dictated, as you see, angrily but yet deliberately for telegraphing,\" Pulitzer said. \"Either the editors have opinions which they are afraid to express, or they have no opinions. In either case they do not do their duty. I am tired of being both a scapegoat and scarecrow; held responsible for the very things I dislike.\"\n\nDespite the outburst, which most of his writers knew would pass like a summer storm, Pulitzer continued to view Phillips as his potential journalistic heir. He reserved personal guidance for Phillips that he gave no one else. Inviting him to Bar Harbor at the end of the summer, Pulitzer promised that together they would review his work and development since he had joined the World. \"Promise me also to insist very emphatically\u2014for I am so cowardly about criticizing sensitive and delicate, likeable persons, that I am sure to run away from it unless you use a club,\" Pulitzer continued. \"Promise me further that you will use that club\u2014with the understanding that it is for your own good, for the sake of your future. Mine is behind me, as you know.\"\n\nPulitzer, however, was unaware that Phillips had a different future in mind. Over drinks, Phillips told his friends that he would remain in journalism only as long as it taught him about writing and life. In the meantime, it was providing him with the material for his first novel. In his off-hours, holed up in his room at a Washington Square boarding house between Sullivan and MacDougal streets, Phillips was crafting a novel whose central character was an amalgam of Phillips's own experiences in journalism and his observations of Pulitzer. \"I had a chance to see the truth, even if the editorials didn't permit me to tell it,\" Phillips said. \"I was impressed with the awful failures among men who were avowed great worldly successes. How unhappy they were, how puerile in their motives, how unattainable happiness or contentment was to them.\"\n\nIn Phillips's novel, The Great God Success, a young man much like himself takes a job on a New York daily. The tone of the novel is set early. \"Journalism is not a career,\" a seasoned reporter tells the central character, who is named Howard. \"It is either a school or a cemetery. A man may use it as a stepping-stone to something else. But if he sticks to it, he finds himself an old man, dead and done for to all intents and purposes years before he's buried.\"\n\nTo avoid this fate, Phillips continued to work secretly on his book.\n\nFollowing the settlement of the newsies' strike, complaints from distributors about the wholesale price of the papers brought Seitz and Carvalho back together. Carvalho told Seitz that the lesson from the past month was clear. \"When I saw the advantage we had gained by co-operation during the newsboys strike,\" he said, \"I went to Hearst and said that it seemed to me now was a good time to undertake an arrangement with the World.\"\n\nThe two managers first began working on a d\u00e9tente in 1897, when Hearst proposed that the Journal and the World might find it more profitable to divide the market rather than compete endlessly. The idea was compelling enough for the publishers to meet face-to-face for the first, and only, time in their lives. At the meeting, kept secret from the press, Hearst told Pulitzer that if they could come to an agreement he was willing to diminish the scope of his paper, freeing Pulitzer to raise the price of the World. \"That is to say,\" said Seitz, who had been part of the negotiations, \"Hearst was then willing to return to his original one-cent plan of a real one-cent paper, while the World could return to its class as a two-cent paper.\"\n\nProposals for a peace treaty ran into rough water as soon as the men tried to specify the details. One stumbling block was Pulitzer's continued effort to keep Hearst from using Associated Press wire copy. Ever since his days in St. Louis, Pulitzer had placed an inordinate value on such memberships. A few months before he and Hearst held their summit, a competitor of the AP's, United Press (unrelated to the present-day UPI), went out of business. Its subscribers in New York scrambled to apply for AP membership. The Herald, Times, and Tribune all were accepted, but Pulitzer used his position on the AP board to veto Hearst's application. Without any wire service, Hearst would be at an enormous competitive disadvantage. But he resorted to a trick Pulitzer had used in St. Louis. Hearst bought the New York Morning Advertiser, folded it into his own paper, and gained its AP membership for his morning edition.\n\nKeenly aware of the early failures to broker a peace agreement and the continued hostility between their bosses, Seitz and Carvalho began talking in August 1899, to try again to work out some sort of agreement. Prior to the meeting, Seitz had been to Bar Harbor to receive his instructions for the negotiations. \"We will consider any proposition on good faith, that we are and have been from the start, acting on the defensive and fully realizing about the absurdity, un-durability, and profligacy of this competition, which sooner or later must come to an end,\" Pulitzer told Seitz. \"The natural common sense of the situation is to bring it to an end on terms mutually beneficial by combination instead of competition, and by a combination which if possible should be a radical parting of the ways, giving each a field to itself, rather than paralleling the identical ground.\"\n\nCombination instead of competition. In short, Pulitzer was proposing a conspiracy to restrain trade, not unlike the trusts and monopolies that his paper attacked almost daily. \"All trusts are not monstrous,\" Pulitzer later told Phillips. But even under the loosest interpretations of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act, passed nine years ago with his support, what Pulitzer sought was illegal. The idea was a betrayal of his avowed principles.\n\nRemaining in Bar Harbor, Pulitzer dictated a memo summing up his discussions with Seitz. \"Please don't mention my desire for peace any more than as a personal feeling,\" he said. \"It is of supreme importance to show no anxiety whatever.\" Pulitzer was worried his competitors might use his infirmity to their advantage. \"They would quickly seize upon either anxiety or personal weakness and physical difficulties\u2014on which they have already banked.\" He wanted Seitz to bargain from a position of power, not of necessity. \"I will never negotiate under threats.\"\n\nPulitzer placed high hopes on the negotiations. As Seitz and Carvalho prepared to meet, he warned Seitz not to let the other side know that the Post-Dispatch was making money and that the penalty clause they devised for the treaty needed to be strong. \"The point is simply to secure confidence in the scrupulous enforcement of the agreement, which is worthless unless both parties have confidence in it,\" Pulitzer said. \"Probably both are afraid of each other.\"\n\nLike a nervous suitor, Pulitzer became increasingly anxious as the two sides approached each other. He received a friendly personal message from Hearst and told Seitz to acknowledge it and to let Hearst know that while it might seem impolite not to reply personally, he wanted the negotiators to focus on potential penalties for breaking any final agreement. \"Please deliver this in person to Hearst himself, but verbally\u2014not giving it in writing but in Carvalho's presence if he desires,\" Pulitzer said. Hours later, he changed his mind. \"Don't deliver Hearst message mailed yesterday till further notice,\" he urgently wired Seitz.\n\nUpon finally sitting down with Carvalho once again, Seitz announced that Pulitzer was willing to consider any proposition, however radical, but had none in mind himself. \"The burden of the negotiations, therefore,\" Seitz told Carvalho, \"gets back to us, and, primarily, it seems to me that the first step is to devise some method of dividing the field.\"\n\n\"How would you do it?\" asked Carvalho.\n\nFrom the start, both agreed that any combination would have to include raising the price of both papers to two cents. \"As I said at Bar Harbor,\" Seitz reminded Pulitzer, \"I believe that we would get right up against the two cent proposition in very short order. I believe now that WE ARE THERE.\" But vexing details remained. They had to find a way to collude on advertising rates and develop business practices that kept the cooperation secret.\n\nWhile the men negotiated, John Norris lunched with Adolph Ochs, who three years earlier had bought the money-losing New York Times. The paper was making large gains in circulation since it had dropped its price and adopted Ochs's style of objective reporting, expressed by the paper's new motto \"All the News That's Fit to Print.\" (The motto of Ochs's paper in Chattanooga had been \"It Does Not Soil the Breakfast Cloth.\") Ochs told Norris in confidence that Carvalho had also approached him to see if the Times would go along with a price increase to two cents. Ochs favored the idea but told Carvalho he was worried that someone would start a penny paper and undercut those who had raised their prices. Carvalho assured him it couldn't happen, because the wholesalers and distributors would not handle any new paper in return for the lower price.\n\nBy September, Seitz and Carvalho had completed a draft of an agreement for their bosses.\n\nPulitzer pledged to sign a deal, although he remained doubtful that the negotiations could produce a suitable one. \"It is difficult to direct a game by telegraph, from a distance, without seeing the gamesters' faces, or hearing their voices,\" he complained. The proposed contract that both newspapers raise their price to two cents, and only the evening editions would remain at a penny, that the papers would limit their size; and their advertising rates would be uniform. The publishers also would promise not to raid each other's staffs and not to engage in editorial warfare; and the Evening Journal would be permitted to have a membership in AP.\n\nWhen Norris reviewed the proposed treaty, he told Pulitzer it was a dangerous and foolish plan. Bradford Merrill had an even worse interpretation. He believed the contract would benefit only Hearst. The struggle between the papers was not about making money, Merrill said. It was a battle for supremacy. \"Now the fight can never be settled finally except by one or the other tacitly, at least, yielding the primacy. It cannot be settled by any contract or trust agreement to charge the same advertising rates or to advance the price to two cents. That would not settle the war. It would prolong it. It would give the enemy fresh sinews and fresh confidence. It would simply tie the two duelists together in an embrace so close that one could not for a long time tell the victor from the vanquished.\"\n\nPulitzer ignored both Norris's and Merrill's advice, and also that of Seitz, who, when asked, said he too opposed the plan. When the proposal was read to him, Pulitzer worked on strengthening the all-important enforcement clause. The draft suggested that if either side broke the terms, it would pay the other a sum of money. Pulitzer wanted to increase the size of the penalty to a minimum of $1 million. He told Seitz he would not sign any agreement unless it was \"ironclad fireproof.\"\n\nIf the two publishers were to create a secret, illegal combination, Pulitzer was correct that the penalty clause would be the most important part of the deal. Without a private remedy, the contract would be worthless, since it could not be enforced in court. Pulitzer, who had steadily railed against monopolies and trusts for almost thirty years and whose World had championed the passage of the Sherman act, voiced no qualms. He was tired and beleaguered by the trouble besetting the World since Hearst had come to town. He was willing to make a pact with the devil if he had to.\n\nAs with crushing the newsies' strike, social and economic justice had become an abstract notion for Pulitzer, suitable for others but not for him. All he wanted, Pulitzer confessed to Seitz, was a truce. \"That arrangement which will enable me to make the best possible paper in point of reputation and character, indulge my own inherent editorial and political tastes, and have no bother with business or other distractions. That is, peace.\"\n\nThe negotiations dragged on into the fall, stopping and starting as each publisher altered the work of his negotiators. Hearst frankly told Seitz, \"In short, we are willing to adopt Mr. Pulitzer's phrase and substitute 'Combination for Competition.'\" But in the end, neither side could figure out how to do it.\n\nWhile the two sides negotiated, Pulitzer dispatched Phillips on a special assignment. The journalist put aside his novel and set off on a cross-country tour of numerous cities to assess the political strength of President McKinley and his probable opponent, the silver-tongued orator William Jennings Bryan. Though Pulitzer remained leery, Bryan had risen in his estimation by becoming a strong foe of American imperialism. The United States' victory in the Spanish-American War had given it authority over Cuba\u2014and over the Philippines, where U.S. troops were trying to put down an insurrection using inhumane tactics like those of Spain.\n\n\"I cannot get over the fact that this man is rendering the most conspicuous service to the country, in his brilliant bold crusade against Imperialism,\" said Pulitzer, dictating detailed instructions to Phillips. \"I think the work he has done in this cause is inestimable, simply in arousing and aligning the entire Democratic party against what is, after all, the burning danger and evil, the first step on the path to ruin.\"\n\nPhillips was to end his reporting tour by visiting Bryan in Nebraska. \"I want you to write up Bryan at home, the real man; his real force, his character, influence et cetera. At the same time I want you to be kind to him, tell all the truth possible, strictly and exactly, but from a kindly rather than antipathetic point of view.\" Phillips was already a Bryan man, and Pulitzer was becoming one.\n\nWith the arrival of winter and his travels at an end, Phillips resumed work on his novel The Great God Success. His protagonist Howard was rising to power and fame as an editor and then as a publisher, following the same principles Pulitzer had used; as Howard put it, \"Catch the crowd, to interest it, to compel it to read, and so to lead it to think.\" Phillips based Howard's days as a reporter on his own life, but he modeled the character's time as a publisher on Pulitzer's. If there was anyone in Pulitzer's entourage who had been close enough to him to see the transformation in the onetime idealistic reformer, it was Phillips. Pulitzer\u2014blind, in misery with real and imagined ailments, and incapable of acknowledging the suffering of others\u2014had become entirely self-absorbed. His cause was himself. Phillips recognized the angst in Pulitzer and gave it to his fictional character.\n\n\"He could not deceive himself, nor can any man with the clearness of judgement necessary to great achievement,\" wrote Phillips about Howard. \"He was well aware that he had shifted from the ideal of use to his fellow-beings to the ideal of use of his fellow-beings, from the ideal of character to the ideal of reputation. And he knew that the two ideals cannot be combined and that he not only was not attempting to combine them but had no desire so to do. He despised his former ideals; but also he despised himself for despising them.\"\n\nOver time, Howard sells out\u2014first to a coal trust and then for a political appointment. As the book draws to a close, melancholy envelops him. \"And he fell to despising himself for the kind of exultation that filled him, its selfishness, its sordidness, the absence of all high enthusiasm,\" wrote Phillips. \"Why was he denied the happiness of self-deception? Why could he not forget the means, blot it out, now that the end was attained?\n\n\"The answer came\u2014because in those days, in the days of his youth, he had had beliefs, high principles; he had been incapable of slavery to appearances, to vain show, incapable of this passion for reputation regardless of character. His weaknesses were then weaknesses only, and not, as now, the laws of his being controlling his every act.\n\n\"He smiled cynically at the self of such a few years ago\u2014yet he could not meet those honest, fearless eyes that looked out at him from the mirror of memory.\"\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Six\n\n## FLEEING HIS SHADOW\n\nMuffled sounds of screaming woke Kate in the late-night hours of January 8, 1900. They came from directly underneath the window of her second-floor bedroom in the house on East Fifty-Fifth Street in New York. Through glass and heavy draperies, she made out the terrifying word \"Fire!\" One of their nearly two dozen household servants had seen flames at the rear of the house and was yelling for everyone to get out of the building.\n\nKate jumped from her bed and ran into the adjacent bedrooms, where eleven-year-old Constance and thirteen-year-old Edith were sleeping. Draping them with blankets, she led the children down the smoke-filled stairs to safety on the street, where she consigned them to a neighbor.\n\nJoseph was in Lakewood, New Jersey, where he had gone shortly after the new year with his son Joe. Ralph was back at Harvard. But three-year-old Herbert, the baby of the family, was still inside. Barefooted and clad only in her sleeping garment, Kate ran back into the burning house. Through the thickening smoke from flaming curtains, wall hangings, and paintings, she inched her way up the stairs to the third floor. There she found Herbert in the arms of his panicked nurse, who was standing on the windowsill preparing to jump. Kate held her back. Then, by alternately pushing and pulling them through blinding smoke down the hall and stairs, she guided them to safety on the first floor. The footman, who had sounded the alarm, tore a curtain off a rod and draped it over Kate's shoulders. With Herbert in her arms, she rejoined her two girls, who were safe in the house next door.\n\nIt took the firemen a full hour to contain the flames. The enclosed outside staircase, which Pulitzer had built at the suggestion of the fire marshal, had worked like a chimney in spreading the fire. As Kate and the children huddled in a neighboring house, the servants frantically tried to determine whether anyone was missing. Many of the staff members had fled from their top-floor bedrooms by climbing onto the roof and crossing over to adjacent houses.\n\nOne of the men said he had seen Morgan Jellett, Kate's personal secretary, turn back when she reached the roof, to retrieve from her room a satchel containing her Christmas presents. When firemen entered the house, they found Jellett's body on the third floor, the satchel in her hand. Near her lay the body of Elizabeth Montgomery, one of the governesses, dressed in her bathrobe and slippers. Also presumed dead was Rickey, a King Charles spaniel that had been a favorite of Lucille's.\n\nA telephone call was placed to Lakewood. Pulitzer was told of the fire and that his family was safe. News of the deaths was initially kept from him, out of fear that it might upset him. When he learned of it, he paid for the funeral expenses and sent donations to the fire and police departments. The flames destroyed three portraits of Kate, one of Joseph, and a vast collection of other paintings, as well as bronzes\u2014including a Buddha brought back from the Orient by James Creelman when he covered the Chinese-Japanese War\u2014and four large antique Gobelin tapestries. Kate's diamond necklace from the French crown jewel collection and her famous $150,000 pearl necklace were never found. In all, the losses amounted to more than $500,000.\n\nKate and the children took rooms at the Hotel Netherland, while the servants were put up in a nearby rooming house. In the afternoon, Kate dispatched someone to obtain the measurements of all the servants so as to order new clothes for them. From Lakewood, Joseph arranged to rent the Henry T. Sloane mansion on East Seventy-Second Street for $17,500 a year. Built in French Renaissance style with a light granite exterior and white marble trim, it was, according to one newspaper, \"considered to be one of the handsomest of all the newer New York residences.\"\n\nAs Pulitzer's fifty-third birthday neared, on April 10, 1900, he was hardly in a celebratory mood. He was bogged down in protracted negotiations with McKim, Mead, and White, the architectural firm he hired to design his new house on East Seventy-Third Street, where he had purchased a lot for $240,000. Like his neighbors, he wanted a mansion, but \"an American home for comfort and use not for show or entertainment.\" It was to be without a ballroom, music room, or picture gallery, and he especially wanted it to be free of French design and furniture. He also set a limit of $250,000, including decorations, a low figure that no one around him took seriously.\n\nKate had not yet been consulted about the plans for the house. She was still recovering from the trauma of the fire. Her doctor urged her to go for a cure at Aix-les-Bains in southern France. \"She is feeling the strain of all she went through at the time of the fire and needs very much to rest and the treatment at Aix,\" he wrote to Joseph. Persuaded, her husband authorized his financial officer, Angus Shaw, to give Kate $750 to pay for her passage to Europe. She in turn persuaded Shaw to give her $830 to cover the cost of her maid and taxes, and Shaw feared that Joseph might make him deduct the additional $80 from a future payment.\n\nAt the World, matters were no more settled than at home. Pulitzer continued to fret about the paper's sloppiness. In one story, a reporter erred in stating Standard Oil's stock value. \"Accuracy! Accuracy!! Accuracy!!!\" Pulitzer angrily telegraphed. Of greater concern was the restlessness among many of his key editors and managers.\n\nSince January, the business manager, John Norris, had been hinting that he was preparing to leave. On April 2, he made his plans known. \"Temperamentally, I am not equipped to get along with you,\" Norris wrote. To be sure that Pulitzer would not try to stop him, he added that nothing could be done to keep him on the paper. Pulitzer accepted his departure, and Norris went to work for Ochs at the New York Times. Even John Dillon, Pulitzer's original partner at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, took another job. He joined the Chicago Tribune after laboring quietly in the World's editorial shop for years.\n\nPhillips was also feeling some wanderlust. Earlier in the winter, he had complained about his nerves and had requested a leave of absence. Pulitzer wanted to keep Phillips at all costs. He still believed the young writer might eventually take the helm of the paper. During a carriage ride around Lakewood, Pulitzer told Phillips he could have a two-month, all-expenses-paid trip to Europe. In late April, the young writer accepted the offer, picked up an advance on nine weeks of his salary, and left.\n\nAfter more than a decade of on-and-off absentee ownership, Pulitzer could still not find a suitable way to run the World to his satisfaction. Earlier, when Cockerill and Smith had been in charge, he felt that he had responsive alter egos at the helm. Now he had to beg his editors to follow his instructions. As he told them that year, \"My being disabled from performing this duty, involves the necessity of your thinking, as nearly as possible, what you think I think.\"\n\nTo run his paper by remote control, Pulitzer contrived an intricate, even labyrinthine, means of communication. He kept his secretaries busy at all hours by dictating to his editors and managers a stream of telegrams filled with complaints about even the smallest mistakes in the paper\u2014chastisement, praise (though rare), and incessant demands for every possible kind of up-to-date information about circulation and finances. The cable offices at Wiesbaden, Germany; Cap Martin, France; London, England; Bar Harbor; and Jekyll Island always knew when Pulitzer was in town.\n\nThe telegrams tested the patience of Pulitzer's personal staff. Once, on Jekyll Island, the duty of taking down and sending a telegram fell to Hosmer because Pulitzer's secretary, Butes, had remained in New York. After spending thirty minutes with Pulitzer as the latter composed a 300-word telegram, Hosmer retreated to his room and neatly transcribed the message so that the club's clerk could telephone it to Western Union. \"But just as he is shirking off by the back door to place it beyond hope of recall,\" Billings wrote to Butes, \"a messenger reaches him with instructions not to send it until Mr. P. has read it again and the circus begins afresh.\"\n\nThe public nature of the telegraph\u2014one of the wonders of the nineteenth century\u2014created a further challenge. Telegraph operators were privy to the content of any message and secrets were not safe. Furthermore, like in the children's game of \"whisper down the lawn,\"* repeated transmissions of a message could easily garble carefully worded instructions.\n\nPeople in competitive businesses purchased secret codebooks designed for composing telegrams. The Acme Commodity and Phrase Code, for example, was a 902-page compendium of 100,000 five-letter codes. Pulitzer sent coded messages enthusiastically, but instead of using a commercially available codebook, he developed his own.\n\nThe 5,000-entry book shed light on the concerns, interests, and obsessions of its creator. Pulitzer developed a nomenclature for all the elements of his world. He had codes for politicians, rivals, business terms, dates, amounts of money, family members, and even the weather. William Jennings Bryan became \"Guilder,\" Theodore Roosevelt \"Glutinous,\" and Hearst \"Gush.\" The amount of business completed was \"merciful,\" a gain was \"piggery,\" and a discount\u2014which Pulitzer loathed to grant\u2014was \"menodus.\" Almost every telegram asked about \"potash,\" the term for advertising, including display ads, known as \"memorials.\"\n\nIn constructing his coded world, Pulitzer went beyond hiding corporate and political communication from prying eyes. He devised codes for his family and his fixation on sickness. The health of the children and family alone merited thirty-seven terms. The weather on his voyages was hardly an important secret, yet there were forty-eight codes for fog, clouds, sun, and temperatures.\n\nTo stay out of trouble, staffers had to include the critically important word \"semaphore\" in their reply. A veteran editor instructed those who received a codebook to underline the word in the \"reddest ink\" and understand its meaning: \"I have read twice and fully, clearly, surely understand and acknowledge your cable. I will do my best after consideration and would certainly cable back and ask a question if I did not understand or felt uncertain.\"\n\nEach of Pulitzer's lieutenants possessed one of the six-by-nine-inch books, about 300 pages long, with two alphabetically tabbed sections. Owning one was an important mark of power at the World, as the code was the sacred language of the inner court. Like high priests translating a religious text, the men sat each day at their desks under the gold dome with their own annotated codebooks, carefully deciphering a new stack of telegraphs and memos. Each man had his own code name. Don Seitz was \"Gulch\" Pulitzer's old partner Dillon was \"Guess\" the editorial writer and Pulitzer's prot\u00e9g\u00e9, Phillips, was \"Gumboil\" the business manager, Norris, was \"Anfrancto\" and the financial adviser, Clarke, was \"Coin.\"\n\nFor himself, Pulitzer reserved the lofty name \"Andes,\" after the highest mountain range in the Americas. It became so frequently used by editors and reporters that the moniker no longer hid his identity. In fact, aside from JP, \"Andes\" became the most common nickname for Pulitzer at the World and at rival newspapers.\n\nIn late June 1900 the first of the Pulitzer children graduated from college. But when Ralph accepted his Harvard degree from President Charles Eliot, his parents were nowhere to be seen. They had not considered the event sufficiently important to alter their travel plans. Ralph's father was on the ocean, returning from a month spent in England, and his mother was undergoing a cure in Aix-les-Bains. Joseph did find time to bestow a graduation check large enough for Ralph to seek investment advice from his father's banker.\n\nLike most of his 982 classmates, sons of America's wealthiest families, Ralph had passed his four years at Harvard in considerable luxury. Each month Shaw sent him $500 for living expenses, such as $30 for beer, $30 for theater tickets, $75 for meals at La Touraine restaurant, $25 for his boxing instructor, and $50 for clothes and presents. The amount had been increased by $60 in his last year, after his father suggested that Ralph should pay for the services of his manservant and a maid himself. \"Not on your life!!!\" Ralph had written to Butes. \"When he said in London that he thought I must have a competent man to look after me, I am sure he had no notion of making me pay the man's wages.\"\n\nRalph's fifteen-year-old brother, Joe, who attended St. Mark's School, an exclusive boarding school west of Boston, possessed similar expectations. In the spring, he had asked his father to spend $1,300 for a sailboat. \"I am afraid you will think that pretty steep but boats are pretty expensive things, as you know,\" he said. He also hoped his father would hire someone to take care of the boat, should it be purchased.\n\nNeither Ralph nor Joe had much contact with the world beyond that of mansions in New York, manors in London, houses in a fashionable arrondissement of Paris, or summer cottages in Maine and Georgia. From their earliest years they had been cared for by nannies and educated by tutors until consigned to boarding schools for the finishing touches when they were as young as eight years old.\n\nIt was not until Joe was a teenager that he learned of his father's Jewish ancestry. In his first year at St. Mark's, which was Episcopalian, he heard boys making a hissing sound or calling him \"sheeny\" when he walked by. Joe confronted his Episcopalian mother about his heritage. She told him that he had nothing to be ashamed of, that the Jews were a great people, and she proceeded to list the names of prominent Jewish New Yorkers.\n\nPulitzer supervised the children's tutoring, training, and care\u2014especially with Ralph, whose precarious health had required long stays in places like St. Moritz. Herbert, born late in the marriage, was still too young to be molded. To Pulitzer's immense frustration, both Ralph and Joe failed to show promise. The eldest was most willing to please his father, but was frail and more interested in the social world than the newspaper one. \"I hardly know how to treat him, his ignorance is so terrible and my disappointment so great that I fear I discourage him,\" Pulitzer told Seitz when he sent Ralph to him for training at the World after graduation.\n\nPulitzer had even less hope for Joe, although Joe was robust and healthy. He was willing to stand up to his father, had little interest in his studies, and had a predilection for getting into trouble. His career at St. Mark's came to an abrupt end in 1901, when he and some friends sneaked into town to buy beer. Finding the school locked on their return, Joe led them up the ivy-covered walls and through an open window. Unfortunately, it led into the bedroom of the headmaster and his wife. \"He has committed a crime against his father, his mother, his sisters and his own good name and future. This should be rubbed into him,\" Joseph wrote to Kate, blaming her for having spoiled the child.\n\nPulitzer took less interest in Constance and Edith. They spent far less time with him than the boys, including Herbert. This did not mean, however, that they were exempt from his supervision at a distance. Examining bills, he noticed some books by the French writer Alphonse Daudet that fourteen-year-old Edith had purchased. \"I would as soon give her strychnine as let her read the average French novel at her formative impressionable age,\" Joseph told Kate. \"You should watch this very sharply and tell the governess to do the same. I still cling to the hope that it must be a mistake.\"\n\nWith the sole exception of his departed Lucille, Joseph endlessly expressed his disappointment in his children to his secretaries, editors, and managers; to Davidson; and especially to Kate. Once, when his mail contained only a letter from Constance, he told Kate, \"To all the rest of the children you can say I do not love them and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for not writing.\" Most who witnessed these harangues were cowed and lacked the courage to contradict him when he tore into his children. Only his distant cousin Adam Politzer, a distinguished professor of otology in Vienna, offered rare counsel.\n\n\"Do not forget, that they were born and brought up under quite different circumstances than we,\" Politzer wrote. \"Self-made men like you and myself only come to maturity in that battle for existence\u2014and who knows should we have been the sons of wealthy parents, if we were what we are now? Your children do not form any exception from those children who have grown up in similarly favorable conditions.\"\n\nAs her time in Aix-les-Bains drew to a close in June 1900, Kate assumed that she would rejoin her husband in London where he had rented a house, a coachhouse, and stables for the horses he brought from the United States. But without a word, Joseph boarded the Oceanic and sailed home, leaving young Herbert behind in London with a nanny. His rapid exit was not the first. Pulitzer increasingly refused to remain in one place. As soon as he reached a destination, he was ready to leave. He might sail across the ocean only to return by the next ship. \"You always remind me of the gentleman in one of Horace's fables who ran and rode and sailed, thinking to flee from his cave and finally discovered that he was fleeing from his own shadow,\" Phillips told him. Phillips was one of the few in his employ who had the courage to be frank with Pulitzer.\n\nWhen one of the governesses informed her of Joseph's sudden departure, Kate was furious. \"You have surprised even me accustomed as I am to vertiginous movements,\" she wrote. \"It looks queer to strangers that I should be ignorant of the sailing of my family.\" For several weeks there ensued a transatlantic battle between the two. Kate had run through her monthly $6,000 allowance and had no means of getting home. If Joseph did not wire her the money, she threatened to borrow it from the U.S. ambassador Joseph Choate in London. Pulitzer remained obstinate and refused. \"Pray reconsider decision concerning passage else compelled to appeal to Ambassador,\" Kate wired from Paris, where she was staying in the luxurious Hotel Vend\u00f4me. After two days of back-and-forth telegrams, Joseph relented.\n\n\"Steamer tickets and $250,\" he said.\n\n\"Steamer tickets and $350 absolutely necessary to leave,\" she replied.\n\nHe caved in. \"Very much obliged,\" she wired back.\n\nOn August 1, Kate and Herbert reached New York. Shaw paid her customs duties of $152.29 and anxiously wired Joseph in Maine to see if he should charge the amount to her personal account. Once again Shaw found himself in the midst of a spat between the two.\n\nIt was not a good time to arouse Joseph's ire. On September 14, 1900, his old friend and mentor Thomas Davidson died. Aside from Udo Brachvogel, who occasionally wrote (usually in hopes of getting money for his son's education), Davidson had been the one friend who had known Pulitzer since he was a teenager. About a year before his death, Davidson had come to Maine to visit Pulitzer. It had not been a good reunion. \"He is extremely morbid about himself,\" Joseph complained to Kate, \"talks about nothing except his unspeakable troubles, sighs and moans and probably undergoes some physical suffering with vastly more of a mental nervous kind.\" For Pulitzer, any competition with regard to woes was hard to bear.\n\nAfter Davidson's death, the cause of his pain became known. When doctors operated on him, during the last months of his life, they discovered a huge bladder stone and a cancerous growth. It \"must have been the main cause,\" wrote a friend, \"of the frightful anguish our friend had been suffering for a long time.\" Despite his lifelong closeness to Davidson, Pulitzer could not overcome his aversion to funerals. Instead, he sent a $30 wreath of galax and orchids to Glenmore in the Adirondacks, where Davidson had chosen to be buried near a small house he owned.\n\nIn the fall of 1900, another presidential election loomed. Since the last one, the United States had become a colonial power. Although he had supported the Spanish-American War, Pulitzer remained opposed to imperialism. The fact that the imperialist power was the United States made no difference. After a brief flirtation with the potential candidacy of Admiral George Dewey, Pulitzer threw his lot in with William Jennings Bryan. Pulitzer's strong opposition to imperialism put him at odds with many of his old political allies. \"Mr. Pulitzer is the keenest political observer I ever knew,\" said his friend William Whitney. \"For once his judgment is at fault.\"\n\nBacking Bryan put Pulitzer once again in the camp opposing Theodore Roosevelt, because Bryan's opponent, McKinley, selected the young New York governor for the vice-presidential nomination. Roosevelt traveled around the country, verbally assailing Bryan, while McKinley remained above the fray. According to Roosevelt, Bryan was espousing \"communistic and socialist doctrine\" and supporting him were \"all the lunatics, all the idiots, all the knaves, all the cowards, and all the honest people who are slow-witted.\" Pulitzer had no interest in sticking around for the results at the polls. The election was a rerun of 1896, with the Republicans bound to make even more gains. For the first time ever, Pulitzer made sure he was a long way off by Election Day.\n\nIn the early morning of October 9, Pulitzer was asleep in his cabin on the Oceanic, bound for England and then to Wiesbaden to take baths and consult doctors. As the ship neared the coast of Ireland, it slowed its pace, feeling its way through a rain squall. At about four o'clock, when the ship was almost at a stop so as to take a sounding, the watch crew found themselves staring at looming Irish cliffs. The engines were thrown into reverse, shaking the ship and waking all the passengers. Before its progress could be halted, the hull struck part of the outcropping rock ledge, making a grinding, grating noise.\n\n\"In the few moments of doubt the watertight compartments had been closed and the life boats made ready,\" said Hosmer, who was in the cabin adjacent to Pulitzer's. Thinking that the ship's lurching indicated its arrival in port, Pulitzer had risen and dressed himself. \"He came out in a state of perfect calm and self-possession,\" noted Hosmer. The two walked on the deck for an hour and then returned to bed. The ship continued safely to port in England.\n\nThis was not the last mishap before the end of their journey. A train wreck blocked the rails leading to Cologne, Germany. In the middle of the night, Pulitzer and his companions had to leave their train and walk through a field to board another one on the other side of the accident. It took thirty hours to finally reach Wiesbaden. Pulitzer, who had caught a cold in London, remained in bed for twenty-four of those hours. \"Inevitably,\" Hosmer reported to Kate, \"everything was wrong all the time and the world was full of damn fools.\"\n\nThe new century opened with greater promise for Pulitzer. More than half of the $524,600 he lent the World to keep it afloat in 1898 had been repaid as the paper regained profitability. The plan for a secret combination with Hearst, which had stalled in negotiations, lost its appeal now that money was to be made again. In fact, the paper's health was such that it withstood an advertising boycott by Bloomingdale's, Macy's, and other New York retailers who, thinking that the World was financially weak, had banded together to try to obtain a reduction in advertising rates. They miscalculated and found their sales plummeting when their large display advertisements were not printed.\n\nAn upturn in the economy also gave Pulitzer immense gains in the stock market. In fact, until the end of his life, his investment earnings frequently exceeded those from his two newspapers. He relied heavily on the banker Dumont Clarke to manage his investments; but, as with his newspaper managers and editors, Pulitzer rarely left Clarke alone to do his work. Instead, he regularly sent investment instructions based on inside information, sometimes obtained by his editors from their personal contacts.\n\nPulitzer invested in railroads, steel, and utilities, which were then the dominant industries in the stock market. Owning shares in these companies breached Pulitzer's political and moral views. He was putting his own personal wealth into companies he had long disdained because of their treatment of workers. Many were trusts and monopolies, as well. All were targets of the World's editorials. Pulitzer fretted about this and on rare occasions asked Clarke to divest him of the most odious. Still, he wanted to safeguard his wealth, and he convinced himself that there were no other means. \"I do not buy to sell,\" he told Clarke, \"but to lock up assets for my children.\"\n\nAll the income from his newspapers and investments was put to use. Pulitzer was now spending almost $250,000 a year for household expenses and travel. This was more than 1,000 times what the average American earned. Though his newspaper made money by attacking wealth and privilege, Pulitzer's lifestyle had become indistinct from that of his neighbors on Fifth Avenue, in Bar Harbor, or at Jekyll Island who earned their fortunes on the backs of workers. When Pulitzer smoked cigars, they were Travita, among the finest made in Havana; when he drank, it was Perrier-Jou\u00ebt Brut or R\u00fcdesheimer Berg Orlean, which he imported by the hundreds of bottles; and when he ate, it was quail, duck, or goose.\n\nThe new mansion on the Upper East Side was taking shape on the drawing boards of McKim, Mead, and White and was the equal of those the firm had designed for its other wealthy clients. It included an indoor swimming pool and even the previously prohibited ballroom. It is doubtful, though, that the firm ever had a more demanding or difficult client. The partners made their artist work on Sundays, and then another artist would redraw the plans with large black lines, in hopes that Pulitzer could discern the shape. Additionally, scale models were built so he could feel the contours of the house. Frequently the work had to be rushed so as to catch a ship bound for Germany or England or wherever else Pulitzer might be at the time.\n\nJust when matters seemed settled, Pulitzer would drive the architects to the end of their patience. \"I was in despair when I got your letter,\" said Stanford White, in a typical moment of exasperation after receiving yet more alterations when construction was under way. \"I will do whatever I can, but I do not see how it will be possible to have all you want done by Saturday,\" he warned. \"I know one thing, and that is we have certainly made twice as many studies, and done twice as much work on this as we have ever done on any interior work before, and it is pretty hard where so many contrary orders are given, and so many changes made to know where we stand or what to do.\"\n\nOn September 6, 1901, the anarchist Leon Czolgosz shot two bullets into President William McKinley, who had been touring the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York. For six days McKinley lingered close to death as Americans feared that an assassin had taken a president's life for the third time in less than four decades. Pulitzer was so anxious that even though the World had reporters on the scene, he sent Hosmer, who was a medical doctor, to Buffalo to provide him with up-to-date reports. Hosmer's telegrams back to Chatwold forecast the worst. Indeed, on September 14, McKinley died, and Pulitzer's archenemy Theodore Roosevelt became president.\n\nIn the circulation war between the World and the Journal, McKinley's death provided an unexpected boon for Pulitzer's paper. Among the raft of anti-McKinley articles that had appeared in the Journal, there had been two unfortunate ones that appeared to suggest an assassination was in order. An outcry erupted against Hearst. He was hanged in effigy in a number of cities, and boycotts of the Journal were undertaken. \"Large piles remain unsold on the stands and it is being execrated popularly,\" Seitz told Pulitzer a few days after McKinley's death. \"You hear little groups discussing it and offensive remarks being made in cars about people who have it in their possession.\"\n\nFor the first time since his arrival in New York, Pulitzer's competitor was on the ropes. Hearst changed the name of his paper to the American and Journal, later dropping \"Journal,\" and lay low. His circulation dropped calamitously and fell 75,000 behind that of the World. Pulitzer's editors wanted to join the lynch mob. \"For the first time in five years, we now have the chance to part company with the Journal in the public mind,\" Seitz told Pulitzer. But Pulitzer declined the opportunity. He ordered that Hearst be ignored in the pages of the World except when events occurred that were newsworthy, such as the burnings in effigy, or prominent figures mentioning him in speeches. Even then, he added, Hearst's name should come up only \"if facts absolutely correct, true, and the thing is not displayed maliciously.\"\n\nIn his earliest days as a publisher, Pulitzer had once been offered a similar opportunity. Edward Augustine, the lobbyist with whom he had done battle in Jefferson City, who committed suicide after a financial failure. Other newspaper editors in St. Louis played up the ignominy of his end, but not Pulitzer. He resisted the chance to get even and treated Augustine's death with decorum. He was not going to alter his sense of gentlemanly restraint now just because it was Hearst's turn at bad luck.\n\nOn the other hand, there was no need for spite. \"This McKinley business has rebounded hard against the Journal,\" one of Pulitzer's editors reported in a confidential memo. \"It is a notable fact that in the storm of criticism directed against the Journal since the shooting, the World has scarcely once been coupled with it, although the main object of the attack throughout has been so-called 'Yellow Journalism.'\"\n\nThe combination of the editorial reforms at the World and Hearst's perceived complicity in McKinley's death in the public's mind accomplished what Pulitzer had sought since the Spanish-American War. Words he had longed to hear came in the confidential memo: \"The result is that people do not THINK of the World and Journal together as they did, and were perhaps justified in doing some time back.\"\n\nThe calm that Pulitzer sought at Jekyll Island was missing during the early months of 1902. He was infuriated by the rising cost of his house in New York. Instead of the $250,000 he had agreed to pay, the price was now $644,000. And on top of this, he had authorized $165,000 in renovations at Chatwold. When he wasn't worrying about the money, he was lamenting the decisions that he believed he had to make about decorating, never mind that Kate remained in New York, bearing the brunt of the work.\n\nIn choosing art, Joseph became so frustrated that he considered simply buying an entire collection from someone who had taste. George Ledlie, his advance man, discouraged this idea. \"You may say you have no-one to advise you,\" wrote Ledlie. \"On the contrary, and I say this, not because Mrs. Pulitzer is Mrs. Pulitzer, but from knowledge I have obtained in various shopping expeditions with her, that I fully believe you can without hesitation, leave the final decision in any matter requiring artistic senses to her.\"\n\nKate was willing in mind and spirit but not in body. She became increasingly weak and ill that spring. Pulitzer, whose list of ailments could fill a page, was not sympathetic. On board the Majestic as it approached the coast of England, he wrote to Kate that his doctor was positive there was nothing wrong with her that a little rest couldn't cure. \"I am perfectly confident that all you need is a little self-restraint and philosophy. Never mind about carpets or furniture or hangings. You will get them all quickly enough when you are well.\" He added that he had slept better on this voyage than on any before.\n\nKate, however, did not improve with rest. Her condition worsened after Joseph had sailed. Her doctors decided she needed to leave the city, and they gave her their usual prescription: a cure at Aix-les-Bains. With this in mind, she began to feel better, until she received a letter from Joseph, who had already traveled from England to southern France, forbidding her to bring Herbert. \"The result,\" said Ledlie, \"was that she had a bad crying spell, followed by a fainting time, declared if the baby did not go, she would not go, and we had a very bad time of it.\" Since the doctors had instructed the staff to humor Kate, Ledlie and the others decided to tell her that she could take the child along. Ledlie then craftily explained the situation in a private letter to Butes, who was with Joseph. They both agreed Joseph would not be informed until the morning of her arrival.\n\nFortunately, Kate and the baby hardly weighed on Joseph's mind when they finally came together. Rather, he was recovering from listening to a reading of Phillips's novel, which had been published under the pseudonym John Graham. Phillips had to use another name because in bringing out the book, he had violated one of the World's cardinal rules, included in his contract: that publishing any work outside the paper was prohibited. The breaking of this rule, however, paled in comparison with the accusation in the novel that Pulitzer had sold out his ideals.\n\n\"I not only read it but enjoyed it very much with one single reservation,\" Pulitzer told Phillips, without further elaboration. \"The book showed undoubted talent, imagination, and skill in constructing dialogue.\" To Pulitzer's mind, it also showed treachery. \"Mr. Pulitzer was keenly hurt when he discovered that the author of the novel was Mr. Phillips,\" said Seitz. He had trusted Phillips and treated him at times like a son. Pulitzer asked if Phillips had read Crime and Punishment. \"If not, don't let twenty-four hours pass before you do so.\"\n\nIn selecting Dostoyevsky's novel from the countless ones he had read, Pulitzer chose a work in which a murderer is racked by guilt. His implication would not be lost on Phillips. The Great God Success did not end their friendship, but it would never be the same again. Not long after the book's publication, Phillips resigned from the World.\n\nJoseph left Kate and the children in Aix-les-Bains and went to spend the summer of 1902 at Chatwold. Kate's French doctor warned him to send her as few letters or telegrams as possible and said that those he did send must be bright and cheery. \"She is suffering from one great nervous depression which causes gastric trouble and loss of weight,\" reported the doctor. \"It is necessary for her cure to take a very severe treatment for two months.\" By late summer Kate's health improved. \"I am better but it takes very little to throw me back again,\" she wrote. \"I am not yet permitted to take the douches, and the doctor does not tell me when I can do so. He says that in my condition they would be dangerous.\"\n\nAlone in Maine, except for his staff, Joseph mostly obeyed the doctor's orders regarding correspondence with Kate. Yet he was, once again, furious over Kate's spending. Since he could not complain to her, Joseph decided to turn over her allowance to Ledlie and have him pay the bills. This put Ledlie, who was close to Kate, in an impossible position. If Kate were to order him not to pay a bill because she felt it was Joseph's responsibility, then Ledlie would have to do battle with his boss. He and Butes, Pulitzer's main personal secretary, quickly consulted with each other behind their boss's back and decided they were both in a hopeless position as long as Joseph and Kate continued their fiscal war.\n\nIn September, John Dillon, who was now fifty-nine, came to Maine for an overdue reunion with Pulitzer. After quitting the World in 1900, he had soon regretted his decision and had come back to work for his old partner. As was customary when one visited Pulitzer, the two men went out for a horseback ride, accompanied by at least one of Pulitzer's companions, who minded the horse for him. During the ride, Dillon was thrown from his mount. When they managed to get him back to the house, doctors said that he had suffered two broken ribs and some undetermined internal injuries.\n\nTelegrams to Dillon's family assured them there was no cause for alarm. \"Excellent care by two nurses. Takes nourishment. Must wait healing and subsidence of inflammatory condition resulting from fall.\" The healing did not come. Rather, pneumonia set in, and Dillon's heart grew weak. Pulitzer called to the house the noted doctors S. Weir Mitchell and William Sydner Thayer, both of whom had treated Joseph and Kate. There was little they could do, and once again Chatwold became the scene of a deathwatch. On October 15, Dillon died with his wife and two of his children by his side. The family returned to New York with the body, and several days later Dillon was buried in St. Louis.\n\n\"Am all broken up by Dillon,\" Pulitzer telegraphed to Florence White, who had begun his working life as a cub reporter for Dillon and Pulitzer years earlier. \"Wish you would attend service...specially representing me and papers.\" Instead of heading west for the funeral, Pulitzer gathered up his entourage of seven employees and two servants and boarded the eastbound Celtic, leaving New York on October 31.\n\nFor an additional $394.29 above the price of a first-class ticket, the White Star line had made the usual preparations for its notoriously noise-sensitive customer. Piano playing in the bars ceased at ten o'clock in the evening rather than at eleven. A custom-made green baize door was installed to close off the hall leading to Pulitzer's quarters. \"The slamming of a door is most penetrating, it can be heard a half-mile off, especially along a straight corridor,\" Pulitzer warned the ship's owners. Portions of the deck above his room were cordoned off to redirect promenading passengers, and those who had to cross the area walked on heavy mats. \"It is not a question of pleasure, luxury,\" Pulitzer explained when making his demands. \"It is an absolute, indispensable necessity.\"\n\nLeaving New York for Jekyll Island in January 1903, Pulitzer instructed Seitz to ride the train with him as far as Washington. When the train pulled out of the Jersey City station, Hosmer handed Seitz a sheath of papers and told him to be prepared soon to render an opinion on its contents. Settling into an isolated compartment, Seitz dived into the file. It revealed, in a sharply condensed form, an idea Pulitzer had been mulling over for years. He wanted to use his wealth, upon his death, to create a school to train journalists and endow a prize to reward excellence among working journalists.\n\nYears before, while running the Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer had poked fun at publishers meeting in Columbia, Missouri, for wanting to create a professorship of journalism. \"It is as absurd to talk of it as to talk of a professorship of matrimony, it being one of those things of which nothing can be learned by those who have never tried it.\" A decade later, Pulitzer began to change his mind. He conceded that a professor of journalism might be able to teach some of the technical aspects of the trade. \"Of course,\" Pulitzer added, \"the highest order of talent or capacity could no more be taught by a professor of journalism than could the military genius of a Hannibal, Caesar, or Bonaparte be taught in military academies.\"\n\nBy the 1890s, the idea had become a central part of Pulitzer's plan on how to use his wealth. Next to power, Pulitzer most sought respectability. Much of the public thought his profession lacked dignity. The competition with Hearst had, at least for a while, bound the two men together as purveyors of the crass, sensational, and prurient fare of Yellow Journalism. Two years earlier, for instance, Life magazine had published a drawing of Pulitzer as a bird on a perch labeled Pulitzus Nundanus, listing its characteristics as \"Scavenger. Eats anything, and grows fat on filth. Vindictive and noisy, but harmless.\" A school and the respect that might come with it would go a long way toward ennobling the profession and its most famous member.\n\nWhile he was at rest in Europe, Pulitzer shared his thoughts with others. One in particular was his friend Seth Low, president of what was then called Columbia College in New York. In 1892, Pulitzer's scheme was considered by Columbia's trustees. They rejected the idea. Now, a decade later, Pulitzer resurrected the plan as he contemplated the end of his life while summering at Chatwold. He revised his will and, at last, laid out his thinking about his legacy in a memo for George Hosmer, his faithful companion of many years, marking it \"strictly confidential.\"\n\n\"My idea is to recognize that journalism is, or ought to be, one of the great and intellectual professions,\" he said. To that end, Pulitzer proposed that journalists receive training on a par with that given to lawyers and doctors. He decided he was prepared to give Columbia University as much as $2 million\u2014a gift almost three times the size of the institution's annual operating budget\u2014if it was willing to create and run a journalism school. Pulitzer then added that his gift should also be used to award annual prizes to working journalists, newspapers, or writers, for achievement, excellence, and public service. This money would eventually create what became known as the Pulitzer prizes, perhaps the most highly recognized and coveted award except for those created by Alfred Nobel the previous year.\n\nAlthough his idea for journalism prizes may have seemed like an afterthought to the officials at Columbia, Pulitzer had long used the technique to motivate his own reporters. As early as 1887, reporters on the World competed for annual monetary awards in a number of categories such as best news story and best writing. Editors were not excluded. Pulitzer held competitions for best headline and best copyediting, as well.\n\nPulitzer selected Columbia for his munificence because of its location in the capital of newspaper publishing and because it already had a School of Mines. (\"Why not also have a School of Journalism,\" he said.) But if Columbia seemed uninterested, Pulitzer said he would try Yale.\n\n\"My own ideas are positive enough about the general scheme, the general provisions and the general object, but when it comes to the vital details of a working plan I am quite at sea,\" he continued. \"I cannot help thinking that there is no profession in which every student of the United States has a more direct interest, or which represents, for good or for evil, the moral forces and moral sense of a nation.\"\n\nPulitzer assigned Hosmer to work secretly on the plan. He wanted it ready by his fifty-sixth birthday on April 10, 1903. For the first time since making a success of the World, Pulitzer felt the thrill of engaging in work that could outlast him. The journalism school, with its accompanying prizes for journalists from all over the country, represented an immense hope. \"I don't believe I have ever done anything that will give the children and their children a better name, and that\u2014after all\u2014is something,\" he later wrote to Kate.\n\nOn the train heading south on this January day, Seitz held the finished proposal in his hands. It stipulated that Pulitzer would provide Columbia with the $2 million in three installments. In return, the university would construct a building, invest the money, and use the income to pay salaries for the instructors and award the annual prizes. Before Seitz had a chance to take it all in, Pulitzer had groped his way down the hall of the train and was at his door.\n\n\"You don't think much of it,\" he said.\n\n\"I do not,\" replied Seitz.\n\n\"Well, what should I do? I want to do something.\"\n\n\"Endow the World. Make it foolproof.\"\n\n\"I am going to do something for it, in giving it a new building.\"\n\nIgnoring Seitz's opinion after asking for it, as he often did, Pulitzer instructed Hosmer to approach Columbia and Harvard universities with the idea, without revealing who was backing it. At Columbia, President Nicholas Murray Butler, who had taken over from Low, certainly knew whose money was being offered. By summer, he had won the trustees' approval. When the agreement was signed, it was backdated to April 10, Pulitzer's birthday.\n\nOn Jekyll Island the following winter, Pulitzer devoted a part of each day to listening while one of his secretaries read aloud from the World. This was, by now, a well-rehearsed ritual. Pulitzer was extraordinarily attentive. A seasoned secretary knew enough to carefully read the World, as well as other newspapers, before the appointed time and to be prepared to describe the layout, size of type, and illustrations used in each story. What Pulitzer heard during one of these readings made him erupt in anger.\n\nOn Sunday, February 22, the World published an article about Katherine Mackay, a socially prominent New Yorker. It made mention of the decorations in a nursery that had been prepared for the birth of Mrs. Mackay's child. Although the article did not use the word \"pregnant,\" it offended Pulitzer's Victorian sentiments to the core. Pregnancy was a reminder of a taboo subject: sex. Upper-class women did all they could to hide their condition during pregnancy, including remaining indoors during the final months.\n\nPulitzer let loose a barrage of invective that was immediately telegraphed to New York. \"I own the paper and am responsible for its honor and consider lies, falsehoods, gross exaggeration, puffery, yellow plushism, flunkeyism as a crime inexcusable by any direction or any circulation,\" he said. \"Telegraph me who wrote it. See he quits office today.\" The editors were flabbergasted. The photographs used had been supplied by Katherine Mackay herself and no one, including the Mackay family, had objected to the article. One editor said even his sixteen-year-old daughter liked it. Another said he had heard many expectant women discussing their condition in the presence of both sexes without any objection.\n\nPulitzer replied that it was entirely possible that the Mackays, who were his friends, were not shocked. Nonetheless, he would not tolerate this kind of story, because it represented a drift in an abhorrent direction pioneered by the Journal, which featured \"well-known ladies in an interesting condition,\" he said, still avoiding the word \"pregnant.\" \"If that is not disgusting and sickening,\" he continued, \"I don't know what is.\"\n\nSeitz identified the reporter who had written the piece. It was not a man but a woman, Zona Gale, and he promised Pulitzer she would be dropped. Gale was then a struggling freelance writer working mostly for the Evening World while creating novels in her spare time. Years later, she would win a Pulitzer prize as a playwright.\n\nOn May 10, 1903, the World celebrated its twentieth anniversary under Pulitzer's ownership with a 136-page issue, the largest newspaper ever printed. A few days later, Pulitzer's daughter Edith, who attended Miss Vinton's School for Girls in Connecticut, was summoned to her headmistress's study. Such invitations usually were reserved for reprimands, so Edith was panic-stricken.\n\nWhen Edith arrived, Miss Vinton began reading aloud from the New York Times, the only newspaper permitted in the school. In it was an editorial written by Adolph Ochs on the anniversary of the World. In most flattering terms, it spoke about Edith's father and the accomplishments of his paper. \"Whatever may be said of the ways of the World,\" Ochs had written, \"it will be universally admitted that it has 'done the State some service,' and has fought with notable vigor and unflagging zeal for the triumph of many good causes.\"\n\nPulitzer took great joy in hearing Edith's story. He was in Bad Homburg, Germany, where he had gone to try its baths, having tested the curative powers of those in Carlsbad, Wiesbaden, and Baden-Baden. But his rest was disturbed when one of his male personal assistants was caught soliciting sex from a man. The ax fell quickly. \"Mr. Pulitzer wishes me to tell you that this incident has given him great pain and that he is much distressed with the duty and sorrow at the necessity of terminating your recent personal relation with him,\" one of the other secretaries wrote to the man. Perhaps because of his own intimate friendship as a teenager with Davidson, though, Pulitzer was unwilling to be as cruel as others might have been at the time toward a homosexual man. He arranged for him to have a job helping in the London office of the World.\n\nThe forty-three-year-old, Irish-born James Tuohy, who served as the London bureau chief, was well used to doing personal services for Pulitzer. In fact, for years he had orchestrated the search for British companions, which Pulitzer preferred over Americans. This new assignment, however, seemed unlikely to succeed because London was as intolerant toward homosexuals as most other places. He warned his boss: \"I note your instructions.... The difficulty is how am I to know what he is doing? If I tell him that a repetition of anything like the Homburg incident means a termination of his engagement, he simply won't tell me.\"\n\nIn fact, not long after arriving in London, the man was propositioned in a Piccadilly restaurant by Grenadier Guardsmen who, according to Tuohy, \"have a reputation, by the way, of augmenting their pay considerably by this avocation.\" It seemed unlikely that Pulitzer's solution for the man would work. \"I am afraid that\u2014\u2014\u2014's fatal attraction will get him into trouble, in spite of himself, before long.\"\n\nFrom Bad Homburg, Pulitzer migrated to \u00c9tretat on the northern coast of France, and then to London for the fall. He had little interest in the mayoral race back in New York. In fact, his passion for politics was diminishing. The change was evident to careful readers of the editorial page.\n\nOne reader in particular was Pulitzer's editor James W. Clarke. In preparation for the paper's twentieth anniversary earlier in the year, he had examined the state of the editorial page. Clarke's report read like a nonfiction version of Phillips's novel. He found that over the years since Pulitzer had ceased being present at the paper, the page had lost its soul and the fires of reform had dimmed to a flicker. In its first years, when Pulitzer himself wrote the editorials, \"politics, politics, politics dominated the page,\" Clarke said. \"They were hot, partisan politics, too. The tone was radical and at times violent. The masses were steadily championed, the millionaires and money power constantly denounced.\n\n\"There was no mincing of words in denouncing Republican Presidents and statesmen,\" Clarke continued. \"The page was sprinkled liberally with attacks upon other papers and upon men.... Plenty of epithets and personalities. Plenty of first-class invectives, some good satire\u2014but humor very light. It was mostly hard pounding and expounding.\"\n\nThis was a grim verdict for Pulitzer. His cherished editorial page had become like him, old and stodgy. He was bereft of friends, and the companions with whom he spent his days were paid to be with him. His most important connections to his beginnings in St. Louis\u2014Davidson and Dillon\u2014were dead. He was estranged from his only living sibling, who was also his last tie to his childhood in Hungary. Since their fights in 1883, Albert had gone to Europe, and neither man had written to the other after that. Joseph's children were a disappointment and his family provided no comfort, broken up as it was on two continents. His stoic wife, Kate, remained willing at all times to fill the void, but Joseph had spurned her offers of companionship so frequently that she ceased to ask.\n\nWriting to Joseph from Aix-les-Bains, Kate marked the moment. \"Twenty-five years married, how strange it seems,\" she said. \"When we think that, a hundred years hence, not one of us now living will be alive to care or to know, to enjoy or to suffer, what does it all amount to? To a puff of smoke which makes a few rings and then disappears into nothingness and yet we make tragedies of our lives, most of us not even making them serious comedies.\"\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Seven\n\n## CAPTURED FOR THE AGES\n\nIn early 1904, the New York World's writer Samuel L. Williams stepped down from a train in Detroit, Michigan. Williams, who had been afforded a rare honor for a staffer\u2014riding and swimming with Pulitzer at Chatwold\u2014was on a secret scouting mission. William Merrill, the dean of the World's editorial page, was getting old, and his editorials were getting stale. Pulitzer wanted a young man in the shop who could write with a passion and verve equal to those of Phillips before he abandoned his editorial cubbyhole for fiction.\n\n\"I knew pretty well what JP wanted,\" Williams recalled. \"His young men had to know history, biography, have keen perception, and a concise, direct, simple, forceful style. In editorials he especially wanted clarity, brevity, and a punch in the last paragraph.\" To find the right man, Williams had traveled from city to city, reading yards and yards of ponderous editorials. \"Finally,\" he said, \"I discovered some editorials in the Detroit Free Press which seemed to meet Pulitzer's specifications.\" He read and reread these, and culled those he thought had been written by the same person. An old friend, a newspaperman in Detroit, identified the author as Frank Cobb and arranged for Williams to meet him at dinner.\n\nWilliams took an immediate liking to the tall, broad-shouldered thirty-four-year-old Cobb. He had a mop of hair that hung down his forehead, sparkling eyes, and powerful hands and arms from working for years in a sawmill. \"At the table, Cobb proved himself a brilliant conversationalist, an omnivorous reader, a shrewd observer, a forceful talker, and a keen analyzer of men and affairs. He had vitality of brain and body, yet was so simple in manner, so modest, so lovable, that I knew immediately I had found the Ideal Editor.\"\n\nAfter dinner, Williams telegraphed Pulitzer. In the morning, he received his instructions from the publisher. He was to learn everything he could about Cobb and to provide a complete account, including the color of Cobb's eyes, shape of his forehead, and his table manners. Williams grilled Cobb, who by now realized he was being considered for some post. He had read the right books, he opposed Bryan and free silver, and liked Roosevelt but had attacked him editorially, Williams reported. \"As to personal appearance, cheerfulness, tone of voice and table manners\u2014highly commendable! He ate soup without a gurgle.\"\n\nCobb was not entirely sure he wanted to leave his job at the Detroit Free Press. But after a visit with Pulitzer on Jekyll Island, he was persuaded to join the World. In the spring, he reported to Merrill. In no time his crisp writing and his persistent requests for information from others drew the attention of the editorial staff. \"He would end each inquiry with a sort of grunt that sounded like ubn but was really a question mark,\" Williams said.\n\nOnce again Pulitzer had a young man to mold, and this time one who would not leave him or betray him. Over time, the relationship between the older publisher and the young writer grew into the kind of collaborative, though tumultuous, partnership Pulitzer had long sought. Cobb became the most trusted, most loyal, most effective, and longest-serving among Pulitzer's editorial lieutenants. His tenure was exceeded only by that of John Cockerill, Pulitzer's first adjutant for twelve years.\n\nFor Kate, the winter of 1903\u20131904 had been especially depressing. She was sick for most of January, and many of their friends had died during the cold months. She felt that all she had done was send notes and cards of condolence. Though she despised Jekyll Island and had not been there in eight years, she tentatively asked Joseph if she could come for a visit. \"I shall not be the least offended,\" she wrote, \"if you think you have not room enough.\"\n\nHer plea reflected a change of heart. Though the pair continued to squabble over money, Kate increasingly took pity on her husband. She had grown to accept his ailments, phobias, and eccentricities as permanent attributes. The Joseph she had fallen in love with was gone. She occasionally spoke wistfully about the early years of their marriage. Gazing at a photo from many, many years ago, she remarked to a visitor about the sweet expression her husband had in the picture.\n\n\"Shall be engrossed with work and the quarters are not comfortable but I shall be glad to see you if you come,\" Joseph replied. As if this were a courtship and she had won her prey too quickly, Kate held back. \"Am very sorry but think it best not to go Jekyll,\" she wired, \"as sure should be in your way you being engrossed in work would be an irritation to you feeling you must give me time. I quite understand and appreciate condition.\" Her message forced Joseph to be more emphatic in asking her to come. As soon as he was, Kate replied with alacrity that she consented. \"Expect you to welcome me with joy or will leave on first raft,\" she teased.\n\nRemaining in New York was nineteen-year-old Joe. \"The house seems very empty just at present,\" he wrote to his father. Since being thrown out of St. Mark's School for his nighttime escapade, he had worked at the Post-Dispatch and the World while being tutored. Unbeknownst to Joe, his father instructed Butes to check quietly to see if Harvard would take him. \"Keep secret from Joe as don't want him to know,\" wrote Pulitzer.\n\nHarvard decided that if Joe passed a set of entrance exams, it would accept him. He was ecstatic upon getting the news and pledged to redouble his efforts with his tutor. The gift, however, did not come without strings attached. His father stipulated that Joe would have to promise to study hard in order to win admission without conditions, to work hard in college, to be satisfied with an allowance that was small by Pulitzer's standards, and not to come to New York except during vacations.\n\nAfter her time with Joseph on Jekyll Island, a rare interlude of comity between them, Kate returned to New York to cope with the finishing touches at their new house on East Seventy-Third Street. Joseph left for Aix-les-Bains. \"I wish there was more sunshine in your life\u2014worry and wearisome work are dull companions,\" Kate wrote to him when he was settled in Aix. \"If you could only take pleasures in things outside your work it would be a Godsend.\" In his absence, the World marked the anniversary of his ownership quietly. Kate, however, couldn't let it go unnoticed. She wrote to Joseph, \"We will pass over what it has been to me, and my heart was so full of the conflicting elements of pride and pain that I could not speak of it.\"\n\nIn May 1904, George Harvey, Pulitzer's former managing editor, who was now president of Harper & Brothers, brought out a work dictated by Pulitzer describing his plans for the journalism college, as the main article in the company's North American Review, a highly regarded magazine. At length, Pulitzer explained the need for professional training and what kind of training he envisioned. But he laid out a grander vision for the school's purpose than simply churning out well-trained reporters and editors.\n\n\"In all my planning the chief end I had in view was the welfare of the Republic,\" he wrote. Better-trained journalists would make for better newspapers that would better serve the public good. \"Our republic and its press will rise or fall together,\" he continued, in words that would later be mounted on the walls of his school. \"An able, disinterested, public-spirited press, with trained intelligence to know the right and the courage to do it, can preserve that public virtue without which popular government is a shame and a mockery. A cynical, mercenary, demagogic press will produce in time a people as base as itself.\"\n\nHowever, in the year since inking the agreement to create the journalism school, Columbia University's officials had been exposed to Pulitzer's less lofty side and had suffered from his irascibility. At first, he insisted that Columbia take the lead on the project, only to subsequently threaten to kill it if his choices\u2014including the presidents of Cornell and Harvard\u2014were not appointed to the advisory board. When Columbia's president, Butler, objected to the appointment of presidents from rival institutions, he was rebuked. \"Understand jealousy,\" Pulitzer wired from St. Moritz to Bradford Merrill, into whose hands Pulitzer had entrusted the final arrangements. \"Telegraph Butler my insistence. Unalterable. Final.\"\n\nButler consented but counseled that the public announcement of the gift be delayed until the entire advisory board had been selected and approved by the trustees. He also believed that a board comprising illustrious men would defuse charges that Pulitzer was building a monument to himself. Pulitzer would have none of it. He ordered that the World break the news. Merrill, however, defied his boss and acquiesced to Butler's wishes. It took him less than twenty-four hours to learn what his boss thought of that decision. Pulitzer ordered Merrill off the project, forbade any further meetings with Butler, and demanded once again that the news be published. \"We are certainly dealing with a wild man,\" Butler told an associate.\n\nRealizing that the story would soon break, Butler had his staff cobble together an announcement. In late August 1903 Pulitzer's plan finally became public. Every major newspaper in the nation gave it great prominence. Even his rivals in the press praised the idea. \"By this benefaction,\" noted Ochs at the New York Times, \"Mr. Pulitzer wins a new distinction in the history of the art he has himself so successfully practiced.\" Pulitzer's political opponent Theodore Roosevelt was not among the cheering crowd, telling a friend, \"I share your indignation at Columbia College having accepted such money for such a purpose from such a knave.\"\n\nNone of the public praise assuaged Pulitzer. The day after the announcement, he forbade Seitz to send him any more telegrams concerning Butler. He didn't want to hear anything more about the project until he returned to the United States in the fall. Pulitzer further ordered Seitz to inform Columbia's president that unless Butler complied with all his wishes, he would expect Columbia's trustees to have a sense of honor and return the donation. \"Again: All disagreeable cables forbidden.\" Like Merrill, Seitz disobeyed Pulitzer, but unlike Merrill, he got away with it. \"He later took me to task for not delivering his ultimatum,\" said Seitz. \"My reply was that I did not want to spoil all the applause.\"\n\nIn Aix-les-Bains, having just concluded his last tantrum about the journalism school, Joseph spiraled down into one of his periodic episodes of depression. The weather was insufferably hot and humid after a week of rain, and he had not slept well in ten days. Kate let Joseph know that two of the girls were back at their boarding school in Connecticut, and this news gave him a chance to pick up his favorite theme of abandonment. \"I am sorry the children are at Ridgefield again in the hands of\u2014well, whatever these women are,\" he said. \"You know my views about the way children should be brought up, and they certainly have not had a mother in any sense in which I have been used to understand and value that idea,\" he continued. \"I wish you could have made it possible to go with them or be with them, and almost deplore my so-called success or prosperity, which alone enable you not to do so.\"\n\nJoseph didn't rest after launching this volley. He continued his assault on Kate by taking up the issue of her mothering with their seven-year-old, Herbert. \"Now be a good boy,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"love your father and tell your Mother and Edith that I think it is a perfect shame having turned you away from them, that one of them ought to be with you all the time, that you ought to have a Mother or a sister to take care of you constantly as your father would so much like to do himself.\"\n\nWhen Pulitzer's mood was this somber, none of the family escaped his vengeful wrath. His son Joe, who had stoically endured a drought of letters from his father, found himself summarily judged guilty of filial disrespect. \"Thirty-five days since I sailed and not one word from you,\" Joseph wrote to him. \"Thirty-five times I have told you with pain how much pain you give me when you don't write simply as evidence of neglect\u2014and that you do not think of.\"\n\nNone of Pulitzer's secretaries, with the possible exception of Butes, could temper these outbursts. They recorded, typed, and mailed the venom he spewed. The most common refrain in his complaints was that his family had abandoned him and that he never received any words of appreciation. \"Instead of getting them I have received only blows, and hurts and injuries,\" he wrote to Kate on one occasion when he threatened to withhold payment for an expense they had agreed on. \"Promises of affection and kindness not appreciated are not obligatory, the consideration failing,\" he said.\n\nHis cruelty stung a bewildered Kate, exacerbating her precarious struggle with her own mysterious ailments. When she reached Paris, her doctor convinced her that she had arrived in the nick of time. If she had a breakdown now, it would be harder for her to recover from this one than the last one, he told her. She repacked her bags and left immediately for the French baths.\n\nThe elections of 1904 woke Pulitzer from his political slumber. One of his three archenemies\u2014Hearst, Bryan, and Roosevelt\u2014could end up occupying the White House for the next four years unless he did something about it. The year was only a few hours old when Pulitzer, in bed with a cold in New York, began to resume political command of the World, dictating memos laying out the kind of coverage he wanted and even assigning specific stories. Merrill, Cobb, and others on the editorial page of the paper awaited their instructions from the reinvigorated Pulitzer.\n\nPresident Roosevelt also wanted to know what was on Pulitzer's mind. Nine years after Hearst's assault on its dominance and six years after its disgrace in the Spanish-American War, the World still remained the most politically powerful newspaper. The president sent his inquiry by circuitous means. One night in January, Ralph Pulitzer, twenty-four years old and acting like an heir apparent, went out with George Harvey, Katherine Mackay (the subject of Zona Gale's article that upset Pulitzer), and Grace Vanderbilt (wife of Cornelius Vanderbilt III). After seeing the two women to their carriages, Harvey asked Ralph to take a drink with him at the Waldorf Hotel.\n\nRalph dutifully reported to his father that Harvey drank \"a monstrous Scotch and Soda\" while he stuck to a \"modest glass of sherry.\" Harvey had come from seeing the president at the White House. \"Roosevelt had said he was very anxious to meet you,\" Ralph wrote to his father on Jekyll Island, \"and had asked Harvey to ask you if you would not come and see him at anytime to suit your convenience, either lunch or dinner.\" Peeved at Roosevelt's indirect manner, Joseph wired back, \"Tell Harvey impossible for me to answer Roosevelt's invitation received in such a roundabout accidental way.\" He then added disingenuously, \"My health forbids Washington as you know.\" In fact, the train that would carry him north in a few weeks ran through the nation's capital.\n\nRoosevelt extended his invitation to the White House because there had been a fragile cease-fire between the two men for several years. It began in 1899, when Roosevelt was sworn in as governor of New York. One day, early in his term, Roosevelt took aside one of the World's reporters. \"Say to Mr. Pulitzer for me,\" he said, \"that I appreciate very highly the fairness with which the World has treated me. When I was Police Commissioner I felt I was unjustly treated and resented it, but I have noticed lately a much more conservative policy, and personally, I am grateful for the attitude of the paper toward me.\"\n\nAfter Roosevelt assumed the presidency on the death of McKinley, the World had continued its self-restraint and at times had even complimented the president for his judicial appointments, his handling of a coal strike, and his enforcement of antimonopoly laws. The paper's new attitude, however, was deceptive. It had more to do with its publisher's diminished interest in politics, his work on his journalism school, and his obsessive preoccupation with building his new house in Manhattan than with any real change of heart, as Roosevelt soon learned.\n\nEven if his paper remained quiet, Pulitzer had shed none of his misgivings about Roosevelt. But he saw no prospect of preventing Roosevelt from winning a term of office on his own. Although Bryan remained popular among Democrats, he couldn't win. More frightening to Pulitzer was the prospect of Hearst's candidacy. Hearst had been elected a U.S. representative and, unlike Pulitzer, had served out his term; he was also the owner of eight newspapers and was spending millions to win the nomination. To block these two men, Pulitzer put his hopes on Alton B. Parker, a New York judge who was a prot\u00e9g\u00e9 of New York's governor, David Hill.\n\nPulitzer sent Williams to Nebraska to determine Bryan's intentions. If he had expected a cordial reception for his emissary, Pulitzer was in for a surprise. Bryan had waited years for a chance to vent his disappointment in Pulitzer. He gave Williams an earful. \"Tell Mr. Pulitzer that the trouble with him is that he has too much money,\" he said. \"He used to be a socialist when he was poor but now that he has acquired wealth he is just like the rest of the capitalists.\n\n\"I have discovered the secret of Mr. Pulitzer's opposition to me,\" Bryan continued. It had become clear to him when he watched how Pulitzer forced President Cleveland to accept the public sale of bonds. \"That is the secret. Mr. Pulitzer and the World can rule Cleveland. They can make him do as they want. But they cannot rule Bryan. They cannot make me bow to their will.\" He said he would not be a candidate and would turn down the nomination, clearing one hurdle for Pulitzer's chosen man, Parker. But he raised another by promising to \"resist any attempt to hand the Democratic Party over to the corporations and capitalists as the re-organizers are trying to do.\n\n\"I want to be a Cincinnatus, I do not want the cares of millions of dollars,\" he said, ending his hours-long meeting with Williams. \"Tell Mr. Pulitzer to come out to my farm and I will make a farmer of him. I will show him how to be free from cares and worries about investments, stocks, bonds and guarding accumulations of wealth.\"\n\nToward the end of the interview, Bryan recalled the first time he and Pulitzer met. It was in Washington, after Bryan's loss in the election of 1896. \"He tried to see my face and feel my bumps.\" Bryan said. \"He felt my chin and jaw and commented on it. Tell him this jaw is stronger and firmer than ever.\"\n\nThe Republicans enthusiastically gave their nomination to Roosevelt in June 1904 while the Democrats continued to squabble. When the Democratic Party gathered in St. Louis, Bryan's plans were still undisclosed. If he backed Hearst, who had courageously supported his bids in 1896 and 1900, Bryan could split the convention. It seemed likely that this was his plan. His opening speech drew cheers of \"Bryan, Bryan!\" and Governor Hill agreed to omit any reference to the gold standard in the platform to appease Bryan's supporters. As dawn approached, after a long night of speeches, Bryan made his intentions known. He declined to support Hearst and instead seconded the nomination of a free silver candidate. Parker won the nomination on the first ballot and Hearst was left out in the cold.\n\nAs the Democrats settled on their nominee, Pulitzer returned to New York from Aix-les-Bains. He sailed home on the Baltic, along with J. P. Morgan, who continued to give him wide berth, especially after suffering through a monthlong rehash of the gold bond affair in the World that May. The articles, which also appeared in 2 million pamphlets, were Pulitzer's handiwork. As he told his staff, he wanted the history of how Morgan and his cronies \"swindled Cleveland, government, nation,\" to be told \"so that every child can understand.\n\nPulitzer was elated that his man was the choice of the Democratic convention. But his obsession with cleansing the party of Bryanism soon crippled the nominee's prospects. William Speer, a reporter for the World, was on leave to serve as Parker's secretary. Working through Speer, Pulitzer insisted that Parker force the party to swear allegiance to the gold standard. Parker acquiesced and sent a telegram from his Hudson River estate to St. Louis, saying that he regarded the gold standard as sacred and that he would decline the nomination if the party didn't agree. Riled but exhausted, the delegates complied by giving him the nomination on his terms, and returned home still deeply divided on the currency issue.\n\nAlthough Bryan and Hearst were beaten and he had his man as the party's standard-bearer, Pulitzer was not complacent. He knew how to read an electoral map. Parker ran a lackluster campaign, modeled on those of the past, when a candidate did not sully himself with speeches or touring. But Bryan and Roosevelt, with their stirring stump speeches and national tours, had so altered the political landscape that such antiquated behavior was a prescription for defeat. If Parker wouldn't take on Roosevelt, Pulitzer would.\n\nFrom Bar Harbor, Pulitzer ordered Merrill to go after George Cortelyou, Roosevelt's former secretary of commerce and labor. As chairman of the Republican Party, Cortelyou supervised the collection of funds from corporate leaders and financiers for the president's election campaign. Pulitzer told Merrill to compare the party chief to the nefarious Boss Tweed, and to demand that Republicans open their books so that the public could see how much money was coming into the president's coffers from trust, monopolies, and corporations facing possible federal prosecution.\n\nPulitzer had long sought to end corporate campaign donations, but the government was still three years away from imposing a ban. \"Roosevelt is very culpable, or at least, under suspicion for not having put through bills to prevent it in Washington. All the more because he consented to the amazing impropriety of making his Secretary of Commerce, collector of these very contributions and making him afterwards Postmaster General.\"\n\nMerrill did his best as the fall campaign got under way, but his efforts paled in comparison with Pulitzer's own editorial, which appeared on October 1, 1904. Written as an open letter to the president, it was vintage Pulitzer, of the kind readers had not seen in years. Pulitzer castigated Roosevelt for failing to keep his pledge to remove the veil of secrecy from the affairs of corporations.\n\nStretching across two pages, the editorial sustained its intensity to the end. Pulitzer reminded readers that Roosevelt had created a special government agency to \"get the facts\" on corporations but had done nothing with it. \"The Bureau of Corporations was organized February 26, 1903\u2014more than 19 months, more than 80 weeks\u2014exactly 583 days ago\u2014yes, exactly 583 days ago,\" wrote Pulitzer. Line after line, Pulitzer pointed out that the agency had obtained no documents, subpoenaed no witness, and exposed no restraint of trade or corporate misdoing, repeating the refrain \"after these 583 days\" with each accusation.\n\nReturning to his b\u00eate noire, Pulitzer charged that Cortelyou was collecting tribute from corporations in return for a promise of protection. Then, he posed ten repetitive questions, set in boldface type. They began with \"How much has the beef trust contributed to Mr. Cortelyou?\" and continued through each important trust\u2014paper, coal, oil, steel, etc.\u2014until the last one: \"How much have the six great railroads contributed to Mr. Cortelyou?\"\n\nThe ten questions became an instant hit with Democrats, who were desperate for a weapon to use against their foe. It wasn't long before Democratic speakers began to lead their audiences into chants of \"How much? How much? How much?\" The actual answer was far less than Pulitzer surmised, especially as corporate leaders had little doubt that Roosevelt would win. Cortleyou declined to respond publicly, but sent a private message to Pulitzer. He took one of the World's reporters by the arm in a hotel lobby in Washington. \"As God is my witness,\" he said, \"I am conducting an absolutely clean campaign. I have not coerced a penny out of anyone, and my order from the start has been to accept no money on a pledge of any sort whatsoever.\" The message fell on deaf ears. Pulitzer continued his attacks.\n\nRoosevelt considered the attacks an attempt to divert attention from the Democrats' equally odious money-raising tactics. In the end, he easily dispatched Parker, who took a drubbing even in his home state. The results did little to change Pulitzer's antipathy toward Roosevelt. He promised that the World would remain a thorn in Roosevelt's side as he began his first full term as president. \"The World,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"thinks no more of his military megalomania and his swashbuckler tendencies than it did before; but the returns prove that an overwhelming majority of voters had no such misgiving.\"\n\nAs 1905 began, Pulitzer once again considered an offer by Charles Knapp, the publisher of the St. Louis Republic, to buy the Post-Dispatch. Knapp had not lost his desire to acquire the Post-Dispatch, despite the discordant end to his last round of negotiations with Pulitzer several years earlier. This time he teamed up with Pulitzer's friend David Francis, who had been governor of Missouri and a member of Cleveland's cabinet. In February, during a carriage ride around Jekyll Island, Francis laid out his plan. Essentially, Pulitzer would get $2.5 million in long-term bonds at 8 percent interest. Since Pulitzer did not decline the proposal, Francis left believing he had a deal.\n\nWhen Francis returned to St. Louis he was shocked to learn that Pulitzer was seeking more cash and fewer loans. He protested that the publisher was changing the terms of their agreement. \"Answering your telegram,\" replied Pulitzer, \"you accepted nothing except your own imagination.\" In the end, the unsigned documents that had been drawn up were forwarded to Seitz in New York; he locked them away in a safe-deposit box. It was the last time Pulitzer would toy with the idea of giving up the newspaper that had launched his career as a publisher.\n\nFrancis was not the only one to suffer from Pulitzer's fickleness that winter. President Butler of Columbia University was astonished to learn that his new benefactor no longer wanted to proceed with the plan to build a journalism school. The university had custody of half of the promised $2 million and was ready to proceed. But the fight over the advisory board had left bruised feelings on both sides and Pulitzer altered the terms of his gift. He left it to Merrill to explain his actions.\n\n\"Mr. Pulitzer is alone responsible for the present delay,\" Merrill told reporters. \"His present determination is that actual establishment of the college of journalism shall be postponed until his death.\" He explained that Pulitzer's fragile health prevented him from devoting the necessary time to the project, that a suitable leader for the college had not been located, and that waiting until his death would remove any suggestion that Pulitzer was unduly interfering with Columbia's decisions on how to set up the college, although in fact he was.\n\n\"To avoid all uncertainties or misconceptions,\" Merrill said, \"I may add that the endowment of this college is absolutely irrevocable, and its establishment beyond a shadow of doubts.\" All would have to wait, however, for Pulitzer's death. Columbia would pay him the income from the $1 million it held, and Butler began a deathwatch.\n\nOn April 10, 1905, Joseph turned fifty-eight. Kate sent birthday wishes from London. \"At least you have the consolation of feeling that your life, though full of worries and much unhappiness, has been full of achievement too, that you will have left your mark in your generation,\" she wrote. But the birthday reminded Joseph of his mortality and his ever-present fear that his achievement\u2014the World\u2014would die with him. In his eyes, neither Ralph nor Joe was preparing for a future role as a newspaper owner. He reminded Ralph that heirs, such as those in the Gould family, were often forced to sell their inherited businesses. \"I wish I could still more strongly impress upon you, and above all on Joe, and your mind the necessity of the proprietor's ability to manage his property,\" he said.\n\nNewspaper management was not foremost on Ralph's mind. He had been courting Frederica Webb, who was the great-granddaughter of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt and thus a member of a family the World routinely assailed and ridiculed. He was getting up the courage to tell his controlling father that he had asked her to marry him. Ralph had cause to worry. For Joseph's children, any encounter with their father could go wrong. One night at dinner the prior fall, Joseph had told Edith that she must cease riding Constance's horse, which was recuperating from an injury. Edith began to defend herself, but her father cut her off. When she complained, he laughingly said he would probably interrupt her again but that she should continue.\n\n\"Oh dear!\" exclaimed Edith on the verge of tears. \"If anything happens to any horse everybody comes to me about it and everybody says I am to blame. It is not fair. I am tired of this. I will not have it.\"\n\n\"What do you say?\" a startled Joseph asked.\n\n\"I say I am tired of these accusations,\" Edith replied.\n\n\"Please remember you are talking to your father.\"\n\n\"Certainly, but I must defend myself. It is not fair.\"\n\n\"Fair or not fair, don't forget that you are talking to your father. If you are going to talk that way, I wish you would leave the table.\"\n\n\"I was going when you came, but I came back to talk to you.\"\n\n\"I don't want you to talk to me in that way. I don't want you at the table if you intend to talk that way. Don't come to the table. Don't come back to the table at all.\"\n\nKate had mailed her birthday greeting to Joseph from London because the celebrated artist John Singer Sargent was painting her portrait there. Both she and Joseph had long sought a chance to sit for Sargent. James Tuohy, the World's London bureau chief, was given the assignment to procure the sittings. Like most emissaries, Tuohy had found it hard to meet with Sargent. \"He requires very delicate handling, and is absolutely overwhelmed with commissions,\" he had reported two years earlier. Pulitzer's longtime friend and companion George Hosmer was also enlisted in the effort and tried to chase down Sargent when he came to Boston. \"Will pay anything he wants,\" Pulitzer telegraphed Hosmer.\n\nFinally the painter consented to having Kate sit for him. \"He seems greatly interested in the portrait,\" Kate excitedly wrote to Joseph after her first day with Sargent. \"He is a wonderful artist. I think a genius, his portraits haunt one, he has two or three in his studio now which are quite wonderful.\" As he sketched her, Sargent told Kate stories of other sittings, describing one of his subjects as \"the most objectionable type of a money-grasping, vulgar, Sixth Avenue Jew,\" oblivious of the fact that Kate had married a Jew.\n\nBy mid-May, the sittings came to an end. The completed painting showed Kate in a beguiling pose, standing by a table, her hair coiffed toward the back of her head, her arms to her side, wearing a low-cut dress with many folds and ruffles. She looks demurely outward as if watching someone. In Aix-les-Bains, Joseph received a firsthand report on the portrait from Edith, who wired him an excited appraisal upon its completion. Joseph sent his thanks to the painter. \"Sincere thanks on behalf of future generations,\" he wrote. \"Alas, alas that I cannot see it myself.\" After much inveigling by Kate, Sargent agreed to paint Joseph as well. \"I feared it was a hopeless task when I broached the subject as he had refused so many,\" Kate wrote to Joseph, \"but a woman can coax a really great man into any halfway reasonable thing.\"\n\nHer portrait complete, Kate left England for a cure in France in the company of Constance and Edith. Instead of joining Joseph in Aix-les-Bains, she went to Divonne-les-Bains. There Kate was told that Catherine Davis, her ninety-year-old mother, who had fallen ill a few weeks earlier, was dead. Although the news was not unexpected, its arrival hit Kate hard. \"She collapsed entirely and has been neither able to eat nor sleep since, even with very large doses of medicine each night,\" Maud Alice Macarow, her faithful companion, wrote to Joseph.\n\nKate wanted to leave and return immediately to the United States. Her doctor, however, insisted that she remain in Divonne-les-Bains. Joseph concurred. \"I forbid your mother sailing,\" he wired Edith. \"Both you and Constance must do your utmost to comfort your mother.\" He instructed Joe, who was in New York, and his secretary George Ledlie to attend the funeral in Washington, where Catherine Davis had lived with her other daughter, Clara. But a day later, Joseph changed his mind. \"If you are feeling strongly to sailing, upon reflection, I withdraw my objection.\" By then, Kate had reconciled herself to missing the funeral.\n\nAlmost in a pique of jealousy that Kate's illness outranked his, Joseph sent her one of the angry, spiteful letters he was so capable of writing. Fortunately for Kate, neither Macarow nor Edith had the courage to give her the letter. When he returned to his senses, Joseph asked to have it back. \"I am glad you wish your letter to Mother returned as it will be a long time, I fear, before she is in a fit condition to read it. She, of course, knows nothing at all about it,\" said nineteen-year-old Edith, well accustomed to her father's volatile moods.\n\nUnaware of her husband's intercepted missive, Kate completed a long-planned, loving gesture for Joseph. Since before their marriage, he had carried a watch in which was encased a photograph of his late mother. It survived the house fire but was damaged. Kate had brought the watch to London to be repaired. Her consideration extended farther. She had hired an artist to reproduce the miniature portrait of her husband's mother on a large scale. The finished reproduction disappointed her but she sent it on anyway. \"I fear it is too small for you to see but at least you can feel that you have a picture of your mother,\" she wrote, adding that she would have an even larger one made.\n\nPulitzer took his turn before Sargent in June 1905. Tuohy, the London bureau chief, put aside his regular duties to prepare for Pulitzer's arrival. By now he was used to doing the personal jobs that came with the post. In this case, he made sure that the bedroom windows in the London house Pulitzer rented were refitted with thick plate glass and that Pulitzer's horse, which had been sent ahead of time, was getting acclimatized.\n\nAccompanying Pulitzer to London was Norman G. Thwaites, the thirty-two-year-old son of a British parson. A veteran of the Boer War, Thwaites had joined the cadre of secretaries in 1902. He had been recruited by Tuohy, who referred to the hunt for secretaries as the \"pursuit of white mice.\" Pleasing Pulitzer was nearly impossible. He insisted on hiring unmarried men who could freely travel anywhere in the world. He even dictated that he would hire no short men. \"As I have to walk with my companion,\" the six-foot two-inch Pulitzer explained, \"I don't like to stoop too low.\" To find a suitable candidate Tuohy and Butes had to parse as many as 100 applicants responding to discreet advertisements placed in British newspapers.\n\nWhen Thwaites first called on Pulitzer, he was brought into a room where Butes was furiously sorting out stacks of applications. Overwhelmed by their number, Butes was preparing to send Thwaites away when Pulitzer suddenly walked in. After introductions were made, Pulitzer brought Thwaites over to the window. He ran his long tapered fingers over the man's head and face and then asked Thwaites to take him by his arm for a walk in the garden. In stronger light, Pulitzer could still distinguish contours of people and objects, but not much more.\n\nThe two strolled about for an hour discussing books and plays; this gave Thwaites, a consummate London theatergoer, a chance to impress Pulitzer. It also bode well that he spoke German, could write shorthand, and knew how to ride horses. His soothing reading voice tipped the balance in his favor, and Pulitzer offered him a trial. In the three years since, Thwaites had become one of Pulitzer's most trusted men.\n\nOn this trip, Thwaites had the task of taking Pulitzer for a ride in the park each day before the sittings at Sargent's legendary studio on Tite Street. The painter was a stickler for punctuality, and Kate had warned Joseph, \"You will have to be on time as he gets very nervous and out of sorts if one is at all late.\" Pulitzer assumed that at their first meeting Sargent would want to talk and maybe, at best, execute a few sketches. The painter, however, was in no mood to chat. He immediately placed a canvas on his easel and went to work. \"Sometimes I get a good likeness, so much the better for both of us,\" he said. \"Sometimes I don't\u2014so much the worse for my subject but I make no attempt to represent anything but what the outward appearance of a man or woman indicates.\"\n\nAs he said this, Sargent rapidly sketched a perfect charcoal likeness of Pulitzer on the canvas before him. Over the coming days he worked to turn the outline into a portrait. \"He worked at a great pace,\" observed Thwaites, \"advancing upon his canvas and retiring much in the manner of a boxer sparring for an opening.\" Sargent smoked continuously as he worked, filling the studio with the odor of Egyptian cigarettes. Although Pulitzer was a cigar smoker, he despised the smell of cigarettes. \"None of us dared smoke them when near him,\" said Thwaites. Yet now he made no objection. \"For three sittings, Pulitzer behaved with singular sweetness.\"\n\nOn the fourth visit to the studio, the painting neared completion. When Thwaites studied it, he thought it showed a genial, aging man with a beneficent countenance. But on this day Pulitzer was followed into the studio by a man who wanted an appointment with him. \"Tell him to go away,\" Pulitzer shouted. \"A look of fury and impatience entirely changed the face of the subject, and Sargent contemplated the scene with keen interest, while making a dab or two on the canvas.\"\n\nIn the end, with his final brushstrokes, Sargent captured the dual personalities of Pulitzer. \"Hide, with a sheet of paper, one-half the face and you have a benevolent middle-aged gentleman,\" said Thwaites. \"Observe, now, the other half, and you have the malevolent, sinister and cruel expression of a Mephisto. Unconsciously, the painter had presented what he saw.\"\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Eight\n\n## FOREVER UNSATISFIED\n\nHis image preserved for posterity by one of the great portrait artists of the era, Pulitzer boarded the homebound Cedric on July 5, 1905. As he crossed the Atlantic, his secretaries read to him from stacks of accumulated copies of the World, a habit he rarely shed. The paper was dominated by front-page stories about an insurance scandal rocking New York.\n\nThe story had surfaced several months earlier, when twenty-nine-year-old James Hazen Hyde, heir to a vast insurance fortune, put on a costume ball for the cream of New York society. The event was held at Sherry's, in a building on Fifth Avenue designed by Stanford White, with dining and reception rooms resembling those of French palaces. Actors, dancers, and musicians were hired. Waiters were costumed and wore makeup applied by the staff of the Metropolitan Opera. And even though it was the dead of winter, the rooms were decorated with wisteria, rosebushes, and heather to replicate the gardens of Versailles.\n\nMany of Pulitzer's friends and acquaintances attended the ball, as well as his son Ralph. Katherine Mackay was dressed as Ph\u00e8dre, a queen of ancient Greece whose love affair and its murderous consequences were a popular subject in French theater. Her silvery costume had a train carried by two black children. The press feasted on every aspect of the event, providing readers with pages of details and illustrations. The party, Town Topics said, \"rivaled in splendor all the celebrated fancy dress affairs that have been given in the history of New York.\"\n\nUnder normal circumstance, the event would have receded from the front pages after a few days, and into New York lore. But the outlandish cost of the event\u2014said to be around $50,000\u2014provided Hyde's business opponents with evidence they sought to prove his unsuitability to run his father's Equitable Life Insurance Society. The ensuing corporate battle, which eventually embroiled all three of the nation's largest life insurance firms, lifted a veil of secrecy hiding extensive corruption and misuse of funds. The revelations were milked for all they were worth by the press. They shocked readers because the money had been entrusted to the firms to protect working-class families from destitution in the event their provider died.\n\nThe World aggressively followed every lead in the scandal, and by the time Pulitzer boarded the Cedric it had run 122 front-page stories. As the ship's engines drove the liner across the ocean, his secretaries droned on about the Equitable affair. He grew unhappy. When he first heard of the scandal, he had urged his staff to pursue the story. Now he thought the paper had gone too far, and he dictated nearly 100 pages of severe criticism, unloading buckets of complaints on Frank Cobb about Cobb's work on the editorial page. When Pulitzer disembarked in New York, he gave orders that temporarily checked the World's determined pursuit. Several days later, as he traveled north to his retreat in Maine and reviewed a new batch of papers, Pulitzer changed his mind yet again. \"Keep up the headline of Equitable Corruption,\" he ordered. \"Mistake to drop 'Equitable Corruption.'\"\n\nThe staff usually tried to ignore Pulitzer at these moments\u2014especially Cobb, who this time was suspended and then earned a bonus as his boss's enthusiasm for scandal-mongering returned. Back in Pulitzer's good graces, Cobb learned that he could earn even more if he could keep his publisher happy. \"And you could not possibly please me more than by swearing to accept my criticism in the future without feeling hurt, even if it should seem to you to be wrong,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"Will you remember this? Swear!\"\n\nHow to please Pulitzer eluded those who worked for him. One reporter, who had considerable tenure at the World, finally had the temerity to sum up the frustration in a note to the boss. \"To the mottos of 'Accuracy, terseness, accuracy' that are now on the office walls,\" he wrote to Pulitzer, \"I would add another line\u2014'Forever Unsatisfied.'\"\n\nWithin a month of his return to the United States, Pulitzer persuaded sixty-four-year-old William Merrill to retire and turn the editorial page over to Cobb. As soon as Merrill had packed up and left, Seitz received a telegram from Bar Harbor. \"Please remove from door on the fourteenth floor the name and title of William Merrill and put on it the words: Mr. Ralph Pulitzer, Assistant Vice President.\"\n\nMerrill was wounded by Pulitzer's callous treatment. At his desk in the Dakota, a famous gabled apartment building on the Upper West Side, he thought back to a time when Pulitzer had held a dinner for his editors at the house on Fifty-Fifth Street. \"Don't remember me, I pray you, by anything I may have done in anger,\" Pulitzer had told them. Then, placing his hand on Merrill's shoulder, he had continued, \"There may have been a little difference between Merrill, here, and me, but we are now just as good friends as ever.\"\n\nWorried that he might not get a pension after nearly twenty years of working for Pulitzer, Merrill returned to the Boston Herald, from whence Pulitzer had plucked him years before. A few months later, he at last received a communication from his former employer, although it was indirect, as usual. Pulitzer, Butes wrote to Merrill, \"never quite realized that he had lost a friend until he returned to New York, resumed his drives though the Park, recognized the Dakota and remembered that you were no longer there. It still seems impossible to him; he still cannot understand how such a thing could have happened.\"\n\nBefore Merrill could feel sentimental, the next paragraph announced the true purpose of the correspondence. Merrill was asked to return the letters Pulitzer had written to him over the years. Pulitzer was worried that, should something happen to Merrill or Merrill's wife, \"there is no telling into whose hands those papers might fall, and how they might be misused.\" Merrill complied but added that the severance of their friendship remained a mystery to him.\n\nRalph finally screwed up his courage and informed his parents of his intention to marry Frederica Webb. His selection of a member of one of New York City's elite families was no surprise. Though Ralph worked at the World, he shared none of his father's passion for politics or social causes. Tellingly, Ralph kept a photograph of J. P. Morgan on the bureau of his bedroom. In this regard, he was far more like his mother, particularly in his interest in high society. To the public, Ralph was a typical spoiled, protected scion of wealth. Two summers earlier, he had spent three weeks hunting and floating down the Missouri River in Montana in the company of a well-known guide. He proudly sent home a photograph of three bighorn sheep he had killed. Unfortunately, he had violated Montana's game laws, and the game warden found the beheaded carcasses. The state brought charges against Ralph and threatened to have him extradited from New York if he didn't come back on his own accord. In the end, he pleaded guilty to two separate charges and paid $1,000 in fines, and his father paid the $2,000 in bills from a law firm in Montana.\n\nMoney was of little concern to Ralph. When he shopped for his fianc\u00e9e's engagement ring, he felt compelled to buy one costing $5,300. He told his father that the only other choice, which was half the price, \"was a very commonplace emerald which would not have born a triumphant comparison with the rings she already has.\" Both parents made plans to attend the wedding, unlike Ralph's college graduation. At the end of September, Kate returned to the United States after a long stay at the French baths. She felt disconnected. \"With the world in which we must live,\" she wrote to a friend, \"the longer we stay out of it the harder it is for one to pick up the broken strands.\"\n\nOn October 14, 1905, on one of the few occasions since Lucille's death seven years earlier, the entire Pulitzer family gathered to celebrate Ralph's wedding to Frederica Webb in Shelburne, Vermont. The Webbs' plans for the wedding\u2014a union of two of New York's most prominent families\u2014were all that one might expect. The hamlet of Shelburne had seen nothing like it before. A few lucky locals received coveted invitations. In nearby Burlington, reported one newspaper, \"every dressmaker in the city is busy into the night preparing the costumes of the favored one.\"\n\nOn the morning of the ceremony, a special train, ten cars long, brought guests from New York. Those attending the ceremony reached the little Trinity Episcopal Church in carriages with horses festooned in white chrysanthemums. Kate and the bride's mother, both dressed in white satin with white hats, entered together. Ralph stood at the altar with Joe, who was his best man, while their father sat in a pew. Boys from New York's St. Thomas Church sang as the bridal party processed.\n\nFor a brief moment the wedding purged Joseph of his pained complaints about his children, particularly his boys. He became teary-eyed as Ralph and Frederica exchanged vows. It was a rare moment of sentimentality and affection for him. Ralph was similarly ashamed to show emotion in public. \"I looked at you as we walked down the aisle,\" Ralph later told his father, \"in fact, yours was the only face I saw, and I felt a lot of things that I probably would not have been able to express to you.\" This was as close as the Pulitzer men came to expressing affection.\n\nThe father expressed his pleasure in the only way he knew. He bought Ralph a house\u2014adjacent to his own in New York\u2014and wrote a large check for the honeymoon. But by the end of Ralph and Frederica's tour of Europe, Joseph was his normal self again. \"Your allowance has been stopped,\" he wrote to Ralph, \"and the only thing you will get is your salary. Salaries, by the way, are not paid in advance.\"\n\nEarly in 1906, Pulitzer learned that after all the effort to get Joe into Harvard, the school and his son were a poor match. Joe cut classes, idled away hours enjoying lunches and quiet spells by the fireplace of a fraternity house, and overspent his allowance. Summoned to New York in February, Joseph threatened to pull Joe out of Harvard unless he changed his ways. He didn't, and his father was true to his word.\n\nJoseph decided that Joe's lessons would be better taught in the newsroom and that his new teacher would be Charles Chapin of the Evening World, the most accomplished and feared city editor who had ever worked on Park Row. Chapin was already legendary by 1906; a dozen years later he would murder his wife, and thereafter he would spend the rest of his life in Sing Sing prison, tending acres of magnificent rose gardens of his own making. At Pulitzer's Evening World, Chapin was unbeatable in the guerrilla warfare of Yellow Journalism; he was also a newsroom tyrant who fired reporters for even the slightest mistake. Journalists put up with Chapin's despotism because he was one of the most innovative and daring editors in New York. \"Quite possibly, viewed as a machine, he was the ablest city editor who ever lived,\" said Stanley Walker, the venerable city editor of the Herald Tribune.\n\nIn April, Joseph called Chapin. \"I am sailing for Europe in the morning, and I am sending Joe down to work under you,\" he said. \"Treat him exactly as you would any other beginner and don't hesitate to discipline him should he need it. There is to be no partiality shown because he is my son.\" Under Chapin's tutelage, Joe worked assiduously at improving the writing and reporting skills he had learned at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. But he could not resist behaving like the owner's son. He began to take leave from work and was soon absent for an entire week without permission.\n\nWhen he returned, Chapin fired him on the spot. \"The office gasped with astonishment when it got noised about that I discharged 'Prince Joe,' as they called him,\" recalled Chapin, \"but Joe good-naturedly treated it as a joke and took the night train to Bar Harbor, where he fitted out his yacht and sailed in all the regattas that summer, or until his father returned from Europe and sent him out to St. Louis.\"\n\nHis father's continued harshness inflicted great pain on Joe. Only a few months earlier, during a carriage ride and in front of Ralph, Joseph had dressed Joe down as \"utterly worthless, ignorant, and incompetent.\" But in St. Louis, far from his father, Joe found the home he needed at the Post-Dispatch. He eventually developed into the most successful editor and publisher among the Pulitzers' children. Despite having named Joe after himself, Joseph would always remain to his death blind to Joe's innate journalistic talents, which matched his own. Temperament separated the two men. Later in the year, after one of their periodic dustups, Joe wisely grasped their distinctness but unwisely shared it with his father. \"One of the strange differences between us two, to my mind, is the fact that you have never come near learning how to enjoy life, whereas, I, I fear, have learned the lesson only too well.\"\n\nAfter Joe was banished to St. Louis, one of Pulitzer's last remaining connections to his own years there ended. At age seventy-seven, Carl Schurz died. The German-American had inspired Pulitzer to enter politics and\u2014although, curiously, he never mentioned Pulitzer in his memoirs\u2014had remained fond of him, even after their harsh political confrontations in the 1870s. Shortly before his death, Schurz showed a visitor a photograph of Pulitzer that he kept on his desk. Pulitzer instructed Butes to send a wreath with his card, and instructed Kate to represent him at the memorial service. \"You would have been proud of your chief,\" she said, after detailing the many tributes paid to Schurz.\n\nKate, her companion Maud Alice Macarow, and Edith spent the summer in Europe, as Kate was under doctor's orders to rest at Divonne-les-Bains. Her departure was marred by another quarrel with Joseph. After a prolonged silence, Kate wrote, \"Now, don't worry. Understand I have learned to make all allowances for the tricks your nerves play on you and stop being cross with me for it does you no good and does much harm.\"\n\nIn London, Kate returned to Sargent's studio to have tea with the artist. In a pained voice, he told her, \"I did not do you all justice in your portrait\u2014you are much better looking than I painted you.\" It was a compliment that she immediately shared with Joseph, sparking momentary jealousy. But, Kate graciously added, \"he spoke nicely of you, said you had such a splendid forehead and were a wonderful type for an artist.\"\n\nFrom London, the group went to Paris. Between stops at the salons of her favorite couturiers, on whom she dropped $15,000 that year, Kate toured the sculptor Auguste Rodin's studio. Stephen MacKenna, the World's Paris bureau chief, was a good friend of Rodin and arranged the visit. Rodin, who had begun his career as a controversial artist, had become immensely popular, and his busts were sought after by the wealthy. \"He is in sculpture, as Sargent is in painting,\" Kate said. \"There is such soul, poetry, and mystery in his work that in looking at them you feel that you are sensing his touch.\" The artist, donning his trademark cap, took Edith and Kate on a tour of his studio and his country estate outside Paris. \"I wish he could do a bust of you,\" Kate wrote to Joseph, \"it would be just as wonderful as the Sargent portrait.\"\n\nAfter Paris, the group moved on to Divonne-les-Bains. One night, when they came down from their hotel rooms for dinner, the waiter took them to a table right next to one where J. P. Morgan was sitting alone. As they passed by, Kate bowed slightly, and Morgan jumped up to shake her hand. During dinner, Edith noticed that whenever her mother glanced in Morgan's direction she would catch his eye and he would smile at her. Small talk soon ensued, and Morgan chatted about his farm in England, which Kate had visited when Morgan's father was living there. When he rose to leave the dining room, Morgan offered Kate a large box filled with fresh strawberries.\n\n\"Isn't he hideous,\" Edith said to her tablemates as Morgan exited the room.\n\n\"I don't think he is repulsive,\" replied Kate, unwilling to indulge her daughter in cattiness.\n\nMacarow, her eyes following Morgan out of the room, murmured, \"Well, the back of his head isn't so bad.\"\n\nLater that night, before retiring, Edith wrote to her father. \"Oh dear, I have never seen such a hideous face,\" she said. \"It isn't only the nose\u2014even with a decent nose he'd be ugly\u2014and he had the ugliest little bits of pig's eyes.\"\n\nKate returned to the United States in order to be there in time for the birth of their first grandchild, Ralph Pulitzer Jr. \"I am as happy as when Ralph was born,\" Kate wrote to Joseph. \"The baby is a darling. Terrible temper just like yours.\"\n\nAfter consecutive failed bids to become president of the United States or mayor of New York City, Hearst rose like a political phoenix in the summer of 1906. He won the Democratic Party's nomination for governor of New York. The press went wild with excitement, covering what otherwise would have been a dull campaign. Kate, who was in New York, accompanied Ralph and his bride to a rally for Hearst at Madison Square Garden. In the White House, Roosevelt could not tolerate the idea that Hearst, whom he despised almost as much as he hated Pulitzer, might hold the post he himself had held before becoming president. He worked to spread rumors of Hearst's immoral behavior. When those charges did not gain enough traction, Roosevelt, resurrecting a hurtful charge, instructed his secretary of state to let it be known that the president believed Hearst had been partially responsible for the assassination of McKinley.\n\nOf all of Hearst's enemies, Pulitzer was the one who remained fair. He issued strict instructions to his staff that his view of Hearst should not color the paper's coverage of the candidate. \"Treat Hearst without a particle of feeling of prejudice, if this is possible,\" he wrote. Two years earlier, when Hearst had run for president, Pulitzer had similarly restrained his editorial staff. \"Never for a moment fail to admit that Hearst is a very clever politician, and able man,\" Pulitzer wrote, ordering that he \"should be treated with, at least, that respect which is due to his following.\" While continuing to oppose Hearst, Pulitzer privately admitted admiration for his rival's allegiance to his principles.\n\nHearst, however, knew none of this. During his campaign, he made Pulitzer a frequent target. Over the course of seven speeches in New York and Brooklyn, Hearst damned the man he had once admired. \"When Mr. Pulitzer was building up his paper he had principles, or at least he professed principles,\" Hearst said. \"When he was appealing for the pennies of the people he proclaimed himself the champion of the people. In his old age, when he has amassed his fortune and has invested it in gas stocks and railroad stocks and other Wall Street securities, he repudiates the principles that made him and betrays the people that supported him.\n\n\"False to his principles, false to his own people, he fawns and truckles to a class that uses him while it despises him.\n\nIn the end, Hearst lost the election to the Republican, Charles Evans Hughes, though by only a slim margin. Exhausted, Hearst and his family left New York for a vacation in Mexico. Stopping in St. Louis, the defeated candidate went to the Post-Dispatch building in order to use the Associated Press facilities to send some business messages. As he entered the building, Joe Pulitzer, who was in exile at the Post-Dispatch, saw Hearst and followed him up to the AP office.\n\n\"I want to know if you realize what you said in your speeches about my father and I want to know if you believe it,\" Joe said in a low tone when he caught up with Hearst.\n\n\"Many things are said in a political campaign that are regrettable,\" replied Hearst.\n\n\"That won't do,\" said Joe, interrupting Hearst. \"I intend that you shall say whether you believe it or not.\"\n\n\"I usually mean what I say,\" Hearst said. Then, noticing the young man's rising temper, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, a defensive boxing stance that Joe would have recognized as the \"Harvard guard.\" It was done just in time. Joe struck at Hearst, who warded off the blow. The young Pulitzer tried again, but others in the office held him back while Hearst's wife, who had been seated nearby, grabbed her husband by the arm. Hearst escaped unscathed.\n\nThree decades after his father had shot at a lobbyist and brawled with an editor, St. Louis had another fighting Pulitzer on its hands. \"Alas, the punch didn't land,\" Joe admitted nearly fifty years later, adding, \"that's always been one of my regrets.\"\n\nKate was proud of Joe and told her husband, \"You should feel happy at Joe's feelings for you.\" Joseph, however, was in no mood to hear about his pugilistic son standing up for him. He had just disembarked from a grim Mediterranean cruise. Hosmer had been ill the entire voyage and had thus deprived Joseph of conversation; and the backup, a loyal secretary, was seasick. Kate tried to comfort Joseph and offered to come to Cap Martin, where he was settling in for the winter. \"Whenever I hear that you are lonely and miserable and forlorn, I always want to help and shelter you.\" But he refused her entreaties, telling her to stay away. \"If it is any comfort to you,\" she wrote back, \"I should like you to know I think of you constantly and feel most sorry for you.\"\n\nReaching age seventy-five, Hosmer decided that his health would no longer permit him to be in Pulitzer's company. After sixteen years of providing companionship to the publisher, Hosmer told Butes, \"I am going home for a rest as I am too much used up by recent illness to be of any good here.\" He reached New York a few days before Christmas. After completing some errands for Pulitzer, he went uptown to see Kate. When he reached the house, he found Edith and Constance at the lunch table with Kate's personal companion Macarow and another guest. Kate was eating alone in her room.\n\nAt length, Hosmer explained that Joseph was depressed, filled with melancholy, lonely, and without any companionship \"or any sense just at the present of intimate or pleasant association with any human creature.\" Kate wanted to leave immediately for France. In 1890, she and Hosmer had rushed across the ocean to rescue Joseph from a similar descent into darkness. This time, though, the two decided that it might make matters worse if Kate went without her husband's consent.\n\nShe stayed in New York. \"I wish I could give you happiness or least contentment,\" she wrote to Joseph on Christmas Eve. \"As one grows older, peace almost seems happiness. I wonder if that restless spirit of yours will ever accept peace as a substitute for active happiness?\" On board the Honor, a yacht he had leased to take him to Greece, Pulitzer asked Thwaites to send a note to Butes in New York. \"I shall eat my Christmas dinner in solitary grandeur, I suppose.\"\n\nShortly after New Year's Day, 1907, Kate's trunks stood packed in her bedroom in New York. Joseph had admitted that he could use her company, and Kate had booked passage to France. But then a telegram arrived. It announced that he was out of his depression and had no need for her care. Although she was pleased that he was better, Kate's anger flared. \"There is one thing you must never in your life do again,\" Kate told him, \"that is complain that your family has neglected and deserted you. For I have kept copies of my telegrams urging and telling you to let me join you and also urging you to let the children join you, both of whom were only too willing to go. So you must get that morbidly false idea out of your mind.\" It was advice he would continue to ignore.\n\n\"You would be so much happier, dear,\" Kate insisted, having regained her composure, \"if you would only give people the benefit of the doubt and not assume they must necessarily be always in the wrong and that they intend either way to hurt or to injure you.\"\n\nTo her pleasure, the World's bureau chief in Paris, Stephen MacKenna, persuaded Rodin to travel to Menton in southern France, where Joseph was staying, to execute a bust for the princely sum of 35,000 francs. Joseph, who had taken to the idea, wanted the finished work to be displayed in the Pulitzer Building in New York. But he remained his prickly self as the day neared for the sculptor's arrival. \"I can't adapt myself to his pleasure, he must adapt himself to mine, come with me on my ride, not touch me in the afternoon,\" Pulitzer demanded. \"Also, he should definitely have some idea of my character and moods and should make allowances for them. I don't care a damn how ugly he makes me, but he shouldn't misrepresent me. There are elements of romance and tragedy.\n\n\"As to the sittings,\" Pulitzer informed MacKenna, \"I cannot possibly give him more than one sitting a day as I am an invalid suffering from insomnia, usually tired.\" When Rodin arrived in mid-March, Pulitzer found him charming\u2014until the artist asked him to remove his shirt, as he did with every male subject. Pulitzer, who possessed an exaggerated Victorian prudishness, refused. Rodin threatened to leave. He said he could not even begin to do a bust without studying the neck and torso of a subject. With the room cleared of everyone save Rodin's assistant, the sitting began with a shirtless Pulitzer.\n\nPulitzer's French had grown rusty and Rodin spoke no English, so the two conversed through an interpreter. \"But his great personality was easily seen,\" said Rodin. \"His head was that of a master of destiny who by sheer will had risen from a humble beginning to the level of more fortunate fellowmen; then by same force had [reached] one still higher beyond them, where they could not follow because they lacked his character.\"\n\nPulitzer asked Rodin to show him as a sighted person. \"What I see in your face I will show, and not what you see,\" Rodin curtly replied. \"Blind though he was,\" the sculptor recalled years later, \"he was a great dominant force, and this characteristic I tried to express in my bust of him.\" Rodin returned to Paris, after three weeks in Menton, convinced that Pulitzer did not have long to live. He told his atelier to lose no time in making the marble bust and the bronze casts.\n\nThe sittings with Rodin were the final personal service that MacKenna, who had run the Paris bureau since 1903, rendered for his boss. Unlike Tuohy in London, MacKenna resented doing errands for Pulitzer. Back in Paris, he received a telegram from Pulitzer ordering him to buy six chickens and six ducklings and deliver them to the Gare de Lyon for shipment to Menton. \"Refuse de vous acheter six poulets et six canetons; ceci est ma demission,\" MacKenna wired back. \"Refuse to buy you six chickens and six ducklings; this is my resignation.\"\n\nOn April 10, 1907, Pulitzer turned sixty. From southern France, he sent orders for his staff in New York and St. Louis to celebrate the occasion. Sixty editors from the World and sixty from the Post-Dispatch came together for sumptuous meals at Delmonico's restaurant in New York and at Planter's Hotel in St. Louis, respectively. At an appointed hour, a long-distance telephone line was opened, connecting the two celebrations. Toasts were made late into the night and duly wired to Pulitzer. During the meals, a cable from Joseph, filled with lofty declarations of principle\u2014like those usually chiseled on walls\u2014announced that Ralph would become president of the Pulitzer Publishing Company. Joseph's cable also included a declaration of his retirement, a sequel to the one announced in 1890. But those who worked for him discounted it. Pointedly, no mention was made of any new responsibilities for Joe, who was hosting the dinner in St. Louis.\n\nThere still was no truce between the father and his son in exile, despite Joe's endless apologies for any unintended slights. The exile would continue. \"There is not one scintilla of a shadow of a shadow, or one shade of a scintilla of a shadow of reason for the thought that I even contemplated your coming to New York last year, this year or next year,\" Joseph wrote Joe a month after the dinner.\n\n\"I do not expect perfection and Lord knows I am indulgent enough and affectionate enough and weak enough in my children,\" he continued. \"But I leave you under no delusion; I must say that if you should work ten times as hard with a hundred times the talent you possess, it would still be no equivalent or recompense for the constant pain and suffering and distress, mental, moral and consequently physical, by day and by night, and almost every waking hour of the night and day, you have caused me this winter before and certainly one winter before that.\"\n\nJoseph's somber mood had worsened by the time he reached Maine in July. After giving thirteen years of selfless service to an impossible boss, Alfred Butes told Pulitzer he had accepted an offer to work for the British newspaper magnate Alfred Harmsworth, who recently had been given the title Baron Northcliffe. Pulitzer had known the British publisher since first renting houses in England in the 1890s. The two had much in common. Northcliffe, like Pulitzer, had begun his working life as a reporter. By his thirties, he had become his nation's preeminent newspaper publisher. Also, they both discovered that gaining power took a toll on friendships. \"I am the loneliest man in the world,\" Pulitzer once told Northcliffe. \"I cannot afford to have friends. People who dine at my table one night find themselves arraigned in my newspaper the next morning.\"\n\nThat Butes went to work for Northcliffe made the desertion all the more painful. Pulitzer had assumed Butes would always remain with him, but signs of trouble had been long evident and might have been noticed by a boss who was sensitive to the feelings of those surrounding him. Butes, who was English, had a wife and child he hardly ever saw. Instead, he accompanied Pulitzer to Europe in the spring, Chatwold in the summer, Jekyll Island in the winter, and New York for occasional stays. \"I am a miserable alien,\" he had told Seitz several years before.\n\nThe break cost Butes an inheritance his boss had intended for him, and it destroyed Northcliffe's friendship with Pulitzer. Norman Thwaites was given the unfortunate task of consoling Pulitzer. The two went for a horseback ride in the woods at Bar Harbor. \"I sought to keep his mind engaged by bits of news from the day's papers,\" Thwaites said. But Pulitzer didn't respond, so Thwaites became silent.\n\n\"Well, why don't you talk?\" Pulitzer suddenly said, swinging at Thwaites with his riding crop. \"Is there no news in the paper? Dammit, man, talk, talk!\"\n\nWhen Thwaites explained that he had been talking for an hour, Pulitzer \"relented at once and, after apologizing, he bade me to tell him why he was treated so cruelly.\"\n\nIn the fall, Harold Stanley Pollard, who had joined Pulitzer's cadre of assistants in 1905 after a brief tenure at the New York Times, went to Paris on a mission to determine what progress Rodin had made on the bust. At first he was turned away from the studio because Rodin was not there, but Pollard persuaded the concierge to let him have a peek at the work. Inside the studio, the man lifted the cloth off the bust. Pollard was struck at once by the resemblance that Rodin had achieved. \"My mind flashed over the pictures by Bonnat, Sargent, and even the old-time photographs,\" he reported to Pulitzer. \"He has seen in you the thoughtful mature man. He has depicted in his marble, an expression of mental introspection, a face outward quiet, immobile, gentle, and almost sad in his smooth soft lines, not a feature is harsh, aggressive or combative, but over all there is a wonderful glow of thought, of a brain studying, thinking, planning, pondering, deeply, earnestly, constantly.\n\n\"He had neither made the eyes perfect nor sightless. He has given one the slight dropping difference we notice in comparison with the other,\" Pollard said. The concierge slowly turned the white marble bust. \"I caught a sudden view, half profile, half full front. It was you as I have seen you in the quiet of the study when everything around you was quiet and peaceful, when you were thinking and planning those things that have made both history and success.\"\n\nAt last, the attendant threw the cover back over the bust.\n\n\"Is it finished?\" asked Pollard.\n\n\"Yes, it is finished,\" he replied.\n\nPollard was not the only man on a mission for Pulitzer. In early December, the London bureau chief James Tuohy and his family traveled to Leith\u2014in Scotland, north of Edinburgh\u2014to join Arthur Billings for the launch of Pulitzer's new yacht. For more than a year, Billings, who had taken leave from his post at the World, had supervised the building of the yacht at the famous Ramage and Ferguson shipyard. Painted white, and christened the Liberty, the 300-hundred-foot yacht lacked only its engines, funnels, and mast. With a bottle of champagne, Tuohy's daughter Jane launched the ship down the ramp of its dry dock and into the water.\n\nThe $1.5 million Liberty was the culmination of a long search for a suitable oceangoing vessel. Pulitzer had wanted to own a yacht ever since his days on Jay Gould's in 1883. After he became blind and infirm, Kate had pressed him to find one. His earlier discouraging episode as a yacht owner almost cured him of his desire. But in 1905, at Kate's urging, he began the search in earnest. He considered half a dozen yachts but none seemed suitable. \"The great difficulty is that a vessel which would seem very silent to others may be very noisy to me\u2014because of my excessive sensibility to noise,\" Pulitzer wrote to one seller.\n\nAs a result, the Liberty had been specially designed to minimize noise, from its bulkhead to its every door and porthole. Once it passed its sea trials, Pulitzer anticipated being able to travel around the globe in a cocoon of silence, served by a forty-five-man crew and a twelve-man staff of personal assistants to read aloud, play music, or provide conversation. \"I certainly expect to spend a large part of life-remains I have on the sea,\" Pulitzer wrote to Hosmer, who had logged more miserable nautical miles traveling with him than any other man. \"You know Pulitzer's sea-ways are very far from safe,\" he joked about himself.\n\nOn a Sunday morning in July 1908, the New York World's editor Arthur Clarke was silently sorting papers at his desk on the dais in the twelfth-floor newsroom when the telegraph editor came running in.\n\n\"Arthur, Joseph Pulitzer is in the reception room!\" he exclaimed.\n\nClarke smiled but said nothing. Since the opening of the Pulitzer Building in 1890, its owner had been there only twice. If there was to be an apparition, Sunday morning was an unlikely time.\n\n\"Arthur, I'm not kidding you,\" the editor begged. \"Joseph Pulitzer is outside. I saw him when I got off the elevator. He's resting on the couch. Seitz, Lyman, Arthur Billings, and a swarm of secretaries are with him. In one minute the whole crowd will be in here.\"\n\nClarke remained unmoved, ignoring the frantic excitement of the editor. Then he heard Pulitzer's unmistakable voice. \"I'll go to Van Hamm's office, if you say so, but I won't go any damned roundabout way.\"\n\nHe looked up and in came Pulitzer, inappropriately dressed for the summer in a tightly buttoned dark suit and with his eyes hidden by his usual goggle-like dark lenses. The publisher was crossing the cavernous newsroom, a maze of desks normally filled with reporters, editors, and copy boys running between them. Being guided by a secretary just barely prevented Pulitzer from striking a phone booth but caused the secretary a bruise as he, instead of his boss, smacked into it. \"Clumsy!\" said Pulitzer when he heard the impact.\n\nThe group reached the empty office of Caleb Van Hamm, the managing editor. Sitting in Van Hamm's desk chair, Pulitzer asked Seitz how many windows there were in the room. \"Three,\" Seitz replied. Then the party moved to the office of Robert Lyman, the night editor. Pulitzer now asked how far it was from the copy desk. When he was told that fifty feet separated the two, he became agitated. \"Idiotic,\" he said. \"Why not put it over in City Hall Park? The night editor must be near the copy desk. No nonsense about it. Swear you will change it!\" All took an oath, but as with most of Pulitzer's instructions of this sort, they ignored the directive later, when he was gone.\n\nPulitzer's irritation was exacerbated by an interview with George Carteret, the night editor. Running his hands over the head of the six-foot-tall, 250-pound editor, Pulitzer exclaimed, \"God, you have a big head, Mr. Carteret!\"\n\n\"You are right, Mr. Pulitzer. I guess I have a big head,\" replied Carteret.\n\n\"You can't deny it. Now tell me, Mr. Carteret, what is in that big head for tomorrow's paper?\"\n\nUnfortunately, the editor had come in late and hardly knew what was in that day's edition. \"My God! Only half-past eleven! And you haven't read the morning papers! Great God! What kinds of editors are running this paper?\" Angry, Pulitzer rose, and his entourage followed. He paused at the city desk before beginning his trek back across the newsroom to the elevators.\n\n\"I want to say a word to Arthur Clarke,\" said Pulitzer. The two men shook hands and, as was usual with Pulitzer, discussed their various health ailments.\n\n\"Now tell me, my boy, what are you preparing for tomorrow's morning paper?\"\n\nClarke listed the various anticipated stories and the leads that reporters were following.\n\n\"There isn't a good, bright Monday morning feature on the whole schedule,\" said Pulitzer. Putting his hands on Clarke's head, he added, \"What have you in there, Mr. Clarke? That is where your Monday morning feature should be. You must cudgel your brain all week for it.\" Clarke promised he would.\n\n\"I know you will have a good paper tomorrow, Mr. Clarke,\" finished Pulitzer, who then turned and was escorted from the room, never to return again.\n\nThe truth was that the World functioned smoothly and successfully without Pulitzer. He had become a figurehead, an aging ruler whose only domain at the paper remained the editorial page. Even there, his hold was tenuous. He complained about its pessimistic tenor. \"I am tired of this pitching into everything in this county,\" he told one of his editors. \"I am tired of graft and corruption stories, as if the country were going to the dogs and everything corrupt.\"\n\nTwo months before his surprise visit, the World had celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary under his ownership. Two thousand guests, including dignitaries from Washington traveling in a specially chartered train, gathered at the foot of the building for a spectacular shower of fireworks that bathed all seventeen stories in flickering light for hours. As he had been when the cornerstone was laid, and then when the building was dedicated, Pulitzer was oceans away. Ralph, who presided over the ceremonies, read a cable sent by his father from Nice, where he was testing his new yacht Liberty, which the secretarial staff was already calling The Liberty, Ha! Ha!!\n\n\"Without public approval a newspaper cannot live; the people can destroy it any day by merely refusing it,\" Ralph said, reading the telegram aloud while standing in front of a portrait of his father draped with flags. \"In its last analysis, nay, in its first and every analysis, step by step, day after day, the existence of a newspaper is dependent upon the approval of the public.\" That the World possessed. On an average day that month, the paper sold 707,432 copies and mailed thousands of copies to readers in every state and territory of the union.\n\nAt midnight, everyone who could find space crowded into the cavernous underground press room to watch the largest Hoe presses on earth, the size of locomotives, stir to life, rhythmically stamping out a 200-page anniversary issue with eight sections in color.\n\nIn August, Pulitzer sailed back across the Atlantic and summoned Seitz to his yacht to discuss coverage of the presidential election. Pulitzer's old Democratic antagonist was back. At the beginning of the year, Pulitzer had done everything in his power to discourage Democrats from turning to William Jennings Bryan for a third time. The World even printed, and distributed widely, a pamphlet called \"The Map of Bryanism: Twelve Years of Demagogy and Defeat\u2014An Appeal to Independent Democratic Thought, by the New York World.\" It hit its mark. \"Mr. Bryan has formally and officially cussed the pamphlet from hell to Harlem,\" Frank Cobb told Pulitzer.\n\nIn fact, Bryan's day had come and gone. Cobb, who had not heard the politician speak since he gave his famous \"cross of gold\" speech at the convention in 1896, was saddened after attending a New York rally. \"He is fat and heavy and bald,\" Cobb told Pulitzer. \"He looks like a traveling evangelist, who had failed as an actor, and then got religion. He speaks slowly and deliberately. He has lost all the sacred fire that made him the greatest orator I ever heard.\"\n\nPulitzer instructed Cobb to promote alternative candidates. Cobb was impressed by the president of Princeton University, Woodrow Wilson, and Pulitzer urged him to draft an editorial promoting Wilson as an alternative to Bryan. \"What better candidate could they present who would have a better chance to carry New York and New Jersey than anybody I can think of now,\" the publisher wrote.\n\nPulitzer's efforts were of no use. Bryan easily won the nomination. Although he was convinced that Bryan would lose to Roosevelt's handpicked successor, William Howard Taft, Pulitzer ordered Cobb to support the Democratic nominee. \"Bryan is as dead as a door nail,\" Pulitzer told Cobb when they met on the Liberty. \"A vote for Bryan is not a practical living vote, but a protest; a protest against the tendencies of the party in power; a check and rebuke to stop those tendencies; an exceedingly important rebuke and check if the vote is large enough to keep the party in power after elections on the anxious seat.\"\n\nWithout knowing Pulitzer's motives, Bryan was grateful for the World's support. In 1904 he had privately denounced Pulitzer as a slave to wealth, but now he sent a message of thanks. Pulitzer passed it on to Cobb. \"It is a sign of forgiveness which might amuse you,\" he wrote in an accompanying note.\n\nPulitzer believed that the World could increase its credibility and power if it mounted a campaign to resist Roosevelt's plans to create a legacy for himself as a great president. \"The country has gone crazy under Roosevelt's leadership in extravagance for the war idea,\" Pulitzer said. \"All my life I have been opposed to that so-called militarism. I may be crazy in thinking the country crazy, but the fact remains we have increased our war expenditures over one hundred millions a year.\" As far as Pulitzer was concerned, Roosevelt had set the nation on a course of unbridled, unneeded, and unwise military growth. \"The logic of jingoism, Rooseveltism, seems to be that the greater we are in population and strength, the more afraid we must be of foreign attack and war.\"\n\nRoosevelt might be a lame duck, but Rooseveltism was an enemy yet to be vanquished.\n\n## Chapter Twenty-Nine\n\n## CLASH OF TITANS\n\nOn the evening of October 2, 1908, William Speer, the editor whom Pulitzer had detailed to work for the Democratic presidential nominee in 1904, was at his desk in the editorial offices under the gold-leaf dome of the Pulitzer Building. As usual, the publisher was overseas and the editorial department was doing its best to carry on. But waging Pulitzer's fight against Roosevelt seemed a futile exercise for those, like Speer, who wrote the World's editorials. Neither its relentless attacks on the president\u2014and thus on his successor, William Howard Taft\u2014nor its support of Bryan was having much effect on the electorate. The day before, when Taft proclaimed in Bryan's home state of Nebraska, \"I am going to be elected,\" few doubted his prediction.\n\nThe one promising bit of hard news on this otherwise slow day was a tip that Speer received from an acquaintance. Reportedly, a group of Panamanians, disgruntled because they were not among those who profited from the canal now under construction in their new nation, had arrived in New York. If these men could be located, they might confirm a story that the World's reporters had doggedly pursued for years.\n\nAccording to rumors, when President Roosevelt concluded his deal in 1902 to build the canal, $40 million earmarked by the U.S. government to purchase a French company's holdings in Panama had gone to an American syndicate created by William Nelson Cromwell, the project's main lobbyist. Indeed, the transaction, along with the money, had been entrusted to J.P. Morgan & Co. which seemed short on proof that it had been used to pay off the French. Rather, the World's reporters believed, the syndicate had earlier bought out the French bondholders and then pocketed the money. Cromwell's own behavior did nothing to dampen speculation about who got the money. In 1906, when testifying before a U.S. Senate committee, he refused to discuss his part in the canal transaction, claiming it was protected by attorney-client privilege.\n\nThe story had immense appeal in the anti-Roosevelt World's newsroom, which was well aware of Pulitzer's long-running battle with the one time boy wonder of New York politics. On the other hand, Roosevelt held nothing more sacrosanct than the building of the canal. He considered it one of his crowning achievements and would tolerate no questioning of his motives or actions in obtaining it\u2014to do so meant impugning his character.\n\nSpeer left his office, went down a flight of stairs to the newsroom and located the night editor. Under Pulitzer's ownership, the paper had assembled a vaunted news-gathering team and was enjoying a renaissance in prestige and power after distancing itself from its association with Hearst's American. (The Herald and the Tribune were growing progressively weaker; later, they would merge, but now the union was nearly twelve years in the future. By contrast, the once anemic New York Times was gaining strength. Among its admirers was Pulitzer himself. \"You may not know that I have the Times sent to me abroad when the World is forbidden,\" he had written to Adolph Ochs earlier in the year, \"and that most of my news I really receive from your paper.\")\n\nAfter listening to Speer, the night editor sent out one of his best men to hunt down the rumored Panamanians. The man checked all his sources, including some among those who had participated in financing the canal. But it was to no avail. The Panamanians could not be found, if they existed at all. Meanwhile, though, his snooping was noticed.\n\nAround ten o'clock that night, Jonas Whitley, a former reporter for the World who now did publicity work for Cromwell, came into the newsroom. He confronted the managing editor, Caleb Van Hamm, about pursuing a story concerning Cromwell without checking with him. As Whitley talked, Van Hamm realized he knew nothing about it but saw an opportunity. \"Dear, dear, Jonas, sorry to hear that,\" he said. \"Tell us all about it.\"\n\nWhitley sat down and spewed a remarkable story that he thought wrongly the World already knew. Cromwell, he said, was being blackmailed by men who threatened to turn over evidence of his wrongdoing in the Panama affair to the Democratic Party unless he paid them off. When Whitley was done, Van Hamm promised to locate the article supposedly being written and told him to return in an hour, when he would be given a chance to review it before it appeared.\n\nAs soon as Whitley left, Van Hamm hurriedly dictated an account from his notes. When Whitley came back, Van Hamm showed him proofs of the story. The public relations man made some minor corrections, picked up a telephone, and read the story to Cromwell. A few hours later it appeared in the early edition of the World. The rumors\u2014founded or unfounded\u2014that Cromwell and his cohorts had profited from the canal deal were in print. Among the alleged profiteers were Douglas Robinson, the president's brother-in-law; and Charles P. Taft, the brother of the presidential candidate.\n\n\"But for Mr. Cromwell it is probable that no Panama story of any kind would have been printed during the campaign,\" said Speer's boss, Frank Cobb, \"and it is certain that the names of Charles P. Taft and Douglas Robinson would not have been published in connection with the affair.\"\n\nAfter years of dormancy, the story of corruption involving the canal was back on page one.\n\nOver the next few weeks, as Taft successfully concluded his presidential campaign against Bryan, the World's reporters did everything they could to keep this story alive. Pulitzer urged them on. \"Examine the record, especially his [Cromwell's] Panama record and his relations with corporations and trusts,\" he wired from Wiesbaden. The paper ran a long profile of the lobbyist, reported the firing of the Canal Zone governor because he had uncovered evidence of the alleged fraud, published copyrighted reports from its Paris correspondent on his efforts to solve the mystery, and even hired a prominent British lawyer and member of Parliament to dig into the French records. Finally, the paper admitted defeat. \"Every source of official information as to the identity of who got the $40,000,000 is not only closed, but wiped out, obliterated, as a result of an agreement between the United States Government and the new Panama Canal Company,\" reported the World's Paris correspondent.\n\nThe articles, while conceding that there was no evidence tying Cromwell to an illegal scheme, resurrected the public's doubts about the murky means by which the United States had acquired the Canal Zone when Roosevelt, in his words, \"took the isthmus.\" The temerity of the World in raising these issues again at the close of his reign caught Roosevelt's attention. He had expected the worst from Pulitzer's paper, but his anger grew when other newspapers picked up on the World's reporting as if the malfeasance had been proved. \"Who got the money?\" asked the Indianapolis News on the eve of the election. \"For weeks this scandal has been before the people,\" it continued. \"The records are in Washington, and they are public records. But the people are not to see them\u2014till after the election, if then.\"\n\nPulitzer was sailing across the ocean in blissful ignorance of the tempest his newspaper was stirring up. He had been on course for Bermuda, but he changed his mind and arrived in New York a few days before the election. He went to bed in his house there by ten o'clock in the evening. \"What is the use of sitting up for a foregone conclusion?\" he told Seitz. Taft won handily, as the public endorsed Roosevelt's selection of his successor.\n\nWith the election over and his man triumphant, Roosevelt vented his anger in a private letter to a friend in Indiana, where the World's accusations had received prominent attention in the press. The president charged that the men behind the articles on the Panama Canal were liars for hire or were seeking to boost circulation. \"The most corrupt financiers, the most corrupt politicians are no greater menace to this country than the newspaper men of the type I have above discussed,\" he wrote. \"Whether they belong to the yellow press or to the purchased press, whatever may be the stimulating cause of their slanderous mendacity, and whatever the cloak it may wear matters but little. In any event they represent one of the potent forces for evil in the community.\"\n\nBy the time Roosevelt's reaction became public, Pulitzer had left New York for a postelection cruise in southern waters. Seitz jumped onto a train and caught up with the Liberty as it docked in Charleston. Roosevelt's letter, which had focused on the Indianapolis News, was on the front page of the local paper in Charleston, along with an interview with Delavan Smith, publisher of the besieged newspaper in Indiana. The two items were read to Pulitzer, who knew little of what had happened since he left New York.\n\nAn astonished Pulitzer listened as his secretary read on. Smith was backpedaling as fast as he could. \"The President's comments on the Panama editorial are based on statements made by a prominent New York paper, not the New York Sun,\" Smith told reporters who caught up with him on a train leaving Chicago. He claimed that the Indianapolis News had credited the information to \"the New York newspaper making the charge and distinctly disclaimed any responsibility for its accuracy.\"\n\n\"What New York paper does Smith mean?\" asked Pulitzer.\n\n\"The World,\" replied Seitz.\n\n\"I knew damned well it must be.\"\n\nRoosevelt had not mentioned the World. It was entirely possible that the matter might blow over, now that he had let off steam with his attack on the Indianapolis News. But Speer was in no mood to let the president's comment pass unchallenged. He and Cobb conferred. \"Up to this time the World had not discussed the Panama matter editorially,\" Cobb said. \"But when Mr. Roosevelt went so far as to tell the American people that the United States government 'paid the $40,000,000 direct to the French government,' it seemed to the World that the time had arrived when the country was entitled to the truth and the whole truth.\"\n\nBy the time the Liberty reached New York, Speer had published an unusually long editorial that meticulously demonstrated how Roosevelt's statement contradicted the public record. In blunt terms, he accused the president of knowingly lying. \"The fact that Theodore Roosevelt as President of the United States issues a public statement about such an important matter full of flagrant untruths, reeking with misstatements, challenging line by line the testimony of his associate Cromwell and the official records, makes it imperative that full publicity come at once through the authority and action of Congress.\"\n\nPulitzer did not know of Speer's remonstrations against the president. Whether Pulitzer wanted a fight with the president or not, he now had one.\n\nRoosevelt still had three months left in office, and the power to pursue his quarry. On December 9, the day after the World's editorial appeared, Roosevelt contacted Henry Stimson, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York. Two years earlier, Roosevelt had selected the thirty-eight-year-old Republican corporate lawyer\u2014who shared the president's love of hunting and the outdoors\u2014over other, more prominent candidates for the post. The appointment put Stimson on a road that would eventually take him to the highest level of national government. Already, he was being touted as a candidate for governor, and he remained deeply grateful to the president for his good fortune.\n\n\"I do not know anything about the law of criminal libel, but I should dearly like to have it invoked about Pulitzer, of the World,\" Roosevelt told Stimson. \"If he can be reached by proceeding on the part of the Government for criminal libel in connection with his assertions about the Panama Canal, I should like to do it,\" Roosevelt said, frankly confessing the depth of his enmity toward Pulitzer and setting Stimson on the publisher's trail.\n\n\"When I was Police Commissioner I once and for all summed him up by quoting the close of Macaulay's article about Bar\u00e8re* as applying to him.\" The fights of 1895 between the World and Roosevelt, especially those when he sought to enforce the city's blue laws, were never far from Pulitzer's thoughts either. \"Roosevelt as Police Commissioner was very much like he is in the present time,\" Pulitzer had warned Cobb earlier in the year. \"The child is father of the man.\"\n\nRoosevelt wanted revenge for years of abuse from the World, and he was willing to use the federal government's prosecutorial powers in his personal vendetta. But to do so would require invoking a rule of law that had its roots in the notorious fifteenth-century English Star Chamber. Even though American common law was based in great part on that of England, the use of criminal proceedings for libel had long fallen into disfavor except in cases that involved a breach of peace. Not since the discredited Alien and Sedition Acts of 1798 had a president so brazenly sought to stifle criticism of the government. If Roosevelt had his way, Pulitzer would spend his final years behind bars.\n\nStimson found the envelope from the White House on his desk the next day. A highly competent attorney, though one with political ambitions, he knew that the president was overreaching his powers. \"Without having yet had the time to look it up in connection with this case I am of the very strong impression that there is no Federal law punishing criminal libel,\" he told Roosevelt, in a letter marked \"Personal.\" In an earlier case involving attacks against a federal judge, Stimson explained, the only remedy that could be found was in state courts. \"But as I said before, I will have the matter thoroughly investigated and will report to you.\"\n\nImpatient, Roosevelt looked for other ways to bring the might of the federal government down on Pulitzer. In hopes of getting a congressional committee to pursue the matter, the president contacted a Republican senator, Philander Chase Knox, who had served as his attorney general when the United States fostered a revolution in Panama so as to gain control of the Canal Zone. \"Oh Mr. President,\" Knox had said at the time, \"do not let so great an achievement suffer from any taint of legality.\"\n\n\"It seems to me,\" Roosevelt told Knox, \"at least well worth considering whether it would not be wise once and for all to nail the infamous and slandering falsehoods of Mr. Pulitzer, published in his paper, the New York World, and of those who have taken their cue from the Pulitzer publications.\"\n\nNext, Roosevelt composed a 4,800-word \"special message\" to the Senate and the House, attached a stack of documents, and sent the packet to Capitol Hill. When members of the Lake to Gulf Waterways Association visited the White House, Roosevelt publicly tipped his hand. \"We have cause to be ashamed of a certain set of Americans in connection with the canal, and that is of those Americans who have been guilty of infamous falsehood concerning the acquisition of the property and the construction of the canal itself,\" he told the group. \"If they can be reached for criminal libel, I shall try to have them reached.\"\n\nOn December 15, 1908, the secretaries of the Senate and the House began reading the president's message to their respective chambers. Because accusations of corruption surrounding the canal had once again surfaced, Roosevelt told the lawmakers, he was submitting to them a complete rebuttal. At that, the few senators who were on the floor broke into laughter. The merriment grew when Roosevelt added that no one believed anything published in Pulitzer's newspaper. The House was more circumspect, especially as one of its members had introduced a motion to investigate the canal matter.\n\nTwo minutes into the message, it became clear that Roosevelt had far more in mind than a simple refutation of the accusations. \"The real offender is Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, editor and proprietor of the World,\" Roosevelt said. These libelous actions, he claimed, were so egregious that Pulitzer should be prosecuted by the government. \"It is therefore a high national duty to bring to justice this vilifier of the American people, this man who wantonly and wickedly and without one shadow of justification seeks to blacken the character of reputable private citizens and to convict the Government of his own country in the eyes of the civilized world of wrongdoing of the basest and foulest kind, when he had not one shadow of justification of any sort of description for the charge he had made.\" To that end, Roosevelt announced that the attorney general was considering by what means to prosecute Pulitzer.\n\nRoosevelt did not mention Stimson's estimation that there were no applicable federal laws. In state court, both the president's brother-in-law and the brother of the president-elect had grounds to pursue a civil libel case. For that matter, so would Cromwell, if he were willing to have a court examine his conduct during the acquisition of the canal. The president, as a public figure, would have a harder time winning a libel case. But that was not his goal. By his public declaration and his behind-the-scenes orders to the Justice Department, Roosevelt made it clear he wanted to use the Federal Government as a club to silence Pulitzer.\n\nCongress returned the documents without comment. Its silent but mocking response only further aggravated the president. If the legislature didn't care about his reputation, he would make sure those who worked for him did.\n\nWhile Roosevelt was seeking help from Congress in punishing Pulitzer for his affront to the presidency, the Liberty docked in New York. In the soundproof underground room of Pulitzer's house on East Seventy-Third Street, it fell to Norman Thwaites to read aloud an account of Roosevelt's message appearing in the evening papers. The secretary steeled himself for an angry outburst, but none came. \"Go on,\" Pulitzer said quietly, and Thwaites continued reading. \"Suddenly,\" Thwaites said, \"he rose from the couch on which he was taking his afternoon rest and smote the coverlet with clenched fist.\"\n\n\"The World cannot be muzzled! That's the headline,\" Pulitzer burst out. Then, dictating at a clip that strained the capacity of Thwaites's shorthand, he dictated an editorial. \"Send for Cobb. Tell him to be here in a half-hour.\" Pulitzer also summoned his managing editor, Van Hamm. They took a carriage ride around Central Park. Van Hamm brought Pulitzer unwelcome news. \"We have no conclusive evidence to establish those statements which the President charges us with making,\" he told Pulitzer. Reviewing the course of events, he insisted that the World was not at fault. Robinson and Taft were linked to the scandal by Cromwell's public relations man, who had named them in his statement about the alleged blackmail that triggered the whole affair.\n\nThis didn't satisfy Pulitzer. He ordered the paper to stop printing any more articles about Panama and the missing money. \"It is idiotic, as we have no proof whatever of any of these charges. Impress this upon Mr. Van Hamm. I want accuracy, truth, and restraint,\" he told Seitz. \"The honor and truthfulness of the paper is my honor. Much of what Roosevelt says is true. The World ought not have made that charge.\"\n\nThere was nothing Pulitzer could do about that now. Instead, he talked with Cobb about mounting the paper's defense. Pulitzer wanted to follow up his editorial with a selection of Roosevelt's previous denunciations to illustrate the president's extreme verbal intemperance. \"Now, I hope this is clear and that you will put every single one of the editorial writers to work,\" he told Cobb. \"Tell the editorial gentlemen to dine downtown at my expense and have a good bottle of wine. Let them stay down till midnight. I consider this an emergency.\"\n\nBy nightfall, Pulitzer also released a statement for the reporters, who had been calling all day. \"So far as I am personally concerned,\" he said, \"I was at sea during the whole of October, and, in fact, practically for two years I have been yachting on account of my health.\" He claimed never to have read any of the offending articles and said he had nothing to do with them. \"Mr. Roosevelt knows all this perfectly well. He knows I am a chronic invalid and mostly abroad yachting on account of my health.\"\n\nIt was a half-truth. Although Pulitzer had been unaware of the escalation of the stories about Panama, he knew that the paper was pursuing the matter. In fact, as early as June he had discussed it with Cobb. He liked to claim that his only domain was the editorial page, but he frequently called for news coverage of issues that interested him. In September, for instance, he had provided lengthy instructions for the World to go after Roosevelt's moneyman Cortelyou.\n\nYet Pulitzer did not choose to escape blame entirely. He said that the paper was his and he took general responsibility for its continual attacks on Roosevelt and the president's policies. \"I am really sorry he should be so very angry but the World will continue to criticize him without a shadow of fear even if he should succeed in compelling me to edit the paper from jail.\"\n\nAid came from a surprising quarter. In Lincoln, Nebraska, William Jennings Bryan published a defense of Pulitzer in his newspaper, the Commoner. \"Mr. Pulitzer is on solid ground when he resists the President's attempt to convert newspaper criticism of officials into criticism against the government itself,\" said Bryan. \"The President's message is indefensible in so far as it asserts the right of the government to prosecute the World or Mr. Pulitzer.\"\n\nPulitzer believed prison was a real possibility, and he said so to his friends, though he put on a brave face. \"We are treating the thing with some hilarity,\" he wrote to one friend a few hours after Roosevelt's intentions became known. \"I think it simply an effort to shut up the paper's criticism just as Congress and Senate have been shut up.\" Still, Pulitzer wanted to escape New York as soon as he could. But as the object of a possible government prosecution, he couldn't make a move without checking with the U.S. attorney. The next day, Pulitzer sent Seitz to see Stimson.\n\n\"How long will Mr. Pulitzer be away?\" Stimson asked Seitz.\n\n\"A few days,\" he replied.\n\n\"I will not need Mr. Pulitzer for a few days,\" Stimson said ominously, concluding the conversation.\n\nOn December 16, 1908, as the Liberty sailed out of New York harbor, Pulitzer's editorial appeared in the World. Greatly massaged by Cobb, and improved by research, it was an eloquent defense of the newspaper and the rights of the press. \"Mr. Roosevelt is mistaken. He cannot muzzle the World,\" the editorial began. It urged Congress to investigate the transactions involving the Panama Canal and cheekily said that the World felt complimented by the president's prosecution.\n\n\"This is the first time a President ever asserted the doctrine of l\u00e8se-majest\u00e9, or proposed, in the absence of specific legislation, the criminal prosecution by the Government of citizens who criticized the conduct of the Government or the conduct of individuals who may have had business dealings with the Government.\" Neither the king of England nor the German emperor, the editorial noted, had such power. \"Yet Mr. Roosevelt, in the absence of law, officially proposes to use all the power of the greatest government on earth to cripple the freedom of the press on the pretext that the Government itself has been libeled\u2014and he is the Government.\n\n\"So far as the World is concerned, its proprietor may go to jail, if Mr. Roosevelt succeeds, as he threatens; but even in jail the World will not cease to be a fearless champion of free speech, a free press and a free people. It cannot be muzzled.\"\n\nThe Liberty's southerly course prompted unfounded rumors that Pulitzer was on his way to Panama to obtain vindicating evidence. A blind publisher was hardly the person to conduct the necessary research. From Norfolk, Virginia, where the Liberty paused briefly, Pulitzer ordered a reporter for the World in England to leave for Paris and \"dig twelve hours a day on who really got the money\" he also told Seitz to hire Wall Street investigators to conduct a similar investigation on this side of the Atlantic. All the work had to be coordinated by one editor, said Pulitzer. \"Tell him to be scrupulously careful weighing every word,\" he said, repeating his old refrain. \"But accuracy, accuracy, accuracy.\"\n\nSummoned, Cobb raced by train to meet the yacht at Old Point Comfort at Norfolk. On board he found a highly disquieted Pulitzer, worried about the possibility of prison but still capable of seeing the irony of his potential fate. \"For years we have asked Roosevelt to send somebody to jail, so he begins on the editors of the World,\" Pulitzer said. He now believed that Roosevelt would seek to prosecute him in state court.\n\n\"My opinion is that if anything comes out of this Roosevelt Panama matter it will be through Jerome,\" he told Cobb, referring to New York's district attorney William Jerome. The World had long supported Jerome but had recently aroused his ire by criticizing his prosecutorial decisions. It was an attack that now seemed ill-timed. \"We pitched into Jerome because he did not do anything about wealthy lawbreakers; now he turns against the World.\" Pulitzer asked Cobb to convey a private message to Jerome that though he took responsibility for everything in his newspaper, he had known nothing of the articles and had been out of touch when they appeared. In effect, he was throwing his editors to the wolves.\n\nLegally, Pulitzer's guess was on the mark. Stimson had already told Attorney General Charles Bonaparte that he had found no law, precedent, or means to charge Pulitzer in federal courts. Stimson met at his house with Jerome. \"He is ready and anxious to cooperate in any way, and he has told me he considers the movement of the utmost importance,\" Stimson said, adding that such an approach would benefit the president. \"This would tend to minimize the danger of the Panama prosecution being criticized as personal to President Roosevelt.\"\n\nDespite Stimson's hesitance to pursue the president's plan to prosecute Pulitzer in federal court, Roosevelt felt confident. On January 30, 1909, he lunched with Douglas Robinson, one of the supposed victims of the libel; his sister Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; and the treasurer of the Republican Party. Roosevelt and his brother-in-law reviewed the case. \"Both the President and Mr. Robinson,\" said an aide who sat in on the lunch, \"think they will put Pulitzer in prison for criminal libel.\"\n\nLater that night, Roosevelt attended the Gridiron dinner\u2014an annual press gathering, characterized by bawdy humor and skits\u2014in Washington's Willard Hotel. The one representative of the World who attended reported privately to New York that he had overheard the president promising to make an example of Pulitzer for crooked journalism in deceiving people about government. \"I mean to cinch these men, the ringleaders and not their hired men or agents for the damage they have done.\"\n\nWith the clock ticking on his term of office, Roosevelt stepped up the pressure on the Justice Department to get Pulitzer. The intensity of the investigation was felt at the World. Pulitzer and others on the paper became convinced that federal agents were snooping through the mail and examining the documents carried by hired messengers between Washington and New York. The fear made the use of Pulitzer's codebooks an even greater imperative. Soon a new code word, \"Charlotte,\" was added to the 5,000 entries already in the book. It meant extradition, and Pulitzer wanted to know if he could be extradited from Bermuda should he go there.\n\nPulitzer could not restrain his anxiety. He repeatedly asked Cobb to play up his infirmities to \"dispel the general myth and assumption that a totally blind man and confirmed invalid can be the editor of a paper like the World in any responsible sense whatsoever.\" At the same time, Pulitzer knew that the stakes were more than personal. If Roosevelt were to win, he told his editors, \"it will stop all criticism and free thought in the majority of papers and absolutely abolish opposition of any kind\u2014and it will give the government\u2014nay not the government but the administration\u2014the party in power\u2014complete license and make it more powerful than even Roosevelt has been.\"\n\nThe Justice Department's attorneys convened two grand juries\u2014one in Washington, D.C., and another in New York City\u2014and began issuing subpoenas to a wide cast of characters that included editors in New York and a boy who sold newspapers on the streets of Washington. Government lawyers, however, remained mum on the purpose of the proceedings. Attorney General Bonaparte refused all comment when reporters caught up with him in Baltimore. \"I must, therefore, ask my good friends of the press to exercise the great virtue of patience just now, promising to soon let them know all there is to be known or at all events all that I can tell them,\" he said.\n\nStimson was convinced that this approach was a mistake. If the government remained silent, he told Bonaparte, newspapers would use the secrecy surrounding the case as proof that it was on a fishing expedition. He was right. \"This action by the Government is said to be without precedent in the history of American jurisprudence and lawyers regarded as authorities in libel actions are puzzled as to the exact course the Government will adopt,\" reported the New York Times, a newspaper not known for hyperbole, even then. \"It is said that all the proceedings are being personally supervised by President Roosevelt.\" The secrecy even prompted a U.S. senator to seek a resolution to compel Bonaparte to disclose whether the president had ordered the prosecution and, if so, under what statute.\n\nRalph, who feared he might also be indicted, met with his father's legal team. It consisted of the reform-minded lawyer De Lancey Nicoll, who had remained loyal since 1887, when Pulitzer had backed him in a contentious election; and John Bowers. Reviewing the subpoenas and other documents, the two lawyers noticed a pattern that led them to consult a federal law book so old that it was musty and its typeface used what looked like an \"s\" for an \"f.\" There they at last uncovered the legal strategy that Roosevelt's lawyers planned to use in the government's pursuit of Pulitzer.\n\nSince there was no current applicable law, the Justice Department was dusting off an obscure law of 1825. Under its terms, the federal government retained the right to prosecute a crime committed on federal property, such as West Point, using state law in the absence of a federal criminal statute. Astonishingly to the lawyers, this law required that the prosecution be based on state laws that existed prior to 1825. In other words, the government was planning to prosecute Pulitzer by using century-old state laws that might no longer be in force.\n\nEverything became clear. The two grand jury proceedings were held so that the prosecutors could use a Maryland law of 1802 (the District of Columbia had, in its early days, adopted Maryland's laws) and a New York law of 1805. If one effort failed, the other might prevail. The discovery also solved the puzzle of why Jerome had participated in the investigation by the New York federal grand jury. If this plan succeeded, Jerome would try the case jointly with Stimson.\n\nNothing like this had ever been attempted before by federal prosecutors. Pulitzer's lawyers knew that if it was made public, the government's case would appear to be on shaky ground. To make the best use of their discovery, Nicoll and Bowers gave the story to all the press, rather than holding it for the World alone. The strategy worked. Newspapers such as the New York Times reported it on the front page. The headline in the Times read, LIBEL PROSECUTION SECRET COMES OUT: HALF-FORGOTTEN LAW USED.\n\nStimson was infuriated. He telephoned Bonaparte and, failing to reach him, sent an angry telegram. Later, a bit calmer, Stimson explained his actions to his boss. \"I was anxious,\" he said, \"that a statement of the real ground of my investigation should be issued by the Government before a biased and perverted account should be issued by the other side.\" Now it was too late. Pulitzer had won the first round in the court of public opinion.\n\nCobb seized the high ground. \"To prosecute the World under the antiquated statute of 1825,\" he wrote, \"would represent the last word in the prostitution of the Federal machinery of justice to gratify the personal malice of an autocratic President.\"\n\nIn the legal proceedings, the news was no better for the president. All the witnesses brought before the New York grand jury had invoked their Fifth Amendment right not to testify. One after another, the World's treasurer, J. Angus Shaw; Pulitzer's banker Dumont Clarke; the editor Florence White; and others remained closemouthed in front of the jury. If Stimson wanted to force them to answer his questions, he would have to bring them before a judge in an open court, and the questions the government wanted to keep secret would become public. He was getting nowhere.\n\n\"Thus far, we have not connected either of the Pulitzers with the commission of the offense, and in my opinion, have not evidence to indict either,\" Stimson reported. This was not what the president wanted to hear. Roosevelt sent a terse note to Stimson, dropping the usual \"Dear Harry,\" demanding that he come to the White House.\n\nThe following morning, before meeting with his cabinet, the president sat down with Stimson and Bonaparte at the White House. Also present was Roosevelt's brother-in-law Douglas Robinson; he had just returned from seeing Jerome, the district attorney in New York, who had not ruled out bringing his own case against the World. When this gathering broke up, Stimson and Bonaparte returned to the Justice Department, where they conferred with the U.S. attorney for Washington and his assistant. The message was clear. Roosevelt wanted Pulitzer in the dock.\n\nLike most lawyers who examined the case, Jerome had doubts about it, but he enjoyed having a chance to torment Pulitzer. As Stimson spun his wheels, Jerome remained mostly mum about his intentions. The World assigned reporters to tail Jerome and to try to get his assistants to leak his plans. But nothing could be learned. When Pulitzer returned from his cruise, confounding those who thought he had gone to Panama, he told Seitz to find out what Jerome was planning. Seitz turned to a star writer from the Evening World, Irvin Cobb (not related to Pulitzer's editorial writer Frank Cobb). Cobb had gotten to know the district attorney when he covered the famous trial of Harry K. Thaw, who murdered Stanford White. Seitz hoped he might use this friendship to determine Jerome's plans.\n\n\"To put it badly,\" Seitz said when he brought Cobb into his office, \"we've exhausted practically every expedient, every available resource we could think of\u2014we and our lawyers and other representatives\u2014and without success. A grave emergency exists. Mr. Pulitzer is in a very depressed, very harassed state. The possible consequences to his health are dangerous\u2014most dangerous. So as a last resort we are asking your cooperation.\"\n\nCobb agreed and was told he could use as much money and manpower as he needed to get the job done. However, he simply hopped onto a trolley and rode down to Pontin's Restaurant, a popular hangout for lawyers. There he found Jerome having a drink. \"I don't like a hair in that man's head,\" said Jerome when Cobb asked him about Pulitzer. \"He has attacked me viciously, violently, and without due provocation.\n\n\"Even so,\" Jerome continued, \"I never intended to make either a burnt offering or a martyr out of him.\" In fact, Jerome said that within forty-eight hours of meeting with Stimson he had made up his own mind not to pursue the case. But because he had been annoyed by the World's behavior toward him, he admitted, \"I've let King Pulitzer\u2014and his gang of sycophants\u2014stew in their own juice.\"\n\nCobb returned to the office and reported what he had found out. Seitz put him on a telephone to Pulitzer's house and asked him to repeat this to Norman Thwaites. After hearing it, Thwaites said that Pulitzer was sitting with him and wanted to know how Cobb had obtained the information so quickly.\n\n\"Well, it's like this,\" said Cobb, who then recounted his trolley ride and the alcohol-laced interview with Jerome.\n\n\"Well, I wish I might be God-damned,\" said Pulitzer, loud enough to be heard over the telephone, when Thwaites had repeated the tale. Cobb turned in his expense report of ten cents for his trolley rides and returned to work.\n\nStimson remained firmly convinced that Pulitzer was beyond his reach. In February he instructed the grand jury that there was not enough evidence to indict Joseph and Ralph Pulitzer. \"I am sorry for the President's disappointment,\" Stimson wrote to Bonaparte, carefully choosing his words, \"but feel sure he appreciates the impossibility of my allowing the grand jury to indict a man without legal evidence, no matter how much reason there might be to imagine he was also probably responsible.\" Further, he warned that the case in New York against the World would be endangered if the grand jury in Washington made the mistake of indicting the Pulitzers. Once they were indicted, their lawyers would be able to make public evidence revealing the weakness of the government's case. \"It will also go a long way,\" Stimson said, \"towards confirming the impression that an indictment was obtained by use of the overwhelming influence of the Government where it would not have been otherwise obtained.\"\n\nBonaparte brought the U.S. attorney's letter to the White House. Roosevelt was none too happy when he read it. He told Bonaparte that if Stimson was unwilling to go after Pulitzer in New York, he himself would insist that the U.S. attorney in Washington do so. At his desk the next day, Roosevelt rebuked Stimson. \"This letter is purely private and is merely to explain why I agree with Bonaparte that no effort should be made to get the District Attorney here to abandon his position, as you suggest,\" Roosevelt told Stimson. If the Pulitzers were not indicted, then the lesson he wanted to teach the press would be lost, he continued. \"I think that much more service would be rendered by indicting the two Pulitzers with only one chance in three of convicting them, than by indicting their subordinates with three chances out of four of convicting them.\"\n\nStimson did not cower. \"If you had been sitting on the Grand Jury I feel perfectly confident that you would have agreed with me,\" he told Roosevelt. The evidence was insufficient and the law unsupportive. \"But in the second place, as a matter of policy and expediency, and not of official duty, I have a very strong conviction against pulling the trigger unless I have a ball-cartridge in the gun,\" said Stimson, appealing to Roosevelt the hunter. In New York, as \"there has been sedulously nursed a belief that the government is doing something unusual in this prosecution under pressure of your personal desires, there is more than ever before, in my opinion, the absolute necessity that the bullet discharged should be true to the mark.\"\n\nRoosevelt ignored Stimson's warning. If he couldn't get the U.S. attorney in New York to do his bidding, the one in Washington would. The prosecution in the capital was actually led by two men: Daniel W. Baker, who was the city's U.S. attorney; and Stewart McNamara, his assistant. Most of the work fell to McNamara, whom Bonaparte elevated to special assistant to the attorney general to show the importance the administration attached to the prosecutions.\n\nOn his yacht, Pulitzer prepared for the indictment. The World's reporters were watching the proceedings in Washington carefully, even compiling biographies of the grand jury members in hopes of predicting their behavior. Pulitzer told his editors that if he was indicted, they were to prominently publish a disclaimer saying that he had been away and that he had known nothing of the stories until Roosevelt lodged the complaint. They were also to drop all editorials on Panama.\n\nOn February 17, 1909, the twenty-three grand jurors in Washington indicted Pulitzer, his company, and the editors Van Hamm and Lyman on five counts of criminal libel. The indictment charged, among other things, that the men and the World had libeled President Roosevelt, Roosevelt's brother-in law Robinson, President-Elect Taft, Taft's brother Charles, the financier J. Pierpont Morgan, Secretary of State Elihu Root, and the lobbyist Cromwell. The grand jury also indicted Delavan Smith and Charles Williams of the Indianapolis News, which had used the World's articles on the Panama Canal.\n\nFrank Cobb was ready for this moment. He published an editorial ringing with defiance. \"Mr. Roosevelt is an episode,\" wrote Cobb. \"The World is an institution. Long after Mr. Roosevelt is dead, long after Mr. Pulitzer is dead, long after all the present editors of this paper are dead, the World will still go on as a great independent newspaper, unmuzzled, undaunted, and unterrorized.\"\n\nArrest warrants were brought to New York. McNamara was champing at the bit to put Pulitzer in custody. New York, however, would be a hard place to do so. The city's judges were known to be reluctant to permit an extradition to Washington for this sort of indictment, as a previous case had shown. In 1895, they had refused to send the editor Charles Dana to the capital when he had been indicted for libel in a case that involved neither the federal government nor unusual applications of law. (Ironically, Dana's defense attorney, Elihu Root, was now Roosevelt's secretary of state.) \"Menacing as was the Dana case to the liberty of the press, it was far less serious than this Roosevelt persecution, for the complaint against Mr. Dana was made by a bona fide resident of the District of Columbia,\" Pulitzer told Cobb. \"The President of the United States did not instigate the proceedings and direct the persecution thereby perverting the powers of the government to the gratification of personal revenge.\"\n\nMcNamara consulted the attorney general about the feasibility of arresting Pulitzer in Norfolk, where his yacht was to dock on its way back from a cruise to Havana. They believed it would be easier to extradite him from Virginia than from New York. But sloppy paperwork on McNamara's part thwarted the plan, and the Liberty sailed as fast as it could toward New York. Stimson was of no help to the case in Washington, either. Convinced that it was a waste of time, he ignored it while working on his own indictments in New York. The rush to arrest Pulitzer came to a standstill. Florence White sent word to Pulitzer that the attorney Nicoll had said an arrest was no longer imminent. \"He also says he believes there is no danger of arrest in Charleston, and that Mr. Andes [Pulitzer] might cruise in that vicinity and return to New York when he heard from Mr. Nicoll.\"\n\nMeanwhile, the grand jury in New York continued gathering evidence. Only the president and his lawyers knew that Pulitzer himself was no longer a target in Stimson's planned prosecution. Half an hour after Roosevelt left office on March 4, 1909, the jury in New York issued indictments containing fourteen counts of libel against the Press Publishing company (the corporation that published the World), and Van Hamm. Despite his growing opposition to Roosevelt's vendetta, Stimson had purposely delayed the issuing of the indictments in order to protect his political patron. He was worried that Pulitzer's lawyers might try to embarrass Roosevelt by serving him with a subpoena as he prepared to sail for a well-publicized trip to Africa. \"I am trying to engineer my indictments,\" he told the attorney general, \"so there will be no issue of fact pending at the time of his departure, or if there is such an issue, I will be in a position to call the bluff and bring it on for immediate trial.\"\n\nThese indictments, like those in Washington, were based on an unusual interpretation of law. In this case, the old federal law brought to bear was an \"Act to Protect the Harbor Defense and Fortifications Constructed or Used by the United States from Malicious Injury, and for Other Purposes.\" Stimson reasoned that the paper could be charged under federal law for its allegedly libelous actions because twenty-nine copies of the World had been mailed to West Point and one had been delivered to the city's federal building. Noticeably absent from the indictment was Pulitzer's name.\n\nBy the time the Liberty steamed into Brooklyn's Gravesend Bay, other fissures had appeared in Roosevelt's strategy. Joseph Kealing, the U.S. attorney in Indianapolis, resigned in protest after eight years on the job, rather than pursue the case. Kealing told Bonaparte he believed the government was overreaching in trying to drag the defendants in Indianapolis to trial in Washington. \"I believe the principle involved is a dangerous one,\" he said, \"striking at the very foundation of our form of government. I cannot, therefore, honestly and conscientiously insist to the court that such is the law.\"\n\nHis nerves agitated, Pulitzer remained apprehensive. \"Never was the time more propitious than now to treat judges and courts and all forms of justice with respect,\" he instructed his editors. He had cause to be anxious. Even after issuing its indictments, the grand jury in New York continued its probe. Hosmer was called to testify, and he sent Pulitzer a long description of his ordeal in the closed chambers. Unaware of how Stimson had stood up to Roosevelt, Hosmer insultingly compared Stimson to Lepidus in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, described by Mark Antony as \"a slight unmeritable man, meet to be sent on errands.\"\n\nOver time, it became clear that neither the case in Washington nor the one in New York had much traction. \"Panama matter at this end apparently making no progress,\" reported one of Pulitzer's men in New York. Roosevelt was now in Africa chasing big game, and Stimson had returned to private law practice and was rumored to be planning to run for higher office. The matter fell into the hands of President Taft's appointees, who dutifully pressed on, out of loyalty to the man who had picked their boss for the presidency. With no prospect of any trials soon, Pulitzer was granted permission to leave the country.\n\nClearing Sandy Point, the Liberty went south, as usual. During breakfast, off the coast of southern Virginia, Pulitzer asked the captain which way the yacht was heading that morning.\n\n\"Due east, sir,\" he replied.\n\n\"If we keep on 'due east,' where will we fetch up?\" asked Pulitzer.\n\n\"Lisbon, sir.\"\n\n\"Keep on, due east.\"\n\nIt was a bad decision. The crossing took them into a severe spring gale, followed by long days of heavy swells. By the time the group reached Lisbon, they were sick and exhausted, and Pulitzer had whooping cough. Life on board worsened. A new secretary who had joined the bedraggled group came down with smallpox. The yacht had to be fumigated and everyone vaccinated before authorities allowed the Liberty to move on. The voyage was hardly an escape from Pulitzer's persecution back home.\n\nPulitzer spent the summer and fall of 1909 on the Liberty cruising from northern Europe to the area around Gibraltar, with short stays in port cities and one in Carlsbad for another cure. Back in the United States, the legal proceedings against him and his newspaper ground on. The government prepared to prove the articles untrue by tapping into its huge archive of documents relating to the acquisition of the canal and even deposing all the members of the junta in Panama.\n\nAlthough they felt they had the upper hand when it came to the law, Pulitzer's lawyers took no chances. They dispatched their own investigators to Washington, Paris, and Panama to uncover proof confirming charges of corruption involving the canal. If they succeeded, not only would they have an irrefutable defense, but the World would have the scoop of the century. This undertaking, however, became increasingly expensive when Pulitzer's lawyers decided to use rogatory commissions that would permit the taking of testimony usable in a U.S. court. The Justice Department insisted that Pulitzer pay the travel and lodging costs of its attorneys who had to witness the hearings.\n\nEach side believed its foreign research benefited its case. From Paris, McNamara wrote to George W. Wickersham, Taft's attorney general, that \"the witnesses who had testified have not only not substantiated in the smallest degree the contentions of the World, but have rejected their allegations in toto and have established more thoroughly the utter falsity of the libels.\" On the other hand, the World's reporter Earl Harding, who accompanied the lawyers to Paris, was convinced that a ledger he obtained showed the collusion of American investors in acquiring French canal stock to benefit from the U.S. payment.\n\nHarding was among those at the World who believed Cromwell and his associates had made an immense, illegal profit from the canal deal and that the truth could set Pulitzer free. On June 3, 1909, he went to the docks of New York to see off Pulitzer's attorneys, who were leaving for Panama. He saw Cromwell's law partner, Edward B. Hill, accompanying the Justice Department's attorney. \"Every bit of telltale evidence in Panama would be bottled up,\" Harding concluded. \"It was three in the afternoon. I hurried back to the World, told my misgivings to Don Seitz, and instantly got his clearance to take the next train to New Orleans, leaving at 4:40 PM.\" In New Orleans he boarded a Panama-bound United Fruit cargo ship.\n\nThe Canal Zone was a beehive of activity and teeming with thousands of Americans. In the five years since the United States had resumed work on the canal, a large trench had begun to take shape. Despite the region's heavy rainy season, landslides, and malaria, workers were excavating 3 million cubic yards of dirt a month, creating a ditch large enough to lay down two Empire State Buildings on their sides, end to end. But it would be still five more years before the first ship would pass through the canal.\n\nHarding caught up with Pulitzer's attorney, who was quite surprised to find him in Panama. Harding determined that, as he had feared, Cromwell's men and Panamanian conspirators were obstructing the legal investigation, preventing the investigation from getting to the bottom of the story. In fact, the attorney had already been convinced that there had been no corruption. \"The World has been misled,\" he told Harding. \"We haven't a leg to stand on.\"\n\nHarding decided that if Panama would not yield the secrets, then they could be found in the capital of the country which once ruled Panama. Before leaving for the Colombian capital of Bogot\u00e1, he hired Edwin Warren Guyol, a native of New Orleans who spoke Spanish and had worked as a reporter in Cuba. Nicknamed \"M'si\u00e9 Manqueau\" for having lost his arm in an accident, Guyol had a rough-and-tumble reputation. But he proved loyal to the end. When men tied to Cromwell attempted to bribe him, he told Harding. They, Guyol said, wanted him to spy on Harding and impede the research. In particular, he was to work closely with Marquis Alexander de St. Croix, a French wine salesman who was leaving for Bogot\u00e1 ahead of them. The pair decided to play along as if Guyol had agreed to double-cross Harding.\n\nWhen Harding and Guyol reached Bogot\u00e1 in August, they made their arrival conspicuous. They published an open letter in the main newspaper asking for help from Colombians, who were still smarting after the forced separation of Panama from their own territory. Officials at the U.S. legation warily watched Guyol and Harding. As it turned out, they had reason to.\n\nHarding concluded that it was time to resort to extreme means to find the documents they were looking for. \"In short,\" he said, \"it was a case, as far as we were concerned, of fighting the devil with his own tools.\" They selected St. Croix, the wine merchant whom they believed to be a spy for Cromwell, as their first target. Continuing to pretend that he himself had been bribed, Guyol tried to get St. Croix to let him know what Cromwell was covering up. After this effort failed to produce any results, Guyol obtained Harding's permission to spike St. Croix's brandy with chloral hydrate (a hypnotic and sedative) in order to search his luggage. To ward off any effect on himself when he drank brandy with St. Croix, Guyol drank a cup of olive oil beforehand. The luggage contained nothing incriminating.\n\nNext they turned to the U.S. legation. Harding was convinced that it held documents dating from when the United States engineered Panama's revolution, and that these would be the proof he sought. A U.S. official, who regularly indulged a passion for drink and gambling, particularly high-stakes stud poker, gave them their first opportunity. Using the World's money to pay his gambling debts at a club in Bogot\u00e1, Guyol befriended this official. One night, when the man napped on a sofa at the club, Guyol stole his keys and then unlocked and propped open a door to the legation. Twice, he repeated the maneuver, once almost getting caught and being forced to hide in the saddle room for two hours. By the end, Guyol had managed to read all the official correspondence for 1902, but he failed to find any proof of wrongdoing.\n\nHarding took matters in his own hands. On October 23, he made his own nighttime trip into the U.S. legation while the minister was dining at the presidential palace. A young clerk, who claimed he knew where an incriminating letter by John Hay was, agreed to take Harding to the file room. As they began opening document folders, the minister's son discovered them and sounded the alarm. Luckily for Harding, he was not prosecuted. The Colombians were unlikely to care, and putting Harding into custody to return him to the United States would be nearly impossible. Instead, the clerk was fired, Harding and Guyol were declared persona non grata, and a letter of complaint was sent to the World.\n\nNot one to give up, Guyol made one last attempt to discover their Holy Grail. He spotted the official whose keys he had borrowed leaving the legation with a valise in the company of St. Croix. He followed them across Colombia, plotting all the way how to steal the valise, convinced it held the wanted documents. His first plan was to grab it when they boarded a riverboat and then jump into the river and make for shore, but since he had only one arm, this plan seemed doomed from the start. Luckily, he had a better opportunity when the locked leather duffel bag was unloaded from a train. Finally alone with the bag, he broke it open, to discover that it held nothing of value. All he brought back with him to Harding were broken ribs from falling off a horse during his pursuit of the two men.\n\nWith that, the far-flung search for evidence of corruption involving the canal came up empty-handed. Keeping their boss from prison would now rest solely on the legal skills of his lawyers.\n\n## Chapter Thirty\n\n## A SHORT REMAINING SPAN\n\nIn late September 1909, Pulitzer and his personal staff of sixteen settled for the autumn in one of the fashionable districts of Berlin, near the famous Tiergarten park and the city's elegant opera house. As usual, the landlord had been required to make numerous alterations to please his tenant. Thick plate glass was added to the bedroom windows, heavy carpets were laid down, and all the windows and door hinges were well oiled.\n\nAfter disagreeable stays in Paris and London over many years, Pulitzer found Berlin to be just right. For once he managed to shed his woes, attend concerts and operas, and eat out with friends. He was the most content he had been in a long time. \"With due reserve,\" Thwaites wrote to Seitz in New York, \"I may say that Berlin is a great success and serenity of our daily tenor is positively uncanny.\" Over the past three years, Europe had become Pulitzer's new home. If he was not at sea, he was in Aix-les-Bains, Cap Martin, London, or, now, Berlin.\n\nEurope had also become the home of Joseph's brother Albert. Since his departure from New York fourteen years earlier, Albert had wandered around the continent, staying in fashionable hotels, occasionally returning to the United States, and living from the proceeds of the sale of his Morning Journal. He and Joseph had not spoken or written to each other since their confrontation over Albert's refusal to merge his newspaper with Joseph's. In a way, Albert had been revenged. Each day, as Joseph waged a life-and-death struggle with Hearst, he had been competing with the newspaper that Albert created.\n\nAlbert had also cut his ties with his former wife, Fanny, years before her death that summer, and his son Walter, who was trying to make a living as a writer in New York. At the World, Walter was persona non grata because of his father. \"There were strict orders that under no circumstances was he to be identified as related to or connected with the Joseph Pulitzer family in any way, shape or manner,\" recalled one editor.\n\nDuring the years after he gave up journalism, Albert wrote a romantic novel about a Napoleonic prince, Eug\u00e8ne de Beauharnais; toyed briefly with starting another newspaper in New York; and eventually settled down in Vienna, taking as a companion a young woman with whom he had a son. Like his brother, Albert suffered intensively from insomnia and depression\u2014which doctors treating the wealthy called \"neurasthenia\"\u2014and from other, undiagnosed ailments. For Joseph, it was sound that caused him great suffering. For Albert, it was changes in temperature and light.\n\nOver time, Albert's behavior grew increasingly odd and unpredictable. Earlier in the year, he had abruptly left Vienna and taken up residence in San Francisco, at the Fairmont Hotel. His demands on its staff and his unusual eating habits were the talk of the town. A newspaper in San Francisco published on its front page a one-day sample of what the Fairmont's kitchen fed its eccentric guest. Rising before dawn, the corpulent gourmand consumed shredded wheat and two to eight baked apples with cream. A midday plate of Corinth raisins and vegetables would hold him over until a five-o'clock glass of lemon squash, effervescent with bicarbonate of soda. At seven, he sat down for a dinner of San Francisco oysters, clam chowder, veal, chicken, and sweet russet pears, all washed down with a bottle of Moselle wine.\n\nWhile he was in San Francisco, Albert worked feverishly on his memoirs. He left the Fairmont and hid himself away in the remote Tavern Resort on the top of nearby Mount Tamalpais. There he drew the ire of other guests by rising before the sun to begin typing, knocking over chairs in his room, and requesting special trains when the scheduled ones had ceased running up the mountain. The novelist Gertrude Atherton claimed that at one point he burst uninvited into her rooms while showing friends around.\n\nBy fall, his memoir complete, Albert returned to Vienna. He was despondent. He called on Dr. Max Neuda, his physician and friend. The two discussed the works of Baruch Spinoza, Albert's favorite philosopher. On the morning of October 4, as was his practice, his companion read to Albert from the morning newspapers. Among the stories was one of a man afflicted with insomnia who had committed suicide. \"Wenn ich nur Mut dazu h\u00e4tte,\" Albert said. \"If only I had the courage.\" He asked his companion to leave him alone. When she departed, he went to the druggist and purchased a poisonous substance, probably a diluted form of prussic acid then used for the treatment of neuralgia.\n\nThere are two kinds of suicides: one in which the person is crying for help; the other in which death is sought. Albert wanted the latter. After drinking the potion, he took up his revolver, pressed the barrel to his right temple, and pulled the trigger.\n\nJoseph learned of his brother's death from a reporter who called on him at his house in Berlin. Though only a 325-mile train ride separated him from where his brother lay in a morgue in Vienna, Joseph did not go. Instead he sent Thwaites, with several thousand German marks.\n\nReaching Vienna, Thwaites drove out to the Zentralfriedhof, the final resting place for many of the city's most famous residents. There, in the mortuary of the Old Jewish section, he found Albert, covered with a white cloth, in a cheap wooden box. \"No money having been traced, the millionaire was about to be buried as a pauper,\" Thwaites said. \"The face was quite unmarred. The bullet had ranged upward through the temple, making the exit at the back of the head on the left side. A terrible wound.\"\n\nUsing Joseph's money, Thwaites purchased a better casket and paid for flowers. The following day, led in song by a Jewish male chorus, a small group accompanied the casket in a long procession to the burial plot that Neuda had purchased for Albert. At the graveside, it was left to the doctor to provide a eulogy. Recalling Albert's visit to him and their philosophical chat a few days prior, he said, \"It little occurred to me then, that this visit and this discussion were prompted by your decision to take leave of this earthly life, and so to say a word of farewell to me.\"\n\nSeveral days later, Joseph's cousin Adam Politzer, who lived in Vienna, met with Neuda. As executor of the estate, Neuda had carefully examined all the items in Albert's possession. \"Alongside numerous love letters of extremely diverse provenance, which Neuda destroyed immediately, only credit letters and other insignificant papers were found,\" Politzer told Joseph. \"A letter for you was not present. Nor was any other note that referenced you.\"\n\nOf the nine children born to F\u00fcl\u00f6p and Elize Pulitzer, only Joseph remained alive.\n\nAs winter set in, Pulitzer abandoned Berlin for the warmth of Cap Martin. He was slowing down. Even those around him who discounted his continual health crises detected a change. One evening, while Pulitzer was cruising in Mediterranean waters on the Liberty, Harold Pollard brought him out on deck to see a full moon. After looking up into the night sky for a while, Pulitzer gave up. \"It's no use, my dear boy,\" he said, \"I cannot even get a glimmer of its light.\"\n\nSeitz, who came from New York for his usual business consultations with Pulitzer, encountered a calmer, reflective, more philosophical boss. On a car ride through the countryside, Seitz and Pulitzer were left alone for a while when the engine stalled and Pollard went for help. \"You see how quiet I am,\" Pulitzer said. \"Real troubles never bother me. It's only the small annoyances that upset me.\" In the silence of the parked automobile, Seitz described the view of Cap Martin below them. \"You know I was here thirty-five years ago for the first time and the sight is always with me,\" Pulitzer remarked.\n\nSuddenly, Pulitzer changed the subject. \"We will not have many rows,\" he told a disbelieving Seitz, who had been buffeted by Pulitzer's infamous temper for eighteen years. \"No, I am serious,\" he continued. \"I am not going to live long. I have had warnings. Besides I am no longer equal to thinking or deciding. You will have to get along without me more and more from now on and see less and less of me.\"\n\nContributing to Pulitzer's melancholy was his increasing loneliness. He had entered into a time of life marked by frequent deaths. Two days after Christmas 1909, Angus Shaw \"sorrowfully and faithfully\" telegraphed the news that Dumont Clarke, Pulitzer's sixty-nine-year-old banker and trusted adviser, had died of pneumonia. The flags on the Pulitzer Building were lowered to half-mast. \"Coin,\" as he was known in the codebook, had been at Pulitzer's side since the World began making him rich. The two had, in Pulitzer's words, \"implicitly trustful, irregular relations in money matters.\" Every dollar of Pulitzer's income was funneled to Clarke's bank. Without any paperwork or signatures, Clarke had invested, transferred, or wired money as Pulitzer saw fit. He had also provided wise counsel on everything from personnel issues at the World to coping with children at home. Although Clarke's son promised to provide Pulitzer with the same service, he could not replace his father.\n\nPulitzer's loneliness was also an unescapable consequence of the years when he had spurned Kate's tenderness and alienated his children. The unreliability of Pulitzer's affection and his unpredictable cruelty left them little choice. Though they held him in great affection, they had defensively created lives apart, accentuating his isolation. \"I want some love and affection from my children in the closing short span of life that still remains,\" he wrote to Joe after receiving a complaining note from his son, still chafing under Pulitzer's strictures. \"If I cannot have that love and affection, I may at least expect to be spared willful, deliberate disrespect disobedience, and insult.\"\n\nKate did her best to try to end her husband's self-imposed exile from the family. \"Pray realize that you would be so much happier yourself if you have light hearts and happy faces around you,\" she had written several years earlier. \"Love served is always so much better than that which is bought. You cannot either buy or beat love from anyone, you can only earn it and you can, for no one can be more tender or charming than you when you wish to be.\"\n\nHis twenty-nine-year-old son, Ralph, who came to visit in January, limited most communications with his father to matters of business relating to the World, of which he was now ostensibly the president. Twenty-four-year-old Joe was trying to build a life for himself in St. Louis, working at the Post-Dispatch. He felt certain that nothing he did could measure up to his father's expectations, and he understood his place among the sons. \"I realize what a loss Mr. Clarke's death had been for you and how necessary it is for you to see Ralph,\" Joe wrote to his father while his older brother was in Cap Martin. \"It has given me a good deal of pleasure to feel you attach at least enough importance to me and have enough confidence in me to want me here in New York when Ralph is away.\"\n\nPulitzer's two daughters\u2014twenty-three-year-old Edith and the twenty-one-year-old Constance, saw more of New York high society than of their father. Kate spent almost as much time in Europe as Joseph, but only in the rarest of circumstances were they in the same place at the same time. Little Herbert was, at thirteen, still too young to have given offense.\n\nOnce again, Pulitzer revised his will. He had written his first one in 1892 and had altered it substantially in 1904 to provide instructions for the creation of the journalism school and prizes. As he cruised on the Liberty, he fretted over who would best carry out his wishes. He replaced Clarke with Governor Charles Hughes of New York as one of the trustees. The lugubrious voyage, complete with rough seas, gave Pollard cause to rename Pulitzer's entourage the \"sea-sickophants.\"\n\nIn the United States, Roosevelt's prosecutions were still working their way through the courts. In October, Pulitzer had his first victory. It came when his lawyers appeared before a federal judge in Indiana in whose courtroom the Indianapolis portion of the case had landed. Calling the case \"political,\" the judge questioned the U.S. attorney's right to try it in Washington, suggesting that this venue would set a precedent subjecting newspapers to hundreds of libel trials. The following day he dismissed the case.\n\n\"I am of the opinion,\" said the judge, \"that the fact that certain persons were called 'thieves' and 'swindlers' does not constitute libel per se,\" he said. Citing a newspaper's duty to report the facts and draw inferences for its readers, the judge said the issue of the canal could use some public scrutiny. \"The revolution in Panama, the circumstances concerning it, were unusual and peculiar.\"\n\nThe ruling effectively killed the indictments in Washington. Pulitzer no longer faced any prospect of prison. But the pleasure of the victory was muted by the knowledge that the stronger legal case, the one in New York assembled by Stimson against the World before he left office, remained to be tried.\n\nOn January 25, 1910, Pulitzer's attorney De Lancey Nicoll arrived at the U.S. district court in Manhattan. The day before that, a jury had been seated to hear, at long last, the criminal libel charges brought against the World and its editor Van Hamm. The case, built by Stimson, was the only remaining legal bullet from the chamber loaded by Roosevelt while he was still president.\n\nNicoll was fully prepared to present the evidence gathered by Pulitzer's team of investigators and reporters to prove the truth of the corruption charges made against Cromwell and Roosevelt. But to go that route was to concede the federal government's power to prosecute. Instead, Pulitzer wanted Roosevelt's right to prosecute to be on trial. Thus, on the first day, Nicoll made a motion to quash the indictment on constitutional grounds. Judge Charles Hough, who owed his job to Roosevelt, surprised Nicoll by agreeing to hear him out the next day.\n\nAs Nicoll began his argument, it sounded like a lecture in law school. He traced the history of libel laws in English law and demonstrated that the United States' brief experience with the Alien and Sedition Acts had given the nation an aversion to laws permitting the national government to prosecute libel. Then, turning to the old federal law being used by the prosecution, Nicoll made his case.\n\nThe law was intended to punish assault and murder on the high seas, which were beyond the reach of state laws, and was never intended to be used to prosecute an offense that could easily be tried in a state court. \"The curious and ingenious mind, which for the first time in eighty-five years, twisted the statute to meet the ends of this prosecution has retired, and this case has been left to the present Attorney General to press as a matter of department routine,\" Nicoll told Judge Hough. \"You might as well revive the sedition laws, or pass another one like it. They would be a better law than this one.\"\n\nThe U.S. attorney Henry Wise, who had taken over for Stimson, rose to challenge Nicoll's interpretation and argued that the law as amended covered libel as well. But Judge Hough had little patience with this view. \"I am clear,\" he said interrupting the two bickering lawyers, \"that the construction of the act of 1808 proposed by the prosecution in this case is contrary to the spirit which actuated the members of Congress in passing this law.\" Hough granted Nicoll's motion to quash the indictment and suggested strongly that the jurisdictional issue be settled not by him but by the Supreme Court.\n\n\"I am naturally somewhat surprised,\" said Wise when reporters surrounded him outside the courtroom. \"If any further action is to be taken it will rest with the Attorney General of the United States.\"\n\nThe only party on the winning side still unhappy was Pulitzer. Anxious until the day of the trial, he now wanted to win his argument before the Supreme Court. \"If there still remains the likelihood that someday another Roosevelt will prostitute his power by invoking the act to protect harbor defenses in order to prosecute newspapers that have offended him, the sooner there is a final decision of the Supreme Court of the United States the better,\" Frank Cobb wrote in the World the morning after the decision. As the victor, however, Pulitzer could not appeal. Only the administration could. One day before the time for an appeal would have run out, Taft's cabinet decided to take the case to the Supreme Court.\n\nIn March, Joe came to Cap Martin on an important mission. In January he had pleaded with his father to grant his long-standing wish to marry Elinor Wickham, a fetching dark-haired daughter of an old family in St. Louis. \"We are anxious to end the demoralizing suspense of this long three years of waiting this spring,\" he said, \"and I beg to you to end it by giving your consent.\"\n\nEven Wickham had written to Joseph in hopes of softening his heart. Her letter only gave him a chance to vent. \"Try your moral sense and get him to tell you the truth what his conduct toward me has been for the last ten years,\" Joseph wrote back, \"and see whether you cannot influence him toward a father who is already old and broken, totally blind, cannot sleep, has an infinite variety of infirmities with one foot and half in the grave, and expects nothing from his children except a little less intense selfishness and some sympathy.\"\n\nIn person, Joseph was rarely the ogre who dictated the letters. When Joe arrived, Joseph gave him a gift of $1,000 for his twenty-fifth birthday and consented to the marriage. His father's kindness, once again, had the effect of inducing guilt in Joe. As the train left, he looked back at Cap Martin and saw his father's villa. \"It made me realize more keenly than I have realized in all my life under what deep obligation I am to you and how very much at fault I have been in the past in not feeling this obligation,\" Joe wrote to his father. \"In a way I hated to leave you back there, even now, with the happy prospect that I have before me I feel very selfish in going away.\"\n\nThe children gone, Pulitzer once again fiddled with his will. He decided to include a warning along with the ample funds he was planning to leave them. \"They should never forget the dangers which unfortunately attend the inheritance of large fortunes, even though the money came from the painstaking affections of a father,\" he wrote. \"I beg them to remember that such danger lies not only in the obvious temptation to enervating luxury but in the inducement which a fortune coming from another carries to the recipients to withdraw from the wholesome duty of vigorous, serious, useful work.\"\n\nAfter several more cruises in the Mediterranean, Pulitzer spent the summer in Chatwold and returned to roam Europe in the fall. Roosevelt's prosecution of the World played its last inning on October 24, 1910, when the government asked the Supreme Court, a majority of whose members had been appointed by Roosevelt and Taft, to overturn the lower court's decision throwing out the case. James McReynolds, appearing on behalf of the Justice Department, said the government only sought to protect those that were in the federal enclaves where the World had circulated. It didn't matter, he said, where the paper was printed. Rather, the crime of libel could occur where the paper was read, as well. Justice Holmes and others questioned him at length and pointedly asked if New York's laws had not been sufficient.\n\nPulitzer's attorney once again presented his elaborate, theatrical history of libel, which now included a long excerpt from Roosevelt's message to Congress holding it to be a \"high national duty\" to prosecute Pulitzer. This time Nicoll hammered away at the pernicious nature of Roosevelt's action. With more than 2,000 federal enclaves, a president could bring simultaneous grand jury proceedings in all parts of the country, financially crippling most newspapers, Nicoll said. \"Whenever the President of the United States wished to destroy a newspaper that had offended him by political criticism he would have had only to compel it to match its scanty resources against the vast resources of the United States government.\n\n\"This was the real issue involved in the Roosevelt proceedings,\" Nicoll continued, \"and in resisting the claim of Federal jurisdiction the World was fighting to preserve not only its own constitutional rights but the constitutional rights of every newspaper published in the United States.\"\n\nTen weeks later, on January 3, 1911, the court ruled unanimously in favor of the World. It concluded that the federal government had no right to prosecute the case. Reading the decision from the bench, Chief Justice White said the federal government could not claim that just because a newspaper circulated on its property it could pursue a federal libel case, especially when ample state remedies existed. He placed the decision on the desk before him. \"It would be impossible to sustain this prosecution without overthrowing the very State law by the authority of which the prosecution can be alone maintained,\" White said.\n\nIn short, Roosevelt's stubborn refusal to listen to Stimson and his insistence on pursuing Pulitzer using federal powers had fatally flawed his effort from the start. By challenging a well-accepted division of prosecutorial power between the states and the national government, Roosevelt missed his mark.\n\nPulitzer got word of the Supreme Court's decision in Cap Martin. It was one of the sweetest victories of his life. Though the Supreme Court's ruling was narrow, covering only a jurisdictional issue, Pulitzer believed he had rebuffed a wider assault on the nation's independent press. He left it to Frank Cobb to put this into words. The Court's action, Cobb wrote, meant that \"freedom of the press does not exist at the whim or pleasure of the United States. It is the most sweeping victory won for freedom of speech and of the press in this country since the American people destroyed the Federalist Party more than a century ago for enacting the infamous sedition law.\" Pulitzer's vanquished foe was speechless. \"I have nothing to say,\" Roosevelt told a reporter for the World who took a train out to Oyster Bay.\n\nThe pleasure of the victory, however, was muted by other news from New York. On January 23, 1911, Pulitzer's onetime journalistic heir apparent, David Graham Phillips, was walking toward the Princeton Club in New York City to pick up his mail. Almost a decade had elapsed since he had worked for Pulitzer. In the intervening years he had established himself both as a successful author of socially conscious fiction and as a leading muckraking journalist. In fact, when Theodore Roosevelt in a speech coined the term \"muckraking\" to disparage the work of reform-minded writers, he had Phillips in mind. As Phillips neared the club, a well-dressed young man approached him.\n\n\"There you go,\" said the man, as he pulled out a .32 caliber automatic pistol and opened fire, sending six bullets into Phillips.\n\n\"Here I go,\" he said, firing a final round into his own head. The deranged assailant, the son of a prominent family in Washington, D.C., believed that his family, and especially his sister, had been defamed in Phillips's books. A policeman rushed over from the park and three of Phillips friends came bounding out from the club.\n\n\"Graham, what happened?\" asked the first friend to reach Phillips.\n\n\"He shot me in the bowels,\" Phillips replied, referring to the dead assailant lying on the pavement. \"Don't bother with him. For God's sakes get a doctor.\"\n\nAn ambulance rushed Phillips to the hospital. At first the doctors believed he would recover from his wounds, but the hemorrhaging could not be stopped. The following evening, Phillips declined rapidly. \"I could have won against two bullets, but not against six,\" Phillips murmured a few minutes before dying at eleven-thirty that night.\n\nFuneral services were held two days later at St. George's Episcopal Church, at East Seventeenth Street and Stuyvesant Place. Many of Phillips's former colleagues from the World packed into the church, along with admirers of the writer. Even if it had not been for Pulitzer's aversion to funerals, this was one for which distance was a legitimate excuse\u2014not to mention that Pulitzer was beset by an increasing number of ailments. \"I have been extraordinarily tired, fatigued and exhausted ever since you left,\" he wrote to Ralph in early March. \"I am not fit for business, cannot attend to it in a perpetual state of headaches and pains.\" A cure in Wiesbaden brought no relief. In May, Pulitzer's men told Kate that though Joseph's blood sugar was down from a dangerous level, his nerves were shot and he was plagued with continual indigestion.\n\nOne of Pulitzer's many doctors reviewed medications with him. He urged his patient to take Veronal, a relatively new sedative. \"It induces a thoroughly normal sleep and, for most people, causes absolutely no side effects,\" he told Pulitzer. \"Even over the course of multiple years, Veronal taken in doses of 8\u201312 grains is totally harmless, and the fear of Veronal poisoning wholly unfounded.\" However, patients built up tolerance to this drug and required increasingly higher dosages. Several years later, experts would warn patients of its dangerous side effects. \"Veronal must be ranked among the treacherous somnifacients,\" reported one of the main medical manuals. \"The number of serious and fatal cases of poisoning is so large that great care should be employed in its use.\" Neither Pulitzer nor his doctor knew this when he began taking the drug.\n\nIn the summer of 1911, Republicans nervously faced the prospect that Theodore Roosevelt would challenge President Taft's renomination, and Democrats were stirred by the belief that Taft could be defeated. Presidential elections could still ignite Pulitzer's passion, and he sailed home to confer with his editorial page writers. Pulitzer's interest in \"the Page,\" as it was called, remained strong, although he was becoming uninterested in the operation of the paper. As he told one correspondent that spring, \"My whole aim and end in life is to know nothing of the affairs of the World.\"\n\nPulitzer and Cobb met on board the Liberty off the shore of New York at the end of June. Pulitzer wanted the World to promote Woodrow Wilson for the presidency. With the backing of the World, Wilson had become governor of New Jersey after serving as president of Princeton University. But Pulitzer worried that Wilson's attacks on the money trust were a revival of Bryanism, which Pulitzer feared could doom his chances. Cobb disagreed but consented to follow Pulitzer's instructions to publicly chastise Wilson. \"Remember I have the highest respect and regard for him,\" Pulitzer told Cobb. \"This man is a great artist, a great genius, but he is leading himself astray and should be brought back to his senses. This should be done kindly and sympathetically and as a friend and admirer.\"\n\nConcluding his meeting with Cobb, Pulitzer picked up his family in New York\u2014all except Joe and Elinor, who were traveling by train from St. Louis\u2014and sailed north to spend the summer in Bar Harbor. Chatwold was at its best. After years of remodeling, the summer mansion at last provided the quiet refuge for which Pulitzer yearned. He slept in the upper floors of his unconventional, eccentric \"tower of silence.\" He could swim in a pool of heated seawater in the basement and spend his days on a large veranda facing the ocean. Whereas Joseph craved solitude, Kate and their daughters thrived on the summer social whirl, which as the New York Times predicted, \"will decidedly outshine that of 1910 in every way.\"\n\nJoseph spent time with his family at intervals. On most days he ate lunch or dinner with Kate, one of their daughters, or Herbert, and a secretary, at a table set for four in the magnificent main floor library. Visits with Ralph and Joe were mostly confined to boat rides. Joseph was exhausted by the contact with the family. \"The intensity of his family emotions was such,\" noted Alleyne Ireland, Pulitzer's newest secretary, \"that they could only be given rein at the price of sleepless nights, savage pain, and desperate weariness.\" Nonetheless, he remained intensely curious about his children. \"Everybody had to be described over and over again, but especially young Master Ralph, a bright and handsome child, born long after his grandfather had become totally blind,\" Ireland said.\n\nJoseph's favorite indulgence was a ride on his large electric launch boat. He would sit in an armchair at the center of the vessel, with two companions nearby, as the boat navigated the calm waters of Frenchman Bay. In early August, Clark B. Firestone, recently hired at the World, joined Pulitzer for one of the rides, and for his requisite education as an editorial writer at the hands of the master. As the men rode about, Pulitzer began, as always, with his belief that independence was a paper's most valuable attribute. No political, financial, social, or personal influence could be brought to bear on the World's editorial positions. He warned Firestone, who only recently had been hired away from the Evening Mail, that he should not let any friendship influence his editorials, now that he was a writer for the World. \"I wish,\" Pulitzer said, \"that these writers would realize far more fully than they do the immense asset of their independence and exercise to the full their right to say anything they please, fearless of naught save overstatement and untruth.\"\n\nNext to independence, the most important criterion was that the editorials should be readable, Pulitzer said. To succeed in this regard, they should be on a theme of popular interest, be free of unfamiliar terms and phrases, and be trimmed to the tightest possible construction. Pulitzer recalled that when Cobb came to the paper after working in Detroit, he believed that the leading editorial should run as long as half a column. Pulitzer rapidly disabused him of that idea. In order to win Cobb over to a more terse style, Pulitzer told Firestone, he summoned as \"gems of compact and telling expressions\" the ten- to twelve-line editorials the Sun used to publish.\n\nThe point, Pulitzer said, was to make an impression on the readers that they could not shake off. \"Every day The World should contain some striking utterance, something out of the ordinary, something so independent that no other newspaper could print it; something unexpected and yet of the sort to capture the reader's conviction.\n\n\"I dislike the word 'sensational' and never use it, but I want striking things to appear on the editorial page. Of course, it cannot compete with the news columns in effects of novelty, but can approach them.\"\n\nPulitzer concluded his lesson with a reminder to use humor. \"He urged me to exploit all my latent possibilities in the line of sarcasm and satire,\" Firestone said. Before they parted, Pulitzer promised that he would never ask Firestone to write an editorial on a position he opposed. Better that certain opinions of his own not be published, Pulitzer added, than that they might appear through the medium of a writer who did not honestly share them.\n\nAfter a full summer in Chatwold, Pulitzer was no better than he had been when he sailed back from Europe in June. \"I have dreadful headaches, dyspepsia, nearly everything bad, sleep horribly and on brink of collapse,\" he wired to Ralph in September. As the leaves turned and the fall winds heralded the oncoming winter, Pulitzer abandoned his much-loved Maine retreat for New York. That made matters worse. In the eight years since the house on East Seventy-Third Street was built, it had defied all the work by architects and experts, and all the money spent, to make it soundproof. The failure was not for lack of effort. When the house was first built, Pulitzer's personal staff took turns sleeping in his bedroom. George Ledlie reached a point where he wasn't sure if he might be imaging sounds.\n\nWallace C. Sabine, a renowned professor of acoustical engineering at Harvard, was enlisted. It was decided to build a new, almost windowless bedroom off the back of the house, using the firm of Foster, Gade, and Graham. When this room was completed, the contractor and Pulitzer's aide Arthur Billings closed themselves off in it while half a dozen assistants banged on pipes in the basement and around the swimming pool as well as on rooftop vents while others ran the elevators up and down. \"Foster is satisfied and so am I,\" Billings reported to Pulitzer, \"although the final success can only be assured after your acute hearing has put the room to a test.\" It failed.\n\nThe house's proximity to the World also permitted Pulitzer's managers and editors to pester him with their business and editorial plans. It was a curse he had brought on himself by refusing to renounce power and turn decision making over to Ralph. Foremost on Seitz's mind was moving ahead with a plan to purchase a paper mill so as to wean the World from the paper trusts, which were increasing their prices by a rate 30 to 40 percent a year. Pulitzer said he almost fainted when he heard that Ralph was going to leave on vacation without concluding the deal. The time spent with Joe, who came to visit, was no better. Joseph now wanted his son to be in New York and said he had consented to let him remain in St. Louis up till now only because of his wife's family. The conversation ended when Joseph said that returning to New York was against his wishes.\n\nIf his employees and his children were not making demands on him, the politicians were. The reform-minded mayor William J. Gaynor, who had just survived an assassination attempt captured in an iconic photograph in the World, told Pulitzer he was frustrated with the paper. After supporting his election, Gaynor claimed, it was now siding with Hearst in attacking him on a proposal for building a subway. \"You can hear it everywhere that the World that used to be a great power is now merely an echo of Hearst. Whatever Hearst wants or stands for, the World trails along afterwards as meekly as if it had no principles,\" Gaynor said. \"The World has done more to promote the political schemes of Hearst than all his own newspapers. Without the World, Hearst would not amount to anything.\"\n\nIn his twenty-eight years at the helm of the nation's most important newspaper, Pulitzer had built up immunity to the complaints of his allies and to vilification by enemies. His attitude toward his greatest public opponents, William Randolph Hearst, William Jennings Bryan, and Theodore Roosevelt\u2014unlike his attitude toward his family\u2014was open-minded and uncommonly charitable.\n\nRoosevelt never let up on his attacks on Pulitzer after losing his court battles. In fact, in a letter to a British friend that summer, Roosevelt compared Pulitzer to Charles Dickens's Jefferson Brick. Pulitzer, on the other hand, told Cobb that it was time to give Roosevelt his due. \"Personally,\" Pulitzer said, \"I believe that the Panama work is a monumental achievement and that the paper must give Roosevelt the credit for the work and we must draw the biggest kind of line between that phase and the mere incident of his personal attack upon the paper on account of charges it made of corruption specifically and personally which it certainly could not substantiate\u2014never did and never will.\"\n\nOf the three men, only Hearst noticed this generous trait in Pulitzer. Though the two had spent years in a competitive struggle that could have ended with one destroying the other, Pulitzer had always restrained his staff's spitefulness and had urged his editorial writers to recognize Hearst's strength. In October, when the World published a complimentary article about Hearst, its longtime competitor assumed that the idea had been Pulitzer's and sent his thanks.\n\n## Chapter Thirty-One\n\n## SOFTLY, VERY SOFTLY\n\nOn October 18, 1911, the Liberty pulled up anchor and sailed from New York. On board were Pulitzer; Herbert and his tutor and nanny; five secretaries; and Pulitzer's English valet Jabez Dunningham, who had been with him since 1896. They were bound for Jekyll Island but got only as far as Charleston, where the captain anchored the yacht to wait until the course of a West Indian hurricane became clearer. Aside from a bad cold, which had confined him to his home while he was in New York, Pulitzer's health was as it always had been\u2014a source of endless complaints but not so many as to cause alarm among his companions, or in his new traveling physician.\n\nOn the second day in the harbor, Pulitzer complained of severe stomach pains. Since his physician was untested, the staff called Dr. Robert Wilson Jr., a prominent doctor in Charleston. After diagnosing the problem as severe indigestion, he gave Pulitzer a dose of Veronal. Pulitzer rallied and was well enough several days later to lunch on board with Robert Lathan, the editor of the Charleston News & Courier. The two men buoyantly shared their predictions for a Democratic victory in 1912. \"I had never seen J.P. in a more genial mood or in higher spirits,\" Alleyne Ireland noted.\n\nThe following day, however, Pulitzer felt ill again and remained below deck all day and night. In the morning, Thwaites sent a telegram to Kate in New York. Over the years, she had received dozens of similarly alarming messages, many of which she had wisely chosen to ignore. In this case, however, she ordered a private railcar. By four o'clock that afternoon, she was on her way south.\n\nAt about three in the morning, as Kate's train entered the Carolinas, Joseph woke up. He asked Dunningham to send for Ireland. Rapidly putting on a dressing gown, Ireland grabbed a dozen books and headed to Pulitzer's cabin. \"He was evidently suffering a good deal of pain,\" Ireland noted, \"for he turned from side to side, and once or twice got out of bed and sat in an easy chair.\"\n\nIreland tried reading from several of the books he brought. He had little success engaging Pulitzer until he happened upon the historian Macaulay's essay on Hallam's Constitutional History, written when Macaulay was very young. \"I read steadily until about five o'clock,\" Ireland said, \"and J.P. listened attentively, interrupting me from time to time with a direction to go back and read over a passage.\" Around five-thirty Pulitzer began to suffer again. The ship's doctor as well as Dr. Wilson was summoned. Wilson gave Pulitzer Veronal, the sedative he had been taking for six months. Resting more comfortably, Pulitzer dismissed Ireland as the sun began to rise. \"You'd better go and get some sleep,\" Pulitzer said, \"we will finish that this afternoon.\"\n\nPulitzer's German reader and pianist Friedrich Mann took over for Ireland. He read from Christopher Hare's The Life of Louis XI. By midmorning, Mann reached the chapter portraying the death of the French king. Louis XI was sixty-three and had ruled for twenty-three years. Pulitzer was sixty-four and had ruled the World for twenty-eight years. As had been his habit, Pulitzer quietly murmured, when the reading began to help him doze off. \"Leise, ganz leise,\" he said. \"Softly, very softly.\"\n\nAt one o'clock, Pulitzer awoke with a sharp pain in his chest and then fainted. Several minutes later, Kate arrived. She entered the cabin with Herbert. For about twenty minutes, they remained at the bedside as her husband of thirty-three years drew his last breaths.\n\nThe following day, a coffin of silver-mounted Spanish cedar containing Joseph's body was brought to the Charleston train station and placed in a railcar lined with mourning cloth. Kate, Herbert, and four of Joseph's men boarded a second private car, the one Kate had ridden from New York. The train pulled out at four-thirty in the afternoon for the overnight ride to New York. Joe and Ralph came from St. Louis and New York, respectively, to meet the train on its route north. Constance, who was living in Colorado Springs, and Edith, who was in France, both made hurried plans to go to New York.\n\nWhen the train reached the city at five past two on the afternoon of October 31, 1911, flags at the World, as well as at the Tribune and other newspapers, were flying at half-mast. Pulitzer's death was on the front page of almost every newspaper in the land. The obituaries uniformly focused on Pulitzer's achievement in making the World a dominant newspaper, on his innovations in journalism, and on his financial success. It would have disappointed the subject of the stories. \"I hate the idea of passing away known only as the proprietor of the paper,\" Pulitzer wrote a few months before his death. \"Not property but politics was my passion, and not politics even in a general, selfish sense, but politics in the sense of liberty and freedom and ideals of justice.\" His rival Hearst understood. \"In his conception, the newspaper was not merely a money-making machine,\" Hearst told his readers. \"It was the instrument of the will and power of its hundreds of thousands of readers, the fulcrum upon which that power could be exerted in the accomplishment of broad and beneficial results.\"\n\nPulitzer's death was publicly attributed to heart troubles: Dr. Wilson, who completed the death certificate, listed angina as the cause and gallstones as a contributing factor. No mention was made of Veronal or any of the other medications. The press charitably avoided comment on Pulitzer's well-known two-decade struggle with depression and other maladies.\n\nThe body was brought to the family home on East Seventy-Third Street and placed in the library, which was filled with flowers and wreaths. The next morning, hundreds of the World's staffers came uptown to pay their final respects. At noon, representatives of the Grand Army of the Republic held a service for their former member and placed a flag on the coffin. Pallbearers, including President Butler of Columbia University, the former managing editor George Harvey, the former mayor Seth Low, Pulitzer's doctor James W. McLane, and the business manager Angus Shaw escorted Pulitzer's coffin to a waiting cortege of carriages. The procession made its way twenty blocks south down Fifth Avenue to St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where more than two dozen policemen did their best to keep order as a crowd of thousands gathered on the street in front.\n\nSo many former editors and reporters of the World had been summoned that they were instructed to gather in the Gotham Hotel two blocks away. At the appointed time, the alumni were to emerge and join the funeral procession. However, the plan went awry. \"Happy pairs, reunited after decades, danced together on the pavement,\" said Elizabeth Jordan, a former writer for the editorial page. \"The orderly line, held for a moment, broke up in confusion. Reminiscences were yelped from one editor to another. Men ran up and down the line, seeking someone they hadn't found.\"\n\nThe boisterous merriment continued until the group saw the casket being carried into the church and heard the ponderous notes of the organ. \"Something like an electric shock swept the ranks of the former employees,\" said Jordan. \"Every pair of shoulders straightened, every smile disappeared. The line formed as if by magic. Reverently, two by two, with bent heads and lowered eyes, and hearts full of memories, the editors who had helped Joseph Pulitzer to build his World followed their dead chief into the crowded church.\"\n\nA choir of forty-five men sang \"Abide with Me\" as Pulitzer's coffin made its way past pews filled with politicians, judges, newspapermen, and his old guard. Among them were John Norris, his longtime business manager, now with the Times; former reporters and editors such as James Creelman, Caleb Van Hamm, and Bradford Merrill; and members of Pulitzer's personal staff such as George Ledlie, Arthur Billings, Norman Thwaites, and Friedrich Mann.\n\nThe flag-draped coffin was covered with a blanket of lilies of the valley and orchids. It was brought to a rest in front of the altar amid more than 100 floral pieces including a wreath of roses from the republic of Colombia bearing a card engraved \"To Her Friend.\" Reverend Ernest Stires read from chapter 15 of the First Epistle to the Corinthians. As he began, elevator motors, ventilators, and presses were shut down, and telegraph machines and telephones were disconnected at the World and Post-Dispatch buildings. For five minutes, with all the lights extinguished, Pulitzer's staff on duty that day stood at silent attention.\n\n\"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain: he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them,\" Stires read on, following the traditional Episcopal burial service and eschewing a eulogy. As a second hymn was sung, Stires brought two wreaths down from the altar and placed them on the flower-draped coffin. After a moment of silent prayer, the chorus burst into song again. \"Hark! hark, my soul! Angelic songs are swelling,\" the men sang as the coffin was brought out from the church.\n\nA special train took Pulitzer's body and his family\u2014except for Constance and Edith, who had not yet arrived\u2014as well as a select group of editors, members of his personal staff, and a few friends to Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. At the grave, Stires gave the final invocation before an improvised pulpit of canvas. As they all stood before the grave, the booming of guns from a naval fleet coincidentally visiting New York could be heard in the distance.\n\nWith the approach of dusk, Joseph's body was lowered into a grave next to that of his beloved daughter Lucille Irma. Inside the casket, Pulitzer's right arm lay across his chest and in his hand he clasped a copy of the World.\n\nIn the days following his burial, his astonished family read Joseph's will. He left the World and the Post-Dispatch in the hands of four trustees who, in time, would turn control over to his sons. Twenty-seven-year-old Joe would have to wait until he was thirty and fifteen-year-old Herbert would have to wait until he was twenty-one to assume a seat on the board. In an unintended error, Joseph failed to give thirty-two-year-old Ralph a seat in his last revision of the will. Acting on the advice of Joseph's lawyer, one of the trustees resigned and gave his place to Ralph.\n\nBut what dumbfounded the brothers was their father's division of the stock. Herbert, the youngest, who had done hardly more than visit one of the newspapers, was given 60 percent of the stock. Ralph, who had practically been running the World, was given 20 percent; and Joseph, the most talented of the three, received only 10 percent. The remaining 10 percent of the shares were to be used to produce an income to be divided among editors and managers.\n\nWhen it came to power, Joseph provided for a more equal distribution. Each member of the board, on which each son would eventually have a seat, had only one vote. The board members in turn would select the directors for the two newspapers. In crafting the convoluted distribution of his newspaper assets and in devising his board, Joseph had had one goal in mind, and he made it clear in his final instructions.\n\n\"I particularly enjoin upon my sons and my descendants,\" Pulitzer wrote, \"the duty of preserving, perfecting, and perpetuating the World newspaper, to the maintenance and publishing of which I have sacrificed my health and strength, in the same spirit in which I have striven to create and conduct it as a public institution, from motives higher than mere gain, and it having been my desire that it should be at all times conducted in a spirit of independence and with a view of inculcating high standards and public spirit among the people and their official representatives, and it is my earnest wish that said newspapers shall hereafter be conducted upon the same principles.\"\n\nIn addition to specifying his plans for his newspapers, Pulitzer disposed of his personal assets. For Kate, he set up a $2.5 million trust and the use of the houses in New York and Maine. His daughters, Constance and Edith, would share the income from a $1.5 million trust. Columbia University at long last received its promised gift to create the journalism school. Irascible until the end, Pulitzer also included a provision that would give the money to Harvard if Columbia failed to live up to its promises. He also left $250,000 for the Pulitzer prize and scholarships.\n\nThe remainder of his money was assigned for donations to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; to the Philharmonic Society; and to the city, for a fountain\u2014which was eventually built on the Grand Army Plaza there\u2014and for a statue of Thomas Jefferson. Also, gifts of $100,000 were to be shared among certain of the World's writers and personal secretaries. There was an equally large sum for his valet Dunningham, and a smaller sum for George Hosmer.\n\nKate outlived her husband by almost sixteen years. Residing mostly in Europe, she spent her time helping young artists and musicians and supporting charities such as the Red Cross. She died in Deauville, France, in 1927. For years after her death, the family brought John Singer Sargent's portrait of her to Chatwold to be with them during the summer. The portrait of Joseph remained in St. Louis.\n\nRalph divorced Frederica and later married Margaret Leech, a talented writer who won two Pulitzer prizes for history. For a number of years Ralph took the helm of the World, although his youngest brother, Herbert, earned the largest share of its income while doing little or nothing in the way of work. Ralph died in 1939. Herbert had his opportunity to manage the World for a brief time in 1930, but it held little interest for him. Rather than journalism, his main passions were hunting big game in Africa and fishing near his home in Palm Beach. He died in 1957.\n\nJoseph, the one brother to inherit his father's journalistic talent, remained in St. Louis, where he guided the Post-Dispatch. Under his rule, his father's original paper flourished as one of the nation's most important and profitable newspapers. His wife, Elinor, died in 1925 in an automobile accident. He later was remarried to Elizabeth Edgar. He died in 1955. In 2005, the descendants sold the Post-Dispatch. It continues today as a shell of its once distinguished self.\n\nEdith married William Scoville Moore, grandson of the author of \"Twas the Night before Christmas.\" Constance married William Gray Elmslie, who had once been Herbert's tutor. She died in 1938 after spending most of her life in Colorado Springs. Edith was the last living child of Kate and Joseph when she died in 1975.\n\nIn the early morning of February 27, 1931, a group of the World's editors and writers gathered around the city desk. The news was glum. Nineteen years after Pulitzer's death, the paper was facing its own mortality. With its circulation getting hammered by new morning tabloids on the one hand, and losing the battle as a news leader to Ochs's invigorated New York Times and the newly merged Herald-Tribune on the other, the World seemed at a loss as to where to find a place for itself on the newsstands. Briefly in the 1920s, it had flared like a comet when the editor Herbert Bayard Swope filled its pages with the writing of men like Walter Lippmann, Heywood Broun, and Franklin P. Adams.\n\nBut without Joseph and his brilliant editor Frank Cobb, who died in 1923, Ralph and Herbert were ill-equipped to run the newspaper. The blame rested as much on their father as on the two sons. As an absentee owner, Joseph had refused to cede sufficient control so that a corporate management structure could be built. The internal disunion at the paper was aggravated by his system of keeping his managers competing and spying on each other. Until the end, Joseph had remained the keystone in the arch of management. After 1911, \"the Pulitzer building was a haunted house,\" said one of the World's writers. When the Depression came in 1929, the World's losses mounted. Ralph, Herbert, and Joe agreed that maintaining the paper was a lost cause.\n\nThe reporters and editors at the city desk that morning had taken part in a last-ditch effort to persuade the brothers to sell the paper to the staff. Instead, the three sons surrendered the World and Evening World to Scripps-Howard for $5 million after obtaining a judge's consent to break their father's enjoinment that the paper never be sold. The resulting New York World-Telegram carried only the name of the paper. Joseph Pulitzer's World was gone.\n\nThe city editor James Barrett had just put the final edition carrying the announcement of the sale to bed. \"Everyone found a paper cup, or two,\" said one of the reporters. \"And the bottles weren't filled with water, because what they were filled with took the wax off the cups and curdled.\" Suddenly, Barrett slapped the desk and burst into song. To the tune of the \"Battle Hymn of the Republic,\" the men belted out, \"J.P.'s body lies a-mouldering in the grave, but the staff goes marching on.\" At three in the morning, they decided to move their wake to Daly's, a speakeasy popular with newspapermen. They left the Pulitzer Building, went into the chilly night, and marched down Park Row singing.\n\n## ACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nThe idea for this book belongs to my editor Tim Duggan. At first, I was unconvinced there was a need for a new biography of Joseph Pulitzer. The last serious one had been written in 1967 by W. A. Swanberg, whose books first got me interested in biography. However, after some modest research, I found that Swanberg had missed a great deal and that a new look at Pulitzer was long overdue. So, I remain thankful to Duggan for his clairvoyance and to the literary agent Mark Reiter, then with PFD New York, who negotiated the contract and supported the project from the start.\n\nAt HarperCollins, I also owe thanks to assistant editor Allison Lorentzen and copyeditor Susan Gamer for shepherding the manuscript to publication.\n\nLike most authors, I live in fear of not properly thanking the many who made this book possible. But, here to the best of my ability, is my supporting cast.\n\nThe description of the Pulitzer family genealogy and of their life in Mak\u00f3 would not be so complete were it not for the work of historian Andr\u00e1s Csillag, a professor of American Civilization at Szeged University, Szeged, Hungary. Since the 1980s, he has doggedly pursued research into the family's history. The tour he provided me of Mak\u00f3, Pulitzer's birthplace, was of enormous help. I was also assisted in Mak\u00f3 by Laszlo Molnar, Adrienn Nagy, and Marton Eacsedi, caretaker of the Jewish Cemeteries. In Budapest, Gyorgyi Haraszti, of the Institute of History of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Victor Karady, in the Jewish Studies Department of Central European University, and M\u00e1ty\u00e1s G\u00f6d\u00f6lle, of the Hungarian National Museum answered my many questions about Pest when Pulitzer lived there as a child. Istvan Deak, at Columbia University, also provided helpful guidance.\n\nThe bulk of Pulitzer's papers and those of the World are kept at the Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Columbia University. Director Michael Ryan, Jennifer B. Lee, Tara C. Craig, Kevin O'Connor, and the entire staff provided exceptional assistance. The second largest holding of Pulitzer papers is the Manuscript Division of the Library of Congress, where Jeffrey M. Flannery was a constant help. At the Missouri Historical Society, Jason D. Stratman not only assisted me during my many visits but responded for years to my e-mail queries.\n\nEric P. Newman, founder of the Eric P. Newman Numismatic Education Society in St. Louis, graciously made me a copy of a loan from Preetorius to Pulitzer to buy shares of the Westliche Post. Pat and Leslie Fogarty, who discovered a cache of previously unknown Pulitzer documents, kindly let me examine them for the preparation of this book. Journalist Eric Fettmann shared with me a letter from Nannie Tunstall to Pulitzer. It played a pivotal role in being able to properly date the romantic relationship between the two. The late Muriel Pulitzer, a remarkable artist, permitted me to use her grandfather's memoirs. Her nephew Nicholas W. Wood, of Arlington, Texas, made it possible for me to meet Muriel. I also owe a great deal of thanks to Emily Rauh Pulitzer and James V. Maloney, Chief Financial Officer of the Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts, for their assistance and interest in the project.\n\nRoman scholar Susanna Braund helped me try to track down an important allusion made by David Graham Phillips. Alexandra Villard de Borchgrave permitted me to use her files relating to Henry Villard. Dr. Edward Okum, who had treated Joseph Pulitzer's grandson for eye troubles, sorted out important questions regarding Pulitzer's blindness. Dr. Edwin Carter once again provided me with important psychological insights into my subject. Eric Homberger, author of Mrs. Astor's New York: Money and Social Power in a Gilded Age, gave me important advice on dealing with the anti-Semitism that confronted Pulitzer in New York City.\n\nJason Baker did yeoman's work in translating German documents for me. I am also grateful for his insights about Pulitzer's work at the Westliche Post. Baker was assisted by Rick Strudell, who managed to decipher nineteenth-century German penmanship. Cornelia Brooke Gilder helped me with research in the Berkshires. Jude Webre completed important fact-checking in the Columbia University holdings of Pulitzer papers. Elizabeth Elliott chased down elusive information on Tunstall in Lynchburg, Virginia. Charles Litchfield and Nancy Ross, two high school students, served as editorial interns in 2004 and 2005.\n\nTripp Jones, archivist, the Church of the Epiphany, went out of his way to provide me with insights into both the role of his church at Joseph and Kate's wedding as well as that of Joseph's relationship with the Episcopal Church as a whole. David G. Hardin and Keitha Leonard, both attorneys, assisted me in interpreting estate and business matters. The law firm of Ropes & Gray represented me pro bono in my Freedom of Information dispute with the Department of Justice, and Stephen M. Underhill, a graduate student from the University of Maryland working at the National Archives, helped locate the 1909\u20131910 Pulitzer prosecution records.\n\nA large cast of people in libraries, archives, and universities from Budapest to St. Louis went out of their way to assist me. Specific individuals include: Jill Abraham, at the National Archives, who helped locate military records on Pulitzer, whose name was spelled several different ways, making it hard to locate some of the items; Wanda Adams, Leavenworth Public Library; Marisa Bourgoin of the Corcoran Art Gallery; Christine M. Beauregard, New York State Library; Joseph Fred Benson, Supreme Court of Missouri; Stephen Bolhafner, St. Louis Post-Dispatch; Frederick W. Brunello, New York Times Corporate Records; Michael DeArmey, University of Southern Mississippi; Jill Gage, Newberry Library; Judy Garrett, Berkshire Historical Society; James Good, Lone Star College\u2013North Harris; Suzanne Hahn, Indiana Historical Society; Linda Hartman, Santa Fe Public Library; Mike Klein, Library of Congress; Shaun J. Kirkpatrick, United States Army War College and Carlisle Barracks; William Massa, Sterling Library, Yale University; Shirley McGrath, Greene County Historical Society; Katie McMahon, Newberry Library; Barbara Miksicek, St. Louis Police Library; Janie Morris, Duke University Library; James P. Niessen, Alexander Library, Rutgers University; Jenny Olmsted, Jekyll Island Museum; Janet Parks, Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library, Columbia University; Donald Ritchie, U.S. Senate Historical Office; Nicholas B. Scheetz, Georgetown University Library; Wendy Schnur, G. W. Blunt Library of the Mystic Seaport Museum; Christina Shedlock, Charleston County Public Library; David A. Smith, New York Public Library; James M. Smith, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Ohio State University; William T. Stolz, Senior Manuscript Specialist, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia; Allen E. Wagner, University of Missouri\u2013St. Louis; Andrew Walker, St. Louis Art Museum; Travis Westly, Library of Congress; Clive Wilmer, Cambridge University, England; Kenneth H. Winn, Missouri State Archives.\n\nI also want to acknowledge the permitted use of materials from the Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Columbia University; Columbia University Oral History Research Office Collection; Midwest Manuscript Collection at the Newberry Library; Special Collections, Georgetown University Library; Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University; and other institutions in the United States, Great Britain, and Hungary.\n\nDavid O. Stewart, author of Impeached, was my constant literary companion during this project. He read every word I wrote and his comments greatly improved the manuscript. Editor Veronika Hass diligently reviewed my final drafts, frequently saving me from mortifying errors. David Garrow, author of Bearing the Cross, read large sections of the manuscript and provided valuable guidance. Others who read portions of the work include author Kenneth Ackerman; Zohar Kadman Sella, a student at Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism; Howard N. Lupovitch, of Colby College; Robert Priddy, broadcaster and independent historian in Missouri; and Richard Zacks, author of a forthcoming book on Theodore Roosevelt as police commissioner.\n\nFriends Jim Percoco and Dean Sagar helped me sort out Pulitzer's role in the Civil War and worked to help me overcome my prejudices about the war. Friend and author Linda Lear gave me the idea for the subtitle to this book.\n\nA research fellowship provided by Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History greatly defrayed my travel costs to New York City. A grant from the Richard S. Brownlee Fund of the Missouri State Historical Society helped fund my travels to Missouri. Its executive director Gary Kremer also provided useful guidance on Jefferson City in the 1870s. I am especially honored by support I received from the T/EL&DS, especially from its 2008 director J. Revell Carr, who was busy supervising the construction of the society's new headquarters.\n\nLast, members of my family in New York\u2014Christopher and Elissa Morris and Helen and Martin Scorsese\u2014gave me lodging and meals during my many research trips. My children, Stephanie, Benjamin, and Alexander, probably wondered if their father would ever finish this project and my wife, Patty, put up with long absences while I conducted my research and with long absences when I was home but locked away in my office.\n\n## Notes\n\nTo conserve space, the endnotes contain abbreviations for frequently cited sources and a more numeric dating system.\n\nARCHIVAL COLLECTIONS OR REPOSITORIES\n\nABF Brisbane Family. Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University\n\nABF\u20132001 2001 Addition to Brisbane Family, Special Collections Research Center, Syracuse University\n\nAB-LC Arthur Brisbane File, Lake County Historical Society, OH\n\nAJHS American Jewish Historical Society, New York, NY\n\nBLMC British Library Manuscript Collection, London\n\nCAG Corcoran Art Galley, Washington, DC\n\nCDP Chauncey Depew Papers, Sterling Library, Yale University\n\nCJB Charles Joseph Bonaparte Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nCS Carl Schurz Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nDCS-NYPL Don Carlos Seitz Papers, New York Public Library\n\nEBW E. B. Washburne Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nEFJC Eric Fettmann Journalism Collection (privately held)\n\nEHP Earl Harding Papers, Special Collection, Georgetown University Library\n\nHR Hermann Raster Papers, Newberry Library, Chicago, IL\n\nHSP Henry Stimson, Manuscript and Archive, Sterling Library, Yale University\n\nHW Henry Watterson, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nJA Julian Allen Scrapbook, #13-z, Southern Historical Collection, Wilson Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill\n\nJB James Broadhead Papers, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis\n\nJBE J. B. Eads Papers, Missouri Historical Society\n\nJC James Creelman, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Ohio State University\n\nJJJ John Joseph Jennings Collection, Beinecke Library, Yale University\n\nJNP-MHS John W. Norton Papers, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis\n\nJP-CU Joseph Pulitzer, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University\n\nJP-LC Joseph Pulitzer, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nJPII-LC Joseph Pulitzer Jr. (1885\u20131955), Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nJP-MHS Joseph Pulitzer Collection, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis\n\nJP-NYSL Joseph Pulitzer, correspondence, New York State Library, Albany\n\nLB Louis Benecke Family Papers, 1816\u20131989, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia, MO\n\nLS Louis Starr Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University\n\nMHS Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis\n\nMSA Missouri State Archives, Jefferson City, MO\n\nMMW McKim, Mead, and White Collection, New-York Historical Society\n\nNARA National Archives, Washington, DC\n\nNARA-MD Department of Justice, Record Group 60, file #10963\u201302, National Archives, College Park, MD\n\nNARA-NY US v. Press Publishing Files, National Archives, New York City\n\nNT-DU Nannie Tunstall Papers, Duke University Library\n\nN-YHS New-York Historical Society\n\nNYTA New York Times Corporate Archives\n\nPDA Archival material on file in the library of the Post-Dispatch, St. Louis, MO. The paper held files of miscellaneous letters, articles, and photographs all mixed in with personal affairs of Joseph Pulitzer II and Joseph Pulitzer III.\n\nPLFC Pat and Leslie Fogarty Collection (privately held)\n\nSB Samuel Bowles Papers, Manuscript and Archive, Sterling Library, Yale University\n\nSSMHS Sylvester Scovel Papers, Missouri Historical Society, St. Louis\n\nSLPA Microfilms made by the St. Louis Post-Dispatch containing miscellaneous Pulitzer correspondence. One copy is owned by the paper; the other is on file at the St. Louis Public Library.\n\nSLPDL St. Louis Police Department Library, St. Louis\n\nStLi American Committee of the Statue of Liberty, New York Public Library\n\nTD Thomas Davidson. Manuscript and Archive, Yale University\n\nTRP Theodore Roosevelt Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nUB Udo Brachvogel Papers, New York Public Library\n\nWCP-DU William W. Corcoran Papers, Special Collection Library, Duke University\n\nWHMC Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia, MO\n\nWHS-IHS William H. Smith Papers, Indiana Historical Society\n\nWG-CU William Grosvenor. Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University\n\nWP-CU World Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University\n\nWR-LC Whitelaw Reid Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress\n\nWSP William Speer Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University\n\nPERSONAL NAMES\n\nAB Alfred Butes\n\nABi Arthur Billings\n\nBM Bradford Merrill\n\nDC Dumont Clarke\n\nDCS Don Carlos Seitz\n\nDGP David Graham Phillips\n\nFC Frank Cobb\n\nFDW Florence D. White\n\nGHL George H. Ledlie\n\nGWH George W. Hosmer\n\nHS Henry Stimson\n\nJAS J. Angus Shaw\n\nJN John Norris\n\nJP Joseph Pulitzer\n\nJPII Joseph Pulitzer Jr.\n\nJWC James W. Clarke\n\nKP Kate Pulitzer\n\nMAM Maud Alice Macarow\n\nNT Norman Thwaites\n\nPB Pomeroy Burton\n\nRHL Robert H. Lyman\n\nRP Ralph Pulitzer\n\nTR Theodore Roosevelt\n\nWHM William H. Merrill\n\nFREQUENTLY CITED BOOKS OR MANUSCRIPTS\n\nAI Alleyne Ireland. Joseph Pulitzer: Reminiscence of a Secretary. New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1914.\n\nAPM Albert Pulitzer. \"Memoirs.\" Unpublished memoir written by Albert Pulitzer in 1909 and edited and annotated by his son Walter Pulitzer between 1909 and probably 1913. In author's possession. On deposit in the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.\n\nDCS-JP Don C. Seitz. Joseph Pulitzer: His Life and Letters. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1924.\n\nGJ George Juergens. Joseph Pulitzer and the New York World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1966.\n\nJLH John L. Heaton. The Story of a Page: Thirty Years of Public Service and Public Discussion in the Editorial Columns of the New York World. New York: Harper, 1913.\n\nJSR Julian S. Rammelkamp. Pulitzer's Post-Dispatch, 1878\u20131883. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967.\n\nJWB James Wyman Barrett. Joseph Pulitzer and His World. New York: Vanguard, 1941.\n\nWRR William Robinson Reynolds. \"Joseph Pulitzer.\" PhD diss., Columbia University, 1950.\n\nWAS W. A. Swanberg, Pulitzer. New York: Scribner, 1967.\n\nNEWSPAPERS\n\nReaders may note the appearance of smaller newspapers in some of the endnotes. This is because they made extensive use of wire copy and often contained valued reports about New York journalism and politics.\n\nAtCo Atlanta Constitution\n\nBoGl Boston Globe\n\nBrEa Brooklyn Eagle\n\nChTr Chicago Tribune\n\nDeFr Detroit Free Press\n\nEvPo St. Louis Evening Post\n\nGlDe St. Louis Globe-Democrat (including issues when it was the St. Louis Globe)\n\nLAT Los Angeles Times\n\nMoDe Missouri Democrat\n\nMoRe Missouri Republican\n\nNYA New York American\n\nNYH New York Herald\n\nNYEJ New York Evening Journal\n\nNYEW New York Evening World\n\nNYMJ New York Morning Journal (later succeeded by the New York American)\n\nNYS New York Sun\n\nNYT New York Times\n\nNYTr New York Tribune\n\nNYW New York World\n\nSeDe Sedalia Democrat\n\nStLoDi St. Louis Dispatch\n\nPD St. Louis Post-Dispatch\n\nStLoPo St. Louis\n\nPostThJo The Journalist\n\nTT Town Topics\n\nWaPo Washington Post\n\nWP Westliche Post\n\nWSJ Wall Street Journal\n\nNote: When citing Pulitzer letters and other documents located at either Columbia University or the Library of Congress, I have chosen to limit the citation to the date of item and collection, unless more information would be needed for its retrieval. For instance, some correspondence and other items were not filed chronologically or sometimes are incorrectly filed. In those cases, I have provided the box and file folder information.\n\nAdditionally, finding aids I developed in conjunction with the research for this book have been deposited at the Rare Book and Manuscript Room of Columbia University and the Manuscript Room of the Library of Congress.\n\nLast, the endnote appears at the point at which I begin using the source. So quotations in subsequent paragraphs stem from the same source unless otherwise specified.\n\nPROLOGUE: HAVANA 1909\n\nOn the afternoon: Descriptions of Havana harbor are drawn from Robert T. Hill, Cuba and Porto Rico with the Other Islands of the West Indies (New York: The Century Co., 1898) and photographs in the G. W. Blunt Library of Mystic Seaport.\n\nThe length of: AI, 28. Sarawak is today one of the two Malaysian states on the island of Borneo.\n\nAnd it was talked about: Data calculated using data from the twenty-fifth anniversary issue of World, 5/10/1903, copy contained in May 1903 Folder, WP-CU.\n\n\"The World should\": JP and Clark B. Firestone conversation, transcript, undated, undated folder 1910, JP-LC, Box 9.\n\n\"I think God\": JP and Firestone conversation, transcript, 8/5/1908, WP-CU.\n\nAt last the small boat: WRR, 711.\n\nCHAPTER 1: HUNGARY\n\nA note about family names: I have chosen to keep Joseph Pulitzer's ancestors and family names in their original spelling, such as Mih\u00e1ly (instead of Michael), F\u00fcl\u00f6p (instead of Phillip). But as J\u00f3szef Pulitzer would become known by the American spelling of his name, I instead refer to him as \"Joseph.\"\n\nBy the time: Moravia is now located in the eastern third of the modern Czech Republic. When I visited the Jewish cemetery in Mak\u00f3 in 2006, I found graves for Pulitzers with all three spellings: \"Politzer,\" \"Puliczer,\" and \"Pulitzer.\" Andr\u00e1s Csillag, \"The Hungarian Origins of Joseph Pulitzer,\" Hungarian Studies, Vol. 3, No. 1\u20132 (1987), 193; Peter I. Hidas, \"A Brief Outline of the History of Jews of Hungary,\" delivered December 13, 1992 at the Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom, Westmount, Canada (unpublished, in author's possession); Lupovitch, Jews at the Crossroads, xviii\u2013xix; Andr\u00e1s Csillag, Pulitzer J\u00f3zsef mak\u00f3i sz\u00e1rmaz\u00e1s\u00e1r\u00f3l (Mak\u00f3: Mak\u00f3 M\u00faseum, 1985), 13\u201314.\n\nIn Mak\u00f3, the Pulitzers: Csillag, \"Hungarian Origins,\" 194\u2013196.\n\nWhen Joseph's father: Ibid., 198; APM, 16; Csillag, Pulitzer J\u00f3zsef mak\u00f3i sz\u00e1rmaz\u00e1s\u00e1r\u00f3l, 13.\n\nFollowing Jewish custom: Birth Recorders Book, Mak\u00f3, Israelitic Religious Birth Registrar's Office, Vol. 36.16, JPII-LC. The copy is accompanied by a translation, which, however, fails to translate the Hungarian word k\u00f6r\u00fclmet\u00e9l\u00f6 (circumcision.) The translation was done for the Pulitzer family in 1937 (possibly later). The birth of Pulitzer is also noted in the listing of Jewish births in Mak\u00f3 on microfilm #0642780 of the Family History Center for the Mormon Church.\n\nNonetheless, as Jews: The percentage was determined using estimated population figures but it matched that provided by Marton Eacsedi, caretaker of the Jewish Cemeteries in Mak\u00f3, in an interview with the author, January 21, 2006. A city plan of 1815 described the crooked streets of the Jewish settlement: Toth, \"History,\" 4.\n\nDespite the revolution's: The strength of Hungarian nationalism among Jews is described in Alexander Maxwell, \"From Wild Carpathians to the Puszta: The Evolution of Hungarian National Landscapes,\" in Ruth Buettner and Judith Peltz, eds., Mythical Landscapes Then and Now (Yerevan, Macmillan, 2006); Gyorgyi Haraszti, of the Institute of History of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, interview with author, January 24, 2006; APM, 4.\n\nThe end of: Jewish Encyclopedia, Vol. 8 (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1901), 273. Pulitzer attended the Hebrew school in Mak\u00f3, according to his childhood friend Adolph Reiner, The Journal of Temesvar, June 21, 1913 (translation in JPII-LC.); Patai, The Jews of Hungary, 284\u2013285; Lopovitch, Jews at the Crossroads, 240\u2013243.\n\nThere was nothing modern: APM, 12.\n\nIn the spring: Csillag, Pulitzer J\u00f3zsef mak\u00f3i sz\u00e1rmaz\u00e1s\u00e1r\u00f3l, 19; McCagg, Habsburg Jews, 135.\n\nUnlike Buda, which: The descriptions of Pest and Buda are drawn from prints in the Hungarian National Museum and from Beattie, The Danube; and Parsons, The City of Magyar.\n\nThe Pulitzers' wagon: Komor\u00f3czy, ed., Jewish Budapest; Csillag, \"Hungarian Origins,\" #199. F\u00fcl\u00f6p was no stranger to the Jewish quarter. On his business journeys he had lodged in the enormous Orczy House, which was so immense it was regarded as a kind of shtetl, or little Jewish town, in and of itself.\n\nThe move to Pest: Csillag, \"Hungarian Origins,\" 199\u2013201; Victor Karady, professor in the Department of History and Nationalism Studies Program at Central European University, interview with author, January 17, 2006.\n\nBecause of the family's: APM, 11\u201312. This tale has all the markings of a family legend and may be only an exaggeration. Years later, though, one of Joseph's childhood friends cryptically reported that he \"did beat his teacher.\"\n\nIf Joseph didn't: APM, 20, 46; Less than six years later, Joseph Pulitzer would meet the American philosopher Denton J. Snider. Upon learning that Snider was teaching a course in philosophy, Pulitzer said, \"What good can you get from that?\" (Denton J. Snider, The St. Louis Movement, 163.)\n\nFor Joseph, Pest: K\u00f3sa, The Old Jewish Quarter of Budapest, 14.\n\nLeaving the market: APM, 16.\n\nAny exploration of: Beattie, The Danube, 181\u2013182. See also Paget, Hungary and Transylvania; and Parsons, The City of Magyar.\n\nThe wealth, success: Today Temple Emanu-El in New York City is larger than this synagogue but does not seat more people; Komor\u00f3czy, Jewish Budapest, 110; Patai, The Jews of Hungary, 298\u2013301. Most, if not all, of the Pulitzer death records and gravestones in Hungary recognize the family as Neologs.\n\nDespite having secured: In all the couple had nine children. Lajos, born in 1840, lived sixteen years; Borb\u00e1la, born in 1842, five years; Breindel, born in 1845, one year; Anna, born in 1849, eleven years; G\u00e1bor, born in 1853, two years; and Arnold, born in 1856, less than one year. The birth and death dates of one child, Helene, are not known, but she died before 1858. Only Joseph and his brother Albert, who was born on July 10, 1851, lived into adulthood. (Csillag, \"Hungarian Origins,\" 197.)\n\nFour years older than Albert: See John Bowlby, Attachment and Loss; Wass and Corr, eds., Childhood and Death; Silverman, Never Too Young to Know: Death in Children's Lives.\n\nAs an additional: F\u00fcl\u00f6p's will was probated in Pest, and an account of its contents is found in Csillag, \"Hungarian Origins,\" 202\u2013203 (a portion of the will is reproduced on 201).\n\n\"Thus was my mother\": APM, 16.\n\nFinancial relief appeared: JP to Nannie Tunstall, May 2, 1878, EFJC. Albert never mentions Frey in his memoir, and Joseph seems never to have talked about Frey to his friends or family. His absence from their recollections is striking, especially in comparison with how much they both discussed their affection for their mother.\n\nThe deaths and: APM, 19; Temesvar Hirlap, June 21, 1913, translation in JP-LC, Box 12, folder 3.\n\nGoing to the: Komor\u00f3czy, Jewish Budapest; 104; Patai, The Jews of Hungary, 286.\n\nPulitzer had grown: Pulitzer later told friends that he traveled to Paris and London in hopes of joining an army; but this seems doubtful, considering the cost of such travel and his family's financial condition at the time.\n\nEvents in the: Geary, We Need Men, 103; Boston Daily Courier, September 1, 1864, 1; Murdock, One Million Men, 188; Papers Relating to Foreign Affairs (38, Congress, 2nd Session, House Executive Document No. 1, vol. 3, Serial 1218, Washington, 1865), 177. Allen was established in Hamburg in early March: Julian Allen Scrapbook, #13-z, Southern Historical Collection, Wilson Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.\n\nAllen set up: Foreign Affairs, 184\u2013185; Boston Courier, 9/1/1864, 1. The contract the recruits signed required turning over any bonus they received to Allen. His promise to pay all travel expenses from the recruit's home is one of the reasons I believe that Pulitzer did not come to Hamburg by happenstance but rather responded to Allen's advertisements. It was unlikely, considering the financial condition of his family, that Pulitzer would have embarked on a three-capital tour of Europe; Foreign Affairs, 178.\n\nIn early summer: Adolf Zedlinski to JP, 8/13/1903, JP-CU. Among those who once frequented the restaurant was the poet Joseph von Eichendorff, who had died in 1857.\n\nThere Pulitzer located: Boston Courier, 9/1/1864; New York Evening Post, 8/10/1864 and New York Evening Express, 8/10/1864 (copies of both are in Allen's scrapbook). A copy of the contract is reproduced in Foreign Affairs, 185. See also ChTr, 8/16/1864, 3. An article also appeared in the Springfield Republican that was reprinted in NYT, 8/19/1864; ChTr, 8/11/1864, 1.\n\nPulitzer was among: \"Copy of report and list of passengers taken on board the Garland of Hamburg,\" National Archives, Washington, DC. Pulitzer was among the last two dozen to board; Galignani's Messenger, date unknown, in Allen's scrapbook; Foreign Affairs, 179.\n\nCHAPTER 2: BOOTS AND SADDLES\n\nPulitzer remained closemouthed about the details of his service. Unlike other Civil War veterans, he never participated in commemorative events and never even told battle tales. The official records are also incomplete. There is, for instance, no information in his military service file to account for his whereabouts between January and May 1865. All the muster calls for these months are missing. Many such records were lost, so the disappearance of Pulitzer's is not suspicious; but it is nevertheless frustrating to historians.\n\nAfter nearly six: The Lizzie Homans, the City of Limerick, and the Etna all reported seeing icebergs on their voyages across the Atlantic from Liverpool, England. Even as late as August, while Pulitzer was seaborne, a ship reached Boston with tales of seeing large quantities of ice in Iceberg Alley. NYT, 8/16/1864, 8; 8/22/1864, 8; 8/23/1864, 8; 9/1/1864, 8.\n\nBoats bearing federal: Article in Courier de Lyon, which was sent to Secretary of State William Seward by Consul William L. Dayton in Paris, 10/17/1864. It appears, translated, in Foreign Affairs, 165.\n\nPulitzer knew the: Pulitzer later told friends that he slipped over the ship's railing at night and swam ashore so as to collect his own bounty. This tale has long been considered a myth. The ship never came close to a Boston dock. But the discovery that Pulitzer was among those in Allen's recruiting scheme gives the tale new credibility. In fact, the waterway separating Deer Island from the mainland was only about 300 feet wide at its narrowest point and a dozen feet deep. In the end, it may be that Pulitzer only embellished his escape from the clutches of the Massachusetts recruiters. Instead of thrashing about in the polluted harbor water of the docks, leaving all his personal belongings behind, he and a dozen or two dozen men probably easily traversed the channel at low tide. I compared the ship's manifest with the rolls of Massachusetts regiments and found that almost all the men I looked up did, in the end, join the Union forces. The channel between Deer Island and the mainland was filled in by a hurricane during the twentieth century. The width and depth of the channel when Pulitzer arrived were estimated from nautical charts on deposit at the Library of Congress.\n\nReaching New York: One could earn $300 from the county, $75 from the state, and $300 from the federal government (Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, 3/19/1864, 404). Advertisements in NYH listed bounties of $400 for aliens and $600 for men willing to be substitutes. See NYH, 5/27/1864, 6/3/1864, 6/7/1864; NYT, 1/30/1864, 8.\n\nDespite such efforts: NYT, 8/2/1864, 3. Lieutenant Colonel R. W. Winfield Simpson and Captain R. McNichol, from Kingston, ran a regular advertisement in New York newspapers. Typical of them was one that can be found in NYT, 9/29/1864, when Pulitzer was in the city; NYT, 8/7/1864. NYT, 2/4/1865, 8; NYT, 9/24/1864, 1. Information on Henry Vosburgh drawn from Descriptive Book of Drafted, Draft Register for the 13th District Headquarters in Kingston, National Archives, 159, as well as cemetery and census records provided by the Greene County (NY) Historical Society.\n\nAt the Kingston tent: Pulitzer's military service record, NARA. (Note: His service records are sometimes hard to locate because his name is variously spelled as \"Pullitzer\" and \"Politzer.\") Geary, We Need Men, 145. Ironically, Vosburgh's luck in obtaining Pulitzer's services as a substitute did not ward off an early death. He died within a year of natural causes. (Headstone at Colleburgh Cemetery, headstone inventory, Greene County Historical Society, Coxsackie, NY.)\n\nWith money in: The ring, along with letters telling its story, is stored in the Library of Congress among the collection of Joseph Pulitzer II papers. The younger Pulitzer acquired the coin in 1938, when relatives in Hungary mailed it to him. (Polgar Gyulane to JPII, 4/18/1938.)\n\nA few days: Bill Twoney, \"Hart Island\u2014Part 1\" Bronx Times Reporter, 11/24/1994; NYT, 12/12/1867, 7; NYT, 8/7/1864, 2; NYT, 1/10/1865, 4.\n\nPulitzer also avoided: NYT, 8/27/1864, 3 and 11/20/1864, 5. Pulitzer's story is consistent with the fact that the cavalries were also becoming less selective about recruits. See, for instance, the poster with five charging cavalrymen in New-York Historical Society Civil War Treasures Collection, PR\u2013055\u20133\u2013207; DCS-JP, 43.\n\nOn November 12, 1864: Starr, The Union Cavalry in the Civil War, Vol., 2, 322\u2013333.\n\nPulitzer was assigned: Descriptive Book, Companies B-M, 1st New York Lincoln Cavalry, NARA. Stevenson, Boots and Saddles, 320. Later in Pulitzer's life, when he was famous, several of his wartime acquaintances contacted him. One of them, the German-born John See, who recalled being his tent mate, was seeking financial assistance in 1910. One of Pulitzer's staff members checked to make sure this was the case before Pulitzer sent a check. (Witherbee memo to Seitz, undated but in May\u2013June, 1910, folder, JP-LC, Box 9.)\n\nAlthough it was a relief: McPherson, For Cause and Comrades, 115.\n\nA less significant: NYT, 11/11/1864, 5, and 11/12/1864, 1; Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 453. President Lincoln proclaimed the last Thursday of each November as Thanksgiving Day in the fall of 1863.\n\nFor the remainder: Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 452; Illustrated London News, Vol. 45, No. 1291 12/10/1864, 574.\n\nPulitzer's pain and: Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 456\u2013457\n\nWarfare resumed with: John G. Steele to JP, 9/8/1885, JP-CU. Previous biographies of Pulitzer placed him in Sheridan's raids when they resumed in late February, specifically attacks on Waynesboro on March 2 and Beaver Dam Station on March 15. Afterward it was believed that Pulitzer escaped hazardous duty by being assigned as an orderly to Major Richard J. Hinton, who was in the valley on special duty. But the records do not bear out this account. Hinton was a British-born American journalist whose strong abolitionist sentiments led him to move to Kansas, where he became a leading advocate of a slave-free state and a follower of John Brown. For most of the war he served as a recruiter and an officer of black soldiers in Kansas. His military records do not include service in the Shenandoah Valley. But one cannot be certain that he didn't come east, because at the beginning of the war he conducted some secret missions to the South (significant enough so that he was thanked by President Lincoln). Yet, if he had been conducting secret work, one would think that he would hardly select a soldier who took orders only in German. Furthermore, Hinton spent the remainder of his life as a journalist, writer, and public official; and his limited correspondence with Pulitzer, when the latter became a well-known publisher, made no reference to having known him before: (DCS-JP, 46; JWB, 14; WRR, 5; WAS, 4). What may have occurred is that Pulitzer's first biographer confused two Hintons. This biographer wrongly assumed, when Pulitzer said that he had served under a Major Hinton, that this was the better-known Richard, unaware of Chalmers A. Hinton, a captain in the First Lincoln. Chalmers Hinton was detached and assigned to tend prisoners of war at City Point, Virginia. There is, however, no record that Pulitzer was detached to work for this Hinton, either.  \nWhat other military records and a fragment of correspondence dating from many years after the war do reveal is that Pulitzer remained far from harm's way during the final months of the war. When his name surfaces in the records of June 1865, it is on a muster-out roll of a detachment from Company L in the First Regiment of the New York Cavalry. The group of six was under the command of Franz Passeger, a Viennese major. During January, February, March, and possibly April, Passeger served as a bodyguard for and then on the staff of General H. Chapman. The general had just returned to service after being wounded in the fall of 1864 and was assigned to Camp Averell, near Winchester.\n\nApril 1865 brought: Beach, The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry, 511\u2013512.\n\nPromptly at nine: NYT and ChTr, 5/24/1864; DCS-JP, 47. For years Pulitzer apparently believed that he had seen Lincoln, but he realized, after considering the facts, that he could never have.\n\nThe reviews over: NYT, 6/1/1865, 1.\n\nWhen Pulitzer's turn: Pulitzer's military service record, NARA; Pulitzer's discharge, JP-MHS.\n\nOn June 26: NYH, 6/29/1865, 3.\n\nPeace had its: In June and July, alone, the city provided meals, lodging, and what the newspapers called \"extra delicacies\" to 60,000 men. Illustrated London News, 8/12/1865, 128; NYT, 10/1/1865, 5; Ida Tarbel, \"Disbanding Union Army at the End of the Civil War,\" BoGl, 5/26/1907, 5; NYT, 7/16/1865, 5, 8/9/1865, 3, 8/12/1865, 8, 9/13/1865, 9, 9/28/1865, 2.\n\nBewildered, alone, and: WaPo, 9/28/1890, 9.\n\nOne day, as: James Barnes, \"Joseph Pulitzer, a Dominant Personality: Some Personal Reminiscences,\" Colliers, 11/18/1911. Pulitzer shared similar details with New York Graphic, reprinted in Evening Gazette (Cedar Falls, IA), 1/20/1887, 3.\n\nAt last, the: Various biographers have offered differing reasons for Pulitzer's move to St. Louis but none have been backed by any evidence. One version often repeated, but certainly not true, appeared in American Heritage. \"Mustered out, Pulitzer asked around about where he might settle in the United States: he wanted a place where German was not spoken, so that he could improve his English. A practical joker, it is said, sent him to St. Louis, which had a colony large enough to make a sizable town in Germany.\" (David Davidson \"What Made the 'World' Great?\" American Heritage, Vol. 33, No. 6 [Oct/Nov 1982]); Henry Charles Hummel, who joined the Lincoln Cavalry on the same day as Pulitzer and served on the same detachment, may have moved to St. Louis with him. A river man named Charles Hummel begins appearing in the St. Louis city directory the same year as Pulitzer does: Pulszky and Pulszky, White, Red, Black, 167\u2013174. During the fall, when Pulitzer was vainly seeking work in New York, a newspaper reporter watched Germans debark from ships including, in particular, a \"phlegmatic Teuton who paid for 'ten through tickets to St. Louis by the 5 o'clock train.\" As a rule, concluded the reporter, German immigrants arrived with a plan of operation. \"They strike at once for the West.... their first query is for the ticket office, where they purchase the necessary documents, and then wait anxiously for the departure of the train.\" (NYT, 9/12/1865, 1.) Certainly Pulitzer would have learned about the large German communities in St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Milwaukee from other German-speaking soldiers in his regiment, especially during the two-week encampment outside Washington, when they discussed plans for civilian life.\n\nCHAPTER 3: THE PROMISED LAND\n\nWhen Pulitzer got: The exact date of his arrival is unknown. Previous biographers accepted October 10, 1865, a date Pulitzer himself probably used. At the same time Seitz claimed Pulitzer was superstitious when it came to numbers and attributed special significance to the number 10, the date of his birth. \"He made the superstition something of a fad and used the numerals always when he could,\" said Seitz, (DCS, 11). Pulitzer's superstition about the number also makes the dating of his arrival suspicious. In fact, his description of the cold weather did not match weather records for the day. Nor do the facts in another recollection related to his arrival bear up under scrutiny. So while it is unlikely that an exact date can be determined, it seems certain that Pulitzer arrived sometime in the fall of 1865. The data on ferry traffic are drawn from Scharf, History of Saint Louis City and County, Vol. 2; DCSJP, 50.\n\nThrough the darkness: DCS-JP, 51.\n\nIt was like coming home: The similarities between the Pest riverbank and that of St. Louis struck me while I was examining nineteenth-century prints in the Hungarian National Museum. Except for minor differences I thought I was looking at the photo St. Louis Levee by Thomas Easterly in the collection of the Missouri Historical Society. Ernst D. Kargau's 1893 work St. Louis in fr\u00fcheren jahren. Ein gedenkbuch f\u00fcr das deutschthum was translated and published as The German Element in St. Louis, 9. The names of the establishments, however, are taken from the original German edition (St. Louis, MO: A. Wiebusch, 1893), 12.\n\nSt. Louis was: Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 525; Th\u00e9r\u00e8se Yelverston, Teresina in America, 115.\n\nDespite its foul: \"In no American city, not even in Cincinnati, although more Germans, in proportion, live there than in St. Louis, have I found the German element so preponderant,\" noted Friedrich Gerst\u00e4ker, a German traveler: Friedrich Gerst\u00e4cker, Gerst\u00e4cker's Travels. Olson, \"St. Louis Germans, 1850\u20131920.\"\n\nHe found work: Kargau, German Element, 124\u2013125; Snider, St. Louis Movement, 145.\n\nFor the first: MoRe, 9/5/1865, 3; DCS-JP, 52; ChTr, 5/24/1883, 10; MoRe, 1/1/1877, 6. A \"Joseph P. Pullitzer\" was listed in the 1866 city directory as a coachman; the family that employed Pulitzer as a coachman may have been the Weinhagens.\n\nIn 1866 Pulitzer: WRR, 6.\n\nDespite Pulitzer's inability: Udo Brachvogel, \"Episoden aus Joseph Pulitzers St. Louis Jahren,\" Rundschau zweier welten, January 1912. As with his experiences in the Civil War, Pulitzer almost never talked about his first years in St. Louis. When he did tell tales, he would invariably cut them short and complain that the listener had unfairly countenanced the reminiscence. \"As soon as a man gets in the habit of talking about his past adventures,\" Pulitzer said on one such occasion, \"he might as well make up his mind that he is growing old and that his intellect is giving way.\" But in a rare moment late in life, Pulitzer did recount several stories from this time. While cruising the Mediterranean in 1911, Pulitzer shared some with Alleyne Ireland, who was one of the last in a long string of personal secretaries and who would later serve as his companion. \"He was generally more willing to talk when we took our meals at the large round table on deck, for he loved the sea breeze and was soothed by it,\" Ireland recalled (AI, 168, 174\u2013175).\n\nOne time Pulitzer: AI, 171\u2013172.\n\nThe various jobs: DCS-JP, 53. The services provided by the organization were sorely needed. Six thousand German immigrants arrived in St. Louis in 1866 (Kargau, German Element, 206\u2013208).\n\nIn Pulitzer's case: Adalbert Strauss to Joseph Pulitzer Jr., 6/11/1913, JPII-LC. Strauss was not alone in being \"introduced\" to Elize. Charles P. Johnson, who met Pulitzer around this time, had a similar experience. \"One of the most attractive traits of his character to me was his admiration and abiding love for his mother,\" said Johnson. \"She was his guiding star\" (\"Remarks of Gov. Chas. P. Johnson, Birthday Anniversary Dinner,\" April 10, 1907, PDA).\n\nPulitzer paid the $2: Pulitzer's entry is written in his own hand in the July 18, 1866, membership ledger. He listed his occupation as clerk at \"Theo Strauss & Co, 19th & Franklin.\" The occupations of other members were determined by examining the pages adjoining Pulitzer's entry. Record Group 12\u2014membership, Mercantile Library Archives, St. Louis, MO; Annual Report of the St. Louis Mercantile Library Association, 1866, 12\u201313; Taylor and Crooks, Sketch Book of Saint Louis, 66\u201367.\n\nHe approached the: JP to RP, 3/23/1903 JP-CU; Annual Report of the St. Louis Mercantile Library Association, 1866, 14; Clarence Miller, \"Exit Smiling, Part II,\" Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. 6, No. 2 (January 1950), 188.\n\nHis hours in: Leidecker, Yankee Teacher, 317\u2013320; Snider, The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy, 7, 139. The men who formed the society also ended up as characters in a novel, The Rebel's Daughter, by John Gabriel Woerner. Professor Altrue is a representation of Harris, Dr. Taylor is Dr. Schneider (a play on the German word Schneider, \"tailor\"), and Brockmeyer appears as Rauhenfels. See Woerner, Woerner, 103.\n\nWhen he wasn't studying: Clarence Miller, \"Exit Smiling, Part II,\" Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. VI, 2, Jan. 1950, 188; E. F. Osborn to JPII, 6/15/1913, PD. Chess was a popular game in Hungary. In fact, victories by a Hungarian in a correspondence match between Pest and Paris in the 1840s had created a popular opening strategy called the \"Hungarian defense.\"\n\nPulitzer quit his post: William Kelsoe to Carlos Seitz, undated but part of series of correspondence in 1921\u20131922, PDA; A. S. Walsh to JPII, June 1913, PDA. According to A. S. Walsh, the teenager who worked in the drugstore, \"Joe used to often come into the store to have a chat and compare notes and during the epidemic his visits seems to be more frequent than usual\" (A. S. Walsh to JP II, June 1913. PD). In late summer cholera returned to St. Louis. Twice before, the disease had ravaged the city; this time its destruction was far less, though still considerable. In its fourth week as many as 140 people were dying each day. The drugstore remained open twenty-four hours a day. Joseph Nash McDowell, an eminent doctor and founder of a medical school, had an office above the drugstore. When the city turned to him for help in managing the epidemic, he reportedly hired Pulitzer to work at Arsenal Island, where the sick were quarantined and the dead were buried. The epidemic subsided after September. By November the number of reported deaths was down to four, and Pulitzer returned to work in Patrick's office. I made an extensive search in St. Louis records for any information about Pulitzer's service on Arsenal Island, but I failed to uncover anything.\n\nBy the spring of 1867: Pulitzer's notary public certificate, JPII-LC; W. A. Kelsoe to Seitz, undated (written between 1913 and 1920), PDA.\n\nPulitzer continued working: DCS-JP, 55; AI, 221; JP to William James, 6/21/1867, 7/13/1867, Wortham James Collection, 1820\u20131891, folder 2211, WHMC. Surviving correspondence\u2014which are his earliest existing letters\u2014while routine and historically insignificant reveals that Pulitzer had begun to acquire some command of English. He may have used form letters, but the transactions could not have been completed by someone lacking understanding of the language.\n\nAfter a few months: See White, The German-Language Press in America; Trefousse, Carl Schurz, 162. Schurz to Margarethe Schurz, 7/16/1867, Intimate Letters of Carl Schurz; DCS-JP, 61. Circulation figures are notoriously inaccurate in this period. But to bid for the city's legal advertising and printing, the owners of the newspapers had to submit circulation statements signed under oath. These \"official\" circulation figures for 1867 were published in ChTr, 6/5/1867, 2.\n\nProsperous and growing: Trefousse, Schurz, 162. Seitz suggests that Pulitzer was hired through his acquaintance with Preetorius and Willich. One Associated Press dispatch from St. Louis, published at the time of Pulitzer's death, makes mention of the connection between the paper and the immigration society: \"Willich found Mr. Pulitzer's methods of obtaining information unique, likewise his treatment of individual cases, and a word from his obtained for Pulitzer a place as a reporter on the Westliche Post, a German daily.\" AP dispatch, 10/29/1911, JP-LC, Box 12.  \nJust how Pulitzer, with no training or experience in journalism, obtained a job as a reporter on the Westliche Post is shrouded in mystery and legend. Pulitzer knew Preetorius through the Mercantile Library. Perhaps he had also met another owner, but he probably had not met Schurz. Pulitzer is said to have credited his experience when he and forty other men were bamboozled by the dishonest employment agent promising work downriver. A reporter got wind of the tale and persuaded Pulitzer to write it up for the Westliche Post, according to Ireland. The resulting work attracted Preetorius's eye and earned his admiration, and Pulitzer was offered a position on the paper. However, the article itself has never surfaced.  \nNumerous remembrances of Pulitzer at this time offer an alternative scenario, crediting chess with introducing him to men who would provide him with his first newspaper job. Unfortunately, the accounts vary considerably in consistency and reliability, often reducing the tale to one epic match. As with reports of Pulitzer's swim in Boston harbor, it is hard to discern the actual contours of what happened. Typical of the accounts told when Pulitzer was still alive was one that appeared in the magazine Current Literature in 1909: \"After performing various sorts of work he found himself one day in a restaurant looking on at a game of chess, a game in which he was said to have genius. A suggestion that he made to one of the players proved to be the little pivot on which his whole subsequent career turned. The player was Dr. Emil Preetorius, who with Carl Schurz was directing the Westliche Post. The acquaintance thus begun led to Pulitzer's entry upon the stage which he has never left.\"  \nA decade after Pulitzer's death, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch's editor William A. Kelsoe sought out a few St. Louisans who were still alive and who might have remembered such a game. \"I have found no one who can locate positively the saloon or restaurant in which that historic game was played,\" Kelsoe said. Two or three old-timers told Kelsoe they thought it might have been played in the Rheinische Weinhalle. Others mentioned Wagner's Restaurant, a meeting place popular with both German and non-German politicians, businessmen, and lawyers. Even if there was no single match, it could well have been that Pulitzer's chess skills, which had served him in Civil War camps, helped him gain attention at the Mercantile Library and other gathering places (AI, 171\u2013172). The inclusion of Schurz's name in the anecdote suggests that if the chess game was actually played, it occurred in 1867, when Schurz had joined the Westliche Post. It is the same year Pulitzer began working for the newspaper: Kelsoe to Seitz, undated, PDA.\n\n\"I could not\": DCS-JP, 58.\n\nPreetorius and Willich: Saalberg, \"The Westliche Post of St. Louis,\" 195.\n\nIt wasn't long: DCS-JP, 58\u201360. In fact, reporters for English-language newspapers referred to German reporters derogatorily as \"Schnorrers,\" a humorous Yiddish term for a type of beggar who, in contrast to an ordinary beggar, disguises his purpose, has pretensions at being a gentleman, and acts indignant when offered the assistance he seeks.\n\nIf Pulitzer believed: MoRe, 10/30/1911.\n\nWhile Pulitzer honed: APM, 26.\n\nReaching the United States: Built in 1865, the 2,695-ton Allemannia was capable of a speed of twelve knots: APM, 27\u201331.\n\nAlthough the reunion: The Chicago Tribune reported that \"the city is full of men out of employ, most of them young men from the East, who have white hands and want some clerical work to do\" (ChTr, 4/23/1867, 2); APM, 36.\n\nSettled at last: APM, 33, 39.\n\nFor Joseph the: According to his friend Anthony Ittner, Pulitzer regarded Anna Preetorius as \"one of the most kind-hearted, agreeable accompanied ladies that it was his good fortune to have ever met\" (Anthony Ittner to JPII, June 11, 1913, PD). Edward Preetorius recalled that when he was a baby, Pulitzer \"was a frequent and welcomed visitor at my parents' house and they have told me of the numerous kindnesses [Pulitzer] visited upon me\" (Edward Preetorius to JP, March 4, 1903, JP-CU).\n\nPulitzer was comfortable: Snider, St. Louis Movement, 167.\n\nPulitzer attended a few: Ibid., 118; The significance of the Journal of Speculative Philosophy in the history of American philosophy has been widely described. Perry, The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy, 10; James A. Good, \"'A World-Historical Idea': The St. Louis Hegelians and the Civil War,\" Journal of American Studies, Vol. 34, No. 1 (December 2000), 447\u2013464; Snider, St. Louis Movement, 32.\n\nA nomadic philosopher: Record Book of the St. Louis Philosophical Society, MHS.\n\nIn contrast to: Knight, Memorials of Thomas Davidson, 107\u2013108. See also Fagan, \"Thomas Davidson: Dramatist of the Life of Learning.\" It's not clear when and how Pulitzer met Davidson. Considering Pulitzer's avowed pursuit of education, he may well have attended one of Davidson's popular meetings.\n\nThe Scot's charms: Thomas Davidson to Kate Bindernagel, 8/10/1870, TD. The eight-year engagement came to an end when Davidson was in St. Louis. Davidson never did marry. After his death, his friend William James offered an explanation. He said Davidson told him that he had been tempted twice to marry but he demurred because of his first relationship. \"'When two persons have known each other as we did,' he said, 'neither can ever fully belong to a stranger, so it wouldn't do! It wouldn't do! It wouldn't do!' He repeated as we lay on the hillside in a tone so musically tender that it chimes in my ears still, as I write down his confession\" (Knight, Memorials of Thomas Davidson, 118). See also The National Cyclopaedia of American Biography, 312. The same kind of allusion was made at a commemorative service for the St. Louis Movement: \"Davidson had an exceptional sympathy with young fellows who seemed to be moving along a path that beckoned toward social renovation,\" said one of the speakers. A Brief Report of the Meeting Commemorative of the Early Saint Louis Movement, January 14, 15, 1921, Vanderweart's Music Hall, St. Louis, Missouri, 60, MHS.\n\nIf Davidson was: Homosexuality was not kept hidden from shame or fear, though each played a role. Rather, in a world devoid of discussions of sex, one's sexuality preference would have not been considered an element of identity that one could or should divulge. \"Sexuality was not considered a determining feature of social identity,\" explained the historian Graham Robb. Further, the intimate relationships that men and women often had with their friends of the same gender could mask something that in retrospect seemed evident. \"Many people,\" said Robb, \"discovered their homosexuality only when the person they had loved had gone away or died\" (Robb, Strangers, 127\u2013139). Also Isaac Rossetti to Thomas Davidson, June 12, 1867, TD.\n\nFive years earlier: Samuel Rowell to Thomas Davidson, January 1862, TD.\n\nDavidson himself confessed: Thomas Davidson to Kate Bindernagel, 8/14/1870, TD. It's obviously hard to determine what emotional state Davidson may have been in during those years. But one man who was a student recalled that his fellow students used to recount finding Davidson walking the halls, glassy-eyed, in an apparent \"drugged condition, spouting Greek.\" The student's conclusion was \"that he was a secret or perhaps periodic drinker\" (William Clark Breckenridge to Robert L. Calhoun, 8/25/1871, MHS).\n\nPulitzer fell under: DCS, 56, 38. James Barrett, who wrote an unreliable biography in 1941\u2014with which the family did not cooperate\u2014expanded Seitz's description of Pulitzer and Davidson sharing quarters. \"The fact that JP dressed and undressed complacently in the presence of his learned friend was proof enough of the serenity of his life with Davidson.... No other man ever won from him so warm a token of regard. The mere thought of being even without a collar in the presence of other men was enough to throw JP into paroxysm of annoyance\" (JWB, 32).\n\nAs when Davidson: JP to Davidson, undated but certainly from June 1874, TD.\n\nDavidson ignored this: JP to Davidson, 7/11/1874, TD.\n\nTen days later: JP to Davidson, 7/21/1874, TD. Fascinatingly, Pulitzer embellishes his letters with an increasing number of exclamation marks that match their chronological progression. Specifically the first letter in the series opens with \"Tom!\" the next with \"Tom!!\" and the last with \"Tom!!!\"\n\nIn the end: Without doubt, men of the era expressed friendship through words and gestures that a century later would be interpreted as homosexual. Men were permitted a kind of romantic friendship that is no longer possible. The only surviving letters from Davidson to Pulitzer offer little help in gauging the scope of their friendship. They date from years after Pulitzer was married. The letters say nothing about the pair's time together in St. Louis, though they do offer a small hint of past intimacy. In New York society, laced with formality, Pulitzer was addressed even by his closest friends as \"My dear Pulitzer.\" Davidson was among only one or two correspondents who wrote to him as \"Dear Joe.\" On his part, Pulitzer closed his letters \"Your affectionate friend,\" \"As ever your friend,\" and \"Your old friend.\" But, as he was blind by then and dictated his letters, Pulitzer might have felt restrained in what he could say, though the closings he did use were very untypical. \"The friendship with Davidson,\" said Seitz, \"remained Mr. Pulitzer's closest relationship until the wise and kindly Professor left life at Cambridge, Mass., September 14, 1900\" (DCS-JP, 56).\n\nCHAPTER 4: POLITICS AND JOURNALISM\n\nPolitics and journalism: Johnson, \"Birthday Anniversary Dinner,\" 4/10/1907, PDA.\n\nThe keystone of: Foner, Reconstruction, 41\u201342; Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 191; Primm, Lion of the Valley, 261\u2013268.\n\nSchurz placed the: Memorial service for Schurz, 10/10/1906, JP-CU.\n\nPulitzer not only: Johnson, \"Birthday Anniversary Dinner\" 4/10/1907, PDA; WP, 8/10/1868, 3; Saalberg, \"The Westliche Post,\" 196.\n\nA New Englander of: NYH, 4/29/1872; NYT, 7/21/1900, 7.\n\nHis maneuver gave: Trefousse, Schurz, 173.\n\nPreetorius and Pulitzer: WP, 1/13/1869 (weekly edition), 3.\n\nSchurz's election altered: Schurz to Preetorius, 3/12/1869, Intimate Letters, 473.\n\nThe vacuum at: Charles E. Weller letter, 7/28/1919, PDA. Weller, who was one of the first people in St. Louis to own a typewriter, is sometimes wrongly credited with having composed the phrase \"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party,\" known to anyone who has taken a typing course.\n\nPulitzer even took: William Fayel remembrance, reprinted in DCS-JP, 60\u201361.\n\nIt wasn't long: Charles E. Weller letter, 7/28/1919; and A. S. Walsh to JPII, June 1913, PDA.\n\nReporters poked fun: Fayel in DCS-JP, 60\u201361.\n\nFor good reason: Johnson, \"Birthday Anniversary Dinner,\" 4/10/1907, PDA.\n\nAlthough Johnson admired: Anthony Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA.\n\nIn the summer: Hyde and Conrad, Encyclopedia of the History of St. Louis, Vol. 2 (New York: Southern History, 1899), 1097; PD, 4/21/1879, 4.\n\nFrom the pages: WP, 7/21/1869, 3.\n\nUnder this withering: WP, 7/23/1869, 3.\n\nIn battling the: Theodore Welge to JPII, 6/6/1913. PDA.\n\nIn October 1869: Saalberg, \"The Westliche Post,\" 200.\n\nDespite the interminable: Weller letter, 7/28/1919, PDA; unknown author to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA.\n\nAt night, Pulitzer: Kargau, The German Element, 53\u201354.\n\nJoseph's brother Albert: Albert's name appears in a list of German teachers in the 14th Annual Report of the Public School Board of St. Louis (St. Louis, MO: Plate, Olshausen, 1868), lxiii; APM, 41\u201342, 48\u201349, 59\u201360.\n\nIn November 1869: The election call was made on November 10, 1869: Writ of Elections, Gov. McClurg, Missouri State Archives, Jefferson City, MO. The Missouri Republican supported John Daily; the St. Louis Times pushed it own editor, Stilson Hutchins, for the nomination: MoDe, 12/14/1869, 2.\n\nThe Republicans held: Eichhorst, \"Representative and Reporter: Joseph Pulitzer as a Missouri State Representative,\" 20; WP, 12/14/1869, 3.\n\nThe next morning: WP, 12/14/1869, 3; MoDe, 12/15/1869, 4.\n\nThe wishful thinking: MoRe, 12/19 and 12/21/1869, 2; Constitution of the State of Missouri, 1865, Art. IV, Sec. 3. The Democrat picked up Pulitzer's charge; the Republican and the Times defended their candidate and accused Pulitzer of failing to pay taxes, one of the requirements for being a candidate. But in the end, the difficulty in fielding a candidate, lingering questions about the latest candidate's eligibility, and squabbling between the Republican and the Times left the Democratic Party ill-prepared for the election. MoRe, 12/21/1869, 2; MoDe, 12/20/1869, 3; StLoTi, 12/21/1869, 1.\n\nWith three days: Original in Oaths of Loyalty 1869, Series XIV, Sub Series B, Dexter Tiffany Collection. MHS; WP, 12/18/1869, 3. According to Jason Baker, who assisted the author in translating German documents, \"At no point in the letter does he claim to be anyone other than Pulitzer, but referring to himself in the third person allows the reader to think so. He never perjures himself, but there is a certain level of deception at play.\" Further, Baker said, the rhetorical devices and phrases as well as a trademark comical note leave little doubt that the letter is the work of Pulitzer.\n\nNot a day: WP, 12/19 and 12/20/1869, 3.\n\nOn election day: The election results were published in all the newspapers, as well as the weather conditions. Turnout was estimated by using election results from other years.\n\n\"We doubt that\": WP, 12/22/1869, 3.\n\nCHAPTER 5: POLITICS AND GUNPOWDER\n\nShortly after New Year's Day: PD, 2/15/1870, 2. Advertisements announcing that Missouri Pacific and other railroads were honoring passes for legislators traveling to Jefferson City for the legislative session were published in newspapers. For a reference to this practice see PD, 2/8/1870, 2; and Eichhorst, \"Representative and Reporter,\" 31. The state paid $50 for a round trip from St. Louis. Copies of Pulitzer's per diem forms are on file in the MSA, General Assembly Records for 1870 Adjournment Session, Record Group 550, Box 94, folder 28, Jefferson City, MO.\n\nThe state capital: A measure to move the capital to St. Louis was introduced on January 18, 1870. NYT, 1/20/1870: 1. Pulitzer, who was still imbued with the ideals of the \"St. Louis movement,\" offered a bill to set aside land in St. Louis for the national capitol: Twenty-Fifth General Assembly House Journal, Adjournment Session, 1870, 72. (Hereafter cited as House Journal.)\n\nBringing with them: Anthony Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA; Kremer, Heartland History, 69; Bruns, Hold Dear, as Always, 14\u201315.\n\nOn January 5: House Journal, 4. Pulitzer was assigned to the Committee on Banks and Corporations.\n\nIn Jefferson City: ChTr, 1/15/1870, 4; House Journal, 49.\n\nPulitzer's fellow Radical Republicans: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 170; Tusa, \"Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency,\" 133. A Democrat and former state official writing to a friend in the summer of 1869 asked, \"What the devil is this generally abnormal condition of things, politically, to result in? My opinion is it can't stand at what it is.\" (B. F. Massey to J. F. Snyder, July 15, 1869, quoted in Barclay, The Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 183.)\n\nSuffrage was the: The legislature had ratified the Fifteenth Amendment during its prior session but had failed to include in its vote the second portion of the amendment; accordingly, the secretary of state had not issued a formal notification to the federal government. Its passage in this session was a foregone conclusion: ChTr, 1/7/1870, 1 and 1/10/1870, 4. See also Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri; and Tusa \"Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency,\" 133.\n\nThe state's constitution: Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 186\u2013187.\n\nFrom the start: Walter Gruelle in StLoDi, 1/6/1870, 2.\n\nOn a Sunday: MoRe, 1/26/1869, 2; WP, 1/26/1869, 3.\n\nThe new week: Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 3/8/1870, 2.\n\nIn Pulitzer's eyes: WP, January 25, 1870, 3.\n\nAmong the arriving: Kargau, German Element, 139; One Hundred Years in Medicine and Surgery in Missouri (St. Louis, MO: St. Louis Star, 1900), 79\u201380; PD, 4/21/1879, 4; MoDe, 4/24/1869; StLoTi, 2/28/1870, 1; Ittner to JPII 6/13/1913, PDA.\n\nBefore boarding the: Theodore Welge to JPII, 6/6/1913, PDA.\n\nThe city-county: MoRe, 11/26/1869; William N. Cassella Jr., \"City-County Separation: The 'Great Divorce' of 1876,\" Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. 15, No. 2 (January 1959), 88.\n\nSpecifically, Pulitzer's bill: Saalberg, \"The Westliche Post,\" 197\u2013198; WP, 9/24/1869. A summary of Pulitzer's bill appeared in MoRe, 3/11/1870, 2. See also Thomas Eichhorst, \"Representative and Reporter,\" 49. The critics weren't entirely wrong. It was a common practice for politicians to steer both official advertising and printing business to papers that favored them.\n\nAlthough Pulitzer's bill: MoDe, 1/27/1870, 1; WP, 1/30/1870, 3.\n\nThe next morning: WP, 2/28/1870, 3. Pulitzer also described the passage in the Missouri House of the Richland County project, a kind of redistricting scheme to create a new county. \"The land wildcatters, lobbyists, and other gentlemen interested in the project held a banquet that same evening to celebrate the House's passage of the bill, in Schmidt's new hotel, at which almost all legislators who voted for the project were in attendance, and the champagne, whiskey, and so forth flowed in streams until late in the evening, or better, early in the morning. It is being said that the passage of the bill 'cost' $35,000.\"\n\nThat evening the: The description of the events in Schmidt's Hotel on January 27, 1870, is drawn from the following newspapers: StLoTi, MoDe, MoRe, and PD, published on 1/28/1870. Other sources are noted separately. See also WP, 1/30/1870, 3; MoDe, 1/31/1870, 3.\n\nBack at the boardinghouse: Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA.\n\n\"I want to\": There is little doubt Augustine used the word. Judge Cady, who was standing by his side, said Augustine called Pulitzer a \"pup.\"\n\nIttner, who was: Ittner to JPII, 6/11/1913, PDA; St. Louis Times, 1/28/1870, 1.\n\nBy the time: MoRe, 1/29/1870, 2.\n\nSeizing the moment: MoRe, 1/28/1870; House Journal, 305\u2013306; StLoT, 1/28/1870, 1. The papers often ran verbatim accounts of the speeches but did not put quotation marks around the words and sometimes changed first person to third person. The quotations from this debate were compared with those appearing in several newspapers.\n\nThe House probe: MoDe, 1/29/1870, 1 and 2/2/1870, 1; Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 1/30/1870, 2; ChTr, 1/29/1870, 4.\n\nThe clamor impelled: WP, 1/30/1870, 3.\n\nHe called Augustine: Late in life, Pulitzer pulled back his hair to show what he claimed were the scars from Augustine's brass knuckles.\n\nThe Cole County grand jury: State of Missouri v. Joseph Pulitzer, No. 1182 P.H., No. 16, Circuit Court of Cole County, MO, MSA. Pulitzer's arrest was also noted in newspapers such as the Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 2/19/1870, 2; MoDe, 1/21/1870, 1 and 2/4/1870, 2.\n\nThis was not: MoRe, 2/11/1870, 1; House Journal, 431\u2013432.\n\nPulitzer's choice of: Since 1864, German language instruction for all students had been part of the public school curriculum, and it would remain so until 1887, when the German faction lost control of the school board: MoDe, 3/1/1870, 1; Eichhorst, \"Representative and Reporter,\" 59; Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 3/2/1870, 2.\n\nPulitzer immediately moved: MoDe, 3/11/1870, 1; House Journal, 821. The debate created a problem for Pulitzer the reporter. While arguing over the fate of the accused legislator, the House adopted a resolution prohibiting members of the press from publishing any part of the plan until it granted permission. Since the measure was adopted on a voice vote, the view of the future press lord on freedom of the press was not recorded.\n\nThe legislative session: MoRe, 2/25/1870, 2; House Journal, 577.\n\nOn March 10: MoRe, 3/11/1870, 2. Seven of the eleven representatives at the meeting were opposed to the measure.\n\nThe plan almost worked: MoDe, 3/17 and 3/18/1870.\n\nAs the first: Kansas City Daily Journal of Commerce, 3/15/1870, 2; St. LoDi, 3/15/1870, 2.\n\nCHAPTER 6: LEFT BEHIND\n\nPulitzer's tenure as an elected state representative is an important component of the \"making\" of Pulitzer the newspaper publisher. Remarkably even his two most scrupulous biographers did not explore why his tenure in the Missouri general assembly ended. Swanberg closed his chapter on the episode with the phrase \"on March 24 his lone term in the legislature ended\" (19). Reynolds wrote, \"Thus his experience as a state legislator ended, an experience to which he often looked back with satisfaction\" (23). Maybe my own experience as a journalist made me skeptical that Pulitzer would simply walk away from a prized elective office. A quick look at Missouri newspapers that fall revealed that his retirement was not voluntary at all.\n\nAmong the serendipitous joys of research are the odd little connections one finds between figures in history. In researching the life of Gratz Brown for this chapter, I found that he was the grandfather of Margaret Wise Brown, an author familiar to all twentieth-century parents: she wrote Goodnight Moon and other classics of children's literature.\n\nThe prospect of: Theodore Welge to JPII, 6/6/1913, PDA.\n\nThe trial was: General Assembly Records for 1870 Adjournment Session, Record Group 550, Box 94, folder 28, MSA; NYT, 5/25/1870; JP passport application, NARA. While in the mayor's office Pulitzer met Julian Kune, a Hungarian who had fled to the United States following the revolution of 1848 and was also back on his first visit home: Kune, Reminiscences, 130.\n\nBy mid-July: Ciberia passenger manifest, 7/13/1870, NARA.\n\nA former U.S. senator: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 176; NYH, 4/29/1872; NYT, 7/21/1900, 7. Though it remained the state's premier Republican newspaper, the Democrat had already turned against President Grant after he ignored the owner William McKee's candidates for federal patronage jobs. Now it was ready to turn against the state's governor.\n\nFive days following: MoDe, 8/31/1870, and MoRe, 9/1/1870, both quoted in Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 234\u2013235 (footnotes).\n\n\"Upon this question\": Barclay, Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri, 243; The actual vote was 439 2/3 to 342 5/6, according to the convention's method of counting.\n\nOnce resettled on: Pulitzer's dispatches in the Westliche Post revealed clearly that he had moved into the inner circle of the renegades. His pieces predicted each move of the party split with the clarity only an insider could have. See, for instance, WP, 9/2/1870, 3.\n\nMeanwhile, in the House: ChTr, 9/5/1870, 2; Mountain Democrat, 9/17/1870, 2.\n\nWith the conventions: MoDe, 9/21/1870, 4.\n\nAs exciting as: MoDe, 11/8/1870, 1; Christensen, \"Black St. Louis,\" 205\u2013206; WP, 9/3/1870, 3.\n\nOn their side: MoDe, 2/19/1870; ChTr, 7/4/1872, 4.\n\nGrosvenor did his: MoDe, 11/5/1870, 2, and 11/8/1870, 2.\n\nOn November 3: MoDe, 11/3/1870, 4; original in Oaths of Loyalty 1869, Series XIV, Sub Series B, Dexter Tiffany Collection, MHS. See also MoDe, 11/8/1870, 1.\n\nAll the rhetoric: MoRe, 11/8/1870, 2.\n\nIn the morning: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 188.\n\nIn Pulitzer's ward: MoRe, 11/11/1870, 2; WP, 11/10/1870, 3. The Anzeiger des Westens had a different take on the results. It attributed the Democratic victory to the split in the Republican Party. Pulitzer asked if the editor didn't realize that this was a loss for Germans. \"Is he not aware that it was German-haters, the dyed-in-the-wool McClurgians, the French, and the Negroes that defeated the Liberal Republican county ticket, which was supported by the majority of Germans, through their total defections and in some cases desertion to the Democrats?\" The vote totals, particularly in the Third and Fifth wards, the latter being Pulitzer's, show that it was not the Germans who elected the Democrats. It was the Irish, said Pulitzer. \"They, the Irish, played this role in the Tuesday election as well, and the entire glory in which the Anzeiger may sun itself is an Irish-French-Negro victory. He may do this if he wishes, but he should call a spade a spade\" (WP, 11/11/1870, 3).\n\nPulitzer's friend Joseph Keppler: Frau und Frei (St. Louis, MO: undated but certainly November 1870), MHS.\n\nOut of office: Avery and Shomemaker, Messages and Proclamations of the Governors of the State of Missouri, Vol. 15, 14.\n\nNot quite. Schurz: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 207.\n\nPulitzer did not share: Hutchins declined to be the Democratic candidate against Pulitzer in the 1869 election. I suspect it was his friendship with Pulitzer that caused him to wait for another year to run. He did run eventually, and won a seat in the legislature.\n\nAny concern about: ChTr, 2/2/1871, 2; Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 191\u2013197; Grosvenor to Schurz, 2/16/1871, CS.\n\nThe growing movement: Receipts for payments to Pulitzer for service to the committee from January 11 until March 1 and signed by Benecke may be found in the Accounts of the Twenty-Sixth General Assembly, First Session, MSA.\n\nWhen the legislative session: Quoted in Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 198.\n\nBut that too: ChTr, 4/22/1871, 2; Every Saturday, 10/28/1871, 418.\n\nMembers of the: Missouri Staats-Zeitung, undated clipping, WG-CU, Box 2.\n\nPulitzer's patron, State Senator Benecke: Louis Benecke to Pulitzer, 10/26/1871, LB. One wonders if Benecke harbored some doubt about how Pulitzer had handled the committee vote. \"If I understand and remember that proxy rule right,\" Benecke said to Pulitzer, \"you were simply authorized to act as this proxy in order to have a quorum and did not attempt to cast a vote for this till all members present voted. Am I correct?\"\n\nCharles Johnson came: Hill was a colorful fellow and was loved by the press for that reason. By the time of Pulitzer's trial he had been married twice; his second marriage was in a divorce court when his wife drowned while in Europe. A few years later he arranged for the division of Peter Lindell's $6 million land estate by inviting in from the streets a crippled boy beggar. He had the boy draw lots of equal size from a hat. \"The blindfolded boy was released, and bright tears glistened in his eyes as 10 golden half-eagles were dropped into his hands, and he was told that he completed the division of the great Lindell estate to the satisfaction of all the heirs then present\": ChTr, 2/13/1879, 2.\n\nThe charge was: It's not clear to what offense Pulitzer may have pleaded guilty, or if he did plead guilty at all. The court records do not reveal the case's final disposition. Johnson's diary is no help, either, recording only the cryptic note, \"Settled case $100 fine\" (Johnson, Diary, 11/20/1871, WRR, 19), 11/18/1871, WRR, 19. Pulitzer borrowed money to pay for legal fees and the fine from Henry C. Yaeger, a miller in St. Louis. Others\u2014such as Daniel G. Taylor, a former mayor of St. Louis; and Edwin O. Standard, who was lieutenant governor when Pulitzer served in the legislature\u2014may also have loaned money. Why Yaeger was so generous is not really known. But at some point that year or the following year, Pulitzer rendered him a personal favor. Yaeger wanted Governor Brown to pardon a friend. \"Joe Pulitzer assisted me in the matter, and the very day the Governor received my letter, I received a telegram that my request had been granted,\" Yaeger recalled many years later. (Henry C. Yaeger to Governor David R. Francis, 4/25/1892, Francis Papers, MHS.) Yaeger's name is misspelled \"Yeager\" in some records, but clearly the same person is meant.\n\nA seat on: Johnson, Diary, 1/15/1872, WRR, 23. Amazingly, as of 2006, the governor of Missouri still appointed the police commissioners in St. Louis; and even more remarkably, they still earned $1,000 a year for their service.\n\nThe conservative Anzeiger: Anzeiger Des Westens, 1/18/1872, translated in MoDe, 1/23/1872, 3; Western Celt quoted in MoDe, 1/18/1872, 2.\n\nThe grumbling by the press: MoDe, 1/19/1872, 1. One of the five senators from St. Louis voted against Pulitzer. His identity was not publicly disclosed, because only the delegation's total vote was leaked to the press, but certainly Pulitzer knew who it was.\n\nCHAPTER 7: POLITICS AND REBELLION\n\nIn writing about the 1872 convention there is a danger of adopting Henry Watterson's view that it was a gathering of cranks with little chance of succeeding against Grant. The reality of politics at the time probably did doom the Liberal Republican effort no matter who it nominated, but to the conventiongoers it was a serious affair, an act of rebellion against what they perceived as crimes against democracy. That said, the convention did generate some wonderfully hilarious coverage. My favorite is a little book called That Convention; Or Five Days a Politician self-published by Fletcher G. Welch and illustrated (profusely) by Frank Beard.\n\nIn late January: MoDe, 12/18/1871, 2.\n\nAs these: Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 206; Grand Duke Alexis's arrival in New York City a few months earlier was covered by Albert Pulitzer, who was then working for the New York Sun.\n\nAs Liberal Republican: MoDe, 12/18/1871, 2, and 1/24/1872, 1.\n\nMcCullagh was among: Dreiser, Newspaper Days, 107. McCullagh also became the subject of a poem by Eugene Field called \"Little Mack.\"\n\nOn his first: MoDe, 1/25/1872, 1. The microfilm for this edition is almost unreadable. Copies of the original paper at the Library of Congress don't include this particular date, but a clipping from the edition may be found in the Grosvenor Papers, Columbia University.\n\nThat night Pulitzer: Grosvenor's remark was contained in a letter published in an unidentified newspaper, 2/15/1872, WG-CU, Box II.\n\nGrosvenor ascended the: SeDe, 2/27/1872, 2. Benecke was given a seat on the committee for a permanent organization, and he and Johnson were assigned to the resolutions committee. (People's Tribune, 1/31/1872, 3.)\n\nTheir work complete: MoDe, 1/25/1872, 1.\n\nGrosvenor and Pulitzer were keenly: NYT, 4/24/1872, 1. The New York Times's effort to \"correct\" the Associated Press's coverage of the convention was a dispatch from St. Louis that appeared on 1/27/1872, 3. \"The Associated Press report of the so-called Liberal Republican Convention, at Jefferson City, on the 24th, was a gross exaggeration of the importance of the whole affair,\" it read in part. See Ross, The Liberal Republican Movement, 151\u2013152, for a discussion of personal abuse and misrepresentation in the press during the 1872 campaign. The Times's articles on Liberal Republicans were so poisonous that the paper lost much of the reputation it had gained in 1871 when it brought down Boss Tweed by publishing evidence of his corruption.\n\nIn the short span: Unidentified 1872 newspaper clipping in WG-CU, Box II; MoDe, 1/26/1872, WG-CU. Pulitzer's public profile was sufficient that he was among the targets of a fraudulent telegram supposedly from President Grant but concocted by Grant's opponents. Printed on the front page of the Sedalia Daily Democrat, the telegram, purportedly to the chair of the Radical Convention, read: \"Return my thanks to the Republicans of Missouri for the confidence reposed in me. Will defeat the plans of Sumner and Schurz. Show this to Brown, Pulitzer and Charley Johnson.\" (SeDe, 2/27/1872, 1.)\n\nWhen he got back: Scharf, History of Saint Louis City and County, Vol. 1, 743\u2013744; Morris, The Police Department of St. Louis.\n\nThe police commission: Minutes of the St. Louis Police Commission, 8/30/1872, 347\u2013352, SLPDL.\n\nFor the first few months: Minutes, 3/5/1872, 287\u2013290, SLPDL. Pulitzer's association with this led to two myths about him. His biographer Seitz claimed that Pulitzer \"warred with the local gambling ring,\" but an anonymous biographer, who published a political tract intended on thwarting Pulitzer's bid for the U.S. Senate, claimed that he had been on the take: Tusa, \"Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency,\" 188. Pulitzer was absent from the police commission meetings for the first time on 3/30/1872 (Minutes); Brown to Grosvenor, 2/17/1782 WG-CU. Pulitzer's March trip to the East is mentioned in MoDe, 3/13/1872, 2.\n\nAs the Cincinnati convention: MoDe, undated but weeks before the convention, Clippings files, Box II, WG-CU.\n\nOn an April evening: Johnson, undated April diary entry, WRR, 26.\n\nPulitzer and Grosvenor left: Croffut, An American Procession, 142. Pulitzer was actually twenty-five at the time.\n\nReaching Cincinnati in: Chamberlin, The Struggle of '72, 334.\n\nNot only did the convention put Pulitzer: King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 77.\n\nThe group agreed: Henry Watterson, \"The Humor and Tragedy of the Greeley Campaign,\" Century Magazine, Vol. 85 (November 1912), 29\u201333. This account also appears in Watterson's memoirs, but the version published by Century is of greater value because it is accompanied by letters from Horace White and Whitelaw Reid, who read and commented on it. See also NYT, 5/1/1872, 1.\n\nOn May 1: Watterson, Henry Marse: An Autobiography, Vol. 1, 242\u2013243. Appropriately, the hall to which the delegates made their way was built over a potter's field that had been used by the Commercial Hospital and Lunatic Asylum.\n\nAt noon, Grosvenor: The Philadelphia Inquirer erroneously reported his appointment as \"Joseph Pulitzer, of Wisconsin.\" Evidently Pulitzer's fame as a warrior in the Liberal Republican cause had not yet reached the City of Brotherly Love. (Philadelphia Inquirer, 5/3/1872, 8.)\n\nThe next day: Proceedings of the Liberal Republican Convention, 9\u201310.\n\nSchurz's speech concluded: Newspaper clipping, unknown paper and undated, Box II, WG-CU.\n\nWhen the bleary-eyed delegates: Lena C. Logan, \"Henry Watterson and the Liberal Convention of 1872,\" Indiana Magazine of History, Vol. 40, No. 4 (December 1944), 335.\n\nWatterson, who had: Watterson, \"The Humor and Tragedy,\" 39.\n\nThe contest narrowed: An excellent account of the convention may be found in Matthew T. Downey, \"Horace Greeley and the Politicians: The Liberal Republican Convention in 1872,\" Journal of American History, Vol. 53, No. 4 (March 1967), 727\u2013750.\n\nDespite all of: Watterson, \"The Humor and Tragedy,\" 39.\n\nBack in St. Louis: Looking back at the convention at the end of the year, Schurz called it \"the 'slaughter house' of the most splendid opportunities of our time.\"(Schurz to Grosvenor, December 25, 1872, WG-CU.) \"Schurz about an hour ago finally agreed to recede from his Cincinnati speech and adopt the popular word of 'anybody to beat Grant.'\" And, in fact, Schurz wrote an editorial in which he repudiated or, in the words of the Missouri Democrat, \"ate\" his previous condemnation.\n\nOf concern to: JP to Reid, 6/12/1872 and Reid to JP 6/17/1872, WR-LC.\n\nA sense of optimism: ChTr, 6/22/1872, 4.\n\nBut Pulitzer's work: ChTr, 7/15/1872, 6.\n\nAfter New York: Minutes of the St. Louis Police Board, August 14\u2013December 3, 1872, SLPDL; DCS-JP, 74; ChTr, 7/22/1872, 2; MoDe, 9/20/1872, 2.\n\nPolice commission work: JP to Schurz, 9/24/1872, CS.\n\nAs fall approached: Wolf, The Presidents I Have Known, 84\u201385.\n\nThe campaign produced: Schurz mentioned acquiring a larger number of shares in the paper at about this time, in a letter to his parents. (Schurz to parents, 11/14/1872, CS; JP to St. Clair McKelway, NYW, 11/7/1913.)\n\nThe potential changes: MoDe, 9/19/1872.\n\nWithin a week: The original note is in the possession of Eric P. Newman of St. Louis: Pulitzer to Schurz, 9/24/1872, CS. Typically, Pulitzer also claims that because of his efforts \"our newspaper is already much better!\" The Indianapolis Sentinel saw Pulitzer's purchase as \"evidence that he will continue on that journal the fine service,which has heretofore been the strong point of his reputation\": JP to St. Clair McKelway, NYW, 11/7/1913. The evidence suggests that the \"proprietors\" to whom Pulitzer refers did not include Schurz. He did not believe that the election had damaged the paper. \"We did not suffer during the campaign,\" Schurz wrote to his parents after its disastrous conclusion. (Schurz to parents, 11/14/1872, CS.)\n\nWhile Pulitzer's stock: JP to Schurz, 9/24/1872, CS.\n\nCHAPTER 8: POLITICS AND PRINCIPLE\n\nPulitzer mounted a campaign: Letters of support quoted in subsequent paragraphs may be found in Woodson Governor, Box 25, Folder 6, MSA, unless otherwise indicated.\n\nPreetorius was opposed: Preetorius to Grosvenor, 2/27/1873. WG-CU.\n\nWoodson's appointments: JP to Louis Benecke, 3/5/1873, LB.\n\nPulitzer's career in journalism: One assumes some inflation in the price paid to Pulitzer from the retelling of the tale over the years. But the paper itself was certainly worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. The Missouri Democrat, with a circulation only slightly higher than that of Westliche Post, changed hands the same week for $456,100. Date of note redemption is marked on the note itself. Note in private possession of Edwin P. Newman.\n\nPulitzer immediately sought: Weldge to JPII, 6/6/1913, PDA.\n\nFreed from the: MoDe, 9/19/1872; Unser Blatt, 12/7/1872, also cited in WRR, 103\u2013104; \"Remarks of Gov. Chas. P. Johnson, Birthday Anniversary Dinner,\" 4/10/1907, PDA. In December his friend Keppler had drawn a cartoon of Pulitzer's shadow falling on a map of New York, with the caption \"Coming Events Cast Their Shadows before Them.\"\n\nOn his way: APM, 61\u201362.\n\nAlbert arrived in: Ibid., 82\u201383.\n\nAt the time: To come up with the necessary $175,000 to purchase the Sun Dana enlisted several friends, including Senator Roscoe Conkling, who would later become one of Joseph Pulitzer's close friends, and Senator Edwin D. Morgan. See Turner, When Giants Ruled, 84; Sun editorial quoted in Emery and Emery, The Press and America, 217. By 1876 the newspaper had a circulation of more than 130,000 copies.\n\nUnder Dana's regime: APM, 84\u201385. The editor was John B. Wood, who was called the \"great condenser.\" Walter Rosebault, a Jewish reporter from Savannah, who like Albert was only twenty, remembered that Albert \"spoke with a slight, but not unpleasant, foreign accent.\" (APM, 88.)\n\nThe editor decided: NYS, 8/24/1871, 2. It is also quoted in WAS, 22. One wonders if the \"friend in New York\" referred to in the article might have been Albert.\n\nAlbert rose rapidly: APM, 90\u201393; NYT, 7/7/1871, 5. \"The work Pulitzer did on that trial gave him a big reputation among Newark reporters of the seventies, and put him in the class with Julian Ralph, Frank Patten, Johnnie Green and other talented New York reporters of the day.\" (Newark Advertiser, quoted in APM, 92.)\n\nThe fit was: APM, 128, 130.\n\nAfter the brotherly: Watterson, Marse Henry, Vol. 1, 210\u2013211.\n\nIn the fall: A copy of the menu may be found at the MHS. It was printed, with the paper's compliments, by the Missouri Democrat, which had so strongly opposed Pulitzer and Grosvenor's efforts with the Liberal Republicans a year earlier.\n\nPulitzer resumed his: Interview with John Johnson, in Kelsoe, undated letter, PDA; \"Birthday Anniversary Dinner,\" 4/10/1907, PDA.\n\nMembership in AP gave: The third owner, George Fishback, won the auction by bidding $456,100, or $100 more than the pair's final offer. (Hart, A History of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 113.) McCullagh, who remained with the Missouri Democrat, attacked the new rival paper, dubbing it \"Robbers' Roost\" for supposedly stealing news items from the Western Associated Press.\n\nNeither McKee nor Houser: GlDe, 1/8/1874, 4.\n\nThe owner of the Democrat: The papers loved insulting each other. Responding to an item in the Democrat that factiously suggested the Globe was published in German, McKee and Houser wrote, \"For all the influence it has, the Democrat might as well be printed in Scandinavian.\" (GlDe, 1/8/1874, 4.)\n\nThe legal maneuvering: One person recalled that Pulitzer earned $47,500 from the deal, but this figure seems high. (Rosewater, History of Cooperative News-Gathering, 181.)\n\nIn the spring: ChTr, 7/5/1874, 1. Built at a cost of more than $10 million, the bridge rested on a masonry foundation sunk deep into the riverbed, using caissons filled with pressurized air. A dozen of the 352 men who worked in these underwater air chambers died.\n\nPulitzer confessed that he: Eads to JP, 1/19/1885, JP-CU. Pulitzer's friend Whitelaw Reid declined Eads's invitation to invest in the Mississippi project. Reid to Eads, 3/2/1875. JBE.\n\nAfter turning the money: It was Papin Street, off Chouteau Avenue, DCS-JP, 77; Dubuque Herald, 10/28/1873, 1; Freeborn County Standard, 8/17/1892, 2; A. S. Walsh to JPII, undated but probably June 1913, PDA. T. Saunders Foster, who knew Pulitzer around this time, recalled that \"he was very fond of riding, and owned a fine saddle horse on which he took long morning rides.\" (George S. Johns, \"Joseph Pulitzer in St. Louis,\" Missouri Historical Review, XXV, No. 3. April 1931, 415.) Also JP to Schurz, 6/3/1874, CS; Ed Harris, memo to JPII, 2/29/1942, JPII.\n\nFinancial freedom also: JP to EP, 5/25/1905, JP-CU. A copy of the illustration reproduced in early editions of DCS-JP, between 78\u201379; Charles Nagel, A Boy's Civil War Story, 397. Nagel eventually becomes a cabinet member in the Taft administration. Katherine Lindsay Franciscus, \"Social Customs of Old St. Louis,\" originally published in PD, 12/9/1928, and reprinted in Bulletin of Missouri Historical Society, Vol. 10, No. 2, 157\u2013166; JP to Davidson, 1/15/1875, TD. Playing Mephistopheles was a minor frivolity for Pulitzer. But interestingly, in his life yet to come Pulitzer would be repeatedly identified publicly and privately with this character. Those who were present when his anger rapidly surged, or who felt his hot temper or listened as he eviscerated an editor, would more often than not reach for Mephistophelian metaphors to describe what they witnessed.\n\nFinally feeling prepared: Pulitzer took his bar exam before Judge Napton; MoRe, 7/2/1874, 8.\n\nThe treatment the bolters received: Galveston Daily News, 8/28/1874, 1.\n\nOn September 2: The interview, real or not, was the work of McCullagh, who had left the Missouri Democrat to join his old bosses at the St. Louis Globe. McCullagh had probably learned of Pulitzer's disillusionment with the People's Party directly from him and chose to report it as a reconstructed interview; GlDe, 9/6/1874, 1.\n\nFor Pulitzer, the: MoRe, 9/7/1874, 2.\n\nDrawn into civic life: Undated clipping, GlDe, 9/1873, WG-CU.\n\nThe Missouri Democratic Party: SeDe, 10/9/1874, 4.\n\nNot an eyebrow: Liberal Republicans also failed to recognize the threat to Black Americans. Grosvenor referred to the \"phantom of a Ku-Klux excitement\" and Brown said, \"The Ku Klux Klan has been magnified a hundredfold in order to furnish capital for the hungry carpetbaggers that infest the South.\" (ChTr, 4/22/1871, 2; Peterson, Freedom and Franchise, 201.)\n\nAfter Sedalia, it: Versailles Weekly Gazette, 10/14/1874, 3; Warrensburg Standard, October 9, 1874, 2; Kansas City Journal of Commerce, 10/16/1874. Pulitzer's nose, ridiculed by the reporter, became an object of admiration among his supporters. One reader of the Sedalia Daily Democrat complained of criticism about Pulitzer's nose. Claiming it had \"perfect Grecian symmetry,\" the letter writer said he would prefer to have \"one like Pulitzer's than a dozen such purple-hued smellers\" as that found on the face of a particular critic. (SeDe, 10/16/1874, 2.)\n\nThe highlighting of: MoDe, 9/20/1872, 2; Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, 14. It was reported that when Pulitzer and Keppler used to while away the hours at caf\u00e9s in St. Louis, Keppler would end the evening with the comment, \"Well, Joey, there's only one thing left to do. I'll go back to the office and draw your nose.\" (DCS JP, 2\u20133).\n\nThe nose became: The nose, according to the historian Sander Gilman, became \"the central [locus] of difference in seeing the Jew\" Gilman, The Jew's Body, 169\u2013193.\n\nFrom Knob Noster: Boonville Advertiser, 10/16/1874, 2; Boonville Weekly Eagle, 10/23/1874, 3.\n\nA few weeks: WP, 1/27/1875.\n\nCHAPTER 9: FOUNDING FATHER\n\nOn the evening: ChTr, 2/22/1875.\n\nHesing's words were: JP to Governor Hardin, 1/14/1875, Folder 15402, Charles Hardin Papers, MSA.\n\nWith his political fortunes: MoRe, 3/10/1875, 5. Actually, Pulitzer was wrong. The only recorded monument to Eads in St. Louis is a medallion on a pedestal in Forest Park. Eads's bridge, however, was designated a national monument and still stands.\n\nLeaving the committee: DCS-JP, 87.\n\nBy the 1870s: Wharton, Old New York, 240.\n\nTwo of the: \"When others abandoned a cause as hopeless, when the last ray had been extinguished, then it was that Bowman would clench his hand, bring all the devious methods of his intellect to bear, and ultimately triumph over his enemies.\" ChTr, 10/22/1883, 1.\n\nAfter setting down: MoRe, 3/23/1875, 8.\n\n\"Just returning from\": The press in St. Louis got wise to Pulitzer's dishonesty. By 1879, one reporter referred to this habit as \"old tactics that have puzzled many a news-gatherer.\" (GlDe, 8/19/1879, 5.)\n\nThe paper was correct: Hutchins also offered misinformation at the trial. Speaking of Pulitzer's appointment to the police board, he said, \"I know that Joseph Pulitzer was, to my surprise, appointed police commissioner, without any agency of mine and without my knowledge that he was an applicant.\" As the two worked closely on Liberal Republican affairs and spent time together with Charles Johnson, who helped Pulitzer get the seat on the commission, Hutchins's testimony was hardly credible. But Bowman did not challenge it. Testimony was published in MoRe, 3/12/1875, 8.\n\nThe seats in the courtroom: MoDe, 3/24/75, 2; MoRe, 3/24/1875, 1; GlDe, 3/24/1875, 4.\n\n\"Not for everybody\": Two weeks later, Bowman sued Hutchins for libel, for comments about the trial published in the Dispatch, a struggling afternoon newspaper that Hutchins ran in addition to the St. Louis Times.\n\nHard feelings put aside: NYT, 3/29/1875, 7.\n\nIn early May: SeDe, 5/6/1875, 1; Isidor Loeb, Introduction, Missouri Constitutional Convention, Vol. 1, 60\u201367; biographical account of the personnel of the convention by Floyd C. Shoemaker, Missouri Constitutional Convention, Vol. 1; Gary Kremmer, \"Life in Post-Civil War Missouri\" presented at Arrow Rock, Missouri, on 9/17/2000.\n\nAt age twenty-eight: The style of hat Pulitzer wore is a later variation of the slouch, known as an Antietam, with a higher, flatter crown.\n\nPulitzer had done: Loeb and Shoemaker, Debates of the Missouri Constitutional Convention of 1875, Vol. 1, 245, 249.\n\nThe war of words: Ibid., 94\u201396.\n\nAs the summer heat: Broadhead to his wife, 7/4/1875, JB.\n\nPulitzer's style: Debates, Vol. 1, 402\u2013403.\n\nBehind closed doors: Ibid., Vol. 5, 412.\n\nIn the end: In defense of Pulitzer, it should be noted that not until long after his lifetime would the detrimental effects of home rule in St. Louis become apparent. For a complete history of the issue, see William N. Cassella Jr., \"City-County Separation: The 'Great Divorce' of 1876,\" Missouri Historical Society Bulletin, Vol. 15, No. 2 (January 1959).\n\nAs the convention: Debates, Vol. 5, 86\u201387.\n\nIn July the: On October 30, 1875, voters gave their approval. The constitution would remain the state's highest law until 1945.\n\nA sense of failure: JP to Hermann Raster, 9/27/1875 and 6/24/1875, HR.\n\nThe only good news: See Timothy Rives, \"Grant, Babcock, and the Whiskey Ring,\" Prologue Vol. 32, No. 3 (Fall 2000).\n\nIn December a grand jury: Ibid.; and ChTr, 2/8/1876, 1 and 2/11/1876, 5.\n\nDuring his first year: APM, 142, 135\u2013138.\n\nAt the Herald: Ibid., 104, 142, 148: Helena Independent, 12/12/1883, 6.\n\nWhen he received: \"Testimony before the Select Committee Concerning the Whisky Frauds,\" 7/25/1876, House of Representatives, 44th Congress, 1st Session, Mis. Doc. 186, 43.\n\nIn April, Pulitzer's: John Henderson to Elihu Washburne, 4/12/1876; JP to Elihu Washburne, 5/9/1876, EBW.\n\nIn Germany, Pulitzer: Indianapolis Daily Sentinel, 9/4/1876, 2.\n\nCHAPTER 10: FRAUD AND HIS FRAUDULENCY\n\nThe presidential campaign: NYT, 7/26/1876, 8.\n\nBy his absence: Official Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, St. Louis, MO, June 27, 28, 29, 1876, 21. The Democrats were the first party to hold a national convention west of the Mississippi.\n\nPulitzer was elated: The campaign plans of leading Democrats were carried in newspapers. See, for instance, SeDe, 10/6/1876, 2. After 1885 only a few small states, such as Maine, continued to hold elections in October.\n\nIn early September: Indianapolis Daily Sentinel, 9/4/1876, 2.\n\nFor more than: DCS, 29; Galveston Daily News, 9/14/1876, 1. Several newspapers commented on Pulitzer's English and his way of talking. Typical was one in Zanesville, Ohio, which said, \"Mr. Pulitzer, though of German birth, has in his speech little or no foreign accent.\" (\"Schurz Shattered,\" Mesker Scrapbook, Vol. 3, 45, MHS.)\n\nFresh from his: \"Schurz Shattered,\" 45; Portsmouth Times, 9/9/1876, 3; JP to George Alfred Townsend, 9/19/1876. PDA; Cincinnati Enquirer, 11/2/1876, 2, quoted in King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 81.\n\nIn mid-September: JP to George Alfred Townsend, 9/19/1876, PDA.\n\nThe next day: \"Schurz Shattered,\" 47. In another article, from an unidentified newspaper, Pulitzer compares the alliance of Morton and Schurz to the Mississippi and Missouri rivers. \"As the muddy waters of the Mississippi absorb the clear waters of the Missouri, Morton will soon enough have entirely absorbed the spirit of Schurz. And they will both be as muddy as the Mississippi.\"\n\nTo the delight: NYT, 9/13/1876, 1; StLoTi, 9/4/1876, quoted in WAS, 40. Though he did not consent to meet Pulitzer, Schurz wrote a five-column rebuttal that was published in the New York Staats-Zeitung. The sympathetic New York Sun gave Pulitzer space to respond. (Edwardsville Intelligencer, 8/20/1876, 2.)\n\nAlthough Schurz remained: WP, translated in Decatur Daily Republican, 9/28/1876, 1; NYT, 8/7/1876, 4.\n\nPulitzer sought to: \"Schurz Shattered,\" 46.\n\nAs in his other speeches: DeFr, 10/18/1876, 1.\n\nAt the end: NYT, 10/26/1876, 5 and 10/31/1876, 10; WaPo, 12/24/1885, 4. Pulitzer's work in the campaign not only pleased the Democratic Party but also, as he had hoped, attracted attention. The following year the New York Tribune said that Pulitzer was so frenetic as a campaigner \"that old Mr. Tilden couldn't make out for a while whether he or Pulitzer was running for the Presidency, and never has been entirely clear about it since Pulitzer first burst on the scene.\" (NYTr, 3/14/1877, 4.)\n\nBringing his assault: NYS, 11/1/1876, 1. Almost thirty years later, Pulitzer wrote to a friend that his speeches during the campaign \"attracted a good deal of attention and gave me a greater reputation than that I have now.\" (JP to FDW, 10/13/1903, SLPA.)\n\nThe New York Sun: Turner, When Giants Ruled, 95; Allen Churchill, Park Row (New York: Rinehart, 1958), 12.\n\nThe famous editor's office: Don Carlos Seitz, Newspaper Row: Some Account of a Journey along the Main Street of American Journalism (unpublished, American Heritage Center), 98; Smythe, The Gilded Age Press, 10.\n\nPulitzer told the men: Mitchell, Memoirs of an Editor, 264; John Schumaker to JP, 10/29/1887, JP-CU.\n\nThe nation's partisan press: StLoTi, 11/11/1876, 4 and 11/16/1876, 4.\n\nIn New York: Mitchell, Memoirs of an Editor, 265; Harper's Weekly, 12/30/1876, 1055; Young, The American Statesman, 1593.\n\nAs a member: NYS, 12/30/1876, 3.\n\nBy this point: NYS, 12/29/1876, 3.\n\nPulitzer did not limit: ChTr, 1/9/1877, 1. The New York Times described Pulitzer's \"fiery talk\" as being \"on the order which was current among German students of 1848\" (NYT, 1/9/1877, 1). Watterson found his speech hard to live down. \"I became the target for every kind of ridicule and abuse. Nast drew a grotesque cartoon of me, distorting my suggestion for the assembling of 100,000 citizens, which was both offensive and libelous.... For many years afterward I was pursued by this unlucky speech, or rather by the misinterpretation given to it alike by friend and foe. Nast's first cartoon was accepted as a faithful portrait, and I was accordingly satirized and stigmatized, though no thought of violence ever had entered my mind, and in the final proceedings I had voted for the Electoral Commission Bill and faithfully stood by its decisions. Joseph Pulitzer, who immediately followed me on the occasion named, declared that he wanted my 'one hundred thousand' to come fully armed and ready for business; yet he never was taken to task or reminded of his temerity.\" (Watterson, Henry Marse, 303.)\n\nOn March 2: The end of Reconstruction was not, of course, such a simple matter. For a more complete story, see Foner, Reconstruction; or Lemann, Redemption. See also Turner, When Giants Ruled, 96.\n\nThe loss stung: Galveston Daily News, 3/10/1877, 1.\n\nIn St. Louis: ChTr, 4/12/1877, 1; NYT, 4/12/1877, 1.\n\nOn April 10: MoRe, 4/12/1877, 4. Reynolds, in \"Joseph Pulitzer,\" believed it was a \"tea party,\" given by Mrs. Dan Morrison, that Pulitzer attended. The only thing known with certainty is that Pulitzer returned to his hotel at midnight.\n\nThe fire engines: ChTr, 4/12/1877, 1. One fireman, Phelim O'Toole, saved a dozen people from the fire and inspired a song, the second stanza of which is: \"To save helpless women, at the word of command,/He bravely came forward, for duty he strives;/Ascending the ladder, his life in his hand,/Defying the fire fiend, while hope now survives./Brave Phelim O'Toole mounts higher and higher,/And reaches the high elevation at last;/He bears fainting women from torturing fire/Down the perilous ladder the danger is past.\"\n\nPulitzer was the first witness: MoRe, 4/17/1877, 4.\n\nOn April 27: ChTr, 4/28/1877, 2; NYT, 4/28/1877, 5.\n\nA month later: NYT, 4/27/1877, 8. Albert's itinerary is reprinted in APM, 152\u2013153. The letter from Fannie Pulitzer is reprinted in APM, 154\u2013157.\n\nPulitzer found the aging editor: Ohio Democrat, New Philadelphia, OH, 7/12/1877.\n\nWith a flourish: The article in the Sun, which appeared during August, was reprinted in the Washington Post, 1/22/1878, 2, shortly after Bowles's death. It carried the byline \"J. P.\"\n\nPulitzer sprained his ankle: WRR, 54\u201355. The account of this month is based on Johnson's diary.\n\nCHAPTER 11: NANNIE AND KATE\n\nMuch of this chapter revolves around the story told in six surviving love letters by Pulitzer. Three of them have been long known because they are reprinted in full in Seitz's 1924 biography. The originals seem to have been lost in the years since then. They are remarkable in how honest and prescient Pulitzer was in warning Davis of the kind of life they would lead after their marriage.\n\nTwo of the other three letters, the ones to Tunstall, have also been publicly available since they were donated to the American Jewish Historical Society. But as they were undated, and in fact incorrectly cataloged, anyone examining them would not have known that they were written during the same time period when Pulitzer was courting Davis. Fortunately, I was able to date them because Eric Fettmann, a remarkable collector of artifacts of American journalism, had purchased a letter from Pulitzer to Tunstall dated May 2, 1878. With this letter, one is able to correctly date the other two as having been written between February and May 1878.\n\nAs 1877 ended: JP to KP, DCS-JP, 91.\n\nSt. Louis grew: Quoted in Roberts, The Washington Post, 1.\n\nField was not: Ibid., 7. It's unclear to what extent, if any, Pulitzer participated in the launching of the Post. He had been a regular contributor to the St. Louis Times when Hutchins ran it. But a search of early editions of the Washington Post turns up only one article clearly written by Pulitzer, a reprint of one from the New York Sun in the summer of 1877.\n\nJournalism, however, was: GlDe, 1/03/1878, 3; ChTr, 11/19/1876, 2, 11/22/1876, 1, 11/18/1876, 1, 10/31/1877, 2. Seitz claims that Pulitzer studied for and passed the bar examination in the District of Columbia. A check of the record of the bar, now in the archives of the University of District of Columbia, found no attorneys standing for the bar in 1877 or 1878, so there was no way to determine if Pulitzer was admitted to practice in Washington. It would not, however, have been a requirement for appearing before the elections committee. Pulitzer was still ambiguous about his career path. He listed himself in the Washington city directory as a correspondent, probably because of his loose connection with the New York Sun.\n\nThe Committee on Elections: Minute Book, Records of Committee on Elections, 45th Congress, 1/30/1878, NARA; WaPo, 1/30/1878, 1; BoGl, 2/14/1878, 1. Though at first glance this might seem like a late date to decide an election of 1876, it was not. During the nineteenth century Congress often took a year before holding its first session, so only a few days of lawmaking had elapsed when the case of who should represent the Third District of Missouri came before the House.\n\nIf the Committee: WaPo, 2/12/1878, 2.\n\nThe editorial had: Minute Book, Records of Committee on Elections, 45th Congress, 2/20 and 2/21/1878, NARA.\n\nDespite this loss: WaPo, 1/24/1878, 1; 1/29/1878, 4; 2/25/1878, 4; 2/26/1878, 4.\n\nPulitzer did not lack: WaPo, 1/24/1878, 1, and 1/30/1878, 4; Gallagher, Stilson Hutchins, 26.\n\nOn January 12: WaPo, 1/14/1878, 4; Washington Star, 6/20/1878; Stevens Point Journal, Stevens Point, WI, 6/29/1878, 1.\n\nBut to Davis's parents: Pitzman's New Atlas of the City and County of Saint Louis, Missouri, 1878 shows Pulitzer, Hutchins, and Brockmeyer's lots. Pulitzer owned 3.4 acres of land; Hutchins owned an adjacent acre; and Brockmeyer had almost four acres nearby.\n\nTrying to hide: The Jewish practice of circumcision was not introduced as a medical practice in the United States until 1870 and did not become widely practiced among Christians until the 1900s. See David L. Gollaher, \"From Ritual to Science: The Medical Transformation of Circumcision in America,\" Journal of Social History, Vol. 28, No. 1 (1994). Throughout his life, and long into the twentieth century, Pulitzer's contention that his mother was not Jewish remained unchallenged. For instance, The Hebrews in America, published in 1888, reported, \"The Messrs. Pulitzer, however, are not being classed among the chosen people, their father being a Hebrew and their mother a Christian lady of Vienna.\" Ironically, Kate Davis was a strong-willed, independent-minded woman and might not have been deterred if Pulitzer had been honest.\n\nDavis was not: WaPo, 1/14/1878, 4.\n\nBorn in a: Morris, The First Tunstalls.\n\nWilliam Corcoran, one: Corcoran wrote to Tunstall that she was expected in January 1878. Corcoran to Tunstall, 12/14/1877, WCP-DU; WaPo, 2/24/1888, 2; Corcoran, A Grandfather's Legacy, 490.\n\nTunstall certainly filled: William MacLeod, Private Journal, 4/16/1888, CAG; Corcoran to Tunstall, 12/22/1885, WCP-DU. Governor Kemper of Virginia, a distant cousin, once sent her a bouquet for the New Year, writing, \"If these flowers were all gold and diamonds, they would more worthily express your merits and my appreciation\": (James Lawson Kemper to Nannie Tunstall, 1/1/1876, NT-DU.)\n\nTunstall was well-educated: Nannie Tunstall to Virginia Tunstall Clay, 3/21/1884, NT-DU.\n\nIn February, while: NYT, 2/17/1878, 2. Unless otherwise indicated, the quotations from the letters of JP to Tunstall are drawn from the Joseph Pulitzer Letters, AJHS.\n\n\"Is there no\": JP to Tunstall, 5/2/1878, EFJC.\n\nOn a spring day: WaPo, 3/6/1878, 4, and 3/22/1878, 2.\n\nIndeed, Pulitzer was: House Journal, March 3, 731; Constitutional Convention, Vol. 4, 123; SeDe, 6/5/1875, 3.\n\nPulitzer longed not: JP to KP, undated but probably April 1878, reprinted in DCS JP, 91\u201392.\n\n\"You can now see\": JP to KP, undated but probably June 1878, reprinted in DCS-JP, 93. McCullough was in Washington, appearing in the theater, in early June. He was also, indeed, scheduled to sail to Europe on June 15 (WaPo, 5/31/1878, 2) as Pulitzer noted in his letter. Thus this letter to Davis was written in the first week of June 1878.\n\n\"I must have business\": JP to KP, June 1878, reprinted in DCS-JP, 94\u201395.\n\nThe ceremony actually: \"Large, roomy and with an air of sober reliability about it, one feels the sentiment of respect for it,\" wrote a newspaper reporter who had passed through its iron gates in search of newsworthy items only a month before; Tripp Jones, archivist, interview with author, Church of the Epiphany, Washington, DC, August 4, 2005. Examples of Washington luminaries who were members of the parish in 1878 would include Secretary of the Treasury John Sherman and Chief Justice Morrison Waite. \"A Notable Church,\" WaPo, 5/11/1878, 2.\n\nThe newlyweds, whose union: Pulitzer told this tale to a neighbor in St. Louis. George S. John, \"Joseph Pulitzer: Early Life in St. Louis and His Founding and Conduct of the Post-Dispatch up to 1883,\" Missouri Historical Review (January 1931), 67.\n\nThe Reverend John H. Chew: As H. L. Mencken observed, \"Most Americans when they accumulate money climb the golden spires of the nearest Episcopal Church.\" Quoted in Collier, The Rockefellers, 36\u201337. The stained-glass window has since been moved to the front wall of the church: Jones, interview.\n\nCHAPTER 12: A PAPER OF HIS OWN\n\nThis chapter, as well as subsequent ones, benefits greatly from internal Post-Dispatch documents that came to light in 2008, when the Fogarty Papers became known. For more information, see page 12.\n\nIn the early morning: At Hudnut's pharmacy downtown, the temperature had hit ninety-two degrees the afternoon before. The Pulitzers may have been lucky and avoided much of the heat by staying for several days along the ocean at Long Branch, New Jersey, where Joseph held reservations at the West End hotel, which opened for the summer season the day following their wedding. With each passing year, Long Branch was becoming an increasingly popular destination for the wealthy seeking a cool spot for the summer. It had a safe blue-blooded pedigree. As one hotel operator told the New York Times that June, he had \"not received a single application for rooms from a Jew this year, while at the same time last year he had many.\" (NYT, 6/11/1878, 1.)\n\nHaving spent all: NYS, 10/20/1878, 3.\n\nWhen Joseph and Kate: NYS, 10/6/1878, 3. The socialists were the demagogues and were dangerous, admitted Pulitzer. But the despotic solution chosen by Bismarck was equally, if not more, dangerous. \"To Germany it is a choice between the Scylla and the Charybdis,\" said Pulitzer, referring to a mythical Greek sea monster and a whirlpool whose positions in a narrow channel meant that fleeing from one put one in danger of the other.\n\nIn Paris, Kate: KP to JP, 10/2/1904, JP-CU.\n\nThe two-month honeymoon: NYT, 9/12/1878, 2.\n\nThe Pulitzers' European: NYS, 9/6/1878.\n\nBecause Pulitzer hated: Ibid., 3. Pulitzer's friends Hutchins and Cockerill, at the Washington Post, likewise viewed the incident as further evidence of the illegitimacy of the administration and found it sufficiently noteworthy for an editorial. (WaPo, 10/7/1878, 2.)\n\nAt the Sun: NYS, 9/22, 10/6, 10/13. 10/19, 10/20, and 10/27/1878.\n\nThe most singular: NYS, 10/27/1878, 3.\n\nAlthough long-winded: NYS, 9/22/1878, 3.\n\nThe St. Louis: W. H. Bishop, \"St. Louis,\" Harper's New Monthly Magazine, quoted in JSR, 21; \"Remarks of Gov. Chas. P. Johnson,\" Birthday Anniversary Dinner,\" 4/10/1907, 20\u201321, PDA.\n\nEncouraged, Pulitzer went: JN to JP, 3/10/1900, JP-CU.\n\nIn the early morning: It was so cold that winter that ice closed the Mississippi River for forty-six days. The account of the auction and Pulitzer's taking possession of the Dispatch is based on reports in the GlDe, 12/10/1878, 1; MoRe, 12/10/1878, 1; and Evening Post, 12/09/1878, 1 and 12/10/1878, 4.\n\nArnold raised his bid: The receipt for $2,500 for the purchase of the Dispatch was made out to Arnold. (PLFC) It is not inconceivable that the unknown bidder, like Arnold, was working for Pulitzer, who was far wilier in business than he ever let on.\n\nDuring the confusion: GlDe, 12/10/1878, 1. McCullagh may have had a hand in writing the comment.\n\nThe following day: Evening Post, 12/10/1878, 1; Clayton, Little Mack, 132.\n\nThe answer was: Pulitzer continued this strategy of deception for so long that later a reporter for the Globe-Democrat complained about \"his old tactics that have puzzled many a news-gatherer\": GlDe, 8/19/1879, 5.\n\nPulitzer's antics gained: GlDe, 12/11/1878, 4.\n\nSt. Louisans already: The size of Allen's investment was disclosed when the paper went bankrupt five months later. See PD, 5/10/1879, 1.\n\nDillon's Evening Post: Further, the Post was wrongly perceived as a pawn of the Globe-Democrat because of Dillon's identification with McCullagh and his use of the Globe-Democrat's presses. The Post did have a similar look, but it hardly deserved to be called an \"illegitimate offspring,\" the description given to it by the unfriendly Republican. For these and other reasons, the Post had not yet found a readership large enough to sustain it.\n\nAlthough the flagging: For the first time since the panic of 1873, being a newspaper publisher was looking again financially attractive. There were 718 daily newspapers published that year in the United States, a number that had remained relatively stable for four years. With improved economic conditions, the number was beginning to rise again. Nearly 100 new dailies were being launched, a 13 percent increase in the number of papers. This was part of an upward trend. Within a decade the total number of papers would more than double: George P. Rowell & Company Data on the Number of Newspapers and Periodicals: 1868\u20131908, reprinted in Lee, The Daily Newspaper in America, app., table X, 720\u2013721; Douglas, The Golden Age of the Newspaper, 132.\n\nPulitzer openly professed: PD, 12/21/1878, 2.\n\nPulitzer's timing was: ChTr, 9/13/1872, 4.\n\nThe two men: The merger agreement and accompanying documents, PLFC.\n\nThe new paper: PD, 12/13/1878, 2; JSR, 65.\n\nThe declaration was: Merger agreement, PLFC.\n\nAnyone who knew: GlDe, 12/13/78, 4.\n\nCHAPTER 13: SUCCESS\n\nBefore the Post and Dispatch: Figures for the actual press runs are contained in the Fogarty Collection.\n\nIn the following weeks: The purchase from Hoe marked the beginning of a long and important relationship between Pulitzer and this manufacturer of printing presses. Within a few years, Hoe would push his engineers to their limits in creating larger and faster presses to meet Pulitzer's demands at the New York World.\n\nYears before, when: PD, 12/19/1878, 2, quoted in JSR, 45.\n\nHe was on to something: Pulitzer's return to St. Louis coincided with a period when the leadership of the city was changing from an older, conservative group to a younger, more progressive one. See Moehle, \"History of St. Louis, 1878\u20131882.\"\n\nLike an editorial Paul Revere: PD, 1/30/1879, and 1/31/1879, 2.\n\nAs the campaign: The series began in PD, 2/15/1879, 1. McCullagh, in particular, was singled out because he earned $30,000 in stock in addition to his salary, and owned diamonds and watches.\n\nWhen citizens file: PD, 3/1/1879, 8 and 3/21/1879, 2, for an example of the tax oath; PD, 2/17/1879, 2; JSR, 52.\n\nPulitzer concluded that: PD, 2/24/1879, 2; JSR, 55. Documents in the Fogarty Collection confirm the increases in circulation claimed publicly by the paper. Pulitzer was a rare publisher in that the circulation figures he announced matched those kept in the actual books.\n\nThere was hardly anything: PD, 1/2/1879, 1 and 2. Pulitzer's staff would fall prey to the same journalistic prank twenty years later, when he was competing with William Randolph Hearst.\n\nThe Post and Dispatch: PD, 3/28/1879, 2 and 2/21/1879, 1.\n\nPulitzer was not easily: JSR, 55\u201356.\n\nOn Tuesday: PD, 2/18/1879, 1.\n\nFor days, the: PD, 2/19/1879, 1.\n\nAfter weeks of delay: PD, 05/26/1879, 2; PD, 3/11/1879; JSR, 63.\n\nDespite the paper's: DCS-JP, 197.\n\nAfter concluding his: Stealey, 130 Pen Pictures of Live Men, 345\u2013347.\n\nThe street urchins: William Smith to JP, 10/26/1902, JP-CU.\n\nOn April 21, 1879: PD, 4/21/1879, 4, and 4/22/1879, 4.\n\nPulitzer didn't have time: WAS, 60.\n\nNeither Dillon nor: The terms of the loan were cleverly written. There were three parties to the agreement. The Post-Dispatch turned over title to its property to Gottschalk for $1. In turn, he lent the money to Pulitzer, who provided it to the paper. Then a series of postdated checks were written for the interest on the loan, to be cashed at intervals, and for the final balance. Should the checks not clear, Gottschalk would have recourse to sell the assets of the corporation. PLFC.\n\nLawyers who researched: William Smith to Joseph Medill, 2/18/1880, M 0258, Box 3, Folder 2, WHS-IHS.\n\nWith his new: PD, 3/5/1879, quoted in JSR, 69.\n\nNothing was too: JSR, 70.\n\nWatching with dismay: PD, 5/14/1879, 1; GlDe, 5/14/1879, 8. The original sale agreement with the name of Theodore Lemon, PLPC.\n\nJoseph settled the pregnant Kate: Corbett and Miller, Saint Louis in the Gilded Age, 72; Eberle, Midtown, 13. See JSR, 292, and WRR, 102, for discussion of whether Kate Pulitzer was snubbed by St. Louis society.\n\nUsually Kate, with: Galveston Daily News, 5/31/1883, 7; Stealey and Johnson diary entries, quoted in WRR, 103.\n\nDillon agreed to sell: GlDe, 11/30/1879, also reprinted in PD, 12/05/1879, 4. The actual cost of buying out Dillon is unknown, although several sources cite $40,000.\n\nJoseph reorganized the: JP to Dillon, Reel II, SLPA, 3/21/1905.\n\nThat night, Cockerill: WP, 12/22/1879, 2; King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 92\u201393.\n\nThe challenge that: In fact, the postage bill for mailing the Globe Democrat to out-of-town newspapers exceeded that of all other St. Louis papers combined; Clayton, Little Mack, 106\u2013107.\n\nCHAPTER 14: DARK LANTERN\n\nChambers put his: PD, 12/17/1879, 4; MoRe, 12/12/1879, 3.\n\nAfter a week's: On the day appointed for the auction, about 150 curious onlookers and newspapermen gathered at the courthouse. After waiting thirty minutes past the announced starting time, a man showed up and announced that the sale had been postponed: MR, 1/1/1880, 8, and 1/7/1880, 5; PD, 1/7/1880, 4; ChTr, 1/8/1880, 5.\n\nRather than a funeral: William Henry Smith, the general agent for the Western Associated Press, acquitted Pulitzer of any deception and ruled that the certificate could not rightfully belong to the mortgage holders. (W. Henry Smith to Joseph Medill, 2/18/1880, WHS-IHS.)\n\nHis exuberance stemmed: PD, 1/7/1880, 4.\n\nAt home, his: Information about servants obtained from 1880 census records. Two of the women who worked for the Pulitzers were Irish-born; MoRe, 12/16/1880, 3.\n\nUnencumbered by financial: SeDe, 1/8/1880, 1.\n\nBy one o'clock: WaPo, 1/13/1880, 4; GlDe, 1/23/1880, 1.\n\nAwakened with the news: PD, 1/23/1880, 1 and 4; GlDe, 1/23/1880, 1.\n\nIn New York: ChTr, 1/28/1880, 11; WaPo, 1/26/1880, 2.\n\nReports from Cockerill: Church records on file at the Diocesan Archive at Washington Episcopal Cathedral.\n\n\"Now damn you\": GlDe, 3/2/1880, 4; PD, 3/2/1880. Pulitzer admitted the following day that he had drawn a gun but said he was so blind without his glasses that he could have done no damage. One of the bystanders picked up the weapon and placed a notice in the newspaper that if the owner wanted to retrieve it, he could do so at the bystander's house.\n\nEarly in the race: PD, 2/15/1879, 4. Pulitzer stuck fast to his opposition to Tilden. See, for instance, PD, 2/12/1881, 4. Pulitzer's early interest in determining the Democrats' 1880 candidate led Hutchins at the Washington Post to suggest that Pulitzer's efforts could save the expense and trouble of a convention. (WaPo, 7/14/1879, 2.)\n\nIf Pulitzer could: PD, 4/28/1880, 4.\n\nMissouri Democrats gathered: Stealey, 130 Pen Pictures, 347; WaPo, 5/28/1878, 1.\n\nThe convention, which: See Official Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, 1880; Watterson, Marse Henry, Vol. 2, 249\u2013250.\n\nPulitzer face a quandary: WaPo, 6/25/1880, 1; JP to English, 6/27/1880, N-YHS.\n\nThe Democrats' choice: JSR, 133\u2013134\n\nOn his return: ChTr, 6/27/1880, 2; JP to Smith, 6/27/1880, N-YHS.\n\nThe Evening Chronicle's: JSR, 110\u2013111.\n\nPulitzer was comforted: Ibid., 105\u2013106; PD, 4/30/1880, 4.\n\nOn August 8: Johnson, Diary, 8/8/1880, and subsequent entries, WRR 98\u201399.\n\nTo get the nomination: Edward C. Rafferty, \"The Boss Who Never Was: Colonel Ed Butler and the Limits of Practical Politics in St. Louis, 1875\u20131904,\" Gateway Heritage (Winter 1992), 54\u201373.\n\nButler had a simple: For a discussion of Pulitzer's payment of the fee, see JSR, footnote 36, 151. Rammelkamp believed that there was some dispute over whether Pulitzer actually paid a fee. It was, however, a common practice and was required of all candidates at the time. Furthermore the Globe-Democrat, edited by the rather scrupulous McCullagh, said that Pulitzer had paid. (GlDe, 9/26/1880, 6.)\n\nBelieving that his nomination: JP to Smith, 7/21/1880, N-YHS.\n\nPulitzer was pleased: Ibid.\n\nOn the evening of August 14: Indiana Sentinel, 8/15/1880. \"A masterly effort,\" said the Washington Post; \"a disheartening failure,\" said the New York Times. Late in life, Pulitzer thought it one of the best speeches he ever delivered. (JP to FDW, 10/13/1903, SLP.)\n\nAs the primary: PD, January 10, 1879, 2. Pulitzer even went so far as to cancel a speech in Indiana so as to see to his own election. (Fort Wayne Daily Sentinel, 9/14/1880, 4.)\n\nWith Allen's entry: GlDe, 9/26/1880, 6.\n\nCalling Pulitzer a demagogue: For a description of the 1879 Senate race, see JSR, 45\u201347; PD, 9/24/1880, 4; MoRe, 9/24/1880, 1, 4.\n\nThe Republican greeted: MR, 9/25/1880, 4; results from GlDe, 9/26/1880, 6; Johnson, Diary, 9/25/1880; WRR, 99.\n\nWhen Pulitzer lost: Johnson, Diary, 9/27/1880, WRR, 99.\n\nPulitzer wasted no time: DCS-JP gives Lucille's birth date as September 30, 1880, but St. Louis's birth records give it as October 3. In either case, Joseph was in New York at the time: NYT, 9/30/1881, 5; BrEa, 9/30/1880, 4.\n\nFollowing the party leaders': AtCo, 10/5/1880, 1; BoGl, 10/01/1880, 1.\n\nPulitzer had one: Indianapolis Sentinel, 10/8/1880, copy in JP-LOC, Box 1, October 1880 folder.\n\nDespite the size: Ohio Democrat, 10/28/1880, 2.\n\nPulitzer the journalist: JSR, 138.\n\nWhen Election Day came: Not all the elections that year were unfavorable. On November 23, Pulitzer was elected vice president of the Western Associated Press: NYT, 11/24/1880, 5.\n\nCHAPTER 15: ST. LOUIS GROWS SMALL\n\nOn many nights: William Gentry Jr., \"The Case of the Church Bells,\" Bulletin Missouri Historical Society, Vol. 10, No. 2 (January 1954), 183; Dacus and Buel, A Tour of St. Louis, 116.\n\nNeither the Post-Dispatch: St. Louis Spectator, 12/24/1881, MHS.\n\nA few printers: PD, 5/12/1881, quoted in JSR, 198\u2013199. Eventually, after Pulitzer moved to New York, the Post-Dispatch permitted a closed shop.\n\nPulitzer claimed that: ThJo, 10/23/1886, quoted in JSR, 196.\n\nPulitzer talked Daniel Houser into: NYT, 6/19/1881, 5.\n\nThere was one paper: ThJo, 12/20/1884, 6; JN to JP, 3/10/1900.\n\nAlmost as if: WRR, 74.\n\nIn September, the president: ChTr, 9/10/1881, 1; WaPo, 9/10/1881, 1.\n\nWhen his turn: PD, 9/10/1881, 1; George Barnes Pennock letter, NYW, 11/3/1911.\n\nAt the beginning: PD, 9/12/1881, 1. However, Pulitzer became so nervous about being alone in his negative predictions that he resorted to filing a few encouraging dispatches. Within days, though, he was back in his role as a doomsayer.\n\nOn September 15: PD, 9/15/1881, 1; WaPo, 9/16/1881, 1; NYT, 9/16/1881, 1.\n\nThe tide of: NYT, 9/17/1881, 1; PD, 9/17/1881, 1.\n\nOn Monday morning: PD, 9/19/1881, 1, quoted in WRR, 75; Ackerman, Dark Horse, 427.\n\nThe day after: PD, 9/20/1881, 4.\n\nThe success of: Circulation figures, PLFC.\n\nPulitzer trumpeted the: PD, 6/1/1882, quoted in JSR, 206.\n\nAs a consequence: WaPo, 1/23/82, 2.\n\nThe hostility grew: ChTr, 3/25/82, 5; also see JSR, 292.\n\nIn March, on: WaPo, 3/22/1882, 2; PD, 3/16/1882, 4.\n\nPerhaps inspired by: APM, 167\u2013177.\n\nDuring his years: ThJo, 12/20/1884, 6.\n\nIf the railroad: PD, 10/14/1880, 4; NYW, 5/13/1883, 1.\n\nGould became Pulitzer's: PD, 3/18/1882, 4 and 7.\n\nBroadhead aroused the: Donald F. Brod, \"John A. Cockerill's St. Louis Years,\" Bulletin, Vol. 26, No. 3 (April 1970), MHS, 232.\n\nIn his office: Compiled press accounts. See, for instance, ChTr, 10/16/1882.\n\nNews of the shooting: Daily Kennebec Journal, 10/16/1882, 2.\n\nSlayback's friend Clopton: Sarah Lane Glasgow to William Glasgow, 10/18/1882, William Carr Lane Collection, MHS.\n\nOn October 18: Harper's Weekly, 11/4/1882 quoted in JSR, 289; circulation figures, FP.\n\nAs part of: ChTr, 10/19/1882, 3; Janesville Daily Gazette, 10/24, 1882, 2; JSR, 292, note 26.\n\nBy November, Pulitzer: St. Louis Spectator, 11/11/1882, MHS.\n\nOne of the men: Turner, When Giants Ruled, 105; ThJo, 1/15/87, 12.\n\nA few hours later: Julius Chambers, quoted in APM, 231.\n\nCHAPTER 16: THE GREAT THEATER\n\nOne of the most persistent myths about Pulitzer was that he purchased the New York World while in New York with Kate preparing to board a ship for Europe. In fact, Pulitzer had been stalking the paper for months. See, for example, the Springfield Republican, 2/19/1883, 4.\n\nOn April 7: NYT, 4/4/1883; Klein, The Life and Legend of Jay Gould, 315\u2013319.\n\nHe decided to: NYW, 5/13/1883, 1. \"The only changes I can suggest would cost money,\" one of the paper's managers had written a few months earlier\u2014hardly glad tidings to bring to the boss (Elmer Speed to William Hurlbert, 1/15/1883, WP CU).\n\nIn January, Gould: WaPo, 1/28/1878, 2; ChTr, 1/25/1883, 3; PD, 4/11/1883, quoted in JSR, 297.\n\nOn the day: R. L. Cotteret to Edwin H Argent, 3/3/1883, JP-CU. For a sample of the reporting sheet, see January\u2013June 1883 folder, JP-CU, Box 4.\n\nOn the way: WaPo, 4/7/1883, 4; Smith to JP, 8/6/1887, WP-CU.\n\nThis purchase, unlike: ThJo, 4/19/84, 4; ChTr, 4/16/1883, 5.\n\nPulitzer did not: Renehan, The Dark Genius of Wall Street, 3.\n\nOn April 28: The original contract is among the JPII-LC Papers. Conkling later billed Pulitzer for the services; see JP to Conkling, 12/19/1885, WP-CU. His role as Pulitzer's lawyer in the purchase is detailed in Atchison Daily Globe, 11/19/1887, 1.\n\nHe confessed his anxiety: JSR, 302. Later in life, Joseph often credited Kate with giving him the resolve to go through with the deal. See RP to John C. Milburn, of Carter, Ladyard & Milburn, 1/5/1912, JP-CU. Pulitzer's friends Watterson and Melville Stone, who co-owned the Chicago Daily News, both later claimed that he asked them to become partners in the World after he bought it. That seems highly unlikely, as Pulitzer never wanted a real partner in any enterprise.\n\nWord of the: GlDe, 05/06/1883, 6.\n\nOn May 9: The New York Herald, which printed the Journal, disclosed that it was running off 50,000 copies a day: NYT, 5/23/1883, 8; APM, 205\u2013210.\n\nAt the Fifth Avenue Hotel: NYH, 5/10/1883, 8.\n\nEscorting Pulitzer around: DCS-JP, 135\u2013136.\n\nWhile Joseph made: APM, 205\u2013206.\n\nThere may have been: Herald editorial, reprinted in NYT, 5/23/1883, 8.\n\nA few weeks: APM, 210.\n\nFor those who had watched: Charles Gibson to JP, 5/14/1883, JP-CU; John H. Holmes to JP, undated but certainly between May and June 1883, JP-CU, Box 5.\n\nTaking from his bag: NYW, 5/12/1883, 1.\n\nThen\u2014also as he: Stephen Richardson, JP-LC, Box 11, Folder 8.\n\nWhat they found: In Albert's unpublished memoir, he makes mention of having been the first to introduce ears. But as the Journal from those months no longer exists, the claim cannot be confirmed.\n\nBut if the new World: NYT, 11/5/1911, SM3.\n\nDuring the following days: Walt McDougall, \"Old Days on the World,\" American Mercury (January 1925) 22.\n\nAs the staff: NYW, 5/10/1908.\n\nFinished with the city room: NYS, reprinted in GlDe, 5/27/1883, 10; GJ, 303.\n\nThe paper abandoned: NYW, 5/31/1883, 1. The New York Times opted for DEAD ON THE NEW BRIDGE.\n\nIf the headline: JP memo, 1899 or 1900, quoted in GJ, 48, footnote.\n\nPulitzer had an uncanny: NYW, 5/29/1883, 1.\n\nThe World's stories: NYW, 1/25/1884, 4, quoted in GJ, 34.\n\nAs was inaccuracy: AI, 111.\n\nIn his first weeks: NYW, 5/29/1883, 4 and 5/30/1883, 8.\n\nThe Pulitzers moved: ChTr, 7/31/1883, 1.\n\nEven though work: Among the guests were General Grant and Schurz: NYT, 6/8/1883, 5; WAS, 89\u201391, Hirsh, William C. Whitney, 227; Rocky Mountain News, 11/8/1883, 4. The club permitted entry to the Republican Roscoe Conkling.\n\nPulitzer even found time: The telegraphs and invitations for the boat ride may be found in JP-CU, Box 5.\n\nPulitzer may have taunted: NYW, 9/30/1883, 4.\n\nIn August, Pulitzer: ChTr, 8/6/1883, 2.\n\nBy the end of August: Circulation was 27,620 on August 12, 1883, according to the notarized statements that Pulitzer began publishing in the paper; see GJ, 332. Also NYW, 8/11/1883, 4.\n\nOn August 28: NYT, 8/29/1883, 2 and 8/30/1883, 8. Pulitzer knew several of his traveling companions, such as August Belmont Jr., the son of the eminent banker, and the journalists Herbert Bridgman and Noah Brooks.\n\nPulitzer was surprised: NYW, 9/9/1883, 4 and 9/10/1883, 8.\n\nDuring Pulitzer's absence: Davenport Gazette, 09/08/1883, 2; BrEa, 9/30/1883, 2.\n\nThe rumors were: NYW, 9/26/1883, 4.\n\nAs the World's circulation: NYW, 5/17/1883.\n\nWhen he returned: NYT, 9/25/1883, 2; Oshkosh Northwestern, 08/26/1883, 3; Bismarck Daily Tribune, 9/28/83, 10.\n\nWeeks later, as: NYT, 11/1/1883, 5.\n\nIn November, Pulitzer: A review of internal memos from the period confirms that the published circulation figures were quite accurate.\n\nCHAPTER 17: KINGMAKER\n\nDespite his triumphant: J. W. Buell to JP, 12/19/1883, WP-CU; NYT, 5/10/1884, 5.\n\nCharacteristically, Pulitzer made: Cunard telegram, 5/19/1884; William D. Curtis to JP, 6/18/1884, JP-CU.\n\nAs the convention broke up: NYW, 6/7/1884, quoted in Morris, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, 267.\n\nA Republican who: NYW, 7/24/1884, 4 and 8/26/84, 4.\n\nAlthough Blaine had: Pulitzer was pestered by attorneys representing disgruntled persons threatening to sue. One such case involved a college professor who felt that an article about students' wild antics had injured him and the college. See Scott to JP, 4/2 and 4/3/1884, WP-CU; WAS, 103. Pulitzer also regularly praised Conkling in his editorials. See, for instance, NYW, 9/5/1883, 4. That Conkling was the author of the anonymous pieces for the World was common knowledge, reported in the Tribune and other newspapers.\n\nPulitzer could hardly: PD, 11/8/1882, 4; NYW, 10/14/1884.\n\nWith each passing day: In March, the circulation had been 40,000: ThJo, 3/29/1884, 7; 4/5/1884, 5; and 5/31/1884, 3.\n\nBy midsummer: ThJo, 6/14/1884, 2.\n\nNothing his competitors: ThJo, 6/7/1884, 1.\n\nIn July, sitting: Quoted in JWB, 85. Pulitzer not only attended the Chicago convention but, as he had done for the Post-Dispatch, filed signed articles. (See NYW, 7/9/1884\u20137/12/1884.) Years later, Pulitzer unrealistically boasted, \"If it had not been for the action of the World at this stage, he could not have been nominated.\" (JP to James Creelman, JC, folder 74.)\n\nOn July 29: ChTri, 7/30/1884, 1; NYT, 7/30/1884, 1.\n\nCleveland also carried: \"There is a story in circulation concerning a record made by him 'in youth's hot blood'\u2014a story which The World will never under any circumstances print\u2014which may find its way into the channels of public gossip, if this lowest type of campaign tactics is to be adopted by the Blaine organization\": NYW, 7/25/1884, 4.\n\nPulitzer was only: JWB, 89.\n\nThe next day: \"I did not tell him that the cartoon looked like the crab's eyebrows, without proper reduction to refine its coarse lines.\" (McDougall, \"Old Days on the World,\" 22.)\n\nPulitzer had wanted: An illustration of a man accused in the Phoenix Park murders ran in NYW, 5/26/1883, 8. The story of the apprehension in Montreal is told in GJ, 95\u201396; ThJo, 1/10/1885, 3.\n\nNot all the reading public: ThJo, 6/7/1884, 3, quoted in GJ, 111.\n\nPulitzer enlisted McDougall's: GJ, 99, note.\n\nPulitzer had no interest: ChTr, 6/29/1882, 12; NYW, 9/29/1884, 4.\n\nThe maliciousness of: Smith to JP, 11/28/1884, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer interrupted his: WRR, 206; Henry, Editors I Have Known since the Civil War, 273\u2013274.\n\nAs the campaign: NYT, 9/30/1884, 5.\n\nAs he spoke: NYW, 10/30/1884, 2. The paper devoted more than an entire page to the evening rally.\n\nThe crowd roared: ChTr, 10/4/1884, 10.\n\nThe fall campaign: NYT, 10/07/1884, 2; 10/22/1884, 2. E. A. Grozier, Pulitzer's secretary in 1884, later described how reluctant Pulitzer was to accept the nomination. (Grozier to DCS, 12/10/1917, DCS-NYPL.)\n\nThe nomination was: ThJo, 10/11/1884, 5 and 10/18/1884, 2.\n\nOn October 16: NYT, October 16, 1884, 5; Hirsch, William C. Whitney, 238\u2013239. For a while it seemed as if Pulitzer might have contributed $5,000 to the Republicans. What had happened was that Pulitzer had written a check to R. Hoe & Company as payment toward a new press. Hoe had given the check to the Republican Party, leading to the rumor that Pulitzer was also supporting the Republicans. See Milwaukee Sentinel, 4/28/1886, 3.\n\nPulitzer was not done yet: NYW, 10/30/1884, 4.\n\nThe \"Royal Feast\": NYW, 11/10/1884, 4.\n\nNovember 4, 1884: Figures ibid.\n\nThe World began: NYW, 11/6/1884, 4.\n\nPulitzer basked in: JP to James Creelman, JC, Folder 74; ChTr, 1/1/1885, 3.\n\nPulitzer capped off: ChTr, 1/1/1885, 3. Remarkably, newspapers reported on the check's progress through clearing houses. So much for financial privacy.\n\nCHAPTER 18: RAISING LIBERTY\n\nPiled on Pulitzer's desk: Correspondence Box 7, WP-CU.\n\nIt was all: ThJo, 11/14/1885, 1; James Scott to JP, 3/18/1885, WP-CU; Pulitzer's friend Gibson was making inquiries for Pulitzer to determine if anyone in St. Louis would buy the Post-Dispatch for $500,000 or more; see Gibson to JP, 1/5/1885.\n\nThe news management: ThJo, 1/30/1886, 5.\n\nHis election to Congress: Correspondence in Box 5, JP-CU; Silas W. Bart to JP, 4/14/1885, JP-CU; LAT, 1/21/1885; NYT, 1/21/1885, 1.\n\nIn early February: AtCo, 2/4/1885, 5.\n\nPolitics seemed even less: ChTr, 2/6/1885, 2; NYT, 2/6/1885, 5; WES, 120\u2013121.\n\nPulitzer expected: WRR, 199; NYW, 3/16/1885, 4.\n\nCleveland didn't share: WaPo, 3/9/1885, 1; GD, 3/14/1885; NYT, 3/24/1885, 1 and 4/19/1885, 3; WRR, 186\u2013187.\n\nBut Pulitzer was: NYW, 8/6/1884, 4. When the dust settled after the election, Pulitzer resumed promoting the project, arguing that Cleveland's victory removed the fund-raisers' last excuse for failure. \"Perhaps it has been thought hitherto that a Statue of Liberty erected in the chief harbor of a Republic virtually controlled by monopolists, corruptionists, and self-created aristocrats was both unnecessary and undesirable,\" Pulitzer wrote. \"This is all at an end now. The people have vindicated their capacity to govern themselves and the life of the Republic has been saved.\" (NYW, 11/21/1884, 4.)\n\nThe scattered editorials: NYW, 3/14/1885, 4.\n\nThe following Monday: NYW, 3/16/1885, 1.\n\nBy the next morning: NYW, 3/17/1885.\n\nRather than start: At about the same time, other groups were raising money for the Washington Monument in the capital. But it received congressional funding and the public's donations were led not by a newspaper but rather by private organizations.\n\nThe public service: NYW, 6/8/1885, 4.\n\nThe long hours: The children stayed at the Thorn Mountain House resort in Jackson, NH. BoGl, 8/9/1885, 3.\n\nWhile Kate shopped: Pulitzer traveled with letters of introduction from George Childs. Henry Moore to John Norton, 5/29/1895, JNP-MHS; ThJo, 6/20/1885, 2; S. P. Daniell to JP, 6/1/1885, JP-CU.\n\nUsually Pulitzer's transatlantic: Fragment of an undated rough draft of JP letter, quoted in WRR, 134.\n\nThe European sojourn: JPII to JP, 3/21/1908, MHS; Johns, Times of Our Lives, 61.\n\nAt home it: WAS, 131.\n\nOne friend understood: Dillon to JP, 7/8/1885, JP-CU.\n\nOn the morning of December 3: NYT, 12/4/1885, 3 and 7; ChTr, 12/4/1885, 2; ThJo, 11/28/1885, 5.\n\n\"All right, but\": JP to Conkling, 12/19/1885, WP-CU; Theron Crawford to JP, 12/9/1885 and 12/14/1885, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer and the House: NYT, 12/8/1885, 4; AtCo, 1/8/1886, 1.\n\nTo maintain this schedule: He \"took very little interest in his Congressional office, and was very irregular in his attendance in Washington\" (Edwin A. Grozier to Seitz, 12/10/1917); WaPo, 3/4/1886, 2; Amos J. Cummings in WaPo, 4/18/1886, Dana's Sun harped on Pulitzer's poor attendance in Congress. Walt McDougall claimed that one night when he was in Washington with his boss, Pulitzer was almost arrested for drunkenness. \"He was lit up to seventh magnitude by a few cocktails,\" he said. (Walt McDougall, \"Funniest Memories of a Famous Cartoonist,\" WaPo, 8/22/1926, SM3.)\n\nPulitzer found: Edwin A. Grozier to Seitz, 12/10/1917, DCS-NYPL; BoGl, 2/16/1886, 5.\n\nMany of Pulitzer's colleagues: NYT, 2/27/1886, 2; ChTr 2/27/1886, 1.\n\nWhen a committee: NYT, 3/13/1886, 3; WaPo, 3/13/1886, 1.\n\nThe gentleman in question: JP to Crawford, 2/11/1886, WP-CU.\n\nThe committee members: An examination of the Congressional Record may be seen in WRR, 184; WaPo, 3/4/1886, 1; WaPo, 6/28/1886, 2.\n\nWhen Pulitzer was nominated for: Gibson to JP, 10/10/1884, JP-CU. Full resignation letter appeared in BrEa, 4/11/1886, 1.\n\nThe World's Washington correspondent: Crawford to JP, 4/13/1886, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer's congressional career: JP to Board of New York Press Club, April 1886, JP-CU, Box 6; WaPo, 3/23/1886, 2; Medical Record, 3/27/1886, 366. Pulitzer also mistakenly sent his letter to the New York secretary of state instead of to the speaker of the house thereby delaying the effective date of his resignation until May. (Interview with Donald Ritchie, associate historian of the U.S. Senate Historical Office, 1/17/2008.)\n\nIn late June: The landlord, who was not consulted, was not happy. See John Hoey to JP, 9/24/1886, and 10/25/1886, JP-CU.\n\nSince Kate could not: Thomas Davidson to William T. Harris, 10/7/1884, Harris Papers, MHS.\n\nPulitzer was most frustrated: WHM to JP, 7/28/1886, quoted in WRR, 121.\n\nNext Pulitzer dashed: NYW, 10/28/1886, and 10/29/1886.\n\nNot being among: NYW, 10/28/1886, 4.\n\nAs one of: Depew, My Memories, 392.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen\": Depew was also willing to curry favor with Pulitzer. On the evening of the festivities honoring the Statue of Liberty, he attended a dinner the Pulitzers gave for the celebrated sculptor Bartholdi in the new residence which they had rented at 9 East Thirty-Sixth Street. During the dinner, Bartholdi's declaring an interest in seeing Niagara Falls prompted Pulitzer to ask Depew for a New York Central private railcar to convey Bartholdi and the Pulitzer family there. Depew submitted a $500 bill to Pulitzer for the ride, adding that the amount should be \"strong enough to pulverize the most enlightened anti-monopolist.\"\n\nHewitt was a: JP to Davidson, 9/24/1886, TD.\n\nIn the end: Davidson to JP, 10/7/1886, JP-CU.\n\nOn Election Day: TR told Robert Underwood; Morris, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, note 70, 800.\n\nThe double triumphs: Edwin Argent to W. A. R. Robertson, 10/14/1886, WP-CU.\n\nMost vexing was: Masy le Doll to JP, 12/11/1886, WP-CU; Walter Hammond to JP, 12/4/1886, JP-CU.\n\nWork and tension: JP to Emile Grevillot, 11/23/1886, JP-CU; Philadelphia Press interview with Pulitzer, reprinted in Bismarck Daily Tribune, 12/07/1886; George Childs to KP, 11/27/1886, JP-CU.\n\nCHAPTER 19: A BLIND CROESUS\n\nJoe Howard, one: McDougall, This Is the Life! 110; NYH, 2/9/1887, 1; ChTr, 2/9/1887, 1; Milwaukee Daily Journal, 2/9/1887, 1.\n\nHoward was not: Churchill, Park Row, 151.\n\nBennett's wrath was: Daily Inter-Ocean, 11/27/1887. The interview was conducted by Foster Coates, who would eventually become an editor for Pulitzer.\n\nSmith was a Kentuckian: ThJo, 5/10/1884, 5.\n\nAlthough Smith cut: Smith to JP, 1886, WP-CU, Box 8.\n\nWith Cockerill overseeing: Turner to JP, 2/25/1887, WP-CU.\n\nWhile Pulitzer waited to: George Olney to JP, 1/27/1887, WP-CU.\n\nIn the meantime: Clippings from Public Ledger and Daily Transcript, 2/7 and 2/8/1887, WP-CU, Box 9. Also ThJo, 3/26/1887, 10; 4/7/1887, 8; and 9/10/1887, 10.\n\nFor years Hearst: Nasaw, The Chief, 54\u201355, 70\u201372.\n\nIn late March: NYT, 3/22/1887, 8; ChTr, 3/23/1887, 3.\n\nLawyers who knew: BoGl, 4/1/1887, 8.\n\nPulitzer was soon: BoGl, 4/1/1887, 8; Childs to JP, 4/13/1887, JP-CU; Lucille and Ralph, letters to JP and KP, 6/9/1887, JP-CU; Childs to JP, 4/13/1887, JP-CU.\n\nAfter a stopover: WaPo, 5/2/1887 and 5/23/1887, 4; WAS, 156.\n\nThe Pulitzers took: BoGl, 6/29/1887, 8; ThJo, 1/9/1886, 5.\n\nAn enterprising American: Philadelphia Times correspondent in Paris, reprinted in several papers, including Capital (MD), 6/28/87, 1.\n\nJoseph and Kate: T. C. Crawford did the investigating for Pulitzer. See Crawford to JP, 8/12/1887, WP-CU.\n\nNothing came of: Junius Morgan to JP, 6/4/1887, JP-NYSL.\n\nGladstone, dressed in: Morning Post, 7/11/1887, 2, 5; Daily Telegraph, 7/11/1887, 2; PD, Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Number, 12/11/1903, 4.\n\nWhile the ceremony: Ford, Forty-Odd Years in the Literary Shop, 148.\n\nUnaware of the: Evening Standard, 7/11/1887, 5; Mary Gladstone, diary entry for July 9, 1887, 46, 262, Vol. 44, December 10, 1885, to Feburary 15, 1893, BLMC.\n\nBy August the Pulitzers: Smith to JP, 8/6 and 8/25, 9/7 and 9/10/1887, WP-CU; JP to Smith, 9/1/1887, WHS-IHS.\n\nAbandoning business and: The Pulitzers rented Windhurst, owned by General John Rathbone. Childs to JP, 8/12/1887, JP-CU; Gleaner, 2/16/1887; Frank K. Paddock to JP, 12/24/1887, JP-CU.\n\nThe Pulitzers returned: BoGl, 10/01/1887, 3; ThJo, 9/11/1886, 1.\n\nIt was, indeed: Strouse, Morgan, 225\u2013226.\n\nWhile negotiating for: Platt and Bowers to trustees of Mary Grace Hoyt, 12/22/1887, JP-CU.\n\nHe invested in: ThJo, 4/16/1887, 13; Blackeslee to JP, 12/2 and 12/3/1886, JP-CU; Paul S. Potter to JP, 4/10/1887, JP-CU; bill of sale for Paris paintings in JP-CU, Box 7; JP to Goupil's Picture Gallery, 1/14/1887, JP-CU; Fearing to JP, 1/16/1884, JP-CU; H. A. Spalding to JP (in Paris) 5/14/1887, JP-CU; John Hoey to JP, 10/25/1886, JP-CU. Payroll records show that the Pulitzers employed a chef, a kitchen staff, and cleaning women in addition to nannies; see JP-CU, Box 8. While waiting to move to Fifty-Fifth Street, the Pulitzers and their growing retinue of servants remained at 9 East Thirty-Sixth Street, having happily left behind the Fifth Avenue house with its allegedly bad plumbing, to the fury of the landlord. The landlord claimed that prospective renters had fled because the cleaning women the Pulitzers employed were spreading rumors that the plumbing was unhealthy.\n\nPulitzer developed a: JP to Metropolitan Telephone and Telegraph, 10/18/1886, WP-CU; WaPo, 4/17/1887, 6; ThJo, 11/14/1885, 1.\n\nMoney bought the Pulitzers: NYT, 12/30/1885, 5.\n\nThe ball was held: NYT, 12/30/1885, 5.\n\nThe Pulitzers' rising status: WaPo, 12/19/1886, 1.\n\nIn particular, Joseph: Homberger, Mrs. Astor's New York, 176.\n\n\"J.P. always cherished\": McDougall, This Is the Life! 165.\n\nPulitzer did not simply: Newton Finney, one of the club's original founders, reluctantly sold two of his shares to Pulitzer when the project neared a critical deadline and had not obtained a sufficient number of subscribers. Kate's charm helped ease the owner's hesitancy about including Pulitzer. (McCash and McCash, The Jekyll Island Club, 10\u201311.)\n\nDespite distaste for: Homberger, Mrs. Astor's New York, 143, 175.\n\nUp until now: Burrows and Wallace, Gotham, 1087\u20131088.\n\n\"To decide a bet\": Julius Esch to editor of World, 12/11/1885, WP-CU.\n\n\"In all the multiplicity\": ThJo, 7/12/1884, 1.\n\n\"Any man can\": ThJo, 7/19/1884, 2 and 6; 10/11/1884, 6.\n\nPulitzer banned: LAT, 4/28/1891, 12. Jews, according to the newspaper, possessed untold wealth and influence. \"The two Pulitzers\u2014though they are estranged\u2014command more circulation than all the other journals combined.\"\n\nThe rivalry between: ThJo, 6/20/1885, 4; NYT, 4/13/1942, 15.\n\n\"We have withdrawn\": NYS, 10/18\u201311/8, 1887.\n\nDana's words hit: McDougall, \"Old Days on the World,\" 23.\n\nPulitzer had reached: Childs to JP, undated but most likely fall of 1887, JP-CU, Box 7.\n\nIn 1887, optometrists: Wells, A Treatise on the Disease of the Eye, 536. Which eye had failed was deduced from Dr. Hermann Pagenstecher's later comments.\n\nPulitzer's doctors were: JP to FC, 1/26/1909, JP-LC.\n\n\"I am absolutely\": JP to Varina Davis, 11/30/1887, JP-CU.\n\nCongressman Walter Phelps: Walter Phelps to JP, 4/19/1888, JP-CU.\n\nCHAPTER 20: SAMSON AGONISTES\n\nOn a moonlit: LAT, 2/28/1888, 3 and 3/1/1888, 6.\n\nPulitzer's doctors in New York: Manton Marable to KP, 1/14/1888, JP-CU, quoted in WRR, 217.\n\nThe journey drained: Details regarding the Pullman car may be found in April 1888 personal ledger, JP-CU, Box 7.\n\nThe Pulitzers had come: Cashin, First Lady of the Confederacy, 247\u2013250; Jefferson Davis, Private Letters, 553.\n\nFor the next several weeks: Landmark, 3/1/1888, 4.\n\nDuring the blizzard: Walter Phelps to JP, 4/19/1888, JP-CU; Conkling to JP, 3/16/88, JP-CU; WAS, 173;\n\nPulitzer nixed the idea: ThJo, 5/12/1888, 3; Smith to JP, 5/18/1888, WP-CU.\n\nThe family reached: NYW, 5/10/1888, 1.\n\nHome again, Pulitzer: WaPo, 6/17/1888, 1; NYT, 6/10/1888, 16, and 7/8/1888, 16.\n\nOnce across the: Among the doctors Pulitzer saw were Sir Andrew Clarke; Dr. Jean-Martin Charcot, one of the founders of neurology; and Dr. Charles-Edward Brown-S\u00e9quard. (See DCS-JP, 171; and WAS, 175.)\n\nStill smarting from: Manuscript fragments, JP-LC, Box 11.\n\nResigned to his exile: ChTr, 9/16/1888, 12; Mansfield Times, 1/18/1889, 2.\n\nInfirm but not: Number of employees was derived using the World directory left in the cornerstone of the building that went up that year. It may be found in WP-CU, Box 10; JWB, 133; Turner to JP, 6/7/1888, WP-CU.\n\nAside from creating: When a letter was read to its recipient, a report would be sent back to Pulitzer on the person's reaction. For example, in one such case, Seitz wrote to Pulitzer, \"He received it in an agreeable and appreciative way.\" One wonders how else the recipient was to react. DCS to JP, 11/20/1900, WP-CU. Also see JP to DCS, 8/17/1900, JP-LC.\n\nFor years, Pulitzer: Chambers, News Hunting on Three Continents, 307.\n\nBy similar means: JP to Chambers, 2/10/1889, reprinted in Chambers, News Hunting, 333.\n\nWhile Pulitzer was in California: NYT, 11/14/1886, 3; DCS-JP, 169. Pulitzer recounted his early connection to French's Hotel several times in stories published in the World.\n\nThe architect George Brown: Post to Barlow, 4/11/1888, WP-CU.\n\nFrom Paris, Pulitzer: September/December 1888, Folder, WP-CU, Box 10.\n\nOver the winter: JP to Turner, 4/19/1889, WP-CU.\n\nMoney, of course: JP to Turner, 3/19/1889, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer still considered: JP to Turner, 3/19/1889, WP-CU.\n\nAfter Post's visit: JP to John Jennings, 3/11/1889, JJJ.\n\nPulitzer took time: NYT, 4/27/1889, 4.\n\nAn editor from: WaPo, 5/13/1889, 4.\n\nOn May 15: Turner to Post, 5/15/1889, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer did his resolute best: JP to KP, 6/11/1889, JP-CU.\n\n\"Well,\" he added: Ponsonby also wrote to Kate. He reported, \"I am sure you will be glad to hear that he scarcely ever alludes to his health\": Ponsonby to KP, 6/21/1889, JP-CU.\n\nIn a decade: AtCo, 4/21/1889, 18; NYT, 7/3/1889, 4; WaPo, 6/4/1890, 4.\n\nPulitzer also increased: NYT, 9/20/1889; Wilson, ed., The Memorial History of the City of New York, Vol. 5, 594\u2013595. By 1940, 551 boys, mostly immigrant children, had gone on to become engineers, lawyers, doctors, journalists, and authors. See Time, 1/1/1940.\n\nIn the fall: NYT, 10/27/1889, 13; WaPo, 9/14/1889, 5. Pulitzer also donated $50,000 to try to attract the 1892 World Fair to New York City.\n\nNothing about the project: JP to Davis, 11/23/1889, JP-LC.\n\nOn October 10: BoGl, 10/11/1889, 2; WaPo, 10/11/1889, 4; ChTr, 10/20/1889, 26. Taylor used to tell Pulitzer that \"he would have no appetite for breakfast if he did not see blood running down the column rules on the editorial paper of the morning World.\" (Morgan, Charles H. Taylor, 140.)\n\nInside the cornerstone: The recording, one of the earliest of a human voice, remained hidden in the box until 1955, when the building was torn down. The box fell out of a clamshell bucket and was recovered. The recording, which was transferred to a reel-to-reel format, is among the World's papers at Columbia. The men were right about the New York Giants, who went on to defeat the Dodgers in the championships. They wrongly predicted, however, that New York would get the World Fair in 1892. It went to Chicago.\n\nMany of the nation's: NYT, 10/11/1889, 2.\n\nBack again in Paris: NYT, 10/20/1889, 12; Cashin, First Lady of the Confederacy, 270\u2013271.\n\nEvery day the sad group: Winnie Davis to Jefferson Davis, Jefferson Davis: Private Letters, 582\u2013583.\n\nHe sent detailed: JP to Davis, 11/23/1899, JP-LC.\n\nJust before Christmas: JP to KP, 12/23/1889, JP-MHS.\n\n\"He is certainly\": Ponsonby to KP, 12/23/1889, JP-MHS.\n\nCrossing the Arabian: JP to KP, 1/14/1890, JP-MHS.\n\nShortly after mailing: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 53\u201354.\n\nCHAPTER 21: DARKNESS\n\nThat spring, the stacks: JP to WHM, 7/23/1890, WP-CU.\n\nEarlier in the year: Pulitzer's return to France may be dated by a canceled check signed by Pulitzer in Paris, 3/26/1889, PLFC.\n\nBut over the succeeding: JWB, 137.\n\nOn October 2: Pulitzer's ship and the City of New York, which left half an hour earlier, raced each other across the ocean in an intercompany competition. Passengers on each ship joined betting pools, and the two oceanliners remained within sight of each other for most of the crossing. The Teutonic, carrying the Pulitzer party, lost the race by an hour. The Teutonic completed its voyage in five days, twenty-two hours, and nineteen minutes. (NYT, 10/9/1890, 5.)\n\nJoseph settled into: Stanford White to KP, 8/29/1891, JP-CU; bills, JP-CU, Box 1889\u20131898; NYT, 11/17/1890, 5; WaPo, 12/7/1890, 9, and 11/30/1890, 14.\n\nIn such circumstances: JP to WHM, 7/23/1890, WP-CU.\n\nThe gigantic high-speed: \"The World, Its History, Its New Home,\" Scientific American (12/20/1890), 384.\n\nKate and Hosmer: Garrison, An Introduction to the History of Medicine, 578.\n\nAs he struggled: Koestler, The Unseen Minority, 4; Selin, Medicine Across Cultures, 320.\n\nNews of Pulitzer's abdication: NYH, 10/17/1890, 4.\n\nThe final price: NYW, 12/11/1890; Fort Wayne Sentinel, 1/17/1891, 9.\n\nFor almost four months: JWB, 143. The yacht cruised along the Spanish coast, crossed over to Africa, and then took them east to Greece and Turkey.\n\nPulitzer defied Mitchell: Middletown Daily Press, 6/27/1891, 2; Newark Daily Advocate, 5/21/1891; Galveston Daily News, 6/21/1891, 8; AtCo, 5/1/1890, 1. Bennett had once told Cockerill that \"the life of a managing editor is only five years.\"\n\nLeaving Kate in Paris: NYT, 6/11/1891, 8.\n\nBallard Smith, the: BoGl, 6/11/1891, 10.\n\nPulitzer's solution to: WaPo, 6/19/1891, 4; Johnson, George Harvey, 36.\n\nA heat wave: WaPo, 6/19/1891.\n\nA few weeks: Nasaw, The Chief, 88, 90\u201391.\n\nPulitzer's emergency trip: JWB, 144; NYT, 6/16/1891, 5; WaPo, 8/16/1891, 13.\n\nPulitzer shared most: NYT, 12/27/1909, 1.\n\nUnlike many of the elite: JP memo (probably to FC), 9/19/1907, WP-CU.\n\nAs 1891 closed: JWB, 144.\n\nAgain, Dr. S. Weir Mitchell: S. Weir Mitchell to JP, 12/15/1891, JP-MHS.\n\nOne of the men: John Cockerill, Pulitzer's former editor, disclosed the proposed deal in the Democratic Standard (Coshocton, OH), 5/2/1892.\n\nIn February, the Pulitzers: JP to Smith, 2/28/1892, WP-CU; McCash, The Jekyll Island Club; AtCo, 3/9/1892, 4.\n\nIt was Pulitzers first visit: McCash, The Jekyll Island Club, 18; WaPo, 4/14/1892, 5, and 4/15/1892, 4; NYT, 4/28/1883, 1. In April Pulitzer returned to New York to catch the Teutonic, bound for Liverpool. In addition to the servants and secretaries, the Pulitzers' traveling party grew even larger with the addition of a companion for Kate, Mattie Thompson, traveling with her own personal French maid. Her father was the former representative Phillip \"Little Phil\" Thompson, of Kentucky, best-known for having shot to death a man he accused, quite probably wrongly, of having slept with his wife. \"That man took my wife to Cincinnati and debauched her,\" he said while still holding his smoking gun. \"I swore to kill him on sight.\" The jury acquitted him, agreeing with Pulitzer's friend Henry Watterson's estimation, \"The forfeit of the life of the wife-seducer to the vengeance of the husband is accepted as unwritten, but inexorable, law.\" See Kotter, Southern Honor and American Manhood, 45. Mattie Thompson later married Kate's brother William Davis, whom she may have met while in Kate's company.\n\nTheir assumption made: NYW, 2/2/1884, 4, quoted in GJ, 294.\n\nIn St. Louis: NYW, 3/14/1885, 4, quoted in GJ, 309.\n\nPulitzer\u2014who now: NYW, 7/12/1892, 4.\n\nAngry about his paper's: J. Errol, \"A Visit to Professor Dr. Hermann Pagenstecher,\" London Society, Vol. 63 (January\u2013June, 1893). Pagenstecher and Pulitzer had actually first met in their youth. Udo Brachvogel had introduced them over beers at the Schalks Salon on Broadway in New York when Pulitzer was working for the Westliche Post. \"We sat together sipping beers and talking,\" said Pagenstecher, recalling the moment to his patient. \"I was greatly fascinated by your original ideas and carried away an impression of my new acquaintance that I shall never forget.\" (Pagenstecher to JP, 12/12/1900, JP-CU.)\n\nPagenstecher was more: Pagenstecher to KP, 10/30/1892, JP-CU.\n\nPulitzer rejoined his family: Hirsch, William C. Whitney, 376.\n\nWith the coming: DCS-JP, 190.\n\nCHAPTER 22: CAGED EAGLE\n\nIt took the: NYW, 1/13/1884, quoted in WRR, 145\u2013146.\n\nThe Majestic, one: NYT, 5/11/1893, 12; DCS-JP, 188.\n\nBennett admired Pulitzer: Kluger, The Paper, 162\u2013163; DCS, 182.\n\nThe publishers disembarked: DCS-JP, 192. Harvey drank and toasted a bit too much. His twenty-fifth toast was to the King irritating Pulitzer. \"Oh, damn it. No Kings! No Kings!\" Pulitzer said.\n\nDespite the good cheer: JP to Harvey in Johnson, George Harvey, 45.\n\nPulitzer, for his part: Filler, Voice of the Democracy, 32; DCS to JP, 1/17/1901, WP-CU.\n\nPhillips received an invitation: Marcosson, David Graham Phillips, 141\u2013142.\n\nPulitzer was so completely: DGP to JP, reprinted ibid., 165\u2013166.\n\nNo one on the staff: DCS-JP, 193. Seitz, who wrote the first biography of Pulitzer, began working that year at the highest levels of the paper. Much of what he describes in his book, from this point on, consists of events he witnessed himself.\n\n\"It was soon\": DCS, 194; Johnson, George Harvey, 58.\n\nAmid the managerial confusion: \"The position of a London correspondent is extremely desirable under some circumstances but under other circumstances extremely undesirable,\" a frustrated Phillips wrote to Pulitzer. \"It means that a man may make a reputation for himself if he can supplement energy with ability, and has the privilege of signing his name to his letters. If he has not that privilege, he is simply wasting energy, ability, and time.\" (DGP to JP and DGP to Jones, reprinted in Marcosson, Phillips, 168\u2013169.)\n\nPulitzer was unconvinced: Pulitzer was stingy with bylines, which were not then a common practice. He once told another correspondent that a byline \"is a privilege, but not a right.\" (Memorandum for James Creelman, 1896, JC.)\n\nPhillips consented to remain: Marcosson, Phillips, 169.\n\nLeaving the paper: LAT, 12/24/1893, 25; ChTr, 11/26/1893, 25. DCS-JP, 13\u201314.\n\nPulitzer suffered from: It is risky to try to identify psychological problems in historical figures. Still, \"Blindness and deafness have both been recognized as causal agents in mental illness,\" according to Anthony Storr, Solitude, 51. Hyperesthesia is a real effect, not hypochondriacal, according to Edwin N. Carter, a clinical psychologist in private practice. \"The peripheral nervous system,\" Carter says, \"has an exaggerated response eliciting sympathetic nervous activity at the expense of parasympathetic activity.\" A common hyperesthesia can be found in children who feel that clothing is scratching no matter how soft it is, or too tight no matter how loose it is. (Carter to author, 10/24/2008.)\n\nHis condition, in any case: JP to Adam Politzer, quoted in WRR, 255\u2013256.\n\nAs if his own health: Doctor's report of RP, 3/10/1893, JP-CU, Box 8.\n\nThe older Pulitzer children: RP to LP, 2/1/1894, JP-CU.\n\nAll winter Joseph: JP to KP, 4/27/1893, JP-CU; GWH to JP, 4/28/1894. In reporting his findings on Colorado Springs, Hosmer added, \"I have not yet said any mention of this to Mrs. Pulitzer.\" Also JP to KP, 4/28/1894, JP-CU.\n\nIn New York: JP to Depew, 5/17/1894, CDP.\n\nJones's ineptitude at: AtCo, 12/10/1893, 18.\n\nWith the problem of Jones: ChTr, 6/7/1894, 2.\n\nUnlike the coterie: ABF\u20132001, Box 3.\n\nUpon arriving in New York: BoGl, 6/24/1894, 23.\n\nSenator David Hill: McClellan, The Gentleman and the Tiger, 99\u2013100. When he arrived for their appointment at the Normandy Hotel, McCellan found Hill talking with George Harvey, whom he met during a short stint working at the World, and who was now doing political work for Pulitzer's friend Whitney.\n\nOn his return: AtCo, 12/29/1894, 3.\n\nJones's contract: DCS-JP, 199. The terms of the contract described by Seitz are confirmed by a document in the Fogarty Collection.\n\nFor Pulitzer, Jekyll Island's: AtCo, 1/11/1895, 3.\n\nOne of the few witnesses: Correspondence of Felix Webber, 9/27/1894; 12/9/1894; 1/2/1895, JP-MHS.\n\nKate had certainly: JP to KP, JP-CU, Box 8. This letter was partially burned, probably in a house fire.\n\nHer separation from Joseph: \"H.\" to KP, Saturday, 10/10/1895 and 10/18/1895. AB-LC.\n\nIn May, Pulitzer: Moray Lodge, on Campden Hill, next to Holland Park; JP to TD, 6/30/1895, TD.\n\nThat summer the remodeled: BoGl, 1/10/1895, 8.\n\nThe \"tower of silence\": Cobb, Exit Laughing, 131.\n\nRoosevelt's claim that: JLH, 108.\n\nReading the editorial: Morris, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, 504\u2013505; Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 1, 497.\n\nIndeed, Roosevelt's ambitions: ChTr, 2/23/1896, 11.\n\nThe rebuff drew: NYT, 12/18, 1895, 1; ChTr, 12/18/1895, 1; AtCo, 12/18/1895, 1.\n\nPulitzer refused to: Quoted in DCS-JP, 203.\n\nPulitzer had long feared: NYS, 10/6/1878, 3.\n\nPulitzer now expanded: JLH, 119.\n\nIn England, the telegrams: NYW, 12/26 and 12/27, 1895, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 1, 503\u2013505.\n\nUnder such headlines: Eggleston, Recollections, 328\u2013330. Eggleston based his account on notes he wrote that evening before returning to New York.\n\nPulitzer dismissed his men: JLH, 137.\n\nPulitzer won: NYT, 1/8/1896, 2. A senator asked Chandler if he would read one of the telegrams from the World. He said he couldn't, because the paper was now in the hands of Senator Hill of New York, arousing laughter in the chamber. The men looked over at Hill, who only months before had been currying favor with Pulitzer. \"Whatever else the Senator from New York may be,\" Hill told his colleagues, \"he is not, at this time, the defender of Mr. Pulitzer. I leave that to other gentlemen.\"\n\nPulitzer mounted his: JLH, 122.\n\nA few days later: DCS-JP, 209.\n\nRoosevelt, in this: NYT, 3/19/1896, 8.\n\nCHAPTER 23: TROUBLE FROM THE WEST\n\nIn February 1895: APM, 322.\n\nAt the beginning: APM, 285.\n\nFrom its origin: APM, 272.\n\nThe Journal's circulation: Henry Kellett Chambers, \"A Park Row Interlude: Memoir of Albert Pulitzer,\" Journalism Quarterly (Autumn 1963), 542. Also NYT, 11/24/1909, 3.\n\nBut his years: Morning Journal, 4/15/1895 quoted in APM, 323\u2013324.\n\nAt long last: AtCo, 7/26/1896, 23.\n\nPulitzer's men at: DCS-JP, 211. The Examiner's office was located in suite 186 in the Pulitzer Building in 1894\u20131895, according to Trow's City Directory.\n\nPulitzer found out: AtCo, 1/22/1896, 3; JP to James Creelman, 1/18/1896, JC.\n\nAfter two years: JP to James Creelman, 2/18/1896, JC.\n\nWhile the party: DCS-JP, 212\u2013213.\n\n\"The news of\": ChTr, 2/9/1898, 3.\n\n\"The immediate effect\": DCS-JP, 213\u2013214; Nasaw, The Chief, 104; Ochs to JP, quoted in Brown, The Correspondents' War, 28.\n\nHearst's entry into: DCS-JP, 217; Nasaw, The Chief, 105.\n\nWith his newspaper's supremacy: AtCo, 1/17/1897, 7.\n\nOn Jekyll Island: King, Pulitzer's Prize Editor, 295\u2013304.\n\nPulitzer found tranquillity: ChTr, 7/12/1896, 14.\n\nIts pleasures were: WaPo, 6/6/1896, 9; ChTr, 6/6/1896, 2. The entire speech is reprinted in DCS-JP, 218\u2013224.\n\nBefore returning to: JP to Norris, 6/15/1896, JP-LC; various telegrams, JP-LC, Box 1.\n\nThe strength of the silver movement: ChTr, 7/12/1896, 14; Kazin, A Godly Hero, 61.\n\nPulitzer summoned the World's: Eggleston, Recollections, 325\u2013326.\n\nWhen Eggleston delivered: \"He had a wonderful judgement at prophesying and forecasting the elections,\" recalled Joseph Pulitzer Jr. \"I can remember being impressed by that. It was uncanny the way he could do that\": The Reminiscences of Joseph Pulitzer Jr., October 7, 1954, transcript, p. 67, the Oral History Collection of Columbia University.\n\nEggleston and Pulitzer: NYW, 8/11/1896.\n\n\"You can, if\": JP to James Creelman, 11/4/1896, JC; Milton, The Yellow Kids, 107.\n\nThe beauty of the setting: AB to KP, 1/11/1897, JP-CU (misdated as 1896).\n\nEfforts to relieve: JP to KP, 1/14/1897, JP-CU; AB to KP, 1/11/1897, JP-CU (misdated as 1896).\n\nCompounding the council's woes: JP to DCS, 9/2/1897, JP-CU. The door consumed several letters between Bar Harbor and New York.\n\nAs the day neared: AB to DCS, 1/15/1897, JP-LC; BM to JP, 2/16/1903, WP-CU.\n\nWhat had been called: See Campbell, Yellow Journalism, 25\u201349.\n\nClubs and libraries: NYT, 3/4/1897, 3.\n\nPulitzer knew nothing: McDougall, This Is the Life! 242.\n\nPulitzer now realized: JP to JN, 8/21/1897, JP-LC; JP to DCS, 8/28/1897, JP-LC.\n\nIn a state of: AtCo, 3/18/1897, 1. The paper claimed that the previous year, Morgan had bypassed Jekyll and gone to Florida when he learned that Pulitzer was on the island (AtCo 1/17/1897, 7).\n\nAfter a month's rest: Pulitzer added a glass conservatory to the back of the house that he could use as a study and where he could tend to what he called \"matters of state\": DCS-JP, 232; WP, 3/31/1897, 7; Eau Claire Leader, 5/20/1897, 11.\n\nAmong those who came: JP to James Creelman, 11/4/1896, JC; JP to DCS, 4/28/1897, JP-LC; DCS-JP, 232\u2013233.\n\nAlmost as soon: Jones to JP, March 5, 1896, PLFC.\n\nJones grew tired: JP to JN, 6/26/1897, JP-LC; JP to BM, 6/30/1897, JP-LC. A copy of the signed agreement is in the Fogarty Papers.\n\nWith the Jones episode: Letters and telegrams, August 1897, JP-LC.\n\nNo one was exempt: KP to AB, date unknown, 1897, JP-CU.\n\nIn August 1897: AB to KP, 3/3/1896, AB-LC.\n\nIn the fall of 1897: For a discussion of the various versions of Brisbane's departure, see Carlson, Brisbane, 110\u2013111. Elizabeth Jordan, a journalist who worked with Brisbane at the World, told one person that she heard many rumors as to the reasons but she concluded he was asked to leave because Pulitzer was not getting his money's worth from him. Reid to Sparkes, 2/28/1938, London 1886\u20131897 Folder, Box 2, AB.\n\nThe social season: ChTr, 8/1/97, 33; Lowell Sun, 12/18/1897, 2.\n\nLucille made a: Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 1/3/1898, 4; BoGl, 1/1/1898, 12; NYT, 1/2/1898, 7; and 1/5/1898, 4.\n\nIn October there was: JP to TD, 10/13/1897, 12/8/1897, and 12/14/1897.\n\nIt was left to Butes: AB to JN, 12/31/1897, JP-LC.\n\nCHAPTER 24: YELLOW\n\nIn the early morning: NYT, 1/22/1899, 3. Rainsford had been picked by J. P. Morgan for the post.\n\nThe moment didn't: WaPo, 2/18/1898, 7; NYT, 10/28/1898, 1.\n\nMeanwhile, Joseph remained: KP to JP, undated but dated by other elements to the spring of 1898, JP-CU, Box 8.\n\nThe warmth between: GWH to KP, 3/29/1898, JP-CU.\n\nFive hundred miles: Milton, The Yellow Kids, 218\u2013220.\n\nHis boss already knew: Nasaw, The Chief, 130\u2013131.\n\nWithin twenty-four hours: NYW, 2/17/1898, 1; and 2/20/1898, 1.\n\nThe staff struggled: Ledlie to JP, 2/15/1898, JP-CU; DC to JP, 4/15/1898, JP-CU.\n\nThe epic battle: Chapin, Charles Chapin's Story, 179.\n\nNo more stinging: The complete story may be found in Procter, William Randolph Hearst: The Early Years, 124.\n\nIn April, when: TT, 4/7/1898, 12, quoted in Nasaw, The Chief, 132.\n\nFrom the command post: GHL to KP, 4/8/1898, JP-CU.\n\nTrying once more: JP to DCS, 5/23/1897, JP-LC; JP memo, April 1898, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer joined the chorus: JP to DCS, 2/15/1897, and 3/27/1897, JP-LC.\n\n\"If we are\": NYW, 4/10/1898.\n\nUpon completing his: GHL to KP, 4/8/1898, JP-CU; WaPo, 4/20/1898, 8; CP to JP, 5/21/1898, JP-CU.\n\nOn his return: KP letter, 1898, JP-CU, Box 8; NYT, 8/28/1898, 13.\n\nThe \"Journal's war\": Morris, Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, 615, 629.\n\nBy the war's end: JN to JP, 9/11/1899, WP-CU. At least the Post-Dispatch was making money. Its 1898 profits were better than all but two previous years.\n\nAlso coming to Narragansett: KP to CP, 1989, JP-CU. Box 8; NYT, 7/23/1898; AtCo, 7/23/1898, 1.\n\nThe trip through the South: Cashin, First Lady, 290.\n\nOn September 21, 1898: NYT, 9/22/1898, 4.\n\nThe World was desperate: WaPo, 10/10/1898, 6, and 10/14/1898, 6; John Norris, \"Journal and World Revenues Compared,\" 11/14/1898, WP-CU.\n\nNorris, along with Seitz: Memo, 1898, JP-CU, Box 8; DCS to JP, 11/18/1898, WP-CU.\n\nThe typewriters were still: Memo, 11/28/1898, JP-CU.\n\nPulitzer assigned the business manager: JP to JN, 1/31/1899, JP-CU; Noted in February 8\u201314, 1900 Folder, JP-CU, Box 10. A year later, Norris hinted that he thought the reason the deal to sell the Post-Dispatch failed was Pulitzer's inability to understand the financing arrangements. (JN to JP, 3/13/1900, JP-CU.)\n\nKate was also: JN to JP, 2/17/1899, WP-CU; AB to KP, 3/14/1899, JP-CU.\n\nPulitzer told his staff: JP to DCS, 5/4/1899, JP-LC; JP to KP, 5/31/1899, JP-CU.\n\nIn Britain: Walter Leyman to JP, 10/9/1899, JP-CU, quoted in WES, 298\u2013299.\n\nPulitzer headed back: LAT, 5/3/1899, 5.\n\nThat summer Pulitzer: NYT, 5/27/1899, 2. The builder eventually sued to get his payment.\n\nHis house in New York: NYT, 1/10/1900, 2; personal ledger for April 1899 shows expenses and descriptions of items, JP-CU.\n\nKate joined Joseph: JAS to KP, 8/1/1899, JP-CU.\n\nCHAPTER 25: THE GREAT GOD SUCCESS\n\nOne icy night: NYT, 2/15/1891, 5. Jacob Riis reported the story in his Children of the Poor but gave the children different names.\n\nNewsies, as boys: Charles Dickens's fictional Martin Chuzzlewit encountered them when he disembarked in New York. '\"Here's this morning's New York Sewer!' cried one. 'Here's this morning's New York Stabber! Here's the New York Family Spy!...Here's full particulars of the patriotic locofoco movement yesterday, in which the whigs was so chawed up; and the last Alabama gouging case; and the interesting Arkansas dooel with Bowie knives; and all the Political, Commercial, and Fashionable News. Here they are! Here they are! Here's the papers, here's the papers!'\" (Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit, 267.)\n\nSince most copies: The headline, though it may be apocryphal, is said to have been written by Charles Chapin and appears twice in works by Irwin Cobb. See Exit Laughing, 140, and his novel Alias Ben Alibi, 126.\n\nThe newsies became: There is no existing record as to which of the two newspapers raised its wholesale price first. However, only the World's managers were under orders to cut costs. Hearst was still spending money in hopes of beating the World and establishing his own paper. It makes sense that he would have matched the World's price increase but not instigated it.\n\nThe newsies demanded: David Nasaw, \"On Strike with the Newsboy Legion, 1899,\" Big Town, Big Time: A New York Epic: 1898\u20131998 (New York: Sports Publishing, 1998), 1839; DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike,\" July 27, 1899, WP-CU; NYT, 7/22/1899, 4.\n\nThe strike exacted: Pulitzer had left England on the Majestic on July 12, 1899, and a special train car had brought him and the family to Bar Harbor on July 20, 1899. See Lowell Sun, 7/10/1899, 19, and Daily Kennebec Journal, 7/21/1899; DCS to JP, 7/22/1899, WP-CU; John M. Quinn, Anaconda Standard, 8/6/1899, 3.\n\nBut enemies with: DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike. 7/22/1899, WP-CU. As Seitz left the Journal's office he spotted Hearst with four leaders of the newsboys. They had come from his office and had promised to call off the strike against the Journal if Hearst agreed to lower the price to 50 cents per 100. The meeting set off a rumor that he would give in. \"I cannot believe he will be so foolish,\" Merrill wired to Pulitzer. \"The boys cannot last many days\u2014in spite of encouragement the other papers are giving.\"\n\nAdvertisers abandoned the papers: DCS, \"Memorandum on the Newsboys Strike,\" 7/25/1899, WP-CU.\n\nUsing homeless men: DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike,\" 7/27/1899, WP-CU.\n\nAs the strike continued: David Nasaw, \"Dirty-Faced Davids and the Twin Goliaths,\" American Heritage, Vol. 36, No. 3 (1985), 46; NYT, 7/27/1899, 3.\n\nA clever ruse: The compromise broke the strike but was recognized by others as a loss for the newsboys. For example, newsdealers who had supported the boys withdrew their support, declaring the strike a failure: NYT, 8/1/1899, 4.\n\nFacing the resolute partnership: DCS to JP, 7/26/1899, WP-CU; DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on the Newsboys' Strike.\" 7/27/1899. WP-CU Seitz also told Pulitzer he had paid no bribes: NYT, 7/28/1899, 4.\n\nThis was no longer: DCS to JP, 7/26/1899, WP-CU.\n\nWhen David Graham Phillips: JP to GWH, 12/22/1910 reprinted in DCS-JP, xii\u2013xiii.\n\nThe pressure was: JP to Merrill, quoted in DCS, 246.\n\nOne could never: JP to WHM, reprinted in DCS, 247.\n\nDespite the outburst: JP to DGP, 8/17/1899, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer, however, was: Maurice, The New York of the Novelists, 139; Marcosson, David Graham Phillips and His Times, 208.\n\nIn Phillips's novel: Phillips, The Great God Success, 11.\n\nFollowing the settlement: DCS to JP, 10/5/1899, WP-CU; DCS, \"Memorandum for Mr. Pulitzer on Los,\" 7/31/1899, WP-CU.\n\nThe two managers: DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Mr. Seitz' Conversation with Los,\" 8/14/1899, WP-CU.\n\nProposals for a peace treaty: Nasaw, The Chief, 110; JP to BM, 8/29/1898, JP-LC; DCS to JP, October 4, 1898, JP-LC; memo, 12/19/1898, JP-LC; see also Nasaw, The Chief, 148\u2013149. The squabble over the wire service would not die. Hearst enraged Pulitzer when he started using wire copy from the Journal in his Evening Journal. Pulitzer sued. Faced with the threat of being personally dragged into court, Hearst vowed to terminate the negotiations and resume his attacks on Pulitzer in the paper, \"making it as personal and as powerful as he can,\" Carvalho warned.\n\nKeenly aware of: JP to DCS, 7/24/1899, JP-LC.\n\nCombination instead of: JP to DGP, 8/23/1902, The Sherman act specified, \"Every contract, combination in the form of trust or otherwise, or conspiracy, in restraint of trade or commerce among the several States, or with foreign nations, is declared to be illegal. Every person who shall make any contract or engage in any combination or conspiracy hereby declared to be illegal shall be deemed guilty of a felony.\"\n\nRemaining in Bar Harbor: JP to DCS, 8/19/1899, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer placed high hopes: JP to DCS, 8/25/1899, JP-LC.\n\nLike a nervous suitor: JP to DCS, 9/4/1899, and 9/5/1899, JP-LC.\n\nUpon finally sitting: DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Mr. Seitz' Conversation with Los,\" 8/14/1899, WP-CU.\n\nFrom the start, both: DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Los and Treaty,\" 8/3/1899, WP-CU. \"By the way,\" said Carvalho, \"Mr. Pulitzer is taking a great deal of my time and much of our money in fighting an Associated Press suit against the Journal, in which he will be beaten on several important points. It seems to me that any agreement ought to be preceded by the abandonment of that suit.\" Seitz tried to keep the issue off the table by arguing that it would resolve itself in court. His view prevailed, and he and Carvalho decided to draft a contract to bring to Hearst and Pulitzer. \"Of course,\" Seitz told Pulitzer, \"I could see that a treaty of peace was hardly feasible while an active war went on.\"\n\nWhile the men negotiated: JN to JP, 8/8/1899, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer pledged: JP to DCS, 9/23/1899, JP-LC. The proposed contract may be found in WP-CU, Box 12, 9/1\u201315/1899.\n\nWhen Norris reviewed: JN to JP, 9/7/1899, and BM to JP, 9/14/1899, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer ignored both: JP to DCS, 9/2/1899, JP-LC; DCS, \"Memo for Mr. Pulitzer on Mr. Seitz' Conversation with Los,\" 8/14/1899.\n\nAs with crushing: JP to DCS, 9/23/1899, JP-LC.\n\nThe negotiations dragged: DCS to JP, 11/23/1899, WP-CU.\n\n\"I cannot get over\": Marcosson, Phillips, 98\u201399.\n\nWith the arrival of winter: Phillips, The Great God Success, 170, 274, 278\u2013279.\n\nCHAPTER 26: FLEEING HIS SHADOW\n\nMuffled sounds of screaming: NYT, 1/10/1900, 3; WaPo, 1/10/1900, 3; BrEa, 1/9/1900, 18; NYH, 1/10/1900; James W. McLane to JP, 1/14/1900, JP-CU.\n\nKate and the children: ChTr, 2/21/1900, 4; NYC Fire Department Chief and Police Chief Clerk letters to DCS, 3/5/1900, JP-CU.\n\nAs Pulitzer's fifty-third birthday: NYT, 4/13/1900, 9; 1899 Expenditures, in January 1\u20137, 1900, Folder, JP-CU, Box 10.\n\nKate had not yet: Dr. McLane to JP, 5/7/1900, JP-CU; JAS to JP, 5/7/1900, JP-CU.\n\nAt the World: JP telegram, 1/5/1900, JP-LC.\n\nSince January: JN to JP, 4/2/1900, JP-CU; Berger, The Story of the New York Times, 127; ChTr, 10/17/1902, 12.\n\nPhillips was also: DGP to JP, 4/5/1900, JP-CU; BM to JP, 4/5/1900, WP-CU; JAS to JP, 4/14/1900, JP-CU. When Phillips returned, he got into a fight with Pulitzer over the cost of the trip.\n\nAfter more than a decade: Transcript of JP talk, 1900 Folder, WP-CU, Box 14.\n\nThe telegrams tested: ABi to AB, 2/29/1901, JP-CU.\n\nPeople in competitive: The only known surviving copy of the codebook once belonged to H. A. Jenks, JP-CU. Here is a sample of a coded telegram, followed by the decoded version. Coded: \"Would unhesitatingly give atlas of angers aroma for arm on second art agony especially if I were anxious to get rid of management of amour.\" Decoded: \"Would unhesitatingly give approval of Knapp's proposition for arbitration on second-class security especially if I were anxious to get rid of management of Post-Dispatch.\" JP to AB, 2/22/1899, JP-CU.\n\nThis 5,000-entry book: Sometimes Pulitzer's choice of codes must have raised an eyebrow or two. One must wonder what a telegraph operator in the 1890s made of a message that spoke of \"vagina\" ($27,500 in advertising for a week) or \"vaginal\" ($28,000). Pulitzer organized his lexicon by letter groupings. Codes for cash balances, for instance, were all words that began with H. \"Ha\" stood for $1,000; \"hypocrite\" meant $400,000. For his private bank balance, Pulitzer used a term that many people looking at their own checkbooks could relate to: \"hysterics.\" The complex code was rendered even more cumbersome by the addition of codes within coded messages. When Pulitzer sought to have checks sent out in his name, his requests were supposed to include one of five names from a list of cities found in the annual World Almanac. Without the name, no payment was authorized.\n\nTo stay out of trouble: The memo dated 2/23/1910, is bound in Jenks's codebook, JP-CU.\n\nFor himself, Pulitzer: In 2005, when the Pulitzer family announced the intention of selling the Post-Dispatch, a group of employees made a last-ditch effort to purchase it. They named their attempt the \"Andes Project\": Guild Reporter, 2/11/2005, 1.\n\nIn late June 1900: NYT, 6/26/1900, 6; RP to JP, 6/15/1900, JP-CU.\n\nLike most of: Ralph did not want Butes to bring the matter up with his father. \"I judge that the paper is worrying him considerably and I hate to talk money with him, as you know\": RP to AB, 8/1899, JP-CU.\n\nRalph's fifteen-year-old brother: JPII to JP, 3/12/1901, JP-CU.\n\nIt was not until: Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 32. Seven years later, Joseph Jr. was present when his father received an appeal from a worker who had been fired after his parents refused to let him come to work on Rosh Hashanah. \"I appeal to you, being that you are a Jew (otherwise, I would not appeal),\" wrote Isaac Feigenbaum. Joseph Jr. told Seitz that his father said, \"If this chap really has a sincere religious conviction, that fact should be considered. He leaves the matter with you.\" (Feigenbaum to JP, 9/27/1907, JP-LC.)\n\nPulitzer supervised the children's: JP to DCS, 10/30/1900, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer had even: DWP, 33; JP to KP, 11/24\u201329/1901, dictation in notebook, JP-CU, Box 16, Folder 5.\n\nPulitzer took less interest: JP to KP, 12/4/1900, JP-CU. Pulitzer's attitude toward his daughters was typical of fathers at the time. At his death, he left his daughters each a fraction of his estate but no interest in any of the newspapers.\n\nJoseph endlessly expressed: JP to KP, 1/14/1897, JP-CU; Adam Politzer to JP, 10/19/1900, JP-CU.\n\nAs her time: DGP to JP, 11/22/1900, WP-CU. The passage to which Phillips alludes may have been Horace, Epistles, Book 1, Poem 1, lines 81\u201393.\n\nWhen one of the governesses: Ledlie to JP, 6/29/1900, JP-CU; KP to JP, no date, probably 6/29/1900, June Folder, JP-CU, Box 11; KP to JP, 7/18/1900 and 7/19/1900; JP to KP, 7/21/1900; KP to JP, 7/22/1900, KP to JP, 7/25/1900, JP-CU; JAS to JP, 8/1/1900, JP-CU.\n\nIt was not a good time: JP to KP, 10/22/1899, JP-CU.\n\nAfter Davidson's death: J. Clark Murray to JP, 9/16/1900, and W. R. Warren to JP, 9/21/1900, JP-CU.\n\nIn the fall of 1900: JC to JP, no date, in 1900 folder, WP-CU, Box 14.\n\nBacking Bryan put: Kazin, A Godly Hero, 105.\n\nIn the early morning: ChTr, 10/10/1900, 1.\n\n\"In the few moments\": GHW to KP, 10/15/1900, JP-CU.\n\nThe new century: Details of the war between the large retailers and the World may be found in WP-CU, Box 18.\n\nAn upturn in: The modern securities laws were years away. What Pulitzer was doing was not illegal. For instance, his banker obtained confidential information about his bank's forthcoming dividends and purchased shares for Pulitzer to benefit from the higher price the stock would fetch. (DC to JP, 10/14/1904, JP-CU.)\n\nPulitzer invested in: In 1902 and 1904, Pulitzer asked Clarke to sell railroad and steel stocks because he was uncomfortable owning them. In one instance, Clarke replied, \"It would seem a pity to make the sacrifice simply because your sense of what is right and just is not complied with\" (DC to JP, 9/2/1902, JP-CU); JP to DC, undated, JP-CU, Box 8.\n\nAll the income: DuVivier and Company to KP, 4/5/1901; Gebr\u00fcder Simon to JP, 12/5/1900; GWH to KP, 2/21/1901, JP-CU.\n\nThe new mansion: William Mead to Hughmon Hawley, 12/14/1900, MMW.\n\nJust when matters: Stanford White to JP, 2/11/1902, MMW.\n\nIn the circulation war: DCS to JP, 9/17/1891, WP-CU. Earlier in the year, when giving instructions to his editors, Pulitzer used an example that eerily came to pass, \"Not even if McKinley is assassinated.\"(JP comment, in Merrill summary upon return from Jekyll, 3/8\u201310/1901 WP-CU.)\n\nFor the first: WAS, 324; BM memo, 10/21/1901, WP-CU.\n\nOn the other hand: PB to JP, 9/10/1901, WP-CU.\n\nThe combination of: Two years later the Wall Street Journal, which regularly commented on the city's journalism, noted the change. \"The World has in the past few years retained all the more desirable attributes of the 'yellow' journalism, [but] it has abandoned many of the methods of degraded demagoguery which have made the Journal a stench in the nostrils of people who are able to think.\" (WSJ, 5/11/1903, 1.)\n\nThe calm that Pulitzer: Figures contained in 1902 Folder, JP-CU, Box 19.\n\nIn choosing art: GHL to JP, 3/24/1902, JP-CU.\n\nKate was willing: JP to KP, 4/16/1902, JP-CU. In fairness, Joseph also included tender words about how much he was thinking of her. But these may well have been written to make her feel better or may have been the idea of Butes, who would have taken the dictation.\n\nKate, however, did not: GHL to AB, 5/23/1902, JP-CU.\n\n\"I not only\": DCS-JP, 254.\n\nJoseph left Kate: Dr. Bounus to JP, 7/3/1902, JP-CU; KP to GHL, 7/27/1902, JP-CU.\n\nAlone in Maine: GHL to AB, 8/9/1902 and AB to GHL, 8/10/1902, JP-CU.\n\nIn September, John Dillon: BoGl, 10/16/1902, 4; ChTr. 10/17/1902, 12.\n\nFor an additional: JP to FDW, 10/16/1902. Bills, letters, and drawings, 10/29/1902; prepaid voucher, 10/29/1902, JP-CU; JP dictation to White Star, 8/28/1905, LS Folder, 1903\u20131905; JP to White Star, 11/17/1900, JP-CU. White Star kept the mats in storage for times when Pulitzer booked passage. See AI, 196\u2013197.\n\nYears before, while running: PD, 5/30/1879, 2. The meeting was the Thirteenth Annual Session of the Missouri Press Association, held at Columbia, MO, May 27 and 28, 1879; Chicago Inter-Ocean, 11/27/1887. See also NYW, 4/4/1887, quoted in WRR, 754.\n\nBy the 1890s: Life, 9/8/1898, 189. Henry Luce would later buy this magazine and turn it into the famous weekly of the twentieth century.\n\nWhile he was at rest: Correspondence, 8/12/1902, JP-CU, indicates that a lawyer came to Maine to revise the will. For an example of press figures with whom Pulitzer discussed his ideas, see H. W. Steed to JP, 7/6/1904, BLMC; \"Rough Memorandum,\" 1902, JP-CU.\n\nAlthough his idea: Franklin Prentiss to JP, 11/26/1887, and \"Christmas Prizes Offered by Mr. Pulitzer,\" 11/3/1899, JP-CU; November memo, 1899, JP-LC, Box 2.\n\nPulitzer assigned Hosmer: JP to KP, 5/20/1904, JP-CU.\n\nOn the train: JP to GWH, 8/11/1902, JP-CU; DCS-JP, 435; AtCo, 2/3/1903, 5.\n\nIgnoring Seitz's opinion: JP to GWH, 8/11/1902, JP-CU.\n\nOn Sunday, February 22: Volo and Volo, Family Life in Nineteenth-Century America, 196.\n\nPulitzer let loose: JP telegram, 2/26/1903; WP-CU, DCS to JP, 2/27/1903; JP memorandum, 2/27/1903; JP memo to DCS, 2/28/1903; Council notes, 3/2/1903, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer replied that: Gale was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1921, for a play based on her novel Miss Lulu Bett. For more on her work at the World, see Morris, The Rose Man of Sing Sing, 155\u2013156.\n\nWhen Edith arrived: BoGl, 5/9/1903, 20; Edith Pulitzer to JP, 5/1903, JP-CU; NYT, 5/9/1903, 8.\n\nPulitzer took great joy: Draft of letter in July 3\u20136, 1903 Folder, JP-CU, as well as numerous other items in the files.\n\nIn fact, not long after: James Tuohy to JP, 7/17/1903, JP-CU. I have chosen not to use the man's name, as there is no way to ascertain his side of the story. There exists one letter in which the man is said to deny the charges.\n\nOne reader in particular: JWC to JP, February 1903, WP-CU.\n\nWriting to Joseph: KP to JP, 6/21/1903, JP-CU.\n\nCHAPTER 27: CAPTURED FOR THE AGES\n\nIn early 1904: JWB, 183\u2013185.\n\nFor Kate, the winter: KP to JP, 2/19/1904; KP to JP, 2/4/1904; JP to KP, 2/22/1904; KP to JP, 2/23/1904; KP to JP, 3/1/1904, JP-CU.\n\nRemaining in New York: JPII to JP, 4/7/1904; JP to AB, 1/29/1904, JP-CU.\n\nHarvard decided that: JPII to JP, 2/15/1904, JP-CU.\n\nAfter her time: KP to JP, 5/4/1904, KP to JP, 5/13/1904, JP-CU. J. P. Morgan was also resting in Aix-les-Bains. \"If you two get together there will be an interesting time,\" said Pulitzer's banker Dumont Clarke (DC to JP, 5/6/1904, JP-CU).\n\n\"In all my planning\": JP, \"The College of Journalism,\" North American Review (May 1904), 680.\n\nHowever, in the year: DCS-JP, 457.\n\nButler consented but: Butler to George L. Rives, 8/15/1903, quoted in Boylan, Pulitzer's School, 15.\n\nRealizing that the story: NYT, 8/16/1903, 6; TR to Robert Underwood Johnson, 12/17/1908, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 6, 1428.\n\nNone of the public praise: DCS-JP, 460.\n\nIn Aix-les-Bains: JP to KP, 5/25/1904 (misdated as 1905), JP-CU.\n\nJoseph didn't rest: Transcripts of Pulitzer's Pitman Shorthand Notebooks, 1903\u20131905, LS.\n\nWhen Pulitzer's mood: JP to JPII, 5/23/1904 (misdated as 1905), JP-CU.\n\nNone of Pulitzer's secretaries: JP to KP, transcripts of Pulitzer's Pitman Shorthand Notebooks, 1903\u20131905, LS.\n\nHis cruelty stung: KP to JP, 9/15/1904, JP-CU.\n\nThe elections of 1904: AB to SW, 1/1/1904, WP-CU.\n\nRalph dutifully reported: RP to JP, 1/4/1904, and JP to RP, 1/25/1904, JP-CU. Roosevelt's interest in seeing Pulitzer is also noted in a letter from the president to Harvey on January 22, 1904. (Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 3, 702.)\n\nRoosevelt extended his invitation: TR to J. E. Smith in DCS memo to JP, 9/19/1899, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer sent Williams: \"Bryan Statement,\" 2/25/1904, JP-CU.\n\nAs the Democrats settled: WSJ, 6/28/1904, 3; JP to DCS, 5/6/1904, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer was elated: WAS, 356. See also Stoddard, As I Knew Them, 56\u201357; Morris, Theodore Rex, 341. Morris believed Parker was swayed by the New York Times's opposition to the silver standard. See also Kazin, A Godly Hero, 166\u2013120.\n\nFrom Bar Harbor: JP to WHM, 8/1904, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer had long sought: JP editorial memo, September 1904, WP-CU.\n\nThe ten questions: J. W. Slaght to BM, 10/20/1904, WP-CU; Klein, Life and Legend of E. H. Harriman, 364.\n\nRoosevelt considered the attacks: TR to Henry Cabot Lodge, 10/31/1904, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 4, 1006\u20131007; JP, draft of editorial, JP-CU, Box 31.\n\nAs 1905 began: David Francis to JP, 2/22/1905; JP to FDW, 3/18/1905; JP to Francis, 3/1/1905; Francis to JP, 3/2/1905, JP-CU.\n\nWhen Francis returned: JP to Francis, 3/3/1905; JP to FDW, 3/10/1905, JP-CU.\n\n\"Mr. Pulitzer is alone\": ChTr, 2/3/1905, 6.\n\nOn April 10: KP to JP, 4/11/1905; JP to RP, 5/25/1905, JP-CU.\n\nNewspaper management was: GWH took down the conversation. See November 1904, JP-CU, Box 31.\n\nKate had mailed: JT to JP, 3/12/1902; JP to GWH, 4/15/1903, JP-CU.\n\nFinally the painter consented: KP to JP, 4/11/1905.\n\nBy mid-May: KP to JP, 5/8/1905; notes on undated sheet, 5/15/1905, JP-CU.\n\nHer portrait complete: MAM to JP, 5/21/1905, JP-CU.\n\nKate wanted to leave: JP to Edith Pulitzer, 5/12/1905; see also JP dictation, May 9\u201314 Folder, Box 34; JP to KP, 5/14/1905; JP dictation to KP, 5/25/1905, JP-CU.\n\nAlmost in a pique: JP to EP, 6/1/1905, and EP to JP, 6/2/1905, JP-CU.\n\nUnaware of her husband's: KP to JP, 6/16/1905, JP-CU.\n\nPulitzer took his turn: James Tuohy to JP, 4/4/1905; JT to JP, 4/26/1905, JP-CU.\n\nAccompanying Pulitzer to London: JP to Bettina Wirth, undated June Folder, 1904, JP-CU, Box 30; JP to Dr. Van Noorden, 10/1906, JP to AB, 6/18/19093, JP-CU.\n\nWhen Thwaites first: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 51\u201353; Mortimer to JP, 1/19/1902, JP-CU.\n\nOn this trip: KP to JP, 5/8/1905, JP-CU; Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 51\u201353.\n\nCHAPTER 28: FOREVER UNSATISFIED\n\nThe story had surfaced: Beard, After the Ball, 171\u2013178.\n\nThe World aggressively: DCS-JP, 275.\n\nThe staff usually: JP to FC, DCS-JP, 280.\n\nHow to please: Memo to JP, probably written by Samuel Williams, 10/1907, WP-CU.\n\nWithin a month: JP to DCS, 8/28/1905, JP-LC.\n\nMerrill was wounded: WHM to JP, 9/14/1905, WP-CU.\n\nWorried that he might: AB to WHM, 11/14/1905; WM to AB, 11/20/1904, WP-CU. Four years later, Pulitzer instructed Seitz to buy letters that Pulitzer had written to Townsend in the 1870s. (See JP to DCS, 4/2/1909, JP-LC.) It is unlikely that any of these letters contained anything particularly scandalous. Rather, Pulitzer probably felt that his frank comments about political figures would be embarrassing if quoted.\n\nRalph finally screwed up his courage: RP to JP, 7/28/1904, and Nolan and Loeb to JP, 1/9/1905, JP-CU.\n\nMoney was of little concern: RP to JP, 6/6/1905, JP-CU; KP to Sally, 9/20/1905, JP-MHS.\n\nOn October 14: WaPo, NYT, BoGl, 10/8/1905; KP to JP, 7/2/1905; and KP to JP, 7/12/1905, JP-CU.\n\nFor a brief moment: RP to JP, 10/14/1905, quoted in WAS, 374.\n\nThe father expressed: JP to RP, 10/5/1905, JP-CU.\n\nJoseph decided that: Walker, City Editor, 6. See also Morris, The Rose Man of Sing Sing.\n\nIn April, Joseph called: Chapin, Charles Chapin's Story, 216.\n\nHis father's continued harshness: JPII to JP, 12/12/1906. The Reminiscences of Joseph Pulitzer Jr., October 7, 1954, transcript, p. 15, the Oral History Collection of Columbia University. For the full story of JPII's rise, see Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II.\n\nAfter Joe was banished: Telegraph notes, 5/15/1906; KP to JP, 11/24/1906, JP-CU.\n\nKate, her companion: KP to JP, 5/16/1906, JP-CU.\n\nIn London, Kate: KP to JP, 5/7/1906, and 5/20/1906, JP-CU.\n\nAfter Paris, the group: Edith Pulitzer to JP, 5/24/1906, JP-CU.\n\nKate returned to: KP to JP, 8/28/1906, JP-CU.\n\nAfter consecutive failed bids: KP to JP, 10/28/1906, JP-CU; Nasaw, The Chief, 156\u2013158.\n\nOf all of Hearst's enemies: WAS, 383; JP editorial memo, 9/1904, WP-CU.\n\nHearst, however, knew: ChTr, 10/28/1906, 1.\n\nIn the end: WaPo, 11/18/1906, 11.\n\nThree decades after: The Reminiscences of Joseph Pulitzer Jr., October 7, 1954, transcript, p. 39, the Oral History Collection of Columbia University.\n\nKate was proud: KP to JP, 11/18/1906 and 11/11/1906, JP-CU.\n\nReaching age seventy-five: GWH to JP, 12/25/1906, JP-CU.\n\nShe stayed in New York: KP to JP, 12/24/1906; JP to AB, 12/23/1906, JP-CU.\n\nShortly after New Year's Day: KP to JP, 1/12/1907, JP-CU.\n\n\"You would be\": KP to JP, 2/5/1907, JP-CU.\n\nTo her pleasure: Stephen MacKenna to JP, 3/6/1907, JP-CU; WRR, 562.\n\n\"As to the sittings\": Butler, Rodin, 408.\n\nPulitzer's French: NYW, 10/31/1911.\n\nThe sittings with Rodin: Doods, Journal and Letters of Stephen MacKenna, 32.\n\nOn April 10: WaPo, 4/12/1907, 4; ChTr, 4/11/1907, 7; NYT, 4/11/1907, 5.\n\nThere still was no truce: JP to JPII, 5/27/1907, JP-CU.\n\nJoseph's somber mood: Marcosson, Phillips, 134\u2013135.\n\nThat Butes went: AB to DCS, 2/27/1904.\n\nIn the fall: Undated, unsigned report, filed in December 1908 Folder, JP-CU, Box 58.\n\nThe $1.5 million Liberty: JP, May 1906 Folder, Box 39, JP-CU.\n\nAs a result: JP to GWH, 4/1907, JP-CU.\n\nOn a Sunday morning: The visit was on July 26, 1908. A copy boy, Alexander L. Schlosser, who later became an editor, recorded the events of Pulitzer's visit to the World. See JWB, 208\u2013214.\n\nClarke smiled but: GWH and DCS agree on the number of visits Pulitzer had made to the building since its construction.\n\nThe truth was: JP and Clark Firestone, conversation transcript, 8/5/1908, WP-CU.\n\nTwo months before: NYW, 5/10/1908; BoGl, 5/10/1908, 13; WaPo, 5/2/1908, 2, AI 28.\n\nIn August, Pulitzer: FC to JP, 2/8/1908, WP-CU.\n\nIn fact, Bryan's: Ibid.\n\nPulitzer instructed Cobb: JP to FC, quoted in DCS-JP, 328.\n\nPulitzer's efforts were: Notes 7/6/1908, WP-CU.\n\nWithout knowing Pulitzer's motives: DCS-JP, 340.\n\nCHAPTER 29: CLASH OF TITANS\n\nOn the evening: NYT, 10/2/1908, 3.\n\nAccording to rumors: Frank Cobb, \"How the Story Came into the Office,\" 3, EHP, Folder 21.\n\nThe story had immense appeal: Roosevelt, Autobiography, 553.\n\nSpeer left his office: NYT, 2/23/1915, 13; JP to Adolph Ochs, 3/26/1908, NYTA.\n\nAfter listening to: DCS-JP, 352.\n\nAround ten o'clock: Frank Cobb, \"How the Story Came into the Office\" DCS-JP, 353.\n\nAs soon as: Whitley later claimed that he had told Van Hamm the article was untrue. But the World wisely kept the copy of the proof that Whitley marked up. According to Frank Cobb, \"It shows that Mr. Whitley scratched out the name of Charles P. Taft and substituted Henry W. Taft. Then he erased the name of Henry W. Taft and restored the name of Charles P. Taft.\" (Cobb, \"How the Story Came into the Office,\" 1\u20132.)\n\n\"But for Mr. Cromwell\": Ibid., 4.\n\nOver the next: JP telegram, 10/2/1909, quoted in DCS-JP, 343; NYW, 10/14/1908, 1, and 10/21/1908, 1.\n\nThe articles, while conceding: Indianapolis News, 11/2/1908.\n\nPulitzer was sailing: JP to FC, 11/3/1908, JP-LC; DCS-JP, 349.\n\nWith the election over: TR to William D. Foulke, 12/1/1908, reprinted in ChTr, 12/8/1908, 1.\n\nAn astonished Pulitzer: WaPo, 12/7/1908, 2; DCS-JP, 356.\n\nRoosevelt had not mentioned: Cobb, \"How the Story Came into the Office,\" 9.\n\nBy the time the Liberty: NYW, 12/8/1908.\n\n\"I do not know\": JP conversation notes, 8/27/1908, JP-LC.\n\n\"When I was\": TR to HS, 12/9/1908, HSP.\n\nRoosevelt wanted revenge: Alfred H. Kelly, \"Constitutional Liberty and the Law of Libel: A Historian's View,\" American Historical Review, Vol. 74, No. 2 (December 1968), 429\u2013452.\n\nStimson found the envelope: HS to TR, 12/10/1908, HSP. To begin his research in a stealthy manner, Stimson had to obtain the Attorney General's permission to requisition $10 to buy old issues of the World. \"No source is open to me to read the files of the World for that month in connection with the Panama matter without possible danger of arousing interest and publicity\": HS to AB, 12/21/1908, NARA MD.\n\nImpatient, Roosevelt looked: Rhodes, The McKinley and Roosevelt Administrations, 271.\n\n\"It seems to me\": TR to Knox, 12/10/1908, Roosevelt, Letters, Vol. 6, 1418\u20131419.\n\nNext, Roosevelt composed: WaPo, 1/17/1909, 1.\n\nOn December 15: ChTr, 12/16/1908, 2.\n\nTwo minutes into the message: NYT, 12/16/1908, 1.\n\nWhile Roosevelt was seeking: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 57\u201358.\n\nPulitzer also summoned: Van Hamm to JP, 1/7/1909, WP-CU.\n\nThis didn't satisfy: JP to DCS, 12/16/1908. WP-CU.\n\nThere was nothing: JP memo, phoned to Cobb, 12/15/1908, JP-LC.\n\nBy nightfall, Pulitzer: Mr. Pulitzer's statement, 12/15/1908, JP-LC.\n\nIt was a half-truth: Memo written on board Liberty, 6/26/1908; JP to Williams, 9/12/1908, JP-LC.\n\nAid came from: ChTr, 12/7/1908, 6. Bryan also wrote a supportive note to Cobb. Bryan to FC, 12/19/1908, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer believed prison: JP note to Robert P. Porter, 12/15/1908, JP-LC; Notes, 12/16/1908, JP-LC; DCS to JP, 12/17/1908, WP-CU.\n\nThe Liberty's southerly course: WaPo, 12/20/1908, 2; ChTr, 12/20/1908, 2; JP to Cobb, 12/18/1908, and Notes of Mr. Pulitzer's Conversations, 12/19\u201320/1908, JP-LC.\n\nSummoned, Cobb raced: JP to DCS, 12/19/1908, and Confidential memo to Cobb, 12/23/1908, JP-LC.\n\nLegally, Pulitzer's guess: HS to Bonaparte, 1/15/1909, CJB.\n\nDespite Stimson's hesitance: Butt, The Letters of Archie Butt, 314.\n\nLater that night: RHL to JP, 2/7/1909, WP-CU. Earl Harding reported Roosevelt's words as follows: \"As to the men I'm bringing libel suit against, I will cinch them. I will cinch them in Federal Courts, if I can. If I cannot cinch them there, I will cinch them in the State Courts. But the one sure thing is we will cinch them.\" Harding, The Untold Story of Panama, 97; WRR, 710; WaPo, 1/31/1909, 1.\n\nWith the clock ticking: DCS-JP, 373; JP told DCS \"get into the habit of using the cipher as much as necessity requires.\" (Notes dictated 2/10/1909, JP-LC); Davis to DCS, 1/18/1909, JP-LC; Notes 2/1/1909, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer could not restrain: JP to FC, 1/26/1909; JP undated notes, JP-LC, Box 8.\n\nThe Justice Department's attorneys: BoGl, 1/17/1909, 12.\n\nStimson was convinced: NYT, 1/17/1909, 1 and 1/19/1908, 3.\n\nRalph, who feared: NYT, 1/21/1909, 1.\n\nStimson was infuriated: HS to Bonaparte, 1/21/1909, CJB.\n\nCobb seized the: \"Freedom of the Press,\" NYW, 2/6/1909. Amusingly, a compositor changed \"persecution\" to \"prosecution\" in setting the editorial into type. FC to JP, 2/6/1909, WP-CU.\n\nIn the legal proceedings: WaPo, 2/2/1909, 1.\n\n\"Thus far, we\": HS to Bonaparte, 2/8/1909, CJB; TR to HS, 1/28/1909, HSP.\n\nThe following morning: NYT, 1/30/1909, 3.\n\n\"To put it\": Cobb, Exit Laughing, 156\u2013161.\n\n\"Even so,\" Jerome continued: Stimson had feared this might be the case. He wrote to Bonaparte that Jerome's \"personal relations with the New York World have naturally made him reluctant to push forward under a charge of officiousness and a desire for personal revenge.\" (HS to Bonaparte, 1/28/1909, CJB.)\n\nStimson remained firmly: Ibid. and HS to Bonaparte, 2/8/1909, and 2/10/1909, CJB.\n\nBonaparte brought the: Bonaparte to HS, 2/9/1909, CJB; TR to HS, 2/10/1909, HSP.\n\nStimson did not cower: HS to TR, 2/11/1909, HSP.\n\nOn his yacht: Reporters' notes on grand jury, WP-CU, Box 46; JP dictation, 2/10/1908, and JP notes 2/5/1909, JP-LC; WaPo, 2/18/1906, 1.\n\nFrank Cobb was ready: NYW, 2/18/1909.\n\nArrest warrants were: JP to FC, 3/1909, JP-LC.\n\nMcNamara consulted the attorney general: 2/9/1909, CJB; 2/15/1909, 5/7/1910, NARA-MD; TR to HS, 2/13/1909, HSP; NYT, 2/24/1909, 2; FDW to JP, 2/26/1909, JP-CU.\n\nMeanwhile, the grand jury: HS to George Wickersham, 3/5/1909, NARA-MD.\n\nThese indictments, like: A copy of the applicable statute can been seen in Barrows, New Legislation Concerning Crimes, Misdemeanors, and Penalties. The single copy sent to the federal building was not to a subscriber. Rather, it was a copy sent for inspection as required by postal laws.\n\nBy the time the Liberty steamed: WaPo, 3/6/1909, 1.\n\nHis nerves agitated: Notes, 3/8/1909, JP-LC; GWH to JP, undated but written shortly after his 4/l8/1909 grand jury appearance, in April 1909 folder, JP-CU; Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act IV, Scene 1.\n\nClearing Sandy Point: Pulitzer's staff was always prepared for such an event. In February, money had been given to Tuohy in London for the payroll for the ship's crew should the Liberty suddenly be overseas. (AB to Davis, 2/9/1909, JP-CU.) JAS to JP, 4/6/1909, JP-CU; DCS-JP, 376\u2013377.\n\nPulitzer spent the summer: AT to FC, 9/3/1909, JP-LC.\n\nEach side believed: McNamara to George Wickersham, 7/27/1909, NARA-MD; Harding, The Untold Story of Panama, 61.\n\nHarding was among: Harding, Untold Story, 67\u201370.\n\nHarding decided: Guyol report, EHP.\n\nWhen Harding and Guyol: The officials reported to Washington that Harding and Guyol told Colombians they were there \"to right the great wrong done Colombia by the United States and restore Panama to its former state.\" (Huffington to Attorney General, 12/11/1909, NARA-MD.)\n\nHarding concluded: Huffington to Attorney General, 12/11/1909, NARA-MD, Quoted in Guyol report, EHP, Folder 38. Choral hydrate is one of the oldest known sleep inducing drugs and is still used today for the purpose of date rape.\n\nHarding took matters: Huffington to attorney general, 12/11/1909. NARA-MD. Seitz did not seem to believe the letter from the legation. \"Harding was waylaid in Colombia in the belief that he carried certain documents of value\u2014which he did not\": DCS-JP, 377\u2013378.\n\nCHAPTER 30: A SHORT REMAINING SPAN\n\nAfter disagreeable stays: NT to DCS, 10/1/1909, JP-LC.\n\nAlbert had also: JWB, 256. Fanny Barnard Pulitzer died 6/24/1909, in New York, at age fifty-three: NYT, 6/26/1909, 7.\n\nOver time, Albert's behavior: The Call, 3/10/1909, 1. Albert's passion for the city's oysters also gave rise to a tale republished for weeks in American newspapers. A companion at luncheon recommended that Albert put horseradish on his oysters. Uncertain if his Viennese physician allowed him to eat this condiment, Albert telegraphed home. He promptly received permission. The high cost of the telegrams provided an irresistible feast of merriment for reporters, such as one who began his story with the lead, \"For the privilege of eating horseradish, Albert Pulitzer paid $40.\" (LAT, 3/10/1909, 13.)\n\nWhile he was in San Francisco: Oakland Tribune, 10/17/1909, 4; NYT, 4/6/1909, 1; ChTr, 11/6/1909, 13.\n\nBy fall, his memoir: NYT, 10/5/1909, 4; ChTr, 10/05/1909, 5. Eulogy reprinted in APM.\n\nJoseph learned of: Thwaites, Velvet and Vinegar, 65\u201366.\n\nSeveral days later: Adam Politzer to JP, 10/16/1909, JP-CU. Joseph was mentioned in Albert's will of 1881. It provided that he should receive Albert's gold Waltham watch and chain, gold cufflinks, and turquoise shirt studs and asked that he watch over Albert's son Walter. But the will in effect when Albert died made no mention of Joseph. (See JWB, 254\u2013255.)\n\nAs winter set in: DCS-JP, 392\u2013393.\n\nContributing to Pulitzer's melancholy: JAS to JP, 12/28/1909, JP-CU; JP notes for RP, 1/26/1910, JP-LC.\n\nPulitzer's loneliness was: JP to JPII, 5/27/1907, JP-CU.\n\nKate did her best: KP to JP, 9/24/1902, JP-CU.\n\nHis twenty-nine-year-old son: JPII to JP, 1/4/1910, MHS.\n\nOnce again, Pulitzer revised: JP to Edward Sheppard, 4/25/1910, JP-CU. Hughes apparently declined to be a trustee, but Pulitzer kept him in the will nonetheless: JP to KP, 5/5/1910, JP-CU. See also NT to DCS, 1/25/1910, JP-LC.\n\n\"I am of\": ChTr, 10/13/1909, 8.\n\nOn January 25: NYT, 1/27/1910, 3.\n\nThe law was intended: The Roosevelt Panama Libel Case, 98; NYT, 1/26/1910, 8; WaPo, 1/26/1910, 4; The History of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, 12.\n\nThe only party: NYT, 2/26/1910, 8.\n\nIn March, Joe: Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 107.\n\nEven Wickham had: JP to Elinor Wickham, 8/31/1909, quoted in Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 104.\n\nIn person, Joseph: JPII to JP, 3/18/1910, JP-MHS, quoted in Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 107\u2013108.\n\nThe children gone: NYT, 11/14/1911, 1.\n\nRoosevelt's prosecution of: NYT, 10/25/1910; WaPo, 10/25/1910, 11.\n\nPulitzer's attorney once again: Harding, Untold Story, 87.\n\nTen weeks later: Harding, Untold Story, 77.\n\nPulitzer got word: NYW, 1/4/1911; Harding, Untold Story, 82.\n\nAs Phillips neared: NYT, 1/24/1911, 1; WaPo, 1/24/1911, 1; ChTr, 1/24/1911, 1.\n\nFuneral services were held: JP to RP, 3/10/1911; telegram, 4/11/1911; NT to RP, 3/12/1911; KP to RP, 5/28/1911, JP-LC.\n\nOne of Pulitzer's many doctors: Dr. Heinbrand to JP, June 1911, JP-CU; Wood, Pharmacology and Therapeutics for Students and Practitioners of Medicine, 103.\n\nIn the summer: JP to Emma Cunlifee-Owens, 3/4/1911, WP-CU.\n\nPulitzer and Cobb: Notes of conversation, 6/22/1911, in June 17\u201321 folder, WP-CU, Box 51. Pulitzer was an unabashed fan of Wilson's. He telegraphed Wilson after Wilson's election victory of 1910, urged Cobb to promote Wilson continually, and even proposed publishing a campaign pamphlet. (JP conversation with FC, undated 1910 Folder, JP-LC, Box 9; JP to FC, 11/21/1910, JP-LC.)\n\nConcluding his meeting: NYT, 7/2/1911, X4, and 6/11/1911, X4.\n\nJoseph spent time: AI, 213\u2013214.\n\nJoseph's favorite indulgence: Transcript of conversation written by Firestone, 8/5/1911, WP-CU.\n\nWallace C. Sabine: Wallace C. Sabine to McKim et al., 5/13/1902, JP-CU.\n\nThe house's proximity: JP memo for RP, 10/5/1911, WP-CU; JP to JPII, 10/9/1911, JP-CU.\n\nIf his employees: Gaynor, quoted in RHL to JP, 10/8/1911, WP-CU.\n\nRoosevelt never let up: JP notes, 10/5/1911, JP-CU.\n\nOf the three men: WRH to JP, 10/9/1911, WP-CU.\n\nCHAPTER 31: SOFTLY, VERY SOFTLY\n\nOn the second day: AI, 234\u2013236.\n\nThe following day: Syracuse Herald, 10/20/1911, 11.\n\nPulitzer's German reader: Christopher Hare, The Life of Louis XI: The Rebel Dauphin and the Statesmen King (New York: Scribners, 1907). The book's last words, which Pulitzer did not hear, were, \"The France of Louis XII is the justification of Louis XI\" taken from Stanley Leathes, Cambridge Modern History, Vol. 1, The Reformation (London, MacMillan, 1904).\n\nThe following day: Colorado Springs Gazette, 10/30/1911, 1.\n\nWhen they reached: JP to GWH, January 7, 1911, quoted in DCS-JP, x; New York American, 10/30/1911.\n\nPulitzer's death was: Death certificate, South Carolina Room, Charleston County Main Library.\n\nSo many former: Elizabeth Jordan, \"The Passing of the Chief,\" New Yorker, 12/18/1947.\n\nKate outlived her husband: Pfaff, Joseph Pulitzer II, 144.\n\nIn the early morning: Barrett, The End of the World, 154, 237; JWB, 438.\n\n## Bibliography\n\nManuscript collections are listed at the beginning of the endnotes section on backmatter. Magazines, journals, and newspapers appear only in the actual notes. All other published and unpublished works cited in the endnotes are listed in full here.\n\nBOOKS\n\nAckerman, Kenneth D. Dark Horse: The Surprise Election and Political Murder of President James A. Garfield. New York: Carroll & Graf, 2003.\n\nAvery, Grace Gilmore, and Floyd C. Shomemaker, eds. The Messages and Proclamations of the Governors of the State of Missouri, Vol. 5. Columbia: State Historical Society of Missouri, 1924.\n\nBarclay, Thomas S. The Liberal Republican Movement in Missouri 1865\u20131871. Columbia: State Historical Society of Missouri, 1926.\n\nBarrett, James Wyman. The End of the World: A Post-Mortem by Its Intangible Assets. New York: Harper, 1931.\n\n\u2014. Joseph Pulitzer and His World. New York: Vanguard, 1941.\n\nBarrows, Samuel J. New Legislation Concerning Crimes, Misdemeanors, and Penalties. Washington, DC: GPO, 1900.\n\nBeach, William H. The First New York (Lincoln) Cavalry. New York: Lincoln Cavalry Association, 1902.\n\nBeard, Patricia. After the Ball. New York: HarperCollins, 2003.\n\nBeattie, William. The Danube: Its History, Scenes, and Topography. London: Virtue, 1841.\n\nBerger, Meyer. The Story of the New York Times: 1851\u20131951. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1951.\n\nBowlby, John. Attachment and Loss: Loss, Sadness, and Depression, Vol. 3. New York: Basic Books, 1980.\n\nBoylan, James. Pulitzer's School: Columbia University's School of Journalism, 1903\u20132003. New York: Columbia University Press, 2003.\n\nBrown, Charles H. The Correspondents' War: Journalism in the Spanish-American War. New York: Scribner, 1967.\n\nBruns, Jette. Hold Dear, as Always, Adolph E. Schroeder., ed. Adolph E. Schroeder and Carla Schulz-Geisberg, trans. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1988.\n\nBurrows, Edwin G., and Mike Wallace. Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999.\n\nButler, Ruth. Rodin: The Shape of Genius. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996.\n\nButt, Archie. The Letters of Archie Butt. New York: Doubleday, Page, 1924.\n\nCampbell, W. Joseph. Yellow Journalism: Puncturing the Myths, Defining the Legacies. Praeger, 2001.\n\nCarlson, Oliver. Brisbane: A Candid Biography. New York: Stackpole Sons, 1937.\n\nCashin, Joan E. First Lady of the Confederacy: Varina Davis's Civil War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006.\n\nChamberlin, Everett. The Struggle of '72. Chicago, IL: Union, 1872.\n\nChambers, Julius. News Hunting on Three Continents. New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1921.\n\nChapin, Charles. Charles Chapin's Story. New York: Putnam, 1920.\n\nChurchill, Allen. Park Row. New York: Rinehart, 1958.\n\nClayton, Charles C. Little Mack: Joseph B. McCullagh of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1969.\n\nCobb, Irvin S. Alias Ben Alibi. New York: George H. Doran, 1925.\n\n\u2014. Exit Laughing. New York: Bobbs-Merrill, 1941.\n\nCollier, Peter, and David Horowitz. The Rockefellers: An American Dynasty. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1976.\n\nCorbett, Katharine T., and Howard S. Miller. Saint Louis in the Gilded Age. St. Louis: Missouri Historical Society, 1993.\n\nCorcoran, William. A Grandfather's Legacy: Containing a Sketch of His Life and Obituary Notices of Some Members of His Family Together with Letters from His Friends. Washington, DC: Henry Polkinhorn, Printer, 1879.\n\nCroffut, William A. An American Procession: A Personal Chronicle of Famous Men. Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 1931.\n\nDacus, J. A., and James W. Buel. A Tour of St. Louis. St. Louis, MO: Western, 1878.\n\nDavis, Jefferson. Private Letters, 1823\u20131889. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1966.\n\nDepew, Chauncey. My Memories of Eighty Years. New York: Scribner, 1924.\n\nDickens, Charles. Martin Chuzzlewit. London: University Society, 1908.\n\nDoods, E. R. Journal and Letters of Stephen MacKenna. New York: Read Books, 2007.\n\nDouglas, George H. The Golden Age of the Newspaper. Greenwich, CT: Greenwood, 1999.\n\nDreiser, Theodore. Newspaper Days. Santa Rosa, CA: Black Sparrow, 2000.\n\nEberle, Jean Fahey. Midtown: A Grand Place to Be! St. Louis, MO: Mercantile Trust, 1980.\n\nEggleston, George Carey. Recollections of a Varied Life. New York: Henry Holt, 1910.\n\nEmery, Edwin, and Michael Emery. The Press and America: An Interpretive History of the Mass Media. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1984.\n\nFiller, Louis. Voice of the Democracy: A Critical Biography of David Graham Phillips, Journalist, Novelist, Progressive. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1978.\n\nFoner, Eric. Reconstruction: America's Unfinished Revolution: 1863\u20131877. New York: Harper & Row, 1988.\n\nFord, James L. Forty-Odd Years in the Literary Shop. New York: Dutton, 1921.\n\nGallagher, Edward J. Stilson Hutchins: 1838\u20131912. Laconia, NH: Citizen, 1965.\n\nGarrison, Fielding H. An Introduction to the History of Medicine. Philadelphia, PA: Saunders, 1914.\n\nGeary, James W. We Need Men: The Union Draft in the Civil War. Dekalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1991.\n\nGerst\u00e4cker, Friedrich. Gerst\u00e4cker's Travels. Rio de Janeiro\u2014Buenos Ayres\u2014Ride through the Pampas\u2014Winter Journey across the Cordilleras\u2014Chili\u2014Valparaiso\u2014California and the Gold Fields. London and Edinburgh: T. Nelson, 1854.\n\nGilman, Sander. The Jew's Body. New York: Routledge, 1991.\n\nHarding, Earl. The Untold Story of Panama. New York: Athene Press, 1959.\n\nHare, Christopher. The Life of Louis XI: The Rebel Dauphin and the Statesmen King. New York: Scribner, 1907.\n\nHart, Jim Alee. A History of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1961.\n\nHeaton, John L. The Story of a Page: Thirty Years of Public Service and Public Discussion in the Editorial Columns of the New York World. New York: Harper, 1913.\n\nHenry, Robert Hiram. Editors I Have Known since the Civil War. Jackson, MS: Kessinger Publishing, 1922.\n\nHirsch, Mark D. William C. Whitney: Modern Warwick. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1948.\n\nThe History of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. New York: Federal Bar Association, 1962.\n\nHomberger, Eric. Mrs. Astor's New York: Money and Power in a Gilded Age. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002.\n\nIreland, Alleyne. Joseph Pulitzer: Reminiscence of a Secretary. New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1914.\n\nJohns, Orrick. Time of Our Lives: The Story of My Father and Myself. New York: Stackpole, 1937.\n\nJohnson, Willis Fletcher. George Harvey: A Passionate Patriot. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1929.\n\nJuergens, George. Joseph Pulitzer and the New York World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1966.\n\nKargau, Ernst D. The German Element in St. Louis. Baltimore, MD: Genealogical, 2000.\n\nKazin, Michael. A Godly Hero: The Life of William Jennings Bryan. New York: Knopf, 2006.\n\nKing, Homer W. Pulitzer's Prize Editor: A Biography of John A. Cockerill, 1845\u20131896. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1965.\n\nKlein, Maury. The Life and Legend of Jay Gould. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986.\n\n\u2014. The Life and Legend of E. H. Harriman. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000.\n\nKluger, Richard. The Paper: The Life and Death of the New York Herald Tribune. New York: Knopf, 1986.\n\nKnight, William, ed. Memorials of Thomas Davidson. Boston, MA: Gunn, 1907.\n\nKoestler, Frances A. The Unseen Minority: A Social History of Blindness in America. Washington, DC: American Foundation for the Blind, 2004.\n\nKomor\u00f3czy, G\u00e9za, ed. Jewish Budapest: Monuments, Rites, History. Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999.\n\nK\u00f3sa, Judit N. The Old Jewish Quarter of Budapest. Budapest: Corvina, 2005.\n\nKotter, James C. Southern Honor and American Manhood: Understanding the Life and Death of Richard Reid. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2003.\n\nKremer, Gary. Heartland History: Essays on the Cultural Heritage of the Central Missouri Region. St. Louis, MO: G. Bradley, 2001.\n\nKune, Julian. Reminiscences of an Octogenarian Hungarian Exile. Chicago, IL: privately printed, 1911.\n\nLee, Alfred McClung. The Daily Newspaper in America: The Evolution of a Social Instrument. New York: Macmillan, 1937.\n\nLeidecker, Kurt F. Yankee Teacher: The Life of William Torrey Harris. New York: Philosophical Library, 1946.\n\nLemann, Nicholas. Redemption: The Last Battle of the Civil War. New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2006.\n\nLoeb, Isidor, and Floyd C. Shoemaker, eds. Debates of the Missouri Constitutional Convention of 1875. Columbia, MO: State Historical Society, 1930\u20131944.\n\nLupovitch, Howard N. Jews at the Crossroads: Tradition and Accommodation during the Golden Age of the Hungarian Nobility. Budapest: Central European University Press, 2007.\n\nMarcosson, Isaac F. David Graham Phillips and His Times. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1932.\n\nMaurice, Arthur Bartlett. The New York of the Novelists. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1916.\n\nMcCagg Jr., William O. A History of Habsburg Jews. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992.\n\nMcCash, William Barton, and June Hall McCash, The Jekyll Island Club: Southern Haven for America's Millionaires. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1989.\n\nMcClellan, George B. The Gentleman and the Tiger. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1956.\n\nMcDougall, Walt. This Is the Life! New York: Knopf, 1926.\n\nMcPherson, James M. For Cause and Comrades: Why Men Fought in the Civil War. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997.\n\nMilton, Joyce. The Yellow Kids: Foreign Correspondents in the Heyday of Yellow Journalism. New York: Harper and Row, 1989.\n\nMitchell, Edward P. Memoirs of an Editor: Fifty Years of American Journalism. New York: Scribner, 1924.\n\nMorgan, James. Charles H. Taylor: Builder of the Boston Globe. Boston: Privately published, 1923.\n\nMorris, Anneta Josephine. \"The Police Department of St. Louis.\" Unpublished, Missouri Historical Society, 1919.\n\nMorris, Edmund. The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt. New York: Ballantine, 1979.\n\n\u2014. Theodore Rex. New York: Random House, 2001.\n\nMorris, James McGrath. The Rose Man of Sing Sing: A True Tale of Life, Murder, and Redemption in the Age of Yellow Journalism. New York: Fordham University Press, 2004.\n\nMorris, Whitmore. The First Tunstalls in Virginia and Some of Their Descendants. San Antonio, TX, 1950.\n\nMurdock, Eugene Converse. One Million Men. Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1971.\n\nNagel, Charles. A Boy's Civil War Story. St. Louis, MO: Eden, 1935.\n\nNasaw, David. The Chief: The Life of William Randolph Hearst. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2000.\n\nOfficial Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, St. Louis, MO, June 27, 28, 29,\n\n1876. St. Louis: Woodward, Tiernan, and Hale, 1876.\n\nOfficial Proceedings of the National Democratic Convention, 1880. Dayton, OH: Dickinson, 1882.\n\nPaget, John. Hungary and Transylvania. London: John Murray, 1839.\n\nParsons, Miss. The City of Magyar or Hungary and Her Institutions in 1839\u20131840. London: George Virtue, 1840.\n\nPatai, Raphael. The Jews of Hungary: History, Culture, Psychology. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1996.\n\nPerry, Charles M., ed. The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy: Some Source Material. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1930.\n\nPeterson, Norma L. Freedom and Franchise: The Political Career of B. Gratz Brown. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1965.\n\nPfaff, Daniel W. Joseph Pulitzer II and the Post-Dispatch. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991.\n\nPhillips, David Graham. The Great God Success. New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1901.\n\nPitzman's New Atlas of the City and County of Saint Louis, Missouri, 1878. Philadelphia, PA: A. B. Holcombe, 1878.\n\nPiv\u00e1ny, Eugene. Hungarians in the American Civil War. Cleveland, OH: 1913.\n\nPrimm, James Neal. Lion of the Valley: St. Louis, Missouri, 1764\u20131980. St. Louis: Missouri Historical Society, 1998.\n\nProceedings of the Liberal Republican Convention, in Cincinnati, May 1st, 2d, and 3d, 1872. New York: Baker and Godwin, 1872.\n\nProcter, Ben. William Randolph Hearst: The Early Years, 1863\u20131910. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998.\n\nPulszky, Francis, and Theresa Pulszky. \"White, Red, Black\": Sketches of Society in the United States during the Visit of Their Guest, Vol. 2. London: Trubner, 1853.\n\nRammelkamp, Julian S. Pulitzer's Post-Dispatch, 1878\u20131883. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967.\n\nRenehan, Edward. The Dark Genius of Wall Street: The Misunderstood Life of Jay Gould. New York: Basic Books, 2005.\n\nRhodes, James Ford. The McKinley and Roosevelt Administrations, 1897\u20131909. New York: Macmillan, 1922.\n\nRiis, Jacob. Children of the Poor. New York: Scribner, 1892.\n\nRobb, Graham. Strangers: Homosexual Love in the Nineteenth Century. New York: Norton, 2003.\n\nRoberts, Chalmers M. The Washington Post: The First Hundred Years. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1977.\n\nThe Roosevelt Panama Libel Case against the New York World and Indianapolis News. NewYork: New York World, 1910.\n\nRoosevelt, Theodore. An Autobiography. New York: MacMillan, 1913.\n\n\u2014. The Letters of Theodore Roosevelt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1951.\n\nRosewater, Victor. History of Cooperative News-Gathering in the United States. New York: Appleton, 1930.\n\nRoss, Earle Dudley. The Liberal Republican Movement. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1910.\n\nScharf, J. Thomas. History of Saint Louis City and County, Vols. 1 and 2. Philadelphia, PA: Louis H. Evert, 1883.\n\nSchurz, Carl. Intimate letters of Carl Schurz, 1841\u20131869. Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin.\n\nSeitz, Don C. Joseph Pulitzer: His Life and Letters. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1924.\n\nSelin, Helaine, and Hugh Shapiro. Medicine across Cultures: History and Practice of Medicine in Non-Western Cultures. New York: Springer, 2003.\n\nShoemaker, Floyd C., ed. Journal Missouri Constitutional Convention of 1875. Jefferson City, MO: Hugh Stevens, 1920.\n\nSilverman, Phyllis Rolfe. Never Too Young to Know: Death in Children's Lives. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000.\n\nSmythe, Ted Curtis. The Gilded Age Press: 1865\u20131900. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2003.\n\nSnider, Denton. The St. Louis Movement in Philosophy, Literature, Education, Psychology with Chapters of Autobiography. St. Louis, MO: Sigma, 1920.\n\nStarr, Stephen Z. The Union Cavalry in the Civil War, Vol. 2. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1981.\n\nStealey, O. O. 130 Pen Pictures of Live Men. Washington, DC: Privately published, 1910.\n\nStevenson, James H. Boots and Saddles: A History of the First Volunteer Cavalry of the War. New York: Patriot Publishing, 1879.\n\nStoddard, Henry L. As I Knew Them. New York: Harper, 1927.\n\nStorr, Anthony. Solitude: A Return to Self. New York: Free Press, 1988.\n\nStrouse, Jean. Morgan: American Financier. New York: Random House, 1999.\n\nSugar, Peter F., ed. A History of Hungary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990.\n\nSwanberg, W. A. Pulitzer. New York: Scribner, 1967.\n\nTaylor, J. N., and M. O. Crooks, Sketch Book of Saint Louis. St. Louis, MO: George Knapp, 1858.\n\nThwaites, Norman. Velvet and Vinegar. London: Grayson and Grayson, 1932 Trefousse, Hans Louis. Carl Schurz: A Biography. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1982.\n\nTurner, Hy. When Giants Ruled: The Story of Park Row. New York: Fordham University Press, 1999.\n\nTwain, Mark. Life on the Mississippi. Boston, MA: James L. Osgood, 1883\u2014. Adventures of Tom Sawyer. New York: Harper, 1903.\n\nVolo, James M., and Dorothy Denneen Volo. Family Life in Nineteenth-Century America. Greenwich, CT: Greenwood, 2007.\n\nWalker, Stanley. City Editor. New York: F. A. States, 1935.\n\nWass, Hannelore, and Charles A. Corr, eds. Childhood and Death. New York: Hemisphere, 1984.\n\nWatterson, Henry. Henry Marse: An Autobiography, Vol. 1. New York: George Doran, 1919.\n\nWells, John Soelberg. A Treatise on the Disease of the Eye. Lea's Sons, 1883.\n\nWharton, Edith. Old New York. New York: Scribner, 1924.\n\nWhite, Carl. The German-Language Press in America. Louisville: University of Kentucky Press, 1957.\n\nWilson, James Grant. The Memorial History of the City of New York, Vol. 5. New York: New York History, 1893.\n\nWoerner, William F. J. Gabriel Woerner: A Biographical Sketch. St. Louis, MO: Privately published, 1912.\n\nWolf, Simon. The Presidents I Have Known from 1860\u20131918. Washington, DC: Press of Byron S. Adams, 1918.\n\nWood, Horatio C. Pharmacology and Therapeutics for Students and Practitioners of Medicine. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1916.\n\nThe World, Its History, Its New Home. New York: World, c. 1890.\n\nYelverston, Th\u00e9r\u00e8se. Teresina in America. London: Richard Bentley, 1875.\n\nYoung, Andrew W. The American Statesman: A Political History, rev. and enlarged by Geo.\n\nT. Ferris. New York: Henry S. Goodspeed, 1877.\n\nDISSERTATIONS\n\nChristensen, Lawrence Oland. \"Black St. Louis: A Study in Race Relations 1865\u20131916.\" PhD diss., University of Missouri, 1972.\n\nEichhorst, Thomas. \"Representative and Reporter.\" MA thesis, Lincoln University, 1968.\n\nFagan, Susan R. \"Thomas Davidson: Dramatist of the Life of Learning.\" PhD diss., Rutgers University, 1980.\n\nMiradli, Robert. \"The Journalism of David Graham Phillips.\" PhD diss., New York University, 1985.\n\nMoehle, Oden. \"History of St. Louis, 1878\u20131882.\n\nMA thesis, Washington University, 1954.\n\nOlson, Audrey Louis. \"St. Louis Germans, 1850\u20131920: The Nature of an Immigrant Community and Its Relation to the Assimilation Process.\" PhD diss., University of Kansas, 1970.\n\nReynolds, William Robinson. \"Joseph Pulitzer.\" PhD diss., Columbia University, 1950.\n\nSaalberg, Harvey. \"The Westliche Post of St. Louis: A Daily Newspaper for German-Americans, 1857\u20131938.\" PhD diss., University of Missouri, 1967.\n\nTritter, Thorin Richard. \"Paper Profits in Public Service: Money Making in the New York Newspaper Industry, 1830\u20131930.\" PhD diss., Columbia University, 2000.\n\nTusa, Jacqueline Balk. \"Power, Priorities, and Political Insurgency: The Liberal Republican Movement: 1869\u20131872.\" PhD diss., Pennsylvania State University, 1970.\n\nViener, John V. \"A Sense of Obligation: Henry Stimson as United States Attorney, 1906\u20131909.\" Honor thesis, Yale University, 1961.\n\n## Searchable Terms\n\nNote: Entries in this index, carried over verbatim from the print edition of this title, are unlikely to correspond to the pagination of any given e-book reader. However, entries in this index, and other terms, may be easily located by using the search feature of your e-book reader.\n\n\"Abide with Me,\" 459\n\nAcme Commodity and Phrase Code, 364\u201365\n\n\"Act to Protect the Harbor Defense and\n\nFortifications Constructed or Used\n\nby the United States from Malicious\n\nInjury, and for Other Purposes,\" 435\n\nAdams, Charles Francis, 84, 85, 87, 88\u201389\n\nAdams, Franklin P., 462\n\nAdams, John Quincy, 84\n\nAfrican Americans, 46, 57, 58, 73, 74, 95, 107\u20139, 142, 180, 478n, 493n\n\nagriculture, 105, 272, 293\n\nAlien and Sedition Acts (1798), 422\u201324, 447, 450\n\nAllemannia, 37, 71\n\nAllen, Julian, 18\u201319, 20, 476n\n\nAllen, Thomas, 51, 158, 186\u201388, 198\n\nAmerican Wine Co., 101\n\n\"Andes Project,\" 520n\n\nanti-Semitism, 47, 108\u20139, 248\u201349, 252, 260\u201363, 265, 324, 395, 499n\n\nAnzeiger des Westens, 51, 79, 488n\n\nArnold, Simon J., 155, 500n\n\nAround the World in Eighty Days (Verne), 282\n\nArthur, Chester A., 182, 194\n\nAshkenazi Jews, 10\n\nAssociated Press (AP), 82, 102, 103, 153, 154, 160, 170\u201371, 175\u201376, 198, 227, 256, 339, 355, 358, 481n\u201382n, 490n, 518n\n\nasthma, 196, 205, 292, 294, 301, 304, 343\n\nAstor House, 274, 290\n\nAtalanta, 204\n\nAtherton, Gertrude, 442\n\nAtlanta Constitution, 305, 314\n\nAtlantic and Pacific Railroad, 35\n\nAugustine, Edward, 59\u201366, 70\u201371, 77\u201378, 97, 116, 169\u201370, 200, 373, 487n, 489n\n\nBabcock, Orville E., 121\n\nBaker, Daniel W., 433\n\nBaker, Jason, 485n\n\nballot boxes, 139\n\nBalmer, Bertha, 104\n\nBalmer, Charles, 103\u20134\n\nBaltic, 391\n\nBaltimore Gazette, 173\n\nBar\u00e8re de Vieuzac, Bertrand, 422\n\nBarnard, Fanny, 121, 135, 254, 320, 441\u201342\n\nBarnard College, 337\n\nBarney, Charles, 257\n\nBarnum, P. T., 137\n\nBarrett, James, 463, 484n\n\nBartholdi, Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric-Auguste, 150, 235\u201337, 508n\n\n\"Battle Cry of Freedom, The,\" 25\n\n\"Battle Hymn of the Republic, The,\" 463\n\nBeauharnais, Eug\u00e8ne de, 442\n\nBeauvoir mansion, 269\u201370\n\nBedloe Island, 235, 245\n\nBell, Alexander Graham, 150\n\nBelletristisches Journal, 112, 130\n\nBelmont, August, 128, 259, 260\n\n\"Belshazzar's Feast\" cartoon, 230\u201331, 245, 259\n\nBenecke, Louis, 76, 77, 96, 489n\n\nBennett, James Gordon, Jr., 208, 249, 274, 281, 284, 288\u201389, 299\u2013300, 319\n\nBennett, James Gordon, Sr., 98, 192, 197, 210\n\nBenton, Thomas Hart, 62\n\nBenton military barracks, 31\n\nBerger, Wilhelm, 17\u201318, 27\n\nBible, 2, 66n, 459\n\nBillings, Arthur, 412, 413, 454, 459\n\nBismarck, Otto von, 150, 294, 314, 329, 499n\n\nBlaine, James, 188, 222\u201323, 225\u201328, 229, 231\u201332, 245, 259, 506n\n\nBlair, Francis, 87\u201388, 154\n\n\"blue laws,\" 312\u201313\n\nBly, Nellie, 282\n\nBonaparte, Charles, 428, 429, 431, 432\u201333, 435, 526n\n\nBonnat, L\u00e9on, 310, 412\n\nBook of Common Prayer, 337\n\nBoonville Advertiser, 109\n\nBoonville Weekly Eagle, 109\n\nBooth, Edwin, 137\n\nBoston Globe, 279\n\nBoston Herald, 174, 244, 401\n\nBothnia, 124\n\nBotts, George \"Charcoal,\" 99\n\nbounty hunters, 20, 21, 23, 476n\n\nBowers, John, 429, 430\n\nBowles, Samuel, 76, 85\u201386, 136\u201337, 143\n\nBowman, Frank J., 113, 115, 175, 494n\n\nBrachvogel, Udo, 51, 140, 141, 369, 513n\n\nBrigands, Les (Offenbach), 100\n\nBrisbane, Arthur, 305\u20136, 310\u201311, 323, 326, 334, 335, 339, 516n\n\nBritannic, 149\n\nBritish Guiana, 313\u201315\n\nBrit Milah, 10\n\nBroadhead, James, 95, 110, 115, 122, 198, 199, 202\n\nBrockmeyer, Henry C., 34, 39, 101, 110, 118\n\nBrockway, Zebulon Reed, 306\u20137\n\nbronchitis, 284\u201385\n\nBrooklyn, N.Y., 227, 250\u201351, 331, 345\n\nBrooklyn Bridge, 212\n\nBrooklyn Eagle, 219\n\nBrooks Brothers, 343\n\nBroun, Heywood, 462\n\nBrown, B. Gratz, 45, 71, 72, 74, 75, 78\u201379, 80, 81, 82, 83\u201384, 87\u201388, 89, 91, 93, 108, 111, 154, 155, 170, 487n, 489n\n\nBrown, John, 478n\n\nBrown, Margaret Wise, 487n\u201388n\n\nBryan, William Jennings, 150, 309, 326, 327\u201328, 332, 348, 353, 359, 365, 369\u201370, 384, 389\u201391, 415\u201316, 417, 419, 426, 452, 455\n\nBuchanan, James, 85\n\nBuda, Hungary, 10, 13, 71\n\nBulwer-Lytton, Edward, 14\n\nBureau of Corporations, U.S., 392\u201393\n\nBurnes, James, 234\n\nBurr, Aaron, 121\n\nButes, Alfred, 328\u201329, 330, 333\u201334, 336, 338, 346\u201347, 364, 366, 374, 375, 385, 388, 397, 401, 404, 408, 411, 521n\n\nButler, Ben, 227\n\nButler, Ed, 184, 187\n\nButler, Nicholas Murray, 379, 386\u201387, 394, 458\n\nCaine, Hall, 290\n\nCalifornia, 265, 269\u201371, 272\n\ncapitalists, 186\u201389, 198\u201399, 205, 208\u20139, 217\u201318, 220, 245, 259, 293\u201398, 299\u2013300, 371, 399\u2013400\n\nCarnegie, Andrew, xi, 296\n\nCarter, Edwin N., 514n\n\nCarteret, George, 414\n\nCarvalho, Solomon S., 261\u201362, 300, 302, 322, 323\u201324, 339, 351, 355\u201357, 519n\n\nCedric, 399, 400\n\nCeltic, 376\n\nChambers, B. M., 175\u201376\n\nChambers, Julius, 274, 321\n\nChapin, Charles, 340\u201341, 403\u20134, 517n\n\nChapman, H., 479n\n\nCharleston News & Courier, 456\n\nChew, John H., 146\n\nChicago, 52, 98, 165, 182, 224, 482n\u201383n\n\nChicago Daily News, 504n\n\nChicago Evening Post, 52\n\nChicago Herald, 233\u201334\n\nChicago Times, 256, 363\n\nChicago Tribune, 72, 76, 84, 85, 159, 193, 229, 313\u201314, 323, 482n\u201383n\n\nChilds, George, 247, 253\u201354, 263\u201364, 279, 295\n\nchloral hydrate, 439, 527n\n\nChoate, Joseph, 368\n\ncholera, 59\u201360, 481n\n\nChristian Brothers College, 171\n\nChristianity, 11, 15\n\nChristmas, 191, 295, 314\u201315, 328, 335\u201336, 408\n\nChurch of the Epiphany, 145\u201346, 178, 499n\n\nCincinnati, Ohio, 84\u201390, 126, 178\u201379, 181\u201383\n\nCincinnati Commercial, 76, 85, 86\n\nCincinnati Enquirer, 85, 126, 204, 217, 320\u201321\n\nCivil Rights Act (1871), 108\n\nCivil War, U.S., 18\u201327, 35, 37, 39\u201340, 44, 45\u201346, 75, 89, 108, 129, 274, 288, 332, 458, 476n, 478n\u201379n, 480n\n\nClark, John Bullock, Jr., 140, 178\n\nClarke, Arthur, 413\u201314\n\nClarke, Dumont, 294, 317, 333, 365, 371, 381\u201382, 431, 444\u201345, 446, 520n\u201321n\n\nClarke, James W., 353\n\nCleveland, Grover, 223, 224\u201325, 228, 229\u201330, 234\u201335, 242, 276, 293, 308\u20139, 313\u201317, 332, 390, 391, 393, 507n\n\nClopton, William, 200, 201\n\nCobb, Frank, 383\u201384, 388, 400\u2013401, 415\u201316, 419, 425, 426, 427, 428\u201329, 430, 431, 447, 450, 452, 453, 462, 525n, 528n\n\nCobb, Irvin, 431\u201332\n\nCockerill, John A., 85, 126, 138, 292, 293, 302, 364, 384, 499n\n\ndeath of, 324\n\nas St. Louis Post and Dispatch editor, 173\u201374, 176, 177, 178, 194, 198, 199\u2013202, 206\n\nPulitzer's firing of, 290\u201391, 293, 301\n\nSlayback shot by, 200\u2013202, 263\n\nas World editor, 207\u20138, 212, 218, 225, 226, 234, 239, 249, 250, 253, 263, 265, 270, 273, 274, 279, 284, 290\u201391\n\ncodebooks, 2, 364\u201365, 428, 444, 519n\u201320n\n\nColombia, 438, 439, 459\n\nColumbia University School of Journalism, 4, 337, 376\u201379, 386\u201387, 389, 394, 446, 458, 461\n\nCommoner, 426\n\nComstock, Anthony, 261\n\nConkling, Roscoe, 188, 192\u201393, 206, 223, 242\u201343, 244, 270\u201371, 492n, 506n\n\nConstitution, U.S., 45, 57, 125, 143, 183, 430\u201331, 446\u201347, 486n\n\nConstitutional History (Hallam), 457\n\nConway, Patrick, 83\n\nCooper Union, 128\u201329, 219\n\nCorcoran, William, 142\n\nCorsair (Morgan's yacht), 1\n\nCortelyou, George, 391\u201393, 425\n\nCox, Samuel Sullivan \"Sunset,\" 140\n\nCrane, Stephen, 339\u201340\n\nCreelman, James, 322, 328, 362, 459\n\nCrime and Punishment (Dostoyevsky), 375\n\nCroffut, William A., 84\n\nCromwell, William Nelson, 417\u201320, 424, 425, 434, 437, 438\u201339, 446\n\nCuba, 325, 338\u201339, 341, 343, 359\n\nCurrent Literature, 482n\n\nCuster, George A., 25\n\nCzolgosz, Leon, 372\n\nDana, Charles, 98\u201399, 129\u201333, 151\u201352, 192, 208, 216, 219, 224, 261\u201363, 265, 276, 280, 294, 300, 306, 326, 333, 434\n\nDanube River, 15, 30\n\nDark Lantern, 184, 187\n\nDaudet, Alphonse, 367\n\nDavenport Demokrat, 90\n\nDavidson, Thomas, 40\u201342, 67, 126, 243\u201344, 246, 311, 335, 367, 369, 380, 382, 483n\u201384n\n\nDavis, Catherine Worthington, 140\u201341, 396\n\nDavis, Clara, 141, 178\n\nDavis, David, 84, 85, 86\n\nDavis, Jefferson, 140, 145, 259, 270\n\nDavis, Kate, see Pulitzer, Kate\n\nDavis, Mattie Thompson, 512n, 513n\n\nDavis, Richard Harding, 321, 339\u201340\n\nDavis, Varina, 270, 285, 344\n\nDavis, William H., 238, 253, 273, 278, 279, 281, 284, 291, 513n\n\nDavis, William Worthington, 140\u201341, 265, 281\n\nDavis, Winnie, 259, 270, 271, 280\u201381, 338, 343\u201344\n\nDay, Benjamin Henry, 98\n\nDeer Island, 20, 477n\n\nDelmonico's restaurant, 216, 230, 258, 259, 298, 300, 410\n\nDemocratic National Committee, 128\n\nDemocratic National Convention:\n\nof 1856, 85\n\nof 1876, 124\n\nof 1880, 178\u201379, 181\u201383\n\nof 1884, 224\n\nof 1888, 269\n\nof 1896, 326\u201327\n\nof 1904, 390\u201391\n\nDemocratic Party, 4, 44, 47, 52, 53, 58, 67, 71\u201377, 84, 85\u201386, 91, 93, 95, 96, 106\u201312, 116, 124\u201333, 139\u201340, 161, 165, 178\u201379, 181\u201389, 192, 199, 204, 210\u201311, 216, 217, 219\u201332, 241, 246, 259, 262, 269, 271\u201372, 285\u201386, 293, 307, 326\u201328, 332\u201333, 348, 369\u201370, 388\u201393, 406\u20137, 415\u201316, 417, 418\u201319, 451\u201352, 456, 506n\n\nsee also specific elections\n\nDemosthenes, 255\n\nDepew, Chauncey, 245\u201346, 259, 276, 278, 279, 305, 324, 508n\n\nDetroit Free Press, 383\u201384\n\nDeutsche Gesellschaft (German Immigrant Aid Society), 32, 35\u201336\n\nDewey, George, 342\u201343, 369\n\nDickens, Charles, 51, 54, 98, 214, 455, 517n\n\nDillon, Blanche, 158, 160\n\nDillon, John A., 154, 156, 158, 160\u201361, 167, 173, 202, 207, 239, 300, 304, 328, 333, 347, 353, 363, 365, 375\u201376, 382, 500n\n\nDoh\u00e1ny synagogue, 15\n\nDorsheimer, William, 216\n\nDostoyevsky, Fyodor, 277, 375\n\nDrake, Charles, 45\u201346\n\nDreiser, Theodore, 81\n\nDrexel, Joseph, 254\n\nduels, 62, 199n, 200\n\nDunningham, Jabez, 5, 456, 457, 461\n\nDyer, David P., 122\n\nEads, James B., 103, 112, 115\u201316, 141, 146, 153, 158\n\nEads Bridge, 153, 158, 491n, 494n\n\nEdgar, Elizabeth, 462\n\nEdison, Thomas, 150, 279, 280\n\nEggleston, George, 274, 280, 316, 326\u201327, 353, 354\n\nEider, 276\n\nelections, U.S.:\n\nof 1856, 85\n\nof 1858, 178\n\nof 1868, 180\n\nof 1869, 52\u201369, 75, 488n\u201389n\n\nof 1870, 71\u201377, 87, 105, 187\n\nof 1872, 58, 77, 78, 80\u201394, 95, 104, 105, 111, 120, 138, 152, 181, 184, 225, 229\n\nof 1874, 104\u201310\n\nof 1876, 122, 123, 124\u201333, 138, 139\u201340, 152, 179, 182, 185, 216, 225, 228\n\nof 1878, 178\n\nof 1879, 186\u201387\n\nof 1880, 177\u201381, 184\u201388, 219, 225, 229, 232\n\nof 1884, 219\u201332, 236, 246, 261, 262\u201363, 326, 332\n\nof 1886, 246\n\nof 1888, 269, 271\u201372, 276, 293\n\nof 1890, 285\u201386, 293\n\nof 1892, 293\n\nof 1894, 306\u20137\n\nof 1896, 15, 309, 326\u201328, 332\u201333, 353, 390, 391, 415\n\nof 1900, 347\u201348, 369\u201370, 391\n\nof 1904, 388\u201393\n\nof 1906, 406\u20137\n\nof 1908, 415\u201316, 417, 419, 420\n\nof 1910, 528\n\nof 1912, 451\u201352, 456\n\nelectoral college, 130\u201332, 189, 231\u201332, 327, 391\n\nElectoral Commission, U.S., 132, 496n\n\nelectric light, 159, 258, 279, 282, 348\n\nelevators, 112, 287, 289, 413, 454\n\nEliot, Charles, 366\n\nEliot, George, 290, 291\n\nEllis, John Ezekiel, 145\n\nElmira state reformatory, 306\u20137\n\nElmslie, Constance Helen Pulitzer, see Pulitzer, Constance Helen\n\nElmslie, William Gray, 462\n\nEnglish, William, 182\n\nEpiscopal Church, 141, 146, 178, 260, 261, 366, 402\u20133\n\nEquitable Life Insurance Co., 197, 399\u2013400\n\nEtruria, 237\u201338, 271\n\nEvarts, William, 259, 276\n\nEvery Saturday, 76\u201377\n\nExposition Universelle (1878), 150, 235\n\nEzekiel, Moses, 142\n\nFaust, Tony, 31, 169\n\nFearing, Charles, 282\n\nFederalist Party, 450\n\nFeigenbaum, Isaac, 520n\n\nFettmann, Eric, 497n\n\nField, Cyrus W., 259\n\nField, Eugene, 104, 138\n\nFifteenth Amendment, 45, 57, 486n\n\nFifth Amendment, 430\u201331\n\nFifth Avenue Hotel, 112\u201313, 124, 135, 137, 177, 192, 206, 207, 229\u201330\n\nFinney, Newton, 510n\n\nFirestone, Clark B., 453\u201354\n\nFirst Volunteer Cavalry, U.S., 4, 343\n\nFishback, George, 492n\u201393n\n\n\"five nightingales,\" 103\u20134, 138\n\nFlorida, 130\u201331\n\nFogarty, Leslie, xii\n\nFogarty, Pat, xii\n\nFoster, Gade, and Graham, 454\n\nFrancis, David, 393\u201394\n\nFreedom of Information Act (FOIA), xii\n\nFreedom Triumphant in War and Peace, 25\n\nfree silver movement, 293\u201394, 301, 307, 309, 315, 326, 328, 332\u201333, 348, 384, 391\n\nFree Soil Democrats, 71\n\nFr\u00e9mont, John, 154\n\nFrench's Hotel, 27, 274\n\nFrey, Elize Berger Pulitzer, see Pulitzer, Elize Berger\n\nFrey, Max, 16\u201317, 23\n\nFrick, Henry Clay, 296\u201398\n\nFrost, Richard Graham, 139\n\nGale, Zona, 380, 389, 522n\n\ngambling, 83, 195, 306, 439, 490n\n\nGardarino, John, 349\n\nGarfield, James, 182, 189, 192\u201397, 225\n\nGarland, 19, 20\n\nGarland, Augustus, 242\n\nGartenlaube, Die, 38\n\nGaynor, William J., 455\n\nGeneral Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen, 331\n\nGentry, William, 105\n\nGeorge, Henry, 246\n\n\"German Diet,\" 56\n\nGerman Emigration Society, 54\n\nGermania Club, 104\n\nGibson, Eustace, 241\u201342, 243\n\nGilmore, Patrick S., 137\n\nGladstone, William, 255\u201356, 314, 325\n\nGobelin tapestries, 362\n\nGodkin, Edwin Lawrence, 192, 315\n\nGoethe, Johannes Wolfgang von, 42, 106\n\ngold standard, 181, 293\u201394, 309, 315, 391, 415\n\nGordon, John Brown, 145\n\nGotham Hotel, 458\u201359\n\nGottschalk, Lewis, 115, 116\u201317, 170, 501n\n\nGould, Jay, 198\u201399, 204\u20136, 216, 218\u201319, 230, 231, 232, 274, 293\u201394, 394, 412\n\nGoupil's Picture Gallery, 258\n\nGrace, William R., 240\n\nGraham, Margaret, 213\u201314\n\nGrand Army of the Republic, 458\n\nGrand Union Hotel, 260\n\nGrant, Ulysses S., 24, 26, 44, 72, 73, 74, 75\u201376, 80, 82, 84, 87, 91, 92, 104, 106, 108, 120\u201322, 125, 130, 131, 137, 180, 218, 225, 488, 489n, 490n, 491n\n\nGrant & Ward, 240\n\nGreat Depression, 462\n\nGreat God Success, The (Phillips), 303, 354, 359\u201360, 374\u201375, 381\n\nGreeley, Horace, 21, 84, 88\u201394, 98, 111, 125, 126, 192, 208, 231\n\nGribayedoff, Valerian, 230\u201331\n\nGrosvenor, William M., 45, 71, 72, 73\u201377, 80, 81\u201383, 86\u201388, 96, 101, 104, 106, 108, 120, 492n\n\nGuiteau, Charles, 192\u201393, 196\u201397\n\nGuyol, Edwin Warren, 438\u201340\n\nhabeas corpus, 183\n\nHal\u00e9vy, Ludovic, 100\n\nHall, Oakey, 121, 128\n\nHallam, Henry, 457\n\nHalstead, Murat, 76, 85\u201386, 175\u201376, 229\n\nHalstead, O. S. \"Pet,\" 99\n\nHamburg, Germany, 18, 37\n\nHamlet (Shakespeare), 137\n\nHammond, Walter, 247\n\nHammonia, 135\n\nHancock, E. C., 207\n\nHancock, Winfield, 182\u201383, 189\n\nHarding, Earl, 437\u201340, 526n, 527n\n\nHare, Christopher, 457, 528n\n\nHarper's Weekly, 179, 202, 226\n\nHarrison, Benjamin, 272, 276, 285\n\nHart Island, 22\n\nHarvard University, 251, 321, 338, 361, 366, 379, 385, 403, 407, 454, 461\n\nHarvey, George B. M., 291, 300, 302, 389, 458, 513n, 514n\n\nHay, John, 439\n\nHayes, Rutherford B., 125\u201333, 136, 151, 152, 179, 225\n\nH\u00e1zm\u00e1n, Ferenc, 71\n\nHearst, William Randolph:\n\nambition of, 251\u201352, 291\u201392, 318, 321\u201332, 333, 355\u201359\n\nbackground of, 3\u20134, 251\u201352\n\ncongressional campaign of, 390\n\ngubernatorial campaign of (1906), 406\u20137\n\ninheritance of, 251\u201352, 291\u201392, 321, 323\n\nMcKinley's assassination and, 372\u201373, 407\n\nin New York City, 291\u201392, 318, 321\u201332, 333\n\nas New York Journal publisher, 3\u20134, 321\u201332, 334, 338\u201341, 343, 372\u201373, 388, 517n, 518n, 519n\n\npolitical influence of, 338\u201343, 372\u201373, 390\u201391, 406\u20137\n\nas presidential candidate, 390\u201391\n\nPulitzer as rival of, 3\u20134, 151, 251\u201352, 291\u201392, 321\u201332, 333, 365, 372\u201373, 406\u20137, 441, 455, 458, 517n, 518n, 519n\n\nPulitzer's agreement with, 355\u201359, 370, 377, 518n, 519n\n\nreputation of, 372\u201373, 377, 390\u201391, 406\u20137\n\nsalaries paid by, 321, 322\n\nin San Francisco, 251\u201352, 321\n\nsensationalism used by, 330\u201331, 338\u201341, 372\u201373, 377\n\nSpanish-American War supported by, 338\u201343, 388\n\nstaff hired by, 321, 322\u201324, 330\u201331, 334, 339, 341, 353\n\n\"yellow journalism\" of, 330\u201331, 372\u201373, 377\n\nHebrews in America, The, 498n\n\nHegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 34, 39\u201340, 51, 67, 89\n\nHenderson, John, 122\u201323\n\nHendricks, Thomas, 228\n\nHesing, A. C., 111\u201312\n\nHevrah Kadisha, 10\n\nHewitt, Abram, 246\n\nHill, Britton A., 78, 113, 489n\n\nHill, David, 279, 293, 306\u20137, 390, 391, 514n\u201315n\n\nHill, Edward B., 437\n\nHinton, Chalmers A., 478n\n\nHinton, Richard J., 479n\n\nHobbes, Thomas, 314\n\nHoe printing presses, 162, 167, 171, 177, 194\u201395, 286, 340, 415, 500n, 506n\n\n\"Hogan's Alley,\" 330\u201331\n\nHolmes, Oliver Wendell, 449\n\nHomer, 255\n\nhome rule charters, 118, 495n\n\nHomestead Strike (1892), 296\u201398\n\nhomosexuality, 380\u201381, 483n\u201384n\n\nHonor, 408\n\nHood, John, 338\n\nHooker, Isabella Beecher, 143\n\nHorace, 368\n\nHosmer, George W., 284, 285, 287, 290, 291, 292, 294, 300, 301, 305, 338, 364, 370, 372, 376, 377, 378, 395, 407, 408, 413, 436, 461\n\nHotel Bristol, 254, 272\n\nHotel Cap Martin, 328\u201329\n\nHough, Charles, 447\n\nHouse Committee on Elections, 139\n\nHouse of Representatives, U.S., 131\u201332, 139, 234, 240\u201343, 423\u201324, 508n\n\nHouser, Daniel, 102, 153, 173, 192, 493n\n\nHoward, Joe, 248\u201349\n\nHudnut's Pharmacy, 291, 499n\n\nHughes, Charles Evans, 407, 446\n\nHummel, Henry Charles, 479n\n\nHungary, 4, 9\u201319, 35, 55, 71, 108, 116, 135\u201336, 146, 253, 382, 474n, 476n, 481n\n\nHunt, Richard Morris, 274\n\nHutchins, Stilson, 53, 75, 76\u201377, 84, 95, 96, 101, 102\u20133, 113\u201315, 120, 121, 122, 124, 137, 138, 145, 146, 153, 173\u201374, 178, 195, 196\u201397, 488n\u201389n, 494n, 499n, 502n\n\nHyde, James Hazen, 399\u2013400\n\nHyde, William, 82, 154, 164, 165, 178\u201379, 181, 184, 186\u201387, 198, 201, 301\n\nhyperesthesia, 303\u20134, 514n\n\nIllinois-St. Louis Bridge Co., 158\n\nIllinois Staats-Zeitung, 52, 98, 111, 120, 122\n\nimmigration, 181, 214, 225, 236, 271, 278, 287, 350, 482n\n\nincome tax, 219, 327\n\nIndiana, 89, 124\u201325, 128, 130, 182, 183, 185, 188, 189\n\nIndianapolis News, 420\u201321, 434, 435\n\nIndianapolis Sentinel, 125, 126, 491n\u201392n\n\nInjuries of Nerves and Their Consequence (Mitchell), 288\n\nIreland, 255\n\nIreland, Alleyne, 452\u201353, 457, 465, 480n, 482n\n\nIron Mountain Railway, 51, 186\n\nIttner, Anthony, 56, 62, 63\u201364, 68\u201369, 74, 140, 483n\n\nJames, William, 483n\n\nJay Cooke and Co., 101, 103\n\nJefferson, Thomas, 461\n\nJellett, Morgan, 362\n\nJerome, Leonard, 259\n\nJerome, William, 427, 428, 430, 431, 432, 526n\n\nJewish Emigration Society (Pest), 17\n\nJews, Judaism, xiii, 4, 9\u201311, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 47, 66n, 108\u20139, 141, 146, 178, 248\u201349, 252, 253, 260\u201363, 265, 288, 324, 366, 395, 443, 474n, 498n, 499n, 520n\n\nJohn Romer, 22, 28\n\nJohnson, Andrew, 26, 81, 84, 121\n\nJohnson, Charles P., 43, 48, 61, 66, 77\u201378, 82, 95, 96, 98, 101, 104, 137, 153, 172\u201373, 184, 187\u201388, 200, 480n, 489n\n\nJones, Charles H., 301\u20132, 305, 307\u20138, 332\u201333\n\nJordan, Elizabeth, 458\u201359, 516n\n\nJournalist, 223\u201324, 261\n\nJ. P. Morgan & Co., 417\n\nJulius Caesar (Shakespeare), 202, 436\n\nJump, Edward, 104\n\nJustice Department, U.S., xii, 4\u20135, 421\u201324, 426, 428, 429\u201336, 446\u201350, 525n, 526n\n\nKansas City Journal, 65\n\nKealing, Joseph, 435\n\nKeller, Helen, 288\n\nKelsoe, William A., 482n\n\nKeppler, Joseph, 75, 108, 494n\n\nKlunder, Charles, 258\n\nKnapp, Charles, 186, 195, 198, 346, 393\n\nKnapp, George, 154, 195, 198\n\nKnapp, John, 154\n\nKnott, James Proctor, 140\n\nKnow-Nothing movement, 225\n\nKnox, Philander Chase, 423\n\nKossuth, Lajos, 11, 12, 116\n\nKu Klux Klan, 108, 493n\n\nlabor movement, 183\u201384, 190\u201391, 212, 272, 293, 296\u201398\n\nLaclede Hotel, 166\u201367\n\nLake to Gulf Waterways Association, 423\n\nLamar, Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus, 140, 145\n\n\"land sharks,\" 27\u201328\n\nLangtry, Lillie, 229\n\nLathan, Robert, 456\n\nLedlie, George H., 304, 341, 373\u201374, 375, 396, 454, 459\n\nle Doll, Masy, 247\n\nLee, Robert E., 24\n\nLeech, Margaret, 461\n\nLemps brewery, 60\n\nLeo X, Pope, 73\n\nLeslie, Miriam, 254\n\nLeviathan (Hobbes), 314\n\nLexow, Rudolph, 112\n\nLiberal Republican Convention (1872), 80\u201394, 105, 126, 138, 173, 181, 489n\u201390n\n\nLiberal Republicans, 57\u201358, 69, 71\u201377, 78, 80\u201394, 95, 97, 100, 104\u20136, 112, 120, 125, 126, 127, 128, 136, 138, 140, 173, 175\u201376, 181, 488n, 489n\u201390n, 492n, 493n, 494n\n\nLiberty (Pulitzer's yacht), 1\u20132, 5, 412\u201313, 415, 416, 420, 421, 424, 426, 427, 433, 434, 436\u201337, 444, 446, 452, 456\u201357\n\nLife, 377, 521n\n\nLife of Louis XI, The (Hare), 457, 528n Liggett, Dolly, 171\n\nLincoln, Abraham, 22, 23, 24, 84, 103, 123, 128, 154\n\nLindell, Peter, 489n\n\nLindell Hotel, 153, 176, 200\u2013201\n\nLippmann, Walter, 462\n\nLivy, 12\n\nLodge, Henry Cabot, 313, 315, 316\u201317\n\nLondon Evening Standard, 256\n\nLos Angeles Times, 261\n\nLouis-Philippe I, King of France, 11\n\nLouis XI, King of France, 457, 528n\n\nLouisiana, 32, 130\u201331\n\nLouisville Courier-Journal, 76, 85, 178, 249\n\nLow, Seth, 377, 379, 458\n\nloyalty oaths, 43\u201344, 53, 57, 74\n\nLucas, Charles, 62\n\nLuce, Henry, 521n\n\nLucille Pulitzer Scholarship, 337\n\nLuther, Martin, 73\n\nLyman, Robert, 413\u201314, 434\n\nlynchings, 107\u20138\n\nLyon, Nathan, 67\n\nMcAllister, Ward, 241, 258\n\nMacarow, Maud Alice, 396, 404, 405, 408\n\nMacaulay, Thomas Babington, 422, 457\n\nMcClellan, Brinton, 306\n\nMcClellan, George, 306\u20137, 514n\n\nMcClurg, Joseph, 71, 72, 73, 74\n\nMcCullagh, Joseph, 80\u201382, 111, 156, 157, 158, 161, 164, 173, 174, 177, 184, 201, 493n, 500n, 502n\n\nMcCullough, John, 144, 202, 499n\n\nMcDougall, Walt, 225\u201328, 230\u201331, 248, 259, 263, 296\n\nMcDowell, Joseph Nash, 481n\n\nMackay, Katherine, 379\u201380, 389, 399\n\nMcKee, William, 102\u20133, 120, 488n, 493n\n\nMacKenna, Stephen, 405, 409, 410\n\nMcKim, Mead, and White, 257, 362\u201363, 371\u201372\n\nMcKinley, William, 327\u201328, 338, 339, 342, 359, 369\u201370, 372\u201373, 389, 407, 521n\n\nMcKinley Tariff Act (1890), 285\u201386, 296\n\nMcLane, James W., 264, 271, 458\n\nMcLane, Robert, 254\n\nMcLean, John, 204, 217, 320\u201321\n\nMcNamara, Stewart, 433, 434, 437\n\nMcReynolds, James, 449\n\nMadison Square Garden, 137, 209, 406\n\nMaine sinking (1898), 3, 338\u201339\n\nMajestic, 290, 291, 343, 374\n\nMak\u00f3, Moravia, 9\u201312, 14, 15\u201316, 17, 474n, 475n\n\nManhattan Club, 128, 216\n\nManlius, Titus, 12\n\nMann, Friedrich, 457, 459\n\n\"Map of Bryanism: Twelve Years of\n\nDemagogy and Defeat\u2014An Appeal of\n\nIndependent Democratic Thought, by\n\nthe New York World, The,\" 415\n\nMarable, Manton, 263\n\nMarie Antoinette, 278\n\nMarine Bank, 240\n\nMarmaduke, John, 153\n\nMartin Chuzzlewit (Dickens), 517n\n\nMary Stuart, 353\n\nMaximilian I, Emperor of Mexico, 17\u201318, 26\n\nMeilhac, Henri, 100\n\nMendelssohn, Moses, 14\n\nMephistopheles, 154, 493n\n\nMercantile Library (St. Louis), 32\u201333, 39, 51, 126, 202, 482n\n\nMerrill, Bradford, 300, 312, 341\u201342, 345, 348, 358, 386\u201387, 388, 391\u201392, 394, 459\n\nMerrill, William H., 244, 250, 253, 265, 296\u201398, 335, 353\u201354, 383, 400\u2013401\n\nMetcalfe, Lyne, 139\n\nMetropolitan Museum of Art, 461\n\nMetropolitan Opera House, 258, 399\n\nMilitary Academy, U.S., 435\n\nMill on the Floss, The (Eliot), 290\n\nMississippi River, 29\u201330, 103, 112, 480n, 496n\n\nMissouri, 43\u201346, 70, 74, 82, 97, 106\u201310, 115, 116\u201319, 120, 130, 139\u201340, 144, 199, 220, 229, 332\n\nMissouri Constitutional Convention (1875), 109\u201310, 115, 116\u201319, 120, 144\n\nMissouri Democrat, 43, 45, 65, 71, 73\u201376, 77, 80\u201381, 83\u201384, 92, 102, 120, 154, 346, 485n, 488n, 492n, 493n\n\nMissouri Grange, 105\n\nMissouri Pacific Railroad, 56, 106, 297, 485n\n\nMissouri Republican, 43, 74, 82, 102, 106, 114, 164, 165, 166, 178, 184, 187, 198, 201, 202, 346, 485n\n\nMissouri River, 56, 401\u20132, 496n\n\nMissouri Staats-Zeitung, 77\n\nMiss Vinton's School for Girls, 380\n\nMitchell, Edward P., 130\n\nMitchell, S. Weir, 287\u201388, 290, 294\u201395, 376\n\nmonopolies, 102, 162\u201363, 171, 176, 198\u201399, 208, 217\u201318, 219, 220, 225, 230\u201331, 246, 271, 296\u201398, 356, 371, 389, 392\u201393, 399\u2013400, 454, 507n, 518n\n\nMonroe Doctrine, 26, 313\n\nMontgomery, Elizabeth, 362\n\nMoore, Edith Pulitzer, see Pulitzer, Edith\n\nMoore, William Scoville, 462\n\nMoravia, 9\u201312, 14, 15\u201316, 17, 474n, 475n\n\nMoray Lodge, 324\u201325\n\nMorgan, Edwin D., 492n\n\nMorgan, J. Pierpont, xi, 1, 254, 258, 259\u201360, 290, 315\u201317, 331, 391, 401, 405\u20136, 417, 434\n\nmortgages, 155, 160, 170\u201371, 175\u201376, 257, 289, 293\n\nMorton, Anna, 260\n\nMorton, Levi P., 126, 127, 259, 260, 313, 496n\n\nMountain Democrat, 72\n\nMount Desert Island, 271, 337\n\nMunk\u00e1csy, Mih\u00e1ly, 259\n\nNast, Thomas, 231, 496n\n\nNational Associated Press, 160\n\nNational Grange, 105\n\nNavy, U.S., 338, 342\u201343\n\nNeolog reform movement, 11, 15\n\nNeuda, Max, 442\n\nNeue Anzeiger, 55\n\nNewark Advertiser, 99\n\nNewman, Eric P., xii\n\nnewspaper boys (\"newsies\"), 169, 183\u201384, 191, 226, 238, 349\u201354, 355, 358, 518n\n\nnewspapers:\n\nafternoon, 157\u201358, 162, 171, 172, 273\n\nauctions of, 101\u20133, 153\u201357, 172, 175\u201376\n\ncirculation of, 195, 203, 207, 261\u201362, 320\u201322, 343, 344\u201345, 481n\n\ncomics published in, 330\u201331\n\ncompositors for, 190\u201391, 198, 208, 209\n\ncounting rooms of, 167, 169\n\ncrime stories in, 166, 213\u201314, 226\u201327, 321\n\n\"ears\" design in, 211\n\neditorial staff of, 85\u201386, 90\u201393, 129\u201330, 138, 173\n\nevening, 153, 157\u201358, 159, 168, 261\u201362, 273, 349\u201353, 424\n\n\"extras\" of, 350\n\nfinances of, 173, 197\u201398, 500n\n\nfree speech protections for, 118\u201319, 150, 426\u201327, 429, 434, 449\u201350\n\nGerman, 31, 44, 61, 90\u201393, 101\u20132, 482n, 491n\n\nheadlines of, 165, 321\n\nillustrations in, 76\u201377, 225\u201328, 230\u201331, 245, 259, 296, 321, 496n, 506n\n\nindependent, 159, 161, 192, 195, 208\u20139, 217, 231, 461\n\nmanagement of, 173, 197\u201398\n\nmergers of, 156, 160\u201361, 170, 206\u20137\n\nmorning, 159, 321, 350, 355, 414, 462\n\nnewsstand price of, 183\u201384, 211, 219, 224, 289, 322, 323, 325\u201326, 349\u201353, 355, 357, 517n, 518n\n\npaper used for, 12, 159, 237, 326, 350, 454\n\nPark Row headquarters of, 21, 27, 98, 129\u201330, 191\u201392, 205, 206\n\npenny, 98, 203, 320, 321, 322, 323, 325\u201326, 350, 357\n\npolitical cartoons in, 225\u201328, 230\u201331, 245, 259, 296, 496n, 506n\n\nprinting presses for, 154, 159, 162, 167\u201368, 171, 175, 177, 194\u201395, 198, 286, 340, 415, 500n, 506n\n\n\"Pulitzer formula\" for, 213\u201314, 251\u201352\n\nsensationalism used by, 3\u20134, 209, 213\u201315, 251\u201352, 253, 260, 261\u201362, 273, 297, 320, 330\u201331, 338\u201341, 345\u201346, 357, 372\u201373, 377, 403, 453, 521n\n\nsociety pages of, 171, 203, 320\n\nstyle of, 98\u201399, 138, 203, 213\u201314, 251\u201352\n\nsubscriptions for, 160, 162\n\ntabloid, 462\n\ntwo-cent, 320, 322, 323, 355, 357\n\ntypography of, 2, 154, 175, 190\u201391, 287, 341, 379\n\nwholesale price of, 224, 350\u201353, 355, 357, 517n\n\nwomen readers of, 197, 203\n\nsee also specific newspapers\n\nNew Testament, 66n, 459\n\nNew Year's Day (Wharton), 112\u201313\n\nNew York, N.Y., 21\u201322, 27\u201328, 37, 90\u201391, 112\u201314, 124, 128\u201330, 135\u201336, 137, 145, 151, 153, 177\u201378, 189, 201, 202, 206\u201340, 242, 244\u201353, 269, 272, 276, 290\u201391, 299, 305\u20138, 312\u201313, 391, 411, 421, 424\u201326, 429\u201336, 446\u201347, 449, 452, 454\u201355, 456\n\nNew York American and Journal, 372\u201373, 418\n\nNew York Central Railroad, 245\n\nNew York Commercial Advertiser, 274\n\nNew York Evening Journal, 334, 349\u201353, 357\u201358, 518n\n\nNew York Evening Mail, 453\n\nNew York Evening Post, 192, 224, 315, 320\n\nNew York Evening World, 261\u201362, 323, 334, 349\u201353, 357\u201358, 380, 403\u20134, 431\u201332\n\nNew York First Cavalry Regiment (\"Lincoln Regiment\"), 22\u201327, 44, 478n\u201379n\n\nNew York Herald, 98, 99\u2013100, 121, 135, 174, 192, 197, 198, 208, 219, 223, 224, 232, 249, 252, 274, 284, 288\u201389, 299\u2013300, 303, 313, 319, 321, 324, 355\n\nNew York Herald-Tribune, 462\n\nNew York Journal, 3\u20134, 321\u201332, 334, 338\u201341, 343, 372\u201373, 388, 517n, 518n, 519n\n\nNew York Journal of Commerce, 74\n\nNew York Mail, 145\n\nNew York Morgen Journal, 321\n\nNew York Morning Advertiser, 292, 355\n\nNew York Morning Journal, 197\u201398, 202\u20133, 206\u20137, 208, 209\u201310, 211, 215, 220, 223, 226, 229, 254, 292, 319\u201321, 441\n\nNew York Press, 341\n\nNew York Society for the Suppression of Vice, 261\n\nNew York Staats-Zeiting, 130, 228, 496n\n\nNew York State, 130, 185, 189, 219\u201320, 222\u201323, 231\u201332, 272, 306\u20137, 389, 406\u20137\n\nNew York Sun, 98\u2013100, 129\u201333, 136, 138, 151\u201352 (Pul), 153, 192, 198, 208, 216, 223, 224, 226, 232, 261\u201363, 280, 294, 300, 303, 306, 314, 321, 326, 333, 342, 496n, 498n\n\nNew York Times, 86, 98, 127, 192, 193\u201394, 197, 217, 219, 223, 224, 249, 275, 278, 280, 317, 321, 331, 355, 357, 363, 380, 387, 411, 418, 429, 430, 452, 459, 462, 490n, 499n\n\nNew York Tribune, 84, 90\u201391, 98, 129, 177\u201378, 192, 198, 202, 208, 219, 230, 321, 355, 458, 506n\n\nNew York World, see World\n\nNew York World-Journal, 207\u20138\n\nNew York World-Telegram, 462\n\nNiagara Falls, 508n\n\nNicoll, De Lancey, 253, 262\u201363, 429, 430, 435, 446\u201347\n\nNiederwiester, Tony, 31\n\nNobel, Alfred, xi, 378\n\nNolan, Kate, 134\u201335\n\nNorris, John, 323, 325\u201326, 336, 343, 344\u201345, 346, 357, 363, 365, 459\n\nNorthcliffe, Alfred Harmsworth, Baron, 411\n\nOceanic, 368, 370\n\nOchs, Adolph, 323, 357, 363, 380, 387, 418, 462\n\nOffenbach, Jacques, 100, 140\n\nOhio, 124\u201325, 128, 188, 189, 217\n\nOrezy House, 475n\n\nOrthodox Jews, 10\u201311, 12\n\nO'Toole, Phelim, 497n\n\nOutcault, Richard F., 330\u201331\n\nPagenstecher, Hermann, 298, 513n\n\nPanama Canal, 4, 417\u201340, 446\u201350, 455, 525n, 526n\n\nPan-American Exposition (1901), 372\n\nPan-Electric Telegraph Co., 241\u201342\n\nParis Opera, 280\u201381\n\nParker, Alton B., 390, 393\n\nParsons, John E., 259\n\nPatriarch Ball, 258\n\nPatrick, William, 83, 101, 157, 160, 173, 481n\n\npatronage, political, 78\u201379, 83\u201384, 94\u201397, 224, 234\u201335\n\nPatti, Carlotta, 183\n\nPeninsular, 282\u201383\n\nPenny Lunch Room, 140\n\nPeople's Party, 105\n\nPest, 10, 11, 12\u201317, 71, 480n\n\nPet\u00f6fi, S\u00e1ndor, 12\n\nPhelan, William, 65\n\nPhelps, Walter, 265\n\nPhiladelphia Ledger, 174, 279\n\nPhiladelphia Times, 126\n\nPhilharmonic Society, 461\n\nPhilippines, 342\u201343, 359\n\nPhillips, David Graham, 300\u2013303, 311, 344, 353, 354, 356, 359\u201360, 365, 374\u201375, 381, 450\u201351, 513n\n\nPickwick Papers, The (Dickens), 51\n\nPike, Albert, 140\n\nPilgrims of the Rhine, The (Bulwer-Lytton), 14\n\nPlato, 14\n\nPliny the Elder, 277\n\npneumonia, 221, 300, 302\n\nPolitzer, Adam, 367\u201368, 443\n\nPollard, Harold Stanley, 411\u201312, 444, 446\n\npoll books, 139\n\nPonsonby, Claude, 272\u201373, 276, 277, 278, 281, 282, 283, 285, 290, 291, 292, 297, 300, 301, 307\n\nPopulist Party, 293\u201394\n\nPost, George Brown, 274\u201375, 276, 286\n\nPreetorius, Anna, 483n\n\nPreetorius, Emil, 34, 35, 36, 39, 44, 45, 46, 49, 70, 74, 76, 93, 96, 101, 104, 119, 164, 173, 481n, 482n, 483n\n\npress, freedom of the, 118\u201319, 150, 426\u201327, 429, 434, 449\u201350\n\nPress Publishing company, 434, 435\n\nProgress and Poverty (George), 246\n\nprussic acid, 443\n\nPuck, 226\n\nPulitzer, Albert:\n\nambition of, 144, 197\u201398, 206\u20137, 254, 319\n\nbirth of, 476n\n\nchildhood of, 12, 13\u201314, 16, 17\n\ndivorce of, 320, 441\u201342\n\nfuneral of, 443\n\nhealth of, 319, 527n\n\nas immigrant, 36\u201339, 51\u201352, 71, 321\n\nJewish background of, 443\n\nlove affairs of, 254, 442\n\nmemoir of, xii, 442, 505n\n\nas Morning Journal publisher, 197\u201398, 202\u20133, 206\u20137, 208, 209\u201310, 211, 215, 223, 226, 229, 254, 292, 319\u201321, 441\n\nin New York, 197\u201398, 202\u20133, 206\u20137, 254, 319\u201321\n\nin Paris, 254, 319, 320\n\npersonality of, 51\u201352, 198, 319\u201320, 442\u201343\n\nphysical appearance of, 319, 442\n\nPulitzer's estrangement from, 210, 254, 382, 441\u201344, 527n\n\nPulitzer's rivalry with, 144, 197\u201398, 206\u20137, 209\u201310, 223, 229\n\nas reporter, 98\u2013100, 112, 121, 128, 137, 197, 198, 319\u201320, 492n\n\nin San Francisco, 442, 527n\n\nsuicide of, xii, 442\u201344\n\nin Vienna, 320, 442\u201343\n\nwealth of, 254, 319, 321, 441, 527n\n\nwill of, 527n\n\nPulitzer, Baruch Simon, 10\n\nPulitzer, Constance Helen, 272, 280, 285, 343, 361, 367, 395, 396, 445, 457, 459\u201360, 461, 462\n\nPulitzer, Edith, 244, 265, 278, 280, 361, 367, 380, 387\u201388, 395, 396, 405\u20136, 445, 457, 459\u201360, 461, 462\n\nPulitzer, Elinor Wickham, 448, 452, 462\n\nPulitzer, Elizabeth Edgar, 462\n\nPulitzer, Elize Berger, xiii, 9, 10, 12\u201317, 21\u201322, 23, 32, 37, 41, 51, 62, 98, 135\u201336, 141, 191, 210, 397, 444, 480n, 498n\n\nPulitzer, Fanny Barnard, 121, 135, 254, 320, 441\u201342\n\nPulitzer, Frederica Webb, 394\u201395, 401\u20133, 406, 461\n\nPulitzer, F\u00fcl\u00f6p, 9\u201310, 12\u201317, 41, 210, 444, 474n, 475n\n\nPulitzer, Herbert, 361, 367, 368, 387\u201388, 445, 452, 457, 460, 461, 462\n\nPulitzer, Joseph:\n\naccent of, 109, 141\n\nage misrepresented by, 22, 35, 57, 71, 74\n\nin Aiken, S.C., 198\n\nin Aix-les-Bains, 238, 254, 343, 363, 366, 374, 375, 385, 391, 396, 441\n\nin Albany, N.Y., 192\u201393, 224\u201325\n\nin Alexandria, Va., 25\n\nambition of, 32, 35\u201336, 116, 159\u201361, 166, 171\u201372, 184, 186, 187\u201388, 205\u20139, 273, 355\u201359\n\n\"Andes\" as codename for, 365, 520n\n\nangina of, 458\n\nin Antwerp, 19\n\nanxiety of, 303\u20134\n\narrest of, 66\n\narrest warrants for, 240, 426, 446\n\nart collection of, 238, 241, 254, 257, 258, 362, 373\u201374\n\nassembly election campaign of (1869), 52\u201369, 75, 488n\u201389n\n\nassembly election campaign of (1870), 73\u201377\n\nas assemblyman, 52\u201369, 71\u201375, 97, 143, 485n\u201387n\n\nassimilation by, 10\u201311, 15, 109, 141, 146, 152\n\nAssociated Press (AP) membership of, 102, 153, 154, 160, 170\u201371, 175\u201376, 355, 358, 518n\n\nauctions attended by, 101\u20133, 153\u201357, 172\n\nin Baden-Baden, 298\n\nin Bad Homburg, 380\u201381\n\nin Bad Kissingen, 238\n\nbail set for, 66, 240\n\nin Berlin, 441, 443, 444\n\nbiographies of, xi\u2013xiii, 478n, 479n\u201380n, 481n, 484n, 487n, 490n, 497n\n\nbirthday of, 133, 362, 379, 394, 395, 410, 479n\n\nbirth of, 9\u201311, 475n, 476n, 479n\n\nin Bismarck, S.Dak., 218\n\nin Bladensburg, Va., 25\n\nblindness of, 1, 4, 17, 263\u201365, 269\u2013304, 309\u201310, 312, 329, 359, 409\u201310, 413\u201314, 427, 428\u201329, 444, 452\u201353, 484n, 514n\n\nBonnat's portrait of, 310\n\nin Boonville, Mo., 109\n\nin Boston, 18, 20\u201321, 188, 476n\n\n\"breach of peace\" fine against, 64\u201365\n\nbronchitis contracted by, 284\u201385\n\nin Brunswick, Ga., 295, 331\n\nbyline of, 132, 152\n\nCalifornia trip of, 265, 269\u201371, 272\n\ncampaign tours of, 84\u2013189, 106\u20137, 124\u201333, 138, 208, 224, 225, 228\u201329, 230\n\ncapitalists opposed by, 186\u201389, 198\u201399, 205, 208\u20139, 217\u201318, 245, 259, 293\u201398, 299\u2013300, 371\n\nat Cap Martin, 328\u201329, 407\u20139, 441, 444\u201346, 448\n\ncards played by, 173, 306\n\ncaricatures of, 75, 101, 104, 108, 307, 377\n\nas cavalry officer, 22\u201327, 44, 478n\u201379n\n\nin Charleston, S.C., 420, 456\u201357\n\nat Chatwold estate (Bar Harbor), 301, 302, 306\u20137, 312, 326\u201327, 332\u201336, 337, 343, 348, 354, 355\u201359, 371, 372, 373, 375\u201376, 377, 383\u201384, 391, 400, 401, 404, 410\u201311, 449, 452\u201354, 461\n\nchess played by, 34, 306, 481n, 482n\n\nin Chicago, 224\n\nchildhood of, xii, 11\u201317, 135\u201336, 337, 382\n\nin Cincinnati, Ohio, 84\u201390, 126, 181\u201383\n\ncircumcision (Brit Milah) of, 10, 475n, 498n\n\nas city editor, 50, 90, 91\u201393, 96, 97, 119, 127\n\nas Civil War veteran, 18\u201327, 35, 44, 108, 274, 458, 476n, 478n\u201379n, 480n\n\nas clerk for legislative committee, 76\n\nas clerk for lumberyard, 32, 33, 35, 381n\n\nin Cleveland, Ohio, 188\u201389\n\nclub memberships of, 216, 509n\n\ncodebooks used by, 2, 364\u201365, 428, 444, 519n\u201320n\n\ncoffin of, 457\u201360\n\nin Cologne, Germany, 370\n\nColumbia University School of Journalism endowed by, 4, 337, 376\u201379, 386\u201387, 389, 394, 446, 458, 461\n\ncongressional campaign of (1880), 177\u201381, 184\u201388, 229, 232\n\ncongressional campaign of (1884), 229, 232\n\ncongressional term served by, 234, 240\u201343, 508n\n\nCooper Union speech of (1876), 128\u201329\n\ncorrespondence of, 2, 5, 17, 41\u201342, 114, 126, 142\u201343, 153, 215, 239, 247, 263\u201364, 272\u201373, 275\u201376, 277, 281, 282\u201383, 285, 302, 310, 325\u201326, 335, 346\u201347, 364, 367, 374, 375, 382, 384\u201388, 389, 394, 401, 404\u20139, 445, 448, 451, 481n, 484n, 497n, 511n, 523n\n\ncorruption opposed by, 3, 4\u20135, 47\u201350, 59\u201368, 74, 106, 125\u201326, 151, 162\u201364, 184, 195, 199, 209\u201310, 222\u201323, 228, 241\u201342, 262\n\nin Cuba, 221\n\ndeath certificate of, 458\n\ndeath feared by, 15\u201316, 221\n\ndeath of, 376\u201377, 455\u201356, 462\n\ndebts of, 155, 160, 170\u201371, 175\u201376, 205\u20136, 210, 232, 257, 289\n\nDeer Island escape of, 20, 477n\n\nas Democrat, 4, 106\u201312, 116, 124\u201333, 139\u201340, 161, 165, 181\u201389, 192, 199, 216, 217, 219\u201332, 241, 246, 262, 269, 285\u201386, 293, 369\u201370, 388\u201393, 406\u20137, 415\u201316, 417, 451\u201352, 456\n\ndemocratic ideals of, 25, 57, 58, 106, 123, 125, 149\u201352, 186, 208\u20139, 294, 308\u20139, 314, 499n\n\ndepressions of, 263\u201365, 269\u201383, 288, 298, 303\u20134, 305, 328\u201329, 336, 337, 340, 343, 346\u201347, 369, 376, 387\u201388, 407\u201311, 431, 436, 444\u201346, 451, 458\n\nin Detroit, Mich., 128\n\nas Deutsche Gesselschaft secretary, 35\u201336\n\ndictation by, 277, 282\u201383, 364, 448, 484n\n\ndiet of, 306\n\nas Eads Bridge investor, 103\n\neconomic views of, 3, 10, 11, 16, 57, 118, 120, 164, 165, 219, 235, 246, 293\u201394, 301, 307, 309, 315\u201317, 326, 327, 328, 332\u201333, 348, 384, 391, 485n\n\neducation of, 12, 13\u201314, 32\u201333, 35, 50, 64, 101\n\nenemies of, 4\u20135, 61\u201366, 70\u201371, 73\u201374, 95\u201397, 110, 126\u201327, 173, 174, 175\u201376, 179\u201380, 185, 186\u201387, 194, 196, 199, 201\u20132, 222\u201323, 224, 227, 228\u201329, 241\u201342, 245, 246, 261\u201363, 265, 276, 280, 297, 316\u201318, 387, 389, 404, 406\u20137, 416, 421\u201340, 446\u201350, 455, 526n\n\nin England, 2, 149\u201350, 151, 152, 238, 254\u201356, 271\u201372, 277, 289, 290, 292, 300\u2013301, 312, 324\u201325, 343, 344, 347\u201348, 366, 368, 370, 381, 397\u201398, 411, 441\n\nEnglish spoken by, 27, 30, 32, 35, 48, 109, 126, 136, 152, 481n\n\nengravings of, 76\u201377\n\nessays written by, 61\u201366, 151\u201352, 153\n\nEuropean autocracy as viewed by, 123, 125, 149\u201352, 294, 314, 426\u201327, 499n\n\nEuropean trips of, 97\u201398, 100, 122\u201323, 124, 125, 144, 149\u201351, 221, 235, 237\u201338, 243\u201344, 250, 253\u201356, 271\u201385, 289\u2013301, 303\u20135, 324\u201325, 363\u201365, 441, 512n\n\neyeglasses worn by, 18, 134, 179, 211, 249, 413\n\nfamily business of, 10, 12\u201313, 16\n\nas father, 42, 170, 172\u201373, 176, 188, 195\u201396, 198, 215, 221, 243, 244, 253, 256, 265, 278, 304\u20135, 309\u201310, 311, 333, 335\u201338, 340, 343, 361, 366\u201368, 371, 382, 387\u201388, 394\u201395, 402\u20133, 410, 444\u201346, 448, 457, 462\n\nas ferryman, 29\u201330, 103\n\nfictional portrayal of, 303, 354, 359\u201360, 374\u201375, 381\n\nfinal illness of, 456\u201357, 458\n\nfinances of, 2, 13\u201314, 16, 17, 21\u201322, 26\u201328, 34, 56, 68\u201369, 78, 91, 93, 97, 101\u20133, 112, 116, 141, 150, 153\u201355, 160, 170\u201371, 173, 175\u201376, 190, 197\u201398, 205\u20136, 210, 232, 257, 289, 293\u201394, 340, 444, 489n, 519n\u201321n\n\nfree silver movement opposed by, 293\u201394, 301, 307, 309, 315, 326, 328, 332\u201333, 348, 384, 391\n\non French Riviera, 276, 280\u201381, 328\u201329\n\nFrench spoken by, 14, 31, 32, 409\n\nfriendships of, 32, 39\u201342, 50, 56, 62, 63\u201364, 95, 100\u2013101, 103, 108, 126\u201327, 128, 137, 202, 224, 228\u201329, 239, 243\u201344, 245, 246, 247, 253\u201354, 259\u201360, 270\u201373, 295, 322, 369, 374\u201376, 381\u201382, 401, 404, 411, 444\u201345, 483n\u201384n, 513n\n\nfuneral of, 457\u201360\n\nfunerals avoided by, 16, 135, 324, 344, 369, 376, 404, 443, 451\n\ngallstones of, 458\n\ngenerosity of, 140, 191, 202, 227, 247, 278, 376\u201379, 455, 461\n\nas German American, 9, 28, 30\u201331, 35\u201336, 39\u201340, 43, 54, 56, 57, 65, 67, 71, 73, 81, 89, 90\u201391, 96, 102, 107, 109, 125, 129, 130, 141, 185, 188, 228, 260, 482n\u201383n, 488n\n\nGerman spoken by, 14, 23, 28, 30\u201331, 32, 35\u201336, 57, 122, 126, 130, 398, 457\n\nGramercy Park house of, 216, 221\n\nas grandfather, 406, 452\u201353\n\ngrave site of, 460\n\nin Greece, 408\n\nin Hamburg, Germany, 18, 476n\n\nhandkerchief ring ordered by, 21\u201322, 136, 478n\n\nhandwriting of, 34, 201, 272, 277\n\nin Havana, 1\u20132\n\nhealth of, 1\u20132, 32, 190, 221, 237\u201339, 243, 246\u201347, 250, 254, 255, 256, 263\u201365, 269\u201388, 290, 292, 294\u201395, 298, 303\u20134, 309\u201310, 311, 312, 319, 325, 328\u201329, 335, 343, 359\u201360, 370, 376, 384\u201385, 389, 394, 407\u20139, 425, 428\u201329, 436, 451, 454, 456\u201357, 458, 514n\n\nheir of, 301, 454\u201355, 462\n\nin Helena, Mont., 218\n\nhomecoming banquet for (1873), 100\u2013101\n\nhoneymoon of, 144, 149\u201351\n\nhonorable discharge of, 26\u201327\n\nhorseback riding by, 103, 173, 271, 306, 375\u201376, 398, 411\n\nhorse named after, 307\n\nhotel accommodations of, 112\u201316, 120, 124, 126, 133\u201335, 137, 140, 192, 207, 216, 254, 270, 272, 277, 282, 295, 303, 304, 325, 328\u201329\n\nhotel fire survived by, 133\u201335, 177, 348\n\nHungarian background of, xii, 4, 9\u201319, 35, 55, 71, 108, 116, 135\u201336, 146, 253, 382, 474n, 476n, 481n\n\nHungarian emigration of, 17\u201319, 476n\n\nas immigrant, 4, 17\u201319, 28, 29, 30\u201331, 35, 136, 141, 146, 479n\u201382n\n\nin Indianapolis, Ind., 125\u201326 185\u2013186\n\nIndia trip cancelled by, 282\u201383, 284\n\ninsomnia of, 1\u20132, 190, 237, 282, 290, 294, 328, 409, 451, 456\u201357, 458\n\ninterviews given by, 105, 155\u201356, 177\u201378, 270, 308\u20139\n\ninvestments of, 97, 101\u20133, 112, 116, 141, 159\u201360, 294, 333, 340, 365, 371, 406\u20137, 444\n\nin Jefferson City, Mo., 45, 56\u201369, 72\u201373, 75, 77\u201378, 80\u201384, 86, 105\u20136, 116\u201319, 120, 140, 179, 485n\n\non Jekyll Island, 2, 259\u201360, 290, 295\u201396, 297, 308\u201311, 318, 323, 324, 331\u201332, 333, 336, 337\u201338, 343, 346\u201347, 348, 364, 371, 373, 376, 379\u201380, 384, 389, 393, 411, 456, 509n\n\nJewish background of, xiii, 4, 9\u201311, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 47, 66n, 108\u20139, 141, 146, 178, 248\u201349, 252, 253, 260\u201363, 265, 288, 324, 366, 395, 443, 474n, 498n, 499n, 520n\n\nas journalist, xi, 35\u201336, 61\u201366, 120, 130, 131\u201333, 136\u201337, 138, 139, 151\u201352, 157, 160\u201361, 170, 173, 182\u201383, 186\u201387, 241, 260, 308\u20139, 330\u201331, 354, 376\u201379, 453\u201354, 458\u201359, 461, 481n\u201382n\n\nJustice Department investigation of, xii, 4\u20135, 421\u201324, 426, 428, 429\u201336, 446\u201350, 525n, 526n\n\nin Kensington, England, 324\u201325, 347\n\nin Kingston, N.Y., 21\n\nin Knob Noster, Mo., 108\u20139\n\nlabor unions as viewed by, 183\u201384, 190, 212, 296\u201398\n\nin Lakewood, N.J., 314, 316, 361, 362, 363\n\nlast words of (\"Leise, ganz leise\"), 457\n\nas law clerk, 35, 210\n\nas lawyer, 120, 138\u201340, 153, 184, 497n\u201398n\n\nlegal representation of, 66, 70\u201371, 77\u201378, 101\u20133, 257, 316\u201317, 332, 428\u201338, 440, 446\u201350, 489n\n\nlegal studies of, 64, 101, 103, 104\n\nlegislation proposed by, 57, 60\u201361, 67\u201368, 69\n\nin Le Havre, France, 272\n\nin Lenox, Mass., 221, 244, 256, 301\n\nlibel suits against, 119, 183, 223\n\nas Liberal Republican, 57\u201358, 69, 71\u201377, 78, 80\u201394, 95, 97, 100, 104\u20136, 112, 120, 125, 126, 127, 128, 136, 138, 140, 173, 175\u201376, 181, 488n, 489n\u201390n, 491n, 492n, 493n, 494n\n\nlibrary of, 2, 14, 272\u201373, 290, 292, 398, 456\u201357\n\nin London, 2, 238, 254\u201356, 271\u201372, 277, 312, 344, 366, 368, 370, 381, 397\u201398, 441\n\nin Long Branch, N.J., 137, 193\u201394, 499n\n\nin Los Angeles, 270\n\nlove life of, 103\u20134, 137, 138\u201346, 497n\n\nloyalty to, 302\u20133, 374\u201375, 384, 400\u2013401\n\nin Lucerne, 285\n\nin Mak\u00f3, Moravia, 9\u201312, 14, 15\u201316, 17, 474n, 475n\n\nmansion of (East Seventy-third Street), 362\u201363, 371\u201372, 373, 385, 389, 403, 424, 454, 458, 461\n\nmedical advice for, 264, 269\u201383, 287\u201388, 294\u201395, 298, 325, 329, 335, 376, 456\u201357\n\nMediterranean cruises of, 281\u201383, 289\u201390, 310, 407\u20138, 444, 449, 480n\n\nin Menton, France, 289, 409\u201310\n\nMephistopheles identified with, 493n\n\nat Missouri constitutional convention (1874), 109\u201310, 115, 116\u201319, 120, 144\n\nat Monte Carlo, 328\n\nmoral values of, 169\u201370, 366, 373, 379\u201381, 406\u20137, 520n\u201321n\n\nmortgages of, 155, 160, 170\u201371, 175\u201376, 257, 289\n\nmother's portrait given to, 397\n\nas mule tender, 31\n\nmusical interests of, 100, 103\u20134, 137, 258, 277\n\nin Naples, 281\n\nat Narragansett Pier, R.I., 343\u201344\n\nin New Orleans, 269\u201370\n\nin Newport, R.I., 307\n\nin New York, N.Y., 21\u201322, 27\u201328, 90\u201391, 112\u201314, 124, 128\u201330, 135\u201336, 137, 145, 151, 153, 177\u201378, 189, 201, 202, 206\u201340, 242, 244\u201353, 269, 276, 290\u201391, 299, 305\u20138, 312\u201313, 391, 411, 421, 424\u201326, 452, 454\u201355, 456\n\nin Nice, France, 415\n\nnoise avoided by, 1\u20132, 299, 303\u20134, 311, 324, 328, 348, 376, 397, 412\u201313, 424, 441, 442, 454\n\nin Norfolk, Va., 427, 434\n\nas notary public, 35\n\nobituaries for, 458\n\noptometrists consulted by, 264\n\nPacific voyage proposed for, 270, 271\n\nin Paris, 100, 122\u201323, 150\u201351, 238, 254, 271, 277, 280\u201381, 289, 290, 296\u2013300, 306, 344, 441\n\nparliamentary skills of, 116\u201317, 127\n\npassport of, 71\n\npersonality of, 4, 14, 17, 32, 41\u201342, 47, 61\u201366, 78\u201379, 101, 116, 135\u201336, 141, 150, 170, 187\u201388, 206, 212, 227, 263\u201365, 269\u201383, 303\u20134, 359\u201360, 379\u201380, 398, 402\u20133, 493n, 514n\n\npersonal staff of, 2, 247, 272\u201373, 276, 277, 278, 300\u2013301, 304, 305\u20136, 309, 330, 338, 347, 364, 379, 380\u201381, 388, 397\u201398, 399, 407\u20138, 410\u201312, 444, 452\u201353, 456\u201357, 459, 460, 461, 480n, 484n\n\nin Pest, 12\u201317\n\nphilosophy studied by, 34, 39\u201342, 67\n\nphotographs of, 229, 310, 385, 404\n\nphysical appearance of, 18, 37, 47, 70\u201371, 75, 76\u201377, 85, 101, 104, 108\u20139, 116, 141, 146, 307, 310, 335, 377, 385, 397\u201398, 409\u201312\n\nphysical assaults against, 179\u201380, 195\n\nphysical complaints of, 1\u20132, 221, 243, 256, 263\u201365, 269\u201383, 287\u201388, 294\u201395, 298, 303\u20134, 309\u201310, 311, 325, 329, 335, 359\u201360, 376, 384\u201385, 454, 456\u201357, 514n\n\npistol carried by, 179, 502n\n\nas police commissioner, xii, 78\u201379, 82, 83, 91, 95\u201397, 101, 166, 494n\n\npolitical career and influence of, 2\u20135, 23, 39\u201340, 43\u201350, 52\u201375, 80\u201397, 105\u201320, 123, 124\u201333, 137, 151\u201352, 160\u201361, 174, 176\u201389, 208, 216, 219\u201332, 234, 257, 262\u201363, 269, 271\u201372, 296\u201398, 347\u201348, 359, 369\u201370, 381\u201382, 388\u201393, 404, 414\u201316, 515n\n\nportraits of, 310, 362\n\npress coverage of, 53\u201355, 62\u201363, 65, 73\u201374, 79, 82\u201384, 92\u201393, 105, 106, 108\u20139, 110, 113\u201315, 125, 126, 127, 129, 141, 155\u201357, 177\u201378, 188, 201, 206, 207\u20138, 217, 218\u201319, 228\u201329, 249, 255\u201356, 261\u201363, 270, 307, 308\u20139, 347\u201348, 387, 426, 428, 429, 430, 458, 491n\u201392n\n\nprivate train of, 331, 337, 376\u201377, 402, 456\u201357\n\nas publisher, 1\u20135, 85, 93, 97, 99, 101\u20133, 119, 130, 144\u201345, 153\u201368, 173, 174, 175\u201376, 192, 204\u201310, 254\u201355, 256, 487n, 491n\u201392n\n\nPulitzer Prize and, xi, 4, 376\u201377, 380, 461, 522n\n\nracial views of, 107\u20138\n\nrailroad journeys of, 217\u201318, 269\u201370, 282, 331, 337, 370, 376\u201377, 402, 456\u201357\n\nreaders hired by, 272\u201373, 290, 292, 398, 456\u201357\n\nreading by, 2, 14, 32\u201333, 35, 50\n\nreference works used by, 250\n\nas reformer, 3, 4, 45, 80\u201394, 105\u20136, 107, 125\u201327, 133, 140, 150, 160, 184, 187, 198\u201399, 222\u201323, 224, 245, 246, 293\u201394, 305, 359\u201360, 381\u201382, 406\u20137, 416\n\nreligious convictions of, 4, 260\n\nas reporter, 35\u201336, 39, 43\u201350, 52, 56, 61\u201366, 70, 75, 77, 78, 82\u201383, 101, 121\u201322, 127, 131\u201333, 151\u201352, 160, 192\u201394, 481n\u201382n, 487n, 498n\n\nRepublicans attacked by, 106\u20137, 125\u201329, 130, 131, 161, 185\u201386, 188\u201389\n\nRepublicans supported by, 43\u201346, 50, 51\u201355, 57, 71\u201377, 128, 130\n\nreputation of, xi, 1, 3\u20135, 35\u201336, 46\u201347, 52\u201353, 61\u201366, 76\u201379, 81, 82\u201383, 89, 106\u20137, 108, 110, 113\u201315, 116, 120\u201323, 125\u201329, 131\u201333, 141, 146, 155\u201357, 185\u201386, 217\u201319, 241\u201342, 246\u201347, 249, 253, 255\u201363, 286\u201389, 290, 320, 325, 329, 376\u201379, 380, 386\u201387, 421\u201340, 458\u201359\n\nrespiratory problems of, 284\u201385, 343, 436\n\nretinal damage of, 264, 271, 283, 284, 287\u201389\n\nas riverboat deck hand, 31\n\nRodin's bust of, 405, 409\u201312\n\nrooms rented by, 30, 38, 50\u201351, 56, 62\u201363, 70\u201371, 98, 101, 103, 108\n\nin St. Louis, 28, 29\u201356, 58, 59\u201360, 66, 70\u201372, 73, 76\u201377, 83, 92\u201398, 99, 100\u2013105, 109, 114\u201316, 118, 119\u201322, 133\u201335, 136, 137, 138, 140, 153\u2013206, 244, 271, 298, 328, 479n\u201384n, 486n, 495n, 501n\n\nin St. Moritz, 277\u201378, 280, 305, 386\n\nin San Diego, Calif., 269\n\nin Santa Barbara, Calif., 270\n\nin Saratoga Springs, N.Y., 260\n\nsarcasm of, 116, 118, 125\u201327, 220, 453\u201354\n\nSargent's portrait of, 396, 397\u201398, 399, 405, 461\n\nin Scotland, 254\n\nin Sedalia, Mo., 106\u20137\n\nservants of, 361\u201362, 509n, 512n\n\nsexuality of, 41\u201342, 483n\u201384n\n\nin Shelburne, Vt., 402\u20133\n\nshooting incident of, 61\u201366, 70\u201371, 77\u201378, 97, 113, 169\u201370, 179, 201, 407, 487n, 489n\n\nsocial life of, 32, 39\u201342, 103\u20134, 138\u201344, 172\u201373, 176, 195\u201396, 216\u201317, 241, 245, 247, 249, 255\u201361, 278, 290, 292, 334\u201335\n\nspeeches of, 66, 91, 106\u20139, 125\u201326, 128\u201329, 132, 181, 185\u201386, 188\u201389, 208, 225, 228\u201329, 242, 255\n\nin Springfield, Mass., 136\u201337\n\nas stevedore, 31\n\nstocks owned by, 333, 340, 371, 406\u20137, 460, 520n\u201321n\n\nstomach ailments of, 294, 451, 454, 456\u201357, 458\n\nsuperstitions of, 479n\u201380n\n\ntelegrams of, 2, 5, 114, 153, 177, 178\u201379, 189, 193, 226, 233\u201334, 238, 244, 272, 273, 274, 279, 290, 291, 298, 314, 316\u201317, 325, 326, 333, 338, 353\u201354, 357, 363, 364\u201365, 368, 372, 375, 376, 384, 387, 408\u20139, 410, 415, 428, 444, 519n\u201320n\n\ntemper of, 14, 61\u201366, 101, 150, 170, 234\u201338, 248\u201349, 253, 277, 309\u201310, 346\u201347, 370, 386\u201388, 394\u201397, 398, 400\u2013401, 404, 407, 408\u201311, 444, 445, 448, 493n\n\nin Texas, 270\n\ntheater as interest of, 104, 137\n\n\"tower of silence\" of, 312, 348, 452\n\ntownhouses of, 256\u201357, 285, 300, 308, 333, 337\u201338, 348, 361\u201362, 509n\n\ntrain wreck survived by, 58\u201359\n\ntransatlantic voyages of, 2, 19, 20, 71, 97\u201398, 122, 250, 276, 281\u201383, 285, 289\u201390, 299, 300, 311, 347\u201348, 366, 368, 370, 371\u201372, 376, 399, 400, 404, 420, 436\u201337, 512n\n\ntranscontinental trips of, 217\u201318, 265, 271\n\ntrial of, 66, 77\u201378, 97, 201, 489n\n\nin Trouville, France, 285\n\nas U.S. citizen, 35, 109\n\nin Utica, N.Y., 180\u201381\n\nVenezuelan crisis as viewed by, 313\u201317, 325\n\nVeronal taken by, 451, 456\u201357, 458\n\nin Vienna, 18\n\nvoting restrictions opposed by, 57\u201358, 72, 74\n\nas waiter, 31, 169\n\nas ward secretary, 52\u201353\n\nin Washington, D.C., 25\u201326, 131, 137, 138\u201346, 178, 191, 196\u201397, 240\u201343, 295, 497n\u201398n\n\nWashington Avenue home of, 195\u201396\n\nwealth of, 97, 146, 176, 190, 216\u201317, 228, 232, 256\u201358, 265, 273, 274\u201378, 286, 289, 293\u201398, 301, 303, 332, 333, 335, 362\u201363, 366, 371\u201374, 376\u201379, 401\u20132, 406\u20137, 416, 444, 460, 509n, 519n\u201321n\n\nwedding of, 144\u201346, 173, 206\n\nas Westliche Post owner, xii, 93, 97, 127, 137\n\non Westliche Post staff, 35\u201336, 39, 43\u201350, 52, 90, 91\u201393, 96, 97, 119, 127, 160, 162, 481n\u201382n, 488n\n\nwestward journey of, 28, 29\u201330, 479n\u201380n\n\nin White Sulphur Springs, Va., 137\n\nin Wiesbaden, Germany, 276\u201377, 279, 280, 292, 298, 325\u201326, 370, 419, 451\n\nwill of, 376\u201377, 446, 448, 460\u201361\n\nin Winchester, Va., 24\n\nwomen's suffrage as viewed by, 143\u201344\n\nwork ethic of, 36, 173, 206, 215, 238\u201340, 241, 246\u201347, 497n\n\nyachts owned or rented by, 1\u20132, 5, 228, 257, 291, 299, 412\u201313, 415, 416, 420, 421, 424, 426, 427, 433, 434, 436\u201337, 444, 446, 452, 456\u201357\n\n\"yellow journalism\" of, 3\u20134, 330\u201331, 345\u201346, 373, 377, 403, 521n\n\nPulitzer, Joseph, Jr., 238, 265, 278, 279\u201380, 361, 367, 385, 388, 403\u20134, 445, 448, 452, 454\u201355, 457, 460, 461\u201362, 515n, 520n\n\nPulitzer, Kate Davis:\n\nin Aix-en-Bains, 363, 368, 375, 382\n\nbackground of, 140\u201342\n\nin Bar Harbor, 335\u201338, 348, 452\n\nin California, 265, 269, 272\n\ncorrespondence of, xiii, 282\u201383, 310, 311, 328\u201329, 333\u201334, 346\u201347, 368, 369, 374, 375, 382, 384\u201388, 394, 396\u201397, 404\u20135, 407\u20139, 445, 451, 456, 497n\n\ndeath of, 461\n\nin Divonne-les-Bains, France, 396, 404\u20136\n\nin Egypt, 338, 344\n\nas Episcopalian, 141, 146, 260, 366\n\nEuropean trips of, 149\u201351, 237\u201338, 253\u201356, 276, 277\u201378, 281\u201383, 284\u201385, 289, 292, 333, 363, 404\u20135, 408\u20139, 445, 461, 512n\n\nextramarital affair of, xiii, 310\u201311, 334\n\nfinances of, 310, 333\u201334, 335, 340, 348, 368, 373\u201374, 375, 384, 461\n\nas grandmother, 406\n\nhealth of, 221, 280, 337\u201338, 363, 375, 388, 404\u20135\n\nhoneymoon of, 144, 149\u201351\n\nat Jekyll Island, 295, 308, 332, 384\u201385\n\njewelry of, 254, 257\u201358, 362\n\nJ. P. Morgan's meeting with, 405\u20136\n\nin London, 309, 395\u201396, 405\n\nas mother, 172\u201373, 176, 195\u201396, 198, 221, 244, 253, 256, 265, 311, 333, 335\u201338, 361\u201362, 366, 367, 387\u201388, 462\n\nat Mount Desert Island, 271\n\nin New Orleans, 269\u201370\n\nin New York City, 205, 206, 309, 310\u201311, 328\u201329, 333, 348, 361\u201362, 368, 373\u201374, 385, 404, 406, 407\u20139\n\nin Paris, 276, 280\u201381, 289, 290, 309, 368, 388, 405\n\npersonality of, 244, 309\u201311, 334, 396\n\nportraits of, 362, 395\u201396, 398, 405, 461\n\npregnancies of, 188, 221, 238, 243, 272, 311\n\nPulitzer's blindness and, 265, 269, 281, 282\u201383, 287, 328\u201329, 412\n\nPulitzer's career and, 173, 202, 206, 215, 243, 244, 247, 255, 497n, 504n\n\nPulitzer's courtship of, 140\u201346, 497n\n\nPulitzer's death and, 456\u201357\n\nPulitzer's marriage to, 2, 42, 149\u201351, 153, 155, 173, 202, 206, 215, 243, 244, 247, 255, 265, 269, 281, 282\u201383, 287, 309\u201311, 328\u201329, 334, 346\u201347, 348, 366, 382, 384\u201388, 394, 396\u201397, 404\u20135, 407\u20139, 412, 445, 452, 497n, 498n, 504n, 509n\n\nas Pulitzer's widow, 461\n\nin St. Moritz, 277\u201378\n\nSargent's portrait of, 395\u201396, 398, 405, 461\n\nsocial life of, 175, 195\u201396, 249, 256\u201359, 278, 280\u201381, 285, 309, 334\u201335, 401, 452\n\nin townhouse fire, 361\u201362, 363, 397\n\nin Washington, D.C., 140\u201346, 178, 205, 265, 295\n\nwedding of, 144\u201346, 173, 206\n\nPulitzer, Katherine Ethel, 198, 221, 243\n\nPulitzer, Lucille Irma, 188, 195\u201396, 238, 243, 253, 256, 265, 305, 309\u201310, 335\u201338, 340, 343, 362, 402, 460\n\nPulitzer, Margaret Leech, 461\n\nPulitzer, Mih\u00e1ly, 10, 14, 17, 23, 37, 474n\n\nPulitzer, Muriel, xii\n\nPulitzer, Ralph, 265, 325, 341, 347, 389, 399, 404, 406, 429, 432, 451, 452, 454, 457, 460, 462\n\nchildhood of, 172, 178, 195\u201396, 198, 205, 221, 238, 265\n\nat Harvard, 338, 361, 366\n\nhealth issues of, 195\u201396, 198, 205, 301, 304, 367\n\nmarriage of Frederica Webb and, 394\u201395, 401\u20133, 461\n\nas president of Pulitzer Publishing, 410, 415, 445, 461\n\nat St. Moritz, 280, 304, 305, 367\n\nPulitzer, Ralph, Jr., 406, 452\u201353\n\nPulitzer, Walter, 135, 320, 442, 527n\n\nPulitzer Building, 274\u201375, 276, 278\u201380, 286\u201387, 289, 299, 302, 322\u201323, 331, 340, 345, 353, 365, 379, 409, 413\u201314, 415, 417, 458, 462, 463, 511n\n\n\"Pulitzer formula,\" 213\u201314, 251\u201352\n\nPulitzer Prize, xi, 4, 376\u201377, 380, 461, 522n\n\nQuadrilateral, 85\u201386, 88, 100\n\nracism, 107\u20139, 493n\n\nRadical Republicans, 43\u201346, 54, 57, 58\u201359, 71\u201373, 74, 77, 111, 116, 490n\n\nrailroads, 29, 35, 67\u201368, 103, 105, 185\u201386, 199, 204, 217\u201318, 222, 225, 245, 294, 371, 406\u20137, 485n, 520n\u201321n\n\nRainsford, William Stephen, 337\n\nRalph, Julian, 321\n\nRaster, Hermann, 120\n\nrate cards, 344\u201345\n\nRaymond, Henry J., 192\n\nReconstruction, 43\u201346, 53, 54, 57\u201358, 133, 179, 496n\n\nrecounts, election, 139\u201340\n\nRed Cross, 461\n\nReid, Whitelaw, 90, 208, 276, 281, 295\n\nRemount Camp, 22\u201323\n\nRepublican National Committee, 126\n\nRepublican National Convention:\n\nof 1876, 125\n\nof 1880, 182\n\nof 1884, 221\u201322\n\nof 1896, 326\n\nof 1904, 390\n\nRepublican Party, 4, 43\u201346, 50, 51\u201355, 57, 71\u201377, 106\u20137, 111, 120\u201322, 125\u201329, 130, 131, 139\u201340, 155, 161, 177\u201378, 185\u201386, 188\u201389, 192, 204, 206, 222\u201328, 245, 246, 272, 276, 285\u201386, 293, 369\u201370, 381, 407, 451\u201352, 506n\n\nsee also Liberal Republicans; Radical Republicans; specific elections\n\nrevolution of 1848, 11\u201312, 35\n\nRichardson, Leander, 261\n\nRickey (Pulitzer's dog), 362\n\nRiggs House, 140\n\nRobb, Graham, 483n\n\nRobinson, Corinne Roosevelt, 428\n\nRobinson, Douglas, 419, 425, 428, 431, 434\n\nRockefeller, William, xi, 259\u201360, 333\n\nRockwood Hall, 333\n\nRodin, Auguste, 405, 409\u201312\n\nRoeslein, Fritz, 50\n\nRomola (Eliot), 291\n\nRoosevelt, Theodore:\n\nat Gridiron dinner, 428\n\nas New York City police commissioner, 312\u201313, 317, 389, 422\n\nas New York State governor, 389\n\nPanama Canal project of, 4, 417\u201340, 446\u201350, 455, 526n\n\nas president, xi, 4\u20135, 372, 407, 416, 428\n\npresidential campaign of (1904), 388\u201393\n\npresidential campaign of (1912), 451\u201352\n\nPulitzer as enemy of, 4\u20135, 222\u201323, 246, 276, 297, 316\u201318, 387, 389, 421\u201340, 446\u201350, 455, 526n\n\nPulitzer prosecuted for libel by, xii, 4\u20135, 421\u201340, 446\u201350, 526n\n\nPulitzer's views on, 325, 365, 369, 384, 388\u201393, 416\n\nas reformer, 150, 222\u201323, 246, 312\u201313, 389\n\nRough Riders led by, 4, 343\n\nvice-presidential campaign of (1900), 369\u201370\n\nWorld's attacks against, 4, 222\u201323, 297, 312\u201313, 315, 316, 317\u201318, 388\u201393, 416, 417\u201340\n\nRoot, Elihu, 434\n\nRosebault, Walter, 492n\n\nRosenblatt, Meyer, 155, 156\u201357\n\nRosh Hashanah, 520n\n\nRothschild family, 315\n\nRough Riders, 4, 343\n\n\"Royal Feast of Belshazzar,\" 230\u201331, 245, 259\n\nRussia, 135, 256, 260\n\nRussia, 151\n\nSabbath, 15, 312\u201313\n\nSabine, Wallace C., 454\n\nSage, Russell, 205\n\nSt. Croix, Marquis Alexander de, 438\u201340\n\nSt. George's Church, 309, 451\n\nSt. Louis, 28, 29\u201356, 58, 59\u201360, 66, 70\u201372, 73, 76\u201377, 83, 92\u201398, 99, 100\u2013105, 109, 114\u201316, 118, 119\u201322, 133\u201335, 136, 137, 138, 140, 153\u2013206, 244, 271, 298, 328, 479n\u201384n, 486n, 495n, 501n\n\nSt. Louis County, Mo., 48\u201350, 59\u201366, 68, 74, 96, 118\n\nSt. Louis Dispatch, 95, 153\u201361, 162, 192, 205, 206\n\nSt. Louis Evening Chronicle, 183\n\nSt. Louis Evening Post, 154, 156, 157\u201358, 160\u201361, 207\n\nSt. Louis Gas-Light Co., 163\u201364\n\nSt. Louis Globe, 102, 105, 111, 120\n\nSt. Louis Globe-Democrat, 153, 156, 157, 158, 161, 162, 174, 177, 184, 190, 192, 201, 206, 346, 493n\u201394n, 500n, 502n\n\nSt. Louis Journal, 154\n\nSt. Louis Movement, 40, 483n, 485n\u201386n\n\nSt. Louis Philosophical Society, 34, 39\u201342\n\nSt. Louis Police Commission, xii, 46\u201347, 78\u201379, 83, 91, 95\u201397, 101, 166, 494n\n\nSt. Louis Post and Dispatch:\n\nAssociated Press (AP) certification of, 175\u201376, 407\n\nbuilding of, 177, 183, 244, 407\n\ncirculation of, 157\u201358, 162\u201363, 167, 172, 174, 176, 183\u201384, 194, 195, 201\u20132, 205\n\ncompetition of, 174, 183\u201384\n\nas Democratic paper, 178\u201379\n\neditorial staff of, 165, 166\u201369, 171\u201372, 202, 301\u20132, 332\u201333, 403, 404\n\nfinances of, 184, 205, 206, 356\n\nfire at, 177, 183\n\nJoseph Pulitzer Jr. as publisher of, 403, 404, 407, 445, 454\u201355, 461\u201362\n\nlibel suits against, 183\n\nmanagement of, 165, 166\u201369, 184, 202, 205, 206, 301, 356\n\nnewsboys strike against, 183\u201384\n\nnewsstand price of, 183\u201384\n\noffices of, 177, 183, 194\u201395\n\npayroll of, 191, 301\n\nprinting presses of, 194\u201395\n\nPulitzer as editor of, 182\u201383, 186\u201388, 189, 190, 192\u201394, 198, 201\u20132, 223, 271, 341, 403, 404\n\nPulitzer as publisher of, xii, 173\u201376, 183\u201384, 190\u201391, 197, 205, 206, 217, 223, 233, 271, 291, 293, 298, 301, 308, 329, 332, 346, 356, 363, 377, 393, 404, 410, 459, 500n, 501n, 502n\n\nreputation of, 174, 183, 192, 195, 217\n\nsale of, 346, 393, 462, 520n\n\nsensationalism of, 162\u201364, 183, 194, 200\u2013202\n\nSlayback killing at, 199\u2013202\n\ntrustees appointed for, 460\n\ntypographical union of, 190\u201391\n\nWorld compared with, 205, 206, 217, 223, 233\n\nSt. Louis Republic, 305, 393\n\nSt. Louis Spectator, 202\n\nSt. Louis Staats-Zeitung, 101\u20133, 154, 157, 205\n\nSt. Louis Star, 156, 157\u201358, 160, 172, 341\n\nSt. Louis Times, 65, 95, 120, 121\u201322, 127, 131, 138, 175, 485n, 497n\n\nSt. Louis Union, 154\n\nSt. Mark's School, 366, 367, 385\n\nSt. Moritz, 277\u201378, 280, 304, 305, 386\n\nSt. Thomas Church, 260, 402, 458\u201359\n\nSan Francisco Examiner, 251\u201352, 291\u201392, 321, 322\u201323\n\nSan Juan Hill charge, 4, 343\n\nSargent, John Singer, 395\u201398, 399, 405, 461\n\nscarlet fever, 253\u201354\n\nSchmidt's Hotel, 56, 60, 61\u201363, 486n\n\nSchurz, Carl, 22, 35, 39, 44\u201346, 70, 72, 75, 76\u201377, 81, 83, 84, 85\u201387, 88, 89, 90, 92\u201393, 97, 101, 103, 104, 106, 108, 111\u201312, 119, 120, 126\u201327, 128, 137, 173, 185, 186, 196, 224, 228\u201329, 404, 482n, 492n, 496n\n\nSchweninger, Ernst, 329\n\nScott, James, 233\u201334\n\nScott, Walter, 292\n\nScripps, Edward W., 183\n\nScripps-Howard, 462\n\nSedalia Daily Democrat, 490n, 494n\n\nSee, John, 478n\n\nSeitz, Don Carlos, 302, 322, 323, 324, 330\u201333, 344\u201346, 351, 355\u201359, 365, 367, 372, 373, 375, 378\u201379, 387, 393, 401, 411, 413, 415, 420, 421, 425, 426, 427, 437, 441, 444, 479n\u201380n, 481n, 484n, 490n, 497n, 511n, 519n, 520n, 523n\n\nSeligman, Joseph, 260\n\nSemiramis, 289\n\nSenate, U.S., 131\u201332, 158, 418\n\nsepticemia, 193\u201394\n\nSeymour, Horatio, 180\u201381\n\nShafer, Ira, 253\n\nShakespeare, William, 47, 51, 98, 104, 137, 202, 436\n\nShaw, George Bernard, 244\n\nShaw, J. Angus, 333, 348, 363, 366, 431, 444, 458\n\nShenandoah Valley, 23\u201324, 478n\n\nSheridan, Philip, 23\u201324, 478n\n\nSherman, William T., 26, 188\n\nSherman Anti-Trust Act (1890), 356, 358, 518n\n\nsilver, 251, 289, 293\u201394, 301, 307, 309, 315, 326, 328, 332\u201333, 348, 384, 391\n\nSitting Bull, 218\n\nSixteenth Amendment, 143\n\nslavery, 46, 95, 107, 142, 478n\n\nSlayback, Alonzo W., 115, 124, 199\u2013202, 206, 263\n\nSloane, Henry T., 362\n\nSmith, Ballard, 249\u201350, 253, 256, 258, 265, 290\u201391, 292, 296, 298, 303, 315, 364\n\nSmith, Delavan, 420\u201321, 434\n\nSmith, William Henry, 205, 227, 256\n\nsocialism, 84, 150, 246, 297, 369, 499n\n\nSouthern Hotel, 100\u2013101, 111, 112, 114, 115\u201316, 120, 126, 133\u201335, 348\n\nSpanish-American War, 3, 4, 325, 338\u201343, 345, 347, 350, 359, 369, 373, 388\n\nSpeer, William, 391, 417, 418, 419, 421\n\nSpinoza, Baruch, 442\n\nSpringfield Republican, 76, 85, 136\u201337, 143\n\nStallo, John, 89\n\nStandard, Edwin O., 489n\n\nState Savings Institution, 97\n\nStatue of Liberty, 150, 235\u201337, 238, 244\u201346, 251, 276, 287, 507n, 508n\n\nsteel industry, 296\u201398, 371, 520n\u201321n\n\nStevens, J. F., 134\n\nStimson, Henry L., 421\u201324, 426, 428, 429\u201336, 446\u201350, 525n, 526n\n\nStires, Ernest, 459, 460\n\nstock market, 176, 242, 297, 363, 406\u20137, 520n\u201321n\n\nStone, Melville, 504n\n\nStorr, Anthony, 514n\n\nStrauss, Adalbert, 32\n\nStrauss, Theo, 32, 33, 481n\n\nsugar plantations, 32\n\nSupreme Court, U.S., 447\u201350\n\nSwope, Herbert Bayard, 462\n\nsynagogues, 10\u201311, 15, 141\n\nTaft, Charles P., 419, 425, 434, 525n\n\nTaft, William Howard, 416, 417, 419, 420, 434, 448, 449, 451\u201352, 525n\n\nTalmud, 288\n\nTammany Hall, 129, 229, 262\n\ntariffs, 87, 181, 186, 219, 272, 285\u201386, 309\n\ntaxation, 3, 10, 11, 16, 57, 118, 120, 164, 165, 219, 235, 246, 327, 333, 485n\n\nTaylor, Charles, 279\n\nTaylor, Daniel C., 489n\n\ntelegraph, 2, 5, 100, 102, 114, 130, 135, 153, 159, 256, 315\u201316, 456, 459, 527n\n\ntelephone, 150, 258, 410, 459\n\ntemperance movement, 84, 90, 225, 228, 312\u201313\n\nTeutonic, 285, 289, 311, 512n\n\nThackeray, William, 290\n\nThaw, Harry K., 431\n\nThayer, William Sydner, 376\n\nThompson, Mattie, 512n, 513n\n\nThompson, Phillip \"Little Phil,\" 512n\u201313n\n\nThoreau, Henry David, 34\n\nThwaites, Norman G., 397\u201398, 408, 411, 424\u201325, 432, 441, 443, 459\n\nTiffany & Co., 257\u201358\n\nTilden, Samuel J., 124\u201333, 152, 179\u201380, 181, 182, 216, 228, 279, 496n\n\nTilden-Hendricks Reform Club, 132\n\nTocqueville, Alexis de, 152\n\nTom Sawyer (Twain), 108\n\nTorah, 15\n\nTownsend, George Alfred, 126, 137, 211\u201312, 523n\n\nTown Topics, 324, 341, 399\n\ntranscendentalists, 40\n\nTreasury, U.S., 121\n\nTrinity Church, 129, 402\n\nTrollope, Anthony, 292\n\nTrumbull, Lyman, 84, 85, 88\n\nTruth, 192\n\ntuberculosis, 16, 304\n\nTunstall, Nannie, 141\u201344, 497n\n\nTuohy, James, 381, 395, 397, 410, 412\n\nTurner, George, 250, 273, 275\u201376, 284, 290, 291, 293, 302\n\nTwain, Mark, 30, 108\n\nTweed, William Marcy \"Boss,\" 121, 124, 130, 231, 392, 490n\n\ntyphoid fever, 335\u201338\n\nUnion Club, 260\n\nUnited Labor Party, 246\n\nUnited Press, 355\n\nUPI, 355\n\nutilities, public, 163\u201364, 371\n\nVan Benthuysen, William, 345, 346\n\nVanderbilt, Cornelius, III, 389, 394\n\nVanderbilt, Grace, 389\n\nVanderbilt, William H., xi, 230, 238, 245, 259\u201360\n\nVan Hamm, Caleb, 413\u201314, 418\u201319, 425, 434, 435, 446, 459, 525n\n\nVanity Fair (Thackeray), 290\n\nVarieties Theater, 113\n\nVenezuela, 313\u201317, 325, 342\n\nVerne, Jules, 282\n\nVictoria, Queen of England, 254\n\nVictoria Hotel, 234\u201335\n\nViking, 228\n\nVillard, Henry, 217\u201318\n\nVosburgh, Henry, 21\n\nvoter registration, 43\u201344\n\nWagner, Richard, 277\n\nWalker, Stanley, 403\n\nWall Street Journal, 521n\n\nWashburne, Elihu, 122\u201323\n\nWashington, D.C., 25\u201326, 131, 137, 138\u201346, 178, 191, 196\u201397, 240\u201343, 295, 429\u201336, 446, 497n\u201398n, 507n\n\nWashington Monument, 507n\n\nWashington Post, 138, 139, 140, 142, 173, 181, 193\u201394, 499n\n\nWatterson, Henry, 76, 85\u201386, 88, 89, 100, 132, 136, 178, 181, 249, 489n, 491n, 496n, 504n, 513n\n\nWaudran, Alfred, 76\u201377\n\nwax-cylinder recorders, 280\n\nWebb, Frederica, 394\u201395, 401\u20133, 406, 461\n\nWebber, Felix, 309\n\n\"Weir Mitchell treatment,\" 288\n\nWelge, Theodore, 50, 60, 70\u201371, 97\n\nWells, Ida B., 108\n\nWestern Associated Press, 102\n\nWestern Celt, 79\n\nWestern Union, 193, 205, 315\u201316, 364\n\nWestliche Post, xii, 34, 35\u201337, 39, 43\u201350, 52, 60, 65\u201366, 70, 73, 74, 75, 77, 83, 90, 91\u201393, 96, 97, 110, 114, 119, 127, 137, 146, 156, 157, 160, 162, 481n\u201382n, 488n, 492n\n\nwhaling industry, 27\u201328\n\nWharton, Edith, 112\u201313\n\n\"When Johnny Comes Marching Home,\" 137\n\nWhiskey Ring, 120\u201322\n\nWhite, Edward Douglas, 449\n\nWhite, Florence D. \"Flory,\" 171\u201372, 376, 435\n\nWhite, Horace, 76, 85\u201386\n\nWhite, Stanford, 285, 299, 372, 399, 431\n\nWhitley, Jonas, 418\u201319, 525n\n\nWhitney, William C., 216, 228, 230, 257, 369\n\nWickersham, George W., 437\n\nWickham, Elinor, 448, 452, 462\n\nWiggins Ferry Co., 29\u201330, 103\n\nWilliams, Charles, 434\n\nWilliams, Samuel L., 383\u201384, 390\n\nWillich, Louis, 35\u201336, 46, 50, 481n, 482n\n\nWilson, Mary S., 99\n\nWilson, Robert, Jr., 456, 457, 458\n\nWilson, Woodrow, 416, 452, 528n\n\nWise, Henry, 447\n\nWolbrecht, George, 31, 71\n\nWolf, Simon, 92\n\nWood, John B., 492n\n\nWoodlawn Cemetery, 337, 460\n\nWoodson, Silas, 95\u201397\n\nWorld:\n\naccuracy of, 215, 345\u201346, 363, 373, 400\n\nadvertising in, 223\u201324, 239, 251, 261, 287, 326, 344\u201345, 347, 351, 357\u201358, 365, 370\n\nbudget cuts in, 333, 340, 343\n\nbusiness staff of, 233\u201334, 250, 273, 275, 290, 292, 301\u20132, 317, 321\u201324, 329\u201330, 340, 343, 344\u201345, 347, 349\u201359, 365, 400\u2013401, 403\u20134\n\nbylines in, 301, 302\u20133, 334, 513n\n\ncirculation of, 2, 3\u20134, 204, 207, 210, 211, 213, 215, 217, 219, 220, 223, 225, 226, 227, 231\u201332, 233, 236, 237, 250\u201351, 261, 270, 271, 274, 286, 290, 305, 321\u201322, 323, 330, 340, 343, 344, 347, 349\u201353, 357, 415, 420, 449, 462, 505n\n\ncity room of, 211, 212, 339, 413\u201314\n\nclassifieds in, 239, 326, 365\n\ncolor printing used by, 326, 330\u201331, 340\n\ncomics published by, 330\u201331\n\ncommemorative coin issued for, 251\n\ncompetition of, 3\u20134, 249, 274, 275, 321\u201332, 334, 338\u201341, 343, 372\u201373, 388, 462\u201363, 517n, 518n, 519n\n\ncompositors for, 212, 287\n\ncopy desk of, 413\u201314\n\ncornerstone laid for, 280, 415, 511n\n\ncorruption attacked by, 208\u20139, 219, 222\u201323, 225, 230\u201331, 253, 306\u20137, 399\u2013400, 414\u201315, 417\u201319, 507n\n\ncounting room of, 212\n\ncrime stories in, 213\u201314, 226\u201327, 253\n\ndecline of, 321\u201322, 340\u201341, 394, 462\u201363\n\nas Democratic paper, 204, 210\u201311, 216, 217, 219\u201332, 259, 269, 271\u201372, 307, 326\u201328, 332\u201333, 348, 388\u201393, 406\u20137, 417, 418\u201319, 451\u201352, 506n\n\neditorial page of (\"the Page\"), 208\u20139, 212, 218, 236\u201337, 240, 244, 245, 257, 263, 285\u201386, 296\u201398, 312\u201313, 316, 323, 327, 342, 343, 353, 371, 372\u201373, 381\u201382, 383, 388\u201393, 399\u2013401, 414\u201316, 417, 419\u201321, 424\u201327, 436, 451\u201352, 453\u201354, 455\n\neditorial staff of, 4, 207, 208, 211\u201312, 228, 239, 240, 244, 245, 248\u201351, 253, 258, 265, 270, 272, 273\u201374, 287, 290\u201391, 296\u201398, 300, 301\u20133, 305, 307\u20138, 322\u201324, 331, 333, 340\u201342, 345\u201346, 353, 363, 364, 379\u201380, 381, 383\u201384, 399\u2013401, 403\u20134, 406\u20137, 413\u201319, 427, 458\u201359, 460, 462\u201363\n\nevening edition of, 258, 261\u201362, 300, 323, 334, 349\u201353, 357\u201358, 380, 403\u20134, 414, 418, 431\u201332\n\nfifth anniversary of, 271\n\nfinal edition of, 463\n\nfinances of, 2, 219, 232, 233\u201334, 289, 294, 333, 340, 343, 370, 379, 458, 462\u201363\n\nfront page of, 209, 211, 213, 226, 235\u201336, 249, 252, 271, 273, 314\u201315, 350, 400, 419, 424\u201325\n\ngilded dome as symbol of, 287, 331, 340, 345, 353, 365, 417\n\nGould's ownership of, 199, 204\u20136, 218\u201319, 232, 274, 293\u201394\n\nheadlines of, 211, 213, 249, 252, 273, 314\u201315, 350, 400, 424\u201325\n\nillustrations in, 225\u201328, 230\u201331, 236, 253, 259, 340, 379\u201380, 455, 506n\n\ninnovations at, 208\u201312, 213, 225\u201328, 251\u201352, 458\n\nlabor organization at, 212, 296\u201398\n\nlength of, 211, 325\u201326, 357, 380\n\nlibel suits against, 183, 223, 330, 506n\n\nlibrary ban of, 331\n\nLondon bureau of, 254\u201355, 301, 302\u20133, 306, 353, 380, 395, 513n\n\nmanagement of, 2, 208, 211, 249\u201350, 252, 253, 258, 273\u201374, 284, 290, 292, 298, 301\u20133, 307\u20138, 321\u201324, 329\u201330, 340, 341, 343, 344\u201345, 347, 349\u201359, 363\u201365, 370, 400\u2013401, 403\u20134, 460\u201363\n\nmasthead of, 209, 211, 235\u201336\n\nmonopolies attacked by, 217\u201318, 219, 220, 225, 230\u201331, 271, 296\u201398, 356, 371, 389, 392\u201393, 399\u2013400, 507n\n\nnewsboys (\"newsies\") and, 226, 238, 349\u201354, 355, 358, 518n\n\nnewsboys' strike against, 349\u201354, 355, 358, 518n\n\nnewsprint paper used for, 2, 237, 326, 350, 454\n\nnewsstand price of, 211, 219, 224, 289, 322, 323, 325\u201326, 349\u201353, 355, 357, 517n, 518n\n\n\"New York\" dropped from title of, 209\n\nNew York Journal as rival of, 3\u20134, 321\u201332, 334, 338\u201341, 343, 372\u201373, 388, 517n, 518n, 519n\n\nPanama Canal program criticized by, 4, 417\u201340, 525n, 526n\n\nPark Row building designed for (Pulitzer Building), 274\u201375, 276, 278\u201380, 286\u201387, 289, 299, 302, 322\u201323, 331, 340, 345, 353, 365, 379, 409, 413\u201314, 415, 417, 458, 462, 463, 511n\n\nPark Row offices of, 2, 3, 206, 208, 215, 220, 232, 241, 245, 249, 256, 274, 288, 290, 323, 328, 339, 350\u201351, 353, 403\u20134, 413\u201314\n\npayroll of, 212, 226, 244, 274, 292, 333\n\nphotographs published in, 379\u201380, 455\n\npolitical cartoons in, 225\u201328, 230\u201331, 245, 259, 296, 506n\n\npolitical influence of, 210\u201311, 216, 219\u201332, 251, 262\u201363, 269, 271\u201372, 273, 275, 276, 285\u201386, 305\u20136, 308\u20139, 326\u201328, 331, 332\u201333, 338\u201343, 347\u201348, 381\u201382, 388\u201393, 414\u201316, 458\n\npress coverage of, 210\u201311, 218\u201319, 223\u201324, 249, 282, 288\u201389, 340, 415, 420\u201321, 426, 428, 429, 430, 521n\n\nprinting presses of, 208, 212, 226, 231\u201332, 250\u201351, 286, 326, 330\u201331, 340, 500n, 506n\n\npromotional tactics of, 165, 210\u201311, 226\u201327, 235\u201337, 244\u201345, 250, 251, 255\u201356, 271, 282\n\nproof pages of, 215, 287\n\nPulitzer as absentee owner of, 249\u201350, 255\u201356, 258, 265, 270, 271, 273\u201374, 278\u201380, 281, 284, 285\u201389, 290, 292, 294\u201398, 301\u20133, 305, 307\u20138, 320, 321\u201327, 329\u201333, 334, 340\u201341, 343, 353\u201359, 363\u201365, 379\u201380, 394, 399, 410, 413\u201314, 420\u201321, 425\u201326, 427, 428\u201329, 462\n\nPulitzer as editor of, 208\u201365, 285\u201389, 300\u2013301, 328, 329\u201333, 334, 340\u201342, 343, 353\u201354, 379\u201380, 381\u201384, 388\u201393, 399\u2013401, 406\u20137, 413\u201316, 424\u201327, 453\u201354, 455, 460\u201361, 462\n\nPulitzer as publisher of, 2, 204\u201365, 285\u201389, 308\u20139, 435, 458\u201361, 462, 463, 504n\n\nPulitzer's office at, 211\u201312, 239, 263, 265, 287\n\nPulitzer's purchase of, 204\u201310, 232, 257, 292, 504n\n\nPulitzer's statement of principles for, 208\u20139, 271, 279, 356, 358, 359\u201360, 406\u20137\n\nreform promoted by, 285\u201386, 381\u201382, 406\u20137, 455\n\nreporters of, 208, 212, 213\u201315, 248\u201349, 300, 302\u20133, 341, 345\u201346, 350, 363, 378, 389, 393, 400, 403\u20134, 413\u201314, 417\u201319, 425, 431\u201332, 462\n\nRepublicans attacked by, 222\u201328, 285\u201386, 381, 506n\n\nreputation of, 2, 3\u20135, 95, 271, 274\u201375, 278\u201380, 286\u201387, 323, 330\u201331, 340\u201341, 358\u201359, 363, 372\u201373, 379\u201382, 388\u201389, 420\u201340, 458\u201359, 521n\n\nRoosevelt attacked by, 4, 222\u201323, 297, 312\u201313, 315, 316, 317\u201318, 388\u201393, 416, 417\u201340\n\nSt. Louis Post and Dispatch compared with, 205, 206, 217, 223, 233\n\nsale of, 462\u201363\n\nsensationalism used by, 3\u20134, 209, 213\u201315, 251\u201352, 253, 260, 261\u201362, 273, 297, 320, 330\u201331, 339\u201341, 345\u201346, 357, 372\u201373, 377, 403, 453, 521n\n\nsociety news in, 227, 379\u201380, 399\u2013400\n\nstaff lost by, 248\u201349, 290\u201391, 298, 301, 322, 324, 330\u201331, 334, 353, 375\n\nStatue of Liberty campaign of, 235\u201337, 238, 244\u201346, 251, 276, 507n, 508n\n\nSunday edition of, 224, 237, 300, 322, 323, 326, 330\u201331, 344, 345\n\ntenth anniversary of, 299, 300\n\ntime capsule for, 280, 511n\n\ntwentieth anniversary of, 380, 381\n\ntwenty-fifth anniversary of, 415\n\ntypography of, 2, 287, 341, 379\n\nupper class criticized by, 185\u201386, 195, 216\u201317, 220, 257, 259\u201360, 290, 399\u2013400\n\nin Venezuelan crisis, 313\u201317, 325, 342\n\nworking class readers of, 213\u201314, 233, 235\u201337, 246, 285\u201386, 312\u201313, 400\n\n\"yellow journalism\" of, 3\u20134, 330\u201331, 345\u201346, 373, 377, 403, 521n\n\nWorld Almanac, 250, 520n\n\nYaeger, Henry C., 489n\n\n\"yellow journalism,\" 3\u20134, 330\u201331, 345\u201346, 373, 377, 403, 521n\n\n\"Yellow Kid,\" 330\u201331\n\nYoung Men's Christian Association (YMCA), 331\n\nZentralfriedhof cemetery, 443.\n\n## About the Author\n\nJAMES McGRATH MORRIS is the author of The Rose Man of Sing Sing: A True Tale of Life, Murder, and Redemption in the Age of Yellow Journalism, which was selected as a Washington Post Best Book of 2004. He is the editor of the monthly Biographer's Craft, and his writing has appeared in the Washington Post, the New York Observer, and the Baltimore Sun.\n\nVisit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.\n\n## Credits\n\nJacket design by Richard Ljoenes\n\nJacket photograph \u00a9 Culver pictures Inc./SuperStock\n\n## Copyright\n\nPULITZER. Copyright \u00a9 2010 by James McGrath Morris. All rights reserved. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nMorris, James McGrath.\n\nPulitzer: a life in politics, print, and power / James McGrath Morris.\n\np. cm.\n\nSummary: \"Comprehensive biography of media mogul Joseph Pulitzer\"\u2014\n\nProvided by publisher.\n\nISBN 978-0-06-079869-7 (hardback)\n\n1. Pulitzer, Joseph, 1847\u20131911. 2. Journalists\u2014United States\u2014Biography. I. Title.\n\nPN4874.P8M67 2010\n\n070'.92\u2014dc22\n\n[B] 2009027501\n\nEPub Edition \u00a9 January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-196950-8\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\n## About the Publisher\n\nAustralia\n\nHarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.\n\n25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)\n\nPymble, NSW 2073, Australia\n\nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au\n\nCanada\n\nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.\n\n55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900\n\nToronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada\n\nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca\n\nNew Zealand\n\nHarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited\n\nP.O. Box 1\n\nAuckland, New Zealand\n\nhttp://www.harpercollins.co.nz\n\nUnited Kingdom\n\nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.\n\n77-85 Fulham Palace Road\n\nLondon, W6 8JB, UK\n\nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk\n\nUnited States\n\nHarperCollins Publishers Inc.\n\n10 East 53rd Street\n\nNew York, NY 10022\n\nhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.com\n*Confusingly to modern readers, the Republican was the Democratic paper and the Democrat was, yes, the Republican paper.\n*Pulitzer's use of this analogy is interesting, as his religious upbringing did not include the New Testament.\n*In the nineteenth century, the term \"card\" referred to a brief pesonal note published in a newspaper, similar to a modern letter to the editor. Cards containing strong language were sometimes a preliminary to a dual.\n*The spelling in Pulitzer's time was \"Jekyl.\" The second \"l\" was added in 1929.\n*It was then customary for the U.S. Navy to paint its ships white during peacetime.\n*Later replaced by the \"telephone game.\"\n*Roosevelt, insultingly, was comparing Pulitzer to Bertrand Bar\u00e8re de Vieuzac, the historian Thomas Macaulay's favorite whipping boy. Bar\u00e8re was an advocate of the guillotine during the French Revolution. Typical of the comments made by Macaulay was one in an essay of 1844. \"Bar\u00e8re approached nearer than any person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to the idea of consummate and universal depravity. In him the qualities which are the proper objects of hatred, and the qualities which are the proper object of contempt, preserve an exquisite and absolute harmony.\" (Thomas Babington Macaulay, Complete Works of Lord Macaulay [London: Longmans, Green, 1898], 170.)\n\n## Photographic Insert\n\nMigrating Jewish families found economic opportunity in Mako, the Hungarian farming village where Joseph Pulitzer was born in 1847. Landowners, eager for the services of merchants and tradesmen, enlisted the newcomers to market the products of their estates. Members of the Paskesz family, whose business may be seen on the right-hand side of this nineteenth-century photo, later migrated to the United States and opened a Kosher confectionery in Brooklyn.\n\nPulitzer was devoted to his mother, Elize, seen here with his sister Anna, who died not long after the photograph was taken. In fact, all but one of his eight siblings died before Pulitzer reached his teenage years.\n\nMerchant shops of Mako. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Pulitzer's mother and sister. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.)\n\nJoseph Pulitzer's four-year-younger brother, Albert, was a consummate reader, idealistic, and ambitious. In 1867, with a twenty-dollar coin tucked under his shirt in a tiny cotton bag hung around his neck, Albert sailed for the United States and joined his brother in St. Louis.\n\nThis rare moment of brotherly togetherness was probably captured by a New York photographer in the spring of 1873. Joseph visited Albert on his way to Europe after selling his shares in the Westliche Post. Albert had just started working at the New York Herald.\n\nAlbert Pulitzer standing with books. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph and Albert in 1873. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\nGerman immigrant and American politician Carl Schurz was a role model for Pulitzer in St. Louis.\n\nPulitzer followed Schurz into the Liberal Republican movement. When the rebellion was defeated, Schurz returned to the Republican Party, but Pulitzer became a Democrat.\n\nCarl Schurz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) Pulitzer Liberal Republican cartoon. (Author's collection.)\n\nWith his success as a reporter and the additional income he earned as a state legislator, Pulitzer improved his dress by 1869 when this photograph was taken.\n\nDuring his term as a state legislator, Pulitzer's notorious temper got the best of him and he tried to shoot a lobbyist. The scene was captured by well-known cartoonist Joseph Keppler.\n\nPulitzer profile 1869. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Cartoon of Pulitzer in fight with lobbyist that appeared in the February 5, 1870 edition of Die Vehme. (Courtesy of the Missouri History Museum.)\n\n(Above 1st)By the mid-1870s, Pulitzer added facial hair to his look. In 1878, he courted two women while living in Washington, D.C. Kate Davis(above 2nd) and Nannie Tunstall(above). In the end, Tunstall spurned Pulitzer's affections, and he married Davis. The drawing of Tunstall was done by sculptor Moses J. Ezekiel.\n\nJoseph Pulitzer and Kate Davis. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) Nannie Tunstall. (Courtesy of the Virginia Military Institute Archives.)\n\nIn December 1878, Pulitzer purchased the St. Louis Dispatch at a bankruptcy sale on the steps of the courthouse. In this cartoon Pulitzer is seen packing up his new paper a few days later to merge it with the St. Louis Post, a move alluded to in the comment \"set the whole up on a sound Post,\" at the center of the drawing. The cartoon appeared in the German-language Die Laterne.\n\nWithin a year of creating the Post-Dispatch, Pulitzer persuaded John Cockerill to come to St. Louis to take charge of the news operation of the paper. The two men met at the 1872 Liberal Republican convention. In the years since, Cockerill had worked as an editor at several newspapers, including the newly launched Washington Post. With their innovative style and aggressive reporting, Pulitzer and Cockerill changed the face of journalism.\n\nCartoon of Pulitzer purchasing the Dispatch. (Author's collection.) Illustration of John Cockerill. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.)\n\nWhen Pulitzer purchased the New York World from Jay Gould in 1883, he also agreed to lease for a decade Gould's Park Row building that housed the paper. But within six years, Pulitzer had made such a success of the World that he built the tallest building on the globe(above), without incurring a cent of debt. The thirteen-story building, topped with a gilded dome that reflected light forty miles out to sea, became an important symbol of Pulitzer's financial success and how he changed the landscape of journalism. The first sight of the New World for immigrants entering New York's harbor was not a building of commerce, banking, or industry. Rather, it was a temple of America's new mass media.\n\nNew York World building owned by Jay Gould. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Pulitzer building (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.)\n\nDon Carlos Seitz was Pulitzer's longest-serving business manager. He was one of the few working for Pulitzer who found a way to survive under his management style. Thirteen years after Pulitzer's death, Seitz became his first biographer.\n\nArthur Brisbane, one of Joseph Pulitzer's most brilliant news editors, was Kate Pulitzer's lover for several years. In 1897, after Kate called off the relationship, he left the World to work for Hearst, where he remained for thirty-nine years and became the nation's highest-paid editor and one of its best-read columnists.\n\nJoseph Pulitzer hoped that David Graham Phillips might be trained to lead the World after his death. Unfortunately, Phillips had literary aspirations and left the paper to write novels and muckraking articles for leading magazines. Pulitzer was wounded when he discovered that the corrupt publisher portrayed in Phillips's first novel was based, in great part, on himself.\n\nDon Carlos Seitz. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Arthur Brisbane. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.) David Graham Phillips. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.)\n\nTwo publishers and two politicians challenged Pulitzer's power. Charles Dana(above 1st), who twice hired Pulitzer to write for his New York Sun, grew bitter when the World stole his circulation, and he wrote a series of anti-Semitic editorials attacking Pulitzer. William Randolph Hearst(above 2nd) bought the paper that Albert Pulitzer had started and engaged in a crippling circulation war with Joseph Pulitzer's World that almost bankrupted both newspapers. Theodore Roosevelt(above 3rd) feuded with Pulitzer for almost a quarter of century and sought to use the power of the presidency to put Pulitzer in prison. William Jennings Bryan(above) turned bitter when Pulitzer refused to support his early presidential bids and told the publisher \"that the trouble with him is that he has too much money.\"\n\nCharles Dana, William Randolph Hearst, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Jennings Bryant. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress.)\n\nWhen the Pulitzer building was torn down in 1955, the cornerstone was recovered. It contained copies of the World and other newspapers, a wax-cylinder voice recording, and photographs of Pulitzer and his family, several of which are reproduced here for the first time since they were encased in the building.\n\nOne of the last photographs taken of Joseph Pulitzer before he began to lose his vision. His increasing blindness and tormenting mental and health problems would test Kate Pulitzer's patience and love.\n\nOpening the cornerstone. (Courtesy of the Library of Congress, New York World-Telegram & Sun Collection.) Joseph and Kate Pulitzer. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.)\n\nRalph(above 1st), the oldest, poses with a rifle at age ten. Joe and his sister Edith(above 2nd) wear clothes often favored by wealthy parents. Constance(above 3rd) was the only child of the Pulitzers born outside the country; she was born in Paris. Lucille(above), Joseph Pulitzer's favorite, died of typhoid in 1897, eight years after this photograph was taken. Kate Pulitzer had two other children. Katherine, born in 1882, who died at age two, and Herbert, who would be born in 1895, six years after these photographs were taken.\n\nPulitzer children. (Courtesy of the Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Butler Library, Columbia University.)\n\n(Above 1st)After becoming almost completely blind, Joseph Pulitzer avoided public appearances and became a recluse. It often fell to his oldest son Ralph to fill in for his ailing father or to accompany him on the rare times he was in New York. Usually Pulitzer(above 2nd) wore goggles to protect his eyes from light and to hide the deterioration visible to others. He increasingly became obsessed with his health and traveled to visit Europe's best doctors and spas accompanied by a large retinue of personal aides.\n\nJoseph Pulitzer walking with son Ralph, Pulitzer wearing goggles, and Pulitzer seated outside with blanket. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\nJoseph Pulitzer's brother Albert sold his New York Journal in 1895 for nearly $1 million and spent the remainder of his life mostly in Europe. He committed suicide in 1909, only a few years after this photograph was taken. Although Joseph was only a short train ride away, he chose not to come to the funeral. Albert is buried in the Jewish section of Vienna's Zentralfriedhof cemetery.\n\nIn 1911, Pulitzer spent part of his last spring alive in Southern France. This photograph of Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo with his daughter Edith and his aide Harold Pollard was taken less than seven months from his death. He complained extensively about his health and began that June to take Veronal, a new sedative with dangerous side effects that were not yet known; its use may have lead to Pulitzer's death in October.\n\nAlbert Pulitzer walking by canal. (Courtesy of the Muriel Pulitzer Estate.) Joseph Pulitzer walking in Monte Carlo. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\nPulitzer used his wealth to build expensive houses in hopes of finding within their walls an escape from business pressures and a shelter from noise. With the decline of his vision, Pulitzer became tormented by sounds of all sorts. For his New York mansion on East Seventy-third Street(above 1st), he hired a Harvard acoustical expert to help create a bedroom insulated from all outside sound. At his palatial estate, Chatwold, on Mt. Desert Island, Maine(above), Pulitzer constructed a special wing of stone that aides nicknamed the \"Tower of Silence.\" Pulitzer was never satisfied by the measures taken to guard him from noise.\n\nPulitzer's East Seventy-Third Street house and Chatwold. (Courtesy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.)\n\n(Above 1st)Ultimately, Pulitzer came closest to finding a refuge on his yacht, The Liberty. The length of a football field, it contained a gymnasium, a library, drawing and smoking rooms, an oak-paneled dining room quarters for its forty-five-man crew, and twelve elegant staterooms. The ship carried sufficient coal to cross and recross the Atlantic Ocean without refueling. Pulitzer also favored wintering in his house on Jekyll Island(above), a private island off the coast of Georgia where the Gilded Age's wealthiest industrialists and financiers vacationed.\n\nLiberty. (Courtesy of the St. Louis-Post Dispatch and the Joseph Pulitzer Family.) The Jekyll Island House. (Courtesy of the Jekyll Island Museum Archives.)\n\nWhen he died, Pulitzer used his wealth to create two institutions that have ensured his name would live on. A century later, his Pulitzer Prizes for journalism, the literary arts, and music are announced each spring at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, which he endowed. Many felt the creation of the school and the prizes were late-in-life attempts to improve his legacy after years of reckless so-called \"Yellow Journalism.\" For his part, Pulitzer said his goal was to help professionalize his trade. His last will and testament offered his personal motivation, words that remain engraved in the front hall of his school.\n\nColumbia Journalism School. (Courtesy of Columbia University Archive.) Floor engraving. (Courtesy of the author.)\n"}
{"meta": {"short_book_title": "Our Home and Personal Duty by Jane Eayre Fryer", "publication_date": 1918, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53653"}, "text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Emmy, MFR and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    YOUNG AMERICAN READERS\n\n    OUR HOME\n    AND PERSONAL DUTY\n\n    BY\n    JANE EAYRE FRYER\n    AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE MARY FRANCES STORY-INSTRUCTION BOOKS\u201d\n\n    ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDNA A. COOKE AND FROM PHOTOGRAPHS\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    _In these vital tasks of acquiring a broader view of\n    human possibilities the common school must have a large\n    part. I urge that teachers and other school officers\n    increase materially the time and attention devoted\n    to instruction bearing directly on the problems of\n    community and national life._\u2014WOODROW WILSON.\n\n    THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS\n            PHILADELPHIA      CHICAGO\n\n\n\n\n    COPYRIGHT 1918 BY\n    THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.\n\n\n    ALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n\n\n\n\nCIVICS FOR AMERICAN CHILDREN\n\n\nThe notion of what constitutes adequate civics teaching in our schools\nis rapidly changing. The older idea was based on the theory that\nchildren were not citizens\u2014that only adults were citizens. Therefore,\ncivics teaching was usually deferred to the eighth grade, or last year\nof the grammar school, and then was mostly confined to a memorizing of\nthe federal constitution, with brief comments on each clause. Today we\nrecognize that even young children are citizens, just as much as adults\nare, and that what is wanted is not training _for_ citizenship but\ntraining _in_ citizenship. Moreover, we believe that the \u201cgood citizen\u201d\nis one who is good for something in all the relationships of life.\n\n\nHABIT FORMATION\n\nAccordingly, a beginning is being made with the early school years,\nwhere an indispensable foundation is laid through a training in \u201cmorals\nand manners.\u201d This sounds rather old-fashioned, but nothing has been\ndiscovered to take its place. Obedience, cleanliness, orderliness,\ncourtesy, helpfulness, punctuality, truthfulness, care of property,\nfair play, thoroughness, honesty, respect, courage, self-control,\nperseverance, thrift, kindness to animals, \u201csafety first\u201d\u2014these are the\nfundamental civic virtues which make for good citizenship in the years\nto come. Of course, the object is to establish right habits of thought\nand action, and this takes time and patience and sympathy; but the end\nin view justifies the effort. The boy or girl who has become habitually\norderly and courteous and helpful and punctual and truthful, and who\nhas acquired a fair degree of courageous self-control, is likely to\nbecome a citizen of whom any community may well be proud.\n\n\nDRAMATIZATION\n\nThe best results are found to be secured through stories, poems,\nsongs, games, and the dramatization of the stories found in books or\ntold by the teacher. This last is of great value, for it sets up a\nsort of brief life-experience for the child that leaves a more lasting\nimpression than would the story by itself. Most of the stories told in\nthis reader, emphasizing certain of the civic virtues enumerated above,\nwill be found to lend themselves admirably to simple dramatization\nby the pupils, the children\u2019s imagination supplying all deficiencies\nin costumes, scenery, and stage settings. Moreover, the questions\nfollowing the text will help the teacher to \u201cpoint the moral\u201d without\ndetracting in the slightest degree from the interest of the story.\n\n\nCOMMUNITY SERVANTS\n\nThe basis for good citizenship having been laid through habit-formation\nin the civic virtues, the next step is for the children to learn how\nthese virtues are being embodied in the people round about them who are\nserving them and their families. The baker, the milkman, the grocer,\nthe dressmaker, the shoemaker, the carpenter, the plumber, the painter,\nthe physician, the druggist, the nurse\u2014these are the community servants\nwho come closest to the life-experience of the children.\n\nHow dependent each member of a community\u2014especially an urban\ncommunity\u2014is on all the rest, and how important it is that each shall\ncontribute what he can to the community\u2019s welfare, are illustrated by\nthe stories of the Duwell family. Here a typical though somewhat ideal\nAmerican family is shown in its everyday relations, as a constant\nrecipient of the services rendered by those community agents who\nsupply the fundamental need of food, clothing, shelter, and medical\nattendance. The children in the class will learn, with the Duwell\nchildren, both the actual services that are rendered and the family\u2019s\ncomplete dependence on those services. Moreover, they will acquire\nthe splendid working ideals of interdependence and co\u00f6peration. And,\nfinally, they will discover that the adult citizens who are rendering\nthem these services are embodying the very civic virtues in which they\nthemselves have been so carefully trained.\n\n\nPUBLIC SERVANTS\n\nThe pupils are now ready to follow the services rendered by public\nservants such as the policeman, the fireman, the street cleaner, the\nashes and garbage collector, the mail carrier; and by those who furnish\nwater, gas, electricity, the telephone, the trolley, etc.; and these\nare presented in civics readers that follow this one. The civic virtues\npreviously considered are again found exemplified to a marked degree;\nand the threefold idea of dependence, interdependence, and co\u00f6peration\nthrough community agencies finds ample illustration.\n\n\nTRAINING FOR CITIZENSHIP\n\nBut it is not enough for the pupils to stop with finding out what\nthe community is doing for them. The essential thing in this\ncitizenship-training is for the young citizens to find out what they\ncan do to help things along. Civic activities are suggested both in the\nstories, poems, etc., in these books, and in the suggestive questions\nat the close of each chapter.\n\nLike all texts or other helps in education, these civics readers\ncannot teach themselves or take the place of a live teacher. But it is\nbelieved that they can be of great assistance to sympathetic, civically\nminded instructors of youth who feel that the training of our children\nin the ideals and practices of good citizenship is the most imperative\nduty and at the same time the highest privilege that can come to any\nteacher.\n\n                                                 J. LYNN BARNARD.\n\n    Philadelphia School of Pedagogy.\n    April 1, 1918.\n\n\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nSpecial thanks are due to Doctor J. Lynn Barnard of the Philadelphia\nSchool of Pedagogy, for valuable suggestions and helpful criticism\nin the making of this reader; also to Miss Isabel Jean Galbraith, a\ndemonstration teacher of the Philadelphia School of Pedagogy, for\nassistance in preparing the questions on the lessons.\n\nFor kind permission to use stories and other material, thanks are due\nto the following: The Ohio Humane Society for \u201cLittle Lost Pup,\u201d by\nArthur Guiterman; Mrs. Huntington Smith, President Animal Rescue League\nof Boston, for \u201cThe Grocer\u2019s Horse,\u201d and to her publishers, Ginn and\nCompany; Mary Craige Yarrow for \u201cPoor Little Jocko\u201d; Houghton Mifflin\nCompany for \u201cBaking the Johnny-cake\u201d; The American Humane Education\nSociety for selection by George T. Angell; and to the Red Cross\nMagazine for several photographs.\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n    THE\n    CHILD\n\n    OBEDIENCE\n    CLEANLINESS\n    ORDERLINESS\n    COURTESY\n    HELPFULNESS\n    KINDNESS TO ANIMALS\n    PUNCTUALITY\n    TRUTHFULNESS\n    CARE OF PROPERTY\n    FAIR PLAY\n    THOROUGHNESS\n    HONESTY\n    RESPECT\n    COURAGE\n    SELF CONTROL\n    THRIFT\n    PERSEVERANCE\n    PATRIOTISM\n\n    FAMILY\n    FATHER\n    MOTHER\n    BROTHERS\n    SISTERS\n\n    COMMUNITY\n    DOCTOR\n    TEACHER\n    BAKER\n    MILKMAN\n    SHOEMAKER\n    TAILOR\n    COALMAN\n    GROCER\n\n    PUBLIC SERVANTS\n    FIREMAN\n    POLICEMAN\n    STREET CLEANER\n    POSTMAN\n\n    PUBLIC UTILITIES\n    ELECTRICITY\n    WATER\n    GAS\n    TELEPHONE\n    PARK\n    LIBRARY\n    PLAYGROUNDS\n    SCHOOL\n\n    COMMUNITY INDUSTRIES AND OCCUPATIONS\n    AGRICULTURE\n    INDUSTRY\n    COMMERCE\n    PROFESSIONS\n\n    ELEMENTS OF WELFARE\n    CIVIC BEAUTY\n    EDUCATION\n    RECREATION\n    HEALTH\n    PROTECTION OF LIFE AND PROPERTY\n    CHARITIES\n    CORRECTION\n    WEALTH\n    COMMUNICATION\n    TRANSPORTATION\n\nA BIRD\u2019S-EYE VIEW OF THE PLAN OF THE YOUNG AMERICAN READERS]\n\nIt may be said that a child\u2019s life and experience move forward in ever\nwidening circles, beginning with the closest intimate home relations,\nand broadening out into knowledge of community, of city, and finally of\nnational life.\n\nA glance at the above diagram will show the working plan of the\nYoung American Readers. This plan follows the natural growth and\ndevelopment of the child\u2019s mind, and aims by teaching the civic virtues\nand simplest community relations to lay the foundations of good\ncitizenship. See Outline of Work on page 231.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n    PART I\n\n    CIVIC VIRTUES\n\n    Stories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect,\n    Patriotism, Kindness to Animals.\n\n\n    _Thoroughness_\n\n    PAGE\n\n    THE LITTLE PRAIRIE DOGS AND OLD MR. WOLF                 3\n    DON\u2019T GIVE UP, _Ph\u0153be Cary_                              8\n    THE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER                           9\n    THE THOUGHTFUL BOY                                      16\n    GRANDFATHER\u2019S STORY                                     17\n\n\n    _Honesty_\n\n    HONEST ABE                                              23\n        I. THE BROKEN BUCK-HORN                             23\n       II. THE RAIN-SOAKED BOOK                             24\n      III. THE YOUNG STOREKEEPER                            26\n    DRY RAIN AND THE HATCHET                                28\n        I. HOW DRY RAIN GOT HIS NAME                        28\n       II. DRY RAIN GOES TRADING                            29\n    THE SEVEN CRANBERRIES                                   32\n    THE DONKEY\u2019S TAIL                                       36\n    HURTING A GOOD FRIEND                                   39\n\n\n    _Respect_\n\n    A SCHOOL WITHOUT A TEACHER                              42\n    OUR FLAG                                                47\n    SCOUT\u2019S PLEDGE                                          48\n    MY GIFT                                                 49\n    FLAG DAY                                                49\n    HOW OUR FLAG DEVELOPED                                  52\n    THE FLAG OF THE U. S. A.                                54\n    THE AMERICAN FLAG, _Joseph Rodman Drake_                55\n\n\n    _Kindness to Animals_\n\n    THE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY                               56\n        I. THE DOG AND THE POLICEMAN                        56\n       II. THE POLICEMAN\u2019S STORY                            57\n      III. CHEESEY\u2019S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS                     58\n    THE CHAINED DOG                                         60\n    LITTLE LOST PUP, _Arthur Guiterman_                     62\n    PICTURE OF RED CROSS ARMY DOGS                          64\n    THE HUNTING PARTY                                       66\n    THE LOST KITTY, _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_                   67\n    MY PECULIAR KITTY                                       68\n    POOR LITTLE JOCKO                                       69\n    ROBIN REDBREAST                                         74\n    WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN?                                  75\n    MY FRIEND, MR. ROBIN                                    77\n    IF ALL THE BIRDS SHOULD DIE, _George T. Angell_         78\n    FURRY                                                   80\n    THE GROCER\u2019S HORSE (adapted), _Mrs. Huntington Smith_   83\n        I. THE CARELESS DRIVER                              83\n       II. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE BARN                        86\n    A LETTER FROM A HORSE                                   88\n\n\n    PLEA FOR THE HORSE                                      89\n\n\n\n    PART II\n\n    COMMUNITY OCCUPATIONS\n\n    Stories about People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs.\n\n\n    _People Who Provide Us with Food_\n\n    THE BAKER                                               95\n        I. AN EARLY CALL                                    95\n       II. THE STAFF OF LIFE                                99\n      III. A VISIT TO THE BAKERY                           101\n       IV. WHERE THE WHEAT COMES FROM                      107\n    BAKING THE JOHNNY-CAKE                                 111\n    THE MILKMAN                                            115\n        I. BEFORE THE SUN RISES                            115\n       II. MILK, FROM FARM TO FAMILY                       119\n    THE GROCER                                             122\n        I. THE OLD-TIME GROCER                             122\n       II. THE MODERN GROCER                               125\n\n\n    _People Who Help Clothe Us_\n\n    THE TAILOR                                             127\n        I. THE ACCIDENT                                    127\n       II. AT THE TAILOR SHOP                              129\n      III. WHAT THE TAILOR SAVED THE DUWELL FAMILY         132\n    THE DRESSMAKER                                         134\n        I. AN INVITATION TO A PARTY                        134\n       II. A DISAPPOINTMENT                                136\n      III. AT THE DRESSMAKER\u2019S                             137\n       IV. THE PARTY                                       142\n    THE SILK DRESS                                         144\n    THE SHOEMAKER                                          145\n        I. THE WORN SHOES                                  145\n       II. SHOEMAKERS WHO BECAME FAMOUS                    150\n      III. AT THE SHOEMAKER\u2019S SHOP                         152\n\n\n    _People Who Supply Us with Shelter_\n\n    THE CARPENTER                                          154\n        I. A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY                         154\n       II. THE SAWMILL                                     158\n      III. THE CARPENTER                                   161\n       IV. THE WOLF\u2019S DEN                                  163\n        V. THE CAVE DWELLERS                               165\n    THE BRICKLAYER                                         168\n        I. THE FALLEN CHIMNEY                              168\n       II. THE BRICKLAYER                                  172\n      III. AFTER SCHOOL                                    173\n    THE PLUMBER, THE PLASTERER, THE PAINTER                176\n        I. A VISIT TO A LITTLE TOWN                        176\n       II. AT HOME                                         178\n      III. THE NEW KITCHEN                                 179\n\n\n    _People Who Supply Us with Fuel_\n\n    THE COAL MAN AND THE MINER                             181\n        I. BLACK DIAMONDS                                  181\n       II. IN A COAL MINE                                  183\n\n\n    _People Who Care for Our Health_\n\n    THE DENTIST                                            187\n        I. WHY RUTH WAS AFRAID                             187\n       II. AT THE DENTIST\u2019S                                190\n    THE DRUGGIST, THE NURSE, AND THE DOCTOR                192\n        I. THE SICK BABY                                   192\n       II. THE DRUGGIST                                    194\n      III. THE TRAINED NURSE                               196\n       IV. THE DOCTOR, A HERO                              199\n\n\n    E FOR ALL AND ALL FOR ONE (a play)                     201\n\n\n\n    PART III\n\n    THE AMERICAN RED CROSS\n\n    Junior Membership and School Activities.\n\n    THE JUNIOR RED CROSS                                   209\n        THE PRESIDENT\u2019S PROCLAMATION                       210\n    THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF PEACE               211\n    THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF WAR                 215\n    BEFORE THE DAYS OF THE RED CROSS                       215\n    FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE                                   216\n    HOW THE RED CROSS CAME TO BE                           219\n    HOW I CAN HELP THE RED CROSS                           222\n    THE LADY OF THE LAMP (a play)                          224\n        ACT I. THE SICK DOLL                               224\n        ACT II. GOOD OLD CAP                               225\n        ACT III. THE LADY OF THE LAMP                      227\n    YOU AND I AND ALL OF US                                228\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\nCIVIC VIRTUES\n\nStories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect, Patriotism, Kindness\nto Animals\n\nThese stories also teach, incidentally, the co-ordinate virtues\nof obedience, cleanliness, orderliness, courtesy, helpfulness,\npunctuality, truthfulness, care of property, and fair play.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE PRAIRIE DOGS AND OLD MR. WOLF\n\n\nI.\n\nOnce upon a time, three fat little prairie dogs lived together in a\nnice deep burrow, where they were quite safe and warm and snug.\n\nThese little prairie dogs had very queer names. One was Jump, another\nwas Bump, and another was Thump.\n\nWell, they lived very happily together until one day Jump said, \u201cI\nbelieve I would rather live up on top of the ground than in this\nburrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe I would, too,\u201d said Bump.\n\n\u201cI believe I would!\u201d said Thump. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you what we can do! Let us\neach build a house!\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us!\u201d cried Jump and Bump, and away they all scampered up out of\nthe burrow.\n\nEach one ran in a different direction to hunt for something to use in\nbuilding a house.\n\nJump gathered some straws.\n\n\u201cThese will do,\u201d he thought. \u201cI shall not bother to look for anything\nelse. Besides, they are very light and easy to carry.\u201d\n\nSo Jump built a little straw house.\n\nBump gathered some sticks.\n\n\u201cThese will make a nice house. They are quite good enough,\u201d he said.\n\nSo Bump built a little stick house.\n\nThump saw the straw and the sticks, but thought he might find something\nbetter.\n\nPretty soon he came to a pile of stones.\n\n\u201cMy, what a fine strong house they would make!\u201d he thought. \u201cThey are\nheavy to move, but I will try to use them.\u201d\n\nSo he carried and carried and worked and worked, but finally he had a\nstone house.\n\n\nII.\n\nThe next morning when old Mr. Prairie Wolf awoke and stretched himself,\nhe saw the three little houses in the distance.\n\n\u201cWhat can they be?\u201d wondered old Mr. Wolf. \u201cMaybe I can get breakfast\nover there.\u201d So he started toward them.\n\nThe first house he came to was the straw one.\n\nHe peeped in the window and saw little Jump.\n\nHe knocked on the door. \u201cMr. Jump, let me come in,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cOh, no, by my bark\u2014bark\u2014bark! you cannot come in,\u201d barked little Jump,\npushing with all his might against the door with his little paws.\n\n\u201cThen I\u2019ll blow your house over with one big breath!\u201d growled old Mr.\nPrairie Wolf.\n\nSo he blew one mighty breath, and blew the house over, and ate up poor\nlittle Jump.\n\nOn his way home, old Mr. Wolf stopped to look in the window of the\nlittle stick house. He saw little Bump.\n\n\u201cMy, what a good breakfast I shall have to-morrow!\u201d he thought to\nhimself.\n\nThe next morning he came early and knocked on the door of the little\nstick house.\n\n\u201cMr. Bump, Mr. Bump,\u201d said he, \u201clet me come in.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no, by my bark\u2014bark\u2014bark! you cannot come in,\u201d barked little Bump,\nstanding on his hind legs with his back braced against the door.\n\n\u201cThen I\u2019ll throw your house over with one blow of my paw,\u201d growled old\nMr. Prairie Wolf.\n\nAnd he did, and ate up poor little Bump.\n\n\nIII.\n\nOn his way home, he stopped to look in the window of the little stone\nhouse.\n\nThump sat by the fireplace toasting his feet.\n\n\u201cMy, my!\u201d chuckled old Mr. Wolf, smacking his lips, \u201che is the fattest\none of all. What a fine breakfast I shall have to-morrow!\u201d\n\nThe next morning he came earlier than ever, and knocked on the door of\nthe little stone house.\n\n\u201cMr. Thump, let me come in,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cAll right,\u201d called little Thump, \u201cwhen my feet get warm.\u201d\n\nSo old Mr. Prairie Wolf sat down to wait.\n\nBy and by, old Mr. Wolf knocked on the door again. \u201cAren\u2019t your feet\nwarm yet, Mr. Thump?\u201d he growled.\n\n\u201cOnly one,\u201d called Thump; \u201cyou will have to wait until the other one is\nwarm.\u201d\n\nSo old Mr. Wolf sat down to wait.\n\nAfter a few minutes had passed, he knocked on the door again.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t your other foot warm yet, Mr. Thump?\u201d he growled.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d called Thump, \u201cbut the first one is cold now.\u201d\n\n\u201cSee here, Mr. Thump,\u201d growled old Mr. Wolf, \u201cdo you intend to keep me\nwaiting all day while you warm first one foot and then the other? I am\ntired of such foolishness. I want my breakfast. Open the door, or I\u2019ll\nknock your house over!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, all right,\u201d barked little Thump, \u201cand while you are doing it, I\nshall eat my breakfast.\u201d\n\nThat made old Mr. Prairie Wolf very angry, and he kicked at the little\nstone house with all his might; but little Thump knew he could not move\na stone.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAfter a long while the noise stopped, and little Thump peeped out of\nthe window. He saw old Mr. Wolf limping painfully off; and that was the\nway he always remembered him, for he never never saw him again.\n\n    This story, which is built on the framework of the\n    old classic, \u201cThe Three Pigs,\u201d lends itself readily\n    to dramatization. Let the four characters take their\n    parts as they remember the story. By no means have them\n    memorize the words.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Which little prairie dog worked hardest to build his\n    house?\n\n    The others had an easy time, didn\u2019t they?\n\n    But which one was happiest in the end? Why?\n\n\nDON\u2019T GIVE UP\n\n    If you\u2019ve tried and have not won,\n      Never stop for crying;\n    All that\u2019s great and good is done\n      Just by patient trying.\n\n    Though young birds, in flying, fall,\n      Still their wings grow stronger;\n    And the next time they can keep\n      Up a little longer.\n\n    If by easy work you beat,\n      Who the more will prize you?\n    Gaining victory from defeat,\n      That\u2019s the test that tries you!\n                                  \u2014_Ph\u0153be Cary._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER\n\n\nI.\n\nOnce upon a time, a mother loved her little boy so well that she made\nthe mistake of offending one of his good fairies. This was the fairy of\ncarefulness.\n\nThe mother made the mistake of trying to do everything for her little\nson. She even put his toys away when he was tired of playing.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAfter the boy grew older and went to school, she did many of his\nlessons for him. His daily marks in arithmetic were good, for much of\nhis work was done by his mother at home. Of course his teacher did not\nknow this for the boy copied his mother\u2019s work.\n\nNow, just as you would expect, this made the boy very careless. But he\nwas really a bright boy, and even though he did not do well, he managed\nto pass his examinations.\n\n\u201cIf you would only be more careful,\u201d his teachers would say, \u201cyou would\nhave the highest marks.\u201d\n\nWhen his mother saw his reports, she would say: \u201cOh, isn\u2019t this too\nbad, son; I know you will have better marks next time.\u201d\n\nSo, when the boy became a man he did everything in the same careless\nmanner, forgetting that other people would not excuse him as his mother\nhad done.\n\nNow the good fairy of carefulness was very much offended at the way in\nwhich the mother spoiled her little son. So she said to herself, \u201cI\nmust, I must teach that boy a lesson!\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\nWhen he was little, this boy was very fond of playing at building\nbridges. After he was grown up, he became a builder of real bridges.\n\nAt first, he built only small bridges over the brooks and little\nstreams, but one day an order was given him to build an important\nbridge over a large river.\n\nJust as you might guess, this pleased the man very much, and he was\nglad to begin the work at once.\n\nSoon his men were busy, putting in the piers for the new bridge, and he\nwas hurrying them as fast as he could, in order to get the bridge built\non time.\n\nEvery day he sat in a rowboat calling to his men. They were about to\nbegin work on the middle pier when the foreman of the workers came to\nhim.\n\n\u201cMr. Builder,\u201d he said, \u201cI think we shall have to wait for more\nmaterial if we go down to the right depth for this pier.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense, man,\u201d said the builder, \u201cwe have no time to wait. There is a\npretty good bottom under that place. Don\u2019t go so deep. Get along with\nthe material you have.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, sir,\u2014\u201d began the man.\n\n\u201cDo as I tell you,\u201d ordered the builder.\n\n\u201cAll right, sir,\u201d replied the foreman; \u201cyou may order that done, but\none of the other men will have to do the job.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d was the angry reply of the builder, \u201cJim Nevermind will\ntake your place.\u201d\n\nThe foreman slowly drew on his jacket. \u201cSomebody will pay for such\ncarelessness,\u201d he muttered. \u201cI hope it will not be\u2014\u201d but the rest of\nthe sentence was drowned by the orders of the new foreman.\n\n\nIII.\n\nIn a very short time the bridge was finished and the inspector came to\nlook it over.\n\n\u201cIt looks all right,\u201d he said. \u201cAre you sure the piers are sound? I\nhaven\u2019t time to examine them, but I know that a man who has built as\nmany bridges as you, would make them right.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad you are pleased, sir,\u201d replied the builder.\n\n\u201cYou have certainly made record time,\u201d continued the inspector, \u201cand I\nshall carry back a good report.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you very much,\u201d said the builder; but his pleasure was somewhat\nspoiled because of the shallow pier.\n\n\u201cIt is all nonsense,\u201d he thought, \u201cto be so particular; besides, the\ncurrent in that river is so slow that there is no danger.\u201d And it\nseemed true, for three years later, the bridge appeared to be as firm\nand strong as when it was first built.\n\n\nIV.\n\nBut one day in the early part of the fourth year there came a great\nflood. The slow-moving current became a raging torrent, sweeping\neverything in its way and blocking large timbers and trees against the\nbridge.\n\nIt so happened that a party of young people were riding along in a big\nhay wagon drawn by four beautiful bay horses. When they came to the\nbridge the driver stopped.\n\n\u201cShall we cross?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOh, yes,\u201d the children shouted, \u201cit will be fun.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt looks safe enough,\u201d said one of the two grown people who were with\nthem. So with a \u201cGee-up, boys,\u201d to the horses, the driver started\nacross the bridge.\n\nJust\u2014ah, you know, don\u2019t you? Just as they reached the middle pier,\nthere came a creak and a rumble, a moment\u2019s swaying, and a crash.\nThe bridge had caved in, and the hay wagon, full of terror-stricken\nchildren, together with the frightened horses, was swept into the water.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t jump!\u201d shouted the driver to the children, trying to guide the\nswimming horses shoreward; but that was impossible.\n\nFor a full minute, which seemed like hours, they were swept onward.\nThen,\u2014maybe the good fairy of carefulness had planned it\u2014they rested on\na little island the top of which was just covered with water.\n\nThe white-faced driver counted the children, \u201cAll here! Thank God!\u201d he\nsaid.\n\nThe little folks cried and hugged each other, and called aloud for\ntheir mothers and fathers.\n\nThey had to stay there all night, cold and frightened and hungry. That\nwas dreadful enough, but it was nothing compared with the fear that the\nwater might rise higher still.\n\nBut slowly and steadily it went down, and by early morning all of the\nlittle island was uncovered. All the party were then quickly rescued\nwith boats.\n\n\nV.\n\nThe builder started, as the heading in the evening paper caught his\neye\u2014\u201cTerrible Bridge Accident\u2014Who is to Blame?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, why, it\u2019s the bridge of the shallow pier!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cPeople\nwill find out that I am the one to blame!\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I run away?\u201d he wondered, and sat for hours with his head in his\nhands.\n\nSuddenly he threw back his shoulders and said aloud, \u201cNo, I will not\nrun away. I will stay and do what I can to make the bridge right and\nnever neglect my duty again!\u201d\n\nDo you wonder that the good fairy of carefulness, and thoroughness,\nsmiled and whispered, \u201cI wish he could have learned his lesson more\neasily!\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nMEMORY GEM\n\n    If a task is once begun\n    Never leave it till it\u2019s done;\n    Be the labor great or small\n    Do it well, or not at all.\n                       \u2014_Ph\u0153be Cary._\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    The careless little boy had a very easy time both at\n    home and at school, didn\u2019t he?\n\n    But, what kind of man did he grow to be?\n\n    It did not seem as if just one shallow pier would\n    matter, did it?\n\n    But if he had been honest and thorough in his work when\n    he was little, do you think he would have been content\n    to be paid for such a carelessly built bridge?\n\n    How do you suppose he felt when he heard about the\n    accident?\n\n    Can you remember some time when you felt like being\n    careless, but decided to do your very best?\n\n\nTHE THOUGHTFUL BOY\n\n    \u201cLittle by little,\u201d said a thoughtful boy,\n    \u201cMoment by moment I\u2019ll well employ;\n    Learning a little every day,\n    Not spending all my time in play;\n    And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,\n    \u2018Whatever I do, I\u2019ll do it well\u2019.\u201d\n\n    \u201cLittle by little, I\u2019ll learn to know\n    The treasured wisdom of long ago,\n    And one of these days perhaps we\u2019ll see\n    The world made better for having me.\u201d\n    And do you not think that this simple plan\n    Made him a wise and a useful man?\n                                    \u2014_Selected._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nGRANDFATHER\u2019S STORY\n\n\nI.\n\nCharles was fastening the lid on a box of Christmas presents which his\nlittle brothers were going to send to their cousins.\n\n\u201cIf I were you, I\u2019d put another nail on each side,\u201d said grandfather.\n\n\u201cOh, I think these will hold,\u201d Charles replied, giving the box a little\nshake. \u201cThere are three, on each side.\u201d\n\n\u201cFour would be better,\u201d grandfather said.\n\n\u201cOh, grandpa, don\u2019t you think three will do?\u201d asked the boy. \u201cI\u2014I\nhaven\u2019t any more.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo that is the trouble,\u201d said the old gentleman, laughing. \u201cVery well,\nhere is some money. When you get back from the store I will tell you\nhow the history of a whole great nation was changed for want of a few\nhorseshoe nails!\u201d\n\n\u201cA few horseshoe nails!\u201d exclaimed Charles. \u201cIs it true, grandpa?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d answered grandfather. \u201cNow hurry up if you want to hear\nhow it came about.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, thank you!\u201d Charles cried, as he started out of the door.\n\nHe was so delighted with the promise of one of grandfather\u2019s stories\nthat he was back in less time than if he had gone for candy!\n\n\u201cWell done!\u201d grandfather greeted him. \u201cNow sit down, and while you get\nyour breath, I will tell you the story.\n\n\nII.\n\n\u201cMany, many years ago, when King Richard was ruler of England, he owned\na beautiful horse which he rode whenever he went into battle.\n\n\u201cOne day word came that Henry, the Earl of Richmond, was on his way to\nattack the king\u2019s men.\n\n\u201cKing Richard ordered his favorite horse brought to him, and turned to\ntalk to the officers of his army.\n\n\u201cNow the groom who had charge of the king\u2019s horses suddenly noticed\nthat this horse needed shoeing.\n\n\u201cSo he hurried to the nearest smithy.\n\n\u201c\u2018Shoe this horse quickly,\u2019 he said to the blacksmith. \u2018His Majesty has\ncalled for him. The enemy is near!\u2019\n\n\u201cThe blacksmith worked with all his might, and soon had four horseshoes\nready.\n\n\u201cWhen he had nailed on two shoes, he found he had not nails enough for\nthe other two. Suddenly the bugles sounded.\n\n\u201c\u2018Hurry!\u2019 cried the groom. \u2018The soldiers are gathering!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Shall I make more nails?\u2019 asked the blacksmith.\n\n\u201c\u2018How many have you?\u2019 asked the groom.\n\n\u201c\u2018I have only eight,\u2019 replied the smith. \u2018It would not take very long\nto hammer out eight more.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018You will have to make eight do,\u2019 said the groom.\n\n\u201c\u2018If you could only wait a little while,\u2019 urged the smith, working away.\n\n\u201c\u2018I suppose I might,\u2014but it would be a risk! Won\u2019t four nails hold a\nhorseshoe?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, that depends on how hard the horse is ridden,\u2019 answered the\nblacksmith, driving the last of the eight nails in place.\n\n\u201cThe horse reached the king in good time, for it took quite a long\nwhile for the officers to make their plans.\n\n\nIII.\n\n\u201cSoon King Richard was riding among his men, cheering them on in the\nbattle.\n\n\u201c\u2018No other horse could carry a man as surely and swiftly,\u2019 whispered\nthe king, patting the horse\u2019s neck.\n\n\u201cHe had not noticed that the horse had lost one shoe. Onward he urged\nhim over a rocky hill. Another shoe flew off.\n\n\u201cSuddenly the horse stumbled and fell, and the king was thrown to the\nground.\n\n\u201cBefore he could rise, the horse, although lamed, had struggled to his\nfeet and galloped away, dreadfully frightened.\n\n\u201cThen the king shouted, \u2018A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!\u2019\n\n\u201cBut there was no horse for him. When his men had seen him thrown, they\nhad all turned and fled.\n\n\u201cAnd so the battle was lost, and King Richard was killed, and the\nhistory of the great nation of England was changed, for Henry, Earl of\nRichmond, became king.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd all for the want of a few horseshoe nails!\u201d, finished Charles, as\ngrandfather stopped speaking. \u201cI will put two more nails into each side\nof the box lid, grandpa!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhile you are doing that, I will teach you a few lines that I learned\nwhen I was a boy,\u201d said grandfather. \u201cTry to remember them.\u201d\n\n    \u201cFor want of a nail the shoe was lost;\n     For want of a shoe the horse was lost;\n     For want of a horse the rider was lost;\n     For want of a rider the battle was lost;\n     For loss of a battle a kingdom was lost;\u2014\n     And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    How might the battle have ended if the groom had waited\n    until the blacksmith had put the right number of nails\n    in the horse\u2019s shoes?\n\n    Which do you think King Richard would rather have\n    lost\u2014a little time or his kingdom?\n\n    How do you suppose the groom and the blacksmith felt\n    when they learned the result of the battle?\n\n    Do you know any careless people?\n\n    What do you think of them?\n\n    Can you remember ever doing something carelessly in\n    order to finish more quickly?\n\n    Tell about it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    If you\u2019re told to do a thing,\n      And mean to do it really;\n    Never let it be by halves;\n      Do it fully, freely!\n                       \u2014_Ph\u0153be Cary._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    He liveth long who liveth well;\n      All else in life is thrown away;\n    He liveth longest who can tell\n      Of true things truly done each day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat is worth doing at all is worth doing well.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGo to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.\n\n\n\n\nHONEST ABE\n\n\nAs a boy, Abraham Lincoln was known as \u201cHonest Abe.\u201d Like other boys he\nsometimes did wrong, but never did he try to hide his wrongdoing. He\nwas always ready to own up and tell the truth. So his neighbors called\nhim \u201cHonest Abe.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn this way he was like young George Washington. The American people\nare fond of that kind of boy. That is one of the reasons why Lincoln\nand Washington were each twice elected President of the United States.\n\n\nI. The Broken Buck-horn\n\nWhen he was fourteen years old, young Abraham attended a log cabin\nschool during the winter.\n\nNailed to one of the logs in the schoolhouse was a large buck\u2019s head,\nhigh above the children\u2019s reach.\n\nA hunter had shot a deer in the forest, and presented the head, when\nmounted, to the school. It had two unusually fine horns.\n\nOne day the teacher noticed that one of the horns was broken off short.\n\nCalling the school to order he asked who had broken the horn.\n\n\u201cI did it,\u201d answered young Lincoln promptly. \u201cI reached up and hung on\nthe horn and it broke. I should not have done so if I had thought it\nwould break.\u201d\n\nHe did not wait until he was obliged to own up, but did so at once.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Dare to be true; nothing can need a lie.\n    A fault which needs it most grows two thereby.\n                                          \u2014_Herbert._\n\n\nII. The Rain-soaked Book\n\nThere were no libraries on the frontier in those early days. When the\nboy Lincoln heard of anyone who had a book, he tried to borrow it,\noften walking many miles to do so. He said later that he had read\nthrough every book he had heard of within fifty miles of the place\nwhere he lived.\n\nWhen living in Indiana he often worked as a hired boy for a well-to-do\nfarmer named Josiah Crawford. Mr. Crawford owned a \u201cLife of George\nWashington,\u201d a very precious book at that time. The book-hungry boy\nborrowed it to read.\n\nOne night he lay by the wood fire reading until he could no longer see,\nand then he climbed the ladder into the attic and went to bed under the\neaves. Before going to sleep he placed the book between two logs of the\nwalls of the cabin for safe-keeping.\n\nDuring the night a heavy rain-storm came up. When young Lincoln\nexamined the book in the morning it was water soaked. The leaves were\nwet through and the binding warped.\n\nHe dried the book as best he could by the fire and then in fear and\ntrembling took it home to Mr. Crawford. After telling the story he\nasked what he might do to make good the damaged property.\n\nTo his relief, Mr. Crawford replied: \u201cBeing as it\u2019s you, Abe, I won\u2019t\nbe hard on you. Come over and shuck corn for three days and the book is\nyours.\u201d\n\nShuck corn for three days for such a book as that! It was nothing! He\nfelt as if Mr. Crawford was making him a wonderful present.\n\nAfter reading the book he often talked about what he was going to do\nwhen he grew up.\n\nMrs. Crawford, who was very fond of him, would ask, \u201cWell, Abe, what do\nyou want to be now?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be president,\u201d he would declare.\n\nShe would laugh at him, and say, \u201cYou would make a pretty president\nwith all your tricks and jokes, wouldn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019ll study and get ready, then the chance will come,\u201d he would\nreply.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Truth is the highest thing a man may keep.\n                                    \u2014_Cervantes._\n\n\nIII. The Young Storekeeper\n\nAt the age of twenty-one Abraham Lincoln became a store clerk for a\nshort time. He was then six feet four inches tall and very strong. He\ncould out-run, out-jump, out-wrestle, and out-fight any man in the\nrough pioneer country where he lived.\n\nWhile the people respected his great strength, they liked him still\nmore for his honesty in little things.\n\nOne evening, on reckoning up his accounts, he found that in making\nchange he had taken six cents too much from a customer. On closing the\nstore he immediately walked three miles to the farmhouse where the\ncustomer lived and returned the six cents. Then he walked the three\nmiles back.\n\nOn opening the store one morning, he discovered a four-ounce weight on\nthe scales. He remembered that his last customer the evening before\nhad purchased half a pound of tea. He saw at once that he had given\nher short weight. He measured out the four ounces still due, locked\nthe store, took a long walk to the customer\u2019s house, and explained the\nshortage.\n\nThese were little things, but Honest Abe could not rest until he had\nmade them right.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    This above all: to thine own self be true;\n    And it must follow, as the night the day,\n    Thou canst not then be false to any man.\n                                    \u2014_Shakespeare._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nDRY RAIN AND THE HATCHET\n\n\nI. How Dry Rain Got His Name\n\nIn the Indian country there was once a great drought. The land was\nvery dry. No rain had fallen for many weeks. The crops and cattle were\nsuffering from thirst.\n\nNow, in one of the tribes there was a young Indian who had a very high\nopinion of himself. He pretended that he could foretell what was about\nto happen, long before it really did happen.\n\nSo he foretold that on a certain day a high wind would blow up,\nbringing with it a great rain-storm with plenty of water for everybody.\n\nThe day came. Sure enough a high wind did blow up, but it brought only\na violent sand-storm without a drop of rain, and it left the land drier\nthan before.\n\nSo the Indians laughed at the young man who foretold before he knew and\ncalled him \u201cDry Rain.\u201d\n\nAlthough he afterwards became a noted chief, he never lost his name.\n\n\nII. Dry Rain Goes Trading\n\nOne day, when he was an old man, Dry Rain rode in from his village to\nthe white man\u2019s trading post.\n\nThe old chief purchased a number of articles, among them some\njack-knives and six hatchets. The hatchets were for his six grandsons.\n\nThe trader packed all the purchases in a big bundle. Dry Rain paid for\nthem, mounted his pony, and rode home to his village.\n\nWhen he opened his package, he noticed that the trader by mistake had\nput in seven hatchets.\n\nBut Dry Rain said nothing. \u201cThat extra one will do for me,\u201d he thought.\n\u201cThe white men stole the Indian\u2019s land and never gave it back; I will\nkeep the hatchet.\u201d\n\nAt the same time he did not feel that this would be doing just right.\n\nIn his wigwam that night he lay half-asleep and half-awake, thinking\nabout the hatchet.\n\nHe seemed to hear two voices talking, in a tone so earnest that it\nsounded almost quarrelsome.\n\n\u201cTake back the hatchet,\u201d said one voice. \u201cIt belongs to the white man.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! do not take it back,\u201d said the other voice. \u201cIt is right for you\nto keep it.\u201d\n\nBack and forth the voices argued and argued, for hours it seemed to the\nold chief.\n\n\u201cTake it back!\u201d \u201cKeep it!\u201d \u201cTake it back!\u201d \u201cKeep it!\u201d \u201cTake it back!\u201d\n\nAt last he could stand the dispute no longer, and sat up in bed wide\nawake.\n\n\u201cStop talking, both of you,\u201d he commanded. \u201cDry Rain will take back the\nhatchet in the morning.\u201d\n\nThen he lay down again, pulled the blanket over his head, and was soon\nfast asleep.\n\nAt daylight he arose, mounted his pony, rode back to the trading post,\nand returned the hatchet to the trader.\n\n\u201cWhy did you bring it back?\u201d asked the trader. \u201cI had not missed it,\nand perhaps never should have known you had it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Dry Rain would know,\u201d replied the old chief. \u201cThe two men inside\nof him talked and quarreled about it all night! One said, \u2018Take it\nback!\u2019 the other said, \u2018No, keep it.\u2019 Now they will keep still and let\nhim sleep.\u201d\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Do you think that most white men set the Indians a good\n    example in being honest?\n\n    Dry Rain wanted very much to have the extra hatchet,\n    didn\u2019t he?\n\n    But was he comfortable when he decided to keep it?\n\n    Do you think the white trader would ever have found out?\n\n    But who would have known?\n\n    Did two voices inside of you ever talk when you were\n    tempted to keep something which didn\u2019t belong to you?\n\n\nMEMORY GEMS\n\nTruth will ever rise above falsehood, like oil above water.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    For whatever men say in their blindness,\n      And spite of the fancies of youth,\n    There is nothing so kingly as kindness,\n      And nothing so royal as truth!\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEVEN CRANBERRIES\n\n\nMr. Dingle was not looking toward Helen. He was busy grinding coffee in\nanother part of the store.\n\nHow pretty the bright red cranberries looked! Helen wished she had some.\n\nHer little hand crept over the edge of the barrel, and very quickly\nseven bright shining cranberries were in Helen\u2019s pocket.\n\n\u201cWhat can I get for you, little girl?\u201d asked the storekeeper.\n\n\u201cA pound of butter, please,\u201d Helen answered. She did not look him in\nthe eye; instead, she looked out of the window.\n\nIt took Helen but a short time to reach home.\n\nShe laid the butter on the table and put the seven cranberries in a cup.\n\n\u201cAren\u2019t they pretty!\u201d she whispered. \u201cI think I\u2019ll play they are\nmarbles.\u201d\n\nShe found a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the floor. Then she\nbegan the game.\n\n\u201cWhat pretty bright cranberries!\u201d exclaimed her mother coming into the\nroom. \u201cWhere did you get them, dear?\u201d\n\nHow Helen wished that her mother had not asked that question.\n\n\u201cDid Mr. Dingle give them to you?\u201d her mother asked.\n\nHow Helen wished she could say yes! \u201cBut after all,\u201d she thought, \u201cthat\nwas not stealing, so I\u2019ll just tell mother. She knows I would not\nsteal.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, mother,\u201d she answered, shaking her head. \u201cI took them out of the\nbarrel.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou did!\u201d exclaimed her mother. \u201cWhy, my dear, did you not know that\nwas wrong?\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t take many\u2014only seven,\u201d Helen said; \u201cand Mr. Dingle had\nthousands and thousands of them!\u201d\n\n\u201cCome here, dear, and sit on my knee,\u201d said her mother. \u201cI want to ask\nyou something.\u201d\n\nWhen Helen came she asked, \u201cWhen you took the cranberries, was Mr.\nDingle looking toward you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, he was busy,\u201d answered Helen.\n\n\u201cWould you have taken them if he had been looking at you?\u201d\n\nHelen hung her head.\n\n\u201cI do not think you would, dear,\u201d said her mother. \u201cOf course, you did\nnot think for a moment of stealing from Mr. Dingle.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will never do such a thing again, mother,\u201d promised the little girl.\n\u201cI am sorry.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sorry enough to take those berries back, and tell Mr. Dingle\nwhat you did?\u201d asked her mother.\n\nThat was quite different from being sorry in their own kitchen.\n\n\u201cOh, mother, I don\u2019t want to do that!\u201d said Helen, tears coming into\nher eyes.\n\n\u201cThat is because you are ashamed, Helen,\u201d said her mother; \u201cbut I hope\nyou will always be brave enough to do the right thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you go with me to the store, mother?\u201d asked Helen.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said her mother, \u201cI want you to go by yourself. But I can help\nyou this much: I can telephone Mr. Dingle that you are coming.\u201d\n\nHelen sighed. \u201cI wish I had been, and was back again,\u201d she said,\npicking up the pretty berries.\n\n\u201cWell, well!\u201d said Mr. Dingle, when Helen handed him the berries, \u201cit\ntakes a pretty brave girl to own up. If you were a boy, little girl, I\nwould ask you to come and work for me this next vacation.\u201d\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Why do you think Helen felt so uncomfortable when she\n    was asking for the butter, and later when her mother\n    asked her where she got the cranberries?\n\n    Do you suppose Mr. Dingle would ever have known about\n    the seven cranberries?\n\n    But who would always have known?\n\n    Why was it that Helen did not think taking the\n    cranberries was really \u201cstealing\u201d?\n\n    What did Helen\u2019s mother think about it?\n\n    What do you think about taking even the smallest thing\n    that doesn\u2019t belong to you?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    We sow a thought and reap an act;\n    We sow an act and reap a habit;\n    We sow a habit and reap a character;\n    We sow a character and reap a destiny.\n                                  \u2014_Thackeray._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE DONKEY\u2019S TAIL\n\n\n\u201cCan you see?\u201d asked Hilda Wells, as she tied the handkerchief over\nFred Warren\u2019s eyes.\n\n\u201cYou might make it a little tighter,\u201d answered Fred.\n\nSo Hilda tightened the blindfolder.\n\n\u201cNow, we\u2019ll turn you around three times, start you straight,\u2014and you\npin the tail on the donkey,\u201d she said.\n\nThe \u201cdonkey\u201d was a large picture of that animal fastened to the wall at\nthe opposite side of the room. It was minus its paper tail, which Fred\nheld in his hand.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you peep!\u201d cried all the children.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll see if he can do better than I did!\u201d declared Frank Bennett. So\nfar the prize belonged to Frank. Fred\u2019s turn came last.\n\nAfter being turned around three times, Fred walked straight up to the\npicture and pinned the tail exactly in place.\n\n\u201cOh, Frank, that is better than you did by two inches!\u201d said Hilda.\n\n\u201cFred gets the prize!\u201d cried the excited children, as Fred pulled off\nthe handkerchief.\n\nThen little Marie, Hilda\u2019s sister, handed him a pearl-handled penknife.\n\nFred made little of his prize, and as soon as the children stopped\nexamining it, slipped it into his pocket.\n\nAfter that, Mrs. Wells served ice-cream and cakes.\n\nOh the way home Frank asked Fred to let him see the prize. \u201cIt is a\nbeauty of a knife, Fred,\u201d said he. \u201cUntil you tried, I thought I should\nbe the winner.\u201d\n\nFred muttered something about having too many knives already.\n\nFrank opened his eyes wide in surprise. \u201cToo many!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\u201cI wish I had too many! I\u2019ve never had more than one, and that was\nfather\u2019s when he was a boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood night, Frank,\u201d said Fred, suddenly swinging into a side street.\n\u201cI am going to take a short cut home.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood night, Fred,\u201d called Frank.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a queer way for a fellow to act,\u201d he thought, as he walked on\nalone. \u201cI wonder what is the matter with him.\u201d\n\nSuddenly he heard footsteps, and in a moment Fred had caught up with\nhim. \u201cHere, take it, I don\u2019t want another knife,\u201d he said, thrusting\nthe prize into Frank\u2019s hand.\n\n\u201cOh\u2014oh, I don\u2019t want your knife!\u201d exclaimed Frank.\n\n\u201cWell, I don\u2019t want it, either!\u201d said Fred. \u201cIt belongs to you, anyway;\nand I believe you know it! I am almost certain you could see me peeping\nfrom under that handkerchief!\u201d\n\n\u201cI was not quite sure,\u201d said Frank; \u201cnot sure enough to say anything\nabout it, anyway.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, if you don\u2019t keep the knife I\u2019ll throw it into the river,\u201d said\nFred, running away as fast as he could.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nHURTING A GOOD FRIEND\n\n\nThis is the story of a boy who ruined a good book. A good book is\nalways a good friend.\n\nHe did not mean to\u2014oh, no! But what of that\u2014he did it, as you may read.\n\nHis name was Max Green. One day Max borrowed a book from Tom Brown, a\nfine new book with a picture of a submarine on the cover. Tom had just\nreceived it as a birthday present from his uncle.\n\nThat night Max sat down in a corner to read it. Soon he came to the\nplace where the submarine was getting ready to fire a torpedo.\n\n\u201cSqueak!\u201d went the book, as Max gave it a twist in his excitement. He\ndid not hear the sound; he only saw the torpedo skimming through the\nwater.\n\n\u201cCrack!\u201d went the book, as Max gave it a heavier twist. He did not\nnotice that he was bending the covers farther back. He only knew that\nthe torpedo was striking the bow of a big man-of-war.\n\n\u201cRip!\u201d went the book down the middle, as Max gave it a harder twist\nwith his hand.\n\nBut Max read right on, for just then the man-of-war lurched over on its\nside as if it was getting ready to sink.\n\nIn his excitement Max forgot all about what he was doing and twisted\nand bent the book back, cover to cover.\n\n\u201cStop\u2014quick\u2014oh! oh! It hurts! You have broken my back\u2014broken my back!\nOh!\u2014oh!\u201d cried the book.\n\nSuddenly Max woke up and saw what he had done\u2014but it was too late. He\nhad broken the glue and stitches apart and the covers hung limp.\n\nJust then his mother came in.\n\n\u201cLook, mother\u2014see what I have done to Tom Brown\u2019s book,\u201d he confessed.\n\u201cI am so sorry. It is such a good book. Can\u2019t we glue it together\nagain?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said his mother, \u201cit is ruined. Glue may help, but it will never\nbe the same book.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I am so sorry!\u201d said Max.\n\n\u201cYes, Max, but being sorry will not make this book as good as it was\nwhen you borrowed it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will make it right with Tom, mother. I will take my birthday money\nto buy him a new one.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the right thing to do, Max,\u201d answered his mother.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    How is a good book a good friend?\n\n    Suppose it had been his own book that Max ruined, would\n    he have been treating it fairly?\n\n    If you were a book, how would you want to be treated?\n\n    Do you know what holds a book together? Tell what you\n    know about the way a book is made.\n\n    Why should we be so careful of books?\n\n\nMEMORY GEM\n\n    For every evil under the sun,\n    There is a remedy, or there is none.\n    If there be one, try to find it;\n    If there be none, never mind it.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA SCHOOL WITHOUT A TEACHER\n\nWhat Might Happen if Books and Bells Could Talk\n\n\nThe little schoolhouse was painted white, with green shutters. Over the\nfront gable was a little old-fashioned belfry. In it swung a little\nold-fashioned school bell, for this was a country district school, with\nscarcely a house in sight.\n\nOne bright September morning, the opening day of school, forty or fifty\nnoisy children were drawn up in line, waiting for the bell to stop\nringing.\n\nWhen the bell stopped, the children marched inside and took their\nseats facing the teacher\u2019s desk.\n\n\u201cOrder!\u201d tapped the desk bell, and the room was suddenly still.\n\nThe pupils looked to see who had tapped the bell, for the teacher was\nnowhere to be seen.\n\nThey saw the new school-books piled on the platform and on the\nteacher\u2019s desk\u2014but where was the teacher?\n\n\u201cI am the new Spelling Book, full of hard words,\u201d said the top book of\nthe pile of spellers on the right-hand side of the platform.\n\n\u201cI am the new Reader, full of good stories,\u201d announced the top one of a\nstack of readers on the left-hand side of the platform.\n\nThe pupils were startled. It was so quiet you could hear the clock tick.\n\n\u201cI am the new Arithmetic, full of problems harder to crack than the\nhickory nuts in the woods,\u201d spoke up a book on the teacher\u2019s desk; \u201cbut\nwhy don\u2019t you find your teacher?\u201d\n\nNo one answered. The children only sat half-frightened, wondering what\nwould happen next.\n\n\u201cI am the new Language Book,\u201d declared another book in the row on the\nteacher\u2019s desk; \u201cbut who will teach you your mother tongue?\u201d\n\nEveryone was still. Only the clock ticked on.\n\n\u201cI am the Geography; in my pages are maps of all countries. Who will\ngive you permission to look?\u201d It was the largest book of all that asked\nthis question.\n\nThe pupils stared opened-eyed over the desk at the teacher\u2019s empty\nchair. They saw nothing but a sunbeam coming in through the window\u2014full\nof particles of shining dust.\n\n\u201cThere must be somebody hiding,\u201d spoke up one boy who could stand the\nstrain no longer.\n\n\u201cI am going to see,\u201d said another boy braver than the rest.\n\nGetting up, he looked behind the desk and in the closet, but nothing\nwas to be seen, not even a mouse.\n\n\u201cLet us go out and look for the teacher,\u201d he cried. With one accord\nthey ran pell-mell out the door into the playground.\n\nAn automobile was coming up the road at top speed.\n\n\u201cGood morning, boys and girls,\u201d the new teacher called, as the machine\npulled up.\n\n\u201cGood morning, teacher,\u201d they answered crowding about her.\n\n\u201cI am sorry to be late the first day of school. There was some trouble\nat Rockland and the train was delayed. Mr. Jones drove me over.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are glad you are here,\u201d said an older girl as the machine drove\noff. \u201cWe went in and took our seats at nine o\u2019clock, thinking you would\ncome at any minute. All at once something began to talk. \u2018I am the\nSpeller full of hard words; I am the Arithmetic; I am the Reader; I am\nthe Geography; where is your teacher?\u2019 the voices said. At first we\nthought somebody was hiding, but we could not find anyone. Then we got\nfrightened and ran out.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, isn\u2019t that strange?\u201d said the teacher laughing. \u201cWe will go in\nand see.\u201d\n\nTogether they trooped into the schoolroom. They looked everywhere;\nnothing had been moved; everything was just as usual.\n\nThe teacher tapped the bell and everyone took a seat.\n\n\u201cWell, children,\u201d she said smiling, \u201cwe have already learned a very\nimportant lesson this morning, and that is that every school must have\na teacher!\u201d\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n                               { Teachers\n                               { Pupils\n    What should a school have? { Books\n                               { Schoolhouse\n\n    What other persons or things should a school have?\n\n    Can you have a school without a teacher?\n\n    Why is the teacher so important?\n\n                                { Obedient\n                                { Clean\n                                { Orderly\n    What should the pupils be?  { Courteous\n                                { Helpful\n                                { Punctual\n                                { Anxious to learn.\n\n    What else should   { Respectful to all connected with school.\n    the pupils be?     { Respectful to principal, to teacher, to\n                       {   janitor, to other children.\n\n\nMEMORY GEMS\n\n    One rule to guide us in our life\n      Is always good and true;\n    \u2019Tis, do to others as you would\n      That they should do to you.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    If wisdom\u2019s ways you\u2019d wisely seek,\n      Five things observe with care;\n    Of whom you speak, to whom to speak,\n      And how, and when, and where.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Prize your friend for her own true heart,\n      Though her dress be poor and mean;\n    The years, like a fairy wand, may change\n      Cinderella to a queen.\n\n\n\n\nOUR FLAG\n\n\n    \u2019Tis the Star-Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave\n    O\u2019er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.\n\nAs you came to school this morning, did you look up at your flag\nfloating from the top of the flag pole? Didn\u2019t it look beautiful,\nwaving and rippling in the sunshine against the blue sky? I wonder if\nyou have ever thought about what it means?\n\n[Illustration]\n\nYou know flags are signs or emblems, and they all have a meaning.\n\nThere is no reading on our American flag, yet everyone knows what it\nmeans as certainly as if there were letters all over it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOur flag means that the United States of America is the Land of the\nFree, and our government stands for:\n\n    Liberty and justice for everybody;\n    Education for all children;\n    Protection to all Americans at home or abroad.\n\nThat is the reason so many people come to this country from countries\nwhere they do not have such help from the government.\n\nWe Americans are very thankful for what our flag means.\n\nIf we are good Americans we shall live up to every one of the following\nduties:\n\n    To be true and faithful citizens;\n    To do our part to carry out the laws of the government;\n    To give, if necessary, our lives to protect our flag.\n\n\n\n\nSCOUTS\u2019 PLEDGE\n\n\nI pledge allegiance to my flag and to the republic for which it stands;\none nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nMY GIFT\n\n\nI give my head, my heart, my hand to God and my country; one country,\none language, one flag.[A]\n\n\n\n\nFLAG DAY\n\n\nJune 14 is the anniversary of the adoption of the flag, and that date\nis celebrated in many states as Flag Day.\n\nWe can honor our flag\n\n    By living for it;\n    By keeping our own honor bright;\n    By being brave; (Red stands for valor.)\n    By being clean; (White stands for purity.)\n    By being just; (Blue stands for justice.)\n    By being loyal;\n    By being ready to die for it, if we are called upon.\n\nOur state has one star in the blue of the flag.\n\nHow shall we honor our star?\n\nHow shall we show respect for our country and our flag?\n\n    Since our flag means so much to us, we should respect\n    it and love it with all our hearts.\n\n    When the flag passes in a parade, people should,\n    if walking, halt; or if sitting, rise and stand at\n    attention and uncover.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    The flag should never be allowed to drag on the ground\n    nor be left out after dark. Did you know that it must\n    never be used as an old rag? You see no matter how old\n    or torn a flag becomes, it is still our flag and must\n    be loved and honored always.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    My country! \u2019tis of thee,\n    Sweet land of liberty,\n      Of thee I sing;\n    Land where my fathers died!\n    Land of the Pilgrim\u2019s pride!\n    From every mountain side\n      Let freedom ring!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cAmerica is another name for Opportunity.\u201d\n\nWhat do you understand by that?\n\n[Illustration: WHAT DOES THIS PICTURE OF AN OPEN GATEWAY BRING TO YOUR\nMIND?]\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[A] At the word flag give the salute by raising the right hand to the\nforehead.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nHOW OUR FLAG DEVELOPED\n\n\nThe thirteen stripes in our flag represent the thirteen original\ncolonies.\n\nEvery star in the field of blue represents a state\u2014\u201cA star for every\nstate, and a state for every star.\u201d\n\nThe flag brings a picture to our minds of all the things we are\ngrateful for in our history, and of all the things we want our country\nand ourselves to be.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    What does our flag mean?\n\n    Are you not glad that you live in a country where all\n    the people rule, instead of any one person or just a\n    few people?\n\n    Can you repeat the Scouts\u2019 Pledge? (Standing.)\n\n    Who was Betsy Ross?\n\n    Can you form a tableau like the picture of Betsy Ross\n    sewing the American Flag?\n\n    Isn\u2019t it almost as brave to live up to the red, white,\n    and blue as to die for our colors?\n\n    Why is our nation\u2019s flag always hung higher in this\n    country than the flag of any other nation?\n\n    Will you bring pictures of the flags of some other\n    countries to class?\n\n    Do you think any other flag more beautiful than ours?\n\n    Will you try to do all you can to honor our flag, and\n    never to let the star of your state grow dimmer because\n    of any act of yours?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n          Hats off!\n    Along the street there comes\n    A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,\n    A flash of color beneath the sky:\n          Hats off!\n      The flag is passing by!\n                           \u2014_H. H. Bennett._\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLAG OF THE U. S. A.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    I belong to this flag;\n    This flag belongs to me,\n    Because brave men have lived and died\n    To set its people free;\n    There are other flags in other lands,\n    And more upon the sea,\n      But the flag to-day of the U. S. A.\n      Is the flag for you and me.\n\n    If I belong to this flag,\n    And this flag belongs to me,\n    I\u2019ll live or die, if there is need,\n    To keep its people free;\n    No other flag has braver men,\n    Either on land or sea,\n      Than the flag to-day of the U. S. A.\u2014\n      The flag for you and me.\n                                  \u2014_J. E. F._\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN FLAG\n\n\n    When Freedom from her mountain height\n      Unfurled her standard to the air,\n    She tore the azure robe of night,\n      And set the stars of glory there:\n    She mingled with her gorgeous dyes\n    The milky baldric of the skies,\n    And striped its pure celestial white\n    With streakings of the morning light;\n    Then, from his mansion in the sun,\n    She called her eagle-bearer down,\n    And gave into his mighty hand\n    The symbol of her chosen land!\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Flag of the free heart\u2019s hope and home!\n      By angel hands to valor given!\n    Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,\n      And all thy hues were born in heaven.\n    Forever float that standard sheet!\n      Where breathes the foe but falls before us,\n    With Freedom\u2019s soil beneath our feet,\n      And Freedom\u2019s banner streaming o\u2019er us!\n                          \u2014_Joseph Rodman Drake._\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES TEACHING KINDNESS TO ANIMALS\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTHE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY\n\n\nI. The Dog and the Policeman\n\nOne snowy day shortly after Christmas, when carefully picking my way\nover the crossing at Market Street Ferry in Philadelphia, I almost ran\ninto a big policeman.\n\nJust back of the big policeman was a little dog, and just back of the\nlittle dog was a little dog-house, and just back of the dog-house was a\nbeautiful Christmas tree.\n\nWouldn\u2019t it have made you stop in surprise to see a dog-house in the\nmiddle of the busiest street in your city or town? Wouldn\u2019t you have\nwondered why the big policeman had the little dog, and why the little\ndog had such a nice house there? And wouldn\u2019t you have wondered and\nwondered whether the Christmas tree belonged to the dog or to the big\npoliceman? It made me so curious that I did just as you would have\nliked to do\u2014I asked the policeman to tell me the story.\n\n\nII. The Policeman\u2019s Story\n\n\u201cGood morning, Mr. Burke,\u201d I said, for I knew the officer\u2019s name. \u201cWill\nyou tell me about the little dog?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d answered the policeman with a smile, \u201cdon\u2019t you know about\nCheesey? Come here, Cheesey, the lady wants to see you!\u201d\n\nCheesey looked up at the speaker and wagged his tail.\n\n\u201cCheesey was born on Race Street pier,\u201d went on the policeman. \u201cNobody\nknows how he got his living after his mother died; but one thing is\nsure, he was not treated very kindly by the men who loaded the boats\nand swept the wharves. To this day Cheesey growls at the sight of one\nof those men.\n\n\u201cAfter a while Cheesey found a little playmate, but the playmate was\nrun over by a fire engine. All night long Cheesey lay in the spot where\nhis little mate had been killed.\n\n\u201cWeary and lonely and hungry, he crept back to the old cheerless corner\nof Race Street pier, which was the only place he knew as home.\n\n\u201cThere he lay with his head on his paws, not noticing anything until\none of the men kicked him out of the way.\n\n\u201cCheesey ran out of the pier and down Delaware Avenue, not knowing\nwhere he was going; but he went just the right way, for he ran into\nOfficer Weigner, one of the four of us who watch this crossing.\n\n\u201cHe spoke kindly to the little fellow, and gave him something to eat.\n\n\u201cFrom that time, Cheesey seemed to think he belonged to the policemen\non this crossing. Then we gave him his name.\u201d\n\n\nIII. Cheesey\u2019s Christmas Presents\n\n\u201cCheesey had no place to sleep,\u201d went on the policeman after seeing\nsome people safely across the street, \u201cexcept on a pile of bags in the\nferry house. He seemed so cold that I asked Charley, one of the workmen\nin the ferry, if he could not knock together some packing boxes for\nthe little fellow.\n\n\u201cCharley did the best he could, but I must say he made a sorry looking\ndog-house.\n\n\u201cOne day, just before Christmas while I was on duty, Mr. Sheip, of\nthe Sheip Box Factory, happened to notice the box Charley had knocked\ntogether.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, well,\u2019 he said, \u2018is that the best you fellows can do?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Why, Mr. Sheip,\u2019 I replied, \u2018we are not box-makers, you know.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s so!\u2019 he said. \u2018I\u2019ll have a dog-house made in the factory!\u2019 and\non Christmas day this beauty of a dog-house came. Have you noticed the\nlabel on it?\u201d\n\nI read the painted black letters on the large white label:\n\n    +----------------------------+\n    |                            |\n    |      Merry Christmas       |\n    |             to             |\n    |          Cheesey           |\n    |            from            |\n    | Officers Burke, Dougherty, |\n    |    Kunzig, and Weigner.    |\n    |                            |\n    +----------------------------+\n\n\u201cIt pleased us so,\u201d went on the officer, \u201cthat we bought a Christmas\ntree and many people helped us trim it.\n\n\u201cA good many people brought presents for Cheesey. One lady from Camden\nbrought a feather pillow; another lady brought a piece of meat. That\ndog could have seventeen meals a day if he could hold them\u2014couldn\u2019t\nyou, Cheesey?\u201d\n\nThe little dog wagged his tail, turned around twice, then went into his\nhouse. After thanking the officer I went on my way, made happier for\nall my life because of the true story of Cheesey.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHAINED DOG\n\n\n    \u2019Twas only a dog in a kennel,\n      And little the noise he made,\n    But it seemed to me, as I heard it,\n      I knew what that old dog said:\n    \u201cAnother long day to get over!\n      Will nobody loosen my chain,\n    Just for a run in the meadow,\n      Then fasten me up again?\u201d\n                          \u2014_Selected._\n\n    Through life it\u2019s been a comfort to me\u2014\n      My little dog\u2019s loving sympathy.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Do you think the officers were repaid by knowing they\n    had made Cheesey happy?\n\n    Does Cheesey remind you a little of Cinderella? Who\n    were the fairies in Cheesey\u2019s life?\n\n    What might have happened to Cheesey if the officers had\n    not been kind?\n\n    Did you ever own a dog?\n\n    Can you tell some story showing your dog\u2019s intelligence\n    or bravery?\n\n    What is the kindest thing to do for an animal which is\n    suffering if you cannot take care of it or feed it?\n\n    Do you know the address of the S. P. C. A. in your city?\n\n    Did you know that sometimes dogs are thought to be mad\n    when they are only very thirsty?\n\n    Sometimes dogs have been treated unfairly and are\n    cross; so it is best not to pat a strange dog\u2019s head.\n\n    Do you realize that a dog is the only animal which\n    makes people its companions and playmates?\n\n    How should we treat dogs?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nMEMORY GEM\n\n    If I can stop one heart from breaking,\n      I shall not live in vain;\n    If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain,\n    Or help one fainting robin to its nest again,\n      I shall not live in vain.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE LOST PUP\n\n\n    He was lost!\u2014not a shade of doubt of that;\n    For he never barked at a slinking cat,\n    But stood in the square where the wind blew raw,\n    With drooping ear and a trembling paw,\n    And a mournful look in his pleading eye,\n    And a plaintive sniff at the passerby,\n    That begged as plain as tongue could sue,\n    \u201cOh, mister, please may I follow you?\u201d\n    A lorn wee waif of tawny brown\n    Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.\n    Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin\n    Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in.\n\n    Well, he won my heart (for I set great store\n    On my own red Brute\u2014who is here no more),\n    So I whistled clear, and he trotted up,\n    And who so glad as that small pup?\n    Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed,\n    And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread.\n    Then, if things go wrong, as they sometimes do,\n    And the world is cold and I\u2019m feeling blue,\n    He asserts his rights to assuage my woes\n    With a warm red tongue and a nice cold nose,\n    And a silky head on my arm or knee,\n    And a paw as soft as a paw can be.\n    When we rove the woods for a league about,\n    He\u2019s as full of pranks as a school let out;\n    For he romps and frisks like a three-months\u2019 colt\n    And he runs me down like a thunder bolt.\n    Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair\n    Is a gay little pup with his tail in the air!\n                                 \u2014_Arthur Guiterman._\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: PICTURE OF RED CROSS ARMY DOGS\u2014WONDERFUL DOGS OF MERCY.\nSUCH DOGS HAVE RESCUED THOUSANDS OF WOUNDED AND HELPLESS SOLDIERS. HOW\nSHOULD INTELLIGENT ANIMALS LIKE THESE BE TREATED?]\n\n[Illustration: CAN YOU TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS BRAVE DOG?]\n\n[Illustration: WHAT WOULD THE BIG DOG SAY IF HE COULD TALK?\n\nWRITE A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE HUNTING PARTY\n\n\n    Mrs. Pussy, sleek and fat,\n      With her kittens four,\n    Went to sleep upon a mat\n      By the kitchen door.\n\n    Mrs. Pussy heard a noise;\n      Up she sprang in glee.\n    \u201cKittens, maybe it\u2019s a mouse\u2014\n      Let us go and see.\u201d\n\n    Creeping, creeping, soft and low,\n      Silently they stole,\n    But the little mouse had crept\n      Back into its hole.\n\n    \u201cWell,\u201d said Mrs. Pussy then,\n      \u201cHomeward let us go;\n    We shall find our supper there,\n      That I surely know.\u201d\n\n    Home went hungry Mrs. Puss\n      With her kittens four,\n    Found their supper on a plate\n      By the kitchen door.\n                        \u2014_Selected._\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    What do you think of people who do not care for and\n    feed the cats they own?\n\n    Do you know that a cat that is well cared for, and kept\n    in the house at night is not likely to catch birds,\n    because cats catch birds in the early morning and at\n    twilight?\n\n    What do you think of people who move away from a place\n    and leave their cats behind? What will become of the\n    cats?\n\n    What should people do with cats they do not care to\n    take away? Do you know where the nearest S. P. C. A.\n    office is?\n\n    What good service does the cat do for people?\n\n    Why are rats and mice dangerous to our health?\n\n    How many toes has a cat on front paws? On back paws?\n\n    Which way does the fur lie on the under side of the\n    legs?\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST KITTY\n\n\n    Stealing to an open door, craving food and meat,\n    Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street;\n    Tortured, teased, and chased by dogs, through the lonely night,\n    Homeless little beggar cat, sorry is your plight.\n                                         \u2014_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    If you cannot care for or feed a stray cat, what is the\n    kindest thing to do?\n\n    How does it save the birds to see that stray cats\n    either are given a home or are taken to a cat refuge?\n\n\n\n\nMY PECULIAR KITTY\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n    I have a little kitty,\n      Just as cute as she can be;\n    But my! she is peculiar!\n      For she _eats_ her catnip tea!\n\n    After every meal she eats\n      She tidies up her head,\n    And washes carefully enough;\u2014\n      But she never makes her bed!\n\n    I\u2019m told a kitty cannot talk,\n      But my kitty every day\n    Tells me that she loves me\n      When we are at our play!\n\n    Yes, she tells me very plainly\n      And I will tell you how,\u2014\n    I ask, \u201cWho thinks a lot of me?\u201d\n      She answers, \u201cMe! Me\u2014ow!\u201d\n                            \u2014_J. E. F._\n\n\n\n\nPOOR LITTLE JOCKO\n\n\nI.\n\nOn the porch of a comfortable old house, shaded by fine trees, a group\nof young girls were gathered around a small table, sewing.\n\nSuddenly the harsh notes of a hand-organ came to their ears, disturbing\nthe peaceful stillness of the summer afternoon.\n\nMarion Johnson, who was visiting her cousins, laid aside her work and\nlistened.\n\n\u201cWhy, I do believe it is the very same man that came to our town a week\nago,\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cHe had with him a poor, miserable looking monkey,\nwhich he called Jocko.\u201d\n\nJust then they saw the organ-grinder, with the monkey perched on the,\norgan, coming up the village street. Seeing the girls on the porch, he\nturned up the walk.\n\n\u201cI think I shall call Aunt Kate,\u201d remarked Marion, rising and going\ninto the house.\n\nAunt Kate could always be depended upon to help any dumb creature\nneeding a friend.\n\nAunt Kate\u2019s face lost its usual look of quiet good humor, as she\nglanced over the porch railing and saw a tall swarthy man at the foot\nof the steps, carelessly turning the handle of a small squeaky organ.\n\nKeeping time to the music, a weak little monkey danced very wearily.\nWhen his steps dragged he was brought up quickly with a sharp jerking\nof the chain which was fastened to his collar.\n\nA cap was held on his head by a tight rubber band which passed under\nthe chin. His gaudy dress was heavy and warm and seemed to weigh down\nhis tired limbs.\n\nNow and then, when he dared, Jocko laid a tiny brown hand on the\ntugging chain in an effort to ease it. With an appealing look he\nglanced up at his master, as if trying to make him understand how\npainfully the collar was cutting his thin neck.\n\n\nII.\n\nAunt Kate\u2019s mild blue eyes almost flashed as she motioned to the\norgan-grinder to stop playing.\n\n\u201cYou no lika music?\u201d he asked brokenly, glancing up at her in some\nsurprise.\n\n\u201cYes, that is right,\u201d she answered, speaking very slowly and distinctly.\n\n\u201cWe do not like the music; and we do not like to see that poor monkey\ndance; and, above all, we do not like to see you hurting his neck by\npulling that chain.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe look of sullen anger which came over the man\u2019s face quickly\ndisappeared when he saw the coin in Aunt Kate\u2019s hand.\n\n\u201cI will give you this,\u201d she said, holding up the piece of money, \u201cif\nyou will stay here and let Jocko rest for one hour.\u201d\n\nThe organ-grinder smiled and sat down on the steps as a sign of\nagreement.\n\nAt first, Jocko could scarcely believe that he might rest his weary\nlittle legs and feet. After a while, however, he threw himself at full\nlength upon the porch floor as some worn out child might have done.\n\nMarion was left on guard to see that he was not disturbed when the\nothers went to get food.\n\nWhen they returned they found Jocko resting on a soft cushion, a\ncomfort his little body had never known before.\n\nOnly after being promised more money did the organ-grinder permit\nMarion to take off Jocko\u2019s hard leather collar, underneath which she\nhad discovered sores.\n\nShe bandaged the tiny neck with soft linen spread with salve. She took\noff his cap, too, with its tight-cutting band.\n\nWhen water was brought, Jocko drank with pitiful eagerness. Many hours\nhad passed since he had had a drink, and his throat and lips were\nparched. He ate the food they offered him like a wild creature, for he\nwas very hungry.\n\nEvery once in a while he would glance at the organ-grinder as though he\nfeared punishment.\n\nWhen the hour was up, the organ-grinder would stay no longer. As his\nmaster led him away, Jocko lifted his hat, just as if he wanted to\nthank Aunt Kate and the girls for their kindness.\n\n\u201cI never knew before,\u201d said Marion, \u201chow cruel it is to expect little\nmonkeys to live such unnatural lives. I do hope the man will be more\nkind to Jocko after this.\u201d\n\n                                    \u2014_Mary Craige Yarrow\u2014Adapted._\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Why didn\u2019t the girls and their aunt like to see the\n    little monkey dance?\n\n    What did they enjoy seeing it do?\n\n    Have you ever been very, very tired?\n\n    Can you imagine how you would feel if some giant would\n    not let you rest?\n\n    What kind of life is natural for monkeys?\n\n    Did you ever give a penny to an organ-grinder with a\n    monkey?\n\n    If everyone stopped giving money to men who use monkeys\n    for begging, how would it help the little monkeys?\n\n\n\n\nROBIN REDBREAST\n\n\n\u201cCheer up! Cheer up!\u201d sings Robin Redbreast every morning. \u201cListen to\nme! Listen to me! Oh, excuse me! I see, I see a feast!\u201d and down he\nhops, hops, hops to the spot where he sees a nice fat worm wiggling out\nof the ground.\n\nPerhaps it is an earthworm, perhaps it is a worse worm; but if it is an\nearthworm, you will have fun watching Robin.\n\nHe seizes the worm with his bill, then braces his feet against the\nearth, and pulls and pulls with all his might.\n\nOut comes the worm with such a jerk that Robin almost topples over; but\nhe doesn\u2019t. He either eats the worm or flies away with it to his hungry\nlittle birdies.\n\nDown he drops it into one of the wide open mouths in the nest.\n\nDo you know how many earthworms one baby robin can eat in one day?\n\nA man who loves birds once counted the worms that one pair of robins\nfed to their little ones, and found that each little robin ate\nsixty-eight earthworms in one day.\n\nSixty-eight earthworms if placed end to end would measure about\nfourteen feet. Just think what busy lives Mr. and Mrs. Robin Redbreast\nlive, and how they love their little ones.\n\nRobins eat many other kinds of worms besides earthworms, and they eat\ninsects, too. They work hard to feed their babies, and in this way they\ndo a wonderful thing for us, for the insects they eat would destroy the\nplants which we need.\n\nYou know bread really grows on tall grasses called wheat and rye, and\noatmeal grows on a grass called oats.\n\nThere are millions of insects which like wheat and rye and oats as much\nas we do, and they would eat up all the crops if it were not for the\nbirds that eat the insects. Now you can see why we call the birds our\nfriends.\n\n\n\n\nWHO KILLED COCK ROBIN?\n\n\nWho killed Cock Robin?\n\nNo; it was not the sparrow with a bow and arrow. No\u2014more likely a boy\nwith an air rifle killed him, or a man with a gun who did not know what\na wicked thing he was doing.\n\nHe did not know that he had killed one of his best friends.\n\nHe did not know that without the work of beautiful Robin Redbreast and\nother birds the world might go hungry.\n\nWhat if robins do eat a few cherries? They like mulberries better. A\nwise farmer plants a Russian mulberry tree for the robins, and the\nmulberries save the cherries.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Do you know that millions of men and boys hunt and kill\n    birds \u201cfor fun\u201d every year?\n\n    Do you know that millions of birds are killed each year\n    to be used in trimming women\u2019s hats?\n\n    How many different birds can you name?\n\n    Can you tell the kinds of food each of them eats?\n\n    Do you know what kinds of nests they build?\n\n    What do you think of people who kill robins?\n\n    Have you ever placed food in a sheltered place for\n    birds in winter when it is hard for them to find a\n    living?\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nMY FRIEND, MR. ROBIN\n\n\nWhen I was only about six years of age, a Robin Redbreast that we used\nto feed got so tame that he would fly in through the window to our\nbreakfast table.\n\nIn the spring he delighted us by bringing a small family of Roblings to\nthe window sill of the room as if to introduce them to the people who\nhad helped him through the hard winter!\n\nAnother special bird that I remember was a one-legged sparrow\nthat used to be among the birds that came when we were living in\nBucking-ham-shire. We always called him \u201cTimber-toes.\u201d\n\nHe came to us for two or three winters, so that, even with but one leg,\nhe must have picked up a living somehow.\n\n                                                  \u2014_Little Folks._\n\n    +-------------------------------------------------+\n    |             A WINTER MENU FOR BIRDS             |\n    |                                                 |\n    | Crumbs of bread swept off the breakfast table.  |\n    |                                                 |\n    | Morsels of fish and meat.                       |\n    |                                                 |\n    | Bones hung on strings from tree branches.       |\n    |                                                 |\n    | Strips of bacon rind cut up into small bits.    |\n    |                                                 |\n    | Small seeds of any kind. (These may be gathered |\n    | in summer and saved.)                           |\n    +-------------------------------------------------+\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Did you ever make a house for a little house wren?\n\n    Little Jenny Wren is looking for a house every spring.\n    She is a very friendly neighbor. Why not make her a\n    house with a doorway too small for Mrs. Sparrow to\n    squeeze through? Make the opening only one inch wide.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    The meadow lark is one of our very helpful birds. Do\n    you know the colors of the meadow lark\u2019s feathers?\n\n\n\n\nIF ALL THE BIRDS SHOULD DIE\n\n\nNow, I want to tell you something that is worth knowing. It is this. If\nall the birds in the world should die, all the boys and girls in the\nworld would have to die also. There would not be one boy or girl left\nalive; they would all die of starvation.\n\nAnd the reason is this. Most small birds live on insects; they eat\nmillions and millions of insects. If there were no birds, the insects\nwould increase so that they would eat up all vegetation. The cattle,\nand horses, and sheep, and swine, and poultry would all die, and we\nshould have to die also.\n\nNow, what I want all of you to remember, is that every time you kill\none of these little insect-eating birds, it means that thousands of\ninsects the bird would have eaten are going to live to torment us; and\nevery time you take an egg from one of these little birds\u2019 nests, that\nmeans one less bird to eat the insects. I do not like mosquitoes and\ninsects. I think it is better that the birds should live and eat the\ninsects, than that the birds should die and the insects eat us.\n\n                                               \u2014_George T. Angell._\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    If a bird in a cage could speak, what do you think it\n    would say?\n\n    Can it tell you when it has no drinking water?\n\n    Do you know that thirst is worse than hunger?\n\n    Do you know that a person can do without food much\n    longer than without water?\n\n    What do birds do for farmers?\n\n    What do they do for you? Don\u2019t you think it would be\n    foolish to destroy them?\n\n    Do you think it right to keep wild birds in cages? Why\n    not?\n\n    Did you ever notice the beautiful doves or pigeons in\n    the city?\n\n    Why are they so tame?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Don\u2019t rob the birds of their eggs, boys,\n      \u2019Tis cruel and heartless and wrong;\n    And remember, by breaking an egg, boys,\n      We may lose a bird with a song.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nFURRY\n\n\nMy house is in a little grove of oak trees.\n\nEvery winter I feed several gray squirrels with nuts.\n\nEvery day about noon a big father squirrel comes and scratches on my\nkitchen window.\n\nThere he sits on the sill, watching with bright eyes until I open the\nwindow and throw out some nuts.\n\nThe more timid squirrels are seated on the ground looking up at the\nwindow. They catch the nuts and scamper away with them up to the tops\nof the trees. But not Furry. He takes nuts from my hands, and holding\nthem in his little finger-claws, gnaws away the shell faster than I\ncan count ten. He acts quite like a little pig sometimes, for he asks\nfor more than he needs.\n\nWhat do you think he does with them?\n\nHe jumps down with one in his mouth and starts to dig. As soon as the\nhole is deep enough to suit him he buries the nut, packing the earth\ncarefully over it to make it look as though the ground had not been\ndisturbed.\n\nThen back he comes for another nut.\n\nIf all the nuts he plants were acorns and he should forget to come and\nfind half of them when he is hungry\u2014how big my oak forest would be!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n\nI.\n\n    Have you ever fed a squirrel?\n\n    Where have you seen the largest number together?\n\n    Why were they not afraid?\n\n    How do mother squirrels carry their babies from one\n    place to another?\n\n    How do mother cats carry their babies?\n\n    If mothers did not love their babies so much, what\n    would happen to all animals and people?\n\n    Do we have to thank squirrels for some of our trees?\n    Why?\n\n\nII.\n\n    Did you ever wish your doll or rocking horse were alive?\n\n    Could anyone make them live?\n\n    Isn\u2019t being alive the most wonderful thing you can\n    think of?\n\n    Doesn\u2019t it make you glad to think of the little wild\n    things living in the out-of-doors?\n\n    Name some of the animals living in the woods.\n\n    Would the country be as pleasant without them?\n\n    Why should you dislike to hurt any of them?\n\n\nIII.\n\n    Do you know that if people do not stop hunting wild\n    ducks, mountain sheep, deer, and other animals they may\n    all be killed?\n\n    Did you ever see a reindeer?\n\n    Did you notice its beautiful eyes?\n\n    Would it be fun to fight a baby?\n\n    Are not many animals as helpless as babies when they\n    are hunted?\n\n    Don\u2019t you think it is cowardly to shoot little helpless\n    animals \u201cfor fun\u201d?\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE GROCER\u2019S HORSE\n\n\nI. The Careless Driver\n\nIt was the week before Christmas. Everybody was ordering all sorts of\ngood things to be sent home \u201cjust as soon as possible.\u201d\n\nThe grocer\u2019s boy, John, was on duty early. Soon many baskets were\nfilled with orders to be delivered.\n\nThe horse was hurried out of the stable before he had quite finished\nhis breakfast, and John soon had the baskets piled into the wagon.\n\n\u201cBe lively, now,\u201d the grocer said. \u201cGet back as soon as you can.\u201d\n\nJohn jumped on the wagon, seized the whip and gave the horse a sharp\ncut to begin the day with.\n\nJohn kept the whip in his hand. If the horse held up his pace a minute\nto give himself a chance to breathe, another snap of the whip kept him\non the run.\n\nAt the different houses where he left the groceries John rushed in and\nout as quickly as possible. In several places he was given fresh orders\nfor articles that were needed.\n\nSo the morning passed, and dinner time arrived. As John put the horse\nin the stable he could not help seeing that his breath came hard and\nfast, and that he was wet with sweat.\n\n\u201cI guess it won\u2019t do to give him any water, he is so hot,\u201d John said,\nas he hurriedly put a scanty allowance of dry feed into the manger.\n\nThe worn-out horse, trembling in every nerve with the fatigue of going\nhard all the morning, was almost choking with thirst.\n\nWhen John hurried in to his dinner, the first thing he asked for was\nsomething warm to drink. His mother gave him a cup of hot cocoa, and\na good dinner, which he ate rapidly. Then off he started for the\nafternoon\u2019s work.\n\n\u201cHurry up,\u201d said the grocer as soon as John appeared. \u201cGet out the\nhorse and take these baskets; they are all rush orders.\u201d\n\n\u201cI went to Mrs. Bell\u2019s twice this morning,\u201d said John. \u201cI should think\nshe might give all her order at one time and not keep us running there\nall day.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t help it. She is a good customer. Hurry up,\u201d answered the\ngrocer.\n\nJohn ran out to the barn. He certainly had meant to give the horse\nwater before he started out again, but being hurried, he forgot it. In\na few minutes, whip in hand, he was urging the tired, thirsty horse\nagain over the road.\n\nToward the close of the afternoon the horse began to hang his head.\nWhen John touched him up with the whip he did not go any faster. When\nhe stopped for the third time at Mrs. Bell\u2019s house his legs were\ntrembling and he closed his eyes as if he were going to sleep.\n\nMrs. Bell looked out of the window and said to her Aunt Sarah, who was\nvisiting her, \u201cI think it is a shame for Mr. Rush to let that boy race\nhis horse so all day. Every time he comes here the horse is in a sweat,\nand now he looks as if he would drop. It is wicked to work a horse so!\u201d\n\nHer aunt replied, \u201cYes, the horses have to suffer for man\u2019s\nthoughtlessness, and woman\u2019s, too. He\u2019s been here three times to-day,\nhasn\u2019t he?\u201d But Mrs. Bell did not see the point of the reply.\n\n\nII. What Happened in the Barn\n\nIt was seven o\u2019clock before John put the horse in the stable. He\nremembered then that he had given him no water all day. As he did not\nwant to be obliged to go out to the barn again he gave him a pail of\nice-cold water, which the horse drank greedily. Then he put his supper\nbefore him and left him.\n\nHe did not stop to rub down the aching legs or to give the faithful,\nexhausted creature any further attention. He just threw a blanket over\nhim and closed the barn for the night.\n\nWhen John came to the store the next morning a very angry looking\ngrocer met him at the door. \u201cYou can go home as soon as you like. I\nwon\u2019t have a boy that drives my horse to death,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cIs the horse dead?\u201d asked John, turning pale.\n\n\u201cIt is not your fault if he is not dead. I have been up nearly all\nnight with him, and I must get another horse to take his place until he\nis well.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou told me to hurry every time I went out,\u201d answered John.\n\n\u201cWell, if you had any sense, you would know when a horse is used up and\nrest him,\u201d replied the grocer.\n\nThe horse died that day; and the grocer, the boy driver, and Mrs. Bell\nwere all to blame.\n\nThe grocer ought not to have trusted a boy who had no sympathy for\nanimals. Such a boy is not fit to drive and care for a horse.\n\nJohn was too selfish to give the horse time to breathe or to eat, and\nhe did not care whether he was made comfortable in the stable or not.\n\nMrs. Bell was thoughtless in giving her orders; so she made the horse\ntake many unnecessary trips to her house.\n\nSo a willing, patient animal was neglected and worked to death, when\nwith good care he might have lived many years and done faithful work.\nThis all happened because the man, the boy, and the woman had never\nlearned to be thoughtful and kind.\n\n                                  \u2014_Mrs. Huntington Smith\u2014Adapted._\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    What do you think of a man who is cruel to horses?\n\n    Do you think people respect such a person?\n\n    Did you ever hear that \u201ccruelty is the meanest crime\u201d?\n\n    How would you treat a pony? A horse?\n\n    Did you ever read \u201cBlack Beauty\u201d?\n\n    Which should you like better for a friend\u2014a man who is\n    kind to animals or a man who does not care how they are\n    treated, just so that he gets his work done?\n\n    When you are hurt, or sick, what do you do?\n\n    Can a horse or any animal tell a friend when he is sick?\n\n\n\n\nA LETTER FROM A HORSE\n\n\n    To the Lady of the House:\n\n    Please order your supplies for the day early in the\n    morning and all in one order. One daily trip to your\n    door is enough. Two trips will wear me out twice as\n    fast.\n\n    Telephoning in an extra order doubles the work for the\n    sales clerk and bookkeeper as well as for the driver\n    and horse. This adds to the cost of all you buy.\n\n    Hurry up orders make whippings for me.\n\n    Please think of those who serve you, both people and\n    horses.\n\n                              Your obedient servant,\n                                       The Delivery Horse.\n\n    P. S. Some boys play with a whip over my back, not\n    meaning to hurt me, but I cannot see the fun. It makes\n    me nervous, and I get so tired by night from being\n    worried that I tremble all over. I know boys do not\n    think about that part.\n\n                                         T. D. Horse.\n\n\n\n\nA PLEA FOR THE HORSE\n\n\n    Every horse will work longer and better if given three\n    ample meals daily; plenty of clean, fresh water; proper\n    shoes, sharpened in slippery weather; a blanket in\n    cold weather; a stall six feet by nine feet or room\n    enough to lie down; a fly net in summer and two weeks\u2019\n    vacation each year. Do not use the cruel, tight check\n    rein, or closely fitting blinders which cause blindness.\n\n    SPARE THE WHIP\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n\nI.\n\n    Wouldn\u2019t you have much more work to do if there were no\n    horses?\n\n    Have you ever been very tired?\n\n    Have you ever been very thirsty?\n\n    Could you ask for a drink of water?\n\n    Can a horse ask?\n\n    Don\u2019t you suppose animals suffer terribly with thirst?\n\n    What would a horse say if he could talk?\n\n    Can you drive?\n\n    Did you ever stop to think that it is because a horse\u2019s\n    mouth is so tender that the great strong animal does\n    what the driver wishes?\n\n    What do you think about jerking the reins?\n\n    Should we have as nice and comfortable houses or food\n    or clothing if we had no horses?\n\n\nII.\n\n    Is the horse a laborer?\n\n    Has he a right to wages? What should they be?\n\n    How many meals a day should a horse have?\n\n    Can you imagine how it would seem if you were very,\n    very hungry to be taken into a place where tables were\n    spread with tempting food, and be driven past them\n    without a bite?\n\n    How do hungry horses feel when they see and smell\n    apples and grass?\n\n    Can you run as fast when you carry a heavy load as you\n    can with a light load?\n\n    Can a horse?\n\n    Did you ever burn your mouth?\n\n    Did you know that the steel bit, if put very cold in\n    the horse\u2019s mouth, will burn off the skin of the tongue\n    and make the mouth sore\u2014and perhaps prevent the horse\n    from eating?\n\n    Could the bit be easily warmed by dipping it into hot\n    water, or breathing on it to take out the frost?\n\n    Did you ever stop to think that every creature that is\n    alive can suffer?\n\n\nIII.\n\n    Did you ever see a driver stop on a cold day and go\n    into a restaurant for a bowl of warm soup or a cup of\n    coffee?\n\n    Did he put a blanket on the horse?\n\n    Did you ever see a horse taken into a stable and given\n    a warm meal on a cold day?\n\n    Did you ever see non-skid chain-shoes for horses?\n\n    Do you know that burlap tied on the horses\u2019 hoofs\n    answers the same purpose, and costs only a little time\n    and forethought?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    The driver can best help this horse to get up by\n    spreading a blanket or carpet over the icy roadway\n    under his feet.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\nCOMMUNITY OCCUPATIONS\n\nStories About People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs\n\n\nThese stories develop very simply, the fundamental ideas of service,\ndependence and interdependence, and reciprocal duties. They also teach\nincidentally the civic virtues of thoroughness, honesty, respect, etc.,\nwhich form the subject matter of Part I of this book.\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO PROVIDE US WITH FOOD\n\n\n\n\nTHE BAKER\n\n\nI. An Early Call\n\n\u201cGood morning, children,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell, with a bright smile\u2014so\nbright that it seemed as if the oatmeal she was stirring smiled too.\n\n\u201cGood morning, mother,\u201d said Ruth. \u201cMy, but we are early this morning;\nit is only seven o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood morning, mother,\u201d said Wallace, sleepily. \u201cMay I go back to bed\nagain?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes\u2014after supper to-night,\u201d replied his mother. \u201cBut I am glad you are\nup, for I am expecting a caller to knock at the door any moment.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is it?\u201d asked Ruth.\n\n\u201cOh, he is a very important man,\u201d said her mother. \u201cThe strange part of\nit is that he never rings the front door bell, but always comes to the\nkitchen door and knocks.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease tell us who he is!\u201d cried both the children.\n\n[Illustration: TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE]\n\n[Illustration: THE NEXT TIME A LOAF OF BREAD COMES TO YOUR HOUSE, WILL\nYOU LOOK INTO IT AND SEE IF YOU CAN FIND PICTURES LIKE THE ONES IN THE\nLOAF ON THIS PAGE?\n\nHERE YOU WILL FIND PICTURES OF HARVESTING, GRAIN ELEVATOR, BAKERS AT\nWORK, AND BAKER WAGON.]\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d went on Mrs. Duwell, \u201che is going to bring us the most useful\nand wonderful article sold in any store in this city.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, mother, tell us what it is,\u201d begged the children.\n\nJust then there came a heavy knock at the kitchen door.\n\n\u201cThere he comes with it now, I believe,\u201d whispered Mrs. Duwell.\n\u201cWallace, you may open the door.\u201d\n\nWallace ran quickly to the door and opened it, and there stood\u2014the\nbread man.\n\n\u201cOh, mother,\u201d exclaimed Wallace, \u201cit\u2019s only the bread man!\u201d\n\n\u201cWallace,\u201d said his mother, \u201cspeak more politely. Say \u2018good morning,\u2019\nand take a loaf of bread and a dozen rolls.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, mother, tell us who it is you expect, and what he is going to\nbring,\u201d coaxed Ruth as soon as the door was closed.\n\n\u201cSit down and eat your breakfast, children, and I will tell you all\nabout it.\u201d\n\nWhen the children had been served, she went on: \u201cThe man I spoke about\nhas just gone\u2014he is the bread man. Isn\u2019t a loaf of bread the most\nuseful and wonderful article sold in any store in the city?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, mother, you are joking!\u201d exclaimed Wallace.\n\n\u201cNo, indeed, I am not. Tell me, children, what must you have in order\nto live?\u201d\n\n\u201cFood,\u201d replied Ruth.\n\n\u201cCorrect; and what article of food do we most need?\u201d\n\n\u201cBread,\u201d replied Ruth.\n\n\u201cI believe that is so,\u201d said Wallace, after thinking a moment. \u201cI am\ngoing to talk with father about it when he comes home to-night.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is right; I think he will tell you something about wheat fields\nand bake ovens,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cNow run along to school or you will\nbe late.\u201d\n\n\nII. The Staff of Life\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d said Wallace, as the family sat about the supper table that\nevening, \u201ca very important man called at the door this morning before\nwe went to school.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe did! Who was he?\u201d asked Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cGuess who,\u201d said Ruth. \u201cHe left us the most wonderful and useful\narticle sold in any store in this city.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho was he? What was it?\u201d Mr. Duwell pretended to be very curious.\n\n\u201cGuess! See if you can guess!\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me see\u2014oh, yes, it must have been the mayor with a pound of\nbutter.\u201d\n\n\u201cGuess again,\u201d shouted the children.\n\n\u201cA policeman, with a bottle of ink.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, guess again!\u201d\n\n\u201cI give it up.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe bread man with that loaf of bread,\u201d cried the children, pointing\nto the loaf on the table.\n\n\u201cWell, well, I believe you are right, children,\u201d said their father. \u201cI\ncertainly ought to have guessed, although I never thought of the bread\nman as a very important man before.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother explained it to us this morning and said that you would tell us\nabout the wheat fields and bake ovens,\u201d spoke up Ruth.\n\n\u201cI certainly will, children,\u201d said their father, looking pleased. \u201cLet\nme see; what is this made of?\u201d he asked, picking up a piece of bread.\n\n\u201cFlour.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, what kind?\u201d\n\n\u201cWheat flour.\u201d\n\n\u201cCorrect; so this is wheat bread. What other kinds of bread are there?\u201d\n\n\u201cRye bread, bran bread, graham bread.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; and in Europe bread is often made of oats and barley.\u201d\n\n\u201cBread is sometimes called by another name,\u201d said their mother; \u201cdid\nyou ever hear of it? The staff\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cThe staff of life,\u201d finished the children.\n\n\u201cI have an idea,\u201d cried their father suddenly. \u201cThe Spotless Bakery is\nabout three squares up the street. It is open in the evening. I know\nthe manager. Let us go up there to see how they make bread.\u201d\n\n\u201cHurrah for dad! Fine, come on!\u201d cried Wallace.\n\n\u201cI wish mother could go,\u201d Ruth said.\n\nHer mother shook her head; \u201cNo, dear, I\u2019ll not go this time, but thank\nyou for thinking of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe won\u2019t be long, mother, and we\u2019ll tell you about everything when we\nget home,\u201d said Wallace, as the three left the house.\n\n\nIII. A Visit to the Bakery\n\nSoon they came to a big square building that seemed to be all windows,\nblazing with light. Over the door was a sign which read:\n\n                     THE SPOTLESS BAKERY\n\nThe children had often seen the building before but had never been\ninside.\n\nThey entered and their father asked to see the manager. Soon he came\nbustling in\u2014a round smiling little man, dressed in a spotless white\nsuit.\n\n\u201cGood evening, Mr. Duwell,\u201d he said, shaking hands.\n\n\u201cGood evening, Mr. Baker,\u201d replied Mr. Duwell. \u201cThis is Ruth, and this\nis Wallace. They want to see how bread is baked, if you are not too\nbusy for visitors.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall be delighted to show you,\u201d said Mr. Baker, smiling and shaking\nhands with both children; \u201cthis way, please.\u201d\n\nUp a narrow winding stair they climbed to the sifting room on the\nfourth floor.\n\n\u201cEvery bit of flour starts on its journey through these sifters,\u201d said\nthe manager, pointing to a row of box-like sifting machines.\n\nOn the floor stood a huge pile of bags of flour. \u201cEach one of these\nbags holds one hundred and forty pounds,\u201d he explained.\n\nPassing down the stairway they saw the store-room piled high with more\nbags of flour. \u201cThere are more than a thousand of them,\u201d said the\nmanager.\n\nThen they came to the mixing room. Everything was white\u2014the huge mixers\nwere white; the walls were white; the bakers were dressed in white with\nodd round white caps; the dough trays were white\u2014everything was white\nand spotless.\n\n\u201cThe flour from the sifters above comes through an opening in the\nfloor into the mixers. Then the yeast and other things are added. The\nelectric power is started. The great iron arms of the mixers turn, and\ntwist, and mix until the whole mass becomes dough,\u201d Mr. Baker explained.\n\nAlong the wall were the dough trays in which the dough is set to rise.\nThese trays remind one of huge white bath tubs on wheels, a little\nwider and deeper and about twice as long as the ones in our houses.\n\n\u201cHow much will each one of those hold?\u201d asked Wallace, pointing to the\ntrays full of creamy dough.\n\n\u201cEnough to make eleven hundred loaves,\u201d answered the manager.\n\n\u201cWhy, there must be over forty of them,\u201d said Wallace, looking down the\nlong line. \u201cHow many loaves do you bake in a day?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have two more bakeries like this, and in the three we bake about\none hundred thousand loaves a day\u2014besides rolls and cakes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I didn\u2019t know there was so much bread in the world,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cYes, my boy, there are bakeries almost everywhere. We supply only a\nsmall part of the bread needed in our large city.\u201d\n\nAs they went down the next stairway to the baking room, the pleasant\nodor of fresh-baked bread came up to meet them.\n\n\u201cHere they are!\u201d cried Ruth. \u201cLook, Wallace, here are the bake ovens!\u201d\n\nAll that could be seen on one side of the room was a long row of black\noven doors, set in a low white-tiled wall.\n\nOn the other side of the room were large oblong tables, around which\nthe white-uniformed bakers were busily working.\n\nThe dough was piled high on the tables. One baker cut it into lumps.\nAnother made the lumps into pound loaves, weighing them on a scale.\nAnother shaped the loaves and put them into rows of pans, which were\nslipped into large racks and wheeled to the oven door.\n\n\u201cLook,\u201d said Wallace, \u201cthey are going to put them in!\u201d\n\nA baker put four loaves on a long-handled flat shovel; then quickly\nopened the oven door and slipped them inside.\n\n\u201cLook at the loaves!\u201d cried Wallace, peeping into the open door.\n\u201cHundreds of them. How many will that oven hold?\u201d\n\n\u201cSix hundred,\u201d said the baker, closing the door.\n\n\u201cLook,\u201d cried Ruth, \u201cthey are taking them out of that other oven. There\ncomes our loaf for breakfast, Wallace.\u201d\n\nFarther down the room a baker was lifting out of an oven the nut-brown\nloaves, bringing with them the sweet smell of fresh bread.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it wonderful!\u201d said Mr. Duwell, who was almost as excited as the\nchildren. \u201cNotice how all the men work together, everyone doing his\npart to help the others.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are the baking hours?\u201d he asked the manager.\n\n\u201cFrom twelve o\u2019clock, noon, till midnight, the ovens are kept going as\nyou see them now,\u201d said the manager.\n\n\u201cWe will go down one more flight to the shipping room,\u201d he added,\nleading the way.\n\nThere the finished loaves were coming down from the floor above on\ngreat racks to wait for shipping time. The space in front of the\nshipping platform was crowded with wagons and automobiles.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cWhy, look!\u201d said Wallace, \u201cthere are more wagons than automobiles. I\nshould think you would use automobiles entirely.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied the manager, \u201cthe automobiles are better for long\ndistances; but for short distances, where the driver has to start and\nstop, horses are much better. When the driver serves bread along a\nstreet he calls, \u2018Come Dolly,\u2019 or whatever the horse\u2019s name is, and\nthe horse follows. The horse is alive; the automobile isn\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen does the delivery start?\u201d asked Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cSoon after midnight.\u201d\n\nAfter thanking the manager for his kindness, shaking hands all around,\nand bidding him good-night, the little party hurried home.\n\nAll that night Wallace dreamed that he was putting loaves of bread\ninto a big oven and lifting them out, brown and crisp, on the end of a\nlong-handled shovel, loading them into a delivery wagon, and driving\nall over the city, so that the people could have fresh bread for\nbreakfast.\n\n\nIV. Where the Wheat Comes From\n\nAt the table the next evening the children were still talking about\ntheir visit to the bakery.\n\n\u201cWell, children,\u201d said their father, \u201cwe followed the flour through the\nbakery to the loaf on our table. What do you say if we take a little\njourney to the place where the wheat comes from.\u201d\n\n\u201cFine!\u201d cried Wallace. \u201cWhen can we start?\u201d\n\n\u201cRight now, son, but it will be a stay-at-home journey,\u201d said Mr.\nDuwell; and everybody laughed.\n\n\u201cLet us see,\u201d Mr. Duwell went on; \u201cwhere did the thousand bags of flour\nwe saw in the bakery come from?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said Ruth. \u201cI read \u2018Minn.\u2019 on one of the bags.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood, Ruth,\u201d said her father. \u201cThat is what I call using your eyes.\nWhat does \u2018Minn.\u2019 stand for?\u201d\n\n\u201cMin-ne-so-ta,\u201d answered Wallace quickly.\n\n\u201cCorrect! Minnesota has great wheat fields, and so have North and South\nDakota, Kansas, and many other states; but the wheat in our loaf grew\nin Minnesota.\n\n\u201cWallace, step over to the bookcase and bring me the large book marked\n\u2018W.\u2019\u201d\n\nWallace brought it in a moment.\n\nMr. Duwell opened the book and found some colored pictures.\n\n\u201cHere we are,\u201d said he. \u201cWhat does it say under the first picture,\nRuth?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018Reaping and Binding Wheat,\u2019\u201d read Ruth, bending over the book.\n\n\u201cRight! There is our loaf growing, and there is the machine cutting the\nwheat and tying it into bundles. What does it say under this picture,\nWallace?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018Threshing by Steam,\u2019\u201d read Wallace.\n\n\u201cYes\u2014taking the wheat from the straw and chaff. What comes next, Ruth?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018Grain El-e-va-tor,\u2019\u201d read Ruth.\n\n\u201cWhat is a grain elevator?\u201d asked Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cWhy, the place where the wheat is stored until needed.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, \u201csome elevators are so large that they will\nhold nearly two million bushels of wheat.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlenty large enough to hold our loaf,\u201d added Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cNow read again, Wallace.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018In-te-ri-or of Flour Mill,\u2019\u201d read Wallace.\n\n\u201cYes, that is where they grind the wheat into white flour and remove\nthe bran.\u201d\n\n\u201cBran is the outside coat, isn\u2019t it?\u201d asked Ruth.\n\n\u201cYes, that\u2019s it! Now read again.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018Train Being Loaded with Flour,\u2019\u201d read Ruth.\n\n\u201cYes, that must be a picture of the fifteen car loads of flour used\nevery week by the Spotless Bakery.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never would have believed it took so many people to make a loaf of\nbread,\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Duwell. \u201cLet me see: the plowman, the sower,\nthe reaper,\u2014go on, Wallace.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe thresher, the miller, the train-men, the baker\u2014\u201d added Wallace.\n\n\u201cAnd the baker\u2019s horses,\u201d finished Ruth.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Have you ever visited a bakery? Tell about it.\n\n    The Duwell family had a splendid time finding out\n    things about their bread and rolls, didn\u2019t they?\n\n    Why don\u2019t you try it with some of the other things you\n    eat?\n\n    Can you think of some ways of helping this very useful\n    man, the baker?\n\n    Suppose company had come unexpectedly to see your\n    great-grandmother when she did not have bread enough\n    baked. How would she have gotten bread for her guests?\n\n    What would your mother do if the same thing happened to\n    her?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Praise God for wheat, so white and sweet,\n      Of which we make our bread!\n    Praise God for yellow corn, with which\n      His waiting world is fed!\n                              \u2014_Edward Everett Hale._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nBAKING THE JOHNNY-CAKE\n\n\n    Little Sarah stood by her grandmother\u2019s bed,\n    \u201cNow what shall I get for your breakfast?\u201d she said.\n    \u201cYou may get me a johnny-cake. Quickly go make it,\n    In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    So Sarah went to the closet to see\n    If yet any meal in the barrel might be.\n    The barrel had long been as empty as wind,\n    And not a speck of corn meal could she find.\n    But grandmother\u2019s johnny-cake, still she must make it,\n    In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She ran to the store, but the storekeeper said,\n    \u201cI have none. You must go to the miller, fair maid,\n    For he has a mill, and he\u2019ll put the corn in it,\n    And grind you some nice yellow meal in a minute.\n    Now run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it,\n    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    Then Sarah she ran every step of the way,\n    But the miller said, \u201cNo, I have no meal to-day.\n    Run, quick, to the cornfield, just over the hill,\n    And if any corn\u2019s there, you may fetch it to mill.\n    Run, run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it,\n    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    She ran to the cornfield\u2014the corn had not grown,\n    Though the sun in the blue sky pleasantly shone.\n    \u201cPretty sun,\u201d cried the maiden, \u201cplease make the corn grow.\u201d\n    \u201cPretty maid,\u201d the sun answered, \u201cI cannot do so.\u201d\n    \u201cThen grandmother\u2019s johnny-cake, how shall I make it,\n    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    But Sarah looked round, and she saw what was wanted;\n    The corn could not grow, for no corn had been planted.\n    She asked of the farmer to sow her some grain,\n    But the farmer laughed till his sides ached again.\n    \u201cHo! ho! for the johnny-cake, how can you make it,\n    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    The farmer he laughed, and he laughed very loud\u2014\n    \u201cAnd how can I plant till the land has been plowed?\n    Run, run, to the plowman, and bring him with speed;\n    He\u2019ll plow up the ground and I\u2019ll fill it with seed.\u201d\n    Away, then, ran Sarah, still hoping to make it,\n    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.\n\n    The plowman he plowed, and the grain it was sown,\n    And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown.\n    It was ground at the mill, and again at her bed\n    These words to kind Sarah the grandmother said,\n    \u201cPlease get me a johnny-cake\u2014quickly go make it,\n    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.\u201d\n              _From \u201cChild Life: A Collection of Poems,\u201d\n                            Edited by John Greenleaf Whittier._\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE MILKMAN\n\n\nI. Before the Sun Rises\n\n\u201cWhat do you think one of our lessons was about to-day, mother?\u201d asked\nRuth, coming in from school one afternoon.\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t guess,\u201d said her mother. \u201cWhat was it about?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe milkman.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe milkman,\u201d repeated Mrs. Duwell in surprise; \u201cthat must have been\ninteresting.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, we just talked. Teacher asked questions; she asked if we liked\nbread and milk or cereal and milk, and said that they made an excellent\nbreakfast.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think, mother,\u201d Ruth went on; \u201cteacher told us that not\nmany years ago the milkman came around with big cans of milk and\nmeasured whatever you wanted, a pint or a quart, into your pitcher or\nmilk pail.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, that is true,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cThat is the way they did when I\nwas a little girl. How did they come to change? Did your teacher tell\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cPeople found that it was not san-i-ta-ry, teacher said. The milk was\nnot always kept clean; so the milkmen put it into pint and quart\nbottles, with paper caps to keep out flies and germs.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE.]\n\n[Illustration: THE NEXT TIME YOU DRINK A GLASS OF MILK THINK ABOUT WHAT\nA LONG JOURNEY IT HAS TAKEN.\n\nTHE MILK IN THE BOTTLE IN THIS PICTURE CAME IN A BIG CAN FROM THE COW\nTO THE RAILROAD STATION, ON THE TRAIN TO THE CITY DAIRY WHERE IT WAS\nBOTTLED AND TESTED. IT WAS THEN SENT OUT IN A LARGE AUTO TRUCK TO THE\nDELIVERY WAGON WHICH TOOK IT TO THE DUWELL FAMILY.\n\nDOES THE MILK WHICH YOU USE TAKE AS LONG A JOURNEY AS THAT?]\n\n\u201cDid you find out where the milk comes from?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh yes, from the farms. Teacher showed us pictures of cows; some\nwith tan and white coats\u2014Jerseys; and some with black and white\ncoats\u2014Holsteins, I think she said. I should love to see real cows.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you shall, dear, the next time we go into the country.\n\n\u201cI remember,\u201d continued Mrs. Duwell, \u201chearing your grandfather say that\nwhen he was a boy he had to be out of bed before daylight, sometimes as\nearly as three o\u2019clock, and go out into the cold barn to milk the cows.\u201d\n\n\u201cThree o\u2019clock in the morning!\u201d exclaimed Wallace, who had just come in.\n\n\u201cYes; then he had to hurry into the kitchen for breakfast, then out\nagain, hitch up old Dobbin, load the milk cans on the wagon and drive\nto the nearest station to catch the milk train. He had to do all this\nby six o\u2019clock\u2014before most people in the city think of getting up.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy, there wasn\u2019t much fun in that,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cNo, indeed. You remember the deep snow in March last winter. I asked\nour milkman what time he started on his rounds. What do you think he\nsaid?\u201d\n\n\u201cSix o\u2019clock,\u201d replied Wallace.\n\n\u201cEarlier than that, son,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cHe laughed and said, \u2018I\nhave to load up and start by three o\u2019clock to serve all my customers\nbefore breakfast.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d added Ruth, \u201cteacher told us about that and asked what would\nhappen if the driver overslept and did not get over the route before\nbreakfast.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you answer?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, that we might have to do without milk for breakfast.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr we might have to wait for breakfast until eleven o\u2019clock,\u201d said\nWallace.\n\n\u201cOh, Wallace,\u201d cried Ruth, \u201cI didn\u2019t say that! If we waited for\nbreakfast until eleven o\u2019clock we would be dreadfully late for school.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd dreadfully hungry, too,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cI\u2019m glad our milkman gets\nup on time.\u201d\n\n\nII. Milk, from Farm to Family\n\n\u201cWell, what I want to know is, where the Clover Leaf Dairy gets our\nmilk from,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cIt is this way. The dairy wagon meets the milk train and takes the\ncans of milk to the dairy. There they test the milk to see if it is\npure and fresh.\n\n\u201cNext they empty the milk into a big white tank and heat it to kill\nthe disease germs. After quickly cooling the milk, they put it into\nbottles, and it saves the babies\u2019 lives,\u201d said Ruth almost without\nstopping to take breath.\n\nHer mother smiled and asked, \u201cDid your teacher tell you the name of\nthat work?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; but it was a long word, and I have forgotten it,\u201d answered Ruth.\n\n\u201cPas-teur-i-zing.\u201d Her mother said it for her.\n\n\u201cYes, that\u2019s it\u2014pasteurizing. I could not think. It kills all the bad\ngerms so that the milk is safe for even the weakest babies.\n\n\u201cTeacher told us about a good man in New York,\u201d Ruth went on, \u201cnamed\nMr. Straus, who was sorry because so many babies died from drinking\nimpure milk. He made it so that poor babies in New York could have\npasteurized milk; and then less than half as many died as before.\u201d\n\n\u201cWasn\u2019t that a noble thing to do,\u201d said her mother.\n\n\u201cYes; our teacher says that almost everybody uses pasteurized milk now,\nand in this way thousands of babies\u2019 lives have been saved. She says\nthat we ought to be grateful.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell; \u201cwe ought to be grateful to the\nmilkman, the farmer, and everybody that helps to bring us pure milk.\u201d\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Would you like to get up long before daylight, on cold\n    winter mornings to deliver milk for people\u2019s breakfast?\n\n    Tell some of the things you like that you could not\n    have to eat if the milkman did not come.\n\n    Have you ever visited a big dairy?\n\n    Tell about it.\n\n    Imagine you own a herd of cows in the country, and tell\n    some of the things you would do in order to be sure to\n    send good, pure, clean milk to the dairy.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE GROCER\n\n\nI. The Old-time Grocer\n\n\u201cWallace, light another candle, please. I cannot see very well,\u201d said\nMr. Duwell as he sat smiling at the head of the dining table, with\ncarving knife lifted ready to carve the roast.\n\nWallace turned on another electric light, and everybody laughed.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a good guess, son,\u201d said his mother. \u201cOn my grandfather\u2019s farm\nthey always burned candles, and grandmother made them herself.\u201d\n\n\u201cMade them herself!\u201d exclaimed Ruth.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied her mother. \u201cI have often seen the candle moulds. They\nlooked like a row of tin tubes fastened together. The wicks were hung\nin the middle of the tubes, and the melted tallow was poured in around\nthem. When the candles were hard and cold, they were slipped out ready\nfor use.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour grandmother must have been smart. What relation was she to me?\u201d\nasked Ruth.\n\n\u201cYour great-grandmother, dear. She was \u2018smart,\u2019 indeed. She made not\nonly candles, but soap.\u201d\n\n\u201cSoap!\u201d said Ruth in surprise.\n\n\u201cYes, and butter,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cYour great-grandfather was \u2018smart,\u2019 too,\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cWhy,\nWallace, he butchered a pig or two, and sometimes a cow in the fall for\nthe winter\u2019s meat.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeren\u2019t there any grocers or butchers?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cYes, indeed; your great-grandmother was the grocer, and your\ngreat-grandfather was the butcher for the family.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut weren\u2019t there any stores?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, the stores were in the big kitchen pantry, the cellar, and the\nice-house.\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean grocery stores like Parker\u2019s, and Wiggin\u2019s,\u201d explained Wallace.\n\n\u201cNo, until the towns and villages sprang up there were no stores such\nas we have now,\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cYou see, there were not many people\nto buy things in the early days, and they lived on farms many miles\napart, so it did not pay anyone to keep a store.\n\n\u201cWhy is the grocery so useful to everybody?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cBecause it sells food.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is it. You see, when enough people lived in one place to make a\nvillage or town, some one opened a store. Now, how did he get flour to\nsell?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom the miller.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight\u2014and potatoes?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom the farmer.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, the miller brought flour and the farmer brought potatoes to the\ngrocer for him to sell.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when grandma made more butter than she could use she sent it to\nthe grocer,\u201d added Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cWhere did the grocer get his stock of brooms, Ruth?\u201d asked her father.\n\n\u201cFrom the broom-maker.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the idea. All who grew or made more things than they could\nuse brought them to the grocer to be sold. So the grocer helped them\nand they helped him, and the people went to the store for their\nsupplies.\n\n\u201cYou must remember, children,\u201d went on Mr. Duwell, \u201cthe old-fashioned\ncountry store was very different from Parker\u2019s grocery around the\ncorner. Besides groceries, it sold harness, horse blankets, hardware,\nshoes, and everything people needed.\u201d\n\n\nII. The Modern Grocer\n\n\u201cSuppose Wallace were a grocer, Ruth, how would you like his store to\nbe kept?\u201d asked her mother.\n\n\u201cClean\u2014oh, so clean!\u201d replied Ruth.\n\n\u201cYes, what else?\u201d\n\n\u201cFull of shelves with all the packages and bottles and other things in\ntheir places.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow would you treat the people, Wallace?\u201d asked Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cI would be very polite, and try to have every article they wanted\nfresh and good.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is right, and I know you would be honest and truthful.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you were that kind of grocer, Wallace,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, \u201cyou would\nbe of real service to the people.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat kind of customers would you like to have, Wallace?\u201d asked Mrs.\nDuwell.\n\n\u201cOh, people who paid their bills on time and didn\u2019t find too much\nfault,\u201d answered Wallace.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Ruth, \u201cif you were anything like that, your customers\nwould certainly call you The Spotless Grocer.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Think of all the extra work your mother and father\n    would have to do if there were no grocery stores. Is\n    there one near your house? Are you glad?\n\n    What kind of grocery store do you like?\n\n    What kind of grocer do you like to deal with?\n\n    Try playing store, and pretend that your customers will\n    not pay their bills and that the men from whom you buy\n    come to insist on your paying them. What will happen?\n\n    If you were a real grocer, would you like that to\n    happen?\n\n    Can you think of some other ways you can help the\n    grocer besides paying your bills promptly?\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO HELP CLOTHE US\n\n\n\n\nTHE TAILOR\n\n\nI. The Accident\n\nWallace was very proud of the new suit of clothes his father had just\nbought him. He wanted to wear it to school the first day after it came\nhome.\n\n\u201cIf I were you I should keep it for best for a while, Wallace,\u201d said\nhis mother. \u201cYour old suit is good enough for school for some time.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Tom Dolittle is going to wear his new suit to-day; he told me so.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt doesn\u2019t seem wise to me, Wallace\u2014but wear it if you think best.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right, mother,\u201d said Wallace as he skipped away to put it on.\n\nA few minutes later his mother stood watching a very happy boy running\ndown the street.\n\n\u201cMother!\u201d called Wallace, walking slowly upstairs when he came in from\nschool.\n\n\u201cHere I am, boy, in the sitting room,\u201d answered his mother.\n\n\u201cJust see what has happened to my new suit!\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you torn your jacket?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, it\u2019s not torn,\u201d he said, coming into the room. \u201cIt is worse than\nthat. I\u2019m afraid it is ruined. Look! Look!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, child,\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Duwell, \u201chow did this happen? Let us go\ninto the bathroom to wipe off a little of the mud. That may prevent\nstains.\u201d\n\nShe hardly knew the mud-splashed boy who stood before her, so very\nunlike the spick and span Wallace of the morning.\n\n\u201cWell, dear, don\u2019t worry too much,\u201d she said. \u201cWe will see what the\ntailor can do for us.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you suppose he can make it clean enough for me to wear?\u201d asked the\nboy eagerly.\n\n\u201cI think that he can make it look very well,\u201d said his mother. \u201cPut on\nyour other suit and we will take this one around to the tailor\u2019s shop.\nBut you haven\u2019t told me what happened.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, it was this way: I was chasing some of the boys, and just as I\nreached the corner an automobile came speeding out of West Street. It\nskidded into the curb, and splashed the mud over me from head to foot.\nThe whole thing happened in less than a minute. You ought to have heard\nthe boys laugh!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am thankful you were not hurt,\u201d said his mother. \u201cI will put on my\nwraps and we will go at once.\u201d\n\n\nII. At the Tailor Shop\n\n\u201cGood afternoon,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell to the tailor as they entered the\nshop.\n\n\u201cGood afternoon,\u201d said the tailor. \u201cWhat can I do for you to-day?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe want to see if you can make this suit of clothes look like new,\u201d\nsaid Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cLet me look at it,\u201d said the man, untying the parcel, and examining\nthe mud-splashed clothing.\n\n\u201cWell, that is pretty bad, but I guess we can do a good job.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow much will you charge?\u201d asked Wallace anxiously.\n\n\u201cSeventy-five cents, if you call for it,\u201d said the tailor, taking out a\ntag. \u201cWhat name, please?\u201d\n\n\u201cGive your name, son,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cWallace Duwell,\u201d said the boy. \u201cWhen may I come?\u201d\n\n\u201cDay after to-morrow,\u201d replied the tailor. \u201cWe will do our best to make\nit look like new.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you,\u201d answered Wallace, smiling for the first time since the\naccident.\n\n[Illustration: TELL THE STORY OF THIS PICTURE.\n\nIF YOU LOOK AT YOUR COAT CAREFULLY YOU WILL FIND A STORY ABOUT SHEEP\nSHEARING, SPINNING, WEAVING, AND TAILORING JUST LIKE THE STORY SHOWN IN\nTHE PICTURES IN THE COAT ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE.]\n\n[Illustration: DO YOU EVER THINK OF THE MANY PEOPLE WE HAVE TO THANK\nFOR OUR NICE WARM CLOTHING?]\n\n\u201cGood afternoon,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell, as they left the shop.\n\n\u201cGood-by,\u201d answered the tailor; \u201ccome again.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d said Wallace, after they had walked a few minutes, \u201cit was\nmy fault that this accident happened, and I want to pay for having the\nsuit cleaned. I have the money Aunt Mary gave me for Christmas.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat will please your father, Wallace. We will tell him the whole\nstory this evening.\u201d\n\n\nIII. What the Tailor Saved the Duwell Family\n\nWhen Wallace finished telling about the accident his father said, \u201cI\nwonder how much money the tailor is saving us by doing this work?\u201d\n\n\u201cI never thought about that,\u201d admitted Wallace.\n\n\u201cLet me see. We paid seven dollars and a half for that suit, didn\u2019t we,\nmother?\u201d asked Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cYes, I think that was the amount,\u201d answered Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cWell, if the suit couldn\u2019t be cleaned it would mean that we should\nhave to buy another in its place. Mother can clean a suit well, but\neven she could not make as sorry a looking suit as yours look like\nnew. Now do a little problem in arithmetic.\u201d\n\nWallace promptly pulled pad and pencil from his pocket, and wrote:\n\n    +--------------------------------------+\n    | Cost of suit                  $7.50  |\n    | Tailor\u2019s charge for cleaning,   .75  |\n    |                               -----  |\n    | Saved                         $6.75  |\n    +--------------------------------------+\n\n\u201cSix dollars and seventy-five cents! I didn\u2019t think it would be that\nmuch!\u201d he exclaimed in surprise.\n\n\u201cBe sure to thank the tailor when you go after your suit,\u201d said Mr.\nDuwell.\n\n\u201cI certainly will,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Do you ever visit the tailor\u2019s?\n\n    Tell about his shop.\n\n    Do you think his work is easy? Could you do it?\n\n    If you were a tailor and had worked hard to do good,\n    prompt work, how would you like to be treated in return?\n\n    If your suit could talk about all the things that\n    happened to it before it came to you, it would tell a\n    very interesting story. Pretend you are a suit and tell\n    all about yourself.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DRESSMAKER\n\n\nI. An Invitation to a Party\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d said Ruth, coming in from school a few days later, \u201cMildred\nMaydole has invited me to her birthday party. She wrote the invitations\nherself on the prettiest little note paper. Here is mine.\u201d\n\nMrs. Duwell read:.\n\n    Dear Ruth,\n\n    It will give my mother and me much pleasure if you will\n    come to my birthday party from three to six o\u2019clock,\n    Saturday afternoon, January twenty-eighth.\n\n                                    Your friend,\n                                      Mildred Maydole.\n\n\u201cOh, mother, please say I may go!\u201d cried Ruth excitedly, jumping up and\ndown on tiptoe. \u201cMildred wants an answer soon, so that her mother can\nmake her plans.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, my dear, I think you may go,\u201d said her mother, \u201cif I can get your\nnew dress made by the twenty-eighth. You have grown so fast that I have\nnot been able to keep up with you in sewing.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am so happy with the thought of going,\u201d exclaimed Ruth, \u201cthat I can\nscarcely wait for the day. You know, mother, Mildred is older than I,\nand it is a great honor to be invited to her party.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed, it is,\u201d agreed her mother. \u201cNaturally Mildred could not\ninvite all the children in your grade at school; so if I were you I\nwould not talk about the party before the other children. You see, it\nmight hurt the feelings of some who were not invited.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just what Mildred said, mother; she asked us to keep it a\nsecret for that reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, dear, if you do keep it secret, do not make a mystery of it,\nwhispering among the fortunate ones and letting the others wonder why\nyou all say, \u2018Hush,\u2019 when they happen to come near.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, mother! how did you know?\u201d asked Ruth flushing. \u201cNow that I think\nof it, that is just what we did do.\u201d\n\n\u201cInstead of just telling Mildred that you will come,\u201d said her mother,\n\u201cI think it would be better to write a note accepting the invitation.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do it right away!\u201d exclaimed Ruth, running to her little desk.\n\u201cWill you help me with the words?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cHow would it do to say this:\n\n    Dear Mildred,\n\n    My mother is very much pleased with the kind invitation\n    to your birthday party, and says that I may come on\n    Saturday afternoon.\n\n                                   Your friend,\n                                         Ruth Duwell.\u201d\n\nWhen Ruth had finished writing, she sealed the envelope.\n\n\u201cI shall hand this to Mildred after school is dismissed at noon,\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cThank you for helping me, mother.\u201d\n\n\nII. A Disappointment\n\nMrs. Duwell had been unusually busy for several days after the\nconversation about the party.\n\nOne day she said, \u201cRuth, dear child, I cannot seem to find time to\nmake your new dress. I wonder if Miss Fells could make it before the\ntwenty-eighth. Why not run over and ask her?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, mother, why not? I think that is a good idea,\u201d agreed Ruth.\n\n\u201cI do, too,\u201d said her mother. \u201cHere is the material that grandma sent\nyou. Run along, and do not forget to thank Miss Fells if she will agree\nto make your dress.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed, mother, I won\u2019t,\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\nIII. At the Dressmaker\u2019s\n\n\u201cGood afternoon, Miss Fells,\u201d said Ruth, when she entered the door of\nthe dressmaker\u2019s house.\n\n\u201cGood afternoon, Ruth,\u201d said Miss Fells, who knew the little girl.\nThen, noticing the package, she added, \u201cOh, I hope you are not going to\nask me to make you a dress any time soon.\u201d\n\nRuth\u2019s heart sank. \u201cI was going to, Miss Fells,\u201d she admitted.\n\n\u201cHow soon?\u201d asked the dressmaker.\n\n\u201cBy January the twenty-eighth.\u201d Then she told about the party and her\nmother\u2019s disappointment.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see how I can do it\u2014\u201d began Miss Fells. Then seeing the tears\nin Ruth\u2019s eyes, she said, \u201cBut let me look at the goods, Ruth.\u201d\n\nThe little girl spread the material out on the table.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it pretty!\u201d exclaimed Miss Fells. \u201cPerhaps I can get some extra\nhelp. Come for a fitting to-morrow at four o\u2019clock, and we\u2019ll see what\ncan be done.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, thank you, thank you, Miss Fells!\u201d Ruth exclaimed.\n\nThen she ran all the way home to tell the good news.\n\n[Illustration: WHAT IS RUTH ASKING THE DRESSMAKER?]\n\n[Illustration: THE \u201cBUTTERFLIES\u201d ON THIS PAGE ARE THE MOTHS OF TWO OF\nOUR AMERICAN SILKWORMS.\n\nIN OLDEN DAYS, SPINNING WAS DONE AT HOME. TODAY WE HAVE GREAT SPINNING\nAND WEAVING MACHINES, AND MUCH OF OUR CLOTHING IS MADE IN FACTORIES.]\n\n\u201cNow we see, Ruth,\u201d said her mother, \u201chow glad we should be that\ndifferent people do different things for us. A person who studies and\nworks in one special line must do better than one who works at it only\nonce in a while\u2014the way I do dressmaking.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, that is true, mother,\u201d exclaimed Ruth, \u201cI never thought of it\nbefore, though.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are many more things to be learned about dressmakers,\u201d went on\nher mother. \u201cLet us talk about some of them this evening.\u201d\n\n\u201cMother, I suppose father will ask a lot of questions\u2014just as he did\nabout the tailor.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t doubt that,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell, \u201cand I am glad that you are\ninterested. I have heard my grandmother say that when she was young,\nthere were no ready-made paper patterns.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, mother, how could people make dresses then?\u201d asked Ruth.\n\n\u201cIt was done in this way. A seamstress or some one who liked to make\ndresses would cut out and fit a dress for somebody in her family or\nneighborhood. If the dress was pretty, the pattern would be borrowed\nand used by almost the entire village.\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t people mind if other dresses were made just like theirs?\u201d asked\nRuth.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said her mother, \u201cstyles did not change quickly in those days.\nIndeed, the getting of a new dress was a great event in the life of a\ngirl, and it was chosen most carefully.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cYou see, it served first as a best dress; then, being turned, it often\nserved as second best. After that, perhaps it would be handed down to a\nyounger child to be worn as long as it had been by its first owner.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy,\u201d cried Ruth. \u201cI am glad I didn\u2019t live in the days when new dresses\nwere so scarce.\u201d\n\nMrs. Duwell smiled. \u201cChildren to-day have more of everything than\nchildren ever had before. They have more clothes and playthings, and\nbetter chances for ed-u-ca-tion\u2014but here comes your father, Ruth. You\nmay run and tell him of our plan for the evening.\u201d\n\nMr. Duwell was very much pleased with the plan. When the evening came\nhe asked and answered many questions. He then showed the children\npictures of silkworms in a large book marked \u201cS.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the way,\u201d he asked, \u201cdo you know that we have silkworms right here\nin America? The American silkworms spin silk as strong and beautiful as\nthat of the Chinese silkworms. But the people here do not have the time\nor patience to grow silkworms.\u201d\n\n\nIV. The Party\n\nRuth\u2019s dress was not finished until an hour before the party began.\n\nAs soon as the last stitch was taken, Miss Fells herself carried it to\nthe Duwell home.\n\nRuth was \u201con pins and needles\u201d for fear it would not be done in time,\nand she was delighted to see the dressmaker.\n\n\u201cOh, Miss Fells, I cannot thank you enough for getting it done!\u201d she\ncried.\n\n\u201cHurry and put your dress on,\u201d said Miss Fells. \u201cI want to see how it\nfits.\u201d\n\nIn less time than it takes to tell, Ruth was dressed.\n\n\u201cIt fits perfectly,\u201d said Miss Fells, who was almost as happy as Ruth\nherself.\n\n\u201cIt certainly does,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cIt is just right.\u201d\n\nMildred was very glad when Ruth arrived at the party, for she knew of\nher worry about the dress.\n\n\u201cIt is beautiful, Ruth,\u201d she said, looking with sparkling eyes at the\npretty smocking on the waist and skirt. \u201cMiss Fells told me she was\ngoing to surprise you,\u201d she added.\n\n\u201cShe surely did surprise me. Wasn\u2019t she kind!\u201d replied Ruth.\n\nThe party was a delight. One of the games was a contest in needle\nthreading. Ruth threaded her needle in the shortest time and won the\nprize, a pretty silver thimble.\n\n\u201cPerhaps the new dress helped you to win,\u201d said Mildred.\n\n\u201cWon\u2019t Miss Fells be pleased when she hears about it,\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Does your mother ever sew for a long time without\n    resting?\n\n    How does her back feel when she stops?\n\n    Do you think dressmaking is easy work?\n\n    Can you tell some of the things dressmakers need in\n    their work?\n\n    If you have ever visited a silk or woolen or cotton\n    mill, tell about it.\n\n    Where do the mill owners get their materials?\n\n    Where do the stores get ready-made clothing?\n\n    Could you or the shoemaker or the baker make as\n    beautiful and comfortable clothing as the dressmaker?\n\n    Why can she do it so well?\n\n    How can we make her work easier?\n\n\n\n\nTHE SILK DRESS\n\n\n    \u201cMy dress is pretty,\u201d a little girl said.\n    \u201cDid you make it?\u201d I asked. She shook her head.\n    \u201cNo, I didn\u2019t make it,\u201d she laughed in glee.\n    \u201cIt took lots of people to make it,\u201d said she.\n    \u201cI\u2019ll tell you about it, because I know\n     What my mother told me is truly so.\n\n    \u201cThe silkworms grew it, and after a while\n     Men unraveled it into a pile;\n     Girls spun it and wove it and sent it away,\n     And my mother bought it for me one day;\n     And the dressmaker cut it and sewed it for me\u2014\n     These are the reasons I love it,\u201d said she.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHOEMAKER\n\n\nI. The Worn Shoes\n\n\u201cWhere now, Wallace?\u201d asked Mr. Duwell as he met his son one bright\nafternoon.\n\nThe boy was carrying a bundle under his arm.\n\n\u201cMother sent me over to the shoemaker\u2019s,\u201d replied the boy.\n\n\u201cI am glad I ran across you,\u201d said Mr. Duwell; \u201cI have an errand over\nin that direction; I\u2019ll walk along with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, all right, father. Mother said she wished she could ask you about\nmy shoes. We could not make up our minds whether they were worth\nhalf-soling or not.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not talk the matter over with the shoemaker?\u201d said Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cI suppose I shouldn\u2019t have let them get so worn before taking them to\nMr. Shoemaker\u2019s,\u201d remarked Wallace.\n\n\u201cAs mother says, \u2018A stitch in time saves nine,\u2019\u201d remarked Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cBy the way, father,\u201d continued Wallace, \u201cisn\u2019t Mr. Shoemaker\u2019s name a\ngood one for a cobbler?\u201d\n\nMr. Duwell smiled. \u201cVery good, indeed; but really it isn\u2019t so strange\nas it seems. Many years ago, when people did not have two names, they\nbecame known by the names of the trades they followed. For instance,\nJohn the baker became John Baker, and later Mr. Baker; so also the\ntailor became Mr. Taylor; the mason, Mr. Mason; the carpenter, Mr.\nCarpenter.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the blacksmith, Mr. Smith; and the cook, Mr. Cook,\u201d added Wallace.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said his father, \u201cand we could think of many more such names;\nbut here we are at Mr. Shoemaker\u2019s. Suppose you attend to this little\nmatter of business by yourself, while I do my errand.\u201d\n\nThis made Wallace look pleased and important as he stepped into the\nshop.\n\n\u201cGood afternoon, Mr. Shoemaker,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cGood afternoon,\u201d replied the shoemaker; \u201cwhat can I do for you to-day?\u201d\n\nWallace handed him the parcel, which he opened.\n\n\u201cDo you think it would pay to put half-soles and new heels on these\nshoes?\u201d asked the boy.\n\n\u201cPretty good uppers,\u201d replied the shoemaker, examining them carefully.\n\u201cI think it would almost double the length of life of these shoes to\nmend them, but I would not wear the next pair quite so long before\nhaving them mended.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think you are right,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cHow much will you charge?\u201d\n\n\u201cA dollar and a quarter for soles and heels,\u201d replied the man.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t that a good deal?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cNot too much if we use the best quality of leather, and it doesn\u2019t pay\nto use any other.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right, Mr. Shoemaker,\u201d agreed Wallace. \u201cWhen shall I call for\nthem?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn Saturday,\u201d he replied, writing Wallace\u2019s name on a tag.\n\n\u201cVery well, good afternoon.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-by,\u201d said the shoemaker.\n\nOutside the door Wallace was joined by his father.\n\n\u201cI do not know whether I did right to leave my shoes, father,\u201d said\nWallace. \u201cMr. Shoemaker said the charge would be a dollar and a\nquarter. Doesn\u2019t that seem a big price?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt does,\u201d replied Mr. Duwell, \u201cbut I think you did right. A new pair\nof such shoes would cost three dollars and seventy-five cents.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd three dollars and seventy-five cents, less one dollar and a\nquarter, equals two dollars and a half saved,\u201d finished Wallace.\n\n\u201cThat is true, my boy,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, \u201cif they last as long as a new\npair.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: TELL THE STORY OF THIS PICTURE.]\n\n[Illustration: CAN YOU TELL SOMETHING ABOUT TANNING AND FINISHING\nLEATHER? HAVE YOU EVER VISITED A SHOE FACTORY?]\n\n[Illustration: IT SEEMS STRANGE TO THINK THAT THE LEATHER IN OUR SHOES\nWAS ONCE WORN BY ANIMALS, DOESN\u2019T IT?]\n\n\u201cI suppose we ought to be very much obliged to the shoemaker, even\nthough we do pay him for his work,\u201d mused the boy aloud.\n\n\u201cSo we should,\u201d said his father. \u201cEveryone who does good work helps the\nworld along, whether he is paid for it or not.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I shouldn\u2019t want to be a shoemaker,\u201d went on Wallace.\n\n\u201cWhy not, Wallace?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I hardly know, father.\u201d\n\n\u201cShoemaking is very interesting, and it requires skill, my boy. Of\ncourse, the making of new shoes does not require the skill it did years\nago because so much of the work is done by machines.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you ever hear of a shoemaker who became a great man?\u201d asked\nWallace.\n\n\u201cOh, that is the question, is it?\u201d said Mr. Duwell with a smile. \u201cI\nhave heard of several, and this evening I shall be glad to talk about\nthem.\u201d\n\n\nII. Shoemakers Who Became Famous\n\nThat evening, when the family was seated around the library table, Mr.\nDuwell brought out a book and took up Wallace\u2019s question.\n\n\u201cHere is a book,\u201d he said, \u201cthat tells many facts about shoemakers who\nbecame noted men. Let me read about some of them.\n\n    \u201c\u2018One of our most famous American poets, John Greenleaf\n    Whittier, in early life, was a shoemaker. Whittier\n    never forgot the lessons he learned while working at\n    the shoemaker\u2019s bench. His book of poems, called Songs\n    of Labor, printed in 1850, contains a stirring poem\n    about shoemakers.\u2019\n\n\u201cHere are two other famous men,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, turning the page he\nwas reading.\n\n    \u201c\u2018Among noted Americans who were shoemakers was Roger\n    Sherman, of Con-nec-ti-cut. He was a member of the\n    Congress of 1774. Sherman was one of the brave men who\n    signed the Dec-lar-a-tion of In-de-pen-dence.\n\n    \u201c\u2018At least one vice-president of the United States was\n    a shoemaker\u2014Henry Wilson, who was made vice-president\n    when General Grant became president in 1872. He was\n    often called \u201cthe Na-tick Cobbler,\u201d because he was once\n    a shoemaker in the town of Natick.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo you see, Wallace,\u201d Mr. Duwell went on after a little pause, \u201cthe\nkind of work you do doesn\u2019t matter so much. It is how well you do it\nthat makes the difference.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cI think I do see, father,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cMaybe, after all, I\u2019ll be a\nshoemaker. Then, perhaps, I\u2019ll become a poet or vice-president of the\nUnited States.\u201d\n\nEverybody laughed.\n\n\u201cWouldn\u2019t you rather be a tailor?\u201d asked Ruth.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe I should stand as good a chance then,\u201d replied Wallace.\n\n\u201cI am not so sure,\u201d said Mr. Duwell laughing. \u201cAndrew Johnson was a\ntailor, and he became President of the United States; but all mother\nand I hope for, son, is that you will become a useful, well-educated\nman.\u201d\n\n\nIII. At the Shoemaker\u2019s Shop\n\nWhen he called for his shoes on Saturday, Wallace looked at the\nshoemaker with new respect.\n\n\u201cGood morning, Mr. Shoemaker,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cAre my shoes ready?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood morning,\u201d replied the shoemaker. \u201cYes, here they are.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey look fine!\u201d exclaimed the boy. \u201cThank you for doing such a good\njob. Here is the money\u2014a dollar and a quarter\u2014is that right?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, thank you,\u201d replied the shoemaker. \u201cIt isn\u2019t every day that\na customer thanks me for doing a good job. Most people don\u2019t\ngive a thought to anything but finding fault if the work isn\u2019t\nright\u2014especially boys.\u201d\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Is there a shoemaker\u2019s shop near your home?\n\n    Did the shoemaker ever save you or your family any\n    money?\n\n    Can you tell about him and his shop?\n\n    What kind of customers do you think he likes?\n\n    See if you can make a list of the people whom you have\n    to thank for a new pair of shoes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap!\n      Rings the shoemaker\u2019s hammer;\n    He\u2019s making old shoes look quite new\n      With swift and merry clamor.\n\n    Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap!\n      List to the shoemaker\u2019s song;\n    By mending shoes he does his part\n      To help the world along.\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO SUPPLY US WITH SHELTER\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTHE CARPENTER\n\n\nI. A Trip into the Country\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s just possible that I may be home very early, perhaps in time for\ntwelve o\u2019clock lunch,\u201d remarked Mr. Duwell, one Saturday morning as he\nwas starting for business.\n\n\u201cOh, wouldn\u2019t that be fine!\u201d exclaimed the children. \u201cWe\u2019ll be looking\nfor you.\u201d\n\nEven before the noon whistles had ceased blowing, three eager faces\nwere peering out of the windows, for Mrs. Duwell was as interested as\nRuth and Wallace.\n\n\u201cOh, I do hope father will come soon!\u201d exclaimed Ruth.\n\n\u201cI am sure to see him first,\u201d said Wallace with a superior air. \u201cI can\nsee farther than you!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t see father any better than I can,\u201d replied Ruth, \u201cfor I see\nhim this minute.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do? Where?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cI certainly do\u2014may I run to meet him, mother?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I see him!\u201d cried Wallace. \u201cI am going, too!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, run!\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cYou both have better eyes than I have.\u201d\nAlmost before she had finished speaking, the children were racing\ntoward a carriage. As the driver drew rein, they climbed in.\n\n\u201cWell, here we are!\u201d Mr. Duwell sang out, as they drove up in front\nof the door. \u201cWhat does the Duwell family say to a ride this pleasant\nafternoon?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a grand surprise!\u201d called Mrs. Duwell, who was now standing on\nthe top step.\n\n\u201cI am going to get an apple for the horse,\u201d cried Wallace, and away he\nran. In a moment he returned.\n\n\u201cHow does that taste, old fellow?\u201d he asked, rubbing the horse\u2019s soft\nnose as he munched the apple.\n\n\u201cHe isn\u2019t really hungry,\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cHe had his dinner just\nbefore we left the livery stable, and the stable man gave me a bag of\ngrain for his supper; but I guess he doesn\u2019t often get apples.\u201d\n\nIt didn\u2019t take long to eat lunch that day, the family were so excited.\n\n\u201cWhere are we going, father?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cJust into the country,\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cIt has been so long since we\nhave seen the green fields that I thought a trip would do us all good.\u201d\n\nSoon they left the city streets behind, and came to a beautiful country\nroad, along which they drove for several miles.\n\n\u201cOh, see that funny-looking house!\u201d exclaimed Ruth suddenly. \u201cIt looks\nlike a cage!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat isn\u2019t a house, yet,\u201d said Mr. Duwell; \u201cit is only the frame-work.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d exclaimed Wallace, \u201cis that the way wooden houses are built?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is, little city people,\u201d replied Mr. Duwell. \u201cNo wonder you are not\nfamiliar with such a sight. City houses are not built of wood, because\nof the danger of fire.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should like to see that house closer,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll drive over there,\u201d his father agreed, turning the horse\u2019s head.\n\nAs they drew near, Wallace exclaimed, \u201cWhy, there\u2019s Mr. Emerson on the\nporch; he is my teacher. I wonder what he is doing here.\u201d\n\nAt that moment Mr. Emerson saw the boy. \u201cGood afternoon, Wallace,\u201d he\nsaid, lifting his hat and bowing to the party as he came toward the\ncarriage.\n\n\u201cGood afternoon, Mr. Emerson,\u201d said Wallace, lifting his cap; \u201cI should\nlike to have you meet my mother and father.\u201d\n\nMr. Emerson bowed, and shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cAnd this is Wallace\u2019s sister, Ruth,\u201d said Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cI am glad to know you, Ruth,\u201d Mr. Emerson said. \u201cAre you thinking of\nmoving into the country?\u201d he asked after a minute. \u201cIf so; I hope you\nwill be my neighbors.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you live here, Mr. Emerson?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cNot yet,\u201d replied Mr. Emerson, smiling; \u201cbut we hope to when the new\nhouse is finished.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a comfortable home it will be,\u201d said Mr. Duwell.\n\nMr. Emerson looked pleased. \u201cWon\u2019t you come in and see the plan?\u201d he\nasked.\n\n\u201cThank you, we shall be delighted to,\u201d said Mr. Duwell.\n\n\nII. The Sawmill\n\nAfter they had gone all over the house, they bade Mr. Emerson good-by\nand drove away.\n\n\u201cWon\u2019t it be fine! How I should love to live there!\u201d The children were\nstill talking about the new house.\n\n\u201cWhere do you suppose Mr. Emerson got the wood?\u201d questioned Ruth.\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d answered Wallace; \u201cat the lumber yard.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cDid he, father? Couldn\u2019t he have just chopped down some of those trees\nover there?\u201d asked Ruth, pointing to a wooded hill to the right.\n\n\u201cI hardly think so,\u201d replied Mr. Duwell. \u201cBefore trees can be used in\nbuilding they have to be\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cSawed into boards and planks,\u201d finished Wallace.\n\n\u201cGood!\u201d said his father. \u201cAnd where is that done?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt the sawmill,\u201d said the boy.\n\n\u201cThat reminds me\u2014\u201d said Mrs. Duwell; \u201cthere is a sawmill over at the\nbottom of that hill. Mr. Emerson told me about it. Some of his lumber\ncame from there.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen this road must lead to it,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, pulling up at a\ncross-road that ran through the woods towards the hill.\n\n\u201cWhat does that sign-post say, Wallace?\u201d\n\nWallace jumped out and examined the dingy sign, which was hardly\nreadable.\n\n\u201cSawmill Road; this is the right way!\u201d he cried.\n\nThey had not driven far along the shady road when a peculiar, whistling\nsound met their ears.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s the saw, now, I believe!\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cSo it is,\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cTrot along, boy!\u201d he urged the horse.\n\nAt a turn in the road they came upon the old sawmill, nestling at the\nfoot of the hill. The smooth mill pond shone brightly in the sun. As\nthe water fell over the dam, it tumbled into a noisy little brook which\nran under a bridge and away down the valley. The refreshing odor of\npine and cedar filled the air.\n\nSeveral men were busy sawing the trunk of a pine tree into long, clean\nplanks. The children watched the circular saw with wonder as its sharp\nteeth ate into the sweet-smelling wood. Its shrill music delighted them.\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d the foreman replied to a question of Mr. Duwell\u2019s, \u201cmost\nsawmills are run by steam power. Very few old-fashioned water wheels\nare left in this part of the country. Let me show you our wheel.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is the sluice-way,\u201d he explained, pointing to a long narrow canal\nfull of flowing water. \u201cThe sluice-way leads the water from the pond to\nthe top of the wheel.\u201d\n\nGoing down a flight of steps on the outside of the building, they\nstood right beside the old moss-covered wheel. It was a huge wooden\nframework with shelves or buckets all around the wide rim to catch the\nwater.\n\nThe water poured out of the sluice-way over the wheel, turning it\nslowly and steadily. As the wheel turned, the water kept falling with\nnoisy splashes into the stream below.\n\n\u201cWhat makes it go round?\u201d asked Wallace eagerly.\n\n\u201cThe force and weight of the water pouring over it,\u201d replied the\nforeman. \u201cThat is what we call water power.\u201d\n\n\u201cThink of it, children!\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cThat old wheel helped to\nbuild Mr. Emerson\u2019s house.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the foreman, \u201cit has helped to build many houses besides\nMr. Emerson\u2019s. That old water wheel has been sawing wood just as you\nsee it now for over a hundred years.\u201d\n\n\nIII. The Carpenter\n\nOn the way home the little party talked about their adventures.\n\n\u201cMr. Emerson must have had help to build a house like that,\u201d remarked\nRuth after a pause.\n\n\u201cOh, he didn\u2019t build it, goosey,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cWho did, then, Mr. Know-it-all?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, the carpenter, of course,\u201d Wallace replied.\n\n\u201cOh, I see,\u201d exclaimed Ruth. \u201cThe carpenter builds the house for Mr.\nEmerson, and Mr. Emerson has time to teach you boys.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is exactly right, little girl,\u201d said her father.\n\n\u201cBesides, no one person can do many things well. Perhaps Mr. Emerson\nis a better teacher for not trying to do too many things,\u201d Mrs. Duwell\nadded.\n\n\u201cI think a carpenter is wonderful, don\u2019t you?\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cThe greatest man that ever lived was a carpenter,\u201d said his mother.\n\n\u201cWhoa, boy!\u201d exclaimed Mr. Duwell, drawing up the reins sharply. \u201cDon\u2019t\nget frightened at a piece of paper, when you\u2019ve done so well. Whoa,\nthere, boy!\u201d\n\nThe horse seemed to understand the quiet gentle voice, and settled down\nto an even trot.\n\n\u201cHe will go well enough now,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cHe knows we are headed\nfor home.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo we are! I wish we were headed the other way,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cWhat\nmakes a good time so short?\u201d he asked, so seriously that everybody\nlaughed.\n\n\nIV. The Wolf\u2019s Den\n\n\u201cMother, I may be late in getting home from school this afternoon,\u201d\nsaid Wallace on Monday at noon. \u201cMr. Emerson said he was going to take\nus for a walk after school to-day. He told us to ask if it would be all\nright. Will it, mother?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Wallace, but try to be home before dark.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you all about our trip at supper time,\u201d said Wallace.\n\u201cGood-by.\u201d\n\nWallace bounded in just as supper was being put on the table.\n\n\u201cGood evening, everybody. Oh, it was fine!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cMr. Emerson\ntook us for a long walk in the park\u2014to a part I have never seen before.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat was splendid,\u201d said his mother.\n\n\u201cNow, tell us all about your trip,\u201d said his father, when Wallace had\npartly satisfied his hunger.\n\nWallace began: \u201cWe walked until we reached the wild part of the park.\nSoon we came to a steep hill and a great pile of high rocks covered\nwith trees and bushes.\n\n\u201c\u2018How many of you boys have ever been in a real cave?\u2019 Mr. Emerson\nasked. Only three of us had, and we were very much excited.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well,\u2019 he said, \u2018right above that big granite rock there is a natural\ncave. It was found only a few days ago. The opening was covered with\nbushes, so nobody knew it was there. It must have been the den of some\nwild animal years ago. The opening is so small that only one boy can go\nin at a time.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe divided us into four sections and made me the leader of section one.\n\n\u201cOne at a time we climbed up until all five boys of my section were on\ntop of the rock. There was the cave, a dark opening in the rocks about\nas big around as a barrel. Being the leader, I had to go in first.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeren\u2019t you scared?\u201d asked Ruth.\n\n\u201cWell\u2014it was exciting,\u201d admitted her brother. \u201cI got down on my hands\nand knees and looked in, but could see nothing. Then I crawled in. It\nwas as dark as a pocket. I tried to stand up and bumped my head, the\nceiling was so low.\n\n\u201cIn a minute or two I could see better. The walls of the cave were\nnothing but rocks. The floor was covered with sand and dry leaves.\nThere was just room enough to turn around in, so I turned around and\ncrawled out.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I call that pretty brave, Wallace, to go in first,\u201d his mother\nsaid.\n\n\u201cThere wasn\u2019t anything to be afraid of, mother,\u201d said Wallace. After a\nmoment he continued, \u201cWell, after the boys in my group had all been in,\nwe climbed down, and the other sections went up and did the same thing.\nEvery boy went in, although some of the little fellows looked pretty\nwhite when they came out. Then we sat on the rocks, and Mr. Emerson\ntalked about the homes of wild animals and the early savages.\n\n\u201c\u2018What animal do you suppose lived in this cave?\u2019 Mr. Emerson asked us.\nSome guessed wolves and some, bears. We finally decided to name it The\nWolf\u2019s Den.\n\n\nV. The Cave Dwellers\n\n\u201cMr. Emerson said that wild animals live in just the same way to-day\nas they always did. They live in caves and holes in the ground or in\nhollow trees, where they can hide and keep warm.\n\n\u201cOne boy spoke up, \u2018How about dogs, Mr. Emerson?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well,\u2019 Mr. Emerson said, \u2018dogs are tame animals now, although they\nused to be wild. But even the dog\u2019s house is a wooden cave which his\nmaster builds for him.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe told us that a long time ago people lived in caves which they dug\nin the earth like animals. They were cave dwellers or cave men. The\nreason we have better homes now is that we have greater minds than\nanimals and have learned to use our hands and brains to build houses.\n\n\u201cHe said that the cave men must have thought it wonderful when they\nfound they could make stone hatchets sharp enough to cut down small\ntrees. With them they learned to make huts out of wood, which were\nlarger and more comfortable than caves and just as safe from storms.\n\n\u201cAs time went on, men paid more attention to building. They learned\nto make houses of stone and clay and brick. They kept on studying and\nimproving until they were able to build great cities such as we have\nto-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen!\u201d exclaimed Ruth, clapping her hands as Wallace finished his\nstory. \u201cWouldn\u2019t Wallace make a good teacher! That sounded exactly like\nthe way Mr. Emerson talks.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing like so interesting, though,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cHe promised to\nshow us his new house when it is finished.\u201d\n\n\u201cWouldn\u2019t I like to go with you!\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Are there any houses being built near you?\n\n    Have you ever watched the carpenter at work?\n\n    Tell about some of his tools.\n\n    In the early days in this country men had to build\n    their own houses. Were these log cabins as comfortable\n    and well built as our houses are to-day?\n\n    How is it that the carpenter can do so much better work\n    than you could?\n\n    Where does the carpenter get his lumber?\n\n    Have you ever visited a sawmill?\n\n    Wouldn\u2019t you like to ask at the library for some books\n    that tell about cave men and cliff dwellers? about\n    lumbering?\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRICKLAYER\n\n\nI. The Fallen Chimney\n\nAll day long the rain came pouring down. By night the wind rose with a\nshriek and a roar, banging unfastened shutters and rattling windows in\ntheir casings.\n\n\u201cOh, dear, what an awful night!\u201d exclaimed Ruth. \u201cHow glad I am that\nFluffy is safe indoors!\u201d and she stroked the little cat lying on a\ncushion on the sewing machine.\n\n\u201cAnd how glad I am that Harry Teelow found that lost puppy to-day,\u201d\nsaid Wallace.\n\n\u201cPretty bad, isn\u2019t it?\u201d Mr. Duwell said, looking up from his paper.\n\u201cI don\u2019t suppose the bricklayer came to mend the chimney to-day. He\ncouldn\u2019t have worked in such a storm.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, he did not come,\u201d replied Mrs. Duwell with a troubled look. \u201cDo\nyou suppose there is any danger of its tumbling down?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I can\u2019t say,\u201d replied Mr. Duwell, shaking his head doubtfully.\n\u201cI wish I had stopped to see Mr. Bricklayer a week ago when I first\ndiscovered how loose the bricks were, instead of waiting until\u2014\u201d\n\nBut he did not finish the sentence, for bang! even above the terrific\nnoise of the storm came the sound of falling bricks and broken glass.\n\nThe family rushed into the little kitchen, which was built on the end\nof the house.\n\nWhat a sight met their eyes!\n\nWater was pouring through a hole in the ceiling where the roof had\ngiven way. Rain splashed in great gusty dashes through the window where\nthe bricks had broken through.\n\nAlready there was a little lake on the floor.\n\nRuth was the first to speak. \u201cIf it keeps on,\u201d she said, half laughing\nand half crying, \u201cit will be quite deep enough for Alice and the mouse\nand the Dodo to swim in!\u201d She was thinking of Alice in Wonderland, you\nknow.\n\nThat made everybody laugh, and all began to work. They placed tubs and\npails where they would catch the water, and stuffed old cloths into the\nbroken window panes.\n\nIt was fully an hour before the family were settled down again in the\nliving room.\n\n\u201cWell, children, you can now understand the saying, \u2018Never put off till\nto-morrow what should be done to-day,\u2019\u201d remarked Mr. Duwell.\n\n\u201cIt is a lesson none of us will soon forget,\u201d added Mrs. Duwell.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: THIS PICTURE SHOWS A CLAY PIT, A KILN, BRICKMAKERS,\nBRICK ROADWAY, CULVERT, CHIMNEY, BRIDGE, MEN LAYING BRICKS.]\n\n\u201cCould you and I have mended the broken chimney, father?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cNot very well, my boy,\u201d replied Mr. Duwell. \u201c\u2018Every man to his trade,\u2019\nyou know. By the way, I hope Mr. Bricklayer will be here before you\nchildren start to school in the morning. Run to bed now so that you can\nbe up early to see him begin his work.\u201d\n\n\nII. The Bricklayer\n\nThe next day dawned bright and sunny, with only a merry little breeze\nto remind one of yesterday\u2019s storm.\n\nThe bricklayer did not come before the children started to school in\nthe morning, but just after lunch. They had only time to watch him and\nhis helper climb to the roof.\n\n\u201cI am going to get home from school early,\u201d said Wallace; \u201cmaybe they\nwill not be through by that time.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am, too,\u201d Ruth chimed in. \u201cI wonder what bricks are,\u201d she added.\n\n\u201cBricks? Why, don\u2019t you know?\u201d asked Wallace. \u201cOur manual training\nteacher told us that bricks are a sort of imitation stone made of\nmoistened clay and sand mixed together, and shaped as we see them. They\nare baked in an oven-like place, called a kiln, or dried in the sun.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I didn\u2019t know that. I wonder who first thought of making them.\nThey are something like sun-baked mud-pies,\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\u201cOur teacher said that bricks three thousand years old have been found\nin Egypt, some with writing on them.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I remember that the Bible tells about bricks. Why, Wallace, men\nmust have been bricklayers for thousands of years!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is lucky for us they haven\u2019t forgotten how to make them, for what\ncould we do without a chimney?\u201d said Wallace. \u201cHello, there is Harry! I\nwant to see him about the ball game;\u201d and away he ran.\n\n\nIII. After School\n\nWallace brought Harry, and Ruth brought Mildred Maydole home after\nschool to watch the bricklayer work.\n\n\u201cWhy, how straight and true the bricks must be!\u201d exclaimed Harry. \u201cA\nbricklayer has to be very careful, doesn\u2019t he?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed he does,\u201d replied Wallace. \u201cDo you know what the mortar is made\nof?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; I think I do. It is lime and sand and\u2014something else,\u201d Harry\nsaid. That made them all laugh.\n\n\u201cI think the most wonderful brick work I ever saw,\u201d said Mildred, \u201cwas\nin the arch of a big sewer. I couldn\u2019t tell why the bricks didn\u2019t all\nfall down. My father said the mortar held them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, if it weren\u2019t for bricklayers, and cement workers, and stone\nmasons, we should be without lots of things!\u201d exclaimed Harry. \u201cJust\nimagine it, if you can.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s so,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cLet\u2019s count what we know of that they build\nfor us\u2014sewers, bridge piers,\u2014go on, Mildred.\u201d\n\n\u201cPavements,\u201d added Mildred.\n\n\u201cHouses and chimneys,\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\u201cFoundations for houses,\u201d said Harry.\n\n\u201cHere comes father!\u201d cried Ruth suddenly; and all the children ran to\nmeet him.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ve been talking about how it would be if there were no bricklayers,\nor stone masons, or cement workers, father,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad to hear that,\u201d said Mr. Duwell. \u201cI was thinking very much the\nsame thing as I walked home so soon after such a heavy rain without\ngetting my feet wet.\n\n\u201cI remember what Benjamin Franklin wrote,\u201d he went on, \u201cabout the\nstreets of Philadelphia in his day. He said the mud after a storm was\nso deep that it came above the people\u2019s shoe-tops. It was Benjamin\nFranklin himself who first talked of paving the streets.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad they aren\u2019t as bad as they were in Benjamin Franklin\u2019s time,\u201d\nsaid Mildred.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Have you ever watched a bricklayer working?\n\n    What was he doing?\n\n    Could you have done it?\n\n    Where do you suppose he got his bricks?\n\n    Have you ever seen bricks being made?\n\n    Are bricklayers, cement workers, and stone masons more\n    needed in the city or in the country? Why?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Do you know how our city grew,\n      Its lofty buildings raising?\n    Its pavements, parks, and bridges, too\u2014\n      Whose labors are they praising?\n    Just the workmen who every day\n    Did their work in the very best way.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PLUMBER, THE PLASTERER, THE PAINTER\n\n\nI. A Visit to a Little Town\n\n\u201cI have an errand to do just outside the city limits,\u201d said Mr. Duwell\none pleasant Saturday morning. \u201cWould you like to go with me, Wallace?\u201d\n\n\u201cI certainly should,\u201d said the boy.\n\nIn a few minutes father and son were on the electric car, speeding\ntoward Oldtown.\n\nWhen there, they walked up the main street, which was lined with rows\nof shabby houses, badly in need of paint. Little pools of standing\nwater lay in the gutters.\n\n\u201cWhat an awful smell! I should think it would make people sick! And\nlook at the flies!\u201d exclaimed Wallace.\n\n\u201cI have no doubt it does make people sick,\u201d said Mr. Du well. \u201cFlies\nand mosquitoes breed very rapidly in such places.\u201d\n\n\u201cFlies and mosquitoes carry disease germs, Mr. Emerson says,\u201d observed\nWallace.\n\n\u201cSo they do; they are more dangerous to health than poi-son-ous\nsnakes,\u201d his father said.\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t the people clean their gutters?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cI suppose they do sometimes,\u201d replied his father; \u201cbut Oldtown will\nnever be clean and healthy while the dirty water from the houses is\ndrained into the streets and alleys. Waste water must be carried off by\nmeans of pipes into a sewer. That is the work of the plumber. A good\nplumber is a health officer.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a lot of people it takes to keep things going right, father! This\ntown certainly does need a plumber,\u201d remarked Wallace.\n\nThis remark seemed to please Mr. Duwell very much.\n\n\u201cHow would you like to move to Oldtown, Wallace?\u201d asked his father when\ntheir errand was finished and they were riding home.\n\n\u201cI shouldn\u2019t mind,\u201d said Wallace, \u201cif I were a plumber.\u201d\n\n\nII. At Home\n\nWhen Ruth saw them coming, she ran to meet them.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think, father!\u201d she exclaimed; \u201cthe plasterer came while\nyou were gone, and mended the kitchen ceiling. Mother is so pleased!\nCome and look at it!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s very well done,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, examining the neat patch over\nthe large hole which the falling chimney had made. \u201cBut it makes the\nwhole room look as if it needed a new coat of paint. What do you think,\nmother?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think it would make me a better cook to have a nice clean kitchen,\u201d\nsaid Mrs. Duwell, smiling.\n\n\u201cYou couldn\u2019t be a better cook, mother!\u201d Wallace said, eyeing the good\nmeal which was ready to be put on the dining table.\n\n\u201cThat is what we all think, Wallace,\u201d said his father; \u201cand we think,\ntoo, that such a good cook deserves a better kitchen. So on Monday I\nwill ask the painter to see about doing the walls and woodwork.\u201d\n\n\nIII. The New Kitchen\n\nWhen the men had finished their work the kitchen was so changed that it\nscarcely knew itself, as Wallace said.\n\nInstead of dim walls and dull-gray paint, everything was white and\nblue. A shining white sink with two bright nickel spigots was standing\nproudly in one corner of the room.\n\nMrs. Duwell had just finished hanging a white dotted muslin curtain at\nthe window over the sink when Ruth entered.\n\n\u201cOh, mother, doesn\u2019t that look lovely!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\n\u201cI thought such a bright clean kitchen deserved a clean new curtain,\u201d\nsaid her mother.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t the kitchen beautiful!\u201d Ruth went on. \u201cIt seems like living in a\nfairy tale\u2014as though we had wakened up to find things changed by magic.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt does, in a way,\u201d agreed her mother; \u201cbut, really, they were\nevery-day fairies who brought about these changes and turned ugliness\ninto beauty.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think I know their names,\u201d Ruth said, laughing; \u201cMr. Plumber, Mr.\nPlasterer, and Mr. Painter.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, how did you guess?\u201d said her mother.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Did the plumber ever come to your house?\n\n    What did he do?\n\n    What would have happened if you could not have found a\n    plumber?\n\n    None of us would like to live in a town where there are\n    no plumbers. Why not?\n\n    Shut your eyes and try to imagine how the Duwell\n    family\u2019s kitchen looked before the workmen began to\n    work; now imagine that they have finished their work.\n    Tell how different it looks.\n\n    Have workmen ever made such changes in your home?\n\n    Can you name some other people besides the carpenter,\n    the bricklayer, the plumber, the plasterer, and the\n    painter who help give us shelter?\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO SUPPLY US WITH FUEL\n\n\n\n\nTHE COAL MAN AND THE MINER\n\n\nI. Black Diamonds\n\n\u201cHow are the black diamonds holding out, Wallace?\u201d asked Mrs. Duwell.\nWallace had just brought up coal from the cellar.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cOnly a few more scuttlefuls in the bin, mother,\u201d answered Wallace.\n\n\u201cOn your way from school you may stop at the coal yard and ask Mr. Carr\nto send a ton to-morrow.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cAll right, mother, I won\u2019t forget. But tell me, why do they call coal\nblack diamonds?\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t time to talk about it now. Perhaps Mr. Carr will tell you.\nYou have just ten minutes to get to school.\u201d\n\nOn his way home Wallace stepped into the little office of the big coal\nyard.\n\n\u201cHow are you, my boy; what can I do for you to-day?\u201d asked Mr. Carr,\nwho was a rather tall man with a bent back and one shoulder higher than\nthe other.\n\n\u201cHow do you do, Mr. Carr?\u201d replied Wallace. \u201cMother wants you to send a\nton of coal to-morrow\u2014the same kind as the last you sent.\u201d\n\nWallace waited until the coal man entered the order in the book and\nthen asked, \u201cMr. Carr, will you tell me why they call coal black\ndiamonds?\u201d\n\nMr. Carr smiled pleasantly. \u201cCertainly, son, certainly. You see, coal\nshines like diamonds, and then, it\u2019s worth more.\u201d\n\n\u201cWorth more? Why, I thought diamonds were worth more than anything\nelse.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed! If there weren\u2019t any coal in the ground, all the diamonds\nin the world wouldn\u2019t heat a house, cook a meal, pull a railway train,\nor run a machine.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I never thought of that,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cYou certainly could not\nburn diamonds in a cook-stove.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed!\u201d said Mr. Carr, who seemed much pleased at Wallace\u2019s\ninterest.\n\n\nII. In a Coal Mine\n\n\u201cWere you ever down in a coal mine, Mr. Carr?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cWas I ever down in a coal mine?\u201d repeated Mr. Carr. \u201cYes, sir, I was a\nminer for years in the coal regions, and would have been in a mine yet,\nprobably, if it hadn\u2019t been for this,\u201d pointing to his shoulder and\nbent back.\n\n\u201cIs it very dangerous work?\u201d asked Wallace, with wide-open eyes.\n\n\u201cWell, if the roof doesn\u2019t fall on you, and if the mine doesn\u2019t catch\nfire, and if the gas doesn\u2019t choke you, or explode and blow you up, it\nisn\u2019t dangerous; it is perfectly safe.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how did it get hurt\u2014your shoulder, I mean?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cOh, that! I\u2019ll tell you. One day we were getting out coal at the far\nend of a tunnel. Suddenly, before we had time to run, the roof came\ntumbling down and buried us. When they pulled us out, my helper was\ndead, and my back was as you see it now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat makes mining so dangerous?\u201d asked Wallace, in surprise.\n\n\u201cWell, you see, it\u2019s this way. When you step into the cage, that is the\nelevator, you leave the sunlight behind. The cage sinks down, down into\npitch darkness, sometimes hundreds of feet. At the bottom of the shaft\nit is like an under-ground city. Street-like tunnels, with car tracks\nlaid on them, run out in every direction. The coal cars are drawn by\nmules or by electricity.\n\n\u201cAs you go up the tracks you see cross tunnels and the miners\u2019 little\nlamps shining in dark holes that look like black caves. Here the miners\nwork, blasting out the coal, and loading it on cars to be drawn to the\nmouth of the mine and hoisted up into daylight.\n\n\u201cSometimes the walls and roof are not properly braced. Then they cave\nin and great lumps of coal fall down on the men. Sometimes gas or\nfire-damp collects. Then there is danger of choking or of being blown\nup. Sometimes, in blasting, the coal catches fire, so that the whole\nmine burns.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: CAN YOU TELL A STORY ABOUT THE JOURNEY OF A TON OF COAL\nFROM THE TIME THE MINER DIGS IT OUT OF THE MINE, AND BOYS SORT OUT THE\nSLATE, UNTIL IT IS PUT INTO THE FURNACE IN A HOUSE?]\n\n\u201cWhy, miners must be as brave as soldiers,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cYes, I suppose they are brave. People do not know how much they owe to\nthe miners. They risk their lives every time they go down into the\nmines. But they don\u2019t think much about the danger. That is part of\ntheir work.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you for telling me about it,\u201d said Wallace.\n\n\u201cYou are welcome, my boy; good-by.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-by, Mr. Carr.\u201d\n\nWallace hurried home with a new respect for Mr. Carr and the men who\nwork in the dark mines under the ground.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    How does the coal man bring the coal to your house?\n\n    From whom does he buy it?\n\n    Pretend you are a piece of coal and tell the story of\n    your life.\n\n    Name some of the things which we would have to do\n    without if there were no miners or coal men.\n\n    Do you burn anything else at your house besides coal?\n\n    Are the men who supply us with these things our helpers\n    too?\n\n    Where does the wood man get kindling and firewood?\n\n    Where does the oil man get oil?\n\n    Will you ask for a book about p\u1e17-tr\u014d\u00b4l\u1e17-\u016dm, or coal\n    oil, when you go to the library next time?\n\n    Can you think of any other people who supply us with\n    fuel?\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO CARE FOR OUR HEALTH\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTHE DENTIST\n\n\nI. Why Ruth Was Afraid\n\n\u201cOh, dear!\u201d sobbed Ruth. \u201cO\u2014h, dear!\u201d She was sitting in her little\nrocking-chair in the living-room.\n\n\u201cWhy, what\u2019s the matter?\u201d asked Wallace, coming in to look for his\nbooks. \u201cAre you hurt?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo;\u201d Ruth shook her head.\n\n\u201cWell, then, what is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Wallace, I am so afraid I\u2019m going to be hurt. Mother says there\nis a dark spot on one of my teeth. She is getting ready to take me to\nDoctor Harrison\u2019s. I have never had a tooth filled.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, of all the silly things I ever heard of,\u201d exclaimed Wallace,\n\u201cthat\u2019s the silliest! What makes you think the dentist will hurt you?\u201d\n\nRuth looked up in surprise.\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you ever heard the boys and girls talk of how they were hurt\nwhen they had teeth filled?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cOh, I have heard some boys talk,\u201d Wallace admitted; \u201cbut they were\nboys who never cleaned their teeth\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who did not see a dentist until they had a toothache,\u201d added Mrs.\nDuwell, overhearing Wallace\u2019s remark as she entered the room.\n\n\u201cWhat, crying?\u201d she asked, noticing Ruth\u2019s swollen eye-lids. \u201cWhy, my\ndear little girl, the dentist is one of your best friends.\u201d\n\n\u201cI guess some of the girls and boys would like him better if he didn\u2019t\nhurt them so much, mother,\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\u201cThat isn\u2019t the dentist\u2019s fault, children,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell. \u201cIf boys\nand girls had their teeth examined once or twice a year, the dentist\nwould catch the trouble in time and save them much pain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t suppose dentists ever want to hurt anyone,\u201d Ruth said.\n\n\u201cNo, indeed. I think they are very kind to be willing to do so in order\nto save teeth. It is dreadful to have bad teeth. Nothing tastes just\nright; and worse than that, bad teeth mean bad health. Good teeth are\na grist mill to grind our food. Without good teeth we cannot have good\nhealth.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is so,\u201d said Wallace. \u201cEven horses aren\u2019t worth much after their\nteeth are gone.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy can\u2019t they wear false ones?\u201d asked Ruth with such seriousness that\nWallace burst out laughing.\n\n\u201cI wish they could, poor things,\u201d said her mother; \u201cbut come, dear, we\nmust start.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nII. At the Dentist\u2019s\n\n\u201cAh, here is a little girl whose mouth looks as though she brushed\nher teeth regularly,\u201d said Doctor Harrison, as he raised the big\ncomfortable arm chair in which Ruth was sitting.\n\n\u201cShe certainly is good about that, doctor,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell.\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d said the doctor, \u201cI think I shall give her one of my little\npicture cards.\u201d\n\nRuth looked so pleased that he handed her two.\n\n\u201cOne is for Wallace,\u201d Ruth said.\n\n\u201cThat picture is to remind forgetful children,\u201d said the doctor. \u201cNow\nlet us look at the twenty-odd pearls in your mouth, little girl.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cOh, Wallace, Doctor Harrison didn\u2019t hurt me a bit,\u201d cried Ruth,\nrunning into the living-room after they had reached home. \u201cHe said that\nhe didn\u2019t often hurt people who came to him in time. Here is a card, he\ngave me for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you,\u201d said Wallace, looking at the card. \u201cOh, it\u2019s to remind me\nto brush my teeth. I wonder if he thought I needed it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Doctor Harrison didn\u2019t say that, Wallace; but he did say that we\nwouldn\u2019t want to eat anything with dirty hands, and that really dirty\nteeth are worse than dirty hands.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: THE ROAD TO HEALTH.]\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n    Do you have your teeth examined once or twice a year?\n\n    The dentist is one of your best friends. Why?\n\n    Do you think that the people in the United States would\n    be as well as they are, if there were no dentists? Why\n    not?\n\n    Suppose you had a toothache and there was no dentist to\n    whom you could go. What would happen?\n\n    Aren\u2019t you glad that there are men who have studied, so\n    that they can help you take care of your teeth?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Suppose we children had to live\n      Without the help of others\u2014\n    I mean, suppose we had to grow\n      Without the help of mothers;\n\n    Suppose there were no groceryman,\n      No milkman, doctor, baker,\n    No tailor who could make our coats,\n      And there were no dressmaker;\n\n    Suppose no people ever did\n      The things that they could do\n    To help each other in this world\u2014\n      I wouldn\u2019t want to live, would you?\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE DRUGGIST, THE NURSE, AND THE DOCTOR\n\n\nI. The Sick Baby\n\n\u201cRuth, I wish you would stop at Doctor Marcy\u2019s office on your way to\nschool,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell a few days later, \u201cand ask him to come to\nsee the baby. The little thing has a high fever.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, dear, I hope baby won\u2019t be sick!\u201d exclaimed Ruth, kissing her\nmother good-by.\n\nAll the morning she remembered her mother\u2019s troubled look. At noon she\ndid not stop to talk with the girls, but hurried home as fast as she\ncould.\n\nWallace was there before her, though, having run all the way. He met\nher at the door.\n\n\u201cRuth,\u201d he whispered, \u201cI met Doctor Marcy as he came out, and he says\nthat the baby has pneumonia,[B] and it is a bad case. Mother doesn\u2019t\nknow I am home. Can\u2019t we get some lunch ready to take to her?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed,\u201d replied Ruth, tiptoeing into the kitchen. \u201cYou put the\nkettle on the fire and I\u2019ll make some tea and milk toast.\u201d\n\nMrs. Duwell looked very pale and weary when the children appeared with\nthe lunch tray.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know you were home, Ruth,\u201d she whispered, stepping into the\nhall. \u201cHow quietly you must have worked, children.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there anything else we can do to help?\u201d asked Wallace.\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, there is, Wallace. You may take this pre-scrip-tion to the\ndrug store to be filled. Ask the druggist to send the medicine over as\nsoon as possible.\u201d\n\nJust then the baby gave a pitiful little moan, which made the mother\nturn again to the crib. The children stole softly downstairs.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll run right over to the drug store, Ruth,\u201d Wallace said, forgetting\nhis own lunch.\n\n\nII. The Druggist\n\n\u201cGood morning, Mr. Jones,\u201d he said breathlessly as he entered the\nstore. \u201cBaby is very ill, and mother wishes this prescription filled.\nShe told me to ask if you would please send the medicine over just as\nsoon as possible.\u201d\n\n\u201cBaby sick? How sorry I am, Wallace,\u201d said Mr. Jones. \u201cOf course we\nwill send it soon. I will see to it at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, thank you.\u201d Wallace drew a sigh of relief. \u201cHow much will it be,\nplease?\u201d\n\nThe druggist examined the queer Latin words of the doctor\u2019s\nprescription. \u201cThis calls for one very expensive medicine, Wallace,\u201d he\nsaid; \u201cso we shall have to charge seventy-five cents.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat will be all right,\u201d said Wallace.\n\nWhen he reached home Ruth had a nice lunch spread for him.\n\n\u201cI am not going to school this afternoon, Wallace,\u201d she told him. \u201cI\u2019m\ngoing to tidy up the house, and help mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook at the clock, Ruth!\u201d exclaimed Wallace suddenly, \u201cI must start\nright away\u2014the medicine will be seventy-five cents.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will have the money ready,\u201d said Ruth. \u201cGood-by.\u201d\n\nThe druggist\u2019s boy came with the medicine a few minutes after Wallace\nleft, and the baby was given the first dose at once.\n\nWhen their father came the children had supper ready, but no one ate\nmuch.\n\n\u201cI am glad you can be so helpful, children,\u201d he said.\n\n\nIII. The Trained Nurse\n\nFor five days the whole family did everything they knew to help save\nthe baby\u2019s life. Mr. Duwell was worried not only about the baby but\nabout the children\u2019s mother.\n\n\u201cI agree with the doctor that it would be much wiser to have a trained\nnurse,\u201d he said on Saturday afternoon.\n\n\u201cBut mother cannot bear the thought of letting anyone else take care of\nthe baby,\u201d said Ruth.\n\n\u201cI know that mother is a splendid nurse,\u201d Mr. Duwell continued; \u201cbut a\ntrained nurse knows all the best new methods of nursing, and could give\nmuch relief to mother, who is tired out.\u201d\n\nJust then the bell rang.\n\n\u201cIt is the doctor,\u201d said Ruth. Mr. Duwell went to the door, followed by\nthe little girl.\n\nThe doctor was not alone. With him was a young lady. Ruth liked her at\nonce; she seemed so quiet and strong, and looked so kind.\n\n[Illustration: DO YOU THINK THIS IS THE RIGHT KIND OF BED FOR A SICK\nBABY? WHY NOT?]\n\n\u201cHow do you do, sir?\u201d said Doctor Marcy to Mr. Duwell. \u201cThis is Miss\nFoster, a trained nurse. I am taking matters in my own hands, you\nsee. That good wife of yours is entirely worn out.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am pleased to meet Miss Foster and I am very much obliged to you for\nbringing her, doctor,\u201d Mr. Duwell replied.\n\n\u201cIt seems to me to be the very best thing to do. I have tried to\npersuade Mrs. Duwell to see things that way,\u201d said the doctor.\n\n\u201cOh, come upstairs, doctor,\u201d called Mrs. Duwell, hearing the doctor\u2019s\nvoice; \u201cI think baby is scarcely breathing.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said the doctor to the nurse, leading the way.\n\nMrs. Duwell was standing near the crib as they entered.\n\n\u201cThis is the nurse I was talking about,\u201d the doctor said, introducing\nMiss Foster, and turning to look at the baby.\n\n\u201cI am very glad\u2014\u201d Mrs. Duwell started to speak, but she fainted away\nbefore she could finish the sentence.\n\nThe nurse did not seem frightened. She laid Mrs. Duwell flat on the\nfloor. After sprinkling cold water on her face, she held some smelling\nsalts to her nose.\n\nIn a minute or two Mrs. Duwell opened her eyes. \u201cI must have fainted,\u201d\nshe said; \u201cI am so glad you were here, nurse. Doctor, how is baby?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout as I expected,\u201d the doctor replied. \u201cI believe the worst will be\nover to-night. Now, I want you to take this medicine which Miss Foster\nwill give you, and lie down for a while. I expect to come back about\nten o\u2019clock to-night. Good-by; please obey Miss Foster\u2019s orders,\u201d he\nadded.\n\n\u201cIt is such a relief to my mind, doctor,\u201d said Mr. Duwell, meeting him\nat the foot of the stairs, \u201cto know that the nurse is here.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a relief,\u201d replied the doctor. \u201cIf the strain had kept on much\nlonger, Mrs. Duwell would have had a long term of illness.\u201d\n\n\nIV. The Doctor, a Hero\n\nThe doctor and nurse watched by the baby\u2019s bedside until the danger was\npassed. Both wore happy smiles when the doctor assured the tired Duwell\nfamily that the baby would live.\n\n\u201cOh, doctor, money cannot pay you for your kindness,\u201d said Mrs. Duwell.\n\u201cThrough rain and snow storms, at midnight and at daybreak, you have\ncome to help us. How tired you must often be.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true, doctor,\u201d Mr. Duwell added; \u201cyou risk your life as\nwillingly as a soldier does, every time you go into danger.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe doctors don\u2019t think anything about that,\u201d replied Doctor Marcy\nmodestly. \u201cWe are so anxious to have people get well.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, doctors are heroes like soldiers!\u201d exclaimed Wallace, looking at\nthe doctor with new respect. \u201cI never thought of that before!\u201d\n\n\u201cNurses are, too,\u201d whispered Ruth; but Doctor Marcy overheard.\n\n\u201cThat is right, Ruth,\u201d he said. \u201cNurses are, too.\u201d\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n\nThe Druggist\n\n\n    How long does a druggist have to study in order to fill\n    prescriptions? Would it be safe to let those who have\n    not studied handle medicines? Why not?\n\n    How near is a drug store to your home? Can you imagine\n    how it would be to live ten miles from a drug store?\n\n\nThe Nurse\n\n    Can you give some reasons why a trained nurse can care\n    for a sick person better than an untrained one?\n\n    Do you know any trained nurses?\n\n    How long does a trained nurse study before graduation?\n\n\nThe Doctor\n\n    Did you ever need a doctor at your house?\n\n    How did you let him know? Did he come quickly?\n\n    What might have happened if he had not come?\n\n    Pretend, you are a country doctor and tell about some\n    of your long drives. Do you think doctors are heroes?\n    Why?\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[B] Pronounced n\u016b-m\u014d\u00b4n\u0113-\u0101.\n\n\n\n\nONE FOR ALL AND ALL FOR ONE\n\nA Play\n\n\nParts to be taken by Pupils\n\n    _Section I_\n    Baker\n    Milkman\n    Butcher\n    Grocer\n    or others who supply food\n\n    _Section II_\n    Tailor\n    Dressmaker\n    Shoemaker\n    Milliner\n    or others who supply clothing\n\n    _Section III_\n    Bricklayer\n    Carpenter\n    Painter\n    Plumber\n    or others who supply shelter\n\n    _Section IV_\n    Coal man\n    Miner\n    Wood man\n    Oil man\n    or others who supply fuel\n\n    _Section V_\n    Doctor\n    Druggist\n    Nurse\n    or others who help keep us well\n\n_Teacher to Sec. I._ What do you do?\n\n_Baker._ I am the baker; I bake bread.\n\n_Milkman._ I am the milkman; I supply the milk.\n\n_Butcher._ I am the butcher; I supply the meat.\n\n_Grocer._ I am the grocer; I sell groceries.\n\n_Teacher._ Do you make clothing or build houses?\n\n_Baker._ No, we supply food for all; that is our part.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Teacher to Sec. II._ What do you do?\n\n_Tailor._ I am the tailor; I make the clothing.\n\n_Dressmaker._ I am the dressmaker; I make dresses.\n\n_Shoemaker._ I am the shoemaker; I make shoes.\n\n_Milliner._ I am the milliner; I make the hats.\n\n_Teacher._ Do you supply food or fuel?\n\n_Tailor._ No, we make clothing for all; that is our part.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Teacher to Sec. III._ What do you do?\n\n_Bricklayer._ I am the bricklayer; I lay the bricks.\n\n_Carpenter._ I am the carpenter; I build the houses.\n\n_Painter._ I am the painter; I paint the houses.\n\n_Plumber._ I am the plumber; I fit the pipes.\n\n_Teacher._ Do you make clothes or attend the sick?\n\n_Bricklayer._ No, we build houses for all; that is our part.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Teacher to Sec. IV._ And what do you do?\n\n_Coal man._ I am the coal man; I deliver the coal.\n\n_Miner._ I am the miner; I dig the coal.\n\n_Wood man._ I am the wood man; I cut the wood.\n\n_Oil man._ I am the oil man; I supply oil.\n\n_Teacher._ Do you supply food or clothing?\n\n_Coalman._ No, we furnish fuel; that is our part.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Teacher to Sec. V._ And what do you do?\n\n_Doctor._ I am the doctor; I heal the sick.\n\n_Druggist._ I am the druggist; I sell medicines.\n\n_Nurse._ I am the nurse; I help the doctor.\n\n_Teacher._ Do you build houses or furnish fuel?\n\n_Doctor._ No, we keep people well, or aid them when they are ill; that\nis our part.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_All recite:_\n\n    One works for all and all for one,\n    And so the work of the world gets done.\n\n[Illustration: ONE FOR ALL ALL FOR ONE.]\n\n\n\n\nPART III\n\nTHE AMERICAN RED CROSS\n\nJunior Membership and School Activities\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE JUNIOR RED CROSS\n\n\nIn September, 1917, President Wilson sent out a letter from the White\nHouse in Washington to the school children of the United States.\n\nHe told them that the President of the United States is the President\nof the American Red Cross, and he said that the Red Cross people wanted\nthe children to help them in their work.\n\nTheir work, you know, is to help all those who are suffering or in need.\n\nSuch work is so beautiful that it is really doing golden deeds.\n\nNow read for yourself this letter from the President of the United\nStates which belongs to every school child in America.\n\n\nA PROCLAMATION\n\n\n    _To the School Children of the United States_:\n\n    The President of the United States is also President of\n    the American Red Cross. It is from these offices joined\n    in one that I write you a word of greeting at this time\n    when so many of you are beginning the school year.\n\n    The American Red Cross has just prepared a Junior\n    Membership with School Activities in which every pupil\n    in the United States can find a chance to serve our\n    country. The School is the natural center of your life.\n    Through it you can best work in the great cause of\n    freedom to which we have all pledged ourselves.\n\n    Our Junior Red Cross will bring to you opportunities\n    of service to your community and to other communities\n    all over the world and guide your service with high\n    and religious ideals. It will teach you how to save\n    in order that suffering children elsewhere may have a\n    chance to live. It will teach you how to prepare some\n    of the supplies which wounded soldiers and homeless\n    families lack. It will send to you through the Red\n    Cross Bulletins the thrilling stories of relief and\n    rescue. And best of all, more perfectly than through\n    any of your other school lessons, you will learn by\n    doing those kind things under your teacher\u2019s direction\n    to be future good citizens of this great country which\n    we all love.\n\n    And I commend to all school teachers in the country the\n    simple plan which the American Red Cross has worked out\n    to provide for your co\u00f6peration, knowing as I do that\n    school children will give their best service under the\n    direct guidance and instruction of their teachers. Is\n    not this perhaps the chance for which you have been\n    looking to give your time and efforts in some measure\n    to meet our national needs?\n\n                               (Signed) WOODROW WILSON,\n                                               _President._\n\n    September 15, 1917.\n\n    How do you suppose the school children of the United\n    States felt when they read this letter from the\n    President?\n\n    It is a wonderful letter. It does not read like a\n    letter from a great man to little children.\n\n    It is different from most of the letters which grown\n    people write to children, for the President writes to\n    the children asking for their help, just as if they\n    were grown up.\n\n    Indeed, when the grown people read the letter they\n    wished that they could be school children again,\n    because there was no Junior Red Cross when they were\n    young, and they had to wait to grew up before they\n    could help the Red Cross do golden deeds.\n\n    You see, when they were young, everybody thought, \u201cWhen\n    the children are grown up they will help us.\u201d Then they\n    waited for them to grow.\n\n    Are you not glad that you are able, while a child, to\n    do helpful work for your country?\n\n    Now let us think about some of the golden deeds which\n    the Red Cross does.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF PEACE\n\n\nOf course, in times of war the Red Cross is very busy helping the\nsoldiers, but do you think that it is idle in times of peace?\n\nNo, indeed. The Red Cross is always listening for a call of distress,\nand is ready to aid any people who are suffering.\n\nOne day in 1912 the Red Cross heard the people who lived along the\nbanks of the Mississippi River calling for help, for the river had\nbeen so swollen by rains that it had risen high and overflowed its\nbanks in a dangerous flood.\n\n[Illustration: _Picture from a photograph_]\n\n    Do you know what happens during a flood?\n\n    Name all the different things you see on the little\n    island in this picture.\n\n    Why do you suppose the people are all staying there\n    instead of rowing off in the boats?\n\n    Because they are expecting the relief launch of the\n    Red Cross to come and take them to a safe place. The\n    water is flowing too swiftly for the little boats to\n    cross in safety. They would probably be carried against\n    a tree and upset.\n\n    Many houses have been carried down the river during\n    this flood, so you can understand how glad the people\n    will be to see help coming. In this next picture you\n    will see how the Red Cross answered the people\u2019s cry\n    for help.\n\n[Illustration: _Picture from a photograph_]\n\n    This picture shows a Carnegie Library which was used\n    by the Red Cross as a relief station during the\n    Mississippi flood.\n\n    The Red Cross spent thousands of dollars during this\n    flood, saving many lives and helping hundreds of flood\n    victims.\n\n    Can you name some of the things the people needed?\n\n    What do you suppose they think of the Red Cross?\n\n    Imagine that a great wind storm or cyclone should come\n    very suddenly whirling through your city, tearing\n    down houses, uprooting trees, and leaving thousands\n    of people homeless\u2014who would be the first to help the\n    people who were hurt?\n\n    This is just an example of the way the Red Cross is\n    standing ready to help in time of need.\n\n    If you read the _Red Cross Magazine_ you will learn\n    about hundreds of golden deeds which the Red Cross is\n    doing, for the work of the Red Cross in times of peace\n    and at all times is to help people in distress and need.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF WAR\n\n\nThe work of the Red Cross during war is\n\nFirst. To care for and nurse the wounded among our own soldiers and\nsailors, and even the wounded of the enemy who fall into the hands of\nthe Red Cross.\n\nOf course, in order to do this, millions of people who are not doing\nthe nursing can make the articles needed for that purpose. What can the\nJunior Red Cross do to help?\n\nSecond. To care for the families of the soldiers and sailors who have\ngiven their services to their country.\n\nHow can the Junior Red Cross help?\n\n\n\n\nBEFORE THE DAYS OF THE RED CROSS\n\n\nDo you suppose that people always felt that they should help everybody\nin such ways?\n\nNo; the Red Cross is not yet sixty years old.\n\nWar is thousands of years old.\n\nIn olden days when soldiers fought, there were no kind Red Cross nurses\nto care for the wounded. There were no faithful Red Cross dogs to\nsearch for wounded soldiers after the battle was over.\n\nOften the suffering men died of neglect when proper nursing would\nhave saved their lives. But no one ever thought of sending a band of\nwomen nurses to wars to help the soldiers, before the days of Florence\nNightingale.\n\n\nFlorence Nightingale\n\nFlorence was a little English girl who always said that when she grew\nup she would be a nurse.\n\nShe felt sorry to see any living creature suffer and always tried to\nhelp it. Sometimes it was a bird with a broken wing or an injured\nrabbit that she tended.\n\nAll the neighbors brought their sick pets to her. The little nurse\nfinally had so many patients that her father gave her a corner of the\ngreenhouse for a hospital. The animals learned to love her and she had\nmany friends among them as you may imagine.\n\nWhen she was a young woman nursing in a London hospital, England\u2019s\nsoldiers were sent to war with Russia\u2019s soldiers. They had to travel in\nships all the way to the Crimea in Russia. You see, they were a great\ndistance from home.\n\nNews of their terrible sufferings reached Florence Nightingale in the\nhospital. Taking a band of nurses with her she went to nurse the\nwounded soldiers in that far off land.\n\nWhen the nurses arrived there, they found thousands of sick and wounded\nmen lying on the hospital floors with no one to help them. At once\nthe brave nurses began to take care of the soldiers as kindly as your\nmother takes care of you when you are ill.\n\nDo you wonder that many who would have died, lived and were grateful\nall their lives to he nurses?\n\nOf course there were no gas or electric lights in the rough hospitals\nof those days, so that Miss Nightingale always carried a lighted lamp\nwhen she made her good-night rounds. The weary soldiers looked for the\ngleam of the lamp in the darkness and were made happy by her words of\nencouragement. That is how she came to be called \u201cThe Lady of the Lamp.\u201d\n\nThe story of Florence Nightingale and her brave band spread far and\nnear. It touched the hearts of people everywhere, and made them think\nabout what could be done to relieve suffering even before the days of\nthe Red Cross.\n\n[Illustration: _Copyright and reproduced by courtesy of \u201cThe Ladies\u2019\nHome Journal\u201d_\n\nTELL A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE]\n\n\n\n\nHOW THE RED CROSS CAME TO BE\n\n\nAmong those who heard the story of what Florence Nightingale and her\nbrave nurses did for the soldiers, was Henri Du-nant, a kind-hearted\nSwiss gentleman.\n\nHe remembered it several years afterward when he was present at a\nterrible battle between the soldiers of Austria and those of France and\nSardinia. He saw thousands of wounded soldiers dying almost without\nhelp.\n\nIn a book which he wrote about their sufferings, he asked the question,\n\u201cWhy could not the people of all countries make plans to care for the\nsick and wounded during wars?\u201d\n\nAnd from his question came the great Red Cross work in which we all\nhave a part.\n\nThe Red Cross is more wonderful than any war, for it comes from the\nkindness in people\u2019s thoughts.\n\nWe hope that long years from now there will be no war.\n\nBut we cannot expect to have wars cease until the _people_, and not the\n_kings_, of the great countries of the world make their own laws.\n\nHenri Dunant and Florence Nightingale were like the children of to-day\nwhen they were little. They liked to play the same kinds of games that\nyou do.\n\nWhen Florence played nurse with her dolls she did not dream of the\ngreat good she would do for the whole world.\n\nIt may be that some of the boys and girls who are now reading this\nstory will be like Henri Dunant and Florence Nightingale, and will grow\nup to do great and noble work for others.\n\n\nQUESTIONS\n\n\nI\n\n    What do you think of people who help other people in\n    trouble?\n\n    What do you think of people who do not help people who\n    are in need of help?\n\n    Do you realize that the work of the Red Cross is\n    entirely the helping of people who need help?\n\n    Did a good neighbor ever come to your house and help\n    your people in time of illness or trouble?\n\n    You would be glad to help other people in just some\n    such way, wouldn\u2019t you?\n\n    Are you not glad that the Junior Red Cross gives you a\n    chance to pass such kindness along?\n\n\nII\n\n    Mention some of the good deeds which you know the\n    Junior Red Cross has done.\n\n    Have you ever sold Red Cross Christmas seals? What does\n    the Red Cross do with the money made from the sale of\n    Christmas seals?\n\n    How old is the Junior Red Cross?\n\n    It is a pretty young baby to have accomplished so much,\n    isn\u2019t it? But do you know how fast it has grown?\n\n    When you see a person wearing a Red Cross button, you\n    know many things about that person.\n\n    Here are a few of the things that are shown:\n\n    1. Kindness. 2. Helpfulness. 3. Love of one\u2019s country.\n\n    Can you name others?\n\n[Illustration: _Copr. Underwood & Underwood_\n\nTHIS LITTLE DOG\u2019S MISTRESS SAYS THAT HE IS TOO YOUNG TO ENLIST NOW, BUT\nWHEN HE GROWS UP HE WANTS TO BE A RED CROSS ARMY DOG.]\n\n\n\n\nHOW I CAN HELP THE RED CROSS\n\nIN TIME OF WAR\n\nAND IN TIME OF PEACE\n\n\n1. By belonging to the Red Cross and trying to get others to belong.\n\n2. By learning to save in order that suffering children elsewhere may\nhave their share of food and clothing.\n\n3. By helping to prepare some of the supplies that wounded soldiers and\nhomeless families are in need of.\n\n4. By reading stories of relief and rescue so that I can tell others\nabout the Red Cross.\n\n5. By learning to be a good citizen of my country even before I grow up.\n\nThe Junior Members of the Red Cross try to share their good things with\nthose who do not have them.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    The members of the American Red Cross have two flags.\n\n    This boy has two flags. Why?\n\n    Do you have two flags?\n\n    Do you wear a Red Cross button?\n\n    Has your school an American Red Cross School Auxiliary\n    banner?\n\n    Do you know that the American Red Cross serves the\n    government of the United States, and that the members\n    of the Red Cross are the best citizens of our country?\n\n    The Red Cross means being good neighbors\u2014working\n    together.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY OF THE LAMP\n\nA PLAY\n\n\nCharacters:\n\n    Florence Nightingale, the nurse\n    Frances, her sister\n    Flossie, her doll\n    Harry Miller, Doctor Make-believe\n    Old Roger, the shepherd\n    Captain, the hurt dog\n    Mr. Vicar, the minister\n    Soldiers, doctors, and other nurses\n\n\nAct I. The Sick Doll\n\nScene. In an English Garden.\n\n_Frances._ Come on! Let\u2019s play tag, Florence.\n\n_Florence._ I can\u2019t, Frances. Flossie is too sick. Won\u2019t you play you\nare the doctor, and come see her?\n\n_Frances._ Oh, no; you always want to play the same thing! Your dolls\nare always sick! I believe you love the broken ones better than the\nothers.\n\n_Florence._ Yes, I do. I\u2019m going to be a nurse when I grow up. Well,\nif you don\u2019t want to play that you are the doctor, I am going to ask\nHarry Miller to play that he is. (_Goes to the hedge and calls._) Oh,\nHarry, come on over, and play you are the doctor for my sick dolls.\n\n_Frances._ Come on, Harry, I am going to be the druggist.\n\n_Harry._ All right, girls; I\u2019ll be over in a minute.\n\n_Florence._ Don\u2019t forget your medicine case.\n\n_Harry_ (_entering_). Good morning, madam. Is your little child ill?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAct the rest of the story yourselves.\n\n\nAct II. Good Old Cap\n\nScene. In an English Village Street.\n\n    (_Florence is riding on her little pony. With her on\n    horseback is Mr. Vicar, the minister of the village\n    church._)\n\n_Mr. Vicar._ What a lovely day, Florence.\n\n_Florence._ It is a beautiful day, Mr. Vicar. I am so glad we are going\nto call to see old Mrs. Williams. I hope she is better than when mother\nlast saw her.\n\n_Mr. Vicar._ I have not heard from her for some days.\n\n_Florence_ (_looking off in the distance_). Oh, there is old Roger\ntrying to gather his sheep together. Why, I wonder where his dog is.\n(_They ride up._)\n\n_Mr. Vicar._ Good morning, Roger. You seem to be having trouble.\n\n_Roger._ That I am, sir. Good morning, miss.\n\n_Florence._ Why, where is your good dog, Cap?\n\n_Roger._ Some boys threw stones at him and broke his leg. I am afraid\nhe will never be able to run again.\n\n_Florence._ Oh, how dreadful!\n\n_Roger._ Yes, I miss him so much. He was such a help.\n\n_Florence_ (_to Mr. Vicar, in a whisper_). I wonder if we could see the\ndog. We might be able to do something for him.\n\n_Mr. Vicar._ Where is your dog; Roger?\n\n_Roger._ At home, beside the fire.\n\n    (_Mr. Vicar and Florence ride to the cottage. They find\n    that Cap\u2019s leg is not broken, but is sprained. Florence\n    asks for hot water, and bathes and bandages the leg. In\n    a few days the dog recovers and helps Roger with the\n    sheep._)\n\nAct out the rest of the story yourselves.\n\n\nAct III. The Lady of the Lamp\n\n    Scene. In a hospital. Soldiers are lying on cots and\n    chairs. Florence Nightingale comes in with a lamp in\n    her hand.\n\n_First Soldier._ Hush, here comes the Angel of Mercy to look after us\npoor fellows. How tired she must be after working all day.\n\n_Second Soldier._ Yes, the Lady of the Lamp.\n\n_Third Soldier._ She has done more for our country than all the\nsoldiers during this terrible war.\n\n_All the Soldiers._ That she has. May Heaven bless her brave heart!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    America! America!\n      Thy loyal children we!\n    Dear Mother Land, our lives we pledge\n      In service unto thee.\n\n\n\n\n    YOU and I\n        And ALL of US TOGETHER\n            Will make this WORLD of OURS\n                  Sorry and Sad\u2014\n\n[Illustration]\n\n      IF\n    YOU and I\n      And ALL of US TOGETHER\n          Do not\n              DO RIGHT.\n\n    BUT\n      YOU and I\n        And ALL of US TOGETHER\n          Will make THIS WORLD of OURS\n              HAPPY and GLAD\u2014\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    BECAUSE\n      YOU and I\n        And ALL of US TOGETHER\n          WILL\n            DO RIGHT!\n\n    We Will Be\n      GOOD CITIZENS, FOR WE LOVE OUR\n        COUNTRY AND OUR FLAG.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nObvious punctuation errors repaired. The table of contents uses the\n\u0153 ligature in Ph\u0153be Cary\u2019s name. In the text it\u2019s italic and the\ntranscriber assumes that the printer didn\u2019t have an italic ligature. As\nwe\u2019re not constrained by that, all instances of Ph\u0153be Cary\u2019s name now\nhave the ligature.\n\nPage xi, \u201cDRESMAKER\u2019S\u201d changed to \u201cDRESSMAKER\u2019S\u201d (AT THE DRESSMAKER\u2019S)\n\nPage 166, the pronunciation key for petroleum uses a dot and macron\ncombination above the two es in the text. As this is not a character\navailable to us, the macron and acute have been substituted: \u1e17.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Our Home and Personal Duty, by Jane Eayre Fryer\n\n*** "}
{"meta": {"title": "The Return of the Graveyard Gho - Gertrude Chandler Warner"}, "text": " \n_The Boxcar Children Mysteries_\n\nThe Boxcar Children\n\nSurprise Island\n\nThe Yellow House Mystery\n\nMystery Ranch\n\nMike's Mystery\n\nBlue Bay Mystery\n\nThe Woodshed Mystery\n\nThe Lighthouse Mystery\n\nMountain Top Mystery\n\nSchoolhouse Mystery\n\nCaboose Mystery\n\nHouseboat Mystery\n\nSnowbound Mystery\n\nTree House Mystery\n\nBicycle Mystery\n\nMystery in the Sand\n\nMystery Behind the Wall\n\nBus Station Mystery\n\nBenny Uncovers a Mystery\n\nThe Haunted Cabin Mystery\n\nThe Deserted Library Mystery\n\nThe Animal Shelter Mystery\n\nThe Old Motel Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Hidden Painting\n\nThe Amusement Park Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Mixed-Up Zoo\n\nThe Camp-Out Mystery\n\nThe Mystery Girl\n\nThe Mystery Cruise\n\nThe Disappearing Friend Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Singing Ghost\n\nMystery in the Snow\n\nThe Pizza Mystery\n\nThe Mystery Horse\n\nThe Mystery at the Dog Show\n\nThe Castle Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Lost Village\n\nThe Mystery on the Ice\n\nThe Mystery of the Purple Pool\n\nThe Ghost Ship Mystery\n\nThe Mystery in Washington, DC\n\nThe Canoe Trip Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Hidden Beach\n\nThe Mystery of the Missing Cat\n\nThe Mystery at Snowflake Inn\n\nThe Mystery on Stage\n\nThe Dinosaur Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Stolen Music\n\nThe Mystery at the Ball Park\n\nThe Chocolate Sundae Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Hot Air Balloon\n\nThe Mystery Bookstore\n\nThe Pilgrim Village Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Stolen Boxcar\n\nThe Mystery in the Cave\n\nThe Mystery on the Train\n\nThe Mystery at the Fair\n\nThe Mystery of the Lost Mine\n\nThe Guide Dog Mystery\n\nThe Hurricane Mystery\n\nThe Pet Shop Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Secret Message\n\nThe Firehouse Mystery\n\nThe Mystery in San Francisco\n\nThe Niagara Falls Mystery\n\nThe Mystery at the Alamo\n\nThe Outer Space Mystery\n\nThe Soccer Mystery\n\nThe Mystery in the Old Attic\n\nThe Growling Bear Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Lake Monster\n\nThe Mystery at Peacock Hall\n\nThe Windy City Mystery\n\nThe Black Pearl Mystery\n\nThe Cereal Box Mystery\n\nThe Panther Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Queen's Jewels\n\nThe Stolen Sword Mystery\n\nThe Basketball Mystery\n\nThe Movie Star Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Pirate's Map\n\nThe Ghost Town Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Black Raven\n\nThe Mystery in the Mall\n\nThe Mystery in New York\n\nThe Gymnastics Mystery\n\nThe Poison Frog Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Empty Safe\n\nThe Home Run Mystery\n\nThe Great Bicycle Race Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Wild Ponies\n\nThe Mystery in the Computer Game\n\nThe Mystery at the Crooked House\n\nThe Hockey Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Midnight Dog\n\nThe Mystery of the Screech Owl\n\nThe Summer Camp Mystery\n\nThe Copycat Mystery\n\nThe Haunted Clock Tower Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Tiger's Eye\n\nThe Disappearing Staircase Mystery\n\nThe Mystery on Blizzard Mountain\n\nThe Mystery of the Spider's Clue\n\nThe Candy Factory Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Mummy's Curse\n\nThe Mystery of the Star Ruby\n\nThe Stuffed Bear Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of Alligator Swamp\n\nThe Mystery at Skeleton Point\n\nThe Tattletale Mystery\n\nThe Comic Book Mystery\n\nThe Great Shark Mystery\n\nThe Ice Cream Mystery\n\nThe Midnight Mystery\n\nThe Mystery in the Fortune Cookie\n\nThe Black Widow Spider Mystery\n\nThe Radio Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Runaway Ghost\n\nThe Finders Keepers Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Haunted Boxcar\n\nThe Clue in the Corn Maze\n\nThe Ghost of the Chattering Bones\n\nThe Sword of the Silver Knight\n\nThe Game Store Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Orphan Train\n\nThe Vanishing Passenger\n\nThe Giant Yo-Yo Mystery\n\nThe Creature in Ogopogo Lake\n\nThe Rock 'n' Roll Mystery\n\nThe Secret of the Mask\n\nThe Seattle Puzzle\n\nThe Ghost in the First Row\n\nThe Box That Watch Found\n\nA Horse Named Dragon\n\nThe Great Detective Race\n\nThe Ghost at the Drive-In Movie\n\nThe Mystery of the Traveling Tomatoes\n\nThe Spy Game\n\nThe Dog-Gone Mystery\n\nThe Vampire Mystery\n\nSuperstar Watch\n\nThe Spy in the Bleachers\n\nThe Amazing Mystery Show\n\nThe Clue in the Recycling Bin\n\nMonkey Trouble\n\nThe Zombie Project\n\nThe Great Turkey Heist\n\nThe Garden Thief\n\nThe Boardwalk Mystery\n\nThe Mystery of the Fallen Treasure\n\nThe Return of the Graveyard Ghost\n\n# The Return of the Graveyard Ghost\n\n## A Boxcar Children Mystery\n\n### Gertrude Chandler Warner\n\nALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY\n\n# Contents\n\nChapter 1\n\nChapter 2\n\nChapter 3\n\nChapter 4\n\nChapter 5\n\nChapter 6\n\nChapter 7\n\nChapter 8\n\nChapter 9\n\nChapter 10\n\nChapter 11\n\n# Chapter 1\n\nIn the Cemetery\n\n\"I think it's going to rain,\" twelve-year-old Jessie Alden told her younger brother, Benny. \"We need to walk faster if we're going to beat the storm,\" she said. Jessie gently tugged on Watch's leash. The wire-haired terrier trotted between Benny and Jessie, keeping pace with their quick steps.\n\n\"I'm going as fast as I can,\" Benny replied. \"The wind keeps pushing me backward.\" He looked ahead toward his ten-year-old sister, Violet, and fourteen-year-old brother, Henry. Violet was struggling with the zipper on her jacket and Henry's hat kept flying away in the strong gusts.\n\n\"It's too cold,\" Henry complained as he swooped his hat off the ground for the fifth time and set it firmly over his short brown hair. \"Taking Watch for a walk seemed like a good idea an hour ago\u2014\"\n\n\"It was warmer then,\" Violet responded with a shiver. Her two high pigtails whipped back in the wind. She gave up on the zipper and wrapped the jacket around her instead. \"We should have stayed closer to home.\" Violet shoved her hands into her pockets.\n\n\"Nothing to do about it now,\" Jessie said as she and Benny caught up with their siblings.\n\nBenny was breathing heavily. \"This is crazy strong wind. If you tied a string to me, I'd be a six-year-old kite.\"\n\nJessie took Benny's hand in hers and squeezed it tight. \"I'll make sure you don't blow away,\" she said, holding him firmly.\n\n\"I have an idea.\" Henry pointed to the nearby gate of the Greenfield Cemetery. \"There's a shortcut this way.\"\n\n\"Shortcut?\" Benny stared past the tall, ornate iron gate toward the moss-covered tombstones. \"Sounds good to me. Let's go!\" He rushed forward.\n\n\"Hang on.\" Jessie put a hand on Benny's shoulder. \"Cemeteries are spooky.\" Jessie was very brave, but she was also cautious. \"Are you sure it's okay with you, Benny?\"\n\n\"I'm not a chicken.\" Benny put his hands on his hips. \"I don't believe in ghosts.\"\n\n\"Once we get to Main Street, we can stop at a shop and call Grandfather for a ride,\" Henry told them.\n\n\"The quicker we get home, the faster we can eat!\" At that, Benny's stomach rumbled. \"My tummy says it's almost dinner time.\"\n\n\"It's only four o'clock,\" Henry told Benny after checking his watch.\n\n\"Hmmm.\" Benny pat his belly. \"Feels like dinner time. My tummy needs a snack.\"\n\n\"You always need a snack!\" Henry laughed.\n\nJessie looked to Violet. Violet often kept quiet about things. Jessie wanted to make sure Violet got a vote before they decided to go through the graveyard.\n\n\"Are you scared, Violet?\" Jessie asked.\n\n\"A little,\" Violet admitted. \"I don't know if I believe in ghosts or not. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't...\" Violet's voice tapered off. \"I suppose if everyone else wants to go that way, it's all right.\"\n\n\"Great!\" Benny pushed open the gate. \"We all agree. Come on.\"\n\nJessie held Watch's leash as they stepped onto the cobblestone path. The sky grew darker with each step they took. Violet moved close to Jessie.\n\nHenry walked ahead with Benny. They were checking out the gravestones, taking turns reading the names and dates out loud.\n\nGreenfield Cemetery was built on a hillside. The wind howled through a thick grove of trees planted in the oldest section. Tombstones in that part dated as far back as the late 1700s.\n\n\"There's a lot of history around us,\" Jessie remarked.\n\nBenny pointed at a tombstone. He sounded out the engraved word. \"Soldier.\"\n\n\"The soldier died in 1781. That means he probably fought in the American Revolution,\" Henry told Benny. \"I'll read you a book about the war when we get to the house.\"\n\nJessie, Violet, Henry, and Benny lived with their grandfather. After their parents died, they ran away and hid in a railroad boxcar in the woods. They had heard that Grandfather Alden was mean. Even thought they'd never met him, they were afraid. But when he finally found the children, they discovered he wasn't mean at all. Now the children lived with him, and their boxcar was a clubhouse in the backyard.\n\nWatch was the stray dog they'd found on their adventures.\n\nAs the first drops of rain began to fall in the cemetery, Watch barked toward a far-off building. It was along another stone pathway past the trees.\n\n\"Is that a house?\" Benny asked, squinting his eyes. Drops of rain speckled his thick dark-brown hair.\n\n\"I think that's the main office,\" Henry replied, tilting his head to study a squat, brown building. \"There's a sign out front. I can't read it, but there's also a parking lot. That's a good clue it's where Mrs. Radcliffe works.\"\n\nMrs. Radcliffe was the caretaker of the cemetery. The children had only met her once when they were out with Grandfather. Grandfather Alden had been born in Greenfield and knew practically everyone.\n\n\"You're looking the wrong way.\" Benny tugged on Henry's arm and pointed to the right. He asked again, \"I meant is that a house?\"\n\nNot very far away, tucked among the gravestones, stood a stone structure, much taller than anything else. It was made of white marble, with carved columns and a triangle roof. The building looked like an ancient Greek temple. Several bouquets of white lilies were lying on the front steps.\n\n\"It's not a house,\" Jessie told Benny. \"That's called a mausoleum.\"\n\n\"Maus-a-what?\" Benny asked.\n\nViolet began to explain. \"It's a fancy kind of grave where\u2014\" She was about to tell Benny more, when suddenly, lightning flashed. In the glow, the children saw something move by the mausoleum. \"Who's that?\" Violet asked.\n\nA shadowy figure emerged from behind the building. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was had on a black jacket with a hood and was moving fast around the tombstones.\n\nThe figure stopped and stood near the big mausoleum. An instant later, a flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky and the figure disappeared.\n\nWatch snarled.\n\nBenny stepped back and put a hand on Watch's head. \"Watch is scared,\" he said, leaning in toward the dog. \"He thinks we saw a ghost.\"\n\nJessie looked at the nervous expression on Benny's face and said, \"We should get out of here.\"\n\nThere was a small wall around the back of the mausoleum. They could easily jump over it. Just past that was a caf\u00e9 where they could warm up and wait for Grandfather.\n\nWatch barked as the rain began to pour down in heavy sheets. Thunder rattled soon after the lightning.\n\nAs the children began to run, Henry glanced back over his shoulder. \"Odd,\" he mumbled, staring at the spot where the cloaked figure had disappeared. \"Something strange is going on in Greenfield Cemetery.\"\n\n# Chapter 2\n\nThe Greenfield Ghost\n\nRandy's Caf\u00e9 was packed with people who had also been caught in the rain. Mr. Randy was standing by the front door, handing out towels and helping hang up jackets.\n\nWhile Violet called Grandfather to let him know where they were, Henry and Benny searched for seats.\n\nJessie crossed the caf\u00e9 to say hello to a girl she knew.\n\n\"Hi, Vita.\" Jessie pointed at the camera in Vita Gupta's hand. \"Out taking pictures of the storm?\" Vita's nature photos were blue ribbon prizewinners.\n\n\"No. I'm changing focus,\" Vita said. Her short dark hair shook when she giggled at her own pun. \"I'm going to make a movie instead of taking pictures. Miss Wolfson asked me to help make a short film about Greenfield using old photographs from the historical society.\" Vita indicated the older woman at the table and asked Jessie, \"Do you know Martha Wolfson?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" Jessie said. She turned to Miss Wolfson. \"Hello,\" Jessie greeted her. \"Nice to see you again.\"\n\n\"I met Jessie when she came to visit me at the historical society last summer,\" Miss Wolfson told Vita. She smoothed some loose strands from her gray hair into her bun with one hand. \"Jessie interviewed me for a project about old buildings in Greenfield.\" Looking around, Miss Wolfson asked, \"Is Watch with you?\" She smiled. \"He's a wonderful dog.\"\n\n\"Watch is over there with Benny and Henry.\" Jessie pointed to her brothers. \"They're looking for a place where we can all sit together. Mr. Randy was very nice to let Watch come into the caf\u00e9 during this rainstorm.\"\n\n\"You can join us,\" Vita said. There were three empty places at the table and something dark on the fourth seat. It was Miss Wolfson's jacket, lying out to dry.\n\n\"Hang my jacket on the hook behind you,\" Miss Wolfson told Jessie. \"Then there will be plenty of room for you all.\" She pointed at an empty spot on the floor near her feet and smiled. \"Watch can sit by me. I'll pet him.\"\n\nJessie set the jacket on a hook near a large, rain-splattered and steamy window. She waved to get Henry's attention.\n\nBenny came to the table and eyed Miss Wolfson's cookie with a tilted grin.\n\n\"Would you like half?\" Miss Wolfson asked.\n\nBenny's eyes lit up. \"Oh yes, thank you!\" he said. He waited patiently as she broke the cookie then ate his half quickly.\n\nMiss Wolfson chuckled and gave Benny the other piece, saying, \"Don't spoil your dinner.\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" Violet assured her. \"Benny's stomach is never full.\"\n\nMiss Wolfson laughed again.\n\n\"Would you like to see a few of the photographs Vita and I have selected for the film so far?\" Miss Wolfson brought out a stack of pictures from her purse.\n\n\"I love old pictures.\" Henry leaned in closer.\n\nAll the photographs were in black and white. There was one of Greenfield Elementary School, back when it was in a one-room building. There were ten students with a teacher standing in front.\n\nViolet pointed at one of the girls in the picture. \"She looks familiar.\" Violet glanced up at Miss Wolfson. \"Is that you?\"\n\nMiss Wolfson laughed. \"Goodness, no. This was taken before I was born,\" she told Violet. \"But you made a good guess...That's my mom.\"\n\n\"Your mom!\" Benny exclaimed. \"She's so little.\"\n\n\"She was about your age when this picture was taken,\" Miss Wolfson told him. She smiled. \"Mom's a whole lot older now.\"\n\nBenny chuckled.\n\nJessie pointed at another girl about the same age wearing an old-fashioned dress. \"Who's that?\"\n\n\"Patty Wilson,\" Miss Wolfson said. \"She was my mom's best friend.\" Miss Wolfson pulled out a different picture taken when Patty was in high school. Her blond hair was tucked under a sleek hat and she was wearing a ruffled skirt.\n\nPatty Wilson was standing in front of a dress shop on Main Street. \"Patty worked at Madame LaFonte's Dress Shop. It was the fanciest store in town.\"\n\nMiss Wolfson put that photograph away and showed Violet another one. \"This is Greenfield Children's Hospital,\" she said, \"taken right after it opened, almost a hundred years ago.\"\n\n\"I like that picture the best,\" Vita said. \"Did you know Miss Wolfson volunteers at the new hospital building and donates money to families with sick children?\" she asked Jessie.\n\n\"That's very nice of you,\" Jessie told Miss Wolfson.\n\nMiss Wolfson said, \"It's a worthy cause.\"\n\n\"I think we should put the hospital images on the movie poster,\" Vita said. \"I'd like to print the two pictures side by side; this one from then and a new one to show what the building looks like now. We can sell the posters to help the hospital raise money.\"\n\n\"The hospital always needs money,\" Miss Wolfson said, considering it. \"I do what I can to help, but it's never enough.\"\n\n\"I'll add music to the movie,\" Vita said. \"And we can interview families about the hospital.\"\n\nWhile Vita and Miss Wolfson talked about the hospital pictures, Henry handed Jessie another old photograph. This one was of the cemetery's front gate. It was taken so many years earlier hardly any moss was growing on the tombstones. With the sun shining, the cemetery looked like a beautiful park, not a scary place for ghosts to lurk.\n\n\"There was someone spooky in the cemetery today.\" Benny told Miss Wolfson about the figure they'd seen. \"They were by the moose-e-lum,\" he said.\n\n\"Mausoleum, you mean?\" Miss Wolfson asked, raising an eyebrow.\n\n\"I don't think it was a ghost,\" Jessie said. \"There were flowers on the steps. I've been thinking that whoever we saw probably was there to leave the bouquets.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Miss Wolfson pressed her lips together. \"The LaFonte family had that monument specially built.\" She glanced away from Benny toward the window. \"But there are no LaFonte family members left in Greenfield. I don't know who might have left flowers\u2014\" She paused to consider. \"You know, some people say the cemetery is haunted.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Violet's eyes widened.\n\n\"I don't believe in ghosts,\" Benny told Miss Wolfson. \"Watch was scared though.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" Miss Wolfson asked, glancing down at the terrier.\n\nThe door to the caf\u00e9 burst open with the wind. A young man wearing a black jacket and hood was standing in the doorway.\n\nAfter a long look around at the faces in the shop, the boy marched over to Miss Wolfson and introduced himself. \"I'm Marcus Michelson,\" he said. \"I'm a new student at the university. Are you Miss Wolfson?\"\n\n\"I am,\" she said.\n\nBenny stood and let Marcus have his place. He sat back down, sharing the edge of Violet's seat.\n\n\"I think Marcus is the figure we saw in the cemetery,\" Henry whispered to Jessie. \"He's the right height and he has the right color jacket.\"\n\n\"I'm interested in Greenfield history,\" Marcus Michelson told Miss Wolfson. He pushed back his coat's hood to reveal short blond hair.\n\n\"Is that why you were in the cemetery?\" Henry interrupted. Marcus turned to face him. \"We saw you standing by the LaFonte mausoleum.\"\n\n\"It couldn't have been me. I never went into the cemetery,\" Marcus insisted. His green eyes grew wide. \"I was outside the gate when I saw a strange figure all dressed in black. I thought it was very suspicious, so I followed\u2014\" He looked around the coffee shop. \"I was certain whoever it was ducked in here.\" Marcus shook his head. \"I looked around but didn't see anyone who might fit the description. Then I noticed Miss Wolfson.\" He caught her eye and said, \"I've been meaning to call you.\"\n\n\"How can I help you?\" Mrs. Wolfson asked.\n\n\"Well, I\u2014\" Marcus began when suddenly the lights in the coffee shop flickered off. The room plunged into darkness.\n\nWatch jumped onto Jessie's lap.\n\nBenny gave Violet a hug and whispered, \"Don't worry. I'll protect you.\"\n\n\"I'll protect you too,\" Violet said, hugging him back.\n\nWhen the lights came back on a few moments later, a woman screamed.\n\nHer husband, pale and shaken, pointed to the window behind Henry's head.\n\nA single lily lay across the windowsill. The raindrops on the window glittered on the glass, making the flower shine eerily.\n\nVita pressed a button on her camera. \"Scoot over, please, Jessie,\" she said, holding the lens to her eye. \"I want to record this.\"\n\n\"What's going on?\" Jessie asked Miss Wolfson.\n\nMiss Wolfson stared at the flower. She studied the frightened faces of the people in the caf\u00e9. Then she looked directly into the lens of Vita's camera and announced, \"The LaFonte ghost has returned.\"\n\n# Chapter 3\n\nThe LaFonte Mausoleum\n\n\"Who's the LaFonte ghost?\" Henry asked Miss Wolfson.\n\n\"A g-g-ghost?\" Benny asked. \"There's a real ghost in Greenfield?\"\n\n\"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts,\" Jessie said.\n\nBenny raised his shoulders. \"That was before we saw something in the cemetery and the lights went out and...that!\" He pointed at the flower. \"I've changed my mind.\" Benny shivered and whispered in Watch's ear, \"Ghosts. Yikes.\"\n\nPeople in the caf\u00e9 gathered around Miss Wolfson as she began to share a bit of history.\n\n\"Today is the seventy-fifth anniversary of the death of Madame Jacqueline LaFonte,\" she told the crowd.\n\n\"She was the dressmaker.\" Jessie picked up the historic photograph of the LaFonte shop on Main Street.\n\n\"Yes.\" Miss Wolfson went on, saying, \"Women would come to have dresses made, then stay for tea and conversation.\" With a small smile she added, \"Madame LaFonte was known to give very good advice. Some people even say Jacqueline was a fortune-teller.\"\n\n\"Very interesting,\" Jessie said, setting the photo on the table and taking a notebook out of her small purse. Jessie wrote down Madame Jacqueline LaFonte's name as a reminder to see if she could find any information about her online. Jessie liked to research interesting people.\n\n\"Ever since the first anniversary of her death, people in Greenfield have believed that Jacqueline LaFonte's ghost haunts the cemetery,\" Miss Wolfson said.\n\n\"Ooh,\" Vita said, recording the caf\u00e9 conversation. \"A ghost story is way more interesting than a historical society film.\" She stood on a chair to get a good view of the room through her camera. She focused her lens on the most frightened expressions.\n\nThe door to the caf\u00e9 opened and Grandfather Alden walked in. \"Looks like I'm interrupting an important meeting,\" he remarked as he closed his umbrella. He walked over to Henry and asked, \"What's going on?\"\n\nHenry pointed to the windowsill.\n\n\"Ah,\" Grandfather said, stepping over to Miss Wolfson. \"It's the three-day warning?\"\n\nThe historian nodded.\n\nAt Jessie's questioning look, Grandfather explained, \"Every year around Halloween, white lilies are placed on the LaFonte grave. After that, a lily appears somewhere in town. It's said that lilies were Jacqueline LaFonte's favorite flower. But some people also believe that lilies are a symbol of death.\" Grandfather said.\n\nHe continued. \"After the flower shows up, everyone has three days to bring gifts to the LaFonte mausoleum. Those who leave gifts get a year of good fortune. Those who ignore the warning receive nothing but bad luck all year.\"\n\nMiss Wolfson clarified. \"Gifts can be food, silver, money, jewelry\u2014anything to make Jacqueline's ghost happy.\"\n\nBenny got up and moved to stand near Grandfather. There were goose bumps along his arms. \"I like gifts,\" he said in a shaky voice.\n\n\"So does the ghost,\" Miss Wolfson told Benny.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" Grandfather Alden cut in. \"I've known this ghost story my whole life. There's no LaFonte ghost. Bad things happen to people sometimes\u2014that's just the way life is. Good things happen too. It doesn't matter whether or not someone leaves presents in the cemetery.\"\n\n\"You're wrong. The ghost is real.\" A well-dressed woman in the back of the room stood up. She looked directly at Grandfather and asked, \"Ever hear of Patricia Wilson? Patty didn't heed the warning, never left a gift, and she...disappeared!\"\n\nSeveral people in the room gasped.\n\n\"That's an old made-up rumor from the year after Jacqueline's death,\" Mr. Randy said from behind the cash register. \"Patricia Wilson didn't disappear. My mother was a child back then and knew her.\"\n\nMiss Wolfson pointed out Mr. Randy's mother in the photo taken in front of the old school house, a girl who looked to be about Violet's age.\n\n\"Mama knew Patty,\" Mr. Randy said in a booming voice that filled the caf\u00e9. \"She told me that Patty left town on her own.\"\n\nThe woman turned to face Mr. Randy. \"Believe what you want,\" she said, gathering her coat and scarf. \"I won't risk having a year of bad luck. I'm going to put a gift at the cemetery tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What do you think?\" Henry asked Jessie as people in the caf\u00e9 began to discuss whether or not they were going to set out gifts for the ghost.\n\nJessie looked down at her notebook where she'd written Jacqueline LaFonte's name. On the next line, she wrote Patricia Wilson. And below that she drew a giant question mark.\n\n\"I'd like to learn more about the ghost,\" Jessie replied.\n\n\"And the gifts,\" Benny chimed in.\n\n\"We should go back to the cemetery,\" Henry suggested as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky outside the caf\u00e9.\n\n\"Can we go tomorrow?\" Benny asked, patting his belly. \"Now it really is dinner-time, and I'm starved! I'm extra brave when my tummy's full.\" He shivered again. \"Ghosts. Yikes.\"\n\n\"The cemetery won't be so creepy in the daylight,\" Violet agreed.\n\nHenry looked at the white lily and its reflection in the window glass. \"We'll start ghost hunting tomorrow morning,\" he said.\n\nJessie quickly peeked over at Benny and added, \"Right after breakfast.\"\n\n\"Perfect!\" Benny grinned as they followed Grandfather to the car for the ride home.\n\n# Chapter 4\n\nGifts for Ghosts\n\n\"Isn't that Marcus Michelson?\" Violet pointed toward the cemetery gate. She was walking with Jessie and her brothers. Marcus was coming straight toward them.\n\nJessie checked the time. They'd left home just after breakfast as planned. \"He's out early,\" she remarked. \"I wonder what he's doing here.\"\n\nIt wasn't raining anymore, but it was still cold. Marcus was wearing the same dark jacket as the evening before, but now his hood was down. In his hands he carried a cardboard box.\n\nBenny was holding Watch's leash. When Watch saw Marcus, he tugged forward, pulling out of Benny's hand and running down the sidewalk.\n\nMarcus wasn't paying attention and stumbled backward when Watch jumped up to greet him.\n\n\"Whoa!\" Marcus said, dropping the box as Watch's leash tangled around his ankles. The lid on the box popped open and the contents spilled out. Two silver candlesticks lay on the sidewalk.\n\nHenry rushed after the dog. \"Sorry,\" he told Marcus.\n\n\"Watch just wants to make a new friend,\" Benny said. \"He's a happy dog.\"\n\nHenry unwound the leash then handed the end to Jessie.\n\n\"Are you all right?\" Violet asked. Marcus seemed distracted. His eyes were darting around the area, not focusing on any one thing.\n\n\"I'm fine. I have to go.\" Marcus collected the candlesticks and set them carefully back into the box. \"Now we'll see,\" he muttered to himself and then, without another word to the Aldens, he stomped through the cemetery gates.\n\nJessie watched him go.\n\n\"I think we should follow him,\" Henry suggested. \"It looks like he's going to the LaFonte mausoleum.\"\n\n\"Do you think the candlesticks are a gift for the ghost?\" Benny asked. \"Do you think we should leave a gift too?\"\n\n\"Grandfather said it's all made up,\" Henry reminded Benny. \"No such thing as the LaFonte ghost.\"\n\n\"Lots of people believe the ghost is real.\" Benny lowered his voice and added, \"And Patty Wilson disappeared...\"\n\n\"She might have just left town,\" Jessie said.\n\n\"I agree with Benny,\" Violet admitted. \"Until we know for sure what happened to Patty Wilson, I think we should leave a gift too.\"\n\n\"When we get home, I'll find a nice present for the ghost. Just in case she's real,\" Benny told Violet. \"We don't want any bad luck.\"\n\nThe children entered the cemetery and stayed hidden in a grove of trees near the mausoleum. They watched as Marcus set down his box and removed the candlesticks. He carefully arranged them near a column then picked up the empty box and walked away.\n\n\"What do you think is going to happen to Marcus's gift?\" Violet asked Henry.\n\n\"I think someone will come and get it,\" Henry replied. \"Then we will know who is pretending to be the ghost.\"\n\n\"Isn't that stealing?\" Jessie asked. \"I mean, if someone invented a ghost to scare people into leaving food and silver and jewelry, then sneak in and collect it all\u2014that seems like stealing to me.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Henry agreed. \"The person who is doing this is definitely a thief.\"\n\n\"It's a ghost,\" Benny argued. \"Not a thief.\"\n\n\"Where would the ghost put all those presents?\" Henry asked.\n\n\"The ghost makes them magically disappear,\" Benny said.\n\n\"Magically disappear to where?\" Henry pressed Benny to think about his answer. \"People have been leaving things for the LaFonte ghost for seventy-four years. That's a lot of gifts.\"\n\n\"Not too many,\" Benny replied. \"If I got presents on my birthday and at Christmas every year, I'd never run out of places to put all my gifts,\" Benny said. \"They could all fit in the toy box and under the bed and in the closet.\" He smiled. \"I have plenty of room for a hundred years of presents.\"\n\n\"You're funny,\" Henry said. \"But ghosts don't have beds and closets. I think we need to stay here all day to see who's taking the gifts and prove there is no ghost.\"\n\n\"Maybe we can find out where the thief is putting the presents and return them to their owners,\" Jessie suggested.\n\n\"If we catch a person pretending to be a ghost, I won't believe in ghosts,\" Violet said very practically. \"And if we see a real ghost, then I will believe in them.\"\n\n\"Ghosts. Yikes,\" Benny said as they searched for a better place to hide.\n\nJessie and Violet found a good spot in the old grove of trees where they could keep an eye on Marcus's candlesticks. Benny climbed up one of the trees for a better view.\n\nSince they were going to be there all day, Henry ran home to take Watch back and pick up a pair of binoculars. He returned right away.\n\nHours later, Violet was bored. Besides Marcus, no one else had come to leave gifts at the mausoleum and Marcus's candlesticks were still sitting there. \"I am beginning to think there's no ghost and no thief,\" she said. \"Nothing interesting is going on.\"\n\n\"I'm cold,\" Jessie said. She'd left her hat at home and forgotten to ask Henry to pick it up when he went back.\n\nViolet sneezed. \"I'm cold too.\"\n\n\"And I'm hungry,\" Benny called down from the tree branch where he was camped out.\n\n\"I brought you lunch,\" Henry said, looking up at his brother.\n\n\"But that was hours ago,\" Benny said.\n\n\"And I brought snacks.\" Henry pointed at a trash bag filled with empty granola bar wrappers.\n\n\"We ran out ten minutes ago,\" Benny said with a sigh. \"I ate them all.\"\n\n\"Hang in there,\" Henry told his siblings. \"We can't give up yet. Something is going to happen\u2014\" Just then, he saw movement near the mausoleum. Henry put the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus.\n\n\"What do you see?\" Benny asked, sitting up straight and leaning forward. \"Is it the ghost?\"\n\n\"Or a person?\" Jessie squinted in the direction Henry was looking.\n\nHenry said, \"I saw someone behind a tree. But just his or her arm\u2014a black coat sleeve. Then it disappeared.\"\n\n\"A ghost,\" Benny said surely.\n\n\"A person,\" Jessie said, also certain.\n\nViolet didn't take a side. She sneezed again instead.\n\n\"Get out!\" A spooky voice called through the trees.\n\n\"Ghost!\" Benny leapt down from the tree, knocking down Jessie.\n\n\"Person,\" Jessie said, getting up and turning him around to face Mrs. Radcliffe, the graveyard caretaker.\n\n\"Leave!\" Mrs. Radcliffe pointed her long bony finger to the exit gate. \"You are not welcome in my cemetery.\" Hunched over, wearing a black cloak, Mrs. Radcliffe looked like the wicked witch in the Hansel and Gretel story.\n\n\"We're watching for the LaFonte ghost,\" Henry said. \"We're going to prove she's fake.\"\n\nMrs. Radcliffe shook her head. \"Ghosts are supposed to scare people...\" She muttered, \"I've already chased someone else away. Now you all need to go too.\"\n\n\"Someone was hiding in the cemetery?\" Violet asked. \"Who?\"\n\n\"I wish you'd all go away!\" Mrs. Radcliffe said. \"Everyone is leaving trash around, trampling on my grass, stepping on the flowers...\" She didn't answer Violet's question. \"I have to clean up. More work for me.\"\n\nShe led them to the gate and warned, \"Stay outside the cemetery. I don't want you traipsing all over the place and climbing my trees! Leave my ghosts alone!\"\n\n\"Ghosts?\" Violet asked after Mrs. Radcliffe was gone. \"Like more than one?\"\n\n\"I don't think she really means that the cemetery is full of ghosts,\" Jessie said. \"I think she's just trying to scare us away.\"\n\n\"It worked. I don't want to go back to the cemetery ever!\" Benny gritted his teeth. \"That lady is scarier than a ghost!\"\n\n\"She's scary for sure,\" Violet agreed. \"But how are we going to find out if there's a ghost or a thief without going back into the cemetery?\"\n\nHenry pointed to a tree outside the property. \"Benny, can you climb up there and see if the candlesticks are still at the mausoleum?\" he asked. Then to Violet, \"Maybe we can investigate from here.\"\n\n\"I feel safer out here.\" Benny quickly climbed the tree and surveyed the graveyard with Henry's binoculars. \"Uh-oh. There's trouble,\" he reported. \"You know how Marcus was the only one who left a gift today?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Jessie said, encouraging him to go on.\n\n\"Well, people must have been waiting till they were done with work\u2014\" Benny slid down the tree trunk. \"Lots and lots of people are coming toward the cemetery now. And they're all carrying boxes.\"\n\nViolet looked past Benny with the binoculars. \"I see Vita. She's hiding in the bushes with her video camera.\" She handed the binoculars to Henry, saying, \"If Mrs. Radcliffe spots her, she'll be chased out here with us.\"\n\nJessie shook her head. \"Mrs. Radcliffe will never be able to chase everyone out of the cemetery.\"\n\n\"Let me see.\" Henry climbed up the tree to the branch where Benny had been. \"There are a lot of people. I see Vita. There's the mausoleum. And\u2014\"\n\nHe put down the binoculars with a surprised look on his face.\n\n\"Marcus Michelson's candlesticks are gone!\"\n\n# Chapter 5\n\nSpooky Suspects and Creepy Clues\n\n\"How about this?\" Benny held up one of Jessie's dolls from the toy bin in the boxcar clubhouse. She was dirty, had matted hair and a missing an arm, and wore only one shoe.\n\n\"I don't think you should give Beautiful Betsy to the ghost.\" Violet frowned. \"She's not so beautiful anymore. That doll looks like she's had a lot of bad luck.\"\n\n\"There was no bad luck. Betsy was my favorite.\" Jessie defended her doll. \"Grandfather gave her to me when we first came to live here. I used to take her everywhere with me.\"\n\n\"Still...Violet's right,\" Benny said with a frown. \"The ghost would want something nicer.\" Benny put Betsy back in the toy box and searched around for something else. \"How about this?\" He held up one of Henry's old baseball gloves. It smelled bad. \"Maybe not,\" he said, plugging his nose and tossing the glove back in the bin.\n\n\"You're not going to need a gift,\" Jessie assured Benny. \"There's no ghost.\"\n\nJessie was at her desk, staring at the computer screen as a web page loaded.\n\nHenry was standing over her shoulder. \"There,\" he said. \"Click on Jacqueline LaFonte's name.\" He scanned the source. \"This is what the local newspaper said about her after she died.\"\n\nJessie read the page silently to herself then described what it said. \"The whole article is about how Jacqueline was a kind woman who loved Greenfield.\" Jessie pinched her lips together. \"I don't think Jacqueline LaFonte would haunt this town. It says here that she gave a lot of money to charity.\"\n\n\"Nice ghosts can be scary,\" Benny said.\n\n\"Jacqueline gave her money away,\" Henry said. \"She didn't take anything from others.\" He glanced at the shiny plastic bead necklaces Benny was now holding. \"It doesn't sound like she was the kind of person who'd want other people's jewelry and candlesticks.\"\n\n\"Then why do people leave gifts for her?\" Violet asked. \"There must be a reason.\"\n\n\"I don't know how it started,\" Jessie said as she flipped through a few more web sites. \"I can't find anything about the beginning, but it says here that after her death people avoided her family because of the bad luck rumors. No one went to their businesses. The dress shop had to close. People were scared of the ghost and that made them scared of the LaFontes.\" She shook her head. \"The family was run out of town. It's a shame.\"\n\nHenry was using the Internet on his cell phone to help Jessie find out more information. \"Hey, look here,\" he said, turning the phone screen around toward the others. \"There's an old house on the hill behind the cemetery. It used to be their family home. No one's lived there for a long time. It's all run down now.\" Henry marked the web site photo. \"We should check it out.\"\n\n\"I'll need a whole lot of snacks if I'm going to be brave enough to visit an abandoned house,\" Benny said, stretching as far as he could into the toy bin.\n\nViolet gave him a playful push. Benny fell forward, toppling into the box. He was laughing as he dug himself out. \"Maybe I should share my snacks with the ghost instead of giving her our old toys.\" He quickly changed his mind. \"Nah.\" Benny ducked back into the bin. \"I want the food. The ghost can have some toys.\"\n\nJessie opened her notebook and wrote a note to visit the old LaFonte house. Then she turned to a fresh page.\n\n\"Let's imagine we are catching a gift thief,\" she said. \"Who are the suspects?\"\n\n\"The ghost,\" Benny's muffled voice came from the bottom of the toy chest. \"The ghost is the first suspect.\"\n\nJessie didn't argue. She wrote it down.\n\n\"Marcus Michelson.\" Violet said. \"He's new to town and has a black coat. We've seen him near the cemetery a couple times, which means he could be the one stealing the gifts. When we saw him at the caf\u00e9, he looked just like the spooky figure we'd seen near the mausoleum.\"\n\nJessie wrote his name down, along with all of Violet's reasons.\n\n\"But we also saw him putting his own gift out for the ghost,\" Henry said.\n\n\"Maybe I'm wrong,\" Violet admitted. \"Until we know more, he should be a suspect.\"\n\n\"Okay. Let's find out what we can about Marcus,\" Jessie said, turning in her chair. She was rubbing her chin. Jessie did that when she was thinking really hard. \"He could easily have set the flower on the caf\u00e9 window.\"\n\nBenny popped up. \"That means the ghost was in the caf\u00e9! Yikes.\"\n\n\"The person pretending to be the ghost was in the caf\u00e9,\" Henry corrected. He nodded toward Jessie's list. \"Marcus Michelson is a suspect. But then, so is Miss Wolfson.\"\n\nJessie wrote down the historian's name, saying, \"She was closest to the window when the lights went out. She had a black coat hanging on a hook. And it was wet. And she knows the most about the LaFonte ghost.\"\n\n\"Put Mrs. Radcliffe on the list too,\" Benny said, crawling out of the toy box with a handful of possible gifts.\n\n\"But she wasn't in the caf\u00e9,\" Violet argued.\n\n\"It doesn't matter if she was there or not. I think she's creepy,\" Benny replied, shaking his head.\n\n\"That's not a good reason to think someone is a thief,\" Henry said. \"We can't just put her on the list because she looks like a witch and yells at children\u2014\"\n\n\"What if...\" Jessie interrupted. \"What if Mrs. Radcliffe invented the ghost to keep people out of the cemetery?\"\n\n\"Her cloak is black,\" Violet said.\n\n\"She could have turned off the caf\u00e9 lights, sneaked in, placed the flower, and left before anyone noticed,\" Henry added.\n\n\"If she wants to scare people away, her plan's not working,\" Benny said, reminding them of the big crowd that was going to the cemetery with gifts.\n\n\"Let's put her on the suspect list,\" Henry told Jessie. \"Just in case.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Jessie wrote down Mrs. Radcliffe's name. \"We have three possible gift-stealing thieves.\"\n\n\"And one ghost,\" Benny added. \"Don't forget there is still the possibility the ghost is real.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Jessie checked the list. \"Anyone else to consider?\"\n\nThe room fell silent as everyone thought about who they'd seen lurking around the cemetery.\n\n\"Vita, maybe,\" Violet said. \"Maybe she invented the ghost. She decided really fast to make a movie about it. An exciting scary movie could make her famous, right?\"\n\n\"It's possible,\" Jessie said. \"And she was inside the caf\u00e9\u2014\"\n\n\"Wait!\" Henry suddenly interrupted. \"We have a problem.\" He breathed a heavy sigh and said, \"A big problem.\"\n\n\"What?\" everyone asked at the same time.\n\n\"The ghost was first spotted a year after Madame LaFonte died,\" Henry said. \"That means whoever has been taking the gifts from the cemetery has been doing it for seventy-four years! No one on our list is old enough to have been there at the beginning.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Jessie leaned back in her chair. \"That is a problem,\" she admitted.\n\n\"A big problem,\" Violet echoed, tapping her foot.\n\n\"There's only one answer then.\" Benny found a roll of wrapping paper and began to wrap the toys he'd selected. \"The LaFonte ghost is real!\" He shuddered and added, \"Yikes!\"\n\n# Chapter 6\n\nPatty Wilson\n\n\"We need to talk to the people on our suspect list,\" Jessie said.\n\nHenry agreed. \"Even though no one has been around for more than seventy-four years, maybe one of them still holds a clue to this ghost-thief mystery.\"\n\nHe called Vita Gupta.\n\nVita told him that she was headed to the cemetery to film Miss Wolfson talking about the legend of Jacqueline's ghost. Vita said they could meet there.\n\n\"I couldn't sleep last night,\" Jessie told the others as they walked to the cemetery.\n\n\"What did you do?\" Benny asked. \"Read? Watch TV? Din-eakfast?\" He grinned at his new word. \"That's the meal between dinner and breakfast.\"\n\n\"None of those,\" Jessie said with a small giggle. \"I went to the boxcar and did some research. I found out what happened to Patty Wilson.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Violet stepped up next to Jessie. \"What'd you learn? I'm curious.\"\n\n\"So did she leave town on her own?\" Henry asked. He dropped his voice to a spooky growl. \"Or did the ghost get her?\" Sneaking behind Violet, he tapped her on the shoulder.\n\n\"Augh!\" Violet jumped.\n\nThey all laughed.\n\n\"This whole ghost thing still scares me a little,\" Violet admitted.\n\n\"And me a lot,\" Benny said, reaching into his jean pocket. He pulled out a squished granola bar in a crinkled plastic bag. \"Want a snack for bravery?\" He held the bar out to Violet.\n\n\"No, thanks,\" she said, eyeing the flattened honey-coated nut mixture.\n\n\"I'll eat it then.\" Benny peeled a piece of the bar away from the plastic. He tapped his other pocket. \"I have another one in case I get scared later.\" Benny looked at Violet. \"You can share it if you feel nervous.\"\n\nViolet ruffled his brown hair and winked. \"You're a good little brother.\"\n\nChanging the subject back to Jessie's research, Henry asked, \"What did you find out?\"\n\nJessie handed Henry a page she'd printed from the Internet. It was an old newspaper article.\n\n\"Patty's sister was sick. She left town to help the family,\" Jessie said as Benny tugged hard on the cemetery gate to open it. \"In those days, small newspapers used to run brief news articles about people in town. I'm guessing that no one thought to search other towns around Greenfield for information about her. I checked old newspaper records and found something from the town of Beacon Crest.\"\n\n\"I've never heard of Beacon Crest,\" Henry said.\n\n\"It doesn't exist now,\" Jessie told him. \"When Silver Spring grew bigger, Beacon Crest became part of it. But seventy-five years ago, it was its own town.\"\n\n\"Clever, Jessie,\" Violet complimented her.\n\nJessie smiled. \"Thanks.\"\n\nHenry read the short newspaper notice out loud: \"Mrs. Laura Thompson was visited this week by her sister, Miss Patricia Wilson of Greenfield. Mrs. Thompson is at home, resting from her illness.\n\n\"I knew it,\" Henry said as he led the way toward the mausoleum. \"No ghostly bad luck.\"\n\n\"Or maybe it was the ghost's bad luck that got her sister sick,\" Benny suggested. \"I mean, if she didn't leave Jacqueline LaFonte a gift, it's possible.\"\n\n\"Good point.\" Henry shrugged. \"I guess I'm going to have to work harder to show you that the ghost doesn't exist.\"\n\n\"Try your best,\" Benny said. \"Until you prove it to me, I'm going to eat granola bars. Just in case you're wrong.\"\n\nViolet wrapped her clean fingers around Benny's sticky ones. \"We're protecting each other,\" she said with a wink.\n\n\"Yes, we are,\" Benny replied.\n\nThere was a big crowd at the LaFonte mausoleum. Miss Wolfson was in the center of the group, standing on a small step stool, talking in a loud voice.\n\n\"It all began one year after Jacqueline LaFonte died...\" Miss Wolfson was saying.\n\n\"Looks like we didn't miss much,\" Henry whispered.\n\nMarcus Michelson was near the front, hands in his black jacket pockets, listening intently.\n\nVita was there too. Her camera scanned the crowd and then focused on Miss Wolfson.\n\nThe Aldens stayed near the back of the crowd to listen.\n\n\"On the first anniversary of Madame LaFonte's death, Patricia Wilson found a lily near the LaFonte dress shop window. Frightened, Patty ran down the street and found my mother at the bakery, working behind the counter. Patty was the assistant to Jacqueline at the dress shop. Patty said that before she died, Jacqueline announced that she planned to 'return' on her anniversary and that people should bring gifts to her grave or she'd bring bad luck.\"\n\nA man near Marcus put his arm around his wife. She was holding a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. Together they stepped forward and set the items on the steps of the mausoleum.\n\n\"My mother immediately left a gift. Patty meant to, she said she would, but she forgot.\" Miss Wolfson squinted her eyes and peered slowly across the faces of the audience. \"Patricia Wilson disappeared before the three days passed.\"\n\n\"That's not exactly true,\" Jessie blurted out. All eyes turned to face her. She blushed. \"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt,\" Jessie told Miss Wolfson. She reached into her coat pocket and took out the article. \"Last night I discovered that Patty Wilson had been visiting her sick sister.\" She held up the page. \"Exactly seventy-four years ago this time of year. Which means she left on her own. It wasn't a ghost that got her. She didn't really disappear.\"\n\nVita turned her camera on the Aldens.\n\nHenry stood tall and said, \"Maybe Patricia Wilson didn't tell anyone she was leaving. We think it was an emergency. Then she probably stayed in Beacon Crest and didn't come back.\"\n\n\"Look. There's more.\" Jessie held up a second sheet of paper and said, \"I found more newspaper items about Patricia. She married and became Patricia Haverford and then she died in Silver City. Here's her death notice. Patty Wilson lived to be ninety-two years old. She had children and grandchildren.\"\n\nPeople began to mutter and whisper to each other. It was as if no one had listened to Jessie.\n\n\"I heard about a man whose business went bankrupt,\" a lady reported. \"And a girl who broke her arm.\"\n\n\"Well, I heard about a boy who got food poisoning. And one time, a man didn't leave a gift and a big storm came. A tree fell on the man's car.\"\n\nEveryone had a bad luck story to tell about what had happened to someone who hadn't left Jacqueline LaFonte's ghost a present.\n\n\"That's all normal stuff,\" Henry said in a loud voice. \"Bad stuff happens to everyone, but so does good stuff.\" That was exactly what Grandfather had told the children at the caf\u00e9 when they saw the lily appear.\n\n\"It's the ghost's curse,\" someone said from deep inside the crowd.\n\nViolet stood on her tiptoes but couldn't see who said it.\n\nA nervous hush came over the people at the mausoleum. A little boy quickly walked to the pillars and set down a box of crayons near the name plaque. Three young girls put down home baked treats. A man set out candles and a woman carefully set down a pretty potted plant.\n\nAs the gifts piled up, Jessie turned to Henry, Violet, and Benny. She waved the articles. \"I don't understand,\" she said. \"I have proof that Patricia Wilson didn't disappear, but no one believes it.\"\n\nHenry frowned. \"Let's go talk to Miss Wolfson. She's a historian. She has to believe the facts.\"\n\nBecause he was the smallest, Benny got through the crowd first.\n\nMiss Wolfson was talking to Marcus Michelson. Vita was recording their conversation.\n\n\"I've changed my mind,\" Vita was telling Miss Wolfson. \"Instead of the historical society film, I'm making a ghost documentary,\" Vita said. \"I'm going to show the entire town coming out to leave gifts for the ghost. I've already talked to a big-time producer about making a spooky cemetery movie. She thinks I might become a famous director.\"\n\nMiss Wolfson smiled and waved to the camera. \"Hello, Hollywood,\" she said with a grin. Then Miss Wolfson sneezed. \"Excuse me,\" she told Vita. \"I think I might be getting a cold.\"\n\nViolet reached forward and handed Miss Wolfson a tissue. \"Me too,\" she said with a sneeze.\n\nMiss Wolfson took the tissue. \"Thank you,\" she said. Then turned, \"Jessie, can I see your pages?\"\n\nJessie handed her the pages. Miss Wolfson took a quick glance before handing them back. \"Good luck,\" she told Jessie.\n\n\"With what?\" Violet asked. Miss Wolfson was acting strange.\n\n\"With convincing people that there is no ghost,\" Miss Wolfson said, putting her hands on her hips. \"People believe what they want to believe. Remember my mom in the old school picture? Now, she's ninety-five years old. Just yesterday, she told me that even if Patty Wilson herself walked into the cemetery right now and declared she hadn't been cursed, no one would believe her. The ghost and the gifts and the story about bad luck are part of Greenfield's history. Nothing you do will change that.\" She added, \"We all might as well make the best of it.\"\n\nBending down, Miss Wolfson told Benny, \"Bring some toys. I'm sure the ghost would especially like to have a few stuffed animals and some board games.\"\n\nMarcus Michelson's face became very red. \"It's time for people to know the truth.\" He stomped his foot, then put the hood of his black coat over his head and shouted at Mrs. Wolfson, \"For all the trouble that ghost has caused, those gifts should be mine!\" With that, Marcus stormed out of the cemetery.\n\nHe left just in time because a few minutes later Mrs. Radcliffe appeared. She was carrying a broom and swinging it like a weapon. \"Get out,\" she shrieked, sweeping at people's feet. \"Out of my cemetery. Stay off the grass. Don't trample the flowers.\" People moved aside, but no one left. Finally in frustration, Mrs. Radcliffe muttered, \"The LaFonte ghost isn't scary enough to keep people away. This cemetery needs a zombie!\" With an angry huff, she stomped back to her office.\n\n# Chapter 7\n\nMovie Magic\n\n\"Is there a zombie in Greenfield?\" Benny asked at breakfast the next morning. \"Mrs. Radcliffe said the cemetery needed a zombie.\" The children were sitting at the dining room table, which was laid out with bowls and spoons.\n\nViolet came in from the kitchen carrying a box of cereal and a carton of milk. \"Mrs. Radcliffe is just trying to frighten people away from the cemetery,\" Violet told Benny. \"Ghosts maybe. Zombies...no way.\"\n\n\"A zombie would be scarier than a ghost,\" Benny said while pouring a bowl of crunchy flakes. \"But know what would be even scarier?\"\n\n\"What?\" Jessie asked.\n\n\"Grrr,\" Benny snarled, showing his teeth. \"A werewolf.\"\n\nJessie laughed. \"Or a vampire.\" She covered her neck with two hands. \"That would scare me.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Radcliffe scares me,\" Henry said with a wink. \"I think she can chase people away from the cemetery all on her own!\"\n\nEveryone agreed.\n\n\"Good morning,\" Grandfather greeted the children as he brought his coffee cup and joined them at the table. \"How's the ghost hunt going?\"\n\n\"After last night, our suspects are all now more suspicious,\" Henry replied.\n\n\"It's day three,\" Jessie said. \"The last day for people to bring gifts to the mausoleum.\"\n\n\"Or get bad luck.\" Benny trembled. \"A whole year of bad luck.\"\n\nViolet said to Grandfather, \"If we don't find a person acting like the ghost today, we might have to admit that the ghost is real.\"\n\n\"Or wait till next year to search around again,\" Henry said, shaking his head.\n\n\"So what's your plan for today?\" Grandfather Alden asked as they finished their cereal. \"Are you going back to the cemetery?\"\n\n\"Maybe we should hide again and see if we can catch the person gathering the gifts,\" Henry suggested.\n\nJessie opened her notebook. \"Remember when Henry found out about the old LaFonte house on the hill? I think we should go there,\" she said. \"Maybe we can find a clue in the house.\"\n\nBenny took his empty bowl and got up to go into the kitchen. \"I'm going to need a lot of snacks if we're visiting a spooky haunted house.\" He patted his empty pockets. \"Lots and lots of snacks.\"\n\n\"That reminds me,\" Jessie said, getting up from the table, \"Watch is probably hungry too.\" She called to the dog. \"Watch! Come here, Watch!\"\n\nUsually Watch came running at the sound of Jessie's voice. But not today.\n\n\"Watch!\" she called again.\n\n\"Where's that dog?\" Henry asked, going to search the bedrooms. \"I bet he's sleeping, or\u2014\"\n\nJust then Benny came running in from the kitchen. \"Watch is gone!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" Violet asked, hurrying to Benny's side. She looked worried.\n\n\"When I came downstairs this morning, Watch wanted to go outside. So I tied his leash to the patio table. Now Watch is gone.\" Benny's eyes were wide. \"I knew it! We should have brought a gift to the mass-o-lume.\"\n\n\"Mausoleum,\" Jessie corrected as she came back into the dining room. \"There's no ghost.\"\n\n\"Then how do you explain this?\" Benny held up Watch's leash. \"Watch escaped. We have bad luck! We have bad, bad luck!\"\n\nBenny ran from the room and came back a second later, still in his pajamas and his morning hair sticking up to the sky. He was holding a big bag of toys. \"Gifts for the ghost. We have to deliver them right now so Watch will come back. Hurry, Jessie. Hustle, Henry. Come on, Violet.\" He slipped on his tennis shoes. \"Let's go to the...\" he said it slowly to be sure he said it right, \"...mausoleum.\"\n\n* * *\n\nWatch wasn't at the cemetery. But plenty of people were there, and the area around the LaFonte mausoleum was piled high with gifts.\n\nBenny walked carefully through the crowd until he reached one of the columns. He set down his bag of toys and began to put them on the ground one at a time near the mausoleum steps.\n\n\"Wait!\" Vita rushed to him. \"Can you take them back and do it again? I want to record you for my movie.\"\n\nBenny waited for his siblings to catch up. He asked Henry, \"Is it bad luck to take them back? We've had enough bad luck already.\"\n\n\"I think it's all right,\" Henry assured Benny. \"You really don't have to give gifts at all.\"\n\n\"Yes, we do! We have to save our dog!\" Glancing down at his pajama bottoms, Benny told Vita, \"We're kind of in a hurry to get these presents to the ghost.\" He asked, \"Have you seen Watch? He's missing.\"\n\n\"That's terrible!\" Vita said. \"How about this? After I record you putting out the gifts, I'll help you find your dog. Filming will only take a couple minutes.\"\n\nBenny agreed and took back his presents, putting them into the bag.\n\nVita asked him to move into the crowd while she framed the shot. She wanted the old grove of trees behind him and the LaFonte house on the hill in the distance. Looking through her lens, Vita shouted, \"Action!\"\n\nBenny wove his way through the people around the mausoleum toward the column again. He took the gifts out one by one and set them down. He had ten different wrapped packages. Then Benny turned to Vita's camera and said, \"We don't want any bad luck. We just want our dog back.\"\n\nVita put down the lens. \"That was perfect,\" she told Benny. \"I'll quickly review it to make sure I got everything and that it's in focus. Then we can search for Watch.\"\n\nBenny said, \"I'm worried about our dog. Thanks for helping us.\"\n\n\"Thanks to you too,\" Vita replied. She switched the camera into playback mode.\n\n\"Did you know about the ghost story before you decided to make the movie?\" Jessie asked Vita.\n\n\"No,\" Vita said. \"I found out the same way you did. The lights went out at Randy's Caf\u00e9 and then the lily appeared. That was the beginning.\" She looked at the small screen on her camera and rewound the part she'd filmed with Benny.\n\nViolet took Jessie aside. \"It doesn't sound like Vita is a suspect anymore.\"\n\n\"She didn't make up the ghost for her movie,\" Jessie agreed, taking out her notebook and crossing off Vita's name. \"It was a coincidence that she was at the caf\u00e9 that night.\"\n\nJessie closed the notebook and everyone huddled around Vita's camera to see the bit with Benny.\n\nThere he was, standing in the crowd. Then she moved out to the trees.\n\n\"Wait till I add spooky music,\" Vita said. \"This is going to be awesome!\"\n\nFrom the trees, her lens panned up to the old house on the hill and then down to focus on Benny...\n\nSuddenly, Vita gasped. She pressed the stop button on the camera and then pushed the footage back a few frames.\n\n\"What do you see?\" Henry asked.\n\n\"Is it the ghost?\" Benny shivered.\n\nShe zoomed in toward the house. \"Look at this.\" Vita turned the tiny screen toward Henry and Jessie. Violet and Benny squeezed in to see. \"There's something moving. There\u2014\" Vita's eyes went wide. \"Near the front porch. By the steps.\"\n\n\"That's not a ghost!\" Jessie gasped. She jumped up and started to run toward the house on the hill. \"It's Watch!\"\n\n# Chapter 8\n\nHaunted House\n\n\"Don't worry.\" Benny untied the cord that held Watch to the splintered wooden stake in front of the LaFonte house. \"We gave the ghost presents. Lots of presents. No more bad luck for the Aldens!\"\n\n\"Watch didn't run away,\" Henry said, hooking Watch's leash to his collar. \"Someone took him. On purpose.\"\n\n\"I wonder why,\" Jessie said, bending down to hug her dog. \"Is someone trying to scare us away?\"\n\nViolet looked up at the old house and wrinkled her forehead. \"Maybe whoever is pretending to be the ghost wanted us to come here.\"\n\n\"I don't think anyone wanted us to come here,\" Benny said. \"In fact, I think we should leave. Fast as we can.\"\n\nThe LaFonte house was dark and dusty. When a gust of wind blew, the enormous house swayed. It was hard to imagine what it had been like when Jacqueline LaFonte lived there. It must have been beautiful, but now the windows were all broken. The fence had toppled down and was rotten. The garden was a field of weeds.\n\nJessie saw a rat scurry under the porch.\n\nViolet glanced over her shoulder. \"I want to go inside,\" she said.\n\n\"Come on, Violet.\" Vita was right behind her, camera held high. \"We have a mystery to solve.\" She added, \"This is going to be the best movie ever.\"\n\nThe children entered through a side door with broken hinges. The door led into a small kitchen area, where rusted appliances sat covered with silken spider webs and thick dust.\n\n\"I don't like it in here,\" Benny said, squeezing himself between Henry and Jessie. Benny took a granola bar out of his pocket but didn't eat it. He held it in his hand to give him courage.\n\nThe living room was in better shape than the kitchen, but barely. Antique furniture had been covered with sheets. The chandeliers were black with tarnish. The ceiling beams appeared sturdy, but birds had nested in the wide cracks.\n\n\"Okay,\" Violet said with a quick look around. \"Nothing to see. No clues to who might be pretending to be a ghost.\" She crossed her arms and hugged herself. \"No gifts. Let's go.\"\n\nHenry insisted they take a peek in the dining room and a small parlor across the hall before they could leave. \"No one would be foolish enough to try those stairs.\" He indicated that the only way to the second floor was a narrow stairway with wilted boards and a broken handrail.\n\n\"A dead end. This is disappointing,\" Jessie said. \"I hoped that the answer to who was playing the LaFonte ghost and what was happening to the gifts would be in this old house.\"\n\nHenry headed to the front door. \"We can leave this way.\" Reaching out, Henry said, \"I'll unlock\u2014\"\n\nThe knob rattled.\n\n\"It's the ghost!\" Benny exclaimed. \"Yikes.\"\n\n\"We've gotta run.\" Violet was shaking.\n\nWhen the knob rattled again, Henry jumped back, colliding with Violet and Jessie. Benny crashed into Vita, knocking the camera out of her hands. It skidded across the floor and hit a wall at the far end of the living room.\n\nIn the middle of the wall was a door that the children hadn't noticed during their quick look around. The door was covered with the same peeling wallpaper as the rest of the room. Had it not been for a small latch and the gap near the floor, the door would have completely blended into the wall.\n\n\"Whoa,\" Vita said, scooping up her camera. \"What's this?\" She reached out to tug the latch.\n\n\"Let's go back out through the kitchen,\" Violet said, hurrying in that direction. \"I don't want to know what's in there.\"\n\n\"Just a quick look.\" Henry stepped next to Vita at the door. \"It'll just take a second.\"\n\nViolet cautiously stepped back into the room. \"No such thing as ghosts,\" she told herself.\n\nThe door creaked as the hinges gave way and the door opened to reveal a closet.\n\nCrash!\n\nA vase fell off a tilted shelf and shattered on the living room floor.\n\nJust then, the front door of the house opened with a bang. A figure wearing a black jacket, face obscured with a hood, stomped into the room.\n\nIt was too late to run. Vita slowly turned around and raised her camera lens to her eye. \"If I'm going to face a ghost, I should film it,\" she said, breathing deeply. \"A good director would never run away.\"\n\nHenry, Violet, Jessie, and Benny stared at the figure. Watch growled.\n\nMarcus Michelson pushed back his hood, revealing his face. \"What are you doing here?\" he demanded to know.\n\n\"I\u2014\" Vita was so nervous that she had a hard time forming words.\n\n\"We came to get our dog,\" Benny boldly told Marcus. \"He was dog-napped.\"\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" Henry asked.\n\n\"This is my family's house.\" Marcus dangled the door key. \"And you are trespassing. I should call the police\u2014\" He stared at the Aldens and then at Vita. Behind her, the closet door was wide open and the broken vase lay on the floor.\n\nMarcus walked forward with large steps. \"Look. There are my candlesticks!\" He gasped. Marcus took a flashlight out of his coat pocket and shone the beam inside the closet. The light glittered on his gift to the ghost.\n\nThe closet was deep. Henry and the others leaned forward to get a good look inside. Shelves ran floor to ceiling and they were packed full. Boxes sat on top of other boxes, piled high. Everything the children had seen left at the LaFonte mausoleum was in this closet. And there was plenty of room for today's final offerings.\n\n\"That's where my presents will go.\" Benny pointed to a big empty shelf near the back.\n\nHenry turned toward Marcus. \"You have a black coat like the one we saw in the cemetery. You were inside the caf\u00e9 when the lily showed up. We saw you at the mausoleum. And we found the gifts in your family house.\" He scratched his forehead and ran a hand through his hair. \"Everything seems to tell us that you are the thief. But I don't understand. Why would you steal your own candlesticks?\"\n\n\"I promise you I didn't take my own candles,\" Marcus insisted. He looked over Henry's shoulder. \"I've been to this old house a few times since I moved to town but never noticed that closet.\"\n\n\"It was hidden,\" Vita said. She shut the door to show him how the wallpaper perfectly matched up, making the door disappear into the wall.\n\n\"If you aren't the one pretending to be the ghost,\" Jessie said, opening her notebook and looking at Marcus's name on the suspect's page. \"Who do you think it is?\"\n\nVita was busy filming everything. She turned her camera to face the suspect. \"What do you have to say, Mr. Michelson?\"\n\n\"I don't\u2014\"\n\n\"Wait a second.\" Benny peered into Marcus's face. \"Did you steal our dog?\"\n\n\"I'm not the LaFonte ghost,\" Marcus said honestly. \"But yes, I did take your dog.\"\n\n# Chapter 9\n\nWho Is Greenfield's Ghost?\n\n\"You took our dog!\" Benny stomped his feet. \"That wasn't nice.\"\n\n\"I gave him water and food,\" Marcus assured Benny. \"I did it because I wanted to get you out of the way.\" The college student looked from Benny to Jessie, to Violet and Henry. \"I'm trying to find out who is pretending to be the ghost, and you children are always around, asking questions. You're ruining my investigation.\"\n\n\"We're searching for the same thing,\" Henry explained. \"We could help each other.\"\n\n\"No,\" Marcus said. \"I don't want help. I need to solve this mystery by myself.\"\n\n\"But we\u2014\" Henry began then changed his mind about what he was going to say. He looked to his siblings. \"I just realized something important. Marcus is Madame LaFonte's grandson,\" Henry said.\n\n\"He is?\" Violet asked. \"How'd you know?\"\n\n\"This is his family's house. He has the key,\" Henry explained. He asked Marcus, \"You put out the candlesticks at the mausoleum so that you could see who took them, right?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Marcus said.\n\nJessie understood what had happened. She said, \"When Mrs. Radcliffe said she chased someone else out of the cemetery that first night, it was Marcus. He was hiding to watch the candlesticks. Then, just like us, when he looked back from outside the cemetery\u2014they were already gone.\"\n\n\"I missed seeing the thief and it's your fault. If I'd been the only one in the cemetery, Mrs. Radcliffe wouldn't have been so upset!\" Marcus said, \"I have to find out who ruined my family name. I want to prove there is no bad luck. And I have to do it on my own.\"\n\n\"But we're good helpers\u2014\" Violet began.\n\n\"No!\" Marcus growled at her. \"I'm close to finding the truth. If you kids mess this up, I'll have to wait another year until Jacqueline LaFonte's next anniversary. I need to find out who started the rumor so that my parents and cousins can move back to town. I want to rebuild this house, open a business again, and start a fresh life here.\" He turned to Henry. \"Please stop getting in my way. Let me find the thief.\"\n\n\"How do you know your grandmother is not really a ghost?\" Benny asked.\n\n\"Grandmother LaFonte would never have stolen gifts. She was a kind and charitable person,\" Marcus said. \"Did you know she gave money to the children's hospital?\n\n\"Did she give money to families with sick children too?\" Jessie asked. She drew her eyebrows together as the answer became clear.\n\n\"Yes,\" Marcus said. \"How'd you know?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Henry said, putting a hand on Jessie's shoulder. \"I'm pretty sure that we just figured out who the ghost is. There's someone living in Greenfield today who gives money and volunteers at the children's hospital, just like your grandmother did.\"\n\n\"I get it!\" Benny said. \"I know who the ghost is.\"\n\n\"Who?\" Violet sneezed. \"I'm not sure who you are talking about.\" She sneezed again.\n\n\"Violet's cold is a clue too,\" Benny said. \"The ghost also has a cold.\"\n\n\"I got the cold the first night\u2014\" Violet's eyes grew wide as she realized what Benny had figured out. \"Whew. I'm glad there's no real ghost.\" Violet whispered the answer to Vita.\n\n\"Who is it?\" Marcus Michelson asked, following the children outside. \"I'm sorry,\" he apologized. \"I've treated you all badly. I was wrong.\"\n\n\"You need to apologize to Watch,\" Benny said. \"You dog-napped him.\"\n\nMarcus got down on one knee to pet Watch on the head. \"Sorry, boy,\" he said. \"I won't dog-nap any dog ever again.\"\n\nBenny gave Marcus a long, hard look. \"Promise?\"\n\n\"Promise,\" Marcus agreed. He stood up and faced the children. \"You all are very good detectives and I made a mistake thinking I could solve this mystery on my own.\" He went on, saying, \"I really do need your help.\"\n\n\"Miss Wolfson is pretending she's the LaFonte ghost,\" Henry told him.\n\n\"I thought it might be her,\" Marcus said, thinking about it. \"She has a black coat. And she knows a lot about the ghost and has been encouraging people to bring gifts to the mausoleum.\"\n\n\"She was also in the caf\u00e9 when the flower appeared,\" Violet said.\n\n\"And her coat was wet,\" Jessie reminded everyone.\n\n\"When Violet sneezed, I remembered that Miss Wolfson also has a cold,\" Benny said. \"I think that they both got sick being in the cemetery late at night in the rain.\"\n\n\"It seems possible, but Miss Wolfson couldn't have been the ghost for the last seventy-four years,\" Marcus said. \"No way. She's not old enough.\"\n\n\"That is a problem,\" Violet admitted.\n\n\"Miss Wolfson is the ghost now...\" Henry said.\n\n\"But,\" Jessie finished Henry's thought, \"maybe she wasn't the original LaFonte ghost.\"\n\n# Chapter 10\n\nTrick or Treat\n\nMrs. Arlene Wolfson was sitting in a rocking chair near the front window of the nursing home's recreation center. She was alone, knitting a purple scarf. Her gray hair shone in the sunlight and she had a smile on her face.\n\n\"Visitors!\" Mrs. Wolfson exclaimed. Her smile broadened as the Aldens, Marcus, and Vita entered the room. \"I love visitors.\"\n\n\"Hi,\" Benny said. He walked directly to her and asked, \"Were you the first LaFonte ghost?\"\n\nMrs. Wolfson nodded. \"So, you found me out.\" She winked and dropped her voice to a whisper. \"I'm ninety-five years old, you know. For a very long time I've hoped someone would figure it out. But no one ever came to see me.\" She rocked back and forth in her chair.\n\n\"I remembered that your daughter, Miss Wolfson, volunteers at the children's hospital,\" Jessie said. \"And gives money to families with sick children.\"\n\n\"So did my grandmother,\" Marcus said, introducing himself.\n\n\"It looks like you've carried on with Jacqueline LaFonte's work,\" Violet said to Mrs. Wolfson.\n\n\"Yes. Yes. The hospital was important to Jacqueline. We've given a lot of money in her honor over the last seventy-four years,\" Mrs. Wolfson said, still knitting. \"Every year, I collected the gifts and then sold them. Every cent went to charity. I also donated any food gifts and flowers to people who really needed them.\" She raised her head and looked at the children. \"When I got too old, my daughter took over the job.\"\n\n\"I think what you've done is nice,\" Violet said. \"But taking gifts from others is stealing.\" She frowned. \"You're kind of a generous thief.\"\n\n\"I know,\" Mrs. Wolfson replied, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. \"That's the part that I feel terrible about. I never wanted to steal from anyone. Really. It's strange how it all worked out. I never meant for this to happen.\"\n\n\"How did it begin?\" Marcus wanted to know. \"I've spent my whole life wondering why people here are afraid of my family.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry about that. Everything got out of control too quickly. The rumors spread like fire. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the flames.\" Mrs. Wolfson told the children to bring chairs over from a nearby table. \"Let me tell you a story.\"\n\nAfter asking for permission, Vita turned on her camera.\n\n\"It started as a joke,\" Mrs. Wolfson said. \"After Jacqueline LaFonte died, we thought it would be funny to play a Halloween prank on the town. A little trick. Everyone used to do Halloween tricks back then. Much more fun than getting treats.\" She told Marcus, \"Your grandmother had such a great sense of humor. She'd passed away the year before, but still, we thought she'd love to be part of the prank.\"\n\nMarcus gave a small smile. \"Yes. My mother told me how Grandma LaFonte used to play practical jokes on everyone. Once she put a live turtle in my mom's bathtub. Another time she replaced all the flowers in the house with fake ones. Silly little things like that.\"\n\nMrs. Wolfson laughed. \"Once, at the dress shop, she sewed a man's trouser legs together. He fell over when he tried to put them on. We laughed about it for days!\"\n\n\"What did you do for the Halloween prank?\" Violet asked.\n\n\"On the anniversary of her death, we put the lilies on her mausoleum, then set one in a shop in town. Patty made a big show of screaming in horror. She told everyone that before she died, Jacqueline said that anyone who didn't bring a present to her grave would have bad luck.\n\n\"The bad luck part was my idea,\" Mrs. Wolfson snickered. \"It was very funny at first. Everyone was in a panic. Even people who didn't believe in ghosts or bad luck were bringing gifts\u2014just in case.\" Her eyes clouded as she went on. \"Patty and I thought it was the best joke ever played in Greenfield history. Better than when those boys put a cow in the mayor's office! Or the kids who dumped bubbles in the Main Street fountain.\" In a soft voice, she added, \"We planned to give all the gifts back at the end of the three days.\"\n\n\"But Patty left town before it was over.\" Jessie knew that part of the story.\n\n\"Her sister got sick and needed help with her children. It was an emergency. Patty took the train the same day she heard the news.\" Mrs. Wolfson sighed. \"Someone started a rumor that Patty had forgotten to leave a gift and disappeared.\" Her old shoulders sank. \"Patty wrote me a letter that she wasn't coming back. Her sister needed her to stay. So, on my own, I went out to give back the gifts, but no one wanted them. They told me the ghost would harm them if they took back their presents.\"\n\nMrs. Wolfson stared out the window. \"I tried and tried to explain. I talked until my voice hurt. No one wanted their things back. Finally, I gave up and donated the gifts to the hospital. I figured that Jacqueline would have liked hat.\"\n\n\"What happened next?\" Marcus wanted to hear more.\n\n\"The following year, I didn't say anything about the ghost. No jokes. No pranks. No flowers. Nothing.\" Mrs. Wolfson raised her hands. \"I couldn't believe it! The gifts piled up anyway.\" She shrugged. \"I didn't know what to do. Again, I tried to give things back, but no one would take them. So once more, I donated them all.\"\n\n\"People started thinking my family brought bad luck.\" Marcus bit his bottom lip.\n\n\"It was bizarre. If a kid got the measles, they said it was the ghost. A dog got fleas. A man tripped on a curb...\" Mrs. Wolfson said. \"All anyone could talk about was the ghost's bad luck.\"\n\nViolet let out a breath. She'd been holding it during the whole story. \"This is terrible,\" she said. \"Rumors can be very bad.\"\n\n\"After a few years, the LaFonte family moved away, and still the gifts kept coming on Jacqueline's anniversary. So I kept collecting them. I put them in the old empty house until I could send them to the hospital or sell them for money to give to families who needed it.\"\n\nVita moved in for a tight shot of Mrs. Wolfson's face.\n\n\"When I moved here to the nursing home, my daughter took over.\" She glanced out the window. Henry could see the cemetery in the distance.\n\n\"You made something good come from something bad,\" Violet said. \"You're not really a thief, are you?\"\n\nMrs. Wolfson hesitated as she considered how to answer. \"I don't know. Yes. No. Sort of\u2014\"\n\nThe door to the room opened. \"Hello,\" Miss Wolfson greeted her mother's visitors as she stepped inside. \"Did Mom tell you the truth?\" she asked the Aldens.\n\n\"Yes,\" Jessie said. \"It's a crazy story.\"\n\n\"I know!\" Miss Wolfson took off her jacket and threw it over the back of an empty chair. \"I'm so glad you children believe there's no ghost,\" she said. \"I wish we could convince the rest of the town.\"\n\n\"There must be something we can do,\" Jessie said.\n\n\"Let's just tell people the history,\" Marcus said. \"After we share the truth, my family will move back to Greenfield. It'll be over.\"\n\n\"It's not that easy,\" Violet told him. \"Remember when Jessie brought proof that Patty Wilson didn't disappear because of the ghost's bad luck? She told everyone standing by the grave that Patty lived a long time. No one believed her.\"\n\n\"Just like no believed me all those years ago,\" Mrs. Wolfson said. \"I'd have ended it seventy-four years ago if I could have.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Henry said, \"we are going to have to make them believe us. No more bad luck. No more gifts.\"\n\nJessie thought about the words Mrs. Wolfson had used and said, \"It's time to finally put out this fire.\"\n\n\"I definitely want the ghost story to end, but please don't forget about the hospital.\" Mrs. Wolfson was concerned. \"The money, the flowers, and the food go to people who need it.\"\n\n\"Hmm,\" Marcus said. \"That does make things complicated.\"\n\nVita lowered her camera. \"Maybe...\" she began. She turned the camera so that Henry could watch her whole movie from the beginning. \"We can have a charity event for the hospital and get rid of the ghost at the same time.\"\n\n\"Leave it to us,\" Henry assured Miss Wolfson, Mrs. Wolfson, and Marcus. \"We'll take care of everything!\"\n\n# Chapter 11\n\nGhosts Gone?\n\nThe first annual Greenfield Halloween Charity Carnival took place in the cemetery parking lot.\n\n\"I knew there wasn't a real ghost,\" Benny said surely. \"I knew it all along.\" He was standing in line for the Ferris wheel with Violet.\n\n\"So why are your pockets stuffed with granola bars?\" Violet asked.\n\n\"In case I get hungry, of course,\" Benny said. He grinned and whispered, \"Or in case we run into Mrs. Radcliffe. She still scares me.\" He shivered.\n\nWhen Henry and Jessie went to the cemetery office to explain about the LaFonte ghost, they'd asked Mrs. Radcliffe if they could have the charity benefit in the cemetery.\n\n\"People are used to bringing gifts here,\" Henry had told her. \"We simply want to take away the scary ghost part. They can donate whatever they want to the hospital.\"\n\nThen Grandfather called Mrs. Wolfson at the nursing home and the younger Miss Wolfson at the historical society. He called the hospital to tell them about the charity carnival, and he called all his friends to come help.\n\nMrs. Wolfson and Miss Wolfson had set up the Greenfield Historical Society booth by the path to the cemetery. They entertained visitors with stories about Halloween pranks from Greenfield's town history.\n\nFrom the top of the Ferris wheel, Benny could see that the place was packed. There were booths for games, a few fun rides, and in the center of it all stood the Children's Hospital LaFonte Donation Table.\n\n\"Bring your gifts here!\" Jessie called out through a megaphone. There was a crowd of adults and children surrounding her. One by one, Jessie handed the gifts to Henry, who stood behind her.\n\n\"Drop off your donations to the children's hospital,\" Henry announced. He was piling the presents on a table.\n\nGrandfather and Marcus Michelson were also standing at the table, wrapping the gifts in colored paper.\n\n\"Did you meet Marcus's mother?\" Violet asked Benny as their swinging chair looped over the top of the wheel and began to sink back to earth.\n\n\"She's very nice,\" Benny said. \"She makes dresses just like her mom did.\"\n\n\"I know!\" Violet said. \"She promised to make me something special. I can't wait. I picked out the fabric already. It's going to be purple to match the scarf Mrs. Wolfson made for me.\" She tightened the knitted scarf around her neck.\n\n\"I'm so glad we solved this mystery,\" Violet said as the owner of the caf\u00e9 opened the gate and let her and Benny off the ride. \"It worked out for everyone. The rumors have stopped. The hospital gets presents. The LaFonte family can move back to town.\"\n\n\"Vita is showing her movie,\" Benny said. He checked the time. \"We better hurry.\"\n\nAt the back of the parking lot a big white tent had been set up. The tent had long flaps to keep it dark inside.\n\nBenny and Violet rushed to the front entrance.\n\n\"We're here,\" Violet told Vita.\n\n\"Just in time.\" Vita pointed to the line of people who'd come to see the movie. She told Violet where to stand. \"Your job is to sell tickets. They cost a dollar. All the money will go to families with sick children.\"\n\nViolet picked up a roll of tickets to sell. She was surprised when people gave her five or ten dollar bills and told her to keep the change.\n\n\"It's for charity,\" a woman said.\n\n\"It's good luck to give money to a good cause,\" a man said with a wink.\n\n\"Thanks!\" Violet said, putting the money away and welcoming them into the tent.\n\nVita walked with Benny to another spot. \"This is where you'll hand out popcorn,\" she told him. Smiling she added, \"The popcorn was donated. It's free.\"\n\n\"Free food! My favorite kind.\" Benny stuffed a handful into his mouth.\n\n\"Save some for us, Benny,\" Henry said. He and Jessie entered the tent with Marcus and Grandfather. Behind them, the Wolfsons had also come to see the film.\n\n\"I hear I am going to be a celebrity,\" Mrs. Wolfson said.\n\n\"You sure are.\" A tall woman wearing a beautiful green suit stepped up to the group. \"I'm Leanne Phuong. I came all the way from Hollywood to see Vita's movie. I'm a producer of ghost shows.\"\n\n\"You know there wasn't really ever a ghost,\" Miss Wolfson said, taking a bag of popcorn from Benny. \"It was my mom. Then me.\"\n\n\"We know,\" Ms. Phuong assured her. \"And we think it's a fabulous twist! A ghost story without a ghost. We are going to show this movie in film festivals all over the country.\"\n\nVita beamed. \"Will you give all the ticket sales to local hospitals?\" Vita asked. \"That's an important part of the story.\"\n\n\"Of course!\" Ms. Phuong agreed.\n\n\"My first movie.\" Vita was very happy.\n\n\"You better get started on a second film project,\" Henry told her.\n\n\"I've been thinking I'll make that one about the historical society next,\" Vita said. \"The one I started before all this happened. There's a lot of history in Greenfield.\" She waved her hand outside the tent toward Main Street.\n\n\"Ohhh!\" Benny was so excited he nearly dropped a bag of popcorn. \"Please, Vita,\" he said. \"I want to be the star of your movie!\"\n\nEveryone laughed.\n\nThe Aldens sat together in the front row of the tent theater. Suddenly, the lights flickered and went off.\n\n\"Oh no,\" Benny said, jumping up from his chair. \"Could there be another ghost in the cemetery? Yikes.\" He took a granola bar out of his pocket and began to unwrap it. \"Maybe this time it's a zombie! Double yikes.\"\n\nJessie put a hand on Benny's shoulder. \"No ghost. No zombie. Not even a vampire. That was just Vita turning off the lights. The movie is starting.\"\n\nA single lily sitting on a windowsill appeared on the screen.\n\n\"I don't believe in ghosts,\" Benny said firmly. 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{"meta": {"title": "About Anarchism - Walter, Nicolas"}, "text": "\n\n_About Anarchism_\n\nNicolas Walter\n\nAll contributions \u00a9 2019 the respective authors\n\nThis edition \u00a9 2019 PM Press\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.\n\nISBN: 978\u20131\u201362963\u2013640\u20135\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2018948959\n\nCover by John Yates / www.stealworks.com\n\nInterior design by briandesign\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nPM Press\n\nPO Box 23912\n\nOakland, CA 94623\n\nwww.pmpress.org\n\nPrinted in the USA.\n\n#   Contents\n\nPreface\n\nIntroduction to the 2002 Edition\n\nNote on the 2002 Edition\n\nIntroduction\n\nWhat Anarchists Believe\n\nHow Anarchists Differ\n\nWhat Anarchists Want\n\nWhat Anarchists Do\n\nAbout the Authors\n\n#   Preface\n\n# By David Goodway\n\n_About Anarchism_ appeared originally in June 1969 as the hundredth number of Colin Ward's celebrated _Anarchy_ , a periodical to which Nicolas Walter was a frequent contributor. Freedom Press then immediately proceeded to bring it out as a booklet. The rest of its publication history is explained by Natasha Walter in her \"Introduction\" below. It was translated into many other languages, and it is said that its popularity led some anarchist parents to name their boys \"Nicolas\". By the way, readers should note the correct spelling of \"Nicolas\": it regularly appears with an erroneous \"h\". When my daughter Emma told him one of her names is 'Nicola', he enquired after its spelling, responding instantly, \"Yes, that's the best way!\"\n\nSomething of the considerable influence _About Anarchism_ exerted is revealed by Peter Marshall in his autobiography _Bognor Boy: How I Became an Anarchist_ (2018). He believes that the key factors in his becoming an anarchist were the events of May 1968 in Paris, together with reading both Wilde's _The Soul of Man under Socialism_ and _About Anarchism_.\n\nNicolas wrote a mass of anarchist journalism, but _About Anarchism_ was the most sustained (as well as successful) anarchist publication of his lifetime. _The Anarchist Past_ and _Damned Fools in Utopia_ are selections from his articles and pamphlets that I edited posthumously in 2007 and 2011 respectively.\n\n_About Anarchism_ continues to read freshly after fifty years. It's succinct, straightforwardly written\u2014even lucid\u2014comprehensive and astonishingly non-sectarian. I warm particularly to the way in which, after distinguishing between philosophical anarchism, individualism and egoism, mutualism and federalism, collectivism and communism, and syndicalism, he observes that these differences have become less important, \"more apparent than real\" and \"artificial differences of emphasis\", rather than \"serious differences of principle\". I doubt this is true, whether in 1969 or 2019, but I wish that it were!\n\nNicolas Hardy Walter was born in 1934, in South London, where his father was researching at the Maudsley Hospital, and was rightly proud of his dissenting family background over several generations. His paternal grandfather, Karl Walter (1880\u20131965), a journalist, had as a young man been an anarchist, had known Peter Kropotkin and Edward Carpenter, and with Tom Keell was one of the two English delegates to the International Anarchist Congress at Amsterdam in 1907. Three years before he had married Margaret Hardy, an American woman he had met in Italy; and between 1908 and the First World War they lived in the States, where he worked on the _Kansas City Star_. In the 1930s, they settled in Italy, Karl Walter as a sympathizer of fascism; but in old age he returned to both anarchism and London, and in the last years of his life was writing occasionally for _Freedom_ at the same time as his grandson. Nicolas's father W. Grey Walter (1910\u20131977) was a brilliant neurologist who created ingenious electro-mechanical robots, wrote _The Living Brain_ (1953)\u2014widely read in its Pelican edition\u2014was Director for many years of the Burden Neurological Institute in Bristol and appeared on television in the BBC's _The Brains Trust_.\n\nNicolas's maternal grandfather was S.K. (Samuel Kerkham) Ratcliffe (1868\u20131958), another journalist, who had also known Kropotkin and Carpenter (at whose funeral he was a mourner) and had served on the executive of the Fabian Society alongside Charlotte Wilson (whose anarchist essays his grandson was to edit). Although acting editor of the daily _Statesman_ of Calcutta, 1903\u20131906, and editor of the _Sociological Review_ , 1910\u20131917, he was essentially a freelance journalist\u2014and a rationalist liberal rather than a socialist\u2014but he was also a formidable lecturer, undertaking no fewer than twenty-eight lecture tours of the USA and Canada. He served for forty years as \"an appointed lecturer\" of the South Place Ethical Society, the history of which he was to write, and Nicolas followed him in this role from 1978.\n\nS.K.'s brother William Ratcliffe became a painter and was a member of the Camden Town Group. Nicolas's mother Monica had been one of Ninette de Valois's dancers at Sadler's Wells. Grey Walter (who was three times married) and Monica Walter divorced when Nicolas was nine or ten, and he was brought up by his mother and her second husband, A.H.W. (Bill) Beck, who was to become Professor of Engineering at Cambridge.\n\nNicolas was sent to private schools in the Bristol area and then boarded at a minor and semi-progressive public school, Rendcomb College, Cirencester (to which E.D. Morel and John Middleton Murry had sent sons). On leaving school he did his two years' National Service in the RAF as a Junior Technician in Signals Intelligence. He was one of those bright young men who were taught Russian as part of the Cold War effort; and it was on Russia, second only to British history and anarchism, that he was to write most extensively and percipiently\u2014for a considerable period he was contemplating a biography of Kropotkin.\n\nIn 1954, he went up to Exeter College, Oxford, to read Modern History. At Oxford he was a member of the Labour Club\u2014he had been \"brought up more or less as a Labour Party supporter\u2014an extreme left-wing Labour Party supporter\"1\u2014but in the autumn of 1956 the twin upheavals of the Suez Crisis and the Hungarian Revolution jolted him to question the accepted ideologies. On graduating in 1957, he left for London where he was to spend his entire working life, initially as a schoolteacher\u2014among his first pupils was Christine Barnett, nine years his junior, who would later become his second wife\u2014but soon moving on to political research, publishing and journalism. He participated in the political and cultural ferment of the first New Left, frequenting the Partisan Coffee House in Carlisle Street, and advocating nuclear disarmament before the actual formation of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) in 1958. Late in 1958, Karl Walter was responsible for introducing him to Lilian Wolfe, who had been Tom Keell's companion and continued to live at Whiteway colony but during the week worked for Freedom Press, then in Red Lion Street. Nicolas began to visit the Freedom Bookshop and to attend the London Anarchist Group's weekly meetings. From 1959, he became a contributor to _Freedom_ , an association only terminated by his death.\n\nWhen in the autumn of 1960 dissatisfaction with CND's legal methods and constitutional agitation spawned within it the direct-action Committee of 100, Nicolas had his first letter published in the _Times_ defending the dissidents, and as a consequence was invited to become a member of the Committee to help round up the well-known names to the all-important figure of one hundred. As he was to write: \"I was never at all important in the Committee of 100, but it was very important to me\".2 The Committee of 100 was the leading anarchist\u2014or at least near anarchist\u2014political organization of modern Britain. The events of 1960\u20131962 led Nicolas to spend as much time as possible during the winter of 1961\u20131962, outside of work and his considerable political activity, in the Reading Room of the British Museum attempting with considerable success, to work out the historical lineage and above all the political theory of the Committee of 100, in \"Damned Fools in Utopia\" for the _New Left Review_ and especially two _Anarchy_ essays, \"Direct Action and the New Pacifism\" and \"Disobedience and the New Pacifism\". The _Anarchy_ essays won him the greatly valued friendship of Alex Comfort, whom he properly concluded was \"the true voice of nuclear disarmament, much more than Bertrand Russell or anyone else\" and who was their principal theoretical influence, alongside the novelist Colin MacInnes.3 For many years he intended to write a history of the Committee of 100, and of all his unrealized books this is the one I most regret.\n\nIn June 1961, Nicolas had resigned from the Committee because of disagreement with its rhetoric and tactics, which had worried him from the outset. The failure of the demonstration at the Wethersfield airbase on December 9 led the following year to the decentralization of the Committee into thirteen regional Committees (several of which were already existent). Although there was a nominal National Committee of 100, the dominant body now became the London Committee of 100, which Nicolas joined at its inaugural meeting in April 1962. Another member was the twenty-year-old Ruth Oppenheim, a microbiologist at Sainsbury's, who also worked whenever she could in the Committee's Goodwin Street premises. Barbara Smoker remembers that at the meetings Nicolas and Ruth always sat together at the front\u2014and in September they married.\n\nThe long, harsh winter of 1962\u20131963, one of the century's worst, saw renewed crisis, now acted out in the London Committee. The radicals, mainly from or close to _Solidarity_ , circulated the arrestingly titled discussion document _Beyond Counting Arses_ , advocating radical, subversive action: \"We must attempt to hinder the warfare state in every possible way\".4 It was essentially this group, joined by Nicolas and Ruth, that constituted the Spies for Peace, locating and breaking into the Regional Seat of Government at Warren Row, producing the pamphlet _Danger! Official Secret: RSG-6_ and, thereby, diverting many of us on the Aldermaston March of Easter 1963 to explore the sinister surface buildings of the subterranean bunker. The disclosure of the preparations to rule the country through fourteen RSGs in the event of nuclear war represented, of course, \"a substantial breach of official secrecy\" and caused, as one had assumed, Harold Macmillan's ministry real concern.5 Nicolas, the only member of the Spies for Peace ever to have declared himself publicly, did so unambiguously as early as 1968, remarkably, and on the radio at that\u2014his account of 1973 in _Inside Story_ , \"The Spies for Peace Story\", was unattributed and continued to be so in 1988 in \"The Spies for Peace and After\" (reprinted in _Damned Fools in Utopia_ ).\n\nAt the time of the Spies of Peace Ruth was pregnant with their first child, Susannah; and a second daughter, Natasha, followed shortly. Considerably influenced by her increasingly proud father, Natasha Walter is now a prominent literary journalist and author. In 1963, he became Deputy Editor of _Which?_ and a staff writer for the _Good Food Guide_ , and from 1965 Press Officer for the British Standards Institution. It was while working for the British Standards Institution that he underwent his only period of imprisonment. The Labour Party Conference was held in Brighton in 1966, as the Vietnam War grew in intensity, as did the Labour government's complicity, and the Vietnam Action Group planned to disrupt the traditional pre-conference service at the Dorset Road Methodist Church. Demonstrators were issued with admission tickets forged by Pat Pottle and Terry Chandler's Stanhope Press. Terry thought it a good idea to print more tickets than had been asked for, and Nicolas was among those he let have one. So it was that Nicolas initiated cries of \"Hypocrite!\" too early, while George Brown, the deputy prime minister, was speaking, and when Harold Wilson mounted the pulpit to read the second lesson \"pandemonium broke loose\". Nicolas and Jim Radford were charged with indecent behaviour in church under the Ecclesiastical Courts Jurisdiction Act, 1866, and each sentenced to two months in Brixton. Nothing was to give Nicolas more satisfaction than to read in Wilson's memoirs the admission that this was \"one of the most unpleasant experiences of my premiership\".6\n\nIn 1968, he became chief sub-editor of the _Times Literary Supplement_ (TLS), under the admired editorship of Arthur Crook, who made a series of impressive appointments. This was a job for which Nicolas was ideally suited and which he relished. He did not, however, approve of the TLS changing from anonymous to signed reviews and so moved to the Rationalist Press Association (RPA), first as editor of the _New Humanist_ , from 1975 to 1985, and then as Director of the RPA until his retirement at the end of 1999. Work at the RPA enabled him to be paid for propagating the dual cause of atheism and rationalism\u2014together with anarchism, the passions of his intellectual life\u2014and this in part by writing letters to the press.\n\nThis latter was the capacity in which Nicolas was known to the wider public. It was estimated in 1994 that he had written fourteen thousand letters to newspapers and periodicals with a success rate of some two thousand published (or one or two a week). These appeared not only under his own name but under a variety of pseudonyms: Arthur Freeman, Anna Freeman, Mary Lewis, Jean Raison and others. (\"MH\" in _Freedom_ was originally the abbreviation for the collaborative \"Many Hands\", but was later used by Nicolas exclusively.) This enormous body of letters, frequently correcting trivial errors, gave the impression of a pernickety and pedantic obsessive; and on retiring as editor of the _Spectator_ , Charles Moore included Nicolas in the select group of bores whom he certainly would not miss. The astringency of his extensive book reviewing, from _Freedom_ to the _London Review of Books_ , contributed to an erroneous public persona of a desiccated and negative crank. The man in reality was the exact reverse: warm, generous, humorous, loved by children, a wonderful friend.\n\nIn the 1960s alone, Nicolas had had several contracts from commercial publishers, advances were paid, but the books were never written and the advances were refunded\u2014even though his young family could have done with the money. It was a mystery to admirers such as myself why he did not produce the books that his great gifts and immense energy amply equipped him for. The explanation seems to lie in his perfectionism: he completed innumerable articles to his personal satisfaction, yet he was unable to do this at book-length. The contract that resulted in _Anarchy in Action_ was passed on from Nicolas to Colin Ward, but Colin here\u2014and even more in other books\u2014incorporated and built on existing work; Paul Goodman, Alex Comfort and George Woodcock were also obvious exemplars of those who were highly successful in recycling already published material.\n\nDuring the first half of the 1970s Nicolas was drawn into working on Wynford Hicks's attractive papers _Inside Story_ and _Wildcat_ ; collaboration was something he particularly enjoyed and was good at, for he was a social and sociable person. It was in 1983 that he first came into contact with the German anarchist historian Heiner Becker, and by the end of the decade such was their rapport that all Nicolas's scholarly output on anarchist and historical subjects was in effect jointly written with Heiner. When Peter Marshall and myself withdrew (presciently as matters worked out) from involvement in Freedom Press's projected new quarterly publication, Heiner stepped in, conceived the _Raven_ , and in association with Nicolas brought out a run of seven outstanding issues (1987\u20131989).\n\nIn 1974, Nicolas had been diagnosed as having testicular cancer. One testicle was extracted, he was treated with radiotherapy and for a while all seemed fine. Then he began to have problems with his digestive system, he constantly vomited and his weight plummeted from twelve to eight stone [168 to 112 pounds]. It was eventually realized that excessive doses of radiation had damaged the adjoining area of his body. A considerable length of intestine was removed, and he began to recover his health. In 1983, however, it became apparent that his spine and the upper muscles of his thighs had also been affected and progressive disablement set in. As he announced in a letter to the _Guardian_ :\n\nI contracted cancer in my thirties, began to suffer from the long-term side-effects of radiotherapy in my forties, and am now suffering from progressive paralysis and other complications in my fifties.7\n\nFirst he had to use crutches, but by 1997 this formerly fit and very vigorous man was confined to a wheelchair. When asked in 1994 why he did not sue the NHS, he retorted:\n\nWhy should I? It was just bloody bad luck. I'm not complaining. I have only got praise for the people working in hospitals and the social services, even though they are all exhausted and the hospitals are filthy. If I sued the NHS for negligence and won, it would mean there was less money for other people.8\n\nRuth and Nicolas had divorced in 1982. He had the good sense and great fortune to marry Christine Morris (n\u00e9e Barnett), like Ruth Oppenheim a secular Jew, in 1987. Their way of life was to live during the week in the flat on the top storey of 88 Islington High Street above the RPA offices, where Christine also worked for five years, and to spend weekends at her house in Leighton Buzzard. At the end of 1999, Nicolas retired, Christine took redundancy from Relate and they withdrew to live full-time in Leighton Buzzard, from where Nicolas would be able to take the train to St Pancras and work in the new British Library. At just this time, though, the cancer returned; squamous cell carcinoma was diagnosed, and at the beginning of 2000 pronounced terminal. This prognosis he confronted with the fortitude that had characterized his entire life; and in March he was to die at the age of sixty-five.\n\n_David Goodway_\n\n_March 2019_\n\n1 Richard Boston, \"Conversations about Anarchism\", _Anarchy_ no. 85 (March 1968): 75.\n\n2 Nicolas Walter, _Damned Fools in Utopia: And Other Writings on Anarchism and War Resistance_ , David Goodway, ed. (Oakland, CA: PM Press, 2011), 5.\n\n3 The description of Comfort appears in \"Disobedience and the New Pacifism\", _Anarchy_ no. 14 (April 1962): 112.\n\n4 _Solidarity_ 2, no. 11 (1963) reprinted the text of _Beyond Counting Arses_. The sentence quoted appears on page 12.\n\n5 Peter Hennessy, _The Secret State: Whitehall and the Cold War_ (London: Allen Lane-Penguin Books, 2002), 101 ff _._ , 169.\n\n6 Harold Wilson, _The Labour Government, 1964\u20131970: A Personal Record_ (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson and Michael Joseph, 1971), 288.\n\n7 _Guardian_ , September 16,1993.\n\n8 Hunter Davies, \"O Come All Ye Faithless\", _Independent_ , December 20, 1994.\n\n#   Introduction to the 2002 Edition\n\n# by Natasha Walter\n\n# **_About Anarchism_ : Why Now?**\n\nAnybody who has observed or participated in any recent protest against global inequality can testify that an energetic social movement has surfaced over the last few years. Yet to some people, this movement has one particularly negative side. After protests in Gothenburg during the European Union summit in 2001, the British prime minister termed the protesters an \"anarchist travelling circus\" and poured scorn on their methods and dreams.\n\nAs I walked through the crowds on another protest in London later in 2001, I saw that one group of people was carrying a black banner with red writing on it. \"Anarchist travelling circus\" read the flag. It certainly wasn't the first time that anarchists have used the words of their enemies as a label of pride, and this time it looked like a particularly neat joke.\n\nBut anarchism is often seen only as a joke, and even many of its sympathisers seem to have real problems taking it seriously. Anarchists in the current movement are blamed for its most violent or chaotic moments, even by their friends. Certainly, anarchism can just be a sudden protest, a shout of \"No!\", a clenched fist, a raised banner, but any dissent worth its salt does not just entail a momentary disruption of everyday life. It also attempts to transform everyday life, day to day.\n\nNicolas Walter always attempted to communicate the positive aspects of anarchism. He saw anarchism as a realistic way of transforming people's lives, and with its emphasis on the pragmatic elements of anarchist thought, _About Anarchism_ sets up many resonances for the contemporary movement against global capitalism.\n\nEver since the collapse of the experiment in state communism, many experts have concluded that there really is no alternative to the existing way of organising society, but anarchists have never stopped believing in an alternative. Immediately [after] the Russian Revolution took place, anarchists dissented from its authoritarian character, and they are still demanding the freedom that state communism denied, as well as the equality that global capitalism denies.\n\nAnarchism is the one current of political thought that yokes freedom and equality. So anarchists differ from socialists, who put the emphasis on equality, and liberals, who put the emphasis on freedom, because anarchists see that freedom and equality are, in practice, the same thing. Even though many of its participants wouldn't use the label anarchist, this insight that freedom and equality are indivisible is the characteristic insight of the current movement against global inequality, whose members use anti-authoritarian methods, working without hierarchies or leaders to build up their protests, and whose demands are both for a more equitable economic system and for greater freedom for every member of society.\n\nThat's not to say that this movement is necessarily anarchist, through and through. Those people who are looking to win freedom and equality today tend not to take the state as their primary target, as most anarchists did in the past. Instead they see capitalism, especially as embodied in the multinational corporation, as the target. This emphasis on the corporation as the great enemy has led some of the most prominent spokespeople for the current resistance movement to argue that the state, in contrast to the corporation, must be benign, since they believe it is the state, and only the state, that can reign back the corporation's most malign effects on individuals' lives. Many writers who support the antiglobalisation movement have argued that the best way forward is for governments to pass laws to reform corporations' behaviour and for more international regulation of global trade by groups of states acting together. They argue, in fact, that the way forward is for the state to take back the power it has ceded to the corporation.\n\nCertainly, governments have often managed to limit the power of corporations\u2014states have instituted minimum wage legislation, outlawed child labour, ensured health and safety standards and so on, and even anarchists are able to see that a state can have benign functions. As Walter says, \"we have the liberatory state and the welfare state, the state working for freedom and the state working for equality\". But, he adds, \"The essential function of the state is to maintain the existing inequality\".\n\nThis last statement might give those people in the current resistance movement who put all their faith in the state pause for thought. What are governments for? Can they be pushed to bring about equality and freedom, or will they protect equality and freedom only so far as those rights do not conflict with wealth and power, and no further?\n\nLook at the behaviour of our own governments [in the West], who announce their intentions to forgive Third World debt and then encourage arms sales to developing countries, financed by more debt; who announce the benefits of free trade and then hold on to tariffs and subsidies that protect domestic corporations. These apparent contradictions are hardly surprising if the anarchist analysis of the state is correct; that the protection of existing inequality provides that state's very reason to exist.\n\nIn this way _About Anarchism_ offers a useful critique of some of the arguments that are often heard from the antiglobalisation movement. Nicolas Walter does not argue that those who work for reform of government institutions are misguided, because his pragmatism leads him to understand that it is often the only route forward, but he does argue that to bring about freedom and equality more than reform of the state will be necessary.\n\nAnd in this way his thought chimes in with much of what is being heard from activists, because although those who have only read the literature of the antiglobalisation movement will often find arguments in favour of state power, those who have actually listened to antiglobalisation activists on the street will hear a thoroughgoing scepticism about the behaviour of governments. It is not a coincidence that the rise of [this] new political activism has occurred at the same time as a decline in voting and a cynicism, especially among the young, about the promises of the state. The reason why people have taken to the streets and to organising in non-governmental organisations, rather than lobbying their MPs and organising for parliamentary elections, is because they feel that the conventional political process will not bring them what they desire.\n\nBut if governments will not act, who will? The tradition that Nicolas Walter draws on in _About Anarchism_ \u2014the tradition of anarchists from William Godwin to Peter Kropotkin, Emma Goldman to Flores Magon\u2014is another narrative of possible action, of individuals or groups acting without reference to outside authority.\n\nThis is the kernel of anarchism. As Walter says, the essence of anarchism, the thing without which it is not anarchism, is the negation of authority over anyone by anyone. This negation of authority is a tough concept to get one's head around right now. Most people have utterly lost faith in the idea that anyone can achieve anything without the support either of the state or of the corporation, without either institutional power or the power created by the market.\n\nThe inability to see beyond these agencies has infected all aspects of political debate. Look, for instance, away from the antiglobalisation movement and to the current debate about social policy, which is always now posted as a conflict between public and private provision. Yet anarchists might say that in its present guise, this would be better phrased as a conflict between state and corporation, since the truly public sphere, the sphere that is controlled not by the government but by the people, never gets a look in.\n\nThere is another way to envisage a welfare society in which ordinary people do not only work in hospitals and schools but also organise them. Many anarchists have emphasised the idea of mutualism\u2014that the desire for cooperation is as basic a human drive as the desire for authority. But with the rise of state welfare in the early twentieth century, all the old traditions of mutualism that already existed in a country like Britain\u2014the cooperative societies, the community hospitals, the insurance societies\u2014were discredited. Perhaps now, if both state and corporate provision are looking unsatisfactory in their own ways, it is time not just to try out ever more complex amalgams of the two but also to reconsider what Peter Kropotkin called _Mutual Aid_ \u2014the principle that people can organise to provide their own welfare.\n\nAnother way in which this booklet provides an interesting contribution to the current debates lies in Nicolas Walter's optimistic synthesis of various types of anarchist and socialist and libertarian action. He allows for difference, but because he has such a pragmatic and straightforward view of anarchism, he is also good at picking out what unites all the different strands of anarchist thought and action and how each strand can weave into each other rather than pull apart.\n\nThat is particularly useful in the current situation. What we are looking at in the movement for global equality is clearly not a united movement. It would be absurd to pretend that the Zapatista National Liberation Army, which mobilised to fight for the rights of indigenous people in Mexico, and Reclaim the Streets, which organises day-long street parties, were similar organisations. It would be nonsensical to suggest that a self-reliant community in England, like the cooperative at Tinker's Bubble in Somerset, and the movement to take over land by the landless in Brazil, used identical strategies.\n\nAnd yet there are also obviously strands of thinking that now cross boundaries. Many of the most apparently diverse people and organisations share certain basic goals. They can unite around their commitment to anti-authoritarianism; around their belief that people do act for reasons other than the will to power or the desire for profit; around their desire to see economic organisation based on cooperation and social organisation based on mutual aid; and around their faith in non-violent direct action as a means to bring about a new society. All these ideas are characteristic of these new organisations and have been characteristic of anarchists for more than a century.\n\nNicolas Walter's approach to difference is honest but also peculiarly inclusive. He sees links between those who use the label anarchist and those who do not, but who embody the anarchist temperament. He sees links between different kinds of anarchist thought. And he sees links between all the different types of action\u2014from propaganda by word and deed to direct action. His ability to see diversity as a series of links rather than a series of fissures may be over-optimistic, but it may also help us to see that, sometimes, what pulls people together is more important than what drives them apart. One of the most hopeful sentences of this hope-filled booklet is this one. \"In practice most disputes between reformist and revolutionary anarchists are meaningless, for only the wildest revolutionary refuses to welcome reforms and only the mildest reformist refuses to welcome revolutions, and all revolutionaries know that their work will generally lead to no more than reform, and all reformists know that their work is generally leading to some kind of revolution.\"\n\n# **About Nicolas Walter**\n\n_About Anarchism_ was written in 1968. Nicolas Walter's second daughter, myself, was born the previous year. Night after night, Nicolas sat at the kitchen table in a little house in an ugly, nondescript suburb of north London. With one foot and then the other, he rocked the pram back and forth, back and forth, with his grumbly baby inside it. At the same time he wrote\u2014in his huge, looping handwriting, in black fountain pen\u2014the first draft of the booklet, which was first published in 1969 as a special edition of the magazine _Anarchy_.\n\n_About Anarchism_ was a labour of love and the fruit of long study of the anarchist movement. Nicolas was startled when it was not only immediately reprinted as a pamphlet by Freedom Press, going through five editions by 1977, but was also translated into many languages, including Japanese, Serbo-Croat, Greek, German, Chinese, Polish and Russian, and developed a reputation in many places, not just among European and North American activists.\n\nAfter it fell out of print for the last time, in the early eighties, fellow anarchists at Freedom Press wanted to reprint the booklet, but Nicolas resisted. He always insisted that he needed to revise the text before it was reprinted and said that he would add sections on feminism and environmentalism, the most important new directions in the ideology of dissent. These could have been powerful additions. Nicolas had found both challenge and inspiration in the growth of feminist movement. And although he was an urban man through and through, he had an unforced disdain for mere consumerism and a deep connection with the beauty of the countryside. Could this have impelled him to write something valuable about how a more cooperative society might have a kinder relationship with the environment? But these revisions, although they were started, were never completed, and this is the first reprint of this classic work since 1980.\n\nThat means that _About Anarchism_ , for all its contemporary relevance, is very much a work of its times, shot through with all the idealism of the Sixties. \"In the Sixties I did think that everything could be changed for the better\", Nicolas told an interviewer from _The Independent_ in the Nineties.\n\nIndeed, _About Anarchism_ was born out of a lifetime's commitment not just to anarchist ideas but also to action. Five years before he wrote _About Anarchism_ Nicolas had made a stab at trying to pull Britain away from the road of authoritarianism and militarism on which it seemed set. In 1962, Nicolas, his wife Ruth and six of their friends, all active in the peace movement, had become frustrated with the direction of contemporary protests. Mass marches and illegal sit-downs were all very well and led to high-profile press reports and many arrests, but what real effect were they having on the growing militarism of the government?\n\nNicolas and his friends started looking for a way to challenge the power of the state more directly, and over the course of months they debated various ideas. Then one of them remembered that a friend of a friend had once mentioned working at a \"secret bunker\" near Reading. On the off-chance that they could find out what that secret bunker was all about, he and three others set off for Reading in February 1963.\n\nThey drove for hours over ice-covered roads and tramped for hours over snow-covered fields, without having much idea what they were looking for. It was a long shot, an absurd idea, really, but it bore fruit. At the east end of a village called Warren Row, they found a fenced off hill with a padlocked wooden gate and an unmarked hut. They climbed over the gates to find a brick boiler house and a wide concrete ramp leading into the hillside. Wireless aerials stood a little way off, their cables leading into the hill. One of them tried the doors of the boiler house and found them unlocked. They piled in. Another door inside was also unlocked, and swung open to reveal a steep staircase leading into an underground office complex. They ran down the stairs, their feet clattering in the silence, and snatched what papers they could from the desks. Then they rushed out again and drove away.\n\nExamination of the papers showed the group that they had stumbled on a grand secret. They had walked straight into a secret government headquarters called the Regional Seat of Government (RSG) Number 6, built to house government officials in the event of nuclear war. At the time, the British public were being kept entirely in the dark about the plans its own government was making for the survival not of the ordinary people but of a political elite.\n\nNicolas and his friends, who now called themselves the Spies for Peace, were in possession of a secret that they hoped could change the secret militarism of the government. First of all, four members of the group returned to Warren Row in order to find out more about the secret headquarters. They went there on a Saturday and arrived after midnight. This time, the boiler house door was locked. Standing there in the freezing dark, they carefully picked it, and spent several hours in the installation. Each took on a different task. One took photographs. One copied documents. One traced maps. One ransacked every room, going through every drawer and every cabinet. Then they left with a suitcase full of copied papers and a camera full of photographs.\n\nThe group then typed up and duplicated three thousand leaflets explaining what they had found. In the days before the internet or desktop computers, this posed surprising problems of resources and organisation. Secrecy was paramount. They stuffed envelopes with their leaflets in the night, wearing gloves, posted them from post boxes all over London, burnt all their own documents, posted the original photographs to sympathisers and threw the typewriter that they had used into a river. As Nicolas wrote twenty-five years after the event, on the night of Wednesday April 10, 1963, \"A secret had escaped, and so had the Spies for Peace\".\n\nTelling it now, it sounds rather like a game, but to those eight individuals it meant rather more. All young, all with their lives ahead of them, they were running the risk of long prison sentences for doing what they believed to be right. The immediate effect was explosive. Those thousands of leaflets were posted to newspaper offices and to the houses of celebrities, MPs and protestors, and although the government had slapped a D-notice on any disclosure of the RSG system,1 the newspapers decided to ignore that warning. By that Saturday the story was splashed over every national newspaper. Thousands of protesters, who were moving through the area on yet another Aldermaston March, immediately came to demonstrate at Warren Row. That day, April 13, also happened to be Ruth Walter's twenty-first birthday. She sat outside Warren Row with Nicolas, drinking cheap red wine in the thin spring sunshine, singing \"We Shall Overcome\" with the rest of the crowd. \"It was the most magical day\", she said later, \"We suddenly realised that we had got away with it\".\n\nMost people seemed to believe that only an insider could have leaked such sensitive and unsettling information. The _Sunday Telegraph_ was sure of it, and wrote on April 21: \"It would not be surprising if investigation does not bring to light a shrewd political mind directing this brilliant subversive operation\", and, on May 19, they wrote about \"a mastermind behind the Spies for Peace\", a \"Jekyll and Hyde character\" who was thought to be \"a brilliant man who may be doing an important job\". Despite\u2014or because of\u2014such feverish speculation, the real spies were never caught or imprisoned.\n\nWhat did the Spies for Peace achieve in the long term? In a way, very little\u2014the government remained set on its belief that it could fight and survive nuclear war, and the action of the Spies for Peace did not snowball into mass revolutionary activity, as some of them had certainly hoped. In a way, an enormous amount\u2014the idea that people should be informed about the secret military preparations of their government found fertile ground in a changing society. Together with the duplicity exposed by the Profumo case later in the year,2 the story helped to break down the unquestioning respect that had characterised the British people's relationship with their government. The individual spies were both heartened and dismayed by this mixture of success and failure. As the years went by, Nicolas experienced the characteristic loss of illusion of revolutionaries and understood that, although he may have helped society to change, the future he had once believed in wasn't going to arrive\u2014at least not in his lifetime.\n\nBut for Nicolas, the loss of belief in a revolutionary future only surfaced occasionally. Most of the time he went on as he always had done, fiercely protesting against government secrecy, against militarism, for free speech and for peace. Only once was he actually imprisoned. In October 1966, he had taken part in a protest against Britain's policy on the Vietnam War by interrupting a church service in Brighton where Harold Wilson read a lesson. \"Hypocrite!\" he shouted, \"How can you use the word of God to justify your policies?\" In 1967, just after I was born, he was sentenced to two months in prison for his role in the protest. I still have the photograph, printed on the front page of the _Sun_ (in the days when the _Sun_ was a serious newspaper), of the four of us\u2014my parents, my sister and myself at six months\u2014looking quizzically into the camera, just before he was jailed.\n\nMany anarchists are drawn to anarchism because of their personal rebelliousness. And Nicolas was no exception. He was a natural anarchist, with a low tolerance for authority and great reserves of anger. Sent to boarding school as a child, then straight from school to National Service, then straight to Oxford University, he learnt to distrust authority despite\u2014or because of\u2014this traditional background. But, oddly, his own family traditions included anarchism. Karl Walter, his grandfather, was one of two British delegates to the first International Anarchist Congress in Amsterdam in 1907.\n\nAlthough Nicolas gave up much of his protest activity in his last years, partly because of growing physical disability, he never stopped writing for the anarchist press and speaking at anarchist gatherings. A pamphlet he published in 1986 about the significance of May Day has been credited with inspiring the revival of the First of May as a popular day of protest for anarchists in Britain; and his edition of essays by Charlotte Wilson, an anarchist who helped to found _Freedom_ , was even published after his death in 2000. He was interested in the way that a new generation was laying hold of anarchist ideas\u2014although their lack of historical awareness and the absence of a concrete goals for the future often infuriated him. It is sad that he didn't live to see this reprint of his own early work, but his words live on, and in this booklet his voice sounds as those who knew him remember it\u2014fierce and uncompromising, but with a great hopefulness and humanity always flickering away in the background.\n\n_Natasha Walter_\n\n_April 2002_\n\n1 An official request to news media editors not to publish or broadcast items on specified subjects for reasons of national security. The system is still in use in the United Kingdom, but is now called a DSMA-Notice (Defence and Security Media Advisory Notice). [editor]\n\n2 A British political scandal that originated with a brief sexual relationship in 1961 between John Profumo, the Secretary of State for War in Harold Macmillan's Conservative government, and Christine Keeler, a nineteen-year-old would-be model. It contributed to the resignation of Macmillam in 1963 and the defeat of the Conservative government at the 1964 general election.\n\n#   Note on the 2002 Edition\n\nThis is a new edition of _About Anarchism_ , based on the text published in 1969 by Freedom Press, and including previously unpublished revisions which Nicolas Walter prepared in the 1980s, which were kept by Heiner Becker. Thanks are also due to Christine Walter, Ruth Walter and Colin Ward.\n\n#   Introduction\n\nThe modern anarchist movement is now a hundred years old, counting from when the Bakuninists entered the First International, and in this country there has been a continuous anarchist movement for ninety years (the Freedom Press has been going since 1886). Such a past is a source of strength, but it is also a source of weakness\u2014especially in the printed world. The anarchist literature of the past weighs heavily on the present and makes it hard for us to produce a new literature for the future. And yet, though the works of our predecessors are numerous, most of them are out of print, and the rest are mostly out of date; moreover, the great majority of anarchist works published in English have been translations from other languages.\n\nThis means there is little that we can call our own. What follows is an attempt to add to it by making a fresh statement of anarchism. Such a statement is necessarily an individual view, for one of the essential features of anarchism is that it relies on individual judgement; but it is intended to take account of the general views prevailing in the anarchist movement and to interpret them without prejudice. It is expressed in simple language and without constant reference to other writers or to past events, so that it can be understood without difficulty and without any previous knowledge. But it is derived from what other people have said in the past and does not purport to be original. Nor is it meant to be definitive; there is far more to say about anarchism than can be fitted into these pages, and this summary will no doubt soon be superseded like nearly all that have preceded it.\n\nAbove all, I make no claim to authority, for another essential feature of anarchism is that it rejects the authority of any spokesperson. If my readers have no criticism to make, I have failed. What follows is simply a personal account of anarchism drawn from the experience of fifteen years reading anarchist literature and discussing anarchist ideas, and of ten years taking part in anarchist activities and writing in the anarchist press.\n\n_May 1969_\n\n#   What Anarchists Believe\n\nThe first anarchists were people in the English and French revolutions of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who were given the name as an insult to suggest that they wanted anarchy in the sense of chaos or confusion. But from the 1840s, anarchists were people who accepted the name as a sign to show that they wanted anarchy in the sense of absence of government. The Greek word _anarkhia_ , like the English word \"anarchy\", has both meanings; people who are not anarchists take them to come to the same thing, but anarchists insist on keeping them apart. For more than a century, anarchists have been people who believe not only that absence of government need not mean chaos and confusion, but that a society without government will actually be better than the society we live in now.\n\nAnarchism is the political elaboration of the psychological reaction against authority which appears in all human groups. Everyone knows the natural anarchists who will not believe or do something just because someone tells them to, and everyone can imagine circumstances in which virtually everyone will disagree or disobey. Throughout history the practical tendency towards anarchy is seen among individuals and groups rebelling against those who rule them. The theoretical idea of anarchy is also very old; thus, the description of a past golden age without government may be found in the thought of ancient China and India, Egypt and Mesopotamia, and Greece and Rome, and in the same way the wish for a future utopia without government may be found in the thought of countless religious and political writers and communities. But the application of anarchy to the present situation is more recent, and it is only in the anarchist movement of the nineteenth century that we find the demand for a society without government here and now.\n\nOther groups on both left and right want to get rid of government in theory, either when the market is so free that it needs no more supervision or when the people are so equal that they need no more restraint, but the measures they take seem to make government stronger and stronger. It is the anarchists, and the anarchists alone, who want to get rid of government in practice. This does not mean that anarchists think all human beings are naturally good or identical or perfectible or any romantic nonsense of that kind. It means that anarchists think almost all human beings are sociable and similar and capable of living their own lives and helping each other. Many people say that government is harmful, because no one can be trusted to look after anyone else. If all people are so bad that they need to be ruled by others, anarchists ask, how can anyone be good enough to rule others? Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. At the same time the wealth of the earth is the product of the labour of humanity as a whole, and every human being has an equal right to take part in continuing the labour and enjoying the product. Anarchism is an ideal type which demands at the same time total freedom and total equality.\n\n# **Liberalism and Socialism**\n\nAnarchism may be seen as a development from either liberalism or socialism, or from both liberalism and socialism. Like liberals, anarchists want freedom; like socialists, anarchists want equality. But we are not satisfied by liberalism alone or by socialism alone. Freedom without equality means that the poor and weak are less free than the rich and strong, and equality without freedom means that we are all slaves together. Freedom and equality are not contradictory but complementary; in place of the old polarisation of freedom versus equality\u2014according to which we are told that more freedom equals less equality and more equality equals less freedom\u2014anarchists point out that in practice you cannot have one without the other. Freedom is not genuine if some people are too poor or too weak to enjoy it, and equality is not genuine if some people are ruled by others. The crucial contribution to political theory made by anarchists is this realisation that freedom and equality are in practice the same thing.\n\nAnarchism also departs from both liberalism and socialism in taking a different view of progress. Liberals see history as a linear development from savagery, superstition, intolerance and tyranny to civilisation, enlightenment, tolerance and emancipation. There are advances and retreats, but the true progress of humanity is from a bad past to a good future. Socialists see history as a dialectical development from savagery through despotism, feudalism and capitalism to the triumph of the proletariat and the abolition of the class system. There are revolutions and reactions, but the true progress of humanity is again from a bad past to a good future.\n\nAnarchists see progress quite differently, in fact they often do not see progress at all. We see history not as a linear or a dialectical development in one direction but as a dualistic process. The history of all human society is the story of a struggle between the rulers and the ruled, between the haves and the have-nots, between the people who want to govern and be governed and the people want to free themselves and their fellows; the principles of authority and liberty, of government and rebellion, of state and society, are in perpetual opposition. This tension is never resolved; the movement of human society in general or of a particular human society is now in one direction now in another. The rise of a new regime or the fall of an old one is not a mysterious break in development or an even more mysterious part of development but is exactly what it seems to be. Historic events are welcome only to the extent that they increase freedom and equality for the whole people; there is no hidden reason for calling a bad thing good because it is inevitable. We cannot make any useful predictions of the future, and we cannot be sure that the world is going to get better. Our only hope is that, as knowledge and consciousness increase, people will become more aware that they can live their own lives without any need for authority.\n\nNevertheless, anarchism does derive from liberalism and socialism both historically and ideologically. Liberalism and socialism came before anarchism, and anarchism arose from their complementarities and contradictions; most anarchists still begin as either liberals or socialists, or both. The spirit of revolt is seldom born fully grown, and it generally grows into rather than within anarchism. In a sense, anarchists always remain liberals and socialists, and whenever they reject what is good in either they betray anarchism itself. On one hand, we depend on freedom of speech, assembly, movement, behaviour, and especially on the freedom to differ; on the other hand, we depend on equality of possessions, on human solidarity, on the practice of mutual aid, and especially on the sharing of power. We are liberals but more so and socialists but more so.\n\nYet anarchism is not just a mixture of liberalism and socialism; that is social democracy or welfare capitalism, the system which prevails in this country.1 Whatever we owe to and however close we are to liberals and socialists, we differ fundamentally from them\u2014and from social democrats\u2014in rejecting the institution of government. Both liberals and socialists depend on government\u2014liberals ostensibly to preserve freedom but actually to prevent equality, socialists ostensibly to preserve equality but actually to prevent freedom. Even the most extreme liberals and socialists cannot do without government, the exercise of authority by some people over other people. The essence of anarchism, the one thing without which it is not anarchism, is the negation of authority over anyone by anyone.\n\n# **Democracy and Representation**\n\nMany people oppose undemocratic government, but anarchists differ from them in also opposing democratic government. Some people oppose democratic government as well, but anarchists differ from them in doing so not because they fear or hate the rule of the people, but because they believe that democracy is not the rule of the people\u2014that democracy is in fact a logical contradiction, a physical impossibility. Genuine democracy is possible only in a small community where everyone can take part in every decision; and then it is not necessary. What is called democracy and is alleged to be the government of the people by the people for the people is in fact the government of the people by elected rulers and would be better called \"consenting oligarchy\".\n\nGovernment by rulers whom we have chosen is different from and generally better than government by rulers who have chosen themselves, but it is still government of some people by other people. Even the most democratic government still depends on someone making someone else do something or stopping someone else doing something. Even when we are governed by our representatives we are still governed, and as soon as they begin to govern us against our will they cease to be our representatives. Most people now agree that we have no obligation to a government which we have not chosen; anarchists go further and insist that we have no obligation to a government we have chosen. We may obey it because we agree with it, or because we are too weak to disobey it, but we have no obligation to obey it when we disagree with it and are strong enough to disobey it. Most people now agree that those who are involved in any change should be consulted about it before any decision is made; anarchists go further and insist that they should themselves make the decision and go on to put it into effect.\n\nSo anarchists reject the idea of a social contract and the idea of representation. In practice, no doubt, most things will always be done by a few people\u2014by those who are interested in a problem and are capable of solving it\u2014but there is no need for them to be selected or elected. They will always emerge anyway, and it is better for them to do so naturally. The point is that leaders and experts do not have to be rulers, that leadership and expertise are not necessarily connected with authority. And when representation is convenient, that is all it is. The only true representatives are the delegates or the deputies who are mandated by those who send them and who are subject to instant recall by them. In some ways the ruler who claims to be a representative is worse that the ruler who is obviously a usurper, because it is more difficult to grapple with authority when it wrapped up in fine words and abstract arguments. The fact that we are able to vote for our rulers once every few years does not mean that we have to obey them for the rest of the time. If we do, it is for practical reasons not on moral grounds. Anarchists are against government, however it is constructed or defended.\n\n# **State and Class**\n\nAnarchists have traditionally concentrated their opposition to authority on the state\u2014that is, the institution which claims the monopoly of power within a certain area. This is because the state is the supreme example of authority in a society and also the source or confirmation of the use of authority throughout it. Moreover, anarchists have traditionally opposed all kinds of state\u2014not just the obvious tyranny of a king, dictator or conqueror but also such variations as enlightened despotism, progressive monarchy, feudal or commercial oligarchy, parliamentary democracy, soviet communism and so on. Anarchists have even tended to say that all states are the same, and that there is nothing to choose between them.\n\nThis is an oversimplification. All states are certainly authoritarian, but some states are just as certainly more authoritarian than others, and every normal person would prefer to live under a less authoritarian rather than a more authoritarian one. To give a simple example, this statement of anarchism could not have been published under many states of the past, and it still could not be published under many states of both left and right, in both East and West, both North and South; I would rather live where it can be published and so would most of my readers.\n\nFew anarchists still have such a simplistic attitude to an abstract thing called \"the state\", and anarchists concentrate on attacking the central government and the institutions which derive from it not just because they are part of the state, but because they are the extreme examples of the use of authority in society. We contrast the state with society, but we no longer see it as alien to society, as an artificial growth; instead we see it as part of society, as a natural growth. Authority is a normal form of behaviour, just as aggression is; but it is a form of behaviour which may and should be controlled and grown out of. This will not be done by trying to find ways of institutionalising it but only by finding ways of doing without it.\n\nAnarchists object to the obviously repressive institutions of government\u2014officials, laws, police, courts, prisons, armies and so on\u2014and also to those which are apparently benevolent\u2014subsidised bodies and local councils, nationalised industries and public corporations, banks and insurance companies, schools and universities, press and broadcasting, and all the rest. Anyone can see that the former depend not on consent but on compulsion and ultimately on force; anarchists insist that the latter have the same iron hand, even if it does wear a velvet glove.\n\nNevertheless, the institutions which derive directly or indirectly from the state cannot be understood if they are thought of as being merely bad. They can have a good side, in two ways. They have a useful negative function when they challenge the use of authority by other institutions, such as cruel parents, greedy landlords, brutal bosses, violent criminals; and they have a useful positive function when they promote desirable social activities, such as public works, disaster relief, communication and transport systems, art and culture, medical services, pension schemes, poor relief, education, broadcasting. Thus, we have the liberatory state and the welfare state, the state working for freedom and the state working for equality.\n\nThe first anarchist answer to this is that we primarily have the oppressive state\u2014that the main function of the state is in fact to hold down the people, to limit freedom\u2014and that all the benevolent functions of the state can be exercised and often have been exercised by voluntary associations. Here the modern states resembles the medieval church. In the Middle Ages the church was involved in all the essential social activities, and it was difficult to believe that the activities were possible without it. Only the church could baptise, marry and bury people, and they had to learn that it did not actually control birth, love and death. Every public act needed an official religious blessing\u2014many still have one\u2014and people had to learn that the act was just as effective without the blessing. The church interfered in and often controlled those aspects of communal life which are now dominated by the state. People have learnt to realise that the participation of the church is unnecessary and even harmful; what they now have to learn is that the domination of the state is equally pernicious and superfluous. We need the state just as long as we think we do, and everything it does can be done just as well or even better without the sanction of authority.\n\nThe second anarchist answer is that the essential function of the state is to maintain the existing inequality. Few anarchists agree with Marxists that the basic unit of society is the class, but most agree that the state is the political expression of the economic structure, that it is the representative of the people who own or control the wealth of the community and the oppressor of the people who do the work which creates the wealth. The state cannot redistribute wealth fairly, because it is the main agency of the unfair distribution. Anarchists agree with Marxists that the present system must be destroyed, but they do not agree that the future system can be established by a state in different hands; the state is a cause as well as a result of the class system, and a classless society which is established by a state will soon become a class society again. The state will not wither away\u2014it must be deliberately abolished by people taking power away from the rulers and wealth away from the rich; these two actions are linked, and one without the other will always be futile. Anarchy in its truest sense means a society without either powerful or wealthy people.\n\n# **Organisation and Bureaucracy**\n\nThis does not mean that anarchists reject organisation, though here is one of the strongest prejudices about anarchism. People can accept that anarchy may not mean just chaos or confusion, and that anarchists want not disorder but order without government, but they are sure that anarchy means order which arises spontaneously and that anarchists do not want organisation. This is the reverse of the truth. Anarchists actually want much more organisation, though organisation without authority. The prejudice about anarchism derives from a prejudice about organisation; people cannot see that organisation does not depend on authority, that it actually works best without authority.\n\nA moment's thought will show that when compulsion is replaced by consent there will have to be more discussion and planning, not less. Everyone who is involved in a decision will be able to take part in making it, and no one will be able to leave the work to paid officials or elected representatives. Without rules to observe or precedents to follow, every decision will have to be made afresh. Without rulers to obey or leaders to follow, we shall all have to make up our own minds. To keep all this going, the multiplicity and complexity of links between individuals will be increased, not reduced. Such organisation may be untidy and inefficient, but it will be much closer to the needs and feelings of the people concerned. If something cannot be done without the old kind of organisation, without authority and compulsion, it probably isn't worth doing and would be better left undone.\n\nWhat anarchists do reject is the institutionalisation of organisation, the establishment of a special group of people whose function is to organise other people. Anarchist organisation would be fluid and open; as soon as organisation becomes hardened and closed, it falls into the hands of a bureaucracy, becomes the instrument of a particular class and reverts to the expression of authority instead of the coordination of society. Every group tends towards oligarchy, the rule of the few, and every organisation tends towards bureaucracy, the rule of the professionals; anarchists must always struggle against these tendencies, in the future as well as the present, and among themselves as well as among others.\n\n# **Property**\n\nNor do anarchists reject property, though we have a peculiar view of it. In one sense property is theft\u2014that is, the exclusive appropriation of anything by anyone is a deprivation of everyone else. This does not mean that we are all communists; what it means is that any particular person's right to any particular thing depends not on whether that person made it or found it or bought it or was given it or is using it or wants it or has a legal right to it, but on whether that person needs it\u2014and, more to the point, whether that person needs it more than someone else. This is a matter not of abstract justice or natural law but of human solidarity and obvious common sense. If I have a loaf of bread and you are hungry, it is yours not mine. If I have a coat and you are cold, it belongs to you. If I have a house and you have none, you have the right to use at least one of my rooms. But in another sense property is liberty\u2014that is, the private enjoyment of goods and chattels in a sufficient quantity is an essential condition of the good life for the individual.\n\nAnarchists are in favour of the private property which cannot be used by one person to exploit another\u2014those personal possessions which we accumulate from childhood and which become part of our lives. What we are against is the public property which can be used only to exploit people\u2014land and buildings, instruments of production and distribution, raw materials and manufactured articles, money and capital. The principle at issue is that people may be said to have a right to what they produce by their own labour but not to what they obtain from the labour of others; they have a right to what they need and use but not to what they do not need and cannot use. As soon as some people have more than enough, it either goes to waste or it stops other people having enough.\n\nThis means that rich people have no right to their property, for they are rich not because they work a lot, but because a lot of people work for them; and poor people have a right to rich people's property, for they are poor not because they work little, but because they work for others. Indeed, poor people almost always work longer hours at duller jobs in worse conditions than rich people. No one ever became rich or remained rich through their own labour, only by exploiting the labour of others. We may have a house and a piece of land, the tools of our trade and good health all our lives, and we may work as hard as we can as long as we can\u2014we will produce enough for our families but little more; and even then we shall not be really self-sufficient, for we shall depend on others to provide some of our materials and to take of our produce in exchange.\n\nPublic property is not only a matter of ownership but also one of control. It is not necessary to possess property to exploit others. Rich people have always used other people to manage their property, and now that anonymous corporations and state enterprises are replacing individual property owners, managers are becoming the leading exploiters of other people's labour. In both developed and developing2 countries, both capitalist and communist states, a tiny minority of the population still owns or otherwise controls the overwhelming proportion of public property.\n\nDespite appearances, this is not an economic or legal problem. What matters is not the distribution of money or the system of land tenure or the organisation of taxation or the method of taxation or the law of inheritance, but the basic fact that some people will work for other people, just as some people will obey other people. If we refused to work for the rich and powerful, property would disappear\u2014in the same way that, if we refused to obey rulers, authority would disappear. For anarchists, property is based on authority and not the other way round. The point is not how peasants put food into the landowners' mouths or how workers put money into the bosses' pockets but why they do so, and this is a political point.\n\nSome people try to solve the problem of property by changing the law or the government, whether by reform or by revolution. Anarchists have no faith in such solutions, but they do not all agree on the right solution. Some anarchists want the division of everything among everyone, so that we all have an equal share in the world's wealth, and a _laissez-faire_ commercial system with freed credit to prevent excessive accumulation. But most anarchists have no faith in this solution either and want the expropriation of all public property from those who have more than they need, so that we all have equal access to the world's wealth, and the control is in the hands of the whole community. But at least it is agreed that the present system of property must be destroyed together with the present system of authority.\n\n# **God and the Church**\n\nAnarchists have traditionally been anticlerical and also atheist. The early anarchists were opposed to the church as much as to the state, and most of them have been opposed to religion itself. The slogan \"Neither God nor master\" has often been used to sum up the anarchist message. Many people still take the first step towards anarchism by abandoning their faith and becoming rationalists or humanists; the rejection of divine authority encourages the rejection of human authority. Nearly all anarchists today are probably atheists, or at least agnostics. But there have been religious anarchists, though they are usually outside the mainstream of the anarchist movement. Obvious examples are the heretical sects which anticipated some anarchist ideas before the nineteenth century and groups of religious pacifists in Europe and North America during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, especially Tolstoy and his followers at the beginning of the twentieth century and the Catholic Worker movement in the United States since the 1930s.\n\nThe general anarchist hatred of religion has declined as the power of the church has declined, and most anarchists now think of it as a personal matter. They would oppose the discouragement of religion by force, but they would also oppose the revival of religion by force. They would let anyone believe and do what they want, so long as it affects only themselves; but they would not let the church have any more power.\n\n# **War and Violence**\n\nAnarchists have always opposed war, but not all have opposed violence. They are anti-militarists but not necessarily pacifists. For anarchists, war is the supreme example of authority outside a society, and at the same time a powerful reinforcement of authority within society. The organised violence and destruction of war are an enormously magnified version of the organised violence and destruction of the state, and war is the health of the state. The anarchist movement has a strong tradition of resistance to war and to preparations for war. A few anarchists have supported some wars, but they have always been recognised as renegades by their comrades, and this total opposition to national wars is one of the great unifying factors among anarchists.\n\nBut anarchists have distinguished between national wars between states and civil wars between classes. The revolutionary anarchist movement since the late nineteenth century has called for a violent insurrection to destroy the state, and anarchists have taken an active part in many armed risings and civil wars, especially those in Russia and Spain. Though they were involved in such fighting, however, they were under no illusions that it would itself bring about the revolution. Violence might be necessary for the work of destroying the old system, but it was useless and indeed dangerous for the work of building a new system. A people's army can defeat a ruling class and destroy a government, but it cannot help the people to create a free society, and it is no good winning a war if you cannot win the peace.\n\nMany anarchists have in fact doubted whether violence plays any useful part at all. Like the state, it is not a neutral force whose effects depend on who uses it, and it will not do the right things just because it is in the right hands. Of course, the violence of the oppressed is not the same as the violence of the oppressor, but even when it is the best way out of an intolerable situation it is only a second best. It is one of the most unpleasant features of present society, and it remains unpleasant however good its purpose; moreover, it tends to destroy its purpose, even in situations where it seems appropriate\u2014such as revolution. The experience of history suggests that revolutions are not guaranteed by violence; on the contrary, the more violence, the less revolution.\n\nAll this may seem absurd to people who are not anarchists. One of the oldest and most persistent prejudices about anarchism is that anarchists are above all men of violence. The stereotype of the anarchists with a bomb under his cloak is more than a century old, but it is still going strong. Many anarchists have indeed favoured violence, some have favoured the assassination of public figures, and a few have even favoured terrorism of the population, to help destroy the present system. There is a dark side to anarchism, and there is no point denying it. But it is only one side of anarchism, and a small one. Most anarchists have always opposed any violence except that which is really necessary\u2014the inevitable violence which occurs when the people shake off their rulers and exploiters\u2014though they may have been reluctant to condemn the few anarchists who have resorted to violence for sincere reasons.\n\nThe main perpetrators of violence have been those who maintain authority, not those who attack it. The great killers have not been the tragic bombers driven to desperation in southern Europe a century ago, but the military machines of every state in the world throughout history. No anarchist can rival the Blitz and the Bomb, no individual assassin can stand beside Hitler or Stalin. We would encourage workers to seize their factory or peasants to seize their land, and we might break fences or build barricades; but we have no soldiers, no aeroplanes, no police, no prisons, no camps, no firing squads, no gas chambers, no executioners. For anarchists, violence is the extreme example of the use of power by one person against another, the culmination of everything we are against.\n\nIn some cases anarchists have moved towards pacifism and pacifists have moved towards anarchism. this has had beneficial results for both sides, anarchists learning from pacifism and pacifists learning from anarchists. Some anarchists have been especially attracted by the militant type of pacifism advocated by Tolstoy and Gandhi and by the use of non-violence as a technique of direct action, and many anarchists have taken part in anti-war movements and have sometimes had a significant influence on them. But many anarchists\u2014even those who are closely involved\u2014find pacifism too wide in its rejection of all violence by all people in all circumstances, and too narrow in its belief that the elimination of violence alone will make a fundamental difference to society. Where pacifists see authority as a weaker version of violence, anarchists see violence a stronger version of authority. Some anarchists are also repelled by the moralistic side of pacifism, the asceticism and self-righteousness, and by its tender-minded view of the world. To repeat, they are anti-militarists but not necessarily pacifists.\n\n# **The Individual and Society**\n\nThe basic unit of society is the individual human being. Nearly all individuals live in society, but society is nothing more than a collection of individuals, and its only purpose is to give them a full life. Anarchists do not believe that people have natural rights, but this applies to everyone; an individual has no right to do anything, but no other individual has a right to stop that individual doing anything. There is no general will, no social norm to which we should conform. We are equal but not identical. Competition and cooperation, aggression and tenderness, intolerance and tolerance, violence and gentleness, authority and rebellion\u2014all these are natural forms of social behaviour, but some help and others hinder the full life of the individuals. Anarchists believe that the best way to guarantee it is to secure equal freedom for every member of society.\n\nWe therefore have no time for morality in the traditional sense, and we are not interested in what people do in their own lives. Let all individuals do exactly what they want, within the limits of their natural capacity, provided they let everyone else do exactly what _they_ want. Such things as dress, appearance, speech, manners, acquaintance and so on, are matters of personal preference. So is sex. We are in favour of free love, but this does not mean that we advocate universal promiscuity; it means that all love is free, except prostitution and rape, and that people should be able to choose (or reject) forms of sexual behaviour and sexual partners for themselves. Extreme indulgence may suit one person, extreme chastity another\u2014though most anarchists feel that the world would be a better place if there had been a lot less fussing and a lot more fucking. The same principle applies to such things as drugs. People can intoxicate themselves with alcohol or caffeine, cannabis or amphetamines, tobacco or opiates, and we have no right to prevent them, let alone punish them, though we may try to help them. Similarly, individuals can worship in their own way, so long as they let other individuals worship in their own way or not worship at all. It doesn't matter if people are offended, what does matter is if people are injured. There is no need to worry about differences in personal behaviour; the thing to worry about is the gross injustice of authoritarian society.\n\nAnarchists have always opposed every form of national, social, racial or sexual oppression and have always supported every movement for national, social, racial or sexual emancipation. But they tend to differ from their allies in the movements by seeing all forms of oppression as being political in nature and in seeing all victims of oppression as individual human beings rather than as members of a nationality, class, race or sex.\n\nThe main enemy of the free individual is the overwhelming power of the state, but anarchists are also opposed to every other form of authority which limits freedom\u2014in the family, in the school, at work, in the neighbourhood\u2014and to every attempt to make the individual conform. However, before considering how society may be organised to give the greatest freedom to its members, it is necessary to describe the various forms anarchism has taken according to the various views of relationship between the individual and society.\n\n1 Here the author refers to the UK in the 1980s. [editor]\n\n2 Original text read \"advanced and backwards\". [editor]\n\n#   How Anarchists Differ\n\nAnarchists are notorious for disagreeing with each other, and in the absence of leaders and officials, hierarchies and orthodoxies, punishments and rewards, policies and programmes, it is natural that people whose fundamental principle is the rejection of authority should tend to perpetual dissent. Nevertheless, there are several well-established types of anarchism from which most anarchists have chosen one to express their particular view.\n\n# **Philosophical Anarchism**\n\nThe original type of anarchism was what is now called _philosophical_ anarchism. This is the view that the idea of a society without government is attractive but not really desirable or desirable but not really possible, at least not yet. Such an attitude dominates all apparently anarchist writing before the 1840s, and it helped to prevent anarchic popular movements from becoming a more serious threat to governments. It is an attitude which is still found among many people who call themselves anarchists but remain outside any organised movement, and also among some people inside the anarchist movement. It is anarchism in the head but not in the heart, in theory but not in practice. Quite often it seems to be an almost unconscious attitude that anarchism, like the kingdom of God, is within you. It reveals itself sooner or later by some such phrase as, \"Of course, I'm an anarchist, but...\"\n\nActive anarchists tend to despise philosophical anarchists, and this is understandable, though unfortunate. So long as anarchism is a minority movement, a general feeling in favour of anarchist ideas, however vague, creates a climate in which anarchist propaganda is listened to and the anarchist movement can grow. On the other hand, an acceptance of philosophical anarchism can inoculate people against an appreciation of real anarchism; but it is at least better than complete indifference. As well as philosophical anarchists, there are many people who are close to us but refuse to call themselves anarchists and some who refuse to call themselves anything at all. These all have their part to play, if only to provide a sympathetic audience and to work for freedom in their own lives.\n\n# **Individualism, Egoism, Libertarianism**\n\nThe first type of anarchism which was more than merely philosophical was _individualism_. This is the view that society is not an organism but a collection of autonomous individuals who have no obligation towards one another. This view existed long before there was any such thing as anarchism, and it has continued to exist quite separately from anarchism. But individualism always tends to assume that the individuals who make up society should be free and equal, and that they can become so only by their own efforts and not through the action of outside institutions; and any development of this attitude obviously brings mere individualism towards real anarchism.\n\nThe first person who elaborate a recognisable theory of anarchism\u2014William Godwin, in his _Enquiry Concerning Political Justice_ (1793)\u2014was an individualist. In reaction against the opponents and also the supporters of the French Revolution, he postulated a society without government and with as little organisation as possible, in which the sovereign individuals should beware of any form of permanent association; despite many variations, this is a view of humanity which makes sense as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough to deal with the real problems of society, which surely need social rather than personal action. Alone, we may save ourselves, but others we cannot save.\n\nA more extreme form of individualism is _egoism_ , especially in the form expressed by Max Stirner in _Der Einzige und sein Eigentum_ (1844)\u2014usually translated as _The Ego and His Own_ , though a better rendering would be _The Individual and His Property_. Like Marx or Freud, Stirner is difficult to interpret without offending all his followers; but it is perhaps acceptable to say that his egoism differs from individualism in general by rejecting such abstractions as morality, justice, obligation, reason and duty, in favour of an intuitive recognition of the existential uniqueness of each individual. It naturally opposes the state, but it also opposes society, and it tends towards nihilism (the view that nothing matters) and solipsism (the view that only oneself exists). It is clearly anarchist, but in a rather unproductive way, since any form of organisation beyond a temporary \"union of egoists\" is seen as the source of new oppression. This is an anarchism for poets and tramps, for people who want an absolute answer and no compromise. It is anarchy here and now, if not in the world, then in one's own life.\n\nA more moderate tendency which derives from individualism is _libertarianism_. This is in its simplest sense the view that liberty is a good thing; in a stricter sense it is the view that freedom is the most important political goal. Thus, libertarianism is not so much a specific type of anarchism as a milder form of it, the first stage on the way to complete anarchism. Sometimes it is actually used as a synonym or euphemism for anarchism in general, when there is some reason to avoid the more emotive word; but it is more generally used to mean the acceptance of anarchist ideas in a particular field without the acknowledgement of anarchism as a whole. Individualists are libertarian by definition, but libertarian socialists or libertarian communists are those who bring to socialism or communism a recognition of the essential value of the individual.\n\n# **Mutualism and Federalism**\n\nThe type of anarchism which appears when individualists begin to put their ideas into practice is _mutualism_. This is the view that, instead of relying on the state, society should be organised by individuals entering into voluntary agreements with each other on a basis of equality and reciprocity. Mutualism is a feature of any association which is more than instinctive and less than official, and it is not necessarily anarchist, but it was historically important in the development of anarchism, and nearly all anarchist proposals for the reorganisation of society have been essentially mutualist.\n\nThe first person who deliberately called himself an anarchist\u2014Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, in _What is Property?_ (1840)\u2014was a mutualist. In reaction against the utopian and revolutionary socialists of the early nineteenth century, he postulated a society made up of cooperative groups of free individuals exchanging the necessities of life on the basis of labour value and exchanging free credit through a people's bank. This is an anarchism for craftsmen and artisans, for smallholders and shopkeepers, professionals and specialists, for people who like to work on equal terms but stand on their own two feet. Despite his disclaimers, Proudhon had many followers, especially among the skilled working class and the lower middle class, and his influence was considerable in France during the second half of the nineteenth century; mutualism also had a particular appeal in North America, and to a lesser extent in Britain. It later tended to be taken up by the sort of people who favour currency reform or self-sufficient communities\u2014measures of a kind which promise quick results but do not affect the basic structure of society. This is a view of humanity which makes sense as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough to deal with such things as industry and capital, the class system which dominates them or\u2014above all\u2014the state.\n\nMutualism is of course the principle of the cooperative movement, but cooperative societies are run on democratic rather than anarchist lines. A society organised according to the principle of anarchist mutualism would be one in which communal activities were in effect in the hands of cooperative societies without permanent managers or elected officials. Economic mutualism may thus be seen as cooperativism minus bureaucracy, or as capitalism minus profit.\n\nMutualism expressed geographically rather than economically becomes _feudalism_. This is the view that society in a wider sense than the local community should be coordinated by a network of councils which are drawn from the various areas and which are themselves coordinated by councils covering wider areas. The essential feature of anarchist federalism is that the members of such councils would be delegates without any executive authority, subject to instant recall, and that the councils would have no central authority, only a simple secretariat. Proudhon, who first elaborated mutualism, also first elaborated federalism\u2014in _The Federal Principle_ (1863)\u2014and his followers were called federalists as well as mutualists, especially those who were active in the labour movement; thus the figures in the early history of the First International and in the Paris Commune who anticipated the ideas of the modern anarchist movement mostly described themselves as federalists.\n\nFederalism is not so much a type of anarchism as an inevitable part of anarchism. Virtually all anarchists are federalists but virtually none would define themselves only as federalists. Federalism is after all a common principle which is by no means confined to the anarchist movement. There is nothing utopian about it. The international systems for coordinating railways, shipping, air traffic, postal services, telegraphs and telephones, scientific research, famine relief, disaster operations and many other worldwide activities are essentially federalist in structure. Anarchists simply add that such systems would work just as well within as they do between countries. After all, this is already true of the overwhelming proportion of voluntary societies, associations and organisations of all kinds which handle those social activities which are not financially profitable or politically sensitive.\n\n# **Collectivism, Communism, Syndicalism**\n\nThe type of anarchism which goes further than individualism or mutualism and involves a direct threat to the class system and the state is what used to be called _collectivism_. This is the view that society can be reconstructed only when the working class seizes control of the economy by a social revolution, destroys the state apparatus and reorganises production on the basis of common ownership and control by associations of working people. The instruments of labour would be held in common, but the products of labour would be distributed on the principle of the slogan used by some French socialists during the 1840s, \"From each according to his ability, to each according to his work\".\n\nThe first modern anarchists\u2014the Bakuninists in the First International\u2014were collectivists. In reaction against the reformist mutualists and federalists and also against the authoritarian Blanquists and Marxists, they postulated a simple form of revolutionary anarchism\u2014the anarchism of the class struggle and the proletariat, of the mass insurrection of the poor against the rich and the immediate transition to a free and classless society without any intermediate period of dictatorship. This is an anarchism for class-conscious workers and peasants, for militants and activists in the labour movement, for socialists who want liberty as well as equality.\n\nThis anarchist or revolutionary collectivism must not be confused with the better-known authoritarian and reformist collectivism of the Social Democrats and Fabians\u2014the collectivism which is based on common ownership of the economy but also on state control of production and distribution. Partly because of the danger of this confusion, and partly because it is here that anarchists and socialists come closest to each other, a better description of this type of anarchism is libertarian socialism\u2014which includes not only anarchists who are socialists but also socialists who lean towards anarchism but are not quite anarchists.\n\nThe type of anarchism which appears when collectivism is worked out in more detail is _communism_. This is the view that it is not enough for the instruments of labour to be held in common, but that the products of labour should also be held in common and distributed on the principle of the slogan used by other French socialists during the 1840s, \"From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs\". The communist argument is that, while people are entitled to the full value of their labour, it is impossible to calculate the value of any individual's labour, for the work of each is involved in the work of all, and different kinds of work have different kinds of value. It is therefore better for the entire economy to be in the hands of society as a whole and for the wage and price system to be abolished.\n\nAlmost all the leading figures of the anarchist movement at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century\u2014such as Kropotkin, Malatesta, Reclus, Grave, Faure, Goldman, Berkman, Rocker and so on\u2014were communists. Going on from collectivism and reacting against Marxism, they postulated a more sophisticated form of revolutionary anarchism\u2014the anarchism containing the most carefully considered criticism of present society and proposals for future society. This is an anarchism for those who accept the class struggle but have a wider view of the world. If collectivism is revolutionary anarchism concentrating on the problem of work and based on the workers' collective, then communism is revolutionary anarchism concentrating on the problem of life and based on the people's commune.\n\nSince the 1870s, the principle of communism has been accepted by most anarchist organisations favouring revolution. The main exception was the movement in Spain, which retained the principle of collectivism because of strong Bakuninists influence; but, in fact, its aims were scarcely different from those of other movements, and in practice the \" _comunismo libertario_ \" established during the Spanish Revolution in 1936 was the most impressive example of anarchist communism in history.\n\nThis anarchist or libertarian communism must of course not be confused with the much better-known communism of the Marxists\u2014the communism which is based on the common ownership of the economy and state control of production, distribution and consumption, and also of party dictatorship. The historical origin of the modern anarchist movement in the dispute with the Marxists in the First and Second Internationals is reflected in the ideological obsession of anarchists with authoritarian communism, and this has been reinforced since the Russian and Spanish revolutions. As a result, many anarchists seem to have called themselves communists not so much from definite conviction but more from a wish to challenge the Marxists on their own ground and outdo them in the eyes of public opinion. One may suspect that anarchists are seldom really communist, partly because they are always too individualist and partly because they would not wish to lay down elaborate plans for a future which must be free to make its own arrangements.\n\nThe type of anarchism which appears when collectivism or communism concentrates exclusively on the problem of work in _syndicalism_. This is the view that society should be based on the trade unions, as the expression of the working class, reorganised so as to cover both occupations and areas, and reformed so as to be in the hands of the rank and file, so that the whole economy is managed according to the principle of workers' control.\n\nMost anarchist collectivists and many communists during the nineteenth century were syndicalists by implication, and this was particularly true of the anarchists in the First International. But anarcho-syndicalism was not developed explicitly until the rise of the French syndicalist movement at the end of the century. (The English word \"syndicalism\" comes from the French word _syndicalisme_ , which simply means trade unionism.) When the French trade union movement divided into revolutionary and reformist sections in the 1890s, the revolutionary syndicalists became dominant, and many anarchists joined them. Some of these, such as Fernand Pelloutier and Emile Pouget, became influential, and the French syndicalist movement, though never fully anarchist, was a powerful force for anarchism until the First World War and the Russian Revolution. Anarcho-syndicalist organisations were also strong in the labour movements of Italy and Russia just after the First World War, in Latin America and above all in Spain until the end of the Civil War in 1939.\n\nThis is an anarchism for the most class-conscious and militant elements in a strong labour movement. But syndicalism is not necessarily anarchist or even revolutionary; in practice anarcho-syndicalists have tended to become authoritarian or reformist, or both, and it has proved difficult to maintain a balance between libertarian principles and the pressures of the day-to-day struggle for better pay and conditions. This is not so much an argument against anarcho-syndicalism as a constant danger for anarcho-syndicalists. The real argument against anarcho-syndicalism and against syndicalism in general is that it overemphasises the importance of work and the function of the working class. The class system is a central political problem, but the class struggle is not the only political activity for anarchists. Syndicalism is acceptable when it is seen as one aspect of anarchism but not when it obscures all other aspects. This is a view of humanity which makes sense as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough to deal with life outside work.\n\n# **Not So Different**\n\nIt must be said that the differences between various types of anarchism have become less important in recent years. Except for dogmatists at each extreme, most anarchists tend to see the old distinctions as more apparent than real\u2014as artificial differences of emphasis, even of vocabulary, rather than as serious differences of principle. It might in fact be better to think of them as not so much types as aspects of anarchism which depend on the direction of our interests.\n\nThus in our private lives we are individualists, doing our own things and choosing our companions and friends for personal reasons; in our social lives we are mutualists, making free agreements with each other and giving what we have and getting what we need by equal exchanges with each other; in our working lives we would mostly be collectivists, joining our colleague in producing for the common good\u2014and in the management of work we would mostly be syndicalists, joining our colleagues in deciding how the job should be done; in our political lives we would mostly be communists, joining our neighbours in deciding how the community should be run. This is of course a simplification, but it expresses a general truth about the way anarchists think nowadays.\n\n#   What Anarchists Want\n\nIt is difficult to say what anarchists want, not just because they differ so much, but because they hesitate to make detailed proposals about a future which they are neither able nor willing to control. After all, anarchists want a society without government, and such a society would obviously vary widely from time to time and from place to place. The whole point of the society anarchists want is that it would be what its members themselves want. Nevertheless, it is possible to say what most anarchists would like to see in a free society, though it must always be remembered that there is no official line and also no way of reconciling the extremes of individualism and communism.\n\n# **The Free Individual**\n\nMost anarchists begin with a libertarian attitude towards private life and want a much wider choice for personal behaviour and for social relationships between individuals. But if the individual is the atom of society, the family is the molecule, and family life would continue even if all the coercion enforcing it were removed. Nevertheless, though the family may be natural, it is no longer necessary; efficient contraception and intelligent division of labour have released humanity from the narrow choice between celibacy and monogamy. There is no need for a couple to have children, and children may be brought up by more or less than two parents. People may live alone and still have sexual partners and children or live in communes with no permanent partnerships or official parenthood at all.\n\nNo doubt most people will go on practising some form of marriage and most children will be brought up in a family environment, whatever happens to society, but there could be a great variety of personal arrangements within a single community. The fundamental requirement is that women should be freed from the oppression of men, and that children should be freed from the oppression of parents. The exercise of authority is no better in the microcosm of the family than in the macrocosm of society.\n\nPersonal relationships outside the family would be regulated not by arbitrary laws or economic competition but by the natural solidarity of the human species. Almost all of us know how to treat other people\u2014as we would like them to treat us\u2014and self-respect and public opinion are far better guides to action that fear or guilt. Some opponents of anarchism have suggested that the moral oppression of society would be worse than the physical oppression of the state, but a greater danger is surely the unregulated authority of the vigilante group, the lynch mob, the robber band or the criminal gang\u2014the rudimentary forms of the state which come to the surface when the regulated authority of the real state is for some reason absent.\n\nBut anarchists disagree little about private life, and there is not much of a problem here. After all, a great many people have already made their own new arrangements, without waiting for a revolution or anything else. All that is needed for the liberation of the individual is the emancipation from old prejudices and the achievement of a certain standard of living. The real problem is the liberation of society.\n\n# **The Free Society**\n\nThe first priority of a free society would be the abolition of authority and the expropriation of property. In place of government by permanent representatives who are subject to occasional election and by career bureaucrats who are virtually unmoveable, anarchists want coordination by temporary delegates who are subject to instant recall and by professional experts who are genuinely accountable. In such a system, all those social activities which involve organisation would probably be managed by free associations. These might be called councils or cooperatives or collectives or communes or committees or unions or syndicates or soviets or anything else\u2014their title would be irrelevant; the important thing would be their function.\n\nThere would be work associations from the workshop or smallholding up the largest industrial or agricultural complex to handle the production and transport of goods, decide conditions of work and run the economy. There would be area associations from the neighbourhood or village up to the largest residential unit to handle the life of the community\u2014housing, streets, refuse, amenities. There would be associations to handle the social aspects of such activities as communications, culture, recreation, research, health and education.\n\nOne result of coordination by free association rather than administration by established hierarchies would be extreme decentralisation on federalist lines. This may seem an argument against anarchism, but we would say that it is an argument for it. One of the oddest things about modern political thought is that wars are often blamed on the existence of many small nations when the worst wars in history have been caused by a few large ones. Governments are always trying to create larger and larger administrative units when observation suggests that the best ones are small. The breakdown of big political systems would be one of the greatest benefits of anarchism, and countries could become cultural entities once more, while nations would disappear.\n\nThe association concerned with any kind of wealth or property would have the crucial responsibility of either making sure that it was fairly divided among the people involved or else of holding it in common and making sure that the use of it was fairly shared among the people involved. Anarchists differ about which system is best, and no doubt the members of a free society would also differ; it would be up to the people in each association to adopt whichever method they preferred. There might be equal pay for all or pay according to need or no pay at all. Some associations might use money for all exchange, some just for large or complex transactions and some might not use it at all. Goods might be bought or hired or rationed or free. If this sort of speculation seems absurdly unrealistic or utopian, it may be worth remembering just how much we already hold in common and how many things may be used without payment.\n\nIn Britain, the community owns some heavy industries, air and rail transport, ferries and buses, broadcasting systems, water, gas and electricity, though we pay to use them; but roads, bridges, rivers, beaches, parks, libraries, playgrounds, lavatories, schools, universities, hospitals and emergency services are not only owned by the community but may be used without payment. The distinction between what is owned privately and what is owned communally and between what may be used for payment and what may be used freely is quite arbitrary. It may seem obvious that we should be able to use roads and beaches without payment, but this was not always the case, and the free use of hospitals and universities has come only during this century. In the same way, it may seem obvious that we should pay for transport and fuel, but this may not always be the case, and there is no reason why they should not be free.\n\nOne result of the equal division or free distribution of wealth rather than the accumulation of property would be the end of the class system based on ownership. But anarchists also want to end the class system based on control. This would mean constant vigilance to prevent the growth of bureaucracy in every association, and above all it would mean the reorganisation of work without a managerial class.\n\n# **Work**\n\nThe first need of every human being is for food, shelter and clothing, which make life liveable; the second is for the further comforts, which make life worth living. The prime economic activity of any human group is the production and distribution of the things which satisfy these needs; and the most important aspect of a society\u2014after the personal relations on which it is based\u2014is the organisation of the necessary work. Anarchists have two characteristic ideas about work: the first is that most work may be unpleasant but could be organised to be more bearable and even pleasurable; and the second is that all work should be organised by the people who actually do it.\n\nAnarchists agree with Marxists that work in present society alienates workers. It is not their life but what they do to be able to live; their life is what they do outside work, and when they do something they enjoy they do not call it work. This is true of most work for most people in all places, and it is bound to be true of a lot of work for a lot of people at all times. The tiring and repetitive labour which has to be done to make plants grow and animals thrive, to run production lines and transport systems, to get to people what they want and take from them what they do not want, could not be abolished without a drastic decline in the material standard of living; and automation, which can make it less tiring, makes it even more repetitive. But anarchists insist that the solution is not to condition people into believing that the situation is inevitable but to reorganise essential labour so that, in the first place, it is normal for everyone who is capable of it to take a share in doing it and for no one to spend more than a few hours a day on it; and so that, in the second place, it is possible for everyone to alternate between different kinds of boring labour, which would become less boring through greater variety. It is a matter not just of fair shares for all but also of fair work for all.\n\nAnarchists also agree with syndicalists that work should be run by the workers. This does not mean that the working class\u2014or the trade unions or a working-class party (that is, a party claiming to represent the working class)\u2014runs the economy and has ultimate control of work. Nor does it mean the same thing on a smaller scale, that the staff of a factory can elect managers or see the account. It means quite simply that the people doing a particular job are in direct and total control of what they do, without any bosses or managers or inspectors at all. Some people may be good coordinators, and they can concentrate on coordination, but there is no need for them to have power over the people who do the actual work. Some people may be lazy or inefficient, but they are already. The point is to have the greatest possible control over one's own work, as well as one's own life.\n\nThis principle applies to all kinds of work\u2014in fields as well as factories, in large concerns as well as small, in unskilled as well as skilled occupations, and in dirty jobs as well as liberal professions\u2014and it is not just a useful gesture to make workers happy but a fundamental principle of any kind of free economy. An obvious objection is that complete workers' control would lead to wasteful competition between different workplaces and to production of unwanted things; an obvious answer is that complete lack of workers' control leads to exactly the same things. What is needed is intelligent planning, and despite what most people seem to thing, this depends not on more control from above but on more information from below, on horizontal rather than vertical communication.\n\nMost economists have been concerned with production rather than consumption\u2014with the manufacture of things rather than their use. Right-wingers and left-wingers both want workers to produce more, whether to make the rich richer or to make the state stronger, and the result is \"overproduction\" alongside poverty, growing productivity together with growing unemployment, higher blocks of offices at the same time as increasing homelessness, greater yields of crops per acre when more acres are left uncultivated. Anarchists are concerned with consumption rather than production\u2014with the use of things to satisfy the needs of the whole people instead of to increase the profits and power of the rich and strong.\n\n# **Necessities and Luxuries**\n\nA society with any pretension to decency cannot allow the exploitation of basic needs. It may be acceptable for luxuries to be bought and sold, since we have a choice whether we use them or not, but necessities are not mere commodities, since we have no choice about using them. If anything should be taken off the commercial market and out of the hands of exclusive groups, it is surely the land we live on, the food which grows on it, the homes which are built on it and those essential things which make up the material basis of human life\u2014clothes, tools, amenities, fuel and so on. It is also surely obvious that when there is plenty of any necessity everyone should be able to take what is needed; but that when there is a scarcity, there should be a freely agreed system of rationing so that everyone gets a fair share. It is clear that there is something wrong with any system in which waste and want exist side by side, in which some people have more than they need while other people have less.\n\nAbove all it is clear that the first task of a healthy society is to eliminate the scarcity of necessities\u2014such as the lack of food in undeveloped countries and the lack of housing in advanced countries\u2014by the proper use of technical knowledge and of social resources. If the available skill and labour in Britain were used properly, for instance, there is no reason why enough food could not be grown and enough homes could not be built to feed and house the whole population. It does not happen now because present society has other priorities, not because it cannot happen. At one time it was assumed that it was impossible for everyone to be clothed properly, and poor people always wore rags; now there are plenty of clothes, and there could be plenty of everything else too.\n\nLuxuries, by a strange paradox, are also necessities, though not basic necessities. The second task of a healthy society is to make luxuries freely available as well, though this may be a place where money would still have a useful function\u2014provided it were not distributed according to the ludicrous lack of system in capitalist countries or the even more ludicrous system in communist ones. The essential point is that everyone should have free and equal access to luxury.\n\nBut man does not live by bread alone, or even by cake. Anarchists would not like to see recreational, intellectual, cultural and other such activities in the hands of society\u2014even the most libertarian society. But there are other activities which cannot be left to individuals in free associations but must be handled by society as a whole. These are what may be called welfare activities\u2014mutual aid beyond the reach of family and friends and outside the place of residence or work. Let us consider three of these.\n\n# **The Welfare Society**\n\nEducation is very important in human society, because we take so long to grow and take so long learning facts and skills necessary for social life, and anarchists have always been much concerned about the problems of education. Many anarchist leaders have made valuable contributions to educational theory and practice, and many educational reformers have had libertarian tendencies\u2014from Rousseau and Pestalozzi to Montessori and Neill. Ideas about education which were once thought of as utopian are now a normal part of the curriculum both inside and outside the state educational systems in Britain, and education is perhaps the most stimulating area of society for practical anarchists.\n\nWhen people say that anarchy sounds nice but cannot work, we can point to a good school or college, or a good adventure playground or youth club. But even the best educational system is still under the control of people in authority\u2014teachers, administrators, governors, officials, inspectors and so on. The adults concerned in any educational process are bound to dominate it to some extent, but there is no need for them\u2014let alone people not directly concerned in it at all\u2014to control it.\n\nAnarchists want the current educational reforms to go much further. Not only should strict discipline and corporal punishment be abolished\u2014so should all imposed discipline and all penal methods. Not only should educational institutions be freed from the power of outside authorities, but students should be freed from the power of teachers or administrators. In a healthy educational relationship the fact that one person knows more than another is no reason for the teacher to have authority over the learner. The status of teachers in present society is based on age, strength, experience and law; the only status teachers should have would be based on their knowledge of a subject and their ability to teach it, and ultimately on their capacity to inspire admiration and respect. What is needed is not so much student power\u2014though that is a useful corrective to teachers' power and bureaucrats' power\u2014as workers' control by all the people involved in an educational institution. The essential point is to break the link between teaching and governing and to make education free.\n\nThis break is actually nearer in health than in education. Doctors are no longer magicians, and nurses are no longer saints, and in many countries\u2014including Britain\u2014the right of free medical treatment is accepted. What is needed is the extension of the principle of freedom from the economic to the political side of the health system. People should be able to go to hospital without any payment, and people should also be able to work in hospitals without any hierarchy. Once again, what is needed is workers' control by all the people involved in a medical institution. And just as education is for students, so health is for patients.\n\nThe treatment of delinquency has also progressed a long way, but it is still far from satisfactory. Anarchists have two characteristic ideas about delinquency: the first is that most so-called criminals are much the same as other people, just poorer, weaker, sillier or unluckier; the second is that people who persistently hurt other people should not be hurt in turn but should be looked after. The biggest criminals are not burglars but bosses, not gangsters but rulers, not murderers but mass murderers. A few minor injustices are exposed and punished by the state, while the many major injustices of present society are disguised and actually perpetuated by the state. In general punishment does more damage to society than crime does; it is more extensive, better organised and much more effective. Nevertheless, even the most libertarian society would have to protect itself against some people, and this would inevitably involve some compulsion. But proper treatment of delinquency would be part of the education and health system and would not become an institutionalised system of punishment. The last resort would not be imprisonment or death but boycott or expulsion.\n\n# **Pluralism**\n\nThis might work the other way. Some individuals or groups might refuse to join or insist on leaving the best possible society; there would be nothing to stop them. In theory it is possible for us to support ourselves by our own efforts, though in practice we would depend on the community to provide some materials and to take some products in exchange, so it is difficult to be literally self-sufficient. A collectivist or communist society should tolerate and even encourage such pockets of individualism. What would be unacceptable would be independent individuals trying to exploit other people's labour by employing them at unfair wages or exchanging goods at unfair prices. This should not happen, because people would not normally work or buy for someone else's benefit rather than their own; and while no law would prevent appropriation, no law would prevent expropriation either\u2014you could take something from someone else, but they could take it back again. Authority and property could hardly be restored by isolated individuals.\n\nA greater danger would come from independent groups. A separate community could easily exist within society, and this might cause severe strains; if such a community reverted to authority and property, which might make it stronger and richer, there would be a temptation for people to join the secession, especially if society at large were going through a bad time.\n\nBut a free society would have to be pluralist and put up with not only minor differences of opinion about how freedom and equality should be put into practice but also with major deviations from the theory of freedom and equality altogether. The only condition would be that no people are forced to join such tendencies against their will, and here some kind of authoritarian pressure would have to be available to protect even the most libertarian society. But anarchists want to replace mass society by a mass of societies, all living together as freely as the individuals within them. The greatest danger to the free societies that have been established has been not internal regression but external aggression, and the real problem is not so much how to keep a free society going as how to get it going in the first place.\n\n# **Revolution or Reform**\n\nAnarchists have traditionally advocated a violent revolution to establish a free society, but some have rejected violence or revolution or both\u2014violence is so often followed by counter-violence and revolution by counter-revolution. On the other hand, few anarchists have advocated mere reform, realising that while the system of authority and property exists superficial changes will never threaten the basic structures of society. The difficulty is that what anarchists want is revolutionary, but a revolution will not necessarily\u2014or even probably\u2014lead to what anarchists want. This is why anarchists have tended to resort to desperate actions or to relapse into hopeless inactivity.\n\nIn practice most disputes between reformist and revolutionary anarchists are meaningless, for only the wildest revolutionary refuses to welcome reforms and the mildest reformists refuses to welcome revolutions, and all revolutionaries know that their work will generally lead to no more than reform, and all reformists know that their work is generally leading to some kind of revolution. What most anarchists want is a constant pressure of all kinds, bringing about the conversion of individuals, the formation of groups, the reform of institutions, the rising of the people and the destruction of authority and property. If this happened without trouble, we would be delighted, but it never has, and it probably never will. In the end, it is necessary to go out and confront the forces of the state in the neighbourhood, at work and in the streets\u2014and if the state is defeated it is even more necessary to go on working to prevent the establishment of a new state and to begin the construction of a free society instead. There is a place for everyone in this process, and all anarchists find something to do in the struggle for what they want.\n\n#   What Anarchists Do\n\nAnarchists begin by thinking and talking. Few people begin as anarchists, and becoming an anarchist tends to be a confusing experience which involves a considerable emotional and intellectual upheaval. Being a conscious anarchist is a continuously difficult situation (rather like being, say, an atheist in medieval Europe); it is difficult to break through the thought barrier and persuade people that the necessity for government (like the existence of God) is not self-evident but may be discussed and even rejected. An anarchist has to work out a whole new view of the world and a new way of dealing with it; this is usually done in conversation with people who are anarchists or are near to anarchism, especially within some left-wing group or activity.\n\nAfterwards, even the most single-minded anarchist has contact with non-anarchists, and such contract is inevitably an opportunity for spreading anarchist ideas. Among family and friends, at home and at work, any anarchists who are not entirely philosophical in their convictions are bound to be influenced by them. It is not universal but it is usual for anarchists to be less worried than other people about such things as faithfulness in their spouses, obedience in their children, conformity in their neighbours or punctuality in their colleagues. Anarchist employees and citizens are less likely to do what they are told, and anarchist teachers and parents are less likely to make others do what they are told. Anarchism which does not show in personal life is pretty unreliable.\n\nSome anarchists are content with making up their own minds and confining their opinions to their own lives, but most want to go further and influence other people. In conversation about social or political matters they will put the libertarian point of view, and in struggles over public issues they will support the libertarian solution. But to make a real impact it is necessary to work with other anarchists or in some kind of political group on a more permanent basis than chance encounter. This is the beginning of organisation, leading to propaganda, and finally to action.\n\n# **Organisation and Propaganda**\n\nThe initial form of anarchist organisation is a discussion group. If this proves viable, it will develop in two ways\u2014it will establish links with other groups, and it will begin wider activity. Links with other groups may eventually lead to some sort of federation which can coordinate activity and undertake more ambitious enterprises. Anarchist activity normally begins with some form of propaganda to get across the basic idea of anarchism itself. There are two main ways of doing this\u2014 _propaganda by word_ and _propaganda by deed_.\n\nThe word may be written or spoken. Nowadays the spoken word is heard less than it used to be, but public meetings\u2014whether indoors or in the open\u2014are still a valuable method of reaching people directly. The final stage in becoming an anarchist is normally precipitated by some kind of personal contact, and a meeting is a good opportunity for this. As well as holding specifically anarchist meetings, it is also worth attending other meetings to put an anarchist point of view, whether by taking part in the proceedings or by interrupting them.\n\nThe most sophisticated vehicle for the spoken word nowadays is of course radio and television, and anarchists have occasionally managed to get a hearing on some programmes. But broadcasting is in fact a rather unsatisfactory medium for propaganda, because it is unsuitable for conveying unfamiliar ideas, and anarchism is still an unfamiliar idea for most listeners and viewers: it is also unsuitable for conveying explicit political ideas, and anarchism is probably broadcast most effectively in the form of implicit morals to stories. The same is true of such media as the cinema and the theatre, which can be used for extremely effective propaganda in skilful hands. In general, however, anarchists have not been able to make as much of these channels of communication as one might hope.\n\nAnyway, however effective propaganda by speech may be, the written word is necessary to fill out the message, and this has been and still is by far the most common form of propaganda. The idea of society without government may have existed underground for centuries and occasionally come to the surface in radical popular movements, but it was first brought out into the open for thousands of people by the books of the such writers as Paine, Godwin, Proudhon, Stirner and so on. And when the idea took root and was expressed by organised groups, there began that flood of periodicals and pamphlets which is still the main method of communication in the anarchist movement. Some of these publications have been very good; most have been rather bad; but they have all been essential in making sure that the movement has not turned in on itself but has maintained a constant dialogue with the external world. Again, as well as producing specifically anarchist works, it is also worth contributing to non-anarchist periodicals and writing non-anarchist books to put an anarchist point of view to non-anarchist readers.\n\nBut the spoken and written word, though necessary, are never sufficient. We can talk and write in general term as much we like, but by itself that will get us nowhere. It is also necessary to move beyond mere propaganda in two ways\u2014to discuss particular issues at such a time and in such a manner as to have an immediate effect or to win publicity by something more dramatic than mere words. The first way is agitation, the second is propaganda by deed.\n\nAgitation is the point at which a political theory encounters political reality. Anarchist agitation becomes suitable when people are made especially receptive to anarchist ideas because of some kind of stress in the state system\u2014during national or civil wars, industrial or agrarian struggles, campaigns against oppression or public scandals\u2014and it consists essentially of propaganda brought down to earth and made practicable. In a situation of growing consciousness, people are not so much interested in general speculation as in specific proposals. This is the opportunity to show in detail what is wrong with the present system and how it could be put right. Anarchist agitation has sometimes been effective, especially in France, Spain, parts of Latin America and the United States before the First World War, in Russia, Italy and China after it, and in Spain during the 1930s; it has occasionally been effective in Britain, in the 1880s, in the early 1940s and again from the 1960s.\n\nThe idea of propaganda by deed is often misunderstood, by anarchists as well as their enemies. When the phrase was first used (during the 1870s) it meant demonstrations, riots and risings which were thought of as symbolic actions designed to win useful publicity rather than immediate success. The point was that the propaganda would consist not just of talk about what could be done but of news about what had been done. It did not originally and does not necessarily mean violence, let alone assassination; but after the wave of outrages by individual anarchists during the 1890s, propaganda by deed became popularly identified with personal acts of violence, and this image has not yet faded.\n\nFor most anarchists nowadays, however, propaganda by deed is more likely to be non-violent, or at least un-violent, and to be against bombs rather than with them. It has in fact reverted to its original meaning, though it now tends to take rather different forms\u2014sit-downs and sit-ins, organised heckling and unorthodox demonstrations. Propaganda by deed need not be illegal, though it often is. Civil disobedience is a special type of propaganda by deed which involves the open and deliberate breaking of a law to gain publicity. Many anarchists dislike it, because it also involves the open and deliberate invitation of punishment, which offends anarchist feelings about any kind of voluntary contact with the authorities; but there have been times when some anarchists have found it a useful form of propaganda.\n\nAgitation, especially when it is successful, and propaganda by deed, especially when it is illegal, both go further than mere propaganda. Agitation incites action, and propaganda by deed involves action; it is here that anarchists move into the field of action and that anarchism begins to become serious.\n\n# **Action**\n\nThe change from theorising about anarchism to putting it into practice means a change in organisation. The typical discussion or propaganda group, which is open to easy participation by outsiders and easy observation by the authorities, and which is based on all members doing what they want to do and not doing what they don't want to do, will become more exclusive and more formal. This is a moment of great danger, since an attitude which is too rigid leads to authoritarianism and sectarianism, while one which is too lax leads to confusion and irresponsibility. It is a moment of even greater danger, since when anarchism becomes a serious matter, anarchists become a serious threat to the authorities and real persecution begins.\n\nThe most common form of anarchist action is for agitation over an issue to become participation in a campaign. This may be reformist, for something which would not change the whole system, or revolutionary, for a change in the system itself; it may be legal or illegal or both, violent or non-violent or just un-violent. It may have a chance of success, or it may be hopeless from the start. The anarchists may be influential or even dominant in the campaign, or they may be only one of many groups taking part. It does not take long to think of a wide variety of possible fields of action, and for a century anarchists have tried them all. The form of action with which anarchists have been happiest and which is most typical of anarchism is _direct action_.\n\nThe idea of direct action is also often misunderstood, by anarchists as well as their enemies, again. When the phrase was first used (during the 1890s) it meant no more than the opposite of \"political\"\u2014that is, parliamentary\u2014action; and in the context of the labour movement it meant \"industrial\" action, especially strikes, boycotts and sabotage, which were thought of as preparations for and rehearsals of revolution. The point was that the action is applied not indirectly through representatives but directly by the people most closely involved in a situation and directly on the situation, and it is intended to win some measure of success rather than mere publicity.\n\nThis would seem clear enough, but direct action has in fact been confused with propaganda by deed, and especially with civil disobedience. The technique of direct action was actually developed in the French syndicalist movement in reaction against the more extreme techniques of propaganda by deed; instead of getting sidetracked into dramatic but ineffective gestures, the trade unionists got on with the dull but effective work\u2014that at least was the theory. But as the syndicalist movement grew and came into conflict with the system in France, Spain, Italy, the United States and Russia, and even Britain, the high points of direct action began to take on the same function as acts of propaganda by deed. Then, when Gandhi began to describe as direct action what was really a non-violent form of civil disobedience, all three phrases were confused and came to mean much the same\u2014more or less any form of political activity which is against the law or otherwise outside the accepted rules of constitutional etiquette.\n\nFor most anarchists, however, direct action still has its original meaning, though as well as its traditional forms it also takes new ones\u2014invading military bases or taking over universities, squatting in houses or occupying factories. What makes it particularly attractive to anarchists is that it is consistent with libertarian principles and also with itself. Most forms of political action by opposition groups are mainly designed to win power; some groups use the techniques of direct action, but as soon as they win power they not only stop using such techniques but prevent any other groups using them either. Anarchists are in favour of direct action at all times, they see it as normal action, as action which reinforces itself and grows as it is used, as action which can be used to create and also to sustain a free society.\n\nBut there are some anarchists who have no faith in the possibility of creating a free society, and their action varies accordingly. One of the strongest pessimistic tendencies in anarchism is _nihilism_. Nihilism was the word which Turgenev coined (in his novel _Father and Sons_ ) to describe the sceptical and scornful attitude of the young populists in Russia a century ago, but it came to mean the view which denies the value not only of the state or of prevailing morality but of society and of humanity itself; for the strict nihilist nothing is sacred, not even himself\u2014so nihilism is one step beyond the most thorough egoism.\n\nAn extreme form of action inspired by nihilism is _terrorism_ for its own sake rather than for revenge or propaganda. Anarchists have no monopoly of terror, but it has sometimes been fashionable in some sections of the movement. After the frustrating experience of preaching a minority theory in hostile or often indifferent society, it is tempting to attack society physically. It may not do much about the hostility, but it will certainly end the indifference; let them hate me, so long as they fear me, is the terrorist's line of thought. But if reasoned assassination has been unproductive, random terror has been counterproductive, and it is not too much to say that nothing has done more damage to anarchism than the streak of psychopathic violence which always ran and still runs through it.\n\nA milder form of action inspired by nihilism is _bohemianism_ , which is a constant phenomenon, though the name seems to change for each manifestation. This too has been fashionable in some sections of the anarchist movement, and, of course, far outside as well. Instead of attacking society, bohemians drop out of it\u2014though, while living without conforming to the values of society, they usually live in and on society. A lot of nonsense is talked about this tendency. Bohemians may be parasites, but that is true of many other people. On the other hand, they don't hurt anyone except themselves, which is not true of many other people. The best thing that can be said about them is that they can do some good by enjoying themselves and challenging received values in an ostentatious but harmless way. The worst thing that can be said about them is that they cannot really change society and may divert energy from trying to do this, which for most anarchists is the whole point of anarchism.\n\nA more consistent and constructive way of dropping out of society is to leave it and set up a new self-sufficient community. This has at times been a widespread phenomenon, among religious enthusiasts during the Middle Ages, for instance, and among many kinds of people more recently, especially in North America. Anarchists have been affected by this tendency in the past but not much nowadays; like other left-wing groups, they are more likely to set up their own informal community, based on a network of people living and working together within society, than to secede from society. This may be thought of as the nucleus of a new form of society growing inside the old forms, or else as a viable form of refuge from the demands of authority which is not too extreme for ordinary people.\n\nAnother form of action which is based on pessimistic view of the prospects for anarchism is _permanent protest_. According to this view, there is no hope of changing society, of destroying the state system and of putting anarchism into practice. What is important is not the future, the strict adherence to a fixed ideal and the careful elaboration of a beautiful utopia but the present, the belated recognition of a bitter reality and the constant resistance to an ugly situation. Permanent protest is the theory of many former anarchists who have not given up their beliefs but no longer hope for success. It is also the practice of many active anarchists who keep their beliefs intact and carry on as if they still hoped for success but who know\u2014consciously or unconsciously\u2014that they will never see it. What most anarchists have been involved in during the last century may be described as permanent protest when it is looked at with hindsight; but it is just as dogmatic to say that things will never change as to say that things are bound to change, and no one call tell when protest might become effective and the present might suddenly turn into the future. The real distinction is that permanent protest is thought of as a rearguard action in a hopeless cause, while most anarchist activity is thought of as the action of a vanguard or at least of scouts in a struggle which we may not win and which may never end but which is still worth fighting.\n\nThe best tactics in this struggle are all those which are consistent with the general strategy of the war for freedom and equality, from guerrilla skirmishes in one's private life to set battles in major social campaigns. Anarchists are almost always in a small minority, so they have little choice of battlefield but have to fight wherever the action is.\n\nIn general, the most successful occasions have been those when anarchist agitation has led to anarchist participation in wider left-wing movements\u2014especially in the labour movement, but also in anti-militarist or even pacifist movement in countries preparing for or fighting in wars, anticlerical and humanist movements in religious countries, movements for national or colonial liberation, for racial or sexual equality, for legal or penal reform, or for civil liberties in general.\n\nSuch participation inevitably means alliance with non-anarchist groups and some compromise of anarchist principles, and anarchists who become deeply involved in such action are always in danger of abandoning anarchism altogether. On the other hand, refusal to take such a risk generally means sterility and sectarianism, and the anarchist movement has tended to be influential only when it has accepted a full part. The particular anarchist contribution to such occasions is twofold\u2014to emphasise the goal of libertarian society, and to insist on libertarian methods of achieving it. This in in fact a single contribution, for the most important point we can make is not just that the end does not justify the means, but that the means determines the end\u2014that means _are_ ends in most cases. We can be sure of our own actions but not of the consequences.\n\nIn the old days the greatest opportunities for really substantial movement towards anarchism were in militant syndicalist episodes in France, Spain, Italy, Latin, America, the United States and Russia, and above all in revolutionary movements in France, Mexico, China, Russia and Spain. More recently such opportunities have arisen not so much in the violent and authoritarian revolutions of Asia, Africa and South America as in such non-sectarian movements as the Committee of 100 in Britain, the 22 March Movement in France, the SDS in West Germany, the Provos and Kabouters in the Netherlands, the Zengakuren in Japan and the various movements for civil rights, resistance to conscription, student power, women's liberation, squatters, and the Green movement in many parts of the West. But the most stirring episodes of all have been the more radical insurrectionary upheavals such as those of Hungary in 1956, France and Czechoslovakia in 1968, Portugal in 1974, Poland in 1980\u2014and Britain when?\n\n#   About the Authors\n\n**Nicolas Walter** (1934\u20132000) was one of the best-known and most widely read anarchist writers of the last half century. His _About Anarchism_ has been translated into many languages, including Russian, Greek, Turkish, Chinese and Japanese. His immense output was otherwise overwhelmingly journalism for the libertarian press. An edited collection of his writings was published by PM Press in 2011 as _Damned Fools in Utopia: And Other Writings on Anarchism and War Resistance_.\n\n**Natasha Walter** is a British feminist writer and human rights activist. She is the author of a novel, _A Quiet Life_ , and two works of feminist non-fiction, _Living Dolls: The Return of Sexism_ and _The New Feminism_. She is also the founder of the charity Women for Refugee Women.\n\n**David Goodway** is a British social and cultural historian who for thirty years has written principally on anarchism and libertarian socialism. He is the author of _Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow: Left-Libertarian Thought and British Writers from William Morris to Colin Ward_ and editor of _For Anarchism_ , _Herbert Read Reassessed_ , _The Letters of John Cowper Powys and Emma Goldman_ , and collections of the writings of Alex Comfort, Herbert Read, Maurice Brinton and Nicolas Walter.\n\n# **ABOUT PM PRESS**\n\nPM Press was founded at the end of 2007 by a small collection of folks with decades of publishing, media, and organizing experience. PM Press co-conspirators have published and distributed hundreds of books, pamphlets, CDs, and DVDs. Members of PM have founded enduring book fairs, spearheaded victorious tenant organizing campaigns, and worked closely with bookstores, academic conferences, and even rock bands to deliver political and challenging ideas to all walks of life. We're old enough to know what we're doing and young enough to know what's at stake.\n\nWe seek to create radical and stimulating fiction and nonfiction books, pamphlets, T-shirts, visual and audio materials to entertain, educate, and inspire you. We aim to distribute these through every available channel with every available technology\u2014whether that means you are seeing anarchist classics at our bookfair stalls, reading our latest vegan cookbook at the caf\u00e9, downloading geeky fiction e-books, or digging new music and timely videos from our website.\n\nPM Press is always on the lookout for talented and skilled volunteers, artists, activists, and writers to work with. If you have a great idea for a project or can contribute in some way, please get in touch.\n\n**PM Press**\n\n**PO Box 23912**\n\n**Oakland, CA 94623**\n\n**www.pmpress.org**\n\n**PM Press in Europe**\n\n**europe@pmpress.org**\n\n**www.pmpress.org.uk**\n\n# **FRIENDS OF PM PRESS**\n\nThese are indisputably momentous times\u2014the financial system is melting down globally and the Empire is stumbling. Now more than ever there is a vital need for radical ideas.\n\nIn the years since its founding\u2014and on a mere shoestring\u2014PM Press has risen to the formidable challenge of publishing and distributing knowledge and entertainment for the struggles ahead. With over 300 releases to date, we have published an impressive and stimulating array of literature, art, music, politics, and culture. Using every available medium, we've succeeded in connecting those hungry for ideas and information to those putting them into practice.\n\n_Friends of PM_ allows you to directly help impact, amplify, and revitalize the discourse and actions of radical writers, filmmakers, and artists. It provides us with a stable foundation from which we can build upon our early successes and provides a much-needed subsidy for the materials that can't necessarily pay their own way. You can help make that happen\u2014and receive every new title automatically delivered to your door once a month\u2014by joining as a Friend of PM Press. And, we'll throw in a free T-shirt when you sign up.\n\nHere are your options:\n\n  * **$30 a month** Get all books and pamphlets plus 50% discount on all webstore purchases\n  * **$40 a month** Get all PM Press releases (including CDs and DVDs) plus 50% discount on all webstore purchases\n  * **$100 a month** Superstar\u2014Everything plus PM merchandise, free downloads, and 50% discount on all webstore purchases\n\nFor those who can't afford $30 or more a month, we have **Sustainer Rates** at $15, $10 and $5. Sustainers get a free PM Press T-shirt and a 50% discount on all purchases from our website.\n\nYour Visa or Mastercard will be billed once a month, until you tell us to stop. Or until our efforts succeed in bringing the revolution around. Or the financial meltdown of Capital makes plastic redundant. Whichever comes first.\n\n# **ABOUT FREEDOM PRESS**\n\nThe oldest anarchist publishing house in the English-speaking world, Freedom Press was founded in London by a group of volunteers including Charlotte Wilson and Peter Kropotkin in 1886.\n\nThe Press has repeatedly been the target of state repression, from crackdowns in the 1890s to raids during World War I and most famously, at the end of World War II. The 1945 free speech case, which saw four editors of its journal _War Commentary_ arrested for causing \"disaffection in the armed forces,\" prompted support from many famous names including Herbert Read, George Orwell, Benjamin Britten, and E.M. Forster. Three were jailed.\n\nDespite this and many other threats, from fascists to organised crime, for over a century Freedom has regularly published works on the philosophy and activities of anarchists, and produced its _Freedom Newspaper_ for the best part of a century. Freedom now maintains an anarchist-focused news site, www.freedomnews.org.uk, and publishes a biannual free journal.\n\nFreedom runs Britain's largest anarchist bookshop at its home of more than 50 years in Whitechapel, in the heart of London. The upper floors of the Freedom building are home to a number of anarchist organisations, and the venue regularly hosts talks, meetings, and events for the wider movement.\n\n**About the Freedom Press Library Series**\n\nFreedom Press has partnered with PM Press to republish titles from Freedom's back catalogue, bringing important works back into circulation with new introductions and additional commentary. _About Anarchism_ is part of this series.\n\n**Freedom Press**\n\n**84b Whitechapel High St**\n\n**London, E1 7QX**\n\n**www.freedompress.org.uk**\n\n**www.freedomnews.org.uk**\n\n# **_Damned Fools in Utopia: And Other Writings on Anarchism and War Resistance_**\n\nNicolas Walter\n\nEdited by David Goodway\n\n**ISBN: 978-1-60486-222-5**\n\n**304 pages**\n\nNicolas Walter was the son of the neurologist W. Grey Walter, and both his grandfathers had known Peter Kropotkin and Edward Carpenter. However, it was the twin jolts of Suez and the Hungarian Revolution while still a student, followed by participation in the resulting New Left and nuclear disarmament movement, that led him to anarchism himself. His personal history is recounted in two autobiographical pieces in this collection as well as the editor's introduction.\n\nDuring the 1960s he was a militant in the British nuclear disarmament movement\u2014especially its direct-action wing, the Committee of 100\u2014he was one of the Spies for Peace (who revealed the State's preparations for the governance of Britain after a nuclear war), he was close to the innovative Solidarity Group and was a participant in the homelessness agitation. Concurrently with his impressive activism he was analyzing acutely and lucidly the history, practice and theory of these intertwined movements; and it is such writings\u2014including 'Non-violent Resistance' and 'The Spies for Peace and After'\u2014that form the core of this book. But there are also memorable pieces on various libertarians, including the writers George Orwell, Herbert Read and Alan Sillitoe, the publisher C.W. Daniel and the maverick Guy A. Aldred. 'The Right to be Wrong' is a notable polemic against laws limiting the freedom of expression. Other than anarchism, the passion of Walter's intellectual life was the dual cause of atheism and rationalism; and the selection concludes appropriately with a fine essay on 'Anarchism and Religion' and his moving reflections, 'Facing Death'.\n\nNicolas Walter scorned the pomp and frequent ignorance of the powerful and detested the obfuscatory prose and intellectual limitations of academia. He himself wrote straightforwardly and always accessibly, almost exclusively for the anarchist and freethought movements. The items collected in this volume display him at his considerable best.\n\n_\"[Nicolas Walter was] one of the most interesting left intellectuals of the second half of the twentieth century in Britain.\"_\n\n\u2014Professor Richard Taylor, University of Cambridge\n\n# **_Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow: Left-Libertarian Thought and British Writers from William Morris to Colin Ward_**\n\nDavid Goodway\n\n**ISBN: 978-1-60486-221-8**\n\n**420 pages**\n\nFrom William Morris to Oscar Wilde to George Orwell, left-libertarian thought has long been an important but neglected part of British cultural and political history. In _Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow_ , David Goodway seeks to recover and revitalize that indigenous anarchist tradition. This book succeeds as simultaneously a cultural history of left-libertarian thought in Britain and a demonstration of the applicability of that history to current politics. Goodway argues that a recovered anarchist tradition could\u2014and should\u2014be a touchstone for contemporary political radicals. Moving seamlessly from Aldous Huxley and Colin Ward to the war in Iraq, this challenging volume will energize leftist movements throughout the world.\n\n_\"_ Anarchist Seeds beneath the Snow _is an impressive achievement for its rigorous scholarship across a wide range of sources, for collating this diverse material in a cogent and systematic narrative-cum-argument, and for elucidating it with clarity and flair... It is a book that needed to be written and now deserves to be read.\"_\n\n\u2014 _Journal of William Morris Studies_\n\n_\"Goodway outlines with admirable clarity the many variations in anarchist thought. By extending outwards to left-libertarians he takes on even greater diversity.\"_\n\n\u2014Sheila Rowbotham, _Red Pepper_\n\n_\"A splendid survey of 'left-libertarian thought' in this country, it has given me hours of delight and interest. Though it is very learned, it isn't dry. Goodway's friends in the awkward squad (especially William Blake) are both stimulating and comforting companions in today's political climate.\"_\n\n\u2014A.N. Wilson, _Daily Telegraph_\n\n# **_Lessons of the Spanish Revolution: 1936\u20131939_**\n\nVernon Richards with an Introduction by David Goodway\n\n**ISBN: 978-1-62963-647-4**\n\n**272 pages**\n\nIt was the revolutionary movement in Spain which took up Franco's challenge in July 1936, not as supporters of the Popular Front Government but in the name of the Social Revolution, and this book soberly examines the many ways in which Spain's revolutionary movement contributed to its own defeat.\n\nWas it too weak to carry through the Revolution? To what extent was the purchase of arms and raw materials from outside sources dependent upon the appearance of a constitutional government inside Republican Spain? What chances had an improvised army of guerrillas against a trained fighting force? These were some of the practical problems facing the revolutionary movement and its leaders. But in seeking to solve these problems, the anarchists and revolutionary syndicalists were also confronted with other questions which were fundamental to the whole theoretical and moral bases of their organisation. Could they collaborate with political parties and reformist unions? Given the circumstances, was one form of government to be supported against another? Should the revolutionary impetus of the first days of resistance be halted in the interests of the armed struggle against Franco or be allowed to develop as far as the workers were able and prepared to take it? Was the situation such that the social revolution could triumph and, if not, what was to be the role of the revolutionary workers?\n\nOriginally written as a series of weekly articles in the 1950s and expanded, republished, and translated into many languages over the years, Vernon Richards's analysis remains essential reading for all those interested in revolutionary praxis.\n\n_\"The revolution that accompanied the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War was a high point in the history of working-class creativity, internationalism and self-activity. If it is to be a resource for present and future struggles, we must assess the strengths and weaknesses of the movement that propelled it. In this regard, the early endeavours of Vernon Richards remain indispensable.\"_\n\n\u2014Danny Evans, author of _Revolution and the State: Anarchism in the Spanish Civil War, 1936\u20131939_\n\n# **_Anarchy in Action_**\n\nColin Ward\n\n**ISBN: 978-1-62963-238-4**\n\n**192 pages**\n\nThe argument of this book is that an anarchist society, a society which organizes itself without authority, is always in existence, like a seed beneath the snow, buried under the weight of the state and its bureaucracy, capitalism and its waste, privilege and its injustices, nationalism and its suicidal loyalties, religious differences and their superstitious separatism.\n\nAnarchist ideas are so much at variance with ordinary political assumptions and the solutions anarchists offer so remote, that all too often people find it hard to take anarchism seriously. This classic text is an attempt to bridge the gap between the present reality and anarchist aspirations, \"between what is and what, according to the anarchists, might be.\"\n\nThrough a wide-ranging analysis\u2014drawing on examples from education, urban planning, welfare, housing, the environment, the workplace, and the family, to name but a few\u2014Colin Ward demonstrates that the roots of anarchist practice are not so alien or quixotic as they might at first seem but lie precisely in the ways that people have always tended to organize themselves when left alone to do so. The result is both an accessible introduction for those new to anarchism and pause for thought for those who are too quick to dismiss it.\n\nFor more than thirty years, in over thirty books, Colin Ward patiently explained anarchist solutions to everything from vandalism to climate change\u2014and celebrated unofficial uses of the landscape as commons, from holiday camps to squatter communities. Ward was an anarchist journalist and editor for almost sixty years, most famously editing the journal _Anarchy_. He was also a columnist for _New Statesman_ , _New Society_ , _Freedom_ , and _Town and Country Planning_.\n\n_\"It is difficult to match the empirical strength, the lucidity of prose, and the integration of theory and practical insight in the magnificent body of work produced by the veteran anarchist Colin Ward.\"_\n\n\u2014 _Prospect_\n\n# **_The Slow Burning Fuse: The Lost History of the British Anarchists_**\n\nJohn Quail with an Afterword by Constance Bantman and biographical sketches by Nick Heath\n\n**ISBN: 978-1-62963-582-8**\n\n**416 pages**\n\nIn the accounts of the radical movements that have shaped our history, anarchism has received a raw deal. Its visions and aims have been distorted and misunderstood, its achievements forgotten. The British anarchist movement during the years 1880\u20131930, while borrowing from Europe, was self-actuated and independent, with a vibrant tale all its own.\n\nIn _The Slow Burning Fuse_ , John Quail shows a history largely obscured and rewritten following 1919 and the triumph of Leninist communism. The time has arrived to resurrect the works of the early anarchist clubs, their unsung heroes, tumultuous political activities, and searing manifestos so that a truer image of radical dissent and history can be formed. Quail's story of the anarchists is one of utopias created in imagination and half-realised in practice, of individual fights and movements for freedom and self-expression\u2014a story still being written today.\n\n_\"_ The Slow Burning Fuse _is a meticulous, accessible and riveting account of the British anarchist movement. John Quail introduces us to the anarchists of the Socialist League, explores the early history of the Freedom group, describes the murky world of police spies and agents provocateurs, and shows how small groups of anarchists in London and Sheffield animated working-class movements at the turn of the twentieth century. Quail's rich history is also an unflinching reflection on anarchist organising. Examining the personal feuds that plagued the movement and the political disagreements generated by the incidence of violence in France, Quail shows how internal divisions exacerbated the problems created by systematic police repression. Anarchist utopian aspirations are easily romanticised or mocked. Quail avoids both and instead invites us to weigh up the value of spectacular actions and consider the effectiveness of strategic initiatives. The result is a passionate but sober defence of anarchist politics and movement building.\"_\n\n\u2014Ruth Kinna, author of _Kropotkin: Reviewing the Classical Anarchist Tradition_\n\n# **_What Is Anarchism?: An Introduction_**\n\n**_Second Edition_**\n\nDonald Rooum, edited by Vernon Richards with a foreword by Andrej Gruba\u010di\u0107\n\n**ISBN: 978-1-62963-146-2**\n\n**160 pages**\n\nAnarchists believe that the point of society is to widen the choices of individuals. Anarchism is opposed to states, armies, slavery, the wages system, the landlord system, prisons, capitalism, bureaucracy, meritocracy, theocracy, revolutionary governments, patriarchy, matriarchy, monarchy, oligarchy, and every other kind of coercive institution. In other words, anarchism opposes government in all its forms.\n\nEnlarged and updated for a modern audience, _What Is Anarchism?_ has the making of a standard reference book. As an introduction to the development of anarchist thought, it will be useful not only to propagandists and proselytizers of anarchism but also to teachers and students of political theory, philosophy, sociology, history, and to all who want to uncover the basic core of anarchism.\n\nThis useful compendium, compiled and edited by the late Vernon Richards of Freedom Press, with additional selections by Donald Rooum, includes extracts from the work of Errico Malatesta, Peter Kropotkin, Max Stirner, Emma Goldman, Charlotte Wilson, Michael Bakunin, Rudolf Rocker, Alexander Berkman, Colin Ward, Albert Meltzer, and many others.\n\nAuthor and Wildcat cartoonist Donald Rooum gives context to the selections with introductions looking at \"What Anarchists Believe,\" \"How Anarchists Differ,\" and \"What Anarchists Do\" and provides helpful and humorous illustrations throughout the book.\n\n_\"_ What Is Anarchism? _is a classic. It brings together a marvellous selection of inspiring texts with a clear, comprehensive introduction\u2014now updated\u2014to provide a brilliant account of the cares, concerns and commitments that animate anarchist politics and activities of British anarchists since 1945.\"_\n\n\u2014Ruth Kinna, author of _Anarchism: A Beginner's Guide_\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title Page\n  3. Copyright\n  4. Contents\n  5. Preface\n  6. Introduction to the 2002 Edition\n  7. Note on the 2002 Edition\n  8. Introduction\n  9. What Anarchists Believe\n  10. How Anarchists Differ\n  11. What Anarchists Want\n  12. What Anarchists Do\n  13. About the Authors\n\n## Landmarks\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title Page\n  3. Table of Contents\n  4. Start of Content\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "The Cambridge Companion to Stravinsky - Jonathan Cross"}, "text": " \nThe Cambridge Companion to Stravinsky\n\nStravinsky's work spanned the major part of the twentieth century and engaged with nearly all its principal compositional developments. This Companion reflects the breadth of Stravinsky's achievement and influence in essays by leading international scholars on a wide range of topics. It is divided into three parts dealing with the contexts within which Stravinsky worked (Russian, modernist and compositional), with his key compositions (Russian, neoclassical and serial) and with the reception of his ideas (through performance, analysis and criticism). The volume concludes with an interview with the leading Dutch composer Louis Andriessen and a major re-evaluation of 'Stravinsky and us' by Richard Taruskin.\n\nJONATHAN CROSS is University Lecturer in Music and Tutorial Fellow of Christ Church, Oxford. He is author of _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge, 1998) and _Harrison Birtwistle: Man, Mind, Music_ (London, 2000), and is Editor of the journal _Music Analysis_.\nCambridge Companions to Music\n\n**Composers**\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Bach**\n\nEdited by John Butt\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Bart\u00f3k**\n\nEdited by Amanda Bayley\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Beethoven**\n\nEdited by Glenn Stanley\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Benjamin Britten**\n\nEdited by Mervyn Cooke\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Berg**\n\nEdited by Anthony Pople\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Berlioz**\n\nEdited by Peter Bloom\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Brahms**\n\nEdited by Michael Musgrave\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to John Cage**\n\nEdited by David Nicholls\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Chopin**\n\nEdited by Jim Samson\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Debussy**\n\nEdited by Simon Trezise\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Handel**\n\nEdited by Donald Burrows\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Ravel**\n\nEdited by Deborah Mawer\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Schubert**\n\nEdited by Christopher Gibbs\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Stravinsky**\n\nEdited by Jonathan Cross\n\n**Instruments**\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Brass Instruments**\n\nEdited by Trevor Herbert and John Wallace\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Cello**\n\nEdited by Robin Stowell\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Clarinet**\n\nEdited by Colin Lawson\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Organ**\n\nEdited by Nicholas Thistlethwaite and Geoffrey Webber\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Piano**\n\nEdited by David Rowland\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Recorder**\n\nEdited by John Mansfield Thomson\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Saxophone**\n\nEdited by Richard Ingham\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Singing**\n\nEdited by John Potter\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Violin**\n\nEdited by Robin Stowell\n\n**Topics**\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Pop and Rock**\n\nEdited by Simon Frith, Will Straw and John Street\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Jazz**\n\nEdited by Mervyn Cooke and David Horn\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to Blues and Gospel Music**\n\nEdited by Allan Moore\n\n**The Cambridge Companion to the Orchestra**\n\nEdited by Colin Lawson\nThe Cambridge Companion to\n\nSTRAVINSKY\n\n.................\n\nEDITED BY\n\nJonathan Cross\n\nCAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS\n\nCambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, S\u00e3o Paulo\n\nCambridge University Press\n\nThe Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK\n\nPublished in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York\n\nwww.cambridge.org\n\nInformation on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521663304\n\n\u00a9 Cambridge University Press 2003\n\nThis publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press.\n\nFirst published 2003\n\nReprinted 2005\n\n_A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library_\n\nISBN 978-0-521-66330-4 hardback\n\nISBN 978-0-521-66377-9 paperback\n\nTransferred to digital printing 2008\n**Contents**\n\n_Notes on the contributors_\n\n_Chronology of Stravinsky's life and career_ Anthony Gritten\n\n_Preface and acknowledgements_\n\n**Part I \u2022 Origins and contexts**\n\n1 Stravinsky's Russian origins _Rosamund Bartlett_\n\n2 Stravinsky as modernist _Christopher Butler_\n\n3 Stravinsky in context _Arnold Whittall_\n\n**Part II \u2022 The works**\n\n4 Early Stravinsky _Anthony Pople_\n\n5 Russian rites: _Petrushka_ , _The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_ _Kenneth Gloag_\n\n6 Stravinsky's neoclassicism _Martha M. Hyde_\n\n7 Stravinsky's theatres _Jonathan Cross_\n\n8 Stravinsky the serialist _Joseph N. Straus_\n\n**Part III \u2022 Reception**\n\n9 Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky _Nicholas Cook_\n\n10 Stravinsky as devil: Adorno's three critiques _Max Paddison_\n\n11 Stravinsky in analysis: the anglophone traditions _Craig Ayrey_\n\n12 Stravinsky and the critics _Stuart Campbell_\n\n13 Composing with Stravinsky _Louis Andriessen and Jonathan Cross_\n\n14 Stravinsky and us _Richard Taruskin_\n\n_Chronological list of works_\n\n_Notes_\n\n_Select bibliography_\n\n_Index of names and titles_\n**Contributors**\n\n**Louis Andriessen** is one of the most distinguished living Dutch composers. He teaches composition at the Koninklijk Conservatorium Den Haag.\n\n**Craig Ayrey** is Lecturer in Music Theory and Analysis at Goldsmiths College, University of London.\n\n**Rosamund Bartlett** is Lecturer in Russian and Music History at the University of Durham.\n\n**Christopher Butler** is Professor of English at the University of Oxford and Tutorial Fellow of Christ Church.\n\n**Stuart Campbell** is Honorary Senior Research Fellow in the Institute of Central and Eastern European Studies and the Department of Music at the University of Glasgow.\n\n**Nicholas Cook** is Research Professor in Music at the University of Southampton.\n\n**Jonathan Cross** is University Lecturer in Music and Tutorial Fellow of Christ Church, Oxford.\n\n**Kenneth Gloag** is Lecturer in Music at Cardiff University.\n\n**Anthony Gritten** is Lecturer in Music at the University of East Anglia.\n\n**Martha M. Hyde** is Professor of Music at the State University of New York at Buffalo.\n\n**Max Paddision** is Professor of Music at the University of Durham.\n\n**Anthony Pople** is Professor of Music at the University of Nottingham.\n\n**Joseph N. Straus** is Professor of Music at Queens College and the Graduate Center, City University of New York.\n\n**Richard Taruskin** is Professor of Music at the University of California at Berkeley.\n\n**Arnold Whittall** is Professor Emeritus of Music Theory and Analysis at King's College London.\nANTHONY GRITTEN\n\n**Chronology of Stravinsky's life and works**\n\n_Notes:_\n\n1 Works are listed in the year of their completion.\n\n2 Dates of premieres are of the first public complete performance of the principal version of the work.\n**Preface and acknowledgements**\n\nBorn in the nineteenth century, Stravinsky became one of the dominant creative figures of the twentieth, and his influence is still strongly felt into the twenty-first. The contributions to this volume reflect the range of Stravinsky's impact on many aspects of current musical and musicological life. They offer a broad spectrum of historical, critical and interpretative approaches to the composer and his music: Stravinsky the Russian, the modernist, the neoclassicist, the serialist, the dramatist. The chapters also look at the fascinating ways in which Stravinsky and his ideas have been received by performers, critics, analysts and composers. The final chapter proposes that the twentieth century was indeed 'Stravinsky's century' and that a 'Stravinskian' attitude pervades much recent musical thought and practice.\n\nI owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Kathryn Puffett for her support; indeed, without her help, the Companion might never have appeared at all. I am also immensely grateful for her expert setting of many of the music examples. Michael Downes gave invaluable editorial advice during the final stages of the preparation of this volume. Thanks, too, to Penny Souster at CUP, who has, as always, encouraged and cajoled in equal measure, and to Anthony Gritten for his assistance with the chronological work list. Above all, thanks to Emma who has been there throughout and who makes it all worthwhile.\n\nI gratefully acknowledge the generous financial assistance of the University of Bristol Faculty of Arts Research Fund towards the cost of preparing the music examples.\n\nThe music examples from Stravinsky's scores are reproduced by permission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers (London), Ltd., with the exception of the excerpts from the Symphony in C, _Scherzo fantastique_ and _Fireworks_ , which are reproduced by permission of Schott and Co., Ltd., and the _Piano-Rag-Music_ , which is reproduced by permission of J & W Chester/Edition Wilhelm Hansen, London, Ltd. The facsimile of the sketches for Stravinsky's Cantata are reproduced by permission of the Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel. The excerpt from Debussy's _Nocturnes_ is reproduced by permission of Editions Joubert, Paris/United Music Publishers Ltd.\nPART I\n\n**Origins and contexts**\n**1**\n\nROSAMUND BARTLETT\n\n**Stravinsky's Russian origins**\n\n'A man has one birthplace, one fatherland, one country \u2013 he _can_ have only one country \u2013 and the place of his birth is the most important factor in his life.' These words were uttered by Stravinsky at a banquet held in his honour in Moscow on 1 October 1962. The eighty-year-old composer had returned to his homeland after an absence of fifty years. In the intervening period he had acquired first French and then American citizenship, and developed an increasingly hostile attitude towards his native country and its culture. This hostility had been fully reciprocated by the Soviet musical establishment. Now, as the guest of the Union of Composers, Stravinsky was seemingly performing a complete _volte-face_ by wholeheartedly embracing his Russian identity. For Robert Craft, his assistant and amanuensis, this was nothing short of a 'transformation', and he was astonished, not only to witness Stravinsky and his wife suddenly taking 'pride in everything Russian', but to observe at close hand how 'half a century of expatriation' could be 'forgotten in a night'. Craft's diary of the famous visit contains many revealing comments about a composer who was a master of mystification.\n\nLike his younger contemporary Vladimir Nabokov, with whom there are some intriguing biographical parallels, Stravinsky did not care to be pigeon-holed or linked with any particular artistic trend after he left Russia. Above all, because of a sense of cultural inferiority which stemmed from the fact that Russia's musical tradition was so much younger than that of other European nations, he came to disavow his own musical heritage, which necessitated embroidering a complex tapestry of lies and denials. So proficient was Stravinsky in creating an elaborate smoke-screen about who he really was, in fact, that the highly controlled image he projected of his artistic independence remained largely intact for over two decades following his death in 1971. It is an achievement of the painstaking scholarship of Richard Taruskin and Stephen Walsh that in the twenty-first century we can now look behind Stravinsky's cosmopolitan fa\u00e7ade to see the carefully concealed but manifestly Russian identity that lies behind it. The extent of the obfuscations and contradictions of Stravinsky's musical persona can be judged from the sheer scale of Richard Taruskin's efforts in unravelling them: his study runs to 1,757 pages, and does not explore works written after 1922. Stravinsky's habit of falsifying his own life story means that we must clearly treat all his pronouncements with circumspection, but his highly emotional and apparently involuntary reaction in 1962 to being back on Russian soil (which he claimed even had a particular smell), nevertheless speaks volumes about the continuing importance of his native origins.\n\nStravinsky was born on the cusp of two distinct eras, at a pivotal point in Russian cultural history. In 1881, the year before his birth, not only was Alexander II assassinated, but Dostoevsky and Musorgsky died, thus symbolically bringing to a close the era of the Great Reforms, Realist novels and Populism. Alexander II's reign (particularly the earlier part of it) had been a time of relative liberalism compared with the oppressive regime of Nicholas I which had preceded it. The reforms Alexander II had introduced in the 1860s, most notably the long-awaited Emancipation of the Serfs in 1861, had given rise to an upsurge of energy and optimism that was reflected across all sections of Russian society over the course of the following decade. The young radical intelligentsia believed at last the time had come for action (not for nothing was Nikolai Chernyshevsky's 1863 novel of political emancipation entitled _What is to be Done?_ ), and the arts were dominated throughout the 1860s and 1870s by a preoccupation with ideas of social change and questions of national identity. This was the age of the great novels of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Turgenev, and the ideologically charged canvases of the 'Wanderers' \u2013 nationalist painters who wished to highlight Russia's acute social problems. This was also a vibrant time for Russian music. As a result of the efforts of Anton Rubinstein, a Conservatoire had finally opened in St Petersburg in 1862, enabling Russian musicians to acquire professional status for the first time (all-important in a society where social position was still defined by a notorious Table of Ranks). Tchaikovsky was one of its first graduates. And at the same time that the Populist-minded artists of the 'Wanderers' group were rebelling against the Western and classical orientation of the St Petersburg Academy of Arts, a nucleus of nationalist composers was already turning its back on the Western and classical orientation of the new Conservatoire. Rather than be trained according to the German model set up by Rubinstein, the five members of the Balakirev circle opted to teach themselves, out of a belief that Russian music should follow its own course. One of those composers was Rimsky-Korsakov, later to become Stravinsky's teacher. Their spokesman was the prolific critic Vladimir Stasov, who waged an unceasing and often cantankerous campaign on behalf of Russian nationalist art from 1847 to 1906, the year of his death.\n\nBy the time of Alexander II's violent death, however, Russian culture was already beginning to undergo a sea-change as former radicals and non-conformists amongst the artistic community began to become part of the establishment. Rimsky-Korsakov had been appointed to teach at the St Petersburg Conservatoire in 1871, for example, and the Wanderers later became stalwart representatives of the Academy of Arts. Russia had embarked on a programme of rapid industrialisation and urbanisation, but the pace of reform had slowed, and social unrest consequently increased. When the peaceful attempts of the Populists failed to convince the peasantry of the need for urgent political action, the Revolutionary intelligentsia began to turn its attention to the new working-class organisations that were beginning to spring up in cities across the Russian empire. And their new terrorist methods began to achieve results. Conservative anyway by nature, Alexander III responded to the assassination of his father by bringing to a halt the wheels of progress and by tightening instruments of repression. Thus Stravinsky was born at a time of widespread despondency amongst the Russian population.\n\nThe new tsar's chauvinistic policies resulted in the persecution of Jews and other religious minorities, but there was one aspect of his Russification policies that had positive consequences, namely his active promotion of native culture. A century and a half of imperial patronage of Western art forms at the expense of Russian traditions (long considered unsophisticated by comparison, and associated with peasants, therefore inferior) had led to a huge explosion of national consciousness amongst Russian artists in the middle of the nineteenth century. Alexander III was the first Russian tsar to recognise and support native achievements. It was due to his efforts that the first government-sponsored collection of Russian art (now housed in the Russian Museum) was put on public display in St Petersburg in 1898, and he was clearly in favour of the 'revivalist' architecture which quickly became popular. The first major public building project of his reign was the oniondomed Church of the Resurrection, begun in 1882, the year of Stravinsky's birth. Built on the spot where Alexander II was assassinated, its pastiche of medieval Russian styles sits oddly amongst the stately neoclassicism of most of the rest of St Petersburg's eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century buildings, which had of course been specifically designed to emulate the European style and make a deliberate break with Muscovite tradition. This sort of retrogressive orientation was closely allied to Alexander III's reactionary and Slavophile political beliefs. Of far greater value were his services to Russian music. Alexander's decision, also in 1882, to end the monopoly on theatrical production held by the Imperial Theatres and to close down the Italian Opera were to have far-reaching consequences for the performing arts in Russia. As a singer at the Russian Opera in St Petersburg (where he was principal bass), Stravinsky's father was a direct beneficiary of this policy. Stravinsky's own musical development was also indirectly affected as a result. The two most important operas premiered in the year of Stravinsky's birth were Wagner's _Parsifal_ , staged in Bayreuth, and Rimsky-Korsakov's _The Snow Maiden_ , the latter performed at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg, with Fyodor Stravinsky creating the role of Grandfather Frost.\n\nNicholas I had installed an Italian company in the main opera house in St Petersburg in 1843 (as much for political as for artistic reasons), and lavish sums from the imperial purse were invested in promoting it. Very much second-class citizens, the composers and performers involved with the Russian Opera did not even have a proper stage of their own until the Mariinsky Theatre was built in 1860. It must be said that the repertoire was still not very large at this stage, nor of consistently high quality (with the obvious exceptions of Glinka's operas, of course), but the Russian government had equally done nothing to encourage its subjects to become composers. The fortunes of the Russian Opera started to prosper in earnest only after the accession of Alexander III, when it became the sole company in St Petersburg, and thus the country's premier stage. Fyodor Stravinsky had joined the Russian Opera in 1876, having begun his singing career in Kiev, and it was in the 1880s that he began to receive his greatest acclaim, not only for his powerful voice, but also for his dramatic talents. By the time he stopped performing in 1902, he had developed a repertoire of sixtyfour roles, most but not all of which were in Russian opera. He also knew composers like Musorgsky, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov, as well as other prominent musicians and critics, many of whom must have come to visit the singer at home. The young Igor Stravinsky thus grew up in an environment which was steeped in Russian music. Stasov and Dostoevsky also paid calls.\n\nApart from his fine voice, Fyodor Stravinsky was famous for his extensive library of valuable books and scores (held to be one of the largest private collections in Russia), and for the painstaking way in which he researched his roles. All of this inevitably rubbed off on his son, who would have probably heard his father rehearse at home and who also had the benefit of being able to attend operatic performances at the Mariinsky on a regular basis from a young age. It is not surprising that the theatre became something of a second home for Stravinsky while he was growing up, as his family's apartment was situated right next door to it. The 1890s and early 1900s were the Mariinsky Theatre's golden years: operas by Russian composers had become its staple repertoire, and there was now, for the first time, an impressive roster of performers, producers and set designers to stage them. Stravinsky was able to become closely acquainted with what are now the classic masterpieces of Tchaikovsky, Glinka, Borodin, Musorgsky and, of course, Rimsky-Korsakov. 'Sitting in the dark of the Mariinsky Theatre, I judged, saw, and heard everything at first hand', he later recalled, 'and my impressions were immediate and indelible'. He would subsequently have a direct involvement with Rimsky-Korsakov's last operas.\n\nStravinsky's family came from the nobility, but it is important to recognise that this was a class that differed from its Western European counterpart by encompassing small-scale landowners without titles and (by the end of the nineteenth century) _haute-bourgeoisie_ as well as Counts and Princesses. Only in Russia could one automatically join the nobility by being promoted to a certain position in the Table of Ranks (as happened with Dostoevsky's father). Stravinsky's social background was relatively privileged without being particularly aristocratic. While the young Nabokov was driven to school by a chauffeur from the family mansion, for example, Stravinsky walked across town from a rented apartment. His parents also rented their summer dachas; although the family was able to stay at the country estates of their relatives and were later affluent enough to travel abroad, they had no property of their own, however modest, to retreat to at the end of the season. It is also worth pointing out that pursuing a career on the stage as a singer in Russia had only begun to acquire social respectability at the end of the nineteenth century. Both Shaliapin and Ershov, two of Russia's other great pre-revolutionary male singers, were of lowly origins, and Fyodor Stravinsky had originally planned to join the Civil Service, following a training in law. It is indicative that he and his wife also wanted their son Igor to become a lawyer rather than a professional musician, and he studied law at St Petersburg University from 1901 to 1906. But as with Tchaikovsky, who half a century earlier had been destined for a career in the Ministry of Justice, the urge to write music proved ultimately too strong to resist.\n\nStravinsky had his first piano lessons in 1891, when he was nine years old. This was also the year in which he met his first cousin Ekaterina Nosenko, who was later to become his wife. Then, when he was a university student, he began to study music theory privately. Musically speaking, however, the pivotal year for Stravinsky was 1902, the date of his earliest surviving compositions. At university Stravinsky had become friends with Rimsky-Korsakov's son Vladimir, and through him met the composer while they were on holiday in Germany that summer. After Stravinsky's father died of cancer at the end of 1902 at the age of fifty-nine, Rimsky-Korsakov \u2013 just one year younger \u2013 became a kind of father figure to him. There was something of an inevitability to this development. Fyodor Stravinsky studiously recorded details of the cost of each of Igor's music lessons, along with every other family expense, and his son seems to have inherited his love of precision, sending dutiful letters to his parents during summer vacations when they were apart. Stravinsky did not, however, have a particularly affectionate relationship with his father (he was closer to his mother, though that relationship was difficult too), and neither of his parents encouraged his musical ambitions. Rimsky-Korsakov did not formally become Stravinsky's composition teacher until 1905, having persuaded him that enrolling at the Conservatoire, where Rimsky had now been teaching for thirty years, would at this point be counter-productive. In the meantime, however, Stravinsky started to receive informal tuition from him, and to attend the musical soir\u00e9es at his apartment which became a weekly fixture from 1905 onwards.\n\nCultural life in St Petersburg by 1905 had undergone another sea-change since the time of Stravinsky's childhood. He was not exaggerating when he later remembered the city as a stimulating and exciting place in which to have grown up, as his coming of age coincided with the birth of Russian Modernism \u2013 the movement to which he himself was to make such an enormous contribution. Alexander III's Russification policies had positive consequences for the fortunes of Russian opera in the 1880s, and the abolition of the Imperial Theatres' monopoly had led to the foundation of important new companies such as Savva Mamontov's Private Opera in 1885, and later the Moscow Arts Theatre, directed by Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko. In general, however, the reign of Alexander III was one of the bleaker periods in Russian culture, typified more by repression and stagnation than by innovation and dynamism. The apathy and disillusionment of the period is captured well in the short stories of Chekhov, the very modesty of their form indicating the diminution of the intelligentsia's hopes and dreams following the era of the great reforms. The Russian musical scene also lacked dynamism and innovation. The main symphony concert series, which had been inaugurated by the Russian Musical Society in 1859, was now becoming increasingly reliant on the classical repertoire, for example, and was beginning to lack freshness. The wealthy art patron Mitrofan Belyayev promoted contemporary composers at the 'Russian Symphony Concerts' he founded in 1885, an enterprise of inestimable value in consolidating a national musical tradition that was now well and truly established, but Arensky, Lyadov, Glazunov and Rachmaninov hardly belonged to the avant garde. As Walsh has commented, the enterprise succeeded, ironically, in truly institutionalising Russian music, which had hitherto prided itself on its anti-establishment stance. As a bastion of the musical establishment, and now the _\u00e9minence grise_ of the St Petersburg Conservatoire where he had been professor since 1882, Rimsky-Korsakov certainly did not use his position as Belyayev's main adviser to change its orientation.\n\nEverything was to change after the death of Alexander III in 1894, although his successor Nicholas II was hardly less reactionary. The cultural revival that was now instigated was prompted to a certain extent by a desire to escape from a depressing political reality that was clearly going to worsen and partly by the simple and inevitable need to strike out in a new direction. Music was in fact the last art form to be affected by the winds of change that now began to sweep through Russian cultural life, but ironically it was music which \u2013 through the agency of Stravinsky \u2013 was to contribute Russia's most significant contribution to the Modernist movement. Signs of the dawning of a new age in the arts came with the production of Tchaikovsky's operatic masterpiece _The Queen of Spades_ , premiered in 1890 at the Mariinsky. A loyal subject of Alexander III, Tchaikovsky willingly conformed to the dictates of the Imperial Theatres, which commissioned the opera, and _The Queen of Spades_ represents, in many ways, the apotheosis of the Russian 'imperial style'. It is also, however, a work whose hallucinatory subject-matter, nostalgic mood and stylistic pastiche align it with the preoccupations of the new generation of artists that emerged in the closing years of the nineteenth century. Their rebellion against old forms and their championing of the new were accompanied by an explosion of creative talent across all the arts on an unprecedented scale at the beginning of the twentieth century and is now rightly regarded as a kind of Russian 'Renaissance'. Stravinsky, of course, was at the epicentre of this movement, which saw Russian artists for the first time becoming leaders of the avant garde. Along with Kandinsky, Malevich and, to a lesser extent, Skryabin and perhaps Bely, he was one of the key Russian figures of the period who was destined to change the very language of art.\n\nRussian Modernism began in the middle of the 1890s as a reaction against the relentless utilitarianism that had dominated all the arts in the preceding period in favour of aestheticism. Concern with ideology was jettisoned to be replaced by an interest in individual experience and beauty, which was expressed at first in small, lyrical forms rather than the grand canvases of the Realist period. The narrow Russian focus of much of what was produced earlier was exchanged for a new cosmopolitan outlook. There was also, in the aftermath of Nietzsche and the 'death of God', a liberation from the stifling Victorian mores of the 1880s and a cultivation of amorality and the occult. The earliest practitioners were a group of poets who called themselves Symbolists, but who were quickly labelled Decadents by their detractors. Led in Moscow by Valery Bryusov and Konstantin Bal'mont, they drew their inspiration from French writers such as Baudelaire and Verlaine. In St Petersburg the leader of the new movement was the writer Dmitry Merezhkovsky, who published an influential article in 1893 that pinned the blame for the general decline in literary quality at the time on the didacticism of the Populist age and called for culture to be revived through a concern with metaphysical idealism and spiritual experience.\n\nThe torchbearers for this artistic renewal were the eclectic young artists and sexually liberated aesthetes of the 'World of Art' group, also based in St Petersburg, who wished precisely to bring Russian culture out of the doldrums. Convinced that the quality of modern Russian art was now on a parity with that of Western Europe, their leader, Sergey Diaghilev, organised a series of international exhibitions beginning in 1898, which the ageing Stasov was quick to condemn as decadent. Diaghilev had anticipated this reaction. When soliciting work for his first exhibition, he had addressed the problem directly: 'Russian art at the moment is in a state of transition', he wrote to prospective exhibitors. 'History places any emerging trend in this position when the principles of the older generation clash and struggle with the newly developing demands of youth.' Later in 1898, the group launched a lavishly illustrated and expensively produced journal under the title _The World of Art_ which acted, amongst other things, as the first major platform for the Symbolists. Diaghilev, Benois and their colleagues had eclectic tastes also where music was concerned. They worshipped Tchaikovsky, but they were also the first non-musicians in Russia to champion Wagner in the pages of their journal, regarding him as a founder of the Modernist movement in Russia, as he had been elsewhere. As well as publishing articles on Wagner's artistic ideas and methods, Diaghilev began to review the first Russian stagings of his music dramas at the Mariinsky Theatre, and Benois was invited to design the first production of _G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung_.\n\nIn the initial period, the members of the World of Art group focused mainly on the visual arts. At first, Diaghilev had attempted to forge a career in music, but after being discouraged by Rimsky-Korsakov when he showed him his compositions, and having been turned down as a member of the august Russian Music Society, whose dull concert programmes he had hoped to revitalise, he decided to focus in the immediate term on art. In the meantime, two other members of the group, Alfred Nurok and Walter Nouvel, took up the challenge of bringing music under the World of Art canopy by founding the 'Evenings of Contemporary Music' in 1901. The aim was to acquaint the St Petersburg public with new music, consciously espousing a more radical programme than the rival Chamber Music Society.\n\nAs Taruskin has pointed out, the music that was performed at the concerts was hardly the most outr\u00e9, since the most popular composers were Franck, D'Indy and Reger, while the most avant-garde Russian composers represented were Vasilenko, Senilov, Rebikov and Catoire. Other living Russian composers whose works were performed included Rachmaninov, Tcherepnin and Glazunov. The Moscow-based Skryabin, who had most in common with the aesthetics of the Symbolist movement, was largely ignored. It was nevertheless here that music by Ravel, Faur\u00e9 and Strauss was first introduced to Russian audiences and composers, while Debussy, Schoenberg and Reger were invited personally to attend performances of their works. And it was here that Stravinsky's music was publicly performed for the first time, on 27 December 1907.\n\nThe nineteen-year-old Stravinsky had, in fact, taken part in the very first concert of the Evenings of Contemporary Music, on 20 December 1901, according to a notice in a contemporary music journal, and from then on he attended at least some of the concerts organised each season, but his loyalties lay very much with Rimsky-Korsakov's circle after he was welcomed into its midst the following year. For this group, the Evenings of Contemporary Music represented the opposition. Rimsky-Korsakov attended their concerts when music by his pupils was performed, but he was in general hostile to the whole enterprise and its modernist and dilettante outlook, particularly since he had no direct involvement. Nurok did not, for his part, conceal his low regard for Rimsky-Korsakov's conventionality, the conservatism of the Belyayev concerts, and their already somewhat ossified aesthetic position. A kind of half-way house was provided by the important new concert series founded by the conductor Aleksandr Ziloti in 1903, which premiered music by Strauss, Mahler and Schoenberg, amongst others. In 1909 Ziloti also conducted the first performances of Stravinsky's _Scherzo fantastique_ and _Fireworks_ at one of his concerts. Nevertheless, the contemporary music scene in St Petersburg in the early 1900s was certainly not as vibrant as, say, activities in literature at the time.\n\nJust as Stravinsky was beginning his official tuition with Rimsky-Korsakov in 1905, his teacher began to host weekly musical soir\u00e9es every Wednesday. These meetings provided an important forum for Stravinsky to meet other musicians, discuss ideas and hear informal performances of new compositions, including his own. In 1905 the ideas discussed were inevitably dominated by politics, as the year began with the infamous 'Bloody Sunday', when a peaceful demonstration by workers was greeted with gunfire and over a hundred people were killed. Stravinsky remained largely unaffected by the 1905 Revolution (this was also the year he became engaged to his cousin), but his teacher became directly caught up in the turbulent events. Amid public outcry, Rimsky-Korsakov was dismissed from his post for supporting Conservatoire students who had gone on strike to call for reform. Although musically he represented the forces of conservatism, Rimsky-Korsakov occupied a relatively left-wing position politically, and he was eventually successful in demanding autonomy for the Conservatoire administration. Despite the political factors, the atmosphere of the Rimsky-Korsakov 'Wednesdays' was still extremely tame by comparison with the infamous _jours-fixes_ held across town on the same night by the Symbolist poet Vyacheslav Ivanov, which also started in 1905. These attracted a broad spectrum of St Petersburg's leading modernists (including Walter Nouvel and several other musicians), who would congregate at midnight in Ivanov's orotund top-floor apartment (known by all as 'The Tower') and sit up until dawn participating in learned discussions on mysticism, poetry readings and impromptu musical and theatrical performances. Stravinsky was only two years younger than one of the salon's most celebrated habitu\u00e9s, the poet Alexander Blok. Another of its regular attendants, however, was Sergey Gorodetsky, two years younger than Stravinsky and a poet who first came to public attention with a collection of poetry published in St Petersburg in 1907 entitled _Yar_ '. Gorodetsky in some ways provides a point of intersection between the opposing worlds of Rimsky-Korsakov and the World of Art, with which Stravinsky became irrevocably associated in 1910. Stravinsky chose to set two of the poems from Gorodetsky's collection to music in 1907 and 1908, and it is these two songs for mezzo-soprano and piano ( _Two Songs_ , Op. 6) which first exhibit signs of the direction the composer would later follow. Rimsky-Korsakov instinctively recognised this embryonic gesture towards musical independence by condemning the first song, set to the poem 'Spring', as 'contemporary decadent-impressionist lyricism' which contained 'pseudo-folksy Russian lingo'.\n\nGorodetsky later went on to become a decidedly conformist member of the Soviet literary establishment (in the 1920s, for example, he completed a new translation of the libretto of _Die Meistersinger_ ), but in 1907 he was part of an 'experimental spiritual and sexual collective' at the Tower, and one of the more adventurous members of the avant-garde community in St Petersburg. His collection _Yar_ ' contains some of the first modernist poetry to be inspired both thematically and stylistically by Slavic mythology and folklore, as exemplified in the two poems chosen by Stravinsky, whose settings partially match Gorodetsky's achievement. As Taruskin points out, folklore in Russian music had traditionally been regarded as an intrinsic part of a work's content. To establish a musical style based on folklore was unprecedented, and 'to borrow artistic elements created by the people so as to create an art that was unintelligible to them seemed an implicit mockery'. With these two Gorodetsky songs, Stravinsky unconsciously made his first tentative steps into the unknown. It was with the first of these songs that he made his public debut at the Evenings of Contemporary Music in December 1907.\n\nUntil Rimsky-Korsakov's death in 1908, Stravinsky remained a relatively docile pupil who was not yet fully aware of the artistically sterile environment in which he was serving his musical apprenticeship. Apart from the time he spent in his teacher's apartment, he regularly accompanied him to opera performances at the Mariinsky and shared at that point his antipathy towards ballet. At the end of the following year, however, Stravinsky was already at work on the _Firebird_ , his first ballet commission for Diaghilev. It soon became apparent that the sophisticated and cosmopolitan milieu which Diaghilev and his associates inhabited, mostly abroad in Paris, was a more natural Russian environment for Stravinsky. Like Diaghilev and the other key members of the World of Art group, Stravinsky identified strongly with the city he grew up in precisely because of its international and aristocratic character. It is telling that Diaghilev had to cajole Rimsky-Korsakov into taking part in his 'historical concerts' in Paris. Apart from the memories of some unfortunate concerts he had conducted there in 1889, Rimsky-Korsakov had no wish to associate himself with anything decadent, and had no desire to meet any of the latest French composers. Stravinsky soon relished being part of the European avant garde, but he never relinquished his love for his native city. 'St Petersburg is so much a part of my life that I am almost afraid to look further into myself, lest I discover how much of me is still joined to it', he confessed in _Expositions and Developments_. 'It is dearer to my heart than any other city in the world'. When considering Stravinsky's Russian origins it is significant that he grew up in imperial St Petersburg. Like Vladimir Nabokov, he never once visited Moscow when he was growing up, and first saw the city on his celebrated return to Russia in 1962. Old Slavonic Moscow had remained a quiet provincial backwater throughout the nineteenth century, and it was only at the end of the first decade of the twentieth century that it suddenly began to vie with St Petersburg as a centre of the Russian artistic avant garde. Stravinsky also adored his native city, of course, because of its physical beauty. As Mikhail Druskin has commented, there is a correlation between the 'bright, solemn, spacious' proportions of its neoclassical architecture and the economy and simplicity of the neoclassical style Stravinsky was later to adopt.\n\nBy the beginning of the twentieth century, St Petersburg could match any other European capital for elegance and refinement. Its cultural life was greatly enriched by contact with Paris, Vienna and Berlin, cities to which there were fast train connections, and Russian society opened up still further following the 1905 Revolution, which led to an easing of censorship. The ascendancy at this time of the Mariinsky Theatre, which was beginning to hold its own with the world's leading opera houses, with appearances by singers and conductors from abroad and a superb native company, is emblematic. From 1906 onwards, Diaghilev began triumphantly to export Russia's cultural legacy to the West before striding boldly into history by commissioning the unknown Igor Stravinsky to write scores which drew from, transformed and transcended the Russian background he had been brought up in.\n\nAs Richard Taruskin has so amply demonstrated, it was only when Stravinsky came into contact with the World of Art circle that he first started to consider Russian folklore as source material for his music. A small but important role here was played by his friend Stepan Mitusov, who became the librettist of his first opera _The Nightingale_. Four years older than his friend, Mitusov was a well-read 'intelligent amateur', in the words of Stravinsky, who followed the latest artistic trends in Europe with a keen eye. He was also a good friend of the Rimsky-Korsakov family: his own family lived in the same building and he had studied at the university with the composer's sons. Mitusov got to know Stravinsky when he was sent by Rimsky-Korsakov to study harmony and counterpoint with Vasily Kalafati. The two first met in 1898, but their friendship began properly in 1903, and the two met regularly at the Rimsky-Korsakov apartment. As an amateur enthusiast, Mitusov was not bound by the same loyalties as Stravinsky, and according to one Russian critic it was he who took Stravinsky clandestinely to attend Evenings of Contemporary Music concerts. It was also at his apartment in 1904 that Stravinsky made the important acquaintance of the painter, archaeologist and writer Nikolai Rerikh (Roerich), who had been a friend of Mitusov since 1899. Six years later Stravinsky and Rerikh began to collaborate in the creation of the epoch-making _The Rite of Spring_ , first performed in 1913.\n\nIn _The Rite of Spring_ Stravinsky presented Russian folk life with a greater authenticity than any other composer before him. It was the apotheosis of the neo-nationalist style cultivated by the artists and aesthetes of the World of Art group that so captivated Western audiences. Unlike the nostalgic and conservative aesthetic fostered by Alexander III, which had produced such backward-looking buildings as the Church of the Resurrection (a _faux_ St Basil's which was completed in 1907), the neo-nationalism of the Russian avant garde was inspired by the desire to create something new. It had begun in the 1870s, as a desire to preserve native crafts in the face of encroaching capitalism and urbanisation, at the artists' colony set up at Abramtsevo, the estate of Savva Mamontov, a merchant who had made his millions building railways in Russia. The first neo-nationalists, in fact, were artists linked to the Wanderers movement. Soon, however, particularly at the other important artists' colony set up by Princess Tenisheva in the 1890s at her estate in Talashkino, native folklore came to be seen more as a stylistic resource with which to regenerate art and infuse it with a vigour and energy that was commonly felt to have been lost.\n\nStravinsky was the first Russian composer to turn to folklore as a source for stylistic renewal and experimentation, but it was only some time after he began working with Diaghilev and the World of Art group in Paris that he started consciously exploiting its potential. In so doing he moved abruptly away from the 'academic' and 'de-nationalised' style of composition that characterised much of the Russian music written at that time. Ethnographic colour \u2013 as artistic content \u2013 had been the cornerstone of nationalist aesthetics of the 1870s, but by this time had come to be regarded as distinctly outmoded. It was Diaghilev's genius to perceive that native style, made part of a modernist aesthetic, was an essential ingredient if Russia was to come into its own and contribute something new to world culture, and this was a vital factor in the creation of the Ballets Russes, in whose success Stravinsky was to become such a linchpin. And, after his first commission to write the score to _Firebird_ in 1909, it inspired the development of a neo-nationalist orientation in Stravinsky's music that would later explode with _The Rite of Spring_ and culminate in the composition of _Les Noces_ , the representation of the Russian peasant wedding, where even the intricate oral rules followed by folk singers are scrupulously replicated.\n\nFor _Firebird_ , Stravinsky wrote music to a scenario already planned by Fokine which fused several Russian fairy tales involving mythical firebirds. The resulting score was an assimilation of 'contemporary Russian idioms' which was perceived as Russian-influenced in France and as French-influenced in Russia. It was almost the last composition Stravinsky wrote in Russia and was still quite conventional in its treatment of native folklore. _Petrushka_ , Stravinsky's second ballet for Diaghilev, premiered in 1911, was a transitional work, and the composer had much more of a hand in its planning through his collaboration with Alexander Benois. Although Petrushka had part-Italian origins in Pulcinella (he became Punch in England), and in the ballet became a _commedia dell'arte_ Pierrot figure, he was based on the Russian puppet-show character who was traditionally part of the time-honoured Shrovetide festivities. Stravinsky contributed to the creation of authenticity in the representation of the Shrovetide revelries by suggesting the introduction of traditional Russian mummers, even though his knowledge of them almost certainly came only from seeing his father perform in Serov's _The Power of the Fiend_ at the Mariinsky Theatre when he was growing up. The opera features a Russian Shrovetide scene with mummers in its fourth act.\n\nIt was with the score of _Petrushka_ that Stravinsky found the way forward out of the musical _cul de sac_ in which he had found himself as a proteg\u00e9 of Rimsky-Korsakov. It teems with borrowed urban and rural folksongs from a wide array of collections, and also \u2013 more significantly \u2013 the first examples of Stravinsky's deliberate adoption of folkloric style to create something entirely new and distinctive of his own. An important role here was played by musical ethnographers, in particular Yuly Melgunov and Evgeniya Lineva, who undertook to collect folksongs in a much more rigorous and authentic manner than had been the case before, by attempting to transcribe the complete performances of songs as performed by entire groups rather than by individuals. Lineva's use of the phonograph in the three collections of transcriptions she published between 1904 and 1909 for the first time enabled the study of the musical form of Russian folksong, and revealed the depersonalised nature and simplicity of its performance. Her work, which followed on from Melgunov's pioneering methods in exploring the counterpoint of folksongs through their _podgoloski_ (the harmonically variant reproductions of the main tune performed by the chorus), undoubtedly exerted a major influence on Stravinsky. The neo-nationalist approach that Stravinsky took in the composition of the score of _Petrushka_ was unprecedented in Russian music, and was to lead to an abrupt and irrevocable break with the upholders of the Rimsky-Korsakov school, who henceforth viewed Stravinsky as an apostate. In a review of the score's Russian premiere in 1913, Rimsky-Korsakov's son Andrey condemned the work as 'deliberate and cultivated pseudo-nationalism'.\n\nIn July 1911, after the successful premiere of _Petrushka_ in Paris, Stravinsky resumed work on the score that would become _The Rite of Spring_ , and travelled to Talashkino to work with Rerikh on its scenario. Rerikh, a close friend of Princess Tenisheva, was one of the artists associated with the World of Art movement, and had achieved international prominence when invited by Diaghilev to design the sets and costumes for the _Polovtsian Dances_ (the second act of Borodin's _Prince Igor_ ), which were presented as part of the first Ballets Russes season in Paris in 1909. In keeping with the interest amongst the Russian literary and artistic avant garde in pagan Russian culture which had, amongst other things, produced Gorodetsky's _Yar_ ' in 1907, Rerikh was fascinated by the ancient past of the Slavic peoples, and their rites and customs were the inspiration behind most of his painting and essays at this time. When Stravinsky had started planning _The Rite of Spring_ in 1910, it was therefore natural for him to ask Rerikh to become his collaborator.\n\nIn characteristic fashion, and out of an intense desire to dissociate himself from his Russian background and ally himself instead to the European avant garde, Stravinsky later denied the presence of authentic folk material in the score, but these scenes of pagan Russia, which celebrate the sacrifice of a young maiden, were from the beginning intended to be as ethnographically accurate as possible. Appropriate folksongs were assiduously researched in published collections (including the 1877 anthology compiled by his former teacher Rimsky-Korsakov), noted down from singers or gathered from friends like Stepan Mitusov and then absorbed into Stravinsky's compositional processes. What finally emerged was a musical texture whose sources are not immediately recognisable in the score.\n\nStravinsky's great innovation was thus to combine Russian elements from his musical upbringing with the essential stylistic features of native folklore, in order to approach nationalism from a modernist standpoint. The result was the composition of scores whose structure is consistently based on the principles of _drobnost_ ' (the idea of a work being the sum of its parts rather than driven by an overarching idea), _nepodvizhnost_ ' (the accumulation of 'individualized static blocks in striking juxtapositions') and _uproshcheniye_ (the reduction of any organic development between the different sections of a work, producing an impression of immobility). Stravinsky successfully broke with the linear progression and logical development of Germanic musical tradition by deliberately turning his back on it. He had, in the words of Artur Lur'ye (Arthur Louri\u00e9), stopped trying to pour Russian wine into German bottles, and cut his ties with Europe. Russian composers had in fact traditionally balked at the concept of complying with German symphonic form, but the phenomenon has its counterpart in the other arts. A refusal to adhere to traditional 'Western' genres is, after all, a hallmark of Russian literature, which begins with Pushkin, author of a novel in verse. Tolstoy regarded Russian literature as being totally different from Western literature and after his crisis rejected traditional Western genres in favour of creating his own. Perhaps there is even a correlation with the quality of _nepodvizhnost_ ', furthermore, in a novel like _War and Peace_ , constructed by the accumulation of dozens of discrete short chapters in which the work's central ideas are often repeated. As 'verbal icons' of his religious view, as Richard Gustafson has so compellingly argued them to be, the thematic structure of Tolstoy's literary works is often far from linear. The same is true of the works of Nikolai Gogol, especially his novel (which he called a 'poema') _Dead Souls_. It is interesting in this regard to recall the seminal ideas of the theologian and art historian Pavel Florensky about the 'reverse perspective' of icons, which Mikhail Druskin brings into his discussion of Stravinsky's treatment of time and space. Druskin draws an analogy between the structure of Stravinsky's works and the simultaneous multidimensionality of Cubism. In identifying the replacement of a linear process of development in his music with the 'mutual relating of different planes and volumes, the single vanishing point by a multiplicity of \"horizonlevels\", unicentral, object-centred composition by multicentral', Druskin also demonstrates a fundamental similarity with the system of reverse perspective that is a cornerstone of the icon-painting tradition in Russia. Boris Uspensky defines it thus:\n\nthe system of reverse perspective arises from the viewer's (i.e. the artist's) adopting a number of different positions. That is to say, it is connected with the dynamic of the viewer's gaze and the consequent total impression obtained . . . the opposition between linear and reverse perspective can be connected with either the immobility, or on the other hand, with the dynamism of the viewer's position.\n\nFlorensky observed that reverse perspective is 'multi-central', in contrast to 'linear' perspective, which is 'unicentral'. Surely much fruitful enquiry could be conducted into the impact of folkloric style on Russian art and literature coterminous with or preceding Stravinsky's most 'Russian' works. Similarly, a more detailed exploration of the impact of such cardinal aesthetic principles as reverse perspective on Stravinsky's works, perhaps in the context of Russian literature, might further help to define what is intrinsically Russian about them.\n\nThe sense of Russia as being fundamentally 'different', neither European nor Asian, fuelled Stravinsky's creation of a new musical language, and it also underpins the ideology of the Eurasian movement to which the composer was close in the early 1920s. It was a movement that arose out of the acute sense of loss felt by the first generation of Russian emigrants. The basic idea of Eurasianism was that Russia had erred by following a process of Westernisation with Peter the Great's reforms. World War I and the 1917 Revolution were the inevitable consequences of the 'identity crisis' that naturally followed as soon as Russia had started on a path that was alien to her destiny. But, in typical Slavophile fashion, the Eurasianists believed Russia had a unique mission to rescue the degraded and corrupt West, because of its 'healthy barbarism'. Russian Orthodoxy lay at the heart of Eurasianism, and the final element of Stravinsky's Russian origins that must be considered is his religious orientation. Stravinsky was baptised into the Russian Orthodox faith, but like most members of the Russian intelligentsia did not have a particularly devout upbringing. It was only when he was in emigration in the 1920s that he turned back to his mother church. In a famous letter written to Diaghilev in April 1926, Stravinsky claimed not to have fasted for twenty years but that he now felt a 'mental and spiritual need' to do so. He had lived next to the Russian Orthodox church in Biarritz in the early 1920s, and started dating his compositions according to the festivals in the Orthodox church calendar. He started to wear a crucifix and collect icons. Stravinsky's friendship with the Eurasian Pyotr Suvchinsky (Pierre Souvtchinsky) reinforced his new religiosity, which was accompanied by regular attendance at mass and regular fasting. As Walsh has argued, there was a strong linguistic reason for Stravinsky's reconversion to the Orthodox Church, which first resulted musically in a setting of the Lord's Prayer in 1926. Stravinsky maintained that Russian had always been the language of prayer for him, but more generally it was increasingly the strongest link he had with the country he could no longer visit \u2013 that is to say, the Russia of his pre-revolutionary St Petersburg. In a newspaper interview during his visit to the Soviet Union in 1962, he perhaps unwittingly revealed how deep his Russian origins lay by drawing an important connection between the language in which he thought and spoke and the language in which he expressed himself in his music.\n**2**\n\nCHRISTOPHER BUTLER\n\n**Stravinsky as modernist**\n\nOne way of characterising the modernist period might be to say that it was the age of Picasso, Stravinsky and Joyce: geniuses who brought about revolutionary changes in the procedures for their arts and publicised them from Paris, so contributing to the myth that it was the avant-garde capital of Europe at that time. Other capitals were home to great geniuses as well \u2013 Kandinsky, Schoenberg, Mann \u2013 people who, while quite different from Stravinsky, were also very influential modernists and were well out of his cultural range. Indeed, to understand them, we would be moved towards modernist considerations to which Stravinsky was deeply antipathetic. His 'rivalry' with Schoenberg (whether it was actual or invented by defenders of the atonal, such as Adorno) is not nearly so important as his intellectual differences from him, including his refusal to write the kind of music that 'develops', as it does within the German tradition. But it is the modernist tradition in France \u2013 that of Debussy, Proust and Matisse \u2013 which influenced at least the early Stravinsky. This was a world that grew out of the Symbolist tendencies so strongly supported by Diaghilev and his circle in Russia and one that produced works such as _Fireworks_ , _Zvezdolikiy_ , _The Firebird_ and, most obviously, _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ , influenced as it was by Debussy, Ravel and Dukas.\n\nIt is this belonging to a particular tradition which is most important for understanding Stravinsky as a modernist: as we shall see, there were plenty of inspiring modernist ideas, and Stravinsky was highly resistant to many of them (to the potential of the unconscious and the irrational, for example). Stravinsky, very like T. S. Eliot, was immensely conscious of the past, and exceptionally well placed to be aware of contemporary avant-garde activity in all the arts, but he nevertheless selected a very conservative tradition in which to work. He is a conservative innovator. This seems paradoxical only if you think, wrongly, that a socially critical, leftist avant garde is central to modernism, and forget the contribution of conservative modernists such as Pound, Eliot and Lewis in England, and Val\u00e9ry, Cocteau and Claudel in France.\n\nThese differences do not seem to have mattered much to Stravinsky, whose commitments (to a sense of Russia, to orthodox religion) lay well outside the worldly politics that sometimes gripped friends of his, such as Picasso. In any case, his composing life, as it most dramatically came into contact with the public, was formed in the context of a hardly radical or critical institution, the Diaghilev ballet. Those critics of modernism who use 'bourgeois' as a term of criticism or disapprobation should see the dandified and obsessively money-conscious Stravinsky as a prime target.\n\nThere is a well-known drawing of Stravinsky by Picasso, made in May 1920, which depicts him in the style of Ingres. The composer of _The Rite of Spring_ is shown here in anything but a primitivist or avant-gardist mode. He looks like the conformist that he is. But Picasso has chosen the right mode in which to portray him. For both artists changed their styles in the 1920s, after revolutionising the languages for their arts before the War with their most radically avant-garde works. They moved on, from the invention of Cubism (on the part of Picasso and Braque) and the startling rhythmic complexities and violence of _The Rite of Spring_ , to a new, neoclassical style. Quite apart from their everyday friendship and co-operation (on _Pulcinella_ , for example), it is this willingness to change styles which unites them. This stylistic metamorphosis after radical beginnings is the sign of the extraordinary fashionability of modernism after the war, and signifies for many observers the compromise of artistic by social values.\n\nStravinsky was perpetually sensitive, in many ways, and not just as a man of the theatre, to the demands of patrons and of audiences. He was always inclined to communicate his position, his intentions, and his nationalist and religious commitments to an audience, and with some clarity, whether in the concert hall, the lecture theatre (through Roland-Manuel) or in conversation (through the person of Robert Craft). His very lucidity, even if occasionally borrowed from others, is a great disguiser of any internal conflict. He is at the opposite pole from the Expressionist artists of his time, such as Kandinsky and Schoenberg.\n\nLike Picasso and Joyce, he is a great shape changer and, like them, he uses Greek mythology as one of his central justificatory escapes from orthodox religion to public drama. After _The Rite_ , the solitary, isolated, self-imposed attempt to revolutionise the very language of music from within was not for him. Indeed, it took him a long time to show any sympathy for such aims as they manifested themselves in Schoenberg and, more discreetly, in Webern, who no doubt seemed to be far less Expressionist in his aims, and in his 'language less heavily founded in the most turgid and graceless Brahms'. Schoenberg's (self) portrait, with its great red glare of the visionary in the eyes, is the kind of act of self-exposure that Stravinsky would have found inexcusable. And, so far as I know, he never shows much sympathy for Expressionist art, despite the violence of _The Rite_ , and perhaps comes near to it only in thinking of Chagall as a possible designer for a revival of _Les Noces_ and in his early reactions to _Pierrot lunaire_. He is not, to that extent, a dedicated avant-garde artist.\n\nBy upbringing, training and perhaps inclination a man of the theatre, Stravinsky was what we would call a dedicated networker, whose talents once he came to Paris were immediately recognised in the triumph of _The Firebird_. He then plays through _The Rite_ on the piano with Debussy; his close friends include the musicians Ravel, Satie, Schmitt and de Falla, the writers Cocteau, Gide, Claudel and Val\u00e9ry, the painters Picasso, L\u00e9ger and Derain. And they work with or for him: hence, for example, Picasso's design for the cover of _Ragtime_ comes about through the mediation of Cendrars for the \u00c9ditions de la Sir\u00e8ne. His many conversations with Craft, which until the recent publications of Taruskin and Walsh have very much controlled the image that Stravinsky wanted to project of himself, are often anecdotal memories of closely knit groups of his friends. And with fame, the metropolitan, modernist, cultural village of Paris was opened to him (offering opportunities undreamt of in the feuding and provincial St Petersburg). Some of these opportunities were rather unlikely ones, such as when Blaise Cendrars asked him to write music for a proposed film about Quixote directed by Abel Gance, and when in 1922 Picabia wanted him to set his play _Les Yeux chauds_. But Stravinsky generally avoided any connection with movements like Futurism (while being amused by it) and Surrealism. This modernist metropolitanism meant that Stravinsky, as an already well-read and sophisticated artist, continued to be closely and discriminatingly aware (at least by his later account) of French developments in all the major arts.\n\nA close attention to the visual arts was one of the advantages of working for Diaghilev, and Stravinsky co-operated with some of the greatest artists of his time in staging his works, from the designs of Golovine and the Bakst costumes for _Firebird_ and the Benois d\u00e9cor and costumes for _Petrushka_ , to the Matisse designs for _The Nightingale_ (which he did not like). Benois describes Stravinsky as being deeply interested in painting, architecture and sculpture. But the stage designs with which he was most familiar were rarely avant-garde, and his co-operation with writers such as Cocteau and Gide also kept clear of real avant-garde aesthetic considerations (despite Cocteau's impresario-like activities) and has an air of compromise. He never set avant-garde poetry, for example, in contrast to a composer such as Poulenc. His most advanced text is probably that for _Les Noces_ , which he compares to the work of Joyce: he tells us that it is 'a suite of typical wedding episodes told through quotations of typical talk . . . As a collection of clich\u00e9s and quotations of typical wedding sayings it might be compared to one of those scenes in _Ulysses_ in which the reader seems to be overhearing scraps of conversation without the connecting thread of discourse.' He was well aware of the politics of some of the advanced writing of his time. But then it is typical of modernist artists that they often worked within quite closely knit groups, as did the circles round Picasso and Braque, Gertrude Stein in her Paris apartment, Virginia Woolf in Bloomsbury, and Pound and Lewis in London at the time of the Vorticist movement. On the other hand, Stravinsky never belonged to a modernist movement such as Imagism or Dada or Surrealism, or Schoenberg's Society for Private Musical Performances; and in his neoclassical period he did not need to ally himself to Les Six. On the other hand, the Ballets Russes as a whole should be seen as a modernist group, even if it is less obviously experimental than, say, Futurist theatre groups.\n\nAnd, of course, Stravinsky was making a living. Students of modernism have recently become (rather too disapprovingly) interested in its economic underpinnings; and it is important for our understanding of Stravinsky that he had to make a transition from a considerable dependence upon a famous, aristocratic, extravagant and very well-advertised, if not always solvent, institution, which attracted extraordinary patronage (Diaghilev, for example, playing off Misia Sert and Coco Chanel), towards another source of patronage. He finally found this, like so many others, in the United States, a country described by Auden as 'so large, / So friendly, and so rich'.\n\nThanks to Diaghilev and his extraordinary talent for bringing together a unified 'team' right across the arts, Stravinsky became, with _The Firebird_ , 'a major figure in the world of music overnight'. To achieve this, it is necessary to work in an artistic mode that thrives on publicity. That is exactly what Stravinsky had. As a man of the theatre and later of the concert hall, he developed a career that could always be based upon the pragmatic needs of a particular audience in a particular place, and on giving pleasure. (The situation was very different for Schoenberg and his followers.)\n\nHis early music had characteristics, well adapted to the theatre, that \u2013 much modified \u2013 were to be sustained after his recognition as a major composer; that is to say, he had an extraordinary stylistic adaptability. Of course, _The Firebird_ and _Petrushka_ are unique; but they show an extraordinary eclecticism in their influences. This is, perhaps, what you would expect in a ballet and opera tradition that embraced the work of Borodin, Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and (even) Glazunov. Stravinsky developed his language by working through such influences and metamorphosing them (Picassolike) within masterpieces, but he only really begins to come within the modernist rather than the symbolist paradigm in the (to me, doubtful) early montage techniques of _Petrushka_. Here, folk influences combine with the popular mixture of high and low art (in his inclusion of Viennese and popular urban tunes) which is so typical of later modernism. We are close to the world of Toulouse-Lautrec, Seurat, Satie, Debussy, early Picasso and others. As Glenn Watkins puts it, 'Stravinsky's techniques in _Petrushka_ differ from Satie's only in detail; both imply vernacular and pseudo-vernacular sources projected by overlap and intercut, and both embrace a nostalgia without tears'.\n\nStravinsky's career as a composer of expensive-to-produce ballets as well as of concert music has to be understood, then, as driven by the need for a popular adaptability, for serious patronage and for large fees, as well as by independent aesthetic considerations (hence, for example, the piano concerto that he wrote for himself to play in exclusivity for five years). But it is nevertheless difficult to show in other than banal cultural materialist terms exactly when or how such monetary considerations affected his aesthetic decisions, for he was a composer whose inner artistic convictions were to prove to be very far from worldly, even as he maintained a way of life and an outer appearance that were entirely fashionable and, indeed, dandified. Stravinsky's relationship with money requires quite a deep psychological explanation, which is offered without Freudian oversimplification by Walsh.\n\n**Stravinsky as revolutionary?**\n\nThe rich Parisian network sketched above (which could be paralleled elsewhere, though with less _\u00e9clat_ ) ensured that you could be a modernist by association (in the way that figures such as Cocteau, Anna de Noailles, Gleizes and Metzinger, Auric and Tailleferre were). These 'fashionable' modernists could promote and adapt styles invented by others.\n\nStravinsky is a genuine revolutionary (much as he disliked the idea), but only up to a point. That is what makes him like Picasso, Schoenberg, Apollinaire and Joyce, who also moved through the extraordinarily successful adaptation of available late-nineteenth-century or symbolist modes (such as Picasso's post-Impressionist and Blue Period paintings, Schoenberg's _Pelleas und Melisande_ , Apollinaire's more symbolist poems, and Joyce's Chekhovian _Dubliners_ ), to the production of a startlingly innovatory work, which revealed completely new possibilities for the basic techniques of their art. Picasso did this with the _Demoiselles d'Avignon_ (1907), Joyce with the opening pages of _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ (1914), Schoenberg with the last movement of his Second String Quartet (1908), and Stravinsky with _The Rite of Spring_ (1913).\n\nHe thus came through to the prototypically modernist avant-garde 'scandal' of _The Rite_ , which was in its way as unpredictable as the other examples cited above (though Stravinsky's implausible 'I was the vessel through which _Le Sacre_ passed' has all the marks of a fashionable, anachronistic, post-Surrealist explanation which transfers the impulse for innovation into the unconscious or the dreaming faculty). Nor was _The Rite_ really scandalous, despite the noisy manifestations at its first performance, which were vital side-taking publicity of a kind that has done yeoman service for many more or less 'avant-garde' works. This kind of row was what Futurists counted on; but shocking your rivals, the bourgeoisie, or the merely ignorant, does not get you very far. For success and later influence, you need to impress an artistically informed intelligentsia, and that is exactly what the Ballets Russes, and _The Rite of Spring_ \u2013 which was very soon widely performed as a concert work \u2013 could do.\n\nIt was soon applauded and accepted everywhere, and it had to be, precisely because it presented something new, which, however much it might have been detested by conservatives, would have seemed to any well-informed consumer of contemporary art to demand precisely the same kind of attention as the other works that were even then seen as part of the artistic avant garde. This is for precisely the same reasons as apply to Picasso, Joyce and Schoenberg; for the _Rite_ was like nothing else in 1913. It would be clear that something had changed irrevocably, and a newly available technique would become apparent (as it was to Eliot, in proclaiming a new post-Einsteinian 'mythical method' for literature after reading Joyce, which he adapted for 'Gerontion' and _The Waste Land_ ). Stravinsky had taken apart the very basics of the language of the art involved, as is most obvious in the still extraordinary treatment of rhythm in the _Rite_. In it, dissonance for once does not rob music of movement. The need for harmonic movement is overridden.\n\nWhere a chord is so dissonant that the ear cannot sense a possible resolution, the music stands still. Stravinsky's achievement, and it was unprecedented, was to give a crucial structural importance to rhythm instead of harmony, and to use the tension of dissonance to fuel this powerful engine still further.\n\nThis development in the _Rite_ was as radical as the taking apart of perspectival relationships in Cubist painting, and the disruption of logical ordering and 'normal' syntax in the newly disjunctive writing of such as Apollinaire, Marinetti and other Futurists, Joyce and Eliot, whose 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' (written 1909, published 1915/17), was the work by which Pound in 1914 recognised that Eliot had 'modernised himself all on his own' \u2013 just as Stravinsky had. But it is important to note that Stravinsky later emphasised that his work was not so much revolutionary, as an extension of the past.\n\nin music advance is only in the sense of developing the instruments of the language \u2013 we are able to do new things in rhythm, in sound, in structure, we claim greater concentration in certain ways and therefore contend that we have evolved, in this one sense, progressively. But a step in this evolution does not cancel the one before.\n\nThere is, of course, more to be said about _The Rite_ ; but the internal, technical nature of Stravinsky's 'revolution' needs to be emphasised \u2013 finely adapted though it may have been to an orgiastic ritual in the theatre \u2013 with yet another erotically engaging sacrifice of the female, to succeed those in _Salome, Elektra_ and Schmitt's _Trag\u00e9die de Salom\u00e9_. For Stravinsky was not one of those artists and intellectuals who, in being affected by the widespread late-nineteenth-century propaganda against past lies in favour of the 'Modern', were encouraged (by Nietzsche among others) to see themselves as _critics_ , and so divorced from and marginal to the society in which they lived. It is not clear that Stravinsky as a good, landowning bourgeois with an extraordinary loyalty to a large dependent family, however cranky or useless or reactionary (not surprising given their position after 1917), would have had much time for that modernist strain that runs from Flaubert through Ibsen and Freud, which lays bare bourgeois self-deceptions. (There are no significant references to Freud that I can find in any of Stravinsky's extant writings or conversations. An amazing omission.)\n\nIn _The Rite_ , Stravinsky is not trying to say something radically new and challenging about sex or women or the social order; it was always intended to be a viscerally exciting work, with all the attendant sensationalism involved in its post-Polovtsian (if more clumsily choreographed) group uproar round the human sacrifice of an attractive young girl. But he might well have been aware of the strong relationship between Roerich's treatment of the scenario and fashionable modernist ideas of myth, primitivism and tribal art, and so _The Rite_ is one of the key works for the modernist interest in the 'primitive'. It comes after the _Demoiselles_ , and it is the contemporary of Lawrence's _The Rainbow_ , with its lyrical appraisal of the sexual appeal of an African statue; its thirteen pictures or stations, plus two preludes, enact, not for the last time in Stravinsky's work, a public ritual of a kind which, many were coming to think in this period, must be the primitive basis and origin of drama as a genre.\n\nThis radically new language is not really exploited by Stravinsky to the same extent in later works: the nearest he comes to it is in the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ of 1914, although again the second movement looks back to the turn of the century, in that it is inspired by the movements of the clown Little Tich. Even here there is a connection to the world of Toulouse-Lautrec and Debussy. Not a few attempts have been made to see these _Three Pieces_ (and other works of Stravinsky) as somehow related to other movements in the arts of the time \u2013 the obvious radical innovation being that of Cubism. So Watkins sees the first of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ as 'a virtual demonstration piece, a _reductio_ of Cubist premises'. But this is a typical example of the attempt to make what are no more than analogies, between ambiguous referentiality in painting and its apparent counterpart in music, and music without text does not even attempt to refer to particulars in the real world. Similarly analogical is the claim that this music superimposes three essential layers, which are allowed to be independent (like the conflicting points of view in a Cubist painting) through 'different phraseological lengths, variable periodicity, and independent tonal orientation . . . until they locate a logical terminating point'. Stravinsky certainly knew about some versions of Cubism, in the work of Goncharova, Laryonov, Malevich, Picasso and others. But the Russian artists associated with Diaghilev did not have any 'shared commitment to the premises of Cubo-Futurism' in anything but a very selective sense.\n\nThe argument for the Cubist character of any of Stravinsky's work thus depends upon some pretty loose analogies \u2013 we can see, for example, that Cubism and _The Rite_ and 'Prufrock' are all disruptive of previously acceptable single types of ordering, as in narrative; that they juxtapose rather than put in logical order; and that they (perhaps) also contest the idea of a single ordered viewpoint on the world, though how a piece of music can express that without text is difficult to explain (the analogy between a conflict of keys and a conflict of 'viewpoints' is popular). Watkins is nevertheless surely right to say that the 'conscious movement towards simultaneous non-alliance in matters of harmony, rhythm, phraseology and cadence appears as an increasingly observable fact of musical life' in Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Ives, Debussy and Ravel. For him and for many others, this is like the 'relativity' of time and space in Cubism, where we have conflicting points of view of the same object, which are 'simultaneous', at least in the sense that they are to be seen together on the same two-dimensional surface). This lack of a background narrative order (for which the most obvious musical analogy is harmonic progression) is most obvious in the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , which certainly comes closest to a collage-like juxtaposition of its musical sections.\n\n**Stravinsky as traditionalist**\n\nAfter _The Rite_ , Stravinsky quickly developed into another kind of modernist, typical of the post-war period, in which there was a change from the pre-war avant-garde formal experiments (which established the techniques of atonality, Cubism and the juxtapository stream of consciousness) to an adaptation of modernist technique to the production of a whole variety of socially acceptable, indeed fashionable, styles. Picasso, for example, was much berated by John Berger for giving in to this socialisation, and we can see in the work of such figures as Dufy, Derain and the Delaunays a kind of 'jazz modern' style whereby modernism became acceptable to the luxury consumer. The trajectory of the Diaghilev ballet after _Les Noces_ \u2013 in producing work like _Les Biches_ , _Le Train bleu_ and _Les Matelots_ \u2013 can be seen in the same light. Modernist techniques were superimposed, in an allusively sophisticated kind of way, to quite obvious and often popular subject-matter: as, for example, in much of the work of Stravinsky's friend Cocteau, who was a talented modernist imitator and trivialiser (his addition of a little trail of 'cubes' to his sketch of Stravinsky playing _The Rite_ on the piano shows the extreme adaptability of 'modernist' styles of representation to the popular caricature or cartoon). Goncharova's backcloth for the 1926 revival of _The Firebird_ is similarly well adapted, to look like an easily legible Klee cityscape, with some Slavonic onion domes thrown in. The Diaghilevian theatre as spectacle thus democratised, popularised and synthesised a number of available modernist styles.\n\nThe most obvious example of Stravinsky's own mixture of styles and rapprochement between high and low in art is perhaps his _Ragtime_. It is a descendant of Debussy's 'Golliwogg's Cake-Walk'; and jazz themes recur in Stravinsky through to the _Ebony Concerto_ of 1945. This adaptation of a popular music which was easily to be heard in Paris in this period, is also to be found in works by Poulenc, Milhaud and others. Given the extraordinary celebrity of Josephine Baker and her colleagues in the famous _Revue n\u00e8gre_ , Stravinsky might well have thought that he was producing an amusing essay on a different kind of 'primitivism', that of the 'negro'. Stravinsky thought he had 'the idea of creating a composite portrait of this new dance music' in a concert piece, as other composers had done for the waltz, and his phrase reveals the way in which his music can be thought of as a parallel to the juxtapository construction of collage in much contemporary painting. This putting bits of things together into 'constructions' (rather than developing them, by harmonic progression or by extended narrative) is typical of the arts of the twenties. For Adorno this is an 'infantile phase' of Stravinsky's composition. In the _Piano-Rag-Music_ , 'anxiety before dehumanisation is recast into the joys of revealing such dehumanisation, and, in the final analysis, into the pleasures of that same death wish whose symbolism was prepared by the much hated _Tristan_ '. It is a ' _danse macabre_ ' round the 'fetish character' of consumer goods. This ludicrous judgement is a fine example of the incongruities that arise if you try to ensnare Stravinsky \u2013 and his putative intentions and subconscious motivations \u2013 in a mixture of Freud and Marx.\n\n_Ragtime_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ , _Pulcinella_ and _Mavra_ reflect the stylistic pluralism, and the interest in the popular arts, that existed in the 1920s. Stravinsky is very like Picasso in the same period, who moved from the pre-war primitivism of the _Demoiselles_ and the 'analytic' or 'hermetic' cubist style, through collage towards (by 1915) a far more accessible 'synthetic' mode, full of Harlequins and clowns, and then beyond that, to an Ingreslike reproductive classicism (just as in _Pulcinella_ ), which can be seen in his portrait of Stravinsky \u2013 and in his portraits of Diaghilev ballerinas, one of whom (Olga Kokhlova) he married.\n\nStravinsky's surprising contribution to this regressive Harlequinade (once more to meet the theatrical demands of Diaghilev) was the (re)composition of _Pulcinella_ from work originally attributed to Pergolesi, with costume designs by Picasso. It was classical, clear, not at all Russian, and French rather than Germanic, and so came perilously close to the mere pastiche of other ballets of the period, which were also spiced-up arrangements of previous music, such as Respighi\u2013Rossini's _La boutique fantasque_ and Tommasini\u2013Scarlatti's _The Good-Humoured Ladies_. Constant Lambert (himself not above the popular style) hated this development:\n\na composer with no creative urge and no sense of style can take medieval words, set them in the style of Bellini, add 20th century harmony, develop both in the sequential and formal manner of the 18th century, and finally score the whole thing for jazz band . . . These scrapbook ballets were of course only a more grandiose and theatrical presentation of the scrapbook taste which is considered so modern and 'amusing' when applied to interior decoration.\n\nLambert saw the Stravinsky of _Pulcinella_ as 'like a child delighted with a book of eighteenth-century engravings, yet not so impressed that it has any twinges of conscience about reddening the noses, or adding moustaches and beards in thick black pencil'. The result, for Lambert, is 'a complete confusion between the expressive and the formal content of the eighteenth-century style . . . like a savage standing in delighted awe before those two symbols of an alien civilisation, the top hat and the _pot de chambre_ , [Stravinsky] is apt to confuse their functions'.\n\nThese later critical reactions did not of course prevent _Pulcinella_ from being of immense importance for a change in Stravinsky's aesthetic \u2013 the point at which he thought he had taken on a quite new kind of motivating idea \u2013 for he called it his 'discovery of the past, the epiphany through which the whole of [his] late work became possible'. What saves _Pulcinella_ from being mere pastiche and puts it into the mainstream of Stravinsky's modernist works is an astringency, an irony and detachment which are already characteristic of his works from _Petrushka_ on, and which extends itself into all the stylistic parodies of this period. As Walsh puts it:\n\nIn 1917 it would still have been possible to look at Stravinsky's work and grade it as, on the one hand, the 'real' Stravinsky of the _Pribaoutki_ and the Russian ballets, and on the other the casual derivative Stravinsky of the easy pieces. In 1918 it no longer makes sense to separate these styles; they have all become part of the essential artist, the mixing up of tonal and modal allusions every bit as much as the jostling of modern popular dances, archetypal marches and folk ditties . . . The ironic effect of these colliding planes, so different from the calm objectivity of _The Wedding_ , is directly associated with the work's moralising tendency. As we listen to the 'Chorale' in the _Soldier's Tale_ , it is hard to resist that sense of superior knowledge carefully avoided in _The Wedding_ , which comes from the parodying of a solemn observance.\n\nThis detachment and humour is a formal and emotional characteristic which is shared by modernists in other arts, notably in the tradition through Laforgue and Apollinaire to Eliot, who in 1920 temporarily abandoned free verse for neoclassically strict quatrains in adapting Gautier.\n\nStravinsky is at his most witty and charming, and his most obviously neoclassical, in the Octet. He uses a visual analogy for this work: 'My Octet is a musical object. This object has a form and that form is influenced by the musical matter with which it is composed. The differences of matter determine the difference of form. One does not do the same with marble that one does with stone.' In this and later works one can hear Bach given the inflections of jazz, Handelian slow introductions, toccata-like passages and so on. All this has the self-conscious, academic, reactionary (but not in this case as in so many others in France, nationalist) sense of the wish to go back to a better order for inspiration. Stravinsky in this period becomes more and more like T. S. Eliot, as a classicist and then as a Christian. Both men 'reconverted' in 1926, partly for reasons that are consistent with their (declared) conservative aesthetic. And Stravinsky, in writing music that is extremely allusive, was also preoccupied with the thought that even when a composer follows earlier forms and is anti-Expressionist and anti-Romantic, he can still have, as Eliot put it, 'a personality to express': 'In borrowing a form already established and consecrated, the creative artist is not in the least restricting the manifestations of his personality. On the contrary, it is more detached and stands out better, when it moves within the limits of a convention.'\n\nIt thus came about that the idea of a European canon was tied to a general modernist technique of allusion, and of an interrelationship between pictures, texts and music which was central to the thinking of many modernists. When Eliot tells us, in his famous essay on 'Tradition and the individual talent', that 'we shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of [a poet's] work may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously', he could be speaking for Stravinsky, Picasso, Joyce, Schoenberg and many others. In the post-war period, this aesthetic meant for Stravinsky a joining of a European tradition (and to some extent, the temporary exclusion or suppression of Russian influences). As his immensely cultivated and allusive later conversations show, he would rather have prided himself on this newly extended 'historical sense' as prescribed by Eliot, which involves\n\na perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence; the historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional.\n\nThis does not mean succumbing to any 'influence', a word which can too often give a false impression of passivity. It is really a matter of paradigm adaptation, and that is exactly what neoclassicism involved, in music and in painting.\n\nEliot (much influenced by current conservative French thought) asserted in his rather later 'The function of criticism' (1923) that classicists 'believe that men can not get on without giving allegiance to something outside themselves'. This kind of doctrine was immensely influential in Europe after the war, though it was prepared for by writers like T. E. Hulme well before it:\n\nHere is the root of all romanticism: that man the individual is an infinite reservoir of possibilities; and if you can so rearrange society by the destruction of oppressive order then these possibilities will have a chance and you will get Progress.\n\nOne can define the classical quite clearly as the exact opposite to this. Man is an extraordinarily fixed and limited animal whose nature is absolutely constant. It is only by tradition and organisation that anything decent can be got out of him.\n\nThis something outside (easily compatible, too, with the Christian view of 'original sin') could also secure a kind of impersonality in art, and was for many modernists in England and France a peculiar mixture of inherited myth and orthodox religion, both conceived as belonging to the society represented in the work of art. Stravinsky is no exception here. He creates rituals in his works which seem to take place quite independently of his own subjective position; indeed, he uses alienation effects (such as the pianos on stage in _Les Noces_ and the narrator in _Oedipus Rex_ ) to secure this detachment. He took pride in the fact that the former work is 'perfectly homogeneous, perfectly impersonal, and perfectly mechanical'. The peasant band of earlier versions has given way to something far more traditional and abstracted. This aim at a basic archetype, rather than at nineteenth-century local detail and sentiment, is typically modernist. (It can also express nostalgia for a lost communitarian unity, and this, for Stravinsky, was only to be reconstructed, at some cost, in Orthodox religion.)\n\nAfter _Les Noces_ this sense of permanence was to be found in the revival of Greek myth in detached, Apollonian modernist modes. Like Joyce, Stravinsky prefers the myth of timeless repetition, basic human beliefs, and some none too forcefully expressed, rather purified emotions in these later ballets. (Thus _The Fairy's Kiss_ hardly rises to the full Tchaikovskian passion, though _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ brilliantly implies it.)\n\n_Oedipus Rex_ fits into a French modernist tradition of its own. (For example, Milhaud had provided music for Claudel to _Agamemnon_ (1913\u201314), _Les Choephores_ (1915) and the _Eumenides_ (1917\u201322).) _Oedipus_ completes one trilogy, with _The Rite_ and _Les Noces_ , and leads towards another, from _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ through _Orpheus_ to _Agon_. Its use of formulae from Handel oratorios, crowd scenes from the Bach Passions and so on is as suppressed as are its echoes of Verdi. It is a curiously creaky work, in which the narrator's explanations are peculiarly condescending, the use of Latin no doubt _tr\u00e8s catholique_ (old style, another 'universal authority') \u2013 but all the same a huge barrier to comprehension (though its meaning in English is often bathetic) \u2013 and the orchestration odd (one can sympathise at times with Schoenberg's thought in 1928 that it is 'a Stravinsky imitation by Krenek'). Stravinsky's literary discrimination failed him here, as it was later to do with Gide, but he had admired Cocteau's _Antigone_ and so asked him to do the libretto for _Oedipus_ , which was then put into Latin by Jean Dani\u00e9lou. It is a work which, partly because of its allusions to other works, parades its own restraint. Stravinsky makes a rather teasing general remark about his ideals in this respect in his _Poetics of Music_ :\n\nWhat is important for the lucid ordering of the work \u2013 for its crystallisation \u2013 is that all the Dionysian elements which set the imagination of the artist in motion and make the life-sap rise must be properly subjugated before they intoxicate us, and must finally be made to submit to the law; Apollo demands it.\n\nThis third sacrifice is at the opposite extreme to that of the _Rite_ , and it leads on to similar restraints in _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , the _Symphony of Psalms_ and _Pers\u00e9phone_.\n\nStravinsky and Picasso and many others, in all the arts and in all the main capitals of modernism, thus became traditionalist, conservative modernists, and turned away from the experiments of Cubism and Futurism and early Expressionism to neoclassicism. Paul Derm\u00e9 and Pierre Reverdy indicate some of the considerations that were involved, the former claiming that 'a period of exuberance and force must be followed by a period of organisation, stocktaking, and science, that's to say a classicist age', and the latter that 'the moment came [in 1916] when one could talk about aesthetics . . . because the period was concerned with organisation, with the mustering of ideas, because _fantasy gave way_ to a greater need for structure'. This post-1918 reappraisal of the artist's relationship to the past opened up a new aesthetic \u2013 of allusion, of relativistic contrast between cultures, and of the combination of their values \u2013 in an attempt to reconcile the apparent chaos of the modern world to a classical order; hence the kind of historical reconstruction we find in Joyce's _Ulysses_ , which is at once a compendium of eighteen available experimental styles, and (for Eliot and others) an attempt to bring order through myth to 'the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history'. This was, of course, only one tendency within modernism in general. It is clear from the fortunes of Dada after the war and Surrealism from at least 1922 on that the attempt to transform consciousness through various forms of Expressionism and the anarchism of fantasy was not going to go away. Picasso was soon drawn into these movements; Stravinsky kept well clear.\n\nThere are many conflicting causal explanations for this shift away from what could be seen as a dominant Cubist aesthetic. Kenneth E. Silver, for example, depends on the idea that the reaction against effects of the war included a turn towards a conservative defensive nationalism, which expressed itself in the adaptation of earlier styles. He says of Picasso, for example, that he turned to neoclassicism to escape criticism of his non-participation in the war, and so distanced himself from Cubism and aligned himself with values associated with the Mediterranean tradition. But this fails to notice his continued Cubism during the war, notably in the _Seated Man_ of 1916; his exhibition of the _Demoiselles_ in 1916; and most particularly his Cubist costumes for _Parade_ in 1917, let alone the animated Cubism of his work for _Le tricorne_ in 1919. Convincing though Silver's view may be for many French artists, it hardly applies to the fast-becoming-French but expatriate figure of Stravinsky, whose move towards classicism of all kinds must, I think, be explained in terms of a religious conservatism.\n\nOther, more severe, leftist critics see these changes as a failure of nerve, as we move from revolutionary Cubism to pastiche to neoclassicism as the 'counterfeit Other' of the truly modern. Hence, also, Adorno's attack on Stravinsky for retaining tonality in a mutilated form, in contrast to Schoenberg's heroic pioneering of the twelve-note technique. For Marxist critics like Rosalind Krauss, Stravinsky's music and Picasso's neoclassical work are equally 'fake', a 'borrowed music of the pastiche'. This makes it difficult to rationalise Schoenberg's reliance upon classical models as well in this period. And, although the contrast between linguistic radicalism and stylistic accommodation may well be a valid one, it takes some very odd assumptions about art, and distorted views of the historical development of modernism, to see the latter as a betrayal of the former, particularly when one considers the major works (including Schoenberg's own) that attempt a synthesis of the two. Stravinsky and Picasso both compromised, much to the benefit of the enjoyability and intelligibility of their work. For some others who took the same route \u2013 Chirico, Severini, Derain \u2013 the same could not be said.\n\nNevertheless, for some interpreters of modernism the invention of new ('bourgeois-free') systems of meaning is of the essence, and any retreat from that is a betrayal of what they see as 'the modernist project': _the_ modernist project, as if there could be one, except as prescribed by them. Liberal pluralists tend to retort that there can and should be no such thing as 'the' modernist movement or 'the' inner (progressive) tendency of an epoch. One can give the impression that there is such a tendency only if one also takes on a good deal of implausible Hegelian Marxist baggage. Claims to have discovered, or attempts to defend, a 'central' or essential tradition in modernism are no more than politickings _with_ modernism, and have very little to do with the making of an empirically well-founded historical analysis of its very various manifestations. In the cases of Stravinsky and Picasso, we have two modernist geniuses who expressed themselves by taking more than one approach to art. And their changes of style were just as provocative to those who thought that there should be a modernist orthodoxy in the 1920s as they are to those who hanker after the same kinds of doctrinal certainty today.\n\n**A third phase?**\n\nAs Stephen Walsh points out, much of Stravinsky's work in America was consolidatory. After the Second World War, Stravinsky addresses the legacy of the past in two ways: both involve consolidation. In _The Rake's Progress_ he summarises the neoclassical method in a moralising masterpiece, and then (for whatever reason to do with the presence or absence of Schoenberg, and/or of Robert Craft) he goes back to look at another stylistic path not followed, into serialism, by yet again constructing his own \u2013 Webernian, medievalising, scrupulously clear \u2013 tradition in which to work. As he does so, he finds that he can use the once new twelve-note language of the 1920s in a way that manages to be extraordinarily conservative, and to offer no consolation whatsoever to the progressivist camp, who had always so much disapproved of him.\n\nHis position as a modernist, by the time he came to write _The Rake_ , was an equivocal one, as was that of his collaborator. Both had left far more radical experimental works behind them, such as Auden's _Orators_ (1932). Though they hardly knew one another to begin with, they had both returned to orthodox religious belief under the pressure of politics, and both had an equivocally accepting and critical relationship to the American culture in which they were honoured and often well-remunerated guests. What could they say, in 1948, in the wiser, post-war phases of both their careers? It had been their fate as modernist classicists to become classics themselves. They both could play with tradition, make some comment on modernism, look for a final internal _rappel \u00e0 l'ordre_ and try to make some kind of moral statement \u2013 of a more or less disguisedly theological kind \u2013 by putting the Devil into Hogarth, and making his Rake a Don Giovanni, as we can see in the graveyard scene and in the moralising limericks of the final quintet. Stravinsky here follows Mozart, after using Bach for _Dumbarton Oaks_ and other works, and even Beethoven in his Symphony in C.\n\n_Agon_ makes a Greek trilogy with _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ and _Orpheus_ , as Balanchine wished. It makes an appraisal of the history of music, tonal and atonal, and dancing, side by side. Like _Ulysses_ (and like _Wozzeck_ ), it is a kind of encyclopaedia: twelve-note series and diatonic scalic patterns, ostinato, Baroque dance types, canon, ritornello are all here. The 'plot' is no more than a game or contest \u2013 there is no story, and the dancers' rehearsal costume emphasises the different disciplines of its parts, which are required for a competition before the gods. It moves from one style to another as its technique changes towards serialism. (It is rather like the comparative narrative ease and realism of _Ulysses'_ opening episodes, whose elements are then combinatorially disrupted in the later ones.) In Lincoln Kirstein's original proposal, suggesting that Stravinsky look at the _Apologie de la danse_ by de Lauze (1623), he asks for a competition of 'historic dances' before the gods, in which 'the dances which began quite simply in the sixteenth century took fire in the twentieth and exploded'. Watkins cites Luciano Berio as seeing _Agon_ as 'a \"short history of music\" that performs a lucid, but tragic autopsy on itself under the pretext of a game'. All this \u2013 the lack of a controlling narrative, the game-like construction and the self-conscious self-referentiality, the assembly of a 'funhouse' of available techniques \u2013 could be thought to be quite postmodern.\n\n_Agon_ makes a wonderful contribution to the canon of abstract ballet by adapting neoclassical disciplines within a serialist environment. Stravinsky likes the economy of Schoenberg's method, although he allows repetition and uses rows shorter than the prescribed twelve notes, but he likes even more the economy of Webern's sound world, which fits with his earlier compositional methods. Eliot similarly uses the abstract, musically derived structures of _Four Quartets_ to make his own combinatorial _art po\u00e9tique_. Even as Stravinsky is, so to speak, working from inside, in one modernist tradition of utopian formalism (following a language alone into its combinatorial possibilities), he is also, like Schoenberg and Berg, looking to classical forms to hold the whole thing together \u2013 not Brahms but French ballet music, which also emancipates him into the rhythmic drive and interest that so often eluded the second Viennese school.\n\nStravinsky, then, is three types of modernist. Firstly, he is an avant-garde scandal-maker who produces an initially unintelligible discordant masterpiece which provokes all sorts of outraged reactions, is immediately recognised for its originality and its contemporaneity, exerts a huge influence, and now sounds positively tuneful. Secondly, he is a fashionable style-changer who can also be austerely traditionalist, in the sense defined by a key figure such as T. S. Eliot. He is a composer who can transform any style in all sorts of ways, from minor melodic and harmonic modification (as he did for Pergolesi) to imitation (in _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ and _The Fairy's Kiss_ ) to total transfiguration by moving from one musical language to another (to serialism in _Agon_ ). This makes for a level of allusion and deviation that allies him to many other literary modernists, and to many painters, notably Picasso, who paraphrased works from the past. Thirdly, he is possibly a belated progressive, influenced perhaps by the new sound world of composers such as Boulez, who takes on serialism after the death of Schoenberg.\n\nAdorno was right \u2013 at least about Stravinsky's social conformity, if that can be thought of as something which is not just disablingly 'bourgeois', but a pragmatic response to the disciplines of the ballet or the ritual demands of religion. It is these external demands which made it impossible for Stravinsky to follow the excessively self-centred methodical obsessions of so many of his rivals. He could not see himself as an avant gardist devoted to the 'new language' approach and to 'progress'. If we put aside the political premises upon which Adorno and his allies base their arguments, we can see that there are _two_ traditions within modernism here, of a kind that liberals (rather than Marxists) would be inclined to tolerate, indeed encourage, for producing their own dialectic. One centres on a 'progressive' avant garde, where 'progressive' is understood to have some of the Hegelian Marxist overtones of an historical progress towards social emancipation, whose true nature can be revealed to the initiated in philosophy or theory or the relevant technical language. Artists in this tradition are like those utopian philosophers who want to clean up ordinary language, making it more logical, more 'scientific'. Other artists see the different languages of art as inherently social, as Wittgensteinian language games, and even as competing discourses of power related to particular institutions. For this group, innovation will have a great deal to do with the untidy historical development of all those institutions and their rivalries and co-operations. Who would have thought, looking at the secularist emancipatory aims of so many in the modernist avant garde of the 1890s, that so many undoubtedly innovatory modernists would have turned out to be Christians or fascists? Like Stravinsky, they looked to something bigger outside themselves, whereas artists in the other tradition are far more inclined (and most particularly since the advent of postmodernism) to obey the theoretical imperatives of the critical guardians of avant-garde orthodoxy. Their results are often brilliantly innovatory. But Stravinsky was never one of these. And so he has very little to teach postmodernists that they want to hear.\n**3**\n\nARNOLD WHITTALL\n\n**Stravinsky in context**\n\n**Stravinsky as context**\n\nThe eloquent conclusion of Richard Taruskin's monumental study of _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ has quickly become the most widely quoted, generally accepted declaration of Stravinsky's significance for twentieth-century compositional practice:\n\nTo the extent that terms like _stasis, discontinuity, block juxtaposition, moment_ or _structural simplification_ can be applied to modern music \u2013 a very great extent \u2013 and to the extent that Stravinsky is acknowledged as a source or an inspiration for the traits and traditions they signify \u2013 an even greater extent \u2013 the force of his example bequeathed a _russkiy slog_ [Russian manner] to the whole world of twentieth-century concert music. To that world Stravinsky was not related by any 'angle.' He was the very stem.\n\nTaruskin's purpose is to assert that once, in _Petrushka_ , 'Stravinsky at last became Stravinsky' by transforming his own defining Russian context, he could be seen as 'one of music's great centripetal forces, the crystallizer and definer of an age', whose 'work possessed a strength of style, and his oeuvre a unity, that could accommodate an endless variety of surfaces'. It is a powerful argument, and its appeal might even have been strengthened by Taruskin's subsequent emphasis on the deplorable morality of Stravinsky's sympathy for fascism and anti-semitism \u2013 a general lack of democratic fervour that allegedly infiltrates even the exuberant rituals and ultimate sublimity of _Les Noces._ Just as a warts-and-all Wagner can be deemed even more fundamentally central to the cultural life of the nineteenth century if the canker at the heart of the later music dramas is conceded, so an 'all-too-human' Stravinsky (to complement that modernist Stravinsky who 'stressed the ritual at the expense of the picturesque') has a redoubled claim to provide the ultimate frame of reference for all that matters most in the music of the modern age. Yet is it really credible that any one composer should merit such lofty pre-eminence? Is it not in the nature of twentieth-century music that it has many different stems?\n\nThe need to complement the Stravinskian _russkiy slog_ with other stimuli, other traditions, when seeking to account for the richness and variety of twentieth-century music, is acknowledged by many commentators. For example, Jonathan Cross concludes that 'it is important to remind ourselves that Stravinsky and modernism are not synonymous \u2013 it is, at the very least, inappropriate to view the entire century through Stravinsky-tinted spectacles'. But not only are Stravinsky and modernism not synonymous. It cannot be the case that the purely formal factors to which Taruskin refers in his grand peroration represent the whole Stravinsky. Taruskin's emphasis on features of structural design seems to imply that the expressive, transnational consequences of such procedures are relatively unimportant when it comes to defining Stravinsky's musical identity, the source of his greatness and influence. Yet, as the later stages of this essay will argue, it is difficult to consider such aspects of Stravinsky's creative world as his relation to longestablished genres like lament and tragedy, or his concern with the aesthetic polarities symbolised by Apollo and Dionysus, in ways that give a _russkiy slog_ any kind of unchallenged priority.\n\nA very different 'stem' for essential aspects of twentieth-century modernism is celebrated by Schoenberg in his essay 'National music' (1931). Here the emphasis is on continuity with past masters of art music, something utterly different from that 'whole, bizarre notion of inventing a new, hypermodern style out of the fragmented elements of an antique folk music' which Stephen Walsh attributes to Stravinsky at the time of _Renard_ (1915\u201316). The 'teachers' celebrated by Schoenberg were Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Wagner, Mahler, Strauss and Reger. 'My originality comes from this: I immediately imitated everything I saw that was good.' But, crucially, imitation promoted transformation: 'If I saw something I did not leave it at that; I acquired it, in order to possess it; I worked on it and extended it, and it led me to something new.' And Schoenberg ended the essay with an eloquent plea for recognition as a progressive legitimised by his sensitive and creative relation to the past. 'I am convinced that eventually people will recognize how immediately this \"something new\" is linked to the loftiest models that have been granted us. I venture to credit myself with having written truly new music which, being based on tradition, is destined to become tradition.'\n\nThe tendency to regard the two distinct traditions \u2013 the Russian and the Austro-German \u2013 as enforcing a polarisation between Stravinsky and Schoenberg has played a significant role in twentieth-century musical historiography. But the main point of this essay is that \u2013 at least after 1918 \u2013 the two traditions promoted shared aesthetic attitudes to modernism. To put it another way, the importance of Stravinsky within the 'whole world' of twentieth-century composition is enhanced when we not only consider him in relation to Russian traditions \u2013 central though those undoubtedly were, especially in the earlier years \u2013 but acknowledge Viennese, Austro-German traditions as well, and the ways in which these also explore the fundamental modernist continuum between extremes of connection and disconnection. (That further off-shoots from the central tree of modernism appear later in the twentieth century is not directly relevant to the discussion that follows.)\n\n**Conversations and comparisons**\n\nIt is tempting to conclude that Stravinsky sought to divert attention from the predispositions, especially with respect to compositional genres, which he shared with modernists from other musical traditions, by the apparent clarity and openness of his comments on those predispositions. Some sense of his awareness of ways in which German and Russian polarities might converge can therefore be read into his treatment of aesthetic topics at a time when neoclassicism was making the subject of associations between old and new a very immediate one.\n\nThe possible relevance to Stravinsky of Nietzsche's ideas about the conflict between Apollonian discipline and Dionysian anarchism \u2013 first mentioned in his ghosted _Autobiography_ \u2013 can be downplayed if those ideas are regarded merely as a means of reinforcing proto-modernist precepts (especially about structural discontinuity and textural stratification) which Stravinsky inherited from the Russian past. Nor does the mere mention of Nietzsche as the source of the Apollo/Dionysus metaphor justify any claim that Stravinsky's music begins to display explicitly Germanic expressive qualities as a result. There would always be a stylistic gulf between Stravinsky's Russian way of ritualising exotic, symmetrical modality by passing it through those 'fragmented elements of an antique folk music', and the Germanic impulse to intensify, at times to expressionistic extents, the increasingly chromatic tendencies embodied in that Bach-to-Reger tradition to which Schoenberg referred. What is intriguing, when comparisons between Stravinsky and his German contemporaries are attempted, is the very allusiveness and ambiguity of relations between their different approaches to parallel generic, expressive contexts: yet, as we shall see, there are technical similarities, as well as stylistic disparities, in the way these composers deal with archetypal emotional states such as loss and regret.\n\nIn the _Poetics of Music_ lectures (1939), Stravinsky was content with the lofty assertion that Schoenberg was 'a composer evolving along lines essentially different from mine, both aesthetically and technically'. More considered comparisons between himself and his Austro-German contemporaries had to wait until those later years when the role of oracle or sage (as opposed to active antagonist or collaborator) came more naturally. But the Stravinsky\u2013Craft enterprise, offering the composer the chance to 'comment on the popular notion of Schoenberg and Stravinsky as thesis and antithesis', was little more than a disingenuous premise to set up the idea that 'the parallelisms are more interesting'. After tabulating a series of thirteen alleged 'differences' between himself and Schoenberg (including such evidently absurd over-simplifications as 'Stravinsky: diatonicism / Schoenberg: chromaticism'), _Dialogues_ focuses on the 'more interesting' parallelisms. These include 'the common belief in Divine Authority', 'the common exile to the same alien culture, in which we wrote some of our best works', and the point that 'both of us are devoted to The Word'. It is difficult to see how any of these parallels, not least those indicating Stravinsky's belief that his attitude to serial composition owed more to Schoenberg than to Webern, are anything more than a mischievous attempt to reinforce the 'arbitrary' thesis/antithesis notion they are apparently meant to undermine. Such uneasiness could well have its origins in Stravinsky's irritation with the kind of arguments about convergence with Schoenberg promoted by critics as early as 1914. In a review of that year, N. Y. Myaskovsky declared:\n\nthe foundations of his harmony apparently have much in common with the harmonic thinking of Arnold Schoenberg. The latter, of course, is a German, is far more intricate, the texture of his work is considerably more complex and refined, but on the other hand Stravinsky has the edge in his powerful blaze of temperament. One circumstance deriving from this parallel is absorbing: travelling different paths \u2013 Schoenberg from Wagner, touching Mahler in passing; Stravinsky from Rimsky Korsakov and Scriabin by way of the French \u2013 the two have come nevertheless by almost identical results.\n\nHaving quoted these comments, Taruskin cannot resist a footnote observing that 'justification (or condemnation) of Stravinsky's music by superficial comparison with Schoenberg's has been a persistent strand in twentieth-century critical and analytical thinking', a pretext for repeating his hostility to Allen Forte's account of the atonal components of _The Rite of Spring_. The possible existence of 'superficial' comparisons of Stravinsky and Schoenberg does not automatically justify the rejection of all comparisons \u2013 especially less superficial ones. Even so, it is only after 1918 that the varieties of convergence between Stravinsky and his Austro-German contemporaries considered here become salient.\n\nTaruskin would probably claim that Pierre Boulez's views are no more adequate than Forte's. Boulez discusses the sense in which, though Stravinsky and Schoenberg had very different attitudes to tradition, 'the result is the same: both composers reinstate dead forms, and because they are so obsessed with them they allow them to transform their musical ideas until they too are dead. Their musical invention has been virtually reshaped by old forms to the point where it suffers and dries up.' For Boulez, as for Taruskin, it is matters of form which are decisive, and \u2013 for Boulez, at least \u2013 there can be no possibility of worthwhile musical expression being built on such flawed foundations. (It is worth noting the sediment of a Cageian experimental aesthetic in Boulez's draconian polarisation of forces in musical history. For Cage, no less than for Boulez, neoclassicism was a betrayal of the progressive impulse, not the fulfilment of something fundamental to modernist aesthetics.)\n\nFor Boulez, there is no doubt that, after such early masterworks as _Erwartung_ and _The Rite of Spring_ , both Schoenberg and Stravinsky allowed consciousness of History to inhibit the continuation of true progressiveness. Boulez could find no validity in a neoclassical modernism that played off old against new, despite his willingness to concede that, in Berg's case, 'a sense of continuous development with an enormous degree of ambiguity' is to be admired rather than deprecated. Boulez asserts that 'Stravinsky also largely deprived himself of the resources provided by the evolution of the musical language, and he therefore found himself on a more primitive plane of invention with virtually no access, more importantly, to the formal complexities characteristic of the late-romantic period.' This inability to discover any ambiguity, any complexity, in Stravinsky's music after the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ (at least until the serial years), and therefore to find any relevance for such works as context for post-war 'new music', tells us more about Boulez's own creative hang-ups than Stravinsky's. But it also demonstrates the incompleteness of concepts of modernity which deal solely with matters of form: as if, in the case of _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , its significance were wholly coextensive with its anticipations of Stockhausen's 'Momentform'.\n\nIt can certainly be argued that, in his suppression of Dionysian, expressionist qualities in his more Apollonian neoclassical works of the 1920s and 1930s, Stravinsky was at his most distant from the Schoenbergian mainstream, in which the two complementary qualities \u2013 Apollonian order with regard to form, Dionysian intensity with regard to expression \u2013 strove to achieve a sustainable equilibrium. Schoenberg's avoidance of the explicitly chant-like or chorale-like materials often used by Stravinsky was a vital element in his preservation of an expressionist dimension during the inter-war decades, and Apollonian serenity is extremely rare. Perhaps Schoenberg comes closest to its spirit in 'Verbundenheit', the sixth of the _Pieces for Male Chorus_ , Op. 35, composed in 1929, just at the time of Stravinsky's own most wholehearted 'sacrifice to Apollo'. Even when such obvious differences of emphasis are acknowledged, however, it is important to realise that very different expressive qualities can be embodied in similar compositional techniques and textures, and it is through such technical similarities that a degree of shared expressive atmosphere between Stravinsky and his contemporaries can be sensed.\n\n**A modern** _**espressivo**_\n\nGiven Stravinsky's fabled capacity for appropriating elements of other composers' principles and procedures, it is always instructive to analyse his expressions of lack of empathy. None is more understandable \u2013 or relevant to my present argument \u2013 than this:\n\nIf I were able to penetrate the barrier of style (Berg's radically alien emotional climate) I suspect he would appear to me as the most gifted constructor of form of the composers of this century. He transcends even his own most overt modelling. In fact, he is the only one to have achieved large-scale development-type forms without a suggestion of 'neo-classic' dissimulation. His legacy contains very little on which to build, however. He is at the end of a development (and form and style are not such independent growths that we can pretend to use the one and discard the other) whereas Webern, the Sphinx, has bequeathed a whole foundation, as well as a contemporary sensibility and style.\n\nThe fact that so much music composed since 1960 refutes Stravinsky's sweeping claim that Berg's legacy 'contains very little on which to build' is powerful evidence for the partial nature of Stravinsky's own importance to music since his death. The 'otherness' of Berg clearly struck deeply, and in another comment Stravinsky was more specific about his personal resistance. He singled out the 'direct expression of the composer's own feelings' in the 'orchestral flagellation' of _Wozzeck_ 's 'D minor' Interlude, declaring that 'what disturbs me about this great masterpiece and one that I love, is the level of its appeal to \"ignorant\" audiences'. In one of his most artfully revealing comments on his own expressive ideals, Stravinsky continued as follows: 'Passionate emotion' can be conveyed by very different means than these, and within the most 'limiting conventions'. The Timurid miniaturists, for example, were forbidden to portray facial expression. In one moving scene, from the life of an early Zoroastrian king, the\n\nartist shows a group of totally blank faces. The dramatic tension is in the way the ladies of the court are shown eavesdropping, and in the slightly discordant gesture of one of the principal figures. In another of these miniatures, two lovers confront each other with stony looks, but the man unconsciously touches his finger to his lips, and this packs the picture with, for me, as much passion as the _crescendo molto_ of _Wozzeck_.\n\nAs I have argued elsewhere, Stravinsky could hardly have been expected, in the 1960s, to recognise that the alternative modernity of Berg (compounded of constructivism and expressionism) might provide a no less valid legacy than his own devotion to 'the most limiting conventions'. Others had similar problems of perception, and the fact that Boulez (for one) advanced from reservations about Berg, which parallel Stravinsky's, to an acceptance of Berg's importance as an authentically modern voice provides further support for the view that Stravinsky's would be one legacy among several within a late-century context of pluralities and polarities. At the same time, however, this contextualising of Stravinsky invites consideration of the degree to which his own music undermines assumptions about its incompatibility with Austro-German modernism. To this extent, the composer was perfectly correct in suggesting to Craft that the similarities ('parallelisms') between himself and Schoenberg were 'more interesting' than those 'thesis/antithesis' oppositions.\n\n**From polarity to convergence**\n\nIn addition to reminding us that 'Stravinsky and modernism are not synonymous', Jonathan Cross notes the dangers of proposing an 'opposition between the non-developmental, non-narrative objectivity of Stravinsky and the subjective, Expressionist continuity with the Romantic tradition in Schoenberg'. But no less problematic is any implication that Stravinsky himself, after 1914, lost all contact with subjectivity, continuity and other remnants of traditions very different from those with which his later style was most directly concerned. It is not the case that, after _The Rite of Spring_ , Apollo entirely eliminates Dionysus, or that (neo)classicism promotes synthesis at the expense of continuing, unresolved dialectic. Rather, the Stravinskian context \u2013 the ways in which his compositional style evolved over more than half a century between _Petrushka_ and _Requiem Canticles_ \u2013 intersects with those of other composers, and is not absolutely, inherently different. The reasons for this circumstance are complex, and much to do with that pervasive aesthetic polarity between divergence and convergence in relation to tonal, harmonic centres which is outlined in the _Poetics of Music_. Although _Poetics_ appears to confine the relevance of polarity to the realm of purely musical 'language', its role is no less salient when matters of form and genre are brought into play.\n\nIt has long been a commonplace of twentieth-century music histories to note that the pre-1914, avant-garde formal initiatives of such compositions as Schoenberg's _Erwartung_ and Webern's sets of orchestral pieces, Op. 6 and Op. 10, were not followed up with significant determination until the appearance of a new avant garde after 1945. But it is one thing to note the extent to which, between 1918 and 1945, Stravinsky, Bart\u00f3k, Hindemith, Schoenberg, Berg and others dedicated themselves to preserving the formal attributes of traditional genres \u2013 symphony, concerto, string quartet and so on \u2013 leaving it to Webern and Var\u00e8se to carry more radical attitudes forward; it is something else to demonstrate that these 'conservative' attitudes had lost all contact with the progressive modernism that preceded them. They had not. Not only do Stravinsky's various vocal and instrumental works \u2013 even those called symphony or concerto \u2013 'remake the past' in ways that help to define their inherent modernity; they allude to past modes of expression (and with as much pleasure as anxiety) in ways that reinforce their generic links with tradition, at the same time as they proclaim, stylistically, their distance from tradition.\n\n**Broken chords and lyric tragedy**\n\nWhile an essentially 'linguistic' study of this phenomenon in Stravinsky could focus on such continuity-establishing factors as the presence of broken chords or outlined triads \u2013 comparing the ending of _Petrushka_ with the Postlude from _Requiem Canticles_ , for example \u2013 a generic traversal of the same ground will highlight the composer's resourceful exploitation of allusions to dance and song, and to contrasts between dynamic and lyric _topoi_.\n\nStravinsky believed that melody was 'the summit of the hierarchy of elements that make up music', and the Stravinskian melodic style never abandoned that element of formality which remained his greatest defence against the fierce explosiveness of Germanic Expressionism. Stravinskian lyric expressiveness is never more formal, or more deeply felt, than in the context of lament. Nevertheless, it is when sorrow and regret are presented in ways that distance them from the formalised ceremonies of the liturgy that 'order' \u2013 which, Walsh declares, was 'the watchword in his life and in his music' \u2013 is most forcefully challenged.\n\nNo composition is more crucial in demonstrating the range of Stravinskian lyricism than _Oedipus Rex_ , and Walsh's commentary on the opera-oratorio suggests what some of the useful terms for a comparison with other dramas might be: he writes, for example, of the work's opening as 'a gesture of panic and despair', and of its final stages that 'the atmosphere is one of terror and theatrically real catastrophe, not the commemorative or prophylactic disaster of the Stations of the Cross or the Burial Service'. As Walsh demonstrates, such features are not inconsistent with the use of chant-derived thematic material, not least because at the opening of _Oedipus_ such material can be felt to establish a further allusion, to Verdi. But the emotional language of Walsh's interpretation \u2013 'the numbed anguish of the plague-ridden Theban people', 'the image of Oedipus's moral blindness could hardly be more poignant', coupled with references to the composer's achievement of 'a more disturbing irony', and to the 'dramatically telling picture of self-assurance gradually undermined by the Truth' \u2013 offers ample evidence of the vital respects in which this work invites interpretation and understanding in terms no less relevant to music dramas whose style and aesthetic context could not be more different. Most striking of all is Walsh's discussion of the first scene of Act 2, with Jocasta's aria brilliantly conveying 'the richness and complexity of the drama of great souls brought low by human frailty', and of 'the fear and even panic', the 'sense of suppressed violence', of Jocasta's duet with Oedipus.\n\nIf all this does little more than underline the sense of Dionysian forces at work in what is often categorised as a stylised and statuesque ritual, it serves its purpose. The nearest Stravinsky comes in _Oedipus_ to the luminously restrained, Apollonian lyricism he employs in several subsequent works is the famous moment of the King's acknowledgement of the terrible truth, 'Lux facta est', with its descending B minor arpeggio. Walsh neatly touches on the sense of multiple meaning \u2013 ambiguity, enrichment? \u2013 at this moment, and this is an important nuance, since the 'sacrifice to Apollo' which can be found in _Oedipus_ 's immediate successor, the ballet _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , does not involve replacing tension and divergence, with resolution and convergence along the lines of the kind of simplistic tabulation employed in _Dialogues_. Rather, the tensions and divergences are less Dionysian, less assertive, less disruptive. It was the ending of _Apollon_ , not that of _Oedipus_ , which was provocatively described by the composer many years later as the nearest he ever came to the truly tragic:\n\nif a truly tragic note is sounded anywhere in my music, that note is in _Apollo_. Apollo's birth is tragic, I think, and the Apotheosis is every bit as tragic as Ph\u00e8dre's line when she learns of the love of Hippolyte and Aricie \u2013 'Tous les jours se levaient clairs et sereins pour eux' \u2013 though, of course, Racine and myself were both absolutely heartless people, and cold, cold.\n\nTragic or not, that ending certainly reshapes those very ambiguities \u2013 between D major and B minor \u2013 which embody the terrible enlightening truth in the opera-oratorio. The ending of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ will be discussed in more detail later on. For the moment, it is enough to observe that these passages in _Oedipus_ and _Apollon_ both indicate the degree to which certainty, tinged with sorrow, summons up a musical expression in which celebration and lamentation co-exist.\n\nThose comments from _Dialogues_ suggest above all that, for Stravinsky, 'tragic' implies a state of unknowing innocence, a peculiarly human kind of vulnerability in which hope and optimism, both destined to be confounded, are at their most pure. If this is so, then I would be encouraged to reinforce my own reading of a tragic dimension in the otherwise barbaric 'Sacrificial dance' of _The Rite_ , a reading scorned by Taruskin as missing the main point of this musical celebration of the 'subhuman'. I would also see this aspect as evidence of the way in which Stravinsky's still very Russian music can be aligned with wider aesthetic as well as formal concepts in the stillevolving vortex of musical modernism. By the time we get to _Oedipus_ and _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , of course, the modernist context is very different from what it had been in 1912, and to compare the ending of _Oedipus_ with that of _Wozzeck_ \u2013 the most powerful near-contemporary Austro-German demonstration of the tragic vulnerability of innocent optimism \u2013 is certainly not to discover startling evidence of absolute stylistic or formal convergence. The parallelism is in the shared generic allusion, and the reliance of both composers on the particular emotional impact of ostinato. Seekers after similarity might also be struck by the role of G as a concluding centre for both _Wozzeck_ and _Oedipus_ , although Berg's post-tonal stratification is very different from Stravinsky's more homogenous modality.\n\nThis comparison, blending formal and hermeneutic aspects, highlights the open-ended play of difference and similarity that such interpretative discourse facilitates. The similarities of _Affekt_ between the two works, and the degree to which the spirit of loss and regret is conveyed through focus on ostinato, do not override the complementary differences of texture and style, or of dramatic context. Neither differences nor similarities are absolute, but interdependent, interactive.\n\n**Forming laments**\n\nTo the extent that Stravinsky, even at the height of his neoclassical phase, does not shy away from such representations of loss and regret, he shares fundamental aesthetic contexts with Schoenberg, Berg, Jan\u00e1\u010dek, Bart\u00f3k and Britten \u2013 to name only the most obvious near-contemporaries. It is not that Stravinsky stands for different things; rather, he expresses similar things in different ways. In my judgement, it is his capacity for what Walsh, in connection with the 'Lacrimosa' from _Requiem Canticles_ , terms 'intense lyrical outpouring' that does most to establish significant links between Stravinsky and other composers who have nothing to do with Russia and its specific musical traditions. At the same time, however, consideration of this topic takes us back to what is most personal to Stravinsky, namely the very individual way in which his view of 'the spirit of lamentation' is inextricably bound up with 'monotony \u2013 the sense of perpetual recurrence . . . and the simple inevitability of the cycle of birth, life and death'. On this matter, Walsh's comparison of _Les Noces_ and _Threni_ , brief though it is, is especially important.\n\nMost other scholars, working from within the established traditions of theory-based analysis, have shared Taruskin's preference for what amounts to an essentially formal context (though normally without the detailed perspectives on the music's Russian aura which are Taruskin's speciality). For example, both Martha Hyde and Chandler Carter make stimulating observations, but they do not extend beyond the refinement of our understanding of Stravinsky's modernist techniques. Hyde, writing about the start of the slow movement of the Octet, homes in on a central Stravinskian characteristic, that 'allusion to a dominant-tonic cadence' which is allusive rather than actual simply because\n\noctatonic structures intrude and block an authentic tonal cadence; octatonicism here remains superimposed over a D-minor tonality, both octatonicism and tonality maintaining their identities despite their superimposition. The inevitable ambiguities this superimposition creates are essential features of the theme. The clash of diatonic and octatonic elements creates an equilibrium that resists fusion or synthesis.\n\nSimilarly, Carter, in his telling analysis of the 'Duettino' from Act III, scene 3 of _The Rake's Progress_ , demonstrates that 'the subtle play and inherent ambiguity between the tonal and the non-tonal can be sensitively gauged without dismissing or ignoring the role of either'. Such music demands 'a pluralistic analytical approach . . . to unlock the mysteries and delights of works in which play with style substitutes for play within a style'.\n\nBoth Hyde and Carter have much more to say about these topics, but a quite different way of exploring modernist ambivalence is found in the following:\n\nIn surprising ways [the work] seems to _remember_ and then abandon the musical language of its historical antecedents. Passages that employ harsh, strident dissonance give way to ones that evoke the sweetness of tonality, only to reemerge and begin the process again. Passages where the shape of musical phrases have only the most tenuous connection to [the composer's] precursors give way to ones whose phrase shapes have clear connections to the past . . . In sum, within the [work] a radically new musical discourse confronts a host of historical references.\n\nThis statement could obviously be applied to a wide range of twentieth-century works, but the fact that Michael Cherlin is writing about Schoenberg's String Trio of 1946 naturally raises the question of whether the kind of analytical contexts he establishes for this composer might also prove relevant to Stravinsky. Cherlin develops a pair of rhetorical tropes \u2013 _imperfection_ and _distraction_ \u2013 in order to bring an expressive dimension to bear on the 'old/new' dialectic of his initial formulation. ' _Distraction_ . . . describes the ways in which an anticipated musical trajectory, such as phrase completion or thematic continuation, is disrupted, and the dramatic and emotional sense of that disruption as well. _Imperfection_ . . . conveys a sense of incompletion, which in our context is the result of a _distraction_. Thus the two tropes, distraction and imperfection, work as a pair, with the former leading the latter.'\n\nCherlin believes that these tropes 'generalize well and can be used to inform interpretations of most of Schoenberg's music, as well as that of other composers'. This is undoubtedly true, and it is clear that their propensity for generalisation is due in large part to their comprehensiveness. Both _imperfection_ and _distraction_ , as defined above, embody oppositions, while also \u2013 from a more Stravinskian perspective \u2013 acknowledging the Schoenbergian tendency to give Dionysus priority over Apollo. It would indeed be absurd to argue that the technical parameters and expressive qualities of such 'distraction' and 'imperfection' as we might detect in Stravinsky are identical to Schoenberg's. Yet Chandler Carter's discussion of 'subtle play . . . between the tonal and non-tonal' is evidence of strategies that link the two composers, and the specific consequences of the type of rhetorical play discussed by Cherlin, creating (in Schoenberg's String Trio, and many other pieces) 'an equilibrium that is suggested and negated throughout the work', is very much the kind of modernist dialogue in which Stravinskian and Schoenbergian qualities begin to converge.\n\n**Marking the genre**\n\nFull exploration of the analytical consequences of this topic would therefore proceed from form to rhetoric. In the area of form, Cherlin's comment, with respect to Schoenberg's Trio, that 'the evocations of tonality, built into the tone row, imply and then deny closure', might seem to rule out parallels with any of Stravinsky's works before the mid 1950s. Yet we need only recall Hyde's analysis of the Octet movement, or look at other discussions of Stravinskian closure which observe the inherent ambiguity of the processes at work (as in Rehding's study of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_), to be aware that the basic principle of calling tonality (as a means of ensuring satisfyingly unambivalent completion) into question is fundamental in both instances, however different the atmosphere or style of the works cited. It is nevertheless precisely to that difference of atmosphere, of style, that the rhetorical or hermeneutic analysis must most decisively address itself. For Cherlin, the expressive character of Schoenberg's Trio is determined, in large part, by the way the composer treats one particular generic allusion, to the waltz. Building on what is known about the autobiographical impulse behind the Trio \u2013 Schoenberg's near-death from a heart attack and his avowed intention of embodying this experience in the composition \u2013 Cherlin argues that the musical imagery in general, and the waltz allusions in particular, reflect the recognition of an ultimately plural if not ambiguous sense that, in the ultimate human struggle between life and death, both states can be associated with peace and fulfilment. 'With the emergence of the waltz, the listener first apprehends the potential for repose and balance that the returning fragments will cumulatively suggest as the work unfolds'; and it is 'the contrast of those fragments with the other musical material in which they are embedded' that 'brings the tropes of distraction and imperfection into particular relief'.\n\nCherlin believes that 'Schoenberg's music exemplifies the kind of art that gains density of meaning through conflicting forces'. To the extent that those forces have no need to move from coherent equilibrium to integration, synthesis or unambiguous closure, Schoenberg's 'kind of art' is modernist; and so is Stravinsky's. Nevertheless, Schoenberg makes use of old/new dialogues to explore aspects of more lyrical, more regular, more traditionally tonal and romantic allusions as set against the expressionistic disruptions of music that places such allusions into the most powerful relief. Stravinsky (at least after _The Rite of Spring_ ) uses old/new dialogues in a more restrained, Apollonian fashion. Yet in a work contemporary with the Schoenberg Trio \u2013 the ballet _Orpheus_ \u2013 the culminating progression from the violent 'Pas d'action', in which 'the Bacchantes attack Orpheus, seize him and tear him to pieces', to the serene 'Apotheosis' in which Apollo 'appears . . . wrests the lyre from Orpheus and raises his song heavenwards', shows that the contrast between Dionysian disruption and Apollonian order is still palpable. Though Stephen Walsh argues of _Orpheus_ that 'even its violent episodes are played with restraint', and that 'the killing and apotheosis of Orpheus stand for the taming and ordering of those orgiastic elements which music took over from the Dionysian rituals of primitive culture', Daniel Albright discusses the work in terms of its 'desperation, ecstasy' and 'madness'. Even if 'expressionistic disruptions' are replaced with 'objective' mechanistic patterning, this is set against a kind of lyric expression, and a concern to allude to matters of life and death, as potent in its way as Schoenberg's, or Berg's.\n\n**Conflicting forces**\n\nWriting of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , Stephen Walsh says that the work 'had distilled the ethnic style into a kind of pure formal essence, of which it really did seem true to say that \"the play of musical elements is the thing\"'. Walsh refers to 'Stravinsky's image of a music that ruthlessly excludes anecdote and nuance, a music which, so to speak, proves the primacy of form by refusing to admit anything not demonstrably (and in the most primitive sense of the word) \"formal\"'. The distillation which the _Symphonies_ represents does not exclude certain very palpable generic allusions \u2013 to song, dance, celebration, lament \u2013 whose presence, far from the accidental results of the composer's failure to enforce his own logic of abstraction, are essential aspects of the music's integration of form and content. Even in the _Symphonies_ we can sense Apollo constraining Dionysus, not ensuring his total absence, and this remains Stravinsky's governing 'tone' thereafter. If _The Rite of Spring_ is Stravinsky's most explicit demonstration of a conjunction between Dionysus and modernism, then such later works as _Orpheus_ exemplify, not so much a whole-hearted rejection of modernism, as a refined and complex conjunction between modernising and classicising impulses.\n\nIn the light of the comments about the Apollonian principle that occur in Stravinsky's _Autobiography_ , we might expect the ballet _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ to offer unambiguous illustrations of the composer's preference for 'studied conception over vagueness, the rule over the arbitrary, order over the haphazard'. In spirit, the ballet's concluding movement, 'Apoth\u00e9ose', in which Apollo is led by the Muses to Parnassus, is indeed worlds away from the corybantic frenzy of _The Rite of Spring_ 's 'Sacrificial dance'. Yet, as the _Poetics_ confirms, Stravinsky's understanding of Apollonian classicism did not require him to abandon the techniques of polarisation, and of dialogue between convergence and divergence, which had served the Dionysian spirit of _Petrushka_ and _The Rite_ so well. Apollo's demand, the lectures state, is that 'for the lucid ordering of the work . . . all the Dionysian elements which set the imagination of the artist in motion must be properly subjugated before they intoxicate us, and must finally be made to submit to the law', with the consequence that 'variety is valid only as a means of attaining similarity'. This would appear to rule out modernist multiplicity, and yet the music of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , while obviously much smoother in rhythm and more consonant in harmony than that of _The Rite_ , as well as less 'nationalist' in melodic character, indicates very clearly that Stravinskian similarity need not mean _stability_ , in the sense of traditionally classical unity and resolution.\n\nPolarity in the 'Apoth\u00e9ose' (Ex. 3.1) is represented most basically by the tonal centres of D and B which are both implied by the two-sharp key signature, and it is as unsatisfactory to interpret what happens as a clear-cut progression from D major to B minor as it is to argue that the two tonics are irreconcilable opposites. The final chord, certainly, is one of B minor, but the context in which it occurs renders its status as tonic less stable than would be the case if that context were more conventionally diatonic.\n\nAnother, no less important aspect of the dialogue between convergence and divergence here is the interaction, and also the preserved separation, between the various textural strata. This is of considerable importance to the character of the final section of the 'Apoth\u00e9ose', from one bar before fig. 101. In the upper stratum, the first violins, doubled two octaves lower by the first cellos, repeat the final motivic unit of the main melody, whose lyric character is fundamental to the grave serenity of the musical atmosphere \u2013 Stravinsky's uniquely 'cool' spirit of tragic vulnerability and loss. This motive decorates the central B with notes which, if considered as arpeggiating a chord, create a sense of dissonance, even though, separately, both F\u266f and G find consonant support in the lower voices. The lowest stratum (which could be subdivided) comprises the ostinatos in second cello (with its initial six-beat pattern) and in double bass (with its initial four-beat pattern). Although these lines finally converge on an agreed progression from G to B, they spend most of the six bars in question offering distinct perspectives on their shared Ds and Bs. The second cellos retain the D-supporting As and F\u266fs, while the basses have only a G which, in a conventional diatonic context, would support D as tonic more strongly than B. The third, central stratum, in second violins and violas, begins in step with the four-beat ostinato in the bass. While its principal pitches \u2013 D and F\u266f \u2013 have obvious relevance to the prevailing polarities, the linear unfolding of the actual ostinato figures, in which the upper and lower neighbours of F\u266f are prominent, contributes significantly to the special, destabilised harmony. This third stratum also supports the opposition between symmetric (B/F\u266e) and asymmetric (B and F\u266f) features at the end, something to which Stravinsky could have recourse even when his music was not officially octatonic.\n\nSo far this analysis has followed through the implications of a Taruskinstyle formal stock-taking. But switching to a more Cherlinesque view of rhetoric allows us to note the expressive force of the contrast between the 'mechanistic' ostinatos of the lower strata and the fined-down lyrical melody of the upper stratum. The mood is not as ritualistically funereal as in several other Stravinsky finales \u2013 for example, that of _Requiem Canticles_ , discussed below \u2013 and there are less explicit generic allusions behind this processional music than for the earlier movements of the ballet. But it would be wholly inadequate to speak of 'a kind of pure formal essence', in which 'the play of the musical elements is the thing' and we willingly exclude \u2013 joyfully or otherwise \u2013 the kind of nuances of expression which derive from the associations which the music sets up with those precedents and precursors it cannot hope to escape. It was, after all, this closing section of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ that provoked the greatest admiration in some of the composer's most sceptical critics. For Boris Asaf'yev, 'the hymn is itself justification for the whole work. Listening to it, one forgets the motley mosaic and eclecticism of the other pages of the score'; and Prokofiev declared that, 'on the very last page of the work . . . he has shone and managed to make even his disgusting main theme sound convincing'. As Walsh notes, 'in _Oedipus Rex_ and _Apollo_ , neoclassicism was openly making its peace with the irrational, with passion and fear, and, at the end of _Apollo_ , with a mysterious, otherworldly purity that Schloezer was quick to see as an intimation of the sacramental.'\n\n**Ex. 3.1** _Apollon musag\u00e8te,_ 'Apoth\u00e9ose'\n\nSchloezer's view was that, after _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , Stravinsky 'can no longer give us anything but a Mass'. Nevertheless, one does not have to reach for association with the genres of sacred music to find a sufficiently resonant context for an ending whose processional solemnity reaches back through features of the Serenade in A and Piano Concerto to memories of the majestic, march-like transitions in _Parsifal_. The models of Stravinsky's two earlier B-centred conclusions \u2013 _The Firebird_ and _Les Noces_ \u2013 establish a link between that tonality and solemn processional music, though both are far more conclusive in their cadencing than the 'Apoth\u00e9ose'. There is indeed a 'sacramental' quality to the 'mysterious . . . purity' of _Apollon_ 's ending: and this might even be felt to reinforce the fundamental quality of separation between celebrants (dancers) and spectators. It is the spectators' sense of loss which the sorrowing quality of the music depicts, while at the same time it represents the transfiguring apotheosis of Apollo and his attendant Muses. However, given the particular spirit that Stravinsky associated with the dithyramb \u2013 as most explicitly in the finale of the _Duo concertant_ , which is more Apollonian than Dionysian \u2013 it is perhaps this elusive yet numinous genre which fits most closely with the qualities to be heard in _Apollon_ 's 'Apoth\u00e9ose'.\n\nThis analysis, as far as it goes, only hints at the kind of topics that could be involved in an appropriately detailed study of those musical elements which connect Stravinsky to his contemporaries. For example, the fining-down of thematic content, supported by various ostinatos, in the 'Apoth\u00e9ose' suggests the closural technique defined by Schoenberg as 'liquidation', and the _dolce_ ending of Schoenberg's String Quartet No. 3 (1927) \u2013 contemporary with _Apollon_ \u2013 is by no means remote in technique or character from the Stravinsky work, despite its twelve-note basis. Both the thematic fining-down and the ostinato-based accompaniment effect an ending which is far from decisively closural in the traditional, classical sense.\n\nSuch similarities are far from invariable, of course, and the ways in which these composers create endings that are more decisive than dissolving (Schoenberg's Variations for Orchestra, Stravinsky's _Symphony of_ _Psalms_ ) also reinforce differences of tone and spirit. As already pointed out, Schoenberg's contrapuntal propensities ensured that he only rarely fined down his textures to the chorale-like simplicity which was so important to Stravinsky. Although the wistful mood of the Third Quartet's ending is comparable to the regretful sublimity of _Apollon_ 's 'Apoth\u00e9ose', for an instance of Schoenberg's ability to embody expressions of loss and sorrow in ways quite different from Stravinsky's, one need look no further than the overtly emotional ending of _Moses und Aron_ (Act 2).\n\nCherlin's consideration of that 'density of meaning through conflicting forces' in Schoenberg is no less relevant to a music of preserved polarities rather than resolving synthesis, like that of _Apollon_. It is nevertheless worth repeating my earlier comment at this point: 'what is intriguing, when comparisons are attempted between Stravinsky and his German contemporaries, is the very allusiveness and ambiguity of relations between their different approaches to parallel generic, expressive contexts'. Nor do 'allusiveness and ambiguity' diminish when Stravinsky's later, twelve-note compositions are brought into the picture.\n\n**Ritual and regret**\n\nThe similarity/difference relation of Stravinsky to Schoenberg is arguably never more resonant than in Stravinsky's last twelve-note movement, the Postlude to the _Requiem Canticles_ , and the specific allusions to lyrical and ritual celebration that it embodies. Much interest has already been shown in the generic and semiotic aspects of this music, especially its associations with chorale and dirge. But it is no less salient to suggest that, even in this relatively simple structure, the funereal character of the music has binary rather than singular connotations. In particular, I do not hear the sustained horn line as especially integrative or supportive. To me, it has an almost romantic tone, an echo of lyric lament against the impersonal, ritual bell sounds, and we can hear both the opposition and the interaction, a specifically modernist sense of order as structurally relevant to the circumstances Stravinsky had established in this work. Some will prefer the interaction, even perhaps to the extent of feeling that the movement resolves in favour of a single, F-based sonority. Others will prefer the preserved equilibrium between incompatible strategies, promoted by the mediation of the chords in harp, piano and flutes.\n\nThe Postlude is the ultimate demonstration of Stravinsky's rejection of Austro-German _espressivo_ in all its fractured and frantic glory. The blend of the lyrical and ritualistic in the Postlude, its combination of a sense of regret with quiet celebration of eternal Christian truths, recalls that concluding, 'cold' apotheosis of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ which, for Stravinsky, best represented his own personal sense of the tragic spirit, and the feature which, above all, defined his distance from Schoenbergian rhetoric. The post-expressionist trope of 'imperfection and distraction' might therefore appear to have little power here. Yet that basic sense of tension between the centrifugal and the centripetal which underpins Cherlin's reading of Schoenberg's language in the String Trio is a factor in Stravinsky's Postlude as well, as the horn's outlined F minor triad unfolds against the atonal processional chords. Once again, comparable techniques serve radically different styles of expression. So, while it will not do to fine down the complex and intriguing interactions between these composers to a slogan like Mikhail Druskin's \u2013 Stravinsky's 'ideal was . . . \"unstable stability\", as opposed to Schoenberg's which might equally be described as \"stable instability\"' \u2013 the rewards of considering the two in terms of what they share as well as of what divides them are undeniable.\n\nThis chapter has argued that it is valuable to consider Stravinsky in a context that does not focus exclusively on his Russian past, or his personal, self-determined 'present', but on the possibility of dialogues, between him and other major composers, that point to a shared nexus \u2013 flexible, multivalent, interactive \u2013 of 'topical' and generic associations. There is a no less fundamental sense of composers coming after Stravinsky building on features directly relevant to those dialogues: composers like Carter, Maxwell Davies and many others, whose debts to Stravinsky seem to facilitate an engagement with that wider ethos of stylistic attributes in which what is opposed yet complementary invites and stimulates further exploration \u2013 amounting, it might even appear, to a late-century mainstream. And even with composers for whom Stravinsky's tone of voice seems to have little relevance \u2013 Ligeti, Kurt\u00e1g \u2013 connections can be traced by way of comparable generic concerns, with lyric lamentation, for example. Like the Table of Comparisons with Schoenberg in _Dialogues_ , such 'connections' might be felt to offer little more than a rudimentary sense of difference. But they are important nevertheless as a means of guarding against any tendency to categorise composers solely by means of their 'individual' traits within an otherwise open-endedly 'plural' culture. In the end, Stravinsky is a great composer because he survives these comparisons with his individuality enhanced, and not because his individuality renders comparisons irrelevant.\nPART II\n\n**The works**\n**4**\n\nANTHONY POPLE\n\n**Early Stravinsky**\n\nWhen one examines the earliest works of a great composer, it is almost inevitably with hindsight that one does so. Hearing the earlier works through the portal that the later, more well-known works supply can be a strange experience, through which hindsight often hardens into self-reassurance. Does one hear a familiar foretaste of this here, a pre-echo of that there? Is there a discernible quality to the early works that is evident to us today, but which contemporary listeners seem to have overlooked? Such questions are easy to ask and carry a hint of smugness, but, conversely, is anything to be gained by turning the presumptions around \u2013 by dwelling, for example, on the ordinariness that allowed the composer's contemporaries to remain unaware of the genius in their midst? Surely not: for such inversion merely preserves the same impoverished agenda in negative.\n\nQuestions of style impinge on the assessment of 'early' works in ways that demand examination in the present context. Consider the early works of Mozart as an alternative case to those of Stravinsky: as Charles Rosen has famously argued, the received idea of the 'classical style' is defined for us today by the mature works of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, rather than by the music of their many accomplished contemporaries. It is not that Mozart's music is recognised as similar to that of, say, J. C. Bach, Kozeluch and Kraus, and can be measured against it, revealing Mozart's 'superiority'. On the contrary, in fact: the works of these other composers, and many more, are liable to be heard against the yardstick that our familiarity with Mozart's work provides, and so to be regarded as inferior. Listening to Mozart's own earliest, childhood works provides much the same experience, for the same reason. One important distinction between Mozart's and Stravinsky's eras, however, is the comparative homogeneity of style in the former period, as opposed to the evident diversity of the early twentieth century. The sheer variety of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century music means that hearing Stravinsky's early works in relation to those of his contemporaries and predecessors, and of course in relation to his own later compositions, is a complex business.\n\nAdd to this the fact that the mature Stravinsky is well known as a magpie consumer and purveyor of musical styles, and the plot thickens further. One factor which emerges as much from the study of his earlier works as from the late ones is his persistent use of other music as models: in doing so, he managed \u2013 by and large \u2013 to avoid resorting to _self_ -parody in the way that many less impressive composers of the twentieth century were inclined to do. The seeds of this were certainly sown in his early twenties.\n\n**Family beginnings**\n\nBefore that, Stravinsky's very earliest compositions constitute no more than a modest trace of his constant but unambitious engagement with the art of music \u2013 an engagement that was conditioned above all by family circumstances. Music naturally formed part of the leisured life of a member of the landowning class to which the Stravinskys belonged; but as the son of the most feted Russian operatic bass of the day, the young Igor Fyodorovich's musical life was fuller than most. He attended the opera 'five or six nights a week', and also went to rehearsals; he got to know the performers, was well placed to meet prominent composers, and became familiar with both the standard Russian repertoire and the latest trends. But one must not imagine that this was a professionalised sphere of activity to which Stravinsky gained easy access at an early age: on the contrary, the strain of amateurism that was ingrained in nineteenth-century Russian musical life was still very much apparent, and the young Stravinsky's own activities as a musician were dilettantish \u2013 rooted for the time being in the leisured world of his mother's family rather than in his father's work. His first surviving composition, the fragmentary _Tarantella_ for piano (1898), seems to have resulted from an attempt to write down one of many improvisations which the enthusiastic but untutored teenager made at the piano. As he explained ten years later, 'I improvised endlessly and enjoyed it immensely, [but] I was unable to write down what I played. I ascribed this to my lack of theoretical knowledge.'\n\nConsiderably more accomplished technically is the Pushkin song 'Storm Cloud', dated 25 January 1902 (OS), which is well shaped and makes coherent if rather obsessive use of enharmonic progressions. A harmonic summary of part of the song's central section is given in Ex. 4.1: note the progression in bars 23\u20135, initially from an A minor triad to an F minor triad, whose A\u266d is enharmonically reinterpreted as G\u266f in the following diminished seventh chord, which in turn resolves to another A minor triad; the same pattern is immediately repeated in sequence from bar 27. The basic outline of this progression has, in fact, already been heard in the tonic key of E minor within the principal material of the song (at bars 8ff) and is hinted at in the accompaniment to the opening melody (bar 5) \u2013 all of this suggesting not so much that Stravinsky was using the progression as a device to unify the song, but that he was using the song as an opportunity to practise using the progression. The distance in accomplishment between the _Tarantella_ and 'Storm Cloud' reflects the fact that Stravinsky had been taking tuition in harmony since November 1901 with Fyodor Akimenko, a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov. Stravinsky would later write that 'Until I began to take lessons in harmony from Akimenko, you might say that I ripened in ignorance.'\n\n**Ex. 4.1** 'Storm Cloud' (1902), bars 23\u201338, harmonic summary\n\nRichard Taruskin's opinion that Akimenko would have taught Stravinsky using Rimsky-Korsakov's _Practical Course in Harmony_ is surely justified, and indeed it was not long before Rimsky himself was offering encouragement to the young Stravinsky, whose music ('Storm Cloud' perhaps included) he saw for the first time in the summer of 1902. But he was not yet ready to offer tuition, even to the son of the great opera singer: for the time being, Stravinsky continued his studies under Vasily Kalafati, another Rimsky pupil, who (according to Stravinsky's later recollection) demanded 'the usual exercises' of him and was 'scornful of the \"interesting new chords\" that young composers care about most'. One may surmise that it was for the painstaking but conservative Kalafati that Stravinsky composed the Scherzo in G minor for piano (1902) \u2013 an undistinguished work, somewhat reminiscent of Tchaikovsky, which occupies but a single page of manuscript.\n\n**At home with the Korsakovs**\n\nAfter his father's death in November 1902, the Rimsky-Korsakov circle became Stravinsky's home from home, not least because relations with his mother became strained on account of her disapproval of his musical activities. He had got to know the fifty-eight-year-old composer's sons, Andrey and Vladimir, at university, and became a regular attender of the fort-nightly musical evenings held in the Rimsky-Korsakov household. Stravinsky's role in these gatherings seems often to have been that of court jester: he later recalled that 'In my University years . . . I composed many comic songs', and these were certainly appreciated by V. V. Yastrebtsev, a devotee of the musical evenings, who noted on 6 March 1903 (OS) that 'Stravinsky entertained us with very charming and witty musical jokes of his own invention'. Also into this category fall the so-called Cantata for the sixtieth birthday of Rimsky-Korsakov (1904) and the song 'Conductor and Tarantula' (1906). Another song, 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War' (1904), acquired in Taruskin's view particular significance as a souvenir of these early days for the aged Stravinsky, containing as it does a multitude of references to his father's vocal repertoire \u2013 and yet it is also reasonable to observe that the song's stylistic borrowings from Musorgsky, Borodin and others (including Rimsky-Korsakov himself) were in the first instance part and parcel of a humorous approach taken for the benefit of an audience steeped in knowledge of the musical originals. With hindsight, this aspect of Stravinsky's musical apprentice years seems rather more exciting, by and large, than the fruits of his formal studies. Yet at the time it must have been more important to him that his serious work was successful. The Piano Sonata in F\u266f minor (1903\u20134) and Symphony in E\u266d (1905\u20137) record this stage in his development.\n\nThe Sonata marked the culmination of his work with Kalafati, though according to Stravinsky it also incorporated 'many suggestions by Rimsky-Korsakov'. In contrast to the older styles parodied in 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War', its principal models were the contemporary Russian heavyweights Glazunov and Skryabin. In Taruskin's words, 'The sonata's high-gloss finish is little short of amazing only five or six years after the _Tarantella_ ', yet in old age the composer could not \u2013 or more likely _would_ not \u2013 recall his youthful work in favourable terms, famously calling it 'fortunately lost' and feigning a belief that it had been an 'inept imitation of late Beethoven'. Only the fact that the whereabouts of the manuscript were at that time (1962) unknown allowed Stravinsky to publish these comments unchallenged; but when the work resurfaced in Russia a few years later and was printed after the composer's death, it became clear that his characterisation of it had been false. The work is in four movements, the third and fourth of which are played without a pause \u2013 and, as Taruskin points out, both this feature and the tempo pattern of the four movements is taken from another sonata in F\u266f minor, Skryabin's Third (1898). But as one frequently finds in Glazunov's music, form and content seem to arise separately: in terms of its musical substance, Stravinsky's sonata seems little more than an imitation (inept or not) of Glazunov and Tchaikovsky. This was not, then, a student work engaging in parody of classical models so as to gain basic technical competence, but a serious attempt to work in the contemporary Russian manner.\n\nBy showing proficiency in the Glazunovian style, however superficially, Stravinsky was establishing himself in a way that promised to satisfy a deep emotional need. Glazunov was half a generation older than Stravinsky: precocious and fabulously gifted, he had responded to Rimsky's teaching by picking up the musical traits of his teacher's generation and deploying them in a fluent succession of works, many of which were cast in conventional forms. Though history has been unkind to Glazunov, his successful career was a beacon for the younger Rimsky pupils \u2013 far more so than that of the indolent Anatol Lyadov \u2013 and Rimsky evidently saw the makings of a musical dynasty in the succession from himself to Glazunov to those of Stravinsky's age. The prospect of admittance to this dynasty at the head of the 'young Korsakovians' was alluring for Stravinsky, whose own family relationships were far from close, except with his younger brother Goury.\n\nThe Symphony in E\u266d promised to be the work with which Stravinsky would establish these credentials. Completed under Rimsky's tuition, it was his designated Op. 1 \u2013 though it took so long to appear that Op. 2 was actually finished first. Stravinsky's private lessons with Rimsky took place weekly, beginning in the autumn of 1905 and ending only with the older man's death in June 1908; prior to this, in the summer of 1904, Stravinsky had studied orchestration with Rimsky \u2013 who used the simple but profound technique of giving pupils his own music in short score and, in due course, having them compare their orchestrations with his. The Symphony was, in fact, sketched between these dates, probably during the first nine months or so of 1905. Perhaps Stravinsky thought he could make quick progress on his own: the account he gives in his _Autobiography_ of his studies with Rimsky-Korsakov seems intended to suggest a constructive and well-ordered progression. However, as Taruskin has established, when Rimsky saw the draft of the Symphony, he instigated far-reaching changes. These affected the first movement in particular: Stravinsky's stilted opening theme was over the course of several laborious attempts turned into something that at least had the potential to set in train a symphonic argument, though both the theme and the movement as a whole remain far from inspired, even in the final version. Comparing this music with Glazunov's (particularly his Eighth Symphony, in the same key) serves to emphasise that the older man was a master of the idiom he had established \u2013 his ear, his technique and his orchestration far outshine Stravinsky's. None the less, many passages in the young composer's Op. 1 possess considerable charm \u2013 the second movement, a scherzo, is the high point \u2013 and this was a quality appreciated by its earliest audiences. What is more, Glazunov's expressed opinion was that the work was 'very nice, very nice'.\n\n**A voice of his own**\n\nIn guiding Stravinsky's revision of the Symphony in E\u266d , Rimsky-Korsakov seems to have constantly encouraged Stravinsky to improve on his own weakest inventions by following specific models. Thus, it might at first sight seem strange to read in Yastrebtsev's reminiscences, in an entry dated 4 November 1907 (OS), that:\n\nIn Rimsky-Korsakov's opinion, Igor Stravinsky's talent has not yet become sufficiently defined. For example, in the fourth movement of his First Symphony, he is still imitating Glazunov too much, and in his new songs (to words by Gorodetsky) he has embraced modernism too zealously.\n\nWhat are we to make of this? For one thing, it confirms the inordinately slow progress of Stravinsky's Symphony, which had only recently been completed, for the Gorodetsky songs were to be his Op. 6 \u2013 and that is not to say that all the intervening works had been finished either! Above all, it indicates that Stravinsky was, now, by no means Rimsky's star pupil in the older man's eyes, though he might at one stage have seemed the natural leader of the 'young Korsakovians'. This position had been taken over in the meanwhile by Maximilian Steinberg (1883\u20131946), whose role as the 'creative heir' of Rimsky-Korsakov was symbolised by his marriage to Rimsky's daughter, Nadezhda, in the summer of 1908; within a few months, Glazunov and Steinberg would be to the 'Korsakovians' what Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov had been before Rimsky's death. Glazunov certainly felt that Stravinsky had some basic deficiencies in ability and technique, but one wonders whether Rimsky might have kept faith with Stravinsky if he had been a quicker pupil.\n\nIn fact, despite the slow progress of his Symphony, Stravinsky continued with a sequence of assignments akin to those undertaken by composition students at the St Petersburg Conservatoire \u2013 which is to say that his Sonata and Symphony were to be followed by vocal music and opera. His Op. 2 was a cycle of three songs for mezzo-soprano and orchestra to words by Pushkin, _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ (1906). Once again the debt to Glazunov is inescapable \u2013 the opening of the first song seems to have been virtually lifted. Certainly this first song, and to some extent the second, come across today as more tender and successful essays than the Symphony in essentially the same contemporary Russian vein. But there is also a hint, in the unmistakable Wagnerisms of the third song, that Rimsky's ambivalence towards Stravinsky was beginning to be matched by the pupil's developing interest in styles beyond the models approved by his teacher. Indeed, the first of the Gorodetsky songs \u2013 the one which, in Rimsky's view, 'embraced modernism too zealously' \u2013 is striking in its expansion of Stravinsky's harmonic thinking. In response to the poet's highly charged religious-erotic image of a novice nun \u2013 a bell-ringer's daughter \u2013 lamenting her lost love at the cloister gates, the piano begins with a crazed imitation of pealing bells. The phrase leading to the first vocal entry is shown in Ex. 4.2: as the left hand descends through a cycle of perfect fourths, the busy right-hand figuration rises in contrary motion to suggest an alternation of dominant ninth chords and bitriadic combinations at a major third's distance (e.g. D major underpinned by B\u266d). The freedom of the harmonic progressions throughout the outer sections of the song is evidence that these advanced harmonic archetypes were merely a background to Stravinsky's invention; in contrast, the song's central section uses mock folksong to embrace a pastoral mood, still with religious-erotic overtones. This was certainly not music for a comfortable 'at home' with the Korsakovs.\n\n**Ex. 4.2** 'Spring', Op. 6, no. 1, bars 9\u201311\n\nThe second song \u2013 composed in August the following year, after Rimsky's death \u2013 confirms Stravinsky's modernism by exploring a musical vein that one finds a few years later in some of the early songs of, for example, Louri\u00e9 and Prokofiev. Wistful in tone, it is less strikingly adventurous than the first song but oozes confidence on the part of the composer. Often the music focuses on a pedal note, and many of its haunting sonorities result from adding a minor sixth to the major triad, or a raised leading note to the minor triad. Sometimes these combinations are reversed, and in general the use of major harmony as _variant_ of the minor \u2013 developing the mood without relieving it \u2013 lends the music a particular piquancy. Strangely, the Four Studies for piano, Op. 7, which seem to have been completed in the autumn of 1908, are backward-looking by comparison: their reliance on Skryabin's early style as a model is far from convincing.\n\nAlmost hidden amidst Stravinsky's early output of shorter pieces is one which sounds uncannily like something he might have written twenty years later: the _Pastorale_ for vocalise (wordless voice) and piano. This brief song without words was composed for Nadezhda Rimsky-Korsakov in October 1907. Its engaging lightweight manner and lack of an opus number tell us that it belongs with Stravinsky's extra-curricular music \u2013 the 'very charming and witty musical jokes of his own invention' that amused Yastrebtsev and the others. Taruskin suggests that the _Pastorale_ was written in playful imitation of some of the harpsichord music in French Baroque style that Stravinsky probably heard Wanda Landowska perform in St Petersburg earlier that year. Many commentators have remarked on the apparently prophetic nature of this piece: certainly it gives food for the thought that in working his way towards his neoclassical manner through the humour of _Renard_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ and _Pulcinella_ , the later Stravinsky may to some extent have returned, virtually unnoticed, to that side of his earliest musical personality with which the 'Korsakovians' were most comfortable.\n\n_**Scherzo fantastique**_ **, Op. 3 (1907\u20138),** _**Fireworks**_ **, Op. 4 (1908)**\n\nIn the two orchestral works that followed the belated completion of his Symphony, Stravinsky achieved an early plateau of style that points firmly in the direction of _The Firebird_. Both the _Scherzo fantastique_ and _Fireworks_ are showy, programmatic pieces, with strong rhythmic characterisation and a sense of energetic movement. Unless one imagines that _The Firebird_ came from nowhere, then these two scores, particularly the _Scherzo_ , must be understood as the ballet's musico-dramatic point of departure. But it suited Stravinsky's purpose to disguise this: he sought to cover up, or at least occlude, the programmatic basis of the _Scherzo fantastique_ in Maeterlinck's book _La Vie des abeilles_ (The life of bees) even before the work's first performance early in 1909 \u2013 though the inspiration he took from the play is evident from his letters to Rimsky-Korsakov.\n\nWhereas critics in the decades around the turn of the twentieth century argued endlessly about the comparative merits of 'absolute' and 'programme' music, many composers hedged their bets, as the young Stravinsky did here. The music was composed with a programmatic basis but presented to the public under a classically generic musical title ('scherzo'), qualified by the suggestion that the work embodies 'fantasy' \u2013 which was evidently a quality to be admired \u2013 and without divulging the composer's reliance on an existing source. It was a method which also removed the obligation to give credit to the author of his inspiration \u2013 in this case, Maurice Maeterlinck. None the less, the _Scherzo fantastique_ was firmly associated with bees a few years later when it served as the score for a ballet entitled _Les Abeilles_ that was produced at the Paris Op\u00e9ra in 1917. On this occasion, since neither Stravinsky nor Maeterlinck had given his permission for the adaptation, both could appear to be outraged. The score was then published with a prefatory note that seems to correspond with the ballet's scenario \u2013 which was derived, as it happens, from Maeterlinck's _La Vie des abeilles_ \u2013 but again without acknowledging Maeterlinck explicitly.\n\nAfter all this, one can perhaps forgive the older Stravinsky's attempts to deny that Maeterlinck's book had ever played a part in the work. Taruskin has characteristically sought to restore the original detail to this picture, by outlining correspondences between the book and the music, but so strong is the musical imagery that even the score's prefatory note \u2013 later disowned by Stravinsky \u2013 is enough to guide the listener. After a brief introduction, the busy string music that opens the first main section of the work is easy to associate with the buzzing of bees around the hive. As the music develops, Stravinsky unveils many of the characteristic devices that would reappear in _The Firebird_. Chief amongst these is the artificial scale of alternating whole tones and semitones, known today as the octatonic scale: for example C\u2013D\u266d \u2013E\u266d \u2013E\u2013F\u266f\u2013 G\u2013A\u2013B\u266d (other versions begin on C\u266f and D, but the next higher example, on E , turns out to be exactly the same as the version on C, owing to the internal symmetry of the scale itself). The word 'octatonic' could, in principle, be applied to _any_ eight-note collection, but present-day usage signals the fact that in the intervening years this particular scale has come to be so widely shared by musicians that no other eight-note configuration is likely to be confused with it. In the early twentieth century, on the other hand, non-diatonic collections with a well-defined musical character tended to go under various names alluding to their use by certain composers, or their supposed origins in non-Western musical exotica. In Russian musical circles of this time, what we now call the octatonic collection was known as the 'Rimsky-Korsakov scale'; and by this was understood not only the bald eight notes but also a whole repertoire of usages, most if not all of which were imbibed by his pupils through his harmony text. Indeed, other enharmonic devices were included under this rubric, the common feature being the division of the octave into equal intervals: two tritones, three major thirds or four minor thirds. The use by Debussy and other French composers of the scale of six equal whole tones was a further step in this direction.\n\nIt was typical of Rimsky-Korsakov that those passages in his works that invoked these devices tended to use them relentlessly in sequence, and that they would be set against a generally more conventional background of the kind that was absorbed and developed by Glazunov. Thus, in Rimsky's music, they generally remain tricks of the trade: the idea of bringing them into a modernist framework was not what he had in mind. Nor indeed was it yet in Stravinsky's, although the ingredients were in place. Keeping contrasted elements separate was something he would famously return to in the block-like architecture of, say, the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , but at this stage in his career it served to delay a linguistic synthesis that would become fully evident for the first time in _The Rite of Spring_. The octatonic scale includes many conventional sonorities \u2013 four each of major and minor triads, dominant, diminished and half-diminished sevenths \u2013 and it was common practice to cycle through these in upward or downward sequence.\n\nStravinsky had learned the additional effectiveness that was to be gained from combining upward and downward sequences within a complex orchestral texture, as shown in Ex. 4.3: here the horns (later trumpets) move upwards in tritones, whilst the flutes and celesta move downwards in figures that outline successive major triads. Other sources are apparent in the contrasting middle section of the work, particularly Wagner in his _Meistersinger_ vein. The work, then, is something of an odd mixture, but as even the aged Stravinsky was forced to acknowledge, it is 'a promising opus three'.\n\n**Ex. 4.3** _Scherzo fantastique_ , fig. 7\n\nIn his dedication of _Fireworks_ to Maximilian and Nadezhda Steinberg, one can see Stravinsky with his Op. 4 still clinging to a place in the Korsakov circle. The work is both shorter, and simpler in structure, than the _Scherzo fantastique_ : its hyperactive outer sections buzz even more than the _Scherzo_ 's 'bees', and in much the same style \u2013 though here perhaps it is the incessant spitting and popping of small incendiary devices that is meant. As in the _Scherzo_ , much of the substance lies in the orchestration: indeed, when Stravinsky illustrates louder explosions, rockets and so forth, the effect is so onomatopoeic as to be almost comical. The central section of the work again moves beyond the Rimskyan orbit, this time looking not towards Germany but to France, and specifically to Paul Dukas, a composer whose influence was far wider among his contemporaries than his present-day profile might lead one to expect. The opening figures of his tone-poem _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_ (1897) clearly provided a model for the slower music that interrupts the fireworks (fig. 9 of the score); the scintillating yet still relaxed music that follows (Ex. 4.4) is perhaps the most accomplished musical passage Stravinsky had composed to date.\n\n**Ex. 4.4** _Fireworks_ , fig. 13\n\nStravinsky had earlier interrupted the composition of _Fireworks_ to compose a short orchestral piece in memory of Rimsky-Korsakov. Completed within the space of a few weeks after Rimsky's death in the summer of 1908, the _Chant fun\u00e8bre_ , Op. 5, was performed after some delay on 17 January 1909 (O.S.) and reviewed sympathetically in the press. Assessing extant accounts of Stravinsky's work in the context of other funereal tributes by Glazunov and Steinberg (together with an earlier example by Rimsky-Korsakov himself), Taruskin has suggested that the _Chant fun\u00e8bre_ is likely to have quoted both from the Orthodox liturgy and from Rimsky's own work. The combined presentation of these two elements \u2013 liturgical chanting and melodic tributes \u2013 was indeed described by Stravinsky in his _Autobiography_ : 'all the solo instruments of the orchestra filed past the tomb of the master in succession, each laying down its own melody as its wreath against a deep background of tremolo murmurings simulating the vibrations of bass voices singing in chorus'. Unfortunately, the music of the _Chant fun\u00e8bre_ was never published, and the subsequent disappearance of the manuscript sources leaves us with no way of knowing very much about a piece that Stravinsky in old age was to recall as 'the best of my works before the _Firebird_ , and the most advanced in chromatic harmony'.\n\n_**The Nightingale**_ **, Act 1 (1908\u20139)**\n\nAfter vocal music in Stravinsky's student curriculum came opera, in the shape of a proposed three-act work based on Hans Christian Andersen's tale _The Nightingale_. As one might have expected, Stravinsky's work was conceived firmly within the genre represented by Rimsky-Korsakov's fantastical operas \u2013 so much so that Stravinsky and his librettist, Stepan Mitusov, actually developed their scenario under the direct tutelage of Vladimir Bel'sky, who had written the librettos of Rimsky's most recent operas, _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh_ (1903\u20135) and _The Golden Cockerel_ (1906\u20137). The outline of Andersen's story is well known: the Emperor of China, having learned of the beauty of the nightingale's voice, sends his courtiers to fetch the bird to his palace so that it may sing to him, but is then persuaded by a group of Japanese envoys to prefer the warblings of a mechanical bird which they present to him; as he lies mortally ill, however, the Emperor finds strength through his renewed appreciation of the loyal nightingale, and through this change of heart he is saved from certain death.\n\nAlthough it seems likely that Stravinsky was able to show some musical sketches to Rimsky before the latter's death, the composition of the first act did not begin in earnest until the latter part of 1908, and was completed in Ustilug in 1909, before Diaghilev's urgent commission for _The Firebird_ caused the opera to be put to one side and changed the course of Stravinsky's career for ever. In line with principles developed by Rimsky in his own operas, there is an underlying duality in the music of the _The Nightingale_ , Act 1. The exotic and the magical \u2013 personified in Stravinsky's opera by the Chinese courtiers and the nightingale's wondrous voice \u2013 are given chromatic music that frequently centres on the octatonic scale, whereas the down-to-earth human sphere \u2013 represented by the peasant fisherman \u2013 is associated with diatonic, folksong-like materials. Although this brief description risks oversimplifying a remarkably rich musical language, the basic distinction it outlines is useful to bear in mind as one traces Stravinsky's development from this point through the famous Diaghilev ballets. In _The Firebird_ , the fairy-tale characters inhabit a world of princesses, demons and magical creatures entirely in line with Rimskyan subject-matter and are treated accordingly; in _Petrushka_ , the puppet characters magically come to life against the backdrop of an Easter fair busy with humanity of all kinds, allowing these same musical archetypes to mingle and interact variously; in _The Rite of Spring_ , the scenario of a pagan fertility rite endows the human characters themselves with magical and mysterious qualities \u2013 a synthesis to which Stravinsky responds by transforming diatonic folksong material into that work's richly chromatic, often dissonant sound-world.\n\nWhilst the Rimskyan influence is certainly strong in _The Nightingale_ , other sources of Stravinsky's inspiration are also very apparent. As one might expect, the non-Rimskyan traits in _The Nightingale_ 's music are most evident in those sections which, though chromatic, are not octatonic. Most famous among these is the very opening (Ex. 4.5a), which is akin to the opening of Debussy's 'Nuages' (from _Nocturnes_ , 1897\u20139, Ex. 4.5b) \u2013 though this in turn appears to have been lifted more or less directly from a song in Musorgsky's cycle _Sunless_ (1874, Ex. 4.5c). As Taruskin has noted in detail, Debussy's work also seems to be the source of some of Stravinsky's orchestration in the opening pages of the opera. Further points of reference beyond Stravinsky's earlier models are Tcherepnin \u2013 whose style Taruskin identifies as providing Stravinsky with a musical entr\u00e9e into the artistic circles where he would shortly find Diaghilev \u2013 and some very obvious debts to Skryabin. The Skryabin in question, however, was not at all that of the somewhat insipid early- and middle-period music Stravinsky had drawn on in composing his Piano Sonata and Four Studies, but the theo-sophically charged and musically advanced Skryabin of _The Poem of Ecstasy_ (1905\u20138). By this time it is clear that Stravinsky was abreast of his older contemporary's most adventurous musical developments \u2013 a familiarity, even admiration, that would last at least until Skryabin's death in 1915. In _The Nightingale_ the influence is fresh and undigested: towards the end of the nightingale's first burst of song, the music of the orchestra is so close to a passage in _Ecstasy_ as to suggest plagiarism (see Ex. 4.6). In contrast, the diatonic Fisherman's song \u2013 a recurring musical frame that characterises the rustic scene inhabited by 'simple' people who treasure the nightingale as a living example of nature's magic \u2013 represents the other pole of the human\u2013 magical, diatonic\u2013chromatic double axis on which the opera's approach to musical dramaturgy is based.\n\n**Ex. 4.5**\n\na Stravinsky, _The Nightingale_ , opening\n\nb Debussy, 'Nuages' ( _Nocturnes_ ), opening\n\nc Musorgsky, 'The useless, noisy day has ended' ( _Sunless_ ), bars 16\u201317\n\n**Ex. 4.6** Stravinsky, _The Nightingale_ , Act 1, fig. 23\n\n_**The Firebird**_ **(1909\u201310)**\n\nStravinsky's future was sealed at the first performance of the _Scherzo fantastique_ , which was given under the baton of Alexander Siloti on 24 January 1909 (OS) in St Petersburg. The impressario Sergei Diaghilev (1872\u20131929) was present and, like the conductor and several critics, was evidently impressed by Stravinsky's score. Diaghilev had been a central figure in the artistic circles that surrounded and supported his journal _Mir isskustva_ (The World of Art) for more than a decade; he had honed his extraordinary talent as an impressario in the annual presentations of Russian arts, music, opera and ballet to Parisian audiences that started in 1906. In these he used the best talent available to bring Russian art based on Russian folk culture to Western audiences: even the inevitable aesthetic compromises implied by such an enterprise produced works significantly different from the self-consciously Westernised art of, say, Tchaikovsky.\n\nDiaghilev needed some orchestrations for his next season, i.e. the summer of 1909, and he commissioned Stravinsky and Steinberg, among others, to provide them. He intended his creative team \u2013 flexible in its membership, but with some favourite key players: the choreographer Mikhail Fokine and the designer Alexander Benois, for example \u2013 to put together a ballet based on the folk legends of the firebird and the evil magician Kastchei for the 1910 season. The music was to be composed by Tcherepnin, who actually began work on the score before withdrawing. At this point, Diaghilev commissioned the score instead from Lyadov, whose recent tone-poems _Baba-yaga_ (1904), _The Enchanted Lake_ and _Kikimora_ (both 1909) give ample evidence that he could, in principle, have composed something along the lines that Stravinsky would eventually provide. But Lyadov in turn, and not untypically for him, failed to deliver \u2013 he may never even have responded to Diaghilev's letter \u2013 and Diaghilev, with time fast running out, had to look elsewhere. It seems likely that others were sounded out; likely, too, that Stravinsky, by coincidence, showed the completed first act of _The Nightingale_ to Diaghilev at around this time in an attempt to interest him in that work, and that the two of them may have discussed the 'firebird' project at that stage. At any rate, Stravinsky began work on the score in the autumn of 1909, possibly making use of material originally sketched for Act 2 of _The Nightingale_ , and shortly afterwards received the formal commission for it.\n\nThe commission made Stravinsky's difficulties with Korsakovians irrelevant and allowed him to escape from reliance on their support, bringing him firmly into a new circle of colleagues, many of whom collaborated on _The Firebird_. Among these, in addition to Fokine, Benois and Diaghilev himself, were the folklorist Alexei Remizov, the designer Leon Bakst and the painter Alexander Golovine. The scenario was adapted from a number of folk tales: in the garden of Kastchei's castle, the firebird's beautiful flight attracts the attention of the prince Ivan Tsarevich, who chases the bird, entering inadvertently into Kastchei's domain. The firebird asks to retain her freedom in exchange for a feather, which will bring him luck. As he is about to leave, thirteen princesses enter the garden, where they play by night with the golden apples that are to be found there. As dawn rises they rush away, and the thirteenth princess, with whom the prince is now in love, warns him not to follow, or Kastchei will turn him to stone like twelve other knights before him. Undeterred, he enters the kingdom of Kastchei, and is inevitably captured; remembering the feather, he summons the firebird, who entrances Kastchei and his subjects and lulls them to sleep. Then the firebird shows the prince an egg, which if broken will kill Kastchei; as he does so, the monstrous kingdom disappears, the twelve suitors return to life and Ivan Tsarevich and his princess are united.\n\nThere are a number of recurring musical figures, the most pervasive of these being the motive that begins the work (see Ex. 4.7). This motive spans the tritone \u2013 an interval at the heart of Rimskyan exotic harmony \u2013 and is sufficiently malleable to find a place in octatonic, whole-tone and even diatonic contexts, according to the articulation of its chromatic group of three notes. It is frequently presented in conjunction with its inversion, and is often, though not exclusively, associated with the firebird herself. The prince is assigned folksong-like materials (some genuine folksongs are included), and the princesses also inhabit an essentially diatonic world, albeit with chromatic inflections. Kastchei and his fearful subjects are presented through the full panoply of post-Rimskyan chromaticisms and interval cycles, though their music is quite different in character from that of the also magical firebird \u2013 a distinction that is embodied above all in the orchestration. The firebird's dance provides a glittering example: the musical substance is again close to Skryabin's _Poem of Ecstasy_ in its core of dominantquality chords held above a bass that constantly moves by tritone, but the orchestration dances far more effectively than Skryabin's, with fluttering divisi strings, pointillistic high woodwind figures (including piccolo and D clarinet), brassy effects on horns and trumpets, artificial harmonics in the strings, three harps and celesta all making their mark. The entire dance is an intricate tapestry of small figures \u2013 it scarcely holds together in Stravinsky's own recording \u2013 which forms a remarkable complement to the sight of a prima ballerina apparently on the verge of flight.\n\n**Ex. 4.7** _The Firebird_ , opening motive\n\nThe music of _The Firebird_ is often heard in one of the three suites that Stravinsky drew from the score. The first was prepared in 1911 simply by extracting suitable sections; in 1919 more music from the ballet was included and the whole suite arranged for reduced forces; the 1945 suite is again longer and once more re-orchestrated. Stravinsky later said that these reorchestrations amounted to his own 'criticisms' of the original, but there is little doubt that his principal motive in making the 1945 suite, at least, was an attempt to earn royalties from a version that would be subject to international copyright laws. The ballet score deserves to be known in its entirety: some of the music that was omitted from the suites \u2013 notably the apparition of Kastchei's subjects, which has more than a hint of _The Rite_ about it \u2013 is at least as strong as the material that was included. Stravinsky himself, however, seems never to have conducted the full ballet score in live performance.\n\n_**Two Poems of Verlaine**_ **, Op. 9 (1910),** _**Two Poems of Bal'mont**_ **(1911),** _**Zvezdolikiy**_ **(1911\u201312)**\n\nSome comment on the smaller works composed at the time of the Diaghilev ballet scores is in order. The two pairs of songs to words by Paul Verlaine (Op. 9, 1910) and Konstantin Bal'mont (1911) are less significant in Stravinsky's development than the Gorodetsky songs had been, but to some extent served as bridges respectively from _The Firebird_ to _Petrushka_ , and from _Petrushka_ to _The Rite_. The Verlaine songs developed Stravinsky's fluency in moving between the diatonic and chromatic spheres \u2013 the latter category frequently represented by chords of the ninth, giving the harmony a French flavour in keeping with the poetry. The Bal'mont settings, on the other hand, pursue the modernism of the first Gorodetsky song to a point where one can glimpse the combinations of tendril-like woodwind melodies against ostinato backgrounds that would feature so strongly in the slower dances of _The Rite_ ; indeed, the symbolism of Bal'mont's words seems to have been subordinated to this musical development.\n\nStanding between these settings and _The Rite_ itself is an imposing short work for male-voice chorus and large orchestra, also to words by Bal'mont. _Zvezdolikiy_ , together with _The Rite of Spring_ , represents Stravinsky's deepest involvement with the neo-Slavic symbolist movement represented not only by Gorodetsky and Bal'mont but most potently by his collaborator in _The Rite_ , Nicolas Roerich. The title of this work is generally translated into French as _Le Roi des \u00e9toiles_ and from there into English as _The King of the Stars_ ; the personage in question is the sun-god to whom the chosen maiden sacrifices herself in _The Rite of Spring_. The work opens with an octatonic\u2013 diatonic motto theme for unaccompanied voices (Ex. 4.8), which reappears in yet richer harmony, and in monumental orchestration for woodwind and brass, several times as the work proceeds. Stravinsky dedicated the score to Debussy, who accepted the dedication graciously while noting (correctly) that the music would be extraordinarily difficult to perform. Reminiscing about this in his seventies, Stravinsky suggested that _Zvezdolikiy_ 'remains in one sense my most \"radical\" and difficult composition'.\n\n**Ex. 4.8** _Zvezdoliki_ , motto theme\n\n_**The Nightingale**_ **, Acts 2 and 3 (1913\u201314),** _**The Song of the Nightingale**_ **(1917)**\n\nIn conclusion, we should note that when Stravinsky returned to _The Nightingale_ after working on the three famous Diaghilev ballets, he was inevitably faced with a problem of stylistic continuity. To some extent this was minimised by the change of scene from the Russian countryside (Act 1) to the Chinese court (Act 2), whose splendours would always have demanded a glittering musical response. This was something he could now provide on a more lavish scale than he might earlier have envisaged: the opera's second act bursts onto the stage with immense energy, and the music of the mechanical Japanese nightingale \u2013 which, perhaps surprisingly, bears little relation to the _Three Japanese Lyrics_ (1912\u201313) \u2013 is as intricate as clockwork itself. Stravinsky sought to preserve some musical connection with the first act by using the Fisherman's song as a concluding refrain to both Acts 2 and 3. It is stretching the point only a little to say that the extended gestation period of the _Nightingale_ music was not quite over even now, for a few years later still, in 1916\u201317, Stravinsky conjured from the score of the opera a symphonic poem, _The Song of the Nightingale_. The issue of the opera's stylistic fault-line was sidestepped in the symphonic poem by the simple expedient of basing it solely on the music of the second and third acts \u2013 though the Fisherman's song, in orchestral guise, ends the symphonic work also.\n\nOne illuminating aspect of the later acts of the opera, and thus also of the symphonic poem, can best be understood with reference to the extended gestation of another piece, the ballet _Les Noces_ , on which Stravinsky began work in 1914. This production was to have followed directly in line from _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ in being based on Russian folkloric custom \u2013 in this case a peasant wedding ceremony \u2013 and was also at first intended to extend Stravinsky's orchestral palette beyond even that of _The Rite_. Suffice it to say that war intervened, and that after a number of attempts to find a more modest but at the same time convincing medium for the music, Stravinsky eventually (in 1923) allowed _Les Noces_ to emerge with a characteristic scoring of voices, four pianos and percussion. This ensemble was far removed from the 'super- _Sacre_ ' orchestra he had at first imagined, and which Diaghilev would surely have given him in peacetime circumstances. The result is that the opening of Act 2 of _The Nightingale_ (and thus also of _The Song of the Nightingale_ ) remains the best indication we have of the immediate consequences of _The Rite_ for Stravinsky's orchestral technique. Thus, taken together, the opera and its companion-piece trace for us the young composer's journey from Korsakovian magic to the powerfully glittering modernism that was his to command by the time he left Russia for good.\n**5**\n\nKENNETH GLOAG\n\n**Russian rites:** _**Petrushka, The Rite of Spring**_ **and** _**Les Noces**_\n\nThe development of Stravinsky's musical language from _Petrushka_ through _The Rite of Spring_ to _Les Noces_ represents Stravinsky's emergence as a modernist composer. In these three works, definitive Russian subject-matter and content is articulated in an increasingly radical language. The expression of Stravinsky's Russian inheritance within the context of modernism \u2013 common ground shared by these three works \u2013 is the subject of this chapter.\n\n_**Petrushka**_\n\n_Petrushka_ , as is well known, was conceived in the aftermath of the success of _The Firebird_ and repeated the earlier work's collaborative context: it was written for Diaghilev's Ballets Russes. Following the public success of _The Firebird_ , _Petrushka_ provides what Richard Taruskin describes as 'Stravinsky's process of self-discovery'. This self-discovery takes the form of a recently acquired technical confidence in conjunction with a new-found modernism. Stephen Walsh has written that 'the emergence of Stravinsky as a modernist, with an individual manner unlike any other, can be dated with some precision to his early work on _Petrushka_ '. This 'individual manner' consists largely in the adaptation of borrowed materials, a process which immediately suggests a relationship between past and present and sets up points of reference. At the same time, however, the redefinition of this material generates a sense of distance from its original context. This is evident in the opening moments of the score. The initial gesture of the first of the four tableaux consists of the 'Street vendors' cries' in the flutes, a gesture that is directly invoked by the ballet scenario. This, the first of many borrowings and recollections, is defined by the rising fourth between A and D, but this gesture forms part of a common currency rather than reflecting a specific source. As Taruskin suggests, 'There is no reason to think that Stravinsky would have needed to consult a scholarly tome to obtain appropriate vendors' cries for setting the fairgrounds scene at the opening of the first tableau.' In extra-musical terms, this simple opening gesture evokes the fairground context of the ballet scenario, while its musical function is to establish D as the focal point of the harmony. This is supported by the D minor key signature. At fig. 1 the cellos join the texture with a theme that begins on B\u266e and rises through D to E. While this rising gesture echoes the initial rise of A to D, this focus on B\u266e and E goes some way to undermining the implied stability of D minor. The co-existence of the two thematic statements, along with the two distinct points of implied harmonic focus, are an early indication of juxtaposition, but it also challenges the seeming simplicity of the initial A\u2013D gesture by putting it in an unfamiliar context. Such moments help generate the ongoing sense of tension that pervades the work.\n\nAt fig. 2 the first overt reference to a recognised folk-based source occurs, with the lower strings presenting a thematic idea derived from the 'Song of the Volochnobiki', a folksong with which Stravinsky would have been familiar from Rimsky-Korsakov's published collection, and the first of several such references in this first tableau (Ex. 5.1). As Ex. 5.1 demonstrates, the lower strings focus on G, signifying a departure from D and providing a point of textural contrast to the flute of the 'Street vendors' cries'. This new focus on G cannot be viewed as a modulation from the initial D; neither pitch is surrounded by any sort of functional harmonic movement that could be equated with the conventions of the tonal tradition, though they do enjoy a sense of priority that provides a certain reflection of that tradition. These thematic and textural juxtapositions provide the first evidence of Stravinsky's concern with a quite basic formal discontinuity, which is reinforced by the return of the 'Street vendors' cries' (fig. 2+3, flutes) before the more extended realisation of the folk-based material from fig. 2 on its return at fig. 3.\n\n**Ex. 5.1** _Petrushka_ , first tableau, fig. 2\n\nThese opening moments can be seen to put in place certain factors that are paradigmatic for the work as a whole: formal, textural and thematic juxtapositions, the focus on specific pitches rather than on functional tonal relationships, the redefinition of historical materials. These factors, both in isolation and in interaction with each other, substantiate the definition of this music as identifiably modernist. They reflect the dislocation between Stravinsky's relationship to inherited Russian tradition and the context within which he was now working, though a line cannot be drawn between the two. What is most notably radical about this music is the extent to which the modernity of the material is formed on an appropriation and reinterpretation of the past.\n\nThe second tableau confirms the paradigm described above, but here there is no overt borrowing of identifiable historical material (Russian folksong and popular elements). The absence of such material tends to emphasise the modernity of this section of the score and goes some way to differentiating it from the work as a whole. But, as Taruskin's analysis demonstrates, the entire tableau can be analysed through reference to octatonic collections, a construct which can be seen to form an integral part of Stravinsky's Russian inheritance.\n\nThe opening moments of this tableau provide the most notable and widely discussed event in the work, with the collision between C major and F\u266f major triads providing a moment of dramatic tension, as well as a unique and significant structural event. It is the C major element that is established in the eight-bar introduction, which effectively resolves onto the C major triad (Ex. 5.2a). However, at fig. 95 the C and F\u266f triads are sounded simultaneously, in a moment that has often been used to illustrate the notion of polytonality (Ex. 5.2b). In a seminal essay, 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky', Arthur Berger demonstrates that both these elements can easily be subsumed within a single octatonic collection; the implications of such an interpretation are treated extensively by both van den Toorn and Taruskin. However, this interpretation, based on hearing the two elements as emerging from a common source \u2013 while it does dispense with the dubious concept of polytonality \u2013 tends to ignore the unarguable tension that results from the individual identities of the elements and the collision between them, the significance of which is extra-musical. As the tableau unfolds the C and F\u266f major triads exert an ongoing influence on the surrounding material. Indeed, their relationship seems to be of precisely the sort to which Stravinsky was referring in an often-quoted remark about polarity:\n\n**Ex. 5.2** _Petrushka_ , second tableau a\n\nour chief concern is not so much what is known as tonality as what one might term the polar attraction of sound, of an interval, or even a complex of tones . . . it is easy to see that the drawing together and separation of poles of attraction in a way determine the respiration of music.\n\nThe subsequent musical material is largely defined by C and F\u266f as 'poles of attraction', with the music gravitating towards one or the other of these two poles or, in some instances, both. Whether or not one chooses to hear these poles as situated within an octatonic framework, what is most relevant is that these triads \u2013 whose identity reflects past conventions and traditions \u2013 are at one and the same time octatonic subsets and residual emblematic reflections of common-practice tonality. They are now conceptually distinct from the functions and purpose that gave a precise meaning to such elements within an earlier tonal context.\n\nThe tableau subdivides into four sections. The first, as already indicated, is defined initially by the clarification of C at fig. 94+3, with the working out of C and F\u266f extending to fig. 101+4. At fig. 102 there is a direct change of texture and the introduction of a D major key signature, though the focus on D that is implied by the key signature and the repetitions of the D/A dyad in the piano part is subverted by the repetition of G\u266f in the upper range of the piano in conjunction with the piccolo. As in the first tableau, changes of texture are significant in the simultaneous confirmation and denial of a pitch centre. At fig. 104 there is another sudden change of texture and the introduction of a key signature of one sharp; the extended repetition of E in the bass indicates an E minor tonality. However, as with the previous tonal implications, there is no sense of tonal progression or preparation. After a great deal of movement the music finally arrives on F\u266f (at fig. 118+2) as the concluding event of the tableau. These four points can now be seen to have punctuated the tableau, the most dramatic changes of texture coinciding with a new focus on a specific pitch. As Taruskin's analysis shows clearly, they combine to form a 'progression' from C through D and E to F\u266f:\n\nAlthough this chain of moments of focus could be conceived as providing a source of unification for the tableau, the fact that each moment exists in its own right rather than as a direct consequence of the previous moment subverts this possibility. We see and hear this chain as providing a path and, by implication, a sense of coherent structure across a series of largely discontinuous moments, rather than as forming points of connection that draw all the moments together within a unified whole.\n\nIn the third tableau, material is absorbed from a distinctly different source; here Stravinsky borrows from the waltzes of Joseph Lanner. This now complicates the process of borrowing, which, up to this point, has been concerned specifically with Russian folk-based material. Nevertheless, the Russianness of the previous borrowings helps lend a sense of 'otherness' to this moment, with a wonderful sense of irony which is effective at this particular stage of the ballet scenario. This moment of otherness relates back to the earlier challenge of tonal function. In this instance, although the sound world of the Lanner waltz is seen as the 'other' in relation to the Russian context, the Russian identity itself is challenged through its close proximity to the very different material of the Lanner waltzes.\n\nThe fourth and final tableau provides a return to specifically Russian materials; here Taruskin has identified six specific borrowings from folk sources. Perhaps the most striking example is the melody played by the oboe in the 'Wet-nurses' dance' (see Ex. 5.3). This is one of the most literal uses of a folk melody in the work. Although there is a distinct sense of melody and accompaniment, Stravinsky surrounds the melody with an orchestral texture which is rich in detail and motion. The sense of movement implied by the orchestration is, however, effectively suspended by repetitions of A (in the cello) and C (in the viola) as the bass of the texture, and the harmony is, in effect, static. The texture is further complicated by the fact that the folk melody, though set quite literally and thus immediately identifiable, is nevertheless subjected to a process of fragmentation. The first statement (fig. 171\u2013171+2) breaks off at fig. 172, the horn enters at fig. 173+1 with another, shorter, fragment of the melody, and it is not until fig. 174+2 that the melody is finally expanded, both durationally and texturally.\n\n**Ex. 5.3** Folk source for the melody in _Petrushka_ , 'Wet-nurses' dance'\n\nAlthough in his analysis of the second tableau Taruskin demonstrates the importance of the octatonic collection, van den Toorn's discussion of the work makes it clear that it is possible to hear large sections from other parts of the score as being basically diatonic. The 'Danse russe' from the first tableau, for example, is clearly defined through a diatonic framework, while at the same time generating its own internal sense of polarity. This will become clear through the consideration of Ex. 5.4a and Ex. 5.4b, which provides a reduction of the beginning and concluding harmonic events of the 'Danse russe'.\n\n**Ex. 5.4**\n\nThe sense of polarity evident within this section of the score is generated by the large-scale shift from the initial vertical harmony F, G, A, B, D \u2013 the diatonic triads of G major and D minor, with G clearly functioning as the 'root' of the harmony (Ex. 5.4a) \u2013 to the concluding vertical statement of C, E, G, and A, a harmony which is also based upon the convergence of triads, in this instance A minor and C major, though it is C which now clearly provides the harmonic bass (Ex. 5.4b). This shift implies a large-scale movement from G to C with the accompanying tonal implication of a progression from V to I in C. It is also possible, however, to see C and G as poles of attraction and the movement from beginning to end as a shift from one pole to another. This polarity, and its tonal implications, provide a framework for much of the diatonic-based material that is evident within this section of the score. Enclosed within the two poles provided by the initial and concluding vertical harmonies are other pitch centres that enjoy localised priority but which, as the music unfolds, exist in parentheses to the main poles of attraction.\n\nThese salient pitch centres, which are defined through their prominent placement in the texture and often reinforced through timbral and durational emphasis, are combined and interpreted in various ways, but they continually highlight the structural and syntactic significance of the diatonic collection (in Allen Forte's nomenclature, set 7-35), with the A\u266f at fig. 69 being the only element foreign to this collection. Not only does the projection of this set reinforce the significance of the diatonic collection, it is also a G major scale. This G implication can now be related to the implied shift from G to C as part of a general diatonic framework. The melodic contour of the 'Danse russe' is also of interest, as it illustrates Stravinsky's concern with the emphasis of specific pitches; in this instance the initial melodic material continually returns to B within a repeating circular melody (Ex. 5.4c). This melodic focus on B connects with the G-based harmonic context to reinforce the diatonic framework. Other sections of the score reflect a diatonic framework as well. For example, the trumpet solo from fig. 135 of the third tableau is built on an F major scale, eventually leading to the E\u266d of the Lanner waltz at fig. 140 (see Ex. 5.5).\n\n**Ex. 5.5** _Petrushka_ , figs. 134\u20137, trumpet solo\n\nAlthough these moments of sustained diatonicism suggest a certain conventional harmonic vocabulary, there is little direct relationship to functional tonality. While it is possible to suggest a harmonic model that effectively leads from the trumpet's F scale (fig. 134) via a dominant seventh (fig. 139) to the E\u266d tonality of the waltz (fig. 140), the aural realisation of such a model is subverted by the change of texture and the resulting sense of distance. Any hint of a conventional harmonic progression is further complicated by the temporary nature of the E\u266d , which is quickly followed by the change of key signature to B major at fig. 143 and the introduction of the second waltz segment.\n\nThis brief discussion of _Petrushka_ has centred on certain aspects that imply a questioning of the coherence of the work as a whole. The appropriation of borrowed material has a tendency to give a hybrid identity to the musical materials, while the juxtaposition of textural and pitch events tends to question continuity, as well as the unity of form and content that one would normally assume. But Stravinsky gives his diverse materials a sense of coherence. Even if there is little sense of formal continuity, one feels a logic and inevitability in the sequence of events, with even the most surprising departure seeming, retrospectively, to find its place in that sequence. If this seems to suggest a coherence founded as much on difference as on similarity, it is the mediation between the two \u2013 a process that emerged from the interplay of past and present and that is suggested by the ballet scenario \u2013 that becomes the defining characteristic of this highly individual work.\n\n_**The Rite of Spring**_\n\nThe third of Stravinsky's ballets for Diaghilev's Ballets Russes Paris seasons, _The Rite of Spring_ , enjoyed an initial reception which immediately situated the work at the forefront of the new challenging epoch of modernism. While much recent writing on the work has tended to reveal substantial continuities with the Russian tradition, the work still has a unique aura, one that resonates with images of innovation and change while simultaneously reconstituting a historical Russian mythology. Although this interaction between past and present was clearly present in _Petrushka_ , it is intensified in _The Rite of Spring_. As a result, _The Rite of Spring_ defines itself in relation to _Petrushka_ , but the relationship between the two works has to do with their differences from each other as much as with any pattern of stylistic continuity.\n\nThe distance between _Petrushka_ and _The Rite_ can be most clearly seen through a consideration of form and structure. _Petrushka_ is a sectionalised score, with each of the four tableaux containing clearly defined divisions and subdivisions that question the presumed continuity of musical form. _The Rite of Spring_ , while ultimately resisting the drift towards the incoherent, takes the preference of the discontinuous over the continuous to a new extreme. Each of the two parts of the ballet, 'Adoration of the earth' and 'The sacrifice', consists of several distinct parts, each of which has its own descriptive title and identity. This sectionalisation challenges any notion of continuity.\n\nThis is clearly evident from the opening moments of Part One of the score. The Introduction, with its evocative bassoon solo, states a readily identifiable folk source; the implications of this borrowing are discussed by both Morton and Taruskin (Ex. 5.6a and Ex. 5.6b). The 'Augurs of spring' section, which follows (fig. 13), provides a dramatic contrast to the slowmoving Introduction. After the initial bassoon solo, the texture of the Introduction expands and the movement increases, so that by fig. 11 the music seems to be moving towards a climax. However, the Introduction effectively ends when the music stops at fig. 12. Here Stravinsky inserts a short transitional passage that both recalls the bassoon solo and anticipates the 'Augurs of spring' ostinato pattern (fig. 12+3). While this moment of recollection and anticipation is effective, it tends to negate the impact of the 'Augurs of spring' and provides a connection \u2013 a continuity \u2013 between the two sections.\n\n**Ex. 5.6a** Folk source for the opening melody of _The Rite of Spring_\n\n**Ex. 5.6b** _The Rite of Spring_ , opening bassoon melody\n\nThe 'Augurs of spring', with the famous chord combining F\u266d major and a dominant seventh chord built on E\u266d , is generally accepted as being the first musical idea Stravinsky put down for the work. The significance of this section is in its repeated statements of this chord, which establish the importance of repetition and the harmonic stasis that results. Although the Introduction and the 'Augurs of spring' are sharply contrasting in character, a sense of harmonic stasis was present already in the earlier section. The initial bassoon melody revolves around A and C, with the first accompaniment consisting of C\u266f rising to D in the horn. It is not until fig. 7 that an effective bass to this fluid yet static material emerges. At this point the solo cello has a repeated C, which is later replaced by the sustained B in the double bass at fig. 8. Following the sudden change of texture at fig. 9, B is now repeated as the bass of the texture (fig. 10, double bass) and continues towards fig. 12 and the recollection of the bassoon solo. These three pitches \u2013 C, B , B \u2013 provide moments of localised focus and reference and indicate a certain harmonic context, but it is difficult to identify a specific function for them within some larger progression. B is not the goal of a linear motion that began with C; it is merely the point on which the Introduction effectively stops.\n\nThe opening of Part Two (Introduction) reaffirms the idea of a static harmonic framework. The simple oscillation of harmonies prevents a forward momentum. Again there is a sense of focus on a specific pitch (D), which provides some degree of harmonic reference (see fig. 80ff). The main thematic idea of the section that follows, 'Mystic circles of the young girls' (fig. 80+2, fig. 81+1/2 etc.), is anticipated in the Introduction, but this seems to be more a repetition than a transformation. Although the second version is at a new pitch level, its identity remains intact. There is, however, a distinct change of function. In the Introduction, the first fragmentary statement of this material interrupts the static harmonic texture, and there is a clear sense of juxtaposition, with fig. 82 bringing a return to the texture of fig. 80. In contrast, in the 'Mystic circles' section, the material is expanded (but not necessarily transformed) into a recognisable melodic shape, which makes its folk-like quality more apparent.\n\nThe importance of contrast and juxtaposition is reinforced once again at the end of the 'Mystic circles' section, where the repeated chord of the famous concluding bar in 11/4 seems to bear very little relationship to either what has come before or what comes next. The following section, 'Glorification of the chosen one', is marked by a _vivo_ tempo indication, and the resulting sense of energy and momentum is in sharp contrast to the static nature of the opening moments of both the Introduction and the 'Mystic circles'. However, the latter concludes with an accelerando and an ascending scale passage, both of which seem to anticipate the section to come. The 11/4 bar interrupts this anticipation.\n\nThe opening of the 'Glorification of the chosen one' is marked by pitch repetitions; these produce a static harmonic bass, in contrast to the sense of momentum that is implied by both the tempo and the orchestration. Here it is A that is repeated as the bass, but the focus on G elsewhere in the texture combines with this to create a distinct image of a dominant seventh harmony on A (a harmonic configuration that can be understood to originate from the octatonic collection; see Ex. 5.7). However, given the radical nature of both context and material here, it is no surprise that this harmonic implication does not progress to a resolution on D. Rather, it is repeated throughout the section without any sense of movement or progression, and the next section, 'Evocation of the ancestors', focuses on D\u266f rather than D\u266e as the sustained bass of a new texture.\n\n**Ex. 5.7** _The Rite of Spring_ , 'Glorification of the chosen one', figs. 104\u20135\n\nGiven the heightened use of juxtaposition and discontinuity, clearly the question of closure is rendered somewhat problematic. This is evident from the final moments of both Part One and Part Two. The conclusion to Part One is defined by the sudden cessation of the music during a crescendo, but this signifies neither harmonic arrival nor closure. The material simply stops on a vertical harmony, seemingly at random, a gesture which suggests interruption rather than closure. While this provides a dramatic, accumulative and therefore climactic gesture, the ending of Part Two seems to provide a rather arbitrary concluding gesture to the work as whole, providing neither the drama of interruption nor the satisfaction of resolution.\n\nAlthough it is entirely feasible to accept _The Rite of Spring_ as defined through these sudden changes of texture and juxtapositions of material, and therefore to consider the resulting discontinuity on its own terms, particularly as this can relate to the wider fragmentary nature of modernist culture, there has always been, and perhaps always will be, a seemingly irresistible impulse to seek out possible underlying consistencies and continuities that could bring the work together and reduce the significance of the discontinuous to the level of the musical surface. This impulse, somewhat paradoxically, emphasises the extent to which the 'urge to fragmentation' is ultimately resisted in much modernist culture and thought. The search for consistency leads van den Toorn to state that 'the vocabulary of _The Rite_ consists in large part of 0\u20132 whole-step reiterations, (0 2 3 5) tetrachords, major and minor triads, dominant-seventh chords, and 0\u201311 or majorseventh vertical interval spans'. All of these constructs can be generated from an octatonic collection. Thus, this suggestion provides an octatonic consistency which, by implication, resonates with the work's Russian background. Taruskin shares this perspective with van den Toorn and, following an extended survey of the work and its background, revisits the problems surrounding the absence of a harmonic and/or thematic unity, concluding that:\n\nThis harmonic cell [0 5 11 / 0 6 11] functions in _The Rite_ as another veritable _Grundgestalt_. It is in fact the closest thing one can nominate to a global unifier of this tonally enigmatic score. And such a nominee is indeed an analytical necessity; for while no obvious surface harmony, no theme, no progression, no key can be said to unify _The Rite_ over its entire span, its tonal coherence and integrity are impressively evident to the naivest ear.\n\nThis configuration 0 5 11 / 0 6 11] is derived from the octatonic collection, consisting of the 'outer notes of the upper tetrachord plus the lowest note of the lower one: (0 6 11); or, reciprocally, the outer notes of the lower plus the topmost note of the higher: (0 5 11), the inversion'. Taruskin provides a convincing selection of examples to demonstrate the operation of this configuration in various contexts. Among these, his Ex. 12.31 (my [Ex. 5.8) provides an illustration of its linear deployment. But do his examples signify the existence of a _Grundgestalt_ , a concept and terminology appropriated from the theoretical vocabulary of Schoenberg and one that implies derivation and transformation as much as it does repetition? In this instance, it is clear that there is a certain process of repetition in operation, but this does not necessarily suggest that there is an ongoing development of this material across the work. While Taruskin indicates that any such consistency need not imply a unity, his passing reference to a 'tonal coherence' is surely provocative, suggesting as it does some form of tonal background to the work as a whole, a suggestion that raises fundamental questions concerning the most appropriate historical and theoretical location for the work.\n\n**Ex. 5.8** Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ (1996), Ex. 12.31\n\nThe tonal/atonal dichotomy, which is most clearly expressed in the polemical exchange between Taruskin and Forte, raises issues concerning the recurring themes of this brief discussion, which has tended to highlight seemingly simplistic binary oppositions such as unity/fragmentation, continuity/discontinuity and past/present, all of which effectively restate the same problem: the relationship between modernism and tradition. The addition of tonal/atonal to this sequence merely adds another dimension to this recursive paradox. However, Arnold Whittall has suggested a concept that would appear to have the potential to unlock the seeming circularity of these binary oppositions. His interpretation provides for an approach centring on the role of conflict as represented most crucially by 'focused dissonance'. To view dissonance as the conceptual and perceptual opposite of consonance would seem to be merely to restate another binary opposition, but by privileging dissonance over consonance it is possible to view the perceptually dissonant framework of the work as normative, with consonance shifted to a role which, while subordinate, effectively complements the newly privileged status of dissonance. While consonance is decentralised, it retains a meaningful relationship to dissonance, though not necessarily its historical one, where its function was the resolution of dissonance. As Whittall says, 'The \"norm\" of _Le Sacre_ is not one in which predominant dissonances imply unheard consonant resolutions \u2013 and it follows that such \"imagined\" resolutions are unnecessary.' This remark can be related back to Ex. 5.7 from the 'Glorification of the chosen one'. In this instance the dissonant 'dominant seventh' on G does not resolve to the conventional consonance on D, nor does it 'imply unheard consonant resolutions'.\n\nIt follows that the shift in the perceived relationship between consonance and dissonance allows for an interpretation that could perhaps correspond more closely to initial responses to the work, thus highlighting its modernity over its relationship to tradition without necessarily losing sight of the value of its traditional background. While it may be difficult to know exactly what Stravinsky meant in his claim that 'very little immediate tradition lies behind _The Rite of Spring_ ', the work is still a powerful reflection of the Russian tradition, partly, of course, because of the evocative subject-matter of the ballet, but also because of the appropriation of musical materials from that tradition. As already indicated, in its appropriation of folk materials into a distinctively modernist context, _The Rite of Spring_ tends to question rather than to synthesise the relationship between past and present. This is a process it shares with _Petrushka_ but develops in its own way.\n\nThe identification of folk sources, first indicated in relation to the opening bassoon solo, has become a major concern within research on _The Rite of Spring_. The identification of specific sources provides a framework for situating the work, allowing us to view its radical identity as emerging from a specific tradition rather than as representing unmediated opposition to that tradition. As Arnold Whittall has written, ' _Le Sacre_ may be one of the most crucially radical modern masterpieces, but it needs the perspective of tradition for its nature as well as its effect to be comprehended.' This view of a background of tradition is further emphasised by Taruskin:\n\nStylistically, it scarcely needs to be emphasized, _The Rite_ is hardly retrospective. All the same, the echoes are a reminder that the ballet was written out of \u2013 not against \u2013 a tradition, and that its stylistic innovations relate to and extend that tradition.\n\nOn a technical level, we can hear the work's normative dissonance as constructing a difference from traditional conventions, but in order to give meaning to this departure we must retain some image of the tradition from which it departs. In other words, the innovative radical modernism of this work has to be seen to emerge from a background that includes Stravinsky's Russian inheritance, which sustained its own problematic relationship with convention and tradition.\n\n_**Les Noces**_\n\nLike _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ , _Les Noces_ is based on definitively Russian subject-matter, with much of its musical material also having been derived from Russian folk sources. The public ritual of the wedding ceremony provides a certain parallel to the public setting of _Petrushka_ , but the image of sacrifice implicit in this latest ritual also provides a certain resonance with _The Rite of Spring_. In contrast to the two ballets, however, _Les Noces_ is defined as 'Russian choreographic scenes'. Also in contrast to the earlier works, the compositional process of _Les Noces_ was more extended and problematic. It was begun in 1914 and therefore could be seen to follow directly on from _The Rite of Spring_. However, because of difficulties involved in defining the instrumental ensemble, the work did not receive its first performance until 1923. In retrospect, the final ensemble of four pianos and percussion now seems inevitable, but in fact the process towards this decision was far from straightforward. As Stravinsky himself later recalled:\n\nI began the composition of _Les Noces_ in 1914 (a year before _Renard_ ) in Clarens [Switzerland]. The music was composed in short score form by 1917, but it was not finished in full score until three months before the premiere, which was six years later. No work of mine has undergone so many instrumental metamorphoses. I completed the first tableau for an orchestra the size of that of _Le Sacre du printemps_ , and then decided to divide the various instrumental elements \u2013 strings, woodwinds, brass, percussion, keyboard (cimbalom, harpsichord, piano) \u2013 into groups and to keep these groups separate on the stage. In still another version I sought to combine pianolas with bands of instruments that included saxhorns and fl\u00fcgelhorns. Then, one day in 1921 . . . I suddenly realized that an orchestra of four pianos would fulfil all my conditions. It would be at the same time perfectly homogeneous, perfectly impersonal, and perfectly mechanical.\n\nHomogeneous, impersonal and mechanical: three qualities that become definitive for the work. The homogeneous is reflected in the sense of collective identity in the subject-matter and in its representation through the choral writing. The impersonal is reflected by the fact that 'individual roles do not exist in _Les Noces_ , but only solo voices that impersonate now one type of character and now another', while the mechanical is represented by Stravinsky's latest deployment of ostinato effects and rhythmic impetus.\n\nThe work consists of four tableaux. However, although these are intended to follow each other without a pause, the recurring concerns of juxtaposition and discontinuity are again in evidence. In the opening of the first tableau the notion of juxtaposition is evident in the simple alternation of thematic materials (see Ex. 5.9):\n\n**Ex. 5.9** _Les Noces_ , first tableau, thematic materials\n\nThis process of repetition, in which the initial material returns, obviously brings to mind the conventions of a rondo pattern. However, rather than resulting in a process of addition or accumulation, the refrain-like treatment of the material actually interrupts any meaningful sense of forward momentum.\n\nThe initial theme (A) is identified by Taruskin, as is much of the work's material, as being derived from a folk-based source. As well as forming part of a long-range process of repetition, this theme also contains its own internal repetitions, with the repeated returns to E providing a certain focus on this pitch. The repetition of the B\u2013D\u2013B gesture further generates a degree of familiarity. The simple nature of the work's materials is evident as well in the second theme (B), which is also marked by the repetition of E, but now preceded by F\u266f\u2013F\u266e . The focus on repeated pitches is reinforced by emphatic rhythmic repetitions. Theme B, for example, consists of a constantly repeated rhythm that disallows any sense of forward momentum. Theme C (fig. 9) also features its own internal repetitions, the initial E\u2013C\u266f gesture always returning in the same rhythm. Although the continued focus on E implies a continuity throughout all the themes, there is also a striking sense of contrast, which is reinforced by the change of texture and accompaniment.\n\nThe thematic material of the later stages of the score retains many of the musical characteristics of the opening gestures. The fourth tableau begins with a clear focus on D\u266d, as the music circles round and turns back onto this note (figs. 87\u201390), providing a parallel to the concentration on E in the first tableau. This D\u266d is reinterpreted as C\u266f at the conclusion of the vocal line in the final moments of the work (fig. 134). The D\u266d /C\u266f focus provides a degree of continuity throughout the final tableau, though, as in the first, this continuity is often called into question by the many changes of texture and thematic material.\n\nRhythm and metre were clearly a significant factor in both _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ , but _Les Noces_ elevates this dimension to a new level, defined through simplification. This simplification reflects the work's Russian folk origins, but its austerity also generates a modernist sense of being different. Rhythm and metre now become structural in their own right, and rhythm can be defined as structural on its own terms. As Stephen Walsh suggests, 'where _The Rite of Spring_ had laid stress on rhythm as something extraordinaryandsensational, _The Wedding_ [ _Les Noces_ ]assertsthenormality of rhythm as a medium for musical expression and structure'. The themes discussed above would be unimaginable separated from their characteristic rhythms, while the rhythms have the potential to function independently of the other musical parameters.\n\nAlthough _Les Noces_ may at times seem to be overshadowed by _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ and remains a highly idiosyncratic work, it still forms an integral part of Stravinsky's Russian period. In its own way, it remains definitive of this stage of his career, redefining its Russian identity in the aftermath of the earlier ballets and providing an effective summation of Stravinsky's Russian style. As van den Toorn concludes:\n\nhowever novel or exceptional we choose to consider the instrumentation or the 'cantata-ballet' scheme of _Les Noces_ , there can be little doubt that its musical substance is decisively 'Russian'. Indeed, without _Les Noces_ , a 'Russian' period becomes scarcely imaginable . . .\n**6**\n\nMARTHA M. HYDE\n\n**Stravinsky's neoclassicism**\n\n**Introduction: neoclassicism**\n\nIn his homage to Stravinsky, Milan Kundera explains that Stravinsky's experience of forced emigration triggered a change in his musical style no less reactionary than irrevocable. Also an \u00e9migr\u00e9, Kundera sees emigration as a wound \u2013 the 'pain of estrangement: the process whereby what was intimate becomes foreign'. Stravinsky, like any \u00e9migr\u00e9 artist, suffered estrangement from the 'subconscious, memory, language \u2013 all the understructure of creativity' formed in youth. Leaving the place to which his imagination was bound caused a kind of ripping apart. Kundera believes that emigration erased Russia for Stravinsky. After that, his homeland became the historical landscape of music, and his compatriots were the composers that populate that history. Kundera describes the advent of Stravinsky's neoclassical style as a metaphorical recognition \u2013 and achievement \u2013 of a new home with the 'classics' of European music:\n\nHe did all he could to feel at home there: he lingered in each room of that mansion, touched every corner, stroked every piece of the furniture; . . . [from] the music of . . . Pergolesi to [that of] Tchaikovsky, Bach, Perotin, Monteverdi . . . to the twelve-tone system . . . in which, eventually, after Schoenberg's death (1951), he recognized yet another room in his home.\n\nWhere Kundera sees reverence in Stravinsky's appropriation of history, Stravinsky himself described it as more compulsive and aggressive \u2013 a 'rare form of kleptomania'. Whatever attitude we ascribe to it, Stravinsky's appropriation of the past was a genuine artistic engagement, seeking to create modern works by reconstructing or accommodating past styles in a way that maintained his own integrity and identity in the history of music.\n\nIn the following discussion, I want to explore four principal strategies that Stravinsky employed in his neoclassical works to accommodate the past. The task is made difficult, first, by the number and variety of works Stravinsky composed during his neoclassical period (roughly from 1920 to 1951) and, second, by confusion about the term 'neoclassicism', in the context of early twentieth-century music and in Stravinsky's own work. Consider, for example, the differences in scholarly accounts of the origins of neoclassicism. Some scholars attribute the ambiguities of the term to semantic change, nationalistic prejudices, and the polemical torsion inevitable among composers vying to create a niche for themselves in the overpopulated state of the repertoire. Others believe that neoclassicism evolved as a reactionary ploy triggered by the social and political convulsions of the Weimar Republic. Still others \u2013 taking a Freudian and formalistic stance \u2013 adapt Harold Bloom's 'anxiety of influence' to revise radically the term's usual meaning.\n\nNo less confusing are scholarly accounts of what constitutes the 'essence' of Stravinsky's neoclassical style. Too often the confusion results from squabbling about first sightings \u2013 when and where Stravinsky first uses triads and major scales, tonal bass lines and dominant\u2013tonic cadences, tonal centres or classical forms. Such sightings clearly have a role in a full description of Stravinsky's neoclassicism, but remain inconclusive if not interpreted in a broader context. The necessary context emerges, I argue, when one recognises that these technical devices almost always concern imitation in some sense of the word: imitation of classical rhythm, phrase structure, harmonic progressions, tonal centres and the like. Analyses of Stravinsky's neoclassical works have tended to isolate specific features, but to lack a theory of imitation that would help identify and categorise imitative resources and effects \u2013 that would, in other words, help us to give content to the term 'neoclassical'.\n\nWhenever any kind of secular canon-formation occurs \u2013 whenever any choice is made of authorities or models for new artistic creation \u2013 T. S. Eliot's question 'What is a classic?' becomes inescapable. A classic is a past work that remains or becomes relevant and available as a model, or can be made so through various techniques of accommodation. Stravinsky's neoclassical pieces invoke earlier classics in a much broader sense than merely music in the style of Haydn or Mozart. What makes a classic in this broader sense is being _chosen_ as a model for some sort of anachronistic engagement, some manner of imitative crossing of the distance that divides the new work from its model. This act of choosing is precisely what Kundera portrays by picturing Stravinsky wandering in the mansion of musical styles, choosing which objects to appropriate and which rooms to inhabit.\n\nPerhaps we can agree at the outset that neoclassicism, in any of the arts, involves an impulse to revive or restore an earlier style that is separated from the present by some intervening period. The Renaissance created itself by breaking one historical continuity in order to repair another broken continuity. That is, the Renaissance created the Middle Ages by recognising that the Middle Ages had broken or fallen away from 'classical antiquity'. Any neoclassicism does the same, rejecting a prevailing period style in the name of restoring an earlier, more authentic, still relevant \u2013 and therefore classic \u2013 style. That is precisely what happened when early twentieth-century French composers (joined later by Stravinsky) repudiated Romantic music because, in their view, it had abandoned the classical virtues to revel in Teutonic excess, obscurity and subjectivity. A neoclassical aesthetic thus reaches across a cultural and chronological gap and tries to recover or revive a past model. By doing so, it clears ground for modern artists by devaluing intervening styles.\n\nTo speak very broadly, there are two modes of returning to the classics, two routes giving access to models acknowledged as classical. The first is philological or antiquarian and the second \u2013 and for the history of the arts the more important \u2013 is translation or accommodation. Translation and accommodation both grapple with anachronism because they cannot avoid the incongruities that arise from linking different times or periods. Reading our own concerns and needs into the classics, we recognise the classics advancing to meet us on the path we are following. There are several modes of accommodation \u2013 modes of accessing the past \u2013 but for Stravinsky the most important is what, for lack of a better term, I call 'metamorphic anachronism'. This specific mode of accommodation involves various kinds or strategies of imitation.\n\nA brief digression may help to clarify what I mean by anachronism. As I use it, the term does not imply any kind of failure or mistake. Musical anachronism is rooted in the recognition that history affects period style and that period style affects composition. This is not controversial; we are all willing to assume that pieces are datable on internal evidence. But this recognition of historical change also suggests that pieces will become 'dated' in the negative sense, that is, that they will eventually sound 'out of date'. Music, like the other arts, can incorporate or exploit this capacity for datedness, but only by juxtaposing or contrasting at least two distinct styles. This contrast or clash of period styles or historical aesthetics is the simplest definition of anachronism.\n\nAnachronism can be used in art in a number of different ways, but the type of anachronism most relevant to a neoclassical aesthetic is one that 'confronts and uses the conflict of period styles self-consciously and creatively to dramatize the itinerary, the diachronic passage out of the remote past into the emergent present.' This is the type I call 'metamorphic anachronism', borrowing from geology where metamorphic rocks fuse or compress the old into the new. In music, metamorphic anachronism deliberately dramatises a historical passage \u2013 bringing the present into a relationship with a specific past and making the distance between them meaningful.\n\nWhen anachronism \u2013 that is, the conflict between period elements in a piece of music \u2013 is meaningful, then a phoenix springs from the ashes. When it is not, then only a corpse emerges, shrunken and mummified from the tomb, though perhaps ornamented with modern trinkets. The main question is not whether anachronism has been avoided, but whether it has been controlled. If not, then no itinerary between past and present is opened, no genuine renewal occurs, and the impulse to revive the past is abortive or trivial.\n\nOne mode of controlled anachronism \u2013 parody \u2013 is usually distinct from a genuine neoclassical impulse, but is nonetheless relevant to several of Stravinsky's works that are sometimes mistakenly described as his earliest experiments in neoclassicism. Composed between 1917 and 1920, just as Stravinsky began to explore compositional techniques that later mark his neoclassical style, these pieces include 'Three dances' from _The Soldier's Tale_ (Tango, Waltz, Ragtime), _Ragtime_ for eleven instruments, and _Piano-Rag-Music._ While these pieces are Stravinsky's first to be based on contemporary popular dances and do feature more prominently the usual major and minor scales, they nonetheless seem better described as parodies or satires, for their effect derives from making that which has become too familiar appear unfamiliar \u2013 or at least barely recognisable. In these pieces, Stravinsky seeks not to revive a past tradition, but playfully to mock popular conventions.\n\nStravinsky's _Piano-Rag-Music_ bears out this view, especially in its ending, which surely pokes fun at contemporary infatuation with jazz improvisation and rags (see Ex. 6.1). Building up to an extended climax of improvisatory flourishes, the piece suddenly subsides to an exhausted, motoric vamp that abruptly breaks off for no apparent reason, as if the performer abandons the piece for lack of inspiration or interest. Particularly surprising is how Stravinsky uses irregularly spaced dotted lines in place of bar lines, for it throws into question the regular metrical patterns of the rag form. Poking fun at the fashion of combining improvisation with a metrically rigid form, Stravinsky concludes with a spent motivic fragment \u2013 as if asking a question that, as yet, has no answer. Such parodic or satiric imitation deliberately teases our expectations, replacing the familiar with an absurdly distorted reconstruction, and is ordinarily \u2013 though perhaps not categorically \u2013 incompatible with neoclassicism.\n\n**Ex. 6.1** _Piano-Rag-Music_ (1919 edition), ending\n\nIf anachronism is controlled and not parodic, if the impulse to revive is successful, how are we to describe the imitative process? I find it useful to identify four broad strategies of imitation that Stravinsky employs in his neoclassical works, each of which controls anachronism in a different manner while implicitly portraying one perspective on history.\n\n**Eclectic imitation**\n\nStravinsky's first and most frequent type of imitation in his neoclassical works is what I call 'eclectic imitation'. This characterises works in which allusions, echoes, phrases, techniques, structures and forms from an unspecified group of earlier composers and styles all jostle with each other indifferently. Such an eclectic mingling features prominently in Stravinsky's early neoclassical works, which often use both diatonic and octatonic pitch structures and self-consciously imitate classical phrase structure, simple dance patterns, various tonal forms and baroque contrapuntal textures. Eclectic imitation treats the musical past as an undifferentiated stockpile to be drawn on at will, and it permits the kind of brilliant manipulation of new and old that produced a number of Stravinsky's most important works, including the Octet, Concerto for piano and wind instruments, Sonata for piano, Concerto in D for violin and orchestra and _Oedipus Rex_. Stravinsky himself acknowledged the eclecticism of this mode of imitation, borrowing a term from Kurt Schwitters to describe _Oedipus_. 'Much of the music is a _Merzbild_ [construction of random materials], put together from whatever came to hand.' _Oedipus_ included 'such little games as . . . the Alberti-bass horn solo accompanying the Messenger', as well as 'the fusion of such widely divergent types of music as the _Folies Berg\u00e8res_ tune' that occurs when 'the girls enter, kicking' and frequent use of 'Wagnerian 7th chords'. Stravinsky defends this procedure by asserting that 'I have made these bits and snatches my own, I think, and of them a unity. \"Soule is form\", Spenser says, \"and doth the bodie make.\"' Stravinsky's allusion to Spenser, who wrote the first English epic in a made-up language designed to seem archaic, highlights his own playfully serious use of anachronism.\n\nEclectic imitation is a process by which sources and models are compiled. Rather than a well-organised museum, tradition becomes a warehouse whose contents can be rearranged and plundered without damage or responsibility. At its weakest, of course, this kind of eclectic imitation simply sports with anachronism or wallows in it, but when used precisely and deliberately it can create a vocabulary of a new and higher power \u2013 a power that gains strength from rhetorical skill, although not necessarily from a unified or integrated vision.\n\n**Octet**\n\nThe Octet for wind instruments, written in 1922 and often cited as Stravinsky's first neoclassical masterpiece, is a particularly successful example of eclectic imitation. Its effect derives from a rhetorical confrontation between various classical forms \u2013 set forth in Baroque-like textures \u2013 and the composer's idiomatic use of diatonic and octatonic pitch structures. Stravinsky pointed towards these historical models when he commented that the Octet was influenced by the terseness and lucidity of Bach's two-part Inventions and by his own rediscovery of sonata form. Of the numerous imitative strategies at work in this piece, the most telling is the clash of diatonic and octatonic pitch structures to create an analogue for tonal closure (or cadence).\n\nOne clear example occurs at the opening of the second movement ('Theme and Variations'), whose form features a theme and an initial variation that recurs in a rondo-like design. Ex. 6.2 shows an abridged reduction of the complete variation theme. The theme's first part, presented by the flute and clarinet at fig. 24, uses seven of eight pitches from an octatonic scale and stresses A as the central pitch class. The octatonic scale, labelled Collection III, appears at the bottom of Ex. 6.2. Typical of octatonic structures in Stravinsky's neoclassical works, this theme exploits the [0,1,3,4] tetrachord which here structures the initial contour of the theme, using the pitches A, B\u266d, C, C\u266f . The second part of the theme, presented by the second trumpet at fig. 25, begins with a transposition of this same tetrachord on C, thereby making use of D\u266f, the last remaining pitch of Collection III. The theme then continues with the tetrachord's return to the central pitch A by the first trombone three bars before fig. 26.\n\n**Ex. 6.2** Octet (1952 version), 'Tema con Variazioni': reduction and analysis from van den Toorn (1983)\n\nHowever, beneath the theme (beginning at fig. 24) there appears an accompaniment that unambiguously alludes to a diatonic structure that stresses D and implies a kind of pseudo D minor reference. The bassoons' ascending bass line moves stepwise up from D to an implied dominant, A, and then returns to D, suggesting a I\u2013II\u2013V\u2013I harmonic progression. But neither D nor the tonic triad (D, F, A) is part of Collection III, the octatonic collection that structures the theme. Consequently, among other ambiguities Stravinsky forges a bond between the variation theme and its accompaniment that creates the _allusion_ to a dominant\u2013tonic relation. The allusion is consummated in the final bar (fig. 25+6) by what sounds like a cadential dominant-to-tonic resolution on D, in which the variation theme's last pitch, F\u266f , neatly unites Collection III with a traditional Picardy-third closure of the implied D minor tonality.\n\nApart from the 'Theme and Variations' form and its conventional texture of melody plus accompaniment, the imitative strategies in the Octet that one can call neoclassical derive from the joining of diatonic and octatonic structures. The bond is loose, with only some elements held in common, but the overall effect alludes to a dominant\u2013tonic cadence that delineates the form of the theme and hence that of the movement. However, the allusion is only approximate, for octatonic structures intrude and block an authentic tonal cadence; octatonicism here remains superimposed on a D minor tonality, with both octatonicism and tonality maintaining their identities, despite their superimposition. The ambiguities that inevitably result are essential features of the theme. The clash of diatonic and octatonic elements creates an equilibrium that resists fusion or synthesis. No definite meaning emerges from the superimposition since, for their effect, both must maintain their independence; here, clashing elements function primarily as rhetorical counters.\n\nIn the variations that follow, Stravinsky varies his means of exploiting the clash between tonal allusions and octatonic collections, but continues to use them as rhetorical counters. For instance, in the final variation (Var. E), a stunning finale to the movement and reportedly the composer's favourite, Stravinsky creates a fugato texture in which the theme, still consisting of pitches from Collection III but now with an angular Baroque contour, is answered at the dominant G\u266f by pitches from Collection I (suggesting a 'real' rather than 'tonal' answer) (see Ex. 6.3). Here the tonal allusion relies not on a bass line (as in the theme), but merely on a single note, the implied dominant that initiates the fugal 'answer'.\n\n**Ex. 6.3** Octet (1952 version), 'Tema con Variazioni', Variation E\n\nEclectic imitation in the Octet extends well beyond the clash between tonal and octatonic vocabularies. Indeed, Stravinsky employs extraordinarily varied means to sustain a delicate rhetorical balance between tonal allusion and reality. In the first movement, for instance, he dispenses with the octatonic collection and instead manipulates texture to mimic the sections of a classical sonata form. He then constructs contrapuntal progressions that join these sections together in a way that significantly alters the form. Essential to the altered form, however, is that its meaning resides only in the relationship it creates with the classical model that has been evoked.\n\nEclectic imitation in the Octet works in several ways. First, no synthesis between old and new is sought, since their effect relies on a precise balance between them; the new is superimposed on the old, and both function as rhetorical counters by maintaining their independence. Second, the anachronisms introduced so freely \u2013 jumbling together features of baroque and classical styles \u2013 work to create only the illusion of various tonal structures. Keys, cadences, modulations, and the like all lack essential tonal elements that would provide the organic or developmental integrity of form required in 'authentic' classical pieces.\n\nWhile non-organic or non-teleological forms characterise Stravinsky's neoclassical pieces, they also characterise pieces from his earlier Russian period, although these earlier pieces seldom use tonal imitations. Commonly termed 'moment form' and often cited as Stravinsky's most significant innovation in his early Russian works, these forms exploit fragmentation, discontinuity, and abrupt changes in textures and rhythms. The discrete sections or moments are often marked by ostinatos or short motives whose repetitions vary, but rarely develop in a traditional or 'classical' manner.\n\nPerhaps by 1917, when Stravinsky was living in Switzerland and unable to return to Russia, he found it futile to extend moment form beyond its achievement in such pieces as _The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_. In any case, Stravinsky's new reliance on imitating tonal procedures also coincides with greater formal continuity than in his Russian works; more regular or periodic phrase structures appear, coupled with far fewer abrupt discontinuities in texture and rhythm. But because the tonal imitations supported by this greater continuity still remain allusive \u2013 not quite whole \u2013 Stravinsky's neoclassical forms still lack the organic or teleological development typical of authentic classical pieces. In his neoclassical forms, just as in his Russian works, discrete sections seem to begin and end without the compelling internal logic that we take for granted in classical compositions.\n\nWhile greater continuity is a feature of Stravinsky's earliest neoclassical works, these works also rely on new means of articulation. In place of sharply defined, but disconnected _vertical_ moments, Stravinsky's more continuous textures now comprise simultaneous, but sharply defined _horizontal_ layers. More importantly, these horizontal layers \u2013 like the earlier vertical 'moments' \u2013 often seem to achieve their rhythmic or harmonic effect only to the extent that they remain disconnected from or independent of one another. As in tonal music, Stravinsky's neoclassical pieces usually allow the bass to govern overall harmonic direction. However, in this case the bass does not strictly control the internal structure or movement of the higher voices or lines. That is, the higher lines progress in the same general direction as the bass, but do so independently. And when the various lines do become momentarily aligned or synchronised, the effect usually signals a formal event such as the beginning or end of an extended phrase or section.\n\n_**Mavra**_\n\nIn his neoclassical works, Stravinsky invents new means of articulating independent lines or strata above what we can only loosely call a functional bass line. One early and particularly successful instance appears in the opening aria from _Mavra,_ completed one year before the Octet. Dedicating _Mavra_ to Pushkin, Glinka and Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky for the first time explicitly identifies the past classical tradition that he seeks to revive or re-engage. He believes this tradition to have been prematurely cut off by those responsible for Russian modernism, the Russian Five, and in particular by his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov.\n\nWhether for professional, artistic or political reasons, Stravinsky associated Russian modernism with German culture, the atrocities of the First World War, and the revolutions that forced him into exile. In his public statements, Stravinsky aligned himself with Tchaikovsky, the 'Latin-Slav culture' and the 'Austrian Catholic Mozart' against the 'German Protestant Beethoven, inclined toward Goethe'. Musical evidence of this new alignment first becomes explicit in Parasha's aria, the Russo-Italian bel canto aria that opens _Mavra_ (see Ex. 6.4).\n\n**Ex. 6.4** _Mavra_ , Parasha's aria (piano-vocal score)\n\nThe aria presents Parasha, the young heroine, dreaming of her lover, Mavra, as she sits at the window embroidering. Most striking in this aria \u2013 especially in the light of Stravinsky's earlier Russian works \u2013 is what appears to be a functional (tonal) bass line (cello, double bass, tuba), which uses a rigid four-beat ostinato pattern alternating between three beats of tonic and one beat of dominant (3+1: TTTD). Such a banal ostinato, no doubt, is meant to suggest both the repetitive nature of Parasha's task and her distracted sense of confinement. Above the bass, off-beat chords (horns) appear to accompany the bass, but in fact unfold a tonic\u2013dominant ostinato that spans six beats (3+3: TDD+TDT), thereby contradicting the bass's four-beat tonic-dominant pattern. Against these two conflicting out-ofphase strata, the melody unfolds a third \u2013 an asymmetrical pattern that complements the alternating notated metres of 3/4 and 5/8, meant to portray Parasha's uncontrolled romantic fantasies. Most importantly, the asymmetrical melody uses a bel canto style, infused with Russian gypsy folk gestures and mixing together old and new stylistic features. What is old \u2013 yet new to Stravinsky \u2013 is the appearance of a tonal B minor scale with a functional leading note that can accommodate an authentic tonal cadence. What is new is how Stravinsky articulates form by joining these three non-aligned, independent strata in a way that blocks or delays cadential resolution of the dominant until the end of the aria's first section (two beats before fig. 3). Only at this single point does the leading note (melody) finally become aligned with the bass's dominant, thereby signalling an upbeat/downbeat cadential resolution to the following tonic. (Immediately after this cadence, the second section begins with an abrupt modulation to G minor.) In Ex. 6.4, the cadential alignment both articulates form and confirms that among the three conflicting strata or lines, the bass line \u2013 as in classical tonality \u2013 is primary.\n\nThe technique of constructing textures by layering simultaneous but independent strata creates a striking effect that Stravinsky continues to refine and develop in later neoclassical works. In textures that rely on tonal formulas or gestures, the effect often involves making the familiar sound foreign \u2013 but not so much as to block recognition of the tonal allusion or gesture. Typically, simultaneous but dissociated strata vary in the way they relate to one another. As Jonathan Cross argues, Stravinsky de-familiarised the familiar, not by removing 'past music . . . from its original context \u2013 that much is self-evident; rather, by placing familiar objects in new contexts he enables us to see them in new ways.' But these new ways 'have the effect of changing tonality, with its associated phenomena of rhythm, phrasing and harmony, from a process into a system of gestures which constantly alludes to, but does not pursue, the logic which the listener expects of them.'\n\nMost importantly, Stravinsky's technique of layering strata enables him to sustain or re-create in a neoclassical idiom the rhythmic vitality of movement that so characterises his earlier Russian works. In Parasha's aria, for example, the teasing delay of metrical alignment among the three strata creates a voluble, buoyant metrical effect whose eventual synchronised resolution mimics the kind of build-up and release of tension common to tonal music \u2013 but that nonetheless avoids the authentic metrical and harmonic structures on which tonal music relies. In his larger neoclassical forms, Stravinsky's method of co-ordinating independent strata to sustain long-range rhythmic structures often assumes a more allusive and complex form.\n\n**Concerto in D**\n\nIn the Concerto in D for violin and orchestra, Stravinsky articulates discrete textural layers through new and varied means. Most often, layers are identified by one or more unique features, such as a distinct combination of motive, interval, pattern of chords, rhythm, register, instrumentation, collection of pitches or pitch centre. While Stravinsky still delineates forms by synchronising constituent layers so as to converge on a single event or sonority, the layers now proceed with greater internal independence. In other words, layers have greater temporal dissociation and fewer points of synchronisation. To create a particularly dramatic effect, such as a climax or formal reprise, Stravinsky often intensifies the temporal dissociation of the layers by intensifying the conflict among their implied metres. One good example occurs in the three-part form of the Concerto's first movement, where temporal dissociation and metrical conflict among textural layers create a climax that signals the end of the movement's first part and the beginning of its second.\n\n**Reverential imitation**\n\nSimilar techniques for creating continuity, rhythmic movement and layered articulation characterise \u2013 but perhaps to a lesser extent \u2013 a second, quite different type of imitation that I term 'reverential imitation'. In some of Stravinsky's earliest and most famous neoclassical works, reverential imitation follows the classical model with a fastidiousness arising from consciousness of historical discontinuity. In one sense, the imitation proceeds as if it were reverently transcribing a hallowed text, but nonetheless adorns it with modern affectations. The most obvious candidate is _Pulcinella_. Unlike the Octet or the Violin Concerto, _Pulcinella_ relies not merely on borrowed styles, but on borrowed music: two _opere buffe_ and several instrumental pieces that Stravinsky incorrectly assumed were composed solely by Pergolesi.\n\n_**Pulcinella**_\n\nExcept for the borrowed popular idioms used in the ragtime pieces and dance movements of _The Soldier's Tale_ , _Pulcinella_ represents Stravinsky's first major composition based on pre-existing material. For this reason critics have seen it as signalling the onset of his neoclassical style. Despite this common view, much of the borrowed material is left unchanged, rather than recomposed in a modern idiom, and Stravinsky's additions resemble an elegant gloss more than an original composition. Some have therefore convincingly argued that _Pulcinella_ is best described as an arrangement \u2013 even given its vitality and immense popularity. In other words, because _Pulcinella_ fails to present a genuine conflict of period styles, failing also to control musical anachronism, it more closely resembles an artful arrangement than an authentic neoclassical piece.\n\nThe lack of a genuine conflict of styles arises from Stravinsky's reproducing the original harmonies largely intact, along with their implied tonal progressions and voice leading. Onto this classically tonal structure, Stravinsky superimposes modern ornaments and orchestral effects, adding devices such as diatonic dissonances, extended ostinatos, brilliant orchestration, altered phrase lengths, and so on. However dazzling, these devices seldom threaten the original tonal idiom.\n\n_**The Fairy's Kiss**_\n\nA better illustration of Stravinsky's reverential imitation is _The Fairy's Kiss_ , an allegorical ballet inspired by the music of Tchaikovsky. Taking the opportunity to pay 'heartfelt homage to Tchaikovsky's wonderful talent', Stravinsky organised the ballet around borrowings from Tchaikovsky's piano and vocal music. But unlike _Pulcinella_ , these borrowings are extensively re-composed and often strung together by lengthy passages wholly of Stravinsky's making. _The Fairy's Kiss_ sounds less a pastiche than it might, because Stravinsky faithfully reproduces Tchaikovsky's style in seamless blending of borrowed materials with their newly composed surroundings. Originality here serves to evoke the older composer, to impersonate his style almost with reverence and fidelity. Stravinsky, in fact, mimics both strengths and weaknesses in Tchaikovsky's style. Re-creating Tchaikovsky's distinctive orchestration, for example, Stravinsky also adopts his often rigid phrase structures. This reverential stance has caused some critics to argue that the ballet lacks all irony, and hence the stylistic jostling between old and new that neoclassical works require. This assessment seems misguided, but it does respond to the mode of imitation employed in the piece, which seeks to recreate reverentially the classical model.\n\nConfronted with a short excerpt from _The Fairy's Kiss_ , most listeners would guess Tchaikovsky as the composer, but any extended excerpt introduces doubt. One reason is that exact repetition \u2013 a stylistic fetish in Tchaikovsky's music \u2013 is assiduously avoided. In _The Fairy's Kiss_ , themes rarely repeat without variation. Ex. 6.5 shows one of Stravinsky's borrowings, from Tchaikovsky's 'Zimniy vecher' ('Winter Evening'), Op. 54, no. 7. Tchaikovsky repeats this passage three times, without alteration, to separate the song's stanzas. In _The Fairy's Kiss,_ the passage serves as the primary borrowing for the D minor Allegro sostenuto that makes up most of Tableau I. Ex. 6.6 shows two of its repetitions, both varied with an imaginative abandon rarely, if ever, found in Tchaikovsky. Whether Stravinsky is offering a gentle critique of Tchaikovsky's music, or merely succumbing to personal preference, is of little consequence, for Stravinsky's stylistic alterations still respect the boundaries of Tchaikovsky's tonal style. Anachronism may ruffle the surface, but the essential style remains intact. In this piece, reverential imitation allows Stravinsky to celebrate rather than control anachronism, as though any major alteration of the model might damage its integrity.\n\n**Ex. 6.5** Tchaikovsky, 'Zimniy vecher' (Winter evening), Op. 54, no. 7, bars 34\u201344\n\n**Ex. 6.6** a _Divertimento_ (arrangement of _The Fairy's Kiss_ , trans. for violin and piano by Stravinsky and Druskin), 'Sinfonia', bars 79\u201385\n\nb _Divertimento_ , 'Sinfonia', bars 121\u20136\n\nThere is, however, a potential defect in _The Fairy's Kiss_ that frequently surfaces in reverential imitations. This defect results from viewing the model as accessible, but beyond significant alteration or criticism, and may be heard as a lack of irony. This kind of reverent reproduction of a model has difficulty functioning transitively, for the reproduction almost always succumbs at least occasionally to idioms that are alien or unbecoming to the original, and whose violations of the original's norms threaten to break out of artistic control. Consider, for example, the newly composed passage that Stravinsky uses to conclude Tableau I, shown in Ex. 6.7. Few would hear Tchaikovsky as the composer of this music. With its clashing dissonances, irregular phrasing, truncated repetitions and, most important, an ambiguous tonality that seems to balance two competing tonal centres, A and D, this passage is quintessential Stravinsky. As if Stravinsky's impersonation of the earlier composer drops away momentarily (perhaps deliberately), this example exposes the abyss that separates the modern composer from his model. Just this sort of momentary lapse in style often breaks loose in reverential imitations. Uncontrolled, such lapses seem to violate essential norms of the model. In this instance, the recreated tonal Tableau must accommodate \u2013 or at least co-exist with \u2013 an ending whose structure is antithetical to tonality, which will invariably startle an attentive listener.\n\n**Ex. 6.7** _Divertimento_ , 'Sinfonia', bars 239\u201356 (ending)\n\nThe authenticity of Stravinsky's return to Tchaikovsky bears historical scrutiny, for 1928 marked the year that Stravinsky spoke most vehemently against modernism, which he believed was implicated in the social upheavals and destructions of World War I. In an article published in 1928, Arthur Louri\u00e9, Stravinsky's associate in the 1920s, describes Stravinsky as the 'conservative and reactionary element' in contemporary music, who seeks 'to affirm unity and unalterable substance' amidst the ceaseless flux and disintegration of modern culture. While 'the order to return to Bach', he continues, has only recently been the vogue, it has had its day. 'The musical heritage of the nineteenth century, so recently rejected, has acquired new recognition, it is being called upon to influence contemporary music.' It becomes clear, in fact, that Louri\u00e9 is describing Stravinsky's re-engagement with Tchaikovsky, Russia's most 'classical' composer and the premier composer of imperial Russia. This re-engagement began with _Mavra_ in the early 1920s and now continues with _The Fairy's Kiss._ Louri\u00e9 describes _The Fairy's Kiss_ as 'a natural reaction against modernism', but Taruskin more aptly intuits that 'this gentle music was the fruit of crises, of disillusion, and, it seemed, of exhaustion'. The crisis passed by the end of the decade and bore fruit in the 1930s with a new creative vitality that consolidated the innovations of the previous decade. While the works of the 1930s may seem less radical, many none the less represent Stravinsky's most refined neoclassical style.\n\n**Heuristic imitation**\n\nA third type of imitation which I call 'heuristic imitation' characterises a number of Stravinsky's neoclassical works that often follow most closely specific classical or baroque forms. Perhaps because heuristic imitation seems to emerge from eclectic imitation, it is sometimes difficult to judge which label better describes the imitative mode of a particular piece. Not infrequently, different movements from a single piece make use of different types. Difference here is one of degree. Stravinsky's eclectic imitations usually do not achieve a cultural or historical continuity that transcends the anachronisms so freely introduced. Because their past is fragmented, jumbled and, in effect, de-historicised, they have difficulty mediating between past and present. They tend to ignore the problem of anachronism or to play with it within a hospitable texture, but seldom confront it directly. Thus, Stravinsky's eclectic imitations seldom arrive at a deeper, more dramatic conflict and engagement with the past. When a deeper engagement does occur, I call it heuristic imitation.\n\nStravinsky uses heuristic imitation to accentuate rather than conceal the specific link he forges with the past. Heuristic imitation advertises its dependence on an earlier model, but in a way that forces us to recognise the disparity, the anachronism, of the connection being made. Heuristic imitation dramatises musical history by relying on the datedness of musical styles for aesthetic effect. Stravinsky uses heuristic imitation to position himself within a specific culture and tradition, thereby opening a transitive dialogue with the past that allows him to take \u2013 and take responsibility for \u2013 his place in music history.\n\n**Symphony in C**\n\nThe Symphony in C places itself squarely within the classical symphonic tradition by reproducing \u2013 at least at the outset \u2013 essential features of a classical symphony. The more obvious of these features are the title (which implies a C tonality), four movements following the traditional order, a classical orchestra, diatonic harmonies with only modest dissonance, metric regularity, relatively simple textures and \u2013 most importantly \u2013 a first movement whose sections mimic those of a classical sonata form (i.e. an exposition with two themes, a development and a recapitulation). By using such recognisable features, Stravinsky advertises his classical model, but does so without actual thematic quotation.\n\nThe success of heuristic imitation, which necessarily juxtaposes two clashing styles, lies in Stravinsky's ability concisely to mimic formulae that instantly evoke classical genres. The economy and strength of these formulae can then absorb or accommodate stylistic elements that clash or seem foreign to it. A good example is to be found in the first theme of the Symphony's first movement, which advertises not only its classical model but a likely composer as well. Ex. 6.8 compares the first theme of Stravinsky's Symphony with that of Beethoven's First Symphony (also in C). Notice how Stravinsky's theme, like Beethoven's, consists of a repeating motive comprising the same three notes (C, G, B) with only an occasional occurrence of a fourth note (E) to fill out the triadic harmony. Moreover, in both themes the rhythmic pacing of the repeating motive intensifies in the middle of the theme and then subsides towards the end. The stylistic imitation continues in the following phrase, where Stravinsky, like Beethoven, repeats the theme one step higher, on D, to round off the movement's first period.\n\n**Ex. 6.8** a Beethoven, Symphony no. 1 in C major, movement I\n\nb Stravinsky, Symphony in C, movement I\n\nStravinsky continues to imitate the style and form of a classical symphony but, as the movement progresses, the listener increasingly senses elements that disrupt its classical purity. These elements work in two ways: first, they advertise the datedness of the older model; and second, they recast or translate the older model into a modern vernacular. In other words, the disruptive elements work together to create an integrated style that not only competes with or challenges the original, but also updates it. Through this process, Stravinsky reveals a particular historical perspective \u2013 a specific route from past to an emerging present; as the disruptive, modern elements become more integrated, they also become more powerful and gradually weaken the classical structures from which they derive.\n\nTo illustrate how this process works, we need to return to the beginning of the first movement, which opens with a stately 'Beethovenesque' introduction, one that presents the three-note motivic cell (B\u2013C\u2013G) which Stravinsky uses to generate the movement's first theme (see Ex. 6.9). While the listener probably hears the opening in the key of C major, there is none the less a subtle dissonance or ambiguity of key that makes itself felt. First, the motive could articulate E minor as well as C major. Three features create this ambiguity: 1) since the motive, played in unison, is not harmonised, pitch C does not appear in the bass; 2) pitch B (and not C) is repeated and occurs on the single downbeat, while pitch C occurs only once as a quaver off-beat; and 3) the placement of pitch B on the downbeat allows it to be heard either as an embellishing pitch (an appoggiatura to C) or as a harmonic pitch (itself embellished by C as an incomplete neighbour note). Consequently, the pitch B can function in either of two important ways: either as the leading note of C major or as the dominant of E minor. Notice that the tonal ambiguity between C major and E minor intensifies in bars 3\u20134 where the second bassoon starts as if to end the phrase with an expected bass motion from the tonic to the dominant of C major, but is cut off prematurely by the timpani's repeating B in the lowest register. Moreover, both the tonic and dominant chords are clouded by their own leading notes in the first bassoon and horns. As a result, the phrase ends in bar 4 with a dominant chord on G that includes F\u266f , the one pitch that differentiates the scale of E minor from that of C major.\n\n**Ex. 6.9** Symphony in C, first movement, bars 1\u201310\n\nOn the surface, the twenty-five-bar introduction seems to unfold in a typically classical fashion. The principal motive appears in varied forms, suggesting conventional thematic development, and a dramatic crescendo (repeating ascending scales) creates an extended upbeat that leads as a downbeat into the beginning of the first theme. But, below the surface, various details in the introduction continue to undermine C major and work together to further the suggestion of E minor. For example, the three-note motive is transposed to E at bar 7 (D\u2013E\u2013B); the concluding scales that lead into the first theme all contain an F\u266f; and the dominant chord that precedes the first theme contains both F\u266e and F\u266f (bars 24\u20135).\n\nOne might anticipate that the introduction's tension between C major and E minor will be resolved by the principal theme, but it is not. As shown by Ex. 6.10, the first theme (as in the introduction) excludes C from the bass, relying instead on a quaver ostinato consisting of only two notes, E and G, the only notes held in common between a C major and an E minor triad. Notice, too, how often motivic gestures that seem to articulate a C major triad are subtly undermined by accompanying figures that strongly imply an E minor triad (for example, compare violins 1 and oboe 1 in bars 29\u201333). The first theme, then, not only fails to resolve the tonal ambiguity, but significantly nourishes it. By this point, the attentive listener will suspect that what at first seemed a mild tonal dissonance in fact represents an essential component of the movement's thematic material.\n\n**Ex. 6.10** Symphony in C, first movement, bars 24\u201333\n\nLack of convincing harmonic progression is another means by which Stravinsky undermines classical tonality in the Symphony, thereby creating an effect of tonal immobility or stasis. For example, the first period of the exposition (bars 26\u201352) seems conventionally structured by a large-scale harmonic progression of I\u2013II\u2013V\u2013I. But this progression resides only on the motivic surface. Rather than one harmony progressing to the next, the harmonies seem merely to follow in largely unprepared and unmotivated series of static blocks whose boundaries are smoothed over by inconsequential motivic gestures. Consider, for example, the bridge passage (bars 38\u201342) that supports the harmonic 'progression' from C major (I) to D minor (II). This passage hardly functions as a bridge, for it does not actually bring about a convincing tonicisation of D minor. As Jonathan Cross argues, 'though the descending lines might smooth over the edges separating the two harmonic areas, the two statements [of the principal theme] are essentially juxtaposed without any mediation'. Only the surface gestures suggest a transition, while the harmonic progression itself seems dysfunctional. The passage mimics the rhetoric of a tonal form, but lacks an authentic sense of harmonic motion. Instead of progressing, the harmonic areas remain self-contained, not unlike the discrete harmonic blocks that structured Stravinsky's earlier moment forms.\n\nLack of convincing harmonic progression \u2013 with the resulting harmonic stasis \u2013 destabilises other essential components of a classical sonata form, in particular a coherent thematic development. Sonata form requires that the contest between the two key areas in the exposition be resolved through thematic development; motives and themes cannot merely vary, they must develop organically or teleologically. If there is no convincing thematic development, then the recapitulation of themes in the sonata's final section cannot effectively resolve the form's dramatic contest between key areas. But tonal themes cannot develop effectively without coherent harmonic progression; they may vary, but the variations will not (as a group) develop organically. This is precisely the effect Stravinsky creates in the Symphony's first movement. Most of the movement's thematic material does derive from the initial three-note motive, but harmonic stasis prevents development and creates instead the effect of an arbitrary or undirected succession of motivic variations.\n\nJust as Stravinsky undermines the thematic development that is characteristic of sonata form, so too does he tamper with the ordering of its sections. Again, formal deviations become more prominent as the movement progresses. The first deviation comes in the bridge section that introduces the second key area of the exposition. Consisting of two distinct parts, _a_ and _b_ , the bridge section ends with a strong emphasis on D major (V of V), which lures the listener into expecting the traditional second key area of the dominant \u2013 in this case, G major. But instead of G major, the second theme enters abruptly and without preparation in F major, the subdominant. Coherent harmonic progression is blocked, but this time the unexpected goal also disrupts the dramatic rhetoric of the form itself.\n\nOther formal surprises intrude (such as an oddly abbreviated development section), but the key deviation \u2013 the one that makes coherent those that have preceded it \u2013 occurs in the recapitulation. Now, the second part of the bridge section ( _b_ ) comes at the end of the second theme. Its dramatic rhetoric here serves to introduce the coda, a section that is not essential to sonata form. Moreover, the coda comprises two discrete sections ( _x_ and _y_ ), whose combined length approaches that of the development section. The dramatic character of the bridge's _b_ section, as well as the unusual length of the coda, both work to create a competing form for Stravinsky's 'sonata' movement \u2013 a balanced arch with strict temporal proportions. As shown by Ex. 6.11, the durations of the form's sections and their constituent parts form a symmetry: A\u2013A\u2032\u2013B\u2013C\u2013D\u2013C\u2013B\u2013A\u2032\u2013A. The repositioning of the bridge's _b_ section in the recapitulation, then, is the key to this temporal symmetry. Unlike classical sonata form, this form highlights the development section as centre or fulcrum.\n\n**Ex. 6.11** Durational symmetry and form in the Symphony in C, movement I\n\nHow can we be sure that these progressive alterations in form are part of Stravinsky's design? The most convincing answer comes in the middle of the development section (bar 181), exactly halfway through the movement, where the principal theme reappears for the first time with a tonally _unambiguous_ accompaniment squarely in E minor. The accompaniment now omits F and includes both F\u266f and D\u266f , the leading note of E minor. In conventional terms, the listener probably hears this premature reappearance of the theme as a false recapitulation; but, from our perspective, the theme with its new E minor accompaniment provides a large-scale thematic articulation of the movement's basic polarity between C major and E minor.\n\nRather than the decisive resolution of tonal conflict that occurs in classical sonata form, Stravinsky's form produces its effects by blocking tonal resolution; C major and E minor do compete, but in the end they maintain a static equilibrium or polarity that is temporally balanced and made convincing in an elegantly symmetrical form. In updating the classical symphony, Stravinsky has invented a new means of achieving the classical values of order, clarity, balance and formal beauty. No longer controlled by the demands of functional tonality, organic development, and the resolution of tonal conflict, Stravinsky's new symphony achieves formal elegance by balancing absolute temporal durations \u2013 perceived and measured by blocking the progressions of functional tonality \u2013 and by sustaining a delicate equilibrium between conflicting tonalities.\n\nThe first movement of Stravinsky's Symphony in C has a twofold dramatic function: 1) to advertise the piece's historical model, and 2) to portray the passage of this model through time, leading the listener by progressive stages from a tonally uncontested classical sonata form to Stravinsky's idiomatic neoclassical vernacular. This miniature historical journey progresses, as does the form itself, from mere traces of tonal ambiguity within a seemingly conventional sonata form to whole-scale tonal polarity within a temporally symmetrical form. The Symphony's first movement singles out a classical model, one separated from Stravinsky by a cultural divide, and then reinvents it. The movement thus invites specific comparison of two traditions; it proclaims an inheritance that it puts to a new use. The movement enacts a historical and cultural journey from a specified past into an emerging present. Through this acting out of passage, what I call heuristic imitation exhibits its own cultural awareness and creative memory. Because this imitative strategy defines itself in relationship to a specific model, it sketches far more explicitly than eclectic imitation its own etiology, its own historical passage and artistic emergence.\n\nBy invoking the past so explicitly, however, Stravinsky also makes the work vulnerable to comparison with the past and to criticism for being merely derivative. Indeed, many of Stravinsky's critics during the 1920s and 30s did make just this sort of criticism of his new neoclassical style. Stravinsky's use of heuristic imitation has, however, a unique tension or ambivalence. While each type of imitation nourishes some ambivalences more than others, heuristic imitation is most vulnerable in the fictive nature of its diachronic passage. Stravinsky takes sonata form as his model, but succeeds only to the extent that we can accept the historical itinerary he follows. This kind of neoclassical piece does not compete against its model; it pretends to be a direct descendant of the model, the natural heir to its cultural authenticity. The strength of heuristic imitation is its ambition to enact a specific historical and cultural journey, but its distinctive limitation is an incompleteness or fictiveness in the purported relationship between the simpler model and the more complex contemporary one \u2013 that is, between cultures too distant or estranged for their relationship to be entirely free of make-believe.\n\n**Dialectical imitation**\n\nA fourth and final type of imitation that characterises Stravinsky's neo-classical works can be termed 'dialectical imitation'. This type of imitation remedies the lack of exchange or contest in heuristic imitation through a more aggressive dialogue between a piece and its model. Dialectical imitation is often historically and culturally aware, acknowledging anachronism but exposing in its model a defect, irresolution or naivety. At the same time, dialectical imitation invites and risks reciprocal treatment \u2013 a two-way dialogue, a mutual exchange of criticism, a contest between specific composers, pieces and traditions. Dialectical imitation implicitly criticises or challenges its authenticating model, but in so doing leaves itself open to the possibility of unfavourable comparison.\n\nHow can a piece imitate and sustain a dialogue with another piece or a past tradition? How can a piece enter a contest with its model? Or, put differently, how can a piece reveal an artist making sense of \u2013 telling the story of \u2013 his or her place in the history of music? In poetry the devices are better understood, but nonetheless require interpretation. Poets can use echoes or allusions to earlier poems or traditions that they both invoke and transform. The echo invites the reader to notice how changed that tradition is from what it was in the earlier poem. This technique is repeatable; poetic echoes can recall earlier echoes, initiating a sequence of traditions and transformations. In each instance, the echo or allusion suggests the newer poem's place in a history of styles, modes and values. But the imitation is dialectical because the older poem seems to demand \u2013 and be granted \u2013 a say in locating the newer one.\n\n_**The Rake's Progress**_\n\nStravinsky's most successful use of dialectical imitation is in his last neoclassical composition and his only full-length opera, _The Rake's Progress_. _The Rake_ enjoys a unique position among Stravinsky's neoclassical works for several reasons. With one short exception, it is the only music Stravinsky composed with a text on romantic love. Absorbing most of the composer's creative energy over a period of three years (1948\u201351), it is also Stravinsky's longest work and among the very few that did not originate in a commission or a clear prospect of performance. Its libretto, written largely by W. H. Auden, represents one of the most literary texts in all opera. Stravinsky took his title and inspiration from a series of eight engravings published by William Hogarth in the 1730s. These moralising tableaux depict the progress of a rake from self-indulgent hedonism to degradation, madness and death. Stravinsky and Auden changed the order of Hogarth's tableaux, reinterpreted their detail, and added much new material, including significant allusions, both literary and musical, to Goethe's _Faust_ and Mozart's _Don Giovanni_. Largely through these allusions Stravinsky engages in a transitive dialogue, a dialectical exchange, with his chosen classical models.\n\nThe opera depicts Tom Rakewell, who unexpectedly receives a sizeable inheritance and leaves his fianc\u00e9e, Anne Trulove, in the country to pursue fortune and adventure in London. He is accompanied until almost the end by a Mephistopheles character, Nick Shadow, who represents the Jungian darker side of Tom's character. After a series of ill-fated adventures, which include whoring, marrying a bearded circus freak, and squandering the last of his money on a machine to manufacture bread from stone, Tom owes his soul to Nick Shadow. Supported by Anne's faithful love, Tom outwits Nick in a game of cards and survives. But Nick's final curse as he sinks into Hell causes Tom to lose his sanity. Anne visits Tom in Bedlam, surrounded by madmen, and discovers that he responds only to the name Adonis. After a climactic love duet, Anne sings Tom to sleep with a lullaby, bids him a final farewell and departs. Tom awakes to find that his Venus has vanished; he dies, presumably of a broken heart, tormented and mourned by the madmen.\n\nIn a programme note written in 1965, Stravinsky explains that he 'chose to cast _The Rake_ in the mould of an eighteenth-century \"number\" opera, one in which the dramatic progress depends on the succession of separate pieces \u2013 recitatives and arias, duets, trios, choruses, instrumental interludes'. He continues by identifying specific composers that he imitates, and one that he does not:\n\nIn the earlier scenes the mould is to some extent pre-Gluck in that it tends to crowd the story into the secco recitatives, reserving the arias for the reflective poetry, but then, as the opera warms up, the story is told, enacted, contained almost entirely in song \u2013 as distinguished from so-called speech-song, and Wagnerian continuous melody.\n\nBeyond this general description, Stravinsky says little about the many classical allusions that he and Auden insert into the opera, nor about their intended meaning. We do know that Stravinsky and Auden worked together closely in shaping the libretto and that Stravinsky was highly satisfied with Auden's work. He chose Auden as his librettist because of his gift for versification, but they proved to have a much deeper rapport. '[A]s soon as we began to work together', Stravinsky wrote, 'I discovered that we shared the same views not only about opera, but also on the nature of the Beautiful and the Good. Thus, our opera is indeed, and in the highest sense, a collaboration.' That _The Rake_ concerns itself with the meaning of 'the beautiful and the good' is beyond doubt, but the richness and complexity of that meaning, created largely by its allusions to past works and traditions, has generated a lack of consensus among critics about what exactly the meaning is.\n\nThis lack of consensus is clearest in the fact that, for almost fifty years since _The Rake_ 's premiere in 1950, critics have debated the fate of its hero, Tom Rakewell. Like Goethe's Faust, Tom employs a satanic servant as he pursues a life of debauchery, but then at the last moment seems to avoid damnation. Unlike Faust, whom angels carry aloft to heaven, Tom ends his life in Bedlam among madmen, believing himself to be the mythical Adonis, lover of Venus. Where _Faust_ makes us ask _why_ Faust is saved after all the harm he has done to others, _The Rake_ makes us ask whether Tom, though clearly saved from damnation, is redeemed and, if so, in what sense. This question can be explored in a number of ways, but here I choose only one, which illustrates the interpretative uses of the idea of dialectical imitation. I want to explore Tom's redemption, first by showing how, at the end of the opera, Stravinsky employs time as a symbol for the rake's progress, and second by suggesting how the libretto reveals Tom's fate by placing time in the context of Goethe's _Faust. The Rake_ 's engagement with _Faust_ sets the stage for dialogue between these two great works \u2013 that is, for Stravinsky and Auden's neoclassical masterpiece of dialectical imitation.\n\nIn large measure, the meaning of the opera hinges on the final scene and particularly on Tom's fantasy that he and Anne are Adonis and Venus. Should Tom's mythologisation of himself and Anne be understood as an episode of syphilitic madness or as a transcendent identification with the divine? The scene gives strong support for both interpretations. Like the final Hogarth engraving, the final scene of _The Rake_ depicts the horrors of eighteenth-century asylums, with hallucinating men taunting one another and dying of syphilis. Even though Tom asks for forgiveness and repents of his 'madness', he dies apparently without understanding his own life. Unsurprisingly, many critics argue that any redemption in this context can only be ironic. Joseph Kerman, reviewing the opera's American premiere, recommended that unless Auden and Stravinsky intended to deny Tom's redemption, they should re-compose the ending to make Tom's fate clearer. Geoffrey Chew finds the final scene clear enough, but only by superimposing the context of twentieth-century Christian existentialism.\n\nA common approach to interpreting Tom's final fate has been to follow his 'progress' in earlier scenes \u2013 to ask what motivates him, what he learns from his adventures, and how his character develops. Again, contradictory interpretations seem plausible, mainly because Stravinsky and Auden relentlessly invoke earlier models that sharpen Tom's character through ironic contrast. The Faust legend, for example, diminishes Tom. Faust's bargain with the devil figures, not his evil, but his striving to transcend the limits of human desire. Tom Rakewell, by contrast, is weak, indecisive, and so naive that he fails to recognise his demonic servant until the last moment. Stravinsky invokes classical models in the music to achieve similar contrasts. As Joseph Straus has shown, when Tom confronts his fate in the graveyard, Stravinsky imitates key features of the music that sends Mozart's Don Giovanni to hell. The allusion reminds an audience how irresolute and cowardly Tom has been when compared with Don Giovanni, whose insatiable desires drive him resolutely on to the end. Tom typically responds to his escapades with astonishment, boredom or remorse \u2013 responses that could equally reflect enlightenment or confusion. Trying to interpret Tom's 'progress', then, leads to a similar question: is it a path of enlightenment to some sort of redemption or a path of degradation to some sort of purgatory?\n\nGiven the apparent weakness of Tom's character and the fact that his repentance occurs in the context of his insanity, it seems safe to say that an argument for Tom's redemption involves a leap of faith. The most compelling reason for making that leap is that the final scene contains some of Auden's most beautiful verses set to music conveying a convincing sense of fulfilment. In Tom's imagination, the final love duet takes place in a mythological paradise, the gardens of Adonis, where their communion will be complete and eternal:\n\nRejoice, beloved: in these fields of Elysium\n\nSpace cannot alter, nor Time our love abate;\n\nHere has no words for absence or estrangement\n\nNor Now a notion of Almost or Too Late.\n\nThe music half convinces us \u2013 against our better judgement \u2013 that this imagined paradise is as real as the walls of Bedlam and that the relationship between hero and heroine is ultimately made good, redeemed by a love that transcends the sordid facts of this world. But, at the same time, we have the sense of being duped by beauty. Modernists like Auden and Stravinsky, we think, would never seriously accept this sort of nineteenth-century operatic clich\u00e9. Still, the music gives us hope where the drama offers none.\n\nHow does Stravinsky create the extraordinary musical effect of the final scene? One unique feature of the final two scenes is that, for the first time, themes begin to reappear. Earlier, except for a few short echoes of previous tunes, Stravinsky \u2013 true to his Mozartian model \u2013 avoids repeating themes. Significantly, the only two repeated themes recur together, and one of these structures the final, ecstatic love duet between Anne and Tom. The other, the one that Stravinsky labels a Ballad, is remarkable solely for its banality. These two themes transform one another in successive repetitions to portray a transformation of Tom's character, a transformation that gains meaning largely through its imitative dialogue with _Faust_.\n\nThe Ballad appears first using its most conventional accompaniment. On stage, the auction of Tom's possessions is ending, and the voices of Tom and Nick are heard from the street. Having lost all of his money on the bread machine, Tom and Nick throw to the wind their few remaining cares and responsibilities. Tom's progressive escape from duty seems to have reached its most absurd end; both Stravinsky and Auden echo this existential predicament by indulging in extremes. Auden's silly verses, in strict iambic metres, are metrically repetitive and mechanical:\n\nIf boys had wings and girls had stings\n\nAnd gold fell from the sky,\n\nIf new-laid eggs wore wooden legs\n\nI should not laugh or cry.\n\nStravinsky's little tune is equally silly \u2013 the most metrically rigid and harmonically predictable in the entire opera.\n\nThe Ballad returns in the next scene, in the graveyard, when Nick sings alone to demand his wages or Tom's soul (see Ex. 6.12). Only now does Tom begin to wonder about his servant's identity and intentions. But just before Nick sings the Ballad and Tom acknowledges his suspicions comes a four-bar introduction that presents the second theme which Stravinsky significantly reuses to structure the final love duet. I will call this the 'flutter' motive, and here its changing, irregular metre suggests Tom's growing apprehension and fear.\n\n**Ex. 6.12** _The Rake's Progress_ , Act 3, scene 2, 'Duet', figs. 163\u2013166+3\n\nWere it not for its banal memorability, we would scarcely recognise that Nick is singing the same tune that he last sang for the jaunty street song. In fact, much of the chilling effect results from the ironic tension between the triviality of the tune and the ultimate seriousness of Nick's claim:\n\nA year and a day have passed away\n\nSince first to you I came.\n\nAll things you bid, I duly did\n\nAnd now my wages claim.\n\nThe Ballad now appears exactly transposed to G major, but important changes occur in the accompaniment, where Stravinsky subtly undermines the metre of the passage. What before had been bar-length arpeggiations are now gradually expanded and repeated without regard to metre.\n\nThe Ballad recurs a final time at the next dramatic climax, just after Nick descends to hell, having lost the card game and therefore Tom's soul. But as Nick descends, he condemns Tom to madness. Tom, now insane, sings the Ballad the following morning (see Ex. 6.13). It is spring, and his open grave is covered with a green mound upon which Tom sits smiling like an innocent child, putting grass on his head and proclaiming himself as Adonis. The dramatic effect gains force by the close juxtaposition of the Ballad, first portraying Nick's evil and now Tom's innocence. Again, Stravinsky creates this new effect by recomposing the accompaniment, replacing the rolling arpeggiations of the earlier settings with the flutter motive that haunted Tom's entrance into the graveyard. Each phrase of the Ballad that Tom sings is interrupted at irregular intervals by various repetitions of the flutter motive, thereby undermining the clear metrical structure of the Ballad.\n\n**Ex. 6.13** _The Rake's Progress_ , Act 3, scene 2, 'Aria', figs. 206\u20139\n\nThus, with each recurrence of the Ballad, the sense of metre progressively dissipates. As the curtain slowly falls, the flutter motive repeats at irregular intervals. Just as Tom has lost the ability to measure time with his loss of sanity, so too does the Ballad tune lose its metre. A new sense of time takes over, both dramatically and musically. I want to return to how Stravinsky uses time and metre to convey dramatic meaning, but first need to discuss the climactic love duet that follows in the final scene.\n\nWhile Stravinsky's music changes the way we perceive time in Tom's final presentation of the Ballad, Auden waits to create the same effect until the ecstatic reunion of Tom and Anne in Bedlam (see Ex. 6.14). His verses, quoted above, portray a new sense of time: no longer rigidly measured by Nick's year and a day, time now enjoys a sense of immediacy or fullness, one that rejects the notions of almost or too late, of absence or estrangement. Time is no longer cyclic and repetitive, but linear, non-cyclic and ever-evolving: 'Here has no words for absence or estrangement / Nor Now a notion of Almost or Too Late.' For a brief moment, Tom and Anne seem to be joined as fate intended them to be. The music highlights the connection between Tom's insanity and this ever-evolving, utopian vision by again using the metrically unpredictable flutter motive, this time with the lovers themselves joining the accompanying wind instruments. This is when Tom falls asleep and Anne leaves, making it clear that she will not return.\n\n**Ex. 6.14** _The Rake's Progress_ , Act 3, scene 2, 'Duet', figs. 249\u201352\n\nSeveral things seem clear about time as a symbol in these passages. First, the Ballad, with its rigid, repetitive metre, is associated with Nick Shadow. As Nick gradually loses his hold on Tom, the Ballad gradually loses its metrical effect. Once Nick has disappeared, the Ballad is never heard again. Second, as Tom's sense of dread and fear intensifies, so does his awareness of repentance, and both are linked to the growing dominance of the flutter theme, which culminates in Tom and Anne's final love duet. Dramatically, Stravinsky uses the flutter theme to contrast and compete with the Ballad; musically, he uses metre to portray this contrast or competition.\n\nPerhaps in response to the text, which speaks of a fullness or abundance of time, the love duet itself seems metrically rich or complex, overflowing with a sense of metrical possibilities. It sustains a sense of immediacy by delaying any clear sense of downbeat; the music seems to balance precariously on a continuous upbeat, which never finds its anticipated downbeat. The effect is not an absence of metre, but the opposite; one hears the theme structured by an ever-changing abundance of metrical paths. And exactly this sense of abundance, of sustained anticipation, creates a sense of immediacy unique to the dramatic climax of the opera.\n\nMost listeners quickly grasp how contrasting themes portray competing impulses in Tom Rakewell's character and how time or metre comes to symbolise the outcome of the competition. But what does that symbol mean, and how does it relate to Stravinsky's chosen classical model? Here one of Auden's essays, 'Balaam and his ass', written while he was working with Stravinsky, may help.\n\nAuden takes up the traditional issue of why Faust is saved. Faust's redemption depends on Goethe's ideas of cyclic, repetitive time versus non-cyclic, linear or progressive time. Goethe describes Mephistopheles as a spirit of denial, who expresses and acts upon his sense of the ultimate futility of being. In the final climax of the work, Mephistopheles declares that time is a series of meaningless and empty circles:\n\nWhat use these cycles of creation!\n\nOr snatching off the creatures to negation!\n\n'It is gone by!' \u2013 and we can draw the inference:\n\nIf it had not been, it would make no difference;\n\nThe wheel revolves the same, no more, no less.\n\nI should prefer eternal emptiness. [11598\u2013603]\n\nThus, for Mephistopheles time is meaningless because it is repetitive rather than creative. No progress can occur in any direction; to go round in a circle is to go nowhere.\n\nIf evil is understood as a process of negation, then it is both destroying and denying, and the ultimate good becomes creativity, bringing into existence things that did not exist before. Faust's restless striving towards the infinite implies linear movement through time. When making his deal with Mephistopheles, Faust stipulates when his soul will be forfeited:\n\nIf ever I stretch myself on a bed of ease:\n\nThen I am finished! Is that understood?\n\n. . .\n\nIf ever I say to the passing moment\n\n'Linger a while! Thou art so fair!' [1692\u20133; 1699\u20131700]\n\nFaust's stipulation, at bottom, turns on the different ways of understanding time \u2013 immediate and endlessly becoming versus repetitive and cyclic. If ever Faust ceases striving and wants time to stop, if ever he wants to halt its linear flow, then his time is up: 'The clock may stop, its hands may fall, / And that be the end of time for me!' (1705\u20136). The root question of Goethe's _Faust_ is 'Whose view of time will triumph \u2013 Mephistopheles's or Faust's?'\n\nIn 'Balaam and his ass', Auden opens his discussion of _Faust_ with the phrase, 'Das verfluchte Hier' [the accursed present], and then gives his own interpretation of the nature of Faust's indefatigable striving that generations of critics have seen as the reason for his eventual redemption:\n\nThe story of Faust is precisely the story of a man who refuses to be anyone and only wishes to become someone else . . . [What Faust strives to reject] is that immediate actual moment, the actual concrete world now, . . . and [what he strives for is] the same world seen by memory and imagination as possible . . . All value belongs to possibility, the actual here and now is valueless, or rather the value it has is the feeling of discontent it provokes . . . Faust escapes Mephisto's clutches because he is careful to define the contentment of his last moment in terms of anticipation.\n\nTo Mephistopheles, the spirit of denial, creation is most hateful, even the anticipation of creation. In Auden's view, Faust escapes damnation not only because he strives relentlessly, driven by dissatisfaction, but because his striving is coupled with anticipation \u2013 by engaging the world by memory and imagination, as 'what might have been once and may be yet'.\n\nAuden's comments on _Faust_ help resolve the ambiguity of the progress of his and Stravinsky's _Rake_. The conventional association of Mephistopheles with cyclic, repetitive time suggests one reason why Stravinsky chose to give Nick Shadow music to sing that is metrically rigid and repetitive and why Auden gives his spirit of denial the nonsense lines, 'If new-laid eggs wore wooden legs, I should not laugh or cry.' Without too much effort, we also can see how the flutter theme that comes to represent Tom's fate can represent a transcendence of repetition and cyclical time. But what about the idea that Faust saves himself not through mere striving, but through striving motivated by anticipation and imagination?\n\nHere it will be useful to return to the original outline of the opera that Stravinsky and Auden prepared together over a ten-day period in the autumn of 1947. While many details were added later, the initial shape of the opera hardly changed in the final version, perhaps because of the extraordinary rapport between the composer and librettist. In the crucial graveyard scene, where the Ballad and flutter motive first appear together, the original outline calls for the Hero (Tom) and Villain (Nick) to play dice on a grave. After the Hero declares that he is bored, the Villain asks him what more he desires \u2013 Pleasure? Glory? Power? The hero rejects each of these and declares instead he desires the Past. The Villain is pleased with this response, for the Hero seems to know what Nick makes explicit at this point in the final libretto, that 'return' to the past \u2013 that is, repetition \u2013 is impossible:\n\nThe simpler the trick, the simpler the deceit;\n\nThat there is no return, I've taught him well,\n\nAnd repetition palls him;\n\nThe Queen of Hearts again shall be for him the Queen of Hell.\n\nIn the original outline, the Villain then commands the Hero to continue playing the game which the Hero loses. Just as the Villain declares that the Hero's time is up, Anne's voice is heard in the distance. The Hero declares with great excitement: 'No, there is still another thing \u2013 the future!' and he then commands the Villain to play again. The Villain refuses and proceeds to lose the game, as well as Tom's soul. In this first draft, the reason that Tom escapes damnation is made explicit: at the crucial moment, he, like Faust, does not want to return to the past; he wants the future to resume or repeat 'what might have been once and may be yet'.\n\nIn the final version, the reason is less explicit, for Tom's lines are: 'Return! and Love! / The banished words torment.' Nick then declares: 'You cannot now repent.' Again Tom cries, 'Return O love.' But Tom is interrupted by Anne singing in the distance: 'A love that is sworn before Thee can plunder Hell of its prey.' Tom then continues: 'I wish for nothing else. / Love, first and last, assume eternal reign; / Renew my life, O Queen of Hearts, again.' And on that line, Tom wins the game. Because Auden deleted the word 'future' in the final text, most critics have gone astray by interpreting Tom's line, 'I wish for nothing else', to mean either 'I wish for nothing at all' or 'I wish for nothing else than to have Hell plundered of its prey' (that is, his soul). But a third meaning is more consistent with the original text: 'I wish for nothing else' than for 'love to assume eternal reign, and thereby to renew my life'. This interpretation points to Auden's understanding of why Faust is saved \u2013 because 'he is careful to define the contentment of his last moment in terms of anticipation, . . . the same world seen by memory and imagination as possible.'\n\nSome might object to the parallel with Faust, since this is not Tom's last moment. He still has one more scene to go and appears to be insane for the whole of it. Auden's imitation of the Faust legend ends when Tom defeats Nick. Everything following has no obvious literary precedent. What dramatic function, then, does the final scene serve? Why should the music of the last scene convey so strong a sense of fulfilment? And if fulfilment suggests redemption, why does Tom \u2013 unlike Faust \u2013 nonetheless suffer a tragic fate? The answers to these questions are crucial, for if the view presented here of Stravinsky and Auden's imitative strategy is correct, then _The Rake_ 's final departure from Faust accommodates and furthers a dialectical exchange \u2013 a two-way dialogue that promotes mutually critical reflection on both _The_ _Rake_ and _Faust_. The final love duet, as described above, speaks of a fullness or abundance of time in music that seems metrically rich or complex, overflowing with a sense of metrical possibilities. With the text in mind, the significance of its most remarkable feature \u2013 that all possible metres (2/8, 3/8, 4/8) seem equally plausible \u2013 becomes clearer. The duet locks our attention with a sense of presentness or immediacy; while we sense metre, we cannot grasp the metrically repeating downbeats we need to define a specific metre. In Auden's words, Faust is saved because he strives for a world 'seen by memory and imagination as possible', as 'what might have been once and may be yet'. Tom's tragedy, then, depends on his sentence to insanity because it robs him of memory and therefore the ability to bring the past into an anticipated present. We can now understand how the love duet portrays musically this tragic dilemma. It promises or anticipates multiple metres, but falters in its 'memory' of the past metrical events needed to define any one metre. In other words, the metrical past never satisfies an anticipation of a metrical present. This view of the interrelated literary and musical features of the final duet explains why Anne leaves Tom and why Tom dies singing a final melody that alludes to Monteverdi's _Orfeo_. That allusion, of course, furthers the dialectical exchange with Faust by evoking another work in which tragedy lies in the inability both to return and to progress.\n\n**Conclusion**\n\nStravinsky's neoclassical style culminates in _The Rake's Progress_. Perhaps sensing that he could never surpass _The Rake_ 's accomplishment, Stravinsky abandoned his neoclassical style in 1951 and, until his death in 1971, used primarily serial procedures. And perhaps because of this abrupt change, historical assessment of Stravinsky's neoclassical works has been and remains mixed. By the time he had completed _The Rake_ , critics were labelling Stravinsky's neoclassical style as reactionary, in opposition to Schoenberg's serialism, which they thought more progressive. Stravinsky found it increasingly difficult to ignore this assessment. With greater historical perspective, more recent critics have significantly revised this appraisal by judging Stravinsky's neoclassical style as the harbinger of musical postmodernism. Like the earlier assessment that rested on simplistic opposition between Schoenberg and Stravinsky, the current view distorts unless carefully qualified.\n\nIn general, critics who find here the origins of musical postmodernism point to Stravinsky's use of pastiche, which many identify as the signature of the postmodern across every art form. Others use the term 'collage', which seems not to differ significantly from 'pastiche' (in Fredric Jameson's usage) as the most powerful and unifying device in twentieth-century art. This notion that Stravinsky's use of pastiche or collage provides some sort of continuity between musical modernism and postmodernism is not implausible, but can easily lead to a false conclusion \u2013 that because postmodern collage or pastiche revels in ambiguity, diversity, and ahistoricism, its seeming presence earlier in Stravinsky's neoclassical works _necessarily_ serves the same ends and should be interpreted in the same way. _The Rake_ should provide a reasonable test case for this argument, both because it is his final and richest neoclassical piece and because its extravagant musical and literary allusions have led critics to cite it as Stravinsky's clearest use of pastiche. If we understand pastiche as Jameson does (the random imitation or cannibalisation of dead styles, using all the masks and voices stored up in an imaginary museum of a now global culture), then surely _The Rake_ seems a plausible candidate. Few pieces of twentieth-century music contain as many literary and musical allusions. While I have focused mainly on the allusions to Goethe's _Faust_ and Monteverdi's _Orfeo_ , a complete list would include _The Beggar's Opera_ , _Don Giovanni_ , _Cos\u00ec fan Tutte_ , _Don Pasquale_ , philosophical themes plucked from Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, as well as a mixture of Classical and Baroque harmonic and contrapuntal forms. On one level, then, _The Rake_ seems to exemplify a definition of pastiche as the random imitation or cannibalisation of dead styles and works.\n\nThe key element in the usual definition of postmodern collage or pastiche, however, is randomness. Random juxtaposition of allusions scrambles any sustained historical reference, creating instead a surface best described as synchronic or ahistorical. In superficial reaction against modernism's negation of history, postmodernism revels in a facile nostalgia that deploys multiple historical styles and allusions to create diverse and contradictory meanings. Here, too, _The Rake_ might be judged a likely candidate because even a cursory glance at its critical history shows a persistent debate about its coherence, and in particular about the meaning of its final scene. But, as I have shown, stylistic pastiche in _The Rake_ does not end in joyful ambiguity and irresolution, as it would if Stravinsky were really a postmodernist _avant la lettre_. Clearly, Stravinky's dialogue with _Faust_ creates less ambiguity and more integration of meaning than could be characterised as postmodern. I hope also that, at this stage of my argument, no one would willingly assume that the echo of Monteverdi is just one more element of a playful pastiche. An analysis of _The Rake_ that merely lists echoes and allusions is misleading, not so much about Stravinky's importance as a progenitor of musical postmodernism, which is undeniable, but because of a natural tendency to interpret causes in terms of their effects. If we rest content with a postmodern view of the play of allusions in _The Rake's Progress_ , then we will miss its serious and sustained engagement with models in our musical and literary tradition. We will, in short, underestimate its 'neoclassicism'.\n**7**\n\nJONATHAN CROSS\n\n**Stravinsky's theatres**\n\n_. . ._ good or bad,\n\nAll men are mad;\n\nAll they say or do is theatre.\n\nBABA, 'EPILOGUE', _THE RAKE'S PROGRESS_\n\nIn his Bloch Lectures given at the University of California at Berkeley in 1995, the British composer Jonathan Harvey presented his ideas on _The Rake's Progress_ , a work he described as being 'aware of its own derivativeness'. _The Rake_ , he argued, is 'the most explicit manifestation of selfeffacement', its meaning deriving 'not from authorship, but from formal pattern-play and ingenuity'. While such a view determinedly underlines the 'proto-postmodern' tendencies in Stravinsky, it is also interesting that it echoes strongly Stravinsky's own aesthetic as articulated in the 1930s (via his various ghost writers) in such public statements as the _Autobiography_ and the Harvard lectures. In the _Poetics of Music_ , Stravinsky proclaims that 'It is through the unhampered play of its functions . . . that a work is revealed and justified.' With specific regard to _The Rake_ , Stravinsky observed that it is\n\n. . . emphatically, an opera \u2013 an opera of arias and recitatives, choruses and ensembles. Its musical structure, the conception of the use of these forms, even to the relations of tonalities, is in the line of the classical tradition.\n\nThe 'line of the classical tradition' is extended back as far as early Italian opera in the Prelude, to Bach and Handel in the Bedlam scene and as far forward as echoes of Donizetti and Verdi. And Mozart is heard everywhere: _Cos\u00ecfan tutte_ and _Don Giovanni_ , especially. _The Rake_ thus alludes to virtually the whole of operatic history. Indeed, whatever the main narrative themes of the work (love, greed, power, loss of innocence, madness and so on), _The Rake's Progress_ is, at heart, an opera about opera ('aware of its own derivativeness'). Harvey concluded that 'because no-one is telling us anything, what it means (and many of us probably register that it has deeper meaning than most twentieth-century operas) seems objective, immutable, above merely individual opinion'.\n\nThis goes some way in explaining why rite, ritual, myth and formal theatres of all kinds were so attractive to Stravinsky. He was drawn to theatres where the collective was emphasised over the individual, where objective representation was preferred over subjective expression. In terms of his theatre, this concept is most succinctly articulated in a comment he made about the character Oedipus: 'My audience is not indifferent to the fate of the person, but I think it far more concerned with the person of the fate, and the delineation of it which can be achieved in music.' In _Oedipus Rex_ he focused 'the tragedy not on Oedipus himself and the other individuals, but on the \"fatal development\" that, for me, is the meaning of the play'. The role of music in the theatre, for Stravinsky, was therefore not one of reinforcing emotions (he claimed he abhorred verismo) but of articulating a framework, of helping to universalise individuals' actions and experiences. Greek tragedy was one important source of such thinking. In Aristotle's analysis, 'The plot . . . is the first essential of tragedy, its life-blood, so to speak, and character takes the second place.'\n\nIgor Stravinsky virtually grew up in the theatre. His father Fyodor was one of the greatest operatic bass-baritones of his day and, as Stephen Walsh points out, Fyodor's twenty-six-year career coincided with a flowering of Russian opera. He made his debut at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg in April 1876, and took roles to great acclaim in, among other works, Musorgsky's _Boris Godunov_ , Glinka's _Ruslan and Lyudmila_ , Borodin's _Prince Igor_ , Rimsky-Korsakov's _The Snow Maiden_ and Tchaikovsky's _Enchantress_ , as well as in the major non-Russian repertoire from Mozart to Bizet. Igor had access to all his father's opera scores. He was taken to the Mariinsky from a very young age to see ballet and opera, and it made a deep impression on him. He would sit in his father's box and he was 'soon in the theatre five or six evenings a week. The Mariinsky Theatre was for him almost a \"second home\".' Another key influence was that of Rimsky-Korsakov and his circle. Aside from composition lessons with Rimsky-Korsakov, Stravinsky also assisted him with his later operas \u2013 for example, he helped with the score of Act 3 of Rimsky's opera _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh_ , premiered at the Mariinsky in February 1907. It should hardly be surprising, therefore, that Stravinsky's first major public work for the stage \u2013 the ballet _The Firebird_ , premiered at the Paris Op\u00e9ra on 25 June 1910 by Diaghilev's Ballets Russes \u2013 was such a theatrical success for a young and relatively inexperienced composer.\n\nThroughout his creative life, from his early lyric tale _The Nightingale_ to the late musical play _The Flood_ , by way of numerous ballets, dance scenes, burlesques, an opera buffa, an opera-oratorio and a fully-fledged opera, not to mention abortive dalliances with film and a never-to-be stage project with Dylan Thomas, Stravinsky engaged with a broad range of dramatic genres. He collaborated with some of the most important writers (as librettists), artists (as set designers), directors and choreographers of his time: among them, W. H. Auden, Jean Cocteau, Andr\u00e9 Gide, L\u00e9on Bakst, Henri Matisse, Pablo Picasso, George Balanchine and Mikhail Fokine. And even in his non-stage works one finds a deep-rooted fascination with the dramatic dimension of ritual, whether in the religious rituals of the _Symphony of Psalms_ and _Canticum Sacrum_ , or the ritualised formality of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_. Indeed, in the case of the latter two examples, critics have proposed interpretations based on concrete dramatic/ritual models: the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ as direct response to Cocteau's ideas for his aborted _David_ ballet project, and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ (in memoriam Claude Debussy) as a stylised representation of the _panikhida_ , the Russian Orthodox office of the dead.\n\nIn order to explore further the nature of Stravinsky's theatre and to provide an interpretative context, I adopt here two categories borrowed from Peter Brook: 'rough' theatre and 'holy' theatre. Rough theatre Brook identifies with popular, folk and street theatre, circus, pantomime and cabaret. Such theatre was clearly of fundamental importance to Stravinsky: puppetry and the _commedia dell'arte_ ( _Petrushka_ , _Pulcinella_ ), Russian itinerant folk entertainers ( _Renard_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ ), rustic Russian rituals ( _Les Noces_ ). Its roughness results in an immediacy lacking from more institutionalised kinds of theatre, and it is characterised by a boldness and directness of presentation; a breakdown of the distinction between actors and audience; a utilisation of a wide range of performing spaces, often open-air, and rooted in the community; it dispenses with the paraphernalia of formal theatre, working with the minimum of props, costumes, set and so on; it is usually ritualised and stylised in presentation; and actors, singers, dancers and musicians are usually in constant view. In other words, rough theatre represents a continuity with a much older tradition of pre-literate theatre. An interest in such theatre was endemic in the earlier years of the twentieth century, as was a looking outwards to oriental theatre, particularly that of Indonesia and Japan. Artaud, Brecht, Cocteau, Jarry, Meyerhold and Pirandello, for example, were all exploring new kinds of immediate, non-naturalistic, non-narrative theatre by drawing, in part, on ancient, folk and non-Western sources. Stravinsky's collaboration with Cocteau is especially significant in this regard.\n\nThe other category from Brook that I adopt is that of holy theatre. The theatre, Brook argues, 'is the last forum where idealism is still an open question: many audiences all over the world will answer positively from their own experience that they have seen the face of the invisible through an experience on the stage that transcended their experience in life'. He gives Artaud's 'Theatre of Cruelty', alongside Happenings and the work of Samuel Beckett, as twentieth-century examples of holy theatre. Artaud's theory of the theatre shares many aspects with the rough theatre: for example, his interest in Balinese theatre; his prescription that stage and auditorium should be abandoned to enable direct contact between actors and audience; his rejection of narrative, realistic theatre. But Artaud also proposed moving away from a theatre dependent on text and towards one more concerned with myth, ritual and magic, with something metaphysical, sublime. This is why Balinese theatrical productions offered Artaud an important model: there 'is something of a religious ritual ceremony about them, in the sense that they eradicate any idea of pretence, a ridiculous imitation of real life, from the spectator's mind.' A holy theatre, by Brook's definition, 'not only presents the invisible but also offers conditions that make its perception possible.'\n\nThis ritual dimension clearly underlies many of Stravinsky's works and is at its most obvious in major stage works spanning his entire creative life: _The Rite of Spring_ , _Les Noces_ , _Oedipus Rex_ , _Agon_. Ritual is concerned with the expression of the collective, of the community, as in ancient ceremonies and acts of religious worship; it transcends the mundane through repeated and repetitive actions; it is symbolic rather than representational; it is stylised and is often associated with a special place and language separate from the everyday. For these reasons, ritual is not primarily concerned with linear time or narratives and it cannot easily represent contemporary events. Myth (broadly defined) thus becomes an important part of many rituals because it represents a collective heritage \u2013 in Jungian terms, myths and their archetypal characters express directly the collective unconscious. Stravinsky's general musical characteristics of repeating rhythms, regular pulse, ostinatos, static pedal points and symmetries, of limited melodies and non-developmental structures, are ideally matched to the presentation of ritual.\n\nThe two categories of the 'rough' and the 'holy' intersect and overlap in fascinating ways. But, to begin with, I shall look in closer focus at three of Stravinsky's stage works that seem to embody these categories in 'pure' form: 'The Tale About the Fox, the Cock, the Tomcat and the Ram' (later a 'Goat' in C. F. Ramuz's French translation) \u2013 better known simply as the burlesque _Renard_ \u2013 _The Soldier's Tale_ and the opera-oratorio _Oedipus Rex_.\n\n_Renard_ was composed in Switzerland 1915\u201316, and is as direct as Stravinsky's rough theatre gets:\n\n_Renard_ is sheer, unadulterated Russian folk art as reimagined by an unwilling exile who had persuaded himself that the future of music, if not the world, depended on tapping down to the deepest roots of a culture which, as a matter of fact, he himself did not know at first hand and which perhaps had never even actually existed. Certainly no such vibrantly, ebulliently, richly uncouth musical idiom ever had.\n\nThe work began, as Richard Taruskin shows us in detail, merely as a 'compost of children's songs and nonsense jingles', Stravinsky initially setting songs from 'The Cat, the Cock and the Fox' out of Afanasyev's collection of Russian tales, and only later deciding to work with the whole story. The result, subtitled 'a merry performance', is a kind of pantomime and calls for\n\nclowns, dancers or acrobats, preferably on a trestle stage with the orchestra placed behind it . . . The players remain all the time on the stage . . . The roles are dumb. The singers (two tenors and two basses) are in the orchestra.\n\nThe orchestra is a sort of peasant band of largely solo woodwind, brass and strings plus percussion and a cimbalom, the latter instrument imitating the _gusli_ , a 'kind of fine, metal-stringed balalaika'. Stravinsky uses it to represent the goat: 'Part of the fun in _Renard_ is that this extremely nimble-fingered instrument should be played by the cloven-hooved goat.' The _gusli_ 's origins lie with ancient Russian troupes of _skomorokhi_ who performed mocking or satirical plays in public squares. Or, at least, it is possible that they did: Taruskin argues that Stravinsky drew and adapted from a variety of folkloristic sources to produce 'a putative picture of life in pre-Petrine Russia that is \"realer than the real\"' (compare with Walsh's reference above to a 'reimagined' art that had perhaps never actually existed). Real or invented, its 'rough' credentials are nonetheless clear for all to appreciate: 'an imaginary quasi-improvised performance by strolling players'.\n\nThe stage characters only mime or dance. The four singers are not specifically identified with any one of the four characters and are seated with the band. (Compare this with _Les Noces_ , where, for example, the Bridegroom is represented by different voices on different occasions.) But they speak or sing in a stylised way on behalf of the animals on the stage, making their noises, engaging in witty dialogue. Because they are distanced from the characters, they can also occasionally take on a 'chorus' function, commenting on the action. This a highly effective narrative device that has the effect of stylising the theatre \u2013 or, rather, it means that the audience is alienated, is constantly made aware that what it is watching is merely a tale, nothing but a piece of theatre. This is affirmed at the very end when the singers announce the conclusion of the play to the audience ('Et si l'histoir' vous a plu, / Payez-moi c'qui m'est d\u00fb!' \u2013 'Now the story is done, / You must pay for your fun!') as well as by the musical framing device of the rough March that serves the function of getting the performers in and out of the acting space.\n\nThe relationship between music and text in this work is fascinating and complex. Taruskin explores the forging of the text and how it relates to the music in exhaustive detail, concluding that in _Renard_ Stravinsky succeeded 'in making the words of his \"merry performance\" literally and indispensably a part of the music'. The extraordinary exuberance and vitality of this piece springs primarily from the accentual and metrical character of the texts; in Stravinsky's setting, the accented syllables, musical metre and ostinatos interact in vibrant ways, resulting in a music of engaging immediacy. Taruskin \u2013 for once \u2013 is prepared to confirm one of Stravinsky's own observations: 'The music of _Renard_ begins in the verse.'\n\n_Renard_ 's 'companion piece' is _The Soldier's Tale_ , which was also composed in Switzerland in 1918. The French text was written by C. F. Ramuz, with whom Stravinsky had first worked on the French translation of _Renard_ , and later as the translator into French of Russian folksong texts as well as _Les Noces_. The origins of the tale lie again in Afanasyev; wartime economies and the fact that both artists were cut off from their principal sources of income resulted in what Stravinsky described as a ' _th\u00e9\u00e2tre ambulant_ ', a small-scale work that could in theory be performed in any location, indoor or outdoor. _The Soldier's Tale_ shares other rough characteristics with _Renard_ : a small ensemble (three pairs of high and low woodwind, brass and strings plus a percussionist, representing a stylised version of a jazz band); role-play where a specific character is associated with a musical instrument (the violin with the soldier, representing the soldier's soul, though Taruskin interprets it instead as 'a kind of liberating and health-giving _\u00e9lan vital_ that is in the end perverted and made the instrument of enslavement'); the fact that the seven instrumentalists, the three speakers and the dancer are present and visible all of the time; and the tale's subject-matter of an ordinary soldier points \u2013 in theory at least \u2013 to the work's rough credentials, removed from the ideals of bourgeois theatre. According to Brook, rough theatre 'deals with men's actions, . . . it is down to earth and direct . . . [and, unlike the Holy Theatre] it admits wickedness and laughter'. This is clearly appropriate to _The Soldier's Tale_. It should be noted, however, that for many commentators those 'rough' aspects of this piece of theatre are less convincing than _Renard_ 's. Walsh quotes Hermann Scherchen (the conductor of, among other things, Pirandello's production of _The Soldier's Tale_ in Rome in Stravinsky's presence in 1926), who referred to Ramuz's 'symbolic-dramatic romantic-yearning', while Taruskin describes Ramuz's text as 'a trite and schoolmasterly Everyman spiel, for the purposes of which a number of very dull contemporary allusions and genteel grotesqueries are introduced'. 'It is the music alone', he concludes, 'that rewards close examination'.\n\nBut there is one key 'rough' device employed in this work and that is the central role given to the narrator, 'adopted to satisfy the need for a two-way go-between: that is, for someone who is an illusionist interpreter between the characters themselves, as well as a commentator between the stage and the audience.' The narrator thus fulfils a chorus-like role. His most important function is one of distancing the audience from the tale. As a member of the audience at a performance of _The Soldier's Tale_ , you are involved with the theatre from the start because you share the performing space, you witness the costume changes, you can see the musicians at work \u2013 you respond as much, as Stravinsky wanted, to 'the scrape of the violin and the punctuation of the drums' as to the music itself. Though a narrative is presented, the very presence of the alienating narrator allows for the disruption and fragmentation of that narrative: hence, the appropriateness of Stravinsky's musical 'collage'. In theatre works where there is no attempt at presenting a linear narrative, the result is a heightened sense of ritual (as in _Les Noces_ ). In such cases, rough merges with holy.\n\nThe eclectic musical materials in _The Soldier's Tale_ include a reworking of ragtime alongside a mix of dances (a tango and a waltz), a Royal March that alludes to nineteenth-century opera, and two pseudo-Lutheran chorales. In many senses, it offers as much a critique of the chosen musical 'objects' as Stravinsky was to present two years later in _Pulcinella_. Just as he appears to distance himself from the jazz elements he uses (he 'reinvents' ragtime in the same way he was, in subsequent neoclassical works, to 'reinvent the past'), so the audience is made to distance itself from the subject-matter. The very presence of popular and folk musics helps reinforce the work's roughness, its 'street' character.\n\nThe paradigm of Stravinsky's 'holy' theatre, I suggest, is his opera-oratorio _Oedipus Rex_. He had been looking for a universal plot, and eventually settled on Sophocles's telling of the Oedipus myth: 'I wished to leave the play, as play, behind, thinking by this to distil the dramatic essence and to free myself for a greater degree of focus on a purely musical dramatization.' One way in which this is achieved is by the fact that the chorus and the protagonists sing Jean Cocteau's text in Latin. As Stravinsky imagined it, a statuesque chorus of tenors and basses, masked and in costume, would be ranked in full view at the front of the stage, commenting on the action. Another distancing element is Cocteau's introduction of the Speaker, detached from the drama and introducing the work's events in the language of the audience: he 'expresses himself like a conferencier, presenting the story with a detached voice'. Wearing evening dress and standing in front of the proscenium, he appears both as one of the audience and as an intermediary between auditorium and stage, just like the narrator in _The Soldier's Tale_ , or a chorus figure in a Greek tragedy. Other aspects of production specified in the preface to the score serve to reinforce the work's stylisation: bold, rough and two-dimensional d\u00e9cor; the use of masks; a stylised acting style where only arms and heads move. The conflict between the Speaker and the actors and singers, which disrupts narrative continuity and naturalistic representation, is matched by the music which, in a more extreme way than in _The Soldier's Tale_ , is a self-confessed ' _Merzbild_ ' (collage). Even though individual moments, such as Jocasta's Act 2 aria in the nineteenth-century Italian operatic manner, might seem to invite narrative interpretation, they are not connected with other moments in the work, each of which is individually characterised, so that the musical as a whole takes on a 'monumental' static aspect. Just as the structure of the plot is overtly signalled by the Speaker, so through various devices of repetition, the music signals its own functions as structural punctuation and frame (in an almost baroque way). Music here _is_ ritual; this is what defines it as 'holy'.\n\nAside from his opera-oratorio, Stravinsky only designated two works 'opera': the one-act opera buffa _Mavra_ and the three-act opera _The Rake's Progress_. Beyond the surface allusions to other operatic traditions (old Russian opera and Italian bel canto in _Mavra_ ; Mozart, principally, in _The Rake_ ), both achieve a distancing, an anti-naturalism, by adopting a number structure of arias, duets, recitatives, choruses and other familiar set pieces. What interested Stravinsky in opera, then, was not so much its dramatic-expressive possibilities (he was resolutely anti-Wagnerian) as its formalism. _The Rake_ is framed by a Monteverdian Prelude (' _on va commencer_ ') and a Mozartiancum-vaudeville Epilogue. The graveyard scene in Act 3 of _The Rake_ \u2013 the work's dramatic turning-point where Tom Rakewell and Nick Shadow confront each other \u2013 is a masterpiece of invention where Stravinsky adopts the rhetoric (the framework) of \u2013 for example \u2013 recitative but invests it with a new musical and dramatic power all its own.\n\nThe completion of _The Rake's Progress_ saw Stravinsky abandon neoclassicism and begin to explore the serial method. While he developed his serial thinking in one important stage work, the ballet _Agon_ (discussed below), the only fully serial piece of theatre to emerge from Stravinsky's last years was the musical play _The Flood_. Its heterogeneity and concomitant stylisation were a result of the fact that it was written specially for television, a medium which, unlike the conventional stage, allowed instantaneous cutting from one scene to another. Its text was fashioned by Robert Craft from sources explicitly both rough and holy: the York Miracle Plays _The Creation and Fall of Lucifer_ and _The Fall of Man_ , and the Chester Miracle Play _Noah's Flood_ , along with brief quotations from Genesis.\n\nStravinsky's compositional techniques may be new in this work, but they are put to theatrical ends similar to many of his other pieces. The drama is framed at start and finish by a mixed chorus singing in Latin the opening verses of the _Te Deum_ (the text is in a kind of reverse order \u2013 or retrograde \u2013 at the end). These are the only times the chorus is heard: it stands outside the drama. Again, Latin reinforces this distancing, while a ritual mode is established through the chorus's chanting \u2013 Stravinsky himself described it as 'Byzantine'. The other framing device is a purely musical one: a twelve-note chord heard at the very start of the Prelude, the 'Representation of Chaos', an unexpectedly symmetrical formation, out of which emerge two versions of the basic twelve-note row of the work, a rising figure Stravinsky described as a 'musical Jacob's Ladder'. This passage is repeated exactly, just before the end, ominously prefacing the words of Satan, who has also survived the flood ('The forbidden act will forever disobey . . . '). 'Jacob's Ladder' closes the work, as the words of the _Te Deum_ fade away. As always in Stravinsky, musical and dramatic structures are intimately intertwined.\n\nThere are long purely instrumental moments in _The Flood_ ('The Building of the Ark' and 'The Flood') which are danced, and which Stravinsky himself originally planned carefully with his long-time collaborator George Balanchine. There is also a spoken narrator who comments, links events and recites the only extended Biblical passage in the piece. In fact, there is throughout a clear division between the characters who speak and those who sing ('the celestials should sing while the terrestrials should merely talk' ): all solo parts except for God (two basses) and Lucifer/Satan (a tenor) are spoken, for the most part delivered in a highly stylised manner. The stylisation of the role of God is underlined by the fact that it is sung _simultaneously_ by two basses. God is unchanging: always slow, always 'other-worldly', and also always presenting together two forms of the row in rhythmic unison.\n\nThe other key stage work from Stravinsky's serial period is _Agon_. It was his last ballet score, and it is a summation of his work in the ballet since _Pulcinella_. A commission from Lincoln Kirstein and Balanchine for the New York City Ballet, it had a long gestation period. It was begun in December 1953, interrupted for the composition of _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ and the _Canticum Sacrum_ , and not completed until April 1957. It involved a close collaboration between Stravinsky and Balanchine and demonstrates fascinating connections between the structures of music and dance.\n\n_Agon_ 's audacity, its geometric precision, virtuosity and energy, suggest that Stravinsky had in later life found a new musical direction, a new, much more rarefied kind of neoclassicism, an even more refined stylisation of past forms and traditions. Furthermore, its adoption of aspects of serial technique indicates an accommodation between what had formerly been perceived as irreconcilable poles: Stravinskian neoclassicism and Schoenbergian/Webernian dodecaphony. But what is particularly fascinating about this work is the way in which the 'twelveness' of the pitch structure is also built into the patterning of the dances. There are twelve dances arranged into interlocking cycles and twelve dancers arranged in various combinations of one, two, three and four. The result is a kind of abstract Greek drama in keeping with the work's title (literally, a 'contest' or 'game'). The _pas de quatre_ and coda form the dramatic frame, the sequence of French seventeenth-century dances ( _pas de trois_ ) resembles a series of 'episodes', while everything turns on the central _pas de deux_.\n\nStravinsky's models came, in part, from two sources that Kirstein brought to his attention: de Lauze's dance manual, _Apologie de la danse_ (1623), and Mersenne's _Harmonie universelle_ (1636). But these ancient dances were transformed into something uniquely Stravinskian. In the 'Gailliarde', for example, French Baroque scoring is refracted through Stravinsky's sonic imagination. In Michael Oliver's words, we 'seem to be hearing a consort of lutes, viols and recorders, but from a great distance': a canon between harp and mandolin (plus low flute) is accompanied by viola and three cellos, two flutes and two double basses in harmonics. In the 'Bransle Gay', the characteristic dance patterns are rhythmically reworked: the castanets maintain a 3/8 ostinato throughout, while the rest of the music is mainly in bars of 7/16 and 5/16. By such means, Stravinsky was able to achieve the reinvention of an archaic past in a music with a time _less_ quality. And this distancing was reinforced in the original production by dressing the dancers in rehearsal costume only: a drama with no narrative, an abstract painting, or, as Stravinsky himself described it, a Mondrian composition. Just as _The Rake's Progress_ might be understood to be an opera about opera, so _Agon_ might be understood to be, in essence, a dance about dance.\n\nBalanchine first worked with Stravinsky on a production of _The Song of the Nightingale_ in Paris in 1925. He later wrote that 'Stravinsky's effect on my own work has been always in the direction of control, of simplification and quietness.' The first work on which they genuinely collaborated was the European premiere by the Ballets Russes in 1928 of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_. For Balanchine, _Apollon_ was a revelation, the epitome of Stravinsky's neo-classical aesthetic: ' _Apollon_ I look back on as the turning-point of my life. In its discipline and restraint, in its sustained oneness of tone and feeling the score was a revelation. It seemed to tell me that I could dare not to use everything, that I, too, could eliminate.' Stravinsky himself considered it a ' _ballet blanc_ ', one of his most 'pure' and unified scores. It attempts to eschew contrast (as discussed later in the _Poetics_ ) by such means as the paring down of the scoring to strings only and the employment of an almost exclusively diatonic harmony. Walsh sees it as the companion to the statuesque _Oedipus_ : 'a paradox of immobility rendered mobile'. This highly stylised ballet score (in some senses pointing forward to _Agon_ ) was matched by Balanchine's 'abstract, non-anecdotal' choreography; once again, the audience is distanced from the 'plot' as music and dance work in tandem to produce a work of measured 'holiness'. ' _Apollon_ is sometimes criticized for not being \"of the theatre\". It's true there is no violent plot . . . But the technique is that of classical ballet which is in every way theatrical and it is here used to project sound directly into visible movement.' Music and dance in this work are equal partners.\n\nOther collaborations between Stravinsky and Balanchine included the premieres of _Jeu de cartes_ (New York, 1937) and _Orpheus_ (New York, 1948), as well as the first American production of _The Fairy's Kiss_ (New York, 1937). _Jeu de cartes_ is an exuberant score that alludes to a wealth of other music ( _Merzbild_ would again seem to be an appropriate label); the music's playfulness is literally present in the dance sequences where the characters are the chief cards in a game of poker. The scenario is divided into three 'deals', the repetition of the introduction to each deal providing the music with a frame. _Orpheus_ was the first piece into which Balanchine had direct input: he worked very closely with Stravinsky throughout and, Craft tells us, he even influenced its shape by inducing the composer 'to extend the return of the F major string music in the _pas de deux_ '. Like _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , _Orpheus_ tells a classical story in a stylised manner through a sequence of closed forms \u2013 dances, airs and interludes. Like _Apollon_ , too, the music achieves a 'pure', hieratic character through its sense of control and through the use of such devices as fugue.\n\nOne other mid-period theatre work based on classical subject-matter should be mentioned here: _Pers\u00e9phone_ , a 'melodrama in three scenes' to a text by Andr\u00e9 Gide. In the _Dialogues_ , Stravinsky called it 'a masque or dancepantomime co-ordinated with a sung and spoken text'. In this respect, it can usefully be compared with _Oedipus_. The part of Pers\u00e9phone is shared by two performers (mime and speaker) and Stravinsky's account of his own ideal production emphasises, once again, his desire to achieve a kind of alienation through stylisation:\n\nThe speaker Pers\u00e9phone should stand at a fixed point antipodal to Eumolpus, and an illusion of motion should be established between them. The chorus should stand apart from and remain outside the action. The resulting separation of text and movement would mean that the staging could be worked out entirely in choreographic terms.\n\nStravinsky's friend, the French poet Paul Val\u00e9ry, certainly felt he had achieved this. Following the premiere, he wrote to Stravinsky: 'the divine detachment of your work touched me . . . The point is, to attain purity through the will.' Val\u00e9ry clearly recognised that in _Pers\u00e9phone_ Stravinsky had created a 'holy' theatre.\n\nI conclude by looking back to the 'roughness' of Stravinsky's earliest theatre pieces, all of which have their origins in folk story and mythology. _The Nightingale_ (a lyric tale based on 'The Emperor and the Nightingale' by Hans Christian Andersen), _The Firebird_ (his first ballet for Diaghilev, based on a Russian folk tale) and _Petrushka_ (a burlesque derived from the Russian version of the _commedia dell'arte_ tradition) share certain narrative similarities. _The Nightingale_ concerns itself with the rivalry between a real and a mechanical bird; _The Firebird_ tells of both natural and supernatural creatures; Petrushka is half puppet, half human. In all three cases, taking his cue from his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov (most particularly from his last opera, _The Golden Cockerel_ ), Stravinsky composes these dramatic oppositions into the score. Human characters are cast \u2013 in general terms \u2013 in a diatonic world; supernatural characters occupy an altogether more chromatic or octatonic realm. Sometimes the two worlds come together, musically and symbolically, as in the famous 'Petrushka motif', or in the more advanced musical language of _The Rite of Spring_ , whose synthesising of the diatonic and chromatic reflects the mysterious and ritualistic dimension of the human characters. This musico-dramatic fusion was recognised even at the time of the works' premieres: Walsh writes of the initial Parisian reception of _The Firebird_ , which acknowledged 'the integration of music, dance, and design, into what Henri Gh\u00e9o, writing in the _Nouvelle Revue fran\u00e7aise_ , called \"the most exquisite marvel of equilibrium that we have ever imagined between sounds, movements, and forms\", a \"danced symphony\"'. Daniel Albright has suggested that the opposition of natural and mechanical in _The Nightingale_ lies symbolically at the heart of Stravinsky's aesthetic as a whole:\n\nThis, I think, is what Stravinsky's music is 'about': the deep equivalence of the natural and the artificial. At the center of his dramatic imagination is the desire to juxtapose in a single work two competing systems \u2013 one which seems natural, tasteful, approved alike by man and God, the other of which seems artificial, abhorrent, devilish \u2013 and to subvert these distinctions as best he can.\n\nGiven such an interpretation, it does seem extraordinary that Stravinsky should have worked so hard in later years to promote his early ballet scores as concert works when their very origins were in and of the theatre.\n\nFrom _The Nightingale_ to _The Flood_ , from _The Firebird_ to _Agon_ , Stravinsky demonstrated an unerring sense of what kinds of music were right for the theatre, and what kinds of theatre were appropriate to his music. His ideas of how the two should work together were original and persuasive. He generally eschewed nineteenth-century narrative forms for new kinds of formalised, stylised theatres articulated through his own non-narrative, often ritualised musical structures. Formal, objectified, often simple in essence, his works nonetheless carry an enormous expressive weight, representing something primitive, powerful, immutable. Whether through the elemental directness of _The Rite of Spring_ and _Les Noces_ , the formal purity of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ and _Agon_ , or the self-conscious playfulness of _The Rake's Progress_ , Stravinsky's work never fails to have an impact in the theatre.\n**8**\n\nJOSEPH N. STRAUS\n\n**Stravinsky the serialist**\n\n**Introduction**\n\nBy the spring of 1952, Stravinsky had reached the end of a compositional road he had travelled since _Pulcinella_ in 1920. His brilliant Mozartian opera _The Rake's Progress_ had been premiered the previous year to general acclaim. But, for Stravinsky, it marked not only a culmination of his musical neo-classicism, but a decisive turning-point as well. He had become aware of the low value placed on his music by outspoken members of the younger generation of avant-garde composers and had begun, for the first time, to acquaint himself with the music of Schoenberg and Webern, to whom younger composers were unfavourably comparing him. In the aftermath of those twin shocks, he turned in a new compositional direction.\n\nRobert Craft, Stravinsky's amanuensis throughout his later years, describes the growing sense of strain, the crisis and its immediate consequences:\n\n_The Rake's Progress_ was received by most critics as the work of a master but also a throwback, the last flowering of a genre. After the premiere, conducting concerts in Italy and Germany, Stravinsky found that he and Schoenberg were everywhere categorized as the reactionary and the progressive. What was worse, Stravinsky was acutely aware that the new generation was not interested in the _Rake_. While in Cologne, he heard tapes of Schoenberg's Violin Concerto . . . and of 'The Golden Calf ' (from _Moses und Aron_ ); he listened attentively to both, but without any visible reaction . . . In contrast, a few days later, in Baden-Baden, when a recording of Webern's orchestra Variations was played for him, he asked to hear it three times in succession and showed more enthusiasm than I had ever seen from him about any contemporary music . . .\n\n. . . Then, on 24 February 1952 at the University of Southern California, I conducted a performance of Schoenberg's Septet-Suite (in a programme with Webern's Quartet, Opus 22), with Stravinsky present at all the rehearsals as well as the concert. This event was the turning-point in his later musical evolution.\n\nOn March 8, he asked to go for a drive to Palmdale, at that time a small Mojave Desert town . . . On the way home he startled us, saying that he was afraid he could no longer compose and did not know what to do. For a moment, he broke down and actually wept . . . He referred obliquely to the powerful impression that the Schoenberg piece [Septet-Suite] had made on him, and when he said that he wanted to learn more, I knew that the crisis was over; so far from being defeated, Stravinsky would emerge a new composer.\n\nStravinsky himself described the episode several years later in more dispassionate terms:\n\nI have had to survive two crises as a composer, though as I continued to move from work to work I was not aware of either of them as such, or, indeed, of any momentous change. The first \u2013 the loss of Russia and its language of words as well as of music \u2013 affected every circumstance of my personal no less than my artistic life, which made recovery more difficult . . . Crisis number two was brought on by the natural outgrowing of the special incubator in which I wrote _The Rake's Progress_ (which is why I did not use Auden's beautiful _Delia_ libretto; I could not continue in the same strain, could not compose a sequel to _The Rake_ , as I would have had to do).\n\nThe crisis led Stravinsky to a dramatic stylistic reorientation. From this point onwards, his music engaged, tentatively at first and then with growing individuality and confidence, the serial and twelve-note thinking of Schoenberg and Webern, which provided a starting-point for a remarkable voyage of artistic discovery. Far from merely imitating his Viennese predecessors, Stravinsky sought new ways of writing music in the serial idiom, and created a small body of astonishingly original and powerful serial music.\n\nI can think of no other major composer, at a comparably advanced age and at the pinnacle of recognition and success, who so thoroughly altered his compositional approach, or whose late works differ so greatly from his earlier ones. While there is some truth in the clich\u00e9 that Stravinsky always sounds like Stravinsky \u2013 and I will explore some of the links between early and late Stravinsky later in this chapter \u2013 none the less the late works differ radically from the earlier ones at every level, from their deep modes of musical formation to the rhythmic and intervallic details of the musical surface. Furthermore, Stravinsky's late works are not only radically different from the earlier ones, but are highly individuated from each other as well. There is no major work in this period in which Stravinsky did not try something new.\n\nThe result was an astonishing outpouring of music, remarkable for its sheer quantity as well as its ceaseless innovation, and all the more remarkable as the product of a man who was seventy years old at the time of the Cantata, the first of the late works, and eighty-five at the time of the _Requiem Canticles_ , his last major work. And, while the quality is uneven in certain respects, the late works include some of the finest that Stravinsky ever wrote and thus some of the finest works ever written. _Agon, Movements_ and _Requiem Canticles_ are towering artistic achievements. _Abraham and Isaac_ and _Introitus_ , while less powerful, are nonetheless vivid and evocative. Even the comparably minor compositions of the period, such as the _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ and _Epitaphium_ , are small gems.\n\n**Stravinsky's serial turn**\n\nBefore discussing the music in detail, it is worth considering for a moment why Stravinsky took his serial turn. The central figure in the drama is Robert Craft, who lived with Stravinsky throughout the period, handled the complex logistics of his career, rehearsed orchestras in preparation for concerts and recordings, and increasingly acted as Stravinsky's artistic alter ego. Craft's most important initial contribution, however, was to introduce Stravinsky to the music of Schoenberg and Webern. Until Craft arrived on the scene, Stravinsky had known virtually nothing of their music. Craft, however, was an important early exponent of the music of Schoenberg and Webern in the United States and, through him, Stravinsky experienced the shock of contact with music of extraordinary interest and power. The shock propelled him along the compositional path he followed for the rest of his life. In Craft's words:\n\nWhen I met Stravinsky in the spring of 1948, his fortunes were at a low ebb. Most of his music was not in print, he was not recording, and concert organizations wanted him to conduct only _Firebird_ and _Petrushka_. More important, he was becoming increasingly isolated from the developments that extended from Arnold Schoenberg and had attracted the young generation. Stravinsky was aware of this despite the acclaim for _Orpheus_ , his latest composition, and if he wanted to understand the other music, he did not know how to go about it. I say in all candor that I provided the path and that I do not believe Stravinsky would ever have taken the direction he did without me. The music that he would otherwise have written is impossible to imagine.\n\nInitially, Stravinsky may have been motivated in part by a desire to seem stylistically _au courant_ , to do what the young people were doing and, if possible, to impress them in the process. But I think this aspect has been greatly exaggerated. A desire to impress Boulez, Stockhausen, Babbitt et al. may have been among the factors that sparked Stravinsky's initial interest but is wholly insufficient to account for his persistence in his new compositional approach, over a period of fifteen years and in the face of general indifference from the very composers whose favour he is presumed to have been cultivating. Long after Boulez, in particular, had lost all interest in Stravinsky's late music and relations between them had soured, Stravinsky continued along his serial path. Evidently the serial approach meant a good deal more to him than simply a means of achieving social or artistic acceptance in avant-garde circles.\n\nThroughout his career, Stravinsky sought various kinds of limitations on his field of activity, strictures and rules to give the enterprise shape and definition:\n\nThe creator's function is to sift the elements he receives from [the imagination], for human activity must impose limits upon itself. The more art is controlled, limited, worked over, the more it is free . . . My freedom consists in my moving about within the narrow frame that I have assigned myself for each one of my undertakings. I shall go even further: my freedom will be so much the greater and more meaningful the more narrowly I limit my field of action and the more I surround myself with obstacles. Whatever diminishes constraint, diminishes strength. The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self of the chains that shackle the spirit.\n\nStravinsky approached musical composition as a game, one which made sense only in obedience to explicit, strict rules. Unlike more familiar kinds of games, however, in this one the player is also the inventor of the rules. Indeed, devising appropriate constraints was, for Stravinsky, an integral part of the compositional or, more properly, pre-compositional process. Throughout his career, he imposed many different kinds of constraints, obstacles and limits upon his field of compositional action. I think the principal attraction of the serial enterprise for him was its well-articulated sense of necessary points of departure and ways of regulating the compositional flow. Stravinsky turned to serial composition not in spite of, but precisely because of, the strict discipline it promised.\n\nSerialism was immediately attractive to Stravinsky as a way of organising the flow of notes and intervals. He had always composed with ostinatos and repeated groups of notes, and the series represented a kind of apotheosis of the ostinato. In addition, he had, in his own words, 'always composed with intervals', and the series embodied a selection of chosen intervals, which would be repeated and varied in predictable ways as the series was transformed. Stravinsky quickly recognised that the series could provide him with a useful point of departure, a way of regulating the musical flow, a set of rules and constraints to accept, struggle with, or evade as he saw fit. It provided at least the beginning of a path into a new musical world. Like his carefully chosen texts \u2013 most of the works in the late period are text settings \u2013 the serial idea permitted Stravinsky to contain and give shape to his creative impulses.\n\n**Schoenberg and Webern**\n\nIt is important to understand what Stravinsky learned, and did not learn, from Schoenberg and Webern. Stravinsky began almost immediately to adopt the essential Schoenbergian principle of serial ordering. That is, in the absence of the traditional organising power of tonality (with its major and minor scales, its orientation towards a key, its commitment to resolution of dissonance) music can be organised instead with respect to a predetermined arrangement of notes, an arrangement that will differ from work to work. Works that draw their motivic, melodic and harmonic substance from a pre-composed ordering of notes (that is, a series) are serial works. When the series in question consists of all twelve notes, each represented only once, the work is a twelve-note serial work. Stravinsky's early serial works employ series that consist of either fewer than twelve notes (Cantata, Septet (first movement), 'Musick to heare' and 'Full fadom five' from _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , _pas de quatre_ from _Agon_ ) or more than twelve (the second and third movements of the Septet). Only in portions of _Canticum Sacrum_ and _Agon_ , and then in the entire vast expanse of _Threni_ does Stravinsky begin to rely exclusively on twelve-note series.\n\nWhatever the length of the series, Stravinsky also begins immediately to adopt another Schoenbergian principle: that the series, when presented in transposition, inversion, retrograde or retrograde inversion, retains its basic intervallic identity, and that series related by these transformations can be understood to constitute a homogeneous class. For Stravinsky, as for Schoenberg, the series class, or row class, provides the basic pitch material for a composition.\n\nMore specifically, Stravinsky accepted from the outset the Schoenbergian idea that four members of the series class, bound together by some particular musical relationship, might function as a referential norm, somewhat in the manner of a tonic region in a tonal composition. So not only the idea of a series, and a series class, but also the possibility of establishing a kind of tonic area within the series class, came directly from Schoenberg.\n\nBut while Stravinsky adopted Schoenberg's points of departure, he moved immediately in very different musical directions. In doing so, he developed his own highly original serial style and at the same time offered a strong, if implicit, critique of Schoenbergian serialism. From the outset, Stravinsky simultaneously invokes and satirises Schoenberg.\n\nThe Schoenbergian aggregate itself is the subject of Stravinsky's implicit critique. Schoenberg's twelve-note music treats the aggregate, the total collection of the twelve notes, as a basic structural unit. It creates aggregates within the series, between series forms and across wider musical spans. Stravinsky's early serial music and even his later twelve-note music, in contrast, are generally unconcerned with the aggregate. Indeed, Stravinsky employs a variety of compositional strategies to ensure intensive repetition of some notes and exclusion of others at all levels of structure.\n\nEqually striking, Stravinsky persistently identifies his series with a theme \u2013 he gives it a distinctive melodic shape and keeps it in a single instrumental voice. Schoenberg, in contrast, makes use of sophisticated partitioning schemes in which the series is often divided up among the instrumental voices. Stravinsky's approach represents a significant and deliberate simplification.\n\nDespite his interest in Schoenberg's music, Stravinsky never warmed to what he considered its emotional bombast and self-indulgent excess. It is this aesthetic distaste that motivates Stravinsky's transformation of Schoenberg. Stravinsky's early serial music engages with Schoenberg in direct and demonstrable ways. Schoenberg provided him with a vital challenge and stimulus, a starting-point and a useful framework for compositional inquiry. Later, as Stravinsky's style coalesced into what became a standard operating procedure for him, the sense of engagement with Schoenberg diminished to the vanishing point.\n\nStravinsky ultimately achieved the same artistic independence from Webern, although the stylistic affinities and structural debts are deeper. Compared with Schoenberg, the shock of Stravinsky's initial contact with Webern was at least as profound \u2013 and its effects longer lasting.\n\nIn the years between 1952 and 1955 no composer can have lived in closer contact with the music of Webern. Stravinsky was familiar with the sound of the Webern Cantatas and of the instrumental songs at a time when some of these works had not yet been performed in Europe. The challenge of Webern has been the strongest in his entire life. It has gradually brought him to the belief that serial technique is a possible means of musical composition.\n\nComments about Webern, pro and con, but mostly pro, permeate Stravinsky's writings and interviews throughout the 1950s and 1960s. The music obviously meant a great deal to him. Whereas Stravinsky basically rejected or ignored most of the stylistic and structural elements of Schoenberg's music, he overtly incorporates salient aspects of Webern's music. Webern's pointillistic textures are rarely duplicated in Stravinsky, but his spareness, his transparency, his relative contrapuntal simplicity often are. And three of the most characteristic features of Webern's musical structure find vivid, if distorted, reflections in Stravinsky's music. The first of these is canon. Like Webern, Stravinsky initially identified the series with a canonic subject, and its serial transformations (transposition, inversion, retrograde, retrograde inversion) as canonic imitations. Stravinsky's early serial music is usually contrapuntal/imitative in texture. Later, the canons go underground, absorbed into the special kind of arrays on which Stravinsky based his later twelve-note music.\n\nA second shared feature is an interest in inversional balance and symmetry. In Webern's twelve-note music, a series and its inversion are often poised against each other. In Stravinsky's music an interest in inversional symmetry finds a variety of compositional expressions. A mutual focus on small motivic cells from which larger structures are generated by various compositional combinations is a third point of contact.\n\nStravinsky's musical critique of Webern is much less pointed than his critique of Schoenberg. His music evinces a deep and sincere engagement with Webern rather than the more distant, ironic treatment of Schoenberg. None the less, even in his early serial period, when Stravinsky borrowed most overtly and extensively from Webern, there is always a strong sense of transformation. Webern's materials are present, but recontextualised and filtered through Stravinsky's distinctive sensibility. Later, as his music became thoroughly twelve-note and abandoned entirely the persistent diatonic references of the early serial music, it paradoxically became less rather than more Webernian. As with the influence of Schoenberg, the principal impact of Webern was to shake Stravinsky free of many old compositional habits, and to suggest a new way of thinking about basic musical materials. Schoenberg and Webern provided a new framework for the compositional enterprise and new rules for the game, and had an immense initial impact. But as Stravinsky increasingly found his own way and created his own distinctive musical world, their presence gradually diminished and finally seemed to vanish almost entirely. Stravinsky had specific, concrete ideas of what kinds of sounds he wanted to write, and he appropriated, or invented, ways of doing so. Serialism presented itself to him as a set of musical possibilities, some well understood, some only partly understood, and some creatively misunderstood. He took what he wanted, and invented the rest.\n\n**Stravinsky, early and late**\n\nIn recent Stravinsky scholarship, accounts of the late music have emphasised its connection with the earlier music. One of the side effects has been to value the late music primarily for whatever qualities it shares with the earlier music, and thus to undervalue his late music for being insufficiently like his earlier music. From the opposite point of view, twelve-note scholarship has devalued Stravinsky's late music as insufficiently sophisticated: in short, insufficiently Schoenbergian. In this view Stravinsky was, at best, a weakly derivative imitator of his Viennese forebears.\n\nI would like to counter both of these views by insisting on Stravinsky's independence from compositional models, including his own earlier music \u2013 an independence that was earned with a considerable struggle. The late music is neither a falling away from an earlier greatness nor a slavish capitulation to an alien power. Rather, it is a willed, adventurous voyage of compositional exploration.\n\nStravinsky's music in this late period can be roughly assigned to five stylistic categories, as shown in Fig. 8.1.\n\n**Fig. 8.1** Five stylistic categories in Stravinsky's late music\n\nTo some extent, these categories embody an evolutionary chronology, with the early serial works (diatonic and non-diatonic) giving way first to the twelve-note works and eventually to the twelve-note works based on rotational arrays. In practice, however, the categories overlap, even within individual works. _Agon_ , for example, probably Stravinsky's most heterogeneous work, incorporates diatonic, serial and twelve-note elements, and these often co-exist as distinct layers in individual movements. Later, when Stravinsky adopted a consistent approach based on rotational arrays for his major works, he continued to use a more classical kind of twelve-note serialism for his smaller, minor works.\n\n**Diatonicism (non-serial)**\n\nDespite Stravinsky's description of a compositional 'crisis', his turn to serialism was gradual. At the outset, not only are the serial ideas themselves diatonic, but they often appear in company with diatonic non-serial music that would not have been out of place in earlier works. In the beginning of the first movement of the Septet, for example, a six-note series drawn from the notes of an A major or A minor scale is elaborated amid non-serial diatonic lines (see Ex. 8.1). The series, A\u2013E\u2013D\u2013C/C\u266f\u2013B\u2013A, is presented in the clarinet and, simultaneously, in rhythmic augmentation in the bassoon, and, in inversion and rhythmic augmentation, in the horn. The series and this particular inversion, A\u2013D\u2013E\u2013F\u266f\u2013G\u266f\u2013A, share the same first three notes. Stravinsky's desire to maintain centric focus amid serial elaboration is thus present from the outset, and remains in force throughout his later serial music as well. At the end of the passage the series is heard in stretto, leading to a cadence on A. Throughout the passage the series is treated as a theme, a line of pitches rather than pitch classes, with its contour preserved (or exactly reversed). The remaining instrumental parts thicken the contrapuntal texture and reinforce a sense of A-centred diatonicism, but are not themselves serial. In this way, Stravinsky's serialism emerges within a prevailing diatonic frame.\n\n**Ex. 8.1** Septet, movement I, bars 1\u20137\n\n**Diatonic serialism**\n\nIn his earliest serial works, Stravinsky often uses series that are entirely diatonic, or nearly so. In 'Full fadom five', the second of the _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , for example, his first compositional sketch was a simple E\u266d minor scale (see Ex. 8.2a). The scale establishes a concrete starting point, providing material to be shaped into a series. The second sketch (Ex. 8.2b) takes the seven notes of the scale and arranges them into an eight-note melody (the D\u266d occurs twice) to set the first line of text, 'Full fadom five thy Father lies'. The widely spaced melody, with its exclusive use of perfect fourths, perfect fifths and minor sevenths, is designed to evoke the tolling of funeral bells referred to at the end of the text. In the third sketch (Ex. 8.2c), Stravinsky takes the seven notes of the E minor scale and presents them in a different ordering to set the second line of text, 'Of his bones are Corrall made'. This seven-note melody functions as the seven-note series on which most of the rest of the song is based. The sketch reveals Stravinsky's intention to set the third line of text with the retrograde of the series (which Stravinsky calls 'canon'), the fourth line of text with the inversion (which Stravinsky calls 'inverse'), and the fifth line of text with the inversion of the retrograde (or the 'inverse' of the 'canon').\n\n**Ex. 8.2** Compositional sketches for 'Full fadom five' from _Three Shakespeare Songs_ , bars 1\u201311\n\nThe series E\u266d\u2013D\u266d\u2013G\u266d\u2013F\u2013B\u266d\u2013C\u266d\u2013A\u266d is arranged symmetrically around A and is designed as a wedge to converge on A\u266d . As a result, the 'inverse of the canon' (i.e. the IR form), which begins on A\u266d , wedges symmetrically outwards from that note and contains exactly the same seven notes as the original series, namely the notes of the E\u266d minor scale. In this way Stravinsky reveals his understanding of the inversional symmetry of any diatonic scale and his commitment to inversional symmetry as a basic compositional resource in his serial music. Ex. 8.3 shows the score for the first thirteen bars of the song. The melodic line follows the compositional sketches closely.\n\n**Ex. 8.3** 'Full fadom five' from _Three Shakespeare Songs_ , bars 1\u201313, with analytical markings\n\nIn fact, Stravinsky composed the vocal melody in its entirety before adding accompanying parts. This suggests his essentially contrapuntal conception of music in this period of his compositional life. The lines of a polyphonic fabric are understood as integral, self-sufficient and musically comprehensible in themselves. Each line has its own serial and musical justification. The combination of lines into a polyphonic whole is a separate issue, one that is addressed later in the compositional process. Stravinsky still imagines his series as a theme, but now one that is susceptible to octave displacements. Within the vocal line, contour is usually preserved, but in the accompanying parts the series is increasingly understood as a line of pitch classes rather than simply a line of pitches.\n\nTo his melody, Stravinsky adds other members of the row class as imitative counterpoints. There are a few notes that do not participate in any complete row statement; generally, these either duplicate the pitch-class content of the melody, or differ from it only slightly. In bars 2\u20133, for example, the original series in the melody is accompanied by its imitation at the octave in the viola and by IR in the clarinet. All three of these series have the same content, namely the seven notes of the E\u266d minor scale. That scale thus comprises both a source of serial ordering and a distinctive harmonic area, a point of departure for 'modulations' to other diatonic scales. The music is a dense, intricate contrapuntal web that leaves a diatonic, or nearly diatonic, wash in its wake.\n\n**Non-diatonic serialism**\n\nOver the course of the early and mid 1950s, Stravinsky's serial music became more chromatic, less obviously based on diatonic scales. _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ is based on the five-note series E\u266e\u2013E\u266d\u2013C\u266e\u2013C\u266f\u2013D, which Stravinsky labels 'theme' in the first bar of the score (see Ex. 8.4). Like the series for 'Full fadom five', the series for _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ is constructed as a wedge, with the initial descending semitone, E\u2013E\u266d, balanced by the ascending semitone, C\u2013C\u266f, both pointing to the concluding D, around which the wedge balances. The first four notes, E\u266e\u2013E\u266d\u2013C\u266e\u2013C\u266f, describe a familiar tetrachord type from Stravinsky's earlier music. The D fills the gap and asserts the entirely chromatic nature of the series.\n\n**Ex. 8.4** _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , Prelude ('Dirge-canons'), bars 1\u20135\n\nIn the passage that begins the work, a quartet of trombones deploys melodic lines based on series forms stitched together. The series are identified by Stravinsky on the score. This kind of serial self-analysis is characteristic of Stravinsky's music throughout the period, though usually the labels are erased before the manuscript is sent to the printer. As Stravinsky moves through a musical world that is new to him, he wants to know where he is, and study of the compositional sketches reveals that the more complicated the serial derivations, the more intense the self-analysis becomes.\n\nThe music is polyphonic and imitative, and often canonic. The leading voice, in tenor trombone II, begins with the 'theme', the last note of which becomes the first note of an 'inversion' (this kind of series overlap is typical throughout the period). An additional, transposed statement of the theme is adjoined at the end. Trombone IV follows in canon at the octave and trombone I at the tritone. Trombone III contributes a 'riversion' (retrograde) and a retrograde inversion. The series retains its contour (in the closest possible spacing) throughout this passage, but in the song to which this passage is part of a prelude, the series is treated freely, as a line of pitch classes with frequent octave displacements. Amid the dense contrapuntal weave, the vertical harmonies are probably best understood as mere by-products. The cadence of the passage, however, on an E major triad (spelled F\u266d major) was part of Stravinsky's conscious design from the outset (see Ex. 8.5).\n\n**Ex. 8.5** _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , first compositional sketch\n\nIn the bass Stravinsky presents a five-note idea, E\u2013F\u2013F\u266f\u2013E\u266d\u2013D, followed by its retrograde. The bass line thus begins and ends on E. The two upper voices consist only of approaches to E from a semitone above and below. Stravinsky apparently wanted a cadence on E and planned to work out later which series forms would end appropriately, with either D\u266f\u2013E or F\u2013E. The central idea, then, is a serial passage that centres and cadences on E, and the cadence on an E major chord in the final, published version of the passage represents an elaboration of this initial impulse. A desire to maintain a clear sense of pitch focus thus remains intact in this chromatic serial work, as throughout Stravinsky's last compositional period.\n\n**Twelve-note serialism**\n\nStravinsky's first completely twelve-note movement was 'Surge, aquilo', the setting of a passage from the biblical Song of Solomon, in _Canticum Sacrum_. The final bars are reprinted as Ex. 8.6b.\n\nThe series ends C\u2013B\u2013A, creating a sense of arrival on A that Stravinsky exploits at many points in the movement, including its final cadence. It moves primarily by small intervals and contains a number of intervallic and motivic repetitions. Of these the most important involve transposition by T8(eight semitones), as indicated.\n\nThe concluding passage begins with bell-like chords in the harp and double basses. These present a statement of the series in which its three tetrachords are verticalised. Stravinsky rarely writes chords during this period, because he has not yet discovered a satisfactory way of doing so with a convincing serial motivation. For the most part, the harmonies of his early serial music are best understood as by-products of the contrapuntal activity, except at cadences, where some real compositional control is often exerted. These verticalised series segments are a striking but rare occurrence in Stravinsky's serial music.\n\nThere follows immediately a three-voice canon in rhythmic augmentation. The voice leads with T1I; the flute follows at the transposition of T8(the series is T9I) in rhythmic values twice as long; and the harp follows T8 away from the flute (the series is T5I), again doubling the rhythmic values. These T8 transpositional levels fully exploit the internal resources of the series and produce a large number of invariant segments. That is, many melodic fragments are shared among the three canonic lines, as shown in Ex. 8.6c. As a general rule, Stravinsky's serial music encourages repetition and duplication of pitch, giving shape and focus to the flow of the twelve notes.\n\nThe last and slowest of the three canonic voices, in the harp, concludes with its tenth note, A. That permits a strong final cadence on the perfect fifth, A\u2013E. Even in Stravinsky's twelve-note music, the perfect fifth retains its cadential force.\n\n**Twelve-note serialism based on rotational arrays**\n\nBeginning with _Movements_ , Stravinsky based all of his remaining large-scale works ( _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ , _The Flood_ , _Abraham and Isaac, Variations, Introitus_ , _Requiem Canticles_ ) on a special kind of twelve-note construction known as a 'rotational array'. During this period, Stravinsky restricts himself to what he considered the four basic forms of the series: an original, or prime, form (P), its inversion starting on the same note (I), its retrograde (R) and the inversion of the retrograde (IR). With a few isolated exceptions these basic forms are not transposed. In this way, Stravinsky turns his back on the approach of Schoenberg and Webern, which depends on wide-ranging exploration of the entire row class. These four basic forms are sometimes heard in their entirety. More commonly, however, each is divided into its two hexachords, and each of the resulting eight hexachords is used to generate a rotational array. Ex. 8.7 shows how these arrays are created.\n\n**Ex. 8.6** _Canticum Sacrum_ , 'Surge, aquilo' a series\n\n**Ex. 8.7** Writing a rotational array\n\nStravinsky begins with a hexachord (Ex. 8.7 illustrates this, using hexachords from _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ and _Abraham and Isaac_ ). Each hexachord has a distinctive intervallic profile. The hexachord is then rotated systematically to create an array of six rows, all of which contain the same six notes, beginning in turn on each of them. At this stage the arrays embody a kind of six-voice canon at the unison, with each row beginning its canonic statement one note ahead of the row above it and one note later than the row below it. Finally, the rows of the array are transposed so that all begin on the first note of the first row. Stravinsky constructs arrays like these at a very early stage in the compositional process for all of his works from _Movements_ onwards.\n\nThe six-voice canon is still preserved, but it is no longer at the unison. Now the intervals of canonic imitation are the same as the complements of the intervals of the hexachord itself, as shown at the bottom of Ex. 8.7. In this way the array can be understood as a large-scale expression of the intervals of the hexachord that generates it. The rows of the array are no longer identical in content, but there are potentially lots of repetitions of notes from row to row. Most obviously, all of the rows have the same first note, but they have lots of other notes in common as well.\n\nThe rows of these rotational arrays are the source of most of Stravinsky's melodies in his later music, and when he writes melodies derived from these arrays he thoroughly exploits the properties of canonic transposition and common-note repetitions. Exx. 8.8 and 8.9 give two reasonably typical examples, based on the arrays from Ex. 8.7. In Ex. 8.8 the tenor is the leading voice in a kind of two-part canon. It traverses the first rotational array in Ex. 8.7 from top to bottom, beginning with the second row of the array (the notes of each row may be stated in order either from first to last or from last to first). The alto follows by traversing the same array, beginning on the first row. Many notes are shared in common by the hexachords, most obviously the E\u266d with which each of them begins or ends, but other notes as well, emphasised by occasional unisons between the parts. The melody in Ex. 8.9 is organised in a similar way, as a pass through a rotational array from top to bottom (the instrumental accompaniment is based on complete series statements). Stravinsky's melodies are not always as systematic as this, but they generally involve purposeful motions among the rows of his arrays.\n\n**Ex. 8.8** _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ , bars 227\u201338, alto and tenor solo only: two sweeps through a rotational array\n\n**Ex. 8.9** _Abraham and Isaac_ , bars 73\u20139: one sweep through a rotational array\n\nWithin both passages, all of the hexachords contain the same intervals and are related by transposition. Furthermore, the intervals within each hexachord are reflected in the intervals of transposition that connect them. And the relationships among the hexachords are further intensified by their shared notes. This is twelve-note music in a deep sense, but it shows no concern whatsoever with creating aggregates of all twelve notes. On the contrary, the melodies are organised to maximise repetitions of interval and pitch. The melodies give the feeling almost of ostinatos, based as they are on recurring cells of notes and intervals, and in that sense relate more closely to Stravinsky's own earlier music than to the twelve-note music of Schoenberg or Webern.\n\n**Serial harmony**\n\nHis rotational arrays also provided Stravinsky with a way of writing serial harmonies, particularly in chordal or chorale textures. His serial and twelve-note music was generally contrapuntal in conception, with seriesforms or rows of the arrays layered against each other melodically. But Stravinsky also wanted to be able to write true serial harmonies that were more than mere by-products of the counterpoint. His principal, and theoretically most impressive, response to this need involved the use of columns or 'verticals' of his rotational arrays (see Ex. 8.10). In this passage from _The Flood_ , the voice of God is represented by a duet of bass soloists, one of whom (doubled by piano) sings the P-form of the series and the other (doubled by harp) the I-form. These two forms are related by inversion around G\u266f , their mutual first note, and the symmetrical balance they create together may suggest here a divine attribute.\n\n**Ex. 8.10** _The Flood_ , bars 180\u201390\n\nSome of the same sense of inversional symmetry around G\u266f also shapes the accompanying chords, which move systematically through the rotational array generated from the first hexachord of the P-form. Arrays of this kind have many interesting properties. The first vertical always contains six instances of a single note, and that note will occur nowhere else in the array. Stravinsky often emphasises this note as a kind of pitch centre in passages based on these arrays. No other vertical is as redundant as that one, but usually many will contain at least some doubling of notes. Stravinsky often reflects this doubling in his instrumental settings, as in the chords of Ex. 8.10. Here, as in other aspects of his serial approach, Stravinsky welcomes the possibility of stressing some notes as a way of shaping the musical flow.\n\nThe array verticals also have an inversionally symmetrical arrangement created by the rotational-transpositional structure of the array, and independent of the particular generating hexachord. The note in the first vertical defines an axis of symmetry for the array as a whole. Around that axis, vertical 2 balances vertical 6, vertical 3 balances vertical 5, and vertical 4 balances itself. The chords thus express, in a subtle way, the same sense of inversional balance around G\u266f that exists in the melodies.\n\nIn addition to the rotational arrays, Stravinsky uses what are called 'four-part arrays' to create serial harmony, particularly in chordal passages. In arrays of this kind he lines up his four basic series forms \u2013 a prime, its inversion beginning on the same note, its retrograde and the inversion of the retrograde, beginning on the same note \u2013 and extracts twelve four-note chords as vertical slices through the array.\n\nThe passage in Ex. 8.11 begins with twelve chords, which simply work through the four-part array from last to first. Like the rotational arrays, the four-part arrays have many interesting properties. They consist of two pairs of inversionally related forms: P and I, related by inversion around their shared first note (in this case F), and R and IR, related by inversion around their shared first note (in this case A\u266f ). There is thus a kind of skewed inversional symmetry embodied in these arrays, as in the rotational arrays. The four-part arrays have a surprising propensity to generate whole-tone harmonies: all of the chords indicated with an asterisk are subsets of the whole-tone scale. Whole-tone harmony is not normally associated with Stravinsky, but it occurs consistently in chorale passages derived from four-part arrays like this one.\n\n**Ex. 8.11** _Requiem Canticles_ , 'Exaudi', bars 71\u201380\n\nAfter sweeping through the four-part array, this movement concludes with an instrumental chorale based on a rotational array (derived from the first hexachord of the R-form of the series). In this passage, then, Stravinsky's two principal methods for writing twelve-note harmony are gently conjoined.\n\n**Expression**\n\nIn much of the foregoing discussion I have emphasised the technical aspects of Stravinsky's late music. And, indeed, those aspects are remarkable in themselves. The rotational and the four-part arrays are theoretically powerful and original constructions. More generally, Stravinsky's serial music as a whole bespeaks an impressive degree of technical innovation and integration. In the final years of his compositional life, Stravinsky forged a distinctive and original compositional language, one that was new for him, and new also for the musical world.\n\nAt the same time, the late music is not only structurally rich but movingly expressive as well. Stravinsky abhorred what he considered to be the self-indulgent bombast of heightened Romantic self-expression, but his music, particularly his late music, is replete with static symbolic representations. Musical symbols are built up by an extensive network of cross-references, both to traditional musical models and to his own works. Stravinsky's music, taken as a whole, deploys a reasonably consistent gestural language, one which he uses to give expressive shape both to his dramatic or narrative works and to his instrumental works. In fact, Stravinsky's music vividly represents a wide range of human emotions and experiences.\n\n_Agon_ , for example, although it is an abstract ballet with no definite plot, employs many of the expressive devices that give meaning to Stravinsky's explicitly dramatic works. It was written over a period of several years during which Stravinsky's style was evolving rapidly. Its opening scene is essentially diatonic, but it quickly becomes more chromatic, then intermittently serial, and finally twelve-note serial. It comes as a stunning shock, then, when at the end of the ballet, the twelve-note discourse is suddenly interrupted by a recapitulation of the opening diatonic music.\n\nThe dramatic impact of this moment draws part of its power from its invocation of a familiar contrast in Stravinsky's music between the diatonic and the chromatic (or octatonic). In his earliest music, this dichotomy is a way of differentiating between the human and the fantastic worlds by associating the human with the diatonic and the fantastic with the chromatic, and often with the octatonic. In _The Firebird_ , for example, this opposition is maintained in the contrast between the fantastic world of Kastchei and the firebird, and the human world of Ivan and the princesses. In _The Rake's Progress_ , some forty years later, the same contrast is seen between the dark, painful reality of Tom Rakewell's 'progress' and the bright illusions of his dreams and his madness. Of course, the interaction between diatonic and chromatic (often octatonic) elements is a central feature of the music of Stravinsky's first and second periods, one that is scarcely reducible to a simple mapping of diatonic onto human and chromatic onto fantastic. None the less, it remains a significant dramatic resource.\n\nLike life, _Agon_ ends with a bright blankness. At the end of _Agon_ , the bright, clear, hard diatonicism emerges as a sharp shock of clarification from a dark, twisting, permeable chromaticism. The sudden shift from the serial to the diatonic seems to connote a movement from a dark, intricate dream of life to an awakening into death. As in _The Rake's Progress_ , the moment of final clarification, of definitive diatonic emergence, is also the moment of death.\n\nThe Postlude of the _Requiem Canticles_ bears some of the same expressive impact, but in a more intense, concentrated way. This was Stravinsky's last major work, written when he was eighty-five years old and in failing health, in full consciousness of the imminence of his own death. The movement consists mainly of solemn four-voice chorales punctuated before, between and after by five widely spaced chords that are sometimes referred to as 'chords of death'. The chorales \u2013 which are derived from four-part arrays \u2013 are scored for celeste, tubular bells and vibraphone. The evocation of funeral bells is unmistakable and creates a solemn, devotional atmosphere.\n\nThe 'chords of death', derived from the verticals of the rotational arrays, describe a progression that leads to a surprising diatonic conclusion. The first four chords are large, complex and chromatic, with five, six, seven or eight different notes. The final chord is a diatonic tetrachord: B\u266d\u2013C\u2013D\u266d\u2013F. This progression, like the large-scale motion in _Agon_ , is thus one of sudden simplification and clarification, of emerging from a darkly rich chromatic night into a bright diatonic day. It comes as an awakening from a rich, complex dream of life into the hard reality of death.\n\n**Conclusion**\n\nOnce Stravinsky embarked on his serial course, he persisted in it with extraordinary fidelity and intensity for the remainder of his compositional life. He was deeply committed to the pre-compositional serial designs he created for each of his works. From the time of _Threni_ , his first entirely twelve-note work, every note has an explicit and demonstrable serial explanation. There are no 'free passages' or 'free notes'. Rather, everything falls within the constraints that Stravinsky has chosen to impose upon himself. The pre-compositional designs are themselves the product of inspiring creativity and originality and provided Stravinsky with a welcome and essential framework for compositional play. They rejuvenated him, liberated him and enabled him to produce, in the last decades of his long life, a succession of works of unsurpassed vitality, expressive power, structural richness and youthful energy.\nPART III\n\n**Reception**\n**9**\n\nNICHOLAS COOK\n\n**Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky**\n\nAll truly modern musical performance (and of course that includes the authenticist variety) treats the music performed as if it were composed \u2013 or at least performed \u2013 by Stravinsky. TARUSKIN\n\nThe years 1928\u20139, when Stravinsky first recorded his Russian ballets, have not yet passed beyond living memory. And yet, when it comes to the history of performance (and especially of orchestral performance, since recording so large a group of musicians became possible only with the development of electrical recording around 1925), this is a remote and only just recoverable past. It is true that the pianola versions of _The Firebird_ , _Petrushka_ and _The Rite of Spring_ push the horizon back to the early 1920s, but the ballets' premieres, from the last years before the First World War, lie altogether within the long, silent, initial phase of music history. Stravinsky recorded each of them on a number of occasions (he recorded _The Rite_ , for instance, in 1929, 1940 and 1960), and in this way the history of these works unfolded, as Peter Hill puts it, 'exactly in tandem with the emerging record industry'. Successive developments in recording technology represent one of the reasons why Stravinsky recorded many of his works several times: the 78 gave way to the LP in 1948 and to the stereo LP in 1957. ('Last year's record is as _d\u00e9mod\u00e9_ as last year's motor car,' Stravinsky wryly observed.) But there were further reasons. One was Stravinsky's financial dependence on recording and more generally on conducting, as a result of the drying up of his Russian royalties following the 1917 Revolution; there is a terrible irony in the fact that Stravinsky's career as neoclassical and serial composer was bankrolled by nearly a thousand performances of _The Firebird_. The other reason takes longer to explain, for it opens up the whole issue of Stravinsky's intentions as a recording artist.\n\nStravinsky's attutide towards recording was formed largely by his experience with the pianola or player-piano. He first encountered the instrument in 1914, and composed an \u00c9tude for it in 1917. But it was only in the 1920s, when he held successive contracts with Pleyel (1921\u20134) and Aeolian (1924\u20139), that he created arrangements of his Russian ballets: 'created' rather than 'recorded', because many of them, including that of _The Rite_ , were not taken from live performance but rather cut into the roll by hand, under the composer's more or less close direction. Stravinsky stressed that this made the pianola versions just that: _versions_ of the music rather than 'recordings' in any normal sense. In 1925 he referred to them as 'Not a \"photograph of my playing\", as Paderewski has made of his . . . but rather a \"lithograph\", a full and permanent record of tone combinations that are beyond my ten poor fingers to perform'; three years later he explained in an interview that he saw the pianola as 'not an instrument to _reproduce_ my works but one that could _reconstitute_ them'. Such statements \u2013 along with Stravinsky's later claim that the pianola's metronomic quality, its 'absence of tempo nuances', influenced his compositional style in the 1920s \u2013 must make problematic any claim that the pianola versions provide a direct guide to the original performance practice of the Diaghilev ballets.\n\nStravinsky carried this thinking over into sound recording. In the same 1928 interview, he said that 'the gramophone produces the image of an image and not simply a transferral', and stressed the non-naturalistic circumstances under which early, non-editable recordings took place ('one's weariness accumulates, and when nerves are about to snap, the violinists' arms to succumb, and the mind to go blank with the monotony of the task, that is the moment when one must be perfect for the \"take\" which is to be recorded.') Paradoxically, however, he saw the introduction of editing technology in the 1950s as only furthering the separation between live and recorded performance: 'Natural balance, natural dynamics, natural echo, natural colour, natural human error', he told _Seventeen_ magazine, 'have been replaced by added echo and reverberation, by a neutralizing dynamic range, by filtered sound, by an engineered balance . . . The resulting record is a super-glossy, chem-fab music-substitute never heard on sea or land, or even in Philadelphia.' Add to all this 'the carelessness, the tension, and incompetence which usually pervade recording enterprises', as a jaundiced Claudio Spies put it, and it is hard to know how far Stravinsky's recordings can be taken as a guide to his conception of the music, or even to the reality of contemporary concert performance. An early recording is not a kind of fly on the wall or historical surveillance technology. It is a historical document, presenting as many difficulties of interpretation (though different ones) as any other kind of documentary evidence.\n\nThe first recording Stravinsky ever made was a private one (intended presumably for his own study purposes), now lost: it was of his Octet, and was made in Paris in 1923, shortly after he premiered the work at one of Koussevitsky's Symphony Concerts. This was the first time Stravinsky had ever premiered one of his works as a conductor, and it was in an article entitled 'Some ideas about my _Octuor'_ that he first set out the philosophy of performance which he reiterated and elaborated in his _Autobiography_ and _Poetics of Music_ , as well as in some of the conversation books with Robert Craft. Central to this philosophy was his distrust of conductors and 'their notorious liberty, . . . which prevents the public from obtaining a correct idea of the author's intentions'; this, he said, is what drove him first to the pianola and then to the gramophone. (Age did not soften his opinion of conductors: even at the end of his life, in 'On conductors and conducting', he described them as 'a tremendous obstacle to music-making'.) Such views were not, of course, exactly unique: Schoenberg was hardly less cutting ('Does not the author, too, have a claim to make clear his opinion about the realization of his work, even though no conductor of genius will neglect to override the author's opinion when the performance comes?'), while Ravel's maxim, 'I do not ask for my music to be interpreted, but only for it to be played', sounds almost more Stravinskian than Stravinsky. But there are three ways in which Stravinsky went beyond a merely conventional expression of this chronic composer's complaint.\n\nFirst, in the Octet essay, but more systematically in the _Poetics_ , Stravinsky rationalised his distrust in terms of a distinction between 'execution' and 'interpretation': the former (corresponding to Ravel's 'playing') was to be understood as a strict and faithful realisation of the music itself and hence a characteristically modernist sweeping away of the Romantic indulgences of the latter. (The ethically charged vocabulary is an integral part of the message: interpretation 'is at the root of all the errors, all the sins, all the misunderstandings that interpose themselves between the musical work and the listener and prevent a faithful transmission of its message'.) Second, Stravinsky translated his distrust of interpreters into action by performing his music himself. His conducting career took off rapidly after the Octet premiere, while his serious pianistic career as an exponent of his own music (which lasted about fifteen years) began after Koussevitsky suggested that he take the solo part in his Concerto in 1924; in his _Autobiography_ Stravinsky commented that 'the prospect of creating my work for myself, and thus establishing the manner in which I wished it to be played, greatly attracted me'. But third, and perhaps most intriguingly, he made a conscious attempt to build his distrust of performers into his music by making it, in effect, interpretation-proof. This meant more than simply transcribing rubato passages into strict rhythmic notation, so that a literal performance would produce a flexible effect, though Stravinsky did on occasion do this. Traditionally, he explained in the Octet essay, it is the nuance which forms the 'emotive basis' of music,24 and because of the difficulty of specifying nuance in the score such music is open to deformation (that is, 'interpretation'). By contrast, he says, the emotive content of the Octet has been built into the play of the musical materials, into the 'musical architecture': it has been drawn out of the performance and into the work itself. The music is, so to speak, pre-interpreted.\n\nThe performer's contribution, then, is already determined by the music itself: 'to the executant', Stravinsky continued in the Octet essay, 'belongs the presentation of [the] composition in the way designated to him by its own form', while in the _Poetics_ he was even more emphatic, referring to 'the great principle of submission' and explaining that 'The secret of perfection lies above all in [the performer's] consciousness of the law imposed on him by the work he is performing.' This is not exactly to say that there is only one way in which a given work may be legitimately performed, but it limits the scope of performance variance to essentially technical issues of presentation: creative revelations of new and perhaps unforeseen aspects of the music are apparently precluded. (Here there is an unlikely but close parallel with Schenker's contemporaneous theory on performance, which could quite reasonably be seen as another product of the 'new objectivity' that pervades the Octet essay.) And once performance is seen as bound in this intimate manner to composition, it follows that recordings can be no less definitive of the musical work than scores. Stravinsky reiterated this principle over a period of more than thirty years:\n\n1928: 'the phonograph is currently the best instrument through which the masters of modern music can transmit their thoughts.'\n\n1935 (of his Columbia recordings from 1928): 'far better than with piano rolls, I was able to express all my intentions with real exactitude. Consequently these records . . . have the importance of documents which can serve as guides to all executants of my music . . . [E]veryone who listens to my records hears my music free from any distortions of my thought, at least in its essential elements.'\n\n1954: 'When I conduct, the music is presented pretty nearly the way I want it. That is why I've been conducting recording sessions of most of my music. In the future there will be no doubt as to how it should be played.'\n\n1959: 'I regard my recordings as indispensable supplements to the printed music.'\n\nIn short, Stravinsky saw his recordings as establishing an authoritative performance tradition and in this sense as an extension of the compositional process. As usual, his aesthetics masked commercial acumen, for this represented the perfect sales pitch for a relatively inexperienced conductor competing with the likes of Monteux (the original conductor of _The Rite_ , whose own recording was apparently made just a few weeks after Stravinsky's) and Stokowski (whose recording appeared in 1930). And by emphasising the authority which only he could bring to the performance of his own music, Stravinsky succeeded in establishing the framework within which his concerts and recordings were received throughout his lifetime; hence the 'Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky' slogan which CBS employed to publicise their exclusive contractual relationship with the composer, which lasted from 1951 to the end of Stravinsky's life, and which included not only new recordings of the earlier works but more or less timely issues of new compositions. (In the early 1970s it emerged that some of these recordings should in fact have been labelled 'Craft conducts Stravinsky', and Sony now market the recordings under the more discreet title 'Igor Stravinsky Edition'.)\n\nIndeed, something like a standard Stravinsky record-review format emerged. First, you summarised the nature, historical significance, and/or aesthetic premise of the music. Then you acknowledged Stravinsky's technical shortcomings as a conductor, optionally contrasting his performances with those of other conductors, but turning this round into a recognition of the composer's special authority. ('Stravinsky is not a great conductor', wrote a reviewer of the 1940 _Rite_ , 'but he manages to get results.' By 1960 this has turned into 'At least we can be sure that when a composer conducts his own music the essentials are right, even if the inessentials give him trouble; as a result we get a directness of impact that we may look for in vain from more polished but less understanding performances.') A few complimentary comments on the quality and character of Stravinsky's performance follow ('The rhythms are sharp and savage still,' Edward Greenfield wrote of the 1960 _Rite_ , 'enough to make this as much a physical experience as ever, but more satisfying in purely musical terms'; there is a general assumption of both technological and interpretative progress). And finally you reiterate the indispensable nature of Stravinsky's own recordings: 'Traditions do not live by scores alone,' proclaimed the _Gramophone_ reviewer, 'and every scrap of evidence about how the greatest composer of our day wants his music to sound is invaluable.'\n\nAll this assured a remarkably favourable critical response; a summary, published in _Notes_ , of fourteen reviews of the 1960 double issue of _The Rite_ and _Petrushka_ reveals that thirteen rated it as excellent, one as adequate, and none as inadequate. But the account of Stravinsky's conducting which most strikingly evokes the spirit in which his performances were received comes from the pianist Leo Smit, referring to a 1960 concert performance of _Les Noces_ in which Smit took part:\n\nStravinsky started conducting with great energy and confidence. Gradually, imperceptibly the pace began to slacken and his interest seemed to shift from the players and singers to the score itself. By the time the basso had finished his concluding solo and the final piano-bell-cymbal chords were reverberating through space, Stravinsky's bent head was hovering just above the open pages, his motionless arms outstretched like some prehistoric bird mantling its helpless prey. We held the last clang for a very long time while Stravinsky seemed lost in an ancient dream. The hall had been completely silent for what felt like minutes, when someone, far away, applauded, breaking the spell. Stravinsky looked up as though surprised to find himself in public . . .\n\nThe resonances with Beethovenian mythology, and with the subjectivity central to the Romantic construction of genius, are unmistakable and revealing. Smit's account vividly conveys the manner in which the reception of Stravinsky was moulded by the judgement which the _Gramophone_ reviewer makes of him in the manner of a simple statement of fact: 'the greatest composer of our time'.\n\nIf Stravinsky's claim that his recordings 'express all my intentions with real exactitude' was in this way a highly effective rhetorical ploy, then it goes without saying that it invoked a thoroughly problematic concept: the concept of compositional intentionality falls to pieces as soon as there is any variance in its expression. (If Stravinsky plays _The Rite_ one way and then another, which expresses his 'real' intentions? If we cannot answer that question, what does the concept of 'intention' add to a simple statement that he played it one way and then another?) However, Robert Fink gives the argument an interesting twist when he demonstrates how many of the most characteristic features of _The Rite_ emerged over a period of years, sometimes through a process of negotiation between Stravinsky and Monteux. An example of the former is the repeated downbows at the beginning of 'The augurs of spring', which first appear as a pencil marking in Stravinsky's copy of the 1922 full score, and of the latter the interaction between the ways Stravinsky and Monteux parsed the rhythms of the 'Sacrifical dance', the outcome of which was the 'revised first edition' of 1929 (itself revised in 1943). As Fink puts it, it was only the experience of the music under Monteux's baton, and from 1926 his own, that showed Stravinsky what 'he \"had always wanted\"', which is a way of saying that he had not always wanted it at all. That is, he wanted it played one way, and then another.\n\nFink's demonstration forms part of a larger project, the purpose of which was to attack the assumption that _The Rite_ was always associated with the metronomic strictness, the absence of 'interpretation' in Stravinsky's pejorative sense, that generally characterises present-day performances of it (and to a greater or lesser degree everything else). From around 1920, Stravinsky went to extraordinary lengths to rewrite the history of _The Rite_ , claiming at one time or another that Nijinsky's choreography was a travesty, that the dances were in any case no more than a 'pretext' for the music, that his original conception of the work had been a purely musical one, and that apart from the opening bassoon solo there was no folk material in it. All these claims controvert Stravinsky's earlier statements, or the known facts, or both: their purpose was to legitimise _The Rite_ in the context of the aesthetic of autonomous music to which Stravinsky pinned his colours in the 1920s, for example in the Octet essay ('My Octuor is a musical object . . . I consider that music is only able to solve musical problems; and nothing else, neither the literary nor the picturesque, can be in music of any real interest'). To these revisions of history we can now add, as a result of Fink's researches, Stravinsky's invocation of _The Rite_ as a prime example of music that requires only execution, not interpretation: 'the _chef d'orchestre_ is hardly more than a mechanical agent, a time-beater who fires a pistol at the beginning of each section but lets the music run by itself'.\n\nThrough an exhaustive study not only of the early recordings but also of the documentary evidence that predates them, Fink shows how early performances of _The Rite_ involved the kind of large-scale tempo modification that we nowadays associate with Romantic interpretative traditions. This is a matter not just of local nuance (audible, for example, in the coupled crescendos and accelerandi of Stravinsky's 1929 performance of the opening bars of the 'Spring rounds'), but of what might be termed structural nuance, or the differentiating of structural sections in accordance with their rhythmic or melodic nature: Monteux's 1929 interpretation [ _sic_ ] of the 'Sacrifical dance', generally assumed to be the closest we can get to what the 1913 audience heard, begins at a vertiginous \u2669 = 160 but is full of unnotated tempo changes, and their traces are also to be heard in Stravinsky's and Stokowski's earliest recordings. The 'metronomic strictness, no _rubato_ ' and 'mechanical regularity' which Stravinsky himself saw as fundamental characteristics of his music were not, then, always there in _The Rite_ : they were created over a period of years and retrospectively imputed to it as part of Stravinsky's 'back to basics' ideology. And so the subsequent performance history of _The Rite_ unfolds, as illustrated by Stravinsky's later performances and by those of virtually all other conductors, involving what Hill calls an increasingly 'monolithic' approach to the 'Sacrificial dance', with steadily maintained tempos adapted to the clear rendition of orchestral detail. In this way, 'now, finally', as Fink puts it, 'Stravinsky sounds like Stravinsky'.\n\nThe danger in all this is of replacing one myth by another. Certainly Stravinsky became an influential exponent of a 'strict' performance style, to borrow his own word, applying it not only to his own music but also to mainstream repertoire, on the relatively rare occasions when he performed it. And certainly a comparison of Stravinsky's 1928 and 1960 performances of _Petrushka_ reveals an increasingly monolithic conception, with the abrupt generic shifts of the earlier recording (for instance between the 'real' and the 'mechanical' music) being replaced by the continuity and orchestral sheen of the later one, in which the piece is well on the way to acquiring its present status as a benchmark for the latest hi-fi gear. But the real picture is more complicated, and in particular Stravinsky's views on performance tempos were more complex than a cursory reading of the polemics of the 1920s and 1930s might suggest. (A more careful reading might, for example, ponder the significance of Stravinsky's statement in his _Autobiography_ that recording 'enabled me to determine for the future the relationships of the movement ( _tempos_ ) and the nuances in accordance with my wishes', given that this is the composer who supposedly shunned nuance.)\n\nThe key text in this context is a section called 'The performance of music' from the _Conversations_ in which, instead of simply saying that music should be executed and not interpreted (and, as in the _Poetics_ , that interpretation is inherently sinful), Stravinsky draws a distinction between two musical traditions. On the one hand, there is the Romantic tradition represented by Berg, which 'depends strongly on mood or interpretation. Unless mood dominates the whole, the parts do not relate, the form is not achieved, detail is not suffused, and the music fails to say what it has to say.' Accordingly, the aim should be not a 'strict or correct' performance, but an 'inspired' one, and this means that 'considerable fluctuations in tempo are possible in a \"romantic\" piece . . . \"freedom\" itself must be conveyed by the performer'. On the other hand, there is the 'classic' tradition, which 'eliminates the conductor', which requires execution instead of interpretation \u2013 and, Stravinsky adds, 'I am speaking of my music', as if it were not already obvious. The complaint, then, is not that interpreters interpret as such, but that they interpret music that should not be interpreted, such as Stravinsky's, or for that matter Mozart's. ('Isn't this', Stravinsky asks rhetorically, 'why Mozart concertos are still played as though they were Tchaikovsky concertos?')\n\nWhat the Stravinsky of 1959 is doing here is rehabilitating the idea, which his own polemics of the 1920s and 30s had done more than anything to undermine, that different music should be played in different ways. Rubato is no longer a sin: it is a technique appropriate to certain genres or styles (including opera, which Stravinsky described as 'the field of the elastic beat'), but not others. Similarly the mainstream (Germanic) conducting style represented by 'the silver-haired Karajan' represents not so much the work of the devil as an approach inappropriate to Stravinsky's music: 'I doubt whether _The Rite_ can be satisfactorily performed in terms of Herr von Karajan's traditions . . . I do not mean to imply that he is out of his depths, however, but rather that he is in my shallows . . . There are simply no regions for soul-searching in _The Rite of Spring_.' And what would be the principle of a performance style that eschews soul-searching? Stravinsky spelled out the answer when, with immediate reference to _Pulcinella_ , he said that\n\neighteenth-century music is, in one sense, _all_ dance music. Performance tradition ignores this. For example, in the famous recording of an eminent conductor rehearsing the _Linz_ Symphony, he is continually heard inviting the orchestra to 'sing', while he never reminds it to 'dance'. The result of this is that the music's simple melodic content is burdened with a thick-throated late-nineteenth-century sentiment that it cannot bear, while the rhythmic movement remains turgid.\n\nIn this way the distinction between the tradition of Tchaikovsky and Berg, on the one hand, and that of Mozart and Stravinsky, on the other, becomes one of subjectivity and sentiment versus objectivity and physicality. Or, to go back to the terms of the Octet essay, whereas in Romantic music the expression has to be brought out through an exercise of subjectivity, Mozart and Stravinsky compose the expression into the music itself, thereby rendering it interpretation-proof.\n\nThis conjunction of Mozart's and Stravinsky's names might be seen as a further example of the latter's astute image management, but there is also a theoretical point behind the distinction Stravinsky is making. It would be hard to think of a conductor whose aesthetics and performance style were more different from Stravinsky's than Mahler (though we should remember that the youthful Stravinsky heard Mahler in St Petersburg, and described him as 'the conductor that impressed me the most'). One of Mahler's contemporaries, Natalie Bauer-Lechner, quotes him as calling for 'a continual elimination of the bar . . . so that it retreats behind the melodic and rhythmic content' of the music. One could translate this into the terminology of another of his contemporaries, Heinrich Schenker, and say that nuance \u2013 especially what I called structural nuance \u2013 comes from the middleground. (That is, one might think of it as a means whereby the musical surface is interpreted in the light of the middleground.) And what Robert Philip describes as the 'evening out of traditional expressive nuances' that became more or less general in orchestral conducting after the 1930s is the correlate in performance of what Schenker attacked as the foreground (read: shallow) nature of Stravinsky's compositional style.\n\nRather than invoke Schenker's elaborate, and not entirely relevant, argument at this point, I shall quote another attack on Stravinsky's music, this time by Cecil Gray, who wrote in 1927 that\n\nThe _Sacre du Printemps_ , so far from being the triumphant apotheosis of rhythm, the act of restoration to its rightful supremacy of the most important and essential element of musical expression, is the very negation and denial of rhythm . . . Strip the music [of the 'Sacrificial dance'] of the bar-lines and time-signatures, which are only a loincloth concealing its shameful nudity, and it will at once be seen that there is no rhythm at all. Rhythm implies life, some kind of movement or progression at least, but this music stands quite still, in a quite frightening immobility.\n\nMany writers have commented on the way in which Stravinsky's music is built up from the combination and juxtaposition of single beats: that is the source of its rhythmic vitality. But Gray does not hear the rhythmic vitality of the music's surface: he tries to hear _through_ the surface to a rhythmic vitality that lies behind it and, being unable to do so, assumes that there is none. And this provides a context in which we can understand Stravinsky's apparently strange remark about Karajan being not out of his depths, but in Stravinsky's shallows.\n\nIt should follow from all this that Stravinsky conducted in a Stravinskian manner, so to speak, only music of the 'classic' tradition (including his own). What is the evidence of his recordings of Romantic music? There is an obvious problem here: he conducted little music by others (generally, as he explained, concertos for soloists with whom he was working, though the first two symphonies of Tchaikovsky were also in his repertoire), and recorded none. There is a commercially released extract from a 1963 rehearsal of Tchaikovsky's _Sleeping Beauty_ , in which he can be heard lovingly crafting the minutiae of articulation and texture.70 More to the point, however, are the extensive passages of Tchaikovsky's music (sometimes unalloyed but generally reminted) in _The Fairy's Kiss_ : in particular the 'Sc\u00e8ne', based on Tchaikovsky's song 'Ah! qui br\u00fbla d'amour', incorporates phrase-based rhythmic patterns co-ordinated with harmonic and cadential structure and building to a fully Romantic climax. Stravinsky's 1965 recording perfectly embodies the Romantic tradition of structural nuance: he takes the whole of the introduction at a flexible tempo centring on \u2669 = 50, way below the notated \u2669 = 76, making a drastic but unnotated change to around the notated tempo at rehearsal number 207. He then uses tempo to shape the successive phrases, developing the notated caesuras into arch-shaped tempo profiles but at the same time highlighting the sequential organisation around rehearsal number 208. And he gives the sudden undercutting of the climax at rehearsal number 211 a positively Mahlerian interpretation, the effect being magnified by the registrally exposed counterpoint and high solo horn of the following bars. Are we meant to hear this 'straight', as conveying a degree of identification with the Romantic tradition that dangerously reduces the critical distance between Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky? Or is the intention to parody the Romantic performance style along with the music itself ? It is difficult to see how the question could be decided one way or the other.\n\nIf there is a particular musical style that forms a bridge between the _fin-desi\u00e8cle_ Russian Romanticism of Stravinsky's earliest works and the foundation works of twentieth-century modernism, it is the 'changing background' variation technique. 'The princesses' _khorovod_ (round dance)' of _The Firebird_ , which corresponds to the 'Rondo ( _khorovod_ )' of the 1945 Suite, is unmistakably in the tradition of Glinka's _Karaminskaya_ ; it is even structured the same way, around two contrasting folk melodies, each of which has its own tempo. The resulting notated tempo changes are shown by the squares in Fig. 9.1 ( \u2669 = 72 and 92 for the respective tunes, and 58 for the coda).\n\n**Fig. 9.1** Tempos in the 'Princesses' round dance'.\n\nThe graphs superimpose on this the tempos of three of Stravinsky's recordings, from 1929, 1961 and 1967, and should lay to rest once and for all any misconception that Stravinsky only knew how to conduct metronomically. Particularly striking is the overall similarity of the profiles (the major difference is the anticipation of the slower tempo of the coda in the two later versions), while the tempo modifications are always co-ordinated with the phrase and sectional structure. All three performances, in other words, embody similar interpretations; on the basis of Fig. 9.1, it would be hard to argue for any consistent chronological evolution in the manner in which Stravinsky performed this music.\n\nRather than the 'Spring _khorovod_ (round dance)' of _The Rite_ (now usually abbreviated to 'Spring rounds'), it is the Introduction to Part Two, leading into the 'Mystic circles', that most clearly represents Stravinsky's modernist updating of the changing background technique: there are again contrasted folkloristic ideas which recur against different textures, though they are more fragmentary and the patterns of repetition less regular, and the cross-cutting form is underlined by alternations between \u2669 = 48 and 60. How might this interpolation of a Romantic compositional technique within a modernist ('classic') context be reflected in terms of performance style? In many respects, performance practice in _The Rite_ seems to have converged by the time of the early sound recordings; in the Introduction to Part One, for instance, there is a considerable degree of consistency in conception and even sonority between the first recordings of Stravinsky, Monteux and Stokowski (and the same goes for the somewhat bowdlerised recording that Stokowski made for Disney's _Fantasia_ at the end of the 1930s). But the same cannot be said of the Introduction to Part Two, where Monteux starts at \u2669 = 42, way below the 48 of the 1921 and subsequent published scores, whereas Stravinsky takes off at something approaching \u2669 = 80. This fast tempo, though wildly inconsistent with the score, allows for a streamlined and relatively unnuanced (in this sense literal) performance.\n\nThe 1960 recording, by contrast, begins at \u2669 = 50, close to the notated tempo, but anyone expecting a literal execution out of the ageing composer is in for a rude shock. Already at the end of the second bar there is a marked though unnotated _Luftpause_ in the best Romantic tradition, and Stravinsky underlines the phrase junctions at rehearsal numbers 80, 81 and 82 in the same way. The same effect reappears on a larger scale with a ritardando down to about \u2669 = 45 in the bars up to the flute and violin solo at rehearsal number 83. And while the kind of structural tempo change Fink notes in early recordings of the 'Sacrifical dance' is effectively composed into the Introduction to Part Two, Table 9.1 shows how Stravinsky's performance at once contradicts his own score and further develops the tempo-change principle embodied in it: at the trumpet duet (two bars before number 85), instead of continuing at the opening tempo, Stravinsky shifts gears to \u2669 = 62, returning to this tempo instead of the notated 'Tempo I' at 90. The faster tempos of the 1921 score \u2013 \u2669 = 60 at 89, and 80 at 93 \u2013 are also shifted up a notch, resulting in an interpretation (no other word will do) that adheres to the original constructive values but realises them in terms of four rather than three distinct tempos.\n\n**Table 9.1.** Stravinsky, 'Sacrificial dance': comparison of tempos in score and recording\n\n_Luftpausen_ , structural tempo changes and disregard of the score: Stravinsky's 1960 performance of the Introduction to Part Two goes a long way towards rehabilitating Romantic performance traditions and, in so doing, rendering audible the very continuity between _The Rite_ and the traditions of Russian Romanticism that, perversely, he was to deny just two years later, when he claimed that 'very little immediate tradition lies behind _Le Sacre du printemps_ '. It is equally hard to square this passage, at least, with Fink's description of the 1960 recording as 'grimly geometric', and this illustrates the danger to which I referred of replacing an old myth by a new one: Fink recounts the story of how Stravinsky came to sound like Stravinsky, but here we have an example of a Stravinsky who no longer sounds like Stravinsky at all. And, in truth, trying to create any grand narrative out of Stravinsky's successive recordings is a recipe for frustration. After discussing Stravinsky's 1929 recording of _The Rite_ at some length and charting the discrepancies between it and the 1921 piano roll, Hill concludes that Monteux's 1929 recording is a safer bet as a 'guide to Stravinsky's earliest intentions'. Add Stravinsky's 1940 and 1960 recordings, he continues with mounting exasperation, and the picture\n\nbecomes not clarified but more confused. Attempt a comparison of all the Stravinsky sources \u2013 his own recordings, the various editions of the score . . . and Stravinsky's written views on how the work should be performed \u2013 and one finds that all frequently contradict one another. Moreover, it is often on matters on which Stravinsky is most insistent that he differs most in his own recordings.\n\nCertainly a tabulation of the tempos for each of Stravinsky's three performances (Fig. 9.2) proves a poor basis for any kind of generalisation. (As in the case of Fig. 9.1, the squares represent notated metronome markings.) It is a general principle in the history of twentieth-century performance that the range of tempo both within and between movements is smaller in the second than in the first half of the century, and that the effect is more marked in the case of fast tempos, in line with the modern practice of setting tempos so as to allow clear articulation of the shortest note values. It follows that in general one should expect a lower average tempo and a higher degree of tempo convergence in more recent performances. But it is difficult to see any respect in which Stravinsky's successive recordings of _The Rite_ conform to this picture: on average, the fastest tempos are found in 1940, and the slowest in 1929 (largely as a result of the cautious tempo of the 'Sacrifical dance'). Even more tellingly, it is the 1929 recording that has the lowest standard deviation between its tempos: the history of Stravinsky's recordings of _The Rite_ is one of divergence, not convergence. The conclusion to be drawn, perhaps, is that overall trends in the history of performance represent the sum of an indefinite number of micro-histories: individual works and even individual movements may have their own, largely independent, historical trajectories.\n\n**Fig. 9.2** Tempos in _The Rite of Spring_\n\nAs Hill suggests, the discrepancies between Stravinsky's scores, recordings and pronouncements about performance are notorious, and it is easy to make fun of them. In the course of the series of 'reviews' of _The Rite_ that he published in the two final conversation books, for example, Stravinsky criticised Boulez's 1963 performance of 'The sage' as 'more than twice too fast', and adds rhetorically, 'if there were an Olympic Games for speedy conductors . . . '. He might have finished the sentence, 'then he would have come in third', for Boulez's \u2669 = 52, a mere ten metronome points above the notated 42, trails well behind Stravinsky's 1929 recording. Then again, Karajan is criticised for performing the 'Ritual action' at the notated \u2669 = 52 (unlike Stravinsky, who successively recorded it at \u2669 = 58, 69 and 63), though here Stravinsky at least evinces a trace of embarrassment: 'Whether or not metronomically correct, this _tempo di hoochie-koochie_ is definitely too slow . . . duller than Disney's dying dinosaurs'. What this goes to show, of course, is the limited value of measuring tempo when divorced from the other, generally non-notatable factors involved in performance: rhythmic articulation, sonority and the acoustic properties of the hall, for example. But then, where does that leave Stravinsky's insistence that, in performing _The Rite_ , he was 'particularly anxious to give the bars their true metric value, and to have them played exactly as they were written'? Or where does it leave his claim that 'any musical composition must necessarily possess its unique tempo . . . the variety of tempi comes from performers who often are not very familiar with the composition they perform or feel a personal interest in interpreting it'?\n\nStravinsky appears to have found such questions unanswerable, for in the last decade or so of his life he began to dismantle the certainties of his pre-war philosophy of performance. One has the impression that the process was not an easy one. A page after the statement I have just quoted, he is already qualifying it: 'a tempo can be metronomically wrong but right in spirit, though obviously the metronomic margin cannot be very great'. And later, on the same page, there is a further slippage. He repeats that his music requires execution, not interpretation, and continues, 'But you will protest, stylistic questions in my music are not conclusively indicated by the notation; my style requires interpretation. That is true . . . But that isn't the kind of \"interpretation\" my critics mean.' He goes on to explain that the sort of interpretation they mean is whether or not a particular passage signifies 'laughter'. But this kind of hermeneutic commentary has nothing to do with the issue of interpretation versus execution that Stravinsky started out talking about, and so the statement about performance interpretation remains unchallenged. It is as if Stravinsky felt the need to backtrack on the whole issue of execution, but having done so, wanted to cover his tracks.\n\nNine years later, the retrenchment has become quite explicit, and he no longer ascribes to metronome markings the same absolute value that he once did:\n\nIf the speeds of everything in the world and in ourselves have changed, our tempo feelings cannot remain unaffected. The metronome marks one wrote forty years ago were contemporary forty years ago. Time is not alone in affecting tempo \u2013 circumstances do too, and every performer is a different equation of them. I would be surprised if any of my own recent recordings follows the metronome markings.\n\nAnd by the time of the final conversation book he confesses that\n\nI have changed my mind . . . about the advantages of embalming a performance in tape. The disadvantages, which are that one performance presents only one set of circumstances, and that mistakes and misunderstandings are cemented into traditions as quickly and canonically as truths, now seem to me too great a price to pay. The Recording Angel I am concerned with is not CBS, in any case, but the One with the Big Book.\n\n'One performance represents only one set of circumstances': at last, it seems, Stravinsky recognises the indispensability as well as the inevitability of difference between one performance and another, and hence the necessity of performance interpretation. It hardly comes as a surprise when, towards the end of the book, we find him mocking the very principle on which he had insisted for half a century: speaking of Koussevitsky's conducting, he refers to 'execution \u2013 firing-squad sense'.\n\nIf Stravinsky did not in the end conform to his own prescriptions about performance, then he was at least conforming to an established pattern of composers who say one thing and do another; among his contemporaries, Elgar and Rachmaninov are illustrious examples. Maybe there is a basic incommensurability between saying and doing, such that you talk most about what you are least sure how to do: that would explain why, as Hill complained, it is just where he is most insistent that Stravinsky's recordings differ the most.\n\nBut what is perhaps surprising is the extent to which, though Stravinsky did not do what he said, others did. Whatever reservations one may have about premature grand narratives in performance history, it is clear that after the 1920s and 1930s there was in orchestral performance as a whole a progressive 'evening out of traditional expressive nuances', to repeat Philip's phrase, a pursuit of clarity in rhythmic detail and strictness in execution \u2013 in short, a move towards making _everything_ sound like Stravinsky (or 'Stravinsky', as we should perhaps say, to distinguish the critical construction from the man who died in 1971). And here there is a paradox. Richard Taruskin has persuasively demonstrated the affinities between Stravinsky's concept of 'execution' and what he calls 'authenticist performance': early-music spokesmen such as Norrington and Hogwood appropriated Stravinsky's values and rhetoric in opposition to what they saw as the onesize-fits-all philosophy of mainstream performance. Yet that mainstream was largely moulded by the same rhetoric and values and, as I previously suggested, it was Stravinsky's polemics of the 1920s and 1930s that crucially undermined the idea that different music should be played in different ways, and so created the idea of a 'mainstream' in the first place. The recent history of performance, then, can be seen as revolving around the collision of two successive waves of Stravinskian modernism.\n\nAnd this reflection prompts another. If Stravinsky's rhetorical question of 1959 could now be rephrased, 'Isn't this why Mozart concertos are still played as though they were Stravinsky concertos?', then we may need to rethink the composer's importance for twentieth-century music. 'Stravinsky's performance style gained an enormous prestige among progressive musicians in the 1920s and 30s', writes Taruskin. But perhaps even more influential was the series of writings, beginning in 1920s Paris and culminating in the Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Harvard, through which Stravinsky disseminated a fashionable philosophy of music that encapsulated the 'new objectivity' of the inter-war years \u2013 but that formulated it in absolute terms and so gave a quality of self-evidence and permanence to an aesthetic that in other arts rapidly became as _d\u00e9mod\u00e9_ as last year's recording. (The records changed, that is to say, but the philosophy endured.) In which case, maybe Stravinsky's most effective legacy was not the modernist scores through which he adumbrated a new musical future, nor the neoclassical scores with their incorporation of old styles into new contexts, but his fusion of the power of the baton and the word (even the ghost-written word) to create, through performance, a new musical past.\n**10**\n\nMAX PADDISON\n\n**Stravinsky as devil: Adorno's three critiques**\n\n**Introduction**\n\nAdorno's _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ was published in 1949, at a decisive turning-point for music in the mid-twentieth century. In this highly influential book, Adorno put forward a dialectical reading of the New Music in the form of a critique of its two most extreme representatives, Schoenberg and Stravinsky. The effects were dramatic, providing a rallying cry for the generation of new composers emerging in the immediate post-war years, and who were to become associated both with the rejection of neoclassicism and with the espousal of the multiple serialism of the Darmstadt School. The reception of Adorno's critique by the two protagonists themselves was in some respects contrary to expectations. Schoenberg, who disliked Adorno, saw it primarily as an attack on himself, thus going directly against the general view, which regarded Adorno as the great advocate of the Second Viennese School. But at the same time Schoenberg also sprang to Stravinsky's defence, annoyed by Adorno's treatment of his old adversary. Stravinsky, on the other hand, remained silent \u2013 in public, at least \u2013 thus making it difficult to gauge the extent to which Adorno's critique of his music may have played any determining role in the composer's own spectacular change of direction in the early 1950s, when he himself abandoned neoclassicism and turned to serialism. This has, naturally enough, prompted speculation. C\u00e9lestin Deli\u00e8ge, for instance, has argued:\n\nPublicly, Stravinsky would make no mention of T.W. Adorno's criticism, but it is highly improbable that it could have left him indifferent, even if he was conscious of the weak points in the argument and disagreed with a philosophical approach whose materialistic tendencies could only disturb him . . . It has often been remarked that Stravinsky was very open to influence \u2013 at least, until he stepped into his study \u2013 and could not remain indifferent to a well-formulated argument. The acuity of his judgement warned him when the alarm bell really sounded.\n\nApart from Robert Craft's dismissive and not very comprehending article 'A bell for Adorno', there was little response from Stravinsky's immediate circle. Adorno himself, however, was perfectly clear as to his own influence on the larger course of events, when he later wrote that 'my discussion of Stravinsky [in _Philosophy of New Music_ ] is commonly deemed to have played its part in causing the demise of neo-classicism'.\n\nIt is understandable that most critical attention concerning Adorno's interpretation of Stravinsky's music has been directed at _Philosophy of New Music_ , precisely because it was a book which, without trying, coincided so exactly with the historical moment it had anticipated. Some commentators, such as Carl Dahlhaus and Peter B\u00fcrger, have criticised its claims through seeing them in relation to Adorno's later reading of Stravinsky from the early 1960s, the essay 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait' (1962). To these two readings I add another: Adorno's early view of Stravinsky dating from the late 1920s and early 1930s. I shall consider some recurring themes from each of these three Stravinsky critiques in turn, using a cluster of key concepts taken from Adorno's philosophy of music history, and with particular emphasis on the concept of irony. It seems to me that, out of the contradictions, changing judgements, but also continuities of these three critiques, a convergence emerges which helps make sense of the immensely difficult and much misunderstood hermeneutic task Adorno had set himself.\n\nA commonly held view has been that Adorno simply sanctified Schoenberg and demonised Stravinsky. This is certainly a crude simplification. What he did do was to put forward a philosophical evaluation of the truth or untruth of their music in terms of the interaction of subjectivity and objectivity and of their alienation within the musical work: a problematical and contentious project criticised by, among others, Jean-Fran\u00e7ois Lyotard in his essay 'Adorno as the devil', on the grounds that the concept of the 'subject' itself remains unquestioned, and is easily equated with the 'expression' theory of art. Schoenberg himself was not fooled by Adorno's apparently positive reading of his work, clearly recognising a criticism of his serial music when he saw it. As for Stravinsky, nothing is quite what it seems when it comes to the devil. An underlying theme of this essay is therefore Adorno's presentation of Stravinsky as devil, particularly in his repeated references to _The Soldier's Tale_. It needs to be remembered that Adorno's writing comes from a long German literary tradition of using the extremes and the rhetoric of exaggeration, irony and the grotesque, as strategies for revealing underlying truths. It goes back to E. T. A. Hoffmann, finds its greatest exponent in Nietzsche, and its most accomplished twentieth-century master in Thomas Mann (Adorno's own cameo appearance as the devil in intellectual guise in Mann's _Doctor Faustus_ , delivering whole passages lifted straight out of an early draft of _Philosophy of New Music_ , neatly reinforces the point). Stravinsky's diabolical aspect needs therefore to be seen as a necessary part of Adorno's scheme, and the 'inauthenticity' of his music as an aspect of its truth.\n\n**The first critique: Stravinsky, stabilisation and the social situation of music**\n\nThe first of Adorno's Stravinsky critiques is to be seen in two main sources, dating from 1928 and 1932, neither of which is exclusively on Stravinsky. First, in an article called 'Die stabilisierte Musik' from 1928 (although only published posthumously), Adorno argued that by the late 1920s music had become 'stabilised', in the sense that there had already been a retreat from the advanced position reached by the musical avant garde before 1914 (i.e. as represented by the Second Viennese School). He identifies two dominant tendencies \u2013 neoclassicism and folklorism \u2013 which are characterised by stabilisation. However, although he identifies Stravinsky with both neoclassicism and folklorism, and argues that those composers within the category of 'stabilised music' are reactionary, he does not at this stage see Stravinsky entirely in these terms. While _Oedipus Rex_ is regarded as the most representative work of neoclassicism to that point \u2013 a work which takes the use of masks and the return to forms and styles of the past to extremes, and which is also striking in its absence of irony \u2013 he also singles out for special mention _Renard_ and _The Soldier's Tale_ as 'authentic' works.\n\nThese themes are continued in the second of these articles, the important essay 'Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik' of 1932. While the concept of 'stabilised music' itself is dropped, probably because of its crudity as a means of categorising the main tendencies in the music of the period, its place is taken by a more sophisticated set of dialectical concepts. Adorno now talks of the opposed categories of 'commodity music' and 'avant-garde music'. Historically music has become autonomous, in the process losing its historically associated social functions and acquiring instead a new function, that of the commodity. This leads to the alienation and fetishisation of art music, and drives it in one of two directions: either towards assimilation by market forces, to the point where all that music does is to affirm its commodity character; or towards critical self-reflection, where music becomes aware of itself as a form of cognition in relation to its handed-down materials, and of critical negation of its commodity character. 'Assimilated' music accepts its function as commodity, conceals alienation, and becomes entertainment, embracing market forces; 'critical' music rejects its commodity character, does not conceal alienation, and is considered by Adorno to be 'authentic' and 'true' in its relations to its material. As I have outlined elsewhere, Adorno identifies four distinct types of music within this second category, that of critical, 'authentic' music. As we shall see, Adorno includes Stravinsky within two of these four types of 'authentic music'. The first type, however, is distinctly non-Stravinskian. It refers to a music that crystallises the contradictions of society immanently, within its own structure, and purely in terms of its relation to handed-down material. Furthermore, it does so without being necessarily conscious of the social and political context within which it finds itself. It is represented for Adorno by Schoenberg.\n\nThe second type recognises alienation, but does so through trying to deal with it by turning to styles and formal types of the past, in the belief that these can reconstitute a lost sense of harmony, totality and community. Adorno labels this 'objectivism', and returns to his 1928 article on stabilised music, maintaining that in capitalist societies neoclassicism constitutes 'objectivism', while in the largely pre-capitalist, agrarian societies of south-eastern Europe, as well as in those countries under fascist regimes, it is folk music which provides its material. For Adorno, Stravinsky represents this type in both its forms. Likewise, the third type: this Adorno calls 'surrealist' music. He maintains that this type is socially conscious, and draws on the material of both art music and consumer/popular music as fragments, clich\u00e9s and cultural residues, and employs montage techniques which both serve to emphasise the fragmentary character of musical material today as well as pointing to social fragmentation. Stravinsky, particularly of the period of _The Soldier's Tale_ , also represents this type, as does Weill in the music he wrote in collaboration with Brecht.\n\nFinally, the fourth type: this is a type which recognises social alienation, but tries to do something about it directly through intervention and engagement, but in the process, Adorno argues, sacrifices the integrity of its form. While critical of this music as 'utility music' ( _Gebrauchsmusik_ ), which he argues simply ends up serving the market, Adorno sees some virtue in its _Gemeinschaftsmusik_ version, which developed out of neoclassicism, and is represented for him by Eisler and to some extent Hindemith. Stravinsky is not included under this type.\n\nWe can see, therefore, that in his first critique, Adorno is relatively positive towards Stravinsky's music, at least towards certain works, which are included in his category of 'authentic music'. Stravinsky is seen, however, as part of a typology. It is hardly a dialectical critique as such, although it does identify elements that are taken up later. What is clear, however, is that the theoretical approach at this stage allows for a diversity of musics under the category of 'authentic music'. This is very much also in keeping with the diversity and tolerance of the experimental cultural and political milieu of Weimar Germany at this point, something which Adorno's typology seems to reflect, even though it remains distinctly weighted in favour of Schoenberg's music.\n\nIn seeing Stravinsky as a 'surrealist' composer, Adorno reads his use of montage, the juxtaposition of fragments (which also include elements of popular music), as an example of the Brechtian _Verfremdungseffekt avant la lettre_ (it is certainly true that Weill was influenced by _The Soldier's Tale_ ). He also focuses here on one of the important themes of his writings from the 1920s: _irony_. In this way, _The Soldier's Tale_ is seen as a landmark work of the early twentieth century. Adorno's complaint with the recently composed _Oedipus Rex_ , however, is that the work is dominated by the use of stylistic montage in the absence of irony. For Adorno at this stage, therefore, the concept of irony in works of art may serve to fulfil the requirement for the necessary level of critical self-reflection in the structure of the work. Irony \u2013 saying the opposite of what is really intended \u2013 stands for an absent or distanced subjectivity. The seeming capitulation to 'objectivity', the 'way things are', is only apparent. Irony thus indicates the survival of the subject through marking the place where the subject _should_ be.\n\n**The second critique: Stravinsky, Schoenberg and the** _**Philosophy of New Music**_\n\nAdorno's second Stravinsky critique \u2013 that of _Philosophy of New Music_ of 1949 \u2013 differs fundamentally from the first, in that it sets out to use Schoenberg and Stravinsky antagonistically, as extremes, employing the dialectical method Adorno had derived from Walter Benjamin, although, unlike Benjamin's, his approach is highly polemical in character. The key themes are the regression to myth and archaism, and the disintegration of the bourgeois principle of individuation, as regression to a pre-bourgeois, premodern condition. The sacrifice of the individual, as subject, and the identification with the collectivity, the apparent 'objectivity' of 'that which is', is what characterises Stravinsky's music for Adorno. His music fixes a state of fragmentation as the norm, the reification of a state of shock and alienation as the essentially static repetition and permutation of that which is too painful to be experienced by subjectivity. As Adorno puts it: 'In its own material, his music registers the disintegration of life and, simultaneously, the alienated state of the consciousness of the subject.' Adorno's approach in _Philosophy of New Music_ also draws heavily on psychoanalytical terminology (in particular Otto Fenichel's _The Psychoanalytic Theory of Neurosis_ , New York, 1945), arguing that the concern of Stravinsky's music is 'to dominate schizophrenic traits through the aesthetic consciousness'.\n\nAdorno maintains that Stravinsky's music is characterised by the grotesque and meaningless sacrifice of the subject: the sacrificial victim in _The Rite of Spring_ submits passively as an offering to the interests of the tribe. Stravinsky's delight in the grotesque, the suspension of individual identity, the assumption of roles and the recourse to masks \u2013 all of which contribute towards the suppression of expression and subjectivity \u2013 brings us to a consideration of the significance Adorno attaches to the figure of the tragic clown, in the contrasting forms of Stravinsky's _Petrushka_ and Schoenberg's _Pierrot lunaire_. Adorno suggests that, with _Pierrot_ , 'everything is based upon that lonely subjectivity which withdraws into itself', and reflects upon itself. He points out that the entire last part of _Pierrot lunaire_ is a return journey, a voyage home, and that the whole work is in effect a voyage of self-discovery. The subject transcends itself and achieves a kind of liberation. Pierrot, through anticipating anxieties and sufferings while at the same time retaining his capacity as subject to reflect upon and experience them, transcends them, and is transformed in the rarefied atmosphere of 'O alter Duft aus M\u00e4rchenzeit' at the end of the work. In Stravinsky's ballet _Petrushka_ , however, even though the central character, Petrushka himself, also shows certain subjective traits, the process and its outcome are quite different. Whereas in _Pierrot lunaire_ the music itself is the suffering, conflict and final transcendence of Pierrot, in Stravinsky's piece, Adorno argues, the music takes instead the part of those who torment and ridicule Petrushka. The subject is sacrificed, while the music itself does not identify with the victim but rather with those who destroy him. The music is either indifferent to the sufferings of the subject \u2013 who after all is only a puppet \u2013 or cruelly parodies him. It plays the part of the crowd, regarding everything as entertainment, a distraction from its own emptiness. Adorno remarks that the whole orchestra in the ballet is made to sound like a gigantic fairground organ \u2013 rather like one who submerges himself in the tumult to rid himself of his own psyche. Even the 'immortality' of Petrushka at the end is in the nature of a tormented spirit condemned to return and haunt its tormentors. Stravinsky's music, as revealed through Adorno's analysis, takes the part of the object, the collectivity that grinds the subject pitilessly within its machinery; Stravinsky's subject exhibits only the most pathetic tatters of humanity, expressed through a mocking sentimentality. 'Authenticity' in Stravinsky's sense could therefore be seen as reflecting a pitiless reality without hope of redemption, where the only way out is to evade suffering by repression and a soulless mimesis of the mechanics of suffering in the absence of a subject able to suffer. 'Authenticity is gained surreptitiously through the denial of the subjective pole,' Adorno claims; only the object is left.\n\nIt is instructive to pick up here again the concept of irony, so important in Adorno's first Stravinsky critique. In _Philosophy of New Music_ the concept of irony can be seen to be replaced largely by the concept of the _grotesque_. In his commentary on _Petrushka_ , for instance, Adorno argues that 'the element of individuation appeared under the form of the grotesque and was condemned by it'. He suggests that the use of the grotesque in modern art serves to make it acceptable to society: the bourgeois wishes to become involved with modern art if, 'by means of its form', it 'assures him it is not meant to be taken seriously'. By the 1940s, and certainly by the closing years of the Second World War, Adorno came to see the liquidation of the individual not only as something enciphered within the monadic, closed world of the work of art; it was now a reality in the world after Auschwitz. For him at this stage, such extremes of horror mean not only the end of lyric poetry, as that most intensely individual form of expression, but also the demise of irony, humour and the grotesque as possible means of psychological defence against the shocks of the real world.\n\nI have reduced Adorno's interpretation of Stravinsky as it occurs in _Philosophy of New Music_ to the core of his argument regarding the fate of the subject, as Adorno himself considered this to be central to his critique. In drawing the extremes so sharply, and making his value judgements so explicit and condemnatory, Adorno employs the dialectic in such a way that the extremes appear to become fixed, and no further interaction occurs between them. This has something of the polemics of a political pamphlet, designed rhetorically to sway us, in this case, from authoritarianism towards autonomy and freedom. The fact that Adorno began the Schoenberg essay in 1941, in the dark days of the Second World War, himself the victim of political intolerance, is significant. The Stravinsky essay came later, and was not part of the original conception, which was to be a 'dialectical image' of Schoenberg. He was undoubtedly aware of Stravinsky's flirtations with Italian fascism in the late 1920s and early 1930s, and this meant that, in spite of his later refutation of the _ad hominem_ accusation, Stravinsky is to a considerable extent pressed into service as representing the regression to myth and archaism and the rejection of historical responsibility which were so much a feature of the fascists' psychotic reaction to the complexities and ambiguities of the modern world.\n\n**The third critique: Stravinsky \u2013 a dialectical image**\n\nIn his third critique, that in the essay 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait' of 1961, Adorno begins by fielding criticisms of his earlier critique in _Philosophy of New Music_. Having dismissed his critics for misunderstanding his philosophical interpretation, he proceeds to offer his own self-critique:\n\nMy critics make me want to begin by giving them a helping hand. Even a straightforward text-based criticism might have found more damaging objections to my Stravinsky chapter. If it is true that his music represents an objectively false consciousness, ideology, then conscientious readers might argue that his music was more than simply identical with reified consciousness. They might insist that his music went beyond it, by contemplating it wordlessly, silently allowing it to speak for itself.\n\nThe spirit of the age is deeply inscribed in Stravinsky's art with its dominant gesture of 'This is how it is'. A higher criticism would have to consider whether this gesture does not give it a greater share in the truth than music which aims to give shape to an implicit truth which the spirit of the age denies and which history has rendered dubious in itself.\n\nIn this significant passage Adorno is not only telling his critics what they could have identified quite justifiably as lacking in his earlier Stravinsky critique; he is, in effect, laying out the programme for his third critique. He also goes on to acknowledge that his previous reading of Stravinsky's essentially static, non-developmental temporality against the yardstick of Schoenberg's organic-developmental model was inappropriate and misleading:\n\nBy opposing the static ideal of Stravinsky's music, its immanent timelessness, and by confronting it with a dynamic, emphatically temporal, intrinsically developing music, I arbitrarily applied to him an external norm, a norm which he rejected. In short, I violated my own most cherished principle of criticism.\n\nThus, in his third Stravinsky critique, via such deflecting self-criticism, Adorno returns to some of the features of the first critique, and avoids the polemical character of the second. B\u00fcrger, in particular, sees the two readings \u2013 _Philosophy of New Music_ and 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait' \u2013 as incompatible, and considers the latter to be the superior one, arguing that:\n\nWhereas the polemical interpretation proceeds in a globalizing fashion, understanding neo-classicism as a unitary movement, the [later] interpretation seeks differentiation. It leaves open at least the possibility of seeing more in neo-classical works than a sheer relapse into a reactionary thinking of order.\n\nBut Adorno still insists that there is, as he puts it, 'quelque chose qui ne va pas' with Stravinsky's music. This remains, in spite of his self-criticisms concerning inappropriate values applied in his second critique, the problem of non-developmental temporal succession in Stravinsky. He writes: 'As a temporal art, music is bound to the fact of succession and is hence as irreversible as time itself. By starting, it commits itself to carrying on, to becoming something new, to developing.' In this way, music points beyond itself, and protests against the eternal repetition of myth. Stravinsky's repetitions and permutations negate the temporality and progression of musical events. They constitute a kind of 'marking time', and this has implications, of course, for the identity of the subject. It was precisely this aspect of Adorno's Stravinsky critique that had so irritated Dahlhaus, who had complained of Adorno's dogmatism in considering the only valid mode of temporal progression to be developmental. Jonathan Cross also takes this view, arguing:\n\nThe corollary of Adorno's position \u2013 that any music which does not display the developmental characteristic of 'becoming' is dangerous because, like the products of the culture industry, it serves to subjugate the freedom of the individual subject, to bring about the dissolution of individual identity \u2013 would now seem, from our present perspective, generally untenable.\n\nCross considers that, in denying him his modernist credentials in relation to temporal succession and the disintegration of the subject, Adorno has, in effect, 'turned Stravinsky into a _postmodernist_ '. But in his first critique, as we have seen, Adorno places Stravinsky firmly in the modernist category, as 'authentic' music which opposes and negates music's commodity character and the effects of the culture industry. Stravinsky's music is typified as 'objectivist' and, in certain works which Adorno clearly considers both typical and highly significant (in particular _The Soldier's Tale_ , but also other works like _Ragtime_ and _Renard_ ), as 'surrealist'. I argue that, while Adorno does not deviate from this assessment of Stravinsky as an 'authentic modernist' (all appearances to the contrary!), he recognises both the radical character of 'objectivism' and 'surrealism', and also their problematical character. That is to say, while the denial of subjectivity and of expression, the ironic play with the displaced fragments of 'second-hand' material, the rejection of developmental progression and temporal continuity in favour of the juxtaposition of montage structures, are all defining features of important tendencies within modernism, they at the same time carry with them the attendant perils of becoming identical to the world from which they are drawn. They risk losing their critical edge in their regression either to a mythic past through distancing from the real world, or to a cartoon-like mimicking of an unacceptable reality as protection from it. This, it seems to me, is the difficult task Adorno sets himself in his second critique, _Philosophy of New Music_ : to explore the philosophical implications of this knife-edge balancing act. Thus, the question posed by Adorno becomes the criterion of 'authenticity' in Stravinsky's music: to what extent does Stravinsky hold fast to his insight into ultimate emptiness and lack of meaning? The judgement in the second critique \u2013 by now distinctly existentialist, and having certain affinities with Adorno's later critique of Heidegger in _Jargon of Authenticity_ \u2013 is that Stravinsky's music recoils from this recognition, and regresses into archaism and myth 'as image[s] of eternity, of salvation from death', through the barbaric suppression of subjectivity and as a defence mechanism against fear.\n\nIn this context, it is again instructive to return to the theme of irony. In Adorno's third critique of Stravinsky it is not irony as the place-holder for an absent self-reflecting subjectivity, but instead the concept of _clowning_ (which we have also noted in _Philosophy of New Music_ ). In 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', Adorno writes: 'This is the element of mimicry, of clowning \u2013 of constantly busying himself with something important that turns out to be nothing at all, strenuously working at something without any result.' But this was, of course, also the nub of Adorno's criticism of Stravinsky in his second critique. What constitutes a significant shift in Adorno's position on Stravinsky in the third critique lies precisely in his changed interpretation of this aspect of clowning. It is seen to have an ironic relationship to an absent subjectivity, the lack of meaning to an absent meaning, but with the added dimensions now of an implied infinite regress, as an intolerable ambiguity: perhaps the ultimate irony is that there is no subject left to suffer, there is no meaning, nor was there ever any meaning in the absence of illusion and myth. The key to understanding this shift in interpretation is to be found, I suggest, in the fact that between his second and third critiques of Stravinsky Adorno had discovered the work of Samuel Beckett.\n\n**Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Beckett: convergence in Adorno's late critique**\n\nAdorno's interest in Beckett dates from the mid 1950s, and in the plays and novels Adorno came to see the ultimate _reductio ad absurdum_ of the human condition, Walter Benjamin's 'dialectics at a standstill'. He admired Beckett's work greatly, and also came to know him personally, discussing his work with him, particularly in the autumn of 1958 in Paris. From this came the substantial essay on Beckett, 'Trying to understand _Endgame_ ', which Adorno published in 1961 \u2013 the year before his third Stravinsky critique. The similarities between the two essays are striking, and the revised assessment of Stravinsky from 1962 is clearly the result of his reading of Beckett. Indeed, it is through his Beckett interpretation that Adorno comes to see a kind of reconciliation of Stravinsky and Schoenberg, as opposed to the polemics of _Philosophy of New Music_. Concerning Beckett he writes: 'Not the least of the ways in which Beckett converges with the most contemporary trends in music is that he, a Western man, amalgamates features of Stravinsky's radical past, the oppressive stasis of a continuity that has disintegrated, with advanced expressive and constructive techniques from the Schoenberg school.' The influence of Beckett on his third critique is particularly clear in his further interpretation of _The Soldier's Tale_ , where the account of the work at times could easily be transferred to Beckett's _Endgame_. He describes the work now as 'music built out of ruins in which nothing survives of the individual subject but his truncated stumps and the tormented awareness that it will never end.' That is to say, he now concedes that something of the subject seems to survive, however bleakly. And conversely, what he writes of _Endgame_ could equally be applied to Stravinsky's music: 'Understanding it can mean only understanding its unintelligibility, concretely reconstructing the meaning of the fact that it has no meaning.' But the full import of this thought, which pervades his writing throughout the 1960s and underlies much of his last work, the unfinished _Aesthetic Theory_ (which he had intended dedicating to Beckett), is easy to miss. I can perhaps give it added emphasis by restating it another way: 'meaninglessness' \u2013 and indeed the resistance to interpretation \u2013 becomes itself a structuring principle of the avant-garde work, presenting itself as a formal problem which demands interpretation and understanding, but which at the same time refuses to allow the contradictions presented by its form to be reconciled. This principle, which Adorno had previously applied to Schoenberg, he now applies to Stravinsky. However, having recognised the possibility that Stravinsky can also be understood in this way, as a kind of 'positive negativity', reservations regarding the composer's consistency in realising it in practice remain.\n\nAdorno's final verdict on Stravinsky's music is that, in its identification with the object and in its negation of subjectivity, Stravinsky compels absolute negativity 'to appear as if it were the truth'. The triumph of taste and technical accomplishment convinces us of its validity, and distracts us, as if by a sleight of hand. But as the soldier realises in _The Soldier's Tale_ , 'if the devil did not lie, he would cease to be himself'. For Adorno, the false consciousness of Stravinsky's music _is_ its truth, in that it tells us how the world is, while at the same time urbanely convincing us that this is the only way it can be. It is, of course, only when he lies that the devil tells the truth \u2013 something that could be seen to apply as well to Adorno as to Stravinsky. For as Adorno said of psychoanalysis, 'nothing is true except the exaggerations'.\n**11**\n\nCRAIG AYREY\n\n**Stravinsky in analysis: the anglophone traditions**\n\n**I**\n\nWhen _Chroniques de ma vie_ was published in 1935, Stravinsky sanctioned what has become his most famous remark: 'Music is powerless to _express_ anything at all.' Even if he capitulated to the ventriloquism of his ghost writer Walter Nouvel on that occasion, Stravinsky's faith in the precept of objectivity, 'perhaps the overriding feature of Stravinsky's modernism', pervades his aesthetic manifesto, _Poetics of Music_ (1942), to the extent that his 'explanation of music as I conceive it' is egoistically declared not to be 'any the less objective for being the fruit of my own experience and my personal observations'. Objectivity, and its ascendance over what he called 'the subjective prism', was, or became, Stravinsky's distinctive habit of mind, an aesthetic and compositional position maintained in relation to any musical material, including his own free inventions. 'What is important for the lucid ordering of the work \u2013 for its crystallisation \u2013', he wrote in _Poetics_ , 'is that all the Dionysian elements which set the imagination of the artist in motion and make the life-sap rise must be properly subjugated before they intoxicate us, and must finally submit to the law: Apollo demands it.' Stravinsky's identification with the Apollonian \u2013 order, selection, construction, logic and unity \u2013 exemplifies the rationalising tendency within modernism and dominates, but does not expel, the Dionysian \u2013 freedom, fantasy, emotion, expressivity and irrationality. Yet although this ostensibly black-and-white personification of the relation of objective and subjective as Apollo/Dionysus often seems all too neatly to map onto the oppositions mind/body and thought/emotion in _Poetics_ , the Apollonian in Stravinsky essentially describes a process of expressive refinement aiming at the transcendence of such conflicts. As he explained later, in conversation with Robert Craft:\n\nmusic is suprapersonal and superreal and as such beyond verbal meanings and verbal descriptions . . . A composer's work _is_ the embodiment of his feelings and, of course, it may be considered as expressing or symbolizing them . . . More important is the fact that the composition is something entirely new _beyond_ what can be called the composer's feelings . . . A new piece of music _is_ a new reality.\n\nToo late, perhaps. By 1962, when these second thoughts were published, the stark image forged in his pre-1945 writings of Stravinsky as a formalist composer and thinker committed to the (neo)classical values of autonomy, universality and 'the music itself' was already fixed as a given in reception history and even in his self-reflection. Richard Taruskin argues that Stravinsky's adoption, as early as the 1920s, of the ideology of the 'purely musical' was 'a creative swerve that colored all the rest of his career', evidenced by his revisions of the history and genre of _The Rite of Spring_ : claiming (in 1920) a musical rather than mythological inspiration for _The Rite_ and reinventing (in 1962) the work as a concert piece, Stravinsky intended to conceal its 'prehuman or sub-human reality' and emphasised the dimension of 'civilized consciousness [that] cloaks but does not replace' the subhuman. The composer's revisionary acts of decontextualisation are, according to Taruskin, signs of his collusion with the modernist myth of 'the music itself', a phrase and ideology picked up by Stravinsky in the United States \u2013 that is to say, from an anglophone, formalist and positivist intellectual environment sustained by a professional, technical and academic discursive climate. Taruskin's association of these critical conditions with Stravinsky's aesthetic attitudes (as defensive reactions to the descent from humanism to 'biologism' \u2013 to the politics of nationalism and modern primitivism foreshadowed by _The Rite_ in its first incarnation) is an argument for the complicity of the American Stravinsky with the dominant style of post-war music analysis and theory. This is undeniable, and cuts both ways: Stravinsky's sanction of musical autonomy in _Poetics of Music_ (a concise, accessible, decisive aesthetic statement by a major composer) can hardly have failed to stimulate and validate rationalist, non-contextual, abstract modes of criticism.\n\nAuthentically Stravinskian effects of _Poetics_ first appeared in three essays from the 1960s that decisively established the formalist mode of Stravinsky analysis. Cone's theory of form (1962), Berger's theory of pitch structure (1963) and the English translation of Boulez's analysis of rhythm (1968) addressed Stravinsky's Apollonian complexity parametrically, a characteristically formalist tactic highly appropriate to Stravinsky's containment of pitch, rhythm and form in autonomous, interactive schemes. These studies provided the seminal technical analyses of formal discontinuity, pitch centricity and octatonic pitch structure that underpin Stravinsky's distinctive types of harmonic conflict, integration and structural cohesion, and they consolidated the cornerstones of the formalist Stravinsky canon: _Petrushka_ (often reduced critically to the structure and structural effects of the C/F major tritone relation in the 'Petrushka chord'), _The Rite of Spring_ (as a treatise on rhythm) and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ (as the paradigmatic work of formal discontinuity). Although Stravinsky's foregrounding of rhythm, the parameter popularly considered to be the main site of his revolutionary procedures, is sometimes acknowledged by the American theorists, their focus on pitch structure in the composer's 'new realities' sustains the classically modernist privileging of pitch, as evident in Schoenberg's theoretical writings as in the symptomatically cursory treatment of rhythm in _Poetics_. Boulez's revelation of an apparently independent and systematic rhythmic structure in _The Rite_ springs clearly from the neo-modernist concerns crucial to Boulez in the early 1950s \u2013 the aesthetic death of Schoenberg, the desire to find a precursor in the systematic organisation of rhythm to match Webern's pre-eminence as the seer of genuinely new possibilities of twelve-note serialism and the extension of serial principles to nonpitch parameters in integral serialism \u2013 but they are also given a personal configuration in the non-Viennese procedures of Stravinsky's serial music that demanded technical explication and received it in exemplary formalist engagements with contemporary music of the time, the analyses by Milton Babbitt (1964) and Claudio Spies (1965\u20137) of three products of Stravinsky's serial maturity ( _Threni_ , _Abraham and Isaac_ and the _Variations_ ).\n\n**II**\n\nSome major discoveries in these theoretical enquiries are confirmed by Taruskin's monumental, recontextualising restoration of Stravinsky to his Russian origins. Berger's identification and designation of the octatonic scale (previously classified in non-Russian theory as Messiaen's second 'mode of limited transposition') was instigated by the formalist imperative to uncover unity in Stravinsky's chromatically transformed diatonicism, a unity resisting explanation in terms other than local hybrid scales or non-functional bitonal combinations that often fail to support contextually defined pitch foci. Analysing some extended passages of _Les Noces_ , Berger refers their total pitch content to 'a single referential collection of eight pitch classes with a few exceptions so marginal as to scarcely require mention (some dozen tones, mainly ornamental . . . )', now firmly demonstrated by Taruskin to be the 'tone-semitone scale' that Stravinsky imbibed from Rimsky-Korsakov's theory and practice. Ascending by alternating semitones and tones (or descending by alternating tones and semitones), the three non-identical transpositions of the octatonic scale (beginning, for instance, on C\u266f, D\u266e and E\u266d) have an alchemical capacity for interaction with many diatonic and chromatic constituents of tonality (major and minor triads, diminished and 'dominant' seventh chords, 'French' augmented sixths) and with the whole-tone scale (four pitch classes are held in common with the octatonic). Where Rimsky-Korsakov exploited the scale as a means of creating harmonic consistency for various types of tonally controlled chromatic progression, both Berger and Pieter van den Toorn (the most thorough-going analyst of Stravinsky before Taruskin) demonstrate the function of Stravinsky's octatonicism as a harmonic ground that, bounded by the extremities of tonality and serialism, can be oriented toward the diatonic or the chromatic.\n\nOne such tonal-octatonic intersection is Stravinsky's trademark major-minor tetrachord (for example, Cx\u2013E\u266d\u2013E\u266e\u2013G), which informs the harmonic structure of a large number of Stravinsky's middle-period works as a referential 'neoclassical' collection; it also has a constant presence in all Stravinsky's 'styles' via the 'major-minor third emphasis' of its trichord subsets (for example, C\u2013E\u266d\u2013E\u266e; or E\u266d\u2013E\u266e\u2013G). Like all symmetrical scales, though, the octatonic lacks inherent pitch functions, a condition that disposes of arguments (intrinsically weak in any context) for structural unity according to a 'referential scale' alone. Extrapolating from Berger, van den Toorn's strategy is to emphasise, according to style, either the structural effects of the distinctive properties of the ascending and descending forms ('Models A and B') and the three transpositions ('Collections I\u2013III') or residual tonal functions (the 'dominant\u2013tonic relation' and dominant seventh progressions) in order to produce complete analyses of pitch coherence in small- or medium-range spans. Although he does not seriously question the assumption of unity in any work, the type of Stravinskian coherence demonstrated by van den Toorn is local rather than global. 'Coherence' alone does not satisfy all the requirements of large-scale unity: van den Toorn's approach (and Taruskin's after him) suggests that unity must take the form of a complex, multi-centered amalgamation of structural forces not susceptible to totalitarian explanations. This view of Stravinsky's music as a partially demonstrable synthetic balance of tensions, variably weighted according to style, is reflected in the procedures of conservatively modernist composition and also persists as a received critical consensus that prefers to accept a dimension of failure in the formalist enterprise and (wary of a single-minded response to Stravinsky's belief that 'the One precedes the Many') to close the apparently intractable issue of global unity. Such scepticism underlies the stormy reception history of Allen Forte's monograph (1978) on _The Rite_ , an analysis that attempts a global account of harmonic organisation while deliberately excluding 'tonality, large-scale linear connections, register and orchestration'. Taruskin's attacks on Forte's approach to this work appear to equate lack of comprehensiveness with a failure of comprehension, as if a theory of global unity could only arise from an analytical synthesis of parameters; but Forte's strategically restricted investigation of 'underlying harmonic units, . . . unordered pc sets, considered quite apart from the attributes of specific occurrences' is comprehensive in a deeper and wider sense, showing a hyper-formalist faith in universals that allows him to risk suggesting that, in its sub-surface harmonic consistency, _The Rite_ 'resembles the extraordinary early atonal works of Schoenberg and his students . . . and has more in common with those works than with the later works of its composer'. Although Forte's modernist impulse to scrutinise subintentional, or pre-conscious, harmonic consistency through the objective prism of abstract theory might indeed seem designed to invite an antiformalist's rejection, the analysis yields results compatible with van den Toorn's (generally approved of by Taruskin). The major-minor tetrachord (Forte's set 4-17 [0, 3, 4, 7]), for example, emerges as a significant harmony that 'plays a supportive, secondary role' indicated by its presence in all the networks ('set complexes') available to it and by the wide representation of its trichord subsets within the twelve-note chromatic pitch universe. And while no set theorist would be surprised that these functions foreshadow van den Toorn's similar description of the role of this tetrachord in the more exclusive octatonic pitch fields, the interpretative neutrality in Forte's associative classification of harmonic relations (among sets that are frequently octatonic) promotes the forensic discovery of a depth of non-functional consistency that is foreclosed by van den Toorn's pre-selection of significant collections in the service of an intentionally directed, more overtly functional outcome.\n\nInterpretations of specifically Stravinskian, rather than pan-modernist, large-scale structure are facilitated when global unity is located in the control of multiple oppositions by repetitive schemata. Cone's formal triad for the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ \u2013 stratification\u2013interlock\u2013synthesis \u2013 proposes that formal discontinuity inheres in blocks of similar material separated by the interruption of different (often opposed) material, progresses to the interlocking of the similar blocks ('the delayed satisfaction' of the suspended 'resumption and completion' of each one), and then to unification by reduction, transformation or assimilation. The appropriately non-teleological type of closure dependent on radical simplification described in this process is a formal manifestation of Taruskin's stylistic triad gleaned from the Russian critical tradition: a complex of intersecting stylistic features and states, _drobnost_ ' (splinteredness, formal disunification, sum-of-parts), _nepodvizhnost_ ' (immobility, stasis, non-developmental form) and _uproshcheniye_ (simplification) overlap and intersect with Cone's theory sufficiently to suggest that Cone both captures and demonstrates their formal, processive function. Subsequent developments of Cone, primarily Jonathan Kramer's durable theory of 'moment form' and proportion in the _Symphonies_ , leave aside Stravinsky the Russian in order to assimilate him into the central traditions of modernism (originating in the 'non-linear' temporal structure of Beethoven's late music) and their post-war continuation. Stravinsky finds himself in company with composers for whom Time is a 'multi-directional' compositional variable \u2013 Stockhausen (inventor of the concept of moment form) and _Kontakte_ (1960), the modernist Debussy ( _Jeux)_ , and Messiaen ( _Chronochromie_ ) \u2013 and who could be said to show the influence of his oppositionally configured 'block forms'. 'Discontinuity', the process of formal disunity inherent in the as yet unrecognised _drobnost'_ , becomes the cardinal structural principle of Stravinsky analysis, valued both as surface shock (it can therefore be 'a profound musical experience') and as the generator of new, proportional modes of 'global coherence': time shaped in proportionally related blocks presents a cohesion that can bind discontinuous material into a higher unity with no need of harmonic or other teleology (though these are not axiomatically obstructed) and facilitates formal processes based on principles of recurrence, circularity and rotation. The burden of large-scale structure is therefore carried by perceived associations in temporal succession, a process Stravinsky located in 'ontological time' (the 'normal flow' of 'real time'), which activates similarity rather than contrast, unity rather than variety, and opposed to 'psychological time', the developmental\u2013teleological conception of music. This distinction in the _Poetics_ serves to draw a line in the sand of aesthetic ideology (primarily, Stravinsky against Schoenberg, for whom 'repetition alone often gives rise to _monotony_. Monotony can only be overcome by _variation_ '); but its rather glib metaphysics also exemplifies Stravinsky's 'third-hand Bergsonian' ideas, received here from Pierre Souvtchinsky (another ghost writer). 'Ontological' and 'psychological' time clearly misread and recast Bergson's concepts of _temps espace_ (measured or 'clock' time) and _temps dur\u00e9e_ (time as experiential duration), pervasively influential in early modernist aesthetics. Bergsonian _temps espace_ , 'a fourth dimension of space, . . . homogeneous time', is 'real' only in the sense that it can be divided and measured using spatial descriptions (number, division, 'blocks') and therefore cannot host similarity or unity (musical or otherwise) without the intervention of perception and psychological experience; but what can be retrieved from Stravinsky's self-alignment with 'ontological' time is precisely that essentially Stravinskian illusion of objective reality in which identity and difference within temporal process are grasped by spatial metaphors.\n\n**III**\n\nRotation, one such metaphor, has a claim to be Stravinsky's transcendent principle. Its structural and historical manifestations are transparently evident in _Requiem Canticles_ , his final large work, particularly in the 'Lacrimosa', where three interdependent contexts of rotation \u2013 formal, serial and harmonic \u2013 are constructed as an organisational technique for the succession of blocks of material. Formally, there is a rotation of four distinct timbral groups \u2013 A (voice), B (piccolo, flutes, harp, double bass), C (strings), D (trombones) \u2013 in which groups A and B always occur simultaneously, followed by C and D. The distribution of the rotation is unequal in relation to the text (there are two rotations in the first line, 'Lacrimosa dies illa', forming discrete musical phrases), and in the second 'stanza' ('Pie Jesu') the rotation is transformed by the elision of groups A, B and C, resulting in a delay of D for cadential purposes ( see Table 11.1).\n\n**Table 11.1** 'Lacrimosa' text and timbral groups\n\nRotational transformation therefore installs a formal marker between the 'Lacrimosa' section and the 'Pie Jesu' (often a separate movement in extended settings of the Requiem), but is otherwise only partially determined by the form of the text: while the end of both 'Lacrimosa' phrases (and the 'Amen') is marked by the statement of group D, the content of groups B, C and D is rotated largely independently of the voice-group A. This structural isolation of the voice is implicit both in the absence of any rotation or features of recurrence in the text (except for the end-rhyme pairs in lines 1\u20134) and in its discursive progression towards the plea for eternal rest ('requiem'). Rotational structures are anti-discursive: but when in 'Pie Jesu' the instrumental scheme is broken, a sense of evolution and discursive progression arises to complement the voice's lapidary declamation of discrete blocks of text in a heightened style of hieratic chant. A rapprochement of the discursive and repetition occurs in this exchange of properties: the discursive nature of the linguistic is made discrete while the instrumental rotations are turned away from recurrence towards the linearly progressive.\n\nWhere Taruskin hears the echo of _Zvezdolikiy_ in the texture and harmonic organisation of the first phrase of the 'Lacrimosa' (one of the multiple signs of Stravinsky's 'Russian manner' in _Requiem Canticles_ ), I also hear a Verdian presence in the style and timbre of the vocal line \u2013 not the _Requiem_ , probably consulted during the composition of Stravinsky's _Requiem_ , but Azucena's music in _Il Trovatore_ (particularly the ballad, 'Stride la vampa'). Non-direct stylistic allusion, though subjectively intertextual, is consistent with Stravinsky's constant habit of 'stylistic' rotation (which applies equally within his own music) and in this case adds to his allusive pantheon of popular composers of late nineteenth-century stage music (if Rimsky-Korsakov in _The Firebird_ and Tchaikovsky in _The Fairy's Kiss_ , why not Verdi?). Such stylistic refashioning exemplifies rotational thinking as transformative historical recurrence ('remaking the past' in Joseph Straus's phrase).\n\nStravinsky's way with pre-formed stylistic material, however, remains his own. In the neoclassical music, primarily, the harmonic techniques of the common-practice period are detoured from functional progression towards the repetition of mildly dissonant collections (often with free contrapuntal elaboration). To persuade an autonomous, theoretically ramified system to come into the orbit of a Franco-Russian technical personality is a trick repeated in his appropriation of serial technique, in which the principle of rotation transforms the pre-formalised system into a mechanism for generating both a consistent rotation of sets among the row forms and an array of harmonically related chords.\n\nThe 'Lacrimosa' uses series 1 of _Requiem Canticles_ divided into two hexachords. In the IR forms, which are given priority in the movement, hexachords are generated by beginning IR1a-5a with pcs 2\u20136 of the first hexachord (IR0a) transposed to A\u266f, the first note of IR0a, and displaying in order the subsequent pcs at the new transposition level. Once the same principle is applied to IR0b, twelve hexachords are produced, six beginning on A\u266f (IRa), six on G (IRb) (Table 11.2).\n\n**Table 11.2.** 'Lacrimosa' series (from Claudio Spies, 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings', p. 236, Ex. 11)\n\nEach hexachord belongs to set class 6-2, and within this hexachordal frame six pentachords, eight tetrachords and nine trichords rotate symmetrically through IRa and b (Table 11.3). These set rotations are presented contiguously in the vocal line (group A), which is constituted of all 12 hexachords in a 'spiral' rotation (Table 11.4), determined partly by the desire to connect vocal phrases or row forms by the common pitch classes G and A\u266f, as shown in Ex. 11.1 below (see group A). The trichord content of the series is structurally activated in harmonic configuration of the Ia hexachords in group D (trombones: see Ex. 11.1), and although internal serial ordering is maintained, whenever G appears it is placed as the final bass note of each statement, consolidating the limited priority, as inaugural or cadential pitch, of the vocal line's Gs. This correspondence points to the interaction of IR (group A) and Ia forms (group D) that has a clear formal function in the first four phrases of the movement (bars 229\u201349): as summarised in Table 11.5, the pc-identical pairs IR5b/I1a, I0a/IR3b and IRb/I2a respectively frame, connect and cadence these phrases, a formal consistency that seems to have determined group D's order of Ia rotation (I1a-0a, 3a-2a, 5a-4a). Similarly, in groups B and C, the non-systematic choice of normal or retrograde order in the sequential progression of the Ra forms from Ra0 seems determined by the requirement to complete the total chromatic collection in all phrases except the 'Huic ergo' and 'Amen'. The rotation of instrumental groups A\u2013D therefore conforms to the essential serial rotation of all twelve pcs, with the proviso that repetitions promote the typically Stravinskian focus on referential pitches.\n\n**Table 11.3.** Set rotations in the IR hexachords\n\n_Note:_ (1) Read from left to right.\n\n(2) Each hexachord contains two pentachords, three tetrachords and four trichords.\n\n(3) These subsets are obtained by segmenting each hexachord as follows: for pentachords, beginning at the first and second pcs (i.e., 1\u20135, 2\u20136); for tetrachords, beginning at the first, second and third pcs; for trichords, beginning at the first, second, third and fourth pcs.\n\n(4) The rotation of subsets shows recurrences within each set type (pentachords, tetrachords, trichords): like the rotation itself,these recurrences are distinctive to Stravinsky's serial technique and are not a feature of traditional serialism.\n\n**Table 11.4.** 'Spiral' rotation of hexachords in the vocal line\n\n**Ex. 11.1** 'Lacrimosa', synoptic analysis\n\n**Table 11.5.** 'Lacrimosa', synopsis of series, verticals and sets\n\n_Note:_ (1) Set names identify collections that have similar interval content (although their pc content may be transposed or inverted). Non-tonal harmonic consistency depends on this type of abstract similarity.\n\n(2) Each IR, R and I hexachord expresses set class 6-2; pcs are shown in order of appearance.\n\n(3) The pc content of all other sets is shown in normal order and is included here to reveal repetitions of pcs within set classes and between dissimilar sets (for example, phrase 4, 5-Z38 and I2a [6-2], both of which contain [1, 4, 7]).\n\n(4) [O] = octatonic set; [WT] = whole-tone set.\n\n(5) In phrase 6, set class 4-2 is the transposed complement of set 8-2 (i.e., each 4-2 contains the four pcs, in transposition, required by 8-2 to complete the total chromatic).\n\nThe content of the rotational scheme contains a clear dimension of becoming, redolent of the evolutionary and memorial transformations of perception (inherent in both Bergson's _temps dur\u00e9e_ and Souvtchinsky's 'psychological time'). Each group contains similar pitch material differently configured and each rotation transforms its predecessor: as the temporal distance from the source rotation ('Lacrimosa') increases, the transformation of the later rotations is correspondingly distant in content (as if in memory), preserving only the normative G cadences of group D and the high-register woodwind chords of group B. These chords form a second level of rotation formed pre-compositionally (and therefore abstractly) from the progression through twelve verticals derived from the stack of the IR forms of the 'Lacrimosa' series (see Table 11.2). Ex. 11.2 shows the verticals in their 'Lacrimosa' ordering (Vb2\u20136, 1; Va2\u20136, 1 omitted), in which the content of the woodwind chords (treble clef) are identical to the pitch-class content of the abstract derivations in Table 11.2; pitch classes provided by group C instruments (bass clef) create larger sets.\n\nImportant features of Stravinsky's distinctive modes of pitch structure are exemplified in this array of chords (Stravinsky in 1959: 'I compose vertically and that is, in one sense at least, to compose tonally' \u2013 'one sense' can be taken to mean to compose harmonically), most obviously harmonic consistency, opposition and an additional definition of pitch centricity. Eleven of the twelve verticals extracted from the serial stack are used: Va1 (unison A\u266f) is discarded, thus isolating the remaining unison G as the harmonic exception, a singularity heightened by the removal of G from the systematic rotation of the verticals and relocating it centrally (bar 243); these pre-compositional manipulations already indicate the centric role envisaged for G (see below). Shaping the twelve verticals in this way produces two five-chord arrays (Vb2\u20136, Va2\u20136) with obvious potential for systematic organisation according to set type (informally, according to different scales). The chords in group B exhibit an organisation dominated by the octatonic character of four chords in each array (Table 11.6):\n\n**Table 11.6.** Verticals in group B (woodwind)\n\nAlthough the whole-tone chord (Va4, the anomaly in array Va) is centrally placed, this is not the case in array Vb (the diatonic/chromatic Vb3 is left of centre), an asymmetry that was corrected in Stravinsky's configuration of these chords in the score, where a more developed, systematic function is elaborated for this raw serial product. When the pitch classes of group B (bass clef) and group C are combined with the raw verticals, the array of set types in Vb is made palindromic: Va, on the other hand, extends the diatonic/chromatic and returns to the octatonic set 4-Z29 in Va6 (see Ex. 11.2 and Table 11.7).\n\n**Ex. 11.2** 'Lacrimosa', set content of the verticals\n\n**Table 11.7.** Chords, groups B and C\n\nThe opposition of set types within this palindromic rotation reveals several types of harmonic consistency. In Vb the first and last chords belong to the same set class (5-19), while the non-octatonic chords always express set class 5-Z38, the location of which remains constant in array Va. Comparison with the raw verticals (Ex. 11.2, group B) illustrates that 5-Z38 is often formed by adding a pc to an octatonic tetrachord (formally, O+1); since each 5-Z38 in Table 11.7 contains one tetrachord of octatonic collection III (3,4,6,7,8,9,10, 0,1), this diatonic-chromatic set is significantly infused with octatonic content. Va2 (6-Z25) and Va4 (5-30) contain subsets of octatonic collection II (2,3,5,6,8,9,11,0), thus relating them closely (as O+1) to the octatonic sets of collection II (5-16, 5-19 and 4-Z29) which acts as the harmonic ground of the composition. This collection is activated structurally in the first rotation ('Lacrimosa', bars 229\u201334) where the octatonicism of the first raw vertical (set 4-9) is projected at first harmonically in the pentachord 5-19 (Vb2) then laterally to encompass the whole of bars 229\u201332, with the exception of C (double bass) and G (voice), the latter again isolated in the immediate harmonic context. Octatonic consistency is both inherent in the series and constructed from it. Each form of the series contains at least one octatonic tetrachord or pentachord, a property projected by the strictly linear display of serial forms in the vocal line, but only two of the four octatonic sets (4-3, 4-10, 4-Z15, 5-10) are structurally active harmonically. One of these, set 4-Z15, completes the octatonic organisation of the 'judicandus' (group B, bars 245\u20137, bass clef); the other, set 4-3, is the only linear set also generated as a raw vertical (Vb4). All other verticals are constructed from intersecting hexachords and are not simply products of a single linear series, guided (firmly in phrases 1\u20133, more loosely in phrases 4\u20137) by the octatonic imperative that seems to have determined both the choice of the retrograde forms in the lower instruments of groups B (double bass, harp) and C (strings) and the precise disposition of the R-forms' pitch classes.\n\n**IV**\n\nSuch constant presence of the octatonic realises Stravinsky's invocation of 'the logic of the ear' in a statement (contemporaneous with the composition of _Requiem Canticles_ ) that catches him in death-defying mode: 'I continue to believe in my taste buds and to follow the logic of my ear, quaint expressions which will seem even quainter when I add that I require as much hearing at the piano as I ever did before; and this, I am certain, is not because of age, is not a sign of dotage.' The full context indicates that the 'logic of the ear' was for Stravinsky an _a priori_ subsisting beneath his existential dislocations as the guarantor of structural coherence and stylistic continuity. Rhetorically, the figure is an Apollonian bid for permanence \u2013 in retrospect, as the constant that makes consistent sense of the past, in prospect, as the projection of that constancy into the future in works made into monumental artefacts through the consistency of their aural logic. Taruskin's contextualisation of _Requiem Canticles_ in the Russian traditions 'revisited' relies heavily on the persistence of the octatonic in Stravinsky's ear, on the harmonic logic that endures intermittently in the progression of stylistic and structural determinants \u2013 Russian/chromatic, neoclassical/triadic, serial \u2013 in Stravinsky's music. This aural logic is not only conservative: Babbitt asserts, positivistically and also transcendentally, the absolute necessity of the 'logic of the ear' as the organ of construction in Stravinsky's 'new serial combinations' that extracts music from abstract serial relations:\n\nas for those who seize upon ['the logic of the ear'] to intimate that the music is less 'out of ear' than 'out of mind', let them \u2013 instead \u2013 contemplate Stravinsky's mode of affirming that the 'ear' is at least as theory laden as the eye and mind, and that only the mind's ear and the ear's mind can provide the now so necessary sorting, selecting and censoring.\n\nIf serial technique heightens the importance of the ('now so necessary') selection and rejection of possibilities present in the pre-compositional material, the 'theory-laden ear' must discern new structural forms in the tensional space between its residual burden of theory and the potential suggested by the material for new types of logic. Although octatonicism is one of the potentialities exploited in the 'Lacrimosa', its limited capacity for projection as a structural principle means that it remains only a standard of consistency, subject to constructive forces activated from elsewhere. Prior to seeking a relational logic of diverse harmonies in the 'Lacrimosa', Stravinsky's pursuit of the aural logic of consistency and similarity crystallises in other types of structural singularity, primarily pitch centres. He has much to say in the _Poetics_ about 'the eternal necessity of affirming the axis of our music and to recognise the existence of certain poles of attraction'. Composition, defined even pre-serially as an act of selection and ordering, entails 'a search for a centre upon which the series of sounds in my undertaking should converge':\n\nif a centre is given, I shall have to find a combination that converges upon it. If, on the other hand, an as yet unoriented combination has been found, I shall have to determine the centre towards which it should lead. The discovery of this centre suggests to me the solution of my problem.\n\nTo the teleological ear, Stravinsky's 'centres' may often appear as minimal manifestations of non-teleological singularity, the type of stasis scornfully rejected by Adorno as 'hypostatisation', ungenerated by structural processes and extruded from the musical material as the outcome of a pre-compositional quest for pivotal, unifying features. But what, for Adorno, is the sign of the absence of intention and a non-reflective absolutisation of the event is, for Stravinsky, the definition of the intentional will to consistency: the 'logic of the ear' is a poietic rationale for the integrity and rightness of singular events that, in opposition to Schenkerian teleological logic or Schoenbergian developmental logic of form and structure, supports the extended structural immobility of _nepodvizhnost_ ' and may at once underpin and undermine structural unity.\n\nThese harmonic and formal ambiguities were sensed in the first, Schenker-inspired analyses of Stravinsky's tonal procedures \u2013 by Adele Katz (1947), Felix Salzer (1952) and Allen Forte (1955) \u2013 an issue newly invigorated by the neoclassical works of 1920\u201340 (which these writers did not always assume uncritically to be masterpieces). In an attempt to discover a consistent theoretical basis for extended tonality \u2013 a conservative and ideologically (if not theoretically) Schoenbergian enterprise perpetuating the nineteenth-century belief in the progressive and radical functions of tradition \u2013 the coherence of Stravinsky's music was assimilated in the continuation of contrapuntally based tonal practice (together with that of Debussy, Bart\u00f3k, Hindemith and Schoenberg's early atonal works) and implicated in a modernist revision of Schenker's aggressively anti-modernist theoretical concepts. That this assimilation could only be achieved by recognising various dimensions of rupture is illustrated by Salzer's analysis of the _Symphony in Three Movements_ in which prolongation on the surface levels is abandoned in favour of static 'chord blocks' established by 'repeating and circling around a chord in lieu of thematic development and chord prolongation'. Salzer's intuition of the structurally radical nature of pitch centricity, however, is immediately compensated by a perception of goal-directed motions in the deeper levels, asserting teleology (the primary function of prolongation in Schenker) as hierarchically fundamental and rescuing the prolongationally deprived foreground from structural immobility. Driving teleology into the structural depths of Stravinsky's music, Salzer intends to demonstrate both the persistent stylistic vitality of tonality and its capacity for original renewal as manifested in Stravinsky's innovatory surface configurations. This results in a dilution of the concept of contrapuntal hierarchy to one of relatively independent strata lacking the binding connections of the Schenkerian system of grounds, the issue addressed by Schenker himself in his notorious analytical critique of Stravinsky's 'inability to create tension by means of appropriate linear progressions' in the Piano Concerto in which dissonances 'substitute for [contrapuntal] content and cohesion'. Salzer's analysis of intra-parametrical dissociation in the _Symphony'_ s pitch structure therefore treads a critical high-wire: at the same time, it partly accepts the terms of Schenker's critique, conforms to the classically modernist position (articulated most cogently by Schoenberg and Adorno) in which the modern is rooted in, advances and transforms tradition, and pinpoints crucial antagonisms between linear conceptions of structure and Stravinsky's harmonic syntheses.\n\nIdentifying as tonic 'a polytonal chord on G with D as a secondary chord of fusion' in the _Symphony_ , Salzer defines a synthetic referential dissonance (G, B, D\u266d, F, A\u266d) that 'in no way implies two tonalities which would be contradictory to the unity-creating essence of tonality, regardless of style', and is composed out by projecting the elements of the D triad in the upper voices and G/B in the lower ones (he ignores the significant interference of B as a goal in the upper voice that also creates the conditions for the tonicity of the G major-minor triad). In the analysis of the opening section (bars 1\u201338), 'fusion' in fact occurs rarely \u2013 at the beginning (bars 1\u20133) and at the approach to the dominant (bars 22, 25) when the triadic elements coincide as simultaneities: otherwise, the analysis demonstrates a projected co-existence of G and D\u266d held in a horizontal polarity, the disunifying bifurcation Salzer hoped to avoid. This tonic sonority exemplifies the importance of Arnold Whittall's subtle (and determinedly Stravinskian) concept of 'focused dissonance', a fusion of traditional consonant and dissonant elements that forces a re-evaluation of the nature and function of this essential tonal polarity. In _The Rite_ , focused dissonances may 'override (but do not eliminate) their absorbed tonal and triadic segments, [and] drive the music into a peculiarly intense state of explosive energy'. Salzer's G/D\u266d tonic (an insecure fusion of consonances creating a dissonant sonority) has such energising potential, but in contrast to the procedures of the earlier work, it deflects intensity, regularly expelling its dissonant elements (to expose purely diatonic elements or a unison G) or transferring them to other sonorities in which their role is less triadically disruptive (for example, the synthetic D/A dominant (bar 38) \u2013 D, F\u266f , A, C\u266f , E \u2013 in which the D\u266d of the tonic sonority is held invariant, as C\u266f). Furthermore, prolongation of the _Symphony'_ s synthetic G/D\u266d tonic is achieved only by loosening the rules of contrapuntal writing so that structural counterpoint may progress freely as 'dissonant voice leading', a category of 'greater freedom and elasticity' in which linear motions both unfold dissonantly and connect dissonant sonorities. A compensation for the severe reduction in the capacity for linear cohesion that this loosening entails appears in Roy Travis's analysis of the Introduction to _The Rite_ where the 'dissonant tonic sonority' (A\u266d, D\u266d, C) is prolonged by saturating the texture; as Whittall and others have realised, this amounts to little more than a definition of harmonic consistency (the same chord or set repeated in transposition), a necessary but insufficient condition for grounding linear processes congruent with non-tonal chromatic verticals. The demise of a common theoretical practice condemns the tonicity of a dissonant sonority to be defined and prolonged contextually, and therefore uniquely, most often by repetition or the recursively static neighbouring-note structure. Katz's earlier willingness to reserve judgement on the structural implications of Stravinsky's 'new techniques' ('bitonality' and 'polytonality'), rather than to yoke the issue of dissonant prolongation to the perpetuation of tradition, now seems more sensitive structurally than Salzer's conviction that linear processes in a dissonant context are directed (at least on the higher levels of structure). But even when Katz defends the dissonant linearity of imitative 'linear counterpoint' in the Octet (in which 'the integrity of the melodic line is not sacrificed to harmonic considerations' and the horizontal takes precedence over the vertical), the devices of structural stability remain unintegrated or stubbornly static: imitation (horizontalising the principle of repetition), a high degree of harmonic immobility and repeated pitch centres.\n\nRecent voice-leading theory, less enthralled by teleological thinking (and, to that degree, less narrowly formalist than the earlier prolongation theorists) has accepted that the various images of tonal stasis in Stravinsky radically transform or petrify prolongational models, and has explored the ramifications of 'attraction to' rather than 'prolongation of' Stravinsky's centres. To return to our example, we know that Stravinsky 'discovered' G as a potential centrum for the 'Lacrimosa' in the first pc of each IR form of the series and in the isolation of this pc in the array of verticals. Naturally, then, G is prominent in the composition \u2013 in the vocal line from the end of the opening phrase ('lacrimosa', bar 232) to the mid-point (bar 243), after which it is emphasised durationally in bar 254 ('dona') and bar 263 ('Amen'), and as the final pitch class of four of the six cadential segments (group D, trombones) ending each phrase, including the last (bars 264\u20135). Is G a tonic? Like the _Symphony in Three Movements_ , the 'Lacrimosa' gives priority to G but now elaborates it with distinct splinteredness. Its regular cadential location obviously defines a minimal centricity as a pitch that provides a structural focus and serves the formal function of tonicity (without, in this serial context, engaging the harmonic or contrapuntal processes of common-practice tonality). But when Stravinsky fixes the harmonic centrality of G natural by stating it in four octaves at the durational centre of the movement (bar 234), he performs a modernist act opposed to the normative beginning\u2013end locations of pre-modernist tonics that has far-reaching consequences for the status of the cadential Gs. As the only structural downbeat in the movement, the centrum both focuses and destablises the material that precedes and follows it, weakening the cadential function of the other Gs (which sound perfunctorily formal) while at the same time activating their pitch priority \u2013 a process that epitomises the centrum's function as a 'pole of attraction'.\n\nAn interpretation of the ways in which G attracts different pcs is presented in the voice-leading analysis of the 'Lacrimosa' in Ex. 11.1 and summarised in Ex. 11.3, where the centrum orients the serial surface and creates small-scale spans of prolongation that can be associated in larger constellations. My method incorporates Joseph Straus's theory of associative voice-leading in Stravinsky, based on the principle that the middleground relation of sonorities or individual pcs replicates similar associative complexes in the foreground without achieving the large-scale linear cohesion essential to prolongation. Two versions of set class 3-3, a simple focused dissonance, end the first phrase (bar 234) as 7, 8, 11], the third (bars 243\u20134) and the last (bar 265) as [4, 7, 8] and function as a tonic sonority extending the vertical range of the centrum ([Ex. 11.3, stratum b3). These G-focused octatonic trichords are inversionally (and therefore symmetrically) related in that they hold the dyad G\u2013G invariant with the third pc at ic3 above or below (Ex. 11.4). They also sum to set 4-17 4, 7, 8, 11], the definitive major-minor tetrachord, which functions here as a referential set splintered into the trichord expressions of the tonic sonority. Furthermore, the first trichord (bar 234) is approached from the C at the fourth above (ic5+); having attracted this pc, the bass G projects ic5 symmetrically \u2013 in phrase 2, D\u2013G (ic5\u2013), and phrase 3, C\u2013G (ic5\u2013) \u2013 after which the interval contracts in phrase 4, E\u2013G (ic3+), phrase 5, D \u2013C natural (ic3\u2013), and phrase 7, A\u2013G (ic2\u2013). (See [Ex. 11.3, strata b and c). Phrase 6 sustains C below the final G (phrase 7) in a larger-scale expression of ic5\u2013 paired with a top-voice symmetry (see below). This process \u2013 symmetries followed by and (in phrases 6 and 7) encapsulating contractions to ic2 \u2013 is elaborated by various subsidiary chromatic pcs: but its essential feature is G's attraction of a limited number of diatonic pcs (C, D, E, A), thus producing discrete blocks of succession emptied of the goal-directed functions of tonal progressions, even when their resemblances remain.\n\n**Ex. 11.3** 'Lacrimosa', summary of linear structure (see also Ex. 11.1)\n\n**Ex. 11.4** 'Lacrimosa', symmetrical formations of set class 3\u20133\n\nThe top voice (carried by the piccolo in phrases 1\u20136, then in the voice in phrase 7) engages some of the bass voice's pcs and intervals, but is distinguished from the processes of that voice (Ex. 11.3, stratum b1). Repeating a large-scale linear projection of the octatonic set 4-Z29 7, 8, 10, 2], the top voice both defines a formal boundary (phrases 1\u20133, and phrases 5\u20137) and connects the content of the linear process to the penultimate cadential function of 4-Z29, the set class of Va6 which ends the 'Pie Jesu'. Since 4-Z29 is also a (transposed) subset of four of the other nine verticals (those belonging to set classes 6-Z25, 5-16 and 5-19), it is the only set that can be said with theoretical certainty to be projected through the structure. First projected linearly in phrases 1\u20133, the set displays a new version of the ic5 relation, D (bar 229) above G (bar 243) (ic5+), providing the symmetrical inversion pairing the cadential ic5\u2013 (C\u2013G) in the bass voice (bars 255\u201365) \u2013 that is to say, balancing the fifths above and below G. The same linear structure, shorn of elaboration, is repeated in phrases 5\u20137 (with a closing registral descent of A\u266f and G) preceded by the only goal-directed motion in the piece, C\u2013C\u266f\u2013D (phrase 4), which re-establishes the structural role of D, first and provisionally suggested by its inaugural position (bar 229). The two projections therefore polarise the G centrum within the octatonic tetrachord. However, the top-voice D and G (elaborated in the first statement of 4-Z29 by the neighbouring notes E and F\u266f) are separated by the pc pair G\u266f\u2013A\u266f ([8, 10], phrases 2, 6\u20137) widely disseminated in the voice-leading detail of each section (see [Ex. 11.1) as the constant chromatic interference with the G centrum, an interference that refers to the G\u266f of the tonic sonority (set 3-3). The prominent role of G\u266f in the top voice implies no specific or functional connection with G\u266fs elsewhere in the structure: connection, and therefore priority, inheres not in the (mere) repetition of G\u266f (a technique reserved for the centrum) but in the constant presence of G\u266f in various configurations within the voice-leading strata.\n\nThese instrumental processes operate largely independently of the pitch structure of the vocal line, which unfolds a two-part linear motion converging on the final pc of phrases 1\u20133; subsequently, separation becomes the norm, culminating in the non-integration of the motions A\u266f\u2013G and B\u2013A in the final phrase 7 necessitated structurally by the non-participation of the instrumental music in the closure of the top-voice structure. The extremities of each vocal phrase, however, may condition a partial integration of vocal and instrumental structure if the vocal pcs and the bass are related in a progression of vertical interval classes (Ex. 11.3, strata b2\u20133): beginning with ic5, F/B (bar 229), the two strata proceed, a little irregularly, through contracting interval classes until ic1 is reached in bar 262, soon repeated in the final trombone chord as G\u266f/G\u266e. The relative independence of the voice (reflecting its distinct textural, rhythmic and verbal character) confirms the non-organic, stratified and non-hierarchical nature of the linear organisation, a structurally disruptive effect intensified in the serial context by the strong tonal implications of vertical intervals of phrases 1\u20133 (see Ex. 11.1). Phrase 1's opening tritone, F/B, may be heard to imply a resolution to the major third C/E present in split form when the bass progresses to C (bar 232) and the strings arrive on E (bar 233); this potential reference to C major is confirmed by the vocal G (bar 232). While such a tonal hearing is strongly contradicted by the tetrachord 4-20 (bar 233) and by the G\u266f\u2013F\u266f repetition in the voice (bar 230), the latter figure also raises the ghost of E-based harmony, represented in the linear analysis (Ex. 11.1, stratum 3, and Ex. 11.3, stratum b3) by the implied E in the bass, so that an ambiguous and disorienting tonal ambience shrouds the whole of the first phrase. The possibility of more direct aural privileging of tonal forms occurs in phrase 3, bar 239 (bass C, voice E) and bar 241 (bass C\u266f, voice E\u266f), but in so far as tonal implications weaken in force approaching the G centrum (after which the G-based trombone cadences take priority), one strategy of Stravinsky's compositional intention may be to neutralise them. If the tonal intervals are not heard as octatonic dyads (or if we do not learn to hear them this way), they can only disrupt the dissonant consistency of atonality, allusively turning it toward the tonal without producing a tonal existence: even though local connections could be proposed, these triadic forms resist systematic explanation and cannot be heard, at least by the ear attuned to Stravinsky's octatonic logic, as functionally connected.\n\n**V**\n\nBeneath the various types of recurrence \u2013 rotations, repetitions and pitch centricity \u2013 the 'Lacrimosa' can be heard to sustain a dynamic process formed from the differences within the repetitions, animating formal stasis and proceeding non-teleologically towards a unit of completion (the final major-minor tetrachord subset 3\u20133). This sense of an ending for the blockarticulated linear process is articulated by the group D music (trombones), the only material with a specifically rhythmic character: the six segments present a series of composite durational patterns (Ex. 11.5) delineating a process of statement and transformation in which, from the second half of the sequence (bar 249), long values gradually predominate.\n\n**Ex. 11.5** 'Lacrimosa', rhythmic organisation of group D\n\nRepetition in the first three segments, followed by processive transformation, replicates the design of the pitch processes of the movement (in particular the structure of the verticals in Ex. 11.2) and is similarly marked by the three statements of set 3-3 (bars 234, 244, 265) the formal function of which is now clearly evident. The subtle non-insistence of these pitch processes makes them seem almost accidental, as givens emanating from the pre-compositional manipulation of the series accepted into the structure and gently brought to life by the group D rhythmic pulsations.\n\nObjectivity, already the product of Apollonian refinement, is further purged here as 'the objectification of all anxiety'. Such transcendental objectivity arrests time and distances subjective, 'psychological' temporality, but the installation of an essentially spatial conception within time cannot avoid setting in motion the potential for becoming inherent in general temporality. Adorno's view, in paraphrase, that Stravinsky composed against the temporal nature of music entails that Stravinsky's music resists temporality but does not escape from it. For all Stravinsky's efforts to constrain the listener's or interpreter's experience, his music (the late music in particular) \u2013 conflicted and splintered by its projection of rational order into temporal becoming \u2013 is unusually vulnerable to the listener's subjectivity (as the work of Marianne Kielian-Gilbert demonstrates), and is particularly receptive to diverse theoretical representations, not least because the music revels in the potential of various types of contradiction, narrating the process of contrast\u2013dispersal\u2013synthesis in a spatialised presentation of units that seem strongly impelled to unification in our perception of their temporal succession. The analyst who, like the prolongation theorists, hears unification as a process may respond too readily to the temporal element in which Stravinsky's constructions are placed and remain deaf to the spatially transformed time that, in _Poetics_ , masquerades as the (mis)conception of 'real' time. Schenker's judgement, handed down from teleological formalism, that Stravinsky is 'unmusical' is therefore as apposite as the focus on Stravinsky's music in the theoretical systems of Cone, Berger, Forte and van den Toorn, informed as they are by spatial and abstract conceptions of musical structure \u2013 networks, centres, collections, strata, sets: his music and ideas were actively implicated, as partial instigation and testing ground, in the concretisation of such spatial metaphors that (with the exception of Chandler Carter's analysis of _The Rake's Progress_ , and the later work of Kielian-Gilbert) have all but lost their figurative power in their reification as the constitutive concepts of modern music theory.\n\nThere are, then, signs of theoretical renovation in Stravinsky studies. But having so conscientiously prolonged the formalist moment in musical culture so that it achieved a Stravinskian dynamic stasis, Stravinsky has had a compositional rather than conceptual after-life in theory, as traced in Kramer's alignment of Stravinsky with 'new temporalities' (time split by the reversible and multiple referentiality of musical material), in Cross's examination of the 'Stravinsky legacy' eliding him with the second, post-Second World War phase of modernism, and in Andriessen and Sch\u00f6nberger's proto-postmodern Stravinsky: in compositional practice, they write, 'the true influence of Stravinsky has only just begun. It is an influence that can do without Stravinskianisms.' This recommendation might also sustain the nascent liberation of analytical Stravinsky interpretation from its all-too-appropriate Stravinskian ideology.\n**12**\n\nSTUART CAMPBELL\n\n**Stravinsky and the critics**\n\n**Introduction**\n\nR.C.:\n\nWhat do you mean when you say that critics are incompetent?\n\nI.S.:\n\nI mean that they are not even equipped to judge one's grammar. They do not see how a musical phrase is constructed, do not know how music is written; they are incompetent in the technique of the contemporary musical language. Critics misinform the public and delay comprehension. Because of critics many valuable things come too late.\n\nIn this exchange with Robert Craft, Stravinsky testified to the generic hostility felt by composers toward critics. As we shall see, however, this attitude on the part of this composer concealed a much more complicated relationship with the supposed enemy.\n\nFor the purposes of this chapter, 'critic' is broadly defined. The tasks of the critic include discriminating between good and bad \u2013 with all the intermediate gradations \u2013 in composition and performance; discerning continuities and discontinuities between new and older work (again, in both composition and performance), whether of the recent or the more remote past; informing the readership about current issues in the world of the arts. A critic in practice serves as an intermediary between consumer and creator (that is, between listener and composer, or listener and performer), helping both sides by creating an intellectual environment where the former understands better the work of the latter. Critics' activities are informed by the work of historians and analysts, though the character of their output is different. Criticism may take any form from brief newspaper reviews to book-length studies; in some cases humble journalistic endeavour facilitates the development of ideas that later find full expression in a monograph. But both are species of criticism.\n\nBesides giving a taste of the reception that Stravinsky's music has met at different times, this chapter aims to tease out ideas about it which have been at the centre of debate. How Stravinsky's compositions fitted into the general musical picture, and which composers he was compared and contrasted with, are also incorporated in the remit.\n\nStravinsky presented critics with several distinctive challenges. The length of his creative life was not unique, but his successive immersion in several different cultures is unusual among front-rank composers. After copying the compositional practice of a St Petersburg guild, Stravinsky later gave free rein to his imagination, at first within the guild's framework and later beyond it, before several times turning in other directions \u2013 first in France and later in the USA. Critics seeking to do justice to all the composer's work must ideally be attuned to Russian music of the Silver Age, the French musical world of the 1920s and 30s, and the German\u2013American currents flowing strongly in the Craft-influenced American years. Whilst Stravinsky certainly traversed a broad territory of compositional styles, his music also covers a long distance as regards aesthetic character. Ballet, opera and hybrid theatrical genres, Russian folklore and literature, Greek myth, Orthodox and Catholic ritual \u2013 these must all be within the range of the ideal critic. Some of the most revealing insights into Stravinsky's music come from colleagues who, like him, belonged to 'Russia abroad' ( _russkoye zarubezh'ye_ ) \u2013 Russians who emigrated from their homeland during its troubled twentieth century (Louri\u00e9, Nabokov, Schloezer, Souvtchinsky).\n\nComposer and critic commonly clash when the composer's attention is concentrated on his most recent composition, while the critic is struggling with the one before. It is not always possible to hear works in chronological order. Nikolay Myaskovsky understood the evolution of Stravinsky's harmonic language between _The Firebird_ and _The Rite of Spring_ only when he looked into the intervening works, the songs and the cantata _Zvezdolikiy_. Later, too, shorter pieces illuminated the path between the more substantial ones. _Les Noces_ is a particular problem because its abnormally long gestation period made it seem atypical when it finally emerged from the womb. There can be difficulties also when an early composition establishes itself so securely in the repertory (as with _The Firebird_ , Rachmaninov's C minor Prelude or Schoenberg's _Verkl\u00e4rte Nacht_ or _Pierrot lunaire_ ) as to entrench a particular view of its creator. All subsequent works have to contend with this view, and at first are usually adjudged to fall short of the earlier achievement. This problem afflicted Stravinsky's music several times, with _Petrushka_ and _The Rite,_ like _The Firebird,_ winning recognition and impeding response to subsequent works. Those who had accommodated their thinking to (say) the _Symphony of Psalms_ were confounded by _Canticum Sacrum_. Part of the critic's task is to convey to his readership that a composer's activities are a dynamic process demanding a shift of focus from one work to another, rather than a production line where every unit resembles its neighbours as closely as possible.\n\nAt some stage Stravinsky himself concluded that his music would speak more clearly if he helped it by giving interviews and publishing open letters, articles and entire books, even if some were ghost-written. One motivation was probably simple self-promotion: he saw the advantages of his work being discussed in influential publications. Another motivation was to create a climate more congenial for new compositions, in particular to change the criteria by which his music was judged \u2013 to escape being typecast as a composer of Russian ballets. It probably did not matter greatly to him whether the words were actually written by himself or formulated by a critic using his ideas. But a critic could not always be trusted to preserve the purity of the composer's thought, any more than a conductor could be kept from developing the composer's wishes in accordance with his own creative will \u2013 hence the ups and downs in relationships between Stravinsky and individual critics and conductors.\n\nScott Messing describes the first half of the 1920s, with Ansermet, Edwin Evans, Roland-Manuel and Schloezer:\n\nA symbiotic relationship seems to have been reached between Stravinsky and several sympathetic critics; advocates could enjoy an intimacy with a musician of vast creative and intellectual gifts while he could rely on their conveying his thoughts and keeping his name in the vanguard of contemporary art.\n\nBy Stravinsky's time, it was rather the norm than the exception for composers to write about music for publication. For that reason, several composer-authors are mentioned in this chapter (Auric, Poulenc, Boulez). The professional critic is supposed to be detached from what he is writing about, though it is a moot point whether the detached critic is any more of a reality than the dispassionate historian. The major professional composer-turned-critic will be read for any light he sheds on his own music. If Stravinsky's aim as pianist and conductor was to establish a performance tradition free of the distortions allegedly caused by the interposing of the personalities of professional pianists and conductors, then his aim in writing was also to impose his own intellectual interpretation of his works upon readers who might otherwise fall victim to misunderstandings wrought by ill-informed or uncomprehending interpreters.\n\nStravinsky was not simply developing his musical language from one work to the next \u2013 he tried at several stages to show himself in a light which comprehensively misrepresented his thinking when he had composed earlier works. This is most obvious in the _Chronicle of my Life_ (1936) and _Poetics of Music_ (lectures delivered in 1939\u201340), where he sought to make out that his opinions in the mid 1930s coincided with his earlier ones. A critic's work is not made easier by propaganda barrages from interested parties.\n\n**Stravinsky and critics in Russia**\n\nThe first Russian critics to comment on Stravinsky's music in the press, such as Yuly Engel' (Joel Engel), Vyacheslav Karat\u00efgin and Nikolay Myaskovsky, had a thorough grounding in music. They knew the music of Stravinsky's teacher Rimsky-Korsakov and his Belyayev circle, and could divine the developing relationship between the compositions of the mentors and their disciple. They were also conscious of newer European styles propagated by the Evenings of Contemporary Music, where Stravinsky found further friends and associates. That group included many of the art connoisseurs (and Diaghilev associates) who as librettists, designers and musicians bridged Stravinsky's St Petersburg and Paris years. These critics felt musical currents from outside their homeland, and Karat\u00efgin in particular pinpointed what the young Stravinsky had learned from his French near-contemporaries, particularly Debussy. A frequent motive in early Russian Stravinsky reception was admiration for the 'invigorating' character of his music. The technical accomplishment of his orchestral conceptions was also praised ('extraordinary gorgeousness of orchestral hues', for example), though there were sometimes hints that this aspect acquired a disproportionate virtuosity of its own. While noting the historic importance of _The Rite of Spring_ ('a monument to the impressionist phase in Russian music'), Karat\u00efgin's extended review of its Russian premiere conducted by Koussevitzky in 1914 concludes that the work itself contains too many superficially clever tricks repeated excessively without further invention; the same applies to its harmonic asperity. As Stravinsky advanced beyond the principles of the Belyayev group, his membership in it lapsed, personal relationships with old friends in the wider Rimsky-Korsakov family soured, and their sympathy changed to antipathy. Artistic divergence turning into jealousy and suspicion is voiced by Leonid Sabaneyeff:\n\nStravinski's fame is based not only on his musical gifts . . . but chiefly on his virtuosity in making full use of musical conditions and taking full accounts of fashions and fads . . . It depends least of all on the magnitude of endowments, but more on the composer's technical and even 'commercial experience'.\n\nStravinsky is nevertheless 'the recognised master of minds and the supreme leader in the field of musical creative art, only Richard Strauss and Schoenberg, perhaps, sharing this hegemony with him'.\n\nOne of the most perceptive accounts of Stravinsky's music was written and published in Russia, even if it had to wait for over fifty years to be translated into English. Boris Asaf'yev's _Book about Stravinsky_ , published in 1929, is the work of the most influential music theorist and historian of Soviet Russia. It kept Russian readers abreast of the glittering career unfolding abroad and introduced works such as _Oedipus Rex_ and _Apollon musag\u00e8te_. To the non-Russian reader, Asaf'yev presents a Stravinsky who belongs, on the one hand and in certain compositions, to the tradition of Russian music exemplified by the Mighty Handful and their heirs and, on the other hand, in different pieces, to the line which includes Glinka, Varlamov, Dargom\u00efzhsky and Tchaikovsky. The discussion of _Mavra_ is particularly enlightening. The book is informed by the ideas that Asaf'yev was developing concurrently, which are set out in his _Muz\u00efkal'naya forma kak protsess_ (Musical form as a process), published in two volumes in 1930 and 1947.\n\nDuring much of the Soviet period, Stravinsky's music was little discussed in public and less heard in Russia. As one who had opted out of his country's historic destiny as the test bed for Marxism, and had advertised his strong disapproval of what took place there, any influence over his compatriots could only have been reckoned harmful by the increasingly controlling authorities. From about 1930 until Stalin's death in 1953, little that was worthy of the name criticism appeared there. During the Khrushchev era, the climate softened sufficiently for Stravinsky to visit his homeland in 1962, and for his music to be removed from the proscribed list. In itself, this did not lead to any great rush of performances \u2013 partly because in the minds of concert organisers a policy newly relaxed could always be tightened again, and, partly because his most recent work attracted hostility on stylistic grounds. The most interesting subsequent study of Stravinsky's work as a whole to be published in Russia was that of Mikhail Druskin; this appeared in 1974. Druskin was an eminent St Petersburg Conservatoire professor who in the 1920s and 30s had had his finger on the musical pulse, and his book helped restore Russians' links with their own past. Viktor Varunts has recently done invaluable work by assembling the Russian documents (criticism included) of Stravinsky's past.\n\n**Stravinsky's years in France**\n\nThe French musical community was, in general, well disposed towards Russian music in the period before the First World War. This benevolence was part of a wider sympathy that had political and financial as well as cultural resonances. Against the background of Parisians' introduction to works by Balakirev, Borodin, Musorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, beginning substantially in 1878 and climaxing in the seasons of concerts, ballet and opera that Diaghilev began offering in 1906, Stravinsky seemed a natural extension of the school. _The Firebird_ established this perception convincingly in 1910, and for some listeners the process continued through the following two ballets. But French perceptions did not necessarily coincide with Russian ones. As Schloezer wrote later,\n\nWhat [Westerners] look for first and foremost in Russian art is precisely that which is different from theirs; it is a certain 'barbaric' aspect \u2013 rough, untutored and, in a word, Asiatic. This Asiatic face of Russia, they think, is Russia's true face.\n\nWriting after _The Rite of Spring_ , Pierre Lalo pronounced Stravinsky 'the spiritual son of Rimsky-Korsakov, and the sole true heir of the generation of composers represented by the Five'. To Florent Schmitt, that score marked the 'climactic point not just of [Diaghilev's] Russian Season [of 1913] but also of Russian music' (and added ' \u2013 and perhaps of music _tout court_ '); much later Pierre Souvtchinsky, whose connections with Stravinsky lasted longer than anyone else's, beginning in Russia and continuing until the composer's death, observed that Stravinsky had raised Russian music to 'universal rank'. The rhythmic dislocations and the dissonance of _The Rite_ 's harmony were cited by early critics as defining its status as a landmark in music history. It was repeatedly said (by Schmitt, Lalo, Karat\u00efgin and Jean Marnold) that Stravinsky's harmony went further even than that of Richard Strauss. Writing in August 1913, Jacques Rivi\u00e8re made a bold claim for _The Rite_ : 'It marks a significant date not only in the history of dance and music but also in that of all the arts.' To him it represented a work 'which changes everything, which alters the very source of all our aesthetic judgments, and which must at once be counted among the very greatest'. In November he claimed historical primacy for it as the first masterpiece which could be set against those of Impressionism; as Adorno put it in 1948, 'ever since _Sacre_ [Stravinsky] had been proclaimed as the anti-pope to Impressionism'.\n\nIt is legitimate to wonder how much the first-night audience were able to concentrate on the music. For one thing, Nijinsky's choreography drew the attention. For another, the _scandale_ at the premiere made hearing the music at all difficult, and assessing it all but impossible \u2013 at least for those without access to a score. Describing what he called this 'Massacre du printemps', L\u00e9on Vallas observed that the usual Parisian ballet audience showed better judgement when using its eyes than when using its ears, and was inherently incapable of accepting such a challenging score.\n\nPierre Lalo observed that the music emerged in greatly altered perspective when Pierre Monteux conducted a concert performance in April 1914. Where the reviews from the theatre had emphasised primitivism, rhythmic complexity and harmonic audacity, Lalo could now hear that much of the score was gentle and not in the least barbarous or ugly. We cannot be certain, of course, that other things were equal: Lalo's ears may in the interim have become better attuned, or the orchestra's performance in the concert hall may have been significantly better. At any rate, Louis Laloy agreed with his colleague when he reported that the injustice done to _The Rite_ in spring 1913 had been made good by a triumph the following year.\n\nFault lines opened up rapidly. Senior English critics found Stravinsky's work problematic. For Ernest Newman, writing in 1921, _Petrushka_ appeared to be the summit of Stravinsky's work, with the talking-up of _The Rite of Spring_ by unnamed diehard supporters 'the most farcical imposture in the music of our time'. E. J. Dent, more sympathetic to contemporary music than Newman, was none the less unable to accept what he thought the 'silliness' contained in some of Stravinsky's works after _The Rite_ :\n\nPossibly their jokes are intelligible to people who have been brought up in a Russian nursery or have frequented certain social circles in Paris. If that is the point of view which the listener is expected to take, it seems rather inappropriate \u2013 to use no harsher word \u2013 to perform them in London.\n\nThe view that Stravinsky's music was a fashion accessory for some in-crowd was expressed by several critics. For some, the peak of Diaghilev's creative success, the moment when the ideal match of sound, picture and movement was achieved, coincided with the period of the three great Stravinsky ballets; thereafter, it was downhill for both impresario and composer. In 1926 Schloezer was lamenting the loss by the Ballets Russes of 'that spirit of invention, that free imagination, that taste for risk and adventure, that continual renunciation [of what they had done before]' which had characterised their work earlier.\n\nWhatever music Stravinsky was writing, he came to hold an influential position among the younger generation of French composers. Jacques Rivi\u00e8re noted this in 1920:\n\nThe extraordinary freedom, of which our young composers of today avail themselves with taste, talent and discretion, they owe . . . to Stravinsky, to that frail Samson who, making an easy gesture and behaving as if very drowsy, has moved back the walls of music's temple from all quarters.26\n\nThe young composers of Les Six, with Erik Satie as mascot and Jean Cocteau as herald, joined Stravinsky in rejecting Romanticism with its pre-dominantly German heritage and in seeking something new. They shared the light-hearted tone, sense of parody of established musical styles and small-scale operation of, for example, _Renard_ or _The Soldier's Tale_ \u2013 even before the notion of 'neoclassicism' shortened the distance between Stravinsky and these admirers.\n\nCertain of Stravinsky's works found readier press championship from these younger French composers than among professional critics. Some of Les Six spoke out vociferously in support of works of the late 1910s and early 1920s. _Pulcinella_ played an important role in this development, as Paul Collaer pointed out:\n\nIt is not surprising that it should have been _Pulcinella_ which allowed Stravinsky's influence to hold sway over the younger generations. The specific character of _The Rite_ or _Les Noces_ did not permit any 'follow-up'. The universality of _Pulcinella_ 's language allowed it to be assimilated by other composers. _Pulcinella_ lent impetus to a large part of young French music.\n\nTo Schaeffner, on the other hand, 'the young musicians attached an importance to _Pulcinella_ which overstated that which the ballet actually had in Stravinsky's art'; perhaps the composer himself was guilty of this error (see the discussion of 'neoclassicism' below).\n\nFrancis Poulenc and Georges Auric lavished praise in particular on _Mavra_ , the work most beloved by its composer and least understood by people outside his immediate entourage. Auric wrote of:\n\na work that, after Satie, bearing the precious imprint of the young music of France, conveys to our hearts and minds its unforgettable pages, bound together like a bouquet whose fragrance will grow from day to day, far from all scholastic prejudice, esthetic argument, false bravado, or the cant of base disciples.\n\nJean Cocteau expressed part of Stravinsky's problem at this stage:\n\nWhat could be more admirable than the spectacle of this hard man being begged by an amorous public to be brutal to them and deal still more blows \u2013 and then offering them lace. So graceful a gift perplexes them. They understood the blows better.\n\nThis remark demonstrates how the generality of French opinion lost enthusiasm for Stravinsky once his music had parted company with their ideas of what was 'Russian'.\n\n'Neoclassicism' was a central term in musicography of the interwar period, and Scott Messing has recounted the origins and development of the term. While its use did not originate in descriptions of Stravinsky's works, it became indissolubly associated with them, and they to be viewed as classic representatives of the phenomenon. It was regarded as embodying Latin cultural values (especially French and Italian) in opposition to Teutonic culture.\n\nThe first to apply the term to Stravinsky was Boris de Schloezer in 1923, though in reviewing _The Rite_ in 1914 Karat\u00efgin had discerned 'a gravitation towards classical clarity and elegance', a striving for simplicity in opposition to the previous dominant trend of impressionism. In his article of 1923 Schloezer observed of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ that:\n\nThis genial work is only a system of sounds, which follow one another and group themselves according to purely musical affinities; the thought of the artist places itself only in the musical plan without ever setting foot in the domain of psychology. Emotions, feelings, desires, aspirations \u2013 this is the terrain from which he has pushed his work. The art of Stravinsky is nevertheless strongly expressive; he moves us profoundly and his perception is never formularized; but there is one specific emotion, a musical emotion. This art does not pursue feeling or emotion; but it attains grace infallibly by its force and by its perfection.\n\nSchloezer also expounded what was becoming the standard view \u2013 that Stravinsky was in most respects the antithesis of such 'German' composers as Schoenberg, whose music continued within a framework laid down by Wagner.\n\nArthur Louri\u00e9 was from 1924 to 1931 'one of the two or three most important associates in Stravinsky's life'. He wrote a number of articles that closely reflect the composer's opinions by anticipating ideas that Stravinsky was to express in _Chronicle of my Life_ or _Poetics of Music_. In _Neogothic and Neoclassic_ Louri\u00e9 asserted that in 'the esthetic approach of artists . . . neoromantic emotionalism is giving way to classical intellectualism'. Neogothic is equivalent to neoromantic, the present-day continuation of which is represented by Expressionism, identified with Schoenberg. 'To make a generalization, one may locate the contemporary musical camps as to their relative positions in the following way: at the extreme left, the expressionists; at the extreme right, the neoclassicists; with the adherents of impressionism in the center.'\n\nStravinsky frequently uttered words with connotations of the right wing in politics (order, discipline) and often gave vent to his detestation of Bolshevism, an extreme form of left-wing politics. This was coupled with a claim to detest modernism in art. While such attitudes resonated favourably in influential quarters during the 1920s and 1930s, by the end of the 1940s they were increasingly a liability, as a new generation of European artistic modernists influenced by the political left occupied the musical stage.\n\nTo Louri\u00e9 also fell the honour of introducing the Stravinskian idea of the _forme-type_ 'which results from primary general conceptions'; the idea reappears in Schloezer, who refers to a series of _oeuvres-types_ beginning with _The Soldier's Tale_.37 This is linked with the notion that classical means typical. In 1928, as if on Stravinsky's behalf, Louri\u00e9 set aside any idea that music could be a surrogate for religion, or that any part of its purpose involved sexual arousal.\n\nTwo works have contended for the position of the first Stravinskian demonstration of 'neoclassicism': _Pulcinella_ and the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_. Whatever the experimental gains made through the ballet, it is the _Symphonies_ which have the stronger claim as the earliest convincing demonstration of radical thought. The composer himself, however, in hindsight, wrote about the role of _Pulcinella_ in his creative evolution:\n\n_Pulcinella_ was my discovery of the past, the epiphany through which the whole of my late work became possible. It was a backward look, of course \u2013 the first of many love affairs in that direction \u2013 but it was a look in the mirror, too.\n\nA related, though different, view of _Pulcinella_ was expressed by Boulez, reflecting post-Adornian opinions, in 1971:\n\nStravinsky's way of 'discovering' history or tradition was initially by means of anecdote. His handling of Pergolesi [Boulez refers to _Pulcinella_ ] suggests a chance visit to a museum by a wandering visitor, quite unprepared for what he finds . . . This chance visit whetted his appetite and he soon began to vary his itineraries, exploring other museums that aroused his curiosity but without any serious purpose.\n\nStravinsky would surely have agreed with Schloezer when he wrote in 1928:\n\nMusic has broken its last ties with reality; it remains no less disturbing, capable of upsetting the listener to the extent of tears; but this emotion is something quite particular, of absolute purity, unable to be reduced to our daily psychological experience, however profound or subtle it might be. And that is precisely the quality of the music of _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ which contains not even an ounce of the real\n\nAs early as 1913, in the context of _The Rite_ , Rivi\u00e8re had argued that 'Stravinsky upheld clarity, simplicity, precision, and above all he sought the elimination of all superfluous and gratuitous elements in his expression'. These sentiments accorded with the wish of Rivi\u00e8re, who was first and foremost a _litt\u00e9rateur_ , to see the same qualities \u2013 part of the later stock-intrade of 'neoclassicism', supposedly traditional in French art \u2013 restored in new literature: Stravinsky's music served as welcome additional support.\n\nRivi\u00e8re's successor as music critic of the _Nouvelle Revue fran\u00e7aise_ was Boris de Schloezer. As a consequence of his Russian birth, his residence in the Russian capitals between 1903 and 1918 and his Franco-Belgian education, Schloezer was in an almost uniquely favourable position to understand Stravinsky's compositions. He earned the composer's disapproval with his notice about _Mavra_ , of which he wrote: 'the subject is too thin, too fragile, and the Italo-Russian and black-American styles do not mix'. A monograph published in 1929 couples a portrayal of Stravinsky as a cultural phenomenon with some technical discussion of his music. It is unusual in aiming 'not to consider the development of these works in time but rather to examine the different aspects and characteristic features which this art offers us, as it presents itself to us as a whole today'. It is divided into chapters entitled 'The Russian and the European', 'Technique', 'The problem of style' and 'A classical art'. After an extensive exposition of the idea that Russian art is European art with additional features rather than some primitive antithesis of it, Schloezer argues that Stravinsky's art develops not progressively but by means of discontinuity, with the relationship between parameters moving in a zigzag pattern rather than a straight line. Schloezer singles out certain works, finding _Petrushka_ especially impressive, not least as the first work to challenge Wagnerian harmonic thought. _The Rite of Spring_ is important, but it is atypical of its composer. _Pulcinella_ , on the other hand, 'marks an important date in Stravinsky's production \u2013 I'd say in the history of modern music itself', as a turning-point in the composer's style; until then his role among composers of the younger generation had been to help in cleansing their palates (and, indeed, their palettes), but now 'the composer acquired a profound and fruitful [positive] influence upon them'. Schloezer's opinion of Stravinsky's latest work is evident from his book review:\n\nReading [Stravinsky's] _Chroniques_ is somewhat like listening to one of his recent compositions: clean, precise, dry . . . with emotion scattered here and there but in carefully rationed terms.\n\nFrom 1912 to 1938 Louis Laloy was a faithful champion and friend of the composer, while on occasion expressing reservations about specific works. The following passage from 1934 shows a critic eventually able to grasp Stravinsky's changes of direction:\n\nMonsieur Stravinsky attains in this work [ _Pers\u00e9phone_ ] a simplicity which can be called Classical although it does not recall \u2013 or rather because it does not in any way recall \u2013 the procedures consecrated before his time by the practice of the masters to achieve that effect. He has been striving towards it for a long time, restraining at all costs the dazzling ardour which so seduced us in _L'Oiseau de feu_ , _Petrouchka_ and _Le Sacre du printemps_. We were able to admire unreservedly certain works in this second manner, like _Le Rossignol_ and _Histoire du soldat_ , in which the reform had not yet been carried to its furthest point and so left him his freedom of movement, and his richness of colour. But other works betrayed a voluntary abstention and from time to time donned borrowed forms. He continued, however, deaf to our cries of alarm, digging in stony ground, plunging into the night, and he was certainly right, for he is now coming out of the tunnel into the light, into another land where his wishes are fulfilled.\n\nIn 1930 Paul Collaer, who had helped arrange Stravinsky's Belgian concerts, brought out a study generously illustrated with music examples. Some of the key Stravinskian terms and ideas of this period occur ('objectivisme','objectivit\u00e9 int\u00e9grale', and 'classicisme'), and the author incorporates an article by Ernest Ansermet on _The Soldier's Tale_. On the other hand, while _Oedipus Rex_ , the Octuor, and the Serenade are recognised as the equals of _Mavra_ (the most recent work considered at length),\n\n[t]he _Concerto for Piano_ . . . makes us think too much of Bach. The balance between the old elements and Stravinsky's personal contribution, so agreeable in _Mavra_ or _Oedipus Rex_ , is here disrupted in favour of Bach and to the detriment of Stravinsky.\n\nThe idea of the grand division between the musical cultures of Germany, on the one hand, and France and Russia on the other is also explored here; this was not incompatible, however, with learning from the music of J. S. Bach, for 'German' music meant principally that of Wagner and Strauss.\n\nAndr\u00e9 Schaeffner's book-length study of the composer published in 1931 considers Stravinsky's compositions in the context of contemporary French music. It was written with the objective of 'reproducing as exactly as possible the course to date of the life and work of Igor Stravinsky' at a time when 'a good many legends about Stravinsky are already spreading'. (Stravinsky himself complained that 'in numerous interviews I have given, my thoughts, my words, and even facts have often been disfigured to the extent of becoming absolutely unrecognizable'.) The writer acknowledges the 'spontaneous help' given to him by the composer, and uses the composer's words \u2013 but only when corroboration was available. In spite of the likelihood, given this framework, of promulgating the composer's views as they were at the beginning of the 1930s rather than at the specific periods when earlier works were composed, Schaeffner offers some interesting _aper\u00e7us_ \u2013 for instance, when he notes a peculiarly Parisian practice of surrounding events in the theatre with a huge _scandale_ (mentioning the premiere of Victor Hugo's play _Hernani_ in 1830). While noting Stravinsky's penchant for appropriating the styles of other composers, he concludes by pointing to the progress of 'one and the same art of which eventually, probably, the unity, manifold and wandering, will be underlined'. Stravinsky wrote of this book on 2 July 1931 to one of his publishers that 'Schaeffner's documentation is precise . . . '.\n\nStravinsky reception in European countries other than France was to a degree dependent on performances by the Ballets Russes. In countries that they visited \u2013 notably Britain, Spain and Italy \u2013 there was some awareness of Stravinsky's music; these tended to be countries where there was some political sympathy with Russia before 1914. Switzerland was, of course, exposed to some of Stravinsky's works during wartime, but this meant that, on the whole, the pieces written then became known in Switzerland before their larger-scale predecessors. The same was true of Germany and Austria. There is little evidence of performances before 1914, and still less, for obvious reasons, between 1914 and 1918. Even after the end of the war, it was some time before musical life was restored. And for such a period the shorter, small-scale compositions of Stravinsky's Swiss years were ideal. A decisive moment was the ISCM concert in Berlin on 19 November 1922, when Ansermet gave _The Rite of Spring_ its German premiere. Just as Paris and London took the young Stravinsky as an unmistakably Russian figure, so did Berlin \u2013 except that for Germans of that generation Russia meant a somewhat menacing nearby power still identified with aspects of barbarism. This is evident in Adolf Weissmann's reaction to the work:\n\nStravinsky is a product of his race and of our time . . . Stravinsky is certainly not a musician of culture. An element of barbarism still throbs within him and he does not shy away from declaring it openly. In that respect he is absolutely Russian.\n\nThis view is symptomatic of an attitude to Russian music still sometimes encountered among countrymen of Bach, Beethoven and Wagner, whose understandable devotion to their own tradition deafens them to their neighbours' music. A variant of this view, intensified by the strong emotions left by the humiliating Versailles treaty, was voiced by Alfred Heuss in 1923, after the Gewandhaus's _Rite_ premiere:\n\nShould Stravinsky, that Russian torturer, be performed in Germany? Even now, everyone does as he wants. We have gradually sunk so low that particularly musicians who set the tone approach what they perform thinking only about whether it will create a great sensation. Foxtrots, Negro songs [ _Niggersongs_ ], Russian peasant hideosities and other such things.\n\nThe first German book on Stravinsky appeared in 1931, by which time Klemperer, Scherchen and other conductors had introduced the composer's newer music to Weimar Republic audiences. The author was the otherwise unknown Herbert Fleischer, but the publisher was one that was important to the composer: Edition russe de musique, founded by Serge Koussevitzky, operating from its Berlin office as Russischer Musikverlag. The aim was to see Stravinsky 'as representative of the culture of his era, as the leader of a generation, as a person of our time'. Surprisingly, the book does not seem strongly influenced by the composer in major matters, though there is one good anecdote where Stravinsky claims that a bell-ringer's limited room for rhythmic or expressive manoeuvre in performance makes him the prototype of an ideal conductor. Among the book's noteworthy features are the detailed discussion, in descriptive vein, of a small number of large-scale works ( _Petrushka_ , _The Rite of Spring_ , _Les Noces_ , _Oedipus Rex_ and the _Symphony of Psalms_ ), accompanied by 194 music examples. It is also the first text which, while showing awareness of the composer's Russian and French background, considers his work in the light of musical developments in the German-speaking world. Thus Schoenberg, Hindemith and Weill are mentioned, and in one place also Mahler (the Third and Tenth Symphonies and _Das Lied von der Erde_ ). The most extended comparison (though it is not pursued far) is between Stravinsky and Schoenberg.\n\nWhat a difference between Schoenberg's pure, abstract constructivism and Stravinsky's most natural music-making using earth soaked in blood! Stravinsky proves that the _most stringent, almost mathematical construction and the most natural idea are not mutually exclusive opposites_ : at least, not for the creative artist of our time.\n\nDuring the pre-war Hitler years, it was not certain whether Stravinsky was to be regarded officially as a link in a sinister chain joining Bolshevik and Jewish conspiracies or as a right-thinking, safe composer. It is a sign of how much the German marketplace meant to Stravinsky that he gave Willy Strecker (of the music publisher Schott) so much evidence (through an exchange of letters) establishing that his music did not belong in a 'Degenerate Art' exhibition and that he was not of Semitic descent.\n\n**Stravinsky's American years**\n\nOne of the most influential critiques of Stravinsky's work is that of Theodor Adorno. His interpretation is generally understood to place Stravinsky and Schoenberg as the opposite poles in twentieth-century music. His _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ , first published in 1949 (and, as _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , in 1973) was, however, neither the first nor the last to propound this view. He was, in fact, teasing out in his own way a strand that had run through criticism for a long time. In 1914 Myaskovsky had discerned much in common between the harmonic thinking of Schoenberg and that of Stravinsky, with similar results achieved by composers proceeding by two different routes: Schoenberg from Wagner by way of Mahler, and Stravinsky from Rimsky-Korsakov via Skryabin and certain French composers. Schloezer, teeth gritted on behalf of the patriotic readership of the _Nouvelle Revue fran\u00e7aise_ , recognised that by 1924 European musical leadership was in the hands of those two composers. The point was repeated in Vienna (by Julius Korngold and Paul Stefan) when _The Rite of Spring_ arrived there in 1925; if this was those critics' first encounter with _The_ _Rite_ , we cannot be sure what they knew of developments in Schoenberg's aesthetics and language since 1913.\n\nAdorno's critique \u2013 just like all the rest, of course \u2013 is a product of its author's time and milieu. The present-day reader perceives that, for the Adorno of the 1940s, there was something inevitable about the Second Viennese School's work. For all Adorno's insights into Stravinsky, however, the Russo-French composer stood for something rather outside his range. The greater space is devoted to Schoenberg, who is considered first, thus prompting the reader to regard his work as somehow normative, whereas Stravinsky's is not.\n\nThis reading enjoyed a deep resonance among the western European avant garde in its heyday in the 1950s. Boulez, Stockhausen and their Darmstadt followers recognised a kindred spirit in the Viennese composer who composed with manifest rigour, disdaining popular success and therefore avoiding any danger of consequent commercialisation. Stravinsky's work, by contrast, represented the musical establishment, when they were looking for fresh excitement from newer sources. They sought a 'renewed modernism', as G. W. Hopkins called it (in the 'Boulez' entry in the _New Grove_), whereas Stravinsky was accepted at his own pre-war valuation as an anti-modernist.\n\nBoulez held certain works, especially _The Rite of Spring_ , in great respect; his 1953 essay 'Strawinsky demeure' is devoted to an examination of its rhythm, and elsewhere Boulez made clear that he most prized the older composer as an innovator in rhythm. As a conductor, Boulez included Stravinsky selectively among the twentieth-century composers he championed. Yet the ideals of Boulez as composer admitted only certain works:\n\nit is impossible to avoid asking questions with a degree of anguish about the Stravinsky 'case'. How can one explain the speeded-up exhaustion which shows itself, after _Les Noces_ , in a sclerosis in all spheres \u2013 in harmony and melody, where one ends up with a faked academicism, and even rhythmically, where one sees a painful atrophy appearing?\n\nIt was, then, the 'neoclassical' works that Boulez found impossible to accept, with their 'reworkings' of fragments drawn from previous music (see Boulez on _Pulcinella_ above). The later Boulez knew the works of Stravinsky's final period, when Schoenberg and Webern were added to the Russian composer's armoury.\n\nIn his final phase, Stravinsky presented perhaps his greatest challenge to listeners and critics. In the words of Massimo Mila, writing in 1956:\n\nbetween the wars Stravinsky was the personification of neo-classicism; in him it achieved a depth and a splendour not found in any of its other exponents. Now that the age of neo-classicism is over . . .\n\nStravinsky . . . has edged closer and closer to the opposite extreme of contemporary musical sensibility of which he was for so long the antithesis.\n\nA number of old friends and admirers failed to follow him in his embrace of twelve-note serialism, so great did the change of direction appear. Yet a few years later, and with the experience of works from _Threni_ to the _Requiem Canticles_ , the perspective had changed:\n\nIt becomes clearer every day that figures like Debussy, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Berg and Webern, far from being mutually exclusive, were needed in their different ways to forge what we see today as the new universal language of music in its various dimensions and its varied aspects. The seemingly inevitable division and segregation into watertight compartments of the different outlooks and movements which appeared as if they were leading twentieth-century music along different paths is at present disappearing; indeed, in retrospect the apparent antagonism seems like a figment of the imagination rather than concrete fact.\n\nStravinsky took a dim view of many critics who worked in his final homeland, considering Virgil Thomson and Olin Downes in particular as long-term foes. Nicolas Nabokov wrote on 13 October 1943 to ask Stravinsky to send him 'any particularly stupid reviews that you may happen to have, Downes's for example'. Stravinsky's resentment against some critics is evident in the following observation from 1962:\n\nAs for Brother Criticus, I do not wish to spoil my temper, and my book, by speaking of _him_ here.\n\nA footnote follows:\n\nThe open-door policy to new music in England in the last few years was made possible to a great extent by the accession of an intelligent younger generation in the musical press. In consequence, London has become a great capital of contemporary music. New York could and should be such a capital, too, for it boasts a greater number of fine instrumentalists than any city in the world. But New York must clean its journalistic house first.\n\nSome composers and performers make it a point of honour not to dispute with critics who they think have done them down. This attitude allows them to occupy higher ground than the lowly hacks. Posterity, they reckon, will see matters in their true light, and right the wrongs of the detestable present. This approach is taken by Ernst Krenek in writing to Stravinsky on 21 January 1962:\n\nNaturally, your angry refutation of [Albert] Goldberg's misstatements [in a review of _The Rake's Progress_ in the _Los Angeles Times_ ] is entirely justified, and so is your exasperation with his general attitude toward new music. Unfortunately, the vagueness of the subject matter and the standards prevailing in our society make it very difficult for the artist to take exception to unfair criticism because the critic can always claim that his judgment was based on subjective opinion (which Mr. Goldberg predictably has done immediately). That, again unfortunately, reduces the controversy in the public eye to a conflict of disadvantage because the artist is suspected of having an axe to grind, while the critic is basking in the light of the (however unwarranted) assumption that he is unbiased. Thus it is usually a thankless task for the artist to reply to his critics. Perhaps silent contempt is the best punishment, although one's patience frequently is taxed to the breaking point.\n\nStravinsky's reply of 7 February indicates that he too subscribed to the principle but offers an explanation for behaving differently in this case:\n\nYour letter gave me much satisfaction. I share your attitude towards the critics and if I did not keep silence this time it is because I wanted to help the young generation to act. I have nothing to lose with the Goldbergs of the world: too old for that.\n\nA feeling of moral superiority warms the heart, but a dash of controversy is better for the box office (not to mention the royalties).\n\nStravinsky's replies to several notices in the _Los Angeles Times_ (in 1962 and 1970) and the _New York Times_ (in 1965, 1970 and 1971) illustrate his intense interest in how his work was viewed. (Correspondence with M. D. Calvocoressi from London provides evidence of this interest much earlier, in 1913.) Stravinsky protested about various statements made by Albert Goldberg and Martin Bernheimer in the west-coast newspaper, and Harold Schonberg and Clive Barnes in the east-coast one. The virtuosity in using the English language suggests Robert Craft's hand, but the zest \u2013 flowing, presumably from the composer himself \u2013 was equal to that evident when squibs were launched earlier in Stravinsky's career.\n\nRecent critics have tended to find common ground where their predecessors saw only sharp antagonisms. Thus wrote Charles Rosen in 1975:\n\nNeoclassicism and serialism (or twelve-tone music) are often considered polar opposites. The enmity between Vienna and Paris, between the school of Schoenberg and the school of Stravinsky, is a fact of history . . . This opposition has long since broken down: not only have the two 'schools' drawn closer together, but their differences \u2013 even at the height of the crossfire in the late 1920s \u2013 no longer seem significant.\n\nA sense of the fundamentally Stravinskian quality of Stravinsky's music, of its basic unity in spite of the many evident differences, is now frequently expressed.\n\n**Conclusion**\n\nAudiences in the present like their picture of contemporary art to be limned in vivid colours, with heroes and villains embodying opposing parties. It is in the interest of composers too, as they forge ahead of colleagues less musically gifted (or simply less publicity-conscious) to claim their work as more new, radical and challenging than that of predecessors or coevals. Many of these claims will be couched in simple phrases that try to encapsulate much larger ideas. Milton Babbitt wrote in 1971 about what he considered a slick, meaningless catchphrase:\n\nTo Stravinsky, 'back to Bach' was just that, an alliteratively catchy slogan, which had no pertinence to professional activity or professional discourse. It was there, permitted to be concocted, like 'neoclassicism', to be talked about by those who could not and should not talk about the music, who didn't even bother to hear the music, but who, when they bandied about the catch words, were 'talking about Stravinsky'.\n\nOne of the functions critics perform, in the guise of sifting good from less good, is to present the views of one composer or another, one camp or another, to the musical community. They thereby help spread awareness of the issues involved. The work of a great composer will not lend itself to crude pigeon-holing, but will take a route that is unpredictable and (in the strict sense) peculiar because prompted by the composer's genius. Critics' attempts to connect specific works with specific models or assign them to particular traditions will be hampered by a great composer's idiosyncratic selection of his own methods and style. As Jonathan Cross has put it:\n\nWhereas Adorno tried to evaluate Stravinsky in an Austro-German context, for Taruskin the enormity of Stravinsky's achievement and, indeed, the very root of his modernity are a result of his willingness . . . to be an out-and-out Russian composer.\n\nThe attempt to identify conjunctions and affiliations is none the less valid, and whether composers like or dislike the results, the process is established and probably ineradicable. Though Stravinsky thought that critics gave him a hard time, he would have had a harder time without them.\n**13**\n\nLOUIS ANDRIESSEN AND JONATHAN CROSS\n\n**Composing with Stravinsky**\n\nThe true influence of Stravinsky has only just begun. ANDRIESSEN AND SCH\u00d6NBERGER , 1989\n\n**Stravinsky into the twenty-first century**\n\nJONATHAN CROSS\n\nThere was a time when the course of twentieth-century music was charted almost exclusively in terms of Austro-German modernism. While certain key non-Teutonic early-modern works were recognised for their revolutionary status \u2013 among them, Debussy's _Pr\u00e9lude \u00e0 l'apr\u00e8s-midi d'un faune_ , Ives's 'Concord' Sonata, Bart\u00f3k's _Miraculous Mandarin_ and, of course, Stravinsky's _The Rite of Spring_ \u2013 the development of the avant garde was constructed in general in relation to a line starting with Schoenberg and his two most famous pupils, and projecting itself through its Darmstadt manifestations (Boulez, Stockhausen) into the future. And this is precisely how Schoenberg himself imagined history would turn out when, on developing his twelve-note method of composition, he declared: 'Today I have discovered something that will ensure the supremacy of German music for the next hundred years.' In 1951, Pierre Boulez attempted to perpetuate Schoenberg's myth by proclaiming that 'since the discoveries of the Viennese School, all non-serial composers are _useless'_ (not a view he would necessarily hold today). Led in the 1940s by Theodor Adorno (most notably in _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ ) \u2013 a highly influential figure at Darmstadt \u2013 Schoenberg and Stravinsky were pitted against each other as polar opposites: Schoenberg the Progressive, Stravinsky the Regressive. It became fashionable to dismiss Stravinsky as a mere neoclassicist (as if Schoenberg, too, were not guilty of such a charge). It was only when, following the death of Schoenberg in 1951, Stravinsky himself turned towards serialism, that he was seen to have joined the 'mainstream' (Adorno expressed his 'pleasure' in 'Stravinsky's departure from the reactionary camp'). In fact, what happened to Stravinsky in the 1950s is an extraordinary and virtually unprecedented phenomenon: having inspired a younger generation of composers early in the century, he was later in life to be influenced himself by those younger generations. It seems Stravinsky was fascinated by the goings-on at Darmstadt and was present at \u2013 among other things \u2013 the premiere of Boulez's _Structures_ , as well as being deeply affected by Robert Craft's American performances of Webern.\n\nOf course, it requires greater effort to learn from one's juniors . . . But when you are seventy-five and your generation has overlapped with four younger ones, it behoves you not to decide in advance 'how far composers can go', but to try to discover whatever new thing it is makes the new generation new.\n\nStravinsky's own _Movements_ for piano and orchestra of 1958\u20139 is a clear response to the Webern-inspired experiments of his younger colleagues. Yet Stravinsky went on to develop his own brand of (not necessarily dodecaphonic) serialism that anticipated the re-evaluation of the twelve-note method that took place in the last few decades of the twentieth century. In this regard, the slightly earlier _Agon_ is fascinating. Cited by figures as diverse as Birtwistle, Boulez, Carter and Tavener, its influence on younger composers has proved to be as much a result of its formal structure, its acutely heard orchestration, and its balancing of diatonic, chromatic and twelve-note materials, as of its serial organisation _per se_.\n\nBut \u2013 to introduce a theme explored by Louis Andriessen in the conversation that follows \u2013 how is Stravinsky still a revolutionary figure for the twenty-first century? We can certainly say that Stravinsky's legacy to the whole of the twentieth century has been enormous. This has only gradually become clear as Stravinsky emerged from Schoenberg's dominant shadow, as the history of modernism has been rewritten to take account of a far wider network of influences. There have, of course, been composers who have directly imitated aspects of Stravinsky's musical language, from contemporaries such as Var\u00e8se and Antheil, through Poulenc, Orff and Copland (the 'Brooklyn' Stravinsky), to countless contemporary film composers (listen to John Williams's music for Steven Spielberg's _Jaws_ and you will hear _The Rite of Spring_ at almost every turn). But Stravinsky's influence has also been far more subtle and far-reaching than these examples might at first suggest.\n\nTake just one work: _The Rite_. It has certainly had its imitators. But the power of its rhythmic and metric innovations, its block structures and simultaneous layering of musical ideas, its phenomenal orchestration, its sheer elemental energy \u2013 all these radical features have ensured that _The Rite_ has cast a strong shadow over the entire century. Var\u00e8se's _Am\u00e9riques_ , Messiaen's _Turangal\u00eela-symphonie_ , Xenakis's _Metastasis_ , Carter's Double Concerto for piano and harpsichord (which Stravinsky himself described as a 'masterpiece'), and Birtwistle's _Earth Dances_ are all modelled in fascinating ways on aspects of _The Rite of Spring_.\n\nOther works by Stravinsky have proved to be equally influential. The unrelenting rhythmic energy of _Les Noces_ is, if anything, even more powerful than that of _The Rite_ , and certainly more sustained \u2013 a feature that was picked up and pushed to extremes in Antheil's extraordinary _Ballet m\u00e9canique_. And its ritualised concluding bells ring right across the twentieth century into the spiritual rituals of, for example, Arvo P\u00e4rt.\n\nIn purely structural terms, Stravinsky's most influential work has undoubtedly been the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_. Its aesthetic is described by Taruskin using the Russian word _drobnost_ ', which he defines as '\"splinteredness\"; the quality of being formally disunified, a sum-of-parts'. This can be related to the cut-and-paste techniques of film production. In the _Symphonies_ this manifests itself as a mosaic-like organisation whose consequences can be heard echoed in the 'episodic' organisation of music as diverse as Messiaen's _Cant\u00e9yodjay\u00e2_ and _Couleurs de la cit\u00e9 c\u00e9leste_ , Tippett's Piano Sonata no. 2 and his opera _King Priam_ , Stockhausen's _Momente_ , Andriessen's _De Staat_ , everywhere in Birtwistle and Xenakis, even \u2013 in places \u2013 in Ferneyhough. This is not to say that block structures are not found elsewhere in Stravinsky (they are certainly also clearly present in _Petrushka_ and _The Rite_ ), and indeed in the music of other composers such as Debussy (most notably in _Jeux_ ). But the _Symphonies_ is the boldest expression of _drobnost_ ': its confident anti-organic stance sets it in stark opposition to contemporary through-composed German music, and it remains \u2013 even almost a hundred years on \u2013 one of the freshest and most imaginative works of the twentieth century.\n\nOne of the defining features of Stravinsky's music that distinguishes it most clearly from other strands of modernism is its sense of ritual. It was to this dimension of his music, among other things, that Stravinsky was referring when he famously wrote in his _Autobiography_ that music is powerless to express anything at all. It is not that this music is without emotion: rather, it is concerned with an expression of communal, collective experiences; it is symbolic and stylised rather than representational; it taps into ancient, timeless ceremonies and acts of worship. This is variously evident in such stage works as _The Rite_ , _Oedipus Rex_ and _The Flood_ , and also in the almost Brechtian 'alienation' achieved in such works as _Renard_ , _The Soldier's Tale_ and _The Rake's Progress_. But it is evident in so many of his concert works too: the ritualised final chorale of the _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , the folk rituals of _Les Noces_ , the religious rituals of the _Symphony of Psalms_ and _Requiem Canticles_ , the instrument role-play of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_. While it is true that many playwrights were also exploring ritualised, non-narrative theatres at the same time, Stravinsky's brand of musical ritual has proved a fruitful model for composers as diverse as Berio and Reich, Maxwell Davies and Henze.\n\nFinally, Stravinsky has become increasingly important to us because of the ways in which he anticipates so many of the concerns of our postmodern age. The breaking down of the barriers between so-called 'high' and 'low' art by means of his free use of popular musical materials ( _Ragtime,_ the _Ebony Concerto_ , even aspects of the _Symphony in Three Movements_ ) pre-echoes the thinking of many of today's 'crossover' artists. The boundaries between 'classical', 'experimental', 'rock', 'pop' and 'jazz' have been infinitely stretched, as demonstrated by (in the Netherlands) Andriessen and his work with De Volharding, or (in the USA) Michael Gordon, or (in the UK) Steve Martland and Michael Nyman. And where would so many minimal and post-minimal composers be without Stravinsky (Reich, Adams, Torke, Fitkin, etc.)? Not only their attitudes to the materials that they use, not only the rhythmic vitality of their music, but their very sound-world is deeply indebted to Stravinsky. (Just compare the opening of Adams's frequently performed _Short Ride in a Fast Machine_ with the opening of _Petrushka._ ) Stravinsky was never a postmodernist; he was 'essentially a pre-postmodern composer'. But by placing past music and contemporary popular musics in new contexts he enabled us to see them in new ways, he suggested rich compositional possibilities. The past becomes a part of the present. This is why _The Rake's Progress_ is such an important work, because it can be understood on so many different levels, from pastiche Mozart to a powerful critique of the whole of operatic history. If Schoenberg's legacy to the century was his method, then Stravinsky's legacy was his attitude.\n\nArnold Schoenberg dominated the first half of the twentieth century. It could be said that John Cage dominated the second half. But increasingly it is being acknowledged that, in so many different ways, the twentieth century was Stravinsky's century. And it is only in recent decades that composers of so many persuasions have felt able wholeheartedly to acknowledge their indebtedness to Stravinsky. While it might be argued that the possibilities suggested by serialism and aleatoricism have been exhausted, composers today are still freely working with the ideas and even the materials bestowed by Stravinsky. At the beginning of a new century, it will be fascinating to see how far Andriessen's assertion holds up: the true influence of Stravinsky has only just begun.\n\n**Composing with Stravinsky**\n\nLOUIS ANDRIESSEN IN CONVERSATION WITH JONATHAN CROSS\n\n**Jonathan Cross** _You have often said that you believe the music of Stravinsky to be important for the twenty-first century as well as for the twentieth. Further, you wrote in your book that the 'true influence of Stravinsky keeps_ _beginning all over again'._ _Do you still stand by these statements? In what ways do you think they are still true today?_\n\n**Louis Andriessen** There was a great deal of wishful thinking in those statements! I hope that they're still true and I don't have any strong reason to feel that the situation has changed very much. In the first place, it has to do not with Stravinsky's attitude to musical material, which is a philosophical subject, but more with the social element in his music, its social character. By this I mean Stravinsky's idea of the anti-hierarchical nature of musical sources and materials. I think that was Stravinsky's most important step forward compared with what Schoenberg did, who had tried to democratise only the pitches. It looks as if I might be right: with the advent of what is called postmodernism, modernism (complex chromatic music) seems no longer to be the future of music but more like the final dead-end of German Romanticism.\n\nI already had my doubts about it in the late 1950s/early 1960s, and many more people are on my side now. I do think that young composers \u2013 America is a good example \u2013 have turned away from what they call Eurocentric thinking. They have started to understand that there are all kinds of other musics that can be very important to study and to use in the development of their musical languages. Of course, there is also a neo-colonial side to American culture which I hate, which they call 'world music'. That is all disgusting.\n\n**JC** _This is not democratic at all, then?_\n\n**LA** On the contrary. It is a kind of capitalist colonialism. But there is this other side. Steve Reich is probably an elegant example. Precedents for such thinking can be found in Stravinsky's music, even in the early works. That is what I meant by Stravinsky's influence.\n\n**JC** _Do you think, in that case, that Schoenberg and Webern have had their day, that their influence has run its course?_\n\n**LA** Well, the problem is that history is not one line. But I think it's true: certainly for Schoenberg it's true. But since Schoenberg created late Webern, we get into difficulty, because late Webern has something to do with a non-developmental form which is very traditional and classical, not Romantic at all, and which is much closer to Josquin. From there we get back to Stravinsky. And probably also Morton Feldman, whom I regard as a very important composer. So with geniuses like Anton Webern \u2013 and Schoenberg \u2013 it's very difficult to pin them down historically. And it's the same when you talk more generally about serialism. Of course, there is an enormous amount of very stupid and muddy music written in the style, but there are also the masterpieces of Stockhausen and Boulez, who are very important composers. They were historically necessary. On the other hand, serial thinking itself, when you abstract it from the acute twelve-note works, is extremely strong, a very important way out of all the silly optimistic music which was written before and after the Second World War. All those Sinfoniettas for String Orchestra, all the Carl Orff stuff, and all that second-hand music.\n\n**JC** _So, serial thought remains important, even though the influence of Schoenberg himself has declined?_\n\n**LA** The funny thing is that when Boulez and Stockhausen did what they did in the late 1940s, they didn't think for one minute that it had anything to do with German Romanticism. They had no idea. Stockhausen worked in studios. He was busy finding completely new sounds and (he thought) new musical ideas. I remember a conference on electronic music in Venice in 1958. Nono was there, Berio, Germans also: I met a lot of impressive people. And then Holland showed up with a little octatonic, optimistic piece for violin and electronics by Henk Badings. The music really offended people like Nono who believed you should not combine old musical material with new media. The new medium meant, for them, new musical thinking.\n\n**JC** _Boulez, it seems to me, is a very interesting figure because, on the one hand, we immediately think of him as part of that Darmstadt generation of the late 1940s who reinterpreted Webern, but, on the other hand, he's a very Stravinskian composer._\n\n**LA** Yes, he would admit that.\n\n**JC** _Not just as a result of his famous analysis of_ The Rite of Spring _but because of the kind of compositional attitude he has: an interest in ritual, in building large structures out of relatively limited material, constantly reviewing ideas rather than their being developed in a Schoenbergian sense._\n\n**LA** He's not a Romantic or an Expressionist composer at all. In the best French tradition, he's an _artisanat_ composer. He would not have read Maritain much, but on the philosophical level he's much more a Stravinskian than a Schoenbergian. In fact, he was one of the first to say that Schoenberg was dead.\n\n**JC** _Can you remember the first piece of Stravinsky you ever heard?_\n\n**LA** No! What I remember very strongly were the 78 rpm records we had of _The Rite of Spring_. It was a very good recording (I think it was Telefunken: Eduard van Beinem with the Concertgebouw Orchestra) which was one of the few records we had in the house in the early 1950s. We also played a lot of piano for four hands as a family. I suppose I must have heard other Stravinsky before that, but this is my strongest, longest love. There was a score in the house too, though not a piano four hands version.\n\n**JC** _So was Stravinsky \u2013 and_ The Rite _in particular \u2013 important to your father as a composer?_\n\n**LA** In 1950 \u2013 I was ten years old then \u2013 we moved from Utrecht to Den Haag. I remember the score of _Oedipus Rex_ was in the house, and the _Symphony of Psalms_. There was also a recording of the _Symphony of Psalms_. My father always talked of it with much admiration. His only criticism was that he found the choral writing too stiff, too square. It was a recurrent theme of his: as a Catholic composer, he was deeply rooted in brilliant choral writing (all those Masses in the French or Italian style).\n\n**JC** _You have also said of_ The Rite _that it is a key work for the twenty-first century. Clearly it was an influential work in its day and you can easily see the shadow that_ The Rite _has cast on the twentieth century. But what leads you to say that even for the twenty-first century it's a revolutionary work?_\n\n**LA** I think it still makes sense to say this. What we and the next age have to learn from _The Rite_ is not, in the first place, the development of rhythm, but the magical combination of diatonic melodic material and chromatic harmonic material. That's a key point that Stravinsky never talked about. It's very clear. It's the crux of the piece, much more than the 'oompa-oompa-oompa'. I think the strange combination of very simple melodies with very refined harmony is still a secret. We all try to find how it works and nobody will ever find the answer: that's the magic of _The Rite_ , I suppose. I think that's the idea of crossing the borders of highbrow and lowbrow music.\n\n**JC** _In what way, precisely \u2013 the high and the low working together?_\n\n**LA** Well, the melodies are just little pop songs, basically! But the harmonies are linked much more closely to what happened at that time in the most advanced music of Skryabin, Ravel \u2013 that is, the people he was really influenced by.\n\n**JC** _And Rimsky-Korsakov, of course._\n\n**LA** Yes. Always Rimsky.\n\n**JC** _I find that very interesting. We know all those pieces from the 1920s and 1930s that imitate the most obvious rhythmic features of Stravinsky (you mentioned Carl Orff). One tires of it so quickly. But what is so exciting to me about a work like_ Les Noces _is precisely that its harmonic complexity is virtually impossible to imitate._\n\n**LA** And the combination [of harmony and rhythm]. The harmonies were already used in part by Ravel and Debussy. But then it's still only the harmonies. Stravinsky seems to be different.\n\n**JC** _In what sense have you worked consciously with Stravinsky? What have you as a composer drawn from Stravinsky?_\n\n**LA** I would probably now say different things from what I said in _The Apollonian Clockwork_. Basically, a lot of that book is about what I did. It's my homage to composing. But the way I think of it now is that what I call an 'attitude towards material' is by far the most important thing. I also find this same attitude in other arts and I make connections with them. Nabokov is a very good example in literature; Picasso in the visual arts. We give some examples of composers in the book. It has to do with what I call alienation. You start at a distance. Distance is necessary to protect your vulnerability as a composer. Irony has to do with protecting your sentiments. And then you are freed for composing. I don't mean irony in the sense of saying the opposite of what you mean. It is a very profound form of philosophy in art. I discovered in recent years that the word irony was used by German philosophers around the time of Hegel. Schlegel spoke of dramatic irony. This was the start of Romanticism. This early Romantic period is also very interesting in music, I think: Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Chopin are very important. Later there is no irony; they fall into sentimentality. There's a big difference.\n\n**JC** _Do you think that was what Stravinsky was getting at in his much misquoted and misunderstood statement about music being powerless to express anything at all? Some take this simply as a credo of art for art's sake, but could it in fact have something to do with this ironic distancing?_\n\n**LA** I think ultimately it has to do with his love for early or non-Romantic music. You should realise that, at that time, Romantic music was all you heard. That was musical life in Europe. There was no new practice, no Baroque practice, there was no contemporary music. That was what Stravinsky criticised: an angry young man railing against this bourgeois practice. However, it is a little bit more precise and profound than that: you see in his Harvard lectures that he must have discussed the whole _artisanat_ philosophy with Roland-Manuel . . .\n\n**JC** _Yes. But it is a problem that much of_ Poetics of Music _wasn't actually written by Stravinsky._\n\n**LA** But they [Stravinsky, Alexis Roland-Manuel and Pierre Souvtchinsky] must have had discussions. Stravinsky said what he wanted to say.\n\n**JC** _And he kept on saying it, and it became more and more rigidified. You are very engaged politically as a musician, not just in the music you write but in the way you wish your music to be understood, the context within which it is to be played. How do you relate to that aspect of Stravinsky who \u2013 at least on the surface \u2013 seemed totally disengaged politically? Is that problematic for you?_\n\n**LA** No. The person has very little to do with his work. As I said in the heat of political struggle in the 1960s and 70s, a good communist is not necessarily a good composer, and vice versa. Stravinsky's music crosses social and geographical borders. Stravinsky opposed the class-based society in Europe of the early twentieth century.\n\n**JC** _Could we talk a little more about the specifics of Stravinsky's music? The Stravinsky 'sound' is something I hear in your music: an acute attention to the way in which voices move, how they're placed, and so on . . ._\n\n**LA** It certainly has something to do with voice leading. There's what we call in the book the 'unison as utopia'. There's a kind of voice leading which is completely 'wrong' from one voice to another, all the time. And this 'wrongness' in his music after 1920 he stole from Bach. In the book we talk about playing the 'Brandenburg' Concertos for four hands \u2013 there you see how Bach has very funny voice leading all the time. In Stravinsky it's completely different: in every bar there's one note out of place, completely wrong. But it sounds _almost_ right; that's so funny. That's very typical for Stravinsky, I think. His instrumentation is ultimately of lesser importance. And there are a lot of other things, like his harmonic rhythm, which is very strange.\n\nI gave a lesson today to a young composer who works with Ligeti-like development of little musical 'quarks'. Today I criticised the fact that he likes to write in 4/4; he changes the tempo, but 4/4 is easy for him to do. And then I told him of the possibility of a dialectical situation with the bass seeming to be rhythmical but which is sometimes on and sometimes off the beat. Stravinsky achieves this with time-signature changes. Why does he do that? The melody is extremely important for him but he makes the bass sometimes syncopated, sometimes not. It becomes very light: that's what he wants. You show this to your pupils to make them looser or more flexible. But they should not imitate.\n\n**JC** _What fascinates me is Stravinsky's theatre and the different kinds of theatres he's built. We've talked about alienation, but ritual is also important and, it seems to me, it's an important part of what you do in your theatre pieces too. Is the Stravinskian idea of theatre something you keep coming back to?_\n\n**LA** I think theatre is absolutely essential. Diaghilev must have had an incredible influence on Stravinsky. Boulez once asked what would have happened had Stravinsky and Brecht worked together.\n\n**JC** _But Brecht always wanted his audience to remain disengaged from the action, which I'm not convinced Stravinsky did._\n\n**LA** But that is later, much later. In the 1920s I think what he wanted to do with _Oedipus Rex_ was very Brechtian. Brecht was one of the first to study non-Western theatre: he knew everything about Noh theatre; he studied Chinese things. It's the same attitude, I think.\n\n**JC** _Do you think about Brecht when you're making your theatre pieces?_\n\n**LA** I had a lot of experience working for a theatre group in the 1970s \u2013 _Baal_ it was called, which is also the title of Brecht's first play. They were completely crazy! The little operas we did (with a lot of spoken dialogue) made me the theatre man I became. Before that I had already done film and theatre music, I worked with dance people; I had even done puppet theatre music by the time I was fifteen. Yes, I feel very much that Brecht is there.\n\n**JC** _What about film? This was a medium Stravinsky didn't really work in at all. One would imagine that the kind of music he wrote would have worked very well with film._\n\n**LA** At that time, film was only a commercial attraction. It had nothing really to do with any art form at all, with a few exceptions. There was some avant-garde film-making in the 1920s in Europe, and of course there was Bu\u02dcnuel. Nobody knew this work in the 20s. Hollywood meant only third-rate art . . . and money. Sometimes Stravinsky tried it, and he got a commission [for _Jane Eyre_ , with Orson Welles as Rochester]. Of course, they thought it crazy music. They couldn't use it and they asked somebody else [Bernard Herrmann]. But they paid him. Nowadays, with video, it's different. You can do crazy things. But in Stravinsky's time the medium was not interesting; theatre was much more advanced.\n\n**JC** _How do you view the current situation of new music in the Netherlands, both through your own pupils and other composers around you? It's often said anecdotally that Stravinsky has always been very important for post-Second World War Dutch composers. Would you say this is still true?_\n\n**LA** I still believe it's true. I suppose the fact that we were liberated by Canadians and Americans means that the influence of American culture in general \u2013 both positively and negatively \u2013 has been much stronger in Holland than even in England and certainly than in Germany and France. I think the influence of American film culture and American jazz was extremely strong. That's why the musical scene here since the 1960s has been different \u2013 in general more Stravinsky- or Var\u00e8seoriented . . . American-oriented, I would say. Stravinsky could almost have been considered an American composer by then.\n\nPerhaps it's also because we don't have mountains: the land is flat, the light is sharp. People say it has to do with Calvinism. There's a lot of very strong reformed Protestantism in Holland and many composers like to be very rigid . . . like Mondrian, as an example in art. But I think it's amazing how many things are possible here, and I think this is why Stravinsky is supposedly very important.\n\nIt has also to do with jazz music, improvisational music, which is very strong in Holland. This is also close to American culture. Thinking of Schoenberg or Webern and jazz is totally impossible. The big advantage [of the presence of strong jazz departments in all the major Dutch conservatoires] for what I'm doing, and for the future, is the emancipation of so-called lowbrow instruments like guitar or saxophone or percussion. Nowadays, Dutch saxophone players can play everything. They can improvise fantastically, they play all the bebop changes; but they can also play all my music. I need that kind of saxophone player, not the French-style elegance. The guitar's the same. When I wrote the very difficult bass guitar part in _De Staat_ in 1976 there was one brilliant guy who could do a reasonably good job. Nowadays several players can do it.\n\nBut there is this Dutch sound. Cornelis de Bondt, for instance, is very Dutch: his is a really new approach to Stravinsky. Totally new.\n\n**JC** _You've spent a fair amount of time in America where your music is very popular. What do you see there? Is it possible to generalise about what young composers in America are doing now?_\n\n**LA** In general, you should not generalise.\n\n**JC** _But are there certain trends you observe?_\n\n**LA** I think that, in general, composers in America are less historically aware; in Europe we have much more the feeling that there is this profound support from history. I suppose Americans like me because my music shows both aspects. It's very Americanised \u2013 at least my music from the 1970s and early 80s is.\n\nIn university teaching of composition in America there were some fortresses of modernism \u2013 let's say Columbia, Yale, Princeton. But those things have changed completely now. In almost all good universities there are teachers who know everything about, say, Charlie Parker.\n\n**JC** _How do you see other European countries . . . Germany? Britain?_\n\n**LA** I think in other European countries contemporary music often consists only of playing complex twelve-note stuff, and only fifty well-dressed bourgeois people come to hear it. It's always the same people: a totally closed circle. In Holland, and specifically in Amsterdam, it's different. One of my German composer friends, Heiner Goebbels, has the same attitude as me: he writes a kind of music that is quite intelligent and sharp but not _too_ much like Brian Ferneyhough. Berlin seems to be very active and we hope that there will be some crossovers there.\n\nBritain I cannot judge. I suppose it's somewhat closer to Holland than it is to France and Germany. However, the diversity in England is also very clear. You have your elegant [George] Benjamin kind of composers. And the Finnissy kind. There is not one line: nowadays that's probably true only for very small countries. And then I think there's a kind of optimistic Stravinskian writing which I find also in some Irish composers such as Gerald Barry. Colin Matthews, Julian Anderson I like, many neo-Stravinskian composers. There are several thirty-fiveyear-olds like them. And don't underestimate a composer like Harry Birtwistle. He's not simply a Schoenbergian or a Stravinskian (though he's more Stravinskian than Schoenbergian). He's a very good composer.\n\n**JC** _What are you working on at the moment?_\n\n**LA** I finished my second opera with Peter Greenaway [ _Writing to Vermeer_ , 1999], which was a completely different kind of music for me. Ravel was the person I thought of when I wrote the music. But that's not so far away from Stravinsky. Now what I'm very interested in is the combination of sound and image, so I work a lot with visual artists. Of course, I have been incredibly spoilt with Greenaway: he's a genius. Now I work with another film maker in New York, Hal Hartley, whom I like very much. We did one little video [ _The New Math(s)_ , 2001], and we will do another one I hope. And we will probably do a live theatre work in 2003. But at the moment I'm writing a kind of double concerto.\n\n**JC** _Are you aware, even now, of the shadow of Stravinsky falling over you when you're sitting at your desk composing?_\n\n**LA** Well, above my grand piano, on the right-hand side is a little picture of my wife, and on the left-hand side is the incredible picture of Balanchine looking over Stravinsky's shoulder. It's an amazing photo.\n\nI don't know. He's like a friend. My father is, of course, closer just because he was my father. [ _Pointing to his bookcases_ ] This is all the Stravinsky literature for the book \u2013 there's even languages I cannot read like Finnish and Russian. There are all the scores and the piano scores. I discussed with Craft the possibility of writing an orchestral suite from _The Rake's Progress_ , but I think I will not do it, because I need trombones. When you take out the voices you need some more instruments, and I find that too difficult because there are no trombones in the original orchestra. I can't do it. I'm probably too puritanical to do that.\n**14**\n\nRICHARD TARUSKIN\n\n**Stravinsky and us**\n\nWhen, at the dawn of the third millennium, we use the word 'Stravinsky', we no longer merely name a person. We mean a collection of ideas \u2013 ideas embodied in, or rather construed out of, a certain body of highly valued musical and literary texts that acquired enormous authority in twentieth-century musical culture. That authority and its consequences are what have been preoccupying my thoughts about Stravinsky since completing _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , which, though published in 1996, was not as recent a study as it seemed. It had spent almost seven years in press, during which time my thinking about the bundle of notions called 'Stravinsky' underwent considerable change.\n\nIn keeping with the scholarly tradition in which I was trained, my book was almost wholly concerned with the production of those texts, and with determining their place within the historical context contemporaneous with them. My thinking since has been more concerned with the relationship between those texts, and the ideas construed from them, and the contexts in which they have existed since the time of their production, up to their present contexts, including this book. Just as in _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ I considered the reciprocal manner in which Stravinsky received influences from his surroundings and influenced those surroundings in turn, so I continue to be interested in that reciprocity of influence in the period since his death.\n\nAs I hope to demonstrate, Stravinskian ideas have been so influential that one could almost say that twentieth-century European and Euro-American musical culture has been created in the image of Stravinsky. But at the same time, as Stravinsky reminded us over and over again, an influence is (or can be) something we choose to submit to. And we can be very choosy indeed about what we value and make our own in what is offered to us. So one could say with equal justice that we have created Stravinsky in our image. This reciprocity is what I have taken for my theme: the mutually defining relationship, Stravinsky and us.\n\nThis text is a speech, not a book chapter, although in its slightly modified printed form it has been provided with references. It was commissioned by Nicholas Kenyon for the BBC and delivered at the Royal College of Music in August 1996 as the inaugural BBC Proms Lecture. Thereafter it served for five years as its author's lecture-platform Bucephalus, at venues ranging from The Hague to Melbourne. Its last oral delivery took place as the Faculty Research Lecture at the University of California at Berkeley in April 2001. I am grateful to my many audiences for points raised at question time, often leading to improvements.\n\nThe meanings and values arising out of that relationship fundamentally structured our beliefs and our behaviour as twentieth-century musicians, music lovers and human beings. Some of them, I believe, are overdue for re-examination now that we have become inhabitants of the twenty-first century.\n\nIn 1966, which turned out to be the last year of Igor Stravinsky's active creative life, his musical and literary assistant Robert Craft summed up the composer's position in the history of twentieth-century music by observing that 'he is one of the representative spokesmen of 1966 as he was of '06, '16, '26, and so on'. Indeed he was far more than that. By 1966 he did not merely represent the history of twentieth-century music; he practically constituted it. The story of his career had been generalised into the story of twentieth-century music. But in the process of that generalisation it had been turned into a myth \u2013 or rather, into a congeries of myths, some of them of Stravinsky's own devising, others myths to which he had willingly submitted, still others myths to which his work had been assimilated without his direct participation.\n\nThe first work of Stravinsky's to achieve mythical status was, of course, _The Rite of Spring_ , the ballet first performed under the title _Le Sacre du printemps_. Stravinsky conceived the work (as 'The Great Sacrifice') in 1910; began composing it in 1911; endured the riotous fiasco of the May 1913 premiere; experienced through it, shortly before his thirty-second birthday the next year, the triumph of his career ('such as _composers_ rarely enjoy', as he bragged in old age); and spent the rest of his long life telling lies about it.\n\nIn 1920 he told a reporter that the ballet had been originally conceived as a piece of pure, plotless instrumental music ('une oeuvre architectonique et non anecdotique'). In 1931 he told his first authorised biographer that the opening bassoon melody was the only quoted folk song in the score. In 1960 he asserted through Craft that the work was wholly without tradition, the product of intuition alone. 'I heard and I wrote what I heard', he declared. 'I am the vessel through which _Le Sacre_ passed.' These allegations and famous words have long since passed into the enduring folklore of twentieth-century music.\n\nNow we know that the ballet's scenario is a highly detailed and (but for the culminating human sacrifice) an ethnographically accurate pair of 'Scenes of Pagan Russia', as the ballet's oft-suppressed subtitle proclaims. It was planned in painstaking detail, by the composer in collaboration with the painter and archaeologist Nicholas Roerich, before a note was written. The score contains nine identifiable folk songs, all of them selected with the same eye towards ethnographic authenticity as governed the assembling of the scenario. And finally, in its technique of composition, the music magnificently embodied and extended a very specific immediate and local tradition \u2013 a repertoire of harmonic devices based on an 'artificial' scale of alternating whole tones and semitones, which Stravinsky's teacher Rimsky-Korsakov had educed from the music of Liszt and passed along to all his pupils.\n\nSo the myth of _The Rite of Spring_ incorporated at least two big truths at variance with the ascertainable facts: first, that the music was 'pure', abstract, unbeholden to any specific time and place for its inspiration; and second, that it represented a violent stylistic rupture with the past, when all the while it was conceived as an exuberantly maximalistic celebration of two pasts \u2013 the remote past of its subject and the more recent past of its style.\n\nAnd yet myths are not merely lies. They are explanatory fictions, higher truths \u2013 enabling or empowering narratives that take us _a realibus ad realiora_ , 'from the real to the more real', to quote Vyacheslav Ivanov, the symbolist poet who was counting on the artists of the early twentieth century, and the musicians above all, to usher in a new mythological age. Stravinsky gave tacit acknowledgement of Ivanov's idea when, in conversation with Robert Craft, he tried to improve upon his famous fighting words of the 1930s \u2013 that music 'is incapable of _expressing_ anything at all' \u2013 by remarking that 'music is supra-personal and super-real and as such beyond verbal meanings and verbal descriptions', and that instead of depicting ordinary reality, 'a new piece of music _is_ a new reality'. This mythographic or mythopoetic sense of music is one of the essential Stravinskian truths.\n\nIn the first instance, the myth or 'new reality' of _The Rite of Spring_ empowered Stravinsky. Having first made his name, courtesy of Sergey Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, as the protagonist and beneficiary of the greatest craze for Russian music ever to possess the West (as a result of which it was widely, if briefly, acknowledged that Russia had inherited the musical leadership of Europe), but having renounced Russia in the wake of the 1917 revolution and the ensuing Bolshevik _coup d'\u00e9tat_ , Stravinsky wished frantically not only to attach himself to the Western \u2013 or 'panromanogermanic' \u2013 musical mainstream, as nationalistic \u00e9migr\u00e9s like him understood it, but to keep up his status as its leader. He rejected the parochial lore of his birthright and embraced an aggressively cosmopolitan ideology of absolute music \u2013 music without a passport, without a past, without 'extramusical' content of any kind.\n\nAt the same time this myth of _The Rite_ was a powerful enabler for others as well. Detached from their national background and their motivating subject-matter, the neo-primitivist musical innovations in _The Rite_ \u2013 its fragmentedness, its 'staticness', its radical structural simplifications \u2013 provided its legions of imitators with a quick, very necessary bath in the river Lethe at a time when the European tradition seemed over. That is why there _were_ so many imitators.\n\nAnd that, by the way, is what 'neoclassicism', at least at first, was all about. It had nothing to do, at first, with stylistic retrospectivism or revivalism, with 'returning to Bach' or with vicarious imperial restorations. It had everything to do with a ' _style d\u00e9pouill\u00e9_ ', a stripped-down, denuded style, and with the same neo-primitivist, anti-humanistic ideals that had already motivated _The Rite_ and the other masterworks of Stravinsky's late 'Russian period', especially _Svadebka_ ( _The Wedding_ , first performed as _Les Noces_ ).\n\nThis much we may read in the very first journalistic essay to attach the N-word to Stravinsky \u2013 the very first essay, in fact, to apply the word without irony to modern music. It was written in 1923, the year in which Stravinsky's Octet for wind instruments (the first 'back to Bach' piece) was performed, but several months earlier. The man who wrote it was Boris de Schloezer, like Stravinsky a Russian \u00e9migr\u00e9, who is best known for his writings on Skryabin, his brother-in-(common)-law.\n\nThe most revealing aspect of Schloezer's early exposition of Stravinsky's neoclassicism is the work that inspired it: not _Pulcinella_ , not the Octet, but the _Symphonies d'instruments \u00e0 vent_ , a work we now tend to look upon (and that Stravinsky surely looked upon then) as the composer's valedictory to his 'Russian period'. Nothing could be more critical than this unexpected circumstance to our understanding of Stravinsky's neoclassicism.\n\nWhat made the _Symphonies_ 'neoclassical' for Schloezer, thence for many others, was the assumption that it was\n\nonly a system of sounds, which follow one another and group themselves according to purely musical affinities; the thought of the artist places itself only in the musical plan without ever setting foot in the domain of psychology. Emotions, feelings, desires, aspirations \u2013 this is the terrain from which he has pushed his work.\n\nThese words might seem quite irrelevant to the poetic conception underlying the _Symphonies_ (a memorial for Debussy that is actually cast in the form of an Orthodox funeral service), but Stravinsky lost no time in appropriating Schloezer's view. As early as the next year, he was looking back on the _Symphonies_ as the first of his 'so-called classical works'. Schloezer had, in effect, revealed to the composer the underlying, indeed profound relationship between his earlier rejection of personal 'emotions, feelings, desires and aspirations' in ritualistic works such as _The Rite_ and _The Wedding_ , and the new aesthetic of abstraction that attracted not only Stravinsky but any number of modernist artists to the postwar 'call to order' (Cocteau's famous phrase) \u2013 a call they heeded in the name of a resurgent, reformulated 'classicism'.\n\nFrom this perspective the _Symphonies_ was indeed a turning-point \u2013 or could be one if its 'extramusical' content were purged. And so, in a programme note that accompanied performances of the _Symphonies_ in the late 1920s and 1930s, Stravinsky went one better than Schloezer, describing the work as entirely formalist and transcendent: an arrangement of 'tonal masses . . . sculptured in marble . . . to be regarded objectively by the ear'. The Bachian resonances that we now associate with 'neoclassicism' came later, as a metaphor for that transcendence and that objectivity. They have about as much to do with the historical Johann Sebastian Bach as the new line about _The Rite of Spring_ had to do with the historical Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky and his original expressive aims.\n\nBut no matter! We are dealing here not with facts but with myths, not with _realia_ but with _realiora_ , not with the real but with the realer, and the fundamental formalist commitment is the great Stravinsky myth, the great Stravinsky idea, the great Stravinsky truth \u2013 the precept or edict (shall we call it the ukase?) that has been regulating the behaviour of twentieth-century (and now twenty-first-century) musicians ever since. Ever since the 1920s, in other words, a commitment to formalist aesthetics has been the great distinguishing feature of panromanogermanic classical music.\n\nThe purity and absoluteness of Stravinsky's music remains an article of faith to many. I have become quite inured over the years to hearing from colleagues and reviewers that the investigations I have made into the sources and backgrounds of Stravinsky's Russian-period work are interesting enough but quite irrelevant aesthetically. And it is certainly true, as Pieter van den Toorn says on the very first page of his important book, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , that 'for the greater part of this century our knowledge and appreciation of _The Rite of Spring_ have come from the concert hall and recordings'. To that extent, the myth of _The Rite_ has come true, for the music has become quite happily detached from its original scenario and mise-en-sc\u00e8ne. For many, if not for most spectators, visual exposure to the work as a ballet comes after years of tremendous stagings before the mind's eye under the stimulus of the powerful noises that it makes, and seeing it is often disappointing. Even Nicholas Roerich, the original designer and co-scenarist, admitted that 'we cannot consider \"Sacre\" as Russian, nor even Slavic \u2013 it is more ancient and pan-human'. To insist that _The Rite_ still means what it originally meant \u2013 that it is nothing more and nothing less than a pair of 'scenes of pagan Russia' \u2013 would surely limit and diminish its full human significance, and I for one would never wish my findings about the ballet to diminish it so.\n\nBut it may still be worth asking whether that full human significance is well or adequately described by the phrase 'architectonique et non anecdotique'. The phrase still sounds like a Pandora's box, and one has to wonder what is being locked up within, just as I still wonder why, despite his ample and detailed knowledge of the historical circumstances in which Stravinsky developed his ostensibly radical musical style (knowledge he does not hesitate in the least to share with his reader), van den Toorn nevertheless subtitled his book 'The _Beginnings_ of a Musical Language' (emphasis added). This willed amnesia, I would suggest, is an example of behaviour regulated by the Stravinsky myth.\n\nIs there any harm in that? Van den Toorn says not, in no uncertain terms. He sees nothing but gain. Propositional knowledge, especially historical knowledge, can only interfere, in his view, with aesthetic bonding. He quotes (or rather, slightly paraphrases) a remark from one of Stravinsky's books of 'conversations' with Craft:\n\nThe composer works through a perceptual, not a conceptual process. He perceives, he selects, he combines, and is not in the least aware at what point meanings of a different sort and significance grow into his works. All he knows or cares about is the apprehension of the contours of form, for form is everything.\n\nThere you have it: _form is everything_. You could not get more categorical than that in declaring formalist principles. Van den Toorn's move, unanticipated by Stravinsky, perhaps, but clearly regulated by his principles, is to apply the composer's description of composerly behaviour to the listener. 'One need only substitute listener for composer in the above quotation', he writes, 'and the reasoning becomes impregnable'. We need not dwell on distinctions here: what van den Toorn calls reasoning is pretty clearly a tautology, I think, but what of that? Its purpose and effect are what count for Stravinsky and for van den Toorn, not its logical status. The purpose, simply, is pleasure, aesthetic rapture. 'The source of the attraction', van den Toorn writes,\n\nthe source of our conscious intellectual concerns, is the passionate nature of the relationship that is struck. But this relationship is given immediately in experience and is not open to the inquiry that it inspires. Moments of esthetic rapport, of self-forgetting at-oneness with music, are immediate. The mind, losing itself in contemplation, becomes immersed in the musical object, becomes one with that object.\n\nThe trouble is that, as Stravinsky actually concedes, 'meanings of a different sort and significance grow into his works', whether or not he knows or cares about them. The aesthetic rapture van den Toorn seeks demands, once again, a willed ignorance, a willed blindness. Directing attention resolutely away from content and focusing entirely on form is hardly an 'immediate' response to art. It is no one's first response. (Why else, after all, is a taste for 'absolute music' the most notoriously 'cultivated' of all artistic tastes?) It is a learned response \u2013 learned from Stravinsky. It has its costs.\n\nTo explore these costs, I want to focus the rest of this discussion on one of Stravinsky's best known and surely most written-about late works, the Cantata. One reason I want to focus on it is because it is one work about which I have some new research findings, albeit modest ones, to report. But that research was not, I confess, 'disinterested'. What interested me about the Cantata was the way it problematised the congeries of ideas we call 'Stravinsky'.\n\nThe Cantata was the first composition to follow _The Rake's Progress_ , Stravinsky's longest work. At first, it was to have followed _The Rake_ quite directly and unproblematically. It was, in effect, a second collaboration between Stravinsky and W. H. Auden, the _Rake_ co-librettist, who had just published, with Norman Holmes Pearson, a five-volume school anthology, _Poets of the English Language_ (New York: Viking Press, 1950), and made Stravinsky a present of it. From a letter from Auden to Robert Craft one gathers that Stravinsky was planning a song cycle for mezzo soprano and small instrumental ensemble on texts from the anthology. In the end, not only the Cantata, but Stravinsky's next vocal composition as well, _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , were mined from the contents of Auden's collection. (One can tell that this was Stravinsky's Shakespeare source because he retained all of the quaint spellings that most editors remove but that Auden and his co-editor lovingly restored.)\n\nThe first item from _Poets of the English Language_ to be set, in July 1951, was 'The maidens came', one of six poems grouped under the rubric 'Anonymous Lyrics and Songs' in Vol. I (Fig. 14.1). The setting is in a sort of period style, both as regards prosody and as regards texture. Stravinsky had been hearing a great quantity of renaissance and baroque music at the so-called Evenings on the Roof Concerts in Los Angeles, at which Craft had become a frequent conductor. At the first such concert he attended, in 1944 (four years Before Craft), he heard Elizabethan virginals music and some keyboard works of Purcell, both for the first time. Later he heard Dowland lute songs and Elizabethan madrigals and much more. 'The maidens came' is full of the Lombard or 'Scotch snap' rhythms characteristic of Purcellian text declamation. They must have struck Stravinsky's ear as especially fresh, even though he did not grasp \u2013 or characteristically chose to ignore \u2013 the distinctive relationship of the Lombard pattern to the English short stress. The setting is also full of short stretches of canonic writing, often by inversion, such as one finds in early keyboard and consort fantasias.\n\n**Fig. 14.1** _Poets of the English Language_\n\nIn his letter of September 1951, Auden sent Craft a rather long list of additional suggestions from his anthology for inclusion in the cycle, mainly Elizabethans like Sidney, Jonson and Campion, but also Pope, Blake, Burns, even Christina Rossetti. By the time Stravinsky returned to the composition, however, in February 1952, he had decided to cast the work for a more complex medium including a small women's chorus and two solo singers, the original mezzo and also a tenor, each of whom sings solos, now called 'ricercars', and who then combine for a duet. And, possibly because he wanted to maintain the archaic period flavour of the original setting, he decided to confine the texts to the little group of anonymous lyrics from which he had taken 'The maidens came', setting the group to music practically _in toto_ (omitting only the second and third items as listed), as many readers will already have noticed after glancing at Fig. 14.1. He gave the Cantata an elegant overall shape by using one of the longer items, 'A lyke-wake dirge', as a kind of choral refrain, its successive verses intercalated around and between the solo items.\n\nThe longest item in the group, the carol 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', was set as a tenor solo to form the Cantata's centrepiece. Now 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day' is not only the longest and most elaborately composed piece in the Cantata; it is also one of the most revered items in the later Stravinsky catalogue, owing to the circumstances of its creation, which entail an important creative crisis. No biography of the composer or critical study of his work fails to cite it, usually with at least one music example.\n\nOn the face of it, the setting does not seem very different from 'The maidens came'. Like its predecessor, it uses canonic textures of a rather archaic sort, admitting cancrizans writing alongside inversion to its repertoire of contrapuntal devices. Unlike 'The maidens came', however, and especially in view of its length, the composition is severely limited in its melodic material. The eleven-note canonic subject on which the entire piece is based is a complex derivation from a phrase, seemingly selected at random, from 'The maidens came' (see Ex. 14.1).\n\n**Ex. 14.1** Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', derivation of subject\n\nAs Craft has testified, immediately on fashioning this little theme, Stravinsky drew a chart on the back of a sheet of stationery from 'La boutique', his wife's art gallery on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles (Ex. 14.2), which shows, as Craft put it, 'the four orders \u2013 original, retrograde, inverted, retrograde inverted \u2013 of his eleven-note \"series\"'. As can be seen from Ex. 14.2, the cancrizans is so arranged as to produce a harmonic closure on its starting point \u2013 a traditional pendular (there-and-back) motion with an implied tonic\u2013dominant/dominant\u2013tonic harmony, the old 'binary form' we have all studied at school. The inversion is contrived so as to produce the same progression. Its pitch level is chosen so that its opening pair of notes reproduces the pitches of the original phrase with exchanged positions. In formal terms this would be described as a transposition down a major third (in more formal terms, transposition by eight semitones, or \u2013 in still more formal terms, those of the theory journals \u2013 't8'), but I am sure that Stravinsky did not think of it as a transposition at all \u2013 quite the opposite, in fact. He must have thought of it not in purely pitch or intervallic terms, but in harmonic terms, according to which the inversion changes as little as possible.\n\n**Ex. 14.2** Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', sketch\n\nNow, although the material in the second Ricercar, and its handling, might well seem just as archaistic as in the first ('The maidens came'), the second Ricercar is radically separated in the historical, biographical, analytical and critical literatures from the rest of the Cantata and attached to a different story altogether. Craft put it very succinctly when he wrote that the second Ricercar in the Cantata 'marks the first effect on Stravinsky of Schoenberg's serial principle', and most of the succeeding literature on the piece has been more or less a gloss on that little sentence.\n\nRealising that the internal evidence for such an assertion is slim, Craft elaborated with some historical reportage of a kind that he, not only a witness but an actual participant on the scene, was uniquely qualified to give: 'Although cancrizans of the kind found in this Ricercar were [ _sic_ ] employed centuries before', he wrote, 'Stravinsky came to them there by way of his contemporary' \u2013 his recently deceased contemporary and neighbour, one should add, Schoenberg having died in Los Angeles the year before, as it happened, while Stravinsky was hard at work on 'The maidens came' \u2013 and Craft added as further corroboration that Stravinsky 'heard some of the Viennese master's music, as well as much discussion about it, in Europe in the autumn of 1951' when he returned to the old world for the first time after the war to conduct the _Rake_ premiere.\n\nCraft went on to record the fact that while working on the second Ricercar, Stravinsky attended several rehearsals of a performance Craft was then preparing at UCLA of Schoenberg's Septet-Suite, Op. 29, and was full of questions about Schoenberg's technique. Once one knows this, it makes some sense to relate the manipulations of the eleven-note motive in the second Ricercar to the so-called twelve-note technique, since like a tone row the motive is treated as an entirely abstract ordered succession of pitches \u2013 or rather, pitch classes, as Milton Babbitt would christen them a few years later. Unlike the canons in 'The maidens came', the ones in the second Ricercar are entirely free as to rhythm and octave register.\n\nEvidence of another sort comes from a touching entry in Craft's diary, describing an occurrence Craft first made public in a centennial lecture published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ , and, in characteristic fashion, retold subsequently with a great deal of exasperating variation in the details. I quote it here in its latest, and in some ways most plausible (because least sensational) incarnation, from the revised _Chronicle of a Friendship_ (pp. 72\u20133). The date is 8 March 1952, four days after the second Ricercar had been completed:\n\nWe drive to Palmdale for lunch, spareribs in a cowboy-style restaurant, Bordeaux from I.S.'s thermos. A powdering of snow is in the air, and, at higher altitudes, on the ground: Angelenos stop their cars and go out to touch it. During the return, I.S. startles us, saying he fears he can no longer compose; for a moment he actually seems ready to weep. V. gently, expertly, assures him that whatever the difficulties, they will soon pass. He refers obliquely to the Schoenberg Septet and the powerful impression it has made on him. After 40 years of dismissing Schoenberg as 'experimental,' 'theoretical,' ' _d\u00e9mod\u00e9_ ,' he is suffering the shock of recognition that Schoenberg's music is richer in substance than his own.\n\nCraft's interpretation here is a little different from those he has offered elsewhere, which have centred on the perhaps more telling fact that Stravinsky was becoming aware that younger musicians, especially in Europe, were more interested just then in Schoenberg than in himself. At any rate, it is clear that Stravinsky was suffering a crisis of confidence, one brought on, as far as I can read the circumstances, precisely because he realised that, as the second Ricercar demonstrated, even when emulating Schoenberg's serial procedures, he found himself still tied willy-nilly to his older harmonic thinking, his deeply ingrained habits of the ear. He was evidently afraid that he himself might be becoming 'd\u00e9mod\u00e9'. It was a frightening thought indeed to one who had become so used to the role of defining, at times fairly dictatorially, what would be '\u00e0 la mode'.\n\nMore evidence of Stravinsky's crisis mentality can be found in the printed documents surrounding the Cantata \u2013 namely, the published score, and a programme note that Stravinsky wrote (or at least signed) for the premiere performance in Los Angeles in November 1952. I quote a little of the latter. First, he notes the general circumstances of the composition: 'After finishing _The Rake's Progress_ I was persuaded by a strong desire to compose another work in which the problems of setting English words to music would reappear, but this time in a purer, non-dramatic form.' Following a description of the Dirge and the first Ricercar, he comes to 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day'. It is, he says,\n\nalso a Ricercar in the sense that it is a canonic composition. Its structure is more elaborate than that of 'The Maidens Came'. The piece begins with a one-bar introduction by the flutes and cello, the statement of the canonic subject which is the subject of the whole piece. This subject is repeated by the tenor, over a recitative style accompaniment of oboes and cello, in original form, retrograde (or cancrizans, which means that its notes are heard in reverse order \u2013 in this case, in a different rhythm), inverted form, and finally, in retrograde inversion.\n\nThen comes a music example, showing the voice part of the opening stanza with the four forms, taken as if exactly from Ex. 14.2, marked off with brackets (Ex. 14.3). What is truly surprising is that the published score incorporates these brackets, not only in the opening or expository section Stravinsky quoted in the note, but throughout the piece, showing every single permutation of the eleven-note motive, as Stravinsky cumbersomely attempted to describe them in prose, as the note continues:\n\n**Ex. 14.3** Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day',\n\nThe fourth and sixth canons are nine bars long, the others are twelve bars long. The instrumentation of all the canons is two oboes and cello. In the first canon, the second oboe proposes the original subject and the first oboe takes it up at the minor third above, while the tenor sings it in inverted form. The second canon begins with the voice singing the Cantus in cancrizans form, a minor third below; the cello is in original form a fourth below. The third canon is identical with the first. In the fourth canon the first oboe follows the second at the interval of a second while the voice transposes the Cantus in inverted form down a minor third to A. In the three last bars, the cello, which has been accompanying with a new rhythmic figure, plays the Cantus in F, original form, while the voice and first oboe play it in A, original form. The fifth canon is identical with the first. The sixth begins with the Cantus in the voice in original form _. . ._\n\nAnd so on \u2013 and on and on. And what makes this programme note particularly noteworthy, over and above what I believe it is fair to call its obsession with technical detail, is the fact that this was only the second time in his career that Stravinsky ever offered a technical analysis of any of his compositions. (The other, very brief, concerned _The Firebird_ , composed forty-two years earlier.) One begins to get a feel for what Craft described in his memoir as the 'substance' that Stravinsky had begun to envy in Schoenberg, and the way it jibed with the older versions of the Stravinsky myth.\n\nA more explicit indication of this tie-in, and of its relationship to the Cold War artistic temper, came in an interview Stravinsky gave a Paris reporter on 28 April 1952, about seven weeks after that tense moment in the car that Craft so hauntingly described. Craft's description of this occasion is very droll. Stravinsky was returning to Europe for the first time since _The Rake_ , and was touching down in Paris, his home for almost twenty years, for the first time since before the war. It was just a touching-down: Stravinsky was actually on his way to Geneva, and the plane was refuelling. His friend Nicolas Nabokov, the newly-appointed Secretary-General of the Congress for Cultural Freedom, was waiting with a gaggle of paparazzi, whom he hustled into the waiting-room for what we would now call a 'photo opportunity'. Here is what Stravinsky told the reporter from the Congress's own organ, _Preuves_ , during that hectic stopover, in response to what was by then an inevitable question:\n\nThe twelve-tone system? Personally I have enough to do with seven tones. But the twelve-tone composers are the only ones who have a discipline I respect. Whatever else it may be, twelve-tone music is certainly pure music.\n\nOf course he was describing his second Ricercar, which appropriated the twelve-note discipline and applied it to seven (well, eight) notes. The discipline was what he wished to claim, and relate to his old notions of 'pure' music \u2013 something that Schoenberg never did, because he never had that notion. Quite the contrary: Schoenberg always refused to offer technical descriptions of his music, and claimed to despise them. To Rudolf Kolisch, his brother-in-law, who had worked out an exemplary formalistic analysis of Schoenberg's Third Quartet very much on the order of Stravinsky's analysis of his Cantata, Schoenberg addressed one of his most famous missives: 'I can't utter too many warnings against overrating these analyses, since after all they only lead to what I have always been dead set against: seeing how it is _done_ ; whereas I have always helped people to see: what it _is_!'\n\nStravinsky, on the contrary, seemed only to be interested in showing how it was done. And so have been almost all the later commentators on the Cantata, of whom there have been so many. Meanwhile, he embarked on the task of expanding from seven to twelve. He did it the way countless other students were doing it at the time. He got hold of _Studies in Counterpoint_ (1940) by Ernst Krenek, one of his California neighbours, only the second practical primer in twelve-note composition ever published, and began working his way through the exercises in it. You can see some of them right on the surface of _Threni_ , Stravinsky's first completely dodecaphonic construction, composed in 1957\u20138. On the way to that piece there had been several others that used rows containing more or less than twelve notes, and a couple of larger works that were intermittently twelve-note ( _Canticum Sacrum_ , _Agon_ ). The trajectory by which Stravinsky zeroed in on the new discipline is one of the most orderly and trackable processes of its kind in the history of music, and so, of course, it has been traced very frequently in the literature, especially after Milton Babbitt's seminal exposition, 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky', first given as 'a lecture under the auspices of the Santa Fe Opera as part of its Festival in honour of Igor Stravinsky's 80th birthday', that is, in 1962, and published two years later in _Perspectives of New Music_.\n\nBabbitt set the tone for these surveys by looking back on Stravinsky's quest from the perspective of its completion, thus comparing Stravinsky's serial practice at every stage with the fully elaborated twelve-note technique he finally embraced \u2013 which made for some very tortuous descriptions. Here is how the analysis of the second Ricercar from the Cantata begins:\n\nThe serial unit here consists of eleven ordered pitch elements, but only six different pitch elements. Since there are, then, non-immediate repetitions of pitch elements within the unit, the serial characterization, in terms of the relation of temporal precedence among pitches, requires that each occurrence of a pitch element which occurs multiply be differentiated ordinally; more concisely, if it is agreed to represent a pitch element of a serial unit by an ordered pair signifying the element's order number and pitch number, then the collection of such ordered pairs associated with the twelve-tone set necessarily defines a biunique, one-to-one function, while that of a serial order with repetitions cannot. This latter collection defines a function, but not a biunique one, and the inverse, therefore, is not a single-valued function.\n\nAnd here is another pertinent excerpt:\n\nWhereas the operations in the twelve-tone system necessarily result in permutations of the elements of the set, in a non twelve-tone serial unit, they do not. Indeed, if the serial unit is not inversionally symmetrical, as it is not in the Cantata, the effect of inversion can never be to permute, but rather to adjoin pitches which are not present in the original unit. So, whereas an inversion of a twelve-tone set can be so identified only by virtue of order, in the case of such a serial structure as that of the Cantata, it can be identified by pitch content alone. Here, then, is combinational rather than permutational serialism, since each form of the serial unit represents a selection from the twelve pitch classes rather than a particular ordering of these classes.\n\nI said that these were pertinent excerpts, and I meant it, but what are they pertinent to? Not the Cantata, because Babbitt is saying only what Stravinsky did not do in composing that piece, and sheds no light at all on what he did do. Why then, despite that impertinence and despite its extreme tortuousness, has Babbitt's telling of this tale become so influential? It has been influential because it effectively turns the story of Stravinsky's late career into a teleology, a quest narrative, and in so doing it assimilates the story to yet another myth, one of the great myths of the twentieth century, that of the general teleology according to which the structure of music, and the compositional practices that produce that structure, have been said to evolve by stages, and inevitably, from tonal to atonal, finally to serial.\n\nBecause Stravinsky underwent this evolution late, presumably, he was allowed to bypass the middle term and evolve directly from tonal to serial. But this discrepancy does not prevent his career from assuming a kind of paradigmatic status, by which his ontogeny recapitulates the phylogeny of twentieth-century music. By doing so, Stravinsky's career can be subsumed into a progress narrative, progress being the most potent form that myth has taken in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. So we end up with an assimilation of one powerful myth, the Stravinskian myth of purity, to an even more powerful myth, the positivistic myth of progress. Like any myth, but doubly so, this double myth has functioned as a regulator of belief and behaviour. It has immense authority, an authority that has only recently, with great difficulty, and against strong resistance, begun to be challenged.\n\nWhat has been the chief regulation? I have already hinted at it: the resolute deflection of musical consciousness from 'what it is', as Schoenberg would say, to 'how it's done'. Often, and very misleadingly, it is expressed as an exclusion of 'extramusical' ideas from consideration of 'the music itself'. And this taboo, to reiterate, has cost us very dear.\n\nTo return to the second Ricercar: it can hardly have escaped notice that Stravinsky's description, to say nothing of Babbitt's, has entirely avoided any mention of what the piece _is_. At its most basic level, it is a setting of a carol that narrates the life of Christ. How is it that this fact is thought to be irrelevant to a description of the piece, especially as we know Stravinsky to have been, or at any rate to have professed being, a religious believer? Could the subject really have played no part in the selection of the text? Was it only 'problems of setting English words' that mattered to Stravinsky, not the words he set?\n\nLet us look closely at a part of the piece, the last part for which I quoted Stravinsky's description above, namely the fourth canon (Ex. 14.4). We may see all the things to which Stravinsky called attention, underscored by his use of brackets, to which I have added identifications of the serial forms employed using the standard music-theory representational mode. First there is the beautifully worked out canon in the voice and the two oboes in which three different transpositions of the inverted form of the theme are combined. Then the voice shifts over to the original form of the 'riverso cancrizans', as Stravinsky called it on his chart (Ex. 14.2), or the retrograde inversion as it is called in standard terminology. Finally, as Stravinsky pointed out, the original eleven-note 'serial unit', as Babbitt puts it, is enunciated by the voice and first oboe in A major, while the cello plays it in F major. All of this is worked out ingeniously and beautifully. Contemplating the musical construction one can indeed experience, with van den Toorn, a 'moment of esthetic rapport, of self-forgetting at-oneness with music', in which 'the mind, losing itself in contemplation, becomes immersed in the musical object, becomes one with that object'.\n\n**Ex. 14.4** Cantata, 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', fourth canon\n\nBut there is something else in Ex. 14.4 besides what Stravinsky, Babbitt or van den Toorn would recognise as the 'musical object'. There is something 'extramusical' as well \u2013 something never alluded to by Stravinsky, by Babbitt, by van den Toorn, by Colin Mason, by Heinrich Lindlar, by Henry Cowell, by Andr\u00e9 Boucourechliev, by Robert Morgan, by Paul Griffiths, by Louis Andriessen and Elmer Sch\u00f6nberger, by Stephen Walsh, by Joseph Straus, or by any of the other musician-commentators who have offered detailed descriptions of the Cantata in print. There is also this, which you may not have noticed yet:\n\nThe Jews on me they made great suit,\n\nAnd with me made great variance;\n\nBecause they lov'd darkness rather than light.\n\nIs it necessary to point out that this is a deplorable text, even if a venerable one, rehearsing as it does the old guilt-libel against the Jews as children of darkness and as deicides, a libel that has caused rivers of Jewish blood to be spilled? And does it surprise you that it could strike someone like me, your academic colleague, as incomprehensible that a great composer, whose prestige must inevitably lend it respectability, would choose such a text to set, seven years after Hitler?\n\nBut I want to emphasise at the outset, and as forcefully as I know how, that Stravinsky's motives in setting this text are not the issue I am addressing. His anti-Semitism is not my present subject, nor is anyone's. My subject is blindness to its presence, a blindness that innumerable performers and commentators have shared with Stravinsky, and that is the most urgent aspect of what I see as the issue of 'Stravinsky and us' \u2013 taking 'Stravinsky' now in the sense I originally announced, to mean a set of regulative ideas and premises, and taking 'us' to mean those whose beliefs and behaviours have been so regulated.\n\nFor purposes of the present discussion I am perfectly willing to grant that Stravinsky was blind \u2013 or, if you prefer, insensitive \u2013 to the import of the words he was setting. This for him was a longstanding habit. From his earliest modernist days he claimed to be interested in words only for their sounds, not their meaning. There is evidence that this was the case in the Cantata, both in his explicit remark that the verses he chose for it 'attracted me not only for their great beauty and their compelling syllabification, but for their construction which suggested musical construction', and also in a hilarious entry in Craft's diary in which Auden, after the Cantata has been performed and is in the process of publication, finally explains to Craft and Stravinsky what the words of the 'Lyke-wake dirge' actually mean. Stravinsky set them without knowing, probably without caring.\n\nIt was not the first time. More than one piece from the Russian period \u2013 _Svadebka_ for one, or (for a particularly piquant instance) the _Zapevnaya_ or 'counting game' from the _Quatre chants russes_ of 1919 \u2013 contain Russian peasant words and phrases that even Pyotr Kireyevsky, the compiler of the anthology of folk verses on which Stravinsky relied, and a legendary connoisseur, found incomprehensible. He marked such texts in his anthology with little question marks and ellipses that seem to have attracted Stravinsky to them as honey attracts a bear.\n\nMore evidence of Stravinsky's lack of concern for the words in his second Ricercar is the fact that he was inattentive to the form of the poem even as he was setting it. As can be seen in the text that Auden printed (Fig. 14.2), the poem is a carol, and like all carols it has a burden, which Auden printed once in full and once abbreviated to show that it should follow every stanza. Stravinsky set the poem exactly as it was printed, not the way it should be performed. (He did not actually set the words 'Sing, oh! etc.', but he set the burden only the two times Auden printed it.) Yet more evidence of his unconcern: he gave an inscribed copy of the Cantata score to Otto Klemperer, a Hitler refugee, whom I cannot think he meant to insult. So it was not that Stravinsky sought out a text to set libelling the Jews. It simply did not matter to him.\n\n**Fig. 14.2**\n\nOther people's texts, however, did matter to him at times. About Schoenberg he once remarked, 'Nearly all of his texts are appallingly bad, some of them so bad as to discourage performance of the music.' He no doubt had _Die gl\u00fcckliche Hand_ in mind, or some other embarrassing expressionistic effusion like that. But all that this shows is that Stravinsky's artistic sensibilities were more acute than his moral ones. Here is another manifestation of the dichotomy. It is a letter from Stravinsky to Craft, or rather a passage from a letter from Stravinsky to Craft, dated 8 October 1948, that has been silently expunged from both purportedly complete documentary publications of the letter. The subject of comment is a demonstration against Serge Lifar, Diaghilev's last _premier danseur_ , on account of his wartime collaboration with the Germans in occupied Paris. Stravinsky writes:\n\nIf there were some intelligent Jews picketing before Lifar not for his 'fascism' (or, later on, 'communism', about which they are silent of course), but for his quite obvious want of talent, I would gladly change my mind about Jews.\n\nThe expression here is gratuitously vulgar and malicious, and for that reason repellent on its face, but the actual sentiments expressed are not unrelated, I would argue, to the blindnesses and exclusions I have been describing, and that we all practise to some extent, even those of us who are trying to shed them. We all operate under pressure to put what we call 'artistic' considerations front and centre in any discussion of art, and to resist \u2013 indeed, to disdain \u2013 considerations of any other kind.\n\nNowadays that pressure and that resistance are most easily seen, in the musical world, in the ongoing debate about Wagner. Not content to print one, the editors of the _Musical Times_ recently printed two separate hostile critiques of a single book, Marc Weiner's _Richard Wagner and the Anti-Semitic Imagination_ , in a single issue. The one that shocked and depressed me was the one that prefaced any consideration of the author's arguments with an elaborate ritual in which the reviewer crossed himself, spat in all directions, and calumniated in advance all who raise the very issue of 'Richard Wagner's racist and antisemitic theories' in the context of his art. Such people are prejudged as 'careerist journalists and musicologists' who 'pander' to fashion and aim merely to present themselves as 'trendily anti-establishment'.\n\nIn the critique that followed, much was made of the fact that Prof. Weiner and others who have tackled these problems are not professional musicians and are therefore unqualified to write about music. But of course it is inevitable that these 'extramusical' questions will be broached from the standpoint of disciplines that are not regulated by the Stravinsky myth.\n\nAnd that, of course, is the reason why the only discussion I have ever seen of the anti-Semitic text in Stravinsky's Cantata appeared not in a musical or musicological publication, but in a Jewish-interest periodical called _Midstream_. The author, a painter and literary anthologist named Jacob Drachler, described his persistent efforts to lodge an effective protest at Stravinsky's setting of lines so offensive to Jews, efforts that culminated in a letter to Robert Craft, posted on 15 April 1971 (the date was poorly chosen, being that of Stravinsky's funeral). The reply came not from Craft but from Lillian Libman, Stravinsky's personal manager:\n\n[Mr. Craft] says that Mr. Stravinsky, of course, was not thinking about 'the holocaust of modern European Jewry' when he set those lines of 15th century verse. In fact, he got quite a jolt from the lines himself when he first heard the piece, and he had changed the text, substituting, I think, 'my foes' or 'my enemies' (we can't remember exactly) \u2013 but in any case the words were definitely changed, and the music amended, but again we don't know exactly when.\n\nIf and when a new edition of the score comes out, Mr. Craft will see to it personally that the change is made.\n\nIt will probably not surprise you to learn that this was never done, and I think it is clear that Ms Libman's letter was just an offhand attempt to dispose of a nuisance. But how should we deal with the question, if we agree that there is a problem? Ought moral sensibilities, as much as artistic ones, discourage performance of excellent music? Stravinsky's answer, I believe, has been sufficiently implied. What should ours be? The dichotomy normally invoked in such discussions, between 'the music itself' and 'the extramusical', can be easily unmasked in this particular case. For if the music itself \u2013 what van den Toorn calls 'the musical object' \u2013 is alone what engages 'esthetic rapport', and the extramusical is altogether to be excluded from a proper aesthetic response, then we should have no problem with the second Ricercar. We can perform and enjoy it as an instrumental solo, or a vocalise.\n\nBut of course this would not be an acceptable solution. Why? Because it would violate the integrity of the musical text as the composer left it. In more casual language, it would make the performance 'unauthentic'. The composer's intentions, as we normally construe them, would not be carried out, and that would breach the most fundamental ethical obligation of 'classical music' as practised in the twentieth century.\n\nOf course, this too is an ethical constraint we owe in large part to the myth-making authority of Stravinsky, who inveighed constantly against the performer's right to any exercise of subjective judgement. The snooty 'neoclassical' sermon in the last of his Harvard lectures of 1939, published under the title _Poetics of Music_ , transfers the objectivist aesthetic identified by Schloezer in Stravinsky's composerly attitudes to a performance practice, the most influential set of performerly precepts ever explicitly enunciated in the twentieth century. The insistence in that lecture on the distinction between _execution_ \u2013 selfless submission to 'an explicit will that contains nothing beyond what it specifically commands' \u2013 and _interpretation_ \u2013 which lies 'at the root of all the errors, all the sins, all the misunderstandings that interpose themselves between the musical work and the listener' \u2013 has been, much more than any earlier historical precedent, the driving force behind 'authentic' performance, manifested not only in 'Early Music', but in all performances that adhere to the ethic of scrupulous submission, which means just about all performances one will hear today.\n\nBut how ethical are such ethics, if they cause us to value the integrity of works of art above humane concerns? How ethical is an ethic that obliges us, when the Cantata is on the programme, to lend our unprotesting presence to an execration of the Jews, and thus become complicit in it, and even more than that, to maintain a pretence that nothing of the sort is taking place? How ethical is an ethic implying that artistic excellence or beautiful form redeems ugly or objectionable content, as so many have argued of late in the case of T. S. Eliot? What is the difference between saying that and saying that artistic excellence excuses objectionable content of any kind? And if we allow this much, then what prevents art from becoming for all of us, as it undoubtedly is for some of us, a means for secretly gratifying our inner bigot?\n\nHow ethical, finally, is an ethic that holds artists and art lovers to be entitled by their artistic commitment to moral indifference, and that _the greater the artist, the greater the entitlement_? The truth of this last corollary, I think, can be confirmed by a thought experiment. As many readers surely know, Gustav Holst also made a setting, in his case for mixed chorus, of 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day', the carol that furnished the text for Stravinsky's second Ricercar. It is an attractive piece. Unlike Stravinsky's setting, it was written long before the Holocaust, in 1916. I would wager, though, that performers would be far more likely to think twice before performing Holst's setting than they evidently are before performing Stravinsky's, and that audiences hearing Holst's setting would be far more likely to notice and protest about the meaning of the words. The only reason I can think of for the difference is the differing stature of the composers. It is Stravinsky, not Holst, who has been classified as an unassailable great. Hence the dispensation he is granted, and hence the distress my words may be causing some readers.\n\nBut is great art ennobled by this attitude? Are we? Or are we not debased and diminished, both as artists and as human beings, by such a commitment to 'abstract' musical worth? And for a final disquieting thought, has that commitment got nothing to do with the catastrophic decline that the prestige of classical music \u2013 and of high art in general \u2013 has suffered in our time?\n\nSo what, you may finally wonder, do I think we should do about the Cantata? Certainly not suppress it; although I personally would not be opposed to instrumental performance of the second Ricercar or some modification of the text, especially if it is not done 'silently', \u00e0 la Dr Bowdler, which evades the problem, but rather with an accompanying announcement or explanation that exposes and confronts it. I hope and trust that it is clear to one and all that inviting performers to consider such a course is not the same as decreeing that they do, and that an appeal to discretion is a far cry from censorship.\n\nBut even without modification, exposure of the problem is very much to be encouraged, I believe; and that is what I have sought to make of my opportunity here. In an unfortunately acidulous exchange with me about the Cantata in the _New York Review of Books_ some years ago, Robert Craft made the claim (later included in the expanded _Chronicle of a Friendship_ ) that in his own first Los Angeles performance he substituted 'my enemies' for 'the Jews on me' in the first line of the fourth canon, and that for this he was reproached by Auden. '\"By any definition _The Merchant of Venice_ is anti-Semitic,\" [Auden] said, \"but we can't change it\".' Modifying a performance does not change the work; and in any case we are not called upon to change it. But we _are_ called upon to face the issue and talk about it, I believe; and we had better. That is the very least we can do if we want to escape from the counterproductive complacency on which the Stravinsky myth insists, and keep high art kosher.\n**Chronological list of works**\n\n_Tarantella_ , for piano (1898)\n\n'Storm Cloud' ('Tucha'), for soprano and piano (Russian text: Alexander Pushkin) (1902)\n\nScherzo, for piano (1902)\n\nSonata in F\u266f minor, for piano (1903\u20134)\n\nCantata (for Rimsky-Korsakov's sixtieth birthday), for mixed choir and piano (presumed lost) (1904)\n\n'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War', song for bass and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1904)\n\nSymphony in E\u266d , Op. 1, for orchestra (1905\u20137)\n\n'Conductor and Tarantula', for voice and piano (text: Kosma Prutkov) (presumed lost) (1906)\n\n_The Faun and the Shepherdess_ ( _Favn i pastushka_ , _Faune et berg\u00e8re_ ), Op. 2, suite for mezzo-soprano and orchestra (Russian text: Alexander Pushkin) (1906)\n\n_Pastorale_ , for soprano (without words) and piano (1907). Arr. for soprano and four wind instruments (1923) and for violin and piano, or violin and four wind instruments (1933)\n\n_Two Songs_ ( _Romances_ ), Op. 6, for mezzo-soprano and piano (Russian text: Sergey Gorodetsky) (1907\u20138)\n\n_Scherzo fantastique_ , Op. 3, for orchestra (1907\u20138)\n\n_Chant fun\u00e8bre_ (in memoriam Rimsky-Korsakov), Op. 5, for wind instruments (presumed lost) (1908)\n\n_Four Studies_ , Op. 7, for piano (1908)\n\n_Fireworks_ , Op. 4, for orchestra (1908)\n\nNocturne in A\u266d and _Grande valse brillante_ in E\u266d (Chopin), orchestrated for the ballet _Les sylphides_ (1909)\n\n_Song of the Flea_ (Beethoven and Musorgsky), arr. for bass and orchestra (text: Goethe in Russian translation) (1909)\n\n_The Firebird (L'Oiseau de feu, Zhar-ptitsa)_ , 'fairy tale' ballet in two scenes for large orchestra (1909\u201310). Concert suites: (a) 1910; (b) 1919 (rev. for reduced orchestra); (c) 'ballet suite', 1945 (as 1919 but with additional music). Piano reduction by Stravinsky\n\n_Kobold_ (Grieg), arr. for orchestra for the ballet _Les orientales_ (1910)\n\n_Two Poems of Verlaine_ , Op. 9, for baritone and piano (1910). Rev. for orchestra (1910); rev. for baritone and small orchestra (1951\u20132)\n\n_Petrushka_ , 'burlesque' in four scenes for large orchestra (1910\u201311; rev. 1946, published 1947). Piano reduction (four hands) by Stravinsky. Transcribed as _Three Movements_ for piano (1921, see below)\n\n_Two Poems of Bal'mont_ , for high voice and piano (text in Russian) (1911). Rev. and transcribed for soprano and small orchestra (1954)\n\n_Zvezdolikiy_ ( _The King of the Stars_ , _Le Roi des \u00e9toiles_ ), for male chorus and large orchestra (Russian text: Konstantin Balmont) (1911\u201312)\n\n_The Rite of Spring_ ( _Le Sacre du printemps_ ), 'scenes of pagan Russia', ballet in two parts for large orchestra (1911\u201313; rev. 1943). Reduction for piano (four hands) by Stravinsky\n\n_Three Japanese Lyrics_ , for soprano and piano or chamber orchestra (Japanese text: anon.) (1912\u201313)\n\n_Khovanshchina_ (Musorgsky), orchestration of Shaklovit\u00efy's aria and completion of final scene from the opera (1913)\n\n_Three Little Songs_ ('Recollections of my Childhood'), for voice and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1913). Rev. and transcribed for voice and small orchestra (1929\u201330)\n\n_The Nightingale_ ( _Solovey_ , _Le Rossignol_ ), 'musical fairy tale' in three acts for soloists, chorus and orchestra (Russian text: Stravinsky and Stepan Mitusov, after Hans Christian Andersen) (1908\u20139, 1913\u201314)\n\n_Three Pieces for String Quartet_ (1914; rev. 1918). Transcribed for orchestra as nos. 1\u20133 of _Four Studies_ (see below); arr. for piano duet\n\n_Pribaoutki_ ( _Chansons plaisantes_ ), for medium voice and eight instruments (text: trad. Russian) (1914)\n\n_Valse des fleurs_ , for piano duet (1914)\n\n_Three Easy Pieces_ , for piano duet (1914\u201315)\n\nMarch, arr. of _Three Easy Pieces_ , no. 1, for twelve instruments (1915)\n\n_Souvenir d'une marche boche_ , for piano (1915)\n\n_Cat's Cradle Songs_ ( _Berceuses du chat, Kol\u00efbel'n\u00efye_ ), for medium voice and three clarinets (text: trad. Russian) (1915)\n\n_Renard_ ( _Baika_ ), 'burlesque in song and dance' for two tenors, two basses and fifteen instruments (text: Stravinsky, after Alexander Nikolayevich Afanasyev) (1915\u201316)\n\n_Trois histoires pour enfants_ ( _Three Tales for Children_ ), for voice and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1916\u201317). No. 1 rev. and transcribed for voice and orchestra (1923), nos. 1 and 2 transcribed as nos. 3 and 4 of _Four Songs_ (1954, see below)\n\n_Valse pour les enfants_ , for piano (1916 or 1917)\n\n_Five Easy Pieces_ , for piano duet (1917)\n\n_Song of the Nightingale_ ( _Pesnyas Solov'ya_ , _Chant du rossignol_ ), symphonic poem / ballet for orchestra, derived from parts of Acts 2 and 3 of _The Nightingale_ (1917)\n\n_Song of the Volga Boatmen_ , arr. for wind and percussion (1917)\n\n_Four Russian Peasant Songs_ ( _Podblyudn\u00efye_ : 'Saucers'), for female voices a cappella (text: trad. Russian) (1914\u201317). Rev. for equal voices and four horns (1954)\n\n_Les Noces_ ( _Svadebka, The Wedding_ ), 'Russian choreographic scenes' in four tableaux for four soloists, SATB, four pianos and percussion (text: Stravinsky, after Alexander Afanasyev Pyotr Vasilyevich Kireyevsky) (begun 1914 **;** short score completed 1917; final scoring completed 1922\u20133)\n\n_Canons for Two Horns_ (presumed lost) (1917)\n\n\u00c9tude, for pianola (1917)\n\n_Berceuse_ , for voice and piano (Russian text: Stravinsky) (1917)\n\n_Lied ohne Name_ , for two bassoons (1917 or 1918)\n\n_Ragtime_ , for eleven instruments (1917\u201318). Transcribed for solo piano by Stravinsky\n\n_The Soldier's Tale_ ( _L'Histoire du soldat_ ), 'to be read, played and danced', in two parts, for three actors, female dancer and seven instrumentalists (French text: C. F. Ramuz) (1918). Suites: (a) for original ensemble of seven players (1920), (b) for violin, clarinet and piano (1919)\n\n_Three Pieces_ , for clarinet solo (1918)\n\n_Boris Godunov_ (Musorgsky), arr. of a chorus from the Prologue for piano (1918)\n\n_Quatre chants russes_ ( _Four Russian Songs_ ), for voice and piano (text: trad. Russian) (1918\u201319). Nos. 1 and 4 transcribed as nos. 1 and 2 of _Four Songs_ (see below)\n\n_Piano-Rag-Music_ , for piano (1919)\n\n_La Marseillaise_ , transcribed for solo violin (1919)\n\n_Pulcinella_ , 'ballet with song' in one act, for soprano, tenor, bass and chamber orchestra (1919\u201320). Suites: (a) for chamber orchestra (1922), (b) for violin and piano (1925), (c) _Suite italienne_ for cello and piano (1932), and (d) for violin and piano (c. 1933) (see below)\n\n_Concertino_ , for string quartet (1920). Transcribed for twelve players (1952, see below)\n\n_Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ ( _Symphonies d'instruments \u00e0 vent_ ), for twenty-four wind players (1920; rev. 1947 for twenty-three instruments)\n\nSuite no. 2, for small orchestra, arr. of _Three Easy Pieces_ and 'Galop' from _Five Easy Pieces_ (1915\u201321)\n\n_Les cinq doigts_ , easy pieces for piano (1921)\n\n_Sleeping Beauty_ (Tchaikovsky), arr. of Aurora's variation and Act 2 Entr'acte for violin and orchestra (1921)\n\n_Three Movements_ from _Petrushka_ , for piano (1921)\n\n_Mavra_ , 'op\u00e9ra bouffe' in one act for four soloists and orchestra (Russian text: Boris Kochno, after Pushkin) (1921\u20132)\n\nOctet (Octuor), for wind instruments (1922\u20133; rev. 1952)\n\nConcerto, for piano, wind instruments, timpani and double basses (1923\u20134; rev. 1950)\n\nSonata, for piano (1924)\n\nSerenade in A, for piano (1925)\n\nSuite no. 1, for small orchestra, transcribed from the first four of the _Five Easy Pieces_ (1917\u201325)\n\n_Otche nash_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text in Slavonic) (1926). Rev. 1949 as _Pater Noster_ with Latin text\n\n_Oedipus Rex_ , opera-oratorio in two acts for speaker, soloists, chorus and orchestra (text: Jean Cocteau, after Sophocles, trans. into Latin by Jean Dani\u00e9lou, with narration in language of audience) (1926\u20137; rev. 1948)\n\n_Apollon musag\u00e8te_ ( _Apollo_ ), ballet in two scenes for string orchestra (1927\u20138; rev. 1947)\n\n_The Fairy's Kiss_ ( _Le Baiser de la f\u00e9e_ ), 'allegorical ballet' in four scenes for orchestra, after songs and piano pieces by Tchaikovsky (1928; rev. 1950). Suite: _Divertimento_ (1934, see below). _Divertimento_ , for violin and piano, transcribed by Stravinsky and Samuel Dushkin (1932)\n\n_Four Studies_ ( _Quatre \u00e9tudes_ ), arr. for orchestra of _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ and the _\u00c9tude_ for pianola (1928\u20139; rev. 1952)\n\n_Capriccio_ , for piano and orchestra (1928\u20139; rev. 1949)\n\n_Symphony of Psalms_ , for SATB chorus and orchestra (Latin text: Bible: Psalms 38, 39, 150) (1930; rev. 1948)\n\nConcerto in D, for violin and orchestra (1931)\n\n_Duo concertant_ , for violin and piano (1932)\n\n_Suite italienne_ , transcribed from _Pulcinella_ (a) by Stravinsky and Gregor Piatigorsky for cello and piano (1932); (b) by Stravinsky and Samuel Dushkin for violin and piano (1932)\n\n_Simvol ver\u00ef_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text in Slavonic) (1932). Rev. 1949 as _Credo_ with Latin text.\n\n_Pers\u00e9phone_ , melodrama in three scenes for female speaker, tenor, chorus and orchestra (French text: Andr\u00e9 Gide) (1933\u20134; rev. 1949)\n\n_Bogoroditse devo_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text in Slavonic) (1934 **)**. Rev. 1949 as _Ave Maria_ with Latin text\n\n_Divertimento_ , 'symphonic suite' for orchestra (from _The Fairy's Kiss_ ) (1934; rev. 1949)\n\nConcerto, for two solo pianos (1932, 1934\u20135)\n\n_Jeu de cartes_ , 'ballet in three deals' for orchestra (1936)\n\n_Praeludium_ , for jazz ensemble (1936\u20137; rev. 1953)\n\n_Petit Ramusianum harmonique_ , 'three quatrains' for solo voice (French text: Stravinsky and Charles-Albert Cingria) (1937)\n\nConcerto in E\u266d , 'Dumbarton Oaks', for chamber orchestra (1937\u20138)\n\nSymphony in C, for orchestra (1938\u201340)\n\n_Tango_ , for piano (1940). Transcribed for nineteen instruments (1953)\n\n_The Star-Spangled Banner_ (John Stafford Smith), transcribed for orchestra and mixed choir (1941)\n\n_Sleeping Beauty_ (Tchaikovsky), 'Bluebird' _pas de deux_ transcribed for small orchestra (1941)\n\n_Danses concertantes_ , for chamber orchestra (1940\u201342)\n\n_Circus Polka (for a young elephant)_ , for piano (1941\u20132). Transcribed by Avid Raksin for wind band (circus band) (1942). Version for symphony orchestra (1942)\n\n_Four Norwegian Moods_ , for orchestra (1942)\n\n_Ode_ , 'elegiac chant' in three parts for orchestra (1943)\n\n_Scherzo \u00e0 la russe_ , for jazz band (1943\u20134). Transcribed for orchestra (1945)\n\nSonata, for two pianos (1943\u20134)\n\n_Babel_ , cantata for male chorus, male narrator and orchestra (English text: Bible: Genesis 11, 1\u20139) (1944)\n\n_Sc\u00e8nes de ballet_ , for orchestra (1944)\n\n_Elegy_ , for solo viola or violin (1944)\n\n_Symphony in Three Movements_ , for orchestra (1942\u20135)\n\n_Ebony Concerto_ , for clarinet and jazz band (1945)\n\nConcerto in D, ' \"Basle\" Concerto', for string orchestra (1946; rev. 1947)\n\n_Petit Canon pour la f\u00eate de Nadia Boulanger_ , for two tenors (French text: Jean de Meung) (1947)\n\n_Orpheus_ , ballet in three scenes for orchestra (1947)\n\nMass, for SATB chorus and ten wind instruments (1944\u20138)\n\n_The Rake's Progress_ , opera in three acts for soloists, chorus and orchestra (English text: W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman) (1947\u201351)\n\nCantata, for soprano, tenor, female chorus and five instruments (text: anon. fifteenthand sixteenth-century English verse) (1951\u20132)\n\nSeptet, for clarinet, bassoon, horn, string trio and piano (1952\u20133)\n\n_Concertino_ , arr. of string quartet original for twelve instruments (1952)\n\n_Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , for mezzo-soprano, flute, clarinet and viola (1953)\n\n_Four Songs_ , for voice, flute, harp and guitar, transcribed from nos. 1 and 4 of _Four Russian Songs_ and nos. 1 and 2 of _Three Tales for Children_ (1954)\n\n_In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , 'dirge canons and song' for tenor, string quartet and four trombones (text: Dylan Thomas) (1954)\n\n_Greeting Prelude_ , 'for the eightieth birthday of Pierre Monteux', arr. of 'Happy Birthday to You', for orchestra (1955)\n\n_Canticum Sacrum ad honorem Sancti Marci nominis_ , for tenor, baritone, chorus and orchestra (Latin text: Vulgate Bible) (1955)\n\n_Chorale Variations on 'Von Himmel hoch'_ (J. S. Bach), transcribed and arr. for chorus and orchestra (text in German) (1955\u20136)\n\n_Agon_ , 'ballet for twelve dancers' for orchestra (1953\u20137)\n\n_Threni: id est Lamentationes Jeremiae prophetae_ , for six solo voices, chorus and orchestra (Latin text: Vulgate Bible) (1957\u20138)\n\n_Movements_ for piano and orchestra (1958\u20139)\n\n_Epitaphium (F\u00fcr das Grabmal des Prinzen Max Egon zu F\u00fcrstenberg)_ , for flute, clarinet and harp (1959)\n\n_Double Canon (Raoul Dufy in memoriam)_ , for string quartet (1959)\n\n_Tres sacrae cantiones_ (Gesualdo), completed for SATB chorus a cappella (1957\u20139)\n\n_Monumentum pro Gesualdo di Venosa (ad CD annum)_ , three madrigals by Gesualdo, recomposed for instruments (orchestra) (1960)\n\n_A Sermon, a Narrative and a Prayer_ , cantata for alto and tenor soloists, speaker, chorus and orchestra (English text: Bible: Romans, Hebrews and Acts; and Thomas Dekker) (1960\u201361)\n\n_Eight Instrumental Miniatures_ , for fifteen players, transcribed and recomposed from _Les cinq doigts_ (1962)\n\n_The Flood_ , 'musical play' for soloists, speakers, chorus and orchestra (English text: Robert Craft, after the Bible and the York and Chester mystery plays) (1961\u20132)\n\n_Anthem 'The dove descending breaks the air'_ , for SATB chorus a cappella (text: T. S. Eliot, _Little Gidding_ ) (1962)\n\n_Abraham and Isaac_ , 'sacred ballad' for baritone and chamber orchestra (Hebrew text: Bible) (1962\u20133)\n\nCanzonetta for strings (Sibelius), transcribed for eight instruments (1963)\n\n_Elegy for J. F. K_., for medium voice and three clarinets (text: W. H. Auden) (1964)\n\n_Fanfare for a New Theatre_ , for two trumpets (1964)\n\n_Variations (Aldous Huxley in memoriam)_ , for orchestra (1963\u20134)\n\n_Introitus (T. S. Eliot in memoriam)_ , for male chorus and chamber ensemble (Latin text from Requiem Mass) (1965)\n\n_Canon (on a Russian Popular Tune)_ , 'Concert Introduction or Encore' (on a theme from _The Firebird_ ) for orchestra (1965)\n\n_Requiem Canticles_ , for contralto and bass soloists, chorus and orchestra (Latin text from Requiem Mass) (1965\u20136)\n\n_The Owl and the Pussycat_ , for soprano and piano (text: Edward Lear) (1966)\n\nTwo Sacred Songs (Wolf), transcribed for mezzo-soprano and ten instruments (texts: anon. Spanish in German translation by Paul Heyse and Emmanuel Geibel) (1968)\n\nFour Preludes and Fugues (from _Das wohltemperirte Clavier_ ) (J. S. Bach), transcribed for strings and woodwind (1969)\n**Notes**\n\n**1 Stravinsky 's Russian origins**\n\n Robert Craft, _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948\u201371_ (London: Alfred A. Knopf, 1972), 295.\n\n See, for example, his fifth Harvard lecture, 'The avatars of Russian music', in _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947).\n\n Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 185, 183.\n\n Both Stravinsky and Nabokov grew up in St Petersburg and emigrated after the 1917 Revolution, first to France and then to the United States. The works of both are renowned for their apparent stylistic independence.\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996); Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882\u20131934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999).\n\n Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 195.\n\n Mikhail Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ , trans. Martin Cooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 2.\n\n See Appendix 3 in Rosamund Bartlett, _Wagner and Russia_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 304\u20135, which shows the percentage of Russian works in the repertoire each season between 1890 and 1914.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 66.\n\n See Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 53.\n\n I. F. Stravinsky, _Perepiska s russkiimi korrespondentami: materialy k biografii_ , ed. Viktor Varunts, 2 vols. (Moscow: Kompozitor, 1997, 2000), Vol. 1.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 66.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 65.\n\n V. Kamensky (ed.), _The World of Art Movement in Early 20th-Century Russia_ (Leningrad: Aurora, 1991), 20.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 375.\n\n Ibid., 376, 377.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 108.\n\n _Russkaya muzykal'naya gazeta_ , 51/52 (1901), col. 1334; cited in Varunts, _Perepiska s russkiimi korrespondentami_ , vol. 1, 110.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 74.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 376\u20137.\n\n Ibid., 352.\n\n John E. Malmstad and Nikolay Bogomolov, _Mikhail Kuzmin: a Life in Art_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 126.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 355.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 543.\n\n It is interesting that Stravinsky felt aristocratic taste, such as that of Tchaikovsky, was no less Russian than what was 'peasant-like'. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1533.\n\n For further details, see ibid., 524\u20135. See also Rosamund Bartlett, 'Diaghilev as musician and concert organizer', in Ann Kodicek (ed.), _Diaghilev, Creator of the Ballets Russes: Art, Music, Dance_ (London: Barbican Art Gallery/Lund Humphries, 1996), 49\u201352.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 524\u20135.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 34\u20135.\n\n Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 15.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 29.\n\n L. Belyakaeva-Kazanskaya, 'Stepan Mitusov. 2: Khronika neomrachennoi druzhby: Stravinskii i Mitusov', in _Ekho serebryannogo veka_ (St Petersburg: Kanon, 1998), 36.\n\n L. Belyakaeva-Kazanskaya, 'Stepan Mitusov. 1: ryadom s Rerikhom', in _Ekho serebryannogo veka_ , 24.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , vol. 1, 502\u201318; and Beverly Whitney Kean, _All the Empty Palaces: the Merchant Patrons of Pre-Revolutionary Russia_ (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1983), for a history of neo-nationalism in the Russian arts.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 497\u2013502, for a discussion of the process of denationalisation in Russian music.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 615.\n\n See ibid., 692\u20133.\n\n For an extended survey of the musical sources for _Petrushka_ , see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 695\u2013737.\n\n Cited in ibid., 764.\n\n See ibid., 851\u20132.\n\n See ibid., 849\u2013966, for a comprehensive history of the work's composition.\n\n Ibid., 18.\n\n Ibid., 954.\n\n Ibid., 1449\u20131502.\n\n Ibid., 1133.\n\n Richard Gustafson, _Leo Tolstoy, Resident and Stranger: a Study in Fiction and Theology_ , (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), xiii.\n\n Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , chap. 10.\n\n Ibid., 133.\n\n B. A. Uspensky, _Semiotika ikona_ (Tartu: Tartu University Press, 1971), cited in Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 128 (no page reference given).\n\n Pavel Florensky, 'Obratnaya perspektiva', _Trudy po znakovym sisteman_ 3 (1967), 402; cited in Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 128.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1126\u201334.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 329.\n\n Ibid., 433.\n\n Ibid., 434.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 13.\n\n**2 Stravinsky as modernist**\n\n See Richard Taruskin's monumental study of the Russian Stravinsky: _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). But I am primarily concerned here with the Parisian Stravinsky.\n\n There are many other portraits of Stravinsky. See Glenn Watkins's account of portraits of Stravinsky from 1913\u201316 in his _Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky to the Postmodernists_ (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994), 243ff.\n\n See Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 103ff. The quotation is from p. 122f.\n\n Ibid., 73ff. Stravinsky had read M. Teste before 1914, and asked Val\u00e9ry to comment on his _Poetics of Music_.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , and Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882\u20131934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999).\n\n _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , ed. and with commentaries by Robert Craft, 3 vols (London: Faber and Faber, 1982\u20135), vol. 2, 189.\n\n He grew up with a big library, read and spoke German and French, and in his early twenties read Wilde, Hoffmann and Maeterlinck, and saw Chekhov and Ostrovsky, Tolstoy, Gorky and Shakespeare. See Michael Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Phaidon, 1995), 25.\n\n _Stravinsky in Conversation with Robert Craft_ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962), 108.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 115.\n\n Diaghilev was interested in performing Balla's _Macchina tipografica_ (1914); he was impressed by Futurist events in London; he mooted an alliance with Marinetti in 1915; and with Stravinsky he planned a restaging of _Feux d'artifice_ (which had previously been performed by L\u00f6\u0131e Fuller) by Giacomo Balla, to be performed in Paris in 1917. But the first performance was a fiasco. Diaghilev dropped _Feux d'artifice_ and cancelled plans for a Futurist version of _The Nightingale._ See the account in Gunter Berghaus, _Italian Futurist Theatre_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 253ff.\n\n See, for example, Lawrence Rainey, _Institutions of Modernism_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).\n\n W. H. Auden, 'On the circuit', in _Collected Poems_ , ed. Edward Mendelson (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), 549.\n\n Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 35, echoing the general view.\n\n Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ , 321.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ ( _passim_ ).\n\n Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 60.\n\n _Stravinsky in Conversation_ , 138ff.\n\n For a brief account of this in the early period, see Christopher Butler, _Early Modernism_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 106\u201323. See also William Rubin (ed.), _Primitivism in Twentieth Century Art: Affinity of the Tribal and the Modern_ (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1984), and Jill Lloyd, _German Expressionism: Primitivism and Modernity_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991).\n\n Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ , 255.\n\n Ibid., 262.\n\n Ibid., 231.\n\n Ibid., 216.\n\n John Berger, _Success and Failure of Picasso_ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965), 90ff.\n\n See Nancy Perloff, _The Art of the Everyday: Popular Entertainment and the Circle of Erik Satie_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991).\n\n Stravinsky, _Chronicle of My Life_ (London: Victor Gollancz, 1936), 130; Roman Vlad, _Stravinsky_ , trans. Frederick and Ann Fuller, 2nd edn. (London: Oxford University Press, 1967), 56.\n\n Theodor W. Adorno, _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Sheed and Ward, 1973), 170, 171.\n\n Constant Lambert, _Music Ho!_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1934; repr. 1966), 74\u20136.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 113.\n\n Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 96.\n\n This statement comes from an article published in New York in a journal called _The Arts_ ; cited in Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 24.\n\n See Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 431ff, discussing the influence of Louri\u00e9 and Maritain.\n\n Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 217, citing the _Chronicle_.\n\n T. S. Eliot, 'Tradition and the individual talent', in _The Sacred Wood_ (London: Methuen, 1920; repr. 1960), 48.\n\n Ibid., 49.\n\n T. E. Hulme, in Karen Csengeri (ed.), _The Collected Writings of T. E. Hulme_ (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 61.\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 118.\n\n Schoenberg, diary entry 1928, in _Style and Idea_ , ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 482.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947; repr. 1998), 80ff.\n\n Derm\u00e9,'Quand le symbolisme fut mort', a programmatic statement for his _North South_ , cited in Peter Nicholls, _Modernisms_ (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1995), 243.\n\n Cited in Nicholls, _Modernisms_ , 245.\n\n T. S. Eliot, 'Ulysses, order, and myth', _Dial_ , 65/5 (November 1923), 483.\n\n 'Without the capacity for adaptation of a Picasso \u2013 who, having lost if temporarily his iconoclastic fervor, retreated into a highly productive self involvement \u2013 or the social utopianism of a L\u00e9ger (or the Purists), most of the pre-war members of the Parisian avant garde had little to fall back on . . . the unqualified optimism of the pre-war period was an outmoded point of view. Henceforth a desperate effort to resuscitate a fading vision of a hegemonic \"West\" would compel attention in French cultural circles.' Kenneth E. Silver, _Esprit de Corps: the Art of the Parisian Avant Garde and the First World War, 1914\u20131935_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 360. You had to be a classicist or a _constructeur_ , and 'the world of the Parisian avant garde was left with a bankrupt social identity' (ibid., 361).\n\n In its latest form in her _The Picasso Papers_ (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1999).\n\n For a recent elegy from this point of view, see T. J. Clark, _Farewell to an Idea_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999). Clark comments on modernism \u2013 which 'had two great wishes', just as if it were one person \u2013 as 'tied to, and propelled by, one central process: the accumulation of capital' (7). He adds, 'if I cannot have the proletariat as my chosen people any longer, at least capitalism remains my Satan' (8). This orientation does not seem to prevent the brilliant interpretation of particular works in the rest of the book \u2013 but it does select them.\n\n Walsh, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ , 168\u201378.\n\n Letter of 31 August 1953, in _Selected Correspondence_ , vol. 1, 287.\n\n Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ , 365.\n\n See Judith Mackrell, _Reading Dance_ (London: Michael Joseph, 1997), 53ff.\n\n**3 Stravinsky in context**\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1675.\n\n Ibid., 662.\n\n Ibid., 1675.\n\n Richard Taruskin, 'Stravinsky and the subhuman. A myth of the 20th century: _The Rite of Spring_ , the tradition of the new, and \"the music itself \" ', in _Defining Russia Musically_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), especially 460\u201365. See also Taruskin's 'Stravinsky and us' in this volume.\n\n See the arguments summarised in Marc A. Weiner, _Richard Wagner and the Anti-Semitic Imagination_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1995).\n\n Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882\u20131934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999), 376.\n\n Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 239.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 260.\n\n Arnold Schoenberg, _Style and Idea_ , ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 174.\n\n This polarisation is at its most highly charged in Adorno's _Philosophy of Modern Music_ : 'Schoenberg and progress', 'Stravinsky and restoration'. For a much more recent formulation of essential difference not predicated on the argument that Schoenberg is good, Stravinsky bad, see Pieter C. van den Toorn, 'Neoclassicism and its definitions', in James M. Baker, David W. Beach and Jonathan W. Bernard (eds.), _Music Theory in Concept and Practice_ , (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997), 154\u20135.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ (New York: Steuer, 1958), 100. (First published in French, two volumes, 1935\u20136.)\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 260.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (New York: Vintage, 1947), 14.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), p. 107. Arthur Louri\u00e9 was an early proponent of the idea that 'Sch\u00f6nberg may be considered the _Thesis_ and Stravinsky the _Antithesis_. Sch\u00f6nberg's thesis is an egocentric conception dominated by personal and esthetic elements which assume the significance of a fetish . . . Stravinsky's whole aim, on the other hand, is to overcome the temptations of fetishism in art, as well as the individualistic conception of a self-imposed esthetic principle.' ('Neogothic and neoclassic', _Modern Music_ 5 (1928), cited in Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 461.)\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 108.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1022.\n\n Ibid.\n\n Allen Forte, _The Harmonic Organization of 'The Rite of Spring'_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978). See also _Music Analysis_ 5/2\u20133 (1986), 313\u201337.\n\n Pierre Boulez, _Conversations with C\u00e9lestin Deli\u00e8ge_ (London: Eulenberg, 1976), 31.\n\n See _The Boulez\u2013Cage Correspondence_ , ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Robert Samuels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).\n\n Boulez, _Conversations_ , 17.\n\n Pierre Boulez, _Orientations_ , ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Martin Cooper (London: Faber and Faber, 1986), 355.\n\n See the critical discussion of this topic in Jonathan Kramer, _The Time of Music_ (New York: Schirmer, 1988), and Alexander Rehding, 'Towards a \"logic of discontinuity\" in Stravinsky's _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ : Hasty, Kramer and Straus reconsidered', _Music Analysis_ 17/1 (1998), 39\u201363.\n\n In a brief note written towards the end of his life, Schoenberg referred to 'a turn \u2013 perhaps you would call it to the Apollonian side \u2013 in the Suite for Seven Instruments, Op. 29 [1925\u20136]'; _Style and Idea_ , 110.\n\n The reference is to the title of Eric Walter White's early study, _Stravinsky's Sacrifice to Apollo_ (London: Hogarth Press, 1939).\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 71\u20132.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 124\u20135.\n\n See Arnold Whittall, 'Berg and the twentieth century', in Anthony Pople (ed.), _The Cambridge Companion to Berg_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 247\u201358.\n\n Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , 16.\n\n See _Poetics_ , 'The phenomenon of music' (Lecture 2).\n\n _Poetics_ , 43.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 249\u201350.\n\n Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: Oedipus Rex_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 65.\n\n Ibid., 36, 39.\n\n Ibid., 43, 45.\n\n Ibid., 46.\n\n Ibid., 61\u20133.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 34.\n\n See Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice', _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 33\u201353; Whittall, 'Defusing Dionysus? New perspectives on _The Rite of Spring_ ', _Music Analysis_ 21/1 (2002), 87\u2013103; Taruskin, _Defining Russia Musically_ , 375\u20136.\n\n Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 275.\n\n Ibid., 238.\n\n Martha M. Hyde, 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses in twentieth-century music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 18 (1996), 214. The analytical example from the Octet that Hyde discusses is taken from Pieter C. van den Toorn _, The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 334.\n\n Chandler Carter, 'Stravinsky's \"special sense\": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19 (1997), 77\u20138, 80.\n\n Michael Cherlin, 'Memory and rhetorical trope in Schoenberg's String Trio', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 51 (1998), 559.\n\n Ibid., 563.\n\n Ibid., 564.\n\n Ibid., 573.\n\n Ibid., 589.\n\n See n. 23 above.\n\n Cherlin, 'Memory and rhetorical trope', 595.\n\n Michael Cherlin, 'Schoenberg and _Das Unheimliche_ : spectres of tonality', _The Journal of Musicology_ 11 (1993), 370.\n\n Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 202; Daniel Albright, _Stravinsky: the Music Box and the Nightingale_ (New York: Gordon and Breach, 1989), 41.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 376.\n\n Stravinsky, _Autobiography_ , 100.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 83, 34.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 376.\n\n Boris Asaf 'yev, _A Book About Stravinsky_ , trans. Richard F. French (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), 278.\n\n Letter of 9 July 1928, as translated in Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 455.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 500.\n\n See ibid., 469, quoting Boris de Schloezer, 'Chronique musicale', _Nouvelle revue fran\u00e7aise_ (1 July 1928), 104\u20138.\n\n The dithyramb is 'an ancient Greek choric hymn, vehement and wild in character' ( _Shorter Oxford Dictionary_ ). For some sense of the difficulties of interpreting the scant surviving evidence as to the content of these hymns to Dionysus, see A. Pickard-Cambridge, _Dithyramb, Tragedy and Comedy_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), and Andrew Barker, _Greek Musical Writings_ , vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).\n\n Arnold Schoenberg, _Fundamentals of Musical Composition_ , ed. Gerald Strang and Leonard Stein (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), 58\u201362. See also 'Reduction (ii)' in Ian Bent and William Drabkin, _The New Grove Handbooks in Music: Analysis_ (London: Macmillan, 1987), 128\u201330.\n\n See above, p. 39.\n\n Most of this paragraph appears, in a different context, in my article 'Fulfilment or betrayal? Twentieth-century music in retrospect', _Musical Times_ 140 (Winter 1999), 11\u201321.\n\n Mikhail Druskin, _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ , trans. Martin Cooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 122.\n\n**4 Early Stravinsky**\n\n Charles Rosen, _The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven_ , rev. edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), 19\u201323 and _passim_.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 43.\n\n For a description of Stravinsky's family music-making from the mid 1890s to c.1901, see Richard Taruskin _, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 94.\n\n Brief passages of the _Tarantella_ are given as music examples in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 96.\n\n Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in Vera Stravinsky and Robert Craft (eds.), _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ (London: Hutchinson, 1979), 21\u20132.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 99.\n\n Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 21\u20132.\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 43.\n\n The manuscript is reproduced in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 101.\n\n See Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 24, and Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 109\u201310.\n\n Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 21\u20132.\n\n V. V. Yastrebtsev, _Reminiscences of Rimsky-Korsakov_ , ed. and trans. F. Jonas (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 328.\n\n See ibid., 340 and 523, n. 9.\n\n The word 'conductor' in the title is to be understood in the sense of the conductor of a train or horse-drawn carriage, rather than an orchestra! Taruskin renders the Russian word _Konduktor_ as 'driver' in his translation of the poem; _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 112\u201313.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 150\u201361.\n\n Stravinsky, letter (13 March 1908) to G. H. Timofeyev, quoted in _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 21\u20132.\n\n Direct parallels between Stravinsky's Sonata and works by Glazunov, Skryabin and Tchaikovsky are charted by Taruskin in _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 115\u201333.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 133.\n\n _Memories and Commentaries_ , 22, 28.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 116.\n\n _Memories and Commentaries_ , 20\u201322.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 171.\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography (1903\u20131934)_ (London: Marion Boyars, 1975), 21; Yastrebtsev, _Reminiscences_ , 344.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 172\u20133.\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 20\u201324.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 175\u2013222.\n\n See ibid., 225\u20136.\n\n _Memories and Commentaries_ , 59.\n\n Yastrebtsev, _Reminiscences_ , 421.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 391\u20134.\n\n As detailed in a letter from Rimsky-Korsakov to Alfred Bruneau, quoted and translated in ibid., 172.\n\n From Glazunov's ballet _The Seasons_ (1899). See ibid., 241\u20132.\n\n For suggested correspondences between the Four Studies and particular passages in Skryabin's music, see ibid., 380. For details of the chronology, see p. 334.\n\n Ibid., 365\u20138.\n\n See Herbert Schneider's introduction to the 1990 Eulenburg edition.\n\n In Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 40.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 318\u201323.\n\n Strictly speaking, just as one of the tritones is a diminished fifth and the other an augmented fourth, so one of the 'major thirds' has to be spelled as a diminished fourth and one of the 'minor thirds' as an augmented second; the whole arrangement assumes enharmonic equivalence in these cases.\n\n See Edward T. Cone's famous discussion of this technique: 'Stravinsky: the progress of a method', in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 156\u201364.\n\n The classic discussion of octatonicism in Stravinsky's music is Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983).\n\n _Conversations_ , 41, n. 1.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 400\u2013401 (performance), 407\u20138 (reviews).\n\n Ibid., 401\u20132.\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 24.\n\n _Memories and Commentaries_ , 59.\n\n According to Robert Craft, writing in _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , 3 vols (New York: Knopf, 1982\u20135), vol. 2, 432; the first draft of the opera's scenario is given in English translation on pp. 433\u20135.\n\n These sketches are described and reproduced in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 469\u201373.\n\n Ibid., 474\u20135.\n\n Ibid., 450\u201362.\n\n See Anthony Pople, _Skryabin and Stravinsky 1908\u20131914: Studies in Theory and Analysis_ (New York: Garland, 1989). See also Stephen Walsh's comments on this musical correspondence in a review of this book in _Music Analysis_ 9/3 (1990), 342.\n\n Diaghilev later attended the premiere of _Fireworks_. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 418, n. 113.\n\n Ibid., 574\u20135.\n\n Ibid., 576\u20137.\n\n Ibid., 579.\n\n Ibid., 481\u20136.\n\n See Stravinsky's letter of 29 March 1929 to C. G. Pa\u00efchadze, quoted in V. Stravinsky and Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 58, and I. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 96.\n\n Recorded in 1961; reissued on CD in 1991 (Sony SM3K 46 291).\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 132.\n\n Though there is no 'Op. 8', it seems likely that this designation was at one stage intended for _The Nightingale_.\n\n Letter from Debussy to Stravinsky (18 August 1913), in _Conversations_ , 51.\n\n _Conversations_ , 51, n. 1.\n\n See also Simon Karlinsky, 'Igor Stravinsky and Russian preliterate theater', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 3\u201315.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 198. Stravinsky identifies _Nightingale_ -like traits in _Les Noces_ on p. 199.\n\n**5 Russian rites:** _**Petrushka, The Rite of Spring**_ **and** _**Les Noces**_\n\n This discussion of _Petrushka_ is based on the revised 1947 version of the score.\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 662.\n\n Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 24.\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 695.\n\n Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, _Sto russkikh naraodn\u00efkh pesen_ (St Petersburg: Bessel, 1877), no. 47. See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 696.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 737\u201359. For a concise definition of octatonicism, see Anthony Pople, 'Early Stravinsky', this volume, p. 66. Further discussions of octatonicism can be found in this volume in the chapters by Martha Hyde and Craig Ayrey.\n\n Arthur Berger, 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky', in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (rev. edn New York: Norton, 1972), 123\u201354.\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 737\u201359, and Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 31\u20133.\n\n For an introduction to some of the theoretical problems involved in the concept of polytonality, see Jonathan Dunsby and Arnold Whittall, _Music Analysis in Theory and Practice_ (London: Faber, 1988), 112\u201313.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 36.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 746, Ex. 10.20.\n\n Joseph Lanner, _Streyerische T\u00e4nze_ , Op. 165, and _Die Sch\u00f6nbrunner_ , Op. 200, in _Denkm\u00e4ler der Tonkunst in Oesterreich_ , vol. 65 (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1926), 78, 107.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 697.\n\n Taruskin identifies this melody as 'Along the road to Piter' ( _vdol' po piterskoy_ ), a.k.a. 'I was out at a party early last night' ( _ya vechor mlada vo piru bila_ ) from P. I. Tchaikovsky, _50 naradn\u00efkh russkikh pesen, obrabotka dlya fortep'yano v 4 ruki_ (Moscow: Jurgenson, 1869); or Tertiy Filippov, _40 naradn\u00efkh pesen s soprano-zhdeniyem fortepiano garmonizannikh N. Rimskim-Korsakov\u00efm_ (Moscow: Jurgenson, 1882); see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 697. Sternfeld describes this melody as 'Dance song'; see Fredrick W. Sternfeld, 'Some Russian folk songs in Stravinsky's _Petrouchka_ ', in Charles Hamm (ed.), _Petrushka: an Authoritative Score of the Original Version_ (New York: W. W. Norton, 1967), 211.\n\n Van den Toorn, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 73\u201390.\n\n See Craig Ayrey, 'Stravinsky in analysis', in this volume, n. 25, for a brief explanation of Forte's terminology.\n\n This melody has been identified as no. 157 from Anton Juszkiewicz, _Melodie ludowe litewskie_ (Cracow: Wydawn Akademji Umiejetno'sci, 1900). For commentary on this source see Lawrence Morton, 'Footnotes to Stravinsky studies: _Le Sacre du Printemps_ ', _Tempo_ 128 (1978), 9\u201316; Richard Taruskin, 'Russian folk melodies in _The Rite of Spring_ ', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 33 (1980), 501\u201343, and _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 891\u2013923.\n\n For a chronology of the compositional process see Pieter C. van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': the Beginnings of a Musical Language_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 22\u201338. See also Robert Craft, 'Genesis of a masterpiece' and 'Commentary to the sketches', in Igor Stravinsky, _The Rite of Spring Sketches 1911\u20131913_ (London: Boosey and Hawkes, 1969).\n\n This introductory solo has received detailed commentary in the analytical literature. See Adele T. Katz, _Challenge to Musical Tradition_ (London: Putnam, 1947), 321\u20132; Roy Travis, 'Towards a new concept of tonality', _Journal of Music Theory_ 3 (1959), 262; Allen Forte, 'New approaches to the linear analysis of music', _Journal of the American Musicological Association_ 41 (1988), 317\u201322; Anthony Pople, _Skryabin and Stravinsky 1908\u20131914: Studies in Theory and Analysis_ (New York: Garland, 1989), 257\u201368.\n\n Van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 141.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 939.\n\n Ibid.\n\n The term _Grundgestalt_ is generally translated and understood as 'basic shape'. According to Walter Frisch, 'In his critical and theoretical writings Schoenberg often stresses that a motivic or thematic idea must have generative power \u2013 that all the events of a piece must be implicit in, or foreseen in, the basic shape, or _Grundgestalt_ , presented at the opening.' Walter Frisch, _The Early Works of Arnold Schoenberg_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 206.\n\n _Music Analysis_ 5/2\u20133 (1986), 313\u201320 and 321\u201337.\n\n Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice', _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 43\u20134. Clearly the use of the consonance/dissonance terminology is problematic, as it appropriates the language of common-practice tonality, a language which is some distance from that of the sound world of _The Rite of Spring_. Nevertheless, its use in this context provides a useful point of reference and helps retain a background of tradition/convention. However, the difference between the views held by Taruskin and those held by Forte indicate the problems involved in defining this work as either tonal or atonal. See _Music Analysis_ 5/2\u20133.\n\n Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science?', 45.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London, Faber and Faber, 1962), 147.\n\n Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science?', 51.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 937.\n\n For a summary of these sources see ibid., 1423\u201346.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 118.\n\n Ibid., 115.\n\n Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 78.\n\n Van den Toorn, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 177.\n\n**6 Stravinsky's neoclassicism**\n\n Milan Kundera, _Testaments Betrayed_ , trans. Linda Asher (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 95\u20138.\n\n Ibid., 97.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (New York: Doubleday, 1960), 104.\n\n Scott Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music from the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_ (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988); Stephen Hinton, _The Idea of Gebrauchsmusik: a Study of Musical Aesthetics in the Weimar Republic (1919\u20131933) with Particular Reference to the Works of Paul Hindemith_ (New York: Garland, 1989); Joseph N. Straus, _Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Tradition_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990); Richard Taruskin, 'Revising revision', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 46 (1993), 114\u201338, and 'Back to whom? Neoclassicism as ideology', _19th-Century Music_ 16 (1993), 286\u2013302.\n\n For a more detailed discussion of these issues, see my 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses in twentieth-century music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 18 (1996), 200\u201335. The following discussion borrows passages and summarises key arguments from this article.\n\n T. S. Eliot, 'What is a classic?', in _On Poetry and Poets_ (New York: Noonday Press, 1968), 52\u201374.\n\n Frank Kermode, _The Classic_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 40. Kermode defines the second mode, accommodation, somewhat differently: 'any method by which the old document may be induced to signify what it cannot be said to have expressly stated'. _The Classic_ rewards close reading for those interested in the vagaries of musical 'classics'.\n\n Thomas Greene offers a fuller account of anachronism and its use in literary texts in 'History and anachronism', in _The Vulnerable Text: Essays on Renaissance Literature_ (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 218\u201335.\n\n Ibid., 221.\n\n Thomas Greene, _The Light in Troy: Imitation and Discovery in Renaissance Poetry_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), 37\u20138.\n\n Ex. 6.1 uses the first edition of _Piano-Rag-Music_ , published in 1919. This early group of pieces based on contemporary popular dances, while more parodic than neoclassical, nonetheless provides excellent examples of stylistic features that become more fully developed in Stravinsky's later neoclassical works.\n\n Greene, _The Light in Troy_ , 28\u201353. In the following discussion, I draw upon Greene's work which, though focused on Renaissance poetry, develops several generally useful categories of imitation.\n\n 'Octatonic pitch structures' refers to any group of pitch classes that represents a subset of an octatonic collection. An octatonic collection contains eight pitch classes that can be arranged in an ascending scalar pattern of alternating semitones and whole tones. The octatonic scale is highly symmetrical and has only three distinct forms, which are referred to as Collections I, II and III.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ (New York: Doubleday, 1963), 11.\n\n Greene, _The Light in Troy_ , 39.\n\n _Dialogues_ , 71.\n\n The analysis here follows Pieter C. van den Toorn's discussion of this passage in _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 333\u20136. This book provides many useful analyses of Stravinsky's neoclassical works.\n\n While a precise definition of moment form remains allusive, Stockhausen's concept of the 'moment' is often cited in reference to Stravinsky's works. G. W. Hopkins gives the following definition: 'Each individually characterized passage in a work is regarded as an experiential unit, a \"moment\", which can potentially engage the listener's full attention and can do so in exactly the same measure as its neighbours. No single \"moment\" claims priority, even as a beginning or ending; hence the nature of such a work is essentially \"unending\" (and, indeed, \"unbeginning\"),' in Stanley Sadie (ed.), _The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ (London: Macmillan, 1980), s.v. 'Stockhausen, Karlheinz', vol. 18, 152. Many critics have drawn parallels between Stravinsky's moment forms and contemporary cubist painting, both of which cultivate a concise pattern of repeating varied shapes that omit smooth transitions, emphasising instead abrupt movement from one shape to the next. In both, form is constructed by means of opposition, discontinuity and stratification.\n\n The Russian Five, sometimes called the 'Mighty Five', were a group of nationalist composers made up of C\u00e9sar Cui, Mily Balakirev, Alexander Borodin, Modest Musorgsky and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. Richard Taruskin has powerfully explained why Stravinsky tried to distance himself from the Russian tradition that he so publicly embraced prior to World War I: '[L]ike so many other artists in the aftermath of the Great War, Stravinsky became outwardly conservative, allying himself volubly and vehemently with the elite culture of the Western past, seeking to defend its purity against all that threatened to defile it, including his own early work.' See Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1513.\n\n Cited passages come from a letter by Stravinsky that appears in a programme book reproduced in Robert Craft (ed.), _Igor and Vera Stravinsky: a Photograph Album (1921\u20131971)_ (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982), 54. For a detailed discussion of why Stravinsky switched historical allegiances after the First World War and the influence of politics, see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1507\u201338.\n\n The piano reduction is by the composer; the verse libretto, originally in Russian and written by Boris Kochno, appears in an English translation.\n\n Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 13.\n\n Stephen Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 119.\n\n For a detailed discussion of how Stravinsky organises texture into highly differentiated and harmonically independent layers, see Lynne Rogers, 'Stravinsky's break with contrapuntal tradition: a sketch study', _Journal of Musicology_ 13 (1955), 476\u2013507.\n\n Stravinsky borrowed music for _Pulcinella_ from two of Pergolesi's _opere buffe, Il Flaminio_ and _Lo frate' nnamorato_ , together with a cantata and various instrumental sonatas that scholars no longer believe are by Pergolesi.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Stravinsky: an Autobiography_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1936), 229.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1614.\n\n Arthur-Vincent Louri\u00e9, 'Neogothic and neoclassic', _Modern Music_ 5/3 (1928), 5; cited in Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1610.\n\n _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1618.\n\n For a similar evaluation, see Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky,_ 160\u201363.\n\n For a more detailed discussion of heuristic imitation and its use by Bart\u00f3k, see my 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses', 214\u201322.\n\n For a more detailed discussion of this topic, see Walsh, _The Music of Stravinsky_ , 170\u201379. There are several excellent analyses of the Symphony in C which reward close reading. See especially Edward T. Cone, 'The uses of convention: Stravinsky and his models', _Musical Quarterly_ 48 (1962), 287\u201399; Paul Johnson, 'Cross-collectional techniques of structure in Stravinsky's centric music', and Joseph N. Straus, 'Sonata form in Stravinsky', in Ethan Haimo and Paul Johnson (eds), _Stravinsky Retrospectives_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 55\u201375, 148\u201355; and Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , 198\u2013211.\n\n Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , 210.\n\n Just as the progression from I to II lacks conviction in this large-scale I\u2013II\u2013V\u2013I progression, so too does the progression from V to I (see bars 48\u201353).\n\n Johnson, 'Cross-collectional techniques', 60.\n\n For a more detailed discussion of the durational intricacies in Stravinsky's form, see Cone, 'The uses of convention', 287\u201395.\n\n Here 'dialectical' is not used in the Hegelian sense of continuous unification of opposites, but in the Platonic sense of critically examining the truth of an opinion through discussion or debate or dialogue. This dialogue occurs between at least two voices or positions and involves their indirect or oblique comparison.\n\n In preparing the libretto, Auden accepted assistance from Chester Kallman, without informing Stravinsky, an arrangement that Stravinsky at first accepted only reluctantly.\n\n The programme note was written for a BBC television documentary on Auden (Hollywood, 5 November 1965), cited in Paul Griffiths, _Igor Stravinsky: The Rake's Progress_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 2.\n\n Ibid., 4.\n\n Kerman's review appears in his _Opera as Drama_ (New York: Random House, 1956), 234\u201349. This version, however, omits his original suggestion to revise the ending. The original review appeared as 'Opera \u00e0 la mode', _The Hudson Review_ ( Winter 1954), 560\u201377.\n\n Geoffrey Chew, 'Pastoral and neoclassicism: a reinterpretation of Auden's and Stravinsky's _Rake's Progress_ ', _Cambridge Opera Journal_ 5 (1993), 239\u201363.\n\n Straus, _Remaking the Past_ , 155\u201361.\n\n For a more detailed account of the musical analysis that follows, see Chandler Carter, 'Progress and timelessness in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _The Opera Journal_ 28 (1995), 15\u201325. I borrow here Carter's perceptive analysis of the transformation of the recurring Ballad theme (as well as some phrasing); his interpretation of its meaning, however, differs somewhat from my own.\n\n W. H. Auden, 'Balaam and his ass', in _The Dyer's Hand and Other Essays_ (New York: Random House, 1962), 107\u201345.\n\n I have found two essays particularly helpful in summarising the principal themes and interpretative problems in Goethe's _Faust:_ Walter Kaufmann's 'Introduction' to his translation of _Faust_ (New York: Anchor Books, 1963), 3\u201356; and Fred J. Nichols, ' _Faust_ ', in Michael Seidel and Edward Mendelson (eds.), _Homer to Brecht: the European Epic and Dramatic Traditions_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 292\u2013316.\n\n I have used the Louis MacNeice translation of _Faust_ (New York: Oxford University Press, 1960).\n\n Auden, 'Balaam and his ass', 115\u201316.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 167\u201376.\n\n**7 Stravinsky's theatres**\n\n Jonathan Harvey, _In Quest of Spirit: Thoughts on Music_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 16. For a fuller discussion of _The Rake's Progress_ , see Martha Hyde, 'Stravinsky's neoclassicism', in this volume.\n\n Stravinsky on the American premiere of _The Rake's Progress_ , quoted in Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_ , 2nd edn. (London: Faber and Faber, 1979), 452.\n\n Ibid., 18.\n\n Stravinsky, in Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), 24.\n\n Aristotle, 'On the art of poetry', in _Classical Literary Criticism_ , trans. T. S. Dorsch (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965), 40.\n\n Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882\u20131934_ (London: Jonathan Cape, 1999), 10.\n\n As reported by Valeriy Smirnov, quoted by Walsh in ibid., 28.\n\n See Rosamund Bartlett, 'Stravinsky's Russian origins', in this volume, for a fuller account of Stravinsky's relationship with Rimsky-Korsakov.\n\n See Glenn Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky to the Postmodernists_ (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994), 256\u201364.\n\n See Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1486\u201399.\n\n Peter Brook, _The Empty Space_ (London: Pelican, 1972). I discuss this at greater length in chap. 4 of _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).\n\n For a fuller account of Stravinsky's familiarity with such theatrical thinking, see Watkins, _Pyramids at the Louvre_ ; parallels between Stravinsky and Meyerhold are explored in Stephen Walsh, _Stravinsky: Oedipus Rex_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), especially 11\u201322.\n\n Brook, _The Empty Space_ , 47\u20138.\n\n Antonin Artaud, _The Theatre and its Double_ , trans. Victor Corti (London: Calder, 1993), 42.\n\n _The Empty Space_ , 63.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 259.\n\n _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1247.\n\n Stravinsky, quoted in Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky_ , 240.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 119\u201320.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1246.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 258.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1292 (his emphasis).\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 120.\n\n _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1298.\n\n _The Empty Space_ , 80.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 413.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1300, 1301.\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 91.\n\n Ibid., 92.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues_ , 22.\n\n Both works are given substantial coverage by Martha Hyde in her chapter 'Stravinsky's neoclassicism' in this volume. _The Nightingale_ , though to all intents and purposes an opera, is designated by Stravinsky a 'musical fairy tale'.\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 125.\n\n Ibid., 124.\n\n _Dialogues_ , 72.\n\n _Expositions and Developments_ , 123.\n\n Michael Oliver, _Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Phaidon, 1995), 190.\n\n See Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky_ , 496.\n\n George Balanchine, 'The dance element in Stravinsky's music', in Minna Lederman (ed.), _Stravinsky in the Theatre_ (New York: Da Capo, 1949), 81.\n\n Indeed, it was the 'real premiere', as Stravinsky had had nothing to do with the Washington production. See Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 455.\n\n 'The dance element in Stravinsky's music', 81.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 451.\n\n Ibid., 467.\n\n Balanchine, 'The dance element in Stravinsky's music', 82.\n\n _Dialogues_ , 78, n. 1.\n\n Ibid., 36.\n\n Ibid., 37.\n\n See also Anthony Pople, 'Stravinsky's early music', in this volume.\n\n Walsh, _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring_ , 142\u20133.\n\n Daniel Albright, _Stravinsky: the Music Box and the Nightingale_ (New York: Gordon and Breach, 1989), 4.\n\n**8 Stravinsky the serialist**\n\n Robert Craft, 'Influence or assistance?', in _Present Perspectives_ (New York: Knopf, 1984), 251\u20133; reprinted in _Stravinsky: Glimpses of a Life_ (London: Lime Tree, 1992), 38\u20139. Craft gave a slightly different version of the story in 1994: see _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948\u20131971_ , rev. and expanded edn (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1994). This alternative version, although it omits the actual shedding of tears, is even more emphatic than the earlier one in its assessment of the impact of Schoenberg's music.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 23.\n\n 'We have been working together for twenty-three years . . . [Craft] introduced me to almost all of the new music I have heard in the past two decades . . . and not only to the new music but to the new everything else. The plain truth is that anyone who admires my _Agon_ , my _Variations_ , my _Requiem Canticles_ , owes some gratitude to the man who has sustained my creative life these last years.' Letter to the Music Editor of the _Los Angeles Times_ (23 June 1970); reprinted in _Themes and Conclusions_ , 216.\n\n Craft, 'A centenary view, plus ten', in _Stravinsky: Glimpses of a Life_ , 16\u201317.\n\n The history of the Boulez\u2013Stravinsky relationship is detailed in Craft, 'Boulez in the lemon and limelight', in _Prejudices in Disguise_ (New York: Knopf, 1974), 207\u201313.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 63\u20135.\n\n Personal communication from Stravinsky to Milton Babbitt. Cited in Babbitt, _Words about Music_ , ed. Stephen Dembski and Joseph N. Straus (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), 20.\n\n For a basic discussion of partitioning in Schoenberg's twelve-note music, see Ethan Haimo, _Schoenberg's Serial Odyssey: the Evolution of his Twelve-note Method, 1914\u20131928_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 17\u201326.\n\n 'Schoenberg's work has too many inequalities for us to embrace it as a whole. For example, nearly all of his texts are appallingly bad, some of them so bad as to discourage performance of the music. Then too, his orchestrations of Bach, Handel, Monn, Loewe, Brahms differ from the type of commercial orchestration only in the superiority of craftsmanship: his intentions are no better . . . His expressionism is of the na\u00efvest sort . . . his late tonal works are as dull as the Reger they resemble, or the C\u00e9sar Franck'. Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 70\u201371.\n\n The Stravinsky/Webern relationship has been extensively discussed. See, for example, Henri Pousseur, 'Stravinsky by way of Webern', _Perspectives of New Music_ 10/2 (1972), 13\u201351 and 11/1 (1972), 112\u201345; Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); Susannah Tucker, 'Stravinsky and his sketches: the composing of _Agon_ and other serial works of the 1950s', PhD diss., Oxford University, 1992.\n\n Craft, 'A personal preface', _The Score_ 20 (1957), 11\u201313.\n\n The following comment is reasonably typical: '[Webern] is the discoverer of a new distance between the musical object and ourselves and, therefore, of a new measure of musical time; as such he is supremely important . . . he is a perpetual Pentecost for all who believe in music.' Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Memories and Commentaries_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1960; repr. edn Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 103\u20135.\n\n See, for example, van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky,_ and Richard Taruskin, 'The traditions revisited: Stravinsky's _Requiem Canticles_ as Russian music', in Christopher Hatch and David W. Bernstein (eds.), _Music Theory and the Exploration of the Past_ (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 525\u201350.\n\n No. 114\u20130737. Throughout this chapter, sketch and manuscript materials will be identified by their microfilm numbers in the Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel.\n\n The text is a passage from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_ in which Ariel claims (falsely) that Ferdinand's father has drowned.\n\n Craft refers to this opening melody as the 'bells motive' (Craft, _Avec Stravinsky_ (Monaco: Editions du Rocher, 1958), 149). In the final version of the song, this melody is accompanied by canons in the viola (in augmentation at the unison) and clarinet and viola (at the perfect fifth above). It is notable that Stravinsky composes the melody in its entirety first and adds accompanying parts later.\n\n Stravinsky considered these four forms \u2013 which I shall normally refer to as P (prime), I (for its inversion beginning on the same note), R (retrograde) and IR (inversion of the retrograde) \u2013 as the basic forms of the series throughout the remainder of his compositional life.\n\n 109\u20130694.\n\n The five-note idea in the sketch, E\u2013E\u2013F \u2013E \u2013D, is related by retrograde inversion to what later emerged as the series (Theme) for the piece, E\u2013E \u2013C\u2013C \u2013D. Both versions thus begin on E and end on D, and the same musical motion is composed-out over a large musical span in the relationship between the Prelude and the Postlude.\n\n There is an extensive literature on these arrays, including Claudio Spies, 'Some notes on Stravinsky's _Abraham and Isaac_ ', _Perspectives of New Music_ 3/2 (1965), 104\u201326; 'Some notes on Stravinsky's _Variations_ ', _Perspectives of New Music_ 4/1 (1965), 62\u201374, and 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings', _Perspectives of New Music_ 5/2 (1967), 98\u2013123; John Rogers, 'Some properties of non-duplicating rotational arrays', _Perspectives of New Music_ 7/1 (1968), 80\u2013102; Charles Wuorinen, _Simple Composition_ (New York: Longman, 1979); Milton Babbitt, 'Order, symmetry, and centricity in late Stravinsky', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 247\u201361, and 'Stravinsky's verticals and Schoenberg's diagonals: a twist of fate', in Ethan Haimo and Paul Johnson (eds), _Stravinsky Retrospectives_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 15\u201335; Robert Morris, 'Generalizing rotational arrays', _Journal of Music Theory_ 32/1 (1988), 75\u2013132.\n\n He occasionally uses also the retrograde of the inversion (RI).\n\n Stravinsky's source for rotational arrays was undoubtedly Ernst Krenek. See Catherine Hogan, ' _Threni_ : Stravinsky's debt to Krenek', _Tempo_ 141 (1982), 22\u20139. Stravinsky's use of the arrays, however, differs greatly from Krenek's.\n\n See Joseph N. Straus, 'Stravinsky's \"construction of twelve verticals\": an aspect of harmony in the serial music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 21/1 (1999), 231\u201371. For discussion of the apparent misprints in chords 10 and1, see Joseph N. Straus, 'Stravinsky's serial \"mistakes\", _Journal of Musicology_ 19/1 (1977), 55\u201380.\n\n On _The Firebird_ , see Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 275. On _The Rake_ , see Chandler Carter, 'Stravinsky's \"special sense\": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19/1 (1977), 55\u201380.\n\n The serial derivation of these chords is clarified in Karen Lesley Grylls, 'The aggregate re-ordered: a paradigm for Stravinsky's _Requiem Canticles_ ', PhD diss., University of Washington, 1993. The derivation offered in Richard Taruskin, 'The traditions revisited', 525\u201350, is incorrect.\n\n**9 Stravinsky conducts Stravinsky**\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Text and Act: Essays on Music and Performance_ (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 114.\n\n For the most comprehensive discography of Stravinsky's conducting, also including details of his many unpublished live recordings from 1930 on, see Philip Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky \u2013 The Composer in the Recording Studio: a Comprehensive Discography_ (New York: Greenwood Press, 1991). By far the most accessible source of Stravinsky's recordings is 'The recorded legacy', first issued as a thirty-one-record set in 1982 to mark the centenary of Stravinsky's birth (for a list of contents see Stuart, pp. 62\u20134), and reissued with small changes by Sony Classical on 22 CDs (SX22K 46290). This set does not however include key early recordings, such as the 1928 _Petrushka_ (no. 6 in Stuart, reissued on Pearl GEMM CD 9329) and the 1928 _Firebird_ and 1929 _Rite_ (nos 7 and 9 in Stuart, both reissued on Pearl GEMM CD 9334).\n\n Peter Hill, _Stravinsky: the Rite of Spring_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 118.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 110.\n\n Ibid., 133.\n\n The authoritative general introduction is Rex Lawson, 'Stravinsky and the pianola', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 284\u2013301; expanded version published in _The Pianola Journal_ 1 (1987), 15\u201326 and 2 (1989), 3\u201316.\n\n Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_ , 2nd rev. and expanded edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1979), 619.\n\n Vera Stravinsky and Robert Craft (eds.), _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ (London: Hutchinson, 1979), 165.\n\n Interview of Stravinsky by Florent Fels, _Les nouvelles litt\u00e9raires_ , 8 December 1928, quoted in V. Stravinsky and Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 164.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 70.\n\n Interview with _Seventeen_ magazine, in Igor Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 87; see also Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 123.\n\n Claudio Spies, 'Notes in his memory', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1 (1971), 155.\n\n As a pianist he premiered his _Four Studies for Piano_ in 1908. In his _Autobiography_ , Stravinsky records that his first attempt at conducting was a 'reading' of his Symphony in E at one of Ansermet's rehearsals in 1914 (Igor Stravinsky, _An Autobiography (1903\u20131934)_ (London: Victor Gollancz, 1936), 52; see also White, _Stravinsky_ , 177), and refers to conducting, 'for the first time in public', selections from _Firebird_ in Geneva and Paris in 1915 ( _An Autobiography_ , 59). Although this was followed by abortive discussions concerning a contract for Stravinsky to conduct his own works at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, his conducting skills were clearly underdeveloped at the time; it was probably not long after this that Otto Luening (then a member of the Tonhalle Orchestra, Zurich) rehearsed _Fireworks_ under him, noting that 'He was so nervous that he was not in control of the situation', while in _An Autobiography_ Stravinsky admits that, at the time of the Octet premiere, 'I was only just beginning my career as a conductor, I had not yet got the necessary technique, which I acquired later only with practice' (Otto Luening, (untitled), _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1, 131; Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 109).\n\n English version (from _The Arts_ 6/1 ( January 1924)) reprinted in White, _Stravinsky_ , 574\u20137.\n\n I shall not enter into the question of how far these books were the work of Stravinsky or of ghost-writers (respectively, Walter Nouvel and Roland-Manuel).\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 101.\n\n Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 223.\n\n Arnold Schoenberg, _Style and Idea_ , rev. edn, ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1984), 342 (but written in 1926).\n\n Robert Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style: Changing Tastes in Instrumental Performance, 1900\u20131950_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 11\u201312, citing Margaret Long, _Au piano avec Maurice Ravel_ (Paris, 1971), 36.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 122\u20133.\n\n Ibid., 122.\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 113.\n\n See for example Richard Hudson's account ( _Stolen Time: a History of Tempo Rubato_ (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 387\u20138) of the successive notations of the Magician's motive from _Petrushka_. The section of Hudson's book devoted to Stravinsky (381\u2013400) offers an exhaustive account of the surprisingly frequent indications of rubato, explicit or implicit, to be found in Stravinsky's scores of all periods, together with some comparisons from his recordings. 24 White, _Stravinsky_ , 576.\n\n Ibid., 575.\n\n Ibid., 576.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 127.\n\n Heinrich Schenker, _The Art of Performance_ , ed. Heribert Esser, trans. Irene Schreier Scott (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000).\n\n From the Florent Fels interview (see n. 9 above) as quoted in Robert Craft, _Igor and Vera Stravinsky: A Photograph Album (1921\u20131971)_ (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982), 20.\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 150, 152.\n\n From the _Seattle Post-Intelligencer_ , 5 March 1954 (quoted in Vera Stravinsky and Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ , 308).\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 119\n\n Hill, _The Rite_ , 159, contradicting Robert Fink, ' \" _Rigoroso_ ( \u2669 = 126)\": _The Rite of Spring_ and the forging of a modernist performing style', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 52 (1999), 335; Hill quotes some of the competing promotional material issued by the respective record companies. Monteux's recording (reissued on Pearl GEMM CD 9329) outsold Stravinsky's \u2013 possibly because, though actually a few seconds longer than Stravinsky's ( 31'50\" as against 31'18\"), it was squeezed on to four discs instead of five, and therefore cheaper; Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 8.\n\n Stuart discusses what he calls the 'Craft problem' at some length ( _Igor Stravinsky_ , 14\u201316); the scandal broke following Lillian Libman's revelation that CBS had included takes by Craft in recordings released under Stravinsky's sole name.\n\n _American Music Lover_ 7/2 (October 1940), 58.\n\n _The Gramophone_ 38 (1961), 533.\n\n _Musical Times_ 102 (1961), 369.\n\n _The Gramophone_ 38 (1961), 534.\n\n 'Index of record reviews with symbols indicating opinions of reviewers, compiled by Kurtz Myers and Donald L. Leavitt', _Notes_ 18 (1960\u201361), 625. The first issue of the volume summarises two other recordings of _The Rite_ , with less favourable outcomes: Dorati scores two as excellent, four as adequate and two as inadequate, while Goossens scores three, one and one respectively (p. 118). The following volume, 19 (1961\u20132), 666\u20137, summarises reviews of four works conducted by Stravinsky and three conducted by others; every Stravinsky recording gets a better rating than any of the others.\n\n Leo Smit, 'A card game, a wedding, and a passing', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1 (1971), 92\u20133.\n\n It sounds as if Smit had been watching _Fantasia_ , but images of birds proliferate in later accounts of Stravinsky's stage presence: see, for instance, George Rochberg, (untitled), _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1 (1971), 32\u20133, and J. K. Randall, 'Stravinsky in person', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1 (1971), 134. Something of this quality can be seen in the many published photographs of Stravinsky conducting, but perhaps most eloquently in Milein Cosman's drawings (Hans Keller and Milein Cosman, _Stravinsky Seen and Heard_ (London: Toccata Press, 1982)).\n\n Taruskin ( _Text and Act_ , 97\u20138) elaborates a similar argument, again in relation to _The Rite_ , further developed in Fink, '\" _Rigoroso_ \"', 323\u20134.\n\n Fink, '\" _Rigoroso_ \"', 317, 318\u201323.\n\n The date is given in Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 129, but contradicted in Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 144\u20135, where Stravinsky says that he first conducted _The Rite_ in 1928 for the Columbia recording, and in concert in 1929. Both accounts place the first concert performance in Amsterdam.\n\n Fink, '\" _Rigoroso_ \"', 324.\n\n These two sentences are condensed from Nicholas Cook, _Analysing Musical Multimedia_ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 196\u2013202, where references may be found, but for the authoritative account see Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), chaps. 12\u201313; for a more concise one, see Hill, _The Rite_ , especially chap. 7.\n\n White, _Stravinsky_ , 574, 577.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 145.\n\n In direct contravention of the stipulations in _Poetics of Music_ : 'The sin against the spirit of the work always begins with a sin against its letter and leads to the endless follies which an ever-flourishing literature in the worst taste does its best to sanction. Thus it follows that a _crescendo_ , as we all know, is always accompanied by a speeding up of movement . . .' (124). This recording was made with the Walther Straram Orchestra (Toscanini's favourite orchestra when in Paris).\n\n See the tables in Hill, _The Rite_ , 124, and, for more detail, Fink, '\" _Rigoroso_ \"', 356.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , enlarged edn (London: Faber and Faber, 1968), 108.\n\n Hill, _The Rite_ , 123.\n\n Fink, '\" _Rigoroso_ \"', 347.\n\n The 1960 recording of _Petrushka_ (Stuart's no. 92) is available as part of the 'Recorded legacy' set (Sony Classical SMK 46293). Philip's comparison of recordings from the 1920s and 1930s by Stravinsky, Coates, Malko and Stokowski does, however, show that Stravinsky's range of tempo variation, even in 1928, was lower than that of his contemporaries; Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 31\u20133.\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 101.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 117\u201323.\n\n Ibid., 118.\n\n Ibid., 119.\n\n Ibid., 20.\n\n Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 226.\n\n This expression, Stravinsky explains, has 'attained a myth-like status comparable to \"the rosy-fingered dawn\" in Homer' (ibid., 131). Some of Stravinsky's other references to Karajan were less kind.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 90.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 113. The reference is presumably to Bruno Walter, whose rehearsal of movements 1\u20133 of Mozart's 'Linz' Symphony, K. 425, was included on the two-LP set 'The birth of a performance', Philips ABL 3161\u20132.\n\n Ibid., 56; see also Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 38. Other conductors whom Stravinsky heard in St Petersburg include Nikisch and Richter, while in Berlin he heard Weingartner, who became 'a near idol of mine in my youth' (Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 225).\n\n Natalie Bauer-Lechner, _Erinnerungen an Gustav Mahler_ (Vienna: E. P. Tal, 1923), 46, quoted in translation by Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 37.\n\n Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 233.\n\n From Gray's _A Survey of Contemporary Music_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1927), quoted in Hill, _The Rite_ , 100\u20131.\n\n The best formulation, quoted by Taruskin ( _Text as Act_ , 117n.), comes from Nicolas Nabokov ('Stravinsky now', _Partisan Review_ 11 (1944), 332): 'Look at any one of [Stravinsky's] bars and you will find that it is not the measure closed in by bar lines (as it would be in Mozart, for example), but the monometrical unit of the measure, the single beat which determines the life of his musical organism.'\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 87\u20138, where Stravinsky not only lists his repertoire but also registers an unrealised ambition to conduct Beethoven's Symphonies 1\u20134 and 8, and _Fidelio_. Live recordings of music by other composers are included in Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ , Appendix C. 70 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Symphonies' (Sony Classical SM2K 46294). Curiously, Stravinsky suggested recording _The Sleeping Beauty_ in 1929 within the terms of his Columbia contract, but the offer was not taken up; see Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 8.\n\n 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Ballets vol. II', SM3K 46292.\n\n Respectively, nos. 7, 99 and 182 in Stuart, _Igor Stravinsky_ ; reissued as 'Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring and The Firebird' (Pearl GEMM CD 9334), 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Ballets vol. I' (Sony Classical SM3K 46291), and 'Igor Stravinsky Edition: Ballet Suites' (Sony Classical SMK 46293). Fig. 9.1, which is adapted to take account of the two different openings, is based on an average tempo for each section (not on beat-by-beat analysis); it should be noted that this method conflates the effects of tempo proper with those of caesurae.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 147.\n\n Fink, '\" _Rigoroso_ \"', 313.\n\n Hill, _The Rite_ , 137.\n\n Tempos are taken from Hill's chart (ibid., 124), but with the metronome marking at rehearsal number 57 corrected from 168 to 166. Hill points out that any such values can only be approximate (ibid., 120), because they depend in part on the method of measurement; for consistency I have therefore left his values for the 1960 performance of the Introduction to Part 2 unchanged, despite the divergence between them and Table 9.1.\n\n Philip, _Early Recordings and Musical Style_ , 234.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 82\u201390, and Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 234\u201341.\n\n Concert Hall CM 2324 (stereo LP).\n\n According to Hill's chart, the winner, by a wide margin, is Craft's 1962 recording, of which Stravinsky inexplicably writes, 'The tempo is correct' ( _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 85).\n\n Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 137.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 118.\n\n A sense of this transformation is conveyed by Soulima Stravinsky in Ben Johnston, 'An interview with Soulima Stravinsky', _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1 (1971), 15\u201327.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Conversations_ , 119.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Dialogues and a Diary_ , 122.\n\n Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ , 139.\n\n Ibid., 228.\n\n Taruskin, _Text and Act_ , 129.\n\n Ibid., 117.\n\n**10 Stravinsky as devil: Adorno's three critiques**\n\n T. W. Adorno, _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ (T\u00fcbingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1949), in _Gesammelte Schriften_ (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1975) vol. 12, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Klaus Schultz. Eng. edn: _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Sheed and Ward, 1973).\n\n Schoenberg in a letter to Rufer in 1949 wrote: 'it is disgusting, by the way, how he treats Stravinsky. I am certainly no admirer of Stravinsky, although I like a piece of his here and there very much \u2013 but one should not write like that.' Cited in H. H. Stuckenschmidt, _Schoenberg: His Life, World and Work_ , trans. Humphrey Searle (London: Calder, 1977), 508.\n\n C\u00e9lestin Deli\u00e8ge, 'Stravinsky\u2013ideology \u2013 language', _Perspectives of New Music_ 26/1 (Winter 1988), 83.\n\n Robert Craft, 'A bell for Adorno', in _Prejudices in Disguise_ (New York: Knopf, 1974), 91\u2013102.\n\n T. W. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', in _Quasi una fantasia_ , trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1992), 147.\n\n Carl Dahlhaus, 'Das Problem der \"h\u00f6heren Kritik\": Adornos Polemik gegen Strawinsky', in _Neue Zeitschrift f\u00fcr Musik_ 148/5 (1987), 9\u201315.\n\n Peter B\u00fcrger, 'The decline of the modern age', trans. David J. Parent, _Telos_ 62 (Winter 1984\u20135), 117\u201330.\n\n Jean-Fran\u00e7ois Lyotard, 'Adorno as the devil' [1973], trans. Robert Hurley, _Telos_ 19 (1974/5), 127\u20138.\n\n See Thomas Mann, _Doctor Faustus_ , trans. H. T. Lowe-Porter (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), 231\u20137.\n\n T. W. Adorno, 'Die stabilisierte Musik' [1928], _Gesammelte Schriften_ , vol. 18, ed. Rolf Tiedemann (Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1984), 721\u20138.\n\n T. W. Adorno, 'Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik' [1932], in _Gesammelte Schriften_ , vol. 18, 729\u201377. English version: 'On the social situation of music', trans. Wesley Blomster, _Telos_ 35 (Spring 1978), 128\u201364.\n\n See my _Adorno's Aesthetics of Music_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 102\u20135.\n\n T. W. Adorno, 'Die stabilisierte Musik' [1928], p. 725 (my translation).\n\n At the beginning of _Philosophy of New Music_ Adorno cites a significant passage from Walter Benjamin's _The Origin of German Tragic Drama_ : 'Philosophical history as the science of origins is that form which, from the most far-flung extremes and apparent excesses of development, allows the emergence of the configuration of the Idea, characterized as the totality of all possibilities for a meaningful juxtaposition of such opposites.' _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ , 13 (my translation).\n\n _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , 181.\n\n Ibid., 171.\n\n Ibid., 142.\n\n Ibid., 144.\n\n Ibid., 159.\n\n Ibid., 173.\n\n Ibid., 157n.\n\n Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 148\u20139.\n\n Ibid., 150.\n\n B\u00fcrger, 'The decline of the modern age', 119.\n\n 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 150\u201351.\n\n Dahlhaus, 'Das Problem der \"h\u00f6heren Kritik\"'.\n\n Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 234.\n\n Ibid., 234\u20135.\n\n Adorno, _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , 216\u201317.\n\n Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 152.\n\n Apparently Beckett had reservations about Adorno's interpretation of his _Endgame_. See James Knowlson, _Damned to Fame: the Life of Samuel Beckett_ (London: Bloomsbury, 1996), 478\u20139.\n\n T. W. Adorno, 'Trying to Understand _Endgame_ ', in _Notes to Literature_ , vol. 1, trans. Shierry Weber Nicholsen (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 268.\n\n Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 173.\n\n Adorno, 'Trying to Understand _Endgame_ ', 243.\n\n See my essay, 'Adorno's aesthetics of modernism', in _Adorno, Modernism and Mass Culture: Essays on Critical Theory and Music_ (London: Kahn and Averill, 1996), 51.\n\n 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 174.\n\n Ibid., 174.\n\n T. W. Adorno, _Minima Moralia_ [1951], trans. Edmund Jephcott (London: Verso/New Left Books, 1974), 49.\n\n**11 Stravinsky in analysis: the anglophone traditions**\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Chroniques de ma vie_ (Paris: Deno\u00ebl and Steel, 1935\u20136). Trans. anon. as _An Autobiography_ (New York: Steuer, 1958); repr. with corrections by Eric Walter White (London: Marion Boyars, 1975), 53. Stravinsky's italics.\n\n Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 14.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music, in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 6.\n\n _Poetics_ , 80\u20131.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 101\u20132. Their italics.\n\n Richard Taruskin, 'Stravinsky and the subhuman. A myth of the 20th century: _The Rite of Spring_ , the tradition of the new, and \"the music itself \"', in _Defining Russia Musically_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 360\u201385; 382.\n\n Ibid., 379.\n\n Ibid., 367.\n\n The influence of Stravinsky's objectivity and its relation to Schoenberg's ideal of structural autonomy is discussed in Rose Rosengard Subotnik, _Deconstructive Variations: Music and Reason in Western Society_ (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 148\u201376.\n\n Edward T. Cone, 'Stravinsky: the progress of a method' [1962], in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (rev. edn New York: Norton, 1968), 155\u201364; Arthur Berger, 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky' [1963], in Boretz and Cone, _Perspectives_ , 123\u201354; Pierre Boulez, 'Stravinsky remains', in _Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship_ , trans. Stephen Walsh (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 55\u2013110. Boulez's essay, written in 1951, was first published in French as 'Stravinsky demeure', in Pierre Souvtchinsky (ed.), _Musique russe_ , 2 vols (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953), vol. 1, 155\u2013224, and first appeared in English in 1968.\n\n Declared by Boulez in 'Schoenberg is dead [1952]', in _Stocktakings_ , 209\u201314.\n\n Milton Babbitt, 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky' [1964], and Claudio Spies, 'Notes on Stravinsky's _Abraham and Isaac_ ' [1965], 'Notes on Stravinsky's Variations' [1965], and 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings' [1967], all in Boretz and Cone, _Perspectives_ : 165\u201385, 186\u2013209, 210\u201322, 223\u201349 respectively.\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). The case for a wider European context for Stravinsky is put by Pieter C. van den Toorn in _Music, Politics, and the Academy_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), chap. 7 ('A case in point: context and analytical method in Stravinsky'), 179\u2013219.\n\n Olivier Messiaen, _The Technique of my Musical Language_ , trans. John Satterfield (Paris: Alphonse Leduc, 1956), vol. 1, 59\u201360; vol. 2, Exx. 312\u201328.\n\n Berger, 'Problems of pitch organisation', 132.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 266. A concise discussion of octatonicism in Stravinsky and Rimsky-Korsakov is contained in Louis Andriessen and Elmer Sch\u00f6nberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork: on Stravinsky_ , trans. Jeff Hamburger (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 228\u201335. See also Anthony Pople, 'Early Stravinsky', this volume, p. 66.\n\n A full explanation of the basics of octatonic theory is given in Pieter C. van den Toorn, _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 31\u201372.\n\n Van den Toorn is 'inclined to agree with Arthur Berger that the Stravinskian stamp is advantageously defined with reference to the octatonic pitch collection, whether inferred singly or in terms of some kind of octatonic-diatonic penetration', ibid., 41.\n\n See ibid., chap. 10, 271\u2013320. Stravinsky's interest in the sonority and symmetrical properties of the major-minor tetrachord is reported in Allen Forte, _The Harmonic Organization of 'The Rite of Spring'_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978), 33, n. 7, and is associated with the trope of the bell in Andriessen and Sch\u00f6nberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 272\u20134.\n\n See, for example, Taruskin's discussion of Rimsky-Korsakov's 'harmonic exploitation' of the octatonic scale, in particular chromatic chord progressions ascending and descending in minor thirds (i.e. through the diminished tetrachord). _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 255\u2013306.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 32.\n\n Forte, ' _The Rite of Spring_ ', 29.\n\n Notably in the correspondence between Forte and Taruskin published in _Music Analysis_ , 5/2\u20133 (1986), 313\u201337. Forte is also implicated in Taruskin's rejection of formalist approaches to _The Rite_ by Elliott Antokoletz, _Twentieth-Century Music_ (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1991) and Pieter C. van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': the Beginnings of a Musical Language_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). The conflicts and similarities of the views of Forte, van den Toorn and Taruskin are discussed in Anthony Pople, 'Misleading voices: contrasts and continuities in Stravinsky studies', in Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist (eds.), _Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretation: Essays in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 271\u201387; 271\u20137.\n\n Forte, ' _The Rite of Spring_ ', 28.\n\n For precision and concision, pitch-class (pc) collections are designated throughout this chapter using Forte's set names, as listed in _The Structure of Atonal Music_ (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), Appendix 1, 179\u201381. In this case, set 4\u201317, '4' indicates that the set is a tetrachord, '17' simply that it is seventeenth in the list of tetrachords; the pc list [0,3,4,7] expresses the basic form of the set using the numerical notation of pcs (C = 0, C \u266f = 1, etc.) and indicates that in its (abstractly defined) prime form this set comprises C, E\u266d, E\u266e and G. In an actual composition, of course, the set would usually appear in transposition and inversion, while retaining its identity as the major-minor tetrachord.\n\n Forte, ' _The Rite of Spring_ ', 32. Similarly, Forte analyses extracts from Stravinsky's works (up to the _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ ) alongside music by Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, Bart\u00f3k, Busoni, Ives, Ruggles, Skryabin and Var\u00e8se.\n\n Any one of the three distinct forms (van den Toorn's Collections I\u2013III) of the octatonic scale naturally selects eight of the twelve chromatic pcs; if the pc content of a passage can be accounted for by a single collection, then a relatively exclusive harmonic focus is in operation. Any two collections cover the total chromatic, holding invariant a diminished tetrachord (set 4\u201328 [0,3,6,9]); potentially, then, any passage in which twelve pcs are present may be described as octatonic, but this becomes a structural description only when the two collections can be shown to be (a) discrete and (b) interactive (as, for example, when chords belonging to separate collections alternate and are perhaps connected by their invariant diminished tetrachord). In a very general sense, this is van den Toorn's procedure in _Stravinsky_.\n\n See Cone, 'Stravinsky', 156.\n\n These concise definitions are taken from the glossary of Taruskin's _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 1677\u20139. The principles are considered at length on 951\u201366.\n\n Jonathan Kramer, 'Moment form in twentieth-century music', _Musical Quarterly_ 64 (1978), 177\u201394; 'Discontinuity and proportion in the music of Stravinsky', in Jann Pasler (ed.), _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 174\u201394; and _The Time of Music: New Meanings, New Temporalities, New Listening Strategies_ (New York: Schirmer, 1988), 221\u201385. Kramer's approach is the point of departure for two original, structurally sensitive studies by Marianne Kielian-Gilbert: (1) 'The rhythms of form: correspondence and analogy in Stravinsky's designs', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 9 (1987), 42\u201366 (centred on the second of the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ and the 'Soldier's March' from _The Soldier's Tale_ ); and (2) 'Stravinsky's contrasts: contradiction and discontinuity in his neoclassic music', _Journal of Musicology_ 9 (1991), 448\u201380 (on the _Concertino_ for string quartet, the first movement of the Symphony in C and the Octet).\n\n See also Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 2 ('Block forms'), 17\u201379, which traces this Stravinskian formal inheritance in Var\u00e8se, Messiaen, Stockhausen, Tippett and Birtwistle.\n\n Kramer, 'Moment form', 177\u201388 _passim_. Proportional analysis is an essential mode of relation in Kielian-Gilbert's 'The rhythms of form' and is developed further in Akane Mori's 'Proportional exchange in Stravinsky's early serial music', _Journal of Music Theory_ 41 (1997), 227\u201359, which applies and extends Kramer's concepts to formal design, the relation of voices and text setting in _Canticum Sacrum_.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 30\u201332.\n\n Arnold Schoenberg, _Fundamentals of Musical Composition_ , ed. Gerald Strang and Leonard Stein (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), 8. Schoenberg's conception of structure gives priority to 'developing variation', a more profound conception of transformation than Stravinsky's 'similarities': for the teleological theorist, the latter would correspond to Schoenberg's 'variants' ('changes of subordinate meaning, which have no special consequences', p. 8).\n\n Taruskin, 'Stravinsky and the subhuman', 366. See also Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1125\u20136, on Stravinsky's reception of the ideas of Bergson and Souvtchinsky.\n\n See Stephen Kern, _The Culture of Time and Space 1800\u20131918_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); Mark Antliff, _Inventing Bergson: Cultural Politics and the Parisian Avant-garde_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); and Martin Jay, _Downcast Eyes: the Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century Thought_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 186\u2013209.\n\n Bergson, _Time and Freewill: an Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness_ [1889], trans. F. L. Pogson (London: Allen and Unwin, 1910), 109.\n\n Following Boulez's 'Stravinsky remains', theoretical treatments of rhythmic and metrical structure in Stravinsky customarily begin by consolidating spatial conceptions in the play of even and odd durations (Boulez's 'rational' and 'irrational' values), symmetry and dissymmetry, and layered rhythmic structures, in which separate rhythms unfold in various strata of a composition. Cross's survey of analyses of rhythmic innovations in _The Rite_ by Boulez, van den Toorn ( _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 137\u201343) and Taruskin ( _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 958\u201364) emphasises the flexibility and 'exchange' of rhythmic cells in the work, the interplay of ostinato and repetitive asymmetrical or syncopated rhythms, and the vertical opposition of rhythmic regularity over a regular metre; see _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 3 ('Structural rhythms'), 81\u2013104. Van den Toorn's _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ contains the most developed theoretical account of Stravinsky's rhythmic practices, divided in two 'dimensions': (1) 'the repetition of a single reiteration, fragment, line or part'; (2) 'the registrally fixed repetition of fragments, lines or parts which repeat according to _varying_ and hence \"separate\" or \"independent\" rhythmic-metric patterns' (p. 216, his italics). Countering the received idea of Stravinsky's rhythm as a fully emancipated parameter of music, van den Toorn focuses on the ways in which rhythmic invention, while discretely organised, interacts with pitch structure. This is also the intention of Jonathan Kramer's analysis of _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ in which 'moments' and 'submoments', constructed from integrated cells of pitch and rhythmic material, are controlled by a diatonic-chromatic linear progression ( _The Time of Music_ , 221\u201385). However, the conflict of immobility and process in the rhythmic organisation itself and between the two parameters (rhythm and linear pitch structures) is difficult to resolve if integration is the analytical goal. Alexander Rehding's 'Towards a \"logic of discontinuity\" in Stravinsky's _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ : Hasty, Kramer and Straus reconsidered', _Music Analysis_ 17/1 (1998), 39\u201367, perceptively explores this problem in Kramer, alongside analyses by Joseph N. Straus, from 'The problem of prolongation in post-tonal music', _Journal of Music Theory_ 31/1 (1987), 1\u201321, and _Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Traditions_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), and Christopher Hasty, from 'On the problem of succession and continuity in twentieth-century music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 8 (1986), 58\u201374. Rehding seeks a logic of discontinuity that avoids the stylistically dissonant 'organicist' approach of L\u00e1szl\u00f3 Somfai ('Symphonies of Wind Instruments (1920): observations of Stravinsky's organic construction', _Studia musicologia Academiae Scientarum Hungaricae_ 14 (1972), 355\u201383) while proposing various modes of 'overall coherence', culminating in the syntheses of the final chorale. The primary stylistic feature to emerge from these studies is that Stravinsky's 'block forms' contain initial cellular fusions of pitch and rhythmic variables which can be distributed and transformed separately in subsequent 'blocks' and eventually achieve a re-synthesis or, to adapt a phrase from _Poetics_ , convergence in a state of repose.\n\n Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1648\u201375.\n\n Spies, 'Stravinsky's Requiem settings', 237, n. 6.\n\n My evidence is biographical and circumstantial. Andriessen and Sch\u00f6nberger emphasise the importance to Stravinsky of some Italian music (especially Gabrieli) and of Venice, the city in which he is buried ( _Apollonian Clockwork_ , 7\u201310). They also hear unspecified 'reference to other Requiems from musical history' (8). Stravinsky himself referred to echoes of _Il Trovatore_ heard by some in _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ and _Pers\u00e9phone_ , neither accepting nor rejecting these associations; see Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Dialogues_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1982), 34.\n\n Joseph N. Straus, _Remaking the Past_. Straus applies a version of Harold Bloom's Freudian theory of the 'anxiety' of poetic influence to a wide range of modernist music, including Stravinsky's, in order to reveal a dimension of reinterpretation in relation to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century tonal models. Primarily, the issue bears on Stravinsky's neoclassical music. See also van den Toorn, _Music, Politics and the Academy_ , chap. 6 ('Neoclassicism revised'), 143\u201378, in which Straus's arguments are reviewed in the context of recent literature on the topic, and Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 6 ('A fresh look at Stravinsky analysis'), 193\u2013225, for analyses of the Symphony in C and the Symphony in Three Movements in the light of Straus and theories of the 'moment'.\n\n _Requiem Canticles_ is based on two series (see Spies, 'Stravinsky's Requiem settings', 233\u20137). Stravinsky's serial procedures are discussed in: van den Toorn, _The music of Stravinsky_ , 427\u201355; Milton Babbitt, 'Stravinsky's verticals and Schoenberg's diagonals: a twist of fate', in Ethan Haimo and Paul Johnson (eds), _Stravinsky Retrospectives_ (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), 15\u201335, and 'Order, symmetry and centricity in late Stravinsky', in Pasler, _Confronting Stravinsky_ , 247\u201361; Charles Wourinen and Jeffrey Kresky, 'On the significance of Stravinsky's last works', in ibid., 262\u201370; Paul Schuyler Phillips, 'The enigma of _Variations_ : a study of Stravinsky's final work for orchestra', _Music Analysis_ 3/1 (1984), 69\u201389; and Joseph N. Straus, _Stravinsky's Late Music_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). See also Straus, 'Stravinsky the serialist', in this volume.\n\n Since Stravinsky's technique of rotation is applied to the hexachords, not to the complete row, pitch repetitions are produced between the a and b hexachords of all the IR forms except IR0a and IR0b, which are mutually complementary (as in traditional serialism).\n\n These two exceptions are produced by Stravinsky's deployment of the hexachords and verticals. The absence of G\u266e (pc 7) in _Huic ergo_ (bars 250\u201354) is compensated by the presence of this pc as the last note of bar 249 and in the vertical (Vb5) in bar 255. Similarly, the absence of D\u266e and E\u266d (pcs 2 and 3) in the _Amen_ is mitigated by the presence of these pcs at the end of phrase 6 (bars 260\u201361). It is clear, though, that Stravinsky's serial logic is directed towards the system created by the rotation of hexachords and verticals and does not insist axiomatically on the (Schoenbergian) requirement to keep all twelve pcs in play.\n\n The verticals are labelled according to the hexachord from which they are derived. 'Vb1' refers to the first vertical generated from IRb, and so on (see Table 11.4).\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 24. Stravinsky goes on to say that 'I hear harmonically, of course, and I compose in the same way I always have' (25). Taruskin's view is that Stravinsky's 'late serial music is probably the most essentially harmonic \u2013 in the literal, vertical, chordal sense of the word \u2013 of any that may be found within the borders of the dodecaphonic realm' ( _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1652\u20133); but this is true only literally, vertically and chordally. In their different ways, Berg and Webern, for example, construct and exert a tight control on the vertical dimension of their serial music (the Scherzo of Webern's String Quartet, Op. 28, is a classic instance of an 'essentially harmonic' conception). The most recent considerations of Stravinsky's serial harmonic logic are Joseph N. Straus's indispensable essay on this topic, 'Stravinsky's \"construction of the twelve verticals\": an aspect of harmony in the serial music', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 21 (1999), 43\u201373, his chapter 'Harmony', in _Stravinsky's Late Music_ , 141\u201382, and 'Stravinsky the serialist' in this volume. Straus argues that 'the evolution of solutions to the problem of writing serial harmony during this period can be understood, at least in part, in terms of evolving solutions to the problem of writing serial harmony' ('Stravinsky's \"construction\"', 43). He identifies Stravinsky's most original contributions to serial theory as (1) the 'Lacrimosa'-type 'verticals of rotational arrays' (authoritatively theorised in Babbitt's 'Stravinsky's verticals', and 'Order, symmetry, and centricity'); and (2) the verticals in four-part arrays, 'a layering of four series from which twelve chords are created as vertical slices through the array' (45).\n\n The construction of this doubled five-verticals array foreshadows the five-chord arrays in the Postlude of _Requiem Canticles_ , in which five different chords (piccolo, flutes, piano, harp) alternate with other chord sequences (celesta, bells, vibraphone), three of which contain five verticals.\n\n As noted above, the whole-tone scale intersects with the octatonic collections, but its distinctive character tends to dominate its octatonic content. Table 11.7 reveals that Stravinsky seems intent on avoiding the anomalous whole tone: in the music (bars 250\u201353) 4-25 is split into set 3-8 (bar 250) and the dyad F\u266f/C (bar 253); when the dyad D\u266f/A\u266f (bar 250) is placed beneath 3-8, this whole-tone trichord is incorporated into the diatonic/chromatic set 5-30.\n\n For example, the 5-Z38 (10, 1, 4, 5, 6) of Vb3 (bar 233) contains A\u266f, C\u266f, E, F, F\u266f, of which the segment A\u266f, C\u266f, E, F (10, 1, 4, 6) belongs to octatonic collection III. This segment can also be interpreted as an F\u266f7chord, but no priority is given to this tonal formation here.\n\n In _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1661\u20132 and Ex. 20, Taruskin analyses the C\u266e and G\u266e (bar 232) as the point of transition from octatonic collection II (bars 229\u201331). Although this is broadly accurate, the presence of E\u266f in bar 233 (Vb3, 5-Z38) lies outside collection III and transforms the sonority. It is an exaggeration to claim that 'the harmony produced is nothing other than a _Petrushka_ chord (excepting the E sharp . . . )' (1662), since the chord sounds nothing like the (octatonic) _Petrushka_ chord: the theoretical explanation here is reductive in the sense that it does not address the aural effect of the chord in bar 233, nor the difference within the octatonic similarity of the chords compared. Taruskin also claims that the 'Lacrimosa' progresses regularly through simultaneities of collections II and III; again, this is reductively true, but the multiple of instances of foreign notes generated by the interaction of the various rotational schemes means that the movement is not quite as systematically controlled as Taruskin's brief analysis makes it appear.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, 'Change of life', in _Themes and Episodes_ (New York: Knopf, 1966), 23\u20134.\n\n Milton Babbitt, 'Stravinsky's verticals', 16.\n\n Stravinsky, _Poetics_ , 35.\n\n Ibid., 37. Stravinsky encapsulates the function of pitch centres in the concept of 'polarity' which may apply to a sound, an interval or a 'complex of tones'; see _Poetics_ , 36. The structural processes implicit in polarity were explored initially in Berger's 'Problems of pitch organisation', 135\u201341, in particular the contradiction inherent in the concept that if a sonority (Stravinsky's 'complex of tones') is to be polarised then single-pitch polarity would have to be either withheld or polarised within the sonority. Further ramifications of Berger's discussion are considered in Marianne Kielian-Gilbert, 'Relationships of symmetrical pitch-class sets and Stravinsky's metaphor of polarity', _Perspectives of New Music_ 21 (1982\u20133), 209\u201340, and pursued in extracts from the _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ , _The Rite of Spring_ (Introduction) and the Octet ('Tema con variazione'). She argues that polarity exists when two or more versions of a pc set class exhibit a structure symmetrical around a pc or dyad that remains invariant when one or more of the sets is transposed (for example, C\u2013D\u2013F\u2013G [0, 2, 5, 7] and F\u2013G\u2013B\u266d\u2013C [5, 7, 10, 0]); this creates 'inversional balance or complementation'. Under these conditions, polarity of a sonority (a set class) can co-exist with single-pitch polarity, as long as the single pitch is the invariant centre of symmetry for the various transpositions and configurations of the sonority. Kielian-Gilbert's conception of polarity theorises a particular ('inversional') configuration of Straus's analysis of harmonic polarity in Stravinsky's centric music according to a theory of 'tonal axis', defined as 'a nucleus of pitches' that (a) consists of overlapping major and minor triads (for example, E\u2013G\u2013B\u2013D), (b) must function as a referential sonority, and (c), in contradistinction to a 'unified' major or minor seventh chord, must embody a conflict or polarity between its two constituent triads (e.g. E\u2013G\u2013B and G\u2013B\u2013D). These latter triads, for example, fulfil Kielian-Gilbert's conditions for inversional complementation ([4, 7, 11] and [7, 11, 2]). See Joseph N. Straus, 'Stravinsky's tonal axis', _Journal of Music Theory_ 26 (1982), 261\u201390.\n\n See Theodor Adorno, _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (London: Seabury Press, 1973), 138\u201340. The structural and aesthetic effects of hypostatisation are considered at length in Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ , chap. 7 ('Conclusions: Stravinsky, Adorno, and the problem of non-development'), 227\u201341.\n\n Adele T. Katz, 'Stravinsky', in _Challenge to Musical Tradition: Toward a New Concept of Tonality_ (London: Putnam, 1947), 294\u2013349; Felix Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ (New York: Charles Boni, 1952; corrected edition, New York: Dover, 1962); and Allen Forte, _Contemporary Tone Structures_ (New York: Columbia University Bureau of Publications, 1955), 25\u201338, 128\u201338, 150\u201353, 187\u201392.\n\n Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ , 219 and Ex. 427.\n\n Heinrich Schenker, 'Further considerations of the Urlinie II', in William Drabkin (ed.), _The Masterwork in Music_ , vol. 2, 17\u201318. See especially 17, Fig. 31. Some ramifications of Schenker's analysis are discussed in Robert Morgan, 'Dissonant prolongations: theoretical and compositional precedents', _Journal of Music Theory_ 20 (1976), 49\u201391.\n\n Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ , 194.\n\n Ibid., 218.\n\n Ibid., Ex. 472.\n\n Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice', _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 33\u201353; 51. The function of dissonance in Stravinsky is explored further in 'Tonality and the emancipated dissonance: Schoenberg and Stravinsky', in Jonathan Dunsby (ed.), _Models of Musical Analysis: Early Twentieth Century Music_ (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), 1\u201319.\n\n Salzer, _Structural Hearing_ , 191.\n\n Roy Travis, 'Towards a new concept of tonality?', _Journal of Music Theory_ 3 (1959), 257\u201384.\n\n On this theoretical issue, see Joseph N. Straus, 'The problem of prolongation', and 'Voice-leading in atonal music', in James Baker, David Beach and Jonathan Bernard (eds), _Music Theory in Concept and Practice_ (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997), 237\u201374; see also Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis as human science?', 41\u20139.\n\n Katz, 'Stravinsky', 337.\n\n Ibid., 340; see also 341\u20137. Katz addresses the issue that concerned Schoenberg in the early 1930s, in reaction to Ernst Kurth's _Grundlagen der lineare Kontrapunkt_ (Bern, 1917). Both Katz and Schoenberg argue against the notion that counterpoint in extended tonality, atonality or serialism can proceed entirely 'linearly' without harmonic logic or control. See Schoenberg, 'Linear counterpoint' and 'Linear counterpoint: linear polyphony', in _Style and Idea_ , ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 289\u201395 and 295\u20137 respectively.\n\n In _Contemporary Tone Structures_ (1955), Forte's analysis of the 'Larghetto' from _Les cinq doigts_ and the whole of _Petrushka_ also produces linear structures (generated by 'specific single tones') unfolding independently and dissonantly, a technique that 'results in tensions between the individual lines, thus providing a compositional resource of great potential' (137). Like Katz, Forte rejects the implication that such lines exemplify so-called 'linear counterpoint' and maintains that 'vertical coincidence at important structural points is manifestly an important consideration' (137). This harmonic logic, which takes the form of departure from and return to referential sonorities, does, however, remain somewhat attenuated in the analyses. The tension between the linear and vertical is an unresolved theoretical problem in _Contemporary Tone Structures_ , but finds a radical solution in Forte's pc set theory (see above) predicated on the Schoenbergian-atonal concept of the 'unity [or parametrical identity] of musical space'. Subsequently, Forte extended the scope of pc set theory to admit the linear projection of pc sets, a type of non-tonal prolongation applied to sections of _The Rite_ and _Petrushka_ : see Allen Forte, 'New approaches to the linear analysis of music', _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 41 (1988), 315\u201348.\n\n See Joseph N. Straus, 'A principle of voice-leading in the music of Stravinsky', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 4 (1982), 106\u201324, 'The problem of prolongation', and 'Voice-leading in atonal music'; Arnold Whittall, 'Music analysis: descriptions and distinctions' (Inaugural lecture in the Faculty of Music, King's College London, 1982); Anthony Pople, 'Misleading voices', 277\u201387.\n\n My term 'centrum' is intended to differentiate Stravinsky's pitch centres from the tonic function in common-practice tonality.\n\n See Straus, 'The problem of prolongation', 13\u201321. In 'Voice-leading in atonal music', Straus refines the associational model, adopting David Lewin's principle of transformational networks in order to define more precisely the relationship of the associative sonorities.\n\n In their prime forms, set classes 6-Z25, 5-16 and 5-19 are supersets of 4-Z29, as follows: 6-Z25 [5,6,8,0,11,3] contains 4-Z29 as [5,6,8,0] requiring a theoretical transposition down five semitones to the prime form of 4-Z29 [0,1,3,7]; 5-16 [0,1,3,4,7] contains 4-Z29 [0,1,3,7]; 5-19 [0,1,3,6,7] contains 4-Z29 [0,1,3,7].\n\n Although it is difficult to hear the linear projection of 4-Z29 in the high piccolo register, I would maintain that the linear 4-Z29 is a structural event, projected in this case both horizontally and registrally, and that its inaudibility is a striking image of structural alienation; see Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', in _Quasi una fantasia_ , trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1992), 145\u201375; 146.\n\n The association of the G\u266es in the voice (bar 263) and trombone (bar 265) is strong but disturbed by the final vocal A\u266e and the trombone's G\u266e. As I hear the passage, there is no structural closure on the G\u266e unison (ic0) but a cadential reiteration of ic1 (G\u266e/G\u266e) that keeps in play the chromatic interference with the centrum.\n\n See also Jeffrey Perry, 'A \"requiem for the requiem\": on Stravinsky's _Requiem Canticles_ ', _College Music Symposium_ 33\u20134 (1993\u20134), 237\u201356, for a culturally-nuanced discussion of the tension between tonal implication and serially-controlled centricity in the work (especially the 'Libera me'). The complexity of incipient tonal structure in a short serial work by Stravinsky ( _Anthem_ : 'The dove descending breaks the air' [1962]) is analysed and demonstrated in Arnold Whittall's 'Music analysis: descriptions and distinctions' and Anthony Pople's 'Misleading voices'. The types of harmonic duality and ambiguity they identify are also present, though differently balanced and configured, in Stravinsky's later neoclassical music. Kofi Agawu's 'Stravinsky's _Mass_ and Stravinsky analysis', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 11 (1989), 139\u201363, isolates a 'residue of conflict' even at the deepest levels of tonal structure of the Kyrie of the Mass (1948) and concludes that a dual hearing of tonal process is necessary, specifically 'an underlying tonal structure of G, which then refers back to a more surface phenomenon, the \"arpeggiated\" tetrachord, 4-23' (161). This duality of structure is strikingly similar to that of the 'Lacrimosa' (the G\u266e centrum and projected chromatic set), except that in the later work the duality of the constituents achieves a greater degree of integration (or 'unity') since G\u266e is polarised _within_ set 4-Z29. Agawu's case for 'the benefit of [ . . . ] two essentially contradictory perspectives in order to gain the richest sense of structural procedure in the piece' (161) is confirmed in a recent, harmonically sensitive study by Chandler Carter, 'Stravinsky's \"special sense\": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ ', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19 (1997), 55\u201380. Carter's methodologically pluralist analysis of four sections of the _The Rake_ 's _Progress_ \u2013 using voice-leading and motivic analysis, pc set theory and post-tonal linear theory \u2013 seeks the mediating features of the diverse tonal 'styles' within the opera but resists the temptation to resolve such conflict formalistically into a synthesis or harmonic consistency. With the aid of theoretical formulations that begin to revitalise the metaphors of pitch focus and tonal perspective in Stravinsky, Carter proposes (and demonstrates convincingly) that tonality in the work is used 'to create the opera's d\u00e9cor', a context inhabited by 'the play of a variety of musical impulses \u2013 tonal, bitonal, motivic, chromatic, set-class transformational \u2013 all sounding within the context of tonal backgrounds of varying degrees of aural immediacy' (78\u20139).\n\n Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', 174.\n\n See n. 30.\n\n See n. 76.\n\n Andriessen and Sch\u00f6nberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 6. See also Andriessen in chap. 13 of this volume.\n\n**12 Stravinsky and the critics**\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 107.\n\n Fran\u00e7ois Lesure, _Igor Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps. Dossier de presse_ (Geneva: Minkoff, 1980), 90\u201391.\n\n Scott Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_ (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988), 134.\n\n Leonid Sabaneyeff, _Modern Russian Composers_ , trans. Judah A. Joffe (New York: International, 1927), 71.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 85.\n\n Sabaneyeff, _Modern Russian Composers_ , 65.\n\n Ibid., 64.\n\n Boris Asaf 'yev, _Kniga o Stravinskom_ [A Book about Stravinsky] (Leningrad: Triton, 1929; repr. Muzyka, 1977); English translation by Richard F. French (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982).\n\n Mikhail Druskin, _Igor' Stravinskiy: lichnost', tvorchestvo, vzglyad\u00ef_ (Leningrad: Sovetskiy kompozitor, 1974); English translation by Martin Cooper as _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).\n\n Viktor Varunts, ed., _I. Stravinskiy \u2013 publitsist i sobesednik_ [I. Stravinsky as publicist and conversationalist] (Moscow: Sovetskiy kompozitor, 1988). _I. F. Stravinsky_ , _Perepiska s russkimi korrespondentami. Material\u00ef k biografii_ [I. F. Stravinsky. Correspondence with Russian correspondents. Materials for a biography], ed. Viktor Varunts, vol. 1: 1882\u20131912, vol. 2: 1913\u20131922 (Moscow: Kompozitor, 1997, 2000); both volumes contain as Appendix II notices and critical articles in the Russian press about works by Stravinsky for the appropriate years. Two further volumes are in preparation.\n\n Boris de Schloezer, _Igor Stravinsky_ (Paris: Claude Aveline, 1929), 191.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 34.\n\n Ibid., 23.\n\n Pierre Souvtchinsky, 'Introduction: Domaine de la musique russe', in Pierre Souvtchinsky (ed.), _Musique russe_ , 2 vols (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953), vol. 1, 21.\n\n Jean Marnold in Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 37.\n\n David Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the \"NRF\" (1910\u201320)', _Music and Letters_ 53/3 (1972), 277.\n\n Ibid.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , p. 38.\n\n Theodor W. Adorno, _Philosophie der neuen Musik_ (T\u00fcbingen: Mohr, 1949); Eng. trans. as _Philosophy of Modern Music_ , Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster (New York: Seabury Press, 1973), 188.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 27\u20138.\n\n Ibid., 49.\n\n Ibid., 51.\n\n Ibid., 74\u20135.\n\n Ibid., 71.\n\n Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the \"NRF\" (1920\u201329)', _Music and Letters_ 55/3 (1974), 267. 26 Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the \"NRF\" (1910\u201320)', 283.\n\n Paul Collaer, _Strawinsky_ (Brussels: \u00c9quilibres, 1930), 135.\n\n Andr\u00e9 Schaeffner, _Stravinsky_ (Paris: Rieder, 1931), 91.\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1598.\n\n Jean Cocteau, _A Call to Order_ , trans. Rollo H. Myers (London: Faber and Gwyer, 1926), 62.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 81.\n\n Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music_ , 130.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , ed. with commentaries by Robert Craft, 3 vols (London: Faber and Faber, 1982\u20135), vol. 1, 217n.\n\n Arthur Louri\u00e9, 'Neogothic and neoclassic', _Modern Music_ 5/3 (1928), 3.\n\n Ibid., 4.\n\n Arthur Louri\u00e9, 'La Sonate pour piano de Strawinsky', _Revue musicale_ 6/10 (1925), 101. 37 Schloezer, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 110.\n\n Louri\u00e9, 'Neogothic and neoclassic', 7.\n\n Artur Lur'ye [Arthur Louri\u00e9], 'Dve oper\u00ef Stravinskogo' [Two operas by Stravinsky], _Vyorst\u00ef_ 3 (1928), 125.\n\n Arthur Louri\u00e9, 'Le _Capriccio_ de Strawinsky', _Revue musicale_ 11/103 (1930), 355.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 113.\n\n Pierre Boulez, _Orientations_ , ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Martin Cooper (London: Faber, 1986), 355\u20136.\n\n Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the \"NRF\" (1920\u201329)', 270.\n\n Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the \"NRF\" (1910\u201320)', 279.\n\n Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 1/157.\n\n Schloezer, _Igor Stravinsky_ , 9.\n\n Ibid., 36.\n\n Ibid., 144.\n\n Ibid., 78.\n\n Ibid., 108\u20139.\n\n Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/497.\n\n Deborah Priest, ed., _Louis Laloy (1874\u20131944) on Debussy, Ravel and Stravinsky_ (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 306.\n\n Collaer, _Strawinsky_ , 52.\n\n Ibid., 61.\n\n Ibid., 108, 129\u201330.\n\n Ibid., 115\u201322.\n\n Ibid., 163.\n\n Ibid., 33.\n\n Andr\u00e9 Schaeffner, _Stravinsky_ (Paris: Rieder, 1931), 5\u20136.\n\n Igor Stravinsky, _Chronicle of my Life_ (London: Gollancz, 1936), Foreword.\n\n Schaeffner, _Stravinsky_ , 91.\n\n Ibid., 101.\n\n Ibid., 118.\n\n _Selected Correspondence_ , 3/227.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 105.\n\n Ibid., 110.\n\n Herbert Fleischer, _Strawinsky_ (Berlin: Russischer Musikverlag, 1931), 'Vorwort'.\n\n Ibid., 42\u20133.\n\n Ibid., 111\u201312.\n\n _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/271\u20132.\n\n For a qualification of this view and a fuller account of Adorno's understanding of Stravinsky, see Max Paddison's chapter in this volume.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 91.\n\n Bancroft, 'Stravinsky and the \"NRF\" (1920\u201329)', 261.\n\n Lesure, _Dossier de presse_ , 151.\n\n Ibid., 153.\n\n G. W. Hopkins and Paul Griffiths, 'Boulez, Pierre', in Stanley Sadie (ed.), _The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ , 2nd edn. (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. 4, 98.\n\n Boulez, _Orientations_ , 18.\n\n Boulez, 'Strawinsky demeure', in Souvtchinsky, _Musique russe_ , vol. 1, 221.\n\n Roman Vlad, _Stravinsky_ (Rome, 1958); trans. Frederick and Ann Fuller (London: Oxford University Press, 1960; 2nd edn 1967), 178.\n\n Ibid., 224.\n\n Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/376n.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 111.\n\n Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/343.\n\n Ibid., 344.\n\n Stravinsky, _Themes and Conclusions_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1972), 202\u20135, 214\u201317.\n\n Ibid., 209\u201314, 219\u201320.\n\n Stravinsky, _Selected Correspondence_ , 2/99\u2013101.\n\n Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music_ , 154.\n\n Ibid., 193.\n\n Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 103\u20134.\n\n**13 Composing with Stravinsky**\n\n Louis Andriessen and Elmer Sch\u00f6nberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork: on Stravinsky_ , trans. Jeff Hamburg (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 6.\n\n A version of this essay was first published in Dutch under the title 'Met Stravinsky naar de eenentwintigste eeuw' in the programme book of the Vlaams-Brabant Festival 2000, 19\u201321.\n\n Arnold Schoenberg to Josef Rufer, quoted in Malcolm MacDonald, _Schoenberg_ , p/b edn (London: Dent, 1987), 29.\n\n Pierre Boulez, 'Schoenberg is dead', in _Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship_ , trans. Stephen Walsh (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 214.\n\n T. W. Adorno, 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait', in _Quasi una Fantasia_ , trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1992), 172.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1959), 133\n\n This idea is more fully explored in Jonathan Cross, _The Stravinsky Legacy_ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).\n\n Richard Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 1677.\n\n Stephen Walsh, 'Stravinsky', in Stanley Sadie (ed.), _The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians_ , rev. edn (London: Macmillan, 2001), vol. 24, 557.\n\n'Stravinsky's influence can be seen . . . in a specific _attitude_ towards already existent material.' Andriessen and Sch\u00f6nberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 100.\n\n The conversation took place at the home of Louis Andriessen in Amsterdam on 12 February 2001.\n\n Andriessen and Sch\u00f6nberger, _The Apollonian Clockwork_ , 101.\n\n**14 Stravinsky and us**\n\n Robert Craft, 'Introduction: a master at work', in Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Retrospectives and Conclusions_ (New York: Knopf, 1969), 3.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ (London: Faber and Faber, 1962), 164.\n\n Michel Georges-Michel, 'Les deux Sacres du Printemps', _Comoedia_ (11 December 1920), cited in Truman C. Bullard, 'The first performance of Igor Stravinsky's _Sacre du Printemps_ ', PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1971, vol. 1, 3.\n\n See Andr\u00e9 Schaeffner, _Strawinsky_ (Paris: \u00c9ditions Rieder, 1931), 43, n.1; also 'Table des planches', 217, Pl. 21.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 169\n\n See Taruskin, _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), chaps. 4 and 12.\n\n See Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, 'The transmutation of the symbolist ethos: mystical anarchism and the revolution of 1905', _Slavic Review_ 36 (1977), 616.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , 114\u201315; the original 'overpublicized bit about expression' (as it is described there) is from Stravinsky's autobiography ( _Chroniques de ma vie_ ) in its anonymous English translation as _An Autobiography_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1936), 83.\n\n The term _panromanogermanic_ comes from Prince Nikolai Sergeyevich Trubetskoy's Eurasianist tract _Yevropa i chelovechestvo_ (Sofia: Rossiysko-Bolgarskoye Knigoizdatel'stvo, 1920), a book published by Stravinsky's friend Pyotr Suvchinsky (Pierre Souvtchinsky).\n\n Boris de Schloezer, 'La musique', _La Revue contemporaine_ (1 February 1923); quoted in Scott Messing, _Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_ (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988), 130.\n\n See _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 1486\u201393.\n\n Letter to Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz (23 July 1924), in Robert Craft (ed.), _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , 3 vols (New York: Knopf, 1985), vol. 3, 83.\n\n As embodied in the title to his collected essays, _A Call to Order_ , trans. Rollo H. Myers (London: Faber and Gwyer, 1926).\n\n Quoted in Deems Taylor, 'Sound \u2013 and a Little Fury' (review of the American premiere under Leopold Stokowski), reprinted in _Of Men and Music_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1937), 89\u201390.\n\n Pieter C. van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': The Beginnings of a Musical Language_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 1.\n\n 'Sacre', in N. K. Roerich, _Realm of Light_ (New York: Roerich Museum Press, 1931), 188.\n\n Stravinsky and Craft, _Expositions and Developments_ , p. 115; quoted in van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 18. In the last sentence, where van den Toorn quotes Stravinsky as saying 'form', the original text, on both occasions, has 'the form'.\n\n Van den Toorn, _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring'_ , 19.\n\n Van den Toorn, 'Politics, feminism, and music theory', _Journal of Musicology_ 9 (1991), 276.\n\n Letter received 20 September 1951; printed in Robert Craft, _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948\u201371_ , rev. and expanded edn (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1994), 65.\n\n Dorothy Lamb Crawford, _Evenings On and Off the Roof: Pioneering Concerts in Los Angeles, 1939\u20131971_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 64.\n\n Vera Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_ (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978), 422.\n\n Ibid.\n\n The lecture was first published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ (December 1982) under the title 'On a misunderstood collaboration: assisting Stravinsky'; this version was reprinted (under the title 'Influence or assistance?') in Robert Craft, _Present Perspectives_ (New York: Knopf, 1984), 246\u201364 (the anecdote in question appearing on pp. 252\u20133). A second version, set down in a letter to Joan Peyser, was published by the latter in 'Stravinsky\u2013Craft, Inc.', _American Scholar_ 52 (1983), 513\u201322.\n\n As reprinted in Eric Walter White, _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_ (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), 430\u201331.\n\n First published in 1928 directly on the Aeolian piano roll of the ballet, this analysis is discussed in _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , 587\u201398.\n\n Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 75.\n\n 'Rencontre avec Stravinsky', _Preuves_ 2/16 (1952), 37.\n\n Letter of 27 July 1932, in Arnold Schoenberg, _Letters_ , ed. Erwin Stein, trans. Eithne Wilkins and Ernst Kaiser (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 164.\n\n Milton Babbitt, 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky', as reprinted in Benjamin Boretz and Edward T. Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 171.\n\n Ibid.\n\n Programme note on the Cantata, as reprinted in White, _Stravinsky_ , 429 These words are a virtual paraphrase of Stravinsky's explanation, in _Chroniques de ma vie_ , of his fascination with Russian folk verses during the years of the First World War: 'What fascinated me in this verse was not so much the stories, which were often crude, or the pictures and metaphors, always so deliciously unexpected, as the sequence of the words and syllables, and the cadence they create, which produces an effect on one's sensibilities very closely akin to that of music' (Stravinsky, _An Autobiography_ , 83). These are the words that immediately precede the famous sermon ('that overpublicized bit') on music and expression.\n\n Craft, _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 89 (entry for 26 December 1952).\n\n See the Alain Nicolas auction catalogue _Autographes\u2013Livres\u2013Documents_ (Paris: Librairie Les Neuf Muses, 1993), lot no. 196.\n\n Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_ (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1959), 78.\n\n ' \"Dear Bob(sky)\" (Stravinsky's letters to Robert Craft, 1944\u201349)', _Musical Quarterly_ 65 (1979), 412\u201313; Craft, _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_ , vol. 1, 346\u20137. A facsimile of the uncensored letter was displayed, and the quoted passage read aloud, by Charles M. Joseph in 'Ellipses, exclusions, expurgations: what do Stravinsky's letters really say?', a paper presented at the 58th Annual Meeting of the American Musicological Society in Pittsburgh, 7 November 1992.\n\n David Allenby, 'Judge for yourselves', _Musical Times_ 137 (June 1996), 25.\n\n Quoted in Jacob Drachler, 'The case of the Stravinsky Cantata', _Midstream_ (August/September 1971), 37.\n\n Its substance was incorporated into a footnote on p. 304 of Lillian Libman, _And Music at the Close: Stravinsky's Last Years_ (New York: Norton, 1972). Pieter van den Toorn relied on this evidence, as well as the passage to which it was appended, in which Libman characterised reports of Stravinsky's anti-Semitism as 'ridiculous fiction' that 'could hardly have entered the scope of his thought', in declaring the matter unworthy of pursuit. See van den Toorn, 'Will Stravinsky survive Postmodernism?', _Music Theory Spectrum_ 22 (2000), 121. I know of no comparable case, at least in the refereed professional literature, where the word of a press agent is invoked in order to justify the foreclosure of inquiry. Such subscholarly credulity is impressive testimony to the continuing regulative force of the Stravinsky myth, and its deleterious effect on scholarship.\n\n See Igor Stravinsky, _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947; repr. 1970), 163.\n\n The situation is admittedly somewhat complicated by the fact that Holst's setting, unlike Stravinsky's, is used in Anglican services, where a different set of audience expectations, and a different set of premises regulating audience behaviour, are in force. For a discussion of them, see Harold Copeman, _Singing the Meaning_ (Oxford: published by the author, 1996). But at an Anglican service there would also presumably be no Jewish ears to offend.\n\n In his 1995 recording of the Cantata for Music Masters, Robert Craft did change 'The Jews on me' to 'My enemies', according to the suggestion embodied in Lillian Libman's letter to Jacob Drachler. The change was silent, however, and the problem unaddressed.\n\n See 'Jews and geniuses: an exchange', _New York Review of Books_ (15 June 1989), 58; _Chronicle of a Friendship_ , 107\u20138 (entry for 16 March 1954).\n**Select bibliography**\n\nAdorno, Theodor W. _Philosophie der neuen Musik_. T\u00fcbingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1949. In _Gesammelte Schriften_ , vol. 12, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Klaus Schultz. Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp, 1975. Trans. Anne G. Mitchell and Wesley V. Blomster, as _Philosophy of Modern Music_. London: Sheed and Ward, 1973\n\n\u2014. 'Stravinsky: a dialectical portrait'. Trans. Rodney Livingstone, in _Quasi una fantasia_. London: Verso, 1992, 145\u201375\n\nAgawu, V. Kofi. 'Stravinsky's _Mass_ and Stravinsky analysis'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 11 (1989), 139\u201363\n\nAlbright, Daniel. _Stravinsky: the Music Box and the Nightingale_. New York: Gordon and Breach, 1989\n\nAndriessen, Louis, and Elmer Sch\u00f6nberger. _The Apollonian Clockwork: on Stravinsky_ , trans. Jeff Hamburg. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989. Originally published as _Het apollonisch uurwerk: over Stravinsky_. Amsterdam: Uitgeverij De Bezige Bij, 1983\n\nAsaf 'yev, Boris. _A Book About Stravinsky_ , trans. Richard F. French. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982. Originally published under the name Igor Glebov, as _Kniga o Stravinskom_. Leningrad: Triton, 1929; repr. under Asaf 'yev's name, Muzyka, 1977\n\nBabbitt, Milton. 'Remarks on the recent Stravinsky' [1964]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 165\u201385\n\nBerger, Arthur. 'Problems of pitch organisation in Stravinsky' [1963]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 123\u201354\n\nBoretz, Benjamin, and Edward T. Cone (eds.). _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968. Rev. edn, New York: Norton, 1972\n\nBoulez, Pierre. 'Strawinsky demeure' [1951]. In Pierre Souvtchinsky (ed.), _Musique russe_ , 2 vols. Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953. Vol. 1, 155\u2013224. Trans. Stephen Walsh, as 'Stravinsky remains', in _Stocktakings from an Apprenticeship_. Oxford: Clarendon, 1991, 55\u2013110\n\nCarter, Chandler. 'Stravinsky's \"special sense\": the rhetorical use of tonality in _The Rake's Progress_ '. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 19 (1997), 55\u201380\n\nChew, Geoffrey. 'Pastoral and neoclassicism: a reinterpretation of Auden's and Stravinsky's _Rake's Progress_ '. _Cambridge Opera Journal_ 5 (1993), 239\u201363\n\nCone, Edward T. 'Stravinsky: the progress of a method' [1962]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 156\u201364\n\n\u2014. 'The uses of convention: Stravinsky and his models'. _Musical Quarterly_ 48 (1962), 287\u201399\n\nCraft, Robert. _Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship, 1948\u20131971_. New York: Alfred A. Knopf,1972. Rev. and expanded edn, Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press,1994\n\n\u2014. _Igor and Vera Stravinsky: a Photograph Album (1921\u20131971)_. London: Thames and Hudson, 1982\n\n\u2014. _A Stravinsky Scrapbook 1940\u20131971_. London: Thames and Hudson, 1983\n\n\u2014. _Present Perspectives_. New York: Knopf, 1984\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky: Glimpses of a Life_. London: Lime Tree, 1992\n\nCross, Jonathan. _The Stravinsky Legacy_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998\n\nDruskin, Mikhail. _Igor Stravinsky: his Personality, Works and Views_ , trans. Martin Cooper. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Originally published as _Igor' Stravinskiy: lichnost', tvorchestvo, vzglyad\u00ef_. Leningrad: Sovetskiy Kompozitor, 1974\n\nFink, Robert. '\" _Rigoroso_ ( \u2669 = 126)\": _The Rite of Spring_ and the forging of a modernist performing style'. _Journal of the American Musicological Society_ 52 (1999), 299\u2013362\n\nForte, Allen. _The Harmonic Organization of 'The Rite of Spring'_. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978\n\nGriffiths, Paul. _Igor Stravinsky: The Rake's Progress_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky_. London: Dent, 1992\n\nHaimo, Ethan, and Paul Johnson (eds.). _Stravinsky Retrospectives_. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1987\n\nHill, Peter. _Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000\n\nHyde, Martha M. 'Neoclassic and anachronistic impulses in twentieth-century music'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 18 (1996), 200\u201335\n\nJohnston, Ben. 'An interview with Soulima Stravinsky'. _Perspectives of New Music_ 9/2\u201310/1 (1971), 15\u201327\n\nKeller, Hans, and Milein Cosman. _Stravinsky Seen and Heard_. London: Toccata Press, 1982\n\nKielian-Gilbert, Marianne. 'The rhythms of form: correspondence and analogy in Stravinsky's designs'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 9 (1987), 42\u201366\n\n\u2014. 'Stravinsky's contrasts: contradiction and discontinuity in his neoclassic music'. _Journal of Musicology_ 9 (1991), 448\u201380\n\nLederman, Minna (ed.). _Stravinsky in the Theatre_. New York: Da Capo, 1949\n\nLesure, Fran\u00e7ois. _Igor Stravinsky: Le Sacre du printemps. Dossier de presse_. Geneva: Minkoff, 1980\n\nLibman, Lillian. _And Music at the Close: Stravinsky's Last Years: a Personal Memoir_. New York: Norton, 1972\n\nMessing, Scott. _Neoclassicism in Music from the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic_. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988\n\nOliver, Michael. _Igor Stravinsky_. London: Phaidon, 1995\n\nPasler, Jann (ed.). _Confronting Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986\n\nPople, Anthony. _Skryabin and Stravinsky 1908\u20131914: Studies in Theory and Analysis_. New York: Garland, 1989\n\n\u2014. 'Misleading voices: contrasts and continuities in Stravinsky studies'. In Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist (eds.), _Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretation:_ _Essays in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, 271\u201387\n\nRehding, Alexander. 'Towards a \"logic of discontinuity\" in Stravinsky's _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ : Hasty, Kramer and Straus reconsidered'. _Music Analysis_ 17/1 (1998), 39\u201367\n\nSchaeffner, Andr\u00e9. _Strawinsky_. Paris: \u00c9ditions Rieder, 1931\n\nSchloezer, Boris de. _Igor Stravinsky_. Paris: Claude Aveline, 1929\n\nClaudio Spies. 'Notes on Stravinsky's _Abraham and Isaac_ ' [1965], 'Notes on Stravinsky's Variations' [1965], and 'Some notes on Stravinsky's Requiem settings' [1967]. In Boretz and Cone (eds.), _Perspectives on Schoenberg and Stravinsky_ , 186\u2013209, 210\u201322, 223\u201349\n\nStraus, Joseph N. 'A principle of voice-leading in the music of Stravinsky'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 4 (1982), 106\u201324\n\n\u2014. 'Stravinsky's tonal axis'. _Journal of Music Theory_ 26 (1982), 261\u201390\n\n\u2014. _Remaking the Past: Musical Modernism and the Influence of the Tonal Tradition_. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990\n\n\u2014. 'Stravinsky's \"construction of twelve verticals\": an aspect of harmony in the serial music'. _Music Theory Spectrum_ 21/1 (1999), 231\u201371\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky's Late Music_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001\n\nStravinsky, Igor. _Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons_ , trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947. Originally published as _Po\u00e9tique musicale_. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942\n\n\u2014. _Chroniques de ma vie_ , 2 vols. Paris: Deno\u00ebl & Steel, 1935\u20136. Trans. anon. as _Chronicle of my Life_. London: Victor Gollancz, 1936. Repr. as _An Autobiography (1903\u20131934)_. New York: Steuer, 1958. Repr. with corrections by Eric Walter White. London: Marion Boyars, 1975\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence_. Ed. and with commentaries by Robert Craft, 3 vols. London: Faber and Faber, 1982\u20135\n\nStravinsky, Igor, and Robert Craft. _Conversations with Igor Stravinsky_. London: Faber and Faber, 1959\n\n\u2014. _Memories and Commentaries_. London: Faber and Faber, 1960\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky in Conversation with Robert Craft_. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1962\n\n\u2014. _Expositions and Developments_. London: Faber and Faber, 1962\n\n\u2014. _Dialogues and a Diary_. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1963. Enlarged edn, London: Faber and Faber, 1968\n\n\u2014. _Themes and Episodes_. New York: Knopf, 1966\n\n\u2014. _Retrospectives and Conclusions_. New York: Knopf, 1969\n\n\u2014. _Themes and Conclusions_. London: Faber and Faber, 1972 (combined repr. of _Themes and Episodes_ and _Retrospectives and Conclusions_ )\n\n\u2014. _Dialogues_. London: Faber and Faber, 1982 (reissue of 'Dialogues' from _Dialogues and a Diary_ )\n\nStravinsky, Vera, and Robert Craft (eds.). _Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents_. London: Hutchinson, 1979\n\nStuart, Philip. _Igor Stravinsky \u2013 The Composer in the Recording Studio: a Comprehensive Discography_. New York: Greenwood Press, 1991\n\nTaruskin, Richard. _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: a Biography of the Works Through_ Mavra. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996\n\n\u2014. _Defining Russia Musically_. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997\n\nVan den Toorn, Pieter C. _The Music of Igor Stravinsky_. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky and 'The Rite of Spring': the Beginnings of a Musical Language_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987\n\n\u2014. 'Context and analytical method in Stravinsky'. In _Music, Politics, and the Academy_. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995\n\n\u2014. 'Neoclassicism and its definitions'. In James M. Baker, David W. Beach and Jonathan W. Bernard (eds.), _Music Theory in Concept and Practice_. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997\n\nVlad, Roman. _Stravinsky_ , trans. Frederick and Ann Fuller. London: Oxford University Press, 1960. 2nd edn, 1967; enlarged 3rd edn, 1978. Originally published in Italian (Rome: 1958)\n\nWalsh, Stephen. _The Music of Stravinsky_. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky: Oedipus Rex_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993\n\n\u2014. 'Stravinsky's symphonies: accident or design?'. In Craig Ayrey and Mark Everist (eds.), _Analytical Strategies and Musical Interpretation: Essays in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Music_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, 35\u201371\n\n\u2014. _Stravinsky: a Creative Spring: Russia and France 1882\u20131934_. London: Jonathan Cape, 1999\n\n\u2014. _The New Grove Stravinsky_. London: Macmillan, 2002\n\nWatkins, Glenn. _Pyramids at the Louvre: Music, Culture, and Collage from Stravinsky to the Postmodernists_. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1994\n\nWhite, Eric Walter. _Stravinsky: the Composer and his Works_. London: Faber and Faber, 1966. 2nd rev. and expanded edn, 1979\n\nWhittall, Arnold. 'Music analysis as human science? _Le Sacre du printemps_ in theory and practice'. _Music Analysis_ 1/1 (1982), 33\u201353\n**Index of names and titles**\n\nAdams, John\n\n> _Short Ride in a Fast Machine_\n\nAdorno, Theodor , , , , \u2013, , , , , , \u2013, ,\n\nAfanasiev, Alexander ,\n\nAkimenko, Fyodor\n\nAlbright, Daniel ,\n\nAlexander II ,\n\nAlexander III , , , ,\n\nAndersen, Hans Christian ,\n\nAnderson, Julian\n\nAndriessen, Louis , , , ,\n\n> _The New Math(s)_ \n> \n> _De Staat_ , \n> \n> _Writing to Vermeer_\n\nAnsermet, Ernest , ,\n\nAntheil, George\n\n> _Ballet m\u00e9canique_\n\nApollinaire, Guillaume , ,\n\nArensky, Anton\n\nAristotle\n\nArtaud, Antonin \u2013\n\nAsaf'yev, Boris , \u2013\n\nAuden, W. H. , \u2013, \u2013, , , , ,\n\n> 'Balaam and his ass' \u2013\n> \n> _Orators_\n\nAuric, Georges , ,\n\n> _Les Matelots_\n\nBabbitt, Milton , , , , , , ,\n\nBach, Johann Christian\n\nBach, Johann Sebastain , , , \u2013, , , , , , , , , ,\n\n> 'Brandenburg' Concertos\n\nBadings, Henk\n\nBaker, Josephine\n\nBakst, Leon , ,\n\nBal'mont, Konstantin , \u2013\n\nBalakirev, Mily ,\n\nBalanchine, George , , \u2013,\n\nBarnes, Clive\n\nBarry, Gerald\n\nBart\u00f3k, B\u00e9la , ,\n\n> _Miraculous Mandarin_\n\nBaudelaire, Charles\n\nBauer-Lechner, Natalie\n\nBeckett, Samuel , ,\n\n> _Endgame_ \u2013\n\nBeethoven, Ludwig van , , , , , , , ,\n\n> Symphony No. 1\n\n_Beggar's Opera, The_\n\nBeinem, Eduard van\n\nBel'sky, Vladimir\n\nBellini, Vincenzo\n\nBely, Andrey\n\nBelyayev, Mitrofan , ,\n\nBenjamin, George\n\nBenjamin, Walter ,\n\nBenois, Alexander , , , ,\n\nBerg, Alban , \u2013, , , ,\n\n> _Wozzeck_ , ,\n\nBerger, Arthur , , \u2013,\n\nBerger, John\n\nBergson, Henri ,\n\nBerio, Luciano , ,\n\nBerlioz, Hector\n\nBernheimer, Martin\n\nBirtwistle, Harrison , ,\n\n> _Earth Dances_\n\nBizet, Georges\n\nBlake, William\n\nBlok, Alexander\n\nBloom, Harold\n\nBondt, Cornelis de\n\nBorodin, Alexander , , ,\n\n> _Polovtsian Dances_ (from _Prince Igor_ ) \n> \n> _Prince Igor_\n\nBoucourechliev, Andr\u00e9\n\nBoulez, Pierre , \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , \u2013, \u2013,\n\n> _Structures_\n\nBrahms, Johannes , ,\n\nBraque, Georges ,\n\nBrecht, Bertold , , , \u2013\n\n> _Baal_\n\nBritten, Benjamin\n\nBrook, Peter \u2013,\n\nBryusov, Valery\n\nBu\u02dcnuel, Luis\n\nB\u00fcrger, Peter ,\n\nBurns, Robert\n\nCage, John ,\n\nCalvocoressi, M. D.\n\nCampion, Thomas\n\nCarter, Chandler \u2013,\n\nCarter, Elliott ,\n\n> Double Concerto for Piano and Harpsichord\n\nCatoire, Georgy\n\nCendrars, Blaise\n\nChagall, Marc\n\nChanel, Coco\n\nChekhov, Anton\n\nCherlin, Michael \u2013, , \u2013\n\nChernyshevsky, Nikolai\n\n> _What is to be Done?_\n\nChew, Geoffrey\n\nChirico, Giorgio de\n\nChopin, Fr\u00e9d\u00e9ric\n\nClaudel, Paul ,\n\n> _Agamemnon_ \n> \n> _Les Choephores_ \n> \n> _Eumenides_\n\nCocteau, Jean , , , , \u2013, , , ,\n\n> _Antigone_\n\nCollaer, Paul ,\n\nCone, Edward T. , ,\n\nCopland, Aaron\n\nCowell, Henry\n\nCraft, Robert , , , , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013, , , , \u2013, , , \u2013, , ,\n\n> _Chronicle of a Friendship_ \u2013,\n\nCross, Jonathan , , , , , ,\n\nDahlhaus, Carl ,\n\nDani\u00e9lou, Jean\n\nDargom\u00efzhsky, Alexander\n\nDavies, Peter Maxwell ,\n\nDebussy, Claude , \u2013, , , , , , , \u2013, , , , , ,\n\n> 'Golliwogg's Cake-Walk' \n> \n> _Jeux_ , \n> \n> _Nocturnes_ \u2013\n> \n> _Pr\u00e9lude \u00e0 l'apr\u00e8s-midi d'un faune_\n\nDelaunay, Robert and Sonia\n\nde Lauze, Fran\u00e7oise\n\n> _Apologie de la danse_ ,\n\nDeli\u00e8ge, C\u00e9lestin\n\nDent, Edward J.\n\nDerain, Andr\u00e9 , ,\n\nDerm\u00e9, Paul\n\nDiaghilev, Sergey \u2013, \u2013, , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , , , , , , \u2013, , ,\n\nD'Indy, Vincent\n\nDisney, Walt\n\n> _Fantasia_\n\nDonizetti, Gaetano\n\n> _Don Pasquale_\n\nDostoevsky, Fyodor , ,\n\nDowland, John\n\nDownes, Olin\n\nDrachler, Jacob\n\nDruskin, Mikhail , , , ,\n\nDufy, Raoul\n\nDukas, Paul ,\n\n> _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_\n\nEisler, Hans\n\nElgar, Edward\n\nEliot, T. S. , , \u2013, , \u2013, ,\n\n> _Four Quartets_ \n> \n> 'The function of criticism' \n> \n> 'Gerontion' \n> \n> 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' , \n> \n> _The Waste Land_\n\nEngel', Yuly [Joel Engel]\n\nErshov, Ivan Vasil'yevich\n\nEvans, Edwin\n\nFalla, Manuel de\n\n> _Le tricorne_\n\nFaur\u00e9, Gabriel\n\nFeldman, Morton\n\nFenichel, Otto\n\n> _The Psychoanalytical Theory of Neurosis_\n\nFerneyhough, Brian ,\n\nFink, Robert \u2013, \u2013\n\nFinnissy, Michael\n\nFitkin, Graham\n\nFlaubert, Gustave\n\nFleischer, Herbert\n\nFlorensky, Pavel\n\nFokine, Mikhail , , ,\n\nForte, Allen , , , \u2013, ,\n\nFranck, C\u00e9sar\n\nFreud, Sigmund ,\n\nGance, Abel\n\nGautier, Th\u00e9ophile\n\nGh\u00e9o, Henri\n\nGide, Andr\u00e9 , , ,\n\nGlazunov, Alexander , , , \u2013, \u2013\n\n> Symphony No. 8\n\nGleizes, Albert\n\nGlinka, Mikhail , ,\n\n> _Karaminskaya_ \n> \n> _Ruslan and Lyudmila_\n\nGluck, Christoph Willibald\n\nGoebbels, Heiner\n\nGoethe, Johann Wolfgang von ,\n\n> _Faust_ \u2013, , \u2013\n\nGogol, Nikolai\n\n> _Dead Souls_\n\nGoldberg, Albert\n\nGolovine, Alexander ,\n\nGoncharova, Natalya ,\n\nGordon, Michael\n\nGorodetsky, Sergey ,\n\n> _Yar'_ ,\n\nGray, Cecil\n\nGreenaway, Peter\n\nGreenfield, Edward\n\nGriffiths, Paul\n\nGustafson, Richard\n\nHandel, George Frideric , ,\n\nHartley, Hal\n\nHarvey, Jonathan\n\nHaydn, Franz Joseph ,\n\nHegel, G. W. F.\n\nHeidegger, Martin\n\nHenze, Hans Werner\n\nHerrmann, Bernard\n\nHeuss, Alfred\n\nHill, Peter , , , ,\n\nHindemith, Paul , , ,\n\nHitler, Adolf , ,\n\nHoffmann, E. T. A.\n\nHogarth, William , ,\n\nHogwood, Chrisopher\n\nHolst, Gustav\n\n> 'Tomorrow shall be my dancing day'\n\nHomer\n\nHopkins, G. W. (Bill)\n\nHugo, Victor\n\n> _Hernani_\n\nHulme, T. E.\n\nHyde, Martha \u2013\n\nIbsen, Henrik\n\nIngres, Jean-Auguste Dominique ,\n\nIvanov, Vyacheslav ,\n\nIves, Charles\n\n> 'Concord' Sonata\n\nJameson, Fredric\n\nJan\u00e1\u010dek, Leo\u0161\n\nJarry, Alfred\n\nJonson, Ben\n\nJosquin des Prez\n\nJoyce, James , , \u2013, ,\n\n> _Dubliners_ \n> \n> _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ \n> \n> _Ulysses_ , ,\n\nKalafati, Vasily , \u2013\n\nKandinsky, Vasily , ,\n\nKarajan, Herbert von ,\n\nKarat\u00efgin, Vyacheslav \u2013, ,\n\nKatz, Adele ,\n\nKenyon, Nicholas\n\nKerman, Joseph\n\nKielian-Gilbert, Marianne \u2013\n\nKierkegaard, Sren\n\nKireyevsky, Pyotr\n\nKirstein, Lincoln , \u2013\n\nKlee, Paul\n\nKlemperer, Otto ,\n\nKokhlova, Olga\n\nKolisch, Rudolf\n\nKorngold, Julius\n\nKoussevitsky, Serge , , , ,\n\nKozeluch, Leopold\n\nKramer, Jonathan ,\n\nKraus, Joseph\n\nKrauss, Rosalind\n\nKrenek, Ernst , \u2013\n\n> _Studies in Counterpoint_\n\nKrushchev, Nikita\n\nKundera, Milan \u2013\n\nKurt\u00e1g, Gy\u00f6rgy\n\nLaforgue, Jules\n\nLalo, Pierre\n\nLaloy, Louis ,\n\nLambert, Constant\n\nLandowska, Wanda\n\nLanner, Joseph \u2013,\n\nLaryonov, Mikhail\n\nLawrence, D. H.\n\n> _The Rainbow_\n\nL\u00e9ger, Fernand\n\nLewis, Wyndham ,\n\nLibman, Lillian\n\nLifar, Serge\n\nLigeti, Gy\u00f6rgy ,\n\nLindlar, Heinrich\n\nLineva, Evgeniya\n\nLiszt, Franz\n\nLouri\u00e9, Arthur [Artur Lur'ye] , , \u2013, ,\n\nLyadov, Anatoly , , \u2013\n\n> _Baba-yaga_ \n> \n> _The Enchanted Lake_ \n> \n> _Kikimora_\n\nLyotard, Jean-Fran\u00e7ois\n\nMaeterlinck, Maurice \u2013\n\n> _La Vie des abeilles_ \u2013\n\nMahler, Gustav , , , , ,\n\n> _Das Lied von der Erde_ \n> \n> Symphony No. 3 \n> \n> Symphony No. 10\n\nMalevich, Kazimir ,\n\nMamontov, Savva ,\n\nMann, Thomas ,\n\n> _Doctor Faustus_\n\nMarinetti, Emilio\n\nMaritain, Jacques\n\nMarnold, Jean\n\nMartland, Steve\n\nMarx, Karl\n\nMason, Colin\n\nMatisse, Henri , ,\n\nMatthews, Colin\n\nMelgunov, Yuly\n\nMendelssohn, Felix\n\nMerezhkovsky, Dmitry\n\nMersenne, Marin\n\n_Harmonie universelle_\n\nMessiaen, Olivier ,\n\n> _Cant\u00e9yodjay\u00e2_ \n> \n> _Chronochromie_ \n> \n> _Couleurs de la cit\u00e9 c\u00e9leste_ \n> \n> Turangal\u00eela-symphonie\n\nMessing, Scott ,\n\nMetzinger, Jean\n\nMeyerhold, Vsevolod\n\nMila, Massimo \u2013\n\nMilhaud, Darius ,\n\n> _Le Train bleu_\n\nMitusov, Stepan \u2013, ,\n\nMondrian, Piet ,\n\nMonteux, Pierre , \u2013, \u2013,\n\nMonteverdi, Claudio , ,\n\n> _Orfeo_ \u2013\n\nMorgan, Robert\n\nMorton, Lawrence\n\nMozart, Wolfgang Amadeus , , , , , , , \u2013, ,\n\n> _Cos\u00ec fan Tutte_ , \n> \n> _Don Giovanni_ , , , \n> \n> 'Linz' Symphony\n\nMusorgsky, Modest , , ,\n\n> _Boris Godunov_ \n> \n> _Sunless_ \u2013\n\nMyaskovsky, Nikolai , , ,\n\nNabokov, Nicolas ,\n\nNabokov, Vladimir , , , ,\n\nNemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir\n\nNewman, Ernest\n\nNicholas I ,\n\nNicholas II\n\nNietzsche, Friedrich , , , ,\n\nNijinsky, Vaslav ,\n\nNoailles, Anna de\n\nNono, Luigi\n\nNorrington, Roger\n\nNosenko, Ekaterina [Katya Stravinskaya \u2013 wife]\n\nNouvel, Walter , ,\n\nNurok, Alfred \u2013\n\nNyman, Michael\n\nOliver, Michael\n\nOrff, Carl , ,\n\nPaderewski, Ignacy\n\nParker, Charlie\n\nP\u00e4rt, Arvo\n\nPearson, Norman Holmes\n\nPergolesi, Giovanni Battista , , ,\n\nPerotin\n\nPeter the Great\n\nPhilip, Robert ,\n\nPicabia, Francis\n\n> _Les Yeux chauds_\n\nPicasso, Pablo \u2013, , \u2013, , \u2013, \u2013, , ,\n\n> _Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_ , , , \n> \n> _Seated Man_\n\nPirandello, Luigi ,\n\n_Poets of the English Language_ (ed. Auden and Holmes Pearson) \u2013\n\nPope, Alexander\n\nPoulenc, Francis , , , ,\n\n> _Les Biches_\n\nPound, Ezra , ,\n\nProkofiev, Sergey ,\n\nProust, Marcel\n\nPurcell, Henry\n\nPushkin, Alexander , , ,\n\nRachmaninov, Sergey , ,\n\n> Prelude in C\u266f minor\n\nRacine, Jean\n\nRamuz, C. F.\n\nRavel, Maurice , , , , , ,\n\nRebikov, Vladimir\n\nReger, Max , \u2013\n\nRehding, Alexander\n\nReich, Steve , ,\n\nRemizov, Alexei\n\nRespighi, Ottorino\n\nReverdy, Pierre\n\nRimsky-Korsakov, Andrey ,\n\nRimsky-Korsakov, Nadezhda , ,\n\nRimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai , , \u2013, \u2013, , , \u2013, \u2013, , , , , , , \u2013, , ,\n\n> _The Golden Cockerel_ , \n> \n> _The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh_ , \n> \n> _Practical Course in Harmony_ \n> \n> _The Snow Maiden_ ,\n\nRimsky-Korsakov, Vladimir ,\n\nRivi\u00e8re, Jacques , ,\n\nRoerich, Nicholas [Nikolai Rerikh] , , , , ,\n\nRoland-Manuel (Alexis Manuel-L\u00e9vy) , ,\n\nRosen, Charles ,\n\nRossetti, Christina\n\nRossini, Gioachino\n\nRubinstein, Anton\n\nSabaneyeff, Leonid\n\nSalzer, Felix \u2013\n\nSatie, Erik , , ,\n\n> _Parade_\n\nScarlatti, Domenico\n\nSchaeffner, Andr\u00e9 ,\n\nSchenker, Heinrich , , \u2013,\n\nScherchen, Hermann ,\n\nSchlegel, Friedrich\n\nSchloezer, Boris de , \u2013, , , \u2013, , \u2013, \u2013,\n\nSchmitt, Florent ,\n\n> _Trag\u00e9die de Salom\u00e9_\n\nSchoenberg, Arnold , , , , , \u2013, , , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , \u2013, \u2013, , , , , \u2013, , , , \u2013, , , , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , ,\n\n> _Erwartung_ , \n> \n> _Die Gl\u00fcckliche Hand_ \n> \n> _Moses und Aron_ , \n> \n> 'National music' \n> \n> _Pelleas und Melisande_ \n> \n> _Pierrot lunaire_ , , \n> \n> Septet-Suite, Op. 29 \u2013, , \n> \n> Six Pieces for Male Chorus, Op. 35 \n> \n> String Quartet No. 2 \n> \n> String Quartet No. 3 \u2013, \n> \n> String Trio, Op. 45 \u2013, \n> \n> Variations for Orchestra \n> \n> _Verkl\u00e4rte Nacht_ \n> \n> Violin Concerto\n\nSchonberg, Harold\n\nSch\u00f6nberger, Elmer , ,\n\nSchubert, Franz\n\nSchwitters, Kurt\n\nSenilov, Vladimir\n\nSerov, Alexander _The Power of the Fiend_\n\nSert, Misia\n\nSeurat, Georges\n\nSeverini, Gino\n\nShakespeare, William\n\n> _The Merchant of Venice_\n\nShaliapin, Fyodor\n\nSidney, Philip\n\nSiloti, Alexander\n\nSilver, Kenneth\n\nSkryabin, Alexander , , , , , , , ,\n\n> Piano Sonata No. 3 \n> \n> _Poem of Ecstasy_ ,\n\nSmit, Leo \u2013\n\nSophocles\n\nSouvtchinsky, Pierre [Pyotr Suvchinsky] , , , , ,\n\nSpenser, Edmund\n\nSpielberg, Steven\n\n> _Jaws_\n\nSpies, Claudio , ,\n\nStalin, Joseph\n\nStanislavsky, Konstantin\n\nStasov, Vladimir , ,\n\nStefan, Paul\n\nStein, Gertrude \u2013\n\nSteinberg, Maximilian ,\n\nStockhausen, Karlheinz , , , ,\n\n> _Kontakte_ \n> \n> _Momente_\n\nStokowski, Leopold , ,\n\nStraus, Joseph , , ,\n\nStrauss, Richard , , , , ,\n\n> _Elektra_ \n> \n> _Salome_\n\nStravinsky, Fyodor (father) \u2013,\n\nStravinsky, Goury (brother)\n\nStravinsky, Igor\n\n> MUSIC\n> \n> _Abraham and Isaac_ , , , , , \n> \n> _Agon_ , , , , \u2013, , , , , \u2013, , \n> \n> _Anthem 'The dove descending breaks the air'_ \n> \n> _Apollon musag\u00e8te_ , , , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , \n> \n> Cantata (1904) \n> \n> Cantata (1951\u20132) , , , \u2013\n> \n> _Canticum Sacrum_ , , , , \u2013, , \n> \n> _Chant fun\u00e8bre_ , Op. 5 , \n> \n> Concerto for piano and wind instruments , , , \n> \n> Concerto in D , \u2013\n> \n> Concerto in E , 'Dumbarton Oaks' \n> \n> 'Conductor and Tarantula' \n> \n> _Divertimento_ \u2013\n> \n> Double Canon \n> \n> Duo concertant \n> \n> _Ebony Concerto_ , \n> \n> _Elegy for J. F. K_ \n> \n> _Epitaphium_ , \n> \n> _The Fairy's Kiss_ , , \u2013, ,, \n> \n> _Fanfare for a New Theatre_ \n> \n> _The Faun and the Shepherdess_ , Op. 219, \u2013\n> \n> _Firebird_ , , , , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, , , \u2013, , , , \u2013, , , , , \n> \n> _Fireworks_ , Op. 4 , , \u2013\n> \n> _The Flood_ , \u2013, , , , \u2013, \n> \n> _Four Studies_ , Op. 7 , \n> \n> 'How the Mushrooms Prepared for War' \n> \n> _In memoriam Dylan Thomas_ , , , , \u2013\n> \n> _Introitus_ , , \n> \n> _Jeu de cartes_ \n> \n> _Mavra_ , \u2013, , , , \n> \n> _Movements_ , , , , \n> \n> _The Nightingale_ , , \u2013, , \u2013, \n> \n> _Les Noces_ , , , , \u2013, , , , , , , \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , , , \u2013, , , \n> \n> Octet , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , , , , \n> \n> _Oedipus Rex_ \u2013, \u2013, , \u2013, , , , \u2013, , , , , , , , \n> \n> _Orpheus_ , , \u2013, , \n> \n> _The Owl and the Pussycat_ \n> \n> _Pastorale_ \n> \n> _Pers\u00e9phone_ , , \n> \n> _Petrushka_ \u2013, , , , , \u2013, , , , , \u2013, , , , , \u2013, , , , , , , , , , , \n> \n> _Piano-Rag-Music_ , \u2013\n> \n> _Pribaoutki_ \n> \n> _Pulcinella_ , \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , , , , , \n> \n> _Quatre chants russes_ \n> \n> _Ragtime_ , , , , \n> \n> _The Rake's Progress_ \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , \u2013, , , , , , , , , \n> \n> _Renard_ , , , \u2013, , , , \n> \n> _Requiem Canticles_ \u2013, , , \u2013, \u2013, , , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , \n> \n> _The Rite of Spring_ \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , \u2013, , , \u2013, , , \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , , , , , \u2013, , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013\n> \n> _Scherzo fantastique_ , Op. 3 , \u2013\n> \n> Scherzo for piano \n> \n> Septet , \u2013\n> \n> Serenade in A , \n> \n> _A Sermon, a Narrative, and a Prayer_ , , \u2013\n> \n> _The Soldier's Tale_ , , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, , , , , , \u2013, \n> \n> Sonata for piano \n> \n> Sonata in F\u266f minor for piano , , \n> \n> _The Song of the Nightingale_ , \n> \n> 'Storm Cloud' \u2013\n> \n> _Symphonies of Wind Instruments_ , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013\n> \n> Symphony in C , \u2013\n> \n> Symphony in E\u266d \u2013\n> \n> _Symphony in Three Movements_ \u2013, , \n> \n> _Symphony of Psalms_ , \u2013, , , , , \n> \n> _Tarantella_ , \n> \n> _Three Japanese Lyrics_ \n> \n> _Three Pieces for String Quartet_ , , \n> \n> _Three Songs from William Shakespeare_ , , \u2013, \u2013, \n> \n> _Threni_ , , , , , , \n> \n> _Two Poems of Bal'mont_ \u2013\n> \n> _Two Poems of Verlaine_ , Op. 9 \u2013\n> \n> _Two Songs_ , Op. 6 , \u2013, \n> \n> _Variations_ , , \n> \n> _Zvezdolikiy_ , \u2013, , \n> \n> WRITINGS\n> \n> _Autobiography_ [ _Chroniques de ma vie, Chronicle of my Life_ ] , , , , , , , , , , , , \n> \n> _Conversations_ (with Robert Craft) \n> \n> _Dialogues_ (with Robert Craft) , \u2013, , \n> \n> _Expositions and Developments_ (with Robert Craft) \n> \n> _Poetics of Music_ , , , , , , \u2013, , \u2013, , , , , , ,\n\nStravinsky, Vera (wife) ,\n\nStrecker, Willy\n\nTailleferre, Germaine\n\nTaruskin, Richard , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, \u2013, , , , \u2013, , \u2013, , , \u2013, , , , \u2013, , , ,\n\n> _Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions_ , ,\n\nTavener, John\n\nTchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich , , , , , , , , , , , \u2013, , , ,\n\n> _Enchantress_ \n> \n> _The Queen of Spades_ \n> \n> _Sleeping Beauty_ \n> \n> 'Zimniy vecher' ('Winter Evening'), Op. 54, No. 7 \u2013\n\nTcherepnin, Alexander , ,\n\nTenisheva (Princess) ,\n\nThomas, Dylan\n\nThomson, Virgil\n\nTippett, Michael\n\n> _King Priam_ \n> \n> Piano Sonata No. 2\n\nTolstoy, Leo ,\n\n> _War and Peace_\n\nTommasini, Vincenzo\n\nTorke, Michael\n\nToulouse-Lautrec, Henri de ,\n\nTravis, Roy\n\nTurgenev, Ivan\n\nUspensky, Boris\n\nVal\u00e9ry, Paul , ,\n\nVallas, L\u00e9on\n\nVan den Toorn, Pieter C. , , , , , \u2013, , \u2013, ,\n\nVar\u00e8se, Edgard , ,\n\n> _Am\u00e9riques_\n\nVarlamov, Alexander\n\nVarunts, Viktor\n\nVasilenko, Sergey\n\nVerdi, Giuseppe , , ,\n\n> Requiem \n> \n> _Il Trovatore_\n\nVerlaine, Paul ,\n\nWagner, Richard , , , , , , , , , ,\n\n> _G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung_ \n> \n> _Die Meistersinger_ , \n> \n> _Parsifal_ , \n> \n> _Tristan und Isolde_\n\nWalsh, Stephen , , , , , , , , \u2013, \u2013, , , , , , , , ,\n\nWatkins, Glenn , \u2013,\n\nWebern, Anton , , , , , , \u2013, , , , \u2013, , \u2013,\n\n> Five Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 10 \u2013\n> \n> Quartet, Op. 22 \n> \n> Six Pieces for Orchestra, Op. 6 \u2013\n\nWeill, Kurt ,\n\nWeiner, Marc\n\n> _Richard Wagner and the Anti-Semitic Imagination_\n\nWeissmann, Adolf\n\nWelles, Orson\n\nWhittall, Arnold \u2013,\n\nWilliams, John\n\nWoolf, Virginia\n\nXenakis, Iannis\n\n> _Metastasis_\n\nYastrebtsev, Vasily , ,\n\nZiloti, Aleksandr \n"}
{"meta": {"title": "El Leon, la Bruja y el Ropero - C"}, "text": "\n\n## A LUC\u00cdA BARFIELD\n\n_Querida Luc\u00eda_ ,\n\n_Escrib\u00ed esta historia para ti, sin darm e cuenta de que las ni\u00f1as crecen m\u00e1s r\u00e1pido que los libros. El resultado es que ya est\u00e1s dem asiado grande para cuentos de hadas, y cuando \u00e9ste se imprima ser\u00e1s mayor a\u00fan. Sin embargo, alg\u00fan dia llegar\u00e1s a la edad en que nuevam ente gozar\u00e1s de los cuentos de hadas. Entonces podr\u00e1s sacarlo de la repisa m\u00e1s alta, desem polvarlo y darm e tu opini\u00f3n solore \u00e9l. Probablem ente, yo estar\u00e9 dam asiado sordo para escucharte y dam asiado viejo para comprender lo que dices. Pero a\u00fan ser\u00e9 tu padrino que te quiere mucho_.\n\nC. S. LEWIS\n\n## \u00cdNDICE\n\nCubierta\n\nPortada\n\nA Luc\u00eda Barfield\n\n1.\n\nLuc\u00eda investiga en el ropero\n\n2.\n\nLo que Luc\u00eda encontr\u00f3 all\u00ed\n\n3.\n\nEdmundo y el ropero\n\n4.\n\n_Delicias turcas_\n\n5.\n\nDe regreso a este lado de la puerta\n\n6.\n\nEn el bosque\n\n7.\n\nUn d\u00eda con los Castores\n\n8.\n\nLo que sucedi\u00f3 despu\u00e9s de la comida\n\n9.\n\nEn casa de la Bruja\n\n10.\n\nEl hechizo comienza a romperse\n\n11.\n\nAslan est\u00e1 cerca\n\n12.\n\nLa primera batalla de Pedro\n\n13.\n\nMagia Profunda del Amanecer del Tiempo\n\n14.\n\nEl triunfo de la Bruja\n\n15.\n\nMagia Profunda anterior al Amanecer del Tiempo\n\n16.\n\nLo que sucedi\u00f3 con las estatuas\n\n17.\n\nLa caza del Ciervo Blanco\n\nAcerca del Autor\n\nOtros Libros\n\nCr\u00e9ditos\n\nP\u00e1gina Legal\n\nAcerca del Publicador\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 1\n\n## LUC\u00cdA INVESTIGA EN EL ROPERO\n\nHAB\u00cdA UNA VEZ CUATRO NI\u00d1OS CUYOS nombres eran Pedro, Susana, Edmundo y Luc\u00eda. Esta historia relata lo que les sucedi\u00f3 cuando, durante la guerra y a causa de los bombardeos, fueron enviados lejos de Londres a la casa de un viejo profesor. \u00c9ste viv\u00eda en medio del campo, a diez millas de la estaci\u00f3n m\u00e1s cercana y a dos millas del correo m\u00e1s pr\u00f3ximo. El profesor no era casado, as\u00ed es que un ama de llaves, la se\u00f1ora Macready, y tres sirvientas atend\u00edan su casa. (Las sirvientas se llamaban Ivy, Margarita y Betty, pero ellas no intervienen mucho en esta historia.)\n\nEl anciano profesor ten\u00eda un aspecto curioso, pues su cabello blanco no s\u00f3lo le cubr\u00eda la cabeza sino tambi\u00e9n casi toda la cara. Los ni\u00f1os simpatizaron con \u00e9l al instante, a pesar de que Luc\u00eda, la menor, sinti\u00f3 miedo al verlo por primera vez, y Edmundo, algo mayor que ella, escondi\u00f3 su risa tras un pa\u00f1uelo y simul\u00f3 sonarse sin interrupci\u00f3n.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de ese primer d\u00eda y en cuanto dieron las buenas noches al profesor, los ni\u00f1os subieron a sus habitaciones en el segundo piso y se reunieron en el dormitorio de las ni\u00f1as para comentar todo lo ocurrido.\n\n\u2013Hemos tenido una suerte fant\u00e1stica \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Lo pasaremos muy bien aqu\u00ed. El viejo profesor es una buena persona y nos permitir\u00e1 hacer todo lo que queramos.\n\n\u2013Es un anciano encantador \u2013dijo Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00a1C\u00e1llate! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Edmundo. Estaba cansado, aunque fing\u00eda no estarlo, y esto lo pon\u00eda siempre de un humor insoportable\u2013. \u00a1No sigas hablando de esa manera!\n\n\u2013\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 manera? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana\u2013. Adem\u00e1s ya es hora de que est\u00e9s en la cama.\n\n\u2013Tratas de hablar como mam\u00e1 \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013. \u00bfQui\u00e9n eres para venir a decirme cu\u00e1ndo tengo que ir a la cama? \u00a1Eres t\u00fa quien debe irse a acostar!\n\n\u2013Mejor ser\u00e1 que todos vayamos a dormir \u2013interrumpi\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Si nos encuentran conversando aqu\u00ed, habr\u00e1 un tremendo l\u00edo.\n\n\u2013No lo habr\u00e1 \u2013repuso Pedro, con tono seguro\u2013. \u00c9ste es el tipo de casa en la que a nadie le preocupar\u00e1 lo que nosotros hagamos. En todo caso, ninguna persona nos va a o\u00edr. Estamos como a diez minutos del comedor y hay numerosos pasillos, escaleras y rincones entremedio.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 es ese ruido? \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda de repente.\n\n\u00c9sta era la casa m\u00e1s grande que ella hab\u00eda conocido en su vida. Pens\u00f3 en todos esos pasillos, escaleras y rincones, y sinti\u00f3 que algo parecido a un escalofr\u00edo la recorr\u00eda de pies a cabeza.\n\n\u2013No es m\u00e1s que un p\u00e1jaro, tonta \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Es una lechuza \u2013agreg\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. \u00c9ste debe ser un lugar maravilloso para los p\u00e1jaros... Bien, creo que ahora es mejor que todos vayamos a la cama, pero ma\u00f1ana exploraremos. En un sitio como \u00e9ste se puede encontrar cualquier cosa. \u00bfVieron las monta\u00f1as cuando ven\u00edamos? \u00bfY los bosques? Puede ser que haya \u00e1guilas, venados... Seguramente habr\u00e1 halcones...\n\n\u2013Y tejones \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Y zorros \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Y conejos \u2013agreg\u00f3 Susana.\n\nPero a la ma\u00f1ana siguiente ca\u00eda una cortina de lluvia tan espesa que, al mirar por la ventana, no se ve\u00edan las monta\u00f1as ni los bosques; ni siquiera la acequia del jard\u00edn.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ten\u00eda que llover! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\nLos ni\u00f1os hab\u00edan tomado el desayuno con el profesor, y en ese momento se encontraban en una sala del segundo piso que el anciano hab\u00eda destinado para ellos. Era una larga habitaci\u00f3n de techo bajo, con dos ventanas hacia un lado y dos hacia el otro.\n\n\u2013Deja de quejarte, Ed \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Te apuesto diez a uno a que aclara en menos de una hora. Por lo dem\u00e1s, estamos bastante c\u00f3modos y tenemos un mont\u00f3n de libros.\n\n\u2013Por mi parte, yo me voy a explorar la casa \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\nLa idea les pareci\u00f3 excelente y as\u00ed fue como comenzaron las aventuras. La casa era uno de aquellos edificios llenos de lugares inesperados, que nunca se conocen por completo. Las primeras habitaciones que recorrieron estaban totalmente vac\u00edas, tal como los ni\u00f1os esperaban. Pero pronto llegaron a una sala muy larga con las paredes repletas de cuadros, en la que encontraron una armadura. Despu\u00e9s pasaron a otra completamente cubierta por un tapiz verde y en la que hab\u00eda un arpa arrinconada. Tres pelda\u00f1os m\u00e1s abajo y cinco hacia arriba los llevaron hasta un peque\u00f1o zagu\u00e1n. Desde ah\u00ed entraron en una serie de habitaciones que desembocaban unas en otras. Todas ten\u00edan estanter\u00edas repletas de libros, la mayor\u00eda muy antiguos y algunos tan grandes como la Biblia de una iglesia. M\u00e1s adelante entraron en un cuarto casi vac\u00edo. S\u00f3lo hab\u00eda un gran ropero con espejos en las puertas. All\u00ed no encontraron nada m\u00e1s, excepto una botella azul en la repisa de la ventana.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Nada por aqu\u00ed! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Pedro, y todos los ni\u00f1os se precipitaron hacia la puerta para continuar la excursi\u00f3n. Todos menos Luc\u00eda, que se qued\u00f3 atr\u00e1s. \u00bfQu\u00e9 habr\u00eda dentro del armario? Val\u00eda la pena averiguarlo, aunque, seguramente, estar\u00eda cerrado con llave. Para su sorpresa, la puerta se abri\u00f3 sin dificultad. Dos bolitas de naftalina rodaron por el suelo.\n\nLa ni\u00f1a mir\u00f3 hacia el interior. Hab\u00eda numerosos abrigos colgados, la mayor\u00eda de piel. Nada le gustaba tanto a Luc\u00eda como el tacto y el olor de las pieles. Se introdujo en el enorme ropero y camin\u00f3 entre los abrigos, mientras frotaba su rostro contra ellos. Hab\u00eda dejado la puerta abierta, por supuesto, pues comprend\u00eda que ser\u00eda una verdadera locura encerrarse en el armario. Avanz\u00f3 algo m\u00e1s y descubri\u00f3 una segunda hilera de abrigos. Estaba bastante oscuro ah\u00ed adentro, as\u00ed es que mantuvo los brazos estirados para no chocar con el fondo del ropero. Dio un paso m\u00e1s, luego otros dos, tres... Esperaba siempre tocar la madera del ropero con la punta de los dedos, pero no llegaba nunca hasta el fondo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1\u00c9ste debe de ser un guardarropa gigantesco! \u2013murmur\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, mientras caminaba m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s adentro y empujaba los pliegues de los abrigos para abrirse paso. De pronto sinti\u00f3 que algo cruj\u00eda bajo sus pies.\n\n\"\u00bfHabr\u00e1 m\u00e1s naftalina?\", se pregunt\u00f3.\n\nSe inclin\u00f3 para tocar el suelo. Pero en lugar de sentir el contacto firme y liso de la madera, toc\u00f3 algo suave, pulverizado y extremadamente fr\u00edo. \"Esto s\u00ed que es raro\", pens\u00f3 y dio otros dos pasos hacia adelante.\n\nUn instante despu\u00e9s advirti\u00f3 que lo que rozaba su cara ya no era suave como la piel sino duro, \u00e1spero e, incluso, hincaba.\n\n\u2013\u00bfC\u00f3mo? \u00a1Parecen ramas de \u00e1rboles! \u2013exclam\u00f3.\n\nEntonces vio una luz frente a ella; no estaba cerca del lugar donde tendr\u00eda que haber estado el fondo del ropero, sino much\u00edsimo m\u00e1s lejos. Algo fr\u00edo y suave ca\u00eda sobre la ni\u00f1a. Un momento despu\u00e9s se dio cuenta de que se encontraba en medio de un bosque; adem\u00e1s era de noche, hab\u00eda nieve bajo sus pies y gruesos copos ca\u00edan a trav\u00e9s del aire.\n\nLuc\u00eda se asust\u00f3 un poco, pero a la vez se sinti\u00f3 llena de curiosidad y de excitaci\u00f3n. Mir\u00f3 hacia atr\u00e1s y entre la oscuridad de los troncos de los \u00e1rboles pudo distinguir la puerta abierta del ropero e incluso la habitaci\u00f3n vac\u00eda desde donde hab\u00eda salido. (Por supuesto, ella hab\u00eda dejado la puerta abierta, pues pensaba que era la m\u00e1s grande de las tonter\u00edas encerrarse uno mismo en un guardarropa.) Parec\u00eda que all\u00e1 era de d\u00eda. \"Puedo volver cuando quiera, si algo sale mal\", pens\u00f3, tratando de tranquilizarse. Comenz\u00f3 a caminar _\u2013cranch-cranch\u2013_ sobre la nieve y a trav\u00e9s del bosque, hacia la otra luz, delante de ella.\n\nCerca de diez minutos m\u00e1s tarde, Luc\u00eda lleg\u00f3 hasta un farol. Se preguntaba qu\u00e9 significado podr\u00eda tener \u00e9ste en medio de un bosque, cuando escuch\u00f3 unos pasos que se acercaban. Segundos despu\u00e9s, una persona muy extra\u00f1a sali\u00f3 de entre los \u00e1rboles y se aproxim\u00f3 a la luz.\n\nEra un poco m\u00e1s alta que Luc\u00eda. Sobre su cabeza llevaba un paraguas todo blanco de nieve. De la cintura hacia arriba ten\u00eda el aspecto de un hombre, pero sus piernas, cubiertas de pelo negro y brillante, parec\u00edan las extremidades de un cabro. En lugar de pies ten\u00eda pezu\u00f1as.\n\nEn un comienzo, la ni\u00f1a no advirti\u00f3 que tambi\u00e9n ten\u00eda cola, pues la llevaba enrollada en el brazo que sosten\u00eda el paraguas para evitar que se arrastrara por la nieve. Una bufanda roja le cubr\u00eda el cuello y su piel era tambi\u00e9n rojiza. El rostro era peque\u00f1o y extra\u00f1o pero agradable; ten\u00eda una barba rizada y un par de cuernos a los lados de la frente. Mientras en una mano llevaba el paraguas, en la otra sosten\u00eda varios paquetes con papel de color caf\u00e9. \u00c9stos y la nieve hac\u00edan recordar las compras de Navidad. Era un fauno. Y cuando vio a Luc\u00eda, su sorpresa fue tan grande que todos los paquetes rodaron por el suelo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Cielos! \u2013exclam\u00f3 el Fauno.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 2\n\n## LO QUE LUC\u00cdA ENCONTR\u00d3 ALL\u00cd\n\n\u2013BUENAS TARDES \u2013SALUD\u00d3 LUC\u00cdA. PERO el Fauno estaba tan ocupado recogiendo los paquetes que no contest\u00f3. Cuando hubo terminado le hizo una peque\u00f1a reverencia.\n\n\u2013Buenas tardes, buenas tardes \u2013dijo. Y agreg\u00f3 despu\u00e9s de un instante\u2013: Perd\u00f3name, no quisiera parecer impertinente, pero \u00bferes t\u00fa lo que llaman una Hija de Eva?\n\n\u2013Me llamo Luc\u00eda \u2013respondi\u00f3 ella, sin entenderle muy bien.\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bft\u00fa eres lo que llaman una ni\u00f1a?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Por supuesto que soy una ni\u00f1a! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00bfVerdaderamente eres humana?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Claro que soy humana! \u2013respondi\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, todav\u00eda un poco confundida.\n\n\u2013Seguro, seguro \u2013dijo el Fauno\u2013. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 tonto soy! Pero nunca hab\u00eda visto a un Hijo de Ad\u00e1n ni a una Hija de Eva. Estoy encantado.\n\nSe detuvo como si hubiera estado a punto de decir algo y recordar a tiempo que no deb\u00eda hacerlo.\n\n\u2013Encantado, encantado \u2013repiti\u00f3 luego\u2013. Perm\u00edteme que me presente. Mi nombre es Tumnus.\n\n\u2013Encantada de conocerle, se\u00f1or Tumnus \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Y se puede saber, \u00a1oh, Luc\u00eda, Hija de Eva!, \u00bfc\u00f3mo llegaste a Narnia? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 el se\u00f1or Tumnus.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNarnia? \u00bfQu\u00e9 es eso?\n\n\u2013\u00c9sta es la tierra de Narnia \u2013dijo el Fauno\u2013, donde estamos ahora. Todo lo que se encuentra entre el farol y el gran castillo de Cair Paravel en el mar del este. Y t\u00fa, \u00bfvienes de los bosques salvajes del oeste?\n\n\u2013Yo llegu\u00e9..., llegu\u00e9 a trav\u00e9s del ropero que est\u00e1 en el cuarto vac\u00edo \u2013respondi\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, vacilando.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah! \u2013dijo el se\u00f1or Tumnus con voz melanc\u00f3lica\u2013, si hubiera estudiado geograf\u00eda con m\u00e1s empe\u00f1o cuando era un peque\u00f1o fauno, sin duda sabr\u00eda todo acerca de esos extra\u00f1os pa\u00edses. Ahora es demasiado tarde.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Pero si \u00e9sos no son pa\u00edses! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda casi riendo\u2013. El ropero est\u00e1 ah\u00ed, un poco m\u00e1s atr\u00e1s..., creo... No estoy segura. Es verano all\u00ed ahora.\n\n\u2013Ahora es invierno en Narnia; es invierno siempre, desde hace mucho... Pero si seguimos conversando en la nieve nos vamos a resfriar los dos. Hija de Eva, de la lejana tierra del Cuarto Vac\u00edo, donde el eterno verano reina alrededor de la luminosa ciudad del Ropero, \u00bfte gustar\u00eda venir a tomar el t\u00e9 conmigo?\n\n\u2013Gracias, se\u00f1or Tumnus, pero pienso que quiz\u00e1s ya es hora de regresar.\n\n\u2013Es a la vuelta de la esquina, nom\u00e1s. Habr\u00e1 un buen fuego, tostadas, sardinas y torta \u2013insisti\u00f3 el Fauno.\n\n\u2013Es muy amable de su parte \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Pero no podr\u00e9 quedarme mucho rato.\n\n\u2013Ag\u00e1rrate de mi brazo, Hija de Eva \u2013dijo el se\u00f1or Tumnus\u2013. Llevar\u00e9 el paraguas para los dos. Por aqu\u00ed, vamos.\n\nAs\u00ed fue como Luc\u00eda se encontr\u00f3 caminando por el bosque del brazo de esta extra\u00f1a criatura, igual que si se hubieran conocido durante toda la vida.\n\nNo hab\u00edan ido muy lejos a\u00fan, cuando llegaron a un lugar donde el suelo se torn\u00f3 \u00e1spero y rocoso. Hacia arriba y hacia abajo de las colinas hab\u00eda piedras. Al pie de un peque\u00f1o valle el se\u00f1or Tumnus se volvi\u00f3 de repente y camin\u00f3 derecho hacia una roca gigantesca. S\u00f3lo en el momento en que estuvieron muy cerca de ella, Luc\u00eda descubri\u00f3 que \u00e9l la conduc\u00eda a la entrada de una cueva. En cuanto se encontraron en el interior, la ni\u00f1a se vio inundada por la luz del fuego. El se\u00f1or Tumnus cogi\u00f3 una brasa con un par de tenazas y encendi\u00f3 una l\u00e1mpara.\n\n\u2013Ahora falta poco \u2013dijo, e inmediatamente puso la tetera a calentar.\n\nLuc\u00eda pensaba que no hab\u00eda estado nunca en un lugar m\u00e1s acogedor. Era una peque\u00f1a, limpia y seca cueva de piedra roja con una alfombra en el suelo, dos sillas (\"una para m\u00ed y otra para un amigo\", dijo el se\u00f1or Tumnus), una mesa, una c\u00f3moda, una repisa sobre la chimenea, y m\u00e1s arriba, domin\u00e1ndolo todo, el retrato de un viejo fauno con barba gris. En un rinc\u00f3n hab\u00eda una puerta; Luc\u00eda supuso que comunicaba con el dormitorio del se\u00f1or Tumnus. En una de las paredes se apoyaba un estante repleto de libros. La ni\u00f1a miraba todo mientras \u00e9l preparaba la mesa para el t\u00e9. Algunos de los t\u00edtulos eran _La vida y las cartas de Sileno, Las ninfas y sus costumbres, H ambres, monjesy departistas, Estudio de la leyenda popular, \u00bfEselhambreun mito?_ , y muchos m\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Hija de Eva \u2013dijo el Fauno\u2013, ya est\u00e1 todo preparado.\n\nY realmente fue un t\u00e9 maravilloso. Hubo un rico huevo dorado para cada uno, sardinas en pan tostado, tostadas con mantequilla y con miel, y una torta espolvoreada con az\u00facar. Cuando Luc\u00eda se cans\u00f3 de comer, el Fauno comenz\u00f3 a hablar. Sus relatos sobre la vida en el bosque eran fant\u00e1sticos. Le cont\u00f3 acerca de bailes en la medianoche, cuando las ninfas que viv\u00edan en las vertientes y las dr\u00edades que habitaban en los \u00e1rboles sal\u00edan a danzar con los faunos; de las largas partidas de cacer\u00eda tras el Venado Blanco, en las cuales se cumpl\u00edan los deseos del que lo capturaba; sobre las celebraciones y la b\u00fasqueda de tesoros con los enanos rojos salvajes, en minas y cavernas muy por debajo del suelo. Por \u00faltimo, le habl\u00f3 tambi\u00e9n de los veranos, cuando los bosques eran verdes y el viejo Sileno los visitaba en su gordo burro. A veces llegaba a verlos el propio Baco y entonces por los r\u00edos corr\u00eda vino en lugar de agua y el bosque se transformaba en una fiesta que se prolongaba por semanas sin fin.\n\n\u2013Ahora es siempre invierno \u2013agreg\u00f3 taciturno.\n\nEntonces para alegrarse tom\u00f3 un estuche que estaba sobre la c\u00f3moda, sac\u00f3 de \u00e9l una extra\u00f1a flauta que parec\u00eda hecha de paja y empez\u00f3 a tocar.\n\nAl escuchar la melod\u00eda, Luc\u00eda sinti\u00f3 ansias de llorar, re\u00edr, bailar y dormir, todo al mismo tiempo. Deb\u00edan haber transcurrido varias horas cuando despert\u00f3 bruscamente, y dijo:\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1or Tumnus, siento interrumpirlo, pero tengo que irme a casa. S\u00f3lo quer\u00eda quedarme unos minutos...\n\n\u2013No es bueno _ahora_ ,t\u00fa sabes \u2013le dijo el Fauno, dejando la flauta. Parec\u00eda acongojado por ella.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQue no es bueno? \u2013dijo ella, dando un salto. Asustada e inquieta agreg\u00f3\u2013: \u00bfQu\u00e9 quiere decir? Tengo que volver a casa al instante. Ya deben de estar preocupados.\n\nUn momento despu\u00e9s, al ver que los ojos del Fauno estaban llenos de l\u00e1grimas, volvi\u00f3 a preguntar:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Se\u00f1or Tumnus! \u00bfCu\u00e1l es realmente el problema?\n\nEl Fauno continu\u00f3 llorando. Las l\u00e1grimas comenzaron a deslizarse por sus mejillas y pronto corrieron por la punta de su nariz. Finalmente se cubri\u00f3 el rostro con las manos y comenz\u00f3 a sollozar.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Se\u00f1or Tumnus! \u00a1Se\u00f1or Tumnus! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Luc\u00eda con desesperaci\u00f3n\u2013. \u00a1No llore as\u00ed! \u00bfQu\u00e9 es lo que pasa? \u00bfNo se siente bien? Querido se\u00f1or Tumnus, cu\u00e9nteme qu\u00e9 es lo que est\u00e1 mal.\n\nPero el Fauno continu\u00f3 estremeci\u00e9ndose como si tuviera el coraz\u00f3n destrozado. Aunque Luc\u00eda lo abraz\u00f3 y le prest\u00f3 su pa\u00f1uelo, no pudo detenerse. Solamente tom\u00f3 el pa\u00f1uelo y lo us\u00f3 para secar sus l\u00e1grimas que continuaban cayendo sin interrupci\u00f3n. Y cuando estaba demasiado mojado, lo estrujaba con sus dos manos. Tanto lo estruj\u00f3, que pronto Luc\u00eda estuvo de pie en un suelo completamente h\u00famedo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Se\u00f1or Tumnus! \u2013grit\u00f3 Luc\u00eda en su o\u00eddo, al mismo tiempo que lo sacud\u00eda\u2013. No llore m\u00e1s, por favor. Pare inmediatamente de llorar. Deber\u00eda avergonzarse. Un fauno mayor, como usted. Pero d\u00edgame, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 llora usted?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh!, \u00a1oh!, \u00a1oh! \u2013solloz\u00f3\u2013, lloro porque soy un fauno malvado.\n\n\u2013Yo no creo eso. De ninguna manera \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. De hecho, usted es el fauno m\u00e1s encantador que he conocido.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! No dir\u00edas eso si t\u00fa supieras \u2013replic\u00f3 el se\u00f1or Tumnus entre suspiros\u2013. Soy un fauno malo. No creo que nunca haya habido uno peor que yo desde que el mundo es mundo.\n\n\u2013Pero, \u00bfqu\u00e9 es lo que ha hecho? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Mi viejo padre \u2013dijo el Fauno\u2013jam\u00e1s hubiera hecho una cosa semejante. \u00bfLo ves? Su retrato est\u00e1 sobre la chimenea.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 es lo que no hubiera hecho su padre?\n\n\u2013Lo que yo he hecho \u2013respondi\u00f3 el Fauno\u2013. Servir a la Bruja Blanca. Eso es lo que yo soy. Un sirviente pagado por la Bruja Blanca.\n\n\u2013\u00bfLa Bruja Blanca? \u00bfQui\u00e9n es?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah! Ella es quien tiene a Narnia completamente en sus manos. Ella es quien mantiene el invierno para siempre. Siempre invierno y nunca Navidad. \u00bfTe imaginas lo que es eso?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9 terrible! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 trabajo hace usted para que ella le pague?\n\n\u2013Eso es lo peor. Soy yo el que rapta para ella. Eso es lo que soy: un raptor. M\u00edrame, Hija de Eva. \u00bfCrees que soy la clase de Fauno que cuando se encuentra con un pobre ni\u00f1o inocente en el bosque, se hace su amigo y lo invita a su casa en la cueva, s\u00f3lo para dormirlo con m\u00fasica y entregarlo luego a la Bruja Blanca?\n\n\u2013No \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Estoy segura de que usted no har\u00eda nada semejante.\n\n\u2013Pero lo he hecho \u2013dijo el Fauno.\n\n\u2013Bien \u2013continu\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, lentamente (porque quer\u00eda ser muy franca, pero, a la vez, no deseaba ser demasiado dura con \u00e9l)\u2013, eso es muy malo, pero usted est\u00e1 tan arrepentido que estoy segura de que no lo har\u00e1 de nuevo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Hija de Eva! \u00bfEs que no entiendes? \u2013exclam\u00f3 el Fauno\u2013. No es algo que yo haya hecho. Es algo que estoy haciendo en este preciso instante.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 quiere decir? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, poni\u00e9ndose blanca como la nieve.\n\n\u2013T\u00fa eres el ni\u00f1o \u2013dijo el se\u00f1or Tumnus\u2013. La Bruja Blanca me hab\u00eda ordenado que si alguna vez encontraba a un Hijo de Ad\u00e1n o a una Hija de Eva en el bosque, ten\u00eda que aprehenderlo y llev\u00e1rselo. T\u00fa eres la primera que yo he conocido. Fing\u00ed ser tu amigo, te invit\u00e9 a tomar el t\u00e9 y he esperado todo el tiempo que estuvieras dormida para llevarte hasta ella.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah, no! Usted no lo har\u00e1, se\u00f1or Tumnus \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Realmente usted no lo har\u00e1. De verdad, no debe hacerlo.\n\n\u2013Y si yo no lo hago \u2013dijo \u00e9l, comenzando a llorar de nuevo\u2013, ella lo sabr\u00e1. Y me cortar\u00e1 la cola, me arrancar\u00e1 los cuernos y la barba. Agitar\u00e1 su vara sobre mis lindas pezu\u00f1as divididas por la mitad y las transformar\u00e1 en horribles y s\u00f3lidas, como las de un desdichado caballo. Pero si ella se enfurece m\u00e1s a\u00fan, me convertir\u00e1 en piedra y ser\u00e9 s\u00f3lo una estatua de Fauno en su horrible casa, y all\u00ed me quedar\u00e9 hasta que los cuatro tronos de Cair Paravel sean ocupados. Y s\u00f3lo Dios sabe cu\u00e1ndo suceder\u00e1 eso o si alguna vez suceder\u00e1.\n\n\u2013Lo siento mucho, se\u00f1or Tumnus \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Pero, por favor, d\u00e9jeme ir a casa.\n\n\u2013Por supuesto que lo har\u00e9 \u2013dijo el Fauno\u2013. Tengo que hacerlo. Ahora me doy cuenta. No sab\u00eda c\u00f3mo eran los humanos antes de conocerte a ti. No puedo entregarte a la Bruja Blanca; no ahora que te conozco. Pero tenemos que salir de inmediato. Te acompa\u00f1ar\u00e9 hasta el farol. Espero que desde all\u00ed sabr\u00e1s encontrar el camino al Cuarto Vac\u00edo y al Ropero.\n\n\u2013Estoy segura de que podr\u00e9.\n\n\u2013Debemos irnos muy silenciosamente. Tan callados como podamos \u2013dijo el se\u00f1or Tumnus\u2013. El bosque est\u00e1 lleno de _sus espias_. Incluso algunos \u00e1rboles est\u00e1n de su parte.\n\nAmbos se levantaron y, dejando las tazas y los platos en la mesa, salieron. El se\u00f1or Tumnus abri\u00f3 el paraguas una vez m\u00e1s, le dio el brazo a Luc\u00eda y comenzaron a caminar sobre la nieve. El regreso fue completamente diferente a lo que hab\u00eda sido la ida hacia la cueva del fauno. Sin decir una palabra se apresuraron todo lo que pudieron y el se\u00f1or Tumnus se mantuvo siempre en los lugares m\u00e1s oscuros. Luc\u00eda se sinti\u00f3 bastante reconfortada cuando llegaron junto al farol.\n\n\u2013\u00bfSabes cu\u00e1l es tu camino desde aqu\u00ed, Hija de Eva? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 el Fauno.\n\nLuc\u00eda concentr\u00f3 su mirada entre los \u00e1rboles y en la distancia pudo ver un espacio iluminado, como si all\u00e1 lejos fuera de d\u00eda.\n\n\u2013S\u00ed \u2013dijo\u2013. Alcanzo a ver la puerta del ropero.\n\n\u2013Entonces corre hacia tu casa tan r\u00e1pido como puedas \u2013dijo el se\u00f1or Tumnus\u2013. \u00bfPodr\u00e1s perdonarme alguna vez por lo que intent\u00e9 hacer?\n\n\u2013Por supuesto \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, estrechando fuertemente sus manos\u2013. Espero de todo coraz\u00f3n que usted no tenga problemas por mi culpa.\n\n\u2013Adi\u00f3s, Hija de Eva. \u00bfSer\u00eda posible, tal vez, que yo guarde tu pa\u00f1uelo como recuerdo?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Est\u00e1 bien! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Luc\u00eda y ech\u00f3 a correr hacia la luz del d\u00eda, tan r\u00e1pido como sus piernas se lo permitieron. Esta vez, en lugar de sentir el roce de \u00e1speras ramas en su rostro y la nieve crujiente bajo sus pies, palp\u00f3 los tablones y de inmediato se encontr\u00f3 saltando fuera del ropero y en medio del mismo cuarto vac\u00edo en el que hab\u00eda comenzado toda la aventura. Cerr\u00f3 cuidadosamente la puerta del guardarropa y mir\u00f3 a su alrededor mientras recuperaba el aliento. Todav\u00eda llov\u00eda. Pudo escuchar las voces de los otros ni\u00f1os en el pasillo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Estoy aqu\u00ed! \u2013grit\u00f3\u2013. \u00a1Estoy aqu\u00ed! \u00a1He vuelto y estoy muy bien!\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 3\n\n## EDMUNDO Y EL ROPERO\n\nLUC\u00cdA SALI\u00d3 CORRIENDO DEL CUARTO vac\u00edo y en el pasillo se encontr\u00f3 con los otros tres ni\u00f1os.\n\n\u2013Todo est\u00e1 bien \u2013repiti\u00f3\u2013. He vuelto.\n\n\u2013\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 hablas, Luc\u00eda? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00a1C\u00f3mo! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Luc\u00eda asombrada\u2013. \u00bfNo estaban preocupados por mi ausencia? \u00bfNo se han preguntado d\u00f3nde estaba yo?\n\n\u2013Entonces, \u00bfestabas escondida? \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Pobre Lu, \u00a1se escondi\u00f3 y nadie se dio cuenta! Para otra vez vas a tener que desaparecer durante un rato m\u00e1s largo, si es que quieres que alguien te busque.\n\n\u2013Estuve afuera por horas y horas \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Mal \u2013dijo Edmundo, golpe\u00e1ndose la cabeza\u2013. Muy mal.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 quieres decir, Luc\u00eda? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro.\n\n\u2013Lo que dije \u2013contest\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Fue precisamente despu\u00e9s del desayuno, cuando entr\u00e9 en el ropero, y he estado afuera por horas y horas. Tom\u00e9 t\u00e9 y me han sucedido toda clase de acontecimientos.\n\n\u2013No seas tonta, Luc\u00eda. Hemos salido de ese cuarto hace apenas un instante y t\u00fa estabas all\u00ed \u2013replic\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013Ella no se est\u00e1 haciendo la tonta \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Est\u00e1 inventando una historia para divertirse, \u00bfno es verdad, Luc\u00eda?\n\n\u2013No, Pedro. No estoy inventando. El armario es m\u00e1gico. Adentro hay un bosque, nieve, un fauno y una bruja. El lugar se llama Narnia. Vengan a ver.\n\nLos dem\u00e1s no sab\u00edan qu\u00e9 pensar, pero Luc\u00eda estaba tan excitada que la siguieron hasta el cuarto sin decir una palabra. Corri\u00f3 hacia el ropero y abri\u00f3 la puerta de par en par.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ahora! \u2013grit\u00f3\u2013. \u00a1Entren y compru\u00e9benlo ustedes mismos!\n\n\u2013\u00a1C\u00f3mo! \u00a1Eres una gansa! \u2013dijo Susana, despu\u00e9s de introducir la cabeza dentro del ropero y apartar los abrigos\u2013. \u00c9ste es un ropero com\u00fan y corriente. Miren, aqu\u00ed est\u00e1 el fondo.\n\nTodos miraron, movieron los abrigos y vieron \u2013Luc\u00eda tambi\u00e9n\u2013 un armario igual a los dem\u00e1s. No hab\u00eda bosque ni nieve. S\u00f3lo el fondo del ropero y los colgadores. Pedro salt\u00f3 dentro y golpe\u00f3 sus pu\u00f1os contra la madera para asegurarse.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Menuda broma la que nos has gastado, Lu! \u2013exclam\u00f3 al salir\u2013. Realmente nos sorprendiste, debo reconocerlo. Casi te cre\u00edmos.\n\n\u2013No era broma. Era verdad \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Era verdad. Todo fue diferente hace un instante. Les prometo que era cierto.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Vamos, Lu! \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. \u00a1Ya, basta! Est\u00e1s yendo un poco lejos con tu broma. \u00bfNo te parece que es mejor terminar aqu\u00ed?\n\nLuc\u00eda se puso roja y trat\u00f3 de hablar, a pesar de que ya no sab\u00eda qu\u00e9 estaba tratando de decir. Estall\u00f3 en llanto.\n\nDurante los d\u00edas siguientes se sinti\u00f3 muy desdichada. Podr\u00eda haberse reconciliado f\u00e1cilmente con los dem\u00e1s ni\u00f1os, en cualquier momento, si hubiera aceptado que todo hab\u00eda sido s\u00f3lo una broma para pasar el tiempo. Sin embargo, Luc\u00eda dec\u00eda siempre la verdad y sab\u00eda que estaba en lo cierto. No pod\u00eda decir ahora una cosa por otra.\n\nLos ni\u00f1os, que pensaban que ella hab\u00eda mentido tontamente, la hicieron sentirse muy infeliz. Los dos mayores, sin intenci\u00f3n; pero Edmundo era muy rencoroso y en esta ocasi\u00f3n lo demostr\u00f3. La molest\u00f3 incansablemente; a cada momento le preguntaba si hab\u00eda encontrado otros pa\u00edses en los aparadores o en los otros armarios de la casa. Lo peor de todo era que esos d\u00edas fueron muy entretenidos para los ni\u00f1os, pero no para Luc\u00eda. El tiempo estaba maravilloso; pasaban de la ma\u00f1ana a la noche fuera de la casa, se ba\u00f1aban, pescaban, se sub\u00edan a los \u00e1rboles, descubr\u00edan nidos de p\u00e1jaros y se tend\u00edan a la sombra. Luc\u00eda no pudo gozar de nada, y las cosas siguieron as\u00ed hasta que llovi\u00f3 nuevamente.\n\nEse d\u00eda, cuando lleg\u00f3 la tarde sin ninguna se\u00f1al de cambio en el tiempo, decidieron jugar a las escondidas. A Susana le correspondi\u00f3 primero buscar a los dem\u00e1s. Tan pronto los ni\u00f1os se dispersaron para esconderse, Luc\u00eda corri\u00f3 hasta el ropero, aunque no pretend\u00eda ocultarse all\u00ed. S\u00f3lo quer\u00eda dar una mirada dentro de \u00e9l. Estaba comenzando a dudar si Narnia, el Fauno y todo lo dem\u00e1s hab\u00eda sido un sue\u00f1o. La casa era tan grande, complicada y llena de escondites, que pens\u00f3 que tendr\u00eda tiempo suficiente para dar una mirada en el interior del armario y buscar luego cualquier lugar para ocultarse en otra parte. Pero justo en el momento en que abr\u00eda la puerta, sinti\u00f3 pasos en el corredor. No le qued\u00f3 m\u00e1s remedio que saltar dentro del guardarropa y sujetar la puerta tras ella, sin cerrarla del todo, pues sab\u00eda que era muy tonto encerrarse en un armario, incluso si se trataba de un armario m\u00e1gico.\n\nLos pasos que Luc\u00eda hab\u00eda o\u00eddo eran los de Edmundo. El ni\u00f1o entr\u00f3 en el cuarto en el momento preciso en que ella se introduc\u00eda en el ropero. De inmediato decidi\u00f3 hacer lo mismo, no porque fuera un buen lugar para esconderse, sino porque podr\u00eda seguir molest\u00e1ndola con su pa\u00eds imaginario. Abri\u00f3 la puerta. Estaba oscuro, ol\u00eda a naftalina, y all\u00ed estaban los abrigos colgados, pero no hab\u00eda un solo rastro de Luc\u00eda.\n\n\"Cree que es Susana la que viene a buscarla \u2013se dijo Edmundo\u2013; por eso se queda tan quieta\".\n\nSin m\u00e1s, salt\u00f3 adentro y cerr\u00f3 la puerta, olvidando que hacer eso era una verdadera locura. En la oscuridad empez\u00f3 a buscar a Luc\u00eda y se sorprendi\u00f3 de no encontrarla de inmediato, como hab\u00eda pensado. Decidi\u00f3 abrir la puerta para que entrara un poco de luz. Pero tampoco pudo hallarla. Todo esto no le gust\u00f3 nada y empez\u00f3 a saltar nerviosamente hacia todos lados. Al fin grit\u00f3 con desesperaci\u00f3n:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Luc\u00eda! \u00a1Lu! \u00bfD\u00f3nde te has metido? S\u00e9 que est\u00e1s aqu\u00ed.\n\nNo hubo respuesta. Edmundo advirti\u00f3 que su propia voz ten\u00eda un curioso sonido. No hab\u00eda sido el que se espera dentro de un armario cerrado, sino un sonido al aire libre. Tambi\u00e9n se dio cuenta de que el ambiente estaba extra\u00f1amente fr\u00edo. Entonces vio una luz.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Gracias a Dios! \u2013exclam\u00f3\u2013. La puerta se tiene que haber abierto por s\u00ed sola.\n\nSe olvid\u00f3 de Luc\u00eda y fue hacia la luz, convencido de que iba hacia la puerta del ropero. Pero en lugar de llegar al cuarto vac\u00edo, sali\u00f3 de un espeso y sombr\u00edo conjunto de abetos a un claro en medio del bosque.\n\nHab\u00eda nieve bajo sus pies y en las ramas de los \u00e1rboles. En el horizonte, el cielo era p\u00e1lido como el de una ma\u00f1ana despejada de invierno. Frente a \u00e9l, entre los \u00e1rboles, vio levantarse el sol muy rojo y claro. Todo estaba en silencio como si \u00e9l fuera la \u00fanica criatura viviente. No hab\u00eda ni siquiera un p\u00e1jaro o una ardilla entre los \u00e1rboles, y el bosque se extend\u00eda en todas direcciones, tan lejos como alcanzaba la vista. Edmundo tirit\u00f3.\n\nEn ese momento record\u00f3 que buscaba a Luc\u00eda. Tambi\u00e9n se acord\u00f3 de lo antip\u00e1tico que hab\u00eda sido con ella al molestarla con su \"pa\u00eds imaginario\". Ahora se daba cuenta de que en modo alguno era imaginario. Pens\u00f3 que no pod\u00eda estar muy lejos y llam\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Luc\u00eda! \u00a1Luc\u00eda! Estoy aqu\u00ed tambi\u00e9n. Soy Edmundo.\n\nNo hubo respuesta.\n\n\u2013Est\u00e1 enojada por todo lo que le he dicho \u2013murmur\u00f3.\n\nA pesar de que no le gustaba admitir que se hab\u00eda equivocado, menos a\u00fan le gustaba estar solo y con tanto fr\u00edo en ese silencioso lugar.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Lu! \u00a1Perd\u00f3name por no haberte cre\u00eddo! \u00a1Ahora veo que ten\u00edas raz\u00f3n! \u00a1Ven, hagamos las paces! \u2013grit\u00f3 de nuevo.\n\nTampoco hubo respuesta esta vez.\n\n\"Exactamente como una ni\u00f1a \u2013se dijo\u2013. Estar\u00e1 enfurru\u00f1ada por ah\u00ed y no aceptar\u00e1 una disculpa\".\n\nMir\u00f3 a su alrededor: ese lugar no le gustaba nada. Decidi\u00f3 volver a la casa cuando, en la distancia, oy\u00f3 un ruido de campanas. Escuch\u00f3 atentamente y el sonido se hizo m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s cercano. Al fin, a plena luz, apareci\u00f3 un trineo arrastrado por dos renos.\n\nEl tama\u00f1o de los renos era como el de los _panies_ de Shetland, y su piel era tan blanca que a su lado la nieve se ve\u00eda casi oscura. Sus cuernos ramificados eran dorados y resplandec\u00edan al sol. Sus arneses de cuero rojo estaban cubiertos de campanillas. El trineo era conducido por un enano gordo que, de pie, no tendr\u00eda m\u00e1s de tres pies de altura. Estaba envuelto en una piel de oso polar, y en la cabeza llevaba un capuch\u00f3n rojo con un largo pomp\u00f3n dorado en la punta; su enorme barba le cubr\u00eda las rodillas y le serv\u00eda de alfombra. Detr\u00e1s de \u00e9l, en un alto asiento en el centro del trineo, se hallaba una persona muy diferente: era una se\u00f1ora inmensa, m\u00e1s grande que todas las mujeres que Edmundo conoc\u00eda. Tambi\u00e9n estaba envuelta hasta el cuello en una piel blanca. En su mano derecha sosten\u00eda una vara dorada y llevaba una corona sobre su cabeza. Su rostro era blanco, no p\u00e1lido, sino blanco como el papel, la nieve o el az\u00facar. S\u00f3lo su boca era muy roja. A pesar de todo, su cara era bella, pero orgullosa, fr\u00eda y severa.\n\nMientras se acercaba a Edmundo, el trineo presentaba una magn\u00edfica visi\u00f3n con el sonido de las campanillas, el l\u00e1tigo del enano que restallaba en el aire y la nieve que parec\u00eda volar a ambos lados del carruaje.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Detente! \u2013exclam\u00f3 la Dama, y el enano tir\u00f3 tan fuerte de las riendas que por poco los renos caen sentados. Se recobraron y se detuvieron mordiendo los frenos y resoplando. En el aire helado, la respiraci\u00f3n que sal\u00eda de sus hocicos se ve\u00eda como si fuera humo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Por Dios! \u00bfQu\u00e9 eres t\u00fa? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 la Dama a Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Soy... soy..., mi nombre es Edmundo \u2013dijo el ni\u00f1o con timidez.\n\nLa Dama puso mala cara.\n\n\u2013\u00bfAs\u00ed te diriges a una reina? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 con gran severidad.\n\n\u2013Le ruego que me perdone, su Majestad. Yo no sab\u00eda...\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo conoces a la Reina de Narnia? \u2013grit\u00f3 ella\u2013. \u00a1Ah! \u00a1Nos conocer\u00e1s mejor de ahora en adelante! Pero..., te repito, \u00bfqu\u00e9 eres t\u00fa?\n\n\u2013Por favor, su Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013, no s\u00e9 qu\u00e9 quiere decir usted. Yo estoy en el colegio..., por lo menos, estaba... Ahora estoy de vacaciones.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 4\n\n## _DELICIAS TURCAS_\n\n\u2013PERO, \u00bfQU\u00c9 ERES T\u00da? \u2013PREGUNT\u00d3 LA Reina otra vez\u2013. \u00bfEres un enano superdesarrollado que se cort\u00f3 la barba?\n\n\u2013No, su Majestad. Nunca he tenido barba. Soy un ni\u00f1o \u2013dijo Edmundo, sin salir de su asombro.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Un ni\u00f1o! \u2013exclam\u00f3 ella\u2013. \u00bfQuieres decir que eres un Hijo de Ad\u00e1n?\n\nEdmundo se qued\u00f3 inm\u00f3vil sin pronunciar palabra. Realmente estaba demasiado confundido como para entender el significado de la pregunta.\n\n\u2013Veo que eres idiota, adem\u00e1s de ser lo que seas \u2013dijo la Reina\u2013. Cont\u00e9stame de una vez por todas, pues estoy a punto de perder la paciencia. \u00bfEres un ser humano?\n\n\u2013S\u00ed, Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\n\u2013\u00bfSe puede saber c\u00f3mo entraste en mis dominios?\n\n\u2013Vine a trav\u00e9s de un ropero, su Majestad.\n\n\u2013\u00bfUn ropero? \u00bfQu\u00e9 quieres decir con eso?\n\n\u2013Abr\u00ed la puerta y... me encontr\u00e9 aqu\u00ed, su Majestad \u2013explic\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah! \u2013dijo la Reina m\u00e1s para s\u00ed misma que para \u00e9l\u2013. Una puerta. \u00a1Una puerta del mundo de los hombres! Hab\u00eda o\u00eddo cosas semejantes. Eso puede arruinarlo todo. Pero es uno solo y parece muy f\u00e1cil de manipular...\n\nMientras murmuraba estas palabras, se levant\u00f3 de su asiento y con ojos llameantes mir\u00f3 fijamente a la cara de Edmundo. Al mismo tiempo levant\u00f3 su vara.\n\nEdmundo tuvo la seguridad de que ella iba a hacer algo espantoso, pero no fue capaz de moverse. Entonces, cuando \u00e9l ya se daba por perdido, ella pareci\u00f3 cambiar sus intenciones.\n\n\u2013Mi pobre ni\u00f1o \u2013le dijo con una voz muy diferente\u2013. \u00a1Cu\u00e1n helado pareces! Ven a sentarte en el trineo a mi lado y te cubrir\u00e9 con mi manto. Entonces podremos conversar.\n\nEsta soluci\u00f3n no le gust\u00f3 nada a Edmundo. Sin embargo, no se hubiera atrevido jam\u00e1s a desobedecerle. Subi\u00f3 al trineo y se sent\u00f3 a los pies de la Reina. Ella despleg\u00f3 su piel alrededor del ni\u00f1o y lo envolvi\u00f3 bien.\n\n\u2013\u00bfTe gustar\u00eda tomar algo caliente? \u2013le pregunt\u00f3.\n\n\u2013S\u00ed, por favor, su Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo, cuyos dientes casta\u00f1eteaban.\n\nLa Reina sac\u00f3 de entre los pliegues de su manto una peque\u00f1\u00edsima botella que parec\u00eda de cobre. Entonces estir\u00f3 el brazo y dej\u00f3 caer una gota de su contenido sobre la nieve, junto al trineo. Por un instante, Edmundo vio que la gota resplandec\u00eda en el aire como un diamante. Pero, en el momento que toc\u00f3 la nieve, se produjo un ruido leve y all\u00ed apareci\u00f3 una taza adornada de piedras preciosas, llena de algo que herv\u00eda. Inmediatamente el enano la tom\u00f3 y se la entreg\u00f3 a Edmundo con una reverencia y una sonrisa; pero no fue una sonrisa muy agradable.\n\nTan pronto comenz\u00f3 a beber, Edmundo se sinti\u00f3 mucho mejor. En su vida hab\u00eda tomado una bebida como \u00e9sa. Era muy dulce, cremosa y llena de espuma. Sinti\u00f3 que el l\u00edquido lo calentaba hasta la punta de los pies.\n\n\u2013No es bueno beber sin comer, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n \u2013dijo la Reina un momento despu\u00e9s\u2013. \u00bfQu\u00e9 es lo que te apetecer\u00eda comer?\n\n_\u2013Delicias turcas_ , por favor, su Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\nLa Reina derram\u00f3 sobre la nieve otra gota de su botella y al instante apareci\u00f3 una caja redonda atada con cintas verdes de seda. Edmundo la abri\u00f3: conten\u00eda varias libras de las mejores _delicias turcas_. Eran dulces y esponjosas. Edmundo no recordaba haber probado jam\u00e1s algo semejante.\n\nMientras com\u00eda, la Reina no dejaba de hacerle preguntas. Al comienzo, Edmundo trat\u00f3 de recordar que era vulgar hablar con la boca llena. Pero luego se olvid\u00f3 de todas las reglas de educaci\u00f3n y se preocup\u00f3 \u00fanicamente de comer tantas _delicias turcas_ como pudiera. Y mientras m\u00e1s com\u00eda, m\u00e1s deseaba seguir comiendo.\n\nEn ning\u00fan momento le pas\u00f3 por la mente preguntarse por qu\u00e9 su Majestad era tan inquisitiva. Ella consigui\u00f3 que \u00e9l le contara que ten\u00eda un hermano y dos hermanas y que una de \u00e9stas hab\u00eda estado en Narnia y hab\u00eda conocido al Fauno. Tambi\u00e9n le dijo que nadie, excepto ellos, sab\u00eda nada sobre Narnia. La Reina pareci\u00f3 especialmente interesada en el hecho de que los ni\u00f1os fueran cuatro y volvi\u00f3 a ese punto con frecuencia.\n\n\u2013\u00bfEst\u00e1s seguro de que ustedes son s\u00f3lo cuatro? Dos Hijos de Ad\u00e1n y dos Hijas de Eva, \u00bfnada m\u00e1s ni nada menos?\n\nEdmundo, con la boca llena de _delicias turcas_ , se lo reiteraba. \"S\u00ed, ya se lo dije\", repet\u00eda olvidando llamarla \"su Majestad\". Pero a ella eso no parec\u00eda importarle ahora.\n\nPor fin las _delicias turcas_ se terminaron. Edmundo mantuvo la vista fija en la caja vac\u00eda con la esperanza de que ella le ofreciera algunas m\u00e1s. Probablemente la Reina pod\u00eda leer el pensamiento del ni\u00f1o, pues sab\u00eda \u2013y Edmundo no\u2013 que esas _delicias turcas_ estaban encantadas y que quien las probaba una vez, siempre quer\u00eda m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s. Y si le permit\u00eda continuar, no pod\u00eda detenerse hasta que enfermaba y mor\u00eda. Ella no le ofreci\u00f3 m\u00e1s; en lugar de eso, le dijo:\n\n\u2013Hijo de Ad\u00e1n, me gustar\u00eda mucho conocer a tus hermanos. \u00bfQuerr\u00edas tra\u00e9rmelos hasta aqu\u00ed?\n\n\u2013Tratar\u00e9 \u2013contest\u00f3 Edmundo, todav\u00eda con la vista fija en la caja vac\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Si t\u00fa vuelves, pero con ellos por supuesto, podr\u00e9 darte _delicias turcas_ de nuevo. No puedo darte m\u00e1s ahora. La magia es s\u00f3lo para una vez, pero en mi casa ser\u00e1 diferente.\n\n\u2013\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 no vamos a tu casa ahora? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\nCuando Edmundo subi\u00f3 al trineo, hab\u00eda sentido miedo de que ella lo llevara muy lejos, a alg\u00fan lugar desconocido desde el cual no pudiera regresar. Ahora parec\u00eda haber olvidado todos sus temores.\n\n\u2013Mi casa es un lugar encantador \u2013dijo la Reina\u2013. Estoy segura de que te gustar\u00e1. All\u00ed hay cuartos completamente llenos de _delicias turcas_. Y, lo que es m\u00e1s, no tengo ni\u00f1os propios. Me gustar\u00eda tener un ni\u00f1o bueno y amable a quien yo podr\u00eda educar como pr\u00edncipe y que luego ser\u00eda Rey de Narnia, cuando yo falte. Y mientras fuera pr\u00edncipe, llevar\u00eda una corona de oro y podr\u00eda comer _delicias turcas_ todo el d\u00eda. Y t\u00fa eres el joven m\u00e1s inteligente y buen mozo que yo conozco. Creo que me gustar\u00eda convertirte en pr\u00edncipe... alg\u00fan d\u00eda..., cuando hayas tra\u00eddo a tus hermanos a visitarme.\n\n\u2013\u00bfY por qu\u00e9 no ahora? \u2013insisti\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\nSu cara se hab\u00eda puesto muy roja, y sus dedos y su boca estaban muy pegajosos. No se ve\u00eda buen mozo ni parec\u00eda inteligente, aunque la Reina lo dijera.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah! Si te llevo ahora a mi casa \u2013dijo ella\u2013, yo no conocer\u00eda a tu hermano ni a tus hermanas. Realmente quiero que traigas a tu encantadora familia. T\u00fa ser\u00e1s pr\u00edncipe y, con el tiempo, rey; eso est\u00e1 claro. Deber\u00e1s tener cortesanos y nobles. Yo har\u00e9 duque a tu hermano y duquesas a tus hermanas.\n\n\u2013No hay nada de especial en ellos \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013, pero de cualquier forma los puedo traer en el momento que quiera.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah, s\u00ed! Pero si hoy te llevo a mi casa, podr\u00edas olvidarte de ellos por completo. Estar\u00edas tan feliz que no querr\u00edas molestarte en ir a buscarlos. No. Tienes que ir a tu pa\u00eds ahora y regresar junto a m\u00ed otro d\u00eda, pero _con ellos_ , enti\u00e9ndelo bien. No te servir\u00e1 de nada volver sin ellos.\n\n\u2013Pero yo ni siquiera conozco el camino de regreso a mi pa\u00eds \u2013rog\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Es muy f\u00e1cil. \u00bfVes aquel farol? \u2013dijo la Reina, mientras apuntaba con la varilla.\n\nEdmundo mir\u00f3 en la direcci\u00f3n indicada. Entonces vio el mismo farol bajo el cual Luc\u00eda hab\u00eda conocido al Fauno.\n\n\u2013Derecho, m\u00e1s all\u00e1, est\u00e1 el Mundo de los Hombres \u2013continu\u00f3 la Reina. Luego se\u00f1al\u00f3 en direcci\u00f3n opuesta y agreg\u00f3\u2013: Dime si ves dos peque\u00f1as colinas que se levantan sobre los \u00e1rboles.\n\n\u2013Creo que s\u00ed \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Bien, mi casa est\u00e1 entre esas dos colinas. La pr\u00f3xima vez que vengas, s\u00f3lo tendr\u00e1s que encontrar el farol, buscar las dos colinas y atravesar el bosque hasta llegar a mi casa. Pero recuerda..., debes traer a tus hermanos. Me enfurecer\u00e9 de verdad, tanto como yo puedo enfurecerme, si vuelves solo.\n\n\u2013Har\u00e9 lo que pueda \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Y, a prop\u00f3sito... \u2013agreg\u00f3 la Reina\u2013, no necesitas hablarles de m\u00ed. Ser\u00e1 mucho m\u00e1s divertido guardar el secreto entre nosotros. Les daremos una sorpresa. S\u00f3lo tr\u00e1elos hacia las colinas con cualquier pretexto; a un ni\u00f1o inteligente como t\u00fa se le ocurrir\u00e1 alguno f\u00e1cilmente. Y cuando llegues a mi casa, podr\u00e1s decirles, por ejemplo: \"Veamos qui\u00e9n vive aqu\u00ed\" o algo por el estilo. Estoy segura de que eso ser\u00e1 lo mejor. Si tu hermana ya conoce a uno de los faunos, puede haber o\u00eddo historias extra\u00f1as acerca de m\u00ed. Cosas malas que pueden hacerle sentir temor de m\u00ed. Los faunos dicen cualquier cosa, \u00bfsabes? Vete ahora.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Por favor, por favor! \u2013rog\u00f3 Edmundo\u2013. \u00bfPuede darme una _delicia turca_ para comer durante el regreso a casa?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, no! \u2013dijo la Reina con una sonrisa sard\u00f3nica\u2013. Tendr\u00e1s que esperar hasta la pr\u00f3xima vez.\n\nMientras hablaba hizo una se\u00f1al al enano para indicarle que se pusiera en marcha. Antes de que el trineo se perdiera de vista, la Reina agit\u00f3 la mano para decir adi\u00f3s a Edmundo, al mismo tiempo que gritaba:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Hasta la vista! \u00a1No te olvides! \u00a1Vuelve pronto!\n\nEdmundo miraba todav\u00eda como desaparec\u00eda el trineo cuando oy\u00f3 que alguien lo llamaba. Dio media vuelta y divis\u00f3 a Luc\u00eda que ven\u00eda hacia \u00e9l desde otro punto del bosque.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, Edmundo! \u2013exclam\u00f3\u2013. T\u00fa tambi\u00e9n viniste. Dime si no es maravilloso.\n\n\u2013Bien, bien \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013. Ten\u00edas raz\u00f3n despu\u00e9s de todo. El armario es m\u00e1gico. Te pedir\u00e9 perd\u00f3n, si quieres... Pero \u00bfme puedes decir d\u00f3nde te hab\u00edas metido? Te he buscado por todas partes.\n\n\u2013Si hubiera sabido que t\u00fa tambi\u00e9n estabas aqu\u00ed, te habr\u00eda esperado \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda. Estaba tan contenta y excitada que no advirti\u00f3 el tono mordaz con el que hablaba Edmundo, ni lo extra\u00f1a y roja que se ve\u00eda su cara\u2013. Estuve almorzando con el querido se\u00f1or Tumnus, el Fauno. Est\u00e1 muy bien y la Bruja Blanca no le ha hecho nada por haberme dejado en libertad. Piensa que ella no se ha enterado, as\u00ed es que todo va a andar muy bien.\n\n\u2013\u00bfLa Bruja Blanca? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Edmundo\u2013. \u00bfQui\u00e9n es?\n\n\u2013Es una persona terrible \u2013asegur\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Se llama a s\u00ed misma Reina de Narnia, a pesar de que no tiene ning\u00fan derecho. Todos los faunos, dr\u00edades y n\u00e1yades, todos los enanos y animales \u2013por lo menos los buenos\u2013 simplemente la odian. Puede transformar a la gente en piedra y hacer toda clase de maldades horribles. Con su magia mantiene a Narnia siempre en invierno; siempre es invierno, pero nunca llega la Navidad. Anda por todas partes en un trineo tirado por renos, con su vara en la mano y la corona en la cabeza.\n\nEdmundo comenzaba a sentirse inc\u00f3modo por haber comido tantos dulces. Pero cuando escuch\u00f3 que la Dama con quien hab\u00eda hecho amistad era una bruja peligrosa, se sinti\u00f3 mucho peor todav\u00eda. Pero aun as\u00ed, ten\u00eda ansias de comer _delicias turcas_. Lo deseaba m\u00e1s que cualquier otra cosa.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQui\u00e9n te dijo todo eso acerca de la Bruja Blanca? \u2013pregunt\u00f3.\n\n\u2013El se\u00f1or Tumnus, el Fauno \u2013contest\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013No puedes tomar en serio todo lo que los faunos dicen \u2013dijo Edmundo, d\u00e1ndose aires de saber mucho m\u00e1s que Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Y a ti, \u00bfqui\u00e9n te ha dicho una cosa semejante? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Todo el mundo lo sabe \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013. Preg\u00fantale a quien quieras. Adem\u00e1s es una tonter\u00eda que sigamos aqu\u00ed, parados sobre la nieve. Vamos a casa.\n\n\u2013Vamos \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00a1Oh, Edmundo, estoy tan contenta de que t\u00fa hayas venido tambi\u00e9n! Los dem\u00e1s tendr\u00e1n que creer en Narnia, ahora que ambos hemos estado aqu\u00ed. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 entretenido ser\u00e1!\n\nPero Edmundo pensaba secretamente que no ser\u00eda tan divertido para \u00e9l como para ella. Deber\u00eda admitir ante los dem\u00e1s que Luc\u00eda ten\u00eda raz\u00f3n. Por otra parte, estaba seguro de que todos estar\u00edan de parte de los faunos y los animales. Y ya estaba casi totalmente del lado de la Bruja. No sab\u00eda qu\u00e9 iba a decir, ni c\u00f3mo guardar\u00eda su secreto cuando todos estuvieran hablando de Narnia.\n\nHab\u00edan caminado ya un buen trecho cuando de pronto sintieron alrededor de ellos el contacto de las pieles de los abrigos, en lugar de las ramas de los \u00e1rboles. Un par de pasos m\u00e1s y se encontraron fuera del ropero, en el cuarto vac\u00edo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Edmundo! Te ves muy mal \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, al mirar detenidamente a su hermano\u2013. \u00bfNo te sientes bien?\n\n\u2013Estoy muy bien \u2013respondi\u00f3 Edmundo, pero no era verdad. Se sent\u00eda realmente enfermo.\n\n\u2013Vamos, entonces, mu\u00e9vete. Busquemos a los otros \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00a1Imag\u00ednate todo lo que tenemos que contarles! \u00a1Y qu\u00e9 maravillosas aventuras nos esperan ahora que todos estaremos juntos en esto!\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 5\n\n## DE REGRESO A ESTE LADO DE LA PUERTA\n\nLUC\u00cdA Y EDMUNDO TARDARON ALG\u00daN tiempo en encontrar a sus hermanos, ya que continuaban jugando a las escondidas. Cuando por fin estuvieron todos juntos (lo que sucedi\u00f3 en la sala larga donde estaba la armadura), Luc\u00eda estall\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Pedro! \u00a1Susana! Todo es verdad. Edmundo tambi\u00e9n lo vio. Hay un pa\u00eds al otro lado del ropero. Nosotros dos estuvimos all\u00e1. Nos encontramos en el bosque. \u00a1Vamos, Edmundo, cu\u00e9ntales!\n\n\u2013\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 se trata esto, Edmundo? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro.\n\nY aqu\u00ed llegamos a una de las partes m\u00e1s feas de esta historia. Hasta ese momento, Edmundo se sent\u00eda enfermo, malhumorado y molesto con Luc\u00eda porque ella hab\u00eda tenido raz\u00f3n. Todav\u00eda no decid\u00eda qu\u00e9 actitud iba a tomar, pero cuando de pronto Pedro lo interpel\u00f3, resolvi\u00f3 hacer lo peor y lo m\u00e1s odioso que se le pudo ocurrir: dejar a Luc\u00eda en mal lugar ante sus hermanos.\n\n\u2013Cu\u00e9ntanos, Ed \u2013insisti\u00f3 Susana.\n\nEdmundo, como si fuera mucho mayor que Luc\u00eda (ellos ten\u00edan solamente un a\u00f1o de diferencia), se dio aires de superioridad, y en tono despectivo dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, s\u00ed! Luc\u00eda y yo hemos estado jugando, como si todo lo del pa\u00eds al otro lado del ropero fuera verdad... S\u00f3lo para entretenernos, por supuesto. Lo cierto es que all\u00e1 no hay nada.\n\nLa pobre Luc\u00eda le dio una sola mirada y sali\u00f3 corriendo de la sala.\n\nEdmundo, que se transformaba por minutos en una persona cada vez m\u00e1s despreciable, crey\u00f3 haber tenido mucho \u00e9xito.\n\n\u2013All\u00ed va otra vez. \u00bfQu\u00e9 ser\u00e1 lo que le pasa? Esto es lo peor de los ni\u00f1os peque\u00f1os; ellos siempre...\n\n\u2013\u00a1Mira, t\u00fa! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Pedro, volvi\u00e9ndose hacia \u00e9l con fiereza\u2013. \u00a1C\u00e1llate! Te has portado como un perfecto animal con Lu desde que ella empez\u00f3 con esta historia del ropero. Ahora le sigues la corriente y juegas con ella s\u00f3lo para hacerla hablar. Pienso que lo haces simplemente por rencor.\n\n\u2013Pero todo esto no tiene sentido... \u2013dijo Edmundo, muy sorprendido.\n\n\u2013Por supuesto que no \u2013respondi\u00f3 Pedro\u2013; \u00e9se es justamente el asunto. Lu estaba muy bien cuando dejamos nuestro hogar, pero, desde que estamos aqu\u00ed, est\u00e1 rara, como si algo pasara en su mente o se hubiera transformado en la m\u00e1s horrible mentirosa. Sin embargo, sea lo que fuere, \u00bfcrees que le haces alg\u00fan bien al burlarte de ella y molestarla un d\u00eda para darle \u00e1nimos al siguiente?\n\n\u2013Pens\u00e9..., pens\u00e9... \u2013murmur\u00f3 Edmundo, pero la verdad fue que no se le ocurri\u00f3 qu\u00e9 decir.\n\n\u2013T\u00fa no pensaste nada de nada \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Es s\u00f3lo rencor. Siempre te ha gustado ser cruel con cualquier ni\u00f1o menor que t\u00fa. Ya lo hemos visto antes, en el colegio...\n\n\u2013\u00a1No sigan! \u2013implor\u00f3 Susana\u2013. No arreglaremos nada con una pelea entre ustedes. Vamos a buscar a Luc\u00eda.\n\nNo fue una sorpresa para ninguno de ellos cuando, mucho m\u00e1s tarde, encontraron a Luc\u00eda y vieron que hab\u00eda estado llorando. Ten\u00eda los ojos rojos. Nada de lo que le dijeron cambi\u00f3 las cosas. Ella se mantuvo firme en su historia.\n\n\u2013No me importa lo que ustedes piensen. No me importa lo que digan. Pueden contarle al Profesor o escribirle a mam\u00e1. Hagan lo que quieran. Yo s\u00e9 que conoc\u00ed a un fauno y... desear\u00eda haberme quedado all\u00e1. Todos ustedes son unos malvados.\n\nLa tarde fue muy poco agradable. Luc\u00eda estaba triste y desanimada. Edmundo comenz\u00f3 a darse cuenta de que su plan no caminaba tan bien como hab\u00eda esperado. Los dos mayores tem\u00edan realmente que Luc\u00eda estuviese mal de la cabeza, y se quedaron en el pasillo hablando muy bajo hasta mucho despu\u00e9s de que ella se fue a la cama.\n\nA la ma\u00f1ana siguiente, ambos decidieron que le contar\u00edan todo al Profesor.\n\n\u2013\u00c9l le escribir\u00e1 a pap\u00e1 si considera que algo anda mal con Luc\u00eda \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Esto no es algo que nosotros podamos resolver. Est\u00e1 fuera de nuestro alcance.\n\nDe manera que se dirigieron al despacho del Profesor y llamaron a la puerta.\n\n\u2013Entren \u2013les dijo.\n\nSe levant\u00f3, busc\u00f3 dos sillas para los ni\u00f1os y les dijo que estaba a su disposici\u00f3n. Luego se sent\u00f3 frente a ellos, con los dedos entrelazados, y los escuch\u00f3 sin hacer ni una sola interrupci\u00f3n hasta que terminaron toda la historia. Despu\u00e9s carraspe\u00f3 y dijo lo \u00faltimo que ellos esperaban escuchar.\n\n\u2013\u00bfC\u00f3mo saben ustedes que la historia de su hermana no es verdadera?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh!, pero... \u2013comenz\u00f3 Susana, y luego se detuvo. Cualquiera pod\u00eda darse cuenta, con s\u00f3lo mirar la cara del anciano, que \u00e9l hablaba en serio. Susana se arm\u00f3 de valor nuevamente y continu\u00f3\u2013: Pero Edmundo dijo que ellos s\u00f3lo estaban imaginando...\n\n\u2013\u00c9se es un punto \u2013dijo el Profesor\u2013 que, ciertamente, merece consideraci\u00f3n. Una cuidadosa consideraci\u00f3n. Por ejemplo, me van a disculpar la pregunta, la experiencia que ustedes tienen, \u00bfles hace confiar m\u00e1s en su hermano o en su hermana? \u00bfCu\u00e1l de los dos es m\u00e1s sincero?\n\n\u2013Precisamente, eso es lo m\u00e1s curioso, se\u00f1or \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Hasta ahora, yo habr\u00eda dicho que Luc\u00eda, siempre.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 piensa usted, querida? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 el Profesor, volvi\u00e9ndose hacia Susana.\n\n\u2013Bueno \u2013dijo Susana\u2013, en general, yo dir\u00eda lo mismo que Pedro; pero este asunto no puede ser verdad; todo esto del bosque y del Fauno...\n\n\u2013Esto es m\u00e1s de lo que yo s\u00e9 \u2013declar\u00f3 el Profesor\u2013. Acusar de mentirosa a una persona en la que siempre se ha confiado es algo muy serio. Muy serio, ciertamente \u2013repiti\u00f3.\n\n\u2013Nosotros tememos que a lo mejor ella ni siquiera est\u00e1 mintiendo \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Pensamos que algo puede andar mal en Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00bfLocura, quieren decir? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 fr\u00edamente el Profesor\u2013. \u00a1Oh! Eso pueden descartarlo muy r\u00e1pidamente. No tienen m\u00e1s que mirarla para darse cuenta de que no est\u00e1 loca.\n\n\u2013Pero entonces... \u2013comenz\u00f3 Susana. Se detuvo. Ella nunca hubiera esperado, ni en sue\u00f1os, que un adulto les hablar\u00eda como lo hac\u00eda el Profesor. No supo qu\u00e9 pensar.\n\n\u2013\u00a1L\u00f3gica! \u2013dijo el Profesor como para s\u00ed\u2013. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 hoy no se ense\u00f1a l\u00f3gica en los colegios? Hay s\u00f3lo tres posibilidades: su hermana miente, est\u00e1 loca o dice la verdad. Ustedes saben que ella no miente y es obvio que no est\u00e1 loca. Por el momento, y a no ser que se presente otra evidencia, tenemos que asumir que ella dice la verdad.\n\nSusana lo mir\u00f3 fijamente y por su expresi\u00f3n pudo deducir que, en realidad, no se estaba riendo de ellos.\n\n\u2013Pero, \u00bfc\u00f3mo puede ser cierto, se\u00f1or? \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\n\u2013\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 dice eso?\n\n\u2013Bueno, en primer lugar \u2013contest\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. Si esa historia fuera real, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 no encontramos ese pa\u00eds cada vez que abrimos el ropero? No hab\u00eda nada all\u00ed cuando fuimos todos a ver. Incluso Luc\u00eda reconoci\u00f3 que no hab\u00eda nada.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 tiene que ver eso con todo esto? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 el Profesor.\n\n\u2013Bueno, se\u00f1or, si las cosas son reales, deber\u00edan estar all\u00ed todo el tiempo.\n\n\u2013\u00bfEst\u00e1n? \u2013dijo el Profesor. Pedro no supo qu\u00e9 contestar.\n\n\u2013Pero ni siquiera hubo tiempo \u2013interrumpi\u00f3 Susana\u2013. Luc\u00eda no tuvo tiempo de haber ido a ninguna parte, aunque ese lugar existiera. Vino corriendo tras de nosotros en el mismo instante en que sal\u00edamos de la habitaci\u00f3n. Fue menos de un minuto y ella pretende haber estado afuera durante horas.\n\n\u2013Eso es, precisamente, lo que hace m\u00e1s probable que su historia sea verdadera \u2013dijo el Profesor\u2013. Si en esta casa hay realmente una puerta que conduce hacia otros mundos (y les advierto que es una casa muy extra\u00f1a y que incluso yo s\u00e9 muy poco sobre ella); si, como les digo, ella se introdujo en otro mundo, no me sorprender\u00eda en absoluto que \u00e9ste tuviera su tiempo propio. As\u00ed, no tendr\u00eda importancia cu\u00e1nto tiempo permaneciera uno all\u00e1, pues no tomar\u00eda nada de _nuestro_ tiempo. Por otro lado, no creo que muchas ni\u00f1as de su edad puedan inventar una idea como \u00e9sta por s\u00ed solas. Si ella hubiera imaginado toda esa historia, se habr\u00eda escondido durante un tiempo razonable antes de aparecer y contar su aventura.\n\n\u2013\u00bfRealmente usted piensa que puede haber otros mundos como \u00e9se en cualquier parte, as\u00ed, a la vuelta de la esquina? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro.\n\n\u2013No imagino nada que pueda ser m\u00e1s probable \u2013dijo el Profesor. Se sac\u00f3 los anteojos y comenz\u00f3 a limpiarlos mientras murmuraba para s\u00ed\u2013: Me pregunto, \u00bfqu\u00e9 es lo que ense\u00f1an en estos colegios?\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 vamos a hacer nosotros? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana. Ella sent\u00eda que la conversaci\u00f3n comenzaba a alejarse del problema.\n\n\u2013Mi querida jovencita \u2013dijo el Profesor, mirando repentinamente a ambos ni\u00f1os con una expresi\u00f3n muy penetrante\u2013, hay un plan que nadie ha sugerido todav\u00eda y que vale la pena probar.\n\n\u2013\u00bfDe qu\u00e9 se trata? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013Podr\u00edamos tratar todos de preocuparnos de nuestros propios asuntos.\n\nY \u00e9se fue el final de la conversaci\u00f3n.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de esto las cosas mejoraron mucho para Luc\u00eda. Pedro se preocup\u00f3 especialmente de que Edmundo dejara de molestarla y ninguno de ellos \u2013Luc\u00eda, menos que nadie\u2013 se sinti\u00f3 inclinado a mencionar el ropero para nada. \u00c9ste se hab\u00eda transformado en un tema m\u00e1s bien inquietante. De este modo, por un tiempo pareci\u00f3 que todas las aventuras hab\u00edan llegado a su fin. Pero no ser\u00eda as\u00ed.\n\nLa casa del Profesor, de la cual \u00e9l mismo sab\u00eda muy poco, era tan antigua y famosa que gente de todas partes de Inglaterra sol\u00eda pedir autorizaci\u00f3n para visitarla. Era el tipo de casa que se menciona en las gu\u00edas tur\u00edsticas e, incluso, en las historias. En torno a ella se tej\u00edan toda clase de relatos. Algunos m\u00e1s extra\u00f1os aun que el que yo les estoy contando ahora. Cuando los turistas solicitaban visitarla, el Profesor siempre acced\u00eda. La se\u00f1ora Macready, el ama de llaves, los guiaba por toda la casa y les hablaba de los cuadros, de la armadura y de los antiguos y raros libros de la biblioteca.\n\nA la se\u00f1ora Macready no le gustaban los ni\u00f1os, y menos a\u00fan, ser interrumpida mientras contaba a los turistas todo lo que sab\u00eda. Durante la primera ma\u00f1ana de visitas hab\u00eda dicho a Pedro y a Susana (adem\u00e1s de muchas otras instrucciones): \"Por favor, recuerden que no deben entrometerse cuando yo muestro la casa\".\n\n\u2013Como si alguno de nosotros quisiera perder la ma\u00f1ana dando vueltas por la casa con un tropel de adultos desconocidos \u2013hab\u00eda replicado Edmundo. Los otros ni\u00f1os pensaban lo mismo. As\u00ed fue c\u00f3mo las aventuras comenzaron nuevamente.\n\nAlgunas ma\u00f1anas despu\u00e9s, Pedro y Edmundo estaban mirando la armadura. Se preguntaban si podr\u00edan desmontar algunas piezas, cuando las dos hermanas aparecieron en la sala.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Cuidado! \u2013exclamaron\u2013. Viene la se\u00f1ora Macready con una cuadrilla completa.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Justo ahora! \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\nLos cuatro escaparon por la puerta del fondo, pero cuando pasaron por la pieza verde y llegaron a la biblioteca, sintieron las voces delante de ellos. Se dieron cuenta de que el ama de llaves hab\u00eda conducido a los turistas por las escaleras de atr\u00e1s en lugar de hacerlo por las de delante, como ellos esperaban.\n\n\u00bfQu\u00e9 pas\u00f3 despu\u00e9s? Quiz\u00e1s fue que perdieron la cabeza, o que la se\u00f1ora Macready trataba de alcanzarlos, o que alguna magia de la casa hab\u00eda despertado y los llevaba directo a Narnia... Lo cierto es que los ni\u00f1os se sintieron perseguidos desde todas partes, hasta que Susana grit\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Turistas antip\u00e1ticos! \u00a1Aqu\u00ed! Entremos en el cuarto del ropero hasta que ellos se hayan ido. Nadie nos seguir\u00e1 hasta este lugar.\n\nPero en el momento en que estuvieron dentro de esa habitaci\u00f3n, escucharon las voces en el pasillo. Luego, alguien pareci\u00f3 titubear ante la puerta y entonces ellos vieron que la perilla daba vuelta.\n\n\u2013\u00a1R\u00e1pido! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Pedro, abriendo el guardarropa\u2013. No hay ning\u00fan otro lugar.\n\nA tientas en la oscuridad, los cuatro ni\u00f1os se precipitaron dentro del ropero. Pedro sostuvo la puerta junta, pero no la cerr\u00f3. Por supuesto, como toda persona con sentido com\u00fan, record\u00f3 que uno jam\u00e1s debe encerrarse en un armario.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 6\n\n## EN EL BOSQUE\n\n\u2013OJAL\u00c1 LA SE\u00d1ORA MACREADY SE apresure y se lleve pronto de aqu\u00ed a toda esa gente \u2013dijo Susana, poco despu\u00e9s\u2013. Estoy terriblemente acalambrada.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9 fuerte olor a alcanfor hay aqu\u00ed! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Seguro que los bolsillos de estos abrigos est\u00e1n llenos de bolas de alcanfor para espantar las polillas \u2013repuso Susana.\n\n\u2013Algo se me est\u00e1 clavando en la espalda \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\n\u2013Adem\u00e1s hace un fr\u00edo espantoso \u2013agreg\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013Ahora que t\u00fa lo dices, est\u00e1 muy fr\u00edo, y tambi\u00e9n mojado. \u00bfQu\u00e9 pasa en este lugar? Estoy sentado sobre algo h\u00famedo. Esto est\u00e1 cada minuto m\u00e1s h\u00famedo \u2013dijo Pedro y se puso de pie.\n\n\u2013Salgamos de aqu\u00ed \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013. Ya se fueron.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh!, \u00a1oh! \u2013grit\u00f3 Susana, de repente; y, cuando todos preguntaron qu\u00e9 le pasaba, ella exclam\u00f3\u2013: \u00a1Estoy apoyada en un \u00e1rbol!... \u00a1Miren! All\u00ed est\u00e1 aclarando.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Santo Dios! \u2013grit\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. \u00a1Miren all\u00e1... y all\u00e1! Hay \u00e1rboles por todos lados. Y esto h\u00famedo es nieve. De verdad creo que hemos llegado al bosque de Luc\u00eda despu\u00e9s de todo.\n\nAhora no hab\u00eda lugar a dudas. Los cuatro ni\u00f1os se quedaron perplejos ante la claridad de un fr\u00edo d\u00eda de invierno. Tras ellos colgaban los abrigos en sus perchas; al frente se levantaban los \u00e1rboles cubiertos de nieve.\n\nPedro se volvi\u00f3 inmediatamente hacia Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Perd\u00f3name por no haberte cre\u00eddo. Lo siento mucho. \u00bfMe das la mano?\n\n\u2013Por supuesto \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, y as\u00ed lo hizo.\n\n\u2013Y ahora \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana\u2013, \u00bfqu\u00e9 haremos?\n\n\u2013\u00bfQue qu\u00e9 haremos? \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Ir a explorar el bosque, por supuesto.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Uf! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Susana, golpeando sus pies en el suelo\u2013. Hace demasiado fr\u00edo. \u00bfQu\u00e9 tal si nos ponemos algunos de estos abrigos?\n\n\u2013No son nuestros \u2013dijo Pedro, un tanto dudoso.\n\n\u2013Estoy segura de que a nadie le importar\u00e1 \u2013replic\u00f3 Susana\u2013. Esto no es como si nosotros quisi\u00e9ramos sacarlos de la casa. Ni siquiera los vamos a sacar del ropero.\n\n\u2013Nunca lo habr\u00eda pensado as\u00ed \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Ahora veo, t\u00fa me has puesto en la pista. Nadie podr\u00eda decir que te has llevado el abrigo mientras lo dejes en el lugar en que lo encontraste. Y yo supongo que este pa\u00eds entero est\u00e1 dentro de este ropero.\n\nInmediatamente llevaron a cabo el plan de Susana. Los abrigos, demasiado grandes para ellos, les llegaban a los talones. M\u00e1s bien parec\u00edan mantos reales. Pero todos se sintieron muy c\u00f3modos y, al mirarse, cada uno pens\u00f3 que se ve\u00edan mucho mejor en sus nuevos atuendos y m\u00e1s de acuerdo con el paisaje.\n\n\u2013Imaginemos que somos exploradores \u00e1rticos \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013A m\u00ed me parece que la aventura ya es suficientemente fant\u00e1stica como para imaginarse otra cosa \u2013dijo Pedro, mientras iniciaba la marcha hacia el bosque. Densas nubes oscurec\u00edan el cielo y parec\u00eda que antes de anochecer volver\u00eda a nevar.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo creen que deber\u00edamos ir m\u00e1s hacia la izquierda si queremos llegar hasta el farol? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Edmundo. Olvid\u00f3 por un instante que deb\u00eda aparentar que jam\u00e1s hab\u00eda estado antes en aquel bosque. En el momento en que esas palabras salieron de su boca, se dio cuenta de que se hab\u00eda traicionado. Todos se detuvieron, todos lo miraron fijamente. Pedro lanz\u00f3 un silbido.\n\n\u2013Entonces era cierto que hab\u00edas estado aqu\u00ed, como aseguraba Luc\u00eda \u2013dijo\u2013. Y t\u00fa declaraste que ella ment\u00eda...\n\nSe produjo un silencio mortal.\n\n\u2013Bueno, de todos los seres venenosos... \u2013dijo Pedro, y se encogi\u00f3 de hombros sin decir nada m\u00e1s. En realidad no hab\u00eda nada m\u00e1s que decir y, de inmediato, los cuatro reanudaron la marcha. Pero Edmundo pensaba para sus adentros: \"Ya me las pagar\u00e1n todos ustedes, manada de pedantes, orgullosos y vanidosos\".\n\n\u2013\u00bfHacia d\u00f3nde vamos? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, s\u00f3lo con la intenci\u00f3n de cambiar de tema.\n\n\u2013Yo pienso que Lu debe ser nuestra gu\u00eda \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Bien se lo merece. \u00bfHacia d\u00f3nde nos llevar\u00e1s, Lu?\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 les parece si vamos a ver al se\u00f1or Tumnus? Es ese fauno tan encantador de quien les he hablado.\n\nTodos estuvieron de acuerdo. Caminaron animadamente y pisando fuerte. Luc\u00eda demostr\u00f3 ser una buena gu\u00eda. En un comienzo ella tuvo dudas. No sab\u00eda si ser\u00eda capaz de encontrar el camino, pero pronto reconoci\u00f3 el \u00e1rbol viejo en un lugar y un arbusto en otro y los llev\u00f3 hasta el sitio donde el sendero se tornaba pedregoso. Luego llegaron al peque\u00f1o valle y, por fin, a la entrada de la caverna del se\u00f1or Tumnus. All\u00ed los esperaba una terrible sorpresa.\n\nLa puerta hab\u00eda sido arrancada de sus bisagras y hecha pedazos. Adentro, la caverna estaba oscura y fr\u00eda. Un olor h\u00famedo, caracter\u00edstico de los lugares que no han sido habitados por varios d\u00edas, lo invad\u00eda todo. La nieve amontonada fuera de la cueva, poco a poco hab\u00eda entrado por el hueco de la puerta y, mezclada con cenizas y le\u00f1a carbonizada, formaba una espesa capa negra sobre el suelo.\n\nAparentemente, alguien hab\u00eda tirado y esparcido todo en la habitaci\u00f3n, y luego lo hab\u00eda pisoteado. Platos y tazas, la vajilla..., todo estaba hecho a\u00f1icos en el suelo. El retrato del padre del Fauno hab\u00eda sido cortado con un cuchillo en mil pedazos.\n\n\u2013Este lugar no sirve para nada \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013. No val\u00eda la pena venir hasta aqu\u00ed.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 es esto? \u2013dijo Pedro, agach\u00e1ndose. Hab\u00eda encontrado un papel clavado en la alfombra, sobre el suelo.\n\n\u2013\u00bfHay algo escrito? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013S\u00ed, creo que s\u00ed. Pero con esta luz no puedo leer. Vamos afuera, al aire libre.\n\nSalieron hacia la luz del d\u00eda y todos rodearon a Pedro mientras \u00e9l le\u00eda las siguientes palabras:\n\nEl due\u00f1o de esta morada, Fauno Tumnus, est\u00e1 bajo arresto y espera ser juzgado por el cargo de Alta Traici\u00f3n contra su Majestad Imperial Jadis, Reina de Narnia, Se\u00f1ora de Cair Paravel, Emperadora de las Islas Solitarias, etc. Tambi\u00e9n se le acusa de prestar auxilio a los enemigos de su Majestad, de encubrir esp\u00edas y de hacer amistad con humanos.\n\nFirmado _M augrim_ , Capit\u00e1n de la Polic\u00eda Secreta,\n\n\u00a1VIVA LA REINA!\n\nLos ni\u00f1os se miraron fijamente unos a otros.\n\n\u2013No s\u00e9 si me va a gustar este lugar, despu\u00e9s de todo \u2013dijo Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQui\u00e9n es esta reina, Lu? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. \u00bfSabes algo de ella?\n\n\u2013No es una verdadera reina; de ninguna manera \u2013contest\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Es una horrible bruja, la Bruja Blanca. Toda la gente del bosque la odia. Ella ha sometido a un encantamiento al pa\u00eds entero y, desde entonces, aqu\u00ed es siempre invierno y nunca Navidad.\n\n\u2013Me pregunto si tiene alg\u00fan sentido seguir adelante \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. \u00c9ste no parece ser un lugar seguro, ni tampoco divertido. Cada minuto hace m\u00e1s fr\u00edo y no trajimos nada para comer. \u00bfQu\u00e9 les parece si regresamos?\n\n\u2013No podemos. Realmente no podemos \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00bfNo ven lo que ha pasado? No podemos ir a casa despu\u00e9s de todo esto. El Fauno est\u00e1 en problemas por mi culpa. \u00c9l me escondi\u00f3 de la Bruja Blanca y me mostr\u00f3 el camino de vuelta. \u00c9se es el significado de \"prestar auxilio a los enemigos de la Reina y hacer amistad con los humanos\". Debemos tratar de rescatarlo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Como si nosotros pudi\u00e9ramos hacer mucho! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Edmundo\u2013. Ni siquiera tenemos algo para comer.\n\n\u2013\u00a1C\u00e1llate! \u2013le contest\u00f3 Pedro, que todav\u00eda estaba enojado con \u00e9l\u2013. \u00bfQu\u00e9 crees t\u00fa, Susana?\n\n\u2013Tengo la horrible sospecha de que Luc\u00eda tiene raz\u00f3n \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. No quisiera avanzar un solo paso m\u00e1s. Incluso desear\u00eda no haber venido jam\u00e1s. Sin embargo, creo que debemos hacer algo por el se\u00f1or no-s\u00e9-cu\u00e1nto..., quiero decir el Fauno.\n\n\u2013Eso es tambi\u00e9n lo que yo siento \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Me preocupa no tener nada para comer. Les propongo volver y buscar algo en la despensa, aunque, seg\u00fan creo, no hay ninguna seguridad de que se pueda regresar a este pa\u00eds una vez que se lo abandona. Bueno, creo que debemos seguir adelante.\n\n\u2013Yo tambi\u00e9n lo creo as\u00ed \u2013dijeron ambas ni\u00f1as al mismo tiempo.\n\n\u2013Si solamente supi\u00e9ramos d\u00f3nde fue encerrado ese pobre fauno.\n\nEstaban todav\u00eda sin saber qu\u00e9 hacer cuando Luc\u00eda exclam\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Miren! \u00a1All\u00ed hay un p\u00e1jaro de pecho rojo! Es el primer p\u00e1jaro que veo en este pa\u00eds. Me pregunto si aqu\u00ed en Narnia ellos hablar\u00e1n. Parece como si quisiera decirnos algo.\n\nEntonces la ni\u00f1a se volvi\u00f3 hacia el Petirrojo y le dijo:\n\n\u2013Por favor, \u00bfpuedes decirme d\u00f3nde ha sido llevado el se\u00f1or Tumnus?\n\nLuc\u00eda dio unos pasos hacia el p\u00e1jaro. Inmediatamente \u00e9ste vol\u00f3, pero s\u00f3lo hasta el pr\u00f3ximo \u00e1rbol. Desde all\u00ed los mir\u00f3 fijamente, como si hubiera entendido todo lo que Luc\u00eda le hab\u00eda dicho. De forma casi inconsciente, los cuatro ni\u00f1os avanzaron uno o dos pasos hacia el Petirrojo. De nuevo \u00e9ste vol\u00f3 hasta el \u00e1rbol m\u00e1s cercano y volvi\u00f3 a mirarlos muy fijo. (Seguro que ustedes no han encontrado jam\u00e1s un petirrojo con un pecho tan rojo ni ojos tan brillantes como \u00e9se.)\n\n\u2013\u00bfSaben? Realmente creo que pretende que nosotros lo sigamos \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Yo pienso lo mismo \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. \u00bfQu\u00e9 crees t\u00fa, Pedro?\n\n\u2013Bueno, podemos tratar de hacerlo.\n\nEl p\u00e1jaro pareci\u00f3 entender perfectamente el asunto. Continu\u00f3 de \u00e1rbol en \u00e1rbol, siempre unos pocos metros delante de ellos, pero siempre muy cerca para que pudieran seguirlo con facilidad. De esta manera los condujo a la parte de abajo de la colina. Cada vez que el Petirrojo se deten\u00eda, una peque\u00f1a lluvia de nieve ca\u00eda de la rama en la que se hab\u00eda posado. Poco despu\u00e9s, las nubes en el cielo se abrieron y dieron paso al sol del invierno; alrededor de ellos la nieve adquiri\u00f3 un brillo deslumbrante.\n\nLlevaban poco m\u00e1s de media hora de camino. Las dos ni\u00f1as iban adelante. Edmundo se acerc\u00f3 a Pedro y le dijo:\n\n\u2013Si no te crees todav\u00eda demasiado grande y poderoso como para hablarme, tengo algo que decirte y ser\u00e1 mejor que me escuches.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 cosa?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Silencio! No tan fuerte. No ser\u00eda bueno asustar a las ni\u00f1as \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013. \u00bfTe has dado cuenta de lo que estamos haciendo?\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro nuevamente en un murmullo.\n\n\u2013Estamos siguiendo a un gu\u00eda que no conocemos. \u00bfC\u00f3mo podemos saber de qu\u00e9 lado est\u00e1 ese p\u00e1jaro? Perfectamente podr\u00eda conducirnos a una trampa.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9 idea tan desagradable! \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Es un petirrojo. Son unos p\u00e1jaros buenos en todas las historias que he le\u00eddo. Estoy seguro de que un petirrojo no se equivoca de lado.\n\n\u2013Y ahora que hablamos de eso, \u00bfcu\u00e1l es el lado bueno? \u00bfC\u00f3mo podemos saber con certeza que los faunos est\u00e1n en el lado bueno y la Reina (s\u00ed, ya s\u00e9 que nos han dicho que es una bruja) en el lado malo? Realmente no sabemos nada de ninguno.\n\n\u2013El Fauno salv\u00f3 a Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00c9l _dijo_ que lo hab\u00eda hecho. Pero \u00bfc\u00f3mo podemos saber que es as\u00ed? Adem\u00e1s, otra cosa. \u00bfAlguno de nosotros tiene la menor idea de cu\u00e1l es el camino de vuelta desde aqu\u00ed?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Caramba! No hab\u00eda pensado en eso \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\n\u2013Y tampoco tenemos ninguna posibilidad de comer \u2013agreg\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 7\n\n## UN D\u00cdA CON LOS CASTORES\n\nLOS DOS HERMANOS HABLABAN EN secreto cuando, de pronto, las ni\u00f1as se detuvieron.\n\n\u2013\u00a1El Petirrojo! \u2013grit\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00a1El Petirrojo! \u00a1Se ha ido!\n\nY as\u00ed era... El Petirrojo hab\u00eda volado hasta perderse de vista.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 vamos a hacer ahora? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Edmundo, mientras miraba a Pedro con cara de \"\u00bfqu\u00e9 te hab\u00eda dicho yo?\".\n\n\u2013\u00a1Chsss! \u00a1Miren! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro.\n\n\u2013Algo se mueve entre los \u00e1rboles... por all\u00ed, a la izquierda.\n\nTodos miraron atentamente, ninguno de ellos muy tranquilo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1All\u00ed est\u00e1 otra vez! \u2013dijo Susana.\n\n\u2013Esta vez yo tambi\u00e9n lo vi \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Todav\u00eda est\u00e1 ah\u00ed. Desapareci\u00f3 detr\u00e1s de ese gran \u00e1rbol.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 es? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, tratando por todos los medios de que su voz no reflejara su nerviosismo.\n\n\u2013No s\u00e9 \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013, pero en todo caso es algo que se est\u00e1 escabullendo; algo que no quiere ser visto.\n\n\u2013V\u00e1monos a casa \u2013murmur\u00f3 Susana.\n\nEntonces, aunque nadie lo dijo en voz alta, en ese momento todos se dieron cuenta de que estaban perdidos, tal como Edmundo le hab\u00eda dicho en secreto a Pedro.\n\n\u2013\u00bfA qu\u00e9 se parece? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, volviendo a fijar su atenci\u00f3n en aquello que se mov\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Es una especie de animal \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. \u00a1Miren! \u00a1R\u00e1pido! \u00a1All\u00ed est\u00e1!\n\nEsta vez todos lo vieron. Una cara barbuda los miraba desde detr\u00e1s de un \u00e1rbol. Pero ahora no desapareci\u00f3 inmediatamente. En lugar de eso, el animal acerc\u00f3 las garras a la boca, en un gesto id\u00e9ntico al de los humanos que ponen los dedos en los labios cuando quieren que alguien guarde silencio. Luego se escondi\u00f3 de nuevo. Los ni\u00f1os se quedaron inm\u00f3viles, conteniendo la respiraci\u00f3n.\n\nMomentos m\u00e1s tarde, el extra\u00f1o ser reapareci\u00f3 tras el \u00e1rbol. Mir\u00f3 hacia todos lados, como si temiera que alguien lo estuviese observando, y dijo \"silencio\", o algo parecido. Despu\u00e9s hizo unas se\u00f1ales a los ni\u00f1os como para indicarles que se reunieran con \u00e9l en lo m\u00e1s espeso del bosque, y desapareci\u00f3 otra vez.\n\n\u2013Ya s\u00e9 qu\u00e9 es \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Es un castor. Le vi la cola.\n\n\u2013Quiere que nos acerquemos a \u00e9l \u2013dijo Susana\u2013, y nos ha prevenido para que no hagamos el menor ruido.\n\n\u2013As\u00ed me parece \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. \u00bfQu\u00e9 haremos? \u00bfVamos con \u00e9l o no? \u00bfQu\u00e9 piensas t\u00fa, Luc\u00eda?\n\n\u2013Yo creo que es un buen castor \u2013dijo \u00e9sta.\n\n\u2013S\u00ed, pero \u00bfc\u00f3mo podemos saberlo? \u2013replic\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\n\u2013Tendremos que arriesgarnos \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Por otra parte, no ganamos nada con seguir parados aqu\u00ed, pensando en que tenemos hambre.\n\nEl Castor se asom\u00f3 nuevamente detr\u00e1s del \u00e1rbol y, con gran ansiedad, comenz\u00f3 a hacerles se\u00f1as con la cabeza.\n\n\u2013Vamos \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. D\u00e9mosle una oportunidad. Pero tenemos que mantenernos muy unidos frente al Castor, por si resulta ser un enemigo.\n\nLos ni\u00f1os, muy juntos unos a otros, caminaron hacia el \u00e1rbol. Efectivamente, tras \u00e9l encontraron al Castor. \u00c9ste retrocedi\u00f3 a\u00fan m\u00e1s y con voz ronca murmur\u00f3:\n\n\u2013M\u00e1s ac\u00e1, vengan m\u00e1s ac\u00e1. \u00a1No estaremos a salvo en este espacio tan abierto!\n\nS\u00f3lo cuando los hubo conducido a un lugar oscuro, en el que hab\u00eda cuatro \u00e1rboles tan juntos que sus ramas entrecruzadas cerraban incluso el paso a la nieve y en el suelo se ve\u00edan la tierra caf\u00e9 y las agujas de los pinos, se decidi\u00f3 a hablar.\n\n\u2013\u00bfSon ustedes los Hijos de Ad\u00e1n y las Hijas de Eva?\n\n\u2013S\u00ed. Somos algunos de ellos \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Chsss! \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. No tan alto, por favor. Ni siquiera aqu\u00ed estamos a salvo.\n\n\u2013\u00bfPor qu\u00e9? \u00bfA qui\u00e9n le tiene miedo? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. En este lugar no hay nadie m\u00e1s que nosotros.\n\n\u2013Est\u00e1n los \u00e1rboles \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Est\u00e1n siempre oyendo. La mayor\u00eda de ellos est\u00e1 de nuestro lado, pero hay algunos que nos traicionar\u00edan ante _ella_... Saben a qui\u00e9n me refiero, supongo \u2013agreg\u00f3.\n\n\u2013Si estamos hablando de tomar partido, \u00bfc\u00f3mo podemos saber que usted es un amigo? \u2013dijo Edmundo.\n\n\u2013No queremos parecer mal educados, se\u00f1or Castor \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013, pero, como usted ve, nosotros somos extranjeros.\n\n\u2013Est\u00e1 bien, est\u00e1 bien \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Aqu\u00ed est\u00e1 mi distintivo.\n\nCon estas palabras levant\u00f3 hacia ellos un objeto blanco y peque\u00f1o. Todos se quedaron mir\u00e1ndolo sorprendidos, hasta que Luc\u00eda exclam\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u00a1Por supuesto! Es mi pa\u00f1uelo... el que le di al pobre se\u00f1or Tumnus.\n\n\u2013Exactamente \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Pobre amigo... le lleg\u00f3 el anuncio del arresto un poco antes de que lo apresaran. Me dijo que si algo le suced\u00eda, deb\u00eda encontrarme contigo y llevarte a...\n\nAqu\u00ed la voz del Castor se transform\u00f3 en silencio e inclin\u00f3 una o dos veces la cabeza de un modo muy misterioso. Luego hizo una se\u00f1a a los ni\u00f1os para que se acercaran a \u00e9l, tanto que casi los roz\u00f3 con sus bigotes mientras murmuraba:\n\n\u2013Dicen que Aslan se ha puesto en movimiento... Quiz\u00e1s ha aterrizado ya.\n\nEn ese momento sucedi\u00f3 una cosa muy curiosa.\n\nNinguno de los ni\u00f1os sab\u00eda qui\u00e9n era Aslan, pero en el mismo instante en que el Castor pronunci\u00f3 esas palabras, cada uno de ellos experiment\u00f3 una sensaci\u00f3n diferente.\n\nA lo mejor les ha pasado alguna vez en un sue\u00f1o que alguien dice algo que uno no entiende, pero siente que tiene un enorme significado... Puede ser aterrador, lo cual transforma el sue\u00f1o en pesadilla. O bien, encantador, demasiado encantador para traducirlo en palabras. Esto hace que el sue\u00f1o sea tan hermoso que uno lo recuerda durante toda la vida y siempre desea volver a so\u00f1ar lo mismo.\n\nUna cosa as\u00ed sucedi\u00f3 ahora. El nombre de Aslan despert\u00f3 algo en el interior de cada uno de los ni\u00f1os. Edmundo tuvo una sensaci\u00f3n de misterioso horror. Pedro se sinti\u00f3 de pronto valiente y aventurero. Susana crey\u00f3 que alrededor de ella flotaba un aroma delicioso, a la vez que escuchaba algunos acordes musicales bell\u00edsimos. Luc\u00eda experiment\u00f3 un sentimiento como el que se tiene al despertar una ma\u00f1ana y darse cuenta de que ese d\u00eda comienzan las vacaciones o el verano.\n\n\u2013\u00bfY qu\u00e9 pasa con el se\u00f1or Tumnus? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Chsss! \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. No est\u00e1 aqu\u00ed. Debo llevarlos a un lugar donde realmente podamos tener una verdadera conversaci\u00f3n y, tambi\u00e9n, comer.\n\nNinguno de los ni\u00f1os, excepto Edmundo, tuvo dificultades para confiar en el Castor; pero todos, incluso \u00e9l, se alegraron al escuchar la palabra \"comer\". Siguieron con estusiasmo a este nuevo amigo, que los condujo, durante m\u00e1s de una hora, a un paso sorprendentemente r\u00e1pido y siempre a trav\u00e9s de lo m\u00e1s espeso del bosque.\n\nDe pronto, cuando todos se sent\u00edan muy cansados y muy hambrientos, comenzaron a salir del bosque. Frente a ellos los \u00e1rboles eran ahora m\u00e1s delgados y el terreno comenz\u00f3 a descender de forma abrupta. Minutos m\u00e1s tarde estuvieron bajo el cielo abierto y se encontraron contemplando un hermoso paisaje.\n\nEstaban en el borde de un angosto y escarpado valle, en cuyo fondo corr\u00eda \u2013es decir, deber\u00eda correr si no hubiera estado completamente congelado\u2013 un r\u00edo medianamente grande. Justo debajo de ellos hab\u00eda sido construido un dique que lo atravesaba. Cuando los ni\u00f1os lo vieron, recordaron de pronto que los castores siempre construyen enormes diques y no les cupo duda de que \u00e9se era obra del Castor. Tambi\u00e9n advirtieron que su rostro reflejaba cierta expresi\u00f3n de modestia, como la de cualquier persona cuando visita un jard\u00edn que ella misma ha plantado o lee un cuento que ella ha escrito. De manera que su habitual cortes\u00eda oblig\u00f3 a Susana a decir:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9 maravilloso dique!\n\nY esta vez el Castor no dijo \"silencio\".\n\n\u2013\u00a1Es s\u00f3lo una bagatela! \u00a1S\u00f3lo una bagatela! Ni siquiera est\u00e1 terminado.\n\nHacia el lado de arriba del dique estaba lo que debi\u00f3 haber sido un profundo estanque, pero ahora, por supuesto, era una superficie completamente lisa y cubierta de hielo de color verde oscuro. Hacia el otro lado, mucho m\u00e1s abajo, hab\u00eda m\u00e1s hielo, pero, en lugar de ser liso, estaba congelado en espumosas y ondeadas formas, tal como el agua corr\u00eda cuando lleg\u00f3 la helada. Y donde \u00e9sta hab\u00eda estado goteando y derram\u00e1ndose a trav\u00e9s del dique, hab\u00eda ahora una brillante cascada de car\u00e1mbanos, como si ese lado del muro que conten\u00eda el agua estuviera completamente cubierto de flores, guirnaldas y festones de az\u00facar pura.\n\nEn el centro y, en cierto modo, en el punto m\u00e1s importante y alto del dique, hab\u00eda una graciosa casita que m\u00e1s bien parec\u00eda una enorme colmena. Desde su techo, a trav\u00e9s de un agujero, se elevaba una columna de humo. Cuando uno la ve\u00eda (especialmente si ten\u00eda hambre), de inmediato recordaba la comida y se sent\u00eda a\u00fan m\u00e1s hambriento.\n\nEsto fue lo que los ni\u00f1os observaron por encima de todo; pero Edmundo vio algo m\u00e1s. R\u00edo abajo, un poco m\u00e1s lejos, hab\u00eda un segundo r\u00edo, algo m\u00e1s peque\u00f1o, que ven\u00eda desde otro valle a juntarse con el r\u00edo m\u00e1s grande. Al contemplar ese valle, Edmundo pudo ver dos colinas. Estaba casi seguro de que eran las mismas dos colinas que la Bruja Blanca le hab\u00eda se\u00f1alado cuando se encontraban junto al farol, momentos antes de que \u00e9l se separara de ella. All\u00ed, s\u00f3lo a una milla o quiz\u00e1s menos, deb\u00eda estar su palacio. Pens\u00f3 entonces en las _delicias turcas_ , en la posibilidad de ser rey (\"\u00bfQu\u00e9 le parecer\u00eda esto a Pedro?\", se pregunt\u00f3) y en varias otras ideas horribles que acudieron a su mente.\n\n\u2013Hemos llegado \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013, y parece que la se\u00f1ora Castora nos espera. Yo los guiar\u00e9... \u00a1Cuidado, no vayan a resbalar!\n\nAunque el dique era suficientemente amplio, no era (para los humanos) un lugar muy agradable para caminar porque estaba cubierto de hielo. A un costado se encontraba, al mismo nivel, esa gran superficie helada; y al otro ve\u00edase una brusca ca\u00edda hacia el fondo del r\u00edo. Mientras marchaban en fila india, dirigidos por el Castor, a trav\u00e9s de toda esta ruta, los ni\u00f1os pudieron observar el largo camino del r\u00edo hacia arriba y el largo y descendente camino del r\u00edo hacia abajo.\n\nCuando llegaron al centro del dique, se detuvieron ante la puerta de la casa.\n\n\u2013Aqu\u00ed estamos, se\u00f1ora Castora \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Los encontr\u00e9. Aqu\u00ed est\u00e1n los Hijos e Hijas de Ad\u00e1n y Eva.\n\nLo primero que al entrar atrajo la atenci\u00f3n de Luc\u00eda fue un sonido ahogado y lo primero que vio fue a una anciana castora de mirada bondadosa, que estaba sentada en un rinc\u00f3n, con un hilo en la boca, trabajando afanada ante su m\u00e1quina de coser. Precisamente de all\u00ed ven\u00eda el extra\u00f1o sonido. Apenas los ni\u00f1os entraron en la casa, dej\u00f3 su trabajo y se puso de pie.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Por fin han venido! \u2013exclam\u00f3, con sus arrugadas manos en alto\u2013. \u00a1Al fin! \u00a1Pensar que siempre he vivido para ver este d\u00eda! Las papas est\u00e1n hirviendo; la tetera, silbando, y me atrevo a decir que el se\u00f1or Castor nos traer\u00e1 pescado.\n\n\u2013Eso har\u00e9 \u2013dijo \u00e9l y sali\u00f3 de la casa, llevando un balde (Pedro lo sigui\u00f3). Caminaron sobre la superficie de hielo hasta el lugar donde el Castor hab\u00eda hecho un agujero, que manten\u00eda abierto trabajando todos los d\u00edas con su hacha.\n\nEl Castor se sent\u00f3 tranquilamente en el borde del agujero (parec\u00eda no importarle para nada el intenso fr\u00edo), y se qued\u00f3 inm\u00f3vil, mirando el agua con gran concentraci\u00f3n. De pronto hundi\u00f3 una de sus garras a toda velocidad y antes de que uno pudiera decir \"am\u00e9n\", hab\u00eda agarrado una hermosa trucha. Una y otra vez repiti\u00f3 la misma operaci\u00f3n hasta que consigui\u00f3 una espl\u00e9ndida pesca.\n\nMientras tanto las ni\u00f1as ayudaban a la se\u00f1ora Castora. Llenaron la tetera, arreglaron la mesa, cortaron el pan, colocaron las fuentes en el horno, pusieron la sart\u00e9n al fuego y calentaron la grasa gota a gota. Tambi\u00e9n sacaron cerveza de un barril que se encontraba en un rinc\u00f3n de la casa, y llenaron un enorme jarro para el se\u00f1or Castor. Luc\u00eda pensaba que los Castores ten\u00edan una casita muy confortable, aunque no se asemejaba en nada a la cueva del se\u00f1or Tumnus. No se ve\u00edan libros ni cuadros y, en lugar de camas, hab\u00eda literas adosadas a la pared, como en los barcos. Del techo colgaban jamones y trenzas de cebollas. Y alrededor de la habitaci\u00f3n, contra las paredes, hab\u00eda botas de goma, ropa impermeable, hachas, grandes tijeras, palas, llanas, vasijas para transportar materiales de construcci\u00f3n, ca\u00f1as de pescar, redes y sacos. Y el mantel que cubr\u00eda la mesa, aunque muy limpio, era \u00e1spero y tosco.\n\nEn el preciso momento en que el aceite chirriaba en la sart\u00e9n, el Castor y Pedro regresaron con el pescado ya preparado para fre\u00edrlo. El Castor lo hab\u00eda abierto con su cuchillo y lo hab\u00eda limpiado antes de entrar en la casa. Pueden ustedes imaginar qu\u00e9 bien huele mientras se fr\u00ede un pescado reci\u00e9n sacado del agua y cu\u00e1nto m\u00e1s hambrientos estar\u00edan los ni\u00f1os antes de que la se\u00f1ora Castora dijera:\n\n\u2013Ahora estamos casi listos.\n\nSusana retir\u00f3 las papas del agua en la que se hab\u00edan cocido y las puso en una marmita para secarlas cerca del fog\u00f3n, mientras Luc\u00eda ayudaba a la se\u00f1ora Castora a disponer las truchas en una fuente. En pocos segundos cada uno tom\u00f3 un banquillo (todos eran de tres patas, s\u00f3lo la se\u00f1ora Castora ten\u00eda una mecedora especial cerca del fuego) y se prepar\u00f3 para ese agradable momento. Hab\u00eda un jarro de leche cremosa para los ni\u00f1os (el Castor prefer\u00eda su cerveza), y, en el centro de la mesa, un gran trozo de mantequilla, para que cada uno le pusiera a las papas toda la que quisiese. Los ni\u00f1os pensaron \u2013y yo estoy de acuerdo con ellos\u2013 que no hab\u00eda nada m\u00e1s exquisito en el mundo que un pescado reci\u00e9n salido del agua y cocinado al instante. Cuando terminaron con las truchas, la se\u00f1ora Castora retir\u00f3 del horno un inesperado, humeante y glorioso bizcocho con mermelada. Al mismo tiempo, movi\u00f3 la tetera en el fuego para preparar el t\u00e9. As\u00ed, despu\u00e9s del postre, cada uno tom\u00f3 su taza de t\u00e9, empuj\u00f3 su banquillo para arrimarlo a la pared, y volvi\u00f3 a sentarse c\u00f3modo y satisfecho.\n\n\u2013Y ahora \u2013dijo el Castor, empujando lejos su jarro de cerveza ya vac\u00edo y acercando su taza de t\u00e9\u2013, si ustedes esperan s\u00f3lo a que yo encienda mi pipa, podremos hablar de nuestros asuntos. Est\u00e1 nevando otra vez \u2013agreg\u00f3, volviendo los ojos hacia la ventana\u2013. Me parece espl\u00e9ndido, porque as\u00ed no tendremos visitas; y si alguien ha tratado de seguirnos, ya no podr\u00e1 encontrar ninguna huella.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 8\n\n## LO QUE SUCEDI\u00d3 DESPU\u00c9S DE LA COMIDA\n\n\u2013CU\u00c9NTENOS AHORA, POR FAVOR, QU\u00c9 le pas\u00f3 al se\u00f1or Tumnus \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah, eso est\u00e1 mal! \u2013dijo el Castor, moviendo la cabeza\u2013. Es un asunto muy, muy malo. No hay duda alguna de que se lo llev\u00f3 la polic\u00eda. Lo supe por un p\u00e1jaro que estuvo presente cuando lo apresaron.\n\n\u2013Pero _\u00bfa_ d\u00f3nde lo llevaron? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Bueno, ellos iban rumbo al norte la \u00faltima vez que los vieron. Todos sabemos lo que eso significa.\n\n\u2013Nosotros no \u2013dijo Susana.\n\nEl Castor movi\u00f3 la cabeza con desaliento.\n\n\u2013Temo que lo llevaron a la casa de _ella_.\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 le har\u00e1n, se\u00f1or Castor? \u2013insisti\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, con ansiedad.\n\n\u2013No se puede saber con certeza. No son muchos los que han regresado despu\u00e9s de haber sido llevados all\u00e1. Estatuas... Dicen que ese lugar est\u00e1 lleno de estatuas. En el jard\u00edn, en las escalinatas, en el sal\u00f3n... Gente que ella ha transformado... (se detuvo y se estremeci\u00f3), transformado en piedra.\n\n\u2013Pero, se\u00f1or Castor \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013, nosotros podemos..., mejor dicho, debemos hacer algo para salvarlo. Es demasiado espantoso que todo esto sea por mi culpa.\n\n\u2013No me cabe duda de que t\u00fa lo salvar\u00edas si pudieras, cari\u00f1o \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013. Sin embargo, no hay ninguna posibilidad de entrar en esa casa contra la voluntad de ella, ni menos de salir con vida.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo podr\u00edamos planear alguna estratagema? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. Como disfrazarnos o fingir que somos... buhoneros o cualquier cosa..., o vigilar hasta que ella salga... o... \u00a1Caramba! Tiene que haber una manera. Este fauno se arriesg\u00f3 para salvar a mi hermana. No podemos permitir que se convierta..., que sea..., que hagan eso con \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013Eso no servir\u00eda para nada, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Tu intento ser\u00eda muy complicado para todos y no servir\u00eda para nada. Pero ahora que Aslan est\u00e1 en movimiento...\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, s\u00ed! Cu\u00e9ntenos de Aslan \u2013dijeron varias voces al mismo tiempo. Otra vez los invadi\u00f3 ese extra\u00f1o sentimiento..., como si para ellos hubiera llegado la primavera, como si hubieran recibido muy buenas noticias.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQui\u00e9n es Aslan? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00bfAslan? \u00a1C\u00f3mo! \u00bfEs que ustedes no lo saben? Es el Rey. Es el Se\u00f1or de todo el bosque, pero no viene muy a menudo. Jam\u00e1s en mi tiempo, ni en el tiempo de mi padre. Sin embargo, corre la voz de que ha vuelto. Est\u00e1 en Narnia en este momento y pondr\u00e1 a la Reina en el lugar que le corresponde. \u00c9l va a salvar al se\u00f1or Tumnus; no ustedes.\n\n\u2013\u00bfY no lo transformar\u00e1 en piedra? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Edmundo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Por Dios, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n! \u00a1Qu\u00e9 simpleza dices! \u2013dijo el Castor y ri\u00f3 a carcajadas\u2013. \u00bfConvertirlo _a \u00e9l_ en piedra? Si ella logra sostenerse en sus dos piernas y mirarlo a la cara, eso ser\u00e1 lo m\u00e1s que pueda hacer y, en todo caso, mucho m\u00e1s de lo que yo creo. No, no. \u00c9l pondr\u00e1 todo en orden, como dicen estos antiguos versos:\n\n_Elmalse trocar\u00e1 en bien, cuando Aslan_\n\n_[aparezca_.\n\n_Ante el sonido de su rugido, las penas_\n\n_[desaparecer\u00e1n_.\n\n_Cuando descubra sus diente, el invierno_\n\n_[encontrar\u00e1 su muerte_.\n\n_Y cuando agite su melena, tendrem os_\n\n_[nuevam enteprim avera_.\n\n\u2013Entender\u00e1n todo cuando lo vean \u2013concluy\u00f3 el Castor.\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bflo veremos? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Para eso los traje aqu\u00ed, Hija de Eva. Los voy a guiar hasta el lugar adonde se encontrar\u00e1n con \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013\u00bfEs..., es un hombre? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, dudando.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Aslan, un hombre! \u2013exclam\u00f3 el Castor, con voz severa\u2013. Ciertamente, no. Ya les dije que es el Rey del bosque y el hijo del gran Emperador-de-M\u00e1s-All\u00e1-del-Mar. \u00bfNo saben qui\u00e9n es el Rey de los Animales? Aslan es un le\u00f3n... _El Le\u00f3n_ , el gran Le\u00f3n.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Susana\u2013. Pens\u00e9 que era un hombre. Y \u00e9l..., \u00bfse puede confiar en \u00e9l? Creo que me sentir\u00e9 bastante nerviosa al conocer a un le\u00f3n.\n\n\u2013As\u00ed ser\u00e1, cari\u00f1o \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013. Eso es lo normal. Si hay alguien que pueda presentarse ante Aslan sin que le tiemblen las rodillas, o es m\u00e1s valiente que nadie en el mundo, o es, simplemente, un tonto.\n\n\u2013Entonces, es peligroso \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00bfPeligroso? \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. \u00bfNo oyeron lo que les dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora? \u00bfQui\u00e9n ha dicho algo sobre peligro? \u00a1Por supuesto que es peligroso! Pero es bueno. Es el Rey, les aseguro.\n\n\u2013Estoy deseoso de conocerlo \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Aunque sienta miedo cuando llegue el momento.\n\n\u2013Eso est\u00e1 bien, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n \u2013dijo el Castor, dando un manotazo tan fuerte sobre la mesa que hizo cascabelear las tazas y los platillos\u2013. Lo conocer\u00e1s. Corre la voz de que ustedes se reunir\u00e1n con \u00e9l, ma\u00f1ana si pueden, en la Mesa de Piedra.\n\n\u2013\u00bfD\u00f3nde queda eso? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Les mostrar\u00e9 el camino \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Es r\u00edo abajo, bastante lejos de aqu\u00ed. Los guiar\u00e9 hacia \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013Pero, entretanto, \u00bfqu\u00e9 pasar\u00e1 con el pobre se\u00f1or Tumnus? \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013El modo m\u00e1s r\u00e1pido de ayudarlo es ir a reunirse con Aslan \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Una vez que est\u00e9 con nosotros, podemos comenzar a hacer algo. Pero esto no quiere decir que no los necesitemos a ustedes tambi\u00e9n. Hay otro antiguo poema que dice as\u00ed:\n\n_Cuando la came de Ad\u00e1n y los huesos de Ad\u00e1n se sienten en el Trono de Cair Paravel, losmalos tiempos para siem prepartir\u00e1n_.\n\n\u2013Por esto \u2013agreg\u00f3 el Castor\u2013, deducimos que todo est\u00e1 cerca del fin: \u00e9l ha venido y ustedes tambi\u00e9n. Nosotros sab\u00edamos de la venida de Aslan a estos lugares desde hace mucho tiempo. Nadie puede precisar cu\u00e1ndo. Pero nunca uno de la raza de ustedes se hab\u00eda visto antes por aqu\u00ed, jam\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Eso es lo que yo no entiendo, se\u00f1or \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. La Bruja, \u00bfno es un ser humano?\n\n\u2013Eso es lo que ella quiere que creamos \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Y precisamente en eso se basa ella para reclamar su derecho a ser reina. Pero ella no es Hija de Eva. Viene de Ad\u00e1n, el padre de ustedes... (aqu\u00ed el Castor hizo una reverencia) y de su primera mujer, que ellos llaman Lilith. Ella era uno de los _Jinn_. Esto es por un lado. Por el otro, ella desciende de los gigantes. No, no. No hay una gota de sangre humana en la Bruja.\n\n\u2013Por eso ella es tan malvada \u2013agreg\u00f3 la se\u00f1ora Castora.\n\n\u2013Verdaderamente \u2013asinti\u00f3 el Castor\u2013. Puede haber dos tipos de personas entre los humanos (sin pretender que esto sea una ofensa para quienes nos acompa\u00f1an), pero no hay dos tipos para lo que parece humano y no lo es.\n\n\u2013Yo he conocido enanos buenos \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora.\n\n\u2013Yo tambi\u00e9n, ahora que lo mencionas \u2013dijo su marido\u2013, aunque bastante pocos, y \u00e9stos eran los menos parecidos a los hombres. Pero, en general (oigan mi consejo), cuando conozcan algo que va a ser humano pero todav\u00eda no lo es, o que era humano y ya no lo es, o que deber\u00eda ser humano y no lo es, mantengan los ojos fijos en \u00e9l y el hacha en la mano. Por eso es que la Bruja siempre est\u00e1 vigilando que no haya humanos en Narnia. Ella los ha estado esperando por a\u00f1os, y si supiera que ustedes son cuatro, se tornar\u00eda mucho m\u00e1s peligrosa.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 tiene que ver todo esto con lo que hablamos? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro.\n\n\u2013Es otra profec\u00eda \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. En Cair Paravel (el castillo que est\u00e1 en la costa, en la desembocadura de este r\u00edo y donde tendr\u00eda que estar la capital del pa\u00eds, si todo fuera como deber\u00eda ser) hay cuatro tronos. En Narnia, desde tiempos inmemoriales, se dice que cuando dos Hijos de Ad\u00e1n y dos Hijas de Eva ocupen esos cuatro tronos, no s\u00f3lo el reinado de la Bruja Blanca llegar\u00e1 a su fin sino tambi\u00e9n su vida. Por eso deb\u00edamos ser tan cautelosos en nuestro camino. Si ella supiera algo de ustedes cuatro, sus vidas no valdr\u00edan ni siquiera un pelo de mi barba.\n\nLos ni\u00f1os estaban tan concentrados en lo que el Castor les estaba contando, que nada fuera de esto llam\u00f3 su atenci\u00f3n por un largo rato. Entonces, en un momento de silencio que sigui\u00f3 a las \u00faltimas palabras del Castor, Luc\u00eda pregunt\u00f3 sobresaltada:\n\n\u2013\u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1 Edmundo?\n\nHubo una pausa terrible y luego todos comenzaron a preguntar: \"\u00bfQui\u00e9n hab\u00eda sido el \u00faltimo que lo vio? \u00bfCu\u00e1nto tiempo hac\u00eda que no estaba all\u00ed? \u00bfEstar\u00eda fuera de la casa?\". Corrieron a la puerta. La nieve ca\u00eda espesa y constantemente. Toda la superficie de hielo verde hab\u00eda desaparecido bajo un grueso manto blanco y desde el lugar donde se encontraba la peque\u00f1a casa, en el centro del dique, dif\u00edcilmente se divisaba cualquiera de las dos orillas del r\u00edo. Salieron y dieron vueltas alrededor de la casa en todas direcciones, mientras se hund\u00edan hasta las rodillas en la suave nieve reci\u00e9n ca\u00edda. \"\u00a1Edmundo, Edmundo!\", llamaron hasta quedar roncos. Pero el silencioso caer de la nieve parec\u00eda amortiguar sus voces y ni siquiera un eco les respondi\u00f3.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9 horror! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Susana, cuando por fin volvieron a entrar desesperados\u2013. \u00a1C\u00f3mo me arrepiento de haber venido!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Dios m\u00edo!... \u00bfQu\u00e9 podemos hacer, se\u00f1or Castor? \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\n\u2013\u00bfHacer? \u2013dijo el Castor, que ya se estaba poniendo las botas para la nieve\u2013. \u00bfHacer? Debemos irnos inmediatamente, sin perder un instante.\n\n\u2013Mejor ser\u00e1 que nos dividamos en cuatro \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013, y as\u00ed todos iremos en distintas direcciones. El que lo encuentre, deber\u00e1 volver aqu\u00ed de inmediato y...\n\n\u2013\u00bfDividirnos, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 el Castor\u2013. \u00bfPara qu\u00e9?\n\n\u2013Para encontrar a Edmundo, por supuesto \u2013dijo Pedro, un tanto alterado.\n\n\u2013No vale la pena buscarlo a \u00e9l \u2013contest\u00f3 el Castor.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 quiere decir? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana\u2013. No puede estar muy lejos y tenemos que encontrarlo. Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 quiere decir usted con eso de que no servir\u00e1 de nada buscarlo?\n\n\u2013La raz\u00f3n por la que les digo que no vale la pena buscarlo es porque todos sabemos d\u00f3nde est\u00e1.\n\nLos ni\u00f1os lo miraron sorprendidos.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo entienden? \u2013insisti\u00f3 el Castor\u2013. Se ha ido con ella, con la Bruja Blanca. Nos traicion\u00f3 a todos.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh..., imposible! \u00c9l no puede haber hecho eso \u2013exclam\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo puede? \u2013dijo el Castor mirando duramente a los tres ni\u00f1os.\n\nTodo lo que ellos quer\u00edan decir muri\u00f3 en sus labios. Cada uno tuvo, de pronto, la certeza de que era eso, exactamente, lo que Edmundo hab\u00eda hecho.\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfconocer\u00e1 siquiera el camino? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro.\n\nEl Castor contest\u00f3 con otra pregunta:\n\n\u2013\u00bfHab\u00eda estado aqu\u00ed antes? \u00bfHab\u00eda estado alguna vez \u00e9l solo aqu\u00ed?\n\n\u2013S\u00ed \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, casi en un murmullo\u2013; me temo que s\u00ed.\n\n\u2013\u00bfY les cont\u00f3 lo que hab\u00eda hecho o con qui\u00e9n se hab\u00eda encontrado?\n\n\u2013No, no lo hizo \u2013dijo Pedro.\n\n\u2013Tomen nota de mis palabras entonces \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Conoci\u00f3 a la Bruja Blanca, est\u00e1 de su parte, y sabe d\u00f3nde vive. No quise mencionar esto antes (despu\u00e9s de todo \u00e9l es hermano de ustedes), pero en el momento en que puse mis ojos en ese ni\u00f1o, me dije a m\u00ed mismo: \"Es un traidor\". Ten\u00eda la mirada de los que han estado con la Bruja Blanca y han probado su comida. Si uno ha vivido largo tiempo en Narnia, los distingue de inmediato. Hay algo en sus ojos, en su modo de mirar.\n\n\u2013Igual tenemos que buscarlo \u2013dijo Pedro con voz ahogada\u2013. Es nuestro hermano, a pesar de todo, aunque est\u00e9 actuando como una peque\u00f1a bestia. Es s\u00f3lo un ni\u00f1o.\n\n\u2013\u00bfIr a casa de la Bruja? \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013. \u00bfNo ven que la \u00fanica manera de salvarlo a \u00e9l o de salvarse ustedes es permanecer lejos de ella?\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 quiere decir, se\u00f1ora Castora? \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Todo lo que ella desea en este mundo es atraparlos a ustedes, a los cuatro. Ella siempre est\u00e1 pensando en esos cuatro tronos de Cair Paravel. Una vez que se encuentren dentro de su casa, su trabajo estar\u00e1 concluido..., y habr\u00e1 cuatro nuevas estatuas en su colecci\u00f3n, antes de que ustedes puedan siquiera hablar. En cambio, ella mantendr\u00e1 vivo a su hermano, mientras sea el \u00fanico que ella tiene, porque lo usar\u00e1 como se\u00f1uelo, como carnada para atraparlos a todos.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u00bfY nadie podr\u00e1 ayudarnos?\n\n\u2013S\u00f3lo Aslan \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Tenemos que ir a su encuentro de inmediato. Es nuestra \u00fanica posibilidad.\n\n\u2013A m\u00ed me parece importante, queridos amigos \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013, saber en qu\u00e9 momento escap\u00f3 Edmundo. Lo que pueda informarle a ella depende de cu\u00e1nto haya o\u00eddo. Por ejemplo, \u00bfhab\u00edamos hablado de Aslan antes de que se fuera? Si no lo oy\u00f3, estar\u00edamos bien, pues ella no sabe que Aslan ha venido a Narnia, ni que planeamos encontrarnos con \u00e9l. As\u00ed la cogeremos completamente desprevenida en ese sentido.\n\n\u2013No recuerdo si \u00e9l estaba aqu\u00ed cuando hablamos de Aslan... \u2013comenz\u00f3 a decir Pedro, pero Luc\u00eda lo interrumpi\u00f3.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, s\u00ed! Estaba \u2013dijo sinti\u00e9ndose realmente enferma\u2013. \u00bfNo te acuerdas de que fue \u00e9l quien pregunt\u00f3 si la Bruja podr\u00eda transformar a Aslan en piedra?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Claro que s\u00ed! \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013. Exactamente la clase de cosas que \u00e9l dice, por cierto.\n\n\u2013De mal en peor \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Y luego est\u00e1 este otro punto: \u00bfSe acuerdan de si \u00e9l estaba aqu\u00ed cuando hablamos de encontrar a Aslan en la Mesa de Piedra?\n\nNadie supo cu\u00e1l era la respuesta a esa pregunta.\n\n\u2013Porque si \u00e9l estaba \u2013continu\u00f3 el Castor\u2013, entonces ella se dirigir\u00e1 en su trineo en esa direcci\u00f3n y se interpondr\u00e1 entre nosotros y la Mesa de Piedra. Nos descubrir\u00e1 en el camino y de hecho, imposibilitar\u00e1 nuestro encuentro con Aslan.\n\n\u2013No es eso lo que ella har\u00e1 primero \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013. No, si la conozco bien. En el preciso instante en que Edmundo le cuente que ustedes est\u00e1n aqu\u00ed, saldr\u00e1 a buscarlos; esta misma noche. Como \u00e9l debe haber partido hace ya cerca de media hora, ella llegar\u00e1 en unos veinte minutos m\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Tienes raz\u00f3n \u2013dijo su marido\u2013. Tenemos que salir todos de aqu\u00ed inmediatamente. No hay un minuto que perder.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 9\n\n## EN CASA DE LA BRUJA\n\nAHORA, POR SUPUESTO, USTEDES quieren saber qu\u00e9 le hab\u00eda sucedido a Edmundo. Hab\u00eda comido de todo en la casa del Castor, pero no pudo gozar de nada, porque durante ese tiempo s\u00f3lo pens\u00f3 en las _delicias turcas_ , y no hay nada que eche a perder m\u00e1s el gusto de una buena comida como el recuerdo de otra comida m\u00e1gica pero perversa. Tambi\u00e9n hab\u00eda escuchado la conversaci\u00f3n, la cual tampoco le agrad\u00f3 mucho porque \u00e9l segu\u00eda convencido de que los dem\u00e1s no lo tomaban en cuenta ni le hac\u00edan ning\u00fan caso. A decir verdad, no era as\u00ed, pero lo imaginaba.\n\nEscuch\u00f3 lo que hablaban hasta el momento en que el Castor se refiri\u00f3 a Aslan y a los preparativos para encontrarlo en la Mesa de Piedra. Fue entonces cuando comenz\u00f3 a avanzar muy despacio y disimuladamente hacia la cortina que colgaba sobre la puerta. El nombre de Aslan le provocaba un sentimiento misterioso de horror, as\u00ed como en los dem\u00e1s produc\u00eda s\u00f3lo sensaciones agradables.\n\nCuando el Castor les repet\u00eda el verso sobre _La carne de Ad\u00e1n y los huesos de Ad\u00e1n_ , justo en ese momento Edmundo daba vuelta silenciosamente a la manija de la puerta. Antes de que el Castor les relatara que la Bruja no era realmente humana, sino mitad gigante y mitad _Jinn_ , Edmundo sali\u00f3 de la casa, y con el mayor cuidado cerr\u00f3 la puerta tras \u00e9l.\n\nA pesar de todo, ustedes no deben pensar que Edmundo era tan malvado como para desear que sus hermanos fueran transformados en piedra. Lo que s\u00ed quer\u00eda era comer _delicias turcasy_ llegar a ser pr\u00edncipe (y, m\u00e1s tarde, rey) y, tambi\u00e9n, desquitarse con Pedro por haberlo llamado \"animal\".\n\nEn cuanto a lo que la Bruja pudiera hacer a los dem\u00e1s, no quer\u00eda que fuera muy amable con sus hermanos \u2013no quer\u00eda, por supuesto, que los pusiera a la misma altura que a \u00e9l\u2013, pero cre\u00eda, o trataba de convencerse de que ella no les har\u00eda nada especialmente malo. \"Porque \u2013se dijo\u2013 todas esas personas que hablan mal de ella y cuentan cosas horribles, son sus enemigos. A lo mejor ni siquiera la mitad de lo que dicen es verdad. Fue muy encantadora conmigo, mucho m\u00e1s que todos ellos. Conf\u00edo en que ella es, verdaderamente, la Reina leg\u00edtima. \u00a1De todas maneras, debe de ser mejor que el temible Aslan!\".\n\nAl fin, \u00e9sa fue la excusa que elabor\u00f3 en su propia mente. Sin embargo no era una buena excusa, pues en lo m\u00e1s profundo de su ser sab\u00eda que la Bruja Blanca era mala y cruel.\n\nCuando Edmundo sali\u00f3, lo primero que vio fue la nieve que ca\u00eda alrededor de \u00e9l; se dio cuenta entonces de que hab\u00eda dejado su abrigo en casa del Castor y, por supuesto, ahora no ten\u00eda ninguna posibilidad de volver a buscarlo. \u00c9se fue su primer tropiezo. Luego advirti\u00f3 que la luz del d\u00eda casi hab\u00eda desaparecido. Eran cerca de las tres de la tarde en el momento en que se hab\u00edan sentado a comer, y en el invierno los d\u00edas son muy cortos. No hab\u00eda contado con este problema; tendr\u00eda que arregl\u00e1rselas lo mejor que pudiera. Se subi\u00f3 el cuello y camin\u00f3 por el dique (afortunadamente no estaba tan resbaladizo desde que hab\u00eda nevado) hacia la lejana ribera del r\u00edo.\n\nCuando lleg\u00f3 a la orilla, las cosas se pusieron peores. Estaba cada vez m\u00e1s oscuro, y esto, junto a los copos de nieve que ca\u00edan a su alrededor como un remolino, no lo dejaba ver a m\u00e1s de tres pies delante de \u00e9l. Tampoco exist\u00eda un camino. Se desliz\u00f3 muy profundamente por montones de nieve, se arrastr\u00f3 por lodazales helados, tropez\u00f3 con \u00e1rboles ca\u00eddos, resbal\u00f3 en la ribera del r\u00edo, golpe\u00f3 sus piernas contra las rocas... hasta que estuvo empapado, muerto de fr\u00edo y completamente magullado. El silencio y la soledad eran aterradores. Realmente creo que podr\u00eda haber olvidado su plan y regresado para recuperar la amistad de los dem\u00e1s, si no se le hubiera ocurrido decirse a s\u00ed mismo: \"Cuando sea rey de Narnia, lo primero que har\u00e9 ser\u00e1 construir buenos caminos\". Por supuesto, la idea de ser rey y de todas las cosas que podr\u00eda hacer, le dio bastante \u00e1nimo.\n\nEn su mente decidi\u00f3 qu\u00e9 clase de palacio tendr\u00eda, cu\u00e1ntos autos; pens\u00f3 con lujo de detalles en c\u00f3mo ser\u00eda tener su propia sala de cine; por d\u00f3nde correr\u00edan los principales trenes; las leyes que dictar\u00eda contra los castores y sus diques... Estaba dando los toques finales a algunos proyectos para mantener a Pedro en su lugar, cuando el tiempo cambi\u00f3. Primero dej\u00f3 de nevar. Luego se levant\u00f3 un viento huracanado y sobrevino un fr\u00edo intenso que congelaba hasta los huesos. Finalmente las nubes se abrieron y apareci\u00f3 la luna. Hab\u00eda luna llena y brillaba de tal forma sobre la nieve que todo se ilumin\u00f3 como si fuera de d\u00eda. S\u00f3lo las sombras produc\u00edan cierta confusi\u00f3n.\n\nSi la luna no hubiera aparecido en el momento en que llegaba al otro r\u00edo, Edmundo nunca habr\u00eda encontrado el camino. Ustedes recordar\u00e1n que \u00e9l hab\u00eda visto (cuando llegaron a la casa del Castor) un peque\u00f1o r\u00edo que, all\u00e1 abajo, desembocaba en el r\u00edo grande. Ahora hab\u00eda llegado hasta all\u00ed y deb\u00eda continuar por el valle. Pero \u00e9ste era mucho m\u00e1s abrupto y rocoso que el que acababa de dejar. Estaba tan lleno de matorrales y arbustos, que si hubiera estado oscuro no habr\u00eda podido avanzar. Incluso as\u00ed, el ni\u00f1o se empap\u00f3 porque deb\u00eda caminar inclinado para pasar bajo las ramas y \u00e9stas estaban cargadas de nieve, y la nieve se deslizaba continuamente y en grandes cantidades sobre su espalda. Cada vez que esto suced\u00eda, pensaba m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s en cu\u00e1nto odiaba a Pedro..., como si realmente todo lo que le pasaba fuera culpa de \u00e9l.\n\nAl fin lleg\u00f3 a un lugar en el que la superficie era m\u00e1s suave y lisa, y donde el valle se abr\u00eda. All\u00ed, al otro lado del r\u00edo, bastante cerca de \u00e9l, en el centro de un peque\u00f1o plano entre dos colinas, vio lo que deb\u00eda de ser la casa de la Bruja Blanca. La luna alumbraba ahora m\u00e1s que nunca. La casa era en realidad un castillo con una infinidad de torres. Peque\u00f1as torres largas y puntiagudas se alzaban al cielo como delgadas agujas. Parec\u00edan inmensos conos o gorros de bruja. Brillaban a la luz de la luna y sus largas sombras se ve\u00edan muy extra\u00f1as en la nieve. Edmundo comenz\u00f3 a sentir miedo de esa casa.\n\nPero era demasiado tarde para pensar en regresar. Cruz\u00f3 el r\u00edo sobre el hielo y se dirigi\u00f3 al castillo. Nada se mov\u00eda; no se o\u00eda ni el m\u00e1s leve ruido en ninguna parte. Incluso sus propios pasos eran silenciados por la nieve reci\u00e9n ca\u00edda. Camin\u00f3 y camin\u00f3, dio la vuelta a una esquina tras otra de la casa, pas\u00f3 torrecilla tras torrecilla... Tuvo que rodear el lado m\u00e1s lejano antes de encontrar la puerta de entrada. Era un inmenso arco con grandes rejas de hierro que estaban abiertas de par en par. Edmundo se acerc\u00f3 cautelosamente y se escondi\u00f3 tras el arco. Desde all\u00ed mir\u00f3 el patio, donde vio algo que casi paraliz\u00f3 los latidos de su coraz\u00f3n. Dentro de la reja se encontraba un inmenso le\u00f3n; estaba encogido sobre sus patas como si estuviera a punto de saltar. La luz de la luna brillaba sobre el animal. Oculto en la sombra del arco, Edmundo no sab\u00eda qu\u00e9 hacer. Sus rodilias temblaban y continuar el camino lo asustaba tanto como regresar. Permaneci\u00f3 all\u00ed tanto rato que sus dientes habr\u00edan casta\u00f1eteado de fr\u00edo si no hubieran casta\u00f1eteado antes de miedo. \u00bfPor cu\u00e1ntas horas se prolong\u00f3 esta situaci\u00f3n? Realmente no lo s\u00e9, pero para Edmundo fue como una eternidad.\n\nPor fin se pregunt\u00f3 por qu\u00e9 el le\u00f3n estaba tan inm\u00f3vil. No se hab\u00eda movido ni una pulgada desde que lo descubri\u00f3. Se aventur\u00f3 un poco m\u00e1s adentro, pero siempre se mantuvo en la sombra del arco, tanto como le fue posible. Ahora observ\u00f3 que, por la posici\u00f3n del le\u00f3n, no pod\u00eda haberlo visto. (\"Pero \u00bfy si volviera la cabeza?\", pens\u00f3 Edmundo.) En efecto, el le\u00f3n miraba fijamente hacia otra cosa..., miraba a un peque\u00f1o enano que le daba la espalda y que se encontraba a poco m\u00e1s de cuatro pies de distancia.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Aj\u00e1! \u2013murmur\u00f3 Edmundo\u2013. Cuando el le\u00f3n salte sobre el enano, yo tendr\u00e9 la oportunidad de escapar.\n\nSin embargo, el le\u00f3n no se movi\u00f3 y tampoco lo hizo el enano. Y ahora, por fin, Edmundo se acord\u00f3 de lo que le hab\u00edan contado: la Bruja Blanca transformaba a sus enemigos en piedra. A lo mejor \u00e9ste no era m\u00e1s que un le\u00f3n de piedra. Y tan pronto como pens\u00f3 en esto, advirti\u00f3 que la espalda del animal, as\u00ed como su cabeza, estaba cubierta de nieve. \u00a1Efectivamente era una estatua! Ning\u00fan animal vivo se habr\u00eda quedado tan tranquilo mientras se cubr\u00eda de nieve. Entonces, muy lentamente y con el coraz\u00f3n latiendo como si fuera a estallar, Edmundo se arriesg\u00f3 a acercarse al le\u00f3n. Casi no se atrev\u00eda a tocarlo, hasta que, por fin, r\u00e1pidamente puso una mano sobre \u00e9l. \u00a1Era s\u00f3lo una fr\u00eda piedra! \u00a1Hab\u00eda estado aterrado por una simple estatua!\n\nEl alivio fue tan grande que, a pesar del fr\u00edo, Edmundo sinti\u00f3 que una ola de calor lo invad\u00eda hasta los pies. Al mismo tiempo acudi\u00f3 a su mente una idea que le pareci\u00f3 la m\u00e1s perfecta y maravillosa: \"Probablemente, \u00e9ste es Aslan, el gran Le\u00f3n. Ella ya lo atrap\u00f3 y lo convirti\u00f3 en estatua de piedra. \u00a1\u00c9ste es el final de todas esas magn\u00edficas esperanzas depositadas en \u00e9l! \u00a1Bah! \u00bfQui\u00e9n le tiene miedo a Aslan?\".\n\nSe qued\u00f3 ah\u00ed, rondando la estatua, y repentinamente hizo algo muy tonto e infantil. Sac\u00f3 un l\u00e1piz de su bolsillo y dibuj\u00f3 unos feos bigotes sobre el labio superior del le\u00f3n y un par de anteojos sobre sus ojos. Entonces dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ya! \u00a1Aslan, viejo tonto! \u00bfQu\u00e9 tal te sientes convertido en piedra? \u00bfTe cre\u00edas muy poderoso, eh?\n\nA pesar de los garabatos, la gran bestia de piedra se ve\u00eda tan triste y noble, con su mirada dirigida hacia la luna, que Edmundo no consigui\u00f3 divertirse con sus propias burlas. Se dio media vuelta y comenz\u00f3 a cruzar el patio.\n\nYa traspasaba el centro cuando advirti\u00f3 que en ese lugar hab\u00eda docenas de estatuas: s\u00e1tiros de piedra, lobos de piedra, osos, zorros, gatos monteses de piedra..., todas inm\u00f3viles como si se tratara de las piezas en un tablero de ajedrez, cuando el juego est\u00e1 a mitad de camino. Hab\u00eda figuras encantadoras que parec\u00edan mujeres, pero eran, en realidad, los esp\u00edritus de los \u00e1rboles. All\u00ed se encontraban tambi\u00e9n la gran figura de un centauro, un caballo alado y una criatura larga y flexible que Edmundo tom\u00f3 por un drag\u00f3n. Se ve\u00edan todos tan extra\u00f1os parados all\u00ed, como si estuvieran vivos y completamente inm\u00f3viles, bajo el fr\u00edo brillo de la luz de la luna. Todo era tan misterioso, tan espectral, que no era nada f\u00e1cil cruzar ese patio.\n\nJusto en el centro hab\u00eda una figura enorme. Aunque tan alta como un \u00e1rbol, ten\u00eda forma de hombre, con una cara feroz, una barba hirsuta y una gran porra en su mano derecha. A pesar de que Edmundo sab\u00eda que ese gigante era s\u00f3lo una piedra y no un ser vivo, no le agrad\u00f3 en absoluto pasar a su lado.\n\nEn ese momento vio una luz tenue que mostraba el vano de una puerta en el lado m\u00e1s alejado del patio. Camin\u00f3 hacia ese lugar. Se encontr\u00f3 con unas gradas de piedra que conduc\u00edan hasta una puerta abierta. Edmundo subi\u00f3. Atravesado en el umbral yac\u00eda un enorme lobo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Est\u00e1 bien! \u00a1Est\u00e1 bien! \u2013murmur\u00f3\u2013. Es s\u00f3lo otro lobo de piedra. No puede hacerme ning\u00fan da\u00f1o.\n\nAlz\u00f3 un pie para pasar sobre \u00e9l. Instant\u00e1neamente el enorme animal se levant\u00f3 con el pelo erizado sobre el lomo y abri\u00f3 una enorme boca roja.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQui\u00e9n est\u00e1 ah\u00ed? \u00bfQui\u00e9n est\u00e1 ah\u00ed? \u00a1Qu\u00e9date quieto, extranjero, y dime qui\u00e9n eres! \u2013gru\u00f1\u00f3.\n\n\u2013Por favor, se\u00f1or \u2013dijo Edmundo; temblaba de tal forma que apenas pod\u00eda hablar\u2013; mi nombre es Edmundo y soy el Hijo de Ad\u00e1n que su Majestad encontr\u00f3 en el bosque el otro d\u00eda. Yo he venido a traerle noticias de mi hermano y mis hermanas. Est\u00e1n ahora en Narnia..., muy cerca, en la casa del Castor. Ella..., ella quer\u00eda verlos.\n\n\u2013Se lo dir\u00e9 a su Majestad \u2013dijo el Lobo\u2013. Mientras tanto, qu\u00e9date quieto aqu\u00ed, en el umbral, si en algo valoras tu vida.\n\nEntonces desapareci\u00f3 dentro de la casa. Edmundo permaneci\u00f3 inm\u00f3vil y esper\u00f3 con los dedos adoloridos por el fr\u00edo y el coraz\u00f3n que martillaba en su pecho. Pronto, el lobo gris, Maugrim, el jefe de la polic\u00eda secreta de la Bruja, regres\u00f3 de un salto y le dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Entra! \u00a1Entra! Eres el afortunado favorito de la Reina... o quiz\u00e1s no tan afortunado.\n\nEdmundo entr\u00f3 con mucho cuidado para no pisar las garras del lobo. Se encontr\u00f3 en un sal\u00f3n l\u00fagubre y largo, con muchos pilares. Al igual que el patio, estaba lleno de estatuas. La m\u00e1s cercana a la puerta era la de un peque\u00f1o fauno con una expresi\u00f3n muy triste. Edmundo no pudo menos que preguntarse si \u00e9ste no ser\u00eda el amigo de Luc\u00eda. La \u00fanica luz que hab\u00eda all\u00ed proven\u00eda de una peque\u00f1a l\u00e1mpara, tras la cual estaba sentada la Bruja Blanca.\n\n\u2013He regresado, su Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo, adelant\u00e1ndose hacia ella.\n\n\u2013\u00bfC\u00f3mo te atreves a venir solo? \u2013dijo la Bruja con una voz terrible\u2013. \u00bfNo te dije que deb\u00edas traer a los otros contigo?\n\n\u2013Por favor, su Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo\u2013, hice lo que pude. Los he tra\u00eddo hasta muy cerca. Est\u00e1n en la peque\u00f1a casa, en lo m\u00e1s alto del dique sobre el r\u00edo, con el se\u00f1or y la se\u00f1ora Castor.\n\nUna sonrisa lenta y cruel se dibuj\u00f3 en el rostro de la Bruja.\n\n\u2013\u00bf\u00c9sas son todas tus noticias?\n\n\u2013No, su Majestad \u2013dijo Edmundo, y le cont\u00f3 todo lo que hab\u00eda escuchado antes de abandonar la casa del Castor.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9! \u00bfAslan? \u2013grit\u00f3 la Reina\u2013. \u00bfAslan? \u00bfEs cierto eso? Si descubro que me has mentido...\n\n\u2013Por favor..., s\u00f3lo repito lo que ellos dijeron \u2013tartamude\u00f3 Edmundo. Pero la Reina, que ya no lo escuchaba, dio una palmada. De inmediato apareci\u00f3 el mismo enano que Edmundo hab\u00eda visto antes con ella.\n\n\u2013Prepara nuestro trineo \u2013orden\u00f3 la Bruja\u2013, y usa los arneses sin campanas.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 10\n\n## EL HECHIZO COMIENZA A ROMPERSE\n\nAHORA DEBEMOS VOLVER DONDE EL se\u00f1or y la se\u00f1ora Castor y los otros tres ni\u00f1os. Tan pronto como el Castor dijo: \"No hay tiempo que perder\", todos comenzaron a ponerse sus abrigos, excepto la se\u00f1ora Castora. Ella tom\u00f3 unos sacos y los dej\u00f3 sobre la mesa.\n\n\u2013Ahora, se\u00f1or Castor \u2013dijo\u2013, b\u00e1jame ese jam\u00f3n. Aqu\u00ed hay un paquete de t\u00e9, az\u00facar y f\u00f3sforos. Si alguien quiere, puede tomar dos o tres panes de esa vasija, all\u00e1, en el rinc\u00f3n.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 hace, se\u00f1ora Castora? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013Preparo una bolsa para cada uno de nosotros, cari\u00f1o \u2013dijo con voz serena\u2013. \u00bfUstedes no han pensado que estaremos afuera durante una jornada sin nada que comer?\n\n\u2013\u00a1Pero no tenemos tiempo! \u2013replic\u00f3 Susana, abotonando el cuello de su abrigo\u2013. Ella puede llegar en cualquier momento.\n\n\u2013Eso es lo que yo digo \u2013intervino el Castor.\n\n\u2013Adel\u00e1ntate con todos ellos \u2013le dijo calmadamente su mujer\u2013. Pero pi\u00e9nsalo con tranquilidad: ella no puede llegar hasta aqu\u00ed por lo menos hasta un cuarto de hora m\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfno es mejor que tengamos la mayor ventaja posible \u2013dijo Pedro\u2013 para llegar a la Mesa de Piedra antes que ella?\n\n\u2013Usted tiene que recordar eso, se\u00f1ora Castora \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Tan pronto como ella descubra que no estamos aqu\u00ed, se ir\u00e1 hacia all\u00e1 con la mayor velocidad.\n\n\u2013Eso es lo que ella har\u00e1 \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013. Pero nosotros no podremos llegar antes que ella, hagamos lo que hagamos, porque ella viajar\u00e1 en su trineo y nosotros iremos a pie.\n\n\u2013Entonces..., \u00bfno tenemos ninguna esperanza? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Por Dios! \u00a1No te pongas nerviosa ahora! \u2013exclam\u00f3 la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013. Toma inmediatamente media docena de pa\u00f1uelos de ese caj\u00f3n... \u00a1Claro que tenemos esperanzas! Es imposible llegar antes que ella, pero podemos mantenernos a cubierto, avanzar de una manera inesperada para ella y, a lo mejor, logramos llegar.\n\n\u2013Muy cierto, se\u00f1ora Castora \u2013dijo su marido\u2013. Pero ya es hora de que salgamos de aqu\u00ed.\n\n\u2013\u00a1No empieces t\u00fa tambi\u00e9n a molestar! \u2013dijo ella\u2013. As\u00ed est\u00e1 mejor. Aqu\u00ed est\u00e1n las bolsas. La m\u00e1s peque\u00f1a, para la menor de todos nosotros. \u00c9sa eres t\u00fa, cari\u00f1o \u2013agreg\u00f3 mirando a Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u00a1Por favor, vamos! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Bien, estoy casi lista \u2013contest\u00f3 la se\u00f1ora Castora, y al fin permiti\u00f3 que su marido la ayudara a ponerse las botas para la nieve\u2013. Me imagino que la m\u00e1quina de coser es demasiado pesada para llevarla...\n\n\u2013S\u00ed, lo es \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Mucho m\u00e1s que demasiado pesada. No pretender\u00e1s usarla durante la fuga, supongo...\n\n\u2013No puedo siquiera soportar la idea de que esa Bruja la toque \u2013dijo la se\u00f1ora Castora\u2013, o la rompa o se la robe..., lo crean o no.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, por favor, por favor, por favor! \u00a1Apres\u00farese! \u2013exclamaron los tres ni\u00f1os.\n\nPor fin salieron y el Castor ech\u00f3 llave a la puerta (\"Esto la demorar\u00e1 un poco\", dijo) y se fueron. Cada uno llevaba su bolsa sobre los hombros.\n\nHab\u00eda dejado de nevar y la luna sal\u00eda cuando ellos comenzaron la marcha. Caminaban en una fila..., primero el Castor; lo segu\u00edan Luc\u00eda, Pedro y Susana, en ese orden. La \u00faltima era la se\u00f1ora Castora.\n\nEl Castor los condujo a trav\u00e9s del dique, hacia la orilla derecha del r\u00edo. Luego, entre los \u00e1rboles y a lo largo de un sendero muy escabroso, descendieron por la ribera. Ambos lados del valle, que brillaban bajo la luz de la luna, se elevaron sobre ellos.\n\n\u2013Lo mejor es que continuemos por este sendero mientras sea posible \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013. Ella tendr\u00e1 que mantenerse en la cima, porque nadie puede conducir un trineo aqu\u00ed abajo.\n\nHabr\u00eda sido una escena magn\u00edfica si se la hubiera mirado a trav\u00e9s de una ventana y desde un c\u00f3modo sill\u00f3n. Incluso, a pesar de las circunstancias, Luc\u00eda se sinti\u00f3 maravillada en un comienzo. Pero como luego caminaron..., caminaron y caminaron, y el saco que cargaba a su espalda se le hizo m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s pesado, empez\u00f3 a preguntarse si ser\u00eda capaz de continuar as\u00ed. Se detuvo y mir\u00f3 la incre\u00edble luminosidad del r\u00edo helado, con sus ca\u00eddas de agua convertidas en hielo, los blancos conjuntos de \u00e1rboles nevados, la enorme y brillante luna, las incontables estrellas..., pero s\u00f3lo pudo ver delante de ella las cortas piernas del Castor que iban _\u2013pad-pad-pad-pad\u2013_ sobre la nieve como si nunca fueran a detenerse.\n\nLa luna desapareci\u00f3 y comenz\u00f3 nuevamente a nevar. Luc\u00eda estaba tan cansada que casi dorm\u00eda al mismo tiempo que caminaba. De pronto se dio cuenta de que el Castor se alejaba de la ribera del r\u00edo hacia la derecha y los llevaba cerro arriba por una empinada cuesta, en medio de espesos matorrales.\n\nTiempo despu\u00e9s, cuando ella despert\u00f3 por completo, alcanz\u00f3 a ver que el Castor desaparec\u00eda en una peque\u00f1a cueva de la ribera, casi totalmente oculta bajo los matorrales y que no se ve\u00eda a menos que uno estuviera sobre ella. En efecto, en el momento en que la ni\u00f1a se dio cuenta de lo que suced\u00eda, ya s\u00f3lo asomaba la ancha y corta cola de Castor. Luc\u00eda se detuvo de inmediato y se arrastr\u00f3 despu\u00e9s de \u00e9l. Entonces, tras ella oy\u00f3 ruidos de gateos, resoplidos y palpitaciones, y en un momento los cinco estuvieron adentro.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 lugar es \u00e9ste? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro con voz que sonaba cansada y p\u00e1lida en la oscuridad. (Espero que ustedes sepan lo que yo quiero decir con eso de una voz que suena p\u00e1lida.)\n\n\u2013Es un viejo escondite para castores, en malos tiempos \u2013dijo el se\u00f1or Castor\u2013, y un gran secreto. El lugar no es muy c\u00f3modo, pero necesitamos algunas horas de sue\u00f1o.\n\n\u2013Si todos ustedes no hubieran organizado ese tremendo e insoportable alboroto antes de partir, yo podr\u00eda haber tra\u00eddo algunos cojines \u2013dijo la Castora.\n\nLuc\u00eda pensaba que esa cueva no era nada agradable, menos a\u00fan si se la comparaba con la del se\u00f1or Tumnus... Era s\u00f3lo un hoyo en la tierra, seco, polvoriento y tan peque\u00f1o que, cuando todos se tendieron, se produjo una confusi\u00f3n de pieles y ropa alrededor de ellos. Pero, a pesar de todo, estaban abrigados y, despu\u00e9s de esa larga caminata, se sent\u00edan all\u00ed bastante c\u00f3modos. \u00a1Si s\u00f3lo el suelo de la cueva hubiera sido m\u00e1s blando!\n\nEn medio de la oscuridad, la Castora tom\u00f3 un peque\u00f1o frasco y lo pas\u00f3 de mano en mano para que los cinco bebieran un poco... La bebida provocaba tos, hac\u00eda farfullar y picaba en la garganta; sin embargo uno se sent\u00eda maravillosamente bien despu\u00e9s de haberla tomado... Y todos se quedaron profundamente dormidos.\n\nA Luc\u00eda le pareci\u00f3 que s\u00f3lo hab\u00eda transcurrido un minuto (a pesar de que realmente fue horas y horas m\u00e1s tarde) cuando despert\u00f3. Se sent\u00eda algo helada, terriblemente tiesa y a\u00f1oraba un ba\u00f1o caliente. Le pareci\u00f3 que unos largos bigotes rozaban sus mejillas y vio la fr\u00eda luz del d\u00eda que se filtraba por la boca de la cueva.\n\nInstantes despu\u00e9s ella estaba completamente despierta, al igual que los dem\u00e1s. En efecto, todos se encontraban sentados, con los ojos y las bocas muy abiertos, escuchando un sonido..., precisamente el sonido que ellos cre\u00edan (o imaginaban) haber o\u00eddo durante la caminata de la noche anterior. Era un sonido de campanas.\n\nEn cuanto las escuch\u00f3, el Castor, como un rayo, salt\u00f3 fuera de la cueva. A lo mejor a ustedes les parece, como Luc\u00eda pens\u00f3 por un momento, que \u00e9sta era la mayor tonter\u00eda que pod\u00eda hacer. Pero, en realidad, era algo muy bien pensado. Sab\u00eda que pod\u00eda trepar hasta la orilla del r\u00edo entre las zarzas y los arbustos, sin ser visto, pues, por encima de todo, quer\u00eda ver qu\u00e9 camino tomaba el trineo de la Bruja. Sentados en la cueva, los dem\u00e1s esperaban ansiosos. Transcurrieron cerca de cinco minutos. Entonces escucharon voces.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u2013susurr\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00a1Lo han visto! \u00a1Ella lo ha atrapado!\n\nLa sorpresa fue grande cuando, un poco m\u00e1s tarde, oyeron la voz del Castor que los llamaba desde afuera.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Todo est\u00e1 bien! \u2013grit\u00f3\u2013. \u00a1Salga, se\u00f1ora Castora! \u00a1Salgan, Hijos e Hijas de Ad\u00e1n y Eva! Todo est\u00e1 bien. No es _suya_.\n\nPor supuesto que eso era un atentado contra la gram\u00e1tica, pero as\u00ed hablan los castores cuando est\u00e1n excitados; quiero decir en Narnia..., en nuestro mundo ellos no hablan...\n\nLa se\u00f1ora Castora y los ni\u00f1os se atropellaron para salir de la cueva. Todos pesta\u00f1earon a la luz del d\u00eda. Estaban cubiertos de tierra, desali\u00f1ados, despeinados y con el sue\u00f1o reflejado en los ojos.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Vengan! \u2013gritaba el Castor, que casi bailaba de gusto\u2013. \u00a1Vengan a ver! \u00a1 \u00c9ste es un golpe feo para la Bruja! Parece que su poder se est\u00e1 desmoronando.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 quiere decir, se\u00f1or Castor? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Pedro anhelante, mientras todos juntos trepaban por la h\u00fameda ladera del valle.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo les dije \u2013respondi\u00f3 el Castor\u2013 que ella manten\u00eda siempre el invierno y no hab\u00eda nunca Navidad? \u00bfNo se lo dije? \u00a1Bien, vengan a mirar ahora!\n\nTodos estaban ahora en lo alto y vieron...\n\n_Era_ un trineo y _eran_ renos con campanas en sus arneses. Pero \u00e9stos eran mucho m\u00e1s grandes que los renos de la Bruja, y no eran blancos sino de color caf\u00e9. En el asiento del trineo se encontraba una persona a quien reconocieron en el mismo instante en que la vieron. Era un hombre muy grande con traje rojo (brillante como la fruta del acebo), con un capuch\u00f3n forrado de piel y una barba blanca que ca\u00eda como una cascada sobre su pecho. Todos lo conoc\u00edan porque, aunque a esta clase de personas s\u00f3lo se las ve en Narnia, sus retratos circulan incluso en nuestro mundo..., en el mundo a _este lado_ del armario. Pero cuando ustedes los ven realmente en Narnia, es algo muy diferente. Algunos de los retratos de Pap\u00e1 Noel en nuestro mundo muestran s\u00f3lo una imagen divertida y feliz. Pero ahora los ni\u00f1os, que lo miraban fijamente, pensaron que era muy distinto..., tan grande, tan alegre, tan real. Se quedaron inm\u00f3viles y se sintieron muy felices, pero tambi\u00e9n muy solemnes.\n\n\u2013He venido por fin \u2013dijo \u00e9l\u2013. Ella me ha mantenido fuera de aqu\u00ed por un largo tiempo, pero al fin logr\u00e9 entrar. Aslan est\u00e1 en movimiento. La magia de ella se est\u00e1 debilitando.\n\nLuc\u00eda sinti\u00f3 un estremecimiento de profunda alegr\u00eda. Algo que s\u00f3lo se siente si uno es solemne y guarda silencio.\n\n\u2013Ahora \u2013dijo Pap\u00e1 Noel\u2013, sus regalos. Aqu\u00ed hay una m\u00e1quina de coser nueva y mejor para usted, se\u00f1ora Castora. Se la dejar\u00e9 en su casa, al pasar.\n\n\u2013Por favor, se\u00f1or \u2013dijo la Castora haciendo una reverencia\u2013, mi casa est\u00e1 cerrada.\n\n\u2013Las cerraduras y los pestillos no tienen importancia para m\u00ed \u2013contest\u00f3 Pap\u00e1 Noel\u2013. Usted, se\u00f1or Castor, cuando regrese a su casa encontrar\u00e1 su dique terminado y reparado, con todas las goteras arregladas. Tambi\u00e9n le colocar\u00e9 una nueva compuerta.\n\nEl Castor estaba tan complacido que abri\u00f3 la boca muy grande y descubri\u00f3 entonces que no pod\u00eda decir ni una palabra.\n\n\u2013T\u00fa, Pedro, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n \u2013dijo Pap\u00e1 Noel.\n\n\u2013Aqu\u00ed estoy, se\u00f1or.\n\n\u2013Estos son tus regalos. Son herramientas y no juguetes. El tiempo de usarlos tal vez se acerca. Cons\u00e9rvalos bien.\n\nCon estas palabras entreg\u00f3 a Pedro un escudo y una espada. El escudo era del color de la plata y en \u00e9l aparec\u00eda la figura de un le\u00f3n rampante, rojo y brillante como una fresa madura. La empu\u00f1adura de la espada era de oro, y \u00e9sta ten\u00eda un estuche, un cintur\u00f3n y todo lo necesario. Su tama\u00f1o y su peso eran los adecuados para Pedro. \u00c9ste se mantuvo silencioso y muy solemne mientras recib\u00eda sus regalos, pues se daba perfecta cuenta de que \u00e9stos eran muy importantes.\n\n\u2013Susana, Hija de Eva \u2013dijo Pap\u00e1 Noel\u2013. \u00c9stos son para ti.\n\nY le entreg\u00f3 un arco, un carcaj lleno de flechas y un peque\u00f1o cuerno de marfil.\n\n\u2013T\u00fa debes usar el arco s\u00f3lo en caso de extrema necesidad \u2013le dijo\u2013, porque yo no pretendo que luches en batalla. \u00c9ste no falla f\u00e1cilmente. Cuando lleves el cuerno a los labios y soples, dondequiera que est\u00e9s, alguna ayuda vas a recibir.\n\nPor \u00faltimo dijo:\n\n\u2013Luc\u00eda, Hija de Eva.\n\nLuc\u00eda se acerc\u00f3 a \u00e9l.\n\nLe dio una peque\u00f1a botella que parec\u00eda de vidrio (pero la gente dijo m\u00e1s tarde que era de diamante) y una peque\u00f1a daga.\n\n\u2013En esta botella \u2013le dijo\u2013 hay una bebida confortante, hecha del jugo de la flor del fuego que crece en la monta\u00f1a del sol. Si t\u00fa o alguno de tus amigos es herido, con unas gotas se restablecer\u00e1. La daga es para que te defiendas cuando realmente lo necesites. Porque t\u00fa tampoco vas a estar en la batalla.\n\n\u2013\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 no, se\u00f1or? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Yo pienso..., no lo s\u00e9..., pero creo que puedo ser suficientemente valiente.\n\n\u2013\u00c9se no es el punto \u2013le contest\u00f3 Pap\u00e1 Noel\u2013. Las batallas son horribles cuando luchan las mujeres. Ahora \u2013de pronto su aspecto se vio menos grave\u2013, aqu\u00ed tienen algo para este momento y para todos.\n\nSac\u00f3 (yo supongo que de una bolsa que guardaba detr\u00e1s de \u00e9l, pero nadie vio bien lo que \u00e9l hac\u00eda) una gran bandeja que conten\u00eda cinco tazas con sus platillos, un azucarero, un jarro de crema y una enorme tetera silbante e hirviente. Entonces grit\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Feliz Navidad! \u00a1Viva el verdadero rey!\n\nHizo chasquear el l\u00e1tigo en el aire, y \u00e9l y los renos desaparecieron de la vista de todos antes de que nadie se diera cuenta de su partida.\n\nPedro hab\u00eda desenvainado su espada para mostr\u00e1rsela al Castor, cuando la se\u00f1ora Castora dijo:\n\n\u2013Ahora, pues..., no se queden ah\u00ed parados mientras el t\u00e9 se enfr\u00eda. \u00a1Todos los hombres son iguales! Vengan y ayuden a traer la bandeja, aqu\u00ed, abajo, y tomaremos el desayuno. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 acertada estuve al acordarme de traer el cuchillo del pan!\n\nDescendieron por la h\u00fameda ribera y volvieron a la cueva; el Castor cort\u00f3 el pan y el jam\u00f3n para unos emparedados y la se\u00f1ora Castora sirvi\u00f3 el t\u00e9. Todos se sintieron realmente contentos. Pero demasiado pronto, mucho antes de lo que hubieran deseado, el Castor dijo:\n\n\u2013Ya es tiempo de que nos pongamos en marcha. Ahora.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 11\n\n## ASLAN EST\u00c1 CERCA\n\nMIENTRAS TANTO, EDMUNDO VIV\u00cdA momentos de gran desilusi\u00f3n. Cuando el enano sali\u00f3 para preparar el trineo, crey\u00f3 que la Bruja se comportar\u00eda amablemente con \u00e9l, igual que en su primer encuentro. Pero ella no habl\u00f3. Por fin Edmundo se arm\u00f3 de valor y le dijo:\n\n\u2013Por favor, su Majestad, \u00bfpodr\u00eda darme algunas _delicias turcas?_ Usted..., usted..., dijo...\n\n\u2013\u00a1Silencio, mentecato!\n\nLuego ella pareci\u00f3 cambiar de idea y dijo como para sus adentros:\n\n\u2013Tampoco me servir\u00e1 de mucho que este rapaz desfallezca en el camino...\n\nDio otra palmada y otro enano apareci\u00f3.\n\n\u2013Tr\u00e1ele algo de comer y de beber a esta criatura humana \u2013orden\u00f3.\n\nEl enano se fue y volvi\u00f3 r\u00e1pidamente. Tra\u00eda un taz\u00f3n de hierro con un poco de agua y un plato, tambi\u00e9n de hierro, con una gruesa rebanada de pan duro. Sonri\u00f3 de un modo repulsivo, puso todo en el suelo al lado de Edmundo, y dijo:\n\n_\u2013Delicias turcas_ para el principito. \u00a1Ja, ja, ja!\n\n\u2013Ll\u00e9veselo \u2013dijo Edmundo, malhumorado\u2013. No quiero pan duro.\n\nPero repentinamente la Bruja se volvi\u00f3 hacia \u00e9l con una expresi\u00f3n tan fiera en su rostro que Edmundo comenz\u00f3 a disculparse y a comer pedacitos de pan, aunque estaba tan a\u00f1ejo que casi no lo pod\u00eda tragar.\n\n\u2013Deber\u00edas estar muy contento con esto, pues pasar\u00e1 mucho tiempo antes de que pruebes el pan nuevamente \u2013dijo la Bruja.\n\nMientras todav\u00eda masticaba, volvi\u00f3 el primer enano y anunci\u00f3 que el trineo estaba preparado. La Bruja se levant\u00f3 y, ordenando a Edmundo que la siguiera, sali\u00f3. Nuevamente nevaba cuando llegaron al patio, pero ella, sin fijarse siquiera, indic\u00f3 a Edmundo que se sentara a su lado en el trineo. Antes de partir, llam\u00f3 a Maugrim, quien acudi\u00f3 dando saltos como un perro y se detuvo junto al trineo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1T\u00fa! Re\u00fane a tus lobos m\u00e1s r\u00e1pidos y anda de inmediato hasta la casa del Castor \u2013dijo la Bruja\u2013. Mata a quien encuentres all\u00ed. Si ellos se han ido, vayan a toda velocidad a la Mesa de Piedra, pero no deben ser vistos. Esp\u00e9renme all\u00ed, escondidos. Mientras tanto yo debo ir muchas millas hacia el oeste antes de encontrar un paso para cruzar el r\u00edo. Pueden alcanzar a estos humanos antes de que lleguen a la Mesa de Piedra. \u00a1Ya saben qu\u00e9 hacer con ellos si los encuentran!\n\n\u2013Escucho y obedezco, \u00a1oh, Reina! \u2013gru\u00f1\u00f3 el Lobo.\n\nInmediatamente sali\u00f3 disparado, tan r\u00e1pido como galopa un caballo. En pocos minutos hab\u00eda llamado a otro lobo y momentos despu\u00e9s ambos estaban en el dique y husmeaban la casa del Castor. Por supuesto, la encontraron vac\u00eda. Para el Castor, su mujer y los ni\u00f1os habr\u00eda sido horroroso si la noche se hubiera mantenido clara, porque los lobos podr\u00edan haber seguido sus huellas... con todas las posibilidades de alcanzarlos antes de que ellos llegaran a la cueva. Pero ahora hab\u00eda comenzado nuevamente a nevar y todos los rastros y pisadas hab\u00edan desaparecido.\n\nMientras tanto el enano azotaba a los renos y el trineo sal\u00eda llevando a la Bruja y a Edmundo. Pasaron bajo el arco y luego siguieron adelante en medio del fr\u00edo y de la oscuridad. Para Edmundo, que no ten\u00eda abrigo, fue un viaje horrible. Antes de un cuarto de hora de camino estaba cubierto de nieve... Muy pronto dej\u00f3 de sacud\u00edrsela de encima, pues en cuanto lo hac\u00eda, se acumulaba nuevamente sobre \u00e9l. Era en vano y estaba tan cansado... En poco rato estuvo mojado hasta los huesos. \u00a1Oh, qu\u00e9 desdichado era! Ya no cre\u00eda, en absoluto, que la Reina tuviera intenci\u00f3n de hacerlo rey. Todo lo que ella le hab\u00eda dicho para hacerle creer que era buena y generosa y que su lado era realmente el lado bueno, le parec\u00eda est\u00fapido. En ese momento habr\u00eda dado cualquier cosa por juntarse con los dem\u00e1s..., \u00a1incluso con Pedro! Su \u00fanico consuelo consist\u00eda en pensar que todo esto era s\u00f3lo un mal sue\u00f1o del que despertar\u00eda en cualquier momento. Y como siguieron adelante hora tras hora, todo lleg\u00f3 a parecerle como si efectivamente fuera un sue\u00f1o.\n\nEsto se prolong\u00f3 mucho m\u00e1s de lo que yo podr\u00eda describir, aunque utilizara p\u00e1ginas y p\u00e1ginas para relatarlo. Por eso, prefiero pasar directamente al momento en que dej\u00f3 de nevar cuando lleg\u00f3 la ma\u00f1ana, y ellos corr\u00edan velozmente a la luz del d\u00eda. Los viajeros segu\u00edan adelante, sin hacer ning\u00fan ruido, excepto el perpetuo silbido de la nieve y el crujido de los arneses de los renos. Y entonces, al fin, la Bruja dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 tenemos aqu\u00ed? \u00a1Alto!\n\nY se detuvieron.\n\nEdmundo esperaba con ansias que ella dijera algo sobre la necesidad de desayunar. Pero eran muy diferentes las razones que la hab\u00edan hecho detenerse. Un poco m\u00e1s all\u00e1, a los pies de un \u00e1rbol, se desarrollaba una alegre fiesta. Una pareja de ardillas con sus hijos, dos s\u00e1tiros, un enano y un viejo zorro estaban sentados en el suelo alrededor de una mesa. Edmundo no alcanzaba a ver lo que com\u00edan, pero el aroma era muy tentador. Le parec\u00eda divisar algo como un pud\u00edn de ciruelas y tambi\u00e9n decoraciones de acebo. Cuando el trineo se detuvo, el Zorro, que era evidentemente el m\u00e1s anciano, se estaba levantando con un vaso en la mano como si fuera a pronunciar unas palabras. Pero cuando todos los que se encontraban en la fiesta vieron el trineo y a la persona que viajaba en \u00e9l, la alegr\u00eda desapareci\u00f3 de sus rostros. El pap\u00e1 ardilla se qued\u00f3 con el tenedor en el aire y los peque\u00f1os dieron alaridos de terror.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 significa todo esto? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 la Reina.\n\nNadie contest\u00f3.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Hablen, animales asquerosos! \u00bfO desean que mi enano les busque la lengua con su l\u00e1tigo? \u00bfQu\u00e9 significa toda esta glotoner\u00eda, este despilfarro, este desenfreno? \u00bfDe d\u00f3nde sacaron todo esto?\n\n\u2013Por favor, su Majestad \u2013dijo el Zorro\u2013, nos lo dieron. Y si yo me atreviera a ser tan audaz como para beber a la salud de su Majestad...\n\n\u2013\u00bfQui\u00e9n les dio todo esto? \u2013interrumpi\u00f3 la Bruja.\n\n\u2013P-P-Pap\u00e1 Noel \u2013tartamude\u00f3 el Zorro.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9? \u2013gru\u00f1\u00f3 la Bruja. Salt\u00f3 del trineo y dio grandes zancadas hacia los aterrados animales\u2013. \u00a1\u00c9l no ha estado aqu\u00ed! \u00a1No puede haber estado aqu\u00ed! \u00a1C\u00f3mo se atreven...! \u00a1Digan que han mentido y los perdonar\u00e9 ahora mismo!\n\nEn ese momento, uno de los peque\u00f1os hijos de la pareja de ardillas contest\u00f3 sin pensar.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ha venido! \u00a1Ha venido! \u2013gritaba golpeando su cucharita contra la mesa.\n\nEdmundo vio que la Bruja se mord\u00eda el labio hasta que una gota de sangre apareci\u00f3 en su blanco rostro. Entonces levant\u00f3 la vara.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u00a1No lo haga! \u00a1Por favor, no lo haga! \u2013grit\u00f3 Edmundo; pero mientras suplicaba, ella agit\u00f3 su vara y, en un instante, en el lugar donde se desarrollaba la alegre fiesta hab\u00eda s\u00f3lo estatuas de criaturas (una con el tenedor a medio camino hacia su boca de piedra) sentadas alrededor de una mesa de piedra, con platos de piedra y un pud\u00edn de ciruelas de piedra.\n\n\u2013En cuanto a ti \u2013dijo la Bruja a Edmundo, d\u00e1ndole un brutal golpe en la cara cuando volvi\u00f3 a subir al trineo\u2013, \u00a1que esto te ense\u00f1e a no interceder en favor de esp\u00edas y traidores! \u00a1Continuemos!\n\nEdmundo, por primera vez en el transcurso de esta historia, tuvo piedad por alguien que no era \u00e9l. Era tan lamentable pensar en esas peque\u00f1as figuras de piedra, sentadas all\u00ed durante d\u00edas silenciosos y oscuras noches, a\u00f1o tras a\u00f1o, hasta que se desmoronaran o sus rostros se borraran.\n\nAhora avanzaban constantemente otra vez. Pronto Edmundo observ\u00f3 que la nieve que salpicaba el trineo en su veloz carrera estaba m\u00e1s derretida que la de la noche anterior. Al mismo tiempo advirti\u00f3 que sent\u00eda mucho menos fr\u00edo y que se acercaba una espesa niebla. En efecto, minuto a minuto aumentaba la neblina y tambi\u00e9n el calor. El trineo ya no se deslizaba tan bien como unos momentos antes. Al principio pens\u00f3 que quiz\u00e1s los renos estaban cansados, pero pronto se dio cuenta de que no era \u00e9sa la verdadera raz\u00f3n. El trineo avanzaba a tirones, se arrastraba y se bamboleaba como si hubiera chocado con una piedra. A pesar de los latigazos que el enano propinaba a los renos, el trineo iba m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s lentamente. Tambi\u00e9n parec\u00eda o\u00edrse un curioso ruido, pero el estr\u00e9pito del trineo con sus tirones y bamboleos, y los gritos del enano para apurar a los renos, impidieron que Edmundo pudiera distinguir qu\u00e9 clase de sonido era, hasta que, de pronto, el trineo se atasc\u00f3 tan fuertemente que no hubo forma de seguir. Entonces sobrevino un momento de silencio. Y en ese silencio, Edmundo, por fin, pudo escuchar claramente. Era un ruido extra\u00f1o, suave, susurrante y continuo... y, sin embargo, no tan extra\u00f1o, porque \u00e9l lo hab\u00eda escuchado antes. R\u00e1pidamente, record\u00f3. Era el sonido del agua que corre. Alrededor de ellos, por todas partes aunque fuera de su vista, los riachuelos cantaban, murmuraban, burbujeaban, chapoteaban y aun (en la distancia) rug\u00edan. Su coraz\u00f3n dio un gran salto (a pesar de que \u00e9l no supo por qu\u00e9) cuando se dio cuenta de que el hielo se hab\u00eda derretido. Y mucho m\u00e1s cerca hab\u00eda un _drip-drip-drip_ desde las ramas de todos los \u00e1rboles. Entonces mir\u00f3 hacia uno de ellos y vio que una gran carga de nieve se deslizaba y ca\u00eda y, por primera vez desde que hab\u00eda llegado a Narnia, contempl\u00f3 el color verde oscuro de un abeto.\n\nPero no tuvo tiempo de escuchar ni de observar nada m\u00e1s porque la Bruja grit\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00a1No te quedes ah\u00ed sentado con la mirada fija, tonto! \u00a1Ven a ayudar!\n\nPor supuesto, Edmundo tuvo que obedecer. Descendi\u00f3 del trineo y camin\u00f3 sobre la nieve \u2013aunque realmente \u00e9sta era algo muy blando y muy mojado\u2013 y ayud\u00f3 al enano a tirar del trineo para sacarlo del fangoso hoyo en el que hab\u00eda ca\u00eddo. Lo lograron por fin. El enano golpe\u00f3 con su l\u00e1tigo a los renos con gran crueldad y as\u00ed consigui\u00f3 poner el trineo de nuevo en movimiento. Avanzaron un poco m\u00e1s. Ahora la nieve estaba derretida de veras y en todas direcciones comenzaban a aparecer terrenos cubiertos de pasto verde. A menos que uno haya contemplado un mundo de nieve durante tanto tiempo como Edmundo, dif\u00edcilmente ser\u00eda capaz de imaginar el alivio que significan esas manchas verdes despu\u00e9s del interminable blanco.\n\nPero entonces el trineo se detuvo una vez m\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Es imposible continuar, su Majestad \u2013dijo el enano\u2013. No podemos deslizarnos con este deshielo.\n\n\u2013Entonces, caminaremos \u2013dijo la Bruja.\n\n\u2013Nunca los alcanzaremos si caminamos \u2013rezong\u00f3 el enano\u2013. No con la ventaja que nos llevan.\n\n\u2013\u00bfEres mi consejero o mi esclavo? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 la Bruja\u2013. Haz lo que te digo. Amarra las manos de la criatura humana a su espalda y sujeta t\u00fa la cuerda por el otro extremo. Toma tu l\u00e1tigo y quita los arneses a los renos. Ellos encontrar\u00e1n f\u00e1cilmente el camino de regreso a casa.\n\nEl enano obedeci\u00f3. Minutos m\u00e1s tarde, Edmundo se ve\u00eda forzado a caminar tan r\u00e1pido como pod\u00eda, con las manos atadas a la espalda. Resbalaba a menudo en la nieve derretida, en el lodo o en el pasto mojado. Cada vez que esto suced\u00eda, el enano echaba una maldici\u00f3n sobre \u00e9l y, a veces, le daba un latigazo. La Bruja, que caminaba detr\u00e1s del enano, ordenaba constantemente:\n\n\u2013\u00a1M\u00e1s r\u00e1pido! \u00a1M\u00e1s r\u00e1pido!\n\nA cada minuto las \u00e1reas verdes eran m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s grandes, y los espacios cubiertos de nieve disminu\u00edan y disminu\u00edan. A cada momento los \u00e1rboles se sacud\u00edan m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s de sus mantos blancos. Pronto, hacia cualquier lugar que mirara, en vez de formas blancas uno ve\u00eda el verde oscuro de los abetos o el negro de las espinosas ramas de los desnudos robles, de las hayas y de los olmos. Entonces la niebla, de blanca se torn\u00f3 dorada y luego desapareci\u00f3 por completo. Cual flechas, deliciosos rayos de sol atravesaron de un golpe el bosque, y en lo alto, entre las copas de los \u00e1rboles, se ve\u00eda el cielo azul.\n\nAs\u00ed se sucedieron m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s acontecimientos maravillosos. Repentinamente, a la vuelta de una esquina, en un claro entre un conjunto de plateados abedules, Edmundo vio el suelo cubierto, en todas direcciones, de peque\u00f1as flores amarillas... El sonido del agua se escuchaba cada vez m\u00e1s fuerte. Poco despu\u00e9s cruzaron un arroyo. M\u00e1s all\u00e1 encontraron un lugar donde crec\u00edan miles de campanitas blancas.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Preoc\u00fapate de tus propios asuntos! \u2013dijo el enano cuando vio que Edmundo volv\u00eda la cabeza para mirar las flores, y con gesto maligno dio un tir\u00f3n a la cuerda.\n\nPero, por supuesto, esto no impidi\u00f3 que Edmundo pudiera ver. S\u00f3lo cinco minutos m\u00e1s tarde observ\u00f3 una docena de azafranes que crec\u00edan alrededor de un viejo \u00e1rbol..., dorado, rojo y blanco. Despu\u00e9s lleg\u00f3 un sonido a\u00fan m\u00e1s hermoso que el ruido del agua. De pronto, muy cerca del sendero que ellos segu\u00edan, un p\u00e1jaro gorje\u00f3 desde la rama de un \u00e1rbol. Algo m\u00e1s lejos, otro le respondi\u00f3 con sus trinos. Entonces, como si \u00e9sta hubiera sido una se\u00f1al, se escucharon gorjeos y trinos desde todas partes y en el espacio de cinco minutos el bosque entero estaba lleno de la m\u00fasica de las aves. Hacia dondequiera que Edmundo mirara, las ve\u00eda aletear en las ramas, volar en el cielo y aun disputar ligeramente entre ellas.\n\n\u2013\u00a1M\u00e1s r\u00e1pido! \u00a1M\u00e1s r\u00e1pido! \u2013gritaba la Bruja.\n\nAhora no hab\u00eda rastros de la niebla. El cielo era cada vez m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s azul, y de tiempo en tiempo algunas nubes blancas lo cruzaban apresuradas. Las pr\u00edmulas cubr\u00edan amplios espacios. Brot\u00f3 una brisa suave que esparci\u00f3 la humedad de los ramos inclinados y llev\u00f3 frescas y deliciosas fragancias hacia el rostro de los viajeros. Los \u00e1rboles comenzaron a vivir plenamente. Los alerces y los abedules se cubrieron de verde; los \u00e9banos de los Alpes, de dorado. Pronto las hayas extendieron sus delicadas y transparentes hojas. Y para los viajeros que caminaban bajo los \u00e1rboles, la luz tambi\u00e9n se torn\u00f3 verde. Una abeja zumb\u00f3 al cruzar el sendero.\n\n\u2013Esto no es deshielo \u2013dijo entonces el enano deteni\u00e9ndose de pronto\u2013. Es la _primavera_. \u00bfQu\u00e9 vamos a hacer? Su invierno ha sido destruido. \u00a1Se lo advierto! Esto es obra de Aslan.\n\n\u2013Si alguno de ustedes menciona ese nombre otra vez \u2013dijo la Bruja\u2013, morir\u00e1 al instante.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 12\n\n## LA PRIMERA BATALLA DE PEDRO\n\nMIENTRAS EL ENANO Y LA BRUJA Blanca hablaban, a millas de distancia los Castores y los ni\u00f1os segu\u00edan caminando, hora tras hora, como en un hermoso sue\u00f1o. Hac\u00eda ya mucho que se hab\u00edan despojado de sus abrigos. Ahora ni siquiera se deten\u00edan para exclamar \"\u00a1All\u00ed hay un mart\u00edn pescador!\", \"\u00a1Miren c\u00f3mo crecen las campanitas!\", \"\u00bfQu\u00e9 aroma tan agradable es \u00e9se?\" o \"\u00a1Escuchen a ese tordo!\"... Caminaban en silencio aspir\u00e1ndolo todo; cruzaban terrenos abiertos a la luz y el calor del sol, y se introduc\u00edan en frescos, verdes y espesos bosquecillos, para salir de nuevo a anchos espacios cubiertos de musgo a cuyo alrededor se alzaban altos olmos muy por encima del frondoso techo; luego atravesaban densas masas de groselleros floridos y espesos espinos blancos, cuyo dulce aroma era casi abrumador.\n\nAl igual que Edmundo, se hab\u00edan sorprendido al ver que el invierno desaparec\u00eda y el bosque entero pasaba, en pocas horas, de enero a mayo. Por cierto, ni siquiera sab\u00edan (como lo sab\u00eda la Bruja) que esto era lo que deb\u00eda suceder con la llegada de Aslan a Narnia. Sin embargo, todos ten\u00edan conciencia de que eran los poderes de la Bruja los que manten\u00edan ese invierno sin fin. Por eso cuando esta m\u00e1gica primavera estall\u00f3, todos supusieron que algo hab\u00eda resultado mal, muy mal, en los planes de la Bruja. Despu\u00e9s de ver que el deshielo continuaba durante un buen tiempo, ellos se dieron cuenta de que la Bruja no podr\u00eda utilizar m\u00e1s su trineo. Entonces ya no se apresuraron tanto y se permitieron descansos m\u00e1s frecuentes y algo m\u00e1s largos. Estaban muy cansados, por supuesto, pero no lo que yo llamo exhaustos...; s\u00f3lo lentos y so\u00f1adores, tranquilos interiormente, como se siente uno al final de un largo d\u00eda al aire libre. S\u00f3lo Susana ten\u00eda una peque\u00f1a herida en un tal\u00f3n.\n\nAntes ellos se hab\u00edan desviado del curso del r\u00edo un poco hacia la derecha (esto significaba un poco hacia el sur) para llegar al lugar donde estaba la Mesa de Piedra. Y aunque \u00e9se no hubiera sido el camino, no habr\u00edan podido continuar por la orilla del r\u00edo una vez que empez\u00f3 el deshielo. Con toda la nieve derretida, el r\u00edo se convirti\u00f3 muy pronto en un torrente \u2013un maravilloso y rugiente torrente amarillo\u2013, y dentro de poco el sendero que segu\u00edan estar\u00eda inundado.\n\nAhora que el sol estaba bajo, la luz se torn\u00f3 rojiza, las sombras se alargaron y las flores comenzaron a pensar en cerrarse.\n\n\u2013No falta mucho ya \u2013dijo el Castor, mientras los guiaba colina arriba, sobre un musgo profundo y el\u00e1stico (lo percib\u00edan con mucho agrado bajo sus cansados pies), hacia un lugar donde crec\u00edan inmensos \u00e1rboles, muy distantes entre s\u00ed. La subida, al final del d\u00eda, los hizo jadear y respirar con dificultad. Justo cuando Luc\u00eda se preguntaba si realmente podr\u00eda llegar a la cumbre sin otro largo descanso, se encontraron de pronto en la cima. Y esto fue lo que vieron.\n\nEstaban en un verde espacio abierto desde el cual uno pod\u00eda ver el bosque que se extend\u00eda hacia abajo en todas direcciones, hasta donde se perd\u00eda la vista..., excepto hacia el este: muy lejos, algo resplandec\u00eda y se mov\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Gran Dios! \u2013cuchiche\u00f3 Pedro a Susana\u2013. \u00a1Es el mar!\n\nExactamente en el centro del campo, en lo m\u00e1s alto de la colina, estaba la Mesa de Piedra. Era una inmensa y \u00e1spera losa de piedra gris, suspendida en cuatro piedras verticales. Se ve\u00eda muy antigua y estaba completamente grabada con extra\u00f1as l\u00edneas y figuras, que pod\u00edan ser las letras de una lengua desconocida. Cuando uno las miraba, produc\u00edan una rara sensaci\u00f3n.\n\nEn seguida vieron una bandera clavada a un costado del campo. Era una maravillosa bandera \u2013especialmente ahora que la luz del sol poniente se retiraba de ella\u2013 cuyos bordes parec\u00edan ser de seda color amarillo, con cordones carmes\u00ed e incrustaciones de marfil. Y m\u00e1s alto, en un asta, un estandarte, que mostraba un le\u00f3n rampante de color rojo, flameaba suavemente con la brisa que soplaba desde el lejano mar. Mientras contemplaban todo esto, escucharon a su derecha un sonido de m\u00fasica. Se volvieron en esa direcci\u00f3n y vieron lo que hab\u00edan venido a ver.\n\nAslan estaba de pie en medio de una multitud de criaturas que, agrupadas en torno a \u00e9l, formaban una media luna. Hab\u00eda Mujeres-\u00c1rbol y Mujeres-Vertiente (Dr\u00edades y N\u00e1yades como antes las llamaban en nuestro mundo) que ten\u00edan instrumentos de cuerda. Ellas eran las que tocaban la m\u00fasica. Hab\u00eda cuatro centauros grandes. Su mitad caballo se asemejaba a los inmensos caballos ingleses de campo, y la parte humana, a un gigante severo pero hermoso. Tambi\u00e9n hab\u00eda un unicornio, un toro con cabeza de hombre, un pel\u00edcano, un \u00e1guila y un perro grande. Al lado de Aslan se encontraban dos leopardos: uno transportaba su corona, y el otro, su estandarte.\n\nEn cuanto a Aslan mismo, los Castores y los ni\u00f1os no sab\u00edan qu\u00e9 hacer o decir cuando lo vieron. La gente que no ha estado en Narnia piensa a veces que una cosa no puede ser buena y terrible al mismo tiempo. Y si los ni\u00f1os alguna vez pensaron as\u00ed, ahora fueron sacados de su error. Porque cuando trataron de mirar la cara de Aslan, s\u00f3lo pudieron vislumbrar una melena dorada y unos ojos inmensos, majestuosos, solemnes e irresistibles. Se dieron cuenta de que eran incapaces de mirarlo.\n\n\u2013Adelante \u2013dijo el Castor.\n\n\u2013No \u2013susurr\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. Usted primero.\n\n\u2013No, los Hijos de Ad\u00e1n antes que los animales.\n\n\u2013Susana \u2013murmur\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. \u00bfY t\u00fa? Las se\u00f1oritas primero.\n\n\u2013No, t\u00fa eres el mayor.\n\nY mientras m\u00e1s demoraban en decidirse, m\u00e1s inc\u00f3modos se sent\u00edan. Por fin Pedro se dio cuenta de que esto le correspond\u00eda a \u00e9l. Sac\u00f3 su espada y la levant\u00f3 para saludar.\n\n\u2013Vengan \u2013dijo a los dem\u00e1s\u2013. Todos juntos.\n\nAvanz\u00f3 hacia el Le\u00f3n y dijo:\n\n\u2013Hemos venido..., Aslan.\n\n\u2013Bienvenido, Pedro, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. Bienvenidas, Susana y Luc\u00eda. Bienvenidos, Castor y Castora.\n\nSu voz era ronca y profunda y de alg\u00fan modo les quit\u00f3 la angustia. Ahora se sent\u00edan contentos y tranquilos y no les incomodaba quedarse inm\u00f3viles sin decir nada.\n\n\u2013\u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1 el cuarto? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Aslan.\n\n\u2013\u00c9l ha tratado de traicionar a sus hermanos y de unirse a la Bruja Blanca, \u00a1oh Aslan! \u2013dijo el Castor.\n\nEntonces algo hizo a Pedro decir:\n\n\u2013En parte fue por mi culpa, Aslan. Yo estaba enojado con \u00e9l y pienso que eso lo impuls\u00f3 hacia un camino equivocado.\n\nAslan no dijo nada; ni para excusar a Pedro ni para culparlo. Solamente lo mir\u00f3 con sus grandes ojos dorados. A todos les pareci\u00f3 que no hab\u00eda m\u00e1s que decir.\n\n\u2013Por favor..., Aslan \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00bfHay algo que se pueda hacer para salvar a Edmundo?\n\n\u2013Se har\u00e1 todo lo que se pueda \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. Pero es posible que resulte m\u00e1s dif\u00edcil de lo que ustedes piensan.\n\nLuego se qued\u00f3 nuevamente en silencio por algunos momentos. Hasta entonces, Luc\u00eda hab\u00eda pensado cu\u00edn majestuosa, fuerte y pac\u00edfica parec\u00eda su cara. Ahora, de pronto, se le ocurri\u00f3 que tambi\u00e9n se ve\u00eda triste. Pero, al minuto siguiente, esa expresi\u00f3n hab\u00eda desaparecido. El Le\u00f3n sacudi\u00f3 su melena, golpe\u00f3 sus garras (\"\u00a1Terribles garras \u2013pens\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013 si \u00e9l no supiera c\u00f3mo suavizarlas!\"), y dijo:\n\n\u2013Mientras tanto, que se prepare un banquete. Se\u00f1oras, lleven a las Hijas de Eva al Pabell\u00f3n y prov\u00e9anlas de lo necesario.\n\nCuando las ni\u00f1as se fueron, Aslan pos\u00f3 su garra \u2013y a pesar de que lo hac\u00eda con suavidad, era muy pesada\u2013 en el hombro de Pedro y dijo:\n\n\u2013Ven, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n, y te mostrar\u00e9 a la distancia el castillo donde ser\u00e1s rey.\n\nCon su espada todav\u00eda en la mano, Pedro sigui\u00f3 al Le\u00f3n hacia la orilla oeste de la cumbre de la colina, y una hermosa vista se present\u00f3 ante sus ojos. El sol se pon\u00eda a sus espaldas, lo cual significaba que ante ellos todo el pa\u00eds estaba envuelto en la luz del atardecer..., bosques, colinas y valles alrededor del gran r\u00edo que ondulaba como una serpiente de plata. M\u00e1s all\u00e1, millas m\u00e1s lejos, estaba el mar, y entre el cielo y el mar, cientos de nubes que con los reflejos del sol poniente adquir\u00edan un maravilloso color rosa. Justo en el lugar en que la tierra de Narnia se encontraba con el mar \u2013en la boca del gran r\u00edo\u2013 hab\u00eda algo que brillaba en una peque\u00f1a colina. Brillaba porque era un castillo y, por supuesto, la luz del sol se reflejaba en todas las ventanas que miraban hacia el poniente, donde se encontraba Pedro. A \u00e9ste le pareci\u00f3 m\u00e1s bien una gran estrella que descansaba en la playa.\n\n\u2013Eso, \u00a1oh Hombre! \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013, es el castillo de Cair Paravel con sus cuatro tronos, en uno de los cuales t\u00fa deber\u00e1s sentarte como rey. Te lo muestro porque eres el primog\u00e9nito y ser\u00e1s el Rey Supremo sobre todos los dem\u00e1s.\n\nUna vez m\u00e1s, Pedro no dijo nada. Luego un ruido extra\u00f1o interrumpi\u00f3 s\u00fabitamente el silencio. Era como una corneta de caza, pero m\u00e1s dulce.\n\n\u2013Es el cuerno de tu hermana \u2013dijo Aslan a Pedro en voz baja, tan baja que era casi un ronroneo, si no es falta de respeto pensar que un le\u00f3n pueda ronronear.\n\nPor un instante Pedro no entendi\u00f3. Pero en ese momento vio avanzar a todas las otras criaturas y oy\u00f3 que Aslan dec\u00eda agitando su garra:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Atr\u00e1s! \u00a1Dejen que el Pr\u00edncipe gane su espuela!\n\nEntonces comprendi\u00f3 y corri\u00f3 tan r\u00e1pido como le fue posible hacia el pabell\u00f3n. All\u00ed se enfrent\u00f3 a una visi\u00f3n espantosa.\n\nLas N\u00e1yades y Dr\u00edades hu\u00edan en todas direcciones. Luc\u00eda corri\u00f3 hacia \u00e9l tan veloz como sus cortas piernas se lo permitieron, con el rostro blanco como un papel. Despu\u00e9s vio a Susana saltar y colgarse de un \u00e1rbol, perseguida por una enorme bestia gris. Pedro crey\u00f3 en un comienzo que era un oso. Luego le pareci\u00f3 un perro alsaciano, aunque era demasiado grande... Por fin se dio cuenta de que era un lobo..., un lobo parado en sus patas traseras con sus garras delanteras apoyadas en el tronco del \u00e1rbol, aullando y mordiendo. Todo el pelo de su lomo estaba erizado. Susana no hab\u00eda logrado subir m\u00e1s arriba de la segunda rama. Una de sus piernas colgaba hacia abajo y su pie estaba a s\u00f3lo dos pulgadas de aquellos dientes que amenazaban con morder. Pedro se preguntaba por qu\u00e9 ella no sub\u00eda m\u00e1s o, al menos, no se afirmaba mejor, cuando cay\u00f3 en la cuenta de que estaba a punto de desmayarse, y si se desmayaba, caer\u00eda al suelo.\n\nPedro no se sent\u00eda muy valiente; en realidad se sent\u00eda enfermo. Pero esto no cambiaba en nada lo que ten\u00eda que hacer. Se abalanz\u00f3 derecho contra el monstruo y, con su espada, le asest\u00f3 una estocada en el costado. El golpe no alcanz\u00f3 al Lobo. R\u00e1pido como un rayo, \u00e9ste se volvi\u00f3 con los ojos llameantes y su enorme boca abierta en un rugido de furia. Si no hubiera estado cegado por la rabia, que s\u00f3lo le permit\u00eda rugir, se habr\u00eda lanzado directo a la garganta de su enemigo. Por eso fue que \u2013aunque todo sucedi\u00f3 demasiado r\u00e1pido para que \u00e9l lo alcanzara a pensar\u2013 Pedro tuvo el tiempo preciso para bajar la cabeza y enterrar su espada, tan fuertemente como pudo, entre las dos patas delanteras de la bestia, directo en su coraz\u00f3n. Entonces sobrevino un instante de horrible confusi\u00f3n, como una pesadilla. \u00c9l daba un tir\u00f3n tras otro a su espada y el Lobo no parec\u00eda ni vivo ni muerto. Los dientes del animal se encontraban junto a la frente de Pedro y alrededor de \u00e9l todo era pelo, sangre y calor. Un momento despu\u00e9s descubri\u00f3 que el monstruo estaba muerto y que \u00e9l ya hab\u00eda retirado su espada. Se enderez\u00f3 y enjug\u00f3 el sudor de su cara y de sus ojos. Sinti\u00f3 que lo invad\u00eda un cansancio mortal.\n\nEn un instante Susana baj\u00f3 del \u00e1rbol. Ella y Pedro estaban tr\u00e9mulos cuando se encontraron frente a frente. Y no voy a decir que no hubo besos y llantos de parte de ambos. Pero en Narnia nadie piensa nada malo por eso.\n\n\u2013\u00a1R\u00e1pido! \u00a1R\u00e1pido! \u2013grit\u00f3 Aslan\u2013. \u00a1Centauros! \u00a1\u00c1guilas! Veo otro lobo en los matorrales. \u00a1Ah\u00ed, detr\u00e1s! Ahora se ha dado la vuelta. \u00a1S\u00edganlo todos! \u00c9l ir\u00e1 donde su ama. Ahora es la oportunidad de encontrar a la Bruja y rescatar al cuarto Hijo de Ad\u00e1n.\n\nInstant\u00e1neamente, con un fuerte ruido de cascos y un batir de alas, una docena o m\u00e1s de veloces criaturas desaparecieron en la creciente oscuridad.\n\nPedro, a\u00fan sin aliento, se dio la vuelta y se encontr\u00f3 con Aslan a su lado.\n\n\u2013Has olvidado limpiar tu espada \u2013dijo Aslan.\n\nEra verdad. Pedro enrojeci\u00f3 cuando mir\u00f3 la brillante hoja y la vio toda manchada con la sangre y el pelo del Lobo. Se agach\u00f3 y la restreg\u00f3 y la limpi\u00f3 en el pasto; luego la frot\u00f3 y la sec\u00f3 en su chaqueta.\n\n\u2013D\u00e1mela y arrod\u00edllate, Hijo de Ad\u00e1n \u2013dijo Aslan. Cuando Pedro lo hubo hecho, lo toc\u00f3 con la hoja y a\u00f1adi\u00f3\u2013: Lev\u00e1ntate, Caballero Pedro, Terror de los Lobos. Pase lo que pase, nunca olvides limpiar tu espada.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 13\n\n## MAGIA PROFUNDA DEL AMANECER DEL TIEMPO\n\nAHORA DEBEMOS VOLVER A EDMUNDO. Despu\u00e9s de haberlo hecho caminar mucho m\u00e1s de lo que \u00e9l imaginaba que alguien pod\u00eda caminar, la Bruja se detuvo por fin en un oscuro valle ensombrecido por los abetos y los tejos. El ni\u00f1o se dej\u00f3 caer y se tendi\u00f3 de cara contra el suelo, sin hacer nada y sin importarle lo que suceder\u00eda despu\u00e9s con tal de que lo dejaran tendido e inm\u00f3vil. Se sent\u00eda tan cansado que ni siquiera se daba cuenta de lo hambriento y sediento que estaba. El enano y la Bruja hablaban muy bajo junto a \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013No \u2013dec\u00eda el enano\u2013. No tiene sentido ahora, oh Reina. A estas alturas tienen que haber llegado a la Mesa de Piedra.\n\n\u2013A lo mejor el Lobo nos encuentra con su olfato y nos trae noticias \u2013dijo la Bruja.\n\n\u2013Si lo hace no ser\u00e1n buenas noticias \u2013replic\u00f3 el enano.\n\n\u2013Cuatro tronos en Cair Paravel \u2013dijo la Bruja\u2013. Y \u00bfqu\u00e9 tal si se llenaran s\u00f3lo tres de ellos? Eso no se ajustar\u00eda a la profec\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 diferencia puede suponer eso, ahora que _\u00e9l_ est\u00e1 aqu\u00ed? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 el enano, sin atreverse, ni siquiera ahora, a mencionar el nombre de Aslan ante su ama.\n\n\u2013Puede que \u00e9l no se quede aqu\u00ed por mucho tiempo. Entonces podr\u00edamos dejarnos caer sobre esos tres en Cair Paravel.\n\n\u2013A\u00fan puede ser mejor \u2013dijo el enano\u2013 mantener a \u00e9ste (aqu\u00ed dio un puntapi\u00e9 a Edmundo) y negociar.\n\n\u2013\u00a1S\u00ed!... Para que pronto lo rescaten \u2013dijo la Bruja, desde\u00f1osamente.\n\n\u2013Si es as\u00ed \u2013dijo el enano\u2013, ser\u00e1 mejor que hagamos de inmediato lo que tenemos que hacer.\n\n\u2013Yo preferir\u00eda hacerlo en la Mesa de Piedra \u2013dijo la Bruja\u2013. \u00c9se es el lugar adecuado y donde siempre se ha hecho.\n\n\u2013Pasar\u00e1 mucho tiempo antes de que la Mesa de Piedra pueda volver a cumplir sus funciones \u2013dijo el enano.\n\n\u2013Es cierto \u2013dijo la Bruja. Y agreg\u00f3\u2013: Bien. Comenzar\u00e9.\n\nEn ese momento, con gran prisa y en medio de fuertes aullidos, apareci\u00f3 un lobo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Los he visto! \u2013grit\u00f3\u2013. Est\u00e1n todos en la Mesa de Piedra con _\u00e9l_. Han matado a mi capit\u00e1n Maugrim. Yo estaba escondido en los arbustos y lo vi todo. Uno de los Hijos de Ad\u00e1n lo mat\u00f3. \u00a1Vuelen! \u00a1Vuelen!\n\n\u2013No \u2013dijo la Bruja\u2013. No hay necesidad de volar. Ve r\u00e1pido y convoca a toda mi gente para que venga a reunirse aqu\u00ed, conmigo, tan pronto como pueda. Llama a los gigantes, a los lobos, a los esp\u00edritus de los \u00e1rboles que est\u00e9n de nuestro lado. Llama a los Demonios, a los Ogros, a los Fantasmas y a los Minotauros. Llama a los Crueles, a los Hechiceros, a los Espectros y a la gente de los Hongos Venenosos. Pelearemos. \u00bfAcaso no tengo a\u00fan mi vara? \u00bfNo se convertir\u00e1n ellos en piedra en el momento en que se acerquen? Ve r\u00e1pido. Mientras tanto, yo tengo que terminar algo aqu\u00ed.\n\nEl inmenso bruto agach\u00f3 su cabeza y parti\u00f3 al galope.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ahora! \u2013dijo ella\u2013. No tenemos mesa..., d\u00e9jame ver... Ser\u00eda mejor colocarlo contra el tronco del \u00e1rbol.\n\nEdmundo se vio de pronto rudamente obligado a levantarse. Entonces, con la mayor celeridad, el enano lo hizo apoyarse en el tronco y lo amarr\u00f3. \u00c9l vio que la Bruja se quitaba su manto. Sus brazos estaban desnudos y horriblemente blancos. Y porque eran tan blancos, los pod\u00eda ver, aunque no pod\u00eda ver mucho m\u00e1s. Estaba todo tan oscuro en esa llanura, bajo los negros \u00e1rboles...\n\n\u2013Prepara a la v\u00edctima \u2013orden\u00f3 la Bruja.\n\nEl enano desaboton\u00f3 el cuello de la camisa de Edmundo, y lo abri\u00f3. Luego agarr\u00f3 al ni\u00f1o del cabello y le ech\u00f3 la cabeza hacia atr\u00e1s, de manera que tuvo que levantar el ment\u00f3n. Despu\u00e9s, Edmundo oy\u00f3 un extra\u00f1o ruido: _g\u00fcizz-g\u00fcizz-g\u00fcizz_. Por un momento no pudo imaginar qu\u00e9 era, pero de repente se dio cuenta: era el sonido de un cuchillo al ser afilado.\n\nEn ese preciso momento escuch\u00f3 fuertes gritos y ruidos que ven\u00edan de todas direcciones: un tamborileo de pisadas..., un batir de alas..., un grito de la Bruja..., una total confusi\u00f3n alrededor de \u00e9l.\n\nEntonces sinti\u00f3 que lo desataban y que unos fuertes brazos lo rodeaban. Oy\u00f3 voces compasivas y cari\u00f1osas:\n\n\u2013\u00a1D\u00e9jalo recostarse! Denle un poco de vino... \u2013dec\u00edan\u2013. Bebe..., estar\u00e1s bien en un minuto.\n\nActo seguido escuch\u00f3 voces que no se dirig\u00edan a \u00e9l, sino a otras personas.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQui\u00e9n captur\u00f3 a la Bruja?\n\n\u2013Yo cre\u00ed que t\u00fa la ten\u00edas.\n\n\u2013No la vi despu\u00e9s de que le arrebat\u00e9 el cuchillo de la mano.\n\n\u2013Yo estaba persiguiendo al enano...\n\n\u2013\u00a1No me digas que ella se nos escap\u00f3!\n\n\u2013Un muchacho no puede hacerlo todo al mismo tiempo... Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 es eso?... \u00a1Oh! Lo siento, es s\u00f3lo un viejo tronco.\n\nEdmundo se desmay\u00f3 en ese instante.\n\nEntonces centauros y unicornios, venados y p\u00e1jaros (eran parte del equipo de rescate enviado por Aslan en el cap\u00edtulo anterior), todos regresaron a la Mesa de Piedra llevando a Edmundo con ellos. Pero si hubieran visto lo que sucedi\u00f3 en el valle despu\u00e9s de que se alejaron, yo pienso que su sorpresa habr\u00eda sido enorme.\n\nTodo estaba muy quieto cuando asom\u00f3 una brillante luna. Si ustedes hubieran estado all\u00ed, habr\u00edan podido ver que la luz de la luna iluminaba un viejo tronco de \u00e1rbol y una enorme roca blanca. Pero si ustedes hubieran mirado detenidamente, poco a poco habr\u00edan comenzado a pensar que hab\u00eda algo muy extra\u00f1o en ambos, en la roca y en el tronco. Y en seguida habr\u00edan advertido que el tronco se parec\u00eda de manera notable a un hombre peque\u00f1o y gordo, agachado sobre la tierra. Y si hubieran permanecido ah\u00ed durante m\u00e1s tiempo todav\u00eda, habr\u00edan visto que el tronco caminaba hacia la roca, \u00e9sta se sentaba y ambos comenzaban a hablar, porque, en realidad, el tronco y la roca eran simplemente el enano y la Bruja. Parte de la magia de ella consist\u00eda en que pod\u00eda hacer que las cosas parecieran lo que no eran y tuvo la presencia de \u00e1nimo para recordar esa magia y aplicarla en el preciso momento en que le arrebataron el cuchillo de la mano. Ella tambi\u00e9n hab\u00eda logrado mantener su vara firmemente, de modo que ahora la guardaba a salvo.\n\nCuando los tres ni\u00f1os despertaron a la ma\u00f1ana siguiente (hab\u00edan dormido sobre un mont\u00f3n de cojines en el pabell\u00f3n), lo primero que oyeron \u2013la se\u00f1ora Castora se lo dijo\u2013 fue la noticia de que su hermano hab\u00eda sido rescatado y conducido al campamento durante la noche. En ese momento estaba con Aslan.\n\nInmediatamente despu\u00e9s de tomar el desayuno, los tres ni\u00f1os salieron. Vieron a Aslan y a Edmundo que caminaban juntos sobre el pasto lleno de roc\u00edo. Estaban separados del resto de la corte. No hay necesidad de contarles a ustedes qu\u00e9 le dijo Aslan a Edmundo (y nadie lo supo nunca), pero \u00e9sta fue una conversaci\u00f3n que el ni\u00f1o jam\u00e1s olvid\u00f3. Cuando los tres hermanos se acercaron, Aslan se dirigi\u00f3 hacia ellos llevando a Edmundo con \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013Aqu\u00ed est\u00e1 su hermano \u2013les dijo\u2013, y... no es necesario hablarle sobre lo que ha pasado.\n\nEdmundo les dio la mano a cada uno y les dijo:\n\n\u2013Lo siento mucho...\n\n\u2013Todo est\u00e1 bien \u2013respondieron. Y los tres quisieron entonces decir algo m\u00e1s para demostrar a Edmundo que volv\u00edan a ser amigos, algo sencillo y natural, pero a ninguno se le ocurri\u00f3 nada.\n\nAntes de que tuvieran tiempo de sentirse inc\u00f3modos, uno de los leopardos se acerc\u00f3 a Aslan y le dijo:\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1or, un mensajero del enemigo suplica que le des una audiencia.\n\n\u2013Deja que se aproxime \u2013dijo Aslan.\n\nEl leopardo se alej\u00f3 y volvi\u00f3 al instante seguido por el enano de la Bruja.\n\n\u2013\u00bfCu\u00e1l es tu mensaje, Hijo de la Tierra? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Aslan.\n\n\u2013La Reina de Narnia, Emperatriz de las Islas Solitarias, desea un salvoconducto para venir a hablar contigo \u2013dijo el enano\u2013. Se trata de un asunto de conveniencia tanto para ti como para ella.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Reina de Narnia! \u00a1Seguro! \u2013exclam\u00f3 el Castor\u2013. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 descaro!\n\n\u2013Tranquilo, Castor \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. Todos los nombres ser\u00e1n devueltos muy pronto a sus verdaderos due\u00f1os. Entretanto no queremos disputas... Dile a tu ama, Hijo de la Tierra, que le garantizo su salvoconducto, con la condici\u00f3n de que deje su vara tras ella, junto al gran roble.\n\nEl enano acept\u00f3. Dos leopardos lo acompa\u00f1aron en su regreso para asegurarse de que se cumpliera el compromiso.\n\n\u2013Pero _\u00bfy_ si ella transforma a los leopardos en estatuas? \u2013susurr\u00f3 Luc\u00eda al o\u00eddo de Pedro.\n\nCreo que la misma idea se les hab\u00eda ocurrido a los leopardos; mientras se alejaban, en todo momento la piel de sus lomos permaneci\u00f3 erizada, como tambi\u00e9n sus colas..., igual que cuando un gato ve un perro extra\u00f1o.\n\n\u2013Todo ir\u00e1 bien \u2013murmur\u00f3 Pedro\u2013. Aslan no los hubiera enviado si no fuera as\u00ed.\n\nPocos minutos m\u00e1s tarde la Bruja en persona subi\u00f3 a la cima de la colina. Se dirigi\u00f3 derechamente a Aslan y se qued\u00f3 frente a \u00e9l. Los tres ni\u00f1os, que nunca la hab\u00edan visto, sintieron que un escalofr\u00edo les recorr\u00eda la espalda cuando miraron su rostro. Se produjo un sordo gru\u00f1ido entre los animales. Y, a pesar de que el sol resplandec\u00eda, repentinamente todos se sintieron helados.\n\nLos dos \u00fanicos que parec\u00edan estar tranquilos y c\u00f3modos eran Aslan y la Bruja. Resultaba muy curioso ver esas dos caras \u2013una dorada y otra p\u00e1lida como la muerte\u2013 tan cerca una de la otra. Pero la Bruja no miraba a Aslan exactamente a los ojos. La se\u00f1ora Castora puso especial atenci\u00f3n en ello.\n\n\u2013Tienes un traidor aqu\u00ed, Aslan \u2013dijo la Bruja.\n\nPor supuesto, todos comprendieron que ella se refer\u00eda a Edmundo. Pero \u00e9ste, despu\u00e9s de todo lo que le hab\u00eda pasado y especialmente despu\u00e9s de la conversaci\u00f3n de la ma\u00f1ana, hab\u00eda dejado de preocuparse de s\u00ed mismo. S\u00f3lo mir\u00f3 a Aslan sin que pareciera importarle lo que la Bruja dijera.\n\n\u2013Bueno \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013, su ofensa no fue contra ti.\n\n\u2013\u00bfTe has olvidado de la Magia Profunda? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 la Bruja.\n\n\u2013Digamos que la he olvidado \u2013contest\u00f3 Aslan gravemente\u2013. Cu\u00e9ntanos acerca de esta Magia Profunda.\n\n\u2013\u00bfContarte a ti? \u2013grit\u00f3 la Bruja, con un tono que repentinamente se hizo m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s chill\u00f3n\u2013. \u00bfContarte lo que est\u00e1 escrito en la Mesa de Piedra que est\u00e1 a tu lado? \u00bfContarte lo que, con una lanza, qued\u00f3 grabado en el tronco del Fresno del Mundo? \u00bfContarte lo que se lee en el cetro del Emperador-de-M\u00e1s-All\u00e1-del-Mar? Al menos t\u00fa conoces la magia que el Emperador estableci\u00f3 en Narnia desde el comienzo mismo. T\u00fa sabes que todo traidor me pertenece; que, por ley, es mi presa, y que por cada traici\u00f3n tengo derecho a matar.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u2013dijo el Castor\u2013, as\u00ed es que eso fue lo que la llev\u00f3 a imaginarse que era Reina..., porque usted era el verdugo del Emperador. Ya veo...\n\n\u2013Tranquilo, Castor \u2013dijo Aslan, con un gru\u00f1ido muy suave.\n\n\u2013Por lo tanto \u2013continu\u00f3 la Bruja\u2013, esa criatura humana es m\u00eda. Su vida est\u00e1 en prenda y me pertenece. Su sangre es m\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ven y ll\u00e9vatela, entonces! \u2013dijo el Toro con cabeza de hombre, en un gran bramido.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Tonto! \u2013dijo la Bruja, con una sonrisa salvaje, que casi parec\u00eda un gru\u00f1ido\u2013. \u00bfCrees realmente que tu amo puede despojarme de mis derechos por la sola fuerza? \u00c9l conoce la Magia Profunda mejor que eso. Sabe que, a menos que yo tenga esa sangre, como dice la Ley, toda Narnia ser\u00e1 destruida y perecer\u00e1 en fuego y agua.\n\n\u2013Es muy cierto \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. No lo niego.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ay, Aslan! \u2013susurr\u00f3 Susana al o\u00eddo del Le\u00f3n\u2013. No podemos... Quiero decir, usted no lo har\u00eda, \u00bfverdad? \u00bfPodr\u00edamos hacer algo con la Magia Profunda? \u00bfNo hay algo que usted pueda hacer contra esa Magia?\n\n\u2013\u00bfTrabajar contra la magia del Emperador? \u2013dijo Aslan, volvi\u00e9ndose hacia ella con el ce\u00f1o fruncido.\n\nNadie volvi\u00f3 a sugerir nada semejante.\n\nEdmundo se encontraba al otro lado de Aslan y le miraba siempre a la cara. Se sent\u00eda sofocado y se preguntaba si deb\u00eda decir algo. Pero un instante despu\u00e9s tuvo la certeza de que no deb\u00eda hacer nada, excepto esperar y actuar de acuerdo con lo que le hab\u00edan dicho.\n\n\u2013Vayan atr\u00e1s, todos ustedes \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. Quiero hablar con la Bruja a solas.\n\nTodos obedecieron. Fueron momentos terribles..., esperaban y, a la vez, ten\u00edan ansias de saber qu\u00e9 estaba pasando. Mientras tanto, la Bruja y el Le\u00f3n hablaban con gran seriedad y en voz muy baja.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, Edmundo! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Luc\u00eda y empez\u00f3 a llorar.\n\nPedro se qued\u00f3 de pie dando la espalda a los dem\u00e1s y mirando el mar en la lejan\u00eda. Los castores permanecieron apoyados en sus garras, con las cabezas gachas. Los centauros, inquietos, rascaban el suelo con las pezu\u00f1as. Al fin todos se quedaron tan inm\u00f3viles que pod\u00edan escucharse aun los sonidos m\u00e1s leves, como el zumbido de una abeja que pas\u00f3 volando, o los p\u00e1jaros all\u00e1 abajo, en el bosque, o el viento que mov\u00eda suavemente las hojas. La conversaci\u00f3n entre Aslan y la Bruja continuaba todav\u00eda...\n\nPor fin se escuch\u00f3 la voz de Aslan.\n\n\u2013Pueden volver \u2013dijo\u2013. He arreglado este asunto. Ella renuncia a reclamar la sangre de Edmundo.\n\nEn la cumbre de la colina se escuch\u00f3 un ruido como si todos hubieran estado con la respiraci\u00f3n contenida y ahora comenzaran a respirar nuevamente, y luego el murmullo de una conversaci\u00f3n. Los presentes empezaron a acercarse al trono de Aslan.\n\nLa Bruja ya se daba la vuelta para alejarse de all\u00ed con una expresi\u00f3n de feroz alegr\u00eda en el rostro, cuando de pronto se detuvo y dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00bfC\u00f3mo sabr\u00e9 que la promesa ser\u00e1 cumplida?\n\n_\u2013\u00a1Grrrr!_ \u2013gru\u00f1\u00f3 Aslan, levant\u00e1ndose de su trono. Su boca se abri\u00f3 m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s grande y el gru\u00f1ido creci\u00f3 y creci\u00f3.\n\nLa Bruja, despu\u00e9s de mirarlo por un instante con sus labios entreabiertos, recogi\u00f3 sus largas faldas y corri\u00f3 para salvar su vida.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 14\n\n## EL TRIUNFO DE LA BRUJA\n\nEN CUANTO LA BRUJA SE ALEJ\u00d3, ASLAN dijo:\n\n\u2013Debemos dejar este lugar de inmediato porque ser\u00e1 ocupado en otros asuntos. Esta noche tendremos que acampar en los Vados de Beruna.\n\nPor supuesto, todos se mor\u00edan por preguntarle c\u00f3mo hab\u00eda arreglado las cosas con la Bruja; pero el rostro de Aslan se ve\u00eda muy severo y en todos los o\u00eddos a\u00fan resonaba su rugido, de manera que nadie se atrevi\u00f3 a preguntar nada.\n\nDespu\u00e9s de un almuerzo al aire libre, en la cumbre de la colina (el sol era ya muy fuerte y secaba el pasto), bajaron la bandera y se preocuparon de empacar sus cosas. Antes de las dos ya marchaban en direcci\u00f3n noreste. Iban a paso lento, pues no ten\u00edan que llegar muy lejos.\n\nDurante la primera parte del viaje, Aslan explic\u00f3 a Pedro su plan de campa\u00f1a.\n\n\u2013En cuanto termine lo que tiene que hacer en estos lugares \u2013dijo\u2013, es casi seguro que la Bruja, con su banda, regresar\u00e1 a su casa y se preparar\u00e1 para el asedio. Ustedes pueden ser o no ser capaces de atajarla y de impedir que ella alcance sus prop\u00f3sitos.\n\nLuego el Le\u00f3n traz\u00f3 dos planes de batalla: uno para luchar con la Bruja y sus partidarios en el bosque y otro para asaltar su castillo. Pero, a la vez, continuamente aconsejaba a Pedro acerca de la forma de conducir las operaciones con frases como \u00e9stas: \"Tienes que situar a los centauros en tal y tal lugar\" o \"Debes disponer vig\u00edas para observar que ella no haga tal cosa\", hasta que por fin Pedro dijo:\n\n\u2013Usted estar\u00e1 ah\u00ed con nosotros, Aslan, \u00bfverdad?\n\n\u2013No puedo prometer nada al respecto \u2013contest\u00f3 el Le\u00f3n, y continu\u00f3 con sus instrucciones.\n\nEn la \u00faltima parte del viaje, Luc\u00eda y Susana fueron las que estuvieron m\u00e1s cerca de \u00e9l. Aslan no habl\u00f3 mucho y a ellas les pareci\u00f3 que estaba triste.\n\nLa tarde no hab\u00eda concluido a\u00fan cuando llegaron a un lugar donde el valle se ensanchaba y el r\u00edo era poco profundo. Eran los Vados de Beruna. Aslan orden\u00f3 detenerse antes de cruzar el agua, pero Pedro dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo ser\u00eda mejor acampar en el lado m\u00e1s alejado?... Ella puede intentar un ataque nocturno o cualquier otra cosa.\n\nAslan, que parec\u00eda pensar en algo muy diferente, se levant\u00f3 y, sacudiendo su magn\u00edfica melena, pregunt\u00f3:\n\n\u2013\u00bfEh? \u00bfQu\u00e9 dijiste?\n\nPedro repiti\u00f3 todo de nuevo.\n\n\u2013No \u2013dijo Aslan con voz apagada, como si se tratara de algo sin importancia\u2013. No. Ella no atacar\u00e1 esta noche. \u2013Entonces suspir\u00f3 profundamente y agreg\u00f3\u2013: De todos modos, pensaste bien. \u00c9sa es la manera en la que un soldado debe pensar. Pero eso no importa ahora, realmente.\n\nEntonces procedieron a instalar el campamento.\n\nLa melancol\u00eda de Aslan los afect\u00f3 a todos aquella tarde. Pedro se sent\u00eda inquieto tambi\u00e9n ante la idea de librar la batalla bajo su propia responsabilidad. La noticia de la posible ausencia de Aslan lo alter\u00f3 profundamente.\n\nLa cena de esa noche fue silenciosa. Todos advirtieron cu\u00e1n diferente hab\u00eda sido la de la noche anterior o incluso el almuerzo de esa ma\u00f1ana. Era como si los buenos tiempos, que reci\u00e9n hab\u00edan comenzado, estuvieran llegando a su fin.\n\nEstos sentimientos afectaron a Susana de tal forma que no pudo conciliar el sue\u00f1o cuando se fue a acostar. Despu\u00e9s de estar tendida contando ovejas y d\u00e1ndose vueltas una y otra vez, oy\u00f3 que Luc\u00eda suspiraba largamente y se acercaba a ella en la oscuridad.\n\n\u2013\u00bfTampoco t\u00fa puedes dormir? \u2013le pregunt\u00f3.\n\n\u2013No \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Pensaba que t\u00fa estabas dormida. \u00bfSabes...?\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9?\n\n\u2013Tengo un presentimiento horroroso..., como si algo estuviera suspendido sobre nosotros...\n\n\u2013A m\u00ed me pasa lo mismo...\n\n\u2013Es sobre Aslan \u2013continu\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Algo horrible le va a suceder, o \u00e9l va a tener que hacer una cosa terrible.\n\n\u2013A \u00e9l le sucede algo malo. Toda la tarde ha estado raro \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Luc\u00eda, \u00bfqu\u00e9 fue lo que dijo sobre no estar con nosotros en la batalla? \u00bfT\u00fa crees que se puede escabullir y dejarnos esta noche?\n\n\u2013\u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1 ahora? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00bfEst\u00e1 en el pabell\u00f3n?\n\n\u2013No creo.\n\n\u2013Susana, vamos afuera y miremos alrededor. Puede que lo veamos.\n\n\u2013Est\u00e1 bien. Es lo mejor que podemos hacer en lugar de seguir aqu\u00ed tendidas y despiertas.\n\nEn silencio y a tientas, las dos ni\u00f1as caminaron entre los dem\u00e1s que estaban dormidos y se deslizaron fuera del pabell\u00f3n. La luz de la luna era brillante y todo estaba en absoluto silencio, excepto el r\u00edo que murmuraba sobre las piedras. De repente Susana cogi\u00f3 el brazo de Luc\u00eda y le dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Mira!\n\nAl otro lado del campamento, donde comenzaban los \u00e1rboles, vieron al Le\u00f3n: caminaba muy despacio y se alejaba de ellos intern\u00e1ndose en el bosque. Sin decir una palabra, ambas lo siguieron.\n\nTras \u00e9l, las ni\u00f1as subieron una empinada pendiente, fuera del valle del r\u00edo, y luego torcieron ligeramente a la derecha..., aparentemente por la misma ruta que hab\u00edan utilizado esa tarde en la marcha desde la colina de la Mesa de Piedra. Una y otra vez \u00e9l las hizo internarse entre oscuras sombras para volver luego a la p\u00e1lida luz de la luna, mientras un espeso roc\u00edo mojaba sus pies. De alguna manera \u00e9l se ve\u00eda diferente del Aslan que ellas conoc\u00edan. Su cabeza y su cola estaban inclinadas y su paso era lento, como si estuviera muy, muy cansado. Entonces, cuando atravesaban un amplio claro en el que no hab\u00eda sombras que permitieran esconderse, se detuvo y mir\u00f3 a su alrededor. No hab\u00eda una buena raz\u00f3n para huir, as\u00ed es que las dos ni\u00f1as fueron hacia \u00e9l. Cuando se acercaron, Aslan les dijo:\n\n\u2013Ni\u00f1as, ni\u00f1as, \u00bfpor qu\u00e9 me siguen?\n\n\u2013No pod\u00edamos dormir \u2013le dijo Luc\u00eda, y tuvo la certeza de que no necesitaba decir nada m\u00e1s y que Aslan sab\u00eda lo que ellas pensaban.\n\n\u2013Por favor, \u00bfpodemos ir con usted, dondequiera que vaya? \u2013rog\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013Bueno... \u2013dijo Aslan, mientras parec\u00eda reflexionar. Entonces agreg\u00f3\u2013: Me gustar\u00eda mucho tener compa\u00f1\u00eda esta noche. S\u00ed; pueden venir si me prometen detenerse cuando yo se lo diga y, despu\u00e9s, dejarme continuar solo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u00a1Gracias, gracias! Se lo prometemos \u2013dijeron las dos ni\u00f1as.\n\nSiguieron adelante, cada una a un lado del Le\u00f3n. Pero \u00a1qu\u00e9 lento era su caminar! Llevaba su gran y real cabeza tan inclinada que su nariz casi tocaba el pasto. Incluso tropez\u00f3 y emiti\u00f3 un fuerte quejido.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Aslan! \u00a1Querido Aslan! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00bfQu\u00e9 pasa? \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 no nos cuenta lo que sucede?\n\n\u2013\u00bfEst\u00e1 enfermo, querido Aslan? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana.\n\n\u2013No \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. Estoy triste y abatido. Pongan las manos en mi melena para que pueda sentir que est\u00e1n cerca de m\u00ed y caminemos.\n\nEntonces las ni\u00f1as hicieron lo que jam\u00e1s se habr\u00edan atrevido a hacer sin su permiso, pero que anhelaban desde que lo conocieron: hundieron sus manos fr\u00edas en ese hermoso mar de pelo y lo acariciaron suavemente; as\u00ed, continuaron la marcha junto a \u00e9l. Momentos despu\u00e9s advirtieron que sub\u00edan la ladera de la colina en la cual estaba la Mesa de Piedra. Iban por el lado en el que los \u00e1rboles estaban cada vez m\u00e1s separados a medida que se ascend\u00eda. Cuando estuvieron junto al \u00faltimo \u00e1rbol (era uno a cuyo alrededor crec\u00edan algunos arbustos), Aslan se detuvo y dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh ni\u00f1as, ni\u00f1as! Aqu\u00ed deben quedarse. Pase lo que pase, no se dejen ver. Adi\u00f3s.\n\nLas dos ni\u00f1as lloraron amargamente (sin saber en realidad por qu\u00e9), abrazaron al Le\u00f3n y besaron su melena, su nariz, sus manos y sus grandes ojos tristes. Luego \u00e9l se alej\u00f3 de ellas y subi\u00f3 a la cima de la colina. Luc\u00eda y Susana se escondieron detr\u00e1s de los arbustos, y esto fue lo que vieron.\n\nUna gran multitud rodeaba la Mesa de Piedra y, aunque la luna resplandec\u00eda, muchos de los que all\u00ed estaban sosten\u00edan antorchas que ard\u00edan con llamas rojas y demon\u00edacas y desped\u00edan humo negro.\n\nPero \u00a1qu\u00e9 clase de gente hab\u00eda all\u00ed! Ogros con dientes monstruosos, lobos, hombres con cabezas de toro, esp\u00edritus de \u00e1rboles malvados y de plantas venenosas y otras criaturas que no voy a describir porque, si lo hiciera, probablemente los adultos no permitir\u00edan que ustedes leyeran este libro... Eran sanguinarias, aterradoras, demon\u00edacas, fantasmales, horrendas, espectrales.\n\nEn efecto, ah\u00ed se encontraban reunidos todos los que estaban de parte de la Bruja, aquellos que el Lobo hab\u00eda convocado obedeciendo la orden dada por ella. Justo al centro, de pie cerca de la Mesa, estaba la Bruja en persona.\n\nUn aullido y una algarab\u00eda espantosa surgieron de la multitud cuando aquellos horribles seres vieron que el Le\u00f3n avanzaba paso a paso hacia ellos. Por un momento, la misma Bruja pareci\u00f3 paralizada por el miedo. Pronto se recobr\u00f3 y lanz\u00f3 una carcajada salvaje.\n\n\u2013\u00a1El idiota! \u2013grit\u00f3\u2013. \u00a1El idiota ha venido! \u00a1\u00c1tenlo de inmediato!\n\nSusana y Luc\u00eda, sin respirar, esperaron el rugido de Aslan y su salto para atacar a sus enemigos. Pero nada de eso se produjo. Cuatro hechiceras, con horribles muecas y miradas salvajes, aunque tambi\u00e9n (al principio) vacilantes y algo asustadas de lo que deb\u00edan hacer, se aproximaron a \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013\u00a1\u00c1tenlo, les digo! \u2013repiti\u00f3 la Bruja.\n\nLas hechiceras le arrojaron un dardo y chillaron triunfantes al ver que no opon\u00eda resistencia. Luego otros \u2013enanos y monos malvados\u2013 corrieron a ayudarlas, y entre todos enrollaron una cuerda alrededor del inmenso Le\u00f3n y amarraron sus cuatro patas juntas. Gritaban y aplaud\u00edan como si hubieran realizado un acto de valent\u00eda, aunque con s\u00f3lo una de sus garras el Le\u00f3n podr\u00eda haberlos matado a todos si lo hubiera querido. Pero no hizo ni un solo ruido, ni siquiera cuando los enemigos, con terrible violencia, tiraron de las cuerdas en tal forma que \u00e9stas penetraron su carne. Por \u00faltimo comenzaron a arrastrarlo hacia la Mesa de Piedra.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Alto! \u2013dijo la Bruja\u2013. \u00a1Que se le corte el pelo primero!\n\nOtro coro de risas malvadas surgi\u00f3 de la multitud cuando un ogro se acerc\u00f3 con un par de tijeras y se agach\u00f3 al lado de la cabeza de Aslan. _Snip-Snip-Snip_ sonaron las tijeras y los rizos dorados comenzaron a caer y a amontonarse en el suelo. El ogro se ech\u00f3 hacia atr\u00e1s, y las ni\u00f1as, que observaban desde su escondite, pudieron ver la cara de Aslan, tan peque\u00f1a y diferente sin su melena. Los enemigos tambi\u00e9n se percataron de la diferencia.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Miren, no es m\u00e1s que un gato grande, despu\u00e9s de todo! \u2013grit\u00f3 uno.\n\n\u2013\u00bfDe _eso_ est\u00e1bamos asustados? \u2013dijo otro.\n\nY todos rodearon a Aslan y se burlaron de \u00e9l con frases como \"Misu, misu. Pobre gatita\", \"\u00bfCu\u00e1ntos ratones cazaste hoy, gato?\" o \"\u00bfQuieres un platito de leche?\".\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u00bfC\u00f3mo pueden? \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda mientras las l\u00e1grimas corr\u00edan por sus mejillas\u2013. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 salvajes, qu\u00e9 salvajes!\n\nPero ahora que el primer impacto ante su vista estaba superado, la cara desnuda de Aslan le pareci\u00f3 m\u00e1s valiente, m\u00e1s bella y m\u00e1s paciente que nunca.\n\n\u2013\u00a1P\u00f3nganle un bozal! \u2013orden\u00f3 la Bruja.\n\nIncluso en ese momento, mientras ellos se afanaban junto a su cara para ponerle el bozal, un mordisco de sus mand\u00edbulas les hubiera costado las manos a dos o tres de ellos. Pero no se movi\u00f3. Esto pareci\u00f3 enfurecer a esa chusma. Ahora todos estaban frente a \u00e9l. Aquellos que ten\u00edan miedo de acercarse, aun despu\u00e9s de que el Le\u00f3n qued\u00f3 limitado por las cuerdas que lo ataban, comenzaron ahora a envalentonarse y en pocos minutos las ni\u00f1as ya no pudieron verlo siquiera. Una inmensa muchedumbre lo rodeaba estrechamente y lo pateaba, lo golpeaba, le escup\u00eda y se mofaba de \u00e9l.\n\nPor fin, la chusma pens\u00f3 que ya era suficiente. Entonces volvieron a arrastrarlo amarrado y amordazado hasta la Mesa de Piedra. Unos empujaban y otros tiraban. Era tan inmenso que, despu\u00e9s de haber llegado hasta la Mesa, tuvieron que emplear todas sus fuerzas para alzarlo y colocarlo sobre la superficie. All\u00ed hubo m\u00e1s amarras y las cuerdas se apretaron ferozmente.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Cobardes! \u00a1Cobardes! \u2013solloz\u00f3 Susana\u2013. \u00a1Todav\u00eda le tienen miedo, incluso ahora!\n\nUna vez que Aslan estuvo atado (y tan atado que realmente estaba convertido en una masa de cuerdas) sobre la piedra, un s\u00fabito silencio rein\u00f3 entre la multitud. Cuatro hechiceras, sosteniendo cuatro antorchas, se instalaron en las esquinas de la Mesa. La Bruja desnud\u00f3 sus brazos, tal como los hab\u00eda desnudado la noche anterior ante Edmundo en lugar de Aslan. Luego procedi\u00f3 a afilar su cuchillo. Cuando la tenue luz de las antorchas cay\u00f3 sobre \u00e9ste, las ni\u00f1as pensaron que era un cuchillo de piedra en vez de acero. Su forma era extra\u00f1a y diab\u00f3lica.\n\nFinalmente, ella se acerc\u00f3 y se situ\u00f3 junto a la cabeza de Aslan. La cara de la Bruja estaba crispada de furor y de pasi\u00f3n; Aslan miraba el cielo, siempre quieto, sin demostrar enojo ni miedo, sino tan s\u00f3lo un poco de tristeza. Entonces, unos momentos antes de asestar la estocada final, la Bruja se detuvo y dijo con voz temblorosa:\n\n\u2013Y ahora \u00bfqui\u00e9n gan\u00f3? Idiota, \u00bfpensaste que con esto t\u00fa salvar\u00edas a ese humano traidor? Ahora te matar\u00e9 a ti en lugar de a \u00e9l, como lo pactamos, y as\u00ed la Magia Profunda se apaciguar\u00e1. Pero cuando t\u00fa hayas muerto, \u00bfqu\u00e9 me impedir\u00e1 matarlo tambi\u00e9n a \u00e9l? \u00bfQui\u00e9n podr\u00e1 arrebatarlo de mis manos entonces? T\u00fa me has entregado Narnia para siempre. Has perdido tu propia vida y no has salvado la de \u00e9l. Ahora que ya sabes esto, \u00a1desesp\u00e9rate y muere!\n\nLas dos ni\u00f1as no vieron el momento preciso de la muerte. No pod\u00edan soportar esa visi\u00f3n y cubrieron sus ojos.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 15\n\n## MAGIA PROFUNDA ANTERIOR AL AMANECER DEL TIEMPO\n\nLAS NI\u00d1AS A\u00daN PERMANEC\u00cdAN escondidas entre los arbustos, con las manos en la cara, cuando escucharon la voz de la Bruja que llamaba:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ahora! \u00a1S\u00edganme! Emprenderemos las \u00faltimas batallas de esta guerra. No nos costar\u00e1 mucho aplastar a esos insectos humanos y al traidor, ahora que el gran Idiota, el gran Gato, yace muerto.\n\nEn ese momento, y por unos pocos segundos, las ni\u00f1as estuvieron en gran peligro. Toda esa vil multitud, con gritos salvajes y un ruido enloquecedor de trompetas y cuernos que sonaban chillones y penetrantes, march\u00f3 desde la cima de la colina y baj\u00f3 la ladera justo por el lado de su escondite.\n\nLas ni\u00f1as sintieron a los Espectros que, como viento helado, pasaban muy cerca de ellas; tambi\u00e9n sintieron que la tierra temblaba bajo el galope de los Minotauros. Sobre sus cabezas se agitaron, como en una r\u00e1faga de alas asquerosas, buitres muy negros y murci\u00e9lagos gigantes. En cualquier otra ocasi\u00f3n ellas habr\u00edan muerto de miedo, pero ahora la tristeza, la verg\u00fcenza y el horror de la muerte de Aslan invad\u00edan sus mentes de tal modo que dif\u00edcilmente pod\u00edan pensar en otra cosa.\n\nApenas el bosque estuvo de nuevo en silencio, Susana y Luc\u00eda se deslizaron hacia la colina. La luna alumbraba cada vez menos y ligeras nubes pasaban sobre ellas, pero a\u00fan las ni\u00f1as pudieron ver los contornos del gran Le\u00f3n muerto con todas sus ataduras. Ambas se arrodillaron sobre el pasto h\u00famedo, y besaron su cara helada y su linda piel \u2013lo que quedaba de ella\u2013 y lloraron hasta que las l\u00e1grimas se les agotaron. Entonces se miraron, se tomaron de las manos en un gesto de profunda soledad y lloraron nuevamente. Otra vez se hizo presente el silencio. Al fin Luc\u00eda dijo:\n\n\u2013No soporto mirar ese horrible bozal. \u00bfPodremos quit\u00e1rselo?\n\nTrataron. Despu\u00e9s de mucho esfuerzo (porque sus manos estaban heladas y era ya la hora m\u00e1s oscura de la noche) lo lograron. Cuando vieron su cara sin las amarras, estallaron otra vez en llanto. Lo besaron, le limpiaron la sangre y los espumarajos lo mejor que pudieron. Todo fue mucho m\u00e1s horrible, solitario y sin esperanza, de lo que yo pueda describir.\n\n\u2013\u00bfPodremos desatarlo tambi\u00e9n? \u2013dijo Susana.\n\nPero los enemigos, llevados s\u00f3lo por su feroz maldad, hab\u00edan amarrado las cuerdas tan apretadamente que las ni\u00f1as no lograron deshacer los nudos.\n\nEspero que ninguno que lea este libro haya sido tan desdichado como lo eran Luc\u00eda y Susana esa noche; pero si ustedes lo han sido \u2013si han estado levantados toda una noche y llorado hasta agotar las l\u00e1grimas\u2013, ustedes sabr\u00e1n que al final sobreviene una cierta quietud. Uno siente como si nada fuera a suceder nunca m\u00e1s. De cualquier modo, \u00e9se era el sentimiento de las dos ni\u00f1as. Parec\u00eda que pasaban las horas en esa calma mortal sin que se dieran cuenta de que estaban cada vez m\u00e1s heladas. Pero, finalmente, Luc\u00eda advirti\u00f3 dos cosas. La primera fue que hacia el lado este de la colina estaba un poco menos oscuro que una hora antes. Y lo segundo fue un suave movimiento que hab\u00eda en el pasto a sus pies. Al comienzo no le prest\u00f3 mayor atenci\u00f3n. \u00bfQu\u00e9 importaba? \u00a1Nada importaba ya! Pero pronto vio que eso, fuese lo que fuese, comenzaba a subir a la Mesa de Piedra. Y ahora \u2013fuesen lo que fuesen\u2013 se mov\u00edan cerca del cuerpo de Aslan. Se acerc\u00f3 y mir\u00f3 con atenci\u00f3n. Eran unas peque\u00f1as criaturitas grises.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Uf! \u2013grit\u00f3 Susana desde el otro lado de la Mesa\u2013. Son ratones asquerosos que se arrastran sobre \u00e9l. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 horror!\n\nY levant\u00f3 la mano para espantarlos.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Espera! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, que los miraba fijamente y de m\u00e1s cerca\u2013. \u00bfVes lo que est\u00e1n haciendo?\n\nAmbas se inclinaron y miraron con atenci\u00f3n.\n\n\u2013\u00a1No lo puedo creer! \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. \u00a1Qu\u00e9 extra\u00f1o! \u00a1Est\u00e1n royendo las cuerdas!\n\n\u2013Eso fue lo que pens\u00e9 \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. Creo que son ratones amigos. Pobres peque\u00f1itos..., no se dan cuenta de que est\u00e1 muerto. Ellos piensan que hacen algo bueno al desatarlo.\n\nEstaba mucho m\u00e1s claro ya. Las ni\u00f1as advirtieron entonces cu\u00e1n p\u00e1lidos se ve\u00edan sus rostros. Tambi\u00e9n pudieron ver que los ratones ro\u00edan y ro\u00edan; eran docenas y docenas, quiz\u00e1s cientos de peque\u00f1os ratones silvestres. Al fin, uno por uno todos los cordeles estaban ro\u00eddos de principio a fin.\n\nHacia el este, el cielo aclaraba y las estrellas se apagaban... todas, excepto una muy grande y muy baja en el horizonte, al oriente. En ese momento ellas sintieron m\u00e1s fr\u00edo que en toda la noche. Los ratones se alejaron sin hacer ruido, y Susana y Luc\u00eda retiraron los restos de las cuerdas.\n\nSin las ataduras, Aslan parec\u00eda m\u00e1s \u00e9l mismo. Cada minuto que pasaba, su rostro se ve\u00eda m\u00e1s noble y, como la luz del d\u00eda aumentaba, las ni\u00f1as pudieron observarlo mejor.\n\nTras ellas, en el bosque, un p\u00e1jaro gorje\u00f3. El silencio hab\u00eda sido tan absoluto por horas y horas, que ese sonido las sorprendi\u00f3. De inmediato otro p\u00e1jaro contest\u00f3 y muy pronto hubo cantos y trinos por todas partes.\n\nDefinitivamente era de madrugada; la noche hab\u00eda quedado atr\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Tengo tanto fr\u00edo \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Yo tambi\u00e9n \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Caminemos un poco.\n\nCaminaron hacia el lado este de la colina y miraron hacia abajo. La gran estrella casi hab\u00eda desaparecido. Todo el campo se ve\u00eda gris oscuro, pero m\u00e1s all\u00e1, en el mismo fin del mundo, el mar se mostraba p\u00e1lido. El cielo comenz\u00f3 a te\u00f1irse de rojo. Para evitar el fr\u00edo, las ni\u00f1as caminaron de un lado para otro, entre el lugar donde yac\u00eda Aslan y el lado oriental de la cumbre de la colina, m\u00e1s veces de lo que pudieron contar. Pero \u00a1oh, qu\u00e9 cansadas sent\u00edan las piernas!\n\nSe detuvieron por unos instantes y miraron hacia el mar y hacia Cair Paravel (que reci\u00e9n ahora pod\u00edan descubrir). Poco a poco el rojo del cielo se transform\u00f3 en dorado a todo lo largo de la l\u00ednea en la que el cielo y el mar se encuentran, y muy lentamente asom\u00f3 el borde del sol. En ese momento las ni\u00f1as escucharon tras ellas un ruido estrepitoso..., un gran estallido..., un sonido ensordecedor, como si un gigante hubiera roto un vidrio gigante.\n\n\u2013\u00bfQu\u00e9 fue eso? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, apretando el brazo de su hermana.\n\n\u2013Me da miedo darme la vuelta \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Algo horrible sucede.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Est\u00e1n haci\u00e9ndole algo todav\u00eda peor a _\u00e9l_ \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda\u2013. \u00a1Vamos!\n\nSe dio la vuelta y arrastr\u00f3 a Susana con ella.\n\nTodo se ve\u00eda tan diferente con la salida del sol \u2013los colores y las sombras hab\u00edan cambiado\u2013, que por un momento no vieron lo que era importante. Pero pronto, s\u00ed: la Mesa de Piedra estaba partida en dos; una gran hendidura la cruzaba de un extremo a otro. Y all\u00ed no estaba Aslan.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, oh! \u2013gritaron las dos ni\u00f1as, corriendo velozmente hacia la Mesa.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Esto es demasiado malo! \u2013solloz\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. No debieron haberse llevado el cuerpo...\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfqui\u00e9n hizo esto? \u2013llor\u00f3 Susana\u2013. \u00bfQu\u00e9 significa? \u00bfSer\u00e1 magia otra vez?\n\n\u2013S\u00ed \u2013dijo una voz fuerte a sus espaldas\u2013. Es m\u00e1s magia.\n\nSe dieron la vuelta. Ah\u00ed, brillando al sol, m\u00e1s grande que nunca y agitando su melena (que aparentemente hab\u00eda vuelto a crecer), estaba Aslan en persona.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh Aslan! \u2013gritaron las dos ni\u00f1as, mirandolo con ojos dilatados de asombro y casi tan asustadas como contentas.\n\n\u2013Entonces no est\u00e1 muerto, querido Aslan \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013Ahora no.\n\n\u2013No es... no es un... \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana con voz vacilante, sin atreverse a pronunciar la palabra _fantssna_.\n\nAslan inclin\u00f3 la cabeza y con su lengua acarici\u00f3 la frente de la ni\u00f1a. El calor de su aliento y un agradable olor que parec\u00eda desprenderse de su pelo, la invadieron.\n\n\u2013\u00bfLo parezco? \u2013pregunt\u00f3.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Es real! \u00a1Es real! \u00a1Oh Aslan! \u2013grit\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, y ambas ni\u00f1as se abalanzaron sobre \u00e9l y lo besaron.\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfqu\u00e9 quiere decir todo esto? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Susana cuando se calmaron un poco.\n\n\u2013Quiere decir \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013 que, a pesar de que la Bruja conoc\u00eda la Magia Profunda, hay una magia m\u00e1s profunda a\u00fan que ella no conoce. Su saber se remonta s\u00f3lo hasta el amanecer del tiempo. Pero si a ella le hubiera sido posible mirar m\u00e1s hacia atr\u00e1s, en la oscuridad y la quietud, antes de que el tiempo amaneciera, hubiese podido leer all\u00ed un encantamiento diferente. Y habr\u00eda sabido que cuando una v\u00edctima voluntaria, que no ha cometido traici\u00f3n, es ejecutada en lugar de un traidor, la Mesa se quiebra y la muerte misma comienza a trabajar hacia atr\u00e1s. Y ahora...\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, s\u00ed!, \u00bfahora? \u2013exclam\u00f3 Luc\u00eda, saltando y aplaudiendo.\n\n\u2013Ni\u00f1as \u2013dijo el Le\u00f3n\u2013, siento que la fuerza vuelve a m\u00ed. \u00a1Ni\u00f1as, alc\u00e1ncenme si pueden!\n\nPermaneci\u00f3 inm\u00f3vil por unos instantes, sus ojos iluminados y sus extremidades palpitantes, y se azot\u00f3 a s\u00ed mismo con su cola. Luego salt\u00f3 muy alto sobre las cabezas de las ni\u00f1as y aterriz\u00f3 al otro lado de la Mesa. Riendo, aunque sin saber por qu\u00e9, Luc\u00eda corri\u00f3 para alcanzarlo. Aslan salt\u00f3 otra vez y comenz\u00f3 una loca cacer\u00eda que las hizo correr, siempre tras \u00e9l, alrededor de la colina una y mil veces. Tan pronto no les daba esperanzas de alcanzarlo como permit\u00eda que ellas casi agarraran su cola; pasaba veloz entre las ni\u00f1as, las sacud\u00eda en el aire con sus fuertes, bellas y aterciopeladas garras o se deten\u00eda inesperadamente de manera que los tres rodaban felices y re\u00edan en una confusi\u00f3n de piel, brazos y piernas. Era una clase de juego y de saltos que nadie ha practicado jam\u00e1s fuera de Narnia. Luc\u00eda no pod\u00eda determinar a qu\u00e9 se parec\u00eda m\u00e1s todo esto: si a jugar con una tempestad de truenos o con un gatito. Lo m\u00e1s extra\u00f1o fue que cuando terminaron jadeantes al sol, las ni\u00f1as no sintieron ni el m\u00e1s m\u00ednimo cansancio, sed o hambre.\n\n\u2013Ahora \u2013dijo luego Aslan\u2013, a trabajar. Siento que voy a rugir. Ser\u00eda mejor que se pongan los dedos en la o\u00eddos.\n\nAs\u00ed lo hicieron. Aslan se puso de pie y cuando abri\u00f3 la boca para rugir, su cara adquiri\u00f3 una expresi\u00f3n tan terrible que ellas no se atrevieron a mirarlo. Vieron, en cambio, que todos los \u00e1rboles frente a \u00e9l se inclinaban ante el ventarr\u00f3n de su rugido, como el pasto de una pradera se dobla al paso del viento.\n\nLuego dijo:\n\n\u2013Tenemos una larga caminata por delante. Ustedes ir\u00e1n montadas en mi lomo.\n\nSe agach\u00f3 y las ni\u00f1as se instalaron sobre su c\u00e1lida y dorada piel. Susana iba adelante, agarrada firmemente de la melena del Le\u00f3n. Luc\u00eda se acomod\u00f3 atr\u00e1s y se aferr\u00f3 a Susana. Con esfuerzo, Aslan se levant\u00f3 con toda su carga y sali\u00f3 disparado colina abajo y, m\u00e1s r\u00e1pido de lo que ning\u00fan caballo hubiera podido, se introdujo en la profundidad del bosque.\n\nPara Luc\u00eda y Susana esa cabalgata fue, probablemente, lo m\u00e1s bello que les ocurri\u00f3 en Narnia. Ustedes, \u00bfhan galopado a caballo alguna vez? Piensen en ello; luego qu\u00edtenle el pesado ruido de los cascos y el retint\u00edn de los arneses e imaginen, en cambio, el galope blando, casi sin ruido, de las grandes patas de un le\u00f3n. Despu\u00e9s, en lugar del duro lomo gris o negro del caballo, trasl\u00e1dense a la suave aspereza de la piel dorada y vean la melena que vuela al viento. Luego imaginen que ustedes van dos veces m\u00e1s r\u00e1pido que el m\u00e1s veloz de los caballos de carrera. Y, adem\u00e1s, \u00e9ste es un animal que no necesita ser guiado y que jam\u00e1s se cansa. \u00c9l corre y corre, nunca tropieza, nunca vacila; contin\u00faa siempre su camino y, con habilidad perfecta, sortea los troncos de los \u00e1rboles, salta los arbustos, las zarzas y los peque\u00f1os arroyos, vadea los esteros y nada para cruzar los grandes r\u00edos. Y ustedes no cabalgan en un camino, ni en un parque, ni siquiera por las colinas, sino a trav\u00e9s de Narnia, en primavera, bajo imponentes avenidas de hayas, y cruzan asoleados claros en medio de bosques de encinas, cubiertos de principio a fin de orqu\u00eddeas silvestres y guindos de flores blancas como la nieve. Y galopan junto a ruidosas cascadas de agua, rocas cubiertas de musgos y cavernas en las que resuena el eco; suben laderas con fuertes vientos, cruzan las cumbres de monta\u00f1as cubiertas de brezos, corren vertiginosamente a trav\u00e9s de \u00e1speras lomas y bajan, y bajan, y bajan otra vez hasta llegar al valle silvestre para recorrer enormes superficies de flores azules.\n\nEra cerca del mediod\u00eda cuando llegaron hasta un precipicio, frente a un castillo \u2013un castillo que parec\u00eda de juguete desde el lugar en que se encontraban\u2013 con una infinidad de torres puntiagudas. El Le\u00f3n sigui\u00f3 su carrera hacia abajo, a una velocidad incre\u00edble, que aumentaba cada minuto. Antes de que las ni\u00f1as alcanzaran a preguntarse qu\u00e9 era, estaban ya al nivel del castillo. Ahora no les pareci\u00f3 de juguete sino, m\u00e1s bien, una fortaleza amenazante que se elevaba frente a ellas.\n\nNo se ve\u00eda rostro alguno sobre los muros almenados y las rejas estaban firmemente cerradas. Aslan, sin disminuir en absoluto su paso, corri\u00f3 directo como una bala hacia el castillo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1La casa de la Bruja! \u2013grit\u00f3\u2013. Ahora, \u00a1af\u00edrmense fuerte, ni\u00f1as!\n\nEn los momentos que siguieron, el mundo entero pareci\u00f3 girar al rev\u00e9s y las ni\u00f1as experimentaron una sensaci\u00f3n que era como si sus esp\u00edritus hubieran quedado atr\u00e1s, porque el Le\u00f3n, repleg\u00e1ndose sobre s\u00ed mismo por un instante para tomar impulso, dio el brinco m\u00e1s grande de su vida y salt\u00f3 \u2013ustedes pueden decir que vol\u00f3, en lugar de salt\u00f3\u2013 sobre la muralla que rodeaba el castillo. Las dos ni\u00f1as, sin respiraci\u00f3n pero sanas y salvas en el lomo del Le\u00f3n, cayeron en el centro de un enorme patio lleno de estatuas.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 16\n\n## LO QUE SUCEDI\u00d3 CON LAS ESTATUAS\n\n\u2013\u00a1QU\u00c9 LUGAR TAN EXTRAORDINARIO! \u2013grit\u00f3 Luc\u00eda\u2013. Todos estos animales de piedra... y gente tambi\u00e9n. Es... es como un museo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1C\u00e1llate! \u2013le dijo Susana\u2013. Aslan est\u00e1 haciendo algo.\n\nEn efecto, \u00e9l hab\u00eda saltado hacia el le\u00f3n de piedra y sopl\u00f3 sobre \u00e9l. Sin esperar un instante, gir\u00f3 violentamente \u2013casi como si fuera un gato que caza su cola\u2013 y sopl\u00f3 tambi\u00e9n sobre el enano de piedra, el cual (como ustedes recuerdan) se encontraba a pocos pies del le\u00f3n, de espaldas a \u00e9l. Luego se volvi\u00f3 con igual rapidez a la derecha para enfrentarse con un conejo de piedra y corri\u00f3 de inmediato hacia dos centauros. En ese momento, Luc\u00eda dijo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, Susana! \u00a1Mira! \u00a1Mira al le\u00f3n!\n\nSupongo que ustedes habr\u00e1n visto a alguien acercar un f\u00f3sforo encendido a un extremo de un peri\u00f3dico, y luego colocarlo sobre el enrejado de una chimenea apagada. Por un segundo parece que no ha sucedido nada, pero de pronto ustedes advierten una peque\u00f1a llama crepitante que recorre todo el borde del peri\u00f3dico. Lo que sucedi\u00f3 ahora fue algo similar: un segundo despu\u00e9s de que Aslan sopl\u00f3 sobre el le\u00f3n de piedra, \u00e9ste se ve\u00eda a\u00fan igual que antes. Pero luego un peque\u00f1o rayo de oro comenz\u00f3 a bajar por su blanco y marm\u00f3reo lomo..., el rayo se esparci\u00f3..., el color dorado recorri\u00f3 completamente su cuerpo, como la llama lame todo un pedazo de papel... y, mientras sus patas traseras eran todav\u00eda de piedra, el le\u00f3n agit\u00f3 la melena y toda la pesada y p\u00e9trea envoltura se transform\u00f3 en ondas de pelo vivo. Entonces, en un prodigioso bostezo, abri\u00f3 una gran boca roja y vigorosa... y luego sus patas traseras tambi\u00e9n volvieron a vivir. Levant\u00f3 una de ellas y se rasc\u00f3. En ese momento divis\u00f3 a Aslan y se abalanz\u00f3 sobre \u00e9l, saltando de alegr\u00eda y, con un sollozo de felicidad, le dio leng\u00fcetazos en la cara.\n\nLas ni\u00f1as lo siguieron con la vista, pero el espect\u00e1culo que se present\u00f3 ante sus ojos fue tan portentoso que olvidaron al le\u00f3n. Las estatuas cobraban vida por doquier. El patio ya no parec\u00eda un museo, sino m\u00e1s bien un zoo. Las criaturas m\u00e1s incre\u00edbles corr\u00edan detr\u00e1s de Aslan y bailaban a su alrededor, hasta que \u00e9l casi desapareci\u00f3 en medio de la multitud. En lugar de un blanco de muerte, el patio era ahora una llamarada de colores: el lustroso color casta\u00f1o de los centauros; el azul \u00edndigo de los unicornios; los deslumbrantes plumajes de las aves; el caf\u00e9 rojizo de zorros, perros y s\u00e1tiros; el amarillo de los calcetines y el carmes\u00ed de las capuchas de los enanos. Y las ni\u00f1as-abedul recobraron el color de la plata, las ni\u00f1as-haya un fresco y transparente verde, las ni\u00f1as-alerce un verde tan brillante que era casi un amarillo...\n\nY en vez del antiguo silencio de muerte, el lugar entero retumbaba con el sonido de felices rugidos, rebuznos, ga\u00f1idos, ladridos, chillidos, arrullos, relinchos, pataleos, aclamaciones, hurras, canciones y risas.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh! \u2013exclam\u00f3 Susana en un tono diferente\u2013. \u00a1Mira! Me pregunto..., quiero decir, \u00bfno ser\u00e1 peligroso?\n\nLuc\u00eda mir\u00f3 y vio que Aslan acababa de soplar en el pie del gigante de piedra.\n\n\u2013No teman, todo est\u00e1 bien \u2013dijo Aslan alegremente\u2013. Una vez que las piernas le funcionen, todo el resto seguir\u00e1.\n\n\u2013No era eso exactamente lo que yo quer\u00eda decir \u2013susurr\u00f3 Susana al o\u00eddo de Luc\u00eda. Pero ya era muy tarde para hacer algo; ni siquiera si Aslan la hubiera escuchado. El rayo ya trepaba por las piernas del Gigante. Ahora mov\u00eda sus pies. Un momento m\u00e1s tarde, levant\u00f3 la porra que apoyaba en uno de sus hombros y se restreg\u00f3 los ojos.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Bendito de m\u00ed! Debo de haber estado durmiendo. Y ahora, \u00bfd\u00f3nde se encuentra esa peque\u00f1a Bruja horrible que corr\u00eda por el suelo? Estaba en alguna parte..., justo a mis pies.\n\nCuando todos le gritaron para explicarle lo que realmente hab\u00eda sucedido, el Gigante puso la mano en el o\u00eddo y les hizo repetir todo de nuevo hasta que al fin entendi\u00f3; entonces se agach\u00f3 y su cabeza qued\u00f3 a la altura de un almiar. Llev\u00f3 la mano a su gorro repetidamente ante Aslan, con una sonrisa radiante que llenaba toda su fea y honesta cara (los gigantes de cualquier tipo son ahora tan escasos en Inglaterra y m\u00e1s a\u00fan aquellos de buen car\u00e1cter, que les apuesto diez a uno a que ustedes jam\u00e1s han visto un gigante con una sonrisa radiante en su rostro. Es un espect\u00e1culo que bien vale la pena contemplar).\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ahora! \u00a1Entremos en la casa! \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. \u00a1Dense prisa, todos! \u00a1Arriba, abajo y en la c\u00e1mara de la se\u00f1ora! No dejen ning\u00fan rinc\u00f3n sin escudri\u00f1ar. Nunca se sabe d\u00f3nde pueden haber ocultado a un pobre prisionero.\n\nTodos corrieron al interior de la casa. Y por varios minutos, en ese negro, horrible y h\u00famedo castillo que ol\u00eda a cerrado, reson\u00f3 el ruido del abrir de las puertas y ventanas y de miles de voces que gritaban al mismo tiempo:\n\n\u2013\u00a1No olviden los calabozos!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ay\u00fadenme con esta puerta!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Encontr\u00e9 otra escalera de caracol!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, aqu\u00ed hay un pobre canguro peque\u00f1ito!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Puf! \u00a1C\u00f3mo huele aqu\u00ed!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Cuidado al abrir las puertas! \u00a1Pueden caer en una trampa!\n\n\u2013\u00a1Aqu\u00ed! \u00a1Suban! \u00a1En el descanso de la escalera hay varios m\u00e1s!\n\nPero lo mejor de todo sucedi\u00f3 cuando Luc\u00eda corri\u00f3 escaleras arriba gritando:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Aslan! \u00a1Aslan! \u00a1Encontr\u00e9 al se\u00f1or Tumnus! \u00a1Oh, venga r\u00e1pido!\n\nMomentos m\u00e1s tarde el peque\u00f1o Fauno y Luc\u00eda, tomados de la mano, bailaban y bailaban de felicidad. El Fauno no parec\u00eda mayormente afectado por haber sido una estatua; en cambio, estaba muy interesado en todo lo que la ni\u00f1a ten\u00eda que contarle.\n\nPero al fin termin\u00f3 el registro de la fortaleza de la Bruja. El castillo qued\u00f3 completamente vac\u00edo, con las puertas y ventanas abiertas, y todos aquellos rincones oscuros y siniestros fueron invadidos por esa luz y ese aire de la primavera que requer\u00edan con tanta urgencia. De vuelta en el patio, la multitud de estatuas liberadas se agit\u00f3. Fue entonces cuando alguien (creo que Tumnus) pregunt\u00f3 primero:\n\n\u2013Pero \u00bfc\u00f3mo vamos a salir de aqu\u00ed?\n\nPorque Aslan hab\u00eda entrado de un salto y las puertas estaban todav\u00eda cerradas.\n\n\u2013Todo ir\u00e1 bien \u2013dijo Aslan; se levant\u00f3 sobre sus patas traseras y grit\u00f3 al Gigante\u2013: \u00a1Oye, t\u00fa! \u00a1All\u00e1 arriba! \u00bfC\u00f3mo te llamas?\n\n\u2013Gigante Rumblebuffin, su se\u00f1or\u00eda \u2013dijo el Gigante, llevando la mano a la gorra una vez m\u00e1s.\n\n\u2013Bien, Gigante Rumblebuffin \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. \u00bfPodr\u00e1s sacarnos de este lugar?\n\n\u2013Por supuesto, su se\u00f1or\u00eda, ser\u00e1 un placer \u2013contest\u00f3 el Gigante\u2013. \u00a1Ap\u00e1rtense de las puertas todos ustedes, peque\u00f1os!\n\nSe aproxim\u00f3 de una zancada hasta las rejas y les dio un golpe..., otro golpe..., y otro golpe con su enorme porra. Al primer golpazo, las puertas rechinaron; al segundo, se rompieron estrepitosamente; y al tercero, se hicieron astillas. Entonces el Gigante embisti\u00f3 contra las torres, a cada lado de las puertas, y, despu\u00e9s de unos minutos de violentos estrellones y sordos golpes, ambas torres y un buen pedazo de muralla cayeron estruendosamente convertidas en una masa de desechos y de piedras inservible; y cuando la polvareda se dispers\u00f3 y el aire se aclar\u00f3, para todos fue muy raro encontrarse all\u00ed, en medio de ese seco y horrible patio de piedra y ver, a trav\u00e9s del boquete, el pasto, los \u00e1rboles ondulantes, los espumosos arroyos del bosque, las monta\u00f1as azules m\u00e1s atr\u00e1s y, m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de todo, el cielo.\n\n\u2013Estoy completamente ba\u00f1ado en sudor \u2013dijo entonces el Gigante\u2013. Creo que no estaba en muy buenas condiciones f\u00edsicas. \u00bfAlguna de las damas tendr\u00e1 algo as\u00ed como un pa\u00f1uelo?\n\n\u2013Yo tengo uno \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, empin\u00e1ndose en la punta de sus pies y alzando el pa\u00f1uelo tan alto como pudo.\n\n\u2013Gracias, se\u00f1orita \u2013dijo el Gigante Rumblebuffin, agach\u00e1ndose. Y sigui\u00f3 un momento m\u00e1s bien inquietante para Luc\u00eda, pues se vio suspendida en el aire, entre el pulgar y los dem\u00e1s dedos del Gigante. Pero cuando ella se encontr\u00f3 cerca de su enorme cara, \u00e9ste se detuvo repentinamente y, con toda suavidad, volvi\u00f3 a dejarla en el suelo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Bendito! \u00a1He levantado a la ni\u00f1a! Perd\u00f3neme se\u00f1orita, cre\u00ed que _era_ el pa\u00f1uelo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1No, no! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, riendo\u2013. \u00a1Aqu\u00ed est\u00e1 el pa\u00f1uelo!\n\nEsta vez el Gigante se las arregl\u00f3 para tomarlo sin equivocarse; pero, para \u00e9l, un pa\u00f1uelo era del mismo tama\u00f1o que una pastilla de sacarina para ustedes. Por eso, cuando Luc\u00eda vio que, con toda solemnidad, \u00e9l frotaba su gran cara roja una y otra vez, le dijo:\n\n\u2013Temo que ese pa\u00f1uelo no le servir\u00e1 de nada, se\u00f1or Rumblebuffin.\n\n\u2013De ninguna manera. De ninguna manera \u2013dijo el Gigante cort\u00e9smente\u2013. Es el mejor pa\u00f1uelo que jam\u00e1s he tenido. Tan fino, tan \u00fatil... No s\u00e9 c\u00f3mo describirlo.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Qu\u00e9 gigante tan encantador! \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda al se\u00f1or Tumnus.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Ah, s\u00ed! \u2013dijo el Fauno\u2013. Todos los Buffins lo han sido siempre. Es una de las familias m\u00e1s respetadas de Narnia. No muy inteligentes quiz\u00e1s (yo nunca he conocido a un gigante que lo sea), pero una antigua familia, con tradiciones..., t\u00fa sabes. Si hubiera sido de otra manera, ella nunca lo habr\u00eda transformado en estatua.\n\nEn ese momento, Aslan golpe\u00f3 las garras y pidi\u00f3 silencio.\n\n\u2013El trabajo de este d\u00eda no ha terminado a\u00fan \u2013dijo\u2013, y si la Bruja ha de ser derrotada antes de la hora de dormir, tenemos que dar la batalla de inmediato.\n\n\u2013Y espero que nos uniremos, se\u00f1or \u2013agreg\u00f3 el m\u00e1s grande de los centauros.\n\n\u2013Por supuesto \u2013dijo Aslan\u2013. \u00a1Y ahora, atenci\u00f3n! Aquellos que no pueden resistir mucho \u2013es decir, ni\u00f1os, enanos y animales peque\u00f1os\u2013 tienen que cabalgar a lomo de los que s\u00ed pueden \u2013o sea, los leones, centauros, unicornios, caballos, gigantes y \u00e1guilas\u2013. Los que poseen buen olfato, deben ir adelante con nosotros los leones, para descubrir el lugar de la batalla. \u00a1\u00c1nimo y mucha suerte!\n\nCon gran alboroto y v\u00edtores, todos se organizaron. El m\u00e1s encantado en medio de esa muchedumbre era el otro le\u00f3n, que corr\u00eda de un lado para otro aparentando estar muy ocupado, aunque en realidad lo \u00fanico que hac\u00eda era decir a todo el que encontraba a su paso:\n\n\u2013\u00bfOyeron lo que dijo? _N osotros, los leanes_. Eso quiere decir \" _\u00e9l y yo\". Nosotros, los leanes_. Eso es lo que me gusta de Aslan. Nada de personalismos, nada de reservas. _N osotros, los leones;_ \u00e9l y yo.\n\nY sigui\u00f3 diciendo lo mismo mientras Aslan cargaba en su lomo a tres enanos, una dr\u00edade, dos conejos y un puerco esp\u00edn. Esto lo calm\u00f3 un poco.\n\nCuando todo estuvo preparado (fue un gran perro ovejero el que m\u00e1s ayud\u00f3 a Aslan a hacerlos salir en el orden apropiado), abandonaron el castillo saliendo a trav\u00e9s del boquete de la muralla. Delante iban los leones y los perros, que olfateaban en todas direcciones. De pronto, un gran perro descubri\u00f3 un rastro y lanz\u00f3 un ladrido. En un segundo, los perros, los leones, los lobos y otros animales de caza corrieron a toda velocidad con sus narices pegadas a la tierra. El resto, una media milla m\u00e1s atr\u00e1s, los segu\u00eda tan r\u00e1pido como pod\u00eda. El ruido se asemejaba al de una cacer\u00eda de zorros en Inglaterra, s\u00f3lo que mejor, porque de vez en cuando el sonido de los ladridos se mezclaba con el gru\u00f1ido del otro le\u00f3n y algunas veces con el del propio Aslan, mucho m\u00e1s profundo y terrible.\n\nA medida que el rastro se hac\u00eda m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s f\u00e1cil de seguir, avanzaron m\u00e1s y m\u00e1s r\u00e1pido. Cuando llegaron a la \u00faltima curva en un angosto y serpenteante valle, Luc\u00eda escuch\u00f3, sobre todos esos sonidos, otro sonido... diferente, que le produjo una extra\u00f1a sensaci\u00f3n. Era un ruido como de gritos y chillidos y de choque de metal contra metal.\n\nSalieron del estrecho valle y Luc\u00eda vio de inmediato la causa de los ruidos. All\u00ed estaban Pedro, Edmundo y todo el resto del ej\u00e9rcito de Aslan peleando desesperadamente contra la multitud de criaturas horribles que ella hab\u00eda visto la noche anterior. S\u00f3lo que ahora, a la luz del d\u00eda, se ve\u00edan m\u00e1s extra\u00f1as, m\u00e1s malvadas y m\u00e1s deformes. Tambi\u00e9n parec\u00edan ser much\u00edsimo m\u00e1s numerosas que ellos. El ej\u00e9rcito de Aslan \u2013que daba la espalda a Luc\u00eda\u2013 era dram\u00e1ticamente peque\u00f1o. En todas partes, salpicadas sobre el campo de batalla, hab\u00eda estatuas, lo que hac\u00eda pensar en que la Bruja hab\u00eda usado su vara. Pero no parec\u00eda utilizarla en ese momento. Ella luchaba con su cuchillo de piedra. Luchaba con Pedro... Ambos atacaban con tal violencia que dif\u00edcilmente Luc\u00eda pod\u00eda vislumbrar lo que pasaba. S\u00f3lo ve\u00eda que el cuchillo de piedra y la espada de Pedro se mov\u00edan tan r\u00e1pido que parec\u00edan tres cuchillos y tres espadas. Los dos contrincantes estaban en el centro. A ambos lados se extend\u00edan las l\u00edneas defensivas y dondequiera que la ni\u00f1a mirara suced\u00edan cosas horribles.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Desmonten de mi espalda, ni\u00f1as! \u2013grit\u00f3 Aslan.\n\nLas dos saltaron al suelo. Entonces, con un rugido que estremeci\u00f3 todo Narnia, desde el farol de occidente hasta las playas del mar de oriente, el enorme animal se arroj\u00f3 sobre la Bruja Blanca. Por un segundo Luc\u00eda vio que ella levantaba su rostro hacia \u00e9l con una expresi\u00f3n de terror y de asombro. El Le\u00f3n y la Bruja cayeron juntos, pero la Bruja qued\u00f3 bajo \u00e9l. Y en ese mismo instante todas las criaturas guerreras que Aslan hab\u00eda guiado desde el castillo se abalanzaron furiosamente contra las l\u00edneas enemigas: enanos con sus hachas de batalla, perros con feroces dientes, el Gigante con su porra (sus pies tambi\u00e9n aplastaron a docenas de enemigos), unicornios con su cuerno, centauros con sus espadas y pezu\u00f1as...\n\nEl cansado batall\u00f3n de Pedro vitoreaba y los reci\u00e9n llegados rug\u00edan. El enemigo, hecho un guirigay, lanz\u00f3 alaridos hasta que el bosque respondi\u00f3 el eco con el ruido ensordecedor de esa embestida.\n\n## CAP\u00cdTULO 17\n\n## LA CAZA DEL CIERVO BLANCO\n\nLA BATALLA TERMIN\u00d3 POCOS MINUTOS despu\u00e9s de que ellos llegaron. La mayor parte de los enemigos hab\u00eda muerto en el primer ataque de Aslan y sus compa\u00f1eros; y cuando los que a\u00fan viv\u00edan vieron que la Bruja estaba muerta, se entregaron o huyeron. Luc\u00eda vio entonces que Pedro y Aslan se estrechaban las manos. Era extra\u00f1o para ella mirar a Pedro como lo ve\u00eda ahora..., su rostro estaba tan p\u00e1lido y era tan severo que parec\u00eda mucho mayor.\n\n\u2013Edmundo lo hizo todo, Aslan \u2013dec\u00eda Pedro en ese momento\u2013. Nos habr\u00edan arrasado si no hubiera sido por \u00e9l. La Bruja estaba convirtiendo nuestras tropas en piedra a derecha y a izquierda. Pero nada pudo detener a Edmundo. Se abri\u00f3 camino a trav\u00e9s de tres ogros hacia el lugar en que ella, en ese preciso momento, convert\u00eda a uno de los leopardos en estatua. Cuando la alcanz\u00f3, tuvo el buen sentido de apuntar con su espada hacia la vara y la hizo pedazos, en lugar de tratar de atacarla a ella y simplemente quedar convertido \u00e9l mismo en estatua. \u00c9sa fue la equivocaci\u00f3n que cometieron todos los dem\u00e1s. Una vez que su vara fue destruida, comenzamos a tener algunas oportunidades..., si no hubi\u00e9ramos perdido a tantos ya. Edmundo est\u00e1 terriblemente herido. Debemos ir a verlo.\n\nUn poco m\u00e1s atr\u00e1s de la l\u00ednea de combate encontraron a Edmundo: lo cuidaba la se\u00f1ora Castora. Estaba cubierto de sangre; ten\u00eda la boca abierta y su rostro era de un feo color verdoso.\n\n\u2013\u00a1R\u00e1pido, Luc\u00eda! \u2013llam\u00f3 Aslan.\n\nEntonces, casi por primera vez, Luc\u00eda record\u00f3 el precioso t\u00f3nico que le hab\u00edan obsequiado como regalo de Navidad. Sus manos tiritaban tanto que dif\u00edcilmente pudo destapar el frasco. Pero se domin\u00f3 al fin y dej\u00f3 caer unas pocas gotas en la boca de su hermano.\n\n\u2013Hay otros heridos \u2013dijo Aslan, mientras ella a\u00fan miraba ansiosamente el p\u00e1lido rostro de Edmundo para comprobar si el remedio hac\u00eda alg\u00fan efecto.\n\n\u2013S\u00ed, ya lo s\u00e9 \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda con tono molesto\u2013. Espere un minuto.\n\n\u2013Hija de Eva \u2013dijo Aslan severamente\u2013, otros tambi\u00e9n est\u00e1n a punto de morir. \u00bfEs necesario que muera _m\u00e1s_ gente por Edmundo?\n\n\u2013Perd\u00f3neme, Aslan \u2013dijo Luc\u00eda, y se levant\u00f3 para salir con \u00e9l.\n\nDurante la media hora siguiente estuvieron muy ocupados..., la ni\u00f1a atend\u00eda a los heridos, mientras \u00e9l reviv\u00eda a aquellos que estaban convertidos en piedra. Cuando por fin ella pudo regresar junto a Edmundo, lo encontr\u00f3 de pie, no s\u00f3lo curado de sus heridas: se ve\u00eda mejor de lo que ella lo hab\u00eda visto en a\u00f1os; en efecto, desde el primer semestre en aquel horrible colegio, hab\u00eda empezado a andar mal. Ahora era de nuevo lo que siempre hab\u00eda sido y pod\u00eda mirar de frente otra vez. Y all\u00ed, en el campo de batalla, Aslan lo invisti\u00f3 caballero.\n\n\u2013\u00bfSabr\u00e1 Edmundo \u2013susurr\u00f3 Luc\u00eda a Susana\u2013 lo que Aslan hizo por \u00e9l? \u00bfSabr\u00e1 realmente en qu\u00e9 consisti\u00f3 el acuerdo con la Bruja?\n\n\u2013\u00a1C\u00e1llate! No. Por supuesto que no \u2013dijo Susana.\n\n\u2013\u00bfNo deber\u00eda saberlo? \u2013pregunt\u00f3 Luc\u00eda.\n\n\u2013\u00a1Oh, no! Seguro que no \u2013dijo Susana\u2013. Ser\u00eda espantoso para \u00e9l. Piensa en c\u00f3mo te sentir\u00edas t\u00fa si fueras \u00e9l.\n\n\u2013De todas maneras creo que debe saberlo \u2013volvi\u00f3 a decir Luc\u00eda; pero, en ese momento, las ni\u00f1as fueron interrumpidas.\n\nEsa noche durmieron donde estaban. C\u00f3mo Aslan proporcion\u00f3 comida para ellos, es algo que yo no s\u00e9; pero de una manera u otra, cerca de las ocho, todos se encontraron sentados en el pasto ante un gran t\u00e9. Al d\u00eda siguiente comenzaron la marcha hacia oriente, bajando por el lado del gran r\u00edo. Y al otro d\u00eda, cerca de la hora del t\u00e9, llegaron a la desembocadura. El castillo de Cair Paravel, en su peque\u00f1a loma, sobresal\u00eda. Delante de ellos hab\u00eda arenales, rocas, peque\u00f1os charcos de agua salada, algas marinas, el olor del mar y largas millas de olas verde-azuladas, que romp\u00edan en la playa desde siempre. Y, \u00a1oh el grito de las gaviotas! \u00bfLo han o\u00eddo ustedes alguna vez? \u00bfPueden recordarlo?\n\nEsa tarde, despu\u00e9s del t\u00e9, los cuatro ni\u00f1os bajaron de nuevo a la playa y se sacaron los zapatos y los calcetines para sentir la arena entre sus dedos. Pero el d\u00eda siguiente fue m\u00e1s solemne. Entonces, en el Gran Sal\u00f3n de Cair Paravel \u2013aquel maravilloso sal\u00f3n con techo de marfil, con la puerta del oeste adornada con plumas de pavo real y la puerta del este que se abre directo al mar\u2013, en presencia de todos sus amigos y al sonido de las trompetas, Aslan coron\u00f3 solemnemente a los cuatro ni\u00f1os y los instal\u00f3 en los cuatro tronos, en medio de gritos ensordecedores:\n\n\u2013\u00a1Que viva por muchos a\u00f1os el rey Pedro! \u00a1Que viva por muchos a\u00f1os la reina Susana! \u00a1Que viva por muchos a\u00f1os el rey Edmundo! \u00a1Que viva por muchos a\u00f1os la reina Luc\u00eda!\n\n\u2013Una vez rey o reina en Narnia, eres rey o reina para siempre. \u00a1S\u00e9anlo con honor, Hijos de Ad\u00e1n! \u00a1S\u00e9anlo con honor, Hijas de Eva! \u2013dijo Aslan.\n\nA trav\u00e9s de la puerta del este, que estaba abierta de par en par, llegaron las voces de los tritones y de las sirenas que nadaban cerca del castillo y cantaban en honor de sus nuevos Reyes y Reinas.\n\nLos ni\u00f1os sentados en sus tronos, con los cetros en sus manos, otorgaron premios y honores a todos sus amigos: a Tumnus el Fauno, a los Castores, al Gigante Rumblebuffin, a los leopardos, a los buenos centauros, a los buenos enanos y al le\u00f3n. Esa noche hubo un gran fest\u00edn en Cair Paravel, regocijo, baile, luces de oro, exquisitos vinos... Y como en respuesta a la m\u00fasica que sonaba dentro del castillo, pero m\u00e1s extra\u00f1a, m\u00e1s dulce y m\u00e1s penetrante, llegaba hasta ellos la m\u00fasica de la gente del mar.\n\nMas en medio de todo este regocijo, Aslan se escabull\u00f3 calladamente. Cuando los reyes y reinas se dieron cuenta de que \u00e9l no estaba all\u00ed, no dijeron ni una palabra, porque el Castor les hab\u00eda advertido. \"\u00c9l estar\u00e1 yendo y viniendo\", les hab\u00eda dicho. \"Un d\u00eda ustedes lo ver\u00e1n, y otro, no. No le gusta estar atado... y, por supuesto, tiene que atender otros pa\u00edses. Esto es rigurosamente cierto. Aparecer\u00e1 a menudo. S\u00f3lo que ustedes no deben presionarlo. Es salvaje: ustedes lo saben. No es como un le\u00f3n domesticado y d\u00f3cil.\"\n\nY ahora, como ustedes ver\u00e1n, esta historia est\u00e1 cerca (pero no enteramente) del final. Los dos reyes y las dos reinas de Narnia gobernaron bien y su reinado fue largo y feliz. En un comienzo, ocuparon la mayor parte del tiempo en buscar y destruir los \u00faltimos vestigios del ej\u00e9rcito de la Bruja Blanca. Y, ciertamente, por un largo per\u00edodo hubo noticias de perversos sucesos furtivos en los lugares salvajes del bosque...: un fantasma aqu\u00ed y una matanza all\u00e1; un hombre lobo al acecho un mes y el rumor de la aparici\u00f3n de una bruja, el siguiente. Pero al final toda esa p\u00e9rfida raza se extingui\u00f3. Entonces ellos dictaron buenas leyes, conservaron la paz, salvaron a los \u00e1rboles buenos de ser cortados innecesariamente, liberaron a los enanos y a los s\u00e1tiros j\u00f3venes de ser enviados a la escuela y, por lo general, detuvieron a los entrometidos y a los aficionados a interferir en todo, y animaron a la gente com\u00fan que quer\u00eda vivir y dejar vivir a los dem\u00e1s. En el norte de Narnia atajaron a los fieros gigantes (de muy diferente clase que el Gigante Rumblebuffin), cuando se aventuraron a trav\u00e9s de la frontera. Establecieron amistad y alianza con pa\u00edses m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del mar, les hicieron visitas de estado y, a la vez, recibieron sus visitas.\n\nY ellos mismos crecieron y cambiaron con el paso de los a\u00f1os. Pedro lleg\u00f3 a ser un hombre alto y robusto y un gran guerrero, y era llamado rey Pedro el Magn\u00edfico. Susana se convirti\u00f3 en una esbelta y agraciada mujer, con un cabello color azabache que ca\u00eda casi hasta sus pies; los reyes de los pa\u00edses m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del mar comenzaron a enviar embajadores para pedir su mano en matrimonio. Era conocida como reina Susana la Dulce. Edmundo, un hombre m\u00e1s tranquilo y m\u00e1s solemne que su hermano Pedro, era famoso por sus excelentes consejos y juicios. Su nombre fue rey Edmundo el Justo. En cuanto a Luc\u00eda, fue siempre una joven alegre y de pelo dorado. Todos los pr\u00edncipes de la vecindad quer\u00edan que ella fuera su reina, y su propia gente la llamaba reina Luc\u00eda la Valiente.\n\nAs\u00ed, ellos viv\u00edan en medio de una gran alegr\u00eda, y siempre que recordaban su vida en este mundo era s\u00f3lo como cuando uno recuerda un sue\u00f1o.\n\nUn a\u00f1o sucedi\u00f3 que Tumnus (que ya era un fauno de mediana edad y comenzaba a engordar) vino r\u00edo abajo y les trajo noticias sobre el Ciervo Blanco, que una vez m\u00e1s hab\u00eda aparecido en los alrededores... El Ciervo Blanco que te conced\u00eda tus deseos si lo cazabas. Por eso los dos reyes y las dos reinas, junto a los principales miembros de sus cortes, organizaron una cacer\u00eda con cuernos y jaur\u00edas en los Bosques del Oeste para seguir al Ciervo Blanco. No hac\u00eda mucho que hab\u00eda comenzado la cacer\u00eda cuando lo divisaron. Y \u00e9l los hizo correr a gran velocidad por terrenos \u00e1speros y suaves, a trav\u00e9s de valles anchos y angostos, hasta que los caballos de todos los cortesanos quedaron agotados y s\u00f3lo ellos cuatro pudieron continuar la persecuci\u00f3n. Vieron al ciervo entrar en una espesura en la cual sus caballos no pod\u00edan seguirlo. Entonces el rey Pedro dijo (porque ellos ahora, despu\u00e9s de haber sido durante tanto tiempo reyes y reinas, hablaban de una forma completamente diferente).\n\n\u2013Honorables hermanos, descendamos de nuestros caballos y sigamos a esta bestia en la espesura, porque en toda mi vida he cazado una presa m\u00e1s noble.\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1or \u2013dijeron los otros\u2013, aun as\u00ed perm\u00edtenos hacerlo.\n\nDesmontaron, ataron sus caballos en los \u00e1rboles y se internaron a pie en el espeso bosque. Y tan pronto como entraron all\u00ed, la reina Susana dijo:\n\n\u2013Honorables hermanos, aqu\u00ed hay una gran maravilla. Me parece ver un \u00e1rbol de hierro.\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1ora \u2013dijo el rey Edmundo\u2013, si usted lo mira con cuidado, ver\u00e1 que es un pilar de hierro con una linterna en lo m\u00e1s alto.\n\n\u2013\u00a1V\u00e1lgame Dios, qu\u00e9 extra\u00f1o capricho! \u2013dijo el rey Pedro\u2013. Instalar una linterna aqu\u00ed en esta espesura donde los \u00e1rboles est\u00e1n tan juntos y son de tal altura, que si estuviera encendida no dar\u00eda luz a hombre alguno.\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1or \u2013dijo la reina Luc\u00eda\u2013. Probablemente, cuando este pilar y esta linterna fueron instalados aqu\u00ed hab\u00eda \u00e1rboles peque\u00f1os, o pocos, o ninguno. Porque el bosque es joven y el pilar de hierro es viejo.\n\nPor algunos momentos permanecieron mirando todo esto. Luego, el rey Edmundo dijo:\n\n\u2013No s\u00e9 lo que es, pero esta l\u00e1mpara y este pilar me han causado un efecto muy extra\u00f1o. La idea de que yo los he visto antes corre por mi mente, como si fuera en un sue\u00f1o, o en el sue\u00f1o de un sue\u00f1o.\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1or \u2013contestaron todos\u2013, lo mismo nos ha sucedido a nosotros.\n\n\u2013Aun m\u00e1s \u2013dijo la reina Luc\u00eda\u2013, no se aparta de mi mente el pensamiento de que si nosotros pasamos m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de esta linterna y de este pilar, encontraremos extra\u00f1as aventuras o en nuestros destinos habr\u00e1 un enorme cambio.\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1ora \u2013dijo el rey Edmundo\u2013, el mismo presentimiento se mueve en mi coraz\u00f3n.\n\n\u2013Y en el m\u00edo, hermano \u2013dijo el rey Pedro.\n\n\u2013Y en el m\u00edo tambi\u00e9n \u2013dijo la reina Susana\u2013. Por eso mi consejo es que regresemos r\u00e1pidamente a nuestros caballos y no continuemos en la persecuci\u00f3n del Ciervo Blanco.\n\n\u2013Se\u00f1ora \u2013dijo el rey Pedro\u2013, en esto le ruego a usted que me excuse. Pero, desde que somos reyes de Narnia, hemos acometido muchos asuntos importantes, como batallas, b\u00fasquedas, haza\u00f1as armadas, actos de justicia y otros como \u00e9stos, y siempre hemos llegado hasta el fin. Todo lo que hemos emprendido lo hemos llevado a cabo.\n\n\u2013Hermana \u2013dijo la reina Luc\u00eda\u2013, mi real hermano habla correctamente. Me avergonzar\u00eda si por cualquier temor o presentimiento nosotros renunci\u00e1ramos a seguir en una tan noble cacer\u00eda como la que ahora realizamos.\n\n\u2013Yo estoy de acuerdo \u2013dijo el rey Edmundo\u2013. Y deseo tan intensamente averiguar cu\u00e1l es el significado de esto, que por nada volver\u00eda atr\u00e1s, ni por la joya m\u00e1s rica y preciada en toda Narnia y en todas las islas.\n\n\u2013Entonces en el nombre de Aslan \u2013dijo la reina Susana\u2013, si todos piensan as\u00ed, sigamos adelante y enfrentemos el desaf\u00edo de esta aventura que caer\u00e1 sobre nosotros.\n\nAs\u00ed fue como estos reyes y reinas entraron en la espesura del bosque, y antes de que caminaran una veintena de pasos, recordaron que lo que ellos hab\u00edan visto era el farol, y antes de que avanzaran otros veinte, advirtieron que ya no caminaban entre ramas de \u00e1rboles sino entre abrigos. Y un segundo despu\u00e9s, todos saltaron a trav\u00e9s de la puerta del ropero al cuarto vac\u00edo, y ya no eran reyes y reinas con sus atav\u00edos de caza, sino s\u00f3lo Pedro, Susana, Edmundo y Luc\u00eda en sus antiguas ropas. Era el mismo d\u00eda y la misma hora en que ellos entraron al ropero para esconderse. La se\u00f1ora Macready y los visitantes hablaban todav\u00eda en el pasillo; pero afortunadamente nunca entraron en el cuarto vac\u00edo y los ni\u00f1os no fueron sorprendidos.\n\n\u00c9ste hubiera sido el verdadero final de la historia si no fuera porque ellos sintieron que ten\u00edan la obligaci\u00f3n de explicar al Profesor por qu\u00e9 faltaban cuatro abrigos en el ropero. El Profesor, que era un hombre extraordinario, no exclam\u00f3 \"no sean tontos\" o \"no cuenten mentiras\", sino que crey\u00f3 la historia completa.\n\n\u2013No \u2013les dijo\u2013, no creo que sirva de nada tratar de volver a trav\u00e9s de la puerta del ropero para traer los abrigos. Ustedes no entrar\u00e1n nuevamente a Narnia por _ese_ camino. Y si lo hicieran, los abrigos ahora ya no sirven de mucho. \u00bfEh? \u00bfQu\u00e9 dicen? S\u00ed, por supuesto que volver\u00e1n a Narnia alg\u00fan d\u00eda. Una vez rey de Narnia, eres rey para siempre. Pero no pueden usar la misma ruta otra vez. Realmente _no traten,_ de ninguna manera, de llegar hasta all\u00e1. Eso suceder\u00e1 cuando menos lo piensen. Y _no_ hablen demasiado sobre esto, ni siquiera entre ustedes. No se lo mencionen a nadie m\u00e1s, a menos que descubran que se trata de alguien que ha tenido aventuras similares. \u00bfQu\u00e9 dicen? \u00bfQue c\u00f3mo lo sabr\u00e1n? \u00a1Oh! Ustedes lo _sabr\u00e1n_ con certeza. Las extra\u00f1as cosas que ellos dicen \u2013incluso sus apariencias\u2013 revelar\u00e1n el secreto. Mantengan los ojos abiertos. \u00a1Dios m\u00edo!, \u00bfqu\u00e9 les ense\u00f1an en esos colegios?\n\nY \u00e9ste es el verdadero final de las aventuras del ropero. Pero si el Profesor estaba en lo cierto, \u00e9ste s\u00f3lo ser\u00eda el comienzo de las aventuras en Narnia.\n\n## ACERCA DEL AUTOR\n\n**CLIVE STAPLES LEWIS** , Jack para sus amigos, naci\u00f3 en 1898. Lewis y su buen amigo J. R. R. Tolkien, el autor de la trilog\u00eda _El se\u00f1or de los anillos_ , formaban parte de los Inklings, un club de escritores que se reun\u00eda informalmente en una taberna para discutir sus ideas sobre historias. La fascinaci\u00f3n de Lewis con cuentos de hadas, mitolog\u00edas y leyendas antiguas, unida al est\u00edmulo que recibi\u00f3 durante su ni\u00f1ez, lo inspiraron a escribir EL LE\u00d3N, LA BRUJA Y EL ROPERO, uno de los libros m\u00e1s apreciados de todos los tiempos. Seis libros siguieron a \u00e9ste hasta formar la popular serie _Las Cr\u00f3nicas de Narnia_. El \u00faltimo volumen de la serie, LA \u00daLTIMA BATALLA, gan\u00f3 la Medalla Carnegie, uno de los m\u00e1s prestigiosos premios a la literatura infantil.\n\nVisita www.AuthorTracker.com para obtener informaci\u00f3n exclusiva de sus autores favoritos HarperCollins.\n\n## OTROS LIBROS\n\nOTROS LIBROS EN LA SERIE DE\n\nEl Sobrino del Mago  \nLa Traves\u00eda del _Viajero del Alba_  \nEl Caballo y el Muchacho  \nEl Pr\u00edncipe Caspian  \nLa Silla de Plata  \nLa \u00daltima Batalla\n\n## CR\u00c9DITOS\n\nIlustraci\u00f3n de la cubierta por Pauline Baynes\n\n## P\u00c1GINA LEGAL\n\nEL LE\u00d3N, LA BRUJA Y EL ROPERO. Copyright \u00a9 1950 por C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd.\n\nTraducci\u00f3n \u00a9 2000 por Editorial Andr\u00e9s Bello. Traducci\u00f3n por Margaret Vald\u00e9s E. y Editorial Andr\u00e9s Bello. Traducci\u00f3n corregida por Teresa Mlawer. Copyright de la traducci\u00f3n corregida (c) 2002 por HarperCollins Publishers.\n\nIlustraciones de Pauline Baynes \u00a9 1950 por C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd.\n\nTodos los derechos reservados. Impreso en los Estados Unidos de Am\u00e9rica. Se proh\u00edbe reproducir, almacenar o transmitir cualquier parte de este libro en manera alguna ni por ning\u00fan medio sin previo permiso escrito, excepto en el caso de citas cortas para cr\u00edticas. Para recibir informaci\u00f3n, dir\u00edjase a: HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.\n\nLibros de HarperCollins pueden ser adquiridos para uso educacional, comercial o promocional. Para recibir m\u00e1s informaci\u00f3n, dir\u00edjase a: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.\n\nLas Cr\u00f3nicas de Narnia\u00ae, Narnia\u00ae y todos los t\u00edtulos de los libros, los personajes y los lugares originales a la serie de Las Cr\u00f3nicas de Narnia son marcas registradas por C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Est\u00e1 estrictamente prohibido utilizar este material sin permiso.\n\nLibrary of Congress ha catalogado la edici\u00f3n en ingl\u00e9s.\n\nISBN-10: 0-06-008661-0\n\nEPub Edici\u00f3n \u00a9 SEPTIEMBRE 2012 ISBN: 9780062246615\n\nVersion 02212014\n\n[1. Fantasy. 2. Spanish language materials.] I. Title.\n\nPZ73.L487 2002 | 2001051738\n\n---|---\n\n[Fic]\u2014dc21 | CIP\n\n|\n\nAC\n\n* * *\n\n1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10  \nFirst Harper Trophy Edition, 2002  \nVisit us on the World Wide Web!  \nwww.harperchildrens.com\n\n## ACERCA DEL PUBLICADOR\n\n**Australia**\n\nHarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.\n\nLevel 13, 201 Elizabeth Street\n\nSydney, NSW 2000, Australia\n\n<http://www.harpercollins.com.au>\n\n**Canada**\n\nHarperCollins Canada\n\n2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor\n\nToronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada\n\n<http://www.harpercollins.ca>\n\n**New Zealand**\n\nHarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited\n\nP.O. Box 1\n\nAuckland, New Zealand\n\n<http://www.harpercollins.co.nz>\n\n**United Kingdom**\n\nHarperCollins Publishers Ltd.\n\n77-85 Fulham Palace Road\n\nLondon, W6 8JB, UK\n\n<http://www.harpercollins.co.uk>\n\n**United States**\n\nHarperCollins Publishers Inc.\n\n10 East 53rd Street\n\nNew York, NY 10022\n\n<http://www.harpercollins.com>\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Knitting the Perfect Fit - Melissa Leapman"}, "text": "\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2012 by Melissa Leapman  \nPhotographs copyright \u00a9 2012 by Potter Craft\n\nAll rights reserved.  \nPublished in the United States by Potter Craft, an imprint  \nof the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random  \nHouse, Inc., New York.  \nwww.pottercraft.com  \nwww.crownpublishing.com\n\nPOTTER CRAFT and colophon is a registered trademark  \nof Random House, Inc.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data  \nLeapman, Melissa.  \nKnitting the perfect fit / by Melissa Leapman.\u20141st ed.  \np. cm.  \n1. Knitting. 2. Tailoring (Women's) I. Title.  \nTT825.L388176 2012  \n746.43'2\u2014dc23 2011042936\n\neISBN: 978-0-307-96572-1\n\nPhotographs by Heather Weston  \nTechnical illustrations by Joni Coniglio  \nCharts and schematic illustrations by Melissa Leapman  \nTechnical editing by Charlotte Quiggle\n\nThanks to the Craft Yarn Council of America  \n(www.yarnstandards.com) for its [Standard Yarn  \nWeight system chart](Leap_9780307965721_epub_bm4_r1.htm#bm4a).\n\nv3.1\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nSpecial thanks go to the following knitters for their help testing the patterns and creating the samples for this project: Mink Barrett, Diane Bloomer, Patricia Bluestein, Didi Bottini, Meg Croft, Marie Duquette, Lynn Gates, Jessy Henderson, Susan Hope, Tom Jensen, Cheryl Keeley, Robin May, Joan Murphy, Candace Musmeci, Holly Neiding, Dawn Penny, Judy Seip, and Angie Tzoumakas.\n\nI am grateful to Cascade Yarn Company for providing all the yarn used in the Designer Workshops. With great stitch definition and a million and one colors, their Cascade 220 is a pleasure to design with!\n\nOnce again, I've been fortunate to surround myself with the best folks in the business: Thank you, Charlotte Quiggle, for all you do for the team. I've enjoyed our daily lunches immensely! And to Joni Coniglio: I am one very lucky author to have been able to work with you again. I'm sure my readers will gladly agree....\n\n#\n\nIntroduction\n\nBasics\n\nGet Your Knitting into Shape: Fully Fashioned How-Tos\n\nDecreases\n\nIncreases\n\nKnitting as a Foreign Language: Knitting Charts 101\n\nA Short Grammar Lesson\n\nThe Vocabulary List\n\nAbbreviations\n\nKnitting to Flatter\n\nStep Away from the Edge\n\nDesigner Workshop: Making Simple Stockinette Garments Look Extraordinary\n\nAster Stripes\n\nJacqueline\n\nOoh-La-La Skirt\n\nAberdeen\n\nDesigner Details\n\nDesigner Workshop: Enrich Your Knits!\n\nOrvieto\n\nCables 'n' Ribs\n\nThe Weekender\n\nCandace's Shell\n\nWinter White\n\nMerino Magic\n\nMarilyn's Crossover Top\n\nFigure Flatterers\n\nDesigner Workshop: Knit a Fine Figure\n\nMarie\n\nGlamour Girl\n\nAngled Ribs\n\nCharlie\n\nJen\n\nSydney\n\nTrompe l'Oeil\n\nAngie\n\nGeneral Knitting Techniques\n\nFinishing Techniques\n\nSweater Assembly\n\nYarn Choice and Substitution\n\nResources\n\nIndex\n\n# Introduction\n\nIt's all in the details! The use of what designers call fully fashioned shaping marks the difference between an ordinary ho-hum sweater and an undeniably spectacular fashion garment. Using mirrored increases and decreases\u2014slanting certain stitches toward the left or the right to create design details can easily give a garment a couture touch. It is the construction difference between an $80 J.Crew cashmere V-neck sweater and the one that sells for $200 in the same catalog. Though both are knitted out of the same soft yarn, the less expensive sweater is usually made by assembling front, back, or sleeve pieces cut from huge bolts of machine-knit fabric and then sewn with a serger, while the more expensive sweater is created with hand-manipulated, machine-made knitting stitches.\n\nMany handknitters already use shaping details in their garments: decreases for armholes, necklines, or sleeve caps and increases for sleeves. We don't cut our pieces into shape, we knit them into shape! But most knitters do not understand how shaping works or how to use simple increases and decreases to add visual interest to their garments. I've taught these techniques to hundreds of knitters, and during my workshop they begin to look at their knitting in a whole new way. I still remember that exciting aha! moment when a student in one of my classes worked her first fully fashioned V neckline a few years ago. \"It's so neat and perfect,\" she proudly proclaimed. In these pages we will explore simple fully fashioned techniques and how to apply them to create interesting designer elements and flattering shaping details in garments for any body shape. You will learn that just adding a few extra details can take any project to an entirely new level of sophistication.\n\nChapter 1 of this book is a refresher course on all the basics any knitter will need to master, from different increase and decrease methods, to Knitting Charts 101, and the dos and don'ts of figure flattery. Chapter 2 illustrates simple ways to incorporate fully fashioned shaping in stockinette garments. Included are four wearable\u2014and knittable!\u2014projects to get your needles clicking as you practice these basic shaping techniques. Chapter 3 provides ways of using fully fashioned shaping for designer details such as decorative raglan seams and figure-flattering vertical lines. Many of the projects include incorporated neckbands and armbands to make the finishing of the garment faster and easier. Chapter 4 delves into exciting ways to use strategically placed increases and decreases to create figure-flattering sweaters. Some of the projects in this section even use fully fashioned details to fool the eye and create the illusion of shape: You don't have to have a perfect hourglass shape to look great!\n\nThroughout the book, you'll discover little body shape icons   that will direct you to garments that are specifically designed for your individual figure type. Diagonal lines will draw attention to certain sections of the garment\u2014and of your body. If you're going to take the time\u2014and spend the money\u2014to make custom garments, you might as well knit flattering ones!\n\nYou'll have fun experimenting with fully fashioned designer details\u2014and using your knitting prowess to create knockout pieces that fit and flatter. Let's get started....\nCHAPTER\n\n1  \nBasics\n\nNo matter your skill level, superbly knit and figure-flattering garments can be made by anyone. If you're going to spend your free time (not to mention your precious yarn budget!) to create a sweater, the result ought to be as beautiful on you as possible. In this chapter, you'll learn the ins and outs of increases, decreases, knitting charts, and the simple abbreviations you'll encounter throughout the book.\n\nWhat Makes a Garment Fully Fashioned?\n\nHave you ever wondered why some ready-to-wear sweaters cost so much more than others, even when they are machine-knit? Less expensive garments are cut and sewn out of huge bolts of machine-knit fabric: using a template similar to a sewing pattern, the front, back, and sleeves are stamped and cut to size and stitched together using a serger. Fully fashioned pieces, in contrast, are knitted to the size and shape of the individual sweater components, with the shaping details as clearly visible features of the design.\n\nGet Your Knitting into Shape: Fully Fashioned How-Tos\n\nKnitters usually try to conceal their increases and decreases as best they can, but in fully fashioned knits we actually want to show off these details. Following are some of the essential skills every knitter should have in her or his repertoire. Later in the book, we'll explore ways to use these simple techniques to create sweaters that are beautiful, figure-flattering, and best of all, fun to knit!\n\nDecreases\n\nReducing the number of stitches changes the shape of a piece of knitting and makes it narrower. Each decrease technique results in a different look. Some decreases take on the texture of knit stitches, for example; others look like purl stitches. Also, some decreases slant toward the right while others lean to the left, depending on which direction the top stitch points, since it's the most visible one. Designers often pair mirrored decreases opposite each other on a piece of knitting for a decorative effect. More on that subject later.\n\nKnit Stitch Decreases\n\nKnit 2 Together (decreases one stitch and slants toward the right; abbreviated k2tog)\n\nWhen this method of decreasing is used, the resulting stitch leans toward the right. It's easy: Just insert the right-hand needle into two stitches at once as if they're a single stitch!\n\nTo do: With the working yarn toward the back, insert the right-hand needle from front to back, knitwise, into the first two stitches on the left-hand needle as if they were a single stitch, and wrap the yarn around the right-hand needle as you would for a knit stitch (illustration 1). Pull the yarn through both stitches, and slip both stitches off the left-hand needle at once. One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch slants to the right.\n\nSlip, Slip, Knit (decreases one stitch and slants toward the left; abbreviated ssk)\n\nThis knit decrease requires an extra step, but it creates a mirror image of the k2tog decrease described above.\n\nTo do: With the working yarn toward the back, insert the right-hand needle from the left to the right, knitwise, into the first and second stitches on the left-hand needle, one at a time, and slip them onto the right-hand needle (illustration 2).\n\nThen, insert the tip of the left-hand needle into the fronts of both slipped stitches (illustration 3) and knit them together from this position, through their back loops. One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch slants to the left.\n\nKnit 3 Together (decreases two stitches and slants toward the right; abbreviated k3tog)\n\nThis decrease is worked the same way as the k2tog decrease above, except the right-hand needle is inserted into three stitches at once, instead of two. In this case, two stitches are decreased, with the resulting stitch slanting toward the right.\n\nSlip, Slip, Slip, Knit (decreases two stitches and slants toward the left; abbreviated sssk)\n\nThis decrease uses the same method as the ssk decrease above except three stitches are slipped rather than two stitches, one at a time, from the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle.\n\nThe usual method is to slip each of the three stitches knitwise, but some knitters prefer slipping the first stitch knitwise and the next two stitches purlwise in order to achieve a more perfect mirror image to the k3tog, as described for the modified ssk. It's the knitter's choice.\n\nPurl Stitch Decreases\n\nPurl 2 Together (decreases one stitch and slants toward the right on the knit side of the fabric; abbreviated p2tog)\n\nThis type of decrease is most often done on wrong-side rows to combine two purl stitches, mimicking the look of a k2tog on the knit side of the fabric. Sometimes, though, designers use it on the right side to cleverly decrease along a purl \"valley\" as in Orvieto.\n\nTo do: With the working yarn toward the front, insert the tip of the right-hand needle into the first two stitches on the left-hand needle from right to left, purlwise, as if they were a single stitch, and wrap the yarn around the right-hand needle as you would for a purl stitch (illustration 4). Pull the yarn through both stitches, then slip both stitches off the left-hand needle at once. One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch slants to the right on the knit side of the fabric.\n\nSlip, Slip, Purl (decreases one stitch and slants toward the left on the knit side of the fabric; abbreviated ssp)\n\nThis technique is often used on wrong-side rows to mimic the left-slanting look of the ssk decrease on the knit side of the fabric.\n\nTo do: With the working yarn toward the front, slip the first two stitches knitwise, one at a time, from the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle. Then slip these two stitches back to the left-hand needle in their twisted position. Finally, insert the tip of the right-hand needle into the back loops of these two stitches, going into the second stitch first, and then the first stitch), and purl them together through their back loops as if they were a single stitch (illustration 5). One stitch has been decreased, and the resulting stitch leans toward the left on the knit side of the fabric.\n\nPurl 3 Together (abbreviated p3tog)\n\nThis decrease is worked the same as the p2tog decrease above, except the right-hand needle is inserted into three stitches at once, instead of two. Here, two stitches are decreased, with the resulting stitch slanting toward the right on the knit side of the fabric.\n\nSlip, Slip, Slip, Purl (abbreviated sssp)\n\nThis decrease is worked the same as the ssp decrease above, except three stitches are slipped, one at a time, instead of two. Here, two stitches are decreased, the resulting stitch slanting toward the left on the knit side of the fabric.\n\nGive It the Slip\n\nFor some knitters, the ssk decrease worked the typical way does not mirror the k2tog decrease perfectly. If you are among them and would like to make your left-leaning decrease look smoother and less like stair steps, try this method:\n\nSlip the first stitch knitwise and the second stitch purlwise from the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle (illustration 6). Slipping the first stitch knitwise keeps it from twisting at the bottom, producing a smoother and neater stitch; slipping the second stitch purlwise seems to help some knitters achieve a straighter, less choppy line toward the left.\n\nThen insert the left-hand needle into the fronts of both slipped stitches (illustration 7) and knit them together from this position, through their back loops.\n\nKeeping Your Directional Slants Straight\n\nMany knitters find it difficult to remember which decrease slants which way. Here's a simple trick to help you remember which leans to the left and which leans to the right.\n\nWrite down the name of the decreases \"k2tog\" and \"ssk.\" Then draw a diagonal line through the right slant in the 2 and the left slant in the s as shown. The diagonal lines match the slant of the decreases: The k2tog decrease slants to the right and the ssk decrease slants toward the left. How's that for an easy way to keep them straight?\n\nKeep It Simple\n\nWhen viewed from the purl side, the p2tog decrease and the ssp decrease look surprisingly similar. Neither one slants noticeably toward the left or the right. That's why the p2tog technique is used without a matching ssp decrease in Jacqueline. Working ssp decreases to mirror the p2tog decreases isn't worth the effort in such a case. No sense slowing down the precious knitting when no one (not even the designer!) will notice the tiny detail.\n\nIncreases\n\nKnitters have many methods for adding width to a piece of fabric. Each technique has a different effect, from making decorative holes to adding various amounts of texture, to barely there increases that are nearly invisible.\n\nSubtle Increases\n\nLifted Increases\n\nThis type of increase is made by working into a stitch in the row below the stitch that is currently on the needle, and also working into the stitch the regular way. Although nearly invisible, it is handy to be able to perform the lifted increase slanting to either the left or to the right, depending on the desired effect.\n\nTo do a lifted increase slanting to the left: Insert the left-hand needle into the back of the first stitch on the right-hand needle, just below the stitch just knit (illustration 8), and knit it (illustration 9).\n\nFor a lifted increase slanting to the right: Knit into the back of the stitch (into its purl \"bump\") in the row directly below the stitch on the left-hand needle (illustration 10).\n\nFor a lifted purl increase, work the same as the knit version, except purl instead of knit. Easy!\n\nRaised Increases (commonly known as \"make one\" increases)\n\nThis method of adding stitches uses the horizontal strand of yarn that hangs between the knitting needles. The knitter works into the strand, carefully twisting it to prevent a hole. As with the lifted increases above, raised increases can slant to the right and to the left. Here's how:\n\nFor a raised knit increase slanting to the left (abbreviated M1-L): Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand that's hanging between the needles from front to back, and knit the strand through its back loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in your fabric (illustration 11).\n\nFor a raised knit increase slanting to the right (abbreviated M1-R): Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand that is hanging between the needles from back to front, and knit the strand through its front loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in the work (illustration 12).\n\nNote: If no direction is specified, use the M1-L increase.\n\nSometimes raised increases are worked as purl stitches, such as when increases are made on wrong-side rows as follows.\n\nFor a raised purl increase that slants to the right on the right side of the fabric: Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand between the needles from back to front, then purl the strand through its front loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in your fabric (illustration 13).\n\nFor a raised purl increase that slants to the left on the right side of the fabric: Use the left-hand needle to scoop up the horizontal strand between the needles from front to back, then purl the strand through its back loop, twisting it to prevent a hole in your fabric.\n\nHowever, M1 purlwise increases are usually worked on right-side rows whenever a purl stitch is needed, and in these cases, the difference between left- and right-slanting stitches is hardly visible; no directional raised purl increases are necessary. Just use whichever version is easier for you.\n\nDecorative Increases\n\nSometimes, especially when working fully fashioned shaping, you'll want to feature increased stitches prominently in a design. Following are some techniques.\n\nBar Increases\n\nThis type of increase adds a bit of horizontal texture that looks very much like a purl bump. It is easy to work and is often used when knitting ribbings, since it serves to incorporate new stitches into the pattern quickly.\n\nTo do in a knit stitch (abbreviated k1f&b): First, insert the right-hand needle into the indicated stitch knitwise, wrap the working yarn around the needle the regular way to knit up a stitch but don't remove the original stitch off the left-hand needle (illustration 14).\n\nThen, reinsert your right-hand needle knitwise into the back of the same stitch, wrap the yarn around the needle to knit up a stitch (illustration 15), then slip the original stitch off. Two stitches are made out of one stitch.\n\nTo do in a purl stitch (abbreviated plf&b): Insert the right-hand needle into the indicated stitch purlwise, wrap the working yarn around the regular way to purl a stitch but don't remove the original stitch off the left-hand needle; then, purl through the back loop of the same stitch; finally, slip the original stitch off the left-hand needle. Two stitches are made out of one stitch.\n\nYarn Over Increases\n\nThis method of increasing places an eyelet hole in the fabric just below the new stitch. The technique is different depending on whether the stitch following the yarn over is a knit or a purl stitch.\n\nTo make a yarn over before a knit stitch: Bring the working yarn to the front, between the tips of the two knitting needles (illustration 16). As you knit the next stitch, the yarn will go over the right-hand needle to create the extra stitch.\n\nTo make a yarn over before a purl stitch: Bring the working yarn to the front, between the tips of the knitting needles, and then wrap it completely around the right-hand needle and back to the front (illustration 17). Simply bringing the yarn to the front does not add a new stitch; the yarn must go all the way around the right-hand needle to make the increase before a purl stitch.\n\nThese increases and decreases are used in various ways throughout the projects in the book. The included Designer Workshop sections highlight many ways of including these techniques in fully fashioned shaping to create flattering knits.\n\nKnitting as a Foreign Language: Knitting Charts 101\n\nCharts are visual representations of knitted fabric. When I teach workshops around the country, I tell my students that the charts and symbols are just another foreign language, complete with a vocabulary list (the symbols) and syntax (the graphic layout). They're easy to translate, and using them (instead of long black-and-white paragraphs of text) will make your knitting easier, faster, and much more fun.\n\nA Short Grammar Lesson\n\nCharts are set up on a grid. Each square of the grid represents one stitch and each row of squares represents one row of stitches.\n\nBecause the stitch pattern is being created from the bottom up, the first row is at the bottom of the chart, and the last row is at the top.\n\nRight-side rows are read from right to left. The following illustration shows the order in which stitches will be knit for Row 1, a right-side row, in the chart.\n\nAt the end of this first row, you'll flip your knitting so that the wrong side of the fabric faces you. The first stitch of a wrong-side row is the same physical stitch as the last stitch of the previous right-side row. Thus, wrong-side rows are read from left to right.\n\nIn all the patterns in this book, the first row knit is a right-side row, and so all right-side rows are odd-numbered rows. I've numbered them on the right-hand side of each chart to keep you oriented.\n\nThe Vocabulary List\n\nEach symbol indicates the way a stitch or group of stitches will be worked; the arrangement of the symbols on the chart determines the stitch pattern.\n\nOf course, every book and magazine seems to use a different set of symbols to represent the same knitting maneuvers. Usually, the symbols resemble the way the resulting stitches will appear once knit on the right side of the fabric. The symbol for a knit stitch, for example, is a blank box, mimicking the flat appearance of the knit stitch itself; the dot symbol for a purl stitch depicts the bumpy appearance of a purled stitch.\n\nAll rows are shown on the chart as they appear on the public side of the fabric. Therefore, symbols mean different things on right-side and wrong-side rows. If a symbol is used on both right- and wrong-side rows, the stitch key near the chart will tell you which knitting maneuver to use where.\n\nUsually, wrong-side rows are pretty simple: you just knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as they present themselves to you on the knitting needle. Many students in my classes call them \"rest rows\"! Scan the entire chart before you begin to see if that's the case. If so, you can zip along those wrong-side rows reading your knitting rather than the chart!\n\nIn some charts, bold vertical lines indicate the stitch repeat, and if extra stitches are required on each side to center the pattern on the fabric, they are shown to the left and right of the repeat.\n\nGlossary of Symbols\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n  |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= No stitch\n\n  |  |\n\n= K through back loop on RS; p through back loop on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Yarn over\n\n  |  |\n\n= K2tog on RS; p2tog on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Ssk on RS; ssp on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= P2tog on RS; k2tog on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Ssp on RS; ssk on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts at once knitwise; k1; p2sso\n\n  |  |\n\n= Insert needle into the 2nd and 1st sts as if to p2tog through back loops; slip these 2 sts onto the RH needle in this position; p1; p2sso\n\n  |  |\n\n= Right Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k1; k1 from cn OR k2tog, leaving them on LH needle; insert point of RH needle between these 2 sts and k the first one again\n\n  |  |\n\n= Left Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; k1; k1 from cn OR skip first st and k next st in back loop; then k the skipped st; slip both sts off LH needle together\n\n  |  |\n\n= Knot = K into (front, back, front) of next st, turn; p3, turn; slip 2 sts at once knitwise, k1, p2sso\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k next st through back loop; p1 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; p1; k1 from cn through back loop\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k2; p1 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; p1; k2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; p2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; p2; k2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k3; p1 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in front; p1; k3 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k3; p2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in front; p2; k3 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in back; k3; k3 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 sts onto cn and hold in front; k3; k3 from cn\n\nAbbreviations\n\nFollowing is a list of abbreviations used in the projects and charts of this book. Many of the techniques are discussed in the General Knitting Techniques section.\n\nbeg |  | beg(inning)  \n---|---|---  \ncm |  | centimeter(s)  \ncn |  | cable needle  \ng |  | gram(s)  \nk |  | knit  \nk1f&b |  | knit into the front and back of a stitch (increase)  \nk1-tbl |  | knit next stitch through its back loop  \nk2tog |  | knit the next 2 stitches together; this is a right-slanting decrease  \nk3tog |  | knit the next 3 stitches together; this is a right-slanting double decrease  \nLH |  | left-hand  \nMB |  | Make a bobble  \nm |  | meter(s)  \nmm |  | millimeter(s)  \nM1 |  | make 1 (increase)  \nM1-L |  | make 1 left (increase)  \nM1-R |  | make 1 right (increase)  \noz |  | ounce(s)  \np |  | purl  \np1b&f |  | purl into back and front of a stitch (increase)  \np1-tbl |  | purl next stitch through its back loop  \np2sso |  | pass 2 slipped stitches over  \np2tog |  | purl the next 2 stitches together; this is a right-slanting decrease  \nRH |  | right-hand  \nrnd(s) |  | round(s)  \nrpt |  | repeat  \nRS |  | right side (of work)  \ns2kp2 |  | centered double decrease = slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch  \nssk |  | slip the next 2 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, insert the left-hand needle tip into the fronts of both slipped stitches to knit them together from this position; this is a left-slanting decrease  \nssp |  | slip the next 2 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, return both stitches to left-hand needle and insert the right-hand needle into them from left to right and from back to front, to purl them together through their back loops; this is a left-slanting decrease  \nsssk |  | slip the next 3 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, insert the left-hand needle tip into the fronts of all three slipped stitches to knit them together from this position; this is a left-slanting double decrease  \nsssp |  | slip the next 3 stitches knitwise, one at a time from the left-hand needle to the right-hand one, return all three stitches to left-hand needle and insert the right-hand needle into them from left to right and from back to front, to purl them together through their back loops; this is a left-slanting double decrease  \nst(s) |  | stitch(es)  \nWS |  | wrong side (of work)  \nyd(s) |  | yard(s)  \n* |  | repeat instructions after asterisk or between the asterisks across the row or for as many times as instructed  \n() |  | alternate measurements and/or instructions for different sizes; also, repeat the instructions within parentheses for as many times as instructed  \n[] |  | repeat the instructions within bracket for as many times as instructed; these brackets also indicate the separation between imperial and metric measurements in the pattern text\n\nKnitting to Flatter\n\nOften, knitters are attracted to sweater projects that look fun and interesting to knit but forget that the final product must be wearable and, hopefully, flattering. Obviously, not every garment is appropriate for everyone. Here's how to determine your figure type and choose the designs best suited to you.\n\nBody Type\n\nMost women's bodies fall into five basic shapes: triangle, inverted triangle, round, rectangle, or hourglass. What shape are you?\n\nFirst, you'll need to take some body measurements. It's best to do so while wearing a good, supportive bra, and it's probably a smart idea to enlist a friend to help you, so you're sure the measuring tool doesn't dip down in the back, giving you inaccurate measurements.\n\nAlso, since we tend to subconsciously round our measurements up or down, I suggest that all measurements be taken using a length of nonstretchy yarn or ribbon and then use a ruler. Linen or mercerized cotton yarn is best; stay away from most wools and silks.\n\nMeasure your bust at its fullest area, your waist at its narrowest spot (usually just above the navel), and your hips and rear end at their fullest spot, keeping the yarn close to the body but not too tight or too loose. It's the ratio of these three measurements to each other that determines body type, as shown in the table opposite.\n\nEach project in this book is designed to flatter specific body types, so be sure to look for the body shape icons for each pattern in this book. And the entire Designer Workshop in chapter 4 is devoted to ways to make every figure type look great. After all, the goal is to design garments that have designer details which are not only fun to knit, but flattering as well.\n\nFit\n\nEase is the difference between the actual measurements of the finished garment and your physical body measurements. More ease provides a roomier fit; less ease creates a tighter fit. Negative ease describes a sweater that is smaller than the body; the fabric is meant to stretch to fit to create flattering, body-conscious lines.\n\nHere are the fits and eases referred to in the projects in this book.\n\nVery close-fitting: Actual body measurements or smaller (negative ease)\n\nClose-fitting: Actual body measurement + 1\u20132\"/[2.5\u20135cm]\n\nStandard-fitting: Actual body measurement + 2\u20134\"/[5\u201310cm]\n\nLoose-fitting: Actual body measurement + 4\u20136\"/[10\u201315cm]\n\nOversized: Actual body measurement + 6\"/[15cm] or more\n\nSHAPE ICON | Body Type | Relative relationship between physical measurements | Wardrobe Tips | Sweater Dos | Sweater Don'ts  \n---|---|---|---|---|---  \n  | Triangle | Hip measurement larger than both waist and bust | Distract attention from the hips; emphasize the chest and neckline | Interesting necklines; pattern interest in the upper third of the design | Close-fitting ribbings at hips; strong horizontal lines in the lower third of the design; tops that end at the widest place on the hips  \n  | Inverted Triangle | Bust measurement larger than both waist and hips | Distract attention from shoulder and upper body; draw attention to slender hips and waist | Set-in sleeves, deep necklines; interesting stitch patterns in the lower half of the design; flared silhouettes | Heavy drop shoulders; giant lapels or collars; puffed sleeves  \n  | Round | Waist measurement larger than both hips and bust | De-emphasize the waist | Empire waists; deep necklines or other design details in the upper third of sweaters | Boxy silhouettes; high necklines; heavy cabled fabrics  \n  | Rectangle | Hip, waist, and bust measurements are just about equal | Create the illusion of curves | Cinch in the waist; add bust darts; define the shoulders and upper body area; flowy, feminine A-line silhouettes | Boxy silhouettes  \n  | Hourglass | Hip and bust measurements are relatively equal, with a much narrower waist measurement | Highlight curves | Add waist shaping; belted looks | Loose, straight silhouettes\nCHAPTER\n\n2  \nStep Away from the Edge\n\nTypically, knitters go to great lengths to make their increases and decreases as invisible as possible. (Could this be because they haven't effectively perfected their technique?) Fully fashioned shaping, a technique used in the fashion industry, deliberately puts these elements on display, creating exquisite garments that are beautiful and polished-looking.\n\nDesigner Workshop  \nMaking Simple Stockinette Garments Look Extraordinary\n\nAs we discovered in chapter 1, knitters have several methods to choose from when shaping garments. Each technique adds a different design element to a piece of knitting, especially when worked in a fully fashioned way. Let's start exploring the options.\n\nFully fashioned shaping occurs when increases and decreases are worked one or two\u2014and sometimes even more!\u2014stitches away from the edge of the fabric.\n\nThis designer approach creates a frame, usually stockinette, which outlines the shape of the piece of fabric. This easy technique\u2014simply moving the increases and decreases toward the interior of the knitting\u2014adds a vertical element to the garment. Placed near side seams, these vertical lines draw the eye up and have a slimming effect; used along raglan seams, the lines point toward the face, putting the focus where you want it (and away from where you don't).\n\nAnd, without the extra bulk and fabric strain often experienced when shaping is worked right at the edge of garments, seams are neater and easier to sew, since the increases and decreases are moved away from selvedge edges. Bonus!\n\nFully fashioned shaping can also make your conventional neckbands easier to finish, since stitches are more easily picked up between plain stockinette stitches rather than along awkwardly shaped decreased edges. Simply put, smoother edges make for neater finishing.\n\nOf course, even if a pattern doesn't specifically call for fully fashioned increases and decreases, you can add them yourself! It will make the difference between an ordinary sweater and a knockout.\n\nDecreases the Fully Fashioned Way\n\nChoose one of the following methods of decreasing, depending on the effect you'd like to achieve.\n\nIncreases and decreases that slant with the shape of the fabric will blend in, creating an organic look to your design; for highest contrast, you'll want to choose ones that slant against the grain of the fabric.\n\nSmooth Lines\n\nPlacing left-slanting decreases on the right-hand side of the fabric and right-slanting ones on the left-hand side creates subtle and neat vertical lines along the edges. The swatch shows mirrored decreases worked this way. Here, a left-slanting ssk decrease is used to combine the fifth and sixth stitches on the right-hand side and a right-slanting k2tog decrease is used to combine the fifth and sixth stitches on the left-hand side. Each decrease is leaning toward the interior of the fabric, leaving a subtle stockinette stitch frame on the outer edges. Aster Stripes uses smooth fully fashioned decreases worked one stitch away from the edge.\n\nWhen your main fabric has a pattern stitch, it's often a good idea to work all shaping with smooth fully fashioned lines. If you keep the first 4 stitches (or 2 or 10 or whatever) in plain stockinette, you'll decrease or increase just inside the stockinette frame you're creating. Then, once you have enough stitches for a full repeat of your stitch pattern, it will be simple to incorporate the new stitches into pattern. Easy!\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Give it a try! Here's how to knit a sample with smooth fully fashioned decreases: cast on 35 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work a decrease row every 4 rows until 21 stitches remain.\n\nIf your Decrease Row is worked on the right side: K4, ssk, knit to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, k4.\n\nIf your Decrease Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, p2tog, purl to the last 6 stitches, ssp, p4.\n\nOne stitch has been decreased each side of the Decrease Row; two stitches have been decreased each row in total.\n\nFeathered Lines\n\nWhen the decreases slant away from the interior of the fabric and toward the sides, another effect is achieved. The swatch below shows right-slanting k2tog decreases on the right-hand side of the fabric and left-slanting ssk decreases on the left-hand side, each worked five stitches in from the edge. Here, the decreases appear as little diagonal \"blips\" pointing away from center. They're a focal point of the fabric. Feathered decreases are used in Aberdeen for a very different reason: it's easier to maintain the color pattern when decreasing this way.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Try it yourself. To knit a sample swatch with feathered fully fashioned decreases: Cast on 35 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work a decrease row every 4 rows until 21 stitches remain.\n\nIf your Decrease Row is worked on the right side: K4, k2tog, knit to the last 6 stitches, ssk, k4.\n\nIf your Decrease ROW is worked on the wrong side: P4, ssp, purl to the last 6 stitches, p2tog, p4.\n\nOne stitch has been decreased each side of the Decrease Row.\n\nLiving on the Edge\n\nOf course, fully fashioned decreasing describes any time shaping is worked away from the selvedges, but different effects are achieved depending where the decreases are positioned relative to the edge of the fabric. The swatch shows smooth decreases worked five stitches from the edge. For comparison, the top swatch on this box has the mirrored decreases worked three stitches in, and the bottom swatch shows them placed seven stitches in. The former will have a subtle effect while in the latter, the shaping will become the forefront of the design. Like most things in knitting, it's fun (and useful) to be able to choose the effect you want.\n\nIncreases the Fully Fashioned Way\n\nAs with decreasing, knitters have the choice of several different methods for increasing, from quite subtle to more decorative and ornate.\n\nDirectional Stranded Increases  \n(commonly known as M1 increases)\n\nTo add stitches while affecting the tension or texture of stitches that are already on the needles in a very subtle way, stranded increases are usually used. This type of increase borrows a bit of yarn from the stitches on either side of the new stitch. Different effects are achieved when the increases lean toward the selvedge edges or toward the center of the fabric. Let's take a look:\n\nThe swatch above shows directional M1 increases slanting toward the interior of the fabric. Here, M1-L is worked near the beginning of rows, and M1-R is worked near the end of rows. Notice how the stockinette frame going up the sides appears distinct from the main part of the knitting. Fully fashioned increases are worked this way in Aster Stripes.\n\nOn the other hand, the swatch below shows what happens when M1 increases slant toward the selvedge edges. In this case, the little diagonal \"blips\" formed by the increases slant with the grain of the fabric, blending in.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Try it! To knit a sample with stranded increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle.\n\nFor a strong effect (see swatch): If your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, M1-L, knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-R, k4.\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, M1-R purlwise, purl to the last 4 stitches, M1-L purlwise (this page), p4.\n\nOne stitch is increased on each side of the Increase Row.\n\nFor a subtle effect (see swatch):\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, M1-R, knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-L, k4.\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, M1-L purlwise, purl to the last 4 stitches, M1-R purlwise, p4.\n\nOne stitch has been increased on each side of the Increase Row.\n\nOf course, it is the knitter's choice which version to use, depending on the desired effect. The important thing is that all M1 increases slant toward one direction on one edge of the fabric and toward the other direction on the other edge. Stacking the increases this way adds a cohesive look to a design.\n\nDecorative Yarn Over Increases\n\nUsing a yarn over increase a few stitches in from the side selvedges makes a delicate line of holes that can accentuate the shape of the knit piece.\n\nThe swatch above shows this type of increase worked 4 stitches away from the edges.\n\nAlthough yarn over increases are not directional increases, when abutted next to each other as in a seam, they're quite beautiful. The swatch below shows fully fashioned yarn over increases worked on either side of a seam.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Give it a go! To knit a sample with fully fashioned yarn over increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle. This method is best used 2 or more stitches away from the edge.\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, yarn over, k4. One stitch has been increased each side.\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, yarn over, purl to the last 4 stitches, yarn over, p4. One stitch has been increased each side.\n\nNote that it is important to always wrap the working yarn around the right-hand needle in the same direction each time: in between the tips of the two knitting needles toward the front, then up around the top of the right-hand needle to the back. Wrapping the yarn around the needle in the opposite direction creates a smaller hole.\n\nIn Fine Feather\n\nFor more dramatic feathered decreases, work paired double decreases. Use the right-slanting k3tog on the right-hand side of the fabric and the left-slanting sssk on the left-hand side for symmetry. The swatch below shows double feathered decreases. Notice how even though the shaping is worked every 8 rows (instead of every 4 rows as in the previous examples), those little diagonal blips truly stand out and become a design element of their own.\n\nOf course, fully fashioned details show up really well on either side of a seam. The swatch below reveals the beauty of double feathered decreases mirrored along a seam. Here, the left-slanting sssk decrease and the right-slanting k3tog decrease each point toward the center seamline. Imagine how dramatic this technique would look along the diagonal line of a raglan!\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Give it a whirl! To knit a sample with double feathered fully fashioned decreases, cast on 35 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work a decrease row every 8 rows until 19 stitches remain. This method is best used 3 or more stitches away from the edge.\n\nIf your Decrease Row is worked on the right side: K4, k3tog, knit to the last 7 stitches, sssk, k4.\n\nIf your Decrease Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, sssp, purl to the last 7 stitches, p3tog, p4.\n\nTwo stitches have been decreased each side of each Decrease Row\u2014that's four stitches decreased each row.\n\nLifted Increases\n\nLifted increases pull up stitches from the row below and can lean toward the left or right, just like stranded increases. Different looks are achieved depending on which way the new stitches slant.\n\nThe swatch above shows left-leaning lifted increases near the beginning of rows and right-leaning ones near the end of rows.\n\nThe swatch below shows the increases reversed, with the right-leaning ones near the beginning of rows and the left-leaning ones near the end.\n\nIt's the knitter's choice which way to go, but it is essential to be consistent once the line is set up.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Try it! To knit a sample with mirrored fully fashioned lifted increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle.\n\nFor an Increase Row with left-slanting increases near the beginning of rows and right-slanting ones near the end of rows: K4, make a left-slanting lifted increase, knit to the last 4 stitches, make a right-slanting lifted increase, k4. One stitch has been increased each side.\n\nFor an Increase Row with right-slanting increases near the beginning of rows and left-slanting ones near the end of rows: K4, make a right-slanting lifted increase, knit to the last 4 stitches, make a left-slanting lifted increase, k4. One stitch has been increased each side.\n\nBeaded Increases\n\nWorked 2 or more stitches away from the selvedge, this type of increase creates tiny textured dots that sit on top of the fabric. The increases are made by purling and knitting into a single stitch.\n\nThe swatch below shows beaded increases worked 4 stitches away from the edge.\n\nThese increases are beautiful worked on either side of a seam, as seen in the swatch below. As a bonus, the purl bumps are easy to see, which makes it easier to keep track of how many increases have been worked.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Check it out! To knit a sample with fully fashioned beaded increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette, and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle.\n\nIf your Increase ROW is worked on the right side: K4, [knit and then purl] into the next stitch, knit to the last 5 stitches, [purl and then knit] into the next stitch, k4.\n\nIf your Increase ROW is worked on the wrong side: P4, [purl and then knit] into the next stitch, purl to the last 5 stitches, [knit and then purl] into the next stitch, p4.\n\nA Variation on Beaded Increases\n\nKnitters can use bar increases to create neat fully fashioned increases. Like the previous example, two stitches are worked into a single stitch, but in this case, the increase is made by knitting into the front and then the back of a stitch (see swatch). Because the two new stitches are made in different \"legs\" of the original stitch, the yarn is stretched less, yielding a neater result.\n\nFor symmetrical increases, be sure to work the bar increases one stitch closer to the edge on the right edge of the fabric.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Go for it! To knit a sample of this variation on beaded increases, cast on 21 stitches. Begin stockinette and work an increase row every 4 rows until 35 stitches are on the needle.\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the right side: K4, [knit into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, knit to the last 6 stitches, [knit into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, k5.\n\nIf your Increase Row is worked on the wrong side: P4, [purl into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, purl to the last 6 stitches, [purl into the front and then the back] of the next stitch, p5.\n\nIn this example, the textured \"blip\" is five stitches in from the edge on each side.\n\nBe sure to experiment with each of these different fully fashioned increases and decreases so you can choose which ones you'd like to incorporate in your next knitting project. Just because a pattern doesn't specify this sort of detail doesn't mean you can't add it!\n\nAster Stripes\n\nAster Stripes\n\nThis sporty wardrobe basic makes a great layering piece with its tapered, flattering silhouette and a high, ribbed turtleneck. It's the perfect choice as an in-between season essential. Of course, if you prefer a crewneck, work your neckband for 1\" /[2.5cm] and then bind off. Basic knit and purl decreases are used in the design, making it a good opportunity to practice fully fashioned shaping!\n\nSkill Level\n\nAdvanced Beginner\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52, 56)\" /[81 (91, 101.5, 112, 122, 132, 142)cm] Length: 23 (23\u00bd, 24, 24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd, 25)\" /[58.5 (59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62, 63.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Cascade Yarns' Ultra Pima (3-light/DK weight; 100% pima cotton; each approximately 3\u00bd oz/[100g] and 220 yds/[200m]): 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 4, 5) hanks of Orchid #3709 (A), 1 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3) hanks of Spring Moss #3745 (B), 1 (1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 2) hanks of Chartreuse #3746 (C), 2 (2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 3) hanks of Iris #3708 (D), and 1 (1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 2) hanks of Buttercup #3748 (E)   Light\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n22 stitches and 30 rows = 4\" /[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nRib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, *p2, k2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: P2, *k2, p2; repeat from the * across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nStockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit across.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for pattern.\n\nStripe Pattern (over 64 rows)\n\nWorking in stockinette stitch, work 8 rows each of *B, C, A, D, B, E, D, A; repeat from the * for the pattern.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned armhole and sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, k1, ssk, knit to the last 3 stitches, k2tog, k1; on wrong-side rows, p3, p2tog, purl to the last 5 stitches, ssp, p3.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, knit to 3 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, k1; on the left-hand side of the neck, k1, ssk, knit to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases: On right-side rows, k4, M1-L (this page), knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-R, k4; on wrong-side rows, p4, M1 purlwise (this page), purl to the last 4 stitches, M1 purlwise, p4.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nDon't let these horizontal stripes scare you! The tapered shape of the body of this sweater prevents extra fabric from settling at the waist. And the short sleeves keep the look light.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles and A, cast on 82 (90, 102, 114, 124, 134, 146) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 3\u00bc\" /8.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 purlwise technique ([this page) to increase 0 (1, 1, 0, 1, 1, 1) stitch after the first stitch and before the last stitch of the last row\u201482 (92, 104, 114, 126, 136, 148) stitches.\n\nChange to the larger needles and B; begin stockinette stitch and the Stripe Pattern, and work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 6 rows 4 times\u201490 (100, 112, 122, 134, 144, 156) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 14\u00bd\" /[37cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Make a note of which row of the Stripe Pattern you ended with.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 4 (5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) every row 0 (0, 2, 4, 8, 12, 16) times, every other row 0 (3, 5, 6, 5, 3, 2) times, then every 4 rows 3 (2, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201472 (74, 76, 78, 80, 82, 84) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 21\u00bd (22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd)\" /[54.5 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nK19 (20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25), join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 34 stitches, knit to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) on the next right-side row\u201418 (19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24) stitches remain each side.\n\nWork both sides even with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 22 (22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd, 24)\" /[56 (57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 61)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 4 (5 5, 5, 5, 6, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 6 (4, 5, 6, 7, 5, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFront\n\nWork the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 20 (20\u00bd, 21, 21, 21\u00bd, 21\u00bd, 22)\" / [51 (52, 53.5, 53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nK29 (30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35); join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 14 stitches, knit to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 5 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 3 stitches at each neck edge once; work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) at each neck edge every right-side row 3 times\u201418 (19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to the shoulders.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork same as for the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles and A, cast on 58 (58, 62, 62, 66, 66, 74) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nChange to the larger needles and B; begin stockinette stitch and the Stripe Pattern, and work fully fashioned sleeve increases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 2, 8, 6) times, every other row 0 (2, 2, 8, 7, 4, 5) times, every 4 rows 1 (3, 3, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201464 (68, 72, 78, 84, 90, 96) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 4\" /[10cm] from the beginning, ending after the same row of the Stripe Pattern as the Front and Back to the armholes.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 4 (5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 2 (3, 4, 3, 3, 2, 2) times, then every other row 13 (13, 13, 15, 17, 19, 21) times\u201426 stitches remain.\n\nBind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201418 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the left shoulder seam.\n\nNeckband\n\nWith right side facing, smaller needles, and A, pick up and knit 110 stitches around the neck.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the neckband measures approximately 9\" /[23cm] from the beginning, or to the desired length.\n\nBind off in the pattern.\n\nSew the right shoulder seam, including the side of the neckband.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the sleeve seams.\n\nSew the side seams.\n\nJacqueline\n\nJacqueline\n\nKnit this classic jacket for the office and beyond. Since the fabric is reverse stockinette, purl decreases and increases create the shaping details.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust (buttoned): 34\u00bd (38\u00bd, 42\u00bd, 46\u00bd, 50\u00bd, 54\u00bd)\" /[87.5 (98, 108, 118, 128.5, 138.5)cm]\n\nLength: 21\u00bd (21\u00bd, 22, 22\u00bd, 23, 23)\" /[54.5 (54.5, 56, 57, 58.5, 58.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Knit One Crochet Too's Wrapunzel (4-medium/worsted weight; 70% superwash wool/30% acrylic; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 93 yds/[85m]): 10 (11, 12, 13, 14, 15) balls of Poppy Gold #411   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 8 (5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 4 stitch holders\n\n\u2022 5 (5, 5, 5, 6, 6) stitch markers\n\n\u2022 5 (5, 5, 5, 6, 6) buttons, 1\u00bc\" /[32mm] (JHB International's Stitched Wave Style #83119 buttons were used on sample garment)\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\n\u2022 Pointed sewing needle\n\nGauge\n\n17 stitches and 24 rows = 4\" /[10cm] in reverse stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nSeed Stitch (multiple of 2 + 1 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K1, *p1, k1; repeat from the * across.\n\nPATTERN ROW: As Row 1.\n\nReverse Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Purl across.\n\nROW 2: Knit across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nFit\n\nClose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nWith its slightly shaped waist, this little jacket will flatter almost any body type. And the knit-in lapels draw the eye upward, focusing attention right where you want it.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases on the Back and sleeve caps: On right-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, p2tog, p2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases on the Left Front: On right-side rows, p2, p2tog, work in the established pattern to the end; on wrong-side rows, work in the established pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases on the Right Front: On right-side rows, work in the established pattern to the last 4 stitches, p2tog, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, k2tog, work in the established pattern to the end.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases: p2, M1 purlwise (this page), work to the last 2 stitches, M1 purlwise, p2.\n\n\u2022 Make buttonholes on the Right Front opposite markers on right-side rows as follows: Work 2 stitches in seed stitch, bind off 3 stitches purlwise, work in pattern to the end of the row; on the subsequent row, use the cable cast-on method to cast on 3 stitches above the bound-off stitches of the previous row.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 73 (81, 89, 97, 107, 115) stitches.\n\nBegin working seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nChange to the larger needles; begin reverse stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2\u00bd\" /[6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 more times\u201465 (73, 81, 89, 99, 107) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 8\" /[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every other row 3 more times\u201473 (81, 89, 97, 107, 115) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00bd\" /[32cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, bind off 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 1 (1, 2, 1, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 3, 2, 2) times\u201455 (59, 63, 67, 71, 75) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bd (20\u00bd, 21, 21\u00bd, 22, 22)\" /[52 (52, 53.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows, then bind off 5 (7, 7, 7, 7, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows\u201425 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nPocket Linings (Make 2)\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 21 sts.\n\nBegin reverse stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 4\u00bd\" /[11.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSlip the stitches onto a holder.\n\nLeft Front\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 41 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches.\n\nBegin working seed stitch; work even until the piece measures approximately 1\" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nChange to the larger needles; work reverse stockinette stitch to the last 7 stitches, then continue seed stitch across 7 stitches.\n\nContinue even in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 2\u00bd\" /[6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 more times, and at the same time, when 38 (42, 46, 50, 54, 58) stitches remain and the piece measures approximately 5\u00bd\" /[14cm] from the beginning, place the pocket lining as follows on a right-side row: P8 (10, 13, 15, 17, 19), slip the next 21 stitches onto a holder, purl across 21 stitches from pocket lining holder (with the purl side up), work to the end of the row.\n\nOnce all waist decreases are completed, 37 (41, 45, 49, 53, 57) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 8\" /[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every other row 3 more times\u201441 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00bd\" /[32cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLE\n\nBind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the armhole edge once, bind off 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the armhole edge once, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge every other row 1 (1, 2, 1, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 3, 2, 2) times, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 13\u00bd (13\u00bd, 14, 14\u00bd, 15, 15)\" /[34.5 (34.5, 35.5, 37, 38, 38)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, place a marker between the seed stitch buttonband and the reverse stockinette stitches, and shape the lapel as follows:\n\nSHAPE LAPEL\n\nLAPEL INCREASE ROW (RS): Work to the marker, slip the marker, M1 knitwise or purlwise as needed to maintain the seed stitch pattern, work in seed stitch to the end of the row.\n\nRepeat the Lapel Increase Row every 10 rows 3 more times, working new stitches in seed stitch as they accumulate\u201436 (38, 40, 42, 43, 45) stitches.\n\nRemove the marker, and continue even until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd (18\u00bd, 19, 19\u00bd, 20, 20)\" /[47 (47, 48.5, 49.5, 51, 51)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nBind off 8 (8, 8, 8, 7, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next row, then bind off 6 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 3 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 2 stitches at the neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at the neck edge every row twice\u201415 (17, 19, 21, 23, 25) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bd (20\u00bd, 21, 21\u00bd, 22, 22)\" /[52 (52, 53.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 8) stitches at the armhole edge twice.\n\nWork one row even.\n\nBind off 5 (7, 7, 7, 7, 9) stitches.\n\nPlace markers for 5 (5, 5, 5, 6, 6) buttons, making the first 1\" /[2.5cm] from the lower edge, the last \u00bd\" / [1.5cm] from beginning of the lapel, with the others evenly spaced in between.\n\nRight Front\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 41 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches.\n\nBegin working seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\" /[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nChange to the larger needles; make the first buttonhole as you work seed stitch across the first 7 stitches (see Notes), and work reverse stockinette stitch to the end of the row.\n\nContinue even in the patterns as established until the piece measures approximately 2\u00bd\" /[6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nMaking buttonholes opposite the markers on the Left Front, work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 times, and at the same time, when 38 (42, 46, 50, 54, 58) stitches remain and the piece measures approximately 5\u00bd\" /[14cm] from the beginning, place the pocket lining as follows on a right-side row: Work across the first 9 (11, 14, 16, 18, 20), stitches, slip the next 21 stitches onto a holder, purl across 21 stitches from pocket lining holder (with the purl side up), purl to the end of the row.\n\nOnce all waist decreases are completed, 37 (41, 45, 49, 53, 57) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 8\" /[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) at the armhole edge on the next row, then every other row 3 times\u201441 (45, 49, 53, 57, 61) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00bd\" /[32cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLE\n\nBind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the armhole edge once, bind off 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the armhole edge once, work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) at the armhole edge every other row 1 (1, 2, 1, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 3, 2, 2) times, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 13\u00bd (13\u00bd, 14, 14\u00bd, 15, 15)\" /[34.5 (34.5, 35.5, 37, 38, 38)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, place a marker between the seed stitch buttonband and the reverse stockinette stitches, and shape the lapel as follows:\n\nSHAPE LAPEL\n\nLAPEL INCREASE ROW (RS): Work in seed stitch to the marker, M1 knitwise or purlwise as needed to maintain the seed stitch pattern, slip the marker, work to the end of the row. Repeat the Lapel Increase Row every 10 rows 3 more times, working new stitches in seed stitch as they accumulate\u201436 (38, 40, 42, 43, 45) stitches.\n\nRemove the marker, and continue even until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd (18\u00bd, 19, 19\u00bd, 20, 20)\" /[47 (47, 48.5, 49.5, 51, 51)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nBind off 8 (8, 8, 8, 7, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next row, then bind off 6 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 3 stitches at the neck edge once, bind off 2 stitches at the neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at the neck edge every row twice\u201415 (17, 19, 21, 23, 25) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bd (20\u00bd, 21, 21\u00bd, 22, 22)\" /[52 (52, 53.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 8) stitches at the armhole edge twice.\n\nWork one row even.\n\nBind off 5 (7, 7, 7, 7, 9) stitches.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nFIRST PIECE OF CUFF\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 19 stitches.\n\nBegin working seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2\u00bd\" /6.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 increase ([this page) to increase 1 stitch at the beginning of the row\u201420 stitches.\n\nSlip the stitches onto a holder.\n\nSECOND PIECE OF CUFF\n\nWork as for the first piece, but on the last row, use the M1 increase to increase 1 stitch at the end of the row\u201420 stitches.\n\nJOIN CUFF\n\nWith the right sides facing and the larger needles, purl across 20 stitches from the first side of the cuff, then purl across 20 stitches from the second piece of cuff\u201440 stitches.\n\nContinue working reverse stockinette stitch, and work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every other row 0 (0, 0, 0, 2, 2) times, every 4 rows 0 (0, 5, 11, 13, 13) times, every 6 rows 0 (8, 6, 2, 0, 0) times, then every 8 rows 7 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201454 (58, 62, 66, 70, 70) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00bd\" /[32cm] from the beginning, or to the desired length to the underarm, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 4 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 1) time, every other row 11 (10, 12, 13, 16, 14) times, then every row 1 (3, 2, 2, 0, 0) times\u201422 stitches remain.\n\nBind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201414 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nCOLLAR\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 73 stitches.\n\nBegin seed stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2\" /[5cm] from the beginning.\n\nDecrease 1 stitch each side every row 10 times\u201453 stitches remain.\n\nBind off in the pattern.\n\nSew shoulder seams.\n\nWith the right side of the collar facing to the right side, sew the bound-off stitches of the collar to the neckline, leaving approximately 2\" /[5cm] unsewn.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nPOCKET EDGINGS\n\nWith the right side facing and using the smaller needles, pick up and knit 21 stitches from one pocket holder.\n\nBegin seed stitch, and work even until the edging measures approximately 1\" /[2.5cm].\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nRepeat for the other pocket holder.\n\nSew pocket linings to the wrong side of Fronts. Sew sides of pocket edgings to the right side of Fronts.\n\nSew on the buttons where marked.\n\nOoh-La-La Skirt\n\nOoh-La-La Skirt\n\nWorked almost entirely in the round, this flirty fit 'n' flare skirt is easy to knit and fun to wear. Careful placement of stitch markers means you won't have to count every stitch as you go. Since this design is worked in the round, only simple knit decreases are used for shaping. Go for it!\n\nSkill Level\n\nAdvanced beginner\n\nSizes\n\nExtra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nWaist (before elastic): 28 (30\u00bd, 34, 38, 42, 46, 49)\" /[71 (77.5, 86, 96.5, 106.5, 117, 124.5)cm]\n\nHip: 33\u00be (37\u00bd, 41, 44\u00bd, 48, 55, 58\u00bd)\" /[85.5 (95.5, 104, 113, 122, 139.5, 149)cm]\n\nLength: 24\" /[61cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 JCA/Artful Yarns' Lustro (4-medium/worsted weight; 36% viscose/25% acrylic/20% mohair/19% nylon; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 148 yds/[135.5m]): 5 (5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10) balls of Emerald #3903   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 8 (5mm) 36\" /[90cm] circular knitting needle or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) 36\" /[90cm] circular knitting needle\n\n\u2022 17 stitch markers (1 in a contrasting color for the beginning of rounds)\n\n\u2022 Elastic, \u00be\" /[2cm] wide, cut to fit waist\n\n\u2022 Zipper, 6\" /[15cm]\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\n\u2022 Pins\n\n\u2022 Thread in contrast color for basting zipper\n\n\u2022 Sharp sewing needle\n\n\u2022 Thread to match the yarn color\n\nGauge\n\n18 stitches and 26 rounds = 4\" /[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needle.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Pattern\n\nStockinette Stitch Worked in the Round (any number of stitches)\n\nROUND 1 (RS): Knit around.\n\nPATTERN ROUND: As Round 1.\n\nSpecial Abbreviation\n\nS2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip the next 2 stitches as if to k2tog, k1, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 This skirt is made in the round in one piece from the bottom up.\n\n\u2022 Use a different colored marker for the beginning of the round.\n\n\u2022 To work the pattern as established, knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them.\n\n\u2022 The knit waist circumference has approximately 4\" / [10cm] of ease and will be gathered in by the elastic for a perfect fit.\n\nFit\n\nClose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nThink you can't wear a knit skirt? Nonsense! Fun flounces add movement and grace to this design, and a smooth waistband makes it sleek. It's easy to adjust the length of the elastic for a flattering custom fit. Subtle vertical lines magically elongate the body.\n\nSkirt\n\nWith the larger needle, loosely cast on 408 (408, 424, 440, 456, 488, 520) stitches.\n\nPlace a marker to indicate the beginning of the round; join, being careful not to twist the stitches.\n\nROUND 1 (RS): K11 (11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 18), *p29, k22 (22, 24, 26, 28, 32, 36); repeat from the * around, ending the round with p29, k11 (11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 18).\n\nWork 1 round in the established pattern.\n\nDECREASE ROUND 1: K10 (10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 17), *place a marker, ssk, p27, k2tog, place a marker, k20 (20, 22, 24, 26, 30, 34) stitches; repeat from the * around, ending the round with place a marker, ssk, p27, k2tog, place a marker, k10 (10, 11, 12, 13, 15, 17)\u2014392 (392, 408, 424, 440, 472, 504) stitches remain.\n\nWork 1 round even.\n\nDECREASE ROUND 2: Knit to the first marker, *slip the marker, ssk, purl to 2 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the * around\u2014376 (376, 392, 408, 424, 456, 488) stitches remain.\n\nRepeat the last 2 rounds 11 more times\u2014200 (200, 216, 232, 248, 280, 312) stitches remain.\n\nWork 1 round even.\n\nDECREASE ROUND 3: Knit to the first marker, *slip the marker, ssk, k1, k2tog, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the * around\u2014184 (184, 200, 216, 232, 264, 296) stitches remain.\n\nKnit 1 round.\n\nDECREASE ROUND 4: Knit to the first marker, *slip the marker, s2kp2, slip the marker; knit to the next marker; repeat from the * around\u2014168 (168, 184, 200, 216, 248, 280) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Knit to the first marker, *slip the marker, slip 1 purlwise, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the * around.\n\nKnit 1 round.\n\nRepeat the last 2 rounds until the piece measures approximately 9 (18, 18, 18, 18, 18, 9)\" /[23 (45.5, 45.5, 45.5, 45.5, 45.5, 23)cm] from the beginning, ending after a plain knit round.\n\nFOR SIZES EXTRA SMALL AND 3X ONLY\n\nNEXT ROUND: Repositioning markers as necessary so that they are on either side of the decrease stitch, *knit to 1 stitch before the next slipped stitch, s2kp2; repeat from the * around\u2014152 (___, ___, ___, ___, ___, 264) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Knit to the first marker, *slip the marker, slip 1 purlwise, slip the marker, knit to the next marker; repeat from the * around.\n\nKnit 1 round.\n\nRepeat the last 2 rounds until the piece measures approximately 18 (__, __, ___, ___, ___, 18)\" /[45.5 (__, __, __, __, __, 45.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a plain knit round.\n\nFOR ALL SIZES\n\nRemove all markers. Begin working stockinette stitch back and forth in rows, continuing to slip the slipped stitches on right-side rows and purling all stitches on wrong-side rows.\n\nWork even until the piece measures approximately 19\u00bd\" /[49.5cm] from the beginning.\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): *Knit to 1 stitch before the next slipped stitch, s2kp2; repeat from the * to the end of the row\u2014136 (152, 168, 184, 200, 232, 248) stitches remain.\n\nContinuing to slip the slipped stitches on right-side rows, work even until the piece measures approximately 23\" /[58.5cm] from the beginning, ending after completing a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAISTBAND\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Knit across, and use the k2tog method to decrease 10 (14, 15, 13, 11, 25, 28) stitches evenly across\u2014126 (138, 153, 171, 189, 207, 220) stitches remain.\n\nWAISTBAND\n\nChange to the smaller needle, and work even until the waistband measures approximately 2\" /[5cm].\n\nBind off loosely.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock the piece to the finished measurements.\n\nFold the waistband in half to the wrong side, insert the elastic, and loosely whipstitch into place.\n\nSecure elastic, and sew the opening closed.\n\nSew in zipper at side seam.\n\nAberdeen\n\nAberdeen\n\nPractice stranded colorwork technique as you knit this showstopper. It is worked entirely in the round with steeks at the neckline and sleeve caps, with single purl stitches at the sides to give the appearance of seams.\n\nSkill Level\n\nExperienced\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for the other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 34\u00bc (38, 4\u00bd, 46\u00bd, 50, 53\u00bd)\" /[87 (96.5, 105.5, 118, 127, 136)cm]\n\nHip: 36 (39\u00bd, 43, 48\u00bc, 53\u00bd, 55)\" /[91 (100.5, 109, 122.5, 136, 139.5)cm]\n\nLength (hemmed): 20\u00bd (21\u00bc, 21\u00bd, 22, 22\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\" /[52 (54, 54.5, 56, 57, 59.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Simply Shetland/Jamieson's Spindrift (1-super fine/fingering weight; 100% wool; each approximately 1 oz/[25g] and 115 yds/[105m]): 3 (3, 4, 4, 5, 5) balls of Lupin #629 (A), 2 (3, 3, 4, 4, 5) balls each of #685 Delph (B), #676 Sapphire (C), #1010 Seabright (D), and #135 Surf (E), 3 (3, 3, 4, 4, 4) balls of #764 Cloud (F), 1 (1, 1, 1, 1, 2) balls of #350 Lemon (G), and 1 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3) balls of #365 Chartreuse (H)   Super Fine\n\n\u2022 Size 1 (2.25mm) 29\" /[74cm] circular needle\n\n\u2022 Size 1 (2.25mm) 24\" /[60cm] circular needle\n\n\u2022 Size 1 (2.25mm) double-pointed needles (set of 4)\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) 29\" /[74cm] circular needle, or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) 24\" /[60cm] circular needle, or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) 16\" /[40cm] circular needle, or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) double-pointed needles (set of 4)\n\n\u2022 8 stitch markers (1 in a different color from the others to mark the beginning of rounds)\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\n\u2022 Size B/1 (2.25mm) crochet hook for crocheted steek (optional)\n\nGauge\n\n28 stitches and 32 rounds = 4\" /[10cm] in stranded 2-color stockinette stitch with the larger needle. To save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nLower Hem Pattern (multiple of 12 stitches) See chart.\n\nPeaked Fair Isle Pattern (multiple of 12 stitches) See chart.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 This sweater is worked entirely in the round from the bottom up, using steeks for the armhole and neck shapings; the sleeves are worked in the round separately from the body, using a steek to shape the sleeve cap.\n\n\u2022 The 9-stitch steeks are worked in a vertical stripe pattern as follows: *k1 with the background color of the round, k1 with the pattern color of the round; repeat from * 3 times, k1 with the background color. On color-change rounds, change colors in the middle of the first steek.\n\n\u2022 The steek stitches are not included in the stitch counts; it is the knitter's choice if she wants to use a different-sized steek.\n\n\u2022 When casting on for the steeks, use the e-wrap cast-on, alternating colors to match the steek stripe pattern.\n\n\u2022 To increase within the pattern, use the lifted increase technique (this page) in the color needed to maintain the pattern.\n\n\u2022 The sweater is designed so that the patterns on the body and sleeves will line up at the armhole.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nThis is not your typical Shetland ski sweater! Body-conscious waist shaping makes this piece flatter many body types. The diamond shading within the colorwork pattern lessens its stripey effect, and a deep scoop neckline draws attention upward. Perfect!\n\nBody\n\nWith the smaller circular needle and A, use the provisional cast-on to cast on 256 (280, 304, 340, 376, 388) stitches. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join, being careful not to twist the stitches.\n\nHEM\n\nBeginning the Lower Hem Pattern where marked for your desired size, *work Round 1 of the pattern across the first 127 (139, 151, 169, 187, 193) stitches, place a marker, p1 in the background color for the \"seam stitch,\" place a marker; repeat from the * once more.\n\nContinue in the pattern, purling the \"seam stitches\" in the background color, until Round 12 is completed.\n\nTURNING ROUND FOR HEM: Change to the larger needle; continuing with A and slipping markers, * slip 1 with the yarn in front, p1; repeat from the * around.\n\nSET UP MAIN PATTERN\n\nBeginning the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern where marked for your desired size and slipping markers, *work Round 1 of the pattern to the marker, p1 in the background color; repeat from the * once more.\n\nContinue in the pattern, purling the \"seam stitches\" in the background color, until the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern section measures the same as the length of the hem to the Turning Round.\n\nFOLD UP HEM\n\nCarefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the smaller needle as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the smaller needle behind the main knitting needle. With both needles in your left hand, continue the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern and k2tog (1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the smaller needle) all the way around to close the hem.\n\nWork 1 round in the pattern.\n\nSHAPE WAIST\n\nNEXT (DECREASE) ROUND: *K2tog, knit to 2 stitches before the first marker, ssk, slip the marker, p1, slip the marker; repeat from the * once\u2014252 (276, 300, 336, 372, 384) stitches remain.\n\nRepeat the Decrease Round every other round 2 (7, 7, 8, 12, 7) more times, then every 4 rounds 8 (6, 6, 6, 4, 7) times\u2014212 (224, 248, 280, 308, 328) stitches remain.\n\nWork even until the piece measures approximately 6\u00bd (6\u00be, 7, 7, 7\u00bc, 7\u00be)\" /[16.5 (17, 18, 18, 18.5, 19.5) cm] from the beginning.\n\nNEXT (INCREASE) ROUND: *Work a right lifted increase (this page), knit to the marker, work a left lifted increase (this page), slip the marker, p1, slip the marker; repeat from the * once\u2014216 (228, 252, 284, 312, 332) stitches.\n\nRepeat the Increase Round every 4 rounds 7 (5, 4, 5, 5, 4) more times, then every other round 0 (5, 6, 6, 5, 7) times\u2014244 (268, 292, 328, 352, 376) stitches, with 122 (134, 146, 164, 176, 188) stitches each, Front and Back.\n\nWork even until the piece measures approximately 13 (13\u00bd, 13\u00bd, 14, 14, 14\u00bd)\" /[33 (34.5, 34.5, 35.5, 35.5, 37)cm] from the beginning, ending 10 (13, 14, 17, 21, 25) stitches before the end of the round. Break the pattern color. Make a note of which pattern round you end with.\n\nESTABLISH ARMHOLE STEEKS AND SHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nNEXT ROUND: Removing markers as you come to them, bind off 19 (25, 27, 33, 41, 49) stitches with the background color; rejoin the pattern color and work to 9 (12, 13, 16, 20, 24) stitches before the next marker, break the pattern color, bind off 19 (25, 27, 33, 41, 49) stitches with the background color, rejoin the pattern color, work to the end of the round\u2014103 (109, 119, 131, 135, 139) stitches remain for both the Front and the Back.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Alternating colors (see Notes), cast on 4 stitches for the armhole steek, place a marker for the beginning of the round, cast on 5 more stitches for the armhole steek, place a marker, work to the 2nd set of bound-off stitches, place a marker, cast on 9 stitches for the armhole steek, place a marker, work to the end of the round.\n\nNEXT (DECREASE) ROUND: *Work the steek stitches, slip the marker, k2tog, work to 2 stitches before the next marker, ssk, slip the marker; repeat from the * once, then work the 4 remaining steek stitches\u2014101 (107, 117, 129, 133, 137) stitches remain for both the Front and the Back.\n\nRepeat the Decrease Round every other round 2 (2, 8, 12, 11, 10) times, then every 4 rounds 3 (3, 1, 0, 0, 0) times\u201491 (97, 99, 105, 111, 117) stitches remain for the Back when the armhole decreases are complete. At the same time, when the armholes measure \u00bd (\u00be, 1, 1, 1\u00bd, 2)\" /[1.5 (2, 2.5, 2.5, 4, 5)cm], place markers on either side of the 19 center front stitches.\n\nESTABLISH FRONT NECK STEEK AND SHAPE FRONT NECK\n\nNEXT ROUND: Work to the marked center front stitches and break the pattern color; using the background color and removing the markers, bind off 19 stitches for the front neck; rejoin the pattern color and work to the end of the round.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Work around and cast on 9 stitches for the front neck steek over the bound-off stitches, placing a marker before and after the new set of cast-on stitches.\n\nNEXT (NECK DECREASE) ROUND: Slipping markers as you come to them, work to 2 stitches before the front neck steek, ssk, work the front neck steek, k2tog, work to the end of the round.\n\nRepeat the Neck Decrease Round every round 5 more times, every other round 6 times, then every 4 rounds twice\u201422 (25, 26, 29, 32, 35) Front stitches remain each side of the front neck steek.\n\nWork even until the armholes measure approximately 6 (6\u00bc, 6\u00bd, 6\u00bd, 7, 7\u00bd)\" /[15 (16, 16.5, 16.5, 18, 19)cm].\n\nESTABLISH BACK NECK STEEK AND SHAPE BACK NECK\n\nNEXT ROUND: Slipping the markers as you come to them, work to 24 (27, 28, 31, 34, 37) stitches past the second armhole steek and break the pattern color; using the background color, bind off the next 43 stitches for the back neck; rejoin the pattern color and work to the end of the round.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Work around and cast on 9 stitches over the bound-off stitches for the back neck steek, placing a marker before and after the new set of cast-on stitches.\n\nNEXT (NECK DECREASE) ROUND: Slipping markers as you come to them, work to 2 stitches before the first back neck steek marker, ssk, work the back neck steek, k2tog, work to the end of the round\u201423 (26, 27, 30, 33, 36) Back stitches remain each side of the back neck steek.\n\nRepeat the Neck Decrease Round once more\u201422 (25, 26, 29, 32, 35) Back stitches remain each side.\n\nWork even until the armholes measure approximately 7\u00bd (73\u00be, 8, 8, 8\u00bd, 9)\" /[19 (19.5, 20.5, 20.5, 21.5, 23)cm].\n\nWith the background color, bind off all stitches.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller double-pointed needles and A, using the provisional cast-on technique, cast on 67 (67, 79, 79, 91, 91) stitches; place a marker for the beginning of the round and join, being careful not to twist the stitches.\n\nHEM\n\nBeginning the Lower Hem Pattern where marked for your desired size, work Round 1 of the pattern to the last stitch, place a marker, p1 in the background color for the \"seam stitch.\"\n\nContinue working the pattern, purling the \"seam stitches\" in the background color, until Round 12 is completed.\n\nTURNING ROUND FOR HEM: Change to the larger double-pointed needles; continuing with A, *slip the next stitch with the yarn in front, p1; repeat from the * around.\n\nSET UP MAIN PATTERN\n\nBeginning the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern where marked for the sleeves, work Round 1 of the pattern to marker, slip the marker, p1 for the \"seam stitch\" in the background color.\n\nContinue in the pattern, purling the \"seam stitches\" in the background color, until the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern section measures the same as the length of the hem to the Turning Round.\n\nFOLD UP HEM\n\nCarefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the smaller double-pointed needles as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the smaller needles behind the main needles. Holding smaller and larger needles in your left hand, continue the Peaked Fair Isle Pattern and k2tog (1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the smaller needle) all the way around to close the hem.\n\nNEXT (INCREASE) ROUND: Work a right lifted increase, then continue in pattern to the marker, make a left lifted increase, slip the marker, p1 for the \"seam stitch\" in the background color\u201469 (69, 81, 81, 93, 93) stitches.\n\nRepeat the Increase Round every 8 rounds 0 (5, 0, 0, 0, 1) times, every 10 rounds 5 (4, 0, 7, 0, 8) times, every 12 rounds 2 (0, 0, 1, 2, 0) times, every 14 rounds 0 (0, 4, 0, 4, 0) times, every 16 rounds 0 (0, 1, 0, 0, 0) times, changing to a circular needle as the stitches accumulate\u201483 (87, 91, 97, 105, 111) stitches.\n\nWork even until the piece measures approximately 13 (13\u00bd, 13\u00bd, 14, 14, 14\u00bd)\" /[33 (34.5, 34.5, 35.5, 35.5, 37) cm], ending 10 (13, 14, 17, 21, 25) stitches before the end of the round, ending after the same pattern round as the body up to the armhole.\n\nESTABLISH SLEEVE CAP STEEKS AND SHAPE CAP\n\nNEXT ROUND: Break the pattern color; with the background color, bind off 19 (25, 27, 33, 41, 49) stitches; rejoin the pattern color and work to the end of the round\u201464 (62, 64, 64, 64, 62) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Cast on 4 stitches for the sleeve cap steek, place a marker for the beginning of the round, cast on 5 more sleeve cap steek stitches, place a marker, work to the end of the round.\n\nNEXT (SLEEVE CAP DECREASE) ROUND: Slipping the markers as you come to them, work 5 steek stitches, k2tog, work to the last 2 sleeve stitches, ssk, work the 4 remaining steek stitches\u201462 (60, 62, 62, 62, 60) sleeve stitches remain.\n\nRepeat the Sleeve Cap Decrease Round every 4 rounds 0 (1, 2, 2, 5, 9) times, every other round 18 (18, 18, 18, 14, 8) times, then every round 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, changing to double-pointed needles as necessary\u201422 (22, 22, 22, 24, 26) sleeve stitches remain.\n\nWith the background color, bind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nSecure Front neck, Back neck, and armhole steeks.\n\nCut the steeks (this page).\n\nBlock the pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nUse mattress stitch to sew the shoulder seams.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith the right side facing, larger 16\" /[40cm] circular needle, and 2 strands of A held together, pick up and knit 116 stitches around the neckline.\n\nPurl 5 rounds.\n\nBind off purlwise, allowing the neckband to roll to the wrong side.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nTrim the steeks as necessary; fold back and tack to wrong side.\n\nNOTE\n\nMeasurements in the schematic illustrations are finished measurements, not including steek stitches.\n\nCHAPTER\n\n3  \nDesigner Details\n\nNow that we've seen how easy it is to add fully fashioned shaping to any pattern, let's take a look at ways to use these elements to create knockout knits.\n\nDesigner Workshop  \nEnrich Your Knits!\n\nIf you'd like to add a special detail to your knitting, include some of the following decorative applications of fully fashioned shaping. They're great along raglan and other armhole shaping, as well as on either side of sleeve caps\u2014even waist shaping! As a bonus, some of these design elements are noncurling, so they're ideal for incorporated neckbands and armhole bands, as in The Weekender. That way, you don't have to go back and pick up stitches later to finish the sweater. Hoorah!\n\nThe examples all use decreases, but increases could easily be used as well. Just substitute one of the increase methods inside the ornamental edges.\n\nGarter Ridges\n\nHere's an easy way to accentuate the shaped areas of a design with a bit of texture. Horizontal ridges of garter stitch are worked on 3 stitches just outside of the decreases as seen in the swatch below.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Give it a try! Knit up a sample with garter ridges defining the fully fashioned shaping. Just a little bit of texture can go a long way! Note that each 4-row repeat decreases 1 stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nRow 2: K3, purl to the last 3 stitches, k3.\n\nRow 3: K3, ssk, knit to the last 5 stitches, k2tog, k3.\n\nRow 4: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nDropped Stitches\n\nKnitters bend over backwards trying to prevent dropping their stitches, but this fully fashioned option allows you to intentionally drop them! It's a fun and novel way to draw attention to shaped areas. Prior to the shaping, one stitch is added by making a yarn over a few stitches in from the edge of the fabric; when all shaping is completed, the extra stitch is dropped from the needle and gently coaxed to \"run\" all the way down. Take a look at the \"deconstructed\" results in the swatch below.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Have a go at it: try a sample piece with intentionally dropped stitches. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases 1 stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nSet-Up Row (RS): K2, yarn over, knit to the last 2 stitches, yarn over, k2.\n\nRow 1 (WS): Purl.\n\nRow 2: Knit.\n\nRow 3: As Row 1.\n\nRow 4: K3, ssk, knit to the last 5 stitches, k2tog, k3.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain. ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nFinal Row (RS): K2, remove the next stitch from the left-hand needle and unravel it down to the original yarn over in the Set-up Row, knit to the last 3 stitches, remove the next stitch from the left-hand needle and unravel it down to the original yarn over, k2.\n\nDoing the Twist\n\nHere's a way to add lots of vertical lines to your knitting, each of them drawing the eye upward to create a flattering effect as seen in the swatch below. And it's so easy: just work a handful of stitches in a twisted rib pattern, knitting or purling in the back loops as you go. Fully fashioned decreases are worked in purl valleys so they are inconspicuous.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Try it: Here's a sample swatch with fully fashioned decreases worked just inside twisted rib panels. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): [K1 through the back loop, p1] 4 times, knit to the last 8 stitches, [p1, k1 through the back loop] 4 times.\n\nRow 2: [P1 through the back loop, k1] 4 times, purl to the last 8 stitches, [k1, p1 through the back loop] 4 times.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): Work the first 7 stitches in the established pattern, p2tog, knit to the last 9 stitches, p2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nRow 4: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nMulticolor Bands\n\nIt's fun to incorporate color into knits, and here's a novel approach: Work narrow Fair Isle bands just outside the fully fashioned shaping as seen in the swatch below.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  Give it a spin! Knit a sample piece with Fair Isle bands accentuating the fully fashioned shaping. Of course, any Fair Isle chart can be used; the pattern in this example is 5 stitches wide. It's best to use opposite colors for the background in the solid sections and in the charted areas to provide high contrast. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches with the main color.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern; with the main background color, knit to the last 5 stitches; knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern.\n\nRow 2: Purl 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern; with the main background color, purl to the last 5 stitches; purl 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): Knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern; with the main background color, ssk, knit to the last 7 stitches, k2tog; knit 5 stitches in the Fair Isle Pattern.\n\nRow 4: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nHorizontal Barred Stitches\n\nFor a bold fully fashioned effect, use slip stitch technique to create horizontal \"floats\" on the right side of the fabric as seen in the swatch below. Just be sure the working yarn is brought toward the knit side before slipping the stitches, and remember to return it to the back after slipping.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n  You'll be surprised at how easy it is to achieve this effect. Give it a try! Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): K1, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, knit to the last 4 sts, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, k1.\n\nRow 2: Purl.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): K1, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, ssk, knit to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, slip the next 3 stitches purlwise with the yarn in front, k1.\n\nRow 4: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nSimple Cables\n\nSometimes little cables along shaped areas are all a design needs to stand out. Look at the swatch below. In that swatch, fully fashioned decreases are worked within cables on each side of the fabric. Wow!\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n Have a go at it: Try a swatch with cables along the fully fashioned shaping. In this example, each cable twists toward the selvedges. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nRow 2: Purl.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): K2, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k1, ssk the stitches on the cable needle to combine them, knit to the last 5 stitches, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in front, k2tog, k1 from the cable needle, k2.\n\nRow 4: Purl.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nRaised Cables\n\nFor more stitch definition as seen in the swatch below, try this version of fully fashioned cabling.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n Here's how to work fully fashioned shaping with pronounced cabled stitches twisting toward the interior of the fabric. This method would be quite flattering for raglan decreases, since all design elements would be pointing toward the neckline.\n\nNote that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): K1, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in front, k2, k1 from the cable needle, knit to the last 4 stitches, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k1, k2 from the cable needle, k1.\n\nRow 2: Purl.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): K1, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in front, ssk to combine the next 2 stitches on the left-hand needle, k1 from the cable needle, knit to the last 4 stitches, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k1, k2tog the 2 stitches on the cable needle to combine them, k1.\n\nRow 4: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nExaggerated Cables\n\nWe can cross elongated stitches to create even more definition during fully fashioned shaping. In this case, one intentionally loose stitch on each side edge of the fabric is slipped for a few rows before cabling it. As seen in the swatch below, the twists slant toward the interior of the fabric and are loose, looking almost like hand embroidery. Try this technique on your next raglan sweater or sleeve cap.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n Practice knitting fully fashioned decreases with elongated cable stitches as seen above. You'll need two safety pins to hold the slipped stitches. To work the elongated stitches on Row 1, first insert the right-hand needle purlwise into the stitch on the left-hand needle, then wrap the yarn around the right-hand needle three times as you purl the stitch. It's easy! Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (WS): P1, purl the next stitch wrapping the yarn 3 times around the needle as you make the stitch, purl to the last 2 stitches, purl the next stitch wrapping the yarn 3 times around the needle as you make the stitch, p1.\n\nRow 2: K1, slip the next stitch onto a safety pin and allow it to hang to the front, knit to the last 2 stitches, slip the next stitch onto a safety pin and allow it to hang to the front, k1.\n\nRow 3: Purl across, leaving the stitches on the safety pins hanging and unworked.\n\nRow 4 (Decrease Row): K4, transfer the stitch from the safety pin to the left-hand needle, ssk, knit to the last 6 stitches (including the stitch on the safety pin), slip the next stitch to the right-hand needle, transfer the stitch from the safety pin to the left-hand needle, then slip the first stitch on the right-hand needle back onto the left-hand needle, k2tog, k4.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nCables and Eyelets\n\nFor a beautiful effect on women's and kids' knits, incorporate this fully fashioned detail. It combines cable twists with lace, as seen in the swatch below.\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n Give this interesting fully fashioned technique a whirl. It uses both cables and eyelets to attract attention to the shaped area. Note that each 4-row repeat decreases one stitch on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nRow 2: Purl.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): K1, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in back, k2tog, k1 from the cable needle, yarn over, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k1, ssk to combine the 2 stitches on the cable needle, knit to the last 7 stitches, slip the next stitch to a cable needle and hold in back, k2tog, k1 from the cable needle, yarn over, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k1, ssk to combine the 2 stitches on the cable needle, k1.\n\nRow 4: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 until 21 stitches remain.\n\nHoneycomb Cables\n\nHere's a lovely way to highlight fully fashioned shaping! Half of a honeycomb cable is worked on each side of the fabric (just outside the shaping) as seen in the swatch below. Once the seams are sewn, the two halves meet to create a beautiful honeycomb cable (see swatch, below right). I used this designer detail in a raglan sweater in my book entitled Cables Untangled (Potter Craft, 2006).\n\nSwatch It Up\n\n Swatch a bit of fully fashioned shaping using honeycomb cables. Here, the decreases occur in the purl \"valleys\" that frame the cabled sections. Note that each 8-row repeat decreases two stitches on each side.\n\nTo begin, cast on 35 stitches.\n\nRow 1 (RS): K1, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k2, k2 from the cable needle, p2, knit to the last 7 stitches, p2, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k2, k2 from the cable needle, k1.\n\nRow 2 and all even rows: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them.\n\nRow 3 (Decrease Row): K5, p1, p2tog, knit to the last 8 stitches, ssp, p1, k5.\n\nRow 5: K1, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in back, k2, k2 from the cable needle, p2, knit to the last 7 stitches, p2, slip the next 2 stitches to a cable needle and hold in front, k2, k2 from the cable needle, k1.\n\nRow 7 (Decrease Row): As Row 3.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20138 until 19 stitches remain.\n\nIt's fun to explore different ways to add visual interest to fully fashioned shaping. Practice with the swatches in this section and then incorporate these details into your knitting. Of course, you don't have to limit your use of fully fashioned techniques to shaping waistlines; you can use them to add beautiful designer touches, from integrated V-necklines to cabled raglan elements. You, too, can be a designer!\n\nOrvieto\n\nOrvieto\n\nIn this great topper, braided cables travel along the raglan seams. They extend all the way down the side seams, too, creating a beautiful\u2014and slimming!\u2014effect.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nExtra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust (buttoned): 34 (37\u00bc, 41, 42\u00bc, 46, 48\u00bd, 51\u00bd)\"/[86 (94.5, 104, 107.5, 117, 123, 131)cm] Length: 19\u00be\"/[50cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Lion Brand Yarn's Alpine Wool (5-bulky weight; 77% wool; 15% acrylic, 8% rayon; each approximately 3 oz/[85g] and 93 yds/[85m]): 9 (10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15) balls of Chili #115   Bulky\n\n\u2022 Size 10 (6mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 10\u00bd (6.5mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Cable needle\n\n\u2022 2 buttons, 1\u215d\"/[41mm] (JHB International's Arles Style #51105 were used on sample garment)\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\n\u2022 Pointed sewing needle\n\nGauge\n\n13 stitches and 22 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Box Stitch Pattern with the smaller needles.\n\nThe 9-stitch Cable Panels each measure 1\u00be\"/[4.5cm] across with the smaller needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nBox Stitch Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, *p2, k2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: P2, *k2, p2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 3: As Row 2.\n\nROW 4: As Row 1.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 for the pattern.\n\nRight Cable Panel (over 9 stitches) See chart.\n\nLeft Cable Panel (over 9 stitches) See chart.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned raglan decreases: On right-side rows, work 8 stitches in pattern, ssp, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, p2tog, work 8 stitches in pattern; on wrong-side rows, work 8 stitches in pattern, k2tog, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, ssk, work 8 stitches in pattern.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 64 (68, 72, 76, 80, 88, 92) stitches.\n\nSET UP THE PATTERNS\n\nWorking Row 1 of each pattern, work the Right Cable Panel across 9 stitches; work the Box Stitch Pattern over 46 (50, 54, 58, 62, 70, 74) stitches; work the Left Cable Panel across 9 stitches.\n\nContinue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10\u00bd, 10, 9\u00bd, 9, 8\u00bd, 8\u00bd)\"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nWork fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) every row 0 (0, 0, 1, 2, 8, 12) times, every other row 17 (20, 22, 23, 24, 22, 20) times, then every 4 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time\u201428 stitches remain.\n\nWork 1 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even.\n\nBind off in pattern, working k2tog over the sixth and seventh stitches of the Right Cable Pattern and ssk over the third and fourth stitches of the Left Cable Pattern to avoid cable splay.\n\nLeft Front\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 43 (43, 47, 47, 51, 55, 55) stitches.\n\nSET UP THE PATTERNS\n\nWorking Row 1 of each pattern, work the Right Cable Panel across 9 stitches; work the Box Stitch Pattern to the end of the row.\n\nContinue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10\u00bd, 10, 9\u00bd, 9, 8\u00bd, 8\u00bd)\"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN AND NECK\n\nWork fully fashioned raglan decreases at the armhole edge every row 0 (0, 0, 1, 2, 8, 12) times, every other row 17 (20, 22, 23, 24, 22, 20) times, then every 4 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately \u00bd\"/[1.5cm] less than the Back, ending after a right-side row, shape the neck as follows: Bind off 14 (12, 14, 12, 14, 14, 12) stitches at the neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at the neck edge twice.\n\nOnce all raglan decreases are completed, work 1 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even on remaining 9 stitches. Bind off in pattern, working k2tog over the sixth and seventh stitches of the Right Cable Pattern and ssk over the third and fourth stitches of the Left Cable Pattern to avoid cable splay.\n\nFit\n\nClose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nA relaxed double-breasted front closure makes this jacket easy for many figure types to wear. Lots of design features draw the eye to the face, from the upward-pointing cables to the collar.\n\nRight Front\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 43 (43, 47, 47, 51, 55, 55) stitches.\n\nSET UP THE PATTERNS\n\nWorking Row 1 of each pattern, work the Box Stitch Pattern across 34 (34, 38, 38, 42, 46, 46) stitches; work the Left Cable Panel across 9 stitches.\n\nContinue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10\u00bd, 10, 9\u00bd, 9, 8\u00bd, 8\u00bd)\"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN AND NECK\n\nWork fully fashioned raglan decreases at the armhole edge every row 0 (0, 0, 1, 2, 8, 12) times, every other row 17 (20, 22, 23, 24, 22, 20) times, then every 4 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 16\u00bd\"/ [42cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, make 2 buttonholes as follows: Work 4 stitches in pattern, bind off 2 stitches, work to the last 6 stitches, bind off 2 stitches, work to the end of the row. On the subsequent row, use the cable cast-on technique to cast on 2 stitches over the bound-off stitches of the previous row.\n\nComplete same as the Left Front.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 56 stitches.\n\nSET UP THE PATTERNS\n\nWorking Row 1 of each pattern, work the Right Cable Panel across 9 stitches; work the Box Stitch Pattern across 38 stitches; work the Left Cable Panel across the last 9 stitches.\n\nContinue in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 11 (10\u00bd, 10, 9\u00bd, 9, 8\u00bd, 8\u00bd)\"/[28 (26.5, 25.5, 24, 23, 21.5, 21.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nWork fully fashioned raglan decreases each side every other row 17 (16, 14, 13, 11, 10, 10) times, then every 4 rows 1 (2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8) times\u201420 stitches remain.\n\nWork 1 (1, 0, 1, 0, 0, 0) row even.\n\nBind off in pattern, working k2tog over the sixth and seventh stitches of the Right Cable Pattern and ssk over the third and fourth stitches of the Left Cable Pattern to avoid cable splay.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the raglan seams.\n\nCOLLAR\n\nWith the wrong side facing and using the smaller needles, beginning and ending approximately 1\u00be/ [4.5cm] from the Front edge, pick up and knit 54 stitches along the neckline.\n\nBeginning with Row 2 of the pattern, work the Box Stitch Pattern until the collar measures approximately 3\u00bd\"/9cm] from the beginning, and at the same time, on wrong-side rows, increase as follows, working new stitches into the established pattern: Work 2 stitches in pattern, Ml knitwise or purlwise ([this page), depending on what the next stitch in the pattern is, work to the last 2 stitches, Ml knitwise or purlwise (depending on what the next stitch in the pattern is), work 2 stitches in pattern.\n\nChange to the larger needles, and continue increasing on wrong-side rows as before until the collar measures approximately 5\u00bd\"/[14cm].\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nSew on the buttons opposite the buttonholes.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn\n\nCables 'n' Ribs\n\nCables 'n' Ribs\n\nThis slightly fitted pullover will hug you in all the right places. Fully fashioned decreases at the raglan seams create a perfectly seamless look.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nExtra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 32 (35, 39, 42, 45, 49, 52)\"/[81 (89, 99, 106.5, 114, 124.5, 132) cm]\n\nLength: 21\u00bd (22\u00be, 23\u00be, 24\u00bc, 24\u00be, 25\u00bd, 26\u00bd)\"/[54.5 (58, 60.5, 61.5, 63, 65, 67.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Classic Elite Yarns' Portland Tweed (4-medium/worsted weight; 50% virgin wool/25% alpaca/25% viscose; each approximately 13/4 oz/[50g] and 120 yds/[132m]): 9 (10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15) balls of Tidal Foam #5004   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 7 (4.5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Cable needle\n\n\u2022 2 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n24 stitches and 26 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Rib Pattern, unstretched, with the larger needles.\n\n30 stitches and 26 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Cable Pattern with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nRib Pattern (multiple of 5 + 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, *p3, k2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: P2, *k3, p2; repeat from the * across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nCable Pattern (multiple of 30 + 26 stitches) See chart.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For a perfect close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned body decreases: Work 11 (16, 21, 26, 31, 36, 41) stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 13 (18, 23, 28, 33, 38, 43) stitches, k2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned body increases: Work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in pattern, M1 purlwise (this page), work in pattern to the last 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches, M1 purlwise, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned raglan decreases: For right-side rows, work 6 stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, k2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row; for wrong-side rows, work 6 stitches in pattern, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, ssp, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned sleeve increases: Work 7 stitches in pattern, M1 knitwise (this page) or purlwise, depending on what the new stitch will be when incorporated into the Rib Pattern, work in pattern to the last 7 stitches, M1 knitwise or purlwise, depending on what the new stitch will be when incorporated into the Rib Pattern, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction.\n\nFit\n\nClose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nLet the elongating power of vertical ribs work their magic! Especially flattering for petite figures, dozens of lines in this design direct the eye upward, drawing attention right where it belongs.\n\nBack\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 110 (120, 130, 140, 150, 160, 170) stitches.\n\nSET UP BORDER PATTERNS\n\nROW 1 (RS): Work Row 1 of the Rib Pattern over the first 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, k4, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, k4, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, then work Row 1 of the Ribbed Pattern over 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches to end the row.\n\nROW 2 (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches.\n\nROW 3: Work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in pattern, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, slip 2 stitches to a cn and hold in back, k2, k2 from the cn, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, k4, [p4, k2, p3, k2] twice, p4, work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in pattern.\n\nROW 4: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches.\n\nROWS 5 AND 6: Repeat Rows 1 and 2.\n\nSET UP MAIN PATTERNS\n\nROW 7: Working Row 1 of each pattern, work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in the Rib Pattern, place a marker, work the Cable Pattern over the next 86 stitches, place a marker, work 12 (17, 22, 27, 32, 37, 42) stitches in the Rib Pattern.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nContinue the established patterns, and at the same time, work fully fashioned body decreases (see Notes) every 10 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 3) times, every 8 rows 3 (3, 3, 4, 4, 2, 1) times, then every 6 rows 1 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) time\u2014102 (112, 122, 132, 142, 152, 162) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 6\u00bd (6\u00bd, 6\u00be, 7, 7, 7\u00bc, 7\u00bd)\"/[16.5 (16.5, 17, 18, 18, 18.5, 19)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nContinue the established patterns, and at the same time, work fully fashioned body increases (see Notes) every 6 rows 1 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, every 8 rows 3 (3, 3, 4, 4, 2, 1) times, then every 10 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 3) times, working the new stitches into the Rib Pattern\u2014110 (120, 130, 140, 150, 160, 170) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 13 (13\u00be, 13\u00be, 13\u00be, 14, 14\u00bd, 15\u00bd)\"/[33 (35, 35, 35, 35.5, 37, 39.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nWork fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) every other row 18 (13, 11, 6, 7, 2, 3) times, then every row 10 (20, 26, 36, 38, 48, 50) times\u201454 (54, 56, 56, 60, 60, 64) stitches remain.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 18 (19\u00bc, 20\u00be, 20\u00bc, 21\u00bc, 22, 23)\"/ [45.5 (49, 51.5, 52.5, 54, 56, 58.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nContinue working the fully fashioned raglan decreases same as for the Back, and at the same time, bind off the middle 20 (20, 22, 22, 26, 26, 30) stitches.\n\nContinue working the fully fashioned raglan decreases same as for the Back, and at the same time, bind off 7 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 5 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 3 stitches at each neck edge once; decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge every row twice.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 47 (47, 57, 57, 57, 57, 57) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nWork fully fashioned sleeve increases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 6, 5) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 6, 14, 15) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 9, 0, 0) times, every 10 rows 8 (6, 6, 6, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 12 rows 2 (4, 4, 4, 0, 0, 0) times, working new stitches into the Rib Pattern as they accumulate\u201467 (67, 77, 77, 87, 97, 97) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 18 (18\u00bd, 18\u00bd, 18\u00bd, 18\u00bd, 18\u00bd, 19)\"/[45.5 (47, 47, 47, 47, 47, 48.5)cm] from the beginning or to the desired length to the underarm, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nWork fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 21 (21, 18, 18, 17, 12, 16) times, then every row 4 (4, 12, 12, 18, 28, 24) times\u201417 stitches remain.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew 3 of the 4 raglan seams, leaving the back left seam unsewn.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith the right side facing and smaller needles, pick up and knit 92 (92, 97, 97, 102, 102, 107) stitches around the neck.\n\nBegin with a wrong-side row, and work the Rib Pattern until the neckband measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm].\n\nBind off loosely in pattern.\n\nSew the last raglan seam, including the side of the neckband.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---  \n\u2022 |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k2; p1 from cn\n\n  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; pi; k2 from cn\n\n  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn\n\n  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn\n\n  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in baco; k2; p2 from cn\n\n  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front p2; n2 from cn\n\nThe Weekender\n\nThe Weekender\n\nFully fashioned shaping is essential to this tunic: It's used to create a shapely silhouette, a deep neckline, and perfect-fit sleeve caps.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 33 (36\u00bd, 40, 43, 46, 49, 52\u00bd)\"/[84 (92.5, 101.5, 109, 117, 124.5, 133.5)cm]\n\nLength: 29 (29\u00bd, 29\u00bd, 30, 30, 30\u00bd, 30\u00bd)\"/[74 (75, 75, 76, 76, 77.5, 77.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Lion Brand Yarn's Superwash Merino Cashmere (4-medium/worsted weight; 72% superwash merino wool/15% nylon/13% cashmere; each approximately 1.4 oz/[40g] and 87 yds/[80m]): 19 (19, 21, 22, 23, 25, 26) balls of Olive #174   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 8 (5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 2 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 2 stitch holders\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n20 stitches and 28 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Textured Pattern. To save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Pattern\n\nTextured Pattern (multiple of 4 + 5 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K1 (selvedge stitch), p3, *k1, p3; repeat from the * to the last stitch, k1 (selvedge stitch).\n\nROW 2: P1 (selvedge stitch), k3, *p1, k3; repeat from the * to the last stitch, p1 (selvedge stitch).\n\nROW 3: Knit across.\n\nROW 4: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20134 for the pattern.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements. For ease in finishing, work the selvedge stitches in stockinette stitch, knitting them on right-side rows and purling them on wrong-side rows.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, k1 (selvedge stitch), work 3 stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, work 3 stitches in pattern, k1 (selvedge stitch); on wrong-side rows, p1 (selvedge stitch), work 3 stitches in pattern, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, ssp, work 3 stitches in pattern, p1 (selvedge stitch).\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases, work the selvedge stitch, work 4 stitches in pattern, M1-L (this page), work to the last 5 stitches, M1-R (this page), work 4 stitches in pattern, work the selvedge stitch; on subsequent rows, work the new stitches into the established Textured Pattern.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nDozens of vertical lines make this a visually interesting\u2014and figure-flattering\u2014tunic. Add the deep crossover neck, a tiny bit of waist shaping, and a self-belt to accentuate the positive!\n\nBack\n\nCast on 85 (93, 101, 109, 117, 125, 133) stitches.\n\nBegin the Textured Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 11\u00be\"/[30cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 rows 3 more times\u201477 (85, 93, 101, 109, 117, 125) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 17\"/[43cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 6 rows 3 more times\u201485 (93, 101, 109, 117, 125, 133) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bd\"/[52cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 8, 12, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows. Re-establishing the selvedge stitches at each edge, work fully fashioned decreases each side every other row 1 (8, 0, 7, 7, 6, 6) times, then every 4 rows 3 (0, 4, 1, 1, 2, 2) times\u201469 (69, 77, 77, 85, 85, 93) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures 28 (28\u00bd, 28\u00bd, 29, 29, 29\u00bd, 29\u00bd)\"/[71 (72, 72, 74, 74, 75, 75)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows\u201435 stitches remain.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFront\n\nWork the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd (19, 19, 19\u00bd, 19\u00bd, 20, 20)\"/[47 (48.5, 48.5, 49.5, 49.5, 51, 51)cm] from the beginning, ending after Row 4 of the Textured Pattern.\n\nPlace a marker on each side of the middle 13 stitches.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork to 1 stitch before the first marker, slip the next stitch on the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle, remove the first marker, slip the same stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand needle, replace the marker, k2tog, work in the established pattern to the next marker; join a second ball of yarn and using the cable cast-on, cast 13 stitches onto the left-hand needle; starting with k1, p3, work Row 1 of the Textured Pattern across the first 12 of these newly cast-on stitches, ssk, place a marker, work in pattern to the end of the row\u201448 (52, 56, 60, 64, 68, 72) stitches each side.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work even at the neck edge for 13 rows and at the same time, when the piece measures the same as the Back to underarms, shape armholes same as for Back.\n\nNEXT (NECK-SHAPING) ROW (RS): Work to 1 stitch before the first marker, slip the next stitch on the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle, remove marker, slip the same stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand needle, replace the marker, k2tog, work 12 stitches in pattern; with the second ball of yarn, work 12 stitches in pattern, slip the next stitch on the left-hand needle to the right-hand needle, remove marker, slip the same stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand needle, ssk, replace the marker, work to the end of the row.\n\nContinue shaping the armholes and repeat the last 14 neck-shaping rows twice more\u201437 (37, 41, 41, 45, 45, 49) stitches remain each side.\n\nWork both sides even until the piece measures approximately 26 (26\u00bd, 26\u00bd, 27, 27, 27\u00bd, 27\u00bd)\"/ [66 (67.5, 67.5, 68.5, 68.5, 70, 70)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Work to the marker, then slip the next 13 stitches onto a holder; with the second ball of yarn, work 13 stitches and place them on a holder, remove the marker, work to the end of the row\u201424 (24, 28, 28, 32, 32, 36) stitches remain each side.\n\nWork 1 row even.\n\nBind off 3 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 2 stitches at each neck edge once; then decrease 1 stitch each neck edge every row twice\u201417 (17, 21, 21, 25, 25, 29) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to shoulders.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork same as for the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nCast on 65 (65, 69, 69, 69, 69, 69) stitches.\n\nWork 2 rows of the Textured Pattern.\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row and then every 6 rows 7 more times\u201449 (49, 53, 53, 53, 53, 53) stitches remain.\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, and then every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 7) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 7, 8) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 9, 4, 0) times, every 10 rows 7 (7, 7, 7, 0, 0, 0) times\u201465 (65, 69, 69, 73, 77, 85) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd\"/[47cm] from the beginning or the desired sleeve length, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 8, 12, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 14 (12, 8, 7, 11, 5, 13) times, then every 4 rows 0 (2, 4, 5, 3, 7, 3) times\u201429 stitches remain.\n\nWork 0 (0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1) row even.\n\nBind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201417 stitches remain.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nTransfer the 26 front neck stitches from the holders to a knitting needle. With the right side facing and beginning at the right neck edge, work 13 stitches in pattern, pick up and knit 59 stitches around the neckline, work 13 stitches in pattern.\n\nContinue in the established Textured Pattern until the neckband measures approximately 1\u00bd\"/[4cm].\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nWith the right edge under the left edge for a crossover V-neck, whipstitch the 13 cast-on stitches at the bottom of the neck opening to the wrong side of the Front.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the sleeve seams.\n\nLeaving the lower 6\"/[15cm] open for side slits, sew the side seams.\n\nBELT (OPTIONAL)\n\nCast on 11 stitches. Work even in the Textured Pattern (omitting the selvage stitches) until the piece measures approximately 44\"/[112cm], ending after Row 2 of the pattern.\n\nBind off in the pattern.\n\nCandace's Shell\n\nCandace's Shell\n\nThis summertime top is, literally, a breeze to make! Its neck and armhole treatments are incorporated into the knitting of the pieces. And all those vertical lines will make anyone look taller and thinner!\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 31 (34, 37, 39, 42, 45, 47)\"/[79 (86, 94, 99, 106.5, 114, 119.5)cm]\n\nLength: 23 (23\u00bd, 23\u00bd, 24, 24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd)\"/58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Muench Yarns/Lana Grossa's Linea Pura Taglia (6-super bulky weight; 100% mako cotton; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 99 yds/[90m]): 6 (7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10) balls of Violet #5   Super Bulky\n\n\u2022 Size 13 (9mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 3 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n12 stitches and 20 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Fisherman's Rib. To save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Pattern\n\nFisherman Rib (multiple of 2 + 1 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (WS): Knit across.\n\nROW 2: P1, *k1 in the row below, p1; repeat from the * across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For a perfect close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself.\n\n\u2022 The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nThis body-conscious design flatters most everyone: its incorporated V-neck and all those vertical ribs seem to elongate the figure. You'll appear taller\u2014and slimmer.\n\nBack\n\nCast on 49 (53, 57, 61, 65, 69, 73) stitches.\n\nBegin the Fisherman's Rib, and work even until the piece measures approximately 15y2\"/[39.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 2 (4, 4, 6, 6, 6, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows\u201445 (45, 49, 49, 53, 57, 57) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): K5, p1, knit to the last 6 stitches, p1, k5.\n\nNEXT ROW: [P1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, sssk, work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, k3tog, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1\u201441 (41, 45, 45, 49, 53, 53) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROW: Knit across.\n\nNEXT ROW: P1, *k1 in the row below, p1; repeat from the * across.\n\nRepeat the last 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3) more times\u201433 (33, 37, 37, 41, 41, 41) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 20 (20\u00bd, 20\u00bd, 21, 21, 21\u00bd, 21\u00bd)\"/[51 (52, 52, 53.5, 53.5, 54.5, 54.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nROW 1 (WS): K11 (11, 13, 13, 15, 15, 15), p1, k4, k1f&b (this page), k4, p1, k11 (11, 13, 13, 15, 15, 15)\u201434 (34, 38, 38, 42, 42, 42) stitches.\n\nROW 2 (RS): Work 9 (9, 11, 11, 13, 13, 13) stitches in pattern, k3tog, place a marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; join a second ball of yarn and [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, place a marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row\u201415 (15, 17, 17, 19, 19, 19) stitches remain each side.\n\nROW 3: Work even.\n\nROW 4 (DECREASE ROW): Work in pattern to 3 stitches before the first marker, k3tog, slip the marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; for the second side of the neck, with the other ball of yarn, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, slip the marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row\u201413 (13, 15, 15, 17, 17, 17) stitches remain each side.\n\nRepeat the Decrease Row every other row 3 more times\u20147 (7, 9, 9, 11, 11, 11) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 22 (22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\"/[56 (57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 2 (2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 4) stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows, then bind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 15\u00bd (16, 16, 16\u00bd, 16\u00bd, 17, 17)\"/[39.5 (40.5, 40.5, 42, 42, 43, 43)cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row. Place a marker on the middle stitch.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nROW 1 (WS): Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, work to 5 stitches before the marked center stitch, p1, k4, k1f&b, k4, p1, knit across to the end of the row.\n\nROW 2 (RS): Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, work in pattern to 8 stitches before the center, k3tog, place a marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; join a second ball of yarn and [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, place a marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nROWS 3\u20139: Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, continue the armhole shaping same as for the Back, and work 7 rows even at the neck edges.\n\nROW 10 (DECREASE ROW): Continuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, work in pattern to 3 stitches before the first marker, k3tog, slip the marker, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1; for the second side of the neck, with the other ball of yarn, [p1, k1 in the row below] twice, p1, slip the marker, sssk, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nContinuing the armhole shaping same as for the Back, repeat the Decrease Row every 8 rows 3 more times\u20147 (7, 9, 9, 11, 11, 11) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 22 (22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\"/[56 (57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork same as for the Back.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock both pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nSew the side seams.\n\nWinter White\n\nWinter White\n\nThis design uses fully fashioned cabled decreases along the raglan seams. This detail helps draw the eye up to the wearer's face while the cable elongates the torso to create an especially face-flattering sweater.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 34 (38, 42, 46, 50, 54, 58)\"/[86 (96.5, 106.5, 117, 127, 137, 147.5)cm]\n\nLength: 22\u00bc (22\u00be, 22\u00be, 23\u00be, 23\u00be, 23\u00be, 23\u00be)\"/56.5 (58, 58, 59, 59, 60.5, 60.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Cascade Yarns' Eco Cloud (5-bulky weight; 70% undyed merino wool/30% undyed baby alpaca; each approximately 3\u00bd oz/[100g] and 164 yds/[150m]): 7 (8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10) hanks of Creme #1801   Bulky\n\n\u2022 Size 10 (6mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 10 (6mm) 16\"/[40cm] circular needle\n\n\u2022 Size 8 (5mm) 16\"/[40cm] circular needle\n\n\u2022 2 cable needles\n\n\u2022 2 stitch holders\n\n\u2022 4 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n16 stitches and 24 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in reverse stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\nThe 22-stitch Cable Panel = 3\"/[7.5cm] with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nRib Pattern (multiple of 4 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): *P1, k2, p1; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: *K1, p2, k1; repeat from the * across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nReverse Stockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Purl across.\n\nROW 2: Knit across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for pattern.\n\nCable Panel (over 22 stitches) See the chart.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The instructions include 1 selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned waist decreases: On right-side rows, p2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, ssk, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2.\n\n\u2022 For raglan pattern: On right-side rows, p2, slip 2 onto a cn and hold in back, k1, k2 from the cn; work in pattern to the last 5 stitches; slip 1 onto a cn and hold in front, k2, k1 from the cn, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, p3, work in pattern to the last 5 sts; p3, k2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned raglan decreases: On right-side rows, do the cable twists while decreasing as follows: p2, slip 2 onto a cn and hold in back, k1, k1 from the cn, ssk to combine the second stitch from the cn with the first stitch on the left-hand needle; work in pattern to the last 6 stitches; slip 1 onto cn #1 and hold in back, slip 1 onto cn #2 and hold in front, k2tog to combine the next stitch on the left-hand needle with the stitch on cn #1, k1, k1 from cn #2, p2; on wrong-side rows, k2, p2, p2tog; work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, ssp, p2, k2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases, work 4 stitches in pattern, M1 purlwise (this page), work to the last 4 stitches, M1 purlwise, work 4 stitches in pattern.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nBold central cable panels make this sweater especially flattering. Their vertical lines, along with the dimensional decreases at the raglan seams, point directly to the face (and away from anything that might be less than perfect below)!\n\nBack\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 78 (86, 94, 102, 110, 118, 126) stitches.\n\nWorking Row 1 for each pattern, work the Rib Pattern across 28 (32, 36, 40, 44, 48, 52) stitches, work the Cable Panel across the middle 22 stitches, work the Rib Pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWork even in the established patterns until the piece measures approximately 1\u00bd\"/[4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 1 stitch at the beginning and the end of the row\u201480 (88, 96, 104, 112, 120, 128) stitches.\n\nBegin working reverse stockinette stitch on each side of the Cable Panel, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2\"/[5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row and then every 8 rows 3 more times\u201472 (80, 88, 96, 104, 112, 120) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 8\"/[20.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row and then every 6 rows 3 more times\u201480 (88, 96, 104, 112, 120, 128) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00bd (12\u00be, 12\u00be, 13, 13, 13\u00be, 13\u00be)\"/[32 (32.5, 32.5, 33, 33, 33.5, 33.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nBind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then begin the raglan pattern (see Notes) and at the same time work fully fashioned raglan decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 5 (3, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every other row 14 (19, 25, 26, 23, 23, 20) times, then every row 0 (0, 0, 2, 8, 11, 17) times\u201434 (36, 36, 38, 38, 40, 40) stitches remain.\n\nWork 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even.\n\nPlace the stitches on a holder. Make a note of which Cable Panel row you ended with.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 36 (36, 36, 40, 40, 40, 40) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\u00bd\"/4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 1 stitch at the beginning and the end of the row\u201438 (38, 38, 42, 42, 42, 42) stitches.\n\nBegin working reverse stockinette stitch, and work fully fashioned increases each side every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 6, 14) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 10, 6, 0) times, every 10 rows 0 (0, 8, 8, 0, 0, 0) times, every 12 rows 0 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 14 rows 0 (4, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 18 rows 1 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) time, then every 20 rows 3 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201446 (50, 54, 58, 62, 66, 70) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 16 (16\u00bd, 16\u00bd, 16\u00bd, 16\u00bd, 17, 17)\"/[40.5 (42, 42, 42, 42, 43, 43)cm] from the beginning or to the desired length to underarm, ending after a right-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nBind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then begin the raglan pattern and at the same time work fully fashioned raglan decreases each side every other row 0 (1, 3, 5, 7, 10, 12) times, every 4 rows 9 (12, 11, 11, 10, 9, 8) times, then every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201416 stitches remain.\n\nWork 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 1, 1) row even.\n\nBind off all stitches as they present themselves.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the 4 raglan seams.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith right side facing and larger circular needle, beginning at the Cable Panel on the Back, work across the Cable Panel in pattern, p6 (7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9); pick up and knit 14 (16, 16, 14, 14, 16, 16) stitches across the Left Sleeve; work 34 (36, 36, 38, 38, 40, 40)\n\nFront stitches in pattern; pick up and knit 14 (16, 16, 14, 14, 16, 16) stitches across the Right Sleeve, p6 (7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) remaining Back stitches\u201496 (104, 104, 104, 104, 112, 112) stitches.\n\nPlace markers on either side of the Cable Panel stitches on the Front and the Back.\n\nNECKBAND PATTERN ROUND: [Work the Cable Panel, p2, *k2, p2; repeat from the * to the next marker] twice.\n\nRepeat the last round until the neckband measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm].\n\nChange to the smaller circular needle.\n\nContinue even for an additional 3\u00bd\"/[9 cm].\n\nBind off loosely in the pattern.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next stitch onto cn and hold in back; k3; p1 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in front; p1; k3 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 stitches onto cn and hold in back; k3; p2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in front; p2; k3 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in back; k3; k3 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 3 stitches onto cn and hold in front; k3; k3 from cn\n\nMerino Magic\n\nMerino Magic\n\nIn this pretty pullover, a line of delicate eyelets frame all the pieces, adding vertical elements which draw the eye upward to flatter nearly every body type.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 32\u00bd (35, 38, 40\u00bd, 44, 47\u00bd, 51)\"/[82.5 (89, 96.5, 103, 112, 120.5, 129.5)cm]\n\nLength: 22\u00be (23, 23\u00be, 24\u00be, 24\u00be, 25\u00be, 25\u00be)\"/[58 (58.5, 59, 61.5, 62, 64.5, 65)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Trendsetter Yarns' Merino 8 (4-medium/worsted weight; 100% superwash merino wool; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 98 yds/[89.5m]): 8 (9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14) balls of Butter #9940   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 8 (5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) 16\"/[40cm] circular needle\n\n\u2022 4 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n18 stitches and 24 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nBorder Pattern (multiple of 2 + 1 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit across.\n\nROWS 2\u20134: As Row 1.\n\nROW 5: K2, *yarn over, k2tog; repeat from the * to the last stitch, k1.\n\nROWS 6\u201310: Purl across.\n\nSpecial Abbreviation\n\nS2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The instructions include one selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, k2, yarn over, s2kp2, knit to the last 5 stitches, s2kp2, yarn over, k2; on wrong-side rows, p3, p2tog, purl to the last 5 stitches, ssp, p3.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases: On right-side rows: k2, yarn over, k2tog, M1-R (this page), knit to the last 4 stitches, M1-L (this page), ssk, yarn over, k2.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for raglan construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nWith its slightly shaped silhouette and deliberate designer details, this design can flatter every figure type. Vertical lines begin near the lower edge and continue in the diagonal raglan seams, making the wearer look taller and thinner.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 67 (73, 79, 85, 91, 97, 105) stitches.\n\nWork the 10-row Border Pattern, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 8 (8, 8, 8, 10, 12, 12) stitches evenly spaced across the row\u201475 (81, 87, 93, 101, 109, 117) stitches.\n\nSET UP PATTERNS\n\nROW 1 (EYELET ROW) (RS): Change to the larger needles; k2, yarn over, k2tog, place a marker, knit to the last 4 stitches, place a marker, ssk, yarn over, k2.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 until the piece measures approximately 3\"/[7.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nContinue the eyelets as established, and at the same time, work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 (8, 8, 6, 6, 6, 6) rows twice more\u201469 (75, 81, 87, 95, 103, 111) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 7\"/[18cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side on the next row, then every 8 (8, 8, 6, 6, 6, 6) rows twice more\u201475 (81, 87, 93, 101, 109, 117) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 14\u00bd (14\u00bd, 14\u00bd, 15, 15, 15\u00bd, 15\u00bd)\"/[37 (37, 37, 38, 38, 39.5, 39.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN AND NECK\n\nContinue in the established pattern and work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 6, 12, 19) times, every other row 6 (11, 17, 20, 18, 16, 13) times, then every 4 rows 6 (4, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, and at the same time, when 57 (57, 61, 65, 65, 65, 65) stitches remain, shape the neck as follows: Mark the center 35 (35, 35, 37, 37, 37, 37) stitches. Continuing the fully fashioned decreases, work to the first marker; join a second ball of yarn and bind off to the next marker; work to the end of the row. Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 2 stitches at each neck edge twice.\n\nContinue until all raglan decreases are completed\u20144 stitches remain on each side.\n\nWork 0 (0, 1, 1, 0, 0, 0) row even.\n\nBind off the stitches as they present themselves.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 41 (45, 49, 55, 59, 61, 65) stitches.\n\nWork the 10-row Border Pattern, and on the last row, use the M1 technique to increase 6 (6, 6, 6, 6, 8, 8) stitches evenly spaced across the row\u201447 (51, 55, 61, 65, 69, 73) stitches.\n\nSET UP PATTERNS\n\nROW 1 (RS): Change to the larger needles; k2, yarn over, k2tog, place a marker, knit to the last 4 stitches, place a marker, ssk, yarn over, k2.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 until the piece measures approximately 9\"/[23cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE RAGLAN\n\nContinue in pattern and work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 2, 5) times, every other row 8 (11, 15, 18, 21, 21, 20) times, then every 4 rows 5 (4, 2, 1, 0, 0, 0) times\u201421 (21, 21, 23, 23, 23, 23) stitches remain.\n\nBind off purlwise.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the 4 raglan seams.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith the right side facing and the circular needle, beginning at Back left raglan, pick up and knit 133 (133, 133, 145, 145, 145, 145) stitches. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join.\n\nROUNDS 1, 3, AND 5: Purl around.\n\nROUND 2: Knit around.\n\nROUND 4: *K2tog, yarn over; repeat from the * around.\n\nROUND 6: Knit, and use k2tog to decrease 20 (20, 20, 22, 22, 22, 22) stitches evenly around\u2014113 (113, 113, 123, 123, 123, 123) stitches remain.\n\nROUND 7: Purl around.\n\nBind off knitwise.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nMarilyn's Crossover Top\n\nMarilyn's Crossover Top\n\nDo you think long-sleeved pullovers can't be sexy? Well, think again. Here, intricate cable patterns and fully fashioned decreases are used to create a beautiful, graceful neckline. If you keep their attention near the top of a sweater, no one will notice what you are trying to camouflage below!\n\nSkill Level\n\nExperienced\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large/1X, 2X, 3X/4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 34 (40, 45, 51, 56\u00bd)\"/[86 (101.5, 114, 129.5, 143.5)cm]\n\nLength: 22 (22\u00bd, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\"/[56 (57, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Classic Elite's Princess (3-light/DK weight; 40% merino/28% viscose/10% cashmere/7% angora/15% nylon; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 150 yds/[137m]): 9 (10, 11, 12, 13) balls of Pretty Peony #3422   Light\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Cable needle\n\n\u2022 2 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n20 stitches and 30 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Textured Pattern with the larger needles.\n\nThe 20-stitch Cable Panel = 2\u00bd\"/[6.5cm] wide with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nCabled Rib Pattern (multiple of 7 + 1 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nTextured Pattern (multiple of 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): *P1, k1; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: Knit across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nCable Panels A and B (over 20 stitches)\n\nSee charts.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases: work 8 stitches in the Cabled Rib Pattern, M1-R (this page), work in pattern to the last 8 stitches, M1-L (this page), work 8 stitches in the Cabled Rib Pattern. On the next row, incorporate new stitches into the pattern as established.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, p1, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 3 stitches, ssp, p1; on wrong-side rows, k1, ssk, work in pattern to the last 3 stitches, k2tog, k1.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nClose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nThis sweater is a miracle worker: Vertical honeycomb cabled ribs lead up to a flattering empire waist and a face-framing crossover neckline. Whether you are petite, top-heavy, bottom-heavy, or straight up and down, this dramatic combo is a win-win!\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 85 (99, 113, 127, 141) stitches.\n\nBegin the Cabled Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 10 (10, 10, 9\u00bd, 9\u00bd)\"/[25.5 (25.5, 25.5, 24, 24)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nChange to the larger needles, and begin the Textured Pattern.\n\nContinue even in the pattern until the piece measures approximately 13\u00bd\"/[34.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 6 (8, 10, 10, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (3, 4, 6, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (2, 4, 8, 10) times, then every other row 2 (2, 2, 1, 0) times\u201465 (69, 73, 77, 81) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 19\u00bd (20, 20\u00bd, 21, 21)\"/[49.5 (51, 52, 53.5, 53.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Work 6 (8, 10, 12, 14) stitches in pattern; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 53 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge once\u20145 (7, 9, 11, 13) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 21 (21\u00bd, 22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd)\"/[53.5 (54.5, 56, 57, 57) cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 1 (2, 2, 3, 3) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 2 (1, 3, 2, 4) stitch at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 10 (10, 10, 9\u00bd, 9\u00bd)\"/[25.5 (25.5, 25.5, 24, 24)cm] from the beginning, ending after Row 4 of the Cabled Rib Pattern.\n\nDIVIDE FOR CROSSOVER NECK\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; working Row 1 of each pattern, work the Textured Pattern across 43 (50, 57, 64, 71) stitches, work Cable Panel A across 20 stitches; join a second ball of yarn and use the cable cast-on technique to cast on 41 stitches, work Cable Panel B across the first 20 stitches just cast on, then work the Textured Pattern across 43 (50, 57, 64, 71) stitches\u201463 (70, 77, 84, 91) stitches each side.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work 1 row even in the established patterns and place markers to set off the first and last 44 (51, 58, 65, 72) stitches (the markers will be 1 stitch into each Cable Panel).\n\nDECREASE ROW (RS): Work in pattern to 2 stitches before the first marker, ssp, continue in pattern across this side; for second side, work in pattern to the next marker, p2tog, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nContinue the established patterns, and repeat the Decrease Row every other row 14 (12, 10, 7, 7) times, then every 4 rows 13 (15, 17, 20, 20) times, and at the same time, when piece measures the same as Back to armholes, shape the armholes same as the Back\u201425 (27, 29, 31, 33) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to shoulders.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork same as for the Back\u201420 stitches remain each side. Sew the shoulder seams.\n\nContinue even on the remaining 20 stitches each side until the neckbands, when slightly stretched, meet at the center back of the neck.\n\nBind off.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 50 stitches.\n\nBegin the Cabled Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 2\"/[5cm] from the beginning, ending after Row 4 of the pattern.\n\nSET UP PATTERNS\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; continue the Cable Rib Pattern across 8 stitches, place a marker, work the Textured Pattern across 34 stitches, place a marker, continue the Cabled Rib Pattern across 8 stitches.\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 20) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 15, 0) times, every 10 rows 0 (0, 6, 0, 0) times, every 12 rows 0 (1, 5, 0, 0) times, every 18 rows 0 (6, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 24 rows 5 (0, 0, 0, 0) times, working new stitches into the Textured Pattern as they accumulate\u201460 (64, 72, 80, 90) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd\"/[47cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 6 (8, 10, 10, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; continuing in the Textured Pattern only, work 1 row even, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 6 (8, 10, 6, 4) times, then every other row 5 (3, 3, 11, 16) times\u201426 stitches remain.\n\nWork 0 (0, 0, 0, 1) row even.\n\nBind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201414 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the sides of neckbands to the back neckline.\n\nSew the bound-off edges of neckbands together at the back of the Neck.\n\nSew the cast-on stitches at the center front to the wrong side of the Front.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Right Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; k1; k1 from cn OR k2tog, leaving them on LH needle; insert point of RH needle between these 2 sts and knit the first one again\n\n  |  |\n\n= Left Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; k1; k1 from cn OR skip first st and knit next st in back loop; then knit the skipped st; slip both sts off LH needle together\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in back; knit next st through back loop; p1 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= K through back loop on RS; p through back loop on WS\n\nK |  |\n\n= Knot = Knit into (front, back, front) of next st, turn; p3, turn; slip 2 sts at once knitwise, k1, p2sso\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; p1; k1 from cn through back loop\nCHAPTER\n\n4  \nFigure Flatterers\n\nAs we've seen, knitters can use fully fashioned shaping to create unique designer elements such as incorporated necklines and armbands into sweaters. Now, let's learn designer tricks using these details to flatter the figure. Regardless of your body type, it is possible to knit to fit and flatter!\n\nDesigner Workshop  \nKnit a Fine Figure\n\nLet's explore ways to flatter every figure type using designer details, from form-fitting bust darts to cleverly positioned vertical elements to strategically placed increases and decreases that create the illusion of shape, even when the sweater silhouette is relatively boxy (read: comfortable)! Refer to the table to determine your body type.\n\n  The Triangle Body Shape\n\nIf you carry most of your weight around your hips and thighs, you'll want to emphasize other areas of your body, especially your face. Here are some designer tips:\n\nVertical Lift\n\nUse vertical lines to draw the eye up as seen in the illustration below. All that eye movement upward makes the body look taller and slimmer.\n\nMost Aran-knit sweaters take advantage of the linear arrangement of cable panels in this way. And those two columns of vertical eyelets in Sydney have the same figure-flattering effect.\n\nAlso, attract attention to a beautifully designed raglan line by incorporating one of the fully fashioned elements explored in Designer Workshop: Enrich Your Knits!. Notice how the special details in Merino Magic flatter so many figure types.\n\nTurn Your Knitting on Its Edge\n\nEveryone knows that horizontal stripes are anything but flattering. Incorporated into a sweater that is knit cuff to cuff, however, they take on a vertical appearance.\n\nAccentuate the Positive\n\nCreate attention in areas other than the dreaded hip zone. The Ooh-La-La Skirt, for example, utilizes flirty flounces at the lower edge to draw the eye to the legs. Better to have folks staring at your sexy gait than at your hips!\n\nAs mentioned, raglans are particularly flattering for Triangle-shapes. The diagonal lines point directly to the face and are a wonderful spot to highlight especially decorative fully fashioned decreases, as in Winter White.\n\nKnow All the Angles\n\nTo create especially figure-flattering styles, knit strategically placed diagonal lines or sections into your sweaters. They're easy and fun. Here's how:\n\nTo create a diagonal going from left to right: You will be decreasing at the leading edge of the diagonal line or section of stitches and increasing just outside of the trailing edge.\n\nPlace a marker one stitch to the left of where you want the leading edge of the diagonal line or section to be, and place another marker immediately to the left of where you want the section to end (the trailing edge).\n\nThen, on right-side rows, work in pattern to 2 stitches before the first marker, work a right-slanting decrease, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a left-slanting increase, work to the end of the row.\n\nOn wrong-side rows, work in pattern to first marker, work a left-slanting increase, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a right-slanting decrease, work to the end of the row.\n\nThe example seen in the swatch above has a right-slanting diagonal braided line six stitches wide with two purl stitches on each side for textural contrast.\n\nTo create a diagonal going from right to left: Place a marker at the spot where you want the trailing edge of the diagonal section and place another marker one stitch to the right of where you want the leading edge to be.\n\nThen, on right-side rows, work in pattern to the first marker, make a right-leaning increase, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a left-slanting decrease, and work to the end of the row.\n\nOn wrong-side rows, work in pattern to 2 stitches before the first marker, work a left-slanting decrease, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, work a right-slanting increase, work to the end of the row.\n\nTake a look at the sample swatch above, which has a left-slanting diagonal braided line six stitches wide with two purl stitches on each side for contrast.\n\nAny sort of knit section can be moved this way\u2014from a column of eyelets to ribbing to a solid stockinette panel. Just place stitch markers on either side of the stitches that will be part of the diagonal line and work fully fashioned increases and decreases as described. Choose which directional increase and decrease you'd like to use from those described in the Designer Workshop: Making Simple Stockinette Garments Look Extraordinary.\n\nFlip Your Triangle Upside Down\n\nWell-placed diagonal lines can minimize the appearance of being bottom heavy.\n\nIn the illustration below, the direction of the lines points up and away from the hip area.\n\nTrompe l'Oeil uses this designer trick to flatter the figure. Even though the body of the garment is unshaped, those diagonal lines create the illusion of a tapered silhouette. It's faux-shaping. The diagonals are created by working fully fashioned increases and decreases; for every increase there's a decrease on that same row. When the decrease comes first in the row, the diagonal points toward the right, and when the increase comes first, the diagonal slants to the left.\n\nA series of diagonal lines, with each set pointing up and away from the hips, as seen in the illustration below, is particularly attractive for pear-shaped women.\n\nCharlie uses these diagonal lines worked in textured stripes. The horizontal effect of the colorwork is broken up by the V at the center of the body.\n\nOne common designer trick is to draw attention to the upper area of a garment by using a V-neck. With all the fully fashioned tricks you've learned so far, you can easily place diagonal lines on either side of the neck as seen in the illustration below. It, too, is featured in Trompe l'Oeil.\n\nObviously, you'll want to avoid adding any horizontal lines in the lower section of a garment. Contrasting ribbings are definite no-nos. Instead, use a no-edge edge at lower borders. The hemmed detail in Aberdeen, for example, allows the colorwork pattern to go all the way to the edge and avoids undue attention to the hips. Another idea is to knit a tiny border that rolls to the wrong side. To do: With the public side of the fabric facing, pick up and knit stitches along the lower edge. Then, work a few rows of reverse stockinette, knitting on the wrong side and purling on the right side, before binding off.\n\nAlso, avoid sleeves and lower-body edges that end at the widest part of your lower body. If you love a sweater design but need to modify its body or sleeve length, lengthen or shorten the piece before the armhole or sleeve cap shaping begins. Otherwise, you'll interfere with how the sleeves fit into the armholes, causing problems in the finishing. (Not to mention the overall fit!)\n\nBack in the Saddle\n\nAttract attention to the upper third of a sweater by adding saddle shoulders. They act as arrows pointing toward the wearer's face, deflecting emphasis down below.\n\nPuff It Up\n\nUse puffed sleeves to draw the eye up. To knit this type of sleeve cap, work the upper portion of the sleeve cap with few decreases, but be sure to knit to the correct sleeve cap height. Later, when setting in the sleeve, make pinch pleats with the extra fabric at the top or else simply gather it in. Another option is to make rapid decreases across the last few rows before binding off.\n\n  The Inverted Triangle Body Shape\n\nIf you have broad shoulders or a large bust, use design elements that attract attention to the upper body in a flattering way.\n\nIf You've Got It, Flaunt It\n\nBusty women can draw attention to their curves by using fitted bust darts, as seen in Jen. Just choose your bra cup size and knit the garment to fit.\n\nIn Marilyn's Crossover Top, heavily cabled panels frame the neck opening.\n\nBoth designs have high empire waists to emphasize the narrow area just below the bust. Very sexy!\n\nLighten Up\n\nDeep necklines, such as scoop necks and V-necks, tend to flatter busty women. Opening up the neckline in this way creates the illusion of less weight up top and balances broad shoulders or thick arms. Avoid large lapels. Jacqueline has enough of a fold-over lapel to highlight the face without drawing undue attention to the widest part of the body.\n\nAdd Some Flare\n\nA-line silhouettes and flared sleeves and cuffs add balance and de-emphasize the upper body. See The Weekender, for example.\n\nLengthen the Torso\n\nWomen who carry their weight in their upper torso benefit from hemlines that hit lower on the body. Knit your sweaters\u2014and your sleeves\u2014to a longer length. Sweaters tend to be quite flattering if they end at the widest part of the hips, balancing the upper body.\n\n  Round Body Shapes\n\nWomen with round body types can use designer tricks to knit flattering sweaters, too.\n\nPaint on a Waist\n\nUse strategically placed increases and decreases to create the illusion of an hourglass figure, as seen here.\n\nGlamour Girl uses this designer trick. Here, subtle waist shaping is accentuated with cables, fooling the eye into seeing much more waist definition.\n\nEmphasize Your Narrowest Spot\n\nUse an empire waistline to draw attention someplace other than your midsection. See Marilyn's Crossover Top or Jen for examples of this sort of design.\n\nStraight and Narrow\n\nObviously, round body shapes can benefit from vertical design elements. Cables 'n' Ribs uses columns of knit and purl stitches along the sides of the sweater to draw the eye up.\n\nSquare It Off\n\nAdd square elements, such as square necklines or simple patch pockets to create angular lines.\n\n  Rectangular Body Shapes\n\nFor boyish or athletic figure types, use designer details to flatter.\n\nGo with the Flow\n\nAn A-line silhouette creates a feminine look as seen in Angie. In this design, fully fashioned decreases are neatly incorporated into the lace pattern.\n\nFake It\n\nCreate the illusion of a waist by adding a self-belt, as seen in The Weekender. Or knit in a faux hourglass motif as described on this page. The same tricks used to flatter a rounded shape also work here.\n\nThe convergence of incorporated neckband and armbands in Candace's Shell emphasizes the upper body and creates a beautiful bustline, even if the wearer doesn't have one. (Knit this design for your favorite tween to get lots of brownie points!)\n\nRound It Up\n\nAdd a scoop neck to soften the overall look.\n\n  Hourglass Body Shapes\n\nLet's face it: Folks with hourglass figures don't need a lot of help to look good. Following are suggestions to improve on perfection.\n\nCurves Ahead\n\n\u2022 Obviously, designs with body-conscious style are ideal. Choose sweaters with waist shaping. Or add a belt to cinch in the waist.\n\n\u2022 Use fully fashioned increases and decreases to emphasize the waist as seen in Glamour Girl.\n\nKeep It Light\n\nDon't overwhelm the delicate hourglass shape by wearing garments that are droopy or bulky.\n\nDiversionary Tactics\n\nAlthough we tend to idealize the hourglass figure here in the West, folks with round or straight-up-and-down body shapes can get flattering results by attracting attention elsewhere.\n\nLace ruffles on sleeves, for example, draw the eye to the cuffs and create flattering movement every time the wearer moves. Even a little lace motif near the neck can de-emphasize the waist, bringing attention to the face.\n\nAnd as we've already seen, an artificially high empire waist highlights the body's narrowest place, deflecting attention from wider areas below, as seen in Marilyn's Crossover Top and Jen.\n\nSpecial Design Considerations\n\nPlus-Size Body Types\n\nLarger women might have any of the body shapes listed in this book (triangle or inverted triangle, etc.) but on a bigger scale. Their sweaters possess a larger canvas and provide lots of opportunity for designer elements.\n\n\u2022 Use diagonal lines created by fully fashioned increases and decreases to paint an abstract geometric pattern as seen here. The pattern guides the eye to the face of the wearer, detracting from any figure flaws below.\n\n\u2022 The angular elements in Angled Ribs work the same way. There's lots of eye movement in the design.\n\n\u2022 For a plus-size jacket or cardigan, make sure your buttons aren't too small in circumference. Larger ones will balance the overall look.\n\n\u2022 Choose garments with design elements that bisect the body, such as Marie. The lace panels travel from the hips directly toward the V-neck opening, minimizing width.\n\n\u2022 The last thing a plus-size frame needs is more girth. For the most flattering results, choose lighter-weight yarns that knit at a smaller gauge. Think about it: Bulky yarns can add an inch or more to the circumference of a sweater!\n\nPetite Body Types\n\nWith a more diminutive canvas to paint on, designer elements in petite garments must be diminished in size or else they might be overwhelming to the wearer.\n\n\u2022 Pocket widths in Jacqueline, for example, might be reduced to 17 stitches across instead of 21 stitches.\n\n\u2022 Collar sizes, too, should be reduced. In Orvieto, the jacket will flatter a petite frame better if the collar stops at 4\u00bd\"/[11.5cm] rather than 5\u00bd\"/[14cm].\n\n\u2022 Of course, many petite figures have short waists, so sweaters must be shorter in length. Take care to remove the extra length below the armhole shaping. Otherwise, the sleeves won't fit into the armholes.\n\n\u2022 Add as many vertical elements as possible to elongate the body, from a V-neck to raglan shaping.\n\nAre you tired of knitting sweaters that don't suit your body? Would you like to knit to fit? Use fully fashioned details to create garments that work for you and your body type! The eight projects that follow are designed to fit and flatter many individual shapes. Just look for the style icon to choose the best ones for your figure.\n\nMarie\n\nMarie\n\nWith its lace panels traveling across the stockinette ground, this design is interesting to look at both coming and going. And, since the Front and Back have different design details toward the top, it's lots of fun to knit.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 35 (39, 43, 47, 51, 55)\"/[89 (99, 109, 119.5, 129.5, 139.5)cm]\n\nLength: 23 (23\u00bd, 24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd, 25)\"/[58.5 (59.5, 61, 62, 62, 63.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Cascade Yarns' Sierra (4-medium/worsted weight; 80% pima cotton/20% wool; each approximately 3\u00bd oz/[100g] and 191 yds/[174.5m]): 6 (7, 8, 9, 10, 11) hanks of Lilac #1215   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 7 (4.5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 4 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 2 stitch holders\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n18 stitches and 25 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\n10-stitch Lace Panels = 1\u00be\"/[4.5cm] wide with the larger needles. To save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nRib Pattern (multiple of 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): *K1, p1; repeat from the * across.\n\nPATTERN ROW: As Row 1.\n\nStockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit across.\n\nROW 2: Purl across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for pattern.\n\nLace Panel A (over 10 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nLace Panel B (over 10 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases: On right-side rows, k2, ssk, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases, k2, M1-R, work in pattern to the last 2 stitches, M1-L, k2.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nLoose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nHere's a sweater that will flatter nearly everyone! Delicate lace panels travel diagonally toward the neckline, drawing the eye up toward the wearer's face and away from any figure flaws lurking below.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 84 (94, 102, 110, 120, 128) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\u00bd\"/[4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSET UP PATTERNS AND BEGIN INWARD ANGLES\n\nROW 1 (RS): Change to larger needles; working Row 1 of each pattern, k5 (5, 5, 5, 5, 6), place a marker, work Lace Panel A across 10 stitches, place a marker, k54 (64, 72, 80, 90, 96), place a marker, work Lace Panel B across 10 stitches, place a marker, k5 (5, 5, 5, 5, 6).\n\nROW 2: Work stockinette stitch outside the markers and the Lace Panels between them.\n\nROW 3 (RS): Knit to the first marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work Lace Panel A, slip the marker, ssk, knit to 2 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work Lace Panel B, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the end of the row.\n\nMaintaining the established patterns, repeat Row 3 every 4 rows 19 (14, 10, 6, 1, 0) times, every other row 6 (16, 24, 32, 42, 47) times, then work even in stockinette stitch and the Lace Panels to the end; at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 14\u00bd\"/[37cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, shape the armholes as follows:\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 4 (6, 7, 8, 9, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (2, 2, 3, 4, 4) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 2, 4) times, then every other row 6 (7, 8, 8, 7, 7) times\u201460 (64, 68, 72, 76, 80) stitches remain. Continue even in pattern until the piece measures approximately 21 (21\u00bd, 22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23)\"/[53.5 (54.5, 56, 57, 57, 58.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nK5 (7, 9, 11, 13, 15), join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 50 stitches, k5 (7, 9, 11, 13, 15). Work both sides at once with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 22 (22\u00bd, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd, 24)\"/[56 (57, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5, 61)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 2 (2, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows, then bind off 1 (3, 3, 3, 5, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 17\"/[43cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Note: All Inward Angles rows should be complete.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nDECREASE ROW (RS): Continuing armhole decreases if necessary, knit to 2 stitches before the first marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work 10 stitches in pattern, k1; join a second ball of yarn and k1, work 10 stitches in pattern, slip the marker, ssk, knit to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn and working 1 stitch at each neck edge in garter stitch, repeat the Decrease Row every other row 8 more times, then every 4 rows 5 times\u201416 (18, 20, 22, 24, 26) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even, if necessary, until the piece measures the same as the Back to shoulders, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork same as for Back\u201411 stitches remain each side. Put these stitches onto holders.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 44 (44, 44, 48, 48, 48) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\u00bd\"/[4cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSET UP PATTERNS\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; k17 (17, 17, 19, 19, 19), place a marker, work Row 1 of Lace Panel A over 10 stitches, place a marker, knit to the end of the row.\n\nWorking stockinette stitch outside the markers and Lace Panel A between them, work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 4) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 6, 14) times, every 8 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 8, 0) times, every 10 rows 0 (0, 10, 10, 0, 0) times, every 12 rows 0 (6, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 14 rows 0 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 16 rows 4 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 18 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201456 (60, 64, 68, 76, 84) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd\"/[47cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 4 (6, 7, 8, 9, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (2, 3, 3, 0, 0) times, every other row 13 (11, 11, 12, 18, 18) times, then every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 4) times\u201422 stitches remain.\n\nWork 1 (1, 0, 1, 1, 0) row even.\n\nBind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201414 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nNECKBANDS\n\nTransfer the 11 Front neck stitches from each side to knitting needles; continue even on each side until the neckbands, when slightly stretched, meet at the center back of the neck.\n\nSew the sides of neckbands to the back neckline.\n\nSew the bound-off edges of neckbands together at the back of the neck.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Yarn over\n\n  |  |\n\n= K2tog\n\n  |  |\n\n= Ssk\n\nGlamour Girl\n\nGlamour Girl\n\nIn this clever design, little rope cables create the illusion of an hourglass figure even if you don't have one of your own. Its picot hems are the perfect simple edge treatment, unobtrusive yet refined.\n\nSkill Level\n\nExperienced\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 33 (35, 37, 40, 44, 48, 52)\"/[84 (89, 94, 101.5, 112, 122, 132)cm]\n\nLength: 19\u00bd (20\u00bd, 20\u00bd, 21\u00bd, 22, 23, 23)\"/[49.5 (52, 52, 54.5, 56, 58.5, 58.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Westminster Fibers/Nashua Handknits' Grand Opera (3-light/DK weight; 86% merino wool/9% viscose/5% metallized [sic] polyester; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 128 yds/[117m]): 8 (9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16) balls of Gold #5036   Light\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) 16\"/[40cm] circular knitting needle\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) 16\"/[40cm] circular knitting needle\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) 24\"/[60cm] circular knitting needle\n\n\u2022 Cable needle\n\n\u2022 4 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n24 stitches and 32 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nStockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit across.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nRight Cable Panel (over 10 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nLeft Cable Panel (over 10 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned body decreases: Work to the second marker, slip the marker, k1, ssk, work to 3 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, k1, slip the marker, work to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned body increases: Work to the second marker, slip the marker, k1, M1-L (this page), work to 1 stitch before the next marker, M1-R (this page), k1, slip the marker, work to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned sleeve increases: K2, M1-R, knit to the last 2 stitches, M1-L, k2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned armhole and sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, k2, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, knit to the last 3 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, k1; on the left-hand side of the neck, k1, ssk, knit to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nFully fashioned increases and decreases force the little rope cables on the front and back of this sweater in and out to create the illusion of an hourglass waist (whether you've actually got one or not!). And picot-hemmed edges are subtle and refined and do not attract attention where you don't need it.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, use the provisional cast-on method to cast on 99 (105, 111, 121, 133, 145, 157) stitches.\n\nBegin stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nTURNING ROW FOR HEM\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; k1, *yarn over, k2tog; repeat from the * across.\n\nNEXT ROW: Continue stockinette stitch until the piece measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nFOLD UP HEM\n\nCarefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the 24\" circular needle as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the circular knitting needle behind the main knitting needle. With both needles in your left hand, k2tog, combining 1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the circular knitting needle, all the way across the row.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 1\u00bc\"/[3cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSET UP PATTERNS\n\nROW 1 (RS): K15 (16, 18, 23, 28, 32, 38), place a marker, k1, p3, [k1, M1 knitwise] twice, p3, place a marker, k51 (55, 57, 57, 59, 63, 63), place a marker, p3, [k1, M1 knitwise] twice, p3, k1, place a marker, knit to the end of the row\u2014103 (109, 115, 125, 137, 149, 161) stitches.\n\nROW 2: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches.\n\nROW 3: Working Row 1 of each Cable Panel, knit to the first marker, slip the marker, k1, work the Right Cable Panel across 10 stitches, slip the marker, knit to the next marker, slip the marker, work the Left Cable Panel across 10 stitches, k1, slip the marker, knit to the end of the row.\n\nROW 4: Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches.\n\nDECREASE FOR WAIST\n\nWork fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) every other row 0 (2, 4, 4, 4, 8, 8) times, every 4 rows 4 (6, 5, 5, 6, 4, 4) times, then every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201491 (93, 97, 107, 117, 125, 137) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 4\u00be (5\u00bd, 5\u00bd, 6, 6\u00bc, 6\u00bd, 6\u00bc)\"/[12 (14, 14, 15, 16, 16.5, 17)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nINCREASE FOR BUST\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) every 6 rows 2 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 4 rows 4 (6, 5, 5, 6, 4, 4) times, then every other row 0 (2, 4, 4, 4, 8, 8) times\u2014103 (109, 115, 125, 137, 149, 161) stitches.\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Work to the first marker, slip the marker, k1, p3, [k2tog] twice, work to the third marker, slip the marker, p3, [k2tog]twice, work to the end of the row\u201499 (105, 111, 121, 133, 145, 157) stitches.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): Purl across, removing the markers.\n\nContinue even in stockinette stitch until the piece measures approximately 11\u00bd (12, 12, 12\u00bd, 13, 13\u00bd, 13\u00bd)\"/[29 (30.5, 30.5, 32, 33, 34.5, 34.5)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 6 (7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) every other row 0 (0, 0, 0, 4, 7, 10) times, every 4 rows 3 (2, 2, 4, 2, 1, 0) times, then every 6 rows 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201477 (81, 85, 89, 93, 97, 101) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 18 (19, 19, 20, 20\u00bd, 21\u00bd, 21\u00bd)\"/[45.5 (48.5, 48.5, 51, 52, 54.5, 54.5)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): K20 (22, 24, 26, 28, 30, 32), join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 37 stitches, knit to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work 1 row even.\n\nNEXT ROW: Work fully fashioned neck decreases at each neck edge\u201419 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side.\n\nWork both sides even until the piece measures approximately 18\u00bd (19\u00bd, 19\u00bd, 20\u00bd, 21, 22, 22)\"/ [47 (49.5, 49.5, 52, 53.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8) stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 4 (6, 5, 7, 6, 8, 7) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFront\n\nWork the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 13 (14, 14, 15, 15\u00bd, 16\u00bd, 16\u00bd)\"/ 33 (35.5, 35.5, 38, 39.5, 42, 42)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row. Mark the middle 17 stitches.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Continue armhole decreases same as the Back, and at the same time, work to the marked stitches, join a second ball of yarn and bind off 17 stitches, work to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 4 stitches at each neck edge twice; bind off 2 stitches each neck edge once; work a fully fashioned neck decrease at each neck edge once\u201419 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side.\n\nComplete same as the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles, use the provisional cast-on method to cast on 57 (61, 65, 69, 75, 83, 89) stitches.\n\nBegin working stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nTURNING ROW FOR HEM\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Change to the larger needles; k1, *yarn over, k2tog; repeat from the * across.\n\nNEXT ROW: Continue stockinette stitch until the piece measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nFOLD UP HEM\n\nCarefully remove the crocheted chain from the provisional cast-on, and transfer the stitches onto the 16\" circular needle as they are released from the chain. Fold the hem in half with the knit side on the outside, and hold the circular knitting needle behind the main knitting needle. With both needles in your left hand, k2tog, combining 1 stitch from the main needle and 1 stitch from the circular knitting needle, all the way across the row.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 1\u00bc\"/[3cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nWork fully fashioned sleeve increases (see Notes) each side every 12 rows 4 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every 14 rows 2 (4, 0, 0, 0, 0, 2) times, every 16 rows 0 (0, 0, 3, 1, 0, 4) times, every 18 rows 0 (0, 0, 2, 4, 4, 0) times, then every 20 rows 0 (0, 4, 0, 0, 1, 0) times\u201469 (73, 73, 79, 85, 93, 101) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 11\u00bd (12, 12, 12\u00bd, 13, 13\u00bd, 13\u00bd)\"/[29 (30.5, 30.5, 32, 33, 34.5, 34.5)cm] from the turning row, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 6 (7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases (see Notes) every 4 rows 4 (5, 6, 6, 5, 3, 0) times, then every other row 7 (7, 5, 7, 10, 15, 21) times\u201435 stitches remain.\n\nBind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201423 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith the right side facing, using the larger circular needle and beginning at the left back neck, pick up and knit 140 stitches evenly spaced around the neckline. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join.\n\nKnit 6 rounds.\n\nNEXT ROUND: *K2tog, yarn over; repeat from the * around.\n\nChange to the smaller circular needle, and knit 7 rounds.\n\nFold neckband in half to the wrong side and loosely sew into place.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in back; k2; k2 from cn\n\n  |  |\n\n= Slip 2 sts onto cn and hold in front; k2; k2 from cn\n\nAngled Ribs\n\nAngled Ribs\n\nWell-placed increases and decreases create this flattering sweater and make it especially interesting to knit. Use those stitch markers to your advantage, being careful to increase and make yarn overs where specified.\n\nSkill Level\n\nExperienced\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust (unstretched): 31\u00bd (35\u00bd, 39, 43, 47, 50)\"/[80 (90, 99, 109, 119.5, 127)cm]\n\nLength (at the side seam): 24 (24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd, 25\u00bd, 25\u00bd)\"/[61 (61, 62, 62, 65, 65)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Skacel Collection/Zitron's Ecco (3-light DK weight; 100% merino wool; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 134 yds/[110m]): 13 (14, 15, 16, 17, 18) balls of Terracotta #137   Light\n\n\u2022 Size 4 (3.5mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 5 (3.75mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 4 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n34 stitches and 32 rows = 4 /[10cm] in the Rib Pattern, unstretched, with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nRib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, *p2, k2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: P2, * k2, p2; repeat from the * across. Repeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nAngled Rib Pattern\n\nROW 1 (RS): Maintaining the established pattern, work 6 (14, 22, 30, 30, 38) stitches, place a marker, ssp, work to the first center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, yarn over, work to the last 8 (16, 24, 32, 32, 40) stitches, p2tog, place a marker, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 2: Maintaining the established pattern, work to 1 stitch before the first center marker, p1, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, p1, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 3: Maintaining the established pattern, work to the first side marker, slip the marker, k2tog, work to the first center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, yarn over, work to 2 stitches before the second side marker, ssk, slip the marker, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 4: As Row 2.\n\nROW 5: As Row 3.\n\nROW 6: Maintaining the established pattern, work to 1 stitch before the first center marker, k1, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, slip the marker, k1, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 7: As Row 1.\n\nROW 8: As Row 6.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20138 for the pattern.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For a close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself.\n\n\u2022 The stitch count will remain constant on every row until the armholes, and then it will remain constant until the beginning of the neck shaping.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases: K6, M1-R (this page), work to the last 6 stitches, M1-L (this page), k6.\n\n\u2022 The smaller needles are used only for the neckband.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for square indented drop-shoulder construction.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nWith its clingy ribbed fabric and slimming center section, this design will flatter most shapes. If you're bottom-heavy and would like some lift, shorten your sweater before the armhole shaping.\n\nBack\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 134 (150, 166, 182, 198, 214) stitches.\n\nWork 2 rows of the Rib Pattern, placing a marker on either side of the middle 10 stitches.\n\nBegin Angled Rib Pattern, and work until the piece measures approximately 15\u00bd (15\u00bd, 15\u00bd, 15\u00bd, 16, 16)\"/[39.5 (39.5, 39.5, 39.5, 40.5, 40.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nContinuing the established pattern, bind off 5 (13, 21, 29, 29, 37) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows\u2014124 (124, 124, 124, 140, 140) stitches remain.\n\nWorking the first and last stitches in stockinette stitch, continue even in the Angled Rib Pattern until the piece measures approximately 17 (17, 17\u00bd, 17\u00bd, 17\u00bd, 17\u00bd)\"/[43 (43, 44.5, 44.5, 44.5, 44.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Move the center markers to either side of the middle 12 stitches.\n\nREVERSE THE ANGLED RIB PATTERN\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): K1, slip the marker, work the established decrease (ssp or k2tog), work to the first center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the second center marker, yarn over, slip the marker, work to the last 3 stitches, work the established decrease (p2tog or ssk), k1.\n\nContinue working the Reverse Angled Rib Pattern, working yarn overs after the first center marker and before the second center marker on right-side rows and working new stitches into the pattern on wrong-side rows, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 23 (23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd)\"/[58.5 (58.5, 59.5, 59.5, 62, 62)cm] from the beginning, shape the back neck as follows:\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork the Reverse Angled Rib Pattern across 35 (35, 35, 35, 43, 43) stitches; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 54 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge once\u201434 (34, 34, 34, 42, 42) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even in pattern until the piece measures approximately 24 (24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd, 25\u00bd, 25\u00bd)\"/[61 (61, 62, 62, 65, 65)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFront\n\nWork the same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 21 (21, 21\u00bd, 21\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd)\"/ [53.5 (53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 57, 57)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Work the Reverse Angled Rib Pattern across 49 (49, 49, 49, 57, 57) stitches; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 26 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, bind off 4 stitches at each neck edge once; bind off 3 stitches each neck edge twice; bind off 2 sts each neck edge once, then decrease 1 stitch at each neck edge (working a k2tog at right neck edge and an ssk at left neck edge) every other row 3 times\u201434 (34, 34, 34, 42, 42) stitches remain each side.\n\nComplete same as the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 70 (70, 78, 78, 86, 86) stitches.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every other row 15 (18, 20, 24, 24, 28) times, then every 4 rows 17 (14, 12, 8, 8, 4) times, working new stitches into the pattern as they accumulate\u2014134 (134, 142, 142, 150, 150) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 14 (14, 14\u00bd, 14\u00bd, 14\u00bd, 14\u00bd)\"/[35.5 (35.5, 37, 37, 37, 37)cm] from the beginning or to the desired sleeve length to the shoulder, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the right shoulder seam.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith the right side facing, beginning at the left shoulder, and using the smaller needles, pick up and knit 158 stitches evenly spaced along the neckline.\n\nBegin the Rib Pattern, matching the Rib Pattern as established in the garment; work even until the neckband measures approximately 1\"/[2.5cm] from the beginning.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nSew the left shoulder seam, including the side of the neckband.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nCharlie\n\nCharlie\n\nUse fully fashioned increases and decreases to take simple stripes to a totally new level! Instead of drawing attention to the widest part of the body, these angled stripes are actually quite flattering and are great fun to knit. Save the task of weaving in the ends for a mindless television project\u2014or weave them in as you go.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 35 (39, 43, 47, 51, 55, 59)\"/[89 (99, 109, 119.5, 129.5, 139.5, 150)cm]\n\nLength: 20\u00bc (20\u00be, 21\u00bc, 21\u00be, 21\u00be, 22\u00be, 22\u00be)\"/[51.5 (52.5, 54, 55, 55, 56.5, 56.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Brown Sheep Company's Naturespun Worsted (4-medium/worsted weight; 100% wool; each approximately 3\u00bd oz/[100g] and 245 yds/[224m]): 2 (2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4) balls of Scarlet #N48 (A), 1 ball each of Peruvian Pink #N85 (B), Bougainvillea #105 (C), Salmon #145 (D), Mountain Purple #N80 (E), and Victorian Pink #N87 (F)   Medium\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 7 (4.5mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 3 stitch markers, 1 of them removable for the center stitch\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n20 stitches and 28 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nStockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit across.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nStripe Pattern (22 rows)\n\nROW 1 (RS): With B, knit across.\n\nROW 2: With C, purl across.\n\nROW 3: With C, knit across.\n\nROW 4: With B, purl across.\n\nROW 5: With D, knit across.\n\nROW 6: With D, purl across.\n\nROWS 7 AND 8: With E, purl across.\n\nROW 9: With F, knit across.\n\nROWS 10 AND 11: With A, same as Rows 2 and 3.\n\nROW 12: With F, purl across.\n\nROWS 13 AND 14: With B, same as Rows 5 and 6.\n\nROWS 15 AND 16: With D, same as Rows 7 and 8.\n\nROW 17: With E, same as Row 1.\n\nROWS 18 AND 19: With A, same as Rows 2 and 3.\n\nROW 20: With E, same as Row 4.\n\nROWS 21 AND 22: With F, same as Rows 7 and 8.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u201322 for the pattern.\n\nSpecial Abbreviation\n\nS2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 When working the M1 increases on the Front and Back, make them knitwise or purlwise, depending on which row of the Stripe Pattern you are on.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned increases: On knit rows, work 2 stitches in pattern, M1-R (this page), work to the last 2 stitches, M1-L (this page), work the last 2 stitches in pattern; on purled rows, work 2 stitches in pattern, M1 purlwise, work to the last 2 stitches, M1 purlwise, work the last 2 stitches in pattern.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned decreases: On knit rows, work 2 stitches in pattern, ssk, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, work the last 2 stitches in pattern; on purled rows, p2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nStandard-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nLet the power of mitered angles make you look taller and slimmer! With its slightly tapered silhouette and myriad diagonal lines, all eyes will veer up when you're wearing this design.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles and A, cast on 81 (91, 101, 111, 121, 131, 141) stitches. Place a removable marker in the center stitch.\n\nRow 1 (RS): K17 (22, 27, 32, 37, 42, 47), place a marker, M1-R (see Notes), knit to 1 stitch before the marked center stitch, s2kp2, k22, M1-L, place a marker, k17 (22, 27, 32, 37, 42, 47).\n\nRow 2: Knit across.\n\nROWS 3\u20136: Repeat Rows 1 and 2 twice more.\n\nROW 7 (RS) (CHEVRON ROW): Change to the larger needles and B, and begin the Stripe Pattern; work to the first marker, slip the marker, M1-R, work to 1 stitch before the marked center stitch, s2kp2, work to the next marker, M1-L, slip the marker, work to the end of the row.\n\nContinuing the Stripe Pattern, repeat the Chevron Row every right-side row, and at the same time, work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 18 rows 4 times\u201489 (99, 109, 119, 129, 139, 149) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00be\"/[32.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row. Make a note of which row of the Stripe Pattern you are on.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nContinuing the established patterns, bind off 5 (6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; bind off 2 (2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows; work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (0, 0, 6, 8, 14, 17) times, every other row 0 (3, 6, 4, 3, 1, 0) times, then every 4 rows 2 (1, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201471 (75, 77, 79, 83, 85, 87) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 19\u00bc (19\u00be, 20\u00bc, 20\u00be, 20\u00be, 21\u00bc, 21\u00bc)\"/[49 (50, 51.5, 52.5, 52.5, 54, 54)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork 12 (14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20) stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 47 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bc (20\u00be, 21\u00bc, 21\u00be, 21\u00be, 22\u00bc, 22\u00bc)\"/[51.5 (52.5, 54, 55, 55, 56.5, 56.5)cm] from the beginning, ending both sides after the same wrong-side row.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needles and A, cast on 40 (42, 42, 47, 47, 50, 54) stitches.\n\nKnit 6 rows, and increase 7 (7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) stitches evenly across the last row using the M1 technique (this page)\u201447 (49, 49, 55, 55, 59, 63) stitches.\n\nChange to the larger needles and B, beginning the Stripe Pattern; work fully fashioned increases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 1, 4) times, every 6 rows 0 (0, 6, 6, 6, 12, 10) times, every 8 rows 0 (2, 5, 5, 5, 0, 0) times, every 10 rows 4 (6, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 12 rows 3 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201461 (65, 71, 77, 77, 85, 91) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 12\u00be\"/[32.5cm] from the beginning, ending after the same Stripe Pattern row that the Front and Back ended with just before the armhole shaping.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nContinuing the established patterns, bind off 5 (6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 2 (2, 2, 1, 2, 0, 0) times, every other row 12 (13, 15, 19, 17, 23, 21) times, then every row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 4) times\u201423 stitches remain.\n\nWork 0 (1, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) row even.\n\nBind off 2 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201415 stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the left shoulder seam.\n\nNECKBAND\n\nWith the right side facing and using the smaller needles and A, pick up and knit 104 stitches evenly along the neckline. Place a marker on the center stitch on both the Front and the Back.\n\nROW 1 (WS): Knit to 2 stitches before the first marked stitch, s2kp2, knit to 2 stitches before the second marked stitch, s2kp2, knit to the end of the row\u2014100 stitches remain.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nROW 3: Repeat Row 1, and at the same time, bind off.\n\nSew the right shoulder seam and neckband seam.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nJen\n\nJen\n\nHere's the perfect feminine shell knit out of incredibly soft and luxurious cashmere yarn. Customize its fit with bust darts that match your bra cup size as described.\n\nSkill Level\n\nExperienced\n\nSizes\n\nExtra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 28 (30, 33, 36, 39, 42, 45, 48)\"/ [71 (76, 84, 91, 99, 106.5, 114, 122)cm]\n\nLength: 22 (22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\"/[56 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Jade Sapphire's 4-Ply Mongolian Cashmere (3-light/DK weight; 100% cashmere; each approximately 2 oz/[55g] and 200yds/[183m]): 4 (4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6) hanks of Rose Quartz #33   Light Note: Larger cup sizes will require slightly more yarn.\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles, or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 Size 4 (3.5mm) knitting needles, or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 5 stitch markers, 1 in a different color to mark the neck\n\n\u2022 2 stitch holders\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n26 stitches and 32 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in the Cabled Rib Pattern with the larger needles;\n\n24 stitches and 32 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the smaller needles.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nCabled Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): P2, *Left Twist, p2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: K2, *Right Twist, k2; repeat from the * across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nOr see the chart on this page.\n\nStockinette Stitch (any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nROW 2: Purl\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nSpecial Techniques\n\nLEFT TWIST (RS): Skip the next stitch, then knit the following stitch in its back loop; knit the skipped stitch; slip both stitches off the left-hand needle together.\n\nRIGHT TWIST (WS): Skip the next stitch, then working in front of the skipped stitch, purl the following stitch; purl the skipped stitch; slip both stitches off the left-hand needle together.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For a perfect close fit, this sweater is designed with negative ease. The ribbed pattern will allow the fabric to stretch to fit the body, so knit the size you would normally knit for yourself.\n\n\u2022 The instructions include bust shaping for a B-cup top; for other cup sizes, refer to the chart.\n\n\u2022 The instructions include one selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, Left Twist, p2, ssk, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, k2tog, p2, Left Twist; on wrong-side rows, Right Twist, k2, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 6 stitches, ssp, k2, Right Twist.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned bust increases: *Work in pattern to the next marker, M1-R, slip the marker, k2, slip the marker, M1-L; repeat from the * once more, then work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned bust decreases: *Work in pattern to 2 stitches before the next marker, ssk, slip the marker, k2, slip the marker, k2tog; repeat from the * once more, then work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nThis wardrobe pleaser is a complete win-win: Its design details will make you look good and the luxurious cashmere yarn will make you feel good, too! Dozens of rickrack lines draw the eye up to the fitted empire waist, and custom-shaped bust darts will flaunt whatever you've got! If you don't dare to bare your upper arms, make simple short sleeves by picking up stitches along the armholes and work down a few inches.\n\nBack\n\nEMPIRE WAISTBAND\n\nWith the larger needles, cast on 10 stitches. Begin the Cabled Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 14 (15, 16\u00bd, 18, 19\u00bd, 21, 22\u00bd, 24)\"/[35.5 (38, 42, 45.5, 49.5, 53.5, 57, 61) cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nLOWER BODY\n\nWith the right side facing and using the larger needles, pick up and knit 90 (98, 110, 118, 126, 138, 146, 158) stitches along one long edge of the Empire Waistband.\n\nBeginning with Row 2 of the pattern, begin the Cabled Rib Pattern and work even until the Lower Body measures approximately 9\u00be\"/[25cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nUPPER BODY\n\nWith the right side facing and using the smaller needles, pick up and knit 84 (90, 102, 110, 118, 126, 138, 146) stitches along the other long edge of the Empire Waistband.\n\nBegin stockinette stitch, and work even until the piece measures approximately 15\"/[38cm] from the bound-off edge of the Lower Body, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 6 (6, 12, 12, 18, 18, 24, 24) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then keeping first and last 4 stitches each side in the Cable Rib Pattern throughout, work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) every row 0 (2, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, every other row 0 (0, 0, 4, 0, 3, 0, 6) times, every 4 rows 2 (2, 3, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4) times, then every 6 rows 2 (2, 2, 0, 3, 0, 0, 0) times\u201464 (66, 68, 70, 72, 74, 76, 78) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even in pattern until the piece measures approximately 21 (21, 21\u00bd, 21\u00bd, 22, 22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd)\"/[53.5 (53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 56, 56, 57, 57)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork 11 (12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18) stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 42 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWork even on both sides at once with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 22 (22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\"/56 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nBind off in pattern.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the Upper Body measures approximately 10\u00be\"/[27.5cm] from bound-off edge of the Lower Body, ending after a right-side row. Note: Instructions are for B cup. Other cup sizes begin their bust shaping at a different point; check the chart opposite.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): P24 (26, 29, 31, 34, 36, 37, 40), place a marker, p2, place a marker, p32 (34, 40, 44, 46, 50, 60, 62), place a marker, p2, place a marker, p24 (26, 29, 31, 34, 36, 37, 40).\n\nSHAPE BUST\n\nFor B cup, work fully fashioned bust increases (see Notes) every 4 rows 6 times; for all sizes, work 4 rows even; for B cup, work fully fashioned bust decreases (see Notes) every 4 rows 4 times, then every other row twice, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 15\"/[38cm] from the bound-off edge of the Lower Body, ending after a wrong-side row, shape the armholes same as for the Back, and at the same time, shape the neck as follows.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nPlace a different-colored marker between the 2 middle stitches.\n\nROW 1 (RS): Continuing the bust shaping as established and beginning the armhole shaping, work in pattern to 6 stitches before the center marker, k2tog, p2, Left Twist; join a second ball of yarn, Left Twist, p2, ssk, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 2: Continuing the bust and armhole shapings, work in pattern to 6 stitches before the center marker, ssp, k2, Right Twist; with the second ball of yarn, Right Twist, k2, p2tog, work to the end of the row.\n\nContinuing the bust and armhole shapings, work fully fashioned neck decreases and Left/Right Twists as established on next row, then every other row 7 more times, then every 4 rows 7 times\u201415 (16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22) stitches remain each side when all shaping is complete.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 22 (22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd, 23, 23, 23\u00bd, 23\u00bd)\"/[56 (56, 57, 57, 58.5, 58.5, 59.5, 59.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nBind off 11 (12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows\u20144 stitches remain each side. Put these stitches on holders.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nNECKBANDS\n\nTransfer the 4 stitches on each side of the Front neck to a knitting needle. Continue even until the straps, when slightly stretched, meet at the center back of the neck.\n\nBind off.\n\nSew the sides of the neckbands to the back neckline.\n\nSew the bound-off edges of the neckbands together at the back of the neck.\n\nSew the side seams.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Left Twist = Slip next st onto cn and hold in front; k1; k1 from cn; OR skip first st and knit next st in back loop; then knit the skipped st; slip both sts off left-hand needle together\n\n  |  |\n\n= Right Twist on WS = Skip the first stitch, then working in front of the skipped stitch, purl the next st, purl the skipped stitch, then slip both stitches off the left-hand needle together\n\nDifferent Bra Cup Sizes\n\nNote: The B-cup size is given in the written pattern.\n\nCUP SIZE | Length at Which to Begin Shaping Bust Darts | Amount of Fabric Added for Cup Size | Increase rate | Decrease rate  \n---|---|---|---|---  \nAA | 10\u00be\"/[27.5cm] | \u00bd\"/[1.5cm]= 2 stitches= 1 increase/decrease | Every 20 rows once | Every 16 rows once  \nA | 10\u00be\"/[27.5cm] | 1\"/[2.5cm]= 6 stitches= 3 increases/decreases | Every 8 rows 3 times | Every 8 rows once, then every 6 rows twice  \nB | 10\u00be\"/[27.5cm] | 2\"/[5cm]= 12 stitches= 6 increases/decreases | Every 4 rows 6 times | Every 4 rows 4 times, then every other row twice  \nC | 10\u00be\"/[27.5cm] | 3\"/[7.5cm]= 18 stitches= 9 increases/decreases | Every other row 6 times, then every 4 rows 3 times | Every 4 rows once, then every other row 8 times  \nD | 10\u00bd\"/[26.5cm] | 4\"/[10cm]= 24 stitches= 12 increases/decreases | Every other row 8 times, then every 4 rows 4 times | Every other row 12 times  \nDD or E | 10\u00bc\"/[26cm] | 5\"/[12.5cm]= 30 stitches= 15 increases/decreases | Every other row 12 times, then every 4 rows 3 times | Every 4 rows once then every other row 14 times\n\nSydney\n\nSydney\n\nLight as air, this mohair and silk tunic is a perfect transitional piece for autumn or spring. It's knit in the round until the armholes and has a beautiful incorporated neck treatment.\n\nSkill Level\n\nExperienced\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X, 4X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for the other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 31\u00bd (35, 38\u00be, 42\u00bd, 46, 50, 53\u00bd)\"/[80 (89, 98.5, 108, 117, 127, 136)cm]\n\nHip: 55\u00bd (59, 62\u00be, 66\u00bd, 70, 74, 77\u00bd)\"/[141 (150, 159.5, 169, 178, 188, 197)cm]\n\nLength (at center front): 28 (28\u00bd, 29, 29\u00bd, 29\u00bd, 30, 30)\"/[71 (72, 74, 75, 75, 76, 76)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Westminster Fibers/Rowan's Kidsilk Haze (2-fine/sport weight; 70% super kid mohair/30% silk; each approximately 1 oz/[25g] and 229 yds/[210m]): 7 (8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13) balls of Dewberry #600   Fine\n\n\u2022 Size 2 (2.75mm) 29\"/[74cm] circular needle\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) 29\"/[74cm] circular needle or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 8 stitch markers (1 in a different color than the others to mark the beginning of rounds)\n\n\u2022 Waste yarn to hold stitches\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n26 stitches and 38 rounds/rows = 4\"/[10cm] in stockinette stitch with the larger needle.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nGarter Stitch (in the round; any number of stitches)\n\nROUND 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nROUND 2: Purl.\n\nRepeat Rounds 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nGarter Stitch (worked flat; any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nPATTERN ROW: As Row 1.\n\nStockinette Stitch (worked flat; any number of stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): Knit.\n\nROW 2: Purl.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The Body of this sweater is worked in the round from the bottom up to the armholes and then is divided, after which the Front and Back are worked flat. The sleeves are worked flat.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, k2, sssk, work in pattern to the last 5 stitches, k3tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2.\n\n\u2022 On the right-hand side of the neck, k2, ssk, knit to 7 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, yarn over, p5; on the left-hand side of the neck, p5, yarn over, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. On the subsequent row, purl across all stitches.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, k2, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2; on wrong-side rows, p2, p2tog, purl to the last 4 stitches, ssp, p2.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nClose-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nWith its A-line silhouette and rows of eyelets pointing upward, this design is universally flattering. The neckline is even framed with delicate eyelets!\n\nBody\n\nWith the smaller needle, cast on 317 (338, 359, 380, 401, 422, 444) stitches. Place a marker for the beginning of the round and join, being careful not to twist the stitches.\n\nBegin garter stitch in the round, and work even until the piece measures approximately \u00bd\"/[1.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a knit round.\n\nNEXT ROUND: Purl around, and use the M1 purlwise technique (this page) to increase 43 (46, 49, 52, 55, 58, 60) stitches evenly spaced\u2014360 (384, 408, 432, 456, 480, 504) stitches.\n\nSET UP PATTERN\n\nNEXT ROUND: Change to the larger needle; *k2, ssk, k71 (77, 83, 89, 95, 101, 107), yarn over, place a marker, k30, place a marker, yarn over, k71 (77, 83, 89, 95, 101, 107), k2tog, k2**; place a marker; repeat from the * to the ** once more.\n\nMAIN PATTERN ROUND 1: Knit around.\n\nMAIN PATTERN ROUND 2: *K2, ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to 4 stitches before the next marker, k2tog, k2; repeat from the * once more.\n\nMAIN PATTERN ROUND 3: Knit around.\n\nMAIN PATTERN ROUND 4 (DECREASE ROUND): *K2, sssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to 5 stitches before the next marker, k3tog, k2; repeat from the * once more\u2014356 (380, 404, 428, 452, 476, 500) stitches remain.\n\nRepeat the last 4 rounds 38 more times, with each set of 4 rounds having 4 fewer stitches than the previous 4 rounds\u2014204 (228, 252, 276, 300, 324, 348) stitches remain.\n\nRepeat Main Pattern Rounds 1 and 2 only until the piece measures approximately 20\"/[51cm] from the beginning, measured at the center front, ending with Main Pattern Round 1, and 4 (6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16) stitches before the beginning of the round marker.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nRemoving the beginning of round marker, *bind off the next 8 (12, 16, 20, 24, 28, 32) stitches, k2, ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over**, knit to 8 (10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20) stitches before the next marker, k2tog, k2; join a second ball of yarn and repeat from * to ** once more, then knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2. Slip the last 94 (102, 110, 118, 126, 134, 142) stitches onto waste yarn to hold for the Front.\n\nBACK ARMHOLE SHAPING\n\nROW 1 (WS): Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8), purl to the end of the row\u201492 (100, 106, 114, 120, 128, 134) stitches remain.\n\nROW 2: Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8), k2 (including the stitch on right-hand needle from the bind-off), ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2\u201490 (98, 102, 110, 114, 122, 126) stitches remain.\n\nContinuing in the established pattern, work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (1, 1, 1, 1, 3, 3) times, every other row 1 (2, 1, 4, 4, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2) times\u201484 (88, 92, 96, 100, 104, 108) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even in pattern (on right-side rows, working the decreases 2 stitches in from each side with the yarn overs on each side of the marked center stitches) until the piece measures approximately 24 (24\u00bd, 25, 25\u00bd, 26, 26, 26\u00bd, 26\u00bd)\"/[61 (62, 63.5, 65, 66, 66, 67.5, 67.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): K2, ssk, knit to the first marker, yarn over, slip the marker, p30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2.\n\nNEXT ROW: Purl to the first marker, slip the marker, p30, slip the marker, purl to the end of the row.\n\nRepeat the last 2 rows 4 more times.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, ssk, knit to 2 stitches before the marker, k2tog, yarn over, slip the marker, p5; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 20 stitches purlwise; p5, slip the marker, yarn over, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2\u201431 (33, 35, 37, 39, 41, 43) stitches remain each side.\n\nROW 2: Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, purl across both sides.\n\nWork fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) each side every other row 12 more times, ending after a wrong-side row\u201419 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nROW 1 (RS): Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7) stitches, knit to 2 stitches before the marker, k2tog, yarn over, slip the marker, p5; p5, slip the marker, yarn over, ssk, knit to the end of the row.\n\nROW 2: Bind off 4 (4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7) stitches, purl across both sides\u201415 (17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 24) stitches remain each side.\n\nRepeat the last 2 rows twice more (eliminating the yarn over and decrease when there are no longer enough stitches to work them), then bind off 7 (9, 8, 10, 9, 8, 10) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFRONT ARMHOLE SHAPING\n\nSlip the 94 (102, 110, 118, 126, 134, 142) Front stitches from the waste yarn to the larger needle.\n\nROW 1 (WS): Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8), purl to the end of the row\u201492 (100, 106, 114, 120, 128, 134) stitches remain.\n\nROW 2: Bind off 2 (2, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8) sts, k2 (including the stitch on right-hand needle from the bind-off), ssk, knit to the next marker, yarn over, slip the marker, k30, slip the marker, yarn over, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2\u201490 (98, 102, 110, 114, 122, 126) stitches remain.\n\nContinuing in pattern, work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (1, 1, 1, 1, 3, 3) times, every other row 1 (2, 1, 4, 4, 4, 4) times, then every 4 rows 2 (2, 3, 2, 2, 2, 2) times, and at the same time, when the piece measures approximately 20\u00bd (21, 21\u00bd, 22, 22, 22\u00bd, 22\u00bd)\"/[52 (53.5, 54.5, 56, 56, 57, 57)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, work as follows:\n\nNEXT ROW (RS): Continuing armhole shaping as necessary, work to the first marker, yarn over, slip the marker, p30, slip the marker, yarn over, work to the end of the row.\n\nNEXT ROW: Continuing armhole shaping as necessary, purl across.\n\nRepeat the last 2 rows 4 more times.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, ssk, knit to 2 sts before the marker, k2tog, yarn over, slip the marker, p5; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 20 stitches, p5, slip the marker, yarn over, ssk, knit to the last 4 stitches, k2tog, k2\u201431 (33, 35, 37, 39, 41, 43) stitches remain each side.\n\nROW 2: Working both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, purl across both sides.\n\nWork fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) each side every 4 rows 12 more times, ending after a wrong-side row\u201419 (21, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31) stitches remain each side.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork as for the Back.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nWith the smaller needle, cast on 68 (68, 73, 81, 86, 91, 97) stitches. Do not join.\n\nBegin garter stitch worked flat, and work even until the piece measures approximately \u00bd\"/1.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row, and on the last row, use the M1 purlwise technique ([this page) to increase 10 (10, 11, 11, 12, 13, 13) stitches evenly spaced across the row\u201478 (78, 84, 92, 98, 104, 110) stitches.\n\nChange to the larger needle and begin stockinette stitch; continue even until the piece measures approximately 4\"/[10cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 4 (6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases each side every 4 rows 0 (0, 0, 1, 0, 2, 1) times, every other row 11 (13, 15, 13, 15, 11, 13) times, then every row 9 (5, 1, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201430 (30, 36, 44, 44, 50, 50) stitches remain.\n\nWork 0 (0, 0, 1, 1, 1, 1) row even.\n\nBind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201418 (18, 24, 32, 32, 38, 38) stitches remain.\n\nBind off.\n\nFinishing\n\nBlock the pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nUse mattress stitch to sew the shoulder seams.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nTrompe l'Oeil\n\nTrompe l'Oeil\n\nWould you like to instantly shrink the size of your hips? This clever design uses diagonal lines to create the illusion of a tapered silhouette. Like other sweaters in this book, its integrated neckband makes it easy\u2014and tons of fun!\u2014to finish.\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nExtra Small (Small, Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 33 (36, 39, 44, 47, 52, 57)\"/[84 (91, 99, 112, 119.5, 132, 145)cm] Length: 23 (23\u00bd, 23\u00bd, 24, 24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd)\"/[58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Zealana Yarns' Willow DK (3-light/DK weight; 70% merino wool/30% cashmere; each approximately 1\u00be oz/[50g] and 140 yds/[128m]): 7 (8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 11) balls of Emerald #14   Light\n\n\u2022 Size 6 (4mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 5 stitch markers\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n24 stitches and 32 rows = 4\"/[10cm] in Garter Rib Pattern. To save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nGarter Rib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 2 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K2, *p2, k2; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: Purl across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1 and 2 for the pattern.\n\nDiagonal Lines Pattern\n\nWork in established Garter Rib, working new stitches into the pattern as they accumulate.\n\nROW 1 (RS): Work to 2 stitches before the first marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1-R (this page), work to the next marker, M1-L, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, ssk, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 2 AND ALL WRONG-SIDE ROWS: Purl across.\n\nROW 3: Work in the established pattern.\n\nROW 5: As Row 1.\n\nROW 7: Work in the established pattern.\n\nROW 9: Work to 2 stitches before the first marker, k2tog, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1 purlwise (this page), work to the next marker, M1 purlwise, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, ssk, work to the end of the row.\n\nROW 11: Work in the established pattern.\n\nROW 13: As Row 9.\n\nROW 15: Work in the established pattern.\n\nROW 16: As Row 2.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u201316 for the pattern.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 The instructions include one selvedge stitch on each side; these stitches are not included in the finished measurements.\n\n\u2022 The stitch count will remain constant on every row until the armholes are shaped, after which it will remain constant until the beginning of the neck shaping.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, [k2, p2] 3 times, k1, ssk, work in pattern to the last 15 stitches, k2tog, k1, [p2, k2] 3 times; on wrong-side rows, p13, p2tog, purl to the last 15 stitches, ssp, purl to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, work to 16 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, k1, [p2, k2] 3 times, k1; on the left-hand side of the neck, k1, [k2, p2] 3 times, k1, ssk, work to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned sleeve increases: For the first 2 sets of increases, work to the first marker, M1-R, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1-L, work to the end of the row; for the next 2 sets of increases, work to the first marker, M1 purlwise, slip the marker, work to the next marker, slip the marker, M1 purlwise, work to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases: On right-side rows, [k2, p2] 2 times, k1, ssk, work in pattern to the last 11 stitches, k2tog, k1, [p2, k2] 2 times; on wrong-side rows, p9, p2tog, purl to the last 11 stitches, ssp, purl to the end of the row.\n\n\u2022 For sweater assembly, refer to the illustration for set-in construction.\n\nFit\n\nStandard-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nOodles of vertical lines make this design especially flattering. Its two diagonal lines at the hip and an open V-neck make this one a winner for everyone's figure!\n\nBack\n\nCast on 102 (110, 118, 134, 142, 158, 174) stitches.\n\nBegin the Garter Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 4\"/[10cm] from the beginning, ending after a right-side row.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): P17 (21, 25, 33, 37, 45, 53) stitches, place a marker, p13, place a marker, p42, place a marker, p13, place a marker, purl to the end of the row.\n\nBEGIN DIAGONAL LINES PATTERN\n\nWork the 16-row Diagonal Lines Pattern 4 times for Extra Small and 5 times for all other sizes.\n\nContinue even in Garter Rib, if necessary, until the piece measures approximately 15\u00bd\"/[39.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 4 (4, 4, 8, 8, 12, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned armhole decreases (see Notes) every row 2 (8, 8, 14, 14, 12, 20) times, then every other row 6 (4, 4, 2, 2, 4, 0) times\u201478 (78, 86, 86, 94, 102, 102) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bd (21, 21, 21\u00bd, 21\u00bd, 22, 22)\"/[52 (53.5, 53.5, 54.5, 54.5, 56, 56)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork 5 (5, 9, 9, 13, 17, 17) stitches in pattern; join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 68 stitches, work in pattern to the end of the row.\n\nWork a fully fashioned neck decrease (see Notes) at each neck edge on the next right-side row\u20144 (4, 8, 8, 12, 16, 16) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 23 (23\u00bd, 23\u00bd, 24, 24, 24\u00bd, 24\u00bd)\"/[58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62, 62)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nBind off all stitches as they present themselves.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 16 (16\u00bd, 16\u00bd, 17, 17, 17\u00bd, 17\u00bd)\"/ [40.5 (42, 42, 43, 43, 44.5, 44.5)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nPlace a marker between the 2 center stitches for Front neck edge.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nContinue armhole decreases same as for the Back, and at the same time, work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) every other row 16 times, then every 4 rows 4 times, joining a second ball of yarn at the center marker on the first row, then using separate balls of yarn for Left and Right Fronts thereafter\u201419 (19, 23, 23, 27, 31, 31) stitches remain each side.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures the same as the Back to the shoulders.\n\nBind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 12, 16, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows\u201415 stitches remain each side. Put these stitches on holders.\n\nSleeves (Make 2)\n\nCast on 62 (62, 70, 70, 78, 78, 78) stitches.\n\nBegin the Garter Rib Pattern and work even for 18 (12, 12, 10, 12, 14, 14) rows; on the last row, place markers after the first 12 stitches and before the last 12 stitches.\n\nWork fully fashioned increases (see Notes) on the next row, then every other row 0 (0, 0, 0, 0, 7, 7) times, every 4 rows 0 (3, 0, 11, 11, 8, 8) times, every 6 rows 0 (4, 7, 0, 0, 0, 0) times, then every 10 rows 3 (0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0) times\u201470 (78, 86, 94, 102, 110, 110) stitches.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 7 (7, 7\u00bd, 7\u00bd, 8, 8, 8)\"/[18 (18, 19, 19, 20.5, 20.5, 20.5)cm] from the beginning, or desired length to underarm, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE CAP\n\nBind off 4 (4, 4, 8, 8, 12, 16) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned sleeve cap decreases (see Notes) every right-side row 13 (13, 9, 13, 9, 13, 17) times, then every row 7 (11, 19, 15, 23, 19, 11) times\u201422 stitches remain.\n\nBind off 3 stitches at the beginning of the next 4 rows\u201410 stitches remain.\n\nBind off in the pattern.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nBACK NECKBAND\n\nTransfer the 15 stitches of one neckband to one of the knitting needles. Continue in pattern until the band, when slightly stretched, reaches the center back of the neck. Bind off. Repeat on the other side.\n\nSew the sides of neckband to the back neckline.\n\nSew the bound-off edges of neckband together at the back of the neck.\n\nSet in the sleeves.\n\nSew the side and sleeve seams.\n\nAngie\n\nAngie\n\nIncorporated armholes and neck shaping make this design especially fun to knit\u2014and easy to finish. It's ideal for hot-weather knitting!\n\nSkill Level\n\nIntermediate\n\nSizes\n\nSmall (Medium, Large, 1X, 2X, 3X). Instructions are for the smallest size, with changes for other sizes noted in parentheses as necessary.\n\nFinished Measurements\n\nBust: 32 (36, 40, 44, 48, 52)\"/ [81 (91, 101.5, 112, 122, 132)cm] Lower Edge: 48 (54, 60, 66, 72, 78)\"/[122 (137, 152.5, 167.5, 183, 198) cm]\n\nLength: 29 (29\u00bd, 29\u00bd, 30, 30, 30\u00bd)\"/[74 (75, 75, 76, 76, 77.5)cm]\n\nMaterials\n\n\u2022 Louet North America's Euroflax Fine (2-fine/sport weight; 100% linen; each approximately 3\u00bd oz/[100g] and 270 yds/247m]): 4 (5, 5, 6, 6, 7) hanks of Steel Grey #68   Fine\n\n\u2022 Size 2 (2.75mm) knitting needles\n\n\u2022 Size 3 (3.25mm) knitting needles or size needed to obtain gauge\n\n\u2022 2 Size 2 (2.75mm) double-pointed needles\n\n\u2022 Blunt-end yarn needle\n\nGauge\n\n24 stitches and 32 rows = 4\"/[10cm] with the larger needles in the Lace Pattern D after blocking.\n\nTo save time, take time to check gauge.\n\nStitch Patterns\n\nLace Pattern A (multiple of 18 + 19 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nLace Pattern B (multiple of 16 + 17 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nLace Pattern C (multiple of 14 + 15 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nLace Pattern D (multiple of 12 + 13 stitches)\n\nSee chart.\n\nRib Pattern (multiple of 4 + 1 stitches)\n\nROW 1 (RS): K1, *p3, k1; repeat from the * across.\n\nROW 2: P1, *k3, p1; repeat from the * across.\n\nRepeat Rows 1\u20132 for the pattern.\n\nSpecial Abbreviations\n\nS2kp2 = Centered double decrease = Slip next 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, pass the 2 slipped stitches over the knit stitch.\n\nMB = Make a bobble = Knit into [front, back, front] of the next stitch, turn; p1, [p1, yarn over, p1] all into the same st, p1, turn; k5, turn; p2tog, p1, p2tog, turn; s2kp2.\n\nNotes\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned armhole decreases: On right-side rows, [k1, p3] twice, ssk, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, k2tog, [p3, k1] twice; on wrong-side rows, [p1, k3] twice, p2tog, work in pattern to the last 10 stitches, ssp, [k3, p1] twice.\n\n\u2022 For fully fashioned neck decreases: On the right-hand side of the neck, work to the last 10 stitches before the neck edge, k2tog, [p3, k1] twice; on the left-hand side of the neck, [k1, p3] twice, ssk, work to the end of the row.\n\nFit\n\nVery close-fitting\n\nFigure Flattery\n\nIn this linen tunic/dress, fully fashioned decreases are worked into the lace pattern. The A-line silhouette flatters everyone, no matter what their size or shape.\n\nBack\n\nWith the smaller needles, cast on 145 (163, 181, 199, 217, 235) stitches.\n\nBOBBLE ROW (WS): K18, *MB, k17; repeat from the * to the last stitch, k1.\n\nNEXT ROW: Knit across.\n\nChange to the larger needles; begin Lace Pattern A, and work Rows 1\u201332 once, then work Rows 1\u20136.\n\nDECREASE ROW 1 (RS): P2tog, k7, p1, *k7, s2kp2, k7, p1; repeat from the * to the last 9 stitches, k7, ssp\u2014129 (145, 161, 177, 193, 209) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them.\n\nBegin Lace Pattern B, and work Rows 1\u201332 once, then work Rows 1\u20136.\n\nDECREASE ROW 2 (RS): P2tog, k6, p1, *k6, s2kp2, k6, p1; repeat from the * to the last 8 stitches, k6, ssp\u2014113 (127, 141, 155, 169, 183) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them.\n\nBegin Lace Pattern C, and work Rows 1\u201332 once, then work Rows 1\u20136.\n\nDECREASE ROW 3 (RS): P2tog, k5, p1, *k5, s2kp2, k5, p1; repeat from the * to the last 7 stitches, k5, ssp\u201497 (109, 121, 133, 145, 157) stitches remain.\n\nNEXT ROW (WS): Knit the knit stitches and purl the purl stitches as you see them.\n\nBegin Lace Pattern D, and work Rows 1\u201326.\n\nContinue in the Rib Pattern, and work even until the piece measures approximately 20\u00bc\"/[51.5cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE ARMHOLES\n\nBind off 4 (4, 8, 8, 8, 12) stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows, then work fully fashioned decreases (see Notes) each side every row 0 (2, 2, 12, 20, 18) times, every other row 4 (8, 8, 8, 4, 6) times, then every 4 rows 4 (2, 2, 0, 0, 0) times\u201473 (77, 81, 77, 81, 85) stitches remain.\n\nContinue even until the piece measures approximately 27 (27\u00bd, 27\u00bd, 28, 28, 28\u00bd)\"/[68.5 (70, 70, 71, 71, 72)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork 17 stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 39 (43, 47, 43, 47, 51) stitches in the pattern, work to the end of the row.\n\nWork both sides at once with separate balls of yarn until the piece measures approximately 28 (28\u00bd, 28\u00bd, 29, 29, 29\u00bd)\"/[71 (72, 72, 74, 74, 75)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nBind off 4 stitches at the beginning of the next 6 rows, then bind off 5 stitches at the beginning of the next 2 rows.\n\nFront\n\nWork same as the Back until the piece measures approximately 23 (23\u00bd, 23\u00bd, 24, 24, 24\u00bd)\"/[58.5 (59.5, 59.5, 61, 61, 62)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE NECK\n\nWork 29 stitches in pattern, join a second ball of yarn and bind off the middle 15 (19, 23, 19, 23, 27) stitches in the pattern, work across to the end of the row.\n\nWork 1 row in pattern.\n\nWorking both sides at once with separate balls of yarn, work fully fashioned neck decreases (see Notes) at each neck edge every other row 6 times, then every 4 rows 6 times\u201417 stitches remain.\n\nWork both sides even until the piece measures approximately 28 (28\u00bd, 28\u00bd, 29, 29, 29\u00bd)\"/[71 (72, 72, 74, 74, 75)cm] from the beginning, ending after a wrong-side row.\n\nSHAPE SHOULDERS\n\nWork same as for the Back.\n\nFinishing\n\nDarn in all remaining yarn tails.\n\nBlock all pieces to the finished measurements.\n\nSew the shoulder seams.\n\nATTACHED I-CORD NECKBAND\n\nUsing the e-wrap method, cast 3 stitches onto a double-pointed needle, then pick up and knit 1 stitch at the center back neck of the garment. *Do not turn. Slide the 4 stitches to the right-hand tip of the double-pointed needle, k2, ssk, pick up and knit 1 stitch from the neckline of the garment; repeat from the * around the neck opening.\n\nBind off.\n\nSew the ends of the I-Cord together.\n\nSew the side seams.\n\nATTACHED I-CORD ARMBAND\n\nUsing the e-wrap method, cast 3 stitches onto a double-pointed needle, then pick up and knit 1 stitch at the center underarm of the garment.\n\nContinue working Attached I-Cord as for the neckband around the armhole.\n\nRepeat for the other armhole.\n\nStitch Key\n\n  |  |\n\n= K on RS; p on WS\n\n---|---|---  \n\u2022 |  |\n\n= P on RS; k on WS\n\n  |  |\n\n= Yarn over\n\n  |  |\n\n= K2tog\n\n  |  |\n\n= Ssk\n\n  |  |\n\n= Ssp\n\n  |  |\n\n= P2tog\n\n  |  |\n\n= Insert needle into the second and first sts as if to p2tog-through-back loops; slip these 2 sts onto the RH needle in this position; p1; p2sso\n\n# General Knitting Techniques\n\nAttaching New Yarn\n\nWhenever possible, try to attach a new ball of yarn at the beginning of a row.\n\nTo start a new color of yarn at the beginning of a knit row: Drop the old yarn, insert your right-hand needle into the first stitch of the row as if you are about to knit, grab the new yarn, and use it to knit the first stitch (illustration 18). Always begin and end every yarn with at least a 6\"/[15cm] tail. Otherwise you won't have enough length to weave it in sufficiently.\n\nTo start a new yarn at the beginning of a purl row: Drop the old yarn, insert your right-hand needle into that first stitch of the row as if you're about to purl rather than knit, and purl it.\n\nBobbles\n\nBobbles introduce wonderful surface texture (not to mention, playful whimsy) to fabrics. While some knitters find them time-consuming to knit, they are not difficult to do. To make a bobble, work several stitches into a single stitch, increasing the number of stitches in that area from one stitch to three, five, or more. Work several rows on these new stitches, turning the work after each successive row. Finally, decrease the stitches back to the original single stitch.\n\nThere are several ways to knit a bobble, but here's my favorite. It's used in Angie: Knit into the (front, back, front) of a single stitch, turn; work into these same three stitches, p1, (p1, yarn over, p1) all into the next stitch, then p1, turn; knit the 5 stitches, turn; decrease from five stitches down to three stitches as follows: P2tog, p1, p2tog, turn. Finally, decrease from 3 stitches down to one stitch as follows: Slip 2 stitches at once knitwise, knit the next stitch, then pass the 2 slipped stitches from the right-hand needle over the last knit stitch as if you're binding them off.\n\nCable Cast-On\n\nHere's my favorite cast-on technique: It's beautiful, easy, and quick to do. Plus, it's perfect when the first row worked is a right-side row.\n\nStart by making a slip knot on your knitting needle, then insert the tip of the right-hand needle knitwise into the loop that's sitting on the left-hand needle and knit up a stitch (illustration 19) but don't remove the original stitch from the left-hand needle; instead, transfer the new stitch from the right-hand needle back to the left-hand one. One new stitch has been cast on.\n\nFor each successive stitch to be cast on, insert the tip of the right-hand needle between the first 2 stitches on the left-hand needle to knit up a stitch (illustration 20).\n\nAs before, do not remove the old stitch, rather slip the new one back onto the left-hand needle; repeat until you have cast on the required number of stitches.\n\nCables\n\nCables are created when stitches exchange places with other stitches within a knit row. One set of stitches is placed on a cable needle to keep them out of the way while another set of stitches is worked. Depending on whether those stitches are held to the front or to the back of the work, whether the cable uses two, three, or even seventeen stitches, and whether the stitches are ultimately knit or purled or any combination of the two, they create beautiful patterns. For a two-over-two right crossed stockinette cable, for example, slip 2 stitches onto a cable needle and hold them in back of the work; knit 2 stitches from the left-hand needle, then knit the 2 stitches from cable needle. For a two-over-two left crossed stockinette cable, slip 2 stitches onto a cable needle and hold them in front of the work; knit 2 stitches from the left-hand needle, then knit the 2 stitches from the cable needle.\n\nE-Wrap Cast-On\n\nHere's a quick cast-on method that is easy to do. It is not as stable as many other techniques.\n\nTo do: Wrap the yarn from front to back around your left thumb, then insert the right-hand needle from front to back to catch the strand (illustration 21).\n\nFasten Off\n\nTo finish a piece of fabric securely once the knitting is completed, cut the yarn, leaving a tail at least 6\"/ 15cm] long, and fasten off by drawing the loose tail through the remaining stitch on the knitting needle. Later, this [yarn tail can be used for seaming or else must be woven in.\n\nKnit a Stitch Through Its Back Loop (abbreviated k1-tbl)\n\nThis technique twists a stitch. It is often used to make stitches appear embossed on top of fabric.\n\nTo work this technique, just insert your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch from right to left and from front to back, and wrap the working yarn around the needle the regular way to knit the stitch (illustration 22).\n\nKnit in the Row Below\n\nThis technique is used to create novelty stitch patterns, such as the Fisherman's Rib in Candace's Shell.\n\nTo do: Simply insert the top of the right-hand needle into the stitch that's directly below the first stitch on the left-hand needle (illustration 23), and knit it. Slip off the left-hand needle.\n\nKnitwise\n\nInstructions will sometimes tell you to insert your knitting needle into a stitch knitwise. To do this, simply insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you were about to knit that stitch\u2014in other words, from left to right and from front to back (illustration 24).\n\nIf you're told to slip a stitch knitwise, insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you're about to knit it and slide that stitch off of the left-hand needle and onto the right-hand one, allowing the stitch to sit on the right-hand needle with its left \"leg\" in the front. Usually, stitches are slipped knitwise during a decrease.\n\nProvisional Cast-On\n\nUsing smooth waste yarn in a highly contrasting color to your working yarn, crochet a loose chain that is 4 or 5 chains longer than the number of stitches you plan to cast on.\n\nCut the yarn and pull the end through the last chain made to secure it. Tie a loose knot on this tail to mark it as the one you'll use to later unravel the chain.\n\nTurn the crocheted chain over and use a knitting needle to pick up and knit 1 stitch through the back loop of each crocheted chain (illustration 25) until you have cast on the appropriate number of stitches for your knit piece.\n\nTo expose the live stitches later on, undo the last chain (the one nearest the knotted tail), gently unzip the chain (illustration 26), and transfer the stitches onto a knitting needle. Since you'll be knitting on the opposite side of the crocheted chain, to get the correct stitch count, you may need to create an extra stitch at one edge.\n\nPurl a Stitch Through Its Back Loop (abbreviated P1-tbl)\n\nLike knitting a stitch through the back loop, this technique twists a stitch.\n\nTo work this technique, just insert your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch from left to right and from back to front, and wrap the working yarn around the needle the regular way to purl the stitch (illustration 27).\n\nPurlwise\n\nWhen instructed to insert your knitting needle into a stitch purlwise, simply insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you were about to purl that stitch\u2014in other words, from right to left and from back to front (illustration 28).\n\nThe convention in knitting is to always slip stitches purlwise unless told otherwise. When told to slip a stitch purlwise, insert the tip of your right-hand needle into the indicated stitch as if you're about to purl it and slide that stitch off of the left-hand needle and onto the right-hand one, allowing the stitch to sit on the right-hand needle with its right \"leg\" in the front.\n\nSlip 2 Knit 1, Pass the 2 Slipped Stitches Over (abbreviated s2kp2)\n\nHere's a central double decrease that takes 3 stitches down to 1 stitch.\n\nTo do it, slip 2 stitches at once knitwise (illustration 29), knit the next stitch (illustration 30), then pass the 2 slipped stitches over the stitch you just knit (illustration 31).\n\nSteeks\n\nUsed primarily in stranded color knitting, steeks are extra stitches that are cast on and knit so the fabric can be worked completely in the round, making the colorwork easier to do; once the knitting is completed, the steek stitches are cut.\n\nFor the steek, a bridge of stitches is cast on using the e-wrap cast-on technique (illustration 21) using alternating colors of yarn.\n\nUsually, the steek stitches are knit in a simple color pattern, either in the same one-by-one vertical stripe pattern already set up in the cast-on or else in a simple alternating check pattern. Usually, a marker is placed on either side of the steek stitches to set them off from the main knitting.\n\nAfter the knitting has been completed, unless the fabric has been worked in extremely sticky yarn such as Shetland wool, the steek edges are usually reinforced prior to cutting.\n\nI recommend using single crochet stitches to secure things before cutting. Use a crochet hook at least 1\u20132 sizes smaller than your main knitting needle. And choose a highly contrasting yarn that's thinner than your main knitting yarn.\n\nSingle crochet stitches are worked to join the right-hand leg of one stitch to the left-hand leg of the adjacent stitch on either side of the cutting line. For example, let's look at a five-stitch steek and number the legs of each stitch (illustration 32).\n\nMake a slip knot. Then turn your piece of knitting sideways and use a single crochet stitch to join Legs 4 and 5 for one column of stitches and then Legs 6 and 7 for the second side. This is one leg of the center stitch and one leg of the adjacent stitch.\n\nBegin securing the steek by inserting your crochet hook from front to back to front through the two legs (illustration 33).\n\nPlace the reinforcement yarn onto the hook, yarn over the hook, and draw the yarn through the two legs (illustration 34).\n\nWrap the yarn over the hook, and draw it through the loop on the hook to complete a slip stitch. This maneuver attaches the crocheted chain to the knit fabric.\n\nInsert the crochet hook into the next pair of legs, wrap the yarn over the hook and pull up a loop (you'll have two loops on the hook; illustration 35), then yarn over again and draw it through both loops to make a single crochet stitch.\n\nRepeat this last step to the top of the steek (illustration 36).\n\nFor the other side of the steek, turn your work in the other direction and, beginning at the bind-off row, work downward to join Legs 6 and 7. You will be joining the other leg of the center stitch with one leg of the adjacent stitch.\n\nOnce both legs of the center stitch are crocheted, the stitch will be pulled in two directions, leaving horizontal ladders right down the center between the legs\u2014you can see this in the middle of the center stitch in illustration 37. This is where the steek will eventually be cut.\n\nOnce the steek has been secured, use the sharpest scissors you can find\u2014in bright light, if possible\u2014to cut the center of the steek. Be careful not to cut your crocheted reinforcing stitches!\n\nStranded Technique\n\nIn this color knitting technique, two colors are worked across each row, and when a color is not in use, it is carried loosely across the wrong side of the fabric, creating horizontal floats. Knitters can choose between 3 possible methods for holding the yarn:\n\nHolding One Color in Each Hand\n\nHere's the most efficient way to work stranded knitting: Hold one yarn in each hand, wrapping them around your fingers to control the tension the way you normally do (illustration 38). To work a stitch with the color from the right-hand yarn, insert the needle into the next stitch knitwise or purlwise according to your pattern, wrap the right-hand yarn around the needle to make either a knit or purl stitch; to make a stitch with the color of the yarn you're holding in your left hand, insert the needle into the next stitch knitwise or purlwise depending on your pattern, and wrap the left-hand yarn around the needle to complete the stitch.\n\nHolding Both Colors in the Right Hand\n\nIf you're normally an American-style \"thrower,\" you can put both yarns in your right hand and use the appropriate color to knit or purl each stitch. Knitters have two possible methods to choose from.\n\nMETHOD 1: Loop both yarns around the right index finger (illustration 39). Use the bend of the top joint of your finger to keep the two yarns apart.\n\nMETHOD 2: Hold one color yarn over the index finger and the other color yarn over the middle finger (illustration 40).\n\nHolding Both Colors in the Left Hand\n\nIf you typically knit Continental-style, you can work with both yarns in your left hand. Again, knitters have two possible methods to choose from. With either method, the right-hand needle can easily \"pick\" the yarn called for in the color pattern.\n\nMETHOD 1: Place both color yarns over the left index finger (illustration 41). Use the bend of the top joint of your finger to keep the two yarns apart.\n\nMETHOD 2: Put one color yarn over the left index finger and the other color yarn over the middle finger (illustration 42).\n\n# Finishing Techniques\n\nBlocking\n\nPrior to seaming your knit pieces, take the time to block them into shape. You'll be surprised at how this simple process can improve the appearance of your projects and can tame even the most unruly stitches! To do it, follow the laundering instructions on the yarn label for the most delicate yarn in your project, then use rustless pins to shape the damp fabric to your desired measurements and allow it to dry. Or gently steam the pieces into shape by placing a damp cloth over them and then carefully wafting a hot steam iron just above the fabric. Don't actually touch the iron to the fabric or you'll risk flattening it.\n\nHiding Yarn Tails\n\nUse a pointed-end yarn needle to make short running stitches on the wrong side of your fabric in a diagonal line for about one inch or so, piercing the yarn strands that comprise the stitches of your fabric. Then, work back again to where you began, working alongside your previous running stitches. Finally, to secure the tail, work a stitch or two and actually pierce the running stitches you just created. Be sure to work each tail individually, in opposite diagonal directions, and you will secure your yarn ends while keeping the public side of your fabric neat and beautiful.\n\nMattress Stitch Seams\n\nHere's the neatest seam imaginable for stockinette stitch and most knit fabrics. Nearly invisible, it can be worked vertically or horizontally.\n\nFor a Vertical Seam\n\nLay your pieces flat, with the right sides of the fabric facing you, matching patterns and stripes, if applicable.\n\nThread a blunt-end yarn needle with your sewing yarn, then bring the needle up from back to front through the left-hand piece of fabric, going in one stitch from the edge, leaving a 6\"/[15cm] tail.\n\nBring the yarn up and through the corresponding spot on the right-hand piece to secure the lower edges.\n\nInsert the needle from front to back into the same spot on the left-hand piece where the needle emerged last time and bring it up through the corresponding place of the next row of knitting.\n\nInsert the needle from front to back into the same spot on the right-hand piece where the needle emerged last time and bring it up through the corresponding place of the next row of knitting.\n\nRepeat the last two steps until you've sewn approximately 2\"/[5cm], then pull firmly on the sewing yarn to bring the pieces of the fabric together, allowing the two stitches on the edges of each piece to roll to the wrong side.\n\nContinue this way until your seam is complete (illustration 43).\n\nFor a Horizontal Seam\n\nLay your pieces flat with the right sides of the fabric facing you and with the bound-off edges of the pieces together. Bring the needle up through the center of a stitch just below the bound-off edge on the lower piece of fabric, then insert it from front to back and from right to left around both legs of the corresponding stitch on the other piece of fabric. Bring the needle tip back down through the center of the same stitch where it first emerged.\n\nContinue this way until your seam is complete (illustration 44).\n\nSewing in a Zipper\n\nDon't be afraid to add a zipper to a project! It's easy to do\u2014and fun and convenient to wear. With the zipper closed and the right side of the garment pieces facing you, pin the zipper into place, keeping in mind that with hairier fabrics it might be best to allow more of the teeth to show, so the fibers don't get caught in the zipper's operation. Use contrasting sewing thread to baste the zipper into place (illustration 45).\n\nRemove the pins and, with matching sewing thread, whipstitch the tape to the wrong side (illustration 46). Finally, with the right side of the garment facing you, use backstitch to sew down the zipper tape neatly (illustration 47). Fold any excess zipper tape to the wrong side and tack it down.\n\nWhipstitch\n\nThis type of seam is used to secure a knit-in hem.\n\nTo do: Fold the facing of the hem to the wrong side of the fabric. Insert the tip of a blunt-tipped yarn needle into a stitch on the wrong side of the main fabric and then into the cast-on edge of the hem, drawing the yarn through (illustration 48).\n\n# Sweater Assembly\n\nSweater pieces fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, with the type of armhole determining how the Front, Back, and Sleeves interlock. Refer to the illustrations below when assembling sweaters.\n\n# Yarn Choice and Substitution\n\nEach project in this book was designed for a specific yarn. Different yarns possess their own characteristics, which will affect the way they appear and behave when knit. To duplicate the projects exactly as photographed, I suggest that you use the designated yarns. Even so, you'll find that the nature of any handmade garment assures subtle differences and variances.\n\nHowever, if you would like to make a yarn substitution, be sure to choose one of similar weight to the one called for in the pattern. Yarn sizes and weights are usually located on the label, but for an accurate test, knit a swatch of stockinette stitch pattern using the recommended needle size, making it at least 4\"/[10cm] square.\n\nCount the number of stitches in this 4\"/[10cm] swatch and refer to the table below to determine the yarn's weight.\n\nYarn Size and Weight | Description | Stitches per 4\"/[10cm] in Stockinette Stitch  \n---|---|---  \n  Super Fine | Fingering weight | 27 or more  \n  Fine | Sport weight | 23\u201326 sts  \n  Light | DK weight | 21\u201324 sts  \n  Medium | Worsted weight | 16\u201320 sts  \n  Bulky | Bulky weight | 12\u201315 sts  \n  Super Bulky | Super Bulky weight | 11 or fewer\n\n# Resources\n\nMaterials\n\nI always recommend purchasing supplies at your local yarn shop. If there isn't one in your area, contact the appropriate wholesaler below for more information.\n\nBrown Sheep Company\n\n100662 County Road 16\n\nMitchell, NE 69357\n\n(308) 635-2198\n\nwww.brownsheep.com\n\nCascade Yarns\n\n1224 Andover Park E\n\nTukwila, WA 98188\n\n(206) 574-0440\n\nwww.cascadeyarns.com\n\nClassic Elite Yarns\n\n122 Western Avenue\n\nLowell, MA 01851\n\n(978) 453-2837\n\nwww.classiceliteyarns.com\n\nGGH Yarns\n\n(See Muench Yarns)\n\nJade Sapphire\n\n148 Germonds Rd.\n\nWest Nyack, NY 10995\n\n(845) 623-9036\n\nwww.jadesapphire.com\n\nJamieson's\n\n(See Simply Shetland)\n\nJCA, Inc.\n\n35 Scales Lane\n\nTownsend, MA 01469\n\n(978) 597-8794\n\nwww.jcacrafts.com\n\nJHB International, Inc.\n\n1955 South Quince Street\n\nDenver, CO 80231\n\n(303) 751-8100\n\nwww.buttons.com\n\nKnit One Crochet Too\n\n91 Tandberg Trail, Unit 6\n\nWindham, ME 04062\n\n(207) 892-9625\n\nwww.knitonecrochettoo.com\n\nLion Brand Yarn\n\n135 Kero Road\n\nCarlstadt, NJ 07072\n\n(800) 258-9276\n\nwww.lionbrand.com\n\nLouet North America\n\n3425 Hands Road\n\nPrescott, ON, Canada K0E 1T0\n\n(613) 925-4502\n\nwww.louet.com\n\nMuench Yarns\n\n1323 Scott Street\n\nPetaluma, CA 94954\n\n(707) 763-9377\n\nwww.muenchyarns.com\n\nPlymouth Yarn Company\n\n500 Lafayette Street\n\nPO Box 28\n\nBristol, PA 19007\n\n(215) 788-0459\n\nwww.plymouthyarn.com\n\nReynolds Yarn\n\n(See JCA, Inc.)\n\nRowan Yarn\n\n(See Westminster Fibers)\n\nSimply Shetland\n\n18435 Olympic Avenue South\n\nSeattle, WA 98188\n\n(877) 743-8526\n\n<http://simplyshetland.net/>\n\nSkacel Collection\n\nPO Box 88110\n\nSeattle, WA 98138\n\n(425) 291-9600\n\nwww.skacelknitting.com\n\nTrendsetter Yarns\n\n16745 Saticoy St., Suite 101\n\nVan Nuys, CA 91406\n\n(818) 780-5497\n\nwww.trendsetteryarns.com\n\nWestminster Fibers\n\n165 Ledge St.\n\nNashua, NH 03060\n\n(603) 886-5041\n\nwww.westminsterfibers.com\n\nYarn Sisters\n\n475 Scrub Oak Circle\n\nMonument, CO 80132\n\n(719) 481-2900\n\nwww.theyarnsisters.com\n\nZealana Yarns\n\n(See Yarn Sisters)\n\nThe Knitting Community\n\nTo meet other knitters and to learn more about the craft, contact the following. I currently sit on the Advisory Board and can attest to the educational value\u2014and the pure, knitterly fun\u2014of this great group.\n\nThe Knitting Guild Association\n\n1100-H Brandywine Boulevard\n\nZanesville, OH 43701-7303\n\n(740) 452-4541\n\nE-mail: TKGA@TKGA.com\n\nwww.tkga.com\n\nTo meet other knitters\n\nonline, visit:\n\nwww.ravelry.com\n\n# Index\n\nAbbreviations/symbols\n\nAttaching new yarn\n\nBarred stitches, horizontal\n\nBlocking\n\nBobbles\n\nBody types\n\nangles for flattering\n\ndetermining\n\ndiversionary tactics\n\nfigure flattery Designer Workshop\n\nfits to flatter. See also Skirt; Sweaters/tops\n\nhourglass, 1.1, 4.1\n\nicon shapes for, itr.1, 1.1\n\ninverted triangle, 1.1, 4.1\n\nmeasurements and, 1.1, 1.2\n\npetite\n\nplus-size\n\nrectangular, 1.1, 4.1\n\nround, 1.1, 4.1\n\nsweater dos/don'ts by\n\ntriangle, 1.1, 4.1\n\nwardrobe tips\n\nCables, 3.1, bm1.1\n\nCast-ons, bm1.1, bm1.2\n\nCharts, knitting\n\nCup sizes\n\nDecreases\n\nfeathered lines, 2.1, 2.2\n\nfully fashioned way, 2.1, 2.2\n\nillustrated\n\nposition relative to edge, 2.1, 2.2\n\nslants\n\nsmooth lines\n\ntypes of, 1.1, 1.2\n\nDesigner Workshops, 2.1, 3.1, 4.1\n\nDetails, designer\n\nabout: Designer Workshop for\n\nCables 'n' Ribs, 3.1\n\nCandace's Shell, 3.1\n\nMarilyn's Crossover Top, 3.1\n\nMerino Magic, 3.1\n\nOrvieto, 3.1\n\nThe Weekender, 3.1\n\nWinter White, 3.1\n\nDropped stitches\n\nFasten off\n\nFigure flattery. See Body types\n\nFinishing techniques\n\nFully fashioned garments\n\ndefined, illustrated\n\nhow-tos,. See also Decreases; Increases\n\nGarter ridges\n\nHourglass body types, 1.1, 4.1\n\nIcons, body shape, itr.1, 1.1\n\nIncreases\n\nbar\n\nbeaded\n\ndecorative, 1.1, 2.1\n\ndirectional stranded (M1)\n\nfully fashioned way\n\nillustrated\n\nlifted, 1.1, 2.1\n\nraised\n\nsubtle\n\nyarn over, 1.1, 2.1\n\nInverted triangle body types, 1.1, 4.1\n\nKnit in row below\n\nKnit stitch through back loop (k1-tbl)\n\nKnitting charts\n\nKnitwise\n\nMattress stitch seams\n\nMulticolor bands\n\nPetite body types\n\nPlus-size body types\n\nPurl stitch through back loop (P1-tbl)\n\nPurlwise\n\nRectangular body types, 1.1, 4.1\n\nRound body types, 1.1, 4.1\n\nShapes, body/icon\n\nSkirt, 2.1\n\nSlip 2 knit 1, pass 2 slipped stitches over (s2kp2)\n\nSteeks\n\nStockinette garments\n\nabout: Designer Workshop, 2.1; fully fashioned decreases, 2.2, 2.3; fully fashioned increases, 2.4\n\nAberdeen, 2.1\n\nAster Stripes, 2.1\n\nCharlie, 4.1\n\nGlamour Girl, 4.1\n\nJacqueline, 2.1\n\nJen, 4.1\n\nMarie, 4.1\n\nOoh-La-La Skirt, 2.1\n\nSydney, 4.1\n\nWinter White, 3.1\n\nStranded technique\n\nSweaters/tops\n\nAberdeen, 2.1\n\nabout: assembling\n\nAngie, 4.1\n\nAngled Ribs, 4.1\n\nAster Stripes, 2.1\n\nCables 'n' Ribs, 3.1\n\nCandace's Shell, 3.1\n\nCharlie, 4.1\n\nGlamour Girl, 4.1\n\nJacqueline, 2.1\n\nJen, 4.1\n\nMarie, 4.1\n\nMarilyn's Crossover Top, 3.1\n\nMerino Magic, 3.1\n\nOrvieto, 3.1\n\nSydney, 4.1\n\nTrompe l'Oeil, 4.1\n\nThe Weekender, 3.1\n\nWinter White, 3.1\n\nSymbols/abbreviations\n\nTechniques, finishing\n\nTechniques, general\n\nTerminology explained\n\nTriangle body types, 1.1, 4.1\n\nTunics, 3.1, 4.1\n\nTwisted rib pattern\n\nWhipstitch\n\nYarn\n\nattaching new\n\nchoosing/substituting\n\nsizes/weights\n\ntails, hiding\n\nZippers, sewing in\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "First Comes Marriage- Huda Al-Marashi"}, "text": "\n\nPublished 2018 by Prometheus Books\n\n_First Comes Marriage: My Not-So-Typical American Love Story_. Copyright \u00a9 2018 by Huda Al-Marashi. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.\n\nCover illustration by Missy Chimovitz  \nCover design by Liz Mills  \nCover design \u00a9 Prometheus Books\n\nChapter 5: Beaten by Devotion adapted from Huda Al-Marashi, \"Beaten by Devotion,\" in _Beyond Belief: The Secret Lives of Women in Extreme Religions_ , ed. Susan Tive and Cami Ostman (Berkeley, CA: Seal Press, 2013).\n\nChapter 11: Lunch Company adapted from Huda Al-Marashi, \"Is This a Date?\" in _Hippocampus Magazine_ , May 1, 2014.\n\nChapter 14: Say It Loud adapted from Huda Al-Marashi, \"Otherwise Engaged,\" in _Love, InshAllah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women_ , ed. Ayesha Mattu and Nura Maznavi (Berkeley, CA: Soft Skull Press, 2012).\n\nTrademarked names appear throughout this book. Prometheus Books recognizes all registered trademarks, trademarks, and service marks mentioned in the text.\n\nInquiries should be addressed to  \nPrometheus Books  \n59 John Glenn Drive  \nAmherst, New York 14228  \nVOICE: 716\u2013691\u20130133 \u2022 FAX: 716\u2013691\u20130137  \nWWW.PROMETHEUSBOOKS.COM\n\n22 21 20 19 18 5 4 3 2 1\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nIdentifiers: LCCN 2018019607 (print) |  \nISBN 9781633884472 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633884465 (hardback)\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\n_And among His Signs is this, that He created for you mates from among yourselves, that ye may dwell in tranquility with them, and He has put love and mercy between your (hearts): verily in that are Signs for those who reflect._\n\n\u2014Quran 30:21\n\nAuthor's Note\n\nBOOK I\n\nChapter 1: Husband Potential\n\nChapter 2: Muslim Love\n\nChapter 3: A Girl Like That Won't Stay\n\nChapter 4: A Small Island of Unity\n\nChapter 5: Beaten by Devotion\n\nChapter 6: A Divine Crystal Ball\n\nChapter 7: This American Rite of Passage\n\nChapter 8: See Me at the Prom\n\nChapter 9: A Big Family Secret\n\nChapter 10: Marching Toward Marriage\n\nChapter 11: Lunch Company\n\nChapter 12: A Sudden Thrill of Control\n\nChapter 13: The Engagement of Our Children\n\nChapter 14: Say It Loud\n\nChapter 15: Sins for No Good Reason\n\nChapter 16: Every Choke, Sob, and Sniffle\n\nChapter 17: The Sting of Regret\n\nChapter 18: Women in Islam\n\nChapter 19: A Day for Me and the Girls\n\nChapter 20: The Proof of Our Youth\n\nChapter 21: Crises A, B, and C\n\nChapter 22: A Bride Is with Us\n\nChapter 23: Love Her, Boy, Love Her\n\nChapter 24: Biology\n\nBOOK II\n\nChapter 25: A Big, Fat Arab Stereotype\n\nChapter 26: Trying to Make a Life\n\nChapter 27: The Aspiring Doctor's Wife\n\nChapter 28: An Edible Identification Card\n\nChapter 29: I Love Huda.doc\n\nChapter 30: A Matter of Life and Death and God Himself\n\nChapter 31: Shia Heretic\n\nChapter 32: The Love I Missed\n\nChapter 33: A Family of Three\n\nChapter 34: How to Fix Hadi and Me\n\nChapter 35: Fictions of Love\n\nChapter 36: As If by Magic\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nI pored over my old journals and emails in writing this memoir, but what follows on these pages is still its own kind of fiction. A memoirist must make countless trade-offs between what moments to include and exclude, and this very deliberate negotiation creates its own version of the truth. I think this is one of the many reasons why memoirs are so particularly prickly for the people we share our lives with\u2014our stories on the page look so very different from the day in and day out we experience together.\n\nMy husband has his own memories of our early years together, and I am grateful not only that he carries around a considerably less angst-ridden version of these events but also that he encouraged me to share mine. At his request, I have changed his name and the names of those related to him. I also gave all other characters, with the exception of those I've lost touch with, the option of using their real names. However, for the sake of clarity, I created composite characters to represent my friends from college.\n\nLast, I relied on the descriptor \"American\" in many places where it would have been more accurate to specify that I was referring to the dominant American culture or its Anglo-American and Western influences. While I recognize that it is problematic to set myself apart from the American experience in this way, I wanted to use language that most closely resembled how my family and I thought or spoke at the time, and immigrant communities in the United States commonly use the shorthand of \"American\" to describe their host society. By extension, I also appreciate that no definable characteristics apply to the labels \"Arab,\" \"Muslim,\" or \"Iraqi,\" but so as not to belabor the text with repeated reminders that these are generalizations, I chose, once again, to mirror what would have been most natural for me or one of my characters to have said or thought in each scene.\n\nI cannot remember a time when I didn't think of Hadi Ridha as a potential husband. The day my family first met the Ridhas, Mrs. Ridha took one look at me\u2014six years old and my hair in braids\u2014and my baby sister, Lina, and said, _\"Mashallah, mashallah._ We don't need to look anymore. We found our pretty girls.\"\n\nAt the time, I didn't know that my father and Dr. Ridha had gone to the same medical school in Baghdad. I didn't know that they'd found each other at an American Academy of Neurology meeting in San Diego and that Dr. Ridha had invited us to his home for dinner. I didn't know that the Ridhas were also Iraqi and Shia, because those were descriptors I still didn't know to apply to myself.\n\nAll I knew that day was that the Ridhas were different in the same way we were different. They spoke Arabic with \"ch\" sounds, replacing the \"k\" sounds; they ate rice with stews called _marga_ ; and they kept their five daily prayers, even though Mrs. Ridha, like Mama, did not cover her hair with the hijab. These were my signs that of the two types of boys in the world\u2014those who were possible to marry and those who were impossible\u2014the Ridha boys belonged to the former, the small population of boys from which I'd be allowed to choose a husband.\n\nIt was a remarkable discovery for the early 1980s. The only Arab community in our small, seaside Northern California town was a secular social group filled with a mix of Lebanese, Palestinians, Syrians, and a few Iraqis who had immigrated so long ago they spoke more English than Arabic. No one in my parents' small band of friends was quite like the Ridhas, whose dialect was still so fresh on their tongues, who knew so many other Iraqi immigrant families in the United States, and who matched our family not only in religion and level of devotion but also in ages and interests. The fathers got along. The mothers got along. The Ridha boys played well with my brother, Ibrahim, and Lina and I played well with their daughter, Jamila.\n\nIn spite of the four-hundred-mile distance between our Northern and Southern California homes, our families clung to each other. When the Ridhas came to our house, we took day trips to Carmel Beach, Big Sur, and San Francisco. We came back dirty and tired, and waited in line for a turn in one of the two bathrooms in our small ranch home. When my family stayed with the Ridhas, they drove us to Los Angeles County, to their newly founded Islamic center or _masjid_ , and to events with the other Iraqi families gradually moving into the area.\n\nBy the time my little sister, Lina, was four years old, she'd already intuited that the Ridha boys were the marriageable kind. After a picnic one sunny afternoon in Big Sur, she turned to Jamila Ridha, the oldest child among us, and said, \"I'm full. Now can I have my wedding?\"\n\nLina had been gripped by wedding fever ever since she'd fallen asleep and missed her chance to be a flower girl in Jamila's aunt's wedding. Jamila had promised Lina she could have a pretend wedding just as soon as everyone was done eating. At home, we'd baked Lina a cake, using a box mix, while she put on her favorite summer dress, the one with the ruffles and the hula-dancer print, and then she stuck a comb with a short tulle veil in her mess of curly blond hair.\n\nNow Jamila brushed the potato-chip salt off her fingers, reached out for Lina's hand, and guided her off the bench of the picnic table. Together we walked down the poison-oak-lined trail to the creek where our brothers were building a dam. Jamila climbed to the top of a flat rock, cupped her mouth, and called out, \"Guys, come here.\"\n\nI listened to her voice bellow and admired the ease with which she commanded our brothers. Jamila was thirteen years old, four years older than me, and I believed in her authority. The boys, however, were unimpressed. The three of them continued slapping down the rocks they'd chosen for their creek dam with a clank and a splash.\n\n\"Guys,\" Jamila repeated. \"We promised.\"\n\nMy older brother, Ibrahim, waded out of the water, looking peeved. He hated it when Jamila tried to organize us.\n\nDown from the rock, Jamila said, \"Ibrahim, you'll do the ceremony.\"\n\nIbrahim shook his head. His eyes were green and his eyelashes so thick and bold that the girls at school teased that he wore mascara. \"I'll do it for Lina,\" he said. \"Not because you asked me to.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Jamila said, turning to her two brothers who were approaching in their swim trunks, \"which one of you is going to be the groom?\"\n\nWithout a word, the Ridha boys stepped into their sandals, which were left at the side of a nearby rock, and moved in behind Ibrahim. The sun had deepened the tone of the brothers' already dark skin. Amjad, the younger and shorter of the two, was wiry, pure flesh and bones, while Hadi was stockier with a small tummy and a waist that gave in on both sides to a slight crease.\n\nI crouched down so that Lina and I were the same height and said, \"You don't need a boy to have a wedding. How about if you get married by yourself?\"\n\nLina dropped her chin so low it almost touched her chest, and pushed her lips into a frown. \"But a bride has to have a husband,\" she said with such certainty it was clear that Lina already understood there were rules to getting married.\n\n\"Just play along,\" Jamila said to Amjad, but he folded his arms and gave a firm no. She then turned to twelve-year-old Hadi. \"You'll marry Lina, won't you? She's little. She doesn't understand what being married means. You don't want her to be disappointed, do you?\"\n\nHadi stood there with water dripping from his hair and listened to his sister's argument with his hands on his hips. He looked down and kicked the rock closest to his foot. He watched it scuttle across the ground.\n\n\"Okay,\" he said.\n\nSurely Hadi knew there would be teasing\u2014that our parents would laugh heartily at the memory of the little bride and her new husband for years to come\u2014and yet he was willing to put up with this for my sister's happiness.\n\nFrom the front of the campground firepit, where I stood as Lina's maid of honor, I watched Lina walk down the dusty aisle between a run of benches, clutching a bunch of artificial flowers with one hand, the other hand trying to suppress a giggle. Our mothers looked on from a bench off to the side, squealing in pure delight at Lina's irrepressible joy, the fluff of golden hair peeking out from behind her veil. Mrs. Ridha called out to her sons, \"Pay attention, boys. One day you will dream to marry such pretty girls.\"\n\nWhen Ibrahim opened his facetious wedding ceremony with, \"Dearly beloved with the exception of Jamila,\" my gaze fell on Hadi standing at Lina's side, playing along with a sincerity I'd never seen in a boy. I took a snapshot of Hadi in my mind\u2014still in his swim trunks and as tanned as a piece of overdone toast. I decided if I did, indeed, marry Hadi one day, this would be the moment I'd say I first fell in love with him.\n\nPeople can forgive you different food and customs; they can fall in love with your baklawa; and they can respect you for your long school uniform skirts and opaque tights, and for saying your daily prayers as fast as you can in a corner of your cabin during science camp. But saying you couldn't have a boyfriend or that you'd likely marry someone whom you had never gone on a date with, made you an alien. It made all the girls in your sixth-grade class circle around you during recess and ask why you couldn't just go with John; it wasn't as if he'd be your boyfriend or you had to kiss him or anything. It made the same girls corner you in the restroom at the spring social and ask why you couldn't just dance with Chris; you were making him so sad, and it was really so selfish and mean to keep saying no. It made the guy in the mall who just asked for your number tell you to go back to Kuwait where you came from.\n\nNot being allowed to date was the issue that plucked me out of the realm of exotic and interesting and planted me firmly into a sad documentary about people from other cultures, the kind that makes its audience walk away grateful to be themselves. In my peers' insistent questions, their shakes of the head, I could almost see them reflecting on how lucky they were to be holding the keys to their own love lives, when there were girls like me whose mom and dad were going to drive them to the door of their future relationship and take a seat inside.\n\nMy peers' relief bothered me far more than the prohibition against dating itself. Deep down, I wanted to marry the Iraqi, Shia boy who would make my parents proud, someone who prayed and fasted, someone who knew as much Arabic as I did if not more, and someone who'd give our children Arabic names and take them to the masjid. I wasn't the trope of an immigrant's kid, prepared to reject her family's traditions in order to fit into mainstream culture. On the contrary, the contents of my mind deeply ashamed me. I could sing along to nearly every theme song on television, but my Arabic vocabulary was limited to words said around the house, my five daily prayers, and some of the shorter Quranic verses that I could recite but did not understand. I did not have a single memory of Iraq, not my mother's childhood home with the flat roof _satah_ where she slept outside on balmy nights, not the creamy _gaymar_ and freshly baked _samoun_ she used to eat for breakfast, not the gilded shrines she made pilgrimages to every Ashura with their massive Persian carpets and crystal chandeliers.\n\nI had been only two years old in 1979 when my family made their last trip to Iraq. An intense interrogation in the airport made Mama decide it wasn't worth going back anymore and that it was time to get the rest of her family out. There was no way I was going to sever what little ties I had to my culture and religion by marrying someone outside of it.\n\nMy entire extended family consisted of couples who had barely known each other when they wed, couples who had been introduced via photographs or paired together from within the same clan. Mama and Baba were themselves distant relatives, something I never told any of my friends for fear they'd recoil with disgust and forever brand me the child of an incestuous union. Baba was from a branch of the Marashis that left Iraq in the 1920s and settled in the tropical island of Zanzibar. He was studying abroad in Canada when his sister sent him Mama's picture, a wallet size he blew up to poster proportions and proudly toted back to Iraq to gift to my grandfather as a stand-in for the daughter he was taking with him. Whenever he came across the original wallet-size photograph, he'd show it to me and my siblings and tell us, \"Look here. See how your mummy was so pretty,\" his Arab\u2013East African accent thick, dragging out the o's and pushing hard on the t's.\n\nMama was, indeed, the quintessential pretty brunette\u2014the kind who usually plays sidekick to a bombshell blond, the kind you wouldn't expect to find married to a short man, twenty years her senior, with thinning gray hair, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and the beginnings of a potbelly. People often mistook Mama for Baba's daughter, and Lina, Ibrahim, and me for his grandchildren, but Mama only wanted me to see the wisdom in her union and the folly in American dating.\n\n\"The problem with the women in this country is they expect too much,\" Mama would often say to me while getting ready for work. \"They want love, they want passion, and they want it to last forever. Your father is a good man; he encouraged me to go back to school. Not every man would put up with his wife working and studying. If you want to start believing in this country's what-about-me garbage, there's no end to it.\"\n\nWhen Mama arrived in the United States in 1972, she was eighteen years old. She didn't drive, speak English, or have a high school diploma. Baba urged her to go back to school right after my brother was born, and from then on, she'd always worked and studied, earning first her GED, then two different associate's degrees, then a bachelor's in nursing. Eventually she'd earn a master's and doctorate of nurse practice. She often said she would have gone to medical school had there been one in town.\n\nFor years, Mama worked the 3:00 to 11:00 p.m. shift on a pediatrics floor. We got home from school after she left for work, and most nights, we were in bed before she got back. Days often passed without us seeing her, and so when Mama was home, she expected us to be available for parenting. One afternoon, while getting ready for her shift, she told me of a coworker, \"That little twit-twit Sandy has only been married for two months, and she already wants a divorce. She slept with her husband, kissed him, and now she says she doesn't even know him. How much more does she want to know?\"\n\nStanding in front of her dresser mirror, Mama swiped a padded applicator across a square of eye shadow and added, \"People here tell me, 'You married a stranger.' What stranger? Someone your parents know and your family knows is a stranger? They think if they date someone and they kiss him and sleep with him, they know who they're marrying. What does that tell you about a person except for what they look like naked?\"\n\n\"Mama!\" I said, from where I sat on her bed, with the sharp tone of surprise I believed was expected of a twelve-year-old.\n\nMama ignored my theatrics. She'd always considered anything biological\u2014pees and poops (Mama always referred to these in the plural), menstruation and sex\u2014to be healthy topics of conversation. She unscrewed the cap from a tube of mascara and added, \"That's how people think here. It's all about 'my feelings,' and 'do I love him?' But just because you don't love someone when you marry him, it doesn't mean you'll never love him. The important thing is to marry a good person, someone who shares your culture and religion, and then you'll fall in love with him later.\"\n\n\"Is that how it was for you with Baba?\" I asked. \"You didn't love him, but now you do.\"\n\n\"Things were different for me,\" Mama said, brushing the mascara wand along her top lashes. \"I hadn't finished high school, and Jidu had just married Bibi.\"\n\n_Jidu_ and _Bibi_ are the Iraqi words for \"grandfather\" and \"grandmother,\" but in this case, Bibi was Mama's stepmother and Jidu's third wife. Jidu's first wife, Mama's mother, had died tragically and suddenly in her twenties. He remarried, only for his new wife to meet the same fate, this time as a result of a cooking fire. When Jidu found himself alone with seven kids between Mama's fifteen years and her youngest brother's eighteen months, his father pressured him to marry a distant cousin\u2014a spinster in her forties, who lived in a palatial home with her brother, servants, and black cat.\n\nNow Mama tossed the mascara back in her makeup box and continued, \"Bibi didn't like having us all around the house, and she thought she was doing Jidu a great favor because she married off his daughters to doctors. So I just said okay because I always did what I was told, and I got lucky. Your father is a kind man, and I now have you beautiful kiddies to be grateful for.\"\n\nMama affixed her name tag to her collar and kissed me on the cheek on her way out the door. As always, Mama was too busy to waste a moment on regret. She could have easily blamed Bibi for marrying her off to a man who was not just twice her age but also her complete opposite, a sickly, nearly humorless man, far too serious and literal for Mama's mischievous sense of humor, her boundless energy for exercise, dancing, and projects of all kinds. But Mama did not blame Bibi. Rather she moved her and Jidu into our tiny ranch home, putting me and Ibrahim in the same room until she could afford to build a house with a granny unit above the garage. And not only did Mama never dwell on how different she was from my father, but she also told me time and again what a good man he was, how he took in her family, how he encouraged her to go back to school, and how devoted he was to us kids.\n\nI believed this ability to embrace the relationship you were in was the upside to matchmade marriages. Muslim love was secure and uncomplicated, a decision entirely under a person's control, but American love was almost frighteningly fragile and mysterious. It had to be fallen into after a number of dates, and when couples on television and in movies finally uttered the L-word to each other, it was a grand moment, a surprise even to themselves. Maybe it was a frustrated, \"Because I love you, all right,\" cried out in the midst of an argument. Or a tearful, \"Now that I lost you, I know I love you.\" It was something that could befall them even when they were committed to other people. \"We didn't mean for it to happen,\" the cheater might explain to his former beloved.\n\nI feared the fickleness of American love\u2014the notion that someone could love you and still fall in love with someone else, or like you but not be in love with you, or love you for a time and then lose that spark\u2014but like all delicate things, there was something special about this kind of love. In a love marriage, you knew the couple at the altar were drawn together by more than their matching culture, religion, or family ties. They shared a connection to each other. The bride was someone wholly unique and irreplaceable, someone who made the groom misty-eyed watching her walk down the aisle, someone he'd describe as his best friend while holding her hand and reciting the vows that he'd written. These couples got married in weddings they planned for a year, and hired photographers to capture every moment, photographers who would later assemble their pictures into thick, bound photo albums and into framed portraits.\n\nMama, on the other hand, kept her wedding photographs in a manila envelope stuffed in the back of a half-empty photo album. The pictures weren't even taken at her wedding, but at a stopover in England at the request of my father's sister who lived in Newcastle and missed out on the actual wedding, which Mama had told me was really no more than a dinner with some family members at home and had ended with her washing the dishes. In these photos, Mama was wearing an A-line wedding gown made from white and silver lace thrown over an acetate lining. She wore a rhinestone crown out of which flew yards of tulle that pillowed at her feet. In her hands were a bunch of red carnations, and she looked uncomfortable, as if she was trying to suppress a giggle. Baba wore a navy blue suit, his hair and mustache a slightly darker gray. He looked at Mama with what my siblings and I call \"Baba's proud face,\" lips forced closed as if to contain the beams of happiness shining inside him. In some of the pictures, Baba's four-year-old niece posed as the flower girl.\n\nMama's dress still hung at the back of her closet but without any attempt at preservation. We were welcome to wear it, play in it, or do whatever we wanted with it. Her tiara, minus several rhinestones, was in my bedroom, left over from all the Halloweens that I'd dressed up as a princess. I wanted Mama's wedding things to be too special for me to use, but every time I'd offer to return the tiara to her room, she'd shrug and say there was no need. Sometimes she'd add, \"I never really liked the things from my wedding. My uncle bought everything, and they just told me to wear it.\"\n\nMama's wedding memorabilia told the story of resignation, loss, and acceptance that she didn't tell. Mama could have been the subject of one of those pity documentaries, albeit with an inspirational twist\u2014the Story of How One Woman Overcame Her Heartbreaking Childhood and Arranged Marriage by Taking Pride in Her Children and Getting Lots of Education\u2014but as remarkable as I knew Mama's example was, I didn't want to repeat it.\n\nI wanted a love story with the Iraqi, Shia man of my dreams. I wanted to be a Wakefield sister who found her Tarek at Sweet Valley High, a Scarlett O'Hara who met her Raheem without the depravation of war, a Juliet who lived into old age with her Rumi. I didn't need a string of boyfriends or affairs\u2014just one grand, sweeping love story so fantastic that it was worth a lifetime of romantic adventures.\n\nBecause, falling in love was a veritable jackpot. There was the bounty of the feelings themselves, the spiritual connection, the physical attraction, the thrill of having a handsome man devoted entirely to me, but it was also redemptive. It was life's way of saying, \"Here, little Muslim girl, since you were so good and stayed away from boys before marriage, you will be rewarded with the perfect, Iraqi, Shia husband who is so awesome you don't have to learn to love him.\" And the story I had with this Mr. _Khair Inshallah_ , Mr. Good God Willing, would immediately banish all my American friends' pity and fear that I was getting married for the wrong reasons. \"I love him,\" I'd say, and it wouldn't matter if I only met the guy once in my living room with my family all around me. Americans forgave everything in the name of love, and so would I.\n\nMoment 1: Hadi was bouncing my Silly Putty around before it turned a corner and dropped into the hall bathroom's toilet. I was seven, and he was ten. He apologized with a quick, \"I'm sorry,\" before running off. Four years later, I was sitting on the edge of the bed in Jamila's room. He came in, handed me a paper bag, and said, \"Here. I owe you this.\" He left before I opened the bag and found a brand-new Silly Putty inside.\n\nMoment 2: Hadi, Jamila, and Amjad had come to stay with us the summer before I started the eighth grade. They arrived with gifts in hand. We stood around, opening our presents, boys in one corner of the room, girls in another.\n\nAs I pulled back the plastic bag, Jamila said, \"I don't know why, but Hadi insisted on paying for this with his own money.\"\n\nInside was an EZ Bake Oven, something I'd told Jamila I'd always wanted but never got.\n\nI looked over at Hadi. Our eyes met, but he quickly looked down.\n\nMoment 3: We were on a family trip to Disneyland later that same year. Hadi pulled a thick, veined leaf off a tree and said, \"Keep this. It's a present for you.\"\n\nWith exaggerated drama, I took it in my hands and said, \"I'll treasure it always.\"\n\nFor the remainder of the day, I kept the leaf in my pocket and then later guarded it in my wallet. If we became a couple, I'd want this leaf as a reminder that we'd been brought together by more than our families. Hadi had liked me all along.\n\nI treated these memories as if they were in a savings account\u2014there in case I needed them later\u2014but I hoped I wouldn't have to make a withdrawal. As kind as Hadi was, I didn't feel those jumpy feelings that romance novels described when I was around him, no butterflies in my stomach, no inability to eat or sleep. He sported a messy mullet, and while this was a completely fashion-forward move in the 1990s, it did not work for Hadi. Because his hair was curly, the longer hair in the back bunched up into a wild, fuzzy ball reminiscent of an animal tail. He'd gone from chubby to last-notch-on-his-belt skinny, and he dressed like such a schoolboy with his shirt buttoned up all the way to the top and securely tucked into his pants.\n\nI was only thirteen years old, but I understood that our family friendship afforded Hadi and me opportunities to get to know each other that I would not have with another suitor, someone who'd likely appear with his family as nothing more than an evening dinner guest. On some days, this was reason enough to like Hadi. Other days, I wished there was someone else out there for me, someone from within our small community who my parents approved of, who I didn't have to convince myself to like.\n\nOne evening Mama asked me to follow her into her walk-in closet while she got ready for bed. Right away, I knew she had something she wanted to discuss with me privately. In a hushed voice, she got straight to telling me that Um Sadek, a close family friend of the Ridhas, had asked Mrs. Ridha about me, and Mrs. Ridha had told her, \"Don't even think about it. She is ours.\"\n\nI stood there, holding the back of the chair that my mom usually tossed her clothes on, and tried not to show any reaction.\n\nMama stepped out of a pair of pants, her voice brimming with pride. \"And then Um Sadek told her, 'Be careful. If you want her, do something about it now. A girl like that won't stay.'\"\n\nI gripped the chair harder.\n\n\"So,\" Mama asked and pulled a T-shirt and pair of pajama pants out of her dresser drawer, \"do you like Hadi?\"\n\nMy cheeks flushed with a mix of girlish flattery and a hot punch of frustration. Mama was asking me if I liked a boy when she'd always said feelings were irrelevant, that sensible girls put compatibility above all else. And I didn't know why she was telling me all this now. Had I just been spoken for as an eighth grader?\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said.\n\nMama pulled the shirt over her head and added, \"Because if you don't like the idea, I should hint it to your Khala,\" referring to Mrs. Ridha as my aunt, a title of respect Iraqis applied liberally to any woman who was old enough to be their mother. \"She is already worried that we will insist on somebody _seyyid_ , and I told her that the Al-Marashis usually marry within the family and we always take an _istikhara_ for this kind of thing.\"\n\nI nodded at the unpleasant reminder. Even in the impossibly small world of boys I might be allowed to marry, there were obstacles to marrying an Iraqi, Shia like Hadi. My family belonged to a clan that claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad, earning us the honorific title of seyyid. A man could marry a non-seyyid woman and still pass the title on to her children, but a woman could not. Since Hadi's family was not seyyid, our future children would lose their right to this distinction. Then, there was the custom of marrying cousins, both first and distant, or, at the very least, taking the permission of an aunt or an uncle before accepting a marriage offer from outside the family. And finally, there was the istikhara, the consultation of the Quran under the guidance of someone trained in the practice of interpreting its verses. According to my mother, no marriage in our family had taken place without one.\n\n\"His mom may say all that to you,\" I said, \"but he actually has to like me, too.\"\n\n\"Hudie, the boy likes you. His eyes go wherever you go. And don't dismiss a mom liking you. A mom is more important than the boy.\"\n\nIt meant something to Mama that of all the girls Mrs. Ridha knew, she wanted me for her son. Mrs. Ridha was the closest thing the Southern California Iraqi community had to a matchmaker. She kept track of all the unmarried girls in our community, their ages, and what they were studying so she could make recommendations when asked.\n\nMrs. Ridha's approval didn't carry the same weight with me, but at the same time, I didn't want Mama to discourage Mrs. Ridha's interest. Hadi wasn't just another Iraqi Shia; he was someone born in America, someone raised on the same movies and television shows, someone who likely shared the same romantic notions about love.\n\n\"Do you have to tell them anything now?\" I asked. \"Can't we just wait and see what happens?\"\n\n\"That's what I've been doing. I say, 'They're both young. Let's see how they feel when they get older.' You never know. The boy could change his mind about you, too.\"\n\nMama's words tugged at me. As much as I wanted the space to consider other people, I took comfort in the idea that Hadi would be there, liking me. For as long as I could remember, I'd heard stories about our community's risky marriage market where the freshest, sweetest girls never sat on the shelf. Mrs. Ridha always had a cautionary tale about a girl whose shelf life was expiring. \"You know, it's nice to want to go to school and study,\" she'd say, \"but a girl becomes twenty-four, twenty-five, and that's it. The only people who come for her are older, or they have been married before. Like this girl, I don't want to mention her name, but she was so pretty. Everyone asked about her, but she insisted she wanted to be a dentist. In the end, she became a dentist, but she married someone fifteen years older than her who had two kids from his first marriage. See how the _qisma_ is.\"\n\nAlmost every marriage story I'd overheard Mrs. Ridha telling Mama ended with qisma, destiny. It never occurred to me to question how the poor girl in the story could be blamed for insisting on school if this relationship had been her fate, or to wonder if the girl might have actually liked the man with the two children. All I heard then was the tone of pity in which her story was retold, and that pity settled into my mind as a series of warnings\u2014don't be too picky; our community is too small for you to hold out for the one; be the best girl so someone picks you first.\n\nWhen Mama entered the conversation, it was often to add this much-repeated piece of wisdom: \"School will always be there, but the time for marriage won't.\"\n\nComing from grade-obsessed Mama, a woman who fell asleep surrounded by her textbooks and piles of flash cards, a woman who made everything wait until after finals, this notion that a good suitor was a gift of fate carried the weight of an irrefutable truth.\n\n\"If you are motivated enough, you can do anything,\" Mama would say. \"I used to bring you to class with me. Sit you down with a little coloring book. It was fun.\"\n\nMama made it seem like a challenge\u2014if you worked hard enough, there was no reason why you couldn't get married young and have a family and go to school and have a career. \"A woman should always have a way to support herself,\" she'd tell me. \"You never know what can happen.\"\n\nOur community of brain-drain Iraqis was filled with women just like Mama. Women who were doctors, dentists, pharmacists, and engineers: they got married young, had their children, and worked. Even the women who stayed at home with their children still whispered to their daughters, \"Study. Study. Become something.\" In our Iraqi American community, mothers did not offer their daughters one path over the other\u2014marriage, school, and careers were all tied together in a tight, little knot of what it meant to be successful. For the most part, this resonated with every definition of American success I'd grown up hearing, except for one important difference\u2014love. In America, you had to fall in love.\n\nI went to an all-girls Catholic high school, settled in the middle of a neighboring agricultural town. My classmates were farmers' daughters, workers' daughters on scholarship, and commuters looking for a better alternative to the local public schools. For school events, the farming families would donate centerpieces made of colorful arrays of broccoli, cabbage, and cauliflower, and on free-dress days, many girls traded in their uniforms for their finest cowgirl gear\u2014colorful denim pants without back pockets; plaid shirts with metal-tipped, pointy collars; and riding boots.\n\nWhen people questioned Mama's decision to send her Muslim children to a parochial school, she'd say, \"Some religion is better than no religion.\" That there were no boys at this particular school was a bonus. \"Less distraction,\" she'd add.\n\nAt school, we began every class with a prayer and special intentions. With their hands folded on their desks, my classmates took turns praying for their sick dogs, dead grandmas, and fickle boyfriends. Praying for a boyfriend was something I never learned to accept. It sounded like praying for help with shoplifting or purchasing marijuana. For six periods a day, I listened to my peers ask God for variations of the following:\n\n\"I'd like to offer a prayer of thanks for Ricky.\"\n\n\"I wanna pray for Ricky because we're going through a really hard time right now.\"\n\n\"I wanna pray that God will help me forgive Ricky for being such a big jerk.\"\n\n\"I wanna thank God for helping me and Ricky get back together.\"\n\nListening to my peers work through boyfriends and breakups, I was convinced of another upside to being a Muslim woman. I'd never waste valuable getting-into-a-good-college time on a pointless relationship. I'd never worry about finding a date to the Winter Ball or fret over wearing a bathing suit in public. Why a woman would want to go anywhere in what was nothing more than a made-for-water bra and underpants baffled me. I didn't want to introduce the world to the stretch marks that my first and only growth spurt had autographed on my thigh.\n\nAt school I defended these ideas to my friends. Every year I gave talks to the world religions classes about Islam with the only other Muslim girl in school, Nadia Khan. Nadia had Pakistani parents, and she looked\u2014and I say this while cursing Disney studios for getting the stereotype right\u2014just like Princess Jasmine. When our classmates brought up the resemblance, we feigned great offense, but Nadia did, indeed, have thick black hair that hung down her petite, twig-thin body; full lips plumped up with Revlon's Toast of New York; and kohl-lined cat eyes.\n\nIn those world religions classes, we repeated the same lines about the five pillars of Islam; the hijab and how even if Nadia and I didn't wear it, we still tried to be modest in our dress; and the differences between Sunnis and Shias. I'd start by saying, \"So there are the two sects in Islam. The Shias believed that Imam Ali, the Prophet Muhammad's son-in-law, should have taken over after the Prophet died, and the Sunnis believed it should have been Abu Bakr. But the split didn't even happen until years after, when Imam Husayn, the Prophet's grandson, was killed. It was then that a group broke off and decided to follow the descendants of the Prophet's line.\"\n\nNadia was my first Sunni Muslim friend. She folded her hands around her waist during certain parts of the five daily prayers while I kept my arms straight at my sides. She also recited her afternoon prayers separately instead of one after the other like I did. I used to feel as if those minor differences threatened our unity, the small island we inhabited in our sea of Catholic education. But whenever something came up about our dissimilarities, Nadia would say, \"Oh, Hudie, like I care.\" It was enough for Nadia that we were both Muslims, and she was always quick to add this particular message to our classroom explanations.\n\n\"That's the only difference,\" she'd say, brandishing a polished fingernail, her sentences coming fast and without a full breath between them. \"It's purely historical. It's the same religion, the same beliefs. We all pray, we all fast, and we all go on our Haj pilgrimage together. No one even really cares about it. See. Look at me and Huda. We're both from different sects, but it doesn't matter. We're still the best of friends.\"\n\nNadia was brilliant, but for some reason this made her less coherent rather than more. It was as if a genius creature lived inside her brain and made her speak as fast as it thought. But Nadia's genius had a big heart, and every time she made this last point, she put her arm around me for emphasis.\n\nIt was my favorite part of our talk because it filled me with such hope. Nadia and I belonged to a new generation of Muslims in America, and we were painting a picture of Islam on what was essentially a blank canvas. Those two smoking towers of black wouldn't appear until almost seven years later, in 2001. The Gulf War was newly behind us, and we had the luxury of thinking our biggest problem was the movie _Not without My Daughter_ \u2014which, judging by the number of girls in my school who had seen it, was the most important film of the entire decade.\n\nDuring every talk we gave, someone would raise her hand and ask how we could want to marry Muslim men when they were like the antagonist Moody, so overbearing and abusive. \"Don't Muslim men beat their wives?\" Rachel Lazar, the most outspoken girl in the class, once asked.\n\n\"No,\" Nadia said, \"I have a whole family full of Muslim men, and my dad and all my uncles have never hit their wives.\"\n\nRachel was not satisfied with this answer, and her next question carried the tone of a challenge. \"But what would you do if you fell in love with a guy who wasn't Muslim?\"\n\n\"That's easy,\" I said, striding toward the middle of the classroom. \"I wouldn't fall in love with a guy who wasn't Muslim. How could I fall in love with someone who doesn't share the things that are most important to me?\"\n\nMy faith was the only security I had in what I'd already discovered to be a frightening and unpredictable world. Baba, a long-time sufferer from bronchiectasis, was often hospitalized for simple colds that turned into more stubborn infections or prolonged episodes of pneumonia. And then there was the arteriovenous malformation (AVM) found in Lina's mandible when she was eight years old and I was thirteen. For a year, my parents shuttled her back and forth to Stanford University and UCSF until her doctors settled on a treatment for the tangle of blood vessels lodged in her jaw, the location of her AVM so rare that her case was written up in medical journals. And through all that bone-rattling childhood fear, I carried prayer beads in my pocket and prayed until those prayers were answered. I wanted a future spouse who would help me hold up my world with his devotion\u2014not draw punishment into my life for marrying someone outside of my religion.\n\n\"I don't see how you can say that,\" Rachel argued. \"You can't control who you're going to fall in love with.\"\n\nHere it was in real life\u2014not spoken by some character in a book or in a film\u2014that notion that you couldn't control who you love, that it was something that happened to you as accidentally as tripping. I wished Rachel could step into my world for just one moment and see the glaring contradiction in her reasoning. American culture extolled autonomy and personal power, but it accepted and even embraced complete helplessness when it came to love.\n\nI replied, \"Yes, you can, if you don't let yourself consider people outside your religion, and that makes sense because you're going to have kids and raise a family with this person.\"\n\nIn spite of the complete confidence I felt in my explanation, something in Rachel's face shook me. She looked over at her friends and rolled her eyes with such disdain that I almost heard her announcing that I was nothing to her, asexual and therefore unimportant.\n\nMy mind flashed to Hadi. I was tempted to offer up my list of moments as proof that a boy liked me and maybe I liked him, too. But I would never discuss this unnamed thing that Hadi and I shared so casually in front of my class. Mama talked to me about Hadi, in private, behind closed doors, but we never discussed this topic in front of my siblings or father. Mama had warned me time and again to admit to no crush, no interest in any boy in front of anyone ever\u2014not my closest girlfriends and certainly never the boy. \"You may change your mind,\" she warned, \"but you cannot control what people will think. In their mind, they will always remember you tied to that one boy's name.\"\n\nThe snotty girl inside me wished I could walk over to Rachel and her friends, with my hands on my hips, and say, \"You think you're so hot because you've been to every Winter Ball and prom with a different guy on your arm. Just watch. I'll be married before you've even had a steady boyfriend.\"\n\nI sincerely believed getting married beat having a boyfriend. I repeatedly told myself that the girls around me could have all their temporary boyfriends because one day soon a boy would want to be with me forever. We'd host dinner parties with delicate china and gleaming flatware, and my life would soon be far more mature and sophisticated than Rachel and her friends and their petty concerns about boys and dates.\n\nBut every Friday, when my classmate Diana Marquez slept over, this built-up confidence got a thorough shaking. Diana and I would wrestle over our futures, this puzzle that did not have a single piece locked into place, and wonder how we were going to put together everything we wanted from life. We were the girls who had been plotting and planning our path to college since freshman year\u2014running for student-body offices, joining clubs, studying for tests right through lunch, eyeing the valedictory crown, and grabbing every last possible point for our greedy above 4.0 GPAs. How were our degrees and careers going to fit with a boy loving us and marrying us and later with soft, chubby babies who chewed on our fingers with their smooth, toothless gums?\n\nWe made lists of careers that made you look smart, so even if we stopped working to take care of our families, people would know that we'd been bright enough to become something else first. Medicine was too long a career path not to use, but maybe law or physical therapy. \"But isn't it a waste to go through that much schooling if we aren't going to use it?\" Diana would ask.\n\n\"But we have to,\" I'd respond. \"We can't have worked this hard to get all these As to be just moms.\"\n\nDiana and I had no evidence to complicate this image of motherhood. We'd grown up in the age of the supermom, Murphy Brown, and \"We girls can do anything. Right, Barbie?\" We merely accepted that being a stay-at-home mom came with the word _just_ firmly affixed to the front of it, and we moved on to creating scenarios for the perfect marriage proposal. I still remember one such daydream where Diana suggested, \"Wouldn't it be great if your friends are like, 'Hey, can you drive us to the movies?' because they are in on it, too, and you go to open your car door and all these balloons fly out?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I added, \"but there is this one balloon that doesn't come out, so you go and pull on it, and attached is this little box with a really big ring in it\u2014\"\n\n\"And then a limo pulls up,\" Diana said, \"and you see him get out, wearing a tuxedo and holding flowers, and you say, 'Yes,' and you hug and cry\u2014\"\n\n\"And that's when you get into the limo,\" I said, \"and there's a dress waiting for you because you are going to change and go out to dinner at a place with an amazing ocean view, and then when you get there, your favorite song is playing and you dance.\"\n\nAs Diana and I spun our fantasies, I admitted to no conflict. I rationalized that a surprise proposal just like this could indeed happen to me in spite of all my familial and cultural restrictions. Maybe a boy could ask my family for my hand without me knowing, and then he could arrange a proposal, if not as elaborate as this one then at least something similar. And after we were engaged, we could catch up on all the moments a Western couple may have had while they were dating. During the year that we were planning our wedding, my fianc\u00e9 could whisk me away for a romantic birthday, Valentine's Day, and anniversary celebration of when we first became a couple.\n\nDiana and I had an entire soundtrack for every romantic event we imagined, but no song captivated our imagination like Chris de Burgh's rendering of \"The Lady in Red.\" Every time we got together, we belted out its lyrics and danced in rehearsal for the night when we would be the Lady in Red in our own lives. When the song ended, we'd take turns dipping each other with dramatic flourish. One night, while mid-dip, we caught sight of ourselves in my mirrored closet door. Diana was in my arms, with one leg kicked up high into the air, her head back, hair fanning out of a messy bun, wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants and white socks, the latter stuffed into high heels. I wore the exact same ensemble.\n\n\"We look so beautiful, right now,\" I said in the deepest, most dramatic voice I could muster.\n\n\"It's the socks and the heels, isn't it?\" Diana said in a flirty tone.\n\nAnd that was all I needed to drop her on the floor where we both crumbled into a fit of giggles.\n\n\"Oh my God, I totally have to pee now,\" Diana said.\n\nI laughed even harder, tears streaming down my face.\n\n\"If you don't stop laughing, I'm gonna pee on your head,\" Diana threatened while running out the door to the bathroom.\n\nI stayed stretched out on the floor, catching my breath. The laughter that had coursed through me moments ago gave way to a melancholic stillness. Diana may have been Mexican American, but we always joked that we were essentially the same person. At some point, we had both lived in tiny three-bedroom ranch homes, overcrowded with immigrating relatives. Our parents had been making us sign the permission slips that came home from school for as long as we could read (\"You know my signature,\" Mama would say). They allowed us to watch inordinate amounts of television\u2014 _Three's Company, Silver Spoons, and The Facts of Life_ \u2014and do our homework right in front of it. We'd eaten obscene amounts of candy and had the fillings to prove it. And we both understood that even though we talked to each other about marriage with age-inappropriate frequency, this was not a side of ourselves we wanted the outside world to see. Diana and I were far too driven; we were both the daughters of immigrants, and we had something to prove.\n\nBut dancing to \"The Lady in Red\" undid some of the commonality that bound us together. No matter how much our worries and desires matched, only Diana would be allowed to dance with a boy before she was married.\n\n\"Ready for another dance?\" Diana asked as soon as she came back from the bathroom.\n\n\"Always,\" I said and extended my hands toward Diana, toward the bittersweet joy of wanting what you could not have.\n\nIn my junior year, I enrolled in Marriage and Parenting, a course required by our school's Religion Department. The first quarter was basically sexual education, complete with diagrams of genitals and a list of words we had to learn for a matching test. The words were familiar. Mama was the designated sex-talk giver in the family, and I'd already sat through at least three sex talks where I made a point of only half-listening (I believed in preserving the virginity of my mind). I'd gathered the basics: There were the penis and the testes and some business about hardening and shrinking and ejaculating sperm, but I thought it best to remain fuzzy on the specifics. If I had to guess, I would've said that the _belbool_ (Iraqi slang for \"penis\" because God knows I would've never been able to use the appropriate term) got really, really small and then slipped in the woman.\n\nI was equally befuddled by all the words for female parts. I'd heard about the vagina and clitoris, but I didn't know what word corresponded to what. Becoming-a-woman books always suggested studying yourself down there with a hand mirror, but that seemed a completely irrelevant exercise for a girl who grew up being warned that being too friendly with boys (i.e., casual chatting and laughing or, God forbid, flirtatious touching) was enough to ruin her reputation.\n\nNot knowing anything about sex seemed the best way to prove this thing that was so important to the people in my community. It said, \"Look at me. I am so na\u00efve and innocent, I must be a virgin.\"\n\nIt wasn't a viewpoint Mama supported. Whenever I cried out, \"Gross,\" or \"Do we have to talk about this again?\" she scolded, \"It's not gross. It's beautiful, and it's science. This is one of Allah's great miracles. Now pay attention.\"\n\nBut as much as my mother tried to teach me that sex was important in Islam, that it was the foundation of a marriage, I believed the risks of knowing too much too soon outweighed the benefits. Islam's healthy and positive attitudes toward sex didn't matter when the people in our community were the ones gossiping, either choosing you or casting you aside, and the consistent message I got was that it was _ayb_ or shameful for an unmarried girl to like a boy or to be excited about anything related to boys.\n\nIn the fifth grade, I had a sleepover for my birthday (my parents' rule was that I could have friends over, but I couldn't spend the night at anyone's house). When the conversation turned to my friends' on-screen crushes, I wanted to shush them. In my household, there was nothing cute or innocent about girls discussing boys. It wasn't long before Mama picked up on the topic and called me out of the living room and into the kitchen to ask, \"Are your friends talking about boys?\"\n\nI nodded, mortified and ashamed, and then added, \"But they're not real boys. Just actors.\"\n\nShe didn't meet my gaze. \"Already?\" she said as if she was addressing herself. \"These are eleven-year-old girls. What's the matter with this country?\"\n\nThat I could feel so much shame just being in the company of girls talking about boys made it clear\u2014this was a taboo unlike any others.\n\nA _hababa_ , a good girl, was defined almost exclusively by what she didn't do. She didn't talk to boys. She didn't dance at parties. She didn't wear sleeveless dresses or wear short skirts. Show up at one party in the wrong dress, dance a little too long at a wedding, and that descriptor would be plucked from your name.\n\nHowever, these strict guidelines oddly comforted me. \"Huda hababa,\" I'd hear one of the aunties in our community say, and it was as if she had patted me on the back and said, \"Don't worry. You have been such a good girl. You will be picked by the best guy.\" It was that implied guarantee that made all the self-denial, all the careful guarding of my reputation, worth it. The best guy would pick me\u2014maybe it would be Hadi, or maybe it would be someone else\u2014and in that small space between getting engaged and married, my love story would begin.\n\nSince my family lived a six-hour driving distance away from the greater Los Angeles area's Iraqi community, our appearances at social gatherings and at the masjid were infrequent but regular. Every year, without fail, on the anniversary of Imam Husayn's martyrdom, a day known as Ashura, my extended family of eight would don black mourning clothes and squeeze into our seven-seater minivan to make the journey to a run-down 1960s South Central Los Angeles church that had been converted to a masjid. On our way there, Mama, Jidu, and my uncle would listen to tape recordings of religious services that made them weep, their shoulders bobbing up and down with each sob.\n\nMy siblings and I did not cry. Not only was our Arabic vocabulary limited to the domestic, but also our family's tapes were garbled from use and full of words to which we'd had no exposure. Baba did not cry either. I'd only seen him cry once, when he found out one of his sisters had died, and that had been only a short, angry burst of tears. Bibi pulled her face behind her long, cloak-like _abaya_ because sometimes she cried, but sometimes she didn't, and holding back tears at a time like this was not a sign of strength. Shia Muslims believe the tears they shed in the name of their ill-fated Imams, those spiritual leaders they regard as the rightful successors of the Prophet Muhammad, are blessed and rewarded. My family traveled to this mosque precisely because the speaker, referred to as the _Seyyid_ , was a prominent religious scholar known for his ability to evoke the soul-cleansing cry my elders craved.\n\nAt the masjid, the Seyyid's voice, amplified by a tinny microphone, rang out into the parking lot. I watched my father, grandfather, uncle, and brother enter the door to the church's former nave where the pews now lined the walls and an enormous chandelier, donated by the Iraqi owners of a crystal shop, hung in the center. A curtain stretched across the area that had been the altar and divided the men's section and the women's section into drastically disproportionate parts.\n\nPeering in from the door designated as the women's entrance, I balked at the space. The elders sat shoulder to shoulder on the pews pushed against the wall, and the floor was covered with women and children, sitting cross-legged, knee to knee. I pointed out the obvious. \"There is no room for us.\" But Mama would not be swayed. We left our shoes at the growing mound by the door and waded through the sea of women and children, stopping to regain our footing in the spaces between their bodies.\n\n\" _Sallemi_ ,\" Mama said and prodded me to bend down and greet her friends with the traditional \"assalamu alaikum,\" followed by a kiss on each cheek.\n\nMama's cousin Marwa had recently moved to the area and motioned for us to sit next to her. Space was made for Mama on the bench. Lina and I sat on the floor by her feet. Mama leaned in close and whispered translations of bits and pieces of the Seyyid's sermon, urging me to pay attention. \"If you listen,\" she promised, \"you'll understand.\"\n\nBut I didn't understand. I just looked around me at all the new faces, so recently arrived from Iraq you could still see it on their faces and in their clothes, and I wondered about their stories. When they cried for Imam Husayn, stranded in the desert with his family, his children and siblings brutally murdered before he was beheaded and the tents of his surviving family set on fire, did they remember themselves? Did they think of all the times when they had to say goodbye, as a mother to her son, a daughter to her father, a wife to her husband, a sister to her brother?\n\nAfter the Gulf War, Southern California's Iraqi community doubled. With these new arrivals came customs that had long been forgotten. They reminded us of the different styles of black abayas, the open cloak and the pullover dress with trim of every color and design; of passing around trays heavy with saffron rice pudding and cups of cool, rose-water-sweetened sherbet; of the mourning ritual known as _lutmiyya_.\n\nThe first year the women attempted the lutmiyya, I watched my mother as I had never seen her before. Standing in a circle, she slapped her face in time with a poetic _nauha_ about Imam Husayn's suffering that two women at the microphone took turns reciting. The women's hands on their cheeks made the sound of a unified clap. Their faces reddened, and their silky abayas flowed with their every movement, making their bodies appear as if they were dripping in sadness. When Mama motioned for me to join her, I shook my head. I couldn't stand there pretending that I understood, that I belonged.\n\nThe following year, Mama took my hand and brought me into the circle from the beginning. My heart pounding, I watched her for a hint as to what I should do. When she started to move, I copied her, bending so that my hair spilled forward while slapping my forehead with both hands. The movement of my hair brought a moment of reprieve from the summertime heat, a small breeze on my now sweaty neck. The muscles in my back warmed and loosened as we moved in circles around the room. Bend, slap, stand, and step.\n\nOn my third revolution around the room, something amazing happened. I understood. After years of attending services in an incomprehensible world, one line opened up my world. The speaker called out, \" _Abd wallah, Ya Zahra. Ma ninsa Husayna_.\" At first it was nothing more than a tight knot of language, but soon that knot unraveled into distinct, entirely intelligible words: \"I swear to God, Oh Zahra, we will not forget Husayn.\"\n\nEach time she said it, the cries of the group grew louder, and the women in the circle no longer stepped, but jumped, bringing their hands high up into the air and then pulling them right down on the top of their heads. I jumped with them, beating each side of my head with my hands, and before I knew it, I was crying with a mix of emotions. Relief to have understood, overwhelmed by the power of the words I was saying, the weight of their meaning. I was promising Fatima az-Zahra, Imam Husayn's mother, that I would not forget the death of her son.\n\nI looked at the women in the circle around me, and fragments of stories I'd heard\u2014of families rounded up in the middle of the night and deported to Iran in their pajamas, of sisters and brothers disappearing from their schools for not joining the government's party, of fathers accidentally run over on sidewalks in broad daylight\u2014flooded my mind. Soon this ritual that had bewildered me, maybe even embarrassed me, made so much sense. All atrocities deserved this much, for people to bear witness and cry, to vow they would not forget.\n\nI wished, with more regret than longing, that I was a little less American and a little more Iraqi. If only I spoke better Arabic, I could have understood the details of these stories rather than their outline. I could have told the world about the suffering contained within this room.\n\nEach time I brought my hands up to my face, I slapped myself a little harder. The tender skin on my face stung, but it was a good hurt, a small burn to remind me how lucky I was to only know such inconsequential pain.\n\nAt times, I glanced at the women outside the circle, lightly beating their chests or sitting in the pews and crying quietly. Within our own tradition, these lamentation rituals were still the subject of some controversy, and I wondered if the women looking on thought the lutmiyya was too extreme. Suddenly I saw Diana and Nadia, and my teachers and classmates, in my mind. What would they think if they saw me here beating myself? And then Hadi appeared right next to them. It would be so much easier to marry a boy who understood this, who had stood on the other side of the curtain and beat his chest, too.\n\nWhen the lutmiyya was over, we fanned our abayas to cool down and moved about the room, exchanging hugs and kisses with the wish, \"May God accept your prayers.\"\n\nI brought my hands to my lower back and stretched. This soreness was likely another reason why some of the women in the room did not participate.\n\nMama smiled at me and said, \"I am proud of you, hababa.\"\n\nOne of the women who had stood in the circle next to Mama approached us and complimented Mama on her beautiful _lutm_ , on raising the kind of daughter who would stand in memory of the Imam. Mama and her new friend's approval wrapped me in such warmth that the tug to be more Iraqi overwhelmed me. In that moment, I would have gladly given up my accent-free English to have our dialect of Arabic take root in my mind. I would have given up my American place of birth to at least have a clear, defining mark of being from somewhere else stamped into my passport. How refreshing to abandon all my expectations of a relationship that looked American but followed Iraqi rules. It would be so much easier, I imagined, to be a foreigner clearly from another place, the owner of one set of values, rather than this life within a single body constantly toggling between two minds.\n\nAs much as our mothers may have wanted Hadi Ridha and me to wind up together in the future, they didn't want to see us together until that appointed day. If Mama caught me talking to Hadi, she'd pull me aside and say it was unsuitable for a girl to talk to a boy. It made her look interested, and a girl should never appear interested in a boy. Mrs. Ridha would tell Hadi that it was inappropriate to approach a girl who was a guest in their home; it made him appear as if he was on the make. And neither one of us wanted our siblings to see us talking to each other either. Showing an interest in a member of the opposite sex was ayb, shameful. On the rare occasions we teased about an Al-Marashi kid being paired with a Ridha kid, it earned us a firm scolding, a lecture about how marriage was not a joking matter.\n\nBut every now and then, Hadi and I paused in the hallway and exchanged a few words or continued to carry on a conversation after our siblings had gotten up from the couch. Other times, Hadi would come into Jamila's room under the pretense of having something to say to her and then he'd stay, chatting with me. When we talked, it was always about banal things\u2014my sophomore and junior years in high school, his first couple of years in college, our summer jobs, and, most recently, our favorite cars. Hadi's first car was an old BMW, and ever since I'd told him I wanted my first car to be a zippy red BMW convertible, it became _the_ thing that we shared.\n\nOnce when crossing paths in the hallway of his parents' house, Hadi stopped and said, \"So yesterday I saw a red BMW 325, and I have to agree with you. It is a really nice car.\"\n\n\"That's why it's my favorite,\" I said and leaned against the wall. I knew Hadi and I would talk until someone appeared, and we'd scatter like a pair of startled birds. But stealing these moments still felt like a necessary risk. Ever since Mama had asked me if I liked Hadi, I felt as if I were trying him on, as if he were a pair of shoes and I was wandering up and down the aisles of a store to see if he fit.\n\nHadi added, \"I know. Like I have the Nissan now, and it's a great car, but it's just not the same. A BMW is different.\"\n\nHadi wore a pair of slightly shrunken white jeans and a denim shirt straight from the dryer. The top of his mullet was plastered down with mousse, its tail a black puff of frizzy hair that inspired me to self-pity. Of all the Iraqi families in California, my family had to grow close to the one whose son had a wild animal growing on his head.\n\nWith frustration and boredom creeping into my voice, I said, \"Yeah, well. I wouldn't know. Never driven one.\"\n\n\"You could've driven mine,\" he said.\n\n\"Right,\" I answered.\n\n\"Hey, I offered.\"\n\n\"You offered, and you also know why that would've never happened.\"\n\nHadi was finally talking to me as if we did not belong to the kind of Muslim families who would've deemed my sitting in his car inappropriate, but I gave him no credit for the flirtatious hint.\n\n\"I'll have to buy you one,\" he said.\n\n\"You will?\"\n\n\"Yes, I will.\"\n\n\"How would that work?\" I asked. \"I don't think your future wife would like you buying me a car.\"\n\n\"She'd understand.\"\n\n\"And why would she do that?\"\n\nHe paused, and I wondered if I had been too forward. But Hadi didn't seem frustrated by my question\u2014only surprised.\n\n\"She just would,\" he said with a smile.\n\nStanding there, with all the wisdom of my sixteen years of age, I resented Hadi for trying to be respectful, for trying to say something without saying anything at all. In my mind, the one thing Hadi had going for him was that our families' friendship afforded us these stolen moments to write the opening of our relationship together, and I wanted him to say something daring, something that proved that in spite of his unkempt hair and wrinkly clothes, Hadi could deliver a story that I could not have had with anyone else.\n\nBecause although no one had come forward and officially asked for me yet, there'd been what I'd heard Mrs. Ridha call _haraka_ , or activity. There was the boy who met me at a dinner at a family friend's house. My siblings and I had gone with my father since my mother was working, and in her absence, this boy had chatted with me all evening. He'd asked me if he could stay in touch, and when I couldn't find the words to say no, I told him he could write me a letter but that he'd have to put a girl's name in the return address. As soon as I said the words, I heard how this one little act of deception made me complicit in his attention. I heard the gossipy aunties in my community whispering to each other, \"How did he get her address unless she gave it to him?\" I heard my reputation crumbling.\n\nAs soon as I got home, I told my mother everything. She clucked her tongue and shook her head. \"I knew I shouldn't have let you out of my sight,\" she said before calling our host and asking her to end things.\n\nThen there was the family friend who came to visit. The mother caught me on my way out of the bathroom, my hair still dripping wet from the shower, and asked me right there in the hallway to my bedroom if I liked Sylvester Stallone because she had a son who looked just like Sylvester Stallone. The question itself stunned me. No self-respecting Muslim girl would admit to an adult in the community that she liked a man even if he was an actor. Weeks later, she returned with the Arab Sylvester, who must have been in his twenties, but at the time, with his car and his full-time job, he seemed decades older than me. Later my mother learned through the community grapevine that our family friend's desperation had been driven by her son's American girlfriend. I was her last-ditch effort to introduce him to someone from a shared religion and culture.\n\nAnd months later, there would be the first boy I actually liked, from a family that matched ours in every way. His family had been visiting our seaside town for the weekend, and on the evening they joined us for dinner, the boy and I talked for hours about school and our classes. In that short visit, he was far more direct in suggesting that he liked me than Hadi ever was, but with email and cell phones years into the future and with letter-writing already having proven itself far too risky, there was no way we could stay in touch.\n\nI was content to wonder if one day this new boy might be another potential, but Mama was concerned. This boy was not Hadi, and his mother was not Mrs. Ridha.\n\nAs soon as his family left our house, Mama appeared in my bedroom and sat down next to me on my bed. She told me Jidu had complained about our guests' son. \"Is this the way people do things?\" he'd said. \"If they had wanted to come see Huda, they should have announced their intentions first.\" And Bibi had wanted to know, \"Did they ask you for her, hah? Will you give her or not?\" The only person who didn't think anything of our guests was Baba, and that was because he'd been too absorbed in his own socializing and storytelling to notice.\n\nWhen Mama finished reporting the news from downstairs, I was in a state of disbelief. \"Are you serious? They said that? How come people can't talk in this house without everybody assuming things?\"\n\n\"What do you want me to tell you?\" Mama said. \"That's the way we do things.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I replied, leaning back onto my bed. \"But it isn't always a good way.\"\n\n\"Maybe it isn't,\" Mama acknowledged. She ran her hand along my comforter for a moment and then asked, \"So did he say anything to you?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said. \"What could he say?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I'm just asking.\"\n\n\"Did his mom say anything to you?\" I asked in a voice I hoped conveyed only curiosity, no interest.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nAfter a pause, Mama asked, \"Do you like him?\"\n\nI shrugged, trying to make it seem as if I didn't care either way. But I could tell by the jumpy way I felt inside that it was too late. I wanted Mama to like this boy better than she liked Hadi; I wanted to feel as if I had options. But just as that thought brightened in my mind, our friendship with the Ridhas clouded over it.\n\n\"Anyway, let's see,\" Mama said as she got up to leave, but apparently by _see_ she meant, \"Let's check in with you every few days to see if you are still interested in this new boy.\"\n\nTo each inquiry, I'd answer, \"I don't know. I barely even know him,\" partly because it was true, partly because I thought it was wrong to admit I liked him.\n\nOne afternoon that conversation went in a direction that stunned me. She'd picked me up from school, and we were on our way home when she said, \"I talked to Ibrahim about this situation, and he didn't like the idea. He thinks Hadi is a better person for you.\"\n\n\"What?\" I said, my voice sharp. \"There is no situation yet. Nobody's even asked for me.\"\n\n\"I know. We were just discussing things in general, and he said that Hadi's the kind of guy you'd want to marry your sister, and I thought you should know that.\"\n\n\"What makes him think that?\"\n\n\"The same reasons I think that. He's kind, Hudie. He'd be good to you.\"\n\nI pressed into the headrest, quiet, confused. It was one thing for my mother to like Hadi and another thing for Ibrahim to like him. Growing up, Ibrahim had been so indifferent to me, his annoying middle sister, that it made me desperate for his approval. When we were kids, he traded me his broken, tired old things not for my belongings (those he just took) but for days of servitude. One time, he offered me a purple mechanical pencil in return for a month of me being his servant. Then there was the promise that he'd tell me the one thing that I actually did well if I served him for another month. I agreed to both miserable offers as if they were great deals, but at the first month's end, I found myself crying over a nonworking pencil, and at the end of the other month, I was left with a laughing older brother who claimed to have forgotten my only talent. And now my mother was telling me that this brother who was a whole foot taller than me, who picked me up off the ground to get me out of his way, thought about whom I should marry, that he cared that my future husband be a certain kind of person.\n\nMama continued, \"So after I talked to Ibrahim, I started praying, 'Dear God, you know best. My Hudie is the best girl, and she deserves the best person for her.' And then I started thinking maybe I should make an istikhara about whether I should encourage you to be with Hadi. Just for me to know if I'm doing the right thing.\"\n\nMy stomach tightened. In the Shia tradition, the Quran can be consulted under the guidance of someone trained in interpreting its verses. Although most people only seek this kind of direction in matters of the utmost importance (if at all), my family sought it out regularly. Relatives at home and abroad would call Jidu and ask him to undertake an istikhara on their behalf before accepting a job, traveling to a new destination, or buying a car or a house. Because the practice was so commonplace among our relatives, I wouldn't question it for years. I wouldn't even think to ask Mama why she'd made an istikhara about a boy who hadn't even proposed to me yet, because all I could feel then was burning curiosity. I wanted to know what God wanted for me; I wanted one piece of the puzzle that was my future to fall into place.\n\n\"Okay...,\" I said, straightening my back and staring out at the stretch of highway in front of me.\n\nWith both hands on the steering wheel, she looked over at me and said, \"It doesn't mean anything as far as you're concerned. I don't even have to tell you how it came out. I just wanted to know what I should do as a mother.\"\n\nAn istikhara can only be solicited by the person who holds the _niya_ or intention. Since Mama couldn't request an istikhara on my behalf, she'd phrased the niya from her perspective. This, too, I did not question.\n\n\"Okay...,\" I repeated uneasily.\n\n\"So do you want to know how it came out?\" she asked, her eyes returning to the road.\n\nI froze. Last night while I was doing my homework, God had been consulted about my future. I pictured Mama going up the stairs to Jidu and Bibi's room. She would've told Jidu she had a niya without divulging what it was about. Then Jidu would've said his evening prayers, and after checking to see if it was a favorable time of the day, he would've opened the Quran, read the verse he landed on, and interpreted whether its meaning fell under the category of good, very good, not so good, or not so bad. When Jidu advised her of the istikhara's outcome, certainly Mama would've told him what it was regarding. Now the two of them knew what God wanted for me, and I didn't.\n\n\"Tell me,\" I said. God Himself delivered an opinion about my future, and I wanted to know what He'd said.\n\n\"Are you sure?\" she asked.\n\n\"Just tell me.\"\n\n\"It came out very good,\" she said, her voice ringing with a girlish squeal.\n\n\"Really,\" I said with a slow nod. My mind reeled, trying to think of every possible reason why my mother, my brother, and now God liked Hadi, too. \"But what about the whole Hadi-not-being-seyyid thing? You don't care anymore?\"\n\nMama quickly glanced over her shoulder as she merged onto the highway. \"Of course I care,\" she said, \"but we can't have everything. He's a good boy. We know his family. These are things you don't find every day.\"\n\nDr. and Mrs. Ridha appeared in my mind, along with memories of their kind and generous hospitality over the years. I couldn't imagine disappointing them. Maybe this was what Mama meant all those times she talked about learning to love someone. You found someone like Hadi who came from a good family, you found a way to make him cut his hair, and then you made a decision to love him.\n\nI released a heavy sigh. Now that my curiosity had been satisfied, questions rushed into my mind about what this all meant: Was I supposed to marry Hadi now? Was my time on the marriage market already over at sixteen?\n\n\"Why do you like him so much?\" I asked with an ache in my voice. \"Why did you even make the istikhara?\"\n\nMama shook her head as if she didn't know how to make me understand. \"Hudie, every night I pray that God will bring you someone who sees your value. You don't see what I do. That boy loves you. He would treat you like a jewel.\"\n\nMama's words pointed me back to reality: girls like me married the right boy and fell in love later. I just didn't expect to become that girl now, for Mama to have glimpsed into a divine crystal ball and shown me my future while I was a junior in high school. I felt pressure building in my nose and at the back of my eyes. I turned to look out the window before I started to cry.\n\nFor months after the istikhara, I tried to think of reasons why God had picked Hadi. Maybe it was because we didn't know the other boy or his family as well as we knew the Ridhas. Or maybe it was because God knew the other boy had a girlfriend before me, and I believed I should only marry a guy who'd lived by the same strict code that I had (if I couldn't fight the double standard that let boys bend the rules before marriage without damage to their reputations, at least I wouldn't condone it).\n\nI kept a list of things that confirmed the istikhara's wisdom.\n\n  1. If I married Hadi, I wouldn't have to be set up with anyone. Over the summer, Jamila got married to a man she met over one weekend. Hadi had cut his hair for the wedding and wore a tuxedo. These two things\u2014the arranged marriage I didn't want and the haircut I did\u2014felt like signs.\n  2. If I married Hadi, at least Baba would be there for my wedding. With Baba's most recent hospitalization, his time on earth felt like a fragile thing.\n  3. If I married Hadi, I'd have more freedom. Mama had always clung to a tight travel policy: \"If we fly, we fly together, so if we die, we die together.\" She often followed up this morbid sentiment by saying, \"You can do that after you get married.\n\nThen it'll be your husband's job to worry about you.\" It made sense to get married and have more choices for school, for work, and for my future.\n\nI didn't catch that there was nothing on the list particular to Hadi himself. I'd grown up listening to people describe marriage prospects as if they were commodities, labeled by profession, age, family name, country of origin, religious sect, and it never occurred to me that I didn't know much about Hadi as a person. It was my senior year. I had just spent the last few years moving through high school as if it were a giant checklist marked \"Get into a Good College,\" and for the most part, I'd been able to tick off every goal I'd set for myself. I'd gone to Girl's State that summer. I was student-body president. I'd won several local speech competitions, and I'd been on the homecoming court. All this in spite of being the girl from the different religion who wore dark tights and the longest skirt in school and who was seventeen going on eighteen and had never been kissed. And somehow I felt strengthened by these recognitions, as if they proved definitively that it was possible to meld the rules of being Muslim with an American lifestyle. This list of reasons to marry Hadi was just another part of all the organizing and planning I was doing in the rest of my life\u2014filling out college applications, writing essays, studying for the SATs, and picking a husband.\n\nThese thoughts were swirling around in my mind when Mama came to me in my bedroom and asked if I wanted my aunty Najma, who happened to live in Lebanon, to tailor me a dress. \"You know, in case something should happen?\" she added.\n\n\"Like what?\" I asked because I suspected she meant something to do with an engagement, but I wanted to hear her say it.\n\n\"Are you going to go to your senior prom?\" she asked. \"You could always go with Hadi.\"\n\nThe question surprised me. Mama had learned about proms from Mrs. Ridha who'd sent Jamila with Hadi during her senior year. I never thought Mama would care whether or not I attended this American rite of passage, but a part of me was relieved that she'd mentioned it. If I was going to be marrying Hadi in a matter of time, it didn't seem fair that I miss out on this last dance of my high school career, especially after spending years covering every shift at the student government's soda booth and listening to the parent chaperones cluck, \"How come a pretty girl like you doesn't have a date?\"\n\nBut at the same time, I knew the rules about going out with a boy before marriage\u2014that it was basically forbidden unless the purpose was for marriage, and even then it was best to have a chaperone. Mama's suggestion seemed impossible.\n\n\"I don't see how that would work,\" I said, flipping the book in my lap shut. \"What would you do? Pick up the phone and say to his mom, 'Will you please have your son take my daughter to her prom?'\"\n\n\"His mom already called me and asked me if you wanted him to take you.\"\n\n\"And what did you tell her?\"\n\n\"I said I had to ask you.\"\n\n\"Does it matter what I want? What would we say to Baba, Bibi, Jidu, the whole world?\"\n\n\"We could figure something out.\"\n\nI hugged my knees to my chest. \"But what about it not being allowed?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, but I don't want you to be disappointed. Would you be disappointed?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" I said, \"but I'll get over it. I don't want to do something wrong just so I won't be disappointed.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to make an istikhara?\"\n\nI knew this suggestion was coming. Mama always looked to God for all her parenting decisions\u2014camps, field trips, dances, parties\u2014but in light of Mama's previous istikhara about Hadi, this question carried a different kind of charge. It was as if she was digging for confirmation from God, and this was something I needed, too. I wanted to hear again that Hadi was the one.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said. \"Do it.\"\n\nThe next morning when Mama told me the istikhara came out good, she gushed, \"And you know what else? I made another istikhara, about you and Hadi, to make sure I was doing the right thing to encourage you, and it came out good again.\"\n\nThis was the third sign from God that He wanted Hadi and me to be together, and I felt not just commanded to listen but blessed. It was as if God was pointing to a path and saying, \"Take this boy and have a good life.\"\n\nAfter dinner Mama, Lina, and I headed up to my room to flip through magazines and books to find pictures of dresses to fax to Aunty Najma. Lina knew why we were looking for dresses, and Mama didn't want her getting the wrong idea. Thumbing through a magazine, Mama said, \"Now, just because Hudie is going to the prom, it doesn't mean that you can go to your prom too. If you have someone you'd consider marrying when you are in high school, that's a different story, but otherwise, it's a no.\"\n\nLina shot Mama an insulted look and said, \"I know that. I just don't want Hudie to get married.\"\n\nSomething inside me sank. In all my eagerness to know this one thing that awaited me, I hadn't paused to consider all the ways in which marriage was tied to loss. My marriage would mean Lina and Baba having dinner alone while Mama was at work. It would mean Mama and Baba in their bedroom downstairs and Lina sleeping alone upstairs. It would mean that my bedroom would take on that same uninhabited feel that Ibrahim's had now that he'd gone off to college, except that I wouldn't return to my room the way he did on breaks. I'd have a husband, my own house. Marriage was a beginning, but it was also an end.\n\n\"I'm not getting married,\" I said for Lina's benefit and mine. Hadi had no idea these istikharas had been made. He didn't know that if he wanted to love me, I was prepared to love him back.\n\nMy life's only love story was starting, and so far the only characters in the scene were our mothers. Our mothers had told our respective families that Hadi was coming up to stay with us so he could attend a car show at the racetrack right by our house. Mrs. Ridha would accompany him, and when it came time for me to go to my \"mandatory school function,\" she'd suggest that Hadi drop me off on his way out.\n\nI didn't take issue with the deceit as much as it bothered me that Hadi and I had never spoken to each other about going to my prom. I didn't want the first time we went out alone together to be awkward, for him to just show up at our house the night before and leave me to say, \"So it looks like you're the lucky fella who gets to take me to my prom tomorrow.\"\n\nBut the only way I could talk to Hadi before the prom was to ask for help with my math homework. Hadi was now a junior in college, but he'd been taking college-level math since high school. He had coached me through a number of sticky equations in the past, and I knew if I complained long enough, Mama would pick up the phone and tell Mrs. Ridha to tell Hadi to expect a phone call. Then my mother would dial his number at the on-campus apartment he shared with his roommates, get him on the phone, and pass it to me. All this to avoid the impropriety of me calling a boy.\n\nThat night, after Hadi talked me through factoring a complicated equation, I brought up the prom, hoping to hear him say how much he wanted to go with me, how he'd longed his whole life for this opportunity. Stretched out on my bedroom floor, I prompted him with a series of negative statements that begged for correction, starting with, \"I hope you don't feel like you have to go. It's just that I'm the student-body president, and it would be nice to finally go to an event instead of just setting it up and leaving.\"\n\n\"No, that's fine. I don't mind,\" he said.\n\n\"And, I have this red dress I've been wanting to wear that my aunt in Lebanon made for me. My friend Diana and I have this thing about being the Lady in Red.\"\n\nThe dress Aunty Najma sent me hung at the back of my closet, not only reproduced from the photograph I faxed her but improved according to Middle Eastern standards of formal wear. Aunty Najma had tiny red sequins stitched onto every curve of lace along the entire body of the dress. Although she had known nothing about the prom, she knew the dress symbolized the possibility that something could happen soon, something worthy of a celebration.\n\n\"I like that song too,\" Hadi said. \"I have the tape.\"\n\n\"I only have it recorded off the radio, and it's missing the first part.\"\n\n\"I should make you a tape then. What other songs do you like?\"\n\nRight away, I knew I wouldn't tell Hadi which songs I wanted to hear. I wanted to believe he would go searching for lyrics that best communicated his feelings for me.\n\n\"Why don't you surprise me?\" I said.\n\n\"I can do that.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sure you're busy. I should let you get back to your work.\"\n\n\"That's okay. I don't really have that much to do.\"\n\n\"You're in college. How can you not have anything more important to do than talk to me?\"\n\nA few seconds passed without Hadi saying anything, and I wanted my question back. \"You don't have to answer that,\" I said.\n\n\"No. It's fine.\"\n\n\"Okay, then.\"\n\n\"I guess I like talking to you.\"\n\n\"How come?\"\n\nAnother long pause followed. I twirled my hair, sniffed the tip of one of my curls, flicked something out from under one of my fingernails, and then I couldn't take it any longer.\n\n\"If you don't have an answer, that's fine. It just seemed like you didn't want to get off the phone.\" I waited a moment, heard nothing, and then added, \"So either you really don't like talking to me that much, or it's hard to say.\"\n\n\"It's that one,\" he said.\n\n\"Which one?\"\n\n\"The last one.\"\n\n\"Do you ever think it might be easier to say?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It's just hard over the phone.\"\n\n\"You're going to see me at my prom.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Maybe you should tell me then why you like talking to me, or...tell me what you want me to be to you....\"\n\nHe paused for so long I thought we were disconnected. \"Hello?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I'm here.\"\n\n\"Okay, never mind everything I said. You don't have to tell me anything.\"\n\n\"No. It's not that.\"\n\n\"It's just hard?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yeah. It's hard.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll let you off the hook for now, but by my prom, I'm going to be expecting an answer,\" I said, half-joking, half-threatening. \"Do you think you can come up with an answer by then?\"\n\n\"Okay,\" he answered, but he sounded afraid.\n\nWhen we finally hung up the phone, I went unsteady with worry. If I was ever going to experience a moment out of Diana and my daydreams, it had to be now, inside this space our mothers had built for us. I couldn't afford to make allowances for Hadi's shyness or for the culture we'd both grown up in, because this opportunity to be alone with a boy before I married him would not likely come again. But now if Hadi did say something to me at my prom, I would always wonder whether it was because he sincerely felt it or if it was because I had been shamelessly pushy. And Hadi's phone presence concerned me. He paused for far longer than the socially accepted standard in a conversation, so much so that I'd wished I had a buzzer to signal that the time for a response had expired. This phone call had been our longest conversation, the first on any topic of substance. How unfortunate to be discovering what Hadi was like on the phone now, now that the istikharas had been made, now that my future had been decided.\n\nIn the weeks leading up to the prom, I talked myself out of all my hesitations. There was no sense in missing out on yet another high school milestone if I was going to end up marrying Hadi anyway, and this was the perfect opportunity to start falling in love. Maybe Hadi would answer the questions I left him with at the end of our phone call as soon as we were alone in the car. Or maybe he would wait and ask the DJ to play \"The Lady in Red\" before he confessed how much he'd always loved me. Either way, by the end of the evening, we would be more than just a couple brought together by their families and shared religion.\n\nThat morning, I got my hair done at the mall. Back at home, I did my _wudhu_ for my afternoon prayers, washing my face, arms, and feet while being careful not to disturb my updo at the second-to-the-last step, when a wet hand is run across the top of the head. After I prayed, I secured the hairs that had come loose under my head-covering, then put on nail polish and makeup. It wasn't until I came downstairs and discovered that Mrs. Ridha was occupying my grandparents in one room while Mama snuck me and Hadi out the door that the absurdity of going to the prom hit me. I was going through such an American rite of passage like such a Muslim, Arab girl. My prom was my first time out of the house with a boy, a boy who could be my future husband.\n\nIn the car, I reached for my seat belt and said, \"I feel bad sneaking out like that.\"\n\n\"Sorry,\" Hadi said, and after an awkward pause added, \"Your dress is nice.\"\n\nSome of the evening's anticipation went flat at the tepid compliment. Just my dress was nice? I had hoped Hadi would tell me that I was beautiful.\n\n\"You look nice, too,\" I said, and I meant it. With a brand-new haircut, his face freshly shaven, and a crisp tuxedo, Hadi looked more handsome than I'd ever seen him before.\n\nAnother pause, and then Hadi said, \"I have something for you. Open the glove compartment.\"\n\nAlready? I was sure it wasn't a ring, but maybe it was a piece of jewelry, something to promise us to each other.\n\nI lifted the latch and found a miniature BMW convertible in a clear, plastic box\u2014the model I had told him I wished my first car would be. And it was red.\n\n\"Thank you. That's really sweet,\" I said, my heart filling with warmth and a sudden jolt of nervousness. If Hadi had thought so far ahead as to buy me the toy car, then surely he had more planned. What if he answered my question from our phone conversation and asked me to marry him?\n\nThat year the prom was being held at my top choice of future wedding venues, a historic naval building that had once been a grand hotel situated less than a mile away from downtown and the beach. Hadi opened my car door, and we walked up the steps to the ballroom side by side with plenty of space between us. At the door, I took in the high ceilings and arched windows, the heavy draperies and wrought-iron candelabras affixed to the walls. To the side of the dance floor stood Diana and her date, a guy she'd met at one of her college campus tours. In the weeks leading up to the prom, I'd described the extent of my relationship with Hadi in teenage detail, but I had made Diana swear repeatedly not to give me away. Under no circumstances could she mention the name Hadi, not in front of him or my parents or my siblings. It was an all-around Never Ever. Now I led Hadi over to our table, our hands at our sides and a sizeable distance between us. Diana played the part of ignorance well, accepting introductions and handshakes without the \"I've heard so much about you\" I feared.\n\nAt our table, Nadia's place was unoccupied. We'd begged her to come with her brother, but she'd refused, saying a silly prom was not worth the sin. As I glanced around the room, Nadia's words returned to me along with a creeping sense of guilt. At neighboring tables, couples held hands, put their arms around each other, and leaned over in their chairs to kiss. Seeing Hadi in the chair next to me, his hands folded in his lap, I wondered why I had tried so hard to go to a dance. We didn't belong here.\n\nI waited for Hadi to strike up a conversation with Diana or at least with her date, but Hadi was quiet. I tried to make conversation for everyone, and all the while, my mind prepared excuses for him. He was a college student. He was above the immaturity of a high school prom. But as I blabbered, a foundation of disappointment was being poured. Tomorrow Diana would not call to tell me that Hadi was a great guy, that he was cute, or funny, or a good catch. I wasn't shy. I didn't want to marry a shy guy.\n\nWe finished eating, the lights dimmed, and the music started. Diana got up to dance with her date. The other couples at our table followed. Soon Hadi and I were sitting alone. Over the thump of the music, I remarked about the food and the place, the people dancing around me, the songs being played, and then I gave up on conversation entirely. I realized Hadi wasn't going to break the rules and ask me to dance\u2014that there would be no \"Lady in Red\" moment under a disco ball\u2014and so instead, I suggested we go for a walk. First, we took the elevator upstairs to see the view of the city's lights and then downstairs to the tiled veranda.\n\nWith our elbows resting along the adobe wall that surrounded the length of the veranda, we looked out at the moonlit lawn and the silhouette of rose bushes that stood along its edges. The cool night air traveled through the holes of my unlined lace sleeves, making me shiver. Hadi offered me his jacket.\n\nAfter an exchange of, \"I'm fine\" and \"Please, take it,\" I took his jacket just to make the back-and-forth stop. He held it open for me while I slid in my arms, and right away, I blushed at the body heat we were sharing for the first time, the way the scent of his cologne now pressed upon my neck. I was pleased to discover Hadi's sleeves covered my hands. I'd always wished Hadi was more than three inches taller than me so that I'd feel small when I stood next to him. Now I knew that even if Hadi wasn't a big guy, he was big enough for me.\n\nI looked down to my side at the terra-cotta pots filled with geraniums, and then I looked up at the moon in the cloudless sky, all the while hoping that my silence would force Hadi to speak.\n\nIt didn't.\n\nI turned around so that my back rested against the wall, folded my arms, and said, \"So, kind of boring, huh? Sorry I dragged you out here.\"\n\n\"I'm having fun.\"\n\n\"How could you be having fun? All we're doing is watching other people have fun,\" I said and then immediately regretted such a shameless attempt to get Hadi to talk.\n\n\"So is there anything you want to tell me?\" I asked, trying to be more forthright. I waited a moment, expecting him to bring up our last phone conversation and tell me everything I'd been waiting to hear.\n\nBut Hadi stood there staring at me. No words. Just an awkward smile that I couldn't even read for confirmation that he'd understood me. An anxious itch overcame me. After all this effort to make a dress and sneak out here, was it possible that he wouldn't say anything?\n\nI couldn't wait any longer. Without any attempt at subtlety, I asked, \"Are you going to answer my question? The one from before, remember?\"\n\n\"I remember,\" he said, his eyebrows rising slightly, his mouth twisting in a crooked half smile. He fidgeted, straightened his back, and shifted his weight from foot to foot.\n\nI searched Hadi's face for a sign that he was about to speak, but his expression remained unchanged.\n\nI shook my head. What was this guy's problem? I couldn't stay quiet for that long if I tried. Maybe he didn't really like me. But he came all the way here. He bought me that stupid toy BMW. What if I'd taken this risk, put my reputation on the line to go out with him, and these insipid smiles and a model car were the best he had to offer? What if he was just waiting for his mother to do everything for him? She'd arranged this prom. She'd arrange our marriage.\n\nI looked down at the floor and at my shoes. Mama had used a hot-glue gun to attach a string of red sequins in a floral design along each shoe, but the sequins were not holding together. The loops that were meant to be petals flapped about, exposing white blobs of glue underneath.\n\n\"You know what,\" I said, forcing a chipper tone, \"you can take me home now. I'm done.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\" Hadi asked, suddenly coming back to life.\n\n\"I'm sure. Here, why don't you take your jacket?\"\n\n\"No, you keep it. I'm fine.\"\n\nI was too busy ranting inside my head to say any more. I declared us over. I didn't know how to make sense of the istikharas' positive results, but on that quiet walk back to the car, I preferred the uncertainty of my future prospects to a lifetime with someone I did not like. Only an unlikeable person would leave another person to flounder in such an awkward moment. Only an unlikeable person wouldn't recognize the vulnerability in an unanswered question. Or a shy person, and shy was no better. This had been my chance to go out alone with a boy without being engaged or married to him, to write the opening to a love story that didn't have our parents on every page, and he ruined it.\n\nAt home I slipped on a T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and yanked out the army of bobby pins that had been fortifying my hair since the morning. I ran a brush through the hair that was still stiff with hair spray and opened the door. Hadi was in the hallway upstairs, leaning against the banister.\n\n\"Getting ready for bed?\" he asked.\n\nOur culture had to make everything so damn familial. I could get over the fact that a boy didn't drive to my house to pick me up because he was already staying there. I could get over not having my proud parents snap my picture before I stepped out the door because my stupid prom was a big family secret. But what American girl had to bring her bad date home and make polite conversation with him in her pajamas? What American girl had to wake up and help her mother serve him and his mother tea and breakfast the next morning?\n\n\"Not yet,\" I said. \"I'll probably do some of my homework. That's what every girl dreams of doing after her prom.\"\n\nHadi did not react to my sarcastic tone. \"I could help if you want,\" he said.\n\nI shrugged. \"May as well.\"\n\nWe worked through a few problems on the floor of my bedroom, the door wide open. A short while later, Baba came upstairs to say good night. \"Hah,\" he said, surprised to see Hadi in my room. Then he registered the book open in front of us. \"Oh, you are doing your homework. Okay. Good for you.\"\n\nHe bent down and kissed my head, and I regretted sneaking out to go to the prom. The evening had not been worth the deceit. In the sweetest voice I could muster, I said, \"I love you, Daddy.\"\n\nI watched Baba descend the stairs in his plaid, flannel pajamas, so innocent, so na\u00efve to the plots his wife and child had cooked up behind his back. I had betrayed such a na\u00efve, unsuspecting man, a man whose pajama pants never seemed to reach past his ankles. I looked over at Hadi next to me, and I wanted to make him pay for not being worth the lie. I thought of a hundred different ways to say, \"You screwed up,\" until I settled on, \"You missed an opportunity, you know.\"\n\n\"If I did, I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Well, you did,\" I said without looking up from my textbook.\n\n\"At least you got to be the Lady in Red.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't.\" I pushed the paper toward him. \"Tell me what to do.\"\n\nStep-by-step, Hadi walked me through the problem I'd copied out of my book. He never read the explanation, never flipped back to previous chapters to remind himself how to solve the equation. No matter what level of math I was in, ninth-grade algebra, tenth-grade geometry, eleventh-grade trigonometry, and now precalculus, Hadi knew the answers. I couldn't remember anything from one year to the next, but Hadi owned the math he knew. He could teach it, share it. This impressed me, but I didn't admit it. I worked by Hadi's side grumpily, and when he left the next day, I went up to my room and cried yesterday's tears.\n\nA few nights later, the phone in my room rang. I expected to hear Diana's voice on the other line.\n\n\"Hi,\" Hadi said.\n\n\"Hi,\" I answered and waited. I tried to keep busy wrapping the cord around my finger, but after a few seconds of listening to air, I grew antsy. \"So did you call just to say hi?\"\n\n\"No. I wanted to call because I'm really sorry about everything that happened. I haven't been able to sleep or eat since. I wanted to call you earlier, but I didn't know what I would say if someone else answered the phone.\"\n\n\"I'm fine.\"\n\n\"I want to answer your question.\"\n\n\"You don't have to.\"\n\n\"I want to.\"\n\nI waited again. After a minute, I added, \"Listen, if you don't want to, then don't.\"\n\n\"No. I'm just not good with words. I need to think about what I'm going to say.\"\n\nI heard him taking a deep breath. Then he paused again before saying, \"Whenever I see myself in the future, the only person I imagine myself with is you.\"\n\nI froze as if I were in a conversation with a deer on my lawn. If I moved, I feared he'd run away.\n\n\"I think about you all the time, and when I dream about you, I don't want to wake up. I wanted to answer your question, but I kept telling myself that's not the kind of thing you should say to someone who is going to be somebody else's wife.\"\n\nA mix of tenderness and frustration overwhelmed me. \"With all that talk about us, how could you assume I was going to marry someone else?\"\n\n\"You don't know what it's like to hear about all the families that ask my mom about you,\" Hadi said. \"Why would I think you would marry a guy like me? I'm not the tallest. I'm not the smartest. I'm not the best-looking. I figured one day I'd hear that you were engaged to someone else, and I'd move away and try not to ever see you again.\"\n\nI pictured Hadi fretting over losing me to someone else, and I wanted to hear more. \"But why would you plan on moving away? You would've met someone else and been happy with her.\"\n\n\"I couldn't bear to watch you married to somebody else, having kids that should've been mine.\"\n\nI didn't know what to say. Diana and I had spent so much time picturing how we wanted a man to profess his love to us, but we never paused to consider what we'd say in return.\n\n\"That's funny,\" I said. \"You assumed I'd marry someone else, and I always felt like I couldn't marry anyone else.\" And then hearing how that sounded, I added, \"And that's great, because I like you, too. You've always been so sweet to me. It just bothered me to think you were waiting around for your mom to\u2014you know\u2014fix us up.\"\n\n\"I swear to you, I never thought that,\" Hadi said. \"I just planned on spending the rest of my life dreaming about you.\"\n\nMy heart swelled, and my stomach filled with a kind of queasiness I'd never felt before. Maybe Mama was right, and you could learn to love someone. Maybe knowing a guy loved you was enough to flip the switch in your heart that made you love him back.\n\n\"But that's why I kept pushing you to say something to me,\" I said. \"I gave you an opportunity to take matters into your own hands, and you didn't.\"\n\n\"I just kept thinking about how you were going to marry somebody better than me, somebody with a job and a house who can give you all the things you deserve, and I thought it would make things harder if I told you how I felt.\"\n\nI liked the notion of Hadi being content to love me from afar. It was cinematic and tragic, and it filled me with a resolve to love him, too.\n\n\"I'm not going to marry anybody else,\" I said. \"So if you want me to have what I deserve, you better become the best.\"\n\n\"I can do that if you'll help me.\"\n\n\"I will,\" I said, suddenly excited by the challenge of fixing him. Everything I didn't like about Hadi, I'd change. This was the premise of every romantic comedy I loved, coming to life. It would be just like the movie _Pretty Woman_ except for the minor differences in the protagonist's gender and choice of profession.\n\nHadi and I talked for a total of three hours that night. An hour into our conversation, Mama came upstairs to see what was keeping me in my room, and when I mouthed that I was on the phone with Hadi, she nodded and whispered that she'd guard the phone line. Hadi and I reviewed our childhoods together, what we were really thinking at the moments we both remembered. Nothing about our conversation struck me as off\u2014not Hadi's lack of confidence or my misguided determination to change him. On the contrary, I got off the phone with Hadi feeling as if I'd arrived into one of the scenes that Diana and I dreamt up. It was nothing like I'd pictured. There were no balloons, limousines, or music, but it was only the beginning. Hadi could always plan something amazing for our proposal.\n\nThe weekend of my high school graduation, houseguests occupied every corner of our home\u2014Hadi and his entire family, his aunts, uncles, and cousins; and Mama's cousin Marwa and her children. Since there weren't enough bedrooms for individual families, we camped out according to gender. Women in the bedrooms, men on the floor in the living room and family room.\n\nAt the ceremony, my extended family and the Ridha clan took up the entire first two rows of the auditorium. From where I sat on stage, I saw Mama, Lina, and Baba, grinning, holding up signs with my name on them. Whenever I looked at Mama, she clapped and blew me kisses. Whenever I looked over at Hadi, our eyes locked until I turned away. He looked better at my prom. His hair was big today, bushy and wavy, and his sideburns were growing over his ears. I doubted he'd cut his hair since then. The shirt he wore was wrinkly too, and the denim blazer he wore over it struck me as unfashionable.\n\nA train of self-pity chugged through me. This was my first time seeing Hadi since our phone conversation. I had expected that warmth I'd felt for Hadi on the phone to flood me as soon as I saw him, but here I was again picking on his clothes and his hair. And here I was, onstage at my high school graduation, struck by a shock of panic. If I didn't feel that kind of cinematic love for Hadi and we were marching toward marriage, then that meant I would never feel that kind of love for anyone, ever.\n\nI stopped myself. No. That wasn't how Mama or my aunts felt about their husbands. That kind of love wasn't essential to a good marriage.\n\nOur valedictorian took to the podium, and I writhed in my metal folding chair. In the end, I'd been denied the throne of academic excellence by the plague of every nerd's existence, physical education. In spite of four years of As and honor points, I could not undo the B plus that was caused by one measly skills test in volleyball when I did not serve the ball over the net\u2014not even once.\n\nI watched our speaker's cheeks quiver with nerves, and I told myself that she could have this speech because this was the only one she had in high school. I'd stood behind a microphone at more assemblies than I could count, and our classmates had already voted me Most Likely to Never Be Forgotten and Most Likely to be President of the United States. But this last thought filled me with more longing than comfort. I wanted that microphone in my hand more than I wanted the title of valedictorian. Behind a microphone, it didn't matter that I was only eighteen and already working my way into a marriage. When my voice carried strong and unwavering through an auditorium, nobody could box me into the Muslim woman stereotype. Not even myself.\n\nAfter the ceremony, we stood outside the auditorium, taking pictures. When the fuss died down, Hadi wandered over to me and whispered, \"You look cute.\" His words felt like their own kind of diploma, certifying that I was a grown woman with a man in her life now.\n\nLater that night, I went to my school's grad night celebration, but I couldn't bring myself to play laser tag and jump around in a sumo wrestler's suit when I knew I had my entire future to plan with Hadi. I called Mama and told her I wanted to come home early. She told me exactly what I wanted to hear\u2014that she'd send Hadi to pick me up.\n\nThis time when Hadi asked me if I wanted to go straight home, I said no. We drove to a restaurant across the street from school and slid into a booth covered in red vinyl.\n\n\"It felt weird to say 'two' to that hostess,\" Hadi said.\n\n\"It felt weird to hear it,\" I said, pressing my hand down on my stomach. The unsteady, queasy feeling I'd had when we were on the phone together had returned. I was alone in a restaurant with a boy for the first time in my life.\n\n\"How did my mom send you without it looking suspicious?\"\n\n\"She made a point of announcing you needed to be picked up. Then my mom said to send me so that your mom wouldn't have to leave the house when she had so many guests, and then your mom said that if you weren't quite done, I should just wait for you in the car. And then at the door, she told me not to feel like we had to rush back.\"\n\n\"Wow. You'd think they had a script.\" Our mothers facilitated our coupling so naturally I had to wonder if matchmaking was a maternal instinct.\n\nWe didn't speak again until our food arrived. Hadi dipped a french fry in ketchup and said, \"I'm so proud of you. You got so many awards today.\"\n\n\"Good. I want you to be proud of me,\" I said and pulled two napkins out of the dispenser. I passed one to Hadi and tucked the other under my plate. \"Because then you'll understand why I don't have any intention of giving up on school.\"\n\nI wanted an American love story so much, and yet I was the one who immediately slipped into the role of the Muslim woman being courted, secure in the presumption that the boy on the other side of the table was there for marriage, well versed in her rights and ready with demands. Although Mama had never sat me down and told me what to ask for as a woman in Islam, I'd prepared for the talks I'd given in those world religions classes. I knew my future spouse had to match if not improve the lifestyle I'd been accustomed to in my parents' home. I knew that I had a right to work and that my earnings belonged entirely to me and not to our household. I knew that I could request to be paid for childcare and housework. I knew that Hadi was the one who had to prove something to me.\n\n\"Of course. I wouldn't want you to.\"\n\n\"Because I have plans for myself,\" I said, still ignoring the plate of fries in front of me. \"I don't know what I want to do yet, but I want to do something, and it's gonna be big. You only know the home-me, but the school-me is different.\"\n\n\"You don't have to tell me how special you are.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you think that because I plan on working like my mom,\" I said, now picking up a thick french fry and waving it at him. \"I'm not the kind of girl who's going to stay home and make cakes. I'll make you cake, but only when I want to.\"\n\nHadi dug a spoon into his sundae. \"Well, thank you. I'm sure it will be very good cake.\"\n\n\"Yes, it will,\" I said and bit into the fry that had been my pointer. \"Now back to business. Since we both want to get advanced degrees, this should work out. My parents would never let me go to graduate school out of state, so we can apply together, and you can go to medical school, and I can go to whatever-I-decide school.\"\n\nBack in March, I'd been wait-listed at Stanford. I moped and cried for about a day. I'd only been allowed to apply to colleges within driving distance, and at the time, I believed Stanford was the only university in our area with the kind of reputation that would prove to people that I was smart. As much as the people in our community stigmatized late marriage, they also made assumptions about the girls who married young, that they were less focused on school and only interested in starting a family. No matter when I got married, nobody would assume those things about me if I had been admitted to Stanford. But when I didn't get pulled off the wait list, I accepted my admission to Santa Clara University. They'd given me a small scholarship and a certificate to say I'd been accepted with honors. A certificate with gold edging. I told myself that was a university that knew how to treat a girl, but if I was married, I could go to school anywhere. I pictured Hadi getting into a prestigious medical school and us getting married after my second year. Then I could transfer and still have a name-dropping degree.\n\n\"You do want to go to medical school?\" I added as an afterthought. It just occurred to me that I'd never asked Hadi myself. Hadi and I had known each other our entire lives, but the things we knew about each other were limited to what our mothers had told us and the few topics we'd discussed over the phone.\n\nHadi swallowed a spoonful of ice cream and said, \"If I get in.\"\n\nHadi's lack of certainty was unexpected. \"Why wouldn't you get in? You're smart,\" I said. I'd gone to his high school graduation; he'd been on the honor roll. He was probably like me, got upset over Bs.\n\n\"It's really hard to get in.\"\n\n\"But I'm sure if you do some research and get good letters of rec, you'll be fine.\"\n\nHadi raised his eyebrows and shrugged. I didn't like his noncommittal attitude. Whenever I wanted something, I made plans, plots, and lists. I feared that Hadi did not share the same ambition, and I wondered if I should press the issue or if he was just being humble. Humility, after all, was a good quality in a husband.\n\nI went back to my fries, and I told Hadi we'd better hurry up and get home before our families wondered why we were gone so long. As we walked back to the car, I marveled at the foot of space we still left between us. I'd just spent a half hour discussing my future life with a boy whose hand I'd never held, a boy who had not even told me that he loved me. I thought of my classmates back at grad night, and I couldn't imagine telling anyone but Nadia and Diana about this. For the rest of the world, I'd need a different opening to this relationship; I'd need a better story.\n\nWhen we got back home at a little past midnight, the family room was still full of our pajama-clad relatives drinking tea, watching television, joking, and laughing. After changing into our pajamas, Hadi and I sat among them, at opposite ends of the bench seating surrounding the breakfast-nook table. One by one, those around us got up to get ready for bed, but we stayed seated. When we were the only ones left at the table, Hadi scooted around the bench until he was sitting so close to me that our legs touched. It was the closest I'd ever been to him since we were children, squeezed in next to each other in the back row of the family car or peering over the pages of a comic book we were all trying to read. I looked up at Hadi, wanting to feel some certainty that this warmth coursing through me was love. But his eyebrows were so full. One end seemed to be reaching out in an effort to join the other. I hoped it was okay for a guy to pluck, but even if it was, how would I suggest it?\n\nHadi leaned in closer and smelled my hair. His chest pressed against the length of my arm, and I felt him breathe. I forbade myself any further study of his eyebrows, but Hadi was staring at me so intently and lovingly that I had to look down and fix my gaze on my hands folded in my lap.\n\nFrom the corner of my eye, I saw Hadi reaching for the curly piece of string, attached to a sheet of wrapping paper discarded on the table. He twirled it between two of his fingers, and then, without saying anything, he took my hand out of my lap and tied the string around my ring finger.\n\nI held my breath. _Please don't ask me to marry you now. It can't happen like this, with me in my pajamas, my hair a mess, no diamond ring, no audience._\n\n\"I want to spend the rest of my life with you,\" he said, placing his palm against mine, his way of holding my hand without holding it at all.\n\n\"Is that supposed to be a question?\" I asked and withdrew my hand back into my lap before anyone wandered into the kitchen.\n\n\"I'm asking you if you'll spend the rest of your life with me.\"\n\nI stared down at my still-warm hand. Hadi's touch had been more remarkable than the question I'd spent night after night imagining. Those words did not slow time or cause music to erupt from the walls. They did not make fireworks burst from the sky or conjure up a crowd hooting congratulatory cheer.\n\nI didn't want to accept that such life-changing words could feel so ordinary, that this moment I'd been waiting for my entire life could already be over with such little ceremony.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said and then added, \"But this doesn't count, okay? You still have to ask me for real.\"\n\nHadi nodded, and I was relieved. The string was a tender gesture without a doubt, but I needed a grander memory for the official proposal in my life's only love story.\n\nThat fall, as soon as I moved into my dorm room, Hadi started calling me from his on-campus apartment at UC San Diego. These were secret phone calls\u2014between Hadi, me, and my mother. I'd told Mama that Hadi had expressed his intention to marry me and that he wished to call, but in return, she'd given me only tacit consent. She did not want to be complicit in our conversing before Hadi's family officially approached us. These conversations could only be the behind-the-scenes work, the orchestrating of a relationship. If Hadi and I wanted to officially become a couple, all our parents would have to become involved, permission granted and hard, precious metal rings placed on our fingers.\n\nIn the meantime, I took notes in a journal while we talked.\n\nHadi: It would be nice to actually touch you.\n\nHuda: It may be a disappointment.\n\nHadi: I haven't been disappointed so far. You would be about as disappointing as an ice-cold glass of water on a hot day.\n\nHadi: Whatever you are, I like. If you were to tell me you had three arms, I'd think that was great. You could carry more stuff. I'd think that's the way everyone should be.\n\nI never scribbled down my feelings for Hadi or my thoughts about our impending engagement or marriage. All I wanted was a log of compliments that proved Hadi had said the kind of things to me that any Western woman might have fallen for, that we'd been brought together by more than family friendship and istikharas. I couldn't imagine a day when the omissions in those journals would speak more to my mind-set than the words they captured. At the time, I only wanted my flattery of the day recorded so I could get back to studying. I'd set a goal to graduate with a 4.0 GPA, and after an hour of talking, I looked for excuses to get off the phone. Sometimes I picked a fight.\n\nOn one such occasion, Hadi asked me if any of the people in my study groups were guys. I said that none of them were, and he said that he preferred it that way, adding, \"I can't imagine how anyone could spend time with you and not fall in love with you.\"\n\nI balked at the suggestion, called it ridiculous. Not only did Hadi sound jealous, but he was also making his feelings for me far too undiscriminating. \"If I need to study with a guy to do well in a course,\" I added, \"I will.\"\n\nIt was a silly declaration because I didn't mean it. Ever since a boy in my dormitory asked me if I wanted to join him at dinner and I had to tell him that I was Muslim and not allowed to socialize with boys, I'd made up my own set of rules to avoid being put in that awkward position again. Never sit next to a boy in class. Never speak to a boy unless he speaks to you first. Give an excuse if a boy asks you to study.\n\nBut three weeks into the quarter, I found myself struggling with my ethics class. Not only did Dr. Farber announce that she'd be giving us a multiple-choice midterm the following week (I preferred courses that required papers\u2014I'd start them early, get feedback during office hours, and write and rewrite until I could almost guarantee myself an A), but the content of our class had also taken an uncomfortable turn. On the day we discussed sexual philosophy, Dr. Farber came to class bouncing a coiled black leather whip in her palm. She said we'd be exploring different cultural attitudes toward sex and that the ladies in the classroom would find Taoist sexual philosophy especially interesting. Taoist men, she explained, trained themselves to last. \"That's why a Taoist man is _hard_ to find,\" she added as if delivering a punch line.\n\nThe class had erupted in laughter, but I didn't get it. Last at what?\n\nAfter class the curly-haired, blond guy who sat two rows over motioned me to his desk. He introduced himself as Matt and the woman standing next to him as Jen and said, \"We're getting a study group together. Interested?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" I said. I could use the help of what I figured to be a senior and a thirty-something on her second career.\n\n\"Do you wanna grab some lunch?\"\n\nI didn't. Matt and his mature friend seemed like boring lunch company, but it struck me as impolite to refuse now that they'd invited me to join their study group.\n\n\"Okay,\" I said.\n\nWe were headed for the cafeteria when Jen turned and walked away with a wave, and Matt started walking toward the parking lot.\n\nI stopped. \"Isn't Jen coming with us?\"\n\n\"No, she always leaves right after class.\"\n\n\"Then aren't we going to the cafeteria?\"\n\n\"I make it a policy not to eat there. I'll take you somewhere off campus.\"\n\nI had to say something. But what? I'd already said I'd go to lunch. Maybe I was making this too complicated. In college, boys and girls had lunch together, and it didn't mean anything.\n\nMatt opened the door of his run-down Datsun for me, and I sat down dizzy with regret. I remembered something Nadia had said: \"When an unmarried boy and girl are alone together, the third person is the devil.\"\n\nMatt parked outside a diner that looked like a barn, its name printed in capital letters that appeared to be dripping paint. Inside, a sign asked us to wait to be seated, and my stomach turned. I wanted to stand in line for fast food, eat, and get out.\n\nAt our table, I ordered a salad, and Matt frowned. \"Don't tell me you're one of those girls who doesn't eat.\"\n\nI didn't feel like explaining this restaurant's menu was a festival of meat and I only ate halal\u2014a term that referred to anything permissible under Islamic law. Given the circumstances, my concerns were a tad ironic. Meat or no meat, this lunch was certainly not halal.\n\n\"I'm not that hungry,\" I said, which was true. I was so nervous and remorseful I'd lost my appetite.\n\nAfter an awkward pause, I brought up our ethics class. \"It's hard to get through all the reading,\" I said, hoping Matt might impart some upperclassman advice that would justify this outing.\n\n\"So don't read it,\" Matt said with a nonchalance that annoyed me. Why would I want to study with someone who didn't even do the reading?\n\nWhen the check came, Matt paid for lunch despite my protests. I didn't know much about guys, but I knew that paying for meals implied things. He drove me back to my dormitory and idled in the loading zone.\n\n\"We should do that again sometime.\"\n\n\"We really should get together with Jen and study.\"\n\n\"Have you ever been to that amusement park around here? One of these weekends, we should go.\"\n\nI panicked. \"This has nothing to do with you, but I can only study with a guy, and even that can't be one-on-one. In my religion, guys and girls don't really go out together.\"\n\n\"What kind of a religion is that?\"\n\n\"I'm Muslim.\"\n\nMatt let his head fall back on the headrest with a thud. \"You've got to be kidding me.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" I said, suddenly certain that this entire exchange was my fault. He'd just wasted twenty bucks on lunch.\n\n\"I've heard a lot of excuses from girls, but this is a first.\"\n\n\"No. It's not like that. I'm really not allowed.\"\n\nMatt nodded dismissively. I apologized, got out of the car, and then sank into the bench at the front door of my dorm room. Mama had always said there was no such thing as a guy friend. I shuddered at the thought of what she and Hadi would think if they found out I'd gone out with a boy, and then I cursed the vagaries of American male-female relationships. At least in Islamic culture, a man secured a woman's consent to be pursued. For the first time, I saw a benefit to the directness I'd spent so many nights lamenting.\n\nBack in my dorm room, I pulled my course catalog off my shelf and ran my finger along the list of phone numbers printed on the inside cover. I probably couldn't yank an A out of that professor, and I never wanted to see Matt again. What was the number to dial to drop a class?\n\nNadia called from UC Berkeley and told me of a girl in her Muslim Students' Association (MSA) who wore the niqab, a veil drawn across her face so that only her eyes showed. She was so attractive that covering her hair with a hijab was not enough to contain her beauty. Men would follow her home, relentless in their marriage proposals.\n\nThoughts of this girl occupied my mind for days. I'd joined the MSA at the start of the school year, and for the first time in my life, I had a social circle made entirely of people who not only shared my religion but who were also more conservative. In our meetings, the women sat on one side of the room, the men on the other. We averted our gazes before addressing one of the guys with the title \"brother\" before his first name. And one of the girls was already engaged, the rest screening suitors. This meant that Mama and Mrs. Ridha were right. Your early twenties really was the time to get married.\n\nIn my MSA friends' company, I felt remiss for being one of the three girls who didn't wear the hijab. \"Inshallah, you will,\" my friend Amina had said to me in the library one afternoon. \"You just have to be ready. When your _iman_ is strong enough, you'll do it.\"\n\nFor Amina, the decision to wear the hijab was a sign that her faith could withstand the challenges of wearing a scarf in a Western country. She dealt with the stares, assumptions, and stereotypes because she cared more about earning the favor of Allah than she did about the opinion of others. And now there was this Super Muslima in my backyard, covering not just her hair but her face, too.\n\nAlthough I had no desire to cover my face, I pictured this girl, her life made rich by rituals, and felt as if I'd fallen behind in my faith. As one of two Muslim girls in my high school, I had considered myself observant. I fasted during Ramadan, I said my five daily prayers and kept up a steady stream of personal supplications for Baba and Lina, I only ate halal meat, and I wore thick tights to school under my uniform skirt. But in college, I feared I was losing a piety contest that I didn't know existed. I may have been getting As in school, but these girls were excelling in our religion. The very least I could do was stop talking with a boy to whom I was not officially engaged.\n\nThe next time Hadi and I spoke, I confessed my concern. From my dorm room phone, I said, \"After all these years of being told how it's wrong to talk to a boy you aren't engaged to, I feel bad that we're talking. I know I told my mom, but it's not my mom I'm worried about. It's more of a religious question.\"\n\n\"I can understand that,\" Hadi answered as if he'd already given the matter some thought.\n\n\"It's not that I don't want to talk to you. It's just that I don't know what you are to me for me to tell myself this is okay.\"\n\n\"I know what I'd like to be to you.\"\n\n\"You do?\" I asked.\n\n\"I do, and in order for me to become that person, we're going to have to get our parents involved.\"\n\nI sat up straighter in my desk chair. This would happen, and I felt a sudden thrill\u2014not of love but of control. My life would follow the script I'd always imagined\u2014engaged and married and with kids before the ripe, old age of twenty-five.\n\nHadi waited for Mrs. Ridha to leave on a trip to Iran to visit an important Shia shrine with Mama and Lina, and then he talked to his father. Hadi knew that his father was far too religious to resist an appeal to his Islamic duty to get married. Nearly all Muslim scholars encourage parents to help their children marry. This, they teach, is the best way to keep them on a straight path.\n\nAfter a weekend with his father, Hadi called me in my dorm room and told me that his father planned to ask my father for my hand when they came to visit for the Thanksgiving holiday coinciding with Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha's return. As much as I wanted to share this news with Mama, I couldn't imagine shouting that kind of information into a crackly overseas telephone line, and so I spent the next few weeks holding onto this information with the pride of newfound adulthood instead. I walked around campus thinking how very grown-up of me it was to be getting engaged, how very mature of me it was to be so ready for marriage five months after graduating from high school.\n\nOn the day of Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha's arrival, Baba picked me up from school on his way to the airport. My weekend visits had felt haunted by Mama and Lina's absence, and I couldn't wait to see them. But during the car ride home, I found myself regarding them all, with the exception of Lina, warily and with a pounding sense of guilt. I was not accustomed to knowing more about future events than the adults in the room, and this knowledge felt like some sort of betrayal.\n\nDr. Ridha, Hadi, and his brother, Amjad, drove through the night and arrived at my parents' house before dawn on Thanksgiving morning. When I woke up, Dr. Ridha was leaning against the upstairs banister, waiting for his wife to finish up in the bathroom. He perked up when he saw me leaving my bedroom, as if I was what he had been waiting for all this time. With his head, he motioned for me to join him in Lina's bedroom, where he and Mrs. Ridha were staying.\n\nEven though Dr. Ridha was of slightly less than average height and build, he was an imposing man. When he spoke, it was as if he were a judge issuing a verdict. He cleared his throat, paused to think, and then gave his ruling on the matter at hand. Now the thought of being alone to receive one of his declarations made me nervous.\n\nClosing the door behind him, Dr. Ridha said, \"You know why we are here today.\" His voice still rumbled with sleep, and his tone was too serious for his tousled hair and plaid pajamas.\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Do you have any objections?\"\n\nA volcano of nerves erupted within me. Whenever I pictured how I'd become engaged, I imagined two steps: one, when the parents talked to each other, and two, when the boy asked me. I didn't expect Dr. Ridha to speak to me directly. I'd known Dr. Ridha my entire life, but as Hadi's sometimes stern, sometimes playful father. I had no idea how to act like an adult around him when the only person I'd ever been in his presence was a child.\n\n\"No,\" I answered.\n\n\"You know we love you,\" he said and kissed me on both of my cheeks, his bristly mustache brushing against my face. This token of affection reassured me. _See_ , I thought to myself, _the Ridhas are happy. I'm happy. It's good to marry family friends._\n\nShortly after Dr. Ridha and I spoke, I sought out my mother in the kitchen. I found her measuring rice into a bowl. A bubbling pot of lamb and eggplant stew simmered on the stove, and a pallid turkey thawed in the sink. I hovered close by, telling her about my conversation with Dr. Ridha. She didn't even have a chance to comment before Baba burst into the kitchen and hurried over to where we stood.\n\n\"Come with me. I want to talk to both of you,\" he said, his face flushed.\n\nMama and I exchanged a knowing glance. On the inside, I shook like a hit pi\u00f1ata.\n\nOn the ground floor, the only unoccupied room was the master bedroom. As soon as Mama and I entered, Baba closed the door so forcefully it sounded as if he'd slammed it.\n\nI sat on my parents' pushed-together, adjustable twin beds and drew my knees up to my chest. What had I done? Baba was going to be sick. The color in his face had given way to a cloudy gray.\n\n\"Are you all right, dear?\" Mama asked. \"Maybe you should sit down.\"\n\n\"Huh?\" he said, momentarily disoriented, and then, snapping back into the moment, he added, \"No, I don't want to sit down. You see, Dr. Ridha asked us for Hudie, and I don't know what to tell him.\"\n\nStill holding my knees, I began to rock. I dreamt of rocking myself straight through the mattress and into the ground. I knew! I knew all along that this was going to happen, and I did not warn the poor man. But what could I have said? As much as our religion extolled marriage, in my father's presence, I felt as if saying you wanted to get married was equal to saying you wanted to live with a man and have sex. The very prospect chilled me with shame. I would never say those words to him. Never.\n\n\"So how did you answer?\" Mama asked Baba, a hand on her hip.\n\n\"I said I would have to ask Huda. Let me ask you something, Hudie, do you want to marry this boy?\"\n\nI squirmed. With so much shame suddenly called up to the surface of my skin, I could only lament that I was being asked directly for my opinion, again. Why weren't our fathers behaving like the trope of an Arab dad, making arrangements for my future without consulting me? My mother never told me that in order to get married, I'd have to give my consent to my father and future father-in-law. _Dear God_ , I prayed, _spare me this awkwardness. Let me close my eyes and wake up with a diamond the size of a grape on my finger._\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said.\n\n\"You see, she's too young. She doesn't want to get married now. You don't want to get married, do you, Hudie?\"\n\nBut I did want to get married. I wanted the satisfaction of having been plucked out of the marriage market before I'd even arrived. I wanted to tell my MSA friends that I was engaged and discuss weddings with them in the library. I wanted the love story I had been waiting for all these years to finally start\u2014to have the flowers and plush toys I had watched girls get from their boyfriends all through high school, to have my first date, maybe my first kiss. I just didn't want to say any of those things to Baba.\n\nMama shot me a look as if to say, \"You're not helping,\" but with my eyes, I pleaded, \"You do something.\"\n\n\"Okay, dear, let's think about this. I already had Ibrahim by the time I was her age, and it isn't like they'd be getting married tomorrow. He's a nice boy, and we know his family. I don't think we'll ever know another family this well.\"\n\n\"Huh? But what about her cousin\u2014\"\n\n\"No, Baba,\" I said, suddenly finding my voice. In the Arab world, marriage among cousins was common if not expected, but this was a custom I had no intention of honoring. It was enough to deal with being the non-dating Muslim girl whose parents were distant cousins. I didn't want to spend the rest of my married life embarrassed by my relationship.\n\n\"Why not?\" Baba asked, surprised.\n\n\"No, Baba,\" I repeated.\n\n\"How about if I tell him to give us more time?\" he asked.\n\n\"For what?\" Mama said. \"People ask for more time when they want to get to know more about the family. There is nothing more to know about these people. We've slept in their home. They've slept in ours.\"\n\n\"So what do you want me to tell them?\"\n\n\"Why don't you say, ' _Inshallah bihal khair_ ,'\" Mama said.\n\nGod willing, it will be blessed. There was an ambiguity to this reply that eased Baba's tense shoulders, his furrowed brow.\n\n\"Really, Hudie? Do you want me to tell them that?\"\n\nBaba's eyes begged me for a definitive no, but I nodded. As much as I wanted to be Baba's little girl forever, I wanted to grow up, to finally be a woman with a man in my life, more.\n\nBefore Baba could start carving the turkey, Dr. Ridha stood at the head of a dining table full of steaming dishes: eggplant stew; basmati rice topped with saffron; sweaty, stuffed grape leaves; hummus; baba ghanoush; glistening kibbeh; golden turkey; and mashed potatoes. He cleared his throat and said, \"We've been friends with the Al-Marashi family for many years now, and we are so happy to announce the engagement of our children, Huda and Hadi.\"\n\nOver our guests' communal gasp of surprise, Dr. Ridha called Hadi and me up to the front of the room. There were pictures taken and a chorus of _Mabrook_ all around. All this, just as Baba's head was replaced by a tomato bearing his exact features. Even the bald spot on top of his head turned red. His jaw dropped open, and his face twisted as if he was in enough pain to cry. One by one, our guests tried to congratulate him, but his only response was, \"Okay, all right. Do you want this turkey?\"\n\nThat night turned into an impromptu engagement party, and Baba turned into an impromptu madman. I was sitting at the breakfast nook table, catching up my friends on the details of the day, but my gaze was on Baba. Instead of sitting with the rest of the men in the living room, he repeatedly barged into the kitchen. He'd carry in a single plate filled with tangerine peels and set it in the sink, only to return moments later with a half-full, steaming teacup that looked as if it had been yanked from someone's hand.\n\nWhen I saw Baba pull Mama toward the laundry closet, I picked up a few abandoned glasses off the table and made my way into the kitchen. As I maneuvered the glasses into the overcrowded dishwasher, I listened to Baba's unintentionally loud whisper.\n\n\"I don't know why Dr. Ridha had to make an announcement. I told him, 'Inshallah bihal khair.' That is not yes.\"\n\n\"Shh,\" Mama said. \"People can hear you. Inshallah bihal khair is the way people say yes.\"\n\n\"Then why did you tell me to say that? I could've told them something else.\"\n\n\"And what's the problem now that he told them? Eventually people were going to find out.\"\n\n\"I thought we would at least wait for some time.\"\n\n\"Dear, it's done. Your daughter just got engaged. Now go sit with the men.\"\n\nWith Baba finally out of the room, Mrs. Ridha closed the door and slipped an Arabic music CD into the stereo. The women seated about the room clapped along to the rhythmic sounds of drums and tambourines. Mama tied a scarf around my hips and pulled me to the center of the room where I followed her every movement. Mama's hip-drops were delightfully subtle while mine were painfully deliberate, but dancing at Mama's side had convinced me\u2014even if I was not ready to be a wife, I was ready to be a bride.\n\nThe next morning, Hadi and I, our two mothers, and Lina piled into the Ridhas' minivan to go ring shopping. I'd been officially engaged for less than twenty-four hours, and there were already so few components of the storybook American proposal left. I still hoped that Hadi would get down on one knee and propose to me with a ring, but now he would not shout out a surprised and triumphant, \"She said yes!\" That answer was already known, first when he gave me the string and then again at last night's dinner. Soon we'd pick out a ring together, and my ring would not be a surprise either.\n\nOur one-day-old relationship was already looking so Arab, so Muslim, and as we drove to the jewelry shop, I couldn't help but sympathize with Baba's hesitation, that regret of having given up your one chance to have something done the way you want. The only way I knew to make those bitter feelings disappear was to believe that if I picked a ring today, then maybe Hadi would whisk me away before he left on Sunday and propose to me properly, the way I'd seen it done countless times on television and in movies, down on one knee, without any parents involved.\n\nWhen we arrived, Shireen Ahmadi, jeweler and family friend, was standing at the door of her boutique. She greeted us with a round of hugs and kisses, and another round of congratulatory ones when Mama told her my news. After ushering us into the store, Shireen led us to the display case of bridal sets. I took a quick scan of the gold and glitter enclosed and panicked. There was nothing there that I liked.\n\nThe white gold and platinum craze had yet to take off, so I was hoping for something set in gold and tastefully gaudy. A huge diamond in the center and maybe two other slightly less huge diamonds at the side. But there was nothing similar to that in the case. If I was going to have a hand in picking my own ring, I wanted to buy it from Shireen. Years ago, I'd admired a ring in Shireen's shop, and she'd whispered into my ear, \"When the time comes, we'll find you something even better.\" That time was now, and I had to find something I liked. I slipped on a solitaire. Too boring. A tension mount. Too modern.\n\nCourtesy of De Beers's commercials, I understood how serious a problem this was. A diamond was forever.\n\nShireen walked over to another case and came back with a ruby ring with two small trillion-cut diamonds on either side and slipped it on my finger. She offered to swap out the ruby with a diamond and brought out two rounds for me to pick from, a half carat of excellent clarity and a three-quarter carat that was not quite as good. It seemed almost a moral dilemma. Deep down, I wanted the biggest diamond I could possibly get\u2014a hunk of sparkly light brilliant enough to blind and heavy enough to require wearing a sling. But choosing a diamond because of its size reeked of a grubbiness I did not want my new fianc\u00e9 or his mother to smell.\n\nUsing tweezers, Shireen took turns holding each diamond over the ring's ruby center stone. I nodded as if I was carefully considering each option, but there was no question in my mind as to which I would choose. This was no longer an issue of aesthetics but of whether I was a quantity or a quality kind of girl.\n\nHadi took my hand in his as if to examine the ring. Shireen followed my hand's movements with the tweezer-held diamond.\n\n\"Which one do you like better?\" he asked.\n\n\"I think I like the half.\"\n\n\"Yeah, me too,\" he answered. \"It is a really nice diamond.\"\n\nOur mothers stood on either side of us, wordlessly waiting for us to come to a decision on our own.\n\n\"So is this the one you want?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\nI had wanted something with a center stone and two smaller diamonds on the side, and this was close enough. If I wanted something custom-made, I would have to give up the hope of a special proposal before Hadi left and I'd have to show up to school on Monday engaged but ringless.\n\nMrs. Ridha wanted to be sure I was happy with my decision. Speaking in Arabic so our Persian jeweler would not understand, she said, \"Are you sure, _habibti_? Don't feel like you have to buy something because this is your friend. The most important thing is that you choose something you like. We can look at other places. You don't have to pick something today.\"\n\n\"No, I'm sure,\" I said. And it was true. I was sure I wanted to buy a ring that day, sure I wanted it from Shireen, and sure I wanted something I could start wearing right away.\n\nShireen started preparing the invoice and said the ring would be ready in a few weeks. A few weeks! What good was buying a ring from a family friend if she couldn't get the guy with the rectangular binoculars and the flaming torch, working in the back, to pop in the stinking diamond right now?\n\n\"You can't do it any sooner?\" Mama asked. I wanted to kiss her for asking the question for me.\n\n\"No, these prongs are for an oval-shaped stone. We have to make new prongs to hold a round.\"\n\nA wave of remorse washed over me. What was the point of rushing if I couldn't have the ring on Monday? But how could I change my mind after all this? But how ridiculous was it to buy a ring you didn't want because you didn't want to say that you didn't want it anymore? I had to say something. I had to tell Shireen I wanted to think about it. I had to do something besides nodding when Mama asked me, \"Do you still want it?\"\n\nWhile Shireen and our mothers discussed the details of the purchase, I convinced myself I had made the right choice. It would have been rude to tell her I didn't want the ring now, and the ring was going to look like a blur of sparkles anyway. Its style wasn't that important.\n\nWe moved on to picking out a ring for Hadi. As customary, we'd both wear rings on our right hand and then switch it to the left when we got married. Since Muslim men do not wear gold, Hadi's ring would have to be custom-made in platinum. All we had to do was pick the style from the tray Shireen placed in front of us.\n\nI wanted Hadi to choose a classic band, but he kept looking at the rings that had small diamonds in the center. This bothered me. Diamonds were for girls. Hadi was supposed to want something bold and manly and cheap. My family would buy his ring, and he was supposed to want the most inexpensive thing to prove his humility.\n\n\"You know I like these classic rings here. Maybe the one with a beveled edge?\" I said.\n\n\"That's nice, but I wanted something different. Something that nobody else would have.\"\n\nI nodded as if I got it, but on the inside, I clucked. Different? Guys aren't supposed to care about having something different.\n\nWith her head, Mama gestured me over to the chairs in the corner of the shop where she and Lina had taken a seat.\n\n\"Let him get what he wants,\" she said.\n\n\"But he's looking at the more expensive rings.\"\n\n\"So what? They're spending a lot more on you. It's not fair that they buy you a three-thousand-dollar ring, and we buy him something for five hundred dollars.\"\n\n\"Why not? I'm the girl. He's the guy.\"\n\nMen were supposed to want the short end of the stick on everything. As self-sacrificing heads of households, they were supposed to be like Baba, rummaging around in the refrigerator for leftovers even when there was a hot, fresh dinner on the table. They were supposed to shave mold off bread and fruit and insist, \"There's nothing wrong with it. I'll eat it.\"\n\n\"Hudie, this has nothing to do with that. Go and help him pick something he likes.\"\n\nIn the end, we settled on something with three small diamond chips in the center.\n\n\"Do you like it?\" Hadi asked.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I said and smiled as if I truly did like it. \"It's a nice ring.\"\n\n\"You know what makes it so nice?\" Hadi whispered. \"What it symbolizes. That I get to spend the rest of my life with you.\"\n\nI smiled again, suppressing the urge to groan. After all this time waiting to hear someone say romantic things to me, I hated the way those loving words sounded coming from Hadi's mouth, so cloying, so confident when I was filled with so much doubt. I had just talked myself into buying a ring that I didn't really like for a proposal that wasn't even going to happen this weekend. I had just gotten engaged to a boy who wanted diamonds in the center of his ring as a way to make precious this symbol that he planned on treasuring for the rest of his life, while I was already wondering how soon I could change mine.\n\nAnd although I did not know it at the time, I was jealous of Hadi, jealous of his joy and his trust in his choices\u2014me, our engagement, his ring.\n\n\"Let's get it then,\" I said, pushing aside my regrets with a series of wishes. I wished that when Hadi did, indeed, get his hands on my ring, he would present it to me in a way so fantastic that it would destroy my every misgiving. I wished for Hadi to make me love what I did not love yet.\n\nBack at home that night, Hadi asked me if we could go out for a drive together. I brightened at the prospect of sharing a romantic moment to hold onto after he left, but when I asked Mama for permission, she shook her head uneasily. \"Ayb,\" she said. \"You just got engaged yesterday. It would look like you were waiting all this time just so you could run out with a boy.\"\n\nOur engagement announcement was nothing more than a verbal agreement between our two families, and even though this was not explicitly stated in the Quran, Islamic tradition still held that an unmarried man and woman could not spend time alone together. They could not touch each other or even look at one another. Only an _aqid_ , the Arabic word for a contract and also the Iraqi term for the Islamic marriage ceremony, could make our relationship halal or permissible, but when to perform the aqid ceremony was a delicate issue. Some families did the aqid right after the engagement so that the couple had permission to get to know one another before their wedding reception without the fear of sin, but other families believed the aqid granted far too much permission to tangle with before the wedding. As the actual marriage binding a man and woman together, the aqid removed the prohibition against premarital sex. If for some reason, things did not work out, the couple would be divorced and the girl's honor called into question.\n\nAfter dinner that evening, Hadi and I lingered at the breakfast nook table that opened up onto the living room. Mama and Mrs. Ridha, along with Mama's cousin Marwa and Marwa's mother, settled into sofas and chairs, teacups in hand. They went back and forth over when to hold our engagement party, and settled on a month from now, at Marwa's house during Christmas break. Next their conversation ventured onto when to perform our aqid.\n\n\"Do it right away,\" Marwa's mother said. She sat in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a cotton chador, her hands resting on the curve of her cane. \"Don't let them accumulate sins so early in their life.\"\n\n\" _La_.\" Mrs. Ridha said no as if the suggestion itself was preposterous. \"The beauty of a wedding is in watching a couple get married.\"\n\n\"Beauty? What good is beauty when every time the boy wants to look at her or touch her hand, it is a sin?\" Marwa's mother said.\n\nMrs. Ridha gave the comment no regard. \"Really, we live so far apart. When they see each other, we are with them. They aren't going to be alone enough for it to be an issue.\"\n\nI knew Mrs. Ridha's position before she even said it. I'd overheard Mrs. Ridha and Mama having this conversation in the context of other engaged couples, strangers who gave them the freedom to speak their minds. Over the years, I'd gathered that Mrs. Ridha saw the aqid as a green light for a couple to do whatever they wanted before their wedding, and in her mind, there was no point of spending so much money on a party to wrap up a bride and present her to a groom who'd already opened his gift.\n\nAlthough Mama shared Mrs. Ridha's reluctance to perform the aqid right after an engagement, it was not for the same reasons. Mama did worry about the sins I'd accumulate from looking at or touching my fianc\u00e9 and the sins she'd accumulate as my accomplice, but she worried about the aqid's religious significance more. This was the only date of marriage God recognized; if things didn't work out between me and Hadi, she didn't want me to be an eighteen-year-old divorc\u00e9e.\n\nBut if those issues were on Mama's mind that night, she did not mention them. As the mother of the bride-to-be, Mama had to be careful how she voiced her opinions. Pushing for the aqid could be taken as an eagerness to have me married off. Not pushing for it could as easily be interpreted as a lack of concern for my honor. Instead, she simply nodded in Mrs. Ridha's direction with the words, \"You are right. They aren't going to see each other for some time. We can discuss this later.\"\n\nHadi and I watched the entire back-and-forth as spectators. No one asked for our opinion, nor did we attempt to offer one. My feelings on the aqid issue were just as mixed. I believed wedding ceremonies belonged on the same day as wedding receptions; television and movies were unanimous on this. That was where you got the best moments, the father walking the bride down the aisle, the groom waiting to receive his soon-to-be wife with tears in his eyes. However, without the permission to go out alone that the aqid granted, I didn't know how I'd be allowed the moments I'd been dreaming of, the kind of dates and outings that would make me fall in love.\n\nEven though I was living in the dorms, my parents expected me to come home every weekend. Since I didn't have my own car, Baba would make the seventy-mile trek to pick me up in his late 1980s Mercedes. If motor vehicles had rights, that poor car would have had Baba reported to Automobile Protective Services. The back seat and trunk were covered with papers and books. The cup holders were filled with coffee thermoses, Ziploc bags of mixed nuts, and gummy candies he called \"sours.\" Sours, Baba claimed, helped keep him awake on long drives. Since Baba had been known to fall asleep behind the wheel, sours were probably as important to his safety as seat belts.\n\nGiven Baba's record, I never let him drive me home. I'd throw my duffle bag on the paper mountain behind the driver's seat and slide in behind the wheel. I spoke little during our rides together. Baba was a storyteller, and he filled our time together with anecdotes\u2014memories from his childhood in Zanzibar and tales from the life of the Prophet Yusuf. But that changed after my engagement to Hadi.\n\n\"You know, Hudie,\" he'd say. \"I never got a chance to ask you if you really like this boy.\"\n\nBaba always worded his question the exact same way, his voice never exceeding the volume of a loud whisper. It was almost as if he felt shy to ask, and he may have been. Baba wasn't in the habit of questioning our choices. He usually waited until my siblings and I had made our own decisions, and then he invariably voiced his support. It was a surprisingly effective parenting strategy. Because we knew Baba rarely opposed our choices, we only allowed ourselves things he would have approved of.\n\n\"He's a nice boy,\" I'd answer. \"I like him.\"\n\nIn spite of the qualms niggling me, I knew better than to admit to any of them in front of Baba. I still hoped Hadi would make things right at our engagement party, but Baba had been looking for an excuse to back out of our commitment to the Ridhas ever since Thanksgiving. If he got a hold of any concern or worry on my part, he'd waste no time calling off my engagement.\n\nWhen Baba picked me up at the end of the semester, less than a week before my party, he added a more explicit statement to his list of questions: \"You know, you don't have to marry this boy.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"We could just tell them we changed our mind.\"\n\n\"I don't want to do that.\"\n\n\"What about your cousin Fa\u2014\"\n\n\"No, Baba.\"\n\n\"Why not? He is a seyyid.\"\n\nMama loved Hadi too much to bring up that his family did not descend from the Prophet Muhammad. Baba loved being a seyyid too much not to mention it.\n\n\"That's not so important to me, Baba,\" I said. \"It's more important for me to marry someone I know.\"\n\n\"Well, it will be a great honor to the Ridhas if you marry their son,\" he said with a pleased smile. \"Now their grandchildren will be _mirza_. This is the name they give people whose mother is an _alwiya_. You know this is the word they use for the lady who is a seyyid?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"You know our friend Abu Hassan is not seyyid, but he always calls his wife 'alwiya.' It is so nice.\" Baba dragged the \"o\" in _so_ , and I perceived a hint there, a tiny suggestion that it would be equally nice if Hadi called me alwiya. It was as if Hadi could make up for not being a seyyid by being overly appreciative that I was.\n\nI nodded again because that was what my siblings and I did around Baba. We listened and nodded regardless of what we were thinking.\n\nNow Baba looked out the window and sighed, a small, disappointed cluck escaping his lips. \"It's just that I don't like to see you go. I know your mummy was the same age when she got married, but now I am feeling so sorry for what I did to your Jidu.\"\n\nMy heart went to shreds. I wondered how a separation so painful\u2014this rite of passage that took children from the homes they knew and loved and placed them in another\u2014had become something so common, such a basic fact of life that the grief it inspired had no place in the midst of all the celebration.\n\nAs soon as I heard the Arabic music blaring from the tape deck inside cousin Marwa's house, I knew its heavy, rhythmic beat was preparing our guests for our grand entrance. I felt a shot of nervous energy, and before I could calm my nerves, Mama opened the double front doors and gave us the signal to enter. Hadi and I walked through the foyer and into the living room with a generous amount of space between us, our hands deliberately unlinked. The women in our families sent their tongues to the roof of their mouths to welcome us with their ululating cry.\n\nAmid the joyful noise, I took in Hadi in his new double-breasted, pin-striped suit, me in my custom-made prom dress, now making its debut at our engagement party, and my mind bounced with hope and anxiety, with the questions of if, when, and how.\n\nI was still holding out for a charming pop-the-question story, one that looked as if it could have been scripted in Hollywood. I had been prodding Hadi over the phone with a series of \"You know, you haven't really asked me yet,\" to which he'd immediately reply, \"Will you marry me?\" Each time I told him that asking me over the phone did not count, he followed by sending me that four-word question over email, fax, and greeting card. Not wanting Hadi to think these anticlimactic attempts had satisfied me, I picked up the phone after every effort to inform him that, although cute and flattering, these proposals still did not cut it. They were only making the official, with-a-ring moment less special.\n\nWe sat on the loveseat parked in front of the fireplace, underneath a small balloon arch. Our families and guests had crowded in on the sofas and chairs around the living room, and from among them, Hadi's grandmother appeared to shower us in a mix of coins and colorfully wrapped hard candies.\n\nDr. Ridha took the microphone plugged into the stereo, welcomed our guests, and announced that we'd be exchanging our rings. The decision to wait on our aqid had held, and this party was about nothing more than this moment, these rings, and\u2014I hoped\u2014a proposal.\n\nI took a deep breath. It had to be now. Oh my God. Yes. It was now.\n\nHadi took the ring box off the gold tray his mother carried over to him, and he turned toward me. Wait a minute. Why wasn't he kneeling?\n\n_Get down on the floor, man. Please._\n\nHadi leaned in and whispered something about spending the rest of his life with me. Something I couldn't pay attention to, because I was suddenly so angry. Why was he whispering?\n\n\"Say it loud,\" Baba called out from across the room.\n\nI smiled awkwardly and prayed. _Please, God, make him say it out loud._\n\n\"Say it loud,\" Baba called out again.\n\n\" _Yella_ ,\" everybody chimed in.\n\nI shook with embarrassment. I needed Hadi to profess his undying devotion to me right here in front of our families so that I'd always have this proof that we'd had a love marriage. Then my aunts and uncles would understand why it didn't matter that Hadi wasn't seyyid or fair-skinned: his love for me was so beautiful and pure that it surpassed all other status-bolstering criteria.\n\n\"Will you marry me?\" he whispered.\n\nIt was over. The words were spoken, and they could not be taken back. What now? Was I supposed to whisper too?\n\n\"Yes,\" I said because there was no other answer to give at that point. I smiled so no one would suspect that I was unhappy, but I felt a burning in my nose that meant I was dangerously vulnerable to tears.\n\n_Stop_ , I spoke to myself firmly. _Your chance for a beautiful proposal may be gone, but your chance to have fun at your only engagement party is not. Smile and be happy now. You can be sad about the proposal later._\n\nHadi opened the velvet ring box. My ring. Yes. Everything would be fine as soon as I started wearing my ring.\n\nI watched Hadi slip the ring on my finger, and then I studied my hand, waiting for it to transform into the adorned hand of an engaged woman. But the ring was awful. I grinned like a beauty queen so no one would see my disappointment, but my mind raced. _No, no_. The two-trillion-cut diamonds sandwiching the dazzling round center stone had all the shine of dirty glass.\n\n_Stop it_ , I commanded myself. _You have to love it. Okay, I love it. Who am I trying to kid? I hate it! Try a different angle. A side view is better. Just look at it from the side, always the side._\n\nI pushed Hadi's ring past the joint on his right ring finger, and the ladies in the room gave another ululating cry. Hadi's grandmother returned to shower us with an additional handful of coins and candy.\n\nMama ushered us into the family room, bringing along the tape deck. As the music grew louder, the guests migrated about the house. Those who thought it was okay to listen to music and dance in mixed groups of men and women stood up and formed a circle around Hadi and me, clapping as if to cheer us on. Those who had no objection to music but frowned upon dancing in mixed groups stayed in the living room or mingled around the appetizer table set up in the hallway. Those who thought music was _haram_ , or forbidden, stepped outside, far away from the grasp of its sinful notes.\n\nSince we'd announced our engagement last month, Mama, Lina, and I had danced together on the weekends. There was an _aroosa_ , a bride, in our house now, and so there was a reason to play music and celebrate. Mama would tie a scarf tightly around my hips and coach me.\n\nHadi had not received similar instruction. On the phone, Hadi had told me that he did not like dancing nor did he care to learn. I'd insisted it was because he didn't know how. I'd teach him, and he'd like it. Now, for my sake, he stood in front of me. I told him to extend his arms, but instead of picking up on the classic Arab male shoulder shimmy, he moved his arms up and down like a bird trying to take off in flight.\n\nBut at least Hadi was trying, and so I danced on, believing that his dance moves would improve, pushing aside my proposal disappointment with a list of all the wonderful things about the day. I loved being the guest of honor, knowing that family had flown out just for me. I loved anticipating all the parties that were still to come, the bridal showers and the wedding, the joys of being the first to walk through the buffet line, the first to cut the cake, the person for whom the big stack of gifts was intended.\n\nAfter the party, Hadi drove Baba, Lina, and me back to our hotel. He dropped them off in front of the lobby so that we could be alone while he escorted me back to my family's room.\n\nHadi opened the car door for me, then offered me his coat\u2014a long, forest green leather overcoat that someone led him to believe was acceptable for a five feet seven inches twenty-one-year-old. I took it even though it made me look like a Christmas tree. We walked in silence until we stepped into the glass elevator on the face of the building. Hadi reached out for my hand, leaned over, and whispered, \"I love you so much.\" This time his whispering didn't bother me. His voice was too sincere to judge and so heartfelt that I thought I detected the slightest hint of a crack.\n\nI put my head on his shoulder and said, \"I love you, too.\"\n\nI meant it in the only way I was capable of meaning it then. I knew I didn't love him completely or unconditionally. I was too young to love anyone in that way. But I loved him for loving me, for playing the part of the groom while I played the role of the bride.\n\n\"It's about time,\" I said to lighten a moment that suddenly felt heavy with emotion.\n\n\"I've always felt it. For as long as I can remember, I've loved you. I was just waiting for us to be official before I said it out loud.\"\n\nThe elevator doors opened, and we stepped into the open hall overlooking the parking lot. I paused and took in a breath. I'd been so preoccupied with how Hadi asked me to marry him and what my family thought of him that I'd paid little attention to what Hadi had said when he'd offered me my ring. Only now did it occur to me that I'd underestimated the sentiment behind his words, the time he must have spent considering them.\n\n\"Why did you wait so long to tell me? It's not against the rules to love someone.\"\n\nOur hands still linked, Hadi answered, \"Because that's the kind of thing that you should only say to your wife, so I wanted us to be officially together before I said it.\"\n\nI nudged Hadi forward with a slight swing of our hands. \"So, if we didn't get engaged, you wouldn't love me.\"\n\n\"No. I'd love you. I just wouldn't have ever told you.\"\n\n\"I see,\" I said, stopping outside the hotel room door.\n\n\"What? You think it's silly?\"\n\n\"No, I guess I'm surprised. I didn't know you had such strong feelings about this.\"\n\n\"You know what else I have strong feelings about?\"\n\nI wasn't ready to hear Hadi's answer. I had no idea how I'd reciprocate.\n\n\"What?\" I finally asked.\n\nWhen Hadi answered with the anticipated, \"You,\" I smiled demurely and opened the door.\n\nThe next day, my entire family was invited to join Hadi and his extended family for dinner at his parents' house, but only my parents came with me. The rest of our clan had gone to Universal Studios instead. After dinner, Hadi asked me if I wanted to watch the video of yesterday's party. I followed him out of the living room, waiting for one of our mothers or Hadi's aunts to stop us, to say that we should bring the video out for everyone to see, but no one said anything. We sat on the floor, the door to Hadi's room wide open, and huddled around the camera's small viewfinder.\n\nWe appeared on the screen, walking in through Marwa's front door, our hands at our sides. \"Cute couple,\" Hadi said and kissed me.\n\nWarm, wet lips upon mine.\n\nA lip's soft touch was so surprising, so tender, so natural\u2014so not disgusting. I'd confided in Diana that kissing looked beautiful on television, but the exchange of saliva it involved struck me as terribly gross. It was like spitting inside another person's mouth. She shook her head at me with pitying eyes and said, \"No, Hudie. It's nothing like that at all.\" It was this I then remembered, this my body now understood. What a complete form of communication kissing was. All this time I'd wanted some declaration of love from Hadi, but this kiss had made me feel it.\n\nHadi pulled away and said, \"I've wanted to do that for a long time.\"\n\n\"What were you waiting for?\" I asked.\n\nHe touched the diamond on my ring. \"For you to be officially mine,\" he said.\n\nHadi's comment reminded me of him waiting to answer my question at the prom, then waiting to tell me he loved me, and now waiting to kiss me. It wasn't our religion's rules Hadi had been following, but they were his own.\n\nNeither one of us brought up that we had technically committed a sin. Nor did we close the door because that would have drawn attention to the fact that we were in his room alone. We just relied upon the entry's short hallway to obstruct our view, and we kissed again. And again.\n\nFrom deep within me, I felt a stirring, a pleasant but unsettling push of desire. Yesterday's disappointments seemed a distant memory. I wanted Hadi. Maybe that was all that had been missing from our relationship all along. This kiss that filled my mouth and my nose with his scent.\n\nWith one hand I touched Hadi's cheek, and with the other I ran my fingers through his hair. Hadi's hands moved along the length of my hair, his fingers massaging the back of my head, my neck.\n\nI was kissing a boy. I was happy and nervous. Nervous that someone would walk in and see us kissing. Nervous that the moms, dads, aunts, and uncles outside assumed we were kissing. Nervous to face them when we left the room. They'd know. It would show on me.\n\nBut these kisses were worth the risk. For the first time, Hadi Ridha was more than just a name in my life. For the first time, since I was a six-year-old girl, standing at the doorway of this house, our relationship didn't feel like the hope of wishful parents. It felt natural. It felt like my choice. I wanted these soft, warm lips on me, this skin under my hand.\n\nThe sound of clapping, music, and conversation that had been playing in the background of our video cut off abruptly, and so did our embrace.\n\n\"That's the best video I've ever seen,\" Hadi said.\n\nI smiled and said, \"Good because I'm afraid to leave the room now. Curly hair expands on contact. One look at my hair and my mother will know we've been up to something.\"\n\nHadi got up and passed me a baseball cap from his closet. \"Anyone asks, say it was a gift from me to you.\"\n\nI pulled my hair into a ponytail that I slid through the slot in the back of the cap and wondered if it would be enough of a disguise. I could smell Hadi's cologne on me. I could still taste his fragrance on my lips.\n\nWe decided I would exit Hadi's room first, as if by leaving his room as individuals we'd put to rest the suspicion that we'd been doing anything as a couple. Fortunately, I found my family distracted with getting ready for our own departure. We all gathered in the foyer, in front of the Ridhas' stained-glass double doors, for a classic Arab goodbye\u2014another twenty minutes of chatter at the door; an exchange of thank-yous; apologies for any trouble from the guests; apologies for shortcomings in hospitality from the hosts; and finally, a round of kisses on both cheeks, exchanged only between women and women, men and men.\n\nOne of Hadi's aunts said, \"You look nice in Hadi's hat,\" and I couldn't tell if she was imagining us innocently watching our engagement video and trying on hats or if this was a hint that she knew.\n\nWhen Mrs. Ridha leaned in to kiss me goodbye, one of Hadi's aunts joked, \"Somebody's jealous.\" Then as I kissed each of his aunts goodbye, they teased, \"We'll hug her longer for you,\" \"Hadi wishes he was me right now,\" \"Let your eyes take their fill of her now. Soon she'll be gone, and you'll be crying.\" This banter struck the adults around us as terribly funny. Making light of unmarried couples' sexual frustrations was practically a pastime in itself. (Not too long ago, Mrs. Ridha was sitting next to Mama on a bumpy car ride. Leaning into Mama, she'd joked, \"If we were an engaged couple, this would make us so happy.\")\n\nI expected the teasing, but I didn't know my role in this. Was I supposed to look shocked and offended, or was I supposed to smile and joke along?\n\nI stood by the door with the plainest face I could summon, but Hadi had struck a particularly joyless pose. His mother offered, \"You can at least shake Huda's hand.\"\n\n\"No,\" Hadi said, his arms folded, the weight of his body shifted to one side.\n\n\"Why?\" Mrs. Ridha asked. \"This is a chance for you.\"\n\nHadi was adamant. \"No. I will not shake my fianc\u00e9e's hand. That's for people who are strangers, who don't mean anything to each other.\"\n\nHadi wore the face of a sullen teen, and I felt as if I was witnessing an exchange I shouldn't have been.\n\n_Get it over with_ , I pleaded in my mind. _Shake my hand and make them happy._\n\n\"It's up to you,\" his mother surrendered with two hands in the air.\n\nHadi offered nothing in return but the same pout, his arms still folded. Our families were waiting for our farewell, and it was clear that it wasn't going to come from Hadi. I waved and said, \"Bye,\" like a sixth grader, leaving her crush at the end of a school day. Hadi waved back, then followed us out the door to our car.\n\nThe disconnect between who we'd been in his room only minutes ago and who we were now, in front of our families, bewildered me. We'd gone from kisses and an embrace to one wave and a sulk. Into the cool night air, the closeness between us evaporated, the warmth of our kisses carried away by the chimney smoke seasoning the night sky.\n\nFrom inside the car, I waved at Hadi one last time, the cold leather seats pushing through the thin barrier of my long, satin skirt. A shiver went through me and with it the weight of my transgression. A man's lips had touched mine. There was no going back no matter how much Hadi's behavior unsettled me. Never again could I claim my pure, untouched innocence.\n\nAfter I got back on campus, at the start of winter quarter, the reactions to my engagement ring were mixed.\n\n1. What? Let me see that ring!\n\nI'd expected my American dormmates to be shocked, to question how I got engaged and whether or not my marriage was arranged, but most of the girls on my floor ogled my ring and regarded me with a puzzled look that seemed to say, \"Wait. Are we old enough to do this now?\" A number of them even said, \"You're so lucky. I wish I could marry my boyfriend, too.\"\n\n2. You don't have to do this.\n\nI was discussing _Madame Bovary_ with my professor during office hours when I told her I was engaged and added, \"Almost every woman in my family married her Charles. Maybe Emma expected too much from her 1850s world.\"\n\nShe pulled out her calendar and said, \"Let's find a time to have dinner and talk.\" Later that week, over soup and sandwiches, I told her how I was engaged to the son of our closest family friends. She told me about her young marriage, how difficult it had been, and then added, \"You do know you don't have to do this?\" as if she was just making sure I'd been informed.\n\n3. Whoa! Okay!\n\nA handsome, blond guy approached me on my way out of the library. He said he'd been watching me in the library for weeks and had been trying to work up the nerve to ask me out.\n\nI held up my hand apologetically. \"Sorry. I'm engaged.\"\n\n\"Whoa,\" he said, \"I never thought to look for a ring at our age.\"\n\n4. Mashallah! Now let's talk about the wedding.\n\nMy Muslim Students' Association (MSA) friends were the only ones I told every detail about my engagement party. I made light of all my disappointments, my ring with the cloudy diamonds, Hadi's commitment to whispering, and Baba's requests to \"Say it loud.\" They comforted me with not just their laughter but also with their shared understanding of Muslim couples, of the way our families celebrate. However, it was precisely because of that shared knowledge that I didn't dare tell anyone about my unauthorized kiss. I couldn't risk my friends casting me off as the bad girl among them.\n\nAs a group, we were almost all first generation, born in America to immigrant parents, and the majority of us were the oldest daughters in our families. We had no older cousins or sisters to look to for tales of their engagements or wedding nights\u2014no generation before us to shine light on the gap between what parents say and what young people do, no internet to bring us the news of Muslims in other parts of the United States, let alone the rest of the world. All we had was our shared questions, our collective wedding-night innocence. Together we tried to imagine how one went about the business of commencing sex:\n\nAre you supposed to wear something sexy underneath your wedding dress and let him undress you, or do you go to the bathroom and change into one of those flowy gowns?\n\nWhat about your evening prayers? Do you say, \"Wait, let's pray,\" and then take each other's clothes off?\n\nAnd then what about the manicure you spent all that money on? Do you believe your wudhu doesn't count if you're wearing nail polish? Maybe it's okay to make an exception for your wedding night, because how silly would it be to sit there taking off your nail polish before you prayed?\n\nHow bad do you think it hurts? It doesn't seem like there's enough room to stick anything up there. Has anyone ever worn a tampon?\n\nDo you think it's really bloody? How embarrassing would it be to make such a mess on a guy? And then if you're in a hotel, do you leave it there on the sheet or do you wash it?\n\nWhat about the hair down there? Will you wax it? Ouch.\n\nThese conversations with all their unknown answers lingered in my mind. Maybe it made for a more magical wedding night for it also to be the moment of your first kiss. And, if I had done too much and ruined our wedding night, then what was left to look forward to after we'd already had such a disappointing proposal? Were these memories good enough for the only love story I'd ever have? What if I rushed into committing myself to Hadi, and I could have had everything I wanted with someone else?\n\nI had a guy in my life who I'd kissed but I never saw. We had nightly phone conversations, but after a long day poring over my books in the library, this sometimes felt like another thing on my to-do list. Many nights we argued over why I was always the one who wanted to get off the phone. How come Hadi never said he had to study? How was he going to get into medical school if he had so much time to spend on the phone talking to me?\n\nThe only way I could think to remedy this angst was to see Hadi again, to arrange for the moments that would make me fall for him. But planning for Hadi to visit felt like applying for an international travel visa. Before Hadi's metaphorical passport could be stamped, both sets of parents had to agree to the necessity and length of the journey and the itinerary (namely, how long we'd be alone together). I first planned a Valentine's Day visit, complete with an appointment for engagement pictures, dinner out, and tickets to the symphony. But a few days prior to his departure, Hadi called to tell me he'd come down with mononucleosis and had to cancel his trip. We made all the requisite jokes about who he'd been kissing. Then I hung up the phone and cried; our first Valentine's Day in our engaged lives was only adding to the list of disappointments I was trying to defeat.\n\nAfter another week of phone conversations, our families agreed to a fresh attempt at engagement photographs. On the first weekend in March, Hadi would take a cab from the airport to my campus. He'd wait for me until I finished school for the day, and then we'd take the bus to the mall to take our photographs. Mama would pick us up from the mall and take us back to my house where we'd spend the rest of the weekend. Sunday, she'd drop Hadi off at the airport and me back at school.\n\nHadi knocked on the door to my dorm room early on Friday. Since our engagement party, we'd bickered so much over the phone that I wondered if we'd kiss again, wondered if we should. Maybe that first kiss was a passionate fluke, a transgression that now that we'd had more time to think about it, we wouldn't repeat.\n\nBut as soon as I opened the door, Hadi's arms circled my waist and his lips met mine, and the only thought that occurred to me was a single \"oh\" of recognition. In that moment, I understood that kissing was going to be something we did now, and maybe it took away from our wedding-night mysteries but never mind. There would be other things to discover that night, and this\u2014this was too good to delay. These kisses proved that when we saw each other, things were different, better.\n\nThat morning, with the door to my room closed and locked, we kissed each other's lips, necks, ears. Because there was nowhere else to sit in my tiny dorm room, we sat on the edge of my bed. And then after a moment, we weren't sitting anymore. It was entirely functional\u2014this movement from vertical to horizontal\u2014and it never crossed my mind to worry that Hadi's hands would stray from where they rested on my waist. We'd already bent so many rules: I couldn't imagine we'd do more than kiss until we were married.\n\nWhen I left for class an hour later, I felt that our kisses had fixed everything. All of those labored phone conversations were a by-product of distance, and if we had to bend the rules a little to bring us closer together, so be it. By American standards, kissing was innocent, and maybe Americans had the right idea on this. These kisses were the only things that made me feel as if I was in love. For the first time, I walked across campus, with my makeup faded away, my hair a mess, my body warm. I passed the same adobe buildings, manicured lawns, and blooming rose bushes that marked my daily path, but everything seemed changed, as if my entire being and the buildings themselves throbbed with the knowledge of my secret. I had been kissing a boy. A boy was waiting for me in my room.\n\nWhen I returned an hour and a half later, Hadi was asleep in my room, his hands resting on his chest. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching his hands rise and fall with each breath. Hadi's fingers were long and thin but thick at the knuckles. The band he wore on his right hand had turned, the tapered bottom facing up. His lips were sealed with the weight of sleep, and in that instant, I knew I would kiss this boy in my room and wake him up.\n\nHadi's eyes opened as soon as my lips left his. He smiled and said, \"That's nice.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I said to suppress the warm blush rising to my cheeks.\n\nWe kissed again, our kisses taking on a force of their own, a power to draw our hands under our shirts and onto the marvel of skin. I wondered if I should resist, and then I did not wonder anymore. Wondering ruined everything.\n\nHadi brought my head to his chest and held me there for a moment. \"I have something for you,\" he said.\n\n\"You do?\" I asked and sat up.\n\nHadi got up and bent down in front of the duffel bag, lying slump at the foot of my closet. When he turned around, he was holding a tiny velvet box. \"Happy Valentine's Day,\" he said.\n\nI wasted no time with polite you-shouldn't-haves and went straight to lifting the box's lid. Inside were pearl stud earrings. Delicate, small, and exactly what I'd coveted. Finally I was getting all the little things that I believed proved love in a relationship: visits, kisses, hugs, and tiny trinkets.\n\n\"I love them,\" I said, walking to the mirror over my wardrobe. I slid the gold hoops I was wearing into my jewelry box and put on the new earrings.\n\nHadi stood behind me and looked at my reflection. \"They look beautiful on you,\" he said before sliding his hands around my waist and kissing my neck. I turned around and kissed him deeper now, our hands on each other's backs. I could see myself slipping my hands up his shirt; I could imagine him doing the same to me. The desire shocked me. I'd always wondered how teenage girls wound up pregnant, why they couldn't just resist sex, but in a flash, I understood how getting too close made it far too easy to take too much.\n\n\"We should get ready,\" I said to myself as much as to Hadi. He pretended not to hear me, and I liked that he wanted me too much to listen. I pushed him a hand's length away from me and said, \"You know we'll be in big trouble if we don't take those pictures.\"\n\nI gathered my things and told Hadi he could use my room. I crossed the hall into the bathroom, where I dug into my makeup case, the taste of men's cologne still on my lips, and marveled at this sweet but dangerous problem we now had. We had not set our wedding date. In one day, I'd gone from thinking that kissing would be the only contact we'd have during our engagement to reaching under Hadi's shirt. I felt awash in shame and wondered what had come over me. A good Muslim girl was supposed to resist the boy, to be a reserved, proper lady until her wedding night. I thought of my MSA friends. I imagined them saving every act of intimacy until they were married. What did these kisses make me? Easy? Horny? The very thought made me cringe, but those kisses were the only time when all those noisy doubts about Hadi\u2014his hair, eyebrows, clothes, and studies\u2014finally went quiet.\n\nBack at my parents' house, I changed out of my dress and noticed something in my reflection in my mirrored closet doors. A tiny purplish spot above my collarbone. I leaned in closer and found a similarly colored spot on my earlobe, and then a tiny purple burst at the tip of the arch of one lip.\n\nI didn't feel unwell. Was it some kind of rash? No, it seemed more like a darkening of vessels, a bruise.\n\nOh my God. Was this a hickey?\n\nNo. It couldn't be. These marks were no bigger than the imprint of an infant's teeth, and hickeys were bigger, more welt-like. Or was that bruise-like?\n\nI couldn't bear the possibility. Hickeys were the stuff of juvenile romances, of the back seat of cars, and of television sitcoms. It was Samantha in _Who's the Boss?_ , hiding her love bite from Tony. Such an adolescent mark was unbefitting a woman involved in a mature and sophisticated relationship with her future husband. And the word itself was so disgusting. Pleasant words that described beautiful things never rhymed with _icky_.\n\nI leaned in closer and ran my finger over the mark on my neck, relieved it was too small to show up in the pictures, pressing down to see if it hurt like a bruise. No pain, but I took no comfort in this. Too many terms to describe intimacy were coming together with their meanings today, each one an unwelcome revelation. It was one thing to have shared a series of individual kisses, but quite another to have made out, to be marked by hickeys. The words made everything we'd done feel more sinful.\n\nWhen I came downstairs the next morning, the door to our guest room was closed with Hadi still asleep inside. The door to my parents' room was open, and there I found Mama in front of her desk, stuffing unwanted papers into the recycling bag she'd propped up on her chair.\n\nShe turned around as soon as I'd entered. \"Good. You're up.\"\n\nI stretched and plopped down on her unmade bed.\n\n\"You never told me how your day went yesterday,\" she said, without looking up from the stack of medical journals in her hand.\n\n\"It was fine,\" I said.\n\n\"What did you do?\"\n\nI shrugged. \"He came, and I took him to class with me. Then we walked around campus, and I introduced him to my friends, and then it was time to go to the mall.\"\n\nMama raised her eyebrows mischievously and asked, \"Did he kiss you?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said with as much offense as I could muster, and then I searched her face to see if she knew I was lying. Maybe she'd seen the hickey. Maybe I had a kissed look.\n\nIf Mama didn't believe me, she didn't say so. She stuffed a nursing journal in with the recycling and sat down on the bed next to me. Her expression practical and sober, Mama said, \"At some point he's going to get tired of looking at you.\"\n\n\"Mom,\" I said sharply, as if I'd never been more exasperated.\n\nMama's face now seemed to say, \"Grow up.\" \"Hudie, if he hasn't kissed you yet, he's going to. And you kids are so good I'd hate to see you building up sins for no good reason.\"\n\nI hated it too, but there was nothing I could do about it now. The sin had been committed. I just wished I knew how bad of a sin this was. Was this one of the rules everybody broke, like listening to music and dancing, or was this a serious, day-of-judgment offense\u2014the kind of thing where my hands and lips would awaken to confess against me?\n\n\"I don't want that either,\" I said.\n\n\"I know we haven't decided when to do your aqid, but I talked to Jidu, and if you want, he can do a little ceremony between the two of you, so you know, if the boy did decide to kiss you, at least, it wouldn't be a sin.\"\n\nI didn't know exactly what Mama meant by \"a little ceremony.\" In the Shia tradition, there is the permanent marriage established with the aqid contract, and then there is the more controversial _mutah_ , a temporary marriage to render various kinds of liaisons between men and women halal or permissible. Engaged couples will sometimes undertake a mutah so that they can be alone together without a chaperone. Sometimes this comes with a caveat that the marriage will not be consummated until the permanent marriage ceremony is performed; sometimes it doesn't.\n\nI didn't know what Jidu intended to read for us, nor did I care to know. Mutah was on the fringe of acceptable religious practice. Not only was it an issue Sunnis often criticized us for, but there were also many Shias, Mrs. Ridha among them, who found the institution distasteful. They argued that it was an outdated custom that had outlived its historic purpose. During times of war and extended travel, when men were forced to spend long periods away from their wives, mutah protected women from love-'em-and-leave-'em type affairs. It entitled a woman to a dowry and guaranteed that all children born from said relationships would be legitimate, the financial responsibility of their fathers. But contemporary mutah was often seen as a misappropriation, a way for men to get away with fooling around before marriage, guilt-free.\n\nMama knew this, probably even agreed with it, but in her mind, the religious necessity of sanctioning the time Hadi and I spent together trumped those concerns. When it came to sin, Mama believed it was better to be safe than sorry, and at the time, so did I. I could've clapped with relief. This was an out. A rescue from damnation.\n\n\"O-kay,\" I said with feigned reluctance. I couldn't have Mama thinking I was eager to kiss my fianc\u00e9 sin-free.\n\nMama nodded as if she understood exactly the game I was playing. She stood up and placed a hand on her hip. \"So you talk to Hadi first and see what he thinks because you didn't hear this from me. This is between you, Hadi, and your grandfather. I never suggested anything to you.\"\n\nAlthough Mama believed she had a moral responsibility to make me aware of my options, she didn't want to be involved in whatever we chose past that point. Advising me was one thing, but going against Mrs. Ridha's wishes was another.\n\nI nodded, and Mama placed her hands on my shoulders. \"Now this doesn't mean you can have sex and come home pregnant.\"\n\nI rolled my eyes. \"That's gross, Mom.\"\n\n\"You say that now\u2014\"\n\n\"All right. All right,\" I interrupted. \"Let's not go there.\"\n\nAs soon as Hadi woke up, I told him what was on my mind, as if the thought had come to me overnight, born of the events of the previous day. And then for good measure, I added, \"I don't think either one of us got engaged so that we could sin.\"\n\nHadi agreed to a ceremony immediately. The choice to simply not kiss again until we were married never occurred to either one of us. We'd been offered a morsel of divine permission, and we were taking it.\n\nLater that afternoon, without my having said anything to him, Jidu came downstairs, the Quran in his hands held open to a particular page with his index finger. We stood as was our custom when Jidu entered a room. He kissed us both on the cheek and inquired as to whether we were done eating our lunch. We said we were, and he gestured for us to follow him with his free hand. He led us into the downstairs guest room and closed the door behind him.\n\nWe all knew exactly why we had gathered, but we did not acknowledge it directly. Jidu merely looked us both in the eye and asked, \"You want this?\"\n\nWe nodded, and Jidu sat down on the edge of the bed. He opened the Quran to the marked page and read verses I didn't understand or recognize. I felt a flash of disappointment. I was supposed to teach myself to understand the Quran's classical Arabic before my wedding so that I wouldn't feel as I did now\u2014like a child who needed her mother to translate her own marriage ceremony to her.\n\nJidu asked Hadi to present me with something to symbolize my _maher_ or dowry. Hadi dug into his wallet and unearthed a collector's coin he'd picked up as a souvenir somewhere. Jidu looked at it curiously and then asked if I accepted this token. I did. I accepted both the token and, a moment later, the boy.\n\nMy consent now given, Jidu motioned for us to bend down. He kissed us both on the forehead and said, \"May Allah fulfill all your desires in this life and the next. May Allah keep you for each other and for your children.\"\n\nI bent down again and kissed Jidu's hand, grateful to be marrying someone my grandfather approved of, someone who spoke the same language, who shared the same religion and understood exactly why he had to _marry_ me before he married me. But still I walked out of the room feeling no more married to Hadi than when I'd entered it. Hadi and I had merely filed spiritual paperwork with our Lord. It may have exempted us from the sin of the lustful glance or the occasional touch, but it did little to ease the shame of having already kissed, the sense that we had betrayed Baba and Hadi's parents.\n\nAt the end of spring quarter, one of my history professors scrawled at the bottom of my paper, underneath a big red A, \"You should be considering a career in academics.\"\n\nIt was as if he'd illuminated the obvious path for my future. Ibrahim was already in graduate school, pursuing a doctorate in Middle Eastern studies. He'd done the hard work of convincing my parents that there were legitimate careers outside of science and medicine, and after a childhood of sharing so little, I liked discussing my courses with Ibrahim over the phone, exchanging book titles and research topics. I could see myself following in my brother's footsteps.\n\nI enjoyed spending my days in the library, annotating assigned readings, researching term papers, and perusing the book stacks when I needed a break. The scholarly perspective on history had cast a spell on me. Historians handpicked the events we remembered; they penned the stories that lived on in our memories. As a Shia, I felt this pulling me right back to Ashura, to the lamentation rituals I performed with my mother. I wondered if I could bring a breath of that empathic spirit to other atrocities the world had forgotten. The only thing that struck me as more tragic than all the suffering humanity had endured was that people rarely remembered it, rarely talked about it, and rarely had any reservations about repeating it.\n\nThe more direction I had in school, the more I wanted to talk to Hadi about his coursework. He planned on taking an extra year to complete a double major in psychology, and this concerned me. Taking more time in college spoke to a privileged, find-yourself view of education that the children of immigrants were not supposed to abide. Hadi's lost year was something to be lamented and mourned, but it frustrated me how little he seemed bothered by it.\n\nI wanted to know exactly when we were going to get married and what was going to happen to my undergraduate degree, if I would transfer to somewhere closer to his medical school or if I would finish here. I wanted to know where to research graduate schools, where to make connections with professors. That summer, every time we talked on the phone, I worked in questions about where he planned to apply, where he thought he was going to get in, if he had professors to write letters of recommendation, if he had started his essay. Hadi's answers were vague and indirect, and this too infuriated me. He had done well on his Medical College Admission Tests that spring. I couldn't understand why he wanted to delay graduating.\n\nAnd then one July afternoon, while staying at my parents' house for the summer, I pushed and Hadi relented. He confessed that his GPA was somewhere in the high 2.0s, and I responded with a shocked, \"God no.\" I brought a hand up to my heart and held it there as if steadying myself. Tears spilled onto my face, and I was grateful for this proof of my hurt. I wanted Hadi to hear every choke, sob, and sniffle. I wanted him to crumble with regret for putting our academic futures in jeopardy.\n\n\"See, that's why I didn't tell you. And that's why I have to do the double major. So I can bring up my GPA.\"\n\n\"Do your parents know?\"\n\n\"No. That's why I need some time to fix this.\"\n\nI said nothing and reached for a tissue. Then I blew my nose into the phone and added, \"But with those MCAT scores, I never imagined you were dealing with those kinds of grades.\"\n\n\"It's all the bio classes. They're designed to weed people out.\"\n\n\"But you're supposed to study so hard that you don't become one of those people.\"\n\n\"I study.\"\n\n\"No. I study. You go to class and poke around in your textbooks for what interests you, but that's not enough. You have to hustle to get good grades.\"\n\nThis engagement was supposed to be about me marrying the right guy by our culture's standards, about him wooing me, and about me falling in love. Now I doubted our basic compatibility. I was a list-maker and a goal-setter, but Hadi was approaching his future with a passivity that repelled me. If Hadi were my friend, I would've been able to hear him out. I might've encouraged him to share what was holding him back, but I didn't have the luxury of emotional distance. His ship was sinking, and I was on it.\n\nAfter we hung up, I ran downstairs in search of Mama who I found cleaning her bathroom. As soon as I saw her, another round of tears choked me, and I fanned my face, trying to get enough air to talk.\n\n\"Oh my God,\" she said, abandoning the toilet brush to the bowl. \"What happened?\"\n\nI took a deep breath but could not manage any words.\n\n\"There's been a car accident. Is it Hadi? Is he okay?\"\n\n\"No. No car accident. It's just...It's just...\" I covered my mouth and tried to suck back the tears. I knew in the grand scheme of life Hadi's GPA was a gnat-sized concern, but in the scheme of our relationship it changed everything.\n\n\"It's his grades,\" I said. \"He gets Cs.\"\n\nMama uttered a pitying tsk. \"Hababa, I thought somebody died the way you're crying. Cs aren't the best, but they aren't the worst.\"\n\nShe put an arm around me, pulled my head down to her shoulder, and said, \"It will be okay. Remember all the istikharas we made. Every one of them came out good.\"\n\nI let Mama's words comfort me. Who I married was the single most important decision of my life; there had to be a reason why God had guided me to this match.\n\nNow that Mama had seen me so upset, we had an official situation. Relatives at home and abroad were consulted. Aunty Najma told Mama not to worry. \"Are you marrying the boy or his degree? His marks don't change the fact that he's a good boy.\" Mama then called Mrs. Ridha and told her about my concerns. Mrs. Ridha then talked to Dr. Ridha who spoke to Hadi, and then the cycle repeated in reverse, ending with Mama's report on Mrs. Ridha's latest phone call, her hope that her son's grades would improve by next year.\n\nI had no better alternative than to share this hope. Although religiously there was nothing preventing me from breaking off my engagement, the social consequences terrified me\u2014the gossip, the tarnished reputation, the fact that we'd kissed. I turned to romantic comedies for comfort. They proved obstacles were a given in any relationship. We had merely arrived at the juncture in our relationship where the man takes drastic measures to prove he has become worthy of the woman's love.\n\nWhen Hadi called a few days later, I expected him to announce his strategy to win me back, but he said, \"I'm sorry I hurt you,\" like a man who'd lost a fight. \"You deserve better.\"\n\nNow Hadi told me his parents had taken away his car, his prized T-Top Nissan Z with the custom license plate frame that said, \"All I want in life is my car and Huda.\"\n\nThere was no going back from this. I was the one who'd ratted out my fianc\u00e9. Now Hadi's parents had to prove to my family that efforts were being made to bring everything back up to code.\n\nOne part of me wanted to apologize. Another part of me was so mystified I couldn't resist saying, \"You're kidding, right? What's taking away your car supposed to achieve?\"\n\n\"Yeah, well,\" Hadi said in a voice so flat I could almost see him throwing up his hands in the air.\n\nThis problem was suddenly more disconcerting than grades. Dr. and Mrs. Ridha were punishing and rewarding Hadi as if he were a small child\u2014get bad grades and lose your car. And Hadi took it, as if this was a state of affairs he was powerless to fight. This surprised me. I thought all children of immigrants reversed the parent-child relationship to some degree. In our household, my siblings and I navigated our educational careers entirely on our own. Ibrahim, Lina, and I got through homework and term papers, college and financial aid applications all by filling in our parents of our progress on a need-to-know basis. And because of this, our parents may have had every aspect of cultural and religious control over us but nothing disciplinary. The handful of times Mama or Baba declared us grounded, it sounded so foreign, so imitative of American television parents, we'd laughed until our sides ached and Mama stormed out of the room saying, \"Go fly,\" or Baba gave up with a frustrated, \"Okay, all right. Never mind.\"\n\nIn all these years of friendship with the Ridhas, I never realized that Hadi did not have the same kind of relationship with his parents. I wondered if it was because Dr. Ridha had none of the helplessness that drove us to protect Baba. Nor was he a cutesy immigrant dad with a heavy accent. Dr. Ridha spoke American English like an actor performing a voice; he knew exactly which sounds to manipulate to erase all traces of an accent. Nobody looked to Hadi to explain what his father was saying, but it happened to me, Lina, and Ibrahim all the time.\n\nAfter a month of tense phone calls between Hadi and me, a community event brought my immediate family (including Ibrahim, home for summer break) to the Ridhas' house for a weekend. The day after we arrived, Dr. Ridha called Mrs. Ridha, my parents, Hadi, and me into the dining room. Closing the French doors behind him, he told us to take a seat at the table. My stomach lurched. I would never be able to speak honestly in front of Dr. and Mrs. Ridha; I didn't want to risk jeopardizing their opinions of me.\n\nHadi sat next to me on one side of the table without once looking in my direction. Mama, Baba, and Mrs. Ridha sat opposite us without uttering a word. At the head of the table, Dr. Ridha cleared his throat and invoked the name of God: \" _Bismillah ar-rahman ar-raheem_.\" He took a preparatory breath and said, \"We are very happy and proud our son is engaged to such a good girl from such a good family. But I also understand that Huda has some concerns, and I think she should share those with us now so we can discuss them.\"\n\nEveryone in the room turned toward me. From across the table, Mrs. Ridha's lips stiffened with nervous anticipation. Mama gave me the go-ahead with a single, encouraging nod. Baba looked bewildered. He had no idea why we had gathered. Neither Mama nor I had told him. Not only because Baba would've gladly called off my engagement but also because he was the kind to hold a grudge, especially on behalf of his children. Baba still had not forgiven one of my cousins for pushing me and pulling my hair when we were both toddlers.\n\nMy heart raced, and my breath thinned. I never thought I would be asked to speak for myself. I liked things better the way they were before, with me complaining to Mama and Mama repackaging those concerns into polite and acceptable terms. A childhood urge to whisper everything I wanted said into Mama's ear overwhelmed me.\n\nI was being asked to stab Hadi with my words, and he had never seemed more defenseless. It was past noon, and Hadi had just rolled out of bed. His hair was rumpled, his face unshaven, and he still wore last night's T-shirt and shorts. This was not a guy ready to fight for the love of his life, but a guy who didn't know what hit him.\n\nA guy who I did not want.\n\nThose words flashed in a dim corner of my mind like a glaring, neon sign. This was my chance to return Hadi to his family, to tell them, \"My mom bought this guy for me, but he doesn't fit.\"\n\nBut I'd been seized by a shot of inhibition that I would've required the assistance of narcotics to release. The thought was too radical, too dangerous to contemplate. The only thing I could do now was invest Dr. and Mrs. Ridha in my education. Then regardless of what happened with Hadi's schooling, nobody would expect me to sacrifice mine.\n\nI exhaled a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and pretended I was at school, talking to a professor. With all the confidence I could muster, I said, \"I'm doing really well in school, and it's really important to me that I continue. But I understand that Hadi may not have the grades to get into medical school. If he has other interests, I'm willing to support him in that. But I think he should figure out what that is soon so that we're both able to continue with our educations.\"\n\nI searched Hadi's face for his reaction, but he didn't meet my gaze. He stared at the mirror hanging above the buffet table and said nothing to defend himself. Disgust now stained the sympathy I'd felt for him a few moments ago. Hadi had no fight in him, no plan. It was tragic, really. I knew plenty of girls who didn't care about school. Another woman might have taken Hadi's love and run with it, and another guy might've appreciated my ambition. We both might've been happier with other people.\n\nDr. Ridha cleared his throat again and asked me exactly what I wanted to study. This worried me. My current interests in history and academics had no currency in our community. People were always telling Mama what a shame it was that Ibrahim wanted a PhD instead of an MD, and I feared Hadi's parents wouldn't find my educational goals worth protecting. The only thing I had going for me was that I planned to study Islamic societies, and anything related to Islam carried weight with Dr. Ridha.\n\nBut beyond a nod, Dr. Ridha didn't respond to my answer. He merely turned to Hadi and asked if he had anything he wanted to say. Hadi shook his head, but his tense brow and buttoned lips gave me the impression that he was too frustrated to speak.\n\nBaba, on the other hand, was never one to stay quiet in a situation. Irrespective of circumstance or audience, Baba had an anecdote to share. Now he looked to Hadi and said, \"In my opinion, there are many other things one can do. I know many chiropractors and physical therapists myself, and they are doing quite well. This fellow, who is the physical therapist, he is a Pakistani Muslim. He has a very nice office, close to mine. I can give you his number if you like to talk to him, but the important thing is one should never give up on their studies. In medical school, I had to repeat several classes myself. My father had died, and I was so sad, but somehow, I got through it. This is the life.\"\n\nNo one commented on Baba's musings, and I was grateful that Baba had chosen to view Hadi's academic struggles with sympathy rather than recording it in memory as his first official complaint. Dr. Ridha turned to Mama for her input and caught her off guard. She tried to suppress an awkward smile and said, \"It's important to me that Huda finishes her education, but I also think Hadi is a wonderful boy. I've always loved him like he was my own son, and I want to see him happy and doing well in whatever he chooses to do.\" Mrs. Ridha said the same of me.\n\nNow it was Dr. Ridha's turn to weigh in. After a contemplative pause, he said, \"Hadi has to improve. Of course, we do not accept his grades, and we are very, very disappointed in him. I do not know about him doing other things, but I know he has to do better. Now, we would like nothing more than to see you and Hadi married and happy together, but I think you and your family should think about whether you want to continue with this engagement and we will discuss this again after dinner.\"\n\nEverything that came out of Dr. Ridha's mouth took me by surprise\u2014his harsh disapproval of Hadi's grades, the ticking bomb of an option he'd dropped on the table, the detonator he'd placed in my hands. I had to get out of the room. The consequences of a broken engagement were dizzying, and I couldn't consider them\u2014not now, not with everyone watching.\n\nI went looking for Ibrahim in Hadi's room. I closed the door behind me, settled down on the floor in front of him, and burst into tears.\n\nIbrahim closed the Arabic grammar book he'd been toting around all summer and asked me what had happened; I summarized the conversation I'd just had.\n\n\"So break it off,\" he said. It was a plea more than a suggestion.\n\nIbrahim rarely gave me advice on anything outside of academics. Besides that brief moment on the phone where I told him about my engagement, we respected the boundaries of our sibling roles\u2014his job was to tease me, and my job was to act exasperated. For Ibrahim to think the problems looming in my future were worth breaking the engagement that he'd believed in with such confidence, that said something. That said a lot.\n\nBut even if my family supported my decision to break my engagement, I was far too worried about what people would think to do anything. I imagined the Iraqi mothers and grandmothers clucking and whispering about me in the corners of our masjids and dinner parties. I didn't want to accept that all the years I'd spent guarding my reputation had earned me nothing more than a broken engagement and a future filled with second-rate suitors.\n\n\"I can't,\" I said with conviction.\n\n\"Why?\" Ibrahim asked. \"Because of what a bunch of dumb, old Iraqi ladies think? Then you wouldn't have to worry about what you'll do about school. You could apply wherever I go to do my PhD and at least do your master's with me.\"\n\nNot even a year had passed since my engagement, but I found myself looking back on the months before I became committed to Hadi with the longing of an aging woman, pining over her lost youth. If only I hadn't been so hung up on getting married young and proving to the world how desirable I was, if only I'd ignored the istikhara's results, maybe this could've been my plan. I could've followed Ibrahim to a far-off place and met someone who liked to study as much as I did. But it was too late.\n\nThis must be why all premarital touching was forbidden. It trapped you. Even if the ceremony Jidu performed for us was a dissolvable, temporary mutah, nothing could undo the kisses and embraces. Now I'd never be able to claim that I was a good girl to another man. Maybe worse, I'd never be able to remember the sweetness of those firsts without a sting of regret.\n\nI looked up, but my eyes only caught the top of Ibrahim's dark, curly hair. It was enough for him to broach the subject\u2014too much for him to look at me while he was doing it. \"I can't,\" I said, this time as an apology. \"I didn't work this hard to get a good reputation to throw it all away.\"\n\nIbrahim met my gaze, but his resolve to persuade me had been replaced by worry. He had no argument for this. Soon the future would offer us examples of Iraqi American friends who'd broken their engagements and married other people, who'd gotten married and divorced, who'd had a string of boyfriends and girlfriends and later chosen one to marry, but for now we had nothing but the rules we'd intuited from our parents and their immigrant friends. There was no greater Iraqi population to compare ourselves to, no sense of popular culture. Our Iraq was the one that lived on in our parents' memories, frozen at the moment of their 1970s departure, immune to time.\n\nNow I wanted to comfort Ibrahim, to convince him I knew what I was doing. \"I'll be fine. If for some reason, I can't go to graduate school, it might turn out to be for the best. It's not like I can wait forever to have kids. And with Baba's health the way it is\u2014at least this way, he'll have time with his grandkids.\"\n\nThis reasoning resonated with me in a way I hadn't expected. The mere mention of Baba's health brought with it the pressure of tears and the dreadful images my mind kept at the ready. A fatherless bride. Grandfatherless grandchildren. I closed my eyes to block out any more. Hadi loved me. Nothing about our relationship was so bad that I'd leave it at the risk of never marrying, never having children. I decided that not only would I stay engaged but that I would also marry Hadi next summer. I needed access to Hadi if I wanted to fix him, but I didn't want to rush my wedding planning either. Since our engagement had left me with few memories that satisfied my dreams of a sweeping romance, at the very least, I wanted to look back on a beautiful wedding.\n\nThat afternoon, I pulled Hadi into his room, knowing that the gravity of our problems had bought us the privacy to work out our concerns. We sat on the chairs pushed against the wall of his bedroom. Hadi looked down, his shoulders slumped. His body was prepared for me to tell him that I was leaving, and this posture of surrender sent a ripple of ire under my skin. My mind railed, _Fight for me, man! Where's your strength? Am I really going to tell you I want to marry you? You, who I want to throttle and shake?_\n\nBut with my mouth I said something else entirely. \"I think the best thing we can do now is work together to figure out what you should do next, whether it's medical school or something else. But that means, this school year, you're going to have to study around the clock to bring up your grades. And then, I think, we should probably get married earlier rather than later so that I can help you stay on top of everything.\"\n\nHadi looked up, and his face brightened. \"I think that would really help,\" he said.\n\nA wave of relief washed over me. I had spared myself so much discomfort with nothing more than my simple acquiescence. Now I wouldn't have to tell Hadi I wanted to leave. I would not break his heart or disappoint his parents. My family would not have to deal with an awkward goodbye, the question of whether to pack up our bags and leave that day or whether to stay until the next morning and pretend that this was not the end to a decade of friendship with the Ridhas.\n\nI took Hadi's hand in mine, and his skin felt like a rescue from all the things I could not bear to confront. Then I leaned over and kissed him, both resenting and appreciating this kiss that adhered us together, that would not let us fall apart.\n\nBack at school that fall, I reunited with my MSA friends in the library and announced that I was getting married next summer, a few months after my twentieth birthday. Both Amina and our mutual friend Sura had shared that they'd gotten engaged over the summer, and I was grateful not to be mourning my past while my friends were looking forward to their futures, especially this quarter. My MSA sisters and I weren't merely studying together, but we were enrolled in the course on women in Islam, as well.\n\nWe had agreed that we needed to be in that classroom as a group to deal with the stereotypes about women being forced to wear the hijab, genital mutilation, and nonconsensual arranged marriages. Six of us, including Amina and Sura, signed up to be there to raise our hands and object, \"Not all Muslim women live like that. Look at us. We are Muslim women, too. How come nobody writes about Muslim women like us?\"\n\nMy MSA sisters were all high-achieving students. The majority were studying to be doctors and engineers just like their hardworking, professional mothers who'd overcome language barriers and carried on working as physicians and engineers in the United States. Only three other women, besides myself, had chosen majors in the humanities, but our unconventional choice only motivated us more. We had to prove to our immigrant communities that success was possible outside of the sciences.\n\nThe day we watched a documentary about the feminists who threw off their veils in an Egyptian train station in the 1920s, Amina addressed our class first: \"Those women were clearly responding to the hijab as some sort of symbol of patriarchy, but most of us wearing the hijab today do so for our faith. No one forced us to wear it. This was our choice, an expression of our freedom. You think women who walk around in a bathing suit, obsessing over their weight and cellulite, are free? We're the ones who are free from judgment and unreasonable beauty expectations.\"\n\nThen for emphasis, I added, \"Just because I don't cover my hair, it doesn't mean I don't believe in it. I have always tried to live by my own standards of modesty even if I am not ready to wear the hijab yet. I don't wear sleeveless shirts, and I stay away from skirts that go above the knee.\"\n\nA week later when the topic of female circumcision arose, we exchanged exasperated looks. Sura took the lead with, \"Look, you have to stop and consider the way religions work. You have a faith, and you have its practitioners. Islam can't stop its adherents from clinging to unfortunate cultural relics. Female circumcision predates Islam, and it is practiced almost exclusively in Africa. This is a horrible deviation from Islamic teaching.\"\n\nBy way of proof, Amina explained, \"In Islam, both men and women have an equal right to sexual pleasure.\" To the doubtful glances that followed, she said, \"Yes. Islam is always being written off as a misogynistic religion when it is such a progressive faith in regards to female sexuality.\"\n\nIslamic teaching held that regular sex was essential to a healthy marriage, that you earned God's favor or _thawab_ for sleeping with your spouse, and that women had a right to experience an orgasm. When our wedding nights arrived, we would wear sexy lingerie of every color and style, wax every hair-covered surface, and know that the physical moments we shared with our spouses were halal, permissible and blessed in the eyes of God.\n\nWhen the discussion moved onto the topic of arranged marriages, Sura strategically rested a diamond-studded hand under her chin and said, \"It is just so much more complicated than that. Like I just got engaged last month to my brother's roommate. I didn't know this, but he'd liked me for years. He was waiting until he finished college to tell me, and no, we didn't date before he proposed, but I don't feel like I needed to date him to know. And when he asked, it was really sweet. He cried. I cried.\"\n\nOur classmates nodded with interest, as if Sura was an exhibit at a museum. Without skipping a beat, Amina added, \"I think most people in this room would think I'm having an arranged marriage because my parents introduced me to a guy a few months ago. We talked over the summer and got engaged a few weeks ago, but I would never consider myself as having an arranged marriage. I want to marry my fianc\u00e9. He is smart and good-looking. He's a total catch, and I hate that just because I'm Muslim, my parents can't just introduce me to someone without people thinking it was a setup.\"\n\nI chimed in, \"Amina's totally right. I met my fianc\u00e9 when I was six. We grew up together. We both liked each other, and he asked me to marry him before his parents asked for my hand.\"\n\nFor the purposes of this course, my current ambivalence toward Hadi was irrelevant. We'd just finished reading _A Wife for My Son_ by Ali Ghalem, and the novel depicted the stereotypical arranged marriage, complete with a distasteful bloody sheet scene. Outside of class, my MSA friends and I criticized its author. What type of a Muslim would write stuff like this? So what if disgusting things like this happened? We needed literature that made us look like the normal people we were, with educated parents who asked their daughters' opinions on who they wanted to marry, and sent them to expensive private colleges, and would never dream of insulting them by checking their wedding-night sheets. With Ghalem confirming my classmates' worst assumptions about Muslims and Arabs, I had no choice but to keep my angst to myself. The last thing I wanted was to confirm the views my fellow Muslims and I were working so hard to discredit.\n\nIt was the same reason why I never mentioned my Shia identity in class\u2014image control. I didn't want to add sectarian differences to a conversation that was already so rife with misunderstanding, that years later still circled back to the movie _Not without My Daughter_. The irony of erasing my own individuality to challenge stereotypes was entirely lost on me. I may have only been nineteen years old, but I took seriously the responsibilities that came with representing my religion. This was not only a class but also an opportunity to change the way eighteen people thought about Muslims. Beneath every raised hand, every argument my MSA sisters and I made, I could hear us whispering this unspoken plea: \"Remember us after this course ends and when you're listening to the news. Please remember us.\"\n\nA Lebanese sales associate named Samira ushered Mama, Mrs. Ridha, Lina, and me into a fitting room as big as my dorm room. While they got situated on the armchairs pushed up against the wall-to-wall mirrors, Samira asked me what kind of dresses I wanted to see. Amor was not the kind of store where customers were allowed to rifle through the dresses on their own. I told her not to bring anything sleeveless or strapless and that I liked full skirts, preferably tulle.\n\nIt was winter break, and Mama, Lina, and I were staying with the Ridhas for the weekend while we went wedding-dress shopping. Because Wedding Dress Shopping Day was a special occasion, Lina and I had spent the better part of last week deciding what I would wear. I now slid out of my carefully chosen outfit, an angora top paired with a houndstooth pencil skirt. On the carpeted platform in the center of the room, I stood in suede heels, nude hosiery, and a matching set of lacy underwear because I didn't want Mrs. Ridha discovering that I was a cotton-granny-panty kind of gal. Now was her opportunity to get a peek at the body that her son was marrying, and I didn't want her to be disappointed\u2014even if Hadi didn't want her seeing me undressed.\n\nHadi hated that Islamic custom allowed any woman to see my body, while he, the soon-to-be husband, was literally stuck waiting in the car. If Hadi had it his way, Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha would be sitting in the waiting area outside. I'd stick an arm out of the fitting room and grab the oversized dresses, and the clothespins to secure them, right from Samira's hands. \"Now that I am getting married, you may no longer see me in my undergarments,\" I'd call out. \"Not even you, woman whose uterus was once my home!\"\n\nIn anticipation of this weekend, Hadi and I had reenacted the following telephone conversation nightly.\n\nHe'd say, \"How would you feel if you knew I was changing in front of other people?\"\n\n\"Be my guest,\" I'd reply. \"Be free. Be naked if you want.\" _Just leave me alone._\n\nApparently my lack of interest in keeping Hadi's nakedness all to myself was hurtful. In a wounded tone, he'd say, \"I don't see why you don't want our bodies to be something special, just between us.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you are asking me to do something that our religion doesn't even ask of me. Even girls who wear the hijab do whatever they want in the company of other women.\"\n\nSharing a fitting room with a girlfriend, sister, or mother was female bonding at its finest. This was the equivalent of me asking him not to watch sports with his male friends. Ever.\n\n\"This has nothing to do with religion,\" he'd finally say. \"I've always thought of our bodies as a symbol of the private life we share together. I know you're the only person I want to see me, and I thought you'd feel the same way.\"\n\nAt the time, I could have gagged on Hadi's love and all the things that we were only going to share with each other. I had heard so much about boys and their different needs and indestructible reputations that I never stopped to consider what it might have felt like to be the kind of Muslim boy who had grown up eschewing such cultural double standards, holding onto our religion's ideals of the virgin couple through high school and then college. Surely, Hadi was carrying his own special brand of expectations into his first relationship with a woman, but I did not have the maturity to recognize that. His extraordinary sentimentality only baffled and frustrated me.\n\nWhile normally I wouldn't have given a second thought to being in my underwear in the company of other women, that morning I relished my small act of defiance. It was a day for me and the girls. We'd do what ladies did in fitting rooms\u2014admire and gripe about our bodies.\n\nSamira came into the room and hooked a bundle of dresses on the door. She took one look at me and said to Mrs. Ridha in Arabic, \"Congratulations. Your daughter-in-law has a beautiful body. Your son is very lucky.\"\n\nMrs. Ridha laughed. \"We are the lucky ones. What he wouldn't give to be seeing what we are seeing.\"\n\nThis elicited laughs from everyone except Lina, who crinkled up her nose with disgust.\n\n\"I hope he doesn't like big boobs, because what she has will barely fill a hand,\" Mama said. Her tone was light, and it set off another round of laughter, but this was not meant as a jab. Iraqis do not value directness. We say things we don't mean so that people will correct us, we refuse things we are offered to be polite, and we never ask for what we want without apologizing for it profusely. My big nose and small chest were marriage liabilities, and this was Mama's way of acknowledging this, of saying, \"Now you've seen everything we have to offer.\"\n\nMy MSA friends and I could argue all we wanted about how Islam shielded women from unforgiving standards of beauty, but Mama's comment reminded me how far the Western ideal of the slim but buxom femme had traveled, how universal it had become. On the few occasions when Mama had commented that my future husband might be disappointed by my small chest, I'd taken offense and said, \"You're my mother. You're supposed to tell me that whoever marries me should accept me the way I am.\" She'd looked at me as if I was being na\u00efve. \"Men like boobs,\" she said. It was silly to pretend otherwise.\n\nMrs. Ridha now made a shooing gesture with her hand to dismiss the topic. \"You think anybody could ask him such a question? Hadi thinks everything about Huda is perfect. One time, I asked him, 'If Huda wanted to change her nose, would you accept it?' He got so angry. I told him, 'Don't worry. Nobody is trying to change her.'\"\n\nThis was another arena in which Hadi's love suffocated me. Among friends, I was used to moaning about my big nose and the way it leaned to one side, my dimply thighs, and my fleshy stomach. For the most part, these were invitations to contradiction, but Hadi objected to the practice entirely. He said things like, \"Hey, I love your_____. You can't talk about it like that,\" and I'd follow with something I never expected to defend, my right to criticize myself.\n\nSamira slid a series of dresses over my head and clipped them closed. There were several nos, a couple of maybes, and then gasps. \"Now this, this is something special,\" Mrs. Ridha said. The dress had a satin bodice with long sleeves and a skirt made of fine tulle whose underlayers were dotted with clear sequins that danced in the light while its top layer was intricately embroidered along the bottom edge and train.\n\n\"Beautiful,\" Mama agreed.\n\nI smiled. I twirled. I did a little dance because that was what you did when you tried on a dress that you liked. You checked out how you looked while dancing in it. It had a lovely swish.\n\nNo. Wait. It was too soon for this kind of excitement. My ring had taught me a valuable lesson about patience in shopping.\n\n\"This is off the shoulder,\" I said to Samira.\n\n\"We'll specify in your order that you want the sleeves on the shoulder.\"\n\n\"Can that be done without pouffiness? I don't want any pouffiness.\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Do you guys really like it?\" I asked Mama, Mrs. Ridha, and Lina.\n\n\"You're beautiful,\" Mrs. Ridha answered, \"so whatever you wear is nice. What matters is that you like it.\"\n\n\"I like it, but how much is it?\" I said, turning to Samira.\n\nSamira's lips moved with computational noises, and then she said aloud, \"Three thousand for the dress, and then there will be additional fees for alteration and the custom sleeves.\"\n\nNow it was my turn to gasp. My ring had cost less.\n\n\"Don't think about the price,\" Mrs. Ridha said. \"The important thing is that you are happy.\"\n\nAnd I was happy in a way that surpassed the glee of finding the perfect dress. I'd been taught that it wasn't enough to marry a man because you loved him. You had to love his entire family. This moment felt like proof that I was making the right decision. I may have questioned how I felt about Hadi, but I loved Mrs. Ridha. Not because she was buying me the most expensive article of clothing I'd ever owned, but because she understood that I was not just a wife for her son but a girl with dreams, some reasonable, most not, but all aching to be made true.\n\nSamira gathered up my hair and fed it through the opening of a rhinestone tiara. Staring at my reflection, I felt content, not just with my dress but also with my choice. Life was so much easier when I thought only like an Arab girl, who was happy to be marrying into a good family, who was free to love her spouse before her wedding but under no obligation to do so, who knew her love didn't have to be ready yet. It hadn't had a chance to grow.\n\nBack at school, I felt as if I'd been cut in half with zigzag scissors. My sophomore year, I roomed with Aysar, one of two Iraqi American girls I'd met on campus (the other Iraqi girl happened to be Aysar's cousin and the person who introduced us). Aysar didn't hang out with the MSA crowd, and she wasn't looking to get married while still in college. In her company, I felt nostalgia for things I had not yet lost. My wedding date had been set for the summer, and seven more months of life as a single girl didn't feel like enough.\n\nI loved living with Aysar. We called the lone sink at the front of the room our kitchen. We brewed tea every night in a dormitory-violation Mr. Coffee and coordinated our bathroom trips so we could talk and visit with our neighbors as we walked down the hall. We danced to loud music, and rather than stop when we grew tired, we held onto the back of our desk chairs and moved only our behinds while saying breathlessly, \"Must keep dancing.\"\n\nAysar was exactly the kind of friend an obsessed-with-grades student needed. She made me write my term papers on her computer so that I wouldn't have to stand over my Brother word processor, loading its typewriter with paper and printing out one page at a time. She brought me soup when I was sick and insisted that I take the occasional study break to have dinner off campus or catch a movie. And whenever I got back from the library, Aysar was waiting for me with music on and tea brewing.\n\nI joked that Aysar was the best wife and that it was a shame I hadn't been born a man, because I would've made such a good husband. I wanted to be the one in the couple who worked, whose goals and ambitions determined where my future family lived. But instead, night after night, I sat on the sidelines and coached Hadi to find research projects that would lead to the kind of undergraduate publications I hoped would get him an acceptance into medical school. And while all this struck me as unfair, it didn't seem unbearably so until one evening when Aysar and I were stretched out on our beds, taking a moment to relax after dinner.\n\n\"We should go to Europe for spring break,\" Aysar had said. \"A girl trip before you get married.\"\n\nAysar and I would've had an amazing time in Europe. She'd say, \"Let's go to a club.\" And I'd say no, but then she'd insist and I'd have to go along with her because it wasn't safe to separate. By day, we'd sit in caf\u00e9s and people-watch and laugh until we cried. \"You may be beautiful and stylish,\" we'd say to the well-dressed passerby, \"but you don't have any shops with the word 'mart' in it. You can't buy underwear, auto parts, and milk all in the same store.\" And we'd live on salads and bread and cheese, the kind of food that didn't fill Hadi but the kind that would make me feel so healthy, so light, so free.\n\n\"I can't think of how I'd ever be able to do that,\" I said without looking at Aysar. This admission felt heavy, deadening.\n\nAll this time, I'd believed getting engaged was my ticket to freedom, but I'd never felt so constrained. I'd merely gained another person to answer to, a third parent who had an opinion on who I studied with and changed in front of, whose career path would dictate where I would live and go to school. It was one thing to defend my culture and religion to my peers, to explain its principles and ideas in class after class, but it was quite another thing to own this fractured mind, to hear the American voice within me whisper, _You are too young, much too young to be tied down, to limit yourself for any man_ , and my Muslim voice console, _This is just fine. You are marrying the right guy. God Himself told you this._ If only I knew then that this dichotomy was confining me, too, cleaving my thoughts into two sides where my every misgiving was an American idea and therefore risky and dangerous, and my every reassurance was a Muslim idea and safe and good.\n\nHadi blamed the physical distance between us for the tension during our phone conversations. He insisted that all we needed was one day out, one day to prove that our lives together could be fun. His mother was planning a reception to welcome his sister Jamila's new baby in January. Since my family would be coming for the occasion, he had asked his parents that we be allowed to go out alone the day before the party.\n\nI told him he had to plan everything, hoping that this day would capture my heart and, once and for all, quiet my mind's incessant chorus of regrets. It never occurred to me that this was too much to expect from one day, one moment, one man. Our wedding date had been set for the end of July, and I needed something to reassure me that my decision to stay with Hadi hadn't been a mistake, that even though Hadi still hadn't gotten any interviews to medical schools and I had no idea what he was going to do after he graduated in June, there was something so romantic and wonderful about us that we were meant to be together.\n\nMy family and I arrived at Hadi's house on a Friday night. We would be taking over Hadi's room, my parents on the bed, Lina and I on a stack of blankets on the floor. That night, Hadi walked me to the door of his room and told me that he was looking forward to tomorrow and that I should dress casually. My body let go of tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Hadi had put thought into this. He'd planned.\n\nThe next morning, I slid into the kind of outfit I rarely wore but Hadi said I looked cutest in\u2014jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt\u2014and then I repacked my bag because our families would stay at the Ridhas' beach house in San Diego that night. I expected to find Hadi waiting for me in the kitchen, but only our parents were seated at the marble slab table, sipping their tea, dipping pita bread in _lebne_ , or wrapping it around slices of Syrian cheese and bundles of mint.\n\n\"Sit down and eat,\" Dr. Ridha said.\n\nAnd because Hadi was nowhere to suggest otherwise, I sat and felt some of the day's excitement fizzle. There were girls whose boyfriends picked them up from their homes and whisked them off to fancy brunches and dinners, and then there were girls like me, who had breakfast with their future in-laws on the day she had come to think of as her first and last date before getting married.\n\nWhen Hadi showed up in the kitchen a half hour later, he was dressed but not ready to leave. He whispered something in his mother's ear. A moment later, he was in the garage. Then he was out of the garage and saying, \"It's not there.\"\n\nAfter more directions from his mom, Hadi went back into the garage and returned with a cooler in hand. He set it down on the counter and bent toward his mother's ear again. I stuffed a piece of cheese into a triangle of pita bread and watched Mrs. Ridha leave her chair and pull bread, mayonnaise, and cold cuts out of the refrigerator.\n\nWhen Hadi and his mother set to work, making sandwiches for our day out, I excused myself and headed to the hall bathroom. There I took a series of deep breaths so that I would not cry. This was the first date Hadi had planned for us, and he was packing us a picnic with his mommy. _Dear God_ , I prayed, _why can't we do anything that makes me feel like an adult who is old enough to be getting married?_\n\nI wanted to call Mama into the bathroom, but I already knew what she'd say. That I expected too much from the boy. That I wanted to marry someone who'd never had a girlfriend but wanted him to act like a man who had been out with a thousand women. That I wanted an American-style date, but that we weren't Americans and Islamically we shouldn't have been going out alone anyway. That because I was born in America, I equated being an adult with doing things without parental involvement, but in Iraq, some people lived with their parents their whole lives and there was no shame in that.\n\nListening to her imaginary talk was enough to send me back into the kitchen with a vow to be patient, to give Hadi a chance. He'd never taken a girl out before. He didn't know how pathetic this seemed.\n\nWhen I came back to the kitchen, Hadi was lining up our sandwiches next to two canned soft drinks in the cooler. He smiled at me. He was excited, proud of himself for the day he had planned. Hadi slid the cooler closed and announced that he was ready to leave.\n\n\"Why are you leaving now?\" his father asked, getting up from the breakfast table. \"It will be time to pray in a half hour. Pray and then go.\"\n\nHadi looked at the clock and then looked at me. This was the practicing Muslim's midmorning outing dilemma. When you only had less than an hour to the afternoon _dhuhr_ prayer to spare, you had to decide whether you wanted to wait and pray at home or leave and spend the day wondering if you should (a) find a quiet place where you could pray without drawing an audience; (b) miss your prayer, feel guilty about it, and make it up when you got home; or (c) rush home to squeeze in the prayer before sunset when the evening prayers would become due.\n\nBut now that Hadi's father brought it up, the choice was no longer mine to make. Opting for anything but staying would have declared an indifference to my daily prayers and an eagerness to be alone with his son. \"It's up to you,\" I said and then looked away, setting about clearing the breakfast table and helping with the dishes. No more discussion of our leaving followed, and so I finished in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom, where I took off my socks to make wudhu and covered my hair to pray, before finding Hadi in the hallway.\n\n\"We're leaving,\" Hadi announced. This brought our families out of their rooms to bid us farewell.\n\n\"Why are you in such a hurry?\" Dr. Ridha called out from his bedroom doorway. \"Wait until Jamila and Bashar leave.\"\n\nHadi's sister and his brother-in-law were leaving their baby with Mrs. Ridha and spending the day at an amusement park. I couldn't understand what their departure had to do with ours and apparently neither did Hadi.\n\n\"Why would we wait for them?\" Hadi asked while approaching his father. \"We're not going out together.\"\n\n\"And what's wrong with you all leaving at the same time?\" Dr. Ridha's voice was calm and level. I knew this tone; it made any inflection on the other end of the conversation sound unreasonable and defensive.\n\n\"But we have our own car,\" Hadi said, involuntarily completing the effect.\n\nWith the same evenness, Dr. Ridha answered, \"There is no rush now. I said wait for them and go out together.\"\n\nThe negotiations had ended. Any reply now would imply that we had some kind of inappropriate rush to be alone together, and so we waited and waited because the catch in all this was that Hadi's sister wasn't ready. She had a baby to nurse, milk that had to be expressed, a diaper to change, and a bag to pack because she and her husband would be spending the night together at a hotel before meeting us for the elaborate reception Mrs. Ridha had planned the next day.\n\nWhen our moment of departure finally arrived well over two hours later, our families gathered at the door and kissed us on the cheek as if we were leaving on a transatlantic journey. Hadi's mother reminded him that we'd all be going to the beach house that night, and then she gave Hadi something to return to the electronics store we'd be passing on the way.\n\nWe settled into Hadi's brother's car, since Hadi's car was still grounded in the garage. The clock on the dash read close to three o'clock, and this alone made me feel as if our day was done before it even started.\n\n\"Sorry about that,\" Hadi said.\n\nI didn't answer.\n\n\"I'm happy to finally be with you,\" he said.\n\nAn uneasiness had constricted my throat, and all I could offer in return was a tight thank-you. Hadi and I were children around his father, and children weren't supposed to get married. Adults got married.\n\nAfter a tense, quiet drive, we joined a winding two-lane road that I hoped signaled our arrival to our destination. When we still hadn't stopped thirty minutes later, I feared we were lost.\n\n\"Where are we going?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm sorry. I thought we would've been there by now.\"\n\n\"Where is there?\"\n\n\"It's an old gold-mining town. I was going to take you there because I know how much you like history, but I think the friend who gave me directions might've made a mistake in telling me how far away it is.\"\n\nOf course, he made a mistake, I thought, because this day was doomed from its outset.\n\n\"It'll be getting dark soon,\" I said.\n\n\"What do you want me to do?\"\n\n\"I don't know, but it's almost four. Even if you found this place now, everything will be closing soon. And I'm hungry, and soon it's going to be too dark to have a picnic.\"\n\n\"Should we stop and look at a map?\"\n\n\"I guess,\" I said.\n\nHadi pulled into a wide turnout and parked to the side of a scraggly oak tree. He fanned out the map across the steering wheel.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said after a moment. \"I don't know exactly where we are right now, but it looks like we still have a ways to go. Even if we keep going, I don't know that we'll be able to make it down there before dark.\"\n\nI watched Hadi fold up the map, feeling terribly burdened by this truth: Hadi had no tricks up his sleeve, no rescue in the works. Our date was officially a bust, and this on the day when I'd seen such proof of our youth. Already reduced to a child, I didn't know if I could talk myself out of crying.\n\nHadi stepped out of the car, got the cooler out of the trunk, opened the door on my side, and said, \"Come on. You're hungry. There's more room in the back.\"\n\nAfter we'd settled into the bucket seats, the cooler between us, Hadi added, \"This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I said. \"Things are always supposed to turn out differently, but somehow they never do.\"\n\n\"The day isn't over yet. We still have to get back to San Diego. We can return my mom's stuff, and then maybe we can have dinner on the way.\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" I preferred to think we'd never gone on a date than to think our one date had gone so badly.\n\n\"Let's go. I'll call my mom when we get to the store and tell her we're stopping for dinner.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" I said and reached over and squeezed his hand. Maybe this would be one of those funny, romantic dates\u2014the kind of day where everything goes wrong in the beginning but turns out right in the end.\n\nThe gods of California traffic, however, had not smiled upon us. It took us over an hour to get to the electronics store. By the time we finished the return and arrived at the pay phones outside to call Mrs. Ridha, it was nearing seven o'clock. Seven on the day of my only date, and we still had not gone anywhere. I had pinned so much hope on this day, but to Hadi's parents this was just another day to sit down, have a family breakfast, run errands, and, for reasons beyond me, orchestrate a simultaneous departure with his sister.\n\nHadi picked up the receiver and unraveled the tangled metal cord. \"Wait,\" I said. \"I'm having second thoughts about dinner.\"\n\nIn spite of my protest, Hadi's fingers went to work, punching in his calling card number.\n\n\"Hadi, we've been out too long, and our parents won't understand that we've spent the entire day in the car. All they'll think is that we had the whole afternoon together and still want more.\"\n\n\"It's fine,\" he said, pulling the cord taut in his hand. \"I'll talk to my mom.\"\n\nNo one picked up at the beach house. Next he called home, and his mother answered. I listened to Hadi's side of the conversation, and when he hung up, he filled in the blanks. His mother decided she had too much to do before the party to go to the beach house. All the women were staying home that night, but our fathers were driving to San Diego with our things so that we wouldn't have to drive all the way back to his parents' house.\n\n\"Let's go straight to the beach house then,\" I said. The last thing I wanted was to upset our fathers.\n\n\"No, don't worry. My mom said it was okay, and besides our dads just left. They won't be at the house for another hour and a half.\"\n\nI was too nervous to have dinner at a restaurant with table service, and so I pointed to an Italian place in the strip mall across the street. After ordering at the counter, we sat in a booth where I picked at my airport-quality rigatoni, a ball of disappointment lodged in my throat. I'd been a fool to think I could have the Muslim American love story of my dreams. At the end of the day, we were just two Muslim kids from families who believed outings like this were just unnecessary opportunities for sin.\n\n\"We are getting married in six months,\" I said, on the verge of tears, \"but it was too much to ask for this one day. I just wanted us to have one special day to remember.\"\n\nWith an almost panicked fervor, Hadi pleaded for one more stop. \"The day isn't over yet. Let me take you to Coronado Island. The bridge is beautiful at night. We can walk along the beach, stop for ice cream.\"\n\n\"There's no time.\"\n\n\"Who cares about the time? They made us waste time at the beginning of the day, and if we get in trouble, I'll deal with it.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's a good idea,\" I said without explicitly refusing. The allure of the day being made right was too irresistible. If we went to the beach house now, I didn't know what I'd tell myself about our engagement to make it tolerable.\n\nBut back in the car, I could not take my eyes off the clock.\n\n\"This is farther than I thought,\" I said. \"It's getting late.\" Fear had conquered me. There was nothing Hadi could do in the next hour that would cancel out what had happened during the day, nothing that would be worth handling the questions about where we'd been.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" Hadi insisted. \"We'll be quick.\"\n\nWe sat on a rock near the entrance to the beach on the Hotel Del Coronado's grounds for all of four minutes before I said we should go. Not only did the beach at night scare me, but also my stomach was cramping with anxiety. I could hear a clock ticking away in my mind; I could hear Dr. Ridha saying, \"Where were you?\" as soon as we walked through the door.\n\nI stood up. Hadi said, \"Can I at least give you a hug before we leave?\"\n\nI walked into Hadi's outstretched arms with my arms flat at my sides. He wrapped his arms around me, but I did not return his embrace.\n\n\"I give up. Let's go.\" He stood, wiped the sand off the back of his pants, and said, \"My ring.\"\n\n\"What about your ring?\"\n\n\"It flew off my finger and into the sand,\" Hadi said, dropping to his knees, patting the ground around him.\n\n\"You've got to be kidding me. We were supposed to be back a half hour ago.\"\n\n\"You think I don't know that?\" he said, digging around the periphery of the rock.\n\n\"Oh my God.\" I brought my hands up to my mouth. \"There's no way you'll find it. Nobody ever finds anything in the sand, and it's dark and it's late...\" My voice trailed off, and instead of dropping to the ground and helping Hadi look, I leaned back against the rock and panicked. \"We are so doomed. I knew we should've gone back. This is a sign. There's something wrong with us being together.\"\n\nNow we'd have to tell our parents we'd been to the beach at night. The beach of all places. They barely allowed us to go out alone, and we were at a place notorious for making out and sex. Oh the disgrace!\n\n\"There is nothing wrong with us being together. It's cold. My fingers must've shrunk, and the ring was already loose to begin with. Let's go inside the hotel. I'll call home, and we'll see if they have a metal detector or flashlight or something.\"\n\nHadi's suggestion filled me with dread. I hated how we appeared as a couple to people outside the Muslim community. What would the employees in the hotel think when Hadi said he lost his ring and we looked like teenagers? To the average American, we were two stupid kids, with the words _breakup_ and _future divorce_ written all over our foreheads.\n\nLeaning on the darkly stained wood-paneled front desk, Hadi told our story to the hotel night clerk. She sucked air through her teeth, the way people do when they are about to tell you the thing you've asked for is impossible, ridiculous even. She suggested we rent a metal detector and come back tomorrow.\n\nBetween searching for the ring and walking back to the hotel, we'd lost another hour. It was now past ten. There was nothing left to do but call home and confess. At the pay phones by the lobby bathroom, Hadi called his mother. He explained what had happened and asked her to get the message to Dr. Ridha that we were going to be late. Hadi wasn't about to call his dad and get a sneak preview of the lecture that awaited us.\n\nWe drove home over a lit bridge, an ocean of blackness below us, but the beauty of the view was lost on me. The entire drive home, I cried at the injustice of it all. This was an engagement I didn't want anymore, and now I was going to be given a lecture intended for a boy and girl who were in love, who'd stayed out too long, having fun. Now I was returning to a house full of men, with no moms to intervene.\n\nWhen we pulled into the driveway, I felt a blaze of shame go up within me followed by a desperate urge to run. I wasn't used to getting in trouble. I didn't know how to steel myself to face an angry adult.\n\nAt the sound of the engine, Dr. Ridha opened the front door. As soon as we stepped out of the car, the lecture began. \"This is absolutely unacceptable. You two should not even be out together alone, and then you were out so late. You made us both very, very worried.\"\n\nWe walked into the house, our heads down. Dr. Ridha pointed to the stairs that led up from the entryway into the living room. We followed, and he continued. \"I don't like this at all. I am very disappointed in you, Hadi. This is somebody's daughter, and you are responsible for her. This is a sign. You should not be going out together alone. That's it. No more of this.\"\n\nI had frozen in front of the couch, my eyes meeting Baba's as he stood by the dining room table. I knew instantly that he was not upset but confused. He looked shocked, as if he had not expected Dr. Ridha to be so angry.\n\n\"I want everybody to go to bed now. We'll discuss this more tomorrow.\"\n\nI gave Baba a half smile and then rushed to the room where I'd be staying before anyone noticed that I'd started to cry. Before I had a chance to close the door, Baba appeared.\n\n\"I'm sorry. I just asked Dr. Ridha why you were so late. I didn't know he would get so much angry.\"\n\nAnd then I got a flash of what this evening might have been like for Dr. Ridha. Without Mama around to keep Baba in check, his anxieties had gotten the best of him. Baba was the type of person who needed to know where every member of his family was every second of the day. He'd probably asked Dr. Ridha where we were and when we'd be back at least a dozen times. Dr. Ridha must have grown increasingly uncomfortable that he didn't have an answer, that it was his son who was causing my dad so much worry.\n\n\"It's okay, Baba,\" I said through tears because there was no point in explaining otherwise. I knew that bewildered look he'd worn standing by the table a few minutes ago. It was the same did-I-do-something-wrong expression that transformed his anxious face whenever Mama snapped at him for calling her too much at work or for using the overhead paging system to find her in public places.\n\nI sat on the edge of the bed and blew my nose into the tissues I'd grabbed off the dresser. Baba could not stand to see me cry, but he never knew what to say to comfort me either. That night, he stood beside me awkwardly, his hands folded behind his back, and said, \"I was so much worried, but I did not want to make you sad. I wish your mummy was here.\"\n\nHe put his hand on my shoulder, and an urge to shelter Baba from my sadness overcame me. \"I'm fine,\" I said. \"I just feel bad, that's all. We weren't trying to be late, and I was having such a terrible time.\"\n\nBaba said, \"You want to call your mummy?\"\n\nI shook my head and said I'd go to bed instead. But I stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my own future pressing down on me, and could not fall asleep. This was not the life I wanted. Not the engagement I wanted. Not the boy or the kind of father-in-law I wanted. But I was too far into things to get out now. The hall had been booked, the date announced. How I wished the mattress would swallow me whole.\n\nThe next morning, I got ready for Jamila's reception as slowly as possible. I camouflaged my puffy face with makeup, pinned my hair into a French twist, and painted the nails on my still-trembling hands. When I had nothing else left to do, I filled the hollow that yesterday's crying had left behind with a deep, steadying breath and went downstairs.\n\nOur fathers were seated at the dining table, eating pita bread with cheese. Hadi sat at the table too but without any food in front of him.\n\n\"I'm glad you're here,\" Dr. Ridha said as soon as he saw me. \"I have something very important I want to tell the both of you today, here in front of your father.\"\n\nHe cleared his throat and continued. \"After the dawn prayer, I woke up Hadi, and we went down to the beach where he lost the ring. I raised my hands and prayed to Allah, _subhanallah wa ta'ala_ , to help us find it. Then I started to pick up handfuls of sand, like this...\"\n\nDr. Ridha brought up both of his hands until they met to form a bowl shape. \"I shook my hands so that only the sand could pour out. I did this again and again until I found this at the bottom of my hand.\" He reached into his pocket and produced Hadi's platinum band.\n\nI looked over at Hadi for confirmation, but his expression was hard to read, a mixture of frustration and helplessness. And who could blame him? Who on earth could find anything in the sand? Maybe Dr. Ridha did have some kind of direct line to God.\n\n\"Now I'm going to keep this ring for a time because I think Allah, subhanallah wa ta'ala, has done this to remind us that a man and woman should not be alone before they are married.\"\n\n\"But, Baba,\" Hadi said. \"I bought tickets to a show tonight a long time ago. We were going to go with Jamila and Bashar so we wouldn't be alone. I asked Mom, and she said it was okay.\"\n\n\"You'll have to give them away then. I told you, I do not think it is right that you two go out together anymore.\"\n\nTickets. This was the first thing I'd heard about tickets. Hadi did have more planned for us. He was trying.\n\nI reached for a piece of bread. I needed something to stare at so no one would see my thoughts crushing me. Yesterday had been a punishment from God. Hadi did have another trick up his sleeve. Later he would tell me that he'd gotten us tickets to see _Cats_ , but the only thing I'd have to show for it would be the memory of its denial. What was this household, where one man could make a decision for everyone despite the person's wishes and wants? This imbalance of power felt foreign, alien. I didn't understand how two families, so similar in religion and culture, could be so different. After all these years of friendship, it never occurred to me that there would still be sides to the Ridhas I had not seen, family dynamics I'd never witnessed. I wondered how much of the Hadi I knew was colored by the role he played in his family; I wondered how he might have appeared to me had I known him as a man first and the Ridhas' son second.\n\nNow that Dr. Ridha had made his stand, Hadi and I only saw each other when our families visited for a weekend. Since we couldn't go out alone together anymore, we stole kisses and gropes, but once alone, I'd turn over each embrace in my mind, burning with the shame of sneaking around and the irony of it all. Our families were like the state of Iran, expending an extraordinary amount of effort to keep us from being an unmarried man and woman out in public only to leave us with nothing to do inside but make out.\n\nBack at school, I struggled to come to terms with this boy I never failed to kiss but wasn't sure I liked and the elaborate wedding we were planning. Almost nightly, Hadi and I bickered over the phone regarding three areas of disagreement.\n\nCRISIS A: IS IT MY BODY OR YOURS?\n\nThis argument touched on several matters (whether or not I'd get a massage prior to our wedding, how I'd style my hair that day, who we'd spend time with before we left for our honeymoon), but the one that received the most argumentative attention was the question of who would see me first on the day of our wedding. I believed Hadi should wait for me at the end of an aisle, like a proper Hollywood groom, maybe shed a tear the first time he saw me. Hadi thought that we should exchange a private moment prior to our wedding. He likened waiting at the end of an aisle to being the last person to see a present intended for him. I accused him of treating me like an object and of being jealous and controlling. Hadi accused me of being unsentimental and being more interested in our wedding than our future.\n\nCRISIS B: YOU ARE TOO BORING. YOU ARE GOING TO RUIN MY WEDDING.\n\nIn April, Hadi's aunt threw us a bridal shower in a Lebanese restaurant. For the entertainment, Mrs. Ridha hired a well-known Persian dance troupe led by an agile, somewhat elfin man in harem pants. During the final song, the spritely dancer pulled us both to the center of the dance floor. He motioned for us to follow him as he wove through the tables, shaking a tambourine, and although Hadi cooperated, his body was tense and tight. Since my vision of my wedding featured an excited, happy groom, Hadi's bridal-shower presence concerned me. During our nightly phone calls, I reminded him that he had to become an eager dancer before our wedding, whether it was natural to him or not. Hadi argued that not all people expressed joy by dancing or laughing or other more public displays of glee. Some people, he said, are happy quietly. This, I informed him, meant that he was dull. And for added measure, I told him he didn't make me laugh enough. He was not funny, and in his company, I was doomed to a humorless life.\n\nCRISIS C: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING TO BECOME OF US?\n\nBy the end of spring, it was apparent that Hadi would not be going to medical school in the fall. He would be graduating in a few weeks, and he had no admission, no job, and, for the moment, none of my respect. The invitations had been sent out, and the thought of calling off the wedding at this point was anathema to me. The Ridhas were equally loath to accept Hadi's pursuing a different path, and so after discussing several options, our families decided that come September I'd overload on units so that I could graduate at the end of my third year. Meanwhile, Hadi and I would live together close to campus. Under my supervision, he would work, take more classes, and reapply. The following fall, we'd go off to graduate school together.\n\nEven though I'd been the one to suggest the plan, I made sure to let Hadi know how much I hated it. Where would he even find a job? How would I know which graduate school to apply to if I didn't know where he was going to get into medical school?\n\nI never told Hadi that I was so overly critical of his academic history, because I was terribly insecure about my own achievements. Although I could make As by studying around the clock, I could not bring in anything more than average scores on standardized tests. To me, this proved that I was an academic imposter who had duped her teachers through hard work. I wanted to marry someone who'd help me keep up the charade, a genius on whose intellectual coattails I could ride. Together we'd talk about smart things, keep smart company, and no one would ever know that I'd been raised on sitcoms. But now Hadi's situation had pegged us as an average couple, the kind of people who went to no-name schools.\n\nSince I blamed Hadi for crisis C, I decided that this made him ineligible to participate in the negotiations of crisis A or B. Whenever we argued, I paraphrased this finger-pointing tirade: \"You didn't do your part so you have no right to make any demands on our wedding plans. Because of you, I have to go into my wedding with a black cloud of doubt hanging over my head. The least you can do is give me the party I've always wanted.\"\n\nAs long as I had my dream wedding, I believed there was still hope for Hadi and me. Then I could cast off our engagement memories, plot down our ceremony and reception as the opening to our love story, and wait for our newlywed years to redeem us. First Valentine's Day, first birthdays, first anniversary\u2014these moments would be the chapters of an even better story.\n\nIn the weeks leading up to our wedding, the shopping alone was enough to make me think my strategy was working. Of course, I wanted to get married. Hadn't I picked the floral arrangements on gold stands; the tiered fondant cake; the flower girls' ribbon-and-pearl dresses; the bridesmaids' entire ensemble, from their blush dresses to their rhinestone tiaras and white gloves?\n\nThe only thing left to covet now was the family reunion I had hoped my wedding would inspire. The last time Mama and her six siblings had been in the same place was her 1971 wedding, but I also knew just how unlikely this possibility was. With the exception of one sister who lived in the United States, Mama's siblings were spread between the United Kingdom and Lebanon. One of the sisters in Lebanon still had her Iraqi passport, and coordinating summer bookings and visas to the United States was always a tricky and fickle business.\n\nBut then it started to happen. My aunts and uncles each called to say that they were coming. This, in itself, shone like an omen that Hadi and I were meant to be together. Our union was so blessed that a veritable miracle was taking shape in its honor. The concerns I had about marrying Hadi were irrelevant when I compared them to the sweet anticipation of Jidu's face that first moment when all his children were in the same room again. First, we'd cry. Then we'd stay up late, laughing, chatting, and reminiscing. At my wedding, my aunts, uncles, and cousins would dance and clap and make me feel as if I was the most important person in the world to have ever gotten married. Picturing all of this made me giddily happy. I could fix my relationship with Hadi later, but there was no way to go back in time to change a wedding. And right now, these visitors, flowers, favors, and dresses all made me feel as if a sorcerer's hand had gone to work, rendering my girlhood dreams into reality.\n\nThen one morning, when Mama and I were lingering at the table after breakfast, discussing how to coordinate trips to the airport, how many vans to rent to haul us down to Los Angeles for the wedding, she said, \"I'm going to tell you something Jidu told me before I got married. You leave your house in your wedding dress and you come back in your _kiffin_.\"\n\nI felt a faded memory come into focus. I'd heard this from Mama before, during her marriage talk. Out the door in a big, puffy dress, only allowed back in a papery funeral shroud. I shook my head. Did she really think she needed to tell me this now?\n\nShe sensed my annoyance. \"It's only a way of saying that this family doesn't believe in divorce.\"\n\n\"I grew up in this family. You think I don't know that?\"\n\nI had crossed a line with my tone, but Mama didn't call me on it.\n\n\"There's no need to get angry. If you know it, you know it,\" she said and moved on to asking me where I thought we should take everybody, Disneyland or Universal Studios.\n\nI gave an opinion while trying to name the rock of tension sitting in my gut. This was more than annoyance. This was umbrage that my mother felt the need to warn me of the finality of marriage. For the past year and a half, she had watched me accept and swallow a list of troubles. She, of all people, should have known just how much I understood the irreversibility of my commitment to Hadi. Leaving Hadi hadn't been an option when we were engaged, and it was no more of an option now.\n\nA week before my wedding, my family pulled up in two rented vans to Hadi's family's three-bedroom San Diego beach house and unloaded our cargo: twenty-six people, their luggage, and extra bedding. The beach house would serve as Bride's Family Headquarters until we relocated to the hotel where our reception was being held.\n\nAs we went about the house, carrying in bags and boxes, we continued the happy noisemaking we'd begun in the car, the clapping, the tambourine banging, and the ululating whistle, because this too was a part of the wedding celebrations. The groom was being brought his bride.\n\nMama assigned all women and children to the master bedroom. The men would sleep in the living room (Hadi among them until he left for his parents' full-time residence). And two couples would get the remaining two bedrooms: my grandfather and his wife, out of respect for their age, and my uncle and his English wife. It wouldn't be fair to expect an English woman to rough it Arab-style.\n\nJidu was the last to get down from the van; he was at his heaviest and needed time to clear the gap between the step and the ground. Standing in the doorway, I held out a hand for him, smiling at an image of him during the drive. He'd encouraged us to play the cassette tapes my cousins had brought along even though he was too observant to listen to music on any other occasion. \"A bride is with us,\" he'd said as if that was reason enough for merriment and music. From our seats, we'd shimmied our shoulders and sang along, and Jidu had clapped, his hands meeting together and separating in jaunty little bursts.\n\nI led Jidu through the door. Hadi stood in the foyer and greeted Jidu with a salaam that Jidu returned along with a warm, \"Hello, Baba,\" and a kiss on the forehead.\n\n\"I'll tell you something,\" he said to Hadi in a conspiratorial whisper. \"We're giving you the best girl. This is _Hadeytallah_.\"\n\nGift from God. That was Jidu's nickname for me. He took both our hands and said he wished us all the happiness in this life and the next; he wished for us to see our grandchildren and our grandchildren's children. And then letting go of Hadi's hand, he said to me, \"I carried your mother and every one of my daughters on their wedding day, and inshallah, inshallah, if God gives me the strength, I will carry you.\"\n\nI kissed Jidu's hand and led him up the stairs, my heart warm with anticipation. Jidu would carry me, and I would join the ranks of his daughters, my mother and my aunts, women I admired.\n\nThat night, after dinner, we played the same cassette tapes, this time from the living room tape deck. We danced. We jumped. We made conga lines around the couch and squeezed in for group pictures that had to be snapped at least a dozen times with different cameras because of closed eyes, missing photographers, and wiggly children.\n\nWe did this night after night. Hadi never danced. He had to be coaxed into the pictures. Most evenings, he sat on the stairs and watched us, neither smiling nor unsmiling. Everything about my family being together was exactly how I'd pictured it except for him. I wanted Hadi to charm my aunts and uncles, to smile and laugh so heartily that my family would congratulate me on finding such a great guy. I hoped my family's approval could cure me of whatever conflict still lingered in my heart. Their arrival had already brought me such peace with getting married. It was precisely because of my wedding that these people, who had not been under the same roof at the same time for over twenty years, had come together, and I adored being a part of this huge, noisy clan. I just wished Hadi blended in with us better, too.\n\nOn the third night of our stay, I approached Hadi on the last step, a castigatory hand on my hip. \"Why are you just sitting here?\"\n\n\"This isn't my kind of thing.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'this'? This is a celebration for your wedding, and you're the groom, and you're not even acting like you're happy.\"\n\n\"I'm not a happy groom just because I'm not dancing and clapping?\"\n\nI scoffed as if Hadi was being ridiculous. \"Pretty much. That's how most people show they're happy.\"\n\n\"Well, that's not how I show that I'm happy, and if I am not happy enough for you, I can go back to my parents' house early. I don't have to stay.\"\n\nHadi's suggestion intrigued me. If Hadi wasn't going to impress my family, at least he could leave them with fewer reasons not to like him. And I would enjoy everyone's company more if he wasn't here looking so disinterested, trying to pull me away every chance he got to talk or kiss or sneak a hug, and it would be so much easier to show up to my wedding, convinced I was making the right decision, if I didn't have all this proof day after day of how much our personalities differed.\n\n\"I don't want you to leave,\" I said with feigned reluctance, \"but maybe you'd enjoy spending more time with your family before the wedding, too.\"\n\nHadi knew exactly what I was implying without my saying it. Although he had planned on going home over the weekend, he left the next day. I knew he was hurt. After months of bickering, months of me worrying about school and telling Hadi he should have tried harder, now there was this proof that what I wanted most from our wedding was not him but the party, these people. But instead of sympathizing with my soon-to-be-husband, I blamed Hadi for being too available. He'd created no scarcity with his love, no sense that it was a precious commodity. I was doing Hadi a favor by hinting for him to leave. I was strengthening our love's economy by giving it room to grow.\n\nThe day before my wedding, my entire clan and I filed out of our rental vans in front of the Regal Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. At the hair salon, I got a blowout from a stylist who gave me a piece of advice for my rehearsal dinner: \"Drink as much as you want tonight. Just take two Tylenols before you go to bed. You won't even feel hungover the next day.\"\n\nI looked at the girl in the mirror\u2014brunette, fair-skinned, hazel eyes. I could have been any girl, Italian, maybe Greek. I knew the hairdresser didn't see me\u2014the twenty-year-old Muslim girl who'd never had a drink in her life. I smiled and nodded at his drinking tip. I would play the part of the Western bride as long as I sat in his chair. Today, the day before my wedding, I did not have the energy to convince anyone that Hadi and I were childhood sweethearts, nor did I want to answer any questions about our marriage being arranged or if I loved my future husband.\n\nWhen my hair was done, I took my smooth, curl-free locks upstairs to the suite all my aunts and girl cousins were sharing. There, I played a different part, the Arab girl bride who let her aunts tell her she needed bigger, flashier earrings and brighter lipstick to go with her long, black sequined gown, who used one of their fancy headscarves as a shawl to cover her exposed shoulders. Then I headed downstairs, eager to see the preparations in the ballroom.\n\nAs I opened the hall's towering double doors, I squealed with true delight. The tables had been set with white and gold linens, and tall gold bases awaited their floral centerpieces. Diana, Nadia, and Aysar were already there, rushing toward me with arms open wide. I hadn't even finished hugging them when Hadi showed up in a pinstripe suit, his hair freshly trimmed, carrying a dozen long-stemmed red roses in a gold box. Listening to my friends' collective \"Aww,\" I felt a surge of certainty. I wanted this boy in a suit giving me beautiful things. My friends seeing it. This hall filling up with our out-of-town guests, a mix of family and friends. I crumpled up our old story and threw it away. This wedding would set our love story free.\n\nWith a comb in one hand and cigarette in the other, Dariush, proprietor and Beverly Hills stylist extraordinaire, transformed the giant ball of back-combed fuzz on my head into a sleek updo.\n\n\"You're a very pretty girl,\" he said in a thick Persian accent. He stubbed out his cigarette and added, \"You should have a nose job. Such a shame a nose like that on such a pretty face.\"\n\nI should've resented having my flaws pointed out to me on my wedding day, but I didn't. Dariush was a genius, and there was no sense in distracting him over something as small as my pride. Dariush secured my rhinestone headpiece and then got to work on my face, gluing on individual false eyelashes, painting a thick line of black eyeliner over the evidence, trimming my eyebrows, and filling in my lips with a shimmery neutral. When I looked into the mirror, I felt triumphant, transformed. This was not the subtle, natural beauty extolled in American bridal magazines. This was a look straight from satellite television, the dramatic-eyed Arab bride.\n\nBack at the hotel, in a staging room that had been set aside for us, Mama helped me slip into my dress. Then she stood, taking me in, tears in her eyes. \"Such a princess,\" she said before leaving to get Hadi. I'd given up on my see-me-at-the-altar dream after I realized he was going to see me for the pictures anyway.\n\nWhen Hadi first laid eyes on me, it was nothing like the moment I imagined. He made no gasp, no jump for joy, or other cinematic gesture. He merely took my hands, his lips spreading in a wide smile, and said how he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with me.\n\n\"Me, too,\" I said, and I meant it. I loved Hadi in a tuxedo, the way the coat jacket filled out his shoulders and the way his bronze skin stood out against the bright white of his dress shirt. Standing there, taking in my groom while embraced by sheets upon sheets of tulle, I felt as if I were wearing the brand-new pages of our story together.\n\nStill holding my hand, Hadi led me to the ballroom so we could pose for photographs. All the tables had been set; small gold boxes filled with chocolates sat at the top of every plate; and floral arrangements full of fragrant gardenias, white roses, and sweet peas were perched on every stand. Our multitiered cake stood in a corner balcony. And the family and friends who made up my eight bridesmaids, among them Jamila, Lina, Diana, Nadia, and Aysar, had lined up in front of the photographer, a vision of pink, sparkly tiaras and little white gloves. Everything was exactly as I'd imagined if not better.\n\nAfter their group picture, my bridesmaids stepped away from the photographer and circled me. They told me I looked beautiful, and I told them the same. I marveled at Lina's curly locks secured in a French twist, a rhinestone bracelet pinned into the curve. It was such a careful detail, something so small but so lovely that I felt myself expanding into the beauty that surrounded me, into this moment and place where everything was right. There was no room for nervousness. No space for regret. No time for doubt. Today was perfect, and the memory of all this wonderfulness would be the balm for my and Hadi's uncertain future.\n\nWe took pictures for an hour, and then we lined up outside the closed doors of the adjoining hall where we'd be holding our ceremony. When the sound of the DJ playing an airy, jazzy tune drifted toward us, the flower girls entered, followed by my eight bridesmaids, then our grandparents, my mother and brother, and Hadi and his mother. For my grand moment, the doors closed and then reopened to the sound of the wedding march\u2014not because any of this was customary in any way. It was just iconic, something I coveted for no other reason than that I wanted to feel as if I was living out a scene from the movie _Father of the Bride_.\n\nWith Baba at my side, I walked down the aisle slowly, pausing for photographs, pressing down on Baba's arm when his pace quickened. I felt rooted by the attention of our family and friends, alive and centered. I wished the aisle was longer. I wished I could walk with the weight of a bouquet in my hands, my legs pushing along a petticoat and a dozen layers of tulle, for hours.\n\nHadi met me at the end of the aisle and gave my father a kiss on each cheek before taking my arm. Before us was a raised platform holding our wedding _sufra_ , a decorative spread of various symbols: a mirror for our bright future, colorful spices to guard against the evil eye, painted eggs for fertility, a piece of flatbread for prosperity, and a bowl of honey and two large cones of hardened sugar for our life to be sweet.\n\nNow Hadi and I walked around the sufra and sat on the velvet loveseat his mother had shipped from Egypt. The Seyyid who was marrying us stood by the microphone to our side, wearing a black turban and a freshly pressed black robe that opened to reveal a long, white gown underneath.\n\nI could not concentrate on the marital advice the Seyyid offered our guests; the anticipation roaring through me was too loud, too distracting. But as soon as I heard him calling me by name, asking me to accept the terms upon which our families had agreed, my mind became focused. I kept quiet as I'd been trained, waiting until he'd asked me five times in honor of the Prophet Muhammad, his two grandsons, and their parents. The fifth time, Mama gave me a nod, and with words I'd been rehearsing since I was twelve, I told the Seyyid that he was my representative, \" _Na'am, inta wakili_.\" The women brought their tongues up to the roofs of their mouths. Their ululating ring made it official.\n\nBut a critical piece of Americana was missing. I had wanted a you-may-now-kiss-the-bride moment. It was just as iconic as the wedding march, just as necessary. Dr. Ridha approached the microphone to make an announcement to our guests about where they would be gathering to say the evening prayers, and Hadi took the opportunity to get his father's attention with a loud \"psst.\" Dr. Ridha leaned over us. Then, back at the microphone, he said with a chuckle, \"Hadi would like to kiss his bride.\" There was laughter, and I was peeved. This wasn't supposed to be a funny moment, something we had to nudge our families to remember. We pecked on the lips, and there was more ululating before our relatives lined up to present us with their gifts of twenty-two-karat gold necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and rings.\n\nOur evening went on like this, something American, something Arab. Shortly after the gift exchange, our entire bridal party stood behind closed doors again, this time waiting to walk into the reception hall. For this entry, we were pure Arab. The Lebanese band struck up a typically Middle Eastern tune, and in typical _zeffa_ -style, Hadi and I walked in first, a chain of our relatives behind us clapping, dancing, and shaking tambourines. We circled the dance floor several times before the band took a break, and we went back to being American for my first dance with Hadi, a father-daughter dance, a brief interlude of American pop music chosen by our American DJ. A little \"Chicken Dance.\" Some Spice Girls. A curious choice of the Beastie Boys' \"Brass Monkey.\"\n\nIt was as if my daily waffling between two cultures, my uncertainty over why I picked one tradition to observe over another, had put on a dress and some makeup and decided to throw a party. It picked out music and food, trying to fix the regular hotel-fare chicken breast with appetizers of hummus, dolma, and baba ghanoush. Sometimes my two worlds blended for such beautiful effect.\n\nSometimes they clashed.\n\nIn between songs, the DJ took the microphone and called out, \"Huda, how did you feel the first time Hadi asked you out?\"\n\nI froze, my heart beating wildly. Would I have to take the microphone and explain to the DJ now in front of everyone that we did not date and Hadi had never asked me out? A second later, I heard the first few notes of _I Will Survive_ , then the lyrics describing the singer as afraid and petrified. I breathed a sigh of relief. All that had been a culturally insensitive lead-in to the next song.\n\nOur guests resumed dancing. Most of Hadi's family remained on the sidelines, some because they were not much for dancing, others out of a fear of sin and gossip. My family relied on the immunity that being at the wedding of a close relative afforded them (dancing at the wedding of a relative was a sign of affection and therefore understandable), but this was only a temporary reprieve. Regret would consume them later. My uncle would lecture my cousins for dancing while wearing the hijab and lament how we'd represented our family. My aunts would compare themselves to Hadi's aunts, who had steered clear of the dance floor, and beg me to edit them out of the video.\n\nAfter dinner, the band returned with their tablas and ouds and their Lebanese lead singer. I relaxed, knowing I'd squeezed in all the American things I'd wanted. Now I could enjoy my religiously excused opportunity to dance. It was exactly like I'd pictured\u2014Lina, Diana, Nadia, and Aysar joining me on the dance floor, our heads thrown back, giggles erupting. But now Hadi was retreating toward the tables. I knew I should go after him, ask him what was wrong, but my legs would not follow.\n\nA half hour later, we cut our cake, I tossed my bouquet, and then I grabbed the photographer and went over to Jidu who was sitting at his table. He smiled when he saw me, and without a word, he stood and bent at the knees. He wrapped his arms around the width of my dress, and invoking the name of our first Imam with a strained \" _Ya Ali_ ,\" he hoisted me up into the air. I planted a kiss on his cheeks. The photographer's bulb flashed, and he put me down.\n\nWhen it was time to hit the dance floor again, Hadi stayed back, talking to his cousins, but I marched straight into the shadow of the glimmering disco ball. As the night wore on, tired bodies drifted back to their seats, but my loyal friends and I kept going. I didn't listen to my aching feet and back. I wanted to take advantage of every minute, every second.\n\nHadi tapped me on my shoulder. \"My back really hurts. I'm ready to go.\"\n\n\"It's too early,\" I said. \"I'm not ready for the night to end.\"\n\nHe looked at me agape. \"How can you say no? I'm telling you I'm in pain.\"\n\nBut I refused again because I didn't care about Hadi's sore back or the deed that awaited us. This was what I wanted. This poufy dress. This crown. I didn't want to take it off yet. I would never wear it again. I would never be a bride again.\n\n\"If you go back out there, then we're not doing anything tonight,\" Hadi said.\n\n\"Fine,\" I answered because I didn't believe him. Once we got upstairs, Hadi would change his mind. He was a guy after all. Wasn't sex all they wanted?\n\nI went back to the dance floor and joined the flower girls whose exhaustion had made them hyper. We were the only ones dancing, but this did not deter me. As the bride, I, alone, set the mood for this party. I owed it to my guests to dance, and this was not a responsibility I took lightly.\n\nWhen people started to leave, Mama pulled me away from the dance floor to take photographs with our guests and to say goodbye. By one in the morning, the only people left in the hall were our relatives, but the spirit of the party had not left them. They lined up behind Hadi and me, the tambourines and drums reappearing. They clapped and sang us all the way to the elevator. In Arabic, they sang, \"Love her, boy, love her. Don't be afraid of her mother.\" And then much to my chagrin, one of my uncles got everyone chanting in English, \"We know where you're going. We know where you're going.\"\n\nWhen the doors to the elevator closed, my ears buzzed after hours of dancing into the blare of the band. My head pulsed with the weight of my rhinestone crown. My feet throbbed from the tightness of my shoes. And my new husband of about seven hours was angry. He stayed in his corner of the elevator, his arms folded, without saying a word.\n\nGiven the chance, I did not choose him. I did not prove to him that he was more important than the party.\n\nIt was over. Still in bed, I turned and looked at my wedding dress draped across a chair, the skirt so full of fabric it practically sat up. All that planning, hoping, and dreaming had evaporated in a few short hours. I would never wear that dress again, never be the guest of honor at such a grand party. Sadness pressed down on me like a giant boulder\u2014a boulder that grew heavier when I thought about how things had gone last night.\n\nHadi was already in the shower. I leaned over his side of the bed and dialed Mama's room. She practically squealed she was so happy to hear from me. \"I wanted to call you before we left,\" Mama said, \"but I was afraid to wake you. How did everything go?\"\n\nI knew what she was alluding to, but I didn't have time to get into details. \"Fine,\" I lied, \"but our suitcases got mixed up. I don't have anything to wear.\"\n\n\"I wondered what happened to my bag. I didn't even realize you didn't have yours.\"\n\nMoments later, the doorbell to our suite rang. All I had to wear was my underpants from the night before\u2014my dress had sported its own built-in bra. I dug into Mama's suitcase and pulled on her ratty, old brown housedress, the one I'd seen her mop the floors in hundreds of times.\n\nI opened the door, and she threw her arms around me. When she pulled away, she looked confused. \"Why are you wearing that?\"\n\n\"Because I don't have anything else to wear.\"\n\n\"You mean you didn't even wear your beautiful nightclothes?\"\n\n\"If I did, would I be wearing this?\"\n\nMy new bridal set was still sitting in the suitcase on the floor beside her.\n\nSearching my eyes, she asked, \"Are you okay?\"\n\nI shrugged.\n\n\"Did you do it?\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"That's okay. Not everybody does it the first night. But how come? What happened?\"\n\nI picked up the suitcase in one hand, and with the other, I pulled her over to the loveseat in the living room portion of the suite. Then I closed the door to the bedroom in case Hadi came out of the bathroom. He wouldn't have liked me discussing this with my mom.\n\nI sat down next to Mama, but I couldn't bring myself to look at her before I said, \"We tried, but we couldn't.\"\n\n\"What do you mean 'couldn't'?\"\n\n\"You know... _couldn't_. I'm pretty sure that I don't have a hole. There's just no way _that_ can get in _there_.\"\n\nIt seemed there'd been a misunderstanding on my part. It didn't shrink so as to slip in nicely without hurting anyone. It grew.\n\nMama laughed. \"I assure you. You have a hole, and that does get in there.\"\n\n\"If that's how this is done, then I'd really prefer to have nothing to do with it.\" I stared at my hands, still too uncomfortable to meet Mama's gaze.\n\nMama was having a wonderful time at my expense. She laughed until she saw the look I flashed her. Then she worked to suppress her grin. \"I'm not laughing at you. You're so cute, that's all. Sex is wonderful. You just have to relax. Maybe you're so nervous that it's making you dry. You know, you could try a little lubricant, and then when you get really aroused, close to the point of orgasm, then he can try.\"\n\n\"Mama!\" I said as if the entire word was an expression of shock.\n\n\"Come on. We talked about these things.\" Ever the clinician, Mama never shied away from frank discussions about the body.\n\n\"Yes, but it was a long time ago and I wasn't listening.\" I reached for my suitcase, unsure what to make of all this information. After all the kisses and touches we'd exchanged, I was so confident that my wedding night would be just like the dimly lit, passionate tangle of bodies I'd seen in the movies and that somewhere in all the kissing and moving, the intercourse part happened. I assumed that was how teenagers got pregnant on accident because it was so easy for a penis to slide inside a woman. I had no idea that I would have to play such a conscious role in all of this, that I'd have to oil myself up like some sort of a machine. The entire process struck me as unromantic and far too deliberate. Sex had seemed so easy on film, so inevitable.\n\nI told Mama I'd get dressed and meet everyone downstairs. I set my suitcase on the bed and pulled out the outfit I'd planned for this very day. An off-white dress with pearls around the cuffs. A set of lace undergarments in the same color. We were supposed to check out of this hotel and into another in Newport Beach for the few days until we left on our honeymoon. I thought about tonight and the next night, and the weight of the deed in front of us bore down on me.\n\nI didn't get it. Did the whole world really go around doing this? Why did women talk about the size of _that_ as if it was good for it to be big? Wouldn't they want it to be small so it wouldn't have to pierce them to make its way in? And on top of everything, I was so tired. I thought making love rested you, that it was in its own way a kind of sleep. On television, people always looked so refreshed after staying up all night to have sex. But now it seemed that time was time. Sex was sex. And sleep was sleep. Nothing canceled the other out, and now I was tired and my head throbbed. Why did everything have to be so different from how I had imagined it?\n\nI'd heard people say the first time hurt, and then it got better. When we arrived at our suite in Newport Beach, I told myself that all we had to do was get this first time behind us. This, unfortunately, was easier thought than achieved. After a series of failed attempts, I was fed up. We were failing at something so basic, so fundamentally human that teenagers figured it out on their own and in cars. We'd been naked for almost two days in a huge king-size bed, and nothing. It was embarrassing.\n\nThat night I resolved to take care of business. \"You're gonna have to hurt me,\" I said. \"Just don't look at my face, and get it in there.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not do it at all than hurt you,\" Hadi answered.\n\nI found this declaration unnecessarily chivalrous. \"You don't mean that. Eventually we'll want to have kids.\"\n\nWe talked about the best position from which to proceed as if we were two naked coworkers assigned to the same project.\n\n\"Remember,\" I said. \"Do whatever it takes to get it in there.\"\n\nAfter a considerable amount of rearranging\u2014me propped up on pillows, no pillows, on my side, on my stomach, on my back\u2014there was a breakthrough, the sensation of being punctured, followed by pressure, fullness, stretching. I wanted him out, and I was going to say so until I saw his face. Such surprise. Wonder. Joy.\n\nI said nothing.\n\nHe asked, \"Are you okay? Does that feel all right?\"\n\nI said, \"Yes.\" A carefully chosen one-syllable word. All I could utter without a grimace, an inflection of pain.\n\n\"Do you want me to get out?\"\n\n\"Up to you,\" I replied because I wanted him out, but I also wanted to have done this right, for Hadi to feel whatever he was supposed to.\n\nHe pulled out, and my entire body relaxed. \"Are you done?\" I asked.\n\n\"That's okay. I can tell it's bothering you.\"\n\n\"No, just do it. We have to do it right this once.\"\n\nI had to reassure Hadi several times that this was what I wanted before he leaned over me and filled my lower body once again with pressure. Such pressure, such tightness that the entire exchange struck me as completely wrong. It didn't fit in there. It didn't belong.\n\nBut then Hadi's back arched, his eyes closed, and witnessing his reaction, his movement quickening, I felt a distracting sense of awe. My body could do this to him.\n\nHadi drew in a breath and then released a deep sigh. He rested his head on my chest.\n\nI tapped him on the shoulder with an \"Are you done?\" And to his very grateful reply, I added, \"Can you get out then?\"\n\nI marveled at the return to emptiness, the relaxation it brought to muscles I didn't know I had.\n\n\"Is there blood?\"\n\n\"No,\" Hadi said, reaching for the box of tissues.\n\n\"Really?\" I asked, unsure of how to react, how he would react. \"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Yeah, you're fine. Not everyone bleeds.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"Biology,\" he said so plainly I wanted to cry. It was as if my entire body had been dunked in relief. We'd finally done it. And Hadi was Hadi, and I was me, and we lived in America, and nobody was waiting to see a bloody sheet, and I was married to a man who knew this was not a cause to question my honor.\n\n\"Hadi, women have been divorced for this, and shamed for this, and I know it's weird to mention this now, but I can't help but think that could've been me.\"\n\nI threw my arms around Hadi. With all the things that had disappointed me over the last year and a half, in this monumental way he had not. If this was a kind of test, Hadi had passed. We had passed.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Hadi asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"But I think I'll take a bath.\"\n\nI wanted to soak away the soreness within me and think about all of this\u2014the kind of man Hadi had shown himself to be, the couple we were, the sex we'd had. It hadn't looked or felt anything like I thought it would. There were no frantic movements, no passionate grunts, and none of the pleasure I'd experienced with Hadi before. This was a bodily function only shared with another person.\n\nAt our wedding, Hadi's parents had surprised us with two tickets to Madrid and then to M\u00e1laga. It was a long-held dream come true. I had told Hadi about my fascination with Islamic Spain, the notion that East and West had intersected there long before it had become the defining dichotomy in our Muslim American lives, how the beauty of its architecture proved that the two worlds we straddled had always meant to be melded. What I didn't tell him was that I also had high hopes of looking fabulous there. I'd pictured myself with my hair tied in a bun, wearing big hoop earrings and a red flower behind my ear. We'd watch flamenco and, in doing so, pick up the dance naturally and easily.\n\nIt was my first international flight that I was old enough to remember, and I was very impressed with the frequent snacks even in coach: little pieces of toast with cream cheese and olives, some with shaved cucumbers. Hadi and I kept busy playing card games and napping on each other, but as soon as we landed, I panicked. Standing in front of the luggage carousel, waiting to go through customs, I looked over at Hadi and decided we were too young to be traveling alone. The act of being married didn't suddenly turn us into capable adults. We were in a foreign country, and we needed our mommies and daddies.\n\nFortunately airports are tailored to inexperienced travelers. We followed the signs and made our way through customs and into our shuttle effortlessly. When the Mercedes van finally neared the center of the city, my heart raced at the sight of the ornate colonial buildings, the narrow streets lined with compact cars on the ground and charming balconies above, and the main streets crowded with taxis waiting to be hailed and with pedestrians heading in and out of small shops. It was so different from suburban California, its parking lots and strip malls. Madrid had more character and personality than any of the heavily franchised cities I'd known. With my airport anxieties now behind me, I looked over at Hadi and itched with an unexpected restlessness, a longing to know the freedom of being on my own in a new place. In front of us sat a group of single women, all in their late twenties. Next to them, we were too young to be married. Dating maybe. But married? The image we presented to the world, outside of our small community, didn't make sense, and it was this image of us I couldn't shake. I felt as if I'd finally arrived to my life's most exciting destination, but I was no longer an exciting person. I was not single. I was not free.\n\nHadi, on the other hand, went straight to the camcorder we'd borrowed from his parents. He set it up in our hotel room, and later he lugged it to Retiro Park and then on every city tour after. Every time he opened the viewfinder, he addressed our future children and asked me to say something to our unborn offspring. I hated that Hadi was already turning us into fuddy-duddy parent-tourists with a video camera, but admitting as much seemed to establish Hadi as the better parent prematurely. And so on camera, I protested wordlessly. I was grumpy, uncooperative, and sullen.\n\nIt was a mood that soon came to color off-camera moments too. I'd expected the same religious immunity that applied to weddings to apply to our honeymoon. I'd packed an evening gown, hoping we'd go out dancing in Madrid. Even though neither one of us had ever set foot in a club before, the image of us dancing together had always defined my mind's picture of what it meant to be grown up and independent.\n\nDuring the four nights we spent in Madrid, we never went dancing, and I kicked myself for harboring the ridiculous fantasy that merely being in Spain would suddenly transform us into a pair of ballroom dancers. The gown stayed in the suitcase. We came back to our room almost every night around eleven, and even though we had sex on every one of those nights, I pitied myself because of it. I was tired of setting aside so much time every day, sometimes twice, to pleasure-seeking. I had a lifetime of sex ahead of me. What I really wanted to do was to see this country that would only be available for my eyes to see now.\n\nWhen we later arrived in M\u00e1laga, my aspirations for the evening gown transferred to the bathing suit at the bottom of our suitcase. The modest swimwear industry was still years into the future, and so I justified this purchase with thoughts of Jamila and the swimsuits Mrs. Ridha had bought her daughter for her honeymoon in Hawaii. How wrong could it be to bare a little skin, I rationalized, if Jamila's own mother, my mother-in-law, had purchased a bathing suit for her daughter?\n\nFrom our balcony, the views of the bougainvillea-laden trellis, the shapely pool below it, and the shimmering Mediterranean only a few footsteps beyond seduced me. It couldn't be possible that I'd been brought all this way only to be denied an opportunity to enjoy either body of water. I waited for Hadi to offer that we go for a swim, and when he didn't I hinted.\n\n\"I bet you really want me to wear the bathing suit I packed so we can go swimming.\"\n\n\"I do want you to wear it,\" he said, \"but not to go swimming.\"\n\n\"But why else would I wear it?\"\n\n\"For me. In here.\"\n\nMy blood boiled. I had believed in the Islamic ideal of a woman's beauty belonging only to her husband. I had so ardently defended it to my classmates, arguing that it brought intimacy to a relationship. But now that I was the object of such singular attention, I chafed. I knew I didn't necessarily want to wear a swimsuit in public. I just wanted to break the rules on this one occasion, the way others before me had broken the rules. I wanted Hadi to condone my behavior, absolving me of my guilt, and then together we'd resume our religiously observant lives. But because Hadi was now denying me this one chance to bend, it was him I resented. Not wearing a bathing suit in public was no longer my choice, the way it had been when I was in high school. It was Hadi's decision, Hadi's fault.\n\nBringing my hands up to my hips, I said, \"We came all this way. You don't want to go to the beach?\"\n\n\"I'm fine.\"\n\n\"But I'm not fine.\"\n\n\"So we'll go.\"\n\n\"We'll go, and what will we wear?\"\n\n\"Our clothes.\"\n\n\"I didn't come all this way to stare at the Mediterranean Sea in my clothes.\"\n\n\"You want to wear a bathing suit?\"\n\nI shrugged because I couldn't bring myself to say yes.\n\n\"Why would you want to now? You've never wanted to before.\"\n\n\"Hadi, I haven't been in a hotel pool since I was nine. _Nine_. And it was fun, and I liked it, and I just want to feel that again. Your mother bought a bathing suit for your sister. She took her honeymoon break, and I want my break too.\"\n\n\"That doesn't make sense to me. If something is wrong, then it's always wrong. You can't take breaks from rules. They're there for a reason.\"\n\nI never imagined I could have this kind of disagreement with Hadi. I'd assumed we shared such a similar background that our religion and culture were going to be the conflict-free areas of our lives, but here we were, one of us willing to break the rules, one of us not.\n\n\"I don't even know what that reason is anymore, Hadi. Before we got married, I didn't wear a bathing suit, because I didn't want to show my body to other men, but now that we're married, what's the point? Nobody's going to look at me or ask me out.\"\n\n\"I'm really not comfortable with you wearing a bathing suit.\"\n\n\"I really resent that now that we're married, you get to decide this for me.\"\n\n\"That's not how I see it. I don't want anyone but you to see me. I don't want to go to a pool and have other women look at me.\"\n\n_Other women, please._ And because it wasn't cruel enough to think it, I said, \"I don't care if anyone sees your body, Hadi.\"\n\nHe looked wounded, and this annoyed me so much I began to cry from frustration. Getting our parents out of the picture, dictating what we could and could not do, was supposed to save us. Our wedding was going to be the new opening to our love story, but here we were falling into our old patterns, losing a precious day in Spain arguing over such muddy issues\u2014religion and privacy, control and love. Each issue felt like a falling tree, crashing into our lives, impossible to get around.\n\nHours of discussion later, Hadi and I went down to the beach. Instead of a bathing suit, I wore Hadi's shorts that swung below my knees and his oversized T-shirt. I looked ridiculous, I felt ridiculous, and as we walked along the water, I pointed out every topless woman and every G-string and said, \"You really think people would've been looking at me when there are people here like her?\"\n\nBut we got on with the afternoon. We walked in the sand and gathered the seashells that caught our eyes. Working together on a common task felt like a reconciliation, and we went back to our room with shells in our pockets and our hands linked. That night, however, I struggled to fall asleep. I wondered if this fight meant we were destined to spend our lives together arguing. I wondered why my mother promised me I'd have more independence after I got married when marriage had only added on a husband telling me what to do.\n\nThe next day and for the rest of our trip, I did not give voice to any of the thoughts that troubled me. We still hadn't explored any parts of Andalusia, the inspiration behind this entire journey, and I didn't want to waste any more of our precious time bickering. When we finally took the all-day bus trips to Grenada and Cordoba, the architecture filled me with so much awe and wonder I felt too grateful to utter a single, negative comment about our relationship. It had brought me here.\n\nOn those day trips, I'd rest my head on Hadi's shoulder on the way going and coming, and we'd take in the fields of sunflowers outside our windows, chuckling at our multilingual tour guide's adorable English and the antics of the tanned-to-rubber, chain-smoking senior citizens at the back of the bus. At the end of the day, we'd have late-night dinners at the Italian restaurant across the street from our hotel, the same overworked waiter serving us every night. And perhaps, sweetest of all, we'd buy sizzling-hot mini-donuts doused with a squirt of chocolate from the elderly couple with the cart on the main avenue.\n\nAt the time, it never occurred to me that married life could be a continuation of this pattern. A little bliss. A little strife. Mismatched ideals and conflicting viewpoints. Big clashes and small resolutions. On our honeymoon, these arguments shook me. If we could not navigate our happy, carefree moments without tension, then I feared for our everyday lives, the struggles waiting for us when we returned.\n\nIt was my first wedding anniversary, and instead of jetting off to Europe like Amina or loading up my car for a road trip to a rustic cabin like Sura, I was on an airplane, moving to Mexico. After overloading units to graduate a year early, I'd been nominated as the valedictorian of my graduating class, won the History Department's award for best senior thesis, and been accepted to a handful of graduate programs, some with tuition waivers and stipends. Hadi had been accepted into the medical school he applied to as a backup plan, the one in Guadalajara, Mexico.\n\nA flight attendant slid an omelet, the texture and color of a kitchen sponge, onto my open tray table. I picked at my food with a plastic fork. I couldn't cry and chew at the same time.\n\n\"Why don't you try to eat something?\" Hadi said, slicing into his bread as if he hadn't just uprooted my entire existence. \"Maybe you'll feel better.\"\n\nAt first, the suggestion that mere food could offer me some comfort insulted me, but after I sniffled through the first two bites, it appeared that Hadi was right. The omelet was warm, and it filled some of the hollowness inside me. Without intending to, I finished everything on my tray. Refreshed, I turned to the window and cried again.\n\nI had wished for so much of this. I had wanted the adult status that came with being a married woman. I had wanted to travel without heeding Mama's warning that we had to stay together so if we died, we died together. But I hadn't wanted to move to another country and put my education on hold.\n\nHadi had offered to come with me to graduate school. He said he'd wait out another year, apply again, or maybe pursue a different career path. But I knew we couldn't survive another round of applications together. Hadi was a procrastinator, and I was a generous giver of helpful advice and reminders. We contemplated going our separate ways and meeting up during vacations to resume our married life, but this too would not do.\n\nI was carrying around a heavy bag of resentment with Hadi's name on it. Living with Hadi for almost a year had taught me two things about him: he was brilliant, but he also sabotaged himself. Hadi was a true problem-solver, someone who enjoyed troubleshooting all sorts of issues\u2014be it a glitchy computer, a clogged pipe, or a flickering light\u2014but when it came to school and applications, he never studied long enough or started anything early enough to have a real chance of success.\n\nI told myself that a few months of separation would turn my resentment into a rift too wide to bridge, but deep down, I also knew that I was afraid to go off to school alone. After years of Mama telling me I had to wait to get married to travel and live on my own, I believed it. I didn't know any Muslim girls who'd gone to school out of state, and now that I was married, it didn't feel very wifely either. The kind of wife I heard the aunties in our community extol was always dutiful and self-sacrificing. The type of woman who went to graduate school alone was independent, strong-willed, and indifferent to disapproving gossip. I had no idea how to pretend I was a woman like that. If I had I wouldn't have gotten married in the first place.\n\nThe tissue in my hands had turned to shreds, so I reached for the coarse napkin on my breakfast tray. Less than two hours ago, I had waved goodbye to Mama and Lina wiping away their tears, and Baba standing awkwardly beside them, hands behind his back. At my feet was a bag with all of my acceptance letters to graduate school. Soon I'd have to write to these universities to tell them I wasn't coming, and those letters would be all I had left, each one a tiny diploma, a small salute to years of hard work.\n\nBut just when it seemed that I'd reached a new depth of self-pity, a voice from within urged me to get a grip, reminding me that Mama had gone through far more, flying all the way from Iraq to the United States with a husband she barely knew. I was twenty-one years old. I had a college degree, and I was friends with my husband before I married him. Yes, I was moving to a different country, but I was only a three-hour flight away from home, and my family had already bought their plane tickets to see me in a month. _This will be over in a few years, the voice warned, and you'll be sorry you didn't have a nice anniversary. Make a good memory for today, and then you can be sad again tomorrow._\n\nIn the days before we left California, I'd entertained two competing and shamefully stereotypical images of what Mexico was going to be like. Either I'd find people in ponchos and sombreros, living in adobe houses with donkeys tethered outside, or they'd be dressed in flowing linen with flowers in the ladies' hair and residing in palatial villas with large balconies overlooking a flowered courtyard.\n\nAs we drove from the airport to our hotel, it appeared that only one aspect of my vision had been correct. Guadalajara was a landscape of contrasts. We drove past brick houses with glassless windows and flat tin roofs; past modern buildings and an even greater number of charming, colonial ones; and, finally once into the suburbs, past tall concrete walls, some of them a block long, safeguarded with jagged, broken glass bottles. Every time a gate opened, I craned my neck to get a peek at the mysterious mansion inside, the surrounding walls seeming to imply the home within was too precious to be viewed.\n\nIn the taxi, I no longer felt the urge to cry. My eyes were now busy searching out my surroundings for clues as to what my life would be like. Everything had to be taken in: The vendors ladling colorful juices out of large tubs into clear plastic bags they tied closed with a rubber band around the neck of a straw. The intersections where children begged, men wiped down windshields, and clowns juggled. The arch strangely reminiscent of France's Arc de Triomphe. The multilane roundabouts that spoke a language of toots and honks.\n\nBefore I was ready for our drive to end, we arrived at our hotel. From our room, I called home to inform my parents of our arrival and then opened up my suitcase to change for dinner. On top was the evening gown and strappy, silver high-heeled shoes I'd lugged on my honeymoon and what was beginning to seem like a symbol of my relentless, impossible hope. Last night while packing my bag with Mama, I had imagined finding a fancy restaurant to celebrate our anniversary, that there in the glory of a romantic moment this unexpected move would be transformed into the grandest of adventures.\n\nHow foolish this dream now seemed as I stood in front of all the clothes my mother helped me select and fold. Just thinking of Mama twisted my stomach with a tightness that proved the word homesick terribly apt. For the sake of posterity, I coaxed myself into a cotton summer dress and the same pair of flat, black sandals I'd worn on my honeymoon. I would want a better story of our first anniversary than an evening spent in our hotel room, crying.\n\nOutside, the weather was still warm and inviting even though the sun had begun to set. We walked until we came to an indoor shopping mall, the center of which was filled with children bouncing silver missile-shaped balloons. Instantly I felt my mood lift. The lack of rules inhibiting children's play struck me as very Arab. It reminded me of services at the masjid where all the children wandered about oblivious to the speaker behind the microphone, snacking on chips, climbing over the bodies seated on the floor. Maybe we would fit in here. Maybe we'd fit in here better than we did in the United States.\n\nThe only restaurant options were an outdated Mexican diner and the Kentucky Fried Chicken we had passed on the way. Hadi asked me if I wanted to leave and keep walking, but it was getting late, and I was afraid we'd get lost or, worse, find nothing and wind up coming back to the same spot. But when he asked me which of the two places I preferred, I panicked. I could not have my first wedding anniversary dinner at either of those places.\n\nI tried to pass the choice back to Hadi. \"I don't know. Where do you want to go?\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter to me.\"\n\n\"You always say it doesn't matter. Today I need it to matter.\"\n\n\"That's not what I meant. It's just that you care about where we spend special occasions more than I do.\"\n\nI started to say, \"Let's just go to the di\u2014\" but then traveler's anxiety overcame me, and I suggested KFC. It took a lot more language to sit in a restaurant than it took to order fast food.\n\nWe stood back before entering the line, staring at the lit-up menu. The options were limited enough to make the choices decipherable, but that still didn't solve the problem of what we would order. Up until that moment, Hadi and I had only eaten halal meat, but there wasn't going to be any halal food in Mexico. We hadn't discussed the issue. Were we going to be vegetarians, or were we going to start buying store-bought meat?\n\nI said, \"If we aren't getting chicken, then that pretty much leaves biscuits and mashed potatoes. And the coleslaw, but you don't like that.\"\n\n\"The gravy is probably meat-based, so you'll have to tell them to skip it.\"\n\n\"Mmm. Mmm. What a dinner,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm fine with that. Go ahead and order.\"\n\n\"Me? Why me?\"\n\n\"You're the one who speaks Spanish.\"\n\n\"I do not. I took Spanish in high school. Everybody knows that you don't actually speak the language you studied in high school.\"\n\n\"But you still know more than I do.\"\n\n\"Is that how it's going to be here, too? Me taking care of everything? Fine. I'll order.\"\n\nI stepped into the mazelike line, fuming. As the line thinned, I rehearsed, \" _Pur\u00e9 de papas, bisquets_ ,\" but how do you say \"gravy,\" and how do you say \"I'd like\"? Do I just say, \" _Quiero_ , I want...\" or should I say, \" _Puedo tener_ , can I have...\"?\n\nStanding in front of the cashier, my mouth went dry. A language barrier was all it took to make a teenager in a paper hat intimidating. I'd never actually produced Spanish words for another person's ears. In my mediocre Spanish classes, we read and took tests, but even our teacher spoke to us in English. Now this boy was going to think I was so stupid.\n\n\" _Buenas tardes. \u00bfEn qu\u00e9 le puedo servir?_ \"\n\nI already didn't understand, but that was okay. All I had to do was tell him what I wanted.\n\n\" _Quiero_ ,\" I said, \" _pur\u00e8 de papas sin_ gravy.\" I prayed that he knew the word _gravy_ , but his expression was blank.\n\nAt once, I grew uncomfortably warm. I took a deep breath and then tried another approach. \" _\u00bfHabla ingl\u00e9s?_ \"\n\nHe shook his head, and I searched for a thought basic enough to translate into Spanish while sweating through my dress. Gesturing to the bowl I created with my hand, I said, \"I don't want the thing on the potatoes.\"\n\n\"Ahh,\" he said as if he now understood. The flames of discomfort that had lit up around my ears cooled down.\n\nI carried our order back to the table where Hadi was sitting. Still standing, I peeled back the lid on the mashed potatoes. There was gravy all over it. I sank into our bench.\n\n\"You didn't tell them we don't want gravy,\" Hadi said, surprised.\n\n\"I thought I did.\"\n\n\"Take it back,\" he suggested as if it was the simplest, most obvious solution.\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, you can't?\"\n\n\"I just can't,\" I said, feeling tears sting my eyes for the hundredth time that day. How was I going to manage my life here? We couldn't even order dinner, and we still had to find a place to live, get around in taxis, buy housewares and maybe furniture. I felt as if someone had switched on the lights in a dark room, and suddenly I could see what it meant for my parents, Hadi's parents, and all our family friends to have moved to the United States. Had they really gone through moments like this and survived?\n\nI pushed a plastic spork through its wrapper. \"Just scoop it off and eat around it. Please. If you really love me, you'll just eat it.\"\n\nOn the way back to the hotel, I held Hadi's hand because the sky had grown dark and cloudy and the sidewalks were uneven. Hadi said, \"Watch out for that crack.\"\n\nI looked down, and in that moment a fat rat scurried in front of us, its long tail sweeping the dusty sidewalk. I let go of Hadi's hand, then screamed and jumped up and down in place as if trying to shake off the rodent's memory. Then it started to rain. This was not a gentle rain that arrived with a soft, warning drizzle. This felt as if the sky broke open and poured its entire contents upon us. Hadi took my hand again, and we started to run, but my feet kept slipping out of my sandals.\n\nHadi looked back and said, \"You had to wear those shoes. You still haven't learned about the elements.\"\n\nThere was a levity to his tone and a smile on his lips, and I knew exactly to what he was referring. On our honeymoon, every time a pebble rolled into my sandals or my toes got covered in dust, he'd say, \"That's why I always wear closed-toed shoes. To protect my feet from the elements.\"\n\nHe thought he was being cute bringing this up now, that this moment would remind me of happier times and lighten my mood. I didn't appreciate it. My mood was so heavy it would have taken wheels to make it budge.\n\nBy the time we got back to our hotel, we were soaked, but still we stopped to look out the window. Jagged bolts of lightning cut through the night. Thunder roared. And through the window opposite us, rain pummeled its way through the space between the panels of the courtyard's clear glass roof, the fronds on the potted plants flattening from the pressure and the tile floor disappearing under water.\n\n\"Oh my God. It's a hurricane,\" I said. This was it. The roof of the hotel was going to blow off, and we were going to die tonight.\n\nHadi said, \"It's just a summer thunderstorm. I'm sure everything will settle down in a bit.\"\n\nBut the only thing that settled down that night was the storm. As soon as all our first anniversary deeds were done, gifts, kisses, and bodies exchanged, I started crying again, straight onto Hadi's bare arm. He tried to comfort me, promising me that things would get better as soon as we found a home, but I wasn't thinking that far ahead. I was feeling the full weight of what I'd lost.\n\nAfter all those years of encouragement from my professors, their assurances that I had great academic promise, I had followed my husband like a big, fat Arab stereotype. My mind pounded with a thought so seditious it frightened me. If only I'd waited, it said, I could've married someone else from our community, someone who wouldn't have pulled me out of school. I could have had my dream Muslim American love story and my career, too.\n\nThe next two weeks passed as an odd amalgam of pleasure and pain, of feeling as if we were on vacation but not. Parts of our days were spent trying new restaurants, walking to the mall, and watching that summer's blockbusters from the plush leather recliners at the nearest cinema. There was a thrill to each of these activities, within them delightful moments of discovery. In Mexico, you could buy a drink and a big tub of popcorn at the movies without it costing more than your ticket, and you could eat avocados every day without it being expensive. _Nuez_ or nut ice cream and yogurt were now my favorite flavors, and the _bolillos_ at the grocery store, pulled straight from the oven, gave the notion of fresh bread new meaning. However, in the midst of all this loveliness, we still had to make daily trips to the university; wait in long lines to apply for Hadi's student visa; return with stacks of passport-sized photographs of Hadi from every angle and photocopies of every piece of paper that ever had his name on it; pay a slew of bills for his tuition, books, and supplies; and apartment hunt.\n\nMany days felt as if they were one long chain of Kentucky Fried Chicken moments. Every time we got into a taxi, ordered at a restaurant, or went to see an apartment, there was always one critical word I did not know and could not find in my dictionary. High school Spanish had not prepared me to say things such as the following: \"Where is the water tank?\" \"Is it a gas or electric water heater?\" \"Are we responsible for filling up the gas tank?\" \"Does the apartment have a working telephone line?\"\n\nThat is until we met our new landlord Fernando. Fernando spoke perfect English, and for that we loved him. \"So the utilities are included?\" Hadi asked, finally taking the lead of our apartment hunt.\n\n\"Yes, electricity, gas, and water are all included, and I think you will find our accommodations very comfortable. All the furniture is here for your convenience. My brother has a furniture factory, so that is why all our furnishings are very _de lujo_. I think you say 'of luxury.' And the bed coverings are new. All you have to do is bring your things.\"\n\nA segment of one of Guadalajara's obscenely large homes, Fernando's apartment had the original mansion's front door\u2014an imposing stained-glass masterpiece\u2014and the original kitchen, which was a large room with a six-burner gas stove, a tiny refrigerator, and a nearly bedroom-size pantry. A wall of smoky mirrors divided what must have once been an enormous living space, and to the side of that wall stood a bathroom and our only bedroom. But it was a move-in-ready place with an English-speaking landlord. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter that the rent was as much as our apartment in overpriced California. After a stressful two weeks of bickering with each other and changing hotels, this odd but beautiful apartment answered our prayers.\n\nA week later, Hadi left for his first day of school. I waved to him from the marble steps outside our front door and then returned to our apartment with a gnawing sense of loss. This was the first time since kindergarten that I was not attending school.\n\nMy first week at home, I slept much more than I intended. In the mornings, I'd look at my clock and think I could've gone to two classes in the time it had taken me to wake up. Then I'd stare at the contents of my closet and wonder if it was worth getting dressed when I had nowhere to go. I'd conclude no and sit back down on my bed with the books I had assigned to myself. But reading alone, without tables full of other students at my side, was lonely, so quiet and pitiable that I'd turn on the television for company and then find myself sucked into episodes of _Santa Barbara_ dubbed in Spanish.\n\nOn the days we needed groceries, I took a bus into town and bought whatever my hands could carry, including a newspaper to look for jobs. Soon my family's upcoming visit gave my shopping a different purpose. I needed mats for them to sleep on, bedding, and more towels.\n\nWe'd been in Mexico for one month when Mama, Lina, and Ibrahim, who had another month of break before he started back up at school, arrived at my door in an airport taxi (Baba had decided to come in a few months to give me something to look forward to after they left). For the five days they camped out on the mats I'd laid out around our living room, that feeling of being on vacation returned. Hadi would leave in the morning for class, and we'd wake up at a leisurely pace; have a breakfast of bolillos, Oaxacan cheese, and some fruit; and then call a cab to take us to the tourist attractions in my _Lonely Planet Mexico_ travel guide. In their company, I didn't dread using what little Spanish I knew. As a part of his graduate studies, Ibrahim had been traveling all over Europe and the Middle East, perfecting his Arabic, picking up Italian and Turkish, and now I felt equally adventurous sharing how I, too, was making my own way in another country, picking up another language. Seeing Guadalajara through my family's eyes was validating: it was an exciting tourist destination, its unique _artesan\u00edas_ worthy of bringing back home as souvenirs, its architecture the perfect photo opportunity. I enjoyed my family's company so much I wished I still shared my daily life with them. Not this husband who didn't get my intellectual pursuits the way Ibrahim did, who didn't need my big sisterly advice the way Lina did, who didn't cook our meals and help wash our dishes and ask me how I was feeling the way Mama did.\n\nNow more than ever before, I wanted to talk to Mama. I knew the circumstances that had brought Mama to America, but I wanted to hear exactly how her heart felt, how she got used to missing her family, how she found the courage to continue her education in her second language. But we rarely had a moment to talk. The days blurred past, filled with shopping and sightseeing. On the last weekend of their trip, Hadi and I rented a small Nissan Tsuru to take Mama, Lina, and Ibrahim through the heavily forested, winding roads to Puerto Vallarata. Because Hadi was the only one among us who knew how to drive a stick shift, he drove the entire weekend, a roundtrip of over four hundred miles, but I did not repay his kindness with gratitude. I picked on him the whole time, for wearing socks and laced shoes to the beach, for keeping his shirt tucked into his pants, for being too stuffy.\n\nMama tired of my attitude and scolded me to \"back off the boy,\" but I couldn't escape the thought that soon she would be leaving with my brother and sister and that I had to stay in Mexico with Hadi\u2014the man I was married to but who was not related to me, not my family. I belonged with them, too.\n\nAfter Mama, Lina, and Ibrahim left the following Monday, I cried alone in my apartment, choked by its emptiness, the memory of them at my breakfast table. This was what I had rushed into; this was my ticket to freedom and my grand, sweeping love story\u2014eating breakfast alone in Guadalajara, not being enrolled in school.\n\nOur first year of marriage I had been so busy, overloading units so I could graduate early and go off to school with Hadi, that I hadn't felt the full weight of domestic life. Hadi had been the one with a more flexible schedule. He'd worked, shopped for groceries, cooked our meals, and done our laundry, but here the unrelenting cycle of shopping, meals, and dishes was all mine.\n\nHadi had been the better housekeeper. To keep food fresher, he'd store it in a Ziploc bag that he'd close right up until the corner, where he'd insert a straw to suck out all the air. He folded all our socks in half so as not to tax the elastic, and he folded all our towels the same way so that they'd fit better in the closet. To me, these tasks were too inconsequential to be given any attention. I placed the toilet paper onto the roll whichever way it came into my hand. I closed the shampoo bottle without waiting for its shape to be restored. I sealed sandwich bags shut without squeezing out the excess air first and balled up our socks without any regard for their longevity.\n\nHadi could not understand my haphazardness. He'd pause in front of a stack of folded clothes and ask curiously, \"Is there a reason why you folded some of these shirts with the sleeves to the side and some with the sleeves behind?\"\n\n\"There's no reason, Hadi,\" I'd say. \"Some people do things without thinking about them.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" he'd say with his arms raised up in surrender. \"Just trying to see if you'd found a better way of doing something.\"\n\nAnd this was the real kicker for me. I did have a better way of doing things when it came to school, but all last year, Hadi never asked me if there was a reason why I outlined every chapter I read or why I started my term papers weeks before. No. He just went to work and put towels and food storage first, and this was where it got us. Hadi was the student I had wanted to be, but he wasn't studying the way I would have studied.\n\n\"Shouldn't you be doing something for school?\" I'd ask every time I caught him without a book in front of him. But my constant reminders made us argue far more than they inspired Hadi to work. I knew I needed something to fill my time, something to get my mind off Hadi's study habits and my longing to be back in school.\n\nThe following week, I took the bus to the local university and signed up for Level II Spanish classes, but being in a classroom made everything better and worse all at the same time. Tucked behind a wooden, one-armed desk, I missed the furious scribble of notes I'd had in college, the sense that I was fulfilling a calling. Now I was learning how to say \"elbow\" and \"eyebrow\" and describing my classmates as having very skinny elbows and very dark eyebrows. And while I valued the opportunity to learn a language, I wanted to leave the classroom with an idea worth contemplating and defending, something I could discuss over coffee with friends. Now my only classmates were sophomores and juniors in college, studying abroad. They attended classes by day and partied by night. They were living with Mexican families who gave them meals and a room. I had a husband. I paid rent in Mexico and shopped for groceries. I was not visiting; I was trying to make a life.\n\nWe'd start the school day with a two-hour grammar course, followed by a two-hour conversation class in which Se\u00f1ora Gonzalez, a matronly woman with cropped hair and full cheeks, stood in front of the blackboard and posed a strange mix of both banal and thoughtful questions for each one of us to answer in Spanish.\n\n\"What is your favorite sport and why?\"\n\n\"I like the basketball because the balls are very beautiful. Very orange.\"\n\n\"Who is someone you admire?\"\n\n\"I admire my mother. She is a very good person. She is short and nice.\"\n\n\"What will you tell your friends about Mexico?\"\n\n\"It is a country with very nice people and very good food.\"\n\nThen she turned to me and said, \"Tell us about something important to you.\"\n\n\"The history is very important. If we understand the history, we are going to be more sensitive people.\"\n\n\"Why you don't say your husband? Your family?\" the girl next to me interrupted in broken Spanish. Revealing a mouth full of shiny braces, she added, \"You always giving big answers.\"\n\n\"Yes, that too,\" I said and nervously seesawed my pencil against my thumb. Suddenly, I saw how my classmates viewed me. I was the annoying girl with the lofty ideas, trying to turn a Spanish class into a seminar.\n\nHadi loved it when I visited him on campus, but I hated watching other students going on with their careers when I didn't know where I was going with mine. I hated being asked what I was doing to fill my time because taking Spanish classes sounded so small, so accessible, so unrevealing of my 4.0 GPA. And, most of all, I hated meeting the female medical students. They were aspiring doctors while I was the aspiring doctor's wife, and a handful of them, I soon discovered, were Muslims, one of them who wore the hijab. I had thought I had to get married so I could go to graduate school in another state, and these girls' parents had been willing to send them out of the country for the sake of their education.\n\nThe day Hadi introduced me to Marjanne, an Iranian American woman in his class who also happened to be from California, I hit a new low. She was friendly and warm, but none of that made an impression on me. What stayed with me was her reply when I told her I'd been taking Spanish classes.\n\n\"You know what you should do?\" she asked, her eyes widening with excitement. \"You should make sandwiches and bring them around during lunch. God knows, I'd buy them. The only thing close by is that taco stand, and I'm scared to eat there.\"\n\n\"That's something to think about,\" I said in a tone Marjanne mistook for sincerity.\n\nPulling her long, crinkly hair over one shoulder, Marjanne added, \"I think that would go over really well. Don't you, Hadi? Bring some turkey or pastrami sandwiches in a little basket. People would buy that right up.\"\n\nHadi was wise enough not to respond. I forced a smile, and we excused ourselves from Marjanne's company. Later that afternoon, Hadi and I walked home in a dangerous quiet, but as soon as Hadi closed our front door behind us, I exploded. \"Do you see what I've been reduced to here? People think I'm some little wifey, sitting around at home, waiting to cook for everybody.\"\n\nI wouldn't have minded making sandwiches had I still been enrolled in a degree program. Then any of the cooking I did could have been something extra, an added talent, but here, the suggestion made me feel so provincial, so married off. I thought all of us Muslim sisters were on the marriage track together, and now Islam wasn't the excuse; it wasn't the reason. It was one thing to have sacrificed my education to uphold God's law and quite another to have clung to rules unique to my family.\n\nBut then a few weeks after meeting Marjanne, an Indian American guy in Hadi's class introduced me to his wife, Zoya. They'd gotten married on one of his visits back to India. Zoya had been eighteen years old and right out of high school. They'd already had their first child, a chubby, blue-eyed toddler, so cute I had to keep myself from squeezing the rolls in her thigh when I first met them. This was more like it, I thought, during the first dinner we shared together. This was what I'd been taught to expect\u2014marriage and kids first, school worked in later.\n\nBut over an exquisitely prepared biryani and fresh roti, Zoya told me she was the youngest of three sisters and there'd been no pressure on her to marry. \"I loved him,\" she said. \"Otherwise, I would have never left my family back in India.\"\n\nI couldn't imagine declaring that I loved Hadi with such confidence. After so many years of being told it was ayb to be interested in a boy, it still felt shameful and wrong. And here was Zoya, raised among Muslims but so confident in her love for her husband. She wasn't running away from any stories about what Muslim love was or trying to prove she had an American love story. She'd married the man she wanted to marry and was going about her life, an amazing cook, a talented seamstress, and, later I would discover, a capable math tutor.\n\nI hadn't expected this move to Mexico to raise so many questions about my own culture and community. All of my MSA sisters from college had grown up with rules so similar to mine if not more, but the Muslim women I was meeting in Mexico had been raised with such different boundaries. I soon became good friends with the hijab-wearing medical student who told me her parents had few reservations about letting her study in another country. Now she was in her last year, planning on becoming a pediatrician. She'd mastered Spanish, and she showed me all around town with total confidence, bargaining down our taxi fares and answering jovially any questions about what order she belonged to when our drivers assumed she was a nun. Then, there was the student in Hadi's year who declared at the Friday afternoon prayers that she was heading to the airport to pick up her boyfriend, her white, American boyfriend, named Steve. She made the announcement plainly, without even a hint of secrecy or shame.\n\nBack at our home, I called Mama, confused. \"I see all these Muslim girls in school here, and I don't understand why you didn't want more for me. Why didn't you want me to go off to school and become something?\"\n\n\"That's funny,\" she said, \"I always compared myself to my cousins who were becoming doctors and wondered why Jidu didn't want us to finish school before we got married. But I really thought I was giving you more. I wanted you to marry someone younger. I wanted you to finish college. I just wanted to keep you safe, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, if we fly, we fly together, so if we die, we die together.\"\n\n\"Of all the things I've told you, this is what you remember?\"\n\n\"That's the kind of thing that leaves a pretty big impression on a kid.\"\n\n\"When you've seen as much death as I have at such a young age, you don't take life for granted. I guess it gave me some comfort to think if you were married, you'd always have another set of eyes watching over you.\"\n\nAfter we hung up that night, Mama's words stayed with me. I attributed so much to our religion and culture that I rarely allowed her the everyday motivations of instinct and fear. And she was right; no matter how confused I was about my feelings toward Hadi, I'd married someone I'd grown up with and considered a friend. I had an elaborate wedding and graduated from college. I'd already had more. I only wished there'd been less concern for my reputation and our friendship with the Ridhas, and less istikharas, so that this could have felt like enough.\n\nBaba arrived in Guadalajara with a small Middle Eastern grocery store inside his suitcase. Wrapped among his pajamas and undershirts were a sack of basmati rice; a vial of saffron strands; a couple of jars of grape leaves and tahini sauce; and a few bags of pita bread, bulgur, and pine nuts\u2014everything I'd requested before he left.\n\nAlthough Hadi and I had found a rather large Lebanese restaurant in town, owned by a Lebanese immigrant family and appropriately named El Libanes, eating Middle Eastern food didn't feel as important as making it. I needed our apartment to be filled with the nutty smell of rice, the food on our table to act as an edible identification card, declaring who we were to our friends and visitors.\n\nI'd never felt so American and even more specifically Californian as I did living in Mexico. In this third space, it didn't matter where my parents or Hadi's parents were born. Since we spoke English, most Mexicans accepted us as American students, our names registering as foreign rather than particularly Arab. And, among the other American medical students, our shared spoken language and the common experience of having lived in the United States were enough to bond us to a community of expatriates we might not have had anything in common with stateside.\n\nSharing our food, and even Baba himself, felt like a way to introduce our new friends to the people we'd been before we moved here. Even though Baba would only be in town for a few days, I'd invited all the Muslim medical students over for dinner\u2014a mix of American-born Indians, Pakistanis, and Egyptians, and a few of our other American friends. In preparation, Baba and I took a taxi to an open-air market where Baba delighted in the reminders of his tropical island life. He drank coconut water straight from a fresh coconut and loaded up on papayas, guavas, mangos, and avocados. \"You know in Zanzibar,\" Baba said, \"we used to eat avocado like a dessert. We put the sugar and scoop it with a spoon.\"\n\nAs we meandered through the dusty aisles, Baba spotted a familiar dry bean. With the scoop, he poured a few into his hand and said, \"This is similar to the bean they used to make _mbaazi_ in Zanzibar. Let us make it for your guests.\" Baba paid for the beans and a few serrano peppers to season the coconut-milk-based stew, and I felt an unexpected stirring of pride. Being in Mexico had opened up a window into my father's memory; it had conjured up stories I may not have heard otherwise.\n\nAfter we got back home, Baba, Hadi, and I worked together to prepare the next day's dinner. Baba soaked the beans. I roasted eggplant for baba ghanoush. Hadi chopped the onions for a tomato-based marga and the rice I'd use to stuff the dolma. I marveled at how comfortably we worked together.\n\nIn Mama's company, my heart stewed with a warring mix of blame and resignation. It was so easy to look at the istikharas Mama made and her affection for Hadi and make her responsible for my decision to get married. It was even easier to picture myself as Mama, a woman making the most of a relationship that was picked for her while striving to reach her educational goals. But here in Baba's company, I was forced to remember things I often forgot, that Baba had not wanted me to get married, that he'd repeatedly offered me an out and I was the one who had reassured him that this was what I wanted, that I'd been so caught up with the business of becoming a bride.\n\nIt was a remarkably short-lived burst of awareness. Hadi's presence as a host began to annoy me as soon as our guests arrived for dinner the following evening. The assalamu alaikum he offered our Muslim friends was far too quiet to make them feel truly welcome, and instead of facilitating introductions between our guests, he left Baba alone to fill up all the conversational space in the room with his favorite stories from his medical school days in India and in Iraq. First, Hadi disappeared to set up the drinks and the ice chest. Now he was back in the kitchen again, leaning over me as I scooped rice onto a platter, asking me if I needed help even though several women were already standing around, waiting to do the same.\n\n\"You need to go sit with everybody,\" I whispered.\n\n\"I'm just trying to help,\" Hadi said in the same hushed volume.\n\n\"The biggest way you can help me is by taking care of our guests,\" I said.\n\nAs I watched Hadi walk out of the kitchen, his shoulders sagging from my rebuke, I tried to shake off a sense of extreme exasperation. I had been the one to strike up friendships with the wives of the medical students, to seek out the Muslim community at the Friday prayers held in one of the student's living rooms, and to make the calls inviting over these guests. All Hadi had to do was talk to our company, and now this dinner that was supposed to be about Baba's visit and this food was turning into another one of my assessments of Hadi, another occasion to simmer with regret. I had seen this shyness at my prom. It would have been so easy to let Hadi go then, to explain to Mama that we were not a match. I had wanted an outgoing spouse, someone at ease in a crowd, someone who could fill up a room with chatter like Baba.\n\nThroughout dinner, I glanced over at Hadi, trying to guess what impression he was making on our new friends. It appeared as if he'd made his way into a conversation with a few of our guests, but this didn't please me either. I thought about how slowly Hadi told stories, his habit of including every detail, and I feared that he was boring our company. I imagined our couple-friends going home and talking about us, wondering why I'd picked such a dull husband.\n\nIt startled me that I could entertain such a horrible thought, so cruel and judgmental while flattering myself that I was somehow the better catch, but still I could not banish the idea from my mind until much later that night when all our guests had left and the dinner dishes were washed and then put away. Baba and I had settled onto the de lujo couch in our living room, and he said, \"You are right, Hudie. This Hadi is a wonderful boy.\"\n\nI couldn't imagine how this evening that had irritated me so much had left Baba with such a positive impression. I prodded Baba to show me what my insecurity hadn't allowed me to see. \"He's a bit shy though.\"\n\n\"It's not bad to be shy,\" Baba said. \"Imam Ali used to say, 'Speak only when your words are more beautiful than silence.'\"\n\n\"I've never heard that.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. Sometimes to have the good manners, one must say less.\"\n\nHadi's introversion had always struck me as a burden, something that I had to compensate for with cheery conversation. I had never once considered the virtues of reticence or that people might appreciate Hadi's thoughtfulness and sincerity, the way he carefully weighed everything he said before he spoke. I didn't consider it, because I forgot that Hadi was his own person whenever we were around other people. He became an accessory, completing the look I wanted to project, subject to the same merciless scrutiny with which I studied myself in the mirror.\n\nI scooted in closer to Baba and rested my head on his shoulder. Our conversation drifted into the kind of long silences that I expected when I was with Baba but resented when I was sitting next to Hadi. I puzzled over this stark contrast\u2014the judgment I reserved for my spouse and the clear, uncomplicated affection I held for my family, and I hoped that one day I'd learn to love Hadi with the same acceptance, the same forgiveness.\n\nI decided to take a break between Spanish II and Spanish III to enroll in a two-week certificate course, being held downtown, in teaching English as a foreign language. I hoped that I'd make friends in the class, maybe find a job after, but there was no real potential for companionship among my classmates. They'd all flown in for the course, their sights set on teaching posts in other countries. And I soon discovered that teaching a language had the same boring quality as learning one. It only put me on a different side of the desk.\n\nI knew I didn't want a job where I had to teach English, but I also didn't know what I'd do after I'd taken all the levels of Spanish if I didn't teach. Go back to watching _Santa Barbara_ dubbed in Spanish, to pretend reading the academic book I'd left marked at page fifteen for a month?\n\nDaily I left class feeling more alone than before I'd started. Coming downtown every day had only made me more aware of Guadalajara's largeness and my lack of a purpose within it. Here in the bustling _centro_ nothing was familiar, not the streets, the bus routes, the restaurants, or the shops. Because of the intimidating newness of the downtown, I'd arranged for a taxi driver from my neighborhood to give me rides. Some mornings, I had to call him to wake him up. Some afternoons, he didn't show up, and I had to call him from a phone booth along one of the downtown's quieter cobblestone side streets.\n\nOn the Friday after my first week of class, I called my driver for the better part of an hour, but nobody picked up. A neatly dressed, teenaged delivery boy had seen me on the phone, on his way to drop off a package and again on his way out. He asked me if I needed help, and when I explained about my neighborhood taxi driver not showing up, he said that he had a delivery in my area and offered to take me home.\n\nI wrestled with the idea. I could take a ride from a clean-cut young man, with a friendly smile, who was a stranger, or I could take to the corner and try to flag down another man of undetermined age, size, and disposition who was also a stranger and who would probably rip me off. What was the difference, I rationalized, between riding home with this guy and a taxi driver? At least with this guy, I wouldn't have to haggle down the price or, more truthfully, accept whatever price he named. Even though I had been in Mexico for almost two months, I was still too timid to bargain. The most I could muster was a frown at the driver's fee, and after a reluctant \" _bueno_ ,\" I'd invariably get in the car and spend the entire ride berating myself for my complete willingness to be had. It would be so nice to skip that inevitable sequence this one time.\n\nAnd this guy was cute. It seemed unlikely that such a handsome kid with dark brown wavy hair, neatly trimmed around the ears and neck, and a disarming smile could be capable of anything dangerous. Wasn't there some sort of psychological study that showed good-looking people didn't do bad things? Wait. No. It showed that women, like me, were more likely to think that good-looking men would not do bad things.\n\nI tapped one foot nervously and smoothed the front of my skirt. A few noisy, worn-out cars rumbled past along the rocky road. Maybe I should just ask him if he had any criminal intentions toward me. If I called him on it, he'd be way too embarrassed to try to rob or kill me later.\n\nSo I said the only thing I knew how to say in my Level II Spanish. I asked, \"Is it safe?\" or at least that was what I thought I asked. I might have asked him, \"Are you sure?\" The word for \"sure\" and \"safe\" was the same, _seguro_ , and I couldn't remember if I had used the right form of the verb \"to be\" to convey the correct meaning.\n\n\"Of course,\" he said, waving his hands in the air as if offended by the question.\n\nI knew then I had gotten the question right, but I also felt a sudden twinge of guilt for asking. He was a nice kid, fresh from his mother's hugs and kisses, washing and ironing, and I had just been an obnoxious traveler.\n\nThat was when I got into his car and scooted along the fabric seat toward the door. I put my bag in my lap so I could beat him with it if necessary, clicked my seat belt into place, and then slid my hands around the door's slender handlebar.\n\nMy hands were still there when he looked over at me and asked, \"Are you always this nervous?\"\n\nI eased my grip and said, \"A little. But it is good to be careful, no?\"\n\n\" _Claro_ ,\" he replied. \"I have sisters.\"\n\n\" _Mira_. You understand,\" I said, my eyes fixed on the road. The part of me that feared for my safety relaxed, but another part of me stayed prickly with discomfort. As much as I'd rationalized taking this risk, it did not change the fact that I had little experience being in the company of men who were not related to me.\n\nAt least I picked a good driver. I watched him maneuver his way through the downtown's cacophony of horns and checkerboard gridlock with ease. Not bad for somebody who could've only had his license a year or two at the most. I was terrified to drive in Mexico, but this kid kept one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear, while looking so calm he might as well have been driving a minicar around a track in an amusement park.\n\nHe introduced himself as Antonio and asked me how I liked Mexico.\n\n\"I like the people,\" I said. \"They are very good. I like the architecture. It is very beautiful. I like the food. It is very delicious.\"\n\nI smoothed my skirt again, pulling it taut over my knees. I hated the flatness of my speech in Spanish, its toddler-like simplicity.\n\nWe continued to have a typical local-meets-foreigner conversation, and I arrived home a half hour later unharmed but heavy with guilt. I couldn't tell Hadi I'd taken a ride home with a delivery boy I'd met on the street.\n\nHadi came to the door, gave me a hug, and asked me about my class. My resolve not to mention the delivery guy did not waver, but I itched to pick a fight. I never would've done something like that had I not been put in this position of having to take taxis all over the place, of having to dig for ways to fill up my time.\n\n\"Bad, like usual.\"\n\n\"What's wrong? Did the taxi forget you again?\"\n\n\"Yes, but that's not what's wrong. What's wrong is that I'm taking these stupid classes to teach English instead of being in school, studying history.\"\n\n\"Here we go again,\" Hadi said. \"It's all my fault. I messed up in school, and I brought you here. Is that what you want to hear?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said with exaggerated offense. \"I just want you to appreciate how hard it is to be here.\"\n\n\"You always say that, but there's no way to make up for bringing you here. I could say thank you all day long, but it wouldn't change anything.\"\n\nFor an hour, we went back and forth, with me insisting that this interruption in my schooling was the end of my career, and with Hadi insisting that things would work out. Our argument moved from the doorway to the bedroom to the bathroom. We argued as I washed my face and changed. And then, I gave up. I started the fight, and I was the one to walk away. I said I had to make dinner and left the room.\n\nWe didn't talk the rest of the night. We'd had this argument so many times I should've tape-recorded one, labeled it \"the Mexico Fight,\" and played it whenever the mood arrived.\n\nAfter Hadi went to bed, I sat down in front of our laptop, prepared to send an email full of complaints to a friend about my impossible life. Because our dial-up internet connection was so erratic, we wrote all of our emails in a word-processing program, before logging on and then sending off everything at once. There, I saw that the last saved file was titled \"I love Huda.doc.\" Without contemplating whether or not I was invading Hadi's privacy, I opened it. Filling up an entire page was that one line over and over again. I love Huda. I love Huda. I had heard Hadi furiously typing while I was in the kitchen making dinner. I had assumed that he was sending an email, complaining about me. And this was what he was writing.\n\nIf only Hadi had been merely my boyfriend\u2014not a husband whose future was so tangled up in mine\u2014this gesture might have melted me. I might have sought him out and covered him with kisses. All these years, I'd regarded the temporary nature of a boyfriend with such disdain, but now I understood the value of that kind of a relationship, its appeal. What a gift it was to be able to experience what you did not want in a relationship and then walk away.\n\nThat night, as I drifted off to sleep, I imagined myself married to a man whose ambitions equaled my own, our life together in a prestigious university, never having left the United States. At first it seemed a dream come true, the mutual achievements, the shared time reading, the interest in each other's research, but then I considered what it might be like to be married to someone who had expectations of my success, someone who resented me for holding him back, someone like me.\n\nI sat up in bed and looked over at Hadi. I watched his hand, resting flat on his chest, rising and falling with every breath, and I wondered if being married to me was not the grand gift he allowed me to believe it was.\n\nThe following Monday, I sat on a bench in the Plaza de Armas, glancing up at the circular gazebo at its center, its intricate iron railings and Hershey's Kiss\u2013shaped roof. Hungry pigeons pecked the surrounding grounds in a furious rush, trying to eat their fill before the children, running about, chased them away. In every tree-shaded corner, vendors grasped giant balloon bouquets or stood behind stalls, selling potato chips doused in a squirt of chili sauce and a spray of lime.\n\nA warm breeze pressed against my skin, the sun illuminating the tiny hairs along my arms. If it was possible to fall in love with a location's weather, then it was happening. In the two months we'd been here, the weather was rarely warm enough for me to break a sweat but still not cool enough to make an always chilly person like me uncomfortable. Even when the sky clouded over and burst with rain, it still didn't get cold enough for me to need a jacket.\n\nIt hit me then that if it wasn't for the English course and if it wasn't for Hadi bringing us down here, I wouldn't be downtown right now, enjoying the sunshine's embrace, about to reach into the waxy paper bag in my lap and pull out a hot croissant stuffed with Mexico's creamy goat's milk caramel, _cajeta_.\n\nThat was the problem with Mexico. Every time I tried to write it off as the cause of all my problems, it slapped me with a beauty that made me feel as if I should shut up and be grateful to be here, seeing its sights, tasting its food, feeling its weather.\n\nAfter I'd dusted the last few crumbs of croissant off my hands, I grabbed my bag, crossed a busy street lined with horse-drawn carriages awaiting tourists, and passed through the imposing doors of the cool and musky cathedral. The cathedral's yellow dome and pointed towers dominated the entire downtown. It was a symbol of Guadalajara, its silhouette painted on every taxi, and it was coming to dominate my entire experience of the downtown, too. There was something about the elements of my life that it fused together, giving me hope that there might be some reconciliation for me, an Iraqi American Shia Muslim, in Catholic Mexico.\n\nInside, I felt at home in the warm glow of the candle light, surrounded by the smell of melting wax, comforted by the passionate whispering of prayers. When I'd first started going to Catholic schools, I'd struggled during Mass. Coming from a religious tradition that forbids iconography and the consumption of alcohol, it was startling to attend services with the image of a bloody, tortured Jesus pinned to a crucifix hanging above me, to watch my classmates taking sips from a large chalice of wine. But year by year, I grew accustomed to the Mass, and even though I never actively participated, there were certain songs that touched me, prayers that I had inadvertently memorized, homilies that spoke to values I knew Islam and Christianity shared. Now rather than Guadalajara's cathedral feeling strange to me, it felt familiar, and its statues, crucifixes, and artwork were things that I recognized.\n\nThat afternoon, I stood in front of the glass case holding the statue of Santa Inocencia. She was dressed in a long, frilly communion dress and lying down along a bed of white satin covered in amulets, photographs, and written petitions. The older woman next to me bowed her head and whispered a prayer over her arthritic, interlocked hands. When she was finished, she turned to me and said, \"She is a martyr. When she took her first communion, her father killed her because he didn't want her to accept Christ.\"\n\nI nodded solemnly, as if she were the first person to tell me this.\n\n\"You can pray to her. Ask her for anything,\" she added, her hands still intertwined.\n\nI didn't want to disappoint her, so I lingered in front of the glass case a little bit longer, thinking about this woman and how those very same words could have been spoken by a member of my own family. I could hear my mother, my grandfather, my aunts and uncles referring to one of our Shia tradition's martyrs in the same way, saying, \"Ask them for anything. God may be able to deny you and me something, but He cannot deny them.\"\n\nNow Santa Inocencia brought to mind the story of Ali al-Asghar, the Prophet Muhammad's six-month-old great-grandson. When his father, one of the Shia tradition's most revered saints, Imam Husayn and his army were surrounded in Karbala, they were cut off from their only source of water. Imam Husayn pleaded for a drop of water for his crying son, and the sight of this baby, the Prophet's own flesh and blood, withering away from dehydration made the opposing troops restless. To quell the impending mutiny, an arrow was sent flying into the baby's throat. Every year on the anniversary of his martyrdom, an empty crib is carried during the lamentation rituals in his honor. He, like Santa Inocencia, is a focal point for prayers, for mourning undeserved losses.\n\nA crowd formed around the glass, and I stepped away only to stop in front of a statue of a weeping Mary, robed in black. Imprinted on the placard beneath her was the title \"La Dolorosa, the Sorrowful.\" She was the first mournful Mary I'd ever seen, and she reminded me of the stories of Fatima az-Zahra, Imam Husayn's mother. She is said to appear at every service where her son's name is mentioned. Fatima is our symbol of a bereaved mother, and in Mexico, Mary represented the same.\n\nI felt an affinity here that I hadn't even felt among my MSA sisters. During the winter semester of last year, the religious studies professor who specialized in Islam taught a class specifically on Shiism. Several of my Sunni Muslim friends had signed up, but I could no longer sustain the face of unity that had meant so much to me in our women in Islam class. When my friends raised their hands and argued that the Shia practice of taking to the street and beating your chest in the name of a martyred Imam wasn't true Islam, I had to raise my hand and explain that this was merely an attempt to experience the suffering of a beloved icon and hero. When they objected to the Shia use of human imagery in their art, I had to clarify that doing so was not a form of idolatry but of storytelling and commemorating. When they argued that the Shia regard for their saintlike Imams was incompatible with Allah's oneness, I had to suggest Imams were merely vessels through which one communicated with the divine. But I sensed that here, in this cathedral, no such explanations were necessary.\n\nI continued to wander around the edges of the cathedral, but my mind itched. Mexicans added a mournful streak to their faith that felt so familiar, so Shia. All my life, I had toggled between my school life and home life, feeling too Muslim and Arab in one and too American in the other. But here the dominant culture's rules were not the same ones I'd defined myself against for so long. Here a grandmother had told me to pray, and her devotion had felt like home.\n\nOver the next few months, Hadi and I fell into something of a Guadalajara groove. I finished Level III Spanish, and from it, I gained both confidence in going around the city and an unexpected sense of pride. While Hadi had not quite picked up Spanish yet, he was taking Spanish classes on the weekends and consistently scoring above average on his medical school exams. When he came home, he practiced his clinical skills on me, checking my ears and throat, palpating my abdomen, and listening to my chest. Although we both had diarrhea all the time, this became an ongoing joke between us, an experience we came to refer to as simply \"explosion.\" And, finally, the time I spent with the American wives of medical students, grocery shopping together on the weekends and attending their monthly book club, opened my eyes to two important things:\n\n  1. Marriage was a great equalizer. For all their romantic dates and surprise proposals, these American women still wound up in Mexico, cooking, cleaning, food shopping, and doing laundry just like me.\n  2. Babies were the answer. The majority of the wives were mothers or soon-to-be mothers, and I didn't see them fretting over their stalled careers. I was certain these women spent their days cuddling their glorious babies, never lonely or bored. My own mother had said my brother had cured her loneliness after she came to America. It was so obvious that I should have a baby, too.\n\nBut when I shared my plan with Hadi, he squashed it with unwelcome reason. \"Our lives are so unsettled here,\" he said. \"Do you really want to bring a baby into this? How would you feel if the baby had diarrhea and had to be taken to the hospital for dehydration?\"\n\nI put my hands on my hips to further convey my indignation. \"Just because our stomachs are weirdly sensitive, that doesn't mean our baby will be like that, too. There are plenty of people having babies here, and I only know of one woman who had to take her baby to the hospital with dehydration.\"\n\nHadi looked at me as if he had concerns for my sanity. \"You do know you're not supposed to have kids because other people are doing it?\"\n\nIn a childish, mocking tone, I said, \"Yes, I know we are not supposed to have kids because other people are doing it,\" and because that wasn't immature enough, I accused Hadi of not letting me do anything. \"It's like you're telling me, 'Don't go to school _and_ don't get a head start on having kids.' What is this purgatory?\"\n\nIn the weeks approaching winter break, Hadi and I revisited this argument several times, each time circling around my plans to go back to school, with Hadi saying he didn't want us to have a kid if we were going to put our child in day care in a few years, me arguing that my mom had gotten through school by bringing me to class with a little coloring book, and Hadi concluding with what was another issue entirely. \"Is it really wise to bring a child into a relationship that we still haven't settled into yet?\" he'd ask. \"Most of the time, I'm not even sure you like me.\"\n\nThis question was directly tied to another, more pressing, topic we'd been debating\u2014how we'd divide our first trip back to California. I wanted to go straight to my parents' house and stay the entire break, maybe return to Guadalajara at the same time as Hadi so we could share a cab on our way home. Hadi, on the other hand, believed we should travel together and split the time between both our parents' houses. We were husband and wife, he argued, and that was what married people did. To drive the point home, he added, \"And you want us to have kids? If we had a baby, would you take the baby away from me for a month, too?\"\n\nBoth discussions filled me with the urge to shake him, hard. The precise reason I wanted to go to my parents' house was because I needed a break from being married. If we actually had a baby, then we could talk about the fair way to split our vacation time, but for now, all I wanted was to shop with Lina, dance with Aysar, and giggle all night with Diana and Nadia at a sleepover.\n\nIn the end, I agreed to fly back to Hadi's parents' house a week before we were scheduled to return to Mexico. Hadi tempted me with the possibility of packing up his brother's old car and driving it down to Guadalajara (Hadi didn't want to ruin his car on Mexico's potholed roads). We'd have to share the car, and I'd still take the bus to the Spanish classes I'd resumed taking at the local university, but at least there'd be no more hauling duffel bags of clothes to the Laundromat, no more plastic bags of groceries cutting off the circulation on my wrist while I gripped the pole on a crowded bus.\n\nMy first few days home were a blissful show-and-tell. I showed off the haircut I'd gotten the day before I left, the clothes I'd purchased just for my arrival, my new Ricky Martin CD, and Spanish skills. But the days that followed brought no long-awaited respite from my irritable bowels. No joy in seeing how my friends had moved on with school, work, jobs, homes. No satisfaction when I visited my former professors without any research interests to share. I'd salivated over the idea of being home for weeks, and now that I was here, I felt buried under a heavy, stuporous funk, one that had turned particularly sour right after Mama's weekend phone call with Aunty Najma. Mama had passed along the news that two of my cousins who lived in Lebanon would be studying abroad, one at a university in Scotland, another in England.\n\nAlthough I went through the motions, visiting with friends at sleepovers and girls-only dance parties, I felt cooped up in my head for the remainder of the break, trying to unravel this mystery: if I was the one who was born in America, how had I wound up living the more culturally traditional life?\n\nAt night, I'd lie in my bed, feeling as if my room did not belong to me. I was no longer the girl who'd chosen cherub throw pillows, a print of Victorian ladies in a caf\u00e9, and a wrought-iron bed. All through high school, I had been drawn to all things Victorian; it had been so easy to insert myself into Victorian love stories with all their restrained, unspoken love. But how foolish had I been to not realize that I would have never been the protagonist of one of these stories. I would have been the Mohammedan, the exotic Oriental, or the native savage.\n\nNow more than ever, I wished I was in school so a professor and a class discussion could help me analyze how familial, cultural, sociological, and religious forces had intersected to drive me to this choice I did not own. I wondered if I had an arranged marriage, a forced marriage, a working-things-out marriage, or a marriage reaching its end.\n\nThe last possibility twisted me with heartache. If I attempted to undo my marriage now, the only future I saw for myself as a divorc\u00e9e was manless, sexless, and childless. I questioned the wisdom of throwing away a life with a kind man and an equally promising father when all I really wanted was a do-over\u2014to go back to being the girl who had lain in this same bed, filled with hope for her future\u2014and to choose school over marriage, to choose to live my own life before agreeing to live my life for another.\n\nAs my time at home approached its end, I dreaded seeing Hadi's family, but refusing to go would have required an explanation I was not capable of giving. On the appointed day, I took an hour-long flight to Southern California. Mrs. Ridha picked me up from the airport alone because we'd be going straight to a baby shower for a mutual friend. On our way, she told me that Reem Salaam had gotten divorced. Soraya Ahmed had broken off her engagement and was already engaged to someone else.\n\nI stared off into the crowded highway, my gaze blurring on the glint of sun that bounced off the car in front of us. Reem had gotten married the year before me. I had admired her beautiful dress, the way she'd danced and smiled the entire night. Soraya had announced her engagement six months ago. She must have been as unhappy as I had been, but instead of suffering through it, she'd had the courage to walk away. Now she had the chance to be happy again. Why did she have the strength to leave when I didn't? Did she value herself more?\n\nWith my eyes still focused on the road, words left my mouth, words that surprised me. \"I thought a girl with a broken engagement could never get remarried.\"\n\n\"Why not? These things happen.\"\n\n\"But the way we were taught, it seemed like a girl had only one chance.\"\n\n\"No,\" Mrs. Ridha said, glancing in her side-view mirror as she changed lanes. \"It's not like that. Because you young people were born here, we wanted you to understand the way our people think. We did not expect you to listen to everything we said.\"\n\nMrs. Ridha's words pierced me. My engagement, my marriage, my life in Mexico suddenly felt like a tragic Shakespearean misunderstanding. I'd thought our community's code of conduct was a matter of life and death and God Himself, and the entire time, our parents knew that this wasn't necessarily the case, that they were saying things to keep us away from the dangers to which they assumed America made us vulnerable, but still understood that we might do something else, maybe even expected it.\n\nI wanted answers to a thousand other questions, but even more than that, I didn't want Mrs. Ridha to see me ruffled. So I waited, thinking of something I could say that would make her explain more without giving away the impact her words had on me.\n\nAfter a long pause, I said, \"I don't know if you know this, but Hadi never said anything to me at my prom. He didn't even tell me I looked nice, but I felt like I had to marry him because we'd gone out together.\" Fearing that I'd gone too far, I added, \"Not that it's a problem, but you know, then. That's how I felt.\"\n\n\"Who thinks like that? Of course, we wished you'd marry Hadi. From the moment I met your family, I loved your mother, and I always thought that, mashallah, you're just like her\u2014good in everything. But because I knew your family takes istikharas about these things, I understood that it didn't matter how much we loved you or Hadi loved you. It may not happen.\"\n\nI was quiet. Although Hadi's parents were so similar to mine on paper, they were different in practice. During this year that I'd spent as a part of their family, I was surprised by how seldom they turned to istikharas to make decisions. The Ridhas might have undertaken one a year if at all, but my family made several a day\u2014if not by turning to the Quran, then by counting off on the _sibha_ or prayer beads my father kept in his pocket. They looked to the istikhara as if it were a divinely inspired coin toss. Should I stay home sick today? Should I accept this invitation? Should I take this medication, eat this food, buy this product?\n\nMarrying into the Ridha family had made me see my family's reliance on the istikhara as curious and idiosyncratic rather than devotional, and now it was forcing me to question something so much more painful to doubt\u2014the istikharas that had determined my own marriage. They made me agree to Hadi before he'd even asked for me, before I'd even attempted to make a decision about him in my own heart. In that sense, those istikharas had violated the practice's most basic conditions\u2014that those requesting it be torn by indecision, that they hold a question as an intention in their minds. From the outset, Mama had been clear that these istikharas were hers\u2014that she'd framed the intention from her perspective\u2014and yet I'd accepted their outcomes as if God Himself was speaking to me.\n\nI felt like a fool to be discovering now that the Ridhas never felt they had spoken for me; they had been aware the entire time that this relationship may not happen.\n\nTo my silence, Mrs. Ridha added, \"And yes, Hadi did tell me he never said anything to you at your prom, and I was really surprised. I thought you kids grew up here, you knew what to do.\"\n\nAnd right then, on a greater Los Angeles highway, a view of the world as Mrs. Ridha saw it crystallized in my mind\u2014a world where a mother thought it would be great if her son married her best friend's daughter. It shamed me to think of how willing I'd been to stereotype not just my culture but Mrs. Ridha herself. I'd so willingly accepted this story of being claimed since childhood that I'd failed to see that the trope of the matchmaking mother didn't fit Mrs. Ridha at all. The truth was what it had always been\u2014she truly and sincerely loved me.\n\nMy talk with Mrs. Ridha quelled my restlessness for the rest of my stay. The first few days, Hadi and I gathered the things we didn't have in Guadalajara but wanted\u2014a television for the living room, a stereo, a VCR, and a desktop computer\u2014but when it came to actually packing his brother's four-seater hatchback, Hadi took over. He enjoyed the challenge of making things fit into tight spaces; it was a real-life brain teaser complete with rules he refused to break. No space allowed between objects. No items could go up front by the driver or the passenger. Nothing could block the rearview mirror. Nothing could be left behind.\n\nBefore we set off the next morning, Hadi showed me around the car, proud of every nook and cranny he'd managed to utilize, and then we set off, Hadi's eyes fixed on the road ahead and my eyes fixed on a guidebook that warned of checkpoints, bandits, police officers looking to be paid off, and the general hazards of driving at night\u2014wayward cows, unlit roads, and the lack of roadside assistance.\n\nFor three days, we drove by day and stayed in hotels by night. Every threat we'd been warned of went unrealized, but the possibility of danger draped over us like a blanket that narrowed our world to each other, the cozy security of our car. Hadi and I got along in this world. Here our roles were simple and defined, our living space limited and undemanding. It was peaceful in the car. The views shushed me. Once again, I couldn't complain about living in Mexico when it had brought me to this terrain that wound us through wet, grassy flatlands; tree-studded mountains; lush rain forests; colorful roadside shrines; and small villages with cobblestone streets and brightly painted churches.\n\nBut those days we spent in the car were only a passing reprieve. That winter semester, Hadi and I fell into a turbulent routine. We'd moved into a new apartment after Fernando surprised us with a sizable hike in the rent. We bought furniture, curtains, and a refrigerator\u2014each one a challenge for my developing language skills. I took Level IV Spanish by day, tutored children in English after school, and taught adults at an English language institute at night. But having more to do didn't make me happy the way I thought it would. On the contrary, tutoring and teaching filled me with dread. I didn't want to coax six-year-olds out from under the table or lure them to learn with promises of a cookie. I didn't want to plan lessons for adults who rarely showed up to class and were too tired out by their day jobs to study. And I blamed Hadi for it all.\n\nI was a twenty-one-year-old, facing the monotony of married life without having known the wooing that was supposed to precede it. I was certain that if only the circumstances of my engagement had been different\u2014had I been whisked off on exciting outings and been surprised with a storybook proposal\u2014then maybe I would have been too in love to feel such regret.\n\nOn Valentine's Day and a few months later on my birthday, my hopes rose that the perfect gift or outing would break the spell of constant rumination. But when each occasion opened with Hadi asking me what I wanted to do that day, I felt crushed, as if he was announcing that we were officially a boring married couple, news that was all the more disappointing because we'd never had the chance to be an exciting unmarried couple.\n\nI'd always imagined married life as the beginning of a newer, better me. I would become a woman straight out of the glossy images of a bridal magazine. I'd eat dinner at a table set with matching china and flowers, and this would be my new normal, not dressing up, not playing pretend. I'd load our dishes and clothes into their respective appliances, wearing cute, working-at-home clothes because I'd no longer be the type of person who put on her pajamas as soon as she got in the door. I'd go on vacations at Beaches Resorts, holding hands with my spouse as we emerged from the waves as if we were two gods of joy, casting light on the world with our shiny, toothy smiles.\n\nEven on ordinary weekends, I'd find these bullishly persistent hopes rising. Before we went to bed, I'd think that this was the weekend that we'd wake up early, dress in stylish clothes, and go out exploring.\n\nBut no such shift ever arrived. Our weekends invariably disappeared into all the tasks of self-maintenance. We slept in, we did laundry, we grocery shopped, and we had sex. It puzzled me that this act of intimacy that had once seemed like the ultimate goal of marriage, its reward and its prize, had become part of the routine of living, a constant, like feeding and bathing ourselves. Before marriage, I'd pictured sex as a special event, the ending to a fancy night out, something that required its own attire of satin and lace. In reality, sex was more of a naked activity, ripe with fluids and smells, but unlike every bodily function I'd attended to in the past, this one was a team effort, requiring so much unexpected conversation: \"I can't breathe,\" \"Your elbow is on my hair,\" \"You're squishing me.\"\n\nWhen I had been in school and too busy to pay much attention to our sex life, my eyes were always on the clock, my mind constantly calculating: _If this isn't going to go anywhere, then I've got to find an excuse to get out of this cuddle. If it is, then I've got to get things moving so I can be back to my books in under an hour._ Hadi had complained that I was pushing him away, but I ignored his concerns. I was the first crush, the first girlfriend, the first female body in his life. There was no way I'd ever be able to satisfy that much need, that much want.\n\nBut now that time was no longer a constraint, I found myself marveling at the trickster that was desire. It pulled Hadi toward me even as I pushed him away. It had driven me to do too much with a boy too soon and then stranded me in a relationship and a life for which I was not ready. Maybe if I hadn't kissed Hadi before we got married, I would have broken off my engagement and stayed in college another year, rooming with Aysar, my future still a bright, blank page.\n\nWhat made even less sense to me was that I could be so riddled with regret and confusion and still wrap myself up in Hadi, day after day, week after week. How could I enjoy sex, linger in Hadi's arms after, and then moments later fold up in shame and accuse that same intimacy of trapping us together? Was I some kind of animal, using Hadi, and then released from desire, returning to my senses? Or was this alone some kind of proof that we were in love and always had been? Did my body know something I didn't?\n\nOne Sunday morning that was quickly turning into the afternoon, I rested my head on Hadi's chest, wishing he would say something that would make me forget all the doubts I'd been having, something that would make me believe once and for all that our story together had been a tale of childhood sweethearts, that we'd been drawn together like magnets.\n\n\"Tell me how you always loved me,\" I said.\n\nHadi stroked my hair. \"I've always loved you.\"\n\n\"Even from that first time you saw me when I was only six years old?\"\n\n\"I don't know about that. That was before I'd even started to like girls, but I thought you were nice.\"\n\nI lifted up my head and looked up at Hadi with a disapproving glance. Our lives together could be crumbling, and he still wouldn't just tell me what I wanted to hear. Regardless of the circumstance, he stuck to the facts.\n\n\"Okay, but as soon as you liked girls, you loved me, right?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"So when would that have been? Do you remember the exact moment?\"\n\n\"I know that summer when you guys stayed at our house while I was away at camp, I was jealous that everybody else got to be with you and I didn't.\"\n\n\"So,\" I said, pausing to do the math. \"That would've been when you were going into the eighth grade and I was going into fifth. You loved me then?\"\n\n\"All the boys loved you then.\"\n\n\"And you wished that you could grow up and marry me?\"\n\n\"I wished it every day.\"\n\n\"Did you have dreams about me?\"\n\n\"I did. I used to look forward to going to sleep so I could dream about you.\"\n\nFor a brief moment, the present went quiet, and I could see Hadi the boy pretend-marrying Lina in the park, the small things he'd given me, the captivated way he used to look at me without ever saying a word.\n\nI leaned in and kissed Hadi as if to try on the idea that it had always been him. I plucked away the memories of our families and the pressure of their friendship. I pictured myself falling in love with Hadi of my own accord and willed this revised memory to stick, to become my reality.\n\nFor our first Muharram as a married couple, living at a distance from our families, I wanted to do something that proved we were as committed to carrying on our religious traditions as our parents had been. The only Shia community I knew of was in Torreon, Mexico, over an hour away by plane. Ibrahim had stumbled upon a reference to the community in an academic paper, but I didn't have an address or a telephone number, and there was no trace of the Shia community's masjid on the relatively new internet. All I had found online was the number to an Islamic center in Mexico City and the name of the man who'd founded it.\n\nI was still so immersed in my conservative MSA's culture that I truly believed it would be more appropriate for Hadi to call. Hadi loathed making phone calls in English, let alone in his developing Spanish, but I insisted. \"You're the man,\" I said. \"I make all the other calls here, and I'm just asking you to make this one, little phone call when you are the one who is supposed to be doing the talking.\"\n\nHadi didn't sigh as much as he exhaled forcefully before picking up the phone on his desk. I left the room so I wouldn't feel the urge to tell him what to say. Later, when he came to find me, he had not just the number but also a funny story. \"The guy said, 'Brother, I must warn you that the community in Torreon is Shia.'\"\n\nWe laughed at this glimpse of how the wider Muslim community perceived our tiny sect, and we made all sorts of jokes about what Hadi could have, should have said. \"I know, Brother! I'm a Shia heretic myself!\" Or perhaps, \"All the more reason to go, Brother! These people must be converted!\"\n\nA few weeks later, Hadi and I boarded a small commuter jet to Torreon. After a short flight, we made our way to our hotel where the masjid's architect and founder met us in the lobby. I had to resist the urge to rush him with a hug. Standing before me was a Spanish-speaking Baba, the same height, the same build, the same thinning white hair, and a beard just like the one Baba grew after he came back from his Haj pilgrimage.\n\nHe was surprised by us, too. He took in Hadi without any facial hair and me without a hijab and said, \"I thought anyone who would fly all the way from Guadalajara to come to the masjid would be like the people you see in Iran.\"\n\nI remembered something he'd said on the telephone, how we were welcome to visit the masjid and remember Imam Husayn but that they were a community of Mexicans and that there would be no _golpeando_ , no hitting. Mama's yearly Ashura pilgrimages to Southern California had made traveling for this occasion feel like something ordinary and expected, the very least one could do, but only now did I see how our journey must have appeared to a man in this quiet Mexican town with a Shia community of less than a hundred people who, our host would later tell us, rarely attended the masjid. He must have assumed Hadi and I were spirited with extraordinary religious zeal, the kind of Shia he'd seen in images from Iran, beating our chests and demonstrating in the streets.\n\nHe took us out to lunch where he introduced us to his wife and his unmarried daughter. Speaking in a mix of Spanish and English, he told us the story of his parents' immigration to Mexico in the early 1900s from Lebanon. Like Hadi and I, both he and his wife were born to Arabic-speaking, immigrant parents. They, too, had grown up with a handful of other families that shared their beliefs and found each other in this incredibly small pool of \"people like us.\" He lamented that there were no similar prospects for his daughter in their shrinking community. He, himself, had not been particularly interested in religion until a serious car accident renewed his faith in God. During his recovery, he taught himself to read the Quran by following along while listening to recitations on cassette tapes.\n\nThat night, we met again in the masjid, a simple but beautiful mosque, complete with arches, a dome, and a minaret. The building amazed me; it was so unlike any of the community centers, converted churches, and industrial buildings we had in California. It had taken a move all the way to Mexico for me to finally pray in a proper mosque.\n\nAfter reciting our evening prayers as a group, we sat in the large, open prayer space where I counted eight people besides Hadi and myself. We sat without any partition to separate the men from the women, and taking in the scarves loosely draped over the heads of the few women in attendance, their short-sleeve shirts and ankle-revealing skirts, I was glad I'd left my abaya back at the hotel. I was the only woman in the room to observe the Ashura custom of wearing head-to-toe black as a sign of mourning, and I already felt overdressed in my black scarf, blouse, and skirt.\n\nOur host gave a brief speech in Spanish on the significance of the day of Ashura. He told the story of the battle of Karbala and of Imam Husayn's martyrdom, and although the content of the retelling was the same, the story felt stripped down to its bones without the Seyyid's passionate and sorrowful reading, and his frequent pauses to sob into the microphone. Here there was no crush of crying bodies, sitting shoulder to shoulder; no rhythmic poetry following the sermon, set to the percussion of hands upon chests; no Styrofoam boxes piled high with rice and a saucy, lentil _qeema_ to be distributed after the services.\n\nMama would have wanted me to pay attention to my prayers, my heart heavy with emotion for Imam Husayn, but absent of the rituals that had defined my experience of Muharram, I felt more longing than faith. Without Mama and these familiar traditions, I didn't know what to bring to this day, what feelings, what prayers. I feared that I had gotten married and left home before learning enough from Mama to pass on my language and religion.\n\nEven with our yearly pilgrimages to a community that received a steady stream of arrivals from abroad and that kept Arabic alive on our tongues, I knew less about the Quran than our host who'd grown up in such cultural isolation. What was to stop my kids from becoming just like his daughter, with even less Arabic words lingering around in the corners of their minds, perhaps even less committed to marrying someone who shared the labels that had once defined their grandparents?\n\nMy gaze fell on Hadi seated on the floor, concentrating on our speaker, and I took comfort in our shared identity, in knowing that we'd work together to carry on these traditions. In all my doubts as a newlywed, I had questioned my insistence of marrying an Iraqi, Shia\u2014surely marrying another Muslim would have been enough\u2014but now I saw the wisdom of my youthful prejudice. Hadi and I were bound together by so much more than our shared childhood; we shared the same history.\n\nThe next day, after the short flight that carried us back to Guadalajara, I spilled every memory of our short visit into a disorganized word-processing document. I wanted these scribbles to become my purpose in Mexico. I had an image of this community becoming my future dissertation, my time in Mexico taking on an instant and tangible source of value. But as soon as I reread my observations, the logistics of doing any further research daunted me. I didn't know anything about doing fieldwork, nor did I have the Spanish skills to conduct interviews, and it wasn't as if I could keep flying back to Torreon.\n\nIbrahim could turn anything into research. He would have written a paper on just this weekend's visit, but truthfully, I hadn't wanted to reach for my notebook while I was there as much as I'd wanted to mull over what this visit had shown me about my own identity and all its layers. I wondered if this was a sign that I didn't have the same passion for history, but doubting yet another plan for my future felt as circular and painful as my marriage angst. I had to stay committed to this career path. I had to be certain about something.\n\nI'd found an even better purpose for my time in Mexico than research. Charity work. A wife of one of Hadi's classmates had told me about a woman who'd volunteered the entire time her husband had been in school and about how she'd done so much good before she left. I loved the sound of those words, \"so much good.\" It was the perfect antidote to the sense of aimlessness that had beleaguered me since our trip to Torreon, a way for my time here to have meaning.\n\nIt was the fall, after our first summer visiting California. I'd hung my head in shame when friends asked me what I'd been up to. I heard a voice in my head saying, \"I flew to a mosque in Mexico and took some notes that I don't know what to do with,\" but just imagine if I could have said I had been caring for sick babies in a hospital, building low-income houses, or working with children in an orphanage. These commitments spoke of renunciation and thoughtful choice. They said, \"Yes, you may be in graduate school, but that path is not for me. I've chosen to make a difference in the lives of the less fortunate.\"\n\nAfter weeks of phone calls, I found my way to the tall metal gates of an _internado_ outside Guadalajara where I'd offered to give English lessons to the girls who boarded there. Some of the girls were orphans, but most of them were children of poverty, taking their meals and going to school from the internado during the week and going home on the weekends.\n\nAt the small, metal door to the side of the gate, the director, a brusque, unsmiling woman named Viviana, motioned for me to enter and led me straight to the homework room where twenty-three girls from ages five to thirteen sat hunched over notebooks. As soon as we entered, the girls stood up in front of their chairs and said, \"Buenos d\u00edas,\" in unison. They wore mismatched combinations of hand-me-down clothing. Their eyes covered the entire spectrum of brown, from nearly black all the way down to one pair of striking hazel, and their hair was uniformly cropped just under the ear. My heart swelled. I had never seen anything as beautiful as the faces before me.\n\nGabriela was the first to walk away from her table and take my hand in hers. She looked up at me with deep brown eyes, a nose sprinkled with freckles at the bridge, and asked, \" _\u00bfC\u00f2mo te llamas?_ \"\n\nI told her my name was Huda and nodded when she answered, \"Joya?\" I couldn't take the risk of children mishearing my name. I'd recently been informed by a mortified woman that my first name sounded distressingly similar to _joda_ , the command form of the verb _joder_ , \"to fuck.\"\n\nFollowing Gabriela's move, the rest of the girls abandoned their notebooks on the tables in front of them and surrounded me. Their little hands reached out for my hands and up to feel my hair, and as I answered their questions about my curls, my laundry detergent, and my funny accent, I vowed to stay with these girls until the day I left Mexico.\n\nWhat I didn't know was what I was doing in the classroom with the girls. Not only was I an inexperienced teacher, but I also had no knowledge of how an internado ran, what the children were like, or how they learned. During my first week, every time I tried to organize the girls into games to teach vocabulary, they begged me to write things on the board so they could copy the words into their notebooks. When I relented and threw things up on the board, they pleaded with me to grade their notes and draw them pictures that they could color.\n\nBut in spite of our slow starts, by the end of the week, English fever had swept the internado. There were exchanges in every corner of \"What is my name?\"; \"How are you?\"; and \"Good morning.\" The alphabet song rang through the courtyard. And I was falling deeper and deeper in love with these girls who fought over my lap before class, cupped my chin in their hands, stroked my hair, and caressed my cheek; who performed choreographed dances for me before lunch; and who cried on my shoulder when they missed their families.\n\nAt the end of each day, thoughts of the girls stayed with me. Some days these thoughts soothed my own disgruntled spirit, and I floated home thinking, _To hell with grad school. The work I am doing here is far more important_ , and other days, I came home feeling heavy and lost. I'd spend my evening hours picturing Mariana's broken soles, Lucia's wild cries after a weekend when her mother failed to come for her, chubby-cheeked Carla asking me if she could pretend I was her mother, and Ariana trying to tape her long, stringy locks of hair back onto her head after getting her hair sheared because of lice. Come nightfall, these images wrapped themselves around me tight, squeezing away all hope of sleep.\n\nBut as much as my time at the internado unsettled me emotionally, it quieted me maritally. Being around so much deprivation made me question my right to complain about _anything_. Growing up, I'd shared a home with my parents, siblings, grandparents, and visiting relatives. I'd eaten meals at a dining room table, with family at my side. I'd been educated in private schools, I'd graduated from college, and I had a husband who loved me.\n\nI started to pay closer attention to the things Hadi did. I wondered if they were a kind of love that I had missed. Wasn't it love to irrigate my ears when they grew so clogged up with wax that I could barely hear? Wasn't it love to squeeze out the in-grown hairs on my leg as if we were a couple of grooming chimpanzees? Wasn't it love to wage war against the bands of invading cockroaches that crawled up our drains and into our showers and onto our countertops? Wasn't it love to deal with the cat-sized rat that had been living under our stove when it showed up in the kitchen in search of its next meal?\n\nIn those weeks, my attitude toward Hadi softened enough for him to recognize the change. \"It's like you hate me a little bit less,\" he said one evening after dinner.\n\nI laughed and feigned innocence. \"What are you talking about? I never hated you.\"\n\nA breath of levity had been blown into our relationship, and with that, Hadi took on a new confidence, a willingness to make me laugh. That fall, we'd gotten new upstairs neighbors, an American medical student, his wife, and their three children. Right away, it was clear that we were not going to be instant friends. This couple embodied almost every stereotype about Americans that embarrassed me in Mexico. Rather than attempt to learn Spanish, they spoke English only at a higher volume. Their first order of business was to install a huge satellite on our roof so as not to interrupt their access to American football and reruns of _M*A*S*H_. And, in well-dressed Guadalajara, their children often ran around barefoot and without shirts. Our landlord once inquired, \"Are your neighbors\u2014what do you say? Okies?\"\n\nSound traveled so clearly between our two apartments it was as if both units were connected by giant megaphones. Because we did not want our new neighbors to hear us griping about them, Hadi and I took up something we'd never done as a couple before\u2014speaking in Arabic. Until then Arabic had been a language solely reserved for parents, grandparents, and our parents' friends. Since we'd picked up the language entirely from our elders, our speech lacked youthfulness; we had no slang, no way to sound under fifty. The phrases that came out of our mouths felt as if they'd been lifted directly off our parents' tongues: \"Black on my face\" and \"Long live the hands that prepared this meal.\" To avoid this sudden verbal aging, Hadi had started speaking Arabic with an American accent, and this had me in stitches. Rendering such an inflected, guttural language flat was hysterical.\n\nEvery time a giggle escaped my lips, he'd say, \"You're so cute when you laugh.\" Then he'd add, \"See, I can be funny sometimes.\"\n\nHadi grew so committed to keeping me laughing he agreed to spice up one boring Sunday by trying on all his misfit clothing, the too small, the too colorful, the clothes family members had brought back from abroad with random English words and American cartoon characters, such as Mickey Mouse and Wile E. Coyote. This was something he'd sworn off doing because of the giggling fit it had sent me into the last time we'd cleaned out his closet. Now Hadi tried them all on for me, the thin yellow golf shirt that showed his nipples, the too-tight Lakers sweats, the rip-off Members Only jacket from Iran, and he strutted around our room as if on a catwalk while I laughed so hard on our bed that my sides ached and my eyes watered.\n\nAnd since Hadi had taken up finding ways to make me laugh, the evening he sat me down in front of the television and told me he had a video for me to watch, I was certain it would be a comedy. He'd borrowed _Life of Brian_ from a friend last week, _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ the week before. But now he offered a preamble that confused me. \"I thought this might help us, but you don't have to watch it if you don't want to.\"\n\nA blurry FBI warning later, a sex therapist appeared on the screen, a mousy woman in Sally Jessy Raphael glasses with a billowy poof of blond hair, speaking in hushed, soothing tones about becoming comfortable with one's body.\n\nI gave Hadi a curious look. He put up his hands as if to declare innocence and said, \"It's up to you.\"\n\nI returned my gaze to the screen, perplexed. This man could barely coordinate his special occasion shopping, and he'd planned ahead and actually bought this the last time we were in California. My cheeks grew hot. Hadi had voiced his concerns over my lack of interest in sex, but I assumed the fact that we still managed to do it with some regularity made up for my reluctance. Merely considering otherwise rooted me in my place. I was no longer the sole proprietor of all the gripes and quibbles in this relationship, and to discover this just when I thought things were getting better between us was both novel and terrifying.\n\nI'd hinted to Hadi at the guilt I felt over the intimacy we'd shared before we got married. I'd asked him questions like, \"Don't you think it's terrible what we did?\" and \"Doesn't it make you feel rotten that our parents think we were so good when we were so bad?\" To his answers of \"No. We loved each other, and we were getting married, if not already married in the eyes of God,\" I'd argue back, \"Of course, you don't feel bad. You're a guy.\"\n\nHadi had taken offense to my answer\u2014he said it was as if I was implying men had no judgment when it came to sex and that I continuously discounted the ceremony we did with my grandfather when Hadi truly believed that had sanctioned our time together\u2014but I didn't apologize and admit that the real problem was that I was ashamed. That I believed, as the woman, I should have been the one to push him away. I should have kept the big kiss the DJ requested at our wedding to a restrained peck. And, yet, even without me stating any of this, Hadi heard it all.\n\nThat evening, listening to Dr. Susan discuss taboos and shame, I felt called out for clinging to things that I knew intellectually were not right. I did see my naked self as dirty. I did see sexual desire as something far more sinister than a natural biological drive. I did steal peeks at the clock to make sure Hadi hadn't spent too much time with my stinky _that_. And I never admitted to Hadi (or to myself for that matter) what I wanted or what I liked.\n\nDr. Susan introduced us to three couples who'd be demonstrating the points she'd discussed. Taking a look at the average couples on the screen, I prepared myself to be disgusted by their nakedness but found that I was relieved. These people looked just like we did when we had sex. They changed positions and had bad haircuts, jiggly bellies, and splotchy thighs. This was fascinating, a revelation, the adult equivalent to the book _Everyone Poops_.\n\nI didn't make eye contact. I held onto a throw pillow, and Hadi fiddled with the tangled fringe on the chenille throw blanket draped over the couch's arm.\n\nAfter the video ended, Hadi said, \"I hope you don't think I was trying to say anything with this video. I just thought it might be helpful.\"\n\nThe idea that sex was something that could be \"helped\" overwhelmed me. I didn't want sex to become a point of discussion or an area for improvement. I wanted it to stay relegated to a small, tidy corner of my life where I ideally never had to confront any of my childhood hang-ups.\n\n\"I don't know if you get what it's like to grow up hearing all these things about how a woman is supposed to be around a man,\" I said. \"It's hard to go from being told not to talk to boys and not to be interested in sex to, 'Okay, everything is allowed now. Go have sex all the time.'\"\n\n\"I've never heard that.\"\n\n\"Why would you?\" I said, suddenly defensive. \"You're a man.\"\n\n\"No, that's not what I mean. I just think maybe you're confusing messages for unmarried women with those for married women. We're married. It's good for you to want to be with your husband.\"\n\n\"I know that, but when you've been told 'no, no' for so long, it can be hard to switch that off.\"\n\n\"Okay, but this isn't just about sex. I'd be happy if you touched me more. Anything. A hug, a pat on the hand. I know you care a lot about where we go and what we do, but for a guy, that's how we feel loved.\"\n\nThis wasn't the first time Hadi had told me this, but I'd always dismissed the suggestion as irrelevant. What could touching him more really fix? Now I wondered what would happen if I listened to Hadi for a change, if I tried to offer him something other than steady proof of my unhappiness.\n\nI scooted in next to Hadi on the couch and rested my head on his shoulder. He brought up a hand to stroke my hair and said, \"See, now this is the best. I just want you to let me love you.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I said and prayed that I'd find the way to love him back.\n\nAt the internado that winter, a few of the older girls approached me, first Natalia with her darkly stained two front teeth, then Miranda with her smooth white skin and baby-like whisper, and finally Rosa with her reddish-brown hair and freckled nose. They nudged each other until Rosa asked me, \"We've started preparing for our confirmation. Will you be our sponsor?\"\n\nI'd told the staff that I was not Catholic, but they simply chalked this up to another aspect of my foreignness. I was an American; I spoke English; and I was a Muslim, which was something like being Jewish, _verdad_? But I didn't know how these girls would take to discovering I was different from them in yet another way. I gathered up their hands in mine and said, \"I would love to be your sponsor, but I can't, because I'm not Catholic.\"\n\nThey nodded slowly, curiously. Then Rosa tilted her head and asked, \"Then what are you?\"\n\n\" _Soy musulm\u00e1na_ ,\" I answered, feeling the sense of oddity that had struck me many times before in the girls' company. In America, I was a minority, but here I was a symbol of the United States and the English language.\n\n\"Do you believe in God?\" Rosa asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, and this elicited no vocal reaction, just a shrug and a dash back to the homework room.\n\nMama had asked me on more than one occasion if I had told anyone at the internado that I was Muslim. I'd told her that I'd mentioned it and that they didn't care. The internado may have been a Catholic institution with the girls going to chapel every day and nuns boarding with the girls, but our days were too busy to discuss the faith I practiced at home.\n\n\"You should tell them again,\" Mama had said, \"so they can see that there are good Muslims in this world.\"\n\nBut what Mama didn't realize was that the internado wasn't a part of this world. Behind its tall gates, there was no television blabbing on about the ills of Islam, no internet, no newspapers. (That was until 9/11. Then even those tall gates wouldn't keep one of the girls from asking me during a return visit if all Muslims were terrorists.) At the time, however, I would've had to make the issue of my faith relevant because as far as the internado was concerned, I was just Joya, the _norteamericana_ who wore the same jeans, jacket, and tennis shoes every day because it made her feel guilty when the girls asked her how many shirts, shoes, and earrings she had.\n\nThe internado had done exactly what I needed\u2014it had filled my days and my thoughts with something other than myself. After realizing how behind the children were in their regular school classes, I scrapped English lessons in favor of working with them in small groups on math and reading. Some days, I stayed behind for bath time and for lunch, but this meant I was there long enough to see the director, Viviana, losing her temper and spanking the children or, on one occasion, threatening the girls who did not follow the rules with punishment by electric chair. I was there to watch their bodies freeze in terror while I looked on speechless.\n\nAt night, I dreamed of the internado and confronting Viviana. Some nights, I'd see myself in the office, telling her that things had to change. Other nights, I saw the girls pleading with me to do something. In the mornings, guilt would unfurl inside my chest. I'd tell myself that the only way I could be more useless was by not showing up, but still I struggled to stay awake long enough to get up and get dressed.\n\nI was certain that I was unwell, plagued by some kind of worm or bitten by a traveling tsetse fly. When Hadi was home, I'd pick his brain with questions like, \"Do you think I could have African sleeping sickness? How about chronic fatigue syndrome?\" It never occurred to me that this sudden onset of overwhelming drowsiness might have had something to do with my failure to speak up, with the knowledge that I'd been presented with the first real moral dilemma of my adult life and chosen silence over action.\n\nFinally, I'd get out the door, the hilly walk to the bus becoming more and more taxing each day. A walk that used to take me fifteen minutes took thirty, and as I walked, I'd think about my decision to get married, to give up school, to remain silent in the face of Viviana's ridiculous threats, and these thoughts consumed me with an emotion I'd never had cause to feel before\u2014pure self-loathing. At the bus stop, I'd struggle to catch my breath while an undercurrent of thought babbled below my awareness. _Get pregnant_ , it said. _Then you would have a reason to visit the internado less. The girls would love the baby. You could put the baby in one of those little backpack things and cut your visits to the girls down to twice a week._\n\nOver the last few months, Hadi and I had gone through the last two tapes in Dr. Susan's video series, and although I'd never admit this to him, he was right. I'd needed someone to normalize sex\u2014to separate it from the shame and guilt that had been such a part of my identity as a virgin. None of our issues disappeared\u2014this wasn't a cure by any means\u2014but now that our sex lives had improved, we argued with less tension, less defeatism. I wished somebody had told me to trust that if I gave in to my body more, my mind would get there later; that there was a direct correlation between the quality of our lives in and outside the bedroom; that the more sex we had, the better we'd get along.\n\nAround the same time, I reached the end of my tolerance for the adult acne that covered my face with hard, red welts. It had been a problem ever since I'd started taking birth control pills. Facial products hadn't helped. Switching brands of pills had not helped. I could pretend people didn't notice the red mounds on my face when I was back home because Americans, for the most part, refrain from commenting on a person's appearance. But, in Mexico, a culture where feminine beauty is paramount, maintaining this illusion was not an easy task. Some days I felt as if everyone, from Viviana to my Spanish teacher to women on the bus, had an opinion or a remedy for my affliction. Try oatmeal. Douse each pimple in alcohol. Why is your face still like this? Did you try the oatmeal? Wash your face with a _jab\u00f3n neutro_. Go see the cosmetologist Maria S\u00e1nchez Villa\u00f1ueva at her clinic.\n\nI didn't try everything they suggested, but I did go see Maria S\u00e1nchez Villa\u00f1ueva. She happened to be conveniently located in the strip mall a short bus ride away from my house. She wore a lab coat, called her clients patients and her office a clinic, and offered a wide array of services from waxing to wrapping women in gauze to help them sweat off their weight. On our first meeting, she explained to me that cosmetology was much more advanced in Mexico, and I desperately wanted to believe her. But after a series of painful zit-squeezing facials with one of the clinic's many assistants, I began to question the merits of her treatment. I told Hadi I wanted to see if it would help to stop taking the pill.\n\nMonths later I still had acne but less, and it delighted me to know that I had a chemical-free body that could now safely house a baby. I nursed the fat-chance hope that I could convince Hadi to try for a baby on Valentine's Day. That would be romantic, memorable.\n\nAnd it worked. All of it worked. After I found out I was pregnant, I felt as if my body was a sacred vessel nurturing my salvation. My days at the internado were more tolerable because I knew that soon I'd have reason to cut my hours. Hadi whispered to the baby every night while I applauded myself for choosing such a good father for my unborn child. I followed my baby's weekly development online, doodled little fetuses on paper, thought of names, and longed for the baby who would end all my loneliness, my struggle to find purpose.\n\nTwo months later, I saw the first drops of blood that told me that all this specialness, hope, and relief were threatening to leave me. The results of the ultrasound were bleak\u2014the technician found no signs of life, only an empty sac. The doctor said it was likely a blighted ovum, but still he advised bed rest, saying he'd seen stranger things happen. From my bed, I prayed fervently for a miracle, but every time I got up to use the bathroom, I was met with more blood. Two weeks later, my womb released a small sac that I eyed with horror. It was my twenty-third birthday, and my body had dropped what should have been my beloved in the toilet. Hadi tried to comfort me with science, with the cold, hard truth that we'd never really had a baby to lose, but this only made my grief feel unfounded and illegitimate. I was mourning who we had been when we were pregnant. For ten weeks, we'd been a family of three.\n\nMy miscarriage happened before the start of Hadi's spring break, and we decided to keep our plans to visit our families in California. I wanted to get away from the sadness that had moved into our house, but it followed me on our trip. There was the loss of the good news we'd hoped to deliver, the loss of the baby as a topic of conversation between us, and the loss of the excitement over our new roles, Hadi as dad, me as mom.\n\nWhen we returned to our apartment a week later, the sadness was still there\u2014in every place where I'd slept and sat, and where I lost the baby that never was and never would be\u2014only now it was much worse. Before, my sadness had been tied to hope of a miracle. Now it had taken dread as its companion.\n\nI'd have to go back to the internado, to dealing with Viviana. When I'd started to miscarry, I'd called to say I wouldn't be coming in for a while, but I couldn't bring myself to explain why. Saying the words would've made me weep. Instead, I'd told Viviana I had hurt my back because it was also true. Bed rest had left me with a pinched nerve. Her reply stung like an unexpected slap on the face: \"Don't deceive me, Joya.\"\n\nThe night before I was supposed to go back to the internado, I lay in bed and wondered how I'd face Viviana. Would I finally find the words to talk to her about spanking the girls and her empty threats of dramatic punishments? I feared being disrespectful. Not only was she older than me (I had been raised to never talk back to my elders), but also the spanking issue felt like a murky gray area. As time went on, I'd seen everyone on the staff, except for the soft-spoken Madre, give a child a swift swat on the bottom for one reason or another, and although I had conversations with a few of the other staff members about alternatives to spanking, I didn't know if my role as a volunteer entitled me to do anything more than offer ideas. I bristled at the accounts of Western feminists traveling in Middle Eastern countries, trying to liberate their oppressed women, and I didn't want to be the one doing what I'd accused them of\u2014disregarding cultural context, exporting values.\n\nIn the dark of my room, contemplating all this, my heart did something it had never done before: it fluttered in a way that left me queasy. I got up to get Hadi and found that the few steps to our office had left me breathless. Hadi sat me down in his office chair, took my blood pressure, and listened to my chest.\n\nHadi was not at the top of his class when it came to his coursework, but he excelled in anything applied, such as his clinical rotations and his surgery class. With the bulk of his academic coursework finally behind him, Hadi had a newfound sense of confidence. It was as if he'd been waiting for the chance to learn by doing, rather than reading, his entire life. This was something new for us\u2014Hadi, the owner of a body of knowledge that I benefitted from; Hadi, the one who was helping me. All this time, I had been so preoccupied with what I gave up to come here that I rarely stopped to consider what I was gaining. One day soon Hadi would be a doctor, answering questions and comforting so many of our friends and family.\n\nRemoving his stethoscope's ear tips from his ears, Hadi told me that my heart was racing and that I should skip going to the internado tomorrow and go see his cardiology professor instead.\n\nThree days later, after an in-office EKG, a twenty-four-hour engagement with a Holter monitor, and an echocardiogram, Doctora Gomez, with the strappy high heels and matching beaded necklaces, called me into her office and told me everything looked normal.\n\n\" _\u00bfNo tiene angustia?_ \" she asked.\n\nI thought for a minute and said, \"No, no anxiety.\"\n\nNot one of the storms that had raged in my mind for the last two years occurred to me. Not my giving up graduate school or moving to Mexico. Not my marriage. Not the internado or the miscarriage or the unanswered prayers to save my pregnancy that made me question whether God was the wish-granter I'd believed Him to be. In my mind, anxiety was something a person was aware of, a conscious state of unrest. It had nothing to do with the unsettling, dissatisfied whispers that coursed through my body. That was just my life.\n\nThat summer, I flew home for Lina's high school graduation, torn between a sense of pride and betrayal. She'd chosen to attend UC Berkeley, the same college where my mother had locked the car doors and turned around before my campus tour began. Only five years later and Mama's expectations had changed so much. Mama didn't talk to Lina about marriage or getting engaged with any regularity. If somebody asked of Lina's availability, Mama said things like, \"What's the rush? She's still studying.\"\n\nAs much as I wanted to be done with remorse, this shift in Mama boggled my mind. Lina had been granted the freedom that Mama had raised me to believe was only available through marriage. It was one thing to meet other Muslim women in Mexico, to see how differently they had been raised, but seeing the rules changing within my own family, and after such a relatively short period, filled me with a longing to go back in time.\n\nWhen Lina gave her valedictory address, all I could see was myself on the stage. Five years ago, my mind had been focused on the boy in the audience, on marriage, but it was because of marriage that today I had to smile and tell my former teachers what a wonderful experience living in Mexico was, how I loved the people, the language, when a different truth hounded me. I had earned a high school and college diploma to become a wife to a man whose career path had swallowed mine. I had nothing to show for my time, no advanced degree, no baby. Before I left Guadalajara, Hadi had found out that he had failed the first step of his medical boards by one point, and the news crushed me. No matter how much he excelled in his clinical work, the academics still kept him down. Now Hadi would have to retake the exam, and later when it came time to apply for residencies, he'd stand little chance of getting through the competitive selection process to get his first choice. Most likely, my graduate school plans would have to wait once again, but what hurt more was the overwhelming sense that progress was impossible for me. I took one step forward in accepting my marriage only for some news, a failed exam or Lina going off to Berkeley, to come along and set me even further back.\n\nThat night as I struggled to fall asleep, a haze of unease cast itself over my room. It was an angst I had not yet learned to identify as anxiety. All I knew was that I felt misled. I'd thought following all the rules guaranteed me the scripted life I'd imagined for myself\u2014the accomplished husband, the His and Her degrees, the bright and beautiful children. I had no idea that growing up was not so much the process of accruing a career, spouse, home, and child, as it was this particular journey to reconcile what you dreamed of with what you got.\n\nWhen I awoke, I did my best to disguise my restlessness with makeup and a hair-dryer, jeans and a new top. Diana and Nadia were coming to see me, and for one day, I needed to pretend I was still in college, to forget that I was married.\n\nThat afternoon, Nadia and Diana filled the living room with the kind of laughter that drew their heads back, their long, black, flat-ironed hair falling behind their shoulders. They looked polished, beautiful, and happy. We hugged constantly; we squeezed each other's hands and reiterated how much we'd missed one another, how good it was to be together again.\n\nAnd then we had lunch. Nothing unusual. Just the rice, kabobs, and grilled tomatoes I'd prepared that morning, but it didn't sit well with me. For perhaps the tenth time since I'd arrived, I was hit with diarrhea. My stomach rebelled when I was in Mexico, and it retaliated when I left.\n\nI spent the rest of the evening in the bathroom, missing out on conversation, missing out on my one girl's night of the year. In between bathroom runs, I sat at the end of the sofa, my stomach cramping, my behind sore, and my nose unable to clear itself of that vile odor.\n\n\"Oh, Hudie, are you okay?\" Nadia and Diana took turns asking.\n\n\"I'm fine,\" I insisted and tried to catch where we were in discussing Nadia's applications to medical school, Diana's choices of physical therapy schools, their engagements, and when they might start planning their weddings.\n\nMy gaze landed on Nadia's and Diana's rings. Their rocks could've eaten mine and still had room for dessert. While it didn't surprise me that Diana had the kind of proposal we'd always dreamed of\u2014the fancy dinner, the walk along the ocean, the boyfriend down on one knee while presenting her with a velvet box\u2014I couldn't believe that Nadia, my sister in Islamic rules and limitations, had gotten her dream too. Nadia, the girl who'd been so focused on school, so resigned to consent to whomever her parents' chose, had met a Muslim boy through her Muslim community. And although they'd gotten engaged the traditional way, with both families meeting and consenting, Nadia was in love. \"Oh, Hudie,\" she'd once sighed to me, \"do you ever catch yourself thinking about the moment of Hadi's creation and just thanking God that he exists?\"\n\nListening to Nadia and Diana, I felt last night's thumping ache return. _This is where you should be_ , it nagged. _You should be in school. You should be falling in love and marrying someone now. You should be talking about dresses, and rings, and weddings in the present, not in the past. You should've never had the opportunity to get pregnant, let alone lose a baby._\n\nWhen Nadia and Diana left a few hours later, I made another dash for the bathroom and then returned to the same spot on the couch, now next to Lina and Mama.\n\nMama looked over at me and said, \"Tummy still making you miserable?\"\n\nThat was all it took to beset me with tears that captured my voice. Lina brought tissues, and Mama stood above me, prodding and waiting until I finally sputtered, \"All my friends are happy, and all I have is diarrhea.\"\n\nI heard how funny this sounded, and I released a loud, ugly snort that might've turned into a fit of laugh-crying but didn't. This was my life, my body that I could not trust. Over the last three years, I had been no stranger to self-pity, but tonight was a new low for me.\n\nMama was usually the first person to laugh at an inopportune moment, but she did not so much as giggle. She rested her hands on her hips and released a low, long tsk. \"I thought you were happy seeing your friends. Where is all this coming from?\"\n\nI grabbed another tissue from where Lina sat on the floor, clutching the box in her lap, a stricken look on her face.\n\n\"Mama, I haven't been happy in so long. I just can't take it anymore.\"\n\n\"Can't take what?\"\n\n\"Him.\"\n\n\"What about him?\"\n\n\"He's bringing me down. Look at Nadia and Diana. I'm just as smart, Mama. I should be in school just like they are. It's not fair. You let me get married so young, but this...this is the age I should've gotten married at.\"\n\n\"But I thought you liked Hadi.\"\n\n\"No, you liked him, and I listened to you. You made istikharas for me before I even had a chance to figure out if I liked him on my own.\"\n\nShe sighed and brought a thoughtful fist up to her chin. \"He was so young. I never imagined you'd have problems.\"\n\nI thought of Mama and Baba's almost twenty-year age gap. That was what had been important to my mother, youth. As long as she'd found me someone close to my age, she assumed I would be protected against the things she'd suffered from: the specter of early widowhood, a father who could not keep up with his children, a man who fell asleep at every back-to-school night.\n\n\"Being young also comes with being immature,\" I said.\n\nMama shook her head, and I took this gesture of sympathy as permission to say something bolder. \"Since I can't get a divorce, sometimes I wish I'd just die or he'd die so at least one of us could start our life all over again.\"\n\nAt this, Lina burst into tears. Mama looked over at her. \"Why are you crying?\"\n\n\"I don't want Hudie to be this sad.\"\n\nMama's lips twisted in a tight knot, and her eyes watered. She'd never seen this fatalistic side of me. \"Nobody has to die. You can have a divorce.\"\n\n\"What about, 'Out of this house in your wedding dress and only come back in your kiffin'?\"\n\nMama took the seat next to me on the sofa and let out a sad, slow tsk. \"You kids always take everything we say so seriously. Parents say things to keep their children safe, to guide them to make the right choices, but I don't care about anything more than your well-being.\"\n\nIt was the same sentiment Mrs. Ridha had expressed to me last year, and with it returned the same untethered feeling I'd had in Mrs. Ridha's company. I wished I'd understood the perils of basing my whole understanding of my culture on my parents and their immigrant friends before I got married. I had shaped an entire world from the things our older generation said, but their memories still held the experiences of an entire population of people. Even if those memories were frozen in time, at least they were of a diverse Iraq, filled with both the rich and the poor, law-abiding citizens and errant criminals, artists and scientists, the secular and the devout\u2014whereas I only knew them.\n\n\"I can talk to his parents,\" Mama now added, placing a gentle hand on my leg.\n\n\"I don't want that. I don't want anyone to know until it's official. Not them. Not Baba. We may get over this somehow, but if they know we're having trouble, they'll never forget.\"\n\n\"You don't have to go back. Just stay here.\"\n\nThis suggestion snapped me back into the life I'd left behind, the stuff I had in my house in Mexico and the girls at the internado; even Hadi seemed entitled to some kind of an explanation.\n\n\"No, I have to go back. The one thing I promised my girls was that I would not leave without saying goodbye.\"\n\n\"If you are this unhappy, you really don't have to. You can send them something, call.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, the helplessness I'd felt only seconds ago giving way to a sense of purpose. The girls would not be back from their homes for over a month, but I needed that time to gather my things and talk to Hadi. \"I'll go back and tie up loose ends, and then I will come home.\"\n\n\"Do you want to make an istikhara?\" Mama offered, her tone measured and careful.\n\nI thought another no would emerge from me, resounding and clear, but the prospect of having this decision taken out of my hands was so appealing that I paused. If the istikhara came out good to leave, I'd feel not just validated but vindicated\u2014as if God Himself had given me permission to leave. But what if I got to Mexico and wanted to stay? Would I then blame any future obstacle in my life on my failure to heed the istikhara's warning? And, if it came out bad for me to leave, would I, forever, blame the istikhara for forcing me to stay?\n\n\"No,\" I said with renewed certainty. This time, this decision had to be entirely mine.\n\nMama, however, could not resist the pursuit of closure. Instead of consulting God, she confided in Jidu that I'd been struggling, and the next day, when we were alone in the car, she told me that Jidu didn't like the idea of me getting divorced.\n\n\"That doesn't surprise me,\" I said coolly, my hands fixed on the steering wheel. \"No one thinks divorce is a good idea.\" And as if to drive the point home, I added, \"If Jidu thought divorce was a good idea, he wouldn't still be married to Bibi.\"\n\nMama shrugged as if she was surrendering to me on this point and said, \"I'm just letting you know. You make your own decision.\"\n\nI said that I would, but I could feel Jidu's disapproval taking root in my mind. An istikhara may not have been made, but still a judgment had been rendered, a judgment that I dreaded having to defy.\n\nHow did a woman actually go about walking out on the man she'd been living and sleeping with for almost three years? Would I ask Hadi to take me to the airport for a tearful and sentimental goodbye, a nostalgic last kiss? Or would I gather up all my things in a fit of anger and call a taxi?\n\nDuring my last week in California, I'd thought almost exclusively about how to initiate our breakup. At first, I assigned myself homework. I read through a stack of self-help books on how to save a marriage that were directed to people who'd had previous relationships and gotten married for love and who still complained of infidelity, boring sex, and falling in and out of love with their spouses and in love with someone else. And then I decided to sort out my feelings on my own. Maybe I was meant to lose the baby because God knew we weren't staying together. Now I could go back to school, and even if I never remarried, I could always come back to the internado and adopt one of the girls who didn't have a family. Maybe I'd even meet someone at school, someone who'd accept me as a divorc\u00e9e. From there, I documented all the reasons I wanted to leave. They reached back as long as we'd been a couple and covered all issues from the big, \"You Have No Ambition,\" to the small, \"You Need to Shave on Weekends.\" And it was current.\n\nMama was so concerned by my outburst that she booked Lina on the flight back with me, and then she flew out to join us a few days later. Although their ten-day visit provided a much-needed distraction to ease me back into my life with Hadi, this did not keep me from updating my list throughout their stay. \"You Have Poor Time Management Skills,\" I wrote when Hadi refused to drive Mama, Lina, and me to the beach. After all these years of not studying, now, when my family was visiting, he decided he had to study and would need to drop us off at the bus station instead. \"You Are No Comfort to Me,\" I scribbled when Hadi's open arms were not enough to stop my tears the night after Mama and Lina left. Mama had asked me a number of times if I wanted to go back home with her, and I'd told her that Hadi and I still needed an opportunity to talk. But, reviewing my list, I could not think of any greater proof than this final point that we were not meant to be. Movies and television made it clear that your one true love was supposed to be the salve to your every hurt.\n\nI had no intention of showing this list to Hadi; its purpose was to organize my feelings so that I wouldn't lose my resolve during our breakup conversations. For weeks, after Mama and Lina's visit, I brought up the items on my list, one by one, as if they'd only just occurred to me in the course of us talking after dinner, or before bed, or on weekend mornings, but those conversations wound up being soliloquies rather than dialogues. Because of Hadi's passivity, I could not bring myself to say that I planned to leave, that I'd fallen apart during my last visit home, and that Mama was expecting me.\n\nIt was on a Sunday morning when Hadi's quiet presence during these sessions became intolerable. I was sitting up in bed, and he was stretched out by my feet, his head propped up on a hand as he listened. No comments. No arguments. No solutions. And, most importantly, no anger. This both baffled and annoyed me. Hadi took so much abuse from me. Where was his self-esteem, his will to defend himself? I snapped because it was time. Somebody had to break.\n\n\"What's the matter with you? Don't you get that I want to leave you? And you're just lying there.\"\n\nAnd then suddenly he wasn't. Without a word, Hadi got up and left the room.\n\nAnger rose within me. After all that, Hadi preferred to walk away rather than defend himself, rather than say something, anything, that could save us. Was it any wonder I wanted to leave? I had been so good, so patient for trying so damn hard to get through to someone so thick.\n\nI threw the covers off my lap, and in my nightgown I stormed into the hallway, calling out, \"You do get that I want to leave?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, turning to face me, his expression serious but dispassionate.\n\n\"You realize that if I leave this time, I am never coming back?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he repeated, his tone so even that I wanted to shake him.\n\n\"So that's it. I tell you I'm leaving, and you don't care. You don't even want to stop me.\"\n\nHadi took the steps down into the foyer, unlocked the sliding glass door to the patio, and walked out, slamming the door behind him. From the other side of the glass, I watched Hadi fill up a watering can from the spigot in the wall and carry it over to the plants.\n\nI opened the door and asked, \"You're actually going to water the plants now?\"\n\nAt this, he put down the watering can, stepped inside, and slammed the door shut again so hard the glass shuddered. I stepped back.\n\n\"What do you want me to do? You've been telling me for weeks how you're miserable, how it's all because of me. You want to go, so just go.\"\n\nI didn't know what to make of Hadi's tone. I'd never heard it before\u2014this mix of insult and surrender. I brought my hand up to my mouth and cried because he was right. I had blamed him for everything that was not working in my life, and he was finally angry enough for me to see that I'd taken the most even-tempered person I knew and broken him.\n\nHadi stood with his hands on his hips. He was not moved by my tears, and at this point, I didn't expect him to be.\n\nI took a deep breath, wiped my face, and said, \"I didn't say that I was leaving tomorrow.\"\n\nIn the weeks that followed, I made a number of different lists: Reasons to Stay. Things to Work on at the Internado. How to Fix Hadi and Me. Possible Places to Go for Weekly Date Nights.\n\nAt the top of my list of reasons to stay in Mexico was the internado. I'd missed the girls over the summer, and quite selfishly, I missed the way being around them shrunk my problems down into the realm of the petty.\n\nDuring my first weeks back at the internado, the girls did not fail to deliver generous doses of perspective. First came Gabriela, asking me, \"Joya, why don't you have a baby? You don't want one?\"\n\nI had no intention of bringing up my own baby angst, and so I told her I was waiting until I was older so that I could keep coming there to be with them. Gabriela locked eyes with me from the old plastic patio table where we held our reading group and in one breath said, \"My mom was sixteen when she had me, and she has four kids, and she is only twenty-eight, and she never got married.\"\n\nWhen I proposed the advantages of a different timeline, Gabriela was unfazed. \"But the Virgin was only fifteen when she had Jesus.\"\n\nI tried to convince Gabriela that despite this very special example, teen pregnancy was not ideal, but as I watched Gabriela's attention wander, I realized there was nothing I could say that would undo the reality of a world where women got pregnant at sixteen. Gabriela was eleven years old now. Visible through her T-shirt were the signs of developing breasts. Soon she'd have her first period, and shortly after that, she'd reach the age where she said to herself that it was normal to have sex and babies. As I did this math, something clicked for me. In all these years of blaming Hadi, I hadn't given enough consideration to the sheer power of imitation. When I was in high school, I'd constantly calculated how many years I had left before I reached the age Mama was when she got married and then when she had my brother. After my engagement, I'd thought about those numbers again\u2014married at seventeen, before finishing high school, and three kids by twenty-eight\u2014and felt as if my timing was appropriate. I'd given myself more time to finish school but not too much time that I'd fall behind her in child-rearing.\n\nBut the biggest dose of perspective would arrive the following week, when Elena, one of our new arrivals, ran away. After Mass one Sunday, she took off, charging down a highway full of reckless drivers, overloaded trucks, and speeding buses to an aunt's house. Now the internado would not take her back. The director believed it set a dangerous precedent for the other girls, but her aunt had called, concerned. She could not keep Elena.\n\nThe director asked me to visit Elena and recommend that she stay with her aunt now that the internado was no longer an option, but as soon as I entered their compound of concrete apartment buildings, I realized how foolish this hope had been. Two small boys opened the door to their ground floor, two-bedroom apartment and pointed me toward the kitchen where their mother\u2014Elena's aunt\u2014who appeared no more than twenty-five years old was spoon-feeding her five-year-old developmentally disabled daughter in a high chair.\n\nElena's aunt asked me to wait for her in the front room, where I sat on an aging loveseat under a framed glass box crookedly hanging on the wall. Inside the box was a faded wedding picture of a once carefree young woman and her equally hopeful husband. A yellowing headpiece and veil that had once been pinned alongside the photograph now pooled at the bottom of the frame, next to the pieces of two broken toasting glasses.\n\nThis was not Mama's manila envelope, tidily resting at the back of a photo album, each picture still crisp from lack of exposure. This was not my poster-size wedding portrait, hanging above the fireplaces in both Mama and Mrs. Ridha's home, my dress, headpiece, and veil carefully stored in the closet of my childhood bedroom. The same hopes and dreams had inspired all our attempts at preservation, but our respective memorabilia had met such different ends.\n\nEven though I was surrounded by a tower of evidence as to why Elena could not stay, I still played the role I'd been assigned, asking if Elena could join their family of five and listening to her aunt explain why she could not as if it was not already painfully obvious. The next day, I went to the director, having spent all night rehearsing my plea for Elena to be taken back, only to be told that arrangements had already been made for Elena at an internado for _ni\u00f1as caidas_ , fallen girls.\n\nFor weeks, I turned over the images that had been seared into my memory that day in her aunt's apartment, the frame of shattered hopes and dreams on the wall, the bedroom with bunk beds where Elena and her two cousins had slept, the tender way Elena's aunt had fed her daughter, the way she avoided directly saying Elena could not stay but that she'd have to check with her husband.\n\nFor so long, my thoughts had traveled down two channels, one for all that was Muslim and Arab, and one for everything I'd pegged American, but there was no geography, no identity that promised any kind of a life. All this time I'd been chasing down an American love story that followed Muslim rules when the idea itself was baseless. American culture was not the sole proprietor of any experience, but I'd given it total ownership over love and romance. The only thing that had ever been wrong with how Hadi and I met, or how he proposed, or even me following him to Mexico, was that it didn't meet my expectations, expectations I'd simply made up from years of hearing a single kind of story about love and success. I questioned whether I'd ever truly wanted to divorce Hadi or if I'd merely wanted to force an ending to the tiresome story I'd crafted about us.\n\nThat concrete specific was something I felt as if I could tell Hadi\u2014something I should. On our next date night, I sipped a cold sparkling _limonada_ and said, \"I don't really think about leaving anymore.\"\n\nWe sat in the courtyard to the side of a grand colonial building that had been recently converted into an upscale Italian restaurant. The tent raised above us was trimmed in white lights. Hadi nodded but did not meet my gaze.\n\nI ran a hand along the starched table linens and said, \"I've been thinking that maybe I didn't go to grad school, but coming down here and really seeing what life is like in another country was probably way more important.\"\n\nHadi reached across the table and squeezed my hand without saying a word. I added, \"I don't say this enough, but I'm really proud of you. I may have pushed you to get here, but I've realized that I'm not the one in the room with you taking your tests or examining your patients. I'm not the one who got a perfect score in surgery. You're doing that all on your own.\"\n\nNow Hadi touched the tip of my wedding ring with his index finger and said, \"But I wouldn't have even come down here if it wasn't for you.\"\n\n\"Maybe, but that's not what I am trying to tell you. What I am trying to say is, yes, I helped you with your applications, and yes, I came down here with you, and yes, it was a kind of support, but it was also a burden. I feel like I blamed you for so long that I didn't leave you with any power to feel good about yourself when, really, the things that matter now you achieved on your own.\"\n\nHadi brought a hand up to his chest. \"But I don't want you to discount what you've done for me.\"\n\n\"Okay, but I need to feel like I am lucky to be with you too. And I am lucky. Because you love me and this is just the beginning for you. You are going to be an amazing doctor. I know it. Your patients will be so lucky to have you, and I'm not saying that because I'm your wife. I'm saying that because you're smart. You remember stuff in a way I just don't. After three years of college and all those As, I remember nothing. And you went ahead and read what you wanted, and it all stuck.\"\n\nA waiter in a white dinner jacket slid two steaming platters in front of us, with tiny diced peppers scattered like confetti around their edges, and our conversation was suspended. Hadi and I could've never afforded to dine in a restaurant of this caliber in California. The dessert that arrived shortly after was even more stunning in presentation, three flavors of fruit sorbet nesting in a delicate and delicious sugar cage. I cracked into the shell of my sweet confection and thought about the contradiction I had been to Hadi, both a help and a hurt. How woefully unprepared for the task of marriage I'd been. Nobody ever warned me of the gravity of blending two lives together. Nobody ever told me I'd hold another person's sense of self in my hands, that I'd have the power to both build and destroy the life I now shared.\n\nIt was New Year's Eve, and I was ovulating. Hadi and I were staying at his parents' house with our families\u2014parents, grandparents, siblings, and, now that Jamila had two children, a niece and nephew.\n\nI didn't like having sex at Hadi's parents' house, but I liked it even less when it was this crowded. As a young married couple, we had our own room, but given the sheer number of people staying at the house, staying in one of the four bedrooms guaranteed little privacy. But still it had to be done. Now that I'd made the decision to stay with Hadi, I hadn't been able to get pregnant again. I talked to my doctor about our failure to conceive, but apparently a woman in her twenties had to have been trying for at least a year before anyone would take her fertility problems seriously. Sex was my new homework. I tracked my cycles and then pretended I was interested in sex at the end of every month. I'd have to feign desire while we were getting ready for the New Year's Eve party. It was the only opportunity we had to lock the doors and then shower, and everyone would understand that these were the actions of people who were getting dressed, not having sex.\n\nHadi regarded my newfound enthusiasm for sex with patient bemusement. As soon as I closed the door behind him, he took a breath, puffed out his chest, and said, \"I know. I know. You want my body.\"\n\nWe started out on the bed, but even with the door to the hallway and the door to the shared bathroom locked, I felt too exposed; the bed was too noisy.\n\n\"Get in the closet,\" I said.\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Do you not hear the bed squeaking?\"\n\nStretched out on the floor of the closet, I made the unfortunate discovery that its length was a tad shy of our five-and-a-half-foot average. The door stayed open. Above us, dress shirts, slacks, and coats lined the four walls. Our suitcases were crammed in the corner to the right of our heads.\n\n\"Do you want to have a baby or suffocate us?\" Hadi asked.\n\n\"We're fine. Let's just do this.\"\n\nLying there with the carpet pressed against my backside, I felt that this too was another one of life's milestones that had not lived up to its romantic image. Conceiving a baby on Valentine's Day, after our first time trying, would have been a memory to cherish, but no, it was my destiny to go about it like this, in the closet, rushed and hiding. This was not an act of love but of gardening. Hurry up now. Plant your seed.\n\nThat night at the party, Ibrahim, Lina, and I settled at one of the folding tables set up in the living room. I watched Hadi from across the room as his mom called him back and forth to bring this, take that, repark this car, and so on. He'd grown a goatee over break, and he wore the kind of three-piece suit that was fashionable at the time. He was handsome, sexy even, but something about being in the Ridhas' living room made me restless. It was in this same living room where, as a six-year-old girl, I'd met Hadi, where I'd watched Jamila get engaged, where I'd sat after my first kiss. In Mexico, Hadi was just the man I was trying to make a life with, but here, in this living room, with our wedding picture hanging above the fireplace, so many memories of my engagement rushed back, all the dread and angst, the day when Dr. Ridha asked me if I wanted to leave. Why was I still here? Why hadn't I run when I had the chance?\n\nWhen the time for the countdown arrived, Hadi was standing on the other side of the room, talking to his cousin. I motioned him over to the table where I was sitting, but Hadi stopped behind the chair where his mother sat next to her friends. I waved at him again, but Hadi stood his ground, shaking his head. On the large television at the front of the room, the countdown began. At the stroke of midnight, I hugged my mother and father, sister and brother. During each one of their hugs, Mama asked, then Baba asked, and then Lina asked, \"What's wrong with Hadi?\" Only Ibrahim did not comment, and I could only shrug as an answer because I was confounded and speechless. Something had happened. I just didn't know what.\n\nIt took every ounce of strength I had not to march over to Hadi and scream, \"What's the matter with you?\" For the next two hours, I forced a smile while waiting for our guests to leave and while tidying up with our families, but the entire time my mind shifted between anger, indignation, fear, and sadness. Knowing that I'd pushed Hadi away countless other times made the sting all the more bitter. Who knew that being rebuffed could hurt so much?\n\nWhen the door to our designated bedroom finally closed behind us at a little past two in the morning, my eyes burned and my body craved sleep, but first I asked, \"What happened out there?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" Hadi said. \"You were over there with your family, so I thought I'd be over there with mine.\"\n\nMy jaw dropped open. \"Are you kidding me? What did you want me to do, get up and cross the room just to make the point that I left my family to come stand next to you?\"\n\nHadi sat down on the bed without comment. Memories of our engagement arguments, of his sulky possessiveness over things like who saw me first on our wedding day and what I wore on our honeymoon flooded over me and made me want to cry. \"Why? Why did you have to pick today of all days to do this? It's a new year, a new century on top of that, and we just tried to have a baby. Did you ever think, 'Maybe now's not a good time to hurt my wife's feelings'? 'Maybe I can bring up my concerns to her later rather than make our mothers and sisters and God knows who else wonder if we are having marital troubles'?\"\n\nI covered my face with my hands and groaned just imagining the rumors. Newly married couples in our community were minor celebrities. People watched the bride to see how she was holding up, they watched the couple and tried to guess if they were happy with each other, and, most importantly, they waited for news of their first baby. When I came home on break, people regularly asked me if I was expecting, and when I said no, they always asked why. To my stock answer of \"It's in God's hands,\" an aunty once asked me, \"Are you using something or not?\" I could hear the rumors that would start after tonight, that I'd asked Hadi to stand next to me and he didn't, that our relationship was in trouble and that was why Hadi and I didn't have a baby yet.\n\n\"You've got me thinking that we're just too messed up to be having kids,\" I said.\n\nHadi took my hands off my face and pulled me next to him on the bed. \"You don't have to take it to such an extreme. I just saw you over there, and I felt like you didn't make any effort to be with me. It's always me who has to come over to you.\"\n\n\"Really, Hadi? I know I'm difficult about a lot of things, but you're difficult too. Look how much you read into that moment. I was just sitting there because that's where I was sitting.\"\n\nHadi put his arm around me. This was one aspect of our lives that was less complicated in Mexico because we only had each other. There were no sides to retreat to where we could complain about our problems. Maybe we would have had more issues as a couple if we'd stayed here, negotiating our lives around our two families.\n\n\"You could have come over to me,\" I said into the curve of his shoulder where my head now rested. \"You could've said something, invited me to come be with you. Anything but just standing there, leaving me hanging.\"\n\nHe kissed the top of my head. \"I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Tell me, how come when I think things are better between us, they're not? When will our problems really be fixed?\"\n\nIt shook me to think that I'd made the decision to stay with Hadi and start a family, but that my renewed commitment had done so little to spare us conflict.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by 'fixed.' I think we're fine. People argue and get over it, and it doesn't have to mean anything.\"\n\nThe possibility of an argument not having to mean anything about us as a couple had never occurred to me. I analyzed every conversation and fight we had, but I did not question my mind's constant dissection of our daily lives.\n\nThat night, in spite of the late hour, it took me a while to fall asleep, my thoughts more troubled than angry. I hadn't realized that I'd replaced one ideal with another. I'd believed that accepting my marriage came with its own version of a happily ever after, a place where all our arguments were a thing of the past, where all our problems as a couple were resolved. I wondered how many other fictions of love still lurked in the corners of my mind. How liberating it would be to finally let them go.\n\nGuadalajara was the only place I'd ever lived where it was colder inside during the winter than it was outside. A chill clung to the mud walls and tile floors, but this nippy breeze didn't prevent life from carrying on as usual at the internado. The girls still showered and dressed in stalls with curtains that billowed in the wind. They still combed their wet hair in the courtyard. And I still got off the bus in a T-shirt, only to throw on a sweater after I arrived, to brave the draft.\n\nBy April, the cold gave way to warmth. At the orphanage, the girls and I now sat without sweaters, toasty but nowhere near hot. I was making progress not just with the girls' lessons, but I also had finally found the courage to talk to Viviana about trying out different discipline methods. I still was not pregnant, but I was far too distracted to be concerned. Hadi had come home from school the week before and called me to the door, his tone as excited as if he had a dozen roses hidden behind his back. He told me he'd been given permission to do his last year of medical school at the General Hospital in Tijuana. We could move back to San Diego as soon as classes were over in June. In the fall, he'd commute across the border, and I could finally start taking classes again. There wouldn't be enough time for me to start a PhD program before he had to apply for his residency, but maybe I could squeeze in a master's.\n\nI'd listened to him with too-good-to-be-true skepticism. After three years of dealing with the university's inconsistent policies, I didn't believe this was any more likely to be happening now than when Hadi told me he was going to try to apply for it three months ago. But Hadi was not the type to get excited about anything before it was a sure thing, and he responded to my doubt with insistence. \"This is happening. I'm not the only one going. Two other guys are doing it too.\" He dropped his backpack to the floor and added, \"You can start packing and selling our stuff tomorrow if you want.\"\n\n\"I'm having a hard time believing you.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\nI stared at him for a second. \"If this is true, I have to see if I can still apply to programs.\"\n\n\"You should.\"\n\nI nodded thoughtfully, doubtfully.\n\nHadi took my hands in his. \"Just think. No more going to the grocery store to pay our bills at the register. No more disappearing electricity. No more roaches. No more diarrhea.\"\n\nHadi was finally rescuing me, and the pride that lifted his voice was something new and endearing. He deserved to know he had made me happy. I believed this. I felt this, but when I opened my mouth, I said, \"And no more ni\u00f1as.\"\n\nI wanted the next thing out of my mouth to be, \"We can't go. Let's just stay here for your last year so I can be with the girls,\" but I couldn't say it.\n\nTo my surprise, Hadi offered it. \"We could stay if you wanted.\"\n\nHadi loved San Diego. He pined for its coastal highways and ocean views. It bothered me that given the chance to go home, Hadi was still so eager to please me that he couldn't see through the game I was playing with myself\u2014this pretending I didn't want to go so I wouldn't have to admit how much I did. I released Hadi's hands after a gentle squeeze and said, \"No, we should go.\"\n\nIn the weeks that followed, everything that was once so intolerable became precious. Oh, you funny old bus driver you, passing me up on the street. Oh, you grouchy guy at the bank who never smiles at me when I change money. Oh, medical school that wanted a photocopy of Hadi's grade school report cards and junior high school diploma, you I will not miss, but to you I am most grateful. Thank you for giving my husband this opportunity, and for now finding me a way to go home, and yes, thank you for inviting us to your end-of-the-year dance. Even though your formal parties have always struck me as a bit sophomoric, now we'd be delighted to attend to say goodbye.\n\nThe evening of the dance, Hadi and I went out to dinner with a few other couples before heading out to the university campus. As we took the steps up to the hall, I noted how formally dressed the Mexican students were. The women wore long cocktail dresses, and the men wore pressed suits. It reminded me of my prom, with my ostentatious custom-made dress and Hadi's rented tux.\n\nNow Hadi wore black slacks and a white button-up shirt with no tie. I wore a fitted top with a shiny skirt and open-toed heels. My hair was not stacked up on top of my head as it had been at my prom, but blow-dried straight and resting on my shoulders. We were a far cry from any \"Lady in Red\" fantasy, and this was a relief to me, a point of pride even. We'd finally grown up.\n\nAs we walked in through the double doors, the pulsing Latin music blaring from the loudspeakers enveloped us. I spotted a Puerto Rican couple from Hadi's class, on the dance floor. The boyfriend spun his girlfriend around, and they laughed before resting their foreheads together. I felt a tug on my heart. They were so beautiful, their movements perfectly synchronous, but how foolish had I been to think Hadi and I could have danced like them, as if the magic of being young and newlyweds had the power to transform us from two children who'd grown up in households where dancing in public was practically forbidden into people whose bones had rhythm.\n\nWe settled in with our group at a table off to the side of the dance floor. Waiters came around with beers and with shots of Tequila. Hadi and I were the only ones at our table who did not reach for a drink. As our friends sipped, I tried to resume our conversation as if nothing had changed, but I felt uneasy. I always felt uneasy around alcohol.\n\nA group of the wives got up to dance. \"Come with us,\" my closest friend among them, Danette, said.\n\nI was about to say no when Hadi said, \"Go.\"\n\nI looked at him and asked, \"Really?\"\n\n\"Just go.\"\n\nI followed Danette onto the dance floor, but as soon as my feet landed on the waxy, wooden floor, they felt heavy, as awkward and as cumbersome as they would have felt in combat boots. Danette and the women with her formed a circle and started to clap and sway, but my legs wouldn't budge. I felt too exposed. After all this time dreaming about dancing, it finally dawned on me that I didn't want to dance in public spaces as much as I wanted to blame Hadi for not allowing it.\n\nI whispered an excuse to Danette and returned to our table.\n\n\"You're back so soon?\" Hadi asked.\n\nI shrugged. \"I felt silly.\"\n\nHe put an arm around me, and I felt cozy and secure, like I did during our quiet dinners together when we ate at the coffee table and watched movies on the couch. Now I understood what a good feeling that was.\n\n\"Let's go,\" I said.\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, knowing that soon we'd be home to our same couch and our same television, but that tonight would be different.\n\nI spent a week preparing for my last day at the internado. I wrote a letter to each girl, telling her how much I cared about her, everything I hoped for her future. I made cupcakes and goody bags filled with candies and small toys.\n\nOn that day, each group had class at its scheduled time. While the rest of the group was busy inside with cupcakes and coloring, I called out the girls one by one to take a seat at one of the two patio chairs I'd set up outside the door. There, I gave each girl a goody bag and read her letter to her. Some of the girls blushed with pride, smiled, and gave me a tight hug. Some cried on my shoulder. And then there was Daniela. It would be too simple to say that she cried. When I started to tell her what a sweet and wonderful girl she was, how proud I was of all the progress she'd made, and how certain I was that she would succeed, her face lit up, and then it fell. She rested her head in her hands and sobbed, her shoulders bobbing up and down. I pulled her into my lap and told her I meant everything I wrote, that she was very special and that I would always remember and love her. And then she looked up at me and said, \"Ay, Joya, who will love us like you?\"\n\nThe urge to stand up and say, \"That's it. I've changed my mind. I'm not going,\" overwhelmed me. The girls would cheer, and I'd finally have a grand, cinematic resolution to at least one chapter of my life. But I knew this ending was not only impossible; it was also inaccurate. I'd never been the hero, saving these girls. They'd always been the ones rescuing me from romantic love's grip.\n\nBy the time I finished saying my farewells to each girl, I felt heavy but empty all at the same time. I returned to my small classroom and stacked up all the white patio chairs in a corner. No one would be coming up here for a while. In the closet, I organized all the books, crayons, and notebooks, and then I said a little prayer that it wouldn't be long before they were used again. I gathered my backpack and my cupcake trays, took a deep breath, and walked out the door. No last look. No lingering in the doorway. I couldn't.\n\nAs I neared the bottom of the staircase, I heard singing coming from the chapel, and as soon as I stepped into the courtyard, I saw pictures and letters taped to every post. To the background of the girls' voices, I walked the perimeter of the courtyard, pulling down each of their letters. Daniela had drawn me a diamond ring. Above it she wrote,\n\nJoya, I hope you will return very soon because I want to see your beautiful green eyes and I want to tell you more than anything that finally in my life, I found a heart full of love. I love you. Come back soon.\n\nWhen I had finally made my way around the courtyard, I was standing at the chapel door. The Madre, in her white linen habit, turned to the girls and said, \"Let us raise our voices and thank Joya for all the love she has shared with us.\"\n\nI had barely made it past the doorway when the girls turned and surrounded me in my last group hug. I knew that I would not remember the words to their song but that the beauty of their voices and the touch of their hands would stay with me always. It was this thought of the girls no longer being in my present but shifting into my memories that unleashed the tears I'd been holding back all day. I looked around at the circle of arms that enveloped me, the mud walls, the small wooden pews, and the large cross standing at the head of the chapel and wondered what I could do with my life that would rival the fullness I knew now. Maybe I wouldn't start the master's program I'd been accepted to in San Diego. Maybe I would go back to school to get the skills to work with kids just like these. Maybe I would become a mother who no longer doubted that was enough of something to be.\n\nWhen I finally left, Hadi was waiting for me outside the internado gates. We went home and finished selling off our last few items of furniture, our bed, our desks, and our refrigerator. And then I stood back and let Hadi pack our remaining belongings. I watched him lay out everything we wanted to bring in the car, study their shapes, put some things in, and take others down. The process took two days, but now rather than fume over how long Hadi was taking to pack, I saw something in this, a gift for visualizing spaces. Hadi's mind held images\u2014the inside of the car, a human body, a computer. My mind held only words; it made lists and told stories. And for the first time in our lives together, I understood that this was a good thing, that our different minds complemented each other.\n\nHadi and I left Guadalajara at dawn on a Tuesday morning. He drove, and I read street names off the map because I could never find where we were until we'd already passed it. Somehow Hadi made sense of the clues I dropped him, and we got to where we were going. Together.\n\nI've always believed the best thing about being a writer is the company I get to keep. I am profoundly grateful to my writing community, the mentors and friends who have supported and encouraged me over the years. Susan Muaddi Darraj was my first writing teacher and the proof I needed that Arab women can, indeed, write. Neal Chandler taught me to treat my writing like a profession and founded the workshop that connected me to a wonderful group of early readers and to masterful editor Charles Oberndorf, whose feedback has been my personal master of fine arts. Developmental editor Jane Rosenman offered the definitive diagnosis on what was missing in this book and has been an ongoing source of advice and direction.\n\nMy writing soulmates, Laura Maylene Walter and Jennifer Marie Donahue, are behind my every publication. Nothing is good enough until Laura and Jennifer read it, and I see them on every page of everything I write. Deonna Kelli Sayed has been a dear writing-friend and also a tremendous resource on bookselling and literary festivals. John Frank, Nouran Hashimi, Margari Hill, Narjes Misherghi, Tracy Niewenhous, and Lynn Ameen Rollins read early drafts and shared invaluable perspectives. Adrienne Brodeur, Saadia Faruqi, Bayley Freeman, Zareen Jaffery, Honor\u00e9e Fanonne Jeffers, Soniah Kamal, Molly Nance, Aisha Saeed, Sabaa Tahir, and Jen Waite all offered much-needed encouragement and support at critical moments. Faith Adiele and Jasmin Darznik generously offered not just their time but also their names to my project. Ayesha Mattu and Nura Maznavi, editors of the anthology _Love, InshAllah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women_ , published the first excerpt of this memoir and also created the most supportive community for their writers. I hope this book will carry on the much-needed conversation they started. And, I am so very thankful to Aspen Words and Cuyahoga Arts and Culture, with the Community Partnership for Arts and Culture, for their generous gifts of fellowships.\n\nTo the agent who finally chose me, Myrsini Stephanides, thank you for representing this book better than I could have myself. Your confidence in this book and in me as a writer has been nothing short of a dream come true. To Maile Beal and others at the Carol Mann Agency, thank you for all your tireless efforts on my behalf. Suzanne Kingsbury, thank you for teaching me how to articulate and share the message in my own work. Liz Psaltis, thank you for showing me how to navigate my way in the world of book marketing. Christina Morris, thank you for my beautiful new website design, and Missy Chimovitz and Mariana Velez, thank you for making my book cover a love story in itself. And, most importantly, thank you to Steven L. Mitchell and all the wonderful people at Prometheus Books, Bruce Carle, Jeffrey Curry, Hanna Etu, Mark Hall, Jill Maxick, Lisa Michalski, Liz Mills, and Catherine Roberts-Abel, for being the change-makers we need in the world. Whatever I hoped to say with this book would be nothing without the champions, like you, getting my work into readers' hands.\n\nWriting a memoir takes an entirely different kind of a toll on a family, and I would not have had the courage to send this book into the world were it not for the unwavering support of my parents and siblings, my in-laws, my husband, and most recently my children. (When they were younger, their support was only made possible through the assistance of many wonderful babysitters. For sticking with us the longest, I thank Emilie Sandham, Angie Allison, and Maggie Sabolik.) A special thank-you to my sister for cheering me on during our nightly chats and to my brother, the dynamic professor Ibrahim Al-Marashi, for not only marking up my drafts but for also always pushing me to situate my work into its wider historical context. To my dear husband, I owe a completely different kind of gratitude. This book has made him privy to thoughts no spouse should ever have to see let alone share with the world, and I thank him for embracing my purpose and vision for this project with such grace and generosity.\n\nI don't know many writers who were not blessed with wonderful teachers, and in this regard, I have been incredibly fortunate. Most notably, Rosanna Little, Dr. Sita Anantha Raman, and Dr. David Pinault laid the foundation for the work I was able to do here.\n\nFinally, I offer my deepest and most heartfelt thanks to my readers, for allowing my words space in your mind. We live in a busy world, chock-full of entertainment choices, and I am so honored that you chose to spend these hours with me.\n  1. Cover \n  2. Title Page\n  3. Copyright Page\n  4. Dedication Page\n  5. CONTENTS \n  6. Author's Note\n  7. BOOK I\n    1. Chapter 1: Husband Potential\n    2. Chapter 2: Muslim Love\n    3. Chapter 3: A Girl Like That Won't Stay\n    4. Chapter 4: A Small Island of Unity\n    5. Chapter 5: Beaten by Devotion\n    6. Chapter 6: A Divine Crystal Ball\n    7. Chapter 7: This American Rite of Passage\n    8. Chapter 8: See Me at the Prom\n    9. Chapter 9: A Big Family Secret\n    10. Chapter 10: Marching Toward Marriage\n    11. Chapter 11: Lunch Company\n    12. Chapter 12: A Sudden Thrill of Control\n    13. Chapter 13: The Engagement of Our Children\n    14. Chapter 14: Say It Loud\n    15. Chapter 15: Sins for No Good Reason\n    16. Chapter 16: Every Choke, Sob, and Sniffle\n    17. Chapter 17: The Sting of Regret\n    18. Chapter 18: Women in Islam\n    19. Chapter 19: A Day for Me and the Girls\n    20. Chapter 20: The Proof of Our Youth\n    21. Chapter 21: Crises A, B, and C\n    22. Chapter 22: A Bride Is with Us\n    23. Chapter 23: Love Her, Boy, Love Her\n    24. Chapter 24: Biology\n  8. BOOK II\n    1. Chapter 25: A Big, Fat Arab Stereotype\n    2. Chapter 26: Trying to Make a Life\n    3. Chapter 27: The Aspiring Doctor's Wife\n    4. Chapter 28: An Edible Identification Card\n    5. Chapter 29: I Love Huda.doc\n    6. Chapter 30: A Matter of Life and Death and God Himself\n    7. Chapter 31: Shia Heretic\n    8. Chapter 32: The Love I Missed\n    9. Chapter 33: A Family of Three\n    10. Chapter 34: How to Fix Hadi and Me\n    11. Chapter 35: Fictions of Love\n    12. Chapter 36: As If by Magic\n  9. Acknowledgments\n\n  1. \n  2. \n  3. \n  4. \n  5. \n  6. \n  7. \n  8. \n  9. \n  10. \n  11. \n  12. \n  13. \n  14. \n  15. \n  16. \n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51. \n  52. \n  53. \n  54. \n  55. \n  56. \n  57. \n  58. \n  59. \n  60. \n  61. \n  62. \n  63. \n  64. \n  65. \n  66. \n  67. \n  68. \n  69. \n  70. \n  71. \n  72. \n  73. \n  74. \n  75. \n  76. \n  77. \n  78. \n  79. \n  80. \n  81. \n  82. \n  83. \n  84. \n  85. \n  86. \n  87. \n  88. \n  89. \n  90. \n  91. \n  92. \n  93. \n  94. \n  95. \n  96. \n  97. \n  98. \n  99. \n  100. \n  101. \n  102. \n  103. \n  104. \n  105. \n  106. \n  107. \n  108. \n  109. \n  110. \n  111. \n  112. \n  113. \n  114. \n  115. \n  116. \n  117. \n  118. \n  119. \n  120. \n  121. \n  122. \n  123. \n  124. \n  125. \n  126. \n  127. \n  128. \n  129. \n  130. \n  131. \n  132. \n  133. \n  134. \n  135. \n  136. \n  137. \n  138. \n  139. \n  140. \n  141. \n  142. \n  143. \n  144. \n  145. \n  146. \n  147. \n  148. \n  149. \n  150. \n  151. \n  152. \n  153. \n  154. \n  155. \n  156. \n  157. \n  158. \n  159. \n  160. \n  161. \n  162. \n  163. \n  164. \n  165. \n  166. \n  167. \n  168. \n  169. \n  170. \n  171. \n  172. \n  173. \n  174. \n  175. \n  176. \n  177. \n  178. \n  179. \n  180. \n  181. \n  182. \n  183. \n  184. \n  185. \n  186. \n  187. \n  188. \n  189. \n  190. \n  191. \n  192. \n  193. \n  194. \n  195. \n  196. \n  197. \n  198. \n  199. \n  200. \n  201. \n  202. \n  203. \n  204. \n  205. \n  206. \n  207. \n  208. \n  209. \n  210. \n  211. \n  212. \n  213. \n  214. \n  215. \n  216. \n  217. \n  218. \n  219. \n  220. \n  221. \n  222. \n  223. \n  224. \n  225. \n  226. \n  227. \n  228. \n  229. \n  230. \n  231. \n  232. \n  233. \n  234. \n  235. \n  236. \n  237. \n  238. \n  239. \n  240. \n  241. \n  242. \n  243. \n  244. \n  245. \n  246. \n  247. \n  248. \n  249. \n  250. \n  251. \n  252. \n  253. \n  254. \n  255. \n  256. \n  257. \n  258. \n  259. \n  260. \n  261. \n  262. \n  263. \n  264. \n  265. \n  266. \n  267. \n  268. \n  269. \n  270. \n  271. \n  272. \n  273. \n  274. \n  275. \n  276. \n  277. \n  278. \n  279. \n  280. \n  281. \n  282. \n  283. \n  284. \n  285. \n  286. \n  287. \n  288. \n  289. \n  290. \n  291. \n  292. \n  293. \n  294. \n  295. \n  296. \n  297. \n  298. \n  299. \n  300. \n  301. \n  302. \n  303. \n  304.\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Begin Reading\n  3. Copyright Page\n  4. Dedication Page\n  5. Contents\n  6. Acknowledgments\n\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Fra Keeler - Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi (retail)"}, "text": " \nFRA KEELER\nCopyright \u00a9 Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi, 2012\n\nAll rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.\n\nFirst Edition\n\nISBN: 978-0-9844693-4-5  \nEbook ISBN: 978-0-9844693-6-9\n\nArt on cover: dead tree \u00a9 Elijah Burgher, 2012\n\nUsed with kind permission of the artist\n\nDesign and composition by Danielle Dutton\n\nPrinted on permanent, durable, acid-free recycled paper in the United States of America\n\nDistributed by Small Press Distribution\n\nDorothy, a publishing project\n\nPO Box 300433, St. Louis, MO 63130\n\ndorothyproject.com\nFRA KEELER\n\nAZAREEN VAN DER VLIET OLOOMI\n\nDOROTHY, A PUBLISHING PROJECT\n1. \"It's on the edge of a canyon,\" the realtor said, raising his eyebrows when I offered to buy the home without having looked at it first.\n\n\"Fine,\" I said, though I wasn't sure exactly what the realtor meant. Then I didn't say anything for a long time because I was thinking of Fra Keeler's death. And it seemed the realtor wanted to repeat what he had just said, his eyebrows even more tense. \"Some things aren't worth looking into,\" I said, and the realtor's eyebrows slackened a bit. Then I asked, \"Where are the papers?\" \"Here they are,\" he said. \"I'd like to sign them,\" I said, and he pushed them across the table with his middle finger. What an ugly finger, I remember thinking while I signed the papers, and then I got up and left.\n\nWe are said to die of one thing on paper, but it is entirely of something different that we die, I thought as I left the realtor's office. And it is dangerous to take the discrepancy between the two for granted, what one actually dies of and what one is said to have died of on paper; there is hardly ever a correspondence. And I'm thinking now that some people's deaths need to be thoroughly investigated. I'm more than certain that I thought this then, too, as I left the realtor's office, but the thought wasn't as highly illuminated in my head. I'm thinking now, it isn't every day one comes across a death that is especially timely and magnificent, for example Fra Keeler's death. And then, one really has to wonder, one has to begin to think, to retrace the mental footsteps of the deceased person, e.g., Fra Keeler, since the chance that such a timely death would remain unexplained on paper is that much more significant.\n\nAnd it is true that certain events of the unfriendliest category are now unfolding. I cannot put my finger on these events; I cannot pinpoint the exact dimensions of their effect. The truth is, I haven't been the same since Fra Keeler's death. Some deaths are more than just a death, I keep thinking, and Fra Keeler's was exemplary in this sense. And it is the same thought since I left the realtor's office: some people's deaths need to be thoroughly investigated, and, Yes, I think then, Yes: I bought this home in order to fully investigate Fra Keeler's death. And now that I own it, the home Fra Keeler used to own, I'm beginning to witness certain events. I can't help but think: he died just in time, Fra Keeler, he must have known certain things to have known to die just in time. Some deaths can only be understood in relation to the events that proceed from them. People pretend it is the affairs that lead up to a person's death that are most important. That life accumulates up to a point, the point at which one does one's dying, and that nothing after that is relevant to the life one leads. But no, I think. And the word No moves across my mind the way the realtor's finger inched its way across the desk. Things are illuminated retrospectively, I keep saying to myself. And it is these unfriendly events that will tell me the most about Fra Keeler's death. Only, they are still forming, they are still taking shape. I am only beginning to put my finger on them, as directly as the realtor put his finger on the papers when he slid them across the desk.\n\nIt is not for nothing that the reels in our minds start revolving at a speed we might find difficult to bear. And timely as it was, Fra Keeler's death raises questions unanswered by hospital records, or any other death-related paper there is. Hospital records do not reflect the whole truth, nothing close to it. How is one to make sense of the facts that are listed when the deceased person's place of birth and death are so distant from one another; how is one to know how the person got from one end of the earth to another? And more odd things are listed in the margins. Occupation at time of death\u2014surgeon, butcher, logger, office clerk, etc.\u2014listed on the one hand, and burial, cremation, removal, etc., on the other. It is not as if the person died in the midst of performing their job, or perhaps they did, perhaps they had a cardiac arrest while harvesting trees in the forest, and they looked up and thought, I am a logger, and then dropped dead. What an absurd list of facts. There are no complete sentences; how is one to conclude anything from a death certificate? And the reasons given for Fra Keeler's death are nothing short of nonsense, and if they do make sense, their sense is limited. Everything is listed as plainly as a chicken lays its eggs. All the death-related records indicate the same thing, they all point to the same condition. I have leafed through them all, traced Time and Place of Death with my finger\u2014but who, I keep thinking, who would undertake such massive coordination, who would want to hide Fra Keeler's connection to the unfriendly events? Sheet after sheet the same thing is written, which means the same thing must be read: Fra Keeler died of lung cancer, cancer of the lungs, pulmonary cancer. And the handwriting is always the same, a low squiggly line resembling rolling hills with a dark horse or two traversing them. Cancer. Fra Keeler died of pulmonary cancer. And it's a squiggle, a line. Nothing else.\n\nBut no: I lied. To be fair, I omitted, I didn't lie, there is one record that does not match the others. There is one discrepancy. And how could I not have seen it before? The unfriendly events cannot hide forever. I must look for incongruities; I must probe them with my finger. The truth always gives way; I have heard the saying\u2014hovering beneath one's nose. And it is true. I found the truth in the drawer. I opened the drawer and it was simply there, a sheet of paper like any other sheet of paper. Except a little tarnished on the edges, a little yellowed here and there. The ink smudged in certain places, so that I could tell which keys, while the document was being written, had been held the longest on the typewriter. But the words can still be made out. One never needs all the letters to make out a word\u2014the word is there in the brain, an image of it one can pull into the light, and ah, one thinks, ah, that is the word that is written there, Death Certificate, and then Palma de Mallorca next to Place of Death.\n\nQuite suddenly I am confused. Some things, I keep thinking, are unprecedented. And what can a person do? The name, Palma de Mallorca, as if it were a ghost, has taken hold of my tongue. Pal-ma, I keep saying, Pal-ma. The word lingers in my mouth, hums in my brain. I see myself opening the desk drawer as I opened it that day. I must have seen the paper and returned it to the drawer right away. Shut it out of my mind. Why else would it take hold of me this way? Things creep up on us when we deny their existence. And of all the papers, it is the only one that reads, Palma de Mallorca, Place of Death. The words peel off the page to sing brightly before my eyes.\n\nI must retrace.\n\nIt was a few days after I had moved into the home, this home I had just bought thinking it belongs to Fra Keeler. Though I am now beginning to suspect that I am wrong, or that there are two Fra Keelers, the right one and the wrong one, and that the death certificate in the drawer belongs to one, and the rest of the papers to the other, but this is a matter for later. In any case, I had just moved in, I was grinding beans for my morning coffee when I spied from the kitchen window behind some trees a small, circular wooden cabin\u2014a yurt. From where I was standing in the kitchen, behind the sink, looking through the window, it seemed the door to the yurt was unlatched. It was swinging to and fro against the wind. I decided to go and have a look. I crossed the yard and walked through the trees I had seen from the window. Their branches, interweaving, made a huge tapestry above me, and then, as if from nowhere, it was sky again: the trees were behind me and I was standing in a clearing with the yurt directly in front of me. It all seemed quite sudden, for when I was standing behind the sink and looking through the kitchen window the yurt seemed to be appearing from another time altogether, it was as though the yurt had traveled through time to make a momentary appearance and I couldn't reconcile this feeling with how close the yurt was to the house when I ventured toward it. There it was: right behind the cluster of trees. And the door to the yurt was creaking loudly, since the wind had picked up in the time it had taken me to walk toward it. I pushed the door all the way open and stepped in. It was pitch dark inside. No light from the world was creeping through. I still had a box of matches in my hand since right before spotting the yurt I had wanted to light the stove to make my coffee. I lit one, the wind blew. I lit another and held it right above my face, where one would hold a portable torch if one had one, and saw rows and rows of shelves on the walls. I wanted to walk toward them, but there was something obstructing my path\u2014it looked like a wooden canoe, and then I saw an oar and the match blew out. I couldn't confirm anything. I lit another match and looked down at my feet. There was, in fact, a canoe, and I stepped into it and out of it on the other side, the wall side, and came close enough to the shelves that I was able to touch them. They were dusty. I was holding the match in my other hand, and I could see things only in small portions as I held the light of the match up to them. I must get out, I thought. And then the wind slowed and I could hear the leaves shuffle in the low breeze, outside, just beyond the yurt. \"There is a reason for everything,\" I said to myself, \"a reason for having come to the yurt.\" And then his name formed in my chest: \"Fra Keeler,\" I murmured, I hummed, the wind picked up, \"Fra Keeler,\" I said, and his name poured from my lips the way water pours from a fountain, in long streams, uninterrupted, and just as I said his name I was standing out in the clearing again.\n\nI noticed the leaves on the trees looked greener, as though the bark had bled into them. I didn't know how long I had been inside the yurt. The sky was heavier now, a morbid color; I could feel it pressing against the back of my neck, folding me down to the ground. I pressed back against it and walked as quickly as I could through the trees. The air grew cold, and then quite suddenly everything was wet with rain. It was as though a tap had opened in the sky. Water was dripping off the leaves, pouring in streams, the way his name was pouring from my lips, uncontrollably, when I stood in the yurt.\n\nHad I fumbled my way out of it without knowing? I turned around to look beyond the trees. I wanted to see it again, to confirm its existence. I looked hard through the clearing, to where the yurt had been. My boots were caked with mud from the rain. There was a streak of lightning. The yurt flashed before my eyes. I heard the door swing open. It blasted hard against something, the canoe, I thought, the hinges on the door must have loosened in the wind. I couldn't see clearly. I looked again through the trees. I was squinting in the wind. I looked down at my hands, to see if they were still dusty from the shelves, but they had been wiped clean by the rain. Water was pouring, violently coming down through everything. My face was burning now in the cold rain. The yurt flashed again before my eyes, silver and radiant in the lightning. But it was an image of the yurt, an instant, a flash, nothing else. It was I who was reproducing it there, an image of the yurt I kept projecting. Blood was swirling in my brain. I looked again, but this time nothing appeared, and I ran through the yard, toward the house. I pulled the storm door open. Inside, everything looked the same. Only it was a little dimmer than before, a dull, gray light had settled around the edges of things, and the countertops seemed heavier; all the machinery of the kitchen seemed older in the gray light, and rounder, more anchored into the ground.\n\nInside, I rested against the sink. I was panting. I reached to turn on the tap; water gurgled, then flowed in steady streams. Everything was in order: the coffee grinder, the cup, the sponge with which I had wanted to wipe the counter. I looked again, through the window, to the other side of the trees, into the clearing that lay beyond them, but could see nothing. Only the wind thrashing the branches of the trees. And it was then his name rose again to my lips. \"Fra Keeler,\" I said, though this time more exasperated than before; I was wheezing from the wind, and I could hear myself hissing his name under my breath, \"Fra Keeler,\" I rasped, \"Fra Keeler,\" I said again, until I was hissing like the wind.\n\nI awoke hours later. It was pitch dark and there were papers strewn all around me. I remembered standing by the sink, watching the trees thrash around in the wind. I looked on the floor. My clothes were scattered about here and there on the tiles. I had undressed myself. I sat up and reached across the floor. My clothes were still damp from the rain. There was a musty smell in the house, like something old had crept in and settled itself in the furniture, on the countertops, in the cabinets, between things. My head was throbbing. Any minute now, I thought to myself, it is going to explode. I couldn't remember falling asleep or undressing. The last visible point in my mind was the kitchen sink, myself standing over it, looking through the window for the yurt. I couldn't understand where all the papers had come from. I couldn't remember carrying anything back from the yurt. In fact, hadn't I looked down at my hands, weren't they empty? The papers did a wild dance around me, the room turned and turned. I closed my eyes. I drifted.\n\nI woke up again hours later. It was light now; a very clear day was coming. The sun's rays were bronze, that early morning orange color, and they were piercing through my window. I lifted my head. I saw the papers again. Certain words were illuminated by the light creeping through the window, and the rays of the light, firm as needles, were pointing out certain words to me, and I thought, this is a clue, this is a sign. I lifted my head off the ground a little more, and it was pulsing, as though two hearts were about to leap out of its sides, but it wasn't throbbing like before. The room was steady. I reached across for my clothes. They were dry now. I put them on and leaned over the pages. Propped up on my elbow, I was halfway off the floor. I looked at the words with the needles going through them: the Netherlands, I read, and I thought: the Netherlands, low lands, lower lands, under something. And in such a handwriting: a low squiggly line resembling rolling hills with a dark horse or two traversing them. I followed the handwriting back and forth across each page. The words cancer, pulmonary cancer, cancer of the lungs, poured out toward me. And there it was: next to the Netherlands, the words Place of Death. Fra Keeler, I thought: he died of cancer in the Netherlands.\n\nAnd I had to retrace again.\n\nThe papers, how had they come to me? But then the doorbell rang. It made the sound of a large rock hitting against hollow metal and the sound was violent through my brain, and I had to get up because I couldn't chance it ringing again. I fumbled across the living room and down the hallway to the front door. It was the mailman. He looked pink and happy and I could tell that someone had just ironed his clothes, a very loyal wife, I thought. The creases were perfect, straight lines and angles down to his sleeves. I leaned against the door.\n\n\"Hello,\" I said. I was still dizzy; my head was still throbbing a little.\n\n\"Hello,\" he said back. And then he handed me a package. \"Here you go,\" he said. \"Good day, sir,\" he said.\n\nI said, \"Yes,\" more in the form of a question than a statement. And then I took the package from him and saw that he looked slightly confused. And I was forced to say something. So I asked, \"Do you hand deliver the mail every day?\"\n\n\"No, that's a special package,\" he said. \"You have to sign for it.\" And right as he said the word special, he placed his hands on his hips, and puffed up his stomach, as if saying so gave him a feeling of buoyancy.\n\nI looked down at the package. It said EXPRESS in big, bold letters. \"Oh,\" I said, \"I see,\" and signed for the package.\n\nHe turned to leave, a little less light in his eyes than when he had first announced himself, and I wondered, what have I done to deflate him? Just as I was thinking this, he stopped, not quite facing the post office truck and not quite facing me either. He tilted his head to one side and opened his mouth like a fish, to show that he was thinking. Then he sucked in some air and puckered his lips a bit, but nothing came out, only silence. I watched him, a bit stunned and a bit weary, until he prepared to leave again, placed one foot behind the other and rocked backward and forward, not in a cautionary way, but to suggest that he was still thinking, that what he had wanted to say was still on the tip of his tongue, that he was just turning it over in his head. Then he tapped the tip of his shoe on the pavement as though his whole body was an exclamation point and came out with it:\n\n\"Those are some nice plants,\" he said.\n\nI was surprised. If that's what he had wanted to say why had it taken him so long to say it? Maybe he had wanted to say something else, something along the lines of you don't look so good, Mister, but had regretted it, shoved the thought and all the words that went along with it back into his head and said the thing about the plants instead.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said without a pause because I didn't want him to know I was thinking all those things while I was watching him. \"Cacti,\" I said, \"they're my favorite.\" He walked down the driveway alongside the prickly plants, inspecting them sidelong. I took a step out of the doorway and thought, this is no ordinary mailman, and watched him some more.\n\n\"They don't take much,\" I said as though I were speaking from my chin, because I was holding my head up high and looking down at him and it was difficult to move my lips while holding my face in that manner. But he didn't say much in return, so I said, \"They're easy to take care of, especially in this weather.\" He just nodded his head yes, like he was still deep in thought, and I couldn't tell anymore if he was thinking about the plants or about the thing he had wanted to say but had never said. And then he climbed into his truck, and I caught a glimpse of his hand releasing the brake, of his foot pressing the gas, a limp foot on the accelerator. I saw his arm go up and I followed the crease of his shirt from his shoulder down to his hand. He was waving goodbye. What a fat hand, I thought from the doorway, because I had stepped backward into it now. With his limp foot he pressed on the accelerator and did an about-turn with the truck and left.\n\n\"What a strange man,\" I said to myself, and closed the door and the living room darkened. I looked up at the ceiling, a high ceiling with a dusty skylight. I debated for a second whether I should dust the skylight or just let it be what it wanted to be: a surface for dust to settle on, a dust town. I decided it was better off the way it was and let it be. Anything that's been a certain way for long enough is difficult to alter, and any alterations to it could be interpreted as nothing short of a manipulation, either by the thing being altered or by the person doing the alteration, even if all you're talking about is dusting a skylight, I thought, and went back into the kitchen. The papers were still strewn about on the floor as they had been ten minutes ago when I had gotten up to open the door. I walked over them, one leg then the other, carefully; I didn't want to step on them. But then the room started to turn again, ever so slightly. Curse of the kitchen, I thought, or these papers, and then the blood rushed out of my brain and returned again, a mere second later. It occurred to me that this time I could have gone dizzy because of the skylight. Or more precisely because of my thoughts about the skylight. It always makes me queasy to think of manipulation as a general category, I thought, and bent over to pick up some of the papers. Maybe if I stack them, I thought, and managed to stack the papers without the blood swirling again in my brain. When I bent down to stack the papers, I thought the sensation I had had in my brain earlier was the same sensation I had once felt when I shook a pomegranate near my ear. Or, not exactly a sensation, but a sound. That when I shook the pomegranate it had made the same sound as the sound my blood made when it swiveled in my brain, and that both sounds led to the same sensation: of something having dissolved where it shouldn't have. I went over the memory, from when I picked up the pomegranate to when I shook it near my ear: I had squeezed the pomegranate by rolling it, had pressed into it with my thumbs, juiced it without cracking it open, because it's the only way to juice a pomegranate without any special machines. All the juice was swiveling about inside the shell of the pomegranate, channeling its way around the seeds the way river water channels itself around driftwood. When I put the pomegranate down I could still hear the juice working its way around the seeds that were dead without their pulp. I had squeezed the pomegranate till the pulp was dead. I could invent a machine to juice pomegranates, I thought, and not just pomegranates but persimmons too, some very basic, cheap tool people could use in their homes, and then I imagined a thousand people, all wearing their house slippers, juicing their pomegranates and persimmons for breakfast, and I thought, never mind, no doubt someone has already invented it. I took the stack of papers that I had collected off the floor, along with the package, and placed them on the counter. To one side, I thought, to one side to be done with them.\n\nI decided to open the package the mailman had delivered. I went over to the stove, because that's where I keep my butter knives, right next to the stove, and I wanted to use one so I wouldn't have to bother peeling the tape off the box, because it bothers me to watch the skin of the box come off with the tape. It's a death worse than the pomegranate's, to be skinned alive. But then again, it's just a box, I thought, and not a person, and if I wanted to I could go on like that forever, about all the different mechanisms of dying, all its nooks and crannies; I could create some kind of death pyramid, and there would be a pyramid for each object, and every kind of person too, and from top to bottom I would figure out the range of deaths each thing or person could suffer, from unlikeliest to likeliest cause of death and be done with it once and for all. Then I told myself either to shut up or drop dead and took a drink of water from the sink and looked out the window.\n\nBut my heart stopped because it was a clear day and I could see the trees, very round and close. Somewhere in the back of my brain I heard the door of the yurt creak shut. Suddenly there was a faint smell of rust in the air and I could hear the hinges on the door creaking, but I couldn't see the yurt. Everything dimmed in the peripheries, the way everything dims when the sun gets blocked by clouds, and its rays are cut off, instantly. I looked around. There wasn't a rusty nail or old hinge anywhere near me and as soon as I thought this the smell faded, retreated back into whatever mystery it had emerged from. I was beginning to grow dizzy again, and thought, the oxygen in my brain is being sucked out by whatever is on the other side of that door, and then his name crept up, Fra Keeler, but I managed to push it down because I remembered the mailman looking at the plants sidelong, and then his name crept up and I managed to push it down, pink and happy as a shrimp that mailman, I thought, and then his name crept up again, sidelong, and I felt compelled to stare at the trees because in addition to oxygen trees are supposed to give you peace and quiet, and maybe that's what the mailman was thinking when he was staring at the plants sidelong. \"They really do accomplish their objectives,\" I said to myself, those trees, and his name crept up, because the leaves on the branches are good to look at, bristling in the breeze, shivering\u2014giving a small shudder and then staying still\u2014and his name crept up, and I remembered the butter knife and grabbed it and walked back over to the package and pressed the knife against the tape just like I had wanted to, and sliced the tape through and the flaps opened and I pushed them down, wings of an underdeveloped bird, I thought, and his name crept up.\n\nInside the package there was a bright pink flyer. Nothing pushes things out of the mind like reading, I thought, and read the flyer. Welcome to Ancestry.com, it said, his name didn't creep up, but something else did, something old and stale, a thing like a worm; not a worm itself, but shaped like a worm that had died inside me and that I needed to throw up. But I couldn't throw it up because I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was, and I thought the hell with this, the hell with the package and the flyer and decided to go out to buy some beans because one can never have enough beans in storage. I grabbed my jacket and stepped out, but the sky darkened in a strange flash and it was purple instead of blue and I thought I don't need the beans after all and turned around to go back inside. But just as I stepped through the doorway I heard the voice of the mailman behind me. He was saying something about the nature of plants, but I couldn't quite make it out\u2014that they were sensitive or prickly or a combination of both\u2014and I turned around to see what it was he was saying, but it was dark, because the sky had gone purple, and my eyes were still adjusting so I couldn't see anything. When my eyes adjusted I saw that no one was there; just pitch silence and the sky, vast and heavy as a rock.\n\nI stepped back inside, swung the door shut and turned the lock. I looked up at the skylight: it hadn't changed, not a trace of purple, and I thought, it's dirty... it's too dusty... but I didn't want to have any redundant thoughts so I didn't look at the skylight for long. I just stepped inside the kitchen, very matter-of-factly because that is how you move on. I went straight to the package and picked up the flyer and placed it face down on the countertop, and I thought it strange that a Web-based company would be using regular mail to introduce itself, and the thoughts about the skylight were gone. I dug further into the package.\n\nUnder the flyer there was a series of instruction manuals. I flipped through the pages, not one by one, but the way you would shuffle a deck of cards, using your thumb and index finger, so that all the numbers go flying by and start to blend together because you see the six so quickly after the nine, or the jack of clubs so quickly after the queen of hearts, and so on. At any rate, I flipped through the first manual this way. How many manuals could the company need to explain its services, I thought. And out of the corner of my eyes I caught the words flying and put them together in my head to make a sentence because some words organize themselves predictably into sentences. What they were getting at was a list of suggestions. How to determine who would be the most lucrative person with whom to start your research. It seemed the ancestor with the most public life would yield the most information, because I saw the words public life so soon after the word yield, and by a public life it seemed they meant a life at the center of which there was a war, because then a list of wars flew by, right under my eyes, from the Civil War to the First and Second World Wars, and the Vietnam and Gulf Wars too, and I thought, these people, whoever they are, are obsessed, there's more to a public life than wars, and dumped the manual in the trash and closed the lid on it.\n2. The phone rang persistently. I let it ring a few times. Imagine, I thought, the possibilities on the other end. Another seed, all of this leading to Fra Keeler. Fra Keeler, I thought, and his name did an about-turn in my mind. I reached for the receiver. Death, I thought, it is so sudden. I picked up the receiver. One minute, I thought, one is going along, \"Hello,\" I said, and the next, there is nothing with which to do one's going along, because one is horizontal somewhere, or lying dead in a pit, \"Hello,\" I said again, but there was no one on the other end, or floating downstream in a river, I said, \"Hello,\" one minute, I thought, and the next; it must be the mailman, stubborn horse of a caller.\n\nBut why would he be calling me? The mailman. I glanced over at the package. The wars, I thought, the mailman. And the wars spun in my brain like numbers in a lottery bowl, blasphemy, I thought, the mailman. He must have seen me throw the wars in the trashcan. And it wasn't only him who could see me, I thought, because with my mind's eye I could see him, sitting on a solitary chair holding the receiver with his fat hand. \"Hello,\" I said, and thought, his hand is like a boiled lobster. \"Are you calling about the wars,\" I thought to ask, but there was no one on the other end. Not a word out of his mouth. \"Cat got your tongue,\" I said to him, \"Mr. Mailman.\" And my ears got hot. I cursed him: \"Dumb as a lobster,\" I said, \"you are, Mr. Mailman,\" and hung up the receiver.\n\nA minute later the phone rang. This time I picked up right away, half a ring, nothing more, and heard a clicking noise on the other end. An automated voice came on: \"Welcome to Ancestry.com,\" it said, and I said, \"Thank you,\" and hung up the receiver. And then the phone rang. I picked up right away, half a ring, nothing more, a load of white noise on the other end, \"Welcome,\" the voice said, and I felt my mouth fat and milky around my tongue. I thought goats, a thousand goats, walking across my mind, milk the goats, I thought, and they kept walking across my mind. \"Welcome to Ancestry.com,\" said the voice, and I thought what the hell is this, and I threw the receiver against the wall and then the phone rang, two rings, nothing more. I picked up, \"Welcome to Ancestry.com,\" the voice said, \"Press one.\" I said, \"You piece of shit mailman,\" and heard the words come out of my mouth. \"Welcome to Ancestry.com,\" said the voice, I hung up, and then the phone rang.\n\n\"How can we assist you?\" It was a real person now.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I said. The mailman, I thought, playing games with me now.\n\n\"We would be happy to be of assistance if you have any questions,\" he said, \"sir,\" he said, swallowing to smooth out his voice.\n\n\"Assistance, sir,\" I said, \"I think I'm fine.\"\n\n\"In the event that your research is not progressing at an acceptable rate,\" he said, \"sir,\" picking up force in his voice now.\n\nWhat madness is this, I thought. \"Thank you,\" I said, and hung up the receiver.\n\nAnd then the phone rang, two rings, nothing more, \"Press one,\" it said, the voice, and then the phone rang. And I thought, the mailman, the goats, the trashcan, the wars, and the voice started again, \"Welcome to Ancestry.com.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"Sir, thank you.\" It was a real person now.\n\n\"We would be happy to be of assistance if you have any questions,\" he said, \"sir,\" swallowing now.\n\n\"Assistance, sir?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"in the event that,\" and he was getting ready to increase the force in his voice and then the phone rang. \"Welcome to Ancestry.com,\" it said, and I thought what madness is this, and the wars started spinning faster in my brain, a long list of wars flattened against the sides of my brain. And I thought: it hurts: the words, and then the phone rang and my blood was boiling so I threw the phone against the wall and shattered the receiver, and I thought the hell with this, the hell with the seeds and the connections, and crawled onto the couch and went to sleep.\n\nIn my dream I could see the receiver. At first it was huge, monumental. I felt my eyes were inside my brain, small as pearls. Then slowly my eyes got bigger. The size of marbles and then a pair of dice, they rolled back into my sockets, and it was as though my eyes had their backs to the receiver, so that the receiver got smaller and smaller, until it was tiny, curved like the tail of a lobster and I was very far away, with my eyes in the right place looking out of my brain. Then it faded. The receiver faded and my eyes rolling around the receiver faded and it was all world again and I was just a person in it looking out of my brain: I was in a theater. There was a woman on stage. There were red lights in the background; they cast a dull, pinkish hue over the stage. She said \"Come closer,\" the woman on the stage, and I thought she said \"Fra Keeler,\" but I couldn't be sure so I got up and walked closer. It was dark, even under the pink light in the theater, and an acid smell took over, then it was her face, and she said, \"Come closer,\" and I thought she said \"Fra Keeler,\" and I walked closer, and she said, \"You did this,\" pointing at her face, and I said, \"No, no I didn't,\" because I could see her face was burnt. Hardly anything left of it. And she said, \"You did this,\" as she continued to point at her face, and I thought, this is a monologue, she is performing, and then again she said, \"You did this,\" pointing at her face, and I said, \"No, no I didn't, you did this to yourself,\" and then she covered her face with a black cloth and walked off stage, and I thought, it's mother talking to me in my dreams. I wanted the curtains to go down so I said \"Curtains\" but they wouldn't go down, and all I could hear was, \"You did this, you were the one who did this to me,\" and I woke up and immediately drew the curtains and outside everything was as calm as a sparrow\u2014the sun, the trees, the grass, the mailboxes: it was a new day.\n\nI opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The dream, it was a flash in the pan, just an instance. I stared at the sidewalk, the plants, all in a row in the soil. I thought of the mailman, his pink, happy face staring at the plants, and the word sidelong inched its way toward me like a worm. Plants, I remembered thinking, they are good to look at, and I had thought this ahead of him, the mailman, because he had said something to that effect shortly afterward. Ideas get in the air, I thought, and looked up and saw the mailman down the street knocking on someone's door. He knocked on the door for quite some time. I know because I stood there for a while, long enough for the word sidelong to inch its way toward my foot and crawl up my pant leg too. And for a moment there were two mailmen: the mailman as I remembered him staring at the plants, and the mailman knocking on the neighbor's door, until the first of the two images faded, and adjusted into one mailman, mailman supreme, with his fat lobster hand knocking on the neighbor's door. What a clear day, I thought, looking down the street toward the mailman. Any more sunlight and everything would have been whitewashed. I could see clearly. The mailman down the street, his boiled hand, and I took a step toward him, and I could have taken another hundred, and then someone answered his knocking, and the door swung wide open, and his hand did a cartwheel where the door was. I was still very disoriented from my dream\u2014\"you did this,\" her voice echoed, drumming against the sides of my brain\u2014and then his hand came back down to rest by his side.\n\nI wasn't very far away down the block. I had taken a few steps and could have taken a few more. There was an old lady standing in the doorway where the mailman's hand had been. She was standing in the doorway holding a candle in broad daylight. I took a step closer, and with all my steps accumulated I was two thirds of the way down the block now. Her entire house was pitch dark, and I thought, it's the dark ages, it's the dark ages through her doorway. Her hand trembled. I took a step closer to see if there were any red lights in the background, but there weren't any, and I thought, upstairs, there could be a reddish light upstairs, and I leaned over to see. I could see the edge of her staircase. There was a glimmer of white light, then the old lady handed the candle to the mailman and with two free hands took the package in exchange. \"You have to sign for it,\" said the mailman. \"Yes, sir, I have to sign for it,\" she said, and put the package down by her feet. I could see the mailman was very pleased; his whole posture relaxed when she signed for it. Then he handed her the candle, \"A shame to be out of lights,\" he said, and she said, \"Yes, indeed.\" I could hear their entire exchange. With all my steps having accumulated I was very close behind them. The mailman turned around to take his leave so that suddenly we were two men face-to-face. I thought, what a great frame, the mailman with the door shut behind him, and the old lady on the other side of the door with her candle and her package by her feet. Then I looked straight at the mailman because there was no escaping the situation.\n\n\"Hello,\" he said.\n\n\"Hello,\" I said back.\n\n\"It's a good day,\" he said.\n\n\"Very clear day,\" I said.\n\n\"Well then,\" he said.\n\n\"Well then,\" I said, \"it's a good day.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, and stepped aside to leave.\n\nAnd then I stepped aside. In the opposite direction. And we both did what we had to do: leave. I thought for a moment, that was the wrong mailman. Not the wrong mailman, just not the right one, or the usual one. I turned around to look at him again, but he was already in the postal truck, pulling out into the street, and all I could see was the back of his postal truck, square as a nun. Maybe he is sick, I thought, the usual mailman. Or on leave. Or I hadn't studied his facial features enough. I should have asked for his name. I walked down the sidewalk, through the row of plants, then right past them into my house. Inside, I looked up at the skylight. I thought, it's as dull as it was before, flat and dull as before, the skylight, even if it's a new day.\n\nThere are certain surfaces from which nothing gets removed, nothing more accumulates. A steady humdrum of nothingness. And if anything accumulates it does so at an infinitesimal rate, so the next person to notice is a few lineages down, or not at all, I thought, because you'll never know if that person will stop to look up at the same surface, and if he does there would be no guarantee that he would have the same thought. But then thoughts get passed around from brain to brain, so that our thoughts are only ever a repetition of someone else's thoughts. A thought that came before us and planted itself in our brain as though it belonged to us, inextricable from our being. And that is exactly what the skylight is, I thought: inextricable. I thought of Fra Keeler polishing it, dusting it off, and then going to stand beneath it to see if the light shined through. Meanwhile the old lady in the dark with her candlestick, her package, and her near-death. Thoughts, you walk through them, they exist before you, I told myself, picking the thought up again, and by some trick of the mind you think it was your thought, and you drag it out, a thread as long as your DNA, and you push at it with your finger and you say, \"Ah, yes: This is my thought,\" and it breathes back against your finger, and you are very satisfied, you and the thought together, you thinking the thought is yours and the thought thinking back at you, right up against your finger. What an idiotic thing to think about, I thought, as I slammed the door shut. I imagined the thought getting stuck in the doorway along with the finger I had imagined pressing against the thought. I walked into the kitchen and took a drink of water by the sink. Death unto both of them, I thought, the finger and the thought, and swirled the water in the glass a few times because I was trying to pause the thoughts or redirect them, the finger along with everything else slammed out of the house by the door slamming shut.\n\nI looked out the window. It was begging to rain. A drizzle, a light rain through the sky. Then a bit harsher, more temperamental. I saw the trees, their leaves ruffled in the wind. A thousand ants, I thought, and swirled the water in my glass some more. I could see the wind through the window, egging the clouds along in masses as though they were sheep, the clouds, in masses, dimming everything below. I took a drink of water. Someone has amputated the rays of the sun, I thought, cut them right off, because the light got sucked out of the window. Suddenly I was looking at myself, because with the light sucked out of the window, the window was less of a window. I swirled the water in my mouth. Some things are worth looking at double, I thought, and placed the glass on the counter so I could see it reflected in the window. I grinned, then went back over to the papers to leaf through them with my finger. With my finger, I thought, I will leaf through them one by one. And when I thought one by one I remembered the light coming through the window, illuminating the Netherlands, low lands, those under-lands, point of a needle. Fra Keeler, Time and Place of Death, I thought, and the sky clammed up. I could see through the window now. All the clouds had accumulated in one spot. Dirty avalanche, all those clouds rolled into one, and then the clouds released all their humid weight; the rain was torrential. I wanted to give out a laugh. To laugh at the water, the water I had swirled in my mouth near the window, the water falling from the sky in wide, cascading sheets. Yes, I thought: Yes! I could laugh at the light too! The dream, I thought. I wanted to laugh. I began to give out a light chuckle. I took a step toward the papers, and I wanted to take another, a hundred more, the needles, I thought, the Netherlands, but I couldn't get the other leg through, one leg and the other wouldn't follow, everything, I thought\u2014the ground wobbled, and I had the distinct feeling of walking on the slant of a wave or a sand dune\u2014and then I felt the blood rush out of my brain.\n\nHow many steps had it taken me to get to the neighbor's door, to the yurt, etc.? I should have counted them, I thought. The room spun around me. How would my house, I thought, which was Fra Keeler's house... the skylight, I thought, dirty... after it was clean... position itself in relation to the yurt... the neighbor's home... the old lady in the dark? Now it was a cold, fast rain. I felt wet, drained to the bone even though I wasn't outside. A triangle, I thought, the neighbor's home, the yurt, Fra Keeler's home, and then the phone rang. I ran out into the garden and counted the trees. A triangle, a triangle of trees, I thought, I should go through them, through the trees. I thought: the dream: the old lady in the dark down the street\u2014and the two things began to revolve around each other: the old lady holding the candle and my mother with her face burnt off, saying \"You did this.\" And it was spinning, the room, and I thought, it's a good thing it's raining, there are some fires to be put out. Her face grew more and more burnt until it was paper-thin. I could see her sockets, her cheekbones, high as a horse's, I thought, and then her face revolved faster and faster until it was a charcoal grin. Then, it was as though I had my eyes closed or blinders on, because all I could see were the slim trunks of the trees. I was wet to the bone. I heard a door creaking, the wind whistling, sharpening itself on the hinges. The yurt, I thought, and it flashed before me like lightning, silver and radiant in the rain. I took a step, one leg then the other, and walked into the yurt. I leaned over, the bottom of this, I thought, I will get to it, but then I heard a banging. I thought, I can't handle this, a banging in addition to everything else, the distant echo of the phone, the wind sharpening, the phone ringing inside the house, but I couldn't get up, I was lying down, flat inside the canoe with my arm out, reaching for the oar, and I thought it's raining, it's raining, like the end of the world, and then I felt the canoe lift up to the surface of the water and drift away.\n3. What madness is this, I thought, when I awoke in the midst of the woods. Not the woods per se, but the trees at the far end of the garden. Everything seems larger when you are looking at it from the bottom up, I thought, and since first looking to the side I could see the trunks, and then looking up how they branched out into trees, it was as though I awoke in the woods, when really it was in the garden that I awoke, at the far end beneath the trees. I thought, why am I lying here, hadn't it rained? And then I said to myself, \"It has something to do with quantity,\" as though I were reading out loud from a page. I looked at the roots on the trees. They were mostly underground. But then again, I thought, the roots are not entirely underground. Only that they are more underground than overground, I concluded. My eyes were still adjusting. Because at first I couldn't open them, let alone see the trees.\n\nOpen your eyes, I thought, and I thought I had opened them, but I couldn't see. Because a certain part of my brain was numb, the part that had to do with my eyes, and I knew it was numb because all around I could feel more than a normal amount of feeling. I thought, I am blind, or not exactly blind, but I couldn't open my eyes to see. And when I tried to pry them open with my fingers they would not open or they would open but it was only darkness around me so, I thought, I must be going blind, or I am already blind. I fell asleep and woke up blind, I thought. And then I tried to pry my eyes open. This time I saw my feet, but only vaguely, and more out of one eye than the other, and it was like I was seeing my feet at the bottom of a well, through the center of a ring of ripples on the surface of the water. I thought, I am blind, how can I be blind? Because when I fell asleep I certainly wasn't blind. And then I thought, perhaps I am not awake yet, and I let the question go, blind versus not blind, and surely half an hour later I was awake, because I opened my eyes and I could see the trees: first the trunks and then following the trunks upward I could see the leaves.\n\nAnd this is when I came to the question, Why am I lying here, hadn't it rained? which is the question I had asked myself when I opened my eyes and saw the leaves, but could not answer, so that instead of answering the question, Why am I lying here, hadn't it rained? the sentence, It has something to do with quantity kept reappearing in my head as though I were reciting it from a page. And to what, I wondered, is the sentence referring? Because certainly it wasn't clear to me. Then a wind passed through, and the leaves ruffled a bit overhead. Quantity, I thought. I thought, quality. That the two are inextricable from each other. And that you have to have enough of something in order to determine its exact quality. And then I thought, it must have rained yesterday, or some hours ago, some time before this point in time when I find myself lying here under the trees.\n\nThen the wind picked up again, and the leaves rustled even more loudly on the trees. It could have been only minutes ago, I thought, that it had rained. There is no way of knowing. But on the other hand, if a long time had passed since it had rained\u2014days perhaps, or months\u2014then there would positively be a way of knowing. Because a long time is more easily felt, I thought. Which is to say that I would know if a long time had passed between the two events: between me lying here under the trees as though in the woods, and the rain which has now passed, I thought. But what does all this have to do with blindness? With having gone to sleep one way and woken up another? Which is to say not blind and then blind, with no event in between except for sleep.\n\nBut then again, I thought, I didn't wake up blind, I only thought I was blind in my sleep. And then it occurred to me that waking up inside a dream is the same thing as waking up in a place of nowhere, and that I only thought I was blind because in that space, in a place of nowhere, there is nothing to be seen.\n\nJust then I propped myself up on one elbow, and saw a puddle a few feet away. It had certainly rained. The fact that it had rained, and that I had suspected as much, gave me courage. I should get up, I thought, and then I thought the light from the sun is amber, even though when I was lying down it was more see-through gold, but now, propped up on my elbow, I thought to myself, I can see that it is amber, thick and dense as honeyed milk.\n\nBut I couldn't get up, despite the light and all its tricks of color, because the realization that I could go to sleep not blind and wake up blind stirred in me a severe distrust. Because when something happens once, I thought to myself, there is no telling that it will not happen again. Because that something has carved a pathway for itself in the world, regardless of consequence or prior event. As in, an event can happen without any prerequisites, which is to say that one can go to sleep not blind and wake up blind. Which is to say there is such a thing as an event without predecessors, a phantom event, an event out of nowhere, I thought, and sealed my lips.\n\nI wanted to pick myself up off the ground completely, but then I began to think again. I thought, it cannot be: there is no such thing as a phantom event. There is always a sequence. One just has to come to be aware. All events happen in relation to other events. And if they don't happen in relation to other events, as in, if in the first instance of germinating an event doesn't happen apropos other events, it doesn't even matter. Because eventually every event will take its position in relation to other events. So that there is no such thing as an event out of nowhere. Surely, I thought, my going blind has to do with something that came before it. Only something very subtle, negligible, minuscule, hardly present. But in fact not at all negligible, only seemingly negligible at first. It isn't until you look back, I thought, picking myself up, that you see how each thing layers itself over the thing that came before it. In a few days even the event of my blindness will establish its relationship to the things that came before it. Not my permanent blindness, I corrected as I strained to get up, but my momentary blindness. Because it was only blindness in the midst of sleep, so at first I experienced the event of my blindness and later realized that what I had taken for blindness was in reality the nothingness I witnessed.\n\nIn every situation, I thought, standing up now to feel my legs, there is a way to take advantage. A way to control how one situation lines up against another situation, how one event layers itself upon another. One event stands in relation to another in the same way that it is also in relation to a third event. And a fourth and fifth as well. So that your whole life is a string of events taking form in a backward manner.\n\nSo what a lie it is, the present, because it doesn't even exist. There is only the moving forward of events and the moving backward of one's understanding over those events. To say there is a present, I thought, is to say there is a platform where events accumulate and then stop happening so one can evaluate their effect. It is what people do, I thought, feed themselves lies. Everything is a lie in the first instance. Then the lie is purified, smoothed out, turned into a truth, because the present is always cycling into the past, or transforming into a future moment. The notion of the present is a purified lie, because in the time it takes to say the word present the moment has already passed and you are just a fool running out of breath trying to pin down the moment to evaluate. What misery, I thought to myself, rocking back and forth on my legs. A whole system of lies, a whole system of belief.\n\nEven the trees are duplicitous, I thought, with their bark and their under-wood, and began to walk away from them. And if I think about it, I thought, both my blindness, and my walking away from the trees with no memory of having walked toward them, are marked by phantom events, events out of nowhere in between: my walk toward the trees, my walk away from the trees, the event in between. Just as I had two elongated moments of not being blind on either side of my being blind, which was in between. Then I thought, the hell with it. It is pure misery, the tracking of things. Because some things are willfully intractable, I thought, some things go against the grain. One moment, and then the next, I thought, with no event in between.\n\nI left the trees behind. Now I could see the kitchen window across the garden just a few yards away. It had grown opaque under the glimmering light of the sun and I could see myself on its glossy surface: I was just standing there, fresh out from under the trees. How odd, I thought, the window darkened from the intensity of the light, rather than brightened, and I took a step closer. I stumbled on something. I caught my reflection in the window as I collapsed to my feet. There was a weighty stick on the ground, and I thought, who would have planted this here, a stout stick? Or, thicker than a stout stick, because certainly it was less a stout stick than a club. I picked it up and walked closer to the window. I wanted to know if I could see through it, to the other side, to the kitchen sink.\n\nI pressed my face against the window. But it was only a vague outline that I could see: the kitchen sink immaterial, a sketch just beyond the glass and the light. I dropped the club and placed both hands like blinders against my face, and with both my hands blocking out the light I could see clearly through the window: the papers stacked on the counter across from the kitchen sink. For a moment, the papers did a wild dance, because the light was heavier one second than the next, and I thought, everything is this way, there is no escaping it, even the papers, one minute illuminated, twirling in the light, the next having died a sudden death.\n\nWhen I pushed away from the glass I could see my reflection in the window. I was holding the club. I thought, it isn't me holding the club, it is only my reflection in the window. Just as I was only blind in the space of my sleep, I am only holding the club in the space of the window. Clearly, I thought, the window is more alive than anything else, because one moment it is a flat surface full of reflections and the next it is as transparent as a translucent sheet of skin. As opposed to the skylight, I thought, the window. A flock of birds flew overhead and I thought, more alive than the flock of birds and the skylight, the window, and swung the club overhead, because I wanted to see if I could catch my reflection swinging the club toward the window. But the clouds were still there, sucking all the light out of the window, so I didn't see myself, and I thought, really the skylight is dead compared to the window. Because the window is always capturing the light and stirring it about in different directions, versus the skylight which is just there, unchanging and inextricable. Nothing should be inextricable, I thought, and grabbed the ladder, which was on the side of the house, to get up onto the roof. \"Why not?\" I asked. A moment later I found myself standing on the roof, staring down at the skylight with the club in my hand.\n\nSurely the skylight is dead, I thought, because it is the same as it was before; nothing removed, nothing more accumulated. I raised the club over the skylight just as I had raised it over my head near the window. I thought, everything is a lie; things evaporate, they should be made to show how easily they can evaporate. It is a lie when everything that is always about to evaporate gives the impression that it is doing the opposite, not evaporating at all. And the skylight is the epitome of all lies, I thought, because it goes on and on as though nothing were deteriorating, nothing were evaporating, as though things could be permanent. One minute you're blind, the next minute you're not. The duplicity of things is unbearable, I thought, and with the club gently tapped the skylight. Goat-skin, a sheer, light skin, I thought, and tapped the club a second time against the glass. Then I raised the club over my shoulder. I wanted to gather force in my swing, to come down onto the skylight. Everything accumulates strength just before it goes down, I thought, and tightened my grip on the club. Then I thought, what madness is this, because suddenly I remembered the old lady in the dark. And I thought, what was she doing there all alone in the dark? Surely she was up to something. I tightened my grip on the club. I am not going to let the skylight get away, I thought. Only the next moment someone was standing in the middle of the driveway, waving an arm up at me, saying, in the form of a question, \"Hello, sir?\" and not once, but over and over again so that I had to respond.\n\nI thought, the hell with this, the hell with trying to get anything done around here, and yelled down to the person whose hand was still mid-motion through a wave. I climbed back down, dropped the club at the foot of the ladder. How very impatient, I thought to myself, because when I walked into the house, the person who was standing in the middle of the driveway was already ringing the doorbell. I imagined a woman on the other side of the door saying \"Yoohhoo, Yoohhoo, somebody let me in please,\" and I had a sudden urge to go back out and grab the club, but she kept ringing the doorbell and I walked quickly through the kitchen instead, into the living room, right up against the front door, and I thought, very quickly and one after the other: the plants, the mailman, the old lady in the dark, Fra Keeler, and opened the door to let her in.\n\nA broad-shouldered woman was standing there staring at me. Her face was stern and kind at the same time, I couldn't quite make it out, and she had a name-tag pinned to her blouse right below her left shoulder. I said \"Hello.\" She said \"Hello\" right back at me, and asked if she could come in. \"Yes,\" I said, \"come in.\" Then I peered over her shoulder to see if the mailman was standing behind her. I thought, this woman and the mailman, they must be connected, and the pair of them to the old lady as well. But all I could see were the plants, sitting there, bored as light bulbs, sticking out of the ground, and I thought, they could use some water, the plants, only I must have said this out loud because the next moment the woman was saying, in the form of a question, \"Excuse me, sir?\" and I responded by saying, \"There is no one there,\" like I was shrugging something off my shoulder. The woman quickly took her place in the middle of the living room, and I thought, who the hell is she? What is she doing here? But before the questions had occasion to close in my mind, she said, \"The phone, sir.\" And I said, \"Yes, the phone, what about it?\" And she said, \"The phone, sir, I am here because you asked for me over the phone.\" \"For you,\" I asked, \"in particular?\" \"No,\" she said, \"not in particular.\" And I said \"Oh\" and looked over at the phone. It was sitting on top of the table, and I thought, the phone, and I remembered the dream and the ringing, high as a horse's, her cheekbones, and I thought why is the phone intact? Because certainly I remember having shattered it.\n\n\"Would you like to further discuss the issue?\" she asked. Discuss what? I wondered, because I couldn't remember having talked to her in the first place. \"Sir, we could discuss your research,\" she said. \"Discuss my research?\" I asked. She is out of her mind about my research, I thought. And then I asked, \"What research?\" To which she replied, \"You requested our services, sir.\" And I thought, how is the phone intact when surely I had shattered it. \"Discuss my research,\" I said. \"That would be good,\" I said, because I wasn't getting anywhere without lying to her. \"Where would you like to start?\" she asked. \"Anywhere,\" I said. One moment you are on your roof, I thought\u2014but then I turned over to address her because her eyes seemed to have widened, \"Anywhere you would like to start,\" I repeated, \"Very well then,\" she said, relaxing her eyes\u2014and the next, I thought, you are standing in your living room with a broad-shouldered woman asking you questions about your research.\n\nShe pulled out her clipboard. Things are getting serious, I thought. Then she repeated herself: \"Very well then,\" she said, \"I am going to ask you a string of questions.\" \"A string of questions,\" I said. \"Are you mocking me, sir?\" she asked, and her eyes tightened into two little screws. Clearly, I thought, I had shattered the phone against the wall earlier. \"How long have you been doing your research?\" she asked, and her voice tightened to match the screws. \"Research?\" I asked, because I wanted to buy time to think about something else. A panoramic view, I thought. \"Sir,\" she said. Because once one event takes shape the rest line up alongside it. \"Sir,\" she repeated. \"Yes,\" I said, \"sir.\" Then I thought, have your thoughts quickly, speak your thoughts quickly or get out of here, but I didn't say this out loud because some thoughts are better kept private. \"I am not a sir,\" she said. \"Clearly,\" I said, looking at her, and I wanted to tell her more. You are a strange specimen, I wanted to say, but she had already walked out the door.\n\nI shut the door behind her and went over to the receiver. Hadn't it shattered? I thought. Hadn't I thrown it against the wall? The receiver. But there it was: whole, entire, not a part of anything else, but something in and of itself, and I thought, it is an act of rebellion, the receiver is acting out against its own death. And death, I thought, is more present than life. Because it is always near, right up against the edge of one's skin. Where one person's skin ends, I thought, that is where their death begins. And it is the same with tables, and telephones, I thought, picking up the receiver, because despite being objects they all have a finite existence. At any moment a table could break, at any point the telephone could shatter. Only it could not shatter then recompose itself, not of its own will, I thought. In this way objects are different from people, I thought. Because people could recompose themselves, if they wanted, although to what degree remains unclear. I put the receiver back down, and thought, objects decompose in stages, they inch slowly toward their own death. Only much slower than humans do, because most often objects outlive the people who own them, even though death, in every case\u2014in the case of objects and in the case of people\u2014is always very near. I leaned over to unplug the telephone line, and sitting on the floor stared at the stub of the cord for a moment. Because the world, I thought\u2014blowing into the outlet to clear out any particles that might have been caught in it\u2014by virtue of existing beyond us, is the space of our death. Only, not our exact death, but our potential death, I thought, and plugged the phone line back in. Because our exact death annuls our potential death, I thought, and got off the floor to check the telephone again. Our potential death becomes irrelevant once we've enacted our exact death, I thought. Nothing exists beyond itself. So that everything beyond our skin points to our eventual disappearance. As in, at every moment we are both here and not here, I thought, we are at the same time both present in the world and not present in the world, because the space that we occupy is limited. And it is not only limited, I thought, picking up the receiver a second time, because everything beyond the space that we occupy represents our death. So that we are doubly limited, I thought, listening to the dial tone. The space that we occupy is limited, and everything beyond the space that we occupy reinforces the fact that we are limited by virtue of containing our potential death. So that in every moment, at the same time that we exist, we also do not exist, because our potential death, and within it our exact death, is right up against us. We are continually disappearing, I thought. Evaporating, becoming more and more a part of our exact death, and less a part of ourselves. I put the receiver down.\n\nThen a large thought came to me, in a flash, and I surrendered to it the way the sky surrenders to lightning. I thought, life is not a movement toward death, as though death were a single, containable event waiting at the end of life to close down on everything, as though everything that came before one's death were a linear progression toward it. No, I thought, impossible, abominable stupidity, for death to be there, at the end, waiting in silence. Everything before it sound, everything after it silence. Ha! I thought. And how to explain the noise long after Fra Keeler's death? Because what we are doing, I thought, as I surrendered to the thought the way the sky surrenders to lightning, is a side-by-side living out of life right alongside our death. At every moment there is the moment of our living, and the moment of our potential death, I thought, right alongside the moment of our living, the moment of our potential death. Until the moment of our living is unable, in a particular situation, to evade the moment of our potential death, and our exact death takes over, like a hollow wave rising, curving, gathering force, I thought, the wave of our exact death. Our bodies, I thought. And next to our bodies, the lack of our bodies, I thought, because one is no longer able to put one's body in motion. Just like that, one moment and then the next. And it is the same for objects, I thought, coming back down from the large thought, because who can sustain lightning for very long? I moved away from the living room, from the front door, because when I came to I realized I was still standing there, senselessly under the skylight, frozen up after having checked and rechecked the receiver, the lady having gone, appeared and disappeared seemingly out of nowhere.\n\nOnly then there was a knocking on the door, just as I had prepared to move away from it. And I heard her voice again, \"Hello, I know you are in there,\" she said and I opened the door just as she was making a fist with her hand to knock again.\n\n\"Hello,\" I said. And I wanted to add, It's you again, but I kept the words to myself.\n\n\"I left my clipboard here,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"you did,\" looking at her clipboard on the table next to the receiver. Isn't that a sign? I wondered, her clipboard next to the receiver, and offered to let her in. She headed straight for the receiver and grabbed her clipboard like a creature in distress.\n\n\"I will be on my way, then,\" she said, but just then one of her business cards fell away from her clipboard. She reached down to pick it up, and I thought, I should have that, it should be mine just in case.\n\n\"Clearly there is a connection here,\" I said.\n\n\"A connection?\" she asked, and I realized immediately that I had given myself away. The mailman, her, I thought, the old lady down the street, the receiver, but it was difficult to review things in her presence. She is a nuisance, I thought to myself, only not altogether, just in that particular moment when I needed to review her connection to the rest of the events.\n\n\"May I hold on to your business card?\" I asked, ignoring her question. \"In case I should have to make a phone call to you in the future,\" I added, \"but for now you can be on your way.\" I faced the palm of my hand toward the door so as to motion her out of it. She walked out the door. Only, at the moment when she was two thirds of the way turned away from me, I could see the edge of her face had contorted.\n\nSo much noise, I thought, Fra Keeler, even after the time and space of his death. And I thought, it's senseless to stand here under the skylight contemplating her departure, her fanfare and contorted face. Who is she, in any event, to have left her clipboard beside the receiver that had shattered then recomposed itself? I felt as though my brain were being drawn up by a series of strings. Some things, I thought, are to think about later. The receiver, the clipboard. Everything comes in pairs. And here I am, I thought, standing under the skylight by the door when clearly I have thought it senseless to stand under the skylight by the door, contemplating her departure. Only not senseless altogether because every piece should be put in its proper place: the clipboard, the receiver. But there is a time and a place for everything, and then I thought, I must extract myself! So that I did, from under the skylight, and thought: I will come back to this, one pair and then the other, I will retrace. But so much noise after a death, so much sound to a death, and it was calling me, the noise of it all, drawing me out from under the skylight and into the kitchen, beyond the kitchen into the garden, beyond the garden through the trees, and there I was again: the yurt brave and stout as a horse in front of me. And the skylight was so far, the woman with the contorted face farther, and I could see them revolving around each other, sheets of paper in the wind. I thought, I should go in, I must\u2014there is information to be gathered. Pal-ma, I heard myself say, Pal-ma de Mallorca, and then the Netherlands, those under-lands, low lands, lower lands, and the handwriting: a low squiggly line, a hill with a dark horse or two traversing them. Another pair, I thought, another square in its place: Palma de Mallorca, the Netherlands. And the yurt flashed like a cloud, a misty white cloud, it billowed and went through me.\n\nI was standing inside, enveloped by the yurt. There was a strange light inside, the kind of light, I thought, that would come through the skylight if it were polished. A drained yellow bordering on soft white. I looked up. I looked around. There was nothing. I was entirely enclosed by the yurt. The light, I wondered, where could it be coming from? Infiltrating the walls as though they were not walls, but thin sheets of tracing paper exposed to a faint, comforting light. And I could see him: he was there, just beyond me, his two glassy eyes blue as ice: \"Fra Keeler,\" I said, \"Fra Keeler,\" he called back. And he was an old, frail man, all shriveled up, moving his wrist through the air. \"Wars,\" he said, and I thought to myself perhaps he is explaining the strange light in the yurt, or comparing the light in the yurt to the light of wars, because just as the yurt is drenched in a particular light so are wars, with all the explosions and the fires that are endemic to them. I reached my arm out, Fra Keeler, soft as a dove toward him. I thought, either I will touch him or I will go through him, one or the other, and just as I reached toward him I was confronted with sheer emptiness. Just as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared. The world of the yurt closed down harshly on him.\n\nThe yurt faded. Just as it appeared it faded. I must take a walk, I thought. Then I spied the yurt again beyond the trees. There it is again, I thought, impossible to go to it, impossible to leave. But alas, this lasted a mere second, because then I opened my eyes, and I was back in the house again, in the bedroom, with no recollection of having arrived there. The curtains were drawn, and the faintest light was filtering through them. This is dawn, I thought, because the birds were chirping and the light was a delicious faint wave of yellow trickling through the curtains, a silken soft white light falling onto me. I could see the birds beyond the curtains, their shadows flickering, I could hear them chirping. This is morning! I thought. This is a new day! But what, what was I doing in the bedroom? How did I get here, I thought, from the yurt, through the kitchen, up to the bedroom\u2014when had I gone to bed? I sat there, upright and still for a moment. I turned away from the window and the birds. I spied an image of myself in the mirror as I turned away: sitting on the edge of the bed, the white morning light washing over me, the curtains, the sheets, the birds chirping in the trees. I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought, that is me, or that is not me, but a reflection of me according to the mirror.\n\nSuddenly I remembered standing by the window, swinging the club. A handsome figure, I thought, a handsome image, me standing by the window swinging the club. I got up and walked to the mirror and posed as though I were holding the club, the same way I had been holding it, practicing my swing in the mirror, then tapping the club to the skylight. Again, I thought, staring at myself in the mirror: the skylight is inextricable. One of those objects, passed down, owner to owner, I thought. So that Fra Keeler stood beneath it, just as I stand beneath it every time I open the door. The same inextricable object: the skylight above my head just as it was above Fra Keeler's head when he would go to the door. I bounced the club around from hand to hand a few times, I practiced my swing. Certain objects are interminable, I thought. Because just as you can take the legs off a table, I thought, as I found my grip, you can put them back on again. Or chop the table up, use the wood to make a new table, altogether new and exact in an entirely different way. Certainly a person cannot be made from a chopped up person, I thought, and released the imaginary club. Because even though I wasn't actually holding it, I thought that if I had been holding the club, by then I would have grown tired of its weight.\n\nI walked back over to the bed and sat down again. Ultimately, I thought, it is impossible to tell to what degree the skylight is my skylight, to what degree Fra Keeler's. And just as objects are passed around from person to person, one is handed thoughts from all sides, thoughts one asks for and thoughts one doesn't ask for, and they become inextricable from each other. One could destroy one's own thoughts, just as one could destroy one's own objects. And why shouldn't one choose to destroy oneself, when wars, I suddenly thought, are a massive choosing out of one's death, an entire mass of people choosing out their own death, only without knowing it, without fully being aware? War is a coward's death, I thought, and caressed the edge of the bed. A coward's suicide: war, that is all it is: a mass of people walking like sheep toward their own death. The whole world, I thought, full of decrepit corpses. Because war is everywhere, I thought. The war in our brains, and actual wars: over land, and by sea, and even through the air above the land, I thought, because one way of killing isn't enough, one gets bored of it, so many strategies, I thought, one must have tactics. I wanted to smash the mirror. To take the club to the mirror and smash it. Only not the invisible club, not the pretend formulation of a club I had been holding earlier, but the actual club. Shatter the mirror, I thought, because there is no other way to stop it from capturing so many images, doubling things where they don't need to be doubled\u2014objects, I thought, myself.\n\nThe whole world, I thought, standing up from the edge of the bed in a sudden gesture, devoid of persons. The whole earth! I went over the earth with my mind's eye as though I were a camera floating through the air. I saw landmass after landmass completely devoid of persons. On a mountain, a table. By the ocean, a chair. Just like that. Nothing else. I waved my hand through the air so as to say: Aha! I have made a circular motion with my hand, the same motion with my hand as I have made with my thoughts about death. Everything is mirrored. Thoughts coordinated with the motions of one's body, and vice versa: the motions of one's body coordinated with the thoughts in one's head. So that one is always synchronized.\n\nI walked to the curtains and split them open with my finger. I couldn't just stand there any longer between the mirror and the bed. One is compelled to do something. To take advantage of the things that don't make sense: the yurt, I thought, Fra Keeler, waking up in the bedroom as though all of a sudden. And to attempt to make sense in regards to all of this is senseless. Rather one must attempt to make senselessness. \"Because senselessness,\" I whispered to myself, \"is sense at its peak, sense when it can no longer bare itself.\" A flock of birds emerged from the top branches of the trees. They flooded the sky; the horizon disappeared behind their black bodies. It is a life I am retracing, I thought, as I watched the birds form a disc with their miniature bodies and fly back and forth between the trees. Then I remembered his wrist, his hand moving toward me soft as a dove in the yurt, disappearing. Fra Keeler, I thought, \"Fra Keeler,\" I whispered, moving my wrist in circular patterns through the air.\n4. Gathering of knowledge, I thought, is the only thing that makes the inevitability of one's death worthwhile. So that I should get to the bottom of this. Fra Keeler, I thought, the yurt. I was standing in the kitchen now. I should trace every event back to its source, because everything has a source, even if the source is hidden, rather than exposed to broad air. Because at the same time that it has a source, every event has a destination. Every event lands in a place. Through time and space it lands and makes a home for itself. So that every event is constantly in motion. Until each event gathers enough consequence and with consequence a destination as well. Like a giant hot air balloon the event lands, heavy with destination, heavy with consequence, and makes a home for itself. Comes home to roost, I thought, and chuckled to myself. A half-hearted chuckle, because it is only a slight pause, a temporary landing, the event making a ramshackle of a home for itself. There is no ceasing of things. No. No once-and-for-all of anything. Just event after event: one event landing, another setting off.\n\nSo that one needs to gather knowledge. To trace every event back to its source, go through the source as one would go through a minefield, make a map of it. To say, \"Aha, here is what this event will lead to once it has come home to roost!\" Because folded within the entrails of each event is its own consequence, a source for a future event. An exact future event amid a thousand potential events, I thought, and laughed out loud to myself. Because at every point in time there are a thousand imminent events, just as there are a thousand potential deaths, waiting to roost as I have been roosting here\u2014I looked around the kitchen\u2014roosting to my heart's content. The past, I thought, versus the present, versus that which is imminent. Because perhaps the possibility exists: the present a brief moment, a pause, one event coming home to roost before setting another into motion.\n\nI shuffled through the recent events as one would shuffle through a deck of cards; at first slowly, then a little faster, until all the events flew past me, from one side of my mind to the other. So many events have gathered force, I thought, as I shuffled through them: the clipboard next to the receiver, the trees next to the yurt, the mailman handing me the package, the old lady down the street, the representative from Ancestry.com standing beneath the skylight, pointing at the phone. But I cannot think of the events now. I turned as though quickly away from my thoughts. I felt myself enter a rare pause: standing in the kitchen, broadening my shoulders, evaluating the events from a space of repose. A moment of respite, a rare pause: the space between events. I drew in a breath. Some events roosting while others are imminent, I thought. So that I should go for a walk. A walk in the canyon. If not now then when? A long pause, I thought, in total peacefulness I will take a walk.\n\nI reached for a slice of bread. An honest slice of bread, I thought, before a walk, and after a walk as well. Then it was as though my brain returned like a loyal dog to its thoughts, because all of a sudden I found myself saying, good little ducklings, all in a row, a source here, a consequence there, event after event. I moved my hand through the air as though I were tapping little ducklings on their heads. Because bread\u2014I thought, coming back to my moment of repose\u2014an honest slice of bread and a walk in the canyon must be among the greatest of morning rituals! And if not now, then when? I poured myself a glass of milk and dipped my bread in it. \"But what must I think about while I walk through the canyon?\" I asked out loud, because I wanted to hear the question take form between myself and the bread, the bread and the walls, the wall and the garden and the trees at the far end. Certainly I could use the walk to my advantage. One must make decisions for oneself, to be active in one's life process. Thinking is pure misery, a job assigned to the miserable and the wretched, to think each thought to its horrible and suffocating end. That is it, I thought, swallowing the moist bread. I stretched. I broadened my shoulders. The canyon awaits, now that I have had my morning bread. I must go to it, right at this moment before I am flooded with events that are now only imminent. The present, I thought, full of peacefulness, full of resolve. I grabbed my jacket and walked out the door and slammed it shut.\n\nThe entry to the canyon was at the far end of the street, behind some barren bushes, hardly any leaves on them. There was a soft wire fence around the perimeter of the canyon, and a narrow opening, a narrow slit in the fence. It looked as though someone had clipped the fence and pried it open. I pushed through the opening, walked gingerly down into the canyon. A few rocks kicked up from under my feet. It was a warm day; I hardly needed my jacket. The sun was nearly at its zenith. I felt like a new person. This is fabulous, I thought, this is just great! A walk in the canyon after a slice of bread. Before my walk a slice of bread, and after my walk a slice of bread as well. Because this is how one lives against one's dying, I thought, and smiled kindly to myself. Clearly the sun is at its zenith, I thought, because every minute it was getting warmer. A flock of birds flew overhead. A few more rocks kicked up and I watched them roll down into the canyon. What a strange man, I thought, the realtor, for having warned me against the canyon. I remembered his eyebrows tensing, his unfriendly finger inching the papers across the desk. Poisonous finger, I thought, poisonous snake of a finger. Then I saw a hummingbird fly by, zapping its wings. This is life, I thought, this is peacefulness. I bent down to see if there were any snakes hidden under the bushes. I looked under one bush, but found nothing. Perhaps another bush, I thought, and kept on walking. I was nearly down into the canyon. Why haven't I done this before? A walk in the canyon, the whole sky above me. A puffy, white cloud floated by, followed by a much narrower one. Very snakelike, the second cloud. I gained courage that there might be snakes in the canyon, so I looked under a second bush, but found nothing. Just a few rocks, a spider crawling over them. I turned around to see how far I had walked. I thought to myself, it will be a steep ascent, a good climb back up to the street. But regardless, I thought, this is good, a wonderful idea to take a walk in the canyon after having eaten a slice of bread in the morning. Soon I was whistling, because I was fresh out of thoughts. I skidded a few times on the descent and almost took a fall, and each time it broke my whistle, then I started it up again. Because that is how one postpones death, I thought. Or entertains oneself while neglecting the idea of one's death, a harmless, peaceful whistle. I looked up a few times as I whistled. I scanned the sky from side to side, from one point of the horizon to another. Not the horizon exactly, but the points of the canyon\u2014where the canyon reaches up and then dies out into the sky. The air was clear. Pure, white oxygen, and the sky was a broad, blue infinity above me. Nothing like it. Nothing like breathing in pure oxygen so early in the morning. Then I thought, I might get lost in the canyon. In the guts of the earth, wander until I've lost all sense of direction. It will be a new life. I had stopped whistling now. I was just ambling down the hill, very pleased with the day, very pleased with myself. Because surely, how one feels about the day is inseparable from how one feels about oneself, I thought, and stepped right off the hill and into the canyon.\n\nI was on flat land now, all the way down in the canyon. Not a very deep canyon, or a very wide one, but a canyon nonetheless. But who am I to judge it? I felt as though I were dangling from a thread. The blood was pulsing in my legs; I was slightly out of breath. My mind was as vast and infinite as the sky above, as though the sky had doubled itself inside my head. We are what we see, surely, I thought, that must be the case. Because now that I see the sky, I thought, my mind is another sky alongside it. What a miserable wretch\u2014a miserable wretch I had been, thinking endlessly, one thought after another, because thoughts, I remembered I had been thinking, bleed into each other. For a moment I grew sleepy. No, I thought, and took in a deep breath. Life is this vast, blue expanse above me. It is simple, I thought, life, and the whole time I have been missing out on its simplicity. A pang went through my chest. I looked around at the bushes, some close to the belt of the canyon, others farther back amid the shrubbery. A crow darted from the branch of one tree to the branch of another, then took off, stooped low, glided over a row of bushes, caught air, lifted itself up again. It circled above the canyon: one ring, then another\u2014or is it an eagle I am seeing? I wondered. No, they are two separate birds. The eagle circling high above, majestic, while the crow, its minor counterpart, flies deep inside the canyon, darting from one tree to the next.\n\nThis is how one postpones one's death, I thought, by walking. I spotted a cactus a few feet away. The stems were bowing down toward the ground. Not like a light bulb, I thought, this cactus, and I walked one full circle around it. It is a green mass of death, I thought. I stood there for a while, the cactus occupying the whole space of my brain, just as the sky had occupied it a moment earlier. I mused over the shape of the cactus until a chubby, toothless old lady formed in its place. She stared at the horizon. She said, \"Take a good look, because this is me now, this is me as I am dying.\" I felt a second pang go through my chest. I didn't know if it was the cactus talking, or the old lady. Weren't they one and the same, hadn't they emerged from the same entity? Then, I thought, what rot, the things in one's head. Because images just appear, an old lady out of nowhere, where the cactus had been. One minute, and then the next, and what is the use of these things?\n\nSuddenly everything was at a standstill; I felt myself light, lifting. I was near a stream. I turned to look at the cactus, but the light was blinding. I sat down near the stream. The image of the cactus burned in my mind. I had caught sight of a blinding light when I had turned around to see it. I leaned back against a large rock. Emptiness, I thought, and the image burned to ashes in my brain. Not a cactus, nothing. Only the pure, black light after something has burned to the ground, to whatever surface had held it up in the first place. I grew heavy with sleep. I caught a glimpse of the sky, blue and vast above me.\n\nEverything slowed down. There is a last time, I thought, for everything. I began to dream. In my dream, everything faded. A last moment, a last breath. The world closing down around the thing. A mouth closing around an object. The sky closing in on a body. Everything folds into darkness. People die, objects cease to exist, trees vanish. I felt my heart skip up to my throat in the space of my dream. I am choking, I thought. From my own heart, I am choking in my dream. My heart unleashing itself from its arteries, its plump, pink muscle rising through my chest, clogging my esophagus the way garbage clogs streams. I swallowed. I spun around in my dream with my arms extended like wings. I opened my mouth to the sky, I leaned my head back. Leap out! I said to my heart in the space of my dream. I am already dead, I thought, I am no longer dying. I made a few shapes with my mouth. Clouds rolled by. I grew cold in the shadow of my dream. I was lying down now, as though I had never been spinning. The ground was cold against my skin. I am in a steel coffin, I dreamed, the whole world is a coffin. I lay there, still as a block of ice. I could feel the dirt settling on my skin. I looked up. The sky was grim in sections, vibrant in others. Even in my coffin, I thought, even here I am haunted by her, because I could see her face spinning, her cheekbones\u2014high as a horse's\u2014the acrid smell of her skin burning. And it started again, \"You did this to me,\" she said, and I said, \"No, no I didn't,\" talking back to her in the space of my dream. Then I thought, what use is it? Now the sky was the color of a fire I had never seen. I am only a voice, I thought, a thread of words strung together the way particles line up to make a ray of light through the leaves of a tree. A thin voice stacking words together. \"No, no I didn't,\" I said, gently now in the space of my dream. \"Look,\" she answered, pointing at her face in total defeat. And I thought, Yes: \"Yes,\" I said, because it was simple to see. Her eyes shifted from side to side as though they had come loose. I wondered, is there a person in there? Because it occurred to me that I could be speaking to a person who was dead. A non-person pointing at her face. \"You did this to me,\" she said, \"look what you did.\" Finally, I said, \"Yes, it was me.\" A string of tears rolled down her face, and I thought, water, it is only molecules lining up a certain way, only atoms, I thought, a ray of light here, a sentence there, all pointing at the same thing. Blame. We are here to blame each other, to point at one another with blame.\n\nI came out of my dream. The sky was blue, though a little less light, a little less warmth to the vastness above me. My back was numb from leaning against the rock. There is nothing like the sound of water sliding over rocks. The light in the sky gave a shudder, clouds rolled in. It is cold, I thought, in a minute it will be raining. I grabbed my jacket. I put it on. I tucked my hands into my pockets, my elbows into my sides. I opened my mouth to take a deep breath, but my breath broke into pieces, it shuddered down my throat. I felt a slight sting at the base of my lungs. I thought, now I am walking. This is life, I thought, walking in a canyon, or on the street, under the sky, just walking under the open sky. In the shadow of the clouds I could see the colors of the canyon more clearly. The leaves in the brush were taut; there was no soft foliage. Just the tough, deep green of low leaves, bushes. I saw a rabbit dart across the path. It stopped halfway, frozen in place, mid-path. I could see the nervous ring of white around its eye. Terror, I thought, is a combined state. Because the rabbit was still as a rock, and yet I could see its body shivering, every half-second casting side-glances at me. All the confusion of motion, smoothed over with the stillness of death, I thought. Move! I wanted to say to the rabbit, because I couldn't stand for it to be there staring at me. Leap! I wanted to say, and suddenly the dream closed in on me. The sky dropped down against my chest, and I thought, no, not while I am walking, not her face again, because walking in a canyon under an open sky is supposed to be life-affirming. The rabbit darted all the way across the path, to the other side of the canyon. I watched it hop under some bushes. I felt myself fold over, drift away. I could feel the blood boiling in my legs somewhere far beneath me.\n\nSuddenly it occurred to me: wasn't it her, the old lady down the street? My mother's high cheekbones suddenly aligned themselves with the old lady's hand. The two began to revolve around each other, two parts of a single element: the old lady down the street, she from my dream. Surely they are somehow connected. I leaned against a tree. I remembered the old lady's hand shaking as she reached for the package through the darkened doorway. \"Thank you,\" she had said meekly to the mailman, when she had placed the package between her legs, pretending her lights were out, because how could her lights have been out when all the other neighbors' lights were still on in their driveways? Then it came to me: it was the same size, the package, the same size as the package I had received from the mailman. My heart did an about-turn in my chest, like a small fish, my heart turned, head to tail in my chest. I could see clearly. I thought, how could I have not seen clearly before? The events, one after another, a whole constellation of events connecting. Her freckled hand shivering, her meek voice, it was hers\u2014it came to me\u2014the handwriting: a low squiggly line resembling rolling hills with a dark horse or two traversing them. I saw her hand move across the page, across the packages, it was her, I thought, the whole time, all this time, I thought, and wasn't it strange? The sky released a loud thunder, it started to rain. I dashed deeper into the side of the canyon, under a cluster of trees. A few drops rolled off the leaves. I was sweating. How? I thought again, and my breath bubbled upward, the wrong way around, breathing out when I should have been breathing in. I pulled my jacket over my head; I caught my breath. Clearly, I thought, there is a connection, and started running.\n\nThe canyon was beginning to give off a suffocating smell in the rain. The loose earth on the surface was turning to dust. I started to run faster. It was hard to see. I spotted the cactus some hundred yards away; it cut through my brain as though it were a blade. Wouldn't it be funny, I thought, if I started to bleed from an image here in the middle of the canyon and the rain? I thought, perhaps if I saw the rabbit again I would laugh. If it crossed my path, dumb as a sausage. But the rabbit was nowhere to be seen. I stood for a moment, panting. The canyon was a reddish-brown haze in the rain. I thought to myself, I am lost, there is no emerging alive from this place. I was sure I was dying, the image of the old lady flashing in front of me, confusing itself with the image of my mother from my dream. And I wanted to laugh at myself, to slap my legs in the middle of the canyon, to roar with laughter. To be loose, I thought, to loosen my brain. I imagined a thousand threads spinning out of my brain. Tentacles, fingers drawn out, pointing to a thousand different things. And what would be a more proper response, I thought, than to let myself become unhinged? Because this is sheer madness, all along it's been madness, events hiding when they should have been seen.\n\nThe rain lightened up a bit. Now that I am soaked! I thought. I stood there, acutely aware of having been soaked in the rain. How else, I thought\u2014my clothes burdensome now, heavy against my skin\u2014but with sheer madness could one explain? The old lady, thoroughly interconnected, yet making herself impossible to be seen. All along, I thought, if I had matched the madness of the events. All along I would have seen them the way they needed to be seen. Because just as one cannot discover a treasure without a map, one cannot use reason to find events that are maddening. I should have matched the madness, I thought, I should have maddened myself to match the madness\u2014events hiding where they should have been seen. Proof of their unfriendliness, I thought, and began panting again in the rain. One needs madness in the mind, I thought, and chuckled to myself\u2014a slight twitch, I thought, on my lips\u2014in order to detect madness in the world where it needs to be seen. The thrill of madness, I thought, and began to walk again in the rain. I raised one hand to slap against my knee, but stopped myself, because the sun gave a light shudder behind the clouds, and the rain ceased, and I heard a bird or two chirping. Just like that, I thought. One minute it is raining\u2014devilish sky!\u2014the next the birds are chirping. \"Imbecile birds,\" I said out loud to nothing, because I could hardly walk with my trousers sticking to me.\n\nThen I thought, no. Another thought inched itself into my brain. A spear of reason. I thought, one has a choice, in life one can choose between a mind of reason and a mind of madness, and which of the two will allow me to make the quickest sense of the unfriendly events? Madness versus reason, I stopped to weigh in my head. Suddenly I realized I had walked too far, that I would have to turn back and walk in the opposite direction. \"Madness,\" I muttered, \"versus reason,\" and turned around so that the ascent was ahead of me again. I felt time wasting away. I should walk a calculated walk so as not to pass the ascent again. I would not want to miss my mark just as the events line themselves up for my taking. At once, I thought, I must do something! And with a mind of reason, I thought, because as I turned to face the right direction the decision congealed inside of me. A mind of reason, and I repeated this calmly to myself to confirm the decision. I walked quietly, calmly, looking up for the ascent every few strides. Not to miss it again, I thought, because the old lady is there, down the street, due her proper portion of the blame. Yes, I thought, it was her the whole time, maneuvering the mailman, this way, that way, old maverick, I thought, old trickster. I could hear the stream. I looked over my shoulder. \"Aha!\" I said, because at once I saw the ascent. I stepped off the belt of the canyon, onto the incline, amid the bushes. I took one last look at the canyon, one last look, with a mind of reason. I scanned the bushes, the trees, the rocks near the stream. I looked overhead for birds. I saw a flock align itself slowly into a V, and thought, in every instance there is a leader, a decision maker, the precision of a mind sifting through time and all the events time has to offer. How helpful the slice of bread had been, the walk in the canyon! An honest slice of bread in the morning to keep the mind tethered, securely fastened to all its potential and logic. The birds disappeared into the eastern sky, beyond the canyon. Yes, I nodded, a very good decision, a slice of bread followed by a walk, and I began my ascent. Only I turned, turned and faced the canyon again. \"One last look,\" I said, one last look, I thought. My clothes were damp against my skin. I was all calm, all logic. All laughter had evacuated itself. My chest was flat and level, nothing roaring inside it, and I thought this is life, this is peace of mind, when one is able to line up the events and point one's finger at them, draw a line\u2014from here to there\u2014and I drew my finger across my mind, a constellation, I thought, every event in relation to another, my finger going over the events as though over the shell of a snail on gravely terrain. I stood there staring at the canyon, balancing my form on the ascent, facing the canyon without taking anything in. Everything lines itself up, I thought, full of resolve and confidence.\n\nI tugged at my shirt. It peeled away from my chest, tightened at my armpits. I was beginning to grow cold. A clear sentence dashed through my mind like a strike of lightning. I wanted to read the sentence out loud. It was as though the sentence did not belong to me. I grew feverish. Greatness, I thought, comes at the strangest of moments. Because I was anxious to get up to the road, change my clothes, and further pursue my findings on the old lady. I grew impatient trying to recover the sentence that had dashed through my brain like lightning. I thought, if I don't recite it out loud it will burn a hole through my skull, and where would that leave me? A sparrow landed under the bushes, pecked the dirt for berries. I felt the ground give way underneath me. The canyon tipped to one side as though it were a giant ship sinking and then righted itself again. \"Recite,\" I whispered to myself, calmly. So that I caught the tail end of the sentence, just as it finished its second dash through my brain. Greatest failure, I read, and I thought, if the sentence has anything to do with failure it should be known to me. The sun was strong now, after the rain. I could feel the back of my neck burning. What's this? I thought to myself, because my mind followed the sentence to its earlier scene, and I saw the whole phrase in my brain.\n\nImpossible, I thought to myself, how could it be? Because I read the sentence, recited it out loud, word for word and in total disbelief: the moment of our greatest impulses\u2014I read, parsing out the words\u2014is the moment of our greatest failure. I slapped the back of my neck so as to awaken myself from a dream. The sentence, I thought, is pure madness. I looked around the canyon to see if anything had changed. But everything was crystal clear, accentuated even; I focused on the tip of the sparrow's wing. It twitched, then the bird fluttered into flight, so that my eye followed it from tree to tree, then farther up to the edge of the canyon, its limit. Above the canyon, the clouds were disappearing into the western sky just as the flock of birds had disappeared into the east. Beautiful, I thought, the canyon, to see it in such a precise way. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. \"This is beauty,\" I said, \"this is persistence.\" I felt a weight drop down into the base of my chest. A mysterious thing, I thought, the sentence. The weight settled in my chest. The feeling congealed itself. Sadness? I asked. I investigated, but came up empty. I wanted to probe the feeling with my finger, to see what it would yield. Only more sadness, I thought, one layer of sadness giving way to another. I grew heavy; I slouched like a pear. I felt too weary to keep standing. Our failure, I thought, and lowered myself to the ground. Just on the other side of our success, our failure. That is what the sentence is saying. And not altogether wrongly, I thought. I picked up a few rocks, rolled them around in the palm of my hand as I sat there. At any moment now, I thought, I could burst out crying. Because our greatest impulses are the under-face of our worst, and vice versa too, our worst failures married to our greatest impulses.\n\nI wanted to burst out crying, except I couldn't. Not capable of shedding a tear, I thought. Miserable wretch, I said to myself, pitifully, so as to make myself cry, but my mind was racing away with thoughts, and the sadness was small as a rock at the base of the canyon compared to the vast sky above. Tears, I thought, not worth a thing. I was shivering. To hell with it, I thought, and stood up and took a step farther up the incline. It must be five o'clock, I thought, because the air was growing raw and cold, and the sky was dimming, slightly more gray than blue as the day surrendered to the evening. It is only a matter of neglecting my resources, I thought\u2014the yurt, the trees\u2014I could go back to them. No failure could ever be permanent. I felt the weight begin to lift from my chest. I felt I could begin to walk. Strange, the impact of a sentence. My mind had reeled itself in. I was thinking with a mind of reason now. I felt odd to have stood there for such a long time reflecting on a random sentence. One for that matter that was pointing at me with blame. After all, the canyon had helped me to gain perspective. I had seen a bird, a stream, a sparrow, slept leaning against a rock listening to the sound of trickling water. What more could a person want? Nothing. I hugged my elbows to my sides; I began walking.\n\nBack in the house I changed my clothes. Dusk had fallen. How, I wondered, had I gone for a walk in the canyon? I took a drink of water. It is not for nothing\u2014I thought, leaning against the kitchen counter\u2014that one has one's thoughts. All day in the canyon the events had lined themselves up. Now everything felt magnetic in the kitchen. I swirled the water around in the glass. The sediment rose, did a wild dance through the water, then settled again. Suddenly an image of the skylight flashed before my eyes, sliced through my skull like a razor. I stirred the water again. The sediment rose. A faint, evening light filtered through the window. The water appeared as a white cloud, a fine mist amid the kitchen's darkness. The light was trapped between the water particles.\n\nA thread of hope produced a warm sensation in my chest. A ray of light, I thought, responding to the hope with childish excitement. I thought, what if I were to hold a flashlight up against the skylight? To climb up onto the roof? I could leave the flashlight there, with the bulb against the glass, climb back down, walk through the kitchen, into the living room\u2014my heart was racing now\u2014and stand beneath the skylight and watch the light from the bulb filter through. Surely the light would break through the sediment-encrusted skylight, just as the sediment in the water appeared to expand, plump and golden under the light. I grinned with happiness. It is not for nothing, I thought again, that one has one's thoughts, not for nothing, all day in the canyon the events lining themselves up. This is peace and happiness, I thought, the humdrum of the everyday. Sorting through one's life, one's immediate past, sifting through one's life minute by minute. I leafed through my day at the canyon as though through a book, event after event, and felt very satisfied. Everybody\u2014I nodded my head to reaffirm the thought\u2014is in the midst of an investigation. A certain project. And if not a project, then to say the least in the midst of probing their lives. Melding them, molding them, one way or another bending their lives, stacking their days, straightening their hours, one minute and then the next, lining their seconds up, pointing them in a very specific direction. Only no one will admit it, I thought. So that suddenly I felt proud and honorable for admitting my own agenda. My own agenda, I thought, and his name floated through the room as the feathers of a bird would float through the air, very softly, very gently, tapping the ground. What pleasure, I thought, and his name rolled off my tongue, \"Fra Keeler,\" I said, \"Fra Keeler,\" I sang and ran over and stood under the skylight. I lifted my voice to the glass, I sang, I screamed, I thought, I will crack the glass with my pleasure\u2014but suddenly the lights went out. I paused for a moment under the skylight. I was utterly disoriented, totally and utterly confused. Had I touched the light switch, flipped it by accident as I walked into the living room? Had I brushed up against the light switch as I ran under the skylight? But no, it couldn't be, I thought, because at all times I have been far away, equidistant from the walls. I stood there in grand amazement, his name drying on my tongue. Again the scene with the mailman flashed before my eyes. \"The mailman,\" I screamed in the darkness beneath the skylight, he is in on it! \"Indeed,\" she had said. \"Trouble with the lights?\" the mailman had asked. The whole time pretending to hand her a package, talking to her in a special tone so as to make it known to her that he was suppressing any knowledge of her plan. It wasn't I who had ordered the package. Infiltrating my research, I thought, the pair of them. I ran to the kitchen window, and pressed my face against the glass. It was difficult to see. I squinted, lifted my hands and cupped them against the sides of my face. The glass grew foggy, I wiped the moisture with my sleeve, I looked again. In the distance I could see the edges of the trees, but nothing beyond them, only a silhouette, I thought, the trees, their leaves bouncing on the branches in the breeze, nothing else.\n\nLife, I thought, and everything that goes with it, is nothing but trouble. Very troublesome, I thought, indeed. And without thinking, I grabbed my jacket and walked out the front door. Because in situations like this, I thought, pushing out my chest, one needs to do something, to pick oneself up by the bootstraps, to look people in the face, to face one's demons, to grab the bull by the horns, to push oneself to the edge of one's courage, to call it like it is. I stopped short just outside my door so as to pause respectfully at the end of my sentence. Then I shoved my hands into my pockets, leaned forward as though into a harsh wind, and walked down the sidewalk. The light, I thought, the package, chuckling. Imbecile of a lady, I thought, chuckling some more, because she couldn't even do her own job, using the mailman to infiltrate with a package. For a second I deliberated, then withdrew my hand from my pocket, made a fist and knocked harshly on her door.\n\nShe must be deaf, I thought, because already a minute had passed and she hadn't answered the door. Suddenly my mind was running away again. Events\u2014I paced back and forth by her front door\u2014get in the way of knowledge, wedge themselves intrusively between oneself and one's knowledge, and not just that, I thought, pacing very rapidly back and forth. New events introduce themselves, become involved with other events. So that one morning you wake up and find yourself tangled up in them. Events become inextricable from you, you inextricable from them. Just as thoughts bleed into thoughts, events run amuck, in the most disorganized state. One event inextricable from the next, a past event indistinguishable from a future event, I thought. I was facing her door again. Just like that, I chuckled angrily to myself, one's knowledge is procrastinated, one's investigations left in suspense. I raised my fist\u2014like splitting water, retracing events\u2014and brought my hand down onto her door again. I knocked louder. Now she will see, I thought, calming myself. I took a deep breath, and as I took in the breath I witnessed a brilliant image: I saw myself sitting near the yurt, pulling event after event through the eye of a needle, as though life were a single continuous golden thread.\n\n\"How can I help you?\" she asked. It occurred to me that she could have been standing there for quite some time, staring at me with the door open. I took a curious look at her hand. She wasn't holding her candle. She is trying to pretend, I thought, that living in the dark comes naturally to her. I leaned in to take a peek over her shoulder.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" she said, repositioning herself in the doorway, \"Is there something I can do for you?\" And I thought, really, I could shed a thousand tears for you. An old lady asking such inane questions, and I leaned in a little farther, because I had spotted a lamp around the corner. She shifted uneasily. I was close enough now that I was breathing down on her. Perhaps I should use a different strategy, I thought.\n\n\"Hello,\" I said, trying to smooth things over. If she is going to pretend, I said to myself\u2014I was standing on the steps now so as to give her more room\u2014I should pretend as well, make the best of this little game. Then, without thinking, I said, \"I was only wondering if you had any special antiques, and if you might have a mind to sell them.\" I had no idea how the thought had come to me, and was surprised myself for having uttered it without flinching the slightest bit.\n\n\"Excuse me?\" she asked, looking as though she was about to blow out a puff of air. I felt my eyes roll back in my head, because I was utterly at a loss for what to say next. An old anger boiled up inside me, the same feverish chill that had come over me in the canyon. She held the door open with one hand and nervously bunched her nightgown with the other. Now, I thought, is the time to muster up all my strength, because I couldn't\u2014but I lost my train of thought, she interrupted me:\n\n\"How can I help you?\" she asked.\n\n\"By letting me in,\" I said, very directly. Because it seemed to me she had ironed her voice, forced it straight, a narrow spear of a voice darting forth, out of her mouth to dangle in the air and frighten me. For a moment, I had the vague feeling of something crawling up the back of my neck. I felt an old shiver in my brain. Everything was drawn up as though by a hook or a bucket\u2014feelings... anger, or something less... and there it was: sadness, as though from the bottom of a well. Because the old lady's cheekbones were impressing themselves upon me. My eyes began tearing. Something, I thought, has gone dead inside me. I looked at her. My thoughts shuddered in my brain. I felt utterly disoriented. What am I doing here? I thought. I looked around. How did I get here? The club, I thought, the skylight, and remembered the feeling of lying down amid the trees. I grew dizzy. I couldn't tell if I was lying down or standing, though I could clearly perceive her form in the doorway, turning her words over and over on her tongue, her \"excuse me?\" still lingering in the air. I took hold of myself. I watched her. I thought, ah, I have come to observe her. Because, knowingly or not, she is at the center of so many things. I felt a strange love sprout in my veins. Look at her, I thought to myself, shrugging my shoulders kindly. Because she was simply standing there, waiting with all her patience and her anger, holding the door with one hand and blocking the doorway with the other. What could I possibly say to her? I thought.\n\nBehind her I saw a cat jump from a bar stool to the edge of the couch. \"Why,\" she asked\u2014the cat positioned herself, stretched one paw out to its limit and began to lick herself clean\u2014\"should I let you in?\"\n\n\"Because I've seen you,\" I said, suddenly.\n\nThe cat curled into a ball and went to sleep.\n\n\"Excuse me?\" she asked again. I had a strange feeling she was trying to get the upper hand. You love someone one moment, I thought, and the next they render themselves suspect. What would it have been like, I thought, if I had something to offer, some flowers, a gesture so that she would let me in\u2014because certainly we had been intimate with one another, all along\u2014and then quite suddenly my thoughts stacked one upon another more clearly than ever: she has been sending men and women to my door at all hours of the day to throw my research off course, I thought. I rode the wave of lucidity. I thought, it is she who planted the papers in my kitchen, she who twisted the mailman's arm, she who sponsored the phone calls from Ancestry.com. The mailman, I thought, puffing, the broad-shouldered lady with her fish-mouth and waving arm.\n\nI reached up one hand to lean against the doorway; I was sweating just thinking of her sowing her thoughts into plans and orchestrating them from her dark abode. The love drained from my heart.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" she said, \"you could be more specific as to where you've seen me,\" and she slackened her arms and stood straight as a pole in the doorway. I looked behind her. The cat was sleeping. Nice cat, I wanted to say, and noticed that a strange gray light filled her home, a plump, sad light had taken over her things\u2014the couch, the chairs, the round of the cat's back. I didn't say anything, only stared at her. \"In the garden,\" she continued in the softest of voices, \"or perhaps checking the mail, because I do that often.\"\n\nI felt as though she could see through me, as though she was softening her voice to wrap around my sadness, because suddenly I had the distinct feeling of being transparent. Sweet old lady, I thought, I could love her, but something turned ever so slightly at the base of my chest\u2014the love reeled itself back in\u2014because it occurred to me that it was a strange suggestion, a distinct suggestion, not at all innocent\u2014that I may have seen her checking her mail\u2014because certainly, I thought, she has used the mail to interfere in my affairs. I grew nervous with anticipation. I swallowed a few times, shifted my position. I am done for, I thought. I felt his name rise up, and I wanted to push it down, but it rose again, shivering in my throat like a tiny bird. A tiny bird, I thought, tiny lump of bird, and I felt the tears well up in my eyes again. \"Fra,\" I said, because I couldn't push it down; his name came out like a nervous shudder. I stopped myself.\n\n\"What?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I said, and looked behind her. \"Your cat,\" I said, \"it isn't there. It was on the couch just a second ago, and now it isn't there.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, turning around to look for the cat. \"There she is,\" she said, because she spotted the cat on the stool, in a new position, licking itself. \"But just now,\" she said, \"you said something else.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't. I was just\u2014\"\n\n\"Certainly you did,\" she interrupted, \"I heard you,\" and she paused thoughtfully for a moment. \"Fra,\" she said, \"just now, I heard you say it.\"\n\n\"Not exactly,\" I said, \"that isn't\"\u2014but I couldn't finish because she interrupted me again, what a habit, I thought, she has of speaking over everyone else.\n\n\"It's an old song,\" she said, and suddenly she was very invigorated, because a second later she was singing it, \"Fra la la la, Fra la la, Fra Fra,\" she sang, \"but I can't seem to remember the rest of it.\"\n\nCertainly, I thought, she has come undone in her head. And she must have noticed the expression on my face, because she stuttered. \"I'm sorry,\" she said, \"I used to be an opera singer, it seems I can't help myself,\" and I thought certainly, most definitely duplicitous, she is, and turned my face into a screw to examine her.\n\nWe stood there for a moment staring at each other. \"Would that be all?\" she asked. Then she said, \"It is getting late.\" She closed the door, but just before she shut the door I caught a glimpse of her twisted face: certainly, I thought, it is she who is behind it all.\n5. I was standing there all alone. I thought, this is not the end of it: her singing a song, making a mockery of it all. I paced back and forth on her doorstep. I looked down at my hands, then quickly at the doorknob. My hands were cold. The skin around my knuckles was burning. I thought, I have to get in; I have to go through her door. And if not through her door then a window. I snapped my fingers at the thought. An image came to me of the lamp I had spotted at the end of the hallway. I imagined her cat curving around the lamp, her tail illuminated under the bulb. Warmth, I thought, and light. But I couldn't remember if the lamp was on when I had seen it, or if I had just imagined it to be\u2014a soft, yellow light calling me through her door.\n\nThe wind picked up. It was slightly colder than it had been all along. I rubbed my hands together. I stuck my hands into my pockets. I withdrew my hands. I touched one finger to my temple, then another. I looked up at the stars. They were flickering. There was a yellowish hue around the moon. A bird darted across the sky: slick and black and singular. The sky, I thought: infinitely deep, infinitely dark. I wanted to cup my hands around the stars, pluck them out of the sky once and for all.\n\nSuddenly, I remembered the dull, black surface of my dream. Everything burns to ashes. Lives out by whatever machinery, whatever injustice, then burns down to the very surface that held it up. The hand\u2014I thought\u2014the face in my dream! She was getting in the way of everything, her trembling form redoubling itself in my sleep. Wretched old lady, I thought, I will show her. Because in addition to putting up with her in life, I thought, I should not have to put up with her in my dreams.\n\nBetter to take a walk around her house, I thought, to take a good look before going in. Certainly her house could be just as deceptive, just as duplicitous as she herself: one countenance on the outside, another altogether on the inside, with no connection between. I leaned over to scratch my ankles. There were mosquitoes everywhere, flying frantically in the wind. Just as I leaned over to persuade them away from my ankles, the blood drained from my brain. But it wasn't dizziness I experienced. Rather a feeling of disorientation, because just then an image of the club I had dropped in the yard behind my house appeared in front of my feet. How, I wondered, has it made an appearance so suddenly, and directly in front of my feet? But slowly, as I stood up, it all made sense: yes, I thought, the club\u2014it is exactly what I need. I dashed over to my yard and grabbed the club. By now the wind had died down, the night was quiet and still. I thought, nothing could be more perfect than silence on a night like this; the stillness of dying, the silence of death, and a rush of excitement filled my veins.\n\nI returned to her doorstep. I practiced swinging the club. I swung with one arm, then the other. Definitely, I thought, my right arm is the stronger of the two. I was feeling more lighthearted than ever. This is joy, I thought, this is happiness, all my investigations taking form. With a decisive air I jumped off her front steps and turned the corner. I entered her backyard. There I saw a goose waddling away. A goose in her backyard, I thought: under the light of the moon, a goose waddling away! My blood froze. All I could think was: a goose in her backyard, stark in the middle of her yard, a goose. For a moment, I raised the club over my head. Perhaps the goose is an omen, I thought, and my blood started to move again. The bird waddled into the trees, which were slim and silver under the light of the moon. The goose released a loud honk. The sound returned my attention to the world. I found myself standing directly above the goose behind a row of trees. I placed the club down and leaned my weight into it as though it were a cane. I could ring its neck, I thought, looking at the goose. Then it occurred to me: I could spy into her house through the skylight on her roof. Now, in my distraction, the goose waddled away. That is what I'll do, I said to myself, maintaining a line of thought: I will climb directly onto her roof. And a moment later I was standing there, club in hand, staring down at her skylight as I stood on her roof.\n\nWas it real? I thought, and looked down at my hands.\n\nThe cat walked cautiously by the wall.\n\nShe arched her back, pointed her tail up to the sky. Her eyes narrowed into slits. She began to lick her right paw. The pale pink of her tongue makes a pleasant picture, I thought, against the soft pad of her paw. But the next moment she leaned away from the wall. She wound between my legs, rubbed her body against the club. One moment the cat is cool and distant, I thought, the next all warmth.\n\nI walked over to the kitchen counter. I had dropped the club. The cat followed me. I took a seat on one of the stools. The cat jumped onto the counter. From a distance she inspected my face. I looked out the window. A few leaves ruffled slightly in the wind, gave a small shudder. A bird gave out a low whistle, then took off into the night. Everything went still. Everything went silent. I looked around. The house was quiet, motionless except for the cat. I reached out to touch her and felt her breath against the palm of my hand. Could it be, I thought, and by whose hands? I looked at the club. I had left it leaning against the couch. I couldn't differentiate the club from my hands. Ten fingers, I thought, two hands. I inspected the furniture. Deep reds and browns, floral patterns. Ten fingers, I thought, as I looked at my hands. They could be performing any gesture: playing the keys of a piano, digging soil, folding a napkin.\n\nNo, I thought. It couldn't have been. Because certain things are of a category that one remembers. Not a lot of time, I thought, has gone by. Minutes, organized into units. How many minutes had gone by?\n\nI wondered.\n\nAn image of the shards came back to me. I watched the skylight shatter as I relived the memory. I looked up to where the skylight had been, then traced the rectangular chunk of sky down through the opening to the floor, where the shards were glistening with late-night rain. I shrugged my shoulders, puckered my lips. No matter, I thought. Because everything has already been done. Everything, I thought, in this room, and beyond this room, everything has already happened and been done with, dealt with. There is no doing, I thought, no matter, nothing left to do in this world. I felt my heart die down. Now the cat was walking among the shards. I thought, she must be taking pleasure, avoiding the sharp triangles, the pointed edges. Because she was extending her paws, licking them intermittently as she tiptoed around the shards. I looked back up at the skylight. One moment, I thought\u2014and then my mind was a flood of memories, because I saw an image of myself standing over the skylight, staring at my reflection, which is to say: I saw myself twice. It was a slight pause in time, an interruption. Everything shattered: tiny bullets of glass flew through the night like shooting stars. Now I could see the shards, a few feet from where I was seated, scattered across her living room floor, and, seated on her stool, a version of myself reflected in the shards, just as I had seen myself, only whole, in the skylight as I stood on her roof.\n\nI walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway. In her bedroom everything looked wounded. There was a purplish hue on the walls, over her bed, on her furniture. I looked down at my hands. I felt my arms detach from my shoulders. I watched them float away. Could it have been? I thought, and imagined her gaping mouth form an answer. I saw a reflection of myself in the bedroom window. Couldn't I get away? I was standing in her doorway. Was it real? I wondered, and backed away. A moment later I was in the bathroom, kneeling on the tile floor.\n\nI turned the tap, stuck my head under the spigot, scrubbed my neck. Couldn't I have imagined it? The water ran over my head. Her two eyes: icy, blue lakes drifting farther and farther apart from each other as though her face were a humid land being stretched to its limits. I walked back into her bedroom. I left the water running in the bathroom. I turned her body over. A sudden urge. A mass of mangled branches. First to one side\u2014I inspected her back\u2014then the other. There was a streak of blood running from her mouth to her neck. I pulled up her hair. The blood, I thought\u2014looking down at my hands\u2014her wet flesh. I heard the water spill over the tub and spread across the bathroom floor. Lovely, I thought, in this moment, the sound of water pouring over a tub. I pulled the covers over her frame. I walked back to the couch. I left the water running. I thought, let the earth sink.\n\nA sedentary feeling grew at the base of my chest. The cat curled onto my lap. Everything faded. Was it me, I thought, wasn't it me? I heard the water trickle out of the bathroom. I imagined the water being absorbed by the bedroom carpet. Then, as though in the distance, I heard a door slam, I heard voices. I heard a man draw out a roll of tape. I stroked the cat. Everything, I thought again, has already happened, even the end. I heard a loud noise. I felt my body stiffen. The room turned. It spun around. Everything spun with it: Fra Keeler, I thought, the papers, her trembling hand. It was a mere instance. Because one moment\u2014then I felt someone turn me over, clasp a cold thing around my hands\u2014one moment, I thought, and then the next.\n\nThe car drove quickly. I saw three park benches, a sparrow on a branch. The lights turned from green to red. Each time the car stopped, I counted the seconds. Up to forty, then back down again, until I was pushed down onto a metal chair. A heavy-set man stood in front of me. A few other men stood behind him. I heard: \"Yes, Sir.\" I heard: \"No, Sir.\" Then there was a clicking. The door slid open. The men left. Everyone except for the one heavy-set man, who by now had moved closer to me. How much time has gone by, I thought, since I have been here? Minutes, I counted, years. Anything in between. I looked down at my hands. I hardly recognized them.\n\n\"Are you going to talk this time?\" the man asked.\n\nTalk? I thought. Now versus when? I looked around the room. There was nothing familiar. A room, I thought, like any other. A plain room with a buzzing noise circling inside of it.\n\nHe took a step closer. I felt something tighten at the back of my neck. Death, I thought, wars, it is all the same thing. Because wars\u2014and I felt a blow hard against my face\u2014wars\u2014and just as I picked the word up, it trickled down my lip.\n\nThe heavy-set man stepped back. He lit a cigarette, took a big puff, then let the cigarette hang between his lips. As I looked at him, I recalled the smell of burning flesh. I remembered the mosquitoes buzzing everywhere, settling on the corpses. His lips, they were sealed. He was silent. He turned around, but only halfway, then looked at me again.\n\n\"Nothing?\" he asked, hanging his head from his neck.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I responded.\n\nHe took a long, sweeping look at me, the same way he would have looked, I thought, at a good mass of garbage.\n\n\"Now, how,\" he began to speak, but stopped himself. His voice, nothing but peeling bark, I assured myself. I watched him remove the cigarette from his lips. He lit another, and made a gesture as if to say this one is for you.\n\n\"I don't smoke,\" I said.\n\n\"A lot of refusal you got going,\" he responded.\n\nSon of a bitch, I said to him in my head. And I must have looked at him hatefully because the next moment he said:\n\n\"If you're going to curse, you should really commit to cursing. Out loud,\" he said. The yurt flashed before my eyes.\n\n\"You're putting up a good fight,\" he said.\n\n\"No fight,\" I said.\n\n\"That's not what I would call it,\" he sighed. \"You're monosyllabic, you're silent; it's a fight. Like it or not that is what it is.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said.\n\n\"Sir,\" he responded, \"there are ways of talking, and this isn't one of them.\" And I thought, really, he is quick to jump to conclusions. Perhaps I will receive another beating. I rolled my eyes into two tiny bullets. He took a step toward me. There was still a bit of blood trickling down my lip. I shifted. I looked away.\n\n\"You're afraid,\" he said. \"What are you afraid of?\" he asked, having taken all the mockery in the world and stuffed it down his larynx.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I said, and he took a step back and lit another cigarette.\n\n\"Nothing?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I responded.\n\n\"Not even your own death?\" he asked and slid a stack of papers across the desk.\n\n\"Take a look at these,\" he said, \"and tell me what you think.\" He tapped his index finger against the papers, as if to say look here, and I spied near his finger something very familiar across the page. The death-related papers, I thought, forgery, murder, and the lights went out in my head.\n\n\"No,\" I said, shrugging the feeling off, \"not even my own death.\" I couldn't stand the way he was drumming his fingers against the papers.\n\n\"Now we're talking,\" he said, drawing his hand to his hip.\n\n\"No,\" I said.\n\n\"No,\" he responded. And then he said: \"Do you think this is some sort of a game?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"no game.\" And I felt the blood drain out of my legs.\n\n\"How long have you been living there, in that house?\" he asked.\n\n\"An indeterminate period,\" I said.\n\n\"Don't be a smart ass,\" he responded, and then he picked up the stack of papers and he left.\n\nA sudden departure. Truly, I thought, life is one fickle moment. I slid my hand across my lip. Blood, I thought, murder, the unfriendly events. Because, I thought, wasn't I already dead? I looked around the room. Hardly anything was making sense. I had the distinct feeling of having cut off various parts of myself. I am empty, I thought, my core is dead. For a moment the buzzing sound in the room died down, then resurfaced again. The door slid open. The detective walked in. Three other men walked in behind him. I remembered parts of a body scattered across an arid piece of land as though its trunk and limbs had always been separate elements. My eyes refocused. One of the three men stood behind the detective and fingered his belt. He had a gun tucked into his trousers, another hoisted on his belt. The detective walked over to the table. He put down a tape recorder, and a glass of water next to it.\n\n\"Drink up,\" he said. And I lifted the glass of water and drank it.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, and I saw the man behind him drag his finger across the gun he had hoisted on his belt. Death, I thought, another set of unfriendly events. I felt a blow across my head. The buzzing in the room subsided. My neck tensed. My head snapped back; everything faded. I felt some blood trickle down the side of my face. The blood crystallized, it made a distinct sound near my ear. This, I thought, must be the sound of death.\n\nThe yurt reeled in front of my face, like a wild horse caught mid air.\n\nI walked in, one foot in front of the other.\n\nI stumbled across something: a body, I thought, and then I realized, no, it couldn't have been, because I suddenly remembered the canoe inside the yurt. Outside, the rain began falling, at first softly, then a bit more harshly. I lay down, I reached for the oar, I grabbed hold of it. The rain fell through the trees. The ground soaked up the water. I felt the canoe rise. A great body of water, I thought, above the earth. I watched the water gather. One moment, I thought, and then the next\u2014and I couldn't tell if it was blood or water\u2014I let everything drift away.\nABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nAZAREEN VAN DER VLIET OLOOMI is an Iranian-American writer of fiction and non-fiction. She received her MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University, and is a recipient of a Fulbright Grant to Catalonia, Spain. She is co-author of the Words without Borders dispatch series ArtistsTalk: Israel/Palestine and is at work on a second project entitled The Catalan Literary Landscape, an exploration of notions of journey and the intersections between landscape and literature. She currently teaches in the MFA program at the University of Notre Dame, and lives in Indiana with her husband.\nACKNOWLEDGEMENTS\n\nI would like to express my sincere gratitude to Brian Evenson for his tireless guidance during the writing of Fra Keeler. Very special thanks to Robert Coover for his generosity and support. Deep gratitude to Michelle Latiolais and Carole Maso for their unwavering faith. A heartfelt thank you to my dearest friends and visionaries Claire Donato and Jeff Johnson. Thank you to the editors who previously published excerpts from Fra Keeler in Harp & Altar, Paul Revere's Horse, and Dewclaw. Very special thanks to Kate Johnson.\n\nFra Keeler would not have been possible without the following constellation of films and books: C\u00e9sar Aira How I Became a Nun, Attila Bartis Tranquility, Thomas Bernhard Three Novellas and The Loser, Roberto Bola\u00f1o Distant Star and By Night in Chile, Luis Bu\u00f1uel Diary of a Chambermaid, \u00c9ric Chevillard Palafox and Crab Nebula, Brian Evenson The Open Curtain, Max Frisch Man in the Holocene, Andr\u00e9 Gide The Immoralist, Jean-Luc Godard Breathless, Nikolai Gogol Diary of a Madman, Witold Gombrowicz Cosmos, Knut Hamsun Hunger, Alfred Hitchcock Vertigo, Anna Kavan Ice, Imre Kert\u00e9sz Kaddish for an Unborn Child, Abbas Kiarostami Close-Up, Jim Krusoe Iceland, Patrice Leconte Monsieur Hire, Doris Lessing Memoirs of a Survivor, Clarice Lispector The Hour of the Star, Jean-Pierre Melville Le Circle Rouge, Marie Redonnet Hotel Splendid, Forever Valley and Rose Mellie Rose, Eric Rohmer Six Moral Tales, Daniel Paul Schreber Memoirs of My Nervous Illness, Muriel Spark The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Magdalena Tulli Dreams and Stones and Moving Parts, Lynne Tillman This Is Not It, Trajei Vesaas The Ice Palace, Diane Williams Romancer Erector.\nDOROTHY, A PUBLISHING PROJECT\n\n1. Renee Gladman Event Factory\n\n2. Barbara Comyns Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead\n\n3. Renee Gladman The Ravickians\n\n4. Manuela Draeger In the Time of the Blue Ball\n\n5. Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi Fra Keeler\n\n6. Suzanne Scanlon Promising Young Women\n\nDOROTHYPROJECT.COM\n"}
{"meta": {"title": "Complete Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde (Signet Classics) - Oscar Wilde (retail)"}, "text": " \nTable of Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Page\n\nIntroduction\n\nTHE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES\n\nTHE HAPPY PRINCE\n\nTHE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE\n\nTHE SELFISH GIANT\n\nTHE DEVOTED FRIEND\n\nTHE REMARKABLE ROCKET\n\nA HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES\n\nTHE YOUNG KING\n\nTHE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA\n\nTHE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL\n\nTHE STAR-CHILD\n\nAFTERWORD\n\nNOTE ON THE TEXTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS\n\nSelected Bibliography\n\nREAD THE TOP 20 SIGNET CLASSICS\nAn early leader of the Aesthetic Movement, which advanced the concept of \"art for art's sake,\" **Oscar Wilde** (1854-1900) became a prominent personality in literary and social circles. His volume of fairy tales, _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ (1888), was followed by _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1891) and _A House of Pomegranates_ (1892). However, it was not until his play Lady _Windermere's Fan_ (1892) was presented to the public that he became widely famous. _A Woman of No Importance_ (1893) and _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (1895) confirmed his stature as a dramatist. In 1895, he brought libel action against the Marquis of Queensbury, who had accused him of the crime of sodomy. He lost, however, and was sentenced under the Criminal Law Amendment Act to two years' imprisonment with hard labor. Upon his release in 1897, he settled in France, where he wrote his most powerful and enduring poem, _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ (1898).\n\n**Gyles Brandreth** is a British novelist and biographer, an award-winning journalist and BBC broadcaster, a former member of the UK parliament and government, and the author of the acclaimed series of Oscar Wilde Murder Mysteries. A former Oxford scholar and specialist in Victorian theater and literature, he lives in London and Paris.\n\n**Jack Zipes** is professor of German at the University of Minnesota. The author of several books on fairy tales, including _Don't Bet on the Prince, Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion,_ and _Breaking the Magic Spell,_ he is the editor and translator of _The Complete Tales of the Brothers Grimm._\n\nSIGNET CLASSICS   \nPublished by New American Library, a division of   \nPenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,   \nNew York, New York 10014, USA   \nPenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,   \nOntario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)   \nPenguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England   \nPenguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2,   \nIreland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)   \nPenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,   \nAustralia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)   \nPenguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,   \nNew Delhi - 110 017, India   \nPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,   \nNew Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)   \nPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,   \nRosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\n\nPenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:   \n80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England\n\nPublished by Signet Classics, an imprint of New American Library,   \na division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\n\nFirst Signet Classics Printing, June 1990   \nFirst Signet Classics Printing (Brandreth Introduction), October 2008\n\nIntroduction copyright **\u00a9** Gyles Brandreth, 2008 Afterword copyright **\u00a9** Jack Zipes, 1990\n\nAll rights reserved\n\n **REGISTERED TRADEMARK\u2014MARCA REGISTRADA**\n\nThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.\n\neISBN : 978-1-101-04248-9\n\n<http://us.penguingroup.com>\n**Introduction**\n\nThe playwright George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) said of Oscar Wilde: \"He was incomparably the greatest talker of his time\u2014perhaps of all time.\" The author Laurence Housman (1865-1959) claimed that Oscar Wilde was \"the most accomplished talker\" he had ever met and spoke of his friend's \"smooth, flowing utterance, sedate and self-possessed, oracular in tone, whimsical in substance, carried on without halt, or hesitation, or change of word, with the queer zest of a man perfect at the game.\" The novelist and creator of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930), described his first encounter with Oscar Wilde as a \"golden\" experience. \"His conversation left an indelible impression on my mind,\" Conan Doyle recalled. \"He had a delicacy of feeling and tact.... He took as well as gave, but what he gave was unique. He had a curious precision of statement, a delicate flavour of humour, and a trick of small gestures to illustrate his meaning which were peculiar to himself. The effect cannot be reproduced.\"\n\nThe effect cannot be reproduced, but I believe that its echo can be heard distinctly in _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ and _A House of Pomegranates,_ Wilde's two collections of fairy tales, first published in London in 1888 and 1892. Read these brilliant, beautiful, strange and haunting stories and hear the unique voice of Oscar Wilde.\n\nThe fairy tales reflect Wilde's personality, his way of speaking and his way with words. They reflect his profound knowledge of the Bible and his classical education. They reflect the range and depth of his reading. As a young man, Oscar Wilde was not alone in having the works of Aristotle, Homer, Plato, Sophocles, Theocritus, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, Coleridge, Words-worth, Swinburne, Tennyson, Dante, Goethe, Rousseau, Gautier, Hugo, Balzac and Baudelaire on his library shelves. What was unusual about young Oscar was that he had read\u2014and reread\u2014these authors and taken elements of their genius to help shape his own.\n\nThe nine stories in Wilde's two collections, being what they are, also, inevitably, reflect the great tradition of European fairy tale writing\u2014especially the work of the Frenchman Charles Perrault (1628-1703); the German Brothers Grimm, Jacob (1785-1863) and Wilhelm Karl (1786-1859); and the nineteenth-century master fabulist, Hans Christian Andersen (1805-75). Beyond their shared ability to tell a striking tale, Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, Hans Andersen and Oscar Wilde had much in common: a love of language, an interest in philology, a fascination with the theatrical, the romantic and the grotesque, an obsession with physical beauty, a belief in transfiguration, streaks of sentimentality and melancholia, and a desire to understand the nature of suffering and love. All five men also had a deep-rooted feeling for the folkloric traditions of their country of birth. Each, in his own way, was keenly aware of\u2014and consciously indebted to\u2014his own cultural and literary heritage.\n\nOscar Wilde traveled widely during his short life\u2014from North America to North Africa and throughout much of Europe. He spent the majority of his adult years living in England. He spoke English, German, Italian, Greek and French. He lived his last years in France and died in Paris. But, by birth and heritage and upbringing, Wilde was an Irishman. It is something he never forgot. And when we consider him\u2014as a conversationalist and a creator of fairy tales, as a playwright and as a man\u2014it is something we should be sure to remember, too. His Irishness was part of his essence.\n\nOscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born on October 16, 1854, at 21 Westland Row, Dublin. His father, Sir William Wilde, was a doctor and one of the most important aural surgeons and oculists of his day. He was also an authority on Irish folklore and published a definitive work titled _Irish Popular Superstitions_ in 1852. Oscar's mother, Jane Francesca Elgee, was a passionate patriot, polemicist and poetess who wrote under the name \"Speranza.\" She, too, was an authority on Irish folklore, and her many books include _Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms_ , _and Superstitions of Ireland_ (1888) and _Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages of Ireland_ (1890). Oscar's very names reflect his Irish roots. Oscar and Fingal were respectively the son and father of Oisin, the third-century Celtic warrior-bard.\n\nThe Wildes had three children. Oscar's older brother, Willie, was born in 1853. He and Oscar went to school and university together and had a relationship that was both fond and wary. Willie was destined to become an Irish lawyer, but, instead, moved to London and became a journalist. He drank too much and died four years before Oscar, in 1896, aged only forty-three. Oscar's younger sister, Isola, born in 1857, died of a fever, aged only ten. She was a golden child, the family favorite, and her loss affected Oscar deeply. Many years later he wrote one of his most affecting poems in her memory (\"Requiescat\") and her presence hovers over the fairy tales. To the end of his life, Oscar kept a lock of her hair in a little envelope that he decorated with their interlinked initials.\n\nAs boys, Willie and Oscar Wilde heard their parents talk. Both Sir William and Lady Wilde were noted raconteurs and conversationalists. They were also friends with the leading members of Dublin's intellectual society, and when these friends came to call, either for lunch or dinner or for what Lady Wilde termed her weekly \"conversazione\" (every Saturday afternoon, between four p.m. and seven p.m.), the Wilde boys were encouraged to be in attendance\u2014not so much to contribute themselves as to listen and learn from their elders and betters.\n\nOscar was a fast learner and a brilliant child. At the age of ten, he was sent to Portora Royal at Enniskillen, a boarding school with a fine academic reputation. Willie was one year Oscar's senior, but at Portora Royal he and Oscar were in the same class. They went on to university together, too. In October 1871, when he was just seventeen, Oscar won an entrance scholarship to Trinity College, Dublin. At Trinity, Oscar won further scholastic distinctions, culminating in the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, the highest classical award obtainable at the college, and a scholarship to Magdalen College, Oxford.\n\nAt Trinity College, Dublin, and at Oxford University, Oscar Wilde achieved every academic honor within his reach. He rounded off his undergraduate years by securing an Oxford \"Double First\" and winning the coveted Newdigate Prize, the university's chief prize for poetry. But what was his real ambition in life?\n\n\"God knows,\" he said. \"I won't be an Oxford don anyhow. I'll be a poet, a writer, a dramatist. Somehow or other I'll be famous, and if not famous, I'll be notorious. Or perhaps I'll lead the life of pleasure for a time and then\u2014who knows?\u2014rest and do nothing. What does Plato say is the highest end that man can attain here below? 'To sit down and contemplate the good.' Perhaps that will be the end of me too.\"\n\nThough in public he denied it, privately he considered the possibility of an academic career. He would have liked to have been offered a fellowship at his old college. It did not happen. Oscar was highly intelligent, witty, wonderfully charming, and he had the most perfect manners. He beguiled many people, but not everybody. There was something about him\u2014his flowery turn of phrase, his quixotic turn of mind\u2014that some found disconcerting and others disagreeable. It was at Oxford that Oscar began to formulate his philosophy of \"art for art's sake\" and to establish himself as the leader of the so-called \"aesthetic cult.\"\n\nIn 1878, when Oscar left Oxford, he had no settled career plan. Cushioned by a modest legacy from his father, who had died two years earlier, Oscar floated down to London, the capital of the British Empire, and made his mark on the metropolis with outlandish views and an outrageous appearance. \"Only shallow people do not judge by appearance,\" he declared. In his first season in London he took to going out in a bottle green velvet smoking jacket edged with braid, wearing a cream-colored shirt with a scalloped collar and an overabundant orange tie, taffeta knee breeches, black silk stockings and silver-buckled shoes. He became a champion of Beauty and a self-styled \"professor of aestheticism.\" \"Beauty is the symbol of symbols,\" he declared. \"Beauty reveals everything because it expresses nothing. When it shows us itself it shows us the whole fiery-colored world.\"\n\nBecause of his charm, Oscar was invited everywhere. And everywhere he went, he made himself conspicuous. It was a matter of policy. \"If you wish for reputation and success in the world,\" he advised, \"take every opportunity of advertising yourself. Remember the Latin saying, 'Fame springs from one's own house.' \" He was a master of self-advertisement. When he went to first nights at the theater, in the minutes before the curtain rose, he would appear, in rapid succession, in all parts of the house\u2014in the stalls, in the dress circle, in the boxes on either side of the proscenium\u2014attired in a flamboyant evening suit of his own design and sporting an unlikely flower in his buttonhole. The young Oscar Wilde was determined to be noticed.\n\nAnd he was. Soon after his arrival in London, the satirical magazines of the day started to publish spoofs and squibs at his expense. He began to feature in newspaper cartoons and caricatures. He was lampooned in music hall sketches, in stage farces and then, most famously, in April 1881, in Richard D'Oyly Carte's hugely successful production of W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan's comic operetta _Patience._ Oscar was at the first night and much amused. He recognized the piece for what it was: not a personal attack on him, but a pleasingly tuneful skit on the absurdities of the Aesthetic Movement.\n\nThe success of _Patience_ changed Oscar's life. On September 30, 1881, he received a telegram from Colonel F. W. Morse, Richard D'Oyly Carte's business manager in New York, inviting him to undertake an American lecture tour to coincide with the operetta's American production. Oscar did not hesitate. On October 1, 1881, he wired his acceptance. The young poet was in want of money and exhilarated by the prospect of crossing an ocean and discovering a continent.\n\nThrough 1882 he traveled across America, from east to west and north to south. He made two forays into Canada. He gave 140 lectures in 260 days. He developed his skills as a lecturer, performer and storyteller. He earned some useful money. He gained an international reputation. When he returned to England, at the beginning of 1883, aged twenty-eight, he was famous\u2014but, essentially, he was famous for being famous. \"Evidently I am 'somebody,' \" he noted at the time, \"but what have I done? I've been 'noticed.' That is something, I suppose. And I have published one book of poems. That doesn't amount to much.\"\n\nWilde's collection of poems was published in 1881 and not especially well received. He was accused of plagiarism, a charge he did not particularly resent. \"Plagiarism is the privilege of the appreciative man,\" he said. In 1883, he spent several months in Paris, working on a play, _The Duchess of Padua,_ and meeting, among others, Victor Hugo, Paul Verlaine and Emile Zola. As the 1880s proceeded, he extended his literary connections and, gradually, developed his literary ambitions. He worked on plays and poetry; he began to publish reviews and literary criticism; he took on the editorship of a women's magazine, _The Lady's World,_ which he retitled _The Woman's World._\n\nAccording to Wilde's only grandchild, the writer Merlin Holland, \"Wilde's time at _The Woman's World_ is sometimes regarded by his biographers as an interesting but unimportant interlude in his writing life.\" Merlin Holland maintains that it was more than that: \"it gave him some of those 'finest, rarest moments' for 'literature,' effectively kick-starting him into the great creative years of his life.\"\n\nHolland sees the late 1880s as the years when \"Wilde's childhood Ireland spilled out onto paper\u2014'a Celtic world dominated by ghosts and God' as one of his compatriots described it. Folklore, superstition and the supernatural fill 'The Canterville Ghost,' 'Lord Arthur Savile's Crime' and his first collection of children's stories, _The Happy Prince and Other Tales._ \"\n\nFrom the outset, Wilde maintained that the stories were not written specifically with children in mind. When the young poet George Herbert Kersley wrote to the author in June 1888, congratulating him on the tales and asking if he would autograph his copy for him, Wilde replied: \"I am very pleased that you like my stories. They are studies in prose, put for Romance's sake into fanciful form: meant partly for children, and partly for those who have kept the childlike faculties of wonder and joy, and who find in simplicity a subtle strangeness.\" Wilde added that he would be \"charmed\" to sign the book for Kersley and invited him to come to tea \"some Wednesday about 5:30 o'clock.\"\n\nMerlin Holland claims that his grandfather \"hated the idea\" that the stories \"were to be for children at all\" and referred to them as \"written, not for children, but for childlike people from eight to eighty.\" That said, the writing of the fairy tales coincided exactly with the years when Oscar Wilde became the father of young children.\n\nOn May 29, 1884, Oscar Wilde married Constance Lloyd, the daughter of an Irish QC, and together they set up home in London, at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea. It was a love match and the early years of their marriage were happy ones. Their sons, Cyril and Vyvyan, were born in 1885 and 1887. Oscar and Constance remained close for the remainder of their lives, but the true tragedy of Wilde's disgrace and imprisonment in 1895 was that, from that moment onward, he never saw nor heard from his sons again. Oscar Wilde may not have been an ideal husband, but he was certainly a devoted father.\n\nIn his touching memoir, _Son of Oscar Wilde,_ Vyvyan Holland speaks of Oscar as \"a real companion\" to his sons: \"He had so much of the child in his own nature that he delighted in playing our games.\" Vyvyan describes his father \"down on all fours on the nursery floor, being in turn a lion, a wolf, a horse, caring nothing for his usually immaculate appearance.\" In the nursery and the dining room, and up and down the stairs at Tite Street, Oscar played \"romping games\" with his boys. He mended their toys. He gave them books to read. According to Vyvyan, \"He was a great admirer of Jules Verne and [Robert Louis] Stevenson, and of [Rudyard] Kipling in his more imaginative vein. The last present that he gave me was _The Jungle Book.\"_ Oscar also entertained his sons by telling them stories: \"He told us all his own written fairy stories suitably adapted for our young minds, and a great many others as well.\"\n\nThe end of the 1880s saw the flowering of Oscar Wilde's literary genius. In 1889, Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle first met. They were brought together by an American publisher, J. M. Stoddart, who was in England commissioning material for _Lippincott's Magazine_. The upshot of the encounter was that Mr. Stoddart got to publish both Arthur Conan Doyle's second Sherlock Holmes story, _The Sign of Four,_ and Oscar Wilde's only novel, _The Picture of Dorian Gray._ (And a century later, incidentally, the same encounter inspired me to write the first of \"The Oscar Wilde Murder Mysteries\" featuring Wilde and Conan Doyle.)\n\nThis was the golden age of Oscar Wilde. The first of his successful social comedies, _Lady Windermere's Fan,_ was produced in London in 1892, followed by three more plays: _A Woman of No Importance_ (1893), _An Ideal Husband_ (1895), and, most famously, _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (1895).\n\nThis was also the era when Oscar Wilde began to explore his homosexuality. From the middle of the 1880s, he spent less time with his wife and family and more time cultivating the company of young men. Some were of his social class; some were not. \"I want to eat of all the fruit of all the trees in the garden of the world,\" he said. As the years went by, he took increasing risks. He relished \"feasting with panthers,\" as he put it: \"the danger was half the excitement.\"\n\nIn 1891 Oscar Wilde met a twenty-year-old Oxford undergraduate, Lord Alfred Douglas, the third son of the eighth Marquess of Queensberry. Soon the pair became inseparable. In 1895, the young man's father, Lord Queensberry, left a card for Wilde at the Albemarle Club accusing Wilde of \"posing Somdomite\" _(sic)_ and provoking Wilde to sue Queensberry for criminal libel. The failure of the libel action led to Wilde's own prosecution on charges of gross indecency.\n\nOn May 25, 1895, he was found guilty and sentenced to two years' imprisonment with hard labor. Released from jail on May 19, 1897, Wilde traveled immediately to France and spent the rest of his life in exile on the Continent. His poem _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ was published in 1898, and his confessional letter, _De Profundis,_ was published posthumously in 1905. Constance Wilde died in Genoa on April 7, 1898, following an operation on her spine. Oscar Wilde died in Paris on November 30, 1900. He was buried at Bagneux Cemetery. In 1909 his remains were moved to the French national cemetery of P\u00e8re Lachaise.\n\nInevitably, we view him now through the prism of his tragedy. Oscar Wilde's extraordinary biography overlies our reading of his work. We do not approach the nine stories in this book as a straightforward collection of Victorian fairy tales: we read them knowing that they are by Oscar Wilde. The author's very name adds a frisson to the experience of picking up the book. This is the work of a man who was leading a double life, an artist who felt at odds with much of the society that surrounded him, a homosexual who could not openly acknowledge his sexuality. These stones\u2014rich in irony\u2014are tales of love and sacrifice. In \"The Happy Prince,\" the most famous story in the first collection, the Prince is far from happy. He is a Christ-like figure who finds fulfillment through self-sacrifice. And the Prince and the swallow, what are they but male lovers whose pure love transcends the vulgar values of the petty-minded town councilors? In \"The Young King,\" the opening story in the second collection, the hero is a lad of sixteen. We first encounter him sighing, lying back on soft cushions, \"wild-eyed and opened-mouthed, like a brown woodland Faun.\" This is far from the only homoerotic portrait in the collection. In each of the stories, in both collections, there is a highly charged undercurrent of physicality, a religious fervor and a sense of impending doom. You will find it difficult to read these tales without thinking of the life of the man who wrote them.\n\nI am, in some ways, blessed. I discovered Wilde's writings before I knew his story. In 1961, when I was twelve, I was given the _Complete Works of Oscar Wilde_ and read them from cover to cover\u2014yes, all 1,118 pages. I cannot have understood much, but I relished the language and learned by heart his _Phrases and Philosophies for the Use of the Young:_ \"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.\" I was simply bowled over by the fairy tales. I was on the brink of adolescence. These were powerful stories, with a heavy undercurrent of melancholy and romance.\n\nAs a boy I felt especially close to Oscar Wilde because I happened to be a student at an English boarding school called Bedales, where Cyril, the older of the Wildes' two sons, had also been at school. The founder of Bedales, John Badley, was a friend of Oscar Wilde. Mr. Badley was still alive and living on the school grounds when I was a boy. He told me (in 1965, at around the time of his hundredth birthday): \"Oscar Wilde could listen as well as talk. He put himself out to be entertaining. You know, he said, 'Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.' He was a delightful person, charming and brilliant, with the most perfect manners of any man I ever met. Because of his imprisonment and disgrace he is seen nowadays as a tragic figure. That should not be his lasting memorial. I knew him quite well. He was such fun.\"\n\nWhen I first read these fairy tales I knew next to nothing of the private life and tragic downfall of Oscar Wilde. I simply enjoyed them as wonderful works of the imagination. In 1900, when Oscar Wilde died, his son Vyvyan was at boarding school in England. The school's headmaster summoned Vyvyan to his study to break the news to him. The boy, who had not seen his father since 1895 and knew nothing of the circumstances of his disgrace, was shocked by the news. \"I thought he died long ago,\" he said. \"No,\" answered the headmaster, \"he died two days ago in Paris.\" Vyvyan had so many questions he wanted to ask, but his courage failed him. The boy broke down and cried. The headmaster said simply: \"He wrote beautiful stories.\" \"Yes,\" replied Vyvyan, \"I know.\"\n\nThese are those beautiful stories. Enjoy.\n\n\u2014Gyles Brandreth   \nLondon, 2008\nTHE **HAPPY PRINCE** _AND OTHER TALES_\n\n_**TO**_   \n_**CARLOS BLACKER**_\n\n**THE HAPPY PRINCE**\n\nHIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.\n\nHe was very much admired indeed. \"He is as beautiful as a weathercock,\" remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; \"only not quite so useful,\" he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.\n\n\"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?\" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. \"The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything. \"\n\n\"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,\" muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.\n\n\"He looks just like an angel,\" said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.\n\n\"How do you know?\" said the Mathematical Master, \"you have never seen one.\"\n\n\"Ah! but we have, in our dreams,\" answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.\n\nOne night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.\n\n\"Shall I love you?\" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.\n\n\"It is a ridiculous attachment,\" twittered the other Swallows; \"she has no money, and far too many relations\"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.\n\nAfter they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. \"She has no conversation,\" he said, \"and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.\" And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. \"I admit that she is domestic,\" he continued, \"but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.\"\n\n\"Will you come away with me?\" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.\n\n\"You have been trifling with me,\" he cried. \"I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!\" and he flew away.\n\nAll day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. \"Where shall I put up?\" he said; \"I hope the town has made preparations.\"\n\nThen he saw the statue on the tall column.\n\n\"I will put up there,\" he cried; \"it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air.\" So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.\n\n\"I have a golden bedroom,\" he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. \"What a curious thing!\" he cried; \"there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.\"\n\nThen another drop fell.\n\n\"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?\" he said; \"I must look for a good chimney-pot,\" and he determined to fly away.\n\nBut before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw\u2014Ah! what did he see?\n\nThe eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.\n\n\"Who are you?\" he said.\n\n\"I am the Happy Prince.\"\n\n\"Why are you weeping then?\" asked the Swallow; \"you have quite drenched me.\"\n\n\"When I was alive and had a human heart,\" answered the statue, \"I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.\"\n\n\"What! is he not solid gold?\" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.\n\n\"Far away,\" continued the statue in a low musical voice, \"far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.\"\n\n\"I am waited for in Egypt,\" said the Swallow. \"My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.\"\n\n\"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad. \"\n\n\"I don't think I like boys,\" answered the Swallow. \"Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.\"\n\nBut the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. \"It is very cold here,\" he said; \"but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.\"\n\n\"Thank you, little Swallow,\" said the Prince.\n\nSo the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.\n\nHe passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. \"How wonderful the stars are,\" he said to her, \"and how wonderful is the power of love!\"\n\n\"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,\" she answered; \"I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.\"\n\nHe passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. \"How cool I feel,\" said the boy, \"I must be getting better\"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.\n\nThen the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. \"It is curious,\" he remarked, \"but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.\"\n\n\"That is because you have done a good action,\" said the Prince. And the little swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.\n\nWhen day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. \"What a remarkable phenomenon,\" said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. \"A swallow in winter!\" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.\n\n\"To-night I go to Egypt,\" said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, \"What a distinguished stranger!\" so he enjoyed himself very much.\n\nWhen the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. \"Have you any commissions for Egypt?\" he cried; \"I am just starting.\"\n\n\"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"will you not stay with me one night longer?\"\n\n\"I am waited for in Egypt,\" answered the Swallow. \"To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.\"\n\n\"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.\"\n\n\"I will wait with you one night longer,\" said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. \"Shall I take him another ruby?\"\n\n\"Alas! I have no ruby now,\" said the Prince; \"my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.\"\n\n\"Dear Prince,\" said the swallow, \"I cannot do that\"; and he began to weep.\n\n\"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"do as I command you.\"\n\nSo the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.\n\n\"I am beginning to be appreciated,\" he cried; \"this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,\" and he looked quite happy.\n\nThe next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. \"Heave a-hoy!\" they shouted as each chest came up. \"I am going to Egypt!\" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.\n\n\"I am come to bid you good-bye,\" he cried.\n\n\"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"will you not stay with me one night longer?\"\n\n\"It is winter,\" answered the Swallow, \"and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.\"\n\n\"In the square below,\" said the Happy Prince, \"there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.\"\n\n\"I will stay with you one night longer,\" said the Swallow, \"but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.\"\n\n\"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"do as I command you.\"\n\nSo he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. \"What a lovely bit of glass,\" cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.\n\nThen the Swallow came back to the Prince. \"You are blind now,\" he said, \"so I will stay with you always.\"\n\n\"No, little Swallow,\" said the poor Prince, \"you must go away to Egypt.\"\n\n\"I will stay with you always,\" said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.\n\nAll the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.\n\n\"Dear little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.\"\n\nSo the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. \"How hungry we are!\" they said. \"You must not lie here,\" shouted the Watch-man, and they wandered out into the rain.\n\nThen he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.\n\n\"I am covered with fine gold,\" said the Prince, \"you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.\"\n\nLeaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. \"We have bread now!\" they cried.\n\nThen the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.\n\nThe poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.\n\nBut at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. \"Good-bye, dear Prince!\" he murmured, \"will you let me kiss your hand?\"\n\n\"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,\" said the Prince, \"you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.\"\n\n\"It is not to Egypt that I am going,\" said the Swallow. \"I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?\"\n\nAnd he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.\n\nAt that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.\n\nEarly the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: \"Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!\" he said.\n\n\"How shabby indeed!\" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.\n\n\"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,\" said the Mayor; \"in fact, he is little better than a beggar!\"\n\n\"Little better than a beggar,\" said the Town Councillors.\n\n\"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!\" continued the Mayor. \"We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.\" And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.\n\nSo they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. \"As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,\" said the Art Professor at the University.\n\nThen they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. \"We must have another statue, of course,\" he said, \"and it shall be a statue of myself. \"\n\n\"Of myself,\" said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.\n\n\"What a strange thing!\" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. \"This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.\" So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.\n\n\"Bring me the two most precious things in the city,\" said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.\n\n\"You have rightly chosen,\" said God, \"for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for ever-more, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.\"\n\n**THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE**\n\n\"SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,\" cried the young Student; \"but in all my garden there is no red rose.\"\n\nFrom her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.\n\n\"No red rose in all my garden!\" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. \"Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.\"\n\n\"Here at last is a true lover,\" said the Nightingale. \"Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.\"\n\n\"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,\" murmured the young Student, \"and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.\"\n\n\"Here indeed is the true lover,\" said the Nightingale. \"What I sing of, he suffers, what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.\"\n\n\"The musicians will sit in their gallery,\" said the young Student, \"and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her\"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.\n\n\"Why is he weeping?\" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.\n\n\"Why, indeed?\" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.\n\n\"Why, indeed?\" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.\n\n\"He is weeping for a red rose,\" said the Nightingale.\n\n\"For a red rose?\" they cried; \"how very ridiculous!\" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.\n\nBut the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.\n\nSuddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.\n\nIn the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.\n\n\"Give me a red rose,\" she cried, \"and I will sing you my sweetest song.\"\n\nBut the Tree shook its head.\n\n\"My roses are white,\" it answered; \"as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.\"\n\nSo the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.\n\n\"Give me a red rose,\" she cried, \"and I will sing you my sweetest song.\"\n\nBut the Tree shook its head.\n\n\"My roses are yellow,\" it answered; \"as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.\"\n\nSo the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.\n\n\"Give me a red rose,\" she cried, \"and I will sing you my sweetest song. \"\n\nBut the Tree shook its head.\n\n\"My roses are red,\" it answered, \"as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.\"\n\n\"One red rose is all I want,\" cried the Nightingale, \"only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?\"\n\n\"There is a way,\" answered the Tree; \"but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.\"\n\n\"Tell it to me,\" said the Nightingale, \"I am not afraid.\"\n\n\"If you want a red rose,\" said the Tree, \"you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.\"\n\n\"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,\" cried the Nightingale, \"and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?\"\n\nSo she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.\n\nThe young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.\n\n\"Be happy,\" cried the Nightingale, \"be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.\"\n\nThe Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.\n\nBut the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.\n\n\"Sing me one last song,\" he whispered; \"I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.\"\n\nSo the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.\n\nWhen she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.\n\n\"She has form,\" he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove\u2014\"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.\" And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.\n\nAnd when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.\n\nShe sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river\u2014pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.\n\nBut the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. \"Press closer, little Nightingale,\" cried the Tree, \"or the Day will come before the rose is finished.\"\n\nSo the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.\n\nAnd a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.\n\nAnd the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. \"Press closer, little Nightingale,\" cried the Tree, \"or the Day will come before the rose is finished.\"\n\nSo the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.\n\nAnd the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.\n\nBut the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.\n\nThen she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.\n\n\"Look, look!\" cried the Tree, \"the rose is finished now\"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.\n\nAnd at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.\n\n\"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!\" he cried; \"here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name\"; and he leaned down and plucked it.\n\nThen he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.\n\nThe daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.\n\n\"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,\" cried the Student. \"Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.\"\n\nBut the girl frowned.\n\n\"I am afraid it will not go with my dress,\" she answered; \"and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.\"\n\n\"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,\" said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.\n\n\"Ungrateful!\" said the girl. \"I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has\"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.\n\n\"What a silly thing Love is,\" said the Student as he walked away. \"It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.\"\n\nSo he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.\n\n**THE SELFISH GIANT**\n\nEVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.\n\nIt was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. \"How happy we are here!\" they cried to each other.\n\nOne day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.\n\n\"My own garden is my own garden,\" said the Giant; \"any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.\" So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.\n\nTRESPASSERS   \nWILL BE   \nPROSECUTED\n\nHe was a very selfish Giant.\n\nThe poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. \"How happy we were there,\" they said to each other.\n\nThen the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. \"Spring has forgotten this garden,\" they cried, \"so we will live here all the year round.\" The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. \"This is a delightful spot,\" he said, \"we must ask the Hail on a visit.\" So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.\n\n\"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,\" said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; \"I hope there will be a change in the weather.\"\n\nBut the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. \"He is too selfish,\" she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.\n\nOne morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. \"I believe the Spring has come at last,\" said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.\n\nWhat did he see?\n\nHe saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one comer it was still winter. It was the farthest comer of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. \"Climb up! little boy,\" said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.\n\nAnd the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. \"How selfish I have been!\" he said; \"now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's play-ground for ever and ever.\" He was really very sorry for what he had done.\n\nSo he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. \"It is your garden now, little children,\" said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.\n\nAll day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.\n\n\"But where is your little companion?\" he said: \"the boy I put into the tree.\" The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.\n\n\"We don't know,\" answered the children; \"he has gone away.\n\n\"You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,\" said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.\n\nEvery afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. \"How I would like to see him!\" he used to say.\n\nYears went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. \"I have many beautiful flowers,\" he said; \"but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.\"\n\nOne winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.\n\nSuddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.\n\nDownstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, \"Who hath dared to wound thee?\" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.\n\n\"Who hath dared to wound thee?\" cried the Giant; \"tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.\"\n\n\"Nay!\" answered the child; \"but these are the wounds of Love.\"\n\n\"Who art thou?\" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.\n\nAnd the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, \"You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.\"\n\nAnd when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.\n\n**THE DEVOTED FRIEND**\n\nONE morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.\n\n\"You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads,\" she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.\n\n\"What disobedient children!\" cried the old Water-rat; \"they really deserve to be drowned.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind,\" answered the Duck, \"every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient.\"\n\n\"Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,\" said the Water-rat; \"I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.\"\n\n\"And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?\" asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.\n\n\"Yes, that is just what I want to know,\" said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example.\n\n\"What a silly question!\" cried the Water-rat. \"I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course. \"\n\n\"And what would you do in return?\" said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.\n\n\"I don't understand you,\" answered the Water-rat.\n\n\"Let me tell you a story on the subject,\" said the Linnet.\n\n\"Is the story about me?\" asked the Water-rat. \"If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction.\"\n\n\"It is applicable to you,\" answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.\n\n\"Once upon a time,\" said the Linnet, \"there was an honest little fellow named Hans.\"\n\n\"Was he very distinguished?\" asked the Water-rat.\n\n\"No,\" answered the Linnet, \"I don't think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gillyflowers, and Shepherds'-purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.\n\n\"Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.\n\n\" 'Real friends should have everything in common,' the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.\n\n\"Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.\n\n\"So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.\n\n\" 'There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,' the Miller used to say to his wife, 'for when people are in trouble they should be left alone and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.'\n\n\" 'You are certainly very thoughtful about others,' answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; 'very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.'\n\n\" 'But could we not ask little Hans up here?' said the Miller's youngest son. 'If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.'\n\n\" 'What a silly boy you are!' cried the Miller; 'I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly will not allow Hans' nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that.'\n\n\" 'How well you talk'! said the Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; ''really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.'\n\n\" 'Lots of people act well,' answered the Miller; 'but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also'; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him.\"\n\n\"Is that the end of the story?\" asked the Water-rat.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" answered the Linnet, \"that is the beginning.\"\n\n\"Then you are quite behind the age,\" said the Water-rat. \"Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered 'Pooh!' But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, \"as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.\n\n\" 'Why, what a good heart you have!' cried his Wife; 'you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.'\n\n\"So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.\n\n\" 'Good morning, little Hans,' said the Miller.\n\n\" 'Good morning,' said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear.\n\n\" 'And how have you been all the winter?' said the Miller.\n\n\" 'Well, really,' cried Hans, 'it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.'\n\n\" 'We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,' said the Miller, 'and wondered how you were getting on.'\n\n\" 'That was kind of you,' said Hans; 'I was half afraid you had forgotten me.'\n\n\" 'Hans, I am surprised at you,' said the Miller; friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!\"\n\n\" 'They are certainly very lovely,' said Hans, 'and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster's daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.'\n\n\" 'Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don't mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!'\n\n\" 'Well, the fact is,' said Hans, 'that I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.'\n\n\" 'Hans,' said the Miller, 'I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.'\n\n\" 'Well, really, that is generous of you,' said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. 'I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.'\n\n\" 'A plank of wood!' said the Miller; 'why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.'\n\n\" 'Certainly,' cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out.\n\n\" 'it is not a very big plank,' said the Miller, looking at it, 'and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some _fl_ owers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.'\n\n\" 'Quite full?' said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market, and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back.\n\n\" 'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.'\n\n\" 'My dear friend, my best friend,' cried little Hans, 'you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day'; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's basket.\n\n\" 'Good-bye, little Hans,' said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.\n\n\" 'Good-bye,' said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.\n\n\"The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.\n\n\"There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.\n\n\" 'Dear little Hans,' said the Miller, 'would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?'\n\n\" 'Oh, I am so sorry,' said Hans, 'but I am really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.'\n\n\" 'Well, really,' said the Miller, 'I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.'\n\n\" 'Oh, don't say that,' cried little Hans, 'I wouldn't be unfriendly for the whole world'; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.\n\n\"It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely, and at last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.\n\n\" 'It has certainly been a hard day,' said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, 'but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.'\n\n\"Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.\n\n\" 'Upon my word,' said the Miller, 'you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don't like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.'\n\n\" 'I am very sorry,' said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, 'but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing?'\n\n\" 'Well, I am glad of that,' said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, 'for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.'\n\n\"Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.\n\n\" 'Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?' he inquired in a shy and timid voice.\n\n\" 'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.'\n\n\" 'Oh! on no account,' cried little Hans; and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.\n\n\"He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on.\n\n\" 'Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?' cried the Miller in a cheery voice.\n\n\" 'It is quite mended,' answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.\n\n\" 'Ah!' said the Miller, 'there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.'\n\n\" 'It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,' answered little Hans, sitting down and wiping his forehead, 'a very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.'\n\n\" 'Oh! they will come to you,' said the Miller, 'but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.'\n\n\" 'Do you really think I shall?' asked little Hans.\n\n\" 'I have no doubt of it,' answered the Miller, 'but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.'\n\n\"Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.\n\n\" 'What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,' he said, and he went to work at once.\n\n\"But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best friend. 'Besides,' he used to say, 'he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.'\n\n\"So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar.\n\n\"Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others.\n\n\" 'It is some poor traveller,' said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door.\n\n\"There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other.\n\n\" 'Dear little Hans,' cried the Miller, 'I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.'\n\n\" 'Certainly,' cried little Hans, 'I take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.'\n\n\" 'I am very sorry,' answered the Miller, 'but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.'\n\n\" 'Well, never mind, I will do without it,' cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off.\n\n\"What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and knocked at the door.\n\n\" 'Who is there?' cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window.\n\n\" 'Little Hans, Doctor.'\n\n\" 'What do you want, little Hans?'\n\n\" 'The Miller's son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.'\n\n\" 'All right!' said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller's house, little Hans trudging behind him.\n\n\"But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.\n\n\"Everybody went to little Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner.\n\n\" 'As I was his best friend,' said the Miller, 'it is only fair that I should have the best place'; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief.\n\n\" 'Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,' said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.\n\n\" 'A great loss to me at any rate,' answered the Miller; 'why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous.' \"\n\n\"Well?\" said the Water-rat, after a long pause.\n\n\"Well, that is the end,\" said the Linnet.\n\n\"But what became of the Miller?\" asked the Water-rat.\n\n\"Oh! I really don't know,\" replied the Linnet; \"and I am sure that I don't care.\"\n\n\"It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,\" said the Water-rat.\n\n\"I am afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story,\" remarked the Linnet.\n\n\"The what?\" screamed the Water-rat.\n\n\"The moral.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the Linnet.\n\n\"Well, really,\" said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, \"I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said 'Pooh,' like the critic. However, I can say it now\"; so he shouted out \"Pooh\" at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.\n\n\"And how do you like the Water-rat?\" asked the Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. \"He has a great many good points, but for my own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes.\"\n\n\"I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,\" answered the Linnet. \"The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral.\"\n\n\"Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,\" said the Duck.\n\nAnd I quite agree with her.\n\n**THE REMARKABLE ROCKET**\n\n**THE** King's son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people wondered. \"She is like a white rose!\" they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.\n\nAt the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.\n\n\"Your picture was beautiful,\" he murmured, \"but you are more beautiful than your picture\"; and the little Princess blushed.\n\n\"She was like a white rose before,\" said a young Page to his neighbour, \"but she is like a red rose now\"; and the whole Court was delighted.\n\nFor the next three days everybody went about saying, \"White rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose\"; and the King gave orders that the Page's salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.\n\nWhen the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a magnificent ceremony and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.\n\n\"It is quite clear that they love each other,\" said the little Page, \"as clear as crystal!\" and the King doubled his salary a second time. \"What an honour!\" cried all the courtiers.\n\nAfter the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, \"Charming! charming!\"\n\nThe last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.\n\n\"What are fireworks like?\" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she was walking on the terrace.\n\n\"They are like the Aurora Borealis,\" said the King, who always answered questions that were addressed to other people, \"only much more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must certainly see them.\"\n\nSo at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other.\n\n\"The world is certainly very beautiful,\" cried a little Squib. \"Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices.\"\n\n\"The King's garden is not the world, you foolish squib,\" said a big Roman Candle; \"the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to see it thoroughly.\"\n\n\"Any place you love is the world to you,\" exclaimed a pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; \"but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once\u2014But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said the Roman Candle, \"Romance never dies. It is like the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest Court news.\"\n\nBut the Catherine Wheel shook her head. \"Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead,\" she murmured. She was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.\n\nSuddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.\n\nIt came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as to attract attention.\n\n\"Ahem! ahem!\" he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, \"Romance is dead.\"\n\n\"Order! order!\" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.\n\n\"Quite dead,\" whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.\n\nAs soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.\n\n\"How fortunate it is for the King's son,\" he remarked, \"that he is to be married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but Princes are always lucky.\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" said the little Squib, \"I thought it was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour.\"\n\n\"It may be so with you,\" he answered; \"indeed, I have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gun-powder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art.\"\n\n\"Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean,\" said a Bengal Light; \"I know it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister.\"\n\n\"Well, I said Pylotechnic,\" answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance.\n\n\"I was saying,\" continued the Rocket, \"I was saying\u2014What was I saying?\"\n\n\"You were talking about yourself,\" replied the Roman Candle.\n\n\"Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that.\"\n\n\"What is a sensitive person?\" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.\n\n\"A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people's toes,\" answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.\n\n\"Pray, what are you laughing at?\" inquired the Rocket; \"I am not laughing. \"\n\n\"I am laughing because I am happy,\" replied the Cracker.\n\n\"That is a very selfish reason,\" said the Rocket angrily. \"What right have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears.\"\n\n\"If you want to give pleasure to others,\" cried the Roman Candle, \"you had better keep yourself dry.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits; \"that is only common sense.\"\n\n\"Common sense, indeed!\" said the Rocket indignantly; \"you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married.\"\n\n\"Well, really,\" exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, \"why not? It is a most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride.\"\n\n\"Ah! what a trivial view of life!\" said the Rocket; \"but it is only what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it.\"\n\n\"But they have not lost their only son,\" said the Roman Candle; \"no misfortune has happened to them at all.\"\n\n\"I never said that they had,\" replied the Rocket; \"I said that they might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very much affected.\"\n\n\"You certainly are!\" cried the Bengal Light. \"In fact, you are the most affected person I ever met.\"\n\n\"You are the rudest person I ever met,\" said the Rocket, \"and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince.\"\n\n\"Why, you don't even know him,\" growled the Roman Candle.\n\n\"I never said I knew him,\" answered the Rocket. \"I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one's friends.\"\n\n\"You had really better keep yourself dry,\" said the Fire-balloon. \"That is the important thing.\"\n\n\"Very important for you, I have no doubt,\" answered the Rocket, \"but I shall weep if I choose\"; and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like raindrops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in.\n\n\"He must have a truly romantic nature,\" said the Catherine Wheel, \"for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about\"; and she heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box.\n\nBut the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept saying, \"Humbug! humbug!\" at the top of their voices. They were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug.\n\nThen the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.\n\nThe Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time.\n\nThen ten o'clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.\n\n\"Let the fireworks begin,\" said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole.\n\nIt was certainly a magnificent display.\n\nWhizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round. Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. \"Good-bye,\" cried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess laughed with pleasure.\n\n\"I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion,\" said the Rocket; \"no doubt that is what it means,\" and he looked more supercilious than ever.\n\nThe next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. \"This is evidently a deputation,\" said the Rocket; \"I will receive them with becoming dignity\"; so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no notice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. \"Hallo!\" he cried, \"what a bad rocket!\" and he threw him over the wall into the ditch.\n\n\"BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?\" he said, as he whirled through the air; \"impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and GRAND sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same\"; and he fell into the mud.\n\n\"It is not comfortable here,\" he remarked, \"but no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require rest.\"\n\nThen a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat, swam up to him.\n\n\"A new arrival, I see!\" said the Frog. \"Well, after all there is nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!\"\n\n\"Ahem! ahem!\" said the Rocket, and he began to cough.\n\n\"What a delightful voice you have!\" cried the Frog. \"Really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer's house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard the farmer's wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular.\"\n\n\"Ahem! ahem!\" said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he could not get a word in.\n\n\"A delightful voice, certainly,\" continued the Frog; \"I hope you will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you.\"\n\n\"Conversation, indeed!\" said the Rocket. \"You have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation.\"\n\n\"Somebody must listen,\" answered the Frog, \"and I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments.\"\n\n\"But I like arguments,\" said the Rocket.\n\n\"I hope not,\" said the Frog complacently. \"Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance\"; and the little Frog swam away.\n\n\"You are a very irritating person,\" said the Rocket, \"and very ill-bred. I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial.\"\n\n\"There is no good talking to him,\" said a Dragon-fly, who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; \"no good at all, for he has gone away.\"\n\n\"Well, that is his loss, not mine,\" answered the Rocket. \"I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.\"\n\n\"Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy,\" said the Dragon-fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.\n\n\"How very silly of him not to stay here!\" said the Rocket \"I am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However, I don't care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day\"; and he sank down a little deeper into the mud.\n\nAfter some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle.\n\n\"Quack, quack, quack,\" she said. \"What a curious shape you are! May I ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?\"\n\n\"It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,\" answered the Rocket, \"otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain.\"\n\n\"I don't think much of that,\" said the Duck, \"as I cannot see what use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something.\"\n\n\"My good creature,\" cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, \"I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of the opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, \"everybody has different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here.\"\n\n\"Oh! dear no,\" cried the Rocket. \"I am merely a visitor, a distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world.\"\n\n\"I had thoughts of entering public life once myself,\" remarked the Duck; \"there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family.\"\n\n\"I am made for public life,\" said the Rocket, \"and so are all my relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one's mind from higher things.\"\n\n\"Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!\" said the Duck; \"and that reminds me how hungry I feel\": and she swam away down the stream, saying, \"Quack, quack, quack.\"\n\n\"Come back! come back!\" screamed the Rocket, \"I have a great deal to say to you\"; but the Duck paid no attention to him. \"I am glad that she has gone,\" he said to himself, \"she has a decidedly middle-class mind\"; and he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.\n\n\"This must be the deputation,\" said the Rocket, and he tried to look very dignified.\n\n\"Hallo!\" cried one of the boys, \"look at this old stick! I wonder how it came here\"; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.\n\n\"OLD Stick!\" said the Rocket, \"impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!\"\n\n\"Let us put it into the fire!\" said the other boy, \"it will help to boil the kettle.\"\n\nSo they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit the fire.\n\n\"This is magnificent,\" cried the Rocket, \"they are going to let me off in broad daylight, so that every one can see me.\"\n\n\"We will go to sleep now,\" they said, \"and when we wake up the kettle will be boiled\"; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.\n\nThe Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last, however, the fire caught him.\n\n\"Now I am going off!\" he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight. \"I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high that\u2014\"\n\nFizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.\n\n\"Delightful!\" he cried, \"I shall go on like this for ever. What a success I am!\"\n\nBut nobody saw him.\n\nThen he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.\n\n\"Now I am going to explode,\" he cried. \"I shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole year.\" And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it.\n\nBut nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound asleep.\n\nThen all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried the Goose. \"It is going to rain sticks\"; and she rushed into the water.\n\n\"I knew I should create a great sensation,\" gasped the Rocket, and he went out.\n\n**A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES**\n\n**TO**   \n**CONSTANCE MARY WILDE**\n\n**THE YOUNG KING**\n\nTO   \nMARGARET,   \nLADY BROOKE\n\nIT was the night before the day fixed for his coronation, and the young King was sitting alone in his beautiful chamber. His courtiers had all taken their leave of him, bowing their heads to the ground, according to the ceremonious usage of the day, and had retired to the Great Hall of the Palace, to receive a few last lessons from the Professor of Etiquette; there being some of them who had still quite natural manners, which in a courtier is, I need hardly say, a very grave offence.\n\nThe lad\u2014for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age\u2014was not sorry at their departure, and had flung himself back with a deep sigh of relief on the soft cushions of his embroidered couch, lying there, wild-eyed and open-mouthed, like a brown woodland Faun, or some young animal of the forest newly snared by the hunters.\n\nAnd, indeed, it was the hunters who had found him, coming upon him almost by chance as, bare-limbed and pipe in hand, he was following the flock of the poor goatherd who had brought him up, and whose son he had always fancied himself to be. The child of the old King's only daughter by a secret marriage with one much beneath her in station\u2014a stranger, some said, who, by the wonderful magic of his lute-playing, had made the young Princess love him; while others spoke of an artist from Rimini, to whom the Princess had shown much, perhaps too much honour, and who had suddenly disappeared from the city, leaving his work in the Cathedral unfinished\u2014he had been, when but a week old, stolen away from his mother's side, as she slept, and given into the charge of a common peasant and his wife, who were without children of their own, and lived in a remote part of the forest, more than a day's ride from the town. Grief, or the plague, as the court physician stated, or, as some suggested, a swift Italian poison administered in a cup of spiced wine, slew, within an hour of her wakening, the white girl who had given him birth, and as the trusty messenger who bare the child across his saddle-bow, stooped from his weary horse and knocked at the rude door of the goatherd's hut, the body of the Princess was being lowered into an open grave that had been dug in a deserted churchyard, beyond the city gates, a grave where, it was said, that another body was also lying, that of a young man of marvellous and foreign beauty, whose hands were tied behind him with a knotted cord, and whose breast was stabbed with many red wounds.\n\nSuch, at least, was the story that men whispered to each other. Certain it was that the old King, when on his death-bed, whether moved by remorse for his great sin, or merely desiring that the kingdom should not pass away from his line, had had the lad sent for, and, in the presence of the Council, had acknowledged him as his heir.\n\nAnd it seems that from the very first moment of his recognition he had shown signs of that strange passion for beauty that was destined to have so great an influence over his life. Those who accompanied him to the suite of rooms set apart for his service, often spoke of the cry of pleasure that broke from his lips when he saw the delicate raiment and rich jewels that had been prepared for him, and of the almost fierce joy with which he flung aside his rough leathern tunic and coarse sheepskin cloak. He missed, indeed, at times the fine freedom of his forest life, and was always apt to chafe at the tedious Court ceremonies that occupied so much of each day, but the wonderful palace\u2014 _Joyeuse,_ as they called it\u2014of which he now found himself lord, seemed to him to be a new world fresh-fashioned for his delight; and as soon as he could escape from the council-board or audience-chamber, he would run down the great staircase, with its lions of gilt bronze and its steps of bright porphyry, and wander from room to room, and from corridor to corridor, like one who was seeking to find in beauty an anodyne from pain, a sort of restoration from sickness.\n\nUpon these journeys of discovery, as he would call them\u2014and, indeed, they were to him real voyages through a marvellous land, he would sometimes be accompanied by the slim, fair-haired Court pages, with their floating mantles, and gay fluttering ribands; but more often he would be alone, feeling through a certain quick instinct, which was almost a divination, that the secrets of art are best learned in secret, and that Beauty, like Wisdom, loves the lonely worshipper.\n\nMany curious stories were related about him at this period. It was said that a stout Burgomaster, who had come to deliver a florid oratorical address on behalf of the citizens of the town, had caught sight of him kneeling in real adoration before a great picture that had just been brought from Venice, and that seemed to herald the worship of some new gods. On another occasion he had been missed for several hours, and after a lengthened search had been discovered in a little chamber in one of the northern turrets of the palace gazing, as one in a trance, at a Greek gem carved with the figure of Adonis. He had been seen, so the tale ran, pressing his warm lips to the marble brow of an antique statue that had been discovered in the bed of the river on the occasion of the building of the stone bridge, and was inscribed with the name of the Bithynian slave of Hadrian. He had passed a whole night in noting the effect of the moonlight on a silver image of Endymion.\n\nAll rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for him, and in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many merchants, some to traffic for amber with the rough fisher-folk of the north seas, some to Egypt to look for that curious green turquoise which is found only in the tombs of kings, and is said to possess magical properties, some to Persia for silken carpets and painted pottery, and others to India to buy gauze and stained ivory, moonstones and bracelets of jade, sandalwood and blue enamel and shawls of fine wool.\n\nBut what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his coronation, the robe of tissued gold, and the ruby-studded crown, and the sceptre with its rows and rings of pearls. Indeed, it was of this that he was thinking to-night, as he lay back on his luxurious couch, watching the great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth. The designs, which were from the hands of the most famous artists of the time, had been submitted to him many months before, and he had given orders that the artificers were to toil night and day to carry them out, and that the whole world was to be searched for jewels that would be worthy of their work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar of the cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, and a smile played and lingered about his boyish lips, and lit up with a bright lustre his dark woodland eyes.\n\nAfter some time he rose from his seat, and leaning against the carved penthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly-lit room. The walls were hung with rich tapestries representing the Triumph of Beauty. A large press, inlaid with agate and lapis-lazuli, filled one corner, and facing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels of powdered and mosaiced gold, on which were placed some delicate goblets of Venetian glass, and a cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were broidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from the tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the velvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like white foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing Narcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the table stood a flat bowl of amethyst.\n\nOutside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a bubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and down on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an orchard, a nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the open window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead, and taking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy eyelids drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had he felt so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery of beautiful things.\n\nWhen midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and his pages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring rose water over his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few moments after that they had left the room, he fell asleep.\n\nAnd as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream.\n\nHe thought that he was standing in a long, low attic, amidst the whirr and clatter of many looms. The meagre daylight peered in through the grated windows, and showed him the gaunt figures of the weavers bending over their cases. Pale, sickly-looking children were crouched on the huge crossbeams. As the shuttles dashed through the warp they lifted up the heavy battens, and when the shuttles stopped they let the battens fall and pressed the threads together. Their faces were pinched with famine, and their thin hands shook and trembled. Some haggard women were seated at a table sewing. A horrible odour filled the place. The air was foul and heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with damp.\n\nThe young King went over to one of the weavers, and stood by him and watched him.\n\nAnd the weaver looked at him angrily, and said, \"Why art thou watching me? Art thou a spy set on us by our master?\"\n\n\"Who is thy master?\" asked the young King.\n\n\"Our master!\" cried the weaver, bitterly. \"He is a man like myself. Indeed, there is but this difference between us\u2014that he wears fine clothes while I go in rags, and that while I am weak from hunger he suffers not a little from overfeeding.\"\n\n\"The land is free,\" said the young King, \"and thou art no man's slave.\"\n\n\"In war,\" answered the weaver, \"the strong make slaves of the weak, and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live, and they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. We tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and our own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men call us free.\"\n\n\"Is it so with all?\" he asked.\n\n\"It is so with all,\" answered the weaver, \"with the young as well as with the old, with the women as well as with the men, with the little children as well as with those who are stricken in years. The merchants grind us down, and we must needs do their bidding. The priest rides by and tells his beads, and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning, and Shame sits with us at night. But what are these things to thee? Thou are not one of us. Thy face is too happy.\" And he turned away scowling, and threw the shuttle across the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded with a thread of gold.\n\nAnd a great terror seized upon him, and he said to the weaver, \"What robe is this that thou art weaving?\"\n\n\"It is the robe for the coronation of the young King,\" he answered; \"what is that to thee?\"\n\nAnd the young King gave a loud cry and woke, and lo! he was in his own chamber, and through the window he saw the great honey-coloured moon hanging in the dusky air.\n\nAnd he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream.\n\nHe thought that he was lying on the deck of a huge galley that was being rowed by a hundred slaves. On a carpet by his side the master of the galley was seated. He was black as ebony, and his turban was of crimson silk. Great earrings of silver dragged down the thick lobes of his ears, and in his hands he had a pair of ivory scales.\n\nThe slaves were naked, but for a ragged loincloth, and each man was chained to his neighbour. The hot sun beat brightly upon them, and the negroes ran up and down the gangway and lashed them with whips of hide. They stretched out their lean arms and pulled the heavy oars through the water. The salt spray flew from the blades.\n\nAt last they reached a little bay, and began to take soundings. A light wind blew from the shore, and covered the deck and the great lateen sail with a fine red dust. Three Arabs mounted on wild asses rode out and threw spears at them. The master of the galley took a painted bow in his hand and shot one of them in the throat. He fell heavily into the surf, and his companions galloped away. A woman wrapped in a yellow veil followed slowly on a camel, looking back now and then at the dead body.\n\nAs soon as they had cast anchor and hauled down the sail, the negroes went into the hold and brought up a long rope-ladder, heavily weighted with lead. The master of the galley threw it over the side, making the ends fast to two iron stanchions. Then the negroes seized the youngest of the slaves, and knocked his gyves off, and filled his nostrils and his ears with wax, and tied a big stone round his waist. He crept wearily down the ladder, and disappeared into the sea. A few bubbles rose where he sank. Some of the other slaves peered curiously over the side. At the prow of the galley sat a shark-charmer, beating monotonously upon a drum.\n\nAfter some time the diver rose up out of the water, and clung panting to the ladder with a pearl in his right hand. The negroes seized it from him, and thrust him back. The slaves fell asleep over their oars.\n\nAgain and again he came up, and each time that he did so he brought with him a beautiful pearl. The master of the galley weighed them, and put them into a little bag of green leather.\n\nThe young King tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused to move. The negroes chattered to each other, and began to quarrel over a string of bright beads. Two cranes flew round and round the vessel.\n\nThen the diver came up for the last time, and the pearl that he brought with him was fairer than all the pearls of Ormuz, for it was shaped like the full moon, and whiter than the morning star. But his face was strangely pale, and as he fell upon the deck the blood gushed from his ears and nostrils. He quivered for a little, and then he was still. The negroes shrugged their shoulders, and threw the body overboard.\n\nAnd the master of the galley laughed, and, reaching out, he took the pearl, and when he saw it he pressed it to his forehead and bowed. \"It shall be,\" he said, \"for the sceptre of the young King,\" and he made a sign to the negroes to draw up the anchor.\n\nAnd when the young King heard this he gave a great cry, and woke, and through the window he saw the long grey fingers of the dawn clutching at the fading stars.\n\nAnd he fell asleep again, and dreamed, and this was his dream.\n\nHe thought that he was wandering through a dim wood, hung with strange fruits and with beautiful poisonous flowers. The adders hissed at him as he went by, and the bright parrots flew screaming from branch to branch. Huge tortoises lay asleep upon the hot mud. The trees were full of apes and peacocks.\n\nOn and on he went, till he reached the outskirts of the wood, and there he saw an immense multitude of men toiling in the bed of a dried-up river. They swarmed up the crag like ants. They dug deep pits in the ground and went down into them. Some of them cleft the rocks with great axes; others grabbled in the sand. They tore up the cactus by its roots, and trampled on the scarlet blossoms. They hurried about, calling to each other, and no man was idle.\n\nFrom the darkness of a cavern Death and Avarice watched them, and Death said, \"I am weary; give me a third of them and let me go.\"\n\nBut Avarice shook her head. \"They are my servants,\" she answered.\n\nAnd Death said to her, \"What hast thou in thy hand?\"\n\n\"I have three grains of corn,\" she answered; \"what is that to thee?\"\n\n\"Give me one of them,\" cried Death, \"to plant in my garden; only one of them, and I will go away.\"\n\n\"I will not give thee anything,\" said Avarice, and she hid her hand in the fold of her raiment.\n\nAnd Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of water, and out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the great multitude, and a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her, and the water-snakes ran by her side.\n\nAnd when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat her breast and wept. She beat her barren bosom, and cried aloud. \"Thou hast slain a third of my servants,\" she cried, \"get thee gone. There is war in the mountains of Tartary, and the kings of each side are calling to thee. The Afghans have slain the black ox, and are marching to battle. They have beaten upon their shields with their spears, and have put on their helmets of iron. What is my valley to thee, that thou should'st tarry in it? Get thee gone, and come here no more.\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Death, \"but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will not go.\"\n\nBut Avarice shut her hand, and clenched her teeth. \"I will not give thee anything,\" she muttered.\n\nAnd Death laughed, and took up a black stone, and threw it into the forest, and out of a thicket of wild hemlock came Fever in a robe of flame. She passed through the multitude, and touched them, and each man that she touched died. The grass withered beneath her feet as she walked.\n\nAnd Avarice shuddered, and put ashes on her head. \"Thou art cruel,\" she cried; \"thou art cruel. There is famine in the walled cities of India, and the cisterns of Samarcand have run dry. There is famine in the walled cities of Egypt, and the locusts have come up from the desert. The Nile has not overflowed its banks, and the priests have cursed Isis and Osiris. Get thee gone to those who need thee, and leave me my servants.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Death, \"but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will not go.\"\n\n\"I will not give thee anything,\" said Avarice.\n\nAnd Death laughed again, and he whistled through his fingers, and a woman came flying through the air. Plague was written upon her forehead, and a crowd of lean vultures wheeled round her. She covered the valley with her wings, and no man was left alive.\n\nAnd Avarice fled shrieking through the forest, and Death leaped upon his red horse and galloped away, and his galloping was faster than the wind.\n\nAnd out of the slime at the bottom of the valley crept dragons and horrible things with scales, and the jackals came trotting along the sand, sniffing up the air with their nostrils.\n\nAnd the young King wept, and said: \"Who were these men, and for what were they seeking?\"\n\n\"For rubies for a king's crown,\" answered one who stood behind him.\n\nAnd the young King started, and, turning round, he saw a man habited as a pilgrim and holding in his hand a mirror of silver.\n\nAnd he grew pale, and said: \"For what king?\"\n\nAnd the pilgrim answered: \"Look in this mirror, and thou shalt see him.\"\n\nAnd he looked in the mirror, and, seeing his own face, he gave a great cry and woke, and the bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and from the trees of the garden and pleasaunce the birds were singing.\n\nAnd the Chamberlain and the high officers of State came in and made obseisance to him, and the pages brought him the robe of tissued gold, and set the crown and the sceptre before him.\n\nAnd the young King looked at them, and they were beautiful. More beautiful were they than aught that he had ever seen. But he remembered his dreams, and he said to his lords; \"Take these things away, for I will not wear them.\" .\n\nAnd the courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, for they thought that he was jesting.\n\nBut he spake sternly to them again, and said: \"Take these things away, and hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will not wear them. For on the loom of Sorrow, and by the white hands of Pain, has this my robe been woven. There is Blood in the heart of the ruby, and Death in the heart of the pearl.\" And he told them his three dreams.\n\nAnd when the courtiers heard them they looked at each other and whispered, saying: \"Surely he is mad; for what is a dream but a dream, and a vision but a vision? They are not real things that one should heed them. And what have we to do with the lives of those who toil for us? Shall a man not eat bread till he has seen the sower, nor drink wine till he has talked with the vinedresser?\"\n\nAnd the Chamberlain spake to the young King, and said, \"My lord, I pray thee set aside these black thoughts of thine, and put on this fair robe, and set this crown upon thy head. For how shall the people know that thou art a king, if thou hast not a king's raiment?\"\n\nAnd the young King looked at him. \"Is it so, indeed ?\" he questioned. \"Will they not know me for a king if I have not a king's raiment?\"\n\n\"They will not know thee, my lord,\" cried the Chamberlain.\n\n\"I had thought that there had been men who were kinglike,\" he answered, \"but it may be as thou sayest. And yet I will not wear this robe, nor will I be crowned with this crown, but even as I came to the palace so will I go forth from it.\"\n\nAnd he bade them all leave him, save one page whom he kept as his companion, a lad a year younger than himself. Him he kept for his service, and when he had bathed himself in clear water, he opened a great painted chest, and from it he took the leathern tunic and rough sheepskin cloak that he had worn when he had watched on the hillside the shaggy goats of the goatherd. These he put on, and in his hand he took his rude shepherd's staff.\n\nAnd the little page opened his big blue eyes in wonder, and said smiling to him, \"My lord, I see thy robe and thy sceptre, but where is thy crown?\"\n\nAnd the young King plucked a spray of wild briar that was climbing over the balcony, and bent it, and made a circlet of it, and set it on his own head.\n\n\"This shall be my crown,\" he answered.\n\nAnd thus attired he passed out of his chamber into the Great Hall, where the nobles were waiting for him.\n\nAnd the nobles made merry, and some of them cried out to him, \"My lord, the people wait for their king, and thou showest them a beggar,\" and others were wrath and said, \"He brings shame upon our state, and is unworthy to be our master.\" But he answered them not a word, but passed on, and went down the bright porphyry staircase, and out through the gates of bronze, and mounted upon his horse, and rode towards the cathedral, the little page running beside him.\n\nAnd the people laughed and said, \"It is the King's fool who is riding by,\" and they mocked him.\n\nAnd he drew rein and said, \"Nay, but I am the King.\" And he told them his three dreams.\n\nAnd a man came out of the crowd and spake bitterly to him, and said, \"Sir, knowest thou not that out of the luxury of the rich cometh the life of the poor? By your pomp we are nurtured, and your vices give us bread. To toil for a hard master is bitter, but to have no master to toil for is more bitter still. Thinkest thou that the ravens will feed us? And what cure hast thou for these things? Wilt thou say to the buyer, 'Thou shalt buy for so much,' and to the seller, 'Thou shalt sell at this price?' I trow not. Therefore go back to thy Palace and put on thy purple and fine linen. What hast thou to do with us, and what we suffer?\"\n\n\"Are not the rich and the poor brothers?\" asked the young King.\n\n\"Aye,\" answered the man, \"and the name of the rich brother is Cain.\"\n\nAnd the young King's eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the murmurs of the people, and the little page grew afraid and left him.\n\nAnd when he reached the great portal of the cathedral, the soldiers thrust their halberts out and said, \"What dost thou seek here? None enters by this door but the King.\"\n\nAnd his face flushed with anger, and he said to them, \"I am the King,\" and waved their halberts aside and passed in.\n\nAnd when the old Bishop saw him coming in his goatherd's dress, he rose up in wonder from his throne, and went to meet him, and said to him, \"My son, is this a king's apparel? And with what crown shall I crown thee, and what sceptre shall I place in thy hand? Surely this should be to thee a day of joy, and not a day of abasement.\"\n\n\"Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?\" said the young King. And he told him his three dreams.\n\nAnd when the Bishop had heard them he knit his brows, and said, \"My son, I am an old man, and in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil things are done in the wide world. The fierce robbers come down from the mountains, and carry off the little children, and sell them to the Moors. The lions lie in wait for the caravans, and leap upon the camels. The wild boar roots up the corn in the valley, and the foxes gnaw the vines upon the hill. The pirates lay waste the sea-coast and burn the ships of the fishermen, and take their nets from them. In the salt-marshes live the lepers; they have houses of wattled reeds, and none may come nigh them. The beggars wander through the cities, and eat their food with the dogs. Canst thou make these things not to be? Wilt thou take the leper for thy bedfellow, and set the beggar at thy board? Shall the lion do thy bidding, and the wild boar obey thee? Is not He who made misery wiser than thou art? Wherefore I praise thee not for this that thou hast done, but I bid thee ride back to the Palace and make thy face glad, and put on the raiment that beseemeth a king, and with the crown of gold I will crown thee, and the sceptre of pearl will I place in thy hand. And as for thy dreams, think no more of them. The burden of this world is too great for one man to bear, and the world's sorrow too heavy for one heart to suffer.\"\n\n\"Sayest thou that in this house?\" said the young King, and he strode past the Bishop, and climbed up the steps of the altar, and stood before the image of Christ.\n\nHe stood before the image of Christ, and on his right hand and on his left were the marvellous vessels of gold, the chalice with the yellow wine, and the vial with the holy oil. He knelt before the image of Christ, and the great candles burned brightly by the jewelled shrine, and the smoke of the incense curled in thin blue wreaths through the dome. He bowed his head in prayer, and the priests in their stiff copes crept away from the altar.\n\nAnd suddenly a wild tumult came from the street outside, and in entered the nobles with drawn swords and nodding plumes, and shields of polished steel. \"Where is this dreamer of dreams?\" they cried. \"Where is this King, who is apparelled like a beggar\u2014this boy who brings shame upon our state? Surely we will slay him, for he is unworthy to rule over us.\"\n\nAnd the young King bowed his head again, and prayed, and when he had finished his prayer he rose up, and turning round he looked at them sadly.\n\nAnd lo! through the painted windows came the sunlight streaming upon him, and the sunbeams wove round him a tissued robe that was fairer than the robe that had been fashioned for his pleasure. The dead staff blossomed, and bare lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed, and bare roses that were redder than rubies. Whiter than fine pearls were the lilies, and their stems were of bright silver. Redder than male rubies were the roses, and their leaves were of beaten gold.\n\nHe stood there in the raiment of a king, and the gates of the jewelled shrine flew open, and from the crystal of the many-rayed monstrance shone a marvellous and mystical light. He stood there in a king's raiment, and the Glory of God filled the place, and the saints in their carven niches seemed to move. In the fair raiment of a king he stood before them, and the organ pealed out its music, and the trumpeters blew upon their trumpets, and the singing boys sang.\n\nAnd the people fell upon their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed their swords and did homage, and the Bishop's face grew pale, and his hands trembled. \"A greater than I hath crowned thee,\" he cried, and he knelt before him.\n\nAnd the young King came down from the high altar, and passed home through the midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was like the face of an angel.\n\n**THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA**\n\nTO   \nMRS. WILLIAM H. GRENFELL   \nOF TAPLOW COURT\n\nIT was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of age, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.\n\nAlthough she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so it was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that she should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine day it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass at the roses, and said: \"We are quite as splendid as you are now.\" The purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet heavy perfume.\n\nThe little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the old moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her birthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish children as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans of black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day. Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale little face, she had a beautiful white rose.\n\nFrom a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them. Behind him stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his confessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even than usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with childish gravity to the assembling courtiers, or laughing behind her fan at the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought of the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time before\u2014so it seemed to him\u2014had come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in the sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months after the birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds blossom twice in the orchard, or plucked the second year's fruit from the old gnarled fig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown courtyard. So great had been his love for her that he had not suffered even the grave to hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who in return for this service had been granted his life, which for heresy and suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men said, to the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier in the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her in on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month the King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand, went in and knelt by her side, calling out, \"Mi reina! _Mi reina!\"_ and sometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs every separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a King, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face.\n\nTo-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle of Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she still younger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal Nuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow hair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage, hastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two countries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary celebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn _auto-da-f\u00e9_ , in which nearly three hundred heretics, amongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular arm to be burned.\n\nCertainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his country, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the New World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which he sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which she suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one beieft of reason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally abdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of which he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain, was notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen's death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her on the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the expiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained throughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his ministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself sent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of Bohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their master that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that though she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an answer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which soon after, at the Emperor's instigation, revolted against him under the leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.\n\nHis whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the terrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as he watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen's pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the same proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful _smile\u2014vrai sourire de France_ indeed\u2014as she glanced up now and then at the window, or stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange spices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint\u2014or was it fancy?\u2014the clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when the Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had retired.\n\nShe made a little _moue_ of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders. Surely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the stupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where the candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to enter? How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for which the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the puppet show and the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were much more sensible. They had come out on the terrace, and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the hand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple silk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the other children following in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names going first.\n\nA procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as tore _adors,_ came out to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all the grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to a little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the arena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess\u2014the Camerera-Mayor as she was called\u2014a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.\n\nIt certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta thought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at Seville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father. Some of the boys pranced about on richly-caparisoned hobby-horses brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for the bull himself he was just like a live bull, though he was only made of wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of doing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so excited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs and cried out: _Bravo toro! Bravo toro!_ just as sensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored through and through, and their riders dismounted, the young Count of Tierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained permission from the Infanta to give the _coup de grace,_ he plunged his wooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head came right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de Lorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.\n\nThe arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead hobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and black liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French posture-master performed upon the tight rope, some Italian puppets appeared in the semi-classical tragedy of _Sophonisba_ on the stage of a small theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some of the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats, and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made simply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires, should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes.\n\nAn African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered with a red cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he took from his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller and shriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange wedge-shaped heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant sways in the water. The children, however, were rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were much more pleased when the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear pretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the fan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into a blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight and amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the dancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was charming. The Infanta had never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes place every year at Maytime in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and in her honour; and indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered the great cathedral of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known only by hearsay of \"Our Lady's Dance,\" as it was called, and it certainly was a beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of white velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were fringed with silver and surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling whiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight, being still more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair. Everybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved through the intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of their slow gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their performance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she acknowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made a vow that she would send a large wax candle to the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure that she had given her.\n\nA troop of handsome Egyptians\u2014as the gipsies were termed in those days\u2014then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a circle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to the tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the market-place at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as she leaned back peeping over her fan with her great blue eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was could never be cruel to anybody. So they played on very gently and just touching the cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and their heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly, with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their feet and whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then at another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay there quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound that broke the silence. After that they had done this several times, they disappeared for a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear by a chain, and carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes. The bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity, and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and went through a regular soldier's drill just like the King's own bodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success.\n\nBut the funniest part of the whole morning's entertainment, was undoubtedly the dancing of the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the arena, waddling on his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen head from side to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight, and the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was obliged to remind her that although there were many precedents in Spain for a King's daughter weeping before her equals, there were none for a Princess of the blood royal making so merry before those who were her inferiors in birth. The Dwarf, however, was really quite irresistible, and even at the Spanish Court, always noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible, so fantastic a little monster had never been seen. It was his first appearance, too. He had been discovered only the day before, running wild through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have been hunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town, and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a surprise for the Infanta, his father, who was a poor charcoal-burner, being but too well pleased to get rid of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most amusing thing about him was his complete unconsciousness of his own grotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed quite happy and full of the highest spirits. When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as joyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance he made them each the funniest of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was really one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature, in some humorous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at. As for the Infanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not keep his eyes off her, and seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close of the performance, remembering how she had seen the great ladies of the Court throw bouquets to Caffarelli the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope had sent from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King's melancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the beautiful white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the Camerera, threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he took the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower to his rough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and sank on one knee before her, grinning from ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes sparkling with pleasure.\n\nThis so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on laughing long after the little Dwarf had run out of the arena, and expressed a desire to her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it would be better that her Highness should return without delay to the Palace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared for her, including a real birthday cake with her own initials worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely silver flag waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly rose up with much dignity, and having given orders that the little dwarf was to dance again for her after the hour of siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for his charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the children following in the same order in which they had entered.\n\nNow when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a second time before the Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud that he ran out into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of pleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.\n\nThe Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude into their beautiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the walks, and waving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could not restrain their feelings any longer.\n\n\"He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in any place where we are,\" cried the Tulips.\n\n\"He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand years,\" said the great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.\n\n\"He is a perfect horror!\" screamed the Cactus. \"Why, he is twisted and stumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs. Really he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will sting him with my thorns.\"\n\n\"And he has actually got one of my best blooms,\" exclaimed the White Rose-Tree. \"I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday present, and he has stolen it from her.\" And she called out: \"Thief, thief, thief!\" at the top of her voice.\n\nEven the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves airs, and were known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up in disgust when\n\nthey saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that though he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they retorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and that there was no reason why one should admire a person because he was incurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf was almost ostentatious, and that he would have shown much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least pensive, instead of jumping about merrily, and throwing himself into such grotesque and silly attitudes.\n\nAs for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable individual, and had once told the time of day to no less a person than the Emperor Charles V. himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarfs appearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long shadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white Peacock, who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that everyone knew that the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children of charcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it was absurd to pretend that it wasn't so; a statement with which the Peacock entirely agreed, and indeed screamed out, \"Certainly, certainly,\" in such a loud, harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out of the water, and asked the huge stone Tritons what on earth was the matter.\n\nBut somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in the forest, dancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the hollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself, who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned down to listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides, he had been kind to them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to look for food, he had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs out of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them whatever poor breakfast he had.\n\nSo they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek with their wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him because she loved him.\n\nThey did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.\n\nThe Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they could. \"Every one cannot be as beautiful as a lizard,\" they cried; \"that would be too much to expect. And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.\" The Lizards were extremely philosophical by nature, and often sat thinking for hours and hours together, when there was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too rainy for them to go out.\n\nThe Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour, and at the behaviour of the birds. \"It only shows,\" they said, \"what a vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has. Well-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do. No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the grass after dragon-flies. When we do want change of air, we send for the gardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is dignified, and as it should be. But birds and lizards have no sense of repose, and indeed birds have not even a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like the gipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same manner.\" So they put their noses in the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted when after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the grass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace.\n\n\"He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural life,\" they said. \"Look at his hunched back, and his crooked legs,\" and they began to titter.\n\nBut the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds and the lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the most marvellous things in the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but then she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she loved him, and that made a great difference. How he wished that he had gone back with her! She would have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him, and he would have never left her side, but would have made her his playmate, and taught her all kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been in a palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could make little cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in, and fashion the long-jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew the cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the tree-top, or the heron from the mere. He knew the trail of every animal, and could track the hare by its delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled leaves. All the wind-dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with the autumn, the light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with white snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards in spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and once when a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up the young ones himself, and had built a little dovecot for them in the cleft of a pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed out of his hands every morning. She would like them, and the rabbits that scurried about in the long fern, and the jays with their steely feathers and black bills, and the hedge-hogs that could curl themselves up into prickly balls, and the great wise tortoises that crawled slowly about, shaking their heads and nibbling at the young leaves. Yes, she must certainly come to the forest and play with him. He would give her his own little bed, and would watch outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild horned cattle did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the hut. And at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they would go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a bit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white mule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their green velvet caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the falconers passed by, with hooded hawks on their wrists. At vintage time came the grape-treaders, with purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying dripping skins of wine; and the charcoal-burners sat round their huge braziers at night, watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves and made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful procession winding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks went in front singing sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of gold, and then, in silver armour, with match-locks and pikes, came the soldiers, and in their midst walked three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses painted all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in their hands. Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest, and when she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or carry her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was not tall. He would make her a necklace of red byrony berries, that would be quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her dress, and when she was tired of them, she could throw them away, and he would find her others. He would bring her acorn-cups and dew-drenched anemones, and tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.\n\nBut where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no answer. The whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the glare. He wandered all round looking for some place through which he might gain an entrance, and at last he caught sight of a little private door that was lying open. He slipped through, and found himself in a splendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was so much more gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great coloured stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues that looked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and strangely smiling lips.\n\nAt the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black velvet, powdered with suns and stars, the King's favourite devices, and broidered on the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind that? He would try at any rate.\n\nSo he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only another room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he had just left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras of needle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some Flemish artists who had spent more than seven years in its composition. It had once been the chamber of Jean _le_ Fou, as he was called, that mad King who was so enamoured of the chase, that he had often tried in his delirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to drag down the stag on which the great hounds were leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and stabbing with his dagger at the pale flying deer. It was now used as the council-room, and on the centre table were lying the red portfolios of the ministers, stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms and emblems of the house of Hapsburg.\n\nThe little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half-afraid to go on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so swiftly through the long glades without making any noise, seemed to him like those terrible phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-bumers speaking\u2014the Comprachos, who hunt only at night, and if they meet a man, turn him into a hind, and chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and took courage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell her that he too loved her. Perhaps she was in the room beyond.\n\nHe ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No! She was not here either. The room was quite empty.\n\nIt was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when the King, which of late had not been often, consented to give them a personal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had appeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their Queen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor's eldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt chandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the black and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls, stood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded with silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On the second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that again, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal Nuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King's presence on the occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal's hat, with its tangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple _tabouret_ in front. On the wall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in hunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip 11. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the other wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with plates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein's Dance of Death had been graved\u2014by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself.\n\nBut the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would not have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white petal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see the Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away with him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air was close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the sunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside. There were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the flowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths in early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and grassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the gnarled roots of the oaktrees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and irises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the fox-gloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells. The chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid moons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her! She would come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would dance for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought, and he passed into the next room.\n\nOf all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The walls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with birds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in front of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with parrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed to stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under the shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a little figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure moved out also, and he saw it plainly.\n\nThe Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had ever beheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but hunchbacked, and crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair. The little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned also. He laughed, and it laughed with him, and held its hands to its sides, just as he himself was doing. He made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low reverence. He went towards it, and it came to meet him, copying each step that he made, and stopping when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement, and ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster touched his, and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his hand across, and the monster's hand followed it quickly. He tried to press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of the monster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror. He brushed his hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at it, and it returned blow for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at him. He drew back, and it retreated.\n\nWhat is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest of the room. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its double in this invisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was repeated, and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that lay in the alcove by the doorway had its twin brother that slumbered, and the silver Venus that stood in the sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself.\n\nWas it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had answered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the voice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world? Could the shadows of things have colour and life and movement? Could it be that\u2014?\n\nHe started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he turned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own, petal for petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its heart with horrible gestures.\n\nWhen the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and fell sobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked, foul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster, and it was at him that all the children had been laughing, and the little Princess who he had thought loved him\u2014she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness, and making merry over his twisted limbs. Why had they not left him in the forest, where there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was? Why had his father not killed him, rather than sell him to his shame? The hot tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to pieces. The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint petals in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at it, it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he should see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled, like some wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.\n\nAnd at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions through the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands, in the most fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into shouts of happy laughter, and stood all round him and watched him.\n\n\"His dancing was funny,\" said the Infanta; \"but his acting is funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of course not quite so natural.\" And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded.\n\nBut the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his side. And then he fell back again, and lay quite still.\n\n\"That is capital,\" said the Infanta, after a pause; \"but now you must dance for me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" cried all the children, \"you must get up and dance, for you are as clever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous.\"\n\nBut the little Dwarf made no answer.\n\nAnd the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who was walking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some despatches that had just arrived from Mexico where the Holy Office had recently been established. \"My funny little dwarf is sulking,\" she cried, \"you must wake him up, and tell him to dance for me.\"\n\nThey smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped down, and slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered glove. \"You must dance,\" he said, _\"petit_ monstre. You must dance. The Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to be amused.\"\n\nBut the little Dwarf never moved.\n\n\"A whipping master should be sent for,\" said Don Pedro wearily, and he went back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt beside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And after a few moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and having made a low bow to the Infanta, he said:\n\n_\"Mi bella Princesa,_ your funny little dwarf will never dance again. It is a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King smile.\"\n\n\"But why will he not dance again?\" asked the Infanta, laughing.\n\n\"Because his heart is broken,\" answered the Chamberlain.\n\nAnd the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty disdain. \"For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts,\" she cried, and she ran out into the garden.\n\n**THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL**\n\nTO H.S.H.   \nALICE, PRINCESS   \nOF MONACO\n\nEVERY evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and threw his nets into the water.\n\nWhen the wind blew from the land he caught nothing, or but little at best, for it was a bitter and black-winged wind, and rough waves rose up to meet it. But when the wind blew to the shore, the fish came in from the deep, and swam into the meshes of his nets, and he took them to the marketplace and sold them.\n\nEvery evening he went out upon the sea, and one evening the net was so heavy that hardly could he draw it into the boat. And he laughed, and said to himself, \"Surely I have caught all the fish that swim, or snared some dull monster that will be a marvel to men, or some thing of horror that the great Queen will desire,\" and putting forth all his strength, he tugged at the coarse ropes till, like lines of blue enamel round a vase of bronze, the long veins rose up on his arms. He tugged at the thin ropes, and nearer and nearer came the circle of flat corks, and the net rose at last to the top of the water.\n\nBut no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror, but only a little Mermaid lying fast asleep.\n\nHer hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a thread of fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white ivory, and her tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was her tail, and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like sea-shells were her ears, and her lips were like sea-coral. The cold waves dashed over her cold breasts, and the salt glistened upon her eyelids.\n\nSo beautiful was she that when the young Fisherman saw her he was filled with wonder, and he put out his hand and drew the net close to him, and leaning over the side he clasped her in his arms. And when he touched her, she gave a cry like a startled sea-gull and woke, and looked at him in terror with her mauve-amethyst eyes, and struggled that she might escape. But he held her tightly to him, and would not suffer her to depart.\n\nAnd when she saw that she could in no way escape from him, she began to weep, and said, \"I pray thee let me go, for I am the only daughter of a King, and my father is aged and alone.\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered, \"I will not let thee go save thou makest me a promise that whenever I call thee, thou wilt come and sing to me, for the fish delight to listen to the song of the Sea-folk, and so shall my nets be full.\"\n\n\"Wilt thou in very truth let me go, if I promise thee this?\" cried the Mermaid.\n\n\"In very truth I will let thee go,\" said the young Fisherman.\n\nSo she made him the promise he desired, and sware it by the oath of the Sea-folk. And he loosened his arms from about her, and she sank down into the water, trembling with a strange fear.\n\nEvery evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and called to the Mermaid, and she rose out of the water and sang to him. Round and round her swam the dolphins, and the wild gulls wheeled above her head.\n\nAnd she sang a marvellous song. For she sang of the Sea-folk who drive their flocks from cave to cave, and carry the little calves on their shoulders; of the Tritons who have long green beards, and hairy breasts, and blow through twisted conchs when the King passes by; of the palace of the King which is all of amber, with a roof of clear emerald, and a pavement of bright pearl; and of the gardens of the sea where the great filigrane fans of coral wave all day long, and the fish dart about like silver birds, and the anemones cling to the rocks, and the pinks bourgeon in the ribbed yellow sand. She sang of the big whales that come down from the north seas and have sharp icicles hanging to their fins; of the Sirens who tell of such wonderful things that the merchants have to stop their ears-with wax lest they should hear them, and leap into the water and be drowned; of the sunken galleys with their tall masts, and the frozen sailors clinging to the rigging, and the mackerel swimming in and out of the open portholes; of the little barnacles who are great travellers, and cling to the keels of the ships and go round and round the world; and of the cuttle-fish who live in the sides of the cliffs and stretch out their long black arms, and can make night come when they will it. She sang of the nautilus who has a boat of her own that is carved out of an opal and steered with a silken sail; of the happy Mermen who play upon harps and can charm the great Kraken to sleep; of the little children who catch hold of the slippery porpoises and ride laughing upon their backs; of the Mermaids who lie in the white foam and hold out their arms to the mariners; and of the sea-lions with their curved tusks, and the sea-horses with their floating manes.\n\nAnd as she sang, all the tunny-fish came in from the deep to listen to her, and the young Fisherman threw his nets round them and caught them, and others he took with a spear. And when his boat was well-laden, the Mermaid would sink down into the sea, smiling at him.\n\nYet would she never come near him that he might touch her. Oftentimes he called to her and prayed of her, but she would not; and when he sought to seize her she dived into the water as a seal might dive, nor did he see her again that day. And each day the sound of her voice became sweeter to his ears. So sweet was her voice that he forgot his nets and his cunning, and had no care of his craft. Vermilion-finned and with eyes of bossy gold, the tunnies went by in shoals, but he heeded them not. His spear lay by his side unused, and his baskets of plaited osier were empty. With lips parted, and eyes dim with wonder, he sat idle in his boat and listened, listening till the sea-mists crept round him, and the wandering moon stained his brown limbs with silver.\n\nAnd one evening he called to her, and said: \"Little Mermaid, little Mermaid, I love thee. Take me for thy bridegroom, for I love thee.\"\n\nBut the Mermaid shook her head. \"Thou hast a human soul,\" she answered. \"If only thou would'st send away thy soul, then could I love thee.\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman said to himself, \"Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it. Surely I will send it away from me, and much gladness shall be mine.\" And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and standing up in the painted boat, he held out his arms to the Mermaid. \"I will send my soul away,\" he cried, \"and you shall be my bride, and I will be thy bridegroom, and in the depth of the sea we will dwell together, and all that thou hast sung of thou shalt show me, and all that thou desirest I will do, nor shall our lives be divided.\"\n\nAnd the little Mermaid laughed for pleasure, and hid her face in her hands.\n\n\"But how shall I send my soul from me?\" cried the young Fisherman. \"Tell me how I may do it, and lo! it shall be done.\"\n\n\"Alas! I know not,\" said the little Mermaid: \"the Sea-folk have no souls.\" And she sank down into the deep, looking wistfully at him.\n\nNow early on the next morning, before the sun was the span of a man's hand above the hill, the young Fisherman went to the house of the Priest and knocked three times at the door.\n\nThe novice looked out through the wicket, and when he saw who it was, he drew back the latch and said to him, \"Enter.\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman passed in, and knelt down on the sweet-smelling rushes of the floor, and cried to the Priest who was reading out of the Holy Book and said to him, \"Father, I am in love with one of the Sea-folk, and my soul hindereth me from having my desire. Tell me how I can send my soul away from me, for in truth I have no need of it. Of what value is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.\"\n\nAnd the Priest beat his breast, and answered, \"Alack, Alack, thou art mad, or hast eaten of some poisonous herb, for the soul is the noblest part of man, and was given to us by God that we should nobly use it. There is no thing more precious than a human soul, nor any earthly thing that can be weighed with it. It is worth all the gold that is in the world, and is more precious than the rubies of the kings. Therefore, my son, think not any more of this matter, for it is a sin that may not be forgiven. And as for the Sea-folk, they are lost, and they who would traffic with them are lost also. They are as the beasts of the field that know not good from evil, and for them the Lord has not died.\"\n\nThe young Fisherman's eyes filled with tears when he heard the bitter words of the Priest, and he rose up from his knees and said to him, \"Father, the Fauns live in the forest and are glad, and on the rocks sit the Mermen with their harps of red gold. Let me be as they are, I beseech thee, for their days are as the days of flowers. And as for my soul, what doth my soul profit me, if it stand between me and the thing that I love?\"\n\n\"The love of the body is vile,\" cried the Priest, knitting his brows, \"and vile and evil are the pagan things God suffers to wander through His world. Accursed be the Fauns of the woodland, and accursed be the singers of the sea! I have heard them at night-time, and they have sought to lure me from my beads. They tap at the window, and laugh. They whisper into my ears the tale of their perilous joys. They tempt me with temptations, and when I would pray they make mouths at me. They are lost, I tell thee, they are lost. For them there is no heaven nor hell, and in neither shall they praise God's name.\"\n\n\"Father,\" cried the young Fisherman, \"thou knowest not what thou sayest. Once in my net I snared the daughter of a King. She is fairer than the morning star, and whiter than the moon. For her body I would give my soul, and for her love I would surrender heaven. Tell me what I ask of thee, and let me go in peace.\"\n\n\"Away! Away!\" cried the Priest: \"thy leman is lost, and thou shalt be lost with her.\" And he gave him no blessing, but drove him from his door.\n\nAnd the young Fisherman went down into the market- place, and he walked slowly, and with bowed head, as one who is in sorrow.\n\nAnd when the merchants saw him coming, they began to whisper to each other, and one of them came forth to meet him, and called him by name, and said to him, \"What hast thou to sell?\"\n\n\"I will sell thee my soul,\" he answered: \"I pray thee buy it off me, for I am weary of it. Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.\"\n\nBut the merchants mocked at him, and said, \"Of what use is a man's soul to us? It is not worth a clipped piece of silver. Sell us thy body for a slave, and we will clothe thee in sea-purple, and put a ring upon thy finger, and make thee the minion of the great Queen. But talk not of the soul, for to us it is nought, nor has it any value for our service.\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman said to himself: \"How strange a thing this is! The priest telleth me that the soul is worth all the gold in the world, and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver.\" And he passed out of the market-place, and went down to the shore of the sea, and began to ponder on what he should do.\n\nAnd at noon he remembered how one of his companions, who was a gatherer of samphire, had told him of a certain young Witch who dwelt in a cave at the head of the bay and was very cunning in her witcheries. And he set to and ran, so eager was he to get rid of his soul, and a cloud of dust followed him as he sped round the sand of the shore. By the itching of her palm the young Witch knew his coming, and she laughed and let down her red hair. With her red hair falling around her, she stood at the opening of the cave, and in her hand she had a spray of wild hemlock that was blossoming.\n\n\"What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack?\" she cried, as he came panting up the steep, and bent down before her. \"Fish for thy net, when the wind is foul? I have a little reed-pipe, and when I blow on it the mullet come sailing into the bay. But it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? A storm to wreck the ships, and wash the chests of rich treasure ashore? I have more storms than the wind has, for I serve one who is stronger than the wind, and with a sieve and a pail of water I can send the great galleys to the bottom of the sea. But I have a price, pretty boy, I have a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? I know a flower that grows in the valley, none knows it but I. It has purple leaves, and a star in its heart, and its juice is as white as milk. Should'st thou touch with this flower the hard lips of the Queen, she would follow thee all over the world. Out of the bed of the King she would rise, and over the whole world she would follow thee. And it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? I can pound a toad in a mortar, and make broth of it, and stir the broth with a dead man's hand. Sprinkle it on thine enemy while he sleeps, and he will turn into a black viper, and his own mother will slay him. With a wheel I can draw the Moon from heaven, and in a crystal I can show thee Death. What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? Tell me thy desire, and I will give it thee, and thou shalt pay me a price, pretty boy, thou shalt pay me a price.\"\n\n\"My desire is but for a little thing,\" said the young Fisherman, \"yet hath the priest been wroth with me, and driven me forth. It is but for a little thing, and the merchants have mocked at me, and denied me. Therefore am I come to thee, though men call thee evil, and whatever be thy price I shall pay it.\"\n\n\"What would'st thou?\" asked the Witch, coming near to him.\n\n\"I would send my soul away from me,\" answered the young Fisherman.\n\nThe Witch grew pale, and shuddered, and hid her face in her blue mantle. \"Pretty boy, pretty boy,\" she muttered, \"that is a terrible thing to do.\"\n\nHe tossed his brown curls and laughed. \"My soul is nought to me,\" he answered. \"I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.\"\n\n\"What wilt thou give me if I tell thee?\" asked the Witch, looking down at him with her beautiful eyes.\n\n\"Five pieces of gold,\" he said, \"and my nets, and the wattled house where I live, and the painted boat in which I sail. Only tell me how to get rid of my soul, and I will give thee all that I possess.\"\n\nShe laughed mockingly at him, and struck him with the spray of hemlock. \"I can turn the autumn leaves into gold,\" she answered, \"and I can weave the pale moonbeams into silver if I will it. He whom I serve is richer than all the kings of this world and has their dominions.\"\n\n\"What then shall I give thee,\" he cried, \"if thy price be neither gold nor silver?\"\n\nThe Witch stroked his hair with her thin white hand. \"Thou must dance with me, pretty boy,\" she murmured, and she smiled at him as she spoke.\n\n\"Nought but that?\" cried the young Fisherman in wonder, and he rose to his feet.\n\n\"Nought but that,\" she answered, and she smiled at him again.\n\n\"Then at sunset in some secret place we shall dance together,\" he said, \"and after that we have danced thou shalt tell me the thing which I desire to know.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"When the moon is full, when the moon is full,\" she muttered. Then she peered all round, and listened. A blue bird rose screaming from its nest and circled over the dunes, and three spotted birds rustled through the coarse grey grass and whistled to each other. There was no other sound save the sound of a wave fretting the smooth pebbles below. So she reached out her hand, and drew him near to her and put her dry lips close to his ear.\n\n\"To-night thou must come to the top of the mountain,\" she whispered. \"It is a Sabbath, and He will be there.\"\n\nThe young Fisherman started and looked at her, and she showed her white teeth and laughed. \"Who is He of whom thou speakest?\" he asked.\n\n\"It matters not,\" she answered. \"Go thou to-night, and stand under the branches of the hornbeam, and wait for my coming. If a black dog run towards thee, strike it with a rod of willow, and it will go away. If an owl speak to thee, make it no answer. When the moon is full I shall be with thee, and we will dance together on the grass.\"\n\n\"But wilt thou swear to me to tell me how I may send my soul from me?\" he made question.\n\nShe moved out into the sunlight, and through her red hair rippled the wind. \"By the hoofs of the goat I swear it,\" she made answer.\n\n\"Thou art the best of the witches,\" cried the young Fisherman, \"and I will surely dance with thee to-night on the top of the mountain. I would indeed that thou hadst asked of me either gold or silver. But such as thy price is thou shalt have it, for it is but a little thing.\" And he doffed his cap to her, and bent his head low, and ran back to the town filled with a great joy.\n\nAnd the Witch watched him as he went, and when he had passed from her sight she entered her cave, and having taken a mirror from a box of carved cedarwood, she set it up on a frame, and burned vervain on lighted charcoal before it, and peered through the coils of the smoke. And after a time she clenched her hands in anger. \"He should have been mine,\" she muttered, \"I am as fair as she is.\"\n\nAnd that evening, when the moon had risen, the young Fisherman climbed up to the top of the mountain, and stood under the branches of the hornbeam. Like a targe of polished metal the round sea lay at his feet, and the shadows of the fishing boats moved in the little bay. A great owl, with yellow sulphurous eyes, called to him by his name, but he made it no answer. A black dog ran towards him and snarled. He struck it with a rod of willow, and it went away whining.\n\nAt midnight the witches came flying through the air like bats. \"Phew!\" they cried, as they lit upon the ground, \"there is someone here we know not!\" and they sniffed about, and chattered to each other, and made signs. Last of all came the young Witch, with her red hair streaming in the wind. She wore a dress of gold tissue embroidered with peacocks' eyes, and a little cap of green velvet was on her head.\n\n\"Where is he, where is he?\" shrieked the witches when they saw her, but she only laughed, and ran to the hornbeam, and taking the Fisherman by the hand she led him out into the moonlight and began to dance.\n\nRound and round they whirled, and the young Witch jumped so high that he could see the scarlet heels of her shoes. Then right across the dancers came the sound of the galloping of a horse, but no horse was to be seen, and he felt afraid.\n\n\"Faster,\" cried the Witch, and she threw her arms about his neck, and her breath was hot upon his face. \"Faster, faster!\" she cried, and the earth seemed to spin beneath his feet, and his brain grew troubled, and a great terror fell on him, as of some evil thing that was watching him, and at last he became aware that under the shadow of a rock there was a figure that had not been there before.\n\nIt was a man dressed in a suit of black velvet, cut in the Spanish fashion. His face was strangely pale, but his lips were like a proud red flower. He seemed weary, and was leaning back toying in a listless manner with the pommel of his dagger. On the grass beside him lay a plumed hat, and a pair of riding gloves gauntleted with gilt lace, and sewn with seed-pearls wrought into a curious device. A short cloak lined with sables hung from his shoulder, and his delicate white hands were gemmed with rings. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes.\n\nThe young Fisherman watched him, as one snared in a spell. At last their eyes met, and wherever he danced it seemed to him that the eyes of the man were upon him. He heard the Witch laugh, and caught her by the waist, and whirled her madly round and round.\n\nSuddenly a dog bayed in the wood, and the dancers stopped, and going up two by two, knelt down, and kissed the man's hands. As they did so, a little smile touched his proud lips, as a bird's wing touches the water and makes it laugh. But there was disdain in it. He kept looking at the young fisherman.\n\n\"Come! let us worship,\" whispered the Witch, and she led him up, and a great desire to do as she besought him seized on him, and he followed her. But when he came close, and without knowing why he did it, he made on his breast the sign of the Cross, and called upon the holy name.\n\nNo sooner had he done so than the witches screamed like hawks and flew away, and the pallid face that had been watching him twitched with a spasm of pain. The man went over to a little wood, and whistled. A jennet with silver trappings came running to meet him. As he leapt upon the saddle he turned round, and looked at the young Fisherman sadly.\n\nAnd the Witch with the red hair tried to fly away also, but the Fisherman caught her by her wrists, and held her fast.\n\n\"Loose me,\" she cried, \"and let me go. For thou hast named what should not be named, and shown the sign that may not be looked at.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" he answered, \"but I will not let thee go till thou hast told me the secret.\"\n\n\"What secret?\" said the Witch, wrestling with him like a wild cat, and biting her foam-flecked lips.\n\n\"Thou knowest,\" he made answer.\n\nHer grass-green eyes grew dim with tears, and she said to the Fisherman, \"Ask me anything but that!\"\n\nHe laughed, and held her all the more tightly.\n\nAnd when she saw that she could not free herself, she whispered to him, \"Surely I am as fair as the daughters of the sea, and as comely as those that dwell in the blue waters,\" and she fawned on him and put her face close to his.\n\nBut he thrust her back frowning, and said to her, \"If thou keepest not the promise that thou madest to me I will slay thee for a false witch.\"\n\nShe grew grey as a blossom of the Judas tree, and shuddered. \"Be it so,\" she muttered. \"It is thy soul and not mine. Do with it as thou wilt.\" And she took from her girdle a little knife that had a handle of green viper's skin, and gave it to him.\n\n\"What shall this serve me?\" he asked of her wondering.\n\nShe was silent for a few moments, and a look of terror came over her face. Then she brushed her hair back from her forehead, and smiling strangely she said to him, \"What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul. Stand on the sea-shore with thy back to the moon, and cut away from around thy feet thy shadow, which is thy soul's body, and bid thy soul leave thee, and it will do so.\"\n\nThe young Fisherman trembled. \"Is this true?\" he murmured.\n\n\"It is true, and I would that I had not told thee of it,\" she cried, and she clung to his knees weeping.\n\nHe put her from him and left her in the rank grass, and going to the edge of the mountain he placed the knife in his belt, and began to climb down.\n\nAnd his Soul that was within him called out to him and said, \"Lo! I have dwelt with thee for all these years, and have been thy servant. Send me not away from thee now, for what evil have I done thee?\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman laughed. \"Thou hast done me no evil, but I have no need of thee,\" he answered. \"The world is wide, and there is Heaven also, and Hell, and that dim twilight house that lies between. Go wherever thou wilt, but trouble me not, for my love is calling to me.\"\n\nAnd his Soul besought him piteously, but he heeded it not, but leapt from crag to crag, being sure-footed as a wild goat, and at last he reached the level ground and the yellow shore of the sea.\n\nBronze-limbed and well-knit, like a statue wrought by a Grecian, he stood on the sand with his back to the moon, and out of the foam came white arms that beckoned to him, and out of the waves rose dim forms that did him homage. Before him lay his shadow, which was the body of his soul, and behind him hung the moon in the honey-coloured air.\n\nAnd his Soul said to him, \"If indeed thou must drive me from thee, send me not forth without a heart. The world is cruel, give me thy heart to take with me.\"\n\nHe tossed his head and smiled. \"With what should I love my love if I gave thee my heart?\" he cried.\n\n\"Nay, but be merciful,\" said his Soul: \"give me thy heart, for the world is very cruel, and I am afraid.\"\n\n\"My heart is my love's,\" he answered, \"therefore tarry not, but get thee gone.\"\n\n\"Should I not love also?\" asked his Soul.\n\n\"Get thee gone, for I have no need of thee,\" cried the young Fisherman, and he took the little knife with its handle of green viper's skin, and cut away his shadow from around his feet, and it rose up and stood before him, and looked at him, and it was even as himself.\n\nHe crept back, and thrust the knife into his belt, and a feeling of awe came over him. \"Get thee gone,\" he murmured, \"and let me see thy face no more.\"\n\n\"Nay, but we must meet again,\" said the Soul. Its voice was low and flute-like, and its lips hardly moved while it spake.\n\n\"How shall we meet?\" cried the young Fisherman. \"Thou wilt not follow me into the depths of the sea?\"\n\n\"Once every year I will come to this place, and call to thee,\" said the Soul. \"It may be that thou wilt have need of me.\"\n\n\"What need should I have of thee?\" cried the young Fisherman, \"but be it as thou wilt,\" and he plunged into the water, and the Tritons blew their horns, and the little Mermaid rose up to meet him, and put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.\n\nAnd the Soul stood on the lonely beach and watched them. And when they had sunk down into the sea, it went weeping away over the marshes.\n\nAnd after a year was over the Soul came down to the shore of the sea and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep, and said, \"Why dost thou call to me?\"\n\nAnd the Soul answered, \"Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I have seen marvellous things.\"\n\nSo he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head upon his hand and listened.\n\nAnd the Soul said to him, \"When I left thee I turned my face to the East and journeyed. From the East cometh everything that is wise. Six days I journeyed, and on the morning of the seventh day I came to a hill that is in the country of the Tartars. I sat down under the shade of a tamarisk tree to shelter myself from the sun. The land was dry, and burnt up with the heat. The people went to and fro over the plain like flies crawling upon a disk of polished copper.\n\n\"When it was noon a cloud of red dust rose up from the flat rim of the land. When the Tartars saw it, they strung their painted bows, and having leapt upon their little horses they galloped to meet it. The women fled screaming to the waggons, and hid themselves behind the felt curtains.\n\n\"At twilight the Tartars returned, but five of them were missing, and of those that came back not a few had been wounded. They harnessed their horses to the waggons and drove hastily away. Three jackals came out of a cave and peered after them. Then they sniffed up the air with their nostrils, and trotted off in the opposite direction.\n\n\"When the moon rose I saw a camp-fire burning on the plain, and went towards it. A company of merchants were seated round it on carpets. Their camels were picketed behind them, and the negroes who were their servants were pitching tents of tanned skin upon the sand, and making a high wall of the prickly pear.\n\n\"As I came near them, the chief of the merchants rose up and drew his sword, and asked me my business.\n\n\"I answered that I was a Prince in my own land, and that I had escaped from the Tartars, who had sought to make me their slave. The chief smiled, and showed me five heads fixed upon long reeds of bamboo.\n\n\"Then he asked me who was the prophet of God, and I answered him Mohammed.\n\n\"When he heard the name of the false prophet, he bowed and took me by the hand, and placed me by his side. A negro brought me some mare's milk in a wooden dish, and a piece of lamb's flesh roasted.\n\n\"At daybreak we started on our journey. I rode on a red-haired camel by the side of the chief, and a runner ran before us carrying a spear. The men of war were on either hand, and the mules followed with the merchandise. There were forty camels in the caravan, and the mules were twice forty in number.\n\n\"We went from the country of the Tartars into the country of those who curse the Moon. We saw the Gryphons guarding their gold on the white rocks, and the scaled Dragons sleeping in their caves. As we passed over the mountains we held our breath lest the snows might fall on us, and each man tied a veil of gauze before his eyes. As we passed through the valleys the Pygmies shot arrows at us from the hollows of the trees, and at night time we heard the wild men beating on their drums. When we came to the Tower of Apes we set fruits before them, and they did not harm us. When we came to the Tower of Serpents we gave them warm milk in bowls of brass, and they let us go by. Three times in our journey we came to the banks of the Oxus. We crossed it on rafts of wood with great bladders of blown hide. The river-horses raged against us and sought to slay us. When the camels saw them they trembled.\n\n\"The kings of each city levied tolls on us, but would not suffer us to enter their gates. They threw us bread over the walls, little maize-cakes baked in honey and cakes of fine flour filled with dates. For every hundred baskets we gave them a bead of amber.\n\n\"When the dwellers in the villages saw us coming, they poisoned the wells and fled to the hill-summits. We fought with the Magadae who are born old, and grow younger and younger every year, and die when they are little children; and with the Laktroi who say that they are the sons of tigers, and paint themselves yellow and black; and with the Aurantes who bury their dead on the tops of trees, and themselves live in dark caverns lest the Sun, who is their god, should slay them; and with the Krimnians who worship a crocodile, and give it earrings of green glass, and feed it with butter and fresh fowls; and with the Agazonbae, who are dog-faced; and with the Sibans, who have horses' feet, and run more swiftly than horses. A third of our company died in battle, and a third died of want. The rest murmured against me, and said that I had brought them an evil fortune. I took a homed adder from beneath a stone and let it sting me. When they saw that I did not sicken they grew afraid.\n\n\"In the fourth month we reached the city of Illel. It was night time when we came to the grove that is outside the walls, and the air was sultry, for the Moon was travelling in Scorpion. We took the ripe pomegranates from the trees, and brake them and drank their sweet juices. Then we lay down on our carpets and waited for the dawn.\n\n\"And at dawn we rose and knocked at the gate of the city. It was wrought out of red bronze, and carved with sea-dragons and dragons that have wings. The guards looked down from the battlements and asked us our business. The interpreter of the caravan answered that we had come from the island of Syria with much merchandise. They took hostages, and told us that they would open the gate to us at noon, and bade us tarry till then.\n\n\"When it was noon they opened the gate, and as we entered in the people came crowding out of the houses to look at us, and a crier went round the city crying through a shell. We stood in the market-place, and the negroes uncorded the bales of figured cloths and opened the carved chests of sycamore. And when they had ended their task, the merchants set forth their strange wares, the waxed linen from Egypt and the painted linen from the country of the Ethiops, the purple sponges from Tyre and the blue hangings from Sidon, the cups of cold amber and the fine vessels of glass and the curious vessels of burnt clay. From the roof of a house a company of women watched us. One of them wore a mask of gilded leather.\n\n\"And on the first day the priests came and bartered with us, and on the second day came the nobles, and on the third day came the craftsmen and the slaves. And this is their custom with all merchants as long as they tarry in the city.\n\n\"And we tarried for a moon, and when the moon was waning, I wearied and wandered away through the streets of the city and came to the garden of its god. The priests in their yellow robes moved silently through the green trees, and on a pavement of black marble stood the rose-red house in which the god had his dwelling. Its doors were of powdered lacquer, and bulls and peacocks were wrought on them in raised and polished gold. The tiled roof was of sea-green porcelain, and the jutting eaves were festooned with little bells. When the white doves flew past, they struck the bells with their wings and made them tinkle.\n\n\"In front of the temple was a pool of clear water paved with veined onyx. I lay down beside it, and with my pale fingers I touched the broad leaves. One of the priests came towards me and stood behind me. He had sandals on his feet, one of soft serpent-skin and the other of birds' plumage. On his head was a mitre of black felt decorated with silver crescents. Seven yellows were woven into his robe, and his frizzed hair was stained with antimony.\n\n\"After a little while he spake to me, and asked me my desire.\n\n\"I told him that my desire was to see the god.\n\n\" 'The god is hunting,' said the priest, looking strangely at me with his small slanting eyes.\n\n\" 'Tell me in what forest, and I will ride with him,' I answered.\n\n\"He combed out the soft fringes of his tunic with his long pointed nails. 'The god is asleep,' he murmured.\n\n\" 'Tell me on what couch, and I will watch by him,' I answered.\n\n\" 'The God is at the feast,' he cried.\n\n\" 'If the wine be sweet I will drink it with him, and if it be bitter I will drink it with him also,' was my answer.\n\n\"He bowed his head in wonder, and, taking me by the hand, he raised me up, and led me into the temple.\n\n\"And in the first chamber I saw an idol seated on a throne of jasper bordered with great orient pearls. It was carved out of ebony, and in stature was of the stature of a man. On its forehead was a ruby, and thick oil dripped from its hair on to its thighs. Its feet were red with the blood of a newly-slain kid, and its loins girt with a copper belt that was studded with seven beryls.\n\n\"And I said to the priest, 'Is this the god?' And he answered me, 'This is the god.'\n\n\" 'Show me the god,' I cried, 'or I will surely slay thee.' And I touched his hand, and it became withered.\n\n\"And the priest besought me, saying, 'Let my lord heal his servant, and I will show him the god.'\n\n\"So I breathed with my breath upon his hand, and it became whole again, and he trembled and led me into the second chamber, and I saw an idol standing on a lotus of jade hung with great emeralds. It was carved out of ivory, and in stature was twice the stature of a man. On its forehead was a chrysolite, and its breasts were smeared with myrrh and cinnamon. In one hand it held a crooked sceptre of jade, and in the other a round crystal. It ware buskins of brass, and its thick neck was circled with a circle of selenites.\n\n\"And I said to the priest, 'Is this the god?' And he answered me, 'This is the god.'\n\n\" 'Show me the god,' I cried, 'or I will surely slay thee.' And I touched his eyes, and they became blind.\n\n\"And the priest besought me, saying, 'Let my lord heal his servant, and I will show him the god.\n\n\"So I breathed with my breath upon his eyes, and the sight came back to them, and he trembled again, and led me into the third chamber, and lo! there was no idol in it, nor image of any kind, but only a mirror of round metal set on an altar of stone.\n\n\"And I said to the priest, 'Where is the god?'\n\n\"And he answered me: 'There is no god but this mirror that thou seest, for this is the Mirror of Wisdom. And it reflecteth all things that are in heaven and on earth, save only the face of him who looketh into it. This it reflecteth not, so that he who looketh into it may be wise. Many other mirrors are there, but they are mirrors of Opinion. This only is the Mirror of Wisdom. And they who possess this mirror know everything, nor is there anything hidden from them. And they who possess it not have not Wisdom. Therefore is it the god, and we worship it.' And I looked into the mirror, and it was even as he had said to me.\n\n\"And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a valley that is but a day's journey from this place have I hidden the Mirror of Wisdom. Do but suffer me to enter into thee again and be thy servant, and thou shalt be wiser than all the wise men, and Wisdom shall be thine. Suffer me to enter into thee, and none will be as wise as thou.\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman laughed. \"Love is better than Wisdom,\" he cried, \"and the little Mermaid loves me.\"\n\n\"Nay, but there is nothing better than Wisdom,\" said the Soul.\n\n\"Love is better,\" answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the deep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes.\n\nAnd after the second year was over the Soul came down to the shore of the sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep and said, \"Why dost thou call to me?\"\n\nAnd the Soul answered, \"Come nearer that I may speak with thee, for I have seen marvellous things.\"\n\nSo he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head upon his hand and listened.\n\nAnd the Soul said to him, \"When I left thee, I turned my face to the South and journeyed. From the South cometh everything that is precious. Six days I journeyed along the highways that lead to the city of Ashter, along the dusty red-dyed highways by which the pilgrims are wont to go did I journey, and on the morning of the seventh day I lifted up my eyes, and lo! the city lay at my feet, for it is in a valley.\n\n\"There are nine gates to this city, and in front of each gate stands a bronze horse that neighs when the Bedouins come down from the mountains. The walls are cased with copper, and the watch-towers on the walls are roofed with brass. In every tower stands an archer with a bow in his hand. At sunrise he strikes with an arrow on a gong, and at sunset he blows through a horn of horn.\n\n\"When I sought to enter, the guards stopped me and asked of me who I was. I made answer that I was a Dervish and on my way to the city of Mecca, where there was a green veil on which the Koran was embroidered in silver letters by the hands of the angels. They were filled with wonder, and entreated me to pass in.\n\n\"Inside it is even as a bazaar. Surely thou should'st have been with me. Across the narrow streets the gay lanterns of paper flutter like large butterflies. When the wind blows over the roofs they rise and fall as painted bubbles do. In front of their booths sit the merchants on silken carpets. They have straight black beards, and their turbans are covered with golden sequins, and long strings of amber and carved peach-stones glide through their cool fingers. Some of them sell galbanum and nard, and curious perfumes from the islands of the Indian Sea, and the thick oil of red roses, and myrrh and little nail-shaped cloves. When one stops to speak to them, they throw pinches of frankincense upon a charcoal brazier and make the air sweet. I saw a Syrian who held in his hands a thin rod like a reed. Grey threads of smoke came from it, and its odour as it burned was as the odour of the pink almond in spring. Others sell silver bracelets embossed all over with creamy blue turquoise stones, and anklets of brass wire fringed with little pearls, and tigers' claws set in gold, and the claws of that gilt cat, the leopard, set in gold also, and earrings of pierced emerald, and finger-rings of hollowed jade. From the tea-houses comes the sound of the guitar, and the opium-smokers with their white smiling faces look out at the passers-by.\n\n\"Of a truth thou should'st have been with me. The wine-sellers elbow their way through the crowd with great black skins on their shoulders. Most of them sell the wine of Schiraz, which is as sweet as honey. They serve it in little metal cups and strew rose leaves upon it. In the market-place stand the fruitsellers, who sell all kinds of fruit: ripe figs, with their bruised purple flesh, melons, smelling of musk and yellow as topazes, citrons and rose-apples and clusters of white grapes, round red-gold oranges, and oval lemons of green gold. Once I saw an elephant go by. Its trunk was painted with vermilion and turmeric, and over its ears it had a net of crimson silk cord. It stopped opposite one of the booths and began eating the oranges, and the man only laughed. Thou canst not think how strange a people they are. When they are glad they go to the bird-sellers and buy of them a caged bird, and set it free that their joy may be greater, and when they are sad they scourge themselves with thorns that their sorrow may not grow less.\n\n\"One evening I met some negroes carrying a heavy palanquin through the bazaar. It was made of gilded bamboo, and the poles were of vermilion lacquer studded with brass peacocks. Across the windows hung thin curtains of muslin embroidered with beetles' wings and with tiny seed-pearls, and as it passed by a pale-faced Circassian looked out and smiled at me. I followed behind, and the negroes hurried their steps and scowled. But I did not care. I felt a great curiosity come over me.\n\n\"At last they stopped at a square white house. There were no windows to it, only a little door like the door of a tomb. They set down the palanquin and knocked three times with a copper hammer. An Armenian in a caftan of green leather peered through the wicket, and when he saw them he opened, and spread a carpet on the ground, and the woman stepped out. As she went in, she turned round and smiled at me again. I had never seen anyone so pale.\n\n\"When the moon rose I returned to the same place and sought for the house, but it was no longer there. When I saw that, I knew who the woman was, and wherefore she had smiled at me.\n\n\"Certainly thou should'st have been with me. On the feast of the New Moon the young Emperor came forth from his palace and went into the mosque to pray. His hair and beard were dyed with rose-leaves, and his cheeks were powdered with a fine gold dust. The palms of his feet and hands were yellow with saffron.\n\n\"At sunrise he went forth from his palace in a robe of silver, and at sunset he returned to it again in a robe of gold. The people flung themselves on the ground and hid their faces, but I would not do so. I stood by the stall of a seller of dates and waited. When the Emperor saw me, he raised his painted eyebrows and stopped. I stood quite still, and made him no obeisance. The people marvelled at my boldness, and counselled me to flee from the city. I paid no heed to them, but went and sat with the sellers of strange gods, who by reason of their craft are abominated. When I told them what I had done, each of them gave me a god and prayed me to leave them.\n\n\"That night, as I lay on a cushion in the teahouse that is in the Street of Pomegranates, the guards of the Emperor entered and led me to the palace. As I went in they closed each door behind me, and put a chain across it. Inside was a great court with an arcade running all round. The walls were of white alabaster, set here and there with blue and green tiles. The pillars were of green marble, and the pavement of a kind of peach-blossom marble. I had never seen anything like it before.\n\n\"As I passed across the court two veiled women looked down from a balcony and cursed me. The guards hastened on, and the butts of the lances rang upon the polished floor. They opened a gate of wrought ivory, and I found myself in a watered garden of seven terraces. It was planted with tulip-cups and moonflowers, and silver-studded aloes. Like a slim reed of crystal a fountain hung in the dusky air. The cypress-trees were like burnt-out torches. From one of them a nightingale was singing.\n\n\"At the end of the garden stood a little pavilion. As we approached it two eunuchs came out to meet us. Their fat bodies swayed as they walked, and they glanced curiously at me with their yellow-lidded eyes. One of them drew aside the captain of the guard, and in a low voice whispered to him. The other kept munching scented pastilles, which he took with an affected gesture out of an oval box of lilac enamel.\n\n\"After a few moments the captain of the guard dismissed the soldiers. They went back to the palace, the eunuchs following slowly behind and plucking the sweet mulberries from the trees as they passed. Once the elder of the two turned round, and smiled at me with an evil smile.\n\n\"Then the captain of the guard motioned me towards the entrance of the pavilion. I walked on without trembling, and drawing the heavy curtain aside I entered in.\n\n\"The young Emperor was stretched on a couch of dyed lion skins, and a ger-falcon perched upon his wrist. Behind him stood a brass-turbaned Nubian, naked down to the waist, and with heavy earrings in his split ears. On a table by the side of the couch lay a mighty scimitar of steel.\n\n\"When the Emperor saw me he frowned, and said to me, 'What is thy name? Knowest thou not that I am Emperor of this city?' But I made him no answer.\n\n\"He pointed with his finger at the scimitar, and the Nubian seized it, and rushing forward struck at me with great violence. The blade whizzed through me, and did me no hurt. The man fell sprawling on the floor, and, when he rose up, his teeth chattered with terror and he hid himself behind the couch.\n\n\"The Emperor leapt to his feet, and taking a lance from a stand of arms, he threw it at me. I caught it in its flight, and brake the shaft into two pieces. He shot at me with an arrow, but I held up my hands and it stopped in mid-air. Then he drew a dagger from a belt of white leather, and stabbed the Nubian in the throat lest the slave should tell of his dishonour. The man writhed like a trampled snake, and a red foam bubbled from his lips.\n\n\"As soon as he was dead the Emperor turned to me, and when he had wiped away the bright sweat from his brow with a little napkin of purfled and purple silk, he said to me, 'Art thou a prophet, that I may not harm thee, or the son of a prophet that I can do thee no hurt? I pray thee leave my city to-night, for while thou art in it I am no longer its lord.'\n\n\"And I answered him, 'I will go for half of thy treasure. Give me half of thy treasure, and I will go away. \"\n\n\"He took me by the hand, and led me out into the garden. When the captain of the guard saw me, he wondered. When the eunuchs saw me, their knees shook and they fell upon the ground in fear.\n\n\"There is a chamber in the palace that has eight walls of red porphyry, and a brass-scaled ceiling hung with lamps. The Emperor touched one of the walls and it opened, and we passed down a corridor that was lit with many torches. In niches upon each side stood great wine-jars filled to the brim with silver pieces. When we reached the centre of the corridor the Emperor spake the word that may not be spoken, and a granite door swung back on a secret spring, and he put his hands before his face lest his eyes should be dazzled.\n\n\"Thou could'st not believe how marvellous a place it was. There were huge tortoise-shells full of pearls, and hollowed moonstones of great size piled up with red rubies. The gold was stored in coffers of elephant-hide, and the gold-dust in leather bottles. There were opals and sapphires, the former in cups of crystal, and the latter in cups of jade. Round green emeralds were ranged in order upon thin plates of ivory, and in one corner were silk bags filled, some with turquoise-stones, and others with beryls. The ivory horns were heaped with purple amethysts, and the horns of brass with chalcedonies and sards. The pillars, which were of cedar, were hung with strings of yellow lynx-stones. In the flat oval shields there were carbuncles, both wine-coloured and coloured like grass. And yet I have told thee but a tithe of what was there.\n\n\"And when the Emperor had taken away his hands from before his face he said to me: 'This is my house of treasure, and half that is in it is thine, even as I promised to thee. And I will give thee camels and camel drivers, and they shall do thy bidding and take thy share of the treasure to whatever part of the world thou desirest to go. And the thing shall be done to-night, for I would not that the Sun, who is my father, should see that there is in my city a man whom I cannot slay.'\n\n\"But I answered him, 'The gold that is here is thine, and the silver also is thine, and thine are the precious jewels and the things of price. As for me, I have no need of these. Nor shall I take aught from thee but that little ring that thou wearest on the finger of thy hand.'\n\n\"And the Emperor frowned. 'It is but a ring of lead,' he cried, 'nor has it any value. Therefore take thy half of the treasure and go from my city.'\n\n\" 'Nay,' I answered, 'but I will take nought but that leaden ring, for I know what is written within it, and for what purpose.'\n\n\"And the Emperor trembled, and besought me and said, 'Take all the treasure and go from my city. The half that is mine shall be thine also.'\n\n\"And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a cave that is but a day's journey from this place have I hidden the Ring of Riches. It is but a day's journey from this place, and it waits for thy coming. He who has this Ring is richer than all the kings of the world. Come therefore and take it, and the world's riches shall be thine.\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman laughed. \"Love is better than Riches,\" he cried, \"and the little Mermaid loves me.\"\n\n\"Nay, but there is nothing better than Riches,\" said the Soul.\n\n\"Love is better,\" answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the deep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes.\n\nAnd after the third year was over, the Soul came down to the shore of the sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep and said, \"Why dost thou call to me?\"\n\nAnd the Soul answered, \"Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I have seen marvellous things.\"\n\nSo he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head upon his hand and listened.\n\nAnd the Soul said to him, \"In a city that I know of there is an inn that standeth by a river. I sat there with sailors who drank of two different coloured wines, and ate bread made of barley, and little salt fish served in bay leaves with vinegar. And as we sat and made merry, there entered to us an old man bearing a leathern carpet and a lute that had two horns of amber. And when he had laid out the carpet on the floor, he struck with a quill on the wire strings of his lute, and a girl whose face was veiled ran in and began to dance before us. Her face was veiled with a veil of gauze, but her feet were naked. Naked were her feet, and they moved over the carpet like little white pigeons. Never have I seen anything so marvellous, and the city in which she dances is but a day's journey from this place.\"\n\nNow when the young Fisherman heard the words of his Soul, he remembered that the little Mermaid had no feet and could not dance. And a great desire came over him, and he said to himself, \"It is but a day's journey, and I can return to my love,\" and he laughed, and stood up in the shallow water, and strode towards the shore.\n\nAnd when he had reached the dry shore he laughed again, and held out his arms to his Soul. And his Soul gave a great cry of joy and ran to meet him, and entered into him, and the young Fisherman saw stretched before him upon the sand that shadow of the body that is the body of the Soul.\n\nAnd his Soul said to him, \"Let us not tarry, but get hence at once, for the Sea-gods are jealous, and have monsters that do their bidding.\"\n\nSo they made haste, and all that night they journeyed beneath the moon, and all the next day they journeyed beneath the sun, and on the evening of the day they came to a city.\n\nAnd the young Fisherman said to his Soul, \"Is this the city in which she dances of whom thou did'st speak to me?\"\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, \"It is not this city, but another. Nevertheless let us enter in.\"\n\nSo they entered in and passed through the streets, and as they passed through the Street of the Jewellers the young Fisherman saw a fair silver cup set forth in a booth. And his Soul said to him, \"Take that silver cup and hide it.\"\n\nSo he took the cup and hid it in the fold of his tunic, and they went hurriedly out of the city.\n\nAnd after that they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman frowned, and flung the cup away, and said to his Soul, \"Why did'st thou tell me to take this cup and hide it, for it was an evil thing to do?\"\n\nBut his Soul answered him, \"Be at peace, be at peace.\"\n\nAnd on the evening of the second day they came to a city, and the young Fisherman said to his Soul, \"Is this the city in which she dances of whom thou did'st speak to me?\"\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, \"It is not this city, but another. Nevertheless let us enter in.\"\n\nSo they entered in and passed through the streets, and as they passed through the Street of the Sellers of Sandals, the young Fisherman saw a child standing by a jar of water. And his Soul said to him, \"Smite that child.\" So he smote the child till it wept, and when he had done this they went hurriedly out of the city.\n\nAnd after that they had gone a league from the city the young Fisherman grew wrath, and said to his Soul, \"Why did'st thou tell me to smite the child, for it was an evil thing to do?\"\n\nBut his Soul answered him, \"Be at peace, be at peace. \"\n\nAnd on the evening of the third day they came to a city, and the young Fisherman said to his Soul, \"Is this the city in which she dances of whom thou did'st speak to me?\"\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, \"It may be that it is this city, therefore let us enter in.\"\n\nSo they entered in and passed through the streets, but nowhere could the young Fisherman find the river or the inn that stood by its side. And the people of the city looked curiously at him, and he grew afraid and said to his Soul, \"Let us go hence, for she who dances with white feet is not here.\"\n\nBut his Soul answered, \"Nay, but let us tarry, for the night is dark and there will be robbers on the way.\"\n\nSo he sat him down in the market-place and rested, and after a time there went by a hooded merchant who had a cloak of cloth of Tartary, and bare a lantern of pierced horn at the end of a jointed reed. And the merchant said to him, \"Why dost thou sit in the market- place, seeing that the booths are closed and the bales corded?\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman answered him, \"I can find no inn in this city, nor have I any kinsman who might give me shelter.\"\n\n\"Are we not all kinsmen?\" said the merchant. \"And did not one God make us? Therefore come with me, for I have a guest-chamber.\"\n\nSo the young Fisherman rose up and followed the merchant to his house. And when he had passed through a garden of pomegrantes and entered into the house, the merchant brought him rose-water in a copper dish that he might wash his hands, and ripe melons that he might quench his thirst, and set a bowl of rice and a piece of roasted kid before him.\n\nAnd after that he had finished, the merchant led him to the guest-chamber, and bade him sleep and be at rest. And the young Fisherman gave him thanks, and kissed the ring that was on his hand, and flung himself down on the carpets of dyed goat's-hair. And when he had covered himself with a covering of black lamb's-wool he fell asleep.\n\nAnd three hours before dawn, and while it was still night, his Soul waked him, and said to him, \"Rise up and go to the room of the merchant, even to the room in which he sleepeth, and slay him, and take from him his gold, for we have need of it.\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman rose up and crept towards the room of the merchant, and over the feet of the merchant there was lying a curved sword, and the tray by the side of the merchant held nine purses of gold. And he reached out his hand and touched the sword, and when he touched it the merchant started and awoke, and leaping up seized himself the sword and cried to the young Fisherman, \"Dost thou return evil for good, and pay with the shedding of blood for the kindness that I have shown thee?\"\n\nAnd his Soul said to the young Fisherman, \"Strike him,\" and he struck him so that he swooned, and he seized then the nine purses of gold, and fled hastily through the garden of pomegranates, and set his face to the star that is the star of morning.\n\nAnd when they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman beat his breast, and said to his Soul, \"Why didst thou bid me slay the merchant and take his gold? Surely thou art evil.\"\n\nBut his Soul answered him, \"Be at peace, be at peace.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried the young Fisherman, \"I may not be at peace, for all that thou hast made me to do I hate. Thee also I hate, and I bid thee tell me wherefore thou hast wrought with me in this wise.\"\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, \"When thou didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart, so I learned to do all these things and love them.\"\n\n\"What sayest thou?\" murmured the young Fisherman.\n\n\"Thou knowest,\" answered his Soul, \"thou knowest it well. Hast thou forgotten that thou gavest me no heart? I trow not. And so trouble not thyself nor me, but be at peace, for there is no pain that thou shalt not give away, nor any pleasure that thou shalt not receive.\"\n\nAnd when the young Fisherman heard these words he trembled and said to his Soul, \"Nay, but thou art evil, and hast made me forget my love, and hast tempted me with temptations, and hast set my feet in the ways of sin.\"\n\nAnd his Soul answered him, \"Thou hast not forgotten that when thou didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart. Come, let us go to another city, and make merry, for we have nine purses of gold.\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman took the nine purses of gold, and flung them down, and trampled on them.\n\n\"Nay,\" he cried, \"but I will have nought to do with thee, nor will I journey with thee anywhere, but even as I sent thee away before, so will I send thee away now, for thou hast wrought me no good.\" And he turned his back to the moon, and with the little knife that had the handle of green viper's skin he strove to cut from his feet that shadow of the body which is the body of the Soul.\n\nYet his Soul stirred not from him, nor paid heed to his command, but said to him, \"The spell that the Witch told thee avails thee no more, for I may not leave thee, nor mayest thou drive me forth. Once in his life may a man send his Soul away, but he who receiveth back his Soul must keep it with him for ever, and this is his punishment and his reward.\"\n\nAnd the young Fisherman grew pale and clenched his hands and cried, \"She was a false Witch in that she told me not that.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered his Soul, \"but she was true to Him she worships, and whose servant she will be ever.\"\n\nAnd when the young Fisherman knew that he could no longer get rid of his Soul, and that it was an evil Soul and would abide with him always, he fell upon the ground weeping bitterly.\n\nAnd when it was day the young Fisherman rose up and said to his Soul, \"I will bind my hands that I may not do thy bidding, and close my lips that I may not speak thy words, and I will return to the place where she whom I love has her dwelling. Even to the sea will I return, and to the little bay where she is wont to sing, and I will call to her and tell her the evil I have done and the evil thou hast wrought on me.\"\n\nAnd his Soul tempted him and said, \"Who is thy love that thou should'st return to her? The world has many fairer than she is. There are the dancing-girls of Samaris who dance in the manner of all kinds of birds and beasts. Their feet are painted with henna, and in their hands they have little copper bells. They laugh while they dance, and their laughter is as clear as the laughter of water. Come with me and I will show them to thee. For what is this trouble of thine about the things of sin? Is that which is pleasant to eat not made for the eater? Is there poison in that which is sweet to drink? Trouble not thyself, but come with me to another city. There is a little city hard by in which there is a garden of tulip-trees. And there dwell in this comely garden white peacocks and peacocks that have blue breasts. Their tails when they spread them to the sun are like disks of ivory and like gilt disks. And she who feeds them dances for their pleasure, and sometimes she dances on her hands and at other times she dances with her feet. Her eyes are coloured with stibium, and her nostrils are shaped like the wings of a swallow. From a hook in one of her nostrils hangs a flower that is carved out of a pearl. She laughs while she dances, and the silver rings that are about her ankles tinkle like bells of silver. And so trouble not thyself any more, but come with me to this city.\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but closed his lips with the seal of silence and with a tight cord bound his hands, and journeyed back to the place from which he had come, even to the little bay where his love had been wont to sing. And ever did his Soul tempt him by the way, but he made it no answer, nor would he do any of the wickedness that it sought to make him to do, so great was the power of the love that was within him.\n\nAnd when he had reached the shore of the sea, he loosed the cord from his hands, and took the seal of silence from his lips, and called to the little Mermaid. But she came not to his call, though he called to her all day long and besought her.\n\nAnd his Soul mocked him and said, \"Surely thou hast but little joy out of thy love. Thou art as one who in time of dearth pours water into a broken vessel. Thou givest away what thou hast, and nought is given to thee in return. It were better for thee to come with me, for I know where the Valley of Pleasure lies, and what things are wrought there.\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but in a cleft of the rock he built himself a house of wattles, and abode there for the space of a year. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did she rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place of the sea could he find her, though he sought for her in the caves and in the green water, in the pools of the tide and in the wells that are at the bottom of the deep.\n\nAnd ever did his Soul tempt him with evil, and whisper of terrible things. Yet did it not prevail against him, so great was the power of his love.\n\nAnd after the year was over, the Soul thought within himself, \"I have tempted my master with evil, and his love is stronger than I am. I will tempt him now with good, and it may be that he, will come with me.\"\n\nSo he spake to the young Fisherman and said, \"I have told thee of the joy of the world, and thou hast turned a deaf ear to me. Suffer me now to tell thee of the world's pain, and it may be that thou wilt hearken. For of a truth, pain is the Lord of this world, nor is there anyone who escapes from its net. There be some who lack raiment, and others who lack bread. There be widows who sit in purple, and widows who sit in rags. To and fro over the fens go the lepers, and they are cruel to each other. The beggars go up and down on the highways, and their wallets are empty. Through the streets of the cities walks Famine, and the Plague sits at their gates. Come, let us go forth and mend these things, and make them not to be. Wherefore should'st thou tarry here calling to thy love, seeing she comes not to thy call? And what is love, that thou should'st set this high store upon it?\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman answered it nought, so great was the power of his love. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did she rise out of the sea to meet him, not in any place of the sea could he find her, though he sought for her in the rivers of the sea, and in the valleys that are under the waves, in the sea that the night makes purple, and in the sea that the dawn leaves grey.\n\nAnd after the second year was over, the Soul said to the young Fisherman at night-time, and as he sat in the wattled house alone, \"Lo! now I have tempted thee with evil, and I have tempted thee with good, and thy love is stronger than I am. Wherefore will I tempt thee no longer, but I pray thee to suffer me to enter thy heart, that I may be one with thee even as before.\"\n\n\"Surely thou mayest enter,\" said the young Fisherman, \"for in the days when with no heart thou didst go through the world thou must have much suffered.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" cried his Soul, \"I can find no place of entrance, so compassed about with love is this heart of thine.\"\n\n\"Yet I would that I could help thee,\" said the young Fisherman.\n\nAnd as he spake there came a great cry of mourning from the sea, even the cry that men hear when one of the Sea-folk is dead. And the young Fisherman leapt up, and left his wattled house, and ran down to the shore. And the black waves came hurrying to the shore, bearing with them a burden that was whiter than silver. White as the surf it was, and like a flower it tossed on the waves. And the surf took it from the waves, and the foam took it from the surf, and the shore received it, and lying at his feet the young Fisherman saw the body of the little Mermaid. Dead at his feet it was lying.\n\nWeeping as one smitten with pain he flung himself down beside it, and he kissed the cold red of the mouth, and toyed with the wet amber of the hair. He flung himself down beside it on the sand, weeping as one trembling with joy, and in his brown arms he held it to his breast. Cold were the lips, yet he kissed them. Salt was the honey of the hair, yet he tasted it with a bitter joy. He kissed the closed eyelids, and the wild spray that lay upon their cups was less salt than his tears.\n\nAnd to the dead thing he made confession. Into the shells of its ears he poured the harsh wine of his tale. He put the little hands round his neck, and with his fingers he touched the thin reed of the throat. Bitter, bitter was his joy, and full of strange gladness was his pain.\n\nThe black sea came nearer, and the white foam moaned like a leper. With white claws of foam the sea grabbled at the shore. From the palace of the Sea-King came the cry of mourning again, and far out upon the sea the great Tritons blew hoarsely upon their horns.\n\n\"Flee away,\" said his Soul, \"for ever doth the sea come nigher, and if thou tarriest it will slay thee. Flee away, for I am afraid, seeing that thy heart is closed against me by reason of the greatness of thy love. Flee away to a place of safety. Surely thou wilt not send me without a heart into another world?\"\n\nBut the young Fisherman listened not to his Soul, but called on the little Mermaid and said, \"Love is better than wisdom, and more precious than riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of men. The fires cannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it. I called on thee at dawn, and thou didst not come to my call. The moon heard thy name, yet hadst thou no heed of me. For evilly had I left thee, and to my own hurt had I wandered away. Yet ever did thy love abide with me, and ever was it strong, nor did aught prevail against it, though I have looked upon evil and looked upon good. And now that thou art dead, surely I will die with thee also.\"\n\nAnd his Soul besought him to depart, but he would not, so great was his love. And the sea came nearer, and sought to cover him with its waves, and when he knew that the end was at hand he kissed with mad lips the cold lips of the Mermaid, and the heart that was within him brake. And as through the fulness of his love his heart did break, the Soul found an entrance and entered in, and was one with him even as before. And the sea covered the young Fisherman with its waves.\n\nAnd in the morning the Priest went forth to bless the sea, for it had been troubled. And with him went the monks and the musicians, and the candle-bearers, and the swingers of censers, and a great company.\n\nAnd when the Priest reached the shore he saw the young Fisherman lying drowned in the surf, and clasped in his arms was the body of the little Mermaid. And he drew back frowning, and having made the sign of the cross, he cried aloud and said, \"I will not bless the sea nor anything that is in it. Accursed be the Sea-folk, and accursed be all they who traffic with them. And as for him who for love's sake forsook God, and so lieth here with his leman slain by God's judgment, take up his body and the body of his leman, and bury them in the corner of the Field of the Fullers, and set no mark above them, nor sign of any kind, that none may know the place of their resting. For accursed were they in their lives, and accursed shall they be in their deaths also.\"\n\nAnd the people did as he commanded them, and in the corner of the Field of the Fullers, where no sweet herbs grew, they dug a deep pit, and laid the dead things within it.\n\nAnd when the third year was over, and on a day that was a holy day, the Priest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people the wounds of the Lord, and speak to them about the wrath of God.\n\nAnd when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and bowed himself before the altar, he saw that the altar was covered with strange flowers that never had he seen before. Strange were they to look at, and of curious beauty, and their beauty troubled him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils. And he felt glad, and understood not why he was glad.\n\nAnd after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the monstrance that was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people, and hid it again behind the veil of veils, he began to speak to the people, desiring to speak to them of the wrath of God. But the beauty of the white flowers troubled him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils, and there came another word into his lips, and he spake not of the wrath of God, but of the God whose name is Love. And why he so spake, he knew not.\n\nAnd when he had finished his word the people wept, and the Priest went back to the sacristy, and his eyes were full of tears. And the deacons came in and began to unrobe him, and took from him the alb and the girdle, the maniple and the stole. And he stood as one in a dream.\n\nAnd after that they had unrobed him, he looked at them and said, \"What are the flowers that stand on the altar, and whence do they come?\"\n\nAnd they answered him, \"What flowers they are we cannot tell, but they come from the corner of the Fullers' Field.\" And the Priest trembled, and returned to his own house and prayed.\n\nAnd in the morning, while it was still dawn, he went forth with the monks and the musicians, and the candle-bearers and the swingers of censers, and a great company, and came to the shore of the sea, and blessed the sea, and all the wild things that are in it. The Fauns also he blessed, and the little things that dance in the woodland, and the bright-eyed things that peer through the leaves. All the things in God's world he blessed, and the people were filled with joy and wonder. Yet never again in the corner of the Fullers' Field grew flowers of any kind, but the field remained barren even as before. Nor came the Sea-folk into the bay as they had been wont to do, for they went to another part of the sea.\n**THE STAR-CHILD**\n\nTO   \n**MISS MARGOT TENNANT**\n\nONCE upon a time two poor Woodcutters were making their way home through a great pine-forest. It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they passed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her.\n\nSo cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know what to make of it.\n\n\"Ugh!\" snarled the Wolf, as he limped through the brushwood with his tail between his legs, \"this is perfectly monstrous weather. Why doesn't the Government look to it?\"\n\n\"Weet! weet! weet!\" twittered the green Linnets, \"the old Earth is dead, and they have laid her out in her white shroud.\"\n\n\"The Earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress,\" whispered the Turtledoves to each other. Their little pink feet were quite frost-bitten, but they felt that it was their duty to take a romantic view of the situation.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" growled the Wolf. \"I tell you that it is all the fault of the Government, and if you don't believe me I shall eat you.\" The Wolf had a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss for a good argument.\n\n\"Well, for my own part,\" said the Woodpecker, who was a born philosopher, \"I don't care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is so, and at present it is terribly cold.\"\n\nTerribly cold it certainly was. The little Squirrels, who lived inside the tall fir-tree, kept rubbing each other's noses to keep themselves warm, and the Rabbits curled themselves up in their holes, and did not venture even to look out of doors. The only people who seemed to enjoy it were the great homed Owls. Their feathers were quite stiff with rime, but they did not mind, and they rolled their large yellow eyes, and called out to each other across the forest, \"Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! what delightful weather we are having!\"\n\nOn and on went the two Woodcutters, blowing lust- ily upon their fingers, and stamping with their huge iron-shod boots upon the caked snow. Once they sank into a deep drift, and came out as white as millers are, when the stones are grinding; and once they slipped on the hard smooth ice where the marsh-water was frozen, and their faggots fell out of their bundles, and they had to pick them up and bind them together again; and once they thought that they had lost their way, and a great terror seized on them, for they knew that the Snow is cruel to those who sleep in her arms. But they put their trust in the good Saint Martin, who watches over all travellers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at last they reached the outskirts of the forest, and saw, far down in the valley beneath them, the lights of the village in which they dwelt.\n\nSo overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed aloud, and the Earth seemed to them like a flower of silver, and the Moon like a flower of gold.\n\nYet, after they had laughed they became sad, for they remembered their poverty, and one of them said to the other, \"Why did we make merry, seeing that life is for the rich, and not for such as we are? Better that we had died of cold in the forest, or that some wild beast had fallen upon us and slain us.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" answered his companion, \"much is given to some, and little is given to others. Injustice has parcelled out the world, nor is there equal division of aught save of sorrow.\"\n\nBut as they were bewailing their misery to each other this strange thing happened. There fell from heaven a very bright and beautiful star. It slipped down the side of the sky, passing by the other stars in its course, and, as they watched it wondering, it seemed to them to sink behind a clump of willow-trees that stood hard by a little sheepfold no more than a stone's throw away.\n\n\"Why! there is a crock of gold for whoever finds it,\" they cried, and they set to and ran, so eager were they for the gold.\n\nAnd one of them ran faster than his mate, and outstripped him, and forced his way through the willows, and came out on the other side, and lo! there was indeed a thing of gold lying on the white snow. So he hastened towards it, and stooping down placed his hands upon it, and it was a cloak of golden tissue, curiously wrought with stars, and wrapped in many folds. And he cried out to his comrade that he had found the treasure that had fallen from the sky, and when his comrade had come up, they sat them down in the snow, and loosened the folds of the cloak that they might divide the pieces of gold. But, alas! no gold was in it, nor silver, nor, indeed, treasure of any kind, but only a little child who was asleep.\n\nAnd one of them said to the other: \"This is a bitter ending to our hope, nor have we any good fortune, for what doth a child profit to a man? Let us leave it here, and go our way, seeing that we are poor men, and have children of our own whose bread we may not give to another. \"\n\nBut his companion answered him: \"Nay, but it were an evil thing to leave the child to perish here in the snow, and though I am as poor as thou art, and have many mouths to feed, and but little in the pot, yet will I bring it home with me, and my wife shall have care of it. \"\n\nSo very tenderly he took up the child, and wrapped the cloak around it to shield it from the harsh cold, and made his way down the hill to the village, his comrade marvelling much at his foolishness and softness of heart.\n\nAnd when they came to the village, his comrade said to him, \"Thou hast the child, therefore give me the cloak, for it is meet that we should share.\"\n\nBut he answered him: \"Nay, for the cloak is neither mine nor thine, but the child's only,\" and he bade him Godspeed, and went to his own house and knocked.\n\nAnd when his wife opened the door and saw that her husband had returned safe to her, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and took from his back the bundle of faggots, and brushed the snow off his boots, and bade him come in.\n\nBut he said to her, \"I have found something in the forest, and I have brought it to thee to have care of it,\" and he stirred not from the threshold.\n\n\"What is it?\" she cried. \"Show it to me, for the house is bare, and we have need of many things.\" And he drew the cloak back, and showed her the sleeping child.\n\n\"Alack, goodman!\" she murmured, \"have we not children enough of our own, that thou must needst bring a changeling to sit by the hearth? And who knows if it will not bring us bad fortune? And how shall we tend it?\" And she was wroth against him.\n\n\"Nay, but it is a Star-Child,\" he answered; and he told her the strange manner of the finding of it.\n\nBut she would not be appeased, but mocked at him, and spoke angrily, and cried: \"Our children lack bread, and shall we feed the child of another? Who is there who careth for us? And who giveth us food?\"\n\n\"Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them,\" he answered.\n\n\"Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter?\" she asked. \"And is it not winter now?\" And the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold.\n\nAnd a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door, and made her tremble, and she shivered, and said to him: \"Wilt thou not close the door? There cometh a bitter wind into the house, and I am cold.\"\n\n\"Into a house where a heart is hard cometh there not always a bitter wind?\" he asked. And the woman answered him nothing, but crept closer to the fire.\n\nAnd after a time she turned round and looked at him, and her eyes were full of tears. And he came in swiftly, and placed the child in her arms, and she kissed it, and laid it in a little bed where the youngest of their own children was lying. And on the morrow the Woodcutter took the curious cloak of gold and placed it in a great chest, and a chain of amber that was round the child's neck his wife took and set it in the chest also.\n\nSo the Star-Child was brought up with the children of the Woodcutter, and sat at the same board with them, and was their playmate. And every year he became more beautiful to look at, so that all those who dwelt in the village were filled with wonder, for, while they were swarthy and black-haired, he was white and delicate as sawn ivory, and his curls were like the rings of the daffodil. His lips, also, were like the petals of a red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water, and his body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not.\n\nYet did his beauty work him evil. For he grew proud, and cruel, and selfish. The children of the Woodcutter, and the other children of the village, he despised, saying that they were of mean parentage, while he was noble, being sprung from a Star, and he made himself master over them, and called them his servants. No pity had he for the poor, or for those who were blind or maimed or in any way afflicted, but would cast stones at them and drive them forth on to the highway, and bid them beg their bread elsewhere, so that none save the outlaws came twice to that village to ask for alms. Indeed, he was as one enamoured of beauty, and would mock at the weakly and ill-favoured, and make jest of them; and himself he loved, and in summer, when the winds were still, he would lie by the well in the priest's orchard and look down at the marvel of his own face, and laugh for the pleasure he had in his fairness.\n\nOften did the Woodcutter and his wife chide him, and say:\"We did not deal with thee as thou dealest with those who are left desolate, and have none to succour them. Wherefore art thou so cruel to all who need pity?\"\n\nOften did the old priest send for him, and seek to teach him the love of living things, saying to him: \"The fly is thy brother. Do it no harm. The wild birds that roam through the forest have their freedom. Snare them not for thy pleasure. God made the blindworm and the mole, and each has its place. Who art thou to bring pain into God's world? Even the cattle of the field praise Him.\"\n\nBut the Star-Child heeded not their words, but would frown and flout, and go back to his companions, and lead them. And his companions followed him, for he was fair, and fleet of foot, and could dance, and pipe, and make music. And wherever the Star-Child led them they followed, and whatever the Star-Child bade them do, that did they. And when he pierced with a sharp reed the dim eyes of the mole, they laughed, and when he cast stones at the leper they laughed also. And in all things he ruled them, and they became hard of heart, even as he was.\n\nNow there passed one day through the village a poor beggar-woman. Her garments were torn and ragged, and her feet were bleeding from the rough road on which she had travelled, and she was in very evil plight. And being weary she sat her down under a chestnut-tree to rest.\n\nBut when the Star-Child saw her, he said to his companions, \"See! There sitteth a foul beggar-woman under that fair and green-leaved tree. Come, let us drive her hence, for she is ugly and ill-favoured.\"\n\nSo he came near and threw stones at her, and mocked her, and she looked at him with terror in her eyes, nor did she move her gaze from him. And when the Woodcutter, who was cleaving logs in a haggard hard by, saw what the Star-Child was doing, he ran up and rebuked him, and said to him: \"Surely thou art hard of heart and knowest not mercy, for what evil has this poor woman done to thee that thou should'st treat her in this wise?\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child grew red with anger, and stamped his foot upon the ground, and said, \"Who art thou to question me what I do? I am no son of thine to do thy bidding. \"\n\n\"Thou speakest truly,\" answered the Woodcutter, \"yet did I show thee pity when I found thee in the forest.\"\n\nAnd when the woman heard these words she gave a loud cry, and fell into a swoon. And the Woodcutter carried her to his own house, and his wife had care of her, and when she rose up from the swoon into which she had fallen, they set meat and drink before her, and bade her have comfort.\n\nBut she would neither eat nor drink, but said to the Woodcutter, \"Didst thou not say that the child was found in the forest? And was it not ten years from this day?\"\n\nAnd the Woodcutter answered, \"Yea, it was in the forest that I found him, and it is ten years from this day.\"\n\n\"And what signs didst thou find with him?\" she cried. \"Bare he not upon his neck a chain of amber? Was not round him a cloak of gold tissue broidered with stars?\"\n\n\"Truly,\" answered the Woodcutter, \"it was even as thou sayest.\" And he took the cloak and the amber chain from the chest where they lay, and showed them to her.\n\nAnd when she saw them she wept for joy, and said, \"He is my little son whom I lost in the forest. I pray thee send for him quickly, for in search of him have I wandered over the whole world.\"\n\nSo the Woodcutter and his wife went out and called to the Star-Child, and said to him, \"Go into the house, and there shalt thou find thy mother, who is waiting for thee.\"\n\nSo he ran in, filled with wonder and great gladness. But when he saw her who was waiting there, he laughed scornfully and said, \"Why, where is my mother? For I see none here but this vile beggar-woman.\"\n\nAnd the woman answered him, \"I am thy mother.\"\n\n\"Thou art mad to say so,\" cried the Star-Child angrily. \"I am no son of thine, for thou art a beggar, and ugly, and in rags. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thy foul face no more.\"\n\n\"Nay, but thou art indeed my little son, whom I bare in the forest,\" she cried, and she fell on her knees, and held out her arms to him. \"The robbers stole thee from me, and left thee to die,\" she murmured, \"but I recognized thee when I saw thee, and the signs also have I recognized, the cloak of golden tissue and the amber chain. Therefore I pray thee come with me, for over the whole world have I wandered in search of thee. Come with me, my son, for I have need of thy love.\"\n\nBut the Star-Child stirred not from his place, but shut the doors of his heart against her, nor was there any sound heard save the sound of the woman weeping for pain.\n\nAnd at last he spoke to her, and his voice was hard and bitter. \"If in very truth thou art my mother,\" he said, \"it had been better hadst thou stayed away, and not come here to bring me to shame, seeing that I thought I was the child of some Star, and not a beggar's child, as thou tellest me that I am. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thee no more.\"\n\n\"Alas! my son,\" she cried, \"wilt thou not kiss me before I go? For I have suffered much to find thee.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the Star-Child, \"but thou art too foul to look at, and rather would I kiss the adder or the toad than thee.\"\n\nSo the woman rose up, and went away into the forest weeping bitterly, and when the Star-Child saw that she had gone, he was glad, and ran back to his playmates that he might play with them.\n\nBut when they beheld him coming, they mocked him and said, \"Why thou art as foul as the toad, and as loathsome as the adder. Get thee hence, for we will not suffer thee to play with us,\" and they drave him out of the garden.\n\nAnd the Star-Child frowned and said to himself, \"What is this that they say to me? I will go to the well of water and look into it, and it shall tell me of my beauty.\"\n\nSo he went to the well of water and looked into it, and lo! his face was as the face of a toad, and his body was scaled like an adder. And he flung himself down on the grass and wept, and said to himself, \"Surely this has come upon me by reason of my sin. For I have denied my mother, and driven her away, and been proud, and cruel to her. Wherefore I will go and seek her through the whole world, nor will I rest till I have found her.\"\n\nAnd there came to him the little daughter of the Woodcutter, and she put her hand upon his shoulder and said, \"What doth it matter if thou hast lost thy comeliness? Stay with us, and I will not mock at thee.\"\n\nAnd he said to her, \"Nay, but I have been cruel to my mother, and as a punishment has this evil been sent to me. Wherefore I must go hence, and wander through the world till I find her, and she give me her forgiveness.\"\n\nSo he ran away into the forest and calied out to his mother to come to him, but there was no answer. All day long he called to her, and when the sun set he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves, and the birds and the animals fled from him, for they remembered his cruelty, and he was alone save for the toad that watched him, and the slow adder that crawled past.\n\nAnd in the morning he rose up, and plucked some bitter berries from the trees and ate them, and took his way through the great wood, weeping sorely. And of everything that he met he made enquiry if perchance they had seen his mother.\n\nHe said to the Mole, \"Thou canst go beneath the earth. Tell me, is my mother there?\"\n\nAnd the Mole answered, \"Thou hast blinded mine eyes. How should I know?\"\n\nHe said to the Linnet, \"Thou canst fly over the tops of the tall trees, and canst see the whole world. Tell me, canst thou see my mother?\"\n\nAnd the Linnet answered, \"Thou hast clipt my wings for thy pleasure. How should I fly?\"\n\nAnd to the little Squirrel who lived in the fir-tree, and was lonely, he said, \"Where is my mother?\"\n\nAnd the Squirrel answered, \"Thou hast slain mine. Dost thou seek to slay thine also?\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child wept and bowed his head, and prayed forgiveness of God's things, and went on through the forest, seeking for the beggar-woman. And on the third day he came to the other side of the forest and went down into the plain.\n\nAnd when he passed through the villages the children mocked him, and threw stones at him, and the carlots would not suffer him even to sleep in the byres lest he might bring mildew on the stored corn, so foul was he to look at, and their hired men drave him away, and there was none who had pity on him. Nor could he hear anywhere of the beggar-woman who was his mother, though for the space of three years he wandered over the world, and often seemed to see her on the road in front of him, and would call to her, and run after her till the sharp flints made his feet to bleed. But overtake her he could not, and those who dwelt by the way did ever deny that they had seen her, or any like to her, and they made sport of his sorrow.\n\nFor the space of three years he wandered over the world, and in the world there was neither love nor loving-kindness nor charity for him, but it was even such a world as he had made for himself in the days of his great pride.\n\nAnd one evening he came to the gate of a strong-walled city that stood by a river, and, weary and footsore though he was, he made to enter in. But the soldiers who stood on guard dropped their halberts across the entrance, and said roughly to him, \"What is thy business in the city?\"\n\n\"I am seeking for my mother,\" he answered, \"and I pray ye to suffer me to pass, for it may be that she is in this city.\"\n\nBut they mocked at him, and one of them wagged a black beard, and set down his shield and cried, \"Of a truth, thy mother will not be merry when she sees thee, for thou art more in-favoured than the toad of the marsh, or the adder that crawls in the fen. Get thee gone. Get thee gone. Thy mother dwells not in this city. \"\n\nAnd another, who held a yellow banner in his hand, said to him, \"Who is thy mother, and wherefore art thou seeking for her?\"\n\nAnd he answered, \"My mother is a beggar even as I am, and I have treated her evilly, and I pray ye to suffer me to pass that she may give me her forgiveness, if it be that she tarrieth in this city.\" But they would not, and pricked him with their spears.\n\nAnd, as he turned away weeping, one whose armour was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, came up and made enquiry of the soldiers who it was who had sought entrance. And they said to him, \"It is a beggar and the child of a beggar, and we have driven him away.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" he cried, laughing, \"but we will sell the foul thing for a slave, and his price shall be the price of a bowl of sweet wine.\"\n\nAnd an old and evil-visaged man who was passing by called out, and said, \"I will buy him for that price,\" and, when he had paid the price, he took the Star-Child by the hand and led him into the city.\n\nAnd after that they had gone through many streets they came to a little door that was set in a wall that was covered with a pomegranate tree. And the old man touched the door with a ring of graved jasper and it opened, and they went down five steps of brass into a garden filled with black poppies and green jars of burnt clay. And the old man took then from his turban a scarf of figured silk, and bound with it the eyes of the Star-Child, and drave him in front of him. And when the scarf was taken off his eyes, the Star-Child found himself in a dungeon, that was lit by a lantern of horn.\n\nAnd the old man set before him some mouldy bread on a trencher and said, \"Eat,\" and some brackish water in a cup and said, \"Drink,\" and when he had eaten and drunk, the old man went out, locking the door behind him and fastening it with an iron chain.\n\nAnd on the morrow the old man, who was indeed the subtlest of the magicians of Libya and had learned his art from one who dwelt in the tombs of the Nile, came into him and frowned at him, and said, \"In a wood that is nigh to the gate of this city of Giaours there are three pieces of gold. One is of white gold, and another is of yellow gold, and the gold of the third one is red. To-day thou shalt bring me the piece of white gold, and if thou bringest it not back, I will beat thee with a hundred stripes. Get thee away quickly, and at sunset I will be waiting for thee at the door of the garden. See that thou bringest the white gold, or it shall go ill with thee, for thou art my slave, and I have bought thee for the price of a bowl of sweet wine.\" And he bound the eyes of the Star-Child with the scarf of figured silk, and led him through the house, and through the garden of poppies, and up the five steps of brass. And having opened the little door with his ring he set him in the street.\n\nAnd the Star-Child went out of the gate of the city, and came to the wood of which the Magician had spoken to him.\n\nNow this wood was very fair to look at from without, and seemed full of singing birds and of sweet-scented flowers, and the Star-Child entered it gladly. Yet did its beauty profit him little, for wherever he went harsh briars and thorns shot up from the ground and encompassed him, and evil nettles stung him, and the thistle pierced him with her daggers, so that he was in sore distress. Nor could he anywhere find the piece of white gold of which the Magician had spoken, though he sought for it from morn to noon, and from noon to sunset. And at sunset he set his face towards home, weeping bitterly, for he knew what fate was in store for him.\n\nBut when he had reached the outskirts of the wood, he heard from a thicket a cry as of someone in pain. And forgetting his own sorrow he ran back to the place, and saw there a little Hare caught in a trap that some hunter had set for it.\n\nAnd the Star-Child had pity on it, and released it, and said to it, \"I am myself but a slave, yet may I give thee thy freedom.\"\n\nAnd the Hare answered him, and said: \"Surely thou hast given me freedom, and what shall I give thee in return?\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child said to it, \"I am seeking for a piece of white gold, nor can I anywhere find it, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me.\"\n\n\"Come thou with me,\" said the Hare, \"and I will lead thee to it, for I know where it is hidden, and for what purpose.\"\n\nSo the Star-Child went with the Hare, and lo! in the cleft of a great oak-tree he saw the piece of white gold that he was seeking. And he was filled with joy, and seized it, and said to the Hare, \"The service that I did to thee thou hast rendered back again many times over, and the kindness that I showed thee thou hast repaid a hundred fold.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered the Hare, \"but as thou dealt with me, so I did deal with thee,\" and it ran away swiftly, and the Star-Child went towards the city.\n\nNow at the gate of the city there was seated one who was a leper. Over his face hung a cowl of grey linen, and through the eyelets his eyes gleamed like red coals. And when he saw the Star-Child coming, he struck upon a wooden bowl, and clattered his bell, and called out to him, and said, \"Give me a piece of money, or I must die of hunger. For they have thrust me out of the city, and there is no one who has pity on me.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" cried the Star-Child, \"I have but one piece of money in my wallet, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me, for I am his slave.\"\n\nBut the leper entreated him, and prayed of him, till the Star-Child had pity, and gave him the piece of white gold.\n\nAnd when he came to the Magician's house, the Magician opened to him, and brought him in, and said to him, \"Hast thou the piece of white gold?\" And the Star-Child answered, \"I have it not.\" So the Magician fell upon him, and beat him, and set before him an empty trencher, and said, \"Eat,\" and an empty cup, and said, \"Drink,\" and flung him again into the dungeon.\n\nAnd on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, \"If to-day thou bringest me not the piece of yellow gold, I will surely keep thee as my slave, and give thee three hundred stripes.\"\n\nSo the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the piece of yellow gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at sunset he sat him down and began to weep, and as he was weeping there came to him the little Hare that he had rescued from the trap.\n\nAnd the Hare said to him, \"Why art thou weeping? And what dost thou seek in the wood?\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child answered, \"I am seeking for a piece of yellow gold that is hidden here, and if I find it not my master will beat me, and keep me as a slave.\"\n\n\"Follow me,\" cried the Hare, and it ran through the wood till it came to a pool of water. And at the bottom of the pool the piece of yellow gold was lying.\n\n\"How shall I thank thee?\" said the Star-Child, \"for lo! this is the second time that you have succoured me.\"\n\n\"Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first,\" said the Hare, and it ran away swiftly.\n\nAnd the Star-Child took the piece of yellow gold, and put it in his wallet, and hurried to the city. But the leper saw him coming, and ran to meet him, and knelt down and cried, \"Give me a piece of money or I shall die of hunger.\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child said to him, \"I have in my wallet but one piece of yellow gold, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me and keep me as his slave.\"\n\nBut the leper entreated him sore, so that the Star-Child had pity on him, and gave him the piece of yellow gold.\n\nAnd when he came to the Magician's house, the Magician opened to him, and brought him in, and said to him, \"Hast thou the piece of yellow gold?\" And the Star-Child said to him, \"I have it not.\" So the Magician fell upon him, and beat him, and loaded him with chains, and cast him again into the dungeon.\n\nAnd on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, \"If to-day thou bringest me the piece of red gold I will set thee free, but if thou bringest it not I will surely slay thee.\"\n\nSo the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the piece of red gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at evening he sat him down, and wept, and as he was weeping there came to him the little Hare.\n\nAnd the Hare said to him, \"The piece of red gold that thou seekest is in the cavern that is behind thee. Therefore weep no more but be glad.\"\n\n\"How shall I reward thee,\" cried the Star-Child, \"for lo! this is the third time thou hast succoured me.\"\n\n\"Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first,\" said the Hare, and it ran away swiftly.\n\nAnd the Star-Child entered the cavern, and in its farthest corner he found the piece of red gold. So he put it in his wallet, and hurried to the city. And the leper seeing him coming, stood in the centre of the road, and cried out, and said to him, \"Give me the piece of red money, or I must die,\" and the Star-Child had pity on him again, and gave him the piece of red gold, saying, \"Thy need is greater than mine.\" Yet was his heart heavy, for he knew what evil fate awaited him.\n\nBut lo! as he passed through the gate of the city, the guards bowed down and made obeisance to him, saying, \"How beautiful is our lord!\" and a crowd of citizens followed him, and cried out, \"Surely there is none so beautiful in the whole world!\" so that the Star-Child wept, and said to himself, \"They are mocking me, and making light of my misery.\" And so large was the concourse of the people, that he lost the threads of his way, and found himself at last in a great square, in which there was a palace of a King.\n\nAnd the gate of the palace opened, and the priests and the high officers of the city ran forth to meet him, and they abased themselves before him, and said, \"Thou art our lord for whom we have been waiting, and the son of our King.\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child answered them and said, \"I am no king's son, but the child of a poor beggar woman. And how say ye that I am beautiful, for I know that I am evil to look at?\"\n\nThen he, whose armour was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, held up a shield, and cried, \"How saith my lord that he is not beautiful?\"\n\nAnd the Star-Child looked, and lo! his face was even as it had been, and his comeliness had come back to him, and he saw that in his eyes which he had not seen there before.\n\nAnd the priests and the high officers knelt down and said to him, \"It was prophesied of old that on this day should come he who was to rule over us. Therefore, let our lord take this crown and this sceptre, and be in his justice and mercy our King over us.\"\n\nBut he said to them, \"I am not worthy, for I have denied the mother who bare me, nor may I rest till I have found her, and known her forgiveness. Therefore, let me go, for I must wander again over the world, and may not tarry here, though ye bring me the crown and the sceptre.\" And as he spake he turned his face from them towards the street that led to the gate of the city, and lo! amongst the crowd that pressed round the soldiers, he saw the beggar-woman who was his mother, and at her side stood the leper, who had sat by the road.\n\nAnd a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he ran over, and kneeling down he kissed the wounds on his mother's feet, and wet them with his tears. He bowed his head in the dust, and sobbing, as one whose heart might break, he said to her: \"Mother, I denied thee in the hour of my pride. Accept me in the hour of my humility. Mother, I gave thee hatred. Do thou give me love. Mother, I rejected thee. Receive thy child now.\" But the beggar woman answered him not a word.\n\nAnd he reached out his hands, and clasped the white feet of the leper, and said to him: \"Thrice did I give thee of my mercy. Bid my mother speak to me once.\" But the leper answered him not a word.\n\nAnd he sobbed again, and said: \"Mother, my suffering is greater than I can bear. Give me thy forgiveness, and let me go back to the forest.\" And the beggar-woman put her hand on his head, and said to him, \"Rise,\" and the leper put his hand on his head, and said to him, \"Rise,\" also.\n\nAnd he rose up from his feet, and looked at them, and lo! they were a King and a Queen.\n\nAnd the Queen said to him, \"This is thy father whom thou hast succoured.\"\n\nAnd the King said, \"This is thy mother, whose feet thou hast washed with thy tears.\"\n\nAnd they fell on his neck and kissed him, and brought him into the palace, and clothed him in fair raiment, and set the crown upon his head, and the sceptre in his hand, and over the city that stood by the river he ruled, and was its lord. Much justice and mercy did he show to all, and the evil Magician he banished, and to the Woodcutter and his wife he sent many rich gifts, and to their children he gave high honour. Nor would he suffer any to be cruel to bird or beast, but taught love and loving-kindness and charity, and to the poor he gave bread, and to the naked he gave raiment, and there was peace and plenty in the land.\n\nYet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering, and so bitter the fire of his testing, for after the space of three years he died. And he who came after him ruled evilly.\n**AFTERWORD**\n\nUntil 1887 Oscar Wilde had primarily published poems and essays about art and literature with a fair amount of success, but it was only after he started writing fairy tales that he developed confidence in his unusual talents as a prose writer. In fact, the fairy-tale form enabled him to employ his elegant style and keen wit to give full expression both to his philosophy of art and his critique of English high society. Therefore, it is not by chance that all his fairy tales, published between 1888- 91, coincided with the publication of his remarkable novel _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ (1891), perhaps his finest achievement in prose. However, his stories were not just decorative stepping-stones to this novel but more like finely chiseled gems that have been recognized as among the best of the fairy-tale genre. Moreover, they are almost prophetic in the manner that they depict the suffering that Wilde himself was to endure in the years to come because of his refusal to moderate his homosexual activities or to abandon his role as avant-garde writer.\n\nBorn in Dublin on October 16, 1854, Wilde was steeped in Irish folklore and was apparently well acquainted with the tales of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen. Both his mother, Speranza, a passionate nationalist and poetess, and his father, William, a famous ear-and-eye physician, were known to be great raconteurs, and as a young boy Wilde himself learned a great deal about narrative style simply by listening to them tell stories. Even before Wilde was born, his father, who was also a remarkable folklorist, had published an important work titled _Irish Popular Superstitions_ (1852), while his mother wrote patriotic poems using Irish folk motifs. Throughout his youth at the Portora Royal School and Trinity College, Wilde was concerned with developing his own skills as a story- teller and poet. By the time he reached Oxford in 1874, he had become as talented as his mother and father as a raconteur and had begun publishing his poems in the _Dublin University Magazine and the Month and Catholic Review._\n\nWhile at Oxford, 1874-79, he continued to write poetry and studied classical Greek and Roman literature. Under the influence of Walter Pater and John Ruskin, he also began writing essays about art and literature. After graduation from Oxford, he earned his living largely from lecture tours about the new aestheticism in England, traveling widely in America and Britain, and he tried his hand at writing dramas. After his marriage to Constance Lloyd in 1884, Wilde settled in London, assumed the editorship of the magazine _The Woman's World,_ and took an interest in writing prose fiction.\n\nThough there is no evidence as to why he suddenly started writing fairy tales in the mid-1880s, the fact that his wife, Constance, gave birth to their sons Cyril (1885) and Vyvyan (1886) may have played a role, since he enjoyed telling them tales. Yet Wilde did not write them explicitly for children. In fact, he composed _The Happy Prince_ as early as 1885 after entertaining some students in Cambridge, and later in 1888, in a letter to the poet George Herbert Kersley, he remarked, \"I am very pleased you like my stories. They are studies in prose, put for Romance's sake into fanciful form: meant partly for children, and partly for those who have kept the childlike faculties of wonder and joy, and who find simplicity in a subtle strangeness.\"\n\nIn general, there are several factors that led Wilde to turn his attention to the writing of fairy tales. For instance, there was a great renascence of fairy tales in England from 1865 to 1900, when, writers such as John Ruskin, William Makepeace Thackeray, Lewis Carroll, George MacDonald, Andrew Lang, and others made important contributions to the development of the genre. Wilde's wife herself was interested in fantasy literature and published two volumes of children's stories in 1889 and 1892, while his mother edited two important books on Irish folklore, _Ancient Cures, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions_ (1888) and _Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages of Ireland_ (1890). Moreover, Wilde reviewed William B. Yeats's _Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry_ in 1889 and showed a great awareness of the fairy-tale tradition. In short, it was almost natural for Wilde at one time in his life to turn to the fairy tale as if it were his proper mode. And certainly his familiarity with traditional folklore and the literary fairy tale explains why he was able to be so innovative in his own tales, for each one of them plays with standard audience expectations and subverts the customary happy ending with questions that make the reader think about social problems and the role of the artist as innovator.\n\nWhat makes the tales even more striking is the manner in which Wilde weaves personal problems into his narratives, for it was during the mid-1880s that he became consciously aware of his homosexual inclinations and began having affairs with young men. To a certain extent, the symbolic nature of the fairy tale allowed him to write about his homoeroticism and link it to his aesthetic and social concerns in a veiled manner. In this light, both volumes of Wilde's stories, _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ (1888) and _A House of Pomegranates_ (1891) can be regarded as artistic endeav- ors on the part of Wilde to confront what he already foresaw as the impending tragedy of his life\u2014self-sacrifice due to unrequited or unfulfilled love and avant-garde notions about art and society. Since he disliked the personal and first-person narrative, the fairy-tale form allowed him to depersonalize his own problems and expand them to include his unique ideas about Fabian socialism that were clearly articulated in his essay The _Soul of Man under Socialism_ (1891). In many respects, the fairy tales prepared the way for his social philosophy about the artist espoused in this essay\u2014the artist as a Christlike figure representing true individualism, and true individualism as being only possible if there were equal distribution of the wealth in society along with natural love, tolerance, and humility. Like Freud, Wilde was interested in \"civilization and its discontents,\" and his fairy tales assume the form of an artistic companion piece to Freud's psychological diagnosis about the causes of unhappiness brought about through the civilizing process.\n\nJust what were Wilde's artistic diagnoses?\n\n_The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ an anthology about British civilization and its discontents, contained _The Happy Prince, The Nightingale and the Rose, The Selfish Giant, The Devoted Friend, and The Remarkable Rocket. The Happy Prince_ is perhaps the best known of all his tales, and the title already indicates the hall-mark of Wilde's style as fairy-tale author\u2014irony. The prince is anything but happy. It is only after his death, when he stands high above the city and realizes how irresponsible he has been, that he chooses to compensate for his past carefree life. Ironically, the more he sacrifices himself, the more he becomes happy and fulfilled. As a Christlike figure, the prince represents the artist, whose task is to enrich other people's lives without expecting acknowledgment or rewards. On another level, the prince and the swallow are clearly male lovers, whose spiritual bond transcends the materialism and petty values of the town councillors. Implicit in this tale is the idea that society is not yet ready to appreciate the noble role of the artist, who seeks to transform crass living conditions and beautify people's souls through his gifts. This theme is continued in _The Nightingale and the Rose,_ which is an ironic comment on Andersen's _The Nightingale._ Whereas Andersen in his fairy tale portrays the nightingale as an artist and has him heal a king's sickness through his singing, Wilde is intent on revealing the shallow values of the student and his sweetheart and the vain efforts of the nightingale as artist to change them. However, not all Wilde's tales end on a note of fruitless sacrifice. For instance, _The Selfish Giant_ illustrates how a landowner becomes happy and grows spiritually by sharing his property with children, who gain a deep sense of pleasure when they experience his change of heart. These are indeed the \"ideal\" childlike readers Wilde had in mind when he wrote his tales, and the giant, like the happy prince, is the artist par excellence who learns to give freely of his wealth. The opposites of the prince and giant can be found in _The Devoted Friend_ and _The Remarkable Rocket._ Based on Andersen's tale _Little Claus and Big Claus, The Devoted Friend_ is a sardonic depiction of a ruthless miller who drives Hans, a poor farmer, to death. What is frightening about the tale is that the miller is not touched by Hans's death or even aware of how destructive he is. This same unawareness is the central theme in _The Remarkable Rocket_ with a slight variation. Here the rocket is a type of pompous artist, whose belief in his great talents and importance is deflated by the end of the tale.\n\nThroughout the stories in _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ there is a sense of impending doom. All the protagonists, the prince, the nightingale, the giant, Hans, and the rocket, die through a sacrifice either out of love for humanity or love for art. The tales in A _House of Pomegranates_ continue to explore the connections between love, art, and sacrifice, but Wilde abandoned the naive quality of the earlier tales as though he had become more painfully aware of the difficulties a \"deviate\" artist would encounter in British society, and his tales became more grave and less childlike than his earlier ones.\n\nWilde's depiction of the sixteen-year-old lad in _The Young King_ is undoubtedly a homoerotic portrayal of an idealized lover, and the plot reveals Wilde's contempt for a society that wants a king designated by artificial apparel such as the robe, scepter, and crown. The derobing that the young king undertakes is an act of purification that lays bare the contradictions of his society. Though the \"derobing\" succeeds in this tale, it is entirely the opposite in _The Birthday of the Infanta,_ in which the spoiled and insensitive princess drives the dwarf to his death. If there is a \"derobing,\" it is an unmasking of the brutal if not sadistic treatment of the dwarf as artist and lover. Whereas Wilde was concerned in depicting the crass indifference of people of the upper classes, whose commands cause suffering for those beneath them, he also showed there were possibilities for redemption. Thus, the prince in _The Star-Child_ pays for his pride, cruelty, and selfishness by undergoing a transformation and sacrificing himself to help others. Yet even here Wilde sounds an ominous note at the conclusion of the tale by stating that the beneficent reign of the star-child lasted but a short time and was followed by that of an evil ruler. Wilde was convinced that as long as society was intolerant, materialistic, and hypocritical, it would be impossible for love to develop. This conviction led him to reverse the theme of Andersen's _The Little Mermaid_ and Chamisso's _Peter Schlemihl_ in _The Fisherman and His Soul._ Instead of the usual sea nymph seeking a human soul, Wilde has the fisherman give up his soul to join the mermaid and to enjoy sensual pleasures and her natural love. Ironically, his soul and the institution of the church, represented by the priest, endeavor to destroy his wholesome love. Nevertheless, the fisherman recognizes that his \"hedonistic\" love is more holy than what society ordains as good, and he is reunited with the mermaid by the end of the tale in an act of rebellion against traditional morality.\n\nAs in _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ the stories in A _House of Pomegranates_ end on an unresolved or tragic note. The star-child, the dwarf, and the fisherman all die because their love and sacrifices go against the grain of their societies. Only the young king survives, but it is evident that his future reign, based on humility and material equality, will encounter great obstacles. There will obviously be no paradise on earth until it is unnecessary to have martyrs who lead Christlike lives and die for the sake of humanity.\n\nAlthough Wilde did identify with the protagonists of his tales\u2014the spurned artist and lover, the iconoclast, the innocent victim\u2014he did not wallow in self-pity. Rather, he transcended his own problems in these tales and created symbolical analogues to the real contradictions between the avant-garde artist and British society of his time. Despite the fact that Wilde was often attacked by the upholders of civility as a decadent or degenerate during his lifetime, he revealed most poignantly in his tales how moral decadence was more often to be found among those who support law and order and are insensitive to the needs of the oppressed. For Wilde, the artist's role was to find the proper means to let the beautiful be illuminated against the harsh background of society's dark hues of regimentation. The lights in his fairy tales are thus glistening illuminations of sad conditions, and they beckon readers to contemplate the plight of his protagonists in reverence. In this respect, Oscar Wilde's fairy tales have a religious fervor to them that urges us to reconsider what has happened to the nature of humanity at the dawn of modern civilization.\n\n\u2014Jack Zipes   \nUniversity of Minnesota\n**NOTE ON THE TEXTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS**\n\nThis present collection of Wilde's narratives is based on the first editions of his fairy tales: _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ illustrated by Walter Crane and Jacomb Hood (London: David Nutt, 1888); and _A House of Pomegranates,_ illustrated by Charles Ricketts and Charles H. Shannon. (London: James R. Osgood, 1891). Two of the tales in the latter edition were published separately before being collected for book publication: _The Young King_ was printed in the Christmas 1888 issue of _Lady's Pictorial; The Birthday of the Infanta_ appeared simultaneously in English and French in the _Paris Illustr\u00e9_ (March 30, 1889).\n\nWalter Crane (1845-1915), who did the three full-page plates for _The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ was one of the most renowned illustrators of his time. He was particularly famous for his series of fairy-tale toybooks published during the 1860s and 1870s, and he also did the illustrations for _Grimm's Fairy Tales,_ which his wife, Lucy, translated. In addition to his work as an illustrator, Crane was a noted painter, played a prominent role in the Art Workers Guild as its president, and was a leader in the art education movement in England. Jacomb Hood (1857-1929) was a respected painter, etcher, and illustrator. He studied at the Slade School and in France, and upon his return to England, he settled in Chelsea, devoted most of his energies to book illustration, and worked for the art journal _The Graphic._\n\nCharles Ricketts (1866-1931), sculptor, typographer, and set designer, and his lifelong companion Charles Shannon (1863-1937), portrait and subject painter, combined their talents to do the illustrations and designs for _A House of Pomegranates_ with Shannon doing full-page plates that were damaged during publication so that the larger illustrations in the book faded. Wilde was so impressed by Ricketts' work that Ricketts continued to do almost all the designs for Wilde's books. Aside from their collaboration with Wilde, Ricketts and Shannon founded the Vale Press (1896-1904), which was known for publishing unpretentious books with fine design. They also edited an avant-garde literary journal called _The Dial_ and were prominent figures in London's literary circles.\nSelected Bibliography\n\nWorks by Oscar Wilde\n\n_Poems,_ 1881\n\n_Vera,_ 1883 Play\n\n_The Happy Prince and Other Tales,_ 1888\n\n_Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories,_ 1891\n\n_The Picture of Dorian Gray,_ 1891 Novel\n\n_The Duchess of Padua,_ 1891 Play\n\n_Lady Windermere's Fan,_ 1892 Play\n\n_A House of Pomegranates,_ 1892\n\n_A Woman of No Importance,_ 1893 Play\n\n_Salome,_ 1894 _Play (English Translation)_\n\n_An Ideal Husband,_ 1895 _Play_\n\n_The Importance of Being Earnest,_ 1895 Play\n\n_The Ballad of Reading Gaol,_ 1898 Poem\n\nSelected Biography and Criticism\n\nBeckson, Karl E. _Oscar Wilde: The Critical Heritage._ London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970.\n\nEllman, Richard. _Oscar Wilde._ New York: Random House, 1987.\n\nErickson, Donald H. _Oscar Wilde._ Boston: Twayne, 1977.\n\nGriswold, Jerome J. \"Sacrifice and Mercy in Wilde's 'The Happy Prince.' \" _Children's Literature_ 3 (1974): 103-6.\n\nHyde, H. Montgomery. Oscar Wilde. London: Methuen, 1976.\n\nHolland, Merlin. _The Real Trial of Oscar Wilde._ New York: Harper Perennial, 2004.\n\nMartin, Robert K. \"Oscar Wilde and the Fairy Tale: 'The Happy Prince' as Self-dramatization.\" _Studies in Short Fiction_ 16 (1979): 74-77.\n\nMcKenna, Neil. _The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde._ New York: Basic Books, 2006.\n\nMikhail, E. H. Oscar _Wilde: An Annotated Bibliography of Criticism._ Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1978.\n\nNassaar, Christopher S. _Into the Demon Universe: A Literary Exploration of Oscar Wilde._ New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974.\n\nPearce, Joseph. _The Unmasking of Oscar Wilde._ London: HarperCollins UK, 2001.\n\nQuintus, J. A. \"The Moral Prerogative in Oscar Wilde: A Look at the Tales.\" _Virginia Quarterly Review_ 53 (1977): 708-17.\n\nRaby, Peter. _The Cambridge Companion to Oscar Wilde._ Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997.\n\nShewan, Rodney. _Oscar Wilde._ New York: Barnes and Noble, 1977.\n\nSullivan, Kevin. _Oscar Wilde._ New York: Columbia University Press, 1972.\n\nWorth, Katharine. _Oscar Wilde._ London: Macmillan, 1983.\n\nZipes, Jack. \"Inverting and Subverting the World with Hope: The Fairy Tales of George MacDonald, Oscar Wilde, and L. Frank Baum.\" _Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion: The Classical Genre for Children and the Process of Civilization._ New York: Methuen, 1983: 97-133.\n_**SIGNET CLASSICS**_\n\n**Classic Works by Oscar Wilde**\n\nTHE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY & Other Stories\n\nPerhaps one of the most famous stories in English, this classic tale of good and evil has sent chills down the spines of readers for more than one hundred years. This volume also contains the well known allegories Lord Arthur Savile's Crime, The Happy Prince, and The Birthday of the Infanta.\n\nTHE BEST OF OSCAR WILDE\n\nAn extraordinary volume for fans and students alike, this collection showcases Wilde's brilliance and timeless wit. Includes _The Importance of Being Earnest, An Ideal Husband, A Woman of No Importance, Lady Windermere's Fan,_ and _Salom\u00e9._\n\nAvailable wherever books are sold or at signetclassics.com\nSIGNET CLASSICS\n\n**Classic Fairy Tales for All Ages**\n\nAesop's Fables _edited by Jack Zipes_\n\nThe exclusive Signet Classics edition contains over 200 of Aesop's most enduring and popular fables, translated into readable, modem English, and beautifully illustrated with 70 classic 19th-century woodcuts.\n\nAndersen's Fairy Tales _by Hans Christian Andersen_ For more than one hundred years, these _Fairy Tales_ have chamed and entertained audiences around the world. The forty-seven tales in this collection transport the reader into a magical world of kings and princesses, giants and mermaids, witches and fabulous beasts.\n\nArabian Nights, Volume I: _The Marvels and Wonders of The Thousand and One Nights Translated by Sir Richard Francis Burton_\n\nFull of mischief, valor, ribaldry, and romance, _The Arabian Nights_ has captivated readers for centuries. Night after night, Scheherazade\u2014whose new husband, the king, has executed each of his wives after a single night of marriage\u2014saves her own life by regaling her husband with these fantastical tales of genies, wishes, terror, and passion.\n\n**Available wherever books are sold or atsignetclassics.com**\n**READ THE TOP 20 SIGNET CLASSICS**\n\n1984 BY GEORGE ORWELL\n\nANIMAL FARM BY GEORGE ORWELL\n\nFRANKENSTEIN BY MARY SHELLEY\n\nTHE INFERNO BY DANTE\n\nBEOWULF (BURTON RAFFEL, TRANSLATOR)\n\nHAMLET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\nHEART OF DARKNESS & THE SECRET SHARER BY JOSEPH CONRAD\n\nNARRATIVE OF THE LIFE OF FREDERICK DOUGLASS BY FREDERICK DOUGLASS\n\nTHE SCARLET LETTER BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE\n\nNECTAR IN A SIEVE BY KAMALA MARKANDAYA\n\nA TALE OF Two CITIES BY CHARLES DICKENS\n\nALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND & THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS BY LEWIS CARROLL.\n\nROMEO AND JULIET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\nETHAN FROME BY EDITH WHARTON\n\nA MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\nMACBETH BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\nOTHELLO BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN BY MARK TWAIN\n\nONE DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH BY ALEXANDER SOLZHENITSYN\n\nJANE EYRE BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE\n\nSIGNETCLASSICS.COM\n\n"}